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stravagatefaster · 5 months

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A Talian Tale: The Witch of Montemurato

The following short story written by Mary Hoffman is from the official Stravaganza-website, which doesn't exist anymore. It is accessible through the Wayback Machine, but I am uploading the short stories here to a) act as a secondary archive and b) to make them accessible to fans. If this story is ever re-published somewhere or I am asked to delete it, I will do so. This post will be unrebloggable, but feel free to link to it if you wish to add comments/discuss the story. I do not own the story, and it is directly copy-pasted from the old website.

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In City of Masks chapter thirteen, Rodolfo Rossi, the Stravagante of Bellezza, refers to a story told in Montemurato of a witch who put a curse on the walled city some hundred years before (i.e. around 1450). This is that story.

A long time ago the city of Montemurato was plagued by the tricks of a witch named Selvaggia. She lived at first in a poor hut outside the walls, having settled there after a life of drifting. She was not very good at her calling but she was very lazy and completely ruthless, which served just as well.

She gave out that she was adept at putting the “evil eye” on beasts and people and then she let threats and rumour do the rest.

“If you don’t give me a fresh egg every day, none of your chickens will lay,” she would say to one farmer. “A pail of milk or the whole herd of cows will dry up,” to another. To a hunter, “You’ll catch nothing if you don’t give me something for the pot twice a week.”

Well, whether it was because the farmers and the hunter became nervous, or because a few of Selvaggia’s spells did work, in their haphazard way, word got around that it was unwise to cross the witch of Montemurato and she began to grow rich.

A house of stone was built for her (“None of the other houses you build will stay up if you don’t,” she had threatened the stonemasons.) She had a well and a pig and chickens of her own and, thanks to her awful warnings to weavers and spinners, Selvaggia had linen on her bed, warm clothes in her chest and hangings at her windows. Her larder was well stocked with cheeses and apples and olives and smoked meats. Every morning a fresh loaf was left on her door stone. Selvaggia was actually taking a tithe from every working man and woman in the region, without doing a stroke of work.

But Selvaggia was not the only witch in the city. There was another, called Maga Margherita, who had little to boast of, save her skills and the provisions she earned by exercising them. Maga Margherita lived in a small wooden house of two rooms and made her living by tending citizens’ ailments with her decoctions of herbs and roots. There wasn’t a sore throat or a teething child or a birthing mother or an ailing granny in Montemurato that hadn’t been soothed by a visit and a potion or lotion from Maga Margherita.

Even in the Prince’s palace her usefulness was known and appreciated. When the Princess was brought to birth of her first child, she had a hard time of it and the midwife suggested sending for Maga Margherita. The old woman had worked with the young witch before and knew how calming her presence and her infusions were at a childbed. The Prince sent his own bodyservant to fetch the witch and she came straightaway.

Perhaps it was Maga Margherita’s presence that saved the baby princess, but it was too late to do anything for her mother but bathe her forehead and close her eyes when the time came. Which it did soon, just after she had said, “Call her Florabella and take care of her for me.” She seemed to look as much at Maga Margherita as at the Prince when she lay down her burden and departed this life.

The Prince grieved for his wife and hired a wet-nurse for his daughter. He built a marble monument in the palace grounds for the dead princess and a stone cottage inside the city walls for Maga Margherita. He asked the witch to take a part in the upbringing of little Florabella and she was glad to oblige.

Princess Florabella of Montemurato grew up knowing she was loved. Her father was a sad grave man except when he was with his child and she loved to make him smile. Everyone in the palace wanted to spend time with the laughing, rosy child with the brown curls. But her special favourite was Maga Margherita, who came regularly to the palace to tell her stories.

At first, when Florabella was a babe-in-arms, the witch's stories were very simple — no more than little songs or rhymes or teaching her the names of her toes. But as the princess grew older, so Maga Margherita told her more and more of the legends and beliefs of Talia, as well as teaching her the skills she knew of herblore and spellcraft. There were some in the city who were uneasy about this, since the child was a baptised member of the church. But no-one in the palace doubted the good influence of the witch and the princess thrived.

Many years passed, sixteen in fact, and during this time the two witches' paths never crossed. Selvaggia continued to flourish on her ill-gotten gains and rarely had to exert herself to cast a spell or throw the evil eye on anything or anyone. Maga Margherita went about her daily work and took care to discharge the wish of the dying princess.

But gradually the lives of the people of Montemurato fell under strain. There was a bad summer, when heavy rain destroyed most of the crops, followed by a murrain which carried off many of the animals. Food was scarce and families had to draw their belts tighter. At such a time, it was harder to give Selvaggia her dues and yet they believed they could not afford not to, lest she wreak a terrible revenge on them.

As people's lives got harder, Selvaggia became more demanding. She wanted a bigger house, finer linen, more food in her larder. And such was her power over the local people, that she got her way. And that made her even worse. She made up her mind that she must have her own personal maidservant.

Over the years, several young women had worked for a while in Selvaggia's house, sweeping her floors, washing her linen and cooking her food. But they never stayed for long, so cross and demanding was their mistress. And of course she didn't pay them a single scudo.

But Selvaggia did not want just any girl. No, Selvaggia wanted the best-loved young woman in the city. And if she didn't get her, then all the young women would lose their looks and Selvaggia would ensure that they never married or bore children.

The news spread fast through the city. No-one was prepared to send their own beloved daughter yet no-one wanted to risk her future happiness either. It was not long before word reached even to the palace. Princess Florabella, who had grown into a pretty and kind-hearted young woman, immediately volunteered herself.

"What?" raged the Prince. "Go and live with a bad witch for the rest of your life? Out of the question. I couldn't live without you."

"It won’t be for the rest of my life, Papa," said Florabella. "I shall think of a way to make the witch take back her threats."

"What do you think, Margherita?" asked the Prince, who had become very reliant on her judgment.

"I think it is just like Florabella, Your Highness," said Maga Margherita. "You should trust her."

And so it was that Florabella walked out of the palace where she had spent the last sixteen years, wearing her simplest dress and taking a very small bundle.

It was an adventure. Word spread among the citizens of Montemurato about where she was bound. So that by the time she reached Selvaggia’s imposing stone house, Florabella had quite a crowd at her heels. The door flew open of its own accord — a cheap trick which Selvaggia could manage quite easily — and Florabella stepped boldly inside.

For the next three weeks she swept and cleaned and washed and cooked and at first she didn’t mind it too much. It had the charm of novelty, for the princess had never done any of these things before. But after a while she got tired of the work, not so much because it was hard and dull drudgery, but because Selvaggia was never satisfied with what Florabella had done.

“My egg yolk wasn’t runny this morning,” the witch would say. “And my toast was burnt,” quite forgetting that she herself had called the princess away from her breakfast-making to brush her hair.

Florabella decided it was time to pit her wits against her mistress. She had studied the witch carefully and realised that she was not as all-powerful as the citizens of Montemurato believed. She was lazy and greedy and very ambitious. Nothing was ever enough for her. She had been very interested to discover that her new servant was the Prince’s daughter and quizzed her hard about her father.

“He can’t be long for this world,” she said. “Not at his age and with all the grief he has suffered. And when he goes, who is to take over the throne of Montemurato? Not a chit of a girl like you, surely?”

Selvaggia asked Florabella many questions about the palace — how many rooms it had, what number of chandeliers and staircases and mantels — and a plan began to grow in the princess’s mind.

So on a day when Selvaggia was just a tiny bit less grumpy than usual and had even said that the cup of chocolate Florabella had brought her was “not unpleasant”, the princess proposed a wager. They would have a test of wits, each to ask the other three riddles. The winner would have the throne of Montemurato. But if Florabella won, then Selvaggia must leave the city for ever.

The witch agreed, confident that she knew more than the princess. Her first riddle was:

“What shines by day and by night?

“Easy!” said the princess. “The answer is silver. My turn now. What has eyes behind its back?”

“Haha!” cackled Selvaggia. “A peacock! Now, what takes one in three?”

Florabella thought for a bit. It might have been childbirth, but in the end, she got the answer.

“The plague,” said Florabella. “Now answer me this one. What covered a beauty without concealing her?”

Selvaggia had a hard time thinking of the answer to that one. Then she suddenly remembered some gossip that had reached Montemurato from Bellezza.

“The glass mask, the glass mask!” she cried, capering up and down. “It broke and marred the Duchessa’s beauty.” Selvaggia was beginning to enjoy herself. “Now answer me this: where do twelve giants guard a treasure?”

Florabella pretended to think but she didn’t really need to; she had known this story since her babyhood. But she answered slowly.

“This city of Montemurato. The giants are the twelve towers in the walls. The story says they were once real giants, turned to stone by time and the treasure they guard is our precious city itself.”

Selvaggia was seriously annoyed. The princess had answered all her three riddles so that there was no chance of the witch winning the city’s throne, at least not if she played fair. But Florabella hadn’t won yet; Selvaggia had one more question to answer.

“Tell me,” said the princess, “How does one get rid of a witch?”

Selvaggia’s eyes started out of her head. She raged, she cursed, she tried to hit Florabella with a broom. But there was no way out of the knot that the princess had tied for her. If she answered the question correctly, Florabella would know how to get rid of her. If she answered it incorrectly, she would have lost the game and have to leave anyway. Doubtless a cleverer witch could have lied or cheated herself out of the predicament, but Selvaggia couldn’t.

She snatched up her broomstick and flew out of the house in a rage. But she had enough wit left to produce one last spell. It was a very hot day in late August, the summer as fine this year as it had been wet the year before. As Selvaggia flew over the city, she sparked off a hundred small fires which smouldered in wooden roof beams and dry thatch.

“May the city burn till this witch is consumed!” she screamed her parting curse, knowing she was well out of reach of the flames, as she flew far away through the blue sky till her broomstick was a black speck like a crow in the distance.

Florabella heard the curse as she hurried back to the palace, through streets where anxious citizens formed bucket chains to put the fires out.

At the palace, Maga Margherita and the Prince were organising their own bucket-chain down to the small lake in the grounds.

“My darling!” said the Prince, dropping his bucket and clasping Florabella in his arms. “You’re back! But what has happened?”

“We saw Selvaggia fly over the city and then the fires began,” said Margherita.

Quickly Florabella told them everything, including Selvaggia's last words.

Maga Margherita stopped what she was doing. “We are going about this the wrong way,” she said. “We must build our own fire, not put this one out.”

She summoned all the servants to pile up brushwood in the palace courtyard. They thought she was mad. “Do as she says,” ordered the Prince. Maga Margherita took an old gown of hers and stuffed it with straw. She gave it a hat and murmured a spell over it. It began to take on a look of Selvaggia. By then the bonfire in the courtyard was built. The Prince threw the effigy of the witch on it and Maga Margherita set light to it.

The dry wood caught and crackled and before long there was a hearty blaze. The palace gates were thrown open and the people streamed in to see what madness had prompted their Prince to light a bonfire when his city was in danger of burning down. They stood round the bonfire sweating in its heat. When the flames reached the straw-filled witch, a silence fell over Montemurato.

The witch effigy burned to a crisp and a great shout went up from the courtyard. Every flame in the walled city flickered and went out, apart from the bonfire. The witch had been consumed and the city was saved.

What rejoicing was there that night! No longer did the hard-working people of Montemurato have to share the fruit of their labours with the witch. An innkeeper who was famous for the strong liqueur he served, a thick yellow liquid formerly known simply as “the Drink”, re-named it “Strega”, the witch. And his customers that night vied with one another to see how quickly and thoroughly they could “consume the witch”.

As for the Prince, he married Maga Margherita and did not die for a long time. When he did, Florabella became ruler of the city and she and later her husband and children, lived in harmony with her stepmother for the rest of her days.

Nothing was ever heard of Selvaggia again but the people of Montemurato burn her in effigy every year at the Festa della Strega in August to this day. And they “consume the witch” in every bar and tavern of the city.

Note: My apologies to the good people of Naples, who in Italy created the powerful drink called “Strega”. The equivalent city-state in Talia, known as Cittanuova, had nothing to do with the invention of this favourite tipple of Enrico the spy.

#stravaganza #mary hoffman

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imanativeofswlondondahling · 4 years

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Becoming A Stark? (2) Peter Parker x Stark! femReader

A/N: In celebration of finishing a class that has literally been six weeks of hell, I thought why not post chapter two. I had a blast writing this chapter because I love Natasha. Anyway, enjoy, and as always, let me know if you want to be tagged or your thoughts:)

Word count: 4596

Warnings: swearing, think that’s it

Chapter One (If You Missed It) || Master List

You’ve been staring at the ceiling for hours. You had told Tony you were heading to bed at ten, mainly because you couldn’t stand him looking at you any more, especially since he looked at you like you were going to disappear most of the time. It was straight up creepy. Add to everything, you’re starving. A grumbly stomach and a mind that doesn’t want to shut off makes it impossible to go to sleep. You check Wallace and you’re sitting at 136, which isn’t surprising since you didn’t really eat anything but veggies at dinner since Tony didn’t realize that you were vegetarian so there wasn’t much besides veggies that you could eat of the food that Steve had made. You need real food though or you’re never going to sleep. In your mind you trace through how to get to the kitchen and you think you can get there without getting lost or waking up the other Avengers.

Opening your door, you peak your head out just to see if you spy anyone down the hallway. Seeing the coast is clear, you step softly onto the floor outside your door, almost waiting for an alarm to go off yelling that you’re leaving your room. But after a few heartbeats thudding in your ears and nothing happening, you decide to make your way down the steps to the kitchen. “Jarvis?” You whisper.

“Yes, Miss Y/N?” The voice booms over the speakers that you haven’t seen.

“Shhhh. Take it down a few levels. And turn the lights on in the kitchen.”

“Certainly Miss Y/N.” The lights are blinding after being in your room in the dark for so long.

“Jarvis, dim the lights by uh 75%.”

“Certainly Miss Y/N.” The lights drop drastically and you feel more comfortable. Walking to the pantry, you look for something easy to make. There are ingredients for fancier dishes that you have no patience to make, so instead you reach for a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and then make your way to the fridge to look for jelly. Setting your ingredients on the counter, you grab a paper towel to make your sandwich on before setting on your way of making your sandwich.

“Midnight snack? Or well two am snack?” A voice suddenly comes from the other side of the island and you nearly jump out of your skin.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Your hand slams to your chest as you knife clatters to the counter. “Do you try to scare people to death?”

“To be fair you did move in with an ex-assassin.” Natasha says with a soft smile as she sits down on the bar stool across from where you stand.

“It wasn’t by choice.”

“I had a feeling.” Natasha’s red hair is pulled into a low ponytail. Her eyes rome over you, seeing the bits of Tony that are in you even though you didn’t know you were related until this morning.

“Want a sandwich?” You offer, trying not to be rude. The other Avengers, you don’t have anything against personally. Just the one who stripped you from your house with his fatherly claim.

“If your sugars are low, I’m not taking your food away from you.” Natasha holds up her hands, trying to show she comes in peace.

“Is there anyone he didn’t tell I’m diabetic to?” You roll your eyes as you slide the sandwich in her direction, grabbing another paper towel to make another. “Wallace says I’m fine for now. I can make another.”

“Wallace?”

“My blood sugar monitor. It’s actually called a Dexcom, but I named it Wallace so that I can say things like Goddamn it Wallace when he wakes me up in the middle of the night. My pump is named Queenie. I think it’s more personal when they have names.”

“I like it.” Natasha lets a small smile escape her as she takes a bite of the sandwich you made. “And to answer your question, he told us all the emergency information about it that your grandmother shared with him. He just wanted all of us to be prepared in case we’re here and he’s not. But if you feel better we can not mention it.”

“It’s fine. It’s been a part of my life as long as I can remember.”

“He’ll probably try to invent something to make your life easier.”

“Seeing as his last thing to make my life easier stripped me of everything I’ve ever known, I’ll turn down that option.” You say with a sneer.

“He means well. Tony just doesn’t always think everything through before he acts.”

“That doesn’t make it any better.” You finish making your sandwich and after throwing the knife in the sink, you enter the carbs into Queenie.

“It doesn’t, but don’t hate him just yet ok?”

“Fine.” Natasha leads you to the couch, where you and her sit, talking for what feels like hours about trivial things until you fall asleep. She wraps a blanket around you, then falls asleep next to you.

Waking up in the morning feels different for Tony. For starters, it’s his first full day of being a dad, even if said kid hates him. True yesterday was probably his first full day, but today is the first full day of having you under his roof. Leaving his room, he makes his way towards the kitchen, thinking he’ll check in on you on his way to get coffee. However when he finds an open door and an empty bed, his heart starts racing. Not even 24 hours into this and he’s lost his kid. “JARVIS find Y/N.”

“Miss Y/N is in the living room.” Are you that early of a riser that you are up at 6:30 on a summer day? Like he himself is only up because he has an idea for your pump that he wants to work on. Bypassing the kitchen and coffee, he makes his way to the living room, needing to calm his heart down. What he finds is not what he’s expecting. The sight in front of him is you, wrapped in a white knitted blanket curled into the side of the deadliest assassin in the world. But you were asleep and safe, that’s what matters. He tries to steady his heart before turning back towards the kitchen, not wanting to wake you yet, since he wasn’t sure when you actually went to sleep. Looking in the sink as he passed to grab a coffee mug, he spies a knife with peanut butter and jelly smeared along the tip. He’s going to have to figure out what you eat since you don’t eat meat. Steve has been cooking for everyone a lot, but with you not eating animals and him cooking a lot of meat and potato meals, there needs to be a compromise. Tony will figure something out, it’s the fatherly thing to do.

Filling a coffee cup up with the liquid he was craving, he starts to type up some of the ideas he had on his Stark Phone so that he can get the ideas down without having to go all the way down to the lab. With you sleeping on the couch, this is the closest you’ve been to him without a grimace plastered on your face since he met you.

“Sir, you said to alert you if Miss Y/N went below 100.” JARVIS’s voice speaks out.

“The actual fuck.” Your voice fills the kitchen as you pad into it from the living room. Tony spins around to look at his daughter, the knit blanket wrapped around your shoulders.

“What?”

“You have your AI monitoring my blood sugar?” You spat out before Tony can respond.

“JARVIS monitors a lot of things for me.”

“That’s fucking creepy. And also you have it set way too high. There’s nothing to do if it’s at 100. That’s a good blood sugar. Have Dexcom send you alerts to your phone like a fucking normal person.” You turn and storm out of the kitchen. You had been used to constant monitoring when you were a kid. But you had been allowed to be the person watching your sugars for years. Having an AI watching your sugars was too much.

You throw your book, your headphones and your wallet into your backpack before pulling on a pair of ripped jean shorts and a black graphic t-shirt that says ‘Sorry I’m Late I Didn’t Want To Come’. Slipping on a pair of galaxy high top converse that you love and sliding a pair of black and gold could have been Ray Bans if you had the money into your hair, you figure that if you slip out the back end of the hallway, Tony won’t see you leave. Checking Queenie before you walk out the door, you have plenty of insulin so you’ll spend the day out of the eye of your overbearing father and in the city you love. Peaking your head out you see no one out in the hall, not even Natasha. So you slink down the hallway towards the elevator and get on it without anyone noticing. “Jarvis, take me to the ground floor.” You wait for him to say no, but are surprised.

“Certainly Miss Y/N.” Once on the ground floor you pull the sunglasses down, already seeing that there are a few vultures waiting with cameras outside. But when they see it’s just a kid and not one of the Avengers, they let you walk on by without snapping anything. Taking your phone out of your pocket you type a quick message in your group chat to your two best friends, letting them know you’re taking a day off of social media and texting before flipping your phone to airplane mode. No creepy AIs for you today.

Taking your metro card and headphones out of your backpack, you make your way towards the closest station. If you hop the four or the five train you could head to your favorite coffee shop and even hit up The Strand before making a next move. Swiping your card, you hear the sounds of a train pulling into the station.

Tony throws the screw drive across the bench in frustration. Maybe Y/N was right. Maybe having JARVIS monitoring your sugars was too much, but he doesn’t know how to be any other way. Especially when his child that he’s only known about for two days has a life or death condition. “JARVIS what’s Y/N’s blood sugar?”

“I don’t know sir. I can’t read it.”

“What?” His project is forgotten, his child the only though in his mind.

“Her phone isn’t connected to the internet.” And your monitor has to link through the internet to connect to JARVIS.

“Is there something wrong with the internet?”

“No. Internet is functioning at 100%.”

“So why is her phone not connected to it?”

“I can not say sir.” Tony pushes away from the bench and makes his way up the stairs to see why your phone isn’t connected to the internet. He looks in the kitchen for you before looking in the living room. He finds only Clint on the couch.

“Have you seen Y/N?”

“Not today. Maybe she’s in her room?” Tony turns and moves quickly through the kitchen and up the stairs, finding your door open. He moves down the hallway to Natasha’s room, hoping she might know where you are. He pounds on the door.

“What?” The response is short as the door is pried open.

“Y/N, have you seen her?”

“Not since this morning. Why?” Ignoring her, Tony calls out for JARVIS.

“JARVIS, where is Y/N?”

“Miss Y/N left the tower at 9:46 this morning.”

“Why was I not told?”

“You didn’t ask to be told.”

“Tony, do you think she went home?”

“Maybe? I don’t know. I can’t get a reading on her blood sugars though.” Tony is pacing in the hallway. “What if she’s hurt?”

“JARVIS can you override her phone?” Natasha asks, not counting on it.

“No I can not. It is not a Stark Phone.”

“That changes immediately.” Tony mutters, but Natasha ignores him. Instead she pulls out her laptop.

“JARVIS can you pull up the security camera footage from the front door from when Y/N left?”

“Of course. I’ll send it to your computer.” The images of Y/N sauntering past the paparazzi, smirking as she pulls her sunglasses on makes Natasha let go of a breathy laugh. She watches as you walk towards the downtown subway station.

“She’s not heading home?” Tony says looking at the screen.

“She’s not?” Natasha asks.

“Her grandparents live in Queens. She wouldn’t take a downtown train to go home.” Natasha hits some keys and runs your face through some camera recognition until she finds where you get off, but shuts the laptop before Tony can see where you got off. “Natasha-”

“If I let you see where she went, you two will get in a screaming match in the middle of the street. Is that really how you want the world to find out that Tony Stark has a child?”

“At least get her to turn her phone on so I can see she’s not dying?”

“I’ll try.”

When you read, you fall so deeply into a book that you don’t have to even think about it. Hours pass, coffee is drunk, and the day rolls away from you. The argument, if you could even call it, with Tony seems days ago now. You’ve always loved the atmosphere of The Bean and would stay there for days if they didn’t have to lock up at times. Turning the page, you push Tony from your head, and just focus on your music. You could live in this moment forever, but out of the corner of your eye you notice a redhead sitting down at your table. Glancing up, you shouldn’t be totally surprised that Natasha found you. “I know you’re an assassin, but like stalking is a crime,” You say as you pull the earbuds from your ears.

“Tracking a runaway here, not stalking.” Natasha says softly as she places fresh coffee in front of the two of you.

“I didn’t run away. I just needed to get out of that tower. It was suffocating me.” You say as you pick up the cup sitting in front of you.

“You turned your phone off.”

“I didn’t turn it off. I put it on airplane mode.” You can’t help but smile.

“Tony thinks you’re lying passed out on the side of the road because he can’t read your blood sugars.”

“Well let him live like that for a bit. He deserves it after programming his AI to shout my BGs all over the tower.”

“You know Tony doesn’t check his phone right? JARVIS is his phone essentially. So telling him to just send notifications to his phone wouldn’t do much different than having JARVIS tell him stuff.” Natasha reaches a hand across the table to grasp yours. “He’s trying.”

“He’s suffocating me.”

“It’s going to take him a few tries before he gets this right. He could have flown out here in his Iron Man suit to make sure you were still alive. Pretty sure that’s what he wanted to do.”

“Ugh, no! That’s worse than having you stalking me here.”

“Again, not stalking. This was a recovery mission.” Natasha takes a sip from her own mug. “So you going to come home or am I going to have to kidnap you to bring you home?”

“I still have things to get done today.” You say with a non committal shrug.

“Y/N, you’re fourteen. You have to at least tell your guardian when you’re going to run around New York City.”

“He doesn’t even-”

“Don’t say he didn’t care before yesterday, because that’s not fair to either of you. He didn’t know about you before forty eight hours ago. I was there when he got the call.” You think back to last night when Tony introduced Natasha as Nat and things start to make a lot more sense.

“If you were there, tell me about it.” You say, finally marking your page in the book and setting it aside.

“He was pretty shocked to say the least. He was confused on why a school was calling him, but then to be told it was his daughter’s school, well he basically went into shock. He was listening to them talk about you while I tried to find out what I could about you. When we hung up he shot into a Tony rant about needing to find you and know you. To not be like Howard and to show you that he was going to be there for you.”

“Who’s Howard?” You ask, not following.

“Your grandfather, Tony’s dad. But if you want to know more about him, you’ll have to talk to him.” Natasha takes another sip of her coffee.

“What happened after his rant?”

“He spent most of the night on the phone with his lawyers. Trying to figure out the best plan of attack and what to do for you. Also spent a fair amount of time talking with Pepper about the situation.”

“Who’s Pepper?”

“His girlfriend, but also the CEO of SI.”

“He’s dating his CEO?”

“Technically they were dating before she became CEO. She’s put up with a lot of his shit before and after being placed in the position.”

“Why?”

“Because she loves him.” Natasha says it like it’s an easy answer. “Maybe you should talk with her when you have a chance. She knows that Tony isn’t easy to talk to but he’s worth it more than any of us.”

“Maybe.” You take a sip from your coffee, not wanting to admit that meeting your new to you father’s girlfriend wasn’t something that you were all that interested in.

“You don’t have to decide right now, but you’ll probably meet her eventually.”

“If it happens, it happens I guess.”

“You’d like her I think.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because she doesn’t put up with Tony’s shit either.” Not wanting to hear about Tony much more you shrug.

“Do you want to see my favorite place in the whole city?” Natasha doesn’t ignore the fact that you’re changing the topic, but nods. You throw your book in your backpack, along with your earbuds, before swallowing the last bit of your coffee. “Come on! It’s right over here.” You motion for her to follow. Across the street, the red banner awaits you. You ignore the carts sitting by the door, wanting to show Natasha the inside beauty of The Strand.

“Wow, you know who would love this place? Steve.” Natasha says as she looks at the shelves that line the walls. Thousands of books fill the store and you could take hours looking at each and everyone.

“My Pops brought me here when I was like six and I’ve been coming here ever since. It’s the best place to find amazing books.”

“Where do you start looking?”

“Queer YA, always.” You answer without a second thought. “They always have something I haven’t read waiting there for me.”

“Lead the way.” Natasha motions forward, towards the rest of the store, not knowing where that would be, but is willing to follow you.

“Really? I’m not going to force you into seeing what I look at-”

“I want to see the things you’re interested in.” Natasha lets off a soft smile, similar to the ones she had given you last night when talking with you on the couch and you decide to just trust her.

“It’s upstairs.”

“Let’s go.” She follows you up the winding staircase towards the YA section. Even though both of you could have easily made jokes about the Avenger end cap that was meant to inspire reading about ‘Heroes Just Like You’, neither of you point it out as you walk towards the Queer YA table. Looking at the table, it’s easy to fall into the habit of looking at books and picking up ones that interest you- Love Simon, Aristotle and Dante Discover The Secrets Of The Universe, The Disasters, More Happy Than Not, Every Day, Darius The Great Is Not Ok,and so many others. Natasha eventually takes the books from your arms so you can pick up more.

“I need to pair down. I can’t afford all of these.” You say looking at the pile that has accumulated in her arms.

“Tony can. It’s fine. Ready to pay and head home?” Natasha asks.

“Wait what? I’m not letting him buy these.” You say defensively.

“It’s ok Y/N. You’re his kid and the price of these are pocket change to him.” She starts to make her way towards the staircase to head downstairs to pay.

“Natasha, no. I’ve known him for less than twenty four hours.

“He honestly would demand to pay for them if he was here. I promise, it’s ok.” Natasha steps down the first couple of stairs. “You coming? Or are there more books you want?”

“I’m done.” You say, not wanting her to purchase more stuff in Tony’s name. During the checkout process, you find yourself unable to find your voice as the total just climbs. The number is higher than you’ve ever seen it. Nana and Pops never would have let you spend this much money, but Natasha swipes a black credit card without second thought. You have a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach because of it. That much money could have paid for your Nana’s medicine for a month. And as much as you want the books, you know so many other people it could have actually helped and to Tony it was no big deal to drop this amount of money on this stack of books.

Walking outside of the Strand, you turn to make your way back to the four train when Natasha catches your arm. “This way Y/N.”

“The subway’s this way.” You point down the street.

“Happy’s picking us up.” You don’t say anything, but follow her. Private chauffeur when you have a perfectly working metro card makes no sense. You’ve been using the metro since you were a child, so stopping now makes no sense to you. Honestly, even though there can be weirdos on the subway, you love the feeling of the train moving beneath you. It’s a part of being at home. But maybe this is part of Tony’s whole not touching things that he doesn’t like public transportation? All you have to do is make it through the next two weeks of summer and then you’ll be back at school and hopefully he’ll cool off.

“Romanoff, Y/N.” Happy opens the door for the two of you to slide into the back seat. Natasha gives him that tight smile. And before you know it you’re in the elevator headed back up to the suffocating hellhole that is the tower. You shouldn’t be surprised to see that Tony is waiting for you when you step off the elevator.

“Never, ever shut your phone off like that again.” You roll your eyes, but start to walk away from him. “We’re not done talking Y/N.”

“I’m going to my room. Or is that not allowed now?”

“We’re having a conversation about the fact that you left without telling anyone and that you shut off a major communication device, so no you may not leave right now.” Tony’s face gets red as his anger enters his voice.

“I’ll put these in your room. I think you and Tony need to talk Y/N.” Natasha lifts the bag of books as well as takes the backpack from you. Instead of running to your room like you want to, you slam onto the couch, knowing that even if you did leave to go to your room, Tony would probably follow you.

“I know you’re not ecstatic about this new living situation, but we have to put some ground rules in place.”

“Ecstatic is the last word I would use to describe this.” You motion between Tony and yourself. “You’re treating me like I have no clue how to deal with the disease that I have been dealing with since I was four on top of the fact that you won’t let me walk around the city that I have lived in and traveled in since I was a child. You’re treating me like I’m new to all of this when really the only new thing here is you to my life.”

“Ok maybe I’m not handling your diabetes well. And I’ll work on that. But what you’re not understanding is that you are no longer Y/N Y/L/N. You’re Y/N Stark and there are a lot of people who would do anything to get their hands on you. Which means you can’t just wander the streets of New York without at least telling us where you went and shutting your phone off because it’s a safety issue. If you get hurt, that’s on me. And I’m not letting that happen.”

“People don’t want to get their hands on me. I’m a nobody.” You scoff.

“You’re the heir of Stark Industries. That doesn’t make you a nobody.” Tony runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t explain that well enough but on your eighteenth birthday you come into a large fortune and then on your twenty first birthday or on the completion of college, whichever comes first, you have the opportunity to take over SI. That puts a large target on your back and I’m sorry about that, but I’m not sorry that I’m going to put your safety first.”

“I don’t want to run Stark Industries.” You say, the disgust at the idea filling your mouth.

“Then we will figure something out, but right now, keeping you safe is my number one concern. So you can not leave the tower without Happy. No more metro hopping, no teenage angsty storming out of the building, and 1000% no turning off your phone so I can’t read your blood sugars. Also your new phone will be here tomorrow.”

“What new phone? My phone works fine.” You casually don’t mention that you’ve had the same phone for three years, but that it’s worked just fine that whole time.

“I can’t have you using competitors’ products. You’re getting a Stark Phone tomorrow.”

“You just want it so your tech can override my settings.” You imply with a scoff.

“Not at all. I can’t have you running around with competitors’ products, especially when it’s being announced on Monday that I have a daughter.”

“What? Why?”

“Because there’s only so many times you can be seen leaving the Tower before people get suspicious. Plus Monday gives Pepper and the legal team to pull together an official statement from SI too.” You drop your head into your hands. “Talk to me kiddo. What’s with the defeated look?”

“We can’t wait until school at least starts?”

“Pep thinks the sooner we announce it the better.”

“Yeah well she never had to go to high school a week after it was announced that she was Tony Stark’s kid and the supposed to be inheritor of SI. I’ll never have a life again. I haven’t even told my friends yet.”

“You have time. Invite them over. They can come over for dinner tomorrow or something.”

“Ugh, fine.”

tags: @persephonehemingway @iamaunicorn4704 @furiouspockettoad @daughter-of-stark @eternalharry @huntective-kyeo

#peter parker #peter parker x stark!reader #peter parker x reader #peter parker fan fiction #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker fanfic #peter parker fan fic #Tony Stark #Stark Industries #stark!reader #tony stark can't be dead if you just don't let yourself believe it #peter parker x you #tony stark x daughter!reader #tony stark x daughter!you #imanativeofswlondondahling #becoming a stark?

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socialwriter · 4 years

Text

Ch. 5- To Love and Be Loved

Listen alongside: This and this

Pairing: JJ Maybank x Female Reader

1.9k+ words

TW: Insinuations of sex, insinuations of parental death, mentions of poverty, prostitution, cursing maybe, sad boi Pope

ADD YOURSELF TO MY TAGLIST

A/n: PLEASE READ THIS POST

He presses his lips against yours once more, and as his hands slowly inch up your leg and move to pull down your fishnets, you find yourself imagining that it's JJ’s hands on your body. Even laying here with Rafe, doing what had to be done, you couldn’t seem to get the blond Bohemian out of your mind.

JJ was going out of his mind. How had he just left you alone, in the hands of another man? Someone with power and money, who certainly would do whatever he wanted, regardless of your feelings. It took every fiber of his being to not deck the guy whenever he pulled you closer or laid a finger on you, and you had practically shoved him out of your dressing room. He slowly walked back to where he knew John B and Pope would be, irrationally feeling like the farther away he was from the Moulin Rouge, the less helpful he would be to you. But deep down, he knew that he had failed you.

When JJ got back to the shabby little apartment that John B and Pope had told him he could crash at with them, he was surprised to only find the latter there. “Where’s John B?” JJ questioned, causing Pope to look up at him and shrug. “Probably snagged one of the girls, he’ll find his way back here eventually. Always does.”

JJ nodded, plopping down on the ratty old sofa with a huff. Pope, despite not knowing JJ for very long, could immediately sense that something was wrong with his new friend, and he had a sneaking suspicion that it had to do with Y/n. “Something the matter?”

JJ's head hung low, but he managed a nod. “How am I so in love with a girl that I’ve just met?”

Pope let out a deep sigh, knowing unfortunately where JJ was coming from. “Y/n on your mind my friend?”

“Yup.”

“Well, she tends to have that effect on people. She pulls you in, so that you are fully enamored with everything about her. It's futile to deny your feelings.” Pope mused, gazing off at seemingly nothing. This caught JJ’s attention, causing him to send a quizzical look to the black haired man sitting next to him. “What do you mean? Why are you saying all this?”

“Because I was young and in love once too. With the very same girl.”

---

A young 10 year old boy by the name of Pope walked the streets of Paris, grocery bags in hand that he had fetched for his parents on the way home from school. He had always been told by his parents to look where he was going, that you never knew who you would come across, which is why he was so shocked when someone slammed into him. Out of surprise, he dropped the grocery bags, the contents spilling out all over the street. “Ah come on man wa-”

He’s stopped mid sentence, however, when he sees exactly who has run into him. It's a girl, who couldn’t be any older than he was, all skin and bones, and dirt all over her face and hands. She was also the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. She was currently muttering apology after apology, quickly stuffing all the foods he had dropped back into the bag. Eventually, Pope snaps out of his stupor, crouching next to her on the ground and placing a hand on her arm, which halts her movements. “Hey, it's ok, honest. What's your name?”

“Y/n.” You mumble, barely able to look the boy in the eye. You were trying to steal from him after all, and being stopped by him was not part of the plan. “Well I’m Pope, and I’ll let this one slide just this once, as long as you look where you’re going from now on and don’t run into any other poor suckers.”

You let out a nervous laugh, standing now that all the food was off the ground, and trying to get out of there as quickly as possible. “Well, uh, sorry Pope.” You state, starting to walk off before Pope calls your name. You internally curse before turning back to him, plastering a grin on your face. “Yes?”

“Did you take my loaf of bread?”

Your heart falls to the pit of your stomach as your face heats up, realizing that you’d been caught trying to take your supper from this boy. “I, uhm, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” And before Pope can question you any further, you run off, disappearing amongst the hustle and bustle of the city. Pope isn’t angry about the loaf of bread, by the looks of you you needed it more than he did anyways, but he’s determined to find you again.

And find you again he did. After asking around for a y/n, giving vague descriptions of you to some of the adults he knew, he eventually found his way to your house. If you could call it that. It was small, far past its glory days, and some parts seemed to be falling apart. Nevertheless, he knocked on the door, hoping that it would be you that answered. And it was you that answered. Unfortunately, as soon as you saw his face, you immediately went to close the door, Pope putting his foot in the doorway to stop you. He would probably bruise his foot from the impact, but he didn’t care. He wanted to talk to you. “You know you left in such a hurry that you didn’t say goodbye to me.”

You timidly glance up at him, unsure why he was being so kind to you. Why he’d been kind to you at all when you’d stolen from him. “I was in a hurry.” You manage to sputter out, which earns a laugh from Pope. A smile slowly starts to grow on your lips as you start to warm up to the boy in front of you more and more. “Anyways I got you this. You know, a healthy diet consists of more than just bread.” From behind his back, Pope brings out a basket full of fruits, meats, veggies, and more. The sight is enough to bring tears to your eyes. You were only ten, but never had someone cared so much for you as Pope had.

From that day forward, the two of you spent time with each other almost every day. And every day that the two of you spent together, Pope fell in love with you more and more. He may have been young, but he knew that the flutter in his chest that he felt every time he said your name was love. Yet, something stopped him from telling you. He couldn’t bring himself to profess his feelings, to find out if you felt the same, until it was too late. With your parents gone and Topper Thornton of the Moulin Rouge taking you under his wing, you never came around anymore. The friendship that had grown over the few years the two of you had known each other had seemingly vanished, and now to Pope you were only the one that got away.

---

“Wow, I mean, that sounds really tough buddy, but what were you trying to tell me with that story? That she’s gonna get away from me too and I should just accept it? Cuz way to pour salt in the wound man.”

Pope shook his head at JJ’s words, grabbing him by the shoulders firmly and looking him dead in the eye. “No, I want your love story to have a different ending than mine. Learn from my mistakes. Don’t be too afraid to go after the girl you love, to admit your feelings for her, or you’ll regret it. Go get her.” JJ nodded, and without another word, he was walking out of the apartment, heading back to the Moulin Rouge.

---

You’re still covered in a sheen of sweat from your time with Rafe, him having just left, when you hear a knock at your door. Utterly exhausted, you angrily head towards the door, having half a mind to chew Topper out for bothering you once more before you open the door and see JJ standing before you. “I had to come see you again.”

“Listen JJ, I’m really not in the mood for you to rag on me about all of this. I need his money, and my feelings for you don’t matter to anyone else but you.” You explain, dabbing your face with a handkerchief before you begin the process of taking off your makeup for the evening.

“So you admit you have feelings for me at least?”

“Do you think you’re slick? That you persisting will make me cave in and fall into your arms?”

JJ looks down at the ground, shrugging his shoulders. “Well I mean yeah, that was kind of the plan if I’m being honest.”

“Don’t you see that this isn’t a fairy tale? We aren’t getting our happy ending JJ, I hate to break it to you.”

JJ rolls his eyes, fed up with you trying to deny what was clearly there. “The only reason we can’t be happy is because you won’t let us Y/n! I’m falling in love with you, and I know that you are two, so stop trying to deny your feelings and let me love you.”

You’re angry at his words and throw the brush you were holding to the side, ignoring how it loudly clattered. “Love hurts JJ! Everyone that I’ve ever loved has left me, and now I’m just a body for this place. You don’t want me, you want the pretty, mysterious performer that you saw tonight.”

“You don’t know me, I don’t care about who you are out there. The performance that you put on. I care about the real you. The person you are when it's just you and me. I like that girl, a lot, and I want to be with that girl no matter what.”

You turn your back to him, not wanting JJ to see the tears that threatened to spill. “What about Rafe, JJ? What do we do about that? I can’t just let him loose, I need the money. This place needs his money.”

JJ slowly approaches you, placing his gentle but firm hand on your shoulder which causes you to look back at him. Using the pad of his thumb, he wipes away the tears that had managed to fall past your defenses before gently tugging you towards him, resting his hands on your waist. “So you see him while you let yourself love me. I want to be with you, whenever I can. And if that’s in between your meetings with him, so be it. Our love can be our little secret. A little affair.”

“But what if he finds out?” You question, nerves filling you when you realize that you’re actually considering what he’s saying

“He won’t.” JJ assures you. “We’ll be careful, but happy. Because we’ll be together.”

You sigh and shake your head, unable to stop the grin that was slowly forming. “I think I might be falling in love with you JJ Maybank.”

“And I you, Y/n L/n.” With that, you pull the blond into a passionate kiss, both of you hungry for the other's touch.

Tag list: (if theres a slash in your name it wouldn’t let me tag you) @normatural @outr-bnx @ultranikilove @xxbabygurlplzzzxx @chesirecat107 @sarahcxmeron @bricksatanakinswindow @ssjiara @tomfreakinghollandneedsaoscar @the-crackhead-next-door @perfektionsmakel @teamnick @danicarosaline @gracie-jo15 @jjmbanks @meandmymessyminds @keepingupwiththepogues @holypicklelightnickel @lefthandwritings @rudths @jiaraendgame @copper-boom @sunwardsss @starksweasley @trashmouthpogues @allielozoya @thelocalpogue @rae131415 @goldenpogue @scandalousfemale @obx-direction-sos @rafecameron @paradigmax @anonymous0writer @x-lulu @futuretaxcheat @olsenholic @jjaybank @girlsru1eboysdroo1

frenz that i bother: @drew-starkey @downbytheouterbanks @butgilinsky @softstarkey @letsgofullkook @queenk00k @spilledtee @rudysrings @pixelated-pogues @obxmxybxnk @blueeyedbesson @baby-bearie @pit-zuh @ilovejjmaybank @ijustreallylovethem @ad-infinitums

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tough-girl9 · 4 years

Text

Meat

Summary: Marianne suddenly finds herself faced with an uncomfortable truth about Bog. Also posted on AO3 and FFN.

"Haha, can't you do any better than that? I'm getting bored over here."

"Ha, you want better, tough girl? I'll give you better."

Marianne barely took to the air in time to avoid the head of Bog's staff as it slashed past her feet. She let out a breathy laugh. "Ooo, the big, bad king of the Dark Forest can't even hold his own against a fairy princess. I'm not impressed."

"Is that so?" The devilish smirk that crossed Bog's lips was the only warning before the goblin hurtled towards her, a mini hurricane of long limbs, wings, and whirling staff. Marianne parried the sudden onslaught and stepped backwards, suddenly on the defensive. Pressing his advantage, Bog whipped his staff out expertly, catching the tip of Marianne's sword against the amber centerpiece and twisting the blade out of her grasp. She lunged after it, but Bog looped the shaft of his staff behind her. Marianne suddenly found herself pinned, with Bog's staff pressing against her lower back and her hands flat against his chest.

Bog looked down at her, his smirk transforming to a fanged grin. "Well, well, well, what were you saying, princess?"

Marianne pushed vainly at the broad chest that her face was currently smooshed against. She growled in response to Bog's teasing and tried to step on his foot. He moved it.

"I think someone owes somebody an apology," he said, his voice rising in a teasing lilt.

"In your dreams, cockroach," Marianne growled. With that, she reached around his narrow waist and tickled him right in the sensitive spot between his wings.

Bog yelped and performed a little hop-skip-jump, nearly dropping his staff as he did so. It was enough to give Marianne an escape route. She darted away from him as his outraged shout followed. "Oo, I'm going to make you pay for that one, you dirty, little cheater!"

The sparring match became a short-lived game of chase around the throne room, short-lived both because the fairy and the goblin were already worn out from their fight and because Marianne rather fancied being caught. It was not long before a pair of lanky goblin arms caught Marianne around the waist, pulling her back, struggling and laughing, against his scaly chest once again. Bog exacted his revenge by tickling her sides and at the juncture of her wings until she was struggling for breath and wriggling helplessly in his arms.

"You don't seem to have much to say now, your highness," he chuckled, leaning over her and changing his playful tickles to languid strokes along her lower back and sides. Marianne relaxed and slipped her arms around his neck with a huffing sigh as he nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck and gently kissed her shoulder.

"If you two lovebugs are done, lunch is ready," a loud voice said directly behind them.

Bog nearly jumped out of his scales. "Moooom!" he snapped. "Bloody tree spirits, mom, how long have you been standing there watching us?"

Griselda waved a hand airily at them as she waddled back towards the dining hall. "Oh, don't 'mom' me. You're the one who chose to get all lovey-dovey in the middle of a very public throne room. And settle your scales, I spoke up as soon as I saw you."

Grumbling, Bog picked up his staff as Marianne retrieved her sword, and they both headed towards the dining hall.

Marianne still found herself amazed at the goblins' work. Only a little over a month after the collapse of the old castle, the new Dark Castle was habitable, with only the lower levels yet to finish. The sounds of digging and carving that usually echoed through the structure had ceased for the time being as the goblin workers took their noontime repose.

As they entered the dining hall, Bog moaned. "Ooo, that smell good. Dear skies, I'm hungry!"

Indeed, a strong smell that Marianne could not quite place suffused the room. It was a rich smell, heavy and earthy in a way that reminded Marianne vaguely of something, but she could not think what. She'd eaten at the Dark Castle only a handful of times though, and she was still getting used to goblin cuisine. Curiously, she scanned the table as she sat down across from Bog who had flopped eagerly onto his bone chair and was already filling up his plate.

The strange smell seemed to be emanating from the main dish, but Marianne had never seen anything like the dark brown loaf sitting on a huge tray in the middle of the table. It was not bread, nor fruit, and it had a glossy sheen to it that she could not place.

Bog had already cut off a large chunk of the brown loaf and dug into it eagerly, making little noises of appreciation around each mouthful. Marianne bit her lip, worrying it between her teeth. She didn't want to be rude to her hosts, and she had tried as best she could to be open and appreciative of Bog's culture since they had begun dating a month ago, but something about the strange food made her feel uneasy. Instead, she took several stuffed mushrooms and a large spoonful of creamy truffle, fennel, and wood sorrel casserole, the latter of which she had tried on a previous visit and approved of so heartily that Griselda had insisted on sending the recipe home with her.

Neither Bog nor Griselda had said anything, but Marianne felt a bit guilty for not even trying the main dish. It wasn't like she was a picky eater – just the opposite in fact (her father still occasionally brought up that time she'd nearly poisoned herself with pokeweed berries). She could at least try a little bit of it, and who knew, maybe she might even like it.

She was just leaning over to reach for the knife to cut herself off a portion when Bog leaned back with a long, satisfied sigh and tossed something down on his plate. Automatically, Marianne glanced over at him. And froze when she saw what it was that he had just discarded.

For a moment, she didn't recognize what the hard, white object was, with bits of brown still clinging to it and light scores across it from Bog's fangs. But then she realized what it was that she was looking at.

It was a bone.

The stuff on the table, the stuff Bog was pulling towards himself for a second helping, the stuff she'd almost reached for herself, it was the flesh of something that had once been living.

Nausea hit Marianne like a punch in the stomach.

In her head, she had known that goblins ate meat. All one had to do was look at Bog to see that he was a predator through and through. But somehow, the reality of that fact hadn't really worked its way into Marianne's consciousness, not in a tangible way anyhow. Being suddenly and unexpectedly faced with that reality was both a shock and a sick feeling of "I should have made that connection sooner" in her stomach.

"Marianne, honey, are you all right? You've gone all pale, dear."

Marianne yanked her eyes away from the plate of whatever animal it was that her lover and his mother were devouring to see both goblins looking at her in concern. Bog had frozen, another chunk of meat clutched in his claws, staring worriedly at her. His lips and chin were coated with grease.

Marianne staggered to her feet, trying to hold down the swell of nausea. "I…I'm sorry, I…don't feel well," she stammered. "I…I need to go."

Griselda reached out as if take hold of Marianne's arm. "Here, honey, we'll lay you down in my room. It's probably the blood settling after all that jumping and spinning you were doing in the throne room earlier."

Marianne backed away out of Griselda's reach. "No…I…I'll be fine. I need to go." Her stomach lurched again and she spun around as fast as she could and bolted for the front entrance to the castle.

"Marianne!" she heard Bog's startled voice call after her, but she didn't turn around or stop. She hurtled out of the castle and made a beeline for the closest bushes, ignoring the surprised grunts of the goblin guards that she whisked past on the way out. She flung herself down on the far side of the bushes and retched.

The pungent smell of the meat still clogged her nostrils, and she couldn't get the image out of her mind of Bog, his teeth tearing at the animal flesh, his lips and chin slick with grease. She didn't know if she'd ever be able to kiss him again.

She hugged herself wretchedly, tears squeezing out of the corner of her eyes, trying desperately to rid herself of both the lingering smell and that horrifying image of Bog.

"Marianne?! Marianne, where are you? Mari- oh, thank the spirits, there you are!"

Bog landed beside her and pulled her around, his blue eyes wide with panic and worry. This close, he still reeked like cooked flesh and his jaw was still shiny with grease. Marianne almost retched again.

"You can't just do that!" Bog exclaimed. "Especially if you're not feeling well. What's the matter, Marianne?"

He wrinkled his nose suddenly and looked over at the bushes where Marianne had vomited. His gaze returned to her, even more concerned than before. "Are you sick? What's the matter?"

Marianne tucked her hands against her belly, avoiding having to look at his face. "I…I just need to be alone. Please, Bog."

He reached out and touched the tips of his claws to the back of her hand in a gentle, concerned gesture. "You know you can tell me anything, love. You were fine just a moment ago when we were sparring. And it's not like you to just take off into the forest like that. What's going on?"

She did look at him then and felt a knot in her throat. It was clear that he had absolutely no idea what had upset her so and equally clear that he had no idea that to a fairy, the concept of eating meat was as vile as the thought of eating the flesh of another fairy. Her instinct was to push Bog away, to shut him out, but she knew that wouldn't be fair to him.

"That stuff you were eating," she said weakly, "it was meat, wasn't it?"

"Aye," Bog answered, still perplexed. "Caliban and Brutus brought it back last night from their hunt. It was a good-sized chipmunk; it'll last us several weeks easily."

A chipmunk. Marianne fought off another round of nausea. Her head dropped back down.

"Is…is there something wrong with that?" Bog asked, sudden hesitation in his voice.

"Fairies don't eat meat," Marianne whispered. "I…I should have known you did, but I just didn't think about it before today."

Bog was quiet, then he spoke in a low voice. "Is that what upset you? Me eating meat?"

Marianne nodded dumbly. "It's like eating your own dead," she said. "For fairies."

"Oh," Bog said in a soft voice. He shifted uncomfortably beside her. "Marianne, I didn't know that about fairies. We never would have served it in front of you, if we had known."

"I know," Marianne answered, still staring at her knees.

Bog was silent for a slow measure, then he swallowed and spoke in a steady voice. "Marianne, I won't eat it any more if you don't want me to."

Marianne looked up at him again, scanning his earnest face. She would be lying if she said that she did not consider his offer for at least a few seconds. Bog's face was an open book; she saw determination in his eyes and the honesty of his vow, but she also saw the pained grimace at the corner of his mouth. She remembered how eagerly he had eaten the meat, how clearly he had enjoyed it. Yet, she knew without a doubt that if she took him up on his offer, he would do it for her.

And at that same moment, she understand why she couldn't ask such a thing of him, even if he had been the one to freely offer it.

Marianne had willingly entered into a relationship with Bog, knowing full well that he was a goblin, knowing full well that he was a different creature with different needs. She had accepted him for who he was, and he had happily done the same for her. Most of the time, she loved those differences, loved his goblin-ness, but it would not be right of her to pick and choose what parts of Bog she was willing to accept and which she wasn't. And Bog was a hunter, a predator, a meat-eater. She could either accept him fully for who he was or she could decide she couldn't. But if she couldn't, she had no business being in a relationship with him.

And when she put it like that, there really was no choice at all.

"No, Bog," she said. "I would never ask you to do that for me."

"I know," he answered steadily, his eyes never leaving hers. "That's why I offered."

She looked into his eyes, so determined, so willing to sacrifice a natural part of himself for her, and she felt love swell up to replace the feeling of disgust and nausea. She reached out and took his hand. "Bog, you're a goblin, and if I really say I love you, I have to learn to love everything that entails, even the parts that are difficult for me to accept."

She saw the little automatic shift of relief in his eyes, but he still looked at her with concern. "I don't want to make it any more difficult for you to love me than necessary," he said. "I may be a goblin and feel what I feel, but you have a right to feel whatever you feel as a fairy too, and I want to respect that. What can I do to help?"

"Well, not trying to feed me meat again will probably be a good start," Marianne said with a little laugh that wasn't quite as weak.

Bog smiled a little too. "That can be arranged. I'll talk to my mom and make sure she doesn't fix any dishes with meat while you're around. It's OK, we eat plenty of other things too, so it won't be a problem."

Marianne considered Bog's compromise for a moment then shook her head. "You shouldn't have to hide that part of yourself away from me, Bog. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate what you're offering, but…" She chewed her lip softly. "I hope if…if we stay together that I'll be around more and more, and maybe one day, always." She paused at the weight of her implication, then continued. "And if that does happen, I need to be comfortable with this part of you. There's nothing wrong with you and you shouldn't have to change your lifestyle for me."

She paused as her mind echoed with an infuriating drawl. Oh come on, buttercup, you know I like you better when you prettify yourself up. I just don't care for all that make-up, you know that, and you look so much better in those pretty colors than all that dark. Come on, Marianne, just a little change for your dashing lover…

Marianne scowled then continued with renewed determination. "This is on me, to accept you fully. And part of that is going to be accepting that you eat meat and that there's nothing wrong with that."

The look Bog gave her was pure awe and adoration. He moved to take her into his arms, then paused. "Is it…OK…if I hold you?" he asked.

Marianne smiled and initiated by leaning into him. "Yeah, it's OK."

He put his arms around her then and pressed her to his chest, leaning his cheek against the top of her head. He sighed deeply. "The more I get to know you, the more amazing you are, tough girl. Not everyone could have done what you just did."

"Yeah, but I've got a super amazing, sweet, kind boyfriend who I really, really don't want to give up," Marianne said, wrapping her own arms around his waist.

Bog chuckled. "Good, because I've got a tough, wise, and beautiful girlfriend who I really, really don't want to give up either."

"And that, we can absolutely both agree on," Marianne answered with a hint of a smirk.

Bog grinned back down at her. "That we can," he said.

#strange magic #spread the lofe #fanfiction #my writing #Butterfly Bog #ao3 #fanfiction.net #bog king #marianne #griselda #relationship building #communication #relationship troubles #romantic fluff #cultural differences #fairies are vegetarian #goblins definitely aren't

53 notes · View notes

alliswell21 · 5 years

Note

Older!Peeta for your prompt request?

Hi Anon! This Prompt has been in my inbox for an embarrassing long time. But it just kept growing and getting away from me. So, it’s not a drabble anymore. It’s a 4500+ word one shot, and I hope you like it.

Rated G.

>>—————>

He’s wiping the preparation table when I walk onto the threshold of the back door to his bakery. I linger a moment, just to admire the flex of his strong, muscly arms, before clearing my throat, alerting him of my presence.

Ha startled a little when he looks up, but as soon as he realizes is me, he smiles broadly, making my breath hitch and my knees falter. The man is in his early thirties, give or take some ten years my senior, but I can’t help the way my stomach flips every time he smiles, regardless of if it’s directed at me or someone else.

“Hello, Katniss! What can I do you for?” The young baker says throwing his rag over his shoulder, making his way to meet me.

I step forward, trying not to trip on my own feet. Every time we trade I hope he doesn’t catch up on the humongous crush I have on him. I would die of embarrassment if he did.

“Hi, Mr. Mellark. I have a couple of squirrels in my bag, in case you’re interested.” I say with my best smile, one I secretly save just for him.

“You know I’m always interested in your squirrels, Katniss! I love me a fresh game stew.” He says, winking at me, making my heart rush.

I can’t hold his gaze, my cheeks are burning. I try to shove down my silly infatuation to close the deal already and retreat to the street, where my heated face and neck can cool off.

I busy myself rooting around my bag, choosing the thickest critters while mindlessly responding to his comment.

“We usually fry ours. Especially if I get too many and can’t trade them all for something else. Having a whole fried squirrel to oneself is alright when there ain’t anything else besides.”

I pull two fat squirrels out of the bag triumphantly, but when I raise my eyes, my smile falters. I think he was looking at me with pity or something in that realm, it’s hard to tell, since almost immediately his eyes took his usual warm, jovial quality. But I’m still mortified, the last thing I want is for him to pity me. He’s the only person to ever showed me compassion in this town, and I don’t want him to worry about my wellbeing; I can take care of myself and my family now.

When I was eleven, there was an explosion in the coal mines where my father worked. My father was one of the few lucky ones to come to the surface with his life tightly grasped. Father suffered third degree burns over most of his body, his boots melted to his skin. The town doctor had to amputate both legs. Father was alive and eventually recovered from his many injuries, but the accident had effectively rendered him employable any longer.

The fear, anger and helplessness I felt then almost ate me whole; of it hadn’t been for Mr. Peeta Mellark, my whole family would’ve starved to death, but here we are still, and I want him to know we’re okay now.

“Fried squirrels are a perfect meal on their own. Why mess it up with sides if you can help it?” I smile at him weakly.

“True. But if you ever have an overstock on game of any type, don’t hesitate on coming here to trade. I host family supper with my folks, my brothers and their families every so often. More meat in the stew will always be a plus!” His smile is so sweet and genuine, I have no choice but to agree.

“Will do.”

He looks over the squirrels with a satisfied smile on his lips and nods in approval, which makes me burst with pride and joy; he turns to bag a loaf of bread from a nearby tray and while he’s doing it, he asks conversationally, “So, are looking forward to the festival tonight?”

“Yes. Nothing like my sister, though. But I am looking forward to it. Daddy is coming too. It should be nice.”

“That’s great news about your father,” he says looking at me over his shoulder. “I bet your mother will have her hands full, caring for him and shooing away all the boys that’ll come asking you for a dance,” his eyes are full of mirth as he hands me the bread.

My mother, is the daughter of the most trusted apothecary in town, she’s a very respected and sought out healer, but caring for Daddy became a full time job for her for a while, leaving me as the sole breadwinner for the household.

I’m uncomfortable with the last part of the baker’s comment, but I try to hide it. “Oh, not really. I don’t get asked to dance much,” is a statement, and I’m completely fine with it, but Mr. Mellark is frowning, like he can’t believe it, so I add, “I’m not the dancing type, anyway. I’ll be too busy making sure Prim’s line of admires doesn’t get out of hand.” I smile.

“Surely that fellow, Gale Hawthorne, will like to take you into the dance floor for a spin?” The baker asks doubtful.

I shake my head. “He’ll most likely be too preoccupied watching over his siblings for that.” I shrug.

I think he’s about to say something else, but I cut him off pretending I didn’t notice, informing him Prim will be over tomorrow with some of her goat cheese. Four years ago, I was able to get a nanny goat for my sister. Now we have two goats that produce good milk. Primrose, makes cheese and sells it. She does well with her cheeses.

The baker and I conclude our business quickly after that, and I hurry home before the baker has a chance to start talking about the festival again. I’m exhausted from having to keep in check all my feelings and emotions in front of the baker while we traded. Is a taxiing chore being polite and friendly without showing my affection for the man, I doubt he’ll be thrilled to learn of my crush anyway. Is a well known fact that the man is very selective where women are concerned.

The baker, Mr. Peeta Mellark, is single, relatively young and very attractive. Women of all ages flock to his shop like flies to a flame. He’s also very well off being one of two bakers in town— the other one is his oldest brother, who’s married with children of his own— but Mr. Peeta has only been romantically linked to a couple of ladies in the last few years, and none of the relationships progressed to marriage. I know is silly, but I like him not being linked to anyone, it just makes my crush on the man feel harmless, at least this way, the only heart that could get potentially hurt is mine.

My family is already preparing for the festivities when I step into my home, and my mother sends me straight to the washroom, where a tub with warm water awaits me. After I’m rid of the grime of the day, my mother lets me wear one of her dresses from when she was young, a very femenin blue number with matching blue shoes. She puts my hair in an elaborate updo and Prim swoons dreamily, imagining there would be a line of boys trying to ask me to dance with them.

I snort.

It seems my sister and the baker mistake me for something I’m not. Nobody wants to dance with a scrawny, dark, scowling girl, with too many responsibilities and mouths to feed to be paying any attention to suitors. Of course, I don’t say any of this out loud because Prim seems happy, and there’s so little instances in which she can let her imagination romanticize my life anyway, I let her be for the night. Tomorrow will bring reality way too fast, there’s no reason to rush into it.

At seven o'clock, my mother and I sit Daddy in his wheelchair, while Prim pushes it carefully out of the living room and unto the small ramp running down the porch steps. Mother takes over and Prim and I simply flank our mother’s sides while we make our way to the town square.

Everyone is in attendance, the Harvest Festival being one of the few events our small community celebrates in unison. This year they went all out with the decorations; fairy lights hang criss crossed from building to building overhead all over the square. Small bouquets of wildflowers and sprigs of wheat and even a small fruit can be found tied with strips of burlap to light poles or benches all over the place; and the smell of spiced cider fills the air, making it feel warm and cozy, though is completely packed in here.

There are a few booths where one can buy cider, candied apples or pastries, circling the square perimeter. Prim squeals when Daddy gives a coin and sends her away to get peppermints from the sweets’s table. A group of men with mismatched instruments play music in the gazebo on the opposite corner of the square; that’s where Daddy wants to go, because he started playing the harmonica with the fiddler a few months ago, and the man invited my father to join ‘the band’ for the festival. The problem is that my mother and I can’t lift Daddy’s chair up the four steps into the gazebo.

We start looking around for either Gale or his brothers, so we can figure something out, but before my neck gets permanently stretched like a lamp post, Peeta Mellark materializes out of nowhere, and lifts my father— chair and all— over and on the wooded structure, all by himself. My parents thank him profusely, but the baker waves them off humbly, saying it was his pleasure.

He smiles at me for a moment; I think he blushes, but he tears his eyes away much too fast. I realize he could’ve been just flushed with exertion. He did just haul a grown man in a wheelchair a good foot and a half from the ground or so.

Daddy won’t let him go yet, though, “Alright, I’m a man of tradition. You do something nice for me, and in return, I’d like to do something nice for you. What’s your favorite song, sir? I know the band will be happy to perform it, and dedicate it to you. Who knows, maybe you’ll have an excuse to bring a pretty lady out on the dance floor?”

Mr. Mellark scratches the back of his head, “I’m manning my booth over there. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to close it for the night, but there’s this one song…” I believe his eyes flick in my direction for a moment, but he shuffles on his feet, and continues, “The Valley song. I know is a slow one, and I doubt I’ll dance it out with anyone, but if the band can squeeze the request in…” He Let’s the words hang in the air scratching his neck again.

“I’ll see what we can do! Thank you again for your help, mr. Mellark.”

“Peeta.” He says quickly, and brings his hand forward to shake Daddy’s. “Mr. Mellark is still my father.” He smiles.

Daddy nods. “Hunter Everdeen, harmonica player extraordinaire.”

We all chuckle at that and the baker walks off after another hand shake and a nod to mother and me. My heart is beating so fast, I think I’ll break a sweat in a minute without a way to explain it, so I make some excuse and head out find Prim, who’s been gone way longer than expected.

After finding Prim sitting on a bench with her school friends and the younger Hawthorne boys, I figure I should visit with my own friends… except my only friends are Madge Undersee and Gale Hawthorne, and the two are currently pressed together in the middle of the dance floor barely stepping in a small circle, although the music is too lively and fast for their slow pace. I scowl, not really jealous because they seem to be sweet on each other, but jealous because they can dance with someone they like, and no one thinks anything of it.

“I guess that’s why you were so adamant nobody wanted to ask you to the dance floor.”

I startled, though the voice speaking over my shoulder is deep, velvety soft and full of something like concern. I turn around to find blue eyes watching Gale and Madge with a frown.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to dance with Hawthorne. I’m even more sorry for pestering you about it earlier. I apologize if I caused any distress.” Peeta Mellark says quietly, this time looking straight at me.

I shake my head, smiling. “Nah. Is not like that. When I graduated school, Gale asked me out. I turned him down because I didn’t feel like that for him, but I knew Madge did. I’m glad he finally realized it and gave it a chance.”

“But… you don’t seem happy.” He observes.

“It’s not about them.” I say. “I just, I’m almost twenty, and the only prospect in my future is joining the mine crews to help out at home. We do alright with Prim’s cheese, Mother’s healing, and my hunting for now, but once Prim graduates and marries, then things will get more difficult.”

The baker’s frown deepens, and I realize I’ve gone and run my mouth, worrying the only person that ever cared to lend a hand.

Is true we are better than most families in our neighborhood, The Seam, but that wasn’t true right after Daddy’s accident. The mines paid the equivalent of three months salary as termination when it was clear he wouldn’t be coming back to work. The money ran out despite all of our stretching and maneuvering. It got to the point only Prim and Daddy were eating, while mother and I went without, although mother never found out about I wasn’t eating, but saving my portions for Prim’s school lunches. The day we only had mint leaves broth for supper, I knew we were in big trouble. There was no money, Mother wasn’t tending patients because Daddy needed tending all day and night, and I decided to go sell whatever we had of value in the house.

When my plan to sell our old baby clothes failed, then I resorted to look through waste bins for any scrap of food. A teenaged Peeta Mellark found me digging through the bakery’s trash on a bitterly cold, rainy day that awful winter, and instead of chasing me away like his mama would’ve done, he gave me two loaves of the most delicious bread I’ve ever eaten. The loaves were full of nuts, raisins and grains, hearty and filling, and the first solid food we’ve had in three days.

I was so relieved to have some food, I hugged his waist and cried, but his mother finally caught on in what he’d done, and started screaming at him, berating him for being soft and gullible, giving away good bread to Seam rats; I was so scared of the old baker’s wife— it wasn’t for nothing her nickname was The Witch— I took off running with the warm bread under my shirt burning my skin, for fear the witch would take my precious food away. I faintly heard Mr. Peeta said he’d give bread away again if he ever saw a starving kid in need. I had the bad luck to turn back to see him once more before rounding a corner, right as his mother struck him across the face, screeching the most horrible things imaginable.

I didn’t stop running until I was safely home, with the bread pressed against my chest for dear life. Nobody asked me where the bread had come from, maybe too afraid to know the answer. It was Peeta Mellark’s gift that gave me the idea of foraging the woods. The next day I saw the young baker had a bruise under his eye, compliments of his witch of a mother. I was too horrified by it, I’ve never actually seen a parent hitting their own child for something that was actually good and generous, so it took me a long time to return to the bakery, but when I did, I had game to bargain with, and the smile on young Peeta’s face is something I’ll treasure forever.

“I’m not complaining about my lot in life—“

“You’re almost twenty, you said?” He asks, his voice unsure, his eyes searching.

I nod and the corner of his mouth twitches. “That’s good!” He says, his face turning crimson red. His hand goes back to scratch the back of his neck, and I start thinking it’s some sort of nervous reaction. I find it endearing, really. “I have to go back to mind my booth, but please, come find me when your father is ready to get down from up there, I want to help.”

I don’t get to accept or decline his offer, he walks quickly back to the line forming at his table, leaving me puzzled with our short interaction.

The rest of the night goes by, I do get to spend time with Gale and Madge, but since they keep making puppy eyes at each other, I leave them alone and go say hello to other people I know, mostly very loyal clients I’m on a first name basis with, like Rooba the butcher, Delly the cobbler, and Sae the street vendor that buys whatever meat I have no matter the critter, her stews are legendary, but nobody asks what’s in them.

Around eleven, my mother flags me down to let me know Daddy is feeling tired already, although he denies it vehemently. I round Prim up, who’s been dancing half the night with a different boy every time I see her. She doesn’t complain when I tell her is time to go, in fact she smiles gratefully. I guess she’s tired of the attention. We head back to the gazebo, and then I remember to go fetch Mr. Peeta, but his booth is already packed and closed for the night. The baker is nowhere to be seen, until I turn to the gazebo disappointed, just to see him already there, speaking to my parents.

“Hmm… I wonder what’s up with Daddy’s face?” Says Prim looking at our father.

She’s right, Daddy has a serious expression, the beginning of small frown tugging at his brow. Then his eyes find me in the crowd, asqe make our way to them, and then his features soften, a quizzical look takes his face. He looks back at the baker and gives a small nod. Mr. Peeta seems to breath in deeply, a big smile covers his face and he takes my father’s hand in an enthusiastic shake. In a moment, he lifts the chair with my father in it, and places it on the ground. Mother takes the handles and pushes it, so we meet on the outside of the square, ready to head home.

“So, Katniss, dear, Mama and I are heading home for the night, but Peeta here has offered to escort you and Prim back home by midnight.” My father’s voice is deep and scratchier than usual. He spares the baker a quick look, “He’s asked my permission to take you out for a dance, if you agree?” Daddy is looking at me now, his eyes knowing but soft.

My mouth hangs open, but nothing comes out, Prim loops her arm around mine and squeezes it to her side.

“She’d love to dance with Mr. Mellark, and I’ll sit with Hazelle and Posy Hawthorne until it’s time to head home.” Says Prim happily.

I nod, still too stunned to say anything. My eyes travel from my father’s to Mr. Peeta’s, not truly hiding my surprise until I notice how nervous the baker is, standing beside my parents.

“If that’s okay with you, of course. I wouldn’t dream of imposing—“

“Okay!” I gasp out.

Peeta Mellark’s relieves sigh matches perfectly how I feel inside. He smiles sweetly at me, then thanks my parents, offering his arm to me.

“May I say that you look absolutely breathtaking tonight?” He says after a few minutes dancing quietly.

“Oh… thank you.” I say shyly.

“Really!” He says beseechingly. “When I saw you walk in with your family… my heart stopped for a second. I couldn’t breathe right… heck, I still can’t breathe right. You are just stunning.”

I smile to my boots, too overcome to meet his eyes. “You look nice too.” I say, because he always looks nice, even covered and flour and frosting.

The fiddler up in the gazebo announces the last song of the night, “The Valley song, special request from Mr. Peeta Mellark. Enjoy!”

The soft notes of the mountain air come sweet and full as Mr. Peeta’s smile thins out.

“You know why I chose this song?” He asks me.

I shake my head.

“You used to sing it with your daddy when he brought you over for trades when you were a child, you used to wear your hair in two braids, instead of one back then. You remember?”

I nod, “I do. He has the loveliest voice.”

“So do you.” He says. “The birds stop to listen when you sing.” He smiles sadly, “You stopped when he got hurt. It pained me to know the world had lost two songbirds to the mines, one to injuries, the other to hunger.”

I tense in his arms, but he doesn’t stop holding me as he speaks.

“Then, one day, you came by and you were singing again, The Valley song. Your hair was in the single braid already, and you looked so grown. Your game bag was bursting with meat and greens and I knew you’d be alright. I felt happy. The song became synonymous of hope to me.

“And then, last year, you came to trade with me, and rolled your eyes at a joke I botched, most other women laugh even though is not funny. I loved that you found me corny, because that meant you weren’t like the other women, and it hit me, you’ve grown again, and you were magnificent!

“But Gale Hawthorne was standing a few paces behind you, and pulled on the end of your braid when you started walking back home before you shoved his hand away playfully. I thought it’d be a matter of time before I was making your wedding cake, and then I realized the thought made my chest tighten with sadness and jealousy, no matter if the groom was Gale or some other person.

“I felt like a pervert, because you were so young. The problem is that I felt invested in your survival when you were a kid, and then I couldn’t stop admiring your resourcefulness. Turns out I’m eight years older than you, I just feels like the gap is so much bigger when you’ve watched the person grow up before your eyes.

“I figured, next year you’ll be twenty, and age won’t matter as much when we’re in the same bracket, so I asked your father if it was alright to court you. He said that was up to you, but I could start by walking you home tonight, with Prim as chaperone”

I snort at that. Prim is possible the poorest choice in chaperone my father could’ve make. Knowing my sister, she’ll be picking out the names of her potential nieces and nephews by now, and she doesn’t even know this conversation is happening.

Peeta interrupts my musing then, “Maybe, if you find me worthy at all, I’ll be making your wedding cake a happy man this time around next year, because I will be your groom.” The uncertainty in his voice is painful. “I know that’s too far out in the future, but would you consider it?”

“Marrying you?” I ask astonished.

He scowls, and tries to dislodge from me, “Well… I understand if the idea is too—“

“Okay!” I rush breathlessly, clawing at his shirt sleeves to keep him in place.

“Okay?” He poses dazedly, “You’ll allow it then?”

I nod eagerly, “Yes, I’ll allow it. Court me, Mr. Mellark!”

He grins, “Please, call me Peeta.”

I smile at him, “Of course. That’ll be weird, calling you Mr. Mellark while we’re out on a date.”

Is his turn to smile widely. “I’m looking forward to that.”

“There’s just one thing… Peeta,” I say, and his face lights up when I use his proper name. “My birthday is in May, so maybe… we can cut short that year of courting?” I feel silly, and happy, and reckless all in one swoop.

His responding smile is blinding. “I think we can work with that. Will your folks be okay with it?”

I shrug, “They let you walk me home tonight, didn’t they? Is the first time they officially let a man walk me anywhere. And I know for ads t Daddy likes you. I like your chances.” I tell him, wondering where did all this cheekiness came from.

“Good!” He says with a shaky chuckle.

The song ends, and we collect Prim to go home. To her credit, Prim is being a very mature fifteen year old, and gives us the illusion of privacy by walking three steps ahead of us. When we reach our house, she goes right in after a quick “Good night” to Peeta, leaving us in the front stoop alone.

“Thank you for dancing with me tonight.” I say, “and for walking us home. I know is much too late for a baker to be out and about.”

“Oh, I’ll be alright. I’ll have my father come in if I need any help, but I think I can handle a long day. Spending time with you is worth it.”

Again, I smile shyly to my shoes, just noticing how comfortable they feel on my feet. I need to thank Mother for letting me wear them.

“I enjoyed spending time with you too, Peeta.”

He puts two fingers under my chin and tilt my face up, so our eyes meet.

“Could I come see you tomorrow evening?” He asks softly.

“That would be nice.”

“Katniss… there’s something else I would like to ask.” He swallows audibly.

I give him a questioning look before gesturing to go ahead.

“Would you allow me to… kiss you?”

“Yes,” I whisper nervously, excited.

He leans in slowly, his eyes searching mine the whole time, until our lips touch, and my lids close blissfully. The kiss is short and tender. Gale tried kissing me once, but I punched him in the jaw and he never tried again, but this?!

“Wow!” I breathe out. “I think I’m going to like kissing you, Peeta.” I say circling my arms around his neck.

He smiles broadly against my lips, “That’s good to hear. We’ll be madly in love with each other in no time, so it’s okay to kiss me anytime you feel like it, you know.”

I giggle. “Okay, then, come here!” I stand on tiptoes and kiss him again, long and curiously, until we hear my mother clearing her throat behind us.

The moment is embarrassing, sweet and funny, but the warmth I felt while kissing him stays with me all the way until the next day, when we steal a few kisses at the back door of the bakery when I stop there for our daily trade.

Indeed, I think we’re way on our way to madly in love already, and I couldn’t be any happier!

#everlark fanfiction #my fics #anon prompt #age gap everlark

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faveficarchive · 5 years

Text

Appetite

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: Post-FIN, Gabrielle lands in a cell in Judea with Salome. If you aren’t familiar with Salome, here’s a tl;dr:

She was the daughter of King Herod’s (tetrarch of Judaea) second wife, and she was known as a great dancer, and when she danced for Herod one night, he was so jazzed he granted her any one thing she desired. So as per her mother’s request, she asked for the head of John the Baptist. That eventually lands her in jail because of the request and the outcry that came of it.

Salome: …I am athirst for thy beauty; I am hungry for thy body; and neither wine nor apples can appease my desire. What shall I do now, Iokanaan? Neither the floods nor the great waters can quench my passion.

—from Salome, Oscar Wilde

When I danced that night, I imagined dancing only for him. I knew that if he saw me move, if he saw my body set in motion purely by love of him, then he would renounce all his beliefs, his God, his savior, his comrades. If only I'd had the opportunity. I would have tied my scarf around his throat, tethering him to me, yoked in an impossible bond. He would gorge himself on my love. I would be his only appetite.

This passion I felt when first I saw him was so deep that I imagined it had no real beginning. It emerged—fully formed, monstrously born—as Athena from the skull of Zeus (if I may be forgiven in using the barbarian gods of the Greeks in this analogy); one would expect such love to prove all-consuming. And yet, I would have been content with a mere kiss, a mere touch. He glowed, holy and pale, slim as an exotic figurine, unlike any man I had ever seen. And when I did touch him, the world suffered in comparison. The silk that I revered was no longer the expensive clothes I wore, but his skin.

But he resisted me, he rejected me. Ridicule curled from his tongue. The root of it all proved to be the sickening sham of his religion. I wanted to kiss him. I begged him for that. Begged. Had I ever begged anyone for anything before? Did I even need to? Still, he refused.

I didn't know what else I could do. And thus, here I am.

* * *

There is a great deal of confusion as to what my fate will be. My name embraces infamy but the woman behind it all is forgotten. They remember the dance and the act that followed. That's it. Many assumed I was killed immediately afterward; of the stories that circulate, that is the most prevalent ending. Perhaps it would have been better that way, because right now I sit in a cell, alone, clothes drooping in filthy finery from my body, youth falling from my bones.

Herod comes to me at night. No, I am not imagining it, and no, it's not what you think. Even though I would give it to him now if he wanted it, I would give it to him because it doesn't matter any more. In fact, it seems fitting somehow; why else did he ask me to dance for him? It all began with his appetite for me, which mocked his marriage to my mother. It seems only right that it would end with him taking what he had wanted. And while I am now like spoiled meat to him, his hunger remains. It brings him back to me. He wakes every morning because of it. He can't solve the riddle of his appetite. So he comes to me, always surprised that he is drawn to me, always surprised that I am still the same woman he detests. He speaks with me from behind the safety of the cell door; he asks what he should do with me.

Admittedly, it is rather considerate of him to ask.

"Set me free," I said last night, as I always do.

His thick, nervous swallowing was the initial response. "I can't," he finally replied.

We go through this every time he visits me. As usual, I grew bored and exasperated with him. "Well," I sighed, curling the edge of my tattered skirt in my hand, "whatever you do, don't kill me." As if this off-hand reminder will guarantee my life. Yes, Tetrarch, meet with your advisors after breakfast, review your troops, sign some bits of paper raising taxes, oh, and by the way, make sure you don't kill me today. All right? Fine, that's all then. Have a good day.

Herod was silent for a while on the other side of the heavy door—as vast a boundary as another country—and I would have thought that he left, except that his torch remained flickering outside the cell.

Then he spoke. "You'll have a surprise later."

He almost sounded pleased with himself, like a wife who has arranged and planned an elaborate dinner for her husband. "I must go."

The light vanished, and I could hear the sound of his soft tread trampled underneath rattling keys, clanking armor, and thumping boots.

It is still dark when I see light dappling the hall outside once again. The door opens quickly and a figure is tossed in, like a sack of potatoes. In the flash of light I can tell it's a boy, wearing a gray cloak. He grunts as he hits the floor. Does he think that he's alone? He must, for he says nothing. His heavy breathing is pinched into silence like a candle's flame extinguished between thumb and forefinger. Is he dead? It occurs to me I could check. It also occurs to me that I could be run through with a dagger for such curiosity. I decide to wait for morning.

The night dances for me. Every minute passed is a veil falling away from my sight.

In the clarity of morning, which makes everyone look older anyway—thank God I don’t have a mirror— I see that my boy is actually a woman—small, sturdy, well built. Obviously a warrior of some kind, who has lived hard. I see it now in her face. Even in her dirty, disheveled state, her short blonde hair gleams like grain under the sun. There is a wound upon her thigh, deep and slashing, like a bloody mouth. Her open cloak reveals a bare midriff mottled with fresh, darkening bruises the color of plums.

She breathes.

However, she does not wake when the door is opened and food brought in. Water in a jug, half a loaf of bread, two bowls of thin broth. The broth, I know, is a special treat.

I nibble at some bread and watch her. Her lips, dry and cracked, move a little as she sleeps. It occurs to me she might be Amazon, even though word has been that the Amazons are a dying nation, decimated by the Romans and any man who hates women enough to kill them. And the world has never seen a short supply of those. Perhaps the surprise here is that the Amazons have existed for as long as they have. I think of Herod and what he might still do to me. It occurs to me, sometimes, to wonder why I live, why I want to live. Force of habit? Fear of the unknown?

No. If I die, I will lose him somehow. And even though there are moments when I can't bear to even think of his name—like right now—the thought of this permanent state of oblivion is even more unbearable.

Lost in these morbid thoughts, I nearly relieve myself when she sits up, feral and panting, apprehensive as a panther. Her hands claw the earth floor, muscles ripple along her torso and neck.

Her eyes are an extraordinary color. They take in me, the cell, the door, and finally, the food.

She looks at me again. It's tempting to knock over the food, the water, and dance about the cell in a frenzy. If I doubt her mercy now, then surely such an act would see my neck snapped with bare hands; her savage look impresses me that much. But a laugh—short, terrified, defiant—escapes me. She stares at me curiously. What shall she do? Beat me? Rape me?

I squirm across the cell, the disgraced hem of my dress trailing me like a mute supplicant—and when I open my mouth, expecting mocking, laughter, or even a simple protest at this invasion of my hovel, nothing comes.

Her eyes, softer now—there is a tint of hazel warmth in them—never leave me. Slowly she picks up the water jug and drinks from it. Her lips, now damp, look better—I can focus on their softness. I will kiss you, Iokanaan, I will bite your lips like ripened fruit. And I did. I kissed your lips. No more.

No more.

She rips a hunk of bread, and attacks the broth as well, dipping the crust into the bowl. She starts off eating greedily, quickly, then becomes aware of this and paces herself accordingly. Nonetheless she finishes off most of the loaf and a bowl of broth.

Food is a civilizing influence—or so I hope. Gradually I creep back to her. But she is still as blasé as an untamed cat, barely tolerant of preliminaries in a combat that she is certain to win.

I've never been what one would call a nice person. I don't do things just out of the goodness of my heart. I've done things to achieve my own goals, to keep happy those who will keep me happy. How this might benefit me, I don't know, but I find myself pushing the second bowl of broth in her direction, cautiously navigating the bowl with the tip of my finger as if she were my north star, the highest point in my compass.

She's suspicious, of course, and raises an eyebrow. After all, I've done nothing thus far to indicate I'm trustworthy.

Does she think it's poisoned? I dip my finger in the bowl, then lick it. Her brow furrows but she accepts the bowl. This too she drinks slowly.

When she is done, she looks at me again, then clears her throat. "Thank you." Her voice is soft and husky. If it were a fabric, it would be worn linen. She sits the bowl on the tray and fixes me again with those eyes. "Who are you?" She is wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. I knew it—a peasant girl. But could this be a rhetorical question, a metaphysical question that I hear, unfurling from the tongue of this solid Amazon peasant-warrior-whatever she is? Is she a great philosopher in disguise?

No. She clarifies her question: "What's your name?"

"What's your name?" I counter almost playfully, quite a radical departure from the piss-inducing fear I experienced earlier and so I heartily congratulate myself on it.

She smiles a little, which goes a long way in sloughing years off her face. "I asked first," she reminds me gently.

"Yes, you did, didn't you?" I stare at my hands, watch the fingers of my right one twirl and gavotte upon the stage of my left. "I danced for the King of Judaea." I pause, allowing her to take in this information. "That's all you need to know, really."

Her lips part, and the shadow of recognition falls upon her face. Was she informed of my act before she was placed in here? Or did she know my story before setting foot in our country? Has the news of my deed spread across the known world? Perhaps it's not surprising; a severed head is always a good story. No. I will not think of this. I will not think of this now. No more, Iokanaan. As they severed your head I severed my lust. The moment I took your head was the moment I threw it all away—freedom, desire, you, the whole bitter entanglement of it.

I am a little disappointed in my guest: She is neither enraged nor repulsed. She pities me, I see. So this grand gesture of love earns nothing more than a small, petty emotion? And it was wasted, so marvelously wasted, upon you as well, was it not, Iokanaan? From which simple-minded tribe does this blonde barbarian come from? "Are you an Amazon?"

"Yes. An Amazon Queen," she adds quietly.

Runt of the Amazon litter, most likely. "You?"

She smiles again. "That's not an uncommon reaction."

I cannot control a snort of laughter. It's really undignified, but I am sitting on a dirt floor in a prison with some barbarian who has the audacity to lie to me, so I feel no shame in it. "Well! How shall you prove it to me?"

"I don't know. If my word isn't good enough for you, what is there? Do you expect a tiara?" She gestures at her lithe body, her cracked boots, her dirty cloak.

"They should give you something." A piddling act of kindness for the day: I am outraged for her.

"There's a mask, a staff...." She trails off, shrugs, as if she can't be bothered to even mention them. These things—marking her as royalty, distinguishing her from the mud and blood of the masses—are apparently unimportant to her. It confirms that she is either a liar or a madwoman.

"And what is your name, Amazon Queen?" I struggle not to sound mocking; obviously, behind those alert eyes, is a quick mind. And the smarter the barbarians are, the quicker they are to anger.

Yes, I see she is not amused. "Gabrielle."

But this is too much. I burst out laughing. Initially she appears quite angry, yet just as rapidly as that anger appears it's gone, replaced by some sort of rueful resignation. "Named after the great Greek bard, then?" When I was young, my mother told me stories of the Warrior Princess and the Battling Bard. Sometimes ambition got the better of me and I had mother’s slaves enact various scenes from the scrolls she read to me. My directing career ended after a somewhat disastrous attempt to stage the famous ladder fight between Xena and her nemesis Callisto; my Xena—a portly eunuch named Ashurbanipal—fell and broke his neck. Mother was quite cross. Ashurbanipal was one of her favorites.

No matter.

But now I have a real live Gabrielle! How exciting! Her jaw shifts, and she speaks carefully. "I suppose you wouldn't believe it if I told you I am that Greek bard."

"No, I wouldn't. I'm not that foolish, dear." I pick up the water jug—a disgusting old stone pitcher—and try to sip from it without the foul rim actually touching my lips.

Again, she shrugs.

As if I am some idiot in a tavern, confronted with an even bigger idiot who refuses to see common sense, I cannot resist her indifference. I slam the pitcher down on the ground. "So you would have me believe you are the Gabrielle of Potidaea, chronicler of the Warrior Princess, Amazon Queen and warrior?"

"Yes. Believe it or not."

"Oh—and I neglect to mention—also the lover of the same Warrior Princess." I throw out that salient little fact, to see if she really has the stomach for this charade, even though all Amazons are said to go in for that sort of thing. The stories my mother told me, of course, were not explicit in that manner, but only a fool couldn't see what was going on, threaded in the lines of the stories.

"Yes." This she affirms emphatically, without hesitation, obviously caring that I believe, more than anything else she has said, that she is the beloved of the great Xena.

"I see."

Her eyes flare at that. But as she shifts her leg, she winces. There is a small shoulder bag—a pouch, really—visible from under the cloak. She pulls a piece of cloth out of the bag and sloppily binds the thigh's wound.

"So where is she?"

She must know her task is useless; she needs stitches. Nonetheless, she is immersed in it. "Hmm?"

I know the "hmm" so well—its artifice of stalling, like a note grotesquely trilled by a flute, cloaked as absentminded condescension. Does this intense, focused creature really have no idea of whom I speak? Dear Gabrielle, I am fond of you already. I will play along, I will trail behind you, pied piper of oblivion. "Xena. Where is Xena?"

"She will come for me."

"But you don't know where she is."

She is pulling tightly on the bandage, lips pressed together in fierce concentration, strangling her own flesh—the skin around the bandage is whiter than the cloth itself.

I cross my legs daintily, suddenly demure in front of this woman. Her animal vitality seems to drain me of my own sensuality; I am unsure of my own beauty, clumsy and plain as a cow, thinking that any man in the world may very well pick this unwashed savage over a princess, a daughter of Herodias. "Are you so sure?"

"Am I so sure of what?" Her voice is harder.

"That she'll rescue you. Maybe she's—"

She looks up—quite effectively silencing me—and suddenly I believe everything. There is so much in that one glance—more than I have ever been spared by anyone close to me—that I see the story of her life there, the story I became so familiar with in my youth. She is the child in love with words, the girl who wanted adventure, the misfit who wanted love, the seeker of a divine truth, the woman who found her soul, the survivor who lost it all. As water becomes snow, mist, torrential rains, she is all these things, yet fundamentally, elementally, she remains herself. If I can see this, then anyone who has ever loved her will recognize this.

"No."

She is stretched over the wounded leg, poised like a diver in some strange position, pouring her body, her belief into that one syllable.

The sun mimics this gesture; light gradually fills the cell from the high, barred window.

"She will come for me."

* * *

A healer arrives later in the day. He cleans her wound and stitches it. She bears it with the stoicism of someone who has not only been cut with a sword many times, but has also repeatedly tended to such injuries in others. She is given some sort of medicinal tea. Then she falls asleep.

She sleeps into the evening, as darkness layers itself upon us. Usually I wait until the cell is black with night before I waste lighting the meager candle that I possess. Herod permits me to have this light; it's a liberty that I don't take lightly. I roll the candle between my fingers—cold, white, almost glowing in the dark.

It reminds me of his skin. When I first touched him he flinched, as if I were the Whore of Babylon. In fact, he called me that—daughter of Babylon. To her credit my mother was amused. But I wasn't. I was a virgin. I suppose I still am, though I feel he took something away from me. He soiled me with his rejection. He, who fought desire, who hungered for nothing but his God, ruined me. I want to tell him that. I want to tell him how ironic it is, how, even in death, he is not pure of flesh. He corrupted me.

But I can't do that.

The shift of her breathing—from pacific calm to jagged wave—startles me. She is awake, perhaps escaping from a dream that, surprisingly, is worse than the black reality of a prison cell.

"Are you still there?" Her voice is plaintive, childlike, and divorced from the image of the commanding, dangerous woman I first saw this morning. Who does she think she speaks to? Me? Her lover?

I could say nothing. But I don't. "Yes."

She says my name with a beckoning softness.

He never said my name in this manner. In fact, he never said my name. If your beloved never speaks your name, do you cease to exist? "What?"

She asks one simple, horrible question: "Why?"

My voice is my only shield, my only protection, but she will be relentless, I know. "What do you ask?"

"Why did you do it?" she croaked.

A dangerous question. It makes me think. I detest that.

"You killed what you loved."

"No."

"But yes. You did. You did not perform the act itself, but it was your wish, your desire which brought about what happened to him."

"No. I don't believe that."

"Your desire had consequences."

"No."

She sighs. I clear my throat and grope for the water pitcher, almost empty. "I did not kill him. I merely asked for his head. I killed my hunger for him, for his love."

"But don't you see, it is as if you took the sword and"—she falters, choking on the mere thought of it—"killed him yourself. Don't you see? Do you think it's what he really wanted?"

"But I could have given him everything he ever wanted, everything he ever needed."

"Do you really believe that?"

There is such yearning in her voice as she tries to convince, to blanket us both in her confusion. She pretends that she does not comprehend the mysteries of appetite and the lengths a woman will go in order for satiety.

Or does she? "But it didn't really—stop, did it?"

His lips were so thin. And—when I kissed them—so cold. I wanted to taste his holiness.

It was too late that I discovered this amaranthine aspect of appetite, its constant renewal, unbending, unyielding, undying. And she too knows this. While I am grateful for the mask of night that hides my face, I cannot help but believe that she sees me with total clarity. Like an arrow her voice seeks out my heart and pierces it; she touches my shame.

I don't light the candle.

* * *

The days and nights blend as if I am dancing, faster and faster, out of control, helpless, spinning wildly, a dervish of time. The black of night and the glare of day are swirled into a fine gossamer web of gray. This world is perpetual twilight to me; I will always remember it as such.

At the behest of the healer—presumably in the interest of keeping clean the wound—she is permitted an opportunity to bathe. In privacy, away from the cell. When was the last time I saw my own bath chamber? My attending slaves, the water sheeting down my body, the glint of bath salts upon the water like the finest jewels?

I thought—since her arrival—that perhaps my nocturnal visits from Herod had permanently ceased; this is not the case. He capitalizes upon her absence to visit me in my enduring twilight. So clever, Herod! And so needy. I have poisoned your heart, clouded your mind, sickly sweet, with forbidden honey.

"So what do you think of her?" His whisper is as thick as fog. I can taste his breath in the air: a ripe susurration of wine and fruit dangling before me, a mockery of the life I once had, all of it just out of reach, as if I am Tantalus. (Ah, again, the barbarians and their legends. They do tell a good tale.)

"Interesting."

He laughs. "And is that it?"

"Well, she is mad, Tetrarch, surely you see that. You must feel that."

"Oh. Oh yes. Of course."

"Yes. You know."

His mocking, almost jovial tone dissipates quickly. "I know nothing anymore," he hisses. "Love is hate, pleasure is pain, life is death, fidelity is sin. You have changed everything—everything. Surely you see that." He flings my words back at me. "The omens. I should have heeded the omens that night. There was blood upon the floor. I slipped in it. Do you recall? No, of course you don't. But I slipped in it. I was marked by blood. And there was the moon, so full, so clear, so—wanton in its movement across the sky, like a woman seeking a lover. And then the wind, like a terrible beating of wings, like a bird struggling for freedom—"

He goes off like this every once in while. It's tedious.

After a while, he comes around again to the subject of Gabrielle. "So you think she's mad?" He is incredulous.

"Madness is other people, Tetrarch."

"Yes," he replies slowly, "it is true, is it not?" He grunts as he stands; I can hear the click of his jewelry as he moves. "You should enjoy her company then. And she will enjoy yours. I make a gift of her to you. She is your companion. For as long as you both rot in that cell."

"Until I die?"

"Until you die."

"Do you give your word? Your oath?"

Talk of oaths—like talk of omens—will bring him back to that night, the night that I danced for him. He swore he would give me whatever I wanted. Could a king break an oath? I found out. "What is it," he begins—the wonder of it all spills over in his voice—"that I ever saw in you?"

I want to hack through his simple, stupid neck with the dullest knife I can find.

"Give me your word, Herod, as you did the night I danced for you."

"No, you filthy whore, not again."

"Give me your word."

"You're a cunt. He was right about you. And the Nazarenes, they were right about him. For he knew. He knew right away what you are. You are as common as mud, every inch of you is corrupt."

"Give me your word."

"Why does it matter so much to you?"

"Give me your word."

He stops, breathless, then releases a cry; it’s a crack of lightning across a humid summer sky—clear, aching with promise, all too brief. He speaks as a broken man. "I give you my word."

"How kind of you," I reply. "How very kind."

* * *

The heat of the day is lost upon us. From the barred window, so very high that only a trio of tall acrobats could reach it, there is morning, clear and strong, offering only a stingy benediction of light.

She stares up at the window. Then she paces in a circle around the cell, looking at corners, touching walls, and once again gazes to the window.

What follows is even more peculiar, and performed with such astonishing quickness that I wonder what I missed when I blinked. She begins to run in a circle around the cell, faster and faster, gathering speed until she leaps onto one wall, ricochets to another, and from there launches herself at the window.

Her hand, splayed against the dun-colored wall, narrowly misses the ledge by a scant inch.

Then she is sliding down the wall and crashing to the ground, where she lands before me, awkwardly on bended knee, like a suitor from heaven.

But my suitor bleeds! Is this how the Amazons romance one another, dear Gabrielle? Opening their wounds and revealing their hearts floating upon a river of blood? Her stitches are ripped, her mangled flesh oozes red into the dry dust upon her leg. Her expression trembles as she struggles to maintain her warrior demeanor, her cherubic lower lip quivers endearingly.

Of its own accord, my hand reaches for her hair, but then wavers, battling the foreign sensation of compassion. Of course, it is not so far removed from mercy, and that is what I gave to you. I saved you from a lifetime of loving me. From the filth, the banality of a day-to-day life, of flesh touching, of time passing, of watching my beauty dry up like a dead flower. You had nobler goals in mind.

The blonde hair is thick, coarser than I imagined, yet my fingertips create eddies upon its bright surface. "I did give him what he wanted."

Her beautiful eyes, glazed with pain, cannot quite focus on me. "What?"

"It is easier to die than to love."

She close her eyes to this. I drop my hand.

I fetch the water pitcher from across the room, and dump the contents on her wound. She growls and hisses as the water extinguishes the fire of her pain.

"There are bars up there, in case you hadn't noticed," I inform my madwoman.

She tilts her head back, eyes still shuttered against the world, against me. This cell is her world now, I am the prominent star in her cosmos, and how I pity her for that. "I know," she murmurs. "But I wanted to have a look at the window. The bars could be loosened. No prison is perfect."

"It depends on which prison you speak of."

Now she looks at me.

Perhaps I will tell Herod to release her. For what is inside her mind is worse than this cell, worse than being here with me.

"I know," she begins slowly, "that you think I am insane, that I'm a fool."

"I have never said that."

"You don't need to. I see it in your face. I may be insane, but I'm not an idiot."

"If you believe she will rescue you, then why do you attempt escape?"

"I can't just sit here and do nothing."

The exertion has left a sheen of sweat upon her face.

"If you're hot, remove your cloak," I suggest. She has worn it, like armor, since her arrival.

She shakes her head.

"No?" I prod, as if she is a recalcitrant child. The back of my hand grazes her slick forehead. "You're burning up."

She moistens her lips, then swallows. "Good."

"No. You can't want that."

Her voice cracks. "Don't I?" The tone of it defies me to contradict her. Like a stubborn drunkard hopelessly outmatched in a tavern brawl, she staggers to her feet. She touches the sleeve of her cloak to her face. That's when I notice her face shines with grief and bright tears shake in her eyes, like jellied stars.

It was foolish of me to dump the entire pitcher upon her leg. But I'm certain if I ask for more water, it will be given. We must be kept alive for this—the continual hunger for what we do not have. And do we deserve that? If we are not insane yet, when will it come? This appetite is the path that leads into the madness. To want a truth other than what we see in front of us, to crave a life or a state of being that is irretrievable, lost. Still, we go on. We wake every morning because of it.

I may hate myself for it later, but I rip two strips of cloth from the already ruined hem of my dress. I press one against her wound, then I dab at her eyes with the other. "We—can't have you getting ill. You don't want to be ill when she comes for you, Gabrielle. I will have them bring the healer again. Take off your cloak. Rest."

Her face softens, her anguish slackens. She is somewhere far away. "Yes."

"Yes?" With brazen intimacy I cup the back of her neck and push at the heavy wool covering her.

"All right."

I smile. The cloak puddles at her feet like gray mud and my hands slide from her. She smiles too, but uncertainly, as if she were a child unsure of reward or punishment for dropping her clothes on the ground.

When she turns around to look up at the window once again, I see it. The tattoo covering her back is monstrous in its beauty, it appears to leap from her flesh, as if a vision torn from a dream, a dance spiraling into the unknowing, blind excesses of ecstasy. As I danced for you, every movement a different gradation of my desire. Even when I close my eyes the colors, hauntingly indelible, remain in my mind.

My eyes are still closed when she speaks, her gentle voice and firm belief entwined with the burning image of her flesh. "She will come for me."

We wake every morning because of it.

Finis

#xena #xena warrior princess #xena/gabrielle #xena/gabrielle fanfiction #author: vivian darkbloom #mature #femslash #fanfiction

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gdelgiproducer · 6 years

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DOTV AU: An Exercise in Alternate History (Part VII)

Parts I, II, III, IV, V, and VI offer more detailed context. (To briefly sum up why these posts are happening: alt history – as in sci fi, not “alternative facts” – buff, one day got the idea that DOTV could have turned out hella different if Jim Steinman looked for a star lead in other places, decided to reason out how that might work.) This is still getting a good response, so I’m gonna keep the train rolling.

Parts of the AU timeline established so far:

Instead of stopping at recording two songs from Whistle Down the Wind on a greatest hits compilation, Meat Loaf wound up taking more of an interest in Steinman’s new theater work than he did in our timeline, and through a series of circumstances found himself volunteering to play Krolock in the impending DOTV when Jim poured out his woes to him about needing to find some sort of star to attract investors. At a loss for any better ideas, Jim accepted Meat’s impulsive proposal, but not without resistance from his manager, David Sonenberg, who proposed Michael Crawford as an alternate candidate. Through quick thinking on Meat’s part, and inspiration on Jim’s, Crawford left the room accepting an entirely different role than he walked in hoping to get, leaving Krolock still open for Meat.

There was a brief speed bump, when Meat disliked Jim’s English script for the show, but after meeting with the original German author Michael Kunze and convincing Jim to compromise, things were on the road to being back on track… at least until 9/11 occurred.

Following a brief hiatus, everyone involved met to re-assess their options. The current game-plan was to put the new script on paper, schmooze with potential investors or producers, and put together a new creative team. Preferably not all at the same time, but with the crunch on, they’d do whatever needed to be done.

So far, the schmoozing has gone well, but everybody that Meat, Jim, and the crew would like to be involved is tentative. The newest conclusion is that they need to show them there’s a working show, and a concert of selections from the score seems to be the route they’re taking, possibly financed by an unlikely source.

Continuing the alternate DOTV timeline, a little differently this time! This time we get a feature on the concert from the New York Post’s own Michael Riedel. Take it away!

VAMPIRES: NEW MUSICAL BLOOD by Michael Riedel

If you’ve heard the buzz on the Rialto of late, you’d be forgiven for wondering if you were having a particularly nasty acid flashback. Dance of the Vampires, a new $15 million musical of the macabre based on the 1967 Roman Polanski movie The Fearless Vampire Killers, is already a monster hit in Austria and Germany, and it’s starting to gather steam here in the States as well, with some... we’ll call it unlikely... star power attached. After all, what other musical (even in a preliminary concert presentation) can boast Courtney Love as an emcee slash investor, and such disparate names as Meat Loaf and Michael Crawford as co-headliners?

Admittedly, Meat Loaf’s presence is slightly less surprising, as the driving force behind the show is Jim Steinman, who wrote Mr. Loaf’s classic Bat Out of Hell albums as well as the lyrics for Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Whistle Down the Wind. He has written the score and is co-adapting the book for Vampires with playwright David Ives (All in the Timing), who is also currently at work with Steinman for Warner Bros. on a musical version of Batman, from German dramatist Michael Kunze’s original script. He also co-directed this concert with Starmites composer Barry Keating, though early reports that Steinman would be co-directing the eventual Broadway run with Jane Eyre creator John Caird have ultimately been dismissed.

“Roman directed it in Vienna, but he can’t work here because of his legal problems,” Steinman said, referring to Polanski’s indictment for statutory rape in the 1970′s. “He may be the first director who can’t work over here because of a statutory rape charge.” When queried about who then would be directing the New York run, Steinman was tight-lipped, but among those in attendance at the evening’s proceedings was Urinetown’s Tony-winning helmer, John Rando, who is now rumored to be in talks for the slot. Said Rando of the new show, “It takes the vampire myth and pokes fun at it, but it also embraces it. Its message is about the excesses of appetite. It has wit and an edge to it. I’d love to be involved!��

The presentation (at the 499-seat Little Shubert Theatre, about half a mile west of Broadway; events like this cause us rightfully to wonder why it doesn’t see more use) for a by-invitation-only crowd was kicked off by Ms. Love, Hole rocker and widow of Nirvana frontman Kurt Cobain, in memorable form. Says a source in attendance, “You could sum it up in two words: too drunk. She was literally falling over. She wasn’t coherent at all.” Managing to gather herself enough to announce that Dance of the Vampires is a musical for people “who think musicals suck,” she didn’t manage to say much else of importance. “It just became a little too sloppy, and she was removed.” Insiders report that Steinman’s manager, David Sonenberg, who is also one of the show’s producers (and a first-timer at that), worried that those involved would be seen as taking advantage of a troubled addict. Ms. Love’s performance did little to dispel this perception. Lucky that representatives from noted L.A.-based promoter Concerts West, major music manager Irving Azoff (who numbers The Eagles, REO Speedwagon, Journey, Christina Aguilera, and Sammy Hagar among his clients), film and music mogul Jerry Weintraub, and Broadway’s own Barry and Fran Weissler were in attendance; a cash infusion from such sources may well be needed to save face if she can’t “live through this,” to twist a phrase from her 1994 album of the same name.

In addition to Sonenberg, already attached to Vampires on the producing side are Andrew Braunsberg (another first-timer, who also produced Polanski’s 1971 film version of Macbeth), Leonard Soloway, Bob Boyett (Sweet Smell of Success, Topdog/Underdog), Lawrence Horowitz (Electra, It Ain’t Nothing But the Blues), and Barry Diller and Bill Haber’s USA Ostar Theatricals. Boyett, a TV producer turned legit entrepreneur, used the phrases “trial by fire” and “going to war,” perhaps because while some novice producers just put up the money, get the credit and run, Boyett says he’s been taking the process very seriously: “I went to all the meetings and learned, like it was grad school.” While some Hollywood types find Broadway “less cutthroat,” Boyett finds it “more restrictive.” He mentions the sheer physical space of the theaters but also all the rules and regulations: "I’ve dealt with unions all my life, but I do find Actors’ Equity is very restrictive to the creative process.” Further, he regrets that Vampires will not have an out-of-town tryout. “I loved the experience of taking Sweet Smell of Success to Chicago,” he says with real enthusiasm, as if the project ended happily. “It was helpful to have the critics say what they did.” Not that Boyett thinks the right message from the critics got to the creative team.

As for Boyett’s teammates, Bill Haber attended on behalf of USA Ostar, and although he wouldn’t consent to a formal interview, he couldn’t resist answering one question -- and it has nothing to do with Dance of the Vampires. Why is Haber’s other fall production, Imaginary Friends by Nora Ephron, being called a play if it has six songs by Marvin Hamlisch and Craig Carnelia? “It has nothing to do with how many songs there are,” he shot back. “It has to do with the fact that if you took all the songs out, it still works and you still have a play.”

And all this before we even get to the show itself. Vampires is your typical erotic musical about an innocent girl (played this evening by impressive newcomer Mandy Gonzalez, currently standing by for the role of Amneris in Aida and late of Off-Broadway’s Eli’s Comin’) choosing between two lovers, in this case an older, aristocratic vampire (Loaf, whose appearance here marks the first time he has worked with Steinman in theater since the early Seventies) and a hunky young grad student (Max von Essen, who reportedly also appeared in the Steinman/Caird-helmed reading in April 2001) under the tutelage of a rather intensely wacky vampire hunter (Crawford). Given the level of Loaf’s obvious commitment to the piece, it is surprising that his manager (Allen Kovac, of Left Bank Management) was a no-show, and in that light, rumors that Loaf has yet to formally sign on the dotted line for Vampires (in spite of previous announcements to the contrary, no less) prove even more curious. Calls to Kovac’s office were not returned. The rest of the cast, boasting some fine voices indeed, was filled out by assorted Broadway names and members of Meat Loaf’s long-time touring band, The Neverland Express, which also provided accompaniment for the evening under the crisp musical direction of veteran rock bassist Kasim Sulton (best known for his work with Todd Rundgren and Utopia, among others).

Speaking of the music: the score, as per Steinman’s usual style, is appropriately big and Wagnerian, with plenty of luscious, operatic melodies, including one familiar favorite that sticks out like a sore thumb: Steinman’s famous “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” under whose operatic pretensions I swooned as a teenager. “I couldn’t resist using it,” he says of a song that goes, ‘Once upon time there was light in my life / But now there’s only love in the dark.’ “I actually wrote it for another vampire musical that was based on Nosferatu, but never got produced.” Close listening to the CD sampler for interested investors also reveals a rehash of the vigorous “Tonight Is What It Means to Be Young,” his song for the film Streets of Fire, which I saw in Los Angeles in 1984 and sent me racing along Mulholland Drive to keep up with the propulsive beat.

As for the new stuff, maybe 50′s rock ‘n’ roll with a 70′s preen isn’t what the 80-year-olds who constitute Broadway’s audience want to hear (and Jim’s rock-mock-Wagnerian shtick admittedly tends to play better in London and Las Vegas than in Manhattan), but my sources say they knew from the first number -- an angelic trio with a beguiling (what did they used to call it?) melody and some expert (the Andrews Sisters used to do it) harmony -- that this would be my kind of score. Frankly I’m glad; since the prehistoric vinyl days, Steinman has been the guy I keep calling for to rejuvenate, or just plain juvenate, the Broadway musical, in a world where the musical theater establishment pronounces old ABBA records a hip pop sound.

The book, while reportedly in better shape than the April reading, is something else again. From the excerpts on display last night, the mix of bawdy humor and eroticism still needs fine-tuning. Says Sonenberg, “By the time we open, it will be a new version of the show, significantly changed with a view toward a New York audience, but right now it plays very much like the original in several respects.” Adds David Ives, “The German production is probably more faithful to the film, but it’s a fairly humorless show, with people getting hit on the head with salami. And I’ve been brought in to take out the salami and put in the chorus girls, without veering into camp in the process. Now it’s just a question of finding the balance, which, needless to say, isn’t easy. But I like what we’ve accomplished so far: Meat’s character is vastly different, a much more multifaceted, dynamic, complete figure. We’ve also made other changes and cuts and restructured the show into a book musical, with dialogue; the original is all sung. I think we’ve made it a much more interesting story.”

Time, as always, will be the ultimate arbiter of fate.

#tanz der vampire #Taniec Wampirow #Vampyyrien tanssi #tanzblr #tanz network #tanz discourse #Dance of the Vampires #le bal des vampires #Vampirok Balja #Dans der Vampieren #vampiiride tants #vampiru no dansu #Jim Steinman #Roman Polanski #Michael Crawford #Michael Kunze #alternate universe #bal vampirov #meat loaf

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mrslittletall · 6 years

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Title: Duel Gone Wrong (Chapter 11) Fandom: Dark Souls Characters: Dragon Slayer Ornstein, The Sunfirstborn Word Count: 1.998 AO3-Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14026326/chapters/34179897 Previous chapter: https://mrslittletall.tumblr.com/post/174117768084/title-duel-gone-wrong-chapter-10-fandom-dark

Chapter Summary: In which Ornstein receives some off-hand training

(Author's note: Who is ready for some fluff between Ornstein and his master? Also, I had some trouble with words in this one, so if I made any mistakes, please let me know.)

“And everyone who showed interest in training with bigger weapons should talk to Artorias. He agreed to take over that training. The giant blacksmith will provide you with suitable weapons.”, Ornstein concluded and the silver knights were off taking on their posts. Ornstein turned around to the master who had patiently waited next to him: “We can start now.”

“Good, let us go then.”, the master said and started to walk. Ornstein followed him. They were headed to a clearing in the woods outside of town. Years ago, the master had seen Ornstein there while spear training and took him under his wing to properly train him. That felt so long ago, Ornstein had been only a boy back then. He wouldn't ever thought that this orphan would make it into the dragon slayer one day.

After around an hour of walking with some meaningless smalltalk, the two of them arrived at the clearing. “Just let me check if any kids are around.”, Ornstein murmured. The clearing was located near to the orphanage he grew up and their training could be dangerous to anyone who was around. After a quick check, it turned out, that nobody was around. Ornstein returned to the master with the spear in his left hand. “I am ready.”, he stated.

“So let us begin.”, Master Gwynfor started. “At first, I want you to try to pull out your usual move set.”

“Uh, fine.”, Ornstein said, took his spear up and started one of his usual combos. He quickly felt that something was off, the swings felt like they were all over the place instead of focused and graceful and at the end of it he lost balance. He already saw himself having an impact with the ground, when the master caught him with the usage of only one hand.

“Careful there, we don't want your injury to get jostled that much.”, he said and helped Ornstein back on his feet. “So, do you know what your mistake was?”

“Balance.”, Ornstein said. “Everything felt off.”

“Exactly.”, Master Gwynfor said. “When you are using your off hand, you also need to reverse your feet. It feels incredible difficult to do at first. Your brain wants it the other way, cause it is so used to it. It will feel really off. I want you to focus on your feet first. Train a basic sway, but take care where you put your feet.”

“Alright.”, Ornstein said and started the lesson. The master was right, that wasn't easy. Very often he would stand on the wrong foot out of habit and would lose balance.

“It's fine to look down at your feet until you have it down.”, the master said after he had to catch Ornstein once again. Ornstein couldn't help but be impressed how easily he could hold him with one hand despite being in full armour. After a while he had his balance back.

“I think I've got it figured out.”, he stated.

“Now try without looking at your feet.”, the master ordered.

To Ornstein's surprise, he didn't have any trouble with balance now, even if he wasn't looking on his feet. “See, you just need to outwit your brain and balance isn't any trouble anymore. But have you noticed something else?”

“My sways are inconsistent.”, Ornstein answered. “If I would try to stab the same part two times in a row, I wouldn't manage.”

Master Gwynfor nodded: “You are not used to do things with that hand. And I admit, it is really difficult to learn to use it like your main hand. Most people will always have a hand with which they are better. But if you train it regularly, you can learn to wield your weapon in your off hand almost as good as in your main hand. It is all just a matter of practice. I suggest you start with the basics until you feel comfortable and then try to move on to the more advanced stuff.”

Ornstein spend the next hour practicing his basic thrusts, sways and ultimately chaining them to a combo till he had to stop to catch his breath and because the pain in his arm was acting up. The master noticed his discomfort: “You should take a break and sit down for a bit. Your body clearly shows that you are not fully fit.”

Ornstein walked over to the master who was sitting on a tree trunk on the ground and joined him. “I won't need long, only till the pain goes away.”, he said.

“I think it would be better for you to take it easy for a while.”, the master said. “After all, you broke a bone. It won't heal properly if you push yourself too hard.”

“I am fine, really.”, Ornstein answered. “Also, it was Artorias who broke the bone.”

“How could I forget that?”, Master Gwynfor said while putting his hands up in the air. “How is he doing with his punishment?”

“Astonishingly well so far. He didn't show any trouble the past two days. Of course I don't know if he cheats...”

“He isn't the guy for that. I am sure he put all his determination into it to pull this through. Besides, in the cathedral, there aren't any animals. You haven't seem him outside.”

“True... This afternoon we are going on patrol together. I should keep watch over him then.”

“... Makes me think, Ornstein, you don't have the best relationship with animals, right?”

Ornstein sighed: “They just don't like me for some strange reason. Cats are always hissing, dogs are always growling or even starting to chase me. And then there was the bird incident...”

Ornstein shuddered at that memory. “Wasn't that also Artorias fault?”, Master Gwynfor asked.

Ornstein nodded and then took up his spear again, not wanting to delve deeper into that topic: “I feel better now, I think I can continue.”

He walked back into the middle of the clearing and trained the combo a little more. After he was comfortable with it, he decided to try one of his special moves, the quick dash and strike to a target. Ornstein was really proud of his speed, nobody in Anor Londo was a match for him in a race. He took in the position for the attack, spun the spear in the right direction and started the dash. But after he finished the attack he felt a sharp pain in his arm. “Argh.”, he said, clutching the arm. “I guess that was too much.”

“Told you to take it easy.”, Master Gwynfor was at his side in mere seconds. “The injury is still fresh, you should let it heal further before trying this again. The suddend stop after your high speed was too much and jostled the break.” He laid a hand on Ornstein's shoulder and led him to the tree trunk to sit down again.

“We should head back to the cathedral soon. Quite some time already passed.”, he said and sat down next to Ornstein. “You are shivering. Is it that bad?”

“I must admit, it really hurts.”, Ornstein said, trying to calm down.

“You know, Gwyndolin has took up an interest in making medicine lately. Maybe you could ask them for something that eases the pain a bit?”, the master suggested.

“Gwyndolin is making their own medicine? How did it come to that?”, Ornstein asked.

“They gladly tell you if you ask. You know, they are eagerly awaiting your visits. When was the last time you visited them?”

“Just this morning, because I needed help with my hair. ”, Ornstein said.

The master chuckled: “What did they do to it?

“According to Artorias, they braided it.”, Ornstein said.

“I was expecting that from my little sibling. Why didn't you let the braids in? It would have made them joy.”

“It is wavy enough without being braided. And I feel most comfortable with my usual ponytail.” He sighed. “I should have known that Gwyndolin would play around with my hair. They have been fascinated by it the moment they first saw it.”

“Believe me, me and Gwynevere have also been victim to their hair dressing.”, the master said. Ornstein glanced at the master's mane and asked himself how in the world anyone would be able to tame that hair, that seemed to waver and move around even when there was no wind at all.

“Ornstein, are you hungry?”, the master's voice interrupted Ornstein's thoughts. “I brought some food.” He pulled out two loafs of bread which were filled with different things and offered one of them to Ornstein, who took it after he leaned his spear against the tree trunk. Ornstein inspected the bread closely and noticed that it was filled with smoked salmon, a food he greatly enjoyed. Did the master remember this or was this just a coincidence?

“Thanks, master.”, Ornstein said. He laid the food into his lap and pulled the visor part of his helmet open, so that he could take the food and actually be able to eat it. While chewing, he tried to figure out which filling the master had chosen for himself.

It seemed to be some kind of meat, but he couldn't make out which one it was. Ornstein also got distracted by something else. When in armour, the master usually would wear a scarf and hide the lower part of his face within it, but so that he would be able to eat, he had took it off. Ornstein couldn't help but just staring in awe at the master, he made even a mundane thing like eating look absolutely beautiful.

“Aren't you hungry? You have barely eaten.”, the master's voice interrupted Ornstein's thoughts. “Or don't you like the filling?” Ornstein was under the impression that the master actually had a sorry look in his eyes. Ornstein's eyes slowly wandered from the master's face to the nearly forgotten food he still hold in his hand.

“Oh no, that's not it!”, he quickly said. “I like this one. I was just... curious what you had.” As if he would be able to tell his master that he had been busy watching him eat instead of eating his food himself. Ornstein took another bite from it.

“It has a filling of deer meat.”, the master answered. “Do you want to try? It is seasoned quite spicy though.”

Ornstein was glad that he already had swallowed or he would have choked. The master had just asked him if he wanted to try a bite of the food he already had eaten from. Ornstein could feel how the blood rushed in his face and quickly closed the visor of his helmet to hide his face.

“I apologize if this was an inappropriate question.”, Master Gwynfor grinned. “It is just so cute to see your reaction.” Oh great, that statement made Ornstein even more embarrassed. He spent several minutes trying to calm down, but eventually managed and continued enjoying his food. The rest of the meal was spent in a mix between comfortable and awkward silence.

“Are you still in pain? Do you think we can head back to the cathedral now?”, the master asked after they finished their meal.

Ornstein stood up and did a quick check on how his arm was feeling. Of course it still was hurting, some kind of dull pain was there all the time, but it wasn't so bad anymore that he needed to sit down.

“Better.”, he answered and took up his spear. “We can head back now.”

On the way back, the master asked: “Ornstein?”

“What is it?”

“I would really love to see the creation Gwyndolin comes up with for your hair the next time you ask them for help.” (Author’s note: Guess who based the whole thing with the off balance on her own dancing lessons? Also, they are eating some kind of Lordran equivalent of sandwiches. I hope I didn't switch around any vocables.) Next chapter: https://mrslittletall.tumblr.com/post/174569858069/title-duel-gone-wrong-chapter-12-fandom-dark

#dark souls #fanfiction #dragon slayer ornstein #the sunfirstborn (master gwynfor)#multichapter #it was really fun exploring the relationship of these two a bit #littlewritesstuff

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theritualofourexistence · 7 years

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A Father’s Unexpected Ballad for His Daughter

Recently my dad told me he’d been listening to Meat Loaf for the first time in a while and with the sudden warm spell, it only seemed fitting to break out my hazy sunshine, golden afternoon music too. Now, my dad of course chose the original “Bat Out of Hell” album, released in 1977. But I went for my personal favorite, though maybe not his best, Meat Loaf’s “Bat Out of Hell II: Back into Hell.” Like most kids, I grew up listening to my parents’ music... but unlike a lot of people I know, that music is still the music that means the most to me.

“Bat Out of Hell II” was released in 1993 so I literally grew up with it. It’s most known for “I Would Do Anything For Love,” and stay tuned because I’m working on a post about that song as well. My favorite when I was a kid was the macabre but beautiful “Objects in the Rear View Mirror.” I remember begging my parents to play that on repeat in the car. I went through a very committed “Life Is a Lemon” phase as a teenager. And as a young adult, I fell in love all over again with “Wasted Youth.” Now... at a time in my life when I feel like I’m finally moving in a solid direction after years of fighting to steady my compass, I found myself especially moved by “Rock and Roll Dreams Come Through.”

Like I said, I grew up on my parents’ music. I remember my dad feeding me lines to Bruce Springsteen’s “Thunder Road” so I could learn the song as we listened to it... And that specific memory, of my dad telling me the words to the song moments before the lines were sung so that we could sing them together... that isn’t a specific memory that I have for a lot of songs. “Thunder Road,” for sure. And it occurred to me, as I listened through “Bat Out of Hell II” on my way to work this past week, that I have those memories for “Rock and Roll Dreams Come Through” as well.

I remember it vividly, actually. I can see the car. I can see the way my dad would cock his head towards the back seat so I could hear him clearly. And more than that, I can remember the feeling that he wanted me to learn the words. And not just so he could have a buddy to sing along with in the car.

I don’t know how or why it happened, but “Rock and Roll Dreams Come Through” has become my father’s ballad to me. A lot of Meat Loaf’s music is about “sex and drums and rock and roll” but a lot of it is about heart. And this song, “Rock and Roll Dreams,” is sort of the perfect message for a father to pass on to his anxious daughter.

“You can’t run away forever... but there’s nothing wrong with getting a good head start. You wanna shut out the nag, you wanna shut down the sun, you wanna shut away the pieces of a broken heart. Think of how we laid down together... we’d be listening to the radio so loud and so strong, every golden nugget coming like a gift from the gods... someone must have blessed us when they gave us those songs.”

My dad has taught me many things, but the music we have shared has always been one of the most meaningful. Though there were times I’m sure he didn’t understand my heart break, my dad walked me through all of those moments in my life. And we truly do have “golden nuggets” that keep us going when life knocks us down.

“I treasure your love. I never wanna lose it. You’ve been through the fires of hell, and I know you’ve got the ashes to prove it. I treasure your love. I wanna show you how to use it. You’ve been through a lot of pain in the dirt, and I know you’ve got the scars to prove it.”

There’s no way my dad could’ve known, singing to his 5-year-old, what his daughter would live through before her 20th birthday. Not just one big thing. But many big things. A hell that brought fire. A hell that certainly did threaten my love for my father. A hell that shattered me in a lot of ways. And though I would not change my past, I certainly do carry both ashes and scars. Here’s the thing though... the next part of the song goes like this...

“Remember everything that I’ve told you. I’m telling you again that it’s true. When you’re alone and afraid and you’re completely amazed to find there’s nothing anybody can do... keep on believing and you’ll discover, baby, there’s always something magic. There’s always something new. And when you really, really need it the most, that’s when rock and roll dreams come through. The beat is yours forever, the beat is always true... and when you really need it the most, that’s when rock and roll dreams come through for you.”

I have lived that. I didn’t plan to. But there have been times in my life when I did feel very much alone. The things that saved me were my family and friends, of course, but much of that burden was hefted by the music I’ve loved and listened to for my whole life. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve cried, hard, listening to Bruce or the Indigo Girls or Les Miserables. I can’t tell you how many times those songs have taught me valuable lessons about my own power to put myself back together.

What an incredible gift? I’m sure my dad didn’t know. He knew he was sharing the music he loved with me, sure, but did he know that music would save my life?

Life is no fairy tale, and instead of pumping my little kid head full of princess dreams, my dad gave me Meat Loaf and the tools I needed to face the real world.

“Once upon a time was a backbeat. Once upon a time all the poets came to life and the angels had guitars even before they had wings... if you hold on to the chorus you can get through the night.”

I have had hard, hard nights. But sure enough, all those songs that I learned from my dad in the car all those years back that promised me that I could make it... they were right.

“Remember everything that I told you. I’m telling you again that it’s true... you’re never alone ‘cause you can put on the phones and let the drummer tell your heart what to do: keep on believing and you’ll discover, baby, there’s always something magic. There’s always something new.”

And that’s the trick. There is always something magic. Just like there’s always a sunrise at the end of every night. The lessons I’ve learned from and through and with the songs my parents taught me are innumerable. Basically every song I grew up singing has evolved over the years to have a very specific, personal, and vital meaning for me.

I didn’t expect to cry when “Rock and Roll Dreams Come Through” started to play in the car this week. Some songs get me every time and I’ve grown to expect and cherish that. This one was a surprise. A beautiful surprise. Despite our various battles over the years, my dad has taught me so many incredible things. He taught me about fear, he taught me about love, and he taught me that no matter what I’m facing in my life or what I’m trying desperately to recover from, I will always have music. He always let the music touch his soul... and I don’t know how he did it, but he taught me to do the same.

So here I am, one of those Japanese bowls that has been shattered but mended with gold. My soul, a marionette hanging from shining silver strings that twist into the lyrics of “Rock and Roll Dreams Come Through” and “Jungleland” and “Let it Be Me.” On those melodies my soul jumps and dances, continuing to burn despite any efforts to snuff it out. It’s not always a huge flame, no, but even a flicker is enough.

On the bad days, when it feels like there is no one, there will always be music... and that is enough.

The beat truly is mine forever. Thank you, dad, for such a beautiful gift.

#music #rock and roll dreams #Bruce Springsteen #Meat Loaf #Indigo Girls #father #daughter #family #even the darkest night will end #and the sun will rise

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easyfoodnetwork · 4 years

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White Lily Flour Has Long Held a Near-Mythological Status in the South. Now It’s Everywhere.

Dannie Sue Balakas/Instagram

While other flour companies have faced pandemic-related shortages, the Southern staple has been quietly filling the void at grocery stores around the country

As many home-bound Americans began baking to feed and distract themselves from the coronavirus pandemic, Schanon Odell of Crown Pacific Fine Foods was making frantic phone calls to every flour mill in the country. Odell’s job at the Seattle-area specialty food distributor includes helping her grocery store clients keep flour in stock, and so she resolved to find anyone that might have it. One day in late March, she spent 10 straight hours calling and calling, only to get the same answer from everyone who picked up: all sold out.

But there was one exception: As she searched the internet for flour mills, “White Lily kept coming up,” Odell says. She was only vaguely aware of the special place that the flour occupies in the canon of Southern baking, but as she worked her way through the company’s phone tree, she focused less on what White Lily was and more on securing 4,000 cases of flour — about 160,000 pounds — to distribute to stores around the Pacific Northwest, like Zupan’s in Portland, Oregon, Kroger’s QFC stores, and independent shops like Red Apple Market on Seattle’s Beacon Hill.

The shipment of White Lily arrived at Red Apple Market just in time for Jill Lightner’s husband to replenish the flour stash that Lightner, a food writer, was quickly stress-baking her way through. “I had just been putting ‘buy more flour’ on the shopping list every time he went,” she says. When her husband returned with a bag of White Lily, announcing, “This is all they had,” Lightner, who had gone to high school in rural Virginia, knew what she had lucked into. “Why didn’t you buy 50 bags?” she asked.

The same scene played out from Iowa to San Jose, as White Lily flour appeared mysteriously on shelves far from its usual Southern distribution area. Bakers familiar with the product went to stores braced to find bottom-of-the-barrel flour, only to come upon the brand they had often wished they could get locally. From outposts in the North, Midwest, and West, they posted gleefully on social media. “When you find the flour, you make the biscuits,” said a baker in Wisconsin. In Brooklyn, a shopper wondered, “What is this magic happening with the flour supply chain?”

White Lily declined to comment on the expanded distribution to Eater, but David Ortega, an associate professor in the department of agriculture, food and resource economics at Michigan State University, points out that some of the recent flour distribution quirks can be tied to the significant loss of major wholesale customers like food service and bakeries, combined with high demand at the retail level. “One of the major obstacles to this switch was packaging,” he says over email — which means that any flour company that had recently stocked up on retail-size bags found itself best prepared to meet demand.

“Flour processing is much more mechanized (relative to say meat processing plants), so it hasn’t been affected by processing disruption to the extent that other sectors have,” Ortega adds. “My guess is that While Lily and other companies expanded their markets out of necessity (loss in food industry customers) and, to an extent, opportunity (surge in demand in supermarkets).”

Whatever the reason, it made many home bakers happy. Known for its soft, light texture, White Lily flour has long held a near-mythological status in the South as the secret to the perfect biscuit, much in the same way that New Yorkers believe that the city’s water is the secret to the perfect bagel. In The Gift of Southern Cooking, the renowned champion of the region’s foodways, Edna Lewis, named it as an essential ingredient to great biscuits. On her blog, Southern Souffle, the recipe developer, food writer, and biscuit-pop-up chef Erika Council echoed Lewis’s sentiment, writing that White Lily killed the “hard as a rock” and “difficult to make” biscuit myths.

And yet, despite the ostensible transportability of a bag of flour, finding White Lily outside of the Southeastern United States is normally only nominally easier than getting New York City tap water in Arizona. The only other time Lightner remembers seeing it for sale in Seattle was years ago, when she found a “daintily sized” bag at a Williams-Sonoma holiday pop-up for a premium price. She bought it anyway. When Atlantic writer Amanda Mull, who was born in Georgia, wrote about the brand in 2018, she reported that she couldn’t find any retailers who carried it north of Richmond, Virginia, or west of Oklahoma (though Surfas in Los Angeles does occasionally). You can find it on Amazon, though it’s sold there at about 500 percent of grocery store cost.

The legend of White Lily began in 1883, when it was founded in Knoxville, Tennessee. Its flour’s ethereal nature is partially attributable to the fact that it is milled from soft red winter wheat, which results in a flour with only 9 percent protein — significantly lower than King Arthur’s 11.7 percent or Gold Medal’s 10.5 percent. A flour’s protein content is important because it corresponds directly with how much gluten forms when the flour comes into contact with a liquid. For a strong loaf with structure and chewiness, bakers look for a high-protein flour, like bread flour, which has up to 13 percent protein. But for biscuits, lower protein content, and thus lower gluten, keeps them from becoming too dense.

But plenty of flours have lower protein levels: Pastry flour contains around 9 percent, and cake flour between 7 and 9 percent. White Lily’s true secret, according to a 2008 New York Times story, lies in its milling and bleaching processes. Its all-purpose flour is milled only from the heart of the wheat’s endosperm, the purest part, and is more finely milled and sifted than other flours — its packaging even boasts that it’s “Pre-Sifted.” Unlike many all-purpose flours, it is also bleached with chlorine, which weakens the flour’s proteins. The result is so light that the White Lily website warns that when measuring by volume, rather than weight, two extra tablespoons per cup of flour are required in standard recipes.

“I’ve been so worried I’m going to run out, I haven’t used it for anything but biscuits.”

When the J.M. Smucker Co. bought White Lily in 2007, it closed the company’s Knoxville mill and moved production to the Midwest, much to the dismay of many of the flour’s fans. White Lily had previously gone through more than a half-dozen corporate owners, including national names like Tyson Foods and Archer Daniels Midland. In 2018, Smucker sold it yet again, this time to Hometown Food Company, the parent company of Pillsbury. But despite how often it has changed hands, White Lily has managed to remain quintessentially Southern enough that Lightner compares it to a souvenir: “If I am near a Winn-Dixie or a Piggly Wiggly, I’m going to buy it and bring it back,” she says, “along with a suitcase full of grits.”

For her part, Odell, the specialty food distributor, is surprised to see how well the flour has resonated with retailers outside of the South. “Every day, people are ordering,” she says. “I think people are recognizing it and want to purchase it.”

Dannie Sue Balakas is one them. Born in Tennessee and currently living in West Michigan, she was thrilled when White Lily showed up at her local Meijer, and started buying a bag every time she shopped there. Because shoppers are still limited to one bag per person, she rations it accordingly. “I’ve been so worried I’m going to run out, I haven’t used it for anything but biscuits,” she says, describing those biscuits as “super fluffy and the best I’ve ever had.”

Fear of running out is a legitimate concern: Shelves in the South were also emptied of flour, and while Odell says her supply has been mostly consistent, it hasn’t been seamless. For Dean Hasegawa, the general manager of the Red Apple where Lightner bought her White Lily, the store’s White Lily purchase was a one-time deal so that Hasegawa could cover the flour shortage — and even with it, he still had to re-bag and price out 50-pound food-service bags of other flours into retail sizes. “It’s not something I will normally stock,” he says, and while he heard some excitement over it, he believes that most of his customers were simply happy to see flour.

Still, the customer enthusiasm inspires Odell. Her local QFC stores talked about wanting to keep White Lily on their shelves even as flour stocks normalize, but the Cincinnati-based buyer from Kroger, which owns QFC, insisted that people in the Northwest wouldn’t buy Southern flour. “I’d like to keep it if I can,” says Odell, but first she needs to prove that people care about White Lily and not just flour in general. “Maybe when the dust settles, I’ll be able to tell if it’s a viable product,” she says.

But for true biscuit fanatics, White Lily’s all-purpose flour isn’t even the true prize: In West Michigan, Balakas has “been praying” that stores will start stocking its coveted self-rising flour. But even if they don’t, you can mail order it from Walmart (with free shipping, if you order enough else) or, per White Lily’s website, simply add 1½ teaspoons of baking powder and ½ teaspoon of salt to each cup of the all-purpose flour. While they may be effective, though, neither of those methods have the same magic as wandering the baking aisle expecting nothing and coming upon a treasure — and, in, the process recapturing a tiny fragment of the joy that grocery shopping once held.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/2Cg2NBT https://ift.tt/2YPfpI0

Dannie Sue Balakas/Instagram

While other flour companies have faced pandemic-related shortages, the Southern staple has been quietly filling the void at grocery stores around the country

“I’ve been so worried I’m going to run out, I haven’t used it for anything but biscuits.”

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/2Cg2NBT via Blogger https://ift.tt/2N7e2ii

#Blogger #cooking #Eater #food #recipes

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killaren · 7 years

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Thanks to You (Peter Parker x Reader)

Summary: Your life is typical, normal; you go to class, see your friends, do your homework. You never expected spider-man to have any reason to interact with you, but when there’s a person tapping against the window of your apartment, you know you have to open it.

Author’s Note: hello all, this is my first peter parker fic and I really hope you like it :) it will be broken into about 5 parts because I wrote 10k words for the whole thing and realized that would be too much to put in one post.

Part 2

All parts of this fic

Word count: 1,404

Warnings: some bloody stuff

You slumped into your seat across from Peter and Ned, your eyes drearily returning to the calculus notes scattered haphazardly across the table in front of you. Your gaze lingered on reimann sums for a moment before looking up to your friends, who were too busy shoving meat loaf into their mouths and mumbling about the latest Star Wars movie to notice your return from disposing of your lunch. You studied their faces, each lightening up excitedly at the theory the other one recited, though Peter’s eyes featured tired rings around them that Ned’s did not have.

The dark tilt to the skin above his cheeks was not new, but it interested you nonetheless. It had arrived shortly after Peter’s schedule had left, after he’d grown about 3 inches in any direction and a little while after he’d received that too-good-to-be-true internship with Tony Stark. You worried he was being overworked and overused…and something else, you weren’t sure of.

It was those tired eyes that caught you out of their periphery, and the very same that lit up upon their recognition of your return.

"Hey, listen to this-"

"No, Peter-she doesn't care." Ned cut him off.

"You don't know that! She's seen the movie." He replied and Ned looked at you.

"Do you care?" Ned asked and you chuckled, your face turning to your other friend. "I'll hear it. Lay it on me."

Peter launched into something crazy about the old hero from the original Star Wars trilogy and Ned rolled his eyes, cutting in occasionally to insert his opinion. You couldn't follow what either of them were saying but it made you happy to see them both so invested in something.

Tensions between the three of you had been unusually high lately. Perhaps it was the series of canceled hangouts or the inability to make plans, but no matter what it was it had taken a toll on group morale.

The three of you chatted (well, you listened) until the food in front of them was gone, and you took outdoors. It was Friday, and the inevitable "are we hanging out this weekend" conversation and the subsequent nervous stuttering that was supposed to sound like "I have the internship" from Peter came up. You hoped Ned would just assume the two of you would be making other plans instead of asking, but of course he did.

You realized when you got home later that you'd be spending the evening alone; Michelle and Liz were both busy with study groups and club planning, and you didn't even want to consider calling Flash. It was not all bad, though, for you had a new episode of Game of Thrones to drown your loneliness in. You were only a few minutes into watching one of the dragons fly across the screen when you heard a tapping on your window, causing your every bone to shiver. Nobody else was home, and you were very sure you wouldn't be able to handle an intruder alone.

You were shaking as the tapping continued, fear escalating within you as you took timid steps towards the fire escape window and held up your lacrosse stick for defense. You could feel your pulse quickening as you turned the corner, and it only sped up as the source of the tapping came into your view; spider-man, THE spider-man, crouched outside your window!

You ran to the window and lifted it, a little gust of wind blowing into your apartment as spider-man rolled himself inside, his hand clutching his side.

"Hey uh, you got a second?" he mumbled as he flopped onto the ground in front of you. You looked down and realized it was bloody and his suit was torn, his breathing heavy and jagged.

"O-oh my god-you're-and you're here-do you need-oh my god, you need help!" You stuttered, your heart beating a mile a minute.

"I-I'll-you stay here, I'll be right back!" You let out as you racked your brain for the location of the first aid kit.

You tutted into the kitchen and whipped the cabinet doors open, your fingers frantically tracing the wooden ledges for the bright red bloom. You found what you were looking for and yanked it out of the wedge it was tucked into, not noticing the clattering of windex bottles and other cleaning supplies as the plastic hit the tile floors.

You sprinted back into the hall, popping the box open as you ran. As you approached him you dropped to your knees and slid across the floor, your fingers fiddling with the bandages and creams. You silently thanked the managers at the summer camp you'd worked at last year for having you trained in first-aid; you knew you wouldn't be able to call 911 for someone like spider-man.

The many adhesives and wraps littered the space around you when you decided on a thick gauze, which you held up just above the wound.

"C-can you hold this on it? While I prepare the bandage?" You asked, your voice shaking and your words coming out too fast and garbled. You watched part of his mask move as a light chuckle came from him and he reached his hand out.

"Yeah, I can. I'm not dead yet, you know." He said, his voice weak but lighthearted and...familiar, though you had little time to determine why. It's joking nature eased your tension regardless.

He pushed the gauze onto his cut while you put antibiotic on a thick bandage and rested it face up on his thigh.

"Sorry for just barging in, by the way." He said as you cleaned the cut of dried blood and dirt. You did your best to smile at him as you worked, your mind and body too focused on the fact that you were patching up spider-man to process the small talk.

"I-it's no problem, really. I just h-hope you're okay." You bubbled in reply, your eyes looking up his muscled chest to his shoulders and to his masked face. "I can't believe you're really here, in my apartment! Y-you're a superhero."

"Hey, I'm not that special! Besides, at the moment, you're the one that's being the hero." He replied with a chuckle and a little pink hit your cheeks, your heart skipping a beat. He looked around, at the hallway and the walls, then back to your fingers, then to your face.

"So, you, uh, live here, huh?" He said and you raised your eyebrows.

"Yes, I do."

"So you, probably come here often then, yeah?" He asked and you giggled, your face now rather red.

"No way, is Spider-Man hitting on me?" You chirped, a twinge of excitement lacing your words and he let out a nervous laugh that sent you into a brief moment of deja vu.

"Well hey, if I had known my nurse was going to be this cute, I would've come up with a less obvious pick up line."

You finished patching his abdomen and he stood up, patting his side with his hand.

"Wow, you did a pretty good job!" He said, and you grinned as he readjusted the ripped fabric over the white of the bandage. "You really helped me out."

"It's no big deal, you help everyone out every day!" You squeaked and he laughed, taking a step towards you.

"What is the name of my hero for the evening?" He asked and you mumbled your name, dazed by the way the white of his mask squinted and the mouth space twitched as you told him. He repeated it back to you, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear and sending chills up your spine.

He took a step back, his head turning to the window he fell through and back to you.

"I gotta go," he said, his shoulders slumping slightly beneath his red and blue suit.

"You do?" You whispered, snapped out of the trance you'd been in when he'd touched you.

"Y-yeah, bad guys aren't going to fight themselves, you know." He replied, his voice sounding nervous. You nodded and he sat on the windowsill, one leg in the hall and one on the fire escape.

"I'll see you around." He said and you nodded.

"Around, yeah." And with that, he was off.

#peter parker #spiderman #spider man: homecoming #peter parker x reader #tom holland x reader #tom holland #spider-man: homecoming #spiderman homecoming #peter parker fanfiction #spiderman fanfiction #spider-man fanfiction #mine #fanfic #thanks to you #myposts #mypost #mywriting

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wendylewis-blog · 4 years

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05.01.2020 /The Weekend

I feel more animal. I sleep when it’s dark and get up with daylight. I forage my house for food when I’m hungry and often, let myself feel that hunger without satiating it. I’m more acutely aware of what’s around me—wandering the woods, walking the river, sitting in the dry prairie grasses. The wind, pollen scattering from the trees, birdsong, chattering squirrels, elegant deer and awkward turkeys. Hoards of gnats swarm in tiny tornados near the water—I wonder if they hold a consciousness about their purpose here. I wonder if I do.

I talk to people much less than I did in the beginning. Everything has been said too many times over. Exhausting and erosive. It’s becoming more personal now; taking each other’s spiritual temperature, reconnecting with some ppl I’ve lost over time, like a woman in NYC and another in San Franciso, both with new babies. Sometimes, we’re cynical, sometimes laughing, sometimes weeping. I’m quieter than ever and if you know me, I’m not prone to silence. It feels like getting to know a part of myself less explored. Not a bad thing. Listening more, talking less.

This morning’s soundtrack.

There is rain moving in. I’m sitting in my dining room facing the south side of the yard watching the sturdiness of trees against a grey backdrop. They wave their branches a little. I’ve looked at these trees out this window for twenty-two years. They give me a false sense of permanence but unless virulent summer weather takes them down some time, I will lean into that ruse.

It’s the first day of May. My oldest daughter Hannah will turn 34 in a week. She and her husband Geoffrey and g-bb Ezra came down to our house last Saturday. I hugged them both with a bedsheet between us. I had so many conflicting feelings seeing them after almost two months and keeping prescribed distance for the afternoon—the full range existing between joy and grief. I suffered an emotional hangover the next day. It’s so hard to explain. It’s surreal to watch them from across the yard while the dogs romp together and not get gob-smacked about this new reality we are saddled up into—how this contagion (and the ones that will surely follow) will distort/contort, forever changing our intimacies. I’ll have to think more about this.

We have always been such a tactile family and this is taking time to get used to and it’s only just begun. I’m gonna give myself all the time necessary to acclimate. It was so incredible to see them after so long, if bittersweet.

I had similar feelings when daughter Kitty and her roommate Anna came down the following Monday to gather kindling, take a walk and stay for dinner. I spent a couple hours prior to their arrival instigating a yearly ritual—opening the porch! We put all the leaves in the table to properly distance ourselves. I thought about how to share the food. I ladled the soup into the sitting bowls, split the French bread loaf in half and wrapped separately, gave them their own dish of salt and plate of butter. We made mistakes—shared the pepper grinder and all touched the tubs of yogurt and sour cream. Ohhh well—we washed our hands afterwards. We also talked and laughed our asses off until dark. When they were leaving, Kitty and I looked at each other and suddenly hugged without the sheet, turning our faces away, not breathing. The next morning I woke up and had a moment of subdued panic until I remembered that every time I leave my house and go to the grocery store, it’s a risk.

These are the inescapable truths we are all being forced to reckon with in one way or another. In that moment, the gain was well worth the risk. I am gonna get more used to this eventually and do my best taming the wild range of emotional geography to something less painful and more often flushed with gratefulness that we are all alive and love each other. Pull it together, Lewis!

I’ve been trying to order seeds on line for weeks. Most of the organic sites were filling commercial orders in lieu of home gardeners’ requests, stalling us until May. Now, most everything is unavailable, especially herbs, which are expensive to buy in the produce section. I guess I have to take a deep breath and roll with it. There’s a lot we all have to roll with. I’m not an avid gardener anyway but I did love how the bush beans grew last year and fed us all summer long, planted in succession.

I’ve emerged, at least for now, from the hopeless/helpless place I’d been in last week. I decided to curb my drinking habits, which had become something of a crutch a couple weeks ago that collapsed under my own weight and fed my sad monster. I’m going to need all my available faculties to get to the next day and the next one, not fall victim to laziness or inflamed feeling, already tender. So, cutting back. It’s been pretty easy so far.

Meanwhile, there are important issues to focus my anger and intention towards when it rears up—an endless stream, most recently; Pence not wearing a mask when he visited the Mayo Clinic in Rochester MN, Trump suggesting ultra violate rays and disinfectant injections as a cure and then later saying he was being sarcastic (!**/?!#@%!!?), joining up with Stacy Abrams out of GA and the Fair Fight organization to protect our voting rights and democracy in the upcoming election. I also watched (Michael Moore presents) Planet of the Humans written/directed by Jeff Gibbs. Warning: brutal, informative, a li’l craycray (fact checking review here as ballast).

Also, watched a Frontline piece on Amazon’s Jeff Bezos. What a supreme, soulless dick! Yikes! I knew, kinda, but have never gone in for the longer story. I know—it would be difficult for some, because—so convenient—but what if we just stopped ordering from that megalomaniac, ceased to fill the pockets of the richest man in the world whose mistreatment of his workers is legendary? He would be the best first place to start reorienting our rote thinking about capitalism. Done with him.

What if we supported our local stores, local restaurant take-out, local clothing and sundries stores (most sell online now) or shopped directly to companies online instead of going through the infamous Amazon? What if we used this time to begin to unhook from the corporate rank and file consumerism we have all been brainwashed with, and started supporting each other and small businesses? Hearing that Tyson is suffering an enormous rise in workers infected with Covid due to cramped and unsafe working conditions (!!!) what if we supported local co-ops even part of the time? I know they are a little more expensive, but if you go local and not Whole Foods, you’ll do better. I did hear that Farmers Markets may open soon and those offer the most affordable options to Cub or Rainbow. I’ve lived and shopped this way for a long time and never made much money so I’m just sayin’, you actually can afford it.

Every time we spend our money, we are casting a vote, so this is a good time to explore and support the neighborhood both near us and small companies online instead of supporting the giant corporate machine. They are not helping us as much as they make it appear. Other than Costco (my only big box store), who pay their workers a living wage with good benefits and safe work environments (in addition to offering remarkable dry goods, produce, meats and cheeses, the rest are forever off my list. They offer so many organic options and I save so much $$ there. I admit, it’s not much fun to go there—especially right now in terms of exposure—but when I’m out of paper towels and coffee or need a bag of lemons for $6 and organic ground beef, they are my go-to.

This week’s movie recommendations. Kitty brought The Midnight Gospel, an animated, spirited, crazy, philosophical ride on the human condition from the makers of Adventure Time. You don’t have to be a Dylan fan to enjoy No Direction Home, a documentary that centers on Dylan’s trajectory (copious interview time with him and others around him) from late 50′s-70′s and beyond. If that’s not your cup of tea, check out Ricky Gervais’ AfterLife in which he deals with the fallout of grieving his beloved wife in that sweet/irreverent way he is known for—the second season now available. Also, Devs (recommended by Al Church) is really good, but if you can’t do violence, steer clear. All of these are streaming on Netflix.

Last post, I was thinking hard about employing more acceptance and open-mindedness. I’m still there and working on it as I wrestle my uncaged sometimes savage emotions. I check in on many of you via our only source of communication and it seems we are all on the same rollercoaster. It’s a rough ride—hang on and, when you’re fed up or feel brave or are awash in a weird kind of joy, raise your hands off the bar and into the air.

While we may be isolated, we are not alone.

Lovelove.

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ebenvt · 4 years

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Protein Functionality, the Bind Index and the Early History of Meat Extenders in America

Eben van Tonder 10 April 2020

Introduction

In the meat industry in most parts of the world, it is customary to use non-meat ingredients in meat products, especially in comminuted sausages and lunch loaves. I know that here in Southern Africa, the indigenous tribes have been using ground peanuts (and presumably other groundnuts) as meat extenders for millennia before any European settler arrived here.

I can only imagine that this must have been the case with primitive people around the world wherever there was a shortage of meat.

Who popularised this in the West is a question that intrigued me. Off the bat, as one can imagine, these non-meat ingredients were probably introduced in countries where food scarcity was common or in times when food shortages forced humans to “stretch” the little meat they could get their hands on, such as during times of war. In this article we briefly introduce the functionality of meat protein and ask if we can identify such a movement with the inclusion of meat extenders or replacers to pure meat in America during one of the major wars they were involved in. The two prime candidates must surely be the two world wars and especially the second when huge food shortages were experienced in America and around the world.

The Functionality of Meat Proteins

The first question is if meat protein on its own is not sufficient to bind comminuted meat in sausages and lunch loaves. Can a stable emulsion be formed without the use of non-meat additives such as soya isolates and concentrates and the use of different stratches either as emulsifiers or stabilisers? This includes the use of bulking agents such as rusk, which is in reality a meat extender. This is a level of detail that I was hoping to get into a bit later in a subsequent article, but it explains my point, namely that meat proteins on their own, they have the ability to bind meat extremely well, depending on the muscle and the animal species.

Generally speaking, you will see from what follows that beef meat protein in general provides the best bind and pork, less so due to the higher fat percentage which interferes in binding, especially in emulsions.

There is a major difference between the functionality of different muscle groups in pork and even between different animals. The sausage producer is interested in how these different proteins bind. We therefore present the concept of a “bind constant” (functionality coefficient) that was developed to measure this and a “least-cost formulation” (linear programming) computer program to manipulate the model and minimize cost.

The man who pioneered the large-scale use of these technologies is Robert L. Saffle, during his tenure at the University of Georgia. He did not invent any of the techniques, but was the one man responsible for propagating its use. He also standardized their use, documented their workability and educated and encouraged processors to use it.

He was very successful at this and largely due to his work, meat processors throughout the world recognize the word “bind” as having the basic meaning of the capability of meat to bind the sausage together. The value is referred to as the “bind constant,” “bind value” or “bind index.”

Proximate Analysis and Functional Indices of Various Meat Materials

What follows is a compilation of all meats tested by Saffle and his co-workers, in particular John A. Carpenter at the University of Georgia. It gives the proximate analyses and average measured bind/colour indices. I included the bind index values in the first column because I wanted to show them in descending order and I separated it for different species.

Compiled by J. Carpenter, R. Saffle, H. Ockerman, Anderson & Bell and slightly modified by myself.

When you look at pork, the highest bind value is from the shoulder muscle. The blade is from the lower shoulder.

Blade Bone source: https://www.turnerandgeorge.co.uk/pork-blade.html

History of Meat Binding

Labudde and Lanier (1955) put a date to the recognition of when differences in binding quality between different meat cuts were recognised when they say, “It was well recognized by the 1950s that certain kinds of meats bound the comminuted sausage more tightly together than other kinds of meats.” I wonder what my friends in Germany would say about this statement. I believe it was recognised probably hundreds of years before the 1950s.

They accurately report on early classification of meat binding ability. “Cuts of meat were classified into gross categories, such as good binders (bull meat, cow meat), poor binders (hearts, cheeks, fat meat) and fillers (lips, tripe, stomachs)” They are correct when they state that “sufficient lean meat of good “bind” was known to be needed to make the meat paste hold together during cooking and to develop a minimum acceptable level of firmness at the end.” (Labudde and Lanier, 1995) This is my main thesis! The question is how and when did this change?

Dr. Francois Mellett, who was trained in Germany (did his doctorate in German) and who trained German butchers in the Master program, tells me they don’t work with startches in sausage making in Germany. At least, not when he studied there. Another German Master Butcher, Gero Lutge tells me that his dad, who was also a master butcher, used no extenders and that it is not very common in Germany. It was actually these two comments that set me on this journey to unravel what is going on. The German, and I assume, Central, North and East European traditions all concur on this point in stark contrast to the rest of the world where it became the norm to use stabilizers and emulsifiers (extenders) in sausage production.

The matter becomes wonderfully complex because it addresses matters like affordability and the quality of raw material, but what a journey!

There is a personal preference that creeps in here. I am personally not thrilled with non-meat additives to the meat I eat. Using meat replacers and additives is something I do as a meat producer, but I am not happy about it and I try, wherever possible, to rely on equipment and its proper handling together with a thorough understanding of meat to drive our innovations and not, in the first place, reach for the handbook of non-meat extenders and substitutes. This is a grave mistake.

This is another personal reason for this study. I want to be very clear in my mind on what is the best way to use equipment to allow the meat itself to do the bulk of the work.

I am a severe asthma sufferer. A specialist asked me one day if I religiously use the best medication to keep the condition under control to which I responded in the affirmative. To my surprise, he was not happy with that answer. Any chemical you put in your body, no matter how serious a condition you are trying to manage, is always a bad thing. He encouraged me to continually try and develop an alternative, more natural way of managing the condition. He even suggested that I try to reduce my reliance on medication. He suggested that I should determine when I can control the symptoms without medication and when I can no longer do that and I must rely more heavily on medication. Over the years, I have headed his advice to great benefit.

Most of the additives we are talking to in the meat are natural products themselves, which is why it is allowed, but the principle remains the same.

Before anything became “industrial”, it was first used in the home and meat and meat production is a prime example.

-> Home use of Binders

As every major industry we have today, it all started in the home. The following Q & A appeared in an American newspaper in 1950. Mrs GRH wrote in with a question about her meat loaf that is not sticking together.

Reference: Courier Post (Camden, New Jersey), Thu, Aug, 17, 1950

The advice from the chef is that Mrs. Mrs GRH either did not use a binder or used too little of it. The binders they suggest she should have used are thick white sauce, bread crumbs with a liquid, cooked rice and/or mashed potatoes. They suggested “good old fashion kneading.” Lean meat, 2 pounds, is suggested and add 4 tablespoons of flour, 1½ cups of milk and 1 cup of soft bread crumbs or mashed potatoes. They suggest two kinds of ground meat for flavour (beef and pork). As we have learned, beef added to the pork would also enhance the binding. Dice and fry ¼ pound of mildly salted pork till it is crisp and light brown, and add it for flavour, as show-pieces and mouth feel. The celery, onions and other seasoning is cooked in the salt pork dropping to develop the flavour.

This “home-level-technology” of binders, how long has this been part of the human cultural and technological matrix? One will have to survey its prevalence in cookbooks since the time of the writing of the first one. I had a look at references in the “First American Cookbook” published in 1796 by Amelia Simmons.

Several interesting things catch your eye as you work through this historical document. For starters, there are no sausages. Second, the use of binders is used widely, especially grated bread, butter and eggs. In her stew pie she uses a shoulder of veal, slices of raw salted pork and half a pound of butter. It’s not our focus here but note the common use of veal. I find the same in German cookbooks of this time. Her turkey stuffing calls for grated wheat loaf, butter, finely chopped salted pork and eggs. For meatballs she uses veal, grated bread, salted pork.

-> Meat Binders for Industry (presumably for sausages)

The article below testifies to the use of binders in making hamburgers

Battle Creek Enquirer (Battle Creek, Michigan), Fri, Jan 30, 1948

I am not sure exactly what the advertisement above is saying. Is the Ground Beef Chuck the binder? In which case they are advertising the use of a cheaper meat cut (chuck) to use for hamburger patties, which is better than using other binders (non-meat). Either way, it shows the “hot topic” during World War II when severe food shortages impacted the world at large, including America. More about this later. (I assume Binders is not the surname of the well-known meat processor of this time, R. Binder Co., because as far as I can see he always spelled his name, when used in this way, with an apostrophe “s”. It could have been a typing error when the newspaper did the typesetting 🙂 )

-> List of Newspaper References with the word “meat binder”

The Second World War was from 1939 to 1945. Severe food shortages occurred during the war, but especially towards the end.

From 1946

Reference: Marysville Journal Tribune Mon, Aug 26, 1946.

To ease the shortage of bread, they recommended housewives to substitute bread with potatoes. This includes potatoes as binder.

Reference: The Record Thu, Jul 11, 1946

From 1944

Reference: The Chillicothe Constitution Tribune, Thu, Dec 7, 1944

From 1943 (two months before the start of the War)

The term “Meat Extenders” was used synonymously with “Binder”.

Reference: Chattanooga, Daily, Times, Fri, Jun 25, 1943

Pre-1943 references to Binders

Reference: Abbeville Progress, Sat, Feb 10, 1940

There are several pre-1943 references to meat binders, but all of them refer to butchers’ twine. The one I give above is the least clear, but it is easy to see how the reference is not to binders as we are discussing here.

From 1974

By the 1970s, meat binders were being discussed as part of the American meat landscape. The article below is a good case in point.

Reference: Fort Worth Star Telegram, Thu, Aug, 22, 1974

The Crucial Year of 1943

The watershed year for the introduction of meat binders and extenders into the USA seems to have been 1943. Here is an article from that year when a group of women belonged to the Matoy Home Demonstration Club. These clubs (also known as homemaker clubs, home bureaus or home advisory groups) were a program of the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s Cooperative Extension Service, which had the goal of teaching farm women in rural America better methods for getting their work done. This meeting, crucially during the war, was probably arranged to introduce ways to deal with wartime food shortages.

Reference: Durant Weekly News (Durant, Oklahoma), Fri, Jul 23, 1943

Other clubs received training on meat substitutes and extenders during the same time. Interesting – the fact that meat extenders and substitutes were used in the same sentence.

Reference: Duran, Weekly News, Fri, Jul 23, 1943

They held yet another club where Miss Pearl Winterveld was doing the demonstrations during this time.

Reference: Durant Weekly News, Fri, Jul 23, 1943

Another club where Miss Pearl was doing her magic reported on their training.

Reference: Durant Weekly News, Fri, Jul_23, 1943

Another two clubs reported demonstrations for meat extenders and meat substitutes in the same publication. This is remarkable! The photo below, courtesy of the Cornell University Library – shows a meat canning demonstration at a meeting of the Akron Home Economics Club on December 19, 1916.

Meat canning demonstration at a meeting of the Akron Home Economics Club on December 19, 1916 from the Cornell University Library.

The Alexander City Outlook from Alabama reported in 1944 several demonstrations along the same line as listed above at Home Demonstration Clubs. The Dadaville Record, also from Alabama, reported similarly on demonstrations of meat extenders and meat replacers in that same year at various club meetings.

By 1946 American soldiers started to return from Europe and clubs continued to spread the “gospel of meat extenders and meat replacers”. In Alabama, the Wetumka Herald of 31 October 1846 reported along exactly the same as in 1943, 1944 and 1945 that demonstrations through the clubs were held at 6 locations.

What were these meat extenders and binders?

An article from 27 March 1943 gives us the detail of what was being demonstrated to the American housewife following that same year.

Reference: The Salt Lake Tribune Sat, Mar 27, 1943

The author emphasises the fact that knowledge is required to use these meat extenders. He mentions that meat extenders were, at the time of writing, already a household name in America. Still, I suspect that it did not extend much further back then, the beginning of the war, and it could not have been generally true if one takes into account the enormous effort that it took to spread the gospel of meat extenders following 1943.

Anyone wondering if the meat extenders included some magical products such as was developed by Carl Lindegren with his wife Gertrude Lindegren and reported on by the same newspaper in August of the same year when he boldly claimed that through yeast cell technology, they were able to produce “synthetic meat” – if you are expecting this, you are mistaken. The meat extenders that was introduced to America was exactly what we still use today. The key was vegetable sources of protein which included legumes, nuts, cereals, vegetables, and wheat. Soya was identified as having the highest protein value. To the housewife this gave them the option to use dried beans and peas, cooked rice, macaroni and other cooked pastes, nuts and nut butters, fresh or canned peas, corn or lima beans, potatoes, wheat flours, bread and crackers.

If the housewife used extenders with incomplete proteins, it was widely suggested in several newspaper reports to add to the diet elements with essential amino acids. They suggest that they add eggs and milk products to their diet (which are binders in their own right).

Reference: The Morning News Wed, Feb 17, 1943

The drive for meat extenders was directly related to the food shortages as a result of the war. Brands such as Kellog’s All Bran which is a household name to this day, were marketed as meat extenders.

Reference: Council Bluffs Nonpareil, Fri Mar 16, 1945

Summary

The evangelists of meat extenders and replacers in the USA, from 1943 onwards, were the US Department of Agriculture through their program of Home Demonstration Clubs. It is then because of the war that meat extenders are commonplace in a large part of the world, including South Africa. I remember a story told by a South African meat master in his own right, Roy Oliver, whose memories goes back to the 1960s, that academics from meat science institutes in the USA regularly visited South Africa and encouraged industry to use meat binders, extenders and emulsifiers on an industrial scale. They would send him various starches and soya products to work with and call him weekly to check on his progress, particularly taking note of the inclusion of these various emulsifiers and stabilisers. He had to test this in meat emulsions made in the bowl cutter.

This in and off itself is an important historical clue as I suspect that South Africa was easier to access for many of these academics from the USA because of our historical close relationship with one country in the region I suspect was initially responsible for using serials, grains etc. in meat emulsions, namely Russia.

This sets up the subject of our next article!

References

Foegeding, A. A.. 1988. Gelation In Meat Batters. Paper presented at a conference.

Labudde, R. A., Lanier, T.. 1995. Protein Functionality and Development. American Meat Science Association.

Simmons, A.. 1796. The first American Cookbook. Dover Publications. New York.

Abbeville Progress, Sat, Feb 10, 1940

Battle Creek Enquirer (Battle Creek, Michigan), Fri, Jan 30, 1948

The Chillicothe Constitution Tribune, Thu, Dec 7, 1944

Chattanooga, Daily, Times, Fri, Jun 25, 1943

Council Bluffs Nonpareil, Fri Mar 16, 1945

Courier Post (Camden, New Jersey), Thu, Aug, 17, 1950

Durant Weekly News (Durant, Oklahoma), Fri, Jul 23, 1943

Fort Worth Star Telegram, Thu, Aug, 22, 1974

Marysville Journal Tribune Mon, Aug 26, 1946.

The Morning News Wed, Feb 17, 1943

The Record Thu, Jul 11, 1946

The Salt Lake Tribune Sat, Mar 27, 1943

http://www.fao.org/3/x6556e/x6556e07.htm

Protein Functionality, the Bind Index and the Early History of Meat Extenders in America Protein Functionality, the Bind Index and the Early History of Meat Extenders in America Eben van Tonder…

#Bind Index #Meat Emulsifiers #meat emulsion #Meat Extenders #Protein Functionality

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