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boricuacherry-blog · 11 months

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"Much of what we think we know about Holiday, however, is questionable, and over time accounts of her life have been bent to serve some other purpose than telling her story," John Szwed wrote in his 2015 book Billie Holiday: The Musician and the Myth.

At least a half a dozen biographies have set about separating the fact from fiction (even her FBI file was thin, Szwed notes), leading authors to wonder why more pages weren't devoted to her songs. Pretty much all studies of Holiday have agreed that her musicianship, as revered as she remains as a singer and entertainer, was woefully underrated in her day and for decades afterward.

But however unreliable a narrator Holiday may have been [for example, her parents were never married but she claimed they were in her autobiography], all the later work bloomed from the seed she planted with Lady Sings the Blues, for which she received a $3,500 advance and 65 percent of the proceeds, to her co-author and friend William Dufty's 35 percent. The book later inspired the 1972 film of the same name, starring Diana Ross. Andra Day starred in the film The United States vs. Billie Holiday, another film about Billie.

In 1939 she was introduced to Buddy Tate, the tall elegant saxophonist from Count Basie's band, and the two became an item. But when he realized the role alcohol and marijuana played in her life he told her, "Lady, you can't get high all the time, not every day."

In 1941, with her affair behind her, Billie married a small-time drug dealer named Jimmy Monroe and subsequently gravitated to opium for her highs. That all changed when heroin began to fill a void caused by the wartime shortage of opium. For awhile she used intermittently, but then succumbed to addiction, spending vast sums of money indulging herself and her former drugs runner Joe Guy - now her new boyfriend - in monumental highs.

She would go on to have a sordid relationship of violence with John Levy, a small-time nightclub owner, followed by marriage to Louis McKay. He had convinced her to marry him so he wouldn't be forced to testify in court. He'd already been buying property with her money, and putting it in his own name. This was all interspersed with brushes with the law. Yolande Bavan, a friend of Billie's, said that McKay had once spit at her. "She seemed to always be attracted to assholes." Holiday was also open about bisexuality, and dalliances with fellow women prisoners. Two women she was rumored to have had relations with were wealthy heiress Louise Crane and Tallulah Bankhead.

At 10 she was raped by a neighbor, who ended up only serving three months in jail for the crime. But Billie was oddly enough, punished too. She was sent to the House of the Good Shepherd for Colored Girls, a reform school. Her street-smart ways, from being on the streets of Baltimore at a young age, was not appreciated by the nuns. One nun, Billie claimed forced her to spend the night with the body of a dead girl to teach her a lesson.

In 1928 Billie and her mother moved to Harlem, where the jazz age was flourishing at that time. Billie and her mother Sadie earned income working in a brothel. The two of them were arrested for prostitution. Billie, who was only 14, claimed to be 21. She was sent to Welfare Island just off Manhattan, and here she spent 100 days in a workhouse for vagrant adults.

In Harlem there were a group of dancers, singers and comedians who would go performing from club to club for free, performing all night long. Billie would go from table to table singing the same song, but singing the chorus differently each time, teaching herself to improvise. One night while singing at a club, a young record producer, John Hammond, walked in. He'd never heard an improvising singer like Billie. Hammond teamed her up with Benny Goodman, and an 18-year-old cut her first record. People who encountered her described her as having a "don't care" attitude and speech casually laced with profanity.

"She had enough courage to play with the music," said Maya Angelou. "The beat is insistent - it says, 'follow me' - but she managed just to hang right behind it."

It was said she was a master at using pitch intonation as an interpretive element.

"She completely flattens out the melody - maybe the wrong word - more like, distills the melody to its essential line. Really underscoring the swinging rhythm and also, the language contour, so the punchline becomes highlighted, and it becomes like a little trumpet rhythmic riff she sings it on," said one listener. "Life is lived in that space between the notes, and that's what you hear."

The late Gunther Schuller, prolific on the subject of Billie Holiday, liked to say that her voice had "the reedy timber of an English horn." She modeled her phrasing after horn players. Others say they hear her sing like a sax.

Billie's mother borrowed large amounts of money from her daughter to fund a restaurant. But her mother wouldn't return a cent. This caused a rift.

Maya Angelou was performing one day, and she started by introducing the crowd to Billie, who was in the audience. They all popped up and applauded, but Billie didn't seem to notice their applause. This was also during a time when she was deep in her addiction. "Then I began to sing," said Angelou. "I sang an old blues song - 'Baby please don't go, baby please don't go, baby please don't go...back to New Orleans, they'll feed you rice and beans, worst you ever seen, baby pleeease don't go" - I sang one verse and she screamed, 'Shut that b**ch up! Shut up! You remind me of my mother! Shut up!' And she got up and ran into the toilet. So I left the stage and went in. She said, 'You know why all those people stood up when you mentioned my name? They wanted to see a black woman who'd been in trouble for drugs. That's the only reason they look at me.'"

A month later, completely emaciated, she collapsed. One hospital wouldn't take her, but they eventually found a hospital that would and found she was having liver failure. She eventually got better, but then was arrested again for possession, but she was hospitalized until she was stabilized enough to appear in court.

In the meantime, her husband Louis McKay, visited. "I saw Louis in her room," a friend said. "He had a Bible open in his hands, and she seemed to be moribund. He was doing the Protestant ritual - 'the lord is my Shephard, I shall not want and he maketh me lie down in green pastures' - so it scared me to death, because I thought, 'oh my god, it's too late,' and eventually he slammed the Bible shut, tiptoed down the hall and left. So I waited for a minute, tiptoed into the room, and at that point Billie opened one eye... and said, 'is he gone?' And I said, 'I think so.' And she sat up in bed and said, 'You know, I always been a religious b**ch, but if that dirty motherf**cker believes in God, I'm thinking it over.'"

Another friend recounted how she refused to eat mustard, that she couldn't stand the smell. When pressed, she revealed that she had used mustard to abort her pregnancy when she was younger, saying, "And that baby was all I ever wanted." Raised as a Catholic, Billie, according to at least one biography, may have seen her inability to conceive when she was married as divine retribution for having aborted a teenage pregnancy by sitting in a bathtub full of hot water and mustard.

#billie holiday

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jaz-xedarix · 4 years

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The Return of the Star

So here we are. Finally after sooo many years of hiatus, I am able to go back to the action by translating this amazing work from our beloved Mr. Yoshida.

I want to thank to the proof readers that helped me checking this English version. As you know, English is not my mother tongue and plus it is not perfect at all, less in this late times that I haven’t talk at all with English speakers as before, as you see I manage to comunicate with you quite well but it is different when one need to comunicate someone else’s ideas XD So there might be some little mistakes in this text, feel free to tell me if there’s something wrong with it.

As for some words, one of them that is still making some noise in my head is “Hansom”. Usually I use google translate to help me with the job and usually it gives me some words that I have never seen before and that’s why I depend on you guys to help me correct XD So mr.G.Translate said “hansom” is “a two-wheeled horse-drawn carriage accommodating two inside, with the driver seated behind.”. And you can find this word a couple of times in this text, and reading the novel I think this is the best word for it, if there’s another word for it, please tell me.

Maybe this is the only word I had trouble with. Anyways I hope you enjoy this as I did translating this for you guys.

Thanks so much to Buffalo Borgine and Lamy for helping me correcting the text. ❤ Part II is in process, so wait for it soon ❤ So, with no more to say, here it is:

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

And I have given to them

knowledge of your name, and will give it,

so that the love which you have for me

may be in them and I in them.

JOHN 17.26

“Aaahh, I can't take it anymore!”

“Why are you whining again, father?” Esther Blanchett asked, in an annoyed tone to her companion, who was putting on a face like a man condemned to death.

Surrounded by the steam from the train, halfway down the ladder, she turned her slightly tanned face towards her interlocutor.

“Don't waste your time and come down immediately. If you stay there, you will disturb the other passengers.”

“Esther... couldn't it be possible for me to go straight back on this train?”

The evening light that was filtering through the stained-glass ceiling of the international arrivals platform had a reddish hue. In the wintry air, hard as a witch's kiss, the station passengers and employees moved busily.

The one who continued to complain stubbornly was the tall priest with the rebellious silver hair who accompanied Esther. If he had been quiet, it could be said that he was attractive, but he did not leave his miserable expression as he descended from the train with a suitcase in each hand.

“What is this so urgent that the Cardinal wants? If it's a report, we could have done it in Rome. Coming just here... I have very bad omens. I know something horrible will happen to me again.”

“Father, isn't it a common thing for Her Eminence to scold you? I thought you were used to it.”

Father Abel Nightroad nodded, still murmuring as Esther shook her long red hair theatrically. After a year of working together, she had already learned that there was no point in reasoning with this complainer. Lifting her suitcase with both hands, the nun started down the platform, expressionless.

The international arrivals area was packed with people. The participants of the ceremony that was to be held three days later must have been arriving. All the travelers carried large suitcases, and the air was filled with incomprehensible conversation. In the midst of the confusion, the nun began with a steady pace...

“Ahhh...!”

Feeling the night air in her lungs, Esther heaved a little sigh. As if finally realizing where she was, she stopped dead and looked out of one of the station windows.

“Sure... I'm back...”

The landscape that unfolded before her eyes was not that of Rome, where she has spent the year before. It was neither the one in Byzantium, where they had been until a few days ago, nor the one in Skopje, where they had stopped that day. The city surrounded by gentle hills and crossed by a meandering river was certainly like Byzantium or Rome. However, the twisted capitals and ceramic tiles gave the panorama a personality of its own, it was the landscape that had surrounded Esther for as long as she could remember.

The city of Istvan, protectorate of the Vatican.

It was the easternmost of the cities controlled by mankind… and the place where Esther had grown up.

“Nothing has changed... nothing...”

Facing the city that she saw again a year later, Esther heaved another sigh.

She had changed a lot, but her city remained the same. The running of the Danube, the cracks in the cobblestones... The sweet evening light embraced the same landscape that Esther had left back a year before.

However, even if you thought your city was still the same, could you feel at ease? There she had sad and painful experiences, the memory of which made her suffer. Maybe that was inevitable when one returned to one’s homeland...

“Aaaaah, what did they get me this time?”

The young woman was now absorbed in her warm memories but she came to herself as a rumbling voice rose like coming from the depths of Hell. Annoyed, she turned, and was met by a long figure who was sighing wistfully. The spectacled priest stroked his hair like a bad actor of tragedy who wanted to convey the idea of bearing all the pain in the world.

“Have they heard that I've set up a garden at the seminary? Or have they discovered those peaks that I added to the invoices...? Aaaah, Lord, protect your servant! Can't get them to turn a blind eye?”

“I have the feeling that before you became religious you were already a failure as a human being...”

Lord! That she could not even have a moment of peace being with that companion! Esther sighed deeply, feeling sorry for herself. Come to think of it, it was precisely in that place where she had seen the father for the first time, a year ago. That meeting had been the beginning of the person she had become. Under normal circumstances, it would be a very important memory. Why was she unable to get excited?

“But the truth is that you have some reason, father…” Esther continued speaking, being careful not to meet her eyes with her companion’s. “Why did Her Eminence make us come to Istvan? Even if they do the ceremony for the fallen, we don't have to attend ourselves… Do she want to hear the report about the Empire as soon as possible?”

“If that's just it, we'll be in luck... To get back to Rome from Skopje, going through here doesn't mean much of a change in route in terms of distance either. But the Cardinal does not like to change plans. That she had given a counter order is extremely rare... Aaaah, they must have caught me on something!”

At the surprised look of the nun, the priest squatted and clutched his head.

Two days before, once their mission was completed in Byzantium, they had reached Skopje, capital of the Marquisate of Macedonia. According to the original instructions, from there they were to take the road that go straight to west, to Rome. However, he had received an encrypted message ordering them to change their plans: «Instead of going back to Rome, go to Istvan to participate in the ceremony for the fallen. Report your mission when we meet».

The ceremony to which the message referred was in honor of the fallen in the battle of Istvan the previous year. It was promoted by the Archbishop of the city, the Vatican's Public Relations Minister, Antonio Borgia, and Pope Alessandro himself were going to be present. As Secretary of State, Cardinal Caterina Sforza was also going to participate, and that is why she was in the city at the time. In that regard, meeting in Istvan to present the mission report made sense.

What Esther did not understand was something else...

«Participate in the ceremony for the fallen.» Why had she explicitly summoned them to participate in the ceremony? Those who organized it were the Archbishopric and the Ministry of Vatican Public Relations. Esther, who worked for the Secretary of State, had nothing to do with them. Could it be that there was a new mission? Telling the truth, it looks a little strange

“Well, the easiest thing will be to ask the Duchess of Milan directly… Hurry, father.”

The agglomeration was considerable. If they didn't hurry out of the station and take a hansom, they would have to walk to the hotel the Secretary of State had reserved for them. To try to avoid it, Esther forcibly lifted her partner. Taking the tickets from the two of them, she headed purposefully toward the checkpoint.

“Staying here raving doesn't help much either. We have to meet with the Cardinal at once and make your report.”

For security reasons, the international arrivals platform was separated from the outside by revolving doors. Esther showed the officer her passport, which identified her as an employee of the Holy See, and quickly went through the doors to go outside. While the priest went through the same process, she turned to look for a hansom.

“Sister Esther!!!”

A brutal, deafening scream rose around her.

At the same time, her eyes were filled with white lights. She didn't even have time to realize that it was the flashes of a multitude of daguerreotypes. The nun turned her face away as a wave of voices washed over her.

“Sister Esther! Finally, you are here! A few statements, please!”

The chorus of voices followed by a crowd of men and women armed with notepads and fountain pens. Dazed by the flashes, Esther couldn't make out their facial expressions, but it didn't seem like those violent voices were directed at her by mistake or that it was all an elaborated joke. Among the mass crowded around the nun and the priest, the flashes continued to shine.

“Eh, eh?”

But what was happening?

Esther was stunned, surrounded by the sparkles.

All those people seemed to be reporters and journalists. Those who carried that heavy tape recorder, were they from the radio? They were of all ages and aspects, but they all wore press passes issued by the Ministry of Vatican Public Relations on their chests. But why would the media be so interested in her?

Stunned by events, Esther could do nothing but stand there. It was then that a laughter rang out behind them.

“Heh, heh, heh! Finally, my time has come! At last, the world recognizes my charisma!”

Abel, who had been just as surprised as she, began to show off with a boastful air, turning so quickly it looked like he was about to break a bone, he offered the cameras the profile he thought suited him best.

“Hello everyooone! As I see that you are so interested, I am going to tell you some secrets about myself. My full name is Abel Nightroad. I am an itinerant priest of the Vatican. I am Virgo and my lucky number is 13. Regarding my career, I am precisely considering writing some memoirs that… Eh !?”

With a cry like a toad, the priest was swallowed up by the mass of journalists who huddled mercilessly. Ignoring his painful moans, the reporters began bombarding Esther with questions, who remained motionless in the center of the crowd.

“Sister Esther, what impressions do you have when you return to your homeland?”

“It's been a year since you finished with Gyula, how do you feel now?”

Screaming echoed through the clicking sound of the flashes. Unconsciously, Esther recoiled from the throng of journalists and cameras.

“What... what do you want?”

When her brain began to function normally again, she realized that the goal of all this was her. But why? What did all those journalists expect of her!? She was just a simple nun!

Esther's questions were immediately answered when a middle-aged journalist, dressed in a dirty coat, showed her a piece of paper.

“Sister Esther, have you had a chance to see the script for this new opera? Do you have any comments about it?”

“Eh... huh...!? I do not have any idea of what is happening... An opera...? What opera!?”

Looking at the paper, Esther stood with her mouth open with the surprise.

It was a flier printed in high quality paper. One couldn't say that the colorful design or the propaganda phrases were the best taste, but whatever. More than that, what stunned Esther was the central illustration.

Against the background of a striking cross, a beautiful nun struck down a man with a sword blow, dressed in aristocratic clothes, the fallen one twisted his monstrous face and showed two long fangs between his lips. And the legend of the drawing said:

«The Star of Sorrow. Next release. Saint Esther and the devil Gyula: An apocalyptic fight!!! ». But what does this mean?!

“It is a commemorative work for the liberation of Istvan, Sister Esther. It represents your fight against the vampire... Didn't you know anything about it?”

The journalists looked at her, puzzled, but Esther didn't realize it. She was not for those things. Squeezing the paper in her hands, she tried to put the chaos of her thoughts in order.

“Saint Esther?”

But where did that come from?!

“Well, it's a very important work...” continued the journalist, with a certain pride in his voice, as if he were the scriptwriter himself. “Not only the casting, but also the production has had the support of the Ministry of Vatican Public Relations. The script was written by the Archbishop of Istvan himself and a budget of one million dinars has been invested. Tonight is the premiere... Ah! Is it for that why you've come today?”

“Eh? Well, no…”

At the question, Esther only had the strength to shake her head.

What was happening before her eyes seemed so unreal that it would be said that she was dreaming it. She wanted to return to her hometown to walk quietly through the streets again, visit the bishop's tomb, go to greet the families of her fellow partisans one by one... As she remembered her plans, a distant noise made her come to her senses.

“Sister Esther Blanchett,” a monotonous voice sounded over the sound of a horn.

Looking for that familiar voice, she saw that, beyond the mass of journalists, there was a car parked. The face staring at her from the driver's seat was one she knew all too well.

“Father Iqus!?”

“The Duchess of Milan has ordered me to come and find you. Get in the vehicle, please” explained Tres Iqus, Ax Gunslinger's agent, with his hands on the wheel. “Ignore the media and present yourself immediately. Those have been the words of her eminence. Get up at once. The Duchess awaits you at the Opera House.”

“Agree!”

What was all the fuss about? And what was the Duchess doing at the Opera House?

She had many questions in mind, but she nodded and followed the instructions she had been given. Her superior's orders were clear and Caterina herself would surely know how to explain something more about that bad taste joke.

“Father Nightroad, get up, we're going!”

“I ... it's my moment... I'm so charismatic...”

Dragging Abel, as if he were another suitcase since he was still semi-conscious, Esther ran with all her might amidst the rain of flashes and questions from journalists. Without turning to the chasing mass, Esther yelled as she approached the car:

“Father Iqus, open the opposite door!”

They had not seen each other for three months, but now was not the time for long greetings.

“Who they're chasing is me… I'll meet you later, but decoy me now, please.”

“Understood. Request fulfilled.”

The short priest did not hesitate for a moment. Probably, thinking about the possible courses of action, his circuits had reached the same conclusion as Esther. Quickly opening the other door, he added:

“Current time: eighteen-zero-zero. The Duchess of Milan is in the Opera House. Head there as soon as you can. I will mislead the media.”

Nodding firmly at the cold but confident voice, Esther let her luggage into the back seat and ran out the other side of the vehicle. Just when she had finished hiding behind some construction materials there, she adjusted the bonnet around her head, the car started.

“Wait, Sister Esther! Some statements!”

The plan worked and the journalists came out in droves after the vehicle that had left behind only the smell of the tires burned. Those who had been so sufficiently farsighted were set up in their own cars, and the other took hansoms. Between the whirlwind of yells and engines, no one noticed the place where the nun had hidden.

“They've already left...”

After checking that everyone had moved away, Esther got up and dusted herself off.

“What did it all mean?” Looking at the flier again, the young woman bit her lip.

«Commemoration of the first anniversary of the liberation of Istvan».

«Saint Esther».

«Devil Gyula.»

Esther crumpled the paper into a ball and put it in her pocket. Those sensational expressions had left a very unpleasant impression on her chest.

She had to speak to the Cardinal as soon as possible. She had to talk to her and hear from her own lips the truth about all this charade...

“Wait, Sister Esther, I still have a question for you”, a hoarse voice stopped her just as she was about to walk.

Turning around, she found a man in a soot-stained coat. It was the same journalist who had given her the flier earlier, so he was the only one who had noticed her ploy.

“I expected no less from the young woman who defeated the Marquis of Hungary. You are very clever. And thanks to that I have my exclusive… Ah, but I haven't even introduced myself. My name is Clement from the Picadilly Gazette in Albion.”

The man handed her a yellowish business card. Although he was smiling politely, he did not miss the opportunity to scan the young nun with his eyes.

“I've told you before that I don't know what you're talking about,” Esther replied, somewhat frightened, instinctively turning her face away from that penetrating gaze. “If you want to know more about the ceremony, I recommend that you go directly to the cathedral, Mr. Clement. I don't know anything...”

“No, no, what interests me is your personal circumstances, sister.”

So the one who smiled slightly mockingly at her on the deserted street was one of those famous paparazzi from the gossip press.

“I've been investigating your family... I know you were abandoned as a child and that the bishop raised you... Vitez, was her name? Therefore, do you not know who your real parents are?”

“I... I know something about my father...”

What right this man have to intrude like this in her private life? Lifting her face decisively, she snapped:

“But I only know he was from Albion. Are we finished with the questions, Mr. Clement? I'm in a hurry. We will talk another time.”

“Well, well, you don't have to be like that either.”

However, the journalist did not seem to be affected by her serious tone. Still smiling, he took a few yellowed sheets from his pocket. They were official documents of the city council, as indicated by the seals with the emblem of the city.

“What do you think this is? It's a copy of your birth certificate, which was filed at the town hall. According to these documents your father was Edward Blanchett, knight bachelor of Albion. The lowest rank of the nobility...”

“But how did you…?!”

Seeing the documents the journalist had, Esther flushed with anger and her breathing began quickening. She stood up to face him and said:

"Give me that! You have no right to snoop there!”

“If you tell me what I want, I will give it to you soon. It costs me a lot of money to get this copy. I cannot give it to you just like that. So... back to what we were talking about...”

Clement laughed, satisfied, as if enjoying the fact that he was once again in charge of the conversation. Waving the paper in the air, like a lure, the journalist continued:

“Well, your father was Edward Blanchett, but do you know what kind of person he was?”

“Didn't I tell you that I don't know anything else about him!?”

“Oh yeah? Well, me neither. And I am not the only one. In fact, absolutely no one knows anything about him. Because the truth is that he never existed…”

“Eh?”

Esther had reached out to grasp the document, but stopped short. She furrowed her eyebrows and stared at the reporter. What did he mean by “never existed”?

As if enjoying his interlocutor's confusion, Clement continued to speak slowly.

“According to our investigations, there is no trace in Albion of an aristocrat named Edward Blanchett. We have examined the noble records, the files of appointments, even the secret documents of the Institute of Heraldry, but there is no trace of anyone named that.”

“Uh... huh... But that...”

Hesitantly, Esther tried to find a way to answer him.

The truth was, she had consciously avoided investigating her father. Because of her work, she wouldn't have had a difficult time if she wanted to know more about him, but she was afraid of what she might find.

However, Clement's words were too impressive to ignore. Had there never been a nobleman named Edward Blanchett?

“Of course, identity theft or falsification of one's own past are not so rare things either. He would not be the first to arrive in the provinces and say that he is an aristocrat from a distant country... But there is one thing that intrigues me: that he used the name Edward Blanchett eighteen years ago...

“??”

It was clear that it was a trap. Even she is aware that the verbiage of her interlocutor was captivating her, Esther tried not to escape. In fact, she even encouraged him to keep talking with a fearful question:

“What puzzles you, Mr. Clement?”

“Well, now is when you and I can do business, sister.”

Seeing that his prey had swallowed the hook, the journalist shook the documents again and continued to speak slowly, showing nicotine-stained teeth.

“Why don't you join me for a moment? It would be better to go to a quiet place, where we can talk without being disturbed by anyone.”

“B... but now I don't have time...”

“Are you not interested in the deal?”

Clement's gaze narrowed like a reptile locating its prey. With a theatrical sigh, he put the document back in his pocket.

“Then there is nothing to do. I will publish the results of my research in my next article. «The secret of the origin of the Saint»... Ah, I'll send you a copy when it comes out. Do I send it here, or better to your office in Rome?”

Esther tensed her face and, instinctively taking her arms to her chest, moaned:

“Are you trying to threaten me!?”

“Ah, I see you have understood perfectly, sister,” replied the journalist, as if enjoying the young woman's reaction. And he added in a threatening tone: “You come with me now and you grant me the exclusive, or your father's secret...?”

“Threatening others using family secrets is not a very respectable hobby, sir.”

The voice that echoed in the twilight was contrasted with Clement's in its serenity. Turning quickly, the veteran journalist encountered a man who was slowly shaking his head.

“And more in the case of an innocent sister like this… Is it that those of your profession don't know the meaning of the word moderation?

“And who are you?”

Looking up, Esther saw the dark shape of a man.

He looked to be in his early thirties. His shapely face and the black Inverness coat that wrapped him were impeccable. Under his dark hair, intelligent black eyes shone through silver glasses.

“I'm sorry I didn't introduce myself. My name is Isaac Butler. I am a steward of one of the aristocratic houses of Londinium.”

The young gentleman lifted his top hat with his cane as he bowed gracefully.

“I did not mean to meddle in your affairs, but I was waiting for someone and by chance I overheard your conversation. Sir… Clement, right? The truth is that I cannot praise your professional ethics too much. Thus violating people's privacy and using it as a tool to threaten others… You should be ashamed.”

“What does it matter to you!?” The journalist snapped, looking at him with hyena eyes, in a tone that sounded more like a bully than anything else. “If you go where they don't call you, you can get scalded… Besides, I'm not threatening anyone. Here we are just talking without any coercion. I have not done anything bad.”

“Taking unauthorized copies of someone else's birth certificates is a crime,” Butler muttered, raising his hand. Seeing what was in it, Clement was dumbfounded.

“B... but when did you...?”

The butler showed him a paper stamped with the city hall letterhead.

Clement reached into his pocket, but… Esther's birth certificate was missing!

“Y… you're a thief! Give me those documents back immediately!”

The paparazzi paled for a moment and then turned red. Showing the teeth in a horrible grin, he reached for the man to try to forcibly get back the paper... but did not even touch it. There was a thud, and the journalist rolled on the ground.

“Good work, Guderian” whispered Butler to the man who had appeared like a wall between him and the reporter.

He was a somber man with gray hair. He was not too tall, but his body was athletic, and his pupils had a flash of predator gleaming. He made a move to approach the paparazzi, but Butler stopped him with a gesture and politely addressed the fallen man:

“Good, Mr. Clement. My companion, Mr. Guderian, is, unlike you, a gentleman, but he is also very ruthless. I do not recommend that you face him hand to hand...”

The butler lit a pipe and began to smoke while he continued speaking indolently.

“Besides, don't you have anything more important to investigate than disturbing the young lady? For example ... Oh yes! They say that this year the damage caused by the wolves has been extraordinary, after feeding on the corpses of the war last year, it seems that the wolves have begun to attack the cattle and the inhabitants of the place. Isn't that interesting news?”

“...”

Clement sat up, eyes full of hatred, but careful to take enough distance.

“Okay, I'll go... But sir... Butler was it? I never forget a face. We will meet again. You'll see what it means to antagonize with the media...”

“I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again. Until next time, Mr. Clement.”

As if he had instantly forgotten the reporter who had cursed him, the man quickly turned to Esther. Slightly bending his waist with a smile, he respectfully offered the document which the journalist had used as a bait.

“What a bad night you’ve had, sister!”

“T... thank you very much, sir...”

Did they know each other before?

With a strange feeling of having seen the man somewhere, Esther lowered her head as she thanked him and took the document he offered her.

“Lucky you have appeared. I will never forget what you have done for me”.

“It was nothing. Helping a lady in distress is the duty of any gentleman. Oh, and please don't think now that in Albion we are all like that journalist. Most of us are true gentlemen.”

“Are you from Albion?”

At the hearing the name of the country of his father, the expression of Esther softened for a moment, but at once recovered the tension before. The man had claimed to be an aristocrat's butler, but what was someone like him doing there? Wouldn't that be another trick to gain her trust?

Suspicion was probably written on her face, because Butler gave a sheepish smile and proceeded to introduce himself in detail.

“You are probably wondering what a poor butler like me is doing here. The truth is that I am looking for someone. He is a friend of my lord, who disappeared a long time ago… Someone who had some problems… He caused a scandal in his youth and had to flee the country. My lord has found out that he arrived in this region and has sent me to search for clues as to his whereabouts.”

“It seems like very hard work...”

Butler's words made sense and he had explained without hesitation. He was probably telling the truth. Esther decided to believe that the man was who he claimed to be.

Butler's partner jerked his pocket watch to him, and the butler snapped his fingers. After putting out the pipe, he respectfully took Esther by the hand.

“What a disappointment! Seems that it is late! Sister, if you do not need us at all, we will withdraw, with your permission.”

“Oh, sure! I'm in a bit of a hurry too... Thank you very much for your help; really, Mr. Butler.”

“Oh, please, I don't deserve that much respect.”

Bringing the nun's hand slightly to his lips, the man smiled and whispered in Albion's language:

“It was nice meeting you. I hope to see you again soon…”

As the young woman flushed, the butler bowed politely and turned. The man named Guderian followed half a second later.

Esther was lost in her thoughts, watching the two figures move away down the dark street.

When she came back to reality, she realized that the streetlights had come on.

“Ah, I have to hurry!”

She had no time to waste. Clicking her tongue, the young woman ran to the opposite side of the street.

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

So this is it, Stay tunned for next part, we’re having a nice coloring next time. Love you guys! ❤

#TrinityBlood #TrinityBloodNovels #fan translation #abel nightroad #esther blanchett #ROM IV #Chapter1 #part1

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whatstheproblembaby · 4 years

Text

Fic: What’s in a Name?

The “Why does everyone call Shelagh ‘Mrs. Turner’ when all the other married nurses are ‘Nurse Whoever’ fic that no one asked for but I wanted to write anyways. ~1900 words, G, gen/friendship fic at the beginning but solidly Turnadette by the end.

Also on AO3!

Shelagh had thought she was above eavesdropping in corners in Nonnatus House after Trixie and Cynthia had roped her into their spying on Jenny and Alec all those years ago, but apparently, some things stayed with you. She was approaching the dining room from the hall, intending to enjoy a quick cup of tea and a catch-up with Trixie as she waited for Patrick to finish with an ulcer case, but the voices coming from the kitchen made her pause and shrink back into the wall. She was likely still visible if someone took the effort to look from the dining room - and anyone coming from the end of the hall would think she was ridiculous - but she thought the conversation that was going on might not benefit from her presence just yet.

“Trixie, you’ve been here the longest,” Lucille began.

“Yes, thank you for reminding me, Lucille,” Trixie replied with a faux-irritated huff.

“You know that’s not what I meant. You’re still a young woman, and you have valuable knowledge that the rest of us appreciate,” Lucille said. Shelagh could just barely see them entering the dining room out of the corner of her eye, noticing what she thought was a quick, loving hand squeeze between the two women as they and the others took their seats. “Especially about the history of Nonnatus.”

“That’s true,” Sister Hilda cut in. Sister Frances nodded emphatically beside her. “They give us some background at the Mother House, of course, but it’s no substitute for actually having your boots on the ground here.”

“I see…,” Trixie said. She took a sip of her Horlicks before continuing, “And what exactly about the history of Nonnatus do you want to know?”

“It’s not about the history of Nonnatus precisely, but it’s related. I think,” Lucille said, sipping her own drink. “It’s about Mrs. Turner.”

“She should be here in a moment,” Trixie said. Shelagh flattened herself even more against the wall when Trixie leaned out to scan the hallway for her, but to no avail - she saw Trixie’s eyes widen as they locked with her own. Shelagh shook her head, just once. Thankfully Trixie got the message, smoothly saying, “You could just ask her then.”

“I don’t know if what I’m about to ask is...painful, somehow.” Shelagh quirked an eyebrow at Lucille’s choice of adjective. “If you don’t know the answer, though, then I will ask once she arrives.”

“Fire away, sweetie,” Trixie said. She looked back up to where Shelagh was hiding, her face a perfectly unruffled mask. Shelagh could see in her eyes that she too had no idea where Lucille was taking this question, though.

“Why do we call Mrs. Turner ‘Mrs. Turner’ when we all called Barbara ‘Nurse Hereward’ after she got married? She’s also a nurse - are we being disrespectful?”

“I’ve wondered that, too!” Sister Frances chimed in. “She puts in as much work as the rest of us. Doesn’t she deserve the title?”

Shelagh pressed her lips together, stifling a laugh. She had been so worried about gossip and stigma when she first left the Order - she had never imagined that she would be so absorbed into her new life that people might not know anything about her past at all. Of course, she had never imagined that the staff at Nonnatus would shift quite so frequently, either. Once, it would have been Cynthia, Jenny, and Chummy sitting at that table with Trixie, and they would have had no need to ask.

“I suppose the simplest answer is that for quite a while, we never expected Shelagh to become Mrs. Turner,” Trixie said. “It was a joy for us to be able to say it, and she did retire briefly from nursing when she married. We just got used to it.”

“That’s very kind of you to say,” Shelagh said, finally stepping into the dining room and revealing herself. A chorus of startled noises punctuated her statement, along with Sister Frances splashing her Horlicks onto the table.

“Oh, lass,” Phyllis sighed, pushing herself up to grab a dishcloth from the kitchen. “Hasn’t the East End trained the jumpiness out of you yet?”

“I’m sorry!” Sister Frances said, taking the cloth and mopping up her spill. “But why didn’t anyone expect you to marry Dr. Turner, Mrs. - I mean, Nurse-”

“Right now, I think you should all just call me Shelagh,” she cut in, taking Sister Monica Joan’s usual seat at the foot of the table. Trixie got up at that, walking over to the kitchen to pour Shelagh a mug of Horlicks, too. “Or were you going to be circumspect about my first name as well, Trixie?”

“Had they asked, quite possibly!” Trixie said, passing Shelagh her mug and taking her seat again. “I didn’t realize your past was such ancient history. Or is it classified under the Official Secrets Act?”

“What are you two talking about?” Val interjected, looking from Shelagh to Trixie and back like it was a match at Wimbledon. “You’re making it sound like she has a secret identity or something.”

“Maybe she’s a Russian spy,” Phyllis teased. “Come to get classified intel on birthing babies for the Kremlin!”

“Close,” Shelagh said with a laugh. “But to answer your question, Sister Frances, I need to ask you and Sister Hilda one of my own first. Did anyone at the Mother House ever mention a sister who left the order back in 1958?”

“Not to me,” Sister Frances said. “But I only just took my life vows.”

Sister Hilda bit her lip for a moment before saying, “Now that you mention it, it rings a bell. I think Mother Jesu Emmanuel said something at dinner one day, but she didn’t say which sister it was. Did you know her, Shelagh?”

Trixie snorted into her mug.

“I was her,” Shelagh answered.

There was pin-drop silence around the table. Five sets of eyes bored into Shelagh, clearly begging to know more, while Trixie just quietly allowed everyone to process the moment.

“I was Sister Bernadette for about ten years,” Shelagh explained. “And Dr. Turner was married to his first wife, Marianne, for most of that time. But she passed away, unfortunately, after an illness, and after that...we grew closer.”

“So no one expected you to get married because you were a nun,” Val said. “That makes sense.”

“Well, that, and I was in a sanitarium for six months or so because I had tuberculosis. Your future generally gets a bit hazy when you’re diagnosed with a serious illness.” Shelagh took a sip of her drink as another round of stunned silence settled around the table.

“Is that all?” Phyllis asked after a moment. “You aren’t secretly a member of the Royal Family, or brewing bathtub gin out of one of the spare rooms-”

“No, I’m out of surprises for the day,” Shelagh said through a laugh. “But thank you for thinking I could be that interesting.”

“So when you two first met-” Lucille began, turning to Trixie.

“She was Sister Bernadette, terrifyingly efficient and completely off-limits for friendship. Or so I thought,” Trixie said, smiling. “And now Shelagh’s still terrifyingly efficient, but an excellent friend.”

“Gosh, Trixie, at least buy me dinner first,” Shelagh teased. There was a moment of shared laughter before Lucille spoke up again.

“No one’s answered my original question, though. Do you want us to call you Nurse Turner professionally, Shelagh?”

Shelagh took a moment to gather her thoughts before answering. “I do appreciate the offer, Lucille, but no. Patrick and I actually discussed this a little when I returned to nursing, and we were concerned that ‘Dr. Turner’ and ‘Nurse Turner’ would lead to confusion among our patients if they were trying to discuss diagnoses or treatments amongst themselves. And admittedly...I do quite like being Mrs. Turner.”

“Well that’s encouraging to hear,” came another voice from behind her, making them all jump. Patrick rested his hand on Shelagh’s shoulder from behind her chair, squeezing once in greeting before asking, “Are you ready to go home, Shelagh?”

“Unless anyone has any further questions?” Shelagh asked, smiling at her colleagues around the table before standing up and taking her mug to the kitchen. There was a flurry of “good nights” from all parties as Shelagh looped her hand through Patrick’s elbow and they made their departure.

“‘Further questions’?” Patrick asked once they were in their car. “Were you having a class I didn’t know about?”

“Not exactly,” Shelagh said. “I overheard Lucille asking Trixie why everyone calls me ‘Mrs. Turner’ and not ‘Nurse Turner,’ and that led to some, erm, revelations.”

“But why - no one knew about Sister Bernadette?” Patrick said, connecting the dots. “Not even Sister Hilda? I would think she was in the Order around the same time you were.”

“She had heard about a sister leaving, but she didn’t know it was me,” Shelagh explained. “Apparently there’s been so much upheaval at Nonnatus House over the last few years that our story has gone quite unremarked.”

“You’re not upset that Sister Bernadette isn’t more prominent, are you?” Patrick said, reaching over to take one of Shelagh’s hands in his. Their gazes met briefly before he had to turn his focus back to the road. “She - you - did important work during your time there.”

“I’d like to think I’m doing important work now, too,” Shelagh said, smiling over at her husband. “And I don’t care about being recognized for it, whichever name I’m using. Frankly, I think I’d find it harder to do my work if Sister Bernadette’s name was still being talked about. I’d always be concerned that I’m not...living up to her standards, or that people preferred one version of me to the other. Not that there are versions of me in the first place!”

“You have always been the same loving, determined woman I used to share an illicit cigarette with years ago,” Patrick said, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “I’d like to think you’re allowed to be more open about it as my wife, but even if you had stayed in the Order, I know you would be going above and beyond for your patients and colleagues, because that’s just who you are, regardless of the name you use.”

“If I had any doubts about the path I chose in life, that would have erased them,” Shelagh said. “You have always seen me so clearly, Patrick, and it’s helped me to see myself.”

“It’s mutual, my love. I don’t know how I would have handled certain events over the past few years without you helping me find my strength and courage when it was needed.”

“Oh, Patrick,” Shelagh said, waiting for Patrick to put the car in park and turn off the engine before reaching over to take his hands in hers. “Just listen to us. Timothy would be aghast if he heard all this ‘mushy stuff,’ as he used to call it.”

“Timothy’s not here, though, is he? Which means I can do this without fear of unwanted commentary.” Patrick pulled Shelagh in for a lingering kiss. By the time it was finished, Shelagh had just about forgotten any name she had had in her life.

A yell of “Mum!” came from the front door, startling them back into reality.

“Another name for the list,” Shelagh joked wryly. “But maybe we could resume what we were doing a little closer to bedtime?”

“With pleasure,” Patrick said, and they got out of the car.

#call the midwife #call the midwife fic #turnadette #turnadette fic #jen does words #g: fluff #no one asked for this but me but by god will i deliver anyways!!!

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awhiskeyriver · 4 years

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le cirque monstre

This is the prologue to an old but newly updated story I idea I’ve had for years, sort of forgot about and recently remembered and became interested in again. I honestly don’t know when I will transfer this over to ao3 (probably at least the prologue, soon) or when I will add more. My inspiration for things is very fleeting right now, but I wanted to get your thoughts here in tumblrland on whether or not I should bother continuing!

Unedited and some things might end up changing in the future, but enjoy!

+++

Prologue: 1918, Coney Island

She used to think the cotton-spun candy that tasted like melted sugar was just like a dream; too good to be true. She was younger then, and everything about life was shiny and vibrant. Her nose crinkled with distaste as her boney knee stuck to the floor of the bleachers. Not anymore, though. Now, the popular fair treats were only a nuisance, making her job of cleaning between shows all the more difficult.

“Applesauce,” she muttered, twisting to sit on her butt as she peeled a piece of gum from her skin.

“What are you complaining about now, Katniss?” Gale asked, poking up from the row behind her with a devilish grin. Katniss rolled her eyes when he reached out to poke her nose, wondering how someone three years older than her could still be so immature. Gale and her had been best friends since the time she was small, bonded through unfortunate circumstances of life.

“I’m tired of cleaning these seats,” she pouted, sweating and absolutely exhausted. It had been their fourth show of the day, with five more to get through before calling it an evening. Katniss felt the sharp pangs of hunger vibrate through her stomach and moaned.

“If you quit being such a dewdropper this could’ve been done by now and we’d be off eating lu—“ he cut off, ears perking at the sound of distant voices growing closer. Katniss turned to face Gale before he pushed the top of her head in signal to crouch, doing the same for himself.

Female voices billowed through the auditorium, followed by that of her father, whose voice was authoritative and all business. He cleared his throat loudly a couple of times before joining in their quiet laughter with a hardy one of his own that reverberated off the bleachers. Katniss shrunk further into the ground with the sound. Father had always been a vocal man. Vocal when he was happy, even more so when he was angry. He talked, and Katniss listened. Katniss was always listening.

“The children all loved the performance today.”

“Simply loved it!” another high-pitched voice agreed. Katniss twisted her head uncomfortably in hopes of seeing beneath the bleachers and caught sight of two women dressed in long black robes with matching white-lined headdresses.

Nuns from the orphanage.

Gale had sold them tickets earlier before the last showing, and Katniss had hoped she would’ve finished her chores in time to see the children. Because despite living within her father’s circus (what he advertised to be the happiest place in America) there was a surprisingly low number of people who were willing to keep her boredom occupied.

“Children, what must you say now to Mr. Snow?” A chorus of cheerful thank you’s sounded, and underfed children whose clothing didn’t exactly fit wore bright grins. Perhaps the advertising hadn’t been entirely false. They all sure seemed to think so.

The children lined up behind the tallest sister like toy soldiers, marching towards the opening flap of the tent. All, except for one.

“Not you, young man.”

Katniss had practically turned herself upside down in effort to keep the woman in her line of sight, and caught the faintest glimpse of the child. He wasn’t facing her, but his hair was ash-blonde and unattended. Although he wore the same uniform as the other boys, it was sloppy with his shirt un-tucked and it’s color slightly off-white.

“You are not going anywhere,” she spoke dismissively as the other sister came to stand beside her.

“…But, have I done something wrong?”

His voice surprised her. Strong for a child, despite the same unavoidable squeakiness Gale experienced sometimes, being almost fourteen.

“Part of becoming a man,” he’d said proudly when her and her baby sister Prim giggled. “It’s called puberty.”

“Puber-what?” Prim asked, nose wrinkled.

“Awe, forget it.”

“Peeta...” The one reached out, as if to touch him but recoiled before her hand could land on his shoulder, and drew back. “Our home has no place for you, anymore. There is nothing we can do for you.”

He remained quiet as the softer one peered up at her stone-faced sister, who only nodded with agreement.

“You belong here. There is simply nowhere else for you to go.”

“There is not a soul in New York who cares to take in a crippled boy.”

Father took a step in closer to the nuns, who stood a fair distance from the wilting boy. Katniss watched on, her heart beating explosively inside of her chest in a way that made her breaths almost ragged. She’d witnessed cruelty tenfold and was not blind to its existence. But the reality of what the young man was crashed down on her heavily, and she realized perhaps they were not being heartless afterall.

The boy was grotesque. Evidence of the fact made clear as he turned on a crutch made of wood and exposed his profile. It took a hand covering her mouth to keep from making any audible sound.

So, they were simply right, then. There wasn’t a soul in New York, or most likely any state, that would willingly take him into their care. Nobody but a circus.

He resisted as her father’s thick hand clutched his arm, but surprisingly enough did not scream. He did not say a single word as he finally spun around fully into Katniss’s view. Watching with a mixture of fear and dread as the two nuns who had escorted him in left without him.

+++

“Quit trying to bug him, Kat,” Gale snapped, catching her arm outside of the tent where all of the circus freaks were busy preparing for their shows.

Three weeks had passed since the boy joined her father’s circus, parading around with clowns on stilts and the small people that waddled around in shoes five times too big and circular red noses. Three weeks and any time she tried to catch a glimpse of him outside of the show, Gale caught her.

“Aren’t you at all curious?” she huffed, twisting out of his embrace with a thoughtful rub to her elbow. “Haymitch says he is only thirteen. The youngest carnie we’ve ever had.”

“Then going in there will only make him feel like more of a freak,” he scolded and Katniss wilted, realizing the truth to his words. They both jumped as father’s booming voice sounded from a distance, calling Gale’s name.

“I need to go start selling tickets,” he sighed, turning to leave with suspicion in his eye. “Promise me, Kat.”

“…Oh, alright.”

“Promise me.”

Katniss sighed, smoothing out the fluffy material of her dress as something to keep her hands busy. “Yes Gale, I promise to stay out of trouble. Now go, or you’ll have to answer to the whip.”

He left and Katniss paced the length of the carnie tent. There was music playing inside, the soft blare of a saxophone and some sticks against metal pots. Katniss enjoyed spending time with the performers when allowed. Chaff, the deep-skinned muscle man that could lift four hundred pounds despite missing a hand, made her laugh. And Haymitch, a magician, let her play with some of his props when he was drunk enough.

So, really, her going inside of the tent wasn’t completely for the new boy. She had been keeping her fingers crossed during the promise to Gale, anyways.

Katniss glanced around the abandoned backlot, where dark puddles of mud created divots in the green grass she was forced to hop over to keep her shoes clean. Then, she slipped past the thin curtain, which closed off the strange world of fantasy from harsh reality.

Katniss went unnoticed, weaving her way through lounging performers and billowing clouds of smoke. It was always louder in the back tents – deep laughter and saxophone practices, occasional drunken arguments and the escaped moans from two closer carnies. She winced when the volume grew unexpectedly, and bowed her head as if to provide a thin veil of privacy to a group of outlandish people who didn’t know the meaning of it.

She waved at Haymitch, who only raised up his eyebrows in her direction before blowing up a shining red balloon and twisting it with his skilled hands. The other clowns seemed to be hanging close by; some sleeping, others smoking. The new boy most likely wasn’t far. She bit the inside of her cheek, silently debating with herself whether or not to ask of his whereabouts before she caught a glimpse of something that captured her attention.

There it is again, she thought, following the thin trail of light that bounced off the draped edge of the tent, which was otherwise dark. She bent over in half, silently pushing past it with curiosity in her expression. The corners of her mouth lifted when she saw him, sitting perched on the clear opposite end near one of the long poles, which held the tent in place. With a thin, melting candle for light, he kept a novel perched in his one bent knee, his eyes scrolling the pages like a typewriter.

“Hello,” she offered, jumping in surprise when the boy dropped the book and shot up on one wobbly leg.

“Oh…” she bit the corner of her bottom lip to keep from giggling at his startled expression. His overgrown hair fell haphazardly into his eyes despite his best efforts to push it back.

“Did I scare you?” She asked, reaching out to hand him his cane. He didn’t reply, but accepted the crutch quickly before bending over for the book, which he tucked behind his back away from her view.

“It’s alright, I’m not gonna take it,” she promised. He glanced down at her, bright blue eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I was just curious.”

He huffed in silence, falling back to the ground silently as he dusted the dirty pages. Katniss frowned, shifting on her feet as she watched the boy flip through his story. She hadn’t thought past the initial finding him, and now that she had, the silence was deafening.

“Can you speak?”

The tips of his ears turned red as he kept his gaze focused at the ground, running his hands over the dirty cloth of his pants.

“Of course.”

“I know,” she smiled slyly, inching closer to him the way one might approach a nervous animal. “I just wanted to hear you say something.”

She sat down, pushing her butt closer when he didn’t protest and leaned over his shoulder to glance down at his lap. She’d never seen a book so close in real life, only in the hands of strangers or in pictures. Father had never bothered teaching her how to read more than a few simple words, claiming it was pointless for girls to fill their heads with nonsense like knowledge. Certainly, as a circus girl, it wasn’t Katniss’s place to argue. But, it hadn’t helped her curiosity. She sat in silence, wondering if the boy could actually read the words on the pages, or if he was pretending. It was just as ridiculous for the time to be spent teaching him such a skill as it would be for herself.

“What is your novel about?”

“You can borrow it, if you would like,” he offered, dog-earing one of the pages before handing it over to her waiting hands. Her lips pursed sourly as her eyebrows furrowed, pushing the book back into his hands with a sting of betrayal in her chest.

“Well, you don’t need to make fun of me.” she mumbled, rising up to her feet. How humiliating, to be made fun of by this boy she’d only hoped to make feel more comfortable.

“Wait.” He grabbed hold of her arm, the first physical contact he’d offered to her since she’d approached. Her body stiffened and the warmth of his fingertips was gone in a flash as his hand twitched back down to his side. He pushed a long lock of hair back behind his ear, eyes boring into her despite her back being turned.

And it was then, under the candlelight that she saw the gnashes and hideous scarring that ripped apart more than half of his face up close. Quickly, she looked away.

“I wasn’t making fun of you,” he promised lowly, sounding almost sincere. “I wouldn’t.”

“I can’t read. You should know that,” she sniffed, chin tilted up in the air as her eyes shifted back to his forlorn face. “I’m a lady.”

“My apologies. Someone I kne—” he stopped himself short with a shake of his head before cocking his chin back in the direction of the book. He ghosted a hand over its impressive script before opening it back up to the page he’d previously closed. “Perhaps, I could teach you. If you wanted to learn, then you could borrow it sometime.”

Katniss took a moment to truly ponder the idea. Plenty of carnie’s had taught her things over the years. Octavia, the lady with facial hair as long as that which grew on Katniss’s head, had taught her how to properly buckle her shoes when she was younger. And to that day, Haymitch took credit for teaching the girl her first words. She didn’t suppose accepting such a proposition from this boy was much different.

“What would you like in return?” she wondered aloud, confused by the boys humorless laughter, sounding through the dark space.

“Your company shall be payment enough.”

She imagined the boy, all by himself in the dark confines of the carnie tent with only the book as company, and pitied him. She knew well that it took more than being surrounded by a sea of people to not feel alone. Gale and Prim would like her new friend though, she was sure of it, and together they would all keep him fine company until he found a solid place within the odd circus family.

“Alright,” Katniss agreed, dusting the dirt from the bottom of her old dress. She needed to be going soon, or Gale would grow suspicious. The last thing she needed was father out searching for her when he had a show to run. “Friends, then.”

“Sure,” he agreed slowly, as if mulling over the word. “Friends.”

“But we can hardly be friends if I don’t know your name,” she argued, waiting patiently with her hands twisted together. Her tightly spun sausage curls bounced with every step she took in the direction of the main tent before stopping just outside of it. “Mine is Katniss.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Katniss,” he spoke, so eloquently for someone of his status. “I’m Peeta.”

#fanfic #writing #circus!everlark #this will definitely be on the darker side...lol #probably the darkest thing ive written #very different #but i hope interesting??#let me know if its worth continuing or aborting LOL #writing is hard #everlark #everlark fanfic #thg #why is putting something out into the universe so hard?? lol

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bottleofspilledink · 4 years

Text

God’s Watching, Put on a Show || Chapter XV

Now, normally a love confession would be followed by an answer. It was only rational. Declare your love and wait for a response. Either get a relationship or get rejected.

Lilith was not, however, what society by and large would actually deem ‘normal’ and neither was this confession. The word ‘love’ was not mentioned once, leaving her to wonder if Eve actually did understand her…

As the days passed, what was unspoken but clearly there blossomed, from a pinky-sized seed into a lush bouquet that filled their chest with an indescribable yearning and their conversations with heavy pauses, gazes overflowing with a tenderness that far surpassed what was appropriate between fond friends.

Soon, though, the rubber band holding the bouquet together would snap.

Soon, Lilith would come to know that Eve understood her quite well.

From the tension that sat in the five inches of space between their two chairs, something akin to electricity buzzing there, to the way Eve would eagerly ramble about the (not forbidden, she was still too shy to talk about what exactly was in the book Lilith snuck into her bag) books she’d read during lunch, to the patience Lilith would show as they ran through equations in study hall.

What was unspoken was slowly growing whether Lilith or Eve wanted it too. Like an unkillable weed that always grew back, no matter how many times you’ve pulled it out of the ground, no matter the chemical you chose to douse it with. But far more beautiful… That is, if the gardener would allow it to grow.

And everyone who was willing to see it would know it was there, what was there, even if the people feeling it were too scared to give it a name, even if the people seeing were too scared to admit it existed.

...

It was Thursday night on the same week as the incident, Lilith and Joan sat drinking cola in the shack, crickets and cicadas chirping in chorus outside, no one else with them busy with part-time jobs and family dinners and catching up on a week of homework.

“Hey.” Joan said, trying to steer the conversation away from their light-hearted chats and towards something a bit more… complicated, a tad more touchy.

“Yeah?”

“Are… Eve, I mean.” The brunette took a long sip from her can, the relaxed air between them shifting as she stalled what she needed to say. “Are you sure we can trust her?”

“What do you mean? She’s obviously gay and in denial-”

“That’s the point.” Joan fixes her with a soft stare, trying to strike the balance between firm and sympathetic. “I doubt Eve’s even admitted it to herself, and even if she has, she’s no friend of ours yet.”

“Where’s all this coming from all of a sudden?” Lilith can’t help but be defensive. After everything she’d told Joan about Eve and how she felt for her, after everything Joan had seen Eve go through just that Monday, how could she still be against the girl?

“They’re holding confession tomorrow.”

“What?”

“In the afternoon, just before club. There’s going to be confession.” Another sip from her drink, faster this time. “The holy type.”

Lilith knew exactly what Joan was implying, now considering the possibility herself having remembered what was happening tomorrow and every week after that. She wouldn’t admit it, though, refusing to doubt Eve despite the danger it may pose to trust her, to… love her.

Aster blue eyes widened, if only a fraction, in shock.

“And what’s that got to do with anything?”

“Are you sure she won’t crack?”

It hurt to think of. The chance of betrayal very real and very close, the things it may cost them all hung heavy in the air. What they’d worked for during the past year – the subject of many serious chats, full of tears and thinking and uncertainties, the cause of many sleepless nights, weighing risk and reward, planning – could vanish in an instant and make them vanish with it.

She could practically feel the ‘Godly Living’ brochures in her hand.

It was another thing she tried not to think of too much; her friends strapped into electric chairs and deadly hydrotherapy chambers, pumped full of pills that made them nauseous at the very thought of love with women or ones that didn’t let them think at all, the possibility of getting lobotomized.

“- could out us! She could out you!”

Joan’s voice pulled her from her mind before she could go too deep.

The emphasis on ‘you’ nearly made Lilith cry.

At the end of it all, even with the threat it brought to their gay little family, made up of people so vastly different yet somehow so similar, Joan was thinking about her.

And she was right to.

Tomorrow, if Eve did give her away, the others would be able to lie their way out of it, come up with alibis and excuses and cry ‘I have a boyfriend’ because Eve hadn’t spent enough time around them to gain anything as evidence because Eve had only been around Lilith.

“I don’t think she will.”

She tried not to sound scared.

“The only thing she really has against me are words anyways…” There was no reason to tell the other of the note she’d written for Eve. Painful as it was, the girl had probably thrown it out by now, especially since she knew what it meant. “And she can’t mention experience without admitting what almost happened between us a week ago.”

Joan was unconvinced.

“Are you really going to take this risk?”

She tossed Joan a few quarters. Enough for three phone calls on the payphone a mile or so away.

Maybe Lilith was going to risk herself for the sake of some girl.

But she’d be damned if she let her friends do the same thing for her.

“Call the others. Tell them to pack essentials and paperwork. Tell Colette to bring the check.”

“Only if you pack a bag too.”

It seems they would do the same for Lilith, whether she wanted them too or not.

“Joan-”

“No. If we have to leave tomorrow, you’re coming with us.”

And that was that.

...

It was a fine Friday morning in St. Agnes School For Girls. Maybe even her last.

Lilith tried to stay calm. Even as she packed her bags, even as she snuck into her grandfather’s office to retrieve her personal papers, even during the walk back to the shack, even while Paula and Joan and Julia and Colette went over what to say if they were questioned about their relationship with one another, their closeness, their relationship with Lilith, specifically.

It was agreed they would never throw each other under the bus. Agreed that, they’d deny all allegations against each other despite the proof, even if it may mean making them complicit.

After all, if they had to flee, they’d flee together.

If even one of them were found out, the plan was to run and pull a fire alarm, notifying the others.

Joan’s truck was parked just a few streets away from the school, no more than a quick sprint needed to reach it, key in her pocket, Paula carrying a duplicate, bags already in the back, fastened, Julia had forged a note for them about an after-school activity, buying them some time before a search was called if the school didn’t immediately call their guardians, and Colette carried all she needed to cash the check in on her person.

The last thing they did were practice statements, crafting sentences that left no room for interpretation and had no strange implications, absent of loopholes and additional clauses.

“What do we say if any of us are questioned about homosexual activity?”

“I know nothing about that.” They said, all in synch, drilling the words into their heads exactly as they were so there was no chance of them being taken out of context and used to spin a narrative. If the nuns wanted any of them sent to conversion therapy, they were going to have to lie through their teeth. “I’ve never taken part in such things and know no one who has.”

They sounded nothing like themselves, Lilith realized in between breaks.

Though she supposed that was the point.

“Again!” Said Joan. “What do you say if they accuse your friends of being homosexuals?”

“My friends and I are good, Christian people who would never willingly associate with homosexuals. I have personal anecdotes to prove the innocence of the girl you are accusing.”

It made them sick to their stomachs, having to say such things.

It made them safe, though.

And for now, that was all that mattered.

They were prepared.

But they didn’t want to leave. Not yet.

...

As the day went on, Lilith began to lose her cool, anxiety creeping deep into her bones, growing fidgety and restless. Her leg shook under the table, fingers tapping against the desk and clicking pens, eyes always shifting, looking for another sign that they needed to go.

Was this what Eve felt like every day?

The fear of being found out was in no means foreign to Lilith, nor was the fear of God, a tyrant she used to believe in and worship just like Eve did. But it had faded, her hiding of herself perfected to a science, fear turning into anger as she realized that everything she was raised on was a sham.

It had been too long since she felt this real, crushing anxiety.

She didn’t like it.

...

It was time.

Lilith and Eve sat next to each other in the small chapel on school grounds, just a bit behind the actual building but before the convent, not an inch of space between them as they were squeezed into the pews filled with those yet to receive the sacrament of confession. The seats were divided so that there were two groups of pews, one for waiting, the other for prayer, where many would do their penance. Two confessional booths were far behind them, having been placed like that so none of the girls would see who went in when or be able to hear a peep.

She knew how this was going to happen, how they could possibly get outed.

Priests were not allowed to break their vows and tell the nuns of the sins they’d heard during the confession but a penance was to be given to those who had sinned.

It could be anything from a prayer to an act of service.

It could be telling the nuns what you’ve done or know someone’s done as a way of repenting.

No doubt, if anyone confessed something of significance, they would have to tell Mother Cecilia.

And since most everyone who did this in earnest would believe their soul was on the line, if the girls in this school were truly the people they claimed to be, they would tell the nuns, friendships and loyalties and love be damned as the person they tattle on.

“Eve?” The girl whispered, finally snapping. “The note I gave you, do you still have it?”

The blonde did nothing more than look to the marble floor, hair shielding her face. There was no way for Lilith to tell if she was ashamed or guilty or planning to-

“Please answer me.”

“I still have it.”

For the first time in years, far longer than what most would consider healthy, Lilith felt herself minutes away from bursting into tears, eyes stinging from having to hold it all in.

“Where?”

“Why?”

Eve refused to meet her eyes when she ducked down to try and catch a glimpse of her face.

“With me, right now, in my pocket.”

Before the girl could answer her, a nun appeared to lead Eve into the booth, giving her a light scolding as they went.

“Time before confession should be used to reflect on your sins, Miss Peccator.”

“Yes, Sister Jane. I’m sorry.”

And with that, she was gone.

...

It was an eternity later when Lilith left the chapel, finding Eve just outside, to the right, standing amongst stone pillars that had barely started growing moss, waiting.

They were as alone as they could be, the only things watching them were the unseeing eyes of the statue saint surrounding them, whatever creature lingered in the cracks on the chapel’s stone, and God.

Perhaps what resided in the chapel was God.

“Eve…” She stepped closer to the girl, desperation potent. “What did you tell them?”

No response.

All she was given were downcast brown eyes and fidgeting fingers, guilt.

Lilith took another step forward, grabbing the other by her hands, letting Eve feel her warmth, her pulse, the softness of her flesh, of the blood that flowed through her veins, of her humanity.

“Eve, what did you tell the priest?”

Lilith had fallen to her knees, in a plea, in a prayer, the ground beneath her unforgiving and now stained with her blood, dark red and sinful. Eve’s hands clasped in hers and pressed to her sweat-soaked forehead as sobs wracked her body harder than it had in years.

She was screaming now, pulling on the other’s hands hard enough to hurt, something, anything to make the girl look up at her, unaware of the tears streaming down her own face.

“Eve? Eve?! What did you tell the priest?!”

They were the image of repentance, a holy figure, a dirty sinner; Eve towered above Lilith as she cried, immaculate and unattached as the girl wept into her skirts and her hands, a holy portrait commissioned by a long-gone pope.

If only they weren’t both sinners in His eyes.

“What did you tell the priest, Eve?!”

__________________

HAPPY HOLIDAYS HAVE A FUCKING CLIFF HANGER ψ(｀∇´)ψ

Lmao yes I know it's only the 24th but I’ll be back on actual christmas day with the next chapter tho so please don’t be mad at me and I’m very sorry for this (┬┬﹏┬┬)

Anyways, I would like some reblogs as my present this year <333

Taglist: @atahensic @anomiewrites @leahstypewriter @madame-ree @melpomenismask @littlemisscalamity @phillyinthebathroom @gaypeaches @extrabitterbrain @pirateofblood @i-wanna-be-a-rock

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goddessofthundathighs · 5 years

Text

I’ll Take Yo Man

A little college Hennessy and Erik foolishness concocted by @hearteyes-for-killmonger & myself. Based on the following prompt:

Friday. The day Hennessy had been looking forward to the whole week. Erik would be home from his most recent deployment the next day and she needed to prepare for his return. She went and got her hair done, opting for a silk press to her usually springy curls. She followed that up with a well deserved pedicure and a full-set of stiletto dick grabbers, both in his favorite color on her: sunflower yellow. She was now perusing the shelves of MAC, looking to restock her dwindling supply of Snob and Saint Germain lippies and her prep + prime lip primer. The freshly cleaned diamonds in the Cuban link necklace Erik gifted her twinkled under the light of the store, attracting the attention of the young woman working. She was about 5’9, 150 pounds wet with what looked to be a 24-inch body wave weave with a lifting frontal and lipstick that clashed with her undertones. Cute, but not Hennessy. She looked Henny up and down with familiarity before her eyes finally landed on the letter E tattoo that rested on her collarbone.

“Oh, you must be the new freak of the week?”

“Excuse me?” Hennessy asked with a raised eyebrow. Erik was popular, so it was no surprise that the whole state of Massachusetts knew that he was officially off the market.

“I know that Cuban, he gave me one like it when we were fucking around. Erik?”

“Who are you?” The name tag on her chest read Brittani, but it should’ve said Bold Bitch, seeing as how she was questioning Henny like she was Erik’s mother.

“I’m Brittani. Erik and I fucked around on the regular up until about a year ago.”

Hennessy smiled as Brittani spoke, remembering the day that he stumbled on her doorstep.

"And you still on him? Baby, move on." This caused Brittani to give her the most menacing look.

“Funny, you’re bigger than his usual type.”

Oh, you one of them bitches. Salty as the everlasting fuck that a thicc bitch took the nigga you wanted.

“Any particular reason why you’re divulging this information? I’m just tryna buy some lipstick not hear your dating history.”

Brittani smirked, snatching the items from Hennessy’s hands and ringing them up aggressively.

"History tends to repeat itself. I could take your man. Easily! Look at me and look at you.”

Hennessy laughed loudly then, completely disregarding the Great Value Cyn Santana. Having been officially dating the soon-to-be King of Wakanda for a year now, she was used to slimmer, Instagram-esque women feeling loose at the lips when it came to her boyfriend. At face value, Erik was the total package. He was incredibly smart, handsome, and his sex could convert even the most devout nun. But the real Erik, the fragile lost boy who had discovered his father’s lifeless body when he was only a young boy, that was a completely different story. The real Erik was moody, mean, and when he was in Killmonger-mode, a vengeful shell of a man that cared about nobody else’s feelings but his own. It had taken some time, but Hennessy had skillfully and meticulously broken down some of the rougher areas of his psyche and had learned things about him that no one else would dream of knowing. In him, she'd found a kindred spirit. A twin flame. They had bonded over their love for marijuana and their need to escape the realities of their tragic childhoods. She'd seen him at his weakest, his ugliest, and his most tragic. They'd butt heads and found homeostasis more times in a month than most couples even saw each other. She knew no one else could handle the man she called hers and she’d be lying if she said the idea of someone trying was not comical.

“I'll tell you what. You can have him, but I guarantee after 24 hours you’ll give him back.”

“Shiiid. I know what that dick is like and I swore that if I ever got it again, I’d never let him go.”

Hennessy laughed harder as the young woman slid the bag of purchased items across the counter.

“I’ll give you 24 hours. Any longer and you're stuck with him.”

“Deal.”

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

“You really out here tryna pimp a nigga, huh?” Erik asked from his place between Hennessy's legs. After having successfully broken her back on every surface of their shared apartment since he stepped foot in the door the previous day, Erik was now lazily resting on Hennessy’s belly while she massaged through his dreads. He had missed the way her plush body melted into his, much like the memory foam mattress they were currently lounging on. He loved the way their bodies fit together, like Bast had created her just for him. She was his personal Sour Patch kid, sweet and sour depending on her mood, but always soft.

“It’s only pimping if we're getting paid. Lil’ Mama said she could take you from me, so I told her she could have you. You and I both know you’ll be back.”

“You damn right. You’re my favorite brown liquor and plus, I can’t leave my Creole lady for too long. What you gonna do while I’m gone?”

Um, party? She thought to herself.

“Relax,” she said instead. Though there were experiments that needed to be done, she was going to use the day for some much needed self-care. Her hair had long since sweated out from its silky state, so she planned to wash and twist it, exfoliate and shave, and binge watch all the shows she’d missed during the week.

“You relaxed while I was gone, ma,” he pouted as he snuggled closer to her.

“No, I worked while you were gone. You know I have to keep busy so I don’t miss ya fat head ass so much.”

“You love my fat head though, boffum,” he teased as he ran his fingertips up her thighs.

“You’re disgusting,” she sneered.

“Filthy,” he called back, dipping his fingers between her thighs, drawing a soft mewl from her.

“Again?” she pouted.

“I missed my baby,” he growled before his tongue met her folds.

Here we go again.

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

Erik watched Brittani's back, unimpressed by her lack of food and general unpreparedness. Hadn't she heard that the way to a man's heart was through his stomach? She sat a bowl in front of him and stuck a spoon in it like she was done.

“Bruh. What the fuck is this? I asked for shrimp and grits, not oatmeal,” Killmonger fussed from his seat at Brittani’s counter. He had been in one of his moods ever since he came over, mentally noting to curse his girlfriend out for subjecting him to such torture, and now she was trying to kill him. Immediately he began to remember why he cut Brittani off in the first place. She was cute, but that was all she had going for herself. She couldn’t cook, she wouldn’t clean, and she was always in his business and trying to go through his phone. If she wasn’t trying to force herself onto his dick then she was whining about wanting him to take her shopping and show her off, though she wasn’t much of a trophy. She couldn't even keep her wig under control. He could see the screen door material sitting on top of her forehead. Henny always put makeup on hers. He could see her in the mirror now, doing that goofy ass dance she did whenever she got a new wig, patting and parting to make sure it looked good. He looked down at his watch. 16 more hours to go. This was finna be a long day.

“That is shrimp and grits, babe. I followed the recipe and everything.” Hennessy didn’t need a recipe.

“My name is Erik,” he reminded her as he tried to lift the spoon from the bowl. “Call me babe again and I’ll slit ya throat,” he threatened, mostly serious. “Why the grits so thick? Did you devein the shrimp? Is this a shell?!” His appetite quickly diminished when he spotted a creature the size of his thumb crawl across the stovetop.

“SHIT…. I’m going to the gym,” he snarled dusting himself, suddenly paranoid.

You love me especially gentle every time // You keep me on my feet happily excited // By your cologne, your hands, your smile, your intelligence // You woo me, you court me, you tease me, you please me // You school me, give me some things to think about // Ignite me, you invite me, you co-write me, you love me, you like me // You incite me to chorus, ooh

Back at their apartment, Henny was soaking in a vanilla lavender bath while her curls deep conditioned under her large pink bonnet. Jill Scott serenaded her while the warm water soothed her aching muscles, an indication of the previous night’s activities. Her music was interrupted by her ringtone.

“Miss me already, Daddy?” she teased, putting the phone on speaker so she could finish her bath.

“This bitch got bugs bigger than me crawling around her shit. Them bitches benching 350. I’m not sleeping there tonight for them niggas to jump me in my sleep.. and I’ma beat ya ass when I get home,” he fussed, still dusting himself occasionally as he drove.

“Aww, baby it can’t be that bad,” Hennessy tried.

“She needed a recipe for shrimp and grits. Who the fuck needs a recipe for shrimp and grits?! It’s in the fuckin’ title! Damn shrimp still had shells on ‘em, the grits was hard as a fuckin’ brick… it was just a mess. Then Craig the Cockroach or whatever the fuck it was came crawling across the stove like he was lookin’ for a plate too. I had to go.”

Hennessy was a giggling mess as Erik explained his morning ordeal.

“Didn’t y’all use to fuck around? You ain’t know she had roaches?”

“I used to fuck that bitch in her driveway cuz she lived with her mama. I had no idea what the inside of that place looked like.”

“You was a dirty dick ass nigga, huh? Just sticking it in anything warm.”

“First of all, fuck you. Second of all, I’m aware of the error of my past judgement, but this is NOT the time to be making jokes. I’m distraught and you laughing. If I die in there, it’s your fault.”

“I mean, according to ya military paperwork I’m ya wife, so I’ll get a nice check.”

“Wooooooow, it really be ya own people. Just for that I’m going in ya ass with no lube tomorrow.”

“Wait, I take it back. I’m sorry. If you wanna come back sooner, handle her. Make it so she knows you're mine or help her move on. One or the other.”

“BET.” With that, the line went dead and Hennessy already knew which option he chose. She had basically given Killmonger permission to hurt this young lady’s feelings, and boy did he intend to do just that.

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

Hennessy was mid happy baby pose when her phone rang again, this time with an unfamiliar number. She cleared her throat and pulled out the French, just in case it was a bill collector or one of Erik’s more shady acquaintances.

“Bonjour, Aurélie.” She was met with the sound of soft sniffles, followed by her boyfriend’s voice roaring in the background.

“The fuck you crying for? You knew what that shit looked like when you woke up this morning. Didn’t even try to run a brush through it. That ain’t what Beyoncé meant when she said she woke up like this.”

“Please come get this nigga,” Brittani said between sniffles. She had had it. Ever since Erik had returned from the gym he had been tearing into her. Hennessy knew it would happen and she almost felt bad for releasing the beast. Almost.

"I would’ve kissed you good morning just to be nice but I went through your bathroom cabinets and you ain't got no mouthwash. Your toothbrush look like it was originally owned by George Washington and your breath smells like halitosis personified. And don’t get me started on Craig the Cockroach. That nigga probably twerked his ass all over your lips and your tongue the way you were snoring. Why you sleep with your mouth open when you got roaches?”

“That’s actually a valid question. That can’t be healthy,” Henny finally spoke up.

“That nigga Craig pay rent or is he like Bruhman from the fif flo? This his house, huh? You just his pet human.”

“Nigga!” Hennessy exclaimed through the phone. She had been successful at keeping her laughs at bay, but was done when he called her the roach’s pet human.

“I can’t do this anymore, you can have him back.”

“It’s only been 9 hours, sis. I thought you said you’d never let that dick go.”

"So now you don't wanna be with me because I'm telling yo triflin’ ass the truth? And who said she was getting dick?! Nah, you ain’t about to put no voodoo curses on me for sticking my dick in the Men In Black bug. I try to bust a nut and my shit just fall off. Hell nah.”

“Just get ya shit and go, nigga. Shamu can have you.” Time seemed to stop once those words left her lips. Even Craig the Cockroach disappeared. It was one thing to disrespect him, but his woman? All bets were off when it came to her and Brittani was about to learn this the hard way. With deadly stealth Erik zipped from across the room to right in front of her face. He wiggled the phone from Brittani’s grasp and ended the call before putting his face as close to hers as his nostrils would allow.

"You fix them crusty lips to call my woman Shamu one more time.. and I'll throw you in the ocean with Bruhman chained to your ankle like a weight." Brittani remained silent, only nodding her head fervently when he was done.

"Nah, you know what? That's not good enough. Call my girl back. Yeah, call her."

“Yeeesss?” Hennessy sang from the other end of the phone.

"The bit-, I mean Brittani got something to say to you. Go 'head."

Brittani hesitated, Erik's eyes giving her the option to cooperate or face consequences. He'd taken pictures of her dirty stove capturing a roach on the move and was threatening to post it on a MAC forum along with a short video of her asleep with a roach on her forehead. She decided it would be best for her to cooperate and cut her losses.

"Hi, Hennessy. I'm sorry for what I said to you and you were right, I couldn't handle him. I guess..," she wavered briefly, "I guess you're a better woman than me all-around. I could never. I see that now."

Erik cleared his throat quietly.

"Oh, a-and you're very beautiful, very statuesque and curvaceous. I wish I looked like you--"

“You don’t have to lie, now, sweetheart. You don’t wish you looked like me, you’re only saying that because you’re afraid of what he’ll do to you if I give the word. However, let this be a lesson to you. Just because you think you’re better than someone, that may not always be the case. Even if this little experiment had been his own choice, he’d still come back to me because he knows that no woman will ever treat him the way that I do. I’m one in a million and he’d be stupid to let me go.”

"So I can come home now?"

“Of course you can, Daddy. I got homemade crab cakes and lobster man n cheese waiting for you as well as two freshly pearled blunts of some new shit. I even felt generous and made a bananas foster cheesecake.” Erik’s mouth watered when she mentioned the dessert he fell in love with when they visited her parents the previous summer.

"A nigga need a bath, a nap, and a backrub. I ain't get no sleep. I had one eye open all night."

“You can have whatever you like, baby. My schedule is clear for the next week.”

“Shiiiit, I’m on my way.. And be naked when I get there.”

Horny ass nigga.

"Take notes," he said to Brittani as he hung up. “And tell my nigga Craig he can have them clothes. I ain’t tryna bring none of y’all kids home.”

TAGS: @panthergoddessbast @amethyst1993 @vikkidc @blackpantherismyish @youreadthatright @mareethequeen @princessstevens @bartierbakarimobisson @madamslayyy @nickidub718 @chaneajoyyy @blowmymbackout @muse-of-mbaku @killmongersgurl @thehomierobbstark @forbeautyandlife @wakanda-inspired @thadelightfulone @purple-apricots @trevantesbrat

#vanity writes #my shit #erik stevens #killmonger fic #erik killmonger #erik killmonger x black oc #erik x henny

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prettytm · 4 years

Note

✸ (from Charlotte)

Less Cringy NSFW/Intimacy Starters { X } :: Accepting ✸ for a drabble about my muse having a sex dream about yours

There’s few things more awkward than sharing close living quarters with a bunch of Marines in the middle of the desert. It’s hot, it’s sweaty, it’s sandy and it smells like all of the above. Yet Billy had found at least one thing that was definitely more awkward.

Dealing with the aftermath of a steamy sex dream.

The dream was good, very good and featured his favorite temptation. Charlotte Gray was everything a guy could ask for. She’s smart, funny, quick witted and beautiful. But the dream, shallow as it was, mostly centered around her beauty. A halo of silky hair, that was a different color every other week and velvety skin that wrapped around swells and curves that made many men and women drool.

All of it was his and had been since they first met all those years ago.

He’s a world away and she still managed to drive him crazy, even if it’s only a dream. Though the photos and video calls help nothing. She’s always going out of her way to tease him with the naughtiest things she could think up. It’s been a few days since they last spoke but no doubt his brain was still processing the lastest bout of sinful outfits.

They didn’t even usually discuss anything dirty or off color when she called, there wasn’t any time and it was frowned upon from the higher ups. But they couldn’t control what she worn and Charlotte didn’t exactly like following the rules. Which he was grateful for after a really hard week and that barely there nun costume. A weakness she exploited for her own personal gain.

Gave him something else to hold over the heads of his fellow marines. His girlfriend was the best and she didn’t have a fear in the world. She especially didn’t care if someone walked by and saw her. Which was a usual complaint from other girlfriends and wives if their men asked for a little wiggle or something a tad more scandalous

He rarely told Charlotte.. But god he did love her.

He would barely remember the dream when he wakes, as he’s rudely snapped out of sleep by a pillow to the face and a grumpy Frank barking to keep it down. But for the days that followed he’d have to endure high pitched moaning and grown men with their backs facing him as they pretend to make out with someone. Oh, Charlotte. Ooooh, Charlotte. Became the familiar the chorus whenever they weren’t busy and sometimes even when they were.

Still..

Somehow it was worth it.

#Anonymous #::: { ASKS } So Does This Mean Ann-Margret's Not Coming?#cherishedgray‌#::: { Cherisedgray } Soulmates #{ VERSES } : Times Of War

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medialists · 5 years

Text

Mamma Mia

Atomic Blonde

Filth

Regression

Colonia

El círculo

Beauty and the Beast

Trance

Victor Frankenstein

Atonement

Starter for 10

Becoming Jane

The Conspirator

The Last King of Scotland

X-Men.

Glass

The Last Station

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

Big Fish

La desaparición de Eleanor Rigby

Submergence

Thor

The Avengers

Intensamente

Las ventajas de ser invisible

IT.

Inception

Harry Potter.

At eternity's gate

Catch me if you can

Her

Pulp Fiction

Xavier Dolan

Memorias de una Geisha

Ready player one

Battle angel

Taxi Driver

El doble

Shutter island

Cube

My week with Marilyn

Noé

Ballet shoes

El diablo viste a la moda

Cazafantasmas

Les miserables

Lady Bird

The Truman Show

Irene, yo y mi otro yo

Call me by your name

The Favorite

La la land

La chica del tren

Jolene

Winter's war

Tomb Raider

Ex machina

El código Da Vinci

Ángeles y demonios

Mean Girls

Mulan

Coraline

Mujer Bonita

E.T.

Crimson Peak.

Extraordinario.

Las de Marvel que faltan

The Room

A quiet place

Blade Runner

Animales Nocturnos

Animales Fantásticos

La Propuesta

A star is born

Begin again

Anon.

From Russia with Love

Goldfinger

Thunderball

You Only Live Twice

On Her Majesty's Secret Service

Diamonds Are Forever

The Man with the Golden Gun

For Your Eyes Only

Octopussy

Never Say Never Again

A View to a Kill

The Living Daylights

GoldenEye

Tomorrow Never Dies

The World is not Enough

Die Other Day

Casino Royale

Quantum of Solace

Dawn of the Dead

Blade II

RED

The Dark Knight Rises

Kick-Ass 2

Die Hard

Scarface

From Dusk till Dawn

Face/Off

No Escape

Impostor

Death Race 2

Jobs

Les Quatre Cents Coups

The Wolf of Wall Street

The Murder of Princess Diana

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

Fight Club

My Sister's Keeper

Ida

Loreak

Sowon

Gran Torino

All About Eve

The Nun's Story

The Sunset Limited

A Clockwork Orange

Kingsman.

Batman: Under the Red Hood

Lords of Dogtown

Unbroken

Ip Man

Million Dollar Baby

Concussion

The Great Gatsby

Lilting

Birdman

The Theory of Everything

War and Peace

Collateral Beauty

The Children's Hours

Moulin Rouge!

Dolls

The Bridges of Madison County

As Good as It Gets

Me Before You

Before Sunrise

Before Midnight

Carol

The Reader

Like Crazy

New York, I Love You

Anna Karenina

Pride & Prejudice

Bridget Jones's Diary

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turnertimeline · 7 years

Text

Meet the Turners: Continued

Collection: Tim and Annie, Turner Family

Year: 1965

Characters: Timothy Turner, Annette Thompson, Shelagh Turner, Patrick Turner

Content Warnings: none

Rating: K

Style: Prose

Summary: Some conversations during the evening when Tim takes Annie to Poplar.

Shelagh sighs and smiles sadly. She takes Tim's hand in hers again and squeezes gently. "She's pregnant. The father isn't in the picture anymore. He hit her. They went to tell her parents. They told her not to come back." Shelagh's voice is quiet, and Patrick can hear the banked fury in her voice.

Patrick sits there for a moment in shocked silence.

"She's my best friend, Dad. I didn't know what else to do after we left her parent's. They were so horrible to her"

Patrick moves to sit next to him on the sofa and pulls him into a tight hug. "I'm so proud of you. Of course she's always welcome here. Anything we can do to help."

"I said I'd marry her." Tim says quietly, looking down at his hands.

"Oh Tim." Shelagh kisses his hair. "What did she say?"

"That we both deserve better. She doesn't want me to resent her. Doesn't want to be an obligation. And I mean, I get it. And I told her that no matter what, I'll still be there for her."

"And so will we," Patrick replies, voice firm and purposeful. "Always."

Shelagh nods and squeezes his shoulders. "I'll go and see if I have a nightgown she can borrow."

Shelagh gets up and goes upstairs leaving Patrick and Tim alone.

Tim sighs and lies down in Patrick's lap for the first time in a few years. It's just... Comforting

Patrick runs his hand through Tim's hair. "I am proud of you son"

Tim looks up at him. He looks so young. "You are?"

"Of course I am. You are sticking by your friend in an incredibly difficult situation."

"Being willing to raise a child as your own, that's commendable Timothy. And I'm very proud of you."

Upstairs, Shelagh was leaning against the door frame to watch Annette and Angela.

Angela is almost asleep. She's holding Annette's hand as she falls asleep, making a few little noises as she blinks slowly and drops off. Annette is just... watching and smiling

Annette sees Shelagh in the doorway and stands up slowly so she doesn't wake Angela.

"Your children are absolutely precious." Annette said quietly.

"Thank you." Shelagh smiles. "Come on, I should have a nightgown that will fit you and I can show you Tim's room."

"Oh, no, I don't want to put you to any trouble..." Annette says anxious and follows her out of the room

"Nonsense." Shelagh teasingly scolds her. "You're no trouble at all."

Annette blushes and follows her and stands in the doorway of the bedroom and gasps when Shelagh opens her closet. "Oh Mrs Turner! Your dresses..."

Shelagh smiles "A friend who owns a shop in Poplar makes wonderful dresses." Going through her dresser she pulls out a nightgown that would most likely fit Annette. Even if it was a little short seeing as there was a good 5 inches different in their height.

Annette takes it from her carefully and runs her fingers over the material. "Thank you so much, Mrs Turner. You've been too kind."

"Please, call me Shelagh. You're a friend of Tim's so you're part of the family. Tim's room is just down the hall."

She blushes and nods. "Thank you, Shelagh." She pushes the door open to Tim's room and looks around. Curious.

She walks around the room, and smiles at the things Tim has collected over his life.

"Shelagh? I'm scared."

She goes over to take her hands. "I was, too. And you have so much to worry about. It's okay to be scared."

"But you'll be okay. You have Tim, and us. I can set you up for clinic, if you need?"

"You were scared?" Annette can hardly believe someone as together as Shelagh would be scared. "And that would be wonderful. Tim’s told me about it.”

“Yes, I was scared. Scared about what might go wrong... how I would cope ... I was older than the average when I had my first. And a little scared what people was think - I used to be a nun." Shelagh tells her.

Annette's eyes nearly pop out of her head. "I always thought Tim was joking about that." She sits down on the bed, the nightgown still in her hands.

Shelagh laughs. "he does like to joke about it. But yes, I was a nun. And I stopped being a nun because I met Patrick. God wanted another life for me."

"And I loved them - Patrick and Timothy."

"I can see how much you love them, and how much they love you. Your family is so warm. I wish my parents were half as accepting as you are."

Shelagh smiles sadly. "I wish they were, too. Its hard work, to build a family this warm... but it's worth it. It ... we're lucky to have what we have."

Shelagh sits down next to her, "All you can do is hope, and pray, that some day, they'll come around and see how precious your child is."

Annette leans into her shoulder. "I hope so."

She sighs and tries not to cry "I don't think they really will though. I've never seen them as mad as they were."

Shelagh is quiet. "Sometimes anger burns brightly at fades. Or a baby puts it out...Either way. You're not alone. The last time I saw my parents they had shouted at me for wanting to join the Order."

"Really? Why would that have been a bad thing? Wouldn't they be proud of you for devoting your life to God?"

"You'd think," Shelagh says with a smile. "But they wanted to be able to tell their friends, this is my daughter and her respectable husband. Midwifery wasn't exactly the most respectable career at the time."

"My parents wanted that too. They thought Kenneth was respectable. I thought he was too at first. " Annette shakes her head to clear the thoughts. "Tim's told me that everyone in Poplar respects the midwives and nurses more than than they do the hospital doctors"

"That's very true. But my parents were not very supportive, especially since it involved moving to a different country."

Shelagh joins her on Tim's bed. "I know it is not the same. But I lost my parents young due to a decision they didn't agree with."

Annette smiles. "Thank you. It's good to know I'm not on my own. It kind of feels like that ..."

Shelagh pats Annette on the leg. " Just remember that you're not. You are always welcome here if you need to talk. Now let's go make sure Patrick and Tim haven't fallen asleep on the couch."

Annette laughs softly and nods. "Okay."

Tim is still lying with his head in Patrick's lap when they come downstairs and he doesn't move

Patrik is carding his fingers through his hair and looks up with a soft smile

"Hello, girls."

Annette is struck by how Tim, an adult. A male adult. Is lying with his head in his father's lap.

Yes. And Patrick's easy affection. The he's being allowed to act like this - like it might even be actively encouraged

He's not being scolded to man up, or to stop embarrassing them, or to stop being so childish, whatever bullshit she might have expected in this situation

Shelagh leads Annette over to the other sofa. "Do you need to be back for a certain time tomorrow? I'd like to get Annette signed up for clinic."

Tim sits up and shakes his head. "No, I have a class in the late morning that won't miss me if I'm not there."

Shelagh gives him a look of slight disapproval but he just shrugs at her. "it's not a core class and I haven't gotten anything lower than an A on any test."

"I have a late afternoon class. But can miss it as well. This is more important than a degree I won't be getting." Annette tells them. She realizes it's pessimistic. But it's true

Patrick frowns and opens his mouth but stops when Shelagh shakes his head. Annette doesn't need to hear his rants about how unfair academia is to young women, etc. etc.

Not right now, anyway

"Perfect. I'm sure we can freshen your dress up a little in the morning too, Annette."

"Patrick, why don't we go on upstairs for the evening and let these two have space to talk." Shelagh starts back over to the stairs.

Patrick scoffs playfully and gets up to follow Shelagh, leaning into her and kissing the top of her head when he reaches her. It's such a familiar gesture to Tim he barely even blinks.

"Goodnight. Annette, please help yourself to anything you might need."

"Thank you." Annette says quietly

"g'night mum, dad. Love you." Tim calls after them as they head upstairs.

A returned chorus of I love you is heard.

Tim turns to talk to Annette on the sofa and finds her looking shocked. She has never heard her family shouting I love yous like that, except maybe for Janie to her

"Tim..... Your family is amazing. I can't thank you enough for bringing me here.". Annette looks up at him, tears in her eyes.

God, she has cried so much today

Tim pulls her into a tight hug. "Yeah, they're pretty awesome. I knew they would be. I'm so lucky."

He can still sort of remember what it was like after his Mum died and before Shelagh joined them

"It took them awhile to find each other. And admit that they loved each other. That took even longer. But they're happy. And love each other. And they love me, and my siblings."

Annette doesn't move from his hug, so they stay like that. It's comforting.

"I don't know if my parents love each other. Maybe they did once. But they've never been like that. So in sync with the other."

"It took time," Tim says quietly. "They fought. Sometimes things are tense. But... they talk about it. And they never doubt they love each other. Or me."

Annette sits back against the couch and places her hand on her belly. "That's what I want for my baby. I never want him, or her, to feel like I don't love them."

"They will always know. If you tell them, they'll know." He puts his hand on her knee

She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. "I'm scared that I don't know how to do this. And and your mom is wonderful and she said she help if I have questions. But I don't want to be a burd-" Tim stops her before she can finish.

"I've already told you, Mum has taken you in. There is no way Shelagh Turner is going to let you do any of this alone. You're hers now. And she's stubborn. I wouldn't argue with her."

Tim laughs at the look on Annette's face. She's still not really getting what it means that she's now Shelagh's.

"Who do you think taught me to throw a punch? Or cook? Mum had adopted me and Dad long before they realised they loved each other. She takes care of those she thinks of as hers."

"She told me that she left the order because she loved you and your dad. That God had a different plan for her. I'm so glad she did. Because as sure as I am that you would have been wonderful no matter what, I can see her influence in you."

In that moment so many things rush through Annette's mind. Her feelings for Tim are deeper than they should be. She's scolding herself for turning down his proposal, he'd be a wonderful and loving husband and father.

And she really wants to kiss him. But she cant. And she's not sure if these feelings are real or because of the situation.

Maybe theyre just because he's being so kind and she's so frightened and lonely feelings

Tim grins. He looks pleased. "I'm glad. I'm glad I remind people of her. I'm glad people will see me as her son."

Tim tells her about when he had polio and how she wasn't allowed to stay with him because she wasn't his mother, and not yet married to his Dad.

Annette can't imagine how much that had to have hurt. Not just Tim but Shelagh too.

As soon as he was conscious and could talk he asked for her.

"Your mum gives me hope that maybe I'll find someone who loves my child as much as she loves you."

She doesn't realize that she's already found him.

"Of course you will."

"There's so much love in the world just waiting for somewhere to go."

#ctm #call the midwife #Shelagh Turner #Patrick Turner #narrative: prose #narrative: tim and annie #narrative: turner family #1965

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pausedintime-blog · 7 years

Text

whole lotta love

John, otherwise known as Twelve, was the lead vocalist in his band Type 40, his fan base had told him constantly what a weird name it was for a band, but he didn’t care, he liked it. The band was made up of five of them. There was John, the base guitarist Eleven, the drummer whose name was Ten, those two happened to be brothers and then the last two band members, River and Amelia were guitarists and sometimes sang with John. They were known worldwide and overly popular, they had been going for years, since they were all in University together, studying music. They were on tour in England when Twelve bumped into a young woman, who appeared to be very angry with him that he had just spilt coffee all over her shirt.

Twelve was attempting to disguise himself as he went for his morning coffee, wearing all black, a hat and a pair of dark shades. He spoke quietly, hushing the girl who apparently couldn’t keep her mouth shut, ‘Please, be fucking quiet, I’m sorry, I’ll buy you a coffee, okay? Just be quiet.’

Clara scoffed, the nerve of this asshole!

She dropped her hands onto her hips, an arch of her perfectly shaped eyebrow, ‘Telling me to shut up after spilling coffee on me? Nice move, jerk,’ she spat with spite, noticing the huge coffee stain on her white blouse. Great, she was going to have a hard time getting that off and this was one of her favourite work shirts.

Clara managed to push past him, even if he was evidently taller than her, like some sort of long stick insect. Could this day get any worse? Once she had wiped her shirt down, she strolled right out of the bathroom only to bump straight into the asshole from earlier, except this time he had a coffee in his hand. Clara didn’t know what to think, had he been waiting for her? She immediately snatched the coffee from him and continued to walk, not giving him the satisfaction of talking to him. She wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, let alone a jerk in some atrocious clothing.

Twelve scoffed when she pushed past him, a little irritated to say the least. He arched his eyebrow as he watched the rather small woman walk, curious about the tiny brunette in the beanie hat. He decided to buy her a coffee, a smug smile on his face as he stood proudly in front of her. He was not expecting her to take said coffee from him and storm right past him… Did she not recognise him?

Clara rolled her eyes as she sat at a corner booth, pushing a strand of her hair back into her beanie. A sigh escaped her lips, reading over her favourite book for the second time that day. Clara shut her eyes for what seemed like an eternity and once she had opened them again, she noticed the same dick from earlier plant his ass right in front of her. ‘Is this what you do for a living, stalk women half your age?’ she said rhetorically, already knowing the answer to her question as she propped her chin on the palm of her head, curious about this weird dude following her around in dark shades.

He arched his eyebrow at her, she really had no clue who he was. Did she live under a rock? Twelve decided winding her up was his best bet, ‘You’re rather small,’ he observed, drinking from his own cup of coffee as he looked her up and down.

For lack of a better word, she was hot. But, she didn’t seem like his type of woman…

Clara shot him a deadly glance, taking a sip of her coffee, ‘And you’re a complete prick,’ she hissed, her eyes casting down to her book as she turned the page.

When she realised he wasn’t moving, her head rose at the noise around her and two young girls just happened to be hovering over creepy stalker guy. One of them seemed to bounce off the walls in front of the older man and asked for his autograph. Clara had to cover her mouth to stop herself from snorting with amusement, why would a girl as young as herself want an autograph from him?

It was then that she took a good long hard look at him, she didn’t notice it before, but he seemed familiar. Clara finally clicked onto who her stalker was, ‘Twelve?’ she asked, refraining from rolling her eyes. She used to have a huge crush on him when she was younger and in University. There was quite a big poster of him hanging over her bed…

Twelve cleared his throat and turned to the young girls, smiling at each of them as he signed autographs for them. He waved goodbye to them and didn’t bother putting his glasses back on as he turned his attention back to Clara.

‘Oh, she finally recognises me. Took you a while, Tidge,’ he quickly nicknamed her, a clear jab at her height once again.

Clara rolled her eyes at the nickname, ‘How creative,’ she almost grumbled, her hazel eyes locked onto his, ‘Well, what can I say? I don’t spend much time following washed out artists,’ she teased him right back, trying to deny the attraction she felt towards him. God dammit, why couldn’t he be addicted to drugs like every other old rockstar?

She stood up, closing her book with a loud thud. She walked towards him, bending to whisper into Twelve’s ear, ‘Are you really afraid of my height? Or afraid you won’t know what to do with such a small woman in your arms?’ she practically purred into his ear, before walking out.

‘Thanks for the coffee… jerk,’ she called out to him, the soft ding of the café door closing shut rang out behind her.

Twelve almost laughed, this woman had game and a lot of it. He smirked a little too knowingly and watched as the tiny woman swayed her hips as she walked. Maybe, quite possibly, he could handle a woman like her. John stood up and dumped his coffee in the bin, leaving out the back door so nobody would see him as he climbed into his waiting car, wondering if he would ever see her again.

Clara sighed as it began to rain, suddenly regretting to leave the café in the first place. She could have just sat upstairs, far away from Twelve, but no, she had to be dramatic and leave. And now she was wet and cold and incredibly irritated. Pulling her beanie tighter over her head, she almost ran home until she dropped onto the sofa, her clothing drenched.

‘You really need to stop smoking, Clara, you’re close to having one of your lungs collapse,’ her roommate quipped, pushing her red hair from her eyes as she bent to shake two tickets in her face.

Clara threw her a look at the comment about her smoking habit, ‘Oh sod off, Amy, I’ve had the worst day…’ she groaned, sinking further into the sofa as her hand shot up and grabbed a blanket, wrapping it tight around her cold body.

Amy sighed and planted herself on the edge of the sofa, shaking the tickets in front of Clara’s face. When she realised Clara wasn’t reacting, the redhead sighed dramatically and flayed over the top of Clara, laying on her back.

‘Oh, when will Clara ever return from war,’ she smirked, a playful tone to her voice as she nudged her, ‘Come on, Clara! Guess what the tickets are for…’

When she refused to guess, Amy only rolled her eyes, ‘Type 40! We’re going to see Type 40, they’re touring in England right now!’

Clara groaned even louder, covering her face with the blanket. She’d had enough of that jerk to last her a lifetime, but then something mischievous crossed her mind. She couldn’t deny the fact Twelve was hot and out of all the women he could have, he chose to pay attention to her.

‘Are they now? I had no idea,’ she mused as she took the tickers and looked at the seating, shooting Amy a concerned look, ‘Who’d you blow to get hold of seats like these?’ she teased her, standing and heading to her bedroom.

‘I’ll need something hot to wear, something that will make a man want to tear off my clothes,’

Amy rolled her eyes, shaking her head at her friend’s comment, ‘Rory brought them and gave them to me,’ she told her, simply shrugging her shoulders as if it were nothing.

Amy stood up, watching Clara curiously, ‘Hold on a minute – you’re finally giving up on being a nun? I feel like I have to clap, but I’m not going to in case you slap me,’

Clara rolled her eyes, ‘It’s for a good cause… trust me,’ she told her confidently, picking out a skin tight dress with a black leather jacket over the top of it.

‘How’s this? It’s supposed to be punk, right?’ she said, twirling on the spot as she managed to pull the dress on, humming a few tunes of her favourite Type 40 song.

Amy smirked and arched her eyebrow, laughing at her friend’s attempt of a punk. She stepped forward and messed with Clara’s hair, then on purpose, smudged her make up over her eyes, ‘There, a lot more punk,’ she winked and threw her bag at her.

‘We better get going, it starts in a few hours.’

Clara laced up her heels before following her friend out of their flat, she’d been to a couple of concerts, but none as loud or as intimate as this. She cleared her throat, stepping out of the cab and headed for the entrance. Once inside, she ordered a double Whiskey as she took her seat. The lights were low, the bass sending shivers through her body as they awaited the music to start. Clara wondered if he’d see her in such a massive crowd and rolled her eyes at how cheesy that sounded, this wasn’t some fairy tale.

Twelve walked up to the stage, the lights dimming as he grabbed hold of the microphone so tightly he was shocked he didn’t break it, ‘Good evening,’ he spoke low into the mic, his Scottish accent heavy as he pushed his guitar around his back, the strap weighing his body down.

‘We are Type 40, and this is our newest song, Dark Water… I hope you enjoy it,’ he muttered, stepping back from the mic as the whole crowd erupted into cheers and chants of his name as Ten began the song with his drums.

Clara’s heart raced, in time with the song. Her eyes traced the outline of Twelve’s face, a quirk of her lips as she swirled the contents of her drink around, he was still good for an old and complete prick. She watched his slender fingers strum against the chords, she could barely hear herself think as the chorus cut through the crowd. She soon found herself enjoying the beat and began jumping up and down with Amy. They were close enough to the stage for Eleven to reach down and touch their hands and Clara couldn’t help the adrenaline that shot through her body.

Twelve had taken off his guitar, jumping around on stage like he was twenty again as he got the crowd going. After a while, he took off his shirt to reveal his rather big chest and lean body, a body that the fans went crazy at the sight of. Twelve laughed and spoke into the mic, his eyes scanning the crowd until he spotted the young woman from earlier. Oh, she did know who he was. John laughed and sent her a wink, his attention on what she was wearing until he had to start a new song.

‘I’m sure you know which song this is… Written by Eleven himself, it’s called Pandorica!’ he turned around, the crowd going wild as a group of fans pushed forward and squashed Clara against the railings.

All of a sudden, Clara couldn’t breathe. Her ribs felt as if they were snapping in two, her breathing unsteady as she tried to catch a breath. She was certain her sight was disappearing amongst the sea of sweaty bodies until she felt a hand pulling her up onto the stage.

Twelve had almost yanked her over the railing, attempting to save her life as he threw his hands in the air, motioning for the music to stop. Once the music came to a halt, he called security over to help the other people being squashed at the railings and stopped the entire show to pull Clara to the side, his hands on her cheeks as he looked at her.

‘Are you okay? Can you breathe?’

Clara inhaled sharply, her eyes couldn’t help but drown in his Cerulean eyes. She took a moment to compose herself, ‘A considerate prick… Now that’s new,’ she teased, a soft smile spreading across her lips.

Clara’s heart began to race as she noticed the millions of people staring at her, her mouth instantly grew dry as the lights blinded her.

Twelve laughed and arched his eyebrow, swinging his guitar round so it would land on his back, ‘You judge too quickly, Tidge,’ he smirked and sent her a wink, pulling her to the side and nodded to one of his security guards.

‘Take her backstage for a while, make sure she’s okay.’

Clara followed one of the guards backstage, clearing her throat as she walked into the large room filled with wine, food and guitars to spare. She walked up to a cherry red Epiphone guitar, it looked brand new as she ran her hand down the neck of the guitar. After Twelve had completed a few more songs on stage, he left to go backstage. Once he was told where the woman from earlier was, he entered the room, his grey curls all over the place as he lent against the wall, watching her stare at one of the guitars.

‘Do you play?’

Clara jumped at the sound of his gravelly voice, that seductive Scottish accent sent a shiver right down her spine. She turned with an amused grin on her lips, her eyes couldn’t help but linger on his bare chest. He was lean, with a sheer cover of sweat clinging to his muscles. She cleared her throat as she tried to remember his question.

Guitar, right, she took a step forward, ‘It would seem my height isn’t the only thing that’s small,’ she said, holding up her hands in front of his face.

‘Can’t play with hands like these,’ she mused, tearing her eyes from his bare chest.

Twelve laughed and nodded his head, ‘Quite right, Tidge,’ he muttered with a knowing smile, closing the door behind him.

He stepped closer to her, ‘I could teach you… I happen to be incredibly talented with my fingers,’

Clara stood a bit straighter, her eyes roaming his long slender fingers, ‘Is that so, stick insect?’ she teased, taking hold of his finger as she traced it, ‘What’s so special about your fingers?’ she asked, dropping his hand as she turned to face the guitar.

John smirked, his breathing hitched in his throat as he felt her touch him, it was like a jolt of electricity flowing through him all at once, he’d never felt anything like it and her gaze on him told him that this woman was going to be a massive pain in his ass for a very long time. He unfolded his arms, his throat dry and almost on fire, he needed to get it together. Surely not one tiny woman could do this to him? Twelve lifted his guitar up and nodded to a sofa.

‘Sit down, I’ll show you how to play, even with short fingers.’

A soft mischievous smile crossed her lips, following him to the sofa. She inhaled deeply, trying to gather herself together. She was supposed to be unnerving him, unravelling him and she still couldn’t think properly since she took his hand in hers. Clara swallowed roughly, humming to herself as she sat herself on his lap on purpose, her breath hitching when she felt the heat of his chest against her back.

‘Can’t very well teach me from across the sofa,’ she mused, purposely wiggling on top of him. To her bewilderment, he seemed not to react. She cleared her throat, waiting for him to instruct her.

‘Any minute now? Or can you only perform in front of a screaming crowd?’

Twelve laughed and rolled his eyes, ‘I’ve been playing the guitar since I was sixteen years old, Clara,’ he almost growled her name in her ear, having read it off of the name tag stuck to her jacket.

‘I don’t think I have performance issues,’ he mused, his arrogance clear in the air as he pulled the guitar round to sit it across Clara’s lap. He grabbed hold of her hand and made sure to slip it over the top of his.

‘Like this,’ he whispered, showing her a few chords as he strummed the guitar to himself.

He wasn’t the slightest bit fazed by her body on top of his, plenty of women had done that to him in his lifetime, he wanted more of a challenge.

Clara almost melted when he said her name in his Scottish brogue, but she shook it off. She was determined to show him that he did not affect her. That she didn’t care about his celebrity status. She stood and walked over to the cherry red guitar from earlier and took a seat next to him.

‘Like this?’ she asked, although it wasn’t really a question.

She started to strum the guitar perfectly, giving him a smirk as she began to play the opening riffs of “Don’t stop me now” albeit a little sloppily. She almost laughed when she lifted her gaze to find Twelve with his jaw slacked.

Twelve’s jaw slacked, his blue eyes widening a little bit. He cleared his throat and laughed it off, of course she could play the guitar, ‘You little minx, pretending you can’t play,’ he laughed and rolled his eyes, quickly playing Pretty Woman as he looked her up and down, gauging her reaction as he waited for her to at least slap him.

When their eyes locked, the atmosphere exploded. There was something between them, something pulling them together. She was different to all the other woman, everyone else just chased him around and screamed his name, whilst this woman refused to even acknowledge just how famous he was.

Clara gave him a less than amused stare as he began to play Pretty Woman. She had to admit, he seemed like a decent guy, and yet she still couldn’t explain her need to tease him. She placed the guitar on the floor beside her, staring at him knowingly.

‘At least I can play… Can’t say the same about you,’ she smirked, keeping her eyes on him. Her phone buzzed in her pocket as she reached to answer it.

‘Yes, Amy… I’m fine, I just got lost in the crowd. I’m heading towards the parking lot now,’ she told her friend, shrugging her shoulders as she stood and grabbed her jacket. ‘Better get going,’ she told Twelve, cancelling her phone call as she strutted her way towards the door, knowing full well his eyes were on her.

Twelve snorted, shaking his head as he watched her, ‘Oh, are you really trying to tell me I can’t play the guitar as good as you can when I’m a world-wide Rock Star?’ he smirked, proud of his Rock Star status.

He watched her closely as she answered her phone, eyebrows shooting up all of a sudden as Clara told her apparent friend she had gotten lost. Well, at least she was trustworthy. Twelve placed his guitar back on its stand and before Clara could leave, he stood up and took a permeant marker pen from his trouser pocket.

He grabbed her wrist, quickly writing his number down on her skin, ‘Call me,’ Twelve told her, his Scottish accent thick as his eyes dropped to her lips.

‘Tidge.’

‘I’d hardly call you a rock star… More like a glorified Granddad going through a midlife crisis,’ she teased him, knowing full well her comment bothered him. Sensitive about his age, she sighed as she looked at her wrist.

Her mouth was suddenly dry, at lost for words. She simply shrugged, playing it cool as she walked out of the room. A stupid grin plastered on her face as she ran into Amy. Should she tell her? She took her head, confused when the redhead ran up to her, hysterical about meeting the bass player, Eleven. Clara didn’t have time to react when she took hold of her wrists.

She had managed to smudge Twelve’s number right off of her wrist.

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julialaurena · 8 years

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On the bus from Yangon to Kalaw

Myanmar is far harder than the other countries. They recently opened their borders and they are still trying to figure out tourists. Ive been spoiled with other countries having experienced tourists and knowing English (at least some). So far this has felt like the most foreign place to my experience as an American. Men wear skirts that are made of a single sheet of fabric that's sewed together in a big circular tube. Kind of like an infinity scarf. They knot them in the front. I've seen mainly deep colors in plaid or stripes. Women and children wear thanaka on their face. It's a bark that's made into a paste be grinding it on a smooth stone. It helps protect from the sun, cools the skin, and is good for it as well. Women draw circles or leaves on their faces with it. It's a make up that has the other mentioned benefits. I met a sweet British couple in the airport when we realized at the ATM we knew nothing about the currency exchange rate. We cabbed to Yangon and got a meal together (probably the best and cheapest one I had in Myanmar so far) and have been traveling together ever since. We walked around Yangon yesterday and checked out a pagoda. We had a day that was a comedy of errors. We didn't have enough money for the expensive meal we got. We also accidentally ordered way too much food because we didn't realize all the plates were meant to be shared. So we got... 7 or so plates. We couldn't stop laughing at how dumb we were. And then we really laughed when we realized we didn't check the prices and we had 80,000 kyat and the meal was 96,000 kyat. Connor and Cathy cabbed back to the hostel to get more money. I waited and read so the staff didn't think we were ditching. When we got all the cash, the waiters wouldn't accept one of the tenders because it was ripped. Are you kidding me. All of our cash. Finally after some back and forth we left there and headed to the pagoda which we learned after walking around that we didn't have enough money to enter that either. We walked a mile to an ATM and FINALLY got money. We celebrated with bubble tea and headed back over to the pagoda. Gold, gold everywhere. Shrines and pagodas surrounding the giant gold stupa. Monks and tourists and nuns sweeping. Photos and meditation. Asian guiding tourists who participated in the rituals. Donate to this shrine or that shrine. A chorus of chants. Warm marble floor against my feet. Sun setting over the golden Buddhist site. We're on a 10 hour bus ride to Kalaw where we will do a three day trek to Inle Lake. A radio show has been playing the entire time. In the beginning it was some kind of singing. Maybe religious? I can't tell. Hot and a drive through the country. Water buffalo and goats graze. Tons of plastic and trash along the roadside. Posters and billboards for products. Little girls begging on the side of the street. A high school with a misspelled English word (it was "education" spelled "edocation"). Banana and palm trees. No rice paddies. Or fewer. I haven't seen as many at least. Dryness. Lots of dust and dirt. The complete opposite of Lombok which was lush and green. I see more greens and browns here. When a home isn't a bamboo home, it's usually painted a pastel color. I feel lost and confused here and I can't believe I'll be here for two weeks. But I think it's all a good thing. Travel is great and it's not always comfortable. So far this place has already seemed like the hardest one. Language barrier and no technology to help decipher. I'm grateful to travel with a couple so we can be lost together. It's fine to feel lost alone. But in community we can laugh about it.

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jomiddlemarch · 8 years

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To Seek a Newer World, Part VI

She did not have the luxury of rage. She’d seen it in his eyes when she had begged—McBurney would not hesitate to drag her from the room himself. Not only that, he was eager to lay his hands upon her uncorseted waist, his thumbs pressed against the edge of her ribs, on both her wrists tight enough to leave marks. He wanted any excuse to hiss filth in her ear in the perversion of a lover’s coaxing, to keep calling her a name that was not her own Mariya, Mariya as he had muttered when she said please. He had used a different tone to order Emma and Sister Isabella, the approximation of an officer’s crisp instruction, but there was some critical damage in his voice when he spoke to her, as if he could not decide who he addressed, which self he was himself—the officer, the man, a foe or supplicant. He had raised a hand as if he would touch her face again or her hair but there had been some sound and he’d let it fall. Then she knew he would not be constrained by any law or civility and that she must decide how she would go.

“Does he know?” she had asked, meaning Jedediah and she had seen McBurney’s confusion before his jealous scowl. He had not answered but his response was enough. She understood he had deceived them both but she did not understand why he had fixated on her. The excuse he made, “This is in your own best interest… you must understand that typhoid threatens the patients and staff,” he did not believe enough to bring any conviction to it. She knew that though lax, her isolation had been adequate to prevent the spread of the disease she herself had acquired on the wards and that no one could consider her care to be anything other than exceptional, her physician Paris-trained, her nurse Miss Nightingale’s own emissary, the nuns and Miss Green more competent than her own elderly aunt Lucretia, her brother’s over-worked wife Abigail could ever be. Major McBurney had plotted her exile, seen to it the two people who would defend her were absent, even misled Miss Dix to act against her deputy’s interest. He had not waited ten minutes after sending Sister Isabella to help her dress before he entered the room; had he thought to catch her unawares, to see what he should not? He had cried it was indecorous when Jedediah helped her to the tub of water but propriety had not governed his earlier untoward, unwitnessed examination of her, if that was what it was to be called; she was a widow and she knew the touch of a man’s hands, how to read intention. McBurney might call it by another name but he had been making unwelcome advances, fondling her face and hair for his gratification, when Jedediah’s hands had been only a kind physician’s until she had not let go, until she had altered what was between them.

The women had tried to intervene. Emma had suggested they wait for Dr. Foster’s return and Sister Isabella had nodded vigorously; McBurney had dismissed them crossly, like a little boy rejecting his sister’s direction. Lisette had appealed to the man’s vanity, remarking what a shame it would be if anyone misconstrued what was happening in such haste, the dismay the men might turn to disapprobation for their chief if they thought he was forcing the departure of a delirious gentlewoman. For a moment, Mary had hoped. And then he had turned his eyes to her again, the plaits that hung over each shoulder, tendrils round her face, the billowing muslin around her and the curve of her hip visible within and had barked,

“Enough. Get her ready or don’t. She leaves regardless,” then stalked out to the chorus of gasps.

Emma had murmured, “I’m sorry, Nurse Mary. I’ll go speak to the lady Miss Dix sent…I’ll explain,” and then slipped from the room, leaving Mary holding onto the iron bedframe, Sister Isabella and Lisette on either side like ladies-in-waiting to a vanquished queen.

“Ma petite, let us help you. Take some water at least,” Lisette said, laying a hand on Mary’s shoulder, offering her the tin cup of water from the bedside. Mary drank, coughing a little when she tasted her own tears and she felt the ache in her hips, her knees at a distance, aware it would not be long before she could not ignore the excruciating pain everywhere she was fitted together, a broken doll. Lisette was gesturing to Sister Isabella, instructing her. “She needs something she can travel in, a dress that does not require stays, slippers and not boots, a bonnet. She is too weak for anything heavy, no? But she must stay warm.”

They dressed her between themselves; she let them draw the nightdress over her head and she was obscurely touched by their mutual distressed exhalation at the sight of her emaciation, the pallor of her skin now that the rash had faded. She recalled the way her mother had touched her and her sister, both lost to her, and how Isabella and Lisette’s hands had the same compassionate feminine sympathy; there was no other way for them to defy McBurney other than to make sure she was given tenderness now and in that, they were generous, lavish even. She was half-dazed with her fury and the fever’s imminent return, with the grief and shame at being cast out, the new pain of being the one who left the beloved and was not left behind but they moved around her as she suffered and it was a blessing. Lisette went through the drawers and took out the most precious items with an unerring eye, tucking them in a small carpet-bag. She draped the paisley shawl around Mary’s shoulders and murmured, “Comme c’est tres belle!” unable to see without her artist’s eye even as Mary’s heart was breaking.

“Your doctor, shall we give him a message from you?” Lisette asked and Mary raised grateful eyes to this stranger who was already, somehow her friend, who could imagine what Mary would regret most.

“I would do it myself, if you can find me some paper and a pen. I shan’t take very long,” she said.

There was so little time and there was not much she could say; she wanted Jedediah to understand how she left and why but she must consider how he would react, how he would keep the letter with him, against his breast, to be read and re-read, to hear her voice when she had gone. Her head had begun to ache dreadfully and she knew this might be a further journey than she had anticipated, to a place he could not follow her. There would not be time for beauty, only the truth. It would have to do for them both. She did not cry; she could not afford rage and neither could she spend herself in weeping. Her New England thrift must serve her this last time.

#mercy street #mercy street pbs #season 2 AU #episode 3 #one equal temper #phoster #mary phinney #lisette beaufort #clayton mcburney #sister isabella #emma green #female friendship #letters #I am determined she is not being sent out in her nightgown with her hair a mess #sister isabella and lisette can do better than that #fanfiction #angst #romance

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roleplay-central · 4 years

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Feral Beginnings; Part 7

Kolina hadn't eaten. She hadn't slept. Not for a long time. It didn't even occur to her those were priorities. She only had one thing on her mind. Stay on guard. Watch her back. Protect the Heart. Protect the Garou. They were fast healers, naturally. But sometimes there was poison. Sometimes there was just exhaustion. If they needed light and energy, she would give it all.

The days were welded together since the attack on the Sept. She has no idea where that small group ran off to with Hemlata. And she hadn't seen them since. Nadya. Alle. Lumi. The others. Edmond's stupid brilliant face.

Her chest tightened.

Even that young annoying Shadow Lord went with them. She didn't miss that one so much. But wherever they were, she hoped they were okay.

As she sat and studied different healing herbs she collected recently, a little hand appeared and pointed at her chest. Ransom didn't speak much around her, thankfully. They solely relied on body language and eye contact. Or lack thereof. He never looked at her face.

He pointed again at her apparent scar. All she could sense was the curiosity.

She thought about it. And realized she hadn't thought about it in a long time. Not since Wilhelm asked her how she got it.

"You want know. How got scar?"

He nodded.

Kolina sat up straight and stared at nothing but air, trying to recall what Homids called a memory...

"Are you ready, Forepaw? All your training has led to several moments from here on out. But your battle alongside them, hinges on this one thing. From pup to woman. If the spirit accepts you, you will be one of them. Another vengeful sister. They will embrace you with open arms. Of course, it will probably be the hardest thing you've ever done. I've seen it before. It's not pretty. And if you fail? If the spirit is not pleased with you. Will you leave? Go in shame? I hear a Theurge is supposed to be good with spirits. That would be embarrassing. In front of your mentor too....huh."

"You. Talking. Too much."

Calliaope laughed, muffling it with a hand over her mouth.

Forepaw didn't miss the grimace of discomfort that came with it, despite Callie's best efforts to hide it. The Lupus would not say a thing, however. She knew how her friend relished her pride.

"And they call me the Ragabash. You got jokes, Forepaw."

"Am...not. To be. Joke." She looked at her friend. And the girl smiled, cracking the dry black plates of her broken skin. A little bit of blood welled up, but the Metis quickly wiped it away as if it was just some drop of water from the skies.

"Hey. Maybe we'll die here instead. Wouldn't that be fun."

Forepaw opened her mouth to respond, having no idea why the Metis would think dying anywhere outside of battle would be fun, but firm hands suddenly came down on their shoulders.

They were no longer alone.

Three women stood around them.

Alexis Mavros. Carries-the-Full-Moon. Alpha and Philodox of the Red Water pack. Raised within the Amazons of Diana circle.

Vita Maren. Charges Under Fire. Mighty Beta and viscous Ahroun. An adopted Amazon sister from the Fenrir tribe.

And Martina Hope. Walks-with-Light. Master healer. A mystical Theurge and a former nun of the Order of Our Merciful Mother.

All this was too much for the poor Lupus to ever say aloud. But she knew in the purity of her wolf heart. This was her pack. These were her people. Her sisters.

And she was soon to join them.

Martina passed them and without a word...slipped past the gauntlet, quickly joined by Alexis and Vita as they entered the Umbral realm.The two pups hesitated, then dutifully followed. As they stood side by side, they side stepped out of reality. Coming face to face with a wild massive bonfire that took on a life of its own in spirit world.

From the coils of multi-colored flames, a woman stepped forward. She wore a flowing white Grecian gown that spread out like wings as if she was drifting through water. She had three faces. Sometimes two. Sometimes one. But three distinct features that constantly switched back and forth. A young maiden. A concerned mother. And the wise wrinkled face of a crone.

Her hair was long, wild, short, smooth, black, golden, grey and silver. Her arms were two, then four, then six, then two again.

The powerfully mystical Triptich spirit of Pegasus’ brood. Also known as the Trune Goddesses. Her presence made Forepaw’s heart thump with anticipation. Beneath the gaze of the spirit, the cubs would be judged. To be one with the Red River pack. Or unworthy. It was the Goddesses decision.

Martina, off to the side, took one step forward. She instructed them to strip themselves of any material items. Once they did, she took a ceramic bowl from Alexis and began to draw symbols on their bodies with light blue paint.

The raw mineral of the substance tickled Forepaw's sense of smell. But she remained still.

"You passed your tests. You both have proven yourselves despite many stumbles. You are selfless, and you defend the weak. And aid women of all species. As Pegasus demands. You are avengers. Tenacious like vines of the Wyld. You have a duty to more than just yourself. Your pack. Your Sept. Your Tribe. Your Nation. Will you cast aside the weakness of selfish desires and take up the Labrys against corruption? Will you fight our enemies? Will you join your sisters and turn the water red with your victories?"

Both Forepaw and Calliope grunted, their Rage and Amazon pride welling within them, threatening to burn the edges of their patience. They nodded, the air thickening with promise and spiritual prowess.

"If you are ready. Then step forth and present your flesh to Pegasus and the Triune Goddesses."

Martina stepped away as she spoke, done with painting her runes on the young Furies. Forepaw felt the heat of the fire washing over her, feeding the dance of her wild soul. She snarled and transformed, allowing her limbs to grow. Her body strengthened. Her teeth sharpened. And her Homid nails turned into claws. She took on the half-beast, half-human form of Glabro and roared at at the flames. She didn't have to look over to know Callie was doing the same.

This time. The spirit spoke directly to them. In a thousand voices. A chorus of every Black Fury that ever sought her aid. "You must never flee a battlefield in unprepared, craven fear. You must always be the last ones on the battle field in retreat." The fire grew, fanned by a sudden breeze. "You must focus your Willpower at all times. Never lose yourself to mindless thoughts. And you will undergo quests to seek wisdom and insight into your fates. Remember....the future is always unclear, but never out of your reach."

Forepaw and Callie raised their claws, goosebumps crawling across their skin. A sign they understood.

"You must embrace sacrifice. To be a Black Fury is to know what Gaia gives to her children. To be in this pack is to understand the roles of maiden, mother, and crone. Innocent warrior. Experienced defender. Wise leader.” Her voice and face changed appropriately to match every phrase she slowly spoke. “All of them decided upon the one thing man cannot ever claim to know. The blessing woman carries. The creation of life. Both a painful journey, and an experience that transcends material love. Place your claw to your right breast."

Forepaw, buzzing with anxiety and anticipation, slipped her claws beneath the soft swell of her flesh. She refused to look down. Staring into the heart of the fire.

"However, you two have yet to fully comprehend what it is to be a mother. You appreciate the idea of it now. You respect the rank it entails. Perhaps you even covet it. A Lupus that prays for the day she will take a mate and birth her own. And the Metis that dreams about a sense of motherhood that will never come. For you, Calliope, the sacrifice you make tonight does not carry the same weight. But it is still a gesture the spirits acknowledge."

The fluid spirit looked them both in the eye. "Do you commit?"

With affirmative snarls, guttural and deep within them, they acted.

Forepaw tore into her breast. Her skin tore like nothing. There was no resistance. From her ribs to her collar bone, she dissected herself mercilessly. She did not hold back. She ran red with her own blood. The excess tissue of her chest spilled to her feet. She fell to one knee and shredded the extra skin. Like strips of useless meat, she had no more need for it. Except as an offering to prove to the spirits that she was willing to give up half of one future and dedicate it to the fight against Gaia's enemies.

She would be more than maiden or mother. She would be an Amazon.

Forepaw roared again as her body worked to mend itself. The magic of Martina's ritual and runes kept the wound from completely healing, leaving a curved scar where her breast used to be.

The fire crackled. And the spirit was gone.

Something within the flames popped and a shower of light embers floated into the dark Umbral night sky where the moon hung heavy. Heavier than it ever wold in the Tellurian.

A firm warmth washed over Forepaw. Some foreign sense of acceptance. A shift within herself, yet given from without. She didn't completely understand. But she didn't have to. She closed her eyes and just embraced it.

The night filled their life with the sound of the spiritual forest around them.

Finally, Forepaw looked over and saw Callie had completed the ritual as well, adding another scar to her already ruined skin. Callie looked to Alexis, but her Alpha did not reciprocate whatever longing glance the Metis gave. Instead, she nodded in appropriate approval of their actions.

Martina came close, ending the rite with a hand upon Forepaw's head. "Stand. You are no longer Niece, but Sister. You are no longer just Forepaw the Lupus, but Kolina the Amazon."

When Kolina returned to what the Homids called present time, interrupting her own meditative dream state, she caught Ransom staring at her with his arms full of herbs. Had she collected all of those while telling her story? She wondered if he even understood her tale. The Common tongue of Homids was not her strongest attribute.

"Sacrifice sounds easy." Ransom chirped.

Kolina nodded, taking some of the bundle from the small Metis. "Yes. Is not so easy for to giving the sacrifice. Must be selfless. Must be strong. In different way. You will know."

"We don't need help."

As usual, Kolina felt a moment of hesitation while her Lupus brain tried to translate Ransom's odd way of speaking in opposites. Yet another language barrier. "Yes. Am needing help here. Is good. But feeling stuck." The longer the pond sat, the more it stagnated.

Kolina stood and headed back to the base of operations and main defense line Reya had set up near the Heart. She ignored her fatigue, replacing it with a new determination. She had to find a way to reach their friends on the outside. Some sort of message perhaps. Or a sign. Anything to let them know they were still alive and fighting within the mist. To let them know not all was lost. Yet....

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