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mhysa-leesi · 3 years

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{Gif Source} {Gif Source 2}

Pairing: Dark!Steve Rogers 𝒳 (femme) Reader 🩸.

Summary: "Steve Rogers is madly in love with you and he'll do anything for you to see that--no matter who gets in his way."

Word Count: 4,765 (Sorry, this is a long one!)

TW‼: Non-Con, Smut, Stalking, Yandere Themes, Murder (Description of Side-Character Death), Blood, Description of Gore, and Strong Language. 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI‼

AN: This story contains adult and dark themes, please do not proceed if you are under the age of 18 or if ANY of these warnings upset you! I am not responsible for your media consumption–you and only you are. Also, I used one of the prompts from (@the-modern-typewriter) to describe a character's death, ALL CREDIT GOES TO THEM. 𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓃𝓀 𝓎𝑜𝓊.

AN Cont.: If you or anyone you know has been a victim of sexual violence, please reach out for help. I do not condone ANY of the actions described in this story, this is merely a work of FICTION.

The first love letter was delivered on a gloomy Friday afternoon. The clouds above the city were dark and full of frigid torrents of rainfall. Gold and scarlet autumn leaves whispered against the chilly winds as acorns scattered about; rolling and cracking underfoot as you made your everyday walk to work. You had chosen to stray from your usual route that day, deciding on a new corner coffee shop instead of your normal stop.

You remembered that day clearly, as if it had happened just yesterday. The new coffee shop was a small, hole in the wall with plastic vines of ivy and fairylights rimming the framework of the inside. You ordered rich and dark coffees, with creamy oat milk for you and your coworkers, and an apple pecan oatmeal cookie for yourself.

Your workday was seemingly the same as any other. Pam was gossiping with Susan, and Scott was hiding from Mark, your manager, in the breakroom. You remember you were seated at your cubicle when things turned, staring at the rain against the window, and tapping your pen against your notepad, when you were startled by the mail carrier. He handed you a single, pink envelope with a heart stamp on its flap and left with a mumbled “you’re welcome”. You frowned as there was no return address or other name besides yours. You had opened it anyway.

You remembered how your frown had deepened as your stomach dropped. The paper trembled in your hands as you stared at the small heart sketched at the bottom. You frantically looked around the office for any sign of a joke, hoping to see one of your coworkers giggling at your shocked reaction. But everyone had their noses deep into their screens, typing away at their work. You turned the letter over, looking for a name or a clue as to who had sent it. But it was blank.

And you remembered how you had crumpled up the letter and tossed it as you refocused and finished the rest of that workday.

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Weeks passed before you got another mysterious love letter delivered to your desk, a small bouquet of roses and baby’s-breath with it. And again, you crumpled it up and threw it away; leaving the flowers in the breakroom. You had made a mental note that day to talk to the mailman about the delivery of these letters.

For a time they stopped and you thought you were out of the woods or thought your secret admirer had lost interest at the very least. But you were wrong. Your third envelope had been waiting for you in your mailbox when you had gotten home from work one Monday evening. You didn’t bother opening it as you sent it straight to the garbage.

You were growing paranoid and antsy as you constantly looked over your shoulder. You’d freeze every time you came across an envelope, even if it was just your monthly rent notice or bank statement. You had refused to live like this, in a constant state of anxiety and fear, so, that’s how you found yourself moving into a new apartment across town.

You were met with months of peace, you were finally readjusting to life before the letters. You had even moved in with someone you had been seeing from your new job, Chris. He was perfect, someone straight from a romance novel; tall, dark, and handsome, with a taste for adventure and romance. You were happy with him--you were in love and had long since decided that if Chris were to ask you to marry him, you’d say yes in a heartbeat.

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Today was your anniversary with Chris, and the two of you had an entire evening planned. Dinner at your favorite restaurant, a surprise showing of your favorite movie at the corner cinema, and then home, where you’d give him his gift. A red lacy lingerie set with fuzzy handcuffs, and a silk blindfold to match.

Your heart skipped and your stomach alighted with butterflies as you touched up your makeup in the bathroom mirror. The evening had been absolutely perfect and it was about to get even better. You stepped out into the bedroom, dressed in nothing but red lace and a bathrobe. A spritz of perfume here and a mint there, and you were ready to go surprise your man.

You walked out into the living room and seductively leaned against the wall, watching as he poured two glasses of red wine. He turned and froze, swallowing hard as he abandoned the drinks on the kitchen counter. You smirked as he pulled you to him by your hips, instantly locking his lips to yours. He looked down at you through his eyelashes, his deep brown eyes darkened with lust, and you couldn’t help but bite your lip. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down to your lips once more.

Your eyes closed and moaned as he peppered kisses along the curve of your neck, tilting your head back to give him better access. His hands roamed your body hotly, squeezing and caressing your dips and curves. Chris entangled his hands in your hair as he moved you to the counter, lifting you up as if you weighed nothing. He pushed your robe down your shoulders to reveal the red lace hidden underneath, and with a groan, he bent to trace the rosette lacework that covered your breasts with his tongue. You hummed and wrapped your legs around his waist, your hands running down his back to toy with the bottom hem.

Chris gently pushed you down to an angle as he kissed down your body, stopping just below your navel to wink up at you. You bit back a laugh as you wiggled your hips impatiently as you leaned back on your hands. With your fingers splayed against the wooden countertop, your touch met something smooth and waxy--like the waxy seal of an envelope. You reached behind you and grabbed a pink envelope, with a wax stamp of a heart on its flap. Your heart seemed to stop as you stared at the envelope in your hands.

You vaguely felt Chris’s lips on your inner thighs, kissing and nipping at your skin. When he heard no reaction from you, he looked up, his brows furrowed and eyes full of questions.

“What’s that?” he asked, “You wrote me a love letter, too?” he winked as he reached for it.

You jerked it away from his grasp, your heart hammering in your chest as you ripped open the flap; ripping the waxy heart in half.

P.S. You should really lock your windows, doll. You jumped off the counter and ran to the windows, each one was locked--except for one. You locked it and double-checked its strength, fighting against the lock as you tried to open it.

“Babe? (Y/N),” Chris said sternly, snapping you out of your trance.

You looked at him now. You didn’t know what to say, you couldn’t think of how to form the words. You wanted to say everything was fine and okay, but it wasn’t--it was far from it. Whoever had been writing and sending you these knew where you lived now, and that scared you. After months of trying so hard to move on from this, you felt as if you were right back at square one again.

The rest of the night was unclear to you. You moved like a zombie, your brain on autopilot as you crawled into bed to hide under the covers until the morning sun rose. Chris asked questions, of course. But you had no answers for him. You had no idea who had been writing them and had absolutely no clue how they had found you again.

Chris had suggested going to the police, but what could they do? No one had physically harassed you, and although creepy, the letters weren’t threatening. And not to mention, you had thrown away most of your evidence. You were at a loss. Chris was supportive, always there to comfort you during the night when you were restless, but that never kept you from feeling alone.

Your paranoia increased tenfold by the end of that week. You changed your daily routine every few days, hoping that’d throw your stalker off your trail, but it never did. They always seemed ten steps ahead of you, whereas you struggled to even think to keep up with them. Your breaking point was reached on Sunday evening as you met with one of your old friends from high school for breakfast-dinner--an old tradition you two had decided to revive for the night.

Things were going good, and you even dared to forget about your own issues as you cut into your syrup-soaked pancakes. Madison was telling you about her newest fling and how good he was in the sack, and you genuinely found yourself happy to listen to the vulgar details. After painting you a vivid picture of her sex life, Madison excused herself to the restroom; leaving you alone with your pancakes and empty cup of iced coffee.

You saw a head of electric blue hair and you perked up. Your waitress came with a smile and handed you a paper cup of steaming coffee and a single napkin.

“Oh, I didn’t order this,” you said with a polite smile.

“A gentleman ordered this for you,” she winked before walking away.

You frowned as you looked at the writing on the napkin. Refusing to even acknowledge the cup of coffee in front of you.

Your mouth went dry as you stared at the familiar handwriting. Brown dress, he knew what you were wearing--he was here. You shot to your feet, the chair scraping loudly against the floor, as you looked around frantically, ignoring all of the judgemental looks and hushed whispers you were getting.

“You okay, (Y/N)?” asked Madison, her brows knitted in concern.

“Yeah,” you lied, “I just… I’m sorry, but I have to go. I’ll call you later, Mads.”

You dug through your wallet and gave a twenty to your waitress on your way out, only stopping to yell over your shoulder for her to keep the change. You practically ran home from the restaurant as your anxiety started to settle in your bones, making you heavy with unease. You called Chris, but were only met with his voicemail. The elevator ride up to your floor was tortuous as you watched the floor numbers slowly light up one by one until finally, they stopped at your floor. You panted as you slammed the door shut behind you, sliding the lock and chain in place as you dropped your head to rest against the wooden frame.

You sniffled as the words from his letter were seared into your eyelids. You just wanted him to leave you alone, you didn’t know what you did to catch his eye, and worst of all, you didn’t know how to make it stop. You choked on your hiccupped breaths as tears streaked down your cheeks. When you finally calmed down you switched on the lights and finally turned around…

You stared at Chris in horror. Blood drenched the entire living room, his corpse sat limp in a chair like a broken, bloody doll. His throat and wrists had been slashed. You tried to hold your hand over the open wounds as you screamed for help, but no matter the pressure you applied, the blood still gushed and seeped through your fingers, oozing down your arm, and dripping from your elbow. The gore of it all brought waves of nausea that went beyond physical retching, the sickness you felt was indescribable. But the smell, the smell was something much worse. Metallic, iron, copper… Your ears started to ring. You couldn’t hear, couldn’t breathe. You could only stare at the bloodstain on your hands and scream.

You left that following weekend, abandoning the big city to move back in with your parents and younger sister. You spent most of your days locked in your room, hiding from the world under the comfort of your blanket and drawn curtains. Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months. You’d look at yourself in the mirror and cry as you no longer recognized yourself as the woman you once were. You knew it was time to move on, but you couldn’t, not when you’d see Chris’s bloodied body every time you’d close your eyes.

You started small by taking baby steps toward your recovery. It started with family meals, then a cashier job at your local supermarket, shopping trips with your mother and sister. Then you eventually graduated to therapy, where you’d stare at a forest green ceiling as you reclined on the chaise longue. Therapy helped and it was admittedly one of the better moments of your monotonous days, you felt heard, seen, as you walked through your own thoughts and nightmares. Your appointments even inspired you to reach out to Chris’s parents for closure, to go with them to visit their son’s grave. It was bittersweet, leaving behind a bouquet of roses for the man you had loved so deeply instead of a kiss goodbye; but it was something you knew you’d have to come to terms with. It wasn’t your fault, that was the mantra you’d tell yourself when you’d catch glimpses of his blood on your hands.

Before you knew it a year had passed since the incident, and in that year, you had not received one letter. You had made a resolution for the first time that New Year’s Eve as you waited for the midnight ball to drop. You told yourself you’d forget, to start fresh, and become an even better version of yourself. You were a flower that was fighting against all odds to blossom.

You cut your hair, got bangs and highlights. Saved up for a brand new, off-the-lot car. And moved into a cozy apartment with your sister. Things were looking up for you and you truly believed that you had finally found your way out of the woods. But life had a habit of playing cruel tricks on those who were naive enough to believe such a thing.

It was mid-February, just a few days before Valentine’s Day, when things started to go to shit. You had just come back from the gym with your sister when you saw it. A pink envelope with no return address or any other name besides yours, with a wax seal in the shape of a heart on the back flap, sat on your pillow. It felt like it weighed a thousand pounds as you held it in your hands. You debated on throwing it away, on pretending you never received it. But you wanted to know what more this twisted bastard could have to say. You ripped it open and read.

You didn’t hesitate as you ripped the letter to shreds, throwing the pieces into the garbage with an angry grunt. Delusional piece of deranged shit, you thought. You raked through your brain for the millionth time since your first letter, trying to figure out who the fuck could possibly be the sender, but you came to the same conclusion you had been coming to for years--nothing. It was agonizing, not knowing who your torturer was. It was your shadow, how could you not know who was living in it? But, no matter how hard you thought, you kept drawing blank after blank.

Your sister comforted you with a glass of wine and dumplings from the takeout place up the street. She was going out tonight, but offered to stay home with you instead.

“No,” you shooed, “I’ll be fine, I’m a big girl.”

“You sure?” she frowned, “It’s no big deal, Girls Night is every Friday night, I can always go next week.”

“I’m fine. Go and have fun for the both of us,” you said as you waved her away.

She left a few minutes later, dressed in heels and a short skirt. You ate the rest of the dumplings and finished the bottle of wine before calling it a night. You undressed down to your underwear and threw on an oversized t-shirt and plopped down onto the bed with an unceremonious bounce. The wine coursing through your system made it easier than usual to fall asleep, and the next thing you knew, you were in a deep sleep, dreaming of a life with Chris--of a life without the letters. It was one of those good dreams you wished you’d never wake from.

Which was why you were so annoyed when a loud noise startled you awake. You looked at your phone and the time read “1:00 AM”, you frowned, it was too early for your sister to be back already. You padded along the hallway, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you called out for her, worried she might’ve passed out drunk on the floor or something. You stopped as you reached the front room--the very empty front room. Your heart started to pound as you stood frozen, staring at the empty room before you. A shuffling from behind caught your attention, then. And against your better instincts, you turned around slowly to see a shadowed silhouette of a man standing at the end of the hallway.

You stood there for what felt like an eternity, just staring dumbstruck at the man. With every step he took toward you, you took one back. Inching closer and closer to the front door with every backward step.

“Doll, don’t,” he warned, his voice striking you with fear like a bolt of lightning.

Without a second thought, you ran toward the door, fumbling stupidly with the locks in your panicked state of mind. The man was on you in a flash, easily dragging you away from your pathetic attempt at escape. His arms slithered around you like snakes, their hold constricting as he locked an arm firmly around your neck, silencing your screams as you struggled to breathe. You slapped and clawed at his forearm as he pulled you back to your bedroom.

“Please be a good girl for me, (Y/N). I don’t want to hurt you, baby,” he said against your hair.

With his arm still wrapped around your neck, he threw you down onto the bed, quickly straddling you before you could scramble to your feet. He pinned your arms above your head with one hand and forced you to look at him with the other. His face was illuminated by the moonlight. The silver shine highlighting his familiar eyes through the holes of his helmet. You froze as he pulled off his blue cowl.

You were beyond confused, to say the least. You stared up at Captain America, your brain working overtime to try and put the puzzle pieces together. What was Captain America doing in your apartment? And why had he called you “baby”? What the fuck was going on? Were you lucid dreaming? You must’ve looked as confused as you felt because he smiled down at you, gently promising you answers to the questions that you hadn’t yet asked.

“You’re even more beautiful up-close, doll,” he said as he brushed away hairs that fell in your face from your struggle.

Your eyes widened. Doll. The nickname sent chills down your spine as the word flashed against the pink color of the envelopes, against the red of spilled blood.

“You…”

He ran a finger down your cheek and nodded, “Me.”

You paled under him, your bottom lip trembling as you shook your head in disbelief. He frowned and hushed you, caressing your cheek and wiping away the tears that fell.

“Shh… Don’t cry, baby,” he cooed, “I’ll take good care of you, you don’t need to cry.”

“W–Why?” you hiccupped through your sobs, “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I love you, (Y/N),” your stomach dropped as he answered you as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You shook your head, “No. No! You’re Captain America. You’re supposed to be a hero!”

You fought against his grip, flailing and kicking wildly as you tried in vain to get away from him. You trashed against him, kicking against his thighs with all of your strength, but it was nothing to him--nothing but an annoying inconvenience.

“Stop,” he said, his jaw ticking with simmering anger.

But you refused to stop. You whined and fought against him.

“Stop,” he repeated, his anger coming to a rolling boil.

You shot up and headbutted him. He reeled back and glowered down at you, his jaw clenched and nostrils flared.

“I said stop,” he shouted as he finally stilled you with a sharp slap.

The sound was as sharp as the feel of it. You sobbed as the pain stung your skin, the right side of your face becoming numb from the harsh impact of it.

“Why are you doing this, Steve?” you asked again.

“Because I love you,” he answered again, “I know you love me, too, (Y/N).”

“No,” you exclaimed, “I don’t love you! I don’t love you! I don’t love you!” you sobbed.

“You will,” Something seemed to change within his eyes. No longer were there hints of green in his blue eyes, but something much darker… Something more sinister. You swallowed as you shrunk under his intense glare.

You exclaimed as he forced his lips against yours. Squeezing your jaw until he could slip his tongue into your mouth. You pushed against him, beating on his shoulders as he shoved his tongue further down your throat. He pulled away, breathless and flushed, a ghost of a content smile on his face. You gasped and tried to wiggle away once more, rolling onto your stomach as you did so. A yelp escapes you as you feel him grab your hips, pulling you back under him.

Steve puts his weight on you, trapping you underneath him as he begins to undress you. You try to roll onto your back, but his knee keeps you in place. You fight to keep your shirt on, knowing you wore nothing but your panties underneath it. But you were fighting blind. You kicked up, the heels of your feet hitting the backs of Steve’s strong thighs. He manhandles you easily as he rolls you onto your back, finally ridding you of your cotton shield.

Your hands went to your chest before he could. He pried your arms away, baring your breasts to him with a jerked jiggle. He licked his lips as he cupped and squeezed your breast. You flinched as if his touch had burned you, and in some sense, it had. Your eyes widened in shame as Steve blew on your nipples, the skin hardening into pointed peaks. He brings his lips to them, circling them with his tongue. Sucking, licking, pinching. You press your lips together to keep you from whimpering, and you close your eyes in hopes you can will him away. But your feeble defense attempts don’t last long.

Your eyes snap open as you feel his lips leave your breasts to trail kisses down to your navel, stopping at the band of your underwear.

“Please…” you beg. You bite your lip to keep it from trembling as fresh tears begin to form at the corners of your eyes.

Steve smiles against your skin, “I’m going to make you mine, (Y/N). ‘M gonna make you feel so good, doll.”

You stifle a sob as you feel him slide your panties off past your ankles, his fingers scorching your skin as they explore back up between your thighs. Instinctively, you try to close your legs around his hands. But he doesn’t stop. Steve digs his fingers into the soft skin of your inner thighs as he forcefully spreads you wide. Your pussy on full display to him. You stiffen under his gaze, your face burning with shame as he stares in awe at your spread folds. He runs a finger from your clit to your entrance, dipping knuckle-deep into your channel. Your thighs flex as your body tenses at the intrusion. He adds another and languidly pumps them in and out, curling and scissoring them. You fight against the blossoming heat within your belly. Your shame grows as you hear the squelch of your wetness around his pumping fingers.

Steve presses a firm thumb to your clit and you cry out before you can stop yourself. He pumps his fingers into you harder, faster, as he pulls more moans and cries from your lips. You sob as you feel that coil deep within your belly begin to unravel with every stroke and pump. You fight against your own body as you keep yourself from teetering over the edge of pleasure, refusing to let yourself submit to him. But Steve had other plans for you. Suddenly, before you could register his movements, you felt his tongue against your most intimate area. You mewled and curled your toes as he fucked you with his tongue, his thumb never stopping their firm and fast circles against your clit. You sobbed as your body convulsed with white-hot pleasure, and before you could stop yourself, you came on his tongue with a loud, dragged out moan.

You sniffled as you cried, but whether it was from the intensity of your orgasm or your shame and fear, you didn’t know. The lines were starting to blur for you.

Steve gently kissed around your folds before crawling up over you. He held your face and forced your lips to his once more before he began to undress, leaving the taste of yourself on your tongue as he pulled away with a wet smack. He unclothed himself, then. Stripping himself of his spangled-stars and red and white stripes. He looked down at you with dark, lust-filled eyes, and a breathless quirk of his lips.

You were limp as he folded you to his needs. Bringing your bent and spread knees to your chest as he took himself in his hands. His length stood tall and proud, the tip swollen and leaking down this thick shaft with anticipation. Your legs flinched as they tried to close on their own. You choked on a sob as he wrenched them apart. Your heart hammered in your chest as you watched him tap your pussy with his cock, running the tip up and down your folds as he wet himself with your soaking arousal until finally, he pressed himself into your entrance. You let out a strained whine as he slammed into you.

Steve’s eyes were shut and mouth slightly agape as he hisses at your tightness. His hips thrust in excitement as you clench around him. You whimper again as he slides out, just to slam himself back in. Your body jolts with every lust-driven thrust. He slides his hands under you and brings them to hold onto your shoulders, bringing you down to meet his every forceful thrust. The sound of skin slapping and lewd moans fill your bedroom, your sweat sheen bodies glowing under the moonlight. Steve speeds up, mercilessly hammering that hidden sweet spot that makes you scream and clench around his cock. You spasm and shake as Steve forces another orgasm from you.

“Tell me you love me,” he pants.

You shake your head, pushing on his shoulders as the realization of your situation comes crashing back into you.

His hand wraps around your throat as he pounds into you harder than before, “Say it, (Y/N).”

You scratch at his hand as your vision begins to dot and blacken, “I–I love you…”

“Louder,” he demands, “‘I love you, Steve’, say it, doll, I wanna hear you say it.” he moans.

“I love you, Steve,” you choke out.

He releases his grip on you then, and you cough and gasp for air. His rhythm becomes erratic as his hips drive into you with renewed vigor, “Again.”

“I love you, Steve,” you moan.

His body jerks as his hips stutter to a stop. Steve comes with your name on his lips, and you whined as you felt his warmth flood inside of you. He panted above you, his hips languidly thrusting as his abdomen clenched with his drawn out release. He pulled out of you and collected the spunk that leaked from your weeping cunt on his fingers. He brought them to your lips and forced you to suck them clean.

“I love you, too, doll. Forever and ever,”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*тαgℓιѕт*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧: @hoosier-daddi

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basicallyahedgehog · 2 years

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As Trees Grow, So Does My Love

Just a bit of fluff that I wrote for the Dumbledore’s Armada Rare Pair Roulette Flash Fest. Prompts: Neville/Hannah, “Neville and Hannah having a picnic under a fruit tree.”

After the war, Neville seeks to bring peace and colour back into the wizarding world. What he didn't expect, however, was that as he tended his plants he would find his own patch of peace with an old schoolmate.

Read on AO3

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The war was over, and he knew he should be grateful that he was still alive, that so many of his loved ones were still alive. He knew that, yet all he could see was death and decay. Everywhere he went in the wizarding world felt dead, plants ripped up and walls left crumbling by a devastating mixture of battle and abandonment.

Hogwarts was the worst of course, and naturally most efforts went there. Fixing up Hogsmede was a natural flow-on effect from the efforts at Hogwarts, and he soon felt an irrational jealousy towards those students who would be returning in the Fall. They would return to new stone, and well-polished desks and freshly-planted gardens full of plants that had been picked for their medicinal and relaxing qualities. Honeydukes was preparing to reopen, as was the Three Broomsticks, and soon all would be normal again in this tiny pocket oasis hidden within the Scottish mountains. For the rest of the wizarding world, however, was still grey with dust and ashes, infused with a chill that even the brightest rays of the summer sun were unable to chase away.

Standing at the top of Diagon Alley, taking in the boarded-up windows and bowed heads of weary shoppers, he decided to do something about it.

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Neville marched purposefully down Diagon Alley, pockets laden with shrunken supplies for his latest project. It had taken some persuading, but being a war hero with a personal connection to the Minister had paid dividends, and he had been given his own patch of Diagon to do whatever he wanted with.

The corner below Gringotts had been grey and cold, home to nothing more than a stone fountain and a vast slab of concrete. It was large enough to house at least two storefronts, and Neville had known that it would only have been a matter of time before the Alley’s last vestige of open space was built on by entrepreneurs wanting to take advantage of the low post-war property prices. He had also heard rumblings of a Chosen One statue to replace the weatherbeaten fountain, and whilst the idea was amusing, he knew that he had to put a stop to it if he wanted to avoid a lifetime of Harry’s whinging on pub night.

Which is why he was walking towards a no-longer concreted patch of dirt, armed with a shovel, some edging and his sketch pad, ready to make a plan for the best park the wizarding world had ever seen. He wanted to create a little patch of happiness in a world that had been so filled with fear and sorrow. After the war, everyone needed some extra fresh air and bright flowers in their lives, or at least that was his theory.

Neville didn’t know how long he had been sitting in the middle of his dirt patch, drawing plans for hedges and sitting areas and play spaces, but he did notice when the heat of the sun was suddenly blocked. He didn’t have time to wonder who it could be before they lowered themselves to the ground, picnic basket in hand.

“Sandwich, Neville?” Hannah pulled a plate piled high with sandwiches out of her basket, as if that was a normal thing to do on a dirt block at the bottom of Diagon Alley. “I recall you enjoying corned beef and cheese, but I have others if I’m wrong.”

Neville looked at her, bemused, before taking a sandwich off the pile. “Thanks, Hannah. That’s really nice of you.”

“It’s nothing. I noticed during the Hogwarts rebuilding that you get lost in your projects and forget to eat. You’re doing such an amazing thing for the Alley, the least I can do is make sure you eat regularly.”

He couldn’t explain the warm feeling currently building in his chest, or the heat in his face, but Neville knew that he had never felt like this about food before.

He wanted to feel it again.

“Neville, can I make a request for your park?”

Neville looked up, a smile forming on his face without conscious thought as he saw Hannah approaching with her basket.

“That depends on the contents of that basket,” he called back, smirking when her expression shifted to mock offence.

“Ah, I see. I had thought you’d been enjoying my company this week, but it is just the food!”

“The food is just a bonus. The company is my favourite part.” Why was he blushing? Would she notice him blushing?

Neville conjured a picnic blanket, placing it under a half-grown oak tree he had planted in the corner. “Your wish is my command, my lady.”

Oh, she would definitely notice the blush.

“Well, Tom has given me permission to update the menu at the Leaky, and I thought it would be nice to have more fresh ingredients available. Do you think you would have room for a vegetable patch? Maybe some herbs too?”

Neville couldn’t help but smile at the way Hannah’s eyes had lit up as she spoke, as though this vegetable patch was the most exciting thing that could ever happen.

“I think that is the best idea I have ever heard. We could have a veggie patch over there, accessed on all sides. Then herbs along that back wall, and would you like some fruit trees in that corner?”

“Oh, Neville, that would be wonderful!”

He looked down at his lap, marvelling at the small, burn-marked hand that had just grabbed his. If it kept her hand in his, he would give her all the fruit and vegetables that she could ever dream of.

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The bell over the door of the Leaky clanged loudly as he stepped inside, allowing the warmth from the fireplace to ease the chill in his fingertips. As he unwrapped his scarf his eyes raked the room, looking for one person in particular. His first term at Hogwarts had been busier than he expected, and Merlin he had missed her.

He wasn’t even sure if she was his to miss.

“If you’re looking for the young lass, she’s down in the Square.” The old man placed his hand on Neville’s shoulder, subtly turning him in the direction of the Alley. “I heard her say something about checking on the fruit trees on account of the snow.”

Hastily rewrapping his scarf around his neck, Neville threw a breathless “thank you!” over his shoulder, darting out the back door and down through the Alley. No one should be out in this weather, fruit trees or no fruit trees.

“Hannah!” He could barely make her out through the flurries, and didn’t know if she would hear him over the wind. “Hannah, why are you out here?”

“Oh, Neville! You had mentioned that the trees might need protective charms before the snow, and then it started snowing and I couldn’t bear the thought of them out here in the cold all alone, and you’ve been so busy I didn’t expect you to make it back this weekend and-”

Her lips were biting cold and chapped from the wind, but she tasted sweet and her hands around his waist anchored him in a way that nothing ever had before.

“Come inside, you’ll catch your death of a cold out here.” He was already tugging her towards the Leaky, her small hand tucked protectively in the crook of his elbow. “Thank you, Hannah. You might have just saved those trees.”

The look in her eyes told him that she hadn’t just done it for the trees.

-------

Neville,

The trees came through the storm ok. Do I need to renew those charms, or will they last until the end of winter?

Hannah,

P.S. I really enjoyed seeing you last night.

Neville,

The fruit trees have their first leaves back! I feel like a proud Mama. Is this how you feel about all of your plants?

Good luck with your first solo class tomorrow. You’re going to be amazing.

Yours,

Hannah

P.S. Hogsmeade on Saturday?

Neville,

Please find enclosed our first apple blossom. Only two years — I am convinced that you are using some kind of magic to help them grow.

You should see the Square, Nev. It’s even prettier this year than last year. I wish you were here to enjoy it more, it is truly a wonderful thing that you did for our community.

Your Hannah

-------

Neville placed the box on the living room floor, wiping his palms on his jeans.

“That’s the last one, Han. How does it feel to be the official Landlady of the Leaky Cauldron?”

“It doesn’t feel real.” She bit her lip, fiddling with the hem of her shirt with her fingers. He folded them into his own, turning her face to look her in the eyes.

“Hey, you’re going to be amazing. You’ve been practically running this place for years.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I know so.”

He kissed her softly, trying to convey how proud he was through the simple gesture.

Later, as he was unpacking her books into the bookshelf, he heard a small gasp.

“Nev, look! You can see our trees from here!”

He bought the ring that afternoon.

--------

Han,

I can’t wait to see you tomorrow. Meet me under our trees at 3pm.

Your Nev

----

Neville paced back and forth under the apple tree. What had he been thinking? They had barely discussed this, what if she said no? What if-

His spiralling thoughts were interrupted by the brightest smile and softest eyes that he had ever seen. She spread the picnic rug out under the tree, pulling all of his favourite food out of her basket. He hadn’t even mentioned his idea of a picnic, but somehow she already knew.

Suddenly, the box didn’t feel like it would combust in his pocket, and all of his doubts fell away.

That seemed like a good place to start.

“Han, when I am with you I feel like anything is possible. You believe in me even when I can’t believe in myself, but more than that, you have shown me how to believe in myself even when you aren’t there. You have the biggest heart of any person that I have ever met, and I pinch myself each morning to think that you have entrusted me with it. Five years ago, I just wanted to give the Alley some colour and peace, and instead I found love.”

He took a deep breath, grounding himself in her eyes, before sinking to one knee.

“Han, will you marry me?”

The words had barely left his mouth before Hannah flung herself into his arms, sobbing and pressing kisses all over his face.

“Yes,” she whispered, cradling his face in her hands. “Of course, Nev, yes.”

#harry potter fanfiction #neville x hannah #neville longbottom #hannah abbott #fluff #falling in love

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yubiina · 3 years

Text

Ma Muse

Jake x reader

warnning: mental illness, mentions of blood and death, Jake being Jake.

i sugest u listen to this while reading, it goes well with the story. Enjoy.

https://youtu.be/vQe5lWNxxXo

‘Regret has always been a strong emotion. The way it rips through one's heart without mercy, reminding you of your foolish decisions over and over again.'

The dust flew off the old wooden panels as they cracked under the dirty shoes that walked towards the main entrance. The sunset shone through the abandoned apartment floor, its foundation decaying and walls chipped off.

Shutting the main entrance door the sound of water echoed through the bathroom.

' Reminding you of what you could've done better, how you wished to turn back time and change everything, wanting to be anywhere but the present '

'regret surely plays both sides of the fence'

The cold water washed down the blood and grime off scarred, tired hands. With a sigh, he headed towards the main entry once again.

The black, duffle bag was thrown to the ground, the impact causing the dust to fly everywhere, now visible from the sunlight,

'And the fear of regret prevents people from foolish mistakes that lead them to a path of trouble they don't wish to go through'

'But I don't feel regret'

Turning on the radio, music echoed through the empty halls. Dragging the old wooden stool from the corner of the room he sat down, meeting the white canvas before him, relaxed and focused.

' Because my heart was occupied by much more complicated feelings than regret. Something I can't quite find yet'

the red tainted paintbrush dragged across the white canvas, excess dripping down to the bottom.

i feel like I'm missing something'

Dragging the brush faster and harsher he continued, tapping his heel.

' have you never found yourself in the same situation? Searching for something that you still find unknown, but you long to, one day, finally claim as yours?'

With a low hum, he slowed down, eyes scanning every detail of his work, carefully studying for any sort of flaw.

'something you're unsure even exists, but you follow through life blindly hoping to one day reach what you believe have to witness.

What you know can't be filled by simple, materialistic pleasures.'

Dipping his brush in black he continued as he had previously.

'An event, a feeling, a person. I search for that missing piece every day.

' And today, like every other, I search for what I'm yearning for

" Can you be sure Alan won't be a problem?" a soft voice spoke through the phone.

With a soft smile, his gaze never left the painting while he lowered the black brush, paint tainting his inner thigh leaving a small spot.

" do you not trust me?" he calmly asks. Lifting his brush he studied it with bored eyes

" no, it's not that," you said in rush. " I just don't want any of the group to be in trouble. You know how I get" flopping on ur bed and staring at your ceiling in deep thought, worry piling up in your gut. There had been numerous missing people from Duskwood, both those close to Hannah and those who had no connection whatsoever in her life.

After Richy's death, Jessy and Thomas's missing cases, the rest of the group was hesitant to keep going with the investigation.

"oh I know," he teased you. Continuing his work, the paintbrush caressed every surface of the canvas.

' Whenever I think I've found what I've been searching for what I've been looking for, it escapes my grasp. It makes me livid, it makes me lonely. Have you ever felt like that'

" thank you, Jake. I don't say it enough, but I hope you know how grateful I am, for keeping me and the rest of the group safe" you smiled through the phone.

'who am I kidding. Of course, you have'

Jake grinned but his expression didn't match his eyes.

" of course Y\N, anytime"

'To me, it doesn't matter what I have to do to find what I need. Or who I need. I lost that human limit a long time ago

'And when I don't find what I'm looking for, suddenly everything gets out of hand'

' I wonder for how long I'll continue this. How long I'll have to chase something unknown.'

Turning his head slowly to his left, he faced the wall and smiled.

The papers and other works of art all glue and clipped together filled the wall, all portraits of unknown people, drawn in detail, everything clear but their eyes, they were anonymous and scratched out.

'but maybe I'm not chasing'

'maybe I've just found a new cure to my loneliness

Grabbing the duffle bag and throwing it near a sink attached to the wall, he unzipped it harshly and turning the water, the sink filled with deep red, quickly washed off as he began scrubbing.

'But now, I think I've finally found what I longed for. For who I longed for, for so, so long. I'd be a fool to let it go'

With delicate hands he carefully placed the painted canvas in the middle of the wall, surrounded by other smaller sketches of unknown people.

' it's mine, mine, mine, mine, all mine and only mine.'

The portrait of a person, their H\C placed perfectly framing their face, their lips drew into a small curve of a smile. And the most detailed feature, the shinning E\C, fresh paint still slightly dripping down from them into their cheeks. The black paint mixed with thick red lines.

'For what was mine from the beginning, will stay mine until the end’

" Oh Y\N" Jake sighed, looking up at the painting with a grin, music still playing from the old radio, reaching every cold room, he swayed the cooling glass of red wine in his hand that he occasionally sipped.

'And now that I found it, may God help anyone that comes between us’

'' If only you could see what you've gotten yourself into"

( I hope u all enjoyed Ma Muse! Here's a little short teaser I made of it. It's like 8sec🧍 but I managed to portray what I wanted)

#duskwood #duskwood everbyte #duskwood jake #duskwood game #duskwood jake x mc #duskwood jessy #duskwood richy #jake duskwood #jake x mc #jake x reader

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axemetaphor · 3 years

Text

im definitely not ripping off my friend by making a list of au ideas i have no siree //gonna slap this under a readmore cause i. well i say a lot. all of the time. i tried so hard to format this Good but tumblr fucked me up i am so sorry

so first-off i know i already have one WIP AU (Auckland) on ao3 so i wont talk about That one cause like. spoilers. i actualyl have it like 80% created so its likely gonna truly get finished for once and i dont wanna ruin shit

the other one ive posted about is something me and ben (catgirlrepublic) have worked on together its not at all close to done or anything but it's. a fun little crossover. Between jdate and my fuckinuhm. Original characters story “Untitled Villains Project”. the sketches of the comic version ive started is actually my pinned post 👉👈 its like the first chunk of the story, i think half of part 1? yea.

Tldr john fucking Somehow is able t oget into contact with a certain curious scientist from another reality who’d just love to study the Soy Sauce, most certainly not for her own nefarious purposes

John and Dave meet up with the scientist, her name is Boss, and her lab assistant, Toxic, and after a bit of a preliminary Vibe Check where john determines her trustworthy (which Dave doesnt agree with,) the two agree to be taken to the world UVP is set in. from there they stay in Boss’s lab (big old fucking abandoned military lab). John and Toxic are fast friends due to mutual love-of-chaos. John n Dave get to fuckin, camp out on an air mattress.

The day after they arrive, the two get split up, not exactly intentionally; big plot points of UVP are liek. Fueled by Boss sending Toxic to go fetch her “research materials,” which are usually important artifacts

Fuckin side note i guess i have to explain my dumb bullshit: Boss’s, uh, field of expertise so to speak is actually fckin, basically the scientific study of magic and superpowers n shit like that. This shit’s all real in that world. Toxic’s got fuckin superpowers, so do 4 other main characters, whatever. It’s got a bit to do with spirituality, iss Boss’s hypothesis. So she has Toxic fetch important artifacts that might have “energies” to them. The thing is actually way more fuckin complictated than that, this is just Boss’s initial hypothesis.

Motherfucking anyways. So Boss gives Toxic a job to do, and John get excited about how Cool that sounds, and ends up going with Toxic, leaving Boss and Dave alone. Neither is thrilled about this. But Dave and Boss get to have a bit of conversation (while Toxic and John are off bonding and having a good time) and come to a… mutual grudging understanding of some kind. They still dont like each other though lmao

Theres gonna be deeper shit going on but we havent sorted it out yet/tbh havent like Written For It in a while but i still like thinking about it a lot lol

Also pretty sure our endgame is john and dave steal toxic and bring them back with em lmao boss is kind of not nice and toxic would most certainly be better off in Undisclosed. Actually theyd fucking love it. Theyd become a local cryptid im sure. Undisclosed’s mothman is a teleporting spike baby.

I have. Another crossover AU that i might. Post something about for halloween? Maybe? If i have it finished?

Crosses over into, you guessed it, another one of my original-character projects. God, am i vain or something?

I promise this is just because i think blue and dave should get to team up to beat up some monsters

Quick briefing on my fuckinuh. Original character story, this one doesnt have a name (yet? Idk lol my work never actually goes anywhere sso who gives a shit). It centers around two grim reapers, Red (26, bi woman) and Blue (22, aroace agender asshole). In this reality or whatever, grim reapers function kind of like low-level office workers. They get told who’s going to die + when by some middle-management types, and upper management only involve themselves when punishment needs to be doled out. These Higher-Ups can be seen as analogous to Korrok; they’re decidedly not human, never were, and fucking terrifyingly powerful. Additionally, grim reapers are sort of .. designed to be “background noise” people. In reality theyre supernatural beings and, uh, look Real Fuckin Weird (the whole deal has a neon aesthetic im terrible at drawing uwu) but most humans just perceive them like extras in a movie. A body’s there but the camera’s not focused on it.

To the narrative: the shit starts when Red n Blue get relocated to Undisclosed. Relocation is something that just happens every now and then to reapers; they usually work in teams, but they get split up into different cities to avoid any strong bonds forming (a counter-union strategy from the Higher-Ups).

Red, Blue, John and Dave end up running into each other for the first time in a McDonalds where John n Dave are getting some 4am “hey, we just survived another horrific monster fight” celebration burgers. John and Dave are the only two people who can see how… strange Red and Blue are. Nobody else notices.

John unintentionally pisses Blue off, leading to Blue whacking him upside the head with a dildo bat. They all four get kicked out of McDonald’s. Dave and Red both are less than thrilled

Blue and John end up resolving their differences, somehow. Red and Dave briefly bond over their dumbass best friends being, well, dumbasses. They all part ways amicably.

somehow-or-other (idk yet) they end up running into each other a few more times, and eventually john invites them over to his place, and the four (plus Amy now!) get to know each other a little better

while there, Blue gets a text about some guy who's gonna die and John offers to drive them to where that's gonna go down. they take him up on the offer and get to have a bit of one-on-one conversation

after that ordeal though Blue has had Enough of people and bails, leaving John to head home alone

theres a sort of mirror-development going on with the five of em. Red, John, and Amy would all like everyone to get along, though theyre a bit tentative about it (John moreso than the other two, actually, jsut cause. well Red n Blue could still be Sauce Monsters). Dave and Blue on the other hand do Not like people enough for this shit, and Dave's not unconvinced theyre Sauce Monsters. he will not trust them until proven he should

the story's kinda nebulous but i got an idea for some Shit going down that involves both Sauce Monsters and also the Higher-Ups to have some fuckin absolute chaos go down.

Oops! All Trans

Everybody is transgender. Everyone

Ive actually workshopped this one both with ben (catgirlrepublic) and ghost (ghost-wannabe) lmao its a fun lil concept ive had from the get-go cause i mean. What’s an internet tran gonna do other than hit all their favourite media with the Everyone’s Trans beam

Dave transitioned post-high school and faked his death for it. People go missing in Undisclosed all the damned time, after all. He moved to the next city over, transitioned fully, then came back as a completely new man. Yes i know this doesnt exactly fit with the “everyone knows David from high school” thing alright, hush.

Anytime anyone brings up John’s old best friend (pre-transition Dave) John throws an entire fit like an overdramatic grieving widow. Full-on sobbing “why would you bring her up?! I miss her so much—” to the point that people just stop bringing up because Jesus Christ That Sure Is Uncomfortable KJHGFDS.

This is a scheme he and Dave came up with prior to Dave leaving, though Dave hadnt exactly anticipated John putting on this much of a performance about it— but it’s stopped Dave from ever having tto hear his deadname again, so hey.

Amy transitioned sometime in middle school/early high school. Her family was super supportive and loved her a ton and most people just know her as Amy. she was super shy her whole life really so. Yeah. people just dont think to bring it up lmao also i Feel Like big jim would absolutely wallop anyone who gave her trouble of any kind

John’s nonbinary (genderfluid specifically) and not exactly Interested in transitioning ? like hes fine with how he is. mostly.

he came out to Dave in high school but hes not out to anyone else exactly. Maybe his bandmates. Probably any other trans person in Undisclosed knows, too, cause theyre safe to tell lmao. Johns mostly a “he/him out of convenience” kinda nb who’s cool with any pronouns but does prefer they/them most. Dave and Amy use they/them when the trio are alone

Also this is a totally self-indulgent caveat that i think would be great, Dave’s actually agender but because he's transmasc and transitioned when he thought there were really only two options, and being Boy at least felt less weird than being Girl, he just kind of assumed he was a dude. It’s only through a lot of (like fucking years and years hes probably in his 30s/40s when he puts 2 and 2 together on this one) talks about gender with John that he realizes he actually feels like No Gender. Masc aesthetic with none gender.

I Just Think It’d Be Neat Is All Okay

Also Amy came out to Dave about being trans early on in them seeing each other and his response was to get very nervous before blurting out “me too” and then just being too embarrassed to talk about it for the rest of the day. Hes got a lot of hangups on talking about it actually it takes years for him to get comfortable in that

by contrast when Amy comes out to John about it his response is to yell “EYYY ME TOO” and give her a big ol hug lmao

I think itd be neatt if Amy ran a like. Transfem help/advice blog on tumblr. Kind of helped-with by John who can give her transfem nb insight for certain asks. I also just think that would be neat.

Cowboy AU - i put this one last cause its got drawings to it actually. Theyll be at the bottom

Basically just. Hey you ever watched a western. I think they look neat

This is another one me n ben have come up with lol

The soy sauce and all that shit still exist, im not sure where korrok fits in yet but ill figure it out

Theres no real like solid narrative yet ? but heres the barebones of everybody’s arcs.

John

Johns an absolute troublemaker, Of Course. Hes wanted in several towns for absolutely stupid shit. Hes a loner who shows up, causes chaos, gets drunk, does some drugs, runs away if people get too mad at him

He definitely had the same kind of deal with the soy sauce as in canon— he was at some kind of party, somebody offered it, he took it cause why the fuck wouldnt he, now he can see monsters and shit

Hes kind of a mooch also. Like. dont let him stay in your barn man he’ll never fucking leave and drink all your booze.

He runs into Dave when they happen to just, cross paths in the same town. the bullshit John stirs up ends up involving Dave in a way that makes it seem like it's his fault too, and they both get run out of town

after that he just tags along after Dave. hes decided this guy's Cool he wants to stick around. Dave is pissed at first, but not enough to shoot him or anything, and eventually, John grows on him

Dave

Dave also is a loner but unlike John hes simply so fucking awkward and bad with people. He doesnt feel like he belongs anywhere so he just travels

He’s the stereotypical Lone Ranger tbh. He wanders from town to town, solving their problems, though hed deny its out of any moral obligation (it kinda is, a little bit, tbh. He does like feeling useful). He shows up, fixes things, leaves. He's kind of a legend but most people think he's hiding something dark. other people jsut know him as that guy who farted real loud in the middle of the saloon and promptly skipped town out of sheer embarrassment. you know how it goes with Dave

He ends up involved with the Soy Sauce when a snake (not Actually a snake,) bites him. The snake’s more like the wig-monsters, really. Anyway, it injects him with the soy sauce, he fucking trips balls in the middle of the desert, he can see monsters now

He runs into John and shit goes tits-up, as said, but they become traveling buddies after that. he'd never say so, but he's glad for the company, actually. it's nice. hes not used to companionship but he feels a strange kind of easiness hanging out with John....

not sure how the Monster Dave concept will like fit in to this reality but like. trust me i want it in here. I'll Figure It Out.

Amy

Amy’s been living in a town John and Dave end up passing through and she is very curious about these two new Handsome Strangers who claim to fight monsters and just kinda. Persistently tags along til they let her join for real

Her family’s all dead, unfortunately, just like in canon, and she’s been living alone for a few years before meeting John n Dave. she had nothing left in that town to stay for, she'd been fantasizing about escaping on wild adventures for a long time and this felt a little like a dream come true. (Dave still gives her a spiel about how Difficult it is, but really, her fantasies were pretty grounded-in-reality already. i jsut think thats how she is, yknow?)

Shes the first person to react to the whole “we see monsters” shit with a kind of “oh, okay. neat” kind of response lmao

John and Dave fix whatever the fuck is up with her town (maybe that’s where the Korrok shit can fit, who knows) and Amy ends up being integral to that. After, she insists they take her with them because “they need her now” and Dave just cant really say no. John too is very much "the more the merrier!" and hes actually glad to have another person along he loves people lmao

At the start she has long hair but after she joins them she chops it short with a knife for convenience

also she still is an amputee. justt. idk. it was a wagon/stagecoach accident rather than a car accident lmao. just to clarify since i hadnt mentioned it, i wouldnt rob her of her ghost hand or yknow. all of the significance to her character that Missing A Hand has. although also now im going to have to research what was used as painkillers way-back-when, but im betting shes still got, like, her pain pills, they probably had those, maybe i wouldnt have to try too hard there. old timey medicine could be WACK though,

Shitload

Yeah hes in tthis shit mostly cause i liked designing his cowboy self lmao

Hes a kid (like 16, 17, technically i think in those days that was more Young Man than Kid but whatever. Hes Young i mean.) who got possessed by the Worms out in the desert and, by his family’s perception, just went missing!

Hes also a wanderer, but he ended up at the same town john and dave met in, at that same time, and starts following them after, already aware of who/what they are.

He keeps his face covered 24/7. actually he covers a Majority of his self for reasons. kinda want him to be a slightly more horrifying Worm Entity rather than human idk,

I kinda dont have much for this boy yet sorry Shitload

images !

with some editing notes for me cause im doing a very specific aesthetic with this lmao. i might change some lil details/colours though ...... idk

im also kinda 🤔 about shitload's colour palette. i want things assoicated w the sauce to be black'n'red predominantly but i think his palette might mirror dave's too closely. also im working on a korrok design i jsut am too busy to draw it now

#jdate #john dies at the end #aus #erh. tthe hell do i tag this as #rambles.txt #long post #well let me know if youd wanna hear more or. or something #send an ask. or whatever #yaknow #:jazz hands:

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copias-thrall · 4 years

Text

This is Halloween (Halloween)

Mary expands Suey's world by taking her to a crazy art party.

(Part: 1; 2; 3; 4; 5; 6; 7; 8; 9)

It’s one of the stretches where you actually haven’t seen Mary in a few days. He’d apparently been by your apartment—dishes were done and he took out your trash—but you’d spent that day hunkered down at a coffee shop so you could have sandwiches with a friend who got a job downtown. And while Mary can be lyrical when he wants to be, his texts are usually brief and full of letters that only make sense to him in his shorthand … so you’re not ever going to get any missives from the front lines from him.

Which is fine: you’re super-busy and full of your own hobbies. Like napping. And complaining. Occasionally you’ll round that out with chip-eating. You’ve never been particularly creative—which makes Mary wince at you every now and then (you love art, you’re just not … adept, and sometimes it seems unfair that he can write music AND lyrics AND doodle great sketches)—but you are a voracious reader. You’d been shocked to find out that not only had Mary read Austen, but he also had a love of Persuasion—a novel you yourself found superior to Pride & Prejudice. He’d been similarly chuffed when he’d realized you liked Chuck Palahniuk for more than just Fight Club.

Which is all to say that when Mary’s not around, you like to combine your hobbies—a little chip eating while you read, only to fall asleep with the book on your face.

Tonight is no exception.

It’s nearly Halloween (it’s tomorrow actually, and you’re only slightly bummed that Mary has to work), so in honor of the holiday you’re working your way through an anthology of Lovecraft. Unexpectedly, there's a knock at your door. You check your phone, but there are no texts.

Hmm.

There’s another knock, so you set down the book and sprint to your bedroom to take up what Mary has dubbed your “Masher Hammer.” You make it back to your apartment door just in time for a third series of knocks. When you look out the peephole, however, it’s clear that whoever’s on the other side is blocking the viewer.

Gripping your hammer tight—ready for swing mode—you unlatch your door and open it.

You’re met with the sight of a Jack O’Lantern.

No—

Not a Jack O’Lantern … some guy with a carved pumpkin on his head.

“Ta-d—Jesus Christ, Suey … put Masher down,” says a muffled voice.

“Mary?”

Mary lifts the pumpkin—a real pumpkin, not a plastic basket from the dollar store—a little off his head enough for you to make out his face. You lower your swinging arm.

“Why is there a pumpkin on your head? What are you doing here?”

He spreads his arms out and does jazz hands. “Mischief Night!”

When you just stand there squinting at him, he finally takes the pumpkin fully off his head. His hair is squashed, and he’s only wearing some light makeup around his eyes and on his lips.

“So, you gonna let me in, or … should I duck?”

“Oh, right,” you say as you step back.

As Mary suanters in, you can see his eyes sweep to the couch where you’ve made a nest of blankets and pillows—your book lying face down, and the open bag chips positioned at an optimal angle on the coffee table.

“That looks nice.” He sidles up to you to squeeze your tits through your hoodie. “Almost makes me want to call it a night and get cozy in those blankets … I could crush those chips and lick them off you before I eat you out.”

His hand slides down to your crotch.

You’re trying to take him seriously, but he’s holding a pumpkin under his arm. You snap at his face.

“Mary—focus. What the hell?”

He gives you a put out look, exaggeratedly pushing out his bottom lip—but it’s soon replaced with a wicked grin.

“Mischief Night! Do you wanna go to a weird-ass art party?”

“An art party?” you ask dubiously.

“No, not what you’re thinking.”

He sets down the carved pumpkin on your table and walks to your fridge, rummaging around before pulling out the pisswater beer he keeps around.

“Think of it as a teen-movie house party—but on steroids and no one there got laid in high school. With, you know: art.”

“That’s … very specific.”

He walks back over to you, cradling the beer in one hand, and puts the other on your shoulder.

“We are under no obligation to participate in the orgy.”

You don’t think he’s joking.

He gives you a once over. “It’s also a—hmm—masquerade, so we gotta get you outfitted.”

Your mind darts.

“I only have those stupid headband cat ears my friend got me as a joke.”

He gives you a vulpine smile. “You’re gonna go as me.”

It had been a fun little party of two as you’d put on a YouTube Halloween playlist from your phone. Mary’d given you a dramatic mohawk with his precious airplane glue, then fished around in the pink makeup bag with hearts (that you’d put his stash in as a joke and he’d kept) to give you his iconic look—blood and all.

There was no way you were going to fit in his skinny jeans, but you’d been able to pair one of his well-worn tees (that you hadn’t already stolen) with your favorite denim skirt. Mary had taken off one of his studded belts to wrap around you—it’d needed a couple of safety pins to act as extensions, but Mary had assured you that that just made the style more authentic. Upon Mary’s request, you’d put on your ripped fishnets, and you had your own worn Docs to complete the look.

“Do I get to be a sex-crazed jerk all night?” you’d asked as you’d admired yourself in the corroded full-length you had propped up by the bathroom.

“You say that as if that’s something new and different for you—fuck ow,” said Mary as you’d tapped his balls.

“So where is this place?” you ask as Mary and you head to the train.

It’s in the old factory district, which means it’s a ways away, but still subway accessible.

“It’s actually in a converted co-op. I think they started out as squatters—unclear—but now it’s above board as a residence and shit. I used to know a guy who lived there for a while—they had sectioned off areas with screens—and he had a corner so he slept in a hammock. Most of the space is for their art, though. What a fucking life to live.”

You look at him, incredulous. “Mare. You live in a 2 bedroom with 4 other dudes.”

He scoffs at you. “We also have a couch. It’s a whole ‘nother level.”

You just hum at him.

When you finally get there—after a few mis-turns in this silent neighborhood full of abandoned brick factories—you’re surprised (despite Mary’s description) to see that the place is lit. There’s a guy standing at the entrance to the parking lot (that slopes dangerously toward the river) checking attendees; it becomes clear that not only is he checking for 21+, but for alcohol and toilet paper. Those without either have to “donate” $10.

“Oh—” says Mary right before it’s about to be your turn. “I’m not Mary tonight.”

“What should I call, then? The ‘Great Pumpkin’?”

“Just not Mary,” he hisses as you shore up to the “bouncer.”

The guy is not in any kind of costume—just grey sweats and a sports team hat. He’s sitting on a bar stool, and he has a little flashlight he’s using to check IDs.

“Hey, guys!” he says cheerily. “Welcome to Magical Mischief Mystery at the Factory. IDs? Ah! TP and suds? Cool, cool.”

He checks your IDs, then looks at you, then your IDs … then at Mary’s pumpkin face, then at you.

“OH MY GOD,” he starts chortling and slips off the stool to grab Mary’s arm. “Mary, you old bastard—I haven’t seen you since Dusty left to get hitched.”

You take a deep breath and—in your best screamo voice—you say, “I’m fucking Mary Goore,” (not a lie) “and he’s ‘Late for Dinner’.”

The pumpkin head turns to you. You can feel Mary’s unamused gaze.

The bouncer starts wheezing so hard that you’re afraid he might expire from laughing.

“Fuck, fuck,” gasps the dude. He shakes his head, eyes watery from mirth, and waves the two of you through.

“I hate you,” says Mary.

“I didn’t call you ‘Mary’, though,” you quip as you slip your arm through his.

“Why do I have to carry all the shit? Here. Pull your fucking weight.”

Mary hands you the toilet paper roll he heisted from your bathroom.

“Are we going to TP something?” you ask as you take the roll from him.

“Heh. No, it’s purely functional. This many people? It’s so the bathrooms don’t run out.”

The two of you enter with another mass of people, traveling through the miasma of secondhand smoke from the smokers. You cough, but Mary inhales deep, sighing. You’re not sure what you were expecting, but you gape as you look around.

You and Mary stand on an open floor—which is what 5 or so floors look out onto all the way up. The place is crowded, but not jam packed. There’s a makeshift kitchen area where a dude in a bare chest and suspenders is accepting the toilet paper and libations. Above him is a white sheet that’s stretched out, on which an Art Film is being projected. The film has no sound because in the far corner there’s a DJ spinning, and a group of people are “dancing” to his jams. Mary was right: it’s like some kind of frat party for the artsy set. Because of the theme, most everyone is in a mask of some sort, and people—or groups of people—are making out in corners in various states of undress.

Mary grabs two beers, then leads you to a staircase—there’s a freight elevator by it, but it’s got cheesy Halloween “do not enter” tape blocking it.

“The first year too many people loaded into it, and it dropped 3 floors before the emergency brakes kicked in,” says Mary as he notices where you’re looking.

In a loft on the second floor you and Mary watch a woman—nude and covered in white paint—become the canvas to her girlfriend’s landscape painting.

In what’s clearly a shared bedroom, you and Mary peruse some really great paintings and sketches from what must be a number of the co-op residents.

“You should have told me to bring cash,” you say.

“We can always come back. I know a guy.”

You imagine Mary’s probably winking at you.

On the third floor there’s an inexplicable open-air kitchen attached to a bathroom. In it there’s a dude doling out beer from a keg.

“What’s this,” Mary asks him.

“It’s my homemade IPA, dude! Pumpkin for the season!”

He hands Mary a business card.

“We have a small space in the boonies, but we’re trying to get a brewery up and running in the city. Red tape though, man.”

“I fucking hear that.” Mary takes a sip. “Good shit, dude.”

The guy high-fives Mary.

“One for your girl?”

Mary hands you the solo cup, and you take a sip. You were expecting something grassy and hoppy—but the pumpkin actually balances it out nicely without it itself being cloyingly sweet. When you nod, Mary just lets you have his and indicates to the brewer to pump another cup.

The two of you enter what you think might usually be a studio space, but instead there’s a burlesque performance going on. There are some people making out, but Mary and you watch, rapt, praising the skill of the performers to each other.

The fourth floor has the least amount of people. Someone is doing a reading in one corner, and across the way there’s some sort of performance art going on. A woman stands in a white shift and gauze. Every time a dude who looks like a Nazgul rings a bell, she contorts herself to a different pose with a dancer’s ease.

You roll your eyes, but Mary begs your patience—watching solemnly as she continues.

“What is it?” you ask when the set is clearly over.

“Did you not feel it?”

“Uh …”

Even through the pumpkin you can feel his eyes on you.

“She’s a dancing monkey. Bound and constrained, only ever allowed to perform at the whim of her faceless master.”

“Mary …”

“No—don’t scoff. That was meant for you. It’s an allegory for the patriarchy, and I for one found it quite moving.”

You guess you can see it now that Mary’s pointed it out to you. He takes off the pumpkin, and you hold it while he goes over to talk to the woman. You shift uncomfortably as they engage, and she grabs his hands, shaking them profusely. Mary suddenly points over at you, and the woman waves and motions you over.

“Oh my god, look at you!” she squeals. She turns back to Mary. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it—she looks just like you.”

“I liked your patriarchal allegory,” you say.

Mary twists his mouth at you, but the woman just presses her hands to her chest.

“Thank you so much. I’m testing it out here as a protest piece. A bunch of us are going to travel to different cities and perform outside of big corporations.” She grabs Mary’s wrist. “Your boyfriend is wonderful. His song about—”

“—my band’s song—”

“—the nature of performative gender roles is one of my favs.”

You have no idea which song she’s talking about, but Mary looks pleased. So you’re pleased. You wrap your arm around his waist.

“He is pretty great.”

She lifts her veil to chug the glass of water Nazgul hands her.

“It was so nice to meet you person to person, Mary. I’m going to find the ladies before my next performance.”

“Love your work, Lizzy. I’ll put you on the list for our shows. Show up anytime!”

She bows and shuffles backwards as Mary leads you away.

“You have no idea what song she’s talking about do you?”

“I—” you sputter. “Uh. Dead Things?”

Mary looks at you indulgently.

“I’ll let you think about it.”

It turns out that the 5th floor is off limits to party goers, so Mary—back in his Jack O’Lantern—and you wander down to ground level to acquire more beer and to join the crowd of dancers. At some point the two of you take a break to pee, then hydrate as you add your own dialogue to the film on loop above you.

Back on the dance floor, there’s some skanking, some goth writhing, and some line dancing as the DJ spins his own set and sprinkles in some crowd requests. At this point in the night, most of the attendees have already made passes through the upper floors and are now all on the dance floor. Mary does some goth stomping (his pumpkin abandoned and now being passed around), and you do a silly skank until you slip on a slick spot and fall on your ass. After that, Mary pulls you close and grinds against you, his thigh between yours, both of you buzzed from multiple trips to the bar.

“Do you wanna find a corner?” he whispers into your ear.

In any other situation you’d probably say no … but—for all the crowd is packed—this is clearly a private party, one whose hosts don’t frown upon a little bit of lechery. You guess he wasn’t kidding about the orgy, after all.

“Yeah,” you breathe.

It takes a little investigation, but Mary and you find a room that seems to have been either designated or usurped as the makeout room. There’s a writhing mass in one corner, and the bed is covered in rolling bodies. There’re some breathy invitations—and a hand or two lightly caresses your calf as you walk by—but no one insists on participation further than that.

Mary yanks a pillow from the bed and tosses it to the floor. He pulls you down so that you’re both on your knees, his mouth capturing yours and his hands alighting everywhere. A hand of his sneaks down your skirt, and yours slithers down his jeans—the roving fingers of you each more a prelude than anything, stoking you both up to what’s next.

“Can I fuck you?” huffs Mary.

“Kinda drunk,” you say.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No—just not gonna be very useful,” you giggle.

Because you wore the fishnets you’re not wearing underwear, so all Mary has to do is rip a hole in the crotch area—they’re not even good fishnets, so it’s not like there’s a liner to contend with. He grunts at your wetness.

“You sure?”

“Fuck me, Mary.”

He fumbles with his dick, finally managing to sink it into you. It’s a very awkward fuck—you’re lolling all about the place, and Mary isn’t being particularly steady.

At one point a light turns on only for a Sorry! to squeal out as it turns off again.

You try to swallow your laugh, but your jiggling belly can’t hide your reaction, and soon Mary is laughing too.

“Fuck … shut up … fuck,” he giggles. “I’m trying to get off here.”

You’re just catapulted into further fits, and before long Mary’s soft cock is slipping out of you as he joins you in snickering.

“Crap. I might be too drunk for this too.”

The two of you lay like that for a bit, a feedback loop of laughter, until your belly muscles ache.

“Fuck. Take me home, Suey.”

“Yeah, ok,” you say.

After some readjusting, you both stumble out of the room. The crowd has thinned, but that’s not to say the dance party isn’t still going strong.

“We should get a cab,” you say.

“Cash?” Mary asks as you guys shuffle out of the building.

“App,” you say as you hold up your phone to poke at your cab app. “My card s’on file.”

“Fancy.”

“S’for emergencies.”

“Oh.”

You give him a lopsided grin. “Like staying too late at a factory party.”

There’s a comedy of errors when the cab can’t find you and cancels, and you have to rebook—only to have the same cab automatically cancel your order again. Mary calls the number for dispatch, and they direct you out to a main street. The cab that picks you up is the same cab that voided your reservation twice, and he yells at you for giving him the wrong address.

You let Mary argue with him (content to doze on his shoulder)—the conclusion seeming to be that while you put in the correct address, the app didn’t like it and spit out a close, but different, pickup address.

By the end of the trip, however, the cabbie and Mary seem to be old friends. He lingers even after the driver validates your card, talking with the guy about where he’s from, until you tug on his arm.

“Sleepy,” you grumble into him.

The cab driver laughs.

“We are beholden to our women, yes?”

“Happily,” says Mary as he wraps an arm around you.

“Have a good night,” says the cabbie, and Mary just raps on the car, waving as it pulls away.

“What a cool dude,” he says as the two of you shuffle toward your building.

“Mhm,” you mumble.

“Jesus, you’re useless when you’re drunk.”

There’s a lot of fumbling and stumbling, but you both finally make it into your apartment. Somehow Mary gets you into the shower, which you don’t even realize until it turns on, and you shriek when the cold water smacks you in the face before it has the chance to warm up.

“Why am I still in my clothes?!” you whine.

Mary pokes his head in.

“You fucking serious? You almost bit off my fingers when I tried to undress you!”

“I’m more than just sex!” you yell.

“Just fucking wash your face.”

“Kay.”

You fall asleep sitting in the shower, waking only when the water turns cold. It seems to have had a sobering effect, because you definitely feel more clear headed than when you entered—it’s not as funny to be slightly sober and peeling off your cold, wet clothes. Usually you give your teeth the full experience, but tonight (this morning?), you just give them a quick brush.

For all he seemed soberer of you two, Mary doesn’t seem to have fared much better. He managed to get his shirt off, but he’s lying on your bedroom floor—curled in a ball—still in his unbuckled jeans. It would be amusing—and maybe after sleep it will be—if you weren’t so wrecked. It’s a struggle tugging off his jeans, and he semi-wakes halfway through and starts to shiver.

“Wha—?”

He looks at you blearily.

“Help me get your pants off, Mare bear.”

He blinks down at his legs, then sort of squirms his legs to help you wiggle him out of the black denim. Luckily—disorientated as he is—he’s able to assist you in getting him into your bed; he conks out again the minute you trundle him under the covers. The night outside is lightening, and you know there’s no way you can work tomorrow. Today.

Whatever.

You shuffle into your living room and start up your laptop, blinking rapidly as it boots up. When it finally loads, you send off a missive to your supervisor about potential food poisoning you’ve contracted, but how you’ll check your email later this afternoon. You preemptively down some ibuprofen and sneak some of Mary’s Pedialyte.

Mary seems dead to the world when you climb into your bed, but he’s rolling over and wrapped around you as soon as you’re settled, huffing into your neck.

“Took the morning off,” you mumble.

He hums.

You’re in a good doze when he speaks, jarring you back awake.

“Had fun?”

“Yeah, Mare. Now, shh.”

He mumbles something into your neck, but it’s too incoherent and you’re too knackered to decipher it. You just relax into his koala embrace and let sleep take you.

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#mary goore #ofc #feral cats fic #gritty girls #gutter punk #my writing #original post #no smut #...kinda #original content

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unfortunate-stranger-losers · 4 years

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Right-Side Up AU, Part Three: It’s the End of the World {AO3} {tumblr} {Part One} {Part Two}

Chapter Seven → The Assassin

Robin was sitting on the counter, headphones attached to the tape player, muttering to herself. Steve had taken Dustin to go look around the mall for something, and that Will kid was in the backroom, whoever the hell he was. Honestly, at this point, Robin wasn’t sure she should find anything odd. Steve “The Hair” Harrington had custody of at least two fourteen-year-olds, possibly more, two of the kids had brought in a secret Russian message that meant nothing that was somehow recorded in the mall, and one of those boys liked to sketch dead bodies.

There was a knock on the window behind her. Robin groaned, pulled off her headphones, and slid it open. Will stood on the other side, staring at the ground and looking a bit sheepish.

“Um, there’s a guy?” he muttered. “With packages.”

Robin groaned and slid into the backroom, handing the boy the tape recorder and headphones. She went to the backdoor, giving an awkward smile to the man waiting there. “Sorry, co-worker’s little brother needed a place to do homework.” Robin explained, taking the delivery man’s clipboard and signing something.

Will opened his mouth, probably to correct her, but she just shot him a glare. She handed him the package and said, “Put this on the table, okay?” She turned back with the clipboard, and then found herself freezing.

The delivery man’s uniform had the company label on it, spelling LYNX. As did his hat.

He took back the clipboard, and said, “Have a nice day.”

“Yeah, you, too.” Robin said blankly, and he turned to go.

Will came back, and then saw what she did; the logo of LYNX transportation; a white cat head.

No, not white…

“Silver cat.” Robin muttered.

Will’s eyes widened.

“Silver cat.” Robin repeated.

She turned and ran, and Will quickly followed, sticking close at her heels. Robin threw open the door, rushing out of the swinging doors, breaking past a returning Steve and Dustin, who were arguing about something. “Hey, Robin?” Steve called, turning, just as Will raced to follow her. “Wait, Will!”

“Will!” Dustin ran after him, and Will slid to a stop beside the food court, where Robin had leapt on a table, spinning around at the different stores.

“A trip to China sounds nice…” she muttered, and then she pointed up, at an Imperial Panda. “A trip to China sounds nice!”

Will ran towards her, stopping underneath her table, as she continued to spin, looking at everything she pointed to. She tossed him the notepad of what they’d translated, and she pointed at the Chinese food booth. “A trip to China!”

“Sounds nice.” Will nodded, staring down at the paper. He read the next line, “If you tread lightly.”

“If you tread lightly…” Robin repeated, and she spun again, before gesturing up, to Kaufman Shoes. She shut her eyes, hitting her leg, “When… when blue and yellow…”

“Meet in the west.” Will said with her, watching her continue to whip around, staring across the mall. Finally, she stopped, and pointed at a large clock, underneath a window; the minute hand, a bright yellow, and the hour hand, a dark blue.

“In the west.” Robin repeated.

Will dropped the notepad, his mouth opening in shock.

“Robin! Will!”

They turned, to see Steve and Dustin finally catch up, looking confused as hell. “What are you doing?” Steve asked, while Dustin quickly ran to Will and threw his arms around him in a quick hug, concerned with how shocked he looked.

Robin, meanwhile, just smiled, her mind buzzing. “I cracked it.”

“Cracked what?”

Robin jumped off the table, her face bright. “I cracked the code.”

The Lab was just as empty as Nancy and Jonathan had assumed, but that didn’t calm their nerves one bit.

She’d managed to get herself out of work two hours early- it was easy. They were mocking her again, calling her Nancy Drew for trying to bring up the rat story again. Asking her for more coffee. So she simply dropped a coffee mug on Bruce’s stupid lap, grabbed her stomach and said, “I’m so sorry, I’ve been trying to work through the cramps!” And then she had the rest of the day off, like that. She’d gathered their tools, and then met Jonathan in the Hawkins Post parking lot.

She strode up to the locked gate, peering at it a little in the rain, and then grabbed the metalcutters. As soon as the chain was broken, she and Jonathan pushed their way in; he had his camera tucked tight into the bottom of his bag to keep it from getting wet, in case they needed photographic evidence. Nancy wanted to hope they wouldn’t, but part of her kind of hoped they did.

She managed to get into the front room, flicking on a flashlight. “Hello, bitches?” she called, stepping across the room, a fury in her chest as she shone her light. Only nine months ago, she’d gone in there with Mike and a gun, and he’d…

He was never going here again.

She strode across the room, looking around. “Heard you were doing some bullshit with our magnets!” she shouted.

No response, but she probably shouldn’t have expected one. She turned, opening her mouth to say something, only to see Jonathan standing in the middle of the room, staring at a spot. She walked over, about to ask what it was, and then she remembered.

A demodog leaping. Jonathan pushing El out of the way. It almost hit him. It would have, if Lucas hadn’t thrown up his shield.

She remembered the deer carcass they’d found, while searching for Mike and Lucas in the woods that first year. She tried not to picture what Jonathan would have looked like had the demodog reached its target. She’d seen that enough in nightmares, with Jonathan and Mike and everyone else. She didn’t need to think about it here.

She put a hand on his arm, and then he relaxed. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

She felt a pang. “Do you want to wait in the car?”

“I said I’m fine.”

She hesitated, waiting until he turned to move on, and then they pressed on together.

They wandered through the halls for what felt like hours, inspecting blinking security cameras and shattered windows. There were still bloodstains on some floors, and claw marks on some walls. Some doors were even halfway off their hinges, probably ripped in the demodog attack and nobody bothered to fix them before abandoning the place.

Finally, they went down to the place they really, really didn’t want to be. The basement, which once held a sprawling, horrifying gate, was now cold and dirty, with creaky stairs. Nancy went up to the wall, images flashing of Demodogs behind her, and Mike beside her, floating, arms stretched out, blood on his face, fire surrounding them.

Jonathan stepped next to her, and knocked on the wall. Nothing behind it.

“Okay, it’s empty.” he sighed, stepping back. “Nothing here, Nance. Let’s go.”

Nancy kept her palm to the wall, as if expecting it to melt under her fingers. She almost did. Slowly, she turned towards Jonathan, who was watching her, eyes downcast.

“It’s over.” Jonathan said.

“It’s…” Nancy tried to say, but she just couldn’t believe it.

She finally dropped her hand from the wall, turning back to it as if it might change now that she wasn’t touching it. Then she stumbled back, trying to steady her breathing.

“It’s over.” she repeated, and then she stumbled her way over to a bench, sitting down and gripping the edges until her knuckles went white. “I… God, I’m crazy.”

“No, no you’re not.” Jonathan said, and he moved over, sitting next to her. “I’m crazier than you are.”

“No, no you’re not.” Nancy said. “No, you’re not…” she shook her head. “I am. I am… I’m seeing things, aren’t I? The magnets… it’s dumb.”

Jonathan sighed. “I know I said it was dumb before, but… it’s not. It’s not, not after what happened here. I mean, shit. Nancy, you’re basically raising your little brother. And after the shit that happened before then-”

“I just… I just… it’s not that.” Nancy shook her head. She was feeling strange, like she couldn’t breathe. “It’s not that. I… I almost wanted it to be! I almost wanted shit to be happening, and I’m nuts!” Jonathan was silent. “I… I just… I wanted to be right. To be right and be able to find something, find something so that I… I don’t feel like…”

“Like what our bosses tell you you are?”

Nancy shut her eyes tight and nodded.

Jonathan carefully put a hand over hers, and he said, “You’re not crazy, Nance.”

“I am. I would rather have all that happen to us again, than be wrong.”

Jonathan took a deep breath. “You think that’s crazy? Nancy, I… I snuck a lighter into the darkroom.”

Nancy jumped, turning to him. “That could-”

“Set all my shit on fire? I know.” Jonathan let out a pained smile. “I know. And I bet our bosses would not like that. But one day I just… I just realized that if one of those things got into the office, I’d be trapped in a small, dark room. And… if it’s a choice between leaving Mom and Will alone after all that, or maybe getting rid of one of those little shits…” he shut his eyes. “You just want to make sure we’re prepared if that all happens again.”

“So do you.” Nancy took a deep breath. “And if we’re prepared… you don’t have a reason to leave.”

Jonathan fell completely silent, for what felt like hours, but was likely just about a minute. Then, he whispered, “How’d you find out?”

“My Mom’s gossip over dinner.” Nancy sighed. “Overheard your Mom talking to a realtor. Does Will know?”

“No. I only found out because…” he sighed. “She asked if Mike would be able to stay with us if we moved, or if he’d have to go to your parents. She knows he doesn’t want to meet them until he’s ready.”

Nancy bit her lip. “Yeah. Would… would you leave?”

“I… I don’t know.” Jonathan squeezed her hand. “I don’t want to leave you, or anyone else. I’ve only ever known this town, and after everything we’ve all been through together… nobody else gets it. But-”

“I understand.” Nancy shut her eyes. “You don’t feel safe here.”

“You don’t, either.” he observed.

They sat in silence for a bit, and then Nancy said, “Maybe we could all move to a farm.”

Jonathan froze, and then laughed. “A what?”

Nancy cracked a smile. “A farm. We just take everyone who knows about the Upside Down and shove them in a farm, and we don’t have to deal with small-town shit or other dimensions. We just raise horses and sheep.”

Jonathan laughed some more. “Oh, because you’d be happy on a farm.”

“Maybe I would.” Nancy said.

“Nance, you can’t keep your nose out of trouble. What kind of story could you dig up at a farm?”

“I’m sure with six kids running around, four of which have superpowers,” Nancy said, “We could come up with something.”

“You know what? Only if we get a panic room. In case the world blows up cause we’re not in Hawkins to stop it.”

“Okay, but the only food there is eggos. Only thing Mike’ll eat.”

They laughed at that for a little bit, and then Nancy stood and held out her hand for her boyfriend. “Come on, let’s go get the kids. They’ll need to get up bright and early to feed the pigs.”

“I thought we were raising sheep.”

“We can raise whatever we want.”

Still laughing, Jonathan stood, and they made their way to the ground floor, walking slowly, shining their lights around as they still giggled a bit to each other.

Then Nancy heard some kind of smash, and she stopped.

“Hold on.” she said, and turned and started to walk.

“Nancy!” Jonathan called, but then she started to run.

There was something. She heard something.

“Nancy!”

She ran into a hall, and reached into her bag, whipping out one of the tools she’d managed to grab- a small gun, one she’d gotten from Hopper.

Her parents didn’t know she had it, kept tucked away in a drawer when it wasn’t in her bag. Pretty much nobody knew she had it. But she’d told Hopper she wasn’t about to take any chances, and he understood.

She kicked open the door to a room at the far end of the building, with tall, glass walls, showing the pouring rain outside. She stepped in, holding out the gun, and calling, “Alright, which son of a bitch is here this time?”

There seemed to be no one there, but she’d heard something. She knew it. She wasn’t crazy, she wasn’t…

“Lab worker?” she called. “Unethical science shit? Or is it some bastard from the other dimension? Cause we shut your Gate before, and we’ll sure as shit do it again!”

“Nancy!” she could hear Jonathan call from a hallway or so away. “Nancy, wait-”

At that moment, she felt a rough hand grab her arm- far more rough than Jonathan would ever be- and yank her back. She let out a frustrated shout and whipped the gun around, only to feel it knocked from her hand as she was thrown to the floor.

She felt a gun barrel pressed to her head, and a low voice whisper, in a thick accent of some kind- she couldn’t identify it right now, her ears were ringing with the sudden hit- “What was that about the other dimension, little miss?”

Nancy felt a shiver, and tried to send out a kick. Come on, Nancy, you can throw a guy off of you…

There was a gunshot, and for a second, Nancy feared that her attacker had shot her; but, no, she didn’t feel any pain in the head- in fact, the gun barrel had flung up, as another shot rang out. Nancy heard a gasp, and looked up, shocked, to see that Jonathan had run in and grabbed her gun from wherever this man had tossed it.

“Nancy!” Jonathan shouted, and Nancy managed to look up, seeing her attacker- some towering, square-faced man- pointing a gun directly at her boyfriend. “Nancy, go-”

Nancy sent out another kick, distracting the attacker enough that he missed Jonathan, who started running forwards. The attacker simply got up, lifted Nancy, and threw her into a wall. Her ears rang again, and she felt some kind of punch to the back, before another gunshot and a thud.

No…

She finally managed to turn, to see Jonathan knocked to the floor- thankfully no blood around him, but the gun had skidded again. Nancy stumbled forwards, only for the man to grab her arm, twisting it around and throwing her to the wall again.

“Stay away, little girl.” he hissed. “If you know what’s good for you.”

And he threw her to the wall again, and the world went black.

#stranger things #stranger things 3 #stranger things au #rightside up au #st fanfic #mine #my fanfic #rsu3

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escapekissed · 4 years

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@halycondaze [ KHALID & EDELGARD ]

“My broken heart, the world forgot... I keep your picture with me, [ Edelgard ].... I hold this grief I cannot speak. The words are in my throat...”

The Claude she knows is not one for displays of affection, or honesty not laced with sarcasm that only Edelgard seemed to recognize as the vitriol it truly was. He abandoned that name with the beat of his wyvern’s wings against the water that seperated them---and the ocean masqueraded as an endless chasm, in which he wanted to sink to the bottom in endless shame.

He went against her, he knows that. He tried his best to start his own revolution, and failed, and left it all behind. But the long ten years between her rise and fall and disappearance into the waves of time and his memories---made him all the more fond, and desperate, and, yes romantic in his fantasies of where she could be.

He loved her not just as she was, but how he pictured her to be. The fearless Emperor, who would give all women the rights to free education, a world where they would not be forced to bear children for class or survival, where they would not be traded like prized poodles, where they could be warriors, but never goddesses. For all her violence, all she wanted was the great equality of being human intead of other.

How could he have not grown to worship her, an atheist idol, a cynical optimist. She pulls out of him a romance, a wonder. He looked at the sketch of her he had done idly once in class, when they were young, and he was clueless, and he compares it in his head to a waxing moon. He painted a new portrait once, a full moon, all shades of grey and red and white and gold, and he felt his throat close hot & hard, like his tongue had just been ripped out of his mouth and left a heart-sized scab in its wake. (He longed to pick it out. Some wounds shouldn’t heal.)

Could she have known---everything she would do? They were only seventeen. And they had both failed in their own ways, but the support for Edelgard from the common people, from her men, who placed her on a pedestal none could match and Khalid felt most fondly that he could understand----far outshone any placating gestures from the Leicester Alliance as Claude made his leave.

They root for her even now. Mourn their lost Princess as The Mad King rages with only the Goddess truly on his side.

It’s more than Claude can take.

An aching part of the child within him wanted to be able to consider Fodlan a home---he took on a name for survival, wore their clothes like a costume.

But if she recognizes him now, so much older, and on the verge of unfamiliar tears burning in his eyes, in this little flowershop the lost, fallen Emperor has made her home---

He’d want her to call him Claude, like she used to. To greet him like an old friend. As if not a day had passed. As if the world was still theirs for the taking. As if they could do it all again, and do it right this time, be who they were meant to be. He can picture no greater fairy tale, than a revolution where they both win side by side.

#halycondaze #rp: GIVE ME THE WORLD. I'LL FIX IT AND HAND IT RIGHT BACK. | claude / khalid #ch: GIVE ME THE WORLD. I'LL FIX IT AND HAND IT RIGHT BACK. | claude / khalid #this was supposed to be a lyric starter but the song made me. really think of them #i've been listening to it on repeat over and over again #and this came out lol #its not even well written but WHATEVER LOL

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majoraagoras · 5 years

Text

Journal

Rdr2

Nsft

Arthur Morgan x f!reader

Smut, obviously

________

You’ve been in gangs your whole life, had no other choice really.

Dutch was different, sure, but the people who followed him were quite different as well. In particular, Arthur Morgan.

He sat on his cot, smoking a cigarette, writing in his journal. You curled around the fire, blanket wrapped around you. You watched the cigarette dangle from his lips as he dragged pencil against paper. The glow from the tip illuminating his face at every drag.

“Go talk to him.”

Charles voice was pitched low, it was only you two at the fire anyways.

“No. What a waste it would be Charles.”

Your hair had come undone, it was late anyhow, and it trailed over your shoulder to rest on your forearms. It looked like a black river flowing over you.

“He’s drawing you, you know.”

Your eyes flick upwards at him, knowing better than to look at Arthur. “Is that so?”

“Yes. And by the way he’s fidgeting I’m guessing he isn’t happy with my attention to you. However innocent it may be.”

You were a bold woman by nature. Any other shyness or nervousness was long taken from you. Growing in a gang did that. So you slowly raised yourself up, brushed off the dirt, and calmly walked to Arthur. You knew Charles was right when he quickly slammed his journal shut and put it in his bag. You aren’t a camp whore. Never have been, and because of that you have many marred skin from fighting back and winning. But you’ve picked men over the years, very selectively. Something about this man, from day one, has made you hot. The command, the control he has. Seeing him fight, protect others weaker than him. The play of muscles on his bare back when he chopped wood in the morning. This crush was getting out of hand. He could have you eating out of the palm of his hand and he has no idea.

“Are you drawin me, Mr. Morgan?”

He looks at you a bit strangely.

“Sure. I have drawn just about everyone at least once.” He shrugs, takes another drag of his cigarette.

“You like drawing people?” You sit tentatively on a box near the edge of his tent.

“Sure. Animals and plants too.” He didn’t seem to mind you sitting.

The night is quiet except for the crickets and Charles had left when you did. Everyone seemed to be sleeping. The night always seemed to give you courage.

“Can I see it?”

“No. I uh... don’t let anyone look at ma journal.” He holds the cigarette between two fingers, his hat hiding his eyes.

“What if I give you something personal in return?”

He tips his hat back then, obviously confused. “And?”

“Um... how about something about me?” You shrug.

He chuckles at this.

“No thanks.”

You stand up and sit next to him, on the side his satchel rests. A terrible idea pops into your head.

“I had a hard life, like you Arthur...” You trail off as you place your hand on the cot, leaning over a tiny bit. He leans back, watching you with a bit of interest.

“When I was but 17 years old, I met Hosea and his Bessie. But I didn’t see them again for so long. I wish I woulda went with them then...”

“I ain’t giving you my journal-” He chuckles “-but please continue.” You can tell he is interested in your words, but the way he glances at your body it may be something else.

You give him a sad smile, the biggest doe eyes you can muster and steel yourself for a grab and run.

“I think I was always meant for the outlaw life, stealing and-“ you reach into his pack (flap open) and thankfully the first thing you grab is a thick leather bound book. You yank it out and turn tail. It was within a second or two.

“-HEY! Oh you little shit!”

Although you got his journal, you only made it to the outskirts of camp before he grabbed you, bringing you to the ground. It was childish really, taking the man’s journal, and you weren’t gonna really read it behind his back. But you wanted his attention, something more than a tip of his hat, a how-ya-doin-miss, even the long looks he gives when he thinks you don’t notice.

Arthur was annoyed until you started to laugh. He had one of his thick arms around your middle, both of you on your hands and knees. You tossed the journal next to you and let your top half drop onto the grass, still laughing. It must of dawned on him that you only took it to make him chase you, because at that moment he began to chuckle too. But it was forced, and a bit uneven. His chest was flush against your bottom, his chuckles brought an involuntary “oh” into the night. Silence fell between you two, he did not let go but squeezed you a bit harder.

“Ya know, stealin another man’s possessions in camp warrants some punishment.” He murmurs , and you can feel him hold his breath. Maybe hoping the comment can go sexual but if you balk, then a simple joke is all. Depending on your response.

“What- What will you do to me Arthur?” You try to pour as much sensuality into your voice as possible, arching your back a little. Don’t want any mixed signals to scare him off. It’s been a cat and mouse game with you two for months and you want to get caught.

He brings his hand that was on the ground, and lays it on your back, putting slight pressure. When you bend your back for him you feel the rumble in his chest.

“That’s my girl.” He pulls at your blouse tucked into your ranch pants until he finds bare skin. He rumbles appreciation in his chest as his calloused fingers drag across your sensitive back. He’s sitting up now, his own hard cock pressed against your butt, placing pressure. Rocking gently. Between both your trousers you can only feel the promise of what his cock can bring but it’s enough to bring breathy moans to your lips.

Arthur’s other hand had left your middle when he readjusted his stance and so both hands rubbed under your shirt, lower back to shoulders to hips. He pulls your top half back up so you’re on all fours again. Then he drags his hands around to your soft belly, upwards until the back of his hands touched the underside of your breasts. He placed a hand back down to steady himself while he slowly brings his rough hand to cover your breast.

“Ahh. That’s it. I won’t hurt ya. Your so soft...” His face is pressed into your neck, nipping at the skin. His fingers rub against your nipple, then pinching it. It makes you involuntary jerk. He bites down on your neck in response.

“You want me Arthur? You want your cock in me?” You turn it up a notch, hoping he isn’t just playing with you and calling it quits. He doesn’t say anything for a bit, just nuzzles your neck. You let him, wanting him to be absolutely sure this is what he wants.

“Christ... yes... you have no idea.” He exhales finally.

“Are you gonna beg for it?” You rub yourself against him, and are rewarded with a growl. He sits up, abandoning your breast to place a gentle but firm hand around the back of your neck.

“No, you’re gonna be doin the beggin.” His fingers grip, almost reaching around your neck.

You take some of his weight while his other hand plays at your sensitive nipples again breathing harshly into your ear. “You gonna be good? Do as I say?” You can feel your core spasm at his dominance over you. Most men always backed off, intimidated by you.

“Yes Arthur.” You let your breathy words out in an exhale.

He sits up finally, and tugs at your trousers pulling them over your hips leaving them pooled at the knees. You wore no underthings since you were just lounging around camp that day. A groan is ripped from him, like he’s in pain.

“Touch yourself”

And you bring your hand under you to play with your clit. Too many moments go by and you begin to feel embarrassed. You turn your head to see Arthur sitting on his feet, knees spread. Both union suit and trousers were open and he was fisting his cock while the other hand rested on your butt cheek. You watched him watching you and could feel yourself getting hot all over. His thumb pulled a little, opening you more to his gaze. His eyes flicked to yours.

“What-“ He cleared his throat “-what do you want?” He squeezes your butt hard.

You whimper but he is persistent.

“Well?”

“Touch me...”

“I am touching you.”

“P-put your fingers in. Something!”

You bite out with a bit of frustration. He smiles, albeit with strain, and lets his thick thumb sink into you. Your wet, and so it goes in easily, but it still shocks you. He keeps a steady rhythm for a minute or two before replacing his fingers with his mouth, like he can’t help it. Lighting may as well hit you, you fall forward and he grabs your hips with both hands, punishingly. He growls against you to hold still but you can’t. Shoving a fist in your mouth you whimper and jerk while he laps at you like ice cream. You look back around to see his back half, his cock still out, swollen and leaking onto the ground but untouched. At that moment he sucked on your clit, throwing you over the edge.

“You ready darlin?” His voice is hoarse and demanding. “You want this cock?”

“Yes, Arthur. Oh please.” You coo out, still feeling the aftershocks of your orgasm.

He rubs his length against your folds, not dipping in yet.

“A-Arthur please!”

That’s all he needs, shoving his whole length inside. He gives you short grinding thrusts as he groans agains your neck.

“I want a naked sketch of you, you’re gonna lay open for me. You owe me after stealin my journal.” You know it’s just the sex talking but you answer anyway.

“Anything you w-want.”

He reaches around, his arm going under yours to grasp the front of your neck his hold firm. He bites at your exposed shoulder and then your ear breathing harshly. You arch your back, bringing him deeper.

“S-shit. Shit _____ I’m gonna...fuck. Fuck.” He pulls out and you knew he would. You flip around, his grip lax now as his orgasm is coming, and face him. He knows what your doing and scrambles to his feet. You knock his hand away and shove his cock in your mouth.

“Ah- Christ.” He grabs your hair tightly and grinds his orgasm into your throat, it all surprisingly painful. But you let him, his face too adorable in this vulnerable moment. After a moment you pull back but he doesn’t let go.

You swallow. Your throat a bit sore, but he still has your hair, holding your face pressed against his hip.

“Are ya alright?” He loosens his hand tangled in your hair and strokes it. When you don’t answer he kneels back down and holds your face.

“D-did I hurt you?” He looks so worried that you had to smile.

“No. I hope we can do that again sometime.”

He just chuckles and hugs you to him, kissing the top of your head.

“Well I suppose you don’t still wanna see that drawin?”

You laugh as he readjusts himself.

“Let me help you darlin...” he begins to lift your trousers back up when a voice pierces the fantasy.

“Well that was quiet a show! Didn’t know you had it in ya Morgan!” Micah’s laugh from the edge of camp, illuminating his form by the lamp light. You feel your face on fire but Arthur is up and already charging at him like a bull. As they both fall to the ground throwing punches you smile to yourself as you get dressed. These cowboys will keep life interesting.

#rdr2 #arthur morgan x female reader #fanfic #nsft #oneshot #arthur morgan

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whispersafterdusk · 5 years

Text

The Master’s Apprentice - ch 12

As they climbed back up to Saarthal Onmund marveled at how much easier it was to make very minor changes to the environment (as he carved out stairs and created walkways from earth and stone ripped from the walls or dug into steep inclines, all so they could climb a roughshod but solid staircase all the way back up to the dragon wall room) versus trying to push outward against seemingly infinite tons of dirt and rock - he'd only practiced this sort of thing in the storage room and had been limited in what he was able and allowed to do, but with so much empty space here he felt only limited by what he could imagine and not by his personal skill level with the magic. ((continued below cut))

Brelyna had looked surprised and impressed at the skill as Onmund dug and shaped, and expressed an interest in learning it herself; he was able to show her a few things on the way up (and it was a very...VERY long climb) but found the bulk of his attention was needed to actually shift and shape the path, and as he worked he began to send his senses outward and started to piece together how things had opened up enough to allow him to fall through a year ago. Here and there he could sense very tiny openings zig-zagging around them - none of them were wider than two or three of his fingers - and they stretched roughly from the direction of Kestrel's buried home up toward the surface. It occurred to him that they couldn't have been underground without any means of getting air down there -- Kestrel might not need to eat or drink but surely she still needed to breathe, and so did he. As he pressed outward, tediously following along the crazy, winding, random paths of these little...air holes, he supposed, he began to match up their shapes and paths with the haphazard parts he'd tumbled down; at some point in the past someone must have found one of the tiny openings (he'd ask how they found it and why they wouldn't assume it was some kind of animal or insect burrowing, but they WERE dealing with the Prince of Schemes here) and had started digging their way down...and as they dug and shifted dirt (and removed a lot of it) the ground started to become unstable and collapse, which only made the openings wider, steeper, and more dangerous to navigate. Whoever had started the digging probably had no clear idea of where they were actually going and kept following the air hole tunnels, creating bigger holes and a steadily growing mess of open areas that eventually crossed paths with part of a glacier that let the ice invade the tunnels and add erosion into the jumbled chaos, and once he had a mental map of the jagged, dug out path from top to bottom he realized that yes...it really HAD been pure chance that he'd not only survived the fall but had managed to fall through the areas that were connected all the way down to crash through into the large cavern-like room where Kestrel kept her pet spider-construct (which, in his mind's eye, felt partially like a "blank" area in the earth -- he assumed Kestrel had warded the place to avoid detection and that PROBABLY prior to Varea's invasion he wouldn't have been able to see any of the compound at all). Not for the first time Onmund wished he'd had parchment and something to write with, to see if he could accurately sketch out everything he was sensing -- he tried a few times to describe the paths to Brelyna but it was difficult to describe something like this in a lot of detail without any visual aids. Not being able to "see" the shape of the compound and its rooms also made description rather difficult -- what he could sense stopped at the top half of the web-filled room where the spider was and couldn't go further, though he remembered quite well what the inside of that webbed room had looked like (and he still shuddered at the memory). He did wonder why the spider had taken him to Kestrel... Maybe it, as a magical construct, could sense magic in turn and that's how it knew to take him somewhere...Kestrel did say he wouldn't have been left alive if he'd not had magical talent, but that didn't explain WHY the creature would know to do that if no one had ever fallen before Onmund had come along; maybe the thing had once been used as another defense when she'd lived among mortals above ground and it was trained to bring anything it found to her whether it was magical or not. ...not that it really mattered how or why or anything like that now, and though he put the spider out of his mind to focus on his current task he did find himself curious if he could create a construct of his own sometime. Assuming he lived through whatever was coming. When they finally shoved their way through the dead roots and vines that crisscrossed the floor at the base of the dragon wall Onmund was mentally and physically exhausted, and laid there on his back for a moment to catch his breath after he'd hauled himself up onto the ring of solid ground around the vines. "Are you all right? I can go find the supplies on my own if-" He shook his head, flashing Brelyna a tired smile. "I'll be all right, I just need a second." She nodded and dropped down to sit beside him; he closed his eyes to try and gather himself and when he opened them he found Brelyna staring at him. "...what?" "It's just hard for me to believe everything you've told me...everything you've been through. And to think, I was mad at you for not letting us know you were alive." Onmund chuckled a bit and she joined in after a brief pause. "Believe me, those first few weeks all I could think about was escaping, and I still thought about it even after she almost killed me. It wasn't so bad after awhile but when I finally saw the crown and understood how serious it all was, THAT was when I finally stopped thinking of escape in any form. I mean, sure, I missed everyone, and it was difficult to wrap my head around being immortal, and-" he stopped and let out a noisy huff of breath. "-actually, I'm still not sure I've come to peace with that yet. It was one thing to imagine that I'd grow old and die down there and no one would ever know what happened to me, but it's something COMPLETELY different to know that I'm not going to grow old and feeble, that I'm going to outlive everyone I've ever known. If I never return to the surface I guess it'd be the same thing as dying - the same thing to everyone up here, anyway - because I'd still reach a point where no one knows or remembers me. To the world I'm just...gone. The world is going to change and I'll be the same." "Physically, maybe," Brelyna said after a moment. "That doesn't mean your mind, your emotions, or even your spirit are incapable of changing." "I guess. Still. The thought of outliving everything I know NOW is...weird, and uncomfortable. It might be different if I'm up on the surface as a part of the world and changing with it but until the crown is dealt with there's no returning here. I may as well be dead." He went quiet after that and so did she -- laying there in the silence letting his mind and body rest helped a great deal and soon enough he was rolling over to push himself to his feet. "All right, let's grab what we're after and get back - I feel safer down there than here." Saarthal felt even eerier now -- knowing that those most familiar with the place were under the control of...whatever Varea was, and could potentially have trapped or sabotaged this place on their way in, wasn't a pleasant thought; if Varea had never intended for anyone but herself to leave it seemed reasonable to be wary of any nasty surprises left behind but thankfully they encountered nothing but normal, dusty, crumbling halls. And about halfway back to one of the front rooms that they'd used as a sort of home base Onmund sighed loudly enough for Brelyna to hear. "What?" "It just occurred to me that... All right, thinking back to the very beginning, one of the things I'd held out hope for was if anything happened to Kestrel then I'd go back to normal. No more immortality or anything like that." Brelyna partly turned around to look at him curiously, then nodded as understanding crossed her face. "And that didn't happen." "That didn't happen," Onmund repeated, sighing again. "I should just stop thinking about it...there's no telling if I'll even survive a fight with Varea, or with whatever that crown actually does." "Well if you're going to think like that maybe you should focus on the immortality," Brelyna snorted, turning back around. "You can't go into a battle already expecting to lose." "YOU haven't seen what we're up against...and you also don't have the training that I do," he added quietly. They fell silent again and remained that way as they located the abandoned supplies and began to pack food and waterskins into a pair of burlap sacks; Onmund wished they had actual backpacks so he'd have both hands free on the way back down but he consoled himself with the fact that there'd been food left here at all -- he didn't want to venture anywhere near Winterhold or the College at the moment (and for good reason). By Brelyna's estimation of her own needs they packed about twelve days (if rationed carefully) of supplies into the now-hefty sacks, then let their footsteps turn back toward the far end of Saarthal; on the trek back down Onmund was careful to rip up and tear apart the stairs he'd created - easy enough even with one hand - and he even closed up the hole in the webbed room for good measure. They left the food and water in Onmund's room and then found themselves staring awkwardly at one another, both with the unspoken question of "now what?" on their minds. "-I have no idea how long Kestrel needs to recover," he started. "And, um...honestly, no idea what to do while we wait for her. I can always practice my spells and maybe show you what she's shown me? -- oh, wait. Let me show you the library." He hurried out of his room and out into the hall, pausing to let Brelyna catch up with him, and then led her over to the doorway of the library; there he paused and managed a sort of mischievous grin. "Prepare to be amazed. I know I was." The latch lifted under his hand and he pushed the door open then muttered and started the chain reaction of the lanterns lighting; he stepped out of her way to let her inside in time to watch as the library steadily brightened, and he grinned again at her look of surprise. "...it's huge." "Yes it is. With books Kestrel's only rules are don't damage them, don't write directly in them, and don't take a book out of the room its stored in. Other than that, read whatever you want." Brelyna stared around, then roughly elbowed Onmund in the side hard enough that he grunted. "You were alive down here all this time AND you had this many books. I can't believe you." Onmund rubbed the sore spot on his ribs with a grimace and a smile. "I'll leave you to it - I want to get some sleep. I'm...not sure if Kestrel's rules about exploring are going to apply to you so try to stay in here, in the sitting room, or in my room." Her left her to wander among the shelves and retreated back to his room, falling into bed without even kicking his boots off. There wasn't a way to tell how long he was asleep but it felt like he'd awakened too soon; groggily he rolled out of bed and straightened his clothing...then went to his wardrobe and changed into clean clothes (he really wanted a bath, but also didn't want to be caught unawares by anything or anyone while naked). When he went looking for Brelyna he found her curled up in the pile of cushions in the sitting room with a few books stacked nearby -- for a brief moment he felt like an ass for not offering her the bed and taking the floor himself but she looked comfortable ensconced among the pillows and with her books so he let her be. Of course that left him still wondering what else he should be doing; after pacing the hall a bit (and listening carefully at Kestrel's door for any sign of movement) he went into the Hall of Mirrors and began to go through his usual exercises. He didn't quite have enough energy or desire to get through all of them (it was going to take more than one nap to recover from all the torment Varea had put him through) but right as he was dropping down to sit against the wall he heard what he thought was Kestrel's door open. Or, what he HOPED was her door. What he knew for certain was A door had opened in the hall. Clambering back to his feet Onmund quickly moved back to the doorway and stuck his head through; his spirits rose a bit to see that yes, it WAS Kestrel's door that was standing open but he couldn't see Kestrel herself, and as he took a step into the hallway he heard a yelp from Brelyna. He broke into a run and skidded into the door frame of the sitting room where he could see Kestrel's hunched back and Brelyna's legs kicking out at the cadaverously thin mage. "Hey! Stop! Kestrel, wait-!" An invisible force blasted him out of the room; he hit the ground and rolled, landing almost upside down against the wall across from the door. He quickly righted himself and hurried back into the room in time to see Kestrel rising from the floor; she looked awful - worse than she'd looked when he'd first met her - and as he watched she spun and in one motion lit the fireplace and tossed something into it that audibly splattered and then sizzled in the growing flames. Brelyna lay on the cushion pile where Onmund had found her before, and was silently crying and tightly gripping a bloodied area on her shoulder. --in the same place Tolfdir and the others had had an injury. Onmund hurried over and fell beside her. "Let me see, let me-" "Heal her up, apprentice," came Kestrel's gravely order. "We've a lot of things to discuss." He managed to pry Brelyna's hands off her shoulder -- her robes were ripped open at the shoulder seam and he grimaced when he saw the palm-sized area of raw meat there. It looked like Kestrel had just cut out a wide circle of flesh but as Onmund began to heal the wound and the skin pulled together he could barely make out a whitish scar forming in its center that was...some kind of ugly, angular rune. "What did you do?" "Removed the mark," came Kestrel's answer. She staggered over to a chair (not her usual chair) before the fire and collapsed into it. "Taking no chances. She's clean and free now." Onmund nodded absently at that - there wasn't a reason to argue against freeing Brelyna from any sort of magic of Varea's - and used the sleeve of his shirt to mop up some of the blood; once she was healed and had a moment to calm down Brelyna shot Kestrel an angry look. "You could have just explained what you were doing instead of grabbing me like that." Kestrel didn't move from where she sat with her head leaned back and mouth slightly open, and for a few breaths didn't even respond. "...difficult to talk. Not important enough to waste strength on." Onmund conjured a little globe of water and thrust his hands in, swishing around to clean the blood off before tossing the orb out toward the hall and drying his hands on his shirt; he then cautiously approached Kestrel, eying her up and down. That softer, more alive look he'd seen on her corpse earlier was gone and she was even more gaunt than before, and her skin was a pasty white save for where it was tinged blue around her lips, eyes, and under her fingernails. "...can I do anything to help you?" he asked quietly. Again she didn't move, and he settled on the floor at her feet. "Would healing magic help?" Kestrel very, very slowly shook her head. "What helps I won't ask for. Tell me everything." He winced a bit at her voice - the more she talked the more hoarse it grew. "All right, just - I'll talk, you listen." "Start." He was faintly aware of Brelyna righting herself in the cushion pile, listening to him as he recounted how he'd awakened in the College, how Varea had initially introduced herself and then how everything had steadily gone downhill; he tried to gloss over the torture but didn't miss how Kestrel's jaw clenched when he'd mentioned it, and he was starting to go a little hoarse himself by the time he'd told the whole tale. For a time the only sound in the room was Kestrel's raspy breathing and the pop of the fire (the chunk of flesh had long since burned to ash), and Onmund remained at her feet waiting for an order, or...or something. She looked ready to keel over even if her body seemed intact; whatever that coffin had done had restored her but she seemed so weak and fragile...he prayed it was only brief, only temporary, because if Kestrel was in no shape to handle Varea then he had no idea what they could hope to do. Finally, with some effort, she raised her head and then let it drop to her chest, fixing her gaze on Onmund. "Did well. Proud of you." He managed a small smile at the praise, but it quickly disappeared. "You don't need to waste words on that. Are you sure I can't help you? Is there a spell I just don't know yet that could-" She managed to hold up a hand and he went quiet again at the gesture. "Blood, apprentice. Quickest. But I refuse to take it. Another few days, will recover." Blood...he should have thought of that. She WAS a vampire after all. "You just need blood? That'll help you heal? How much blood?" She was already shaking her head. "No." Suddenly Brelyna was standing behind him. "Why not? You're a vampire, don't you need blood to survive?" "Not technically," Onmund answered, before Kestrel did. "They won't die without it. ...but if you'll heal faster then why won't you take it? I'm offering it - we have to get that crown back and a few days might be all she'd need to create a disaster," he went on, turning his attention back to Kestrel. "I'm immortal, right? It won't kill me." Kestrel fixed him with a glare. "NOT immune to harm," she hissed, jabbing a bony finger into the middle of his forehead. "Think, apprentice." "Then use us both?" Brelyna asked hesitantly. "Take half of what you need from him, and half from me...unless, that'll somehow make us vampires too?" "No." "-does it have to be human or Mer blood?" he growled. Her pointy, bony finger poking at him had hurt more than he'd expected. "Can I go catch a deer or a goat and let you drain that?" Kestrel went quiet - he assumed she was thinking - but then shook her head again. "Too risky. Can't rely on 'what ifs.' Can't rush into unknown situation." "But if we don't stop her-" She held up a hand again to silence him. "Aware of risks. Calculating best course for success. I will not take your blood...too risky. Accidentally turning you is a danger." He let out a frustrated sigh but didn't push it further; it wasn't like she'd suddenly decided against taking his blood and he definitely didn't want to wake up as a vampire one day...and yet for this one situation he thought the risk of turning was laughably lesser than the danger the crown posed. "Can I...can I bleed into something?" he asked -- this would be his last attempt to- "No. Leave it. Help me back." -that was about what he was expecting. He stood and offered Kestrel a hand up out of the chair; her hands felt as dry as parchment and like a handful of twigs, but he lifted her up with little effort and let her lean on his as he led her back to the white coffin and helped her step inside. The door swung shut on its own and when it had closed he breathed a sigh of relief that was shortlived as he wondered what sort of chaos and destruction Varea would sow while they waited for Kestrel to regain her strength.

#The Master's Apprentice #tma #The Master's Apprentice - ch 12 #Onmund #Brelyna #AU #Skyrim

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blackrose-ffxiv · 6 years

Photo

Book of Shadows 07/24

Lebeaux Desrosiers gestured for the others to follow him further along, passing over the office and the clinic to settle himself on his usual perch. He patted the cloth-and-rosary-wrapped book that was already waiting on the ledge.

“Um...if...if I m-may ask, what is the nature of the beaded cord you use t-to bind the book? Is it enchanted? Rinha'li Dhavha: It looks like...“ Rinha’li Dhavha trailed off, looking for a specific word.

"You may. It's a Halonic Rosary. It's blessed, which I suppose is rather like enchanting it. It seemed a solid precaution." Lebeaux explained as he began unwrapping said protection.

“Oh, yes, um -- Rosary. That was the term.” Rinha'li leans forward, obviously wanting to touch the book but thinking better of it. For now.

Geofferaut Derosiers followed Lebeaux, but came up short, eyes darting. There seemed to be some confusion about which location was best to stand, better view of the book or better view of the various exits.

Lebeaux didn’t seem particularly concerned about Geoff’s minor conflict of interests. He tucked the rosary into his pocket then slid the cloth-wrapped item towards Rinha’li. He instead picked up a cup and saucer, busying himself with tea without offering it to the others. Assuming Geoff wasn’t thirsty and Rin had other concerns.

Geofferaut's twitchy fingers found rest against the cover of his own book and settled on the appropriate vantage point.

Rinha'li unwraps the cloth delicately, and as fast as he can without risking damage to a potentially delicate object.

Geofferaut watched the book emerge like a lioness watches a gazelle limp to a watering hole.

The grimoire is old, but not ancient. Perhaps 10-15 years, mistreated for many of them. The leather is weathered and cracked, but not nearly as much so as an item that spent the last year or so at the bottom of a mud puddle should be. It seemed the muck hadn’t touched it at all. The lock latch no longer works. Standard issue for those in service to the Tribunal though someone had taken care to sand or dissolve away those distinguishing embellishments and embossing. There is definitely something -off- about it. The moment the enchanted cloth is unwrapped there’s a brief rippling. Or possibly a bit of dust floating across the eye, hard to tell as it was gone in a blink either way.

Rinha'li carefully opens it up to the first page to see what it contains -- if the previous owner had perhaps left an index, or introduction -- wincing slightly as the leather creaks in his grasp. But, books are sturdier things than many realize, and nothing breaks. "You s-say this was...lying at the bottom of a brackish pond or puddle?" he asks.

There is indeed an index of the standard issue geometries that came with the grimoire. Filling in the first quarter of the book with the same sort of spells one would find in any acanists’ text. The next quarter is home-made theories and accompanying geometries scattered with notes and observations in no discernable order.

“That’s being generous as to the water content, to call it a puddle or pond. It was mud. A sinkhole, essentially.” Lebeaux glanced over, noting that Geoff had been staring at the tome for longer than he usually stared at anything. “Feel free to have a look as well, I’m sure Rin won’t mind. While you two are doing that, did you bring the contracts I told you to draw up?”

"No." Geofferaut addressed the book.

"Did you draw them up at all?"

"Yes." Geofferaut continued to address the book.

"... Lot of good they're doing sitting in your basement."

“O-oh, I mean, I have a copy of...of a standard client confidentiality agreement on hand at all times... “ Rinha'li offered, obviously distracted wtih the book. He scans the arcanima glyphs for interesting variants, but eagerly ends up flipping to the more experimental sections. Here, he traces his finger over some of the ink, feeling where the quill has dented the paper, leaning closer to see if he can discern the composition of the pigments.

Geofferaut only breathed because it's an involuntary function of his body. Blinking seemed to have stopped.

“I asked him to draw up a non-disclosure agreement regarding our research. Essentially that no information will be shared with outside parties without the consent of all three of us.” Lebeaux noted. “Technically it should be my decision as I am the one who is organizing this project.” He took a moment to preen the cuffs of his sleeves and let that sink in. “Yet I thought it polite to share the credit since the two of you are doing most of the heavy lifting.”

The spells start in your standard inks, mixtures of heavy metals and a liquid but as they progress they begin to rely solely on blood mixtures from varying sources. Sometimes the same glyph written in several different variations. There was a heavy emphasis on the slow draining of health or vitality from the target in various forms. Restoratives or protective magicks abandoned within the last few chapters. The end of the book was upside down. The original owner had reversed the book to begin taking notes from back to front. It was a lot of nonsense to Lebeaux, punctuated with sketches of towers and walls and terrible attempts at poetry.

Rinha'li's hand rests on the sketches of a long, tall tower with haphazardly placed windows and thin catwalks issuing from it. The artist -- Lebeaux's mentor, presumably -- has attempted to indicate its immense height by surrounding it with dark charcoal scribblings, punctuated by a few hazy cloud shapes. No moon, no stars, and certainly no sun. "...did your mentor, um...c-complain of trouble sleeping? S...strange dreams?" he asks cautiously, not knowing what question will offend.

Lebeaux sniffed and took a sip of his tea. “We weren’t particularly close, you may just call him Ciceroix as I don’t suspect I learned enough from him to actually call him a mentor.” It was just easier than calling him the overzealous inquisitor he used to clean up after. “He seemed distracted, towards the end of our association. Possibly signs of exhaustion, could have been due to trouble sleeping.” Certainly not due to a guilty conscience.

“I know this tower.” Rinha'li says simply. “Have you ever seen it, Mister Lebeaux? Mister Geofferaut?”

"No." Geofferaut replied.

Lebeaux lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I haven’t entered the City. I was outside of the gates but I didn’t go in, nor did I notice any towers. Assuming that it is, actually, Amdapori?”

Rinha'li nods. "W-well...it's...it's quite...it's in the center of the city. It...c-cannot be seen from the outside, even though it's so tall it nearly reaches the sky...I...I d-don't know why, exactly. The white tower. The Sanctum of Dreams."

Lebeaux wrinkled his nose slightly. He reached over, gloved fingers flipping through some of the earlier portions of the grimoire, before the Inquisitor had the clever idea of hiding the crazy in the last pages. Around the same time the arcanima started to get extremely experimental and were mostly marked as failures, there were images embedded in the geometries mirroring the general shapes of the tower. “Sanctum of Dreams. What a pretentious name.” He sniffed. “So you believe he began to dream of this place and that is what finally pushed him over the edge?”

Geofferaut leaned forward when the experimental arcanima began to feature once more.

Rinha'li turns the next page very slowly, to reveal several lines of metrically complex but imaginatively bankrupt attempts at religious poetry framing rough drawings of a series of doors, each marked with an arcanima glyph. Rinha'li closes his eyes, worrying his bottom lip with his fangs at this sight. "I am near convinced," he says. Rinha'li has taken on a hushed, excited tone. He's happy to see this mad scrawling.

“Didn’t excuse him from running off, but I suspect there’s some merit to what you’re saying.” Lebeaux didn’t particularly care either way. Looking at the book and its images too long was giving him something of a headache. He pinched the bridge of his nose, sliding glasses up and closing his eyes. “He thought he was hearing the ghosts of Amdapor and went trotting off to the Shroud to find some secrets to divine power.”

The scribbled line of marked doors might have passed for some kind of allegory, but as Rin leafs through the next few pages of experimental calculations, it's clear that doors of some kind were on the man's mind. They appear in the margins, as though it was something his mind returned to when idle and flowed out of his pen as unthinking scribbles. "Divine power, yes. Hm. D-divine indeed. I...did he ever t-try any experiments with his arcanima in your presence? Rinha'li's tail sweeps back and forth in wide, quick arcs.

Lebeaux shook his head, still rubbing at his nose. He finally gave up on the glasses, folding them up and tucking them away into his coat. No point to them around these two anyways. “I generally waited outside.” His hands settled on the teacup once again as he smiled primly at the miqo’te. “I offered you a look at the book previously yet I’m no longer feeling particularly inclined to give you further information. Seeing as you seem unable to grasp the concept of keeping your mouth shut.”

Geofferaut speaks under apparent duress, teeth gritted shut, lips barely parted, voice strained. "An. swer..."

Rinha'li's ears tilt towards Geofferaut. "...I-- I b-beg your pardon?"

Lebeaux looked quickly over at Geofferaut, somewhat startled by the reaction. He blinked blankly, the smile stuck in place.

Geofferaut does not rip his eyes off the grimoire. There is still an apparent struggle to form and force out words. "answer. the question."

Lebeaux still looked as though he’d been struck, more than a little surprised and perhaps unsettled. “I…” He started before he straightened up. “You’re no better than him, acting as though you’d throw over our research if Idristan asked for it. If I’m going to speak plainly and truthfully to you two I expect assurances that my words will never be repeated to anyone else.” He set the teacup down and folded his arms across his chest, fingers brushing against the rosary he had tucked away into his jacket.

"speak. child. or move." Seemed to be Geofferaut’s final warning.

Rinha'li opens his mouth to say something -- anything that will get him more information here, most likely -- but is cut off by Geoff's strange outburst. He too looks unsettled. "W--what--" He looks at the book again. He hadn't thought Geoff THAT ravenous to get at it...

“Perhaps just show him the book.” Lebeaux suggested as he shifted slightly along his perch a little closer to Rinha’li and the book. He cleared his throat, assuming that was as good as agreement that this remained between them. “Once or twice, when it got a little messy I was called in while he was still working.” He explained, speaking a little more quickly now as fingers curled around the beads as though they would do much of anything in this situation.

Rinha'li's ears flatten against his head, nearly disappearing into his hair. He seems reluctant to have the book leave his immediate vicinity, but he picks it up with the cloth and holds it out to Geoff with his fingers trembling on the spine. "T...tell me more," he mutters to Lebeaux.

Lebeaux remains well away from the book as its held out in offering, clutching his pear- rosary beads lightly under his coat. The smile had long since disappeared as his gaze darted between the grimoire and the other elezen. “Ciceroix was testing his theories on the accused. He was supposed to be interrogating them but it often turned in to experiments. One of the times I was called in he’d… ah, managed to turn someone inside out. There was nothing to be done for them.”

Geofferaut began the motion toward the book with a few rapid, interrupted jerks that smoothed out by the time the tome was in his hands. Once possessed, the move to the platform is rapid. His own book fluttered open to a blank page beside it - it happened quickly, possibly without much help from his hands - and a pencil, definitely held with fingers, began scratching copies and copies and copies. Geofferaut seemed unconcerned by the proximity or lack thereof to Lebeaux's seat.

“You are C-CERTAIN he accomplished this with arcanima? D-did you see the formulae he--ah--um!” Rinha’li asked hurriedly.

“I’m not sure. There was no one else in there and I didn’t see any tools he could have used for such a thorough-“ Lebeaux trailed off as the book exchanged hands a bit abruptly, with Geofferaut immediately beginning to copy down the books contents, page by page. “Wait, that may be poorly advised. If this drivel drove him to madness what’s to stop it from doing the same to you.” He noted as he reached for the grimoire.

“The--the g-glyphs within ought n-not t-to be aetherically active unless t-transcribed with--with--active inks--um--” Rinha'li, notably, has not attempted to transcribe anything into HIS notebook, however.

Geofferaut 's face smoothed as he transcribed. His eyes remained fixed on Ciceroix's book, drawings left to form unobserved - though few would be surprised to learn that they seemed to form just fine without supervision.

Lebeaux slid the book away from Geofferaut, intending to snap it shut again. “It’s the book itself I’m rather wary of. The Hearer I took it from seemed convinced it’s capable of doing some harm on its own.”

Geofferaut dropped his pencil and flicked the now-vacant hand up to intercept Lebeaux's hand's path. But by golly it wasn't so empty. A gleam of metal stopped just shy of touching the sleeve at Lebeaux's wrist. "I do not require the book. I require the geometries."

Rinha'li has also started forward, intending to take a closer look at the book's binding, but also stops short at the wrist flick. For a moment he just stands there stock still, almost afraid to move. “I...I say, is that really necessary?” Rinha'li says, after a moment.

"Yes." Direct questions should be answered.

Lebeaux froze, fingers splayed but not quite touching the book when he saw the flash of metal. Right, the sleeve steel. “Hm.” Fair enough. Slowly he brought his hands back to himself, settling them in his lap to adjust the cuffs and ruffles. “As you like, then.” Perhaps he’d just let them copy it then. “Feel free to make your own copies.” He suggested to Rin. Lebeaux managed to sound only slightly sulky about the entirely situation rather than outright pouting.

As quickly as it was there, the metal was gone and the pencil was back in motion.

@black-omen-born @cellardoor-ffxiv

#lebeaux #geofferaut #rinha'li #bookclub gets heated

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lnicol1990 · 7 years

Text

BatIM - Confrontation

3rd story written for @squigglydigglydoo.

The songs referenced in this piece are:

Fred Astaire – Cheek to Cheek (first lyric line) Ethel Waters – Stormy Weather (next two lyric lines) The Ink Spots – If I didn’t care (last two lyric lines)

All of them are lovely piece from the 1930s, and I would recommend listening to them.

It was quiet in the abandoned workshop as Henry walked down yet another corridor; the only sounds to be heard was the constant dripping of ink from some unknown place and the tap-tap of his footsteps, and those of his companions. Alice’s heels were louder against the wooden floorboards then Boris’ boots, but Henry could hear them both walking quietly behind him.

~Heaven, I'm in heaven… and my heart beats so that I can hardly speak~

Soft music quietly echoed down from the right of the T-junction they’d just reached, causing the old animator to halt in his tracks to stare down the musical hallway in surprise. He hadn’t heard that song in almost thirty years. Music had been a luxury in the trenches, and by the time he’d gotten home more music had replaced it on the radio.

When he turned to his toon companions, he noticed how nervous they both looked. They were glancing between each other and the hallway, a knowing look in both pairs of eyes. It took Henry a moment to realise that it was recognition; they recognised the hallway and what lay down it. Fishing through his fuzzy memories of the building’s old layout, he was surprised to realise that he also knew where he was.

Down that hallway was Joey’s office.

“Alice… Boris,” Henry spoke softly, calling the toons’ attention to him. They looked at him expectantly for a few seconds before he spoke again. “I need you both to stay here.”

“Henry–”

“Henry, no!” Boris objected, speaking over Alice. “That there hall will take you to Joey!”

“I know, and I need you both to stay away,” Henry repeated his demand. He looked between the toons, a grave expression on his face as he looked at his creations, his wonderful creations. “Joey and I left thing badly last time, this time I… I’d rather you didn’t see that, of me orJoey.”

Boris opened his mouth to argue with Henry, but was silenced before he made a peep by Alice’s hand coming to rest on his arm. The toons seemed to have a silent conversation, speaking to each other through their eyes, or maybe just waiting to see who would yield first. In the end, Boris looked away, sighing, before turning back to Henry and giving the old animator a single nod.

Giving them a grim smile, he turned to face the hallway with its quiet music, and he determinedly made his way down the familiar path to his old boss’ office. Radio tunes from the 30s filled his ears, growing steadily louder until they were all he could hear.

~Can't go on… everything I had is gone… stormy weather…~

Eventually, he reached a door, slightly ajar with light pouring out from inside. The music seemed to be as loud as it was going to get, he could even hear the crackle from the radio it was coming out of. He took a breath and gently pushed the door open, letting the room’s light spill into the hall, and stepped into the office before he lost his nerve.

~ … since my man and I ain’t together… keeps raining all the time… keeps raining all the time…~

The office was the same as he remembered it, even down to the radio on an end table and the drinks cabinet at the back. The same pictures were on the walls, including the first concept drawings of Bendy, Alice and Boris and the photograph from the opening of Joey Drew Studios with all the staff, their clothes crisp and their smiles bright. The oversized desk still had stacks of paper on it, with an old lamp and other paraphernalia cluttering up the space. Behind the desk was Joey’s old leather chair, complete with the rip by the left shoulder.

And, sitting in the chair and elbow deep in paperwork, was Joey Drew.

~If I didn't care more than words can say… If I didn't care would I feel this way?~

As a new song began, Henry remained rooted by the door, waiting anxiously for Joey to notice him. But, he was astonished as the man kept scratching away at whatever he was writing on, completely oblivious to his office’s guest.

Behind the old animator, Alice and Boris poked their heads out from behind the doorway, having quietly snuck after their creator. They stared at Henry, standing motionless in the studio director’s office, and wondered what their friend was planning.

Movement in the corner of her eye made Alice look down the hall, finding Bendy standing there. The little devil’s face was creased with confusion, before he clearly deduced the situation and frowned worriedly. As the toon demon approached the doorway, Alice pressed a finger to her lips before turning back to the office. In her peripheral vision, she noticed Bendy take up a similar position to her and Boris on the other side of the door.

Together, the toon trio watched their creators.

Henry huffed quietly to himself, realising that Joey was too engrossed with his work to notice him. Taking two steps forwards, he paused at the radio. Keeping an eye on his old boss, he reached out and held one of the knobs.

~Would my ev'ry prayer begin and end with just–~

Turning the radio off, the office was engulfed in a sudden, oppressive silence.

Joey reacted immediately. He looked up in an affronted manner before catching sight of Henry, and stilled, his face suddenly blank in surprise. He stared at the animator for a moment before placing his pen down neatly, and quietly rose from his seat. His eyes never leaving Henry’s, he carefully navigated around his desk and walked up to the man, stopping a yard away. Again, he took a moment to just observe Henry, before a cheek-splitting smile graced his face and he pulled the man into a tight embrace.

“Henry!” Joey laughed. Releasing the animator, he held him at arms and gave him a friendly shake before letting go completely. “It’s good to see you, old pal.”

“Uh, yeah. You… too?” Henry said unsurely as he watched Joey make his way to the back of his office, to the drinks cabinet.

He could hear the clinking of glasses and the uncorking of a bottle as he tried to figure out how to proceed. He would never say that he and Joey had left on good terms, and with Bendy’s reaction to his arrival… well, suffice to say he hadn’t been expecting smiles and a hug.

“I, uh, I got your letter,” he began, feeling like an idiot for stating the obvious. Joey had turned around to look at him, two glasses in his hands and still smiling. “I take it Bendy and the others were wha– uh, who… you wanted me to see.”

“Aren’t they wonderful?” Joey asked, beaming brighter at the mention of the toons. He walked back to Henry’s side and offered him a glass, bourbon, Henry realised –like in the old days– and then leaned against his desk, sipping from his own. “They’re such characters. Henry, please… don’t leave me drinking alone.”

“Sorry, Joe, I quit drinking a while back,” Henry declined, carefully placing the glass by the radio. When he looked to his old friend, he noticed how still Joey had gone, how his smile suddenly seemed forced. A sudden sense of dread sank to the bottom of his stomach and he felt the need to explain his refusal. “It doesn’t agree with me anymore.”

“Well, that’s a shame,” Joey replied curtly. The tension between the pair continued for a few moments longer, the air almost crackling with electricity, before Joey smiled brightly again and chuckled. “But, no matter. You’re here now, and that’s what’s important.”

Joey downed the rest of his bourbon and approached Henry again. In one seamless movement, he swapped his empty glass for Henry’s full one, and retreated back to lean against his desk. He sipped the new drink, watching the animator watch him, and then sighed.

“This place… it just wasn’t the same after you left, Henry,” he noted, his tone conversational and nostalgic. His smile turned slightly bitter as he thought of a past memory. “I brought a new artist in, but… it never felt right, their art never felt right. There was something about you, Henry, you and your work… you put heart and soul into Bendy and the others. You put life into those cartoons.”

Henry remained silent, wondering where Joey was going with his train of thought. He had a suspicion growing in the back of his mind, but refused to voice it. No, if he was to hear this, he was going to hear it from Joey’s own mouth.

“When I made the ink machine, I tried their artwork, but nothing happened,” the old director continued, sipping more of his drink. “When that didn’t work, I tried to draw Bendy myself. It looked just like your drawings, but… still nothing. I found one of your old sketches, gave that a try, and you know what? It came to life on the first try, and so did your sketches of Boris and Alice. The machine wouldn’t accept anything but your work, Henry… like it had to be your work.”

Henry still didn’t answer the old director. He remembered how the man had used him as a sounding board for new episodes back in the day, neither wanting nor needing a response from the artist, and this felt no different. Joey would get to his point, eventually, and would look for feedback from him then; he just had to wait out the monologue first.

“When I made this world, it was from your scene drawings. The machine took what it needed and applied it to the workshop,” the old director gestured around him, to the sketchy look of his office and furniture. His behaviour was dramatic, full of awe at the spectacle around him, though Henry couldn’t help but notice an underlying bitter tone in his voice. “You even put life into the scenery; everything you draw is just intrinsically alive, Henry. It just needed my ink machine to make it real.”

Joey stilled, seemingly coming down after his emotional, passionate high, and once again held himself as a respectable gentleman, mildly talking with a friend or co-worker. He smiled slightly at Henry, taking another sip of bourbon before looking back at the animator. He spun the glass slowly between his hands.

“I need your help, Henry,” he stated simply. He stared the animator squarely in the eyes, refusing to break eye contact. “My machine can make dreams a reality, but I need someone who can give life to those dreams first. I need you. What do you say, old pal?”

Joey opened his arms invitingly, his smile eager and his eyes alight with a passion Henry hadn’t seen in thirty years. A wave of nostalgia hit him, he could feel the old fire lighting up within himself, the burning passion to draw and bring characters to life on the screen. And the thought that the ink machine couldn’t function without his sketches, it filled the old animator with a certain pride he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt before.

And yet…

“No.”

There was a stunned silence in response to his short answer, and Joey was staring at him incredulously. As the pregnant pause extended beyond comfortable, he heard the old director let out a coughing, laughing sound which quickly morphed into a more recognisable chuckle. The sound was tight, disbelieving in tone, and completely failed to lighten the heavy air surrounding them.

“Alright, Henry, I know how this goes: what do want?” Joey asked, his smiled strained and a forced levity in his voice. When Henry didn’t respond, he saw the director’s face sour, his lips purse into a bitter line. “You want an apology, is that it? That I’m sorry for firing you? Or, maybe, you want me to say that you were right? Huh? That I should have taken the contract? That the studio wouldn’t have gone bust if I’d listened to you? Huh? Is that it, Henry?”

Henry didn’t have a chance to answer his ex-boss as he could hear a scuffling of shoes against the floorboards behind him. Turning to the sound, he saw Bendy numbly approaching his creators, his face creased with confusion and his eyes off-model, not with anger or stress, Henry realised, but with hurt.

“Wha… what are you saying, Joey?” Bendy voice was quiet, unsure. “What do you mean you fired him? You said… you said Henry walked out on us. When I asked, you said he didn’t want to work on us anymore. You said–“

Henry gently laid a hand over Bendy’s mouth, shushing him quietly. Instantly, the little devil silenced himself, snapping out of the stupor the revelation had caused, and looked up confusedly at the old man before looking back at Joey.

Henry, however, had not taken his eyes off of his ex-boss and saw him tense, tremble and huff with barely concealed rage. He knew the man had always had a short temper, and with Bendy now questioning him, along with his refusal, it seemed the director had hit the tipping point. As the man’s anger boiled over, Henry watched in horror as old friend’s outline began to bleed; black ink ran onto white skin and clothes, staining it in irreparably. When a small trickle of ink passed over an eye, Joey swiped at it, smearing the ink further across his brow and temple and into his hair.

Henry heard a gasp at his side and, with a quick look down, he saw Bendy backing away slowly, eyes wide and off-model in what he could only assume to be pure, unadulterated terror. Instinctively, seeing his creation so afraid, he sidestepped to better protect the little demon from this unfolding abomination before them, a hand laid on the devil’s shoulder in preparation, though for what, he did not know.

Looking back at Joey, Henry saw that the ink had covered him completely, leaving a black, humanoid shape staring at them with cold, hollow eye sockets. He looked like a horrific version of the creature Sammy Lawrence had become… or worse, a gigantic searcher.

And this time, Henry had no axe to fight with.

“I’m leaving, Joey,” he called out, ensuring that the monster’s attention was on him, rather than the toon. “I’m taking Bendy and the others with me, and when I’m in the real world, I’m going to destroy the ink machine.”

“YoU’Re nOt leAVinG, RoSs,” Joey’s voice was garbled and hurt Henry’s ears. The creature planted both hands on the floor in a deliberate fashion, clearly preparing itself for something.

“Goodbye, Drew.”

Without another moment passing, the Joey-searcher launched itself at Henry and Bendy. Grabbing onto the toons collar, Henry dove to a side, pressing them both against a wall as the monster landed heavily on the location they’d stood a half-second prior. As it spun to them again, he repositioned his hand to the little devil’s shoulder and shoved him towards the door, diving further into Joey’s office as the creature lunged at him again.

Military drills kicking in, Henry rolled and righted himself without issue, and just in time to see the massive searcher collide with the wall in a vaguely cartoony, comical way… that is, if he’d been watching it from a screen and not living the horrifying experience. As the searcher reconstructed itself, Henry slapped his chest with his hand, shouting for its attention. On the other side of the inky mass, he could see Bendy staring at him in shock and confusion, and Boris and Alice watching in horror from the doorway, all toons rooted to their spots.

Seeing the searcher hurled itself at him for a third time, Henry felt the back of his leg hit the massive desk and rolled over it. His feet touched ground the moment the searcher struck the desk, hitting it with such force that it overturned and fell on top of Henry, trapping his leg in the process.

The old man let out a yelp of pain for a moment, and then froze as the searcher drew itself up to full height before him. It laid a massive, inky hand on the desk, far larger than Joey’s hand should have ever been, and raised the other one high, poised to strike.

There was no escaping this, Henry realised. He was pinned and unarmed, with no hope of rescue as the toons, his wonderful creations, were frozen in terror on the other side and would be forced to watch this enraged, unthinking abomination of their once sole carer kill him.

In that moment, Henry closed his eyes and turned his head away.

“JOEY!!!”

Bendy’s voice rang out like a bell and Henry looked up in shock. The monstrous searcher had turned to the little devil as well, the toon looked so tiny in comparison to what Joey had become, making Henry’s heart seize in dread. But, he noticed that, despite the tears running freely from the demon’s eyes, they were normal, on-model.

The toon held his ground as the Joey-searcher moved away from the desk and its pinned prey and advanced on him. As soon as the creature made one step towards the devil, and away from Henry, Bendy reached behind himself and pulled out a mallet, bigger than the one he’d used to strike Sammy with, and landed a single blow on the monster. His mallet squashed the searcher, covering it entirely, and the impact made the whole room shake, sending glasses and bottles crashing to the floor from the drinks cabinet.

After a moment of stunned silence and absolute stillness, Bendy let go of the hammer, leaving it to lie on the ink stained remains of Joey Drew. As his hands fell to his side, he remained otherwise motionless.

The danger passed, Alice finally ran to the old animator’s side with Boris hot on her heels. Quickly working to unpin him from beneath the desk, Boris hoisted the thing up while Alice pulled him free. Much to their and Henry’s relief, the man was sore but uninjured, everyone choosing to ignore the fact that a real desk would have cause far worse damage.

“I thought I told you two to stay out of this,” Henry muttered as the two toons embraced him tightly. He relented for a moment, enjoying the feeling of being held and that he had to be alive to be hugged, but then gently but firmly pushed them both away. “You both could have been seriously hurt.”

“We know,” Alice answered ashamedly. She looked crestfallen at the rebuke, but quickly raised her head again as a thought came to her. “But, we didn’t really get involved. It was Bendy who…”

She trailed off at the mention of the demon and they all turned to look at the little devil.

He was still standing at his spot, staring forlornly at the ink stain of the director he had killed, this time intentionally and with full awareness of his actions. As if suddenly sensing everyone’s attention on him, he sniffed away whatever cries he intended to make and rubbed away his tears with his arm before looking up and facing the three people he’d called traitors and liars, one of whom he’d just killed for. He looked at them with a challenging expression on his face, daring them to say something, though the expression lost most of its heat as he couldn’t maintain eye contact with any of them.

Slowly, Henry got to his feet, buckling slightly as blood began flowing through his trapped foot, giving him a tingling sensation that slowly died down as he limped towards the little devil. Reaching Bendy, he knelt down to look him in the eye, and saw the demon staring back unsurely, and perhaps a little fearfully.

“Bendy, how do we get out of here?” he asked gently. He’d asked the demon before, and had been giving several rude answers, but this time, it felt the answer would be an honest one.

Bendy stared at him for a moment, looking at him –properly looked at him– for what felt like the first time since he’d been stuck in the cartoon workshop. The demon seemed to be searching for something, but what, Henry didn’t know. Perhaps he was looking for something he could trust, after learning the truth.

Whatever Bendy found, the little devil looked away, down at his feet and answered in a quiet, whispered voice.

“Through the ink machine.”

#bendy and the ink machine #batim #squigglydigglydoo #toon Henry AU #fanfic

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dandytanaka-blog · 7 years

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Timeless

A girl struggles against the pain of her memories as she searches for closure from her grandfather and, ultimately, a way to find the road to happiness.

By Tanaka Dandy~

Timeless

There is a clock that sits in a field made up of browned summer grass that sticks up like a broken rib through cracks of cement winding and weaseling from fence to fence. Across from a clock that seems to be squatting now is a plain brown bench, made up of driftwood planks and held together by chewed up gum bits and the syrup of coke spit out under the sun.

There is a girl who sits here, on this driftwood bench, near this mundane clock, in jeans faded an Easter egg blue and a shirt striped green on white with stains from kids she plays with in the pleasant heat of California days. Her hair is long and her black locks intermix with the brown of the bench and the sunlight that wanders through its aged planks. Around her neck hangs a silver locket, worn and beaten from love and time, and little beads of sweat dance against the back of the chain, gluing it to her chest. She buys the same sugar bread from an older woman who sits on a corner outside a shop named, “Street Shop,” about a five-minute walk away from the park.

She finishes off the sugary bread on her walk, of course.

She sits on the bench wriggling open her locket as she sheds a tear or two. As soon as the locket clicks open, it drops from her fingers, and from then on she doesn’t stir from her perch upon the bench until night comes and it’s time for sleep again.

Occasionally a student decides to take a shortcut home through the park for a week or so, and wonders what exactly this beautiful girl in blue jeans and an almost white t-shirt sees, staring at a perfectly plain clock for the entirety of an everyday afternoon.

They never ask though, as she continues her staring at the clock, and there’s a feeling, deep down in their hearts, that it’s better that they not know.

Sometimes words are not adequate answers.

Today we follow this girl home. She walks in ripped, purple converse up a hill, taking a left and then a right and another right.

After her door clicks open, she kicks off her shoes using the sole of her left foot and the polished wood of the floor. There are green plants in red buckets, both dead and alive, that surround an entry way filled with shoes and abandoned hair ties.

We move, and she sits in her room now, propped against a yellow wall with a picture book that begs us in and shows us another time.

This same girl is little now, next to a grandfather that’s tying a brand-new locket around her neck. They’re both smiling in the mist of the memory as we watch.

We move again, to another scene filled with a handshake between the girl’s grandfather and a tall, lanky man in a suit.

Post handshake, he sits in his office at a large, black desk made from the wood of what used to be a surely strong tree. His little granddaughter from earlier is propped up at her own black desk cut from the same tree just a few feet away. She plays with toys, building a skyscraper out of yellow and red Lego pieces, heavy on the back of the wood her elbows press against.

“Why are you so happy today, grandfather?” the girl asks.

“I’ve got my first job in a very long time,” her grandfather answers back.

Circled around the room are drawings and sketches of rather large buildings and warped clock faces with interesting hands shaped more like pipes than tellers of time. They are all rubbed with charcoal on yellowed pages and held up by thumbtacks and the frayed ends of next-door neighbor pieces.

Our girl gets up, rubbing her fingers like pulled rubber erasers over the charcoal that floats off the pages and into the air.

“Aren’t designs supposed to be sharp drawings, grandfather?” the girl asks. For a brief moment, though, the little girl we see asking her grandfather questions has aged into her older self, and turns around to hear her mentor’s answer.

Her grandfather looks up and smiles; he hasn’t missed a beat.

“Darling, I’ve got a secret to tell you, and it’s that I’m not very good at making building designs at all,” he responds.

“Then how could you ever dream of making a clock tower?” the aged girl asks. She can’t look at him now, her eyes stuck to wood floor that rests, satisfied catching charcoal dust at the bottoms of her sockless feet.

“I think that’s just it; I’m only dreaming, Love. Sometimes, though, life has a way of spinning those dreams up and into stars,” he says, smiling as he looks up at her.

Our girl’s aged veneer vanishes here, and a little girl looks at her grandfather, bearing a timeless smile that we’ve never seen before.

We watch from behind our clock-watcher girl from before as her younger counterpart scampers back to her own desk to work again on her very own skyscraper buildings, pushing away her Lego pieces in favor of long cuts of paper.

The clock-watcher girl smiles at a photo of her grandfather with his arm wrapped around his little girl as she sketches buildings from her runaway night dreams, wondering just how far back her memories go.

Back in our picture book world, the old man moves back to his desk and his trusty charcoal.

“Do you know Love, what hard work really is?” he asks his young girl.

“You keep going and going grandfather,” she answers back.

“That’s very close,” he responds.

“No I mean you keep going on and on about hard work, grandfather,” she quips.

“Well that’s true, but I think it’s important, you know,” he says, getting up to hang another drawing on his wall.

The sketch is simply the first layer of a very tall building.

“Everyday you wake up, you become a different person, completely separate from the person you were yesterday. All the work you put in, say on a Monday, is really going to benefit you on Tuesday, and the same goes for every day, day after day,” he starts.

The little girl, with eyes that dart across the room in search for answers, rubs her fingers back and forth across the right corner of her drawing paper.

But our picture book-viewer is glued to the aged pages of her book with fingers fraying against the jagged corners of a leather bound cover, as she struggles with ears that seem quite ready to bleed to hear her grandfather’s words.

The back of her skull feels tight, stretched with anxiety as her memories fight against the passage of time.

“Until one day, this drawing I have will finally be complete, and not just on paper, but in the world we walk in; there’ll be a clock that we can look at together, my darling,” her grandfather’s words finally seep back into her brain.

“What will it look like grandfather?” the little girl asks.

Her grandfather turns around, with a huge smile on his face.

He sees his little girl, we know, but it feels like his eyes look far beyond, out of the range of his pasted black and white photo to the eyes of his granddaughter, grown now, crying with her shoulders against the back of her bedroom door.

“It’ll be oh so beautiful my dear,” both the grandfather and his older granddaughter say.

“Let me describe it for you,” her grandfather says, taking out a big piece of a paper from a huge roll.

“There will be water that shoots out of the hands that tell time and staircases that move like elevators, leading up to the very top where people will play cards and tell stories about dragons and dancing. And there will be food, so much food!” the grandfather shouts, drawing huge plans with crumbling charcoal on ripping paper. The design seems still on paper but the charcoal flying through the air makes the building feel alive and breathing.

The little girl laughs and cracks around the room like a freshly lit, popping firecracker. Her grandfather grabs her by the hand and dances her around in circles.

Magic permeates throughout the room now, and the dust that has gathered on the edges of every corner of the room floats up, filling the space and transforming the air into a mass that looks quite like outer space. Here a girl and her grandfather dance on the edges of galactic existence.

“And the tower will stand high above the land so as soon as you walk out your door, from your very own steps you’ll be able to see it, hanging in the sky, and you’ll know I’ll be there, too, enjoying my very fine clock,” the grandfather lets out, smiling with his eyes closed as the space around him moves and vibrates.

“Will people come from miles and miles away to see it grandfather?” the little girl asks.

“Oh certainly my dear, it’ll be a grand ole thing to see. People will come from all over the world,” her grandfather replies.

And so they smiled and danced the night away on the surfaces of stars and planets with exploding cores and funny rock faces.

They stayed for months, just like that, in a process of school ending and dream building. A summer spent in an old office, just a grandfather drawing and telling his granddaughter all about the music his design would bring to the world.

She listened and he talked and together they created happiness in and for each other.

We move forward now, to another page of this picture book. Here among the charcoaled pages is a picture of the girl’s grandfather, sullenly shaking hands with a lanky man in a dark suit just outside his office door.

The picture moves and changes, and we see the little girl’s grandfather picking her up from school, and as they walk, she talks.

“Why do you look so sad today, grandfather?” the little girls asks.

“Oh, it appears the plans for my clock have been finalized, Love,” he says, cracking a smile.

“That’s great grandfather! Can you show me where it’ll be?” the little girl asks, dancing and shaking in front of his heavy legs.

There is a grandness of not knowing across her face, solidified in the levity of her eyelids as they move up and down freely. The whiteness of her teeth reminds us of all the coffee we’ve ever had, and we’re glad she’s never had a sip.

“Sure, my dear,” her grandfather replies back.

They pass through the park we visited with our older girl earlier, now empty save for the bench. There is no clock to pass the time.

“They can fit your tower here grandfather, can they?” the little girl asks, shrugging her shoulders as she crunches through the grass, examining the confines.

“No, I don’t think they will, Love,” her grandfather replies. He wears a smile, like someone who’s preparing to say goodbye, just as the door cracks open for their big, scary adventure.

There are tears running down his face, but he is tall and mighty and no little girl will see the hands of this old clock run down.

“Then why’d you agree to put it here, hmm?” she asks him.

“Well, I think, it’s timeless, and no place should be so,” he replies.

“What funny phrases you know, grandfather,” the little girls says.

She pulls him forward, tugging his hand home.

“Let’s go back and talk more about the clock grandfather!” she shouts, a finger pointed in the wrong direction.

He smiles, as he’s pulled back home by the happiness of youth, so utterly out of time and sucked out of space.

And here we are again, in this studio, as a little girl dances alone while her grandfather sits, sweating over a piece of paper at his desk. He never draws, and he never speaks; he only drinks coffee, occasionally laughing at his granddaughter’s dancing the winter away.

We turn another page, and the smell of spring wafts in as we watch a grandfather picking up his granddaughter from school.

“Today we’re going to see your clock, right grandfather?” the girl asks, twisting around in her scarf and school uniform.

Her grandfather doesn’t answer, his eyes glued to the sky above as they walk side by side through the park gate.

Directly across from the bench stands a single clock face, devoid of stairs like elevators and water spout hands, planted on the cement of a single pole.

“I’m sorry,” her grandfather cries, as his little girl approaches the clock. He falls to his knees, bone against the hot pavement, beaten.

He lets go of her hand.

“It seems that for all of my pretty words,” he continues, “all I could muster for you was this rackety thing.”

The girl has moved forward, and she dances around the clock.

For a moment, her grandfather swears he can see drops on the tips of her hair form waterfalls like clock hands as she dances in the sky above him.

“Do you think I’ll ever be able to climb all the way to the top grandfather?” the girl asks, jumping and reaching for the very tip of the clock.

“Oh darling, I think one day you’ll fly,” her grandfather replies, getting back up off of his knees.

The brilliance of his smile returns as they dance one more time in the heat of a yesterday summer. We can see the brilliance of a simple clock in a timeless park with an ordinary bench like one of the gigantic wonders of the world, with waterfalls for hands and lights that shine like a morning sun over high mountains.

We move forward again to a photo of a simple note left on a desk that, undoubtedly, our little girl will discover.

I’m sorry.

There is a bottle of pills, opened and emptied next to the note. Our little girl looks to her left, through an open door, and disappears.

We jump from the picture book, barely escaping as its ends slam shut, and see our older girl, her back pressed against the cool wood of her door.

She holds a worn version of her locket in her hand.

I think I cried too much.

The sun comes out over the park once more, and we, out of her memories, see our girl walk into the park and find her bench. She sits, hauntingly still, against the brown bench held together by melted coke syrup and abandoned gum.

We expect that as her eyes move towards the clock, we will see that same plain, cement statue, erected atop the ashes of her grandfather’s greatest dream. We expect to remember, just as she does, the pain of memory, born from the pages of that magical photo book she keeps at home.

This time is different.

When we move our eyes, just as she does, we see the clock as she truly sees it: a grand clock with waterfalls for hands and a party scene erupting from the very top, taller than any skyscraper in London or Japan. The scene is complete with a grandfather and his little girl dancing through the mist gathering thanks to the waterfalls above.

“You’ve made a beautiful thing, you have,” the little girl laughs, twirling in the shadows.

The magic of the moment fades, though, and our little girl and grandfather are whisked away like dust in the night’s breeze, leaving only the cement clock and brown bench behind. The pain of a love long gone remains.

Rain begins to fall over the scene, and just as our girl is ready to gather her emotions again and retreat, a small boy made only of bones and a black jumper with a rotten violin resting on his left shoulder glides like a ghost over the cement to the bench where our girl sits.

As he floats atop the cement like a bird skimming against the foam of a lake, notes play into the scene and the cold air of the night begins to shift; the change makes the scene feel like a painting, full of the colors, tints and shades that make up memories like the ones we saw in the picture book of a grandfather and his granddaughter.

Instead of passing through the park amidst the rain like the average passerby from every day since her grandfather’s passing, the boy with the violin chooses to take a seat on the bench next to the girl as musical notes erupt from his skinless fingers and breathe life unto the scene.

Time seems incapable of passing in this moment, and our girl’s heart begins to burn with an inescapable heat, rising from the deepest wells of her chest the more she watches drops of rain slip into the absolute coldness of the skeleton boy’s abandoned eye sockets.

There is fear beating in her chest, amidst the flames of the rising heat, and she can feel it in the shaking of the raindrops around her, too. But she doesn’t leave, and it feels like she never will.

Notes continue to play, and she sits still, attempting to figure out how to truly hear them.

In this new world, filled with notes and spinning on an axis of sound, our girl escapes the drowning rain of her usual life. The crumbling of the ground beneath her stops, and the loneliness of her memories is filled with the togetherness of the music that dances around her. This skull boy has given life to the field around them, but more importantly, has given life back to the girl who sits on the bench.

Here she is happy.

As the feeling in her chest grows and the music plays on, the dancing pair, whisked away before, returns to the space under the clock. Water begins to cycle through the clock again and voices can be heard laughing from atop the growing clock tower.

She listens to the skeleton boy play his songs and even as she closes her eyes, she still feels her younger self moving through the air and spitting on what the world says should be.

She slowly opens her eyes, and though her grandfather continues to move some safe distance away to the rhythm of the song, her younger self proceeds to move towards her.

“Would you like to trade places?” her younger self enquires, a hand outstretched.

The notes around her push her forward as she stumbles up and off the bench as her younger self takes her place.

The little girl sits with a smile, and reaches for the hand of the skeleton boy who has played his last note for the night. The cold sockets in his skull have never looked more like eyes.

“I’ll be watching for a while,” the little girl says, disappearing with the skeleton boy into the black night behind our girl as she moves forward toward her grandfather.

A new rain begins to fall, as our girl stands, breathless, in front of a recently materialized, huge clock tower.

“Come on, Love, it’s time we go inside,” she hears from behind her.

There, standing behind her and admiring the façade of his beautiful clock tower with hands made like waterfalls, is her grandfather, with a worn down palm outstretched and a welcoming smile.

“It’s very cold out, in this rain, you know,” he says, motioning towards the door.

The pathway she remembers from her own world has turned into a busy street, filled with cars that rush and zoom past them.

“Just walk, my dear, and you’ll be quite alright,” her grandfather says.

And so, she walks amidst the traffic with her own hand outstretched, perfectly balanced in a blend of rushing cars and precious space.

We move forward, after she steps onto the concrete sidewalk, as a scene of the two in an elevator emerges from the rainy fog.

“I’ve missed you grandfather,” our girl says, clicking her heels together under her very own watchful gaze.

“Oh my dear, but not nearly as much as I have missed you,” her grandfather says, putting his arm around her shoulder.

“That simply cannot be true, you in your tower and all,” she replies.

“You know, the interesting thing about hard work, Love,” he says.

“I know, I know grandfather,” she interrupts.

“Is that looking back on it can make you so very sad,” he finishes.

The elevators open, and he beckons her out with a smile on his face that rekindles the heat in her chest. There are questions she knows not to ask, but she can barely keep them inside the stretching of her stomach.

We see here, atop the grand clock tower, people dancing, eating and singing alongside beautiful scenes of boys playing violins on beautifully brown, big benches and couples kissing set to the backdrop of an imaginary world’s skyline.

Our girl stands with her grandfather, gazing out at the skyline through the rain, a rich ice cream in one hand and her head resting on her grandfather’s coat-covered shoulder.

A cup of coffee shakes in his right hand as he enjoys a beautiful view of the city from his very own clock tower.

“Why do you still drink coffee grandfather?” the girl asks.

“Why does the sun shine?” he responds.

“Well it’s not burned out yet, I suppose,” she replies back.

“And I’m not quite burned out yet either, I suppose,” says her grandfather.

“I don’t think you’re quite the Sun grandfather. I think this tower is the Sun,” she says, rubbing her fingers along the grooves and edges of the statues that sit atop the building. She can feel charcoal dust singe the very end of the skin on her fingers.

“Being the man who created the Sun would be an awful gig, I think,” her grandfather replies.

“That’s the one thing you can do grandfather. You always say the dandiest things,” she replies back.

Those dandy words bring a smile to our girl’s face as she tries to bury her nose in her grandfather’s warm coat shoulder.

“How does it feel to have your own tower, grandfather? Exactly the way you imagined?” she asks, nestled in his coat.

“It feels timeless, and that’s not a feeling anybody ought to have, I think,” he responds.

“How’s that?” she asks. Her face contorts up and away from his shoulder and we see them now, standing under the awning of the tower, shielded from the rain, more distant than ever.

We zoom in on her grandfather.

“You want to know the interesting thing about life my dear,” he starts, “it’s like every time you find something you quite like, you come to find it’s not really there at all. It’s not like you can reach out and touch it; you can’t grasp it and you can’t feel it. The average person who walks by can’t see it or smell it, and sometimes even your friends don’t know it’s there. That is, unless they’re special people.”

We see our girl, mesmerized and taken back by her grandfather to summer heat office days.

“But the fact that it’s not there, like right in front of you, well, I say that doesn’t matter one bit, you know,” he argues with himself, “because if you close your eyes, it’s all around you.”

“Finding a good song, well maybe that same meaning isn’t something everybody else can hear, but you hear it, and you hear it the most when you close your eyes and really listen” he says.

“Sometimes you make a clock that sits on a cement pole in an ordinary park and that clock has ordinary hands,” the grandfather continues, “and the people you thought loved you can’t help but laugh at you.”

He stops here, his sky-gazing coming to an end as he turns toward his fully-grown granddaughter.

“But then you close your eyes and you dance around with your granddaughter, and it feels like you’re moving under a clock with hands like waterfalls and lights that stretch for miles, and it’s real all over again,” he closes.

“You sound like you’ve been reading too much poetry grandfather,” she responds, trying not to hang on his every word.

“On the contrary, I sound like I’ve never read a bit of poetry in my life,” he answers back.

They stand here for a while, watching the rain slip over the edges of the clock tower awning.

“If you thought dancing with me was really that beautiful, grandfather, why’d you leave?” she asks, not exactly hoping for an answer.

“I was weak, it seems, Love,” he responds, “and sadly, there isn’t too much more to life than that. Moments of weakness and strength and not much else in-between.”

“I would have danced with you forever, under the light of our very own clock tower” she says.

She looks at him, entirely unafraid.

“Life is made of beauty my dear, all kinds of it. But none of it should be timeless. There is beauty now, in this moment, and we’re living and feeling it, and there’s beauty tomorrow that we’ll chase for as long as we can, as long as we’re alive,” he starts out.

He stands up now and outstretches a hand under the rain.

“But if you keep looking back, at the beauty of yesterday, and what was, then you’re simply looking at beauty that doesn’t belong to you anymore. It belongs to all the versions of you that came before, that felt yesterday’s beauty in the moment,” he ends.

“You make things seem so wonderful, sometimes, grandfather,” she says.

She clutches the locket around her neck.

“It’s only because you’re here to listen,” he answers back.

“Wouldn’t you like it if I stayed here forever?” she asks him, facing him now.

“Living in the past is like stealing all the happiness from all the people you were before. There is a you that lives here, forever with me, but you’re not that person, that memory. You are moving forward, forever changing and altering and seeking beauty,” her grandfather responds.

The black around her lightens and she seems to be moving so far away from her grandfather, bony shouldered and in the rain.

“Do me a favor and bring the girl back who danced with me and made buildings in the summer heat. I miss my granddaughter, you know,” she hears him say.

We open our eyes again, just as our girl opens hers, sitting against the brown back of an empty park bench.

All we see now is a girl playing with her grandfather, not under waterfall clocks hands and bright city lights, but under an ordinary cement pole with a clock that breathes time into the park.

Our girl gets up, pacing over to the little girl and her grandfather dancing around the mundaneness of the clock, and she ties her pretty locket around the pale cement pole.

We see her leaving, her back turned, and we know she’ll never return again, to this park, so utterly timeless.

Tanaka Dandy

#Tanaka Dandy #Dandy Tanaka #Timeless #Story #writing #animation #comics #blog #happiness

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stampington · 7 years

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Somerset Place Editor’s Roundup: 8 Things I Love

Hi everyone, Sarah Donawerth here. Although I am usually creating content for Somerset Place, most people don’t really get to know the person behind the Glimpse Inside posts, art tutorials, and monthly calls and challenges. We’ve decided to roll out a brand-new blog post called “Editor’s Roundup” where the editors of our magazine (and me!) get to share their favorite items, quotes, magazine content, and project ideas. To kick things off, here is my list of 8 things that I love right now:

1 – Traveler’s Art Journaling Kit

I am especially proud of this kit because I designed the kit and test drove it on my trip to Washington D.C. These are the exact items that I carried around in my backpack while wandering the museums and visiting the monuments. When the moment struck and I felt inspired, I would just stop walking and start drawing. I sketched the Washington Monument with the cherry blossom trees blooming around it, I captured the Smithsonian castle in all of its Gothic Revival-glory. I couldn’t be prouder of this kit because it truly is everything that an artist needs to make art while on-the-go — I should know!

2 – Library of Congress Card Catalog

This has been one of my favorite Shoppe items since before I started working here. It is a box, shaped like a card catalog, that has note cards and envelopes inside. The note cards are printed with the different card catalog files for famous works of literature. For a bookworm and a nerd like me, I was beyond thrilled to find this gem. I have used the cards to write thank you notes to friends, and have even used it to collage a canvas. Each corner of this canvas is using a different card from the box.

3 – Book Text in Artwork

Since we’ve already established that I am an avid reader and that I geek out about books, it makes sense that I would love the pattern of book text on everything. It took me a while to get over my guilt over murdering a novel, but I always make sure that the book had it coming. I’ve made some of my best artwork ripping up the post-modern, stream-of-consciousness, obscure novels that I was forced to read during my college days (getting my degree in English writing). I took great pleasure in ripping out the pages of these torturously experimental books. I started using it in collage pages, art journal spreads, on canvases, and everywhere I could think of.

I am so obsessed with this versatile materials that I even featured the many ways to use it on Somerset Place with “7 ‘Novel’ Ways to Use Old Books in Your Artwork.”

As you can see, I use a lot of book pages in my artwork and in the projects that I design for The Studio, too.

~Artwork by Sarah Donawerth

In case you’re not ready to kill your books yet and rip out their pages, the Shoppe at Somerset carries a few options for book text.

4 – This Quote from Where Women Create

~Photo from Sarah Mandell’s studio space, inside Where Women Create Autumn 2017.

“I chose not to pick a single path. I’m currently an interior designer, fiber artist, jewelry designer, entrepreneur, and published author, and that list will probably grow with time. It’s not that I don’t know what I want to do when I grow up, it’s that I want to do so many things.” — Sarah Mandell

Have you ever found a quote that sounds like someone else has seen inside your head and pulled out the exact words you’ve always wanted to say? For me, this quote perfectly captures what I want my life to be. As an artist and a creative person, I am not so set in stone with my career path, my hobbies, or even my day-to-day activities. I want to be open to all possibilities and to pursue all of my dreams. If I’ve got a whole life to live, I’ll want to try as many things as possible. My goals are currently to publish a book on creativity, to live in a tiny house, and to own a pair of llamas named Colonel Brandon and Mr. Willoughby (fingers crossed!).

5 – Art Deco

~Artwork by Christina Molcillo, inside Belle Armoire Summer 2017.

The 1920s must have been a glamorous time. From the jazz to the hand-beaded dresses, the atmosphere was electric and the aesthetic is still beautiful today. This breathtaking wedding dress is by Christina Molcillo and it transports me right back to the Roaring 20’s with its lace and beaded details. Nathalie Kalbach’s Art Deco Wallpaper stencil also harkens back to a bygone era, but it is also super versatile and creates an instant pop of color and texture on any project.

6 – Old Typewriters

If my obsession with book text wasn’t enough, I also have a great love affair with typewriters. I personally have a robin’s egg blue travel typewriter and a Coronet Electric which I spray painted pink when I was bored one night (more on my love of pink later). In college, I used a typewriter to brainstorm my ideas because there was something very satisfying about not just having the idea, but also punching the keys to bring that idea into existence. Now, I use my travel typewriter for poems, journaling, or whenever I feel like pounding the keys and hearing the rhythmic chick, chick, chick, ding!

~Photograph by Jessica Wolfe, inside Somerset Life Spring 2016.

~Photograph by Johanna Kown, inside Artful Blogging Spring 2017.

~Artwork by Erika Lee Sears, inside Artful Blogging Summer 2017.

7 – The Color Pink

My obsession with the color pink goes back a few years. My sister and I were fighting about who got the pink blanket and who got the purple. At that age, I was mortally opposed to pink because it was too “girly” but I was forced, as the older sister, to acquiesce. I used that pink blanket for years and it grew on me. Every time I looked at it, or anything pink, I felt an immediately lift in my mood. Pink is such a joyful color.

Slowly but surely, pink overtook my life. Soon enough, my favorite blouse was pink, all of my notebooks were pink, and I was hanging handmade pink pennant banners everywhere. I find the color to be soothing, but cheerful. It’s a color obsession that will be with me for life.

Top Row (Left to Right): Priscilla Jones, Gizelle Perry, Somerset Life staff Middle: Toni Roberts, Nicola Taylor, Nina Hurum Bottom: Mischelle Smith, Christen Hammons, Patty Smith

Doesn’t this picture of cute kittens on a pink background make you happy?

~Artwork by Jacquie Wheeler, inside Stuffed Autumn 2015.

8 – Fruit Slices

With the latest trends of pineapples and watermelons for summer, I am reminded how much I love fruit slices — to eat, to decorate, on artwork, everywhere! My grandmother has been growing oranges and other citrus for over 50 years as a commercial grower. She is now in her 80s and still treks out every morning to tend to her grove of navel orange trees. I have fond memories of spending the weekend at Grandma’s and going outside to pick my own breakfast.

~Artwork by Linsey Herrera, inside Mingle Spring 2016.

For me, orange and lemon slices bring back the joys of childhood summers spent playing hid and seek among the orange trees and building a fort out of chicken wire, or playing games in the old, abandoned pigeon coop.

~Artwork by Sarah Donawerth, inside Take Ten Summer 2017.

I love adding orange slices to my artwork as a way of remembering those days. I have also found that diffusing Sweet Orange essential oil always reminds me of freshly squeezed juice in my grandmother’s kitchen.

What are your favorite things? Leave a comment below!

Sarah Donawerth is the Social Media Accounts Manager for Stampington & Company and the editor for Somerset Place.

The post Somerset Place Editor’s Roundup: 8 Things I Love appeared first on Somerset Place: The Official Blog of Stampington & Company.

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yorkshirewerewolf · 7 years

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THE YORKSHIRE WEREWOLF'S TALES OF THE UNEXPECTED, UNEXPLAINED OR UNTRUE YOU DECIDE ? (Parental guidance recommended)

Let me take you back in time. The year was 1865, and the world was shocked by the news of tall hat wearing American President Abraham Lincoln was assassinated while judging the forerunner of “America’’s got Talent” ( he would bang on a large a gong if the act was shite) at a theatre somewhere in the States. But this was not the end of the the President. Documents and a photograph album found in the loft of a recently renovated cottage situated in the east coast village of Hornsea would shed a light on an amazing episode, up until now hidden from public view. Our story begins when Mrs Jemima Mulkinshaw, 82 the owner of “Cheese Cottage” near Hornsea contacted me, the story teller, with her frankly earth shattering claims. The following are the actual words spoken by the old person but transposed into words on a word processor document for your benefit. “ The builder found these documents hidden in the roof. Probably by my Father, who I am certain never wanted me to find them, in fact he wrote on the folder ” Don’t let my ‘effing daughter see these here documents". I have read and studied the contents of the file, and I have had their authenticity confirmed by a former antique expect who wished to remain anonymous, the star of many BBC TV series, like “Tat in the Attic, Antiques autopsy” and an episode of “Lovejoy”. The contents alter history as we know it. Here begins the stunning story. It was 1865 again, and Abraham Lincoln, tired and frankly pissed off with being President, wanted out. He couldn’t abdicate as he wasn’t British and his vanity stopped him from just saying I quit, so he contacted an old wrestling buddy ( Lincoln had won 300 wrestling matches and only lost two) Andrew Roake, who was head of a shady government agency specialising in relocation of witnesses. Abe poured his heart out according to the document, and basically needed to escape being a husband, a family man and the first Mister of America. Andrew came up with a plan; he would hire an out of work actor to fake an assassination while Abe was in front of lots of audience members. Then they would smuggle him out of the country to start a new life in Australia. It would cost a few dollars but clever Abe had stashed tonnes of confederate gold and silver in secret location’s so dosh was not a problem. So the scene was set, and John Wilkes booth resting actor carried out the fake murder, and the body of the 'dead’ president was exchanged with a lookalike corpse while Abe was swiftly extracted from the area and arrived at the docks were the tea clipper 'HMS Bell’ and its crew waited to set sail for the new new world of Australia. The ship’s cargo was made up of food, water and a shit load of gold and silver. As Abe watched from the crows nest as the ship set sail he wrote “….as I spied the land of the free slowly fade into the horizon I had tears in my eyes as I realised I had not laughed this bloody hard in years! Good riddence America and G'day Australia !” For the rest of the world Abraham Lincoln had died a hero of the people, unfortunately in the confusion, John Wilkes Booth failed to escape and went on the run. 12 days later, he was was shot by Mr Boston Corbett a Union soldier and great great grandfather of Harry Corbett the puppet master of sooty and sweep fame. Then fate would deal a mighty blow. A massive storm at sea battered the HMS Bell and the ship was thrown miles off course. Then the main sail was ripped from the mast and the ship was dead in the water. With no other options Captain Kirk gave the order to abandoned the ship. A cry of “women and children first!” went up. As there was only the cabin boy Harry Otter and the mysterious Lady fanthorpe (who was in fact abe in disguise) the two boarded the lifeboat along With A chest containing everything abe could shove in it. Due to the weight, no one else could fit in the small boat and swiftly Abe cut the ropes, leaving an angry mob shouting abuse as Abe forced young Harry to paddle faster. The cross dressing ex president and the bemused cabin boy watched in horror as a mini typhoon pulled the ship down into the doldrums and a watery death awaited all the crew. Lloyds of London received this telegraph message; “++++ URGENT+++WITNESSES SAW SHIP SINK+++STOP+++ALL CREW SUCKED OFF+++STOP+++BY STRONG WIND+++STOP+++THE BRAVE CAPTAIN WENT DOWN ON THE BELL+++END” 31 days later, Abe found himself on a beach. His small boat had finally ran a ground on dry land. He had managed to survive on meagre rations. And after 5 days at sea, abe found Harry rummaging through his trunk. “ YOU AIN’T NO LADY MISTER, I DO BELIEVE SIR THAT YOU ARE ACTUALLY MR LINCOLN WHO I BELIEVED TO BE DECEASED, SAY IT AIN’T SO?” Abe wrote that it was this exact moment that made him feel a failure, a fraud, a film flam man etc.That the truth spoken from this innocent chubby young child…hell’s bells that kid is so fat…. Abe fired the small Derringer pistol; both bullets hitting poor Harry right between the eyes. Thank’s to Harry, Abe managed to survive the ordeal (he wrote later that he tasted of lamb?). Now, washed up on an unknown island, Abe used up all the strength he could muster, dragging his trunk up the beach before hiding it in a cave. He then reluctantly changed from the ladies outfit into a ships crew uniform he found in the boat and ventured inland. Soon he was met by a young woman smoking fish near a cottage by the sea. Abe assumed this was commonplace as tobacco products might be hard to find in the new world “TIS this Australia sweet lady?” She puffed on her Clay pipe then replied “'Tis it buggery, this is God’s own country, Yorkshire! You yanky Twatt! ” Abe wrote how shocked he was by this revelation. Miles away from the new world of his dreams and his vast fortune lay at the bottom of the sea. The woman he was conversing with was Gertrude Mulkinshaw, a spinster living alone in “Cheese cottage”. Abe introduced himself as “John Smith” a sailor who had jumped ship and was on the run from the American navy. They began to talk and soon found that they had a lot in common. Both had wooden false teeth, Gertrude was All Yorkshire woman’s wrestling champion (undefeated). She said she made a living making curd cheese and smuggling opium and absinthe from France. Although she was not a conventional beauty, over the coming months,Abe and Gertrude fell in love and after a year they married in Hornsea Parish Church. They had a daughter and continued to live in the secluded cottage. Twenty years passed, and a strange American traveller turned up on the doorstep of “cheese cottage”. He was invited in by a suspicious Abe as Gertrude and her daughter had gone to Whitby to sell some cheese and opium at the local market. The man handed Abe a letter of introduction. It was from his old friend Andrew Roake . Inside the envelope was a newspaper clipping from the Hornsea Gazette, the local newspaper. It featured a sketch of Gertrude and Abe attending the Hornsea women’s wrestling competition, which was won by Gertrude. In the letter, which was attached to the clipping, Mr Roake had summised that Abe could have survived the sinking of HMS Bell and was alive and living here, in England. If it was Abe, Roake asked if he would he be kind enough to help the person delivering this letter who was another of his clients who wished to start a new life. Abe asked the stranger his name “ I am, Mr president sir, William H Bonney, better known as the outlaw Billy the kid.” Billy went on to tell a familiar story. He too had become sick of all the bullshit going on around him and had paid Andrew Roake a large amount of stolen cash to relocate him before some young buck tried to shoot him. Billy then dropped a bombshell. Roake’s intent was not honourable. The double dealing son of a bitch planned to blackmail Abe or reveal his true identity.These two infamous men sat drinking warm beer, eating Yorkshire curd tarts and exchanging tales from their previous lives until Gertrude arrived home., Abe was ready to introduce his new friend and reveal his secrets. Earlier, he told her, the two men had gone under cover of darkness to the beach to retrieve Abraham’s trunk hidden all these years from the cave. Then Abe told his wife the truth about his real identity. At first she thought he was smacked off his tits on opium but when he showed her the contents of the trunk, documents, medals and shit loads of gold and silver coins. She believed. It was during that night the three of them agreed a plan. Billy would telegraph back to Roake saying it was all a case of mistaken identity. For this, Abe would split his treasure 3 ways. All of them were in agreement and the documents were hidden by Abe whilst the remaining items were burnt. With his share of the loot, Billy travelled to Kingston upon Hull and bought a tavern in the city centre naming the hostelry “ye old Bonnie Boat” Abe and Gertrude ended the drug smuggling business and opened a factory in Hornsea making curd cheese in bulk. Gertrude would go on to write several books one of which “for the love of cheeses” would become a best seller in Wales. Abraham Lincoln or John Mulkinshaw as he became knownlocally , became a philanthropist, funding many charitable ventures, especially setting up a school for ship’s cabin boys in memory of “Chubby Harry”, his savory saviour. The opening of school was tainted by inference in the local press that John was under the influence of narcotics when he cut the ribbon at the ceremony. The newspaper headline was “HARRY OTTER AND THE PHILANTHROPIST STONED?”

Jimima Mulkinshaw, the alleged daughter of Abe, herself never married instead becoming a prostitute. This was not her own choice of employment but unfortunately she misspelled 'werehouse’ on her place of work form. On here retirement she moved back to cheese cottage and it was during the renovation this family secret came to light. She produced the final piece of the jigsaw; this photograph shown above. It shows an elderly Abraham greeting William outside cheese cottage on Abe’’s 100th Birthday, Abe was awarded a medal from Queen Victoria for services to the opium trade and he was ironically given the “Golden Teet Owl” medal, the highest award given to someone who was “a right good Yorkshireman!” Both men had lost their American drawls and had full Yorkshire twang. William was still the proud owner of his Public House had also been working part time as a hired hitman. Andrew Roake never attempted contact either men and legend says he used his vast, ill-gotten wealth to buy a remote island where he set up home with a french ex assassin Dwarf. This was this last meeting of the two old friends…

Postscript. Sadly, the expert who authenticated this collection events was arrested for making fake copies of dvds (mostly box sets of the BBC TV series 'Lovejoy’) and is serving 5 years in prison. I therefore submit this tale for your delectation and for you to decide it’s validation.

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