#i used a stock image and then added that little moon | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

simply-eno · 1 year

Text

Superstition: A Short Story

Chapter 3. A Story Of Family: Part 2

My mother leaned back in her chair, producing five long cigarettes and passing them around to each of the captivated members of her audience. The man beside her gave her a disapproving look while she grabbed a twig from the ground and held it to the fire until the tip of it was lit with a red burn. She walked around to each of us, holding the smolder to the cigarettes, and the air filled with the smell of tobacco and clove. Each of us children drew the smoke in slowly, my older siblings holding in the smoke a little bit longer than I did, and exhaled in a calm ecstasy. I choked slightly on the breath, sputtering quietly before taking a sip from the lukewarm beer. I was still new to the tradition that my mother had placed, but the hand-rolled cigarettes were part of the storytelling. Each one had been packed and rolled by our mother, the tobacco had come from the store, her large bag carried enough tobacco to put out the brand name cigarette companies out of stock it seemed, and the cloves were grown back on the small farm we called home. She rolled them before each camping trip, enough to last us for the week and then a few extra, and along the side of each cigarette, in neat handwriting was a phrase that we grew up hearing all the time: we are not superstitious, we are cautious.

My mother finished her rounds of lighting the cigarettes and returned to her chair by the fire, the light of which was burning low. The man shifted in his seat and added a small log to the embers. They shared a look as they each dragged a long hit from their cigarettes.

“What was the thing?” asked my sister in between her drags and sips. Her eyes flickered in the flame light with curiosity. “And what happened to him?”

My older brother squirmed in his seat uncomfortable with the tale. While we were always fascinated by our mother’s stories, the ones about family made us all squeamish. The depth and detail that our mother likely embellished the stories with, made them feel all the more real. Some bearing of suspension of disbelief kept us grounded in the fantasy, but it made us uneasy knowing the names of our kin were being used in these horror stories.

“We don’t rightly know what the thing was, but of course this isn’t the end of the story,” my mother’s voice carried an edge to it, her words short and cold sounding. “This was only the beginning of my grandfather’s horrors.”

She leaned forward, the curls of her hair bouncing with the movement into her face; they caught the light of the fire and reflected a bright red back into the surrounding dark. The moon rested high in the sky now, a sliver of white against the background of black and twinkling stars, and the cold air heaved a gust of wind, blowing the smoke across the pit and into mine and my siblings’ faces. We all shuddered with the chill, wrapping ourselves deeper into our blankets before our mother began again.

“You see, your great-grandfather would survive this first encounter. He would survive a few encounters with this strange creature, and other beasts of the night.” Her words grew colder and colder as she spoke, the smoke from her cigarette spilling out around her vowels; conjuring the image to our young minds of a dragon preparing to breathe fire.

William sat there, panting hard in the cab of his truck looking at the black treeline illuminated by his headlamps. His heart was racing, and his blood was pounding loudly in his ears. The sense of dread welled in his throat as he gasped for air. He looked wildly out his windshield for any sign of movement before him, the inky black of the night seemed suffocating outside of the dim glow of his light, growing and moving closer and closer to him. He roared the engine, and roared it again before it finally turned over and started its loud pur, he threw the beast into reverse and sped as fast as it would go down the now dirt road. The white dust billowed behind the truck, and William kept his eyes on the road ahead, cautious to be on the lookout for the turns that would take him to his farm. He finally found the right turn, and slowed slightly to take it. The brakes groaned in the sudden shift and he prepared for them to give out as he rounded the corner, but they held steadfast and he maneuvered carefully back to his straight path. Before long, he could see the oil lamp that hung outside his front door, shining like a beacon of hope in the black of the night.

The truck slowed to a stop just outside of the porch, and William scrambled out of the cab and to the porch, grabbing the lamp before opening the door. He looked over his shoulder, peering back into the darkness that encroached on his homestead. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, and he finally felt like he could catch his breath. He opened the door, expecting the house to be silent with all the children in bed, but instead he found them waiting patiently for his return, and a bowl of soup at the head of the table.

“Father!” Billy said, standing up suddenly and rushing to the man in the door. “Are you alright? You look like you have seen a ghost!” He placed a steadying hand on the shoulder of his father, a look of deep worry setting into his young face.

“Uh,” William cleared his throat, “yes, I’m fine, Bill. It’s just been a long day or two.” He tried to smile to ease his teen’s worries. “Your mother and I had some trouble with the truck on the way into town, we ended up walking there. But, I was able to meet the mechanic that has set up shop, and he helped me get the ol’ girl running again.” He slapped at his breast pocket and pulled out the small business card that the short man had given him and handed it to Billy. “He said to ring him up if’n you’re interested in getting a job. Might be good for you and Vicky to learn a new trade besides mucking the stalls.” He beamed brightly at his sons, pride and hope replacing the dread that he was feeling.

“Really?” Vicky asked, now moving to stand next to his older, taller brother, and looked at the card. “We’d be allowed to go to town? To work?” Vicky looked at his father with slight astonishment. “We could earn our keep, Billy! Be in town! See some new sights!”

It was rare for the children to travel with their parents to town, and even rarer for them to be able to explore or experience the wonders for themselves. Billy and Vicky had gone a few times with their father to help unload and reload supplies and stock for the upcoming winters, but the isolation had clearly done away with all social graces that the boys might have had. They were awkward and gawky when it came to talking with the female store clerks, and even more so when it came to the pretty girls that would pass them on the street. June and Gale were more inclined to go to town with their mother and father, and quickly made conversation with the helpful boys, but often politely declined all proposals of courting.

“If’n you’re interested, of course. It will take some time, but you two could get into the boarding house, and start saving for your own lives.” William’s voice sounded full and proud. “But we can discuss this more another time, for now, the four of you must go to bed, the hour is late, and I am tired.”

His four children bid him a good night, and went off to their respective rooms. The man sat down at the head of the table and stared at the bowl of soup. The viscous liquid and the chunks of meat and potato seemed suddenly unappetizing to the adrenaline rushed man. He picked up the spoon and stirred the soup, and forced himself to eat. It was somewhat cold, but the flavor was rich, and before he knew it, the bowl was empty. William sat back in his chair, and shook his head of the anxious feeling that had overwhelmed him.

He pondered the image of the beast that he saw in the woods on his drive. He had heard stories, of course, about human-like things that lurked high in the peaks, but in all his years he had never considered them true. And then he huffed heavily, they were just stories. He probably just imagined the creature, due to dehydration and the late hour of the moon, it was nothing but his mind playing a cruel trick on him. He stood and walked over to the door, opening it briefly to peer out into the night, and relaxed when he saw nothing out of the ordinary. The barn stood staunch in the corner of the property, shadows didn’t dance or reach for him, and he could see the three milk cows that he had out grazing in the field. He closed the wooden door with a soft click and locked it for good measure, and made his way to the bedroom that he would sleep alone in for the next three weeks.

He slept fitfully, but awoke to the rising sun feeling unusually aware of the exhaustion that ravaged his body. He grunted, stretched, and pulled the covers away from his body. He could smell the coffee that June or Gale was brewing, and the cackle of the fireplace and the faint sizzle of bacon in the cast iron. William swung his feet over the edge of the bed and found his house shoes with blind toes. He walked over to the mirror that hung on the wall, and looked at his reflection, his green eyes wandering over his aging face. He wasn’t old, in his early 40's, but his stubble was beginning to gray, and the wrinkles were beginning to line heavily on his face. He felt his age, if not older. He sighed at his comely appearance and then walked out the bedroom door.

“Good morning, pa,” June said warmly, pouring a hot cup of coffee for him and placing it on the table at his designated chair. “Breakfast will be ready shortly.” She returned to the cast iron that was hanging on a spit over the fire and gently cracked a fresh egg into the bacon grease. “Most of the morning chores have been finished, Billy and Vicky started them far before the sunrise, and Gale is out running around doing heaven knows what.” She chuckled.

William grunted as he sipped his morning brew, the hot liquid offering more comfort than energy. The black coffee was acidic and thick on his tongue, he wished he afforded himself the joys of sugar. The cost of the sugar wasn’t a luxury they allowed themselves too often, usually only kept for the baking that his wife would do for special occasions.

“Junie, did you see anything unusual around the farm before I got home?” Her father asked, staring at the half empty cup before meeting her eyes. “Anything or anyone come by?”

June looked at her father for a moment with an expression of confusion and pondered his questions. “The pastor stopped by the morning you and mother left, but otherwise, no.” She answered flatly.

The pastor always came by to check on the family, imploring them to make the journey to the chapel on Sundays, but William and Branch always politely declined the offer. William was a strong Christian, sturdy in his faith in God, but he preferred the silence of his home for his prayers, and didn’t see much point in paying the tithe to the church just to hear a sermon that he could perform for his own family. Branch never said much about her faith, but never tried to intervene in her husband’s teaching of the good book to their children. She would listen occasionally to him, but more often than not, she would step outside during his moments of preaching.

William thought about her answer, and then chuckled. “Of course, of course he did. Did he stay long?”

“No, but I offered for him to come inside for a cup of coffee and a cookie that mother had made. He said that the chapel was expecting some newcomers, a family of four boys,” June said, gauging her father’s reaction. She and her sister had never been interested in courting, not because of their father’s disapproval, but because they had little interests in the pursuit, but the mention of boys closer than to them than the town boys piqued her curiosity. “I thought it might be nice to start going to the chapel.” She sat down across from her father, who was now looking at her with hope and a wide smile stretching across his face.

“Yes, of course, we can arrange for that to start happening next week. If you would like, I can have the boys take you and Gale, and I’ll stay home to do the chores,” he said easily. He wanted nothing more than to see his children start living their own lives. June was 18 years of age, and well into her prime of womanhood. It would do well for her and the others to start experiencing the world and making friends, or meeting loves to start their own families.

June beamed, and thanked her father before returning to breakfast. She plated the spread of eggs, bacon and biscuits at each of the chairs, and then called for her siblings to come inside for the sup. Gale and the boys entered the house smudged with dirt.

The children cleaned up and joined their father at the table to eat their Sunday breakfast. They ate with small chatter and excitement as William told them about their respective opportunities to leave the nest. The four young adults buzzed with the possibilities. When they finished their breakfast, June and Gale gathered the dishes and started to pick up and clean. Billy and Vicky put on their work boots and started for the fields, and William sat down on the porch with another cup of black coffee. He watched the boys in the fields, watering the horses and the cows, and yelling at each other about who would fix the gate this time around. He smiled softly, and turned his attention to the trees on the edge of the property. He watched carefully for any movement, his eyes peering hard into the green.

"Father," June said, startling the man on the porch. "It's almost supper time. Gale and I made a pot roast with some potatoes." She looked at him, slightly confused by his reaction to her voice. "Something interesting to see? You've been out here all day just staring at the trees." She walked over to stand beside him, trying to follow his gaze.

"Nah, just lost track of the time!" He smiled, and then groaned comically as he stood up. He looked at the half filled mug of coffee that had long since gone cold, and a fly had landed inside and died. He grimaced, and dumped the coffee out on the ground. He truly had lost track of time staring into the woods, so deeply lost that he couldn't remember blinking, or having any string of coherent thought; he had just stared, waiting for a sign of the creature he had seen last night. He shook his head. "We best get inside for supper, and then we shall discuss further our plans for you, my beautiful children."

Supper went by peacefully, and as Gale and June cleaned up, William sat down with his two boys.

"Tomorrow, be up bright and early with me to get the chores done, and then pack up a bag for the both of you. We're all going to make a trip into town. You and Vicky will be introduced to Henry, the owner of Captain Hook's towing and servicing. June and Gale," he gestured mindlessly to indicate the two girls behind him, "will be picking out some new clothing for themselves and you to wear on Sundays, if'n y'all intend on going to church."

The girls squealed with excitement, and the boys nodded their heads in unison. William felt a pang of loneliness at the absence of their mother for these decisions, but ultimately knew that she would approve. He would write her a short letter explaining the situations and send it to her in the morning from the post office. They were grown, and it was time for them to find flocks of their own.

The rest of the night passed quietly, yet William laid restless in his empty bed. He sat up, and peered out the window into the moonlit land, the trees black and looming in the distance. He saw a deer walking in front of the treeline, and he could faintly hear the howling of an owl. It was peaceful and beautiful. He sighed, and laid back once more, closing his eyes tight to force sleep upon his body. Before long, he was softly snoring and dreaming of his Branch.

Before the sun rose, Billy rapped his hard knuckles on his father's door, and William woke with a slight jump.

"Aye, boy, I'm up!" He shifted and rolled out of the bed. His body groaned.

“Father,” Billy whispered, opening the door slowly. His eyes were wide and his cheeks were flushed. He looked afraid as his father turned to him at the sound of his voice.

“What is it, Billy?” William’s voice softened as he quietly hurried to his son’s side. He placed a steadying hand on the shoulder of the shaking young man. The fear that his son’s face displayed, sent a chill down William’s spine.

“Father, something happened to the horses,” Billy’s voice shook in terror.

#short story #chapter three #prose

6 notes · View notes

manifestingalignment · 1 year

Text

I’m back - with a Review of my Tarot Collection!✨

Hey Tumblr fellows! It’s been awhile! Last year was a pretty deep year of shadow work for me so I haven’t been around the blogging space in a little while. I also discovered the Fediverse which is where I spend most of my social media time now. It’s amazing!

This year is my 30th birthday and my hubby is gifting me a new tarot deck, so I thought it might be fun to do a review of the tarot and oracle decks I’ve collected over the past 8 years and share them with you! And perhaps you’ll discover some that you’ve never seen before to add to your own collections!

1. Age Of Aquarius Tarot by Yana LéVie

(Ordered on Etsy, will review once it arrives).

I love the aquatic feel of this deck so much. But what makes this deck really unique is it has 88 cards! It features the major and minor arcanas, and a THIRD arcana has been added to this deck called the Universal Arcana (hence, the additional cards). The guidebook also seems really beginner friendly but I'll review this deck properly once I actually have it in my possession.

2. The Starchild Tarot (Akashic Edition) by Danielle Noel

(Ordered from her website).

I purchased this one for it's art style, it was the second deck I ever owned. The images are absolutely stunning. Reading the symbolism in this deck isn't quite as intuitive as other decks and would likely be more difficult for beginners without the guidebook, but some are decent. It's truly a beautiful deck to own for those who love this art style and pastel tones. The guidebook is also fairly detailed and includes upright and reversal meanings, as well as some associations.

3. True Black Tarot by Arthur Wang

(Ordered from his website).

This deck is so polished, I've never touched cards softer than these ones, and such great quality! A lot of love went into the production of this deck, both in the card stock and the imagery. This is one of my more symbolic decks and I use this one primarily for shadow work. My only grievance with it is the way the cards are labelled. The Minor Arcana card labels are just Roman Numerals and it can be confusing to find some of the cards in the guidebook at times. Arthur Wang recently created another tarot deck I am looking to get in the future called Ephemera, which looks to be just as stunning as his True Black Tarot, except instead of a black theme they are white and gold. It's a brand new deck that just finished funding on Kickstarter and is due to be released this Spring.

4. Spirit De La Lune Oracle by Marissa Rankin and Rachael Tarantella

(Ordered from their website - 🚫 I DON’T recommend buying from them. 🚫 )

This is probably the most unique deck I own, as the cards are round, but also, it just has such a unique system and each moon phase and mandala are so beautifully detailed, both in the artwork and in the guidebook. It is a very well done deck, but I don't recommend buying from them directly unfortunately as I had a really negative experience with them in the past. I'd suggest getting this deck from a third party seller if possible if anyone wants it. I purchased a planner from them awhile after purchasing the deck because I loved the deck so much. It was very late arriving in the mail and my husband and I were in the process of moving residences. Had it arrived on time it wouldn't have been any issue, but it didn't arrive before we moved and so I reached out to the seller explaining the situation to see if anything could be done. They were really nice about it in the beginning and offered to send a replacement to our new address, but then after that message they gave me the silent treatment for weeks, they would read my messages asking for an update, but wouldn't respond. They just completely ghosted and never fulfilled the replacement as they had said they would. As a business owner myself, I felt this was handled really poorly, that if they weren't genuine about sending the replacement they shouldn't have said they would do that and then go unresponsive and not follow through. So as much as I still love and use this deck, I can't encourage others to buy it from them, because should it get lost in the mail or any other unfortunate circumstances arise, there will be no help from them and they will ghost.

5. The Constellation Tarot by Iryna/Artismymagic

(Ordered on Etsy).

This was my very first tarot deck and I absolutely love it, though, in hindsight it is really not a good deck for beginners at all. I am a very visual person and LOVE the artwork in this deck, but it is very difficult to read on an intuitive level unless you know what certain constellations mean as many are what make up the major arcana in this deck. The guidebook also is not a very detailed and not great quality. That might have changed since I purchased it years ago as she did make some updates since then. I still love this deck and use it occasionally, and have had a lovely experience with the creator Iryna. She made some updates to the packaging since I purchased it years ago and mailed me the new box to keep my cards in.

6. The Weaver Tarot (Journeyer Edition) by Threads Of Fate

(Ordered from their website).

This is such an aesthetically pleasing deck. The cards are beautiful holographic with foil and I think it is decent for it's symbolism. It comes with a reference card that is really helpful to show what different card symbols mean that they repeat throughout the deck. As much as I fell in love with the aesthetic of this deck, I never really ended up connecting with it. I didn't connect with the language within the guidebook and felt there were some inconsistencies with the symbolism. Just not a good frequency match I guess. Hoping to maybe one day trade it for a different tarot deck I want more. There’s no doubt this is a stunning deck though, and the quality is incredible!

7. Isis Oracle by Alana Fairchild

(Purchased on Amazon).

I will NEVER NOT recommend this deck! This deck is by far one of the most detailed decks I have ever owned and connect with on such a deep level. This is one of the decks I always turn to when I need loving guidance or spiritual "mom" advice. It isn't just about the artwork with this deck, but the guidebook is so incredibly detailed. The messages for each card are several pages and every card includes a ritual that connects with it and the message it brings to help you go inward with it. This is just such a special deck. This is one of those rare decks that you can just tell the creator of the deck made it from deeply spiritual place, that her spiritual process was incorporated throughout the entire process. I have never encountered that with any deck before, not like this. It feels like many of these messages were channeled. I just love this deck and can't recommend it enough.

8. Starlight Frequencies Oracle by Leah of ShopDarkMoonCrystals

(Ordered from Etsy shop).

I am so glad I got this when she first released this deck because this version of the deck is no longer in production. The creator of the deck released this version in the beginning but decided to go in a totally different direction with it, so the new version looks nothing like this one. But I really like this version better than the new one. The backgrounds have really soft color gradients with holographic accents on each of the cards. It is a very minimalistic deck, giving only minimal guidance in the guidebook, but it was intended this way as this deck was meant to be more for intuitive practice.

9. Forest Of Enchantment Tarot by Lunaea Weatherstone and Meraylah Allwood

(Ordered from Amazon)

This deck is one I had my eye on for awhile before purchasing. I fell in love with the artwork because it reminded me so much of the fairytale storybooks I used to read as a child. So much love and creativity went into this deck. The suits have a different name than traditional tarot decks, and the artwork is so detailed and has so much symbolism. You really gotta study the images in this deck as there are so many hidden details and symbols within the artwork. There are two decks in my collection that really speak to me and seem as though they really come to life, and it is this one and the Isis Oracle previously mentioned. These two decks are my main go-to decks, because they feel so kindred to me. Highly recommend the Forest of Enchantment Tarot!

10. Lucid Dreams Tarot by Britta/St.Soleil

(Purchased on Etsy, though, their Etsy shop was shut down. This deck can still be purchased from their website)

In my opinion, this is the best tarot deck for beginners out there! It has the upright and reversal meanings right on the cards, as well as the astrological symbols, zodiac and elemental keys. The guidebook is incredibly thorough as well and includes the meanings to everything on the cards, including a guide to numerology in the tarot! The artwork in this deck is heavily based on the Rider-Waite tarot, though, in my opinion the artwork in this deck is so much more appealing and just looks so elegant! I highly recommend this deck to any beginner. As for their Etsy shop being shut down, this was due to them being overwhelmed with orders a couple years ago during the holiday season. The decks were a few weeks delayed in being shipped out, which resulted in a whole bunch of people leaving negative reviews and requesting refunds in fear they wouldn't arrive in time for Christmas. People still got their decks but all the refund requests and negative reviews due to delays I think got them shut down. I still recommend purchasing from them because they are honest, they just got overwhelmed with more orders than they could handle I think for the season. The deck can be purchased from their website.

11. Archangel Oracle Cards by Doreen Virtue

(Purchased at a thrift store)

Under other circumstances I probably wouldn't have purchased this deck, but I found the Angel Card Reading Kit that still had the DVD for it inside, and it was such a cheap price I couldn't pass it up! Though it's not my particular taste, the artwork is pretty though and I have had some really amazing experiences with it. In 2020 I made a Vision Board and drew a card from this deck for the year, and the card I drew was the Writing card with Archangel Gabriel. This felt like such a divine message for me as I did go on to do a lot of meaningful writing that year and helped a lot of people through it. Ever since it has been my go-to deck for angelic messages and guidance and will remain a permanent part of my collection.

There is a bit of controversy with Doreen Virtue. A few years ago she switched he path to Christianity and discouraged the use of divination. A lot of people betrayed by her for this and got rid of decks they owned by her. Personally, her change in spirituality doesn't bother me. I understand why people feel this way about her work now, but the way I see it, everyone is on their own journey and as we grow on our path, we change. Just because she switched paths and no longer supports divination and her old work doesn't mean that what she made in the past no longer has value. I've come to love this deck, and her lifestyle change has nothing to do with me or the value this deck has brought to me on my journey. To each their own!

Thank you so much everyone for reading and I hope you guys have maybe discovered some new decks here that you've never seen before! If you have any questions, leave a comment and I'll do my best to answer!

3 notes · View notes

hobbyspacer · 1 year

Text

Night sky highlights for February 2023

** What's Up: February 2023 Skywatching Tips from NASA - NASA JPL What are some skywatching highlights in February 2023? See Jupiter and Venus appear nearer each night, as they head for a close conjunction at the start of March. Use bright stars Capella and Elnath to identify the constellation Auriga, and then find your way to two distant star clusters using Sirius as a guidepost. 0:00 Intro 0:12 Moon & planet highlights 0:47 The constellation Auriga 1:52 Easy-to-find star clusters 3:10 February Moon phases Additional information about topics covered in this episode of What's Up, along with still images from the video, and the video transcript, are available at https://solarsystem.nasa.gov/skywatch.... https://youtu.be/hcgj6KsR-fc ** Tonight's Sky: February 2023 - Space Telescope Science Institute - Tonight's Sky In February, the Winter Triangle is your guide to the night sky: The northern hemisphere is treated to views of the stars Procyon, Sirius, and Betelgeuse. Keep watching for the awe-inspiring space-based views of the Orion Nebula, which is sculpted by the stellar winds of central bright stars. https://youtu.be/uFQrFAaVVsQ ** What to see in the night sky: February 2023 - BBC Sky at Night Magazine Pete Lawrence and Paul Abel reveal the best things to see in the night sky this month, including Mercury, Venus, Comet C/2022 E3, Orion, Gemini and the Moon. https://youtu.be/ytPKs4hAHO4 ** Sky & Telescope's Sky Tour Podcast - February 2023 - Sky & Telescope Youtube Our monthly Sky Tour #astronomy #podcast provides an informative and entertaining 10-minute guided tour of the nighttime sky. Listen to the February episode and explore the #Moon’s phases, watch three #planets in the evening sky, take stock of winter’s brightest #stars, and track down two lesser-known #constellations. Listen and subscribe to this podcast at https://skyandtelescope.org/observing/ and don't forget to subscribe to S&T's YouTube channel to get alerts about new videos, including this monthly podcast. https://youtu.be/KCPYr1uKVVo See also - This Week's Sky at a Glance, January 27 – February 5 | Sky & Telescope - See Comet ZTF (C/2022 E3) Dash Between Big and Little Dippers | Sky & Telescope ** Night Sky Notebook February 2023 - Peter Detterline https://youtu.be/gdx1aV9SSac ** The Night Sky February 2023 | What To Photograph In N. Hemisphere - AstroFarsography - YouTube The Night Sky February 2023 is here and we begin saying farewell to our emission nebulae as galaxy season begins to rear its head. The Night Sky is a curated list of deep sky targets, planets and other events that happen in our night skies during February in the Northern Hemisphere. All targets are split into focal length ranges and are based off of a full frame camera sensor. However equivalent focal lengths are provided. To use equivalent sizes is simple. Find the camera you're using and see what focal length I've supplied. This is the focal length of telescope you need to match the example I've suggested. All planets are from my latitude in the United Kingdom of about 52° North and I only include them if they rise above 20° altitude for a decent amount of time during the month. So depending on how high or low you are will vary your seeing conditions! Clear skies everyone, keep looking up and keep them cameras clicking. https://youtu.be/JOZRxJPhMAs ** See also: - February Night Sky Guide (February 2023) | Farmers' Almanac - February 2023 stargazing guide: full moon and more | Popular Science - Adler Skywatch: February 2023 | Adler Planetarium - SpaceX Starlink launches for February | EarthSky - What to See in the Night Sky for February 2022 - Treehugger === Amazon Ads === Celestron 70mm Travel Scope Portable Refractor Telescope Fully-Coated Glass Optics Ideal Telescope for Beginners BONUS Astronomy Software Package == Stellaris: People of the Stars Read the full article

0 notes

juletheghoul · 3 years

Text

Domum (Part 2)

I am dedicating this to you @221bshrlocked, I really hope you enjoy this second instalment of Vamp Boyfriend Max and please know that whenever I return to this world, I'm thinking of you.

There will be a part three.

Max Phillips x F!Reader

Pairing: Max x F!Reader

Word Count: 5.5K

Warnings: **TRIGGER WARNING** Max is a vampire so there will be blood talk, some of it sexual in nature, implied violence (nothing super graphic), language, Smut 18+, PIV sex (wrap it up), slight dirty talk, Oral-female receiving, supernatural themes, descriptions of gore

Reblogs are appreciated

Masterlist Part 1

---------

“And just when did you forsake me hm?” You stared at Ambrose, curled up and purring loudly against Max's chest on your bed. He seemed to choose Max over you half the time and you couldn’t help but be a little jealous. He stared at you with his eyes half closed, blinking slowly and you sighed at the image of your two favourite boys in your bed.

“Fine, let Max feed you then.” You were only half kidding.

“Jealousy doesn’t become you, my love.” His eyes were closed but he smiled, imagining the look on your face.

“You shush, you’re only smug because he favours you.” He laughed at your tone and made a show of kissing Ambrose on his little face and you rolled your eyes. He set him down onto the floor - against Ambrose's wishes- and pulled you into bed. “I have to go to the market-” he cut you off with a kiss. It was so hard to push him away when he kissed you like that. When his hands held your face so tenderly.

“I would like for you to stay, stay in bed with me.” he kissed your neck and you felt the ghost of his fangs caressing your pulse point. Always letting you give consent before piercing your skin. You shivered slightly but you couldn’t give in. Giving in always meant you weren’t getting anything done. It took a great deal of self control to slip out of his grip and you quickly pulled away, leaving him in order to gather the clothing you had mended.

“If I let you carry on I'll waste the day.” you scolded him without any real anger.

“Waste? You call what we do a waste?” he laid on his back, arm over his eyes in mock distress. You could see the little smile at the corner of his mouth.

“You know full well what I meant - I need to bring these things to the market or Mrs. Johnson will have my head. I will be back soon, and then we can do whatever you want.” He perked up at the last bit, like you knew he would.

“Anything…?” He had pure mischief in his eyes and you blushed slightly at the implication.

“Yes - within reason I don’t think I need to clarify.” You approached the bed and he hastily got up to sit at the edge, making space for you between his legs. You stood and stared down at him - he looked up at you like you were the very air he breathed and you wondered for a brief moment how you could be so lucky.

“I’ll be waiting for you my love, like always.” he spoke with pure devotion as he hugged you around the middle. You ran your fingers lovingly through his hair- pulling it back lightly to kiss him on the mouth.

“You better.” You smiled at him, then made your way out.

------------------------------------------------------

You made it to the market quickly and found Mrs Johnson stomping her foot impatiently and you braced yourself for an onslaught but she cheered up when she caught sight of you. She was one of the nicer villagers and you had a good relationship with her.

“There you are, girl - I was beginning to worry. Let me see.” She took the garments you had carefully folded up out of your arms and inspected your work. A frown of concentration on her face as she inspected a big tear you had mended. “Perfect - as I knew it would be. Thank you sweetling, here - for your trouble.” she handed you a small purse of coins and you took it thankfully.

“My thanks - I am always available for work.” You both said your goodbyes and you stopped to stock up on more thread. You needed new needles as well and you were perusing for more materials when you heard someone calling you. It was the young girl you’d helped almost a year ago, you had learned her name was Sarah and since then she had taken a shine to you. Treating you like an older sister and you regarded her in much the same manner. The little sister you never had.

“What is all the commotion?” You raised your eyebrows at her, she was breathless with excitement.

“I knew you hadn’t heard! There are new people in the village! They came in last night!” The smile on her face was half wild with excitement, times like this you realized how young she was and it always endeared her to you.

“Okay Sarah, take a deep breath and tell me.” You half laughed as you paid for your things and walked through town with her. She was bouncing on the balls of her feet as she grabbed your arm excitedly, telling you about the band of thespians, entertainers traveling the country; putting on shows and plays. “Singers and bards travel through here from time to time-“ she cut you off.

“Yes but never this many! Seems to be a large company - they’ll finally put that playhouse to use. Isn’t it exciting?” She smiled brightly at you but you had a bad feeling. It wasn’t the same as when Max came into town, this was stronger and it left a bad taste in your mouth. “Look! That’s them!” She whispered excitedly into your ear.

There was a group of men making their way into the big tavern in town and it felt like someone had dumped ice water down the back of your dress. There was something wrong.

Max was there in an instant, Sarah didn’t notice him until he spoke.

“Good morning Sarah.” He spoke with a neutral tone but you knew that he was anything but relaxed. He usually stayed inside during the day and his body language gave him away, to you at least.

“Hello Max! Did you hear?” You rolled your eyes, knowing she would explain the whole thing over again. He had a smile on his face as she spoke but it wasn’t filled with the warmth you had become accustomed to.

This was a mask.

“Newcomers, that’s interesting.” You could see him scanning the outside of the tavern with a critical eye. He sensed whatever you had sensed, and he sensed it all the way from the cottage.

When Sarah left he spoke in hushed tones, you had never seen him like this.

“There is something here. Something hungry.” To everyone who passed by you were a courting couple taking a stroll through the village square but he was unsettled.

“I felt it too, made my hair stand on end.” You pressed yourself up against him, there was a sudden chill in the air and you weren’t exactly sure whether it was his words or the temperature.

“I don’t like this, it seems familiar but I can’t quite place it. I need to find out what it is and either destroy it or get it out of town. I don’t want anyone getting hurt.” You smiled to yourself, remembering his attitude towards the town when he first arrived. Things had changed for you since then, for the most part anyway.

There were still villagers who thought you were the devil incarnate but most of them had embraced you. Sarah had advocated for you and with her being the daughter of prominent members of your community, others had followed. You had a steady stream of customers who came to you as a seamstress, and an even bigger one for your other talents.

The townspeople were wary of Max, everyone except Sarah - she treated him as an extension of you; and she loved you.

He had embraced the villagers, promising you that he would protect this place. That he would protect anything you loved. You both spoke about it as you made your way home and you decided that you would go into town that night to investigate. Go to the tavern and get a drink to see if either of you could find out just what exactly had blown into town.

The tavern was unusually full, it seemed everyone wanted to be out amongst the newcomers. You smiled at Jasper, the old barkeep, you had helped his wife with pain in her legs a few months ago. He always had a smile for you now.

“I will find us a table, Jasper favours you.” Max whispered in your ear and you laughed. You asked the grizzled old man for a glass of wine and some cider, he didn’t let you pay.

The two of you sat in a dark little corner of the tavern, keeping an eye on everyone and chatting idly, Max drinking his wine and you nursing your cider. The two of you waited a couple of hours but it was for naught. Nothing happened - although it was pleasant to be out with him, neither of you sensed anything dangerous. Chalking it up to a loss, you made your way home.

The night was pleasant and you walked leisurely through the woods towards the cottage, the two of you arm in arm - enjoying the clear night sky. You were looking at the moon, seeing it’s position - full moon in a few days you thought to yourself when Max pulled you off the path suddenly. You shrieked in surprise but you quickly recovered when he pushed you up against a large tree. You weren't too far off the path, someone walking by would have to know you were there in order to see you.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” You spoke in mock outrage, he laughed into your skin. He had you caged against the trunk; his face was buried in your neck and he was kissing every inch he could reach.

“I think you know, I believe you told me we could do whatever I wanted this morning.” He lifted your leg, hoisting it high on his hip as he ground into you. You let out a sigh at the feel of him, hard enough to feel through his trousers at your core. The bark of the tree was scratching at the back of your neck, the little bit of pain adding to the pleasure.

“I think I want to hear you say it.” Your voice was breathy, your fingers running through his hair, you guided his face towards yours, you wanted to kiss him. You wanted his tongue in your mouth and his hands on your body. You wanted him closer, always closer. He smiled into the kiss.

“I want to fuck you against this tree my love. I want to feed from you while you cum, I want to taste your pleasure, I want to love you. Will you let me love you?” He watched your mouth as he spoke, his words exciting you so much you ached. So much that you moaned and felt your sex dripping for him. Your heart was pounding, even your blood wanted him.

“Yes, always…” You breathed it out but he swallowed your words. He reached between you to pull your skirts up past your hips, he became impatient with all the fabric and when he reached your undergarments he ripped them roughly. The act excited you, causing another wave of slick to drip out of you and onto your thigh. He knelt in front of, looking up like he was in prayer.

He lifted your leg and draped it over his shoulder and he licked at your core hungrily. You felt his urgency, he sucked the bundle of nerves into his mouth with a passion that had you frantically clutching at his hair, it had you grinding into his mouth and it had you almost screaming. Your climax crashed over you like a tidal wave and he drank it down, refusing to pull away until you pushed him. He started undoing his trousers, pulling himself out as he stood.

His eyes were black with lust, as he roughly lifted you against the tree- wrapping both your legs around his hips; lifting you as if you weighed nothing.

“Undo your blouse for me sweet girl, I’m going to bite you where you like it.” he held you against the tree as you hastily undid your corset enough to pull your blouse down. You held tightly onto him as he reached down to guide himself into your wet heat. Both of you groaned when he was fully seated inside you.

It felt better every time. It was bliss, it was ecstasy.

You moaned as he drove into you, the scratching of the tree behind you sharpening the pleasure of his thrusts. You saw his fangs elongate and felt him getting frantic. He wouldn’t last long. You pushed his head down to your breast and he bit it rougher than usual, you could hear the sound of your joining and it was filthy, it was obscene out in the open like this but you didn’t care. The pleasure building with his bite and your blood in his mouth.

He licked your wound closed and moved to your other breast - you saw the brief anguished look of pleasure on his face as he bit your nipple. It hit you again. It was so intense you seized up almost painfully, screaming at the intensity of it. Your cunt clenched around him and he came with a growl.

He set you down, his grip softening, he was gentle again and he licked your wound closed. This was the roughest he’d ever been with you and you enjoyed it far more than you would have ever thought.

He was pulling your shirt back up and straightening your skirts as you caught your breath, he had a little frown on his face.

“What’s wrong?” You touched his face, bringing his attention to you.

“I’m afraid I got carried away, I’m sorry if I was too rough with you.” He looked chastened, he hissed when he saw the scratches on your shoulders and neck from the tree. You laughed lightly but he didn’t join in.

“Max, I thoroughly enjoyed that. I will heal. I can draw myself a special bath and I will be better in a few hours. Please, put it out of your mind my love.” You hugged him to you and he relented.

He was quiet as you made your way home and although he had dropped the subject, you knew he felt guilty. You appreciated the sentiment but you weren’t made of glass.

Once you got home, you had him fill the big kettle as you gathered a few things.

When he returned you had him pull the big tub into the middle of the room, he did so without comment. Once the water was hot enough, he helped you fill the tub and you put a few things into the water; dried herbs and flowers that would help relax you. He watched as you moved about, picking a little bit of this and a pinch of that.

The steam was lovely and it smelled like lavender and wildflowers. You stripped off your clothes and ordered him to do the same but he didn’t right away, you got into the tub and raised your eyebrows at him. He smiled and stripped, joining you in the warm water.

“Here, rub a little of this wherever the skin is irritated.” You handed him a little jar full of a thick oily paste. He obeyed and you felt his big warm hands massaging it into your skin. He was thorough and quiet as he did what you asked, the two of you enjoying the intimacy and the warmth.

He kissed your shoulder when he was done and you laid on his chest between his legs. He washed you gently as you relished his sturdy warmth behind you.

“Max, can I ask you something?” The question popped into your mind and you had to get it out.

“Yes my love?” He was washing your hair, massaging your scalp carefully as you relaxed.

“You told me once that you’ve only ever turned one person, what happened to them?” You asked it casually, you were curious and he never spoke about his past. You felt him tense for a moment before he continued with his actions.

“Do you really wish to know?” His voice sounded a little hesitant, you wanted to know, but only if he wanted to tell you.

“You don’t have to explain if you don’t want to, I was merely curious.” You meant it, whatever happened before either of you met- it didn’t matter. Not now that you had each other.

He carefully poured water on you, washing the soap out of your hair in silence, taking the utmost care to not get any of it in your eyes. You thought the conversation was done but he eventually spoke.

“I’ll tell you one day, not today - allow me to tell you in my own time.” He pressed his face into your neck, kissing your ear and shoulder, his actions soothing the hurt he imagined his response was causing. He was entitled to his silence. You turned to face him, looking up from where your face was pressed against his chest.

“You don’t have to explain, if it hurts too much or if it’s something you don’t like discussing. It’s okay for you to keep things to yourself.” You smiled at him, letting him know there was no double meaning, you meant every word. He pulled you up to kiss you and you felt his devotion to you, felt him saying what you meant to him without words.

You both sat in the bath quietly for a long time.

---

A couple of days went by and nothing, no hide nor hair of whatever the two of you had sensed. You were beginning to think that maybe you’d gotten lucky, something passing by near enough for the both of you to pick up on it but not actually staying.

You should be so lucky.

There had been talk in the market of a beast, a monster ripping through the Robertson farm just outside town. Killing a few of his sheep and almost all of his chickens. The carnage was said to be disturbing and the bad taste returned with a vengeance, rocks settling in your stomach. This is not good.

Once you got back home and explained what happened to Max he made it a point to go to the Robertson farm to see if he could get a sense of what it could be. It wasn’t long before he was back - frowning deeply.

“I cannot get a feel for it, it’s not another of my kind that’s for sure. This feels more primal, more violent. I need to get closer.” You could see his frustration, it was bothering him that he couldn’t fix it.

Later on that night, Max got his wish.

You were laying in bed, curled up in each other when something flickered across Max's face. He blurred out of bed with how fast he moved, stopping to hastily put his trousers on. You felt it before you could ask him what was wrong, Ambrose shot out of bed and bounded for the door. He was hissing loudly, his hackles raised higher than you’d ever seen.

“Stay there.” His voice was iron, no room for argument. He stalked over to the door and listened, you heard it all the way from the bed; something massive was outside your cottage. It pressed against the door lightly and you could hear the gouging of the wood, whatever it was - it had claws.

Your heart was in your throat as Ambrose hissed and snarled, you quietly got up to wrap your blanket around you. Max silently moved to your kitchen to look out the window. Ambrose stopped hissing and ran towards your bed.

“It’s gone.” He didn’t move from the window and you tentatively approached him, needing his warmth to reassure you. He instantly rubbed at your arms to calm you. “You’re safe my love, nothing will happen to you. Good news is, I think I figured out what we’re dealing with. It’s a werewolf.”

You knew there had to be other creatures in this world, you yourself were a witch and you were committed to a vampire but you were at a loss for words. You would have laughed, had he not had that look on his face.

“It came straight here, it must sense us in it’s altered state.” He was pacing the room, thinking hard as you sat silent at the table. Shivering even though you had the blanket wrapped around you. You were trying to think about everything you knew about werewolves, you knew there must be something about them in your mothers notes, where were they again? You got up and put on a shift before digging through the big trunk tucked into the corner of the room.

He came over when you yelled in triumph, pulling out your mothers big leatherbound notebook.

He was silently watching you as you flipped through the pages, looking for any insight and then you saw it - she had a whole page on them. Some of the points you already knew, that you needed pure silver to ward them off. They were vicious and their bite was a curse. When they were in their animal state, they were purely primal. They would tear apart their own mothers without a second thought. Aversion to silver & iron, wolfsbane - would make sense as to why it only gauged at the wood of your door. You had fortified your protection once more after Max had come in, leaving out anything that would stop him and him alone.

“Tonight was the last night of the full moon, we have a month to prepare. We have to find out who it is, and destroy them. They cannot be cured, I hope no one gets hurt tonight.” You spoke to him as you put the book on the table. He listened intently and the both of you came up with a plan to go into the market and get as close as you could to the newcomers.

“Hopefully they'll leave before the next full moon, we should be so lucky.” He spoke as he blew out the candles you’d lit, the both of you getting back into bed. You whispered your plans to each other, vowing to warn Sarah. You thought of little trinkets you could make, talismans of protection to the people closest to you. You hoped with everything in you that you wouldn’t wake up to bad news.

---

No such luck.

The two of you decided to head into town together the next day, and there were whispers of a great beast everywhere you went. Several people had seen a huge mass stalking around the woods, luckily no one had been hurt. You did notice a few of the more unfriendly villagers giving you hard glares and scowls as you made your way through, you felt Maxs grip tighten slightly at the open show of hostility.

“We’re trying to protect them.” he spoke as you tried to calm him, putting your hand on his chest. He took it and held it there as you walked through. You caught sight of Sarah and she rushed over to you.

“I wanted to warn you- a couple of townsfolk were saying that this has something to do with you. I said that there was absolutely no way - that you’re a good person but I didn’t like how they spoke.” She was visibly upset, imagining her defending you pulled at your heartstrings.

“Oh sweetling, thank you - we’ll be okay, they’re just scared.” You hugged her tightly, trying your best to reassure her. “I’ve made you something, I brought it with me in case I saw you, put this on and don’t take it off. I’ve made one for each of your parents - this should protect you. Please make sure you don’t go out after dark. Do you understand what I’m telling you?” You spoke to her as you handed her the talismans you made. She smiled shyly and put on the necklace.

“I won’t take it off, please - be careful. Both of you.” She hugged you tightly and left quickly.

----

For the next couple of weeks both you and Max made it a point to get close to the newcomers. Thinking that maybe if you got close enough you would be able to sense it but it was for naught. They kept fastidiously to themselves, the only time you saw them was when they performed. Even then - Max couldn’t get a sense of who the danger was. You had learned from your mother’s book that it would be difficult, that the days before and after a full moon - this person could appear to be perfectly human.

——

The full moon was coming in just a few days and the tension between you and a few townspeople was palpable. Even before Sarah and other people had embraced you, things were never this bad.

You studied the book constantly, using your mothers knowledge to create a weapon that would be able to kill the beast. It would have been better to cure it but it was for naught, there was none to be found. The biggest fear would be that someone else would get bitten, spreading the curse to someone else.

Well, not the biggest fear - the biggest fear would be that someone would get killed.

——

“What do you propose we do? This is the best course of action. You know that.” He was right, as angry and upset as you were, you had to admit he was right.

“I don’t like it Max. I should be out there with you.” Your voice was soft, you were trying to argue but he looked so worried.

“I know. I cannot focus if there’s a chance you might get hurt. If something were to happen to you, I would never forgive myself- you know it makes sense- I can cover more ground without you.” He walked over to you, untangling your arms to wrap them around his neck.

He had a way of making you crack, of burrowing under your skin; into your heart. You couldn’t help but press your ear to his chest.

“I have to know you’re safe, if we both get hurt then we’re useless.” He pressed his lips to your temple.

“Very well, please be careful.” You held him tightly, as tight as you could and he let you.

---

It felt horrible to sit around and worry.

You made tea, you flipped through the book absentmindedly, it was almost a compulsion. Ambrose could sense your anxiety and he plopped down on your lap, purring loudly against your skin.

Max insisted on patrolling every night of the full moon. He was determined to destroy the beast and have your lives return to normal and you couldn’t blame him, but you couldn’t sleep until he walked through your door safe and sound. When he eventually did you would nearly tackle him to the ground.

The relief wasn’t to last though.

He burst through your door on the last night of the full moon. He was covered in blood and he held a body in his arms.

Your heart seized up, Sarah was limp in his arms. You were frantic, you could see her throat had been ripped open and you held the scream in your throat. He was speaking to you as he laid her down on the table.

“My love, I need you to focus. Is there anything in your book on how to save her?” You took a deep breath as he spoke, opening the book to the familiar pages with trembling hands.

There’s so much blood

“There’s no way to undo the curse Max, if she doesn’t die - she’ll be one of them.” The tears were flowing now, she was so young, so full of life. You walked over to her, brushing the hair out of her face. Her skin was like ivory and far too cold. Her breaths were shallow and the blood was flowing slowly. Her heart was pumping her life away.

“Can you save her?” You knew he didn’t like talking about it, but it might be the only chance she had. His eyes were on you and you could see the pain in them; inner turmoil bubbling up.

“My love, it would not be her choice and she might hate me for it. Hate you for making it for her.” His words were knives to your already broken heart.

“Please Max, I cannot lose her.” You were sobbing then, voice paper thin and up to your elbows in her blood. Her ragged breaths must have been an agony. She was bleeding into her lungs.

“Are you prepared to deal with her scorn?” His voice was cloud-soft, he didn’t want to lose her either.

“Yes.” You spoke to him but you kept your eyes on her. “Whatever it takes to save her, please.”

He changed her.

——-

You waited for her to change with baited breath. It took much longer than anticipated and you almost chewed your nails to the bone. Max fared no better, he paced the cottage while the transformation occurred and you could feel his fear. Whatever had happened in his past weighed heavy on his mind while you waited. You asked him what happened to distract him.

Max had destroyed the creature, it was one of the newcomers - he’d been taken with Sarah and they had stepped out together when he changed and in her fear; her talisman had been lost.

When you saw her skin stitching itself back together you breathed a sigh of relief, your body was a tense knot and you felt your muscles loosen slightly as her breathing regulated, as her body repaired itself.

“She will be thirsty when she wakes.” He whispered, sensing her starting to come to.

When she woke she was disoriented and Max stood between the two of you with his arms up, his body a wall between Sarah and you. He held her firmly in his grasp and spoke in clear sentences.

“Sarah sweetling, can you hear me?” He was staring into her wild eyes, for a moment it was as if she didn’t recognize either of you but a few seconds later you saw her soften, saw her take you both in.

“Max? What happened? What happened to me?” She was looking at her hands, her eyes darted around rapidly and you could see the fear.

“Sarah - focus on my voice. I need you to listen.” He came closer to her, very slowly, approaching her like one would a wild animal. He explained what had happened to her and what he’d done. What he was, what she now was as well. She looked at you with fear in her eyes and Max almost broke. This was what he’d been afraid of.

“Am I going to be okay?” She was terrified and you wanted to hug her but Max wouldn’t let you.

“You’re going to be fine - come, I will help you and once you're fed I will bring you back here and we will talk.” He turned to kiss you quickly, his unconscious need to feel you close was as much to reassure him as it was to reassure you. “Draw a bath for her my love, she will want to get clean when we get back.” With that they both left.

----

It took days for her to adjust, Max walking her through the change. His fear that she would hate you both never left him and you could hear the silent apologies in the way he treated her. The way he guided her through everything like a father would a favoured child.

At first she was afraid, terrified of herself and her new abilities but it didn’t last. She took to it well. Her young age, which he thought would be a hindrance - actually worked in her favour.

She had a long way to go until she had the same level of control as Max, but both of you would be there to help her.

To be continued...

---

Tag list: @frannyzooey @foli-vora @danniburgh @sambucky21 @greeneyedblondie44 @lola4pedro @ezrasbirdie @artsymaddie @supernaturalgirl20 @sleep-tight1 @softdindjxrin @wheresarizona @sherala007 @marydjarin @cannedsoupsucks @thirstworldproblemss @ilikechocolatemilkh @lori-tovar @freeshavocadoooo @hrk-fic-recs @greeneyedblondie44 @maxwell--lord @princessxkenobi @the-feckless-wonder @kirsteng42 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @thisshipwillsail316 @feministfanboi @dihra-vesa @gaiuswrites @stevie75 @sweet-creature98 @readsalot73 @pedrostories @tobealostwanderer @elegantduckturtle @diogodxlot @alczysz17 @evyiione @absurdthirst @beskarboobs @andruxx @littlemissoblivious @1800-fight-me @goldielocks2004 @maievdenoir @gracie7209 @omlwhatamidoinghere @bellaorisa @hellovanessax @magikfanatic @frankiecatfish @mrs-ghuleh @pedritoispunk @librariantothejedi @studythoreauly @missswriter @prostitute-robot-from-the-future @pintsizemama @mswarriorbabe80 @a-trial-run-on-paper @giizhkens-cedar @la-le-lu @chickadee-djarin @dobbyjen @rosiefridayrogersunday @ajeff855 @anaaaispunk @johnsrevelation @the-witty-pen-name @zombiesnips-blog @quica-quica-quica @sarahjkl82-blog @fan-of-encouragement @queenofthecloudss @mandosmistress @deadhumourist @felicisimor @tuskens-mando

#max x you #pedro pascal #max phillips x reader #max phillips x you #max phillips #max phillips x f!reader #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal fanfic

148 notes · View notes

drainthehero · 2 years

Text

Hydroboy. Chapter 1

It was a dark and gloomy night with thick and heavy clouds draped across the sky, obscuring the moon and most of the stars. Rain was clearly threatening but had so far only fallen in light pockets across the city.

The young superhero Hydroboy was out on patrol doing his bit to keep the city safe from criminals and villains. Even though he was a young new hero, he had already managed to thwart a number of schemes and even bring a few villains to justice.

He wore a tight blue spandex costume which was cut at the shoulders to show off his muscled arms. The image of an ocean, powerful symbol of the source of his mighty powers, adorned his muscular chest, warning all criminals to beware and take cover when he approached. Using his great strength he leaped between the buildings, watching closely for any signs of disturbance.

The Museum of Ancient Artifacts was positioned beside the river and just outside of the city limits and normally at this time of night it would be empty except for a few sleepy guards. As Hydroboy landed gracefully atop the central spire he could see lights flickering within the building, near the major attraction room. A furrow crossed the handsome brow of the young superhero as he wondered what foul deeds might be afoot inside the museum.

Realising it was probably some evil-doers up to no good, the young hero entered the Museum using the access point provided by the city and made his way toward the major attraction.

Hydroboy sprinted along comfortably as his white booted feet lightly propelled him along. As he ran he tried to recall the feature currently on display but could not quite place it. He knew that the attraction was new, having only been installed in the last week. He guessed it must have a high value to attract a thief this quickly.

Hydroboy found the large doors leading to the main hall and pushed them open. The big room was now well lit by large lamps which appeared to have been hastily set up around the attraction. As he entered he saw the major attraction lit up by the new lighting and remembered that it was an ancient monument built to some long forgotten god.

He also spotted two figures – a male and a female – moving around the installation setting up a device near the base upon which the monument sat.

Hydroboy placed his hands on his hips – assuming the classic hero pose – and stated loudly at the two interlopers. “Visiting hours are now over, please make your way to the nearest exit.” He then added, “normally we would invite you to return tomorrow but I don’t think you would be very welcome.”

The two spun toward the young superhero and he could now see they were the two sibling villains known only as The Twins. Fera, the sister, noticed him first and exclaimed in surprise, “Hydroboy! You won’t be ruining our plans tonight.”

She raised her arm and sent a wave of force toward the spandex clad young hero. Hydroboy was rocked by the impact of the shockwave but held his ground. “Agghh,” he said through gritted teeth. “You’ll need to do better than that!” He brought his hand up and pointed it toward Fera, unleashing a powerful bolt of water in her direction and knocking her to the ground.

Fera’s brother Dean had taken stock of the situation and threw a handful of projectiles in the direction of the young superhero. When the small projectiles were about 1 foot away from Hydroboy they exploded and knocked him back against the wall with enough force to knock the wind from his lungs.

“How about that Hydroboy?” taunted Dean. “I think you’re getting into deep water now, little hero, maybe you should swim away,” he added with a grin.

Hydroboy shook himself off and stood up. He was unhurt from the blast but had been surprised by the unexpected punch packed by the small projectiles. Without warning, Hydroboy slashed his hand in an arc in front of himself and a bolt of water crashed into Dean’s side and bowled him over.

Hydroboy strode over to the prone twins, his muscular shoulders and arms flexed in preparation for more combat. “You should realise that deep water is my favourite place Dean. Now what do you want with this artefact?”

Hydroboy manoeuvred his hands and a stream of water appeared to twist around the wrists of Dean and bind his hands behind his back.

The young superhero had momentarily forgotten about Fera and he soon learned the error of turning his back on her. As he opened his mouth to repeat his question he felt a heavy impact to his back before being propelled through the air only to crash straight through the reinforced glass enclosure housing the monument.

The force of the impact dazed him momentarily, leaving him stretched out prone on the ground with his bubble butt sticking up. “Oohhhh,” groaned the young Waterbender as he fought to cling on to consciousness.

Dean found himself released from his bonds and joined his sister to stand over the prone superhero, each of them admiring how the dark blue spandex encased the tight bubble butt of the young hero and caressed his cheeks.

Fera directed her brother, “do it now, there is little time. He is already waking.” Dean hurried over to the monument and ran his hands across the stone slab, clearly searching for something.”

“Oooh, ahhhh,” said Hydroboy, shaking his head to clear it. He sprang up from the floor and faced off against Fera. “You got a lucky shot that time, but you know the two of you are no match for me!” As he spoke the words, the young hero moved his arms in an intricate motion and a shimmering wall of water appeared in front of him.

Fera brought both her hands up and summoned all the force she could muster. “Arrghh!” she exclaimed as her bolts of force pummelled the water shield with minimal effect. “Hurry brother!” she called out.

Hydroboy’s handsome brow furrowed as he wondered what the two were up to. He made a change to the structure of his wall and it started to move toward Fera, threatening to knock her to the ground.

At that moment Dean found the hidden switch and activated it. A small door opened near the top of the monument, revealing a space with an empty cradle. The younger Twin retrieved a golden gem from his pocket and placed it in the cradle. The monument immediately started making a humming sound and a round metal disk raised itself from the top of the artefact.

Hydroboy was now almost upon Fera but when he saw the motion he stopped his advance and prepared himself for a possible new threat.

“What is that?” the young hero asked of the Twins. “What have you done?”

The Twins provided no answer but watched in satisfaction as the metal disk began to shine bright yellow before a strange pulse emanated from the device.

Hydroboy felt a strange sensation pass through his superheroic body and fumbled his step briefly. As he shook his head to clear it, he felt a reduction in the strength he derived from his water powers.

However, before he could take any action, a second pulse emanated from the device. The pulse washed over Hydroboy and this time he could feel the dehydrating effects from the pulse. “Ugghhh,” he said as a feeling of weakness washed across his body and he stumbled onto one knee.

Realising the potentially dire situation he was in, Hydroboy decided he had better make an exit quickly. He crouched down and flexed his spandex clad thighs, before jumping straight up in a jetstream of water.

As he flew upwards he saw Fera fling her hand upward and then felt a third pulse emanate from the device. This pulse was stronger again and the disk was now burning with an orange glow much like a miniature sun.

Hydroboy could see the roof fast approaching and hoped the Museum would forgive him for breaking through the expensive looking glass. His concern was wasted though. As he neared the ceiling he felt himself thrown against an impenetrable wall of force.

The spandex clad body of the young hero was momentarily crushed between the stream of water and the force barrier. “Urgghhh,” he groaned as his body was pounded briefly. The pulse then evaporated his water stream and he was left to fall toward the ground, making a loud thud as his blue spandex covered body landed and bounced on the hard floor.

Hydroboy was feeling light headed by this point but he managed to plant one hand on the floor and raise himself up with one knee and one foot positioned beneath him.

“Look here, Dean,” taunted Fera. “The little boy hero foolishly thinks that he is not finished.”

Hydroboy maintained his defiance as he raised his head and looked Fera in her villainous eye. “You won’t win Fera. Evil will not triumph over good!” Hydroboy noticed that it had been a long time since the last pulse and thought maybe the device was spent.

“Oh little hero. Evil will always triumph over you self indulgent little do-gooders.” She walked over to the weakened hero and retrieved something from a bag at her side. Hydroboy had started to feel some of his strength returning and was attempting to stand, although he was still very weak from the effects of the heat pulse from the artefact.

In a flash of movement Fera moved her arms toward the bare neck of the weakened superhero and he heard a clicking sound accompanied by the feeling of cool metal wrapping around his neck.

“Ughh,” moaned Hydroboy as he felt a new wave of weakness spread across his body. “What is this? I’m so weak. What have you done to me?”

The young hero moved his hands up to the unseen collar and tried to find some kind of release but found a continuous smooth ring of steel with only a small buckle on the side.

Hydroboy fell back to one knee as the sapping effect of the collar drained the strength from his body. He then collapsed back to both knees before even this effort proved too great and he keeled over to land on his side.

“Oohh. Please. What is this? Remove it!”

Fera just laughed as she watched the helpless young hero suffering under the effects of the collar. “This is a device of our own creation. It is able to prevent your body from accessing the water around you, thereby rendering you weak and helpless.” Fera gestured to the artefact, adding, “but it can only work when you are already weak, so we needed the Monument of the Sun God first.”

Fera bent down and clicked a leash into the buckle on the side of the collar and then pulling sharply to make the young hero bend to her will. “Come over here, little puppy.”

“Arrghh!” Hydroboy cried in pain as the collar dug into his neck. He summoned what little strength he had and managed to raise himself on all fours, crouching like a dog. The lean biceps, triceps and hamstrings shook as he crawled his way over behind Fera, unable to think of a way to escape his current predicament.

Dean had joined them, following along behind the weakened hero as he crawled along miserably. At one point his arms could not support him and his shoulders and head crashed to the floor leaving his butt up in the air. Dean took the opportunity to deliver three hard slaps to the exposed and vulnerable ass of the young hero as he lay prone and tried to catch his breath.

“Arghhh! Oww! Ahhh!” the young hero cried out as his firm but vulnerable ass cheeks were spanked through the blue spandex.

“Get up, puppy!” growled Dean as he emphasized the command with a further smack on the bubble ass cheek of the superhero.

Hydroboy took a deep breath and pushed with all his might, willing his arms to support him once more. After a few more shaky crawling steps Fera pulled on the leash and commanded Hydroboy to climb onto a narrow table which they had assembled near the Sun God monument.

The young stud raised his hands up to the surface and strained his muscles in an attempt to lift himself up as directed, but was too weak even to lift his own body. “I’m too weak. I can’t lift myself,” exclaimed Hydroboy.

“Pathetic weakling,” said Fera. She gestured with one hand and Hydroboy felt himself raised up into the air and dropped with a heavy thud onto the table.

“Ooof,” cried the hero as he landed on his back.

Dean immediately grabbed the hands of the young stud and dragged them both under the table, binding his wrists together roughly. He felt an invisible force raise his legs in the air and spread them apart, exposing his ample package hidden beneath the shiny blue spandex.

In no time the young hero found himself laid out on his back on the table with his arms and legs immobilised. The table was fairly short so his head lolled weakly over the edge as did his ass.

Fera moved over to stand near the young hero and said, “Hydroboy, you have been quite a thorn in the side of some very important and powerful people.” She reached down and gave his nipple a hard squeeze through his spandex causing a pained groan to escape from the young hero. She then attached a steel clamp to the nipple with a chain draped across his chest.

“These people have paid my brother and I a lot of money to ensure you do not cause them any more trouble.” As she said the words she emphasized her point by tugging on the chain attached to the nipple clamp and slapping the other muscled pectoral, eliciting a painful yelp from the helpless young boy.

“Never!” stated the hero as he gritted his teeth through the pain. “Your employers only want to destroy this planet and I will always be there to stop them!”

“Foolish boy!” sighed Fera as she ran her hands playfully over the spandex covering his chest, abdomen and thighs. She finished by grabbing his spandex clad cock and squeezing it through the sheer flimsy protection. “I guess we will have to make our point more clearly then!”

As she spoke Fera positioned herself near the exposed ass of the young hero and Dean stood with his groin at Hydroboy’s head.

A worried look crossed the handsome features of the young hero, as he stammered out, “huh? Wha...? what are you doing?”

“Teaching you a lesson, puppy,” said Dean as he dropped his pants. His semi hard cock sprang up and hovered right near the face of Hydroboy.

“Ughhh. What are you doing? This is wrong. Hey. You wouldn’t. You can’t!” exclaimed the young hero in fear.

Unknown to Hydroboy, Fera had removed her leggings and attached a strap-on around her waist. She reached her hand down and hooked a finger into the spandex seam between the buns of the Waterbender and ripped the spandex apart with ease. Fera could see the twin white mounds of the young hero’s cheeks plus a glimpse of his tight young hole.

Dean was watching this and had grown rock hard, thereby giving Hydroboy a bird’s eye view of the 9 inch monster cock as it sat at full mast.

Hydroboy had no idea what to do. He had never encountered a villain willing to commit such a low act. He knew he could not give up his principles but his training did not equip him for this situation. “You can’t do this. This is madness,” he asserted before his desperation kicked in. “No. please, please don’t do this.” He struggled in vain against his bonds, his weakened muscles no match for the rope holding him.

Fera showed a little mercy and applied some lube to the 7 inch dildo which now jutted forth from her groin. Dean positioned his cock at the closed mouth of the young hero, and said, “open up puppy. Don’t do anything stupid!”

Hydroboy stubbornly refused to open his mouth and so Fera grabbed his balls through his spandex costume and gave them a squeeze, causing him to cry out in pain.

Dean grabbed his opportunity and drove his cock into the mouth of the young hero, being careful not to thrust the monster too deep at first.

Once Dean had established a rhythm, Fera placed the head of the dildo against the tight young hole of the hero and his eyes widened in alarm and muffled screams could be heard through the cock filling his mouth.

Hydroboy felt the pressure at his virginal hole and knew instinctively what was happening. He clenched his ass as tight as he could, determined to prevent the invasion into his ass.

Fera expertly pushed herself against the tight hole and felt the resistance being offered by the superhero. She continued her firm and persistent pressure, increasing it in increments as she progressed.

She knew that in his weakened state, the young superhero would be unable to maintain the fight for very long, and she felt her pussy getting wet as she imagined herself finally breaking through.

Hydroboy could only make muffled complaints as his face was fucked by Dean and his virginal young hole was assaulted by Fera. He was weaker than he could ever recall and he knew he could not maintain his resistance against Fera for long.

After a few more thrusts, the head of the dildo penetrated just inside the hole of the young hero before withdrawing and thrusting in again. Within seconds Fera had managed to penetrate the young hero with 2 or 3 inches of the dildo and she savoured the sight of his hole being penetrated by her. Fera was dripping with excitement at this point and her ecstasy only grew with each thrust of her dildo in the resisting hole of the young hero.

As the dildo made it’s way three inches into his hole, the young hero made a muffled cry from the pain of his hole being opened.

Fera now slowed her thrusts and worked to drive deeper into the young hero. “Feel that Hydroboy? Do you feel me entering your hole? Virginal I’m guessing from the tightness of it.”

Fera revelled in her taunting of the boy as she continued to thrust deeper and deeper. “Where are your powers Hydroboy? So much for the mighty eco warrior and your impervious body and the supposed strength of ten men!”

She reached down with one hand and grabbed Hydroboy’s cock through his spandex and started to masturbate him. With her other hand she gently played with the smooth balls of the young hero and massaged them in her fingers.

Hydroboy could only whimper from the insults as his weakened body was penetrated top and bottom by the Twins. When he felt Fera’s hand wrap around his cock he thought to himself, I will not cum for you!

Dean started to thrust himself further into the young mouth, giving the young boy a rough lesson in the art of deepthroating. Hydroboy struggled to manage his breathing as the massive member plowed its way into his mouth and down his throat. It felt as though the huge cock reached half-way down his throat before it was pulled out by Dean, who had his eyes half closed and was using one hand to pull on the nipple clamp chain and the other to tweak his own nipple.

Fera had now managed to plunge her dildo hilt deep into the ass of the young hero and she could feel her pubes brushing up against the smooth white cheeks of Hydroboy.

She felt his cock stir and harden in her hand as the various stimuli overwhelmed the boy’s attempt to avoid cumming. Hydroboy’s hard cock felt great through the blue spandex and she used the sheer fabric to increase the stimulation on his now eager member.

The trio continued for a few minutes with Dean and Fera thrusting and moaning while Hydroboy lay helplessly in their power being simultaneously fucked in the mouth and ass while his big hard cock was masturbated.

Continuing to masturbate the young hero, Fera activated the stimulator on her strapon and started to moan in delight. She drank in the sight before her of the sexy young hero being fucked from both ends while the tight muscled body was bound and helpless in her power.

Her thrusting slowed and deepened even more and she felt a twitching in the cock of Hydroboy. Dean could also feel the cum churning in his balls and knew he was close.

With a series of final thrusts, Dean fucked deeply into the mouth of Hydroboy and felt the orgasm wash across his body, shooting the thick cum down the helpless boy’s throat. Fera felt the hard cock in her hand jerk into action and she watched it spurt it’s load up the spandex clad stomach and chest of the young hero. This was followed closely by Fera’s own orgasm as she felt her body shaking and the huge ball of tension released through her wet and aching pussy.

The weakened body of Hydroboy was flooded by these sensations as he simultaneously felt cum shooting down his throat and an unknown substance enter his ass as well as flying out of his own cock and up his torso. His body shook from his own orgasm but his mind shrank away from the harshness of the experience.

Fera and Dean each pulled out at the same time, creating an empty sensation and leaving liquids to escape from the mouth and ass of the young hero.

Hydroboy could only lay there, helpless and bound as he struggled weakly to escape his bonds.

Fera looked down on the helpless boy and gave his spandex clad thigh a slap while Dean squeezed his bare bicep. “I hope that was as much fun for you as it was for us, puppy,” said Fera. “Just remember, if you continue to fuck around with our bosses then tonight’s little experience will seem like a romantic first date in comparison to what will come next.

She reached down and planted a kiss on the luscious lips of the young stud before tapping a release on the collar and removing it from around the neck of the young hero. “This worked perfectly I think. I would love to leave this on you but alas it is our only one. So far,” she added with an evil grin.

The Twins proceeded to grab their stuff and make their way out with the monument carried out on a pillow of force.

After some time Hydroboy felt his strength return and was soon able to free himself from his predicament. He made a hasty exit from the Museum, not wanting to be seen by anyone.

#superhero defeated #superhero

16 notes · View notes

gentlemancrow · 3 years

Text

Written in the Stars Will Have to Do

OK so I saw @hey-there-hunter ‘s JMart Wedding Challenge and I pretty much fan ficced immediately?? Like it was an instantaneous plot bunny that stabbed me in the brain and would not let me free until I made it exist. SO HERE YOU GO! Read it here or head on over to AO3 below! And enjoy some unapologetically aggressive fluff with weddings! Also subtitled someday Crow will stop abusing excessive astral imagery and symbolism for extended metaphors, but today is not that day.

Read on AO3 instead!

Written in the Stars Will Have to Do

Jonathan Sims always thought of himself as a man with a deep appreciation for the great literature of the world. A passionate turn of phrase, crystalline motes of clear imagery like snowflakes reflecting light in his mental scape, a devastating contemplation on the nature of good and evil in the hearts of all mankind, everything that could express the beauty and tragedy of the world in ways he never could. Prose was a bright paintbrush on a ragged canvas of the universe he had known from an early age was swathed in shadow and pain and evil, and those words on those pages, for at least a moment, were another world he could hold in his hands, could cradle and protect, could mourn. He liked the power of them as well, of the tinkling brightness of alliteration, the oaky sophistication of a well-aged metaphor, the evocativeness of the idiosyncrasy in a simple simile, laying bare truths in ways he never could have articulated for himself.

There was one thing he could not abide by in language, however, one cardinal sin liable to besmirch any piece of lush and sparkling verse or prose and taint it forever. And that was idioms.

Jon loathed idioms and their dismally quirky cliches dressed in familiarity’s tacky clothing almost as much as he hated spiders. Perhaps it was something about their reliance on common knowledge and repetition. He couldn’t bear reading the same book twice, or even a book that felt too familiar, it only made sense that hearing a hackneyed phrase repeated in that awful singsong sardonic tone of someone who knows full well they’re saying something asinine that has been repeated ad nauseum for millennia would scrape at the back of his skull and down his spine. They were too whimsical and blasé, crutch words for when one’s limited lexicon came up empty, or worse, for ill comedic effect. They reinforced that staunchly English notion of skirting about the true depth and breadth of emotion for clipped niceties and unfeeling banalities. Idioms to him were mere verbal window boxes, colorful and meaningless, dressings for untold disasters behind the shining windows they peacocked before.

He hated them all with vaguely equal rancor, but there was one he could definitely single out as the one he hated the most, and that was the one about hanging the moon. Such and such thinks you hung the moon, to me you hung the moon, and so on. This particular rhetorical felony attracted his wrath only marginally because any moon symbolism never failed to feel outlandish and infantile, a mawkish image of love and care rampant in nursery rhymes and cheap commercialized slogans for t-shirts and wall art. That was the least of it. He hated the idea of hanging the moon mostly because once, another lifetime ago now it seemed, Tim Stoker had lobbed it in his face in a fit of smoldering rage and he had been completely, complacently, ignorant of its magnitude.

Funny thing was, he couldn’t even remember what the actual fight had been about any longer. Though he could remember exactly where he was standing, cornered next to the file cabinet for the year 1985, January through February, and the label had been peeling up on the upper left-hand corner. He remembered he’d discovered a hole in the elbow of his jumper that morning and he had been obsessing over it all day, fussing with the dangling green thread and tugging at the knit as if it might magically close the wound. He’d put his finger clean through it with his arms crossed haughtily over his chest without even realizing he’d been fiddling with it when something flippant about Martin came out of his mouth. It hadn’t even been cruel, he couldn’t even remember how Martin had come up in the argument in the first place, he could only remember Tim’s mouth moving like he wanted to say something else, then him forcibly stopping himself before he snarled.

“Yeah well, god knows why, but he thinks you hung the moon, so you might try treating him at the very least like a human being once in a while.”

It was such a small thing. Small words for a small feeling cloaked in a chintzy veneer of idiomatic dismissal. A trembling little bird cupped in his scarred and battered hands and smothered. Or so he thought. Sometimes trembling little birds turn out to be phoenixes, and those who looked to someone else to hang the comfort of a wise, silvery moon in the sky already have the hammer and the picture wire at the ready.

As far as Jon was concerned, the moon only rose on their Somewhere Else because Martin deigned to pull the strings every night, not him.

It was Martin who brought him tea every morning, set it down on the breakfast table with that little flip of the tag and the deft, one-fingered turn of the handle toward him. It was Martin who scolded him because whites are a separate load, Jon, were you raised in a barn? Martin who talked him through every episode of the Doctor Who reruns that were the only thing their ancient aerial could pick up. Martin who planted flowers in the garden and brought muffins from the sweet old lady at the grocers because they traded baking recipes. Martin who still looked at him with diaphanous pools of ethereal moonlight in his eyes and his smile like he alone hung it in the sky over his head to wash him in its radiance.

Even after everything.

Even after it had been Martin who had to hold the knife buried in his chest as he lay gasping wetly for breath in an alleyway in Another Chelsea to keep the hemorrhaging at bay. Martin who had cupped his face in his bloody hands with tears streaming down his and forced him to focus, furious love blazing in his sea mist eyes as they locked with his, screaming at him and him only, heedless of anything else.

“Look at me. LOOK at me, Jon! Stay with me! Stay with me, DAMN YOU!”

Stay with me had not been a plea, it had been a command. He had never once said please because it was never an option. Shivering, breathing blood through his teeth, the streetlights a fading, star studded halo in Martin’s strawberry blond curls be damned, he was right. Against every tangled thread of fate twisted deep into his flesh, or perhaps because they had been the only thing that held his torn innards together, he made it to the part where he awoke a few fractured times to nothingness, and then to fingers he knew every inch of inextricably bound up in his and a fierce whisper in his ear.

“I’m here, Jon. I’m still here. I’ve got you. I’m going to fix this. I’m going to get us out of here. We’re going to be okay.”

It had been Martin who orchestrated their clandestine escape from the hospital the moment they both agreed he was well enough to survive under his rudimentary medical care and before the authorities got too invested in an urban ghost story of two men who didn’t exist. Not to mention one of which should, by all medical and logical law, be dead. It had been Martin who had stolen the necessary antibiotics, drugs, and wound care supplies, Martin who had picked enough pockets to buy passage on a midnight train to the only place they could think to go, and expressly told Jon not to ask where he learned how, even though he knew full well he would later. Martin who had fought for everything and kept him hidden and safe while he lay in a dingy hotel room somewhere in Scotland, drifting in and out of consciousness between kisses, cold compresses, spoonfuls of whatever he could get him to swallow and keep down, and desperate ‘I love you’s.

Martin had been the one who hung the moon even on the nights Jon couldn’t see it, just so he knew it was there, that the light might finally guide him home. Not him. He could have never done something so selfless and simple and beautiful. No not him. Not The Archivist. How could he have ever known that? Stupid, myopic, pedantic, all-seeing and blind. A blustering, sanctimonious Tiresias in a sweater vest and half-moon glasses. And how important was the moon, anyway that he was expected to hang it too? Would not night still come and the stars still shine? The stupid, vapid saying should have been about the sun anyway. Something that nourished and guided and warmed. Not the moon. Not the thing of night and hungry wolves and quiet loneliness. Not a thing of the darkness they fought and still not won, not exactly, not in a way that mattered. How could he have known the weight of such a thoughtless, frivolous, meaningless phrase and how far and how long Martin had borne it for him to protect he who hung his moon?

He could see the weight of it so clearly now. He could see it especially on the darkest days, which came, in grotesque mockery, the moment they found something like their safehouse and rest at last. Jon had conned his way into a job at the village library with an ancient head librarian who didn’t care much for too many questions, or background or credit checks, and was more than happy to pay in cash. With Martin’s help of course. Martin himself had taken up stocking at the village grocers, and their life had teetered onto something so close to quaint and normal it suddenly laid bare the gravity of the depths of darkness they had escaped.

No longer did they have to run, no longer did they have to fight, they could finally lay down the chase and curl in upon each other to lick their wounds in quiet. But without the driving, primal instinct to live, to survive, that ushered in the days where all the hurt came back to roost and brood and fester. The days where he couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed, or the days Martin couldn’t bear the sound of his voice, or the days they shouted themselves hoarse, stormed apart for hours then came back, silent and broken, red-eyed and exhausted to hold each other and weep into the spaces between neck and shoulder where it still smelled like love and home.

He could see so painfully clearly the toll following him to the ends of the cosmos and back had etched its marks into his goodness, his body and soul, see how often he would walk down the road from their cabin, just a little ways, to stand on the heather spotted hills and gaze out into the frigid infinity of the gray sea. Cold terror would grip him then, incite a desperate want to run after him, to throw his arms around him and bring him home, but also the fear it would only be to have him turn to mist and slip through his fingers forever. He always had a cup of steaming tea waiting for him when he came back, just in case.

But again, and always. It was Martin who would pick up Jon’s hands, kiss every slender, scarred finger through his tears and be the first one to utter ‘I’m sorry.’ Martin who told him with just a single scathing flash of stern blue eyes and not a single word uttered that he was certainly coming to bed and not banishing himself to the couch like an idiot. Martin who wrapped him in his arms and warmth and boundless love and reminded him, “One way or another. Together. That was the deal, right? You don’t get to back out now. No returns, refunds, or exchanges, I’m afraid.”

And even through the deepest sobs he would find the laugh Jon didn’t think was in him. Martin sifted through the mire and the muck and held fast to the tiny, shining things so easy to lose in the darkness. Things Jon was certain were lost forever, only to be reignited and hung in the brightening sky of their story. Even if they weren’t quite the moon yet.

It had also been Martin who, on a perfectly ordinary day, on a simple walk through the local farmers market, stopped to peruse one of the usual unremarkable stalls filled with crystals and oils and trinkets. Jon had wandered off to procure the parsnips and the strawberries, unrelated recipes Martin swore, he had been tasked with finding. When he returned he found him, a radiant monument tall among the faceless locals, rusty curls caressing his face in the salty breeze, carved of marble and rose quartz and gazing down at a pair of hematite rings on a velvet display box. His eyes were distant, but not in the enthralled, disembodied way they were when he looked at the sea, or the broken way when they weren’t speaking, but in the contemplative, regarding of puzzle pieces way when he would look into the fire during their talks and turn his words in his mind over and over again like a rock tumbler until they were polished just right.

“Getting into crystals now, are we?” Jon had joked, “Surely I’m not so dull to be around that that’s becoming an attractive hobby.”

Martin snorted and shook his head.

“Supposed to mean healing, or grounding, or something. Aligning your meridians, I think the lady said? Whatever that means,” he elaborated, reaching out to touch.

They clinked weightily together, thick and glossy and the dark astral gray of a moonless night. Martin turned over the card that went with them and read.

“’A grounding stone that belongs to the planet Mars. It strengthens our connections to the earth and aids the warrior on their journey. It is a stone of invincibility, but also fragility. It balances yin and yang energies with its magnetic properties for the perfect reflection upon one’s own soul, astral, physical, and spiritual.’”

“Hematite, is it?” Jon asked, “Also more commonly called bloodstone. You know if you scratch it, it leaves a red mark. Like it’s bleeding. Watch.”

He picked up one of the rings and firmly ran it down the corner of the card Martin had been reading from. Sure enough, the black stone had left a faint, but starkly crimson mark on the yellowed paper.

“It BLEEDS?” Martin exclaimed in horror.

“It’s just a kind of iron oxide, so, rust, basically,” Jon explained with a chuckle, “Kind of weirdly romantic if you think about it? This intimidating shiny black stone like armor, made of iron to boot, but with a bleeding heart at its core.”

“I just thought it was pretty, I didn’t know it bleeds,” Martin had laughed in that incredulous way he always did when Jon was telling him something he didn’t actually want to know, but appreciated anyway.

“I find that the strongest, prettiest things often do,” Jon had said in reply. He remembered saying that particularly clearly, waxing poetic, feeling a swell of affection for the hugely beautiful man he leaned against and was adorably aghast at bleeding rocks.

“Yeah, I reckon they do,” Martin murmured back.

And then his cheeks had flushed bright red under his freckles and the stone steps of his shoulders crumbled a bit under the crushing ancientness and vastness of what he had originally been pondering.

“So, I mean, before you spoiled it with the blood thing. I was thinking… Well, I was just having a browse and I saw these and I thought they were quite fetching, and then the lady told me they meant grounding and healing and a journey, like on the card. A-And there were two of them, all by themselves, and everything else was so colorful and flashy these were just so… Um. Maybe the blood and rusty iron thing makes it more poetic now, actually? I don’t know. Sorry I- This sounded so much better in my head.”

It wasn’t his fault, Jon remembered thinking. Martin couldn’t find the words because there weren’t any. Not in this universe or any other. Not for what they’d gone through, and especially not for what they meant to each other.

“I guess I was just thinking. If… I bought one. And wore it. Sort of like. Um. You know. Would… Would you-?” he had asked, his voice trembling.

Jon had never said yes, yes of course he would, faster or with more conviction in his life. And there was that look again, rising from the ashes, that flooding of golden, unbound love and light, of eyes turned sky blue, of looking at the man who hung his moon in the sky come back to him. He could still hang Martin’s moon all over again after so many nights of black clouds and darkness, even if it was only paper. They’d paid for the rings in rumpled bills, exchanged them right then and there, and kissed each other as the crowd of oblivious people in a world they did not belong in flowed like a river around them. Jon forgot the bag with the parsnips and strawberries.

But it didn’t matter. It didn’t even matter that Martin’s fit nicely on his ring finger, but Jon had to wear his on his thumb, and even then sometimes on a chain around his neck for fear of losing it. It didn’t matter that it was the closest thing they were ever going to get to a proposal and a wedding, consigned now forever to the shadows in a borrowed reality with only each other. Because it was theirs, and they could begin to figure out how their broken pieces fit back together again.

But like most things that don’t matter, it didn’t until it did.

It began as simple things. Seeing a wedding on some program they weren’t actually paying much attention to and Martin making a flippant, innocuous comment as he combed his fingers lovingly through Jon’s long and silvered chestnut hair in his lap about how he would have loved to have a cake that had a different flavor on every tier at their wedding. Just so everyone could have something they liked. And Jon woke up from his half catlike stupor and looked up at him with such aching regret as those words settled into the pit of his heart alongside ‘he thinks you hung the moon.’

And soon they began to gather a collection of completely innocent remarks that ran the gamut from ‘would they have worn black or white? Or one of each? I don’t know… does it really matter? And were these engagement rings or wedding rings? I don’t know. Neither? both? And do we say husband instead of boyfriend now? Fiancé? Whatever you want, Martin…’ To the heavier, cancerous weights that sank to the bottom of his gut, even below hanging the moon, like ‘I know Tim would have thrown the most amazing bachelor party for both of us, and his mum had always talked about him getting married someday like it was a farfetched pipe dream, but she would be happy for them, he thinks.’

He could never answer those questions. There was too much at stake, too much finality and familiarity in them, a strange weightlessness in a world that weighed far too much. The sun and moon continued their eternal dance of time, ignorant, unbothered, but Jon kept collecting those silent debts of normal life, secreting them away in a hidden singularity in his heart that only grew heavier and metastasized farther the more times Martin walked out at night, not him, beaming starlight from his eyes and his fingertips, to hang the moon again. So soft, so full of wooly cows and pink heather and the smell of tea and sea salt and Martin’s shampoo on the pillow next to him did it become, that it was almost inevitable that one morning Jon awoke absolutely convinced none of it could be real.

The moment he decided that, everything made so much more sense. He could breathe again. There was a reason he could never sit still, never just feel at ease or talk about the future like it was a real thing that could still happen. He knew why the silence made his brain itch and why he still glanced around corners and glowered at anyone who dared let their gaze linger on his Martin too long. Why Martin’s ring fit and his didn’t. There was too much debt to the universe to be paid, too many broken promises, too many corpses in his wake, he had done nothing to deserve this idyllic life of love and peace and smallness and Martin. It had to be Her doing, It’s doing, some carefully woven torture chamber that would lure them to the apex of their joy, the center of the web, where they would just be devoured over and over to empty husks and set up like chess pieces to fill with love and light just to knock down again. He wasn’t free after all.

Jon had been halfway into his coat and halfway out the door to do, he didn’t know, something, anything, to go to the library to use their computer and research something he didn’t know he was looking for when Martin had seized his hand and whirled him around.

“Jon. STOP. It’s over.”

And he’d stopped. He’d looked into those baleful blue eyes, fallen into their depths, landed on the precipice of madness, and broken. It wasn’t over. Not for him. He finally understood. It was still there. The Eye. It always had been. Though not really, he understood slowly as he wept on his knees in their doorway into Martin’s chest, it had indeed closed forever on him, but it lingered as distant static, like a phantom limb, a metaphysical itch that could never be scratched. Martin had cradled him close and listened, listened so patiently as he ripped the jagged black fear from the deepest, ugliest part of his heart, hauled it up bloody and messy from his throat and finally laid it bare for both of them to see. And when it was done and he couldn’t cry anymore Martin had locked eyes with him in a way that made him forget any others could have ever existed outside of crystalline blue and filled with moonlight.

“Listen to me. I know you think you have some cosmic burden to bear. That you’re still wearing some… some fucked up crown and sitting on a throne of skulls and death and eyeballs or whatever image you want to put there, and that you have to sit and hurt and watch over everything so it doesn’t happen again, but... Sorry, Jon, but that’s bullshit. It’s just a scar now. That’s all. Just like the rest of them. Ugly and beautiful and proof that you —Jonathan Sims— are still alive. And you are not The Archivist anymore. You’re just mine. My Jon.”

He’d held his Jon’s stunned face in his hands and peppered kisses over the pock marks in his skin, over the slash on his throat, the burnt fingers that still couldn’t bend quite right, even the one on his chest, the one almost always hidden by fabric but the one he didn’t need to see to find. His heart and fingers would always remember exactly where it was. And he’d kept his lips there a moment, then turned his ear to his chest and wrapped his arms around his waist to listen to his heartbeat like a trembling little bird.

“If I can hear it and feel it. So can you,” he whispered.

Unsteady fingers curled desperately into Martin’s silky locks, hematite loop cool against his scalp, “Thank you…”

Martin stayed for the kiss on top of his head he knew was coming and smiled.

“Okay, so it’s simple to fix if you think about it,” he murmured into Jon’s chest, “We just need that thing, you know? The thing that makes you feel like you’re still doing the thing, but you’re not. What was the word for it again? A placeholder? Like when you quit smoking and you hold a pencil or a straw or something that’s not actually a cigarette so you can wean yourself off the ritual?”

Jon blinked owlishly down at him as he dried his eyes.

“A… placebo? Are you talking about a placebo?”

“Yeah! That’s it! We just need to find you a placebo for Knowing things! That’s all. Like… reality shows, or-or zoo cams or something! We’ll figure it out together. Alright, love? I promise you. It’ll be okay.”

Jon was skeptical, so very skeptical, but if Martin was determined to find a balm to soothe his jagged, ontological scars he would happily play the part of lab rat for him. They’d tried a myriad things to replicate the feeling of Knowing and looking something deep within him still craved. The zoo and animal livestreams were a bust, cute and entertaining as they were, but animals weren’t ever the purview of The Eye and the camera itself was barely a scrap. Reality shows came closer, the more salacious the better, but even that temporary fix wore off when Jon’s disgust with the overall content and participants outweighed any benefit. Martin was just happy to have finally converted him to Bake Off, at least. They tried people watching in the square in the village, but it made Jon far too self-conscious and guilty. He used the binoculars exactly once, and that was to look at the cows in the fields, and the choose-your-own-adventure books Martin had been certain would strike a sagacious chord wound up in the donation bin at the library. But that was when he was struck with a bolt of genius.

Unbeknownst to Jon, which brought him no small measure of glee, Martin ordered, received, and then set up with a literal bow in their back garden the finest telescope he could afford on his meager savings. He’d researched for days, asked on every amateur astronomer forum he could find, and had it delivered to the grocers so he could make it a proper surprise. He’d even gone so far as to attack and blindfold a hapless Jon the moment he made it home from work on the day it was ready, and stood behind him giddily bouncing as he tore the tea towel away from his eyes.

“A… Telescope?” he’d blurted dumbly.

“Yes! It’s perfect, right? I asked around to find the one that had all the best features, and this one has the best overall magnification and the most lenses, but it doesn’t have the little satellite positioning thing? I figured you wouldn’t want that anyway, you always like figuring things out and finding things on your own better.”

Martin had been positively radiant. Jon had just stared at the gawping black tube and chewed the inside of his cheek as he processed what to say.

“I mean… thank you, Martin, really. It was a sweet thought, but if the binoculars didn’t-“

“Screw the binoculars! This is different!” Martin happily insisted, “You can look at so much more! Stars and planets and galaxies and what have you, and it can maybe be sort of like you’re looking for other worlds? Wormholes or whatever? Or signs of The Fears and where they’ve gone? Or even if the stars are the same here as they were back before? Space literally has so many things to LOOK at we can’t even count them! This has got to be it!”

Jon tried to smile and laugh and agree to try it out, at the very least, if only because Martin was beaming so sweetly with pride and hope. Though that first night he didn’t, ushering them back in with promises of tomorrow, Martin, I promise tomorrow. Tomorrow had been a lie. As had been the next night. In fact, it took Jon a full week to even remember they even had a telescope, and that was only after getting the smuggest, Cheshire grin out of Martin after casually mentioning there would be a visible, if partial, lunar eclipse that night. He’d relented, only because he’d entrapped himself, and they’d both bundled up, looked in the manual for the best size lens to view the moon with, poured a few glasses of wine, and turned their eyes to the stars.

Martin had gone first, gripping the eyepiece and adjusting the focus all the while gasping in awe. It was so beautiful he’d burst into poetry with a crooked grin.

“Art thou pale for weariness? Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, wandering companionless among the stars that have a different birth, and ever changing, like a joyless eye that finds no object worth its constancy? Sounds a little familiar, eh?” he joked, casting a wry look over his shoulder.

Jon rolled his eyes fondly.

“Gross. Keats again?”

“Nope, Shelley this time, and even he thinks you ought to have a look at the moon. I think you’ll find you have a lot in common.”

Jon had sighed obligingly and shuffled to the telescope, fully expecting to look at something bright and round with a bit of a shadow on it that was distinctly unremarkable, have another glass of wine, and then go back inside to snuggle by the fire. What he saw in that tiny pinhole of light pierced straight through the hazel brown of his eye and plunged him into another world entirely.

The sands of the moon glowed the purest white in the refracted light of the distant sun with which it waltzed. He could see in crisp, shadowy relief the innumerable scars she bore, the depth and breadth of Ptolemaeus, the boundless lonely flatness of the maria, named for the oceans they were once thought to be, an insult to the rock plains forged a millennia ago in birth by cataclysmic fire. Every crater remained wrought in perfect, frozen detail with no erosion or foliage to slowly heal them over, and she beamed them proudly, ostentatiously in her heavenly light. A hulking, ancient protectorate, hung by the hands of creation at the dawn of time for a fledgling planet, hundreds of thousands of miles away, and yet so crystal clear and unafraid as he perused her millions of years of cosmic sentinel through a lens. It was dwarfing, humbling, viscerally awe inspiring in a way he dared not voice for fear of snuffing out the fragile glow of wonder and excitement welling in his chest he had been so certain was gone forever.

Astronomy had never been something that had particularly interested Jon, back when his entire reality from the moment his childish hands had touched a single book was spent peering into shadows and watching his own back. There was no point in wondering what lay among the stars when danger and death lurked so close behind with slavering jaws ever poised at his throat on terra firma, but now. Now, he had been living in an alternate world, dimension, reality, somewhere, he couldn’t even say for sure. He’d been hurled potentially through the very stars that twinkled coquettishly above, flashed through their nebulous veils and curtains under their indifferent gaseous gazes, but seen nothing. Here was a vast expanse of complete chaotic indefiniteness inviting him in to see what few had ever seen, to guess and hypothesize and gesture wildly at secrets only the stars could keep. To Know.

Jon had jerked back so suddenly from the telescope to survey the entirety of the astral dome above them that Martin had choked on his wine.

“Jon? Are you quite alright?”

“Yes, I…” he’d murmured, only even half hearing that Martin had said anything at all, stars reflected in his wondering dark eyes, “I’m fine, I just… How… How much more can this see? How deep does it go?”

Jon hadn’t seen the victorious smirk on Martin’s face as he set down his wine glass and picked up the instruction manual and lens guide. They’d watched the rest of the eclipse, of course, marveling through the lens at the inky trickle of shadow over craggy white, but then they’d changed the lens to the strongest one, according to the guide, and spent the rest of the evening triangulating their position beneath their slice of the universe and plotting out the various stars, planets, and constellations above. Jon had even dashed inside to grab a mostly blank notebook and had filled several pages with notes and observations and things to research later, all while Martin held back tears watching him come so alive over a project he didn’t even know he needed. Eventually though, sleepiness and cold claimed him, and he kissed his beloved goodnight and left him, more than gladly, to ride out the intellectual flare up until it burnt both him and itself out.

Martin had no clue what time it was when he finally returned, and it didn’t even matter. All that mattered was at some point, a practically frozen Jon had climbed into bed, snuggled up close behind and wrapped his arms around him to kiss the back of his neck so softly like the wings of a butterfly and whisper.

“Thank you.”

Another victorious smirk and a loving murmur.

“Told you so.”

Where there had been nothing but an Eye shaped hole in him, scarred around the edges and aching in its vacuum, Jon had filled it with the names of nebulas and quasars, of the myth of Andromeda, and Orion, and Castor and Pollux, or Hercules, and why they had all been hung in the stars for eternity. The stories were much the same as he remembered, but he’d found slight eccentricities, tiny irregularities in the sky which fascinated him even more so. Night after night he would look at a different astral body, chart it down in his notebook, then come bounding in with starlight beaming from his eyes and his fingertips with some cry of eureka.

“Martin! Did you know here Polaris is in the south and Sirius is in the north?”

“Martin! Did you know the Andromeda Galaxy is actually a little closer to the Milky Way here?”

“Martin, you have to come see this! Oh, no it’s not weird this time, it’s just I finally got Saturn in the telescope and you can actually see the rings!”

His nightly herald would always be different, but Martin would always rise from the comfort of the couch, put his slippers on, and let Jon talk as long as he needed to about his latest discovery, watching him smile again while he, too, watched the matching smile it never failed to ignite illuminate Martin’s face and they lit each other up in the fused brilliance of a binary star.

Martin no longer hung the moon for Jon, he’d finally just up and quite literally given it to him, and there was no mortal way to repay him for that. Or so he’d thought. It came to him, as most flashes of brilliance do, on a night he hadn’t even been thinking about it at all. All he had been doing was sitting in a lawn chair with his telescope long after Martin had gone to bed, chewing his pencil idly, vaguely missing a cigarette and pondering notes on Vega and Lyra between watching it through his lens. He’d been stuck for days on Vega and its potentiality for another solar system and what that could imply for their new Earth and their new sun, as well as Lyra and the tragic tale of Orpheus and his doomed love. Even in their new reality he still turned back at the end of the story, still could not contain the roiling, effusive adoration to his own downfall.

Bitterness had risen like bile in the back of Jon’s throat as he replayed the myth again in his head, unsure why it was vexing him and rewinding in his brain so torturously. “Stupid, stupid man, if he’d only just…” he’d thought again and again, each time giving the star-crossed musician a different decision, a different choice, urging him down another path somewhere, anywhere along his journey, but in the end, he’d always looped back around to the original. It was the point of the story, after all. Not so much the love itself or even the loss of it, but the power of it over one man and the creation born from his mourning and eventual destruction. Patently Greek. But the chorus would always begin again in Jon’s head. If he’d kept his Eurydice, if his songs had been happy, if he hadn’t spent the rest of his life mourning so intensely he was eventually destroyed for it, would he have become the paragon of healing he was, the oracle, the lynchpin of the fate of the world he had eventually become? Which of them was the stupider man?

Jon was only mortal now, he was no longer all-seeing oracle and dark savior, he had no authority to say, but it was a trifle easier to ponder the hubris of Orpheus instead of his own. He couldn’t help but think, achingly, sometimes the heroes just deserved to pull their beloved from the pit of Tartarus, promise to love them for eternity, and then simply get married, ride off into the sunset, and live happily ever after. A story wasn’t a story if it didn’t write itself upon the very bones and sinews of its heroes, that was the law of the universe, but when the story was done and the cracks and fissures in their tissues had faded to myth and legend, what became of the heroes who did not die a tragic or heroic death and were not hung in the stars? What happened to heroes left behind? Twisting his bloodstone ring on his thumb idly as it caught the shivering fire of those stars in its dark mirrored surface, the musical arrow of the muses pierced his heart, wide-eyed in wonder. He’d asked the universe, but he already knew the answer. He’d always known. He knew, and he knew it with such clarion joy as he had never known anything before.

He could no longer be the man who hung Martin’s moon, he hadn’t been for a long time. That much was clear to him, but he could certainly do something else. Perhaps they had grown past the need for moon hangings in the first place. He knew how their story ended.

It took months of saving, secreting, preparation, and then finally just simply waiting for the perfect, clear night. The moment it came, the moment he knew it was the night, Jon struck without hesitation. Poor Martin wanted nothing more than to collapse onto the couch, into Jon, when he returned from a late shift at the grocers, but found himself instead stuffed right back into his coat with a picnic basket in hand and hauled out into the frigid night in a flurry of Jon with little time to protest. He bounded up the hill behind their little cottage beneath a perfect blanket of stars flaming coldly overhead, trailing Martin’s hand in his behind with his breath coming in silvery puffs of clouds, and paying no heed to the whining.

“Jon, whatever it is, does it have to be NOW?” Martin panted, “I am absolutely knackered and it’s beyond freezing and wouldn’t it be nicer just to curl up with a cuppa and fall asleep in front of Star Wars or something? Doesn’t that have enough stars and space in it?”

Dauntless, Jon only tugged harder.

“There’s tea in the basket, and I’ve seen Star Wars. And yes, it has to be tonight, it’s really important, I promise.”

“Look. I love you. So much. You know this, and please know it is with the utmost love and deepest affection in my heart that I point out that you say that every time, and you’ve still shown me Pluto like, a hundred separate times. While I quite like it, and I still feel sorry for it being bumped out of the solar system and all, it’s just a dot? How many times can you look at a dot?” Martin sighed.

His words finally threw a caltrop into Jon’s warpath, and he paused, turning over his shoulder woundedly.

“What? No, it’s not Pluto, I swear just- Please, Martin? I’ll never ask again if you don’t want to, but just for tonight, please?” he pleaded.

Martin winced, and immediately folded under the onslaught of doleful honeyed brown eyes under a nimbus of stars.

“Oh, lord there you go with the puppy dog eyes. Okay, okay fine, but there better be a nip of whiskey in this,” he chided lovingly with a gesture at the thermos in the basket.

The smile flared back to life brightly on Jon’s face as he turned back up the craggy little footpath to the top of the hill.

“Of course, hot toddy with tea.”

“Ooh, lovely, you do know me.”

The rest of the way was trivially short to the small, flat hilltop surrounded by heather where Jon had already set up a blanket and the telescope over a pristine vista of the dark line where the stars sank into the sea. He ushered Martin to sit down first, then perched on his hip beside him and poured him a generous helping of tea and whiskey from the thermos before pouring his own.

“Thanks, much. Right then, what exactly are we up here to look at that we couldn’t see from our garden?” Martin asked, accepting his cup of potent hot toddy and sipping it gratefully around the lemony steam that billowed up.

Taken aback by the sudden logic lobbed into the center of his romantic posturing, Jon looked momentarily stunned, as if someone had slapped him upside the head.

“Oh! Oh, um, well-! Ahah, that is to say- Uh. There is a reason for all this. It’s not that we couldn’t see it from our garden, we very much could have. B-But it’s so beautiful up here, and you can kind of hear the sea? And it’s nice and peaceful, and the heather is still blooming a bit and um…” he trailed off, cheeks burning.

“Okay…?” Martin probed, frowning a little.

“Er, actually... It’s less about the stars than it is- W-Well it is about the stars. Let’s get that clear. But to be completely honest I mostly just… I-I well. There’s something I need to tell you?”

Jon was ill-prepared for the look of abject horror on Martin’s face as he went paler than the moon overhead.

“Shit, what is it? Did you find something? You saw something? There’s been a sign of The Fears? Oh god it’s not HER is it?” he asked frantically, nearly slopping hot toddy all over his lap.

“What? No! No, none of that!” Jon spluttered, aghast.

Martin regained a modicum of color in his face and breathed in measuredly.

“Okay, so then what is it? Oh god, you’re not… Jon you’re not ill, or something, are you? Please, you can just tell me if-“

“No, I am not ill either, damn it, Martin! If you would just listen to me! I-!” Jon moaned exasperatedly, “I just wanted to do something… nice. Something nice for you. And nicer than I normally would because I am apparently much worse at crafting romantic moments than I thought and-“

“Wait…” Martin cut in, eyes gleaming with realization, “Jonathan Sims… Are you grand gesturing?”

“Well I am certainly trying but you are making it exceedingly difficult!” he retorted, red in the face and breathless.

“Oh my god, you are! I’m so sorry!” Martin laughed brightly, “Oh god Jon you poor thing I’m so sorry, I’m awful, I’m the absolute worst! No please! Don’t let me spoil it. Please go on.”

Grinding the heel of his palm into his forehead, Jon tried to summon the words again, only for Martin’s strong, warm hands to take it from him and tip his chin up to gaze into his eyes.

“Hey. Hey, Jon. Look at me,” he breathed, looking into his eyes idolatrously, “I’m sorry. I love you. You can tell me.”

Taking the steadiness from those clear blue depths he needed, Jon focused on them, on the strawberry blond curls tossing in the icy breeze, of the kiss of chilled pink under his freckles, and that eternal, sunshine smile.

“Okay,” he finally answered, smiling softly.

With a deep, shuddering breath, and a long swig of whiskey laced tea for good measure, Jon drew himself up and fished deep in his soul for the words he had waited a millennium to say.

“Okay… So here it is. Um… I’ve um, I’ve had a lot of time alone lately with my new hobby, as it were. So, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. A lot of it is overly complicated and ridiculous and doesn’t deserve to live outside of my head but… a lot of it has been about you, about us. And I know we don’t need to-to put a label on us or put us into a… a box or anything like that. But every time I look at this ring on my finger, I can’t help but remember we never actually talked about what they meant,” he began, holding out his left hand and fidgeting with the loose band around his thumb.

“Oh Jon, don’t worry about that. It was just me being a big sappy, sentimental dork. And if I recall correctly, we’d had a pretty awful row a night or two before, and I just wanted to feel close to you again, I guess? We both know what they mean to us. It doesn’t matter,” Martin assured him sweetly.

“Except that it does!” Jon insisted passionately, “That’s the point! You are a big sappy, sentimental dork, Martin. I bet you were the kid that had a dream wedding all planned in a notebook with pictures cut out of magazines and everything. I adore that about you, but big sappy sentimental dorks should have big sappy, sentimental moments like huge, expensive seaside weddings with three-flavor cakes and all your friends and family and rose petals and dove releases and whatever else your heart could dream up.”

Martin snickered and shook his head, charmed at least by the mental image of kissing Jon on a seaside cliff at sunset while doves flew in glorious formation around them and everyone they had ever known and loved cheered.

“Pfft, I don’t need a grand wedding and all that, I just need-”

“Me. I know,” Jon finished for him with a smirk, “I knew you’d say that. Maybe not. But you deserve one. And I know I don’t use that word lightly, but it’s necessary in this case. You deserve it. All of it. Me on one knee with a ring in a box, you deserve us picking out flowers and tuxedos and arguing over the font on the invitations. You deserve Tim’s awful bachelor party and laughing at me at the altar because I had to read my vows off a card and they’re still so stiff and awkward and they pale in comparison to the beautiful poem you wrote about me. You deserve smiling so hard your cheeks hurt and crying as we exchange rings. All of it.”

Martin weighed his words carefully on his tongue with a sip of his boozy tea to chase away ghosts of things that never even were.

“I mean, sure, not going to say I never wanted that. And I did have that stupid wedding notebook, by the way. But all that became a pipe dream the minute we wound up here, right? No use being upset about something that can never be.”

“That may be so, but the crux of it is… you also contented yourself with the idea of it never coming true not because we’re here, but because you didn’t think I wanted it,” Jon answered, his unspoken truth hanging heavy in the chill night air between them, “Every time you tried to tell me you wanted to be with me forever, I brushed it off and painted it gray and tucked it away and carried on the way we always were like nothing happened and it didn’t matter. Because it was alright, really, you were just so happy to have what we have, that I didn’t die in your arms that night, that we were still together after everything. That I at least kept that promise after I’d broken so many. You were so grateful just for what you were gifted after we thought we would end with nothing you didn’t dare think to ask the universe for more and I am so, so sorry it took me so long to see that, Martin. I’m so sorry.”

His voice broke. The breath caught in Martin’s chest as he reached out to touch his wrist comfortingly.

“Jon, I-“

“No, please. Please let me finish I… I can’t give you any of those things. I can’t give you our friends back, I can’t give you cake and doves and the sunset and crying through vows in front of the vicar. I can’t even give you an elopement at the register office because we still don’t legally exist. And I guess for a long time I resented myself for that. For all of it. For stealing that from you, for dragging you through literal hell only to give you a shadow of a life stuck here with me because I betrayed you. But- no stop, don’t say anything yet I’m not done. B-But now I finally realize. You’re right, Martin. You were always right. It doesn’t matter. Those things are all just… things. I said to you once, a long time ago, and I’m still not even sure if you really heard me, that I didn’t want to just survive. It was true then, and maybe it wasn’t true for a while, but it’s certainly true again. We did not fight tooth and nail to just survive. We fought to live, and live together. So what I’m saying is… I know now I don’t have to give you tuxedos and white roses as long as I give you something… Something to prove to you that you are my everything, my entire world, something to show you that I love you more than I have loved anything in my entire life. That I want forever with you. S-So I…” he trailed off, sucking in his breath to give his gesture of undying love the ardor and grandeur it deserved, “I bought us a star.”

The proclamation rang out like the toll of a bell, its gravity sonorous and quaking. Martin blinked.

“You… I’m sorry?” he squeaked.

Jon set his empty thermos cup aside, flailed his hands in the air and shook his head frantically

“I-I know, I know it sounds mental just hear me out!” he protested, “Technically I didn’t buy the star, if we want to get picky about it. I mean obviously no one can own a star. Just the rights to name it? It’s a thing you can do online. I was a bit gobsmacked it was real to be honest. I just had this silly idea when I was out looking at the stars. I was looking at Lyra and thinking about you and Orpheus, and I… W-Well I just typed it in, ‘can you name a star?’ and it came right up. Right then and there. It um… comes with… hold on.”

Remembrance placed a gentle bookmark down on Jon’s fluttering thoughts, and he rummaged in the picnic basket for a moment before pulling out a navy-blue manila folder covered in stars and full of the paperwork and certificates that had come with registering theirs. He handed it to Martin, who took it in place of his own empty cup, numb, muscles quivering under his jaw, and opened it to the glittering gold typeface that proclaimed ‘Congratulations!’.

“It comes with paperwork, too! See? So, it’s official, at least? The Jon-Martin star. Not a marriage license I know, but at least our names are together on something legal? Our real names? I figured even if we manage the fake identity thing we’d have to get married as not us. Not really. So… I-It could be like our marriage certificate?” Jon explained, chewing his lower lip.

Martin said nothing as his hand turned the pages of the documentation, his eyes distant in a way Jon had never seen before. Not disembodied and enthralled, not broken, not even regarding puzzle pieces.

“Oh! Um, also I-I got us a binary star. I forgot to mention that bit,” he went on, filling the sudden void, “It’s, ah- What a binary star is- It’s technically two? But they’re caught up in each other’s gravity and they orbit each other so tightly they look like one star together, one that just shines a little brighter. They’re bound together forever by the most powerful cosmic force in the universe. Just like us.”

Only silence answered, punctuated by one last crisp whisper of paper, and then the folder closing with Martin’s spread fingers atop it, bloodstone gleaming in the vivid pale light of the night. Jon’s heart pitched frantically in his chest, and desperate, stranded tears pricked at his eyes.

“I uh… I would have rather gotten us a whole constellation. Heh, you know? But they don’t do that, obviously,” he tried softly, his fingers barely brushing Martin’s knuckles, “They record heroes in constellations, after all. Great deeds, doomed romances, lovers who can be together no other way… That would have been a better way to honor us, I think. Our story. A-And who knows? Maybe back on our world there are a few new stars to remember what we did, to mark the place we left it, so that everyone we left behind can look up and remember us. They don’t know how the story really ended, and they probably never will, but we do. We do, and I want to end it right here, right now. With our star shining above us ‘and they lived happily ever after.’”

Martin still said nothing, but his head bowed, casting a slice of shadow over his eyes, and his shoulders quivered as a thin, bright line of wet silver trickled down his cheek. Jon felt the very sky shatter above and begin to crumble around him.

“Please… M-Make no mistake, Martin. P-Perhaps the gesture is silly and meaningless, but it was all I could think to do to go with everything I’ve said tonight. Martin… Martin, don’t you see? These are my wedding vows to you. This is me saying ‘I do’ and also ‘Martin K. Blackwood would you do me the honor of making me the happiest man in the universe?’ All at once. This is me saying I swear to you I will be yours, through everything, until the end of time. M-Maybe I wasn’t before. Maybe I was still punishing myself, but I’m telling you, I’m ready now to have my happily ever after. With you, Martin. If you’ll have me. If I haven’t-“

He would never finish. In a dizzying blur of blue folder, flashing hematite, and a wreath of golden curls, Martin kissed the words off his lips. He kissed him so hard and so fierce, through wracking sobs with his hands woven so raptly into his long, wavy locks he thought his lips would bruise and his fragile soul would finally shatter to pieces in Martin’s arms. Undone, all Jon could do was surrender and kiss him back with equal passion, thumbing away the hot tears as they spilled freely down his cheeks and anointed them both with their cleansing, hoary heat. Their lips parted and they panted softly against each other in the space between, each afraid to break the sacred, pulsing silence.

“You’re crying,” Jon whispered at length, “I’ve said something wrong. Martin, darling I’m so sorry. I never meant to-”

Martin laughed, raspy with tears, but ethereal, sparkling, like stardust floating on the breeze.

“People are allowed to cry when they’re happy you stupid, silly man,” he murmured in between kissing him again, and again.

“Oh. Oh.”

He kissed him one last time, that idiot man who always burnt the toast and always knew the facts but never knew what to say, who finally figured it out and bought him a star, and threw his arms around him, enveloping his slight, fragile form protectively in his embrace.

“I love you. I love you so much.”

Jon sank into that warm, familiar comfort and buried his face in his shoulder.

“I love you, too, Martin. I want to be yours for the rest of my life. I want to be me, I want to be us.”

“I know. I’ve always known. Oh god, you do know that right? I know that you love me, it’s written in everything you do and say. I have never, ever once doubted you love me with everything you are. Even in the moments I was afraid that… that maybe we just weren’t meant to be together, I still knew it wouldn’t be because you didn’t love me. Never because you didn’t love me. Just maybe that we didn’t fit together anymore,” Martin replied in a small voice through his tears as they spilled down his cheeks.

As much as he wanted to vehemently deny there was ever a chance they might have not fit back together again after they had both been so shattered, to kiss him and tell him not in a million years would there ever have been a future where they weren’t Jon and Martin against the world, Jon knew it to be inescapably true.

“I’m so sorry you ever had to be afraid of that,” he swore, digging his fingers into Martin’s back pointedly, “After everything. After we fought so hard to escape fear itself. That I almost let it truly win in the end. That I couldn’t just let go… Because… Because this was never about The Eye, was it?”

A heave of breath and its shuddering exhale shook Martin’s body free of lifetimes of grief, and fear, of ugliness carried far beyond the borders of their souls. His fingers curled tighter in unspoken reply.

“No Jon, no it wasn’t, but I’m so very glad you finally figured that out.”

“Me, too…” he whispered.

They held each other in the quiet wake of being a moment and let the astral plane wheel calmly overhead. An impatient star twinkled.

“Wait… you never answered me,” Jon finally said as he pulled back, sliding his elegant fingers down Martin’s strong arms.

“Huh?” Martin blurted, scrubbing under his eyes with the sleeve of his coat.

“About marrying me tonight. You never actually said yes, so…”

A twinkle in his eye and a slight mischief to his grin, Jon dove back into the picnic basket and emerged with a velvet ring box. Martin’s hands flew to his mouth.

“You didn’t.”

“Of course I did! Nothing fancy, but I thought it was high time to retire the blood rings,” he explained rising from his former perch on his hip to kneel properly.

The box cracked neatly open, and inside lay a simple, white gold band with a tiny circle of milky moonstone embedded in it on a midnight-blue satin cushion, blindingly bright against the dark. Martin sobbed joyfully all over again.

“So, uh… I suppose if it had just been us, if we’d just been together, without everything, and we’d arrived at this moment. I would have done much the same. I would have brought you somewhere beautiful, somewhere I could teach you some inane fact you didn’t actually care about, but liked because it came from me. Emulsifiers in ice cream and rum raisin…” they both snickered, “And I would have tried my best to make it into some sort of romantic metaphor but completely bunged it up and you would be laughing as I got down on one knee, just like this. And it would have just been simple. To the point. Just… Will you marry me? So…”

Jon assumed the traditional position, on one knee, arms outstretched, his every slender point a star in a perfect constellation of love.

“Will you marry me?”

Their eyes met, across a thousand different realities, across a thousand different worlds, carried on celestial winds to fall hopelessly, inexorably, into each other’s orbit.

“Yes, yes I do believe I will.”

With one last farewell kiss upon it for what it had meant for them both, Jon slipped the bloodstone ring from Martin’s finger and replaced it with the delicate band made of starlight. It took its place radiantly, and shone as Martin drew his hand back to admire it with an equally radiant grin before it dimmed with concern.

“But what about you?” he asked worriedly as he watched the old ring entombed lovingly in the box.

Jon only smirked and produced a second box from the basket, which he offered on his open palm out to Martin.

“Naturally, I got one for myself. Couldn’t pass up a chance to get a wedding ring that actually fits, could I? It’s just… Don’t you think you deserve to give it to me the way you would want?” he urged.

Martin took the box eagerly, biting his lower lip in thought.

“Not sure you want to give me that freedom. I had about five different ways of asking you in my head and all of them you would have hated so, so much. But I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t kind of the point,” he answered wryly.

Jon chortled.

“Sorry I, the unromantic one, sprung this on you, the romantic one. But I did want to surprise you. I-I mean you can still write me a vows poem later? If you want to, of course. I’d love to have it, even if I don’t actually get to hear it at our wedding.”

Martin’s face flushed immediate crimson and his eyes darted coyly away as he toyed with the wedding band box in his lap.

“Oh that? A-Actually I… I have it memorized, i-if you really wanted to hear it.”

“You- WHAT?” gasped Jon, his cheeks flushing in tandem.

“Oh yeah, I wrote my vows poem for you ages ago and I’ve gone over it so many times I know it by heart. It was comforting, okay? I-I’d read it again when times were good and I thought maybe you’d actually- um… a-and when times were not so good, when you were gone, in your own head, when I was afraid we were broken for good, whenever I needed it. I’ve read it over a thousand times and never changed a thing from the first time I penned it. Never needed to. I’m surprised I haven’t recited it in my sleep at this point,” Martin admitted sheepishly.

Jon’s entire body flushed with a solar heat that melted his joints and his heart into a swirling flare of adulation.

“I can think of no better way, then, to receive my ring,” he breathed, reaching out to cup Martin’s cheek in his hand, “I’ve had my turn, now it’s yours.”

In mirror ballets of love exchanges, Martin cradled Jon’s hand against his cheek as he spoke the first lines of the vows etched ever on his being softly into his palm.

“Let he who, shadow dwelling, must In paper, pen, and book be bound Shake off the chains of dark and rust And chart his own bright fate unfound.

Let he with lifelong burdens borne Cut paper wings with thread of gold And hand in hand, the sky forsworn Flit clouds and sun in laughter bold.

Let he whose blood and soldier’s ken The world did shield from dark and fear Heal fast those wounds, be whole again And sleep at last, held close and dear.

Bring him to me with spirit free With stars in eyes and music sung From lips a joyful promise be One soul conjoined, one fate’s thread strung.

Two hearts rejoice in love renowned. We lift our heads, alive, uncrowned.”

He waited until the last couplet to pull the ring from the box and slide it onto Jon’s finger where it too, fit perfectly, like it had always been there, and shone defiantly bright in the moonlight. Jon wept. He had been weeping since the first words of verse left his beloved’s lips, but seeing that ring like a piece of his missing soul returned to him undammed the tears effusively.

“God that was… Martin, I don’t have words. I-It was… so beautiful. You’re so beautiful. Thank you,” he cried fervently, “I wish I could tell you properly how much that meant, but I just-“

“Hey… That’s alright. I’m the words guy. You’re the emulsifiers guy. Making you cry is all I need to see to know how you feel,” Martin assured him warmly, reaching out to brush his tears away as he chuckled.

“Yeah… add this one to the running tally.”

“Oh, I have,” Martin snickered, “Speaking of! Now we’ve done the crying through vows bit. Shouldn’t we say the ‘I do’ bit, as well?”

Jon pursed his lips with a shrug as he reached out with his left hand to take Martin’s left as well, twining their fingers together

“Yes, I suppose we should. I don’t see why not. Well then, Martin, do you?”

“I do. And Jon, do you?”

“I do.”

“You may now soundly snog the groom.”

“Martin…”

The emphatic drawl of his name the way Jon only called it when he was frustratingly enamored of him perished gently against Martin’s velvet lips as they caressed his. They kissed slowly and reverently, sealing a pact ordained by the heavens long before either of them had seen the stars in the other’s eyes, lighting with white flame the torch to guide them for the first time, forward. They broke it only to punctuate it with two more featherlight kisses and a breathless laugh, bowing their foreheads together in deference to the forces of fate and the universe.

“I know this isn’t the wedding either of us ever dreamed of, but as far as I’m concerned, it was perfect,” Jon murmured, nuzzling closer into his husband, swaddling the new, fledgling and beautiful word in his heart.

“Well, hey, what is a wedding really other than just a formal declaration that this is it? This is us, we’re forever, no matter what. We did it. And you did it for me, in the STARS, Jon… Can we just remember that again? You put us in the actual stars. I am so writing a ballad for our constellation later, you do know this.”

“Oh lord. Of course you are. But really, it was the least I could do, after you’ve done so much for me, sacrificed everything for me. Waited for me for so long.”

“And you came back to me,” Martin reminded him passionately, “And I don’t just mean back to life, here, in this world. I mean you came back, Jon, MY Jon, the Jon I was in love with the moment I laid eyes on him. The fidgety and obstinate Jon who can’t make a decent cup of tea to save his life, who puts on two different socks in the morning because his nose is already in the paper or a book, who teaches me about bleeding rocks and binary stars and still reacts to the simplest acts of kindness like a warm cranberry orange scone without asking for one like they’re divine miracles he is undeserving of, who looks at me like I hung the moon or something every time. Even when I thought I was a complete and total waste of a human being, you, Jonathan Sims, the most beautiful, amazing, brilliant man to ever walk the Earth, looked at me like I hung the moon. And that was… Still is… everything to me.”

The heavens shifted, the stars wheeled, the last piece clicked smartly, smugly into place.

“W-What did you say…?” Jon asked with such urgency, grabbing his hands so fiercely, Martin startled.

“Wh-I-I don’t-? Which part? The moon hanging part?” he stuttered, rolling his eyes fondly as he realized mid-sentence, “Oh, right. Ugh, Jon are you seriously going to get after me about your weird vendetta against idioms at our wedding? Because if you are that would be annoyingly adorable and so intensely you and kind of perfect, but also can you not on THIS particular occasion?”

The laugh that tore from Jon’s throat was half mad, half euphoric as the weight of the moon lifted from his shoulders and became naught but an indifferent sentinel disc in the sky once more.

“No no no, it’s just… It’s funny, I had more than a few things very, very wrong for a very, very long time. That’s all. Don’t worry about it,” he explained, leaning in and pressing a delicate kiss to Martin’s forehead, “If you’re the one who hung the moon after all, then I suppose ‘written in the stars’ will have to do for me.”

Martin lit up with literary glee.

“Oh ho! Two space related idioms in one go? What a rare treat! Maybe this is your gateway drug into puns…” he teased impishly.

“Absolutely no chance in hell.”

They both laughed, laughed with the billowing icy breath that reached with victorious fingers up to the heavens. They laughed, messily sniffing back the pesky drip of tears and cold. They laughed with lightness of the encumbrance of hematite armor shed, its bloody protections no longer needed to cage wounded hearts and keep them safe and close. They laughed in breath and also in the dancing points of light in their eyes as they fell into one another free from gravity.

“So uh… Do I get to see my star tonight, or don’t I?” Martin finally remembered, relishing the utterly horrified yelp from Jon.

“Oh god I completely-! Y-Yes! Yes of course, it’s already set up at the proper coordinates!” he had already sprung to his feet, “Oh, though, hang on, it took longer to get to the star viewing part than I anticipated, so I might need to adjust it a bit. Oh! And I have a little strawberries and champagne, if you like?”

“I do like, please and thank you!”

Jon set to readjusting the telescope to the proper ascension and declination while Martin poured them two glasses of crisply bubbling champagne. They twined their arms to drink a toast from each other’s glass, ‘to us’ or ‘to happily ever afters’, or to several other messily rambled toast worthy sentiments. They couldn’t decide and toasted to all of it. They ate plump red strawberries and licked the juice from each other’s fingers as they looked at their star, which was, after everything, just a dot, just like Pluto, but Martin had to admit that he rather liked looking at dots after all. And that one was their dot. The warm intoxication of love and champagne begged for music, and someone fumbled in the cold for a wedding playlist on some app, somewhere, it didn’t matter, just as long as they could join hands, gaze into each other’s eyes and dance inelegantly, stepping on each other’s toes, under the umbrella of stars in a gentle rain of moonlight.

“I don’t see your problem with cliches, idioms and all that, really…” Martin mused at length, laying his head on Jon’s shoulder as they slowly spun to the rhythm of a longing ballad and the song of the sea, “Like this stupid, great song. They’re familiar and cozy and everyone knows them. They’re like… like old friends. Always there to rely on when we can’t come up with the words ourselves, because sometimes we can’t. And if something trite and silly sums up the way you feel, why not just let it be? Sometimes things are said over and over again because some truths are universal, you know? They’re just… human.”

Jon pressed a kiss into the mop of curls that tickled his nose and smelled faintly of toasted sugar and lavender and mused on all of the romantic cliches that had just passed through his mind unbidden. Who was he to deny he was but one star in the sky, a single gear in the grand mortal mechanism of the universe. If he had handed himself over to the humanity of it all instead of rusting, stopping, looking outside where there was never anything to see, perhaps he could have had this dance much sooner. It didn’t matter though, until it did, because that night Martin took his breath away, made his world go round, he was head over heels for his match made in heaven, and better than heaven, they were written in the stars.

“You know what, Martin?” Jon laughed in reply, “Tonight, being what it is, I am willing to concede. You are absolutely right.”

“I’m glad…” came the tender acceptance, followed by a distinctly puckish beat of silence, “Then does this mean I can I start saying love you to the moon and back?”

“Don’t push your luck...”

#The Magnus Archives #TMA #Magnuspod #JonMartin #JMart #jmartweddingchallenge #hey-there-hunter #Jonathan Sims #Martin Blackwood #Fan fiction

27 notes · View notes

mamsellechosette24601 · 3 years

Text

In the Green vs the real Hildegard's writings and philosophy

Because of “In the Green”, I started reading a bit about Hildegard and her thinking so as to better explore the themes of the musical. I read the book “Hildegard of Bingen: A Spiritual Reader", by Carmen Acevedo Butcher, which was short and insightful, with lots of excerpts from Hildegard, so I’ll share what I got from it in relation to the musical.

1. The symbolism of the colour green and of the sun

"Hildegard called this vigor viriditas, the “green” energy of agape love pulsing through the entire universe. Over and over in her writings, she chooses viriditas to express God’s vitality and the ways His goodness and love charge the whole world with life, beauty, and renewal—literally, with “greenness.” Her unique, creative use of this Latin word makes it something of a neologism in her work. In Hildegard’s mind, viriditas was first found in the green of the garden of Eden, but it is also the green of whatever twig you or I happen to be looking at in this present moment, whoever we are, wherever we may be. She knew that the natural opposite of this “greening” energy was spiritual desiccation (including what we often call “depression”). But, like God’s mercy, His revitalizing viriditas has no limits. Wherever Hildegard looked, she saw that this “green” force animates every creature and plant on this planet with verdant divine love."

"The patriarchs and prophets who prefigured and predicted Christ were the “roots” of God’s divine tree, on which sprouted the most delicate “bud,” who is God’s Son, and from Him grew the “fruit” of the virtues: Humility, Charity, Divine Love, Patience, and their sisters. This is a favorite metaphor for Hildegard, and in her songs she praises the Virgin Mary as the “twig” or “branch” on which the “bud,” baby Jesus, flowered. By her intelligent selection of this one word, oculus, Hildegard has shown the center of her work—that to see God is to grow."

"In one of this volume’s poems praising Mary, “Grateful for the Unobtrusive Good,” Hildegard’s use of metaphors suggests that she saw no separation between symbol and fact. Metaphors were reality to her. Hildegard’s point in this song is that the divinely made sun giving earth life is also, in a mystical way, the life-giving Son of God who as the Word made creation’s every twig, including Mary, and yet was also Mary’s “Bloom”(…) In this song to Mary, the sun (also God’s Spirit) shines on the Virgin Mary, the “greenest twig.” She is a twig, not even a branch; but she is green with God’s pregnant vitality, and her comparative insignificance (as a woman, and unmarried) prepares her for the greatness of God’s Spirit to grow within her and produce the miraculous “flowering” of God’s divine-human Son. Her weakness is her strength, a recurring theme in Hildegard."

So, when Jutta sings “I can see the last of the light / Reflected in the green / Of everything”and we know what is going to happen, we’re supposed to cry at the distortion of life’s goodness

Sun Song gains a much more religious meaning, when we see everything that the sun and nature meant for Hildegard. In her “Book of Divine Works”, the Holy Spirit says: "I’m the divine flame of life, I burn above the golden fields, I sparkle on water, and I shine like the sun, the moon, and all the stars. Together with the loving, hidden power of the wind, I make everything come alive. Remember that I’m also Reason. I inform the wind of the first Word that created all things. I’m your breath, I’m the breath of all things, and none die because I am that Life." (should I read into In the Green’s “Air leaves my lungs/ I’m lying on my back / I’m staring at the sky / I open up my mouth but the air swallows my cry”? Jutta was forsaken by God, completely).

Death Ceremony, with its translation of “O Viridissima Virga”, introduces us to Jutta’s and Hildegard’s quest away from Eve’s curse and towards the Virgin Mary. The “little green branch” seeks the “branch of freshest green”, instead of rotting.

The idea of strength in weakness, which the Hildegards find in First Verb, appears, together with the aforementioned notions of the “green” and the “bud”, in Hildegard’s “Play of the Virtues”. "The virtues and the souls: 'When the world began, everything pulsed with life and was the tenderest shade of green.Flowers blossomed everywhere. But, after the Fall, everything green faded." The Warrior-of-Truth saw it all and said: 'I see what happened, but my house is not yet full. Look at me instead. I’m the image of your Father. Know my broken body broken for you. I’m exhausted. I’m tired of being made a laughing-stock. It goes straight through me. Even my followers lose heart. But remember this. The original abundance of green did not have to shrivel up, and your faith will see its way to strength, until you know the divinity of my jewel-covered body intimately, a gem in each injury, and each injury a bud. Look, Father! See my wounds? Now, let people everywhere kneel before God the Father, who’ll hand us strength on strength."

2. Hildegard’s “Scivias”, where she first shares her divine visions vs Jutta

In “Scivias” Hildegard writes a metaphor of the sinning soul. Turning away from God and towards sin (the “North”), the soul speaks “I regret that so much now! For I was captured, robbed, blinded, and violated. My garment was torn. I was dragged to a gruesome place and subjected to the worst kind of slavery”.

Then the soul repents, and hides in a cave, like Jutta hid in the Undergound: “After I’d said this, I went down the narrow path and hid from the eyes of the North. I went into a tiny cave and wept because I’d lost my Mother Zion. I wept, too, for all my wounds. I wept for my sadness. I wept and wept. I cried so many tears, they absorbed my pain and bruises. Then I smelled something very sweet. It reminded me of my mother’s soft breath on my cheek. That small comfort made me cry some more. I was so full of joy that I cried until it shook the mountain of my cave." The crying out of joy that will force the soul out of the cave also kind of reminds me of The Ripening, especially in this connection to a mother’s love (“In living I have learned/ to love another as a mother/ And I’ve felt that love inside my wicked flesh”) but I may be reading too much into it.

The soul then is persecuted by her enemies, and we are told “Then I saw poisonous snakes, scorpions, and other hideous reptiles slithering towards me. The snakes were hissing. I screamed, “Mother! Where are you?! Help me!” I heard my mother say, “Run, daughter! The Omnipotent, Unconquerable Provider has given you wings. Fly! Fly over these things blocking your path!” And I did." Compare this to “I’m not going back / I’ll run until I die / And when I can no longer run / I’ll teach myself to fly / I try”. All in all, the world of Hildegard’s visions is far from the reality Jutta faced.

The soul faces self-doubt and recovers remembering it was created by God: “The Devil’s poison arrow is the evil robbing me of my spiritual joy. I don’t want to celebrate people or God. I doubt everything when I feel this way, including my salvation. But when God helps me remember that He created me, then—even in the middle of my depression—I tell the Devil, “I won’t give in to my fragile clay. I’ll fight you!” How? When my inner self decides to rebel against God, I’ll walk with wise patience over the marrow and blood of my body. I’ll be the lion defending himself from a snake, roaring and knocking it back into its hole.” It echoes Jutta’s advice to Hildegard in The Rule, but of course, she is not whole like she claims she is. (“When you are whole, you will be like me / When you are whole, you will move confidently / Through your life / And you will understand how the boulder becomes sand / And you will know how to not become sand / When you are whole, you will never be scared / When you are whole, you will always be prepared / For a dragon's attack! / And you will slay the beast..or scare him away at least / And you will never again be the least”)

3. In “The Play of the Virtues”, Hildegard focuses a lot on clothing, as a metaphor for the “wearing” of salvation, as something we’re born with and must keep clean. This enhances how soul shattering Jutta’s experience was, “His hand pulling at my skirt”.

4. Letter to the Belgian Monk Guibert (1175) and Light Undercover: "My spirit is ever illuminated by what I call the shadow of the living Light. It has no physical limitations whatsoever and is much brighter than a cloud through which the sun shines. I can never predict when or how I’ll see it. As water reflects the sun, the moon, and the stars, this shadow of the living Light reflects God’s Word, sermons, virtues, and the things that humans do. Whatever I see in that Light’s shadow stays in my mind for a long time, stored away. I see and understand, hear and know at the same time. I only know what I see in these visions, because I’m untaught. I record what I see and hear, without adding my own words, and my Latin is unrefined, because that’s how I hear it in my visions. I’ve not been taught to write like a philosopher. Also, my visions are filled with images and sounds that are nothing like words spoken by any human. They’re more like a blazing fire and a cloud floating through a clear sky. I can’t comprehend this Light’s shadow any better than I can look right at the sun. Also, sometimes in that shadow (but not very often) I see another light. This is the living Light I spoke of earlier. I’m even less able to explain what this Light is like in comparison to the other. But I can say that when I look at it, every feeling of sadness disappears, and my every ache leaves me. I’m no longer an old, sick woman. I become young again." “Light is in the dark”, strength is in weakness.

5. The entire play gains a deeper, metalinguistic meaning, when we learn that for Hildegard, “When we sing, we repossess some of the Eden lost when Adam fell”. (Letter to the Prelates at Mainz, 1178).

6. Becoming Whole

Hildegard’s visions in “The Book of Life’s Merits” and Underground"I saw a very tall man. His head and shoulders were above the highest clouds. His torso was in a white cloud below this, while his upper legs were in the earth’s atmosphere. From the knees down, he was planted in the earth, and his feet were rooted in the deepest waters of the abyss, which represent the virtues and their power. They are the antidotes to sin, because they have the might to make anything whole. They do this by cleansing whatever they touch and making it holy. They nurture and sustain the world, and they bear all things. Everything on earth steeps in the moisture of the virtues and is made strong, in the same way that the soul makes the body moist and healthy, regenerating it."

In contrast to Jutta’s teachings about the body, Hildegard finds more balance in her writings, as Butcher puts it “Hildegard understood the symbiotic relationship between body and soul. She knew that when the body and soul are not in sync, a person’s whole world is out of whack. While she believed that the physical body is easily wayward and must be controlled, she did not teach that the body is evil (…) Hildegard’s work also emphasizes taking care of the body, because it is the sacred temple of the Holy Spirit”. Against ideas of duality, Hildegard brings “God’s goodness and the essential wholeness of a divine creation that refuses to be separated into neat-but-useless categories of earth and spirit, body and soul, nature and people”.

#in the green #grace mclean #hildegard von bingen #me doing this instead of studying #good thing I study medieval history anyway

47 notes · View notes

slashesotron · 4 years

Photo

Let’s play a little game...

▶ VOTE FAST!! This is only up until Wednesday afternoon!

Every week, I post one of these, and you vote on what happens to poor Patchouli next! 😈

Well that wasn’t such a bad start, right, Patchouli??

SIMP BONUS: I added @anger-issue‘s Imre because I’m obsessed!

HOW TO PLAY

You MUST be 18 + and following me (to see the result of course!)

Pick a character from the grid

Pick prompts by NUMBER ONLY from the lists under the cut

You must choose 1 gore prompt and 2 kink prompts!

Reply to this post with your choice (E-2-48-21, for example)

I use a random number generator to determine a winner and draw!

Please only play once per week to keep things fair! If you’re worried about your main showing up in the notes, you can send me an anon with your vote- but please be sure to include what week it’s for.

PROMPT LIST UNDER THE CUT + image credits 💖

My prompt list is an amalgamation of several different ones because I like to keep things flexible- if one is yours, and you’d like it removed, please contact me!

▶ CHARACTER LIST - CHOOSE ONE

▶ LIST PROMPTS BY LETTER ONLY

A. Avery Stage V - Art by gatobob B. Imre - © anger-issue C. Lawrence - © gatobob D. The Dog [Feral] E. Pyramid Head - Silent Hill F. Father Sebastian Wynter G. Ren Hana © gatobob H. Strade - © gatobob I. Legion - Dead By Daylight

▶ GORE PROMPTS - CHOOSE ONE

▶ LIST PROMPTS BY NUMBER ONLY

1. Battle // Dark magic // Feast // It burns //

2. Dripping blood // Don't eat that // Decapitation //

3. Monster-like features // Excessive blood // Mouth trauma //

4. Teeth // Possession/Corruption // Consensual gore //

5. The romantic full moon // The chase scene // Gunshot //

6. Torture // Ritualistic Sacrifice // Cuts / Lacerations //

7. The murder weapon // Hunter becomes hunted // Bones //

8. Distorted Body / Broken Bone // Light from beneath // Barbed wire //

9. Blood Bath // Zombie // Cannibalism // Just like in the movies //

10. Monster Form // Animal/beast wounds // It’s just a shadow //

11. Father forgive me // Excessive Gashes // Scars //

12. CHAINSAW // Amputation // Power tools // Machines //

13. Backstabbed // Skewered // Keeping a trophy // Execution //

14. The experiment // Autopsy // Stitches // Nosebleed / Bruises //

15. Surreal gore // Segmentation // Is this a hallucination? //

16. Dressing up // A message on the glass // Knife //

17. Ow, my head // Melting // Body horror // Arrows //

18. Surgery // Body modification // Robotic Parts / Prosthetics //

19. Medical treatment // Rearranged // Bandages // Sick //

20. Extra Limbs/Eyes/Etc // Impaled // Under the skin //

▶ KINK PROMPTS - CHOOSE TWO

▶ LIST PROMPTS BY NUMBER ONLY

21. Handjobs | Shower/Bath

22. Biting | Corset

23. Costume | Pet Play

24. Power imbalance | Size Difference

25. Glasses | Hair pulling

26. Drool | Boot Worship

27. Fingers in mouth | Sadism/Masochism

28. Cock Worship | Begging

29. Seduction | Shotgunning

30. Public | Intercrural

31. Body Swap | Role Reversal

32. Glory hole | Creampie

33. Stockings | Aphrodisiacs

34. Shibari | Mirror Sex

35. Dacryphilia | Fucking Machine

36. Gags | Degradation

37. Formal Wear | Uniforms

38. Wound fucking | Necrophilia

39. Masks | Humiliation

40. Masturbation | Overstimulation

41. Cross-dressing | Dirty talk

42. Omorashi | Knife Play

43. Object Insertion | Daddy

44. Deep-Throating | Waxplay

45. Spanking | Master/Slave

46. Double+ Penetration | Gun Play

47. Exhibitionism/Voyeurism | Stripping

48. Lingerie | Spit-roasting

49. Toys | Against a wall

50. Licking | Bondage

51. Xenophilia | Micro/Macro

52. Fisting | Watersports

53. Threesome | Face-Sitting

54. Collaring | Sensory Deprivation

▶ Please make sure you have ONE LETTER and THREE NUMBERS! ▶ Character - Gore prompt - Kink prompt 1 - Kink prompt 2 ▶ Post them in this format: A-1-2-3 ▶ Thank you! ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ

#goretober #whumptober #yandere #btd #gore #hurt my mc #hurt my mc 2020 #hmmc voting ballot

55 notes · View notes

gongju-juice · 4 years

Text

9. Once Upon a Southern Night

Not So Far-Fetched

Warnings: SMUT, language, fluff, and a little angst

The wedding was absolutely perfect. Of course, Alice designed the entire affair, everybody else but you and Jasper a slave to her incessant ordering.

You got married on a sunny day back in the country, just a few miles Jasper’s old home town which was nestled far out into secluded woods with a grand, wooden barn and southern mansion nearby a quiet stream

Your dress was sleeveless and made of immaculate white silk that trailed behind you in the rose petal walkway to your groom, standing under a flower arch of candles and flowers. Alice, Rosalie, and Amelia were your bridesmaids—and Ivy, though she whined and cried from home—was not invited.

And when the wedding was over, Jasper flew you out to Havana where a pastel yellow house waited on the shoes of the beach. Little antique cars zoomed past on the streets, people danced in skimpy swimsuits, lovers toured the old buildings, hands entwined.

But you weren’t even interested in all of that. That was second priority. All you wanted was to be underneath the man you’d been lusting for over two years now. And he seemed to sense your urgency, for he immediately rushed the both of you to your villa without any side trips or excursions.

He got busy taking care of the luggage and dealing with the house attendants as they stocked the kitchen with food. Meanwhile, you made a nest of the bathroom.

Dropping your suitcase on the tiled floor, you laid out all your supplies and filled the tub with bubbles and hot water. Alice and Rosalie had packed an “essential” bag of lingerie, but you thought it would be best to save it for later. Tonight, there would be no lace or fancy ribbons. You would be yourself, and you would reveal yourself to your husband just like you shamefully imagined yourself doing before.

You opened the french style bathroom doors and stepped into the humid room. The ceiling fan whirred uselessly overhead, creating more noise than comfort, adding only to your anxiety and nervousness. You tightened your arms around your waist and moved forward.

Jasper was on the other side of the room staring out over the balcony. The moon shone down on his wavy hair, creating a silvery effect that slowly faded into the warm candlelight of the bedroom.

When he turned around, you were already tugging at the ties of your robe. The candles flickered and in a heartbeat, he was standing in front of you, his icy breath on your lips. He lowered your hands and began undoing the fabric himself.

To his delight, there was nothing underneath. It was silent as he took in your bare form, his piercing gaze sweeping over the hills of your breast, the curvature of your hips and thighs. Never before had you felt so exposed, so completely and utterly vulnerable and especially nervous.

What if you did something wrong? What if he didn’t like what he saw? What if you accidentally humiliated yourself?

“Y/N,” he hummed, putting his hands on the top of your shoulders. “I can feel everything you feel. And, you’re worried. I won’t go any further until you tell me you’re ready. We can stop now, and I won’t touch you like that at all, if that’s what you want. I just want you to be okay.”

You bit your lip but vehemently shook your head. Of course you were nervous. It was your wedding night. To not feel anything at all was a sign of trouble.

But you wanted him. Your feeling of desire overwhelmed any sense of anxiousness, and it made you breathless with how tangible it all seemed. It was often you could lay awake at night and think of being with him. With seven other vampires around, your every move was heard and monitored even if they didn’t intend to invade your privacy. And Jasper sat on the edge of your bed as you slept, too traditional to venture under the covers most of the time. The want had been building and boiling inside of you, waiting to be unleashed.

“I want you,” you whimpered. “Please, I can’t wait any longer.”

Gracefully, he scooped you into his arms and carried you to the canopied bed where he had already rearranged the pillows at least twice.

Perhaps, you thought, he was nervous too.

But before you could contemplate this theory any longer, his eyes dropped dangerously to the apex of your thighs where your arousal had obscenely gathered. He licked his lips and cradled your hips with his strong arms.

“Fuck, this is the most beautiful thing I’ve seen since you walked down that aisle,” he declared, admiring your writhing regions in his deepest drawl yet. It was funny, the more excited Jasper became, the thicker his accent became.

Before he continued, however, he began by kissing every inch of your skin. He started from the vein just behind your left ear before making his way down the crevice of your collarbones, down the valley of your breasts, slowly and teasingly trailing down to the place you really wanted him to be.

But once he made it to your pelvic bone, he placed your legs over his shoulders, a smirk on his face. You’re sure you were wide-eyed, your features twisted into a blissful grimace of unfulfilled need and throbbing ache.

He delved his tongue into your folds, sucking and kissing hungrily like a predator bearing down on its prey. His eyes darkened into a shade of burnt umber. It must’ve been so tempting to be that close to all those vital vessels and not give in to the burning instinct to drink you dry. Instead, he channeled all of that desire and yearning into eating your pussy like a starved man.

“Jasper,” you screamed, “Oh god, I—you’re so—it’s so—”

“You’re feeling everything I’m feeling,” he admitted, ripping through the buttons of his shirt. “And everything I’m feeling is you.”

You understood. It was a continual, never-ending loop of love and pleasure that he had shared with you. This was exaltation, better than any human drug or stimulant. It was just you and your husband making love for the first time, consummating your marriage as countless other lovers had done before but infinitely different and unique.

“I can’t take it anymore! Please, just do it! I want you inside me so badly, Jas,” you hyperventilated as you assisted him as he undid his belt and zipper, the rest of his offensive attire falling to the floor. Now there was nothing standing in between you and your man.

“Patience, darlin’,” he hummed, pushing you up against the headboard in a way that did not seem so patient in itself. By this point, your vision was beginning to go white from the sheer excitement, and in that moment, you hated him for deriving you from the immediate pleasure. He was taking his time, savoring the image of your desperate expressions in his photographic mind.

He pressed his cock unto your clit, rubbing tiny little circles with the tip of his dick—only contributing to your frustration and utter annoyance.

“Just do it, please! I want you to fucking ruin me.”

His eyes widened. “My baby girl has a dirty mouth, doesn’t she? I’ll have to deal with that later, but since you asked so nicely—”

He thrust into you suddenly, knocking the air sensuously from your lungs. Your fingers crept up to his hair, grabbing a palmful to yank and hold on to. The pain was noticeable, but somehow you suspected he had lessened the intensity by using his ability. He stilled inside you, brushing his lips against yours as he waited.

“Are you ready?” he asked after a while.

“Yes.”

He began moving, his thrusts deep but firm as he pinned you down in the warm candlelight. The lewd sounds of your bodies meeting brought heat to your cheeks. It was so delicious and utterly filthy that tears accumulated in your eyes. He uttered a string of curses in your ear, quiet and intended only for you.

“This sopping pussy, so wet. So sweet. You want me to fix for ya, darlin’? Does it feel good when I’m stroking you like this?”

It was so startling and unlike what you imagined. Jasper had always been the quiet Cullen, the one who never spoke unless spoken to. Even in your relationship, he opted to listen to your voice rather than lead the conversation. It was something you thought would carry over into his bedroom tendencies. But here he was, spitting naughty, dangerous words to you, unabashedly and so god damn sexy.

His pace changed. Now it was fast and shallow. You looked down to where your bodies connected, your arousal dripping down onto the cotton sheets and shining against his lower half. You cried into his throat, trying to hide your face.

“No, Y/N,” he commanded, “Look at me. Look at what I’m doing to you. I want to watch you cum for me. Look into my eyes.”

You did as he said, and it was utterly too much. He growled as you came undone underneath the sheets. His seed, slightly warm, gushed inside you, filling your womb with his love. Your tongues clashed together as he bared his hands on the mattress and hunched over you.

You laid together in the romantic darkness, your head relaxed against his chest. You could hear cars honking in the streets, music floating up from the partying crowds below. It was so tranquil and perfect that if a hurricane blew over the island in that instant, you truly believed you wouldn’t care. All the while, his breathing slowed in your ear—not out of necessity—but from pure leisure.

“I can’t believe,” you started before taking a deep breath and starting over, “I can’t believe you waited over a century and a half to be with me. With someone you never met. I feel like I’ve robbed you years of laughter and joy when you should have been out living your life. If I had been there, then Maria wouldn’t have. . .she wouldn’t have—”

He sat up suddenly, bringing you with him against the headboard.

“All of it, all of the years of waiting and suffering—every painful moment of it was worth it. It groomed me to become the man I am now. I used to be cold, unsympathetic, and callous. I had a backward ideology and knew not how to love another person for I could not even love myself.” he placed his large hand over yours, brushing the iridescent diamond band glimmering colorfully in the candlelight.

“But Carlisle and Esme, all of my adopted siblings—they taught me to cherish myself, even in spite of all my flaws. They never gave up on me when I struggled with my thirst, and they never judged me for the life I used to have. Little did I know, you had made your second arrival in the world not long after. I was learning to love, and well, you were learning to live.”

“The way your mother looks at you, Y/N, it’s a look of pure love and adoration. I decided then when I first sat at your dinner table that I would never let anything happen to that bond. I would protect you with my life. You were the final piece to my heart, darlin’. I had learned to love myself, but I didn’t trust myself. It wasn’t until you realized I was capable of loving others, that I could control myself enough around people.”

You didn’t realize you were crying but you were. Tears streamed down your face, some rolling down your cheeks and others falling unto his skin.

“I don’t care what Edward believes.You are capable of loving in any way you choose; as a friend, as a brother, as a son—”

“As a husband?”

You smiled. “Yes. And, maybe, if you wanted—as a father.”

He froze, his golden eyes widened in surprise. “You mean. . .you want to adopt?”

“We could if we wanted,” you whispered quietly. “But Ava told me something about witches, something I thought you should know.”

He nodded, beckoning you to continue.

“Witches can have children with humans, vampires, werewolves, and shapeshifters. Because of our magic, it is immediately passed on to the offspring so that the children automatically retain human characteristics until they are old enough to learn what they are. And as for me, as long as I choose, I will never age. Of course, if we do have children, then I might need to create an illusion to change my appearance a little so people won’t be sus—”

He pulled you to his lips, and once again the two of you were reunited. It felt warm in his arms. Safe.

“I would be honored,” he answered breathlessly. “Perhaps that dream of our farm life isn’t too far-fetched at all.”

“Oh no, it’s totally far-fetched,” you cried, laughing. “Yes, I grew up in Alabama. Yes, we’re southerners at heart. But I do not want to smell like cattle and chase chickens around for all of eternity. Maybe let’s just get a summer farm and we can have people to maintain while we’re gone.”

He shook his head, laughing, as you cradled his chin in your hand.

“We’ll need a big house for the farm I plan to create with you, Mrs. Whitlock,” he drawled seductively, grabbing your hand by the wrist and bringing it slowly to his chest.

You moved him so that you were on top, straddling him, the sheets pooling at your waist.

“Well then, cowboy, we’d better get started.”

And this completes this series! Hope you enjoyed! I’m planning on doing some blurbs and drabble with our happy couple in the future. . .send me some ideas, will ya?

Twilight, despite all of its many problems and kinks, is one of my favorite nostalgic stories to this day. Jasper has always been my favorite character, (Seth Clearwater next) and since we’re all either quarantined or protesting, I thought I could bring light to our lives in such a dark time.

Part Six Part Seven Part Eight

#jasper hale #jasper hale imagines #jasper hale x reader #twilight #twilight x reader #twilight scenarios #twilight imagines #carlisle cullen #esme cullen #edward cullen #emmett cullen #rosalie hale #alice cullen

166 notes · View notes

merakiui · 4 years

Note

hello! it makes me happy to see how many people are discovering this blog! I hope it continues to grow as time moves on! on the other hand, if its possible, could I get something of Ell and Noah with a painter s/o? 👉👈 if not, it's completely understandable! thank you either way!

Painter!S/O HCs (Ell and Noah)

☀️ Ell ☀️

He’s in love with all of your artwork as soon as he sees it!

In the beginning, no one could figure out who was behind the gorgeous portraits that kept winding up in your office, sometimes hung in frames and other times lying on nearby surfaces to dry.

The Reapers are all abuzz, wondering who this mysterious painter is. When Ell finds out that it’s you, he’s so excited.

“I didn’t know you were so talented, Manager! Your work is beautiful.”

You’re bashful when it comes to his praise, especially since he offers it nearly every day.

If you’re shy about your paintings, then Ell is willing to keep your skills a secret from the others. But if you don’t mind him sharing the news with the entire 14th Department, then be prepared to listen to him as he rambles on and on about how much he adores your paintings.

When you offer to paint him, he’s over the moon, asking you how he should pose and if you need him to do anything specific.

Once he sees the final result, he’ll blush and insist that your work is an absolute miracle.

And you’re an absolute blessing as well. He’s incredibly happy to have you as his partner.

Now he’s going to plan trips to craft stores so that he can buy supplies for his hobby and so you can stock up on canvases, brushes, and paint. He’ll spend hours in multiple shops with you, debating over which felt feels and looks the best for his needle felting creations. He’ll also help you choose between different brushes and paints when you’re unsure.

Ell’s proud when you use him as your muse, and he’s even more proud of the process of your craft. He knows just how long an art project can take, so he’ll always cheer you on.

Aside from your traditional techniques, finger painting with Ell is messy fun. He makes sure to decorate your office and his room with every masterpiece you create together.

🛠 Noah 🛠

The amazing thing about art is that it can represent a million words, and yet it never utters a single, definitive phrase. You suppose Noah can be like that at times.

His presence is definitely soothing. He may be a man of little words, but you still enjoy the conversations you manage to share with him every now and then.

Noah finds your hobby to be a fantastic outlet. He could watch you work for hours as you paint with even brushstrokes. Whenever he sees your paintings, he’s blown away with how creative and colorful they are.

Usually he’ll ask if there are any deep meanings woven into the color scheme and the overall image itself. He likes to listen to your enthusiastic tone as you describe the context behind everything.

Occasionally, he’ll nod and hum in agreement, even adding in a few comments here and there. His commentary isn’t anything jarring, but it’s nice to know that he appreciates your artistic flair.

Noah will help you when you’re stuck with art block. He might not understand it at first, but he’ll do whatever he can to ensure you’re able to paint again.

If you tell him that he’s your inspiration for your next painting, he’ll feel honored. Although he also gets a bit worried when you say that.

Despite the fact that you care about him and that he values you immensely, Noah can’t escape the worry that one day he’ll lose you and your beautiful paintings.

He’ll smile through the bittersweet feelings as he sits idly by and analyzes how calm you seem whenever you paint.

Just for now he’s content knowing that you’re here with him, and your paintings will be continuous proof of that.

Sometimes you’ll ask him to paint with you, and Noah can hardly refuse. It’s enjoyable to spend time with you, so he doesn’t mind the crudeness of his own painting.

And the two of you tend to share so many special moments whenever you’re slathering colors on an empty canvas. Any art you make for him is treasured in his room, displayed for everyone to see.

Every morning, Noah will linger in front of your work with a soft smile. In his eyes, it’s perfect.

#afterl!fe #after l!fe #afterl!fe ell #afterl!fe noah #afterl!fe x reader #painter s/o headcanons #painter s/o #afterl!fe headcanons #afterl!fe hcs #afterl!fe the sacred kaleidoscope #afterl!fe noah x reader #afterl!fe ell x reader

75 notes · View notes

chocolatequeennk · 3 years

Text

Let it Snow, 1/5

A winter adventure takes a turn when the Doctor and Rose are snowed in together in a remote cabin in the woods.

Ten x Rose, set just after New Earth

This is for @doctorroseprompts 31 Days of Ficmas. Day 1: Snowed In

AO3 | FF.NET

Chapter 1: Oh the Weather Outside is Frightful

The Doctor cast Rose surreptitious glances as he slowly circled the console, tapping dials as he went. He didn’t see any obvious signs that Lady Cassandra’s possession was still bothering her, but still… He didn’t want to throw them into danger just yet.

Rose hopped up on the jump seat and swung her feet. “Where are we going today?”

“Your choice,” he said. “Where would you like to go? We could go to a concert or watch the moon landing, or there’s a famous market on an asteroid… Anywhere you want, Rose Tyler.”

Rose arched an eyebrow, and he tugged on his ear in response. Of course she knew something was up, but he didn’t have to tell her what it was.

She rolled her eyes, then tilted her head back against the seat back. “Anywhere I want?” she repeated, testing him.

“Absolutely anywhere,” he promised.

“What if I want to tour the most famous pear orchard in the galaxy?”

He flinched, then nodded gamely. “Anywhere,” he promised. Just please don’t choose that.

Rose giggled, almost as if she’d heard that thought. “Nah, I won’t do that to you,” she promised. She tapped her finger against her chin, and a little wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows.

Finally, when the Doctor thought he was going to burst from impatience, she grinned. “Could we go someplace with snow?” she requested. “Actual, proper snow—not ash.”

The Doctor rocked back on his heels and pressed his tongue against his teeth. “Snow isn’t much of an adventure,” he mused. “Unless…” He bounced on his toes and grinned at Rose. “How about a full-fledged winter holiday, just like you see in the movies?”

Rose’s answering grin sent a spark of electricity through the Doctor. “You mean, a cabin in the woods where we sit in front of a fireplace and watch snowflakes float lazily from the sky? And having snowball fights and building snowmen and going ice skating?”

“Oh yes!” the Doctor crowed.

“Sounds perfect,” Rose agreed.

She hopped up on the jump seat and watched the Doctor dance around the console, spinning dials and sliding levers into place. This Doctor was still so new, but he was also still so familiar.

He tossed her a grin over his shoulder. “Just you wait—this will be the best winter holiday you’ve ever had, Rose Tyler.”

Rose shivered when he said her name. His new voice just… wrapped around the long o in a way that she felt down to her toes.

She fought back the urge to snog him. “Well that won’t be very hard,” she drawled. “Seeing how I’ve never had a winter holiday.”

The Doctor gasped. “Never? Well then, prepare to have all your fantasies fulfilled.”

It just wasn’t fair of him to say things like that, Rose mused. And especially not when he added that saucy grin and a teasing wink.

He’s an alien, remember, she reminded herself. Maybe he doesn’t even realise what he’s saying.

Still… She remembered a dance in a hospital and a different voice insisting that he was actually a man.

“You should go change,” the Doctor said, breaking into her musings. “And I imagine the TARDIS will have a suitcase waiting for you, too.”

The ship hummed, and Rose patted the nearest strut. Thanks, old girl, she told the ship as she walked back to her room.

Twenty minutes later, they were walking hand in hand through fairy tale streets. “And Librell is one of the best places in the galaxy to experience that Hollywood winter,” the Doctor rambled. “Beautifully stable climate, and a travel industry centred around snow festivals and etc.”

“So where are we going?” Rose asked. She turned a circle, looking at the marketplace in front of her. “I mean, we’re in the middle of a town, and that’s not exactly the image I had in mind.”

The Doctor tutted. “Oh ye of little faith,” he chided. “While you were getting dressed, I reserved the stereotypical snug cottage deep in the woods. But to get us there…” He nodded in the direction of the end of the street.

Rose turned around and gasped. A sled was waiting for them, with a horse hitched and ready to go.

“The full holiday experience,” the Doctor said smugly.

Rose was too amazed to talk as they got into the sled. The Doctor wrapped a blanket around their legs, and then the driver snapped the reins and they took off.

“How far out of town is the cabin?” she asked the Doctor.

“About ten kilometres,” the driver said. Rose looked up at him, a short man wearing a knit cap pulled low over his ears. “It’ll take us a good few hours to get there, so get comfortable.” He passed a jug over his shoulder. “This will keep you warm.”

Rose opened the flagon and inhaled the warm scent of spiced wine. “Oh, lovely,” she sighed. She took a sip and then snuggled down into the blankets to enjoy the ride.

The wind whipped at her face as they drove, and Rose’s cheeks and nose were frosty before the end of the first hour. She drank more of the wine and then tugged her scarf up until only her eyes were uncovered.

After two hours, she started actively looking for their cottage. Finally, she thought she spotted a tendril of smoke lifting up into the sky, and she held her hand up over her eyes to block the glare of the sun.

The road took a wide bend around a hill, and when they came to the other side, Rose saw a small cottage nestled back into the trees. “Is that it?” she asked, standing up halfway to get a better view.

“Yep!” The driver turned off the main road onto the lane. “Our best house. The kitchen is fully stocked, and my partner came out earlier to start a fire.”

Rose spotted the large front windows and hummed. “Perfect for watching the snow fall,” she told the Doctor.

The sled pulled up in front of the door, and she and the Doctor got out. The driver opened the door and handed the key over to the Doctor. “I’ll be back in a week to pick you up. If you run into any emergencies, there’s a phone in the kitchen. My number is taped to the wall next to it.”

The Doctor shouldered his way into the cabin and set their bag down just inside the door. “Thank you!” he told the driver, a wide grin stretched across his face. “I can’t imagine we’ll need to call for anything. We are here for an adventure after all, right Rose?”

Rose laughed. “That’s right,” she agreed. “The full winter experience.”

The driver raised an eyebrow. “All right then,” he said, walking back to the sled. “I’ll see you in a week.”

Rose waved at him, then followed the Doctor into the cabin. He stood in the middle of the small living room and waved at the cosy space. “Well, what do you think?”

Before looking around, she took off her hat, scarf, and gloves and set them on the kitchen table. Then she turned and took in the living room.

The Doctor pointed at the large stone fireplace on the opposite wall. “Imagine the crackling fire, maybe roasting some marshmallows while we watch the snow fall.”

Rose swallowed. That sounded a bit… romantic. Actually. Now that she thought about it, the whole winter holiday idea sounded a bit romantic. And the fact that the only seating in the room was a cosy love seat certainly didn’t make it any less romantic.

Oh bloody hell Rose Tyler, what have you done?

The Doctor was watching her hopefully, and she shoved aside her momentary panic. “It’s exactly what I pictured,” she told him. “And look at that television! I bet we can get By the Light of the Asteroid!”

The Doctor rolled his eyes. “You are obsessed with that soap.”

“Well it was you that introduced me to it, so you only have yourself to blame!” she retorted.

The Doctor made a happy sound in the back of his throat, and it took Rose a moment to realise what she’d just said. It had been him—but it had been the old him, the one in leather.

“Well it was,” she grumbled, giving him a smile.

“Yes, yes it was.” He bounced on his toes and then pointed at the closed door. “Let’s see what we have in here.”

Rose reached the door first and pushed it open. The bedroom was just as cosy as the living room—and just as much meant for two people. She stared at the plush queen bed in the middle of the room.

“What is it?” the Doctor said. She felt him lean through the door and look over her shoulder.

Rose could almost hear him blink as he processed what he was looking at.

“Ah. There’s only one bed. And… I doubt there’s a second bedroom.”

She felt his arm shift and knew he was tugging at his ear. It surprised her to realise she knew so many of his tells already. This new Doctor was quickly becoming just… the Doctor, one she knew and… and cared about just as much as she had her old Doctor.

“There’s not a second bedroom because…”

She turned around and looked at the Doctor.

“Because I told the app I was looking for a house for two.”

Rose had to laugh at the sheepish look on his face. “And it didn’t occur to you that if you said you wanted a holiday house for two, the program would assume you meant a couple?” she guessed.

“Well I’ve never been part of a couple,” he retorted.

The way he said it made her breath catch in her throat for a second, but Rose forced herself to relax. He wasn’t saying he was part of a couple now—just that his lack of experience led to this particular thing.

His next words proved it. “Anyway, I don’t really sleep,” he said. “I can just sit in the living room and read all night, while you sleep the day away.”

Rose stuck her tongue out at him. “You won’t be able to say there’s no night on a time machine when we are actually on a planet,” she reminded him.

The Doctor swallowed a sigh. Rose wasn’t arguing with his offer to sleep on the love seat, and he was honestly a little disappointed. Not that… not that he’d done this on purpose, or even was certain he wanted to share a bed with her. Well, he knew he wanted to share a bed with her, he just wasn’t sure it was wise.

But regardless of desire or wisdom on his part, it would have been nice to see a little bit of interest on her face. He shook his head and quickly carried out the rest of the tour. He was eager to dispel some of the awkwardness, and he knew exactly how to do that.

As soon as they saw the kitchen, dining room, and the loo, he grabbed Rose’s hand and dragged her towards the door. “Come on!” he said.

Rose resisted, just a little. “Let me put my things back on,” she said. She grabbed her hat, gloves, and scarf from the table and quickly pulled them all on. “There, I’m ready. Let’s go have this winter adventure.”

The Doctor beamed at her, then ran out the door. “The first order of business is a snowman contest,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back.

“Like, we each build a snowman and the best one wins?” Rose asked.

The Doctor bounced slightly and nodded his head, and Rose started laughing. “And who is going to judge this contest, when we’re the only ones here?”

The Doctor sniffed. “I’ll have you know I can be a very impartial judge when the situation calls for it,” he said.

Rose shook her head, but she bent down and started packing snow together. “Yeah, all right,” she agreed. “It’ll be fun, even if the contest does end in a draw.”

“You know you’re admitting that you would be a biased judge,” the Doctor informed her. He squatted down in the snow facing the opposite direction and started working.

“At least I’m being honest,” she retorted.

He didn’t really have an answer for that, so he focused on his work. This had to be the absolute best snowman ever built, so that even Rose would have to vote for it.

He rolled snow into a single, giant ball. From there, his work little resembled building a snowman. He spent more time carving out snow and packing some onto other spots than he did rolling balls and using sticks to create limbs. Finally, he stepped back and nodded, satisfied with his creation.

“Are you done over here?” Rose asked. “Ooh, you made a snow Boe,” she said, immediately recognising the alien they’d met twice now.

“Yep!”

The Doctor brushed some excess snow off the front of the ‘glass.’ “What did you make?”

Rose bit her lip. “I… well, come see.”

He turned around and walked with her to her snow creation. The gasp, followed by a stunned silence, were all she needed.

“A snow TARDIS?” he said. “We said snowman, though. Or snow person.”

He sounded a little choked up, but when Rose looked at him, his eyes were dry.

She reached out and touched the door. “Well… she is a person, isn’t she? Maybe not quite like you or me, but she’s so real. I love it when she talks to me.”

The Doctor blinked and stared at her. “When she… You can understand her?” he demanded.

Rose nodded. “Yeah… I have ever since…”

She let the sentence dangle, but they both knew how it ended. At least, they both knew part of the story. Rose pursed her lips when she remembered that he still hadn’t told her the full story of what had happened on the Game Station. The last thing she remembered was staring into the TARDIS console and seeing a stream of gold light float around her. Then she woke up on the grating and he was dying.

The Doctor swallowed hard. Rose had not been telepathic before Bad Wolf. He was almost certain of it. Part of him wanted to call up the driver and ask to be taken home immediately so he could run tests on her. If Bad Wolf had changed that part of her, who knew what else had happened.

But this was a holiday, he reminded himself. And really, the TARDIS did talk, so why was it so shocking and distressing that Rose could understand her?

He shook his head. “We’ll come back to that later,” he said, more to himself than to her. “But for now…”

He looked at his giant face made out of snow and then back at Rose’s snow TARDIS. Truthfully, his creation was more intricate. But Rose’s… Rose’s was more meaningful.

“You win.”

oOoOo

The light was already fading when Rose spotted the first snowflake. “Oh, brilliant.” She stuck her tongue out and caught it.

“What’s so brilliant about it?” the Doctor asked. “By which I mean, you’ve been playing in the snow for all day. I’d think the novelty would have worn off by now.”

Rose rolled her eyes. “Yeah, we’ve been playing in the snow,” she said, gesturing at the trampled snow. “And there’s not much left to play in, because we’ve either built snowmen or made snowballs or just stomped it down with our boots. This is fresh snow, Doctor.”

He leaned back and looked at the sky. “And lots of it,” he observed. Snow was falling steadily now. “Come on, let’s go inside and watch this through the window. Wasn’t that one of the things you wanted? Sitting next to a fireplace and watching the snow fall?”

“Yeah, all right.”

Ten minutes later, they were sitting cosily on the love seat, cocoa in hand. Not for the first time, Rose cursed the owners of this cabin. Only one bed, only a love seat… Sure it was a tiny cabin, but that didn’t mean that it would always be rented by a couple. Sitting here with her shoulder brushing against the Doctor’s every time either of them moved their arm made it hard to… it just made it hard.

She shifted her cocoa to her left hand so she wouldn’t be tempted to do something stupid, like rest it on his knee. The quiet was giving her brain too much time to think and worry, so she cast about for something to talk about.

She found it, resting on the coffee table in front of them. “You have penguin socks,” she said, staring at the bright blue socks with a dancing penguins pattern.

The Doctor wiggled his toes. “Yep! It’s fun to be thematically appropriate.” He looked at her seriously. “You should always match your socks to your day.”

Rose shook her head. “You’re barmy.”

“I am not!” He pointed at her feet. “Look, you’ve got on thick, fuzzy socks. Perfect for lounging around in a cosy cabin during a snow storm.”

“Yeaaaaah…” Rose drawled. “They’re perfect for the weather, not for the theme of the day.”

The Doctor sniffed. “I’d argue that there’s not much of a difference at the moment.”

Rose tilted her head, silently acknowledging his point. The teasing had relieved some of the tension, and they settled back into quiet, watching the big, fluffy snowflakes fall past the window.

The snow didn’t stop all evening. In fact, it just kept coming harder and harder as they made dinner and settled back in the living room to watch reruns of By the Light of the Asteroid.

Rose went to bed earlier than she normally would, a little tired from all the physical exertion earlier in the day. She normally had a hard time falling asleep without the hum of the TARDIS surrounding her, but the stillness of the snowfall seemed to quiet her mind just as well.

A harsh whistling woke her up some time later. She lay in bed for a few minutes, trying to place the sound. Finally, curiosity drove her to get up, leaving behind the soft, cosy covers to investigate.

The air was chillier than it had been, and she pulled on the thick dressing gown she’d brought before leaving her room. The faint glow of firelight told her the Doctor was still awake, though she hadn’t really expected him to sleep on that love seat.

The sound accompanied her into the living room, and she understood it as soon as she joined the Doctor by the window. What had been soft snowfall had turned into a sheet of white swirling around the house.

“Bit of a storm,” he said.

Rose rolled her eyes. “It’s a blizzard, Doctor. A proper blizzard.”

The Doctor tugged on his ear. “Well… I suppose.”

They stared out at the literal white-out conditions for a few more minutes, and then he said, “This changes our perfect winter holiday a bit. We certainly aren’t going out in that.”

Rose snorted. “Definitely not. I don’t fancy getting lost in the snow and dying of hypothermia. That was not part of those holiday movies we talked about.”

To her surprise, the Doctor spun around, a wide smile on his face. “But don’t worry,” he said. “I have a plan for this.”

Despite the smile, Rose saw the uncertainty in his eyes. She slid her arm around his waist and gave him a half-hug. “I know—” A yawn interrupted her sentence. “I know you do,” she said.

The Doctor returned Rose’s half-hug, hoping she felt his gratitude in the gesture. Rose always rolled with the unpredictability of their life, so he’d known she wouldn’t be upset. But the level of trust she gave him would always humble him.

She yawned again, and he chuckled and gently nudged her towards the bedroom. “Go back to bed. I’ll have everything ready in the morning.” He watched her shuffle down the hallway before turning back the window.

A feeling of inevitability swirled around him just as much as the snow swirled around the house. When he’d suggested a winter adventure, he hadn’t anticipated a blizzard. Now instead of enjoying all kinds of outdoor winter fun, he and Rose would be snowed in together.

It’s like something out of a Hallmark movie. The Doctor raked his hand through his hair. The hero and heroine end up at a remote cabin in the woods, and then the snow begins to fall…

He swallowed hard. He remembered what usually came next in those movies. The forced proximity created intimacy which led to… feelings rising to the surface.

And it wasn’t that he didn’t have… feelings. He had given a regeneration for her, and his feelings for her had shaped the man he became.

But he didn’t know… He glanced down the hallway towards the bedroom. He was pretty sure Rose had had feelings for his past self. He hadn’t yet sussed out how she felt about this him. Did she know this new, new Doctor was still the old Doctor who… had feelings?

She had asked him to change back. Every time he thought about making a move, he remembered the painful blow of that rejection and changed course. He wanted some kind of sign that she wanted this him before he made any overtures.

“Still,” he muttered, keeping his voice low to not wake Rose up, “the universe has dropped us into the middle of a soppy romance. Maybe that’s the sign I need.”

And with the storm howling outside, the Doctor sat down and plotted the perfect snowed-in day.

#ficandchips #ten x rose #fic by Nancy #doctorroseprompts #31 days of ficmas #mutual pining #so much mutual pining #snowed in #snowman contest #there's lots of winter fun here #cq's fic: let it snow

21 notes · View notes

fandomrewrites · 3 years

Text

Season 3a; Episode 2: Chaos Rising

Hello all! This chapter is my longest yet! I hope you enjoy it and as always constructive criticism is appreciated. Make sure to let me know if you want to get added to the taglist!

Season 3a; Episode 2: Chaos Rising

Pairings: Scott McCall x Twin Sister, Lydia Martin x Best Friend, Isaac Lahey x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of fighting and death

Word Count: 4,662

Season 3a masterlist

I stood leaning against the wall in Derek's loft watching as a nervous Isaac paced the room. Derek sat patiently at a work table, also watching the nervous teenager.

"I'm starting to not like this idea. It sounds dangerous. I definitely don't like it. And I definitely don't like him." Isaac states.

I bite my lip as Derek tries to reassure his Beta, "You'll be fine."

"Why does it have to be him?"

"He knows how to do it. I don't. It'd be more dangerous if I tried it myself."

"You know Scott and (Y/N) don't trust him." I nodded in agreement with Isaac's statement, "And personally, I trust them."

"Do you trust me?"

"Yeah." He answers without hesitation, "But I still don't like him."

"No one likes him."

"Ain't that the truth." I speak up for the first time since the conversation started. I make my way over to Isaac to try and comfort him a little more as the steel door of Derek's loft opens revealing Peter.

"Boys, (Y/N). Just an FYI. Yes, coming back from the dead left my abilities somewhat impaired, but the hearing? Still works. So I hope you're comfortable saying whatever it is you're feeling straight to my face." He says.

"You're an ass." I state.

At the same time Derek says, "We don't like you." He briefly looks at me then continues, "Now shut up and help us."

"Fair enough." Peter says, pulling his lips into a thin line.

Peter snaps his hand open to reveal his claws. I give Isaac a quick kiss on the cheek and squeeze his hand, "You'll be alright."

He nods and sits in a chair, nervously gripping the arm rests. He flinches as Peter gently touches his neck with his claws. "Relax. I'll get more out of you if you're calm."

Isaac's eyes connect with mine, I nod as confidently as I can to try and reassure him that everything will be fine. He takes a deep breath, relaxing. Derek and I look on as Peter readjusts his claws, trying to find the right placement.

"How do you know how to do this?" Isaac asks.

"It's an old ritual. Used mostly by Alphas since it's a skill that requires quite a bit of practice. One little slip and you could paralyze someone. Or kill them."

"Have you had a lot of practice?"

"I never paralyzed anyone." Peter simply states.

"Wait does that mean-" Isaac's sentence is cut off as Peter jams his claws in his neck. My eyes widen slightly but I stay still, heart beating rapidly as I watch both werewolves eyes light up.

Isaac jerks up in his chair, Derek moves forward to intervene but Peter's voice stops him, "Wait. I see them."

A few moments later Peter yanks his hand free of Isaac's neck, staggering back and breathless. I rush to Isaac as he starts to dip forward as if he was going to pass out. I gently push him back in the seat and grab his face, pushing his hair off his forehead.

Derek glances at Isaac to make sure he's alright before he addresses his uncle, "What did you see?"

"Not much. It was confusing. Vague images, phrases-"

"But you saw something." Derek interrupts.

Peter nods, "Isaac found them."

"Erica and Boyd?"

"I barely saw them. Just glimpses."

"But you saw them?" Derek questions.

Peter nods once more, his clawed hand squeezing into a fist, "And worse."

"Deucalion."

"He was talking to them. Something about time running out."

"What does that mean?" Isaac asks, turning in his seat to look at Peter.

Derek is the one to answer though, looking at Peter for conformation, "He's going to kill them."

"He didn't say that. But he did make a promise. That by the full moon, they'd both be dead." Peter says.

"The next full moon?"

Peter nods. "But that's tomorrow night." I say from my crouched position beside Isaac.

Peter nods once more.

*_*_*_*_*_*

Later in the day Scott told Derek and I that he, Lydia, and Allison needed to show us something. So we met in an empty classroom at the school, Stiles with us too of course. Since Derek and I were the two that didn't know what this was about we stood in front of the other four.

Allison and Lydia hold out their arms placing them next to each other. They both have bruises that make an odd shape. Derek looks up making eye contact with Allison and glares. She glares back as Derek says, "I don't see anything."

"Look again." Scott insists.

"How is a bruise going to tell me where Erica and Boyd are?"

"It's the same on both arms. Exactly the same."

"It's nothing." Derek argues.

"Pareidolia. Seeing patterns that aren't there. It's a subset of apophenia." Lydia states.

"What she said." Derek nods towards Lydia.

"Take another look."

"Scott, just stop. Clearly he doesn't see anything." I say.

"They're trying to help."

"These two?" Derek questions raising his eyebrows, "This one who used me to resurrect my psychotic uncle.” He points to Lydia then turns to point at Allison, “And this one who shot about thirty arrows into me and my pack?"

"To be fair, Lydia using you wasn't really her fault." I say, shrugging.

"And no one died." Stiles states, "There might have been some maiming. A little mangling. But no death. I call that an important distinction."

"My mother died." Allison says.

"Your family's little honor code killed your mother. Not me." Derek snaps.

"He has a point." I mumble, earning a glare from the young hunter. I quickly avert my eyes and hold up my hands in an act of surrender.

"Okay, can everyone back off for a second?" Scott questions.

Allison looks back at Derek, "That girl was looking for Scott and (Y/N). I'm here to help them. Not you."

"You want to help? Find something real." The Alpha states.

He turns to leave being stopped by Scott who starts a whispered conversation that I can't help but listen in on. "Give her a chance. We're all on the same side now."

"Then maybe you should tell her what her mother was actually trying to do that night." I knit my eyebrows together at that statement as I watched Derek leave.

As soon as we disperse, I ask Scott, "What did Derek mean?" Scott raises an eyebrow, "What was Allison's mom trying to do that night?"

Scott sighs, "I don't want to talk about it."

"Scott." I warn.

"She tried to kill me. She found out that Allison and I were still seeing each other and she wasn't happy. Derek saved my life."

My eyes widen in shock and I nod, trying to process what Scott just told me. Stiles then speaks trying to change the topic, "What does a pack of Alphas want with Erica and Boyd?"

"I'm not sure it's them they want." Scott answers.

"What- Derek? Like they're recruiting?"

But Scott doesn't answer as something catches his eye. As Stiles and I walk ahead, we slow when we realize that Scott isn't with us anymore. "Scott?" I ask. At the sound of his name he shakes his head and catches up.

*_*_*_*_*_*

I sit behind Scott in Coach's class waiting for the lesson to begin. Coach slams a book down on his desk to get the class's attention. "The stock market is based on two principles. What are they?" he questions, looking out at the sea of students.

Scott raises his hand, "Yes, McCall, you can go to the bathroom."

I smile and shake my head as Scott answers, "Coach, I know the answer."

"You serious?"

"It's risk and reward." I lay my hand on Scott's shoulder giving it a gentle squeeze, showing that I'm proud of him.

"Who are you and what have you done with McCall? Don't answer that. I like you better." He then turns away from Scott to address the class, "Does anyone have a quarter?"

Stiles hastily reaches into his pocket to pull one out. But along with the quarter an XXL condom falls out. I watch Stiles horrified face quickly become red.

Coach picks the condom up, handing it to Stiles, "Stilinski, I believe you dropped this. And... congratulations."

I hold a hand to my mouth to try and stifle my giggles. I lean over to whisper, "Getting lucky, Stiles?" He sends me a glare as Scott's body starts to shake with a silent laugh.

I turn my attention back to Coach just as Danny asks, "What's the reward?"

"You don't have to take the pop quiz tomorrow."

"Coach, it's not a pop quiz if you tell us about it."

"Danny, to be honest, I really expect more from you by now."

He yanks the quarter off of Danny's desk and places it on Scott’s, "The risk, McCall, is if you don't get the quarter in, you take the pop - you take the quiz - and you have to write an essay. Risk: More work. Reward: No work. Or: Choose not to play."

Scott picks up the quarter as he thinks, "But isn't this just chance?"

"No. You know your abilities. Coordination, focus, past experience. All affecting the outcome. So what's it going to be, McCall? More work? No work? Or choose not to play?"

Scott takes one last look at the quarter in his hand then sets it back down on his desk. Coach picks it up, "No play! Other McCall, what about you?"

He sets the quarter in front of me and I smirk. I reach for the quarter and stand up, flipping my hair over my shoulder as I make my way to the front of the room. "That's what I'm talking about (Y/N), show them how it's done." Coach says happily.

I bend down slightly, quarter held between my thumb and forefinger. I line up my shot and let the quarter go, bouncing it straight into the mug. I smile brightly retrieving the quarter from the mug and handing it off to Coach. "Good, no work for (Y/N). Who's next?"

Stiles jumps up ready for a turn, "There's a gambling man." Coach says as he hands Stiles the quarter.

As he's lining up his shot though, the door opens, Sheriff Stilinski standing in the doorway, "Stiles -" Coach starts to speak.

"Yeah, Coach, I got this." Stiles says.

"Stiles." His dad speaks, breaking the teenagers concentration.

He glances back and moves to step into the hall with his dad. Scott and I instantly use our heightened senses to hear what's going on, "I couldn't find her. I thought she'd just hooked up with her other friends. Has no one really seen her since last night?"

"We've put out an A-P-B. But, Stiles, all of her friends say you were the last person who saw her."

"Me?"

"We're hoping it's just some bad decisions brought on by too much to drink. But if you remember anything else, you call me. Okay?"

*_*_*_*_*_*

After Coach's class I make my way to the library with Lydia and Allison. Sitting down at a table to work on some homework I hear Lydia speak, breaking the silence, "I want one."

I look up and Allison and I follow her gaze to the twins, "Which one?" Allison asks.

"The straight one, obviously." Lydia answers.

I bite my lip as I watch Lydia stand up and make her way over towards the twins, not liking the idea of my best friend getting with a werewolf that I know nothing about.

"Hey, what if it's not a symbol? What if it's actually a logo?" Allison asks.

She looks up to see Lydia with one of the twins and Danny with the other. Then she looks at me, waiting for an answer, "It's not a logo I recognize, but it's possible."

*_*_*_*_*_*

After school Scott, Stiles, Derek, Isaac and I meet at the animal clinic to get Deaton's help with Isaac's memory. We filled a tub with ice water as Isaac tentatively reached a finger out to touch the water.

"Obviously, it's not going to be particularly comfortable. But if we can slow your heart rate down enough you'll slip into a trance - like state." Dr. Deaton says to Isaac.

"Like being hypnotized?" Isaac asks.

"Exactly. You'll be half transformed. It'll let us access your subconscious mind."

"How slow does his heart rate need to be?" Scott questions the vet.

"Very slow."

"And uh, how slow is very slow exactly?" I ask, starting to feel nervous.

"Nearly dead."

I gulp as Isaac asks, "But it's safe, right?"

"Do you want me to answer honestly?"

"Not really."

My eyes are locked on Isaac's worry evident on both of our faces, before either can say anything we hear a snapping sound. We break eye contact looking towards the sound. Stiles is pulling on latex gloves, "What?" he asks innocently when he realises everyone’s eyes are on him.

I shake my head, focusing my attention back on Isaac as he removes his shirt. "If it's too risky you don't have to do this." Derek says to his Beta.

Isaac answers by stepping into the tub and sitting down. I lean over to give him a quick peck on the lips. He shakily smiles at me, takes a couple of deep breaths, then nods to let us know that he's ready. Grabbing him by his arms, Scott and Derek plunge Isaac into the ice water.

Isaac bursts up from the icy water, gasping for breath. His eyes are glowing the Beta yellow and fangs are protruding from his mouth. "Get him back under." Deaton says.

Derek and Scott push Isaac back under as I watch nervously from the side. Stiles stands beside me, I can see from the corner of my eye that his eyes are more focused on me.

Isaac shoots up another time as Deaton says, "Hold him."

"We're trying." Gasps slip from Isaac's throat, I hold my hands up to my mouth, forgetting to breath as I watch. Finally, Isaac's body relaxes. He slips back into the ice and his breathing slows as his eyes close.

Deaton whispers, "Now remember, only I talk to him. Too many voices will confuse him and draw him out."

We all nod so Deaton continues, this time addressing Isaac. "Isaac? Can you hear me?"

"Yes. I hear you."

"This is Dr. Deaton. I'd like to ask you a few questions. Is that all right?"

"Yes, it's all right." Isaac answers, teeth chattering from the cold.

"I want you to remember it for me in as vivid detail as possible. Like you were actually there again."

"No - No, I don't want to do that." He tenses and starts to rise up from the water. Scott and Derek gently push him back, but he begins to struggle against them.

"It's all right, Isaac. They're just memories. You can't be hurt by a memory."

At Deaton's words, Isaac relaxes once more. "So let's go back to that night. To the place you found Erica and Boyd. Can you tell me what you see? Is it some kind of building? A house?"

"Not a house. The walls are stone. Like marble."

"That's perfect. Can you give me any other descriptors?"

"It's dusty. Empty."

"Like an abandoned building? Isaac?"

"Someone's here." Isaac's hand wraps around Scott's wrist.

"Isaac, relax."

"They're here - they're coming." Isaac panics.

"They can't hurt you. It's just a memory. Your memories can't hurt you."

Isaac begins to breath hard, his grip around Scott loosens. "They can't hurt you. Just relax." Finally, he releases his grip on Scott who pulls back in relief. "Good. Now tell us what you see. Tell us everything."

"I hear him. He's talking about the full moon. About being out of control when the moon rises."

"Is he talking to Erica?"

"I think. I can't see her. I can't see either of them."

"What else is he saying?" Stiles asks. I elbow him as Deaton puts a finger to his lips, reminding him to be quiet.

"Can you hear anything else?" Deaton questions.

"They're worried about what they'll do. During the moon. Worried they'll hurt each other."

Derek whispers something to Scott that I can't bring myself to listen to as my worried gaze is still locked on Isaac in the tub. "Isaac, we need to know where they are. Can you see them?"

"No."

"Do you know what kind of room it is? Is there any kind of marker? A number on a door? A sign?"

Isaac draws in a sudden breath, "They're here." He whispers.

He tenses in the water as Deaton tries to calm him, "It's alright. Just tell us--"

"No, they see me. They see me." Isaac cuts off Deaton.

"This isn't working." Derek states, leaning forward, "Isaac, where are you?"

"You're going to confuse him." Deaton says to the Alpha.

Isaac, now sounding terrified, speaks once more, "They're coming- They found me."

"Just tell us where you are." Derek says again.

"I don't know-- It's too dark." He struggles in the water, Derek grabs a hold of him.

"Where are you?"

Ice spills across the floor around Derek who tries to hold Isaac still. "His heart rate- he could go into shock." Deaton says.

I step forward, tears brimming my eyes, "Derek, stop."

"Let him go," Scott says.

But Derek ignores us both, "Where are you? What did you see?"

"A vault- it's a vault - a bank vault."

Water splashes as Isaac quickly sits up in the tub. He is now alert and excited as he climbs out of the tub with Scott and Derek's help.

"I know where they are. I saw it. I saw the name." Isaac says as I wrap a towel around him and pull him into a hug to try and warm him up. "Beacon Hills First National. It's an abandoned bank. They've been keeping them in a vault. Locked inside-"

He trails off when he looks at everyone's concerned faces. "What? What's wrong?"

"You don't remember what you said right before you came out of it?" Stiles asks.

Isaac shakes his head, confused. "You said when they caught you, they dragged you into a room. And there was a body in it."

"What body?"

"Erica. You said it was Erica."

*_*_*_*_*_*

Isaac continues to shiver as I rub my hands up and down his arms, "She's not dead." Derek insists.

"He said 'There's a dead body. It's Erica.' Doesn't exactly leave much room for interpretation." Stiles says.

"Then who was in the vault with Boyd?"

"Someone else, obviously. Maybe the Alphas are collecting strays."

Scott turns his attention to Isaac, "Maybe it was the girl on the motorcycle? The one who saved you?"

Isaac shakes his head, leaning into me for warmth, "She wasn't like us. And whoever was in the vault with Boyd was."

"What if that's how Erica died? They pit them against each other during the full moon and see who survives. It's like Werewolf Thunderdome." Stiles says.

"A werewolf fight club? C'mon, that can't be a thing." I say, eyes narrowing at the thought. “Can it?”

"Then we get them out. Tonight." Derek says.

"Be smart about this, Derek. You can't just go storming in." Deaton speaks, trying to reason with the Alpha.

"If Isaac got inside, so can we."

"But he didn't get through a vault door, did he?"

"We need a plan." Scott states.

"How do we come up with a plan to break into a bank vault in less than twenty-four hours?" Derek asks.

"Someone already did." We all turn to Stiles, who raises his phone up indicating that he found a way to get into the vault. He starts reading, "Beacon Hills First National closes doors three months after vault robbery. Doesn't say how it was robbed, but probably won't take long to find out."

"How long?"

"It's the internet. Minutes."

*_*_*_*_*_*

The next day Allison picks Lydia and I up for school. As we get out of the car we start talking about what Allison found out. "So mystery girl leaves a bruise on our arms that turns out to be the logo for a bank. What's she trying to do? Give us investment advice?" Lydia asks.

"Not at this bank. It's been closed for years."

"Allison, please tell me you aren't thinking about investigating by yourself." I question the hunter.

"Seriously, why aren't you telling Scott?" Lydia adds.

"Because according to someone I need to find something real." Allison answers. "You can't tell Scott that I think I found something, (Y/N/N)."

She pauses for a second, opening her trunk and grabbing her school bag, "Which reminds me. I can't drive you home today. I've got an errand to run after school." She says to Lydia, knowing that I was already getting a ride from Stiles.

"Allison-" I try to argue again.

"(Y/N), I'm fine. I'll be fine." She doesn't give me a chance to tell her that it's not and she'll be put in danger if she goes to explore.

*_*_*_*_*_*

After school we head to Derek's to go over the plan. Stiles unrolls a blueprint of the bank as we all crowd around to look. "Okay, see this? This is how they got in. A rooftop air conditioning vent. It leads down inside the wall of the vault which is here..."

Stiles trails off as he circles the vault with a red marker. "One of the robbers was lowered down into this shaft. The space is so small, with so little room to move, it took him twelve hours to drill through the stone wall into the vault. Then, over the entire night, they siphoned all of the cash up through that one little shaft in the wall to the guys on the roof."

"Can we fit in there?" Scott asks.

"Barely. And they patched the wall. So I'm thinking the kind of drill we need is a diamond bit-"

Derek cuts him off, "Forget the drill. If I go in first, how much space would I have?"

"What do you think you're going to do? Punch through the wall?"

"Yes. I'm going to punch through the wall."

"Oh really, tough guy? Make a fist."

Derek holds out a clenched fist. Stiles puts one hand on Derek's elbow and the other a few inches from his fist, "See this? That's maybe three inches of room to gather enough force to punch through solid-"

His sentence is cut off as Derek slams his fist against Stiles' palm. "Mother of God." He clutches his hand in agony.

"I'll get through the wall. Who's following me down?"

He looks towards the three wolves in the room. "Sorry, but not me." Peter speaks up, "You know I'm not up to fighting yet. And, honestly, with Isaac out of commission, you're not looking at good odds for yourself."

"I'm supposed to just let them die?"

"One of them is already dead."

"You're not helping." I snap, glaring at Peter. "I'm coming with you."

Derek gives a quick nod then turns to Scott, "What about you?"

"I don't know about Erica. But if Boyd's still alive, we have to do something. We have to try." Scott answers.

"But?" Derek prompts.

"Who's the other girl? The one locked in with Boyd?"

"I guess we're going to find out."

*_*_*_*_*_*

Once at the bank, Scott, Derek, and I cautiously approach through the alley behind the building. We pause under a fire escape. Scott reaches for one of the rungs but notices something, "Now I kind of wish we'd let Stiles come."

"Why?" Derek and I ask in unison.

"Because he'd be able to come up with something better than I told you so." He points to the bank name and logo, the logo is the same symbol that was bruised on Allison and Lydia's arms.

"Shut up and climb." Derek scolds. The two werewolves miss the sound of my heart beat speeding up.

Grabbing a ladder rung, Scott pauses yet again. "What?" Derek asks.

"Something I can't get out of my head."

"The moon's rising, Scott. What is it?"

"Risk and reward."

"Coach's class? What are you talking about?" I question my twin.

"We're not measuring the risk with enough information. We don't know enough."

"We know time's running out." Derek states.

"But think about it. They put the triskele on your door four months ago. What have they been doing all that time? Why wait until now?"

"Yes, Scott. We get it. It doesn't make sense, much like how last year I would have laughed in your face if you told me werewolves were real. We don't have time for this." I say.

"But what if this detail- the reason they waited- what if it's the most important one?"

"Then we don't do anything. And Boyd and Erica are dead. I know what I'm risking. My life for theirs. And I won't blame you - either of you- if you don't follow me." Derek says.

Derek then grabs the steel ladder rung of the fire escape and begins to climb. Me following closely behind and Scott following not long after.

After about 10 agonizingly long minutes Derek bursts through the wall of the vault. Scott and I tumble through just after, "Boyd?" Derek asks, he holds a hand in front of Scott and I so we are behind him.

A hulking figure is on the other side of the vault, its breath harsh and ragged. "Boyd, it's me. It's Derek."

A buzzing noise catches mine and Scott's attention. Scott pulls out his phone, "Stiles, now is not a good time-" He gets cut off by whatever Stiles is saying. I'm too focused on the figure in front of us to listen in.

"Derek, (Y/N/N). We have a problem. Really big problem." Scott speaks from behind us.

I turn to look at Scott but Derek's voice causes me to look back at the figure's in front of us, "Cora?"

"Who?" Scott and I say together.

"Cora?" Derek asks once more.

"Derek, get out. Get out of here." The girl, Cora, says.

Scott calls out, "No- no, wait!" Just as Boyd lets out a loud snarl, eyes glowing yellow. Immediately Derek and I unsheathe our claws, ready to defend ourselves.

As Derek and Scott fight Boyd I fight the girl. "You know her?" I hear Scott ask the Alpha.

"My sister- younger sister."

"I thought everyone in your family was dead?" I bluntly ask.

"Yeah, me too."

Looking over my shoulder briefly I see Allison standing at the vault door. Derek sees her approach the mountain ash lining the room, "No, don't- don't break the seal!"

"Boyd!" Allison calls, gaining the werewolves attention. The hunter swipes her hand across the seal, breaking it. Boyd and Cora both take off running, racing for freedom they haven't had in months.

Allison steps out from behind the door and is grabbed by Derek. "Don't touch her." Scott says.

"What were you thinking?" Derek asks, angry.

"That I had to do something."

"She saved our lives."

"Yeah, and put a lot of other lives in danger." I state.

Allison looks at me in shock that I was taking Derek's side, when in reality I was just stating the truth. Don't get me wrong, I'm incredibly happy that she saved our lives, but now we just have a bigger problem on our hands.

"You want to blame me? I'm not the one who turns teenagers into killers." Allison says, glaring at Derek.

"No, that's the rest of your family." Derek says.

"I made mistakes. But Gerard wasn't my fault."

"What about your mother?"

"What? What do you mean?" The hunter asks, confused.

"Tell her, Scott."

Allison turns to Scott, "What does he mean? Scott?"

~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist: @crazy-fan-101 @rogershoe

#teen wolf rewrite #teen wolf #series rewrite #sister mccall imagine #lydia martin imagine #isaac lahey imagine

27 notes · View notes

chiseler · 3 years

Text

Ophelia By the Yard

Cobwebbed passages and wax-encrusted candelabra, dungeons festooned with wrist manacles, an iron maiden in every niche, carpets of dry ice fog, dead twig forests, painted hilltop castles, secret doorways through fireplaces or behind beds (both portals of hot passion), crypts, gloomy servants, cracking thunder and flashes of lightning, inexplicably tinted light sources, candles impossibly casting their own shadows, rubber bats on wires, grand staircases, long dining tables, huge doors with prodigiously pendulous knockers to rival anything in Hollywood.

Here was the precise moment — and it was nothing if not inevitable — when the darkness of horror film, both visible and inherent, leapt from the gothic toy box now joined by a no less disconcerting array of color. The best, brightest, sweetest, and most dazzling red-blooded palette that journeyman Italian cinematographers could coax from those tired cameras. Color, both its commercial necessity as well as all it promised the eye, would hereafter re-imagine the genre’s possibilities, in Italy and, gradually, everywhere else.

When color hit the Italian Gothic cycle, a truly new vision was born. In Hammer films and other UK horror productions, the cheapness of Eastmancolor made it possible for blood to be red. Indeed, very red. And, while we shouldn't underestimate the startling impact this had, it was a fairly literal use of the medium. In the Italian movies, and to a large extent in Roger Corman's Poe cycle, color was an unlikely vehicle to further dismantle realism rather than to assert it. Overrun with tinted lights and filters, none of which added to the film’s realistic qualities, the movies became delirious. In Corman's Masque of the Red Death, we learn of an experiment that uses color to drive a man insane; it seems that filmmakers like Corman and Mario Bava were attempting the very same trick on their audiences.

The application of candy-wrapper hues to a haunted castle flick like The Whip and the Body adds a pop art vibe at odds with the genre, and when you get to something like Kill, Baby...Kill! the Gothic trappings are barely able to mask a distinctly modern sensibility, so much so that Fellini could plunder its phantasmal elements for Toby Dammit, fitting them perfectly into his sixties Roman nightmare.

Blood and Black Lace brings the saturated lighting and Gothic fillips into the twentieth century -- a sign creaking in a gale is the first image, translated from Frankensteinland to the exterior of a contemporary fashion house. A literal faceless killer disposes of six women in diabolical ways. The sour-faced detective remains several deaths back on the killer’s trail because the movie knows its audience, knows that it has zero interest in detection, character, motivation — though it’s all inertly there as a pretext for sadism, set-pieces of partially-clad women being hacked up, dot the film like musical numbers or action sequences might appear in a different genre.

Since the 19th-century audience for literary Gothic Horror was comprised of far fewer men than women, would it be fair to ask whether Giallo’s advent might be an instrument of brutal violence, even revenge against “feminine” preoccupations? Consider 1964’s Danza Macabra, the film’s amorous vibes finding their ultimate source in that deathless screen goddess named Barbara Steele, whose marble white flesh photographs like some monument to classicism startled into unwanted Keatsian fever. Her presence practically demands that we ask ourselves: “Who is this wraith howling at a paper moon?” In other words, is it a coincidence that Steele’s “Elizabeth Blackwood” — a revenant temptress and undead sex symbol — hits screens the very same year as Giallo, which would transform Italian cinema into a decades-long death mill for women?

The name “giallo”, meaning yellow, derives from the crime paperbacks issued by Italian publisher Mondadori. The eye-catching covers, featuring a circular illustration of some act of infamy embedded in a yellow panel, became utterly associated with the genre of literature. These books were likely to be by Edgar Wallace, the most popular author in the western world, or Agatha Christie: cardboard characters sliding through the most mechanical of plots; or classier local equivalents, like Francesco Mastriani or Carolina Invernizio. The founding principles laid down concerned the elaborate deceptions concealed by their authors, traps for the unwary reader, and the use of a distinctive design motif. The tendency of the characterisation to lapse into sub-comic-book cliché, the figures incapable of expressing or inspiring real sympathy, was, perhaps, an unintended side-effect of the focus on narrative sleight-of-hand.

When Italian filmmakers sought to translate sensational literature to the screen, they looked to other filmic influences: American film noir, influenced by German expressionism and often made by German emigrés (Lang, Siodmak, Dieterle, Ulmer); and the popular krimi cycle being produced in West Germany, mostly based on Edgar Wallace's leaden "shockers." These deployed stock characters, bizarre methods of murder, deceptive plotting, and exuberant use of chiaroscuro, the stylistic palette of noir intensified by more fog, more shafts of light, more inky shadows. A certain amount of fun, but different from the coming bloodbath because Wallace, despite somewhat fascistic tendencies, is anodyne and anaemic by comparison. No open misogyny, a sadism sublimated in story, a touching faith in Scotland Yard and the class system. In the Giallo, Wallace's more sensational aspects are adopted but made to serve a sensibility quite alien to the stodgy Englander: people are generally rotten, the system stinks, and crime becomes a lurid spectator sport served up to a viewer both thrilled and appalled.

The Giallo fetishizes murder. But then, it fetishizes everything in sight. Every object, every half-filled wine glass and pastel-colored telephone, is photographed with obsessive, product-shot enthusiasm. Here, it must be emphasized that design implicates the viewer as the Italian camera-eye gawps like some unabashed tourist. Knife, wallpaper, onyx pinky ring — each detail transforms into an object made eerily subject: a sentient and glowering fragment of our own conscience, staring back at us in the darkened theater and pronouncing ineluctable guilt. And yet, for the directors who rode most dexterously the Giallo wave, homicide was something one did to women. Indulging in equal-opportunity lechery was merely an excuse to find other, more violent outlets for their misogyny. Please enter into evidence the demented enthusiasm for woman-killing evinced by Dario Argento, Mario Bava, Lucio Fulci, et al. — whatever trifling token massacres of men one might exhume from their respective oeuvres are inconsequential. Argento’s defense, “I love women, so I would rather see a beautiful woman killed than an ugly man,” should not satisfy us, and hardly seems designed to (also bear in mind Poe’s assertion that the death of a beautiful young woman was the most poetic of all subjects).

Filmmakers like Argento have no interest in sex per se. Suffering seems inessential, but terror and death are key, photographed with the same clinical absorption and aesthetic gloss as Giallo-maestros habitually apply to their interior design. Here, it must be emphasized that design implicates the viewer as the Italian camera-eye gawps like some unabashed tourist. Knife, wallpaper, onyx pinky ring – each detail transforms into an object made eerily subject: a sentient and glowering fragment of our own conscience, staring back at us in the darkened theater and pronouncing ineluctable guilt. That’s one important subtlety often lost amid Giallo’s vast antisocial hemorrhage.

Like a river of blood, homophobia, in the literal meaning of fear rather than hatred, runs through the genre. Lesbians are sinister and gay men barely exist. As we try to work out what in hell the Giallo is really up to, little dabs of dime-store Freudianism seem sufficient.

The filmmakers’ misogyny could be suspect, a sign of compromised masculinity, so they need fictional avatars to cloak their own feverish woman-hating. The subterfuge is clumsy at best, the desultory deceit embarrassingly macho. Giallo’s visual force, powerful enough to divorce eye from mind, is another matter, leaving us demoralized and ethically destitute; our hearts beating with all the righteous indignation of three dead shrubs (and maybe a half-eaten sandwich).

The Giallo is founded on an unstated assumption: the modern world brings forth monsters. Jack the Ripper was an aberration in his day, but now there's a Jack around every corner, behind every piece of modular furniture, every diving helmet lamp. Previously, disturbing events arose from what Ambrose Bierce called The Suitable Surroundings, or what the mad architect in Fritz Lang's The Secret Beyond the Door termed, with sly and sinister euphemism, "propitious rooms." There's the glorious line in Withnail and I: "That's the sort of window faces appear at." But now, in the modern world, evil occurs in the nicest of places, and tonal consistency died in a welter of cheerful stage blood. One needn’t enter an especially Bad Place to meet one’s worst nightmare, or perhaps better to say: the whole bright world qualified as a properly bad place. Imagine the pages of an interior design magazine invaded by anonymous psychopaths intent on painting the gleaming walls red.

Though the victims are overwhelmingly female and their killers male (Argento typically photographed his own leather-gloved hands to stand in for his assassin’s), when the violence becomes over-the-top in its sexualized woman-hating (like the crotch-stabbing in What Have You Done to Solange?), it’s usually a clue that the movie’s murderer will turn out to be female: a simple case of projection. Only Lucio Fulci, the most twisted of the bunch, trained as a doctor and experienced as an art critic, not only assigns misogyny to a straight male killer (The New York Ripper) but plays the killer himself in A Cat in the Brain. Though, in another self-protecting twist of narrative, all psychological explanations in Gialli are bullshit, always. Criminology and clinical psychology are largely ignored, and Argento has a clear preference for outdated theories like the extra chromosome signaling psychopathy (Cat O’Nine Tails). Did anybody use phrenology, or Lombroso’s crackpot physiognomic theories, as plot device?

A tradition of the Giallo is that the characters all tend to be dislikable, something Argento at least resisted in Cat O’ Nine Tails and Deep Red. With disposable characters, each of whom might be the killer and each of whose violent demise is served up as a set-piece, this distancing and contempt might just be a byproduct of the form rather than a principle or ethos, but it’s of some interest, perhaps mitigating the misogyny with a wash of misanthropy. A Unified Field Theory of Gialli would find a more deep-seated reason for the obnoxious characters as well as the stylized snuff and the glamorous presentation. What urge is being satisfied, and why here, now, like this?

Class war? Though prostitute-ripping is encouraged in the Giallo, most victims are wealthy, slashed to ribbons amid opulent interiors. Urbane characters who might previously have graced the sleek “white telephone” films of forties Italian cinema were briefly edged out by neo-realism’s concentration on the working class. Now these exquisite mannequins are trundled back onscreen to be ritually slaughtered for our viewing pleasure.

Victims must always be enviable: either beautiful and sexy or rich and swellegant, or all of the above, so the average moviegoer can rejoice in their dismemberment with a clear conscience. Mario Bava bloodily birthed the genre in Blood and Black Lace (1964), brutally offing fashion models in a variety of Sade-approved ways, the killer a literally faceless assassin into whom the (presumed male) audience could pour their own animosities without ever admitting it, with the female killer finally unmasked to provide exculpatory relief.

If narrative formulas absolve the straight male viewer, compositions have a way of ensnaring him. Beyond that omnivorous indulgence of sensation for its own lurid sake one finds in Giallo, there is a more gilded emphasis placed on Beauty (in the Catholic sense), and it is only the women who are mounted upon its pedestal. That these avatars of beauty are to be savored, ravaged, and brutalized — in that order — is what concerns us. But the sex and the suffering that captivates most sadists is never what registers; no, it is the instance of death, the terror that afflicts the dying woman’s face that resonates. Once again, physical interiors become a negative form of emotional interiority, rooms amplified for the sole purpose of grisly annihilations; a kind of heretical, strictly anti-Catholic transcendence through amoral delight in what otherwise falls under trivial headings, either “the visuals” or “color palette” – neither of which touch the essential nerve endings of Giallo.

Swaddled inside an otherwise hyper-masculine castle lies a windowless chamber with feminine, if not psychotic, decor. Before he tortures and stabs her to death, “Lord Alan Cunningham” (fresh from his sojourn in the asylum) brings his first victim to this pageant of off-gassing plastic furniture, the single most obnoxious vision ever imposed on gothic environs. Risibly overblown ’70s chic rules The Night Evelyn Came Out of the Grave with nods to Edgar Allan Poe, as the modish Lord juggles sports cars and medieval persecution. Laughs escape the viewer’s throat in dry heaves when each new MacGuffin devours itself without warning. Take “Aunt Agatha” (easily two decades younger than her middle-aged nephews) suddenly rising from her motorized wheelchair, clobbered from behind seconds later, her body dragged into a cage where foxes promptly munch her entrails. Nothing comes of this. The phony paralysis, the aunt’s role in a half-dozen mysteries, which include a battalion of sexy maids in miniskirts and blonde Harpo Marx wigs – all gulped, swallowed.

About the only thing we know for certain is that “Aunt Agatha” is gorgeous. Though, in the end, she’s another casualty of the same nihilism that crashes Giallo aesthetics headlong into Poe country. That is into “Lord Alan” and his gaudy room crowded with designer goods to be catalogued in a horror vacui of visual intrusiveness – a trashy shrine to his late wife, the titular Evelyn. If lapses of good taste define The Night Evelyn Came Out of the Grave, they also reflect Giallo’s abiding obsession with real estate. After all, this Mod hypnagogia has to fill the eye somewhere. Why not bang in the middle of a castle? Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher features a wealthy aristocrat burying his twin sister alive, thereby entombing his own femininity.

Evelyn represents both Usher’s primary theme of the divided self and the obdurate refusal to learn from it. “Alan,” who emerges a moral hero in the end (after his shrink aids and abets his murder spree), remains just as ornery, alienated, and vainglorious as Giallo itself. We’re never told precisely what the film’s fetish objects are supposed to mean. And since the camera seizes upon each one with existential grimness, we’re left with a visual style that begs its own questions.

Function follows form into the abyss. One Ophelia after another dies to satisfy our cruel delectation, even as will-o’-the-wisp light, taken from the bogs and neglected cemeteries of Gothic Horror, finds itself transformed into a crimson-dripping stiletto. Evelyn stands in for all Gialli, a genre which redefines film itself on the narrow front of visual impact: stainless steel cutlery and candy-colored light enact a sentient agenda as color becomes an instrument of hyperbolic misogyny that fills the eye and then some.

As with certain other Italian genres, notably the peplum, smart characterization, solid performances and decent dialogue seem not only unnecessary to the Giallo but unwelcome (the spaghetti western, conversely, in which many of the same directors dabbled, seemed to demand a steady stream of good, cold-blooded wise-cracks). Argento, in pursuit of that “non-Cartesian” quality he admired in Poe, took this to extremes, stringing non-sequiturs together to form absurdist cut-ups, torching his stars’ credibility merely by forcing them to utter such nonsense. And this wasn’t enough: from Suspiria (1977) on, the psychological thriller (which the Giallo is a sub-genre of, only the psychology has to be deliberately nonsensical) was increasingly replaced by the supernatural. So that the laws of nature could be suspended along with the laws of coherent motivation.

In Suspiria and its 1980 quasi-sequel Inferno, the traditional knifings are interspersed with more uncanny events, as when a stone eagle comes to life and somehow makes a seeing-eye dog kill his owner, and there are also grotesque incidents with no relation to story whatever: a shower of maggots, or an attack by voracious rats in Central Park. The Giallo’s quest for a solution, inspired as it was by the old-school whodunits, is all but abandoned, replaced by the search for the next sensational set-piece.

Argento’s villains are now witches, but, abandoning centuries of tradition, these witches show more interest in stabbing their fellow women with kitchen knives than with worshipping Satan or riding broomsticks. Regardless of who they’re meant to be, Argento’s characters must express his desires, enact the atrocities he dreams of. And inhabit places built for his aesthetic pleasure rather than their own. Following Bava’s cue, he saturates his rooms in light blasted through colored gels, making every scene a stained-glass icon, no naturalistic explanation offered for the lurid tinted hues. Just as no explanation is offered for the presence of a room full of coiled razor-wire in a ballet school, or for the behavior of the young woman who throws herself into its midst without looking.

Dario Argento’s true significance, at least with respect to Giallo, was perceiving in the nick of time the almost incandescent obviousness of its limitations; that Italian commercial cinema’s garish, polychromatic spin on the garden-variety psychological thriller – departing from its forebears mainly in the rampant senselessness of its “psychology” – had Dead End written all over it. It could never last. On the other hand, Giallo does take a fresh turn with Argento’s Inferno, thanks in no small measure to a woman screenwriter who sadly remains uncredited. Daria Nicolodi explains that “having fought so hard to see my humble but excellent work in Suspiria recognized (up until a few days before the première I didn’t know if I would see my name in the film credits), I didn’t want to live through that again, so I said, ‘Do as you please, in any case, the story will talk for me because I wrote it.’”

Daria Nicolodi

Nicolodi’s conception humanizes (it would be tempting to say “feminizes”) Argento’s usual sanguinary exercises du style, while at the same time summoning legitimate psychology. This has nothing to do with strong characterization – indeed, the characters barely speak – and everything to do with the elemental power of water, fire, wind.… Inferno rescues Giallo by plunging it into seemingly endless visual interludes, a cinema that draws its strength from absence.

by The Chiselers

Daniel Riccuito, David Cairns, Tom Sutpen, and Richard Chetwynd

4 notes · View notes