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beatricethecat2 · 4 years ago

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"Another day or two?" Helena gruffs.

"Yeah, um, sorry," Myka replies.

"That storm postponing your flight was one thing, but this? You are aware our rental is expiring eminently."

"Maybe we can extend?"

"I already inquired."

"And?"

Helena grimaces, nose wrinkling.

"I-I'll find us a new one."

"No, I shall, since I've clearly been left to my own devices."

"I'm coming soon, I promise!" Myka yelps. "I'll stay wherever you want. Extend the car rental, too."

"If I must swap it at the airport, I shall be cross."

"More cross than now? How is that even possible?" Myka jabs.

"I believe you know the answer," Helena says, deadpan. "What exactly is keeping you there?"

"I'm figuring something out but it's more complicated than I thought."

"And this 'something,' how long am I to remain in the dark?"

"Not long, but..." Myka's shoulders sag. "I might as well tell you."

"If it's such a burden—"

"No! I wanted to iron out the details first." Myka heaves a heavy sigh. "Ok, here it goes...I'm figuring out how to work remotely. Mostly."

Helena perks up. "This is something you truly wish to do?"

"I..." Myka pushes a hand through her hair, stopping halfway, looking off to the side. "I've been thinking about what you said, that the Warehouse needs to evolve, that it's stuck in the nineteenth century."

"Such a travesty; agents sequestered in a boarding house with modern communication and travel as they are."

"It's not so bad, having your friends there when you need them." Myka's hand drops to her side. "I do love my family here, but if I'm honest, it hasn't felt the same since Leena died."

"May I say again how truly sorry I am for your loss. She was an extraordinary woman."

"She really was." Myka blinks back a tear and looks down. "But it's more than that. What you said about only traveling for work, of never really visiting a place, that stuck with me, too. How you want to take advantage of all this new world has to offer, things I take for granted, because you've been given a second chance."

"I can be quite persuasive when I wish to," Helena says, lips turning up at the ends.

"And I love you for it." Myka's smile matches Helena's.

"But those are my wishes. What are your own?" Helena asks.

"I think it's worth fighting for change, even if making up rules as we go scares me."

"You are fond of protocol."

"And you're not. So we complement each other. Or cancel each other out," Myka says, lips lifting into a crooked grin.

Helena huffs a short laugh. "And Pete? How is he faring?"

"He's super bummed, but I think he understands." Myka shifts in her seat, sitting up straighter. "You might hear from him. He said he wants to have a chat."

"What about?"

"A 'big brother' kind of thing."

"I'm surprised he's waited this long."

"Me too."

The air quiets, each waiting for the other to continue.

"There is one other thing. An, um, 'condition," Myka says.

"Just the one?"

"Hey..."

"I'd expect nothing less. Go on."

"I can't go on missions alone."

"Nor would I allow you to."

"Do you see where I'm going with this?"

"While you're working, someone will join you."

"Yeah, you."

"But I'm no longer an—"

"They want to reinstate you."

"Myka..."

"I know, I know," Myka says, waving her hands in surrender. "It'd be on your terms. I'll make sure of that. And I'll keep you in check."

"That's a tall order."

"Believe me, I know."

Helena grasps at her locket and works a thumb over its smooth metal case.

"We'd have our autonomy, mostly. Be working part-time. We're already doing it unofficially anyway. And I think we work well together." Myka flashes a smug smile.

"And the distance from the Warehouse? How will you manage?"

"Abigail agreed to be our eyes in the archive. And we already have access to the database."

Helena stares at Myka for a long moment, fingers clutching her locket. "Can this truly be?"

"I think so. I'm hashing out details with Jane, but we need a few more days," Myka says, smiling. "Find us a place to stay for a couple of weeks. We can figure out what happens next from there."

"With pleasure," Helena says.

"So...can I tell them you're Agent Wells again?"

"I've further terms to discuss."

"Send them over. I'll make sure you get what you want."

Smiles grow wider as they hold each other's gazes.

"So...what'd you get up to yesterday?" Myka asks.

"I traveled by cable car up Hyde Street. The views were breathtaking."

"You did that without me?"

"I was tired of waiting."

"Do not go to Twin Peaks or Coit Tower. We're doing those together."

"I shant. Perhaps I'll peruse City Light Books again and linger in Jackson Square."

"That's where those buildings from the 1800's survived the earthquake."

"Indeed."

"Are you feeling a sense of closure, being there?"

"I believe we could have had quite a pleasant life here in my day. But closure, that may only truly begin upon your arrival."

"I can't wait," Myka says, grinning wildly.

-END SCENE-

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

Bering and Wells: New Horizons ("Warehouse 13" Season 5 replacement) Season 1: Episode 8 Title: San Francisco: The 415 Blues Summary: A freak storm delays Myka's flight to San Francisco. Helena learns Myka's taken on more while home than just dropping off an artifact. New paths are revealed while working through a difficult retrieval, as well as an ask that may take them to foreign shores.

Previously: Episodes 1-7 (look in my archive as adding links broke my post last time)

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

After assessing the scene of a retrieval, Myka and Helena duck into a coffee shop.

"That facade's massive! How would we know which one?" Myka asks.

"'It'll be obvious,' Artie said. Far from it," Helena snips.

"Maybe spray it with neutralizer and see what sparks?"

"It's a landmarked structure, too high-key."

"True," Myka says, frowning. "Artie said it was a chain reaction. One brick radiating into the others. Remove the source and the rest will calm down."

"Once one pinpoints the source."

"At least we know it's in arms reach," Myka says, sipping of her coffee.

"Do we?"

"Someone almost burned their hand on it."

"Nothing felt even remotely hot to the touch today." Helena screws the cap onto her water bottle. "The brick responsible could be beaming down from the loftiest of places. We'd need scaffolding to check properly."

"And that hill is..." Myka motions with her hand at a forty-five-degree angle.

"Is it truly a risk if it's merely hot to the touch?" Helena says, leaning back in her chair.

"Artie's not sure. He thinks wildfire smoke is 'activating' the bricks, making them think they're in the fires after the 1906 earthquake. So it depends on which way the wind's blowing. Prolonged smoke contact equals hotter bricks, and hotter bricks mean the building might catch fire."

"Because these melted 'clicker bricks' were used in rebuilding after the earthquake?"

"Uh-huh. And Artie thinks they caused a previous fire."

"The one where those girls died trapped in the basement."

"So sad," Myka says, shaking her head.

"I'd read it was arson, meant to discourage the Mission House staff from rescuing those poor immigrant girls from servitude."

"It probably was. But it might not have spread as fast without the clinkers."

"I see." Helena's hand tightens around her water bottle. "We cannot allow it burn again."

"We won't," Myka says, touching Helena's hand to reassure her. "Maybe we can monitor it with heat sensors. I bet Claudia has a gadget."

"I'm certain she shall," Helena says, looking as if she's combing through a catalog in her mind. "We must set up surveillance in the buildings across the street."

"Maybe we can pose as historians studying Julia Morgan, the architect," Myka says, perking up.

"What a blessing it shall be we're here for an indeterminate amount of time."

"Ooh! Maybe this can be our thing, traveling places and staying awhile, snagging difficult artifacts."

"I adore your ingenuity." Helena leans across the table, planting a kiss on Myka's lips.

"Mmm...thanks," Myka hums as Helena pulls back. She lifts her phone off the table, fingers working the keyboard, texting Claudia. "Maybe this is a good time to, um...tell you, there's a...a, um...something else the Warehouse's asked us to do."

"I knew they wouldn't release you that easily," Helena says, narrowing her eyes.

"This one's about you."

"Aren't they all, somehow?"

"Kinda?"

"Well, out with it then," Helena says, sitting back, crossing her arms over her chest.

"The artifacts you hid, the Warehouse wants them."

"They believe there are more?"

"Oh, come on."

"They've shelved the Trident and Corsican Vest."

"And the Imperceptor."

"That was not an artifact."

"Fine. Artifacts and inventions," Myka snaps. "And they want us to follow up on cold cases you left behind."

Helena shifts in her chair and looks towards the bridge in the distance. "This is punishment for my unwillingness to interact with the Warehouse. You told them of my issues surrounding Christina."

"No. I said separating your body from your mind then sending it out as a lure for Sykes really pissed you off."

"This is not untrue."

"Pisses me off, too," Myka mumbles.

"They may threaten such a thing again should I not bow to their demands."

"We."

"Pardon?"

"Should we not bow. I'm part of this, too."

"Yes, as my 'handler.'"

"Maybe. But our definition of 'handling' can be kind of fun." Myka skims a finger down Helena's forearm, prying her fisted hand apart and threading their fingers together.

Helena lets out a heavy sigh. "I may not recall everything. I'll need my diaries."

"Do you know where they are?"

"At the Warehouse, of course."

"I meant the real ones."

Helena raises a brow.

"You know they know you hid them before you were bronzed."

Helena grimaces. "I once knew where they were. There's no guarantee they're still there."

"You've already looked."

"I may have, briefly."

"And?"

Helena shakes her head in the negative.

"Then let's start with what you remember."

"Or, start with the items I've hidden since?"

"Helena!"

"Punish me later, darling. We've a smoldering building to extinguish." Helena squeezes Myka's hand and brushes a thumb under her jacket cuff. "Did Claudia get back to you?"

"No," says, checking her phone. "Maybe we should get back to the apartment and do some research?"

"'Research' is our best course of action."

Both women smile in agreement, then rise and hastily take their leave.

-END SEASON ONE-

NOTES: NOTES: And this wraps up Season 1! As you can see, it's set up to transition to a second season, one fairly independent from the Warehouse. Who knows if that will ever materialize (but I do have a few ideas). Links broke my post last time, but look up Cameron House (formerly the Mission House) in San Francisco and Donaldina Cameron for more on that organization and the deadly fire. Clinker bricks are regarded as junk bricks - warped from being fired at too high a temperature, or in this case, mangled by building fires after the 1906 earthquake. Many older buildings in Chinatown contain them as the neighborhood scrambled to rebuild after the earthquake, because white real estate developers were poised to swoop in steal their land. In the Cameron House design, clinkers were also used decoratively in an Arts and Crafts style (there are other buildings in SF like this, like 45 Upper Terrace, also designed by a female architect, Ida McCain). I dedicate this episode to @blackfoxreddog !!

#BERING AND WELLS #Warehouse 13 #fanfiction #fan art #Myka Bering #Helena HG Wells #roadtrip!AU #canon divergent au #there is probably no cafe #with a view of the bridge like that #but it's a screenshot from the show #maybe next time around I'll simplify my format #because it's a doozy #but I loved making these manips!#and figuring out stories to go with them was fun #thanks again to deathtodickens for the B&W Show prompt all those months ago

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gods-no-longer-tread-here · 4 years ago

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This is a somft thing I wrote because my platonic scoundrel @roseforthethorns was feeling sad. Ily bby

(3k+ words, Family Gossip, Geralt being good with kids, something akin to a binding..... just fluffypuffy stuff)

“You are an absolute darling, Geralt!”

“Hmph,” he grunted, and tucked the honeysuckles into the circlet before placing it carefully on Jaskier’s head. “You need to be pretty for the party,” the Witcher said firmly.

Jaskier beamed at him, eyes shining with affection. “That I do, my dear,” he said, adjusting the flower circlet to be at a jauntier angle. “Oh, do you like the ring, by the way?”

Geralt nodded, raising his hand. It was a lovely ring, but rather cheap. Bronze band, yellow agate cabochon, and tiny pearls. It was well-used, though. Jaskier grabbed his hand, squeezed gently, then skipped to the door. “Come on, then!”

Geralt was expecting the stares. He was not expecting so many nobles to glide up to him, give a nervous greeting, and then inquire about his relationship with Count Julian. Geralt was too baffled to answer with anything other than, “He’s my bard.”

One sharp-eyed old lady with an ivory cane showed up at Geralt’s elbow, and poked his middle with her cane. “Hmm. Too skinny,” she declared, while Geralt fought the urge to splutter. “How do you expect to take care of little Julie when you can’t keep yourself fed?”

“We’ve been getting along just fine for fifteen years,” Geralt retorted.

The old lady sniffed in disapproval. “Of course you would say that, you’re a man. Both of you need plumping up.” She smacked his middle with her cane and added, “Be careful with that ring, boy. It’s precious.”

Geralt grunted, hands automatically coming together so he could touch the ring again. The old lady nodded and walked away.

Jaskier had said this would just be a short jaunt to say hello to his cousin and leave--but said cousin was a queen, and asked him to stay for the whole evening. Of course, Jaskier agreed. And now Geralt was leaning on a wall sipping honey wine and feeling superfluous. There was nothing to do here. He should be hunting, gathering coin for their journey, not letting nobles stare at him.

A man in a military uniform approached him, and Geralt tensed, narrowing his eyes. He didn’t think he was going to be taken away; the soldier was alone, and Geralt came with Jaskier.

The soldier stopped, bowed, and said, “Greetings, Witcher. I’m Captain Yetzii, of the Palace Guard.”

“Geralt,” Geralt said.

The captain nodded, his heavy mustache and eyebrows hiding most of his expression, but the wariness and aggression in his scent and posture waning. “I suspected as much,” he said. “Not many people hover in corners watching Count de Lettenhove with such a worried expression.” The captain’s mustache twitched and the corners of his eyes crinkled, and Geralt was hit by the realization that, though this man was human and had red-brown hair and was as lean as a youth, he bore a striking resemblance to Vesemir. Even his scent had a familiar tang.

Geralt frowned and answered the captain, “He gets into trouble more frequently than we Witchers. If I don’t watch him he’ll do something stupid and end up wearing a casket of wine as trousers.”

“He’s already done that,” the captain said. “On his twentieth birthday, he and some of the troops got so drunk that they started a contest of what they could wear that was within uniform regulations. I don’t know how, but they all ended up agreeing that a wine casket and some sheafs of straw was within the rules.”

Something stirred in Geralt’s memory, and then jumped to the forefront: a few years ago, when he and Jaskier met again in spring, and got so drunk that--Geralt’s mouth twitched, but his voice was dry as he told the captain, “I know exactly how. I once witnessed him convince a king that he had created a dashing outfit out of moonlight and fresh air, then encouraged the king to wear it while giving a speech to the commoners. The fool actually believed him and stepped onto the platform before the crowd naked.”

The captain snorted, his posture relaxing further. “We heard of that, but no one knew it was M’lord Julian. Have you ever caught him dueling? He’s never been good at it, but by the gods, he tries. Especially when he was younger; whenever he visited, the Guard had to follow him when he went on a quest to seduce every barmaid in the city, because it was inevitable that he would end up trying to duel some poor citizen.”

Geralt’s mouth twitched again, visibly this time. “I can believe it.”

Somehow, swapping stories about Jaskier’s ineptitude with fighting rolled right into passive fighter roles; Geralt admitted that he’d rather be bitten by a manticore than pose as a bodyguard, and Captain Yetzii commiserated, saying that he had much preferred being in his village’s guard and patrolling the county to being a stationary captain. This led into how to prepare for long journeys far from humanity, and then a mild argument about horses. Geralt was offended by Yetzii’s insistence that horses should be bred for their lines, instead of for their traits; Yetzii was skeptical of the fact that the size of a horse’s heart was the defining factor of its speed, arguing that lungs and bone-structure were more important.

A noble boy, perhaps sixteen, drifted over and began asking questions that seemed to boil down to, “My tutor said that’s wrong.” Both Geralt and Yetzii immediately dropped the argument to speak to the boy seriously about how to choose, care for, and ride a good horse. A young lady of about thirteen took up a position close to the three of them, straining her ears to hear them while pretending not to.

It wasn’t long before Geralt and Yetzii had accumulated most of the attendants below the age of twenty, and were answering their questions about fighting, hunting, and survival. Yetzii was polite and deferential; Geralt spoke bluntly. So many curious faces, so many wide eyes--it felt like he was talking to his Witcher brothers.

Somehow, that didn’t hurt.

“I wish I could hunt trolls,” sighed a boy with lanky limbs.

Geralt frowned and said, “You’ve got the bones for it. Heavy laundry every other day, laps, and wrestling will get you started.”

The group went silent, gaping at him. Geralt stared back, then looked up to find Jaskier. He really had forgotten these children were nobles. He needed to get out of there.

“Do you think I could hunt trolls?” a young woman asked, her eyes bright with hope.

“You’re tall enough for it,” Geralt replied cautiously. “You’re almost done growing, but I don’t see why you wouldn’t be able to.”

The young woman beamed at him, and Geralt felt very uncomfortable.

“Mr. Pankratz, sir,” piped up a pudgy child with a cloud of golden curls for hair, “I don’t think I’ll ever be tall. Could I still fight monsters?”

Geralt nodded. “Yes. Other warriors in training may tell you not to, but they don’t know your limits,” he said. It was so peculiar. He felt like… like he was saying Vesemir’s words in his own voice. He looked at all of the children, and added, “Any of you can be warriors. And warriors don’t always hunt monsters in dark places.” Something Vesemir had told him when he was small popped into his head, and he said it aloud, not quite seeing the children: “Sometimes Witchers kill. Sometimes Witchers talk. It doesn’t matter if you do one or the other more: you’re still a Witcher.”

“What does that mean?” asked the lanky boy.

“It means…” Geralt frowned, trying to put his words into order. “It means, no matter what your fighting looks like--whether you kill monsters or negotiate with kings--you’re still a warrior. We fight with what we have. A sword, a pen, medicine, knowledge; none of these are more important than the others. It’s what you use them for that matters.”

There was a moment of silence in the little group. All eyes were fixed on him, including Yetzii. He tried to think of how to escape, but before he could, Jaskier appeared, beaming and bubbling. Geralt had never felt such relief as he turned to Jaskier, who told those assembled, “Hello, everyone! Very sorry to interrupt, but the queen wishes to meet Geralt. We’ll be staying a few days, you’ll have plenty of time to talk to him.” Jaskier winked at Geralt with an evil smile; Geralt rolled his eyes, but followed his bard willingly.

“Their parents are annoyed,” Jaskier murmured teasingly as they approached the royal dais. “You’re far too interesting for them.”

Geralt snorted. “If they actually taught their little ones useful skills instead of drilling them on how to blow their noses, they wouldn’t be interested,” he muttered, and smiled just a little when Jaskier laughed. He liked Jaskier’s laugh. When did it go from painful to pleasant?

The queen, Jaskier’s cousin, was just as beautiful as him, but not nearly as theatrical. Her eyes were blue, but more washed-out. One of her ladies-in-waiting had lined her eyes with coal, but it was not nearly as neat and delicate as Jaskier’s. Her hair was a sandy blond, well-maintained and shining like gold, but Jaskier’s hair was shinier.

He bowed without giving anything away on his face.

“Queen Chrysanthemum, may I introduce Witcher Geralt,” Jaskier intoned gravely. Geralt shot him an annoyed look. Jaskier never made it easy to greet royalty. “He’s my friend.”

Geralt bowed again and muttered, “An honor to meet you, your Majesty.”

Queen Chrysanthemum smiled prettily. “The honor is mine, Witcher Geralt,” she replied. Then her eyes twinkled and her smile turned crafty. “We were all wondering what kind of man Julian would settle on,” she teased.

Geralt tensed, but it was embarrassment, not anger. He was used to this.

Apparently, Jaskier was not.

He turned red as a tomato, and spluttered a bit before objecting weakly, “I haven’t settled on anyone! When I do, you’ll know, because she will be the most beautiful woman the world has ever seen!” He avoided Geralt’s eyes firmly, even though all the Witcher did was raise an eyebrow and repress a teasing insult. How odd.

The queen snickered. “Yes, yes, I understand, Julian.” She turned to the matronly noblewoman sitting beside her and flicked her fingers subtly; the woman rose, curtseyed, and walked away, joining a circle of other noblewomen. Geralt’s stomach dropped as Queen Chrysanthemum smiled at him again and said, “Sit with me a moment, Witcher.”

Geralt did so, stiffly. For some reason, Jaskier seemed reluctant to leave, but also reluctant to sit. He shifted his weight, fiddled with his cuffs, bit his lip, and then nodded sharply, before turning and marching to one of the refreshment tables. Geralt shook his head. Jaskier was always very odd around his family.

“You don’t seem surprised by him,” the queen remarked, beckoning with her fan for a servant to bring them drinks.

“I’ve known him nearly fifteen years,” Geralt replied. “If he wanted to surprise me, he’d stop singing.”

That startled a laugh out of her, as she accepted a glass of wine from the servant. Geralt followed suit, but did not drink from it. He’d already had too much ale; his tongue was loose and his mind was too relaxed.

“Tell me, how did you meet?” she inquired. “I know Julian, his penchant for dramatics is devastating. Did you really defeat Filivandrel?”

“With words, yes,” Geralt answered, feeling that pinch of irritation again. That fucking song. He hated it. “There was no dramatic battle. Still, humans have no need to fear him anymore.”

Queen Chrysanthemum nodded sagely. “I thought as much. Julian has never once had the courage to face a fight willingly.” She must have seen Geralt’s confusion, because she smiled and explained, “He hated hunting rabbits, for the gods’ sakes. Anything scarier than a bee, he ran away from. We used to laugh about it.”

Geralt remembered the times when Jaskier had thrown himself into a fight to help him, had acted as bait or a distraction even in near-certain death situations, had stared down a griffin and run it through with Geralt’s own sword. Jaskier had never run away. Jaskier wasn’t courageous, but he was braver than any other human--if foolishness counted as bravery. Geralt ran his thumb over the hem of his “fashionable” surcoat; the money used to purchase the fabric, tailoring, and embroidery had come from Jaskier talking down an enraged nagani, negotiating with good will and good humour until she laughed and agreed to his terms.

Why would anyone think Jaskier had no courage?

“He’s changed,” Geralt murmured, instead of snapping at her for being so condescending.

“Pankratzes never change,” Chrysanthemum replied dismissively. “I’m a Pankratz too, and I haven’t changed one bit since I married. His parents and siblings conform to tradition so easily you’d think they were actors. You can ask a Pankratz any question and know exactly what he’ll answer with.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said.

“At least he gave you the ring,” Chrysanthemum said, nodding at Geralt’s hand. “So many women he could have married, even at his age, but never one could wear that.”

Geralt frowned again. ‘His age’? Jaskier was barely thirty-six. That wasn’t an old age. “It’s a nice ring,” he allowed, because he could not imagine arguing that Jaskier was available for marriage.

Chrysanthemum smirked and answered, “Yes, it is. It’s been in the family since the Conjunction.”

Geralt almost told her that was impossible, a ring that old would be completely destroyed, surely. He looked at it, perfectly fitted to his sausage-sized fingers, and wondered why Jaskier would give him a family ring. “Hmm,” he said again, making a mental note to ask Jaskier about it. Then he decided to change the subject. “Which side of the family are you related to Jaskier on?”

A sly smile preceded her answer. “His mother was my first cousin,” she explained. “She was amazingly beautiful, and men from every social class asked her to marry them. She chose our third cousin twice removed, instead. Probably because she’s always loved the sea more than people.”

Geralt hummed encouragingly. The queen took the hint, and continued. “She was an odd one before she had Julian. Always singing at feasts and dancing at fetes. When I was small, I thought she was the most magical person in the world. Her mere presence could make one smile. Mother told me it was strange--that her own father was one of the Seelie court.”

“Should you be saying this in public?” Geralt cut in, glancing around sharply. There were five people close enough that he knew they could hear the queen, and eight more who probably could if they tried. Jaskier was near the back of the hall, laughing with some servants.

Chrysanthemum scoffed. “Everyone knows the stories. That’s probably why he’s so strange, too. Do you know, he refuses to claim the title of Count unless he’s visiting me?”

“Can’t imagine why,” Geralt muttered, and drank his wine.

Soon, the king announced that his dear wife was tired, and they should all go to their beds. Geralt stood, bowed to the royal couple, and made his way to Jaskier.

“You spoke to her for a while,” Jaskier said as soon as they were in earshot of each other. “What were you talking about?”

Geralt shrugged. “Gossip,” he grunted. When he heard Jaskier’s heart speed up, Geralt shook his head. “I didn’t find it important.”

Jaskier beamed at him. “Oh, well, if that’s the case,” he said, and changed the subject. “Chryssie told me that we can have the Celadon Suite. You’ll love it, Geralt, there is not a single corner that isn’t brightly lit and everything is so soft--”

Geralt listened to Jaskier’s chatter, focused more on his voice than his words, as they walked surely down a hall to the guest suites. A Seelie grandfather… no, not for Jaskier. The Seelie court were kind, mischievous, and tended to stay in Skellige. The ones he’d met had all said they preferred their own monsters over the main Continent’s, thank you very much.

The Celadon Suite was, frankly, much too green for Geralt’s taste; but it looked well against Jaskier’s teal-trimmed dusky blue outfit. There was a small receiving room with a dining table and two seating areas; the bedrooms, large and lush and leaden with silence; one bathing room tiled with white marble, the bathtub large enough for Geralt and his brothers to lounge in; and a small balcony off of the bigger bedroom. Geralt chose the smaller one immediately.

“Oh! Oh, Geralt!”

The Witcher turned, and Jaskier grabbed his arm. He’d taken off the circlet, and unbuttoned his doublet, but Geralt’s nostrils flared as he caught a scent that was not as carefree as Jaskier’s appearance.

“We should eat and drink water before sleeping,” Jaskier said, faking a smile. “Don’t want to throw up at breakfast!”

Geralt nodded, reluctantly, and followed Jaskier to the dining table.

They were both silent for a moment, looking at each other. Geralt relaxed slightly, taking in Jaskier’s familiar face, his reassuringly broad shoulders, the little curls of hair over his ears and his collarbone. This was Jaskier. His bard. His traveling companion. There was no need to be on high alert with him.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, “What did she tell you?”

Geralt tapped his finger on the table for a moment, sorting his words. “She told me the ring you gave me is very old, and has always been in your family. She told me you were a coward when you were young. She said Pankratzes never change. And she implied that your grandfather on your mother’s side was of the Seelie Court. I don’t believe those last three for a moment. But I would like to know more about this ring.” Geralt set his hand on the table, palm down, and they both looked at the ring.

It was so small. A simple bronze band, a piece of agate, and six little pearls. Not that interesting. But it felt like... like being brought into Jaskier’s family, if only for a day or so. Having something so steeped in history pressed against his skin at all times felt like he was being asked to join that history.

But he was a Witcher, and human families were not for him.

Jaskier shrugged. “Mother said it would fit the hand of the person it was meant to,” he said, softly. “I don’t really remember the rest of her explanation. I was… lonely. So I decided it must mean that it would fit my very best friend.” He lifted his gaze to Geralt’s, and smiled. A real smile, one full of affection and happiness, so warm and enveloping that Geralt felt uncomfortable. “And it does! So you can’t say you aren’t my friend, because obviously you are!”

Geralt opened his mouth to deny it, then huffed in frustration and shook his head. Jaskier reached out and tucked his fingers between Geralt’s, interlocking their hands like cogs in a machine. The corner of Geralt’s mouth twitched. It always amused him that their hands were the same lengths, but Geralt’s was blockier, meant for work, and Jaskier’s hand was perfectly shaped to play any instrument. It was also interesting how Geralt’s wax-pale skin contrasted with Jaskier’s peachy hue, tanned ever so slightly.

He just liked looking at their hands.

Jaskier hummed a bar from a new song he was writing, and carefully wiggled his hand so that he could slide it under Geralt’s fingers, joining their hands. The Witcher didn’t mind. It felt nice, oddly.

“I… might have drunk too much,” he muttered, but he couldn’t look away from the tiny valley formed by their fingers.

“Mm, me, too,” Jaskier murmured.

They sat in silence for even longer, watching the light from the lamps cast warm flickers on their clasped hands. It was so calm.

Idly, Geralt picked up Jaskier’s wilting flower circlet and draped it over their hands. Jaskier smiled.

“I’ll be yours, and you’ll be mine,” the bard whispered.

“Hmm. Friends and comrades,” the Witcher murmured back. “Joined in battle.”

“Bound by time.”

“Forever yours--”

“--Forever mine.”

Geralt’s medallion might have stirred, but probably not.

Jaskier pushed their hands upwards, so that their palms touched. “This isn’t for anyone else to know,” he whispered.

Geralt squeezed his hand back. “No,” he breathed. “This is ours.”

#Geraskier #Geraskier fic #The Witcher #soft geraskier

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stopeatingwhales · 5 years ago

Text

“dance with me,” x noel gallagher

this was one of my earliest requests and i’m so unbelievably sorry it’s so overdue! i honestly went all out with writing this (it’s the longest fic i’ve ever written from this date). my honest face by inhaler helped me write the ending/the last part to this, so thank you inhaler anons ;) x

Pairing: high school noel x reader

Warnings: low form of assault, but it’s very brief (from another character - not noel) + A LOT of softness :)

Word count: 4.772

Requested by anon, I’m so sorry it’s so late <3

༉‧₊˚✧

“No, I want you, she’s so heavy is the best song!” I exclaimed, throwing my hands up in the air, a repulsive look plastered on my face. “Imagine thinking that Polythene Pam was the best,” I added, my loathsome expression increasing in disgust.

I was at Noel’s house, sitting on his bed in his shared room, accompanied by his younger brother Liam as Abbey Road by the Beatles blasted out of his record player. The atmosphere of the space was extremely calming - Noel sometimes joining in on Oh! Darling as it spun around on the player, his guitar strumming the notes lightly projecting the song louder, whilst his knee bounced up and down to measure the beat. I laid down on his bed, adorning his scent whiffed all over the sheets as I played with a few of my hair strands, humming along to Paul McCartney’s voice quietly, not interrupting the soothing sounds escaping from Noel’s guitar. The occasional curse word slipped out of Liam’s mouth - his eyes pinned on the simple question written on his homework sheet. He hadn’t done any of his work for the past two weeks, receiving multiple detentions - to which he didn’t attend - until the headteacher of our school decided to threaten him with an expulsion. During the time I was with them, I had slightly helped on a few of the questions littering his maths sheet, hinting at the answers so he would be able to properly figure them out himself. However, trying to teach a naughty 12-year-old how to do long division was exactly like being able to balance a spoon on your nose whilst laughing. Completely and utterly impossible.

Me going over to Noel’s place wasn’t unknown; I tended to go over to theirs once or twice during the week, most times after school because I had nothing better to do. We usually hung out in his room, mainly because we were both drained from how exhausting school always was, and plus, we didn’t need to go anywhere to have a laugh together, we always did. No matter where we were, we somehow found a way to brighten everything up - perhaps by smoking a joint together in a plain field, watching the sunset as we impatiently waited for another rave to pass by us, or by spending our evenings in relaxing moments like these, listening to our favourite albums without a care in the world, the occasional argument slipping out of our mouths about which was the best song - usually ending up in Noel ignoring me for the sum of 10 minutes before I gave in and apologised for my stupid remark. There’s no best song by The Beatles, they’re legendary for a reason.

“Shut it, otherwise I’m ignoring you again,” Noel replied, staring at me with both his eyes squinted together. I lifted my head up from his pillow, scoffing. Knowing this was going to happen, I didn’t reply to his silly remark, dropping my head back down onto his pillow once again. Despite the groggy feeling partnering in the room due to the heater being on, his scent was sweet. He smelt like a packet of heavy Marlboro cigarettes, whisked in with cheap aftershave from the shop down the road because he’s skint from buying too many cigarettes and ‘forgot to buy one the other day’. Nevertheless, it was alluring. I adored his scent, mainly because it reminded me of how the littlest things in life can mean the most to you. It continuously reminded me that doing simple things like these add to the empowering lifestyle of being a teenager in a dying city; Manchester was left to rot due to the prime minister focusing all her time and dedication to unimportant things, rather than helping the poor and lower class. It gave us a sense of freedom, that without the higher class evoking their worry in our troubles, they forgot about everything and let us be. We could do whatever we desired now, whether it be partying until you’re unable to walk for three days, or skipping school because you can’t be bothered to see people that only retaliate at you for petty reasons. It was the bittersweet rivers of life, we were poor but we had fun with it, dancing until our last breath before dawn.

“Noel,” Liam said, lifting his head up from his crinkled worksheet. “Don’t you have that school dance soon?” he added, the temperature of the room now feeling like it was upped one hundred degrees due to my cheeks reddening. Since me and Noel didn’t have that big of a friendship group, and both of us having somewhat a troubled love life for our age, our minds never brushed past the thought of going to the leavers dance. It was itching towards the end of the school year, meaning that we were going to leave school, so going and taking part in the fun of a last dance was quite hyped up. My mind sometimes brushed the idea of me and Noel going together, but we were only friends. Plus, wouldn’t that just be weird?

I tried to subtly raise my head to look at Noel, my eyes trailing from the plain white ceiling to his slim-structured body. The neck of his acoustic guitar was gripped gently by his left hand, his right caressing the strings softly as his playing came to a close from the question hanging in the air. He shifted around in his seat a bit, adjusting where the guitar sat, before clearing his throat and answering the question. I was tempted to ask him the same thing too, my curiosity over the subject now being the only thing pitted in my mind. “Well, yeah but I haven’t got no one to go with, init?” He said, staring straight at Liam, then the piece of paper lying in front of him on his bed. My heart sank a little as that sentence launched out of his mouth abruptly, my thoughts now following on with unspeakable things of what I could’ve answered to that. I knew he really wanted to go with someone, but there wasn’t anyone who would be willing to go out with him, even for just one night.

“Couldn’t you just go with Y/N?” Liam asked, turning his head to look at me. My eyes widened expeditiously, my crimson cheeks now turning to fire as I chewed on my bottom lip. The heat bubbling in my body caused me to feel a slight tingle at my lower back, the feeling of sweat beginning to form on all the spots that weren’t visible to both boys - the skin I owned underneath. “Unless you’ve got someone to go with, but I doubt that,” Liam added, chuckling after his words.

Ignoring his comment, I stayed silent for a few seconds, my eyes darting to my fingers as I fiddled with them - figuring out what to answer. “I mean, we could just go as friends I guess?” I said, now staring straight at Noel. He stared back at me, his eyebrows shifting around a bit, contemplating the idea that was now punctured in his brain. “There’s nothing wrong with that,” I added, reassuring that I did feel the same way at first - friends shouldn’t be going together - when it’s no harm dressing up and having a couple drinks with your best friend, we do that all the time anyways.

“I suppose so,” He replied, nodding his head as he darted his head back to the record player, reaching out for the opened water bottle placed by the record player - taking a short sip of it before carrying on his sentence. “But you have to admit Polythene Pam is the best song,”

~~~

As I walked through the school gates I was for once welcomed with a feeling which wasn’t dread. I gazed around the mundane, dimmed colours of the school’s front whilst anticipation filled my veins whole, adoring my body like a little child, after begging and begging for minutes on end for their guardian to buy them a treat they had been eyeing at for what felt like a year, their carer gives in from the child’s immediate persistence, causing the kid to be on a cloud-nine-level of euphoria and exhilaration. For once, I felt excited; apprehension for the tales ahead buzzed through my body, for my usual, stale state taking a departure once my eyes made contact with the known building for once. Tonight I was going to enjoy myself, even if I despised the majority of the people who were attending. This was one of the last chances I got to enjoy myself at school - and since we’re going for the its-the-last-day-of-the-world vibe - I might as well make the most of it while it lasts.

Walking up to the main building, I saw bright, flashy colours being projected from inside the large hall, reminiscing me of the many raves I had hazily attended with Noel whilst we were drunk off of our heads. The sparkling lights, the huge domes of crowded, drunken teenagers - just like me and him - trying to find a place to fit in, accidentally stumbling into an open, warm embrace to another dimension crammed with unknown faces, an introduction to the exact same embrace they’d be entangled in when they go back home to their parents in the middle of the night - whom were sick to their stomach in worry because they didn’t know where their child was. You belonged to your families, but you refused to believe that life was as bland as it had become; there’s more to life than studying for exams, everyone says. You don’t want to end up like the small percentage of people who refuse to live their lives because it's the only one they’ve got. You want to live your life because it is the only one you’ve got.

My shoes echoed a light tap on the concrete as I paced slowly, my mind entranced in thought, wondering the crowds I’d be exposed to once I set foot inside the chattering room. As I made my way to the glass door, I stared at my reflection briefly, adjusting my hair a little bit due to it falling out of place from the small gusts of wind that had accompanied me on my way to the school. A rush of nervousness focused on my mind until I gripped on the handle, pushing the door open, revealing the view of teenagers dancing about, drinking, laughing or slobbering on each other's faces. My anxieties were cleared when I saw every girl dolled up in dresses; the one I was currently engulfed in wasn’t that nice - it being the only dress I’ve had in my wardrobe for a couple years (since I wholeheartedly have a brutal hate for dresses). I was forced to keep it in my closet in case there was a time and a place I needed it, for unexpected times like these, a leavers disco, my date being my one and only best friend Noel Gallagher. I was astounded to realise it actually sat on me the same as it used to, only a little bit shorter due to me growing in height. I was the same height as Noel, yet we would always have arguments over who was taller - always being shushed by Liam as he was figuring how to write a paragraph describing what happens in Act 5 of Macbeth. Get a room, you two.

Wandering on the sidelines of the grand hall, I picked up on the little decorations which had been ripped off the walls from careless students. The colour of the room was a simple blue, making it quite hard to study everything from the human eyes. Bits of what seemed to be silky red ribbon - the flashing lights of the room making it quite hard to figure out what shade it was - ripped up tissue paper, and a few bursted balloons. Music was playing, blasting out of huge Marshall amps, stacked upon each other on the main stage, where years worth of plays and performances were repetitively played almost every half term, my mind reminiscing on the first play I did in year 7 as a side character. The many screams that escaped people’s mouths as the chorus of Boys Don’t Cry by the Cure, prevented me from living out the memories for the last time as I set foot in the hall. Humming along to the melody, I waved my arms around in the air - not too far out, in case I accidentally come into contact with someone rushing past me - my fingers twiddling together as I spun myself around slightly. The ambience of the room felt very uplifting, reminding me of, yet again, those fun times I had experienced with Noel on the many late nights of the summer holidays.

My eyes briefly caught contact with a table as I was walking - the drinks stand. It sat straight ahead of me, yet it was positioned facing the crowds of people mingling about singing along to the new song that began playing. As each step began bringing me closer to it, I attempted to analyse what was suited up for options, squinted my eyes together. There were four fish-bowl-like tubs, with nothing but flavoured beverage inside them, all of them being a different shade - one lighter than the other, one darker than the other. Once I made it to the table, I continued to vary my choice, my eyes completely enthralled by the options. Bowls were left almost empty, some fully empty. As I placed my finger on the one which had the most drink in it, I squinted my eyes together again, wondering if it was the best choice.

“You come here alone?” chirped up a voice in front of me, behind the table. As I raised my head up, I met eyes with the person, noticing that it was one of mine and Noel’s mates. There were stacks of paper cups lined up behind him, along with one small stack sat on the wooden table beside his stood body - for easy access when having a lot of customers, especially at the start of the dance, when all the people attending want is a drink to murder the awkward atmosphere building up in the place.

Laughing lightly, I smiled. “Well, I’m supposed to be here with Noel,” I said, quickly scanning the room after to see if he had made it yet - clearly not. “But he doesn’t seem to have arrived here yet,”

I heard a laugh escape the boy's mouth. “You and Noel?” he asked, grabbing a spoonful of the drink I was eyeing merely seconds previous, snatching a paper cup from the pile lined up perfectly beside him, gathering some of the drink before splashing the liquid into the cup. “I was wondering when that was going to happen,” he added, more or so mumbled, as if he was trying to hide it from me. I noticed he rolled his eyes slightly, his eyebrows furrowing together as he dropped the spoon he was pouring the drink with back into its original position - inserted into the bowl.

“Sorry?” I asked, confused by his comment. He handed me the drink after swishing it around in his hand a couple times - perhaps to check if there was enough to the point it wouldn’t spill, or maybe because he was stunned by my upfront approach against his words, mustering responses in his head before spitting back at me. It felt like there was a lot on his mind - a lot he wanted to say, most likely things to me.

His eyes wandered around the table separating us. Fixating both his palms on the table, keeping it steady, he sighed, sucking in one side of his mouth before exhaling. “Well, he’s more of a pretentious twat if I’m honest,”

I was shocked. My jaw was practically on its way to drop to the ground and smash at full force - as if it were being thrown off the tallest tower in the world. Why did he say that? “Plus, he’s your best mate, are you that lonely not to go with anyone else?” he scoffed, clearly aiming the question towards why I hadn’t gone with him. There was speculation of him liking me between conversations I had with our small friend group at school, but I tended to avoid bringing it up in conversation; I got too uncomfortable. We weren’t close, he was always there simply whenever we hung out at school. Apart from that, we barely ever saw him, let alone know anything about him.

“Come on Y/N, let’s dance,” he said, circling the table, walking round to where I was standing, my eyes facing the bowls. He grabbed my arm roughly - turning me to look directly at him. “You deserve better than that fucker!” he exclaimed, attempting to drag me closer to him, as he pulled us to the middle of the room, where everyone was dancing. Gripping onto the beverage tightly in my free hand, I pulled it close to me, in case I’d manage to spill anything on the floor, becoming the cause of someone’s injury from slipping and ripping their clothes. His body language seemingly began to turn more aggressive as we made it to the centre of the room, the pressure being put on my wrist getting more and more tight. The idea of me and Noel dancing in the room played on his mind as it did with mine too, noticing the amount of people dancing with their significant others. Perhaps the reason he kept adding so much strength was because he was jealous, the same sort of jealousy when you find out two of your supposed best friends had gone out together and forgot to ask you to come - when without a doubt deliberately did it since they didn’t want you attending. His grip was slowly seeming out more pain in my body.

My hand began to ache; the force he was pushing onto my wrist was causing my hand to tingle from the lack of blood circulation. The idea of throwing my drink at him, knowing I wouldn’t drink it anymore due to what he was doing to me, “Get off of me, you bitch!” I shrieked, jittering my hand around in all ways possible, causing him to turn his face to look at me, scold me perhaps, until I took the chance and threw my drink straight at him - aiming for the eyes like pepper spray gauging to the root of your eyes, blinding you in immediate pain. I heard him shout, instantly releasing his hold from my hand, as I headed to leave the room straight away. Practically everyone had their eyes glued to the pair of us, staring both of us questioningly, the sound of my heels clanking against the wooden floor ringing through my ears painfully as I exited the immensely tensed stiff room.

~~~

Walking outside of the building, I made my way towards the gate I once entered, couching to lean against the wall that was placed beside it. The aged wall felt cold, the little bumps of hardened cement sticking out of the bricks digging into my dress, eventually into my back. The contrast of my heated body against the freezing wall brought a feeling of relaxation - the stressful situation that had previously occurred just moments ago finally began departing from its connection to my thoughts. I held my face in my hands, slowly feeling my wrist go from its numbed state to a softened feeling of fuzz; I moved it around a little bit, noticing I had somewhat control of it now. The past tingly feeling I felt on my hand had come to my head instead, as I started to weave myself into thoughts about what people would take and think from the situation. I was almost certain someone was going to mention it to everyone and everywhere imaginable - casual teenager gossip, a girl got assaulted, spread it around!

As the skies unfolded newer, darker shades, welcoming the night, the stale breeze picked up on itself, cluttering my hair, throwing it to other parts of my face - like how it was before I had entered the building, this time as if I had rolled down a mountain and stood up injury free. Collecting my arms in an embrace to warm me up, I leaned my head back against the brick wall, staring at the twinkling night sky. It was surprising how much light the moon emitted. You didn’t need that many lamp posts at all, unless you were walking in an area where the moon was unable to shimmer its colours: a dull alleyway, where there's only one small light hanging on the wall, basically broken, a flickering light flashing out of it, just managing you to get through the dust and dirt cascaded around you. Almost telling you that, you’ll be able to survive your hardships, as long as you believe in the light to keep shining.

Staring at my shoes, I admired the little sparkles glimmering from my shoes. They were small, short-cut heels that I put on to make myself look fit for the part of a schoolgirl ready to depart from her beautiful teenage life and enter a world of womanhood. I was growing up, and I just hoped that the future that was slowly unravelling itself to me was going to be better than I anticipated it to be. Tonight went to shit, though.

“Y/N?” a voice said, speaking up as it walked through the gate’s entrance. Straight away I was able to know who it was. Noel.

Moving my head from the view of the night sky, I locked eyes with Noel - who was standing in front of me, concern miffed on his eyes. He was clothed in a cheap looking suit, perhaps one he found in his mother's closet which belonged to his father previously, or maybe one he stole from a friend. It fit him perfectly, as if the brand tailored to his bodily structure. His hair looked as if he had done it properly for once, rather than having it in its usual, worn down state. “Why are you sitting alone, and outside in the freezing cold?”

I scoffed, recalling the situation. However, I avoided mentioning it; it would only make the rest of the evening more dreadful to experience. “Rough night,” I mumbled, turning my head to the glowing skies again. “Where were you?” I asked, attempting to change the subject expeditiously. Thankfully, it worked.

“Thought it started at ten,” he replied, walking to lean on the wall beside me, but not sitting like I was. He shuffled his feet a little bit, small, minuscule rocks causing a scraping sound to ripple out from underneath. It was a soothing sound at first, the coarse scratches against the floor reminding me of walking in the middle of a sea of leaves in a park in autumn, completely emptied, without a soul to be seen when there's not a single tree alive and blooming anymore. A ghost town, when in summer would be compressed with thousands of people trying to get past the sweaty, sticky air causing you to cough a couple times. You walk through, stomping on whatever leaf your shoe comes into contact with, a crisp, crunchy sound mounting from it. You slow your pace, wanting to breathe in the cool air, capture the moment before it’s too late and you’re getting your keys to unlock your front door. “Guess not,”

Sighing, I shook my head. “It’s fine, don’t worry, really,” I answered, my eyes trailing to the school building once again. “It’s not like you missed out on anything,”

As if on cue, once my eyes made contact with the place, the loud music that was being projected out of it came to a halt - cutting off mid song, forming goose bumps on my arm out of frustration. You don’t cut off a song halfway, patience, please. I’d always say to Noel, when he got sick and tired of listening to I want you (She’s so heavy) for the fourth time. We’ve listened to it four times! Regardless, you twat. You don’t cut off good music.

I heard Noel snicker lightly, knowing I would get bothered - even if I didn’t physically show it. What was replaced with the rasp, echoing sounds of some random dance song, was the music I was silently waiting for all night. The slow dancing song. The most memorable moment of the night. In all honesty, the song that was playing was bad - but that’s not the point.

As the music progressed on, I imagined myself in the hall, slow dancing with Noel. Tonight made me realise something: over the past year and a bit of mine and his friendship blossoming, he became someone that I needed in my life, in my future. Like how tea needs its milk and sugar. Like how to write you need a pen. You couldn’t take one or the other out of the equation; it wouldn’t make sense - at all. It was weird enough knowing we used to hate each other in class, not because someone said something to the other to piss them off, neither of us really didn’t know. We just hated each other’s presence - until we both shared a spliff together one morning before school; I had forgotten my last cigarette at home, and him - not exactly knowing why he did it - offered to have a hit of his.

“Dance with me,” he said, lifting his body off off the wall, once again standing right in front of me.

“What?”

“Every girl deserves a dance,” he started grabbing my hand, preparing himself to pull me up. Our eyes made stale contact, his brunette eyes interlocking with mine. They had a certain shine to them under the moonlight, a certain twinkle I was never able to notice before. “Especially you,” he added, dragging me up from the icy, dirty floor.

My heart fluttered as he pulled my body close to his, his hand adorning my hip as his other held my hand and pulled it closely to his chest. My grin was as wide as the sun in 360 degree view, heating up my face in a light blush, not noticeable in the dark. A part of me felt as if he noticed; his small smile widened slightly when the rush of warmth embraced my skin. I placed my free hand on his shoulder, allowing my fingers to feel the cheap fabric he was wearing. I didn’t care how expensive or how low-priced, all I needed was Noel, no one else. He knew me like no one else did.

Pulling Noel closer to my body, we began swaying, the soft sounds of the music playing in the background. I’m sure everyone else in the town would be able to hear the music at one point; they used an unreasonable amount of amps for the songs. I hugged his body, adoring his scent once again. The same, cheap, worn down smell, whiffed with what smelt like a hit of weed, perhaps to calm himself down. He looked quite nervous when I first saw him. He was nervous, for me.

“Y/N,” he said, causing me to lift my head from his shoulder. I stared into his obscure, enthralling orbs, my heart softening. His pupils were dilated, his bottom lip sank into his mouth. He seemed anxious, worried about what was happening, until he exhaled his breath, a breath seeming like it was meant to escape decades ago, and cocked his head to the side, leaning in.

Heart pounding, I did the same, as our lips brushed against one another's. The kiss felt extremely overdue, as if it was meant to happen on the morning we first bonded on our new knowledge of our shared habit. He tasted exactly like how I imagined: sweet. Sweet with a hint of honey. Sweet with a hint of hunger, as if this was needed far, far long ago. This kiss was a response to every conversation we ever had, every lock of the eyes, every embrace. We continued swaying whilst our lips adventured on the feeling of something new. Love.

So when you ask me, how was your school dance? Because you like to push your nose into everyone else’s business, I’ll tell you, it was the best night of my life, like the end of all things usually is.

#noel gallagher x reader #liam gallagher #noel gallagher #oasis #britpop #music #90s #imagine #bandimagines #bands #fluff #smut #angst #writing #my writing

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shadow-assassin-blix · 4 years ago

Text

It Belongs in a Museum

CHAPTER 4

A/N: Okay. Shorter than what I usually do, but I promise the next chapter will be longer. Canon typical violence. I kind of thought of the Mummy Returns for the first bit. Some fluffiness toward the end though. “Spanish”

Everything tag: @mikeisthricedeceased

Pedro tag: @m-1234 @fioccodineveautunnale @artsymaddie

For this fic: @sarahjkl82-blog

The next day, they split up with their assigned guards, to run through each hallway. Vixen and Veracruz were going to go down the spiral staircase that led to a long hallway. As they made their way down, Veracruz carried a machete, but also, she noticed, he kept his hand near his holstered gun.

She held the torch, lighting any other torches they came across as they walked. The hallway was bare of any artwork, roots hanging low from the ceiling. The floor was uneven, so they had to meander down it slowly.

They came to a doorway that was covered in moss. Vixen stepped forward examining it closely. She quietly wiped away the moss trying to find a handle or a lock mechanism. As she studied it, Veracruz apparently was impatient as he grabbed the crowbar from her pack and jammed it into the gap between the wall and door.

“V!” She exclaimed watching him pry it open.

“Your way was taking too long,” Veracruz mumbled as he pulled the door open.

Vixen rolled her eyes at him as she walked past him into the room. It opened up to a small room, and she gasped as the light illuminated it. The walls were filled with bones and skulls everywhere. She looked around, spinning in a circle, amazed.

“It’s a catacomb,” She whispered.

“Vixen. The floor you’re standing on is moving,” Veracruz grimaced as he stared down at her feet.

Vixen looked down and saw hundreds of snakes and spiders crawling over her feet. She blanched slightly but kept moving, seeing another hallway to her right.

Veracruz followed after her, moving a bit more delicately, stepping onto gaps rather than just brushing them aside like Vixen did. He didn’t quite understand how she could so calmly walk past all of this. Veracruz wasn’t one to experience fear, but he was raised to have a healthy amount of superstitions. He caught up to Vixen a moment later.

“You okay there V?” she asked somewhat concerned but also slightly amused by his behaviors.

He simply grunted in response and waved her to move forward. She walked further down and noticed the hallway opened up to a large atrium. She stared at everything in awe. It was like time had stood still as she took in her surroundings.

The center looked to be a market area, with stands, bowls and vases strewn about. The outer areas were stone houses and the structure to the back appeared to be a sanctuary of sorts.

“Whoa,” She heard Veracruz whisper.

“I know right?” She replied to him.

“It looks like the jungle… just… swallowed this village whole. How is that possible? How has no one ever found this place before?” Veracruz wondered as he stood next to her.

“Could be a number of reasons. Diseases, a pandemic, could have run rampant through the village. From the looks of it, the village slowly sank with the years. Between rains and floods, it’s possible no one was ever able to reach this area. Or others have found it and ran into the people that attacked us. That’s what we are here to hopefully figure out,” Vixen explained as she examined the walls.

Veracruz listened to her explanation impressed, as they continued to light the room up, before further exploring.

“Okay. Fair warning, I talk to myself a lot. So, if you hear me mumbling, just ignore me,” Vixen warned as she pulled out her notebook and camera, holding her pen between her teeth for a moment.

“Understood. Do what you need to, darling. I am just here to guard,” He replied taking a seat on some rock formation.

Vixen moved around the center of the main area, taking photos before writing down what she was seeing. Once she was done with that, she began to explore the individual homes, doing her best not to disturb anything. The homes were small, so it did not take her long to explore each one.

She made her way to the sanctuary; the archway was ornate, carvings engraved into the stone. She examined the archway, trying to take some photos. She realized that she needed to take some rubbings of it to fully analyze it. She made a note of that, before moving forward.

There were some steps that led to an open area, that led to an altar at the back. She moved slowly, as she stepped onto the cobbled floor; trying to avoid suspicious looking stones. She realized the further she walked in, there were several skeletons that had arrows sticking out of them. She stared at their armor noting some were Spanish Conquistadors and Roman Legionnaires.

She slowed further down, gulping slightly as she noticed the large serpentine sculptures, with their mouths wide opened. She had walked into a trap and had to be smart about this.

The steps she noticed were becoming increasingly difficult to navigate. She was having to hop or take large steps to the solid stones.

Eventually she had gotten to the altar; she stared at it somewhat confused because there was no obvious sign of anything valuable. No glittering jewel or rare item, obviously waiting to be taken. She gently wandered around the rectangular altar, that looked a bit like a casket of sorts.

Behind it, laid a skeleton, and in its grasps was a sparkling necklace made mostly of gold and emeralds. She took a photo of it, before reaching into her pockets, to pull out a pair of gloves. Once they were on, she gingerly pulled the necklace out of its grasp.

It was heavy as it laid in her hands. From what she could see so far, it was the only thing of immense value; the only thing worth stealing.

“That doesn’t make sense though. Why risk your life for a necklace?” She said to herself out loud.

“It’s not necklace they wanted dearie, but the inscription on the back of it. They wanted to know the way to El Dorado,” Came an unfamiliar voice from the opening.

She glanced up to see three men, armed to the teeth, walking toward her.

“What did you do with..” She began to ask, fearing the worst, as she noticed Veracruz wasn’t with them.

“Loverboy? He’s taking a short nap. Now, hand over the necklace girlie,” The leader demanded.

However, unlike her, they did not pay attention to their footing. The men flanking him both stepped onto a pressure plate, causing arrows and darts to start shooting out at them. The man in the middle, tried to duck and rush forward, to avoid them. His backup fell to the ground swiftly with pained groans, before dying.

Vixen had to think fast, as the third man made his was to her, dodging the arrows. She looked at the altar before her, realizing that the top looked like it could move. She shoved at it harshly, the lid sliding off and hitting the third man. The pain from the stone smashing his foot, caused him to jerk up, followed by an arrow lodging itself in his throat.

Vixen looked away, horrified, trying to not vomit at the sight before her. It wasn’t until she heard a loud thud that she looked back.

She glanced down at the now opened altar and winced. It had been a casket. She quietly muttered an apology in several languages, as she tried to go around the casket again, and grab the top. However, it was too heavy for her to lift. She was going to need help, but she had to wait for the dispenser to empty of arrows.

A minute had passed, before they had emptied, and she was able to make her way back to Veracruz. He was lying on the ground, slowly moving as he came to.

“V? V are you okay?” She asked worriedly as she squatted down near him.

She gently helped him sit up, gasping at the wound that was on his head.

“Veracruz,” She whispered his name, as she tried to examine his head further.

“I’m okay little fox. Pissed that those assholes got the drop on me. Where are they?” He questioned as he tried to stand up.

“Hey! No. You are not going anywhere. And… they are very much dead,” She answered not looking at him.

“Lemme guess… first time seeing someone die?” He guessed taking in her trembling hands and lips, her lack of eye contact.

She simply nodded once, not trusting herself to speak. She quietly grabbed his radio and asked for backup.

Minutes later, several of his men and Professor Jones had arrived. One of his men had a first aid kit and began to work on him. It wasn’t until Professor Jones had gone to help her up, his hands grasping her forearms, that she hissed out in pain.

Professor Jones turned her arm over, revealing a large, bloodied scrape from when she had tried to push casket top.

The medic, after taking care of the Comandante quickly took care of her wound as well. The medic and a few other soldiers walked Veracruz back up top to rest.

The rest stayed there with them, as they wandered back into the sanctuary.

Vixen quietly explained what happened to the professor as they worked back to the altar. She looked down at the necklace she had dropped in her panic and picked it up. She laid it inside the casket, before her and the professor placed the top back over it.

“I know part of you might be dying to know the location of El Dorado, but there’s a reason why it was kept hidden from the world. I am proud that you resisted temptation and placed that necklace back where it belongs,” Professor Jones said to her as they walked down the long hallway to rejoin the others.

“I didn’t even think about it to be honest. I saw these skeletons of men from hundreds of years ago, dead simply because they wanted to find a city of gold? That allegedly existed? Then for those men to attack us just for a clue to its location? No. No fortune or glory is worth dying over,” Vixen replied wiping away the sweat from her face.

“Well. You are already doing better than I was when I was your age. Younger me, would’ve taken it, figured out the location, and then brought back something to show for it. Older me, now realizes, I am too old to run away from boulders, to drink from holy grails, or dodge lunatics who try to rip out my heart,” Indiana lamented lightly.

“Rip out your heart? Haven’t heard that story before. Who the hell did you piss off?” Vixen wondered in both fascinated and horrified.

He laughed lightly, “I’ll tell all of you once we are topside and safe.”

They regrouped with everyone back at camp, recounting the story, but ignoring the bit about El Dorado. By the time she had finished, and Indiana had told his story about the heart ripper, it was late. She was exhausted but she was worried about Veracruz. The others had gone to bed, and there were only a couple guards patrolling.

She quietly made her way over to his tent, ducking under the flaps once she had unzipped it. She closed it back up, before wandering over to his bed. He was quietly laying there, a fresh butterfly band-aid on his forehead. She gently brushed her hand down the side of his cheek, the action waking him. He stared up at her, blinking.

“Hi. Sorry. I just wanted to check on you,” She whispered as she sat next to him.

“Oh? Worried about lil ol’ me? Careful, lovely, one might think you have feelings for me?” He softly teased.

She rolled her eyes at him, motioning for him to scootch over. He does so, staring at her as she dressed down a bit. She threw off her shoes and socks, before shoving her pants down, stepping out of them. She undid her bra and took it off from under her shirt before joining him on his cot.

She curled herself around him, laying her head on his chest. His arms slowly wrapped themselves around her, keeping her close.

“What if I did?” She asked lowly.

He hummed in response, confused.

“What if I did have feelings for you? What would you say?” She questioned, turning her head to look up at him.

“I’d say…. That you were a fool. My fool, but a fool nonetheless,” He answered after a moment.

“Your fool, eh?” She snickered softly. “What does that make you?”

“An idiot… for maybe, possibly having feelings for you as well,” He replied with a cough.

“An idiot and a fool. Quite the couple we make,” She murmured as she slowly fell asleep.

“Indeed,” He whispered as he reached over to turn the lantern that lit his tent off.

Veracruz was internally beating himself up. How could he have been caught off guard? How were they able to sneak up on him? He was furious when the medic brought him to his tent. He desperately wanted to punch something, but his head injury prevented him. So, he had laid there and stew with all of this pent-up rage until he fell asleep.

When he heard someone enter his room, he was ready to yell, to scream, and then he recognized the touch and all of it left him. All of his anger and the need to fight, disappeared when he opened his eyes and saw Vixen standing there.

He would never fully admit his feelings, but there was no denying it. He cared for her more than he realized. Part of him wants to shove her away, to rebuild his walls and return to his life of solitude.

Another part however…. A much larger part… wanted to whisk her away and never return. Keep her to himself, and never let her leave his sight.

He wasn’t sure what was going to happen come morning, but for now… he was going to rest, with his woman right by his side.

#veracruz x reader #comandante veracruz #indiana jones crossover

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jackyjango · 5 years ago

Text

AU- gust Firefighters AU

This fic can be-- kind of- sort of-- considered as a prequel to

A Cat Named Erik- https://archiveofourown.org/works/15110558

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

‘Sir,’ Erik says, ‘You need to come with me right away!’

‘I can’t,’ says blue eyes in a posh British accent— really, nobody’s eyes should be that blue or that piercing even through thick glasses— not pausing in his frantic search.

Erik curses people’s stupidity. To think that whatever they hold on to so dearly-- money, pearls, documents, grandmother’s china, whatever they hold on to all their lives-- is worth more than their goddam lives.

(Once, a woman had refused to be rescued out of a burning building without her lunch box. A lunch box! Thankfully, the said lunch box had been metal and Erik had been able to fish it out from below the pile of her smoking furniture before rescuing her out of the house. People and their antics. And they call him the dramatic one!)

Any other time, Erik would have gawked at blue-eyes’s swell ass that is put on display as he bends to look under a table, or the way the hem of his overly large sweater slips from his shoulder exposing his freckled skin, or the way it reaches his mid thigh displaying his pale thighs, covering his boxer briefs and giving off the impression that the sweater is the only thing he’s wearing. He doesn’t do any of that now, because, one- Erik’s on duty, and two- they don’t have the fucking time. The only way into the small apartment had been the narrow corridor, and even that is filled with smoke now, leaving the only window on the opposite wall as their point of exit.

‘Sir,’ Erik calls out again, injecting urgency into his voice, hoping that his voice will be carried through the barrier of his gas mask, ‘We really have to get going.’

‘I can’t!’ blue eyes says again turning on his heel to look at Erik. There’s a frantic look in his eyes and Erik wonders how much of it is because of smoke inhalation and how much of it is because of genuine despair over whatever blue eyes isn’t finding. ‘I can’t leave without Matilda!’

Matilda? But Erik doesn’t remember the landlord of the building mentioning a second person in the apartment when he’d given the list of the residents of the building who’d needed to be pulled out. Regardless of the number of people, it’s Erik’s duty to save every one of them.

‘Okay,’ Erik says, moving closer to blue eyes. ‘Where was she when the alarm went off?’

‘She was right here,’ blue eyes points at the couch and bends to look around it. ‘Matilda!’ He shouts into the small apartment, cupping his hands around his mouth. ‘Where are you, darling?��

Any other time Erik would have wondered who Matilda is and how she’s related to blue eyes— is she a relative? A sister? A girlfriend, perhaps?—or marvelled at how stupid blue eyes is for looking for Matilda under tables and couches as if a fully grown human would even fit in there (But hey, in blue eyes’ defense, people do stupid shit when they’re under stress.) But now, Erik does none of that, because, one- Erik’s on duty, and two- they don’t have the fucking time. The metal rods holding up the ceiling are slowly losing their structure strength and the smoke rolling in from the open kitchen is reducing the visibility and making breathing difficult.

‘Matilda!’ blue eyes shouts again, and this time his voice wobbles around a hitch.

Spurred into action, Erik scans the small apartment for all traces of metal. Coins, buttons, hooks, clips, any form of metal that one would carry on their person but comes up with nothing.

‘I’ll check there,’ Erik says, moving towards the closed door of the bathroom.

‘She isn’t there! I checked,’ blue eyes says, distraught, stopping Erik in his tracks. ‘Besides, she hates water.’

That still doesn’t explain why a person wouldn’t think of hiding in the bathroom in case of a fire, but Erik drops the issue as this isn’t the right time to curse at blue eye’s idiocy. Instead, Erik asks, ‘Do you know any other place she could be, a room or a store room or an alcove?’

Blue eyes looks at Erik for a moment and shakes his head vehemently.

Sighing, Erik starches out his hand and feels around the room with his senses once more. Though he doesn’t find anything to hint at the existence of a person, he realises with an ugly feeling in his gut that the iron rods holding up the ceiling have lost their structural integrity altogether. They have to move now- the ceiling can crash on their heads any minute. Erik can keep the ceiling from falling on them till they move out, but not for long.

‘Matilda,’ blue eyes call out again, ‘Please come out darling. I love you very much!’ Blue eyes looks like he’s on the verge of crying now, and Erik’s heart shrinks in his chest, because if it comes to it, Erik has to pull blue eyes out of the building with or without Matilda.

So in a last ditch effort, Erik calls out, ‘Matilda.’

There’s no response for a few seconds, and then, Meow.

Meow?

As if on cue, a ginger cat crawls out slowly from behind a stout bookcase and moves towards blue eyes.

Good grief, it’s a cat.

Matilda is a cat!

‘Matilda!’ blue eyes shrieks and falls to his knees, swooping to pick Matilda off the carpet and into his arms.

Erik sighs in relief-- relief because they’ve found the cat or because Matilda isn’t blue eyes’ girlfriend, Erik doesn’t know. Erik can’t think any of that now because Erik’s on duty, and they don’t have the time. The ceiling can fall on their heads any moment.

‘Sir, we have to move, now. We can’t go out of the main door because the corridor is filled with smoke, so we have to move out of the window and I’ll have to carry you. But don’t worry, I can levitate us-’ Erik stops, for blue eyes isn’t even listening to him. He’s clutching Matilda to his chest and murmuring sweet nothings to the cat.

It’s Erik’s duty to declare his purpose before using his powers in the course of a rescue, but they don’t have the time for protocol now dammit. Not with blue eyes lost in another world with his cat.

Any other time, Erik would have been jealous of the cat, but now.... well.

Erik walks to where blue eyes is crouching on the carpet and picks him up with one hand below his knee and the other supporting his back. Blue eyes yelps in surprise but thankfully comes to his senses and loops one arm around Erik’s neck while he grips Matilda tightly against his chest with the other.

Melting the window frame, Erik creates an opening for them and levitates them safely to the ground.

‘You’re a mutant’ blue eyes beams as soon as Erik puts him down. ‘Oh, you have a marvelous mutation, my friend. Doesn’t he, Matilda?’ he asks, scratching the cat on its belly. ‘I owe you my life,’ he says to Erik more sincerely, straightening the glasses that have gone askew, ‘Both our lives actually. Thank you very very much.’

God, blue eyes looks even more beautiful under the sun, lush hair tousled, bare-footed and clad in nothing but an oversized dark blue sweater which puts his pale skin in stark contrast. And as if possible, his eyes look even bluer and brighter.

‘Just doing my duty. You need not thank me.’ Erik shrugs nonchalantly, removing his gas mask and helmet. He’s not affected by blue eyes. Absolutely not.

‘Oh, my.’ blue eyes whispers looking at Erik’s face-- more to himself than to Erik, but Erik catches it anyways. His blue eyes widen some more, and in a thick voice he all but purrs, ‘If I can’t thank you, then can I cook you dinner? Out of gratitude, of course.’

Erik’s stomach flips, but Az chooses that very moment-- really dammit, Az--to waltz in with his report.

‘Everyone has been rescued and reported for, Lieutenant. Angel and the team are on clean up and damage control. We should be good to go in another hour.’

‘And what do we know about the source of the fire?’

‘According to Ororo, the source of the fire is a heavy-duty electric appliance-- likely an oven-- that short circuited in that apartment.’ Erik cranes his neck as Az points to the same window he just descended from.

‘Oh, dear,’ blue eyes pales visibly, and in a faint voice says, ‘I was just trying to bake cookies for Matilda.’

‘Then maybe you shouldn’t be cooking that dinner,’ Erik says and blue eyes turns a very fetching shade of red.

Erik shouldn’t find the chagrin of a man who almost burnt down an entire building baking-- no, trying to bake endearing. But he does. Dammit, he does.

‘We’re done here for today, then. The reports can wait till morning. Wrap up and go home,’ Erik says, turning to Az, who nods and disappears in a cloud of black smoke and sulphur.

Confused by the loud cackle of smoke, Matilda mewls and burrows further against blue eyes’ chest.

‘It’s fine,’ Erik says to blue eyes. ‘It was an accident, and besides, no one was hurt.’

‘Oh,’ blue eyes says, breathing in relief. ‘Thank you.’

‘We’ll try to salvage most of your belongings once the smoke goes down, but that won’t be until tomorrow. Do you have any place you could stay tonight? A relative’s place or a friend’s?’

Blue eyes ponders on the question for a moment before biting his lip and shaking his head.

Erik sighs. ‘I have a set of spare clothes in the van. You can have it. And you can stay at my place tonight.’

‘Oh, my. I wouldn’t want to trouble-’

‘It’s no trouble,’ Erik says firmly.

‘Oh, thank you so much, my friend.’ Blue eyes beams and holds out a hand to Erik.

I’m Charles! Says a voice into his head, warm and refreshing.

Erik scoffs. Blue eyes-- no, Charles is a telepath then. A mutant. All the better.

I’m Erik, Erik replies in kind, taking the proffered hand. ‘Come on, it’s time to go.’

Charles smiles as Erik turns and makes his way for the van. Behind him Charles is murmuring to the cat, ‘We’re going to be alright in the good Lieutenant’s home, won’t we, darling? Of course, we will…’

Erik tunes out Charles and the cat, too distracted by the thought of Charles in his clothes and the dinner he’ll be cooking for Charles that night. He shouldn’t be doing this. He really shouldn’t.

Goddammit!

But he’s off duty now and has all the time in the world to cook Charles a lovely dinner.

A Chicken Marsala sounds good, doesn’t it?

#cherik #cherik fic #charles xavier #erik lehnsherr #au-gust #i won't be doing all the prompts #and one or two here and there because I don't think I have it in me to write anything within 500 words #lol #this is kind of a prequel to a cat named erik #I had always imagined this in my head as how charles and erik met in that universe #and it fir the firefighters au so weel #so decided to write it #jjcherik

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the-three-idiots · 5 years ago

Text

The Blurred Line #4

It’s been two days since I left Rata sum, I’ve been thinking more about what Ashal said. She thinks I can make the right choice, she holds too much faith in me but I have to appreciate the effort.

I arrive at The Lusty Maiden, it’s very...well, the building is very nice. Yellow walls with a red roof with palm trees at the front, it’s got a quite tropical feel to it. There isn’t a door, just a curtain. Not exactly good for security.

I enter through the front do-

Front curtain.

I step inside and I’m immediately hit with the strong scent of Vanilla followed by the very hot atmosphere. I look around to see mahogany decking the floor and stairs, red sofas and chairs are organised in a circle like a waiting room and the walls are a cream colour with various cracks in the paint, it seems intentional.

This building looks like it was lifted straight out of the old Lion's Arch.

The cream walls are lined with paintings of various buildings but oddly,only one of them is of a group of people. I recognise Ashal, Voroni and Yue in the painting.

Why would a painting of the Tales of Thedas be in a whorehouse?

“Ah Ashal finally sends a short one my way.” a voice shot out from across the room.

I turn to see a Sylvari, thin, light green skin, reddish-orange hair and orange eyes. The Sylvari is wearing red lipstick with black eye shadow, they are wearing a rather skimpy blue and gold dress. The dress shows off quite a lot of skin but nothing too revealing.

This Sylvari is confusing, body structure suggests the Sylvari is a male but the dress, makeup and the voice suggests female characteristics as well. Though most plants are dual sex so they reproduce by themselves, could this mean tha-

“Darling, you stare at me any longer, you're going to have to start paying…” the sylvari said.

“Are you Gwaeddan?.” I ask

Gwaeddan nods as they walk towards me.

“And you must be Zela Arcturis, I have heard quite a lot about you. Yue spoke quite highly of you…” Gwaeddan says as they sit down on one of the red chairs. They signal me to sit on the chair opposite them. I walk up and jump onto the chair, the human sized chair. “How do you know Yue?” I ask

Gwaeddan smiles.

“Formerly wife number five and very good with her hands.” Gwaeddan states with a smile.

That’s a detail I did not need to know.

“But I’m sure you're not here to talk about that…” Gwaeddan pulled a small piece of paper from the top of their dress “Castrum Aurelius, first apprentice to Yue C’Dornay and born a right nuisance.”

Gwaeddan hands me the piece of paper, I grab it and open it.

Blank.

Gwaeddan gives a small laugh.

“You are that desperate aren’t you darling?” They say with a smile.

“He shot my teacher, my friend!” I snap at Gwaeddan.

Gwaeddan seemingly produces two glasses out of nowhere, they offer me one of the glasses.

“I’m not here to get drunk Gwaeddan.” I state.

Gwaeddan drinks both glasses and then places the glasses on the floor.

“A Heroic Mind on the mission type?...how boring. Here’s me thinking Ashal sent me someone interesting” Gwaeddan says in a disappointed tone.

They get up and start to walk away. I can’t let my only source of help walk away.

“I need to kill Castrum.”

The footsteps stop. Gwaeddan comes back around and sits back into the chair.

“A bit more tasty, not usually Ashals type. Intent to murder? Spice things up.” Gwaeddan stands up, they walk over and give me a closer inspection. they take special interest in my eyes. Gwaeddan smiles.

“Two apprentices, both with the urge to kill each other. One who has crossed the line and the other who has yet to do so, oh how very tasty.” Gwaeddan looks directly into my eyes. This is uncomfortable.

“Why are you staring at my eyes?” I ask quite understandably.

Gwaeddan sits down on the floor in front of my chair.

“Windows to the souls and yours is grey...” Gwaeddans looks at my chest before going back to my eyes “Ashal’s white as day, clean and perfect. Yours is still trying to find its way, deciding whether to kill Castrum or not.” Explains Gwaeddan

“I’m going to kill Castrum.” I state

Gwaeddan smirks as they pull another piece of paper from the top of their dress, they hand it to me. I open it. Map coordinates, weaknesses, strengths and Castrums description. Why would Gwaeddan give it to me now?

“Yes you will kill him.” Gwaeddan stands and goes to a drinks cabinet, they pull out a bottle and a pistol. They walk back with a confident swagger, they look like they are enjoying the situation.

They sit down, placing the bottle and pistol on the table next to the red chair. Gwaeddan looks at me and they smile.

“As much as I care for Ashal, one must recognise when someone's morals get in the way of what is right.” Gwaeddan points to the pistol “The world has enough righteous heros and not enough people willing to do what is necessary to keep Tyria safe.” Gwaeddan states.

I pick the pistol up, inquest design, heavy, wood and metal build. Heavily modified, custom built. Why would Gwadeddan give this to me?

“Ashal sent you here in the hope I would stop you.” Gwaeddan says.

Stop me? It seems I underestimated Ashal, she is more cunning than i initially thought but there is a more pressing issue, why isn’t Gwaeddan stopping me?

“You're a courtesan, how are you going to stop?” i ask

Gwaeddan's smile became a grin.

“Honey firstly lets not tiptoe, I'm a prostitute by trade and secondly-” Gwaedan disappears from their chair, I look around the room to see where they went before feeling something wrapping around my neck. “If i was trying to stop you, you wouldn't have been able to step through that door alive.” Gwaeddan whispers into my ear.

Gwaeddan moves their hand in front of my face to reveal a garrote, a device used to strangle people. Gwaeddan walks back to their chair and sits down. They place the garrote on the table. A thought comes to my mind.

“Ashal sends people here to be killed?” i ask

Gwaeddan shakes their head

“Ashal won't kill someone until she absolutely has too, anyone who comes here is either calmed down by my…’services’ or they ‘disappear’.” Gwaeddan looks down in shame “If Ashal ever knew what i did here…” Gwaeddan looks back up at me “Discretion is key Zela.”

I jump off the chair. I think I've spent enough time in this whorehouse, Gwaeddan is keeping me here.

“You're keeping me here on purpose.” i say to Gwaeddan

“You're more perceptive than I thought…” Gwaeddan says with a smile.

Gwaeddan smiles as she motions her hand towards the door.

“Don’t miss your shot.” Gwaeddan says.

I nod to Gwaeddan and walk over to the door.

“Does Ashal know your doing this for me?” i ask

Gwaeddan stands up from her chair and begins to walk away. They stop at the painting and look at it, focusing on Ashal.

“Discretion is key.” Gwaeddan says as they walk up the stairs.

I look at the piece of paper again, I study the coordinates. My next stop is Brisban wildlands, Where Castrums lab is located. I imagine the pistol Gwaeddan gave has more use than just shooting Castrum but for now I have to get there before Ashal.

#gw2 fanfiction #gw2 oc #gw2 #guild wars 2 #Guild Wars #tales of thedas #stories #fanfic #gw2 asura #tyriaslibrary

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twistedhaloau · 6 years ago

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Twisted halo deepdive #3: Cloud 9 studios

Setting

Layout

The studio is nothing like it once was, in a place that was once bustling with busy animators, infighting voice actresses, overworked musicians, and corporate espionage there is now only the dark and quiet embrace of the ink. The studio is slowly falling apart however has now become more of a cursed location rather than a tangible place within our real world. In fact it exists within yet outside of our dimension due to the tampering and influence of the Ink machine dwelling within it.

As mentioned above the studio is falling apart, the walls are leaking, ink is tucked away behind every wall almost always ready to burst through the boards and planks, hallways have been flooded with viscous ink and artificial light is hard to come by. However oddly enough even without electricity the artificial lights run and the walls and planks will always repair themselves much like a wounded body will eventually scab and heal. The place is an eldritch location, a genus loci if you would and it is almost incomprehensible. It contains hallways that twist into impossible architecture, stairways that lead to nowhere, impossibly large oceans of ink and expansive caverns, and an overall structure that is continuously shifting and changing which aids in eating away at the sanity of those who dwell within it.

Within the studio residents from the ‘real world’ will eventually lose their comprehension of time and space, there are barely any working clocks down in the studio and after a while residents begin to lose track of how many days and nights they have spent within the accursed place. Even if they find a working clock time works very differently in the studio in that it speeds up and slows down in an unpredictable pattern that is extremely disorienting to residents.

The studio is constantly building upon itself and for this reason you can never truly map out the studio, it is making additions every minute and if you were to reach the edge of the studio you would see planks of wood slowly forming more spaces for you to explore. The studio has grown so massive that it could be considered a country or small world in of itself.

History

Founded in the years just after the Great War, Drew Stein Studios was the creation of two young men with a pencil and a dream, Joey Drew and Henry Stein. In those early years, the studio was hardly known, an old run down office building indistinguishable from the hundreds around it in the outskirts of the city, and in a like fashion, the short animations the duo produced barely scraped the American Zeitgeist of the time. Every now and again a short little animated ad for floor cleaner, or some odd soda, just enough to keep the lights on, and not much more.

That is until the duo captured lightning in a bottle, with the creation of the Bendy cartoons. With the people’s eyes on them, for good or for ill, the duo soon found themselves with a team beneath them. That small team eventually expanded further, to in-house musicians, voice actors, editors and revisionists, the whole nine yards. The studio was no longer surviving, but thriving.

It thrived, at least, until the book was thrown at them. The Good Book.

Despite the family friendly antics of the shows seminal character, those of the cloth felt it’s portrayal of one of hells own was bordering on an outright endorsement of satanism. How could a demon, dancing or otherwise, have a kind heart? It was downright unchristian.

They say lightning never strikes twice; and if you asked them, it wouldn’t be clear who caught it this time, but the creation of Alice Angel was not only the solution to their problems with the church, but elevated their ratings to new heights. Her high marketability and decrying of the flapper lifestyle made her an instant favorite within the households of Americans across the nation. Alice soon overshadowed her demonic counterpart, who had taken a role closer to antagonist to the lovely angel, his mischievous streak now no longer being all in good fun.

With the rapid success and acceptance of their new poster girl, the studio re-branded to Cloud 9 Studios, and production of Alice Episodes kicked into full swing. The Angel herself had been voiceless up until this point- Joey and Henry never agreeing on an actress that could fill her roll- until one miss Susie Campbell, a bright, kind, exuberant girl with the chords to match, chipped in hers. The Angel now had a voice to call her own, and the people fell in love with her all over again.

But the golden age wouldn't last forever. The economic crash soon to come would put great strain on the studio. They never failed to put out an episode, but everyone felt the scarcity. Tensions grew between the original duo, who now regularly squabbled over matters of business and contributions to the studio’s flagship product. Joey was well known to harass his employees, and though Henry kept his partner in check, the magic of the studio slowly began to bleed out. Even so, not one soul left, whether through loyalty, fear of economic ruin, or fear of Joey's wrath.

That was, until the second Great War called the young men of America to a foreign shore. The studio hemorrhaged half its work force throughout those months, and had no choice but to replace its staff with a newly emboldened mass of female workers, of which most notably was Allison Pendle. Another voice actress, who’s station was not so lofty as the Lonely Angel herself, but was nonetheless one she took pride in.

But even this didn't seem to put the studio right again.

Joey and Henry, over irreconcilable differences, had officially split. Joey had changed. The man was always a notorious womanizer, a common trait for the time, but he went beyond that in the absence of his friend. The quality of the animation dipped in this interim, and while the show still remained popular, it was definitely on the decline. And with it's fall came the rise of Joey’s true colors.

Abuse, harassment, degradement. It was as if Joey had made it his personal goal to make everyone as miserable as possible. The details of what the employees suffered at the hands of their boss are not well known, but what is, is that poor Susie received the worst of it. So, one day, with a heavy heart, she left her station, and the angel behind.

With that, the studio’s fate was sealed. The show became lifeless, a husk of its former self. The last trace of heart and soul bled out, and nothing remained to take its place. When ratings dropped, the studio scrambled to squeeze as much money out as possible. Blatant product placement, soulless shilling, the whole nine yards. But it was too late. At least, so it seemed.

Those men from the church had the right of it. Joey had dabbled in the occult, and believed he had finally found a solution. This was his creation, his great work. He could not, would not let the show, the studio that he built with his own two hands go quietly into the night. The characters lacked heart? They lacked soul? Well, what if they were given one? Not one that mattered, oh no, certainly not his. A janitor, a messenger. Someone who wouldn’t be missed. Like peeling away layers of skin, Joey would tear out the workers soul, and feed it into his ink.

Cloud 9 Studios exploded into popularity once again. The characters seemed livelier than ever, as if they could almost jump off the screen and shake your hand. And while the public was slow to accept her, Allison Pendle was a serviceable replacement for the darling dancing angel. Joey Drew had done it again.

And yet still it wasn’t to last. His miracle ink soon ran dry, and the characters diminished once again. One life was not enough. Two lives and the cartoon lasted a week. Ten lives and it lasted two. The human soul has diminishing returns, and there was only so much blood he could spill in a day. What could he be missing? Maybe they were all into something. He replaced the soul, in every sense, but these coffin stuffers were the dregs of the studio. They lacked heart. Real love for the show, for the characters. For THE character.

When he called upon Allison, she answered. Perhaps it was in fear of angering her taskmaster, perhaps a promise slipped off a forked tongue. Whatever the case, Allison made for fine Ink. The weeks passed by, and months after that. With her, the show never lost its luster. Sure there was talk when the angel fell silent, but that was the way of things in the business. The show was at last truly saved. No more lives need be taken.

But… what of the studio? Sure, it was lucrative beyond measure… but Joey was an old man. Not terrible so, but age wore heavy on his brow. Disease had taken root, and grew within him as an inverse tree. What would become of the studio when he was gone? He built it with his own hands, with his dream and his dream alone. Who would take over when he’s gone? Who could carry on his legacy? Would he be forgotten, his studio turned to rot? No one could stand to the challenge, this he knew. No one was an equal to Joey Drew. In that moment, as he lamented the failure of his cells, he was struck with inspiration. He could breathe life into the pages, he could transfer soul into the inert. His ink had the power to make living that which never lived. What could it do to a person?

The first experiments were failures, but not without promise. The inken blobs little more than insults in the vague shape of man. But, they did not seem to die. Stomp them, slash them, hack them apart. They would simply retreat into the ink. There was still something missing. The conversion was imperfect, the soul was diminished in the transfer, there was little to sustain the creature spawned. Quantity over Quality was the simple answer to a simple question.

The machine was the complicated answer. A terrible engine meant to grind the sediment of one's being, with an equally terrible efficiency. Constructed with the help of a dubious contractor, one by one employees were fed into its pipes. Out of fear they willingly, and unknowingly, walked into the slaughter. The creatures that took shape finally had form, a form that delighted Joey. Alice Angel, his greatest success. They were fractured, of course, broken by the trauma of splintering, of a hundred souls swimming in piecemeal. But Joey would be different. Joey would be master of the well. He would rise in the ink.

Those employees that remained were gathered into the chamber of the machine, and, as the black Ichor spilled forth, each and every one drowned in the ink, their essence siphoned down, deep into the terminus, where Joey sat upon his throne. Joey had defeated death, with not but a pencil, with not but a dream. Or so he believed, as his act of mass murder bore sweet fruit.

Only the miscalculation of a single handyman, one pipe that could not bear the strain of a thousand lives, burst beneath the pressure. The process was incomplete. Human souls and ink spilled out across the hardwood floor.

As Joey, in ink clad, was overcome by the flood, one soul saw out through the chasm of screams. One soul saw him weather the viscous current. He was imperfect, and yet the ink still bent and flowed to his will. What could a perfect being accomplish?

#twisted halo au #twisted halo #bendy and the ink machine #batim #alice angel #bendy #joey drew #henry stein #susie campbell #allison pendle #bendy and the dark revival #batdr

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royal-writer · 6 years ago

Text

The Shape of Love

I gross sobbed all over this piece so pardon the stains they’re only my tears

She did not wander looking for love. Her mind wanted better things; peace of mind, stability, sanctuary. Love was not part of the equation. Love was not even in consideration. Days were better being only acknowledged, acquainted, best to leave it be and long for good weather and perhaps the scarce friend or two to stop by. She searched only for a place to settle without questions swirling. For a sense of normalcy. For a community who would let her be and where she didn’t draw attention.

Her name was nearly infamous now. It was not a common one either; no, when she introduced herself, the eyes of others rounded with awe. In some ways, it made her long for the quieter days. Life had been far from dull and mundane for years now; always wrapped up in one tangled thread or another. She wasn’t quite sure anymore what a ‘normal’ lifestyle was.

The chapters of this lengthy passage of the novel of her story were closing now. It felt like just yesterday they were setting off from Briarton with goals in mind. How odd it was now, to hear everyone discussing splitting ways to head home.

Essätha’s heart tightened around the word. An empty longing settled over her bones.

There were tears in her eyes as they saw Sulhadur and Pri’cha off. The wholesome duo agreed to travel together out of Etheron until a town junction where they’d split ways.

No greater pain could measure the ache in her chest than watching her family dissipate between miles and miles of terrain. Countries to separate them; rivers and lakes and mountains and forests. No longer a short arm’s reach. No longer a cry across the campsite away.

As the rays of the sun bled color and streaked across the sky like a raging fire painted by a master artist, she detached herself from the teary farewells. The sound of cicadas droned and birds crooned as they headed to their nests as the heat of the day began to roll away to a chilled evening. Her arm she did wipe against her face, and the lengthy tracks made from tears.

Dirt scuffled beneath the measured thump of approaching footsteps. Cloves and burnt wood with a mellow note of lavender wreathed around her. A smile etched into her features past the tears as she gazed over her shoulder, where the heavy weight of a cloak too broad for her petite form was being snugly arranged against her. The sides draped around her; swallowing her figure whole as she rested her head against the bear fur with a deep inhale, sucking in the rich aroma. It immediately sent a sizzling warm spiraling through her; spearing her heart at the gentleman’s gesture and residual body heat.

Lord Amon chuckled quietly. Her insides quivered; the whisper of his breath against her cheek as he stepped around. In his hand, he offered a neatly folded handkerchief; crisp white with a rose sewn in the corner. Clearing her throat, she accepted the offer with an incline of her head. She hardly had a moment to dab at her face and wipe at her nose when he reached out to cradle her face in his hands.

A flutter rose in her pulse. She sighed weakly beneath the pads of his thumbs caressing beneath the hollow area beneath her eyes. Her bloodshot gaze turned up to his; dark and tender. His smile was filled with its own version of heartache.

“This isn’t goodbye,” he reassured her softly. “We will see them again.”

We. Her stomach twisted at the word. She reached up, mimicking his gesture by holding his face in her hands. The square cut of his jaw was hard to define against the scruff of his beard. Her fingers dipped through strands of black hair around his ears with the edge of her palm resting just along the pale lines of his throat.

“But how long? A month? A year? Longer? What if something happens. What if-”

He shushed her quietly, leaning in to dot the most delicate kisses she’d ever felt along face. From her cheeks, over her mouth, to her eyes as she squinted and hiccuped past her unattractive sobbing that was making her features puffy and splotchy with discoloration. And he didn’t mind at all, brushing away her tears and leaving the sweet impression of his lips in his wake from the tip of her hairline down to her chin.

“Do not grieve, darling,” Amon whispered against her cheek softly. “We will all stay in touch, and plan meetings as frequently as possible. Resisting change will prevent you from enjoying new experiences, and hold you back from the future. They are not leaving you. They’ll always be there in your heart, and they’ll always care. Nothing is changing between the friendships we’ve all made. Nothing is preventing you from seeing them again, or reaching out to them. We still have the sending stones to let each other know we’re thinking of them.”

She strained through a faint laugh that hurt her raw throat. “You make it sound simple.”

Her eyes opened to catch his staring into hers. His own had a faint shine to them, and he swallowed as creeping veins of red moved into the whites of his eyes.

“It won’t be. But it’ll get easier.”

She felt she’d heard those words before. Her chest ached in the most bittersweet way.

Blinking a few times, the nobleman cleared his throat. The red in his eyes was rapidly disappearing as he leaned closer. Their breathes intermingled. He placed his forehead gently against hers, staring into the shape of her golden amber eyes as they darted over his features. He exhaled shakily; hands trembling with nervous energy as he urged her closer.

“Come home with me.”

Her heart jumped erratically, breath hitching.

The softness of his gaze lowered into a half-mast, and he gave her a small smile so filled with adoration and pleading, it made her soul itch with longing. Staring into those eyes; where his pupil swallowed the iris deep blue, his hands resting against her, the world in perfect harmony and she knew. Gods, she knew everything would be alright.

“I am home,” she whispered hoarsely, offering a crooked smile as she kissed his palms. “I’m with you.”

Amon’s eyes widened, and he breathed out shakily. The softness of his rough hands demanded her closer, and she stepped into his chest and leaned up into him as much as she could. His face so beautiful, his gaze so captivating. She could spend eternity stuck like this, seeing nothing else but the eased gentleness in his features. His handsome cheek bone structure, the strong shape of his nose, his fascinating smile and inviting eyes most of all. She could get lost studying his regal charming looks forever.

His tongue darted out to nervously lick his lips, and he whispered in a quivering tone daring to hope: “Is that a yes? Or would you consider, returning to Briarton manor with me? I know it’s no castle and the town no Aurnmval-”

“I do not need a castle or a metropolis,” she hissed, dragging his face closer. “I just need you. Only you, m’lord Amon.”

He groaned feverishly. “Oh, Essätha-”

Whatever thought he had, neither could wait for. She was welcomed in a gentle embrace, the soft shape of his lips, the scrape of whiskers to her face, and burning passion. He held her steady as the world disappeared and her mind dizzy, the thunder of her heartbeat matching his. So light where his hands; between a place of treating her like a fragile bloom careful not to crush and a border of possessiveness in only the way that whispered in the back of her mind that he would protect her for all time. No kiss ever more fulfilling than the romantic fondness he gave as he received; all affection and yearning.

It was the shape of love. Only him. An open heart. The door always open for her to come and to go as she pleased. She found it all, with him. She found that home she always longed for. She found the joy she believed would always allude her, just out of her grasp. And truly, honestly, deeply, her life from this moment on, could never, ever, be anything less than flawless, just so long as she could have her Lord Amon within it.

#royal writes #essamon ship #Essie rw #amon illiad #cavity inducing fluff ahead

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stevecanmakeanythingnerdy · 6 years ago

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Battle #15

8 Bark: Structurally Sound (Side A)

Vs.

Jets To Brazil : Four Cornered Night (Side D)

8 Bark: Structurally Sound (Side A)

Outside of maybe the people who witnessed their tours and Chicago natives, not many may recognize their name...but to those in the know previously mentioned, they will never forget their name. 8 Bark was a punk band from Chicago, formed by Douglas Ward following the demise of ID Under. The group existed from 1990 until 1994. Relatively short as far as bands go, but longer than some. 8 Bark's sound was notable for its dual male/female vocals. They released several records on the Chicago label Underdog Records, which Douglas helped run. Following their split, Douglas formed V.Reverse and continues to remain active in the Chicago punk scene. There is a distinct sound to 8 Bark. They would fall firmly between the cracks of a band like Fugazi, and helped pave the way for future bands like Marry Me and Braid. Mix in a little emo hardcore helper and you have yourself some pre Cap ‘n Jazz-ercise (#seewhatididthere). It’s fitting they chose to title this LP Structurally Sound, because it literally is. They use structure to create beautiful and raw emotional sound like you have never heard before. The LP is actually The Big Wheel ep with a few more tracks to flesh it out. They are returning contenders from RRW season one. It’s Chicago blue collar emo. I love these guys (and gal) so much. I was introduced to them at the right time during my punk rock development and really keyed in on their DIY ethos and passion. It’s still very much a part of me today. Everything from the lyrics to the packaging scream underground and proud. The econo look plus zine style really gives it credibility in my opinion. “Your Hole” is original and energetic in every sense of the word. Timing is impeccable, the structure is accurate and the warm bass with tight drums and alternating male/female vocals just seal the deal. The title track “Structurally Sound” adds more back and forth with healthy highs and lovely lows. Shawn Scallen knew who they were, and if that name doesn’t mean anything to you, then I suggest you start googling. “Old Wardrobe” is strangely reminiscent of R. E. M. ‘s “End of the World”. It’s the vocal cadence I guess, but it has a similar vibe. Also bonus points for use of diverse instruments like bells. “Eye and Keyhole” is actually a weaker tune by comparison, but still merits some kudos with the harmonies. I guess that’s it in a nutshell. A sound Like nothing you’ve ever heard, but still recognized as a song with verses and chorus and harmonies, but with chaos as the guiding force. “Back To You” might be one of the finest examples of the band’s signature sound, full of hot start/stop Action. Perhaps helping to invent math rock. Rad guitar solos prove they know what’s up with the popular vote, but they still beat into submission your subconscious rock roots. It’s just a damn good song! “Cut” is the final tune and it still sounds as fresh as the day it was...well, cut (#seewhatididthere) in 1992! Do not underestimate how important this band was to early 90’s underground punk in Chi-town. Some of your favorite sweater wearing emo kids owe a debt to this platter.

Jets To Brazil : Four Cornered Night (Side D)

The basis of what would become Jets to Brazil was founded by Blake Schwarzenbach, the former frontman of longtime RRW house favorites Jawbreaker, and Mr. Jeremy Chatelain. When Schwarzenbach relocated to New York City after Jawbreaker had disbanded. The two began working on four-track recordings aided by drum machines until former Texas Is the Reason drummer Chris Daly joined the band, and they signed to Jade Tree Records. The origin of the band's name came from a suggestion by Daly, after seeing it on a poster in the 1961 film Breakfast at Tiffany's. Technically then, the band is from Brooklyn. The band was really quite short lived, existing only from 1997 to 2003. They released three studio albums, of which Four Cornered Night is the second, and honestly the most poorly received by fans. By autumn of 2003, less than a year after the release of Perfecting Loneliness, the band had broken up for unspecified reasons. Coming pretty much right off the demise of Jawbreaker-a band that called it quits literally at the apex of their career JTB were introduced to an almost immediate and desperate fan base. Their credentials seemed to indicate that they would be underground darlings, but not for long. I think everyone had expectations of them exploding to a major label status - however Blake made it quite clear early on in interviews that the major label experience left a bad taste. So this is their sophomore offerings. They had already released the initial collection of tunes which very much were on par with what fans of the previous bands were expecting to hear. This group then allowed for a bit more experimentation and diversity. It’s certainly more indie rock. Side D (yes, “D” -it’s one of those expanded to be a double LP and remastered blah, blah, blah. I hate these actually. Pointless in my opinion. I own it because of my love for Jawbreaker, therefore guilt by association). I want to be mad at this band, but they are good at what they do. And in a nutshell that is “Mid-Day Anonymous”. Good, indie rock with Blake’s amazing poetry as lyrics. It contains Pavement level vibes and bleeds directly into “******* (7 Stars)”. Hey! They took my stars idea!! Just kidding. It’s an acoustic ending as the song winds down. “Orange Rhyming Dictionary” is next. Possibly named after their debut album, but contains more of those exquisite lyrics and pretentious poetry set to a Texas is the Reason soundtrack. Makes sense though, right? Tempos slow and basic templates apply but you won’t care, I promise. Crank! Records May have well released this. “All Things Good and Nice” finishes the album. It’s organ heavy, partially because they added a second guitarist on this one to allow Blake to play keys. Still good, but it’s confusing. Almost a turn away. This song seems like a Dashboard Confessional (#seewhatididthere). As if Blake awakened and the ARTIST shines on JTB. Almost seems like an apology and absolve for Jawbreaker. It’s a complicated relationship between the two. For fans of Jimmy Eats World. Mineral if you’re mining for compliments (#seewhatididthere).

Today, Chicago’s own 8 Bark proved they are Structurally Sound. They burned 104 calories over 14 minutes and 6 songs. That is 17.33 calories burned per song and 7.43 calories burned per minute. 8 Bark earned 13 out of 18 possible stars. Jets To Brazil showed us the nocturnal side of things and it apparently has four corners. They burned 132 calories over 17 minutes and 3 (1/2) songs. That is 37.71 calories burned per song and 7.78 calories burned per minute. In addition to their own 7 Stars, they earned 6out of 9 possible stars. A close one today, but Jets To Brazil are blasting off as the champions!

Jets To Brazil: “Orange Rhyming Dictionary”. Forgive the poor audio as there are better vids out there of just audio, but I wanted to show the mighty Blake in his element. Live.

https://youtu.be/1Gk8iyGNUiM

#Randomrecordworkoutseasonsix

#Randomrecordworkout

#randomrecordworkout #vinyl #90s music #90s #punkrock #punk rock #jets to brazil #jawbreaker #2000s music #early 2000s #jade tree #records #randomrecordworkoutseason6 #underdog #chicago #texas is the reason #emo #emo rock

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sending-the-message · 7 years ago

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Lila by emareil

The baby didn’t cry at all when it was handed to me, it just stared up at me with its wide, blue eyes.

There was noise all around me, the child’s mother was crying, or moaning, but her words burred together into one unintelligible stream of sound that I filtered out. The baby blinked, a fringe of black eyelashes brushed its cheek and I shook my head- in the moment of clarity before the baby’s eyes opened and entranced me again.

The gaze seemed to me, completely aware and oddly complacent- as if the child had trusted itself to me, to my arms. The mother, Angeline- I think her name was reached out for her baby, but I stepped back from her grasp- unkind perhaps, but I couldn’t muster a single ounce of sympathy for the woman writhing before me. I despised her for what she had put the child through.

She would die soon, I imagined- but again, I felt only relief. I checked the baby in my arms, the child was shaking; convulsing- its frantic movements mirrored the mother’s.

The baby was female. Her skin was warm against mine, feverish. I hummed softly and bent down to bring my own eyes level with the mother’s.

“I want my,” The woman hissed at me. Sweat beaded her forehead and her hair was matted around her head. Detached, I watched the spit fall from her mouth as she struggled to speak. “I change- I don’t.”

I cut the contemptible woman off. “No.” Compared to her raspy vowels my own voice was pure and unusually forceful.

The baby shook against me; the child had been born addicted to whatever vile substances the mother had forced through her clotted veins. A horrible cruelty, I thought, to subject someone so innocent, so utterly defenseless to torture at the hand of one’s own despicable cravings. I stood up, and fixed the warm cotton blanket around the child.

“You know what the agreement was. I’ve fulfilled my end.” I made my voice soft, for the baby’s sake, but the power was still there. The woman drew away from me, cringing into the filthy ground of her apartment. A beer bottle rolled across the floor as she knocked into it.

“You promised,” The woman tried to raise her head, but gave up. It made a heavy thunking sound as it hit the ground. “I’m not, my life isn’t what...”

I ignored her, and stepped around her prone body towards the door. If she had false hopes, then they were her problems. I didn’t even bother trying to assuage her doubts, she was to weak to do anything, and I had paid her the money she’d asked for anyways.

The mother tried again, “You can’t… You won’t”

“I will.” I told her, allowing an edge of steel to creep into my words. The baby, the little girl was mine now.

I called her Lila, the short form of a traditional name in my mother language- shortened because I didn’t want her ridiculed by the children in her classes. I knew children could be cruel.

She was a beautiful child, special somehow, as if the fates were compensating for the trial of her first days. I never came to regret the adoption, as unorthodox as it was; Lila was my only light in the world.

When I’d brought her home, I’d held her to me, skin to skin against my chest and sang to her until she’d stopped trembling. I couldn’t feed her myself, of course, and I couldn’t bear to get her a wet nurse- to give the job of sustaining my baby to some other woman. Besides, I couldn’t stomach the thought of some alien girl’s bodily fluids coursing through my own child.

I bought her best nourishment money could buy, and I gave her what no one else could; my undivided attention and unconditional love. I had enough money, more then enough, to spend every single second with her. I never tired of my baby, the way other mothers might have. I had lost enough to realize how lucky I was; every moment with Lila was a blessing.

Her mother had had brown eyes, with ugly dilated pupils and bloodshot veins marring the whites of them. The father was unknown- any number of philandering men could have donated half of my baby’s genetic makeup. The doctors had told me that eyes darkened over time- but that was never the case. Four years later, Lila’s eyes were even more stunningly blue, and her hair was dark and wavy against pale cream skin.

The doctors had also said she could face any number of symptoms; from sudden death to attention defects, to delayed and stunted growth to mental retardation. I should have paid less money for their council.

I was my daughter’s guardian, I watched over her, helped her learn, taught her to read and write, and to solve problems and form conclusions. I watched as she played in the bath, and I sang to her every night- protective lullabies against whatever evils the mother may have lashed to her fate.

Lila was gifted, by far the brightest out of all her classmates. Her school was a private one that advertised the best facilities in our city- one with teachers that loved their jobs and a big list of successful alumni. I doubted that it was the facility alone that had produced the fame and fortune of their graduates, but rather, the bar of excessive wealth that gatekept the progeny of the less fortunate.

My own wealth was a huge aid in the world, an untimely inheritance that I had never felt I deserved. I had privileges that the vast majority of society never would- Lila had been legally mine six months before she was even born. She had privileges too. I’d enrolled her in the stupid pedigreed elementary school full of stupid children from ridiculously affluent backgrounds, after all.

But wealth wasn’t everything, because Lila’s biological mother hadn’t had a penny in the world- at least not before she’d met me. Lila’s biological father was, presumably, equally bereft. Still, Lila had had full reading comprehension while most of her classmates struggled to read single words.

Today we sat together on the couch in our home, her head against my chest and her legs tucked up besides me.

“Mama,” Lila had said, reminding me of the first word she’d ever spoken. She hadn’t cried at all as a baby, and she hadn’t babbled, just watched me until she’d been able to model my own words, to call me Mama in a pretty sing-song voice that had sent a thrill of pride through me.

“Yes darling?” I brushed some of her hair away from her face and tried to imagine what she would look like as a grown woman.

“Will you swim with me tonight?”

She’d always loved the water, something that brought me great relief. I missed the beaches and the glittering waters of my home. Although we were far from the beach, I was glad she could still appreciate the pool I’d had built with the house.

I agreed easily and poked her in the side, prompting her to tell me about her day.

We talked about all of her feelings in depth, and she was angry because the children in her class were boring and self absorbed. She was frustrated because the classes moved too slowly for her.

I called the school while I prepared dinner- they would move her up two grades. She was mature enough not to be stunted socially, and the coursework was advanced enough for her.

Lila was twelve when she came home from dance class upset. She never cried, but I could read it in her posture, in the tense way she carried herself and the shallow breaths she pulled in. I poured her a glass of water from the fridge and passed it too her, motioning for her to sit besides me on the couch.

We sat in silence for a while, and I looked at her. She was my proudest accomplishment, my baby, my daughter and my only light in the world. She looked like me now; we both had black hair and strong bone structures. Her face was symmetrical, a product, I thought, of a good childhood. It took the body a great deal of energy to grow symmetrically, and symmetry was an indicator of health and ample resources during the growth periods. She was softer then me, though, a gentler beauty whereas I was regal and harsh. I was proud of that too.

She also danced with an elegance that was unusual amongst her awkward, prepubescent peers. Already, she carried herself with the grace of a young woman, with a quiet confidence that set her apart.

“Do you think Fermat’s principle is prophetic?” She broke my reflective silence.

I didn’t share her love for all things physics, but I kept up with her because I loved our conversations. I furrowed my brow, worried.

“No, and neither do you.”

Her love for the sciences and math’s had never been philosophical in nature; she delighted in the purity and in the fixed properties of physics.

“What’s bothering you?”

Lila was silent a beat longer. “Did you date?”

I laughed now, relieved. Boys bothered everyone.

I had attracted men as a teenager, a lot, and a new suitor every week. My family’s status had been fortunate (perhaps unfortunately) enough to merit undue attention from men older, and far more mature then me- an impressionable child.

“Not at all. Romantic relationships are never worth it.” I said, trying to keep my tone light. Lila looked relieved, she confessed she didn’t share the shallow attractions her friends obsessed over.

I was relieved too, and it flooded my body like an ocean of reassurance. I feared the corrupting influence of teenage boys. Perhaps I was overprotective, but they disgusted me, and I had my own reasons.

It had been my own heart that had brought devastation to my family. Bored with my life, and my duties as an heiress I’d allowed myself to be charmed by the first man to show me sustained attention and had abandoned my family to be his wife. My father had died soon after- and I hadn’t even made it to his deathbed. Our marriage hadn’t been happy- and we’d both grown idle- as the obscenely rich did.

Affair after affair had followed, and I- for all of my ambition was nothing but eye candy. In the world of socialites and business magistrates my job was to look pretty. I had stood calmly by, smiling graciously as he charmed a steady stream of women- a thick coat of makeup covering the regular bruises that had painted my throat black.

When he’d died, I had been relieved beyond words but hideously angry, with only my sisters left as family. Eventually I had abandoned them too- and wandered, lost, until I’d found Lila- or the woman carrying her.

Family. I rarely thought of it now; therapy sessions with the most qualified professionals I could find would do that- but Lila’s words had reminded me of the past I tried so hard to forget. Still, I wouldn’t change a thing if it meant I could keep her.

Boys brought my daughter more trouble, and one day I left a conference abruptly to join her principal, an ugly teenage boy and his insufferable parents in a school office.

“Lila bit Bennett’s hand.” The principal’s voice was long suffering, and he gestured to the boy who was cradling a hand wrapped in white gauze.

I raised an eyebrow at my daughter, who was glaring at the boy, her wide blue eyes awash with fury. I could feel the tension in the room, in the harsh anger emanating from my daughter and the duplicitous pain the boy was trying to project.

“Why?” I asked, and I could hear the fury in my voice. The boys parents looked smug, they though I was angry with my daughter. Lila, however, was vindicated- I was her cavalry- and I could never be mad with her.

“She claims he touched her breast.” The principal said, in his stupid, long-suffering voice, as if he dealt with claims of sexual assault daily. Lila met my eyes, and the anger simmering below the surface erupted into a point of white-hot fury. I hummed under my breath, a low sonorous note to try and calm myself. It didn’t work.

I was reserved, but terrifying in my defence of my child, and the boy’s parent’s cried. The boy’s name was Bennett; it was a stupid name that his idiot parents modeled in their equally idiot behaviour. The father told me, “Wait now a minute,” and the mother covered her mouth and wiped at her eyes. Lila didn’t cry, because I’d raised her to be strong.

The principal apologized to me personally, I wouldn’t sue the school, and Lila’s tuition would be free this year- as if the money was ever an issue. The boy changed schools and Lila took a long, long shower to wash off the feeling of his hand on her.

After, I taught her to fight, and we practiced the movements under the big window of the living room. She was a natural, years of dance brought the movements effortlessly to her, and she was sinuously graceful where I could only ever be harsh and brutal. Our legs made susurrus sounds as we sparred, and I taught her what to do if a man ever laid an unwanted hand on her again.

Lila’s classmates enjoyed social media, and she did too. She had always been popular, because she was beautiful, and because some twisted property of society made that a desirable trait.

She threw a party for her sixteenth birthday, and we strung fairy lights around the yard, and waterproof lights inside of the pool so that it glowed at night. It was a rather unearthly blue colour and Lila loved it; it reminded me of her eyes. I taught her the melodies of my favourite songs as we prepared, and she picked up the notes with ease.

They took lots of pictures at her party, these groups of giggling, tittering teenagers. Lila had never looked so separate from them- they were still insecure and they preened like a flock of birds. My daughter was effortlessly confident, poised and lovely. She spent most of her time in the water, whirling in circles and laughing as she splashed her friends. I remember teaching her to swim, just days after she was born.

I didn’t like Lila’s friends, they reminded me too much of the women I’d known growing up. Superficial, vain, and outer beauty only barely concealing horrific nasty streaks- women could be unassumingly dangerous, the undertow beneath a calm surface.

Later, as Lila and I looked at the photos her friends posted online, she confessed she only threw a party for their enjoyment. She would have preferred doing something with me- I promised her we’d go cliff climbing or swimming together as a treat later. She smiled hugely. Altruism, I suppose was a fine quality.

Lila’s biological mother finds us a month later; I should have been more vigilant with the online posts. It never occurred to me that she would survive the birth.

Her eyes are sunken and hollow, she’s disgustingly thin and I make a conscious note to clean the carpets she stands on. Or to have them cleaned, I don’t want to touch them.

“I want my baby back.” The woman says, coughing weakly into her sweatshirt.

Lila stays behind me, this woman means nothing to both of us.

“That’s my Abigail!” The woman insists, stumbling forwards. She’s bleeding from both arms from where she climbed through a hole she’d smashed in our window. Her arms are bruised from decades of drug abuse, and I am reminded of Lila’s first days of life, and the pain my daughter had endured. I meet Lila’s eyes for reassurance, and I am furious as well, I will protect my daughter to whatever end.

“You promised me a better life!” Spit sprays from her mouth, and the drugs in her system egg her on, making her feral. “My life is shit, I deserve my baby back! GIVE ME MY BABY!” She screeches, and makes a grab for my daughter.

I force the woman, screaming, from my house, and the police are called to remove her. It doesn’t take much from them to believe my story.

Legally, Lila is my biological daughter, and this woman is a crazy drug addict who vandalized my property. The mother is also unconscious now, which probably lends a significant amount of credibility to my story. That and Lila is almost my spitting image. Her father is out of the picture too, which helps. I’d found his records years ago; he’d stumbled in front of a truck with a blood alcohol level high enough to kill him anyway. Good riddance.

Despite the damage to my property, I don’t regret a second of Lila’s adoption. I couldn’t have gotten pregnant if I’d tried, and I couldn’t have endured it anyways. I was an undocumented citizen- or at least a falsely documented one.

Lila’s biological mother had been younger then Lila was now when she’d fallen pregnant with my child. It was an unorthodox exchange, but with my funds, it was entirely convenient. It was also the best choice I’d ever made, even if accepting a street girl’s proposition of money for a child had been legally grey.

Besides, Lila had always been special.

Lila’s graduation marks the end of our need for this country. She has learned all of the math and science I couldn’t teach her, and I feel obligated to leave.

For the first time my daughter disagrees with me, she wants to stay and learn more about the world, about the laws that govern the universe. I think a portion of her insatiable quest for knowledge stems from her inability to understand herself.

Still, I suppose knowledge is as worthy a pursuit as any, so I agree easily and fund the tuition for whatever university she wants to study within. I listen eagerly as she tells me about everything she’s learning, although most of it escapes me.

Her biological mother contacts me again, this time through mail following an incessant stream of online attempts. She wants more money. I ignore the messages.

Lila finishes university with honours, I have never been prouder. She also finishes university without a romantic attachment; something which pleases me too.

She is away from me more, and I’ve been having nightmares. It’s been many years, but I fear for Lila’s safety. I sing to her every night, although she’s old enough now to sing for herself.

I think she intends to learn even more, to absorb every ounce of knowledge available before we leave. It seems foolish to me, but she is resolute. She needs to know enough to continue her studies in another country.

I acquiesce, of course, and I pay for her courses. We still have as much time as she wants, and I can hardly blame her for being anxious about leaving what she knows.

My sister visits me while Lila is away; she wants me to come back home- to bring Lila with me. I disagree, it is still unsafe for her, and for me- my family will not be so quick to forgive me. My sister tells me they already have.

The second time the biological mother finds us, Lila is grown herself - and we are planning on leaving for my home country soon, leaving the bleak grey of this city for sunny Mediterranean seas and salty ocean breezes.

The mother is stronger now too, and I can tell the drugs are free from her veins. Still, she is mad. Mad perhaps with the dreams I’d sang to her still carving a path through her skull. Mad because the paradises I’d promised her in return for her complacency would never come to fruition, and because she had no other option save for this frenzied pilgrimage. I pitied her.

“I only want my baby!” She shrieks at me, she had climbed the backyard fence and she stood across from us on the pool deck.

I could see the insanity within her eyes, dark, hollow pits consumed by the glimpses of heaven I’d afforded her. I imagine she saw my daughter as a way to go back to the girl she was, before she had seen exactly how much she was missing, and how much she could never have. False promises were an exquisite torture. I hummed beneath my breath, but the woman was screaming so loudly I doubted she could hear it. Lila hid behind me, terrified.

“I want my fucking baby back! Give me my life back!” The mother shrieks again, deranged, tears brimming in her eyes. “You did this to me! You took my life away from me!”

She gasps, spine jerking, and eyes roving madly. She fixes her gaze on something I can’t see and laughs- a chilling sound, although I am unmoved. “All I see is perfection.” She laughs again, and then screams at me, “It’s not real! NONE OF IT IS REAL.”

I tune her out.

“I need money- I have to,” I turn to face her as she claws at her forehead- I notice streaks of blood covering it. “Please,” her voice is low now, groveling, “You have to help me.”

I turn to face her. “You’ve wasted your life of your own volition.”

“Bitch!” She howls, furious again, “You promised you could make my life better!”

I won’t make any more false promises, “I can’t help you.”

“NO!” The woman cries out, she is beyond reason. I edge towards the door and keep an eye on her out of my peripheral vision, she can hardly stand upright- perhaps the drugs really did help her.

The mother speaks up, this time softly, “So you wont help me.”

“No.” I tell her.

And then something changes, and the mother- biological mother- because the only right she has to my child is a packet of donated genes- shifts. Like a switch has snapped, and I see with horrifying clarity what she was hiding behind her back. It’s too late now for me to convince her otherwise- and I can only accept whatever the fates may bring. Adrenaline courses through me, and I feel the song build up within me- ready.

A few things happen at once, and a bullet tears it’s way towards us, towards my daughter. I fling myself in its path. Lila cries out as the bullet tears through my chest and out my back. I feel it in an odd detached pain; I am consumed with protecting Lila, I barely notice- all I can feel is relief that she is okay.

Lila became my life after I left my sisters and mother behind. She is the heir I raised in my place once we return, destined to take my place as queen. Now, I am furious, my anger is hell-hot and a raging, blistering fire at the though of my daughter being taken from me.

I sing.

My voice is powerful; it protected my daughter from the pain she might have faced, chased the drugs from her veins, and helped shape her into her truest self, but this time it doesn’t nurture.

I shatter the mother’s bones with my song, I sing her skin to putty and I snap her spine-it makes a hollow sound. My song is beautiful- hauntingly ethereal, and I sing dozens of notes at a time in an unearthly concert. Energy crackles around me, and the stone under my feet turns black and cracks. The water in the pool bubbles and steams, and I can feel the strength of my voice reverberating away from me.

The song pours effortlessly from me, my throat contracts around it but the melodies form of their own volition now. Long, bloody ropes of flesh peel from the mother’s arms and legs and her hair snakes across the concrete as I split her skull open with a sickeningly satisfying crack. My song pounds into her like shrapnel and the blood that spurts from her abdomen is vaporized almost instantly. Her screams are piercing, shrill, and they remind me of when I cut my daughter free from her womb after I’d sang the control of her body away from her. I didn’t want to give her the honour of birthing my child.

My song is as brutal and as carnal as I can make it, a stunning cacophony of melody, I will make the mother’s final moments my first slice of retribution for daring to hurt my child. I suppose I am still furious at the pain she’d caused Lila, even if it had allowed me to claim her. I had known my daughter from the second I’d sensed her in this woman’s belly. The mother was only ever the container- although I had underestimated the lengths she would go to see the empty promises I’d bestowed upon her played out. The only thing I regretted about the adoption now, was not seeing her dead.

I rip her limbs brutally from her body, the bone within them leaks out of the end and steams out of the pores- and the appendages incinerate to ash before they touch the ground. Poofs of the dust blow over the mother’s face and paint her black. Blood pools below her and the mother’s strident screaming fades to a harrowing keening and then strangely funny gurgling as I turn her lungs to mush.

Unlike the other’s I’d killed for Lila; various men lured into my house for dinner or convinced to donate blood to suckle my infant daughter, I relish the mother’s pain- even though her death is costing me my life. I would gladly die to protect my child.

With a tremendous force, I sing her soul from her body, and slam it down into the deepest reaches of Hades- now she will enjoy an eternity of torment and pain.

I am a Siren, Lila is the ascendant queen of my people and there is no rival to my song on earth. I could sing armies of men to do my bidding, command an entire nation to sacrifice themselves at my feet- but it is hardly worth it, Siren women have no reason to desire more then they have been given.

A siren woman is a dead woman, usually one drowned- choking on the salt of the sea spray before her vocal chords harden- and before she is sung from the ocean to become a sister.

Lila was different, drowned in her mother’s womb as a defenceless child- but still I could sense her potential. The mother just wanted money at first, only later had she required coercion. She hadn’t known the fetus she protected was a corpse, and she hadn’t cared after she’d heard my song.

Sirensong was a funny thing, and there was a reason those who heard it usually jumped to their deaths. My song had warped the young woman’s mind, possessed her until she was consumed by it. A fatal mistake, as it turned out.

Besides me Lila, my daughter, my Scylla, sings too, but she doesn’t cry because I’ve taught her mastery over water. Her eyes are brilliant, blue and she raises her arms to the sky and the water of the pool rises with her, surrounding her in a glorious whirlpool. I’ve taught her how to fight, and she is practiced as she controls the waves, as she rises up, black hair whipping around her.

I know where she will go, to the our home just as we’d always planned, and I know she will be able to control my sisters just as easily as she controls the water.

I’m proud of my daughter, of my only light in the world, she is monstrous and she is powerful, named for the cliff monster of old that I’d hoped she would take after. She is even more fearsome, and I know she will be safe. She will be Queen as well; her voice will bring a new generation of men to their knees at her feet. She will always have enough to eat.

She is everything I have ever wanted. My life has been long, but I have only been alive for as long as Scylla has. I met death the first time with fear, but this time I can smile as the world around me blurs at the edges- there is nothing else I could ever want. I suppose that I too have been consumed by Sirensong.

I meet Scylla’s eyes, her beautiful blue eyes- just like my own- and she fixes me with her gaze, and I am transfixed just as I was when she was a baby. Her eyes are full of understanding, and this time; trust in all I’ve taught her. She knows she will be okay. Scylla, my daughter blinks and my head clears.

I look at her one last time,

And then

I let go.

…………………….It’s 1925, and my husband stands besides me- or perhaps a little behind me. The ocean is blue, an unearthly colour and I love it.

The musicians are playing, some jazzy upbeat tune- but I let the roar of the waves tune it out and concentrate on the faint strains of music flowing over the water.

“Darling,” My husband says with what I think must be his most charming smile, “you don’t look well.”

His voice breaks my concentration- and already the images flowing through my mind have passed. I can’t look at him anymore- so I look out at the jagged cliffs that line the edge of the island chain we are sailing by.

“Though you always look a vision.”

My husband reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and involuntarily I flinch away. Something cold and sinister flashes beneath his vision- betraying the good-natured half smile he always has playing around his lips.

I look at him through my lashes, and brace my hands against the balcony. He nods as though he approves and takes a deep breath to steady himself. His breath blows hot over my face, and it reeks of alcohol. Illegal- but easily bought, especially for the rich.

Below us, I feel the hum of the ship’s engine as we change course- imperceptibly, but I know we’re headed for the islands. We can’t hear their song over the loud music- but the captain can.

“I was going to take a boat out with the boys and head back the way we came- try and catch a few fish.”

I look at the jagged rocks and to the shore below littered with the wrecks of other ships- although from this far away they look like black smudges.

“No,” I smile up at him, and meet his eyes. I reach a hand to my back and undo the zipper that holds my dress up, and I take in the way his eyes widen as my dress falls softly to the floor around me, with satisfaction. I curl my hand around his cheek and lock the other around his wrist. “Stay.”

He doesn’t need any more convincing. And I smile against his lips as I wrap my body around his- I’ve seen everything I could ever want in the world, a curse and a blessing because I know it will cost my life, and I would rather die then fight it. I resolve to write all I’ve seen down in my room later- so I don’t forget.

Behind us, the rocks inch ever closer and I know that when I drown my husband will drown with me- but only one of us will rise again.

Lila, I’m coming.

I am posting this today, three months after purchasing a house here- in the city, three months and twenty-seven days after leaving my sisters. Today has been an uneventful day- uneventful aside from your biological mother camped out beside the subway station.

I write this, because the Sirensong that drives me is relaxing now- I met you today, and already I am forgetting all that I have seen. I have posted this on hundreds of forums, written notes to you, secured papers in safe deposit boxes. This is a redundancy.

When you find this I imagine I will already be gone from this realm- and I imagine you will be a Queen. Know that I am proud of you, and that Sirensong was not the only thing that drove me to die for you. Rule well, my love.

#reddit #nosleep #scary #story

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finallyindigo · 5 years ago

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“The Snare” Captures How Women Internalize Trauma

About two thirds of the way through The Snare, Elizabeth Spencer’s seventh novel, the protagonist, Julia Garrett, has the following exchange with her uncle, Maurice (who speaks first):

“Don’t let the past pile up, darling. It’s bad, but it’s gone and we can’t help it. Think of the wake of the boat.”

“Oh, no, that won’t work . . . it’s all around . . . around. . . .”

The line is quintessential Julia, whose every word seems matched not just to the present moment but to a personal inquiry or revelation. In this scene, she is specifically grieving the sudden death of her former lover, a wealthy (and married) Mississippi man named Martin. More broadly, though, she is articulating the root of her existential problem—the thing that, in the course of 400 pages, carries her to the brink of self-destruction—which is that Julia cannot, perhaps does not want to, escape her traumatic past.

Spencer’s gift for characterization reaches enviable depth in The Snare. On the surface, Julia Garrett is a society girl who pursues fulfillment in the seedy underbelly of post-war New Orleans. But this overarching plotline is anchored by the protagonist’s interior turmoil, which is both nebulous and rife with conflict. We spend a lot of time in Julia’s head, reflecting on her past and watching her cobble together abusive events with survivalist instincts. Chief among her preoccupations—what prompts her routine flashbacks and uncertain streams of consciousness—are her abandonment by her father and her relationship with her great-uncle and Maurice’s father, Henri “Dev” Devigny.

Though long dead at the start of the book, Dev is the subject of Julia’s love and revulsion, the figure who inspires her to consider herself both a vibrant, sensual “creature” and a whore. For Julia, Dev is “a constant heavy sun along the horizon of her spirit self,” both illuminating and blinding, comforting and oppressive. The implication is that Dev sexually manipulated Julia from the age of six, but Spencer never states this explicitly. Rather, she hews to the intimate third-person perspective that dominates the novel, an authorial choice that creates narrative tension and feels authentic to the way many women process sexual trauma. Julia cannot name what happened to her, so Spencer resists rendering it in categorical terms.

Spencer, who died in December, at age 98, had a penchant for writing characters who are concerned with their pasts. Frequently, they conduct themselves within their own historical contexts, recalling family sagas and ancient grievances amid ordinary affairs—an engagement party, a Christmas pageant, a vacation in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Often, they are Southern, reflecting Spencer’s own heritage as a native Mississippian, and as a person who, like me, was born into a cultural obsession with bearing and unravelling legacies. Early in her career, critics likened her to Faulkner, though she resisted the comparison, citing her subject as the sole similarity. In 1989, she told The Paris Review, “If my material seems like his, as I say, it must be that we are both looking at the same society.”

Read it: Ekosistem Digital

When she left the South—for Italy and, later, Canada—her fictional landscapes shifted, too, though her interest in familial burdens and societal constraints remained constant. For some readers, it was this focus that cemented her as a next-generation Faulkner. Others saw glimmers of Henry James in her tales about Americans abroad. As I make my way through her astonishing body of work, I find myself thinking most often of her friend Alice Munro, so penetrating is her insight into female experiences of complex class structures and rigid social mores.

And yet, despite the fact that her name often appears in grand company, and despite her prize-winning canon that includes nine novels, a memoir, and six collections of short stories, Spencer is largely overlooked in contemporary literary circles. Her best-known work is The Light in the Piazza, a novella she published in 1960 and later called her albatross. “It probably is the real thing,” she said. “But it only took me, all told, about a month to write, whereas some of my other novels—the longer ones—took years.”

Her trauma exists in the backdrop of her quest for self-actualization, an honest reflection of how many women move through their lives.

The Snare is one such novel. It was published nearly five decades ago, but I first encountered it late last August, while entrenched in a reading cycle that seemed pulled from a graduate seminar in #MeToo-era literature. Piled with books like Susan Choi’s Trust Exercise, Jia Tolentino’s Trick Mirror, and Julia Phillips’s Disappearing Earth, my desk signaled my devotion to contemporary examinations of gender and power. In this sense, I was primed to appreciate The Snare as a significant book, one that explores female identity with nuanced precision, and one that captures the messy and prolonged impact of sexual trauma. Immediately, I was drawn to Spencer’s deep exploration of Julia Garrett’s psyche and the way she wields narrative ambiguity to convey the detachment and confusion with which many women internalize abusive events. For all the broadening of conversations around sexual violence that has occurred over the past two years—for all the brilliant books I’ve consumed that deal explicitly and painfully with the subject—I am aware that navigating the aftermath of such a trauma is confusing and, often, intensely private. As she considers the qualities that separate her from her upper-crust society and propel her toward an electric yet dangerous and ultimately violent lifestyle, Julia Garrett struggles in isolation to understand her past. It is not surprising that Dev finds his way into her tortuous musings. “What was it Dev, the old man, had said?” she thinks, at one point. “‘Passion is what you’ve either got or haven’t got. . . .’ Out of such scraps she had stuck her own truth together.”

In many ways, The Snare is a feminist novel, far ahead of its time in its handling of female sexuality and desire, as well as the influence of early and unwanted experiences. Among works aimed at deepening mainstream discussions about sexual exploitation, it becomes essential reading; but one cannot claim the subject as the book’s central concern. Probably, this is why I like it so much. What occurred between Dev and Julia slinks through her mind, never revealing itself as a certain memory and yet never receding completely. Her trauma exists in the backdrop of her quest for self-actualization, which strikes me as an honest reflection of how many women move through their lives.

It is worth noting that what is so potent to the contemporary reader barely registered with the book’s initial critics. One needs only a cursory grasp of cultural history to imagine why. The Snare was first published in 1972, a year before the term “domestic violence” entered the American lexicon, and two years before Barnes v. Train attempted to tackle workplace power dynamics. Issues of child sexual abuse hardly resonated in the public consciousness and would not garner substantial legal attention until the enactment of the Child Abuse Prevention and Treatment Act, in 1974. Spencer’s novel incorporates these themes to varying degrees, usually with the type of subtle probing that suits the introspective Julia. Specifically, Spencer’s deliberate blurring of Julia’s past trauma elicited confusion among reviewers in an era when Americans had, at best, an inchoate appreciation for the sexual autonomy of women and girls.

The novel received a lackluster review in the New York Times and a misogynistic one in Kirkus Reviews. (What the Times described as narrative complexity Kirkus labeled as melodrama, declaring that The Snare was not far removed from “Southern belle lettres.”) The Georgia Review picked up on the necessity of Spencer’s painstaking attention to her protagonist’s history and interiority—elements the Times alternatively described as “the novel’s most damaging flaw”—but determined that the structure was too elevated for the book’s thematic content. This, too, has a sexist ring, considering the great extent to which female desire propels the storyline.

The blurring of Julia’s past trauma elicited confusion in an era when Americans had an inchoate appreciation for the sexual autonomy of women and girls.

Among these pieces of criticism, what was largely agreed upon was the plot. In great or spare detail, each described the events of the book in a similar fashion: Julia Garrett, the adopted niece of Maurice and Isabel Devigny, a respectable New Orleans couple, is tired of her well-bred lifestyle. She seeks excitement with Jake Springland, an aspiring musician and somewhat ambivalent disciple of a religious zealot. With Jake, Julia enters a world of late-night jazz shows and drug dealers and, soon, murder. The novel begins in the 1950s and spans at least a decade, thrusting a clash of societal standards into the backdrop of Julia’s experience. (Her roommate, Edie, a girl from “some dusty little dried-up town,” is her prudish foil.) Julia is, as the book’s title suggests, resisting the snare of the stifling and polite realm in which she was raised; but she is caught nonetheless by a confluence of her own impulses.

The preeminent Spencer scholar, Peggy Prenshaw, further elucidated the central themes of The Snare in 1993, when she wrote an introduction to the book on the occasion of its paperback release. “Julia Garrett,” Prenshaw writes, “seems a misfit, a woman enlivened by sexual experience and nearly destroyed by it, a woman bored by status-seeking and acquisitiveness, whose indifference brings her to the edge of hunger and homelessness.” She goes on to explain that the novel’s setting in New Orleans mirrors Julia’s seductive power and dueling instincts. Like Julia, Prenshaw says, the city is steeped in manners and tradition, but beneath its glossy exterior it is an exotic, indulgent place.

Prenshaw also references the novel’s mixed critical reception, noting the issues reviewers had with narrative ambiguity, but she does not fully explore the resonance of this authorial choice with the book’s violent plot points. Spencer’s rendering of Julia’s darkest moments is frenetic and fragmentary, allowing certain mysteries to rest in the reader’s mind as uncomfortably as they do in Julia’s. In these scenes, the events are clear, but their details are often foggy, punctuated by an image here, a sensation there. We see, for example, the flash of a blade held to Julia’s neck and glimpse, through euphemistic language, the shame she associates with what follows. As in, “After that . . .” and “I’m just going to call it an awful headache.” For Julia, what is contained in the words that and it is unspeakable, even as it holds dominion over her identity.

Crucially, vagueness distinguishes Julia’s memories of her relationship with Dev. Speaking of her protagonist in 1990, Spencer said, “Her early experience with her guardian mentor, . . . a French Cajun man who may or may not have seduced her, had a profound effect on her.” Prenshaw interprets this effect decisively. “The indisputable fact seems to be that Julia does not regard the relationship with Dev as injurious. If corrupting, it was a necessary and inevitable introduction to the ‘crooked world.’” This statement aligns imperfectly with my own impression, because it ignores the yearning that is so critical to Julia’s idea of herself. She does not want to regard the relationship with Dev as injurious. She wants to imagine it as inevitable.

Spencer makes clear that, for Julia, it is easier to live with a terrible thing when it is remembered indistinctly. Julia’s past with Dev haunts the novel because it is essential to how she views herself, and yet she is unable to define it. Violence and sexual exploitation pervade her adult life, too, and yet she never names it as such. Rather, she absorbs it all with a pronounced detachment, as though each experience is the logical conclusion of who she is in the world. After the doctor for whom she briefly works as a receptionist chases her around the office, she thinks: “. . . life was more peaceful than not with him, now that he’d made his pass.” After Jake Springland, her musician boyfriend, rapes and beats her, she thinks: “Why didn’t I find somebody good?” and then concludes that “she hadn’t because she hadn’t wanted to.” She is kidnapped twice, thanks to her association with Jake, and subjected to torture. After the first time, she thinks: “It was something in me . . . Something that wanted to go down forever, to hit the absolute muddy bottom where there’s nothing but old beer cans, fishhooks and garbage.” After the second time, she thinks: “She would gladly live like an animal, simply, instinctively, for the day only.”

For Julia, it is easier to live with a terrible thing when it is remembered indistinctly.

Julia’s enthusiasm for New Orleans and its various vices—her sensual and subversive nature—is palpable and seemingly within her control. From the start she is an intelligent woman who knows her sexual power. But as we navigate the conflicting aspects of her mentality, we learn that her empowerment is marked by shame. At times, she reduces herself to her sexuality. Dressing for a courtroom gallery: “Might as well try to de-sex herself, she thought, as stamp out her natural looks.” Her early sexualization by Dev forms a critical aspect of her identity and self-worth, convincing her that she is incongruous with anything virtuous. She thinks, “The idea of goodness beckons forever to those who can’t have it, but once they catch up to it by luck or accident, they immediately feel uneasy, restless, miserable.”

This vivid interiority is what is largely missing from any summary or critical analysis of The Snare. How Julia decodes her own experiences is a vital aspect of the novel that seems only to have puzzled reviewers in 1972 and failed to thoroughly engage scholars in the following decades. I only learned of the book because several people recommended it to me. Each had read my work and assumed I would appreciate Spencer’s meticulous characterization of Julia Garrett. But at some early point in my first reading, Julia began to resonate as more than a technical feat. We are wildly different people, and yet I identify with her tendency toward self-examination through imperfect recollections. I possess the kind of memory that blurs even the recent past. It recalls the worst things dimly and everything else with rosy nostalgia. This has the effect of making me suspicious of my negative or painful emotions. I am unskilled at relaying the detailed origins of my deepest wounds without a large amount of ambiguity. Spencer captures this deficiency, too. After Jake assaults and abandons her, Julia says, “I don’t think I was even born a virgin.” Her effort to make sense into the plainly nonsensical seems to me like an inherited impulse, something derived from generations of cultural stagnation around gender-based violence.

Months before her death, I spoke with Elizabeth Spencer over the phone. She talked about the months she spent in New Orleans, researching the novel’s setting, and recalled her use of narrative ambiguity as the deliberate choice I had assumed it was. And yet, I absorbed from her a sense that her fixation on Julia’s past diverged from my own. “I don’t spend too much time psychoanalyzing,” she said. I felt somewhat disappointed by her answer, at first. So much of Julia’s persona appears drawn from an intellectual understanding of the functional ways in which human beings process trauma. But maybe Spencer’s more intuitive approach is what accounts for her novel’s brilliance. Perhaps her resistance to determining direct cause and effect is what allowed her to craft such a complicated and authentic character. Julia is not whittled into a particular set of psychiatric ailments, and her interior current is rich and evolving, never cyclical, never wholly diminishing. Spencer allows her protagonist a limitless quality, that of a woman constantly interpreting and reinterpreting her place in the world through her experiences. Who among us isn’t?

About the Author Caroline McCoy’s work appears or is forthcoming in The Georgia Review, Blackbird, Lit Hub, The Bitter Southerner and others. She has received residencies and fellowships from Crosstown Arts, in Memphis, and Emerson College, where she earned her MFA in 2019.

Source: electricliterature.com/the-past-is-present-in-the-snare/

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thesamesandwicheveryday · 6 years ago

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After a day of incredible pressure and its different pains, one after the other, follows at least one or two hours of what I can only describe as a kind of ritualistic stateliness; I’m currently working on my posture and self-restraint sitting upright in a computer chair, and whilst there are a good three or four inches between my back and the back of the chair, I’d say enough room for a cushion, I am not utilising a cushion, because I am working on myself, and if I can sit like this as if a cushion were really there, then I’ll have the grace and elegance of a dancer, and not only will I have the grace and elegance of a dancer, but I’ll have the restraint of a monk, and I will learn to find gratification in the simplest of ways, like once every 90 minutes when I feel gratified by just leaning back. In this spirit I’ve got a bottle of Riesling open, but I’m only drinking one glass per half an hour. There’s Mavrodaphne in the cupboard, but that’s more a me-and-Will drink, we’ve got a joke about it now, we even text about the Mavrodaphne. The last time he mentioned it I texted him back saying “Mavrodaph’ me” and he texted back that he laughed aloud, and I really think when someone takes the time to say “I actually laughed out loud” instead of “lol”, they truly must mean it. And there’s probably something in that, some profound key to understanding sincerity and humanity, but I’m not going to go into that now, not with the day I’ve had. No, I can leave that kind of heavy thinking for another day; that’s a Wednesday kind of a task. My first pain was planning a Monday lie-in yet waking up inexplicably at 8am after a missed call from a number I didn’t recognise that didn’t leave a text nor answer the phone when I called back but did in fact leave a voicemail though I can’t access those because it’s 2018 and leaving voicemails is disgusting. I don’t know if the cultural hatred of Mondays has become a superficial preset in all adult humans or if it really is as bad a day as we all think it is, because I don’t have a nine-to-five nor a structured work schedule and I hate Mondays, but the call waking me up and me just knowing I was waking up into a Monday prevented me from falling back asleep again. I try not to be superstitious so I’d be interested in learning the metric factors of how precisely one measures a “bad day”, why Monday is the worst. Why not Thursday? Tuesday’s a bum-note. I’ve never been hugely keen on Saturdays. I digress.

After my rude awakening I walked from my bedroom to the living room naked as the blinds were all shut and I’m a really naked person. There are low beams in my living room, these charming, great slabs of thick branch supporting the roof, and whilst they’re certainly characterful, I have to be aware of them all the time or else I’ll bang my head, like I did today, naked, gripping my head with my right hand, dropping my phone on the hard floor in doing so, not breaking the screen at all but there’s a scuff now in the corner that I can only challenge myself to stop thinking about. I tried calling Will a first time, and I got his voicemail: “Hi, this is Will, looks like I’m busy, if it’s an emergency call 999, they’ll be better qualified to deal with it than me”. Hilarious, Will, but I just banged my head on my roof beam and fell over like a naked Buster fucking Keaton, I have no time for your jokes and your japes right now. I tried a second time, then after my morning coffee a third, but still Hi this is Will, Hi this is Will, Hi this is Will. Eventually, as I was forcing myself to eat a bowl of muesli for the sake of health and also hating myself, he texted me: “Can’t talk now, Esther’s come over, had a fight with her mum or something, crying a lot, you know how she gets. Lemme give you a bell when I’m about. W. -X” And this had several flaws. Let’s start from the end and work our ways back. “W.-X” — why is he signing off like that, still, after four massive years of knowing me? Why does Will always have to end texts like he’s closing a deal? Just close me off with the initial and a kiss and — much worse — a full stop between the two? Distanced once more with that, let’s be honest, quite egregious dash? Is he proving some kind of point about being that crucial whole decade older than me, that self-righteous kind of, “oh look at me I love grammar” bollocks, that kind of “I don’t use Face-tube” or “I saw something on the interwebs” humour that the middle-aged employ to indicate superiority? Is that what that is? Because I’ve always wondered it and today I really had to think about it, and I figure it’s because he’s spending the day with Esther who’s always been that bit more Will’s brood, another late-30s horse-girl, another Oxon (that’s the name they give to people who graduated from Oxford and that’s something I have to fucking know), you know I think the only reason he married her in the first place is because it looked good on paper, he’s as good as told me that to be frank, and yeah maybe she is crying today and maybe she’s had a fight with her mum but that’s Will’s job how? Esther, sweetheart, darling, it’s over — and Will’s got the decree absolute to prove it, honey, sweetheart. And because of a fight with her mother? Everyone fights with their mother, I do nothing but fight with my mother but you don’t see me saying to Will “oh Will please can you come over and hold me? My mum still doesn’t love me and doesn’t even respect me”, do you? No you don’t, no matter how true that is, because Will’s not my dad. HE’S NOT YOUR DAD, ESTHER.

And “can’t talk now”? Can’t, or won’t? Why would he write that like I’m placing some mad demand on him when I so very clearly am not? So many times we call each-other and there’s a dead end and it’s always something really innocuous that neither one of us feels the need to explain, we’re not married, and even if we were — the point is, he really felt like he had to say “can’t talk now”, like he’s really frazzled by me at 9am, and I even wonder if that’s for Esther’s benefit, like if she looks through his phone again she’ll see he’s at least been a little cold to me, and she’d love that wouldn’t she. Oh, but Esther’s sad again and so the world must spin off its axis because she’s sad again, Esther’s come off her Prozac, Esther’s cat’s got diabetes, Esther’s troubled by world news, Esther’s accidentally lost weight and now needs new clothes. I thought this whole Esther saga was over, I thought she'd get the hint that once you’ve put legal proceedings into action to separate yourself from someone, the message would hit home loud and clear, but no. Esther needs new brake-lights on her car. Esther’s tripped on an avocado skin and fallen down a haunted well. Esther’s been possessed by the great and powerful Beleth and needs a lift home from the exorcist’s bungalow. He’ll call me when he’s free, capital-double-you-dot-dash-capital-ex. And you’d think I’d get my sandwich and that would make me feel better? Well that's what I thought, too. Eventually I got dressed into the first t-shirt and jeans I saw lolling outside the clothes hamper and got out of my flat as quickly as I could, hoping to save the day before it fell into utter ruin and developed the ability to cause me real harm. The walk from my flat to the market is only a short one and is even shorter angry. I felt as if when I got through the door of the place I suddenly slipped outside of myself, but unable to look back in I instead disappeared, and when I returned back into my host body, I was looking at my reflection in the glass display of vanilla slices at my sandwich stall. I looked flushed. I looked hungry. I was ravenous and needed to see a friendly face. Of course today was the day they let just whoever walks into the market serve sandwiches, it seems, because I was met with a smiling boy-child, with biro scribbled onto his hands. He had mid-brown hair coming down about one inch above his shoulders, I’d say he was into day 10 of not washing it, the kind of bleary eyes that seem used to glasses and look unsettlingly beady when unframed, an unremarkable nose and an offensively weak chin, and whilst it sounds as if I’m describing a hapless teenager with great insensitivity you may in fact be relieved to learn my utter contempt here is directed toward a whole adult human who, if I were to conservatively guess, would be somewhere around the 27 years old marker. 27 years old and an untucked, short-sleeved, blue cotton dress shirt, like some bizarre attempt at formality, what was he, on his way to an interview for a different job or something? Judging by the outfit, a job as a white plastic patio furniture salesman? I wish I'd seen his shoes, they might have saved him, but as he stood, six foot tall before me, his bottom half was hidden behind the counter, so I had to assume he was wearing tan Caterpillar boots with striped yellow and black laces, and on that probably quite correct assumption, I hated him. He asked me my sandwich order and I told him, pretending to be shy to mask my escalating rage, and he threw the thing together like it just didn't matter, and when he asked me why he hadn't seen me round here before I don’t know how I found the strength to sweetly reply, “I just moved, yeah, used to live in Manchester but I’ve always fancied myself as a country mouse” with a smile, so convincingly he introduced himself as Greg and started suggesting local pubs to me, especially the Golden Lion because “you look cool, and they do a lot of cool nights there”. Cool, cool, cool, Greg, thanks for the tip, Greg. I asked him, “I come here every now and then for my lunch and haven't seen you before either?”, and he told me he's helping is mother out who’s at home in bed, sick. I told him that was really sweet of him and he crumpled in on himself slightly and said “nah”, as he limply placed the white, paper sandwich bag onto the counter, because I didn’t want him putting it directly into my hands and therefore did not offer my hands out. I waved goodbye after wrapping the conversation up with false platitudes, and thought again about the Caterpillar boots he might have been wearing, and thought about the beam in my living room, and thought about how many steps I would have to climb up to get back home and eat my sandwich. I made it to the top of my 39 stairs and into my flat without spontaneously combusting, and I sat behind my living room door with my knees up to my chest eating my sandwich which was, predictably, not that great. The onions this time were on the very top layer, the ham beneath those, then the lettuce underneath the ham, then the tomatoes, then the bread, like the whole thing was upside down. I thought about flipping the sandwich upside down to salvage this terrible situation into a bearable one but then the rounded-top half of the bun would be on the bottom, the flat half on the top, and I wasn't about to start creating my own problems. So I ate it, and it was fine. Which would be fine, but I’m not one to settle for fine. Today’s just been really hard. So here I'm sat with my Riesling and my good posture, looking at the long shadow my straight torso makes on the wall by the light of my reading lamp, and I just tried to call Will again, watching the shadow turn angular with my elbow’s movements like an old, German expressionist movie, but this time it went straight to voicemail and immediately I received a text saying: “Can I call you later?”. Will has turned his auto-reply on, and is no longer taking calls today. I’m breaking into the Mavrodaphne, and I'm going to apportion 14 cashew nuts for myself but first I will lean back for a good, long while. I won't call Will again. It’s really none of my business. My head just hurts from the knock from earlier, and I didn't like my sandwich at all, really.

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itsallavengers · 8 years ago

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Stony 87

“Stay Awake”

It takes an awful lot for Steve to lose his composure.

He’s walked alone into deathtraps and faced off entire fleets and armies without a single shake of his hand or hitch of his breath. It’s just what he does. who he is. Steve rogers is the stoic leader, Steve Rogers does not panic.

He gets an alert that a bomb’s gone off in the penthouse of the Avengers Tower, and the bottom drops out of his world.

He was a few blocks away, in a SHIELD safe-house, spending a few days away from Tony. Because they’d been screaming at each other so long and so loud it had woken the rest of the team, and Steve had finally snapped, yelling at Tony about how they were through, they were done, he was leaving.

He’d been lying. The day he wanted finished with Tony would be the day Red Skull decided he wanted to rally for world peace.

Tony hadn’t known that.

Tony was still in the tower.

The traffic was heavy, but Steve was running on the roofs of the cars instead, so it didn’t much mater.

It would take him two minutes and thirty four seconds to get to the tower, and an additional two minutes and forty four seconds to get past the police and up to the penthouse.

Thor was away in New Mexico. Clint and Nat had left at the same time as he did, off to go undercover for three weeks in some Russian city. Bruce was at a science convention in New Delhi.

Steve had left him, and it had just been Tony, alone in the tower.

And now he was looking at the top floors of the tower as smoke billowed out of the windows and glass fell to the pavement below, pushed out by the huge fires that were engulfing their home.

The whole top five floors had been utterly incinerated.

(Beware, the read more, mobile users/ to read the rest, log in on your laptop or pc!)

Getting past security and the milling crowds of evacuated workers wasn’t a problem. Steve just kept running, and if they didn’t get out of the way, they were pushed.

Someone tried to stop him getting in when he got to the doors. Steve didn’t even notice them.

Tony was in the tower. And the tower had just been blown up. And Steve had left him on his own the night before.

‘I wish I’d never fucking had anything to do with you, Tony Stark.’

And he’d gone. That was it. That was the last thing he’d said before he’d slammed the door so hard it cracked and left Tony to fend for himself.

Steve had been getting death threats for weeks. They had known someone was gunning for him.

And he’d left. He’d left Tony on his own, in the place Steve lived. In the number one target.

This had happened because of him.

“Is he alive,” Steve yelled into the empty reception, because JARVIS had to still be online, he had to know what had happened and where Tony was, he had to-

“Yes,” and JARVIS was crisp, brittle, more robotic than Steve had ever heard before, because this was JARVIS stripped down to his prime directive, this was JARVIS that didn’t have time for anything else other than Keep Tony Stark Alive. “I registered a beating heart a few seconds after the explosion, but all electricity shorted after that. He’s on Floor 88. Initiating emergency lift protocols. Hurry, Captain, the whole infrastructure is unsound.”

Floor 88. That was Steve’s floor. He’d barely been in it in months.

Steve didn’t need to be told twice. He sprinted to the elevators, and as soon as he had hit the wall, JARVIS was shutting the doors and sending them hurtling upward with nothing more than a short “brace yourself.”

“Details, JARVIS,” Steve bit out, hands gripping the rails so tightly that the metal was mangled and crushed beneath his fingers.

Tony was alive. That was all he needed to focus on. He was alive, and Steve was going to get him, and they were going to be alright- Steve would apologise, Steve would kiss him and hold him and never leave ever again-

“Chemical weapon, hidden in a parcel. Set on a timer, placed in Sir’s office. Structural damage to floors 88 and upward- severe damage to 90 and 92. All audio and visual has been lost up there, Captain, and I can only take you floor 86. After that, you are on your own.”

Steve could smell the smoke as it filtered into the elevator, and sensed the temperature increase. He felt small all over again.

He nodded.

The elevator shaft was easy enough to climb up. It creaked and groaned in a way that was uncharacteristic to anything Tony made, but then again, it had been hit with a bomb.

Tony had survived the explosion. And he was stubborn enough to keep holding on through the aftermath, too, Steve knew it, that was his Tony, his Tony would fight, he’d be okay-

He reached floor 88, and forced the elevator doors open.

Smoke and fire and chaos punched him square in the face, brutal enough to almost send him falling. He gasped, choking on the fumes and wincing at the heat, but hauled himself up and rolled on to his feet.

His floor was barely even visible, let alone recognisable.

The carpet burnt and the roof had fallen in some places, leaving piles of rubble and shards of metal in its wake. Steve had to hold his breath from the smoke, and he crouched low, trying to duck under the poisonous clouds above him.

“TONY!” He screamed, stumbling forward, arms outstretched and following the wall.

There was no reply.

He choked, calling out again and running forward, feeling the burn as fire licked up his arms, but uncaring of it.

He couldn’t hear anything above the crackle of fire and crumble of rubble.

One arm covering his nose and mouth, he ran forward, blindly turning the corner and heading toward his room. The roof had fallen in here as well, but he crawled over it, ignoring the way the glass shards dug into his hands and knees.

“TONY!”

Three days ago, he’d been holding Tony in his arms and watching TV on the couch. Tony had been complaining about the quality of the movie they were watching, and Steve had just laughed and kissed him quiet.

There was just fire, now. Fire and ash and Steve had no idea if Tony was even alive any more.

The door to his room was shut, and Steve ploughed his shoulder into it, full force, and felt it give underneath him. He was dizzy from lack of air and was feeling the need to vomit, but he kept going.

He called Tony’s name again. There was nothing.

But Tony was here. Steve knew it. Because Steve’s rug was bunched up by the crack under his door, and his desk had been moved under the frame of the door leading to his bathroom.

His heart was beating so fast Steve wondered if it was going to fail completely as he threw himself forward and vaulted over the top of his desk, dropping to his knees as soon as he reached the other side.

“Oh my god,” he choked, as his blurry eyes took in Tony’s body, beaten and lax and bleeding red on to the white of his tiles.

“Tony,” his voice cracked at the end, a shaking hand curling around the back of his neck and checking, hoping, praying for a pulse.

Tony’s eyes flickered open. His mouth was covered by a wet towel he must have pulled from Steve’s rails, but Steve still heard the muffled “hey, babe,” through the material.

Tony’s hand was covering his stomach, but it didn’t do much to hide the huge shard of metal that was sticking out of it.

“Tony, hey, Tony, baby, come on, we’re gonna get you out, okay?” Steve whispered hoarsely, shaking hands tugging Tony out from underneath his makeshift shelter and resting his head delicately in the crook of his arm.

“mm,” Tony slurred, eyes struggling to focus on Steve’s face as his hand flailed a little, blindly reaching for Steve.

“Tony- fuck, darling, stay awake, please, I’ve got you, it’s okay, just- hold on,” Steve ordered, his hand finding Tony’s and winding their fingers together, Tony’s smearing Steve’s with his own blood.

“’Kay,” but his eyes were already fluttering shut.

“TONY! Tony, baby, please-” Steve coughed, pulling him further into his arms as he began to stand, trying not to jostle the wound in Tony’s stomach too much as they moved.

“ ‘m s’rry. I.. I love-”

Steve watched Tony’s eyes as they rolled into the back of his head, sentence left unfinished.

They said the chances of Tony’s survival were 13%.

Steve hated the number 13. It was unlucky. No matter what Tony had tried to convince him, Steve had never trusted that number. He was superstitious like that.

He was praying to whichever God that’d listen to just change the odds, just a little. Just for him.

Because he’d been good. He’d done his best. And Tony- Tony had been even better. Tony didn’t deserve to die, not like this, not ever.

And yet here they were. Steve, sat by his bedside, while Tony lay comatose in front of him.

13%.

“I love you,” he whispered again, the thousandth time that night.

Every minute, on the dot. Because he hadn’t said it enough- he hadn’t even said it when Tony had been bleeding out in his arms, when he’d needed to hear it most.

“I’m so sorry,” he told him in between, on the thirtieth second.

This was his fault. If Tony… it would be his fault. He’d lose someone else he loved because of his own mistakes.

“I need you to wake up,” scattered in amongst the others- a plea, a shameless beg for a second chance that he didn’t deserve but wouldn’t be able to live without.

Tony never answered him.

He waited.

“Morning, gorgeous.”

Steve jerked upright so fast he was pretty sure he experienced whiplash, and his eyes searched wildly for Tony’s, begging for that wonderful chocolate brown that he’d missed like air over the past few days.

He found them. Tired and washed out- but there. Open. In front of him.

“-Hey no baby, wait, I’m sorry, please don’t cry, it’s okay, I’m okay-”

Steve choked, unable to tear his eyes off Tony’s as he searched wildly for a hand and then gripped when he found it. His whole foundations were shaking again; Tony was talking, Tony was conscious, Tony had come back to him

“I love you, I’m so sorry, I love you, I’m so sorry Tony, please, I’m-”

“Hey, hey, shhhh, no, come on, it’s okay. it’s okay. C’mere,” Tony whispered, tugging Steve’s hand across the bed and dragging him in, until Steve’s face was nestled in the crook of Tony’s neck and he was letting himself fall apart in the arms of the person who had only just pulled himself out of a damn coma.

“ I’m sorry, God, I’m-”

“shut up and come lie on the damn bed with me, Rogers,” Tony said hoarsely, his voice rough and broken from all the smoke he’d inhaled.

Steve just nodded mutely, lifting his legs up and curling them against his chest as he wrapped his arms gently around Tony’s body and dropped his head against the man’s shoulder, just concentrating on the feel of Tony moving against him.

“I love you,” he whispered, because it was the only thing he knew right now, it was the only thing he cared about. Tony needed to know. He needed to know that Steve couldn’t do this without him, no matter what he said, no matter what they yelled at each other, Steve loved him. Steve loved him so much.

“I love you too, baby. And I’m sorry. About everything. About our fight, about worrying you-”

“Tony, don’t talk right now. Your voice… give it time to heal. Just…”

Steve kissed his cheek, shaky and light across the stitches that had been sewn in. “Stay awake, okay. Don’t… just stay awake for a little while longer.”

Tony’s fingers stroked softly along the plane of Steve’s hand, and he smiled.

“ ‘kay.”

This is incredibly late, but it’s been in my drafts forever so I thought I might as well finish it off? Sorry.

#tony stark #steve rogers #stevetony #avengers #marvel #stony

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anotherlifefic · 6 years ago

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Chapter 31: Dreams of Perfection

The next room was empty at first glance, with exception of a single full-length mirror in the middle of it. The frame made it look like the reflective surface was on the belly of a cobra, and was carved so carefully it almost looked as if the snake was about to come alive. I carefully stepped closer. The mirror was quite dull; I could only see my reflection as an outline without detail. And there was a strange aura coming from it. It made my eyelids grow heavy. Or maybe it was the stress. I took another step, and the fatigue grew stronger. Definitely the work of the mirror. „Na-Navi“, I mumbled, barely coherent at this point. „Wha… what...“ „Rebecca?! Rebecca! Come on, you have to stay awake! You-“ That was the last thing I heard before I sank to the ground.

I woke up in a ballroom so opulent that it was almost tacky. White marble with gilded pillars keeping up the high ceiling, and in between the pillars, curtains of heavy red brocade were draped. There a lot of people, faceless figures drifting through the room in a slow waltz. The air smelled of wine and flowers. Heavy, and almost sensual. I looked down on myself, trying to regain some kind of sense of who and where I was. I was dressed in an elaborate ballgown in pure white, with a wide, flaring tulle skirt and golden embroidery on the chest and sleeves. I was still looking around, trying to make sense of what was happening, when a familiar figure emerged from the crowd. He looked incredible, wearing a white shirt with a ruffled collar, which was common fashion among noblemen, and simple black pants. His hair was neatly brushed and fell over his shoulders. Once he reached me, he took my hand and bowed. „May your husband ask you for a dance?“, he asked cheerfully, his voice once again sounding kind and earnest, like it did when we first met. But while it was undoubtedly his voice, the words just didn‘t feel right. Not for him. I took his hand. „Link… what is going on? How did we get here?“ He looked up. „How did we… but love, don‘t you remember? Zelda decided to hold a ball to celebrate our victory, and she invited us as guests of honor.“ „...victory?“ I looked around, still puzzled, when I saw Zelda approach us. „Is something the matter?“, she asked gently. Link turned around to her, giving her his usual earnest smile. „Oh, it‘s nothing. I think that Rebecca just had a bit too much wine, that is all.“ Another person joined us, and as I looked over, it was Princess Ruto, standing next to me and putting her hand on my shoulder. „Oh dear! Are you feeling alright, dear friend?“ ‚Dear friend‘? I could believe just having blacked out on a party with Link and Zelda. But Princess Ruto calling me ‚dear friend‘? „I‘m dreaming“, I whispered. Ruto chuckled. „You believe you are dreaming? Why, do you need me to pinch you?“ „I think that‘s my job“, Link said with a fond smile. „I am her husband after all.“ „Oh, but can we blame her for believing this to be a dream? This evening is absolutely perfect. After all, what could be better than spending a lovely evening in good company?“ Princess Zelda laughed. „So about that dance...“ Link took my hand. I looked at him. All of this felt so wrong. It couldn‘t be real. On the other hand… why not indulge in it. I would certainly wake up soon, so I should enjoy it while it lasted. So I allowed Link to lead me over to the dancefloor, where he pulled me into his arms and began spinning and swaying with the music. I wasn‘t a good dancer, but he didn‘t seem to mind. He smiled at me as if I was the most sublime creature he had ever laid eyes upon. He smiled. „You look so beautiful tonight, my Goddess. Look, everyone is looking at you because you are so lovely.“ Indeed, I felt like I was being watched, and from what short glimpses I caught of the people around us, I could tell that many had stopped dancing to look at us. „Wouldn‘t it be grand if things could always be like this?“, Link inquired. „Who wouldn‘t want a perfect life like this?“ I stopped the dance and let go of him. „...the real Link would know that this is not the kind of life I wish for.“ The shadow bearing Link‘s face smirked. „Forgive me. Of course.“ My sorroundings started to blurr and warp, until we were standing in the middle of a pasture; Link wearing a simple, light brown shirt and dark pants. I was wearing my clothes from when I was working at LonLon Ranch. „Is this more to your taste, then? A simple, but peaceful life. Animals to take care of and your family by your side?“ I looked around, and saw my parents sitting on a bench outside of the pasture. My mother was holding Gareth in her arms. I huffed in amusement. „You know, the funny thing is: Had you shown me this first, you would have had me. But there‘s no point in trying to trick me when the illusion is already broken.“ „Ah, but this isn‘t an illusion, it‘s a promise! If you decide to be a good girl and stay here, all of this can be yours! Your loving husband, unchanged and unmarked by the rage of war and untainted by the allure of the Princess, a farm to call your very own, the love and adoration of everyone you meet and of course, a family as big as you would like it to be! Say, how many children do you want? Just this one, or do you want him to have many siblings?“ As he said that, more children appeared; boys and girls with blonde or brown hair looking up at me with big, fake smiles. I clenched my fists. „I cannot spend the rest of my life in a dream.“ „So would you rather go outside, and face the scorn of those who suffered from the mistakes you made? You will find that lies are much more comfortable than the truth, my dear.“ Suddenly, I felt the warm wood of my naginata‘s handle in my hand. I did not know from where, and how, but I gripped it tightly. Then I swung it at the fake Link, and as it hit him, he shattered like glass and then disappeared.

I opened my eyes and coughed from breathing in sand and dust. I was still on the floor in front of the mirror… only that the mirror was now broken, its shards reflecting the faint light of the torches. „Rebecca?! Thank the Goddesses, you are awake! I was really worried when you collapsed all of a sudden!“ Navi hovered close to my face. I got up and dusted myself off. „This mirror was trying to brainwash me… it must have shattered when I destroyed the illusion.“ The door on the other side of the room was now upen. „And it seems that this was the trial of this room.“ „I didn‘t expect that… when Link and I went through the Desert Colossus, mirrors like this one where just used to reflect light onto light-sensitive switches. We have to be extra careful.“

The next room consisted of three sections, closed off with walls of transparent crystal. In the middle section, on a, altar-like structure, was the hilt of a blade, blue in colour and shaped like an M. But it wasn‘t this treasure that garnered my attention… it was Link, standing in the last section, staring at me like I was staring at him. „Link!“, Navi and I yelled in unison, all but throwing ourselves at the wall. He did the same, pounding on it with closed fists. The shards of the Master Sword were forgotten. The state of Hyrule ceased to matter. All that I could think of was that my husband was right there, but a few feet away, just as desperate to get to me as I was to get to him. Something awakened the desperate longing to be close to him that overshadowed everything else. Hyrule be damned. The crystal began to crack under our pounding, and finally, it shattered, allowing us to slip through into the middle section of the room. We met there, arms wrapped around each other and consumed in a searing kiss. I wanted to feel his body, the heat of his blood coursing through his veins, the pounding of his pulse underneath his skin. I needed him. Navi tried to get my attention, but I just shoved her aside when she flew in front of my face. Link was all that mattered. He was the center of everything. My heart… the world… the universe. I was all but tearing his clothes, as he was mine, and we loved each other right there, on the rough, shard-covered floor, with Navi still desperately trying to snap us out of whatever madness had taken hold of our minds. Somewhere underneath the fog in my head, my common sense stirred. „What are we doing? We should be continuing our quest, not rutting like animals!“ But the other, at that moment much stronger part of me, just wanted more… Wanting to feel us being one, and carry a piece of him with me once more… even though the more rational part of me knew that it was far too early for me to get pregnant again. After all, biologically, I had just given birth a few weeks ago. But in due time… There was cackling in the room. „What?“, I gasped in between moans. And then it was like I just snapped back to reality. We were in the process of being brainwashed. The witches had cast a spell over this room to heighten our libido to the point where we had no other choice. And while I was back to normal, Link was still very much under the spell‘s influence. „Link… stop! Can‘t you see.. ah… what‘s happening?“ His eyes were glazed over as he continued, holding me down and repeating how much he loved me over and over again until he cried out, his pleasure reaching its peak. I finally saw the chance and shoved him off of me. „Link, come back to your senses!“ „But I love you so much“, he replied, breathing heavily. „Let show you just how much.“ „Link, you‘re being mind-controlled!“ I turned to Navi. „Help me!“ „I don‘t know how!“, she replied frantically. In this moment, I saw now other way. I stretched out my arm… and slapped Link across the face with all power I could muster after the previous activities. Link‘s eyes returned to their normal state, and he rubbed his cheek. „Ow.“ I clapped my hands in front of my mouth. „I‘m so sorry, darling, but that was the only way I could think of to bring you back to your senses...“ „It‘s okay“, he said, quickly gathering his tunic and trousers. „We should probably grab the piece of the Master Sword and then get out of here, before the spell takes hold of us again.“ Link took the piece of the sword and put it in his satchel, when suddenly, the two witches appeared. „Damn you! How could you escape all of our traps?!“, asked the one names Koume. „And unharmed, too!“, shrieked Kotake. „Just what are you?“ „The people who will put an end to your crimes“, Link said and drew his sword. I got my naginata, which was fortunately nearby, and got into a battlestance. „Show us what you‘ve got!“

#The Legend of Zelda #Another Life #Lemon #Dub Con #fanfiction #OC

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fashiontrendin-blog · 7 years ago

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The Best New Menswear Pieces To Buy Right Now

http://fashion-trendin.com/the-best-new-menswear-pieces-to-buy-right-now-33/

The Best New Menswear Pieces To Buy Right Now

Baume Custom Timepiece 41mm Retrograde

The watch market is so crammed with heritage brands that’ve been around for aeons that it’s rare for a new up-starter to come along and spoil the party. Threatening to do just that is Baume, launched this week by the Richemont group, which also owns Montblanc and Cartier. The modus operandi is high-end luxury at an affordable price point while using sustainable, recycled materials like the cork strap on this sleek and creative timepiece.

Buy Now: £490.00

Wood Wood Han Long Sleeve T-Shirt

There are numerous Scandinavian labels going strong at the moment, from Norse Projects to Cheap Monday, but close to the top of the tree has to be Wood Wood. This new capsule collection is meant to tap into fan culture and teenage obsession, but we’re just keen on it for the elegant simplicity and soft cotton fabric.

Buy Now: £69.00

Coach x Disney Zip Wallet

Having enjoyed previous collaborations with Dolce & Gabbana, Gucci and Kenzo, could Mickey Mouse be the most well-connected rodent in fashion? Mickey doesn’t feature personally in this latest collaboration with luxury brand Coach, instead, inspiration is taken from Disney’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs and Sleeping Beauty. The results are certainly distinct, as can be seen from the ethereal skull on this wallet.

Buy Now: £195.00

Superdry Sunscorched Shorts

The Superdry SS18 collection takes heavy influence from the music world but luckily it’s not all skinny jeans and loud patterns. Shorts make an appearance in some very bright shades though, including this hyper blue pair which is hemmed at exactly the right place between the mid-thigh and the knee.

Buy Now: £39.99

Cubitts × Leif Podhajsky Ridley Emerald Sunglasses

Graphic designer Leif Podhajsky is well-known in the world of music after producing psychedelic and wondrous album covers for artists such as Bonobo and Tame Impala. However, here he joins forces with upstanding British eyewear manufacturer Cubitts and the results are otherworldly, like zoning out in the hazy summer sun.

Buy Now: £125.00

Mango Anna Shirt

While you won’t catch us raiding grandad’s wardrobe on the regular there are some styling tips to be had from the old boy. Certainly, the grandad collar shirt is top of that list, with a sharp, crisp look that works for both casual and smart occasions. This cotton version from Mango is one of the best examples we’ve seen recently.

Buy Now: £35.99

Calvin Klein Jasa Print T-Shirt

You’re probably used to having the Calvin Klein logo emblazoned on your boxer waistbands, but less so on the chest of your shirt. But with the logo-tee trend reaching epidemic proportions, it’s a good way of giving the brand some love while keeping your trousers on. We’re fans of this deep purple version, which offers something a little different in a market crowded with monochrome sets.

Buy Now: £34.99

Duke & Dexter Sovereign Penny Loafers

Inspired by 1960s heart-throb and screen legend Alain Delon (aren’t we all, darling), these new penny loafers are très chic. Made by Duke & Dexter, beloved by celebs including Ryan Reynolds and Eddie Redmayne (who wore a bespoke pair when he won his Oscar), this new summer set of shoes pitches itself as the undisputed champion of the loafer world.

Buy Now: £225.00

Uniqlo x Tomas Maier Swim Shorts

Nothing brings us more joy than a new Uniqlo collaboration, and while our squeals are usually reserved for when JW Anderson comes to play, this time we’re getting hot under the collar over a summer collection with the head honcho at Bottega Veneta, Tomas Maier. Palm trees are the lead motif for the collection, exemplified by this pair of classy and understated swim shorts.

Buy Now: £24.90

PUMA x Bobbito Classic Suede

This year sees the 50th anniversary of the Puma Suede, which is to Puma what the Gazelle is to Adidas and the Air Max to Nike. To celebrate its illustrious history, Puma has released a series of collaborations and new editions of the shoe – the centrepiece being this classic configuration with sneaker historian and hip-hop DJ Bobbito, which takes inspiration from the Suedes worn on New York basketball courts in the 1970s.

Buy Now: £101.00

Rapport Evo Cube #8 Watch Winder

If you’re serious about your mechanical watches, then you ought to be serious about your watch winders too. The best in the business is Rapport, which has become the leading UK manufacturer of luxury automatic watch winders. So keep your automatic running with this latest model that resembles a mini amplified speaker, yet promises virtual silence.

Buy Now: £295.00

Albam Regent Blouson Jacket

First, there was ‘millennial pink’, now we have ‘gen-z yellow’, and many brands such as the independent London-based Albam have fallen hard for the colour this summer. It’s a good match with another trending piece for the season, the blouson jacket, which features a shorter cut that sits just above the hip, as well as a two-way zip to change up how you throw it on.

Buy Now: £169.00

Léon Bara Plaza Shirt

The summer nights are approaching and the menswear cognoscenti will be cracking out their Cuban collars in no time, although the weather can be a cruel mistress. Relative newcomer Léon Bara (its first collection was debuted just last year) has got you covered though, with a Cuban collared shirt that’s water-repellent and made from plush Japanese linen so you can continue wearing them come rain or shine.

Buy Now: £255.00

Master & Dynamic MW50+ Wireless On-Ear & Over-Ear Headphones

The idea of headphones as fashion accessories snowballed during the earlier part of this decade with Beats by Dre. The market soon became even more high-end, led by luxury headphone makers Master & Dynamic, which has just released a brand new model with on-ear and over-ear pads so you can change your listening preferences on the go. It also boasts a throwback design resembling something a WWII pilot might have had in their cockpit.

Buy Now: £369.00

ASOS Grooming Box

So while those little busybodies at ASOS have set about filling our wardrobes, they’ve also concocted this limited-edition grooming kit with the best of their face and body products. We’ve done the maths and figured that this set is worth around eight times more if you were to buy all of the products individually, so it’s certainly worth investing in if you want to fill out your bathroom cabinet.

Buy Now: £12.00

Ted Baker Derby Textile Trainers

One of the most classic footwear styles in menswear, the Derby has stood the test of time largely because of its versatility and ability to work for both smart and casual looks. And yet when it comes to the summer months the traditional leather shoe can be a tad stifling. Fear not though as Ted Baker is here to save the day with its Derby trainers – made from breathable woven cotton, they’re leagues more comfortable and won’t overheat your toes.

Buy Now: £90.00

FoR Cropped Tailored Trousers

It’s been three whole weeks since the Arcadia group, home to Burton and Topman, launched its new web-only, minimalist menswear brand FoR – and we’re still reeling. The collection has just popped up on ASOS this week, offering yet another opportunity for us to get our hands on some of that top-quality, low-priced gear. One of the key items is this pair of grey trousers, which are bang-on-trend with their soft pleats and slightly cropped hem.

Buy Now: £30.00

GANT Le Mans Crewneck Sweater

Gant knows how to make a good quality jumper, the kind that works well on its own or when paired with a button-down Oxford shirt. The preppy brand is less known for its streetwear sweats however, but it’s a market the US label has got its sights on in its latest partnership with the ultimate sports car endurance race, the 24 Hours of Le Mans. In an eye-catching green and pique structure, this sporty sweat might just catch the attention of the athleisure aficionados out there.

Buy Now: £100.00

Topman Flamingo Long Sleeve Overshirt

Move over camo, to really disguise yourself in the jungle you have to go full-on tropical print. With its lightweight blouson cut, this would be ideal, but be warned, you might stand out a little more when outside of the rainforest. As a result, it’s worn best with toned-down basics such as a black tee, jeans and white trainer combination.

Buy Now: £65.00

River Island x Ditch The Label White ‘Pride And Glitter’ T-Shirt

River Island’s recent advertising campaigns have had a strong focus on inclusivity – a welcome change in the fashion industry which can often seem homogeneous. The brand’s latest partnership sees it team up with international anti-bullying charity Ditch The Label for eight gender-neutral items of clothing that are designed to empower the LGBTQ+ community and, well, look really cool while doing it.

Buy Now: £18.00

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