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foxxfuxx · 3 months

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After a long night of commemorating the family winery, you and Griffin try to get away for some much-needed stress relief.

FEATURES griffin + a lil bit of nico

CONTAINS head on the deck + almost getting caught but not quite

REMEMBER that these are my characters n i’m the only one writing content for them. if you like what you see here, please drop requests in my inbox for more grif or whomever you please off of my masterlist. love u (:

From his place lined up besides the rest of his family, Griffin shoots you a quick smile before his father speaks and he directs his attention back to him.

Business night, Cartier family style. All high-class vintage decor and arching marble roofs, silky curtains and a carved, raised stage-like platform that the entire family has covered from wall to wall. On one side stands Clara, Darcey, and Renee, Griffin’s sisters, all dressed in long cream-colored gowns with their faces done up in satin-smooth makeup. On the other side stands Leon, then Nico, then Griffin, and then Beau, who’s barely tall enough to see over the railing.

Pierre, Griffin’s salt-and-pepper haired father, is saying something about the family business, about “a successful two hundred years”, but your focus has long been lost on the discussion. Each one of Griffin’s tiny actions capture your full attention; like when he looks down to tuck a loose curl away from his face, or when Nico elbows him and the quickest expression of frustration flickers across his face before he bites his lip — plush pink pinched under his teeth — and his expression returns to quietly polite interest. You’re fairly certain Renee’s given him a bit of makeup, because his cheekbones and nose look more refined and his lashes seem darker than usual. He’s dressed in a fitted black turtleneck, combined with a sharp cream-colored blazer and tailored dress pants to match. You don’t miss the expensive designer belt cinching them around his slender waist; standing beside his brothers on the raised pedestal, Griffin certainly looks the part of a Cartier.

As if he can feel your gaze, Griffin’s eyes drift over to you, and for a moment he just stares, baby-blue hues resting on your face before they oh-so-subtly slide down to your figure. One tiny wave of your hand and he realizes he’s been caught; up on his platform, Griffin’s face flushes and he hastens to disguise it by rubbing his nose into his shoulder. Apparently keen, Nico glances over; the ghost of a smirk crosses his face as he leans over and whispers something into his brother’s ear. At his words, Griffin’s head whips around, his cheeks dusted with pink and eyes flashing with guilty embarrassment. Nico visibly laughs in response; one quick glare from Leon, and they both straighten up again.

A few minutes later, Griffin looks back over, meeting your eyes once again — and even from this distance, you can see him swallow and quickly avert his attention. Not that you can fault him; you’re just as restless, crossing and uncrossing your legs impatiently. At the moment, you want nothing more than to drag him off of his pedestal by the designer belt and kiss him until he can’t breathe — but Pierre just keeps going, and when he finally finishes, Leon steps up to his pedestal and opens a whole other folder of more scripted speech.

The wait is agonizing. At some point, you realize that you’ve literally dug your nails into the plush seat and a fine sweat has started to break out across your skin as a feeling like fire bursts through your veins — and then Leon is saying his final thank yous in his gruff French accent, and everyone is rising to give a standing ovation.

You stand with the rest, body on autopilot, but your attention is two hundred percent on Griffin as he steps back, shifting from foot to foot and glancing from Leon, to his father, to the crowd, to his father — and then, finally, he disappears behind the pillars to return to the main floor.

He’s coming down.

Your body is on fucking fire. You swim through thick seas of partygoers, ignoring the sound of a piano and trumpet starting up behind you, searching for a head of white in the crowd. A young head of white; half of the crowd is senile. White hair is common.

You need to find him. You need him, period.

“Princesa, left.”

You whirl around, and your eyes land square on Griffin’s. Like a fucking Greek (French) god striding towards you with his smug, dark-haired counterpart at his side; snickering at the pet name, Nico elbows him in the ribs.

“Princesa? That is your...little name?”

“Va te faire foutre.” At Griffin’s words, Nico lets out a low whistle.

“Salty ass.”

“Nico, go away!” The glare Griffin shoots him could kill. Their sibling rivalry has reached a boiling point; Nico likes to play in the hot water.

“What is it, you call them in America? Preservatif?” Nico winks at me. “Use it.”

“Go!” Griffin is so red at this point that his skin is hot to the touch as he takes your hand in his, whirling so hard on Nico that the guy physically pulls back. He’s cackling like a throaty hyena as he waves the two of you off and slips back into the crowd — probably en route to cause problems and make waves amongst the female company. That leaves you and Griffin to stand in a mildly-embarrassed silence; one that he remains silent in, and one that makes you giggle.

“What’d he say?” You nudge him. “Pres...preservative?”

Griffin sighs. When he speaks, his voice is throaty and coarse. “Preservatif. A, ah...protection. You know. Con…condoms.”

“Mm.” You nod. “Do you have any?”

“I, ah!—yes? I...princesa, we should...not here, there are so many people, and Leon will...ah…” Wincing, Griffin mimes his throat being slit.

“Well, obviously not here.” You squeeze his hand impatiently. “That’s why we go upstairs.”

“Oh!” Griffin’s eyes widen, round as saucers. He seizes your hand with a fervent desperation, and he tugs on it. Hard. “Yes. Yes. Come.”

It seems like Griffin leads you through endless fancy halls and up a thousand spiral staircases, clearly rushing to get to his room; your impatience only grows. Your skin burns, your insides burn hotter — and when you see two large stained-glass doors leading to what appears to be a deck, you don’t hesitate to dig your heels in and drag Griffin through.

“Princesa, lawn...right below us. Party...need...go inside.” Griffin’s murmur is pressed against your lips, arms caging you against the deck’s railing.

“Yeah, yeah. Keep kissing me.” Tangling your fingers in silky white curls, you pull his head against yours, eagerly chasing his lips and running a thumb along the steep curve of his jaw. His mouth is hot against yours, tongue slipping into your mouth as he kisses you with a hard, almost feverish passion. Around the side of the manor, you can hear the bustle of party crowds; it’s the afterparty just getting started.

Although one arm is wrapped around his head, your nails raking through his undercut, your other hand slips down to the pretty silver crescent he wears on a long chain around his neck. Grinning against his mouth, you wind it around your hand, pulling it against your chest and taking Griffin with it.

He’s trembling with excitement, both from the heat of the moment and probably the speech. It’s as if he doesn’t know where to put his hands, fingers ghosting over you before he decides to splay one around your waist and the other beneath your arm to tangle in your hair.

“You did...so good.” You mumble honey-sweet praises between kisses, scratching the short buzz of his undercut. “So...proud of you.”

“I...did? I, ahm...thank…you, prin...cesa.” Griffin’s face heats at your compliments, burning slightly against yours as he tilts his head and practically pushes his tongue down your throat as he does. Some attempt to shut you up, probably. Because the effect praise has on Griffin…

“So...good.” In response, Griffin sighs and groans against you, hips wavering slightly forward — just enough for the shallow, relatively solid tent in his pants to make its impression on your thigh. And then, just like that, he pulls his hips back; he breathes out against your mouth, deflates almost, and then groans again.

Oops.

You pinch his lower lip between your teeth as you pull away, leaning back against the thick concrete railing. The carved marble is cold on your skin; a shock of goosebumps rise along your arms as Griffin tries to chase your mouth, a little sound of indignant confusion coming out of him when your hand splays on his chest, prohibiting him from caging you any closer in to the rail.

“Princesa,” he starts, breathless and oh-so-faintly frustrated, “why…?”

You only smile in response. He’ll catch on soon enough — the minute you push him lightly back, hand proceeding to run down his chest and knuckle down the center of his toned stomach as your knees begin to fold — oh, he catches on. His voice trails off, and his breathing grows audibly shallower. You swear his body starts to sway in time with the quickening pace of his heart.

“P…rincesa, they are...outside, they are around the corner—they will hear me, princesa—”

“Better stay quiet then, hm?” You look up at him, feigning a face of innocence as you run the knuckle of one finger up and down his lower stomach. If he wasn’t wearing that skin-tight turtleneck, you’d be able to feel the trail of short curls that he only continued to sport because you were such a fan of them.

“But...princesa, I am not...quiet.”

“Can’t you be?” Griffin’s eyes are wide as you sit up enough to seize his crescent pendant in your teeth, sucking on the hot metal as you raise one hand to experimentally palm him through his jeans. The reaction you get tells you a lot; Griffin’s jaw drops and he huffs, eyes closing and shoulders slumping forward. His arms fold on the railing; his head tilts back for a moment before it lolls down again and he meets your gaze through fluttering lashes. In the faint golden glow cast by a nearby lantern, you can barely see the sweet blue of his irises rimming his blown pupils.

“Do you want me to stop?” You tap the steadily-growing tent in his pants, biting back a grin when it faintly twitches under your touch. In response, Griffin only lets out a shaky breath, gaze dropping to where his pendant rests on your tongue.

“I…no.” His face is flushed a deep shade of rose as he closes his eyes, breath shallow as he grinds his hips into your hand. “I do not want to stop.”

“Good.” You let that grin cross your face as you cup your palm against his crotch, massaging the bulge sitting heavily on his inseam and almost laughing when his knees nearly buckle, his breathing ragged and a strangled “oh, shit!” weasels out of his mouth, accent thick and bliss thicker.

You don’t pause your ministrations as you duck your head, ignoring the pendant bumping the side of your head as you carefully take the pretty chestnut-brown leather of his belt in your teeth and slowly, slowly, tantalizingly slowly, slip it out of the buckle. You don’t bother trying to pull it off; you just leave it to lazily hang in the belt-loops. You have more important things to tend to; Griffin’s hips buck forward again, and there’s a faint smack as he grabs the railing for better support.

You pinch the waist of his pants between your teeth.

Griffin’s sigh borders on a faint moan as he leans back and you, with a final nudge of your palm to his crotch, slide his pants down to his knees. When you glance up at his face, you find his features screwed in almost embarrassed anticipation; cheeks flushed, eyes firmly shut, cheek bitten. When you glance back down, your attention shifts to the sizeable bulge in his boxers. His…star-patterned boxers, actually.

Star-patterned. They are dark blue and they have stars on them. You almost laugh, almost; even as you trail a finger sensually over the center of his bulge and he groans in a way that would usually have you squeezing your legs shut, you’re biting back a giggle. “Cute undies, Grif.”

“Yeah?” He doesn’t know; he tries to dirty-talk you for a moment before he realizes you’re not responding. He pauses; his eyes open, confusion evident in his gaze before he, too, realizes what he’s wearing.

“Merde—princesa, ignore them, please, I didn’t remember, I did not know I—!” Embarrassment lifts Griffin’s voice at least an octave or two, his pitch near a whine; when you clap a hand over his mouth, he abruptly cuts himself off, eyes frozen wide in humiliation. When you press the pad of your finger against the topmost part of his length, he lets out a short yelp, teeth and tongue hitting your hand.

“They’re cute,” you murmur, bringing both hands up to their elastic waistband. “Favorite pair?”

Griffin swallows a thick breath, eyes flying from you to up the wall. “N…no. The one you got…s’my favorite.”

“Good answer. Should’ve worn ‘em tonight.” You flash him a smug smirk as you drag the tight boxers down his thighs and are almost immediately greeted by his now-freed erection. Flushed dusky-violet with frustration and rock-stiff with ignorance, Griffin’s cock stands up against his stomach, a fat pearl of pre forming on its tip. Griffin himself takes a sharp breath as cool night air, just a little chilly, drifts across his length; something lands on the back of your head, and it takes you a moment to realize it’s Griffin’s hand, rings poking your scalp as his fingers crook into your hair. He’s a delicious image; snowy curls messy, high cheeks flushed, bitten lips swollen and breathing rough.

“Oh, Grif.” Your tone becomes pitying as you cock your head, lightly dragging your finger down the length of his shaft. You bite back a smile when Griffin huffs again, rocking back slightly on his heels. “Who got you this hard?”

“…you.” Despite his obvious embarrassment at being in this state somewhere that isn’t exactly confined, Griffin doesn’t hesitate in answering you. His voice has become breathless and shaky, tiny moan escaping his mouth as one of your hands slips up around his throat. His hips tilt towards you; Griffin moans as his length pushes through your fingers, his head falling back and hands tightening on the railing. His hips grind up into your grasp; pre slicks against your palms, webbing between your fingers as you start to return the motion, stroking in time with his thrusts. “You, princesa, please…s’you, s’all for you.”

“All for me?” Your voice is a croon as Griffin starts to fuck your hand, eyes closed and brow pinching. “This is all for me?”

“Yes, yes, all for you. All for you.” He’s adorable when he tries to appease you; his words are rushed, spaces between them thinning. “Please, princesa; your mouth, pleasepleaseplease…”

“My mouth?” You squeeze the groove beneath his cockhead and he moans in response, nodding even as his knees threaten to fail and his hips grind into your forearm. The quiet begging he’s doing is accented so thickly his words barely sound English; “please, princesa, want your mouth, s’so warm n’ wet, please, please…”

“Guide me.” You can’t help but fall to his begging when he does it so nicely; you lean back into his hand, smirking when his eyes go round and his face turns a warm shade of dark pink. He’s hesitating, maybe some belated sense of shame or anxiety about getting blown on the deck of the family manor mid-party—but then slowly, slowly, he pressures the back of your head, pushing you in toward his length. His hips twitch in anticipation; despite his obvious desire, he’s very clearly trying to be gentle with you, even as your nose bumps his shaft and that mere touch knocks the breath out of him. Slowly, slowly, he pulls you higher, angling your mouth over his tip and—

“Please,” he murmurs, brow sagging, “please, princesa.”

His hand stays behind your head, thumb playing on the nape of your neck in a way that’s almost too comforting as you press one hand to his lower abdomen, wrap the other around the base of his cock…and slowly, gently so as not to make him scream…

The moan that Griffin lets out is long and breathy, eyes falling shut and head tilting back, profile lit in a soft gold that I’d usually consider heavenly. His cock bumps bluntly against the roof of your mouth before you readjust your head and ease yourself further forward, breathing slower as it fills your mouth. You want to see Griffin come undone and God fucking knows that this—taking him down your throat, massaging him with your tongue—that’ll send him straight to heaven. Even if it means nearly choking on his length, all six-and-then-some inches of him, in an effort to fully deepthroat him. Every breath you take just tastes like Griffin‘s dick, all salt and skin and maybe the faintest hint of whatever vanilla body scrub he’d been using last coating your tongue and beginning to streak your throat. The hand behind your head is joined shortly by another reaching for your neck; Griffin doesn’t choke you. He just rests his fingers against the underside of your throat, pressing just hard enough to feel the swell of his shaft thrusting into me.

“A…ah, like tha’at, like that, princesa.” His head falls forward, chin bumping his chest. “Perfect, s’perfect, feels perfect, princesa.”

Eyes tearing up with every thrust, you risk a glance up at Griffin; his eyes are half-lidded and vague, like he’s looking straight through you, dazed with pleasure. His puffy lips are parted; his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as his eyes flutter shut and another hoarse, lengthy groan pushes out from his chest. He’s already starting to throb; waiting must have gotten to him, poor boy, and he’s going to finish ridiculously quickly. He seems to realize that, too; his eyes widen just a bit, and then they focus on you as he stops pushing your head.

“Wait, wait,” he says, raspy tone edged in slight panic. “Slow, slow, please.”

“Why?” You pull fully off of Griffin’s length to reply, taking note of the way his brows pinch and his pupils dilate somehow wider when he sees the thick strings of spit and pre stringing from your mouth to his shaft. “Gonna cum already?”

He swallows; nervous, you realize. “No.”

“Really?” You rest the flat of your tongue against his head, cocking a brow when a guilty drop of pre leaks out of his angrily-flushed cockhead and rolls to land on your tongue. “Are you lying to me?”

Griffin shakes his head again, face flushed. “I am not gonna c…cum yet, I just…it…”

“Mmmhm?” Innocently, you tilt your head and kiss that groove between his cockhead and shaft again, grinning when his length twitches and his abs clench. “Are you sure?”

Griffin just looks at you with hooded, guilty eyes, too lost in the pleasure and the anticipation to give you a verbal answer. When you reach around his leg and tease your finger over his ass, though, he does reply, albeit with a positively explosive moan that forces him to immediately clap both hands over his mouth. His dick twitches, hard—and then Griffin is all but falling over himself with a hundred hoarse whispers of “gonna cum, gonna cum, sorry, sorry, gonna, sorry…!”

The grin that crosses your face is victorious as you duck your head down to suck on the bottommost part of the long, flushed vein running from his base to his tip, tongue flicking against the sensitive skin. You almost, almost laugh when Griffin’s entire pelvis thrusts up towards you and his back arches out, a muffled cry bursting into his hands as he desperately tries to keep his body under control. He stumbles forward; he practically shoves the back of my head into the railing, albeit an accident, and his hips mash into my face.

“You’re so easy, Grif,” you murmur, sucking on the flared ridge of his cockhead. In response, Griffin nods furiously, eyes squeezing shut. He doesn’t have to say anything; you can feel his body stuttering, cock thrusting up into the space between you two. He’s close, he’s close, he’s close; his abs shudder, tensing and releasing in wildly manic non-patterns. “Come on, then. Cum for me.”

One little kiss on his tip. That’s all it takes to tip him over the edge.

You plunge his length into your throat as he finishes, your eyes filling with tears as his cock slams straight through your gag reflex and paints the back of your throat in a salty musk five times over, so fast you can barely swallow. You’re reveling in your victory; Griffin’s knees nearly give out, hips thrusting up as his upper body slumps against the railing and one of his hands clutches onto the back of your head. He’s practically forced his own head to press against his chest; even so, the nearby lantern gives off enough light to see the euphoric relief on his features, eyes screwing shut as his climax rockets through his body. His wild thrusting slows, but he isn’t finished; thrust, one-two, thrust, one-two-three, thrust, thrust again, one-two, over and over. He’s practically running himself dry, thick musk spurting thick down your throat and across the back of your tongue for a good half-minute before he finally moans, stops thrusting so into your and eventually stills, minus the tiniest aftershocks spasming in his abdomen.

Only then do you ease off of him, practically gasping and trying to swallow mouthfuls of fresh air despite Griffin’s load pooling in the back of your throat. Slowly, he’s picking himself back up; his eyes are nearly closed as, shakily, he tries to regain control of his limbs. When he feels your hand on his face, he pauses; another second, and sleepy blue eyes are meeting yours, hazy with a pleasured afterglow. He breathes onto you for a moment; and then he’s letting you kiss him, letting you slide your tongue under his and messily make out him all while the product of his high is rife in your mouth.

It’s so messy. All of it is so messy, so dirty—but fuck, you love it. Judging by Griffin’s response, he does too; when you pull away, grinning faintly at the sensation of strings webbing the two of your mouths together, he makes a breathy sound in the back of his throat and runs his thumb weakly over your lower lip.

“Princesa,” he starts, voice trembling, “I am not…I want you to ride me, here, now, please.”

“Now?” Your eyes widen. Now? Right now?

Griffin nods breathlessly in response, one hand falling weakly to his crotch, fingers beginning to wrap over his shaft like he’s making to pump the thing back up to full staff. “A minute, princesa, and then…and then we…”

“Aramis?”

Griffin’s eyes go round as saucers. Any note of post-orgasmic fatigue he had been experiencing dies; Griffin’s French name combined with Leon’s unmistakable tone knocks the both of you out of your lusty stupor, hard and wickedly fast.

You’re sex-sober in seconds. Griffin is lurching upright, racing to pull his boxers up (is that a nylon star, or is that a tear in the fabric?) and you’re racing to pull up his pants, probably forcing them up his ass in the process. Your hands bounce off of each other as you both try to do his belt; you’re clumsy, and you’re pretty sure that you briefly pull the thing so tight through the buckle that Griffin’s waist loses about five inches.

“Apologies for bothering you two.” The words come just as you finish, both gazing innocently out into the high night sky as if you’d been here, just like this, all along. Looking at stars. Standing in silence. You know, the things couples do. Leon seems to buy it; if he doesn’t, he makes no indication of doubt. He nods at you, ever the polite Cartier brother before he addresses Griffin. “We’re doing a toast. We need you outside.”

“Now, doux.” This voice is different; it’s cocky, it’s mischevious, and—oh, it’s Nico, shadowing his elder brother with a shit-eating smile and gleaming blue eyes. He’s almost dwarfed next to Leon’s staggering height, but his presence sends a chill of genuine fear down your spine. He definitely won’t buy the innocent picture the two of you had hastened to paint. “Important business.”

Frustration clouds Griffin’s face; so close, so close to fucking out on the deck with nothing but the stars for company…

“Go.” Gently, you run your thumb over Griffin’s wrist, finger brushing against his racing pulse as you offer him a soft, pure smile. “I’ll be down soon.”

For a moment, he hesitates. You know the exact argument he’s having in his head; he should go with them because this is a family thing, but you’re here and he wants to spend his time with you, but this is a family thing, and…

You can see him deflate as he nods, smiling back at you before he steps away from the railing and moves to join his brothers, nodding at the hall as if to encourage them to start on their way. Leon is off before Griffin even reaches the door; Nico, on the other hand, hesitates. He’s glancing between the two of you with smug trouble brewing in his eyes. Griffin pointedly tries to ignore him, sidestepping to go around him—but the minute he does, Nico’s arm shoots out to stop him, barring him from entering the house.

“What?” The irritated, almost explosive exasperation in Griffin’s tone is so heavy it’s almost tangible; Nico’s eyes widen in response, and he raises his hands in mock surrender.

“Sorry, sorry.” His accent is even thicker than Leon’s. “I was just trying to helping.”

“Helping with what?” Griffin’s own accent gets heavier when he’s annoyed; it’s funny, actually, endearingly so. You can practically hear how French Griffin’s next words are going to sound when Nico shoots him a knowing little grin—and then looks at you before gesturing to his own pants.

“The…zipper,” he says, eyes gleaming as he grins and aims those dangerously mischevious eyes back at Griffin. “Yours. It is not up.”

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athenswrites · 6 months

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Knight of Dawn, Chapter 8 [Not Your Typical Fairytale]

TW: Transphobia

The meeting lasted much longer than expected. It was 6:30 pm, before anyone could escape. Piers’ shirt was soaked through with sweat. As they stepped into the hallway, they took off their jacket and slung it over their shoulder. The cool air was more than welcome after the stuffy environment of the conference room.

They stood at the door and shook hands with everyone else left. At last, Grady came walking out, alone.

“Why’d you wait?” She asked them, and they matched pace with her, walking towards the main part of the Palace.

“I don’t want to walk alone.”

“Well you’re going to have to. I got a meeting tonight with Benj, Sei, Gavin, and the miraculously appearing Lopez tonight for dinner. We’re going over everything you said. I’m so excited.” She drawled, rolling her eyes, “Please save me. Dad’s gonna ask me so many questions about that meeting and in all honesty I wasn’t paying attention for the majority of it.”

“Good luck then. I’ll see you tonight.”

With a mock salute, the duo split up, heading towards what they needed to do. As soon as Piers was on their floor, alone, they tugged off their sweaty clothes, tossing them in the hamper. Their dinner outfit was practically the exact same, but they traded their white shirt for a black one, so they wouldn’t stain it by accidentally spilling soup. They changed in record time, making sure they looked presentable and even putting in the effort to gel their hair back a little. They wiped the sweat from where their mask had been, and found a new gray one which wouldn’t get in the way while they ate, even if it did expose a little bit of the scarring on their face.

Then, Piers got distracted and finished the chess game with Constance they’d left halfway done. (They won, even with the AI setting cranked to the maximum difficulty.)

When Piers finally arrived downstairs for dinner, without their better half at their side, they found themself fashionably late, as always…but not too late. Pausing in the doorway, they scanned the crowded parlor room, taking notes on everyone who’d shown up for dinner.

President Kritzer from South Carolina. New Orleans Parish Commissioner Broussard and Baton Rouge Parish Commissioner Afar, but not their Queen, who hadn’t even come, as predicted. One notable face was missing from the room, which disappointed them; President Dubois was nowhere to be seen.

Across the room, Piers spotted the man with ginger hair, the one who Grady had been sitting with. He was the only secretary or bodyguard or whatever he was present. Stepping further into the room, they pulled their jacket closer around them, as bodies pressed against them. They tried to blend in and not disturb anyone as they worked their way through the crowd, to where the man stood in the far corner.

“Hello! I don’t recognize you from the table earlier today.”

He looked up from the floor at Piers, the slightly shocked look on his face morphing to more obvious discomfort.

“Your Majesty.” He gave a tight lipped smile, “I’m Sec. Darcey Olson. Dubois has a horrible migraine at the moment, so I’m filling in for him. He said you’d probably be looking for him, and he’s still willing to speak after dinner.” Piers offered him a hand to shake, and he did so, but not without a little hesitation. They already knew exactly who he was but, they just had to check-

“Your last name, Olson.. any relation to Marcie?”

“She’s my older sister. We haven’t spoken in a while. I don’t know how we have the same parents.”

“Marcie can be a bit…bossy.”

He eased, uncrossing his arms a little bit, “She’s been like that since before I can remember. We have a decent age gap between us, so we didn’t grow close as kids. Marcie seems to have forcibly made Hansel and Gretel do sibling bonding.”

“Hey! I see you’ve met Piers.” Councilor Johnson came up behind Piers, knocking playfully into their shoulder, before greeting Darcey with a joking military salute.

Darcey laughed, “Yeah. It’s strange.”

What the hell do you mean strange?

Johnson and Darcey began to chat, and Piers zoned out, listening to a conversation behind them between Councilors Mason and Miles. They angled themself just a little bit so they could see the edge of Mason’s face as she spoke.

“...a threat. We all saw the video, with the effigy. With Adele gone, they think the monarchy and by extension the government is weak. We’re all doomed if Jillian Piers can’t stop being so fucking wishy-washy and take an actual stance and do something. We’ll be better off throwing her to the wolves and letting the monarchy end.” Mason whispered, but she was definitely being a little loud on purpose.

Miles scoffed a little, keeping their voice low, “Fantasia, please. That kid is our only chance. If Piers dies, we’re all doomed. We gain more from keeping them around. Adele abdicated. Piers is Monarch. It’s a new era, and I honestly think they’re gonna do better than most of us give them credit for. I’m gonna make the best of it, and retire comfortably in a few years…

Damn. they’d never heard Miles say anything good about them. Ever.

“For fucks sake Shanna, Adele’s dead. You don’t have to suck the ‘queen’s’ dick anymore-”

Piers whipped around, but Miles was already down Mason’s throat, raising her voice. “I may let you slide misgendering me, but the moment you imply Adele was not a woman, I will say something. She may have been a bitch, and I may not have liked her, but at least I respected her.”

The surrounding people, including Piers, were shocked into silence. Councilor Mason rolled her eyes with a huff, and stormed off into the crowd. The paused conversations resumed.

“I didn’t think you’d do that.” was the first thing Piers could think to say to Miles.

She stiffened a little, as if she was going to make a rude comment, before letting out a long sigh. “It’s…You understand. I’ll stand up for others before I stand up for myself. I’ve only ever presented as female while serving in government positions, and Mason still makes purposefully transphobic comments.”

Piers nodded, “I appreciate it. And if Mason ever gives you issues, please let me know.”

“Thank you.” Miles actually smiled at them, before changing the topic, “I guess it’s time to let everyone in. Marcie’s daughter told me it should be ready at 8:15 and it’s 8:20 now.”

“I’ll help you with the doors then.”

Piers and Miles squeezed through the crowd, to the doors leading to the formal dining room. In sync, they opened the doors, and a gust of cool air blew into the parlor. Like cattle, the crowd followed the herd through the doors, flooding into the dining room. They took their places at the long table, their spots assigned with tiny nametags. Piers gestured for Miles to head to the table, and she thanked them, before letting the heavy door fall shut behind her.

The room’s loud chatter died down as Piers approached the table, standing behind their seat like everyone else. Once again, they sat at the head. Every set of eyes were latched upon them, waiting.

“My esteemed guests, I’d like to thank you for joining me these few days in celebration. Yesterday marked the beginning of a new era for this state. You’ve heard me talk enough earlier today, so with no further adieu, let’s eat.”

Piers took their seat between Councilor Johnson and Councilor Sidney. Chairs scraped and voices rang as everyone took their own seats, ordering food and chatting with old friends and new enemies. Waiters came and went, taking orders, pouring drinks, delivering plates, and clearing the table. Guests ordered whatever they wanted off the digital menu, as many servings as they wanted. The table stayed full of plates and drinks.

Councilor Sidney ordered four large bowls of the vegan corn chowder right off the bat. Gretel was the one to deliver their food, and she put a hand on their back, whispering something in their ear. Sidney flushed red.

Prime Minister Cohen got a platter of roast beef dropped in her lap, and she profusely apologized to the poor waitress, instead of the other way around.

Councilor Miles went through three glasses of sweet tea, before one of the waiters just brought her a whole pitcher, which she finished off in record time.

Darcey played with his food and separated it into piles, but he seemed too nervous to eat anything. He excused himself from the table after a few moments, his face green.

Councilor Mason stirred the pot, towards the end of the table, starting arguments for no reason other than to start them.

Gretel tapped Piers’ shoulder as she sat a steak in front of them, accompanied by roasted asparagus.

“Watch your food.” She warned, and they thanked her. Piers nudged the asparagus to the side with their fork, then cut up the steak. It was so raw it still bled (perfect), and they grabbed a roll from one of the baskets, soaking up the juice.

Piers didn’t want to look like a heathen, but they were starving. They could eat anything and everything put in front of them.

Well, unless it was green beans.

They hated green beans.

And they didn’t eat shellfish either, because that would send them to the emergency room.

As dinner dragged on, and the alcohol started to flow for real, tongues finally began to loosen. People tended to talk a little bit more, and spill their secrets. King Chastain had a new mistress. Tennessee’s lieutenant governor had been found killed, a shotgun blast to the head. Louisiana was beginning preparations to remove Queen Consort Gauthier from power, due to her excessive absence. President Dubois supposedly got married.

“President Dubois got married?” Piers whispered to Councilor Johnson, who shrugged, before speaking down the table a little bit.

“Hey Darcey, did Dubois get married? That news didn’t make it up here?” He sounded shocked.

Darcey choked a little on whatever he was eating, and took a long sip of his wine, before he finally spoke. “Uhhh…yeah, after his last election. He and his partner are both pretty quiet about it, to protect the both of them…plus his partner is just as shy as he is.”

“Is he really shy, or does he have something to hide? That guy ain’t normal. I met him years back and he’s fucking weird.” Councilor Miles drawled as she leaned back in her chair, saying almost exactly what was on Piers’ mind.

Collective sounds of agreement sounded from around the table; it seemed like Piers wasn’t alone in their curiosity. Darcey’s hands shook so bad, he almost dropped his glass.

“H-He’s just…he has issues, with people…”

“That’s why he’s not here? Does he actually go to anything? Or did he make you come to dinner because he’s too good to eat with the other leaders? He’s been invading half our borders.” Councilor Miles continued, going a little past teasing as she leaned on the table. Darcey sunk into his chair, face bright red. Piers wasn’t sure how much more they’d be able to stand themself, from the second-hand embarrassment.

“Shanna, that's enough.” Councilor Johnson intervened, thumping his fist on the wooden table to get her attention. She slid back down into her seat, muttering curses at him, and the room awkwardly went back to talking. Darcey excused himself from the table for the fourth time that night, but this time, he didn’t come back.

Once most had finished dessert, and a few more people had started to leave, Gretel slipped a piece of foil-wrapped cake into their hands. “My uncle wants you to take this to Dubois. Apparently, the cake is Dubois’ favorite and he’s already waiting in the Rooftop for you. I’ve got this from here.”

Piers thanked her, again, before standing and addressing the group one last time, telling them to enjoy themselves and that they were retiring for the night. A chorus of faint goodbyes wished them farewell as they left, slipping out of the dining room and into the Palace. Moonlight streamed through the large windows to their right, which overlooked ATLZoS. It was dark, but the city was visibly alive. Spitting in the face of an apocalypse of the undead, it was alive.

The halls were eerily quiet as they approached the center of the Palace, heading towards the main elevators. This dark didn’t scare them, like the Lab. This was home. These were the halls they’d slid down in socks since they were young, and the same halls they’d probably die in.

Seconds after they pressed the button for the elevator, the doors opened. Piers stepped in, hesitating for a second, before bumping their wrist against the scanner and selecting the top floor. The Rooftop was a common room, just for the Royal Family and their most favored guests. It was a strange choice, in Piers’ opinion. They paced back and forth as the digital numbers ticked up.

When it stopped, they readied themself once more, shoulders back, head tilted up, feet firm on the ground.

Nothing was going to go wrong. Piers was going to make sure of it.

TAGLIST (dm to be +/-) @author-a-holmes @soul-write @flowerprose @ceph-the-ghost-writer @theglitchywriterboi @when-wax-wings-melt @thechaoticflowergarden @lyralit @penspiration-writing @samatedeansbroccoli @charlesjosephwrites @italiangothicwriteblr @thetruearchmagos @pineapple-lover-boy @unilightwrites @sanguine-arena @bardic-tales @joshuaorrizonte @blind-the-winds @circa-specturgia @hymnonlips @aloeverawrites @the-stray-storyteller @writeblrsupport @starlit-skys @kyuponstories @guessillcallitart @magic-is-something-we-create @talesofsorrowandofruin @writingonmymind @imslowlydisintegrating @worldsfromhoney

NYTF WIP PAGE

#writing #writeblr #excerpt #wip #athenswrites #nytf #piers hall #grady yensey #shanna miles

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ace-malarky · 1 year

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Word Find Tag #23

realised I had tags I hadn't answered in a minute, my bad lmao

(yes I am continuing to delay on writing the last of the chrisis presents what of it. it's fine. I'll do it at work.)

so this one is from @writingamongther0ses! Thank! and I'm gonna use Soul of the Party bc. yeah. focus!

MINE (Selene)

“I didn’t get a chance to ask.” Selene tilted her head back towards her brother. “Since I was commandeering my brother’s visit to his friend.”

“Your words, not mine.” Saro didn’t look up from his book. “But I suppose you will want to go back and ask further.”

“In a moment, maybe.” Selene turned back to Darcey, struck by a thought. “It’s your uncle that entered the tournament, isn’t it?”

MIGHT (Solaris)

Solaris tried to keep his face impassive as he shrugged. “I heard there might be one knocking around, that’s all.”

“Might have arrived a couple days ago or so?”

Elevé shook her head. “I’m not the only Illusionist around, but I haven’t heard anything.”

“Ah, well, sucks to be you, Sunny.” Tamhas clapped him on the back.

MIX[ED] (Solaris)

“Wait, manners.” The black one tilted his head. “Who are you?”

“Solaris.” He looked between them. “Are you Tamhas or Tadhg?”

“Tadhg, of course.” He winked an emerald green eye. “Try not to get us mixed up.”

“I think I can probably keep you separated now.” Their colouring was distinctive enough. He wondered if they’d been identical before they bonded.

SHRED[S] (Solaris)

Jasper leapt over the shield and attacked, mirroring with his left hand as if he held another weapon there.

Yardley slapped his sword away with their shield and brought the flat of their blade against Jasper’s arm.

“Cut him to shreds!” Tadhg yelled.

Tamhas cackled with laughter.

MASK (Solaris)

He met Solaris’ gaze and raised one manicured eyebrow. Behind his mask, he had dark liner about his eyes, painted up to sharp points on either side.

“Sunny, meet Nuvian,” Tadhg said. “He’s the responsible one around here.”

“Responsible makes me sound so old.” Nuvian smiled, not looking old at all. “A pleasure to meet you, I’m sure.” He spun the pipe around his fingers and sucked on it, blowing out rings of smoke.

BARE[FOOT] (Solaris)

He wasn’t wearing his battered armour right now, but a loose shirt under a jacket, over dark trousers. He was barefoot, but then his feet were more like cat paws than human feet. Probably wasn’t a type of shoe that would fit them.

MOON[LIGHT] (Solaris)

“You don’t trust us yet. That’s probably wise.” Tadhg smirked. “After all, we are dangerous mages from off-world.”

It occurred to Solaris that this may be more danger than he’d meant to take in.

“Awkward, huh?” Tadhg bumped his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Sol, we’re here to help.”

“We?”

“Bit late out for you, isn’t it?” Tamhas asked, materialising out of the gloom. His sandy fur appeared grey in the moonlight, darkened somehow. Maybe ash. There was less colour to his clothes, and a knife was attached to his belt where a slingshot had rested when they’d last met.

ALONE (Selene)

Selene hesitated and then stepped forward. “Elise, can I speak with you? Alone, if you don’t mind?”

Elise looked up. “Sure.” She stood. “Won’t be a minute,” she said to her companions.

Selene led her away, to the railing overlooking the gardens.

“What is it?” Elise asked.

“You’re in danger,” Selene said. “There’s people after you.”

BRIGHT (Selene)

“Please, Abigail, isn’t one Taskeral enough for you to lust after?”

Abigail dropped her gaze to the table, flushing bright red.

Selene frowned and took Abigail’s hand where it lay on her leg under the table. “I’ll see if he can,” she said. “I’m afraid I have him rather busy, though.”

CALL[ED] (Selene)

When they clashed again, Selene came away with a point to even the score.

“Perhaps we should keep training gear for you here,” Carlin said.

“Don’t encourage her,” Saro called.

Selene laughed. “I thank you for the offer, but I must decline.”

“Worried about how I’ll surpass you?” Carlin grinned and swung.

Selene ducked it easily, side-stepping out of reach.

Carlin followed after her and then had to stumble backwards as she struck back at them as she straightened up.

... apparently I have more of Solaris in this doc. huh.

anyhow, @albatris, @raevenlywrites, @aohendo, have incite, fun, crisis, seem for a search, if you like!!

#tagged and bagged #the soul of the party

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oraclekleo · 2 years

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Oracle-Scope for October 2022

Hello!

I have decided to try a new thing. Oracle-Scope will tell you what you can look for in the month of October. I have decided to use the Celtic Tree Signs this month and they don’t perfectly align with the classic zodiac, so check the chart below to find your date of birth and your sign there.

The Oracle cards used are Green Witch Oracle by Cheralyn Darcey.

🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢

Birch – The Achiever

(December 24 – January 20)

V/Taehyung (BTS), Kai, D.O (EXO), Jay B (GOT7), Hyungwon (Monsta X), Kun (NCT), Joshua, Seungkwan (Seventeen), Lee Min-Ki (Actor)

Chilli - Stimulation - Take responsibility and step up to the challenge to gain positive income this month, work on your passion and make sure you are true to yourself, not a mirrored picture of what others want you to be.

🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢

Rowan – Thinker

(January 21 – February 17)

Moonbin (ASTRO), Rosé (BlackPink), Choi In (E’LAST), I.M (Monsta X), Johnny, Doyoung, Jaehyun, Lucas, Jisung (NCT), Dino (Seventeen), I.N (Stray Kids), Taehyun (TXT), Kim Jaejoong (Solo), Hong Jong Hyun (Actort)

Watermelon - Fertility - You will reap what you have sown this month. Plan well, stick with your intentions and look after those you love.

🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢

Ash – The Enchanter

(February 18 – March 17)

JinJin, MJ, Rocky (ASTRO), Suga, J-Hope (BTS), Won Hyuk, Wonjun (E’LAST), Wonho (Solo), Ten, Jungwoo (NCT), DK, Vernon (Seventeen), Beomgyu (TXT), Nam Joo Hyuk (Actor), Simon Dominic (Solo), Mew Suppasit (Thai Actor)

Onion - Protection - You are on the right path, keep going this month because you are protected. Don’t give up. Believe in yourself and listen to your inner voice.

🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢

Alder – The Trailblazer

(March 18 – April 14)

Cha Eunwoo, Sanha (ASTRO), Seonghwa, Yunho (Ateez), Lisa (BlackPink), Xiumin, Sehun (EXO), Jackson (GOT7), Renjun (NCT), Mingyu (Seventeen), Hyunjin (Stray Kids), Sunwoo (The Boyz), Takeru Satoh (Japanese Actor)

Stock - Focus - It’s time for you to slow down and focus this month. Your personal truth needs your attention, beware of losing yourself amid behaviours of others.

🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢

Willow – The Observer

(April 15 – May 12)

Bae Jinyoung (CIX), Seungyeop, Romin (E’LAST), Baekhyun, Luhan, Tao (EXO), BamBam (GOT7), Jeno (NCT), Eunhyuk, Siwon (Super Junior), Jay Park (Solo), Lee Joon Gi (Actor), Lee Jae Wook (Actor), KLEO! :-)

Lemon - Cleansing - It’s time for physical and mental cleansing this month. Sell or donate things you no longer need, drop old bad habits, end toxic relationships, make changes towards a better life.

🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢

Hawthorn – The Illusionist

(May 13 – June 9)

Suho (EXO), Haechan (NCT), Seoho (ONEUS), Lee Soo Hyuk (Actor)

Bay - Wisdom - You might lack some important information this month. Make sure to first inquire before you speak and hurt somebody’s feelings. Seek for facts and wisdom.

🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢

Oak – The Stabiliser

(June 10 – July 7)

Yeosang (Ateez), Shownu (Monsta X), Taeyong, Taeil (NCT), Jun, Hoshi (Seventeen), Leeteuk, Ryeowook (Super Junior), Ji Chang Wook, Lee Min Ho (Actor)

Pea - Communication - Now is the time to move ahead with your projects, plans and ideas. There are new ways of thinking and approaching challenges for you this month. Be open to alternative ways of communication and sharing information as you will benefit from the knowledge gained.

🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢

Holly – The Ruler

(July 8 – August 4)

Mark (NCT), Leedo (ONEUS), Wonwoo (Seventeen), Inseong, Dawon (SF9), Heechul (Super Junior), Kim Woo Bin, Lee Do Hwan, Gong Yoo (Actor), Kentaro Sakaguchi (Japanese Actor), Luo Yunxi (Chinese Actor)

Fennel - Strength - You will find yourself spending more time with those you align closely with this month. Friendships are going to become stronger. You might want to undertake a new life path but make sure you don’t overwork yourself.

🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢

Hazel – The Knower

(August 5 – September 1)

Mingi (Ateez), G-Dragon (BigBang), Jungkook (BTS), Yejun (E’LAST), Xiaojun, Jaemin (NCT), S.Coups (Seventeen), Changbin (Stray Kids), Yesung (Super Junior), Huening Kai (TXT), Wi Ha Joon (Actor), Xu Kaicheng (Chinese Actor)

Grape - Abundance - Stay where you are and grow what you need there because you’re in a fertile time and place this month. Find peace and happiness in the garden (or your plant pot) and in your family circle. Don’t cancel appointments this month.

🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢

Vine – The Equaliser

(September 2 – September 29)

RM (BTS), Chen (EXO), Mark, Jinyoung, Youngjae (GOT7), Hendery, Sungchan (NCT), Ravn (ONEUS), Han, Felix, Seungmin (Stray Kids), Do Ji Han, Lee Jong Suk, Jung Il Woo (Actor)

Lime - Luck - If you were stuck with some situation in the past, things will start moving for you this month. Don’t overplan, let the complexities happen on their time. Be ready for the ups and downs but don’t worry because luck is in your favour.

🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢

Ivy – The Survivor

(September 30 – October 27)

Jongho (Ateez), Jimin (BTS), Lay (Solo / EXO), Joohoney (Monsta X), Yuta, Yangyang (NCT), Jeonghan (Seventeen), Bang Chan, Lee Know (Stray Kids), Donghae (Super Junior)

Pink Rose - Gratitude - You have a reason to be thankful and help is on its way to balance energies this month. Something of great value for you is in focus. Make sure you don’t interfere where you are not welcome, though.

🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢

Reed – The Inquisitor

(October 28 – November 24)

Hongjoong (Ateez), T.O.P (BigBang), Yugyeom (GOT7), Minhyuk, Kihyun (Monsta X), Winwin, Chenle (NCT), Woozi, The8 (Seventeen), Eric Nam, Lee Dong Wook, Park Hyung Sik (Actor)

Chives - Divination - You are the master of your own free will and you are able to meet all challenges head on and powerfully. Believe in your abilities, listen to your intuition. You’re well aligned with divine energies this month.

🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢

Elder – The Seeker

(November 25 – December 23)

Wooyoung (Ateez), Jin (BTS), Rano, Baekgyeul (E’LAST), Chanyeol (EXO), Shotaro (NCT), Onew, Minho (SHINee), Soobin (TXT), Park Seo-joon (Actor), Kang Daniel (Solo)

Violet - Tranquillity - You might have felt like being tested in the past but the period of advancement and breaking free is ahead of you this month. You might need to adapt to the situation but you will still gain a deeper understanding. Make sure to be sensitive to other people’s feelings.

🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢🌲🟢🌳🟢🍃🟢🌿🟢

As you see, you can also check which celebrities share your Celtic Tree Sign with you.

Let me know your opinions!

I'm grateful for any feedback!

#oracle kleo #kpop astrology #astrology #kdrama astrology #horoscope #october horoscope

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onemistressandnomaster · 1 year

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darcey and stacey and dove cameron

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about darcey and stacey--and dove cameron.

for anyone who doesn’t know (and that would probably be for the best), darcey and stacey silva are reality tv “stars” who currently have their own show on TLC. they had been trying to become store-brand kardashians for years. they filmed a pilot for a reality show called “the twin life” that was never picked up, founded a fashion brand, and languished in obscurity until darcey appeared on the first season of a 90 day fiance spin-off titled “90 day fiance: before the 90 days.” as the title would suggest, it was about couples who had not actually gone through with the k-1 visa process that would bring the foreign half to the united states. instead, it was about couples who were thinking about maybe possibly applying for a k-1 visa at some point in the future, with varying degrees of seriousness in their relationships. darcey was in a relationship with jesse, a dutch man 18 years her junior. she was one of the breakout stars of that show for her desperation to get married, her obvious plastic surgery, and her weepy histrionics. I believe in the second season we were fully introduced to her twin sister stacey, who was vaguely hinted at as being in a relationship with a younger foreigner as well. after darcey’s relationship with jesse ended in dramatic fashion, she stayed on the show with a new boyfriend, this one an english dude named tom who was only six years younger than her. the show also officially introduced stacey’s boyfriend and future husband, florian (who is 17 years younger than the twins). when TLC could no longer justify having darcey on a show about fiances without one of her own, they greenlit a spin-off aptly called “darcey and stacey” that would basically just continue their quest for (younger, european) love.

I’m not proud of watching reality shows. they are so often described as a “guilty pleasure,” and I think that phrase fits. I know how exploitative reality tv is, and yet, there is something satisfying about watching the people who agree to be on these shows because you can say to yourself, “I would never be this stupid. I would never act this way for so many people to see. things may be bad for me, but they could be worse!” when I watch anything from the ever-growing extended universe of the 90 day fiance franchise, I can feel that, while I may be working in a job that I hate, I could be coming across as the worst kind of crass american stereotype buffooning my way around a foreign country. but with “darcey and stacey” in particular, I feel this kind of mixture of superiority and pity on another level, because I think these two women exemplify so much of the problem with female socialization in this country.

the first thing that comes to mind while watching their show is the palpable desperation of the titular women--desperation to be famous, desperation to be sexy, desperation to be youthful and trendy and cool. all of the things which girls are taught from a young age to value. going on a reality show does not speak to a particularly healthy state of mind, particularly when the reality show is about dating. making something intimate and vulnerable into something public and exploitative is a fool’s errand. and to see how darcey in particular makes the same mistakes again and again, but constantly assures herself that this time it’ll be different, is pathetic. and I mean that in both the colloquial sense of it being cringeworthy and the older sense of it evoking pathos. I was struck by the irony in a recent episode where darcey was crying in her talking head about how she didn’t want to be like her mother. for context, her parents divorced when she and her sister were 11. her father, mike, remarried twice, to successively younger women, but neither of the marriages lasted. her mother, nancy, did not remarry at all, and presents as the polar opposite of her two daughters. nancy has aged naturally. she looks like a normal middle-aged woman. she wears bermuda shorts and puts her graying hair in a bun and doesn’t wear make-up. she doesn’t have a man in her life, but nothing about her behavior on the show (admittedly meager though it may be) suggests that she feels some kind of gnawing emptiness in her life. but to hear darcey talk, particularly in that talking head, her mother is deeply, agonizingly lonely, and darcey is terrified at the idea that she could end up, single and loveless, like her mother. except it really seems like darcey is just projecting. somehow, despite nancy’s seeming normality, darcey and her sister are obsessed with their looks. to the twins, being without a man beings being without value. for all their talk about empowered womanhood--and they bring it up constantly, almost to the point of parody--they are desperate for male approval. specifically, youthful male approval. it seems impossible for darcey to square the circle of her mother’s contentedness when darcey cannot handle being undesirable. and at the same time, her father’s singleness seems less upsetting to her; she did not weep in that talking head over his multiple failed marriages or his currently living as a bachelor. but to look at it from her logic, it is his right, I suppose, as the bestower of value not to see anyone worthy of that gift; but for nancy, a woman, to seemingly find value in her self, is a paradox that darcey’s mind can’t handle.

this talking head that struck me in such a particular way stemmed from a storyline on this newest season about darcey going to see a matchmaker. see, when this show started, darcey of course started dating another younger european guy--georgi, a bulgarian masseuse. that relationship spanned the first three seasons of the show, with darcey ultimately ending their engagement at the end of the third season. and this was a big to-do because she and stacey were supposed to have a big twin wedding extravaganza (even though stacey and florian had already gotten married during the height of the covid pandemic), and then darcey was no longer engaged, but stacey still wanted to go ahead with a big vow renewal for herself and florian. the twins, whether because it gives good drama or because it’s their genuine dynamic (or both), are constantly competing with each other, and the fact that stacey is married while darcey is not is a point of contention. if darcey cannot define herself as being identical to her sister because she’s not married, and if she cannot define herself as desirable to a man because she’s not married, then what is left to her? enter the matchmaker. but from the start, the matchmaking experiment was doomed to failure. the pictures darcey sent to the matchmaker were filtered within an inch of their life. it’s hard to build a dating profile when your pictures are so obviously edited. then, of course, darcey sought younger guys, even though the matchmaker pointed out that she had had no success so far with having a lasting relationship with a younger man. the matchmaker attempted to match darcey with someone around the same age (late 40s), only for the relationship to sputter after a couple of awkward dates during which darcey was constantly trying to signal her “sexy empowered womanhood.” it was as it became clear to darcey that this guy didn’t want anything to do with her that she gave that talking head about her mother. and funnily enough, if anything, she should be more worried about being like her father, given that they have both had multiple failed relationships with younger partners. but the real horror is her mother happily living alone. and even when the matchmaker pointed out that darcey, at 48, is acting immaturely and insincerely, that her shtick is at best tiresome and at worst pathetic, and that perhaps she needs to go to therapy, darcey refused to listen. and as a viewer, I could merely laugh at her. but I also want to reach through the screen and shake her, tell her, “you are a grown woman, not a teenage girl! grow up, develop some self-respect, stop worrying about what men think, get a vibrator, read a book! look to your mother as an example, not a warning” I feel like choice feminism and the conflation of empowerment with sexual desirability and all the other brain rot that gets funneled into girls from birth has dealt irrevocable damage to these women, and it continues to damage others as we speak. the brainless bimbo thing isn’t cool, nor is it feminist, nor is it fair. because the problem escalates to generalizing all or most women as being like this. the world tells girls to act this way out of one side of its mouth, then scorns them for being oversexed and overwrought out of the other. it’s a finger trap, and those caught in it need to realize it, for the sake of themselves and the sake of others.

and I have only touched on the plastic surgery addiction. I mean, the biggest storyline of the third season was their trip to turkey to get basically full body plastic surgery. they’ve already had so much plastic surgery as to make them virtually unrecognizable, and they still had to get more--to get “snatched,” as they termed it. and it looks horrible. they look swollen, stretched, strained. their breasts look both painful and comical as they swallow the entire torso. the filler in their cheeks and lips gives them a permanent duck face. they do not look beautiful. they almost do’t look human. and you don’t want to be that kind of person who springs to criticizing someone’s looks, but it is ludicrous to me to pretend like the way they look now is an improvement over the way they looked before all of the surgery. the emperor has no clothes. these over-the-top surgically modified faces and bodies look wrong, and our brains know that. and so often, what surgery has ruined, only surgery can fix. so sure, you may think that you are following the beauty trends by getting eye lifts and lip fillers and botox and breast implants. but when the insta baddie aesthetic goes out of style, and some other body type takes it place, what can you do but go under the knife again? and again for the next trend, and the next one? when do you realize that there isn’t a point to it anymore? when your nose has collapsed in on itself or you’ve lost feeling in your breasts? every effort to become more desirable only makes them more repellent. that they attract some men who are interested in their (father’s) money and reality show fame and the promise fo a woman who will do (almost) anything for love is not to their credit. to a well-adjusted person, they come across as grotesque--and given that they are on a channel that is like the modern equivalent of a freak show, whatever point they may think they’re proving to the “haters” is lost in the general disgust and ridicule they excite.

look, I know what it’s like to look in the mirror and hate what I see, and I suppose I’m lucky that some part of my brain recoils at the idea of, say, cutting into the flesh of my face, breaking my jaw, inserting some kind of plastic or filler, and then sewing it back up, even if I wish to god that I had been born with a stronger chin. I remember once lamenting the fact to my mother, who shared the same trait. really it’s a family trait from her side--round peasant face and weak chin. and she said that there were surgeries for that kind of thing, but that you couldn’t eat afterwards with some of them, because they might wire your jaw shut. and I think that idea horrified me so much because it reminded me of the pain I had felt with palate expanders and braces and wisdom tooth surgery. those, or at least the first two, had been cosmetic fixes to an extent. I got the orthodontics because I had a misalignment between my top and bottom teeth, and perhaps that would’ve caused a more serious problem down the line. the wisdom tooth surgery, though, had been necessary because I was in real pain as the wisdom teeth attempted to grow in. and afterwards, my jaw sore and tender, I had cried while trying to eat because it was agony and I was hungry. and to think that I would experience that again, except this time for reasons of sheer vanity. if I were only measuring success by marriage, then clearly weak chins had not stopped my mother or grandmother or great-grandmother or whoever else in my family from marrying. and then, too, I imagined the horror of it going wrong somehow, how much worse it would be to have disfigured yourself. and then, too, I imagined that even if it went well, what if I couldn’t recognize myself? my face was my face, the continuities obvious in the photos of my childhood. it was a face like other people in my family. it was the face I had been born with. in some ways, I think this is not a strictly healthy way for me to think either--god knows I have a tendency to hoard and a pathological aversion to change, but in this case, it’s a benefit. this is my face. this is my body. this is me. who would I be, if I changed all of that, if I threw that away when I could hardly bear to part with an old t-shirt? what worth was there in the face I had since birth?

which brings me to dove cameron. again, for anyone who doesn’t know, dove cameron is a disney tween star turned model/actress/singer/influencer. she’s best known for being the titular characters on the show “liv and maddie” (about twins, so it fits!) and one of the main characters in the “descendants” franchise. she also has a pretty clear case of severe body dysmorphia. if you google her, you’ll probably see stuff about the work she has had done, or you’ll be struck by the difference in pictures of her from a few years ago versus pictures of her now. apparently, even before she landed her roles on the disney channel, she was already getting plastic surgery to give her a more “hollywood” look. her mother actually wrote a book about how to turn your child into a “star,” with a heavy emphasis on achieving the most marketable look. so dove cameron probably went under the knife when she was a middle schooler--and then never stopped. most recently, she’s had buccal fat removal, which gives your cheeks a hollowed look. and there is something so annoying about people, especially women and girls, who will preface even the lightest criticism of her plastic surgery obsession with, “if this was her choice, I wouldn’t care! it’s her body, it’s her right, do it to make yourself feel good and sexy! if I had money, I’d do it too! but if you’re just following trends...” or “if you’re suffering from dysmorphia...” but what other reason is there for dove cameron’s plastic surgery if not to appear trendy, if not to fit the ever-shifting beauty standards, if not to make herself feel better by making herself feel consumable? what if “doing it for yourself” cannot be extricated from the wider culture in which you live? what was wrong with her face the way that it was, all the way back when she was a child? and then the counter is that everybody famous does it. well, isn’t it dystopic to think that every celebrity you see has had some kind of work, and every female celebrity especially must feel some kind of pressure to look beautiful? look at justine bateman, an actress who has recently had to defend her decision to...age. a natural process! and she has to defend a lack of action. I read internet comments that say they love the little enhancements a celebrity has gotten done, or they love the “face” they had when one plastic surgery trend was predominant. “oh, I wish kim kardashian would go back to her 2015 face, she never looked better.” am I crazy in feeling like we should only have one face? maybe I’m naive, but one face, untouched by an surgical attempts to enhance it, should be enough. imagine looking in the mirror and seeing the imprint of a surgeon staring back at you. or you see a thousand other people who have all gone under the same knife as you, and you have become like a car, only one in a line of identical models, value depreciating by the second. maybe in the end, the issue is that we think, because we may technically have the ability to “transcend” the material world, that we should as our right and our destiny. but I think an acceptance of both the possibilities of human ingenuity and the boundaries of human physicality would be more conducive to happiness. maybe the human body isn’t a problem to fix--certainly not if the idea of fixing it is just making it “sexier.”

#my post #long post #terf safe #radfem safe #beauty standards

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brightgnosis · 1 year

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Creating a garden to express your hopes, dreams and wishes, and perhaps even impart healing benefits upon those who visit, is so much easier once you understand the meanings of flowers […]

You may wish to have entire sections of your garden with the same theme and sentiments, or perhaps you could combine various flower meanings to craft a very personal healing and meaningful space suited for a particular purpose [P] Other ideas include borders, which provide protection [and] welcome, trees that speak of the hopes you have for your future […] and your own very special reflection, relaxation or meditation place, perhaps even a secret garden containing the wishes that only you truly know.

From Flowerpaedia: 1,000 Flowers and Their Meanings, published 2017; Cheralyn Darcey (My Ko-Fi Here)

#Quote #Flowerpaedia: 1000 Flowers and Their Meanings #Cheralyn Darcey #Natural Connections

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teamspirits · 6 days

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Capturing Confidence: Trusted Professional Headshot Photographer Services

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#professional headshots #professional photographer #professional photoshoot

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anjali12 · 20 days

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Spotlight on Success: Premier CT Corporate Portrait Photographer

In the dynamic landscape of business, success is often measured by the strength of your brand's image. Your corporate portraits play a crucial role in shaping perceptions and conveying professionalism. At Darcey Stone Photography, we specialize in capturing the essence of success through expertly crafted imagery. As the premier CT Corporate portrait photographer, we're dedicated to helping you shine in the spotlight and make a lasting impression on your audience.

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#portrait photography #corporate photography #event photography #couples portrait

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disruptivebodies · 11 months

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THE BIBLICAL TRANSGRESSIONS OF 16TH CENTURY WITCHES - URSLEY KEMPE’S DIARY

to figure out how to appropriately dismantle and disrupt religion, we must look at some of histories greatest transgressors.

Witchcraft was the ultimate disruption of religious belief. The practice was believed to be a coalescence with the Devil and therefore the ultimate crime against God.

Witch hunter Brian Darcey claimed that “no punishment can be thought upon, be it in never so high a degree of torment, which may be deemed sufficient for such a devilish and damnable practice.” Darcey’s statement is an insight into the 16th century societal hatred and fear of witches and their practice.

If we wish to be the ultimate Disruptive Demon can learn a lot from the Witches who were persecuted for such heinous and sacrilegious activities.

Since these witches are no longer here to speak to us directly we have accessed some of their letters to one another as well as some diary entries which we will transcribe for you here.

First we have a entry from Ursley Kempe detailing how she acquired her affinity for witchery,

A how-to-guide of becoming a witch you could say.

Dear Diary,

I feel I must update you on the bizarre and miraculous events of this past week.

As you know, I have been troubled with a lameness in my bones which has made working very difficult. Thomas has not been getting much attention as I am often much too unwell to tend to his needs (I fear this is affecting our relationship and his development greatly). The tragedy of the situation became far too great to bear, so despite the rumours and mutterings, I went to visit Cock’s wife (the local healer).

Now this is where it got peculiar, the old bat told me I was bewitched!

She gave me some bizarre ritual using Hog poop and Chervil.

With these she instructed that I must put them together and hold them in my left hand, and to take in the other hand a knife and to prick the medicine three times, and then to cast the same into the fire, and to take the said knife and to make three pricks under a table and to let the knife stick there, and after that to take three leaves of sage and wort to make ales to drink.

Thinking the woman was rather deranged but with no other options I performed this ritual and drank my ales (have been for the past week now, I can’t say Hog dung is a delightful flavour).

But the mad thing is that taking these morning and night has cured me of my ailments!

Now is the part that has me flustered, If I am bewitched and I just managed to cure myself of disease with such an uncouth (and somewhat satanic) ritual - does that make me a witch? Am I one of those crazy women that townsfolk love to gossip about? The thought should bring me fear but I must say, I am feeling quite the opposite.

I have powers to heal, but I also now have the power to unheal…

perhaps that Grace Thurlow will regret not paying me for healing her little Davy.

I shall sit and ponder on this new situation I have found myself in.

Diary I feel as though this might be the way to get out of this hovel in the mud and potentially become something spectacular. The witch of st Osyth!

Speak soon,

Ursley.

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indecentpause · 2 months

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Find the Word Tag

tagged by @space-writes to find the words fate, breathe, alive and leave

using the untitled Darcey and Jordan thing!

fate chance:

Jordan’s gaze darts over to Ally and she gives him a thumbs up and and mouths an over exaggerated, Good job. Jordan snorts softly, but he’s still smiling. And then Su-Hyun bounces from Jin over to Jordan, and she throws her arms around his shoulders from the side of the chair, and cheers, “I am so glad you’re coming with us!” And Jordan thinks, maybe he’s not so bad with kids after all. Maybe there’s a chance he won’t fuck it up. The whole bus ride back to work, Jordan keeps the little sock rabbit [Su-Hyun made] clutched tightly in one hand.

breathe:

By the time Darcey’s family has finished talking, Jordan’s about to vibrate out of his skin. The anxiety buzzes deep in his bones, constricts his chest, he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t breathe— He sees the TV in in front of them. The yellow curtains. The ceiling fan above him. The little pride sticker on Lexi’s school bag, still in the corner. The video game consoles sitting neatly on the entertainment center. He feels the soft carpet underneath his socked feet. The slight itch of the inside line of the socks themselves. The fabric of the big chair brushing his arm. The slight draft coming in through the window that doesn’t close all the way. He hears the murmur of conversation on the other side of the kitchen door. The cars outside. A dog barking somewhere down the street. He smells the lavender cleanser Jess uses on everything. The lemon candle burning next to the TV. He tastes— Darcey and his family enter the room before Jordan can finish the exercise his therapist taught him, 5-4-3-2-1, but he’s mostly calmed down, now. He can breathe again, at least. It stutters a little, but he can breathe, and that’s still an improvement.

alive living:

“They said she’s your daughter. Does that timeline add up? Six years old?” “I.” Darcey’s knees go weak and he collapses against the door. His gaze darts around the living room, but they’re alone. Even Puff’s out of the room, sleeping in her favorite spot on the desk chair. “Where are they now?” “I got them a cab to the motel at the intersection across the highway,” Jordan stammers. “I couldn’t… I mean, even if they were lying, she was a little kid, I couldn’t just—“ Darcey shakes his head so hard he can almost feel his brain rattle. “No, you did the responsible thing. When did this happen?” “Just after 8:00.” “And you didn’t call?” “And say what, Darcey?” Jordan snaps back.

leave:

“I mean… fuck,” Darcey says softly. “I don’t even know how this happened. We were so careful.” He presses his cheek against Jordan’s head. “I think I’m still in shock. I think my brain still hasn’t processed it all yet.” He hugs Jordan closer. His hands are trembling much more than his usual tremor. “You’re not going to leave, right?” His voice is so small suddenly, so afraid, the Darcey Jordan first knew before Jordan started to pull him out of his shell. Jordan tightens his arms and says, “Sorry, man, you’re stuck with me.” Some of the stress in Darcey’s shoulders evaporates. The two men pull each other even closer, as close as they can without cutting each other open and crawling between each others’ ribs. Darcey doesn’t speak, but Jordan doesn’t need him to.

tagging @revenantlore @calicohyde @nonbinarynotetaker @devonscroob @buffythevampirelover to find the words: up, down, left, right, start, and select!

#writeblr #my writing #find the word tag #writeblr tag games #amwriting #excerpt #wip #jordan delgado #darcey walker #ally walker #su hyun kwan walker #two heartbeats on one page #holding our hearts in our hands

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jp-hunsecker · 1 year

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To Olivia Movie Review

To Olivia reveals little or nothing about Roald Dahl’s creative process, his source of inspiration apparently being an imaginary child, who may or may not be an alcohol-induced hallucination. The movie, directed and co-written by John Hay, isn't very illuminating about Dahl (Hugh Bonneville) the person either; the film gives the impression that he was a deadbeat dad, a lousy husband, and an angry, schizophrenic alcoholic, but only the most naive of viewers would believe for even a second that any of this has the slightest connection to reality. Even the events portrayed in To Olivia that do correspond to the writer's real life receive a purely superficial treatment. For example, after the death of his daughter Olivia (Darcey Ewart), and following a meeting with a Church official, Dahl comes to view Christianity as a sham. However, Dahl did not come accross as having been a believer prior to this events, and at no point in the film does he appear to be particularly religious or irreligious. I guess this is what happens when someone makes a film about one person based on the biography of a different person. To Olivia was originally titled An Unquiet Life, and is based on Stephen Michael Shearer's biography of Patricia Neal (an American actress and Dahl's wife from 1953 to 1983, played here by Keeley Hawes) of the same name. And speaking of titles, Hay gets that wrong too. We see Dahl working, very briefly, on Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (which spends more time being read than being written), and the implication is that that book is dedicated to Olivia's memory. However, it is James and the Giant Peach (1961) and The BFG (1982) that Dahl dedicated to his daughter. Here's a film that is presumably going to be of interest to Dahl's readers, but which patronizes the viewers by automatically assuming that they will only be familiar with the author's most popular novel. Who wants to see a movie whose director groundlessly underestimates his very target audience? It gets worse, though; specifically the intertitle that precedes the closing credits.

Now, that’s the movie they should have made.

#to olivia #movie review #roald dahl #biopic #drama

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mad2001-4 · 1 year

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BABY SINS AU

Part 1

Probably will make more in the future

Darcey woke with a little whine, lip trembling a bit as soon as he did upon realizing he was laid in the crib and not cradled in someone's arms. The baby stood up in the dainty bassinet decorated in light pinks, forest greens, and colbat blues, steadying himself with a hold on the edge. He took a moment to look around for an adult but in this also coming up fruitless, his lip trembled harder before a wail left him. Already, he proved to be a clingy 22-month-old, constantly needing to be in someone's arms. Hearing the commotion, Abel came in, having already been prepared to check on the babies and toddlers they'd acquired.

"Oh sh.. sh, shhh now," he cooed gently, "what is all this fuss for?" the raven haired caretaker hummed picking up the baby, who fussily whined as he was lifted up all up until he was cradled. Like it was magic, Darcey immediately hushed, clinging tightly to Abel's top, some combination of baby babble and Abel's name and other minor words.

Abel chuckled quietly, "Ohh someone's talkative now," he hummed, "Let's get you downstairs to play," he hummed, bouncing the little boy as he carried him downstairs to the playmat where Cain was setting out wooden blocks for the children to play with. The younger brother looked uneasy at the sight of the blocks, "You don't think those are too scary for the kids?" he asked, pointing to the pictures of monsters and cryptids rather than the typical letters and numbers.

Cain scoffed, "Of course not. They only frighten you because you're a spineless pig belly," he sneered, picking up one of the blocks and showing it to Darcey who cooed happily at the toy, eagerly taking it in his own grasp, admiring it from all sides with soft giggles, "B'ock... b'ock.." the baby mumbled.

Cain snorted in approval, jutting his chin upwards in an almost proud movement, "See? Perfectly fine. Despite your mollycoddling. Speaking of which, sit him down. You're going to spoil him carrying him around so much."

Abel hesitated, looking down to the red haired baby he was bouncing with unease, "Cain... he doesn't like to be sat down," Abel mumbled, "he'll cry... maybe.. maybe I should-"

"Maybe you should listen to me," Cain interrupted, eyes narrowed warningly, "those little fits are exactly why I'm suggesting you put him down. It'll teach him to not be so reliant on being carried. He is nearly two and between Gluttony and Greed, we need as many of them to walk as we can get. As much as I detest the thought, we cannot lug seven children around between the two of us."

"We- we can manage three though! One of us have two kids someti-"

"I said," Cain growled stomping over to Abel and leaning down in his face, even hushing Lust's excitement in his toy, "to sit. Him. Down. Abel.... now."

Abel shivered, trying to not be murdered today, though it seemed he was already on thin ice, he finally obliged to his older brother's wishes, sitting Darcey down on the mat. Darcey was fine a few moments until realizing he wasn't going to be picked up again. Immediately, tears pricked at his eyes again, reaching his arms out to the brothers, fussing softly. Before Abel could scoop down to pick him up, Cain pointed a finger warningly.

"Don't you dare, nitwit," he growled, then looked down to Darcey, "now, you listen here, young man. You are fine right down there. You're big enough to move around yourself. Uncle Abby and I will not be bending to your will any longer."

Darcey hiccupped a few times before a wail let him fully, as if that would convince the two brothers, insistently opening and closing his hands. Abel bit his lip but didn't make any move. Cain snorted but looked to his brother, "Walk away, go check on Gluttony and allow this crybaby to cry it out himself."

Abel obliged heading back upstairs, Cain snorted again softly, having a much easier time turning his back to the crying child to do what he needed to. This only made Darcey cry louder, slamming his hands on the foam mat, "Ho'd! Ho'd!! Ho'd m-meeee!" Darcey sobbed.

The fit stirred Salem, or Sloth, from her sleep. They blinked slightly disoriented and whined softly leaning into Wrath who immediately wrapped its arms around him. Salem, however, scanned for the source and frowned gently when they saw the redhead baby crying and insisting still. They looked up to Wrath who initially had a little glare fixed on the baby for waking Salem, but upon feeling her look, it looked back down to them.

Salem pointed to Darcey, "Sad.." she mumbled.

"Crybaby," Lucias huffed, repeating the word it'd heard Cain use for Darcey.

Salem frowned deeper making Lucias do the same, it's brows furrowed gently, "No mean," they murmured making Wrath frown more looking at the still crying Darcey.

"Sorry..." it mumbled, "but how 'n we help?"

Sloth thought a moment, before a smile broke out across his face, wiggling free from Lucias who blinked in confusion but watched the brunette child crawl over to Darcey. Salem immediately reached out to pet Darcey's hair, successfully grabbing the child's attention from his crying, looking at Salem with sniffles and hiccups leaving him.

Sloth smiled a bit, holding her arms out to Lust. It took a moment before Lust leaned into Salem, accepting the offer and starting to settle down immediately from his tantrum. Wrath watched on curiously a moment before a sweet voice it already grew itself attached to rang out.

"'Uci, cmon! Cuddle!" Salem insisted, smiling brightly now with Darcey nuzzled up to their chest. Lucias wasted no time crawling over to join, latching itself to Salem, just as it had been beforehand only now it was protectively holding two people now. Salem, utterly content in the small cuddle pile they'd created, laid her head against Lucias's chest, shutting her eyes. Even Darcey was now fully calmed, pink eyes fluttering a little bit from his previous crying fit, snuggled up and happy.

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nurtureliterary · 1 year

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Milk, Memory

Melissa Darcey Hall

All that was left of The Mothers was their milk, warm and viscous and Easter-egg pink in the light of sunrise. When The Men rose that summer morning, they found empty halves of beds, untouched suitcases, and full pantries. Nothing had been taken and yet nothing remained but milk-stained fingerprints on door handles, footsteps down the hall, and pancake-sized puddles on the bed, in the bathroom, at the front door. The milk ribboned down the front steps, across the front porch, past the driveway, before ending at the black asphalt of the road that, by seven o’clock, was already over one-hundred degrees. From the edge of the road, The Men could hear the slap of front doors opening and closing, the shriek of a phone, the cry of infants ready to escape the ribcage of their crib for the warm embrace of The Mothers, the milk readily leaking from their jam-bruised nipples like the steady drip of a faucet, its gasket worn out and loose.

The Men were logical, so they asked logical questions and considered logical explanations. They weighed the possibilities of kidnapping, of murder, of a group trip to a grocery store for manuka honey or cold-pressed grapeseed oil. They’ll return, they’ll come back, one of The Men chanted like a prayer. Another voiced a concern about magic, of cults, of unhappiness, but the others quickly dismissed this suggestion as that of paranoia. A third, fourth, and fifth disrupted the puddles of milk, rubbed the pink between their fingers, still warm even hours later. They licked the milk off their hands and remembered their own Mothers, fountains of sweetness and satiety.

Because The Men were not storytellers, because they disliked any question they couldn’t answer, any needs they couldn’t satisfy, any desires they couldn’t fulfill, they mourned the loss of The Mothers in the same manner they had once hoped for rain during the drought: briefly and resignedly. Like the needling of afternoon hunger, the longing was ephemeral. They stopped asking questions. They would not look beyond the borders of The Community. The Mothers had been taken, and if they hadn’t been taken then they were traitors, and, either way, would need replacing. Eventually, “devastating” and “devout” were replaced with “insidious” and “selfish” when describing that mysterious summer morning. Someone would need to take care of the infants that had not stopped crying since The Mothers had fled and abandoned their children. Someone would need to clean the milk that, by the second month, stained the surfaces pink. Someone would need to fix the glitch in the code that had allowed this to happen.

When The New Mothers arrived from The Nest, fresh from training, their first task was to clean up the milk. No matter how many times they scrubbed, the honeyed texture remained, sticking to bare feet and pant hems and stray hairs. The Men stopped speaking of The Mothers, erased them from their histories, but The New Mothers remained The New Mothers because it meant there was always the warning of the past, fuchsia-faced and crouching in the corner, watching and waiting.

· · ·

The Mothers took nothing with them. Where they would be going, they wouldn’t need anything from the desert, wouldn’t need anything that being a Mother had provided them. In the middle of that summer night, they tip-toed through their houses for one final tour, letting their milk drip from their heavy breasts like a priest swinging his censer signifying the presence of something holy. It made sense to leave behind the milk—which The Men said was pink from love but was actually from the syrupy vitamin supplements that the infants needed to consume for the first two years of life once detached from The Incubator and assigned to The Mothers for raising—because it was the last thing they could give of themselves.

Because of the vitamins, everything The Mothers saw was glazed pink, including the infants to whom they whispered goodbye and the sand that danced across the doorway from the Santa Ana winds. Outside, pink vans purred in neutral. The Mothers let the plum light of the stars and full moon guide them down their front porches and into the cavernous mouths of the open-doored vans. When all The Mothers were accounted for, the vans crept down the labyrinthine roads of suburbia toward the gates of The Community. They knew The Men wouldn’t look for them beyond the gates. They lacked the curiosity to venture into the desert; they lacked the faith to assume there was a world beyond their own colonized borders if they looked hard enough.

When they reached the end of land, The Mothers crawled out of the van, collapsed onto their knees, and prayed to the water before them. Day by day, the vitamins washed out of their bodies. Eventually, they saw the world as intended: a not-pink cobalt ocean churning beside not-pink mossy woods with a not-pink tangerine horizon before them. When they claimed the woods as home, the milk disappeared altogether, the last of the pink dissolving into the damp mahogany earth.

They renamed themselves The Women. Because they were storytellers, they wrote down their victory and retold the tale of their lives with The Men and of their escape every year in The Pink ceremony where they feasted on cotton candy-dyed milk and blush-stained apples and flamingo-tinted bread. It did not matter to them that there was no one to inherit their memories; it was something—finally—just for them. The Women would not forget the infants and their rubbery lips, rubbery limbs, rubbery heads, but they didn’t know how to miss something that was never really theirs (regardless of their care, the infants would grow up to become The Men and The Mothers, their fate determined long before their genesis). The Women would not forget The Men, not out of fear but the pink haze of memory when remembering a past that was hundreds of miles behind them.

Melissa Darcey Hall is a writer and high school English teacher in San Diego, California. Her work has appeared in Fugue, Five South, The Florida Review, The Louisville Review, Columbia Journal, Pigeon Pages, and others.

#prose #fiction

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