#<- girls who discover movement makes them feel good again at the tender age of almost 26

[linguenuvolose]

Loooooved going to work by bike 😍😍 getting over an hour of movement in, some tunes, some sun! 10/10! Mamma mia I was so sweaty when I came home though 😭 and my body is hurting but it’s feelings goood

[toloveawarlord]

Ch. 1

Characters: Coralie Van Alst, Mozart, Comte

Tagging: @plumpblueberry​ (Please let me know if you want to be tagged)

A/N: Finally another Ikevamp oc! This was the most voted for in the interest check on the 25 Days of Christmas Voting! Thank you to everyone who voted for this oc! Enjoy the first chapter of my little musician and her unknowing meeting of her favorite composer!

Another event. Night after night, the teenager could be found in a lavish dress, violin case in her left hand, and her benefactor, Grant, hovering behind her, speaking to clients interested in her talents. His rules were absolute.

One: Don’t speak unless prompted.

Two: Every performance shall be perfection.

Three: Always please the clients

Four: No outside relations beyond the job.

She’d never known others her own age. Her education lacking, only taught basic reading and writing along with etiquette. Music took up most of her days, whether practice or event. Her talent coveted by many, but they never acknowledged the work that she put in.

“Ah, Comte! What a wonderful party. We greatly appreciate the invitation. Your pianist, Wolfram, I’d like to have him play a duet with my Coralie.” His hands rested on the young girl’s shoulders.

The regal man he spoke to gave an empty smile until his golden eyes met the mismatched amethyst and blue ones, where it turned quite warm. “Monsieur DuPont, I was unaware you had a daughter.”

Grant chuckled, digging his fingers into her bared skin when she didn’t immediately return the friendly smile. “No. This lovely, gifted violinist is sadly not of my blood. I am simply showcasing her talent here in Paris.”

“I see. However, I do not dictate whom Wolfram plays with, but I am more than willing to introduce her to him. That is, if you’d like.”

The tension was thick in the air between the two powerful men. Most groveled in the great Grant DuPont’s presence. This man was quite different. Coralie dare not check to see how her benefactor reacted to Comte’s veiled pleasantries. 

The musician they spoke of had been researched, like all with potential to leverage for the young girl to be seen by the most patrons. Wolfram Theophillius Perti. He’d been compared to the likes of Mozart. Coralie had yet to hear him play, but if he were in the same league, then for the first time, she actually wanted to meet him.

Most of those she played with were subpar, and she preferred to play alone, but she could never voice those opinions.

Thank them with a smile. Stroke their ego. Laugh at their cruel jokes.

Being a musician in this world was hard work, competitive. Many believed it not a place for women, much less a child. Some were unkind to her, jealous of her ability, of how a fifteen-year-old could play circles around them.

Always be charming, my dear. Dazzle them with your performance so no one can argue that you don’t belong.

The words of her father echoing in the back of her mind, bringing a small amount of comfort.

Grant smiled tensely but relented. He placed a sloppy kiss on her temple, all his affection for show. “Do take good care of my lovely Coralie. She’s very precious to me.” His tone light but she recognized it for what it was.

She was a commodity that brought him fame and fortune.

“I certainly will. Mademoiselle Coralie, I will escort you to Wolfram.”

With a soft thank you, she fell in step beside Comte. Eyes followed her wherever she went. Envy. Intrigue. Lust. Many high-class gentlemen wanted something from her, but never directly addressed her in fear of angering DuPont.

Somehow, it felt as though it wasn’t just her, they were watching.

“I haven’t had the pleasure of hearing you play, but the talk among my friends is all high praise. Are you from Paris?” He’d heard many things. The young girl having only been here for a half a year and yet all social circles knew of her.

“No, Monsieur. My homeland is Belgium. Monsieur DuPont has been most gracious to house me and guide me in performing while I am here.” Always praise the one who has done so much for her family. 

Comte hummed in response. He’d never liked the man. Too many rumors of his mistreatment of his wards, throwing them away when they were no longer useful. How long would it be until this young girl became nothing to him? “Ah, Wolfram, a moment please.”

The gaggle of men and women around the musician scattered at their arrival. Although he smiled at her, she knew how empty it was. Forced, just pleasant enough, and never reaching his eyes. He listened to Comte’s introduction, to the reason she’d been brought to him. Mozart hadn’t the opportunity to respond before Comte was called away by another gentleman. Left with only the girl, he politely declined, “I’ve completed my obligation to play for the evening. Perhaps another time.”

Coralie suspected that to be a placation. The pianist had no intention of playing another time. “Please reconsider. It would be advantageous to duet with me.”

“Advantageous? I’m in no need of benefactors or patrons. Of what advantage would it be to me?” Mozart lost his facade for a split second. His violet eyes narrowed then softened. There were far too many people within earshot. “Forget the question. I simply do not play with partners.”

Yes, she’d discovered that in her research.

It’s of no consequence. You perform a duet.

Her benefactor would be quite upset if she didn’t get this man to agree. Who could say what he might do to her family? “I understand. Most in our profession do not have the aptitude for an impromptu performance.”

“Precisely-”

“I am not one of them,” Coralie said, bringing her mismatched eyes up to meet his gaze. If he’d been anyone else, she would not push so hard. But she needed to hear him play, to know if he was worthy of being compared to the great Mozart. “None of them possess my skill. Please perform one song with me.” Coralie bent forward into a pleading bow, one thing that she was not allowed to do.

Being polite, gentle, quiet-- those were her instruction.

Never bow to those with inferior skill for that will only make you appear desperate.

If Grant were watching her, he’d surely be incredibly displeased. He likely wouldn’t understand why she felt the need to. Coralie had to make Wolfram understand how much she wanted to play with him.

“One song.” His voice low, filled with irritation, but it brought her attention up to his sour features. Mozart might admire how brazen the child was, and perhaps he relented because she reminded him of his human self. “One song and then you will never approach me again.”

A single chance was all she needed to prove her worth.

The pair didn’t speak as they prepared. Mozart took a seat on the bench; violet irises observed the practiced and careful way she took the violin from the case. The way she’d lit up at his song choice confused him.

Mozart’s Sonata 16 in C Major, first movement, do you know it?

Of course, she was well versed in all Mozart’s songs. He was her favorite composer to study and practice. Coralie rested against the chinrest, waiting for his first note. She felt the violin as an extension of her own body.

The crowd grew silent as they began, allowing the melody to flow around the room like the wind, gentle and constant. The strings caressed her fingers, sound pure and sweet. It mixed seamlessly with the rich, crisp tune of the piano. Two complete strangers in perfect harmony.

It was a reintroduction. Words failed to establish common ground. It was in their playing, their ability to create beautiful music, that they could begin to understand each other. Wielding their instruments was like barring their soul.

They complimented each other, piano and violin intertwining like polished dance partners gracefully gliding across a ballroom floor. They’d captured every ear, every heart with a poised rendition of Mozart’s Sonata.

It was only once the song came to a close that Coralie returned to the real world, applause erupting. Truly, this man was most incredible, like no other she’d been forced to duet with. He commanded the keys like a captain steering a ship through a deadly storm; firm and unrelenting, not afraid of the powerful sound. But he also contained a gentleness, making the ivory keys sing as the birds at the dawn of a new day.

Socialites swarmed around him, flocked to her. Their chatter equivalent to nails on a chalkboard to Coralie. She safely secured her violin in the case before slipping out to the balcony. She wanted to ingrain that performance to her memory.

The girl swam in the melody so fresh within her. Her body alight with chills. Never had a duet affected her so, sounded so alluring. This night would become one of her most treasured.

“It wasn’t unbearable. Although, I’d say you’ve plenty of room to improve.” Wolfram’s voice grounded her back in the world void of their dazzling melody. He didn’t make a habit of chasing after other musicians, but this girl... “You deviated from the song as written.”

“It complimented the original composition,” she countered.

“Irrelevant. You should always play as the composer intended.”

Coralie turned her gaze up to the night sky. The stars crowded between the gray clouds twinkled in applause. “I pay no attention to anybody’s praise or blame. I simply follow my own feelings.”

Silence followed her statement.

“No one can say what he intended, but he was right. Music is deeply rooted, entangled, in feeling. Any simpleton with a few lessons can play the notes on the page. What makes a true musician is the ability to breathe real, raw, emotion into the song, don’t you think?” Coralie turned to face him, a tender smile on her lips. There were few who could understand why she felt that way.

Mozart hadn’t the chance to respond. He’d been quite shocked at her enlightened view on music. It was rare to find such passionate sentiment with one as talented as her. He would have not hated having a discussion, but the young violinist swayed on her feet, lashes brushing against her pale cheeks.

He barely caught her when she fell unconscious.

[fullmetalscullyy]

You mentioned that you have been writing a lot of angst so here is another happy one. ☺️ Would you be able to make a fic about Roy seeing Riza walk down the aisle at their wedding and kind of reflecting on their big relationship milestones? Could be an au or really anything you want. ✨✨

something short which is actually the start of my new long fic ;) this is set just before the start of canon events and they’ve been aged up a few years to fit the au. riza is 20 hear and roy is 22 (i know there is a four year gap between them but for the sake of the au it’s gone)

since it’s at the start, there haven’t been a lot of major milestones in their relationship, however roy does reflect on it, so i hope this is enough D: it’s still fluffy and was good for my soul so thank you for that

hope you enjoy it!

rated: t | words: 947

Roy twitched as he heard the door opening behind him. Heturned with a smile, but it died on his lips. Instead, his breath caught in histhroat, his clasped hands no longer ringing together with nerves. They wentslack but remained joined, hanging loosely by his hips.

The reason for his heart skipping a beat or four was becausehis future wife was walking down the aisle towards him.

He felt tears spring to his eyes, her beauty stunning him.His heart thumped in his chest, threatening to break free from his ribs.Anticipation prickling his skin, he took a deep, shaky breath, and smiledbroadly towards Riza Hawkeye.

Soon to be Riza Mustang.

He couldn’t believe his luck. Him. Marrying Riza Hawkeye.

The scrawny fourteen-year-old who’d showed up at her doorand tripped over his words as she opened it, feeling like a fool because he wasso ready to impress his new mentor ad win his family’s favour.

It took a very long time for her to warm up to him, but Roynever lost hope. He was drawn to her, he wanted to be her friend. She was soquiet and always seemed to be by herself. He knew she was lonely. How could she not be, cooped up in thatdraughty old house with her recluse of her father? Roy was the kind of personwho craved company, but he got nothing of the sort from his Master, so hesought out the young girl who pretended to be just fine by herself.

Now, she had grown into a beautiful, confident, andself-assured woman. Roy counted himself very lucky to have been able to witnessit and experience their friendship grow.

Riza smiled softly at him, walking down the aisle on the armof his foster mother. Unconventional, but Roy wouldn’t let her walk down thereby herself, and neither would Chris. Her father had died a few weeks ago andeven if he was still living, Roy didn’t think Berthold would have even botheredwith the whole event anyway.

Chris gave Riza’s hand a quick squeeze before moving tostand at Roy’s side.

Riza nervously shifted the bouquet in her hands, licking herlips. Her nerves had left them dry, her hands shaking slightly. Turning inplace, she faced her future husband, her stomach fluttering at the look on hisface. He was looking at her as if she was the only person in the entire world.

That was something she had to get used to.

She was wanted by someone, loved by someone. It was such aforeign concept to Riza after her upbringing that she was left doubting herself.Would she be enough for her husband, and did he really, truly, love her as much as he said he did? Riza knew it was unfair,especially to Roy. He’d been nothing but kind to her and had opened her up tolove over the years they’d known each other. But there was still a niggle inthe back of her mind that, just like everyone else, Roy would eventually leave.

The veil was lifted over her head with such a tenderness,Riza froze. His soft smile almost melted her on the spot and – just for amoment – all her self-doubt was banished. Roy’s hands gently brushed againsther bare upper arms as they lowered, caressing her skin and causing goosefleshto break out all over her. He smirked as she shivered, giving her hands a quicksqueeze before clasping them together in front of him once more.

He loves you, and youlove him. Never forget that.

The priest droned on about their marriage vows but Rizawasn’t paying attention. She couldn’t. She was too enraptured by the man nextto her, hyperaware of his every movement. Every time he shifted in place, everytime the scent of his cologne wafted her way, she shivered. She felt like a hormonecharged teenager again.

“Do you, Riza Hawkeye, take Roy Mustang to be your lawfullywedded husband, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

“I do,” she breathed, unable to raise her voice any higher.She’d never felt love like this before. Obviously, she loved Roy, there was noquestion about that, but this… In this moment, with Roy gazing at her sointently and with so much care and love in his eyes… She was overwhelmed.

In the best way.

“Roy Mustang, do you take Riza Hawkeye to be your lawfullywedded wife, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

“I do,” he grinned.

“I now pronounce you, husband and wife. You may now kiss thebride.”

Their lips met softly. His hand rose, cupping the bottom ofRiza’s jaw as his fingers caressed her hairline on the back of her neck. Rizawhimpered softly, feeling tears prick in her eyes at the tenderness he showedher.

Riza couldn’t remember the last time she was this happy.

Probably since the first time Roy said he loved her.

The time before that? Riza had no idea. Not since before hermother had died, anyway.

Breaking apart was bittersweet. Riza wanted to remain inthat moment forever. She’d never get tired of loving him, Riza knew that forsure, and counted herself lucky to be loved by him in return, no matter whatself-doubt she carried with her.

That night, in their bed, they became husband in wife inevery sense of the word. Words were whispered against each other’s skin, declarationsof love, promises for the future, and Riza couldn’t wait to discover what life hadin store for her and her new husband.

[ammeh7]

7KPP Week 2019 - Day 2

Hobbies || Worldbuilding

Valrise + music, at three different times in her life

I finally had to come up with siblings for Valrise for this! 

Names and ages at the start of the fic, for anyone who likes a reference: Ophelia (10), Emmaline (8), Linette (7), Larissa (7), Rhiele (5), Tremont (4, first son), Cerise (2), Brandel (1, second son). Valrise is 6 years older than Ophelia and was probably an accident.

I Can’t Music, and attempting to research for this fic just got me lots of ads for children’s music lessons, so if I said anything that makes her sound like an idiot or is unrealistic, just let me know.

Minor content warning for the middle section (avoiding intimacy with her first husband). If you’re concerned, scroll to the end for details.

The piano was one of the few trappings of nobility they had left.

She suspected it was only still there because her mother hadn’t figured out how to get it down the stairs to sell. Or maybe she’d decided it compensated for the threadbare rugs and shelves conspicuously absent of curios. It made them look, perhaps, like they might hold social gatherings, have their talented daughters perform for their guests.

In reality, it was years out of tune, and of the seven daughters, 16-year-old Valrise was the only one with any idea how to play. There hadn’t been money for individual music tutoring since Ophelia was just starting on basic scales—a couple years of group vocal lessons, and then it was up to Valrise (“You have such a lovely voice, dear, I’m sure you can do better than that overpriced troubadour!”) By that point, the piano twanged unpleasantly, a bulky corner decoration rather than an instrument.

There were probably smarter things to spend her scrimped-together savings on, but…she missed it.

Getting the piano tuned did have a practical justification, she’d convinced herself—with Rhiele turning six, it’d make five of them passing the lap harp around during her attempts at music lessons. Counting Valrise, that would be six of them sharing it for practice. If they had the piano as well, there’d be more opportunity for everyone to practice instruments, more options for accompaniment, better chances for her sisters to grow the skills expected of noble ladies.

So she’d sold a brooch that had been a gift from an optimistic merchant’s son, and inquired around until she found a tuner with a good reputation who was willing to work cheaply. At least in this case. (She might have had to bat her eyelashes a bit and sigh wistfully about how much she missed playing, but in the end she’d gotten three piano tunings for the price of the brooch.)

Hopefully, her mother wouldn’t return from her outing until after the tuner was finished. She might not notice that the piano was suddenly in tune, but she’d have opinions on Valrise’s use of money, or perhaps take this as a sign they had some great trove of savings secreted away and she could afford some indulgences of her own.

Right on cue, the tuner closed his box of tools and stepped back with a smile. “It should be set, Miss—my lady. Feel free to try it out.”

She sat down hesitantly, hovered her hands over the keyboard. “I’m afraid I’m several years out of practice, so I’d request that you don’t judge my fumbles too harshly,” she smiled over her shoulder.

The first few notes were hesitant, but her hands remembered even if her mind didn’t, and soon her fingers were flowing over the keys, a song she couldn’t even recall the name of filling the room.

She hadn’t remembered how satisfying she found this—the range of notes, the expanse of the keyboard, the timbre.

The last note faded out and she came back to herself. “It—sounds lovely. Thank you.”

Movement at the door caught her eye, and she looked over to see Ophelia, Emmaline, and Larissa all peeking their heads into the room.

“I told you she’d be good at it,” Larissa whispered loudly to someone in the hall. Probably Rhiele—she still liked to hide from strangers, and Linette in her determination to be the “good twin” would never have abandoned her math exercises to spy on what was happening across the castle.

“Are you going to teach any of us?” Emmaline asked eagerly, noticing Valrise looking their way. “So we don’t have to share?”

“Of course,” she said, glad they seemed excited. This would be good for them. She knew it was the right choice.

The footman came over to show the tuner out, and the girls entered the room, Emmaline and Larissa rushing up to the piano and plinking at the keys while Ophelia came over to stand by Valrise.

“It’s good to see you play again,” she said quietly. “I missed it.”

“Me too.”

--

The floor harp was by far her favorite thing in the house. Her entertainment and her sanctuary.

The same talents that had helped her to catch a wealthy baron’s eye now also helped her play the part of an adoring wife without having to do anything terribly…wifely. He loved her singing, had had the harp and piano moved to the room below his study and bade her to play with the windows open.

She didn’t mind the man, but she felt no great passion, no tender affection at the thought of him. The thought of kissing him, of lying with him, left her with a sense of cool distaste. She endured the first, but for the other…

The dream-wine had been a terrible plan. It was miraculous it hadn’t crashed apart around her already.

She’d been so childishly terrified of that first night. She’d known the tincture was a soporific, one unpopular due to side effects of disturbingly vivid dreams, but quick-acting and accessible.  She’d just meant to delay things, let him think he’d nodded off after a night of feasting and put the whole affair off until she’d had time to settle in a bit.

But he’d pulled her close, gotten her bodice open before it took effect…and the next morning she’d discovered that if an idea were planted and the circumstances were believable, those “vivid dreams” could be mistaken for reality.

She should have taken that reprieve as the windfall it was and not pushed her luck. But it turned out that if you manage to avoid the first night, the next time…was still the first night.

And “settling in” turned out to be much less of a panacea than she’d hoped.

She could perform the part of the adoring and grateful wife when they were together, but too much and it got under her skin, made her sick with it, made her worry she might let the mask slip.

Playing, though—playing let her escape from pleasing her husband and please her husband all at the same time.

He thought the music was for him. It wasn’t.

And when her husband came in and kissed her shoulder, told her to wait up in her chambers that night, she’d only be acting the doting spouse if she prepared two goblets and some cut flowers, wanted to flirt a bit over a glass of wine before they got to business.

The problem was that it worked too well. She never meant to keep it going for an entire year.

She’d faked her way through one pregnancy already, “late courses” and “morning sickness” and a morning of dramatic weeping in the bathroom. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could maintain the ruse. Soon she might need to—

A loud crash came from the study upstairs, and her fingers halted on the strings with an unpleasant twang.

“Darling? Is everything all right?”

--

“I believe,” Zarad says, “that you promised me a private concert.”

Valrise tilts her head in exaggerated recollection. “Oh? I’m fairly certain I said that I might give you a private concert, if you behave.”

He grins. “Exactly! So as we are surely in agreement that my behavior has been beyond reproach for at least the past three hours—”

She gives him a flat look.

“—and you carelessly neglected to specify a duration when making your promise—”

“It was hardly a promise—”

“—there is really no debating the fact that you owe me a private concert.”

“I suppose that’s fairly ironclad,” she says, walking over to the floor harp in the center of the music room he’s brought her to. She settles herself, takes a deep breath.

She plucks out a single chord, then stands. “Well, since I carelessly neglected to specify a duration in my promise… I hope you enjoyed your concert.”

Zarad laughs, eyes dancing. “Ah, but you must agree that the word ‘concert’ carries an implicit minimum length. At least a quarter hour, certainly.”

Part of her wants to keep arguing, silly hesitations holding her back. Her time with the Baron has turned the idea of playing for her husband into something underhanded, scheming—and as someone used to impressing people with her singing, she’s a bit worried she’ll come off lacking in comparison to the apparently legendary voice of his mother.

But he’s hardly the Baron, and she has no intention of giving up singing permanently, so better to take the plunge now than put it off. And in the end, she really does want to.

She pretends to consider for a long moment, then sits back down. “Fine. But if you get yourself murdered by a bookshelf while I’m playing, I’m going to be very cross.”

“I’ll be the very soul of caution,” he says. “Although, if there exists a bookshelf so determined to murder me that it manages to sneak its way into the music room, I fear I may have met my match.”

She laughs, bringing her fingers to the strings.

She plays.

And maybe it’s a little bit for him.

If you came down here for the detailed content warning: 

During the second section, Valrise (Ambitious Widow) is married to her first husband, who wants an heir. She doesn’t want to sleep with him and has successfully avoided it by drugging him so he’ll fall asleep and think they did, but is worried she might have to eventually (and has been in some intimate situations with him she found distasteful, not much past kissing.) She also faked a pregnancy and miscarriage at one point. It’s all described pretty vaguely and she’s safe at the end. If you’d prefer to skip that but are still interested in reading the rest: You can read up to the first break, then instead of reading the section that starts “the floor harp was by far her favorite thing in the house”, search for the first instance of “Zarad” and pick up again there. All you need to know for the third bit is that she used to play “for” her first husband as a means of avoiding him, and that he died in a freak accident while she was playing in the room below.

[pseudologia-fantasia]

Libidinous - Chapter One

Originally posted on Wattpad.

Lucy pressed her lips together, shaking her head to the boy as though she were speaking to a toddler.

"No, it wasn't a sleepover--" She grunted lowly as she rubbed her hands over her face. "Gosh, what are you even talking about?"

His eyebrows furrowed and he looked to Lucy with a childlike wonder. "Then what were you guys doing?"

Lucy sighed, then in a grand gesture, sighed her shoulders before tossing her hands in the air.

"Intercourse."

 ｌｉ·ｂｉｄ·ｉ·ｎｏｕｓ

Lucy has a problem. She knows this very well, thank you very much. A severe sex addict, she practices promiscuity with every boy she can get her hands on, or any boy who will put his hands on her.After being caught by her strange and childlike school mate Natsu after a one-night-stand, she finds herself befriending the oddball and discovers ways to overcome her urges with his help.  

My first lemon, so errors are expected, but nonetheless, I hope you all enjoy.

Mature content including: extreme sexual activity, rape, addiction. Read at own risk.

All characters belong to Hiro Mashima.

Lucy grunted lowly, taking in a swift and unwanted smell of the musky apartment. She looked at the pasty looking ceiling above her head as her fuzzy eyes stared up continuously.

It then suddenly dawned on that she couldn't remember the name of the man sucking lavishly onto her clit. She ground her crotch against his wet and sloppy mouth, moaning out curses as his tongue drilled at her wet vagina. She hummed out in the sweet and tender satisfaction, her fingers clawing at her soft thighs as she felt her sex partner dig his own fingers into her thighs.

"Mm..." She moaned out, her head rolling back as her hips matched their movement, rolling against his lips.

His hands pushed her down further, and she gasped as she felt her partner bite against her clit, his nose taking in the strong scent of her soaked sex. She let out a loud cry, and hit her climax, her chest rolling back in short and swift spasms.

There it is... She thought as she fell quickly from her high. Not as good as it used to feel. She grunted quietly as she slid off her partner, and began to suddenly think of how tired she was. She looked down to the irritable hard her partner had, and thought, Well crap, he's not done is he.

Lucy opened her eyes to the sun running across her eyes. She grunted quietly as she sat up off the bed to find the stranger still asleep. She looked at the clock, finding it to be 8:03.

Swiping the sheets off her naked legs, she leaped out of the bed and scrambled to find whatever she assumed belonged to her. She tug her toes into her shoes, not caring if the heel made their way to meet the backs or not, pulling on the pair of panties dangling on the foot of the bed and slipping them into her long legs. She couldn't find her bra, but she put her dress over her naked chest anyway before scrambling to the door.

She pushed right out the door at a fast pace, wondering how late she'd be to first block if she took the time to run back to her apartment and catch a shower and put on her uniform.

Her chances were slim, but school didn't start until 8:45.

As she stepped outside the door, she squinted as the bright sun flooded her vision, as her hand went up to shield her eyes, she found her self face to face with a eerily familiar pink haired boy.

His gaze was innocent, and he looked right at her chocolate brown eyes, not taking any notice to the small tint of her nipples peaking through her thin dress.

"Don't I know you from somewhere?"

She looked at his clothing, noticing the uniform.

Oh dear.

The uniform matched the one she had in her apartment. And she felt for a moment as though she'd walked into school naked.

"Um...sorry." She took another step, shuffling slightly so her feet would settle into her yellow flats. "Sorry, I've gotta head to work."

She only made it a yard until she heard the door of the apartment she'd just escaped from open swiftly.

"Hey!" The man she'd just screwed stepped out, she was quite surprised to see he was wearing her bra. But in a way, she wasn't.

"Oh...hey." Lucy crossed her arms, trying to push her arms subtly over her chest.

"You wanna...have a coffee, could I get your number or--

"Oh sorry, I've gotta get to school..." Lucy spat out. It was a brave move, but it always worked.

"Oh come on, you can miss a day right?"

"Um." Lucy spun around yet again. "Sorry, but 11th grade English can be a pretty tedious class to miss."

The raw horror on the man's face was priceless. And he simply bowed his head, huffing out a quick "I'm so sorry" before spinning into his room to call his mom and apologize for every sin he'd ever committed.

It was like that. She was a full bodied girl, and could fool a man into think she was a woman. But when a man finds out he'd screwed a kid, he is almost always drowned in his own guilt and self pity.

It's not as though he’d report her, as they could be charged for rape of some kind, as he wasn’t sure if Lucy was even of age. Technically she was, right at the legal age, actually. Either way, men would usually latch onto the thinking: dear god, I’ve fucked a high schooler. So it was an easy way to get guys off her tail, and a simple way to be rid herself of a very unwanted stalker.

Lucy began to shuffled away from the door, and the pink haired boy who stood there through the whole awkward morning after banter.

"Hey--wait up."

She didn't turn around to face the boy that ran towards her, and huffed out a breath as she climbed down the stairs.

"You just move here or something?" The boy asked from behind, attempting to keep up with Lucy's brisk walk of shame. "I've never seen you around here so I was curious."

"Nope, and you're likely to never see me around here again." She hissed quickly, her hand grasping the thin chain of her purse. "Goodbye forever."

"Wait--don't you go to my school?"

Crap. She thought as she felt a sharp pain in her side, and that naked in school feeling began to arise.

In a flash of power and bravery, she span around and looked the boy in the eye.

"Don't tell anyone you saw me here today. And especially don't tell anyone what I was doing?"

They boy looked at her in confusion for a moment longer. Then his eyes lit up and he snapped his finger. "Oh! Do you want me to keep a secret?"

"Yeah. Sure." Lucy huffed briskly. "Can you do that for me?"

"Sure thing, these lips are sealed." He pinched an imaginary key at the edge of his lips, which had curved into a wide smile.

"Okay then." Lucy wheeled around, making her way down to the bottom of the steps as she heard the boys rough voice again.

"I'm Natsu!"

She turned just her head, looking up to the boy who was at the top of the stairs.

He stood there, with this ruled grin on his face waiting for her to complete the exchange.

In a quiet voice, she nodded her head. "Lucy."

[ceci-n-est-pas-un-chat]

Makers of History: Sophie Scholl

“How can we expect righteousness to prevail when there is hardly anyone willing to give himself up individually to a righteous cause? Such a fine, sunny day, and I have to go, but what does my death matter, if through us, thousands of people are awakened and stirred to action?”

These are the last words of Sophie Scholl, just before she was executed for high treason by the guillotine in 1943, aged twenty one, after being caught distributing pamphlets encouraging passive resistance to the Nazis. Known as a symbol for anti-Nazism since the 1970s, Sophie’s role in The White Rose, a non-violent resistance group to Hitler’s government based around active intellectual opposition to the regime, was a stand against the horrors of Nazi Germany. But what about the girl herself? What sort of girl would face martyrdom so calmly at the tender age of twenty one? Here are five points of interest about her life, that perhaps might shed some light on the girl behind the name.

WARNING: What follows discusses in detail actions of the Nazis, such as the Holocaust, euthanasia and homophobia, that some readers may find upsetting.

[source: The White Rose (Life time: 1943) - Original publication: 1942]

Even in secondary school, Sophie was critical of the Nazis

For those of you who don’t know, secondary school is from the ages of 11 to 18, and in Nazi Germany, the curriculum was full of pro-Nazism indoctrination. For example, young children used to be taught how to recognise Jews from their facial features alone as an attempt to introduce them to eugenics and to teach them that the Jews were inferior to the German Aryan ideal. Initially, Sophie was quite enthusiastic to join the Bund Deutscher Mädel (The League of German Girls) aged twelve, the female wing of the Hitler Youth, which her brother Hans was a member of:

'But there was something else that drew us with mysterious power and swept us along: the closed ranks of marching youth with banners waving, eyes fixed straight ahead, keeping time to drumbeat and song. Was not this sense of fellowship overpowering? It is not surprising that all of us, Hans and Sophie and the others, joined the Hitler Youth? We entered into it with body and soul, and we could not understand why our father did not approve, why he was not happy and proud. On the contrary, he was quite displeased with us.’

- Inge Scholl, Sophie’s sister

However, the disillusionment of her friends and family - even Hans eventually, after the Nazis began to target him over a same-sex relationship he had aged 16 - led to her turning against the Nazi Party. She almost didn’t graduate secondary school because she had lost any interest in participating, but she did in the end with an essay titled “The Hand that Moved the Cradle, Moved the World.” Again, Sophie found difficulty in applying to university as it required her to partake in Reichsarbeitsdienst (National Service) - she originally hoped she could teach in kindergarten as an alternative, but this was not accepted and a year later she became a nursery teacher in the auxiliary war service for six months. During this time she was again dismayed by the things she learnt about the operation of the Nazi Party.

2) Sophie was religious

Sophie was discovered to have sent her boyfriend, Fitz Hartnagel, two volumes of the Catholic John Henry Newman’s sermons when he was sent to the Eastern Front. Sophie and Fitz discussed in great depth the ‘theology of conscience’ in their letters to each other, and this greatly impacted how she viewed the political situation in Germany at the time. Catholic Bishop Clemens August Graft von Galen also influenced her, especially his outcry against the Nazis’ euthanasia policies that were intended to ‘protect the gene pool’. Sophie was horrified by what Hartnagel told her of Soviet POWS being shot into mass graves, and when he passed on what he had learnt about the extermination of the Jews in death camps. The euthanasia policies in particular prompted her to distribute Graft von Galen’s sermon as the first leaflet before the official establishment of the White Rose.

[Bishop Graft von Galen: Domkapitular Gustav Albers († 1957) - Bildersammlung des Bistumsarchivs Münster, des Erbnehmers der Urheberrechte ]

"We know by whom we are created, and that we stand in a relationship of moral obligation to our creator. Conscience gives us the capacity to distinguish between good and evil."

- Fitz Hartnagel to Sophie Scholl

Fritz was evacuated from Stalingrad in 1943, but sadly this was after Sophie’s execution. He went on to marry her older sister, Elisabeth. 

3) The fact that she was a woman proved invaluable to her work as part of The White Rose

Not only did the fact that Sophie was a woman mean she was much less likely to be stopped by the SS, thus making her useful for distributing leaflets, but it also meant that when she was arrested, the Gestapo (specifically the interrogator Robert Mohr) originally thought her innocent. It was only after her brother, Hans, confessed to the crime that she assumed full responsibility in the hopes that her brother and other fellow members of the White Rose would he protected.

4) Sophie’s brother was also involved in The White Rose

It was Hans involvement, in fact, which introduced Sophie to the movement. Sophie, after realising that Hans was an author of one of the anti-Nazi pamphlets being distributed around her university, joined him in The White Rose, despite his initial reluctance at her risking her safety. They were both arrested after an incident in the University of Munich in 1943, along with their friend and fellow member, Christoph Probst. Sophie and Hans had been distributing pamphlets throughout the university, but once the bell rang to dismiss class, they discovered that they still had some left over. In an attempt to rid herself of some, Sophie Scholl threw them from the upper level into the atrium, but was spotted by the caretaker, and was reported to the Gestapo along with her brother. Hans attempted to eat his remaining pamphlets before they could be found on him, but the Gestapo retrieved them from his stool and were able to piece them together. One of the pamphlets was authored by Probst, thus incriminating him as well, and all three were executed.

[Hans Scholl: source]

5) Her work left an important legacy

In 2003, Germans voted for Sophie and Hans Scholl as the fourth greatest Germans to ever live. Had the vote taken into account just the votes of people under 40, then they would have come first, over Einstein, Bach and Bismark. At the time, the sixth pamphlet was smuggled into the United Kingdom, and Allied planes in 1943 dropped copies over Germany under the title ‘The Manifesto of the Students of Munich’, thus making all of Germany aware of the actions of The White Rose. Unfortunately however, this did not lead to a great revolt against the totalitarian regime. The White Rose has had more influence post-war.

So, what are your impressions of the courageous Sophie Scholl? Do feel free to drop me an ask and let me know, or correct me if you think I got something wrong! (Politely, of course).

Well, that’s it for now from Makers of History! This may be the last installment, not because I want to stop, but because this new-fangled Article 13 being proposed by the EU means I may have to delete my blog if it passes. So if I do have to, know that it’s been great fun making these, and I’m sorry to go <3

As always, my sources are WIKIPEDIA.

I’m not doing anything special, just trying to get people interested in history!

Until we meet again,

Aurelia x

[renegadesrpg]

Dark Angels: Creation. Part 29 – This Is Not The End -- Adrian

-solo-

 As Zav and Celia had walked toward the bakery to find his woman, I’d rounded the corner and misted into the half-world, ostensibly to scout the area, but in reality I’d hung around to watch their backs for a while. Long enough that I was torn between staying with Celia at the bakery and following Zav when he left with the human, Truely. In the end I’d trusted Celia could handle anything she needed to on her end long enough for me to get back to her if necessary and Zav was out in the open with a civilian who he’d worry more about taking care of than protecting himself. A sure way to get himself killed and we needed him. More than needed him. Zav was my brother in all the ways that counted as surely as had been the other 299 Spartans I’d ended my mortal life with at Thermopylae. I’d lost enough brothers. I’d lost enough, period.

 So, staying invisible, I’d followed the pair along until they stopped at a purple monstrosity of a house near the end of the main drag. When it had been obvious they were going in I’d done a quick reconnaissance to be sure it was safe. I’d found no signs of rogue reapers or demons but no warding either and when they’d decided to …. dally, that’s a good word for it… I’d given them privacy but I hadn’t left them. Much like I’d guarded Sean while he spent his nights with Layla before their cottage had been attacked and subsequently warded, I’d guarded Zav. It seemed to be my role these days.

 I don’t begrudge Sean and Zav finding their soulmates but I can’t help the tinge of bitterness. I’ve been where they are. Sean’s in that state of disbelief that comes when you realize you’ve found something so special and unforeseen that it seems too good to be true, and Zav….damn, he’s so happy just being in that woman’s company that he’s almost unrecognizable from the grim, quiet angel-reaper I’ve known the last 2500 years. I’m happy for them. I am. But once, as a mortal, I’d found that same sense of home in someone and I’d lost it. Not because I died. No, I lost it because I was too cowardly to act on it, too afraid of breaking the accepted social conventions of my civilization to embrace it. Hence the bitterness at watching them gain what I could have had and rejected.

 As I wait for Zav and Truely to finish “dallying” I can’t help but let myself think back to my boyhood. Spartan boys left their mothers at 6 to join the training camps.  We were born and bred to be warriors and I in particular was wanted. My grandmother had been the original Oracle of Delphi and my grandfather the god Apollo. The genetics they’d passed on included superior strength, speed, grace of movement, and the very unpredictable gift of prophecy. The commanders in the camps were eager to translate those gifts into making me an asset, but they’d had little remembrance of what it was like to be a young boy ripped from his mother’s side. As the grandson of a god it was expected, even at the tender age of 6, that I’d be stoic and committed. As a homesick boy, much more human than semi-divine, I’d wept in the dark for the loss of all I’d ever known.

I hadn’t been alone in that, but we’d all kept it to ourselves, unwilling to be disgrace our families. By the time the new crop of boys had come in the next year I’d become inured to the homesickness and daily hardships. I was the perfect picture of a second year child trainee, adept with wooden spear and sword and my aim with a bow was already even better than my instructor’s, as should be expected of the grandson of Apollo. After all, that made Artemis my great-aunt. But it hadn’t made me callous to what the new boys were going through and one night the sounds of sobs coming from the blanket next to mine had woken me up.

 His name was Jace. I’d crawled out from under my blanket and touched his shoulder in commiseration. He’d raised his dark head to look at me and when his eyes met mine something clicked. We connected in a way that I didn’t understand, not then. I just knew I was home, that in his presence I felt complete. We became best friends, taking our meals together, sparring together, fighting mock battles back-to-back. With his dark  handsomeness contrasting with my classic golden hair and skin as we ran through the camp it was inevitable that we should come to the notice of the commanders for more than our burgeoning warrior skills once we reached adolescence. It was the way of things. Teens were often taken as a “protégé” by one of the older commanders. There was no need to hide it. Such relationships were considered the due of the adults and an honor for the young man to be so singled out. In the end, we found ourselves fortunate in our “mentors”.  They had been publicly stern with us, making sure we excelled at all the skills that make a soldier, and privately as kind to us as a warrior’s lifestyle allowed them to be, preferring one another’s company to ours. Discretely observing such a relationship opened our eyes to the fact that our own feelings for one another were not, as we’d always believed in our innocence, platonic.

 To my eternal regret, those feelings remained unspoken between us until it was too late. What was considered appropriate between trainee and adult was forbidden between us as youths. It was thought that such relationships between the young men would make us less willing to lay with a woman in the future and prevent us from doing our duty by siring at least one son for Sparta. Instead, we exchanged long looks and became resolute that we would never be parted as comrades-in-arms. And, for me at least, held on to the unspoken hope that perhaps one day we would achieve the status that allowed us the same discrete relationship as our mentors had shown us. When we were deemed ready for the field at 17 we completed the final expectation of our training.  We wed the girls our families had arranged for us and fathered sons. By 20 we were considered to have fulfilled our duty to the race and never spent another full week in the company of our women again, instead rising within the ranks to become the most coveted warriors of the army and volunteering for the most dangerous assignments. Which is how we ended up among the 300.

 Xerxes of Persia had amassed a massive army and navy to conquer all of Greece. This was not his first attempt and the Athenians had defeated him at Marathon 10 years before, but his new forces were larger and his ambitions greater. The cities of Greece united their forces to repel the invaders in both a land and naval war. While Themistocles of Athens commanded the navy forces at the Straits of Artemesium, ground forces united under Sparta. Our king, Leonidas I, led a combined force of 7000 men to defend the pass at Thermopylae and Jace and I were with them.

 Our task was simple – to hold the mountain pass while Themistocles decimated the Persian navy. Xerxes had a land force of 150,000 strong. Later Greek writers placed it at 3 million, and you can trust me when I say it felt like they had that many, but our intelligence was solid. Still, our 7,000 should have been able to hold the pass. It was narrow and winding, the walls tall and the only road a land army could use to pass into Greece from Persia. It was a perfect bottleneck, easily defensible when the attack came from only one direction. Unfortunately, treachery ensured that would not be the case. A local peasant who hoped for vast rewards from Xerxes showed him a little used shepherd’s path through the mountains that ran along the ground above the walls. This allowed Xerxes to flank us and gave them the high ground. When our scouts discovered we were being flanked it was too late. Leonidas sent the bulk of the army away to fight another day, but retained a small force to cover their retreat. Legend likes to say that 300 Spartans held that pass for three days, but that is not entirely true. Leonidas also kept 700 Thespians and 400 Thebans. But the Spartans were the last to die.

 During the day Jace and I fought back to back, the ground slick with blood and spilled guts. At night we  tended one another’s wounds and took turns sleeping. We were grimly aware that this was not a battle we’d be walking away from and that last night as exhaustion claimed us we found a last desperate opportunity to affirm what we’d always felt.

 We’d been dirty, bleeding from a half dozen wounds and surrounded by the smell of death.  No fires had been lit that night. Xerxes had stationed archers high above us on top of the mountain pass walls. Firelight only gave them a target. Instead we’d huddled together against a cliff wall, taking cover where we could and sharing a cold meal of the last of our bread and dried meat. Jace had been bleeding from a cut along his hairline and I’d ripped a strip of blanket to bind it.

 “You need to learn to duck faster. That spear nearly took your head off.”

 He’d just wiped the blood out of his eyes and answered, “Does it matter? We’re going to die here one way or the other. Home on our shields for Sparta,” he’d added mockingly.  

 As I tied the cloth in place, our faces close, he reached up and laid a hand on my jaw. I’d frozen, the gesture intimate and unusual. But not unwelcome. No, gods, no, not unwelcome.  The bandage forgotten, my hand had crept around to cup the back of his head and pull his forehead to rest against mine.

 “If the Fates have written this as our destiny, at least we will die together.”

 He’d pulled back a little and raised his dark eyes to mine, his hand falling to my shoulder. “So much I should have said….” His voice faltered… “So much time wasted between us.”

 My eyes never leaving his as my heart threatened to beat out of my chest. “No. Not wasted. We lived and we …” my voice deepening with emotion, “and we loved in our own way. I would have had much more with you, but I was a coward. I let others dictate who I would be with, how I would live. But never who I loved. It was you, always you.”

His lips and mine had melded and in that moment, amid the blood and carnage of war, so did our souls. Too late to build a mortal life with one another, but not too late to claim an eternity together.  But even that was denied to us.

 Dawn broke on the third day and the enemy came. There were only Spartans left to hold the last narrow section of the pass and there were too few even of us, no more than 30. We gathered together as they came, shields raised overhead as arrows rained down on us when their line charged. We were encircled before we could form a line to even hold. And still we were the superior swordsmen, fighting back-to-back in a tight circle, our blades cutting them down as they tried to break us apart. But there were too many and finally our group was maneuvered apart, our backs exposed. I saw it coming. Their line parted and cavalry with spears broke through. And still I only had focus for the one aimed at Jase’s back. The sharp pointed blade caught the sun’s light. I’d shouted “JACE!” as I’d leapt to take the strike but it was not enough.  I felt it enter my chest in a blinding pain, but it was nothing to what I felt when I fell and realized Jace had fallen with me. He’d turned as he heard my warning but he’d been too close. The point had run me through and embedded in his chest as well. His sword clattered to the ground and his arms wrapped around me as we fell. “We go together,” he gasped. I felt myself relax in his grasp as bloody foam began to bubble from my lips and sighed out… “Together…”

And then I was standing, looking down at our bodies entwined on the ground and a tall, dark-haired man in black was standing beside me as another was walking away with Jace. I had lunged to follow him, calling out his name but as Jace had turned back to look at me, the being he was with had grasped his arm simply dissolved them both into black mist.

 “His destiny is not yours,” the being said to me as he took my shoulder. “Be assured that he will be safe with Zav. Olympus awaits you.”

 “NOOOO!!!!” I’d screamed and fought to get out of his hold but suddenly I was frozen in place, his dark eyes locked on mine.

 “You are the grandson of the god Apollo. He has persuaded the Fates that you should ascend to be with him. Your friend Jace’s soul is destined for rebirth.” He’d tilted his head at me, “This is a gift to you that your grandfather has gone to some lengths to obtain.”

 “I don’t want his gift,” I’d spat as I found myself able to speak. “And who are you anyway, to speak of my grandfather?”

 He’d looked at me for a time, ignoring the battle that was raging beside us, but the warriors seemed oblivious to us anyway. I noticed more beings around us, some male, some female, but all clothed in black, all waiting to take souls as they fell.  When he finally spoke, his voice was regretful.

 “My name is Sin. I am a reaper. Death’s First Reaper. It is a mark of respect for your grandfather that I came for you myself. He is a friend.” He’d sighed as he looked at me and continued, “Your soul was intertwined with the soul that was just taken. Apollo would not have known that or I am sure he would have lobbied to keep you together. But I cannot alter your friend’s destiny now. He has his own choices to make, doors to open or close. I can only open another for you. If you refuse Olympus I can offer you an existence as a reaper rather than as a disembodied soul left to walk the Earth. You would bring talents to my corps that would be welcome.  But you would never be able to ascend. Our existence is long and only ended by certain methods. When it ends we go into the Long Sleep.”

 My heart had been breaking while he talked about my options and I’d been about to tell him what he could do with his offer when something he said caused me to pause.

“However, it provides you with the chance that you might meet your soulmate again. You will ferry souls into ascension or to the Elysian Fields to await rebirth, you will walk between the worlds as an emissary of Death, but you will also walk the Earth. The possibility that you can find him in one of his next lives exists. It is the best I can do for you.”

 My mind was a confused muddle over what was happening. I’ve since learned that’s a pretty common side effect of violent death but at the time the only thing that was clear was that I’d have the chance to find Jace again. To be whole again.  If I agreed. Slowly, I’d nodded my head.

 “What do I have to do?”

 He’d smiled and said, “Nothing. I will take you with me and we will teach you what you need to know.”

And as he’d spoken a blinding headache had struck and I’d had a vision. The man I’d seen take Jace away, another with sandy blonde hair and a dark-haired female danced in my head along with the face of the being in front of me and a word echoed in my brain… Destiny.

 The headache had cleared as quickly as it had struck and the being…Sin was it?  He’d smiled a little deeper. “So you bring your gift with you. Yes, you shall definitely be an asset. Come,” he’d relaxed whatever he’d done to me that had kept me from moving in that moment, “We go. Others will finish what needs to be done here.”

 And we had. And I’d been looking for Jace ever since.

The sound of laughing voices jerks me back to this time and place and I silently curse myself for my lapse in alertness.  As Zav and Truly exit the house  I take a quick look around and find the surroundings secure.

 Time to play bodyguard again.

#Renegades #RRPG #BDBAU #DarkAngelsCreation #Reapers #Vampires #Wolfen #Angels

[jamesquinlanmeservy-author]

Cover Reveal For An Echo of the Fae by Janelle Leanne Schmidt

    (The cover art/design was done by the amazing Savannah Jezowski with Dragonpen Designs.)

  Book Blurb:

  Echo enjoys the peace and solitude of the Faeorn forest, regardless of how strange spending time in the “haunted” wood seems to others.

  But on the cusp of her thirteenth birthday, the discovery of a family secret reveals why Echo has never been drawn to the sea like her mother. This discovery shakes the foundations of her world and sends Echo on a quest, not merely into the forest, but into the heart of the fae-lands themselves, to rescue the sister she didn’t know existed.

  Elves, dragons, and fairy courts will put Echo’s wit and resolve to the test. But with time running out for her sister, will Echo even be able to save herself?

  A fairytale adventure perfect for fans of The Secret of Roan Innish and The Girl Who Drank the Moon.

    Endorsements:

“Enthralled by the terror, charm, riddles, and beauty of a richly depicted fae world, I devoured this marvelous book in two sittings! Readers of all ages will love Echo, a heroine strong in her weakness, clever and resolute amid her doubt and fear. An Echo of the Fae is sure to satisfy lovers of adventure and faery!” — J.M. Stengl, author of The Faraway Castle Series

    Author Bio:

  Jenelle first fell in love with stories through her father’s voice reading books aloud each night. A relentless opener-of-doors in hopes of someday finding a passage to Narnia, it was only natural that she soon began making up fantastical realms of her own. Jenelle currently resides in the wintry tundra of Wisconsin—which she maintains is almost as good as Narnia—with her knight-in-shining armor and their four adorable hobbits. When she is not writing, she homeschools said hobbits and helps them along on their daily adventures… which she says makes her a wizard.

Follow Jenelle around the interwebs to get news about latest releases and her writing adventures:

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    Excerpts (if you choose to share an excerpt, please choose just one to share, thank you!):

  My earliest memory returns often in my dreams. My mother’s soft smile caresses me as she bends down to kiss my forehead, my own tiny hand reaching up and trying to capture a lock of her long red-gold hair between clumsy fingers that refuse to obey my wish. A soft, sweet humming fills the memory, a tune that is both dear and yet unfamiliar. Eyes filled with love gaze down at me, and a gentle laugh, a man’s laugh, fills the room. Strong arms encircle us both, my mother and me, and I know I am perfectly safe. Perfectly loved.

Another sound permeates the memory: a rhythmic, rushing, liquid sound I do not recognize, but which fills me with a deep longing that threatens to burst out of my chest and leave me completely hollow. In the dream, it is merely a subtle noise in the background, but when I wake I feel a desperate need to find its source. Sometimes the longing clutches me so tightly that it leaves me gasping, desperately sucking in each breath as if through a narrow reed, my lungs screaming as though they have forgotten how to breathe the very air I need to survive.

It is rare to have a memory from such a tender age, especially one so vivid. And yet, that moment is locked in my thoughts with perfect clarity. During the day it grows distant and faded, but it has haunted my sleep in full, vibrant detail each night for nearly thirteen years.

So why is it that the face in my dreams is wholly unfamiliar to me? Why is the mother from my memory a stranger?

***

Echo sat on a salt-smoothed boulder, her knees pulled up to her chin, watching the other village children playing along the beach. Some of them traversed the shore collecting shells in wicker baskets. The braver ones waded out into the water, splashing and swimming in the gently rolling waves. A shudder coursed through her. Even if it were not early spring and the waters were warmer, nothing would induce her to go any closer to that surging surf and those unfathomable depths. Who knew what untold terrors the placidly sparkling surface concealed?

A cluster of girls stood in the wet sand where the waves lapped about their ankles, baskets swinging from their arms, the foaming water swirling at their feet. She imagined ghostly, watery hands reaching out to capture them, pulling them beneath the surface, deeper and deeper until all memory of light and warmth was long forgotten.

***

    She lay still, listening. All was quiet in the house below. Or was it? A voice filtered through the hammering rain—Dadai’s deep rumble, and then Mamai’s treble answered, though Echo could not make out the words. Another rumble of thunder, and beneath its rolling bass, she could just pick out the higher-pitched creak of the front door opening.

Quietly, so as not to alert her parents, Echo crept out of her bed, dragging her quilt with her, and tiptoed to her window that looked out over the front of the house. Before the open front door, she could make out a faint rectangle of light on the ground below. Gusts of wind buffeted the cozy house, and she squinted into the pelting rain to see who might be going out. Then the hinges creaked again and the light disappeared, plunging the outdoors into darkness once more.

Through the driving rain, a hint of movement drew her attention to a shadowy figure crossing the yard. Echo strained her eyes, but she could not make it out. Then, a flash of lightning, another, and another, lit the sky in quick succession. Echo caught her breath. Walking through the storm, hair long and flowing unbound around her in the tempest, her skirts fluttering in the wind, Mamai walked heedlessly into the rain toward the tip of the peninsula. Echo stared out the window, willing another lightning bolt to scatter the darkness. When it came, she saw her mother descending the rocky stairs that led to the beach. Her head soon disappeared below the cliffside, out of Echo’s view.

Her head spun as she leaned her elbows on the windowsill. Where had Mamai gone? Why could she possibly need to be out in such a storm? No houses lay that way, so it couldn’t be a sick neighbor. The docks were on the other side of the peninsula, and anyway, if there were a problem there, it would have been her father who attended to it. The mystery of it lay heavy on her thoughts as she awaited her mother’s return.

But she did not return.

Echo’s eyelids grew heavy. She struggled to keep them open, propping herself up in an uncomfortable position in an attempt to stay awake, but eventually she succumbed to the insistent embrace of sleep.

***

  Do the fae read books? Echo wondered suddenly, and voiced the question before she had time to consider whether or not it might be rude.

“We don’t read about life; we live,” Malilia replied. “And we learn, not from reading, but from living.”

“That’s beautiful,” Echo said. “And yet… hollow.”

Malilia arched an eyebrow. “Hollow? What is in your books that is so wonderful?”

“Everything!” Echo enthused, warming to the topic. “Why, in books you can be anyone, go anywhere. There’s a freedom to reading unlike anything else. When you read, it makes you think differently about the world and your own life, and sometimes it helps you understand what’s going on around you by showing you a different perspective. And… well… there’s beauty to be discovered in books, more real and more true because it’s only limited by your own imagination. And besides, it’s…. it’s just… fun!”

Malilia grew thoughtful. “This is something you care about.”

“Yes.” Echo felt a little embarrassed. She did not usually speak so forcefully. “I like reading.”

“I can tell.” Malilia’s eyes twinkled with amusement.

***

  “You dare steal from the King of the Winter Court?” The voice reverberated through the air, its sheer, palpable power pushing Echo to her knees. The lantern dropped from her nerveless hand and clattered on the ground.

Echo bowed her head respectfully, racking her memory for every snatch of folk-tale she had ever heard about the Winter Fae or the Dark Host. “Forgive me, my lord,” she whispered. “I did not intend to steal from you. I merely seek to save the life of my sister.”

She heard soft footfalls approach across the sable ground but she did not dare raise her eyes, not even when she felt the touch of hot breath on the back of her head.

“You smell of truth.” The voice sounded puzzled. “Rise, seeker.”

Echo stood, wincing at the pain in her feet. But that thought fled with the rest as she came face to face with the largest tiger she had ever seen.

Upon reflection, it was the only tiger she had ever seen. But she was reasonably certain that, should she ever see another, it would be quite different from the monstrous beast that confronted her now.

Her eyes were even with his shoulders, and he stared down at her from his impressive height, his long whiskers twitching inches above her face. His fur was utterly black, the color of coal. Instead of stripes, Ritioghra’s—for it could only be Ritioghra—body was covered in swirls and whorls of gleaming blue, the same color as the Everflame. His eyes gleamed like two massive stars of an identical shade, and he gazed down at her with an expression of ferocious curiosity. He was utterly terrifying and utterly beautiful.

Terror coursed through her veins like ice, but the light of intelligence in his eyes gave her courage. “For-forgive me, my lord.” Echo gave a wobbly curtsy.

The tiger stretched with a lazy nonchalance. Every line of his long body rippled with power and strength, like the unstoppable force of a river about to burst its banks.

  Cover Reveal For An Echo of the Fae by Janelle Leanne Schmidt Cover Reveal For An Echo of the Fae by Janelle Leanne Schmidt (The cover art/design was done by the amazing Savannah Jezowski with Dragonpen Designs.)

[letterfromtrenwith]

A New Day

A George/Elizabeth fic with some background Drake/Morwenna.

This (and likely all of my fics from now on) ignores series 3 for what are probably obvious reasons.

This is basically just a lot of fluff because I want my favourite characters to be happy and this is the only way to make that happen! :D

“Oh, little one, will you not rest a while longer?” A repeat of the kick which had awoken her was all the answer she needed, and Elizabeth sighed as her eyelids fluttered open against the bright morning light. She could see from the sun’s height that she had in fact slept quite late, although it felt as though she had barely closed her eyes. George was not beside her, unsurprisingly; it was far past the hour when even she could persuade him to remain abed with her. Settling one hand on her rounded stomach, she sat up rather awkwardly, setting off another flutter of movement.

“Is there nothing mama does to which you do not object?” Despite her gentle admonishment, Elizabeth smiled widely at the firm push against her palm. Finally finding a comfortable position, she sat quietly for a few moments, feeling her child shift inside her, until there came a gentle tap upon the door.

“Mistress? I have your breakfast.”

“Come in.” The maid bustled in and, efficient as ever, helped Elizabeth to sit up properly, propping the pillows behind her, before arranging the tray comfortably within her reach. “Thank you.”

“Is there anything else, ma’am?”

“No, thank you, Dot…” and then she realised that it had been very quiet since she awoke – unusually quiet. “Where is Valentine?”

“Master took ‘im downstairs, ma’ am. ‘Ee were ‘igh-spirited this morning, and Mr Warleggan said you were not to be disturbed.” Elizabeth smiled, touched by her husband’s consideration for her, and amused by the thought of what Dot might be modestly describing as “high-spirited”.  A little over two years old, Valentine was an energetic, mischievous boy who ran the servants ragged, and sometimes his parents, although he was just a touch more inclined to behave properly for his mother and father.

“I see. Well, that will be all, thank you.”

“I’ll be back for t’tray, ma’am, and t’help dress you if you please.” With a bob, Dot departed and Elizabeth turned to her breakfast, thinking again how delighted she was that the usual nausea had passed. At her first bite of bread and butter, a little hand or foot poked her in the stomach.

~

“Now, you must keep still or Papa will drop all of his papers…which you would no doubt find highly amusing.”

“Yes!”

“Yes? Well, at least you admit you are a holy terror.” The obvious amusement and affection George’s voice undercut the words, and Valentine was clearly not at all chastened, judging by his delighted giggling.

“Now, what trouble are you making for your Papa?”

“He is most intent on interrupting me at my work, as usual.” George turned to smile up at her tenderly, eyes lingering as they always did on her stomach as he looked her over. Valentine sat on his lap, little hands attempting to grasp at the sheaf of paper in his right hand. In his other hand, George held a pencil, and on the table next to him were an empty teacup and saucer. Elizabeth rather wished she had been there to see him attempt to balance all of them together. Steadying herself on the back of the chair, she bent to press a kiss to Valentine’s soft, dark curls, and another to the fine arch of his father’s cheekbone. George’s eyes widened slightly at this gesture and she wondered that after so long he could still be surprised by her affections.

“Mama!” Valentine greeted her happily, but seemed content to remain with his father and did not demand to be lifted up, which admittedly was somewhat awkward to do in her condition.

“Good morning, my love.” She lowered herself into her chair, George’s eyes following her with concern. His careful attentions to her were often unnecessary but touched her all the same.

“Did you manage to sleep, my dear?”

“Some. You should not have let me lie abed so late.”

“You need your rest, and you had very little during the night.”

“As did you.” She knew her restless shifting had disturbed him also. Before George could reply – doubtless to try to put her off any concern for his wellbeing, as usual – Valentine made a sudden snatch for the pencil in his hand and a brief tugging match ensued.

“No. You may not have it.”

“Want.”

“No.”

“…Please?” Valentine had recently learned the power of this word, especially when combined with a pleading look. Elizabeth, somewhat to her frustration, was near helpless in the face of it, and rather envied George’s ability to stand firm.

“No. Come, see what you have here.” Putting aside his paperwork, George lifted the boy onto the floor, where Elizabeth now noticed his favoured wooden blocks were scattered across the rug. The two of them had apparently been up and about for quite a while without her. Remembering his toys, Valentine instantly forgot all about the pencil and seized them happily. They watched him in companionable silence for a while, until Elizabeth started a little at another kick.

“My dear?”

“Oh, it is nothing. Our daughter is restless, it seems.” George smiled at her affectionately.

“You are quite insistent that it is a girl.”

“I cannot explain it, but I feel so sure.” From the moment Elizabeth had realised she was with child again, she had been convinced that she was to have a daughter. Perhaps it was simply an unconscious desire on her own part after two sons, but she believed it was more than that. “But if I am wrong, you are welcome to say ‘I told you so’.”

“I may hold you to that.” Elizabeth laughed, but she knew he would never say any such thing, no matter how little she would mind it. He reached out a hand to reclaim his papers from the table, but she seized it first, bringing it to rest over her stomach. Nothing happened for a moment. “It appears – oh.”

“There she is.” The baby kicked again against George’s hand and Elizabeth watched the play of emotions across his face – tenderness, awe, joy. They mirrored her own. This child meant a great deal to both of them for many reasons.

George’s discovery of Valentine’s questionable parentage had almost torn them asunder and broken both their hearts forever. The awful period afterwards, when George had returned to Cardew and refused to see her, had been the most miserable and wretched of Elizabeth’s life. Desperate and overwrought, she had written him a tear-stained letter, begging him to allow her to explain and declaring her love for him in far balder terms than she had ever used before. She had half-expected that he would burn it unopened and she would never see him again, but he had returned, and promised that he would hear whatever she had to say. After it had all poured out of her, he had sat silently for quite some time, before asking her a question she could never have expected:

“Do you remember the night that we met?” Despite her surprise, she had a ready answer.

“Of course. It was here, at one of Charles’ parties. Francis had brought you home from school. We danced together.” He had looked a little surprised at her recollection, but nodded.

“Ruth Teague asked you why you would dance with a boy in such a shabby coat, and you told her that you had not noticed.”

“I did not realised you had overheard that.” Although she had not thought about it in years, she remembered it well. She had barely glanced at his coat, far more intrigued by the slightly shy boy behind the stiff bearing and overt politeness. Over the years, his coats had become finer, and his manner more distant, but the boy she had danced with that night had remained. Seen only by her.  

“I did.” He had turned to her then, taking her hand, the first touch they had shared in weeks.  “Money. Power. Position. I have let them occupy me for years but…but there has only ever been one thing which has truly mattered. All that this time away from you has shown me – even before I read your letter – is that nothing can diminish my love for you.”

He had paused again for a long moment. Although her heart had leapt at his words, she could not speak, could hardly breathe.

“We cannot change the past, Elizabeth, but the future belongs to us alone. We will not suffer for another man’s crime….and nor will our son.”

“Oh, George.” Overcome, she had thrown her arms around him, clinging to him as if she would never let go, hot tears soaking into his coat. His own hold on her had been just as tight.

A few months later, Elizabeth had discovered that they were to have another child, and their happiness had been indescribable. It seemed to them both as if it were a sign of the new beginning of their lives together.

“Oh!” George’s exclamation broke her out of her reverie. “I had almost forgotten, my dear. There are two letters for you.”

She broke the seal on the first, recognising her eldest son’s handwriting. Geoffrey Charles had gone away to school a few months previously and, as much as she knew it was all to the good that he receive a proper education, she still missed him terribly. His letters were a great source of comfort and amusement – he had inherited his father’s sense of humour, and acquired his stepfather’s talent for observation; his caricatures of his teachers and recounting of his fellow pupils’ antics were most entertaining. George looked over at her as she chuckled at one particular anecdote.

“The sheep in the master’s study? I received the same story in my letter…as well as what I am sure he thought was a very artfully disguised hint that he requires more money. Quite what a boy his age does with it I cannot imagine.”

“I hope he is not picking up bad habits. I recall some of Francis’ stories about his schooldays…”

“Geoffrey Charles is a sensible boy, my dear, do not worry.”

“He is most eager for news of his new sibling…It is a shame he will not be here to greet her.”

“Something for him to look forward to.”

“Yes.” She moved onto the second letter, a shorter missive from her sister-in-law. “Oh, Verity is insistent that she will come for my lying in. I told her there was no need – Morwenna is coming – but she will not have it. Her own time will be approaching by then. She should not exert herself so. She says she is bringing Esther as well. So you are to have a house full of females.”

“I am sure I will bear it somehow.” Likely by retreating into his study and staying there for the duration, for which she frankly could not fault him. Elizabeth loved both Verity and Morwenna dearly, and knew she would welcome their support when the time came, but she also knew their fussing would be unbearable, especially as Verity was herself again expectant. It would likely be only a matter of time for Morwenna, too. In fact, Elizabeth was quite surprised it had not yet happened. It was almost a year since her young cousin had eloped with Drake Carne to escape the marriage her mother had arranged for her.

At first, Elizabeth had been rather disappointed in her, and George angry, especially considering certain members of her new husband’s family, and the scurrilous gossip the marriage had engendered. However, eventually George had calmed down and Elizabeth had been unable to deny her sympathy for Morwenna’s situation. Geoffrey Charles’ love for his former governess had also persuaded his parents to accept her back into their home and family. She was now a regular visitor to Trenwith, and had eagerly volunteered to accompany Elizabeth for her confinement.

“Mama! Papa! Look!” Valentine sat proudly in front of an impressively neat pyramid of blocks.

“Oh, what is this? What a fine creation! Is my boy to be a great architect, hmm?” Valentine beamed at his father’s praise, despite having no idea what an architect was, nor likely a creation. The visible pride on George’s face touched Elizabeth deeply. He had accepted Valentine as his own, but she had sometimes worried that their relationship had been undermined. However, George’s love for his son was as palpable as his love for her, and it only increased her own for him. As she watched them together, the baby kicked her again and she rubbed a hand over her stomach.

Soon, my darling. I cannot wait for you to join us.

[looselucy]

Christmas Eve

23 Harry was already up and dressing himself by the time my eyes opened to Christmas Eve. Regardless of the fact I had woken in the middle of the night when I’d heard his gentle whimpers, it felt like I’d had a pretty solid sleep. Waking felt natural, welcomed and easy. I watched as Harry buttoned up an extravagant, oversized blue shirt, flowers woven into the material, climbing up towards the top as though his head was the sun.

He watched me as I came around, stretching across the sheets and welcoming the day with a smile, because for some reason I felt good. I figured Christmas really was rubbing off on me, and the thought of being in the pub that evening, surrounded by old family friends, drinking mulled wine and Baileys, sent a warm trickle of glee across my body. “What time is it?” I groaned. “Eleven.” Harry replied. “Morning.” “Morning.” I rubbed the back of my hand over my eyes as I sat upright. “How long have you been awake?” “Not long.” He smiled. “Did you get back to sleep okay?” “Um, it took me a while, but eventually, yeah.” I watched him as he moved and sat at the foot of the bed, smiling to me as he did. I noticed quickly that Harry wasn’t quite as good at hiding how tired he was when he’d first woke up. His movements were slower, his smile weaker, his voice lower. I knew we were going to have to talk about what had happened at some point, but I really didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. I knew he would have felt bad enough already, and I really didn’t want to make it worse. But we couldn’t just not say anything. I knew that would be the one thing that was worse. He lifted his head and looked to me, like he was waiting for me to start the dreaded conversation. I tucked my knees up to my chest, the sheets still dense over me, my fingers trembling and twitching as I looked to him. I just didn’t know what to say. I hated myself for it, but I really didn’t know what to say. “So, you wanna head into town today?” I asked him. “I do. I want you to show me which street corners you used to get drunk on.” “What makes you think I used to get drunk on street corners?” I blushed. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.” He shrugged. “I think it’s a part of our culture.” I was glad he had brushed past those awkward feelings so swiftly, because the last thing I wanted was for Harry to think that I was excessively uncomfortable with what had happened the evening before. Of course it was strange, and scary, but I didn’t want him to think it had affected me deeply. I didn’t want him to feel any more uncomfortable with the arrangement than he already did. “I’ll take you to the spot.” I chuckled. “I knew it.” He grinned. “What was your drink of choice?” “Whatever nasty cider I could get my hands on.” I giggled. “I was more of a vodka boy.” He winked. “I’ll take you to my spot when we’re at mine.” But that’s when I thought, I needed to prove it to him. I needed to prove that I wasn’t put off, or scared, or hesitant. The instinct that had kicked into me the previous night, the one that made me feel like I needed to protect him, to keep him safe, returned. I needed him to know where I stood. “Harry?” I swallowed hard, still not entirely sure what I wanted to say. “Hm?” “If you ever… want to talk about your dreams… or anything. I… I just need you to know I’m here for you. If you want to talk, I’ll listen.” He smiled, soft and accepted, like he knew exactly what I was going to say; like he already knew that I was willing to do that for him. He already knew I was an option. “You were amazing last night.” He nodded, voice quiet. “You made me feel… safe. You made me feel the opposite of how I thought I would feel, having someone there with me. I’d like to speak to you, about my dreams. If you’re willing to listen.” Relief flushed over my body in the colour red, bursting over my skin just so he could see it, see I wasn’t lying to him, to see I was honoured to possess his trust. “I am.” I nodded, trying to be confident. “I hope I can help.” Harry often spoke casually about his dreams, and I’d always figured that was because he wanted as many different points of views as possible, any kind of contribution to help him. But he’d never really delved into his dreams in the way I knew he was now ready to, to open up about every detail, to just sit and talk about them, to be painfully honest. “I hope so too.” He cooed. 24 Myself and Harry stood staring at the bench which was surrounded by tall bushes, winter having revealed their pale branches, frost sinking into the cracks of the wood on the seat. “So this was your drinking spot?” He flummoxed. “Yup.” “It’s a classic, I’d say.” He said, glancing around. “Middle of the park. Shielded by the bushes and stuff. Very nice.” “It served us very well.” I shrugged. “I threw up a lot round here.” “I can imagine.” He chuckled. He moved towards the bench, which was covered in pathetic graffiti attempts, his hands buried into his pockets, because his fingerless gloves obviously weren’t fully doing their job of keeping him warm. He sat himself down, covering the ‘Ren luvz Ryan’ scribbling I had engraved into the wood at the tender age of fourteen, and looked around the area, a fond smile on his lips as he soaked up the atmosphere. It felt weird welcoming him into my history. Whilst getting to know each other, we’d covered very basic things, and I’d bored him with mundane facts about my past. School, family, where I grew up. The fundamentals. But it felt odd to actually see him sat amongst things that really created the girl ahead of him. With Harry sat in the centre of those bushes, it was like I was allowing him, this boy I had agreed to have in my life so temporarily, to discover who I really was. It wasn’t just shallow, ordinary shit. He was welcoming himself, and finding interest, in things that truly meant something to me. I couldn’t fully comprehend how I felt about it. Because having him see those kinds of things, made me realise that cutting ties with him in January, wouldn’t be as easy. He was cementing himself into my life, without meaning to. Maybe it was nice at the time. Maybe I loved to see him there, adding him into scenes I knew too well, adding him to memories whilst forging new ones with him. Maybe. Yet, it still felt unwise. “We should have brought some beers.” I noted. His smile was infectious, large, teeming with delight, and to look at him, you’d think the boy had never experienced any kind of trouble in his life. Harry thought that to be true, and that’s why the dreams confused him so much. But the dreams were real. I’d heard the screams and I’d seen the terror. The way his lips shaped would never suggest such distress. “Will you sit with me?” He asked. I moved and sat beside him, our shoulders touching as we stared ahead of ourselves, but the closeness felt necessary. The cold of December was stinging at our skin, and any kind of warmth was welcomed. “It’s freezing.” I pointed out the obvious. “You wanna go get a coffee or something?” “Coffee or tea?” He asked me, his tone solemn, like he was shocked he hadn’t already quizzed me on this very serious subject. “Coffee.” I cringed, because I somehow knew he wouldn’t be impressed. “I’m breaking up with you.” He grinned. I laughed heartily, covering my mouth with the back of my hand, the smoke that erupted from my mouth thanks to the cold circling around my skin. He watched me as I giggled, a cute little smile on his face. “I knew you’d be disappointed.” “A coffee is a temporary solution, but the magic that tea works is temporary. You can’t say I’m wrong.” He scalded. “I won’t say you’re wrong. I know I should prefer tea but… I just can’t.” “I knew we were going to have a short relationship, but I didn’t think it would be this short.” “I’ll have tea today. Just to keep you happy.” “Maybe I won’t break up with you quite yet.” He shrugged. “I like that you’re willing to compromise. That’s what makes a good relationship.” The way we poked fun at our situation truly made it a hell of a lot easier. The way we joked about it made it so we could take a step back, see it for what it was, not get too lost in it or too freaked out by it. Because another thing that was lethal about getting to know Harry, was that I was starting to see him as a friend. I didn’t want us to lose sight of what we were really doing. It was good that we were getting along, it was good that we were friends, but I had to remember that I needed to act a certain way with him. We needed to convince people we were a couple, not friends. “Wanna go get some tea then?” I smiled. “I want to talk to you, now. Before I lose my gut.” “Oh. Okay.” I turned his way just a little more. “I’m all ears.” “A strange mental imagine.” He joked. “You’re already avoiding it.” I chuckled. “Shit. I am. Fuck. It’s just… I’ve never spoke to anyone other than Dr Jackson, about this. Not in the kind of detail I want to go into, anyway.” I didn’t know why it was me he was choosing to open up to, but I wasn’t about to question it. I kind of felt honoured, in a weird way. “Do you want me to… give opinions? Or just listen?” “If you have any kind of thought, throw it my way.” He nodded. “Anything at all.” “Okay.” He paused, the smoke emitting from his mouth was coming out quicker, and he was panicking. I nudged even closer to him, giving him the softest smile I physically could, hoping to encourage some kind of calm. He closed his eyes, inhaled my vibes, and shot them open again before he finally spoke. “It’s like the there’s a blue hue to the room. Not… not like it’s painted blue. More like… the lights are blue.” “You can’t paint the walls.” I whispered, referring back to what I’d first said to him about his dreams. “No, I can’t. So, it’s like I’m stood in there, completely still. On the wall ahead of me is a door, and above the door there’s a red light. Some nights it flashes, some nights it doesn’t.” I was engrossed, automatically. It was like I was a child, captured and captivated by a fairy-tale. My eyes were wide and twinkling the entire time he spoke. It wasn’t just down to the fact that what he was talking about was fascinating and intriguing to me, but it was him. It was Harry. He was entrancing, his voice and his mannerisms and the fact his vulnerability was shining through. I found I wanted to hear every story he had to tell. “The walls are tiled. On the left hand side, the tiles are faultless. Clean, perfectly aligned, seemingly white but the blue lights make them look kind of blue. But on the right hand side, some of the tiles are cracked. They don’t… look as clean. They’re shattered and wonky and… sharp. Everything in there is very still. There’s a dull noise that kind of rings there. Like a hum. Like… vibrations just echoing through it. It’s only small in there.” When he’d first started talking, his eyes were mainly fixed on the floor around his feet, but as he’d gotten more comfortable he stared at me. He looked deep into my eyes, barely blinking. I stared right back. “Being in there makes me feel… trapped.” He continued. “I feel lost. Vulnerable. Like… I’m waiting for something bad to happen. They started when I was twenty. Nothing altered in my life at all, they just came from nowhere. At first they weren’t as common, and a part of me thinks that maybe they would have stayed that way if I hadn’t… let them get to me. I feel like it’s my fault.” “Well you’re wrong.” I scalded. “Anyone going through what you do would be scared and affected by it. Even if they were still rare, they would need fixing. It doesn’t make you at fault!” “But what if I am?” He gasped, trying to force back the tears in his eyes. “What if this is something to do with me? Something I did that I can’t remember? Something when I was young? Something… Something when I was drunk? We don’t know that it’s not my fault!” I could tell from the way his voice was breaking, how alarmed and scared he seemed, that he hadn’t voiced these thoughts before. Not even to Dr Jackson. Due to his lack of answers, the fact that the dreams were his and his alone, it was almost like Harry had begun to hate himself for it. He had no one else to blame, and of course after a while he was going to start blaming himself. It was just so painful to hear. It was excruciating seeing the uncertainty creasing his features, the tears swill his eyes and every single layer of doubt becoming a layer of skin. I hated it. I truly, truly hated it. "It’s not you!” I fired at him, like I had any clue. “I’m almost convinced there isn’t a bad bone in your body. There is no way you could have done something that would make you deserve this. I promise. I promise you!” “You can’t make that promise.” His voice started to break. “I can. I will.” I was trying to be firm with him again, but it came so easily because I absolutely believed my words. I wasn’t just saying it to comfort him. I really believed that I was telling the truth. It just had to be something else, because his purity was palpable. I had to predict that something had happened to him. It was the only thing that made sense. I hated the guilt that was racking him even though he had no idea what he even had to feel guilty about. “I’m scared I did something.” He let a tear fall, innocent, permitted. “Tell me how you feel. Not right now. Not after years of thinking about it. Tell me how you feel in your heart. Deep down, do you think it’s something you did?” His eyes held mine, his tears stopping rather quickly, his breathing calming as he truly took in what I was asking him to think about. He really needed to stop beating himself up and just see the situation how it was, no matter how difficult. “No.” He eventually replied. “I don’t.” “Then why are you torturing yourself with those thoughts?” “I don’t know.” “Then stop!” He nodded, swallowing hard. It must have been really difficult for him, being so honest, and maybe it was hard to hear me being so honest back to him, but it was what he needed, and I loathed that he had waited so long to do it. “Okay. I should. You’re right, I should.” He shuddered, seeming to calm a little. He couldn’t possibly have been helping himself with those thoughts, and I hoped maybe even that alone, that miniature revelation, would be a step forward. It didn’t need to be a big one, but any kind of step in the right direction was a good one. “I do have something to say, about the dreams.” I breathed. “Okay?” He had calmed down an incredible amount, and I was happy. “You remember last month? When you told me you had that one dream where you kind of… saw yourself? Or some kind of version of yourself?” “Yeah?” “What side of the room were you on?” “What?” His brows crumpled. “What side of the room did you see yourself on?” He directed his eyes to the floor again, obviously trying to recall the dream, though I can’t imagine it was easy. It was difficult enough to remember dreams in a normal situation, but I imagined it was even harder when he had the same exact dream every single night. I imagined those slight changes and differences were often overlooked when you just expected the same thing over and over. That must have been why Dr Jackson asked him to start writing things down, just so he could be sure. I saw it dawn on him, the moment he realised where he was. “I was on the right.” He spoke quietly. “Next to the broken tiles. I was on the broken side.” “That has to mean something.” “I never even thought about it.” He baffled, eyes darting everywhere. “I didn’t… I didn’t even think that would matter but… Shit. Fuck. Of course that matters. Fuck.” “So… maybe it’s something to do with… feeling broken? I mean, maybe you knew that anyway, because of the dreams. But maybe that solidifies it? I don’t know.” “It’s definitely something to think about. I’ll mention it to Dr Jackson too, see what she thinks.” I think we were both more than aware that we weren’t going to figure out the entire meaning behind his dreams that day, but all we wanted was something. Some kind of hint, something that maybe he hadn’t noticed before. He had that. I could see how much he appreciated it too, the look on his face, the delicate curve of his pink lips, how rapidly he had calmed as soon as I gave my opinions. He gently nudged his knee against mine, silently thanking me. I hadn’t done much, but I had done something. That was enough. I shrugged and put the eyes in the back of my head, giving him a tender smile as I did. He chuckled before he spoke. “Meeting you has been interesting. Right from the start.” “I hope that’s a good thing.” I flustered. “Of course it’s a good thing.” He nudged my knee once more. “It’s a really good thing.” We sat in silence for a while, and a part of me just wanted to lay my head on his shoulder, just for a second. We were near enough so I could, but for some reason, I decided against it. Me and Harry were getting along wonderfully, and it was nice to feel so close to him, but I also didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. I didn’t know what our friendship was. We were something, but it was something I couldn’t fully figure out. “I like you a lot, Harry.” I told him, voice timid. I didn’t know what we really were to one another. But I did like him. I really did. His head turned to me, shooting me a questioning gaze, but smiling. “You’re alright.” He smirked. 25 The look of relief that privileged Harry’s features as soon as he raised the wine glass to his lips, was surprisingly pleasant to behold. I got to witness how his entire frame relaxed. I could literally see his excitement over the thought of an easy night’s sleep. I smiled as I watched him. “Florence, did you even bother to brush your hair?” My mother groaned as my father passed his money over the bar to pay for the round of drinks. “No, mother. I thought I’d leave it be just to piss you off.” I smirked. “You could be pretty if you tried.” She told me. “I could also care, but… I just don’t.” I made a normal amount of effort when it came to my appearance, nothing too spectacular, nothing subpar, so it genuinely didn’t bother me what she was saying. I knew my mother would only be happy if I turned up at her house wearing some kind of ridiculous blouse, probably with a cat jumper over the top, a skirt down to the knees and my hair scraped back into a bun, minimal makeup on but somehow having flawless skin. My mother had an ideal, one I was happy not to be living up to. “I’d like to propose a toast.” My father interrupted our bickering before it got out of hand. “To Harry.” “Me?” Harry gawped, wine glass resting against his bottom lip. “For spending your Christmas with us,” He confirmed. “And for being our daughters leading man.” I tried not to let out a disgruntled giggle and argue the point that I did not need a leading man, I was my own lead, but then I remembered why we were there. What my parents wanted and expected from me. So instead of arguing, I smiled, very fake and very large. “Thank you for having me.” Harry smiled as we all raised our glasses. “To me!” “To Harry!” We chimed. Our glasses clunked together before we all took large swigs, chattering and happiness bursting the scene around us. It was nice, how content I felt in that moment. The pub was always absolutely packed on Christmas Eve, but it never felt frustrating or tedious. No matter how many shoulders bashed against mine, no matter how many raised voices reigned over my own, it always felt really lovely to be lost in the crowd. It also felt lovely to just be with my family in there and act as though everything between us was normal and lovely. I wanted everything to be normal and lovely, so in those rare moments where it was, I relished in it, wished it was feeling that could overcome me more often. “Theodore darling, Greg and Lorna are over there.” My mother pointed. “We better go say hello.” My father tried not to groan. The two of them scurried off together through the mass, my mother looking extremely happy and my dad looking as though he was on verge of falling asleep before they’d even reached the boring couple they were approaching. I looked back up to Harry, who was scanning the room, keeping the glass close to his lips constantly, always ready to take a quick swig. “I think they like you.” I clucked. “Good! And you think that will make them like you more, right?” “Um, I guess.” I shrugged. “Or at least think I’m making some progress. The main thing I want is to stop going to therapy.” “I’m not entirely sure that’s true.” He spoke, completely nonchalant, still looking around. “Huh?” “I think the main thing you want is to have a better relationship with your parents.” He took another sip. “I think that’s your real aim, but I’m not sure you’ll admit it.” I glanced at him over the rim of my pint glass as I took a steady sip. I wanted both things, which was clear, and I knew that. I just didn’t know which one I wanted most. I didn’t say anything else about it, I just moved so I was next to him, squished together with our backs against the bar as we looked out to the room. The pub we were in was extremely quant, which only seemed to amplify the busyness. The ceilings were low, ivy and tinsel wrapped around the wooden beams that held the building together, the whole room had a golden glow. It was the kind of atmosphere where it’s hard to be unhappy, really. I caught sight of a girl during my look around the room, and noticed the way she was staring at Harry. Her eyes may as well have burst into heart shapes, she was that obvious. I nudged his arm, somehow hoping his head would turn to her, but it turned to me. “What?” “That girls checking you out.” “What? Who?” “Eleven o’clock.” “It’s nine o’clock!” He told me. “Holy shit, what kind of lad doesn’t know the clock system?” I grated. “You work in a bloody bar! You should be extremely familiar with the clock system.” “I know how to tell time!” He argued. “JESUS! LOOK THAT WAY! There is a girl who has her eye on you!” I tried to slyly point in the correct direction, and he finally caught on, scoping the room briefly before he spotted exactly who I was talking about, because she wasn’t hard to miss. She didn’t even drop her head when he finally caught her eye, she merely smiled at him. “Oh.” Harry gasped once he’d seen her smile. “You should go talk to her!” I chirped. “Ren?” “Yeah?” “You remember the reason I’m here, right?” I furrowed my brows for a second, because I literally didn’t have a clue what he was talking about at first. I remembered pretty quickly. “Oh shit!” I gawped. “You can’t go over there! You’re my boyfriend!” “You really are ditzy.” He chuckled, nudging my arm. “So this is bad.” “Well, I wouldn’t say it’s bad! She’s really pretty.” “Yeah, but we’re obviously not giving off couple-vibes.” He lowered his voice. “She’s very blatantly trying to flirt with me. We’re not acting like a couple. We’re acting like friends.” I turned and looked up to him with wide eyes, alarmed by what he had just said. We shouldn’t have been acting like we were friends. We shouldn’t have been stood there looking so complacent to one another that a girl felt no need whatsoever to hide her goggling. It had just been so nice being there for him, and being a friend to him, that it was very easy to forget the real reason behind the fact we were acquaintances. Without another word, he moved towards me, snaking his hand round my face so it was pressed against my cheek furthest from him, and then moved his lips, planting them fiercely against my temple. I fluttered my eyelashes shut as he positioned himself so he was stood ahead of me, his back to the girl, his hands now either side of my body after he’d placed his wine glass down, pushing against the bar so his whole body could lean my way. I looked up to him, my smile growing naturally. “See when I kind of corner you like this?” He smirked. “Mm?” “It’s like you’re mine.” His low voice called. “It’s like I’m sheltering you from everything and everyone else here.” He nudged even closer to me still, and I could feel his breath fluttering amongst the loose strands of my hair. It genuinely felt like I was his. “You’re good at this.” I spoke as quietly as I could without being inaudible. “We need to start with this subliminal stuff.” He moved one hand, and started messing with my hair between his fingertips. “Not just the kisses, not just our words. We need to hold ourselves like we constantly want to be in contact.” “I just forget.” I smiled, wiping some wine from his bottom lip. “I’ve enjoyed getting to know you so much. It just feels like you’re my friend.” “I am.” He nodded, licking over the lip I had just touched. “But I’m a friend with a purpose, and I don’t do anything by halves.” “You’re a friend with a purpose right now, but what about in January?” “What about it?” His brows ticked to the centre for a second. “I know the plan was to cut ties but… I’m not sure I want to.” I had told Harry he was probably the nicest person I’d ever met, and I had meant it. Why would that be something I wanted to dispose of? Why would I want someone like that out of my life? There was a gorgeous warmth to him, getting to know him felt like a pleasure, not a chore, not something that we needed to do. Just because our situation was complicated then, didn’t mean it had to ruin something that was fast turning into a friendship. A weird friendship, but a friendship nonetheless. “Then we won’t.” He said confidently. “We’ll stay friends. This is a great story behind how we met, too. We’re gunna get some laughs when we tell people about this.” “We can’t tell people about this!” I laughed, tugging on the bottom of his shirt. “I’ll probably blurt it out when we’re drunk one day.” “I thought I could trust you!” I gasped sarcastically. “You can’t.” He picked up his wine again as I giggled, looking back over his shoulder to see that the girl was watching us, seemingly a little confused, focusing on his every movement as he swiftly finished wine. “She’s still watching you.” I told him as he placed the glass back down. “Only one thing to do then!” He closed the already miniature gap between us, pressing the front of his body against my own as he placed his hand at the side of my neck, and lowered his lips to mine. I could barely comprehend how tender his touch was, how it almost felt like I had to breathe him in. It didn’t feel real. Every part of his body that was in contact with my own felt so fiery and delicate, I couldn’t even imagine what it was like to have him kiss me properly. He must have been an expert, because this fake kiss, this kiss that was for show, was one of the most coaxing kisses I’d ever had. It was lingered and lovely, and I honestly just wanted to keep his lips pressed against mine for the rest of the evening. He didn’t even need to deepen it. I was so hooked on the feel of his kiss, the slight taste of wine, how cold and smooth his lips were. I’d lost myself in him, just for a moment. Things snapped back to normal as soon as he pulled away. “Is she still looking?” His face remained hovered close to mine. I looked over his shoulder, to see she had seized her attempts, and was chatting away with a woman beside her. “No.” “I guess we look like a couple then.” He grinned. “I guess we do.” “Now hurry up!” He gestured towards my pint. “I’m buying the next round, and those dainty little hands will not be able to hold up two pints.” “My dainty little hands can hold many things, thank you!” I cried. “I’ll fuckin’ show you! Buy me another pint!” “Say please.” He teased. “I need to prove my hands are good! Buy me a pint now, Curls!” I took a step to the side so he could access the bar easily, listening happily to his low chuckles. I tried to rush through my pint, knowing how often I struggled carrying two glasses at once. It just got annoying after a while. “You’re great.” He said, waiting patiently as the staff rushed to keep up with the customers. “My mum drinks red wine and my dad will probably want a whiskey.” “I’m also going to get us a mulled wine each.” He told me. “So that’s three glasses. Can your feeble little hands take it?” “They can take anything.” I accidentally found myself flirting. “Interesting.” He smirked, looking to me. “I’ll remember that.” It was quite easy for us to say little comments like that and then completely brush over them, since we were pretending to be together after all. It kind of came pretty naturally to us. Even though I knew it was all for pretence, I still couldn’t help but blush a little. I blamed the flustered pink of my cheeks on the fact that I was a sucker for any kind of compliment, or suggestion, really. A few weeks before when I was walking to work, a boy had smiled at me in the street. I thought about him for about a week. “Don’t be so rude.” I tut. “I didn’t say anything.” He leered, a barmaid rushing over to him, though I was sure he wasn’t next in line. I caught my dad’s eye whilst Harry was halfway through the order, and gestured for him to join us again. He looked relieved to have an excuse to move away from Greg and Lorna, who I had met a few times before, and they genuinely were one of the most monotonous couples I’d ever come across in my life. He quickly bid his farewells and practically ran back to us, but I noticed my mother was nowhere in sight. “Where’s mum?” I asked once he reached us. “Oh wait, she’s here.” She was pushing grumpily through the crowd, her phone in her hand and her wine glass spilling its contents over innocent bystanders as she stomped over to us. “Your bloody sister is a nightmare sometimes.” She screeched once she was close. “What?” I whelped. “I literally don’t think I’ve ever heard you say a bad word about Matty! What’s she done?” Harry turned around and began passing out the drinks he had just purchased, my dad thanking him and my mother practically snatching it from his hand. He didn’t seem to mind, but I did. “She’s not coming back today.” She groaned. “She told me she’d be back tomorrow.” I attempted to hide my scowl. “Well she told me she’d be back today!” “She’s busy, mum. It’s not that big of a deal.” “I just don’t know what’s going on with her recently.” My mother continued to rant. Not only was everything with Harry running smoothly all on its own, but somehow Matilda was worming her way into my mother’s bad books. Honestly, everything was just working out too well. It was very confusing for me. “I’m sure she’ll tell you everything tomorrow.” We each accepted our second glass from Harry. “Why so many drinks?” My dad asked him. “Mulled wine!” Harry simply said, and that was enough of an answer. “Let me get this.” Theodore tried to butt in with his wallet, a common occurrence. “No.” Harry was firm. “This isn’t out of politeness, this is something I want to do. I won’t accept your money.” He turned back around to pay before my father could argue any further. He nudged me. “You’ve got a good one there, Florence.” “I like to think so.” I smiled. “You do! You should be proud, shouldn’t she, Beatrice?” “Yes, you should.” I tried to ignore the way my stomach dropped at their words. Because it was exactly what I had wanted, that kind of reaction from them. I had wanted them to love him and I had wanted them to feel pleased for me because he was my boyfriend, but hearing them say it actually made me feel sick. Because I didn’t want them to feel proud of me for having a nice boyfriend. I wanted them to feel proud of me for going out and making a living for myself. I wanted them to be proud of me for having a job. I wanted them to be proud of me for everything that I was doing on my own. But they weren’t. They were just happy I’d found someone who had done, and was doing, everything they wished I had. It felt awful. Maybe Harry was too perfect. “She’ll be back tomorrow morning.” I said as Harry turned around to join the group again. “I’m sure you can cope with your least favourite daughter until then.” “Florence, what an awful thing to say!” My mother screeched. “What? It’s true.” I chuckled, struggling to take a sip of my first pint as I juggled my two new glasses. “Ren-” Harry tried to warn. “I’m just saying!” I laughed. “You make it very obvious.” “I do no such thing, young lady!” My mother scalded. “You wouldn’t give a shit if I was turning up a few days late.” I shrugged, the little alcohol I’d had having a great effect on me. “But with Matty, it’s a big deal.” “I was actually very upset when you didn’t come home last year, Florence. You’ve got no bloody idea.” “Ren, c’mon.” Harry tried again. I was getting myself worked up, and I think if Harry wasn’t there with his low, soothing voice, things could have gotten even more out of hand. I bit my tongue and swallowed hard, trying to remind myself of that nice feeling I’d had a few moments before, just being there and letting everything be normal. Harry, as always, stepped up. “Ren has made a lot of progression with her therapist.” He directed to my parents. “One of the things she’s asked of her, is to be more open. We’re trying to find a healthy middle ground, aren’t we?” “Yeah.” I mumbled, joining another lie. My mother looked to me, an apologetic look on her face. Fuck, she really did think I needed therapy. And fuck, I think a part of me was starting to agree with her. “Oh. Well… I suppose that’s a good thing.” My mother lowered her tone. Dr Jackson was right. I really did need to speak to them, honestly, openly, and truthfully, about the way I was feeling when it came to their views on me. Because it was starting to eat me alive. 26 “IT WAS CHRISTMAS EVE BABE, AND FLUR DE DURBY SHPUR!” “Does anyone know the words to that song?” I laughed as Harry held my waist, and we stumbled towards my house. My parents had left a little earlier on, but myself and Harry had decided we wanted to welcome Christmas Day in the pub, as drunk as we could possibly get. We’d been incredibly successful, and Harry’s attempts at singing The Pogues was just proof of that. “A FLURDY GUR DE GUR, WON’T SEE ANOTHER ONE!” “Harry, shh.” “DA FURDY SANG A SONG, A SHPLUR NUR NUR DA FUR! I TURN MY FACE AWAY, AND DREAM ABOUT YOU!” We’d waddled successfully to my front door before Harry’s hands left my waist, and I think his voice got even louder as he stood triumphantly with his arms held high. “Shh-” “A DUR DA LUCKY ONE, A FUR DE SHPUR A BLUR.” “This is painful.” I turned around and leant backwards so I was against the door, watching him with a dozy smile on my face. “I’VE GOT A FEELING, THIS YEAR’S FOR ME AND YOU!” He belted, and neared me. “SO HAPPY CHRISTMAS, I LOVE YA BABY! I CAN SEE A BETTER TIME, WHEN ALL OUR DREAMS COME TRUE.” “You’re gunna have to shut the fuck up now, Curls. There are people trying to sleep.” “Literally, the most perfect song of all time.” He pressed one hand against the door, hovering over me. “Might want to learn the words then.” I poked his stomach. “Part of the beauty of that song is not knowing all the words. It would take away the charm.” I was shaking my head at him, but smiling like a fool, my eyes flickering over every feature of his face. He was absolutely wasted and it was bloody adorable. On top of that, I was glad he’d be able to get a decent night’s sleep. That thought alone was enough to make me beam. “Now do you promise to keep the noise down a little bit? My mum will kill you if you wake her up.” “Fingers on lips.” He whispered before performing the action. My cheeks were beginning to ache. Curls was a damn joy to be around, and I’d found myself laughing for 90% of the evening. He’d even been able to make my parents laugh. Harry could somehow mould himself to suit the needs of others. I knew in my head that Harry could be sat down with someone who was completely different to how he was, and be able to talk with them freely and find some common ground. It wasn’t even fake, or forced, he just had this charm and way about him. I slowly turned around and opened the front door, quietly giggling to myself as I stepped aside so Harry could tiptoe in first, one finger still pressed against his lips as he took on the stairs. I locked up and quickly began to follow him, watching as he got a little bit confused at the top of the stairs. “To the left.” I whispered. He gave me a thumbs up and continued his trail, finger still pressed against his lips, still on his tiptoes, absolutely silent. Once I’d reached my bedroom, Harry was already getting undressed with absolutely no shame, stripping himself down to the boxers as I closed the door and tried not to watch him. “Turn away.” I said as I wandered to the head of my bed and grabbed my t-shirt. “Huh?” “I’m gunna get undressed! Turn away!” “There’s no need to be ashamed here.” He said, dancing about on his spot. Clearly Harry didn’t have any qualms with his body, but then again, why would he? He was perfectly in shape, even his random tattoos that were littered all over his body and held no kind of organisation looked incredible. I wasn’t quite as okay with myself. “I’m not ashamed, but you still can’t look.” Still dancing, he turned around, swaying his hips so he was looking out of the window, and I could get undressed comfortably. I rushed through the process, stretching my t-shirt down as much as I physically could to hide the top of my legs, and clambered straight into bed anyway, pulling the sheets right up before I instructed that I was decent and he could turn around. “It’s Christmas.” He whispered once he’d turned around. “It is.” I smiled. “Merry Christmas, Harry.” “Merry Christmas, Florence Valentine.” He smirked, finally getting into bed. “Urgh, don’t full name me.” We both snuggled down. “It’s an incredible name, I’d like to use it, occasionally.” He closed his eyes. “Florence Daisy Valentine.” “As long as you keep it to a minimum.” I yawned. “Promise.” “Good.” I watched him begin to drift off for a few minutes, seeing that he still had this delicate little smile on his face, completely subconscious, soft. He was so happy. I moved so I was on my back, closing my eyes, hiccupping once, and settling for the evening. “Thank you for today.” He whispered. “I had fun.” “I’m glad.” “You’re fun.” “I am.” I giggled. “Will you sleep straight through?” “Mm, I should. I might be a little bit restless, but nothing too bad.” “If you wake me, do you want me to wake you?” “Yes. You’re very calming to me.” I smiled to myself, moving my hand a little closer to the centre of the bed, where I found it accidentally brushing against the side of Harry’s. I was just about to retract, but he nudged our touches even closer together, and before I could even question it, our fingers were intertwined, Harry gently rubbing his thumb over my skin. “Goodnight, Harry.” “Goodnight, Florence Daisy Valentine.”

[saturatethe-written-whitewa-blog]

oikawa week 2017, day 2.

oikawa week 2017, day 2: gluttony/temperance

pairing: oikawa tooru & kuroo tetsurou

a self-indulgent fic about dragon riding, kuroo and “the strain of his burly, tanned forearms,” dragons, hungry dragons and really just an excuse to write about dragons.

❝Won't you please, Slow it down? I'm tryna talk to you, darlin', Tryna walk with you, darlin'.❞ —Heatstroke, Calvin Harris.

"Come on, girl, let's try not to mess up too badly this time, yeah?" Kuroo doesn't expect words, for they're fragile and the wind abducts them right from his ears. The creature nods, keeps its eyes ahead to where poles formed lines, with a gap wide enough for a dragon to zigzag through if they were trained well enough. There's nothing more to be said. Kuroo tips his head forward, allows the wind to wrong him like a tide of strangers.

The time was late enough that the younger riders have left to run their hands through their hair, bathe, and nurse their scrapes with red fingertips. Above is a direction Kuroo fears to look yet recklessly aims for, thinking he might lose himself in the harsh whistles of resistance and in questions he's kept since his childhood.

This is the last attempt, Kuroo told himself and his dragon, although determination was a fine fire, hardier than the lamps that blink as they arise at the same times, startling any sleepy-eyed dragons that stretch their heads high enough. He can no longer impress the audience with the strain of his burly, tanned forearms, a gift of rich afternoons, when his mistakes leave the stink of forest and long-lived sweat on his clothes and the sour taste of dissatisfaction when he puts his hands behind his head and sighs into a pillow that's collected enough of his frustrations it could balloon and tap a ceiling too dull to hope to replicate the stars in even its best display years.

Nobody told Kuroo it was impossible, to maneuver through six poles when the dragon's already begun to accelerate, a word Kuroo loathes being told in a place that wasn't on the back of his dragon, but older men, who share tales that aren't their own, have told him riders have left their endeavors with more than just broken dignities.

Kuroo's okay with scalding water, with Kenma's scalding words told as impassively as a question of how well his day had gone. Kuroo Tetsurou was not discouraged easily, and he quite liked things that whisked danger into their craft. Kenma would only question Kuroo when they were simply friends that chatted when it was permitted, when their closeness was an idea Kuroo chuckled at until he found himself more and more occupied with the elusive kid; now, Kenma only looks at Kuroo's most recent bruise with a shake of his head and a long blink, as if he would forget the sight of purple that Kuroo likes pretending isn't there, isn't painful.

Kuroo breathes the smell of the earth, mingled with the smell of the forest that's been shooed away for the area far away enough that a dragon rolling through dirt only startles a raccoon with braided whiskers and something in between its dirty paws.

He rubs a spot behind the dragon's front legs, a tender spot more muscle than tough scale, and she closes her eyes a little, satisfied. Her tail swings a little higher behind her. Kuroo's only heard her purr once, when he walked her back to her stable and another rider, with cropped hair and a tongue piercing Kuroo only discovers when the other guy hollers a greeting at what he could only assume to be a close friend; the guy's dragon was male, a rarity, colored the yellow of sand that pooled warmth. The two dragons had walked close enough that their tails knocked against each other when they swayed, and the next time Kuroo turns to make sure she isn't plucking sparrows out of the sky, he finds his dragon purring, blinking more rapidly than he's sure she's capable of. Kuroo was mortified, had to tug a little harder to pry her away from the male dragon, probably blushing when he sent an apologetic laugh to its rider; he'd never caught his name.

Kuroo laughs at the memory, and his dragon looks at him without turning her head. Kuroo wonders if she'll ever purr again. "Let's go?" Kuroo asks her.

She spreads her wings in a quick motion, and in the moment he's allowed, he wonders what it feels to bear a pair of wings, but she takes off going fast enough the wind stings Kuroo's eyes and he curses, heard by nobody.

She nears the poles, branded through each ring of age with every failure Kuroo's sensed through the knobs of his spine and the jut of his cheekbone, scaring him a little. She moves even faster, moving to the side of the pole as she approaches it. Through the rush of wind against his teeth and his hair, more troublesome than usual ("Why don't you do something about your hair?", "No matter what I do, I'm going to look retarded!", "Whatever you say, Kuro.") Kuroo really does appreciate the art behind flying.

Dragon riding felt like volleyball to Kuroo in more ways than one, when the appreciation for the jump of a heartbeat was hit or miss: either, the moment passes as if you've closed your eyes through the whole thing and you're only left with a cheap imagination of the thrill, or time fixates on something it wants you to notice, and you notice it, feeling a little otherworldly after.

Her sharp trill is something that startles Kuroo because he isn't bracing the rough blows of flat, sun-baked earth yet. She looks angry, hellbent on success, an inspirational look if worn on any other human face, baring the most vicious of her teeth as if she would ram into the pole and never let go until she's torn and twisted it from the clasps of the maiden earth. She would have been fiery, passionate, a Scorpio, like Kuroo, if she were a woman, but maybe Kuroo liked her better a dragon that headbutted all of his back when he wasn't paying attention.

She crosses through the first pole perfectly, the pole that's blessed with most of their successes, the first trial. She crosses through the second pole perfectly, too, and the third; Kuroo's beginning to wonder if their dumb luck is going to come with the ugliest bruise of them all, one that Kenma might laugh at instead of tutting. Kuroo grips the reins, and she pulls against them.

The end of her tail knocks against the fourth pole, and he can feel the tremors of it even when she's already beginning to bank to cross the fifth one. Kuroo leans forward, wishes for the best, asks for a miracle from a god with a jeweled ear to lend.

The fifth one impacts her hind leg and her tail, and Kuroo pulls on the reins hard enough she has to pull her head back as well. He commands her to stop, his voice sounding a bit too pinched from worrying. She huffs a loud noise, looks back at the two unconquered poles with spite that felt all too eerily human the way they reflected on the thin slits of her pupils.

Her wingbeats reverberate like horror, and Kuroo finally heeds the thundering of his heart. She lands two movements later, leaving Kuroo a little dizzy when he hops off of her, he almost stumbles over his own feet. Her hind leg, that rung the fifth pole, was stretched behind her as she shook the curling talons until the presumed ache goes away. When she steps towards Kuroo, he doesn't see a limp, pouring relief into the breaths of oxygen that rattles him like rain in the monsoons.

"Good job," he tells her, reaching to a spot to the side of her chin. Kuroo remembers learning about the parts of a dragon that felt satisfying to rub, equivalent to the butterfly kisses described only in the most intimate of partings. He'd learned about it from older dragon riders, girls unafraid to track their thighs with mud as they worked through rainy days, hair pulled back in suffocating ponytails and dressed in short shorts; from older men that always held their hands behind their backs, talked to Kuroo like he was about to do wrong. It's hard to think of a time he was afraid of her, and she was of him, when now, he stands close enough she could use all her methods to run his blood on the dirt and devour him for a sating supper.

"We'll get it soon," he offers. She grunts like a stubborn friend, like one of Kuroo's stubborn friends that he's sure he has (maybe he was the stubborn friend?) "You hungry?"

Her eyes widen with delight and it makes Kuroo chuckle. He places his hands on her jaw, an example of the most intimate of touches communicated primarily by humankind, pulling off her bridle as she bows her head and closes her eyes. It grows darker around them, providing only the circles of reaching light from lamps hung on trees, built upon naked earth, yet her scales, the color of swamp water, still shine as if the morning light played childhood games on them.

Kuroo tucks the saddle, the reins and the bridle under his armpit and he walks ahead without ever turning back, knowing she isn't going to fly away to roar mournfully at the moon. They leave the lamps in loneliness, the stirring insects to chase each other until their deaths, the supernatural to make an appearance, maybe frighten a lost rookie for Kuroo to eavesdrop on the next day as he laughs into his lunch.

They talk a walk to the feeding troughs and Kuroo stops at the invisible line where the smell of butchered meat is strong enough he gags more than he breathes. His dragon on the other hand, walks right ahead, joining another one, the color of dark stones by the flow of a humming stream.

There's another rider with Kuroo, leaning against nothing, arms crossed on his chest, free of the riding tack, making the ones Kuroo's holding feel so much heavier. Kuroo recognizes the rider instantly, hair miraculously well-kept despite the aggravated winds, as if the element worshiped him; eyes the color of the purest chocolate and skin so fair for somebody who flies as stupidly often as Kuroo does.

"Oikawa Tooru," Kuroo says before he can even think. It certainly grabs his attention, because he has Oikawa Tooru arching an eyebrow at him as if he's got a million things better to do.

"You're Kuroo Tetsurou, the one the girls always gush about in the hallways like they think nobody can hear. And I," Oikawa pauses, looking Kuroo up and down and blinking, as if deleting his action, "I can understand why."

Kuroo doesn't know what Oikawa could have possibly meant by the last bit of his sentence, and he doesn't want to ask why. "Uh, thanks?"

"Don't mention it."

In the silence, Kuroo watches as his dragon rears her head, swallowing a bit of meat he doesn't even want to think which animal comes from. Her lips were red, and he'll be looking at the faded hues at the tips of her teeth in the next morning. She dips her head, as if vacuumed by the meat, and he flexes his fingers for every time he hears the sound of bones crunching.

There was a growl, a hiss, a low roar. Kuroo drops the tack, cares no more for it as he runs to his dragon, who has her head retracted, hissing at Oikawa's bigger, more powerful one. Oikawa runs to his dragon, too. Hands on their muzzles, they push the aggravated dragons away from each other, one deeply-set footprint in the loose earth at a time.

Kuroo knows she's going to obey him, hushing her gently until she's calm enough to raise her head again. Neither of them return to their food troughs and when Kuroo looks, the last pieces of meat cling to the wood are in portions too tiny to feel satisfying. His dragon licks her lips a few times, doesn't look at Oikawa's dragon.

"I'm sorry about that," Kuroo calls out.

"I am too," Oikawa responds, "he lashes out when unfamiliar things come too close, it's the worst when he's eating."

"S'why you came here so late?" Oikawa simply nods, Kuroo understands.

Kuroo sees Oikawa the next day, and they both smile pleasantly. Kuroo remembers to put the tack away first. Oikawa's dragon doesn't lash at Kuroo's, perhaps because Kuroo's dragon has learned not to reach too far.

"Perhaps I'll see you a third time tomorrow, Tetsu-chan," Oikawa tells him that night when he was four footsteps away from leaving. Kuroo hears Oikawa's dragon huff into the air, swishing his tail as they exit, a charm she doesn't purr at, and Kuroo laughs silently to himself, shoulders shaking as he realizes she was about as womanly as a dragon could ever come to be.

[and-beastly]

The Waterlogged Doctor

Part 1

A Astoria: Fate’s Kiss inspired Fic I blame Leah. So sit back, relax, grab a bag of popcorn, and hopefully enjoy Part Two!

Looking at the dazed girl sitting on the ground, Lylin frowned as he planned his next course of action. Reaching out slowly he lightly placed a hand on her shoulder. A refreshing wave of power quietly left his palm and made its way into Leah. With extreme focus he delicately guided his energy, using it to check her for any internal injuries. Beads of sweat streamed down his face as he carried out the examination. After discovering that she was injury free he recalled his energy and let out a breath of relief.

[Miss Leah, can you read this?]

Those words formed as he knelt down ignoring the painful screams coming from his body. Looking her in the eye he frowned as he noticed just how dazed she was. Wishing he could call out to her, he subconsciously rubbed the old scar on his neck. It was at times like this that he’s deep-rooted hatred for Zeus reared its ugly head. Pushing those thoughts to the side he extended his hand again and placed it on her head. Another layer of healing mist was released from the waterlily, followed by a subtle fit of coughing. Not even phased as he wiped more traces of blood from his mouth, he continued looking into her eyes. As the fresh wave of mist wrapped around her he finally noticed the gradual shift in her gaze.

[Try to stay calm. Cerberus and I are going to fine. Wallace is treating him now. You don’t have to worry. Also, keep in mind that this is in no way your fault. If nothing else you can blame me for failing to notice the tea sooner.]

Not knowing if she could currently read his words, and without other options he looked back towards the other two. Cerberus was currently sitting on the ground gripping what looked like a dislocated shoulder. Even from a distance Lylin could make out the near frantic worry in his eyes. Meanwhile standing beside him was Wallace, who looked much paler compared to earlier. A soft purple light was constantly raining from the fading aura behind him. Its healing properties were trying to restore Cerberus’ wounds as quickly as possible. Yet given the nature of Wallace’s aura, having to use it for such an extended length of time was starting to take its toll him.

[Hey, I need you to come here and talk to her.]

Cerberus’ body jerked as those words appeared in front of him. As if his switch had been flipped he took a deep breath before gritting his teeth and forcing his shoulder back into place. A deep growl rumbled in his throat as swallowed the urge to cry out. Disregarding the concerned gasp that came from Wallace, he hastily climbed to his feet. However the sudden movement send a fresh wave of agony and nausea washing over him. Seeing him stagger and his face turn a sickly green, Wallace quickly moved to support him. Beads of sweat were starting to form on Wallace’s forehead as he put even more effort into the healing. Having seen the words as well, he took a deep breath and proceeded to help him over to the others.

Seeing them making their way over, Lylin moved to the side. Stretching out his aura he covered Cerberus with it too.

“Wait Doc you can’t-” Wallace attempted to protest. But Lylin swiftly cut him off with a look.

[You’re a hundred year too early to be telling me what I can and can’t to boy. Just draw your aura back and take a rest, I’ll be needing your help later.]

Knowing that this was something Lylin wouldn’t budge on Wallace gave up. Drawing his aura back he sighed wearily before collapsing to the ground close by. Cerberus, in the meantime, quickly knelt down in front of Leah. With trembling hands he carefully cupped her face.

“Leah? Leah are you okay?” His calloused thumbs gently caressed her cheeks as his eyes scanned her face. “Come on, talk to me Leah.” He spoke softly, failing to hide the distress in his words. His apprehension only increased as his words were answered with a stream of warm tears. Leah’s body started to shake as she finally moved. Looking at the concerned injured man before her, she started to sob.

“I’m so sorry… I… I… Cerb, you could’ve… I’m sorry…” Continuous apologies fell from her lips as sobs shook her body. Even more tears fell and soaked the hands that were still tenderly holding her face. At her words Cerberus felt a gripping pain in his chest, disregarding all else he pulled her into his arms. Holding her firmly against his chest, he delicately placed kisses her head.

“It’s okay, shush it’s alright. I’m fine! It’ll take a lot more than the aura of a little lady like you to do this gatekeeper in.” He said as he soothingly rubbed her back.

“But…” She started while glancing towards the discolored shoulder poking through his tank top.

“No buts.” He stated firmly as he drew back to look her in the eyes again. “Now you listen here, this was not your fault. Okay? So don’t go blaming yourself for this.” He said before placing tender kiss on her forehead.

Observing the scene from the sidelines Lylin sighed. While keeping his aura wrapped around the pair, he pulled a tiny pill box out of his pocket. Popping open the lid revealed a variety of oddly shaped and colored pills. Picking a deep red one of the assortment he quickly tossed it into his mouth. Shivering as an unbearably bitter flavor assaulted his taste buds. Next his grabbed a pale blue pill then closed the case and shoved it back into his pocket.

With his free hand he picked up a small rock from the ground before pitching it in the direction of the resting Wallace. A thump rang out followed by a yelp as Wallace jerked up and turned towards Lylin. With an accusing glare he opened his mouth to give Lylin a few choice words. Yet before he could get the first words out a little blue pill came flying over hitting him in the back of the throat. Wallace’s eyes were full of bitter resentment as he was forced to swallow the unexpected medicine. A burst of sweetness filled his mouth before a onslaught of drowsiness overcame him. Still full of grievances Wallace swore in his mind that he would get his revenge as he passed out.

Watching Wallace pass out completely Lylin couldn’t help be smile wearily. Thoughts of how Wallace would futility try to seek vengeance flashed through his mind as he shook his head and turned back towards the couple. Glancing at the still embracing pair he decided it’d be just sit back and wait. Easing himself to the ground he took a deep breath before adjusting his sitting posture. Sitting in a meditative position he quickly regulated his breathing. Almost instinctively he used his aura to help distribute the medicine that was released from the red pill.

Nearly thirty minutes had passed before a soft cough brought him out of his meditation. Snapping his eyes open he noticed that the loving couple was now standing awkwardly in front of him.

[Ah, have you calmed down?]

Reading the words that formed next to them Leah nodded. She smiled weakly as she looked at the wreckage around her. Seeing the large crater and the cracks that extended from it she shivered. Even if everyone said this wasn’t her fault, it was her power that caused this. Feeling her grip on his hand tighten Cerberus felt pain in his heart again.

“Doctor, what actually just happen? Yeah Leah doesn’t have control of her power yet, but that wouldn’t explain that explosion.” Cerberus asked his voice deadly serious. He remembered the doctor saying mentioning something about Wallace, but it’d all happened so fast earlier that he wasn’t sure.

[We have Wallace to thank for this little adventure honestly. Remember the tea? Remember how it made you feel like you were brimming with energy? That wasn’t just a feeling. You see, for better or worse Wallace is really skilled at making, for lack of a better term, energy drinks. He wasn’t aware of Miss Leah’s predicament and decided to serve his signature concoction. And I must be getting senile in my old age because I didn’t notice it either.]

Rubbing his temples Lylin sighed. Looking at Leah he bowed his head apologetically.

[I apologize for this. Also feel free to sue me for malpractice if you wish. I can guarantee you a fortune in moss balls for your troubles. Though thanks to this incident I’m now 90% sure I can help with your problem. Seeing how effective Wallace’s tea was I’m confident that I can make a medicine to help you feel and control your aura. However, it won’t be a quick fix. It will take time without a doubt, and it probably won’t taste good.]

[hellosaltysaladcollectionstuff]

Back to Sundance we go for another year of discovery. What's on the line-up this year? Out of the 110+ films showing at the 2019 Sundance Film Festival, I've chosen 10 that I'm looking forward to seeing the most. To keep things well balanced, I've chosen 5 feature films and 5 documentaries from the line-up. There are so many films playing at the fest, and so many I'll end up seeing (30+), that this is a quick list to get everyone acquainted with some of the work premiering in 2019 (I just want to go see everything). There are new films from filmmakers like Ritesh Batra and Lulu Wang, and incredible documentaries that are also worthy of our attention, plus many other films. You never really know what will good or bad, but here's my first few picks.

This is my 13th year in a row returning to Sundance, starting back in 2007. I'm so excited to be attending Sundance once again, and can't wait to dive into the films more than anything. There's so many I am curious to watch from this year's line-up. For now, here's my Top 10 most anticipated films before the fest begins.

Alex's Most Anticipated \Sundance 2019/ Feature Films:

Hala Directed by Minhal Baig

I've been following filmmaker Minhal Baig (mostly on Twitter @minhalbaig) for a while now, and she is ready to finally break out big and show everyone how talented she really is. Hala is her second feature film following her debut 1 Night, and it's much more personal this time. The story is about a Muslim teenager named Hala - played by Geraldine Viswanathan - who lives in Chicago with her immigrant parents from Pakistan. There she copes with the unraveling of her family as she comes into her own. It's a coming-of-age story but told from an entirely different angle that we rarely see, as Sundance explains that Baig "brings a vital and layered female perspective to the coming-of-age genre." They add that she "crafts a character and story with immense relatability and unexpected consequence." I've been looking forward to seeing this ever since I first heard about it, and I'm excited that it's finally ready to premiere at Sundance. Congrats, Minhal.

Photograph Directed by Ritesh Batra

Back in 2013, I fell in love with a little film called The Lunchbox, starring Irrfan Khan and Nimrat Kaur. After making two other English-language films, Our Souls at Night and The Sense of an Ending (both from 2017), filmmaker Ritesh Batra returns to his roots and his hometown in India with Photograph. Set in Mumbai, the film is about a struggling street photographer, pressured to marry by his grandmother, who convinces a shy stranger to pose as his fiancée. The pair develops a connection that transforms them in ways that they could not expect. As a photographer myself, I'm already intrigued. But I've also got a good feeling this might be a magical, lovely new film from Ritesh Batra and I'm looking forward to seeing where he takes us. If it's anywhere close to as sweet and as honest as The Lunchbox was, it will be another instant favorite.

Little Monsters Directed by Abe Forsythe

There's always one or two films in the Midnight section that I have to see, just because they sound so crazy and fun. Little Monsters is exactly one of those that I'm going to stay up late to watch. Described as a "film dedicated to all the kindergarten teachers who motivate children to learn, instill them with confidence, and stop them from being devoured by zombies." The massively talented Lupita Nyong'o stars as that teacher, taking on an extra bloody role that will hopefully allow her to show off more of her badass side. Plus there's always room for more zombies movies, right? Why not, they're always entertaining. "Armed only with the resourcefulness of kindergartners, [they] must work together to keep the monsters at bay and carve a way out with their guts intact." I'm fairly certain this will be a good one, especially with the late night audience.

I Am Mother Directed by Grant Sputore

One of the few sci-fi films playing at Sundance, which means I have to see it no matter what. But it also looks and sounds compelling. I Am Mother features a robot designed by Weta Workshop in New Zealand, and marks the directorial debut of an award-winning commercials director from Australia named Grant Sputore. And yes, the story seems quite promising. A teenage girl is raised underground by a kindly robot "Mother" - designed to repopulate the earth following the extinction of humankind. But their unique bond is threatened when an inexplicable stranger arrives with alarming news. This reminds me a bit of Moon (which premiered at Sundance 2009) mashed up with other sci-fi concepts. The robot's design is familiar but sleek, and the handful of images they've released so far all look better than expected. Don't let me down, Sputore.

Velvet Buzzsaw Directed by Dan Gilroy

So, this looks awesome! And totally insane! And weird, and captivating, and funny, and twisted, and sly, and wicked, and frightening. Velvet Buzzsaw is the latest film written & directed by Dan Gilroy, a screenwriter who turned director (or perhaps became a true auteur) making his debut with Nightcrawler in 2014, and following that up with Roman J. Israel, Esq. in 2017. This time he attacks the art world, with a film that seems to be about pieces of art coming to life and killing people. Something like that. The cast also is quite impressive: Jake Gyllenhaal, John Malkovich, Toni Collette, Rene Russo, Daveed Diggs. And this looks like the perfect follow-up to Ruben Östlund's Palme d'Or winning film The Square, with both films mocking and lambasting the absurdity of the modern art world. I'm so there. Watch the official trailer here.

More Feature Films I'm Looking Forward To Seeing: Lulu Wang's The Farewell, Rashid Johnson's Native Son, Paul Downs Colaizzo's Brittany Runs A Marathon, Nisha Ganatra's Late Night, David Wnendt's The Sunlit Night, Makoto Nagahisa's funky We Are Little Zombies, Noble Jones' The Tomorrow Man, Bert&Bertie's Troop Zero, JD Dillard's Sweetheart, Patrick Brice's Corporate Animals, Tayarisha Poe's Selah and the Spades, Daniel Scheinert's The Death of Dick Long, and May el-Toukhy's Queen of Hearts.

Alex's Most Anticipated \Sundance 2019/ Documentaries:

Memory: The Origins of Alien Directed by Alexandre O. Philippe

A documentary about the making of Ridley Scott's original Alien! Say no more, I'm already there, I wouldn't miss this for anything. This is the latest doc film made by Swiss filmmaker Alexandre O. Philippe, who has been making docs about cinema and filmmaking for a while - including The People vs. George Lucas, and 78/52: Hitchcock's Shower Scene just before. I'm curious how much this will cover and how much it will uncover. It seems to focus more on how they came up with the original ideas and designs for the film, less so the filming or release. "Philippe's real interest lies in the deep resonance of myths and our collective unconscious. The strange symbiotic collaboration between Alien creators [Dan] O'Bannon, Scott, and H.R. Giger suggests a greater synchronicity across history, art, and storytelling, a synchronicity that gives us the Furies, creatures of Renaissance painting, and even chest-bursting aliens." Sounds damn good, right?

Moonlight Sonata: Deafness in Three Movements Directed by Irene Taylor Brodsky

Another documentary that sounds exceptionally unique. The short Sundance description grabbed me right away: "A deeply personal portrait of three lives, and the discoveries that lie beyond loss: a deaf boy growing up, his deaf grandfather growing old, and Beethoven the year he was blindsided by deafness and wrote his iconic sonata." It's a multi-generational portrait of people dealing with deafness, capturing the complexity of silence and hearing. And I am more than intrigued to find out how filmmaker Irene Taylor Brodsky (of Hear and Now previously) examines these themes and weaves these three stories together. Sundance talks it up even more in their description of the film: "Brodsky explores the meaning of deafness, loss, and the power of silence as her son discovers his unique voice and her parents confront a new chapter of their lives," adding that it's "buoyed by a perceptive soundscape and luminous animation." I really want to see this doc.

Midnight Traveler Directed by Hassan Fazili

There's always a remarkable doc discovery, or two, hidden in the Sundance line-up telling an unforgettable story from somewhere else around the world. Read about this film and you'll instantly get a feeling that it's going to be something special. Midnight Traveler is a documentary made by a filmmaker from Afghanistan, Hassan Fazili, who flees his home country and takes us on a perilous journey with his wife and two young daughters as they travel as refugees across Europe searching for a new home. It seems to be a very personal, inside look at the life of a family just trying to surviving on the run from certain death. "Chronicling every step from inside the action", Fazili's camera captures "not only the danger and desperation but also the exuberance and tenderness of this irresistible, loving family." Just look at that shot of them all in the snow above! They seem so loving, wonderful, and authentic. I want to see this just to meet and learn about them.

Apollo 11 Directed by Todd Douglas Miller

I'm a space nerd. I'm a big time fan of NASA. I'm surprised we haven't seen a documentary like this before, but I guess In the Shadow of the Moon is close (focusing on all of the Apollo missions). And I loved Damien Chazelle's First Man, which is also about Apollo 11, so I'm totally ready for this next. The documentary is purported to be an exhilarating cinematic experience, something that demands to be seen on the big screen. NASA has been digging out old footage and photographs and other artifacts from the vaults, putting all of the original footage from the Apollo 11 mission online + uncut audio recordings and more. Produced by CNN Films and Statement Pictures, this film "features never-before-seen, large-format film footage of one of humanity's greatest accomplishments." Oh yes. Can't wait to experience this. Watch the teaser trailer here.

Hail Satan? Directed by Penny Lane

A documentary about the rise of the Satanic Temple religious movement? I'm certainly curious. And it's the latest doc film made by Penny Lane - a quietly talented, quirky, fun filmmaker behind other fantastically weird documentaries like Our Nixon, The Pain of Others, and Nuts! (about a guy who sold people a goat-testicle impotence cure - it premiered at Sundance 2016). I don't know how deep this is going to go, but I am intrigued to find out. Sundance references this eye-brow-raising part of the Satanic Temple's history in their description: "Through their dogged campaign to place a nine-foot, bronze Satanic monument smack dab next to the statue of the Ten Commandments on the Arkansas State Capitol lawn, the leaders of the temple force us to consider the true meaning of the separation of church and state." Sounds like something I have to see for myself, at the very least because no one else is making films about this fascinating topic anyway.

More Documentaries I'm Looking Forward To Seeing: Kenneth Paul Rosenberg's Bedlam, Steven Bognar & Julia Reichert's American Factory, Ben Berman's Amazing Johnathan Documentary, Ljubomir Stefanov & Tamara Kotevska's Honeyland, Petra Costa's Edge of Democracy, Garret Price's Love Antosha, Hepi Mita's Merata: How Mum Decolonised The Screen, Karim Amer & Jehane Noujaim's The Great Hack, Ursula Macfarlane's Untouchable, and Alex Gibney's latest The Inventor: Out for Blood in Silicon Valley.

For all of Alex's Sundance 2019 reviews and updates: Follow @firstshowing

For more Sundance 2019 previews around the web, highlighting early picks and potential breakouts, see: The Film Stage's 20 Most-Anticipated Premieres, and Indiewire's 21 Must-See Films At This Year's Festival. You never know what might be a big hit, and it's vital to have a pulse on the buzz – even before the festival starts. There's plenty of exciting and hopefully superb gems hidden in the 2019 line-up, bring on the films.

You can follow our Sundance 2019 coverage and updates in this category. The festival kicks off January 24th and runs until February 3rd, with lots of films to see every day. Let's jump right in and start watching.

from FirstShowing.net http://bit.ly/2FGN8w1

[dwestfieldblog]

23 YEARS IN BOHEMIA

Time to exorcise some sober early morning paragraphs as Orpheus descends again...Saved by an angelic intervention perhaps, or more likely, demonic. I messed up a banishing ritual and we will never have that feast...Air gives life toFire. Crash and burn. Hard to switch off the heart unless one is in hospital. An hour long session of Healing, lying on a floor blindfolded last week uncovered deep memories with primal fury, tears and a revelation...now I am back in the cosmic game. It was either that or leave my body to medical science fiction. Insanity chosen on the flip of a golden coin, now gold runs in my veins like electricity. Almost not a metaphor.

The Healing had the strange effect (for me) of leaving my thoughts seemingly capable of holding onto negative thinking for two seconds only and then letting them go. Nice work, see how long it lasts. Next month I will be getting creative with my darkness with Holotropic breathing to unblock the shadow, Sounds like fun eh?  Welcome to another long speed written manic collage....

9 songs into the next treble cd, but now the blessing of the Muse is removed. Some girls should be spanked hard with passion every night before bed. All hail Algolagnia, No afterglow, now only ash. I swear by my heart Not to fall in Love again, it is no good for my mental health. Arf. Fnord. Shameful how much I truly cared, but Free at last, freedom from hope, Lucifer rising in my horoscope and all I have left are empty words. Words for spells...thank the Lord for spellczechers on the computer. Somewhere True, we know our fears are not real.

Putting the arse into catharsis, I have finally put more songs on the net via TUMBLR, (27 of 'em) a fair variety of moods...of course I will not be putting the best stuff online, not until the diagnosis becomes terminal. Don't much trust doctors but will believe my body. The war for peace continues. From the Kingdom to the Crown

I seem to have not really slept much since early February, but some years life just gets too INTERESTING to sleep. Enervated, splitting and colliding like the atom I used to be. Desire to Do and Be simultaneously chasing a thought and a feeling. Home-made psychedelic adrenalin, recurring parallel day dreams or else the synaesthesia kicking in once more....Lying down for thirty minutes and switching off at 2pm helps. In reverie God told me again last night I was a chosen one...well, someone has to do it. Another scarecrow messiah crucified on a hill to keep away the crows of false prophets who seek to feed on the seed of Man. Or something. O, I still miss amphetamines, still tempted. Been way too long. And 'Some weird sin just to relax with'...Did you ever read about the female fan letter about her desiring a man with the mind of Leonard Cohen and the body of Iggy Pop? They replied, sent a double photo from a studio...she didn't answer. Arf.

Giving up smoking Again but 'the filter is the best part, that's where they put the heroin'. Denis Leary said that and he's still alive...or if you prefer,'Women and heroin are both the ultimate escape'. Hugh Cornwall. Five minutes and you're almost dead. Textbook definition of stupidity is not being able to assimilate new information and process it to recall and use. Or repeating mistakes without learning from them. Dumb is as dumb does, welcome to my world. Just too ugly and lost. Where will you spend eternity? (Old evangelical (evil angels) christian slogan).

Almost strange to be still writing blogs when disconnected from news of the daily world. There is still some linkage to normal reality but I remain in deep longing for the day when five of the most famous leaders on this planet face Absolute Justice in This lifetime for the chaos and murdering shit they have done...but...it has felt so damn Good to switch off the reportage after all these years. The next step will be to be able to go back and listen, watch, read the news without becoming involved, Just evolved. Trump, Putin, Erdogan, Kim Jong Un, and Asshat in Syria. Remarkable that you are alive. Congratulations. Happy to see Mladic has finally been sentenced to life in prison for his war crimes, it took long enough. And Mgabwe ousted at last. Get him up against the wall. Sic semper tyrannis.And may justice be served on Halliburton, Monsanto, Biderbeck and Zuckerberg next year...Julian Assange appears to be aiding those working against the West, (yes, that includes Duck Fart.) Staying too long in an embassy can make most folk a little weird. Hello Baron Beran.

Going back to the island for Sol Invictus/Christmas, Great Britain with all her Little Englanders. Dreading seeing the faces of Boris Johnson, Jacob Rees Mogg et al gurning and talking puerile bullshit. My country is ruined, Europe as any type of 'spiritual' centre is falling, America is shamefully fecked like a dog by their insane choices. You stupid dumb bastards, now EAT what you have made. Wash it down with your own blood and piss. Other countries are rising, tasting the possibilities of mass control; Ready. This is happening all around us. And as for the individuals left...All we become is all we are.

Be yourself, you will never be someone else..

Meanwhile...those who remain outside, remain outside. With no thoughts of being saved in the usual sense, but emotionally detached and thus spiritually rising, crossing over...Fooling ourselves (perhaps) until it is real. Fake it till you make it. 'Experience is knowledge made conscious of itself'. Aleister Crowley wrote that and knew of what he spoke. Ignorance will never convince knowledge says this middle aged idiot.

(I seem to have passed from a thirty year teenage lifestyle to menopause overnight. Missed out on being an adult with a usual life of mortgages and happy family tensions. Perhaps I should buy a Harley Davidson and flirt with 24 year old girls. Or grow up fast and take to bed the first grandmother who thinks I'm worth her time.) Or teach in a nunnery...

How many times can a heart be broken? As many as it takes To break the cycle of destruction Till creation awakes. AKA/anebo, or 'You want it? You got it You break it –you bought it'         Arf.

Anyway, now all that is out of my lunar system...'time' dilates and...back to the Real stuff...Body and mind as a temple, holy or otherwise...Here we go...

Matter at a low rate of vibration is solid...at a high rate of vibration it is subtle. Good health in all areas means raising your vibrations... meditate on imagination and Will. I will see how wise that is when I get my first winter cold and deny it existence. People allow themselves to become hooked on their weaknesses, chasing the thrill or playing the victim.

'We should not protect the weak and vicious from the results of their own inferiority'...To pity another man is to insult him'. Think Nietzsche wrote that. Sounds like him but now my memory is ablaze and random sparks star the dark early morning sky. Total oblivion into the Absolute. FREEDOM. And I'm gone. More coffee....'God is a fire in the head!', cried Nijinsky, on the cusp of insanity. (Crowley, Nietzsche and Nijinsky, I am on a highly pretentious roll here eh? 4.15 am...Let's see what other brilliant lost souls can resurface in this spontaneous flash flood....)

Capture Points....

Ego... defined as a set of immature traits which start in infancy and are carried into adulthood, including a feeling of being omnipotent and deserving of special privilege; great difficulty tolerating frustration and a very high drive which causes one to jump into activity suddenly and impulsively. The infant within needs to be satisfied. Sounds familiar eh?

'Individual creatures tend to stagnate when they have discovered a comfortable ritual of habit'. Colin Wilson.

Addicts, (of one type or another) secretly despising themselves, are likely to respond to another person who approaches them in a loving manner by wondering what this person wants, assuming that this person is a sucker ripe for manipulation, or deciding that the person is crazy. In this way, they fail to receive the praise, warmth and tenderness they crave, and instead, end up lashing out at those who try to love them.

‘”...hedonic arousal of an organism (pleasure or pain) can, with repetition of a stimulus or class of stimuli, lead to a build up of arousal by the organism which opposes the original stimulus....this can create dynamics typical of addiction.' Richard Solomon. Therefore, a person repeating a pleasurable activity over and over again will create in their nervous system an opposing sense of pain. Or, as the song says; 'If it makes you happy, then why the hell are you so sad'? Don't wanna go to rehab. So don't.

The problem with mind altering drugs, is that they appear to lower the levels of serotonin in the brain, the very chemical needed to focus and evolve. Meditation and magick work because of the extra effort required to concentrate and raise energy. Humans get bored way too easily, this in turn creates a deep sense of unease...which leads to mental landslides of panic. Total (or as much as can be achieved and maintained) focus on the work of Now and total (see brackets above) open free surrender, are the only ways to connect with realities of understanding the individual's place and role in creation. Which is 'technically' our imprinted function.

Asbergers, Autism and ADD are basic human traits, there is always a  laziness to attempt focus because the mind wants to run wild. But many types of 'freedom' become a free fall/floating trap when not used for evolving or Being. Because people get bored, most of us run around trying to be very useful or search for temporary excitement, which never seems to go deep enough. Surprise.

This is a peculiarity of the human imagination that is only now being recognised by psychology; that when it is denied active, creative expression, it seeks out any powerful stimulus, no matter how terrifying or negative. The human mind craves movement, any movement. Boredom or emptiness allows the mind to fill up with unused energy...this produces the usual effect of preventing the instincts from doing their quiet unobtrusive work. The feelings are frozen. The desire for strong feelings -the most basic of psychological needs -becomes a kind of panic; guilt and misery are preferable to boredom. What the mind really craves is the sense of vastness and wide openness, of other times and other places, of meaning.'Long quote but says way better what I would like to. Colin Wilson again, from The Occult, 763 pages of fascination...he also wrote the following...

'Certain people possess natural 'magical' faculties, but unless these are subservient to intellect and imagination, they will tend to be used in the service of negative emotion –malice, envy and so on.' Most people possess magical faculties. Most people are, fortunately unaware of it.'

Man is defined by the ability to love. The soul is refined by the love it's made of.Said a low class poet yesterday trying too hard to live up to his own belief system and almost failing. 'Basically a poor human being', says his end of year report card. Poor little ghost boy. Hmm. Neurosis is caused by sexual stasis...orgasm discharges the sex energies and eliminates the neurosis. Temporarily. Think that was Reich. But anyway...

Heaven, Hell, demons, ghosts, angels, we are our own...mass projection, a spontaneous manifestation of the forces of the subconscious. Like all magick. Parallel realms are imprinted with thought made real focused or random...or so, based on my own experiments, I choose to believe. You are on your own. You are really not on your own. And that perception, like everything else, is your Choice. Practice makes...imperfection less ridiculous. And that is as far as optimism as I will go this morning.

Use your body to create forms, use your spirit to transcend forms. Unify body and spirit to activate the art of peace. It comes. Maintain it as you would a flower.

Written by candle and computer light, listening to full volume live Swans at 3 to 5.30 am on a school day (mostly the sex pulse of The Glowing Man live on repeat, Mother Sky by Can, updated). Window open to share the headphone music with neighbours. My students will suffer a red eyed rant later today, but it's all English eh? (When not babbling fake Enochian.) A word about Swans for anyone new here. If you enjoy disintegrating into ecstacy, buy everything by them. The Total Sound of Nature and the Universe, surrender and rejoice, no regrets. O, I wish I had some whisky here. But I didn't smoke and I didn't drink, I found some new things to think. Found some old books to read, refused to want the one I need. But yearning for union. Deeply and truly.

Saturnalia soon...and on the 17th December, I will have been in Prague for 23 years. A deep thank you to all those who made my alchemy here so infused with their kindnesses, may you live in fine health and learning.

Practice your etheric stretches...it helps with what you wish to achieve.'Energy equals Mass multiplied by the velocity of the square of light'. Use that as long mantra, go into it...Trust me, I'm a (leave the blank empty as the Void). And Happy multicoloured Christmas/Sol Invictus with blood on the snow in red crosses and a snake spiralling up the staff to the victory of the Light.

See you in '2018' perhaps.. Stay well.....

YOU. KNOW.

NOW. BE

LOVE.

[neferdede]

BLACK HISTORY MONTH: "Through Woke Eyes From Different Sides" Pt. 1

February 1st, 2017

Written By: Desiree Dossen

Greetings and warm salutations to all of my fellow readers. Welcome to those if it is your first time joining us here at StylistaInMind.com. Here we style everything from sole to crown and discuss culture InConversation. On today's agenda have a special for those of you who have been waiting for some new content. My great friend and I are introducing a month long discussion, throughout the month of February. We will be discussing Culture, Identity, and Awareness. These are topics that are dear to me and I am excited to share with you somehtings that were once sensitive but have matured since then. We will discuss childhood stories of colorism from different perspectives. Check Out Chelsea Krieger's take on being a mixed race child in this American Society in which we live. Visit LifesSentence.com

Each week we will deliver a new topic and a new discussion, feel free to comment and share your own experiences below to keep the dialogue afloat. Enjoy Pt. 1 below. 

Black History month is about representation and highlighting history that was made yet also acknowledging the change that is created daily within our community. Often times we go through life harboring various experiences without expressing them in order to find peace or to heal properly. One thing I believe in is instilling wisdom and positive affirmations into a child from a tender age. So that when they grow up they can have respect for themselves and others they interact with. Let's get into it....

To begin, I hope I can add some taste to this topic as my story may not be as profound as Chelsea's. However I find beauty in being brown and chocolate in which oftentimes is super sweet. Yet society has deemed this earth skin tone color of mine something I should not embrace. In subliminal regard, Well too late, I love me and all parts of me even if the "beauty standard" is of a "European" look. Firstly, My perspective comes from a cultural standpoint rather than just black and white. I Am of African descent, born in the states but 1st generation American child of  Liberian immigrants. I am the alternative. I embrace my uniqueness in all aspects from skin tone to style to mindset. Diversity is key in the language we speak. The mass majority may think they are the only race, superior to those they claim to be minority. In opposition the mass minority equates to the majority. Sadly, what I was surrounded by in Grade school could be far from the truth. But here's my truth. Giving insight to my childhood. I have a passion for cultures and connecting the underlying truths between each culture. The hidden facts the colonizers tried to suppress I enjoy digging up and bringing them to light. My family left the inner city of Newark, NJ to give their girls better opportunity at life. Raised in Old bridge in which some would claim is predominately white. I barely saw that. I lived in an apartment complex where my neighbors were Indian, Pakistani, Afghani, Asian, Hispanic, and African immigrants. All descendants of somewhere from somewhere other than here. Listen, I love cultures, to see the pride one carries in a traditional dress or costume is beautiful. But when I would get to elementary school no more than 20 mins away. There was a divide. I became the only black girl in my classes. I became that black girl that carried the fat asses they stereotyped. I became that black girl that would cry lonely at night because I had no friends. Til this day I believe me not being the "typical black girl" they wanted to stereotype, I became the alternative. I had one friend from kindergarten until I don't know when because she found her white friends now she could blend. That's the thing I'll always stand out. I'll always be making noise or causing a scene even if I don't utter a sound. Uncomfortable but proud. I didn't realize it then but I understand now. It all makes sense the whys turned into how's. You see I'm "A CUltural Mesh," the fusion of cultures makes me feel joyous when I know I can connect with another bredren and sistren. You are a product of your environment they say. The environment I was in allowed me to be open and welcoming to others from all walks of life. That same friend I had in grade school, was an offspring of an Italian father and Korean mother. I'm not quite sure if she knew it then but her cultures meshed so well together I would say. Somehow, she would be classified as a white girl. Caucasian she would check off, because she had the European features and silky hair. The only thing they may question was her slightly olive complexion.

Contrary to belief, it's interesting how I thought her ethnic identity was beautiful, as I would hide my African Pride. I would lie in class when they would ask me to state my middle name. I couldn't let them know what Manaweh means it's, not Ann, Sarah, Mary, or Lee. Therefore I would be a product of my own contradictions. When I was home I embraced my love for Liberia and the reading rainbow outside my home. Yet, when I entered the playground I would shy away from exposing my real heritage. As in school they didn't teach us anything good about our history or better yet the truth. My own parents turned to be Americanized leaving us blinded from both sides. We couldn't recognize our beauty because our parents spoke diffeent dialects. They didn't want friction to collide, so that's why my sisters and I would use common names like Monica and Keisha to disguise what lies between the lines.

Moreover, I stated I was lonely and that was right. I was always shy and sensitive. I thought Briana and I would be friends forever but in fifth grade her neighborhood friends would be her partners in crime. Softball and family outings I was not part of that. I was familiar with riding bikes, staying up late to the scent of cassava leaf cooking in the kitchen, and my older sisters sneaking in and out. Sleeping in a two bedroom home that my seven member family plus one outgrew. I moved to a neighboring town where diversity in cultures were no longer evident. The story of black and white arises.... You know how in school they teach the civil rights movement. You learn about the blacks living beneath the train tracks and the whites above the tracks. Well this town I moved to, Cliffwood, NJ was just like that. This is where I became aware that, "girl you are black and your Africaness does not matter here." Majority of the African Americans in one small town separated from life outside of the scene. This was my first time enduring so much brown all at once. I became even more introverted because I didn't sound or dress like them. The culture I know is different. Aside from Liberian roots they say I spoke "white." I would stay quiet but have sleepless nights. Jordan's, fanny packs, skinny jeans, north face anoraks. I didn't have that. I was wearing thrifted, Walmart, Kmart, and sometimes target goods. Did I have it good? Or have I now entered a miniature hood? No this is obviously not the hood. Everyone lives in well kept houses with two or more stories. Crime is evident but cannot be seen in plain sight. It's quiet during the day and night. Welcome to a suburban hood where everyone was cousins. Small town girl with big city dreams began during these years. My family moved around quite a lot. Yet we would always end up in a suburban location. We are not like the other black families and I was always happy to go home. The kids at school would make fun and make me feel uncomfortable. Unfamiliar settings caused pain. I don't know why I would get nervous sitting in a lunch room that had more black people than I expected. Still not enough compared to the whites. Again I would stand out. I was always too white to be black and too black to be white. In reality I was just being me and I am a Liberian-American who dislikes categories.

However in Matawan, the African American kids would stick together. It was familiar for them, they were like family. A family I wasn't apart of. I didn't want to be like them. I wanted to be me. Free in my own reality. However I wished I could feel inclusive sometimes rather than just being exclusive. In middle school we would walk in large groups. Walks from school, in the direction of Guisti park we would get light, some would even fight. Bruno's was the hotspot for us colored kids. It all felt like a scene from a movie. There would be days police cars would drive by slow. Watching us, a large group of middle school kids, all black, "What could they be up to?" By mass numbers we would walk everywhere when I got comfortable, started making "friends" and they knew who my older sister was they started to form a "trust." Annoying how everyone knew me as Sebrena's little sister but somehow I started to blend and pretend like I was like them. Still felt uncomfortable In my own skin. I started to mind my own business and just be me. Say it loud I'm black and I'm proud, I discovered during my tumblr days. Yeah the times of Mike Brown, the times when black Tumblr and twitter unified. These were my teachers, I had Know insight or knowledge of the cruelty that really occurred. The thing is that yes I was raised to love all cultures and all individuals regardless of race I would embrace. But I was blinded to the harshness blacks faced because of where I was placed. In Old Bridge, NJ the suburbs not much action would occur. Unless the events of racial profiling and cops patrolling your neighborhood would be considered a blur. I was too young to even recollect or understand a painted image of colorism. To note, Newark was where my parents settled first and that's where my current partner is from. "The hood." "Bricks City" they call it. Because the streets is rough out there and nothing can break it down. It's a strong city that sands unified regardless of what negativity is portrayed. So my love for cultures sounds pretty and nice but the strife and pain people of color faced everyday in a nearby city it was all invincible to me.

To Be Continued....

Stay Tuned For Pt. 2 Coming Soon Check Back Next Week Thanks for reading. Hope you all enjoyed and got a little insight of my life.