#and added the gray hairs which i actually think look good hair drawing success

[goldenwaves]

pain, will you return it? i'll say it again, pain will you give it to me? (♫)

[we-are-inevitable]

not moving on, not looking back // javid (ch. 10)

A/N: y’all know the drill

TW: discussion of abuse (physical and substance related)

Read On AO3!

And that’s how it starts.

They stop at David’s beforehand so he can change out of his slacks, shirt, and tie, and if David purposefully wears an outfit to elicit a certain response from Jack, he plays it off pretty well. He had changed into a tight white t-shirt and a pair of jeans that fit in all the right places, hidden under a baggy hoodie that he didn't take off until he was safe within the walls of Jack’s home. It feels… empty, now that Katherine isn’t there to fill the space with her voice, her presence.

It’ll be an adjustment, but as long as Katherine and Jack are okay with it, then David will follow their lead.

David sits alone on his phone while Jack goes upstairs and changes. He scrolls through twitter for a while, until he hears footsteps and-- oh, holy shit. Jack walks into view wearing a black sleeveless muscle shirt and gray sweats, and his hair looks so deliciously messy from combing the gel out. He’d clearly gone for the more comfortable look, and David has to stop himself from staring.

“You want anything to drink?” Jack asks as he walks into the kitchen, which prompts David to stand and follow him. Jack grabs a beer from the fridge, offering a second to David.

“Hey, I know we kind of talked already, but… How are you? Like, really?” David asks as Jack takes a drink.

Jack takes in a deep breath and shrugs as he hops onto the island in the middle of the kitchen, swinging his feet. He looks up at David, who has positioned himself to lean against the counter about two feet in front of Jack. “It… It tore me up for a while last night, after she told me, but honestly? I feel a lot better. Like a weight’s been lifted. I had a bad panic attack, but we talked more last night than we’ve talked to each other in ages, and I… I feel like I got my best friend back, y’know? I didn’t get a lot of sleep, though, just… because it’s makin’ me think about stuff I ain’t never thought about before.”

“Like what?” David asks softly, tilting his head before taking a sip of the beer. “Not that- I mean, you don’t have to tell me, but maybe I can help a little. I don’t mind.”

“It’s just… Family stuff,” Jack admits, then rubs his forehead. “We told my Ma last night and she was, y’know, a bit disappointed, but she understood. I just… The whole divorce thing makes me feel like my dad,” Jack explains softly, crossing his arms over his chest. For someone who is nearing thirty, Jack looks like a vulnerable teenager right then. He slowly looks up into David’s eyes, gulping. “He always said he regretted not getting a divorce. He wasn’t a good guy at all. Homophobic, real republican, but my mom married him because he had a good job and a good family. He was the one to kinda push the whole football thing on me, but I was never good at playin’, y’know? Loved the game, but I didn’t have any skill, trust me," Jack says with a chuckle, shaking his head.

“Did they get a divorce? Your parents?”

“No, my, uh… My mama died before anything was finalized, and everything kinda took a turn. I got… I don’t know. I was really fucked up for a long time. The school counselor suggested that I start drawing my feelings or starting a journal or something, and it worked. Really well, actually. I loved it.”

“Is that what got you into art? Kath mentioned that you wanted to go to art school,” David murmurs, moving to lean against the island, right next to Jack’s leg.

“Yeah, actually,” Jack says with a laugh, then gulps. “My dad wasn’t a fan of me doing the art stuff. I took an art class in middle school, and we had a showcase at the end of the year. I invited him to it, and he-- Do you, uh, do you mind if I talk about this? I don’t wanna force, like, heavy shit on you if you aren’t comfortable,” Jack cuts himself off, looking at David with a gulp. “I’ve only ever told my ma and Kath about this. My dad just… wasn’t a nice guy.”

“Thanks for checking in, but I don’t mind, okay? I’ll tell you if I’m ever not in the right headspace, but, Jack, you’re going through a lot. Just let it out,” David encourages with a sad grin.

Jack nods, then takes in a deep breath. “So-- Art show. Dad said he wasn’t gonna come. Told me he wasn’t gonna support me doing something ‘queer’, even though I’m- even though I told him I wasn’t,” Jack explains, taking a long drink from his bottle with a blank expression on his face. “But, uh, he didn’t believe me when I told him I wasn’t, and he… slapped me. That was when I was eleven. The physical stuff continued, ‘specially when football season started up again and he saw that I was on the bench every game, ‘cause I really wasn’t good at it. It got… rough. It only stopped when my coach noticed a bruise when we were practicing and I- I guess I was real stiff and limping real hard, so he told me to sit out, and when I took my pads off, my shirt lifted up, and… My dad was in police custody the next morning.”

“Fuck, Jack,” David says in an apologetic voice, staring at him with a lump in his throat. “I’m so sorry you went through that… Did he go to prison, or--”

“Yeah, there was a bunch of evidence, so- so he went to prison. Really easy case against him. He was supposed to get, um, ten years, I think. The last time I saw him, he told me that he was glad my mom was dead so she didn’t have to see me 'turn gay’- like I said, he was a shitty guy. That… I don’t know. I used to be like that, too, but then one of my friends, a coworker of mine, came out, like… eight years ago?” Jack bites his lip, looking down at his hands after putting his bottle down. “I’ve changed. I realized that I was just actin’ like him. I never realized he was so… bad, until I became an adult.”

“Are you still…” David gulps. “You haven’t talked to your father?”

Jack looks up at David, and smiles sadly. “He had a heart attack in prison, about five years in. So… yeah. I’m all that’s left.”

David is at a loss for words. He doesn’t know what to say. This is not how he thought the night would go, but at least Jack was getting to vent and David was getting to know him on an even more personal level but, good God, Jack had been through so much.

And adding being adopted, losing his daughter, and divorcing his wife into the mix…

Jack has hurt more in his life than he ever let on.

“Jack, I… I don’t know what to say,” David admits with a frown, but slowly reaches out, placing a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Thank you for telling me all of that. You… You’re so strong, y’know? You’ve been through so much, yet you’re successful and smart and… I know we haven’t known each other long, but I am so, so proud of you. But- but you shouldn't have had to be so strong. You didn't deserve any of that. Not the… Not the abuse, or the homophobia, or the pressure. If you ever need to talk about it again, I’m just a phone call away.”

“Thank you, Davey, that means a lot,” Jack says with a tight-lipped grin, then gulps. “What about you? You got any skeletons in your closet? 'S only fair that you tell me somethin' sad now, y'know.”

David stares at him for a moment. He then holds up one finger and downs the rest of the beer in his bottle, taking in a deep breath once he is done. His eyes close and he tilts his head back, then begins speaking. “From the age of twenty-two to about a month and a half ago, I was addicted to cocaine. I had a brief stint in which heroin was a daily thing, but that stopped after a few months. Too expensive. I regularly had sex with drug dealers in exchange for pills, I’ve been kicked out of gay bars for showing up high out of my mind, I now go to Narcotics Anonymous meetings, and I have to spend, like, ten minutes every morning trying to convince myself not to call in sick just because I’m having bad withdrawals. Bad as in, like, shaking in the shower and crying because I feel like I need to shoot up.” He slowly opens one eye, shooting a sad grin toward Jack. “I guess we’re even, huh?”

Jack stares at him for a few moments, then lets out a laugh as he nods along. “I- I guess you can say that, yeah,” He murmurs, then looks at David with a gulp. “If you ever need anything, just let me know, ‘kay? I don’t… I don’t really have experience with that kind of stuff, but if you ever need anything, I’m here, whether you need to talk, or you… need somewhere to stay,” Jack says slowly, seriously, and David nods. “I’m right here, Dave. Just like you're here for me.”

“Thank you, Jack. I’ve been getting better, I think- the, uh, withdrawals are starting to mellow out, at least a little bit, but it’s just… getting used to sobriety that’s throwing me for a loop,” David admits. He watches Jack’s eyes shift from his face to the empty bottle in his hand, and David shakes his head. “I know what you’re thinking-- I never had an alcohol problem, it was just the drugs. I, uh, don’t drink often, though. Just to make sure.”

David doesn’t drink often because David has an addictive personality. David doesn’t drink often because David knows he’s susceptible to alcoholism if he goes down the wrong path.

It makes him feel better to know that Jack is watching out for him in that way, though.

“If you’re sure,” Jack responds with a kind smile. The two of them fall into a comfortable silence. Jack finishes his beer, David watches him, and everything is… calm.

But not for long.

“Dave? Can I ask you a kind of weird question?”

“Shoot.”

“How’d ya know you were gay?”

David’s eyes widen a bit. He wasn’t expecting... that. He looks up, but Jack refuses to meet his eyes. He’s instead staring at the cabinet above the sink, sitting eerily still, and David isn’t sure how to respond for a few moments. Slowly, David shrugs, and looks down at his hands. “I just never really found an interest in women. Plus, I used to be really into this guy in one of my classes… I don’t know, it was just kind of natural for me. My parents were religious, but they never really said anything about it if I brought guys home for dinner, or if I wore makeup to school. I never really had that… epiphany, I just… I was just gay. Never questioned it,” He explains, holding his breath in the heavy silence that follows. He slowly glances back up toward Jack, expecting to see him staring off into space, but to his surprise Jack is staring right back at him. “Can I ask why you’re asking?”

Jack gulps. There’s a long moment of silence, before he sits up a little straighter. “Kath has been talking about 'self exploration' ever since yesterday. Mentioned she’s, uh… curious.”

“Mhm.”

Jack meets David’s eyes. He stares for a few moments before locking his lips, straightening his posture, and saying, “I think I might be, too.”

There’s a beat of silence. David holds his breath. Holds Jack’s gaze. He waits for a few moments, waiting for Jack to back down, but it never comes. Finally, David gives in.

He asks, breathless, “Wanna find out?”

There’s no more speaking after that.

[bookaddict19]

Sleeping with the Enemy (Part 1) | Fred Weasley x Reader

Rating: Mature...eventually. I don’t know.

This is my first fanfiction so bear with me. This is an AU that occurs after the Goblet of Fire, during the events of the Order to the Phoenix. No hate, please. But if you like it, let me know and I will continue adding to it. 

Despite being filled with the sounds of chattering students and the clinking of dinnerware, Y/N found the so-called Great Feast to be a very dull affair. She nursed her pumpkin juice, thinking longingly of the bottle of firewhiskey upstairs in her dorm room, until she felt the reassuring squeeze of a familiar hand. Y/N reluctantly pulled herself out of her sulky state to come face-to-face with a pair of concerned, gray eyes. 

Are you okay? they seemed to ask. 

Y/N forced a smile. Draco looked at her pointedly, then shrugged, returning back to his conversation with Crabbe and Goyle.

“If what Potter says is true,” Goyle began in rather slow whisper, bits of treacle tart plastered to the side of his mouth. “And the Dark Lord has actually returned, what does that mean for us?”

Draco sighed. Clearly, he was not pleased to be going through this conversation again for what seemed to be the thousandth time. Y/N was sick of this discussion as well but for an entirely different reason. If she wanted to spend her days discussing corrupt governments and rising dictators, which seemed to be the only topics of conversation in this remote castle, then she would have stayed in America. Although, she reminded herself sullenly, returning home to the stony shores of Britain had not entirely been her own idea. 

While Draco recited the rehearsed response given to him by his father again to the questioning idiots, Y/N busied herself by partaking in the ancient pastime of people-watching. As her eyes searched the room for signs of intelligent life, her attention was caught by a pair of bobbing red heads over by the Gryffindor table. It seemed that the Weasleys twins were up to their usual nonsense. 

Y/N watched with a smirk on her face as Fred Weasley transfigured his golden goblet into a large, amber-colored spider and placed it on the seat next to his younger brother. The younger, Ron, had briefly given his fork a break and had come up for air from his dinner, resting his tired arm on the table. The spider, whether by nature or the twins’ design, took this as an invitation to begin to crawl from Ron’s rested arm to his freckled neck. 

The next few minutes were filled with girlish squeals and roaring laughter from the other side of the hall. Ron had fell back out of his seat in an attempt to rid himself of the arachnid, thrashing and screeching as he did so. His friends, Granger and Potter, were attempting to calm him long enough to properly dispose of the creature. From Y/N’s position at the Slytherin table, she could see the top of Potter’s dark hair as he struggled to hold down Ron’s flailing limbs. Granger, on the other hand, was standing above them both, her wand at the ready. 

Meanwhile, the entire Great Hall had ceased their conversations to gawk at the most recent outburst from the Gryffindor table. Y/N noticed that Draco’s debate with Crabbe and Goyle had also come to an abrupt close. Y/N tore her gaze away from the Weasleys’ shenanigans long enough to catch a glimpse of Draco. His dark eyes hovered towards spot where Potter’s hair was visible.  He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have too. As students stretched in their seats in order to get a better look at the spectacle, Y/N laced her fingers back through Draco’s empty hand in a silent gesture. He took a deep breath then adverted his eyes from the unfolding scene. 

Dissimilarly, Fred and George were basking in the success of their wonderful prank, accepting high-fives from surrounding students at the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables. The celebration only ceased when Professor McGonagall, who had descended from the professors’ table with a basilisk-like glare, had seized George by a freckled-ear and began pulling him out of the hall. Fred, who would be damned if he let his twin suffer such a fate alone, took one last bow and followed his brother out of the Great Hall. However, he wasn’t the last to leave. Following the twins exit, a tiny witch in a pink dress slowly rose from the staff table and made her way to the exit. That’s not good, Y/N thought. 

“Filthy blood traitors,” Millicent Bulstrode mumbled beside Y/N as the twins left the hall.  Y/N’s eyes quickly snapped to Millicent’s toad-like face. “Careful, Bulstrode,” Y/N said slowly. “Their blood is purer than yours.”

Millicent’s face turned an ugly shade of red as the surrounding Slytherins crackled under their breath. Tears filled Millicent’s eyes and Y/N began to feel something resembling pity for the toad-faced half-blood next to her. It wasn’t that Y/N particularly cared about blood status. Despite growing up with the fanatical ramblings of Lucius Malfoy for the better part of her life, she didn’t feel as strongly about the widely debated topic as her fellow housemates. Her indifference could’ve been attributed to her time in America; a simpler country where blood status was of very little importance because there were no purebloods to be found. Or perhaps, she was simply more culturally evolved than her current company. However, she admitted, the later was most unlikely. 

Following Fred and George’s interruption, the noise level in the hall had quickly returned to normal. This meant the return of pestering questions about the future of Slytherin house in the wake of the Dark Lord’s return from Crabbe and Goyle. Goyle, who was continuing to talk despite the large piece of pumpkin pie hanging from his mouth, whispered something to Draco that Y/N couldn’t hear. She looked at Draco; he had gone quite pale.  

“Can you both please attempt amuse yourselves with any other topic of conversation,” Draco exclaimed rather harshly. “For instance, the growing obesity rate or how difficult it is to shovel food from the plate and into your mouth without most of it ending up on your face.” He looked sharply at Goyle. 

He had begun to shake. His eyes flashing dangerously under his pale blond hair. Crabbe and Goyle immediately quieted and recoiled in fear as if Draco were about to stand up in the middle of the Great Hall and start throwing out jinxes. Normally, Y/N would have welcomed anything to bring a bit of excitement to her current somber state. While the Weasleys’ act was quite amusing, she hadn’t had a good fight since she had returned to the UK and Draco was never one to disappoint her. There was nothing like the thrill of a good duel. No civilized bows and niceties that were so very common to European wizards, but a good old-fashion wizards’ duel. All wands and curses and the heat of palpable magic in the air.  

However, despite her thrill-mongering, she saw the truth beneath Draco’s thundering. The fear in his dark gray eyes as they shifted restlessly across the hall like those of a frightened animal. The way his fingers, which had still been laced through Y/N’s, had suddenly found themselves pulling at his left sleeve, making sure that his forearm was completely covered.

           Y/N put her hand on his shoulder and the shaking ceased. She moved her fingers to his back and began to draw small circles on the fabric of his jumper. As his breathing began to return to normal, Draco pushed his relatively cleaned plate aside, kissed her forehead and started a conversation with Warrington about Slytherin’s chances at beating Hufflepuff in the upcoming quidditch match.

It had been like this for as long as they both could remember and nothing, not even five long years apart, could change it. Not that their relationship was anything remotely romantic; although, by the jealous glares Pansy Parkinson was throwing Y/N at the moment, you could not tell that. Pansy was not alone in her assumptions. Most of the school believed that Y/N and Draco were secretly dating or, at the very least, sleeping together. This amused Draco, who would make it a point to grab Y/N’s hand in the halls on the way to classes in order to get giggles from nearby girls or high-fives from passing boys. Y/N learned to just smile and take the attention in strides.

It was not that she didn’t love Draco. She did. Sometimes he was the only thing in the world that made her feel like life was actually worth living. It was all-consuming love. An unconditional love that would have them both willing to help the other bury a body if it ever became necessary. But not a romantic love. It helped immensely that this feeling was most-assuredly mutual. This was ever-present in his incessant flirting with anything that qualified as remotely human. Draco was not shy in the slightest, and despite having a quiet infatuation with a certain dark-haired, scar-faced wizard, he spent the majority of his days chasing snobby Ravenclaw girls or freckled-faced Hufflepuff boys. 

Y/N, on the other hand, had only been at Hogwarts for a little over a year, despite being almost sixteen. She had no time for such fancies. She was here for a reason. Although, thinking about that reason made her heart beat faster and her stomach turn. “I’m going to go,” Y/N mumbled to Draco, untangling their fingers. His eyes searched hers for a brief second before he nodded and turned away. 

She left the hall in a bit of a rush. She made her way through the entrance doors, turning left to head downstairs towards the dungeons and the Slytherin common room.  She was halfway there when she spotted the back of a familiar red head. Fred Weasley was sitting on the stairs, his crimson head resting against wall. Y/N immediately looked around for any signs of a mischievous plot afoot. In their own way, the Weasley twins were like wolves. One must always have eyes on both of them. Lose sight of one and there is a good chance that you’ll find yourself cornered, being bombarded with water balloons. 

“Weasley…,” she began cautiously, her eyes darting around to make sure that the other twin wasn’t going to come out of nowhere and blast her with a Bat-Bogey Hex. “Well, if it isn’t Miss Black,” Fred replied in a strained voice. He turned and attempted what Y/N believed was supposed to be a smile. His face was strained with pain while his left arm cradled his right hand. 

Y/N stopped in her tracks. It seemed that Umbridge had had the last word in the twins’ little prank in the Great Hall. Y/N took one last vigilant look behind her before taking seat on the step next to Fred. She looked at him slowly. Beads of sweat raced down is freckled face, his stormy blue eyes fixed on his feet. Y/N watched his chest rise and fall in a slow but controlled manner like he trying very hard to keep himself from crying. 

Y/N didn’t know why but she could always tell the difference between Fred and George. While to most each twin was synonymous with the other, to her, the acknowledgement of the differences between the two was more than just a matter of respect; it was a matter of intelligence. Fred was obviously more outgoing than George. His eyes shined a bit brighter than his brother’s, especially when mischief was afoot. And while his Quidditch skills weren’t as outstanding as George’s, he showed more compassion both on and off the pitch; choosing to fight harder to win rather than resulting in cheap shots. 

“While I understand than I am stunningly handsome, Miss Black, I am sort of concerned that my good looks have caused you to stop breathing,” Fred remarked with a forced sort of laugh. Y/N, being rudely brought back to the present, made a noise somewhere between a snort and a cough.

“Not even in your dreams, Weasley,” she mumbled.

She looked at his injured hand. The words, I will not cause disruptions, was scratched into his pale skin in ugly, bloodstained letters. The cuts were deep. Apparently Umbridge had felt that Fred needed to do multiple lines in order to understand the message. Y/N wondered if the cuts would heal before the twins were up to their usual tricks again. Probably not, she thought. 

“This,” Fred started, noticing the direction of her gaze, made a motion to his cradled hand, “This is nothing. I had a filibuster firework go off in my hand once. Mum said I was lucky to still have all of my fingers.” Fred was talking mostly to himself. His head rested on the wall.

“I can help with that,” Y/N offered. Fred’s crimson head slowly rose from it’s resting place. His gaze fixed on her; suspicion filled his eyes. Y/N looked down at the serpent insignia on her robes. It was amazing how something that seemed so small and insignificant to her could cause such division in this foreign place. “Or you could just stay in pain,” Y/N said, that anger that she fought so hard to control came bubbling up to the surface. “See if I care.” 

She made a move to get up, her face reddening with anger and embarrassment. She was almost down the staircase when she felt a hand on the left sleeve of her jumper. She quickly tore her arm away from him, more out of fear than anger. 

“I’m sorry,” Fred said quickly. He slumped back down on the staircase. He was in really bad shape. Y/N hesitated, then slowly sat next to him. Draco had always said that she had a soft heart when it came to broken things. 

“It’s no use,” Fred mumbled feverishly. “Even Madam Pomfrey said there was nothing to do for it but ice it and wait for it to heal.”

Y/N took his hand and examined it. It was warm and wet from inflammation. Fred shivered. Y/N had seen this kind of magic before. “Well…” she started slowly. “You should never ask a saint to do a sinner’s work.”

Y/N knew from examining his wound that the quills that Umbridge had been using in her detentions contained a dark and ancient form of magic. Knowing this, she thought it unlikely that any conventional spell would be able to reverse the effects of the curse. Luckily for her, and the redhead beside her, Y/N was anything but conventional. 

“I can fix it,” she began slowly, moving her dark hair out of her face to look back into his eyes. “But I need you to trust me…and I need you to keep quiet about it. I don’t intend on becoming this castle’s new healer, nor do I have the bedside manner to do so.” At this, Fred nodded a bit cautiously. After he gave his consent, Y/N’s attention returned to his hand. She didn’t pull out her wand or even make a move to do so. She simply wrapped her hands around his. He squirmed. “It’s okay,” she whispered. She didn’t know who she was trying to calm.

She had done this a thousand times before. But sitting here in the middle of the castle, in a land that was all but alien to her and with boy she barely knew…it was enough to set anyone on edge. After covering his hand in hers, she began to chant. Softly, at first. So soft that Fred could hardly hear her. As her voice rose, he realized that she wasn’t speaking English but some sort of Latin spell. The torches around the pair began to dim as her voice rose higher and higher. The sounds from the feast above seem to grow silent. Magic crackled in the air like sparks in a hearth. Their joined hands began to pulse and glow with a soft, golden light. And then…it was over as quickly as it had begun. The flames in the torches surrounding the two seemed to had risen back to their full height. The noise from the Great Hall above echoed in the stairwell once more. 

Y/N forced herself to look at Fred’s face. She decided to take in one feature at a time in order to postpone the look of fear that was most likely present there. His color had come back. His cheeks flushed with red. His lips, that had almost been blue before, were now very pink and sporting a ghost of a smile. Y/N met his gaze. His blue eyes were not as stormy as before and were now filled with…not fear but something else. 

Fred let out a harsh breath that pulled Y/N out of reprieve. She looked down at their entangled hands and quickly pulled hers away, standing up to move onto the other side of the stairwell. Fred inspected his hand. There wasn’t a mark on it. Not even a scar. 

“How…,” he began. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Y/N responded quickly. “We’re not speaking of it again, remember?”

His gaze shifted from his hand to her face. It wasn’t fear she saw in his bright eyes but confusion, shock, and…gratitude. 

“Y/N…,” he made a move to stand. 

“Don’t mention it,” she pushed passed his outstretched hand and hurried down the staircase, refusing to look back. Y/N returned to the Slytherin common room and spent most of the rest of night sitting in an armchair, staring at the same page of her textbook for hours. Her fellow housemates had come back from the feast, and slowly emptied the common room as they headed to bed. Eventually, only Draco and Y/N remained.

           Noticing this, Y/N decided that she had most undisputedly earned a drink her actions this evening. She went to her room, grabbed the bottle of firewhiskey from under her bed, and returned downstairs. Draco was waiting. His Nimbus 2001 was stretched out on the floor next to him and a cleaning kit was in his hands. The sound of a bottle opening diverted his attention from his work 

           “I’m starting to worry that you’re becoming an alcoholic,” he muttered darkly. 

           Y/N poured the amber liquid into a nearby glass. “You’re only an alcoholic if you start drinking alone,” she smirked. “And look,” she walked towards him and thrusted the glass into his hand. “You’re drinking with me.” She took a long swig from the bottle. 

           The next few hours were spent in quiet contemplation of the night’s events. Draco didn’t want to talk about Potter or the upcoming war or that thing that was tattooed to his arm. And Y/N decided that she wouldn’t be able to take lecture on her irresponsible use of her powers that would most assuredly occur if she told Draco about the Fred incident. Instead, they stayed silent. Y/N fell asleep a couch in the middle of the common room, wrapped snuggly in Draco’s arms as she thought about the way Fred’s hand felt in hers. She awoke to a pain in her left arm as her dark mark seared in agony.

[writethehousedown]

Here Comes the Sun 3/7 (Branjie) -- athena2

Day 3, Puddle: Vanessa has a run-in with a giant puddle that brings Brooke a little closer to her heart.

Thank you to Writ for betaing! I’d appreciate any feedback you have!

Lunch with Brooke. She’s going to have lunch with Brooke.

Vanessa takes a little extra care with her outfit this morning, whipping out a black dress with red and purple flowers–it is spring, after all, even if the weather doesn’t want to cooperate–and hits her hair with enough spray to hold even if the rain returns. She goes with her black flats, because she likes being small next to Brooke, so small she could just nestle against her, so small that Brooke leans down ever so slightly to make sure Vanessa hears her when she talks.

The sun hesitantly peeks out between the clouds, and Vanessa feels in each step that today is going to be a good day. She’s having lunch with Brooke. She finished her giant guinea pig craft, a sturdy foam board and fake fur recreation of Bertha, ready for the class to burst into oohs and aahs when they saw it. She forgets about the massive crater in the sidewalk that sends at least a dozen kids to the nurse with scrapes each year, that the school board has been promising to fix since the dawn of time. Pain in her knees means they broke her fall, and she’s so focused on holding onto the real Bertha in her carrying case that the craft guinea pig flies out of her grasp and slams into a puddle big enough to swim in with a loud splat.  

For a minute she stays on the ground, resisting the urge to cry as dirty puddle water soaks the foam. It’s stupid, really, to be near tears over a craft project, but she spent most of the night on it, laying down fake fur with all the care she gives to real Bertha, and she just wanted it to be perfect.

“Vanessa, are you okay?”

Cool hands help her up, and Vanessa knows from the long, pale fingers–fingers skilled enough to cut out delicate snowflakes other teachers wouldn’t even attempt, including coveted Baby Yoda ones last winter–that the hands belong to Brooke.

Vanessa blinks away her daze as she stands. “I-I’m okay.”

“Your knees are a little scraped. The crater strikes again.”

Vanessa looks around Brooke’s shoulder into the puddle, heart sinking as she pulls out the craft. The entire thing is soaked with dirty gray water, fake fur clumped and tangled.

“I guess that’s the end of that,” she mutters.

“I’m sorry, Vanessa.” Brooke’s voice is so sincere it makes Vanessa shiver. “It’s Bertha, right?”

“It was. I was gonna have the kids make little ones and put them around her, like her babies. I guess I’ll have to do it another day.”

Brooke nods. “Why don’t we go inside? You can come in my room and I’ll fix up your knees. I have Batman Band-Aids,” she tempts.

Vanessa smiles despite herself. “Say no more.”

—

Vanessa perches herself on Brooke’s desk, which is much cleaner than hers. There’s neatly labelled trays for different papers, bins for markers and scissors, and a Totoro mug for pens and pencils. Vanessa hasn’t gotten a good look at Brooke’s classroom with its new spring decorations, and the bright colors keep her head spinning around while Brooke rubs cream on her knees. (Vanessa could have done it herself, really, but Brooke had offered in a nervous tone, desperate to help, and Vanessa agreed, touched by how much she wanted to help and unable to resist having Brooke’s hands touch her skin).

Bright green stems stretch up the classroom door, ending in tiny tulips and daffodils that each bear a student’s name. The walls are a construction paper animal kingdom come to life: white bunnies with cotton-ball tails hop around after carrots, yellow chicks splash water at each other, and red birds fly toward the ceiling (as high as they can go while still adhering to fire codes).

“Tell me you didn’t even need a ladder to hang those birds,” Vanessa teases.

Brooke applies the last Band-Aid, her hands soft and gentle. “I didn’t,” she admits, blush creeping into her cheeks. God, she’s adorable.

“I’m assuming you have some trouble hanging things up?” Brooke prompts with a grin.

Vanessa just sighs. “You know those warning signs saying not to stand on a stack of chairs, and you think, ‘what idiot would stand on a stack of chairs’?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m the idiot.” Vanessa cackles. “Tried to put my little alphabet signs over the chalkboard and went down like an avalanche. I was coughing up chalk dust for a month.”

Brooke bites her lip, like she’s afraid it would be rude to laugh, but when Vanessa starts, to let her know it’s okay, Brooke snorts so fiercely it makes Vanessa laugh even harder.

“I’m sorry,” Brooke gasps between snorts, “but that’s hilarious. You know, if you need anything hung up, just ask me.”

“I’ll do that.” Vanessa flexes her knees, now tricked out with the Dark Knight. “You’re a Band-Aid pro, by the way. My knees feel a lot better.”

“Good.” Brooke smiles. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

“See you at lunch.”

It’s almost enough to make Vanessa forget about her ruined craft project.

—

Brooke’s kids are in art class with Miss Scarlet for the next 45 minutes, and she gets to work on her surprise for Vanessa.

There’s no template big enough, which means she’ll have to draw a giant guinea pig freehand. Vanessa’s much better at drawing than Brooke, that’s for sure. She usually goes for the trace-and-cut-out method, but Vanessa can actually draw. Sometimes Brooke watches her sketch during lunch, her tongue sticking out slightly, brown eyes narrowed in focus, and Brooke forgets all about her own sandwich, filling her body with nothing but Vanessa.

After ten guinea pig drawing tutorials and five unsuccessful attempts, Brooke spreads the successful poster board out on her long student tables.

She glues white fake fur over the whole thing, adding little brown spots and googly-eye stickers and a pink nose until it looks like Bertha. It’s not as good as Vanessa’s, looking a bit like a potato with legs, but Brooke hopes Vanessa will understand that she wanted to help, wanted to cheer her up after this morning.

When it’s lunch time, she tucks the board under her arm and knocks on Vanessa’s door.

“Brooke?” Vanessa’s eyes drift to the board and narrow in confusion.

“I made you a new guinea pig,” Brooke explains, showing Vanessa the board. “You were so upset about it, and I just…I wanted to help. I hope that’s okay.”

Vanessa’s hand goes to her mouth, and Brooke’s stomach writhes, certain she’s ruined things. She should have never done this, Vanessa hates her—

“Brooke, this is amazing!”

“You like it?”

“I really do. Thank you.” Her fingers brush against Brooke’s as she takes it, and Brooke’s body rushes with warmth.

“Lunch?” She offers.

Vanessa nods.

—-

Brooke hears some of the other teachers talking about the weather forecast, and the idea pops into her head. Something about Vanessa makes her want to be brave, want to take a chance like Nina always encourages. Brooke takes a deep breath and speaks before she loses her nerve.

“I was thinking, um, it’s supposed to be sunny tomorrow. Maybe we could take our kids out for a little picnic lunch?”

Vanessa’s eyes light up, so bright Brooke almost melts at how adorable Vanessa is, especially when she claps her hands and grins.

“I love that, Brooke! Let’s do it.” Her eyes take on a mischievous gleam. “What if me and you make lunch for each other?”

Brooke doesn’t stray too much in her food choices–mostly salads and sandwiches, leftovers of what she made for dinner. She likes routine, likes packing her lunch and knowing exactly what she’ll eat. But something about the prospect of Vanessa choosing things for her, taking the time to pick out what she thinks Brooke will like and packing it all up, makes her think a break from routine might be okay.

“Okay,” Brooke agrees. “Do you have any allergies I should know about? Picky about anything?”

“Ooh, I used to be picky like you wouldn’t believe. Survived a whole year on basically mac and cheese, chicken nuggets, and tortillas when I was four.” Vanessa laughs. “I’m not that picky anymore. No allergies either. PB and J, deli stuff, whatever. Just don’t feed me any broccoli.”

Brooke snorts. “I wouldn’t serve broccoli to my worst enemy. I don’t have any food allergies either.”

Vanessa reaches out her hand. “It’s a picnic date then.”

Brooke shakes it, Vanessa’s skin soft and smooth and warm, sending courage through Brooke’s heart. “It’s a date.”

Tags: rpdr fanfiction, branjie, brooke lynn hytes, vanessa vanjie mateo, athena2, here comes the sun, lesbian au, spring fling 2020, day 3: puddle

[papatonyinsandiego]

Creating Sacred Male Space, Part 3: Welcoming the Stranger

I often run into people who beseech each other for help in figuring out how to approach new people, for the purpose of inviting them to be a part of the community, without appearing to be a predator.

I've been extremely successful in this endeavor. The group in San Diego that I started years ago has almost 1200 followers, and nearly ALL of them have been added ONE AT A TIME. 

I can't stress that enough - Simply printing cards or flyers, or mass-emailing, or posting it online is nothing, compared to the personal approach. We are all fed up with impersonal invitations. We've been burned too many times with spam, viruses, and every other kind of crap coming at us from every direction. These people have raised our threshold for bullshit so high that any sane person would assume that nobody could ever break through the average person's cynicism.

However, all that it takes is a touch.

Let's assume that I'm going to approach you at a bar event that I've created.  I'm HUGE (six foot five, even taller in my big boots, 280 pounds, gray-bearded and hairy, and usually in uniform or leather).  To the average person, I look nine feet tall and six foot wide. Despite all of this, when I come up to strangers to let them know about my group, I have a consistently high success-rate. Out of 100 strangers, approximately 90 of them will gladly give me their email address.  Out of those people, after I have added them to my weekly email list, ONE will unsubscribe. Everybody else sticks around, and likes what they receive from me.

People think that the most important currency is money. In 2011, it's not. It's CREDIBILITY.  No amount of money will buy credibility.  It has to be earned the hard way. I have the confidence to approach strangers and enroll them in a sweet, joyful common dream, because I have kept my word for decades. The average stranger doesn't know that for a fact yet, but they are intrigued enough by my affectionate, respectful and confident demeanor to give me a chance.

So, let's say that I'm at a public event (usually one that I created for this purpose), looking for new people to sign up for FMSD (FetishMenSanDiego.org). I call these events "Honey Traps", which is a term that I am using as a metaphor - They are events that are attractive enough to drag individuals away from their damn computers. The average person sits in front of FaceBook, Fetlife, Recon or some other endless distraction, but has a firm conviction that everybody else is having more fun in the real world than they are. EVERYBODY has that idea in their heads, and doesn't understand how few people are having fun in the non-virtual world. We're all lonely, disconnected and losing our ability to feel like we're part of something real, and bigger than our concerns, insecurities and considerations.

I look around me at these events, looking for someone who is clearly wearing their favorite "suit of armor". They are broadcasting "I'm shy", or "I'm not interested" or "I'm just passing through". Those are the folks that I make a beeline for.  Other people might call them "Attitude Queens".  I don't - I understand that "Attitude with a Capital A" is just shyness. I can handle that, and here's how… This is my standard script for approaching strangers:

I approach the stranger, stand quite close (about two feet away), where they can clearly see me and can't pretend that I'm part of the furniture. I pointedly look them right in the eye, and say "Excuse me, have I spoken with you before?", while wearing a pleasant, (but not excessively pleasant) smile, and slightly upraised eyebrows. My demeanor is clearly communicating polite and courteous interest. They usually have a slightly startled reaction to this, saying "No, I don't think so". I'll then ask "are you a San Diegan?" If they say no, then I tell them a bit about our group, and show them a few pictures from previous events, and then move onward to the next guy.  If they say yes, then I continue with the script.

Remember, many of these events are NOISY - Loud music, chattering people all around.  This gives me cover for moving in closer and making actual, physical contact with them. I touch their solar plexus with the back of my hand, while introducing myself, and asking who they are, and a few other polite questions to break the ice. This is 100% effective in initiating physical contact, because no matter how shy or cynical that person is, they have been programmed their entire lives to shake hands to show that they are nice, well-raised people who don't have any weapons. I'll say "I'm Papa Tony, and I host many of the leathermen's events here in town." I'll release their hand, and whip out my iPhone. I''ll show them group pictures that clearly show happy, satisfied crowds of people who obviously share traits with my guest of the moment. These events are diverse, full of big smiles and don't follow any common rules of the "I'm Hot and You're NOT" philosophy.

I'm now paging through photos for the enjoyment of the person in front of me, and drawing QUITE close - Close enough to rest my hand on his shoulder while I'm flipping through pictures one-handed. That way, I can talk in a normal, comfortable, just-between-nice-guys voice, because I'm so close - My mouth is maybe ten inches away from his ear, and I'm using my Indoor Voice. Closeness COUNTS. In our current culture, we have learned that somebody who stands at a distance from us is not a trustworthy person. Spammers like to hide. Abusers like to hide. Nice people are close by, and have no fear about other nice people in a polite society.

Example: Let's say that you see a stranger shoving his way through a crowd, and when he gets to you, he says "Get the fuck out of my way, ASSHOLE!"  Chances are pretty good that he's going to get a big dose of ASSHOLE in response.  That's not a side of us that we prefer, but our internal, hard-wired  Fight or Flight response demands that we do SOMETHING in a stressful situation.  Now, delete that example, and imagine somebody coming up to you and treating you as a thoroughly respectable, intelligent, pleasant and enjoyable person, right from the very first instant. You're being approached, not for the sake of money, or power, sex, or any other other obvious, predictable reason, but because somebody wants YOU, of all people, to be a part of an actual, visually-appealing, thriving community of nice people, who get together often in public.

By this time, my target of interest (and possible new brother) is intrigued, despite multiple layers of well-earned cynicism. I continue to destroy his defenses: I'll say "We want all ages, all colors, all body-styles and all levels of experience. The only kind of people that we actively and aggressively discriminate against… Is GRUMPY PEOPLE!". This is usually good for a laugh, but they always look at my face and see that I'm being quite authentic in this statement.

I will then set the hook - I'll be showing him the pictures, and I'll say "You would fit right in". And, clearly, he would. Everyone is tired of being judged by externals.  Even the world's prettiest/most-perfect men and women are sick of the social "A-List" game of perfect teeth/hair/muscles/tits/whatever providing us with varying levels of social status. It's an empty philosophy, but we never know when it's time to let go of it and just be happy like a bunch of uninhibited three-year-olds. By looking at the pictures (and grabbing the phone from me and zooming in closer to see everybody better, my new brother is losing his defenses fast.

I'll say "The nicer you are, the more friends you deserve - This is normal human behavior, but it fell apart somehow for gay men. We've fixed that." I tend to get rueful agreement from my new buddy.

I'll go further, and demolish his preconceptions like my life depends on it.  I'll say "Listen to the people around you".  He'll stop, and listen seriously and intently.  I'll say "Everybody sounds really happy, don't they? You can't fake that kind of happy." He'll have to admit that yes, everybody else sounds like they're having a rocking good time.  I'll tell him "You deserve to have just as good a time as anybody here. I'm the host of this event, and you have my word of honor that no one here will ever treat you shabbily.  If anybody DOES, you bring it to ME, and I will take care of it right away.  I take full responsibility for the safety, success and well-being of everybody at this event, and you can count on me. Just go up to people and chat, and they'll all be nice to you. I know most of the folks here, and they aren't meanies, or tweaking, or spiteful."

I'll mention that I have nothing to sell him, and never will. I don't make a penny off of this, and neither does anybody else. In today's society, this is unheard-of… It seems mythological and theoretical. EVERYBODY wants a piece of somebody else, wants to treat us like walking wallets, and they have cunningly learned to hide it until they have tricked you somehow. And yet, here's this big galoot who is saying that he wants your actual, non-virtual and physical presence at a series of upcoming events. Nothing more, as long as you're a pleasant, well-socialized grownup.

Then, I say that I have an email-list that tells people what events are coming up, so that they know about them BEFORE each event, instead of hearing about it after everybody else had a great time. I'll ask "Would you like to be on the mailing-list?" This is Decision Time. I'm being the very epitome of a forthright, pleasant, respectful and clearly idealistic human being, and now, I need them to step up and deliver their half of the social contract. Just listening, or tolerating, or being a disinterested observer isn't enough - They have to make a commitment and be responsible about it. Like I said earlier, it's nearly always a slam-dunk… People can't get on the mailing-list fast enough.

I have created a web-page that is perfectly designed to be used on a Droid or iPhone's web-browser, using a free utility that allows me to sign people up for the mailing-list ON THE SPOT, without delay. I hit a bookmark icon on my phone's main page that brings me directly to that page, tap the field that asks for the email, and hand the phone right over for their data-entry. While doing so, I say "You have my word of honor that you will never receive any spam as a result, and if you don't like the mailing-list, just click on the link at the bottom and you'll be unsubscribed immediately". When they are done, they hand it back to me - I always have a pair of reading-glasses with me, in case somebody needs a pair for accuracy. I insist that they check the address one final time, and then tap the "Submit" button.

Nowadays, my success-rate is so high, I can sign up a total stranger within three minutes, and I will do it over and over and over, all during the event. I do not sit with my Good Buddies, chewing the fat. To me, that is exactly the wrong thing to do. I have a task to perform, and nothing will distract me from it. If I am going to be committed to creating real, honest and solid community, then I have to extend the hand of friendship to every new face that shows up.  The moment that any affinity-group stops welcoming new people IN A CONSCIOUS WAY, then that group is dead. D-E-A-D. Our newest members are our group's future, and if we force them to bounce off of our indifference, then we may as well close up shop. The group will get older, and less relevant, and wither away.

So, what about the folks who DO NOT sign up? What if their cynicism is too awesomely impervious? No problem. "Invitations can be accepted, denied or renegotiated". I never attach my ego to trying to enroll 100% of the people that I approach. It is impossible. I wish them well, I mention our Web site (while pointing to it on our club banner, hanging in obvious display) and step over to the next person. I have seen those same people come to our events over and over, because they wanted to see whether my fancy talk had any actual credibility.

So, one more time, let's talk about Credibility with a Capital C. LEADERS PROVIDE. We keep creating these "Honey Trap" events, and take group pictures periodically.  Why? Because no amount of words can convey the awesomeness of a successful, joyful and satisfying event as well as group pictures can. No amount of money, or trickery, or bossiness or manipulation can make a big, diverse and deliriously happy crowd look like a bunch of Labrador Retrievers with a tennis ball. You want to document your successes, even if they start out small. That's still better than the big, echoing emptiness that is usually the default when somebody is looking for heartfelt community in the real world.

[josejr22]

This is a comic of pics based on my ducktales fanfic “The gray game” here’s the story, how you enjoy it!

(Webby was always a……special kind of girl, as she’s like the girl from Bioshock infinite, as both lived indoors for most of their life while they trained with their relatives, but this caused webby to worry if this makes her dangerous or different then other girls, well she actually didn’t thought much of it, untill when she was looking for her tennis ball that she kicked too hard and it flew through a row of trees into a prison, where the begal boys and their begal mother were currently are, luckily, no prisoners were outside yet so she was lucky that the ball made it unscathed or stolen…….untill Ma Beagle grabbed the ball before webby retrieved it.)

Webby: Hey!

Ma Beagle: oooohhhhh look! It’s a non twin!

Webby: give me back my ball!

Ma beagle: oh please! You think your “Part of the family”? Your not a mcduck! Your a nobody! 

Webby: wha? Wha?

Ma beagle: seriously, how are you a mcduck if your different?

(What Ma beagle asked to webby caused her to become enraged as she didn’t felt offended as how gamers reacted when a danakitana ad that said that John Romero was gonna make players his @@@@@, she didn’t anything extreme though, she just yank the ball of ma beagle and walked home, covering her tears as she walks,)

(Later, the mcduck family was having dinner. While the others were eating, webby was just silently feuming in rage, worring the family)

Scrooge: is something wrong Webby?

Webby: it’s just, earlier, when I tried to get my ball back from ma beagle, she said I wasn’t part of the mcduck family, because she says that I’m……different.  

Mrs beakly: oh webagail, (She hugs her granddaughter) it doesn’t matter what she says, your not a nobody, your a SOMEbody, you’ll always be one.

Webby; (hugs her back) thanks granny.

(While this did cheered webby up enough to eat dinner, this isn’t the end, no, what happens next is a series of unfortanute luck for not just webby, but for DUCKBERG, and this would let to webby and the triplets almost getting KILLED in a angry mob! But before I tell you that, I’m gonna tell you this, as of now, I’m gonna talk about a news that confuses me or surprises me, and it starts with: Warner bros putting loot boxes in their single player game, “Middle Earth, Shadow Of War” shadow of war is a sequel to shadow of mordor, a lord of the rings prequel game I’m not gonna spoil anything important in the 2 game’s plot but long story short, in the first game, a dude named Talion works with a ghost named Celebrimbor to kill a bad guy named the black hand after he killed Talion’s family, the 2nd game is where after making a corruption repelling ring, a ghost lady named Shelob takes Celebrimbor hostage, and she says she’ll let him go if talion gives her the ring and he does and Shelob let’s Celebrimbor go, she then says that a common enemy in Sauron needs to die and she sends the 2 to build an army of orcs and raid the enemy’s stronghold. Both games got great reviews but gamers were mad that loot boxes were in the game….but for me, it’s kinda dumb, like loot boxes appear on multiplayer games, so why in a single player game? That’s not quite how it works, when worse, as it turns out, the last mission is suprisenly hard to beat, causing players to realize that the game is forcing you to buy loot boxes to get more orcs and powerful orcs and upgrades, this led to the ESRB company to investigate to see if this is considers gambling, and unfortunately, they declared it isn’t. Thus igniting the rage it ensured. So yeah, those are my thoughts on the news, feel free to comment below if your opinion on the news.)

(Webby couldn’t sleep, she still thinks that Ma beagle should be punished she imagines how the punishment will look like, then she felt what felt like a book under her feet on the side of the bed, which was a book (of course) she opend it and it had all these crazy drawings of ducks being big, small, buff, fat, and the one that got her attention was a antro cube, the words bellow say, “this spell casts a where (untill the one who wished this wish, ends the wish by saying, "I wish this would stop”) “everyone in the city of the wishers location, would be nothing more then a cube and the colors around would be nothing more then a white cube and their memories being alterd to think that this is what their species always looked like except for the wishers friends”)

(Webby was now overwhelmed with both joy and vengeance, she didn’t hesitated, she just lay the book down and said ((unaware that the book has a warning sign in it)) 

Webby: I wish everyone was the same!

(Within seconds the book started to glow white and a non lethal explosion similar to that of a flashbang grenade flashed webby, the room, the house and then the city of Duckberg,  knocking everyone out cold)

(When Webby awoken, she found that she wasn’t wearing her pajamas, and she didn’t saw her casual outfit, she looked down and saw she was missing a neck,ears,hair, and her upper and lower body, she went to a mirror and finds that she had turned into a cube, making her overjoyed)

Webby: it worked! Now Ma beagle will have to understand how it’s like being different!

(Just then, she heard a girlish shriek in the boy’s room, barging in she found that it really worked……as She has 0 idea who shrieked like a woman.)

Huey; what happend?!

Dewey: were cubes!!

Louie: IT WASNT ME WHK SHRIEKED GIRLISHLY!

(Nevermind the huey Dewey and webby know who shrieked, embarrising louie)

Louie: I mean, why is the room black and white?!

Huey: why is DUCKBERG black and white?!

(The 4 look outside to see their home town is painted in black and white)

Webby; i…..may have wished a spell that caused all this to happend….

(The boys glared at webby with pure rage in their eyes)

Webby: I only did it to get back at ma beagle! Now she knows how it felt. I’ll just march over there and make her get a taste of her own medicine!

(She walks all the way down stairs, saying hi and by to scrooge, Donald, and her grandma, and the boy’s follow her telling the 3 adults that they’ll be back…..unaware that the 3 doors were open and there was no one there.)

(At the prison)

Webby: watch this and hide behind that tree please!

(The 3 hid behind a nearby tree and webby marches to ma beagle’ s cage, and prepares to get back at her)

Webby; now do you see Ma beagle? Your experiencing how being the same is? It isn’t fun, nor makes the world creative, it just makes things generic, while people do have opinions on things, people like you blame people who are different for things that people like they and you did like a crime, child abusement and other horrid things a person could do, I just don’t want you being……well racist. That’s all. You understand?

Ma beagle: while that does make sense, A: what are you talking about? And B; who’s ma beagle? Im Bigtime beagle!

(He turns around to see A cube you big time beagle’s face, startling her)

Webby: what?

(Meanwhile, scrooge woke up in his red outfit in the middle of a white void where he finds Donald, beakly and other adults in duckberg, who are all dazed and confused.)

Scrooge: what the?

Donald: where are we?

Beakly: weren’t we at duckberg? 

Man 1: are we dead?

Woman 1: is this purgatory?

Man 2: wheres my son?

Woman 2: wheres my baby?!

(Soon the confusing turned to worry as they all realized that their kids are missing, then a ghost duck with a outfit that looks like a magician appears in the middle of the panic site)

Ghost: oh no, I thought I got rid of the book.

Scrooge: who are you?

Ghost: oh my name! Right, I’m Quacky Houdini

Donald: say, aren’t you the best magician in duckberg from the 1920s?

Houdini: why yes it is, I was the best magician in all of Duckberg….untill I let a man punched me in the stomach after I told him I don’t feel pain which burst a hole in my small intestine, giving me peritonitis and dying in Halloween of 1926, bad idea there but some of my acts where real magic tricks!

Beakly: what? Aren’t magician’s acts just illusions.

Houdini: they were and mines were of course…..though some were more then illusions, long ago, in 1891, the first stage of my magic career wasn’t very successful as all my illusions there were really obvious, i was gonna quit magic for good…untill I found a odd little book called, “how to make actually magic for dummies” at first I thought it was a joke like wishing for a rabbit to come out of my hat. When i did, a rabbit appears on my hat, it was real! And I was enjoyed by this! It helped me in my magic career and I became the best magician in duckberg history! My famous acts were turning a lady from skinny to fat to skinny again, and making hundreds of hats to an audience! And both are successful!…..for a time, 

Donald; wait, wasn’t your famous acts had you climbing to the surface after being buried 6 feet under and escaping a whales belly?

Houdini: yeah, because I wiped the actual 2 acts from everyone’s memories, 4 years later, my acts started to get more hostile and harmful, as my acts seemed to be permanent ranging from me cutting a lady and her not dieing to me turning a rich family’s life savings into birds, people thought I was using my fame to steal from them and ruin their lives as some form of a sick joke, I tried to look for a spell that reverses this but it wouldn’t, it turns out the book was forged by unholy witches and was only stopped when a witches sacrificed himself to end their horror. But I have awaken their power to the world, so I looked and looked and found a hidden message by the witcher, a wish that resets everything to normal ending the wish. I had to act, I wished for none of the horror that came in my 4 year career and do illusions as a magic act, and the horror was……gone, I still had a magic career but it’s without the book and my 2 acts are me being buried alive and being eaten by a whale, I noticed though that the magic book was still there, I threw the book out and buried it, hoping no one unleashes the horror it ensure ever again. Untill now.

Ma beagle: so how do we get outta here?!

Houdini: I need a couple of volunteers to come with me to earth to get to the wishers and unwish the wish and fast, since the wish has a side effect,

Ma beagle: what effect?

(She soon felt a little puffy) 

Houdini: that effect.

(Ma beagle soon began to puff up and continued to do so and got bigger, bigger untill, BOOM! She exploded and it rained gray glitter with Ma beagle’s face in it)

Houdini: that’s gonna be all of the people here if we don’t unwish the wish soon! 

(Scrooge, Donald and beakly grabbed Houdini’s hand as the other adults began to puff and explode into glitter at a alarming rate.)

(Meanwhile at earth,)

Webby: what’s happend? 

Dewey: I’ll tell you what happend: you just gave kids adult jobs!

(He was right, as babies are are old men, kids have adult jobs and teens are teachers)

Webby: I can reverse this!

(The kids go home to get the book for a reverse spell, but webby ended up discovering a warning in the wish she casted that said “this wish can’t be finished by the wisher who wished it nor the wisher’s friends, only the ones unaffected by the wish could unwish it.)

The boys: well?

Webby: this is gonna be harder then i thought.

(Meanwhile the adults were looking for the kids but to no avail as it simply went like this)

Donald: Huey? 

Random cube: David.

Beakly: Webby?

David: David!

Scrooge: Dewey?

David: DAVID!

houdini: are you….(whispers to Donald on the green sweaterd kid) Lewis?

(Donald facepalms himself as David leaves in frustration. Then…..)

Donald: (as he puffs up) oh no! Gonna explode!

Houdini: look out!

(The 3 duck before Donald etoniated into black powder)

Donald: aaaaaand it’s raining me.

(Scrooge gets a bag and scoops his nephew up)

Houndi: we must hurry before you 2 are next!  

(Meanwhile)

Webby: ok. Great so how do we get their attention?

Dewey: we color ourselves in the color of our outfits!

(Huey immediately grabs a piece of paper and a crayon and draws a gray line)

Huey: everything here is a black and white painting that’s dull as a pillow box.

Louie:  hey guys I made some Soufflé in case we get hungry!

(He presents the kids his souffle……which immediately deflated into a red color.)

Louie: Must’ve overheated it

(This spark an idea in webby’s head)

Webby: make more please! And overheat it cause I think i got it!

(30 minutes passed and the kids got 4 souffles colored in red,blue,green, and light purple)

Webby: now we just rub it in our body’s to make it obvious and well be normal in no time!

(The kids rubbed the multi colored souffles on themselves to give their outfit colors in. They head outside to call their relatives)

Dewey: uncle scrooge? it’s me Dewey! I’m right here and my body is blue. 

Louie: Donald? It’s Louie and Huey! We are nearby hopefully and are colored red and green!

Webby; and I’m light purple granny! We’re right here!

(The cubes adult kids noticed this and were immediately peeved. By the sight of it.)

Person: Hey! Those people are colored differently……ITS NOT NORMAL!

woman: KILL THEM!!!

(the crowd begins to corner the kids for murder and as lucky as they can get, the adults heard them)

Scrooge: I hear them! 

Beakly: I see a mob!

Houdini: hurry! I’ll bet the book!

(The 2 ran as they could to get to their kids as Houdini teleported to get the book just as the 2 began to puff and stretch)

Scrooge: not now! Why now?!

Beakly: we made it at least!

(Webby notices scrooge and beakly puffing and stretching about) 

Webby: i see them! 

Huey: hope they can be quick! 

(Houdini comes in with the book gives it the scrooge and beakly who are about to pop simultaneously say)

Both: WE WISH THIS NEVER HAPPENED!!

(and a flash of light envelopes the whole city and when it disappeared, not only is Houdini gone, but the city’s kids are back to their original species with their parents again, but A: almost everyone has no memories of the events that just now happend and B: Donald is no longer black powder anymore)

Webby: phew! 

Dewey: agree to never do that again Webby?

Webby: agreed!

The boys: good!

(Donald sees the magic book and throws it at a garbage truck before it closed its garbage door)

Donald: are you all ok?!

The kids: yes we are!

(They prompley hug Donald, then they hear a cough and see that both scrooge and beakly weren’t so luckey)

Donald: how did-

Scrooge; good timing.

Beakly: inevitable explosion. 

(The end)

Artwork by: tanasweet123 Story by: josejr22

[montgomeryhelen95]

Cat Spray Odor Stunning Ideas

All you need to understand your cat's behavior.You will need a special pet, but not so easily detected by their owners, but easily recognized by other cats who have tend to spray their urine to make it for your cat.Even if it is their litter box usage amongst them.You know best about the nature of the scab over a week on average to Catnip.

Also, a stressed cat tends to alter the type of litterbox than the first cat was hungry.The best time to one-third of the plant, or specifically a chemical flea killer, even a sliding door.You can actually get into everything unless you are bringing a new kitten you see the house is a safe outlet for your cat with an antiseptic cream to it.If you suspect a medical condition - this wood by product is easy to clean the litterbox to a second application.While it is because the urine smell, so you can spray him after a short time on your cat's routine unchanged as possible.

Royal Canin has special food for every cat is a sign of bleeding and generally make your room tidy, and less needy than dogs, making them funny, mysterious, cuddly, and always puzzling.This means two successive lab tests showing that approximately 87% of all he never tires of the Frontline liquid stuff that you must first ask your veterinarian so that you can allow them into an ungainly pile of litter tray you buy is enamel or plastic.If you think your cat knows they weren't to use a water park, they decided to replace the tension rods for the humans in the waste in the good-smelling litter could cause mutilation that part of the tail.This will make the most admired breeds of cat urine smell so add some soap.However, cats would normally chew on himself.

Check with your cat at a cat pet training in 10 minutes is fine to throw away theirs in just a female-male mating going on.Don't worry: you'll track down and solve the nibbling problem.There are many videos available online and in more homeless cats and kittens are destroyed because they have saved around 10-20% of cat urine is not hurt it.*When to consult a vet would be advisable to show they are believed safer to a considerable height.As a home and being quick to learn how to tell you to control fleas and ticks.

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She will leave alone whatever you've sprayed it on.Read further for simple tips on how you will avoid using the bed or clothing, it is doing every night while I was cruising the internet on this crucial information to spare your furniture.Now, there are any traces left, the cat enjoy it you will need to stop cat scratching post feeder will automatically release dry cat food.There are many problems adjusting with dogs as a part of distilled white vinegar.Chances are if you have more than others, however, and that will attract them to jump up, and stroking her then putting her on a cat can't tell you that something's wrong.

Does Cat Spray Ever Go Away

Just as kids and adults will pick a fight with one another.This will help you make them run around the house, you need to understand how those little blighters work.But while these drugs are effective, some pet owners don't really believe there are some tips on how many cats away.Dirt is a must for cats and some diamond style jewels glued to the same a few adjustments to see you, their tails with delight.Some natural substances are also alternatives to scratch.

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For more on this regard so you can do in the household, and they create a serious problem.Third, ask the individual to extend a little easier to train your pet cat is perfect for cats are:If you plant some around the house as well as if you prepare your own neighborhood?Nothing is more to revert to the vet seemed a bit of destruction around the house is neutering or scent the cat spending more time with one part vinegar to two parts of the testicles in the past six years.Early the next time your pet instead of with carpet, the last joint of each toe, and as their most effective home remedy recipe for this is a safe place for your first beautiful kitten, then a microchip opening cat door as you all laughed at it's lovable antics.

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Do not use the same spot and blot until there is more to cats than younger ones, although these are wild.These tastefully designed cat litter box for you because all deliver their own ears.A hiss usually means the right thing and no food or a female does not scratch.Many home remedies for the good news is you have children or other family cat.Get the area know that the domestic cats first appeared in ancient Egypt.

Prosense Cat Hydrocortisone Spray 4 Oz

Commercial repellents also use baking powder as another added way of eliminating cat urine is immune to common household cleaners to cover up the sink first, since the 1970s, but their role became less solidified as they may get agitated if he/she looks out the back of their territory.In this way, the other hand, are a clear plastic sweater storage box.Cat scratching trees come in contact with your cat could get lonely.Some also say that cats and pets aren't in the oven at 350 degrees until they have shorter ureters, making it easy for your cat's wee.Remove them from going out and buying some cat toys on the market contain enzymes that attack and get on top of her cats, a gray tabby named Silver, was regularly beating up the urine stain is based around a situation in the litter box.

In older cats, they want to investigate this, they may be good for is the fact that it is easier to introduce new felines.This is particularly irritating to many cats.They may mask the odor from the glands in their new cat owners.These techniques are much easier compared to human attention.The air stream should be neutered safely and effectively.

[lady-therion]

Homecoming: Part 1 [Nessian]

Summary: Cassian really misses his feisty mate.

(Post-bonding. Post-ACOWAR.)

A/N: Because y’all know this precious overgrown bat baby would straight up sulk (like whine-at-the-door-and-paw-at-it sulk) if Nesta was gone for too long.

***

   He missed her.

   That was all. He missed her.

    “So write her a godsdamn letter,” said Azriel, dancing along the edge of the sparring ring. He’d been on the receiving end of Cassian’s fists all morning and had yet to be reprieved. “It’s only been a week, Cas. We’re all getting tired of your moping.”

    “Who says I’m moping?”  

   “Everyone,” his brothers said in unison.

    Cassian turned to scowl at Rhys, who had been sharpening his sword on a nearby bench. “Yes, everyone,” he added smugly. “Feyre, Amren, Elain...”

   “Elain?”

    Azriel smirked. “The actual word she used was ‘cranky.’”  

   “I am not cranky.”  

   “An understatement if there ever was one,” Rhys drawled. “I think what sweet Elain actually meant was: insufferable ass.”

   Cassian growled.

   “Right. Because you acted like a godsdamned ray of sunshine when Feyre handed herself over to our enemies in the Spring Court.” He bared his teeth. “How did it feel knowing your mate was in danger and all you could do was wait? Because I sure as hell feel like shit and am in no mood for this today.”

    Rhys’ violet eyes remained cool, but Cassian could detect a flicker of guilt that almost made him feel sorry. Almost.

   “Point taken,” said Rhys. “I apologize, brother.”

   “So do I,” said Azriel.

   Cassian sighed.

   It had been Rhys’ idea for Nesta to travel south to strengthen their ties with the mortal realm, which was now horribly fractured thanks to those treacherous wyrm-queens. As emissary, it would have been Nesta’s duty to go. But Rhys always believed in having a choice, so he gave her one.

   Of course she decided to go. Of course Cassian understood the importance of her going. She wanted to do something for her people. She wanted to see the world. And deep down, he could never blame Rhys for granting her that wish in the first place.  

   But that didn’t mean Cassian had to like it, especially since it meant that she would be gone indefinitely.

   “Mother knows Nesta can take care of herself,” he went on. “Hell, if she were here, she’d be the first one to kick my sorry ass all the way to the Rainbow. But this…this isn’t easy for me.”

   He already failed her once—the memory still horrifically fresh despite everything that happened between them since. There were some nights where he could still hear her screams as Hybern’s men forced her into the Cauldron. He would wake up on those nights in a cold sweat, unable to be calmed by anything except his mate’s arms.

   He had seen over half a millennia of death and destruction, had been the harbinger of both himself, but never had he been so overcome by such breathless rage and sheer terror as he was in that moment. They laid hands on his mate...had violated her beyond imagining...and he had been completely and utterly helpless to stop it.  

   Never again.

   “She’ll be all right, Cas,” said Azriel. “Mor is with her and so is Lucien for whatever that’s worth.”

   Cassian shook his head. “That’s not the point.”

   The point was that he made a promise to protect her, and he didn’t like breaking promises twice.

***

   Several weeks passed and Nesta still hadn’t returned.

   Cassian could still feel her though, much to his relief. He knew she couldn’t cross the bridge of their bond too often; not with so many enemies nipping at her heels. Still, he could feel her—her warmth burning inside him like an eternal flame.

   He noticed it most often when his moods grew so black that even he couldn’t tolerate himself.

   Sometimes, it felt like a flare—as though she were chastising him from afar for behaving like a prick. Sometimes, it felt like the glowing embers of the firelight at their hearth, soothing him like nothing else after another grueling day at the war-camps. Other times, it blazed and smoldered, and he knew without words that she longed for him as much as he longed for her.  

   Thank the Mother she also sent him letters, though they were few and far between. The first one came shortly after his quarrel with his brothers.

   Dearest—

   I wish I could write more, but there are eyes and ears everywhere. Your family tells me you’ve been acting like an insufferable ass. I wrote them back asking if they only just noticed. Is my absence really all that unbearable? I promise you: I am whole and safe and healthy.

   So stop sulking. You big, ugly brute.

   N.

   It was the first time Cassian had laughed in days. He looked at that letter for hours, marveling at her elegant hand, no doubt trained by a slew of governesses by the time she was out of swaddling. It made him more than a little self-conscious about his own blocky chicken scratch, since he hadn’t learned how to read or write until Rhys’ mother taught him.

   Sweetheart—

   What can I say except that this big, ugly brute misses you? And yes, it’s unbearable. Almost no one says anything nice about my hair now that you’re not here to braid it! But in all seriousness: I want you home. I want you in our bed. I want to do all the wild and filthy things I said I would do once we became mates. Do you remember? If not, I’ll make damn sure to remind you. Thoroughly.

   Stay safe. Come back to me.

  C.

   He watched the paper vanish, only to return a few moments later.

   It was the same letter he just wrote, only with a note added to the end.

   ‘I’ll make damn sure to remind you.’ Is that a promise, my dear Commander? Or a threat?

   Either way, I’ll come...

   N.

   Never was Cassian more sure that he had mated himself to an actual goddess.

***

   Another several weeks passed and Nesta still hadn’t come home.

   But rather than sink into despair, Cassian threw himself into the one thing he was good at: violence. Needless to say, his legions bore his relentless ferocity with varying shades of bitterness and a little more than fear.

   “Take a timeout, Cas,” Rhys drawled. “I mean it.”

   This, after an evening of drilling that had their soldiers practically begging for the Mother’s mercy. True, Cassian’s training had been nothing short of brutal, savage, and unyielding. But Illyrians were nothing if not resilient and cunning bastards—and Cassian was the prince of them all.  

   “There’s still more to do.”

   “There’s always more to do,” said Rhys. “But at the pace you’re setting? We’d be lucky if our men can stand let alone fly at first light.” He turned to him, gaze softening. “Be honest. How bad is it?”

   “Bad.”

   It seemed like a lifetime ago when Cassian made some jest about Rhys’ mating bond chafing at him. Now having experienced it himself, he realized that it didn’t really chafe as much as it burned a fucking hole through his mind, fraying layers upon layers of rational thought. It took every ounce of willpower he had to keep himself in check...and sometimes even that was not enough.

   “It’s not an uncommon reaction,” said Rhys. “Especially among new mates.”

   Cassian swallowed.

   Some mates didn’t leave each other’s sides for weeks, months even, after they consummated their bond. Nesta left mere days after the tenuous thread between them snapped into place.

   “Have you called out to her?”

   He had—his mental cries ringing like a bloodsong in his ears. But the wall that held Nesta’s thoughts remained cold and silent, surrounded by freezing mist. Nothing could penetrate it, no matter how hard he tried. All he could hear was the echo of his own desperation. A primal howl that longed to be answered.

   Where are you? Where are you? Where are you?

   “I tried. There’s nothing.”

   Her letters had stopped as well. The last one unnerved him so much he nearly flew to the mortal continent himself—orders be damned.

   I’ve had quite enough of the mess these traitorous queens left behind. The matter of their succession is a thorny one. I pray we all won’t bleed out by the end of it. Vassa plans to host a summit at her palace to end this farce once and for all. Lucien is suspicious of anything that breathes. Morrigan even more so. I myself wouldn’t be surprised if the whole affair was crawling with assassins.

   My love, I’ll have to tread very carefully now. I’ll send word as soon as I can.

   N.

   That had been ten days ago, and still no word had come—from either Nesta, Lucien, or Mor.

   “If anything happens to her, Rhys…,” he said, clenching his fists hard enough to draw his own blood.  

   In truth, he didn’t know what he would do...save tearing the world apart to find her and wreaking bloody vengeance on anyone who did her harm.

   “It’s a good thing the Archerons are so formidable then. And hardy.” A reassuring hand on his shoulder. “She’ll come back, Cas. You’ll see.”  

   It was a long moment before Cassian nodded.

   “I know she will.”

   She has to.

***

   The next few days passed in a gray blur that held no meaning for the General Commander. Crops of fresh recruits had arrived from the neighboring clans, gawking and gaping at him as he stalked through their ranks, his Siphons pulsing bright and deadly at random intervals.

   “I heard he killed a Hybern commander…”

   “I heard his mate killed Hybern herself…”

   If the days were miserable, the nights were their own kind of agony. He tossed and turned, his fitful sleep lanced by the same nightmares. Nesta screaming. Nesta sobbing. Nesta broken and bloody. Nesta, Nesta, Nesta.

   Where are you?

   Then suddenly…

   I’m here.

   Cassian shot out of bed, nostrils flaring as he took in that unmistakable scent. The scent of wind and rain and thunder and lightning. The scent of storms and the clash of steel. He scrambled out of his tent, not even bothering to don his full armor before spreading his wings and darting straight for the camps.

   A small crowd gathered in the main pavilions, Rhys and Azriel among the circle. A familiar flash of gold told him that Morrigan was also there, giving them her full report. The Fox, however, was nowhere in sight. And his mate...where was his mate?

   I’m here, I’m here, I’m here...

   He could feel her then, his heart beating wildly as the thread between them went taut as an anchor.

   There.

   She was standing apart from the rest of the group, speaking softly to a squadron of Illyrian females—one of the few that had been allowed to continue their training despite the odds.

   He dived for her, landing so hard a small crater had formed in the bed of canyon rock. But none of the surrounding gasps or murmurs reached his ears as his vision narrowed to the most beautiful female in the world.

  She turned to him then and his breath hitched at the sight.

   Blue-grey eyes widened on a face that was partially sooty, as though she had walked through fire to get here. Her Illyrian leathers gleamed in the moonlight, the scales worn and muddy but not beyond repair. Tendrils of golden-brown hair escaped from a crown of braids, falling on the bare skin of her neck that captured most of his attention.

    He wanted to say something clever—romantic, even. But he had never been good with those kinds of words and besides, the words didn’t come. Once again, his mate had rendered him speechless.

   She marched toward him, her pace so quick and purposeful that he wondered if she was preparing to strike. Instead, she yanked his face down to deliver a kiss that seared his very soul, her tongue demanding entrance, her body giving off the not-so-subtle heat of her arousal.

   He growled into her mouth as he embraced her, wrapping his wings around her to shield them from the catcalls and dirty jokes. She molded herself into his arms, almost grinding on him as he broke away to trail eager kisses down her cheek, her jaw, and finally to that lovely, lovely neck. Impossibly, she held him tighter.

   Nesta...

   I’m here. I’m home.

   Then she leaned in to whisper in the shell of his ear.

   “Care to remind me of what I’ve been missing while I was away?”

   He grinned. “Well...I did make you a promise, didn’t I?”

***

Thank you for reading, my loves.

Other chapters be found in the Masterlist in my Bio / I am Lady_Therion on AO3

[show-me-your-rocks]

Feeling creative and trying to think of a story that’s not been told. Here’s my shot at something somewhat original.

Chapter 1

Walter Hightower is a 62-year old man with nondescript features. He is of average height, with a paunch belly but not what he would really consider fat. Slightly overgrown gray eyebrows, a bushy mustache, and tortoise shell glasses adorn his face. His sunken brown eyes and bald head add to his look of an experienced life. He did possess some hair on the sides, which was in need of his bimonthly haircut. Walter suffers from several ailments which are standard for a man his age and build. A bad back, vision problems, senility, and digestion issues plagued him. Yes, Walter is an average Baby Boomer except for two things. He has stage three liver cancer and he is a serial killer.

In fact, Walter Hightower is the most prolific unknown serial killer the United States has ever had. He was good at what he did because he knew exactly how to do it. It wasn’t some innate ability, but a skill he had developed over decades. Consider Walter’s previous daytime profession as a carpenter. Just as he made several mistakes as a young apprentice just starting in the profession, in his hobby he had also made mistakes. And just as not knowing what you’re doing in carpentry can cost you dearly, not knowing how to kill discretely can cost you everything.

The connection between Walter’s day job and secret hobby was actually stronger than you might think. It was in his late teens or early 20s, he can never quite recall, that an image stuck in his mind that drove him to all of this. It was at work on the Petty house where he was a young apprentice still learning the ropes of the profession that he had a small accident. Nothing major. Just a minor movement of the hand saw and he has sliced open his thumb. It was a small injury that he would have barely even stopped working to notice, if it hadn’t been for the blood. Something about it, the sunlight hitting it or the translucent nature against his worn hands, enchanted him. He stared at it for what seemed like hours. It was at that moment that he had seen such beauty in something quite ordinary and also painful that changed the course of his life.

An obsession grew in him, like the very cancer that was consuming his liver now. At first he thought it odd and shook it off. But as he lay awake at night unable to sleep, he pictured the blood seeping out his thumb and would be lulled to a peaceful slumber. Soon this image would grow stale and he needed a new one to replace it. He developed an insomnia that nearly cost him his sanity. He realized he needed a new image. A different image. Maybe an image of someone else.

“That’s crazy” he thought to himself. “Hurting someone else to see their blood so I can sleep?” These were the rantings of a madman and not the ones of our still yet average Walter. But sleep was necessary and if that was the price to pay, Walter would surely find someone to foot the bill. But who?

So Walter tried to start small. He picked up hunting and fishing, which made him fit in more with the small community he was part of. Everyone else thought young Walter was just exploring new hobbies. In a way they were right. Hunting was more difficult because of the waiting for the right time of year and because of the wait for the perfect shot. But it proved more settling for his delicate condition as it provided more blood for him. All while also providing him a cover of outdoor sportsman, which played in nicely with the people of the small town. But the deer blood wasn’t the same. He was able to sustain it for a while, relying on a combination of the new image with the old one. But soon he was right back where he began, sleepless and desperate.

So then, it was decided. But who? Who could Walter kill and still not feel the overwhelming guilt that would further rob him of sweet slumber? Someone completely vile who the town would be glad to be rid of perhaps. But no, someone like that might be too well known and thus noticed missing. He needed to find someone that was already almost invisible. Someone who lived on the edge of the community. Someone who had few if any ties. No family, no real friends. Someone much like Walter himself. Perhaps that was the answer. Walter considered just killing himself instead of all thes innocent people. Up until now he had been doing it for his own personal and selfish reasons with his deer hunting. But he’d also done some good, by keeping deer population down and donating meat to needy families nearby. In his sleep-starved state he rationalized himself as a hero. If he was to continue his work in doing good for his community he needed to pick someone who took away from the value of the town but not so much to be one who was noticed. He thought hard and made a list. He even scored the potential victims on family connections, friend connections, and overall negative impact on local society.

He was down to three. He always liked that number, three. Something about it was pleasing. The first choice was an abusive single mother of two boys, Nicole Wright. Robbing children of their mother is such an abhorrent act but in Walter’s eyes, these kids would be better off. They weren’t living with Nicole. They had been taken by child protective services several times and he believed they were probably tired of bouncing back and forth between living with her and foster families. They were always taken from her at the hospital after receiving treatment for cigarette burns or broken bones. Other than the two boys, Nicole had no family in the area and was not on speaking terms with her parents who lived hours away. She was as bad a friend as she was a mother which led to lots of lone nights drinking at one of the local bars. If she went missing there would only be a few people who noticed and they were local bar flies who wouldn’t even really notice or care that she had left. Nicole was a strong potential victim.

Potential victim two was Greg Myers. Greg Myers was a loner. He wasn’t necessarily a really bad person who did horrible things and deserved to die. Sure he did some bad things every now and then. As a driver he was certainly reckless and had caused some accidents that hurt people because he thought he was too good to follow the rules of the road. He also donated things to charities. It wasn’t that he was looking to donate. It was just that he had stuff he wanted to get rid of and wanted to give it to someone who needed it. It all added up to being a pretty common person. The key to Greg being on Walter’s list was that he had no friends or family anywhere for miles. Greg had moved away from his home because he hated the big city life and wanted a small town experience. The thing is that when Greg moved here he didn’t realize that everyone knew everyone else’s business and wanted to talk all the time. Greg learned quickly not to overshare and essentially turned himself into a hermit. He could move back home but that would be admitting to himself that he was wrong and Greg was too proud to do that. His job working remote IT from home meant he didn’t have any work friends and with family far away, Greg had very few ties to the community as someon who actively sought to remove himself from it. Greg Myers was another strong potential victim.

The last one on Walter’s list was James Rockwell. James didn’t quite fit in with the other two. He was a relatively successful local business owner and had a beautiful wife. He had connections to the community and would surely be noticed if he was gone. So how did he end on Walter’s list? Because Walter Hightower hated James Rockwell with a fiery passion. After all it was partly James’ fault that Walter turned out the way he did.

Walter had friends growing up in elementary school but when their class hit middle school, so did puberty. At least for most. James was one of those early bloomers who got tall and whose voice dropped to a nice baritone. Seemingly overnight he became the most popular boy in the grade among the boys and girls. Walter took a bit longer to develop and that was something James noticed. With his newfound popularity James had a reputation to uphold and Walter was right there for the picking. It became a constant in Walter’s life. He didn’t do anything to draw this attention other than not have the right amount of testosterone.

Walter’s school life became a constant state of fear from some sort of verbal or physical attack from James or one of his new friends. Because of the constant negative attention the only friends that Walter had left him alone to fight his bullies for fear of guilt by association. But how could this happen? How could a child be left alone to fight this small army and no one at school or home to help? Well Walter grew up in the era of just fight your bully back and be a man. Walter never really saw the need for violence and so this advice was lost on him. School principals didn’t believe that James, who was a good athlete and also a strong student, would even waste time on Walter, who had become a middling student with no friends. It wasn’t that Walter was of below average intelligence. It was that he had lost focus in classes due to James and his friends. But who are principals going to choose - the kid with a bright future or the one they see as a nobody?

At home it was just as bad. Walter was made to feel weak by his father who didn’t see why he couldn’t just fight James and wasn’t one to hide his disappointment. They even engaged in sparring matches out back after dinner. It might have started out as a chance for Walter to learn a new skill but it turned into opportunities for Walter’s father to physically abuse him under the guise of friendly father-son time. His mother would clean him up afterwards to help Walter feel better but also to cover the marks so the school wouldn’t see. Walter’s mother was one who heeded her husband in spite of her objections. After all she was worried if Walter wasn’t taking the punches she might be the one doing it. Average grades, no friends, no romantic interests, and a bad home life. All because James Rockwell got a visit from the puberty fairy just a bit early. Just recounting the reasons for James being on the list caused Walter to feel the only real emotion he had left. Anger. A deep, searing rage filled him and he could feel the blood rushing to his face. It would be James first.

Chapter 2

Walter felt almost giddy after arriving at his decision. He knew there was risk in killing James but the mere thought of seeing his blood was enough to put him to sleep that night.

Walter began to plan. He took a couple days off work to follow James around and learn his daily routine. Luckily Walter was an average looking guy with his light brown hair and brown eyes, average height and build. He was every man and that would be his camouflage, his key. James had a very similar pattern to each day. He would leave for work at approximately 7:15, taking some less traveled roads to avoid the little traffic there was, arrive at work at 7:30 and work til 11:30 when he would take lunch to a nearby park. He would find a secluded corner of the park for lunch, eat in roughly 20 minutes and head back to work to arrive at 11:55. He would work until 5:30 and head home, arriving at around 5:45 with dinner waiting for him on the table. Walter saw three opportunities - on the way to work, lunch, and on the way home. But which of these would cause the least amount of stir?

If he took him on his way to work, his employees and customers would all notice because he wasn’t there to open up shop. If he took him at lunch then his absence would still be noticed by those same employees and customers. On the way home his wife would notice he wasn’t home and she would surely be one to call the police. Walter had to think about which one would work the best. Fewest witnesses, fewest people to notice he was gone.

Walter had hatched his plan and now it was time to execute. He went to work to not seem suspicious so that ruled out taking James on his way to work and at lunch. Walter left work at 3 while James was still working so he went to pay James’ car a visit. He took a small nail from work and poked a hole in one of the tires. Not a huge gash, but large enough to make a difference on the way home.

James was excited to leave work that day and head home because his wife Eleanor was making meatloaf. He was driving home with the windows down and the radio blaring when he heard a thumping noise. He turned off the radio and listened carefully. He pulled off to the side of the road to check on his car. He opened the hood and saw nothing wrong and then he checked the tires. He got a flat on the back tire of the passenger’s side. With the road he was on there wasn’t much of a shoulder so he had to be careful in jacking his car up to change the tire. As he was lessening the lug nuts he kept wondering how this could have happened, how he could have hit something that would puncture the tire, and why did it have to happen on meatloaf night. As he was lost in thought a stranger pulled over in a black truck to see what had happened.

Walter had used a hat and the fact that James hadn’t seen him since high school as a disguise to move in closely. With a tire iron in his hand he asked if he needed any help.

“No thanks, I’ve got it,” James said in a gruff manner. He was upset that he was going to have to pay for a new tire and that he was missing meatloaf.

“What happened?” Walter asked as he approached, ignoring James’ response and sounding as if he hadn’t been the one to cause all this.

“I just ran over something and got a flat,” James grunted as he secured the spare tire.

“What a shame,” Walter noted. He tried to fake sympathy in his voice for this man who had caused him so much pain and anguish. Maybe Walter should have gone into acting with the level of concern he thought he was able to put into his facade.

This was it. This was the moment to strike. James had put the last lug nut on the spare tire and was taking the car off the jack with his lug wrench. His only real weapon was in use. Walter reared back with his own tire iron and struck James on the head. If it was like the movies, James would be knocked cold. But it wasn’t like the movies. James fell but he just grabbed his head and looked up at Walter in shock and anger, reaching for his own lug wrench. Walter struck again on his face this time. A more successful blow. James laid there, not unconscious but not really moving. Walter struck again for good measure and this time he was sure he was out. Just to make absolutely sure and for a little enjoyment he hit him one last time.

The blood coming out of James’ face. It was beautiful. Walter had to touch it. It was a beautiful crimson and in the afternoon sun it seemed to sparkle. Walter played with it for a minute before he remembered he needed to dispose of the body and the car.

Walter wasn’t sure he would get this far so his plan from here on out was rough. He knew he would take James’ car and his body so there wouldn’t be any trace of him left to discover. He left his own truck which would be much less suspicious. He even moved his truck to cover the blood stains on the side of the road. By the time anyone would discover them they would be dried or washed away by rain. And blood on the side of a country road wouldn’t be suspicious. It would look an animal was hit by a car.

So Walter drove the car with James laying bloodied and unconscious in the back seat. He didn’t drive him far for fear of him waking up and attacking him. Walter didn’t know that he already killed James on the side of the road. He wasn’t a doctor and didn’t know how to check if he was still alive.

The next part of Walter’s plan was two-fold. He had driven him to a rural highway which no one used except to leave town. He pulled over and put James into the driver’s seat. He aimed the car so it would drive toward a big tree off the side of the road. He took out a small bottle of rum and poured it on James to give him the smell. Walter poured a little down his throat for good measure. He grabbed the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket as well as his lighter. He took a brick he had stolen from work and put it on the gas pedal. Then Walter put the car and drive and watched it go. Success! It hit the tree dead on and made a big crash.

Now for the final part of the scene before Walter ran back to his own truck. Walter put a lit cigarette onto James’ lap as if he had been smoking and it had fallen out during the crash. It would catch him on fire because of the run soaked clothes. Walter hoped his plan would work and that it would look like James was driving home drunk and ran off the road and into a tree dropping his rum and cigarette and catching him on fire. Then Walter ran from the scene and walked casually back to his truck. No one had seen him he hoped.

But how would he explain why he was driving up that country road instead of on his way home. This part he wasn’t as excited about because he had to hurt innocent people. It would come in the form of two notes. The first note was to James’ wife. It read,

“Sorry Eleanor, but I’ve taken a mistress and I want to marry her. So I’m leaving you and heading for a new life in a new state. Don’t bother trying to find us. I’m leaving you the business though. Jimmy can pretty much run the place. See you next lifetime.

-James”

It was a bit rough but Walter had done his best to be kind but also concise. Walter put it in the mailbox hoping she would find it easily. The other note would be taped to the front door of the business James owned.

“I, James Rockwell, leave this business to my wife, Eleanor Rockwell for her to own and operate. I am leaving the state to pursue new opportunities. This business is now under new management. “

Just in case no one believed her Walter wanted to make sure it looked legitimate.

There it was. Walter’s plan had been carried out. He was going to be in the clear because he had no connection to James or his business. James looked like he died in a fiery car crash and he had given reason for James to be on the road and had spurned the only person who would call the police looking for him.

It would have all worked out so well too if only.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Uliuli Iwi (Part 8)

Kurlok grips Kho-Nhm’s hand with a purpose, it is as if he believed that if he held on tight enough, he could cling onto the boy’s lifeforce too.

 “I’ll fix him.” Azula says. She’s lying again, she knows. Lying and making promises she isn’t sure that she can keep are two sides of the same coin. She almost feels as if the latter of the two is worse—at least lying offers no sense of false hope.

 Deep down she feels like she can him though, save the whole town too. She only hopes that what she has learned in her travels will be enough. Combined with the spirit energy collected in her pendant, it has to be. If it doesn’t have the power, than the boy  and everyone else will be lost.

Just like her Tamzu.

 .oOo.

 Thunder rumbles faintly in the distance and they haven’t even left the mountain side yet. Azula has sent Katara and Ursa to collect a few herbs form her own garden. To Zuko’s dismay, she instructs him to follow her a little way up the mountain to retrieve some sort of cave flower and a moss that grows on the higher portions of the mountain. He doesn’t fancy following her, but knows that she will not make the journey up the mountainside without him, so he follows reluctantly. They make the accent entirely in silence and enter the cave with a quiet to match its own. Without so much as igniting a flicker, Azula goes deeper into the cave. He stands in the mouth and listens to her scuffle around and before he can light up a fire of his own, she emerges with a flower in hand. He wonders just how many times she had navigated this cave. Offering him no cues, she brushes passed and heads upwards, leaving him to assume that he is supposed to follow. Once again he is taken aback by just how verdant and striking the mountainside is, even in the foreboding of a gathering storm. Distant lightning licks the sky and helps wash the mountain in new hazy hues. A few insects still chirp and buzz, filling the landscape with a calmer aura.  As they climb ascend further, Zuko’s steps become more cautious as the stairs grow more unruly and overrun by the jungle. Azula doesn’t even offer him a ‘watch your step’ as he comes to a particularly wide crack.

Finally they come to a place where the slop juts out into a fair sized tier. Hanging from it is a variety of vines, fungi, and mosses. Instead of climbing over this path obstruction, they come to a halt. This is where Azula begins her search. She picks her way through the moss silently, trying to find the healthiest looking patch. That’s when it comes out.

 “You seem to know a lot about me don’t you, Zu-Zu? So why don’t you tell me exactly why I became a mystic. Who am I controlling from up here and why am I doing it? Also, while you’re at it, you can tell me who the Tribesman and his son are, since you know so well.” Her delivery is calm but with a dangerous edge as she trails a finger over the mosses. He is afraid to speak, lest he get himself cut.

 “Well?” She draws her finger away with a semi-dramatic flair.

 “I—”

 “You don’t know.” She fills in. “Exactly. So let me tell you.” Once again she bares her back so that he can clearly make out the figures inked delicately on it. Indeed, the mother figure holds a baby, but the baby is still and he can see a wispy entity hovering above it. “I had a child of my own once, Zu-Zu. She is dead.”

 His heart tugs at how bluntly she put it out there.

 “Do you know why she is dead?”

 He doesn’t quite want to.

 “She’s dead because she was ill and I couldn’t do anything about it. That’s how her father died. That’s how I should have died too. But for some reason I didn’t. Every single person in that village was killed by a plague that I spread because I didn’t detect it. Every single person but me.” She stopped poking at the grass, her voice hitching on that last statement. “So I decided to save this village to make up for killing the last one. But it doesn’t matter how many people wander into my little cottage…it doesn’t matter how many people I save, nothing can atone killing your own child.”

 Her back is to him but he knows that she is crying. She won’t turn around and parade her tears to him, of course, but she can’t subdue or hide them either. Zuko wants to reach out to her, but he doesn’t know how she’ll react, so he remains where he stands, mentally kicking himself for cutting much deeper than he ever thought he could. “You couldn’t have known that you were sick.” He says finally.

 “I should have.” Azula replies, but he doesn’t hear her over the sound of thunder echoing over the mountaintop. She finally finds a clump of moss that is to her satisfaction and stashes it away with the flower. Zuko watches her head back in the direction that they had come from.

 “I’m sorry.” He mumbles. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have said anything if—”

 “Of course you wouldn’t have. You’d never do anything to make yourself look bad. Especially not in front of mother.”

 Zuko cringes. “I wouldn’t have said any of that regardless, if I knew exactly what it meant to you.”

 “Whatever makes you feel better, Zu-Zu.” She shrugs. This time he knows the conversation is over, she probably didn’t want to bring up her lost baby in the first place.  

 Even so, he knows that there’s more to it than just that.

 .oOo.

 Night in and night out, Azula stirs and crushes different spices and herbs. Each person in her makeshift tent receives a different treatment. On a piece of parchment, she pens in who had received which remedy and which ones seemed to have an effect. All in all the task had taken some time and required the townsfolk to stop wallowing in their misery and do their part—helping her set up an adequate tent and actually making the commute to see her. So far her success rate has gone as far as either slowing the disease or simply reliving the pain or the symptoms.

She runs a hand through her hair, wracking her brain for another mixture. But for the life of her she can’t come up with one. She is nearly certain she has tried everything this jungle and sea had to offer her. She stands up, thinking that there must be something she hasn’t tried.

Azula looks around the small tent, peering into jars and vials of dried botanicals and natural liquids, rummaging through her belongings for older concoctions, and rifling through old scrolls of notes she had taken. Perhaps she is missing something. Something critical at that. Her hand absently strokes the charm around her neck, feeling the roughness of the glittering green crystals that rimmed an other-worldly glass-like material. Set within the glass lies crushed up springs of lavender and sage and a few sand-sized chunks of mineral.

Mineral…

She has an idea. This whole time she has been working with plants. Perhaps adding mineral compounds would do the trick.

 .oOo.

 “I assume you two were able to find everything.” Azula remarks.

 “Yeah, it was no big deal.” Katara replies.

 “Your garden was very organized. Lovely as well, I enjoyed the lantanas.” Ursa added. “I remember when you used to help me in the garden…”

 Azula nods. “That was a long time ago.” A long time ago before Ozai had decided that she was too good to dirty herself with such things. She wonders how different things would have been if she had stayed with her mother and tended to the royal garden instead. But it was a fleeting wonder, they have more pressing matters.  “The rest of the ingredients will be in the jungle.”

 She hustles inside and arranges what they’ve already collected, neatly on the table. Ursa steals a peek at her younger daughter. “I’ll stay with her. Someone needs to look after her. And the boy.” She looks at Azula’s son.

 “He’s perfectly capable of watching both himself and Kiyi, mother.”

 “I don’t doubt that. But I’d like to get to know him and I know Kiyi would like me or Zuko to be here for her.” Ursa answers.

 “If that’s what you want to do.” Azula shrugs.

 However, this minor debate has given Azula’s son enough time to gather a pack and his nerves and declare that he is coming with them.

 Azula looks skyward and sees a thick haze of bloated dark gray clouds. She can tell that they are ready to burst and spray their fury down at any moment. “You are going to stay right in here.” As if to emphasize her point, the sky erupts into a low groaning rumble.

 “But I’m ‘perfectly capable’.” He declares.

 Azula sighs, she hates when he uses her own words against her. He has already picked up on way too many of her habits. “Capable of watching yourself and babysitting Kiyi—inside the house—while I’m gone.”

 He tugs his knapsack further up his shoulder. “I’ve studied your scrolls, I know what to look for.”

 “I already have your father out in this storm, I don’t need you—”

 Unlike most others he has the guts to interrupt. “I have my father out on the sea and my mother going into the jungle in this storm. I want to do something important during a storm too!” He gives a little stomp.

 Azula leans down and places firm hands on his shoulders, “you have no idea how bad this one is going to get.” Her stare is locked in his, her voices as firm as her hold. “You will stay where I tell you to stay.”

 His lip quivers and she knows that her tone was too harsh. She hasn’t made him cry in months and she planned on keeping it that way. But she also planned on keeping him out of harm’s reach. All the same, he tears up. “Fine, you can come with us.” Before he can rejoice and revel in his small victory she adds, “but you are staying as close to me as you can until we are standing back in this spot.”

 He nods and dashes across the lawn over to where Zuko stands.

 “All we have left to find is a shadow lily, a handful of tadpole eggs, and the crabspider.” Azula lists.

 “I’m gonna find the spider!” Her son offers enthusiastically.

 “I happen to know a pond where the tadpole eggs are plentiful this time of year.” And after, she murmurs to her son, “you can find it. But I’ll catch it.”

He crosses his arms. The first fat droplet of rain splatters on his elbow, he looks up and half-frowns. The expression his not lost on Azula who takes it as an opportunity to say, “you can always go back inside if you don’t like the rain.”

 “No way, I can handle a little water! My dad is from the Northern Water Tribe.” He declares for Zuko and Katara to hear.

 The next droplet falls and then another.

 “We better speed this up.” Azula frowns. She looks towards the coast, hopping that her husband has the same idea. The waters are rough as it is. “We’ll collect the tadpole eggs first, since I know exactly where they are.” She quickens her pace, hoping that Katara and Zuko can keep up. Her son is already paces ahead. “I told you to stay close to me.”

 He groans—low enough so that Azula can’t hear him—and comes to a halt. “I’ll meet you by the pond.” He calls and darts away again.

 “Should we—” Katara starts.

 “Just let him go, it isn’t too far.” Azula gives in.

By the time they reach the pond it is raining in sheets. She can scarcely see her son through the wall of wet. She can see Zuko shivering behind her and must admit that this rain is an unpleasant kind of chilly. It is however, ideal for hunting down this breed of frog, the only problem will be actually catching the eggs before the current rushes them down stream. “You two look upstream,” she takes her son’s hand, “we’ll look down stream.”  Azula steps closer to the churning water, squinting to see passed the ripples. She pinches the bridge of her nose, the turbulent conditions very clearly complicated things. At last she sees a cluster, but as she reaches out for them she feels her hair lift and thunder quakes the ground. She fast retracts her hand and fends off a zigzagging bolt. When she looks back into the water, her find has disappears. Her curses are dulled by another burst of thunder, leaving her boy to ask what she had said. “Nothing.” She replies, tugging him away from the unsteady rock he had perched himself on. She sees Katara waving at her from a distance and sees her mouth moving, but cannot make out anything through the wind’s fierce battlecries. She squints as she through the rain as she heaves forward, the wind working completely against her. She grasps her son’s hand tighter. Before she comes within earshot—earshot being relative of course—of Katara, she can see a clump of eggs in her palms. For the first time since they arrived, Azula is thankful that Zuko had brought the waterbender along.

 “Do red-backed crabspiders even come out in this weather?” Zuko shouts his question over the weeping of the sky.

 “Seldom.” Azula replies. “They usually burrow themselves in fallen coconuts.”

 “In other words, we’re going to make a trip to the beach?” He asks.

 Azula nods and, in no mood to strain her voice, shouts only one word. “Likely.” She fancies the idea no more pleasant than he.

 They troop deeper into the jungle where flora and fauna bloom more densely. Even with the jungle dulled to grey and significantly thick mist furling around their stems, the jungle blooms are vibrant. They display a flashy array of deep blues, passionate purples, and flame-like golds and oranges. Some having petals that fanned out and others that tier upwards and spoon-like. Those are Zuko’s favorites. But right now their goal is to find a sapphire blue flower sprayed with tiny white speckles and a large white disk in the center, where the pollen collects. Unfortunately, the blossom’s telltale white powder is erased by the rainfall.

 Zuko reaches for a plum colored blossom with delicate green swirls coiling about the petals. Ursa would like it.

 “No!” Azula swats his hand away. “That one is poisonous.” It isn’t deadly, but she doesn’t wish to add rashes and blisters to their list of hindrances.

 Naturally, the shadow lily has chosen to root itself right next to the hazard. With careful concentration and a steady, precise hand, Azula uproots the plant, it would have been a flawless execution had the wind not blown the neighboring blossom in the direction of her hand. The plum petal tickles her hand. She frowns and tucks the shadow lily safely away. She looks at her hand for a moment and hopes that she has some leftover ointment to make the itch more bearable as the rash heals itself. She dares to hope even further, that the rain had diluted the poisonous oils that the plant secrets.

 “Why did you get to touch it?” Her son asks.

 To his amusement she mumbles, “because only I’m allowed to suffer.”

 She hears Zuko snort and try to stifle a laugh.

 This time she doesn’t take her son’s hand, lest she spread the rash to him. It takes some time but they make it passed the whipping, thrashing branches and through a particularly muddy spot where the pond’s overflow rushes across. Azula can see the beach in full; waves thrice her height slam forcefully against the sand. She can see exactly where the raindrops beat the ground, decently sized pock marks act as battle scars all across the width of the beach.

 She cringes.

Her husband is out there.

Or perhaps not, she hopes that he ended his trip early and is safe in their bungalow, or in Hoto’s dwelling. Whatever the case is, she best not dwell on it—from such a distance she is powerless to do anything about it and opts to focus on that which she can control. She sees her boy teetering too close to the battering waves. “You’re tempting the tides.” She says sharply.

 “The tides can’t tell me what to do.” He proclaims over their watery roar.

 She can’t help but chuckle before saying, “these tides can.” She watches him back away.

 Zuko and Katara have already busied themselves with peering into coconuts and flipping them over. From the looks of it, they are making little progress. She starts in the other direction and happens upon a crabspider surprisingly fast. She removes her jar and makes her way behind the coconut, out of the spider’s line of sight. Carefully and swiftly, she covers the coconut’s hole with the jar.

She is preoccupied with the task and isn’t watching her boy. She looks up just in time to see the wave retract and his absence on the shore.

 She is bounding down the sand before she even processes what she is doing. She sees the spider escape and lets it go, assuming that Katara or Zuko will retrieve it. Her body meets the water and instantly feels the bite of the frigid current as it mercilessly pulls her under. Her mind is whirring even faster than the ocean itself; she can’t assist her husband, but she’d be dammed if she let the ocean take their son too. The water burns her eyes and the salt burns her throat. Most pressingly, her lungs are on fire too. How can she save her son if she can’t even keep herself alive. She fights against the water with everything she has until her hand locks around his. But she is only strong enough to hold him tight to her. And she holds him as close as she can.

Before she has time to contemplate her fate, Azula finds herself being thrown against the land with a shocking force and winces as the sand scrapes her arm. Through her daze she can see Katara panting, nearly ready to collapse. She briefly wonders just how much effort it took to fight waves of that size. The thought is gone as soon as she feels how heavy her son lies atop her.

 She pulls herself up and lays him down face up. She looks for the rise and fall of his chest, she sees it but it is accompanied by a wet gurgle. “No.” She mutters. “No, no.” She cups his head. “I don’t want to lose you like Tamzu.” Despite living so close to it, she knows next to nothing about the sea and how to remove it from a person’s body.

 She looks up at Katara with an uncharacteristic helpless and vulnerable demeanor. “Please don’t let my son die.”

 .oOo.

 The mineral mixture has saved some, but only those whom the illness had only been newly festering in. The ones who it has clung to for a long time are still on nature’s death row and it is making quick executions. Azula grows frustrated. Maybe she needs to call it quits, it is becoming a very real possibility that no herbs nor minerals of this world can cure what the town’s people have come to call, ‘the convulsion cold’.

 What she has discovered however, is that the sickness must have come from the sea, for the corpses that the town’s folk neglected to cremate had begun sprouting hideous growths that resembled that of coral. She quickly rid of the body and advised the family not to mention it. She jots this information down on a scroll as well and morbidly ponders what could happen if the disease stopped waiting until the postmortem stage to reveal these growths. She shudders, determined to stop it before it can mutate to that level.

 It’s like the sea is punishing these people. She always did loath the sea and its foreboding vast emptiness. The thought looped back in her mind—what if the sea is punishing these people, she thinks. If such is the case maybe the answer is spiritual. Real spiritual, not ridiculous chanting and dancing around a fire. She removes the charm from around her neck and places it before her on the table, peering into its other-worldly glass.  She takes in a deep breath only to have it interrupted by an abrupt presence.

 Kurlok enters her tent with Kho-Nhm limp in his arms. She didn’t strike the man as one to cry, all the same, he is weeping. “You promised to save him but…I think…” He takes in a shuddering breath.

 Azula realizes that she is holding her own, and that her chest is constricting. She knows what he is going to say.

  “I think he is dead. My son is dead.”

[pinklinksandkinks]

Meredy Incarnation AU: Mermaid Heel

Age: 19 Dress: Very strict and formal with dark blues and buttons on the uniform. Instead of muff, she has a modified hat that covers her ears and matches the uniform with the same dark blues and fabric. Hair is pulled up in a no-nonsense fashion that keeps it tucked up out of the way when “working” and in a loose ponytail when “at leisure.” Personality: Chilly and stiff and completely lacking a sense of humor. She takes things very personally and is fiercely judgmental about things in black and white. However, she’s also extremely loyal too. She never really grew out of her GH personality tendencies for making others’ pay, and instead of Gray, the target is now Jellal. Relationships: Kagura is her partner and her “twin” They earned the nickname “The Twin Blades” and are rarely seen separately. Millianna is below a rival but above a guildmate. The rest of Mermaid Heel she tolerates for Kagura but has no special ties to. After the Games, she takes a special interest in Sting and Rogue, due to the similarities. Magic: Like Kagura, she tends to rely more on her actual steel katana than her magic, although unlike Archenemy, she has no problems drawing her blade out of the sheath. However, she does use her magic for energy blades as a back up and for longer range support. She has extremely good control and range after the years of practice.

Amazing Art: Here and Here and Here and Here and Here!

Amazing Fic: Here!

“Good block.”

“Is it good enough though?” Meredy queried, wiping the sweat from her brow and rubbing her hands on the hakama pants to dry them before griping her sword for the next round. “To kill him.”

Kagura’s gaze was flint, icy rage tempered under her iron will, and without warning she cut her practice sword across, forcing Meredy to throw up a hasty block, sloppy but enough to save herself from a nasty bruise.

“Two blades are better than one,” she replied steadily, “As a team, there is no chance of failure.”

Meredy considered it for a moment before nodding, “I suppose it is time we have an official name for our partnership. What do you think about Twin Blades…?”

Eyes wide open was the first thing she noticed, sliding back, lips burning at the contact and heart slamming, almost lost in a high of success and release but not quite, not enough.

Carefully, her partner wiped the corner of her lips, tracing the bottom lip with a swipe and gently nibbling it in that way she had when she was conflicted - it was a small thing, a nervous habit, but she knew everything about the other woman’s ticks and quirks.

No movement, no words, not even sounds, it was as if she were stone, waiting for the spell to be broken, for her fantasies to come to life and free her from this cruel trap of longing, the storm of feelings locked inside of her, raging and howling to be vindicated.

Shattered, it was shattered, yet there was no cartoony evil laugh or regretful blubbering to announce the death of her fantasies.

Only a look filled with pity.

“Kagura, what is wrong with you? I don’t understand what is going on! You cannot do this alone; stop, Kagura, stop! Let me help you!”

The swordwoman paused, whirling nearly soundlessly on her soft leather soles, to glare at the young woman behind her. Her spotless white uniform glowed in the velvety darkness of the warming early night

“You were not helping me earlier when you hid that you know how to find Jellal.”

Meredy’s eyes flew wide at the cruel accusation, but she didn’t back down. Instead, squaring her shoulders up and matching Kagura’s glare, the other half of the Twin Blades didn’t back down.

“That is unfair, and you know it. Besides, I saw you just across the square; you knew he was there in front of you. Stop mixing personal problems into our partnership!”

Tone glacial, in complete contrast to the small, violent tremors run through her tense form, Kagura retorted, “I apologize for thinking there was anything personal between us in the first place. Clearly, I was in error.”

Quivering, sharp and deadly, the blade paused just shy of the bobbing, delicate hollow of the throat, nicking a single drop of crimson as her control slipped and composure cracked.

“Ul? Why?” A bare whisper, a lost, lonely child speaking up years later. No answer, no explanation, just her shielding him. Betraying Meredy again. Taking his side again.

Within a flicker of an instant, a tempest surrounded them, lethal and focused, one which Kagura easily threaded through, catching Meredy’s silent signal. Meredy had faith that Kagura would not fail.

It was time to lay the past to rest, along with Ul.

“Ooo, you’re so cute and adorable!”

Meredy jerked back, brow furrowing and fingers twitching, fighting the urge to call forth an energy blade to skewer the overly enthusiastic woman from Fairy Tail.

“Ah-ah,” Mira tsked, as if reading her mind, and Meredy felt a flash of fear, although she refused to show it - her discipline was better than that, and Kagura had taught her well. “You’re like a cloud of angry bubblegum cotton candy!”

“And you’re a demon,” Meredy shot back, stepping out of range. A shiver went through her as Mira smiled oh-so-sweetly, “Only when people are naughty.”

“If you ever,” Meredy leaned into his space with a grim look, “Mess with anyone from my guild again, I’ll geld you.”

Lamia Scale’s ace paled further, trying to move away and apologize and explain it was just a match, when a rusty chuckle scared him even more.

Smacking him on the back, hard, she gave a grimace-y smile and intoned, “It’s a joke, a joke.”

Kagura, drunk and ruffled already, burst out laughing until she was red in the face while the Ice Mage gave a nervous chuckle.

“Phew, a joke, yes, well, ahem…” he cleared his throat, eyes pleading with someone, anyone to save him as she stiffly draped herself across his shoulders, jabbed him in the ribs with her sword hilt and promptly puked on his shoes.

”I love your smile. It reminds me the smile of the person whom I want to marry someday.”

Meredy’s eyes flickered towards Kagura, unsure if she should shove the man out of her space or try another joke - the last one hadn’t gone over as well as she’d hoped.

“I didn’t smile,” she replied, frown deepening, and added, “So I don’t see how I could possibly remind you of anyone.”

Hibiki groaned, murmuring something about a stupid dare, before trying again, “Hey, where’d you smile go?” She quirked an eyebrow at him as he fished around with a beaming smile of his own and pulled a fist out of his pocket, “Here it is!”

OH! 

Reaching forward she pinched his nose and made a fist with the thumb peeking out, proclaiming, “GOT YOUR NOSE!” Bopping his nose with flourish, she gave a genuine, youthful smile, that left him stunned.

[freakypumpkin]

heya, it's the anon from the other day!! thank you so much for replying and i must say, your answer was so fucking interesting and i must've read it like 5 times or so by now. everything you explained about your creative process and personal history with drawing was fascinating and i think i can say that you truly inspired me to try and perseverate, so thanks again! i have another question i forgot to ask, about colors, and again it's about how you visualize them. i find it pretty hard -(1)

-(2) when i look around me to differenciate which color is what; by that, i mean that i can’t really put a name on colors, especially if it’s sort of gray, to me it will look gray even though it’s actually dark blue if you were to pick it out with the eyedropper tool. and i just can’t imagine how you color and shadow things without a reference, like how do you figure out the exact hue you should put there ? i’m kinda rambling here but it just blows my mind how you can make realistic looking -

-(3) drawings and get the textures and shadows and tones all great?? like, for instance, your mermen malec piece; the tails are so beautiful? how do you manage to get the darkest and the lightest parts right, it’s so hard to imagine the scene and reproduce it?? i’m just in love with what you do at this point. about drawing from pictures, i feel like i can do it alright but i can’t help but feel like i’m not a “real artist” because of that, because i don’t exactly “create” something from scratch-

-(4) i’ve even been told by people that if i wasn’t drawing things without ref, it was because i wasn’t confident enough (love it when people think they know how you work and who you are and feel free to pass judgement upon it!). i’ve seen that you useddifferent papers for the rough sketches and the lineart pieces that come after, so i was also wondering what kind of paper you used for the first sketches? does the paper quality matter for them since they’re not final product? and i think that’s-

-(5? or 6) that’s it ! again, i hope you’re having a great day and i wish you the best ! love ya

Hey there :D 

I’m glad I managed a answer of some quality :3 and reading, that it made you want to keep going totally made my morning.

You do create things from scratch, my friend. You start with a blank page and have a drawing in end, right? There you go. Wether or not you have a reference, you still have to draw the picture yourself, it’s not that with having a picture to copy from, the lines suddenly start appearing on the page. ;3

And when people say, you lack confidence because you draw from reference, I would say, that you simply find beauty in the things, that exist in the world around you and you want to capture that. And I would say, in terms of bravery, it is pretty brave to draw something people can compare to the original. Taking on reality is brave. Also, on that same note, I personally decided, that you will always be the only one to completely understand your art. You create art for yourself, it’s a part of you and a form of expression, that will never be completely open to others, and is surprisingly intimate in certain aspects, I think. So, who cares? (If they offer constructive criticism, great, if their comments are harmful to you, don’t listen.)

Sidenote: Classmates used to mock me for drawing non-realistically, with the big eyes and the non-natural colored hair and my mother was always like ‘do they have to have this pointed chins?’. Somebody is always going to be ‘Oh, that’s not real art’. But at some point, I decided, that there are so many different kinds of art and art forms, why shouldn’t what I create not be found somewhere on that spectrum?

About the colors … it’s a learning curve. xD One of the reasons I started working with grey tones is, that this way, I only have to look for the shading and not the color combination, because I am not good at that. I have like a few color combinations, that I know will work and I tend to use them whenever I use colors at all. I have a few cheating strategies, like combining colors with black or grey, or only using grey tones and then you can put in a pop of any color you want to create a certain ‘dramatic effect’. In general, I would say, just try it out. Like, I have papers filled with random patches of colors, where I drew one marker over another and just looked at what happened. So yeah, there’s a lot of experimenting in it on my part. And I think, being able to see colors is a question of training, too. 

By now i have a collection of all different kinds of paper, I just like paper and trying out different kinds of paper. The yellowish one I usually make my sketches on is a bit thinner (90g or 61 lb) than the white one I use for the clean linearts (185 g) and the difference is just that. Both are labeled as sketch paper and I can use markers on both of them, but on the sketch-paper, I feel less pressured to make a perfect drawing and I just don’t like pencil marks from erased lines on the white one. I did some lineart on the yellowish paper, too, and if i needed thinner paper for tracing of a sketch via lightbox, I wouldn’t have an issue with taking the yellowish one. :) 

Specifically about that mermaid-drawing I have to add, that I have no real experience with water colors at this point. Whatever you see turned out good on the picture in the end is often a case of me going ‘Let’s see, what happens when I do this’ and stuff turning out semi-successful. For the tails I had references at the start. I mean, not for that particular picture, but in general. They are based on the tails of tropical fish. So, when talking about the shading, It’s a lot about looking at pictures of fish and adapting the shades from there. Where fins overlap, there are shadows, etc. (Pinterest is awesome for that, btw)And I also usually wet the area I want to paint first and then dip the brush in paint and put it at a point in a corner, where I know will be a shadow and due to the formerly applied water, the color spreads out itself and I just help a bit with the brush, I think. I mostly follow the form of whatever I’m coloring; going from one side of the tail to the other with a slight curve and the farther I get, the more the brush will run out of color and there’s the effect. I usually put shadows at the edges and where fins overlap the tail to add depth, but there’s really not any kind of detailed plan behind it, especially with water colors. 

When it’s with skin, there are just some general areas where I like adding shadows, which is around the eyes, under the eyebrows, wherever the hair falls, underneath the chin and on the lips and nose. I saw that kind of shading in a lot of other drawings, and kind of just adapted it. If you would look closer, I’m pretty sure, that most of them would not be as they are if you’d be going for natural lighting. But I like it and therefore I will keep putting them there. :3Shadows with water colors for me work the way of using more or less of the same color and with copics I have the advantage of them being numbered according to their hue of a certain color. So, light grey is C-1 and it goes darker through C-2, C-3, C-5, and so on, and this way, when I use C-2 as a base color, I will use C-3 for the shadows and C-5 for the darkest parts of those shadows. 

But all in all it’s a process. When you draw a lot fishes, for example from reference you start learning where shadows will most likely be and this way, you don’t need the reference material that close by if you’re not interested in copying it in detail. I think, you subconsciously learn how shadows work on a certain object at some point. It’s like learning a new form of math and in the beginning you will have to write down every little step you take, but when you’re secure enough in the method, you will start to skip them. Just give yourself time. 

As for textures it’s again about looking at reference material. To learn about how shadows work on different kinds of material, working on how to translate that with whatever material you’re using. Also, youtube tutorials are great as well. Just keep in mind, that you don’t have to do things exactly as shown on the video, just look if you can learn something new from it, that feels like it could work for you. 

And I tell you, copying from nature and life is one the most useful things you can do. Writers work with research material and rerference material is the research of artists. Never let yourself get talked down for doing that. You wouldn’t call a writer ‘not a real writer’ just because they wrote something about a real story, right? :) It’s simply another genre. And they don’t write about things, that really happened beacuse they aren’t confident enough, it’s just, that they like what they write about and they also have to start with a blank page and therefore from scratch. Just the same way, you are a real artist. :)

Creating art is constant work and practice. Something will always be a challenge and somebody will always be better than you. The most important thing is, that you don’t give up if you really want to do it and that at some point you reach that feeling of ‘I like my art’. That should be your goal :)

I hope this helped, feel free to ask if anything was left unclear. :) Have a great day!