#same drip and all that but somehow became british

[pybun]

medic team fortress 2 has been invited to the apex games

[theohonohan]

...and he built a crooked house

Barnabas Calder’s book Raw Concrete deals with the brutalist architecture of substantial British buildings of the 60s and 70s—housing and other institutional buildings, for the most part. But it starts with a description of the author’s pilgrimage to Hermit’s Castle, near Achmelvich on the Atlantic Coast of the Scottish highlands. Built in 1955 by an unknown young architect called David Scott, with his own hands, the so-called castle is a perplexing example with which to start the book. Expressive and irrational, it exists outside of the canon of architecture, and can be seen as a raw exercise of the young architect’s causal powers, uncontaminated by considerations of prestige or professional acceptance. No divine inspiration or sacred purpose appears to have been behind the construction: he built it over a period of six months, and then immediately left the area for good. We don’t know whether he considered the concrete structure to be an achievement or a failure. It seems that he was somehow possessed with a mania for concrete, and built, concerned with the process rather than product, drawing all of his materials (except for Portland cement) and possibly his inspiration from the barren landscape. Solitude, monomania, the monolithic in-situ mixing, pouring, dripping, concrete event: this is closer to fetishistic sculpture than it is to architecture. As Vasari put it, an artist can be distinguished by invention “facile and peculiar to himself”. Scott’s personal folly contained only space for one person; once he departed, it became redundant. There is a crassness to this gesture of leaving behind a pile of useless concrete for others to deal with. 

It seems fair to disqualify Hermit’s Castle from the category of architecture because it lacks organisation; perhaps it is inhabitable (though I am not sure how well the fireplace functions) but it lacks the coherence and consistency that are essential to all architecture. It was neither consecrated as some kind of hermitage nor sanctioned as a real dwelling; although, as Calder observes, its function is absolutely fixed by the solidity of its concrete walls, it is not dedicated to any purpose. In the history of brutalist architecture, the problematic adjective “bloody-minded” recurs. The notion that the architect is being awkward, obdurate, and producing buildings that reflect the same mood, has never seemed accurate to me. Though the (in my opinion bad) brutalist architect Owen Luder claimed to believe that his buildings could speak, they would say “sod you”, this seems to compound the misunderstanding that the term brutalism caused. As Calder records, Denys Lasdun (a much better architect) was unhappy with the label brutalist. His buildings seem to me instead to reflect a cosmopolitan broadmindedness—hardwearing, perhaps, but cultured and democratic. Brutalism names a felt desire to épater les bourgeois, 'a brick-bat flung in the public's face’ (Reyner Banham) but the intention was to open minds and make an architecture worthy of the circumstances in which it was created. It is difficult to look at the Hermit’s Castle and detect any political affiliation inscribed in its constructional details. It is painterly, perhaps casual, “informal” like the art of the time, but ultimately just one man’s self-expression.

T.H. White wrote a book for children called The Master, which was  published in 1957. It describes the operations of the titular proto-Bond-supervillain, who has hollowed out the islet of Rockall, far out in the Atlantic. His plan for world domination is to use sci-fi vibrator units pointing outward from Rockall to incapacitate the whole of Europe and America. It’s not a particularly good book, but it comes to mind for its combination of megalomania, remoteness, and the basic problem of creating inhabitable space in extremely inhospitable conditions. As in the case of Bond villains, the scale of the operation, and how it has been built up, is not fully explained. Did the Master have an architect?

The quiet, clean, warm and dry interior of his Rockall is an intriguing image. The rock has been crammed with equipment and accommodation, but remains disguised, like Tracy Island or any other classic Volcano Lair.

David Scott was not a villain, though he built a crooked house for himself. His labour in building the Hermit’s Castle was presumably not alienated from his own objective—he was working for himself on a project of his own devising. It must have been hard work, much more akin (obviously) to a building site than to the quiet cleanliness of an architect’s office. The brutalist impulse to build in an unsoftened, direct way must have something to do with the founding trauma of architecture. As soon as the profession of architect emerged, the two key places of the construction process, the building site and the drawing table, started to drift apart. The exaggeratedly rough and tough credentials of brutalism can be seen as attempt by architects to reclaim the immediacy of the building site—which is not so far away from what happened at Hermit’s Castle. But Hermit’s Castle is not a success story, and there is good reason to doubt the authenticity of the brutalist impulse. Calder describes the corruption and greed of developers the 70s. Brutalism claimed at first to be concerned with truth to materials, but evolved into a style like any other—a wasteful style and one that was imposed thoughtlessly. 

Perhaps the way to think about this is to consider whether it matters that David Scott’s concrete folly is robust; whether it is sincere. It may genuinely be these things, while still being an eyesore. It maybe an unimpeachably “straight shot” at elemental architecture that still misses its target. Like the brutalist buildings of the 60s and 70s, it falls into the category of relics, some beautiful, some grim, some adaptable, some unusable.

[arcadianstuff]

“Your cat wears glasses ?”

After a long shift in the local diner you come across a young man and cat. There’s more to both tbanappears the eye but the same could also be said about you.

—————————

“Another day, another night where I finish half an hour later than I should. Damn it.”

Alone in the now closed diner, you grumbled away to yourself cleaning up the various messes from spilled coffee to napkins on the floor.

It had been a long day, for some reason the diner was super busy today and after waitressing for ten hours, putting up with rude customers and Jerry the grumpy chef you just wanted to snuggle up in bed.

“That’s it. All done.”

Triumphantly you wiped the back of your hand along your forehead, sweating slightly from the hard work. Finally, you were done and now you could hang up your apron grab your coat and brave the dark cold night.

Unlike many of the residents in Arcadia, you knew what really lurked in the darkness, around corners and within the shadows. The giant ancient trolls, pesky goblins, changelings, it sounded like something out of The Hobbit or Harry Potter.

A cool breeze sent shivers up your spine as you hastily made your way across the silent sleeping town of Arcadia causing you to tug your jacket closer.

Streetlights and Neón signs from stores provided the only light in the area and sadly blocked out the full view of the stars.

One sign caught your attention, the bright glow of the violet neon lights drew you in for some reason. A certain energy cold be felt resonating from the store, a quiet hum of power that startled you.

You’d lived here for three years now and not once had you felt the presence of another like you. But now this pulse of magic was unmistakable, it made the tips of your fingers tingle with power.

Taking hesitant steps towards the store you pressed your hands up against the glass trying to glimpse in. At an hour like this the store was obviously closed but one light at the back remained on and you could make out a few objects, mainly books, a few little trinkets. Had you never noticed this bookstore before ? Clearly not.

“Meow.”

The unexpected sound sent you docketing in the air, leg flying in a kick as you let out a fearful shriek

“Holy fudgeknuckles !”

The next thing you knew a small black cat stood in front of you, clearly the cause of the noise. One of his paws was raised as if to wave and say hello.

But there was something weird about the cat. Something really weird.... it was wearing a large goofy pair of owl like spectacles.

“Why the hell are you wearing glasses ?”

Slowly, you made your way towards the cat who sat on his behind legs and locked eyes with you.

“Well I can’t see without them so.”

In a rather snooty voice for a cat, he spoke and made a point of adjusting the glasses on his tiny pink nose.

“Of course. Of course that’s why you’re wearing them. Short sighted cat needs glasses yep seems legit....”

Giggling nervously you felt your mind spin as you stared at the strange creature before you who was clearly no ordinary cat.

“Well I should be going now. Douxie will be looking for me.”

The name struck a cord within you. Douxie...where has you heard that before. Just as you’re mind was starting to spin like a teacup ride at the fair you heard a grumpy... British ? Voice sounding from down the street.

“Archie, come on man I want to go home I’m exhausted after cleaning up all day. I swear why won’t Merlín give me more tasks than just sweeping. After a Millenium of doing it in starting to get rightly pissed off........you’re not my familiar....”

A boy stood in front of you, no older than you rocking a very punk look: dark hair with blue tips, skull T-shirt, skull necklace and skull belt... dude was definitely going with a theme.

“Uh yeah I’m definitely not your familiar...”

Finally, it clicked in your head what was going on. The talking glass wearing snooty cat was a familiar, a wizards assist or “associate”... Meaning the boy in front of you must be a wizard. You wondered why it had taken you so longer to figure it out. Probably just because you’d never enter an actual wizard before.

“So.....this is awkward.”

Scratching his head nervously, the guy looked at you, takin in you slightly tired and dishevelled appearance. But when he focused on you a little bit harder he could sense something strange....and very powerful resonating within you. It startled him. On the outside you seemed harmless, cute, but harmless. Yet he could feel this tsunami of power within you.

“So I guess you’re a wizard ?”

Your out of the blue question took Douxie right by surprise his eyes widneining and sweat starting to drip down his back under his hoodie as he gulped.

“Ummmmmm no ? I mean no ! I’m just a college guy working three part time jobs cause nobody tips we’ll in this town.”

When he got nervous and felt like he was trapped Douxie sometimes rambled, a bad habit of his that he’d had even when he lived in Camelot.

“No offence dude but I’ve already met your talking cat who also wears glasses because that’s a thing. “

‘Crap’ Douxie thought, he could use magic on her to make her forget or freeze time or just do anything to get him out of this mess. But then again Merlín always said that magic isn’t a permissible shortcut to hard work....

You watched slightly amused at the state the boy was clearly in, he was attempting to remain cool but the twitching of his eyebrows and paling colour of his skin said otherwise.

“Look your secret is safe with me. You’re not the only one around here with....special gifts should we say.”

A mischievous glint sparkles in your eyes as you opened your palms revealing two glowing orbs of golden light that grew from your very fingertips.

The snooty cat, who you gathered was named Archie, let out a yelp of surprise and moved towards his wizard. Said wizard stood there gaping slightly, he’d known there was something special about you.

He also noticed the way the golden orbs casted a faint glow across your face, making you look ethereal.

In a flash the golden light dispelled from your palms robbing you of the glow and light it provided. You looked up slightly worried about the reaction you were going to get as you hadn’t shown anybody your powers in centuries.

Surprisingly, though the boy appeared to be flustered, a small blush spread on his cheeks and mouth agape in surprise. It was almost cute in a way.

Noticing your staring and equally pink cheeks, Douxie quickly shut his mouth and squared up, trying to hide his previous fluster. A serious look spread across his face and his eyes hardened.

“What are you ?”

The answer was....well you didn’t know what you were. You’d wondered the earth for three hundred years having one day woken up with no previous memories of how you’d ended up in what was medieval England. As time went on you’d realised there was something wrong with you. Firstly, you never ages. Somehow you always stayed eighteen years old. And secondly, you had a strange ability to control energy around you.

So yeah totally normal teenage stuff.

“How about we try, who are you ?”

In retaliation you questioned the boy, smirking slightly as he looked a little more agitated.

“I’m Douxie, and yes...I am a wizard. This is Archie my familiar. Now who are you ?”

From beside him Archie walked up to you. Yes walked. As in on his hind legs like a bi-pedal animal. And shook your hand.

“Pleased to meet you sorceress.”

It took you a back to have a cat shake your hand but you smiled awkwardly and went along with it. Looking up at Douxie you tried to gauge whether or not he was trustworthy.

He looked serious now, dark eyes like obsidian, hard and cold, but you noticed the way he let Archie sit on his shoulder, stroking him and the motion of his lips as he smiled at his familiar.

There was kindness in him.

“I’m (y/n). And I’m no sorceress....I don’t really no what I am.”

That took Douxie aback. If you weren’t a sorceress then what are you ?

“Well that’s a beautiful name (y/n). Suits you.”

Feeling more comfortable now that he could tell you weren’t a threat and he knew a little bit more about you, Douxie became a bit more like his flirty self. Still awkward but flirty.

You rolled your eyes at his flirting but your cheeks reddened, betraying your true feelings.

“So if you aren’t a sorceress then what are you (y/n) ?”

Both Archie and Douxie looked at you curiously, watching your face fall as you looked down at your shoes, eyes full of melancholy.

“I...I don’t know what I am, I just no I have this gift a-an-and I can’t age !”

Voice quaking by the end you spat out the last of your sentence a little too loudly, but it freaked you out to tell another person this. These were things you’d worked really hard to keep secret. Moving town and country every few years so people wouldn’t figure it out, changing you identity and name and appearance.

This should’ve shocked Douxie but didn’t really surprise him, it was strange you didn’t age but then again neither did he.

A comforting smile graces his lips as he approached you closer. You looked so sad your big (e/c) eyes sorrowful as you recalled your tale of woe. He wanted to show you that he’s been through the same thing and that you weren’t alone in this.

“I’m like you (y/n), well in a way. I’m a wizard and believe it or not lovely I’m 919 years old.”

Your mouth fell open at that. This boy looked barely over nineteen yet here he was claiming to be 919. Even you weren’t that old. 318 and counting actually.

Douxie smirked at your baffled expression.

“I know love, I barely look a day pass 900.”

He winked at the end of his sentence, and combined with the nickname he was using it was enough to set your cheeks aflame.

“Give or take a few.”

Archie chimed in from atop of Douxie’s shoulder before licking a paw. He appeared bored but Archie couldn’t help but notice the way his wizard companion and you were interacting with each other. Being as smart as he was he could tell that something would develop between you two.

A small smile made its way onto your lips as you looked at the grinning cat who was chuckling a little as his wizard gave him a look.

“Wow...so you’re like me ? I mean in a sense I guess...”

The realisation of what was transpiring had finally hit you. Here you were in the middle of the street on a Tuesday night in your waitress outfit with a wizard, a hot wizard, and his familiar, a cat who wore glasses.

“Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Faltering in your step slightly you felt your legs shake, suddenly uneasy as everything started becoming too much.

“Woah woah careful love.”

Douxie moved to your side quickly, Archie hopping down from his shoulder and circling you as you began to shake.

“I’m fine, it’s okay just well it’s a lot. It’s so late and I’ve just worked a back to back shift and I’m exhausted and this is all so much. I want to sleep....”

A loud yawn followed your sentence as you stumbled a little, feeling a little light headed as your exhaustion settled in.

A small chuckle escaped Douxie’s lips at the funny expression on your sleep face. For somebody he’d only known an hour or so he felt oddly close to you. Like there was this pull to you, as if he’d met you before.

“Trust me I get how tiring working back to back shifts is. In this town you need like three part time jobs to make ends meat.”

Douxie hesitated for a moment before wrapping an arm under your shoulder to help hold you up as you became dizzy and stumbled more.

You gave him a grateful smile although you were sort of freaking out that this cute strange wizard guy was holding you.

“Umm I live nearby, past Arcadia Oaks High, you wouldn’t mind just helping me there please ? I swear this is so weird I’m really tired for some reason...”

Another yawn left your mouth as your wiped at your dropping eyes. Sure you had good reason to be tired, 12 hours of work using your peers briefly and meeting a wizard and his familiar took its tool. But it felt like something was pulling you into sleep, urging you to close your eyes and enter slumber.

Douxie being the kind hearted guy that he was of course said yes. You were interesting, a magic user like himself just a little different. And he could sense there was more that you were keeping to yourself. Besides from that he also felt this pull to you, a connection. Yeah you were also cute...really cute.

“Come on love let’s get you home then. Archie mate lets help her back.”

Now in dragon form Archie flew alongside Douxie and you, hovering nearby in case many of the evils that lurked in the shadows decided to strike.

“Thanks Douxie, that’s a cute name by the way.”

A small smile rugged at your lips as you thanked him, not completely in your right mind as under normal circumstance you’d never flirt with a stranger. Let alone a stranger who’s a magical user.

Unbeknownst to the pair of you at the time, a much more magical ancient entity was at work. Fate itself appeared to be drawing you two together and form this one meeting had decided your paths should intertwine.

—————————

Will be posting more parts to this

and a few side fics exploring the readers life within Arcadia !!!

[ingek73]

1/2

The Royal KAREN Has Come Out To Play

By Irene May 28, 2020

Samir Hussein/Getty Images

The Royal KAREN Has Come Out To Play.

It’s silly season for Karens the world over. For some reason, they are everywhere. Not a day passes without some account of an entitled white woman exhibiting peak privilege, by making their own choices and then playing victim and acting a complete fool, when it doesn’t go to plan. When in full Karen mode, they are an outright danger to whoever is in their path.

They will cough or spit in your face with the hopes that you catch a virus that they may knowingly or unknowingly be carrying because, they say it’s their right to not wear a mask and you questioned it. They will call the police and put on a dramatic act to feign danger or a threat because, they expect that when the police show up, your life can literally be taken from you. They will make a huge song and dance about why your success is not worthy or deserved because, their own lives suck and they wish they were in your position.

As if we didn’t already have enough to deal with, a royal Karen said hold my coatdress. She called her royal media police, to do a number on a lady who is minding her own business, probably enjoying some avocado toast by the pool on a sunny California day. She did that because, she expects the “police” to take her side. I for one am tired of this constant scapegoating and am having no parts of this latest royal propaganda lynch mob.

Kate Middleton feels exhausted

Kate Middleton blames Meghan

Catherine The Great cover

Karen is KEEN to be ‘KWEEEN’

She wants the moon. Once upon a time, a young lady grew up in an upper- middle class family. She was fortunate to be enrolled in private school, where it is reported that, in her teen years she had a poster of a certain young prince on her wall. Harmless teenage fantasy right? What young lady doesn’t have a poster of a guy she admired? After her A-levels, this lady reportedly got admission into her dream university(Edinburgh). Around that time, it was announced that the prince she likely admired was to attend St. Andrews University, after he has taken a gap year . For reasons that still remain unclear, the young lady made an about turn, and rejected her already confirmed place at her dream university. She decided to take a gap year and apply to St. Andrews University.

Kate turned down dream college to chase William

Kate attends same college as William

It was described as a gamble, as St. Andrews had become very competitive once it was known that the young prince would be attending there. Also, the young lady wanted to be an art history major and Edinburgh’s art history program was said to be among the best in Britain.

Kate's decistion to decline admission

Kate chases William

Whether by a stroke of luck or fate, the young lady got into St. Andrews University, where she went on to become friends with said prince. The subsequently embarked on an almost decade long courtship, including a short period of separation. She was bestowed a nickname on account of the perception that, she had waited for a long while and had yet to be rewarded with the much coveted royal engagement. Wasn’t that cold, considering that after Uni, she literally put her career on hold to be available to the prince at a moment’s notice? But all is well that end well. The waiting paid off. She and the prince became affianced and subsequently married. This put her squarely in the path to be future queen consort.

Waity Katy

Tatler shades Middleton family

Riding on their wave of pre and post nuptial publicity, the lady and the prince settled into a quiet life in the countryside. The now duchess did not assume full time royal duties because, her prince was holding a ‘regular’ job and not a full-time working royal himself. Their stint in the countryside was dotted with a handful of royal engagements here and a few tours there. She even got a new nickname, Duchess Doolittle. She and her prince were described as ‘work shy’ and were under pressure to step up to the plate.

workshy William

workshy Kate Middleton

workshy William and Kate

This was all BEFORE her brother-in-law, Prince Harry met and fell in love with his then girlfriend Meghan Markle. Karen was enjoying her cushy life, with all eyes on her. Then in rolls this strong, gorgeous, and accomplished woman on her brother-in-law’s arm. Their engagement and ensuing marriage captivates the attention of the world. Together, they are dynamite. The world and its media can’t get enough of them.

Karen is ANGRY

She wants the moon, with no stars in the sky. The newest Duchess was magnetic. She seemed to just naturally ease into her duties. She exuded warmth and had an easy and natural way with people , that endeared her to them. She took on her first foreign visit to Ireland like a duck to water. Wait, who is this girl and where is her learning curve? Its four months after she became a working royal and she already has a project ready to launch? Oh no, no, no! Karen is on a mission to save Britain’s kids at a yet to be decided date but, can we just tell everyone now? I’m working too you know.

Kate's broken Britain

Meghan launches cookbook

It’s now the autumn of 2018 and the world is watching a dynamic royal couple take Oceania by storm on a packed two and a half week tour. Thick crowds, meaningful engagements, funny, heartfelt and memorable moments, captivating speeches, showstopping fashion. It’s all a bit much for Karen, and this time Kevin, and they have taken notice. Something must be done. “Kenablers” in the Kingdom concur. Before the couple could wrap their tour, the palace all of a sudden developed a curious plumbing issue. Drip, drip, drip… “ Meghan made Kate Cry”, “Meghan was rude to Kate’s staff”, “Meghan was rude to Windsor castle staff”, “ Meghan wanted air fresheners in the church”, “ Meghan is demanding”. Thus begun an orchestrated campaign to dim the stars. It came thick and fast.

Meghan makes Kawte cry headline

smear article Meghan makes Kate cry

Kate attacks Meghan

Karen’s mother even tried throw some shade at Meghan in an interview saying, “royalty is not just about giving speeches”. Curiously though, Karen all of a sudden was delivering speeches at every turn. That is, provided she could flip the notecards quickly enough, to get to the next line. She even “designed” a garden and became a pro at climbing into tree houses and oscillating on rope swings. Every outfit change and accompanying smile became an engagement. There was even a groundbreaking log design. Whew! I tell you it’s the stuff of CEOs. Top notch executive stuff. Catapulting the British monarchy into modernity, one log at a time.

Kate's garden flower show

Harry and Meghan flower Chelsea flower show

The palace even prevented CAMFED from using pictures they took with Prince Harry the previous year. Why? It would be a tragedy if the future queen’s garden is overshadowed by Meghan. Note that, Harry and Meghan had no involvement with the CAMFED garden, and Meghan does not appear in the images in question. But that was the PR line. Meghan, who was home nursing her baby and editing British Vogue, was somehow threatening to overshadow Kate’s garden.

Through all of this, Kate’s pregnant and now post-partum sister-in-law was being raked over the coals. Mostly for things she supposedly did to Kate, or for being the source of a feud, for doing everything wrong that Kate did right and for supposedly causing war and drought among other things. Kate, despite being a self-proclaimed champion of new mothers bit her tongue and never once offered a word of support to her sister-in-law. The Kingdom was silent too.

As the year drew to a close and the Sussexes took a break from the royal Christmas to spend time in Canada, it was time for the K-team to reclaim the spotlight. At least that’s what the propaganda machine told us. It turns out that the spotlight is not just bright and shiny, it reveals things and “pigeons” like to keep things under wraps.

As it turned out, The Sussexes had decided that their family’s well-being was paramount and said, here is where we draw the line. We are out. What? What do you mean? Are we going to have to do more work? I don’t know Karen, you have the stage. For the time being, the ‘Kenablers’ told us that Karen was relieved now that Meghan had left. She now feels more relaxed that she doesn’t have to be compared to Meghan. Sure.

Kate's time to shine

Kate happy Meghan left

[daughters-and-winsisters]

Huntress- Part 21: Realignment

Sam x Daughter!Reader, takes place in S12 E21 so warning:SPOILERS

Part one Part two Part three Part four Part five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten Part Eleven Part Twelve Part Thirteen Part Fourteen Part Fifteen Part Sixteen Part Seventeen Part Eighteen Part Nineteen Part Twenty

Sam and Dean didn’t bother knocking. They swung the motel door open, distraught and desperate. Sam was quieter than usual, panicked. And Dean was angry. Since the last hunt, Y/N had been missing. They’d ran after Max to help him out and when they came back to the Impala, where Sam had last seen her, she was gone. The boys sought their Mother for help, but the motel room was empty. 

The brothers shared a look of fear. “Dean, Y/N’s gone. And now Mom’s gone…I don’t-“ “Sammy, look at me,” Dean ordered, “we’re gonna find them. We will.” Sam nodded at his brother, his phone's rings breaking the silence. “Hey Jody,” he answered, “No…no I hadn’t heard…oh God…what happened? Alright…well thanks for telling me. See ya.” “What happened?” Dean asked, picking at the pieces of paper on the desk. “Eileen…she got mauled to death by an animal, supposedly. But she wasn’t in Ireland.” “So she was running from something?” Dean said. “I guess,” Sam shrugged, “That’s like the third Hunter death in two weeks. That can’t be a coincidence.” “Well if Mom’s not on the road she’s usually bunking with the Brits, but Mick’s not answering his calls still…” “Maybe call Ketch?” Sam suggested, hating those words but knowing it was necessary. He watched Dean reluctantly take his phone, his mind elsewhere. If anything had happened to his girl…or his Mom…he wouldn’t know what to do.

“Hey Ketch it’s Dean…Winchester! Right well we’re looking for Mom, have u seen her? I’m not being rude! Listen, I don’t want a manners lesson I just wanna speak to my Mom!” he sighed angrily and hugged an, “Alright…bye.” “Any luck?” Sam asked. He was fidgeting with his phone, flipping it in his hands nervously. “Said he hasn’t heard from her in weeks,” Dean said bitterly, “but they had a case a few days back so he’s definitely lying.” “Chances are whatever’s happened to Mom has happened to Y/N.” Sam nodded.“Let’s go.”

_______________________________________________________________

Sam stared down at Eileen’s body, holding back tears. He bit his lip and looked away, down at his hands where they shook. He’d lost a friend and he was scared he’d lost a daughter. “Seven Hunter deaths.” Dean mumbled.

“And those are just the ones we know about.” Sam nodded.“So what, did monsters start working together?”

“Dean, we know that demons and monsters don’t just team up,” Sam began, starting to panic, “this is something else. No one’s heard from Mom, Cas is missing and we have no idea where the hell Y/N is! Ketch is lying to us and Mick won’t pick up the damn phone! I- I wanna punch something in the face!”

“Good,” Dean said blankly, “hold on to that. Use it.” Dean glanced at Eileen before adding, “If this is a hell hound then we know what that means.”

________________________________________________________________

You blinked awake, taking a good few seconds to gather your surroundings. It was cold. You were hooked up to some sort of IV drip looking machine, with needles jabbed into your hands. You sat up and looked about the room, immediately recognising it as Men of Letters. It was where they had attempted to realign you, where they had injected you with some sort of brainwashing fluid, only it hadn’t worked on you for reasons unknown. The room was large and circular, whitewashed walls with metallic greys to separate the clinical look. There was the bed, the machinery and the door. It was locked shut. There was also a camera in the top right corner. There were footsteps outside every now and then.Your head was aching, but you felt okay so you tore the needles from their grips in your veins, wincing a little as they came out, before tossing them aside. The door handle twisted and you adjusted so you were sat perched on the side, legs swinging beneath.

 In walked Toni. Brilliant.

“Ah, Brooks. Long time no see.” Despite the greeting she looked cold and showed no emotion, not even her usual pride. “Alright?” You said, not sure what else to say or do. She stared for a little while, so you reluctantly added, “What happened?” “You were already out cold on the grass, unconscious and ready for the taking. You could have died so really you should be thanking us.” “I could have died?” “Yes. Your brain activity was fluctuating significantly. And your heart was barely beating. So now it’s my turn to ask you, what happened?” “Why should I tell you?” You spat. Truth was, you had no idea what had happened. You’d had another wave of pain and that was all you could remember. Toni smiled ever so slightly, “Just as I suspected. You have no idea what’s happening, do you?”You examined her expression worriedly. Of course, it gave nothing away, but you were desperate for answers. “Y/N,” Toni began, folding her arms over her chest, “do you know why the realignments never worked on you? We initially thought it was genetics, but your Mother switched just fine, didn’t she?” You winced at the mention of your Mum, you didn’t like to think about what she became. “Such a shame we had to kill her,” Toni smirked, “but we had to see whether your brain would succumb if it was vulnerable. A brain in mourning, distraught and ready to be manipulated. It’s the perfect target for realignment.”

“And yet here I am.” You smiled sweetly.

“I would tell you, but I’m having far too much fun. Perhaps tomorrow, but then again…perhaps not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got your Father and Uncle to kill.” She smirked, holding her gaze with you long enough to make you look away. You hoped to God that your Dad and Uncle Dean were smart enough to know she was coming. As the door slammed shut, the handle locked into place and the light buzzed a taunting red. A scowl grew upon your face. You stood from the bed, a little unsteady, but good enough to walk. 

There was a low hum of electricity in the air, at least you thought that's what it was and they watched you through the camera with intrigue. A few hours went by and you circled the room countless times. Truth be told, you were scared. You'd forgotten what it was like to be without a family. It was too easy to be comfortably surrounded by loved one's so much so that when they are gone, even for a day, it somehow doesn't even feel real. Your feet were beginning to drag and you could no longer hear footsteps.

The hum became louder and you glanced around in attempt to locate the noise, but wherever you turned it sounded exactly the same. That was when you realised it was coming from inside your head. Thoughts were overpowered by the echoing drone that circled your mind like a vulture would it's prey. You fell to the ground when it became unbearable, letting out a grunt as you hit the cold tiles underneath your shivering body. There were voices first, loud and harsh against your ears. It was your Dad and your Uncle. You then heard the grumbling of the Impala's engine, muffled by a third voice. One you knew all too well- Toni. An image made it's way past the fog, what was this, some kind of vision?

"Why are you spying on us?" Your Dad pointed his gun at Toni, who smugly sat in the backseats, "Where the hell is Y/N? Oh, and what do you know about Eileen Leahy?" Toni's face tilted, "Who?" "Did you-" Uncle Dean paused to rephrase, "Did your people kill her?" "Probably," Toni smirked, "rule of thumb, if you think we killed someone. We probably did. Oh and speaking of, you do realise that by attacking me the British Men of Letters will come after you. No investigation or trial. Just death. Possibly, at the hands of Mary Winchester." Your Dad and Uncle shared a puzzled look. "The hell is that supposed to mean?" Uncle Dean pushed. "Your mother is our permanent guest." "So she's your prisoner?" Your Dad huffed. "Oh no Mary's joined the team!" Toni grinned. She was enjoying this way too much. "You're lying." Your Dad said. "Maybe." "Just because she worked with Ketch it doesn't mean she liked him." "Oh no I think they did a little more than work together." "What about Mick?" Your Dad asked, quick to change the subject. "Mick?" Toni was genuinely surprised by this, "Oh, Mick's dead. Was deemed too sentimental for the job. Rather like you two really. I suppose this mean's Y/N doesn't know? Can't wait to tell her we killed her own step-Dad."

Sam's face dropped, "Step-Dad?" "Oh, she hadn't told you? Mick married Rebecca almost ten years ago. Mick practically raised Y/N. Imagine," Toni laughed to herself, "that could have been you. Teaching her to walk, to talk, her first day of school, her last day of school-" "Stop it!" Your Dad shouted, making even Dean jump a little, "Where is she?" Toni stayed silent, but held her usual smug smile. "WHERE IS SHE?!" Toni leaned in very slowly, "Wouldn't you like to know?"

You gasped and coughed and held your head, hanging it over yourself as though you were ill. You felt shivery. So, on top of everything else that has happened, you can now...see things? Great. It was pretty terrifying, considering you had no control over these visions, but it made sense now, why the realignment hadn't worked on you. These powers must have stopped it in some way. You thought back to the vision and froze. Mick was dead... He was gone...Okay, so he wasn't your Dad and you didn't exactly think the world of him, but your Mum did. You knew it sounded silly, but he was almost a reminder of your Mum. And now he was gone...just like everyone else...

The door opened and there stood Ketch. You glanced at him, unsure what to do. "Brooks." He nodded. "Winchester." You corrected, glaring at him. He smiled an unreadable smile and you noticed Mary behind him. At first you were uplifted at the sight of her, but soon remembered what you'd heard. It was true. Her eyes were cold and almost void of recognition. "Get her, and we'll be on our way." Ketch ordered.

Mary did as told and headed for you. Her walk was militarian and each footstep turned the tiles into war-zones. "Get up." She ordered. "Well, aren't you going to do as Grandmother asks?" Ketch smiled. You were smart enough to wait for an escape rather than to make one, so you stood and let her grasp your arm. She tugged you along, down hallways and through doors. Doors that were once locked for her and opened for you. ________________________________________________________________

"Mary," You dared to open your mouth, wanting some kind of a reaction from her that showed recognition, "do you even know who I am?" When it had been your mother she forgot who you were. Mary didn't have that expression yet. Her eyes were cold, but they were almost resisting something, something your Mum didn't have a chance to resist. "Of course I know who you are," Mary hissed, "I'm not an idiot."

You were all stood outside the Bunker, Ketch was fiddling with the door, a few trained Men of Letters were stood around him and Mary was holding you at gunpoint. For some reason, it didn't feel as terrifying as you'd think. This wasn't the first time you'd been threatened like-so and something told you it wouldn't be your last either. The door finally opened and Ketch signalled for you all to follow, his sly gaze lingering on you. Mary grabbed you, her arm snaking round your neck and the other pressing the barrel of a gun to your temple. She had a tight grip and there was no way you were getting out of it at that moment.

You spoke up, but only so Mary could hear you, "What are we doing?" "Shut up!" She nudged the gun as a reminder and started leading you down the steps of the bunker.

"Positions everyone, Mary take Y/N round that way and don't come out until needed. If she tries to escape just shoot her. She makes good leverage, but she's not that useful." Ketch ordered. Nice to know, you thought.

Okay. Scratch not being scared because now Ketch had given it the all clear there was a very good chance that Mary would shoot you. 

Mary ducked down the steps out of site of the main room and dragged you with her, "Don't try anything." "Wouldn't dream of it, Gran." You sighed, feeling her arm tighten around your neck a little. After a few minutes of silence the bunker door re-opened and you heard Uncle De, "So, we're clear? You call Ketch and tell him if he wants to see you alive he gets his prissy ass over here."

Presumably, he was talking to Toni. You thought about that, the flashback vision thing, and wondered if you could use whatever these powers were to escape. Only, it didn't seem to be the sort of thing you could control, but rather just something that happened every now and again, whether you liked it or not.

"Interestingly, his prissy arse is already here." Ketch said in his irritatingly posh voice. You cringed and rolled your eyes, but still remained very aware of Mary's hold over you. "Lady Bevell," Ketch continued, "would you mind disarming them?" Something must have sparked at that moment as gun shots began to ring out. Cries of pain, cries for help and strangely quiet intermittent moments followed. Mary peered round the corner of the wall and you couldn't see a thing. However, in the slight loosen of the grip you seized the opportunity and ducked away, spinning on the spot and readying yourself for an attack. 

Without a moments hesitation, Mary aimed at you and fired.

________________________________________________________________ 

Dean's POV

I watched Sammy, waiting for the all-clear to go. When he gestured I looped round the back of the walls, gun at the ready. I shot one dead and kept going, ears open and eyes alert. When I saw Ketch with his back to me I raced over and snatched the gun from his grip, holding it against his temple. “Hey!" I snapped, trying to stop him from trying anything.

Sam stepped forward from the safety of the walls, still dragging Toni with him. She had a disappointed scowl on her face. "Where's Y/N? And where's our Mom?!" He demanded.

I pushed, jerking the gun on his head, "Where are they?!" Ketch did his usual smirk before he opened his mouth to start talking, but he didn't even get a word in as footsteps sounded. I glanced up to-

What?

No...

This didn't make any sense....

Mom was there, gun in hand. But she was gripping hold of Y/N as though Y/N was...one of them? Her arm was round her in the same way Sam's was around Toni. Like a kidnapping and human shield all in one. This was leverage. "Don't move." Mom said, glaring at us. I frowned and caught Y/N's gaze. She was staring right at me, trying to get across something I couldn't translate through a stare. She looked scared. Sam, who had his back to them, said "Perfect timing, Mom..." but he trailed off when he met my confused gaze, shooting a questioning frown back. When Ketch tried to duck from gunpoint, I raised the gun and said, "You heard her." "I was talking to you."

Moms' words took a second to go in. I looked at her, lost, "Mom?"

That's when I noticed the bullet wound on Y/N's shoulder, fresh blood seeping through her shirt and her limp arm. She wasn't just scared, she was hurt.

Mom fired, the bullet ringing out as it marked a hole in the wall. A deliberate miss.  In my shock, ketch leapt from gunpoint and took the guns back from me. Stumbling, I watched as Sam flinched and backed up.

"I really wouldn't move, she will shoot you." Ketch warned, pointing a gun at each of us. Mom's face was empty of emotion as she strode towards Sammy, taking the gun from him. As she did so, she let go of Y/N, practically shoving her into her Dad. Y/N winced in pain and raised her now free other hand to her wound. Sammy's eyes landed on her bloodied shoulder and I felt his guilt. “Hey, hey, you okay?” Sammy’s gentle voice consoled his kid.

Toni stepped away from us, "Mummy always was a talented hunter. Just somewhat confused about obeying orders. Only this time," Toni took a pause to look Y/N in the eye, "the treatment will work." I put two and two together and realised that must have been what happened to Y/N's Mom. Some kind of issue with this brainwashing thing...or something along those lines. God I wanted to kick all their asses for what they did to that poor kid.

 "What did you do to her?" Sam asked, nodding at Mom. I could already see him trying to come up with a cure in his head. Straight to the logistics of it, as always. He had a hand on Y/N and took a step in front of her. I was frozen.

"And I suppose you've heard," Ketch added, "American Hunters are a dying breed." Toni began to walk after him, back to her pack, but halted when he turned around, gun aimed right at her. "Where do you think you're going?" He spat. "Ketch?" The betrayal in her voice rang out. "Remember at Kendricks how they all taught us that we were expendable...that wasn't idle chat."

"Mom?" I finally stammered out, willing myself to take a step forward, "look at me. It's us...please" I felt my voice beginning to shake as she did nothing but point her guns and stare at us like you would look at a passing train that wasn't yours to catch. "Your bunker is an excellent fortress," Ketch said, ignoring me entirely, "and an even better tomb. So we've rejiggered the locks, we've shut off the water and the pumps responsible for your oxygen will run out in two...maybe three...days," he smiled, "you dying in here. It's almost...poetic."

I ran for the door the moment they’d turned their backs, racing up the steps and leaping for the handle. It wouldn't budge, but I tried again anyway. In anger I kicked at it, crying out. This can't be it. We can't die like this. Not after everything.

The lights turned to a doomsday red, the humming of the oxygen pumps lowered into reverse and I stared in dismay at the darkness of the bunker.

Part 22: Promise

Masterlist I do not own these gifs (Tag list after cut )

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[imaginepirates]

Bird

This is my first time writing for Salazar. It's based off one of my imagines about how he doesn't scare you, even in his ghostly form. Also, I'm dearly sorry to anyone who speaks Spanish.

@fablelady @bonjour-frens @mozelym

@tesserphantom

~3450 words

~~~~~~~

          The sun dipped below sea-level, leaving pink trails across the sky. You looked out over the white tiles of the roofs around you, trying to catch a glimpse of the water. A warm breeze wafted through the shutters of your room, bringing with it the sweet scents of flowers.

          Your coastal town harboured less than a thousand souls. The village mostly had its trade in the fishing industry, but there were plenty of artists and musicians about. The coast was the perfect place for inspiration.

          It was a romantic sort of a place, with pale colored houses and bright flora. You knew most of the people on your street, like the baker and the washerwomen. There was a small market with men and women who sold goods made by hand, but you only knew a few of them.

          The town was still poor. If someone wanted enough money to raise a family, they needed to sail somewhere else. Whatever they could sell at other ports, they did.

          That was how you and your father lived. He sailed off with a catch of fish and returned with money. It was good pay, but it left you alone.

          Tonight was another night by yourself. You wandered down to the docks to check if he'd returned, but there was no sign of your father's boat. He wouldn't be back in the morning, either, you knew. You checked anyway. Every morning and every night. You knew that at some point, he would return, and you'd be there waiting. You always were.

          In his absence, you cleaned the house and worked odd jobs. Some of the tasks you might have shared with your mother, but you didn't have one, so you worked alone. It didn't bother you much, but you noticed every pitying look. You didn't even have a sibling.

          Most people had known your mother before she was taken. You lived in Cuba, which was owned by the Spanish. The British tried to claim Cuba for themselves on multiple occasions. Once, a soldier had taken your mother. He could have done anything to her. She never came back.

          You hadn't known her, but the memory weighed on your father. He said you looked too much like her. He tried to be a good father to you, but you knew he couldn't look at you without seeing her. It hurt him, and it showed.

          The Brits had attacked since then, too. Once, when you were still a small child, and another time when you were older. You remembered that one, and what had happened, but you recalled feeling terror on both occasions. You didn't want to lose the only family you had left.

          The morning brought no sign of your father. You threw on a worn, rust colored dress. You liked the lace adorning the color, sleeves, and bottom. It was not by any means a nice dress, but it made you feel prettier somehow.

          The walk to the baker's was uneventful. You were to sweep the entrance room before customers got there. Then, you'd move on and see details into dresses at a seamstress'. What pay you earned, combined with your father's, would get you through the day.

          The week. The month. Until your father showed up again. You could make the money last. You only hoped he had what he needed. He wasn't so fortunate as to always have fresh food. Time at sea was unpleasant, to say the least.

          You thought of how you missed him while you worked. How you could convince him to stay home longer next time. How you could make him understand how much you wished him home.

          You walked home to do your daily chore work. You would dust, mop, and sweep. If you felt up to it, you could bake a fresh loaf of bread, but it mainly depended on how much flour you had left. Then, you'd wash your clothes. You didn't have to worry about your father's.

          Upon returning home, you sat on your bed and cracked open a book. A minute or two of reading wouldn't hurt.

          A loud sound echoed off the walls of the city, followed by a shaking. The floor to your house rattled ever so slightly. You stepped outside to peek, and you found a large hole through your neighbor's wall.

          Screams followed soon after. You knew what it meant; someone was attacking your town. Instinctually, you ran to hide inside. You climbed into a cupboard, squeezing your body in tight to fit.

          Minutes later, things went silent again. There was an eerie quality to the lack of gunfire, to the non-existent screams. You guessed people were in their homes, sobbing as softly as they could.

          You held your breath. If it was anything like the last time the British attacked, you were afraid you'd walk outside to dead bodies in the streets.

          But you didn't walk outside into anything.

You heard the door forced open and the men entering. Before you knew it, the door to the cupboard was being flung open, and you were dragged out.

          All it took was the slightest relaxation in the hand of your captor. As his grip on you loosened, you bolted. Unfortunately, there was nowhere to run. You found yourself stuck in a room with no way out.

          A figure stalked in. He was much taller than you, and he wore a faded uniform. It was as if he hadn't taken it off in years. And judging by his looks, he hadn't.

          You hadn't met any ghosts in your time, but this was what you imagined one to be. His skin was cracked like old paper, and his hair was an oily mess of black. There was a crazed look in his eye, one that told you he was not among the sane.

          And whatever blackness oozed from his body came straight from hell.

          He lurched out, black slime dripping from his coat and skin. It was like he was moving underwater; his hair floated behind him, and each step he took was jerky, like he hadn't walked in a long time.

         You had yourself pressed up against a desk. There wasn't even a window to fling yourself out of in a desperate attempt for escape. "What do you want?" You whispered.

          His hand reached toward you, and you shrunk away from his touch. "The compass." His fingers curled around a lock of your hair, and it slid over the cracked skin.

          "What compass?" You asked. You owned a compass, yes, but it wasn't of much note. You had two, actually. One was regular and pointed north, but the other was strange. You'd held it once; it was broken, but your father insisted it worked just fine. Secretly, you thought he was a little crazy.

          "We know you have it." There was a distinctive Spanish accent in his voice. It was the accent you'd grown up around your entire life. Somehow, it put you more at ease.

          "My father took both compasses with him to go sell fish. You won't find either of them here." You tried to loosen the white-knuckled grip you had around the edge of the desk, but you realized it was holding you up. The strange man was bent over you, and in leaning back to keep your distance, you had to hold onto the desk.

          "You lie," he accused.

          "I do not lie," you hissed. "You are in the wrong place. I'm sorry. Please, leave. Come back when my father is back; he might be willing to deal with you."

          The man eyed you. "Who are you? Do you not fear monsters?" Something like ink spilled from his mouth. It made you shudder.

          "You aren't the worst monsters I've seen."

          He smiled. You didn't think you'd ever want to see such a thing again. "We will see about that, niña."

          Grabbing you by the arm, he pulled you off the desk.

          "What do you think you're doing?" You screeched as he pulled you down the hall. "Let go!" You tugged at his hand, but it was futile. His grip was as hard as steel, and looking at the color of his skin, you surmised he might be made of such.

          "You're coming with me." He said it as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

          "Absolutely not! Why would you need me? I'm not a stupid compass!"

          He whirled on you, which was quite alarming given his hair. Bright eyes bored into yours. You were uncomfortable with all his men in the room watching.

           "How do I know your father will deal with me?" He stared at you, and continued when you said nothing. "I don't. I need a bargaining chip."

          You did not like the sound of that. Yet no matter how hard you struggled, his grip wouldn't break. You screamed and tore at him, but he ignored you and dragged you on. You could only imagine you were being taken to his ship, and you tried not to think of what awaited you there.

          It was so much like your mother. You became frantic, and you were embarrassed to find tears rolling off your nose. You wiped them away with your free arm. You had no intention of letting any one of the men see you as weak.

          Nobody came to help you. Everyone was boarded up inside their houses, trying to ignore the activity outside. You'd known some people your entire life, but they didn't so much as raise a finger.

          The ship looked as broken as its captain. She stood with wooden beams sticking out at odd angles, and the sails were torn to shreds. How she moved, you didn't know. You supposed the same power kept the crew moving, too.

          Though you had stopped crying, you were still afraid. The monstrous ship hulking before you was unlike any other you had seen. And to your horror, it dripped the same slime as the crew.

          There were no lifeboats on the shore when you got there. The ship waited out in the harbor without proof of anyone leaving it. Some of the men were so close to falling apart, you wondered if they were even capable of rowing an oar.

          At the edge of the water, there was a hesitation. An unspoken something that drifted through the air.

          And just like that, it vanished.

          Hands wrapped around you, and you felt yourself hoisted into the air. You gasped, and nearly puked when you noticed the slime dripping over your body. You dared not look at his face, but you knew by the sleeves of his uniform that it was the captain carrying you.

          The ocean blurred beneath you. It might have been something magical if it hadn't been terrifying. The crew could run over water, you realized. They didn't sink. Apparently, the laws of the universe didn't apply to such beings.

          You closed your eyes for only a moment before you felt yourself being let down. You were afraid that you were being dropped into the water and left to drown, but your feet caught you on solid wood.

          The captain steadied you, grabbing your shoulders to ensure you wouldn't fall. You looked out, back to your village. It stood where you had left it. The ghostly men would've had to run extremely quickly over the water to have gotten to their ship in the time they did.

          Suddenly, home seemed incredibly far away.

          When you turned again, men were already moving to grab you. You flinched away, but their hands wrapped securely around your arms, pulling you with them.

          "Who are you?" You shouted back at the captain.

          He smiled again, and you tensed. "Captain Salazar," he said, "Terror of pirates."

          "Are you dead?" You asked impulsively.

He only smiled wider. You turned away sharply, and it made you glad to be taken to the brig. There, at least, you didn't have to see the blackness dripping from his mouth.

          When Salazar felt generous, he allowed you to walk around the deck. It wasn't pleasant; the crew jeered at you, and Salazar himself made jests. He often called you a frightened little girl. It annoyed you, and it stung, but that made it no less true. You were a frightened little girl.

          You didn't dwell on it. Instead, you took what comfort you could out of the rolling sea. That was to say, the comfort was minimal. To see such an unending expanse of water, and to know you were farther from home than you'd ever been before unnerved you. And to think the waves were your father's only companion during his days.

          It was on a day when you were feeling particularly lonely and miserable that Salazar felt particularly cruel. As you avoided being hit by a pail of water, he called out.

          "Look how she flits around deck, like some bird that cannot fly. Perhaps I should take to calling you pájarita."

          The crew found humor his words, but you only felt loneliness. Pájarita. It meant both 'small bird' and 'paper bird'. The perfect word to describe you. Fragile and incapable of escape.

~~~

          Shouts echoed above you from deck. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good. You felt the ship change course dramatically. It was like the ship was turning completely around. What for, you could only guess, and your imagination was too fond of wandering down treacherous routes.

          When the cannon fire started, you screamed. You were terrified that a hole would be blown right through you. The cannons were so close. You felt them fire overhead.

          There were other screams that drowned out yours. They came not from Salazar's crew, but from whomever he fought. There was terrible shrieking followed by dull thuds, and you thought you heard men screaming for mercy.

          You were going to be sick. The smell of the brig, combined with the noise and the shock of being hit by cannon fire was too much.

          Mostly, it was the memories that hurt. And the fact that you were alone, with no semblance of comfort.

          Thankfully, it ended quickly. You sat in your cell, staring into nothingness. You vaguely wondered if you could strangle yourself on the bars to your cell.

          Footfalls echoed on the stairs, but you paid them no mind. When the door to the prisons flung open, you still didn't look up. Your cell opened, and you were dragged to your feet, but you hung limply from the hands that held you.

          Salazar studied you; you could feel his eyes. More gently than you thought possible, he laid you back down. Then, he stormed out. You only moved your eyes when he began yelling, but you couldn't imagine what about.

          He returned shortly, and when he did, he lifted you off your feet. It shocked you into changing your expression, though you couldn't convince the rest of your body to move.

          "Good." He looked down at you. "You're alive. I told them to put you in my cabin and keep an eye on you." He carried you back to his cabin and laid you on the tattered remains of a bed. "I'm glad you're not hurt."

          Glad I'm not hurt because if I was, my father wouldn't trade with you. You kept your thoughts to yourself.

          Hearing your silence, Salazar asked, "You aren't hurt, are you, pájarita?"

          He said it tenderly, as if he might actually care. You looked up at him again, staring into black eyes. They looked, to your shock, a little more sane.

          You shook your head.

          "Good."

          "Are you?" You rasped. "Hurt?"

          He stared at you a moment. "They can't hurt me."

          You nodded. Then, "Please. Please never do that again."

          "The cannons frighten you?" He wasn't mocking.

          "They remind me of darker times."

          To your utter disbelief, he set a hand on your shoulder. There was no weight to it. Perhaps he thought you were made of glass. "I'm sorry. We've all had darker times."

          From then on, you never engaged another ship. You saw many on the horizon, and the dark looks Salazar cast them, but you never got close.

          You were allowed to wander the deck. Salazar kept you in his rooms. He, for one, didn't need to sleep. Apparently, it wasn't a requirement for whatever kind of creature he was. You, however, did, and you used what was left of his bed.

          He ceased bothering you. No more taunts, no more condescending tone. It was gone, and shakily, you could rebuild some of your strength.

          The battle had left you shaken. You jumped at loud noises, you flinched when people bumped into you, and your limbs were limp. Most of all, you felt empty.

          Salazar always had you in his sights. You thought he liked keeping an eye on you. And even behind the horrid appearance, you began to catch glimpses of the man he used to be. Or so you gathered.

          He gave you as much privacy as possible while still keeping you as a sort of prisoner. You figured you didn't pose much of a threat.

          You awoke one morning to an argument outside your door. There was shouting, but the early-morning fog in your brain didn't let you process it for the longest time.

          Then, you heard it. "We should throw her overboard!"

          "She's of no use!"

          "Feed 'er to the sharks!"

          Shouting ensued. You began to grow afraid again. The crew could easily overpower you and do with you as they wished. For an awful moment, you thought Salazar might let them. No captain would risk a mutiny for some little girl.

          A voice cut through the crowd. "The girl stays here."

          Salazar nearly slammed the door as he entered your room. His room, really. There was a fire in his eyes, but it wasn't directed at you.

          "You didn't have to do that," you said. "Why?"

          "I still need you for my bargain."

          "What's the compass got to do with you?"

          "It will lead me to the man I want vengeance on most."

          "That's not how a compass works."

          "This one does."

          You hesitated. "It shows you who you most want vengeance on?"

          "It shows you what you want most."

          You felt like you'd just been slapped. What you want most. Your father... he must look at it every day. It must point somewhere he can't go, to some other continent. It must point to your mother. How hard it would be.

          "Is that really what you want most?" You whispered. "There's a different side to you, a man who wants to escape his shell."

          He glared at you through narrow eyes. "You know nothing of me."

          "I think I do." You were beginning to understand. "You wouldn't protect me if there was no goodness in you. I would still be in the brig, slumped over in my cell. Whatever this is," you waved your hands at him, "it feeds off your hate. If you let it all go, I think you'd be released."

          A sudden darkness made itself known in him. He looked at you with that gaze again, as if he were dealing with a very small child.

          "Don't. Don't you do that to me."

          If he was surprised, he didn't show it.

          Without thinking, you stepped forward. Your arms wrapped around his back of their own volition. You were short enough that your head rested on his chest. Despite the sticky quality of the action due to the black substance, the hug wasn't completely unpleasant.

          "You really aren't afraid of me, pájarita."

          And really, you weren't.

          He stepped back from you suddenly, like he'd been stung. His hands obscured his face, hiding it from you. He looked like he was in terrible pain.

          Gently, you pried his hands from his face. When he looked at you, one eye had changed. In fact, a whole section of his face had turned back into skin. You brushed over it with your fingertips.

          "You're changing me," he rasped.

          "No. You're changing you."

          "It would not have happened without you." His still flaking fingers groped at the new skin. "Stay with me, pájarita, and take this curse from me."

          You smiled sadly. "You know I can't do that." Your fingers found their way back to his face, tracing the patch of skin. He shuddered at the contact; you figured nobody had touched his skin in a long time. You almost wanted to stay. Instead, you whispered what reassurance you could.

          "But I'll be here until you take me home."

[scholarlyspidey]

Northern Downpour | Tom Holland x Reader

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

Summary: Caught out in a storm, you’re only trying to find your hotel until Prince Charming shows up to help.

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 861

A/N: This was written for mcuspidey’s writing challenge I was on holiday in Canada for two weeks and wrote nearly 7 fics and one continuing series so be prepared on Mondays and Thursdays!. I am now deceased from the sheer amount of words. Thanks @badhollandfluff for listening to me babble.

Masterlist

Google Maps: your new worst enemy.

You were only trying to get back to your hotel room when all hell broke loose. The sky ripped open and every flood you’d ever seen on TV felt like nothing compared to this downpour.

Sure, Arkansas may have lost a school bus or two with their floods, but the feeling of having every piece of clothing drenched enough to weigh you down felt far worse.

Your hair, plastered to your forehead, wasn’t helping either.

--

The rain was attacking from every direction, but even the overhangs of the buildings couldn’t save you from the impending drops. Your phone was practically dripping, drops so obtrusive your finger barely registered on the screen anymore. All your attempts to navigate your map were useless. Normally it would give you hope to see you only had five minutes left until you got to your hotel, Maps had been promising that for the past twenty minutes.

The thought of even using your phone was out of the question at this point. All you could do was put it back in your pocket and play a guessing game with the assorted street names and construction detours.

All you wanted was a trip by yourself. No parents, no friends, nobody but your carry-on.

London had been your dream since you were a child. Harry Potter was your obsession in grade school and as you grew up everything BBC wormed its way into your heart. Since then the British flag became a focal point in your room’s decoration.

However, the one thing you managed to neglect in the countless hours of research and planning was the forecast. Somehow the stereotype of London’s odious fog and rain managed to go right over your head in late-nights of stalking travel bloggers and looking up tricks for packing lightly. Meaning that the most you had in terms of rain gear was the long-sleeve shirt you’re wearing, doing nothing to stop the rainfall in the slightest.

So here you stood, entirely drowned and leaning like a lost puppy against the closest building with a canopy.

“Pardon me, miss?”

A guy with hair soaked just as much as yours was speaking loudly over the downpour. His sopping wet curls dripped over his face as his raincoat protected the rest of him.

Putting a hand up to shield your eyes you respond, “Yes?”

“Do you want my jacket? You look awfully soaked.”

He began to take it off before you could even answer. He moved closer to you without looking - or likely thinking - as he leaned in to be protected by the same canopy you stood under. Your eyes darted away embarrassed when you noticed his shirt lifted to glimpse the hint of defined abs.

“No, I’m fine!” you insist.

“Really, it’s no trouble,” he says, offering you the coat in question.

You quickly nab the raincoat and zip it up before he can rescind the offer, “Thank you so so much, I’m not from around here, not used to this weather.”

“Clearly,” he laughs in his English accent.

“Do you know the way to the Hilton?” you smile to yourself in the hopes he can do you another favor, “I tried but my stupid phone won’t work.”

His eyes seemed to grow kinder than before as he began to instruct you on the intricate twists and turns you’d need to take to get there. All the while his shirt and pants getting darker as the rain kept pouring. His hair turned to a mop as he proposed to walk you to the hotel.

He grabbed your hand to run through the red lights, tried to use a leftover newspaper to shield his head to no avail and by the end the two of you couldn’t stop laughing from the mix of adrenaline and rain happening all at once.

It was only as you two made it to the luxuriously dry lobby of the Hilton that the weather had started to let up any.

“Oh, of course,” you huff.”

Tom, as you’d learned from the journey, looked out and smiled, “Perfect timing as always.”

You both looked expectantly at one another.

A thirty-minute detour ar most with his help, but still the excursion felt like months in the making.

Feeling the plastic of the sleeve rub against your skin you remembered you were wearing his coat. He stood in front of you, teeth nearly chattering at how much he really needed any form of extra clothes.

“Trust me, you’ll need it,” he says as you begin to strip off the coat.

“But it’s yours,” you urge, “you live here, you’ll need it more than I do.”

“That depends on how long you’re staying,” he replies, a small spark in his gaze.

“Long enough for you to show me around a little,” you say, consciously moving toward him.

He leaned in, “I would love to.”

Akin to Prince Charming, he raised forward your hand and placed a peck against it, a fairytale in a moment, a story out of a day. Tom Holland has just come into your life just as Google Maps has become one of your new lovers.

@mcuspidey @badhollandfluff @peterplanet @spiderboytotherescue @fangirlwithasweettooth @peterstrainingwheels @underoos-shield

[tamedbyafox]

Aziraphale's British Bake-Off

Aziraphale doesn't own a television, but he does frequent the pastry shops of London. And a surprising number of them have been baking his old favourites. He finally notices the pattern, and finds out what - and who - caused it.

Read it on AO3 Here: X  

Or Continue Reading Below:

Aziraphale doesn’t own a television. He certainly doesn’t pay for a cable license. He knows that people watch television on their computer through streaming companies, but he doesn’t actually know how one accesses them. But, he does stay generally up to date on human news - he still likes getting the paper(s). He’ll check out the TV Guides and see what, generally is getting played nowadays, just to make sure they haven’t strayed too far into demonic territory. (Truthfully, for much of the twentieth century, some woman named Mary Whitehouse was doing quite a job trying to make television even more holy and staid than heaven would approve of.) However, most of what’s on looks like Crowley’s work and so he just goes back to reading and drinking.

So you can only imagine the shocked and excited wiggles Aziraphale exhibits when the generic little pastry shop in SoHo has a pastry he hasn’t seen in ages.

There are gorgeous little pork pies, hand raised, and the flavors are the ones he remembers from ages ago. It looks just like the ones they used to do with the little wooden dollies, pushing it up and twisting as they… he stops dead as he notices. The wooden dollies. They’re on the shelf, just behind the counter. There are three that have got flour on the handle and he’s certain the proprietor used one to shape these little packets of porcine pleasure.

Now, truly, pork pies and such had never really gone away but they hadn’t been make like this for ages, not since aluminum became cheap and tins were so easy to come by. Especially not in a standard little bakery like this one. Aziraphale thinks it “charmingly common”; by which he means this is a pastry shop that makes its living off some solid bread, the standard buns, birthday cakes, and the nostalgic fare of the current middle aged British man. Nothing as adventurous as a 100 year old pie making technique.

He buys one and revels both in the pie and in the nostalgia, the memory of this pastry from another lifetime.

Another day, another stroll through SoHo, another little pastry shop.

The kouign amann had been invented hundreds of years ago and he was quite fond of it. The perfect ratio of flour, butter, sugar to create a fluffy yet solid  and slightly crunchy cake. He had a soft spot for a more personal reason as well. When the insult “cream puff” had become popular, Aziraphale felt the sting of knowing he was, most certainly, a cream puff. But Crowley had drunkenly announced one night that if anyone knew their baked goods they’d know that Aziraphale was a kouign-amann – yes, soft and buttery and fluffy, but he had a hard shell and could probably break your teeth if you caught him on a bad day. Aziraphale had been able to find the delectable pastry on and off in more discerning bakeries in the city. But he had certainly not expected to find it in this place. It wasn’t the same pastry shop as the pork pies – but it was of a similar vein. A solid shop, nothing remarkable.

He sees the giant, classic kouign-amann – a rounded cake cut into slices that glistened in the pastry case and noticed that there were several slices already missing. Below it, there were scattered little kouign-amanns; tiny cupcake like things all pinched into a flower shape. He bought two little ones and a slice of the big one; indulging in the caramel shellac on the rich butter pastry.  He saw several more kouign-amanns over the next few months, and was thrilled the little pastry had made a comeback.

These regular strolls for pastry kept Aziraphale well updated to the changes of London. He’d noticed that lately, there were more cute little pastry shops. A veritable bakery explosion. These were ones with adventurous owners, willing to dredge up older European recipes and bring them to the forefront. He was thrilled that all of a sudden his favorites were back and people were putting modern spins on old classics. He started adding pastry shops to the list of alternative rendezvous spots for he and Crowley.

It’s during one of their ostensible meetings to discuss the end of the world, and they’re on their way to a pastry shop Aziraphale thinks quite highly of. A cute place, small and modern. The proprietor liked a soft turquoise and lilac décor, reminiscent of spring. She had set up small mismatched tables and chairs in the front of the space, and had drip coffee and tea available. She displayed her work in the usual counter-come-pastry-case, as well as refurbishing some gorgeous old bookshelves and curio cabinets as cases for her cakes and pies. It was, frankly, vaguely reminiscent of Aziraphales’ bookshop – as though it were the cute niece of a stodgy old uncle. A clear family resemblance, one might say.

 Of course, the pastries are delectable. Aziraphale wouldn’t frequent a place if the pastries were not up to snuff. But in addition, the variety of little pastries was absolutely astonishing, the flavours were inventive and novel, and the cakes are gorgeous. The owner is a lovely young woman who is kind and loves people as much as her baking. The only questionable thing is the framed artwork of Mary Berry as the Holy Mother over the cash register. But, no one is perfect, and Aziraphale can overlook a little tongue-in-cheek blasphemy for a nice hot cross bun and the gentle suggestion that the young lady give a little bit of her profit to charity. As… heavenly licensing fees, you might say.

He and Crowley are strolling down the street, yammering about something – they had started with the Anti-Christ, moved to shocking and unusual modes of death, and somehow wound up talking about the viciousness of waterfowl. Crowley is trying to come up with the details of some story as they enter, and Aziraphale has tuned him out to marvel at the pastries on serve today. There’s gorgeous mille-feuille, eclairs, profiteroles – those actually may be religieuses, good lord – assorted biscuits and fondant fancies, a Battenberg Cake, and…. No. No. That cannot be what he thinks it is.

Aziraphale stops in his tracks and throws his hand out to stop Crowley.

“Crowley!” – the angel interrupted a commentary on geese and Crowley looked around, shocked. Aziraphale, when sober, was an incredibly polite conversationalist and would only have interrupted for an emergency.

“Tell me, what do you think that is?” Aziraphale was pointing to the monstrosity in the place of honor on the cake shelf.  The light caught it and it nearly sparkled. If a cake could look proud of itself, this one would. This is the sort of cake you imagine on the table of particularly opulent minor kings; with more money than sense.

Thick discs of snow white meringue piped into intricate swirls. Glossy whipped cream peeking out between the layers.  A hint of a strawberry, hiding inside the middle layer. Dainty crystalized flowers scattered along it. It looked as light as a feather and as though if you so much as breathed on it, it would scatter like a daydream.

Crowley scowled, but visibly relaxed as he realized there wasn’t any danger. He blew a raspberry and leaned back, as if getting a wider view would help. “I don’t know, but looks like a thing you ate in Austria…ooooh, years ago.” Crowley’s “oooh” told Aziraphale he was right. This cake was ancient. Museum levels of Ancient. Impossibly ancient.

Beneath it was a little sign – Aziraphale strode up to read it, and in neat script it proclaimed “Spanische Windtorte”, underneath, in slightly smaller script, “The Fanciest Cake in Vienna”.

It came rushing back to Aziraphale. A quick trip to Austria, much like his quick pop over to France, for some miracles and some local delicacies. He had known Crowley was over in that part of the world, and they had seen each other at parties, balls held by nobles. It was the height of the Baroque period, and everything was over the top. Aziraphale remembered the opulence, the decadence, the almost tortured aspect of the era. The Catholic church had encouraged opulence as counter to growing Protestant asceticism. Aziraphale didn’t have strong opinions on the art or architecture – but the “more is more” approach to pastry suited him just fine, thank you very much.

He attended the parties for the arguable purpose of encouraging the religious fervor of the time and smattering some blessings around. The fact that his blessing rate directly correlated with the quality of the deserts was just a coincidence. The fact that he only stayed long enough to bless people if Crowley was there was, also, a coincidence. Crowley justified attending in order to push this new opulence over to outright hedonism, and because demons loved a lavish party. Crowley, however, hated parties, and would often simply stroll around causing small mischief until he figured out whether Aziraphale would show up to thwart him. If it became clear Aziraphale wasn’t coming, he would throw out one last temptation for someone to stick another bauble on a church somewhere with money they could have used to help people and call it a night.

Aziraphale hadn’t seen a Spanische Windtorte in eons. And certainly not one so well done as this. He looked over, the young woman who owned the place was helping customers and grinning. She was no more than 30, there was no way she had ever seen these in their heyday- her great  grandmother probably hadn’t even seen these. So what inspires a girl to make a fussy, difficult, ornate confection that people probably have never seen? What ancient book did she drag this out of?

Aziraphale hung back, appearing to peruse the pastry case for much longer than was necessary. He wanted the line to dwindle so he could introduce himself properly to the owner and find out more about her passion for outdated pastry. Crowley sighed as he stood by, but knew better than to try anything to hurry this up. Any infernal acts against this bakery would be met with a quick reprimand.

Finally, the shop emptied out and Aziraphale stood up primly and walked over.  Crowley followed behind him, hands in his pockets and bored look on his face. Aziraphale folded his hands in front of him as he waited, and sprinkled a little bit of a suggestion into the air – encouraged the owner to recognize him, and ask his name.

She smiled as she finished closing the cash drawer.

“Good mo- oh, hey.” She switched to a warmer, informal greeting when the suggestion took hold. “You and your friend come in quite often, but I don’t think we’ve ever actually met. I’m Lil.” She extended a hand to Aziraphale, looked down and saw the powdered sugar on it, and pulled it back quickly while flipping it up, “Sorry – baker’s life, constantly a little powdery.”

“No offense taken, my dear,” Aziraphale assured her “I am Ezra Fell, this is Anthony Crowley.” Crowley gave a nonchalant nod as the girl smiled, and Aziraphale plowed on. “Tell me, where in the world did you get the inspiration for that absolutely decadent Windtorte? I haven’t seen one of those in, oh, it feels like centuries. Long before you would have even made your first cookie.” He ended with the indulgent smile he knew people found comforting, the one that made him seem a friendly old confirmed bachelor.

Lil huffed a light laugh but looked a little confused. “You don’t know?  Ezra, you’ve tried every pastry in this case, and you’re telling me you don’t know where I saw a Spanische Windtorte?”

Aziraphale couldn’t tell if he was more offended by her presumptuous attitude or by her pronunciation of Windtorte- with an almost exaggerated accent.

“I certainly don’t, they’re quite an old dish and I haven’t seen one in some time, regardless of how many pastries I do or don’t eat.” Aziraphale drew himself up to his full height and frowned primly as he watched Lily’s eyebrows shoot up and she glanced at Crowley, trying to suss out what she had done wrong. The realization dawned on her face, and suddenly she looked contrite.

“You don’t watch the Great British Bake Off, do you? The cooking competition? I’m sorry, I just assumed anyone as interested in pastry as you are would jump at it, and that you knew it from there too! I’m so sorry, that probably seemed really rude!” She tripped over herself to apologize, and Aziraphale sensed that the exaggerated pronunciation had been a reference to a character on the show. He softened immediately, and replied “No, I don’t, I don’t own a television. More of a reader, or a listener.” Were radios still something people used? He wasn’t certain. They were listening to something all the time but he wasn’t sure what it was.

Crowley interjected “Yeah, he’s hooked on podcasts – my fault, shouldn’t have gotten him into them.” Aziraphale could hear the shit-eating grin on Crowley’s face. He knew that he probably would not like podcasts, whatever they were.

Lily turned to Aziraphale and said “You’d love it, it’s a reality show….competition, folks have to bake a three dishes every week, and they bring up a lot of older or less popular bakes. It’s been on for a few years now – and they did one a while back with a Spanische Windtorte, and I thought I’d give it a shot. That’s the first one good enough to put in the shop, they’re tricky. You should get into it! Its online now, I know Netflix has a few seasons. Enough to whet your appetite at least.”

“I don’t have Netflix either, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale knew vaguely that Netflix was a streaming service, and that “Netflix and Chill” was something indecent, but he had always classed it with the rest of the modern things he didn’t need.

Lily shook her head, “Alright, well, I think you’d really like it so if you want, I’ll give you my login. I don’t mind sharing, but only if you promise me you’re gonna watch it.” Aziraphale wasn’t sure how to handle this offer – it seemed generous and genuine, but also too much and of dubious legality.

“I’ve got one, no worries.” Crowley had jumped into the conversation, saving Aziraphale from trying to do the math on how much he could accept from this woman.

“Well, you’ll just have to bring this luddite up to speed then Anthony.” Lily smiled at Crowley, and Crowley gave a rare smile, soft and pleasant. Aziraphale was impressed that Lily had gotten that from him so quickly.

“And Ezra! Let me know who your favourite baker is!” Lily called as they left.  Aziraphale had asked for about 15 different pastries, and Lily had offered him the Windtorte, and quoted a price much below was Aziraphale knew it was worth. He told her yes, but asked if he could pick it up tomorrow, because that sort of artwork would need to be on display for a little longer in order to inspire a revival.

Aziraphale walked down the street with Crowley, musing over the show. “So tell me, dear, was that show your idea? Force fiddly, old fashioned, obscure baked goods onto the British public, punish some bakers, and see how unpleasant you can make the bakeries of the United Kingdom?”

Crowley shrugged while walking, an impressive feat; “Nah. Not entirely my doing. The idea was already there. All I did was get the ear of the folks who decide what the Technicals are. Paul’s even worse for torture than I am, I just get him information he’d never have otherwise. You figure 6000 years of time, and at least 3000 of them watching you drool over European pastries, I know what no one else does. I would know what would really hurt to make.” After a pause, he continued: “Backfired a bit though, people loved it, got into baking and started owning bakeries and bringing back lost recipes. Now baking isn’t scary and more people are spending quality time together in the kitchen.” He slipped into a sneer at the very end, like he couldn’t imagine a worse thing than increasing the amount of love-filled baked goods in the world.

Aziraphale glanced sidelong at Crowley as they walked, and recognized the indulgent exasperation there. Crowley had made the same face many years ago, in a theatre not too far from where they walked. A little miracle, just to make Aziraphale happy, was all he had asked Crowley for. Just this one play, to show Shakespeare he could do more than comedy. Crowley had gone above and beyond, knowing that a few successes would ensure that something Aziraphale loved stayed around forever. They were constantly putting on Hamlet, classic versions, modernized ones, ones with strange twists. Disney had re-done Hamlet with Lions, and a happier ending, ensuring that even children were exposed to the story of the father-avenging Danish prince. And this…Technicals business was quite similar. Crowley, who didn’t even eat and could barely be bothered to pay attention to anything but a wine list, had specifically meddled in a baking show. Seeding it with all of Aziraphales’ favourites, probably justifying a few miracles to help it take off and reach maximum frustration when people tried to recreate it at home. And instead, people had brought back all the bakes that Aziraphale had been missing. He thought about all the quaint bakeries he and Crowley had spent time in. About all the complicated, old, fiddly little pastries he had watched Aziraphale eat in the past few years.

“Well.” Aziraphale wiggled his shoulders as he stepped up onto the bottom stair to the bookshop. He looked back at Crowley. “I, for one, am quite grateful” – at his pause, Crowley started to open his mouth in protest – “that your wiles were so thoroughly thwarted.” He opened the door and gestured Crowley inside. “After you. I’ve got some lovely dessert wines in the back, if you’d set up this Bake-Off?”

Three weeks later, Aziraphale and Lily are in the back of her shop, gushing about Chetna’s Orange Savarin over a plate of éclairs. Crowley is peeking through her recipe books, trying to surreptitiously find the name of the angel’s favourite little cookie from Lebanon.

[tcm]

The Alluring Appeal of Ava Gardner by Theresa Brown

It’s here folks! One of TCM’s signature programming events and one of my favorites: Summer Under the Stars! For August, TCM features one movie star a day and programs a full 24 hours of their films. I can’t think of a better way to get a sweeping overview of a film star’s career. Let me tell you a bit about my pick.

Do you know how captivating and alluring and uniquely famous you have to be to be known by just your first name? Anyone can be a Harlow, a Barrymore, a Valentino...a Garbo! (Actually no…they can’t! ) But a first name, now that’s tough. You’d have to not be confused with anyone else sharing that same name. In the 1940’s, there was the premiere blonde, brunette and redhead of glamour girls. There was Lana, the Blonde – kittenish and cute as a Barbie doll; Rita, the Redhead – regal, aloof, drop-dead gorgeous; but for my money The Brunette of the 1940’s who beats out The Sweater Girl and The Love Goddess is AVA.

Ava Gardner was sensual, down-to-earth, edgy. She could kiss you as soon as kill you. She’d steal your man right before your very eyes by just walking into the room, and she could be heartbreakingly vulnerable. Not bad for a girl born on a tobacco farm in Grabtown, North Carolina, going barefoot much of the time. Unlike the other bombshells who were discovered in person at a soda fountain or dancing in a nightclub, circumstance has it that Ava was discovered from her photograph in the window of her brother’s-in-law photo studio. The rest is history (which you can read on TCM or in Lee Server’s biography Ava Gardner: "Love Is Nothing"). She became a star overnight...though it took Ava a good five years of ‘overnights’, lots of B pictures and two husbands (Mickey Rooney: 1942-1943 and Artie Shaw: 1945-1946) to have her first real major hit in 1946. Ava had a better and longer lasting career than Lana and Rita.

Of her films showing, the ones to particularly take note of are those coming into her own as an actress in the '50s, showing that she was not just a pretty face. I’d like to recommend a couple of her movies for you, starting with her first real big hit, THE KILLERS (’46).

It’s an iconic film noir that’s tough, complex and not at all dated. My friend says the first 12 minutes are Killer! And she’s right. Ava’s good as a femme fatale with a faux hint of damsel in distress. When she first appears in the movie, Burt Lancaster (in his first movie) sees her and is a goner. So are we. You can feel her in the room. Don’t let her hushed, whispery voice fool you. She’s no shrinking violet about to take a beatdown from her husband in front of his gang. Instead, Ava laces into him in a room FULL of men, with this threat:

“You touch me and you won’t live ‘til morning!”

I relish that moment.

In SHOWBOAT (‘51) [the Sinatra years ...], Ava plays riverboat performer and “tragic mulatto” Julie LaVerne. Those quotes are on purpose. Isn’t she really just a woman in love with a man she’ll never have, wrapped up in 19th century racial politics? We see her take the slings and arrows of trying to pass for white and by the end of her story, she’s bedraggled.

Ava’s also very good in BHOWANI JUNCTION (’56). Again playing a bi-racial woman, the film is set during the time the British are leaving India. Ava’s character doesn’t deny her dual heritage of Anglo-Indian. She is torn, though, between tradition and falling for the dashing British military soldier played by Stewart Granger. It looks like everyone else has the problem with her; she’s not fitting into any box nicely and neatly. She challenges their perceptions. She is harassed and nearly sexually assaulted because of her heritage. She doesn’t trade on her looks in this film and again, she’s a woman unlucky in love. You know what? I find these movies about interracial romance endlessly fascinating – in the many ways they keep couples FROM being together. 

Personally, I hate re-makes. So, of course it stands to reason that I love MOGAMBO (’53). (Go figure.) I think it’s cool to find Gable starring as ‘The King’ of the jungle in his second go-round with this story. He’s a man who has to choose between two women. Well, let’s say two types of women. In the original 1932 version, RED DUST, Gable is torn between the lady Astor (Mary Astor) and ‘30’s blonde bombshell Harlow. (See...that last name). By the time 1953 rolls around, John Ford directs this deepest, darkest, technicolor African safari film and Gable’s choices are between one of the 'It' girls of the ‘50's: future princess of Monaco Grace Kelly and the saucy, sassy Ava as Eloise ‘Honeybear’ Kelly. Ava’s a good-time girl with Gable...they got ‘history.’ No strings. She’s sexy, but that’s not all she shows. Ava has a scene with a baby elephant which shows off her comedic timing. And when Ava sees that Gable prefers the prim and proper blonde, we hurt for her. Ford gives us a lovely but sad moment with her on that veranda, when she drops the devil-may-care mask. I love the angry, fiery Ava...fur flying, but the heartbroken Ava tugs at you.

MOGAMBO marks Ava and Gable’s third teaming together, the others being THE HUCKSTERS (’47) and LONE STAR (’52), hence the easy breeeezy chemistry between them.

THE BAREFOOT CONTESSA (’54) is a big-budget Hollywood film where we cover the rise and fall of a small-town dancer/turned actress. As with Lana and Rita, men chased them, but I find more often than not with Ava, she does the choosing. She is the object of desire in THE BAREFOOT CONTESSA, but what these men fail to understand is you can’t control Ava; so whether you’re a millionaire playboy or a powerful movie executive as they are in this movie, she stays with you for as long as you’re not a possessive pain in the neck. She maintains her independence through each relationship. The story unfolds in flashback and we see how Ava’s Maria Vargas winds up where she does. Maria’s story reminds me a little of Ava’s real-life story; plucked from obscurity, thrown in the spotlight, not happy in relationships. It’s dawning on me that Ava’s characters do well when the man is her plaything. But let her fall in love...and it’s her undoing.

Ava and Humphrey Bogart have great chemistry here and it’s one of my favorite Bogart roles. I wish they had done more films together. But I understand the chemistry was on-camera only. Bogie was Team Sinatra in Ava’s and Frank’s turbulent years together. She and Edmond O’Brien (Academy Award-winner for his nervous and sweaty press agent he portrays in this film) appear here together for the second time. She’ll work with him a third time in 1964’s SEVEN DAYS IN MAY.

If you can only see or DVR one film of Ava’s tonight, PANDORA AND THE FLYING DUTCHMAN (‘51) is a MUST-SEE.

“I’d die for you without the least hesitation.”

Ava is at her most ravishing in her entire career in this film. Her beauty is other worldly, the screen drips with her. And who better to try and match her beauty but master cinematographer Jack Cardiff. Ava plays Pandora, a selfish girl who weaponizes her beauty. Boy oh boy, what men do for her. She's like the mythological Siren whom men are compelled by. It’s not that she sends men to their doom; they willingly leap into it. And I’m telling you, Ava works it.

In talking about this movie with my friend Wendy, she explains to me Ava’s appeal and she really helps crystallize for me just what it is about Ava. She says it better than I could:

“She is a woman who lives like a man. Ava is just so much herself in this movie. There’s no pretense. Somehow with director Albert Lewin she is relaxed and confident. And in glorious color.”

In PANDORA AND THE FLYING DUTCHMAN, Ava is headstrong, bored, looking for kicks, does what she wants; not totally uncaring but a bit careless with people; sad she can’t do anything about men falling for her. She feels nothing...until she meets a man onboard a boat who, sight unseen, has been painting her portrait. The magical realism of the film takes off. You have to see Ava hopelessly in love. You have to see this movie.

TCM’s Summer Under the Stars programming is a good way to see an actor in one fell swoop. Perhaps it’ll make you want to explore her other films. See her in EAST SIDE, WEST SIDE (‘49), ON THE BEACH (‘59) or especially her tear it up in NIGHT OF THE IGUANA (’64). But for here and now...spending all day with Ava is not a bad thing.

[anyashopgirl]

Awaking the Past - Part 1 - A big entrance

Warnings: Mild swearing, injury

Summary: Mikaela has been living two separate lives but when trouble finds them both she must decide what is more important, keeping her secrets or finding her best friend Lacey. The Winchester brothers would not have been her first choice as backup but Bobby’s orders overrule her own. Awaking the past to find Lacey could create more problems for the trio than any of them could have anticipated. Will they stand together when the time comes or with the past drive them apart. 

Word Count: 1,386

      ....................................................................................................................

“Bobby open the damn door!” She yelled through the rain clutching her side soaked from head to toe in a mixture of rain and blood. Minutes passed before a light flicked on deeper in the house, she hadn’t stopped pounding on the door the entire time. 

“Relax would yah” he is gruff voice yelled back finally fiddling with the locks till the door flung open. “It’s 3 in the morning, What do ya want?” 

“Could you move any slower old man!” She shot back.

He gawked at the girl in front of him. She was the last person he expected to see here of all places. Utterly confused he questioned if it was even her. “Mikaela?” 

She barged past him and headed straight to the kitchen dropping her jacket on the floor as she went. She hadn’t been caught by any of the devil traps on her way, yep it was definitely 100% her. She grabbed the 3/4 full bottle of whiskey from the side taking a large swig, the liquid warming her from the rain but didn’t do much for the pain. 

“You can’t just barge in here and insult me.” He shouted after her. “You're dripping all on my floor!” He added with exasperation. He turned on more lights in the house as he made his way after her. Mikaela reached up for the first aid box on top of the fridge wincing at the movement black spots dancing at the edge of her vision. 

“Wait a minute, this ain’t water. Are you bleeding?” He turned toward her concern all over his face. She chuckled lightly before taking another big swig of whiskey stumbling into the chair next to her. 

“Still as observant as ever Bobby.” She stated flatly peeling her top from her torso to assess the damage. 

He stood still frozen in the moment his brain struggling to process the scene before him. It must have been a lot to take in especially at 3 in the morning with a few to drinks in him. 

“You waiting for a formal invitation? Get over here and help me would ya” 

He shook the glazed look from his face and made his way over picking up some extra supplies as he passed one of the cupboards.

“I don’t hear from you for months and this is how you show up?” He grunted clearly irritated and she didn’t blame him but she had her reasons for radio silence. 

“You know I’ve always been one for an entrance.” Giving him a mischievous grin taking another swig from the bottle. 

He helped pull her top over her head ignoring the hisses made as they moved onto the table so she could lay flat.

“You gonna tell me what the hell happened?”

“Just stitch me up Bobby.”

“What am I dealing with here?” He asked as he wiped away as much of the blood as he could trying to see what damage was there. It was deep but wasn’t life-threatening. 

“Got shot. Suckers still in there” she winced as he started prodding around trying to ease it up to the surface. 

He tossed across a rag up to her as her cries of pain became louder and more heartbreaking. Mikaela bit down hard muffling her cries of pain when he poured the alcohol across her stomach. The fuzziness she felt before came back even stronger this time but she shook it off. The hard part hadn’t even started yet. Propping herself up on her elbows taking another large swig from the bottle before he started stitching keeping a watchful eye. Both cursed under their breathes throughout the whole process. For a long as she could remember Bobby had always hated stitching, much rather be the one being stitched. She would rather do it herself but she didn’t have a steady enough hand right now. 

Apparently, her earlier cries had been loud enough to wake up whoever else was here as footsteps and muffled sleepy grumbles come down the hall. A man rounded the corner and entered the kitchen gun in hand still half asleep. He was tall with short light brown hair, broad shoulders, great body. The black t-shirt he wore hugged every muscle perfectly his slightly loose-fitting black boxers twisted as if he had jumped out of bed in a rush and hadn’t had a chance to adjust them yet. She recognized him instantly as Dean Winchester. She should have presumed that the boys would most likely be here but whether Bobby had company or not hadn’t been high on her to think about list at the time. 

“Bobby what’s with all the yell- Uh-erm-ugh-hi” His deep gruff voice spluttered obviously not expecting the scene that was before him. Bobby sat next to Mikaela finishing up the last few stitches ignoring what was going on around him focusing hard.

“What never seen a woman in a bra before?” she quipped raising her eyebrow.

He raised on back noticing the difference in accent. British but with a hint of something else. “On one or two occasions” He smirked. “You got a name?” He questioned looking to Bobby for some kind of explanation. 

“Only if you got more whiskey.” She bargained. 

“Not the good stuff” Bobby snapped still engrossed in his stitching. 

Dean moved forward into the kitchen putting his gun down and getting another bottle of whiskey from the shelf along with three glasses although somehow he figured this mysterious girl wouldn’t be using one. He poured glasses for himself and Bobby then handed her the bottle, she immediately took a swig. 

“Mikaela, lucky ones get to call me Mick.” She smiled handing him back the bottle as he took a seat opposite. She winced again as bobby did the last couple of stitches before bandaging her up. She had enough alcohol in her system by now that she would be able to sleep as the pain had nearly faded away. The room was quiet and uncomfortable. She could feel the tension coming from Bobby and Dean's curiosity wasn’t hidden very well with his constant puzzled expression waiting patiently for some kind of explanation. It didn’t take him long to brake the silence. 

“Bobby, why do you have a half-naked girl on your table at 3 in the morning?” Dean questioned his eyes still locked on her. 

“Hell, I’d like to know the answer to that too.” He said moving away to the sink to wash the blood from his hands. 

“Well, that’s a story for another time gentlemen. Shirt” she ordered holding a hand out to Dean now fully seated upright on the kitchen table. 

He complied without hesitation pulling it up over his head and passing it across. She hadn’t expected it to be that easy. Pulling his t-shirt over her head the sweet smells filling her nostrils and slipped off the table avoiding the mess on the floor. Her head spun with the movement but she wasn’t going to show it. Slowly wriggling out if her wet jeans she let them drop to the floor stepping out of them slowly head still spinning. The hem of his shirt just grazing the bottom of her butt. 

Bobby dried his hands visibly annoyed but he knew that he would get the story out of her in the morning. As she passed him she planted a kiss on his forehead having to get on her tiptoes to do so.

“Thank you” she whispered before making her way out of the kitchen without a backward glance. 

Dean sat there eyes glued on her the entire time fascinated and intrigued. “Bobby you gonna explain?”

Bobby only grunted in frustration before he started to clean up, Dean following suit.  

Mikaela padded down the hall to the second bedroom closing the door behind her. The bed she had arrived at was messy as though someone had just been in it but was too exhausted to care at this point collapsing into the sheets, the familiar sweet smell enveloping her as a snuggled deeper into them. It was the same smell that the shirt she was wearing had telling her that it had been Dean who had been asleep here not long ago. She felt kind of guilty for steeling his bed but being shot overrules any prearranged sleeping arrangements. Plus this was her room first. 

[the-rose-clad-demon-doctor]

Here’s a short something based on the dream I had. I’d like to call it the Wallachia League AU. Just something to test if I could make it work. Hope you all enjoy! (I’ll also reblog this in the morning since it’s so late right now).

My name is Claude Grey. It was the 22nd of April, 2032.

I had to bring her coffee. That would be the seventh time that day.

        To be fair, it has been a really long day. A very long day. Her Majesty’s Loyal Peacekeeper, Sir Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing, had been overseeing one of the largest anti-terrorism crackdowns in half a decade.

        Four werewolf dens in London’s “Full Moon District” had been raided. Producing, amongst other things, forty illegal assault weapons fully-loaded with silver ammunition, a cache of explosives, illegal drugs, illegal anti-surveillance hardware, plans of attack, stakes, crosses. Including their leader, a prodigiously-tall, silver-haired and red-eyed individual who refused to speak no matter the pressure we put on him.

        I’d seen him before, both in and out of work, but I politely held my tongue at the meeting when he and his cohorts were paraded in front of the precinct. The display was all part of the farcical dog-and-pony show to make it look like the city of London, capitol of His Majesty’s great United Kingdom, actually gave two shits about the Mysticals living within her borders. Realistically speaking, these men would be quietly released in the dead of the night in about a month, sans their illegal armaments, and allowed to continue whatever they had planned so long as they don’t get caught and they don’t involve humans.

        Mysticals, of course, being the name collectively assigned by the governments of the United Nations forty years ago to refer to any and all individuals who would formerly be considered supernatural. It included, amongst others, vampires, werewolves, wraiths, zombies, fae, dryads, naiads, centaurs, kappas, djinn, selkies, cyclopes, banshees, and dullahans.

        The majority of normal humans don’t give a damn about any of them, or they favor the more “peaceful” species, the ones who don’t traditionally require feeding on humans.

        Vampires, werewolves, and all of the more “dangerous” ones in the public eye?

        They get spat on. Hated. Hunted.

        Y’know, vampires and werewolves aren’t legally allowed within two kilometers of London’s city center? And that vampire nightclubs and werewolf dens are statistically four times as likely to come under surprise inspection as any other Mystical hangout? Or that murders involving only Mysticals don’t get investigated?

        And it’s not just the United Kingdom, it’s the same everywhere, save for the countries further north. The U.S., Germany, South America. Russia’s the worst.

        Sir Integra is more level-headed than most. All she wants to do is make sure nobody blows anything up.

        So here I was, at nearly midnight, bringing coffee to a woman who’s been running off a mixture of caffeine and sheer force of will for nearly five days. The Loyal Assistant Watchdog to His Majesty’s Loyal Peacekeeper. That’s what they call me. I feel some of the respect people reserve for Sir Integra got rubbed off on me by association.

        I set the cup down on her desk, keeping a cup in my own hands. I had offered to stay behind to fill out paperwork as usual, so my day was running just as long as her own.

        “Here you are, Sir. Yemeni, two-“ I started, but she interrupted me.

        “Yes, yes, two sugars, two spoons of cream, like always. Thank you, Mr. Grey.”

        I nodded dutifully. “Sorry for the interruption, sir. I’ll get back to work.”

        And I had to. There were three three-inch-thick stacks of paperwork on my desk, only half of which had actually been completed. It was all the same paperwork, to be filled in triplicate. One hand-filled copy to be kept on-site, one hand-filled copy to be sent out to His Majesty’s government, and one hand-filled copy to be sent to the headquarters of the Royal Mail Service to be copied and distributed nationwide to all departments of the Royal Counter Mystical Terrorism Service.

        I normally listened to music when I had this much work to do, but I knew Sir Integra would take offense to that. Especially seeing as it was just us here, that evening. Any movement I made out of line would be objected to, and I hoped for a promotion in the future, so I couldn’t afford to have any blemishes on my record.

        Then my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled the thin, encased rectangle from my pocket, as slyly as possible, to see who’s bothering me. The name on the screen catches my eye.

        “Evangeline.”

        “Hm?” Sir Integra looked up from her desk. I realized I said the name out loud. “What was that, Mr. Grey?”

        “It’s a phone call, sir. My, uhhh… My girlfriend. I have to take this.”

        She visibly grimaced. “Fine, Mr. Grey. But I’ll need you to return to work the second you’re done, understood?”

        “Understood, sir.”

        I made my way out into the precinct’s hallway, away from prying ears. I answered the call, keeping my voice low.

        “Look, I’ll have to make it quick. Now what reason could you possibly have for calling me right now?”

        “Is that any way to talk to your girlfriend, Claude?” Her tone of voice was dripping with sarcasm. Her tendency to find things like that out was starting to make me nervous.

        “Okay, ‘Evangeline,’ what’s wrong?”

        She giggled softly behind the phone. “I just wanted to say sorry ahead of time, Claudey-waudey~!”

        My eyes went wide. I growled into the phone. “The fuck did you do?!”

        “You’ll find out soon enough~!” Her singsong-y voice was driving me insane. “I am sorry about all that paperwork, though.”

        “Ugh.” I hung up. The second I did, Sir Integra called me back into her office.

        Plastered all over the television was news about an attack.

        God DAMMIT.

        The Wallachian League, as they called themselves. The newest radical pro-vampire group in the country. They’d made themselves a nuisance for the past couple of years. Graffiti, hacking attempts, distributing their radical fliers amongst the various groups in London and the rest of the UK. Never had they escalated this far.

        A flaming dump truck had been sent into a house in Yorkshire. Not just any house, but the house of a Member of Parliament who was vocally anti-Mystical. The MP and his wife and children had burned alive in their beds.

        “The Wallachian League is claiming full responsibility for this.” Integra talked after minutes of silence. I sigh softly.

        “They say their leader is Dracula himself.”

        “That’s what every vampire group claims. First it was the Tepes Union, then it was the Fangs of Freedom, then it was Count-down to Equality, the ‘Royal Vampiric Rebels,’ even the… Ugh… Vita-Vegan-Vampires. More likely it’s just some overblown narcissistic vampire who sees himself as Drac’s gift to the world.”

                Things were real quiet. For about two weeks.

        Then we got the news. Somehow, someone had gotten a hold of information that the Wallachian League was planning to bomb one or more of the trains leading into one of the U.K.’s power plants. Nobody was sure which one. If it was one of the coal or biomass trains, it would start one hell of a big fire. If it was one of the nuclear trains… I sincerely hoped it wouldn’t be.

        I snuck away to the alley behind the precinct. I had a phone call to make.

        “Evangeline?” I spoke into the phone.

        “Finally worried, Claudey-waudey~?”

        “I know you’ve all been talking about this, but you’re actually going to go through with it?”

        Her voice suddenly became fully serious. The most serious I’ve ever heard her.

        “Why wouldn’t we? You know we’ve got a message to send to them. Vampires aren’t going to let humans kick us around any longer.”

        “No, it’s not that at all. Look, I know you and Lucy can hold your own, just… Please be careful, okay?”

        “The job’s done. We set it up a while ago. I’d be more worried about yourself if I were you.”

        “Wh… Fuck you say?”

        “’Lucy’ found out earlier. Peregrin told us. The Royals have been monitoring all communication in and out of the Service for a long time. They know the both of you have been keeping the heat off of us.”

        “They… They know I’ve been helping you?”

        A different voice came onto the phone. Much deeper, far more serious.

        “Yes. We’ve already extracted Peregrin from Nottinghamshire earlier today. We’re coming to get you. It’s not safe there anymore. Don’t walk. Run.”

        I could hear shouting from inside the precinct. It seemed my phone call at such an inopportune time confirmed their suspicions. I had to go.

        My car wasn’t far away, but I knew it wasn’t going to work. Parked in the small car park under the precinct, they’d lock it down before I could even get in the vehicle. I had to beat a retreat on foot.

        Well, not really a retreat.

        The moment those same shouting voices exited the building, I broke into a sprint. The fastest, nastiest sprint I’ve ever managed in my life. Sir Integra’s voice broke out amongst the crowd.

        “Grey!” Gunshots punctuated her words. “Grey, you traitorous bastard!” More gunshots. “Don’t you run!”

        That wasn’t like her. My “betrayal” had to have seriously pissed her off for the normally-calm woman to just start shooting.

        I suddenly felt a force, like somebody had kicked me in the back, shoving me to the ground. It only stalled me for a second before I was back up and moving again.

        Dodge to the left, around the bollards and cars, under signs and ladders. Bob here, weave there. Use pedestrians as cover. They’re British, they’re not going to try and stop me.

        Every so often I had to stop and let out a few vicious coughs, which I attributed to just being so unaccustomed to moving that fast for any real length of time.

        And I swear, I had to have set some sort of record for on-foot speed. There’s no way I didn’t. Sticking to the back alleyways, I managed to get out of Central London in just a few minutes, still trying to hide from the authorities. But it was getting harder to move, I just couldn’t catch my breath. As I stopped behind a skip, somewhere in one of London’s more run-down areas, I figured out why.

        Investigating the strange, warm wetness running down my back, I moved my hand there. A thick, viscous wetness.

        “Oh ssssssshhhhfuck...”

        When my hand ran up, and felt the sources, I had to bite back a scream as immense pain shot through my body.

        “No… No, no, no… Nonononofucknonono…”

        Three bullet holes. One perfectly on the right side of my body. Right in my lung. The others in random spots in my back. They had scarcely missed my spine, but who knows what poor organs they had pierced. No exit wounds. I started coughing again, mixed with a choked sob or two.

        I couldn’t die here. I just couldn’t. But I also couldn’t risk moving, not with a bullet in my lung and two more god-knows-where.

        More footsteps. Coming closer. There was a soft gasp from a very familiar voice, and a low grunt from another familiar voice.

        I didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

        “Hey, Evan… Sorry. Hey, Seras. Hey, Alucard. I got, uhh… I got a bit messed up, I’m sorry to say.” I let out a pained chuckle. It hurt to laugh.

        To be perfectly honest, I couldn’t hear what they talked about as they conversed amongst themselves. I could vaguely hear Seras’ question, but heard it better once she grabbed my shoulders to demand my attention.

        “I said…” She repeated. “Are. You. A virgin?”

        “What? Oh…” I grumbled softly. “Yeah, of course I am. I’m scarce two years out of uni. Had no time for any of that nonsense.”

        I couldn’t really think straight at the time. Blood loss will do that to a person.

        Alucard piped up, his baritone voice grabbing my attention more easily.

        “It seems you have a choice, then…” He spoke. “Death. Or undeath.”

        Looking up at him, I spoke back. “Something about a Robert Frost poem, right? Two roads diverged in a wood, I took the one less traveled, that’s made all the difference?” I pushed my cracked glasses up on my nose. “I’ll take the road less traveled if that means I get to wake up again, tomorrow.”

        The decision made, they nodded. I felt a pair of glove-covered hands grasp my head and neck, watched through the corner of my eye as Seras opened her fang-filled maw. The last thing I remembered of that day was the sensation of her fangs clamping down on my neck.

  But I woke up again, the next night.

[shutupandshipit]

Kiss me, Hardy! - oneshot

Title: Kiss me, Hardy!

Rating: T

Pairing: Klance, that is all, and not really romantic

Summary: “'Kiss me, Hardy'?” Keith finally gasped, sweat dripping down his back and off of his chin, his eyebrows smashed together.

Lance's brows followed suite, his own workout shirt drenched in sweat. “What?”

“That's what you yelled. 'Kiss me, Hardy'. What does that even mean?” Keith straightened, his arm falling to his side. He wiped at his forehead with the back of his arm, confused and irritated that he was confused.

Alternate Ending

Note: Just a "fuck it" kind of fic that has been rattling around my head after finishing Code Name Verity. Probably the dumbest thing I’ve written in awhile, tbh. So, have a fic, and I hope you enjoy it.

Disclaimer: Any quotes and descriptions from Code Name Verity belong to Elizabeth Wein.

“Kiss me, Hardy!” Lance shouted at the top of his lungs in a horribly butchered British accent as he rushed Hunk, tackling him to the floor in a heap of gasping laughter and teenage boys.

The statement was nonsensical, unrelated to the situation at hand. Keith decided it was probably just another reference he didn't understand, another black stain on the social skills of Keith Kogane, half-galra and red paladin extraordinaire. Hunk's name wasn't even Hardy! Hardy wasn't even a name where he was concerned.

This time, Lance didn't immediately launch into an explanation as he had so many times before. It probably had something to do with that fact that he was wrestling with his best friend who was at least twice his size, but somehow still winning. Pidge stood at their sides, commentating as they rolled passed her, and obviously not taking the time to explain either.

The phrase remained lodged in the back of his mind for hours, days really, just replaying over and over again. 'Kiss me, Hardy!' echoing through his memory with Lance's shout. No other references Lance had made had ever stuck to him as hard as this one had. Maybe it was the minimalism of it. Or maybe it was how out of place it felt in the moment. Or maybe it was just because of the words themselves. 'Kiss me, Hardy!' as if that were a suitable battle cry, the last desperate attempt before the end.

He wasn't sure, and that bothered him. Why would someone say that at all? Why would that be a quote from anything? Why would Lance yell it running into a play fight in the first place? The fact that he didn't understand ate at him until he finally decided to ask.

“'Kiss me, Hardy'?” Keith finally gasped, sweat dripping down his back and off of his chin, his eyebrows smashed together.

Lance's brows followed suite, his own workout shirt drenched in sweat. “What?”

“That's what you yelled. 'Kiss me, Hardy'. What does that even mean?” Keith straightened, his arm falling to his side. He wiped at his forehead with the back of his arm, confused and irritated that he was confused.

“Oh!” Lance's eyes brightened as he straightened, mimicking Keith's movements before sinking to the floor and flopping onto his back. “So, there was this book I read back on Earth. Just on a whim, you know? Trying to impress this girl who really liked to read and recommended it to me. I just thought I'd read the synopsis or something because, like, World War II? Not really in my realm of interests, but I totally got into it. Like seriously got into it. Hunk can vouch. I read it three times in the same week because I couldn't get enough. Anyway, it's about this lady pilot which was really rare back then I guess, and this lady spy which was even rarer.”

Keith listened intently as he gushed about a book that he had never heard of. Torture and shot down planes and double agents and red lipstick. He'd never read anything like what Lance was describing, something fantastical and brave. Like Lance had said, it wasn't something that was in his realm of interests either, but the more Lance spoke, the more he longed for the easy access to libraries and electronic copies of books that had been afforded to him on Earth. He hadn't been much of an avid reader while he was at the Garrison, never had the time, but once he'd gotten out... Well, there wasn't much to do in the desert when he wasn't actively searching for answers to a lost brother. He thought that perhaps this would have been a book he would have enjoyed too.

“And like, so that quote, 'Kiss me, Hardy!' is mentioned a couple times in the book. Just like 'Fly the plane, Maddie' which could totally apply to us if you changed the name. Fly the plane, Keith.” He giggled to himself quietly, amused at his own ingenuity. “That one was always to keep the pilot moving, to keep her going kind of, to focus her. At least to me. 'Kiss me, Hardy! Kiss me,quick!' is the other one that stuck with me though. It just rattled around in my brain for weeks. There's just something about it. I think it was probably what happened in the book. So, there's 'Kiss me, Hardy' and then there's 'Kiss me, Hardy! Kiss me, quick!'. That one was used just as the pilot was trying to save the spy, but they knew she wasn't going to get away. And the spy heard the pilot crying and recognized her! Imagine it! Knowing your best friend so well that you can know them just from the sound of their crying. The spy said something about best friends too. 'It's like falling in love, discovering your best friend', I think. I can attest to that. It really does feel that way. Anyway, so the spy is about to get carted off, recognizes the pilot, and yells, 'Kiss me, Hardy! Kiss me, quick!', and then...” He trailed off, staring at the ceiling solemnly.

“And then what?” Keith prompted, staring at Lance from where he'd dropped to sit crisscross beside him.

Blinking, the light came back into Lance's eyes. “You'll have to read the book for that, Keith. I'm not going to spoil everything!”

Keith threw his hands into the air. “You've spoiled everything else.”

Lance gasped dramatically, looking horribly affronted. “I would never! I'm not Pidge spoiling the end of a seven book series when I'm only on the fourth book. I've only told you the bare bones. You've got to read the book to really get the full immersive experience.”

Rolling his eyes, Keith pushed to his feet, holding out a hand to help Lance to his own. “How am I going to do that in the middle of space?”

“Pidge might be able to help,” Lance suggested, and before Keith could respond, he continued, “Now are we going to finish training or just keep yapping like pair of terriers?”

…..

Pidge could help, and she did. She had a small archive of downloaded books on her computer for whatever reason and for another reason neither of them could pinpoint, the book was shoved into the depths of her library among Physics and Astronomy textbooks and comics. “It must have been Lance,” she muttered irately as the book downloaded onto a small screen just larger than a cellphone. “I mean, I probably could have found it anyway. We managed to find that screen for the video game, so who's to say we wouldn't have found it in some weird vintage terrain bookstore. Whatever. Here you go. Have fun. It's definitely... something.”

Taking the tablet, Keith raised an eyebrow at her. “You've read it.”

“I did it to shut Lance up.”

Keith hummed his understanding, staring down at the screen with the book's cover filling the frame. “Well, thanks, Pidge. I'll get this back to you when I finish.” He started out of her room.

“Then I'll get it back by tomorrow, probably. That's how long it took Hunk.”

He paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “What?”

She flapped a hand at him, shooing him out the door. “You'll see. Now out. I've got things to do.”

…..

Keith did see, and he had to stop once he arrived at the part. He could hear the spy's voice ringing in his ears, sounding a little like Lance and defiant to a fault as she laughed wildly and shouted, 'Kiss me, Hardy! Kiss me, quick!' He had to pause after that, just for an hour or so, because he couldn't go too long without knowing how it all ended.

Something in him trembled with the knowledge of where the quote came from, of how it applied to the story as a whole. He was standing in the kitchen in the middle of the night cycle, a cup of tea in front of him and the tablet flipped face down on the counter. The castle was unnervingly silent after the cacophony the book had elicited in his head, and he jumped when the kitchen door hissed open again.

Lance shuffled in with bags beneath his eyes and his blue lions slippers on his feet. Yawning, he was setting a cup of tea on the counter before he realized Keith was even there. He didn't startle. Instead, he simply asked, “Couldn't sleep?”

“I was reading.” He nodded down towards the tablet.

Lance's face brightened as it always did, as bright as a star. “Pidge found the book for you?”

“Yeah...”

Staring at him for a long moment, his smile became a little sad. “Oh. You got that part.”

“Yeah...”

He sighed, shuffling a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I probably should have warned you, but... it's just not the kind of thing you can explain properly. You have to experience it, or the quote just won't make sense.”

“I definitely experienced it.” Mimicking Lance's movement, he sighed heavily. “I'm going to finish reading before the others start to wake up.”

A grin pulled at the corners of Lance's mouth. “Don't let me stop you. I'm just enjoying a cup of alien tea. Don't mind me.”

They sat in silence as Keith read, drinking tea and making more tea when their cups emptied. It was another hour before Keith finally placed the tablet back on the counter and simply wrapped his fingers around his cup. Finally, he muttered, “She left the window open for her.”

“She did.”

“I've never read Peter Pan, but... I saw that old animated movie once when I was a kid.”

Lance was quiet for a moment, waiting for Keith to continue, and when he didn't, asked, “How did you like the book?”

Keith glanced up at him, and told him exactly what he thought.

��..

Keith had never been so thoroughly torn apart and pieced back together by a book before. It reminded him of the friendships he had built with every person aboard the castle. It also reminded him of the very real possibility of the ending of all of this being one of their endings.

That terrified him, the thought of one of his new family members suddenly not being there. He told Shiro as much in the dark hours of the night when he couldn't sleep, but he kept it to himself when it came to the others. They didn't need to know that something inside of him thought every mission they went on could be one of their last.

He was determined to not allow fate not to feast on their blood.

That didn't stop him though. He trained harder, took more time to just sit and listen to them go on and on about the most mundane topics. Lance quoted the book at him every chance he could just for the simple fact that Keith would catch the references this time. They discussed the book at length for hours, and then, when they ran out of things to say, they started talking about other things, and he had never felt so comfortable around another person in his life, even Shiro. He told Lance things he had never admitted aloud, and Lance told him the ten things he was most afraid of.

Many of their fears overlapped.

It felt like a fairytale, falling into friendship with Lance. He forgot to remind himself that fairytales always have an end.

…..

Keith had Lance's baryard along with his own, and he still couldn't remember how that had happened. He sat high on a ledge, his thigh oozing dark blood and his head woozy with the loss. Still pinned down by sentries firing at him, he took them out one by one, but not fast enough to matter.

He was the only one left free, the others captured and incapacitated down below. He had tried to help them, tried to shoot the sentries surrounding them. He hadn't tried to shoot open their bonds, not with how bad of a shot he was, but he had managed to take out two of Lotor's generals by some stroke of luck.

“For each of my generals you have killed, we will mortally wound two of your fellows! You will watch them bleed out and die while you remain helpless. That will only leave one left! Thinks carefully about your next actions!” Lotor shouted, scanning towards the top of the ceiling, but still missing Keith.

Without pause, they blew out Hunk's kneecaps, removed Pidge's fingers one by one as the others screamed for her, cut off Shiro's remaining arm, and Allura... Keith hadn't seen what had happened to her as he'd clutched at his leg. She was lying on the ground when he looked back, a hand covering her face and a pool of blood growing beneath her as she clutched her stomach.

“Bring the Blue Paladin, and leave the rest. They'll be dead soon enough,” Lotor told Acxa, his one and only remaining general, “He'll be a lovely play thing.”

Lance was wild-eyed, looking for a way out of the situation they had found themselves in. As Acxa jerked him to his feet, his eyes found Keith high against the ceiling, just barely hidden save for the barrel of Lance's own rifle. Tears filled his eyes, and a wild laugh spilled from him. “KISS ME, HARDY! Kiss me, QUICK!” he cried at the top of his lungs, just as the spy had, and still, just like her, he turned his face into his shoulder away from Keith.

“What? What are you-” Lotor began, but that was when Keith pulled the trigger.

…..

“See? I knew the same thing wouldn't happen to us,” Lance gasped as he limped towards the healing pods.

“I shot you,” Keith told him miserably, holding tight to Lance's wrist where it was slung over his shoulders with bruising force, “It's only because I'm a piss poor shot that I didn't shoot you in the head.”

Turning towards Keith, Lance's face softened. “I was telling you to.”

“I know, but-”

“You saved us with your lousy shooting, Keith, and you hurt Lotor enough that Acxa took him and ran. You're the hero of the hour. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.” Lance was still smiling, his eyes glassy with blood loss and tears. Allowing Keith to guide him into the healing pod, he mumbled passed a grin, “Fly the plane, Keith.”

Keith shook his head. “This is not the time for that, Lance.”

“It's always the time, samurai.” Lance sighed as the pod door materialized into place, sealing him inside.

Coran was right behind him, ushering him into a healing pod of his own. He stared out over the others, all silent and bloody in their own pods, and he reminded himself that they were still alive. Their fairytale hadn't come to an end just yet.

“Fly the plane, Keith,” he muttered to himself as he was sealed into the pod.

[cavendish-dakota-central]

In the spirit of Halloween, I wrote a thing based off the amazing ideas of @cutiepie-tro about Cavendish being a Vampire and Dakota a Werewolf. The fic is completely based on their first few ideas. I just really liked the idea and decided to take a stab at it.

It’s a little long but it kinda got away from me.

Warning for mentions of blood.

~

When you’ve lived as long as Cavendish, it’s easy to let time blend together until your own life and everyone else’s became two separate entities all on their own. Cavendish lived in a rather large house that had been passed down through his family to him when he moved to America. He was hesitant to call it an estate, for it was on a populated street, yet that was essencialy what it was. It had been the Cavendishs’ personal vacation property long ago occasionally rented out to those wealthy enough to afford the stay- but hadn’t seen guests for many years now. No one appart from it’s current, lone owner and occupant- dared to even step a foot onto the beautiful lawn.

The house was of a beautiful victorian style with a tall and deep inteior. It’s deep purple hue of slightly worn paint was only now starting to show any age. It also provided an interesting contrast to the overhanging trees and lawn before it, tamed only by cityworkers with nary a clue as to why they were hired to do such basic tasks. In the fall weather, the grass was drying out and the trees were only barely beginning to turn anything other than a bright green while inside a lone being stirred. Balthazar Cavendish was a simple creature who- in all honesty- had long since accepted that he would have to lead a simple lifestyle; seeing as the world wasn’t exactly prone to accepting his kind. You see, he was a vampire- and he had been for so many long years that he had all but forgot the world he was living in.

Before he was turned, he’d often dreamed of doing something better than what he saw before him. It was a cliche idea, but he was well aged. Back in the 1870s he’d wanted to make a difference, he wanted to change the world! He’d studied everything he could and had dreamed of building a new future! But that all changed when he was initiated into a group he had never before even recognized. As a vampire, every rumor- every /incident/- sent people after him, ready to hunt him down and kill him. He’d learned early on that if he wanted to do something big, he had to educate himself first.

And so he did. He spent his days locked away from those who misunderstood him and sterotyped him and especially away from the sun. He found ways to get the food and supplies required to live a normal life and with the invention of the internet came a new style of simply ordering whatever he wished for. Soon, the only things he left home for were a nightly change of scenery and a new source of blood. Sometimes he found online work or education, but for the most part he could easily live off of his inheritance- as long as he was practical with his purchases.

After long enough, his detachment from reality lead him to lose faith in his dreams and plans. In fact, he all but forgot them. He had to be careful simply leaving his house or even opening a window- why did he think he should bother make an impact on a world that seemed happy enough moving on without him?

He became used to his lifestyle. He’d sleep most of the day and then get up to dress in his same usual attire. After all his time, he’d never since seen any use in changing his style. Without a mirror or partner to help him, he’d never seen much hope in changing the only thing left he could recognize. He would then spend some time reading or doing something of the sort until nightfall when he was free to explore the city.

The world around him seemed to change every day. There were new buildings, people in new clothes, new vehicles, and new music. It was all a lot for him so he enjoyed heading to the nearby park and inspecting things from there. The cool night breases were his only friends as he walked alone along the paths near a small lake. He’d often grab some thing- and by that he meant some /one/- to drink on his way. He often left them healthy enough as to not arrouse suspicion so it took at least a few people to satisfy his tastes.

On one specific night, the dark world was busy with excitement of Halloween. It had evolved much since Cavendish’s day- but his predicament remained the same. It was too busy to find a drink without anyone noticing. With the park crowded, he didn’t even bother heading that direction. Instead, he traveled from his house -near the edge of town- to a large area of nearly untouched land not far away. There, he could feast on those dumb enough to dare each other to travel through the riveness and tall trees alone.

He easily found a group of victums and considered it a treat to taste that they had been drinking. Not only was the blood all that much sweeter, but it provided him with an easy excuse to simply leave them unconcious in the woods.

He made it back to his home with plenty of time to spare before sunrise, and settled down with a book he had been reading. It was about a monster competition; in the spirit of Halloween.

He was settled under a blanket in his chair near the fireplace, nearly asleep in his favorite chair, when there was a knock at the door.

He heard the confident raps from the other side of the door- but easily elected to ignore them. Every so often there would be one kid dumb enough to accept the dare to knock on his door. If the kid had half a brain, he’d quickly run away and Cavendish could return to his peace and quiet, never knowing a single detail about the prankster. Unfortunately for them, this wasn’t the case.

Another pair of wraps against the solid oak door.

Cavendish nearly scoffed to himself. Never had there been anyone as bold as to knock twice in a row- let alone with such confidence! He returned to his book.

Three knocks this time. He was nearly impressed. Someone had not only dared to step onto his property, but stand at his very door for nearly half a minute now.

It was still plenty dark outside, so Cavendish decided he might as well humor himself a bit. He wanted to scare this intruder so good that they would never again dare disturb him! Cavendish got up and headed over to the door.

He swung it open in a single strong motion that any human would have trouble duplicating.

“Foolish mortal!” Cavendish hissed, his British accent thick as he eyed over the man who now stood before him. The newcomer was shorter than the vampire. He had an abundance of dark-brown wavy hair and wore large orange-rimmed sunglasses that matched his 1970’s style orange tracksuit with its flattering red and yellow details. The being was fuller in shape than the boney brit but Cavendish barely noticed much about the stranger appart from the fact that he was intruding. Cavendish nearly hissed his words at his uninvited guest.

“You don’t know what misfortune you’ve wandered into-” He began to threaten. But the shorter man didn’t even seem to register it.

“Sure sure, but while you say all that could you get me a bandaid?”

This phased Cavendish for a moment. It could simply be the fact that it had been near a decade since his last personal conversation with another being- but he assumed it more likely that his confusion originated from the /way/ in which this man spoke.

He was calm and casual with a heavy Boston accent- if he was placing it correctly. But the thing that intrigued him most was the blood dripping through the man’s fingers. Cavendish couldn’t yet identify the origin of the wound, but if this man was willingly going to throw himself at a vampire feet… well Cavendish could live off his blood for quite a while with no one the wiser.

“Pardon me, please do come in.” Cavendish bowed slightly before moving out of the way. He closed the door behind his latest victum as he walked inside.

“Nice place.” The man said.

“Thank you.” Cavendish said proudly. He’d kept it nice and tidy all these years yet somehow forgot how good it feels to be complimented on all his hard work. Although it was rediculous, he was speaking to a simple human after all.

“So? Could I get somethin’ for this? I think I’m bleeding all over your carpet.”

The newcomer was correct, he was; however, Cavendish was only further distracted by this fact. There was so, much, red. What beautiful crimson color. His movement into the dwelling must have cause the sudden surplus.

“It’s a little hard to tell though…. I’m kind of dissy….”

He took a few steps towards one of the chairs before stumbling down to the floor.

“I’m Vinnie Dakota by the way.” He grinned as he slid down to sit on the floor at the base of a chair. His free arm soon lost all strength, leading him to fall flat onto his back on the livingroom rug.

Cavendish grinned somewhat fiendishly before hurrying over to the man. He pressed a hand against the wound between the right side of the man’s neck and collarbone before licking the blood from his own hand.

Cavendish immediately rubbed his tongue back onto the sleeve of his own jacket.

Werewolf blood??!

He sighed. Of course it was too good to be true. The man was no longer human at all! The tint of werewolf had already spread distinctively through the blood.

Now what was he to do?

Cavendish looked around and assessed his options carefully and systomatically. He /could/ simply hope the creature before him would bleed out before his healing took over, but then he’d have to dispose of the body without any other werewolf sniffing it out. The lone vampire wouldn’t be able to handle himself in any kind of fight- especially the kind of battle that could arrise if a pack assumed a vampire had killed one of their own.

Cavendish /could also/ simply toss the man outside and hope for the best, but it was nearly sunlight and someone besides his pack could find him and blow the cover of there not really being any supernatural creatures. Vampires and werewolves alike would be in trouble then.

Cavendish took an annoyed breath. He was going to have to take care of an idiot who chose to ask for help at the doorstep of the scariest house in town. Yeah, this should end well.

~

[Notes: Thanks for reading! I set it up so I can easily write more of this story if anyone wants but if not that’s fine. Sorry about gramatical/spelling errors btw but I was really tierd and I didn’t edit it as much as I probably should have lol. Anyways, sorry for rambling. I hope you liked it! :]

[notesfromtheidiotbox]

Afternoon

So I entered @docholligay‘s “Pander to me” contest. I didn’t win, but I really didn’t expect to. I decided to follow up on a ficlet she wrote in response to an ask which mashed up Sailor Moon and Overwatch. I also like writing fics where characters who don’t interact much in canon are paired off for conversation. Hence the following. Enjoy!

***

“Explain it to me again,” Mako said, placing the tea on the table in front of her unexpected guest. “Because I'm not sure I understand. You're here for...?”

“Sanctuary,” Michiru replied, sipping from the tea cup. “I'm certain I said that when I arrived.”

Mako frowned. She and Michiru had never really interacted all that much outside of those occasions the world needed saving, but those few times it occurred, it had been... aggravating. It was like dealing with Rei in one of her moods only worse. While Rei usually had a hundred and seventeen different reasons for anything she did, especially when angry, she never actually explained those reasons. But, after a while, those reasons usually became clear in the end.

Michiru, on the other hand, probably had reasons for what she did, but she NEVER explained anything. She just assumed you knew what she was doing or what she meant and too bad if you couldn't figure it out. Just being in the same room with her made Mako feel stupid and awkward.

She hated that feeling.

“Sanctuary,” Mako repeated, frowning. “Sanctuary from what?”

“My own compassion,” Michiru answered. She put the tea back on the table. “Have you ever tried English tea? I believe you would appreciate the flavor profiles.”

Mako resisted the urge to rub her eyes. “Why would you need sanctuary from your own compassion? And why come to me?”

Michiru quirked an eyebrow. “To answer your second question first, I find you to be the most level headed of the others.”

Mako blinked. An outright complement was almost unheard of. “Thanks?”

Michiru's lips curled up in a close lipped smile. “I think you'll agree that Usagi and Rei tend to feel first and think later. Mizuno-san tends to overanalyze. You, Makoto, at least when not around the others, consider things before you act.”

There it was. The backhand to the complement. Now Mako was on more secure ground.

“Okay, yeah, the other girls can be kind of intense,” Mako conceded. “But I'm still not getting what you mean by 'sanctuary.'”

Michiru let out a sigh. Makoto started to roll her eyes, but quickly realized the sigh wasn't of exasperation, but exhaustion.

Michiru looked up at her fellow senshi. “You recall the cruise to the Galapagos Haruka and I recently took?”

“Yeah. Minako said you guys had a great time.”

Michiru's smile returned. “Indeed we did. We also made the acquaintance of a rather charming British couple... well, one was British. I believe her fiancee was from Scotland.”

“Okay,” Makoto said. “Still not seeing what this has to do with you coming here.”

“Well, as it turned out, the young British lady had planned on using the cruise to propose to her now fiancee. She had planned to ask her by the pool with some cheap champagne, if you can imagine.”

Makoto's eyebrows briefly raised at the revelation that the couple in question were both women, but she quickly recovered. You've been friends... I guess... with Haruka and Michiru for years now. They aren't the only lesbians in the world.

Michiru noted her reaction, but chose to ignore it. “In any event, I assisted her in proposing in a more appropriate location aboard ship. The next day, we were introduced to the fiancee and all was smiles and sunshine, as it were.”

Michiru picked up the tea and sipped again. She looked at Makoto. “What I couldn't forsee was that Haruka and Lena would wind up spending quite a bit of time together during the cruise.”

“Lena?” Makoto asked.

“The young British lady,” Michiru clarified. “Her fiancee is named Emily. Anyway, Haruka and Lena quickly became fast friends. For myself, I found both Lena and Emily quite pleasant company, and despite Lena undermining my attempts to curtail Haruka's attraction to kitsch, we all had a pleasant time and went our separate ways following the cruise.”

Makoto frowned, an idea she didn't like coming to her. “Haruka's not having an affair with this Lena woman, is she?”

Michiru looked at Mako for a long moment, then burst into laughter. “No, no, Makoto, nothing like that. Haruka knows better. No, what I wasn't expecting was Haruka to extend an invitation for them to visit. Even less so, was for them to accept the offer.”

“Okay, so you made some friends on the cruise, Haruka invited them here, and they showed up. I'm still not seeing the problem.”

Now it was Michiru's turn to frown. “No, you don't, do you?”

Mako put her hands on her hips and gave Michiru a look. Michiru ignored her and pulle dher phone out of her purse, bringing up some photos.

“I think you'll understand if I show you.”

Michiru handed her phone to Mako. Mako looked down and let out a snort of laughter. Haruka and short haired brunette, presumably Lena, were standing in front of what looked like a gift shop. Both were wearing cargo shorts, ridiculous straw hats, and the tackiest shirts Mako had ever seen. Lena's was a searing orange and white Hawaiian number, while Haruka's was bright green and dotted with what appeared to be red parrots. To finish off the ensembles, both were wearing oversized sunglasses. Lena's were a fairly standard pair of aviators which somehow seemed slightly too big for her face, while Haruka's were neon green, and exactly the wrong shade to match her shirt.

“What's with the light on Lena's chest?” Mako asked.

“I believe it's a medical device for some sort of disability,” Michiru answered. “I didn't feel it polite to press for details.”

Mako handed the phone back. “Haruka and her new friend have really bad taste. So what?”

Michiru shook her head. “It's not that. Well... it's partly that, to be honest, but not the reason I'm here. Lena and Emily arrived a couple of nights ago, and honestly, it's been pleasant. The problem came this morning.”

“What happened this morning?”

Michiru looked Mako dead in the eyes. “Minako.”

Mako winced. Now she got it. Haruka liked to play it aloof and cool, but when Minako was around, the chaos that tended to follow her was contagious and Haruka became, as Usagi memorably put it one time, “a huge dork.” Bad ideas and choices usually followed.

And if there was a third person with the same tastes as Haruka...

“I have one question,” Mako asked.

“Yes?”

“Why didn't you bring Emily with you?”

Michiru sighed again. This time the exasperation was evident. “Well--”

She was interrupted as the door burst open.

“Mako-chaaaaan! You home?” Minako's voice came into the room. “Got some people for you to meet!”

Michiru put her tea back down and pressed her palm to her forehead. Under her breath she uttered a curse in French.

Then they appeared. All four of them. Haruka, Minako, Lena, and Emily. Minako and Lena were grinning from ear to ear. Haruka looked guilty, and Emily had an expression that wavered between amusement and concern. All four were disheveled, their hair frizzed out and mussed. Minako's hair bow was half untied and hanging off the side of her head. Lena's shirt was missing a sleeve. Emily was barefoot, and Haruka had a decided lack of pants. Mako would have laughed.

Except for the fact that all four of them were dripping what she hoped wasn't motor oil on her carpet.

“Hey, your highness!” Minako said, dashing over and sitting down next to Michiru. Mako winced at the audible “squelch” that came when Minako sat down.

“We wondered where you'd gotten to!” Minako said. “Guess you had the same idea I had.”

“What idea?” Mako asked.

“We... uh... we had a little mishap at the go-kart track,” Haruka began. Lena looked up at Haruka and, much to Mako's surprise, began speaking in fairly good Japanese.

“Haruka, love, aren't you gonna introduce us to your friend?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” Haruka said. She looked back at Mako. “Makoto, this is Lena Oxton and her fiancee, Emily.”

“Cheers!” Lena said with a bright smile.

“Um... it... very nice...meeting you,” Emily said in halting Japanese. Mako felt she should respond in English. Unfortunately, she could only remember one phrase.

“Thank you!”

Minako burst out laughing. “Still not the right phrase, Mako.”

Mako grinned sheepishly and put a hand behind her head. “Yeah... wait. Why are you here?”

“Well, after the fire at the go-kart track...”

“And the grease explosion at the fried chicken place...” Haruka added.

“Don't forget about the stray dog pack that chased us!” Lena piped up. Emily said something in English, and Lena spoke again. “Em says she still doesn't know where she lost her shoes or where Haruka lost her trousers, for that matter.”

“Wait, what?” Haruka looked down and turned red. “That explains the looks in the elevator,” she muttered.

“Anyway, after all that, I realized your place was nearby and figured we could clean up here!” Minako said. Her eyes got wide and sparkly. “And maybe you could give some much needed lunch to four lost souls who ran nearly twenty whole blocks to get here?”

Mako sighed, and began heading for the kitchen. “You can use the shower. Fresh towels are in the linen closet. Haruka, you can raid my closet for some pants and I think I have a spare pair of sandals for Emily, too. Sandwiches okay?”

“You're the best as always, Mako!” Minako said. She looked over at Michiru. “Lucky thing you were here too, Squidward. We were wondering what happened to you.”

“Yes, wonderful,” Michiru got up and began walking to the kitchen. “Haruka, would you please take Makoto up on her offer?”

“Right,” Haruka said. She turned to Emily. “Come on, Emily. Mako's bedroom is back here.”

“Mind your manners, Haruka,” Lena smirked. “That's me fiancee you're taking to that bedroom.”

“I know better,” Haruka replied, giving a smirk of her own. She and Emily disappeared into the bedroom. Lena looked over at Minako.

“So, Minako, d'you want to use the shower first?”

“You're the guest, go right ahead. I can wait.”

“Thanks, love!” Lena headed for the bathroom, stopping to grab a towel. Minako leaned back and grabbed the TV remote. She paused, noticing the door of the cabinet under the TV was ajar.

Michiru entered the kitchen. Mako had already gotten out the ingerdients for sandwiches out on the counter. Much to Michiru's surprise, Mako reached into a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of sake. She took out two cups, filled them, and handed one to Michiru.

“What's this for?” Michiru asked.

Mako gave her a small smile, happy that for once she had managed to puzzle Michiru.

“Gonna be a looooong afternoon,” she explained. Michiru stared at her, then smiled and the two clinked glasses.

“Hey, Mako,” came Minako's voice. “Is this your porn stash under the TV?”

They both groaned.

[lunakinesis]

Lake

Cryptozoology has always been a minor interest of mine. I say minor because it was something I'd only enjoyed casually: a few internet articles here and there, scrolling through a couple of pages on a Tumblr blog dedicated to it, maybe watching one of those Bigfoot documentaries. You know, that kind of interest. Nothing serious.

Generally that would be pretty common for most people. Most people, however, do not live in my little town where a supposed cryptid is how many folks here make a living.

See, I live in a small town in the UK, more specifically in the North West of England. It's tiny place not many people outside of the country have likely heard of unless they've already been for whatever reason or have an interest in cryptids. My small town is situated by one of the many lakes that dot this part of the country, and as so many bodies of water do, we have our own Loch Ness Monster.

So many people claim, anyway. I'm sure many of you are sceptical of that as you are any such monster. Who can blame you? I grew up here and didn't buy into that. I found it interesting but I didn't believe it. Same as I didn't believe those people who claim aliens probed their backsides or that Bigfoot had destroyed their camp. It was something to read about and enjoy, but not something I believed in.

Most of my generation and that of my parents felt the same, but many of my grandparent's era clung to the belief in the monster. They stayed away from the lake unless they were in decently-sized boats or one of the many ferries that travelled the length of the lake to nearby settlements.

Not us kids and teens though, especially not in summer. Most of the time British summers are nothing to brag about: they're pretty warm, but usually cloudy or wet. Sometimes however, we were blessed with a heatwave. Nothing was better than a dip in the lake during the heat of the day.

During the school holidays, the older kids would hang out by the lake well into the evening. The worst that ever happened was that someone would get a cramp whilst swimming and we'd have to get them back to shore, or someone would get their foot tangled in some lake weed and freak out until they realised what it actually was.

Nothing sinister, nothing serious. Most certainly, no lake monster.

One particular day during the Easter break – where it was much too cold to spend more than five minutes at a time in the lake – I was spending my time climbing the many tall trees that covered the areas around the lakes. Maybe I was a bit old for tree climbing most likely, but it had always been something I'd enjoyed doing. Something about climbing as high as I could go and settling down on a sturdy branch, just looking over my surroundings was something I enjoyed. Most of the time I'd just watch boats going up and down the lake, people going about their business, cars passing down the country roads. Just typical stuff not worthy of merit. But this day in spring was different.

The day itself was like any other; a chilly but sunny day in late March. I'd already taken up my temporary church up an old oak, where I' stay for an hour or so before going off to meet friends.

From where I was perched I could see two young kids – maybe around eight or nine – playing down by the shore. They weren't close to the water, just sitting in the grassy area a little ways off the bank. Two girls. I couldn't really see what they were doing beyond that general observation. This was nothing out of the ordinary.

What was unusual was the large, dapple-grey horse trotting along the shoreline towards them. Horses weren't exactly an unusual sight themselves out in a rural town. But they were usually in their fields, or accompanied by a rider. There was no other person in sight and this horse had no saddle, bridle or any other sort of riding gear.

There are no true wild horses in the United Kingdom, and the only semi-wild horses make their home in the New Forest, somewhere right at the other side of the country. That left the option of it having somehow gotten out of its field. For all it seemed weird to me, in hindsight it wasn't all that unusual. Tourists were always crossing through private land and leaving gates open, animals were bound to get out on occasion.

The kids took immediate notice of the animal, looking up from their chatter and letting out delighted squeals I could hear even from my spot up in the tree. I watched as they ran up to it, fearless as all children were, oblivious to the fact that if they spooked it, one kick from its front or back legs could shatter their developing bones.

I watched at the pair gleefully pet the animal, the horse itself didn't seem to mind the attention, which led me to think it was one frequently used for riding, most likely one of the horses rented out to tourists so they could enjoy a ride through the countryside. The horse lowered its head, allowing one of the kids to press a hand to its muzzle. I could hear their delighted laughter as the pair took turns alternating between stroking its flank and head. It was pretty cute, I have to admit. There's always something magic about an unfamiliar animal being content with your presence.

With how calm this horse seemed to be, I didn't bat an eye as it lowered itself to the ground. The pair of kids seemed ecstatic about this, climbing onto the animals back. Not exactly safe or smart, but kids don't really think like that, and I'm sure the horse would've made it very clear it didn't want them clambering all over it if it wanted to. It was a pretty damn big horse.

It took me a few moments to realise the children were no longer letting out happy squeals and giggles... they were screaming. I couldn't understand why at first, but as my vision focused more on the horse I knew.

How I hadn't noticed the change I don't know. But where once it had been dapple-grey, it was now black. The kind of black that seems to absorb all light around it, distorting it. It seemed to be dripping wet, even from my spot in the tree I could see the tangled mess of its water-logged mane and tail leaking water onto the ground.

Its eyes were the worst of it. I shouldn't have been able to see them clearly from such a distance, but even in the dull spring sun, I could see the glowing from those sickening, milky eyes. It threw its head back, rising to its feet with the children still on its back. They were trying to get off but... but they couldn't. I don't know how, and I'm sure they didn't know how either, but no matter how much they struggled and screamed, they couldn't get off of that horse. It was like they were super-glued to it.

I couldn't move from my spot, no matter how much my mind screamed at me to jump down to do something... anything! I'm ashamed to admit fear consumed me; that sweat dripped down my brow as my breathing grew more rapid by the second, my heart was beating so hard and fast it hurt. I have no proper words to describe the primal terror that gripped me, the same terror I imagine gripped our ancestors when confronted by a giant cave bear or an angry mammoth. Though where their fight or flight instinct would kick in, mine didn't. I was simply frozen.

Frozen as the beast charged towards the water, screaming children on its back, their cries not silenced until their heads dipped under the water, water that frothed and bubbled as they struggled beneath the surface.

Then nothing.

Just an eerie stillness on that spring morning. Not even the birds sang. I think they knew, animals just know these things. I don't know how long I sat up in that tree just staring out over the water where that horse had vanished into the murk. I don't know what became of those kids, but I know they were never found and that they never will be. It was written off as accidental drowning, their parents beat themselves up over it as any parent would. Nothing like this had happened in our little community. Kids who grew up around the lake knew how to swim by the time they could walk pretty much, and they knew to be careful by the lake. It didn't add up of course, but beyond that no one could explain it. I think the parents cling to the hope that their children simply ran away or were stolen, so that they might one day find them again. I can't blame them for that.

I never told anyone what I saw, no one would've believed me anyway save for a few ancient crones nobody took seriously when they babbled about ghosts and ghouls. It haunts me that I did nothing, simply watched as those innocent children were pulled into a watery grave. I never went into the lake after that, simply telling everyone I didn't like the way the smell of lake water clung to me.

I didn't think I'd ever tell this story. But I still live in this town over a decade later, and last night I saw a dapple-grey horse stalking along the lakeside.  

[theconservativebrief]

For the past decade, Canadian journalist Shaughnessy Bishop-Stall has been on a quest to find a cure for the common hangover.

To this end, he consults remedies both medical and folk: He undergoes an IV treatment at a medical institution in Las Vegas called Hangover Heaven; consults with a menagerie of academics, a Druid, several doctors, and the CEO of 5-Hour Energy (among others); participates in a glacial New Year’s polar bear swim; absorbs the beer-soaked wisdom of the English countryside; and ingests any number of curative concoctions, with varying degrees of success.

These experiences become fodder for Hungover: The Morning After and One Man’s Quest for the Cure, a book that is as concerned with the science and culture of hangovers as it is with relieving them. I called Bishop-Stall to find out what we know about hangovers, why we don’t know more, and why — if hangovers are so miserable — people keep drinking. Our conversation has been condensed and edited for clarity.

How did you end up spending a decade researching hangovers?

The more that I started to look into the science of it and the history of it, the more I realized that, first of all, no such large endeavor had ever been undertaken. There were no books about hangovers, really. I mean, there have been jokey coffee table books or some sort of ancient, obscure references, but there was really so little for what became, to me, such a large part of human experience. That disconnect was just too obvious, and so I just became more and more fascinated by it.

If it’s such a core part of human experience — drinking too much, feeling physically wrecked the next day — why hasn’t it been studied more?

I think there’s something mysterious about the phenomenon. It’s a sickly, crummy, negative feeling, for the most part, and how much do we really want to focus on that? That may be one part of it. Even for me, it took a long time to realize what a wealth of fascinating stories come out of miserable aspects of life.

Also, there’s just been so little focus on it in the medical and scientific communities, just because there’s a very easy way to dismiss it: Well, you did it to yourself. It’s your own fault. You drank. If you didn’t drink, you’d be fine, so why even try to look into it anymore?

It’s a phenomenon that is scientifically and culturally fascinating, but we just say, “Oh, you know, it’s easily solvable.” The strangest thing is we believe it’s easily solvable because we did it to ourselves, but we also feel like we can’t actually solve it. Hangovers are so dichotomous in that way. It’s the same thing for cures: Everybody either thinks they have a cure and they go around telling everybody about it, or they believe that nobody has one.

The weird thing about hangovers is that that they’re self-inflicted but generally not fatal. Just deeply unpleasant.

Right, so it’s not necessarily a question of say, overdose. A hangover is actually withdrawal. It’s a quick withdrawal, much quicker than what happens with a lot of drugs. It usually leaves your system entirely within 24 hours. But the mechanism that breaks down alcohol and then filters it out of your system is so complicated and affects so many aspects of human physiology that it’s very difficult to understand.

Then combine that with the fact that we haven’t even really been trying to understand it through most of human history. We feel like we know so much about everything these days that there aren’t uncharted territories. And yet I was very hard-pressed to find people who could explain hangovers to me or were in agreement with each other about what the mechanism behind them even is.

Let’s back up for a second: What is a hangover, physiologically?

There are so many things going on. It starts when alcohol is broken down in the body— when the body processes alcohol, one of the byproducts is acetaldehyde, which is a toxic substance.

Then the body starts to react to that acetaldehyde, and it causes all sorts of nasty things, including very strong immune system responses from the body. A lot of what’s happening in a hangover is our body trying to defend itself from this nasty byproduct.

One of the many mechanisms that [kicks in] is an overall inflammation of your cells. I mean, in all your cells: your skin cells, the cells of your liver, your pancreas, your eyes. Everything becomes inflamed, and one of the many problems with cell inflammation is that it stops your body from absorbing water properly.

Alcohol already is a diuretic, and then you add the fact that your body isn’t absorbing water properly, and that’s why a huge part of hangover is dehydration. But when people say, “Well, it’s just dehydration,” they’re really not understanding that even the dehydration is just a symptom. If it was just dehydration, you could just drink water and you’d be fine, right? But it’s that it’s a dehydration that can’t be managed, because your body is in a state of not being able to absorb water. Every part of the body starts to activate in a somewhat panicked way, it seems to me, when the alcohol leaves the system.

Besides, you know, drinking in moderation, is there any way to stop that from happening?

For me, the only real way to stop a hangover is to stop it before that mechanism starts, because once it does, it’s such a domino effect. It ends up infiltrating every part of the body. Once it starts, the only thing you can do is treat it. By treat it, I mean just lessening the severity and the duration.

You spend a lot of the book trying various hangover cures — everything from doctor-administered IV drips in Las Vegas to eating charcoal scraped off your actual fireplace.

One thing that really surprised me when I was doing my research is how many ancient, ancient remedies actually have modern scientific reasoning behind them. I guess that’s the wrong way of looking at it — there are reasons that we now see, scientifically, why ancient cures could have worked.

So for example, when I did my “12 pints in 12 pubs” tour in England [an attempt to recreate the apocalyptic pub crawl in the 2013 film The World’s End], I kept asking all the bartenders, while we were getting drunk, for their best remedy, and all of them would say a proper British fry-up, which is basically eggs, bacon, and a bunch of other stuff.

Eggs have always been one of the most common remedies, and it turns out that one of the things that’s inside eggs is N-acetylcysteine, which is the same amino acid I ended up identifying as the most important ingredient in my own personal cure or concoction.

Same things with ancient remedies like boiled cabbage — we now understand that cabbage is a chelator, which means that it goes into the body, grips onto toxins, and then pulls them out with it when it leaves your system. It’s the same way charcoal works, which is why they give you charcoal tablets if you’re having an overdose. But it correlates with my Victorian chimney sweeps method of putting fireplace soot in a cup of milk and drinking that. A lot of these remedies that just seem folkloric or really esoteric actually do have some scientific reasoning behind them.

It seems like different remedies work for different people, to the extent than anything works at all.

I think that’s definitely true. I mean, think of how vastly different everybody responds to alcohol to begin with.

The way that alcohol targets the brain is much more impossible to track, and more scattered, than almost any other drug. If you look at most molecules that enter the brain and change brain chemistry, they’re targeting one or two specific receptors. Whereas alcohol sort of blankets the frontal lobe, where there are thousands upon thousands of receptors, and it affects all of them. What you’re dealing with is a totality of brain chemistry rather than a very tiny equation.

We know just from being alive and knowing people that all our brains are very different. To say alcohol does X for one person doesn’t mean it’s going to do the same thing for another. And the same thing seems to be true when it withdraws from our system, which also appears to be quite complicated.

One of the doctors you talk to argues that the whole idea of “curing” hangovers is misguided, because they have an important function: to deter people from drinking too much. Is it a good idea to cure hangovers?

Well, I’m not sure, and it seems that we are really somehow reticent to the idea anyway. What I don’t get is it seems like when I talk to people, everybody takes for granted that we all really want a hangover cure, but then everybody also seems to take for granted it’s impossible to find one. Those two things don’t connect for me at all. I mean, we all can sit there and watch a movie and see actual monsters that we’ve made on a screen.

We can believe that we put robots in our own blood, that we go and walk on the moon, but everybody’s like, “Nah. There’s no way we could cure a hangover.”

It makes zero logical sense. I think we’re somehow predisposed to not think it’s possible because — maybe intrinsically or maybe subconsciously — we know it shouldn’t be possible for the continuation of the species. I don’t know. But the weird thing is that it also cuts the other way, because they’re not as much a disincentive as it seems they should be. People know they’re going to get a hangover and still get drunk. That’s one question that came up working on the book: If hangovers hurt so much, why do we keep drinking?

I’ve never heard anybody talk about this, but I also think there’s a good chance that a lot of us get addicted to hangovers themselves.

People get addicted to the actual sensation?

A hangover gives you a bizarre freedom from having too many options at any one moment, or life being too complicated and you being anxious because you’re torn in too many directions. All of that can, to some degree, go quiet when you have a hangover because you have only one main objective, which is to survive this pain. For some people, it can be a bizarrely liberating thing because you don’t have any choices to make at that time.

And to a lesser degree, I think a lot of people get into the mode of taking a vacation from their everyday worries. They’re able to focus on the sickening task at hand, and I think some people — even subconsciously — start to crave that a little bit.

It’s sort of meditation-adjacent, except with nausea.

Yeah. Meditation-adjacent. I think that’s a good way of putting it.

Original Source -> Hangovers are not a new problem. Why don’t we have a solution yet?

via The Conservative Brief