#There's a deep water accent where they rely more on flashes

[mad-raptorzzz]

[ID: A drawing of two SeaWing dragons from Wings of Fire facing each other. Tsunami has her back to the viewer and is smirking with her ear tipped forward. She has mostly medium blue scales with dark blue along her spine and snout. Some of her aqua blue bioluminescent face scalers are lit up. She is smirking at Whirpool who floats in front of her. He looks stunned by the audacity of what she is saying in aquatic. His green-yellow scales are lighter on his belly and darker on his back. He has large ears for a SeaWing, which are adorned with several large hooped earrings each. Over his left eye, he has a small golden monocle which is suspended in place by a fine metal chain attached to one earring and one eye brow ring. Between them, in glowing and floating letters, it spells 'Squidface'/ End.]

The scene that made me laugh is when Tsunami learns how to speak Aquatic and the very first thing she learns how to do is basically swear. Headcannon that squidface is the SeaWing swear that functionally means dickhead. Which I think fits Whirlpool well. I tried to make him as oily as possible. His ears normally droop under the weight of all the hoops. But he's so surprised that they're sticking up quite a bit. He also has some big ears for a SeaWing. All the better to put more hoops in. I may do a bit of a redesign at some point and give him gages because that would be sweet.

Love Tsunami. Next up is a scene that made me cry.

[infernalodie]

𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐃𝐢𝐞𝐬 || 𝐍𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐚 𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐟𝐟

“"𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴", 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺'𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘐 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘐𝘧 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘨𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦“

Inspo: Billie Eilish - Everybody Dies

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Black!Male!reader

Summary: There was nothing that could stop death. It was the first and last enemy anyone would face.

Warning: Angst and torture

Words 1745

“Where is your base?”

The Russian accent was thick as mud. You have it burned into your mind from the man who’d been asking you the same question for the past two days. And from the lack of food or water, your mind was becoming hazy with you falling in and out of consciousness. Caring less and less about what they had to say and more about your own survival without the essential needs.

Around this time, Fury would’ve told you just to tell them something. Prolong your survival until a QRF could come in and rescue you. But truthfully, you had cut every corner out of every piece of information you’d given. And it was either tell the truth or continued to dance with silence, see where it causes you to end up.

Lifting your head, you groaned and grunted with blood dripping from the corner of your lips. Nose twitching as you looked up at the Russian soldier, who glared back down at you. “I ain’t telling you shit.”

That had earned a backhand, nearly sending you toppling over. Your head weighed heavy as you coughed and spit out blood onto your camo pants. Sniffling as you heard the door open and slam shut with the Russian having left.

“They’re going to break you.”

Turning your head just enough, you found Natasha with bruises of her own speckling her beautiful features. Which did very little to sway the fact that no matter what, she looked badass. You let out a small laugh, nodding in agreement as you leaned back in your seat. Head lulling back with a deep sigh.

“Do you think they saw your distress signal when the helicopter got shot down?”

Natasha pursed her lips. “I hope so.”

“Touchdown in five!”

From across the helicopter hull, you were prepping your weaponry. Taking account of your magazines before slinging the rifle to your back. “Nat, think we can go on a date after this?”

The redhead, stood opposite of you, turned to you with a grin. “Is that an offer?”

“Well, we barely ever get time to relax,” you pointed out. “Just wanted to allow you to weigh in your opinion before I took you to the gardens.”

Even now, on a secret JTF mission, you still managed to make your guys’ situation and relationship as easygoing as the day she met you. You were Navy SEALs and she was with S.H.I.E.L.D. Two complete and utterly different levels of action, yet, you managed to make it easy to work with you despite that. It was one thing she was glad you brought to the table with your guys’ romantic relationship, other than your horrible cooking.

But as of recently, the JTF  had been used far more with the sudden influx of Russian hostile presence in neighbouring countries in the US. And almost every single mission that had been green-lit, you and Natasha were a part of the teams sent out. If not with one another, then close enough that if things got sticky, you could rely on the other for backup. It was one dynamic of the relationship your superiors and Fury knew worked well with the both of you.

“Depends on what we do after,” Natasha stated with a mischievous flash in her eyes. “Are we going to your place or mine?”

“Why do you act like we don’t have an apartment together.” You grumbled, turning away as Natasha laughed in amusement.

“Preparing for drop in 1.”

“So, what do you say?” You asked, walking towards the ramp where a gunman was set up. “Dinner? On me?”

Natasha smiled, placing a kiss on your cheek and moving to the other side of the ramp. “Maybe if you propose to me.”

She didn’t know what it was, but seeing you flustered and completely flabbergasted was funny. This rough and tumble Navy Seal getting all flushed from a woman being so direct. It was endearing to see the effect she had on you with so few words.

Without warning, the pilot yelled, “RPG!”

Right when those words fell from his lips, the backend of the helicopter was hit, sending the transport into a spinning and spiralling tirade. You gripped the edge of the interior of the helicopter and grunted as you looked over to Nat. “Jump!” You yelled, waving your hand. “Just go!”

Doing as she was told, she jumped out onto the snow-covered mountain with you soon following. But when you hit the ground, you landed awkwardly on your heel. You heard the snap before white-hot pain shot up your leg as you cried out in pain. The snow bitting bitterly at your ivory cheeks as you clenched your hands, panting as you looked up to see Natasha shakily getting to her feet.

“Y/n?” She muttered. “Y/n, what happened?”

She crouched down right beside you, rolling you onto your back as you groaned. “I think my foot is broken.”

Cursing quietly, Natasha glanced around her before looking back down at you. “Okay, we’ve gotta move.” Holding out her hand, you took it as she lifted you to your one good foot before shrugging your arm over her shoulder. Hissing when you applied even the littlest amount of pressure onto your foot.

A short pained laugh fell from your lips as you looked over at the agent. “Guess we’ll have to cancel that date, huh-”

Before you could even get the rest out, a gunshot rang free through the air before you hit the snow surface with a thud. Your blood painting the white as Natasha fell to your side. “Y/n?” She shook you, rolling you over onto your stomach to see your jaw clenched, body tensing up as your eye grew heavier and heavier. Finally, darkness clung to you, pulling you into the depths of its domain.

The doors to your cell opened with both you and Natasha looking to find it to be the same man every other time. His eyes stayed focused on you and then went to Natasha. Your eyes slowly widened as you flickered between him and your girlfriend with your nose twitching. “You stay the fuck away from her.” You growled.

The soldier grabbed an electric baton from his waist and activated it. The electricity rang out through the room with a hum as he didn’t hesitate to press it to Natasha’s stomach. Causing the woman to groan, body shaking and twitching within the binds as you thrashed in your chair.

“Leave her the fuck out of this!” You yelled. “I promise you, I’ll fucking kill you when I get out of these! I’ll kill you! Do you hear-”

An explosion of the door sent you topping over in your chair. Head hitting the rocky floor as smoke and dust filled your vision. Forcing you to lay there and watch Bucky and Steve enter the room and see Natasha. “We got her!” Steve announced.

Natasha coughed with her binds being ripped off as she rubbed her wrist. But she tiredly nodded behind her towards your broken and weak figure. “Y/n,” she grunted. “Get Y/n free.”

Steve rushed over, crouching down in front of you to see the severity of your wounds. Your shirt was coated in a thick red crimson as it continued to grow and wetter each moment. “Y/n, stay with me.” He undid your bindings before hauling you to your feet, quickly realizing how weak you were from the fact that he had to drag you.

“Y/n’s lost a lot of blood, we need to get him out of here,” Steve announced, earning a worried look from Natasha as your head fell forward as you fell in and out of consciousness.

When you came to, you were greeted by the cold breeze of the mountain tops hitting your cheeks. A cold shiver ran down your spine as you tiredly turned your head to see Sam and Tony scanning the skies, hoping to spot the transport getting you and the others out of here.

But your head was pulled away and forced to look at Natasha. “It’s going to be okay,” she muttered. “You’re going to be okay.”

From behind, Bucky placed a hand on her shoulder. “How’s he doing?” He inquired, crouching down as you tiredly look at him. “Hey, Y/n hang in there. We got you. We got you, brother.”

“What’s the deal?” Natasha hissed towards Steve, who shook his head with a clenched jaw.

“It's ten minutes out.”

Natasha felt her blood boil to a dangerous height as she scoffed. No,” she growled. “No, no.” Standing to her feet and moving away just as your eyes began to grow heavy once more. “Fury, what the hell is going on? Y/n is going to die if we don’t get off this damn mountain, now.”

You flinched, feeling the small pats on the cheek as you blinked tiredly. Looking to find Steve now having taken Natasha's place. “They’re almost here, brother,” he reassured. “Just hold on a bit longer.”

“How many fucking times do I have to tell you- the LZ is ice!” Natasha’s exclaim could be heard distantly as your eyes fought tooth and nail to stay open.

The distant sound of the Quinjet engines could be heard, but no matter how long you fought to stay awake, it felt like it only pulled you deeper. “Guys, we’re losing him,” Steve announced. “Y/n… Y/n…”

Then, there was nothing.

The whirling of helicopter blades filled the cold Siberia air. It's bitter weather nipping at any exposure of skin given to it. But there was the gentle rustling of plastic in the centre of the Quinjet. The faint scuffling of a paper clip at the bottom left of the body bag that had been placed carefully upon the Quinjet’s arrival.

Natasha stared at the metal dog tags with your name on them. Speckles of blood splashed across the surface. She attempted to rub it away, but only seemed to create a crimson tint to the identification item. Her eyes were unable to look past and see where your body lay.

“Did he have a family?” She mused, swallowing the lump in her throat as her hands clenched around the dog tags.

Steve, sat opposite of her and looked up from his clasped hands. Seeing his friend’s eyes sparkle with tears as exhaled heavily. “I think I’m looking right at it.”

[spiltscribbles]

211 please! Any ship!

Notes: Thank you bubby! This actually helped me get out a slump lol, i really really hope you enjoy this fluffy mess and I would love to hear your thoughts!

A Reblog saves a life!  |  Send Me A Prompt

.-

Annabeth is a fully fledged adult now, honest.

She subscribes to the New Yorker, listens to podcasts in the morning while getting ready for her crummy, right out of college internship in one of the most prestigious architecture firms in the city. She votes even in the primaries  and remembers to reload her metro card before it’s out and has even got a God forsaken schedule that she relies on like a lifeline.

All this to say, Annabeth had really once thunk that becoming an adult meant your life turns stale and your days become monotonous. But that was before she began boarding with three literal definitions of spitfires in a Bushwick apartment way too small for four girls, and way to run down for the countless prank wars waged between them and the boys across the way. 

Annabeth tries telling Piper this one Thursday afternoon while she’s loading her Nerf gun with the water balloons that Rachel’s preparing with such precision that it kinda terrifies Annabeth shitless, if she’s being frank.

“’s too late to surrender now Chase!” Piper bellows, cocking and then setting down the toy gun in a neat row  for the next to be prepared. “It’s about honor now.”

“Honor?” Annabeth repeats in a voice that’s flat enough to cut.

“They’ve won the last two rounds Annabeth,” Rachel tells her, point blank as she ties the next water balloon to be passed off, alabaster skin freckled with paint like always when she comes back from one of her classes. “They’re getting too big headed over this.”

“Yesterday Leo offered to buy me a latte! The little fuck.”

Annabeth’s fair brows knit  together, totally confused to Piper’s sudden flash of anger, but reckons that it would be impossible to understand the perceived slight even if she asked Piper to explain.

“You guys are off your rockers,” Annabeth informs them instead, flickers her gaze over to Hazel for some support from someone who is actually sane. She in turn only shrugs, endeared looking as she returns to her sketches. 

“Et tu Brute?”

“it’s fun,” Hazel says in her southern drawl, which Annabeth once thought was sweet because it reminded her of venturing outdoors in the Virginia foothills when she was a tot. Though now Annabeth has decided  that the accent is actually a ploy  to make her sound welcoming for her pray  before she killed them off. Knows it for a fact that she’s done it with that friend who visits enough that he’s practically living with the guys too, which obviously means he was roped into all this ridiculousness.

“You’re either with us or against us baby doll,” Piper winks Annabeth’s way, starts a new round of ammunition with Rachel. “This one’s for Mama Fisher in the stars!”

“Insane! Fucking insane! Annabeth repeats emphatically before storming out there apartment to grab the mail, suddenly feels accosted with unwelcome nerves when she steps into the elevator only to be met face to face with one of the aforementioned boys across the hall, the objectively good looking, but impossibly kind one.  All ebony locks and crooked grins and eyes the color of sea glass.

Oh fuck.

“Annabeth,” he crows, positively gleeful sounding, which only makes it so her cheeks begin to redden, and her chest contracts.

“Percy, hey how’s it been.”

“Fine,” he says with a one armed shrug, begins scratching the back of his head sheepishly. And God fucking damn it, he doesn’t also get to be cute! That’s not fair! “You headed to work?”

“oh, ah yeah, I mean just for some overtime. We got commissioned for this new thing in Germany of all places, and they kinda need all hands on deck.”

He whistles, low and impressed. 

“Why do I get the sense that they’d crumble without you?” He asks with a quirked brow.

“Because flattery is a great way to make friends,” Annabeth smirks, strolls out towards the back row of mail slots  to get the inevitable pack of bills and adverts that’s waiting for them.

“Oy, I take offense to that Annabeth,” he sniffs, leans against the wall besides her, one leg crossed over the other, effortless in the whole CW pretty boy with a mysterious past shtick he’s got working for him. An even more hilarious thought on account to Annabeth knowing how his ma sends him a basket of homemade, blue cookies every Sunday afternoon, and that he spends most of his free time protesting for action against  climate change with his best friend from literal childhood, a scruffy, adorable dork named Grover.

“Is that right?” She snorts as she shuffles through the letters, tosses away the offer for a free garden gnome from some Lady named Aunty Em, crams a  coupon for a free panty from Victoria’s Secret into her bra, and texts the group chat for Rachel to pick up a letter from her dad and Hazel one from her older brother. 

“Course,” Percy sulks, big eyes glittering a thousand shades of green that it kinda takes Annabeth’s breath away. “I thought we’ve been friends, at least for a while now.”

“You know what they say about assuming Perseus,” Annabeth snorts, hip checking him as she makes the track down to the nearest subway stop, at least a five minute walk. She totally is not utterly elated over the fact that he’s still walking besides her, dimpling down like there were no where else he’d rather be.

“You know I didn’t even think you could allude to curse words,” Percy guffaws, impossibly bright and impossibly real. “I thought you were too prim and proper for that sorta behavior.”

“Shut up seaweed brains,” Annabeth laughs, can’t help the smile that breaks her face in half whenever he’s around.

“No deadass Chase!” he defends, emphatic. “I even bet Jason that you were related to like Grace Kelly or some shit, that it’s like illegal in your familial bylines to present yourself as anything other than perfect in public.”

“You are such a pain in the ass.”

“Oh my God! You did it again! It’s like it’s  Christmas!”

Faux aggrieved, Annabeth rolls back her head in exasperation, eyes alone definitely not enough to emote the proper level of feeling.

“Hey don’t blame me,” Percy raises his hands in concession. “You’re the one who refuses to have fun, like you were a forty year old lawyer.”

Annabeth hikes up her brows, affronted. 

“i have fun!”

“Right,” Percy snorts. “I’m sorry babe but Friday night board games don’t count.”

“Those are fun Percy!” Annabeth argues.

“You wouldn’t know fun if it hit you in the face!” Percy insists, stopping outside the stairwell. 

“And what? Pelleting one another with water balloons like we were Freshman’s in college again, that’s fun to you I suppose?” Annabeth charges, glare firmly set and weight slung to her left hip.

“Why yes Grandma, it is,” Percy tells her, words hugged in a playful cadence that really could entice anyone to commit a felony with him. The bastard.

“You are a prick,” Annabeth informs him waspishly.

“And you don’t always gotta be so stressed. I mean I respect the hustle Chase, but you’re allowed to just chill once in a while, let down your hair and all.” 

“You couldn’t handle that,” she sniffs, pulls out her card to swipe. “If I actually tried me and the girls would ruin you fools.”

“Is that right?”

“Wipe the floor with you,” Annabeth assures.

“Well then, looking forwards to the challenge Chase,” Percy beams, softly tugs on her high pony before walking back to the apartments. It feels like a legion of butterflies are swarming down deep in Annabeth’s stomach over the small contact alone.

“Damn you Percy Jackson.”

.-

“Remind me again why you’re helping? Hazel asks for the third time that Saturday morning as the four sum are crowded around the makeshift map Annabeth had sketched out for them to follow, fully determined now.

“Shh,” Piper swats at her arm, as if physically trying to shoo the question away. “Annabeth we don’t care as long as you explain the plan just one more time.”

“Slower,” Rachel tacks on, gnawing on her thumb nail nervously. 

“Right, well just listen closer ladies, this is a one and done deal, okay?” She’s met by a chorus of nods before she repeats her game strategy, one where each girl takes one of the four main hotspots around the building, skulking in the shadows until the predicted guy ends up there, surprised and defenseless when met by the water balloons of doom.

“I’ve already casually told both Jason and Leo that my parents were throwing us a brunch up state, so they don’t even know that we’re here.”

“God Annabeth if I didn’t think it would ruin our friendship I’d kiss you right now,” Piper sighs dreamily.

“Focus that pretty little head McLean,” Annabeth instructs, elbowing her side caustically. “You’re position is by the gym, Jason always goes there Saturday afternoons cause he thinks it makes it alright for him to get plastered that night.”

“You’re fucking a nerd,” Rachel tells Piper and both Annabeth and Hazel can’t help but nod along.

“No judgment zone!” Piper demands petulantly.

“Whatever,” Annabeth waves her off.  “Hazel you’ll be in the front, waiting for Frank to  come visit, and Rachel you’ll be waiting in the garden area where Leo comes to build one of his freaky gadgets.”

“Totally, you can count on me babe.”

“And what about you Annabeth?” Hazel asks.

“I’ve got Jackson,” Annabeth tells her, tone mock grave as she cocks her own toy weapon determinedly.

“So sexy,” Piper marvels.

.-

Their building rents out a corner on the bottom level to a small bistro with friendly smiles and tasty enough brew that it keeps them coming back. It’s where Annabeth and Percy had first met when he had moved in with the others nearly six months ago. It’s also the first place Annabeth heard his laughter, and where Percy listened when she went on a tirade about her crazy parents and their crazy expectations and how sometimes she just needed space away from all of it. It’s where Percy told her that his mother is the most important person in his world and how he thought he never cared what his father thought of him until he had to make a decision on what he’d major in, and of course he followed in Poseidon’s footsteps. It’s where they stayed up late trading stories about their complicated childhoods and dreams for their futures and the place that Annabeth knew for sure that if she let herself, she really could fall for Percy. For the candor in his brilliant  eyes. For the pretty smile he sports for the sake of his loved ones over himself, and for  the conviction in his beliefs.

Annabeth tries not thinking of any of that when she crouches down deeper in the dark nook behind one of the decorative plants as Percy gets up from his table, tossing out his latte and shouldering his work bag.

It’s now or never.

The moment Percy steps through the threshold Annabeth pounces up and aims. What she doesn’t expect is for him to keel over to block her, and instead of hitting his insanely chiseled pecks, the water balloon hits straight in his face. Close enough and hard enough that the water suddenly darkens to red, mixing with the blood pouring out his nose.

“Holy shit!” Percy cries, pinching his nostrils shut.

“Oh my God!” Annabeth yells, frantically grabs for a pile of napkins from the counter besides her— toppling over a mess of straws and sugar packets in her wake— and then dashes over to press them into his grasp. “I’m so so sorry! I didn’t in my wildest dreams imagine that would happen! I swear!”

Annabeth expects at least for Percy to bemoan the injury, but instead she’s answered by a frankly terrifying boom of cackles.

“Percy? Have you cracked? Did I knock your brains out permanently?”

“When you said you’d ruin us, I didn’t think you’d literally cause physical harm Chase,” Percy retorts, still fighting down bubbles of laughter.

“You’re manic,” she pouts, long suffering.

“And you’re terrifying.”

“Bet it works for you though,” she preens, can’t help but be boastful over the way a blush touches  the tops of his cheeks.

“Talk about adding harm to humiliation,” Percy grouces. 

“Poor baby,” Annabeth mock croons, thinks that today actually might turn out pretty amazing.

.-

She brings him upstairs to properly clean off the blood from his face and to come up with the conditions with at least a temporary truce, definitely not so she can finally trade a totally thrilling snog with him in privacy.

“You drive a hard bargain Chase,” Percy tells her, settling into the sofa as Annabeth unfolds her game of monopoly for them, having proclaimed that it’s a perfect time for her to prove how much fun board games can be.

“Oh hush,” she cuffs him on the back of the head playfully. “You’re just mad I won.”

“More like you committed battery,” Percy contends, pouting moodily, is only consoled when Annabeth leans forwards to kiss him again.

“You looked pretty bleeding— Oh God! Did I just say that out loud?”

Percy dissolves into a peals of laughter once more, and Annabeth tries her damndest to melt into a puddle right on spot.

“I can’t believe I’m so into such a maniac,” Percy tells her, eyes and smile glittering.

“SO rude,” Annabeth sniffs, arms crossed against her chest. 

“But accurate Chase.”

Annabeth doesn’t bother to argue anymore because Percy’s already slanted their lips against one another again, and he’s doing this insane thing with his tongue that it makes her toes curl.

Yeah, today turned out amazing indeed. 

[thesummerstorms]

For the characters HCs Darman? He's so precious and we need *more*

Link the meme here. Accepting, but if you send me the whole meme as opposed to specifics it might take a bit. Thank you to anon for the ask.

clothing style.

Dar dresses pretty simply even after he leaves the army. Bright cheery shades of color -anything but red or maybe orange- and well fitting, but comfy. Probably starts wearing dad cardigans very early on. Lots of space!hoodies, which Etain steals. Comfy, practical, cheery. Likes to roll up the sleeves of things to his upper forearm because Etain notices ™ and also keeping the fabric out of the way of whatever he’s working on. That said, he spends as much time in armor as civvies.

before - bed routine.

In barracks, his routine is exceedingly simple. Dar is one of those people who dozes off easy, so he more or less wraps up whatever he’s doing,  figures out the best way to secure the door or react to it opening, washes his face and brushes his teeth and is out. Never trust that you’ll actually get all 8 hours of sleep you’ve been promised.

Out of barracks, it’s a little bit more indulgent. If they have the water/aren’t rationing, Dar likes a second hot shower before he goes to sleep. Checks on the little ones, small snack or maybe hot chocolate, brush teeth. If he’s at home with Etain or they’re deployed to the same place, the he typically has to go retrieve her and coax her into bedtime - he can and sometimes does fall asleep while she’s still working but drastically prefers the bed with her in it even more so with her in his arms or holding him- maybe listen to Etain read or flip through a holozine for the roughly 10 minutes it takes him to pass out. (Etain frequently is taking things out of his hands after he falls asleep.)

In the Rhedian/Etain/Dar verse he has to track them both down, probably, and then they negotiate who gets to be the middle and who gets to be the edge. Darman can only sleep facing the door while laying on his side, so if he’s on the outer edge of the bed, he’s the little spoon and whoever curls up behind him has their arm on his hip, and if he’s in the middle or outer edge he’s big spooning

eating habits

Darman eats a lot. While he’s in GAR he eats big meals and eats them quickly, and it takes a few years after getting out to change the habit in any significant way, but left to his own devices in peace time he’d be a grazer. He doesn’t have strong preferences, taste-wise, but he loves novelty of food choices, even when his wife and kids are slightly intimidated.

As it is, he snacks a lot and is completely unabashed at eating things off of Etain or a brother’s plate. He makes up for it by becoming an excellent cook and spoiling his loved ones with their favorites. Absolutely steals all of the sweets Etain isn’t overly attached to, but makes up for it by offering her a lot of his fruit. Always drinks from her caf cup. When he gets the cure and his metabolism slows down a bit, it takes getting used to.

concept of home and family

He’s got a very, very Mandalorian view of family. Home is where his brothers and Etain and the kids are not only around him but safe and comfortable. Family isn’t blood- it’s the people who he can rely on to have his back no matter what who have chosen to show him love and trust and earn it in return. It’s a chosen obligation and support network.

hobbies.

Cooking, working out, sparring, casual team and pairs sports (though it’s as much about the challenge/social interaction as him actually giving a shit about sports), reading general-interest just casually informative holozines (like, space!Time or NatGeo) , watching the odd romantic holo, playing with his kids,  word puzzles

fighting style.

listen, I do not know enough about SW weaponry /combat or even real life weaponry and combat to answer this question thoroughly. I do think he looks into at least the basics of Teras-Kasi once Sith start showing up looking for his kids.

what calms your muse down after a bad day?

It depends on the kind of bad day. If he’s feeling drained, sometimes a hot shower, a cup of hot chocolate, sitting with Etain as she meditates, his legs bracketing hers and letting her deep breathing set the pace or else just outright cuddling.

But  if he’s restless or overloaded or angry he kicks everyone else out of the kitchen so he can be alone and takes it out on the vegetables until a particularly difficult technique or recipe distracts him and pulls him out of his head a bit. Occasionally he goes back to his roots and works on some stripped down demolitions projects at the nearest work bench. Working out alone doesn’t help in that kind of mood because he’s still in his own thoughts, but if he’s up to being around other people, sparring or some sort of high-intensity pairs game (slingball, etc) does. 

(Depending on her own mood/the reason for the upset Etain sometimes starts out sparring with him but is amenable to shifting to other distractions, too. Sometimes they skip straight to the pinning down if she notices he needs to burn tension and who ever starts off gets the go ahead.)

ways your muse says i love you.

his love language is in nurturing and gift-giving. he’s highly sensitive to small changes in his loved ones demeanor and part of his way of showing them he loves them is immediately trying to give or do something to make them feel better. have they eaten? do they need painkillers?  what’s small thing he can do or give to fix it?

alternatively if it’s less of a “need immediate support” situation he’s still trying to figure out what small thing he can give to show his affection: a stolen gift for Etain, sharing a food he’s fond of, double checking Rhedian’s kit for her without asking, or something he’s made for them in particular “I thought of you, and I want you to be content”.

describe your muse’s laugh.

softer than you’d think, but Dar has a terrible time forcing laughter, so if you hear it it’s warm and genuine or angry/bitter AF and which ever emotion it is feels readily apparent.

what items can be found in your muse’s pockets

assuming we’re just talking civvie pockets and not his gear belt then the star wars equivalent of a swiss army knife, credits, a false identchip (he swaps out which one), spare blank datachip, comlink/holoprojector combo, hard candies that are less prone to melting or some sort of snack, his wedding ring if he’s working on something dirty or delicate, sometimes little handwritten notes Etain has left him on flimsiplast, a stylus and a all-materials marker of some sort 

talk about your muse’s most prized possession(s)

Dar really doesn’t get too hung up on possessions. His wedding ring is highly sentimental but if push comes to shove can be replaced. The only thing he couldn’t easily abandon would be the very few holos he has of his first squad (which, like, SW has the Cloud, right?), a few surviving love letters of Etain’s, and maybe when he’s older and his brothers start dying some of their armor plates.

describe your muse’s walk

He always tends to walk like he’s wearing Katarn armor even if he isn’t: chest forward, long strides, walking with intent and clearing civvies easily out of his way. He does fuck up a knee as an older man, but unlike Kal, no one has to beg him to go to treatment and it only bothers him if he’s been extremely rough on it or he’s run down in general.

talk about your muse’s accent.

A weird, hard to place amalgam unless you know that he’s a clone commando. Part basic non-distinct Core World Broadcast Pronunciation from lots of flash training as a young child, the slightest edge of Kuat and of Keldabe from learning from Kal Skirata, eventual hard edge to his Mando’a that’s unique to the Neshurok district on Nar Shadda. People tend to be surprised he doesn’t sound Concordian, but he didn’t have enough exposure to Fett for that.

describe your muse’s smile

wide, artless, not the “crooked and charming” type so much as genuinely expansive

how often does your muse get sick?

Not too often- he has a good immune system, special genetic modification, and more vaccinations than any reasonable being could keep track of. That said, it’s impossible to avoid getting sick forever with kids.

does your muse know when to rest, or do they push themselves?

Dar’s a lot better at giving himself physical rest (training to make the best use of his efforts and preserve his ability to keep going kicking in) than mental rest in a daily context, though he absolutely has overdone it on missions (conditioning that you are less than your objective and replaceable is a bitch.)

does your muse snore? sleeptalk? sleepwalk?

He snores. Etain says terribly, he says he’s not as bad as any of the rest of Omega, which may or may not be true.

the thing(s) your muse thinks about before falling asleep.

depends on the night. anything from galactic politics to memory of his first squad to the annoying squeak from the air vent that needs looking at to the breathlessness edge of Etain’s voice or her touch before they finally settled down

is your muse a fitful or a quiet sleeper?

Darman has nightmares that wake him up and leave him upset, but unless you’re a Jedi it can be hard to tell because he doesn’t move around very much in his sleep until he wakes up full of adrenaline and gasping. On a normal night, he’s a pretty quiet sleeper and most of his movement comes from adjusting to Etain, who absolutely is restless. That said, he’s fairly easy to wake.

your muse’s thoughts on cops and other authority figures

Cops are initially sorted into the Jaller Obrim schema of tentative friendship/support, but that falls by the wayside pretty quickly when he’s a fugitive from the galactic regime. 

He’s respectful of authority figures in theory and knows how to follow a chain of command, clone-officers being easily followed, but his experiences with Jedi Generals who didn’t know what they were doing, outright malevolent Imperial Army officials, the constant threat of death from the Kaminoans, Kal’s subtle manipulations, etc all mean he keeps a weary eye on them until they prove otherwise.

He doesn’t strive to be an iconoclast, but he’s inherently aware of the danger authority figures pose to his survival and those he loves.

skills and special talents.

cooking, singing, hand to hand, demolitions, shooting, chemistry, covert ops, battlefield first aid, good listener, decent at sketches though he doesn’t pursue it

disabilities or illnesses. 

Darman has very clear PTSD plus possibly some other comorbid mental health conditions. He does have old battle injuries that bother him somewhat as he gets older, including one knee, but nothing that’s immediately physically obvious or debilitating espc since he gets appropriate medical care.

habits and mannerisms.

lots of soft humming or mouthing a song he will never sing alone in front of strangers, deceptively calm expression even when he’s ruminating, going over his gear and equipment for the fifth time as a comfort thing

introvert or extrovert.

Ambivert.

religious or non - religious

Ambivalent- He’s married to a Jedi and the father of multiple Force-using kids, so he can’t exactly deny the whole Force-thing, but he doesn’t philosophize it the way Etain inherently does.

As for te kara’se… again, ambivalence. When Etain start taking to a… worship isn’t precisely right, but neither is relationship with Tarre Vizsla and Ranah teh Naast, he listens and doesn’t disapprove, but also doesn’t necessarily disagree. If he speaks to the Mand’alore of old, if he sometimes asks for advice, when his brothers have gone quiet too long or his wife’s blood is spotting his armor or his children are crying in fear… he doesn’t know whether or not he expects them to listen.The asking is still worth something, though. He’s likely to ask his brothers in the manda too, as much as anything else.

something your muse could never forgive.

injuries to his loved one, especially life-threatening or shattering ones, especially purposeful neglect or abuse or the cheap spending of their life. It’s easier to forgive his own blood spilt than that of his heart.

something that makes your muse smile.

naps in the sunshine, his kids being goofballs or learning something new. a brother earning some new happiness, the little looks Etain gives him when they talk without talking, the pleasure of a new taste or mastering a new skill, someone running his fingers through his hair or holding his hand

something that scares your muse.

the constant risk to his wife and children, and once the Mandalorian “Great Purge” starts to his entire family. the possibility of somehow letting down or disappointing or becoming estranged from a brother. Kaminoans, for years. his own anger, sometimes.

something that gives your muse hope.

Koa and Kad and Scout sitting around the family table solving a problem together, Koa with her aruetii science degree in one hand and a musical instrument in the other, Kad holding baby Etta (Dar’s granddaughter) tightly to his chest with a look of wonder on his face, Etta and Sivvar (Kad’s husband) laughing as they paint a mural on a bare expanse of wall, Etain wrapping a niece or nephew in her cloak as she holds them and smiling quietly back over her shoulder at him, Fi with a baby strapped to his chest, Atin and Laseema curled quietly together in an oversized arm chair, the first time he sees excitement in Niner’s face after the war

how your muse responds to being helped / taken care of.

He’s not used to in originally. With strangers he’s excessively polite, but with someone he actually loves and trusts, he gets incredibly soft- lots of little touches to their hands/arms (or face/neck if romantic or as platonically close as Omega) and his shoulders just kind of unspool tension

how your muse responds to unconditional love.

Similar to the above, but Dar’s loyalty runs deep, and he’s a romantic and a family-oriented person, so it tends to inspire devotion

how your muse responds to danger

To himself, a reasonable amount of stress or anger, but mostly his instincts kick in until later when he potentially has the ability to process how fucked the situation was. he becomes very decisive under pressure but he isn’t taught how to handle it after until he’s been fighting for years.

how your muse responds to stress. // how your muse responds to anger.

He tries to hide a lot of it to avoid being a burden, and it’s way more successful than you’d think. He doesn’t start developing explicit coping skills until after the war and his break down, although he does talk to Omega and Etain about it, alternating between showing them his soul in an expression of trust and hiding things so as not to trouble them.

With anger his protective anger is the easiest to glimpse at first, but eventually it comes out in other situations- normally the thought of being lied to or deceived or used. With all of the above, he gets cold and harsh until it tips too far. Less yelling than quiet anger.

 He’s not by nature inherently violent, but between his training and untreated PTSD, there are episodes where he feels as if he loses control of himself entirely and retreats to the violence he was taught would keep him alive. Part of his recovery is learning to stop things before they get there and recognize his own threat response.

With stress, see the above about bad days. also probably some explicitly PTSD related coping strategies but I’ll admit I haven’t researched that

did your muse grow up too fast?

Absolutely. Dar may have been socially naive on his first deployment, but he didn’t have a childhood, he had a product development phase haunted by the threat of Kaminoan culling.

[holdinbacksecrets]

An Exuberant Burst, A Silent Beauty

AN: So... FINALLY?! I think I’ve been working on this one for close to a month? 3 weeks? Something like that, and I’m quite happy with it, definitely nervous to share it... but here goes nothing. Not to make this too long, but this is also a celebratory post because my two year anniversary was about a week ago..? So cheers to that. Also, I tried something new with this one, and decided to go without any quotation marks, so all the dialogue is italicized! 

Inspiration: Heal Me by Lady Gaga 

Thank you to any/all Tumblr friends who helped me with this in any way. You know who you are, and I appreciate you LOTs

When I was a little girl, my mother used to put me to bed, even when I was old enough to do it myself. If she was on a business trip, a normalcy in my household, I never let my dad take her place.

Instead, I’d squeeze my eyes shut, keeping them closed until I could imagine her standing over my bed. The gentleness of her aura. The sweet, sugary safety of her voice. The lovingness in every touch, each one with intent.

As I got older, I had to rely on the memory. My brain was used to sliding her into the space she once held. Until one night, it didn’t matter anymore. I fell asleep to an LP she listened to. One that had been gathering dust in her wardrobe, hidden near the back. The hiding spot where she kept her proudest possessions.

My mind surrendered to the artists' luscious tone. The richness, like honey, of the singer's voice, with lyrics I never memorized. The opening piano riffs sent me into a place I only found in the night, drunk by my subconscious mind, taking a ride in the luxury of my mother’s imagined presence.

A presence I soon found more of in my dreams than reality. When I was 13, I realized the business trips were colliding with her vacations. Trips to another mans home; a family that I didn’t belong in. A mantle that held photos without me, picturing a beautiful, tanned skin goddess, with long sun-kissed tresses and green eyes. A man taller than my father, his hands on my mother.

It wasn’t until I turned 16, that I’d wake in the middle of the night, to my own heavy breathing. In a cold sweat, feeling the pain. The moments she was missing. The dance recitals and swim meets. The Friday nights we’d spend making pizzas in the stone oven.

My dad would let me stay home the next day. After knocking on my door, hearing a muffled response, catching my face in the pillow. That same record playing through the room. His own heartbreaking, recalling track 5, and the way he held my mother as they danced at their wedding.

At 18, I flew to the world I was exiled from. The family that replaced mine, tarnishing the joy that filled me up, leaving me drunk on love and high off life. But then, I saw you.

Your sweats were baggy. Your black Nike’s kicked up on the opposing chair. Your fingers flew across the screen of your iPhone. My eyes looked you over, and you glanced up too, only for a moment, lasting a second.

My eyes tore away from your sculpted frame. From the beauty I couldn’t imagine being real, wondering if it was possible to find calmness in a stranger.

I saw you again, but you didn’t notice me then. You were too busy running your fingers through your hair. A habit I’d later come to find blossomed from nerves. Your tall legs carried you to a car. You loaded your luggage, speaking to the man dressed in a crisp suit.

A week later, I sat up in the guest rooms four poster bed. The mattress was softer than the one in my own room. The pillows were too hard. The room was painted a mustard yellow, heightening my own anxiety, making me wish for the simple gray, where I dressed my comfort.

My mother knocked against the wooden door. Her sweet voice a step higher. Her hair a shade lighter. Her lips painted in a bright red. Another color that came across like a stranger, turning my mother into someone who I deemed unrecognizable.

Dinner will be ready soon.

She almost closed the door. Her PSA being done for the time being. Might as well get a speaker system for the unreasonably large home, but she walked into the room anyway.

The moment we saw each other at the airport felt different than what I expected, worse. She was different too, and she didn’t try to pretend like she knew the mother I adored. Instead, she stayed away, greeting me at breakfast, asking if I wanted tahini dressing or ranch on my salad at lunch. Calling from the hall before she left in the afternoon, that I could join her and Clara, only if I wanted.

She takes a seat on the edge of the bed, rolling her neck from side to side, allowing her shoulders to slouch for the first time. A deep, restrained sigh escapes her lips. She wipes the red from her mouth, resting her head in the palm of her hands.

I know I abandoned you.

Not a day goes by, that I don’t wish I could change all my mistakes. 

Tonight, I know it won’t mean much, but my coworker is having a party. Clara and Remington will be visiting his mother. If you want to, I’d love you to join me. I won’t tell you what to wear. I won’t wear any red... I know it’s not much, but I’ve missed you. I’ve missed so much of your life; I don’t want to miss anymore. 

The wrinkles by her eyes no longer appeared as creased makeup, but tired exhaustion, and years of guilt creating imperfections in her timeless beauty.

So I agreed, knowing, even if she’d forgotten, I couldn’t pretend I didn’t miss the way she warmed me up. The way she had always made me feel so worthy, so important, like the water she needed to survive. The silhouette of a dream was back in my reality.

///

The drive through the city isn’t uncomfortable that night. It’s reassuring and natural. Like a dance I was taught at a young age, surprised to remember the steps years later.

I hold my hands in my lap, twisting the rings on my thumb and index finger. In between glances out the window, taking in the beauty of the city, seeking out the differences. Not once had my father and I had flown to visit my mother when her work trips were nothing more than what I thought. The three of us had never spent summers vacationing in a tropical paradise, or weekends in the city. If I had come here as a young girl, the buildings would be castles, with gumdrop doors and golden archways.

She told me of her coworker's son. How proud his family was of him. How successful he was at a young age. The familiarity of his name stuck to my tongue, rolled around my mind until it found a comfortable spot, sticking to the curiosity.

And, he’s cute. And, he was the man from the airport.

My knees buckled. My heart rate echoed in my ears. My palms grew clammy as I shook people’s hands. People my mother knew: coworkers, friends. People I never heard of, but ones who knew me.

The further we walked into the home, the closer he felt. My body was electrified. My eyes glued to him, watching the bottle in his hand, admiring his honest smile and kind eyes.

The way his muscles bulged under his button-down every time the Corona touched his lips. The way he stood with his right leg out further than his left. The beat he’d drum against his thigh, closing his eyes momentarily, forgetting those in the room, feeling the music drifting through the vicinity.

He’s handsome, isn’t he? She had caught me looking, encouraging me to muster all the confidence I had and approach the only guy who seemed to be around my age. He stood next to a girl, with similar features.

His sister. You’d like her. She’s very mature for her age. 

I was ready to run and hide in the bathroom when his eyes fell upon me. He smiled smoothly, making me feel as though my limbs were suddenly jello. My brain mirrored that of an alarm, screaming danger, flashing a stunning red with white accents. Reminding me of all the practice I didn’t have with men, all the boys I hadn’t dated, and the realities of all my nonexistent relationships.

Are you always this nervous? Is he really talking to me right now?

I’d like to think I’m not. 

I introduce myself. He does the same, and his name, Shawn, is louder in my mind than any music. He gestures to the stunning girl next to him, Aaliyah. His lips fall into a knowing smile when I explain that our mothers work together. He tells me how sweet my stepsister Clara is, that he was wondering if he’d ever meet the girl unknown. The mystery.

Was I really just some unknown, forgotten girl? Did my mother parade around with Remington and Clara? Forgetting the daughter she left alone, fending for herself?

Shawn offers me a drink, to which I accept before he leads me through the house. Aaliyah follows close behind. Her attention drifting between her phone and the little girl tugging at her skirt. Shawn greets people as we walk, placing his hand on my lower back during introductions, pulling it away too soon.

A glass of Chardonnay is in my grasp, cooling the heat on my palm.

This couldn’t be real.

I suddenly knew where I wanted to be. Thinking it was worth leaving my familiarities to get to know this person. This gorgeous man that didn’t know about the fucked up things my mother had done, the years of school spent in my created isolation, running from popularity and sympathetic eyes, or the nights I’d lay awake, imagining someone’s fingertips running along my bare thigh, sharing secrets in the dark.

I stare at my reflection in the quaint powder room. My flushed skin is glowing. My lips are turned into a smile, one I can’t suppress. My fingers wrap around the edge of the granite countertop as I let the calming melody of track 5 relax my mind.

As I leave the comforting seclusion, Shawn’s silhouette catches my eye in the living room, where he’s sat in one of the couches with his sister. His arm hangs loosely around her shoulder. His head is dipped, focused on whatever she’s showing him. The party was winding down. The music had been replaced with a piano instrumental, despite the musicians at the party, and the grand piano in the den.

My mother reaches for my hand as I begin my walk back to the boy who had stolen my attention. She whispers in my ear that it’s time to go. Clara and Remington were already home, and these shoes are giving me blisters.

She leaves me alone to thank the hosts, but not without a sly motion to the boy whose aura is radiating onto my skin.

In a moment of confidence, I place my hand on Shawn’s shoulder, drawing his eye away from his sister. He’s standing immediately, prepared to offer me a place on the plush couch.

I was just coming to say goodbye, to the both of you.

Oh, well, it was really nice to meet you.

Shawn clears his throat, bringing his phone out of his back pocket. He asks so quickly I would’ve missed the words if my eyes weren’t on his lips. He smiles, catching the innocent glance, holding the iPhone out to me.

I type in my name and number, hands shaking as my mother’s voice rings behind me. Shawn’s arms bring me into an embrace, and I inhale sharply, feeling his hardened stomach against my chest. My fingers brushing sculpted muscles through his thin dress shirt.

I’ll call you.

My voice fails me, but I nod into his shoulder, managing to smile at his sister, serving amusement in her eyes.

As his arms fall to his sides, I take a step back, my hands on Shawn’s biceps. I want to brush the stray curl off his forehead and admire the gold flakes in his eyes in the privacy of an empty room.

But my hands fall, and I wave to his sister. Maybe I’ll see you around?

Or I’ll call, and we can get coffee

I walk backward, nodding in agreement. 

Coffee sounds great.

Let’s go dear. My mother’s voice breaks through, damming the river of a dream. Her tone interrupted the golden flakes and pinked lips. Throwing me a raft, blinding my clarity. The piano ballad fell into the background once more. Goodbye Shawn, Aaliyah. Lovely to see you both.

I rest my head against the car window, watching the lights of the city blur into a rainbow in a blackened sky. I tuck my bare feet under my butt, curling my toes. My breath brushes the window, noticeable against the cool glass.

My mother yawns next to me as the heater blows across my face. When I close my eyes, I can hear the party’s music. I can feel the radiating warmth. I can sense the loving relationship between Shawn and Aaliyah.

The first time I met Shawn, I thought of you. Something about who he is. His honesty. I’ve always wanted you to end up with a man like him. I’d never have to worry about you.

My eyes leave the picture outside my window, falling on the beautiful woman next to me. Her manicured fingers grasp the steering wheel. Her eyes stay on the road, but I can feel her truth, even without her honest orbs.

I know it’s been hard — I can imagine it’s been hard, but to whatever capacity, I know you. I see you in a gorgeous light, my love, and all I want for you is to find that person. Someone who won’t do to you, what I did. Someone who will make you believe in love again.

Why are you telling me this? The emotion in my voice is impossible to hide. The darkness in the car doesn’t blanket the pain. The pain of my adolescence was camouflaged by the shadows as I grew into a young woman.

I want you to understand what you deserve.

But I didn’t deserve you, for all those years?

She parks the black Mercedes in the driveway, and I suddenly crave my gray walls and damask, patterned comforter. The records that kept the memories happy and gave me the power to create my mother in whichever way I desired.

A comfort that would save me from the space of this car. A car that replaced the Acura my mother had driven before. A car that drove her further away from the woman I knew, to a house that didn’t feel like home, and a family where I didn’t belong.

I know I can’t fix things, and I would - I swear I’d do anything to righten my wrongs.

Your intentions are pure, and I appreciate that, but don’t pretend like you have any sense in choosing the kind of man I should love.

///

I feel like a stranger, huddled into the sectional couch, buried underneath a blanket. A mug of hot chocolate rests on the side table. Next to a book I’ve yet to touch all week.

I wonder if this is how it feels, for anyone else with divorced parents who found a love in someone new. A stranger who didn’t reflect in the old family photos and savored memories.

It created a free pass to be someone else, to rewrite myself. Paint a fostered persona into a sunny picture. I contemplate losing myself along the way, somewhere in between. Would my dad no longer recognize me? Would my childhood room feel smaller? Would I yearn for the extravagant lifestyle my mother fit into so effortlessly when I was away?

Hey, I didn’t know anyone else stayed up this late.

Clara walks into the living room, getting comfortable in the armchair adjacent to the sofa. 

I usually don’t, but I couldn’t sleep tonight.

It must be a lot to take in.

I don’t pretend like I know what she means, and Clara realizes it too. I never wanted this. When my parents first broke up, I’d sneak out my window in the middle of the night and run around the neighborhood to my best friend’s house. I’d end up sleeping on her basement couch more than I slept in my own bed. Her house felt like a home, a complete family, with consistency and honest love.

My eyes fall on to the beautiful girl across from me. I had constructed my ideas of her as soon as we met for the first time, believing every piece to be true. Regardless of what I actually knew, being nothing at all.

We’re more alike than I anticipated.

And what did you anticipate?

I shake my head, reaching for the steaming mug. Clara’s head falls to rest in her palm as she watches me. The light from the lamp glistens against her flawless skin, and I ignore the years I spent, craving seclusion and invisibility, pushing away the knowing hand. The hand that wrapped me in an embrace. One more thing my mother had left for me to find on my own.

Look around, it can’t be that hard to imagine.

Do you want to know what I thought about you? Her eyebrows raise and she stands to sit next to me.

I pull my legs up to my chin, holding my breath.

I thought that this was finally it. I’d finally have this complete, consistent family I’ve been imagining in my head, seeing in my dreams. I thought it would be picture perfect. Crazy, right?

I smile, more to myself than to her, feeling seen. Allowing the comfort of seclusion and invisibility to drift away, realizing right now, with Clara, was a safe space.

I didn’t know anyone else could feel that way, not when they seem to have so much.

Oh, babe. All of this means nothing. It’s exciting at first, when it still feels brand new, but luxury could never replace love.

Shawn was the love I deserved, according to my mother. Even her manicured fingers reached for a life of love, knowing, in secret, that the fancy cars and Egyptian cotton wouldn’t save me from the current of loneliness.

///

In the morning, I wake up again in the four-poster bed. The sun beams through the delicate curtains, shining the previous nights' highs and lows in a halo above my head.

I can pinpoint the beautiful moments: When Shawn took my breath away, to the words that were planted in my head, spoken by my mother, stripping the golden years of its magic, to the conversation between Clara and I. Finally feeling connected to one another. Finding someone else who understood the difficulties of getting lost in the current of change, trying to keep our heads above water.

In a moment I imagined the rest of my life, with a love that was born out of riches. Feeling nauseous, knowing I could never leave a child behind, wondering how my mother slept at night.

I hug a decorative pillow to my chest, closing my eyes, hearing track 5 in my mind. The lyrics don’t come, they never did, but I make up my own. I can feel the tempo, the beat vibrating through the floors.

On late nights in high school, when studying consumed me, I’d read to the rhythm of the music. The words suddenly had meaning. The poetry throughout the pages jumped out in bursts of beauty. Those nights were the only ones that didn’t claim my dreams in my mother’s voice. Those nights became my own, going by in a blur before I woke to my scheduled alarm.

Each morning that followed a night like that was electric, and the world appeared brighter. I’d find my father in the kitchen, oatmeal for him and a bagel and smear waiting for me. He was my home. My very first lifeline, guiding me with patience and care.

It was us, that was our family. My hard-working father, the music, and me. The dark times, the 3ams spent thinking of my mother, and the current calling my name, held no strength against him.

///

I feel my phone vibrate against the dark wood of the guest rooms side table. I yawn, rubbing my eyes, pulling myself up into a seated position.

I can hear my fathers breath in a stream of relief as I answer. A low laugh crossing the line.

My darling daughter, it’s not the same without you here. How is my pride and joy?

I sink back into bed, feeling lavished in the sound of his voice. Embracing the comfort.

I miss you, so much. And mom, she’s different, dad. Being here is like stepping into a room filled with all the things that used to make me think of her, and facing the harsh reality of who she’s become.

That was the last thing I wanted you to face, especially without me, and in a home resembling a museum.

My mind tunes into the background noise. A familiar beat, a rhythm so intertwined with my life, that my feet begin to tap underneath the covers. The lyrics are there, soft and refrained, sending a calmness, reminding me of who I am, regardless of who I become around my mother.

I met someone at a party. Maybe it’s crazy, but I left floating on a cloud. And for the first time this week, I found a piece of home in this unknown place. The words my father went on to speak, resonated with me into the depths of my being. Where the darkness gathered, and the pain of my parents broken relationship burrowed.

He told me, love isn’t easy. He said, the world, your life, is already a journey. Every day is wrapped in a box with a golden ribbon. Don’t ever forget, that you’re in control of who walks beside you. Let it be someone who keeps the fire burning in your belly. Someone who you wake up with, attracting excitement and love, yet calmness and serenity. Someone whose spirit aligns to you, because you deserve nothing but the brightest of love, and the most fulfilling of life. Your love should paint a vibrancy, with music and dance, with spontaneity and flourishing, inspired journeys. Let your love drown your demons and be a power like the melodies you cherish: resounding and truthful.

Shawn’s POV

My bedroom has become a place of peace. A singular salvation in this crazy world my life has turned into. A constant in the ever-changing travels and people intertwined with my destined dream, finding it’s way into my reality.

A reality that has been nothing but fulfilling, yet alone in the late hours of the night. The party had ended, the high from performing had faded, and everyone had gone back to themselves. Spending their nights in another space. Times that unwinded from my own life, reminding me of the love I had yet to meet.

It wasn’t until I found my fate in music and songwriting, that I yearned for another. Someone to inspire my life. A person I wanted to walk beside. Someone whose light would heal the empty nights, when the crowds disappeared into memories, and my friends and family were in another time zone.

I craved one’s energy with booming love. Love that sung in my ear like a symphony. A touch that electrified my skin. The way hers did.

I felt it as her fingers brushed my shoulder. I sought it after our eyes met in the airport, but my mind was full on schedules, functioning off an espresso, and the knowingness of being home.

My breath caught in the back of my throat as she walked into the foyer that night. Her dress was enough to make my tongue coat my lips before I took another swig of beer. I had been preparing myself to approach her when I felt her presence next to me. A voice of enchantment and beautiful orbs to match, inviting my own to drink her in a concentrated wave.

She held herself with confidence. In between glances to the floor, or moments of distraction. Before I caught her eyes on my mouth or staring into her wine glass.

Aaliyah didn’t shut up about her for the entirety of the night that followed. We stayed up, with a movie serving background noise. A blurred picture of movement and scenery.

My phone weighed heavily in my hands, recognizing that songwriting and evening crowds of thousands, never taught me how to coax the nerves of a girl who played with my curiosity, ever since my mum first spoke her name.

Age 20

Toronto is something beautiful from the view of Shawn’s condo. It’s like being in a whole other world, invincible to anything outside the calming space of his home. A place I had come to love.

The safe haven was warmest in Shawn’s arms. My mother’s brooding ways faded away as he spun me around in the living room. The couch and coffee table pushed out of the way. Christmas had come and gone, but the sparkling lights on the tree reflected in his chocolate brown, piercing green orbs.

For years, I had been the girl who closed her eyes and dreamt of another world. One painted gold, with a familiar tune drawing my path. Shawn created a different picture, loving me in a rawness, leaving me high for days. The anxieties could never penetrate the umbrella of gratitude he left me with.

I lay my head against his chest as his arms tighten around me.

I would’ve waited for you forever.

Shawn’s fingertip paints a line along my jaw. I pull away enough to meet his eyes, wrapping my arms around his neck.

That’s an awfully long time to wait, especially for a girl like me.

As if you aren’t worth it. He spoke with a knowing, a complete confidence. Like my entire being unraveled in melodies drifting into colors, becoming a visual piece of a captive world Shawn belonged in. Do you remember the night of the dinner party? The way your mum spoke to you?

That night was a memory that crossed my mind every time I flew back to Toronto. I couldn’t force myself to think about seeing Shawn or Clara. My mind was made up, locking me in a cage. My mother as the ringmaster.

The night was a disaster from the start. Until you walked in, saving the day. A role Shawn had stepped into seamlessly. The first time I visited my mother was an experience I could’ve never imagined. Not with all its twists and turns. The illuminated shadows, pieces of her darkness, hidden so well. Attributes my father had tried to protect me from.

I saw you that night, really saw you. It was one thing, overhearing conversations of words that never brought any truth, but I saw the pain. I could feel your heartbreak in the way you gripped the countertop. The intensity of your aura stunned me in shielded rays. I craved a connection, but you already had a barrier wrapped around yourself.

Shawn saw me that night. Despite the stunning dress I wore, and the makeup my mother had left out for me on the bathroom counter, masking my freckles and tired eyes. Even then, when my past was a novel to his mind, and his world, with all its madness and excitement, had yet to collide.

I used to dream about finding someone who’d melt away my walls. A touch that worked like a key. For the first time, I didn’t feel invisible. I didn’t feel like a mirage for my mother’s pleasure.

And then, he healed me.

Shawn arrived like lightning: In flashes. In heat. An exuberant burst, a silent beauty.

I fell fast, and we crashed slowly. I could pinpoint each milestone. From the first kiss to the first I love you, to the first time he held me in the dark as my mind drifted into sleep. The first night I didn’t yearn for track 5. The first night I found my dreams in our quiet breaths and gentle touches. The I love you that crossed my ears at the moment I let go.

The crowded rooms became only him and I. The waiting, the wondering, the curiosity found a heartbeat. Our spirits met and exploded into a vibrancy: inspired. Burning. Resounding.

[victoria-hyde]

A Horror of The Spirit

"A horror of the spirit that cannot be exceeded at the hour of birth or death."

-Robert Louis Stevenson

 Pre-Valkyrie. This is the story of Skulduggery's first partner. 

Detective Robert Warlow squinted, his eyes straining against the merciless sun's attacks. He supposed it was all part of the desert day. Robert was really beginning to regret wearing his smart vermillion vest. Small crimson clouds danced around his feet, ruining his perfectly good shoes. A slight crunch was heard with each apprehensive footstep. He was supposed to meet up with his assigned mentor; Skulduggery Pleasant. He was told that Skulduggery was not allowed to interfere with his actions -no matter what-, only guide him. This was a sort of test, to see if he had what it takes to become a proper Sanctuary detective. The same rules stopped him from using magic, as well as a binding bracelet, so he relied solely on his ken. In theory he was able to solve this case and deal with the details like a professional, but he was faintly aware that the cold indifference that was present during study would not come easily upon seeing an expired body. Robert disregarded his emotions and fear, as he objectively approached the vehicle. He was curious about this case. After all, he knew that it is one thing to mortify curiosity, another to conquer it. He gazed inside and faltered. The sight that greeted him was a horror of the spirit that cannot be exceeded at the hour of birth or death. The insensate, emerald eyes gazed into his soul, glazed over and full of an extreme foreign panic. Limp limbs yielded to gravity, gently resting next to an inflated chest as if their owner was merely asleep, though Robert knew that was not the case. However, it was the smell that did it for him. It was a cold and heavy scent, smelling of rotting meat with a few drops of cheap perfume. It was pungent mixed with sickening sweetness. It crept up his nostrils making him feel as if he had swallowed acid. He could taste it. He could taste the cadaver. It appeared the corpse was just as repulsed due to the slightly pink foam dripping from his mouth. Robert ran away from the car trying not to gag, tears of shock and disgust involuntarily streaming down his face. Even then the smell still lingered, not quite going away. It was caught in his nose, on his tongue, at the back of his throat. Suddenly the background noise flooded back in with the blaring noise of the police sirens, snapping him back to reality. He took a deep breath to calm his farrago of thoughts and ate one of the mints to disperse the horrid taste in his mouth. Robert desperately began to distract himself by analysing what he had just seen and comparing it with his prior knowledge of Varian's file. He recalled Rose's panicked eyes, his bloated chest and the salmon froth leaking from his lips. He was so focused, that he didn't notice the cloaked man approaching him.

"Vile, isn't it," the clinical voice of the sanctuary official stated. Warlow jolted in surprise and quickly read the man's name tag: Skulduggery Pleasant. "I take it you're my newly assigned partner?" Pleasant's pause was scanty and his tone indifferent, only allowing time for Robert to nod before he continued. "I have been charged with informing you of the details of this investigation. The victim's name was Varian Rose. He recently received a large inheritance from his late father; roughly $50 000 000. We are currently uncertain of how he perished since I'm not allowed to try and solve the case-"

Robert cut him off, "He was drowned. You can tell by the foam coming out of his mouth from the water in the lungs, his lungs expanded to try and hold more air therefore swelling his chest, and the look of panic in his eyes, signalling he was aware he was being murdered."

Skulduggery seemed to glare at the detective. "Impressive deduction, but I would greatly appreciate if you could take the liberty to refrain from interrupting me with your monotonous discourse," he floridly reprimanded Warlow, quite clearly unimpressed with his behaviour. "Now, if you will allow me to continue, I can inform you of our suspicions," he paused and gave the detective a testing head tilt. "The other amateur detectives believe his sister, Avia Rose, drowned him to claim the inheritance. If you'll wait here, I can fetch the objects the others found from my car, so you can inspect them." This time, Skulduggery didn't even await an answer as he promptly found and handed over the objects in clear plastic bags. Pleasant waited impatiently, irregularly tapping his foot, as Robert studied the contents of the bag. The bags contained a book on alchemy, matches, a pen, car keys and a driver's licence. Warlow looked up.

"You're wrong," he said. "Avia did not kill Varian."

"Excuse me? I'm not allowed to solve the case. The other people being tested are wrong. Not me." he offendedly corrected, but even his offense lacked emotion. Detective Warlow saw now that Skulduggery Pleasant was about as emotional as a bagpipe. Robert rolled his eyes.

"You see this pen here?" he questioned, pointing at the sleek pen in the plastic bag. Skulduggery wearily nodded and the detective pushed the bag into Pleasant's grasp. "The other students missed the obvious. The name on the pen says 'Artemis Pendragon'. That is the name of Varian's ex. They were engaged before she dumped him. Therefore, Artemis murdered Varian Rose. Now, there's her work address on the pen, would you do me the courtesy of accompanying me to the arrest?"

"I am legally obligated to come with you."

Detective Robert Warlow waited in the reception of Artemis's workplace, Detective Pleasant and various armed sanctuary officials positioned at different intervals throughout the room. He took a moment to relish the cool feel of the smooth desk against his back. Earlier that day, they had notified everyone on this level to evacuate for their own safety. All they had to do now was await Ms Pendragon's arrival. The door was suddenly opened, and the gravelly crunch of guns being readied snapped at the air, said weapons immediately being pointed at the woman who had just entered. She looked to be in her late twenties, with piercing grey eyes and glinting brown hair. She had an evil face, smoothed by hypocrisy; but her manners were rumoured to be excellent. She exactly matched the image of a Pendragon. Skulduggery approached Artemis and promptly handcuffed her.

"Miss Artemis Pendragon, you are under arrest for the murder of Mr Varian Rose. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say or do may be used against you in court," Pleasant monologued with the routine weariness of children greeting a teacher; lacking passion.

"Wow, what a genius. How could you have ever figured it out?" Artemis smirked, extremely sarcastically, her Australian accent prominent.

"That was a rather silly thing to say," Warlow observed. "You just confessed."

"Who are you supposed to be anyway? I've heard of Captain Jack Marrow over there but didn't know he provided babysitting services." she spat out, having recovered her bearings.

"I am Detective Warlow. Tell you what, I'll answer your questions if you answer mine," he announced before eagerly leaning forwards, obviously not picking up on her sarcasm. "Why did you do it? Did you really think that it would bring you joy?"

"The secret to a happiness is a small ego," at this, she gave a smug glance towards Skulduggery. "And a big wallet. Good books help, too. But that's not really a secret, is it?"

"Don't avoid the question. Why did you drown Varian Rose?" interrogated Robert. His curiosity was eating him inside out, like bone-termites.

Artemis's expression darkened; her countenance grim. "He destroyed my books."

"Is that it? You really killed someone because they merely destroyed your books?"

This comment sent Artemis into a maniacal laughing fit. She pretended to wipe away a tear of laughter before rolling her eyes at the junior detective. "Oh sure. I killed someone just because they destroyed my books. Please, that was one time."

"What?" Warlow blurted, worried.

"No, no. I have other reasons that I'm not going to share."

"Why not?"

"I'm hoping the curiosity will kill you, just like it killed the cat."

"Actually," Skulduggery interjected. "The original phrase was, 'Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.'"

"Well, the cat died again since there was still some curiosity left in it." She shrugged. "It was a slow acting disease."

Detective Warlow's countenance began to look a little unimpressed. "What are you hoping to achieve with all this banter?" he asked. "Sure, it's scintillating but it isn't going to stop you getting arrested."

Something in Artemis's eye twinkled that made it evident she knew something they did not. "There's no chance that I was perhaps," a metallic chink sounded from behind her and Robert took a step back as her hands reached up and unsheathed her swords. "stalling you." The armed sanctuary officials tried to open fire at her, but nothing came out of their guns. By the time they checked their ammunition, realized Artemis had emptied it with air manipulation and spotted their bullets on the floor, it was too late. In fact, it all happened so fast that Robert barely saw it. A flash of silver, a few sickening damp crunches and the wall had a new coat of paint. Warlow tried to move away from her but slipped in the rapidly growing puddles of blood. He felt the warm, sticky liquid seep into his clothes as his face connected with the floor. He was suddenly gasping for breath as Artemis's foot found a place on his ribs. Where was Skulduggery? Why wasn't he helping? He turned his head away, not wanting to see the sword's slow-motion descent. This was a mistake. He came face to face with a lifeless and blood pooled into his mouth. He suddenly felt a cool sharpness dig into his throat with a final sickly crunch. Detective Robert Warlow spent what felt like an eternity choking on his own blood and agony before everything began to fade and go cold...

 Artemis turned away from the corpse of that amateur detective and faced the infamous Skeleton Detective. He hadn't moved an inch, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. She grinned at him.

"So, what? Are you going to try and arrest me too Albert Spinestein? Are you going to tattle on me Vincent Van Bone?" she teased.

The way Skulduggery held himself indicated he was extremely unimpressed. He then replied, his voice devoid of any human emotion; the definition of deadpan, "I am not allowed to interfere with the testing under any circumstances." She waltzed over and pat the top of his head.

"Good skeleton." And on that remark, she left the building. Skulduggery sighed and left the office to inform the sanctuary that everyone was killed.

 Detective Rachel Pidgely was overflowing with excitement. She was approaching the crime scene for her case. If she solved it and apprehended the murderer -if there was a murderer, she didn't know-, then she would become a real Sanctuary detective! A tall man cloaked in beige was waiting for her outside the doors to the crime scene.

"Hello! I'm Rachel," she gushed. "Who are you!?"

The man barely shifted. "My name is irrelevant. Once you pass through these doors you will meet your partner and guide for the testing. After they have explained the situation to you, you can then begin to solve the murder of Robert Warlow."

 I packed so many quotes and Easter eggs into this it isn't funny. Can you find all the quotes and Easter eggs?

[macgyvermedical]

Bucky and hypoglycemia for the bad things happen bingo? (if he got some sort of messed up version of the super serum that causes him to burn through his reserves faster? back in the day hydra had to keep him on TPN or something because he burned calories so quickly?)

***Not affiliated with the official “Bad Things Happen Bingo” writing challenge***

Okay, here’s the thing- two people requested hypoglycemia at almost exactly the same time, for two different characters, so in order to stay with one-fic-per-square, we’re setting this Bucky (more accurately Winter Soldier… sorry)-gets-hypoglycemia fic in the middle of the second season of 1985 MacGyver. Enjoy!

Consider this a really weird pre-make of season 6′s “Humanity”

———————

January 1987, Somewhere in the Hungarian Countryside

Mac watched the man pace the small front room of the old farmhouse. He was tall and almost comically muscular even beneath the dark parka, with chin-length dark hair and grease pencil around his eyes. With the size of his torso Mac could only assume the parka was also concealing some form of body armor, though in the nearly 24 hours they’d been stranded together, he hadn’t seen the guy take it off or even loosen it. On the shoulder of the coat was a red star, promising an allegiance that left Mac wary.

Despite his best efforts the man hadn’t said a word to him. A few annoyed grunts to Mac’s intermittent stabs at conversation, sure, but for the time they’d been huddled, literally in the same room, Mac hadn’t even determined if they shared a language. The man had seemed content mostly with spending his time staring out the window at the bleak snowscape- the worst snowstorm to hit Hungary in decades.

Just their luck.

But lucky they’d been, in one sense. Their shared refuge looked like it had been abandoned in a hurry. Food and clothing was gone, but larger furniture items had been left, presumably too bulky to pack. What had undoubtedly been a bad situation for the family living there had been a stroke of fortune to Mac and his new companion. Among the remaining pieces was an old but still-working woodstove, which had happily accepted pieces of carefully cannibalized furniture. At least, as long as the furniture had held out.

“That’s it.” Mac said, pushing the last piece of chair into the stove. “No chance it’s stopped snowing out there, huh?” The man looked at Mac briefly, narrowed his eyes, and then turned back to the window. “That’s very helpful, thank you.” Mac looked around for a few minutes, feeling a sense of tense isolation he wasn’t sure how to describe. Outside the window, the snow had appeared to die down a little. A tree across the way was barely visible in a way it hadn’t been an hour ago.

“Uh, it’s gonna get kinda cold in here once this stops burning- what do you say you and I go see if they left us any fire wood?” Mac got up slowly. The woodstove had kept them alive, but it was still cold enough in the room that his muscles had stiffened sitting on the floor.

“They were supposed to come yesterday.” The man said suddenly. The words were flawless, with a distinctly American accent. Mac paused, a sense of unease coming over him. He had assumed the man was Soviet, but the accent seemed to indicate otherwise.

“Who’s ‘they’?” Mac asked. Undercover DXS? CIA? KGB? HIT? It would certainly help if “they” were someone Pete could call up for a diplomatic conversation. The man didn’t answer, but at long last Mac decided it was something they could talk about when they weren’t in danger of freezing. “Listen, I got a lot of questions and quite frankly that’s a cat you can’t put back in the bag. But I also don’t want to freeze to death, which is what’s gonna happen if we don’t find something else to burn. So… help me out?“

The man only nodded in reply.

In the end, if there was a woodshed, it was too buried in snow to find. They ended up trudging back and forth from a dilapidated barn carrying armfuls of feed hay instead. It wasn’t ideal, but again, lucky to have anything that wasn’t part of the shelter itself. The snow was deep, and after more than an hour of work, they might have bought two hours of warmth. Mac would have kept going- another hour might have set them up for the evening with careful planning- but his companion seemed to be struggling more than he expected.

“Let’s go inside for a minute and warm up, huh?” Mac suggested.

“I’m fine.” The man shook his head angrily, then continued unevenly towards the door. When he turned back to get more hay, Mac stood in front of the exit.

“Its cold out there, it’s wet, it’s not going to kill us to sit in front of the fire for five minutes to warm up.” The fire itself had almost died down.

“I said I’m fine!” The man shouted, suddenly punching the wall less than a foot from Mac’s head. The impact left a crater in the plaster-and-lathe wall. Mac ducked back, noting the flash of anger in the man’s eyes almost immediately becoming one of sudden terror. He changed tactics.

“Whoa, okay, how ‘bout we just stay long enough to kindle this fire back up, then we work until it gets dark.” Mac said. The man’s eyes still were wide with fear. “It’s fine, you’re okay, I’m okay, we’re just…” The man backed down and Mac let out a sigh of relief.

The fire had all but gone out, but the room was still delightfully warm after the blizzard outside. Mac settled uneasily back to sitting on the floor by the wood stove and picked up a handful of hay blades. “So, uh, you ever read The Long Winter as a kid?” The man stared at him with an intensely blank expression. “It’s fine if you haven’t- see, once they ran out of firewood they started twisting straw into straw logs, which decreased the surface area and the amount of oxygen that could get to the straw and basically made it so they would burn longer. I’m hoping we can make something similar happen with this hay. Here-” Mac demonstrated twisting the blades together. To his honest surprise, the man seemed to try to mirror him.

“You got it.” Mac encouraged, noting an odd sort of smile play on the man’s face.

But several bundles later, Mac started to get worried. He’d assumed the man’s unsteady gait and shaking had been a result of the cold, but it had been a while since they’d been inside, and Mac had more than recovered himself. His companion, however, seemed to be shaking even more than he had outside and was having increasing difficulty with the bundles of hay. Something else was going on.

“So you blew up my truck, you killed my asset and put people relying on his intel in jeopardy. I spent a lot of last night worrying you might up and decide to kill me too. Then I hear you speak American English with a New York accent. What do you say I’ll answer a question if you do?” The man grunted non-committaly.

“Fair- I’m happy going first- you mentioned ‘they.’ I assume that’s an exfil team. What made you mention them?” Mac asked. “Were they supposed to kill me when they got here yesterday or do something for you?” The man scowled. “Both?”

Mac sighed as he threw another bundle into the fire. Something was going on, and it was getting worse. “Listen, I know you’re trained not to talk, but that’s not what this is about anymore and I’m not going to hurt you- in fact if you’re working for anyone besides the DXS and you end up dead, this is probably going to be an international incident. And right now I don’t think you’re doing so hot. Help me out a little here.” In the light from the fire, Mac could see a sheen of sweat on the man’s face. He again didn’t respond.

“You’re irritable, you’re shaking, you’re pale, and even though its barely above freezing in here, you’re sweating… are you withdrawing from something?” Nothing. Then something dawned on Mac. It was a long shot, but if it was true at least they’d have a starting point. “It’s been over 24 hours since either of us ate- have you ever been told you have a problem with blood sugar?” The man looked like he was going to say something, but didn’t.

“You’re not lookin’ to make this easy for me, are you?” If it was blood sugar, though, that was something relatively solvable. Even if it was withdrawal or hypothermia, either of those would be easier to weather with some sugar on board. The question now was- where would he get sugar?

Mac looked out the window. Not only was it getting dark now, but the snow looked worse. There was objectively no food left in the house, and this late in winter, his options for wild sugar were pretty much inner pine bark and acorn starch if he could dig deep enough to find some- and acorns were… energy intensive to make edible. That wasn’t even acknowledging that if he left to forage for something, he was seriously risking getting lost or hypothermia. If it were just him, he’d much rather shelter in place until the sun came up.

But it wasn’t just him. He had to think of something, preferably while his companion could still safely eat…

Mac thought as he twisted the hay into yet another bundle. The man hadn’t so much as tried to pick up another handful of hay. “Okay, okay. I got something. When I was a kid my grandpa Harry won a bet. Ended up with this ancient, diabetic horse. You wouldn’t know it by the way he talked about it, but he loved that thing.” The man’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t worry, this story gets better- there’s usable sugar in hay, but humans, we can eat hay but we can’t really digest it. We’d never be able to get enough into you to matter. Fortunately, I used to go out and have to soak that old horse’s hay to pull the sugars out of it.  I’m thinking we might be able to use that same process to extract some sucrose into water if you feel like doing nothing except drinking really terrible tea and peeing all night.” The man looked dubious, but Mac couldn’t really tell. “You think about it, I’m going to get things started.”

They’d been melting snow on the wood stove for drinking water in a worn old pot that had been left behind. It didn’t get it very warm with the size of the fire they’d been able to make, but it was good enough. Mac set about inspecting individual blades of hay for signs of mold, and then crumbling the best ones into the pot. With nothing else to do, Mac talked while he worked. “There’s a reason we can’t reasonably make ethanol from grass, right? Pulling the sugars out of grass into water is driven by a concentration gradient and even under the best of circumstances, we might get a solution that’s 1-2% sucrose. Honestly, since we don’t know how old this hay is, even heating up the water, I’m aiming for 0.5-1%. But it’s what we’ve got.”

At the 20 minute mark, Mac beckoned the man over to the pot. “Here- dip your hands in it so they strain out the hay pieces as much as possible.” Mac demonstrated. The man still looked shaky and unsteady, but not significantly worse since they’d started the process. Mac really, really hoped it was blood sugar. The man paused.

“I swear its not poison.” To prove it, Mac took a drink from his hands. It didn’t taste as terrible as he thought it would, a little earthy, and the vague hint of sweetness told him there was at least some sugar getting pulled out of the old hay. To his near surprise, the man copied him. “Okay, that’s good- keep drinking. Like I said, you’re gonna have to do this most of the night.” The man obediently finished the first pot of hay tea. Before Mac had completely finished dumping the dregs of the first batch and making the second, he could tell the man was already feeling a little better. He couldn’t believe that had worked.

By the fourth gallon in two hours, they were almost out of hay, but Mac was confident enough to leave the man in the house making hay logs while he went to get more.

Mac tried to make stabs of conversation, but after the danger was past and confident neither would kill the other in their sleep, Mac found himself dozing in between pots of tea and trips to the barn for more hay.

Mac woke suddenly to the man shaking his arm roughly. There was sun finally streaming through a window that was half-covered in snow. The fire had died down. “Get up. Leave now- before they get here.” The man ordered urgently. Once Mac got his wits about him, he could hear a faint commotion in the front of the house. He nodded, getting up stiffly and making for the back exit. The snow was more than 3 feet deep, but luckily, they’d kept up a path to the barn. Mac figured he could hide there until the man’s exfil team left. He made to leave, but the man caught his arm.

“Thank you.”

Mac made eye contact and nodded. “Any time.”

[levi-inthesun]

Was Gonna Die Young (Now I Gotta Wait), Chapter 2

Summary: Florence has a gift- she receives visions and tells prophecy’s and has, unbeknownst to her, attracted the attention of some of the worlds, and WWII’s greatest villain. Now, she must rely on one man to help her out long after she helps him.

This is for @heli0s-writes​ writing challenge, the prompt “Die Young” by Sylvan Esso. Song Here

Eventual Carol x Florence Platonic Bucky x Florence

Series Warnings: Violence, swearing, abuse, depression.

Words: 1689

A/N: So I had forgotten that the first chapter is like, a prologue at best, so I’m posting chapter 2 even tho ch 1 was posted yesterday :)

(gif does NOT belong to me, I didn’t make it)

She had lost track of the years since but Hydra scientists injected her with the poison in her veins that defied the course of nature. When her prophecies began to come true, Hydra decided they never wanted to be without her so they injected her with a variation of their variation on the super-soldier serum. Her aging slowed so much that she would probably look 27 years old for the rest of her too-long life. Since the serum flowed through her veins, they began doing other tests on her to see exactly how it affected her. 

She had undergone memory wipes, physical abuse from some of the Winter Soldiers, she had been starved of both food and water, and now she just wanted to fucking die. She was only allowed her tarot cards when they needed something from her, but she didn’t have anything to lose, so she went looking for them. It was the dead of night- at least she was pretty sure it was, as she crept through the facility she was held in. Bare feet on the cold floor aided her in staying as silent as possible. It felt like she was being called to her cards and it couldn’t be a coincidence because guards, left and right, were sound asleep. She took a deep breath before peeking around the next corner where she was met with absolutely nothing. As she rounded the corner she began to feel paranoid. What if they were watching her? What if this was a trap? What if-

As she looked through the small window in the door, she saw her cards and a smile crept onto her face. Carefully she opened the door and snatched them, running back down the corridors to the small room they kept her in. Then, she moved to the back of the room behind her bed to have a little bit of privacy. She held her cards to her chest before shuffling the battered cards gently.

“I need something to live for,” she whispered as a tear slipped from her eyes before she drew the top six cards from the deck.

The Fool The Two of Wands The Chariot The Two of Cups The Lovers

As she laid them out, one by one, a vision began to form in her mind.

Before her was a path covered in thick foliage, barely a path at all. Florence began to move forward, bracing herself against the limbs, vines, and bushes that crowded the way. As she slowly moved forward, the path began to get easier to traverse and soon, she was approached by a man. It was someone she recognized, but couldn’t place, at least not until she looked deep into his eyes. 

“I am here to help,” he whispers, “but first you must help me.” The man’s eyes suddenly turned cold and his posture was stiff, at attention. There was a flash in his blue eyes when he looked back at her, “Please, remember me. Help me,” he pleaded before returning to the cold demeanor and then disappearing altogether. 

Next, the single path diverged into three, and standing before her was her mentor, shrouded in a golden flame.

“Madam Sullivan,” Florence cried, “What are you doing here?”

“I am here to guide you, my child,” she took a step forward and took Florence’s hand, the golden flame began to engulf her too. Rather than burns, however, she felt the warmth she could always count on from her mentor, a type of warmth she hadn’t felt since her passing. “I cannot tell you which path you must take, however, after you aid the man you must be patient. Your time to escape will come.”

Madam Sullivan shifted to stand beside her and now before her was a woman holding a gun and she was talking to a man who reeked of an aura both harmful and chaotic. Suddenly, then woman pointed her gun at the airplane between them and she pulled the trigger. As soon as she did, it was as if pure energy had exploded in rippling blue and red waves that rebounded towards the woman. Once the first wave touched her skin, it began to bind with the essence of the woman and she was being enveloped in the glorious energy. Before she passed out, her eyes shined with power and her hair was acting as if it was aflame, firey and wild. It was in that state that she seemed to lock her eyes directly with Florence’s grey ones.

“Find me,” the woman whispered. “Live and find me.”

Florence came back to reality with a gasp, eyes adjusting to the darkness once again.

The next morning, Florence was prepared for the backlash for sneaking out and stealing her cards, but it never came and that caused her to worry more than the abuse she should have already received would have. The next couple of nights she tried to learn more about the woman from her vision, however, on the third night the words of her mentor came to mind-

“You will only receive knowledge when the knowledge is ready to come to light and when you are ready to receive it. Nothing good comes by forcing the cards.”

She did her best to lie low, to do as she was told and to not talk back. She would be compliant and she was miserable. She spent decades doing this until she was trusted enough and was needed to accompany one of the Winter Soldiers on a mission. No chaperone, no observer, just her and the soldier.

They arrived somewhere in the states, where exactly she wasn’t sure. She quietly followed the soldier to a small, dingy motel where they would lie low. It was there that she saw the year, 2001. She began to feel panic twist in her stomach and rise to her throat. As soon as they were in their room she booked it for the bathroom as she threw up what little she had had to eat. After her stomach was done lurching, she laid down on the bathroom floor and cried. 

60 years. She has been in Hydra’s custody for 60 fucking years, yet she still looked like she was 27. As sobs ripped through her body she thought of the soldier she was meant to help and the woman she was destined for. How the fuck am I going to be able to save anyone when I’ve spent a lifetime as a prisoner? How the fuck is someone supposed to love me?

She heard a knock on the bathroom door and she forced herself back together again. 

“Just a minute,” she called out pathetically. 

She stood up and washed her face before looking at her reflection. She looked like a ghost and it terrified her. She looked herself in the eye when her eyes rolled back, only showing the whites of her eyes.

She saw a man in uniform, hat crooked on his head to match the crooked smile on his lips. He was handsome, no question. There was a smaller man with him, sickly. She could see a fondness in both men’s eyes.

“Don’t do anything stupid until I get back,” the man in uniform requested the smaller man.

“How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you,” the Brooklyn accent was heavy and suddenly Florence looked around. She was home and these men had to have lived not far from her.

“You’re a punk,” the soldier replied, walking to embrace his friend in a hug so tight it should have crushed him.

“Jerk,” the other man threw back. “Be careful.” 

Florence looked closer at the soldier, finally finding his name. Sgt. Barnes. 107th. 

Barnes started walking away, and his friend called after him, “Don’t win the war till I get there!”

Florence blinked her eyes open, the soldier had grown tired and gotten through the door and she met his eyes in the mirror. They were deep blue, would have been brighter had Hydra not drowned him out. Then everything clicked.

“Barnes?” 

“Your name is Barnes, right?” Florence kept her voice gentle, desperately trying not to startle him.

The soldier shook his head. “No,” he forced out as he ground his teeth together. 

Florence placed a hand on his arm and he jumped back and away from her, pulling out a knife from who knows where.“Soldat,” Florence whispered, “It’s okay. I am here to help you.” She held her hands out, showing that she had no weapons and that she meant no harm. It took a moment, but the soldier began to calm down and eventually sat down on one of the twin beds. Florence approached him slowly, hands still out. 

She sat on the other bed facing him.“I need you to think, and you have my word, you are safe to do so. No harm will come from this, you just have to trust me.” Florence saw a flash deep within his eyes, the man he truly is was trying to show himself. “The name Barnes, does that mean anything to you?” She asked him gently.

The soldier took a deep breath and closed his eyes, searching the limited memory he had. “Maybe,” he whispered, “I- I don’t know.”

Florence smiled slightly, his voice wasn’t as vibrant as it used to, but it was definitely his voice.“Could I show you something?” She asked, and idea forming in her mind. “I’m not sure if this is going to work, but it’s worth a try.”

The soldier nodded.

“Okay, Soldier, I am going to stand in front of you and place my hands on either side of your head,” she explained as she stood up. “Then, we are both going to close our eyes and I am going to try to show you what I saw.”

He nodded and she did as she said she would. She placed her hands on his head, a thumb on each temple. He felt tense beneath her and she realized this was the first time in 60 years since he’d been touched without violence.

“Alright,” she said, taking another breath, “close your eyes.”

[typhonserpent]

Eyes Wide Open

Fandom: Dragon Age 2 Genre: Romance Rating: T (warning for blood and general violence) Pairing: Fenris/Anders AKA Fenders Summary: Temporarily blinded in battle, Fenris must rely on Anders to be his eyes until they can reach his darktown clinic.

As per @teamblueandangrys Let It Glow event, this is a present for @protect-him who wanted to see some content about a venerable Fenris. I hope I delivered!

Find more in my writing tag!

Everything happened so fast.

One second, Fenris saw Isabella collapsed on the ground, her shirt stained with an ugly red blotch. Blood was dribbling from the dragons mouth and nose, though it was hard to tell whose blood it was at this point. The next second, a flash of light, and intense heat. He had a vague recollection turning around, making some attempt at shielding himself, but then came the bang. Blackness. Silence.

He could neither see nor hear but he felt footsteps around him. Something knelt by him, and he could smell the elfroot and salves that always clung to Anders' coat.

He couldn't move a muscle, his attempt at breathing were shallow thanks to the pain in his ribs with every inhale. He was vaguely aware of shouting and warmth to his backside, as though someone had lit a fire there.

There was another gap to his memory then. The next moment he remembered, he was being moved. That woke him up. The shot of pain in his side the second he was risen more than a few inches from the ground. "AH!" Fenris shouted in pain, clutching his side.

He heard Garret's voice. "What's wrong with him?"

"Broken ribs, probably. Concussion. Then there's the burns." Anders replied. Fenris felt a finger on his cheek, just under his eye. His nose was assaulted by the bitter scent of elfroot that had seeped into callouses on Anders' hands. He swatted the hand away.

"Well then, see if I try and heal you again." Anders huffed.

Fenris groaned a response.

"I think I have some potions in storage back home." Garret said, "I'll take Isabella if you want to take Fenris."

"Potions?" Fenris managed to groan.

"We're out." Garret replied.

"I think I have enough mana left to take care of your ribs. Your eyes will have to wait until we reach the clinic." Anders said.

His ears twitched at the familiar hum of healing magic, and he inhaled a deep, greedy breath as the weight was lifted from his lungs.

"Better?" Anders asked.

Fenris pulled himself into a sitting position, hand on the side of his head. There was a dull ache in his skull. Removing one gauntlet and touching the tips of his fingers to his face, he found a thick set of ragged bandages wrapped around his eyes.

He felt a hand grab his wrist and pull it down. Fenris yanked his hand back. "Don't touch it!" Anders ch1ided, "You'll make it worse!"

"What happened?" Fenris asked as he fumbled around for where he'd discarded the gauntlet.

"The dragon fire hit a crate where the miners had stored some runes." Anders explained, "The ones they use to blast further into the mine. I don't know why the bloody idiots had them stored outside, though I suppose a dragon attack leaves little room for logic."

Fenris heard metal scrape against dirt and felt his gauntlet touch his hand. Anders had moved it to him.

"You probably took some shrapnel from the blast." Anders continued, "I've also heard of shockwaves doing damage to eyes. It isn't permanent, but I used up most of my mana helping Hawke and healing Isabella. I have some lyrium potions back at the clinic, though. I can heal you there."

Fenris sheathed his hand in the gauntlet again. He pulled himself to his feet. "Let's be off then."

He was two steps forward before he realized that his back felt lighter than usual. Reaching for his sword, his hand gripped air.

"You can't possibly be considering going there on your own." Anders quipped.

Fenris huffed, crossing his arms. He felt Anders poke his shoulder, then take his hand and set the familiar weight of the blade's hilt in his palm. Fenris sheathed the sword, easily working from muscle memory.

He had his lips pursed. On the one hand, not in any way trusting of the mage, especially in his current condition. On the other, fully aware that he wouldn't be able to survive on his own.

He extended a hand, which Anders took.

"Good, looks like that dragon knocked some sense into you." Anders said.

x - X - x

It was warmer than Kirwall than on the coast. The buildings created a shield against the wind, and the mist from the ocean only settled into the city streets in the earliest hours of the morning. He could hear the clanking of mugs and muffled chatter as they passed the Hanged Man. It was always accented by the rhythm of an out-of-tune lute.

He paused, picking out a familiar voice amidst the buzz.

"-RIPPED open the darkpawn's jaw! Screaming all the while, 'You won't take my brother, you worthless maggot'!" Varric's voice bellowed.

"Hm. I don't recall that part." Anders hummed.

Fenris turned his head towards the voice of the mage, "Hawke does not speak of what happened in the deep roads."

"I imagine not. Though it wasn't nearly as glamorous as Varric may have you believe." Anders gave Fenris' arm a tug, reminding Fenris that he had no choice but to follow where Anders led.

He heard a shuffling behind them and peeked over his shoulder, but still attached to Anders, he continued following him while the mage babbled on.

"Carver collapsed just as we made our way out of the deep roads. Bloody fool had been blighted for maker-knows-how long. Of course, all of us were feeling lightheaded from eating mushrooms and drinking moss water for the past few days. Are you listening to me?"

Fenris had stopped. "Do you hear that?"

"No, I don't hear a thing. You're being ridiculous, the sooner we get to the clinic the better."

"If you would stop babbling, you would hear it!" Fenris yanked his hand away and shoved past the mage.

"Fenris, wait!"

"I have been to your clinic before, I know the way." Fenris said before his feet went out from under him. He felt Anders make a grab for his hand, but the combined weight of the elf and his armor managed to drag them both down. The clang of metal against stone rang as the pair tumbled down the flight of stairs and landed in a crumpled heap of limbs at the bottom.

They remained that way for a moment.

Fenris was the first to move, groaning as he tried to push the mage off of him. Suddenly, the weight was yanked off of him, and he heard Anders gasp.

Two pairs of boots shuffled a step back. The stranger had Anders in a headlock, knife to one cheek.

"Coinpurse now or your friend gets it." The man growled.

"Fenris ..." Anders whispered, then flinched as the tip of the knife pressed into his skin.

"Shove it, nuglicker."

Fenris slowly rose to kneeling height. His fingertips twitched. On any other night he would have already drawn his sword and made fast work of the mugger. He clicked his teeth.

"Faster now, or I hurt his pretty face." The mugger growled again. Fenris rose to his feet

"Fenris, your left-ow!"

"Aw, now look at what you gone and made me do."

Fenris extended a hand to his left, and was met with a wall. A wall? No that couldn't be right.

A wall.

He had to trust Anders. He couldn't see the glow of the lyrium, but he could always feel a familiar tug of his skin when the tattoos flared.

"Andraste's tits!" The mugger shouted.

His ghostly hand passed through the wall and grasped a smooth, cylindrical object on the other side. No sooner did he remove it than did Anders shout, "Throw it!"

Fenris threw it. He heard the sound of glass shattering against stone, then metal hitting the sidewalk as the mugger dropped his knife. That familiar scrape sounded as he ran away, feet scuffing the ground with ever step.

Fenris reached out a hand, searching for the mage. "Are you hurt?" He asked.

A hand took his own, pressed it against Anders cheek. Fenris felt a patch of wetness and smelled the coppery scent of blood. "It's worse than it looks, just a little nick."

Fenris clicked his tongue, "Dare I ask what you had me throw at him?"

"Hm? Oh, it was a glass."

"A glass what?"

"Just a glass. For water." Anders paused for a second, then chuckled, "I had a hunch your glowing would be enough to scare him off. Muggers are notoriously stupid. If they were smart, they wouldn't be muggers."

Fenris withdrew his hand, curling a lip, "You risked your neck on a hunch?"

"Are you going to growl at me like a dog all night or are you going to admit that I was right for once?"

He scoffed, "You took a gamble and were lucky it paid off, even if the odds were in your favor."

Three seconds past where all Fenris could hear was a waif in the alleyway coughing.

"That was ... shockingly poetic." Anders said.

"I thought I 'growled like a dog'."

Anders heaved a sigh. "Alright, I take it back. Let's stop nitpicking and start moving. Now I have two wounds to treat."

Taking his hand again, Anders led them the remainder of the way. The thin door, hinges rusted, creaked when he opened it.

Anders led him a few paces in, then set a hand on his shoulder, pushing him down. "Sit there." He instructed, and Fenris obeyed.

He heard some shuffling, glass clanking together, the pop of a cork. Anders returned to Fenris and knelt in front of him.

There was always this pull when magic was performed around him, similar to the tug in his skin when the lyrium tattoos were activated. The blue light came into focus from behind the bandages, then darkness again. Anders tugged the bandages free and unwound them from his face.

The sight before him was ridiculous.

Anders was topless, his brown tunic missing and his coat open to reveal his bare chest. Nearly half his face was coated in blood from a cut that ran from the edge of his lip to the center of his cheekbone. It was dripping onto his feathered pauldrons, too.

He was wearing a crooked smile.

"Your shirt ..." Fenris voiced.

"Oh," Anders looked down, "I had to improvise bandages or else your eyes might have become infected."

He clicked his tongue, "You should heal yourself now."

"Actually," Anders held up the empty vial in his hand, "This was my last lyrium potion. I'll just have to treat myself without magic."

Fenris rose and made his way to the shelf behind Anders. He picked up a bowl and reached for a basket of clean rags. "I will help." He said.

"I've treated far worse, I told you it's not as bad as it looks."

"Sit. I will help."

For once, Anders stopped talking, and obeyed the command. He took the same chair Fenris had.

Fenris went to the water pump in the corner and filled the bowl. He returned to Anders and, dipping the rag in the water, began to wipe the blood away from his face.

After dipping the rag in the water several more times, he discovered that Anders wasn't completely wrong. The more clean the wound became, the more it was revealed to be only a hair's width deep. Nasty as it looked, it would not require stitches.

Fenris flipped the rag over to the dry half and pressed it against Anders' cheek.

Anders set a hand over Fenris', holding it in place.

"Thank you. I can take it from here."

His eyes were earthy, the inner ring tinged with a dark border, making a gradient from black to brown that flared out from his pupils. Equally intense was the way Anders gazed back at him, eyes meeting eyes for a second that lasted an eternity, before Anders closed the gap between them.

Anders hand moved away from his cheek and rested on the back of Fenris' neck. The elf allowed Anders to pull him closer, deepening the kiss. The mage sighed, and Fenris could feel tension pouring out of his body.

He pulled away, looking into Anders' eyes, and really, truly seeing him for the first time.

[redstarfiction-blog]

Hogmanay pt.3 - Sian.

Part 3 sees Jamie and Bree collecting water for the Sian - a blessing that is carried out in the morning of Hogmanay with water, traditionally from the river. The story Jamie tells Bree is of my own creating so any inaccuracies about folklore are my own fault, but the premise of the tale is rooted in Celtic faerie stories. This chapter was a bit rushed as I really wanted to get it up before I go on holiday - maybe it could use a little polishing but I hope you will like it for what it is. Thank you for reading as ever, let me know what you think or any questions you have :) Han xx

Brianna was always eager for any chance to ride one of the Lallybroch horses so when her father had requested her company fetching some sort of special water, she had been only too pleased to go with him. Especially as she had heard him laughing with Mama in their room and knew that if he was in a particularly good mood he would almost certainly let her urge Aoileann to a gallop across the meadow which led to the river.

However as the horses made their way into the woods Bree felt a calm descend over her and no longer wanted to gallop furiously toward their destination. She was happy listening to her father point out which birds made which call and asking him questions about the woods. The air was cold and crisp and everything seems to be tinged with a faint blue light as the afternoon bowed gracefully toward evening and their shadows began to lengthen across the frosty ground.

“What makes the water we’re fetching so special, Da?”

“It is the source we are collecting it from. Your Aunty will have told ye of the ‘saining’ or Sian, aye?”

Jamie gave her a sidelong smile and Bree could tell that there was more to come. She hoped it would be one of his stories, about the Auld Ones or mythical creatures or ghosts that roamed the Celtic isles. Sometimes his stories would absorb her so much that when they were over it would take Bree a while to remember where she was and the best ones made Da’s eyes light up with the telling and his voice would get that deep far away quality as if he was travelling the tale with her for the first time.

“Yes, the blessing of the house and the animals and people to ward off spirits and bring good luck.”

“Aye, and the place we gather the water for the blessing is an ancient river crossing. It is what ye call a living and a dead ford. Have ye heard of such a thing mo chridhe?”

Bree shook her head and grinned at the flash of excitement on her father’s face.

“Ach weel let me tell ye of it.”

Jamie shifted himself in the saddle as if settling in for a long journey and Bree copied his movements faithfully, making sure that she held her head as high as he did.

“Ye’ll maybe no ken this but rivers are the dwelling places of the goddesses of the Auld ones. The waters are their kingdoms and any human that enters their depths must accept the rule of the Auld ones. That is why ye must no’ fight the current should ye ever get too deep, ye must show respect to the goddess by swimming wi’ the pull of the water, allowing her to court ye and release ye at her will.”

Jamie’s voice was softer than usual, his accent broadening as he spoke and his eyes rested on the path ahead of them as Bree watched him intently.

“The old folk of believed the goddess is the one who decides what the river will do, where it will bend and where it will flood and where the creatures of the land may cross safely to the other side. Before men built bridges to satisfy their own impatience they relied upon the kindness of the river goddess’s to provide them safe passage for whilst the deer was given strong legs to spring across and squirrels given agility that they might leap from branches, man needed to ken humility and so he waited on the river’s pleasure.”

Jamie paused to take a drink from his water pouch and watched out of the corner of his eye as Bree squirmed impatiently. Fighting back a smile, Jamie offered the flask to her but she shook her head

“No thank you, carry on Da … please.”

Jamie nodded and thought for a moment before reigning in and swinging down from his saddle.

“The path ahead is too narrow for both horses. We’ll tether Aoileann here and ride together.”

Bree would normally have pestered to be allowed to ride on but she was far too invested in the story to waste time bartering with her Da. Aoileann was tethered to a nearby oak and Bree settled in the saddle between Jamie’s legs within a couple of minutes and they set off again.

“Where was I?”

“Man had to learn humility…”

Bree prompted and he nodded slowly as if to himself.

“Och, that’s right. Weel, twas not only the living who needed a place to cross. Spirits needed to cross from this world into the next and though they could have chosen a passage between the trees or cliffs or over the sea had they wished it, they chose the rivers for they are the most beautiful of crossings in the Highlands and so the goddess of each river made a special ford, a ford where both living and dead might cross in harmony and go on their way in peace.”

“Wouldn’t the spirits mind sharing their crossing?”

Bree asked curiously and Jamie grinned

“No, their journey in this world is at an end and as they cross into the next, it pleases them to walk alongside a living soul one last time. The spirits who cross at such fords are not the same as the likes of the Wild Hunt.”

Bree shivered at the mention of that particular ghost story. The tale of the Wild Hunt had given her the creeps and made her reluctant to blow out the candle at bedtime for several days after the telling of it. She huddled closer into her Da’s chest now, surreptitiously putting her hand on his sleeve, feeling better for having a grip on him, certain that if anyone could protect her from the less friendly spirits of the woods, it was her Da.

“So where we’re going now, to the living and dead ford, it is a spirit crossing?”

“Aye.”

“How will we know if … well if someone is trying to cross it while we’re there?”

Bree bit her lip; the last thing she wanted was to get in the way of a spirit crossing.

“I doubt ye would feel a thing unless they wanted ye to, but we willna be there long. We will fill up our flasks and be on our way.”

Jamie reassured her as the ford came into view between the sparse trees.

*

Jamie lifted Bree down and handed her a flask, she edged toward the water but kept a tight grip on his hand, blue eyes wide with trepidation. Jamie had seen her look so when she was about to try a food that was new to her or confess to some wee foolishness to her Mam that she wasn’t sure would earn her a scolding or not.

Jamie watched her with a curious mix of pride and awe that he so often felt when his daughter was alone with him and his attention could be devoted solely to her. He had spent many hours; countless hours really, imagining the child he and Claire had created. He had usually, to his shame, imagined a boy sometimes with Claire’s dark curls and other times with his flaming hair. He had imagined the detail of his son’s face, small dimples when he smiled and the high arch of his feet. He had brought to life in his mind the crease of skin at the laddie’s elbows and the high giddy sound of his laugh and yet for all his imagining and dreaming nothing had prepared him for the reality of Brianna.

Jamie found himself enthralled by everything she did, her wee quirks and the thoughts she cared to share with him were treasures that he hoarded greedily and stored against the burden of the years he had lost with her.

In the stories he told her he wove the culture of their people and tried to impart the wisdom that he had received from his own father’s tales. Jamie wanted Brianna to have the world laid at her feet and he would do all he could to place it there, but he also wanted her to understand the soil on which she stood. To know the history of her country, to feel that Scotland was in her bones not just in her heritage and so he told her tall tales of kelpies, faeries and maidens in lochs and he brought her to the places that she might feel the connection most strongly, hiking in the hills and riding through the forests of their home so that whatever the future held, she would always ken that she had a place here at Lallybroch, a door that would never close and a welcome that would never expire.

“Should I just … you know … take it or do I have to say something?”

Bree whispered. Jamie considered her for a moment and then dropped to a crouch, the shallow water lapping over the toes of his boots. He closed his eyes and turned his face up to the sun

“Ar n-Athair a tha air nèamh, Gu naomhaichear d'ainm. Thigeadh do rìoghachd. Dèanar do thoil air an talamh mar a nìthear air nèamh.”

He wasn’t sure why the Lord ’s Prayer came to his head but he saw no reason why it was any less valid than another offering of respect and the Gaelic seemed to please Brianna, who with a sigh of relief that he seemed to know the right words to appease the river goddess and spirits alike, let go of his hand and dipped her flask into the babbling water, murmuring a shorter verse of prayer that Ian had taught her, eyes tightly closed, claiming what she needed before carefully tightening the lid and handing it over to him.

“Was that alright, Da?”

“Perfect Bree, utterly perfect.”

[aureate-priest-blog]

Sandman’s Bio :0

I FINALLY FINISHED THIS STUPID THING;; im just gonna put this here because Google docs is messing up :(

Name: Tanz Nachtmann

Nickname: “Sandman”

Meaning of name: “Dance” (Tanz) “Night Man” (Nachtmann)

Origin of name: Germany

Age: 26

Sex: Male

Blood type: O+

Nationality: German

Ethnicity: Caucasian

Political Party: Independent

Socioeconomic level as a child: Working Poor

Socioeconomic level as an adult: Upper Middle

Birthdate: November 9th, 1990

Birthplace: Germany

Current residence: Soho, Lower Manhattan / NYC

Hobbies/Pastimes: Painting, Reading (Mostly about non-fictional events and history)

Talents/Skills: Singing, Painting

Birth order: Third, Middle Child

Family:

Therese Nachtmann (Mother, deceased)

Bruno Nachtmann (Father, alive, imprisoned)

Alvin Streisgund (Stepfather, deceased)

Lothar Nachtmann (Eldest brother, alive, imprisoned)

Alfons Nachtmann (Older brother, deceased)

Judith Nachtmann (Younger sister, deceased)

Erica Nachtmann (Youngest sister, deceased)

Hometown: Friedrichshain, Berlin, Germany

Most important childhood event that still affects him/her: The murder of his mother, stepfather, older brother, and younger sisters.

Favorite parent: His stepfather, Alvin

Why?: To him, Alvin was more than just his stepfather. He was his best friend, and if needed, his therapist. Alvin got him into exercising his anger into artistic forms of either drawing, painting, or singing, and almost always was able to convince Tanz to settle down before his temper erupted; thus, Alvin helped him avoid conflict with his mother whenever she was in an ill mood, or if she were drunk out of her mind.

Biggest role model: Jack the Ripper

Why?: While reading about psychology and the 19th century, Tanz happened across a name that caught his eye quicker than a flash. Tanz was infatuated with this infamous figure, for the fact that they were never caught for any of their murders, and avoided any contact with the public or the press. It, in a twisted sense, inspired Tanz’s art to span out in multiple directions, as well as push him to divert down craftier routes in skiving out of trouble, evolving his personality drastically.

Height: 6’6”

Weight: 195 lbs

Posture: Tanz keeps a very rigid and upright posture

Build: Little fat and muscle, round and narrow shoulders, slim neck and waist, long arms and legs

Skin: Smooth and fair colored

Hair: Dark brown, almost always slicked back

Ears: Small and round

Eyes: Amber, usually narrowed

Nose: Long and angled, slightly crooked

Mouth: Thin upper and bottom lips, easily curved into a smile

Face shape: Gaunt and elongated

Expressions: Either smug or blank

Describe their smile: His “people-person” smile has a softer tone to it and is quite natural, however his smile can stretch quite wide, making it look rather freakish in a trick of the light, and especially when he smiles with his teeth

Hands: Average sized hands with long, nimble fingers

Feet: Average sized feet

Left/Right handed?: Left

Distinguishing features: Mainly his bright eyes that compliment his often sly smile

Who does s/he take after: More of his mother’s sharp, angular sides than his father’s rounder features

How does s/he dress: His casual everyday fashion consists of either long sleeve sweaters or hoodies, and black skinny jeans or leggings. Shoe wise, he wears white Vans and occasionally mixes it up with some black high-tops. For different seasonal situations he wears bomber jackets and scarves, and perhaps some gloves depending on how cold it is out.

Weapons: They differ on the situation he’s in, but normally he carries around a knife hidden at his hip

Are they generally balanced or clumsy?: In his youth, he was perceived as awfully clumsy, however through dedication and interest in precision, he grew more balanced over time

Mannerisms/Poses/Movement: Tanz’s unruly upbringing in his ragtag apartment for six lead him to having absolutely no manners or common sense, and over time he started to realize that perhaps acting like a child wouldn’t get him anywhere. He learned different forms of etiquette for all sorts of events, and it slowly changed the way he held himself in front of any person of any socioeconomic class; be it the president or a stranger in a store.

Describe their walk: Tanz tends to have a constricted walk as rigid as his posture, as though he were marching in the army; although, when running, he breaks into a full, fluid sprinting motion as seamless as air.

Habits/OCDs/Obsessions: Tanz has a nasty habit of tearing the skin off his fingers with his teeth, though it isn’t due to anxiety, and more or less it’s something he finds himself doing without knowing.

Health: Quite deteriorated, not so good

Hygiene: Keeps himself spick and span all the time

Speech Patterns: Mostly speaks with loads of diction, and he tends to drag some words and sentences out when talking to people he has a disliking for

Voice: Tanz’s voice is slightly of higher pitch with a sense of mocking put subtlety in. His German accent is noticeable, but not thick enough to a point of obscurity.

Describe their laugh: Normally he tries to keep his composure so he won't laugh, because if he does it sounds like a rabid hyena

Style (Elegant, shabby, etc): More on the elegant side

Known Languages: German, English

Character's long-term goals/desires in life: Finding someone he can really connect with and settling down with them, and if that person turns up unhappy in the relationship, he would dispose them.

How self-confident is the character?: He has a jarring lack of self-confidence

How do they see him/herself?: Tanz sees himself as a normal human being, who can’t seem to understand why people think murder is so wrong when they deserve it

What is the character most proud of?: His success in getting massive amounts of money from his one-night stands’ bank accounts and using their emotional heartbreaks to his advantage

What does the character like least about themselves?: Tanz dislikes his physical features, and the way he does things, often cursing at himself in fits of blind rage that sometimes lead to unwarranted self harm

How do they express themselves?: FINGER PAINTING!!!! (Unfortunately, the red he finger paints with is not paint)

Patience level (on a level of 1 to 10?): Around a 7/10, depending on what he’s impatient for. If it’s something he deems “urgent” then it’s most likely a 2/10.

Does the character seem ruled by emotion or logic or some combination thereof?: He seems ruled by a combination of the two, but emotion plays a bigger part

Most at ease when: Any of his “friends” are done and dealt with, and when it rains

Ill at ease when: People begin to get a bit antsy and suspicious with him, and in crowds

Describe their sense of humor: Tanz’s humor is awfully dark, and most people tend to avoid discussing emotional or horrifying topics around him in fear they’ll be entreated to a joke about a dead loved one

If granted one wish, what would it be?: To be born and raised in a better family

Why?: Tanz has created a deep hatred for both his mother and father, as well as his siblings, for his crude childhood and half-assed education and meals. Sometimes he still wishes he got to live far away with his stepfather, though it was a dream crushed to bits as he watched his stepfather plead for his life as he was murdered before his eyes.

Character/Personality/Mental/Social: His strength lies in himself, and though he has such a lack of confidence, he only ever relies on what he does in that moment, and no one else. While good with influencing people and manipulating them, he often finds it difficult to connect with them on an empathetic level, with the way his mind is fractured into believing different ethical actions

If they could be described with one of the seven virtues, which would it be?: Diligence

If they could be described with one of the seven sins, which would it be?: Wrath

Biggest Vulnerability (non physical): Anything mentioning his parents in a negative way would set him off, or even praising his parents (i.e.: “Ah, I feel sorry for you mother, she must have been a great person.”)

Optimist or Pessimist: Optimistic

Introvert or extrovert: Despite his lack of empathy, Tanz is more on the extroverted spectrum due to him engaging with people often in order to befriend them and gain their trust

Favorite

Color: Red

Place: The Ocean

Room in the house and why: Bedroom, because there he feels like that it’s his own personal space and that no one else may break peace there

Food/drinks: Butter cookies, root beer

Music genre: 80s New Wave

Songs and Singers/Bands: The Cure, Depeche Mode, Rammstein, Megaherz

Movies/Tv Shows/Performances: Phantom of the Opera, any detective/homicide show

Books: Grimms’ Fairy Tales, Blood Meridian

Historical figure: Jack the Ripper

Subject in school: Art

Animal: Snake

Least Favorite

Place: City (Even though he lives there, he mainly fights against his dislike for the sake of what victims he pursues)

Food/drink: Steak, any meat in general really, and tea

Music genre: Country, and pop music

Subject in school: P.E. / Gym

Where does this character like to hang out?: Anywhere near large bodies of water

Where is this character's dream place to live?: On or near the beach

Mode of transportation: He regularly tends to walk everywhere, or hitch a ride from someone if he gets to know them

Girlfriend/Boyfriend(s): He never has had any, as he fears these would get in his way, and lead to some suspicion towards him if loved ones knew about the relationship after a murder

Marital status: Single

What kind of person would s/he consider to be the perfect partner?: Though hopping from one victim to another, Tanz does often think of settling down with someone, even if his intention is to murder them after a few months or so. The kind of person he’d consider to be perfect is someone who’s simple, and unnecessarily nice and loving. Perhaps he’d even want more of an obsessive partner that thought about him non-stop, so that killing them would make it easier.

Is the character judgmental of others and how so?: Tanz is extremely judgemental about others and chooses what he wants to “befriend” wisely. He detests those who drink abhorrent amounts of alcohol and have an annoyingly high sex drive. He judges how they walk, how they dress, how often they blink, and even the slight pauses in between their sentences to pick apart who they really are inside. When it comes to people he loathes, he tends to even degrade and belittle them for every miniscule thing, making him an overall petty person.

How do they treat members of the opposite sex?: He knows not at all women are bad based on the actions of just his mother and sisters, so he tries to treat them as respectfully as he would with any person. When it comes to romance however, he doesn’t find that much of an interest in them; although, he will choose them for a “one-night stand” just for the sole purpose of killing them, rather than men in which he’ll portray sexual interest in.

What do they consider to be a romantic setting/activity/date?: Tanz’s favorite romantic settings have everything to do with the lighting. Anything with a soft, warm hue in a place simply screams “romance” to him. Most activities he considers romantic are going out to dinner at nice places, or visiting museums or local parks. He’ll go anywhere for his date that he needs to in order to make them feel comfortable with him and their surroundings, so that a more trusting interaction takes place.

How does a normal date go for this character?: Dates usually go well and smooth for Tanz, and on the rare occasion, there’s always someone who doesn’t quite agree, and that ends up violent with a body in the back alley.

Virgin?: Nope

How often does this character have sex?: Not too often unless his “date” really thinks that would make their friendly interactions progress

How long can he/she go without sex?: For a long, long time

How does this character feel emotionally, after sex?: Bored, really. Tanz doesn’t find much pleasure in having intercourse with another person, so often times he would avoid sex as much as possible, as it’s a total buzzkill for him.

Usually on the top or bottom?: Top

Dominant or Submissive?: Dominant

What song best fits this character?: There are a few songs I had in mind!!! :D

Mr. Sandman by The Chordettes (Of course!)

Tanzdiktator by Nachtmahr

Disappoint by Assemblage 23

Politikil by ohGr

Why Can’t I Be You? by The Cure

[topmixtrends]

EILEEN CHANG died alone in her Los Angeles apartment in 1995. A small, quiet death for a literary celebrity who had grown ever more reclusive as she aged. Similarly, Chang’s novel Little Reunions, newly translated by Jane Weizhen Pan and Martin Merz, nearly met a quiet, small death. Chang’s most autobiographical novel experienced a drawn-out journey to the hand of a publisher. Though written in 1976, it wasn’t published until 2009 in China and sold over a million copies. When she first finished it in the mid-’70s, Chang wrote to her literary executors, Stephen Soong and his wife Mae Fong Soong, asking them to read the 600-page handwritten manuscript. Later, when she wrote to discuss her will, she mentioned she’d contemplated destroying what may be the most personal of all her work to date, but didn’t go through with it. The Soongs would later be responsible for the novel’s appearance and wild success in China.

Little Reunions traces protagonist Julie’s life during prewar and wartime China. As the novel opens, Julie, who is from Shanghai, is studying abroad in Hong Kong. The reader soon finds out that much like Chang, Julie is the daughter of an opium-addicted, traditional father and a glamorous, globetrotting mother whom she never sees. The book’s title comes from those rare times spent with her complicated mother, Rachel, as a child and adult, as well as Julie’s long separations during and after the war from lover-then-husband Chih-yung, a suspected Japanese sympathizer in exile.

The structure of Little Reunions echoes the chaos and fear of war. Chang quickly hops between scenes, sometimes leaving the reader with, if not a cliffhanger, then a truncated experience. For example, as the war rages around the students in Hong Kong, Julie hears about a house where students have been sneaking off for baths because the water is still hot. When she arrives, she moves through the ruins of the residence, the lives of its past occupants now scattered among broken pieces of furniture and piles of a papers, only to find the bathroom door locked, no sound or motion coming from inside.

As Julie walks to the house, Chang describes the sinister soldiers who hang about, and how the young female students fear harassment or worse. Tension builds. After waiting and waiting, knocking and knocking on the bathroom’s locked door, Julie gives up and urinates on some papers before leaving the house. The scene ends and the reader never finds out who or what, if anything, was behind that locked door.

Soon after, Julie is back in Shanghai, first living with her father and his concubine, before escaping to live with her mother and aunt Judy in a snug apartment in the same city. Rachel is rarely home — she’s abroad for most of the novel, skipping from Europe to Indonesia to anywhere in between — but when she is, Chang writes the tension of the relationship between mother and daughter with beauty and honesty. As Julie watches her mother host guests with an intense envy close to romantic longing, Rachel’s cruelties toward her daughter hold a terrifying accuracy that, though amplified, reveal the tensions that exist between many mothers and daughters, particularly those who rely on their outward appearance to maintain a place in the world.

Much of Little Reunions and Chang’s other writing, including the excellent essay collection Written on Water and short story collection Love in a Fallen City, is positioned around metaphorical locked doors and difficult relationships. Chang provides the reader with signs, clues, and lists of facts, but the key or solution is ever ambiguous.

I encountered Chang in 2006 when I’d just moved to New York and her collection of essays Written on Water had just been translated into English by Andrew F. Jones for the first time. The collection, consisting of pieces taken from her early career in China, is something of a blueprint for Little Reunions; in some cases, passages from the collection appear in the novel in a near-identical state.

Soon into reading Chang’s work, I realized something profound about her writing: like that of Eve Babitz, Anaïs Nin, or another Eileen, Myles in this case, Chang draws the reader into her inner realm with direct, yet lyrical, prose that allow events, scenery, and characters to mold the story. Striking in their frankness, her essays are deeply personal, but they’re not personal essays.

As an early twentysomething from a tiny town, I was conditioned to be on display, the way some self-conscious people are in small rural populations. Chang, through her writing, was teaching me how to be seen in a large urban center, instructing me in the ways a person can come to be viewed among many, and how one’s individualism allows that person to become a part of the vast world around her. In her essay “Notes on Apartment Life,” Chang describes living in a sixth floor apartment. “In an apartment on the top floor, you can change clothes right in front of the window without anyone knowing the difference,” she writes, before cascading through descriptions of children roller-skating on the top floor, and the every move of her Russian, German, and Chinese neighbors whom she can hear when the windows are thrown open during spring. A creature of the city, Chang’s descriptions of urban centers resonated in my new surroundings.

Chang’s life seemed one of mystery, drama, and, above all, glamour. Raised in an aristocratic family in Shanghai, she was the daughter of a woman who had been educated abroad, preferring to stay there, and a man who held deep-seated conservative views and regularly fed his heavy opium addiction. Once, when Chang was sick with dysentery, her father beat her and locked her in her bedroom for nearly half a year rather than seek medical attention, essentially holding her hostage. She escaped and moved in with her mother.

In her 20s, Chang’s literary career ascended quickly. She made her debut at the age of 18 when an English-language newspaper published her essay “What a Life! What a Girl’s Life!” about the incident with her father. She was published widely in magazines and journals following her debut, and her early essay and short story collections Written on Water and Romances appeared to wide acclaim between 1944 and 1945. With much of her private life revealed in both her fiction and nonfiction as well as her inborn ability to navigate the limelight, Chang became a much sought after enigmatic celebrity.

In the 1940s, Chang’s work fell out of favor with the Chinese government, and soon her books were difficult to find the country over. Chang immigrated to the United States in 1955, finding employment unstable until she landed a job at Berkeley as a researcher, continuing to write in her spare time.

In her most popular publicity photo taken early in her career, Chang’s glancing somewhere to the side, her eyes looking up. Her closely cropped hair surrounds delicate features that hint at amusement. The photo is black and white, but the bold pattern of her cheongsam bursts forward, and her earrings flash with the camera. Chang indeed looks glamorous, but there’s something else. Her misdirected gaze, hard posture, and glossy exterior suggest an elusiveness, one that she achieves through style.

In Chang’s world, clothing is often the great signifier of one’s experience in the face of monumental historical change. How a garment is styled or how the colors match say as much about the person as it does about what’s happening around her. In a pivotal scene in Little Reunions, while Julie is still attending university in Hong Kong as the Second Sino-Japanese War is about to begin, the clothing of her peers takes precedent. When the bombs begin to fall, the students become pawns, worker ants. Julie’s best friend, Bebe, joins the relief effort, taking care of soldiers in lavish silk gowns that rustle as she serves.

In a later scene in Little Reunions, after China takes back control from Japan, Julie’s soon-to-be ex-husband Chih-yung has gone into hiding in a small town in the country. The pair decide to go out for a walk to escape the claustrophobic atmosphere of the house where Chih-yung is living, but Julie’s appearance is painfully out of step with her husband’s new life:

“What will people think when they see us?” Chih-yung said while they strolled along. “What a fashionable woman; the man, though, doesn’t look the part.” He laughed bitterly. “I’ll even have to change the way I walk and alter my accent.”

Julie, whose literary star has begun to rise back in Shanghai, looks at her husband, and doesn’t see much changed about his appearance. However, she also doesn’t have the outward vision to see how she appears in Chih-yung’s new world. Chang, color-obsessed to the end, switches perspectives following the conversation between Julie and Chih-yung, describing the countryside around the pair as they walk:

It was a clear day: the sky appeared a pale light blue in contrast to the yellow. This vista […] was even more magnificent, more dazzling, than the azalea-covered hills of Hong Kong blooming against the emerald-blue ocean. Even the occasional stench of manure wafting by didn’t seem malodorous — otherwise it all would surely have been an illusion.

By novel’s end, Julie is in the throes of a successful career and new romances. She’s found an independence from her smothering family, and an identity of her own. Even now, a decade and a half into my post-rural life, I find myself drawn in, studying Julie’s, and ultimately Chang’s, struggles and achievements during their early careers and urban lives.

However, the past haunts Julie and torments her dreams, as it does for many of us. The novel concludes with a scene in which Julie is remembering one of those dreams. In it, she’s in the middle of the movie The Trail of the Lonesome Pine, starring Peter Fonda and Sylvia Sidney. Children, something she’s never wanted, emerge from the forest and reveal they belong to her, as Chih-yung appears and leads her into a cabin.

“A movie she saw more than twenty years ago; a man from ten years ago. Julie floated rapturously for a long, long time after she woke up. She only had that dream once, yet she never stopped dreaming about exams. Nightmares, always nightmares,” Chang writes. Like so much of her writing, the novel’s finale finds Chang pulling from the familiar — first loves, the cliched dreams of past school anxiety — to create an affecting, haunting atmosphere that brings to the surface the relatable, if not horrifying, elements of being human.

¤

Melynda Fuller is a New York–based writer and editor. Her work has appeared in The Rumpus, LitHub, Poets & Writers, A Women’s Thing, TimeOut NY, The Hopper, Bust, and HelloGiggles, among others. She’s a graduate of the New School’s MFA writing program and is currently at work on a collection of essays.

The post Violence and Glamour in Eileen Chang’s “Little Reunions” appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

from Los Angeles Review of Books http://ift.tt/2BSu8nL

[darwinism00]

Chapter three

CHAPTER 3 The butterflies sneak attack Keera shuts the back door to Bob's Wings and things with a deep exhale. It seemed like everything was testing her tonight. She is use to the drunks and witty responses she has to give to every drunk quip with sarcasm and a smile. However there is only so much a person can take. She is only human after all; right? She chuckles to herself at the ironic thoughts going through her head when she reaches for her Zig and lighter. “Fuck!” she yells a little too loud as she realises she lent out her lighter to a regular only to have them not return it even after her playful threats for their life if it wasn't returned. She bangs the back of her head on the back door leaning her body up against it at the same time and looks up silently cursing the Gods for what seemed to be an entire day of picking on her. She tilts her head looking to the outside lights for the cameras outlining the building. The jurisprudence requires businesses to have one at every angle outside of their building. Even Though Chicago was a Union state anything under Jurisprudence was a law that was universal between all territories in the United States. One, two, three, she counts to herself and guesses them to be about 10 ft apart on this side of the building. She walks down the ramp where a overhead light was out and there seemed to be a shaded area in the already dim alley. Since Summer was almost here it was still barely light out. Looking around to make sure she is still alone she then cups her hands like she has a lighter and lights her zig. Breathing in the fire deep she instantly relaxes. Was it worth it? She thought. Exposing herself and her illigal ability she was born with? Definitely, she thought. If she didn't get this drag in she would've lost it and ended up torching someone for sure. She has to keep herself cool so to speak. She wraps her over sized hoodie around herself tight. Even though it was Spring and the days where warm, the nights were still crisp and cold and in the windy city, unforgiving. She closes her eyes and tries to clear her mind. The buzzing of the pods on their zip lines filled with families in them polluted the city sky. Public transportation freaks me out. Keera thought to herself. Thinking about all the different traveling ziplines they had set up from skyscraper to skyscraper. Suddenly the door swings open and Doug the douchebag sticks his oversized head out. This was the name Keera liked to call him to herself or around corners to other servers. Seeing him instantly gave her stomach a sinking lurch before he even yelled the following. “Keera we need you in here we are starting to fill up!” His round head hung in a uncanny comparison to a bulldog with a patchy five o’clock shadow outlining it. His face was red with flush from the ten whole feet it took him to get up from his tiny office to the back door. He turns, seemingly out of breath, letting the door ease shut just to waddle back to his 5ft by 5ft office and sit in his well worn in computer chair so that he can pretend to work. Keera rolls her eyes. By we he surely means everyone but him. He most likely had the tragedy of someone asking him to actually do something for once. Keera complained in her head. In which case he managed to barely walk 10 feet for her to get in there and do his job along with hers. “Fucking fat ass.” She mumbles out as she exhales the drag. She learned a long time ago that relying on him to be functional in his duties was a far cry from reality and waiting on him to do anything only cut into her nightly tips and caused her blood pressure and keep it cool gage to go through the roof so to speak. Letting out another curse as reality sinks in she throws the lit zig into its 1 inch burn container which is one of the many things mandated by Jurisprudence. Keera ties up her thick blonde colored wavy hair in a tight pony. Then she takes a quick glance in her mirror on her phone to make sure her makeup hasn't sweated into a mess like it can sometimes do and puts what she like to call her game face on. “Girl can't have five minutes in this fucking place.” She mumbles as she aggressively swings the door open, annoyed that even after eight hours she can't get any kind of a break. She walks in glaring in Doug the douchebags direction which is in the office like she had thought playing a video game on the computer. “Worthless.” She mumbles under her breath while shaking her head in disapproval. Keera pulled her jeans up over her hips, takes the commuity hoodie off and hangs it on the coat rack mounted to the wall in back and pulls her Bobs wings and things shirt down over her large breasts and tucks it back in. She sprayed some vanilla body spray on so she smelled like fresh dessert and sighed pausing for a second like a runner waiting for the gunshot at the beginning of the race. She knew when she saw a server's shirt and it read (I am a server not your servant) on the back that she wanted to work here. However, some days it just seemed like it was more trouble than it was worth. That's life though, better than being in prison, dead or a camp she thought to herself with a shrug. A fraction of a memory of Albo flashed in her mind like it always did when she thought about being taken and she quickly shoved it behind her well built wall of emotions she had made so solid over the years that she had yet to meet anyone to even shake it. Keera got ready to go from peaceful serenity to super bowl crowd type noise. It's like jumping into a pool, but that pool is noise and chaos. All your senses just get drowned all at once and it takes you a second to get into the flow. “Keera!” Amanda called with urgent eyes. Deep breath! Keera thought to herself quickly as she dived in. “I'm so glad I found you!” Amanda says while walking away towards a P.O.S. which is a computer where servers ring their orders in. Keera didn't have to ask she automatically just knew. She walks with purpose flinging her soft pony back off her shoulder letting the loud yells and bar noise fade into the background of her mind. Amanda followed closely behind. “I tried asking the Douchebag but it was like trying to wake a bear from hibernation.” “Yeah I bet it was. His penguin ass actually had to get up to tell me to come inside.” Keera laughs sarcastically because even though he is the punch line to every joke when servers complain about anything at Bob's wings and things Keera knows that it's more of a joke to put up with it and stay. But like any place if she leaves it will only screw her friends long enough for them to find another person willing to do his job for him. She punches in Doug's manager numbers and proceeds to comp 50% off of one of Amanda's table’s appetizer for their meal coming out before it did. She then scans the bar and sees 10 tickets coming out of the printer and the new bartender, Duke trying to work on 5 other drinks. Crash! A glass breaks and the crowd goes wild. Amanda leans in; or up since she is a whole 5’2 and maybe 100 lbs and says. “You better save him girl. That's the 3rd glass since you went on break 5 minutes ago.” “Fuck me! Angel said he was ok to be left alone.” Keera mumbles to herself with a focused expression on her face people often mistake for resting bitch face and starts to half jog in his direction. Amanda yells her way while printing her newly corrected tickets. “That's what she said!” Amanda gives out a warm laughter and a huge bright smile. Keera smirked but was on a mission. On her way to the bar which couldn't be more than 20 ft she was asked for three refills on tables that weren't hers, two tv changes and someone asking if they were killing chickens in the back because their food was taking forever. Her responses were as follows. “What are you drinking piss water? Scott you better be saying a cheers to me cause you know better than to ask me to get you a refill when you don't sit at my bar rail. Didn't you hear the rookie back there just break your drink? Its Coors light it belongs on the floor. Yes the white sox will be on in 15, no I will not turn it on before then and yes we have to catch them, kill em and then we try not to kill ourselves in the process do you see this crowd?” She didn't know the last guy which was more rare than not; seeing how she practically lived there and this place was a native’s hang out but she didn't care. If he can't stand the heat than he can get the hell away from her and definitely out of Chicago. Even with her attitude and curse happy vocabulary she was considered nice in the windy city and if she pissed someone off Doug was more than happy with letting her pretend to be the manager and get her ass chewed out. This Duke guy was a fumbling idiot! She thought to herself when she almost reached the bar. Keera didn't get a chance to train him since he was going to be mainly on days which were usually pretty slow and she was the main closing bartender. This was supposed to be his final training shift and he was not cutting it. They were so quick to hire a penis that they didn't stop to actually ask if he knew anything about American sports or actual bartending. This guy had a British accent, which was surprising giving his obvious Indian heritage. It annoyed the piss out of Keera. She had been listening in on his first interview from behind the bar and told Douchebag not to hire him. So of course here he is breaking her shit and clogging up the traffic of drinks that needed to be going out of this bar in the first 20 minutes of his shift. Keera turns the bar corner pretty much flying in for the rescue. The 30 by 10 foot space was her safe haven. The bottles were displayed against the brick back wall, clean and neat in the order she places them every night when she wipes them down. Whiskey on the left and vodka on the right. The speed rails were filled with the various tequilas and attached to two glass chillers that were stainless steel coolers and fit snug under the 34 taps in the middle of the bar. Behind the taps was a mirror back splash and above that was one projection screen and four big screens lining up the rest of the wall behind the bar. The other speed rails were hidden behind the bar lining the sinks and ice bin filled with the bars cordials and bottom shelf liquors. The sink was filled with ice to cool the syrups and fresh cut fruit. One was open for dumping old drinks and the dishwasher sat to the right of that. The rest of the bar had sports posters and jerseys lining every square inch of the place. If there wasn't a tv it was a shelf with a signed baseballs in dusty case or a shadow box with a signed chicago jersey. The bar top had bottle caps of local beers lined up in a fancy mural picturing a baseball bat, basketball, hockey stick and chicago logo shellacked into a smooth surface. She was almost baffled that the place didn't get robbed for the merch hanging every where alone but seeing how one of the biggest mob families in the city had a daughter working here that thought explained itself away every time it popped into Keera’s head. Keera walks behind the bar and her performance begins. She plasters a smile on her face. “Awe Rookie no one can leave the baby for five minutes hu?” Duke turns around with panic stricken eyes. His glasses were foggy from sweat, his unusually well groomed hair was tassled and his too nice of a button up shirt had bar syrups and God knows what else on it and his hands were shaking. Jesus he'd only been back here for five minutes Keera thought to herself. She almost felt sorry for him. However he was now cutting into her tips and when it came to her money above all things she didn't screw around. She walks up to what they called the watering well which was where the servers all came to either gossip or pick up their drinks. She kicks the glass under the glass chiller and grabs 4 of the five tickets, spins on her heel and faces Duke. “Listen Rookie.” He interrupts her in his crisp accent. “My name is Duke.” He then holds out his hand. Keera being distracted and irritated by not only the gobs of people yelling requests at her but the fact that this guy couldn't handle a bar for literally 5 minutes for her to get a break in was infuriating. Keera snaps at him. “I don't care what your name is I need you to make these tickets.” She raises a fist of tickets between them and with hardly a glance to his eyes shoves them at his chest. “Snap snap rookie you're hurting my rent!” “Nice to finally meet you too. I've been looking forward to it all week.” Duke mumbles, pausing for just a second. She passes him by and heads to regulars from the left side of the bar so that she can work her way to the right which should leave the rookie with plenty of room to make those drinks and serve them to the now angry mob gathering at the watering hole waiting for their guest’s drinks. Not only did Duke step on every female's toes getting hired on straight to bartender but he was the only man employed there in a staff of men hating single moms, and he sucked for lack of a better word. Keera knocked out a Killer Koolaid, top shelf long island, blue mother fucker and a caribbean martini in about 90 seconds flat which is how long it took Duke to pour three beers and bring them over. Keera turns around dodging the clumsy tall Brit to see hardly a dent made into the tickets spilling from the printer onto the bar counter now touching the floor. “Seriously?” She says loudly then reminds herself to breath and keep a cool head. She had mastered the ability of not letting her anger expose her and this is the longest she had stayed at one job because of it. Keera turns to Duke and directs him to take care of the remaining customers at the bar rail. “Move that cute ass of yours and make yourself useful!” She yells loudly trying to make light of a stressful situation and calling attention to the fact that even though he's a shitty bartender at least he's good to look at. He smiles for a second before she points at the end of the bar where a few females, both decked out in white sox apparel from head to toe were sitting. They raised their empty glasses, smiling and giggling at Duke. Keera knocked the rest of the tickets out under five minutes. “Did you ever know that you're my hero?” Lynn, a mexican waitress says in her always sarcastic voice as she snags her drink and shuffles off to her tables. Keera was like a dancer and the bar was her dance floor and when it got busy it was her performance. She glided behind that bar like a ballerina in swan lake. Regulars had come accustomed to watching her light shine when she's in her element. She gets her bar rail some refills, cleans some dishes and puts the game on in time to shut any ridiculous baseball fan up. They act as if you are murdering their baby if you don't get the game on. Keera thinks to herself as she gives a signature eye roll. White sox, cubs, cardinals. They all sucked donkey dick! She thought almost every time she worked a game night. Chicago fans are crazy about Chicago sports. She didn't want to share her tips with a barback so she scheduled this to be Duke’s first and last night of training with her. She always gave the go ahead with a new hire. He'd get paid minimum wage and she could keep her tips and he would be put to the test. So far he is failing miserably. Keera thinks briefly flashing a glance his way while she poured a row of five beers from the tap. He had worked a few shifts this week with the daytime bartender and Keeras bestie Angel and she said he was doing great but thats Angel for you. Super positive even if this kid didn't deserve it. Angel was going on vacation in a few weeks to New Vegas and when she got back she was switching to nights. Daytime was just too slow. That and Keera got to see her best friend more so even though she didn't agree with Duke being hired she kept her mouth shut. That and Douchebag didn't listen to her anyways. It would interfere with his power tripping he does when he occasionally decides to work. It would be less of a hassle if she was on her own. But that's how Keera was with everything in her life. Can't trust anyone to do anything so she did everything herself. Another comp and a void for a few servers she danced behind the bar for four hours until it finally slowed down. She was on a double and that 3 minute break was all that she got. She was starving and running on coffee and Brio fumes. Although Brio is advertised to be full of protein, vitamins and caffeine she was sure it wasn't designed to be a full supplement to the human meal plan in a 24 hour span of time. “Ok Duke I have to go eat something. I'll be gone for five minutes. Will you be ok?” She talks slowly at him as if he couldn't understand English but after babysitting him all night she didn't care. This was the first time actually talking to him instead of at him. The game was over and the place was clearing out fast. He would be in charge of cashing maybe two people out and cleaning dishes. He takes off his foggy glasses and is rubbing the sweat out of his eyebrows when he stops and looks at her with dark puppy dog eyes. Not just brown but almost black. Like the kind of black holes you want to get sucked down. “That's the first time you've said my actual name.” He looks at her almost star struck. Her stomach flutters and she looks down. Keera is not used to feeling a flutter of any kind. That part of her was dead. It was taken away a long time ago when the first and only boy she had loved was taken. She goes to say something witty or smart ass in defense of her feelings and is instead left speechless and for the first time in a long time; she blushes. “What?” She shaked her head. “Never mind.” She mumbles and turns quickly away to hide her flushed face. Keera walks quickly to the back baffled by her own emotions. “I'll be right back!” She yells back not waiting for a response leaving Duke with a goofy smile on his face looking after her. In her 24 years she had taken care of her primal needs with one night stands in cars, party bathrooms and once in the woods in the mountains. She thought of her virginity as something to get rid of, like it was something of a burden to carry. She had never knew her father and what she knew of her mother this type of behaviour was normal. It was a way for her to numb herself and build her wall of emotions up. “What’s wrong with you?” Keera looks up startled torn away from her own taunting thoughts. Amanda stood there, bright red hair shining from a fresh dye job that was cut short in a edgy wedge. She had fair freckled skin and a crooked smile and an attitude that would put any kitchen cook in his place. She was the actual living definition of a spit fire. She snaps her fingers. “Hello earth to Keera! You aren't dipping on me are you.” a playful laugh escapes her. Dipping was the slang term for Heroin addicts when they dipped into a particular stash of Heroin known to the general public as “Dirty tar.” This was named to a specific batch of heroin distributed from Afghanistan between the years 2015-2021 that was cut with a unknown substance causing mutations in the human genome. It caused nerve degeneration at an accelerated rate. The user was so full of adrenaline and pain that they would be severely aggressive and dangerous. There hasn't been any new cases of “Dirty tar” for over 20 years but the offsprings of these addicts were mutated and were the cause of the genetic war of 2020. That is what caused martial law to be instated for seven years. Amongst all the fighting the people with abilities were either shot dead or gathered up like cattle. Now; after the civil war known as the gene war that arose because most of these people with abilities were children jurisprudence was created for peace, which is a mutated version of the law itself. It causes restrictions and regulations on everything and everyone for the so called safety and preservation of the human species as a whole. It was the only thing all three territories agreed on towards the end of the war. Amanda didn't know Keera’s secret so Keera couldn't let her see how close she hit home for her by saying what she said. “No I'm good. I'm just exhausted.” Keera says this while staring blankly at the white wall with grease stains on it and laminated safety signs plastered in random spots. She clears her throat taking a huge bite of a turkey sandwich. “Yeah girl it's been a ridiculous night, let alone day! I can't believe you have already been here 12 hours. Girl you are crazy.” Amanda is separating out her credit card receipts for the night and organizing her money on the metal stainless steel countertop where she had cleared a little space between the silverware that still needed rolled and the ranch and blue cheese containers that were wrapped in plastic but not yet stored away in the walk in cooler for the night. She pauses in counting her money. “Not to mention your tall dark and dorky back there.” She chuckles and though Keera has a mouth full of food she does too. “Yeah I guess he is dorky, and clumsy.” She glances at the clock, gut clenching at the thought of leaving him behind her bar again even though it had slowed way down since the game had ended. “You guess hu?” Amanda eyed her skeptically clutching her money in both hands stopping mid count. “You got a thing for the British Hindu or something?” She thrusts her hips and then pokes Keeras side playfully letting out a loud laugh. “No!” Keera said too quickly catching Amanda's scrutinizing look. “I just can't help but feel a little, small amount of pity for him.” Keera gestures animatedly with her free hand and then continues. “ He's hopeless.” She shrugs and glances sideways wishing Amanda would stop looking at her that way and God help her she feels heat paint her face again. Not the dangerous kind but warm tingling heat that she knew was giving her away. “Oh my God!” Amanda says way too loud causing Keera to drop her last bit of sandwich and walk away. “You have a thang for him don't you!?” She still didn't hush her voice what so ever, following right behind her like a pesky fly at a Summer picnic. Keera wanted to crawl in a hole. She didn't know why but maybe she was right. “Girl I have never known you to have a thang for anyone! In the four years I've known you or ever!” She put her fingers in quotation marks rounding the corner and passing the bathrooms after Keera. The thought flashes through Keeras mind of the actual logistics of such a small person carrying such a loud voice. It just doesn't seem possible but here Amanda was louder than ever. “Well I'm not starting now. I just feel sorry for him and that's it.” Keera says in a hushed voice turning towards her friend and holding her finger to her lips to hush her. “So you like the Geek type then? No wonder you never meet anyone here!” Her voice seems to almost be getting louder as she gestures around the bar within earshot of Duke now. “You feel sorry enough to… you know?” She puts her finger in a hole she made from her index finger and thumb with her other hand. “Jesus fucking Christ Amanda get your fucking head out of the gutter!” She yells too loud while grabbing a half full glass left by a customer long gone along with most customers that were clearing out just minutes before. Without skipping a beat Amanda yells back while heading back towards the kitchen. “Yeah well that's where your head usually is at honey but now I think it's floated to the clouds.” she gestures fluttering fingers towards the ceiling while looking back and then she lets out a loud cackle. Keera had never wanted this night to end as bad as she did right then. She walks behind her bar glaring at the corner where her friend had just turned only to smack directly in a solid, firm, lean figure. Before thinking she yells. “Jesus Christ!” Her nerves where more than shot but at least she didn't drop her glass. She makes note of the height of Duke. Looking up into his dark eyes once again. He towers over her 5”7 body a good 8 inches. He has thick hair pushed back; long on the top, shaved and clean on the sides. He has a mocha skin tone with a beard that normally would do nothing for her but as her eyes move to his full soft looking lips she wonders what it would feel like to kiss them. She notices them moving but doesn't hear a word. She glances at his white tank that he was now wearing noticing his broad shoulders and defined muscles that glistened with sweat over all his tattoos that went down his arms. There was an electrical charge between them that had her holding her breath. He moves to touch her hand and she is froze. Her instinct is to always move away or be on the defense but she couldn't move. She didn't want to move. He doesn't touch her hand but instead was trying take the glass out of her hand. Before she barely let go he drops the glass yelping in the process. “Bloody Hell that glass was hot! How in Gods name did you not burn yourself?” He is stepped back shaking his hand as to shake the heat off of it. Keera looks around to just see Kenny and Richard which were the bars most faithful regulars and usually pretty well done for the night especially since the white sox won. They cheered and clapped! “Good job rookie that's glass number 7 for the night! You should get a raise.” Kenny says sarcastically and they both laugh to each other. He half smiles at them and nodes. “Yup lads it's all good. I'm ok. Thanks for asking.” Keera goes to grab his hand but before she does he steps back a little too quickly. Does he suspect something? She thinks to herself. He is Indian right? Maybe he's a Samsaptaka? Keera thinks to herself. The Samsaptaka are a group of Hindu religious nuts that are also called hunters that believe that the people with abilities are cursed with demon blood or as they call it (KALI) which is a demon that that possessed Nala and need eradicated from this world for the survival of the human species. They use some special knife to pierce the heart and they believe save the soul of the tainted, or so they call them. They use a chaaku that is blessed by their Brahmans which are their appointed priest to their cause. Keera silently kicks herself for being so prejudiced. Hes British she scolds herself. Besides they haven't been spotted in years she continued her inner dialogue just to see him staring blankly at her with a look of anticipation on his face. Just as her mind goes blank words start to fall out of her mouth. “I barely have fingerprints anymore rookie. You need to grow a pair and get use to it. No pain no gain.” She smiles and grabs the broom and hands it to him. “Here Cinderella hop to it.” Duke hesitates, squinting for a brief moment and then smiles his brilliant 1000 watt smile and starts sweeping all the broken glass in the alley way. “And put on a shirt.” She says a bit shakily, avoiding looking in his direction what so ever. Awe there it is. The face and personality she wears at work. Sarcastic, witty Keera. Nothing gets to her. She is carefree and everything rolls off her shoulder and she most certainly does not get all girly, shy and giggly over a guy. She feels comfortable and safe now. Keera feels in control.