#and to make it easier I took a piece of thin cardboard and cut a series of Xes in it

[beyondthisdarkhouse]

After months of research and development and market testing and perfecting the first item I feel confident selling online, I have realized... that it is an incredibly niche item that only a specific subset of absolute nerds would want to buy, and I will have to do a ton of explaining the basic idea over and over again before people generally get what it is I'm even selling. RIP me

[eclipse-studios]

Tutoriel Bendy Props (Part 2 )

Hello and welcome ( back ) onto this ongoing series of BATIM props tutorial. Today, we’ll make the radio ! And a working one.

This time, Orion was a big helper. He deisgned the patterns, took all the measurements and worked out a way for that radio to swing !

This tutorial will only cover the radio because the process is kinda different from the other props ( that you can find here ), we took extra time and care because we DO wanna listen to Sammy Jam on loop. Best OST, can’t change my mind.

So, you’ll need :

EVA Foam, 5, 7 and 10mm ( or you can use cardboard. Like really, don’t feel pressured into buying those pricey materials if it’s JUST for the radio. Go ham on empty amazon packages and have fun. )

Foam Clay & Kwik Seal, those two are to buy only if you’re using EVA foam. They’re meant to seal the irregularities in foam.

Contact Cement & Hot Glue. Same here, Contact Cement is hardcore glue and isn’t that useful for cardboard, so use Hot Glue instead ! If you use extra-strong glue ( the ones in tiny packages ), be really careful not to put any on your skin ( it burns like hell ).

Yellow Ochre & Black acrylic paint

Cutter & Rotary Tool

little pieces of wood ( like lollipop sticks. )

Snap buttons

Strap ( anything from a rigid piece of cloth to leather is good for what we’re doing here. )

Hinge ( take it from a small box you don’t use anymore. oh, and maybe a screwdriver. )

a mini speaker ! the only thing you’re supposed to buy for the craft. Purchase the cheapest speaker you can find, since low quality speakers perfectly replicate the “no bass” feel of old radios. :)

If you’re looking for the cosplay materials we talked about, visit CosplayShop ( especially if you’re from Europe since they’re Belgian ), but don’t forget, you can use cardboard !

Step 1 : The pattern

The first thing to do is figuring out the pattern. If you already have your Bluetooth speaker, take it in account for the overall size of the radio.

You don’t need to understand all that complicated stuff, Orion figured it out for you.

Sorry for the shaky hand, I did it with my PC’s trackpad.

Step 2 : Cut the foam around your pattern.

The face and back sides will be cut in 0,7mm EVA Foam ( High Density ) ; then you cut the grill cloth in thinner foam, or using a real cloth. It’s important that part stays thin, for the sound to come out of it.

Above, you also have the pattern for the relief, that I also cut in 0,5mm Foam. Use a cutter for this !

The buttons are just two cylinders. Since they don’t need to be working, they’re pretty simple to make. Just make sure you don’t use a material that’s too thick, else it’ll be hard to bend.

The depth of the radio is just a 10cm wide piece of material, cut to the right size, that’ll vary with the perimeter of your own radio : don’t bother with the calculus, just test and cut a bit more each time until you got the right size.

After everything is cut nicely, you have to glue it with hot glue or contact cement. For perfect seams, I recommend you sand it gently before filling the holes with Foam Clay or Kwik Seal.

Now that your radio is in 3D, you have to make the base ! Use rigid, thicker foam / cardboard, or double it and stick it together. There should be around a centimetre between the edge of the base and the edge of the radio.

Now, don’t glue it if you wanna have access to the speaker inside. Screw and / or glue the hinge in order to open it. Place the hinge on the back side of the radio.

Now, the inside of the radio ! You gotta put a strap to stitch the speaker in place : we used a piece of leather but anything will do. To make it sit nicely, you can build a base to put it on. We built ours with both small pieces of wood and foam, because foam is easier to glue on foam than wood.

Now, it’s painting time ! This step is explained in the first part of these tutorials, but I’m sure you can figure it out with reference pictures !

Ta-da !

We personally use this radio as a prop when roleplaying to develop our Alternate Universe, Eclipse Studios ! By the way, we’re working on a new comic I think people will love…

Don’t forget to ask me if you need help for your own props, since I keep all my patterns and techniques.

I hope you enjoyed this post and this technic radio, and I’ll tell you soon about Eclipse Studios !

[lyd-jms-lwrs]

Heads and Three Tales - Foundation Art and Design Final Project 2022

The Cardboard Cutouts

The idea for the cardboard cutouts were, if I am honest, incredibly last minute. My teacher had mentioned that he had seen an artist that had reminded him of my work - they designed characters and turned them into real cutouts and placed them in public places, took some pictures and then left them there. When he told me about this artist, I instantly knew that I wanted to do a similar thing. I had thought about it for a few minutes and it made perfect sense to me – I was already trying to make these characters come to life, what is better than actually creating them in real life for people to actually meet.

I have had some past experience with making cardboard cutouts, I had made an accurate lifesize cut out of an anime character my friend liked for her birthday a few years ago. My only problem was that I did not have enough cardboard. I have a little bit lying around from a past personal project but not enough to make three cut outs. So, I did some digging and realised that we were actually running out of cat food AND my mother had an event with her students so she needed to get food and drinks. So, I took this opportunity to propose that we go to Costco since we needed to anyway. The last time I needed a lot of cardboard, I had asked someone working at Costco if I could have some cardboard because they through it all away and they did not mind at all. I did the same thing again, I told the worker that I am an art student who needs it for a project and they were more than happy to give me some. Furthermore, some of my family members went to IKEA and had also asked them for some cardboard.

I was fully set on making these cutouts.

Box’s cutout was the first one I made since her picture was already digitised and ready to be printed. Box was a lot of A4 sheets and I was a bit intimidated on how to approach this. I did not fully remember how I had made the cardboard cutout for my friend because it was about two years ago. I trimmed the white border left and started sticking the panels together – this was a mistake. Well, no. I would not say mistake. Mistake is a harsh word. It’s not like Box looks any different to the other two. It just made the process harder. I thought by having all of my panels already perfectly arranged, it would be easy to stick down. I was wrong. The mistake was that I had just made it more difficult for myself.

To get the cardboard to not bend and flop over, I used a piece of bamboo that you would usually use to help prevent plants from flopping over. For the stand I just used some more cardboard that I had lying around (I was drowning in cardboard).

Unfortunately, I could not get Box to be her canonical height of 6’3 but she is still taller than me (5’6) and is the tallest out of the trio.

For Grey, I had tried a new method. I was also looking forward to creating Grey’s cut out since they were a lot shorter than Box. I managed to get Grey’s height to be more accurate the Box – the service I was using was free up to a certain size so I had to work around it. Instead of sticking all of the panels together first, I assembled them as I stuck them down. This was a lot easier and also faster since I did not have to go through the process of sticking everything down individually. In fact, this whole process was a lot faster because Grey is the smallest cut out. This method also used a lot less glue. I was running low on PVA but I am also running low on money so I was determined to finish this all with the limited amount of glue that I had left. Grey’s canonical height is 4’11 but I believe the cut out is actually taller.

Again, to make sure that the cardboard does not flop, I used a piece of bamboo again.

The process of creating Lux was nearly identical to Grey’s process, except this time I used the cardboard I got from IKEA which was in one big sheet and a lot more fragile and thin than the other pieces of cardboard. That was not a problem though because of my bamboo method. Lux’s canonical height is also 6’3 but this cut out is short than Box - again I would have had to pay to get to be extra but their heights are irrelevant. It is just something I came up with to give them more life.

I wanted to add the personalities into the project title card along with the playfulness of the characters. That’s why I let them draw and doodle and write all over it. I thought it would make it more appealing to look at and to see all of the comments that they have written.

One last point I want to make on these characters and why I made the design choices that I did. As previously seen, the pictures that these were made from were originally pencil drawings. I had never coloured them in before. The only thing I was certain of when it came to colour was the colour of Box’s dress since it is based off of a dress I own in real life. So when it came to colouring them in, I decided to turn off my brain and not overthink it. I just did what came naturally.

I avoided being specific about as much as I could – gender, sexuality, race etc. I wanted everything to be ambiguous and for the reader to decide what they want.

The character who is probably the least ambiguous than the other two is Grey – their pronouns are he/they and in the making of book Box has drawn hearts in the colours of the nonbinary flag. Furthermore, in the summer photo, you can see top surgery scars peeking out of Grey’s shirt. But that is mostly it. Grey was there to make sure everyone can feel included in this experience. Race and sexuality is all up to the reader to decide. I, of course, have my own opinions on them and my friends and family have other opinions on what they are.

As for Box. She looks very feminine – small waist, big breasts, long hair etc. Some people might view this as slightly sexist, her appearance is very stereotypical. Think Barbie back when she was first created in 1959. Yes, she looks very feminine. But that does not mean she is any less pathetic. In Box’s story, her appearance is only commented on once. Throughout the story, the reader keeps seeing how strong she is and that her appearance has nothing to do with her ability to fight. I re-claimed the hyperfeminine look by having Box be strong and aggressive. I was fighting this idea that hyperfeminine people are fragile. That is just not true.

Lux is interesting. Lux was meant to be very masculine but as time went by he just evolved into what he is today. I think Lux is very feminine as well but that does not make him any less of a man. He is just a guy who also enjoys makeup (makeup is not gendered anyway, ANYONE can enjoy makeup) and has heart tattoos. That does not make him any less of a man. I think subconsciously, I created someone who I would deem as the “perfect image of masculinity”. Someone who is clearly very comfortable with their gender and sexuality that they can just be themselves. Lux likes having big muscles but does not like being called an ‘alpha male’ since alpha males are often part of a misogynistic culture and Lux does not agree with that at all.

Let’s talk about ‘alpha males’ for a second. ‘Alpha males’ in today’s culture are seen as these extremely masculine men who are rich and get loads of women – let’s not lie here, so called ‘alpha males’ are sexist bullies who hate women. What makes this even more bizarre, is that the term and idea comes from the animal kingdom - mostly apes and wolves. The ‘alphas’ in the animal kingdoms are usually the leaders but only because they are the caretakers of the pack as spoken about in Start the Week on BBC Radio 4. In regards to wolves, the alpha is the parent and in regards to apes, they are the one who looks after the whole group. Lux is more of the correct version of an ‘alpha male’ – when you meet Lux in the story, Lux immediately starts to look after you and makes sure you’re ok and wants to spend time with you. That’s what makes you an ‘alpha male’ but Lux still hates the term.

[lipstickstainz]

true lies - s. r. (7/15)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Series Summary: Spencer is furious, when you rejoin the team after a year and after you left him, when he got arrested. Little does he know, that you leaving him was the only option to ever get him out of prison

Chapter Summary: Girls night - and Spencer and you accidentally meet each other the day after.

Warnings: a little bit of angst, and fluff

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N: I'm sorry it took me song long, but I was really busy. I hope you like it! gif not mine.

Series Masterlist

previous part

"Will you please pass me the can of glitter?", Penelope asks. Everyone gives her confused looks, except you. Your gaze is fixed on the pictures in front of you.

"What do you need glitter for?", JJ asks, taking a sip of her wine.

"This is supposed to be a vision board", she grins, grabbing the reddish can Emily holds out to her. She twists off the cap and sprinkles a little glitter on her hand before letting it trickle onto the glue-covered cardboard. "In my vision, my future is full of glitter. With the cruel things we have to see every day, everything should be full of glitter."

Emily has to grin, but raises her wine glass. The others do the same. "Here's to a future full of glitter." As the others toast and glasses clink together, you silently slide the pictures back and forth on your drab piece of cardboard.

It's been Penelope's idea for you girls to get together on a Saturday night to create vision boards together. It's been a week since Spencer and you spoke, and Penelope couldn't take your suffering anymore. She had tried so many times to cheer you up, but nothing had worked. Your heart was broken, your world was shattered, but Penelope can't take it. Ridiculous.

At first you were against it. In the last days you were just vegging out, your emotions as if erased, repressed and burned out. If you allowed your true feelings, you would break. You got up, went to work and went to bed at night. You weren't capable of doing more than that, because even every breath was far too exhausting.

And then, all of a sudden, the girls had shown up at your door. Their bags were filled with craft supplies, sleeping stuff, and alcohol. Penelope, not knowing what had even happened, had rounded everyone up and decided you needed cheering up. You wanted to slam the door in her face, but there was so much pain in her gaze and only then did you realize that you weren't the only one to suffer. Your friends were suffering with you and their visit was a kind attempt to get you back on track. And it started with them forcing you to shower and put on a sweater that didn't have a coffee stain on it.

"Y/N?", Tara addresses you and it takes a moment for your eyes to focus back on the piece of cardboard in front of you and you realize that you haven't put a single picture, saying, anything on it yet, while everyone else's hands are covered in glue. In your friends' faces you see confusion and pity. You look away. "You haven't picked out anything for your vision board yet."

Because I don't know what my future will look like without Spencer by my side, you reply in your mind. You don't want to pretend you can imagine a future without him when he's been a big part of it for years. And most of all, you don't want to admit it.

"What do you think of this one?", JJ asks, pushing toward you the snippet she's cut out of one of the countless magazines Penelope has brought. The words are written in thick letters. "Trust the timing of your life." Funny.

"Do you want to tell us what happened?", Penelope asks quietly, sipping her cocktail. There's already red glitter on the glass. "We can see how bad you are."

She only means well and she's also a good friend and actually you want to tell, but then it would come true. As long as you keep your conversation to yourself, you can pretend it didn't happen. You could go on as before and hope that everything will work out. But it wouldn't be the truth.

The truth is that Spencer and you would never get back together.

As you begin to tell it, all the dams break. Tears are streaming down your cheeks and you have to gasp in between as the words get stuck in your throat. No one interrupts you, they just stare at you, amazed that you are actually talking. And you don't leave out a single detail. You tell them that you were standing outside his room at night and he slammed the door in your face.That he wanted you off the team and insulted the crap out of you at Rossi's party, only to cuddle with you on JJ's couch afterwards and then call it a mistake. You tell them about the angry kiss, about your fights and reconciliations, and finally you tell them about your last night together and your conversation.

When you're done, you reach for your glass, which you haven't touched yet, and drink the wine down to the last drop.Only when the glass is empty and you put it down do you look at the others again.  Uncertainly, you look around and recognize an infinite number of questions in their faces, which they don't ask - to be honest, you wouldn't have the answers either - and mixed feelings, which you can't interpret despite your good profiling skills. But there's one thing you can recognize in every look you meet: pain. And even though they look at you with a lot of pity, you don't regret telling them about it.

If you break from it, you know the girls will put you back together.

"That's ... a lot”, Tara says first, taking a sip of her cocktail. You nod mutely.

"We always hoped you'd find each other after all”, Penelope confesses, twisting the glitter jar shut.Apparently, she's lost the desire to put more on her cardboard.

"Even though you left Spencer, we always thought it was for a reason other than you didn't love him anymore. You were the perfect couple and we just couldn't imagine it." Up until this point, JJ had been suspiciously quiet. She looks up from her cardboard. "And now you're back, and the way you're suffering right now, we can imagine it even less. So why would you say that to him? If it's not true after all?"

"That's enough, guys. We should change the subject”, Emily interjects pouring wine into your empty glass. You're infinitely grateful to her. Talking has drained you, and just thinking about Spencer hurts. Talking about it doesn't exactly make it easier to deal with it all, but the weight on your shoulders doesn't feel quite so crushing anymore.

"You still love him, don't you?" Penelope sounds hopeful. And you don't want to take away her hope, and especially you don't want to lie to your friends, but it has to be done. You promised, even swore, that the deal would stay secret, and it was already too dangerous to have told Emily then. You wouldn't risk your friends' lives.

"No, Penelope." The glimmer of hope in her eyes goes out. It's a feeling you know all too well.

"I don't want to get too close to you, Y/N”, Tara begins. "But then why do you feel so bad? If you didn't love him anymore, then you wouldn't be so heartbroken, would you?"

And you don't have an answer to that anymore.

The topic is over and will not be brought up again. At the end of the evening, your cardboard is still empty, but you feel a little better and you mentally make a note to yourself that you owe them. When the girls say goodbye the next morning after breakfast - Penelope hugs you a little longer than the others - you head out as well. Thanks to your friends, you've realized that there's nothing you can do about the situation, that you're going to have to deal with it - and definitely not alone - and that sitting lonely in your apartment waiting for a miracle to happen is not an option.

The warm sun on your skin feels good, like a hug, and you reach out to it as you walk to your favorite bookstore. There are many people out and about, walking or shopping. Countless people are sitting in the small cafes, eating and drinking and talking. You've only been back in D.C. for a few weeks and it feels like you've never been away.

Over the past year, you've been on the road a lot, not only in the States but also in Europe. In addition to work that has sent you nearly halfway around the world, you've sat in the Hamburg State Opera, eaten in the cute cafes in Bucharest, and admired the medieval old town in Lund, Sweden. You've seen and experienced so much, met new people, but nothing resembles home. And not being able to be here for a year had been incredibly difficult.

As you enter your favorite bookstore, the smell of old books rises to your nose and goosebumps spread across your warmed skin. How much you missed it. You may have been to other bookstores, but you know this one like the back of your hand. How you've missed this. You walk down the aisles, running your fingers over the various spines before stopping at a book. The cover is a faded red and somewhat damaged, with white writing that makes you want to pull it off the shelf and open it.

You are so engrossed that you don't notice how someone comes up to you and stops next to you.

"I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair," the person begins to quote and you wince, but don't turn around. "Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt fort he liquid measure of your steps."

You have to swallow, put a finger between the pages to find the poem again before closing the book and turning around. "Hi."

Spencer smiles at you. "I didn't think I'd run into you here."

You pucker your lips into a thin line. "Yeah, um, I haven't been here since I got back. Wanted to see if it's changed."

Oddly enough, it doesn't feel strange to be standing in this bookstore with him, considering you'd been here almost every day before and this moment is the first time you've seen each other outside of work since you had your clarifying conversation. Nervous, though, you are. You suppress the urge to tap from one foot to the other.

"So, has it changed?" Spencer tilts his head, but doesn't avert his gaze from you.

You shake your head. "Not really. But I guess the salesgirl who had the hots for you back then doesn't work here anymore." You try to lighten the slightly tense mood with the joke, and it seems to work. Spencer laughs out loud.

"I still don't think she had a crush on me." His smile widens, and it's so infectious that you have to smile, too.

"One hundred percent”, you return, nudging him lightly with your shoulder. "It was pretty funny watching her flirt with you all the time, but you didn't go for it."

The bookstore is completely empty except for you and the clerk at the entrance. Silence surrounds you, but it is not uncomfortable despite the circumstances and the new situation. You just stand there smiling at each other until Spencer takes the book from your hand.

"Neruda writes beautifully." He flips through the book once before handing it back to you. As your fingers graze, a flash goes through you, but you try not to let it show. "Very nice poems."

You nod. "I know. Only know him through you”, you answer truthfully.

Spencer has to grin. "True." He runs a hand through his tousled hair. "He's in that book I gave you once."

"Right." You don't want your conversation to end, and you don't want to leave, but it would be best for both of you. You're not ready to be friends yet, and while your meeting doesn't feel awkward, you're not sure how to handle it. You tap the book and look at him.

"I'll go pay for that." You walk past him, but turn back to him. "It's good to see you, Reid." You use his last name on purpose, knowing full well that his first name is reserved for friends. And in your opinion, you're not ready yet.

"It's good to see you, too."

You nod to him again before leaving without turning around again. You feel his gaze on you anyway.

When you get to work the next day, there's a gift on your desk. It's wrapped in brown wrapping paper and a cord is tied around it and tied into a bow. Simple and beautiful. You set your bag down, confused, before sitting down and inspecting it.

"Who's this from?", Luke asks, walking past you to his desk. You shrug ignorantly.

"I don't know."

The gift is slightly larger than your hand, but not particularly heavy. After opening it and putting the paper in the trash can under the desk, you take a closer look at the book. It's black, and the cover features a plain white flower, with the word "poetry" engraved underneath. As you open the first section, you come across something written. You recognize Spencer's handwriting.

"And then the day came, when the risk to remain tight in a bud, was more painful than the risk it took to blossom - Anais Nin."

Your heart skips a beat and you block out the feeling spreading through you. You flip through the book and realize it is completely blank except for this poem. The pages are lined and practically screaming to be filled.

"Do you like it?", Spencer asks, sitting down across from you at his own desk. He sets his fresh cup of coffee down in front of him and you give him a friendly smile.

"It's wonderful." You blink away the tears forming in your eyes. "Thank you."

"I found it in the bookstore after you left. And I know you like to read poetry, and I thought you could write down your favorite poems in it." He takes a sip of his coffee.

"That's very sweet of you. Really, thank you, Reid."

"Spencer." A thin smile spreads across his face and you warm. "My friends call me Spencer."

next part

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[hes-writer]

Reign (3)

Summary: harry sees something he's supposed to have

Warnings:  angst in the beginning, angst in the middle, angst near the end

Word Count: 4881 words

A/N: @devilinbetweenthesheet-s : dont cheat and don’t do drugs, kids

Tarnish (1)  .  Halo (2)  . Reign (3) . Trial (4) .

Errors (5) . Ruin (6) . Crumble (7)

Error Taglist

____

A writer that cannot write is dead.

When one loses the ability to tell their stories and anecdotes through the mere action of swirling words together to create an imaginable atmosphere of real-world fantasy; they are dead. A writer recovering from the mundane and mediocre way of penning experiences to bounce back into what they used to be is difficult. It is easier to free fall and drown in the depths of despair. The moment thoughts and rumination fog up to form a blurry image of conviction is a warning sign, blaring at the back of their minds and sometimes even in their faces.

Harry is a writer--or, he was. Picking up the pen to style the words lingering in his head used to be as easy as blinking; quick and natural. Now, the words claw at the swell of his throat, trying to spit an adjective to describe the way he felt. It was at the tip of his tongue, waiting to be lathed into existence. It did not matter if his cognition was mingled with various chemicals aimed to be able to feel happiness.

He was sober but he had trouble placing his finger on why it was so strenuous to narrate his feelings throughout the breakup. Being high or drunk was never the answer for him. Weed made him tired and made him have a case of cottonmouth. Harry learned from a young age that he should only ever engage with alcohol if he was in a mindset and setting that catered to increase existing good vibes. He thought that maybe he was in an odd phase of perceiving the opposite, and so he intoxicated himself enough to understand that it didn’t matter if he was soaked head-to-toe in sobriety or whizzed out of his mind by the amber liquid swirling in the glass in his hand. But that wasn’t the circumstance. It also didn’t matter if he was grasping his favourite pen to write--because it was comfortable--or tapping his calloused thumbs against his phone keypad. Hell, it didn’t make a difference when he sat down and prepared his typewriter to indulge in a headspace of vintage songwriting. Maybe that would help.

It didn’t.

He had stories to tell. Everything was laid out in misty overcast yet Harry’s great ideas morphed into gentle mistakes, harsh mistakes and discoveries that had him almost ripping his hair out of the roots of his scalp. When he felt the wave of his ocean-thoughts rise and peek where the sand shifted, his fingers were ready to move and discern for the eyes to see. But with each fritter, he couldn’t seem to get even two paragraphs in to decide that it was utter shit.

Harry was old enough to understand that slumping on the wet sand was a part of life. Sometimes picking up a fistful of grains and throwing them back to the sea was a great way to release frustration. But it seemed like this plunge of his ability to write was a hole of quicksand. He was trying his hardest to displace himself as swiftly as possible but it only made his scenario worse. The muddy sand clung unto his legs like sticky glue, heftier with each effort to leave. He wanted to move on. He wanted to forget everything that occurred in the past four years. Harry wanted to erase Y/N from his life because she wasn’t around anymore to bring those memories back to sparkly existence.

What he needed to do was nestle himself into a certain depth, calmly, in order to pull a limb out and ensure that his progress on the so-called ‘moving on’ did not have any drawbacks. Until then, he cannot possibly create songs that he was well-known for if he wasn’t patient enough.

He wanted so badly to tell his side of the story. Harry craved to think as clearly as he did when he told Y/N about his plan for their future. Admitting to his feelings was a hard route. Sure, he can be vulnerable but it took a great deal of convincing on his part to immerse himself in the deepest parts of his brain to understand why he felt the way he did. He usually had the means of songwriting to help him out but that obviously wasn’t working out that good for him.

___

Harry was packing the rest of Y/N’s things in boxes to be picked up later in the afternoon. He was annoyed at first at how she depended on him to fold her clothes properly instead of doing the bundle of the work herself. But he guessed that she didn’t want to be around him for longer than she had to. To be frank, he also did not want to indulge in what might turn into an argument if they spoke about the reason for their breakup. It was just a bit confusing because he had an urge to still want her around despite their less than likely situation.

Torture. If Harry had one chance to describe the way he felt right now; it was torture. With every nook of Y/N’s side of the closet emptying into brown, cardboard boxes--he physically how much she had integrated her life with his. How much space she took up in his life. How his clothes and her clothes were so interchanged between them that he couldn’t decide if the gray pull-over was actually his or hers. And in a moment of selfishness did he tuck it away for his safe-keeping despite seeing the tag imprinted on the inside; a shop that he hadn’t set foot in so it was a guarantee that it was hers.

Her scent embedded in the thin threads of each fabric wafted to his nose; each with a new wave of memories engulfing his senses as if each piece garnered a specific scent tailored to a specific event. Like her sunflower sundress--it smelled of fresh flowers as if the print was a scratch and sniff that released a fragrance. Or their DIY-ed tie-dye shirt of pastel blue and cotton candy pink. It was a matching piece made out of the cheap dye and a simple white tee but it was theirs. Things like these made Harry want to yell in frustration because every time he thought that he was completely over her-- Y/N appears out of visibly nowhere and towers over him.

Seeing her for the first time in days was a breath of relief. She looked fine. Glowing even, and Harry did not know what to make of it. As sadistic as it sounded, he was expecting dry-stained tears and a birds’ nest of hair trampling her head. Instead, Y/N was dressed for comfort in her baggy jeans and an even looser sweater covering her body. Her lips were drawn in a thin line, giving him a nod in greeting as he gestured to the boxes littering the floor.

Harry offered to help--it was the least he could do. And somehow, silence protruded from the tense atmosphere, begging to be cut by a knife yielded through their voices nipping at each others’ emotions.

“Let go of my damn hand,” Y/N stated, her hard stare could turn Harry into stone. He just wanted her to listen before she left.

He shook his head in denial of her request, tightening his grip further. “No. Listen to me, Y/N,”

“What do you possibly have to say that will change anything between us?”

And maybe it was her fault for assuming that he wanted to fix things. The sliver of hope thinly dressed behind closed lids enabled her to think that maybe he was going to say that he wanted to make things work again. That he had broken up with Camille and he realized what a stupid he had done throwing away everything they built up to for the past four years for an affair that couldn’t quench the thirst of his desire to have a family.

Harry sighed, a shadow of mischievous smirk painted on his lips. But maybe it was Y/N’s sight in deception because she could never see Harry as anything other than sweet and kind Harry incapable of hurting a fly.

“What? I don’t intend to. We’re broken. We’re beyond fixing,”

The hitch in her breath was as sharp as the stare he was searing her with. Forcing her to please understand that this would be their last conversation--if time and fate were on their side. “You’re not something I would take the time to handle,”

“Stop saying shit you don’t mean, Harry” Y/N rolled her eyes in annoyance. His macho act was barely an act and more like a stage curtain easily pushed with a flick of a wrist.

“Things I don’t mean?”

“You heard me,” She crossed her arms over his chest in defence, leaning against the closed trunk. “Say what you will but our love was real. Don’t make me seem like I’m crazy. Don’t tell me that I’m a mistake,” Her voice was filled with confidence because she knew the affection that Harry diffused.

The cradles of his palm at the small of her back when they had to walk past a crowd. The subtle graze of the back of his fingers caressing the bare skin of her arm. Kisses pressed to her temple as she read a novel and swirling fingertips twirling her hair. These were acts of love that happened nearly every day in their relationship. A routine that felt different if it wasn’t done to or with each other.

Exasperatedly, Harry felt the same itching crawling up his spine. His ego ballooning into a delicate size and one more word from Y/N’s lush lips would have him on his hands and knees, begging for her back.

“This, us, was a fuckin’ mistake,” Harry’s accent thunked heavily in her cochlea, practically spitting the words out of his mouth as if they were poisonous. Ringed fingers gesticulated the space between them to emphasize how much of a misunderstanding they truly were. “I should’ve known the second things went further than planned,”

Y/N felt her heart drop to her full stomach. The feeling so nauseating that she instinctively palmed her belly over the fabric to protect her little baby from his harsh words. Even though they weren’t directed towards anyone but Y/N. She didn’t think that their unborn child deserved scrutiny from their own father.

“You don’t mean that, Harry.”

Because how could he? Not when he emulated sincerity through his syrupy voice. Not when he spent hours loving on her tummy and spoke to it like he would if she were pregnant. Especially not when every kiss from him felt like a buzz of electricity coursing through her veins because he was the main distributor of her happiness.

Harry truly was an asshole for making her hope and wonder of what the future held when he was unsure himself. He did want a family. That was a statement in all its truthfulness. What he wasn’t sure about was if he wanted a family with Y/N. He could have a family; kids of his own in his own time. But Y/N didn’t have to necessarily be the mother. So was he besotted with the concept of family and marriage regardless of who it was with?

“But I do,”

The rain started drizzling in frequent spurts, planting a fat droplet on her cheek that could be argued as a tear escaping Y/N’s eye. It hurt a lot to hear that from him. The man of her dreams blatantly denying each sugary word because his plans had changed.

“You’re a goddamn mistake is what you are,’

“Why are you. . .saying all these things to me? Are you trying to hurt me?” The shakiness of Y/N’s tone had Harry swallowing his words down his strep throat.

He shook his head in disagreement, “No, I’m not. ‘M just tryna make you see my side. So you can understand,” His head dipped to the side, softening his tone yet stern as though he was speaking to a child.

And that was one of the reasons why Y/N didn’t believe his all-too stoic demeanour about her. Harry was great at making others see his side regardless of how much in the wrong he was.

So why was he struggling?

___

Needless to say, he wasn’t very respectful towards Y/N any other time afterwards. He had unblocked her number months after blocking it at one point and demanded answers that he didn’t have the right to know. In retrospect, Harry was embarrassed by the way he acted. He did cheat on her and suddenly he was a saint because she moved on quicker than he thought she would? Unbelievable.

In his defence, the night he became the drunk caller was the same night he fought with Camille about having children; having a family they can call their own. Ever since that discussion did Harry notice a dispatch in their relationship. It was like they were aware of a missing link that had disappeared in their connection, but neither one of them wanted to be the one to bring it up. Harry supposed that now that Camille knew what he wanted (and vice versa)--she was feeling the pressure of giving in to him. Don’t get him wrong, Harry absolutely wanted a family and he thought that Camille was the right partner to build it with. However, he couldn’t help the voice at the back of his mind slyly whispering that he had forced her to give him what he wanted for the sake of saving their failing relationship.

___

It had been two and a half years since he mildly and miserably accepted that his dream family was being erased like a pencil on paper.

The first year; Harry still clung to the obscure hope that Camille might change her mind of having kids. Many fights sprouted between the two of them concluding in them sleeping at different places for weeks on end until they eventually crawled back to each other like an invisible string. The second-year; Harry brought up the idea of adoption. It was a hard choice for him as he desperately wanted kids of his own. A boy that looked like him and his love or a little girl that smiled at him with deep dimples mirroring his own.

And Harry liked to think that he was just on the edge of convincing Camille to consider the option when his tour was scheduled a few months after. A new dealbreaker was that Harry wasn’t going to be around much to watch and nurture the little bub they might’ve adopted. It was a sudden intrusion to think about since Harry was good with kids. He knew that. That was why he had three godchildren of his own. But what hit him the most was how sure Camille sounded when she yelled at him about leaving for months at a time and returning for a bit, only to leave again. Now, Harry hadn’t considered that part. But surely he will be ready to choose between a family and his career, right? When the time comes, he thought.

___

It pained Harry to admit that his relationship with Camille was dwindling down the drain. The knowledge that there was no future--the one that Harry envisioned--for them was getting more and more real each passing day. 

A late-night grocery trip was one of the many examples that had Harry rethinking his actions for the past couple of years. It was the time period where night owls arose and barely any customers littered the aisles. Still, Harry made sure to keep his hoodie up to shield his face.

Camille had an early flight to Milan in just a few hours later that day and she wanted to purchase some things to bring with her; in case they weren’t available in the country. So here they were at three in the morning.

As Camille walked ahead of him in her sweatpants and a plain tee, Harry couldn’t help but let his eyes flicker to the clothing section to his right The first-floor space was decorated with pastel blues and pinks; a stroller was displayed with a price would not make a dent in Harry’s bank account.

“‘M just gonna grab somethin’ over here, Cam,” Harry muttered as he pointed a thumb behind him. She nodded, “Meet me at the produce? Need to get you some fruits,”

Harry felt guilt thudding his chest because although he was losing feelings he thought were written in stone, Camille appeared to care for him the same way she always had.

He walked to the brightly lit area, puffing his cheek as a cute onesie caught his eye, “You’re so golden” with the word ‘golden’ printed in a shiny, yellow glimmer. He smiled at the thought of baby angel cooing at him as he tickled her tummy. Harry passed by the shoes next, picking up a pair barely the size of his palm. His mind flashed back to a conversation with Y/N years ago,

___

“I’m just saying,” Y/N took a bite of a pickle she held on her left hand, “Baby shoes have no business being that expensive,”

Harry chuckled from his place across the counter, “Babies need shoes too, love,’

She grabbed her fork and stabbed a piece of strawberry from her bowl, “I didn’t say the don’t need shoes. For tiny things, they could at least be a bit cheaper,”

Harry watched as she munched on a pickle on her left and took a bite of a strawberry on the other. His tongue poked out in a gag at the odd combination, resorting in glare and a huff from Y/N.

“You should try it instead of judging me,’

“No, thank you. Watching you eat it is enough for me,’

___

Harry craned his head at each aisle, hoping to find Camille and to distract himself from the endless Y/N related thoughts that somehow returned to his brain. He needed his girlfriend to remind him that he cannot just knock on Y/N’s door and ask her about the baby she has. If he could hold them for a bit because his baby fever was through the roof.

Locating the produce section, Harry whistled mindlessly as he searched for a blonde head of hair, failing to notice that there was a basket in front of his feet. He had kicked it, jolting him out of his thoughts in a hurry.

A man with brown hair sporting an outfit similar to his (sweats and a hoodie), chuckled at him as Harry leaned down to retrieve the gray basket filled with a jar of pickles.

“Sorry man,” Harry muttered, holding the handles up for the man to carry.

“It’s alright, it happens,” The guy had not seen his face yet, too busy inspecting the carton of strawberries.

He decided to continue the conversation, “Strawberries and pickles? Odd combo, huh,” Harry was briefly reminded of Y/N’s obsession with the two rival products.

“Yeah, m’lady loves ‘em. Had a craving in the middle of the night. She’s in the car right now with our lil bubba,”

Harry’s heart fluttered at the mention of a baby. He needed to get his rails in check. He cannot keep having his heart bursting with adoration at the mere mention of a baby.

“I’m Connor,” He said, finally facing Harry after choosing the best carton.

“I'm--,”

“Harry!” Both men turned their heads towards Camille carrying a basket full fruits and green veggies, “Got you some stuff to blend for your smoothies,”

Connor squinted his eyes at the couple and Harry internally screamed because he knew that he and Camille had been recognized. “Harry. Yeah, I know you,” The sudden hostility made Harry confused as Connor grasped his basket from him in a harsh manner, heading towards the checkout.

The rest of the time inside the store was filled with curiosities as Harry carried the paper bags towards the car, barely recognizing Connor’s figure heading towards his own vehicle. Luckily, Harry has parked only a few slots away and could inconspicuously watch Connor and his so-called ‘lady’.

Except, Camille was ushering him to hurry up as she still had a few things to pack at home.

___

On most days, Harry was used to waking up alone. Used to feeling the shiver crawling up his side, used to seeing the indent left by Camille’s body instead of her. He had grown familiar with the sudden cast of loneliness blanketing him thicker than the duvet on top of his body.

The early morning trip to the store had tired him out, paired with the overthinking of the man named ‘Connor’ that flipped his attitude towards him quicker than he could kick the grey basket with his feet. He flopped back to the mattress after washing his face and brushing his teeth. It was noon when he jolted out of bed again at the sound of his front door opening, voices filling the empty space that had Harry running towards the foyer in case there was an intruder.

His tense shoulders sagged in relief when he caught sight of his mum and Gemma, “Oh, s’just you guys,”

Both women looked up at him at the top of the stairs, “You forgot we were coming over for the weekend, didn’t you?” Gemma teased as she headed to the living room. Harry followed, walking down the stairs.

He scratched the nape of his neck nervously, “No. . . “

“Can you help me reach this, H?” Anne called out from the kitchen.

His mum gave him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek, “Yes, you did, by the way. Slept through the whole morning. Good thing Camille let us in before she left,”

At the sound of a bag crumpling and squeals echoing the hollow house, Harry scrunched his nose in curiosity, briskly walking where Gemm was currently holding up tiny baby clothes in front of her. “Who’s that for?” He thought of any possible friends that had had a baby recently but couldn’t recall any.

She immediately stuffed the clothing into the bag, nervously placing a hand on her chest, “Gosh, Harry, you scared me,” Her brows went high on her forehead in alarm, sharing a look with her mum trailing behind Harry.

“Well? Did I miss something?”

“Oh, it’s for one of my friends,”

Harry contemplated on his next words, “D-did you know that Y/N had a baby?” It couldn’t be right if his sister and mum knew about his exes baby and not him, right? That’s just plain odd to still be in touch with an ex's family. His brows furrowed in suspicion as both of them declined his question.

“What? Nooo,”

Awkward silence filtered through the air as Anne sipped water from her mug and Harry was slowly putting the pieces together. Gemme dove to the centre of the couch where her phone was when it rang suddenly, surprising all three of them. Harry was quicker, eyeing his mum and sister and inspecting the emoji substituting as a name before sliding his thumb to answer it.

"Hey, Gems! Are you coming to the park? We're waiting for you,”

Harry felt his heart drop to his stomach just as the phone nearly slipped from his clutch. That voice. He could recognize it from everywhere having spent nearly every morning for the four years that they were together hearing it lulling him out of sleep. It was Y/N’s voice calling his sister who was looking extremely anxious.

He tapped on the ‘mute’ button, “What does she mean ‘we’?”

“Nothing! Give me my phone back,” Gemma tried to reach for the device but Harry held it high beyond her reach.

“I saw the picture you sent me. I told you that you and Anne didn’t have to get me anything,” Harry felt dizzy. “Connor and I got some things a few weeks ago. But that skirt is so adorable!”

One part of him was glad to hear her voice. In fact, Harry found himself smiling too, despite what he just heard. Connor. “Harry, won’t be there right? Hello? Have I been talking to myself this whole time,” Y/N laughed a little; she had a habit of talking endlessly when she was excited. It made Harry more sombre, letting his guards down and his arm in reach for Gemma to grasp.

“Hey! I'm just organizing the clothes, see you soon!" Gemma jammed her finger on the red end call, anxiously glancing at her brother, piecing everything together.

“Who's Connor?" Could it be that the Connor he met last night was the same as Y/N’s? The one who bought pickles and strawberries--one of Y/N favourite food combinations? He mentioned that he had a little girl and Y/N just called to meet his sister and his mum at the park. And baby clothes?

Anne and Gemma looked at each other, quickly deciding that for the benefit of Harry that they should tell him at least a little bit. He was looking as if he was going insane, especially with his bed head pointing his hair out in different directions.

“He’s Y/N’s partner”

Harry gulped, reeling his thoughts to a halt, “Partner? And the baby is...?” The last bit of confirmation was all he needed to lash his feelings out.

“Is... waiting for us at the park! Sorry H gotta go,” Gemma was swift enough to gather all the bags without having Harry chase after her. His state of confusion and shock was enough to render him partially speechless and immobile.

“Hey wait!”

Anne garnered his attention, “Oh, Mrs. Q from next door wants me over for dinner. I’m sure wants to see us both. Why don’t you get ready, Harry?” Anne tugged his arm in the direction of the staircase pushing him to stumble up a couple of steps.

Harry was confused. He made the sounds of his footsteps creeping up the wooden stairs, hearing his mum quietly talking to Gemma on the phone, “Elmsway Park, you said? How long till you're home? I’m not sure how long I can keep him occupied,”

With that being said, Harry was out of his house, silently unlocking and locking the door. He was dressed in some basketball shorts and a graphic tee, slipping on the first pair of sneakers he had tossed aside. Harry jogged to his car, typing in the name of the park on his phones’ GPS. The route was only a few minutes away so he decided to take his time, gathering his scattered thoughts along the way.

He parked just beside the playground scouting the trees around the premises. Harry decided that it was the perfect day. The sun was out. It wasn’t too humid and the birds were chirping on the branches. He could see why the playground was full of children running around in delight. The green patches of grass were partially filled with picnic blankets and food to be shared. Families laughed with each other as one in particular caught his eye.

It made him smile at first, seeing just how adorable the couple was with their baby. He exited the car, making sure to lock the vehicle. With his hands jammed deep in the pockets of his shorts, Harry could feel the tethered grass rubbing against his legs. As he got closer, he couldn’t help the twinge of familiarity spark in his chest, recognizing that what he was staring at was Connor playfully chasing a little girl of about two-years-old as she squealed at how close he was getting to tagging her.

Harry stood by a tree, shielding him away from view. He tried to appear invisible without seeming too creepy. He knew that it was only a matter of seconds before his eyes found the woman he had been missing, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

Connor picked up the little girl in his arms, dotting pecks all over the girls’ cheeks, causing her to giggle and push his face away with a tiny palm. And there she was standing outside the raised platform of the playground, coming up to the both of them with a juice box in hand to hydrate the little angel. Connor turned his attention to Y/N, planting the most adoring kiss on her lips that made her smile so wide and the baby cover her eyes. They laughed together, looking like a picture-perfect family.

Gemma sat on the bench, flickering her gaze to the precious family in front of her and to the figure of her brother walking away from the scene. Her heart broke for Harry, and it cracked, even more, when he turned back. This time, watching Connor and Y/N cheer on baby angel to go down the slide. Both of them clapped their hands in enthusiasm as the girl hesitantly slid down the plastic slide. The smile on her face was infectious.

It almost made Harry smile, too.

___

Let us know what you thought!

Trial aka pt 4 is already up on Patreon! (link in bio)

___

Permanent Taglist: @splendidsunsetx @swagmoneymaya @textingharry @arypesanchez @theresthingsthatwellneverknow @mellamolayla

[lindstromm]

Simplified Bookbinding: Buy Good Glue

In the first post in the Simplified Bookbinding series (How to Make a Cheap First Book), I explained the four steps to binding your own book. Because it was a crappy first-effort practice book and I didn’t want to ask you to buy anything special, I used Elmer’s school glue. You can see what’s already happening to the book. The end papers are pulling off the cover; the cover is coming off the boards; even the binding has split and pages are going to start falling out.

The most important bookbinding supply to upgrade immediately is the GLUE. In this post, I’ll go through the four standard steps of bookbinding and talk about what kind of glue you need for each step. Here are the steps:

Step 1. Format the text and print it. (No glue required.)

Step 2. Create the text block. (The glue is incredibly important for this step and I will tell you exactly what to buy.)

Step 3. Create the case. (You need a decent craft-strength glue. I’ll explain some options, but there’s a lot of leeway in this glue choice.)

Step 4. Attach the case to the text block. (I’ll give you a couple of pointers, and then you can choose your own glue as you develop the technique.)

If any other bookbinders @renegadepublishing​ want to reblog and add glue comments, please go ahead. There are so many glue tips and tricks, and what you can get varies with what part of the world you’re in, so the more perspectives, the more helpful it is.

Long post with pictures and astonishing amounts of glue geekery under the cut.

Step Two: Create the text block.

To put the pages together, whether you’re perfect binding or sewing signatures, you must use PVA bookbinding glue. The description should also say things like “archival quality” and “acid-free” and “PH neutral” and “non-toxic.” There are several brand names of PVA bookbinding glue. I bought Lineco brand from Amazon.

Step Three: Create the case.

The glue to create the case is basically any glue that permanently sticks paper and cloth and cardboard together. I watched Sea Lemon’s glue video and went to a craft store with my list of glue brands she recommended and couldn’t find any of them. So I picked up a bottle of Aleene’s Tacky Glue and an Elmer’s Craft-Strength Glue Stick mostly because that was all the store had. They’ve worked out great and I’ve never tried anything else.

Check the glue descriptions for those important words like ‘archival quality’ and ‘non-toxic.’ I figure any glue that claims it’s safe for photos is safe for bookbinding.

A case for a book is made out of cover boards (stiff, strong and thin cardboard) which are covered in either bookcloth or cardstock (See Simplified Bookbinding: Cardstock Covers). Those things will all warp if they get wet. Glue is wet. Creating a case means using enough glue to stick it together without using so much glue that your cover warps.

This is one of my first books, in which I spread liquid glue over the entire cover board. I think I was still using chipboard for the cover boards at this point. You can see how badly it warped:

Then I figured out you should only put glue on the edges of the board, and my covers warp a tiny bit or not at all:

I do not use the PVA bookbinding glue on the covers because the PVA bookbinding glue is very runny/wet. The Tacky Glue is thicker. The glue stick is thickest of all. I know some people are leery of using a glue stick, but I’ve had great results. The craft strength glue stick says it was formulated to use on photos, so I figure it won’t turn yellow and rot ordinary paper either.

Step 4: Attach the case to the text block.

There are two places you use glue in Step Four. One is to glue the end paper to the text block. For that, I use the PVA bookbinding glue, applied with one of these methods.

Method 1:

Dipping the end paper in a line of glue gives you a nice thin and consistent line of glue on the crease. 

You can also apply the glue directly to the text block, but that risks getting a glue blob somewhere, and then that spreads out and glues a bigger area than you wanted to glue.

Method 2:

Put some trash paper and wax paper between the end papers, and between the end paper and the first page of the text block (so you don’t glue pages together). Set wax paper on top of the text block, put some heavy books on it, and let it dry.

Is it dry? Moving on.

The second place you use glue in Step 4 is to attach the end paper to the case. In the pic on the right, I used liquid glue spread only at the edges. Maybe you can’t see it very well, but the paper is wrinkled like any paper gets if it gets wet and then dries. If you put a piece of paper in between the end papers while it dries, it absorbs some of the moisture, but I still get wet wrinkles sometimes. The one on the left was glued with a glue stick, and you can see how smooth it is.

I apply the glue stick only to the edges. (Notice I cut off as much of the spine cloth as I could.) Any glue on the end papers, whether glue stick or liquid glue, should only be applied around the edges:

Glue sticks dry really fast, so two sides are already drying out while I took this picture. One drawback to using a glue stick is you have to work fast. It might be easier to practice with liquid glue so you’ve got an extra few seconds to get the text block set straight in the case. Otherwise, you may have nice smooth end papers, but your entire text block is crooked. If the end papers are bad enough, you can always cut them off and start over with Step 4.

And just to keep glue in perspective, if the end papers get really screwed up, it probably isn’t the glue’s fault. This one is me not smoothing out the end paper very well before putting it under a heavy stack of books to dry:

Summary: Find good craft-quality glue and experiment to learn how to apply enough glue to stick your case together without applying so much that it wrinkles. That’s just a matter of practice, which is why I suggest making a few blank practice books before trying to bind something that really matters to you.

Good luck and have fun with it!

[belovas-vest]

bechloe + "you killed him" 🌚

words: 2,233

rating: T

notes: this really took me a month huh! also, this is like… minor angst. oops?

Chloe shakes her head, tears pricking at her eyes - partly in anger, mostly out of hurt. “You’re a coward.”

Beca sets the bottle of alcohol on the table with such a force the clank makes Chloe’s ears hurt. “Excuse me?”

“I said you’re a coward.” Her words are firm and she hopes it delivers the message that she’s had enough of Beca’s back and forth. “You won’t admit that this thing between us means something to you, that it isn’t just about trying to forget something from your past; whatever it may be. What’s worse is you won’t help those people out there who need someone like you to take a stand against this government that’s caused so many people so much pain. I thought you were brave when I first met you, but all I see right now is a coward/”

“You don’t know the first thing about me.” Beca grits her teeth and the look in her eyes startles Chloe. They’re cold and uncaring, so unlike the Beca that Chloe has been able to get to know behind the curtains of this show she puts on for the gang.

“I know you want you want out of this gang, but you feel stuck. Like you can’t move or breathe. I know you don’t want to follow these orders to sit back but you’re too afraid of hi-”

“Enough!” Beca shakes her head, eyes cast down at the table. “Get out.”

“What?” Chloe’s brow furrows. Would Beca really send her out there and feed her to the wolves?

“I said get out.” Beca’s eyes move from the table to meet Chloe’s, they’re still cold and uncaring. “Or I’ll have Emily shoot you and I don’t think either of want that trauma for her.”  The seriousness in Beca’s voice causes Chloe’s heart rate to pick up and a chill run down her spine.

Tears prick at Chloe’s eyes, fearful of what waits for her beyond the doors of this safe house. “You’re gonna send me out there unprotected?”

“You don’t need protecting. You demonstrated that the first time we met.”

“I don’t-” Chloe shakes her head, “That was a fluke.”  

Beca’s eyes leave her and Chloe watches them travel to the handgun sitting on the edge of the table. Slender fingers wrap around the base of the gun and Beca lifts the weapon to observe it closely. “You took the gun in your hands,” Her forefinger inches forward, tapping against the trigger, “put your finger on the trigger, and took aim at one of the most important men in this city.” She smirks, eyes meeting Chloe’s with something Chloe can’t quite put her finger on. Pride, perhaps or greed. Greed that Beca holds the one person that took down her enemy. “You killed him and three of his men.”

And then Beca frowns. “I took you in that night. I could have left you behind but you asked for shelter.”

“All-” Chloe’s voice cracks, “I was doing was protecting those kids.”

“And you knew what killing the Chief of Police would do. It would put you in the middle of a war.” The gun twists in Beca’s hand and Chloe tries to lean back into her seat when the gun points at her. Her life flashes before her, eyes looking into the abyss of the muzzle. Her eyes flicker to sudden movement, watching as Beca’s finger moves off the trigger and to the side of the barrel.Beca presses the front of the gun against the table, her fingers peeling off of the grip except for her forefinger and thumb, which squeeze against the edge.

Chloe exhales slowly, eyes traveling back to Beca’s face.

“Take the gun and leave.” Beca stands from her spot on the couch, swiping the bottle of beer of the table and leaving Chloe alone to stare down a gun which could have killed her less than a minute ago.

She’s not sure how long she sits there to just stare at the weapon, but she has enough time to mull through the memories of what her life was before the government tore apart her family, before the walls were built and long before gangs were the only way to survive outside of following orders the government gave - which often ended in bloodshed. She had always thought books like 1984 and The Hunger Games were just that; just a fantasy to perhaps put a little fear into what could happen. And while life isn’t near anything to Katniss’, the fences, poverty, and inner-city wars and violence are still enough to strike fear in her.

Chloe takes a breath and reaches for the gun. The weight of it still shocks her. It isn’t like the movies, it’s easier to hold with both hands. She supposes it supposed to be heavy. It’s like a reminder of how much it costs to hold such a weapon, that killing someone - especially someone who’s innocent - is a much heavier weight than a small bullet.

“Chloe.”

Startled out of her thoughts, Chloe looks up to see Benji standing behind the couch. “Benji.”

“Beca sent me to walk you out. She didn’t think you’d leave on your own.”  

Chloe forces air of disbelief through her nose, “Of course she did.” She smiles weakly at Benji before standing from her spot and letting him lead her to the front door.

//

Chloe hasn’t eaten since she left the Safe House. Granted it’s only been 24 hours, but it seems Chloe’s stomach had gotten used to eating three meals a day instead of eating scraps maybe once a day. She had found food earlier, a tossed away pizza behind a government building, however the look on a nearby couple with a small child convinced her that maybe she didn’t need the food as much as they did.

It doesn’t help that her clothes have been soaked through from the pouring rain. The holes in her leather jacket are getting bigger and the rubber on her shoes offers little insulation against the cold. She tugs at the ends of her sweatshirt sleeves, trying to keep her hands warm while she continues to look for a place to keep the rain off her.

She finds some shelter under and overpass. It’s crumbling apart, grass and vines growing between the cracks of the unused concrete. There’s a group of others who are just the same as her; rebels trying to find shelter from the weather. They’re burning some old tires, likely pulled from rusting cars, causing the smell of burning rubber to infiltrate Chloe’s senses. It’s not a pleasant smell, but the closer she gets to it the warmer she feels.

They don’t exchange any words, too afraid of making too much commotion and setting off local police - who will likely either shoot them down or hold them in a cell until they agree to work with the government.  She leaves before the sun sets knowing police grow in numbers the darker it gets.

Chloe ends up back tracking towards the Safe House. While she knows she probably shouldn’t, there isn’t anywhere that feels as safe, even if she ends up sleeping on some wet cardboard. Beca had built the area up to feel safe, even if it’s far from that, which is something Chloe found comforting, something that was an attractive quality. Beca could make Chloe feel safe in just about any situation. Yesterday was the first time Chloe felt like she shouldn’t have ever put that kind of trust into Beca. After all, Beca’s involved in a war between the government and the people. Even if Chloe can see the good Beca’s trying to do, it makes Beca a target, it makes Beca a person who doesn’t follow rules. It makes Beca someone that shouldn’t be trusted.

She about to cross into the neighborhood when there’s a strong arm that wraps around her throat and - what Chloe assumes is - a gun pressed into the side of her head. She considers screaming, but the days of people actually helping others when it comes to things like this are long gone. She tries to fight against the person pulling her into a nearby alley, but she had never done well with defending herself. It’s why she hadn’t stepped up against the government until she felt she didn’t have a choice. A part of her doesn’t want to bother fighting.

Chloe feels warm breath against her temple, feels the click of the gun, so she shuts her eyes and braces for the end.

It doesn’t.

The pulling suddenly stops, the arm around her neck drops. She hears what sounds like someone struggling for air and a body hitting the wet ground.

Spinning herself around to look at what happened. At her feet lays the body of a man dressed in clothes that are much more worn than her own. A sign that he had probably been living on the streets long before her and probably was hoping to steal something of value off of her. Looking ahead for her hero, Chloe’s met with a small figure dressed in a sleek black outfit, studded leather jacket, and a familiar metal mask with a horizontal thin piece cut out to see through, but not wide enough to see defining features. There’s some fabric hanging around their shoulders - probably a cowl.

“Beca?”

The small figure nods and puts a fingerless gloved hand out, fingers twitching.

Chloe takes Beca’s hand without question, letting herself be lead through the mass of buildings. The further away they get away from the Safe House, the more these buildings look like they’re falling apart. Beca pulls her into one with white painted brick and a worn, red wooden door, and as soon as the door is shut, she pulls the helmet off of her.

Chloe sighs and then frowns, walking past Beca. The air is filled with silence as Chloe looks at the torn wallpaper on the walls. She can feel the cold air seeping through the broken walls. There’s water on the tiled floor, although most of the tiles are cracked, broken, or missing. She’s walking into what used to be a kitchen where a family used to sit around the table and eat, talk about their day. The table, however, is missing two of its legs on one side and it’s been flipped. The fridge no longer has a door and it’s completely empty.  

“First, you want me dead and now…” Chloe trails off as she walks into the rest of the living space, looking at a moldy couch. A cockroach skitters across and the floor and Chloe takes a step back at the sight.

“I didn’t want you dead, Beale.” Beca’s voice sounds exasperated, like it’s an obvious statement.

Turning to face Beca with arms crossed, Chloe shrugs, feeling a little defensive of herself. “You kicked me out of the only safe place I had left.”

Beca takes a step forward and Chloe just takes a step back. She wants to keep distance for a moment, even if everything about having Beca in front of her is telling her to be closer.

Beca’s hands twist at her sides before she raises them like she’s trying to show Chloe she’s being passive, “I’m sorry.” Beca’s eyes flicker somewhere else before looking back at her, “But you can’t question my loyalty like that, especially when others are around. We’d both be killed for that.”

That thought hadn’t crossed Chloe’s mind at the time and suddenly guilt floods her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think about that.”

“It’s okay I-” Beca sighs, taking a step forward, “I get it. I was being a jerk earlier, lying about all these things to pass as a good commander.”

Chloe takes a step towards Beca as well. “Thanks for-” she licks her bottom lip, “-earlier. With that person.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t actually gonna put you out without checking on you.”

Chloe can’t help the smile that forms on her face, “You do care.”

Beca shrugs, stuffing her hands in her pockets, “Well-” her eyes cast onto the floor, “-obviously. I am a Rebel. Some-” she looks at Chloe, “-I mean I wouldn’t, you know, not care. That’s kind of the point of this whole gang thing.”

Chloe reaches forward and tugs on Beca’s wrist, sliding her fingers to link between Beca’s. “You also kill innocent people, Becs.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I want out.”

“How do we do that?”

“We?” Beca raises her brow at Chloe.

“Yeah.” Chloe smiles, hoping the idea isn’t too offputting to Beca. Her eyes search Beca’s hoping to find anything but disgust or anger. “I don’t exactly have anywhere to go anymore and I think it’s pretty obvious I’m not gonna survive on my own. Besides, I like being with you.”

A smile forms across Beca’s face - a little shy. “Okay. Yeah, I’d- I’d like that.” Beca’s voice is soft and she finally grips Chloe’s hand back. “We go to California. It’s like a two and a half month journey, but we can try to find some sort of transportation to cut that in half or something.”

“Alright. When do we leave?”

Beca looks around the space, “We can stay here tonight and leave in the morning. We’ll stop just outside the main fence where I have some supplies.”

“You’ve been planning this?”

Beca shrugs, “I’m a coward, I always have a way out.”

Chloe pulls Beca into a hug. “I’m sorry I said that, I was mad. It wasn’t right of me, Beca. You’re not a coward.”

“You’re not totally wrong, it’s okay. If I wasn’t I would’ve left this place a long time ago.”

“I know why you don’t.” Chloe pulls back from the embrace. “That gang is your family.”

Beca frowns, “They used to be.” Grabbing at Chloe’s hand, she leads Chloe up creaky, wooden steps, “C’mon, let’s see if there’s a bed here. We should leave as soon as the sun comes up.”

[howling-harpy]

With All Due Respect

Rating: Explicit Pairing: Speirs/Lipton Word Count: 8032

Summary: Only commands from Captain Speirs make Lipton’s blood run hot. He has a feeling that the captain knows. Disclaimer: This is a piece of fiction based on the HBO drama series and the actors’ portrayals in it. This has nothing to do with any real person represented in the series, and means no disrespect.

A/N: Someone on LLSS wanted speirton with ordering kink and body worship. Of course I picked that one up.

[Read on Ao3]

*

It was the Champagne that was at fault, that’s what Lipton decided long afterwards when all was said and done. The reverend of his church and his mother had been right about alcohol, it was indeed the drink that made him careless and dissipated and led to other sins, but in the end Lipton couldn’t bring himself to mind any of it. It would have been a lie to blame the drink, though. It had all started earlier, and Lipton couldn’t exactly pinpoint when.

Mourmelon, perhaps? In that miserable village of tents and endless practice drills and guard duty rotation and patrols, in the chilly and muddy February? “Lieutenant Lipton, patrol orders to the NCOs of Easy. See them delivered and brief the men.” “Lieutenant Lipton, inspect the roadblocks at eleven hundred hours. Report back to me.” “Lieutenant Lipton, I’ve scheduled second platoon for an all-night field problem. I’ve appointed you to lead it.” Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. It seemed that Lipton said that a hundred times as slow, routine days rolled by, and more than winter frost melted from his limbs with them. Captain Speirs seemed to want to keep him close now that he had been promoted and trying his legs as an officer, and Lipton wondered if it was to show him the ropes or if it was the only thing he could think of now that he wasn’t First Sergeant anymore. Whatever the reason, Lipton was grateful as Speirs seemed to always have something to do and never let anything go to waste. It was also fascinating in a way, to get this close to “Bloody” Speirs, the man whose reputation preceded him among enlisted men and officers alike. Lipton hadn’t even thought about it at the time. He remembered Foy as a moment of despair, like being dangled over the edge of a cliff and slowly feeling his fingers giving out one by one, and then in a flurry of artillery and snow there had been Speirs, settings things to balance once again. Lipton had simply been happy to see him and followed him without a question. In that moment of despair on the edge of the annihilation Speirs had been just a good soldier, a leader worth following, and Lipton had. But afterwards, after Noville and Rachamps and Haguenau, Lipton too had to admit that there was something singular about Speirs. After all, he had met and served under several good officers, he had fought alongside many capable soldiers, but only orders from Speirs made him feel warm to his core. Only his harsh demanding voice made his heart beat faster, only obeying him made his blood run hot in his veins. For the most part, Lipton preferred not to think about it. It felt like one of those things you had to shove back into the back of your mind and ignore in order to survive, but he couldn’t decide if ignoring it was easier or harder now that Easy was in reserve. On one hand, rush and combat had perhaps hidden it from his thoughts before, but on the other now that he had realized it he felt like the safe routine of Mourmelon was the only thing keeping it under control, and he feared what would happen when they’d have to leave it behind. It was late March when Lipton was making his way out of the battalion mess after a long day of training replacements that were a worryingly large portion of Easy’s strength, when First Sergeant Talbert fell in step with him. “Hey, Lip! How’s it going, sir?” Talbert greeted him. “It’s going,” Lipton replied, his mind still sketching a timetable for training passable combat soldiers of their re-enforcements before they’d move out while only half listening to Talbert. “How are things with you?” “Well, that’s the thing,” Talbert said and awkwardly chuckled. “The men are great. Everything’s going well, we’ve been through our training and finally got our hands on good supplies too, I think Luz had something to do with that, and I’ve written this week’s report about it all…” It was all within the responsibilities of the First Sergeant and Lipton knew it well, as he knew that Talbert did too, and he wondered when the actual business would come in picture. It didn’t sound like your regular chatter, but if there was a question in there, Lipton couldn’t pick up on it. Talbert cleared his throat. “Well, I should go and submit that report to Captain Speirs.” That was the key comment, and Lipton guessed that was it, only he wasn’t willing to be the one to say it. “Yes, that’s correct. The week report needs to be delivered to the company CO. Do you know where Captain Speirs’ tent it?” “Yeah, I know,” Talbert said, a note of frustration in his tone, “and I have the report right here too.” He lifted a thin brown cardboard file that looked like it had exactly one sheet of paper inside. “It’s just that, you know how Speirs can be sometimes,” he said and gave Lipton a friendly nudge of the elbow. Lipton did know, but he was too amused to cut the chase. There weren’t too many fun things around the muddy camp, and struggling forward on the soft ground was less grating with some company. “I don’t, actually, Sergeant.” “He can be a bit, well,” Talbert struggled, drew his words on and hoped that Lipton would either take the hint or complete the sentence for him. But when he didn’t, Talbert finally dropped his clumsily tactful demeanour and said: “He can be a bit hard-headed, alright? Heard-headed and weirdly moody and obsessed with details, and I’m gonna be straight with you, Lip, I’d rather not take this report to him personally if I could avoid it.” Lipton wasn’t surprised in the slightest. A lot of people didn’t get along with Speirs, or preferred not to interact with him personally if there was any other option, and Talbert’s easy-going and friendly personality might have been a great match with Major Winters, but Captain Speirs probably read him as sloppy and unprofessional. “Captain Speirs is a demanding officer, I’m aware,” he said. “Yeah, let’s say that,” Talbert grumbled, but then lightened up. “But you can handle him, right? He likes you. I’d really appreciate if you could drop this report off for me, sir.” Lipton accepted the errand without further convincing needed, and Talbert was too busy being grateful to question why he’d do it. But it wasn’t like it was much extra trouble, Lipton was probably going to cross paths with his fellow officer anyway, and if he didn’t, their tents were relatively close to each other. It wasn’t strange, just a kindness, a happy coincidence. Speirs was in his tent when Lipton came by. The flap of the tent was up, and the captain was sitting at his desk, a flimsy thing that had been provided to all commanding officers and that took up half of the small tent, not that the narrow bunk needed much space anyway. There was nowhere to knock, so Lipton stopped by the entrance and cleared his throat. Speirs had an ink pen in hand and was writing a letter at impressive speed, but he stopped when he looked up. “Yes? What is it, Lieutenant?” he asked. Lipton lifted the file in his hand before stating his business. “Just dropping off some paperwork on behalf of First Sergeant Talbert, sir.” Speirs’ expression didn’t change, he just nodded and made no further questions, but beckoned Lipton inside. “Sure. Come in, Lieutenant.” “Yes, sir.” Speirs already had his hand extended when Lipton stood by his desk and handed the file over. He flipped it open, glanced over the report with a single wrinkle between his brows and turned it over once, finding the paper empty on the other side. He scoffed. “Only a single page for the whole week’s work? Really?” “I’m sure Sergeant Talbert included everything he felt was necessary,” Lipton said. Speirs gave him a look underneath his dark brows, hard and direct. “Are you now, Lieutenant?” he demanded. Lipton looked back. “Yes, sir.” “You have read the report, then?” “I haven’t, sir.” “Then how can you be sure of its quality?” Lipton didn’t know when he had fallen into parade rest, but presented with a direct question that required him to raise up to answer it made him aware of how he tensed up with his back straight and feet firmly planted on the ground, slightly apart. “I know Sergeant Talbert, and I can vouch for his expertise. If he has written a one-page report, then all that was needed is a one-page report.” Speirs stared at him for a moment quietly, evaluating him and probably his statement. His expression gave away nothing, neither good or bad, he simply looked and evaluated Lipton, then got up from the desk. He looked down at the report once again, seemingly read it over before closing the file and dropping it on his desk. Lipton stood where he was since he hadn’t been dismissed. After Speirs tossed the report he turned back to face him and leaned his hip against the desk, crossing his arms. The silence stretched on and Speirs kept looking at Lipton like he had all the time in the world and planned to use it. For what, that wasn’t clear, and Speirs didn’t seem to be in any hurry to let Lipton in on whatever his endgame was. “You vouch for your men readily, Lieutenant,” Speirs finally said, his tone neutral. Lipton answered honestly: “I know them, sir, and so I am able to.” “You submit their reports for them too, I see,” Speirs added, this time his tone slightly more pointed. His voice was still soft, conversational even, but it was clear he was probing for something. Lipton was on his guard, but there was nowhere to run or no way to avoid, besides there shouldn’t have been anything to hide. “Sergeant Talbert happened by and asked me to, and since it’s convenient, I dropped by,” he said. “Sergeant Talbert didn’t want to do it himself, did he.” It wasn’t really a question, but Lipton pretended not to hear that. “It was more convenient like this, sir.” Speirs gave a little hum, almost a scoff and regarded Lipton with hard eyes. His expression didn’t falter, nor did his crossed arms either tighten or loosen. One could have thought that he didn’t care where the conversation was going at all, even though his tone was getting stronger as he was drawing out information. “I know Sergeant Talbert finds me objectionable,” he said then, “it’s all right. The feeling is mutual.” Lipton didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything, not even in a gesture. Speirs stared him directly in the eye. “But you, you I see pretty often, Lieutenant Lipton. You come by often.” That was a puzzling remark, and Lipton couldn’t quite keep it out of his voice. “You ask for me often, sir.” “Yes, I do. But even when I don’t, there you are. You don’t have a problem with me, then?” Something warm curled in Lipton’s chest and he had to suppress a smile. “No, I don’t have a problem with you, sir.” Nothing changed in Speirs’ expression, but something in his eyes did. Lipton had spent a lot of time looking in his eyes which were the only giveaway when for whatever reason Speirs decided to wall everyone out. There was an intent look in them now, something strong and focused and strangely heated, something that made Lipton want to squirm – not with discomfort, but out of some sort of coyness that he hadn’t ever felt before. “Lieutenant, close the flap,” Speirs ordered starkly. Lipton was moving before he even knew it, not questioning the order or wonder about it. When the flap of the tent fell, they were left in the glow of a bright lantern that made the green fabric glow. “Come back here,” Speirs said then. Lipton did, assuming his previous position of parade rest with his hands behind his back before Speirs who was still leaning against the desk. With the flap closed the tent felt smaller, more intimate somehow. Private. “Take one step closer,” Speirs said. Lipton did, even though the movement took him too close to his captain. They weren’t quite toe to toe, but too close to be simply within conversational distance. All Speirs would have to do to touch him would be to unfold and reach his arm, which he did a moment later. Lipton drew in a careful breath when Speirs’ hand landed on the side of his face, fingertips light like a breath on his scars. They still held eye contact like that was the only way they could actually communicate, and Lipton searched Speirs’ intently, seeing the previously detected heat burn and turn darker. Dangerous, this man was. “You have acquired quite a few battle scars,” Speirs noted as if they were discussing the details of a report, his fingertips ghosting across Lipton’s facial scars. “A few, yes, sir,” Lipton replied and was surprised to hear his voice almost level if a little soft. “Anywhere else than here?” Speirs asked. “Yes, sir,” Lipton said. “On my neck, on my arm, and on my – “ He realized what he was going to have to say with the words already on his tongue and what that might prompt when Speirs was brushing at the scars he could see. At the same time Lipton also realized that even though his voice was level, his breathing was off. He had taken a deep breath when he had stepped forward and that had turned into his new rhythm of rapid, deep inhales that he could hear too loud in his ear. “ – on my inner thigh, sir.” Speirs’ head tilted to the side in a slow arch, but his gaze never wandered or lost its focus. Lipton swallowed, fiddled with his hands behind his back some.   “You’re such a valuable soldier. I’ll have to inspect you sometime, just to check up on you,” Speirs murmured. It could have been a threat or promise, and Lipton found himself wishing that in either case it wouldn’t be idle. For a moment longer Speirs stared at him, held his gaze in a manner that made Lipton feel like he was supposed to say something, but then he let his hand drop and the flame went out in his eyes. “But not today, Lieutenant,” he said, once again neutral and noncommittal, already moving on from the situation like it hadn’t even existed. “You’re dismissed.” Once again, it was easy to follow the order. “Sir,” he hoarsely recognized before he let his feet carry himself out of the tent on automation. Chilly March air was like a sobering splash to his face after the warm tent, that Lipton only outside of it realized had smelled like Speirs. Regardless of when it had started, it took a stark turn after that evening in Mourmelon, as did many other things. There was a vague yet constant feeling of pressure lifting. It was frustrating to just go through the motions and loiter around and train endlessly for what felt like nothing, but no one missed combat. They moved out from Mourmelon to Germany in April, driven in trucks through German countryside, met only weak resistance and mostly cleared towns and set up roadblocks and checkpoints. Lipton kept his post and continued to assist the company commander while acting as a willing link between the NCOs and the CO. Whatever had transpired between them in the tent in Mourmelon seemed to be gathered up and packed away with their equipment. Lipton kept following Speirs and Speirs kept requesting his presence, and even though on the surface it was all everyday army life, proper and professional, something had changed underneath. Lipton could see it in his Captain’s eyes every now and then, how they lingered on him when they shared a Jeep, how that intense heat sometimes flared up when they were alone, and how Speirs kept favouring his personal attendance over any runner or radio messages. Speirs kept him close, somehow more tightly than before, and Lipton let him. Something mellowed in him when the captain told him to follow or go, to join him or do something for him, and the best days were when many small errands needed doing and he got to hear the simple “come here, Lieutenant” several times. Getting to obey and please the captain felt like slipping into a warm bath, and those ordinary busy days were full of tingling contentment that relaxed Lipton’s shoulders and flushed his skin warm. Sometimes he wondered if Speirs knew what he was doing to him, and at times when he caught his keen eyes on him he was sure he had an idea. He wondered if it really had started in Foy, and if it had been a mistake how he had simply joined Speirs by his side, close up without any reservations or backup whatsoever. Nearly everyone else sensed something strong and dangerous about Speirs and knew to stay away, but Lipton had ignored all the warning signs and glued himself to the captain’s side, ending up inside that aura of danger. Maybe it had been a mistake. But nothing happened. Nothing was said or even hinted at, and although Lipton understood why considering they were constantly on the move and surrounded by other officers and trying to keep Easy company together and somewhat out of trouble, he was still disappointed. All they had was their professional familiarity, proximity by necessity, and silent looks that lasted just a few seconds too long. It felt like a standoff. V-E day was full of soaring relief and boundless happiness. With the help of ten thousand bottles of the finest wine and liquor, Easy company celebrated their survival and the end of all horrors for several days, sprawling into a week.   One party seemed to simply blend into another, and even if they were technically still on duty, there was not a single sober man, enlisted or officer, willing to hold them to the regular standard. It was impossible to control everything in that little Alpine paradise, and even though they did keep up with the necessities such as supplies and road blocks, especially the evenings were full of wild merriment, more or less contained in the houses of the deserted town. On Saturday new supplies arrived, and Colonel Sink hosted a party for all the officers at the extravagant hotel that resembled a lodge in a brutal sort of way. There were fine rugs on the floors, red velvet in the halls and all the furniture along with walls and staircases were dark wood with heavy decorations, but then there were stuffed animal heads mounted on the walls, creating a strange mixture of fine art and death. After supplies catching up with them there was good food, things that Lipton hadn’t seen in ages such as roasted meat that was served hot and crunchy vegetables. With them Champagne and liquor flowed freely and the merriment of the men kept the eerie feeling from the stuffed animal carcasses at bay and warmed the entire building. The doors were open, and even though the party was intended for the officers, several soldiers without bars in their collars strolled through to sample the goods. It was almost midnight. Lipton had been dragged along by Welsh and Nixon who had both wanted to eat and drink and show their junior officer a good time, and even though he had felt reluctant to join them, a few cups of Champagne later he was happy he had come. Some senior NCOs came by too, and Lipton got swept into the merry group of Talbert, Grant, Moore and Liebgott who had decided to snoop around the officers’ party and maybe sneak in for a bit. They were in the middle of a playful debate about it when someone called out for him. “Lieutenant Lipton.” The tone was familiar and his body recognized it before his thoughts caught up, his back straightening and cheeks flushing. He turned around. Speirs looked like he was off-duty, but just slightly. His hair was smooth and neatly kempt, he was wearing his good brown uniform jacket that had been washed, his shirt was neat and his tie tugged in, but the top button of his shirt was undone and his jacket open. “Captain Speirs,” Lipton said. “Come with me, Lieutenant,” Speirs ordered promptly, ignoring the enlisted men completely, “I need you.” “Yes, sir,” Lipton agreed right away, turned to throw one last glance at his buddies who looked back with grimaces and pitying eyes. Lipton wished he could have laughed openly at their misplaced sympathy, but that would not have been wise, and besides he had a long ago learned to feel privileged and happy with him alone knowing the captain’s true thoughts. He followed Speirs through the crowd and to the stairs without any further questions. The second floor of the hotel had become almost as crowded as the first with several gambling tables and drinking games set up there. Someone had found a record player and instead of German classics that every household seemed to have was playing The Andrews Sisters. Speirs led Lipton up the stairs to the third floor, where the crowd was rapidly dwindling. A few men who preferred to simply converse rather than join the partying of the lower floors were sitting at the steps, and none of them paid Speirs and Lipton a single glance as they passed. A captain from another company had fallen asleep on the steps with a wine bottle cuddled in his arms and his head resting on a step. The third floor was deserted, and as soon as they got out of the stairs and took down to the hallway, Speirs reached behind him and took Lipton’s hand. His hand squeezed, and Lipton squeezed back. Speirs picked up his pace from a confident stroll to almost a jog, turning the corner and taking them even further from the party, then seemingly at random darting towards one of the doors. He pulled Lipton into one of the hotel rooms, leading him by the hand and ushering him inside, then throwing the door shut behind them. They were in a large one-room suite, a large, comfortable room with soft carpeted floor, antique-looking oak panelling and furniture to match. There was large hulking dresser with brass handles, a few armchairs and a writing desk with a single green-shaded lamp that was on. The windows had red velvet curtains that had been drawn, and behind the lounging area there was a bulky double bed. The lock clicked in the door, and Lipton was reminded of a flap of a tent. Speirs brushed against him in a manner that could have passed for accidental, then continued his way to the writing desk that was set in the middle of the room like a space-divider. He turned around, leaned against the desk and regarded Lipton, who just now realized he was locked inside a private room with the captain whose eyes had that uncanny flame he usually hid. Lipton assumed the parade rest just to appease that fire. “Lieutenant. Come here and stand before me, at ease.” Lipton didn’t see a reason to reply, just did as he was told. He felt suddenly alert in a way he associated with field duty. “You are truly a valuable asset to this company. I have been very pleased with you.” Lipton didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. This didn’t seem to be to Speirs’ liking, because his expression hardened and he said: “Answer me when I’m speaking to you.” Lipton felt a shudder go down his spine, a thrilled and pleasant one. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Speirs relaxed again, content like a cat. “Come here.” It felt like a small eternity when Lipton crossed the floor. His boots made no sound on the soft carpet, but each step was heavy and dragged on like he was treading in deep water, and all the while Speirs watched him, keen and shameless. Lipton stopped before him at a distance he would have if they were simply talking. Somehow pretending like nothing was out of the ordinary added to the tickling flame that had been lit in his belly at the first command, or even perhaps from the moment when Speirs had taken his hand. “I promised I would inspect your condition once, didn’t I, Lieutenant?” Speirs said, playing along with the normalcy as well. He could have been giving a briefing or reporting nothing new from his patrol. “You did, yes, sir,” Lipton agreed, matching his tone. “Take your boots off, Lieutenant.” Lipton crouched down to follow the order. His jumpboots hadn’t been this clean in a while and he was proud to have himself together, but right now they were only an obstacle to be put aside. He wasn’t about to be evaluated based on his uniform. One boot came loose, then the other, and Lipton took his socks off while at it, stuffing one in each boot before setting them neatly aside and standing up straight again. Speirs was watching him still, so keenly that it felt impossible that he had glanced aside even for a second. It was an astonishing thought to consider that something so simply as taking his boots off for him gained Speirs’ undivided attention for him, and Lipton shivered pleasantly at it. Speirs leaned more heavily on the desk, almost a mirror image of himself back at Mourmelon in that yellow-green glow. He extended one foot forward. “Now mine.” Lipton’s mouth went dry in an instant, but the demand in Speirs’ voice didn’t leave any room for hesitation or refusal. He crossed the polite distance between them, less and less soft carpet between them, and stopped just short from bumping knees with the captain. For a second they shared a look, Lipton’s wide-open eyes meeting Speirs’ fierce ones. He fell on his knees. It wasn’t a difficult task to undo Captain Speirs’ jumpboots as they were exactly the same ones Lipton wore down to the same size, but just kneeling there on the floor and doing something like that for him, that was a treat. He undid the laces and pulled them loose, then grabbed the boot by the heel and the outsole and pulled it off, then peeled the sock off like he had done to himself. Speirs helpfully offered his other foot for the same treatment, and Lipton took in in his lap to deliver. Speirs had calloused feet just like every soldier, surprisingly sleek ankles and wiry hair starkly black against his pale skin. “That’s good,” Speirs murmured, gently pulling his foot free from Lipton’s hold. “Now stand up and give me a kiss.” Lipton’s stomach did a flip at that and it took him a moment to collect himself enough to put his feet under himself again. While kneeling down he had had an excuse not to look at Speirs, but when he stood he had to raise his gaze too, and when he locked eyes with the captain again he saw his fierce eyes and mouth just a bit agape, anticipating. To kiss someone was a simple enough command, but with Speirs he didn’t know exactly what he wanted. He had waited for this inspection for so long while also keeping it in the back of his mind that Lipton now found himself unprepared, never having kissed a man in his life, and the list of girls kissed a short one as well. Speirs waited for him. He had given an order and he expected it to be followed, so he just sat there in his relaxed yet taunting manner, ready for anything and expecting the best, and suddenly Lipton couldn’t take the single-minded scourge of his eyes anymore. Quickly he leaned in close, closed his eyes and kissed his captain, at the last second avoiding his mouth and instead going for the corner of it, pressing his lips there quickly. He felt like a boy being dared, and despite how juvenile and chaste the contact was, his heart thumped in his throat. He felt a hint of stubble against his lips. He pulled back, biting his own lip. He felt torn between having done something unspeakable but also ridiculously inoffensive, and when he met Speirs’ gaze again he saw the feelings reflected back at him. “You can do better than that, Lieutenant.” Even with his cheeks rosy and heated, Lipton rose up to the challenge and dived in again, his hands trembling when they came to rest against Speirs’ collar, and lips uncertain but determined when he claimed his captain’s mouth in a kiss. This time Speirs met him in the middle like he wanted to be sure he didn’t miss again, and the result was perfect. He kissed with force and passion, pressing in and parting his lips like he wanted to bite, and suddenly Lipton felt challenged. He returned everything he got, letting his desire take the lead. “Oh…” Speirs breathed between them. It was a strange sound, a barely audible mixture of pleasant surprise and lust, the ordinary and indecent blending together in one greedy breath, and then his hands moved up to take a hold of Lipton’s jaw and the back of his neck, angling him so he could kiss him deeper. When they parted, they were both out of breath. Speirs kept his hands where they were, holding Lipton by his neck with his fingers idly slipping into his hair. “Take your clothes off,” Speirs grunted. With his hands clammy, Lipton obeyed. Speirs pushed him just at arm’s length to watch him as he did, and his gaze burned so hot on his skin that the room didn’t even feel chilly. Lipton took off his cap and his jacket, placing both on the chair by the desk. He untangled the knot of his tie and pulled it off, then turned his attention to his buttons. Speirs’ eyes watched his fingers like a hawk, and just as predatory. He undid his cuffs, then started from his collar and moved down, undoing every button until he could slip his shirt off, leaving him in his undershirt. Speirs said nothing, just let his eyes roam and take in everything that was bared. His teeth grazed his bottom lip briefly. Lipton pulled his undershirt from his trousers and over his head, sending it to the growing pile of clothing on the chair. When he moved to undo his belt buckle, his hands happened close enough to his groin to notice he was already half hard. He felt himself blushing, a bit stunned, and his fingers felt that much clumsier when he started to open his trousers. He hadn’t even noticed himself growing aroused, he had been too busy being sunken into the sweet bliss of obeying, and now that he was about to reveal his state to be observed by Speirs’ keen eyes, he almost faltered in embarrassment.   He risked a glance at Speirs and was shocked to realize that he had already noticed, which was evident in his downcast eyes and openly yearning expression. “Good. Good, keep going,” Speirs urged him, his voice low as he shifted rigidly, his calm façade slipping. Lipton pushed his trousers down and stepped out of them. On a strange impulse, or perhaps delaying the inevitable, he folded them neatly before putting them over the back of the chair. His breath was coming out short and quick now that there was only one article of clothing left. He pushed his thumbs under the elastic band of his underwear, then slowly inched them down his hips, and legs until he could discard them too. Speirs shifted again, almost compulsively. Lipton straightened up again, fully nude, skittish on his feet and his cheeks flaming, but still eager. Speirs took a long look at him, all the way from his toes and legs up his belly and chest before finally coming back to his face. If the look in his eyes had been heated a moment ago, it was positively scalding now, and there was naked desire there. “You are stunning,” he breathed. He moved like something had snapped, like he couldn’t hold himself back anymore, and in a second he was in Lipton’s space where he caught him in his arms and kissed him like he intended to devour him. Lipton gasped into the kiss and Speirs pressed in closer. He tasted faintly of whiskey and cigarettes, a strong, smoky aftertaste that Lipton didn’t mind at all. Speirs held him fast by the back of his neck as they sunk into the rhythm of their kiss. It was like diving, sinking into the swirling depths that took your breath away and muffled all sounds around you. Speirs’ hands moved. Their grasp let go and they slipped on the move, strong and greedy, conquering skin and flesh. They caressed his back, warm palms kneading into the muscle and fingers stretching to draw the edges of his shoulder blades before slipping down, making Lipton curl his body towards Speirs. Speirs’ thumbs caught in the small dips in the small of Lipton’s back before sliding to grasp his hips, a commanding, firm hold that made Lipton give a stuttering whine and buck forward, rubbing his naked body against Speirs’ uniform, distantly wondering if he was making a mess there. The wool scratched his skin, but underneath it Speirs’ body burned hot and inviting and the man gave a low groan when their hips rubbed together, fully hard in his pants and fingers grasping tighter. Then suddenly, Speirs pulled back from the kiss and left Lipton blinking in confusion. He opened his eyes to meet Speirs’. “I want you in bed, now,” he told him. “Yes, sir,” Lipton breathed in return, not even noticing the title and already moving. They stumbled across the floorspace, Lipton backwards as Speirs pushed him by the hips, until they fell on the bed. Speirs handled him with confidence, and he found himself yielding with terrifying ease until he was almost fully on his side with Speirs pressed against him from behind, arms around him and mouth against his neck. Speirs hadn’t even loosened his tie, but his mouth was hot and insistent, his teeth ever present on Lipton’s neck, and his hard-on bore against his ass through the rough material of his trousers. Lipton arched back against him and earned himself a moan. “Christ, you drive me insane,” Speirs growled against his neck, greedy hands all over Lipton. “Uh-huh,” in a breathless grunt was all Lipton could manage. Speirs was making good of his words with his hands, stroking and palming him without restraint. His hands stroked his chest, palms curving along his muscles, thumbs nudging against his lowest rib and then stroking upwards until his fingers could circle and toy with his nipples. Lipton squirmed and panted under the treatment, not knowing what to make of the burning touch but having nowhere to go because Speirs held him in an ironclad grasp, firmly pressed along his back. He had no other option but to lie there, belly up and held tight and take it, take all that vicious tenderness, that thorough exploration of his body, and whimper and moan. Speirs’ wonderful, dangerous hands pet his skin and kneaded the muscles, then stroked lower down his belly, affectionately caressing everything they touched, then reached even lower down his naval, fingers stroking through pubic hair. Speirs’ breath was coming in deep, concentrated puffs like he was running uphill. “Spread your thighs for me.” Lipton shuddered and hurried to follow the command, bending his knee and pulling it up, opening his legs in a form of sharp v. Speirs let out a shuddering sigh, a sound of admiration, and his fingers slipped on the smooth, soft skin on Lipton’s inner thighs. There was the scar, the rugged ugly reminder of a close-call, and Speirs traced it carefully before lavishing the tender skin with merciless attention. “You like that, don’t you? When I tell you what to do?” There was absolutely no reason to lie, and Lipton felt no shame. “Yeah,” he sighed. In a bizarrely animalistic manner of affection, Speirs licked the corner of his mouth, then lapped at his lower lip. “I knew it,” he rasped, “I knew it.” It was deliciously decadent how Speirs was still fully dressed, but it seemed that he also had a plan in mind. His hands let go of him for a second, and a few seconds later Lipton heard a pop of a metallic lid. Then there were fingers on him, between his legs and drawing behind, and just like that he was touched on his entrance, then inside. There was copious amount of jelly of some sort coating Speirs’ fingers, thick and warm and slippery, easing the penetration and making everything feel so so soft. Being fingered felt like nothing else ever. There were no words, there was no comparison, there was only this entirely new, alien feeling of his body opening, being spread open and caressed from the inside. The lubricant warmed up quickly and was so thick it didn’t leak or spill over but left him feeling tended to and wet. Ready. Speirs had two fingers of his right hand inside Lipton and his other arm wrapped tightly around Lipton’s chest, keeping him still as well as he could. It was bizarre, how strong his hold was but how smooth and soft his touch was, firm and as demanding as everything else about him, but his fingers curled and caressed and made his body yield. Lipton realized he was making a punched-out humming sound every time the fingers pumped inside. There was something building inside of him, a heavy heat he hadn’t ever felt before, couldn’t even have imagined before this. Then the finger gave one last twisting thrust, stilled and pulled out. “You can undress me now,” Speirs said straight in his ear, wet lips brushing against the shell of it. He had to gather his wits for a moment, but then Lipton turned to Speirs. His captain looked more dishevelled than he had ever seen him, a mess he had made of him, his cheeks red and sweaty, his hair out of place and his red lips draw slightly back, revealing his teeth. Even with weak, trembling fingers Lipton made quick work of Speirs’ uniform, undoing button after button under his dark gaze, then pushing the shirt from his shoulders. The undershirt followed, and after that the belt was unbuckled and pulled out of the loops, the sound of leather against the rough fabric loud in the room. He pulled down the fly, and Speirs shifted helpfully when he pulled the trousers along with his underwear down his thighs and legs and finally completely off. Speirs naked and aroused was a breath-taking sight that made his heart race. He was brawny in a wiry sort of way, strong but still lithe, his body hair was black against his skin that was flushed with arousal, and he basked under his partner’s gaze shamelessly and completely comfortable with himself. Lipton hadn’t even realized how he stared until Speirs broke the spell by leaning towards him again and laying a hand on his collarbone. There was no playfulness or patience left in Speirs’ gaze now, his expression was intent and greedy. “I want you back against me, back to my chest. Now,” he said, almost whispered, and without a question Lipton crawled back into his hold. From a storey below them the record player was playing a bright swing tune that sounded muffled in their room. It would forever be the song that played during his first time. His first time like this, his first time being taken by another man. It felt heavenly and striking at the same time, overwhelming in a way that threatened to turn into fear and bring him to tears, but Speirs was slow and steady, a constant that held him together through it. They breathed together and took the plunge, hands momentarily clasped together. They fit together. Their bodies curled and rocked together, finding a rhythm as natural as heartbeat. Lipton could only let his body chase the pleasure. He had been wound up so carefully and completely that there wasn’t a single clear thought left in his mind, he was perfectly within his body that wanted pleasure, wanted to keep winding and mounting the building heat until it would all burst into ecstasy. He had his head leaned back on Speirs shoulder, the leg he couldn’t bear to hold up anymore thrown over his thighs while his hips rocked back against the other man, his spine in an almost painful curve. He needed something, he needed something more, something his feverish mind couldn’t quite grasp. “Sir – “ he gasped without any idea what he wanted to say. Speirs gave a breathless groan at the title and his hips bore home more viciously. “Oh god, you’re so sweet… So, so sweet…” Lipton felt powerful then, in how he had lured Speirs to him, just as attractive to him as he had been to him. Speirs breathed into his neck, mouthing the sweaty skin and grazing with his teeth, as ravenous as ever. “I’ve been trying to get you alone for a month. You’re just so – oh Christ – so… so…” There didn’t seem to be a word fitting for whatever he wanted to communicate, and it was like his body was trying to speak instead: he thrust harder, grinding in deep, rubbing against all the right places, and Lipton understood. Speirs kissed his neck and then his jaw, open-mouthed and messy. “Do you want to come?” Something dark flared inside Lipton’s chest, an eagerness that turned him trembling and pliant and urged him reach behind him for the other, his hand curling around a hip as if it was possible to pull the other even closer. “Yes! Yes, please!” “Yes… What?” And damn him, there was a lucid streak in that, a wicked joy in the game, and Lipton wanted to play. “Yes, sir. Please, sir,” Lipton cried out. Speirs seemed to know exactly what he needed. His lips pressed into his hairline in the back of his neck while he rolled them just so that he could press him down and thrust into him harder. His movements were rough but fluid, and finally he pushed his hand between Lipton’s legs and curled his fingers around his achingly hard cock. “Go ahead and come then,” he urged. It was a matter of seconds, then. Pinned down under the weight of the other, trapped between a deft hand and grinding hips, writhing and flexing and a rough command still in his ears, it was so good it almost ached, and Lipton came with a keen he muffled into the comforter. He could do nothing, only shake through his release that made his whole body thrash and tremble, and then just collapse when the overflowing ecstasy washed over him. Speirs rode his release out with him and kept fucking him through it, keeping the high going until every last drop of it was drained and it turned into deep satisfaction. The heat finally died down, leaving behind only bone-deep warmth. Lipton couldn’t bring himself to move. He just lay where he had ended up, not even bothering to close his legs. He hadn’t even realized that Speirs had climaxed at some point, but only became aware of something wet dripping down the backs of his thighs, and then Speirs flopped down next to him on his back with a heavy sigh. It got quiet in the room. They lay side by side where they had collapsed, shoulders brushing and breathing slowly evening out. The muffled sounds of the party became clearer, music and conversation too far away to make out words with sudden bursts of roaring laughter or hollering when the mood soared or a game was won. A glass broke somewhere. The record player was playing a soft romantic tune where a sweet female voice crooned probably about an absent lover or missing home. With some amusement Lipton realised they hadn’t even pulled back the covers, just fallen on top of them and then been too preoccupied with each other to even make use of the pillows. Speirs’ clothes were in a bundle on the floor, and Lipton remembered his own folded over a chair by the desk. With a huff that had a spark of amusement over their absurd current situation Lipton rolled over onto his back, ending up pressed against Speirs’ side. He turned to look at the man besides him, who was languidly stretched out and still basking in his own afterglow. As Lipton looked, Speirs tilted his head to the side to him. Their eyes met and Speirs gave him a small smile, then turned on his side to face him and lay one hand on his chest, the backs of his fingers stroking his collarbone. All that had been dark and dangerous about him seemed to have melted away, and without his uniform Captain Speirs was just a man. His eyes were warm and his gaze as gentle as his hand caressing his chest, but even sated and lazy he was focused. Lipton looked back, trying to understand the thoughts behind the look but coming up empty. “Don’t be scared,” Speirs muttered. Lipton blinked. “I’m not. Why would I be?” he asked, baffled. Speirs took a deep breath and smiled, satisfied with the answer. He shook his head a little, then leaned closer to kiss Lipton’s shoulder. “It’s nothing,” he said and kissed him again, then sighed so quietly that Lipton wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t felt it on his skin. “We can’t stay here for long, but give me a moment. Just a minute.” Lipton turned onto his side to face Speirs and mourned when the hand on his chest fell on the covers between them. He didn’t like the distance in Speirs’ voice, the hinted apology and reassurances as if he needed any of it. It made him feel that all that had happened between them, not just now but everything (since Mourmelon, since Haguenau, since Foy) before was about to be left in this room, and he didn’t like it. He had gotten himself close to Speirs, across the distance and inside his defences, and he wasn’t about to be expelled now. Now that Speirs wasn’t touching him anymore he fixed the problem by reaching over to touch him instead, his hand ending up on his side, feeling the hard plane of the ribcage and letting his hand drift lower to the mild curve of his waist. He was soft and warm there, drying sweat and the rise and fall of breathing signs of life under his palm.   “I’ll give you anything you want,” Lipton muttered, his hand moving from Speirs’ waist and around him, and then crawled in closer to the inviting heat of his body. Speirs sighed, something unreadable in his eyes, and smiled, sweet and relieved, and shook his head again even when he returned the affection and pulled Lipton into his arms. He let Lipton rest his head on his bicep, both arms around him in a secure embrace. “You are so…” Lipton waited for him to finally finish the sentence. After a heavy pause Speirs seemed to give up on it, huffed and cast his eyes down. When he looked up again, he had a spark in his eyes and he brought his hand up to Lipton’s face, smoothed a few overgrown strands of hair from his face, then curled along his jaw and pulled him into a kiss.  

[the-blind-assassin-12]

I See You : Intro

A/N: What if things went differently after that fated carousel incident? Could Frank move on? Could Billy? Under what circumstances? What if Madani and Dumont weren’t around to complicate things? If you’re looking for canon...I blew it up...sorry. Also, an IMMENSE THANK YOU to @something-tofightfor​ and @my-little-dumpster-fire​ for their feedback, input, coercion and general badassery. 

Word Count: 1,863 

Frank sniffed and cleared his throat, looking out over the Hudson River, his gnarled, overly broken, deeply scarred hands gripping the cold metal railing. He watched as a ferry passed by, chopping through the dark water. An unremarkable sight to most; the river was full of ferries shuttling tourists and commuters to and from the bustling island of Manhattan, streaks of white capped waves cross hatching the cold black depths. But Frank saw something else when he saw those boats, heard something other than the crashing wake or the sounds of engines and propellers. When Frank looked out at what most people walked right past, too busy or rushed to stop and see, he saw ghosts. Memories. He saw himself with his family in another life, in another time. It was winter now, the harsh eastern winds whipping at his face from off the water. But it was always summer in his mind, the sun dancing in Maria's hair, warming her skin as he slid his hand up to cup her cheek. It was summer, the unbridled happiness of freedom from school and longer days and no bed time echoing in his kids' laughter as they chattered next to him, pointing at the Statue of Liberty. It was summer, but it couldn't be summer forever. Seasons change, and it was time he learned to change with them.

A hand came to rest on his shoulder. Normally, instinct would kick in and muscle memory would take over and the person who belonged to that hand would be on the pavement before he ever saw their face. But even through the heavy woolen coat he wore, he felt the distinct weight of this particular hand and knew exactly whom it belonged to; the only person who could come close to undoing all of his violent conditioning. The only person who could see completely through it. Her thin fingers spread out against the rough fabric and he let his posture relax, if only slightly.

“Hey, Frank... you ready to do this?” Her voice was clear and confident, like always. She was never afraid, never backed down.

He turned to face her, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he met her eyes. A wisp of strawberry blonde hair blew across her forehead and she tucked it behind her ear with her free hand, the other still resting on Frank's shoulder.   Frank glanced once more out over the water, at the towering forms of New York’s skyline, and thought about what she was asking; about what he was walking away from. Was he ready? Was he ready to end his war against his past with anything less than absolute victory? Am I ready to walk away from you, Bill? 

She’d convinced him that he was; that he’d already handed Billy Russo as much punishment as he could. “You’re…what? You’re just going to keep all of this up until one of you is dead?” She’d asked him, that electric buzz in her eyes that she always got when she knew she was right about something. “What good would killing him do, huh Frank?” He’d grunted a quasi-response and looked away, but she’d taken his face between her hands and forced him to look at her as she continued. “He took everything from you, Frank, I get that. I get that, I do. But this isn’t an even playing field. He took your family, everything that mattered. He doesn’t have a family to take, Frank. But you still took everything that mattered. You took everything he built away- all that he was.” She shook her head and dropped one hand from his face as the other lingered on his cheek. He brought his own hand up, fingers circling her slender wrist. “Killing him takes the punishment away from him and puts it back on you.” She caught the flash in his eye that said he was conflicted about killing the man who had at one time been his brother, despite the unspeakable things he’d done since those ties had been severed. She knew how deep those old connections went; deep into every trench and bunker they’d sat dirty and bleeding in together, unsure of they’d make it through the night but damn sure that if one of them didn’t, neither of them would.

He recalled that conversation, one they’d had over dinner two weeks prior. They hadn’t talked much about Billy- or what Frank’s plan regarding him was- after the incident at the carousel, but she’d been thinking nearly non-stop about what she wanted and needed to say to the man she’d finally allowed herself to admit that she loved. She’d brought it up casually, through a mouthful of lo mien, gesturing with a set of chopsticks. “ You know, Frank, I’ve been thinking…” She’d gone on, bringing up the idea of the two of them starting over fresh somewhere far from New York- far from all the things that haunted him. Of course he was hesitant to agree. She knew he would be. But she was ready for every argument that he could possibly make; Karen Page always did her research.

“Karen, I can’t ask you to-“ he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, a white cardboard container in one hand and a stubborn set to his eyebrows.

“You’re not asking me to do anything, Frank.” She leaned in, too, setting her container on the coffee table between them, eyes laser focused on his. “You telling me that I can’t make decisions for myself?” She arched one eyebrow, questioning him with a sharp tone.

Frank swallowed the friend rice he’d been chewing and wiped his mouth with the crumpled napkin in his hand. “That’s not what I’m saying, of course not.”

“Okay, then, next argument.” She kept her gaze steady as his flicked to the floor and back.

“You’ll never be safe with me. You’ve seen how shit follows me around, Karen, I can’t-“

“And you’ve seen that I can handle it when it does, Frank.”

She had a point and he knew it. Running out of things to throw at her, he brought up the one thing that he knew mattered most to her. “What about your career, huh? You’re just gonna scrap everything you’ve been working for? For me?”

Karen leaned back against the couch cushions and couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her lips as her eyes rolled of their own accord. “My line of work and the way I pursue it? Come on, Frank, you really think this is the first time I’ve had to relocate under a new name?” She leaned back in, the remnants of that laugh still pulling at the corners of her mouth. “You think a journalist got lucky enough to be born with the name Karen Page?” She cocked her head to the side, shaking it slowly. “And as for your other question…” he tone softened and she reached forward to wrap her fingers around his hand. “I think you know where I stand on that one.”

Out of ammo, Frank conceded to thinking about it, but even he knew that her points were bullet proof. He’d agreed a few days later, and they’d begun working on their next steps. Unsurprisingly, Karen had “a guy” that she got in touch with for their new identities, and Frank talked himself into contacting an old friend that he swore he’d never drag back into his world- David Lieberman. He’d need his particular skills if the plan he had in mind was going to work. Again, unsurprisingly, Lieberman promised to pull through. The last step included meeting with the back –alley “surgeon” Frank had left Billy with after their run in in Central Park- “See, Frank,” Karen had added to her argument, “If you were going to kill him, you would have done it then. You wanted him alive. You wanted him to remember.” – to drop off a pre-paid cellphone.

“You make sure that piece of shit lives a long life, and you give him this,” Frank said, thrusting the phone at the man before him.

“You wanna see him?” he asked, taking the phone and pocketing it in his apron.

Frank wrinkled his nose and clicked his tongue turning away. “Give ‘em the phone. I’ll know if you don’t,” was all he said as he walked away.

.  . .  .  .  .

Now, standing at the railing, watching the ferries pass and the towers scrape the clouds and people go about their lives; now, with Karen’s hand on his shoulder and her eyes searching his and her question in his ear; now, with his past on his mind and his future in his heart, he was ready to answer her question.

“Yeah…yeah, Karen…I’m ready.” His gruff voice cut through the cold air, and she flattened her forearm against his shoulder out of equal parts relief and support. She nodded and kissed him on the cheek before taking a few steps back to give him privacy, indicating that she’d be “right over here” when he’s done.

As soon as he felt her hand leave his shoulder, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone that looked identical to the one he’d left for Billy. He dialed a number and waited as it rang once, twice, three times…before a familiar voice picked up.

“Frank.” It wasn’t a question. It was a toneless, flat statement.

“You listen to me and you listen good, Russo. I let you live so you could have a good long time to think about what you did. I kept you alive so you could remember what you did to my family. Woulda been easier for us both if I killed you, Bill, but I didn’t. You’re gonna live a long life now. I know you. You survive. So that’s what you’re gonna do. Only you’re gonna do it right where you are. You’re gonna stay in New York. You’re gonna stay put. With all the things you lost, and all the things you took, and all the people who know your fucking face. And if you leave the city, Bill? I’ll know. You got it.”

A sardonic, painful, snarl of a laugh came through the speaker. “Yeah, Frankie. I got it.”

“Good. The phone in your hand? That’s your new best friend, Bill. You keep that phone on you and you answer it when I call. You don’t, and I’m coming for you. You leave New York, I’m coming for you. You think I don’t have eyes on you, Bill? I see you.” He snapped the phone shut before opening it again, twisting the keypad away from the earpiece to break the phone in two. He tossed one piece into the Hudson, and threw the other in a garbage can next to the rail. A happy, young family walked by just after he disposed of the phone, a little boy trailing a blue balloon on a string, bubbling with giddy laughter. He waited for them to pass by before joining Karen. She slipped her hand in his wordlessly, and the two of them turned their backs on the city, silently hoping they’d never need to return.  

.  .  .  .  .  .  .

@something-tofightfor @my-little-dumpster-fire @zaffrenotes

[chasma-cos]

Train Heartnet’s gun: Hades

heyyy guess what it’s time for another prop build.

This is a prop I made of Train Heartnet’s gun “Hades” from the manga/anime Black Cat.

(details under the cut)

Materials I used were a piece of an eva foam floor mat, 3mm craft foam, a cardboard tube, Model Magic, high-temp hot glue, Barge contact cement, wire, embroidery floss and cording, a rubber o-ring, a bit of a boba (bubble tea) straw, pva glue, Rustoleum flexi-dip/peel-coat, acrylic paints, and a semi-gloss aerosol top coat.

Tools used were a rotary tool, a heat gun, a utility knife to cut the foam, wire cutters and pliers to cut and shape the wire, sandpaper, and a high temperature hot glue gun.

I started out with a pattern I made by splicing two manga images together, and then putting it into inkscape to make it scaleable.

I then printed it off, and cut out the main pieces for the body out of eva foam floor mats. I tried to take down some of the texture just by hand sanding, then applied contact cement (I use Barge because it seems to work well with eva foam) and glued the two sides together, making sure to apply enough pressure so that the texture wouldn’t cause gaps at the seam.

After sitting overnight to ensure it was properly glued, I used the sanding drum on my rotary tool to carve out the depressed area around the barrel, round off  and even out the edges, and make the handle more conformed to fit in my hand. After using the coarse sanding drum, I used a finer bit to try smooth out the carved parts. I ran a heat gun over it multiple times to get rid of as much fuzziness as I could that resulted from the sanding.

 The chamber right above is a cardboard tube from a tensor bandage that I cut to length, and then glued two layers of craft foam to: one layer to make it the correct size and another layer to create the depressions/raised parts of the chamber. I covered the end that would be showing with a circle of craft foam. (I ended up cutting off that extra bit on the right side of the tube, as it was not necessary in my build).

I then cut out the hole for the chamber, and test-fit the chamber to make sure it was the right size.

The gold detailing I drew out, while checking my reference, and then went over with hot glue. It was somewhat tedious to do and didn’t give a very exact pattern, but I figured it would turn out better than carving it or making it out of foam cut-outs. I also gouged out a bit of a hole where the barrel would be at the end of the gun. I then ran a heat gun over it to get rid of any glue strings.

(just some better pictures of the hot glue “detailing”)

I then drew on the “XIII” that appears on either side of the gun, and cut some grooves which I then opened up with a heat gun. In hindsight, I probably cut them too deep, which ended up causing some problems when painting.

For the barrel, I glued on the o-ring with some hot glue to fill in the gaps. The hot glue didn’t actually stick very well, so I then used contact cement to ensure it wouldn’t fall off. I also cut off a bit of boba straw, and glued it into the barrel to add more structural stability.

I then glued in the chamber with contact cement, and ended up having to add some foam shims to ensure a tight fit, as the hole I cut for the chamber wasn’t exact.

For the smaller parts I used both craft foam and Model Magic formed around wire. The sights were a couple layers of craft foam that were cut at an angle and then stacked together and glued on. The hammer, trigger and trigger guard were made by bending wire into the required shape, gluing it into the body of the gun, and then smoothing Model Magic over it. The round parts beside the chamber were also Model Magic that I shaped, glued down with contact cement, and then refined once they were on the body of the gun.

I found Model Magic quite difficult to work with, however since it is water based, I found that you can smooth it and make it easier to shape with water. Just be careful because using more water will also make it more likely to crack when it dries.

(the white dust on the barrel in this picture is from trying to fill some divots with a drywall filler, but it didn’t really adhere to the foam so it ended up just making a mess)

To make the tassels, I followed this video. I then took some cord and looped it through the top of the tassel, and glued it in place. I wrapped the folded part with some red wire to make sure it wouldn’t fall apart.

Once the Model Magic was dry, I added a wire loop for the tassels to tie to, and then began sealing. I thoroughly heat sealed the entire prop with a heat gun and then brushed on a couple coats of pva glue (white school glue), as I found that it helps to hide the texture from sanding, adds a bit more durability, and doesn’t have any weird reactions with the flexi-dip (I’ve had times where it wouldn’t stick to hot glue). Make sure each coat is fully dry before starting a new coat.

Once the glue coat was dry, I sanded it to get rid of any unwanted textures. I then sprayed multiple coats of flexi-dip and peel coat, starting with thin layers, and working up to thicker layers, but not so thick as to cause dripping. (no reason for using both, I just couldn’t find flexi-dip at the closest hardware store, and peel coat is made by the same company, and pretty much acted the same anyway).

After the peel coat was dry, I masked off the areas I needed to paint, and then painted the silver and gold parts by hand with acrylic paint., as well as did any touch-ups/fixing with black acrylic paint. It took several coats just to get the paint opaque enough to minimize the look of brush strokes. I then dry brushed some silver paint on the black parts, and some black/brown paint on the silver and gold parts to weather it. After the acrylics, I sprayed it thoroughly with a semi-gloss top coat.

I then looped on the tassel, and Hades was finished!

I don’t have any pictures, but the holster was made by first making a paper pattern around the gun, testing the paper pattern with craft foam, and then transferring the pattern to a piece of leather. 

The leather was dampened, cut out, and then gently formed around the gun. I then glued the edges where I would be stitching the holster with Barge. Because I don’t have proper tools to punch holes in leather, especially leather that thick, I used a drill to drill holes for sewing. 

Using a saddle stitch and waxed thread, I stitched the edge of the holster. Once the leather was dry, I burnished the edges, and oiled it with two coats of extra virgin olive oil (just the kind you can find in the grocery store), and then once that was dry, finished it with a type of shoe finish that had beeswax in it.

The straps are nylon webbing that I threaded through slits I cut in the back of the holster, and then sewed buckles to. 

This was my first time working with leather so I am by no means an expert. I recommend checking out videos on youtube, as there are many about leather working on there.

(Also most conventions require you to have an orange tip for your prop guns. I used a straight pin that you would use for sewing, glued an orange bead to it, and then stuck it in the end of the barrel.)

[alsoyouremischievous]

Sides Carry On

Summary: Roman Prince will do anything to protect the life he’s found through magic. This includes enduring lectures from his best friends Logan and Patton, overcoming his evil roommate Virgil, working for the Mage, and defeating the Insidious Humdrum. His life seems to be set out for him - but things can never be easy, can they?

AO3 Link

Ch. 1  Ch. 2

Chapter three

Roman

When I finally get to the station no one is there to greet me. Not anyone I actually know, at least, but there is a man with a grubby piece of cardboard, my last name scribbled across it. Prince.

“That would be me,” I say. He doesn’t look convinced which isn’t surprising considering I don’t look much like what he would have been expecting. That is, I’m not the picture of some elitist rich kid. Especially when I’m not in uniform - my shoes are practically falling apart at the seams. Not to mention I don’t look nearly bored enough, my eyes flickering about and my leg jiggling as I stand in place.

“That’s me,” I repeat, lowering my voice to try to lean into the intimidation factor that puts off most Normals. “Going to check my ID?”

He lets his arms drop to his sides, no longer displaying the sign. “You want to be dropped off in the middle of nowhere, I’ll drop you off in the middle of nowhere,” he sighs.

In the back of the rickety taxi I close my eyes and pull my bag close as he turns on the radio. I get carsick on my better days, and today is not a better day. Not with barely anything in my stomach and anticipation filling up the rest of me.

I’m so close now.

This is the last time I get to come home to Watford. I have no doubt that I’ll return at some point, but it won’t be like this, in the fall and leaving all the world behind me.

“Candle in the Wind” comes on the radio and the cabby perks up, singing along in a tone-deaf and warbling voice.

Candle in the Wind is quite risky, as spells go. It intrigues many boys as it can help to improve your stamina, for lack of better description. Fail to emphasize the right syllable though and whoosh you’ve set an actual fire - one that can’t be put out at that. I would never attempt it, even if there was a call for it, considering my poor luck with double entendres.

The car jolts and I’m tossed forward into the back of the driver’s seat.

“Seatbelt,” He admonishes.

As I pull it on I glance at my surroundings. We’re on a back road and this is not the way to Watford. My body tenses as I peer at the cabby.

He keeps singing, moving up into an intolerable volume.

“Never knowing who to turn too -” He seems comically invested in the song. I think about telling him to belt up.

I check the mirror. His skin is a putrid green color and his lips a garish red. I look back to him as he is right in front of me, like a normal cabbie with crooked teeth and impressive eyebrows. Singing Elton John. Then I look back to the mirror again - green skin, red lips and handsome as a pop star. Goblin.

I do not want to know what he’s up to. Moving my hand to my hip I start mumbling the incantation for the Sword of Mages.

The weapon is truly incredible in that it doesn’t even properly exist until the wielder has the need to call out for it.

The driver hears me and grins, turning to face me.

If Virgil were here he would have an entire arsenal of spells that could serve a purpose here. He’d probably know of an obscure French turn of phrase that would work perfectly. He’s not here though, and I lash out with my sword as soon as it materializes in my left hand. It cuts cleanly through the goblins head and the headrest for good measure. Voila.

The body keeps driving for a moment before slumping and pulling the wheel to the side. There’s no barrier between us, thank magic, so I shove off my seatbelt and scramble into the front to grip the wheel. His foot must still be pushing on the gas as we’re already off the road and accelerating.

I try to steer us back to the road, but I’ve never actually learned to drive so the car swerves into a fence. I’m blown back by the airbag releasing. I never thought I’d go out this way.

The car stops entirely before I have time to contemplate my existence or try to come up with a way to avoid further harm.

I gather my bearings. I'm laying half on the floor and I’ve smashed my face on the window and the seat consecutively. When I tell this story to Logan or Patton I’m leaving out the part where I took off my seatbelt.

Stretching my arm behind me I reach the handle and pull the door open, unending myself out onto the grass. The car managed to tumble through the fence all the way into a field where the engine running is the only discernible sound.

I turn off the engine as I assess the damage. There’s blood splattered all through the car, and unfortunately, all over myself. There are gouges in the grass and dirt from the car and the goblin’s head is sitting a couple feet away, where it must have been tossed from the vehicle.  

There’s no static feeling in the air that comes with an attack at the behest of the Insidious Humdrum. It must have been just another revenge run from a goblin trying to win the crown. Apparently, after I helped the Coven drive them out of Essex they decided that my head was the trophy necessary to become King of the goblins. It’s their own fault for gobbling up drunks in club bathrooms, to the point that the Mage was concerned about losing regional slang.

I pull my sword from the seat where it’s gotten lodged and let it dematerialize. Once that’s done I remember to grab out my bag and rummage through it to retrieve my wand, grimacing at the blood dripping from my sleeve. I can’t just leave this whole disaster to be found and nothing is worth preserving as evidence if the Humdrum had nothing to do with this.

I hold my wand out and feel my magic push up to the surface. “Work with me here,” I whisper, “ Out, out, damned spot! ”

I’ve witnessed Logan use that spell to erase unspeakable things. All it does for me is clean up a fraction of the blood from my sneakers.

The magic is impatient, building up in me and making my fingers shake. “Please,” I urge, “ take it away! ”

Sparks splinter away from my wand like a faulty sparkler.

“Fuck me, come on ,” I shake out my wrist and point again, my stomach turning. My arm feels like it’s burning.

“ Into thin air! ” I shout. A wave of heat sweeps up from my feet as the taxi disappears. And the head. And the fence. And the road…

***

An hour later I trudge up to the driveway leading up to Watford’s gate. Thankfully I only vanished part of that back road and once I reached the main road again I was able to follow it the rest of the way.

Normals in the area believe Watford is like any other ultra-exclusive boarding school, thanks to all the glamours up around the grounds. Picani says that they add new layers of protection to the whole school as the spells are developed. If you’re a Normal I would imagine all the magic buildup would burn your eyes.

When I reach the tall iron gate I reach out and rest my hand on it. That used to be all it would take to gain entrance, the gate recognizing my magic and opening the school to me. There’s an inscription on the crossbar, below the title of the school spelled out over the arch, reading: MAGIC SEPARATES US FROM THE WORLD; LET NOTHING SEPARATE US FROM EACH OTHER.

The Mage had claimed it was a nice sentiment but not logical. In the Coven meeting where he had appealed to change the lack of defenses, he’d scoffed at the idea of taking security advice from a six-hundred-year-old gate. “I don’t expect my visitors to take orders from the cross stitching on my pillows.”

He’d taken me along to that one, with Logan and Patton for good measure, to make an example to the Coven. Won’t someone think of the children!

I tuned out of most of the debate wondering where the Mage actually lived. It’s hard enough picturing him with a house let alone throw pillows. I’d pondered whether I would ever get an invite to his home. He has rooms at Watford of course but he’s away for weeks at a time and I’d used to picture him living in the woods foraging to survive and sleeping in a hollow tree. Adjusting my view of him took some time.

In any case, security gets stiffer and admittance to Watford trickier every year.

Logan’s brother, one of the Mage’s Men, is stationed this year as a guard. I can’t imagine he’s pleased with the state of things considering the rest of the Mage’s Men are probably up in the Mage’s office planning some raid or offensive maneuver while he’s stuck out here, checking in first years.

He moves into my way.

“Alright, Nate?”

“You’re asking me?” he says eyeing me up lazily, dried blood and all.

“Goblin,” is all the explanation he needs.

Nate nods, pulling his wand out slowly to cast a cleaning spell on me. I hate when people do this, it makes me feel like a child. It’s easier than scrubbing it out though, so I mutter a quick, “thanks,” as I go to slip around him.

“Hold up,” he says, putting his arm out. He takes a moment to lay his wand on my forehead, “Special measures, considering the Humdrum is running around with your face nowadays.”

I jerk but don’t pull away from his wand. “I uh, I thought that was meant to be a secret.”

“Yes,” He nods slowly in agreement. “But it’s a secret that needs to be shared with people like me so we can keep you safe.”

I scoff, “If I were the Humdrum, you’d have been eaten by now.”

He doesn’t seem phased.

“Either way then we’d know it was him. Maybe that’s the Mage’s plan.” He lowers his wand at an infuriatingly slow pace. “You’re good to go.”

“Is Logan here yet?”

He shrugs. “I’m not my brother’s keeper”

For a moment I think he’s pouring magic into the words to cast a spell, but he turns from me and leans against the rail in his usual lackadaisical fashion.

***

The Great Lawn is empty. I guess I’m one of the first to arrive. I start running, because I can, and upset a huddle of swallows hidden in the grass. I keep running as they flap and twitter around me, and still past the drawbridge that comes up at night, and the secondary gates, and on until I’ve reached the top of Mummers House where I finally stop to pant against my doorway.

I call for the Sword of Mages again and use it to prick my thumb and press my blood into the stone. There’s a spell I could use instead, of course, to reintroduce myself to the room after being away. The spell takes more work though, and Virgil isn’t even here yet to smell the blood.

My room. It’ll be our room again soon enough but for now, it’s mine. I push the window open with fervor to smell the fresh air and fall back onto my bed as I watch the dust motes dance through the room.

The ancient mattress is stuffed with feathers and preserved through spellwork. Merlin. Merlin and Morgana and Methuselah, it’s good to be back. It’s always so good to be back.

Returning for the first time in my second year had led to me sobbing like a baby in my bed until well after Virgil had arrived.

“Why are you crying already? You’re ruining my plans to drive you to tears, Roman. Pathetic,” he ’d scoffed, as though I’d done it in some elaborate scheme to get one over on him.

I let my eyes fall shut to appreciate the smell.

Feathers. Dust. Lavender.

Water, from the moat.

There’s also that slightly acrid smell that Virgil swears is from the Merwolves. It’s a terrible mistake to give Virgil any excuse to go off about them. Sometimes I catch him leaning out the window to spit at the moat, that’s how much he detests the species.

If he were here already I wouldn’t be able to smell anything over his soap… I take a deep breath trying to catch the scent of cedar.

There’s a rattle at the door, and I spring up reaching for the Sword of Mages yet again. That’s three times in one day. Maybe I should just start leaving it out. The incantation is the only spell that never fails me, but that’s mostly because it’s not quite a spell but more of an oath.

“ In Justice. In Courage. In defense of the Weak. In the face of the Mighty. Through Magic and Wisdom and Good.”

The sword doesn’t have to appear at all. It’s in ‘my possession’ but it doesn’t really belong to anyone. It only comes if it trusts you.

I swing the sword up to my shoulder right as Logan pushes the door open. I let it drop.

“You shouldn’t be able to do that,” I say as Logan crosses the room to Virgil’s desk.

He shrugs and seats himself in Virgil’s chair. I grin.

“If Virgil finds out you were touching his stuff he’ll kill you,” I say, twisting my wrist and letting the sword fade again.

“Let him try,” he sizes me up. “You look terrible.”

“I ran into a goblin on the way.”

He sighs, “Why can’t they just vote in the next king?”

His voice is light, but I can tell he’s testing the waters. The last time he saw me I was barely held together by a mix of magic, willpower, and his hand on my arm. The last time I saw Logan everything was falling apart…

After we escaped the Humdrum and managed to flee back to Watford we crashed the end of year ceremony and it wasn’t pretty. Logan’s family was there - everyone’s family was there - and his mother tore into the Mage.

“This is your fault!” she’d screeched, gripping Logan tightly by the arm as though he would slip away without an anchor.  And then Nate had gotten between her and the Mage and started yelling right back. People must have assumed that the Humdrum was right behind us because the Chapel became a mess of everyone running with their wands out. I can’t blame them - I must have looked a fright still bleeding from my pores (no one can explain what caused that).

It felt more than just chaotic. It felt like the end.

Then Logan’s mum had spelled their whole family away, even Nate mid drawn out shout. They probably only traveled to their car but Logan’s hand, holding on to me as tightly as his mother held him, suddenly vanishing from my arm made me feel as though there was an insurmountable distance between us. It was a very lonely feeling.

I haven’t talked to him since.

I desperately want to scoop him up right this instance and check him over to see that he’s properly okay, but Logan hates scenes almost as much as his mum loves them. My uniform is laid out for me at the end of my bed and I turn to it as an excuse to ignore the urge, putting it away piece by piece. New grey slacks. New green and purple striped tie…

Logan lets out a deep sigh. I move back to my bed and perch facing Logan, trying to control the massive grin that wants to spread across my face. “What could possibly have you so bothered this early on?”

“Patton.” I have to stifle a laugh at his very obviously false put-upon face.

“And what has he done then?”

“Come back,” He asserts, fixing his glasses on his face. I don’t bother hiding my amusement this time, snorting at him without any sort of restraint.

“I really don’t believe that you expected him to do anything else,” I say. It’s always amusing to watch as Logan and Patton re-acclimate to each other.

“The room is already covered in his home-baked goods. He’s not been away near long enough to have needed a care package, Roman.” I really don’t think he cares about whether or not the room contains baked goods. He cares about being eternally thrown off by Patton’s continuous warmth, and about all the awkward missteps they’ll inevitably make while they work at finding their natural dynamic again. I don’t say that though.

“In his defense,” I begin, “his father’s cookies are delicious -”

“You’re only on his side because his side may lead to you getting cookies,” Logan scoffs.

I giggle, “You can’t seriously be implying that Patton’s side is the dark side, are you? It’s Patton!”

“You are perfectly aware that I was making no such insinuation,” he says, rolling his eyes at me with more force than is strictly necessary. He claims that I’m the dramatic one, but I don’t see it.

I swallow another laugh but end up beaming at him anyway. Great snakes, I missed this nerd so much. “And it’s your last year anyway, you can deal with some cookies, for Merlin’s sake Logan,” I let myself finish as though there was no interruption.

He straightens up at that. “It’s our last year, Roman. And I know precisely what you will be doing next summer.”

“What’s that?”

He grins, “Hanging out with me.”

“Hunting the Humdrum?”

“Fuck the Humdrum.”

We both snicker, but I can’t help internally grimacing at the thought of him. The Humdrum looks exactly like an eleven-year-old version of me, which I might believe I’d hallucinated if Logan hadn’t seen him too.

I shudder.

Logan notices. “You are not at your optimum weight range.”

“It’s just the clothes.”

He seems exasperated. “Well change then,” He says. He already has. “It’s near time to head to the cafeteria anyway.”

I hop up to gather my outfit but Logan rises too and grabs my arm in the same place he’d held last time. “It is good to see you,” He says quietly, peering into my eyes.

I smile. Again. Logan has a way of making my cheeks hurt.

“Don’t make a scene,” I whisper back.

Ch. 4

[banesbottombitch]

When You’re Strange

A Patrick Hockstetter / Reader fic

Original Link

Warnings: Violence, swearing up the ass, Tozier!Reader beating ass, Richie and Tozier!Reader’s Trashmouths. She/Her Reader.

Description:  As a military brat, you’ve learned to pick up everything and run at a moments notice. Ending up back in Derry for your senior year and moving in with your aunt and uncle, you’ve come to realize that with Patrick Hockstetter’s sights on you there is no room for running.

Word Count: +4,600

Other Chapters: Part 1, Part 2

Part 3: Rebel Yell

A/N: I whipped this up pretty fast, but I’m going to take short break from WYS for work. I’ll be back in a few days though, worry not. Rebel Yell is by Billy Idol, check out the song you nerds.

“You gotta death wish, don’t you?” Richie pushed his glasses up the length of his nose, squinting at you while you worked at the straps of the blue tarp that shielded your trunk.

“What’s that thing you guys yell at Richie when he’s being a pest?” You asked Eddie, not bothering to look at either boys while you climbed into the back of your truck, tossing the tarp aside and hauling Richie’s bike to the tailgate.

“Beep Beep Richie.” They spoke in unison, your cousin rolling big brown eyes and bouncing on his heels.

“I’m just saying, threatening the Bowers Gang? Really? We all saw you doing it from the cafeteria. You’re here for like, I dunno, less than 36 hours and you’re already picking a fight with those shit lickers?” Richie continued, taking the handle bars of his bike and helping you lower it to the parking lot asphalt.

“He’s got a point.” Eddie chimed in, much to your chagrin. The freshmen shared a look between them as you hopped out the back of your truck before slamming the tailgate closed with a satisfying clap.

You leaned against it, stuffing your hands into the pockets of your windbreaker and giving them an even look.

“Listen, I’m just…” You trailed off, sighing. “I dunno, trying to get them to back off? They seem to genuinely scare you guys. I thought it would help to let them know that I’d take a bat to their heads, y’know?”

Richie threw a long leg over his bike, Eddie climbing to sit on the edge of the seat that the taller boy left him. “Just don’t get yourself killed, we can take care of ourselves.”

Wearily your cousin kicked off, pedaling slowly to round your vehicle. “I’ll see you later.”

“By Eddie!” You raised a hand still stuck in your pocket, Eddie shifting to wrap his arms around Richie’s thin torso and waving back at you. “Make him come home by eight!”

“Nine!” Richie challenged, working his legs to pedal faster and out of ear shot before you could argue. In the distance, you saw him encircle Bill and Stan as they kicked off from their bikes, Beverly riding on Mike’s handal bars and Ben chasing after the other six as he quickened his pace to follow the group out the parking lot.

You clicked your tongue, dragging your keys from your pocket and slipping into your truck. Your backpack sat in the passenger side the two boys had occupied that morning, folded in on itself and limp. You leaned over after stuffing the keys in the ignition to let the car idle, shoveling out the contents in search of the mixtape that had been gifted to you. It took a moment, but you found it, hidden under the gym uniform given to you during your fourth period P.E. class. You had put it in your pocket earlier, but changing had forced you to toss it in your backpack for safe keeping.

Again, you flipped the tape to read over the songs. Beverly had chosen the first song, a Psychedelic Furs classic, ‘Pretty In Pink’. Mike had chosen The Police’s hit ‘Message In A Bottle’, Bill had gone surprisingly wayward and picked a Depeche Mode song ‘Policy Of Truth’. Someone was going through an edgy phase, you mused, impressed nonetheless. Ben as a wildcard with his Billy Idol choice, and you smiled a little, finding that his pick of ‘Rebel Yell’ was a perfect fit for you at least.

Stan had thrown in a surprise guest, Pat Benatar’s ‘Heartbreaker’. You had always wondered what kind of taste the Uris boy had, but honestly, Pat wasn’t too much of a surprise. He seemed like the type to enjoy dramatic and passionate lyrics like those you’d find in Pat Benatar’s music. Eddie had picked a Cyndi Lauper song that held a special place in your heart, ‘The Goonies r’ Good Enough’. You still had vivid memories of watching The Goonies with the four original nerds when it came out in theaters during a small gap in summer when you had flown up to Derry for a visit. It had been easy enough to convince them to dress up with you and go adventuring with them by the barrens, and easier still to let Richie and Bill lead the way for the five of you to build a crappy little fort in the woods.

Richie’s contribution was what really made you beam though, his carefully chosen song for you was a personal favorite of yours. ‘How Soon Is Now’ by The Smiths.

You carefully switched out the tapes, retiring the other one to your wrinkled and torn up cardboard cassette box that rested in the beaten up floorboards of your cab and taking off as the slow rhythmic beats of The Psychedelic Furs filled your truck.

You carefully searched the parking lot for any sign of a blue Trans-Am, surprised not to see any edivdence of it. You shrugged off a rather nervous feeling in your gut at the observation, figuring the Bowers Gang must have snuck out of school after lunch. They didn’t exactly seem like the type to conform to the social norm and actually attend a full day of school anyhow.

The greenery in Derry was a nice change from the ever browning palm trees and sandy tropical gardens of Galveston. The skies were just as blessedly blue, streaks of cream casting cool shadows from the clouds that covered Derry on that October afternoon. It didn't reek like the ocean in the small town, it wasn’t clogged with smog, and the muggy heat of texas had thankfully not followed you north. You felt close to your element in Derry, to your great surprise. It was the right kind of environment for you, but you would admit to already missing the bustling populace of Houston or even the smaller city of Sugarland.

Rolling down your window, you left Derry High behind you, creeping down Pasture Road before turning down the Kissing Bridge to cut over to Canal Street and head back home. You neared the overpass that stood above the canal ways, but slowed with a curse when you spotted that goddamn blue Trans-Am.

It sat empty, but what worried you the most was the pile of bikes left forgotten by the roadside, completely deserted.

“Fuck.” You swore, pulling off to the side and snatching your keys out, kicking the driver side door open in a rush. You hesitated a moment in silent deliberation, eyeing a tool beneath the cassette box.

A sudden hoarse yelp of pain, one you listened to with horror when you recognized it as Richie’s, decided your actions for you. You shoved the cassette box aside, grabbing the heavy tire iron from the floorboards and jumping out the car. You flew through the underbrush by the bridge, hearing what sounded like grunts and swears- namely from the mouth of your Trashmouth cousin.

You stumbled out of the woods, finding a break in the path and crashed out in a flurry of crunched up leaves and panic, tire iron raised.

From the looks of it, you had ended up by the canalside, the rocks littered with the fighting forms of your cousins friends and four enraged, hostile and very unlucky seniors.

Eddie was out cold, face pressed into the ground, a little scratched up but seeming mostly unharmed. Stan was attempting to over power Belch’s hulking mass, who had Bill’s collar in a death grip and was smacking him around like a rag doll. Mike was taking on Patrick and Vic alongside Beverly and Ben, the latter of who was flushed in the face and positively livid. Mike’s torn lip and Beverly’s scraped knees were nothing compared to the absolute wreck that was Richie Tozier’s face however.

Glasses? Shattered. Lip? Busted, bruised and split. Richie’s nose bent at an awkward and certainly painful angle, and there was a long cut alongside his eye, as if someone had carved him with a knife or a piece of glass. That didn't stop his mouth from flapping though, and even with his cracked voice and split lip he shot zingers like the Tozier he was.

“You fucking-” He spat at Henry Bowers, who wrestled with the smaller boy and dug his back into the tough and jagged rocks of the canalside. “Bruce Springsteen lookin’ mother fucker!”

“Aw? Mad, Flamer?” Henry taunted, gritting his teeth and driving Richie harder against the stones. “Upset we knocked out your little faggy boyfriend?”

He cocked his fist back, knuckles bruised and red with Richie’s blood.

You launched into action, roaring with a feral rage and lurching off from the path, bringing your weapon down on Henry’s side with as much weight behind it as you could muster.

“FUCK-” Bowers howled, clutching his side and pushing himself off Richie, who gurgled some kind of greeting that you didn't hear, your vision going red as you knocked Henry further back with the bottom of your docs.

You raised the tire iron, eyes burning and teeth bared, bringing it down where the mullet haired boy would have been if he hadn’t scrambled back.

From your side vision you spotted Belch, who was coming at you with arms out, ready to take you down. Side stepping him, you knocked against his back using the tire iron with a positively bruising force, kicking him for good measure as well and returning your focus to Henry.

“What did I say?!” You screamed, throwing the weapon down again and again, growing more and more irritated as you missed him.

“You’re fucking crazy! Bitch!” Henry spat, pushing up from the ground and scattering pebbles in his wake.

“What did I say?!” You repeated with even more venom, Vic and Patrick hovering beside Belch, who watched your dance with Henry wearily.

“You’re dead!” Henry ignored your prompt, pointing at you and digging into his pocket, whipping out a knife.

You gripped the tire iron tighter, eyes flashing and lip curling. “I like my odds, Bowers. Do you like yours?”

Blue eyes flickered to his wounded friend and the other two who seemed content to keep out of this particular fight. “Get her, Patrick.”

“With pleasure.”

You whirled around, slashing at the lanky boy who was a safe distance from you, a wild look in your eyes. “You think I’m above kicking your ass too, Hockstetter? Don’t fuckin’ try me!”

Patrick edged around Belch, watching you carefully. “Why don’t you settle down, Princess?”

Adrenaline pounded through you, your blood a rush in your ears. You let out a growl, pointing at him with the weapon. “You wanna dance? Let’s dance, Hockstetter.”

“[First Name]!” Stan shrieked, the crunch of pebbles shifting with weight alerting you back to the threat that loomed behind.

Spinning with the weapon ready, you landed a solid blow on Henry’s shoulder, but he had used your distraction to his advantage and you felt the white hot hiss of a cut rake down your right arm. The knife sliced through your windbreaker easily, slicing your forearm good, and scarlet poured freely as Henry stumbled back, looking pained.

Panic set in now, Patrick’s presence hovering along the sidelines, a snarl at his lips and Henry raised his knife in silent challenge once more.

“One more good whack, Bowers, and you’re in the hospital.” You sneered, rolling the weapon to your other hand, knowing you’d be sloppy with the change, but still effective. You spared Patrick a glare. “And I’ll aim for your head, Hockstetter.”

“Sounds tough coming from you, Tozier.” He taunted, a bottle of hairspray shaking in his hand as he fixed on you with an eerie gaze. “I’ll melt that Trashmouth right off your pretty little face.”

You saw the kids scramble to Richie and Eddie, the Bowers Gang focused on you entirely. Belch attempted to rise, but stumbled back down in a kneel, swearing. You had gotten him good, it seemed. Vic didn't want to press the matter at hand, attempting to help his friend stand instead of facing you.

You winced, bending your wounded arm and taking your keys out of your pocket, hurling them at Beverly, who caught them with an uncertain look.

“Get in the truck, have it running. Id im not out in five, drive.” You ordered tensely, eyes flickering between Patrick and Henry, the latter of whom seemed to be having trouble standing, his breathing uneven and restless.

The freshmen swarmed the two broken boys, your cousin fighting their helping hands and calling after you. You ignored him, waiting for either of the bullies that crowded you to make their move.

“What now, boys?” You carefully stepped to the side, eyeing them as you edged back to the path that would lead you to the truck, Richie’s friends racing away with him and Eddie in tow.

A spout of fire that curled and preened shot out at you, Patrick closing in all too fast in response. You swore, not expecting him to have that much range, Henry throwing himself at you when you faced Patrick.

The two of you went flying, the cut burning as Henry shoved you to the bank, the action knocking the air out of your lungs as your back met the uneven and sharp rocks. You struggled, throwing the tire iron up to block his jabs and slashes of the knife, the edge coming dangerously close to your eyes.

“Look at you now, Trashmouth!” Patrick hooted, running up to come beside Henry.

You writhed under Henry, finding an opening and, with a valiant cry, jerked the bottom of the tire iron to strike Henry’s temple. He gave a cry of pain and ripped himself off you, roaring as he clutched his now bleeding head. You kicked yourself up, just barely breaking from Patrick’s grasp as he hurled himself after you.

Henry was down for the count, but Patrick was more than happy to pursue you through the winding and twisting limbs of the underbrush. The path was caked with wet leaves, unsteady earth and littered with specks of blood from Richie and probably Bill, but you came out the other side and skidded across the Kissing Bridge, chest heaving, victorious despite the challenge of the terrain.

Patrick was right on your tail, always inches from catching you, his eyes lit up with a gleam that horrified you to the core. He was enjoying himself as he increased his speed while you sprinted to the running truck.

“TAKE OFF THE BREAK, TAKE OFF THE BREAK!” You screamed, hearing the chaotic laughter behind you.

The gang was in the back, all shouting after you to hurry, Bill and Richie leaning heavily on each other in the trunk of the car, looking like hell had come after them and spat them back out. Beverly was at the wheel, screaming in time with the others as you threw yourself into the open trunk bed, Mike shoveling you far inside as Beverly shot off like a bullet. You all lurched forward from the force, the bikes that had been stuffed in the back rattling beside each other, and you gave a cry when you felt Patrick’s hand just barely graze your boot, your head turning as you watched him slow to a trot, giving up in his chase.

“We’ll get you later, Tozier!” He called after you, bending to catch his breath, eyes boring into you as Beverly whipped the truck down the street and carried off far from the bridge.

The truck was driven far away, weaving behind Derry through back roads that even you were unaware of. Mike carefully climbed through the open back window, directing Beverly with a calm voice, the only one of you who had the sense to keep his emotions in check.

The wind whipped at your hair, the cool air welcomed to calm the heat in your veins, to tame the fire in your belly. You were going to fucking murder Bowers, if it was the last thing you did. Carefully, you shuffled past the bikes to Richie and Bill, taking care to raise Richie’s head to inspect the damage.

“What happened?” You asked, your question falling on Stan or Ben to answer.

You glanced over your shoulder, Stan looking distraught as he watched Bill roll his head, his left eye swelling shut and jaw reddening with bruises. Bill attempted to speak, his speech slurred.

“B-b-buh-bowers,” He finally got out, heaving a sigh. “Ben. Tell h-her.”

Ben shifted, his face dirty and flushed, but seeming mostly unharmed. “Bowers caught us at Kissing Bridge. He was pissed you had tried to order him around, so he started picking on Richie… And, well, you know Eddie,” the boy nodded at Eddie, whose head rested on Stan’s lap, his breathing relaxed. There was a knot forming on his forehead, but at the very least he seemed safe enough. “He got angry that Henry was messing with Richie and he mouthed off to him, which made Henry angry, which made Richie cuss him out and, well.”

Ben sighed. “They chased us to the canal, Patrick and Henry shoved Eddie down and he was out like a light. Richie tackled Henry, Bill went for Belch when he tried to kick Richie off Henry and Patrick got on Mike. Bev and I ran to Mike after Stan ran to Bill and Vic knocked me down. You showed up after i got up and Henry started wailing on Richie.” “Fuckin… Idiot.” Richie spat, breathing heavily as Beverly finally slowed the car, pulling the parking brake as she came up beside a pasture and climbing out, panic fresh on her features.

“You’re the idiot!” She yelled, a wetness in her eyes as she crawled into the truck bed, reaching for Eddie and cradling his face in her hands. “Eddie, Eds?”

The boy gave a sharp inhale, hazel eyes fluttering open as he flinched awake. “What-” He sat up, swaying only slightly as Mike took the wheel. “What the fuck happened, OH MY GOD, RICHIE!”

“Where do we go?” He asked, looking over his shoulder, worried gaze resting on Richie and Bill.

“R-r-ree-rich- FUCK,” Bill cursed, angirly stirring in his spot. “Richie’s!”

His eyes hardened, furious with either himself or his predicament, you weren't sure. Mike looked to you for an okay and you wearily crawled from the back to the inside of the cab, letting out a soft moan of pain as you overworked your wounded arm.

Eddie took your spot beside Richie, eyes pricking with tears as he practically hyperventilated. He was speaking a mile a minute and you didn't take the time to decipher it as Mike began to drive forward, heading down the road to make it back to town.

“Eds.” Richie croaked between heavy breaths, Eddie continuing on some kind of rant about broken noses. “Eds.”

Beverly gingerly looked over Bill’s face, Stan hovering at her side and looking forlorn as they bounced in the back from the dents and potholes of the roads. Gravel kicked underneath the truck, crunching loudly as Mike led everyone past farmlands.

“Eds.” Richie said firmly, reaching out and catching a panicky hand of Eddie’s, folding his fingers together with the smaller boys and arching in to a sore stretch. “Stop, i’m begging you.”

Finally, Eddie silenced himself. A loud sniffle could be heard as he shuffled closer to Richie, forcing your cousin to lean himself on him. “You’re a fucking idiot. Idiot.”

“Nice.” Richie mused with a broken laugh, coughing and groaning. “This is all your fault, [First Name]. Just sayin’. If I die, make sure they bury me in a coffin without nails so I can pass over to the promise land and let god know how much of an ass you are.”

“Considering you want ‘Highway To hell’ played after your hespied, you turd, I don’t think you’re making it to the otherside.” You snapped, sliding off your jacket and eyeing the nasty cut, courtesy of Henry Bowers. “I was just trying to help.”

Richie scoffed, but you decided against fighting further, it did you no favors. Maybe Richie was right. You had been too aggressive, way too damn fast. The Bowers Gang meant business, it appeared. Something told you that if Patrick had caught you at the bridge that you’d have been dead meat, no holds barred. Just threatening those boys had landed you in a heap of shit, and, like Richie had pointed out, you had barely been in town for two days.

Mike watched you from the corner of his eye, and you sighed heavily, closing the window to the back and scrunching up your face in distaste.

“It’s my fault, isn’t it?” You asked him, already gathering that he was the wisest of the group, the most grown up and least opinionated.

Mike shrugged his shoulders. “You Toziers are good at two things; talking smack and causing problems… But at least you were trying to do right by us.” He smiled a little, rubbing at this split lip. “Even if it did get us a little roughed up. It shows you care.”

“Richies beat bad, Bill’s going to be swollen up and colored purple.” You said regretfully. “Eddie was out for longer than five minutes, and you’ve got a busted lip. I did a swell job trying to do right by you guys, huh?”

“You’re hurt too.” Mike pointed out softly, turning down a rural road. “Bowers cut you up pretty bad.”

“I’m fine. I’m more worried about you guys.” You said honestly, peeking back at the others in the back, all of whom who were huddled together in a tight circle. The breeze ruffled curls and upset need styles, but at least all of them had tired smiles. They looked valiant, proud to have escaped with a few scrapes and their lives.

“Toziers.” Mike murmured, shaking his head and giving a defeated sigh. “You need to watch it around Bowers, I’m just warning you.”

“I can handle myself.” You defended lightly.

“I saw. But if Patrick had jumped in, I’m sure you wouldn’t currently be in this car.” He said, attempting to resonate with you. “You took that tire iron to Henry Bowers pretty hard core, sure, but he isn't the only member of the gang, [First Name].”

You clicked your tongue. “I’d take him on again if I could, Mike.”

“I know.” He agreed, eyes dancing with amusement.

You were quiet for a while, letting the scenery pass by before suddenly you sat up, blinking in surprise.

“WAIT? CAN YOU EVEN LEGALLY DRIVE?”

Underneath the blood that caked Richie’s face was a simple broken nose and torn lip, nothing too major despite what it had seemed earlier. You and Richie was miraculously able to convince your aunt that he had simply fallen off his bike and roughed himself up slamming into a pole. Your cousin had an endless supply of glasses, so it was an easy fix as far as the two of you were concerned, and Bill’s eye lessened in its swelling after he applied an ice pack and Eddie tended to his cuts. Mike said his lip was nothing to worry about and Ben put countless band aids on Beverly’s knees, the tenderness evident behind his sweet smile and Beverly’s warm gaze. Eddie’s bump had receded considerably and was barely there now, but he had kept ice on it for a while just to be safe.

It took the combined power of Stan, Bill, Mike and Beverly to hold you still so Eddie could patch up your arm. You thrashed around, having preferred to just rinse it off and tape the wound up in a classic Tozier fashion, but Kaspbrak nagged the shit out of you before he ordered the attack on you to be made.

Richie was too doped up on the pain medication that Eddie stole from his cabinets to bring to your house for his emergency aid, so the bespectacled nerd could only let out a few slurred “Suck the wound ”’s before he seemingly passed out on the couch in the Tozier home’s basement.

“Hold her still, come on.” Eddie snapped, a cotton ball of peroxide in between his careful fingers as he applied the antiseptic to your gash.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow-” You whined, wiggling around despite the combined weight that kept you seated in the office chair stolen from your uncles computer room.

“Is she going to need stitches?” Stan questioned, much to your added distress.

“No, she isn't. It's just a flesh wound.” Eddie assured everyone, Ben letting out a thankful sigh in place of yourself.

Richie gave a sleepy chuckle, rolling on the couch. “Flesh wound…” He was promptly ignored.

“Calm down, you’re alright.” Beverly shushed, smiling down at you. You flinched as Eddie patted your cut dry, pressing gauze against it before begining to wrap your arm tightly with bandages.

“Thanks mom.” You snarked, wincing at the pressure applied, but calming down nonetheless.

Eddie stepped back, sighing. “Done.”

All four teens released you, and you shot up, heading to the couch to sit with your cousin, licking your wounds per say.

The others mingled for a while before leaving, everyone thankfully not as roughed up as before and wearing smiles. You waved them all out the basement entrance before going back to Richie, slinging the battered (and drugged out) boy’s arm over your shoulder.

“Come on champ.” You encouraged, heading upstairs. Shutting the door to the basement behind you and maneuvering to the second story, pausing at the base of the staircase to bid your aunt and uncle good night.

"We're heading to bed. Love you guys."

They didn't bother to turn from the television, leftovers from the night before in their laps and eyes glued to the news.

“Assholes. They don’t even care...” Richie muttered lowly, but you shushed him softly, leading the boy one step at a time to the second story hall, where you dragged him to his bedroom.

Richie swayed as you reached to turn on his light, taking the boy to his bed and gently settling him a top the covers.

“[First Name]?” He slurred your name adorably, barely keeping onto his consciousness. You hummed in response, undoing his laces and setting his shoes on the floor beside his twin bed. He squirmed in the Star Wars covers, slipping his glasses off and dropping them on the nightstand.

“I’m glad you’re back.” Richie whispered hoarsely, scratching at the tape stuck to his nose from Eddie’s handiwork. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too Bucky Beaver.” You felt your heart melt and expression soften. He watched you with his big brown eyes, looking dead tired and bruised. He was still in his clothes from earlier and you sighed, knowing what you had to do. Walking to his dresser you grabbed a pair of pajama pants and a shirt from the drawers before returning to his side, shifting the dirtied jeans off his legs.

He let you do the deed, complaining only when you jerked the jeans too roughly off his ankles and drawing his pajama pants over bare legs. The change into his shirt was easier, and once that was over with and you had combed any mud that was left in his hair out, you straightened and threw his comforter over top his aching form.

“Love you, bud.” You said, stepping away from his bedside.

“Love you too.” He murmured, eyes fluttering in attempt to stay awake. “Thanks for beating up Bowers with a crowbar for me.”

“Tire iron.” You corrected with a chuckle, heading to the door. “You’re welcome, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Do we get up at six again?”

“No, we get up at six forty-five. You get to sleep in.” You walked to the door, turning off the light. Lost in his delirium, and maybe from the light headedness of his pain killers, Richie gave a quiet cheer.

“Yay.”

[welcometophu]

Missed Fortunes: Crosses 6

Twinned Book 2: Missed Fortunes

Crosses 6

[ Previous | First | Next ]

Kit’s waiting outside the building when Carolyn arrives for their lunch session with Pawel. There’s a faint sheen on his forehead, as if he’s run across campus to get there. “Lab sucked,” he says, holding open the door for her.

“Sucked because things went wrong, or it was just a struggle to get out on time?” Carolyn asks. The crowds are gone, fled into classrooms in time for noon, while Kit and Carolyn have been struggling to get to Pawel’s promptly on Wednesdays. She can smell Chinese food from somewhere, and she hopes that’s their lunch. Her stomach whines.

“It was a longer lab than we had time for, the slides were murky, and my partner is an idiot.” Kit wears an unhappy scowl. “He doesn’t like to wait and pay attention to anything, which means we did one part of the lab three times before we could get it right.”

“Can you switch partners?”

“Probably not.” Kit pauses, his hand where the knob for Pawel’s door should be. It’s slightly open, voices coming from the inside.

“Is your family all right?” Pawel asks.

“Mom is.” Drea’s voice, thin and tight. “Dad’s… he’s Dad. I’m not sure he’s ever going to be exactly all right again. He’s been off-balance since Orson died.”

Carolyn nudges the door open, steps past Kit. “Drea?”

Pawel blinks at them, a cardboard take-out pint in his hand, chopsticks sticking out. “Come on in, grab food. We might not get much done today. Did you find partners?” He holds up one hand before they can answer. “Yes/no question, no details needed yet.”

“Yes,” Carolyn and Kit say in tandem.

“Good.” Pawel motions to Drea and Alaric, who stand tight together, Alaric’s arm around his sister’s shoulder. “Go on.”

“He was as good as feral,” Alaric says quietly, voice rough. “Our mother had to forcibly call him back from the wolf. He’s been spending more and more time as the wolf in particular; this is not behavior for Clan as young as he is.”

“And usually when Clan get old, they don’t get dangerous. Dad’s hallucinating,” Drea says flatly. “There wasn’t any sign of someone being there. Mom said the place smelled like dust and death, same as always. He claimed that someone had been there. If there was, I don’t know how they got in or out, and they didn’t leave enough of a scent for mom to detect.”

“The place reeks,” Alaric mutters. “She might not have noticed.”

“You have a point.”

Kit nudges the door closed, pushes the one free chair to Carolyn before finding a place where he can lean against a bookcase. Carolyn shakes her head, ignoring the chair.

“What happened?” she asks.

“Dad smelled magic and an intruder in this old abandoned house on our property,” Drea explains, hands moving as she speaks. “Mom said it was the middle of the night and he woke up from a sound sleep, turned into a wolf before he was out of the bed, and raced off. She followed him, but by the time she got there, he was alone, tearing the place apart with his teeth.”

“It’s the old Berman place,” Alaric says, which means nothing to Carolyn. She looks to Kit, who looks back at her and shrugs his confusion. “It’s where we took the shadow we caught. So he could interrogate it, and it’s where he lost it.”

“Oh.”

“The family that owned it disappeared years ago,” Drea adds. She rubs at her skin, as if she’s trying to scratch something off. “It does stink like death and decay.”

“The shadow loved it,” Pawel murmurs, writing something down. “But then, it is a death stalker.”

“Dad thought maybe it came back,” Drea says quietly. “Mom thinks he’s losing his mind. I think she’s afraid she’s going to lose him to the wolf.”

“He’s a wolf,” Carolyn echoes softly. Because she remembers the teeth, the sheer anger. She could imagine it ripping through the countertop, pulling up floorboards to get to her. She could easily imagine it tearing an entire house apart after she disappeared. She looks at the palms of her hand, the almost invisible remnants of scrapes still there. “I had this really weird dream about a wolf the other night?”

Pawel’s gaze snaps to her. “You did?” He gestures at the chair, and when she doesn’t sit, he points again. “Tell me about it.”

She’s aware of their eyes on her, aware that she never mentioned this to Drea or Kit, who probably both wonder why she kept it to herself. But it was easier to forget it, put it aside and let it go. Heather and Nikita are already too interested in it as it is.

“I’d had a rough night—the cards weren’t really working for me.” She doesn’t look at Kit for that. “So the cards were on my mind when I went to sleep. I was frustrated and confused, and I knew I still needed to get my work done for this project, so that’s why it was right there for the dream. And it started out with the Tower crumbling.”

“The Tarot card,” Pawel murmurs, writing something down.

Carolyn nods. “The card, yeah. And I was falling, then I caught a deck of cards, and I pulled one out, and it was the Wheel of Fortune, and I ended up on a Ferris Wheel. And when I thought that was going to break apart, I pulled another card, and I ended up in this old abandoned farmhouse.” Her stomach rumbles, but she ignores the bag of food waiting for them to dig in. “I was looking around and it was creepy. Snowing outside, wind whistling, cold. I heard a wolf howling, and I wanted to get away. I was terrified, and I couldn’t go anywhere, and I was panicking. So I went back and pulled another card and it wasn’t a Tarot card at all. It was a picture of my room back in PHU. Which is when the wolf—and it was a giant wolf—burst through the door and came at me. I fell back, dropped the little bit of light I’d managed to conjure, and then it was like I fell through the card and fell off my bed and landed next to it on my hands and knees. I woke Heather up.”

“That’s a hell of a dream.” Pawel never stops writing, never looks up. But the others are all watching her. Staring at her.

Carolyn curls her fingers around the scrapes on her palm. “It was just a weird dream. A coincidence.”

“Mm.” Pawel looks over at Alaric and Drea. “Can I contact your mother? I’d like to talk to her about Theobald’s condition. I’m concerned that he’s been getting worse since he was in contact with the shadowwalker.”

Alaric’s watching Carolyn. She bites her lip; his nostrils flare and she looks away, crossing her arms.

“Yeah, you’ve got her number already, right?” Drea says. “She’s probably not going to be thrilled about talking to a Mage, but she’s worried about Dad, too. I can hear it in her voice. She’ll be more interested in him being sane than in worried about how magic’s going to corrupt her life.”

Pawel scratches notes furiously. Carolyn feels like she shouldn’t be here, but she can’t move since she hasn’t been dismissed yet. Even though her meeting hasn’t really begun, either.

“Heather? Thorne?” Pawel asks, pulling over another piece of paper to write on it.

“Yes,” Carolyn responds, Kit’s response slightly slower this time, as if he had to think about the answer.

“We’ll meet tomorrow.” Pawel nudges the bag of delivery closer to Carolyn and Kit. “Take the lunch. Go eat and get to your classes. I need to call Alia. Be prepared to go over the outline of the rituals you’ve prepared.” He pauses, stares at a point into the distance. “The outlines you’ve prepared for the rituals you’re considering,” he corrects himself. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. There’s plenty of time for your work.” He only gives them a moment before he waves at the door. “Go. Please.”

Kit grabs for the bag, hoists it and is out the door quickly. “There are tables and chairs in the lobby. We can eat there. You guys can join us.”

“You went there.” Alaric grips Carolyn’s hand, twists it to look at her palm. She tries to pull away and he lets her go. “Sorry.”

“It’s not possible,” Carolyn tells him, because no matter how she tries to twist it in her mind, it keeps coming up the same way. “It’s just not possible. I’m not a teleporter. I’ve never done anything like that before—not the dream, not the potential reality of it.”

She follows after Kit because she knows she needs to eat, and he has food. She’s not really hungry, and a part of her just wants to escape from Alaric’s scrutiny.

“You can eat with us,” Kit says. “Because I want to keep talking about this.”

“I don’t.” Carolyn’s voice is quiet, but she knows Drea hears her by the way Drea threads her arm through Carolyn’s and tucks in close.

“I know,” Drea whispers, leaning her head against Carolyn’s briefly. “But I think maybe we have to. Because of the shadows.”

They pull two couches close to one low table, then spread the food out. Kit glances at his watch, and Carolyn checks hers as well. They’ve got thirty minutes before Kit has to be halfway across campus and sitting in a lecture.

“I’ll be late. This is more important.” Kit squeezes her hand. “Okay?”

Alaric pulls paper plates out of the bag, along with chopsticks and forks. They all make their plates, and for a moment, they’re silent while eating. It gives Carolyn time to go over it all in her head, try to deal with the idea that if the dream was real, she might have gone to Drea’s home. “I’d know if I could see it,” she says slowly, gesturing with lo mein at the end of her chopsticks.

“That would be—”

“Difficult,” Drea cuts Alaric off. “It would be difficult, but not impossible. Right, Alaric?”

Alaric’s expression sours. He eats another bite of food before setting it aside. “Right,” he grumbles. “My family doesn’t like Mages. Which you know. And you’re a Mage, whether you think of yourself that way or not. You smell like it. You carry magic. Your predictive Talent is magic. And whatever you did to get yourself there in the first place was magic.”

“We’d need to make sure Mom kept Dad clear of the house,” Drea suggests.

“I’ll go with you,” Kit offers. “As long as it’s not Saturday. I have a date.”

“SigPsiEp is sponsoring the Saturday movie,” Carolyn points out. “So Drea and I couldn’t go then, either.”

“It’s not far, we could do a day trip on Sunday. If you think you’ll be up early enough,” Drea suggests. “We just need a car, and Alaric and I don’t have one. And Chris’s car isn’t big enough to get us all there.”

“I’ll ask Dax if he can borrow his mom’s van,” Alaric offers. “That’ll fit all four of us, plus Dax, no problem.”

“So we’re talking about bringing three Mages onto the property,” Drea muses.

Alaric huffs, jaw set. “And I’m going to distract him while you and Mom go out to the house with them,” he says, voice tight. “I’ve been talking to Dayton about our alliance. He’s not going to like anything I have to say, so he’ll spend the whole time yelling at me. I have a proposal from Trey and Joseph that should take an hour at least before he’s calmed down enough to be reasonable. That’s not even going into what Aly and Devon want to do.”

Carolyn’s phone dings, and she pulls it out on autopilot, touching the screen to open her email. She expects it to be something from the house, about the movie or another event. Or maybe something from a class.

She doesn’t expect to see the name Shawn Benedict.

She pauses, her thumb over the message, breath tight in her chest.

“What?” Alaric asks. “You’re panicking. No one’s going to let Theobald hurt you. He’s an ass, but I’ll keep him busy.”

“He’s our father, and he’s not that bad,” Drea says. “Or maybe he is, but we can keep him under control if Mom helps.”

“It’s not that.” Carolyn tilts the phone so Kit can see the name. He inhales roughly, and she touches the message to open it.

Caro—

Hey. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Sometimes it seems like we just graduated, other times it seems like a lifetime since we were sixteen. In a strange way, I miss those years, but I know I was an idiot then, so I’m sure you don’t miss that me.

I’m sorry. I said that a lot then, and I don’t know if I meant it at the time, but I do now. I was an asshole. Hindsight’s twenty-twenty.

I don’t know if you’ve heard from Delilah recently, but she’s seen some weird things happen, and so have I, and we were talking and your name came up. It looks like PHU is only a few hours drive after I pick her up, so we were thinking we could come out next week to talk to you.

Because I’m pretty sure you’re the only one besides us, and Samson, who’d have any chance at figuring out what’s going on.

Delilah says she’s sorry, too. I’m sure Samson would.

Tears spring to Carolyn’s eyes. She shaking, breath shuddering in her chest, and the screen blurs. She rubs at her eyes, takes the tissue that Drea offers, and tries to focus long enough to finish reading the message.

Delilah doesn’t have Tuesday afternoon classes, and I’m willing to skip mine, and my Wednesday morning class, so we can come out. It’s then or Thursday. I figured you wouldn’t want us to come out for a weekend.

Let me know what works for you.

—Shawn

Carolyn locks the phone by feel, drops it on the table and leans forward, elbows on her knees, head in her hands. Kit slides slower, his hand on her back in low circles as she gulps in breath, tears escaping in a ragged sob. When he tugs, she goes to him, curls in tight, presses her face against his shoulder as he continues to rub her back.

“What happened?” Drea asks, worry in her voice. “Is your family okay?”

“That was her ex,” Kit says flatly, and Carolyn closes her eyes.

“Relationships,” Alaric mutters.

Carolyn doesn’t want to see Shawn or Delilah. She doesn’t want to think about Samson. But after everything that’s happened in recent days, after all the upheaval, she has to wonder at the timing of his message. Because coincidence is one thing, but it’s all too possible that her dream and whatever Shawn wants have something to do with each other.

And no matter how much she’d like to see Shawn Benedict thrown from the Tower, she’s too kind to let someone hit the ground. She can’t refuse to help.

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[robbiejohnsonyr3ax3021]

AX2001 - University - One Animation a Week project - Stop-motion sections (Summer Project)

In my previous post “AX2001 - University - One second a week animation - My approach & 2D sections (Summer Project) “, I went over and discussed the thought process and making behind each of the 2D segments I made for my project. This post will be focused on the stop motion sections of the project.

Before continuing with this post, it is worth noting, that I used the near enough all the same materials and software from my stop-motion work last year, this is why in some footage you may notice the “Pic-Pac” logo in the bottom right of the screen. Unfortunately, I am unable to remove this so, I apologise in advance for any inconvenience this may cause. 

Present stack (Christmas themed animation)

This animation is a quick short of claw/ crane placing a present on top of some other present, forming the shape of a pyramid. This idea came to me whilst watching the news, the exact details of the report they were discussing, I unfortunately can’t remember all the details, but they were discussing how there maybe shortages on things this year and how “this Christmas will be different”. So, I tried to focus on a more positive side of the Christmas being the lead up to it and the preparations for it, thus this animation was made.

To begin with this project, I began making the presents, at first these were just small cardboard boxes all being roughly the same size as one another. But after a few weeks I received some coloured adhesive vinyl paper, which I used to give the presents a bit of colour as well as creating the bow on the top present.

This was also the same with the making of the crane, but the crane had to have a few more steps to it instead of cutting and sticking. I began by reusing one of the legs of my character “Slink” from my previous stop-motion work from last year. I then cut out a rectangular strip of cardboard which was roughly 12cm long and 3cm wide. Using a pair of scissors, I scored the cardboard strip six times, to create the curved look of the claw. Once this was done, I cut out a semi-circle and placed it over the top half of the claw to hide the glue from the glue gun. Then using a pen, I poked a hole in the top of the claw and threaded the aluminium wire through it for the cranes wire. Once everything had dried and in place, I added yellow vinyl and black electric diagonally across the crane to give it, it’s final look. I chose black and yellow for the crane, as they reminded me of the colours you would see on a hazardous warning sign, or a construction site.

To give this animation a more festive feel, I decided to experiment with both foreground and background props. For the background, I used a large roll of Christmas wrapping paper and stuck it to the wall using blue tack. For the fore ground I surrounded the presents with ripped up cotton balls to give off the look of snow.

When animating this piece, I held the present in the claw by gluing it in place, once I had animated the present flat on the pile, I then paused the capture process of Pic-Pac, removed the present and placed it back on. There was one issue I was unable to fix which is unfortunately very noticeable in the final piece. Pic-Pac has this very useful feature where a faint outline of your previous picture is shown on screen to help you keep things aligned, however due to how busy the background wrapping paper is, it made very difficult to see where the presents where originally. thus, resulting me miss placing the present on top, causing a slight snapping motion. It’s also worth mentioning that I was away from my phone due to holding the claw up in the air, so most of the claw movement was mostly guess work.

From this piece I have learned to be more careful when it comes to creating backgrounds, as well as placing objects back in the correct place. Although I wouldn't say this was my least favourite outcome of the whole piece, you can see that mistakes were made and lessons were learned.

Euro (Football piece)

This piece features two player football players, one in blue taking shot at the goal and the other in green, being the goal keep trying to save the goal. This idea came to me whilst Euro was happening, and the UK was doing very well, even making it all the way to semi finale. So to celebrate (when it was roughly half way through) I decided to make this piece.

To begin I created the goals, to make the goals I began by creating four long strips of cardboard gluing each of them in pairs back-to-back with one another in order to create the goal posts. This method was also used for the cross bar, whilst two slightly shorter strips were made for the back goal posts. The remaining posts were attached together with more cardboard strips and then glued to together with hot glue. I then made a bunch of vertical strips of strings and glued each of them to both the back of the cross bar and the bottom bar to create the nets. For the horizontal strips I glued the string from post to post. All the posts were then overlaid with white electric tape to create white posts usually associated with goal posts.

Next was creating the players, when creating these little characters, I had to be mindful of their size, as I did not have a lot of space to use when creating my stop motion pieces, for this reason my characters had to be very small. To begin I created the boxed bodies and heads ranging between 1.5cm length and height for the heads and 3cm for the bodies. Once the bodies were glued and dried, I used the wire from the previous presents animation and used it for the players legs, I poked holes in their bodies and glued the wire in place. Then using the thinner wire, we were provided with last year, I used this wire to create the arms and necks of the players. For both players, I cut out six small foot shaped pieces of cardboard and glued them together for the feet (each player had six layers each so twelve layers were cut in total), once dried, I poked a hole in each foot, threaded the leg wire through the hole and glued it in place. Lastly for the goalkeeper I created four layers of cardboard for the keepers gloves, due to his arms being placed in front of him and then to the sides, I made the keeper’s arms longer then the player in order to achieve an easier movement positioning when animating the goalkeeper.

The football itself was created out of paper, which then had some fishing line glued into the centre of it to puppet the ball moving once kicked. The fishing wire was also added to the goalkeeper for his diving/ jumping movement.

When animating this scene, this is where this piece began to fall apart, well not entirely. Due to me controlling both the ball and the goalkeeper’s wires, it was too difficult to puppet on my own and take pictures, so I had a family member help me with executing the second half of this animation. The first half I did on my own, which wasn’t too bad with the player running up to the goal to shoot the ball. The problems came when it came to the controlling the puppets, I took the role of goal keeper and the family member the ball, due to both my hands being used for the goalkeeper the family member had to take the pictures. This was going fine until one of the wires for the goalkeeper snapped causing the set to fall apart. We tried to fix it back together, as best we could, but the changes are very noticeable (this also included frantic shadow movements as we were trying to puppet the characters). 

(One of the players also lost a foot during the fall).

This piece is probably the most obvious when it comes to mistakes being visible, but what lesson did I learn. First of all is next time try to be less complicated when making characters. Second, make sure the camera captures everything, as the angle it is at could have been better if it was more diagonal instead of straight on. Lastly was to have more practice with the puppets on set before shooting to reduce things falling apart.

The main reason I left this animation in the final piece, was similar to the same reasons as the animation interaction with live action piece. It was me trying something new with various degrees of results and I felt that this worth including as amongst the other pieces for that reason (as well as it being a big moment during the summer period).

Bird (Bird opens it’s wings piece)

This animated piece, features a bird with its wings covering its head, to open up stretching it’s wings upwards causing the leaf's around it to blow away. The idea for this animation came from some birds I saw on the floor outside my house playing in the leaf's, they were rolling around and smacking leaves around with their wings at one another before flying away into the tree itself. After seeing this I wanted to try and do something similar.

To begin I made the birds body with a long strip of cardboard (roughly 30cm long and 7.5cm wide), once cut out, using scissors I scored five lines across the stripe to create a pentagon shaped body. I then created two pentagon shaped pieces of cardboard and glued them to both ends of the pentagon body, this was to hide the wires used for the bird’s other body parts later on.

Next, I created the wings, at first I was going to have just two winged shaped pieces of cardboard cut-out for the wings, but whilst digging through the materials I had to work with, I found some strong flexible pieces of thin cardboard. I then decided to create three layers for the wings glued to one another to give the wings more depth and detail. From using the thin wire for the goalkeeper in the “Euro” piece, I learned how flexible these pieces of wire could be, so I decided to use that wire for connecting the wings to the body, as I felt using the thicker aluminium wire would have proven more difficult whilst animating the wing movements.

Also, from the “Euro” piece I gave the bird multiple layers for its feet and used a pen to poke a hole in the feet and feed the aluminium wire through the feet and into the body. As for the head and beak, I created a box (roughly 5cm in length and height) for the head and three triangular pieces for the beak. In the past for making eyes, I have used either mechanical themed objects like screws and bolts or black tape. But I didn’t think these would fit for the bird, so a few days later, an advertisement for the Lakia movie “Coraline” I was reminded how the characters have buttons for eyes. After finding some old buttons in the house, I stuck them on the bird’s head and it felt more appropriate than the screws and bolts approach for the eyes I had originally considered.

Once this was done, I began animating, by using a lot of blue tack I propped the bird leaning forward and bent its wings to make it look like it was covering its head. For the next few frames, I leaned the bird further forward and then for the remainder of the frames had the bird fully moving back with its wings then spread out. The animation process was surprisingly easy and much more manageable compared to my first two animated pieces, but it was at this point I realised I had finished with a lot of time left. So, I decided to go out around the town and grabbed a few leaves, berries, stick, pinecones, etc. Once collected I shot the entire animation again with these props surrounding the bird. I then did the animation again for the third time, but this time had the leaves blow away when the bird expands its wings, emphasising the power in the birds movement which was used in the final piece.

Overall, I felt very happy with this piece as it was a big step up from the previous two stop motion pieces I had developed. At first it was hard decide which version of the animation to go with, but I felt I made the right decision in the end.

Blink (Eyeball animation)

This animated piece is of an eyeball blinking, a simple concept but interesting on how to execute with what I had available. This idea came to me whilst, I was reviewing/ looking over the other animated pieces I had made prior to this one as this piece would be my second to last piece. As I was looking through the footage, I noticed a re-occurring aspect that happened in each piece, none of my characters had not once blinked, either due to me being unsure how to achieve this with 3D animation or forgetting in 2D. So, this piece was made to scratch this little itch I had being animated blinking.

To begin, I cut out the centre of a lid of “celebrations” chocolates, I used the thick outer rim of the lid as the shape of the eyeball. It then bent the rim into the shape of an eyeball and glued it to a think piece of cardboard. I then grabbed a bunch of A4 paper, ripped it in half and then proceeded to scruple up each piece and glued them inside the lid forming the white in the eye. I then cut an oval shaped piece of cardboard, covered it in black electric tape, then stuck it down in the centre of the eye, this became pupil for the eye.

It was at this point in making prosses that I came across a problem. Due to my custom-made tripod not being able to bend and not wanting to run the risk of me holding the camera causing the shot to become very shaky/ unsteady. This meant that this animation couldn't be done with the prop laying down but would have to be animated hanging on the wall.

After planning for a while, I came up with a solution to this problem, I previously stuck Christmas wrapping paper on the wall with small pieces of tape, this time I would have to use a lot of blue tack, but this could only be stuck in the top corners of the cardboard the eye was placed on. With all this in mind, I created the eyelid and eye lashes.

For the eye lid, I cut out a piece of thin cardboard, the same size as the piece that had everything stuck on to it so far. I then placed this new piece of cardboard on top of the eyeball and scored around it with scissors, with the rough outline made, I cut around the outline of the eyeball, but left the bottom flat. Then on the piece of cardboard with the eyeball attached to it, I made a hole behind the eyeball and threaded the eye lid through it and tested the eyeball to see if it could complete a full blink, after scoring the eyelid three times for each phase of the blink, the eye was ready.

As a last-minute inclusion, I decided to give the eye lid some eye lashes. To create this look, I used ear buds then cut them in half and wrapped them up in black electric tape, I then glued each one across the back of the eyelid.

When it came to animating this piece, it was quite easy, just a little nerve racking with each passing second possibly being the one where everything falls off the wall. But I’m glad to report in the hour or so I was animating for, it never even budged once. I used a previous lesson from the first year (as well as my stop-motion work with Slink from last year) as a guide as to where each position of the eye lid should be during the blink. To animate the eyelid, I would pull the cardboard slightly off the wall and pushed the eyelid in segments through its slot until the eye was completely closed and open again. A small bonus from animating was, due to where the light is in the room, it casted a shadow over the eye lashes making it look like there were more there than there actually is.

Overall, I had fun with this animation, it was a very different dynamic working vertically on the wall instead of a flat surface, but it was dynamic I think worked out well and hopefully I will take what I have learned from this piece into stuff I do in the future.

Extra/ Unused Images for this post

[tahliasbathtime]

Assembling

Today I did a lot on my model, using the baked pieces of the terraces on the back wall, and raw pieces for the side walls of the pools with the museum pattern pressed in. I glued these pieces to the card walls to keep them standing.

I made sure I had all of my wall pieces and then painted these a very pale yellow, with a sort of brick/cladding pattern. I mixed something up next to the elevator area, so my wall doesn’t go all the way to the back like it was meant to, however there is nothing I want to feature in that area so I don’t think it really matters (if I had time and resources I would love to build the spiral staircase and cave spas but it won’t be happening in this lockdown!).

I ended up making slices in my play dough terrace spas to slot onto the sides of the flooring. This took a bit of nagivation and I had to use some glue to help this along. The only problem is that neither PVA or hot glue work too well with the play dough - but, I got it to work somewhat.

My next step was gluing and taping all of the walls together. I had some issues with the terrace pieces, but have them stable enough now. I had considered leaving the walls separate from the floor for easier maneuvering when taking photos but ended up gluing this down for further stability. I also found one last glue stick for the hot glue gun, and used basically the whole thing for the garden wall between the pools and reception. There definitely won’t be enough left for the back wall, but I am still making the wooden frame and might see if a craft glue stick may work - I have one that is very sticky with a tiny bit of glue left in I could try to scrape out!

Before gluing the walls down I decided to cut out the gap for the footbath and add the stones. To do this I used my butter paper floor plan and cut each shape out to figure out how far from the garden wall I should cut out the foot bath space. I also cut the shape for the stones from a thin piece of card, then spread PVA over this and pressed the clay stones I had made into it. It worked quite well but a few were loose and came off, which I re-glued with hot glue later.

Finally after assembling the main pieces of the floor, I rolled out my raw dough and set the piece I had kept of the bottom of the pool on top. I cut out the circle in the centre and taped a piece of the ‘frosted glass’ to the card. I had planned to keep the card on top of the dough as I had painted it, and to sort of sandwich the glass in between the card and dough, however I would have had to cut it down to be able to mould the dough into shape and it would have been a difficult job. So I have put it underneath and I think if pressed enough shouldn’t leak when pouring the jelly. I had a very strong cardboard box that I cut a large gap out of to shape the pool onto and to provide the height for the floor to sit on. Now all I have left to do is finish the frame for the back garden wall, try the glue stick to see if it will hold the leaves, and figure out how to get photos!

[mariapilarexperimentalsurfaces]

29/07/21 - Clay work + Screenprinting onto Clay

Yesterday I prepared the clay slab on the left to print onto. It was really interesting and while I’m worried that the ink might be too light, I know it will darken once it’s fired; now I just have to wait a few days and check back in when it’s fired and ready. Excited to see the results!

Screenprinting on clay is a little different to what it is on paper, but for the most part, it was pretty similar. The only difference that I found was that we had to use extra bits of cardboard to attach to the corner of the screen to allow for more spring back. Usually, I would only use two or three pieces of cardboard stuck to the end two corners but for the clay slab, I used five or so and put some in between the clamps at the top, too. 

Above is the clay tile that I prepared earlier that week. The process for the clay slab and the tile were largely the same, except that the clay slab was at a bigger scale. First, we had to knead the clay to work out any air bubbles that were possibly there. It was a very cathartic process, and there were two ways to do it, both of which I used in conjunction: 

First, I used the ‘ram’s head’ technique, which is when you take the clay into a ball and you push it backwards with the palm of your hand; this causes an indent in the clay in the shape of your hand and the two bits of clay on the end will squeeze outwards, forming a shape that’s similar to a ram’s head. You then roll it back and repeat the process, making sure to fold the ram’s head in as you do so. 

Then, I threw the clay down onto the wooden rolling boards; the impact of that allowed the clay to take somewhat of an ovular rectangle shape naturally, and also smoothed out a lot of the surface. 

After five minutes or so of kneading, I cut the clay in half using the string cutter - it was important to cut it horizontally instead of vertically so that you could check for air bubbles all across the surface, instead of just in the middle. There were no air bubbles in mine, and it was all smooth, so I then proceeded to rolling it out. Before I did that, I took the two halves of the clay and stuck them together BACK TO BACK. 

I then punched the clay down and got the equipment for rolling it out: we used wooden sticks to place on either end of the slab of clay and placed the rolling pin on top so that the clay would roll out to the thickness of the stick and wouldn’t be too thin and fragile or too thick for the project. With the clay slab, the clay that I was using was a bit dry, as it was the scraps of somebody else’s clay, so I used a lot of water in that process, sponging it on to make it easier to work with. 

Once the clay was rolled out, I cut it into the shape I wanted for the tile and used a 3d stamp that somebody else had already made in the shape of honeycombs and rolled it over the clay to leave an imprint. 

Once that’s all done, all that’s left is to wait for it to dry so it can be glazed and fired.