#as the skin you can feel. yes it's two dimensional and flat. and the glass cold. but it isme! you cry. it is me!

[t4tstarvingdog]

ohhhh human cas in my little au.... thinking about my poem i made a while back and it’s about his gender but also about being fully angel and fully man and if the angel part is taken away... and while dean and cas ARE meant to be side by side in what they’re going through it’s still different because dean got changed but cas got part of himself taken. stuffed into a shell and then got all the guts removed. ship of theseus.

[joshslater]

Beach Bod

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The way he is constantly looking my way makes me uncomfortable. I’m not used to being checked out like that, and can’t figure out why he is doing it. I’m not a looker by any definition. The kindest word you can use is “lean”, because I’m utterly unable to gain any weight. It’s not a secret to him either, as my pale, twiggy body is almost fully on display on the beach towel. At one point I was doing protein shakes twice a day, and lifting several days a weak. My face was the only thing that became more defined, so I went back to pizza and Pepsi. Yet, he keeps looking my way, one step shy of flirting. I can’t make up my mind if I’m a good kind of uncomfortable, or just creeped out. He’s gorgeous, somehow, I think. Absolutely massive muscle body, great skin, great tan. He probably eats my weekly food budget for lunch, and half his waking time in a gym. The face is kind though, almost dorky, with glasses and a mid level manager hairdo. He’s definitively looking at me out of pity, or finding my body humorous.

No, I’m leaving. That’s enough beach time for today. It’s Monday tomorrow after all, and I could use a few hours to clean the apartment. The board shorts are already dry, so I’m one shirt and a pair of flip flops away from... Oh, God, he’s behind me, isn’t he?

- Going so soon? - I’m eh..

Ungh! Even his voice is buff.

- Please, stop me if I’m fishing in the wrong kind of water, but I would really like to know you a bit more... intimately. - Ah... Eh.. No, I’m... versatile. I was just afraid that someone with your body - ...would break you like a bundle of sticks.

I couldn’t help myself laughing at his poor attempt of a joke. Yes, a bundle of sticks is the dictionary definition of “faggot”. Still, there was something to what he was saying. I’ve only ever slept with guys my own size. There was something intimidating in the thought of someone with his mass and strength manhandling a naked me. And while I said versatile I really mean bisexual. So far I’ve always topped.

- Yeah, something like that. - What if..

He steps closer, almost getting behind me, and wraps his thick right arm around me. He lets his hand rest on my left pec and with the other hand gently stroke my flat belly. He’s massive, warm, damp, intrusive, and smells of coconut oil and musk.

- What if you were bigger? Stronger. Would that put you at ease?

His hand is rubbing in gentle circles, but undoubtedly moving south. I’ve had fantasies about being together with someone of his physique, as with most body types, but now that it is actually happening I’m both incredibly turned on and intimidated. And this is all taking place on a public beach. Everyone can see what he is doing. What we are doing. For all I know there could be a co-worker  watch me being rubbed by this freak of discipline and dedication. It was getting so hard to focus.

- I... I think so.

He is definitely in my shorts now.

- Big wide chest? Pectoral muscles so large they’ll always be in your peripheral vision? Biceps the size of your skull? Rippling washboard abdominal muscles you can see even through a sweatshirt? Big trunks of legs, making you always take up a bit more than one seat? - Ungh... Yes.

He isn’t giving me a hand job exactly, but he is doing something down there, and it is the most sexual experience I’ve ever had. I struggled so much to have any muscle show, that what he is describing has never been my fantasy. Half of it even sounds impractical, almost dirty. I’m letting this muscular man make me publicly cream my shorts, and it doesn’t matter if he recited the common law in his deep timbre. Screw decency. I don’t care who knows. My hole body feels electric, like the glow you have from sunburn, before it starts to hurt. He leans in and whisper.

- You better hurry up to my apartment then.

He lets go of me completely and steps back. What a fucking tease! He did that just to get me all worked up and horny and...

The board shorts are straining to contain my thighs, and look more like hot pants on me. My erection is not only obvious to anyone, but visibly way above average. What are people going to think? I erratically look around. No one is paying us any attention. If anyone ever did, they are now pretending two men didn’t just share an erotic moment.

I look at him, whatever his name is. He smiles back, nods, and make a kind of shrug. I’m not sure what he means by it.

Then it hits me.

I look down at my hands, my arms, and recall what he said about pectoral muscles. The shirt is pinching my arms when I move them. Without any basis I’m guessing I could burst the seams if I just flexed the right way. Perhaps that is the only way to get out of it. I’m certainly not going to wear it again. There is no way I could button it.

- My... clothes. - Pick anything that fits when you leave. - Leave? - Yeah. My apartment is over there, two blocks from the beach front.

I feel my abs with my left hand. I never thought I would get to touch such hard, truely three-dimensional abs in person, let alone have them myself. I move my right hand to my left man boob, mirroring how he touched me. I hear a seam rip open. I don’t care. As I feel my firm, massive chest, the notion of going home to clean my apartment seems ludicrous. I can’t think of anything I would rather do than following this unknown man to his unknown location for yet to be determined activities for an unknown amount of time. Did he make me want it? Who the fuck cares?

[pinnithin-writes]

Good Jokes

Chapter 18

Benrey reappeared with a vengeance to play hardball with Gordon’s head.

Tommy could do little to buffer it. As soon as they set foot in the Lambda Complex, he was gripped by a sense of vertigo that nearly knocked him flat.

This sucked. God, this sucked. He could feel the rift in space like a tear in his gut, and it only grew worse the farther into the sector they went. Staggering along with the group took all he had, lacerated as his nerves were by the rending of time, and Benrey took full advantage of his weakness to find new and creative ways to make Gordon suffer.

The entity very carefully skirted around the man’s modified arm, having received a taste of the beating it could give and preferring not to subject himself to it further. The damage he dealt was more psychological in nature, and he seesawed wildly between making ominous threats and firing off nonsensical bullshit. Gordon held onto his resolve as best as he could, gritting those pretty teeth of his and brushing the entity off as he and the team waded through waves of aliens.

Some of his resiliency slipped when they encountered the first helpful soul they’d seen in hours and Benrey promptly shot him. This nameless person had stayed behind for them, surviving unimaginable horrors alone at his post by the door, an admirable bravery for the sake of such a slim hope. Benrey put a bullet in his skull with a bored look on his face and stepped neatly over him while he bled out.

Pointless. Death for death’s sake, purely for the sick satisfaction of watching Gordon’s expression crumple as he passed the fresh corpse on the ground.

“I’m sorry, man,” Tommy heard him murmur, his words brittle and shaky. “I’m fuckin’ sorry.”

His heart broke for him.

The best he could offer in comfort were fleeting touches here and there, halfhearted jokes that landed flat, his words dropping limply to the floor as soon as they left his mouth. He could barely put one foot in front of the other, much less keep the mood light as time knotted a noose around his neck. Whatever was at the heart of the Lambda Complex, it undeniably wanted them dead.

Everyone except Benrey. He was beginning to hum with a vitality Tommy rarely picked up on, taking bullets as an afterthought and grinning like a maniac while the laws of physics loosened around them. The extraterrestrials continued to pay the entity no mind, but the portals they opened into Black Mesa hit Tommy with the force of gunshots, and he suddenly knew what it felt like to be helpless. He stuck behind the others for protection as the interdimensional nausea rendered him all but useless. The pressure built behind his head like a hungry thundercloud.

This sucked.

Tommy felt too shitty to be relieved when they reached the sector they were looking for. A huddle of nervous scientists greeted the team when they arrived, and they hurriedly gathered around Gordon, because Gordon was the leader, Gordon was the one with the suit, Gordon was the messiah that would deliver them from this hell. What a burden to place on someone who just wanted to go home - who probably no longer possessed a home to return to.

He didn’t have the necessary energy to pay attention to the exchange, so he trusted Gordon to handle it as he sat wearily against the wall. Tommy rested his head in his hands and ran them obsessively through his hair, as if he could make the awful boiling in his stomach go away if he fingercombed hard enough. Dimly, he registered discussions of teleportation and a planet called Xen, a term he recalled vaguely but certainly never possessed the security clearance to know much more beyond that.

Off to the side, Benrey had a scientist cornered and was grilling him about PlayStation Plus, which seemed like a suspiciously benign conversation topic considering the gravity of the situation they were in. The entity caught Tommy’s eyes from where he stood and showed his teeth in a cheeky grin, causing the scientist he was speaking with to take a nervous step backward. Tommy returned his head to his hands, too overwhelmed to bother.

Once Gordon was given the appropriate run down, the science team reassembled to keep moving. Their destination: a rift in the very fabric of space. This should be fun, Tommy thought grimly as they headed down the hall.

All at once, the pressure bearing down on him lifted and he could breathe again as a presence entered the complex. A familiar wave of energy rippled outward and everything stood still, freezing Tommy in place along with the other members of the group, save for Gordon. Tommy would let out a sigh of relief if he could make any sound. His father had arrived.

Up ahead, Gordon stopped in his tracks as he registered the change in the air. “Oh, no, not this again,” he breathed. He cast a narrowed glance to the entryway in front of him. “Come on - come out,” he said, waving his left hand in a beckoning gesture. “Come out, man.”

Tommy’s father stalked coolly into the hall with them, looking pin-sharp as always. The barest ghost of a smile touched his lips as he surveyed the group before landing his nebulous gaze on Gordon.

The man huffed out a sigh. “What do you - what now?”

“Doctor Freeman,” his father began, “it’s so good to see you in such… good spirits.”

‘Good spirits’ was a stretch, Tommy guessed, considering Gordon had been on the receiving end of Benrey’s psychological warfare for the past several hours. He tried desperately to make eye contact with his father, but the man in the suit was lasered in on Gordon. His chosen one.

He went on. “You are nearing the end of your journey, my friend, and I thought it would be only fitting to-”

His sentence crumbled in the middle as Benrey stepped casually out of his place in time. The entity cut his cat’s eyes over to Tommy while he passed his frozen form, grinning a smug grin and joining the two bewildered men at the head of the hallway.

Tommy’s nerves raced with alarm. Benrey wasn’t able to do this last time. Breaking free of his father’s influence was something that was beyond even Tommy’s power, and the fact that Benrey had shaken off the shackles of time with merely a shrug did not bode well for them. He held his breath and watched.

Gordon was equally disbelieving, eyebrows drawn behind the frames of his glasses. “What?”

Benrey ignored him and stared straight at Tommy’s father. “D’you have - you have credentials?” he asked.

The swirling galaxies that made up his father’s eyes flicked to the entity, a gaze so piercing it would make any mortal man balk. He knew who Benrey was - had heard enough stories about him to place his name and face - but had never been formally acquainted. Benrey held his stare defiantly.

In that hall in Black Mesa, a god actually faltered. “Uh - I-”

Tommy had never seen his father fidget before. The sight of Benrey causing his father to scramble for words made his skin crawl.

“They’re in my… other coat.” he finally said. “I - if you wouldn’t mind, I’m trying to um, talk to Mister Freeman over here.”

Enjoying the man’s discomfort, Benrey pressed further. “It’s okay, I wanna see them, though? Do you have PlayStation Plus - uh, voucher?”

“Oh my god,” Gordon murmured.

“I don’t know... what - um…” Tommy’s father paused, forehead furrowed into contemplative lines. “Hm.”

“I just - I’m waiting, I wanna - I wanna get another month, but I want, like, a free trial?”

Gordon wheezed with incredulous laughter under his breath.

Tommy’s father tried once again to ignore the entity. “Right, um. Doctor Freeman, if you wouldn’t mind. You have to bear in mind, now, the next leg of your journey is going to be the-”

“Where are we?” Benrey cut him off suddenly.

Tommy, motionless, could only watch as his father snapped his mouth shut in shock. An achingly long stretch of silence followed, and Tommy wondered if his father was contemplating destroying the entity then and there. Benrey had an innocent look plastered on his face, expectantly awaiting an answer.

“What is happening?” Gordon asked, darting his eyes between the two.

The god among them finally waved a dismissive hand and turned his back on the group. “Y- You’ll You - You’ll f - figure it out,” he said. “You’ll figure it out.”

As the space around them began to shimmer and warp, Tommy’s stomach dropped with realization. His father was leaving them to deal with this on their own, all because some churlish creature had caused him to misstep? Anger and disappointment warred inside him, but both feelings were quickly overpowered by nausea as the pressure of space tearing apart gripped him once more.

His father hadn’t even looked at him.

“Bro, add me - what’s your tag on PSN?” Benrey called, but the man in the suit was already gone.

Time began wheeling again and the team shook out of their stupor.

“Yo what the fuck,” Benrey sighed. “I just wanna play games with people, man.”

Bubby, who apparently hadn’t witnessed anything from the past few minutes, shouldered past the entity toward the next room. “Um… me too, I guess?” he commented.

Gordon gave a sharp shake of his head, freeing a few stray curls into his face. “Can I confide in you guys about what just happened?” he asked. “You’re never going to believe me.”

Racked by vertigo and the crushing reality of being left to his fate by his own father, Tommy barely paid attention to the conversation. No, Gordon was not going crazy, and yes, the previous maddening exchange had actually happened, but whatever was beyond the threshold of that door was hammering into Tommy’s skull with a painful, distracting insistence. His head might split open if they stood out here deliberating much longer. He pinned Gordon with a troubled look through slitted eyes.

Gordon got the message, nodding back at Tommy with a grimace. “Let’s go to the alien homeworld,” he said with finality, “and kill a space god or something.”

In the chamber beyond, the Dimensional Portal Device looked a lot like the machine that started this whole disaster, and Tommy could tell right away it was the source of his torment. Colossal metal claws thrust up from the subsurface of the chamber, looming over a cylindrical conduit in the center. Tommy trailed behind Gordon blindly, fighting down the nausea and the memories as Gordon called to the attendant to turn it on.

The room rumbled with the force of the machine groaning to life, and as Tommy flinched away, he caught a wide, placid smile unfurling across Benrey’s face. The entity’s expression was an eerie calm, relaxed and expectant as his skin was bathed in the blue glow of the device powering on.

He looked like he was awaiting a homecoming.

As Tommy realized this, a tremendous shockwave overhead sparked and spat, and an alien ripped into their dimension. Coomer and Bubby, already alert to danger, pelted the creature with artillery as it swung around the chamber. Gordon grabbed Tommy by the sleeve of his lab coat and dragged him out of the line of fire. A jarring vibration hummed deep in Tommy’s chest, but he suspected that had more to do with the machine that was rapidly expanding with power than Gordon’s concern for his life.

Benrey continued to move through the chamber with a dreamlike bliss, and it was an unsettling contrast to the gunfire and the flailing monster and the great, shuddering drone from the portal. Tommy nearly blacked out from the rift in space that appeared at the device’s epicenter, a debilitating punch to his solar plexus. Gordon kept him standing with a strong hand under his elbow, his free arm raised to fire at the flood of aliens that began rolling into the chamber.

“We’ve gotta go!” he roared to be heard over the din.

Bubby’s mouth was a grim line, taking shots at the creatures like they were clay birds. “You’re wearing the suit,” he called back, “you go!”

“It’s ready? Okay!”

Gordon passed Tommy to Dr. Coomer as gently as he could with the world ripping apart around him. Tommy sagged against the old boxer’s steely shoulder, watching Gordon as he strode toward the platform. Extraterrestrials and bullets screamed around them and the machine began to buckle under the weight of its own creation. In Tommy’s periphery, Benrey was smiling.

“I’m going for it!” Gordon called over his shoulder.

He charged in with the boldness of a supernova, and Tommy didn’t think he would ever be that brave in his life.

The portal flashed outward and the world went white.

Chapter 17 <-----> Chapter 19

[fabulousahoy]

Original Story - J & O - Chapter 1

I wrote an original story... well part one of it. Dunno if it any good, but imma posting anyway.

A defeated and resigned Pumpkin Man gets a visit from his old “friend” which causes him a lot of trouble.

Far away from all civilization, in a dimension between life and death stands a small house. Hidden from prying eyes of humans and other creatures alike, this house belongs to a certain being. He who once struck fear into the hearts of men, yet now resides here. Alone, detached from everything. He who once commanded the entire might of Underworld, the Lord of Pumpkins himself... Jack'O.

* * *

Returning home with groceries was usually the best part of the "shopping day". Though of course, it's not like Jack'O actually bought stuff. It was more akin to stealing, though he preferred to call it "borrowing without giving back". After all, the only place he ventured to from his pocket dimension is the human world. Buying stuff is quite challenging(impossible) when you have a giant pumpkin for a head. Besides, he did not have any money anyway.

As he crossed over from the usual dirty alley into the dimension his home was in, Jack'O let out a sigh of relief. Navigating human cities always gave him anxiety, even if he does it after dark. Now that he stood at his front porch however, everything was peachy. He snapped his fingers in order to close the dimensional gateway and without even turning back he opened the door with his right foot. There was no need to lock them ever. No one could get into this dimension without him allowing it anyway. Humming to himself Jack'O entered the house, unaware that the gateway did not close completely. A small hole remained through which some sort of black liquid slowly poured in. After couple of minutes it stopped, and the hole closed itself. As if it was alive, the huge pool of black goo began to move towards the house.

After putting away everything he bought, Jack'O sat down down in his favorite(only) armchair by the fireplace and sighed in relief. Reaching out with his right hand towards the table, he took a dart out of a cup full of them and set his aim on the dartboard hanging above the fireplace. This particular one is a custom, which Jack'O made in the image of the creature he despised the most. The dartboard itself had the shape of a demon's head with crudely painted details, such as a shark-teeth smile and an eye patch.

Before he had a chance to throw the dart, a loud knocking noise came from the front door.

- What the...

Jack'O got up from his chair, taken aback by this impossible situation. He simply stood there as the sound continued.

- Who's there?!

The knocking stopped for a couple of seconds, only to resume again at a faster pace. Losing his patience, he decided that the only right course of action is to open the door and face whoever or whatever it is. After arming himself with a frying pan he slowly approached the door and in one swift move opened it. But there was no one there. He stepped out into the porch but he found no signs of anyone or anything.

- Maybe it was the wind. Or maybe I just need more sleep.

With that said, Jack'O returned inside the house and shut the door behind him. Once  back inside however he noticed someone is sitting in his armchair.

- Cozy house you got here, Jacky. Mind if I crash here for awhile?

A long time has passed since he last heard this voice. Voice of the repulsing demon who betrayed him and because of whom he became a literal nobody.

- You...

- Indeed. Me.

The entire house shook to its foundations when Jack'O fired a giant beam of dark matter energy from both of his hands. His poor and trusty armchair exploded into nothing in an instant taking the table and darts with itself. Laying on the floor near the fireplace was a demon woman. Long black hair, pale skin, all white Gothic-like coat, a huge eye patch over the right eye and of course a pair of pointy horns. The look on her face was a mix between shock and genuine confusion.

- How dare you show your face to me, you foul carcass of the abyss?!

Jack'O began preparing another attack. Within his hollow eyes burned a fire, one which hasn't burned for long years.

- Look, Jacky. I know last time we saw each other, we had a bit of an uh... scuffle, you and me but...

The Lord of Pumpkins roared like a crazy beast and fired another shot, this one destroyed the fireplace along with the rest of the wall. The woman avoided the blast at the last second by jumping towards the kitchen then rolling into it like a ball. She stopped by hitting the sink so hard the faucet almost came loose. Now laying on the back with legs over her head she watched as the furious Jack'O towered over her like some sort of murderous madman with a vengeance.

- Okay, could you please stop trying to kill me, Jacky? I'm not here to fight you, and besides, I have had enough of a roller coaster ride today as it is.

- Then why are you here?

- Look, if you'll stop destroying your house and we just sit down like civilized Underworlders, I'll tell you everything.

The Lord of Pumpkins' fire seemed to have been instantly extinguished the moment he realized he just destroyed a wall, an armchair and a table. After short overlooking of the rotten fruits of his carnage he turned to the demoness on the floor.

- This better be good, Ovelia.

* * *

Another day, another load of paperwork done. Although she would never admit it in front of anybody, the amount of dumb requests citizens of the Underworld make is astronomically high. For instance, just today she had to deny thirty different pleas from Underworlders who wanted cleaner air. Like, what is she supposed to do about it?

Yawning, she got up from her chair and looked outside the giant window of the office. Thanks to her efforts the once horribly medieval Underworld became a technological juggernaut. Combining magic and technology yielded results surpassing those of humans. So what if the air is not as clean as it used to be? Everyone(who is a first or second class citizen at least) gets free cable TV and all the wondrous perks of magic and technology at the same time. It's a win-win all around, unless you're a complete failure and can't even afford shoes. In which case, oh well.

Taking out a small mirror out of the pocket in her coat, Ovelia took a look at her eye patch, and seeing that it is crooked she fixed it up.

- Well, nothing wrong with indulging myself a bit.

Back at her desk, she pressed the button four on her intercom. After two beeps a tired voice answered the call.

- Yes, miss Ovelia?

- Hans, if I have any appointments today then I want you to cancel them. In fact, tell everyone I am out and about doing charity or whatever it is.

- You want to watch "Funnies in the Family", right?

There was a brief but tense silence.

- Shut up.

She pressed the button again to terminate the call. Now that all of the "chorepointments" were null and void, she could enjoy the luxury of her favorite sitcom... or so she believed, because the lights went out, and the reinforced glass window behind her simply shattered.

- What. - She mumbled, quite confused.

With multiple pieces of glass now lodged in her back, Ovelia turned into black liquid and then swiftly reshaped back. Now free of the pieces, she took a look around her office which had shards of the window everywhere.

- This is going to be a witch to clean up. Welp, good thing it is not going to be me.

She pressed button four on the intercom couple of times, until it hit her that it wasn't just the lights that went out.

- Drat. Now I'll have to walk.

- Excuse me! Can you finally turn around for scariness' sake?!

Ovelia sighed and turned around towards the raspy voice. What her eyes beheld, could be simply explained as black floating rags, some chains and a bag of bones with barely any meat on them.

- By the seven pits... who let you in here, you filthy hobo?!

- What? I'm not...

- Yeah, yeah. Sure. You probably prefer to be called a "jobless individual". What? Cannot find any work for a fellow of your education?

The bag of bones and rags laughed like a maniac who smoked one cigarette too many in his life.

- Well, you see. I'm not going to be jobless for much longer, Abyss Demon!

- Indeed. That is me.

- Because I'll be taking your seat at the top of the Underworld!

With that said the bag'o'rags laughed again. Ovelia smiled wryly in response.

- Okay, that was cute and all. Now get your tattered bones out of here before I'll have to remove you myself.

- You... you don't remember me, do you?

She raised an eyebrow.

- Should I?

The hobo shrugged and took out a book from behind his ragged cloak. Upon opening it, and quickly skimming through a couple of pages, he began reading a passage in a language most ancient. A magical circle appeared under Ovelia's feet.

- I think I have had enough of your wacky hijinks. Get... out!

Usually at this stage she would make a very scary face, the air would tense up and the intruder would have been knocked out of her office, in pieces at that. Instead, she just lost her balance and fell face-flat onto the floor.

- Buh-wha? - She mumbled, spitting out a shard of glass from her mouth. The raspy laugh resounded again.

- It worked! It worked! Bless your dark heart, Abysswalker!

- What just happened?

Ovelia got up slowly and arrived at the conclusion that she feels much less powerful than usual. It was almost as if she had no crazy broken powers at all anymore.

- This spell was made specifically to deal with you, Ovelia! To be more precise, it seals most of your great power!

Before she could even process this information the raggedy hobo grabbed her by the hair and dangled outside of the window.

- It's a long way down, little abyss runt.

- Who in the seven pits of hell do you think you are?! You will not get away with this!

- Who? Why, I am... The Boogeyman!

With that said, he let go of her hair and in accordance with the laws of gravity, Ovelia plummeted down. In the brief moments during her fall she could hear the raspy, yet roaring laughter of victory. Then, there was only darkness and silence.

* * *

- Hold up. Boogeyman? The same Boogeyman we trashed completely and threw down into the Sea of Gehenna?! That Boogeyman?

- Well, considering he seems to kinda hate me, I think so.

Jack'O sighed.

- Look, if he hates me, then he hates you as well, Jacky.

- He only went after you because you were the top dog in the Underworld. Now that you were thrown away like yesterday's trash I'm sure he has more important things to do than go after me. Besides, he can't find me anyway, secret dimension, no?

- Uhh...

Jack'O sent Ovelia a cold piercing gaze.

- Which brings me to my next point. How did you find me?

- After Boogeyboy noticed I am not dead, he sent multiple assassins after me. I high-tailed it to the human world to lose them. After I wandered a bit, I noticed you going about in the dark with your bags of merchandise. I knew I could hide inside your dimension if I followed you. It was a pretty lucky coincidence, I must say.

- Mhm. - He shrugged. - Alright.

Jack'O turned around towards the kitchen, only to quickly turn back and punched Ovelia right in the gut. The might of the hit sent her flying right into a bookshelf. It immediately collapsed right on top of her. He carefully watched her turn into liquid then reform back into regular form next to him.

- What was that for?! - She asked, pouting.

- You tell me. While I would be otherwise inclined to believe in our "lucky" and "coincidental" meeting, I just simply can't. You said you "knew" about my dimension. From where? Who else knows?

- Uhhh...

Jack'O cracked his knuckles.

- Alrighty! Fine! I kept spying on you after you left, so I could laugh at you! I had special cameras installed at almost every place you visit! That way I always had a fresh stream of your misery!

They both stood there in complete silence for a bit.

- I can't believe this. I need a drink.

With that said, the Lord of Pumpkins simply went into the kitchen and returned with two cups filled with vodka. After staring at puzzled Ovelia for a couple of seconds, he poured both cups down his throat, one after the other.

- So... can I stay here?

- No.

As if on cue, the sky of the dimension split open with a loud and terrible noise and through the crack flew in a giant dragon. Alongside him a four armed being, whose head seemed to be composed of flames, descended upon the house.

- I have found you at last, wretch of the abyss! By the order of the almighty Boogeyman, I, Pyreman - Lord of Fire and Ashes, will cast burning judgment upon you and your comrade!

Upon finishing his speech, he threw a bunch of fireballs down onto the house and laughed proudly as everything around quickly went ablaze.

[hollywoodx4]

Sticking With the Schuylers (42)

Happy anniversary day everyone! 6 months!!  I’m so happy to see a bunch of new readers (welcome, hope you enjoy the ride) and I’m very thankful to have made it this far :) Thank you all so much for making this story possible !!

Here’s the second part of your present! A double post day

1  2  3  4   5   6   7   8   9   10   1112   I  13  14   15   16   17   18A  18B   18C  I  19   20   21   22   23   24   25  26   27  28   29   I  30  31  32 33 34 35  36  37  38  39 40  41

Tagging: @linsnavi  

Warnings: This story is pretty heavy on mentions of both physical and emotional abuse.

A venti vanilla latte with a double shot of espresso; the steam billows into the air from the open lid of a paper coffee cup, granted more air to cool itself down. Through layers of thick and cloud-like foam the steam creates magnificent swirling patterns, its constant change a dance of uncertainty before it disappears completely. The fog blends with the stagnant, aromatic air of the coffee shop. Eliza watches it come and go in waves of attention. How strange it is that the air that gives life to herself is also taking it from this fog-dance.

               Her goal is to empty the paper cup. Its contents, much stronger than she is used to, burn on the way down. Caffeine settles in her veins, pumping blood now awake and riddled with anxiety to her rapidly beating heart. She inhales the bagel she had bought-its purpose is to soak up some of the wicked potion, to quell her nerves. The coffee is making her stomach turn. The caffeine does nothing but become its partner, egging it on. It is a power source much too heightened for the weight of her body and the unfamiliarity with copious amounts of artificial energy. Today, however, she needs it.

               Eliza leans over the table, eyes narrowed in concentration. Across the space she had claimed lay an organized sort of chaos-a pile of her belongings once neatly organized lost to the busied state of her mind. She can barely see past the thick book she has been filling; can barely feel the ache in her hands or the pinch in her downcast neck. She concentrates on the thinned out scratching of graphite on paper, a brushing as her hand moves in flurried motions. It is controlled by memories, this moment; her mind aches with the task of transferring three-dimensional dreams onto a flat surface. The translation is a difficult one-it is impossible to bring about a feeling through a series of scratches; of lines and dots and sketched figures that fit only the bill of her subconscious world. In Eliza’s head, Lisa had said, these gatherings of color and light and blurred lines make perfect sense. There is a translation of emotion she is able to read just by the touch of blue or a hardened press of graphite. Eliza doesn’t quite buy that theory. It helps, though, this consuming task. It keeps her busy.

               The work that she has done lays before her in torn-out pages; it had felt right to keep them side-by-side, in a series of sorts. Her drink is only 1/4th of the way gone. Her table is filled with a dusting of color and torn paper and the potent stench the two espresso shots bring her once tame latte. Eliza cannot bring herself to look at them altogether. She’s sure she’ll have to next week, when she’s stuck in the room filled with a sense of try-hard feng-shui and Lisa’s favorite and completely impractical magenta suede pumps. She’s sure the amount of scratches on paper will at least double by then.

               Living by herself hadn’t been hard before she’d known exactly what safety had felt like.

               The scratching pauses. Eliza draws in another long sip of what is essentially only caffeine and looks down at the progress she has made on her current scene. Her mind dutifully directs itself back to autopilot, back to graphite shavings and a stained hand and subtle movements that fill her mind with purpose. The art lets her mind wander, to fog and to disappear for a while. For that reason, she loves drawing more than any other hobby she has had.

               When their girls were young, Phillip and Catherine Schuyler had sat them down in turn on their sixth birthday. What do you want to do? They had asked, and presented them with flyers and brochures of activities they could choose from; hobbies, interests. These things would keep their girls well rounded-and they had. Angelica chose tennis; she and Phillip had already been out on the courts, during special dad-and-Angie time her sisters had always been jealous of. It had become a way of networking, having a daughter who hit those rubber balls with a vengeance and spoke her mind so passionately. In choosing this hobby Angelica had chosen to become her father’s right hand girl. The zeal for tennis lasted only a short while, but the political upbringing brought her along to eagerly fill the role of Phillip’s doubles partner. Angelica was a pretty good tennis player, but she’d found her calling in networking with his colleagues. This was-and still is-her niche.

               Peggy had bounced between activities so many times Eliza finds it hard to keep track. She’d done gymnastics for a while, but the arduous hours in a sweaty gym hadn’t been worth the pretty trophies for the youngest daughter. From there she’d tried basketball, and dance, and then softball. In each sport, she’d found something wrong. The real problem with Peggy and sports is her tendency to fall on her face, proven in several well-hidden home videos.

               For Eliza, the memory is vivid. Right when she had woken up on her sixth birthday she’d come barreling down the stairs. She’d been the one to sit with their parents-to initiate the conversation. In her fluffy pink party dress, and hair done-up in an elaborate braided crown, she’d spun on shining white mary janes before insisting that ballet was her only option. From the very first class, she had fallen in love. In elementary school it had been the costumes that won her over; sparkles and sequins and layers of tulle that puffed her out like a cupcake. She’d wear the frocks around the house, only taking them off when bedtime and tulle became an incompatible match. As she got older she got better, and a fixation on costumes turned to trophies. This didn’t last long. The thrill of winning felt glorious in her heart, which swelled with unfiltered joy each time her parents brought flowers to her competitions (a glorious rainbow of gerber daisies-they always brought flowers). The swell of her heart then translated into a multitude of feelings. As her solos grew harder they also grew stories-Eliza was called upon to play a character in these moments, and she’d grown fond of the opportunity to tell stories through movement. That was when she realized how much she could release from a repetition of pirouettes or a leap across the studio floor. The negative feelings in her heart were translated through her heart to her body, and down through the floor. They would stay there in that studio.

               When she’d grown too old to compete-when volunteer work and schooling and life had gotten in the way-Eliza had felt lost. Dancing had been her release. When she’d left it, she’d left the ability to spin away her feelings. And then she’d met James.

               Sketching became Eliza’s freedom almost as naturally as dancing had.  It started on a whim, a trip through a craft store and a glance in the right direction. She’d grabbed the tiny blue sketchpad as an afterthought, perhaps for a project she hadn’t quite planned yet. Then, things turned difficult. Life became taxing to live. Eliza could not dance; she could not even leave her apartment. The colorful sticks of charcoal had taken to her hands like second nature. The colors, their palate often in tandem with her own skin’s unnatural coloring of cruelty, often dusted her arms and the length of her palm. She let her fingers roam across paper, smearing purples and blues and peaches together to create a starry night of colors. Eliza never sketched to gain praise. Her art would not hang on gallery walls. But sitting in front of a blank canvas, her mind took solace in a new medium to press herself onto. The covers of her sketchbooks breathe a sigh of relief when they are opened.  In turn, she thanks them for their time. With charcoal, or graphite, or pen, her mind is able to heal.

               The healing also comes with the aesthetic of the coffee shop, wrapped in sparkling silver tinsel and cutout snowflakes, cable-knit blankets draped over warm leather couches. Her drink had been served in one of the last red holiday cups, a reminder of the holiday season now in the past. Just before they’d left for her family’s Christmas Eve party Eliza and Alex had sat in this same booth, drawing trees and snowmen and stars on each other’s cups with a Sharpie John had smuggled over the counter. She’d laughed at his rendition of a reindeer; a mess of basic shapes akin to a child’s shaky artwork. Her cup is now bare, devoid of any kind of design. She stares at the dimensionless red, lets its bright coloring hurt eyes which seem to be searching for its imperfections.

               “You alright?” The voice pierces through her fog, hushed and soft and bright in timbre. John leans over the counter to speak to her, an eye trained on a fat, handsome man in an identical uniform. It’s the first day in a while his boss has stopped by this particular Starbucks, and as shift manager the collected, charismatic Latino is attempting to look busy. So far the day hadn’t been too taxing-a few discrepancies with a new employee messing up drinks, one millisecond of a lack of filter…yes, so far John Laurens would check this off as a pretty good day. His boss seems impressed, looking over a beautifully painted mural of snowflakes and swirls that graces the glass windows. It is a job he was supposed to assign to one of his employees; he’d scoffed at the thought. Within their ranks, there was not a stitch of artistic talent. He’d called Peggy instead, who’d come a few times that week and adorned a borrowed green apron to paint in exchange for the company-and the free coffee.

               His smile widens when his boss turns to approve the decoration, his hands moving as if he’d been cleaning the counter the entire time. When the man turns back around again, John’s shoulders drop. He’d meant to be excelling at the day-showing management that he really did deserve the raise he had gotten. The raise is all but forgotten when Eliza walks through the door. If she hadn’t nearly stumbled her way to the counter, her uncharacteristic exhaustion would have been noted by the sheer weight she seemed to be carrying around. Each footstep hit the hardwood flooring heavy, wading through a tumultuous mud that keeps her pace slow and her eyes to the ground. Her order spills between slightly upturned lips and a smile that doesn’t quite reach her cheeks. And when he hesitates-stares at her dull and unmoving expression-she moves along as if nothing has happened.

               So he can’t ignore her. As his boss walks slow and meticulous circles around the shop John juggles his attention between a sudden influx of customers and Eliza’s sinking form in their usual booth. She has a wide span of work lain out before her which she bends over in a concentration only broken by the opening of the door or a voice too loud too soon. Then she’s hyperaware, throwing her hands over her work as her body is jumpstarted by the shock. She fits the lag of the shop’s music; acoustic guitars and soft vocals by artists who use their breathiest voice to convey a dream-like feel. Usually, Eliza Schuyler fits into this aesthetic like the piece of a hand-crafted puzzle. Today, her energy carries to the counter and sets his own heart to her own erratic rhythm.

               Between his boss and his currently incompetent employees John keeps a piece of himself tethered to the table Eliza has holed herself up at. For a moment he considers sneaking out back to text Alex, to give him warning and ask for his help. His fingers even hover over the screen of his phone for a moment, typing and erasing before his head is filled with the voices of his mother, and his sisters. They’d think it a terrible idea to meddle like this, sticking his nose in business that only kind-of pertains to himself. He’s not sure about his youngest sisters (Emily would probably have already gone and gotten Alex herself) but Amaia and his mother would adorn identical expressions. The slightly lowered brow, the crinkling of skin between them, and a constant company of arms crossed over chests….this is how he’d been raised. He fears the power of the women in his family, but he respects their opinion more. Even though they are not there, and they have not said a word, they are right. They’re always right.

               In lieu of meddling John walks back and forth along the back counter of the bar, scrubbing down machine handles and picture frames and the bottom of the fridge. From this vantage point he can see her perfectly. She’s sketching, a thin pencil between dexterous fingers making hasty lines across paper that is no longer blank. The rip of its release breaks the soft sound barrier of the shop then, cutting through murmured voices and the whirring of appliances to announce its presence. He flinches, watching her lay the piece in a line of matching canvases. There is only the simplicity of a blurred monochrome blanket or art she had been working on for hours now, since he’d opened the doors to the shop. He can’t see much of anything from this point. He inches closer.

               He’s lucky, he supposes then, that she’s sitting so close to the sink area. When his boss looks over he can soak his hands in water, clearing utensils and blenders and tools from his path. He does his best impression of a well-tuned employee, eyes turned to a focus and pace moving rapid although he is not really doing much work at all. It turns out that for John, pretending to be busy is harder work than actually doing his job. The façade is worth it.

               The pictures she has drawn all seem to be linked, although there is no clear start or finish to the story she is illustrating. Then, it is abstract. There are no real characters, just one hastily sketched figure that is blurred in some drawings and scratched away in others. A page in the middle has been covered in darkness, so much so that John can still see the dusting of graphite that has loosened from a harsher pressure on the tool. Another directly next to it features only a face which, although clearly hastily drawn with a gathering of identical lines, isn’t much unlike her own. There is a blur, where she’d smeared the darks and lights together from her left eye to the tip of her chin so that she is barely unrecognizable. The choice seems odd on such a lovely portrait. Looking closer the blur continues, up toward the head where glossy hair typically fell into loose curls. She had blurred that too, turned dark hair darker and highlighted it with harsh lines throughout its nest. These lines twisted and contorted, wrapped around the neck in tight twists that pinched at her skin. This is where the picture stopped. She’d started another.

               The one she is working on now, in hard concentration, features a rolling of markings that resemble the cloth of a curtain, or a dress. A dress, John decides as he leans a bit closer, is more similar to what this picture must be conveying. Through the blackened canvas the fabric stands out, white and clean and polished with a bow. It hangs from one corner of the frame, where it’s being pinched by hands that dwarf it in size. There are hard, sharp lines adorning the hand, which does not translate in harmony to the softness of the silk and the flow of the dress. From the line of focus this scene portrays, from top left to bottom right, there is the hand, the dress, and another figure. This one is small, creating the illusion that it must be floating away. Where the hand is sharp and the dress soft, this figure floats somewhere in the middle. Unlike the other pieces of work she’d created, the girl in this picture does not show her face. Her body is both curled into itself and splayed out, upside-down and floating in a sea of black graphite. Brilliant dark hair billows below her head, hanging and catching in the sketch to create motion. Where John had thought the figure was simply floating, he guesses again. There is nothing peaceful about this piece. Where the sketch of just her face had been pleasant-save the blurring of its left side-this falling in an endless space of darkness gives off a vibe that sticks in his gut. A chill runs through his blood, beginning and ending in an infinite loop that makes him want to turn away from it all. His sight pans back out to the grouping of pictures, depictions of scenes within Eliza’s mind that come in flashes of horrific memories.  His intake of breath is audible, and uncontrolled. He puts a hand over his mouth when Eliza turns sharp to face him. He’s been caught.

               “John!” Her hands rest on her table, covering the figure and the face to no avail. He’s already seen it all, that much is evident by the uncomfortable brushing of his top and bottom lips to each other, the way his eyes can barely meet hers. She moves to say something else but can’t figure out what it should be; she could explain herself, the pictures and the coffee and the frantic look on her face. She could accuse him for invading her privacy, but what good would that be? She’s sitting in a public place, his place of work…she’d been stupid to think he wouldn’t notice her there. She hadn’t been thinking at all, actually.

               There is a level of unrest that’s lain harsh on her gentle features. Soft lips are curved into the mirror of a smile, wistful and hopeful and pretending. The beginnings of dark rings hang under lifeless eyes, illustrating her exhaustion and keeping herself away from him. He nods, although no other hint of conversation has been given. It’s a response to her body language; her harsh covering of art and her inability to say anything more. Although he doesn’t fully understand, he knows. This is not something he should be poking his nose into. In the moment he notices her sharp defense he decides to leave the art alone, although he cannot un-see what he has seen-they are both aware of this fact.

               “So….a venti?” Eliza laughs then, shaking her head and piling her art back into her sketchbook. She uses her fingers to shake out her loose curls, tossing them over her shoulder.

               “Yeah, it’s been…interesting. It was an interesting night.” She doesn’t need to say anything more-the saccharine fragrance of vanilla espresso and the overly done lilt in her voice are enough to give away her true meaning. John frowns, drumming his fingers on the countertop, contemplating what to say.

               “I uh, yeah. Yeah, it wasn’t too good for Alex either. Have you talked to him?”

               “Today? Yeah. This morning, just to say hi. About this?” She holds her sketchbook in her hands, caressing the cover and looking down at its worn-out binding with the bite of her lip. There is a sensation that comes along with even looking at its cover, something between the release of peace and an aggressive hold on her heart that keeps her chained to its therapy. The choking of her heart is necessary. Holding the book, it seems useless. But it’s opening its pages-translating feeling to rough lines and vast spaces that make it worth its initial pain. Telling Alexander would mean having to show him what she’s done-to explain each of the moments she’d had to sit down, where words were not enough to release her emotions. It’s something that makes her cringe upon the thought. It’s not necessary, not yet.

               “I don’t want to make him feel guilty.”

               “Say no more, E. We’re done talking about it.” John has a way of glossing over things; of making people forget he ever even knew what had happened. Flashes of the night before present themselves in the forefront of his mind; Alex standing wearily at the door, his fight with Lafayette…even this morning he had been lackluster, leaving the apartment without breakfast or coffee. If he didn’t like Eliza, he could’ve presented her with all of the consequences her actions had caused, the effects of her choice. If he hadn’t known her, or what she’s going through, this would have been very easy to do. Letting go of people is something he has no trouble with, especially when those people have hurt those that he loves. This is different. While Eliza had hurt Alex she hadn’t done it intentionally-this move had been the best decision for them both. And Eliza…he’d grown closer to Eliza in the past few months than he’d anticipated. Dropping her, if there ever would be a need, would be harder than he’d thought.

John wears a lopsided smile, body propped on the length of his lower arm against the countertop. He drapes the cloth he had been pretending to clean with over his shoulder, eyes dusted with the familiar hints of mischief.

               “You want to be distracted?” John sends the proposition her way with inflection in his voice and a quick glance back to his boss. Luckily, he still hasn’t noticed the lack of work ethic he’s been presenting.  He turns back just in time to see Eliza’s hesitant nod.

               “Emily’s coming to game night on Friday.”

               “Oh good,”

               “-Oh yeah, I’m kind of making her come.”

               “Oh?” Eliza’s turned completely in the booth now, facing John and leaning slightly against her table. He’s completely relaxed now, barely passing a glance at the wandering man with the clipboard. He’s not too concerned with John, either; right now he’s fixated on the well-being of a couple sitting on the other side of the shop.

               “She’s….she’s had it rough. Her friends are all assholes and I hate them.”

               “John!”

               “I’m being generous here. They’re all a bunch of stuck up little hypocrites and she just needs a night away from them. The one person I hate more than them is her girlfriend.”

               “What’s wrong with her?” She’s trying to play the middle man and he groans at the thought of it all, rolling his eyes at her sweet tone and open mind. He wants to project his mind to her own, to show her the girl that is currently holding his middle sister’s heart hostage in a rampant game of tug-of-war. His strong, independent sister has been pining over this girl for years to receive nothing in return but an ever-changing frame of mind.

               “She’s a serial dater. She’s crazy, and manipulative, and they’ve broken up four times in the past few months. This is so not my sister. And her friends? Her friends could care less, they’re only concerned with whether or not this girl will be at the apartment and if she’s brought food. They’re exploiting Emily for some halfway decent chef who just graduated from dishwasher and hasn’t set a single goal for herself in her life. They’re the worst match.”

               “So you’re forcing her to hang out with her brother and his friends because….”

               “You and your sisters are good people-you got along when you met her, right? I mean she’s kind of a bitch but once you get to know her she’s great. She needs some new friends, desperately. Plus, she’s Alex’s sister too so you need to get in with the family at some point.”

               “Alright, I’m sold.”

               “Really, that easily?” Eliza laughs at his shock, nodding and gathering her things. She gestures behind John, pulling her lips into a nervous curl as the sound of footsteps approach them. He turns just in time to see his boss, large and a pitiful attempt at being intimidating. It gets John moving. His lanky form putters around the little bar, grasping at Eliza’s half-empty cup and attempting to recreate what he’d made her much earlier in the morning. His facial features are immediately set to a concentrated sort of smile, which he flashes at his boss with a set of pearly white teeth. His boss nods. Eliza rolls her eyes. Once again, John has avoided work with only his boyish smile.

               She leaves him then, thanking him for the mucked up version of her drink she’s already too caffeinated to drink. It feels nice to have a purpose; to set out to class with a new goal in mind. By the time her day is over she’s busy compiling lists-thoughts and facts to tell her sisters about the friend they need to make. Going home to an empty apartment is lonely; quiet. But she has Alex on the other end of the phone, his exuberant tenor telling her every story he knows about Emily Laurens. He understands her; with a goal in her mind, Eliza can be busy. With this goal in her mind, she barely needs the release of her sketchbook. Her thoughts are geared toward an uncontrollable optimism, a need to reach the end result so clearly paved in her mind. Friday can’t come quick enough.

[tazaki-theredknight-blog]

💕

“…So lets say F is for Force, and G is for gravity, V is for velocity or vector of time- I’ll specify when– time or and D is for dimension…” It was odd to see this large man reflecting the shadow of a G-I-Joe soldier spout formulas and ideas you’d hear in a classroom or lecture hall. Danny wasn’t fond of lectures and Tazaki bored of them quickly. However, after learning about the Ghost Portal and the issues they were currently up against with inter-dimensional travel, he was revved up and ready to go. The other hunter was writing rather quickly on a make-shift white board. Letters and numbers with foot notes in smaller print were put there, here, and over there. The board which used to be largely broken piece of glass was now against the wall being written on with quick-erase markers. 

D^1 = VT: Dimension 1 

Space (D^3 in 3 dimensions) Hence D^1 = CT. 

Dimensions have constant velocity of light– Side note: although we recognize sound quicker, light still travels faster! Anyway, like I was saying, in current physics velocity is relatively proportional to time’s constant speed with light being the limitation. When time continues and elevates, velocity diminishes because they are polar in the formula…” He continued talking about physics and vectors and signals… It all sounded like noise to the ghost-boy and huntress who were both looking at the man from the other side of the room. While Asha was in awe, the other two seem to be exchanging similar glances of ‘is he serious?’

“Is he…always like this?” Danny asked, doing a double take at the glass. He could have sword he’d only looked away for a second and yet there was new print and equations sprawled out with arrows and small illustrations of what he assumed to be portals. Tazaki nodded, clearing her throat in the process. “When riled up about stuff like this yeaa.. I would have never guessed he was a scientist when we met though. Very bronze on the battle field, and very loud when he’s drunk.” Danny raised an eyebrow, wondering where she was going with this - and he saw it, the faint smile of hers. When she recognized the character of someone, for better or for worse. “But..” she continued, “He’s got a big mind full of great ideas and cares about the outcome of his actions. Even if its not what everyone else agrees with.” She patted Danny’s shoulder which was tense. He had been tense ever since Asha arrived. He relaxed some, but he couldn’t bring himself to calm down fully. There were two people, actual people in his house right now, not to mention one was a stranger. The noise that was bouncing off the walls was starting to give him a headache, and feel dizzy. Like being on a stage with an awaiting audience wanting nothing but the curtain to come down so he could take a breath. Suddenly he was brought back to reality by his friend’s voice. Something in it though..didn’t sound right. She sounded quieter or maybe a little tired. 

“I don’t know everything about the man but he’s earned my trust for now.” Hunters didn’t know everything about each other after all. Asha and Tazaki had only met some months ago. It was a different relationship than what she had with Danny. The red head was more guarded and cold with the other hunter because that is how their job was best handled. There was little opportunity to talk and get comfortable and under each other’s skin. A luxury Daniel Fenton may not have realized he’d had with the huntress. To most she was a skilled individual at her job, sometimes willing to work with a team, sometimes not, with little tolerance for strangers and a heavy hand to those found guilty.

“Are you two listening?” The two snapped out of their moment and looked over to see Asha now right next to them blinking curiously.

“Mhm, yup,” Tazaki replied. She coughed softly into her hand, and shook her head. It looked like she was trying to wake herself up.

 Danny was a little lost. “Uhm..to be hon-”

“What was the last thing I said?” Asha tested. Danny looked between the two and the board, trying to see if he could take a wild guess. Given his luck he’d probably strike out like in school. Lancer would have a last laugh even after graduation - go figure.

“You were explaining how each dimension increases or expands by velocity time. And that time and energy are just different manifestation of V and T.” Gold eyes narrowed at green with a smile. “Hm.. I guess you were listening.” Tazaki smirked, crossing her arms. “Continue then, professor.” He seemed to disagree with that nickname and looked to Danny. Tazaki laughed quietly into her shoulder before bringing up a curled hand to her mouth and coughing. ‘Tch…great.’

“How about you young man. You said your parents were scientists - yes? And they invented the portal.”

“Uh, yea.. but their goal wasn’t inter-stellar travel or opening specific dimensions. It was to study ghosts, only in the ghost temporal zone. I don’t think I’m the person to ask-”

“ Are you sure?” “Yes” “Positive?” “Yes…” What was with this guy. Big like a house, and yet looked so defeated from a young and much smaller boy telling him he didn’t know anything. “ You look like he just killed your puppy Asha,” Tazaki joked. The dark man took a look at the board and then at the notes sprawled out on the table and sighed. “This really is a mess we have isn’t it.” 

“Something like that…we should ga-” She was interrupted from her own coughing. Both gentlemen now looked over as she patted down her collar bones, clearing her voice. “..gather a perimeter of the woods in the area.” She finished. Danny opened his mouth first, “Are yo-” 

“You can help with that right?” Tazaki added quickly, choking down another cough. “Said you knew this city like the back of your hand, right?” 

“Well yea I do, but do y-” Did she look…paler? 

“Great. Asha can you work with Danny on that?” The scientist nodded, going over to a couple of rolled up papers on the table. Choosing one, he rolled it out like an old rug and set a book and automatic on two ends to keep it flat and un-moving. While he looked for pencils Danny looked at his friend with concern. He was stubborn on his own injuries sure but when it came to someone else - someone he cared about and wanted to protect- 

“Taz what’s…” It was weird. Normally she’s all for explanations or talking, at least with him. Was it because Asha was here? Was it because of him? ‘Is it me? Did I…did I do something?’ he thought. Innocent eyes blinked in worry at the vanishing image of the young woman. 

 “Please excuse me..” he thought he heard.

–

Away from the living room, and upstairs, Tazaki kept hand to her mouth and the other on the hallway rail. Gripping the wood felt reassuring but she couldn’t stay in the hall forever. ‘Where is the bathroom?’ Stiffening, the huntress froze feeling everything inside begin to tighten and throb. Hanging her head, crimson locks slipped over her shoulder as her shoulders shook.

Old injuries ached. The ache turned into a white-hot burn. Coughing made her body jolt, the sensation sending shivers and needles up her back. Veins rose under her skin as she sucked in a breath taking a step and a half forward. The tired heart in her chest thud like a hammer hard at work. It rattled her ribs to suddenly feel too small in the skin that bound them. Like she was wound in a coil that did nothing but tighten, just waiting to snap. Blood stained lips parted to gasp and wheeze as she found strength to keep from falling or doubling over. Everything was happening so fast, much faster than last time…

Her throat burned from the sound that escaped it, and she was quick to keep it from happening again. Breathing became a chore: opening your mouth, pulling air in one moment and willing the same air to get out a second later. Was there air? It felt more like smoke… or was that her lungs failing to take in enough air - who knows. Staggering forward she spotted it - the restroom! Or rather a sanctuary. Once inside she pushed her back to the bathroom door shutting her eyes as the ringing started in her ears. Quickly, she peeled off her jacket, tossing it to the floor. Pale skin now red in patches - she was hot, everything felt too hot. Rushing to the sink she turned the faucet on full blast for cold. Dipping her hands in and bringing the liquid to her face. Looking in the mirror, the white around the green of her eyes was pink, with hints of red. Suddenly her own reflection doubled and she took a step back, gaining balance by grasping an old and stiff shower curtain. Everything wanted to come up. Breakfast, dinner, her guts..everything. Breathing heavily she started to cough. No doubt the running water wasn’t masking much sound, but it made her feel better to know at least the inside sink wouldn’t be totally soiled red. Leaning on her knees, she continued, trying to get a breath or two in between. It didn’t take long before she was kneeling and held a shaky grip on the sides of the toilet bowl. Coughing was normal and annoying at first, like someone with a bad cold, but sure enough it became what it always did - violent. 

–

“..That’s about it for the layout around the woods. There’s thick patch of trees by Casper High but the largest is by the cemetery..”

“Right right..” Asha acknowledged, making marks and diameter. He looked between the map and Danny, before straightening his stature. “You seem distracted.”

“Aren’t you?” That came off a little more strong than he anticipated, but c’mon this was Tazaki. “Don’t you know what’s going on?” The older man seemed to collect some thoughts before answering. “To be honest, no. It’s not really my business to know, is it?” Danny binked, slightly stunned by the answer. ‘Wait if he doesn’t know…’ Their relationship was more professional than friendship despite a few jokes here and there, a polar of what Tazaki and Danny were.

“Listen, I’m going to go confirm this map from a street’s eye view so I can get used to your town. I’m sure Tazaki has done that already with memory or through you by now right? I need to catch up. ” Good, with him out of the house maybe he could get some answers, wait-hold on.

“Wait isn’t it dangerous to go alone?” There it was, that hero within himself, concerned for all citizen within his park, even if he didn’t particularly enjoy their company yet.

Asha grinned. “I appreciate it lad, but I’ll be fine. I’m not looking for trouble tonight, just traces and anything we could add to the table. I’ll be back in 60.” With that, he was out the door with a small satchel and a flashlight. Whatever was in his bag of tricks must be enough to get him out of a pinch because he didn’t seem like a naive hunter. Looking toward the arch of the living room, Danny approached it slowly, turning around the bend as Tazaki had earlier. It was there that he noticed something he was familiar with seeing, Blood.

Blue eyes with a hint of green widened, as his gaze led him to a few more spots along the stairs and the railing had partial red hand prints. They looked like clues to a murder, and he wasn’t a fan of playing Clue! A lot of thoughts hit him at once: alarm, worry, panic, frustration - everything. He really wasn’t used to having people around, never mind people to worry about in close quarters. “…Taz!” he called, rushing up the stairs, he stopped at the top, looking quickly left to right, “You oka-” stopping when he turned right, “ay…?” he voice trailed, relieved to see the huntress sitting down at the end of the hall. She was sitting with her head to her knees, and her arms around them. She didn’t hear his foot steps, not that it was surprising, he had ghost powers after all.

“Tazaki?” Her shoulders were trembling slightly, and upon hearing her name, she lifted her head some and turned it. Half lidded eyes greeted Danny before she closed them again. “Sorry…I’ll clean…” she said quietly, to which Danny was confused. He wasn’t sure how to approach this, should he help her lie down, a hospital? Her breathing pattern certainly wasn’t normal, it was ragged and shallow.

“Clean..clean what? Do you… Do you want to lie down?” It wasn’t until the bathroom door creaked slightly that he knew what she was talking about. Turning his own head, he mouthed ‘Oh’ at the scene. Smears of red ran up and down the sides of the porcelain toilet, tub, and sink. There were were prints on the floor and on the edges of the tub, that if followed correctly could tell the story of how she wanted to wash her mouth but couldn’t bring herself to the sink, and so settled for the tub instead. It was also easier to lean into and hurl than a toilet. Some of the blood was the normal vibrant and signature crimson, the other however was a was a nasty dark red, with specks of black - dirty blood the body wanted to be rid of desperately, forced out in a cruel and exhausting manner. She really did haste the taste of iron. Lifting her head more so, she opened her eyes some and Danny looked back at her both with concern and confusion. This couldn’t be from that wound she got while coming here right? No… The look in her eyes told him it was something different. 

“I…”  “Hey stop talking,” Danny urged. “You don’t have to explain-” he added quickly. It earned him a weak laugh from his comrade. “You’re too good…” she whispered. “Don’t worry about the bathroom I can-” He started to get up from his position beside her but she quickly grabbed his wrist to stop him. Green eyes widened to how cool he felt. It was therapeutic. To his surprise, she was incredibly warm. Actually, burning up was a better description. “That’s one hell of a fever!” he exclaimed. Before he could say anything else however he was being tugged back beside her. “….Y-you’re so cold..” She said quietly. “Why are you so cold..” She was snaking her arms around him now, much to Danny’s surprise when she had him in a firm and intimate embrace. His body stiffened naturally against the unfamiliar feeling of being touched, of behing hugged, of being wanted. Normally, she might have asked if he wanted her to stop, but there was little ration to reason in the state of her mentality. Even with eyes closed everything was spinning. She rested her head in the crook of his neck, a burning forehead relieved by the cool temperature of his skin. Slowly, Danny’s shoulders began to relax, as he shifted so she wasn’t on her knees hugging him but that most of her weight was on him instead. Hesitantly and carefully, he wrapped one arm around her, under that blanket of crimson hair and the other as a reassurance on her back. Her shirt was damp with sweat but he could feel the heat radiating off of her. Everything invaded his out of touch senses. The smell of blood sweat not his own, the overwhelming and much needed feel of warmth battling the cold of his skin, and the shaky breathing of another body return to normal right under his ears. Looking down, he wanted to confirm his suspicion and he was right, she was asleep. This strange woman that had a knack for popping in and out of his life at the strangest of times was really never out of surprises, even ones like this. Unconscious, Tazaki still held her grip on the Phantom boy, tightening her hold when he tried to move. For once he was glad he couldn’t phase away or scramble away from someone’s grasp. There wasn’t a reason to aside from old habits dying hard. Right this second, he was the best place he could be. How long had it been since he felt another pair of arms around him? Too long…

Being cold had become so normal, he didn’t think he would find a use for it aside from wearing sweaters in the summer or feeling less human than he already did. Yet here he was, stuck in an embrace his mind ached to leave but his soul sustained.

[dragonscanbeplantstoo]

Oil & Sky: echoes from the trash

Something You Like

Maeva rubs at an itch on her cheek, probably leaving charcoal behind, and returns to the sketch in her lap. She is pressing hard, too hard, wearing millimeters off her charcoal as she works on a bit of shading. Some people say the eyes are the most difficult thing to draw realistically, but Maeva disagrees. Elbows are in fact, the most difficult body part to capture. There is something about the way light falls on an elbow, the crease versus the vein versus the muscle, which is deeply improbable.  She scribbles out the curve she has been working on and tries another, cross-hatching this time in short, dark strokes that turn her knuckles white. She presses so hard that her vine of charcoal snaps, scattering dark dust all over the page.

“Maeva?”

She looks up from her work, and finds her photography professor sticking his head out the office door. She raises her eyebrow at him.

“Sorry about the wait,” he says, “come in.”

With a sigh, she closes her sketchbook and steps into the cramped room. Technical-looking paperbacks line the walls, their shiny coverings peeling away, and the spare spaces on the shelves are occupied by cameras and lenses and further gadgetry Maeva can’t identify. Everything is black though, and mildly hideous.  

She takes a seat in the chair adjacent to his desk while he shuffles through a few sheets of paper. He pushes his glasses up his nose, and she knows what’s coming.

“Maeva, I wanted to talk to you about your final project. Did you have any plans for it yet?”

“Yes.” Maeva says. As in, she is planning to wait until the last possible minute to photograph a few macro shots of sand. She can use them later for a painting.  

“Hm.” He nods, paging through his papers again. “I ask because I have some concerns about what you’ll be turning in. Your midterm compositions were a bit…lackluster.”

If one of her oil teachers had used the word ‘lackluster’ in front of her, Maeva very well might have had a quiet aneurysm. But that isn’t the case here. Professor Cairn’s opinion of her is immaterial, because she has no intention of ever picking up a camera again.

“What would you have me do differently?” She asks.

“There’s nothing technically wrong with these. But as an expressionist, I expect more creativity from you. These are boring and formulaic. You can be more dynamic.”

“I don’t think I can.” She says. “I don’t particularly enjoy photography.”

His eyebrows hike up, not because he doesn’t believe a student infamous for her rigidity could hate photography, but because she admitted it to his face.  

He smiles. “Alright, let’s unpack that. Maybe we can find a way to spark your interest. What is wrong with photography? It’s a very versatile and accessible art form.”

“It isn’t art.” Maeva says. “It’s regurgitation.”

“Regurgi…tation?” He frowns at the gallery wall opposite his bookshelves.

Maeva looks at it too. He has a mix of everything up there, a display of all the things one can do if they learn to click the correct buttons between camera and editing application. Some are simply representations, a crisp shot of a landscape or an ice cream cone. Maybe the colors are brightened, or the image composited into something surreal, the seams of the images invisible. Again, good editing. It’s all very skillful. It’s all very boring.  

“I don’t think photography captures the world in a way that makes it seem prettier. We’re just replicating what the eye sees in a given moment.”

Dr. Cairn nods. “Tell me what’s wrong with that? What we see will always go away, so what’s wrong with capturing the color of a memory, or the shape of something we found pretty to begin with?”

“Nothing at all.”

“How about you do that then? Don’t think of it as making something new, think of it as capturing a thought or vision.”

Maeva sighs. Other people can do that, fine. But why should she need a photograph of something pretty, when she can simply draw it exactly as she saw it? She saw a pretty flower in the market last week, a chrysanthemum, and now she has a perfect white-charcoal rendition of it, so perfect she might as well have pressed it between the pages of her sketchbook.

“I can just draw it.” She says

“But that won’t get you through my class.”

“Apparently not.” She says. “Again, what do you want me to do?”

He sighs, “I want you to present me with something that is unique, Maeva. I want you to tell me something with your piece.”

“I don’t say things in art. Art is not for saying things.”

“Well, you’re going to have to learn, if you want to graduate. You are required to fulfill a three-hundred level photography requirement, and you have not done so yet.”

Maeva touches her temple, just lightly, with her middle finger. Of course she knows that, she’s heard it every term for the last two years—Ack courses, plaster, installation mediums—do more, or don’t pass. Do more, or the pile of acceptance letters to London and Dresden and Milan mean nothing. An acceptance to Paris would mean nothing. She returns her hand to her lap.

“I’ve completed every assignment to your guidelines.”

“You should know that ‘completion’ is not the standard at this school. Particularly for someone as obviously talented as you are.” Dr. Cairn laces his big-knuckled fingers together. “So, you have exactly six weeks to come up with something more, something that showcases your eye for color and light, something with movement and passion, or I will not pass you.”

“Okay.” Maeva glances out the window. “I still don’t know what to shoot to make that happen.”

Clearly frustrated, Dr. Cairn touches his own forehead, then hums. “I don’t know, Maeva, just…find something you like.”

Maeva is still chewing on that as she blinks against the sunlight outside. Her midterm compositions are full of things she likes. She just hadn’t liked taking photographs of them. It feels too easy, flat in the simplicity of adjusting the lens and pressing a button. Of editing her mistakes away. No struggle over the dimensionality of shading, or what color she needs to mix up for the lighting. No room to play with the image and make it more than what it is. She wishes she could ignore it. She wishes she could skip her next class and draw more elbows, but she’s missed theater too many times.

She can hear a piano before she even enters the music building, clanging out through an open window on the first floor. A headache threatens her temples, but the music has stopped by the time she gets inside, and the only sound in the dimly lit hallway is the shuffle and murmur of open classrooms. As she stashes her bag in one of the lemon-scented lockers, Maeva hears something new amidst the shuffle, something that makes her feel like someone has stuck a branding iron behind her ears.

“Music, Corin, music!”

“Oh, shit, sorry, sorry.”

Maeva turns her head before she can remind herself not to, and she is staring right at him. Corin isn’t looking back; he’s behind a music stand, sighing off into a corner of the room. He’s so full of good color. His skin is precisely umber, the same warm, orange-toned brown she has in her bag, and the sun is hitting him from the side, throwing bronze onto the high points of his face. It falls in dense bars across the sharp edges—cheekbones, brow bones, the corner of his jaw—and creates softer diffusions around his nose and mouth. He blinks, and she notices again that his eyes are a very different color than they had been that night. Blue, yes, but they are so much brighter now, a true cerulean without a hint of ashiness.

His professor barks a command, and there is the subtlest change in the light around his throat, breathing in without breathing out. Maeva should look away. She has the peculiar sense that if she doesn’t look away right now, she won’t be able to.

“Once, a lady was here; a lady sat in this garden, and she thought of love…”

It’s a beautiful voice, like all of the voices here. Big and round and full of interesting vibrations. He has a delicate way of moving to the music, and an indelicate look of bliss on his face as he sings the long lines of notes together. Subtle flexions of his smile muscles, a suddenly saucer-like shape to his eyes. He’s gesturing and singing to this classmate, that classmate, the professor, playing with them and with his lovely, flexible voice. Maeva doesn’t understand how the act of making sounds can so immediately increase his saturation, his vibrancy. She doesn’t like looking at it. She feels his cell phone number like a lead weight in her pocket. As if he knows, he looks up from his music, and catches her stare.  

“Her garden still looks the same, but,” Corin’s brows rise to his curls, creating the tiniest disturbance in his voice, “it’s a different year.”

Maeva’s shock rises up to meet his. She’s wide-eyed as long as he is, less than a second, before he breaks into a full-blown smile, a stage light aimed right at her face.

“Soon, the evening comes down,” he sings through it without missing a beat, “and paths where she used to wander whiten in the moonlight…”

Maeva glares at him, clutching her sketchbook over her chest. His smile only looks like that because his teeth are so contrasted against his skin. His eyes only look like pieces of a Monet sky because they are shining out from his black lashes. Stupid, pretty, color coordinated boy.

“Her garden still looks the same but,” Corin tilts his head at her, “yesterday is not today…”

The class applauds, startling Maeva out of her glare. She steps back, and Corin laughs. He laughs with fine lines under his eyes and a bubbly, metallic sound. Maeva can finally walk away. She breezes down the hallway, shaking her head as she goes. She keeps seeing the big smile, the glowing cheeks, and the eyes, the eyes, the eyes. No one would ever guess that Corin Olivier had been killing himself in the rain eight weeks ago.

And that, Maeva decides, is utterly terrifying.