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gapsbetweenlovers · 2 years

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the way to his heart

— complicated feelings resurface when carmen, your ex, helps cater your nephew's birthday party

part two

——

September is a palpable month, with the sound of children basking in innocence and a hint of crispness in the air.

The lawn, strikingly verdant, is currently being trampled on by hyperactive toddlers all on a collective sugar high, their squeals and ceaseless energy bringing a sense of entertainment to the otherwise mundane suburb. Smoky scents of charcoal and sizzling meat slathered with barbecue sauce waft from the outdoor grill, traveling through the autumn air. The sun peeks out from behind the clouds and shines over a primary-colored bounce house that takes up the yard's entire back corner. The inflatable columns that relatively represent a castle push against the picket fence posts each time a kid catapults themselves from one side to the other.

The event itself is not officially under way yet. People are still arriving with gaudy gift bags and more rambunctious kids in tow, causing Carmen's social battery to substantially drain by the minute. He has to continue reminding himself that he’s voluntarily doing all of this on your behalf, having agreed to help cater food for your nephew's fourth birthday party. Piles of fresh sub buns made by The Beef crew were driven over earlier this morning by Richie. An early arrival was also part of Carmen's plan in order to set up the catering station and start cooking the meats, and he actually went through with it (arriving three hours before lunch will be served), but maybe he should've just waited until you were at the party already.

Standing behind a scarred folding table while peeling oranges, he's been suffering through conversations with your family members including, but not limited to: painfully awkward questions about where he's been and why you haven't mentioned him as of lately, to which he has to skirt around the fact that he's not necessarily involved with you anymore. This leads to uncomfortably prying questions about what happened, why this travesty wasn’t disclosed, how the both of you are dealing with it. Then there's the recognition in their faces, a piteous lightbulb of oh, that's right, you're the boy whose brother killed himself with a gunshot to the head, which then tumbleweeds into half-sincere condolences and the good ol' pat on the back. During these excruciating exchanges, he just plasters on a fake smile all while putting the finishing touches on an orange sherbet punch he’s concocting, the scorching beginning-of-autumn-sun beating against his neck as the unpleasant ache in his chest grows.

Carmen hasn't been around your family, close or extended, since the breakup, which makes him feel misplaced. On top of that, work keeps him so busy that he barely sees you anymore, so he can't imagine being able to properly function when he's eventually in the same vicinity as you.

You called him out of the blue and had a minor freakout because the original caterers for the party dropped out last minute. Fickle fuckers. He swooped in and said to let him handle everything, no qualms about it. Now he's at your cousin's (first, or maybe second) unfamiliar house, feeling trapped inside his own body and hoping that whoever arrives next will be you and only you.

The patio door slides open with a slow scraping sound, lifting Carmen from his clouded thoughts. His eyes travel to the noise, finding a paunchy man holding his arms out him like he's a longtime friend, calling him by his full name with a certain paternal warmth.

Jolly and jubilant as ever, it’s your father.

He's a likable man; very sociable. Carmen has fond memories with him, like watching a Thanksgiving football game on TV, the smell of an apple cinnamon candle you lit encapsulating autumn. Learning how to properly swing a golf club, shades of cropped green stretching for miles while beer warmed his belly. His favorite is when last Christmas everyone got drunk off Baileys Irish Cream and played a very competitive game of Spoons around the dining room table, festive lights twinkling while the little ones watched The Polar Express in the basement.

It felt like home, something he had been chasing for years. But it escaped just as quickly as it was captured.

Carmen blinks hard as a gruff, familiar voice says, "Just the man I wanted to see!"

Smiling lopsidedly, he scratches the back of his neck, his blunt nails getting caught in the curls there. He can never tell if your father is always a bit tipsy or if he's just indulgently gabby to a fault. "How you doin', sir?"

"I'm good, I'm good. What took you so long to see me again, eh?" He beckons him closer using the spatula he's holding. "Come inside, won't you? I've got some chip dip I want you to critique. It's a whopping ten layers with hot dogs and mayonnaise, and by golly Berzatto, you won't believe what else..."

His boisterous voice fades as he marches back inside, and Carmen supposes he should follow. Peering down at the melting sherbet punch that's probably lukewarm by now (kids will drink it and love it anyway, though, right?), he sighs and sticks his hands in his pockets, staring at the swaying wind chimes before reluctantly stepping foot into the house.

In the kitchen, the chatter is intense. Overlapping conversations buzz around his ears like bees, with no possibility of swatting them away. He picks out a few faces he recognizes — an aunt of yours he enjoys, a cousin he has some things in common with. Before he can fully process his surroundings, an older gentleman spots his shrinking demeanor and stares at him indecipherably. It's your grandfather who is quite reserved. Carmen has maybe had a single conversation with him in the past, nothing of importance.

The intimidating man weaves through the conversing bodies until he stands in front of Carmen, a plate of skewered teriyaki meatballs balanced on his palm. After assessing him for five seconds, he simply says, "Heard you're working at that sandwich shop downtown."

Carmen, stiff and sweaty, nods at the floor. "Yes, sir. My brother's."

It's obvious as to where this conversation is heading. The baiting tone of your grandfather's voice, the way his eyes light up like the joke of the century just popped in his head and if he doesn't say it, the world will go up in flames — it’s all so goddamn predictable. Trust this wouldn't be happening if he was still working at a gourmet restaurant. Alas, he fell down the rankings, and now he's paying for it while everybody watches him crash and burn.

"How does it feel working at a dump to make a living?" asks your grandfather, winning a few chuckles from the surrounding people; uncles and cousins laughing in his face, only seeing the surface of who he is.

The thing about elderly people is that their boorishness and gall derives from a place of superiority. The generational divide is transparent, an evident ugliness lurking underneath. It's like fishing for a reaction and picking fights feeds their pomposity, because what else is there to lose except someone’s respect? Doesn't bother them, apparently.

"Awesome," Carmen says with a laugh of self-pity. He distractedly grabs a vanilla cupcake from a tray left out for guests. "Great. Um—"

"Grandpa, give him a break."

Carmen relishes in the cold wave of relief that washes over him when your voice cuts through the mirth and punctures him right in the chest, like a knife hacking away at all the thorns and prickly briar guarding his heart.

You're the way to it. You've always been the way.

"Oh, it's all in good fun, sweetheart," your grandpa declares, clapping Carmen's broad shoulder.

"Yes, for sure," you reply unconvincingly while coming out from hiding. "Can you please go help with the scavenger hunt outside?"

"All right, all right." He kisses your head and waddles out to the lawn, replacing his plate with a bottle of beer.

Carmen finally flits his gaze over to you, a matchstick of vehemence immediately striking the pools of his irises. He comes to life when he sees you. He feels relief. It's been two, maybe three months since he last saw you in the flesh. Time is ever-changing and breakups are strange because how the both of you went from seeing each other almost every day to being like two ships passing in the night is beyond his weak perception.

The separation was mutual, or as mutual as two people deeply in love could get. Ultimately, it was both necessary and right. Carmen was grieving the tragic loss of his brother, and you granted him the space he needed to do so. If you were still with him, it would have been like talking to a brick wall. You deserved to not be tied down and crushed by his emotional baggage.

It was heavy. It still is.

Yet here you are, looking effortlessly pretty in a sundress, a splash of solace in your eyes. That smile of yours is blinding and welcoming, as it always has been. It’s almost as if no time has passed, and his muscle memory could easily guide him over to tenderly kiss you hello.

You wave and tilt your head toward the snug corridor that connects the kitchen to the living room. Carmen raises his eyebrows while taking a bite of the cupcake, and before he can even blink, you're pulling him into the dim and narrow passageway where no one lingers and the chatter subsides enough to hear each other clearly. There are picture frames on the walls, displaying happy smiles and togetherness.

It takes him by surprise when you reach forward and hug him, inhaling and exhaling deeply into his jacket. "Hi, Carmy."

His chest loses all tension as he naturally winds an arm around your waist, cupping your hip and squeezing. "Hey. All the sandwich buns are in the big box by the garage. Meats are finished cooking, so everything’s ready to be served whenever. I also made some punch for the kids."

Your gratitude is manifested in your relieved sigh. "Thank you so much for helping out. You’re my savior."

Carmen truly thinks it's the other way around, but that's beside the point right now. His thumb caresses your waist's curve before he steps back and says, “Anytime. It's... really nice seeing you."

"Same here. Listen, I'm sorry about what my grandpa said to you back there. He likes to just say things without realizing the consequences."

He shrugs. "I've grown used to it. Being a chef is an unsung job."

"Well," you huff, "if my words are of any worth to you, I think you're phenomenal. And I could never do what you do." Smiling sincerely, you add, "I'm very proud of you."

"Thanks," he replies in a quick breath. If only he could believe it himself. "Thank you. That means a lot."

"How is work, by the way?"

"Uh, absolute mayhem." Carmen pauses, staring off into space. "But we're managing. Somehow."

You nod your head solemnly, folding your arms across your chest. "You better be taking care of yourself."

Is he? Every night, he goes home after an exhausting shift, collapses on his tattered couch, then watches mindless television until fatigue envelops him. Then he wakes up and does it all over again. He's a masochist for self-sabotage, but he doesn't know anything else, and the last thing he wants is to involve you in his destructive habits.

"I am. Promise."

"I don't believe you," you admit bluffly. You’re examining his body language and expressions under your metaphoric microscope, but not because of scrutiny. It's because you genuinely care. "Are you still having nightmares?"

Carmen doesn't have the heart to lie. "Most nights," he says. "I wake up screaming sometimes."

"And have you thought of going to a professional for that?"

"Fuck no."

"Carmen," you chide innocently, “I really think you should consider it. Otherwise, you know you can still talk to me, don't you?

He shakes his head in disdain and says, "You have enough on your plate.”

You clutch his upper arms, clenching them one time, imploring him to take you seriously. "Is it such a crime to care about you?"

"What, your shitty ex-boyfriend who can't get his shit together because he's a piece of shit? Yeah, you should be arrested."

"Stop it."

Carmen decides to swiftly change the subject, remembering he's still holding the half-eaten dessert he stole earlier. "Want the rest of this cupcake? It tastes like shit."

It looks like you're about to scold him for swearing excessively, but your face quickly morphs into that of a sad puppy. "I made those from scratch," you whisper, almost inaudibly.

"You made these? Oh. Well, I— it’s not bad." Your eyes are widening with every word he speaks. "They're not! Just dry, is all. Maybe went a little overboard on the flour."

Frowning, you remorsefully reply, "You just said it tastes like shit, Carmen."

"The buttercream frosting makes up for it, though. It's fire."

Your frown deepens, as does the plunge of your eyebrows. "The frosting was store-bought."

The smallest of smiles breaks out on Carmen's lips as he releases an authentic burst of laughter he hasn’t heard from himself in far too long. "I knew it," he murmurs, shaking his head and absentmindedly passing a hand through his hair. His arm then hooks around your shoulders, drawing you into him with an endearing squeeze. "You make me laugh."

You look up at him earnestly. "I've missed you."

I've missed you much, much more. You're my comfort. My safe space. You taught me what it’s like to love someone with such ferocity. Endlessly. Yet I stand here like a brick wall as your devotion ricochets upon me. And I'm so sorry.

"You have?"

"Of course," you say, your eyes searching his. "I worry about you a lot. You're dealing with the unimaginable, and I hope from the bottom of my heart that you're finding slivers of peace throughout it all."

Carmen feels oncoming tears burn the sinuses of his nose. He really doesn't want to start crying at your nephew's birthday party, so he blinks back the stinging sensation and finishes the dry cupcake still in his hand. His defenses are getting weaker in your presence. Pretty soon they’ll crumble into ruins until he's a shell of a man on the verge of collapsing into desolation.

"Hey, you two! It's time to serve lunch!"

The deep voice startles the both of you. Your father is leaning his body around the corner and insistently clapping his hands together as if to say chop-chop, lovebirds.

You slide past Carmen, giving him a soft smile and leaving with a comment of, “You need a haircut.”

Carmen stands motionless with his head hung low, entangled emotions knotting in his stomach. Something has shifted. There was a yearning in the underbelly of the moment, crawling up to the surface, ready to break loose like a cannonball.

He only has one chance to ignite the fuse.

——

#the bear fanfic #carmen berzatto fanfic #carmen berzatto imagine #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto angst #carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto #the bear #jeremy allen white

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thetaoofzoe · 3 years

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Fic: Syverson the Protector pt 5

* Syverson The Protector - Part I (pairing Syverson x YOU)

* Syverson the Protector - Part II (pairing Syverson x YOU)

* Syverson the Protector - Part III (pairing Syverson x YOU)

* Syverson the Protector - Part IV (pairing Syverson x YOU)

Author note: Finally part 5! Thank you so much for hanging in with me through this delightful journey and I hope that this part quenches your desire.

Summary: Henry has invited you to spend a few weeks at his cabin in the mountains and of course you agree. 💖NEW💖

Rating for this part: Sex, fluff, discussion of trauma (minor) Everyone has a good time and Aika is there too :)

I’ve picked ‘Henry’ as Syverson’s first name and he’s grown his hair out :D

Must be read in order, no part can stand alone.

Word count: 7500

Want to read more? Click for my Masterlist

‘Well,’ said your nurse as she watched you sort and pack your belongings. ‘If you want him to know how you feel, you have to tell him.’

She folded her arms and leaned against the narrow door frame to your hospital room. You glanced up at her.

‘I’m not twelve, Barb,’ you scoffed, nevertheless feeling pleased with her observation.

‘Well you were the one asking me to pass notes to him like you were in school.’

You raised your brows in surprise and then pointed an accusatory finger at her. You had resorted to note passing because you couldn’t see Henry face to face and communicate with him like an adult. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but you made it work.

‘You, Nurse Barb,’ you started, about to say something caustic and then relented, deciding to be sweet. ‘Did a great job passing notes, and I thank you.’

You flipped closed your small travel case and crossed the hospital room to grab at one of the slowly deflating helium ‘Get Well’ balloons which still listed lazily around the silver weight that held it in place. With a small pair of scissors, you cut the ribbon tether and lanced the mylar in an inconspicuous place. Pressing the balloon to your chest, you squeezed out the remainder of the helium air mix and added the now flat balloon to the pile of other flattened balloons.

‘So? Then what are you going to do about it?’ Barb continued to press. ‘Leave and regret never having said anything?’’

You stopped compacting the pile of deflated balloons and turned to look at her.

This whole budding romance thing between two war torn lovers must have been the most exciting thing that had ever happened to the nurse, you thought pleasantly. It was certainly exciting to you. So, you cut her some slack.

‘I just happen to know that he’s outside in the pool area right now. And, you have some time before your flight.’

The look on her face was both encouraging and infuriating.

Smiling, you walked to the door and patted Barb’s shoulder.

‘All right. I’ll go.’

She waggled her brows, turned and walked with you down the narrow corridor and then through the half-empty dayroom. She stopped at the double glass doors that led to the pool area and used her weight to press open one side.

‘I can’t tell if you’re a really good matchmaker or a really bad matchmaker,’ you said absently.

She shrugged.

‘Good luck, and don’t be too hard on him.’

‘I won’t. Well, I probably won’t. Well...I can’t promise.’

She chuckled and quickly gave you a one-armed hug.

‘I’ll have them bring your bags to the car when it turns up. There are a few people going to the airport with you. So if I don’t see you… keep in touch, ok?’

You nodded and walked through the open door.

The pool area, as they called it, was really just a collection of beach umbrellas shading colourful inflatable kiddie pools, some blowup flamingos, and an odd assortment of mismatched lawn chairs. There were several men camped out around most of the medium sized pools, with their feet in the water and enjoying each other’s company. You spotted Henry right off the bat, as he was the only one still in a wheelchair and paused a moment to watch him laugh at something the man next to him had just said. You were loath to interrupt them.

I’ll just leave a note, you thought, turning your back to the men in order to return to the day room. He won’t mind. I’ll leave a note and my business card so he won’t feel pressured to say anything to my face.

A little lost in thought, you lingered there for a moment, with your hand on the door handle when your thoughts were interrupted by a chorus of teasing male voices calling out your name, accompanied by whistles and several coquettish sounding ‘yoo-hoo!’s.

A wave of heat rushed into your face and you hunched your shoulders in a self-conscious cringe.

Jesus Christ you hated military men sometimes.

But you had been caught and you had no other choice but to turn around and face them.

One of the men kicked out the empty lawn chair closest to Syverson and waved you over. Taking the invitation, you drew the chair close to the circle, lightly rested your hand on Henry’s shoulder and sat down next to him. It was good to see him looking so well.

‘I read your new article,’ said the man, and by deciphering his medical wristband you learned he was called Solensky. ‘That was a damn brave thing you did.’

You shook your head and looked at Syverson, hoping that he didn’t think you were trying to steal glory.

‘I didn’t write it to showcase what I did. I had to tell people what really happened. How heroic the men were. And my partner. The sacrifices that they all made. What I did wasn’t important.’

‘Saving my life wasn’t important?’

Syverson sounded a little bit hurt and turning to him you were at a loss to read his suddenly cloudy expression.

You opened your mouth to protest.

‘I-- I didn’t mean that you… of course you are important. I just did what I had to.’

You held his incredulous gaze and continued, ‘you know that, Henry.’

Didn’t he believe you?

‘He don’t mean it like that,’ said Solensky. ‘He means that, you doing what you did, was important. Even if you don’t think it was.’

Henry obviously agreed with the man’s assessment, for a smile lifted the corner of his mouth and you cut a relieved and fondly exasperated look at him. Sitting back in the creaky lawn chair you kicked your feet out in front of you and rested them against the cushy rounded pool edge.

‘Thank you,’ you said finally and nodded to Solensky. ‘I had hoped to get it finished and published before I left.’

It felt good to hear some praise from the men you were trying to uplift.

‘You leaving soon?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Today. In a few hours in fact.’

You turned to face Henry again.

‘I wanted to say goodbye before I did.’

His face remained unreadable and you feared that you had upset him in some way.

The door to the dayroom opened and Barb called to you.

‘The car is here early. They have to do more stops, so you’ll have to leave now, I’m sorry.’

You shot Syverson a panicked look.

Now? But you didn’t say all you wanted to say. You didn’t have time!

‘Ok,’ Henry said finally. ‘You don’t want to keep them waiting or they’re gonna have you walking home.’

He pressed himself up and out of the wheelchair and breathing a little hard from the exertion, he faced you when you stood as well.

‘I’m in your debt. Whenever you need me, for whatever reason, I want you to call on me. It don’t matter, you got that?’

‘I got it,’ you answered, feeling a deep pang of agony and regret in your gut. Leaving was harder than you had expected.

Henry smiled then and curving his arms around you, he pulled you against his sun warmed body.

And what torture it was for him to hold you like that!

You put your head on his chest and embraced him in return. And, when you lifted your teary eyes, he leaned in and kissed your forehead. But that wasn’t good enough. Not nearly enough and you squeezed him when his lips met yours.

‘Ok… ok,’ you giggled, feeling hot faced and aroused. ‘You gotta stop that or I won’t be able to leave.’

He didn’t release you.

‘You can stay and come home with me,’ he said, moving in for another kiss.

You ducked your head and stepped out of his embrace.

‘If you behave, maybe I will.’

Barb cleared her throat, a signal that you were out of time, and kissing him quickly, you turned to leave.

‘Barb’ll give you my card. It’ll have my info on it.’

‘I will?’ she asked, glaring at you and then at him. ‘Boy, I’ll be glad when you leave and I can stop all of this note ferrying back and forth.’

‘See ya,’ said Henry.

‘Soon,’ you promised and went through the day room doors.

It had been six months. Six months of convalescing at home, writing columns and binge watching all of the television shows you missed while you were deployed. It had also been a pleasant six months of regular correspondence with Henry, which culminated in him asking you to come to the mountains with him for a few weeks. He had a little cabin in Montana which he had been renovating and now that Aika was finished with her mandatory quarantine in the States, he was going to go there and relax.

A few weeks in the fresh mountain air was just what you needed and once you agreed, he made and paid for your travel arrangements.

It was refreshingly cool when you shuffled into the noise and chaos of the airport arrival terminal on your way to the baggage claim. However, you walked a little more leisurely than the hustling crowd, taking in the sights and idly people watching. As a journalist, although you had trekked through more airports than you cared to count, the peculiar culture of tiny, and expensive indoor pseudo-cities like this was still so compelling. It wouldn’t be strange to see a bleary eyed man chowing down on a stacked burger and swilling his third bourbon on the rocks at 6:30 in the morning. Or seeing a grown woman tucked into an awkward corner, and clutching her carry-on bag protectively in front of her as she tried to catch some sleep during an unexpected flight delay.

You had been both of those people at one point or another in your travels. But there was another reason why you were strolling and taking your time examining the mass produced keychains and tee shirts proclaiming the name of the state you were in. You were nervous and your heart banged painfully against your ribs. You could feel it galloping and straining against its internal tethers and you had to stop occasionally and pretend to look at overpriced pizza slices in order to catch your breath.

You were nervous about seeing him again. That sweet, unfairly handsome Captain Henry Syverson.

The thought of him made you smile but you pressed it into a straight neutral line in the event someone was watching. You didn’t want to seem crazy, grinning down at a display case of heat-lamp warmed slices of cheese pizza.

When you finally reached baggage claim, a man, dressed in a dark suit and white shirt was waiting for you. He stood with the rest of the chauffeurs looking bored and holding an open tablet on which your name stood out in bold block letters on the screen. You walked expectantly up to him and he smiled and greeted you by name.

‘How was your trip?’ he asked, as he walked with you to the baggage carousel.

‘It was fine, thank you.’

And the two of you stood side by side watching the conveyor belt start to move and roll out the luggage.

‘Which one is yours?’ he asked, moving closer to the belt, ready to snag your bag as it tumbled by.

‘The red one, with the white stripe. It has the camera shaped luggage tag.’

He nodded and when that red bag came by, he grabbed it by the side handle. He then put it down, pulled up the telescoped handle and indicated that you follow him to the parking lot. Outside, the cool air woke you from your flight induced stupor and you took in a long cleansing breath.

‘First time in Montana?’ he asked, grinning as he watched you stretch your arms and back.

‘Just tired,’ you said. ‘Long flight.’

He opened the door to the glossy black SUV and helped you step up into the high spotless interior. Through the back window you watched him stow your suitcase in the trunk and followed him with your eyes until he climbed into the truck.

‘So,’ he said and fiddled with his tablet. ‘It’s going to take a little while to get to the destination. Is it warm enough for you? Too warm? There are snacks in the centre console and water under the seat. Do you mind if I have the radio on?’

The questions seemed rehearsed and you assured him that everything was fine before you sat back into the plush leather seats and he drove off.

Taking out your mobile, you switched it off of airplane mode and it immediately pinged that you had a message.

Making sure you landed safely.

You smiled and replied that you had done just that and were already on your way.

I’ll be waiting. I hope you’re hungry.

The driver was right. It took two and a half hours to get to the cabin and the last mile or so was on a dirt road so pitted and bumpy that you weren’t sure you were going to come out of the ride in one piece.

But it was all made better when you spotted Henry standing with Aika on the broad porch of a gorgeous mountain cabin. When he said that he wanted you to spend time with him at the cabin, you immediately pictured it to be a one or two room Little House on the Prairie type place. Which was absolutely fine with you, as you wouldn’t be there to admire the decor. However, you were not expecting the beautiful structure that stood proudly amongst the trees.

The driver slowed, made an awkward k-turn in the dirt and deposited you directly in front of the tall man approaching the truck.

The sight of Henry made you feel weak and proud to show the driver that you had been chosen by a superior specimen. Henry briefly spoke to the driver through his open window and the trunk popped open. With hands clasped in your lap, you waited. Henry grabbed your suitcase, slammed shut the trunk and then opened your door. He positively beamed at you and when you took his outstretched hand, you felt like a princess being rescued from a high tower.

When the SUV made its way back down the dirt road and the two of you were finally alone, you were faced with one of two decisions.

One: behave in your usual awkward way and shake his hand or pat his shoulder and thank him for letting you come and visit.

Two: press into his arms and give him the biggest hello I fucking missed you, kiss he’d ever received.

With some internal dismay, you found yourself leaning towards option one. You didn’t want to lead him to the wrong impression about you and slowly you extended your hand.

A look of surprise drifted across his face, but he was apparently willing to follow your lead. Before he could take that hand, you had a change of heart and instead ran straight at him and clamped your arms about his waist.

‘Hey, baby,’ he murmured, kissing the top of your head and enveloping you in his strong arms.

Oh God, you thought. I’m gonna start crying.

Tears pricked your eyes and before you could stop yourself, you heaved with a desperate sob.

‘What’s the matter?!’ he asked, sounding alarmed with the sudden change in your attitude.

You clutched him tighter and put your face against him.

‘I’m… I’m so happy to see you standing right here,’ you gasped.

The last time you’d seen him in the flesh, he had still been mostly confined to a wheelchair, still healing from his terrible wounds and unable to look after himself. But there he was now, strong and whole and so warm in your arms that you felt an overwhelming sense of affection for him.

Henry held you tighter and you felt infinitely safe in his embrace. Everything was right with the world.

‘I thought about the moment I could do this,’ he said, gently stroking your back. ‘And now I made you cry.’

‘I’m just so happy to see you well,’ you said, pulling back and looking at his wryly smiling face. ‘And not hooked up to wires and IVs.’

‘Ok,’ he drawled. ‘Me too. In that case…’

He curved one hand about your cheek and lifting your face, he kissed you. It took a few more moments of cuddling before you eventually stopped trembling and having an existential crisis. He drew back, bent down and picked up your bag.

‘You hungry?’ he asked, slipping his hand down to your lower back and guiding you to the glorious cabin.

‘Famished!’ you announced and stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

The dog on the porch sat up and wriggled with pleasure, her thick furry tail whapping excitedly on the wooden boards.

Henry dragged his fingers through the thick brown and black scruff and scratched her angular head. The dog bowed and flattened her ears softly and approached you. You put both hands on her head and massaged her fluffy ears.

‘I remember you,’ you said to the dog who continued to eagerly lick at your hands.

‘This place is different than where she’s from, but she loves it.’

Then to Aika he said, ‘stay on the porch.’

And the dog promptly flopped down on the cushiony bed made from folded quilts and began her surveillance of the surrounding tranquil woods.

Henry opened the cabin door and ushered you in.

The inside was just as spectacular as the outside and your mouth came open with surprise.

‘I know you did all of this, didn’t you. It’s so… beautiful.’

‘I had help,’ he answered modestly. ‘It’s been a work in progress for years. Still got some things to do, but it’s liveable.’

Liveable, you scoffed silently. That was an understatement. The place was an obviously handcrafted masterpiece. From the matte blonde wood flooring and the warm caramel panelling, it was a masculine tribute to a rustic lifestyle. The appliances were new, but understatedly retro and wood burning. The main living room was broad and comfortable with soft couches and homespun appointments. You followed Henry down a narrow hallway to the left. Off of that hallway was a short staircase that led to the upper floor.

‘There’s a guest bedroom down there,’ he said pointing to the door at the end of the corridor and the master is upstairs.’

He gestured that you go up the stairs and you complied. Opening the door at the top of the stairs, you found yourself walking into a bright warm room with a large bed facing a broad clean window that overlooked the trees and the lake behind the cabin. It smelt of pine and you wondered if he picked that scent because he thought you might like it. You did like it.

Henry put your bag on the floor by the bed.

‘This is your room.’

He rested a hand on the glossy dresser top which had been pushed against the far wall.

‘You can put your stuff in here, or hang them up in the closet.’

He opened the door next to the dresser to show you the empty closet space.

‘Bathroom’s over here.’

He crossed the room, opened the second door and you poked your head in, pleased to see a full bath and tub.

That tub might come in handy for sexytimes.

Once the tour was completed you smiled at him, but left the question of where he was going to stay to burn on the tip of your tongue.

It didn’t stay there long for Henry beat you to it.

‘I’ll be downstairs… in the guest room.’

There was hesitation in his voice and he trailed off seeming suddenly shy and awkward.

Was he as nervous about your visit as you were?

He didn’t look at you as he put a hand against the back of his head, which you knew was an unconscious self-soothing gesture. But you didn’t want to put him out of his misery just yet. You were enjoying it too much.

‘If… when you need me,’ he finished.

The implication of needing him, at night, hung heavily in the air and trailing a finger up his bare forearm, you squashed a smile.

‘And you’ll be downstairs…’ you said, keeping your voice serious and your expression neutral. ‘If… I mean when I need you. You’ll be downstairs? In the guest bedroom? Downstairs?’

He looked at you a moment, his own expression a mild mix of confusion and then that sweet slow bloom of understanding in his eyes. You saw the exact moment that he realised you were teasing him and you couldn’t help laughing.

‘C’mon you,’ you said, slipping your hand into his. ‘I’m starving.’

***

Once downstairs, he packed a big red-topped cooler with vegetables and potatoes and steaks that had been marinating overnight, as well as cutlery, plates and other sundry items. Carrying only a chilled six pack of bottled lager, you followed him down the winding gravel path to the lake. There was a rustic firepit down there flanked by two dark wood adirondack chairs and a picnic table.

You wondered if he made all of that himself and then chuckled. Of course he did.

You watched him dump the cooler next to the grated firepit and go to grab a few already split logs from a nearby pile. Clutching the thin cardboard handle of the sixpack in both hands you felt unbearably girly and unwilling to admit that watching him start a fire with a small pile of tinder and a magnesium firestick, aroused the fuck out of you. It didn’t help that his jeans stretched nicely across his thighs when he crouched lower and gently blew onto the young flame before quickly adding additional fuel until the fire was stable enough to tent the logs over it.

Henry rose and dusted his hands against the seat of his jeans and you cleared your throat.

‘That was sexy,’ you said and laughed at your own audacity.

He glanced at you over his shoulder, clearly appreciative of your praise, but instead of addressing it, he pointed to the short pier.

‘Do you see the green nylon sack over there?’

You looked and nodded.

‘Take the bottles and put ‘em in the sack and lower it into the water. That’ll keep ‘em cold.’

Feeling helpful, you did as you were told. When you returned a few minutes later, you hoisted yourself up onto the top of the picnic table and rested your feet on the bench seat.

‘Do you want some help?’ you asked after a moment.

‘Nope,’ he answered, and cast another amused look at you over his shoulder. ‘You just sit there and be pretty for me, ok?’

You preened, and lightly patted your face. It was as pretty as you were going to get.

‘I think I can do that. Sure.’

And you sat there thinking about having children with him. You imagined taking them on camping trips and teaching them all of the survival skills they needed to fend for themselves in the event the zombie apocalypse drove your family into the woods. So you asked him if he was prepared for the apocalypse and sat there rapt as he explained his six point plan and how he had been planning and storing for the last three years.

When dinner was ready, the two of you ate at the picnic table and drank most of the beer and discussed the pros and cons of wasting ammo to achieve a head shot as opposed to just disabling the zombie so that you could escape it.

‘Yeah, but you are the one who’s gonna get the successful headshots. I’m just out there swinging a rake or something.’

‘Can get you a katana if you like.’

You laughed and swigged your beer. Pointing the mouth of the bottle at him you scoffed.

‘A katana?? I’d more likely slice myself up before I’d do any damage to a zombie.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Henry replied easily and stood up to stoke the fire.

He helped himself to another few spoonfuls of vegetables, which when offered, you declined.

‘A little training and some practice, you’d be fine.’

‘You have a lot of misplaced faith in me, sir,’ you teased him.

Henry was quick to answer.

‘You’re wrong. You already proved to be capable, ingenious and tougher than you think. I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.’

Your chest tightened at the traumatic memory and you stared down at your empty bottle. The helpless tears started to threaten again.

But biting them back, you reached across the table and put your hand over his. Henry took it, curved your fingers over his and brought your hand to his lips.

Henry’s open emotion made you feel just as raw and vulnerable as you had that fateful day. The day that entwined your lives together forever.

You reached for him with your other hand and stroked his cheek, trailing your fingers through his beard which continued to amaze you with how soft it was to touch. He captured your other hand and kissed that one as well and then held them both. And when he smiled, you smiled in return. It was all right now.

It was starting to get dark and across the lake, you could see the setting sun disappearing behind the mountains. Henry got up and began clearing the table.

‘ Go and sit by the fire,’ he instructed you when you tried to help.

If he wanted to do all of the work, who were you to stop him. You slid onto the cool chair and drew your knees up and to the side to get comfortable just as Aika came trotting out of the woods. She went immediately to you and put her slobbery chin on your thigh. You rubbed her furry head until she was tired of the attention and went to beg scraps from Henry.

‘Coffee?’ he asked a moment later and lifted an old battered tin percolator to show you that he meant coffee and not anything else.

‘I could have one, sure.’

You had got used to black coffee during your time on the front and really never bothered to change it when you went back to civilian life. The cup he gave you was hot and tasted fresh with a hint of vanilla.

‘Vanilla,’ you said and he chuckled, seating himself in the chair next to you.

‘I ah… I got used to it over there, now I can’t drink any other kind.’

You didn’t mind it. Not at all and the two of you sat in companionable silence.

‘It’s a beautiful place, Henry. A beautiful cabin. I am amazed that you did all of this.’

‘My friends helped. This is their place when they want it too.’

Aika flopped down on the space between the chairs and Henry reached down to pat her head.

‘Are you glad I’m here?’ you asked finally, admittedly fishing a little for compliments.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m very glad you’re here.’

You were going to say something else but a yawn caught you off guard. Now that you were full and content and safe, sleepiness began to creep in around the corners.

‘You had a long flight,’ Henry offered as explanation, holding out his hand to take your cup. ‘If you want to go on in to sleep, I’ll take care of things here out here.’

‘No! No, I don’t want to leave. I’m not too sleepy.’

‘Awright,’ he chuckled and leaned back into the chair.

Aika yawned then and you did the same. You put the cup on the flat arm of the chair and closed your eyes. You had never felt so happy and before you knew it, you had drifted off. When you woke with a start later, it was dark and the fire had been extinguished. A glimmer of faint stars reflected by the lake was your only anchor point that confirmed where you were.

But it was the type of dark that could only be achieved when there was no light pollution from nearby cities and you felt a twinge of panic.

‘Henry?’ you called sitting up.

He wasn’t in the chair next to you and Aika was gone.

Shit! What if the killer was still out there?

You heard footsteps approaching on the gravel path.

‘I’m here.’

His voice was warm and steady.

There was no moon and standing, you blindly searched in front of you as he came closer. He put his hand around you, resting it low on your back then pulled you to him. At his touch, a jolt of welcomed pleasure spread out from your core.

‘Why are you out here lurking in the dark?’ you giggled softly, pressing your hands flat on his chest.

‘Making sure nothing carries you off,’ he replied just as quietly and gave you a squeeze.

Henry was clearly feeling for the edges of your boundaries and you deeply appreciated that about him. He hadn’t forced your hand and he was eagerly playing by your rules.

‘I’m glad to have my big strong protector to save me from the monsters. Are you… gonna take me inside now?’

‘Yeah. C’mon.’

God, his voice was so unbearably soft and alluring and you knew that if you weren’t careful, you would find yourself beneath him in his bed tonight.

You had to be careful, so once inside the cabin, you kissed him and bade him goodnight. Admittedly, that probably wasn’t how he expected the evening to end but you knew you were going to make the wait worth his while.

After showering thoroughly, you changed your clothes and sat down on the edge of the soft bed. The cabin was quiet except for the normal sounds of the woods coming in through the open window and the sounds of Henry moving around downstairs.

I could get used to this.

After a moment you heard the shower running downstairs and you immediately worried that you hadn’t left enough hot water for him. Stretching out on top of the quilt you listened and imagined his naked body, his wet, soapy naked body and a tingle raced up your thighs and pooled insistent heat in your groin. You bit your lip and pushed your hand between your legs. You held your hand there, still and unmoving and listened until everything had fallen silent on the lower floor.

You breathed quietly, in and out and in and out again and relaxed, drawing your hand away and tucking it across your midsection.

Sleep, you thought. It was all going to be more rational in the morning.

Bright sunlight and sweet bird songs greeted you the next morning. After washing up, you followed the scent of coffee and breakfast downstairs.

The front room was empty, but there was food and a still steaming coffee pot on the stove. The sound of Aika barking outside led you to the door and then out onto the porch. Henry stood at the bottom of the steps holding a red ball which he launched into the air for the dog to chase. He turned when you came to stand next to him.

‘Morning,’ he grinned and kissed you when you lifted your face to ask for it.

‘Hi. How did you sleep?’

‘Yeah, good, good. You?’

You stretched in the warm morning sunlight and fondly watched Aika race back to you. She dropped the ball and danced away, to wait for the next missile. Henry obliged and the dog took off again.

‘It was better than I expected,’ you admitted happily. ‘It usually takes me a couple of nights before I can get comfortable in a new place.’

He nodded and took a drink from his flowered cup.

‘Good. Hungry?’

‘I love that you’re always feeding me,’ you said joyfully. ‘Can we eat down by the lake?’

‘Anything you want, baby,’ he agreed.

The air by the lake was warm and fresh and a few metres out on the water was a group of ducks having a morning swim. Basking in the sun with a hearty meal and an intriguing and funny man was the most indulgent thing you could have possibly done. And you held onto the moment for as long as it presented itself.

You even agreed to a short easy hike after breakfast and in a sun drenched meadow you lay in the sweet smelling grass and talked about nothing in particular.

The day passed in uneventful bliss and again, Henry prepared dinner over the fire and afterwards the two of you sat side by side on the top porch step to watch some unexpected fireworks in the eastern sky.

During a lull in the colourful explosions, you went inside to grab a seat cushion.

When you came onto the porch, you were careful not to kick the cup at Henry’s side. Instead you picked up your own cup and gesturing for him to make room, you tossed down the cushion and sat on the step right between his knees. A little smile blossomed on your face, a response to the feeling of peace spreading through you, and you leaned back against Henry using his thighs as arm rests.

‘I like this,’ you said quietly and relaxed into the warm hands gently kneading your shoulders.

‘Yeah.’

The sound of him, low and husky behind you, filled you with pleasure. You pressed harder between his open legs and he went still. This was the moment of truth. Your heart thrummed with anticipation against your ribs and when he relaxed, so did you.

A beat of silence drifted between you and then he spoke.

‘You wanna go inside with me?’

There was a loud scratching sound of your nails raking along his jeans, evidence of your involuntary reaction to his clear invitation.

‘Yes. I-- want to.’

The breath he let out was audible.

‘C’mon then.’

Henry pushed himself up from the step and effortlessly lifted you in the process. It was like floating on air, reckless yet safe in his strong arms and when your feet finally hit the porch, you were loath to be released. You turned around to face him and slid your arms about his neck. The force of his kiss surprised you, and you clung tighter to him, opening your mouth to take all of him in. Henry pulled you against him and walked backwards towards the cabin door.

You cried out with delight when he crouched and swept you up into his arms. Just like the charming prince he touted himself to be.

‘I love this,’ you murmured, nipping at his lower lip and then suckling it between your own. ‘Why don’t you fuck me in your bed.’

‘Fuck,’ he groaned and clutched you to his chest. ‘You’re gonna drive me crazy, baby.’

‘I promise I’ll drive you crazy.’

Henry didn’t waste time in carrying you to the small bedroom at the end of the hall.

His room was clean, and quiet. Not as fancy as the master bedroom, but it was enough with its bed and bureau and the small adjoining shower. Aika, who had been napping on the floor at the foot of the bed perked up and cautiously thumped her tail as if wondering why the hell the two humans were making so much noise.

‘Aika,’ said Henry desperately. ‘Out!’

With a groan of a petulant child, the dog heaved herself up and reluctantly left the room. Henry booted the door shut behind her and then set you down onto your feet. There was enough gloaming light coming in through the windows for you to see him grin.

He cupped your face between his hands and kissed you gently, thoroughly and then let his fingers trail down over your shoulders, your arms and then across your waist where he curled his fingers beneath the hem of your baggy tee shirt. Instinctively you raised your arms when he lifted the shirt up and over your head. He tossed the shirt onto the chair in the corner. He then turned you around and unhooked your bra which was also tossed to join the shirt. And still keeping your back to him, he kissed your shoulder and then the other and then kissed the space between them. The light scratch of his beard on such an unexpectedly tender place made you shiver and your nipples harden. He hummed quietly, a sound of absolute satisfaction and he nipped you lightly where your shoulder sloped down to your collarbone. You sighed voluptuously and leaned into his muscular chest, turning your upper body slightly and reaching back to smooth your hand over his head.

Henry slipped his hands up from your waist and cupped your bare breasts and kissed you deeply as if trying to drink in every bit of you. You felt utterly possessed, and helpless in the face of his overwhelmingly masculine sexual power. You would give him everything, anything and all he had to do was ask.

He slid his hands down your belly again and into the elastic waistband of your shorts. He eased them over your hips and chased your curves to the warm, velvety space between your legs. Highly aware of his two thick fingers beginning to work into your wetness you arched and moaned breathlessly, your voice rising sweetly into the warmth of the room. A dark knowing chuckle rumbled behind you and Henry dragged his tongue across your lower lip.

All of your attention narrowed to that single delicious focal point of those deft fingers stroking your quivering clit and sliding deeper inside you.

‘I want you,’ Henry murmured and the demand behind his words made you shudder. ‘I want you so bad.’

Yes, you thought. I want you. The moment I met you, I wanted you. I’ve always wanted you.

You turned in his arms and a wave of lust crashed over you at the sight of him. He slipped those two previous busy fingers into his mouth and sucked off your juice. You crooked a finger at him, beckoning him closer as you backed towards the bed. Henry whipped off his shirt and took his time unbuckling his belt and shoving down his jeans until he could stand beautifully naked before you, his thick beautiful cock hard and standing at the ready.

You were ready for him indeed. Henry closed the space between you and grabbing you about the waist, he hoisted you up and sprawled you messily across the bed. You sat up, reached for him and dragged him down atop you. He was heavy, and pressed you steadily into the soft sheets and you never wanted to escape him. Henry kissed you hard, punishingly, muffling your sudden cry of pleasure with his mouth. You hugged and kissed him and swore under your breath, eager for the soft velvety feel of his blood-hot cock sliding up along your inner thigh.

‘Come inside me, Henry.’

It was all the invitation he needed.

The newness of him sliding into you hurt just a little, a small but welcomed reminder of what it meant when two lovers finally joined. Henry stilled then, and breathed quietly, as if fighting his urge to cum. You stroked his shoulders and kissed his face, encouraging him to focus only on you. He lifted his head and held your gaze as he rocked up into you again, then again, slowly and deliberately, stoking that fire smouldering between the two of you. You arched against him, vaguely aware of your own lusty sounds and Henry increased the intensity of his thrusts and in turn heightened the ferocity of your pleasure.

Henry lit your fuse and it consumed you. It crackled over your sensitive flesh and along every nerve ending and you responded eagerly to every slow drag of his cock in and out of you. He made you feel alive, more alive than ever before and at the moment of your orgasm you closed your eyes and let his name escape your lips, offering it up as a prayer, as praise. As thanks.

You held onto him when he finally completed the circuit and poured himself inside you.

It took several moments of panting beneath him before Henry moved off of you and you immediately felt the loss. So you lay there, sweat cooling on your skin and basking in the warm feelings of well being. When your senses returned, you got up and went to the bathroom for a quick pee and wash up and when you returned, the bed was turned down and you crawled gratefully beneath the soft sheets.

‘That was fucking amazing,’ you murmured to the man next to you. ‘That was the best sex I have ever had.’

Henry chuckled and sounded pleased.

‘Yeah. I waited a long time for you.’

‘Oh yeah? The moment I put my hand in yours outside of the barracks, you what? Wanted to carry me off to fuck me?’

He grunted.

‘Yeah! Something like that. I would’ve at least got your name first, /then/ put you over my shoulder and carried you off.’

You smiled to yourself and imagined the scene and how shocked the men would have been to watch their stoic captain haul off the journalist for a little fun. You closed your eyes, only intending to get more comfortable to continue the conversation. However, again sleep had other ideas.

Light burst behind your eyelids and the sound of shouting male voices filled your ears. You struggled to open your eyes, but something was holding them sealed shut. Another explosion and then the sound of rocks raining down all around you. I’m on fire, you thought, desperately trying to claw your way out of burning clothes. Your hands were already seared into talons of fused flesh and bone and there was nothing you could do to stop the pain. Sand blasted your vulnerable flesh and you opened your mouth to scream, only to be choked by tiny merciless shards of hot glass. You continued to scream and scream barely aware of the hands on your arms and the voice calling you name. It was Henry and he was shaking you out of your nightmare.

‘You’re all right, baby. You’re all right,’ he murmured pulling you against him. ‘It’s just a nightmare. You’re all right now. I’m here.’

As the dream melted away, you curled up into his arms and burst into tears. Henry gentled you until you quieted and even beyond that until eventually you were able to speak.

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry…’

‘Don’t be sorry, baby,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t be. I’m here. I’ll protect you.’

You lifted your tear wet face and kissed him. Then again and again, rolling onto your back and pulling him with you.

‘Make love to me, Henry. Please. Make love to me.’

‘I’ll take care of you,’ he promised.

And you trusted him to do just that.

The morning rain kept the two of you inside the snug cabin and in bed where you took your time exploring and delighting in the mystery of each other.

‘Does it still hurt?’ you asked, pulling back the sheets and stroking your fingers along the thick jagged scar that cut across his lower belly.

Henry looked down at where you were touching him and shook his head.

‘No. Not anymore.’

You fell silent, listening to the rasp of your dry fingers gliding across his skin. Henry curled an arm about you when you put your head on his shoulder.

‘You never went to talk to someone about it, did you.’

It wasn’t a question and as much as you wanted to feign ignorance, you couldn’t shut down your immediate and visceral reaction to his observation.

No. You had buried yourself in work the moment you got back to the States and didn’t want to think about the trauma that had befallen you. What was the point? It was over, wasn’t it?

Henry felt your body tense and he rubbed your back.

‘That’s why you’re still having nightmares.’

Your voice was small when you spoke, hoping to be heard against the lashing rain.

‘I thought I could handle it.’

He chuckled.

‘I know. I thought I could handle it too. They don’t let us go home without group therapy. I fucking hate it, but I do it, because it works.’

You stopped the back and forth motion of your hand and just rested it on his scar. It was the thing that drew you together, the thing that reminded him of you.

Henry turned his head and kissed your forehead.

‘You’re so strong. And you’re carrying this weight. But you gotta let it go, baby.’

‘I know. I… dream about you dying in the explosion and then burning to death. I can’t stop it. I can’t help you.’

Henry held you close.

‘You’re alive and I’m alive. I’m right here with you. You don’t have to worry when you’re with me.’

You slept against his chest for most of the day and dreamed, not of violence in a desolate place but of a bright new future.

-end part 5 you naughty little things. I love you ;D Please consider helping me to broaden my audience by reblogging this fic and sharing. Thank you.

Tag list: @lightsidecalling @omgkatinka @igotkatiepowers @the-soot-sprite @harrysthiccthighss @little-green-love @foxyjwls007 @angreav @maizyistrash @liquorlaughslove @supernaturallymarvellous @laketaj24 @october505 @inlovewithhisblueeyes @foodieforthoughts @wolvesandhoundshowltogether @singeramg @sapphirescrolls @brandycranby @zealoushound @eldarwen333 @beck07990 @lunedelorient @henrythickcavill @kalesrebellion @angrythingstarlight @lavitabella87 @kebabgirl67 @hail-horror-queen

#henry cavill #captain syverson #captain syverson x reader #man of steel #geralt #the witcher #reader insert

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 4 years

Text

Humans are Space Orcs, “Not like this.”

Hope you guys all have a great day :)

Hijan was sitting on a patch of red moss staring out at the red sky over the distant volcanoes. A dull ache rose up in her carapace, though it was one she could mostly ignore. It was going to rain later, that much she could tell from the red of that distant sky.

Upon her lap lay a long spear chipped and worn with age, though its point was still as sharp as ever.

She heard the footsteps while they were still a ways away, below the bluff. SHe didn’t bother to look up knowing who it was…. The sentinel, her only son: Hasan.

He walked over to where she was standing, but did not sit with her.

She looked up mildly confused.

His face was somber.

“Hasan, is something wrong.”

He bowed his head to her, “Mother, there has been some… news.”

She stood, not liking the sound of this. Her joints were a little stiff, but she managed just fine, “What news?”

Hasan lowered his head, “Word was brought by messenger early this morning. The Drev counselor for the GA is calling the Drev war clans to arms if they would be willing to fight.”

He tapped her spear against the stone, “And how does this concern us?” her son had always been a believer in the old ways, and was generally not interested in the outside politics of non-drev nations.

He lowered his head, “Mother… I… we received word. He’s dead.”

Hijan crossed her arms, a little habit she had picked up from her other son (adopted son) a human, “Who?”

“Tanan…. Uh…. Tsata, he’s dead.”

A quiet crept over them. Tsata: the name of that very same adopted human, the small helpless, squishy human she had helped turn into a warrior.

“What?”

“They were attacked by an enemy called the Burg.His ship was destroyed, and he was lost.”

Hijan blinked, staring at her son. Something about this didn’t seem real. Perhaps it was the way that her son talked about the outsider, in a way of respect she had never seen. How he lowered his head at the mention of his name, “Was his death honorable?” She finally wondered.

The pause grew even longer and she saw the answer in his face before he spoke, “The burg tricked them. They distracted the rest and set up a machine to do the work for them…. Their tactics were dishonorable.”

Hijan felt her hands clench, but she did not go to move, instead stepping forward slightly. She rested a hand on the shoulder of her son, “Thank you for bringing this to me.” She said softly, “I know my love for him has always confused you.”

Hasan shook his head, “No mother, I understand .”

They didn’t say more than that, and hijan moved quickly back to her hut.

She stood in the open doorway for a long moment before moving inside and picking u her things, pulling on the old armor crafted for her by her father once long ago. She picked up her battle partner’s old spear and rested it against her shoulder before turning from the door and stepping outside.

The horizon was warm to the east, and she began to walk.

SHe was alone for only a few minutes before the clatter of armor followed after her.

She turned , surprised to find,rows of drev warriors following her from the village interior. Even the children came confused their heads turned towards the village.

She paused as Hasan walked over the stone looking regal in his armor, and powerful with the cape billowing at his back.

“What are you doing Hasan?”

“Taking up the call to arms.”

She shook her head, “But our village.” “Can be retaken.”

“Why?”

“They have killed a member of our clan, thus declaring war on us. We will answer the call.”

Hijan was quiet for a moment, then lowered her head in deference to her son thankful, and proud.

He walked past her towards the front fo the column and barked the orders to head out.

***

Eris floated absently from one room to the other. Voices echoed to her from all sides, and she based quietly in the glow of freedom. Floating, she let her hands trail out to the sides ribbons billowing at her back, dark hair rolling around her waist. She was letting it grow out, she thought it made her look nice.

“Give it back!”

“No!” “Its not fair!”

She cracked an eye and floated into the next room.

Glados and Hal were facing off against each other crouched low to the ground, now as big as large dogs, the two of them could cause some mess when they got into a fight.

“WHat is going on here.” She asked

Hal turned, “She stole it and she wont give it back!”

She frowned turning to look at Glados hearing the choleric voice inside her head as she denounced her brother for being a tattle tail.

“Glados, give it back, you have toys of your own.”

“But i WANT that one.”

“We don’t always get what we want gladoes, and we certainly don't take from other people.” Glados sighed but gave it back apologizing only grudgingly when she was ordered to by Eris. Hal stuck out his tongue and scuttled away.

Eris shook her head, Glados was getting better, but her first year of life certainly had not helped her. Living aboard a ship, being raised by a dog, and a struggling human who wasn’t ready for parenthood could do that to a person. Of course, not to say that their father had been bad, he was just…. Young and inexperienced, too much love and not enough discipline for the young spiderlings.

She smiled at the thought. He would probably half freak out if he knew she considered him a father. She had never had one, and he was as good a man as any to pick. She didn’t ind that he couldn’t fulfil that roll, it was more about the knowledge that at least someone cared than anything else.

She sensed rather than saw it coming.

She could hear the internal voice, feel it’s nervous sadness. She owned and made her way over to the facility door pulling it open well before their guests had arrived. She peered outside and as soon as the door was out from between her and the visitors, she froze in shock and horror.

Two people stood before her, a man with spiked green hair, and a tesraki, friends of their father’s, from the LFIL

“No…. no no, it can’t be true.”

The human reached out a hand and gently put a hand on her arm, “I’m sorry.”

“No… no…. He can’t be I… he just can’t.”

Hearing the distress in her voice hal and Glados came scuttling towards the door as did the other hybrids. Glados growled, knowing Eris was upset but not sure why. She put her head in her hands tears rolling down her cheeks, “No.” How was she going to tell them that he was dead? She didn’t believe it herself.

***

Krill floated high in the air.

He hated this, he hated this, he hated every single last moment of it. He hated the big tree things, he hated the animals, he hated the strong breeze, and he certainly hated the pack of roaming land shark things circling below him. Ten days on this planet, ten days in hell where he had been hunted, hounded, and nearly killed repeatedly and to his great and everlasting displeasure. He had looked for the commander but found no sign of him, knowing that it was more than possible they could have landed on different continents.

Krill was pretty sure he was going to die here, and that was not a thought that he particularly enjoyed, but was slowly resigning himself to. HE floated off in the other direction, leaving the circling predators wandering in confusion below him and moved off in another direction.

He was high up now, kind of towards the top of the trees, where he could see large red fruits dangling from their very tops. He had seen red debris on the ground below some of those trees, implying that to spread their seeds they dropped those massive fruits from a few thousand feet like a fruity nuclear warhead.

Not a great way to die, being smashed by giant space fruit in the head.

He sighed.

He was up there for a while before it happened, and watched as a small black dot broke off from the top of one of the trees, at first he assumed it was just something falling to earth, but when the thing picked up on a gust of wind and began heading towards him, he got a bad feeling.

He pushed in mid air doing his best to try and get a better look at whatever it was.

He didn’t like what he saw, as the giant razor beak flying creature winged all the way towards him. He hoped it wasn’t coming towards him ,but was proven wrong almost instantly. He turned around with shock and horror and began floating in the other direction.

It made a loud cawing noise.

It was getting closer

Krill was ongoing to be able to outlast this thing. He turned to factit, watching as the massive creature grew larger in his vision. He was almost upon him now stretching out its talons.

Krill deflated his helium sack, plummeting out from between its grasp and towards the earth.

The creature flew in a confused circle, and krill flailed as the wind shipped past him and the ground rose up to meet him. A sudden burst, and he inflated just before hitting the ground landing with panic and shaking looking around for preditors he was sure had come looking for him.

HE frozen in shock and fear, eyes wide.

***

I sighed and set the radio down. It had been more than a long shot. The radio was pretty strong. Back on earth it could have gotten a message out from the middle of BFE, but it was unlikely to make it very far off an alien planet. I sighed and stowed the thing back in y bag. I knew it had been a long shot for sure, but a gun cn hope.

Besides, I had planned to come up here, on top of this hill anyway, to get a better look of the land. At my side, I carry a large stick, and at the head I have managed to slot a pretty well crafted spearhead into a slot.

It was the only thing Hian had been able to teach me to make.

As it turns out I am horrible at building things.

Like seriously.

I am super shit at it.

But a weapon was better than nothing. Spear in my hand, knife at my belt, and a backpack made out of plant material over one shoulder, I headed down the hill feet shuffling softly through sand. The plant matter slippers I had made weren’t great, but you now what sucks more than Biblical Adam’s wardrobe?

Being stabbed in the foot by a rock.

I am still walking down the hill wondering just how much cancer I am going to have from all this sunlight on my bare chest and back when I hear it, a soft thudding noise, growing louder and louder by the second. I drop my pack and spin around spear at the ready. The ferns behind me rattle and sway, and a moment later a creature comes bursting through the trees heading straight for me.

A surprised scream breaks from my lips as I dive to the side.

The creature lets off a gurgling bugle noise and rushes towards me again. It ahs bright shimmering blue skin and a line of spikes down its back. Two large claw pincers hang at the front of it’s body, and it runs on two back legs. IT charges at me again, and this time I can’t run. It swipes at me with one of its claw things, but I catch it with the edge of my spear.

The wood sends a painful shock wave up into my arms.

It screams and I scream back kicking at it.

I catch it in the stomach and it jolts back, but that only seems to piss it off. It races for me again and I am just barely able to hold it off as it scrambles over sand. Dust is kicked up into the air around us.

I pull away and stab at it with the head of the spear cutting straight into one of its joints and pulling out with a sickening crunch. It screams and lunges for me. I slip on a fallen fern, my leg sliding to the side.

It catches me high on the chest, and a gout of fire seems to erupt from my torso.

I scream in agony and hit my back hard.

IT jumps forward on top of me now its teeth snapping at my neck.

I stick the spear in its mouth.

Its back legs kick and beat my thighs gouging open my left leg.

A burst of agony rips through me. It backs up trying to get the shaft of the spear out of its mouth. In that time I reach down, grab my knife and sit up driving it once, twice, three times into the thing's neck. It staggers back and I leap forward tackling it to the ground and repeatedly stab it.

Over and over and over again.

My teeth are gritted.

I scream like an animal and continue to stab even long after it has stopped moving. Exhaustion overtakes me. I am lying on top of its corpse bloody hand still gripping the knife buried in its neck. My body begins to shake, I am breathing hard. The pain hits me in rolling waves as I look down at myself covered in blood.

I am gasping forehead now resting against its shoulder

I am dead.

I know it

I scream through the pain as I roll to the side leaving great drops of blood behind me. I grab my spear and my knife clawing my way to my feet. I am dragging the bag behind me.

I stagger over the stone.

Ten days

Only ten days.

I limp forward

Trip to my knees blood dripping onto the sand. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

I look up at the sky my vision beginning to fade, and then when I look down my eyes go wide and my heart stops.

273 notes · View notes

trekkingski · 4 years

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Hilleberg brand story

Hilleberg tent measured experience, the top tent in the outdoor brand I believe everyone is no stranger to the outdoor brand Hilleberg. Hilleberg Hilleberg, which is famous in the mountain world, is like the LV of the fashion industry. Among them, the most famous tent series is its tunnel tent Anjan series. If the tent is a home in the forest, then the Anjan series is undoubtedly a single-family mansion! But the reality is cruel, not everyone can afford a luxury house, so consider the same exquisite villa in the elite area-Anaris series. Hilleberg brand story

Hilleberg Hilleberg has been voted as the best tent by the European industry in 1995. It is known as the king of European tents. The most well-known one is the tunnel tent Anjan series, but Hilleberg is actually the first The keb series sold by Ding Commercial is also the first tent in the world that combines the inside and outside of the tent. The tent’s inner tent and canopy are integrated into one design, which is convenient for erection and shortens the erection time. The prototype of Anaris Mountain Lodge is from Keb, which can be said to be the classic of the classics! Why Hilleberg, which is not cheap in the tent market, can stand so unwaveringly, and there will still be Shanyou investing in this brand of tents? Hilleberg uses six basic principles to build the best functional tent, namely reliability, adaptability, ease of use, durability and comfort. Even if it achieves the ultimate lightweight, it will not reduce the six major tents. High performance. Hilleberg color code system explanation

In 2013, in order to make it easier for consumers to choose the right tent, Hilleberg integrated four 'color label' tents: black label, red label, yellow label or blue label. Each color code represents a category distinguished by the material or structure of each tent. In the yellow label family, in addition to the original Anjan and Rogen, new members Anjan GT and Anaris have also been added. Black label The most durable series, suitable for all users in all seasons, any environment. The black mark indicates the easiest tent series to use, and it is also very suitable for novices to engage in high-intensity expeditions. Red label The four-season tent has an absolute advantage in lightweight and still has a bright performance in terms of strength. Suitable for users who value lightweight and are willing to sacrifice a little comfort and strength Yellow label Give priority to lightweight groups, suitable for use in warm and snow-free environments. Suitable for users who prioritize lightweight and are willing to sacrifice a little comfort and strength Blue label Tent with special needs and specifications Four advantages and disadvantages of Hilleberg Anaris 1. Lightweight

Hilleberg Anaris belongs to the ridge tent (also known as the A-type tent), this tent is not self-supporting, so the whole tent does not have a skeleton (camp column), but uses trekking poles and camp nails to build the tent, eliminating the overall tent of the camp column The weight is lighter again! If it is an A-shaped tent supported by a trekking pole, it can also be called a pyramid tent, while Anaris is a trekking pole at the front and rear doors, which is built up like a ridge. The traditional A-type tent is an early boy scout tent, so it is heavier, but Anaris Mountain Lodge completely overcomes this shortcoming! The Anaris mountain hut is regarded as the rising star of Hilleberg, just like the SE of the iPhone series. The sparrow is small but has all the internal organs. It is the thinnest and lightest of the Hilleberg series of tents. It contains only 1.4 kg of internal and external tents + camp nails. What is the concept of 1.4 kg? It is about the weight of a Mac Book Pro 13-inch laptop. What's more, this tent is still the most intimate in the Hilleberg series! Speaking of the word flimsy, it sounds fragile at first glance, but Hilleberg is most proud of the extremely strong Kerlon fabric. Kerlon fabric has three layers of 100% silicon coating, which is completely waterproof and lighter. So even if it’s light and thin, don’t underestimate it. The yellow label Anaris tent fabric is Kerlon 1000, with a tear resistance of 10kg. The common tent fabrics on the market, especially those with polyester coating, have a strength of only 2. To 3kg. The black label tent uses Kerlon 1800 fabric, and the minimum tear strength reaches 18kg; the blue label tent uses Kerlon 2000 fabric, and the tear resistance is 20kg; Kerlon 1200 fabric is used on the red label tent, and the strength reaches 12kg. Kerlon 1000 and Kerlon 600 have strengths of 10kg and 6kg respectively. They are used in all Hilleberg tents. Among the lightest yellow-label tents, most of the tents are designed with three-season tents. 2. Two-pronged ventilation and wind resistance

Ventilation The inner tent of Anaris is made of breathable gauze material, which makes the air flow smoother. It is suitable for all three seasons. The stability of this kind of non-self-supporting tent relies heavily on trekking poles and camp nails. In sunny and mild suburbs with shelter, the camp nails should not be full, leaving a little height gap to help air circulation; on the contrary When the wind speed is strong or even the weather is not good, it is highly recommended that the nails must be fully loaded so that your home will not be blown off. Intimate reminder: No matter what the tent is, if the camp nails are not full, don't step on it! Hilleberg's camp nails are actually divided into strength, if you think you want stronger camp nails, you can go here Shop around. Anaris is a detachable tent with inner and outer tents. The advantage of connecting the inner and outer tents is that when you are in strong wind, you can quickly set up the tent. Hilleberg also used tunnel tents at a speed of 100 per hour. Tested in strong winds of kilometers! In addition to the four-legged camp rope, the front and rear doors of the tent can be fixed with trekking poles, and there are also camp ropes on the top, which can be pulled down under strong winds to make the tent more stable and have better wind resistance. Off-topic ~ Non-self-supporting tents also have the advantage that no matter how strong the wind is, there is no need to worry about the camp pillars being blown crooked. If the self-supporting tents are set up for a long time, the camp pillars are blown crooked, but it will be bad! 3. Spatial

In addition to the weight of the tent, space is also a condition that many mountain friends care about. In terms of space, the Anaris climbing tent has three major features: a double-door system, a double vestibule, and a zero-frame storage. Two-door system-when you first started camping, the rented tent was a single door, and you had to wait for entry and exit. If it is a multi-person account, it is acceptable because of the large space, but if it is a tent for 2-3 people, the entire It's very small. Later, after I started climbing the mountain, I realized that the tents are also made of double doors! I personally think that double doors are the kingly way, just like a car, only one door is really annoying. On the mountain, every second counts. When I arrive at the camping site and set up a tent, I will go into my den immediately. Waiting for any second will make the whole uncomfortable. You don’t have to wait for the double doors. You can spread your sleeping bag back to back with the mountain friends and inflate. Sleeping mats don’t need to be crowded at all. Because of the double doors, your feet can stretch out of the tent comfortably. The whole VIP feel is here.

Double vestibules-The most annoying thing about hiking or camping is rainy days, because cooking can become troublesome. If there is a canopy, it's okay, but like me and Matt climbing the mountain, we are not taking the canopy, because we take the lightweight route, and one more thing is one more weight, NO! (But I want to buy it recently, because the windshield is very useful haha). When there is no sky and it rains, the double vestibule is really an invention of the Buddha's mind. Just like a home with a courtyard, you have an extra space to put your belongings. On the mountain, you can put hiking bags in the vestibule. Don’t let the rain wet your bag; you can cook in the forecourt and prevent the strong wind from disturbing your hair. It seems like a concept of a protective cover, giving you the most perfect protection!

Zero-frame storage-As mentioned earlier, A-type tents like Anaris are mainly built by trekking poles and camp nails, so the weight of the camp pillar is basically reduced. In addition, this tent has a design that integrates the inner and outer tents. Do not disassemble it when collecting the account. Fold it in half and then fold it into the bag. It is very convenient and fast to store. And if you have good storage skills, you can have Help reduce storage volume. Then when you open the tent next time, just put down the four-legged camp nails and prop up the trekking poles to set up the tent. Isn’t it very fast? 4. Diversity I talked about the fast-deteriorating internal and external tents, and it also provides the diversity of Hilleberg Anaris tents. There are as many as six ways to build a tent alone, so many people think you have six tents! Having finished talking about the advantages above, then I will share with you what we think needs to be improved! 1. Large area

Anaris is a two-person account, but the required floor space is about the size of a three-person account. So if you usually go to a very popular hiking route, you need to find a larger place to camp. But to put it another way, the large area actually means that Anaris has more space in terms of double tents, especially the vestibule! 2. Building skills

It was written earlier that if the internal and external tents are not opened, the next time you use the tent will be very fast, but the premise is that you have experience and feel after multiple operations, and you can quickly set up after practice makes perfect. But in fact, most people use self-supporting tents (with skeletons), so if they are used to self-supporting tents, suddenly changing to this kind of camping nails and camp ropes will require a little adaptation period. For example, we spent some time studying where the camp nails should be placed, how to tighten the camp ropes, how high the height of the trekking poles should be adjusted... and other issues, and if in a strong wind environment, we need to constantly confirm that the camp rope is enough It’s not tight enough and the camp nails are not full enough. After all, it’s like a self-supporting tent (with a skeleton). Even if your camp nails fly off, the overall tent structure will still be intact; but if it’s a non-self-supporting tent (without skeleton, relying on trekking poles and camping poles). Nail), if it falls, it will be rebuilt. It is recommended that if you buy a non-self-supporting tent, you can try to build it in a suitable place such as a suburban mountain or a camping area before going up the mountain, so that you will not feel rushed to set up for the first time after going up the mountain, especially for novices, because you will be very broken. 3. Eat terrain

Since Anaris is built on trekking poles and camp nails, it is more suitable for building on soft soil. If you want to build on hard soil, it will be a little harder to nail it; if you want to build on a concrete floor, make sure that the weather is not bad enough to blow away your home, please take a big rock and press it down! 4. High barriers to entry As mentioned at the beginning of the article, Hilleberg is the LV of the fashion industry, so it is assumed that the price of tents is not cheap, so most mountain friends want (need), but hesitated to see the price. But it has to be said that Hilleberg is made in Europe, hand-made, and the materials are the best, so it really gets what you pay for. Of course, if you are a novice, like a newcomer who just came out of society, I sincerely suggest that you can buy an elementary tent first. When you are sure to fall in love with camping, camping, mountain climbing, etc., you will use tents for outdoor activities. In the future, consider whether to rush to the highest level. If you are a beginner and love outdoor sports, just like a motivated social person who has just left society for 3-5 years and has little savings and is full of energy, I suggest you rent and try Hilleberg’s tent, just like you Buying a car will test it, and you will know its goodness after sitting in a Tesla. The tent should also be tested! Like it, fall in love at first sight, it is necessary, you can start planning to save money to buy it If you are a veteran, those with experience usually know how to enjoy pulling. If you feel right, you have assessed that it meets your needs, and you can place an order with your eyes closed! Hilleberg Hilleberg Anaris Five Ways

Ridge The ridge style, the inner tent and the outer tent are combined, and the overall shape is like a ridge. The method of setting up the mind: the camp nails must be full and the camp rope must be tightened to look good. If it is not tightened, the tent will look loose and wrinkled! Timing: when sleeping, when the wind is heavy and rainy. Half house Half-house style, pull up one side of the tent, revealing half a small house, the vernacular is half-house style Set-up method: turn the tent from the left to the right, the camp rope can be put on the right camp nails, no need to hit again. Timing: Set up camp in the woods in the hot summer. The sun rises and the temperature gradually rises. Pull up half of the tent for ventilation, and there are trees to block the sun to prevent too much exposure.

Chalet style In the style of a wooden house, the doorways on both sides of the front courtyard are rolled up, and the inner tents are subtlely exposed. The outer tents are like the roof, and are as lovely as small wooden houses in the mountains and forests. Set-up method: roll up from top to bottom, and fix it with the buckle on the tent. If you roll it up randomly, the rolled up vestibule will hang down! Timing: When you want to take a beautiful photo of a mountain hut

Transparent Through the sky, pull up the bilateral outer tents, showing the entire inner tent, the whole is breathable and fresh Set-up method: roll up the tents neatly on the roof ridge separately. If you close it in disorder, it will be messy, so you must roll it up neatly. After finishing, tie a knot at the end of the roof, or bring your own rope The tent is tied and fixed, and it will look cute when taken from the front. Set up time: When you want to sunbathe in the mountains and forests. Cover type Cover type, separate the inner and outer tents, and use the outer tents as a kind of canopy The method of setting up the mind: remove the inner tent and set up the outer tent, and there is a doorway on this canopy! Turn on and off Set-up time: when you want to blend in with nature, single-day wild river hot spring itinerary Camping experience

I borrowed this tent from a friend, but we didn't know that there was a thunderstorm in the afternoon. We arrived at the scene and waited for the rain to stop, and hurriedly set up Anaris in full swing.

The first step of the construction is to fix the four-legged inner tent with camp nails, and then insert the trekking pole into the camp column cover of the outer tent. It can be seen from the photo that this double tent needs a large hinterland, and the foreign tent has not been fixed at this time. In addition, we agreed that at least two people are required to build together, and it will be a bit hard for one person to build!

The trekking poles need to be the same height on both sides. In this way, the tent can be stretched tightly and beautifully.

Anaris' tent can also be used as a sort of canopy. If the weather is too hot and you want to ventilate, you can prop up the tent and tie it to the tree with camp ropes. There is gauze in the inner tent, which can speed up air circulation. It is a tent that can have various changes. Because it was too late to arrive at the destination, the larger camp in the hinterland was already full of people, so I found a smaller camp in the hinterland, so Anaris could still build it, but it was slightly crowded.

The super large vestibule, 160cm tall, my feet can be fully straightened, and there is plenty of space for a camping chair, hiking bag, and cooking in the vestibule when it rains!

The space in Anaris is big and cool. After a day's sleep like this, we feel that this double tent has no problem if we have to sleep three people (visual inspection, in fact, we haven't tried it). If two people sleep in a spacious room, they will not disturb the friends next door if they turn over. However, our previous tents had storage bags. This one is not so I am a little uncomfortable. If there are storage bags equipped with storage, it will be more systematic.

When you get up in the morning when the sun is in the sun, it will not get too hot. It may be because there are trees blocking it and there is no direct sunlight. In addition, we forgot to bring sleeping bags when we went to bed at night, but it was not as cold as we imagined, and we thought that the windshield effect was good. Of course, if it is a strong wind without shelter, you must test again~

Summarizing the thoughts of this equipment test: Anaris' advantage is that the space is super-explosive, and the top gauge of the tent material is waterproof, wind-resistant and tear-resistant. Although Anaris is the cheapest and only discounted tent in the Hilleberg series, I believe that the unit price is still high for users. What I like most is that the Anaris external tent can be used as a canopy-like design, which can be used in different occasions at any time, as well as the super large vestibule and internal tent space. The above is what we share about Anaris Mountain Lodge. We hope to help you get to know the brand of Hilleberg and Anaris Mountain Lodge. There is no need to buy any equipment, the important thing is the equipment that suits you and your favorite.

#tent

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blessed-but-distressed · 5 years

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#FindEmmaSwanAFriend

Feeling left behind by her more successful, settled friends, Emma Swan moves to Scotland on a whim. Sure, she’s winning at Instagram, but something is still missing from her new life. Fortunately, her friends back home are on it. #FindEmmaSwanAFriend goes viral. Enter Killian Jones, reluctant columnist, who is on the hunt for his newest subject, and may just have found her. CS AU

***

also on ff.net and ao3

***

Tagging: @katie-dub , @wholockgal , @kat2609 , @whovianlunatic, @optomisticgirl, @ladyciaramiggles, @the-lady-of-misthaven, @emmaswanchoosesyou, @ilovemesomekillianjones, @biancaros3, @cigarettes-and-scotch-whisky, @ms-babs-gordon @ab-normality, @andiirivera, @fangirl-till-it-hurts, @onceuponaprincessworld , @natascha-remi-ronin, @kiwistreetswan and whoever else asks me.

***

A/N: Part 1 of 2. We’ll get there when we get there.

***

Emma

It had been building for weeks. Months, really.

It began with a series of fences up on the Castle Esplanade, robbing the selfie-stick set of their outlook towards Arthur’s Seat. Before long it became a full-blown construction site, scaffolds looming up on either side of the tarmac like a bad omen.

Then came the anti-terrorist bollards on the Mile, at once ugly and terrifying in their design. By the time the placards went up at the tail end of July, you could feel it in the air, like an encroaching thunderstorm.

August.

For as long as she’d lived in Edinburgh, Emma had heard the war stories.

A bloody nightmare, was how Killian had once phrased it. Imagine, if you will, if every insufferable wanker in London with even the slightest dramatic inclination took it upon himself-

Or herself, Tink had interrupted.

Or herself, he’d amended, with a roll of his eyes, to decamp 400 miles up the East Coast line, en masse. And not just for a weekend, either. An entire month. And then imagine they proceed to spend that time putting on dodgy comedy shows, getting pissed as newts, and trying to get off with each other.

Don’t forget the inflated prices, Will had cut in.

The traffic, Tink lamented.

Hipsters with posh accents taking up all the seats in your local, Will added mournfully.

The flyers, Killian sighed. At that, the other two groaned.

So it’s busy? Emma had asked.

Aye, Swan, Killian had replied, a weary glint in his eye. It’s busy.

***

It wasn’t that she didn’t believe them, exactly. She’d seen the crowds at Christmastime, swelling up around the markets in Princes Street Gardens. She’d stared the drunken aftermath of Hogmanay in the face, and lived to tell the tale. She knew busy.

The Festival was, well… most days it wasn’t unlike navigating the Battle of Thermopylae. Every major thoroughfare, every centrally located eatery turned into a desperate crush of bodies, all attempting to coexist in too little available space. And there on the periphery the thespians lay in wait, ready to exploit any signs of weakness.

The first few days, she took every flyer on offer. It was the polite thing to do. But as her bag, and the crowds swelled, she was forced to reassess. By week’s end Emma learned to do as the locals did, keeping her head down, headphones in, and her hands stuffed in her pockets at all times.

So when August, the man, promised Emma he could sneak her into the green room at the Book Festival, she took her chance to escape the rabble.

Compared with the madness up on the Mile, the Book Festival in Charlotte’s Square was an oasis of calm. The crowd skewed older, and it showed. They sat drinking up the sun in plastic lawn chairs, whiling away the hours until the next panel or signing with the unhurried air of the newly retired. Yet even as she sipped her overpriced plastic cup of gin, Emma felt content.

It was summer. She was on vacation. And she was one Q & A session away from having her apartment all to herself again.

“Emma!” Her houseguest fell onto the grass beside her, spilling half of his gin in the process.

“You got them?” Emma asked, leaning over to top up his drink with some of hers.

Taking a few surreptitious glances in either direction, August unzipped his jacket, and tossed something into Emma’s lap. “I’m a man of my word.”

Emma wouldn’t go quite that far, but she snatched it up anyway. It was a sweater, pale blue with a prominent STAFF designation across the back. Her ticket into the green room. “And where did you get that? Did you slip some poor underpaid usher a tenner, or something?”

August just tapped the side of his nose, and smiled his usual mysterious smile.

Tamping down her urge to kick him, Emma sighed and pulled the sweater over her head. It was a little big on her, but not comically so. She rolled up the sleeves, and waved a little to get August’s attention.

“What do you think? Do I look like I’d volunteer at a Book Festival?”

“No,” he replied, without looking at her. “And I think your columnist just came out of the Zadie Smith signing. Kevin?”

She squinted against the sun, to where the crowd was pouring out from the Signing Tent. Sure enough, there was a familiar monochromatic figure loping his way across the square. It’d been more than a month since she’d seen him, but if the signature walk hadn’t given him away, the outfit would’ve. Who else would insist on black leather in the middle of summer?

“Killian,” Emma corrected automatically, already regretting rising to the bait.

August knew full well who Killian was. He’d Facebook stalked him the same as Ruby had. He read his columns religiously, picking them apart in their group chat with the zeal of a literature major on Adderall. He just liked being a dick.

As they emerged from the throng, Emma saw the petite woman at Killian’s side, matching his stride in impressively tall heels.

How does she walk in those things? Emma wondered to herself. But before she could voice this aloud, August was already on his feet.

“I’m going to go say ‘hi’.” There was a twinkle in his eye, one she didn’t much like the look of.

“August...” Emma gave a low warning, but it was too late. He’d already passed her the last of his drink, and disappeared across the square.

Lord help her.

Downing the last of the gin, Emma straightened her sweater one last time and went after him.

***

August wasn’t famous, exactly. His debut, a semi-autobiographical account of his early twenties backpacking through South East Asia, had made some waves when it first came out. There’d been movie interest. A profile in the New Yorker. Everyone was a sucker for that foster-kid-made-good fairytale.

But when he switched focus to fantasy fiction, his agent jumped ship. Likewise, most of his readership. These days, he was what Emma might charitably call a “midlist author.” Consistent, but not exactly setting the world on fire. Mostly, he survived under the radar, letting the royalties from his successful debut prop up his middling career. But every once in a while, he’d run into a fan in the wild, and things would get... strange.

When Emma finally caught up to August, she came to two sudden realizations;

On closer inspection, the woman with the impressive ability to navigate across grass with spike heels was none other than Belle. Librarian Belle. As in, I-really-like-sad-songs-and-married-a-complete-douchebag Belle.

Belle was staring at August with the kind of gobsmacked, I-just-swallowed-a-goldfish expression that could only mean one thing: She was a fan.

“You know August Booth?” Belle shout-whispered to Killian. The hand clinging tightly to Killian’s bicep might’ve stirred Emma’s interest, if she didn’t think it was all that was keeping the girl upright.

Killian seemed entirely puzzled. “Err… in passing?” He looked from August to Emma, searching for a lifeline.

“You’re a Swords of Storybrooke fan, I take it?” Emma asked, helpfully.

Belle seemed to shake herself a little. “Emma! Hi!” She reached across to give her a one-armed hug, the best she could do with the books still cradled against her chest with her other hand.

“Are you kidding? I’m in love with those books! I have the last line from Good Form tattooed on my-” She trailed off abruptly, cheeks flushing red. “Sorry,” she said, turning again to August. “You must get that all the time.”

“Not as often as I’d like,” he said with a flash of teeth. “Always nice to meet a fan. It was Belle, wasn’t it?” Emma saw the flash of recognition cross his face, as he matched the name with the story. “You’re a friend of Ruby’s, right?”

“Ruby? Ruby Lucas? Uh, yeah. We dated. Sort of. You know her?”

“We go back a ways. Do you like gin, Belle?” he asked, coaxing her closer to the bar. “I heard they’ve got some here that tastes like Earl Grey…”

It took Emma a moment to realize she’d been abandoned. Alone. With Killian Jones. Exactly as August, that slimy son of a bitch, had intended.

To his credit, Killian looked similarly startled, trying and failing to cover it with a casual scratch behind his ear. It was just a small thing, but it killed her.

“Sooo…” he began, never one to leave a silence unfilled, “Been a while…”

5 weeks, not that she was counting.

“Not that I blame you for avoiding me, mind...” he added.

“I wasn’t-” Her first instinct was denial, but she swallowed it back down. He knew her better than that. “Yeah, okay, I was, a bit. Sorry. I just needed…”

“Space,” Killian finished for her.

“Yeah. Space.”

The smile they shared was fragile. Precious. She wanted to tell him she’d meant to call. That she’d had to fight off tears the whole time she’d read through his latest column. She wanted to tell him what it had meant to her.

Instead, she just said the first stupid thing to pop into her head.

“Sorry, I think August just stole your date.”

“Date?” Killian looked back to where Belle and August had disappeared, and it dawned on him. “Belle?” His laugh was incredulous, if Emma was any judge. “Err… no. We just kind of met in the line.”

“To Zadie Smith, right?”

“Aye.” He held up the autographed copy of her latest, before tucking it back under his arm. “Elsa’s a big fan. Her birthday’s coming up, so-”

She felt a prickle of attraction and hated herself for it. Just because he was a good brother-in-law, it didn’t mean she had to let her guard down again. Ted Bundy had probably been a great brother-in-law too.

“She’s coming home soon?” Even as strained as things had been, he’d been unable to keep the implosion of his home life entirely to himself.

“Next week. Let the boys settle back into things before school goes back.”

“And things with her and Liam are…?” She let her words trail off, not wanting to overstep.

“They’re… I don’t know.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “They’re talking now, at least. These long, overwrought transatlantic Skype conversations that I pretend very hard not to overhear. It’s a start, I suppose.”

Emma shrugged in agreement. As thoughtful responses went, it fell short of the mark. But what did she know about fixing a broken marriage? She’d had one functional adult relationship in her entire life, and she hadn’t even made it through the entire proposal before she’d cut and run.

“So you’re working here?” he asked suddenly.

“Huh?” She looked down, confused, only to realize she was still wearing her baby blue STAFF sweater. “Oh, this? No, this is stolen. Or borrowed? You know what? I’m not really sure on the specifics.”

“Oh..kay?” Amusement was definitely winning out over his confusion.

Emma shrugged. “August said he’d sneak me into the Green Room. This is part of my cunning disguise. Pretty convincing, huh?”

“You know they check lanyards at the door, right?”

She didn’t. Fucking August.

“There is, of course, another way in…” He tried for his usual irrepressible swagger, and it rang a bit hollow to Emma’s ears. But he was trying.

“Oh, is there?” she asked , crossing her arms sullenly over her chest.

He nodded, eyes growing brighter as they fell into a more familiar rhythm. “A secret way. Only known to the chosen few…”

Emma shot him a flat look.

With a grin and a flourish, he pulled a lanyard from his pocket, and held it out for her inspection.

It was identical to his in every way, right down to the Saorsa logo stamped on the back.

“Our photographer never made it, so I had a spare. What do you say, Swan? Want to ditch that awful jumper and join the big leagues?”

Emma cocked her head, considering this proposal. ”Would I actually have to take photographs?”

“If you like. But you’d definitely have to hold the camera. Authenticity and all that.”

“And we’d breathe the same air as actual famous authors?” She was kidding, but only a little.

“Breathe the same air, eat the same Chocolate Digestives. We could even talk to a few, if you like.” He shrugged. “That’s kind of why I’m here.”

Somehow, that trumped her original plan of playing the wallflower while August caught up with his cadre of fellow fantasy authors.

She didn’t say anything, but Killian must’ve already intuited her answer, because he gently pulled the lanyard from her grasp, and slipped it over her head with a smirk.

“Congratulations, Dr Swan. You’re now a proud member of the fourth estate.” He held out a hand. “Shall we?”

Emma looked down at the proffered hand and hesitated.

It was just a hand, and it wasn’t. Because here was the truth: Emma had started to trust Killian Jones. Started to lean on him. Confide in him. And even now, after he’d kicked the metaphorical chair out from under her and shown he was capable of being a complete ass when the mood struck, she still wanted to.

It was a hand, but it was also a second chance.

And maybe it made her weak, but Emma reached out and took it.

***

I can’t believe I met a Pulitzer Prize winner! ES

I can. You only made me take twenty pictures of the two of you together. KJ

Funny. ES

Not a hardship, I can assure you. I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. It was good to see you, even if only for a wee bit. KJ

Huh. Sincerity. Not sure what to do with that. ES

I’m trying a new thing, where I occasionally let the people in my life know that I actually appreciate their company. KJ

And how’s that working out for you? ES

Will is now convinced I harbour a dreadful crush on him, and Liam asked me if I had a concussion. Soo… I’d call it a work in progress ;-) KJ

Good to see you too. ES

***

August’s Q & A went better than expected, if you didn’t count the guy at the front whose question was more of a diatribe, really, about all the things he would’ve done differently.

There was always one.

But on the whole, the genuine fans outnumbered the assholes, and it took a good two hours to finally extricate August from his adoring masses, after the fact.

He was already flushed, drunk on ego and free booze when he finally emerged from behind a tent flap, and pulled Emma into a lazy hug.

“Where to next, oh tour guide extraordinaire?” he asked with hot gin breath.

Emma grimaced, and held him at arm’s length. “There’s no next. You have a train to catch, remember?”

“Last train for London isn’t for another three hours,” August shrugged. “Still time for a last bit of revelry. Didn’t you promise you’d actually take me to a Fringe show?”

She had, but she’d also counted on August being distracted by his own brilliance long enough for her to welch out of that particular contract. The last thing she felt like doing was wading back into the madness of the Old Town.

“It’s kind of last minute…”

But August already had his phone out, scrolling through the app and Emma knew a lost cause when she saw one.

He looked up suddenly, eyes lit with a tantalizing prospect. “How far’s the Tron?”

***

During the semester, The Tron was a studenty kind of hang out. Plenty of drink specials, and always a free table downstairs. She usually avoided the place, none too eager to bump into her students during their messy nights out. Least of all during hers.

During the Festival, however, it was a very different beast.

Gone were the baby faced clientele, and reasonable prices. It was standing room only, and foreign accents were more common than not. In this crowd, she might’ve been just another festival-goer, at a loose end between shows.

Even with having the push through the late afternoon crowds on the Mound, they still made it with ten minutes to spare before August’s chosen comedian started his set downstairs. She sent him down to save them some seats, and after a lot of pushing, shoving and gratuitous cleavage displays, managed to attract the attention of the nearest bartender.

“Alright, love?” he asked, with little better than a leer.

She ordered a pint for herself, and a tap water for August.

“That’s £10.”

Emma nearly swallowed her tongue. “For a pint? That’s extortion!”

The bartender shrugged, snatching the bill from her hand. “That’s August.”

She turned around, drinks in hand and the crowd surged around her, gunning for her vacated space by the bar. Some of her lager slopped onto the shoes of the guy in front of her, and she was halfway through her apology before she took a look at his face, and froze.

Graham.

Her Graham. Standing in The Tron. And decidedly not somewhere in Northern Ireland, studying the possible ramifications of Brexit on the Irish Border. Contrary to the text he’d sent her two hours ago.

“Emma, hey!” the words were friendly, but there was no disguising the tension in his jaw.

He was not pleased to see her.

And when Emma looked behind him, and saw the dark haired young woman whose hand was clutched tightly in his, she realized why. It wasn’t just the white knuckled hold they had on each other, so they wouldn’t lose each other in the crush.

It was the matching silver wedding bands.

Mother. Fucker.

Emma barely had time to process before she was tipping her overpriced pint down his shirt. All £10 of it.

The crowd of people around them suddenly went deathly quiet, so quiet Emma could hear the rush of her own blood inside her ears. She saw at least one person raise a camera phone.

Graham, himself said nothing. Even as his companion, his wife, stared between the two of them, dumbfounded.

“Sorry,” Emma said, with the least amount of sincerity she could muster. “Really crowded in here, huh?”

The crowd parted for her as she left. Someone even slow clapped. It was all she could do to keep her face level until she was outside on the Mile, already dialing August’s number.

***

August never did end up catching his train that night. Instead they went back to Emma’s flat, and tore through Emma’s entire cache of American candy while bingeing episodes of Bake Off.

It was only around 3am that she finally let him lead her into her bedroom, tucking her in like she was still a kid. Like nothing had changed in the last twenty years.

“You don’t need to say it,” she said, as he settled on top of the covers beside her, both of them staring at the ceiling.

“Say what?” he asked, leaning over to turn off her lamp.

“That my taste in men sucks.”

August snorted, settling back down beside her. “Well, you said it.”

“You’re right,” Emma admitted to the dark. “And you were right about Walsh. I didn’t love him. I just kind of… got used to him. And it’s not the same thing.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s not.”

She turned over then, so she could see the vague outline of his face in the near darkness. “Have you told Jefferson how you feel, yet?”

They’d never discussed it. Not explicitly. But from the moment August had introduced his editor into their little group, Emma had known. And it didn’t seem to matter that Jefferson was a widower. Or a single father. There was something there, something between them as they traded insults and bickered over line edits. Something more than colleagues, or even friends. Something rare.

The silence was telling, as August regrouped.

“I wrote him a letter, once,” he confessed. “I was going to submit it with my finished manuscript. Right on the last page. But I ripped it up before I could give it to him.”

Now it was Emma’s turn to snort. “We never stood a chance, did we?”

“Some kids get trophies. Foster kids get abandonment issues.” It was a recitation. A line she’d heard before.

They knew the truth of it better than anyone.

#cs ff #cs au #findemmaswanafriend #cs fic

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lockedair · 5 years

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aircolumnbag · 3 months

Text

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beatricethecat2 · 5 years

Text

if/then (2.0) - 20

A few chapters back, I mentioned wrapping this up soon. Flash-forward to now…well, I see where that impulse came from, but also where it falls flat. There needs to be a balance (or as much as I'm capable of) within the narrative arc, so it needs to get pushed farther. That means diving into people and places I'm not as familar with and trying to bring them to life (plus calling back to details and weaving in new ones…you know, writing). So bear with me, it's plotted, but the gaps need filled in. If you’re still on board with this, I thank you heartily. I’m posting two chapters now because I didn't want to leave you hanging at the end of this one. All typos are mine, I’ll do what I can to catch them later (edited 11/30). Look for chapter 21 to be posted soon after this one. Links to other chapters in a reply.

////////////////////////

Despite Morgana’s warnings, the hunt for Helena continues. Myka proceeds with caution, even with Claudia's better-than-government-grade VPN installed on her laptop. Books have become her go-to, with no bots to track or caches to mine. They're slower in the long run but prompt new ideas, which she, in turn, passes off to Claudia.

One thing was certain: even if Helena hadn't planned this ahead of time, Christina’s comfort would be paramount. Cooking classes for kids? After school music activities involving drums? Kempo classes throughout the UK? All searched for and through with little gain. But the question was: how far undercover would Helena and Christina have to go? Was an Interpol intervention different than a regular police one? Claudia watched countless hours of British police shows in hopes of learning more, but was left feeling more paranoid than informed in the end.

Meanwhile, Myka tacked on oddball acquisitions in remote locales to keep from drowning in "what-ifs." There, in relative obscurity, having thrown off her tails, she could scour libraries and bookstores freely. She was at a loss for exactly what to look into, so she grasped onto the list of "Happy Christmases” Helena had taught Christina. She cross-referenced books with internet materials, but kept detailed notes in her sketchbook.

She drew the tiny shape Guernsey and noted the island's pros and cons. At six miles long and three miles wide, it looked like a quaint place to hide. But to travel, they’d need a boat or a plane, and it was closer to France than the UK. And without easy access to a city, Christina wouldn’t be content. She crossed it off the list.

Scottish, she learned, was still spoken in The Outer Hebrides, which, according to one of her guidebooks, boasted an island shaped like an upside-down ice cream cone. Christina would be into that, living on a food-shaped island, so she sketched it out and turned it upside-down. She didn’t exactly see the resemblance, but that wasn’t important. What was: the chain was far from the mainland with only one road plus ferries connecting the islands. Its population was mostly fisherman and crofters; it's landscape, idyllic, but rural. Again, with no city nearby, Helena wouldn’t sequester them there for any length of time. She put it in the “no” column for now.

Northern Ireland was a definite maybe, though they'd included Belfast in their earlier search. She drew the outline of where Belfast and West Belfast met, as apparently, West Belfast held a population of Irish speakers. But Ireland, the island, was massive, the largest part was an entirely different country. That could cause problems if Helena and Christina had to run. She made a note to check into Irish border crossings and moved on.

Cornwall, a fingerlike peninsula jutting out into the Celtic Sea, had multiple transportation options and several cities. They could hide in its rugged countryside while retaining access to several populated towns, and even jet up to London if they were feeling bold. Cornish as a language was only recently being revived, so there was no specific area in which it was spoken. She put a star next to it anyway, as it seemed the most likely. She sent her findings off to Claudia and kept researching.

But then, at an auction a few weeks later, her theory was put to the test. A fifteenth-century atlas lay open to a map of England, Ireland, and Wales, where she traced a path between her researched locations. As a line formed along the furthest edges of Great Britain, it hit her--if one wanted to send their enemies on a wild goose chase, that was it. The “Merry Christmases” were a red herring, something for Christina to broadcast readily, as she'd read children in witness protection programs often gave away their whereabouts accidentally. And she fell for it hook, line, and sinker. Claudia was not going to be pleased.

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

She's had months to prepare, but here she is, at the last minute, taking time off work to finish several new paintings. Luiza had hooked her up with this group show at a gallery Amanda raved was “blowing up,” but about a month ago she nearly baled. But Luiza insisted she show, saying their work together would lead to stellar reviews. Plus, Luiza needed the press to bolster her artist visa application, so how could Myka refuse?

Well known in her native Sao Paulo, but working hard to make a name for herself in the States, Maria Luiza Izquierdo's work captivated Myka from day one. Her abstract patterns drew her in, with their brightly colored stripes and weaved textiles, bubbling animatedly off the canvas and onto the floor. Her freedom of concept and command of materials was beyond anything she'd ever seen. She definitely was an artist on the rise, and Myka was glad to have made her aquaintance.

And from the looks of Luiza's impressive resume, Myka was an amateur in comparison. Out of the eight other artists at her residency, she’d bonded with Luiza the most. Her ambition was contagious, mind moving a mile a minute, always seeing the good in things. Plus, her smile lit up the room, making it impossible to sulk in her presence. She wouldn't have made it through the first months of Helena’s disappearance without the distraction.

They met up as often as possible when Luiza was in town, her visits kicking Myka out of her increasingly mechanical routine. It was good for her cover, hanging out with Luiza and her friends, plus it lifted her out of the heavy funk she was buried in. Luiza prodded her to show her new work, much like Helena used to do, inviting herself over when Myka failed to do so promptly. There were many things about Luiza that reminded her of Helena, beyond any physical resemblance, but when those thoughts arose, she promptly tamped them down. Loneliness conjured desperate parallels. If Helena were standing next to her, there’d be no comparison.

Having couch surfed though most of her friends, Luiza asked to crash with Myka for this trip. Since Abigail's visit went smoothly, Myka thought, why not? Having company for a few days, especially someone who could help her with her art, seemed like a good idea. But before she had time to prepare, she was called away unexpectedly on a work trip. She left spare keys with the guard at her office and told Luiza to sleep in her room for now. They'd inflate the air bed when she got back.

Upon her return, as she rolls her suitcase down the hall, a mouth-watering scent fills her lungs. It’s not unusual as her neighbor often cooks for relatives, but she’s surprised when the scent intensifies inside her door. The figure in her kitchen, her long, dark hair glowing in the backlight, stops her in her tracks. She’s transported to a different time, a happier one, one she has hopes to reclaim in the future.

“Olá, Myka!" Luiza greets, turning to face her. "How was your flight?”

“H-Hi!” Luiza’s enunciation, choppy and light, is the exact opposite of Helena’s velvety smoothness. Her messy bangs and bright red lipstick further shatter the illusion. “Not terrible. What’s all this?”

“Mrs. Rodrigues, she made us feijoada!”

Myka ditches her bag and steps into the kitchen, where all resemblance to Helena withers as she stands next to the slightly-taller-than-her Luiza. A pot bubbles on the stove as greens stew in a pan. A steaming pot of rice sits on the counter, accompanied by bowls of colorful garnish, more bowls than she remembers owning.

“Mrs. Rodrigues? I've barely spoken to her.”

“She was very much interested in this stranger entering your home.” Luiza points to herself with her thumb. “She is from Brazil, you know. Santos, where my avó lives."

“Avó?”

“Ah...grandmother,” Luiza says, taking a moment to translate the word in her head. She slips two bowls from a cabinet and sets them on the counter. "She feels bad for you.”

“Me? Why?”

“‘Too skinny. Works too much. No namorado.'” Luiza draws out the “o” and circles a wooden serving spoon in the air.

“Namorado. I think I know what that means. So definitely not.” Myka snags an orange slice from a bowl and pops it in her mouth.

Luiza smacks her hand with the spoon.

“Ow!"

“Save for dinner."

“Sorry.” Myka rubs her hand, flashing a mock pout. "It’s nice she’s feeding us. I was dreading takeout.”

“This is much, much better. And I bought cachaça to make batidas.” Luiza holds up a bottle of spirits, grinning ear to ear.

“Nice!” Myka says, smiling back.

“Only the best for my generous host,” Luiza says, adding a small bow. “Now, we eat.” She hands Myka a bowl and sets to making drinks.

At the gallery the next day, they help install each other's work, though Luiza’s pieces are larger and more complex then Myka's. Myka stands back, contemplating placement and aesthetics, while Luiza enlists several other pairs of hands to assist. Myka's in awe of Luiza’s persuasive charm, yet another trait she shares with Helena. But with Luiza, there's no alternate agenda, whereas Helena’s was often circumspect.

“Perfeito!” Luiza exclaims as she steps away from the completed install. “You are in my head, my friend. I should take you everywhere!” She sweeps Myka into a hug that lingers longer than expected, though a hug like this is not unusual. Luiza’s concept of personal space is more forward than her own.

Dinner takes place at a friend of Luiza’s, at a garden party in Silverlake. Myka mills about, catching up with acquaintances, mingling awkwardly with other guests. When everyone takes a seat, Luiza pats the chair next to her, insisting Myka situate herself there. As the meal progresses, Luiza drapes an arm over the back of Myka's chair, an act which Myka finds slightly unsettling. Again, it's not unusual, as Luiza's done it to others, but Helena used to do something similar as a sign of ownership. But as wine is swapped out for brandy, she shifts her focus toward the lively art and commerce banter. Fielding criticism of the trade is liberating, as at work she so often has to hold her tongue.

The next night is the show opening, and the dress Myka picks out isn’t “LA” enough for Luiza. Luiza takes her to a consignment shop where her friend works, where she’s handed a flowery faux-forties dress to try on. Myka twirls to the left and the right, staring at herself in the dressing room mirror, the knee-length skirt bouncing back and forth gaily. It’s a cheerful, tasteful garment, hitting her curves in all the right places. Not that her current wardrobe doesn’t, but it typically flaunts her assets less. It’s a choice she would have made pre-apartment tragedy, but since then, she’s toned down her style. Which suits her job fine, plus with Helena gone, who would she be trying to impress? But it feels freeing somehow, like she’s entered a portal to a simpler time. When she leaves the dressing room, Luiza gasps, and her friend claps with glee. She decides yes, it is perfect, perfect for the show, perfect for the Myka she needs to project.

The scene is giddy as they dress in Myka's apartment. Luiza styles Myka's hair into a voluminous mass of curls cascading over her shoulders. The shade of lipstick she convinces her to wear is so bright her eyes glow green. But it’s Luiza's blouse that steals the show, handmade by her, matching the warp and weft of her work, upstaging her skin-tight leather pants. Myka hasn't had this much fun preparing for an event since grad school with Abigail. The levity is certainly welcome.

There's an afterparty after the after-party, with drinks flowing freely along the way. Myka has no idea how much she drank nor what time they left, but their cab zooms home in no time. Luiza hangs off Myka's arm as they shuffle down her hall. Both giggle as Myka fumbles with her keys. They throw their bags onto the same chair as they stumble in.

“You need a couuuch, minha amiga," Luiza slurs, marching into Myka’s bedroom and plopping down on the edge of the bed. “We drink more! You bring the cachaça. But first I—” She bends towards her shoes, but topples forward, catching herself just barely, palms down, arms extended as if performing involuntary yoga.

Myka hurries in and levers her up. “My shoes, I am sorry,” Luiza says, bending forward again to finish the task. Myka pushes her back, then tries to kneel but wobbles, grabbing Luiza’s knee as she lowers herself down. She slips off Luiza's heel, and as she attends to the second one, Luisa buries her hands in Myka's curls. Luiza angles her face up and leans forward, pressing their lips together.

She’s kissing me. Why is she kissing me? The act is not entirely unpleasant, but not quite right. Is this my fault? Did I lead her on? I didn't, but...did I? She replays the evening in her head, but it’s hazy.

Luiza's hands slip down, cupping the base of Myka's head, deepening the kiss, urging her to rise. Myka breaks it off just then.

“Finalmente,” Luiza says, her voice soft and low, leaning in for another kiss. Myka jerks away, but Luiza's thrown off balance, hands still buried in Myka's curls. Luiza slips off the bed entirely, and they tumble to the ground.

“I can’t do this,” Myka says, pushing Luiza up at the shoulders.

“You have another lover.”

“It's not that."

“Then why?” Luiza lifts herself up so that her arms and legs are now straddling Myka. "Your eyes were on me tonight." She leans in for another kiss, but Myka turns her head.

“This is your ex,” Luiza snaps and sits back on her heels. “You have found her. You’re going to…” She frowns. “Ask for her back."

“I don’t know where she is.” Where did that come from? Myka scoots back, carefully extracting herself from under Luiza's hold. She lifts on her elbows, but makes no sudden move to rise.

“I see it in your eyes. Something has changed.” Luiza falls back, sliding down the edge of the bed, dramatically thrusting her legs out until she’s in sitting position. “You will visit her in London, this woman who destroyed your heart. Tell me where she is, this-this, desgraça, ela que vá a merda!”

Luiza’s Portuguese slurred, but her tone pushed the point across. Myka bends at her knees and inches further back, sitting up while hugging her legs to her chest. Luiza knows everything about her, the entire fake story about Helena as she’s cried in her beer many times over it. But Luiza’s never become this agitated, and she’s not entirely sure why. “H-How did you know I was going to London?” She only found out a few days ago and knows she hadn’t mentioned it.

Luiza drags a hand, raggedly, through her thick, dark locks and looks off to the side. "It was there, on your phone, the text. You left it on the table. It lit up.”

The text, "Sotheby’s London confirmed,” could have honestly meant anything. And she’s been super careful since Morgana’s warning; she hasn't talked about searching for Helena at all, so why would that text set off this tirade?

“It is good that you find her. You must put her away. She is stopping you from better things.” Luiza pushes off the bed and crawls closer to Myka, reaching out and laying a hand on Myka’s knee.

Myka flinches, her head says, "run away," but gut tells her to stay. Something’s not right here. Something big. If Morgana were here, what would she say?

“Put her to rest so we can begin.” Luiza moves ever closer, threading a curl behind Myka’s ear and pressing kiss to her temple.

Myka’s chest tightens as panic sets in. And here, she thought she was being disingenuous, but all along it was Luiza. Luiza’s been grooming her this whole time, tricking her into trusting her, into giving away details about Helena’s situation.

“I’m sorry, but no,” Myka says, releasing her legs and pushing away. Careful now, rejecting her outright will look suspicious after how close you’ve gotten. “I-I’m really flattered, a-and you’re a beautiful, talented woman, but…” Luiza was alone in her apartment. Did she dig through her files? Plant bugs in the walls? Has she been monitoring her calls and texts this whole time? “I, um…there is someone else, if I’m being completely honest.” If only she’d taken up Morgana’s offer, she’d have someone vetted, but now...

“Que?” Luiza says, raising a brow.

“M-My friend Abigail and I, we’ve been talking.” Wait...if Luiza is a spy then she’ll know that isn't technically true, she’ll already know everything about her. “I-I haven’t said anything yet, but I’m planning to when she's in town for Thanksgiving.”

“Abigail. The doctor who lives far away?”

“Only until her post-doc is over. Then she’ll transfer wherever she wants."

“She is your long-time friend. What has changed?”

“I, um…” A catalyst, Myka, come on…think! “When she came to visit for my birthday, she said…she made a comment about maybe dating women. And that stuck with me.”

“She will return your love?”

“I think so.” Or kill me for being an idiot.

Luiza backs towards the bed, looking genuinely shaken. In the moment, she’s simply a bruised suitor, not a potential spy at all.

"I didn’t want to jinx it by saying it out loud.”

“What is jinx?”

“Mess it up before it starts.”

“Que dá azar. Bad luck. Ok.” Luiza holds Myka’s gaze, seemingly gauging the truth in the situation, nodding her head up and down in tiny strokes.

If she doesn’t believe me, what do I do?

Luiza's eyes close as her head falls back against the bed. She’s silent for a few minutes, then takes a deep breath in. “It is time for sleep. And muitos litros de água. Much water.” She hauls herself up, limbs shaking, and walks as steadily as she can towards the door. "Boms sonhos, Myka,” she says, turning back just before exiting.

“Goodnight,” Myka replies, her voice cracking from the lump stuck in her throat. Once Luiza’s gone, she tries to rise, but gravity pulls her down. What have I done? She rolls onto her back and closes her eyes. I'm stupid. So stupid. She’s not my friend. Why can’t I have a friend? A twinge of pain throbs through her brow, and she pinches the bridge of her nose. I have to fix this, fix this now. I need to call Claudia. Or that number Morgana gave me. She rolls over and sits up. But my phone’s in my bag and my bag's on the chair. I can’t go out there, not tonight. She crawls over to her bed and climbs on top, curling up into a ball. Everything’s fucked. Helena, I can’t take much more of this. Where are you? I need you to come back, now.

-TBC-

#BERING AND WELLS #W13 #fanfiction #if/then #Myka Bering #Helena HG Wells #links to other parts in a reply

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stupendoustrashmagazine · 5 years

Text

Prelude

Tonight the act of naming fell through the floor.

We speak permeable solids inflected by light

Move indistinctly: palate of windshield

Crosshatch hop-cross’d with Ovidian shift,

faux forest, treat’d with colors from closet

Plait plat in a plot to track flotillas down,

Hot air balloons up, celebrating distant

Prairie fair. Farmer’s burnoff coils tall

Ash columns, formations above turbines white.

Learn to kill that hunger for thunderhead drift.

Can follow on foot synapse, taste confit,

Sketch figure, set type, code python on limb,

Design legend for—scratch the map, lost.

I want the aura to aural irrespective of sense

the quartet of styrofoam boats & balloons

of plastic bags forgiven along with conductor,

for it to catapult group out open window,

An aria, moved, moving, with others. The spleen

Racket, melange dischord allowing

harmony’s plural means of resolution.

Pipe seams bead’d with silver solder &

Dreams warp’d with passion’s endurance.

The trespass into yard with inflatable pool

where algal sideburns pastoralize

a celebratory drowning ritual.

Come back. Help me frame Matisse (guilty

Strokes), rust the iron, damper temperment

Unclothed. Spill the hamper & sing it,

that magnolia

We’ll stay long enough for faith in

each other’s visions. For something beyond

earthly suffering. Sucked dry wax & cone.

It is unfortunate, the dragonflies are

Purple & beautiful, abdomen metallic

terrae, nodes aggregate, curvature &

husk. Nearby: a field of lightning. The stroll

through it risked no electrocution.

Cull’d from material body leads to matter again.

Association of associations.

Together, we’ll erase strip malls frosting away

In our chests, but we won’t be able to stop the ivy

From terraforming, maturing towards strangulation,

A form of survival. Walk a while into notional

Forest, ash grey hit with newborn beetles,

No radar, cobalt blue tinted dark green.

Skykomish in Summer

In Goldbar Washington boys crossed

river with driftwood staves feet

slick-step between slime & rock,

underbelly of serpentine but liquefied,

algaal nets stretched between toes,

Like scales without edge—stiffened

Cold after crossing were caverns

shadows hold, shield from radiation,

& though they couldn’t admit this

touch was what they most wanted,

schizoid clouds temporary shelter

against frenetic sun, there in those

caverns the kids dove into pools

Spun in schools of spit & current

Slippery grips grit on bank’s cove

tangle of nets, sunken conflagrations

Their bodies pressing against the wake

a force there, a quiet endlessness

sound beckoning shape, the inky jar.

Repossession (1.)

Spring seeds fibrillate, sap drools.

Muddy lawns: aftermath of an approach.

Easter-green paint cracks, reveals cedar siding,

Disintegrates, falls to foundation’s edge close.

One could ask who lived here. Do most times

even though it’s’no secret. They lost it, left

We cut & to the porch fasten 2x4 handrails

(Suing a bank’s a better investment), step

Inside.Maple floorboards, worn-out testimony.

Each creak releases things outside in-

terpretation or language. Bathtub’s got

Concrete top pour’d but unfinish’d

punctured lining by PVC tubes like reeds

for lungs underwater, covered in mud.

The second story framing’s exposed, drywall

crumbs caked, spackle pocks & joint compound

in gnarled clutches grab remains, fading.

Electrical wires in knots, pigtails,

Copper diminished in conduit. Empty

centers of things usually covered, then valued.

There is then the business of the yard

children’s toys—truck beds blue on body

red, bouquets of acrylic flowers, the

eyeball amanita thrombosis, marbles

½-cover’din mud.Dolls, ropes, figurines.

We clean out a carport barn, trash,

automotive parts, motor oil, glass, aluminum.

Kinetic images sequence, make time elastic,

Revelations flaw; in sensorial beatitudes, a kind of wreckage,

Sight is a museum of things seen, they’re hostages:

Beneath the house, thousands of aluminum

Cans, vinegar, rat nests in an old tent,

Dust so fine it’s crystalline. We rake & bag for hours.

Outside, a doll hung from rhododendron

Its face torched, head cocked to the side, clothes

Missing, darling buds of May hooked at the armpit.

My boss talks about rural zoning laws

As we back out of the emptied house;

The wet half-acre prairie grass fenced-in & barbed

Waits for another debtor; we head again toward emptiness.

Repossession (2.)

In the truck. Behind us, trail-rattle

& typical thrash. My boss tells me

About the gem we’re about settle in.

It’s like wading through bodies, I think.

The metaphor breaks immediately.

The driveway could be a fractured jaw—

I cut the grass with our Kubota mower.

The shed is fifteen feet away from the tracks

& an old sawmill spits nothing under sky.

Deadly nightshade drifts vascular across cedar

Siding, grey lead-based flakes fall in wet, cut weeds.

The red berries barrage, their Plathian pitch.

The mother-in-law’s a converted shed,

Its floor’s center sags, linoleum squares

Sepia-toned & checkerboard in easy encryption.

I bleach & scrub the toilet, pour antifreeze in.

The makeshift porch’s missing walls on all sides:

Top hat Styrofoam insulation & DuPont

Foam curdled, cumulous, mustard & rust. I push open

The house’s door. Carpet bubbles carcinoma grey,

Whole sections swell a foot from level ground.

I taste urine & ammonium. Dust gets on our skin.

I grab my razor knife, “Rip in.” He laughs.

The carpet weighs twice what it should, I stack

Pieces on the lawn. The carpet pad has fused

In a foam matrix to subterranean linoleum.

I stab & lever it with a toothed roofing shovel.

D the cleaner & I stop. We just look at it.

Snowflakes, quite idiosyncratic, urea crystals, dust.

Maybe a year or so buildup from cats or dogs.

The bedroom the same. I laugh this time.

Tobacco stains headway, riverine drawings on walls.

Sappy window trim. Popcorn ceiling meteorologist:

Sheet of cottage cheese about to hail.

I go outside to sneak a cigarette near the tracks.

We shovel the crystal uric acid into buckets.

Makes me think about molecular records.

An atomic record forever void its narrative.

I pull up tack strip with a roofing shovel.

They’re like reeds, I think. We leave it

Mowed, gutted, clean. It’s quiet here near the tracks.

Sparrows. He starts the truck. Dust all over us.

We pass past things along with clouds.

We head to the dump. I unload. He reminds us

He hates dealing with the public.

Stamp

Over there in rotting field

Grows some storm with an eye

Toward an oak

One could say is trembling

But accounting for wind

Really it moves from force

& force alone while metastatic clouds

Mid-west median June appraise

Landscape of prairie

& steel beams two-by-foured

In rows holding up a smattering,

Maybe just a platter of

Figurative three-tab shingles—

An economy of pigs, feed, birds, too:

It’s pulmonary, the bristles

Horizontally dance, thistles

In multiplication, an armory

Rucksacking its strength

Gripping seams & susceptible glue

Undone un-doing year

After year—from behind

One window of nondescription

A home chatters, clapboards flap,

Scratching like molars,

A singular flash gives rise

During descent—cast-iron

Frying each cornea clean—

Leaving in singular manner

Carbonized stump, something

That doesn’t even look

For an original impulse

A root that once gripped

Mineral & dirt, an uneven pitch

Of earth left without

A stamp or reason for being.

1 note · View note

nemesisbinxartifactseries · 5 years

Text

Artifact Series S

Saburo Miyakawa's Hachimaki *

Sacagawea's Cradleboard

Sacagawea's Indian Peace Medal

Sacred Papyri of Seleucia *

The Saddle of Bayard

Sadhu Fingernails

Sailor Mars' Transformation Pen

Saint Cuthbert's Chapel Gargoyle *

Saint George's Ring

Saint George's Lance and Shield

Saint James' Fuller's Club

Saint Jude's Carpenter's Rule

Saint Jerome's Lion Claw Thorn

Saint Lucia's Skull

Saint Matthew's Tax Lodger

Saint Matthias' Axe

Saint Nicholas' Gift Bag

Saint Nicholas' Three Stockings

Saint Patrick's Bell

Saint Paul's Cross-Hilted Sword

Saint Paul's Letter

Saint Peter's 2 Keys

Saint Peter's Sword

Saint Philip's Basket

Saint Sebastian’s Arrow

Saint Simon's Saw

Saint Thomas' Carpentry Square

Saint Valentine's Amethyst Ring

Sakyo Komatsu's Typewriter Ink Ribbon

Saleh's Camel Bone

Salem Saberhagen Animatron

Sallah, the Soothsaying Sultan *

Sally Rand's Ostrich Feather Fans

Sally Tompkins' Medical Kit

Salmaan Taseer's Glasses

Salt from Dallol, Ethiopia

Salvador Dali’s Cane

Salvador Dali's Moustache Wax

Salvador Dalí's Paintbrush

Salvation Army Bell

Salvator Fabris' Fencing Doublet

Salzburg Marionette Theater Marionette

Samantha Smith's Cap

Sam Hide's Half Crown

Sam Loyd's Black Queen

Sammy Davis Jr.'s Mezuzah

The Samsara Lotus

Sam Sheppard's Wrestling Boots

Sam Snead’s Golf Bag

Samson's Jawbone *

Samuel Allison's Dark Tinted Goggles

Samuel Clemens' Riverboat Whistle

Samuel Colt's Gun Barrel

Samuel Franklin Cody’s Kite

Samuel J. Seymour’s Safety Pin

Samuel Loring Morison’s Magazine Rack

Samuel Madden's Letter Opener

Samuel Pepys' Monocle

Samuel Pepys' Wheel of Parmesan Cheese

Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Fishing Net *

Samuel Whittemore’s Musket

Samuel Ruben’s Batteries

Samus Aran's Armor

Sancho II of Portugal’s Ciborium

Sandbags from the Great Mississippi Flood of 1927

The Sanderson Sisters' Black Flame Candle

Sandford Fleming's Postage Stamp

Sands of Hiroshima

Sands of Iwo Jima *

Sands of Normandy

Sandstone Bricks from the Pyramid of Giza

Santa Claus™ Hat

Santiago Ramón y Cajal's Microscope

Santorini Event Pumice Stone

Sapphires of Vali

Sarah A. Bowman’s Bread Tray

Sarah Bernhardt's Evening Gloves

Sarah Knauss' Personal Compact Mirror

Sarah Osbourne's Dress

Saraswati’s Veena

Sargon the Great's Mirrors *

Saturn V

Saxon Yule Log *

Sburb Beta Disks

Scaenae Frons from the Theatre of Dionysus

Scallop Shell of Zebedee

Scarab of Imhotep *

The Scarab Beetle Statue of Luxor

Scarecrow's Mask

“Scary” Lucille Ball Statue

Schaefer Beer Tray

Scheherazede's Bracelet

School of Salmon

Schrodinger's Cat

Schwinn Exercise Bike

Scope & Rifle from Elbe Day

Scorpion's Ropedart

Scorpus' Chariot

Scot Halpin’s Tour Jacket

Scott Joplin's Cigarette Case *

Scott Joplin's Piano *

Scott Joplin's Score for A Guest of Honor

Scott O'Grady’s Ejection Seat

SCP-WH13

Scroll of Qi

The Sea Cat

Searchlight from Alcatraz

Seat from Global Airlines Flight 33

Seaweed Stone Ball

Second Chance Heroes Artifacts

Secondo Pia’s Flashbulb

Secretariat's Horseshoes

Sedna's Seashell

Seductive Spectacles

SEES's Evokers

Selene's Tiara

Self-Answering Rotary Phone

Self-Constructing Building Blocks

Self-Replicating Birthday Candles

Senchán Torpéist's Lute

Seneb's False Door

Seraphim of Sarov’s Icon and Lestovka

Serial Killer Camera *

Serial Killer Hook

Sergeant Stubby's Coat

Sergei Brukhonenko's Autojektor

Sergei Korsakoff's Ruble Coin

Sergei Prokofiev's Chess Board

Sergio Corbucci's Personal Script of Django

Sergiusz Piasecki’s Grammar Book

Sessue Hayakawa’s Pierce Arrow

Seth Kinman’s Elkhorn Chair

Seth MacFarlane's "Family Guy" Concept Art

Seti I's Obelisk

Severus of Athens' Cronus Ring

Sexist Pickle Jar

Shah Jahan’s Peacock Throne

Shah Jahan's Taj Mahal Spire

Shaista Khan’s Sash

Shards of the Cross of St. Andrew

Sharicite Pendants

Shaka Zulu's Nkoka

Shaka Zulu's Iklwa

Shamu's Tank

Shang Rang's Army Shield

Shaolin Temple Robes

Sharbat Gula's Shawl

Shard from the Lens of the Lighthouse of Alexandria *

Sharkeisha's Winter Hat

Sharpie Permanent Marker

Sheet Music of Faerie's Aire and Death Waltz

Sheldon Silverstein's Guitar

Sheldon Silverstein's Shaving Razor

Shelvern's Black-Magic-Eyed Peas

Shell Fragment from the V-1 Doodlebug

Shem Drowne's Grasshopper

Shennong’s Plow

Sherman Adams’ Fur Coat

Sher Shah Suri's Helmet

Sheut Statuette

Shield from the Battle of Thermopylae

Shifting Chicken Egg

Shig Murao's Copy of "Howl"

Shigechiyo Izumi's Kimono

Shig Murao's Copy of "Howl"

Shigeru Miyamoto's Keyboard

Shinichi Suzuki's Violin

Shirley Jackson's Jewelry Box

Shiro Ishii's Medal *

Shirt of Nessus

Shivaji’s Bagh Naka

Shizou Kakutani's Geometry Set *

Shoes from the Tank Man

Shoichi Yokoi's Uniform

Shō Shin's Tonfa

Shotaro Ishinomori's Pen and Sketch Pad

Shower Head from "Psycho" *

Shylock's Coin Purse

Siberian Jukebox

Siberian Mammoth Tusk

Sigismund I the Old’s Tankard

Sigismund’s Order of the Dragon Emblem

Sigmund Freud's Cigar *

Sigmund Freud's Glasses

Sigmund Freud's Lighter

Sigmund Freud's Mantle Clock *

Sigmund Freud's Marble Tablet

Sigyn’s Bowl

Silap Inua Totem

Silene stenophylla

Silencing Librarian Glasses

Silk Sash of Mulan

Silver Bracelet *

Silver Bullet

Silver Cross Tavern Barrels

The Silver Crystal

Silver Necklace from the Atacama Desert Mines *

Silverpilen

Silver Transmuting Goblet

Simeon Bourgeois' Torpedo Shell

Simo Häyhä's Rifle

Simon Tookoome's Bullwhip

Simonides of Ceos' Tally Stick

Simon Stevin's Windmill

Sinclair Lewis' Desk

"Singin' in the Rain" Umbrellas

The Singing Bone

Sinon's Helmet

Sir Gawain's Jousting Helmet *

Sir Mix-A-Lot's Bling Ring

Siren Rock Pendent

Sister Parish's Rose Brooch

Sitting Bull's Riding Blanket *

Skanderberg's Helmet

Skeleton Key

Ski Gloves

Skip to My Lou Violin

Skis from the Winter of Terror

Slava Raškaj’s Alabaster Owl Carving

Slavoljub Eduard Penkala’s Hot Water Bottle

The Slayer's Scythe

Sledge Hammer from the Ohio State Prison Fire

Slender Suit

Slot Machine

Slow Mo Guy's Lab Coats

Slue-Foot Sue's Bustle

Smenkhkare's Coffin

Smiling Dog Photograph

Smell Negating Clothespin

Smokey Yunick's Cowboy Hat

Smoking Railroad Spikes *

"Snakeman's" Basket

Snarky Reading Glasses

Sneezing Panda Video Camera

Snowman Jack-in-the-Box

Snow White's Apple

Snow White's Mirror

Sobriety Coin

Soccer Ball from the Death Match

Sock Sowachowski's Hat

Socrates' Cup *

Socrates' Toga

Sodom and Gomorrah Salt Mask *

Sogdianus' Scimitar

Soichiro Honda's Bicycle Pedals

Solac Electric Toaster

Soldier of Fortune's Cloth Cap

Solomon W. Golomb's Polyominoes

Sonman Mine Pickaxe

Sonny and Cher's Old West Costumes

Sopdet's Star

Sophie Blanchard's Costume

Sophie Lyons' Gloves

Soren S. Adams' Jam Jar

Southern Cross Expedition Candle Holder

Souvenir Ashtray *

SpaceShipOne

The Spaghetti Tree

Spanish Flag from the Battle of Rocroi

Spanish Inquisition Costumes

Spartan Armor *

Spartacus' Armor

Sparticus' Retiarius *

Special Order 191 Cigars

Speed-Reading Lamp (canon)

Sphinx's Gear

Sphinx's Nose and Tablet

Spiked Torture Mask (canon)

Spindle from the Duke of Exeter's Daughter Torture Rack (canon)

Spirit of St. Louis' Propeller Spinner

Spine of the Saracen *

Splattering Heinz Ketchup Bottle

Spoon from Al Capone's Soup Kitchen

Spirit of St. Louis' Propeller Spinner

Spirit Tablets from the Boxer Rebellion

Spitball-Producing Straw

Spriggan Wings

Spring-Heeled Jack's Boots

Spyridon Louis’ Fustinella

Srinivasa Ramanujan's Stick

Squee's Teddy Bear, Shmee

SS Andrea Doria

SS Baychimo

SS Indiana's Hand Bell

SS Noronic Whistle

SS Violet, Griffon

Stack of 12 Cans of Campbell’s Soup *

Stacked-Deck Poker Table

Stadium Seats from the 1896 Olympics

Stage Door from CBGB's *

"Stagecoach" Mary Fields S&W .38 "Lemon Squeezer"

Stagelight from the UFO Club

Stairway B Railing

Staff of Set

Stamata Revithi's Document

Stan Rogers's Wedding Ring

Stanislaw Ulam's Calculator

Stanley Green’s Placard

Stanley Kramer's Film Reel

Stanley Thornton Jr.'s Baby Bottle

Stare Promoting Glasses

Star Jelly

Starkad's Norse Pendent

S.T.A.R.S. Samurai Edge Pistol

State vs Bonner Cap Gun

Statue from Trajan’s Column

Statues of Castor and Pollux *

Statue of Euryale

Statue of Heket

Statue of St. Bartholomew

Statues from the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus

Statues of Zeus and Hera

Statuettes of Aphrodte and Eros

Steam Locomotive from the Burma Railway

Steel Girders From Warehouse 12

Stefania Follini’s Guitar

Stephen Decatur's Disguise

Stephen Hawking's Wheelchair

Stephen Hillenburg's Hawaiian Shirt

Stephen Wiltshire's Pen

Steve Bolander's '58 Chevy Impala

Steve Brodie's Dummy

Steve Clemente's Knife Box

Steve Irwin’s Australia Zoo Patch

Steve Jobs' Hardrive

Steve Kordek's Pinball Machine

Steve McQueen's 650cc Triumph TR6 Trophy Motorcycle *

Steven Spielberg's Clapper Board

Stewart Farrar's Besom

Sticky String *

Stingy Jack's Turnip Lantern

"Stinking" Bishop's Kettle

St. Stephen's Church Weather Vane

Stolen Arm of Shiva

Stone-Changing Cheese Knife

Stone from Stonehenge *

Stone from the "Wailing Wall"

Stones from The Dancing Plague of 1518

Stones from the Flims Rockslide

Stone of Destiny

Stone of Truth

Stonewall Inn's Neon Sign

Stonewall Jackson's Piece of Shrapnel

Storage Door Knob

Stormtrooper E-11 Blaster Rifle

Strait of Messina Grindstone

Straightjacket from St. Mary of Bethlehem Asylum

The Straw that Broke the Camel's Back *

Studio 54 Disco Ball *

Stuffed Speckled Chachalaca

St. Valentine's Day Massacre M1 Thompson

Subtle Knife

Sucellus' Hammer

Sugar Ray Robinson's Pillow

Sugar Skull

Sulla's Grass Crown

Summer Camp Inflatable Mattress

Sunbeam Mix Master

Sundiata Keita’s Balafon

Sunny Malone's Chalk Drawing

Sunrise High Sierra Camp Hat

Sun Tzu's Dao Sword

Sun Tzu's "The Art of War"

Superman's Suit

Supermarket Sweep Shopping Carts

Susan Hayward's Silk Dress

Susan Nolen-Hoeksema’s Glasses

Susanoo's Totsuka-no-Tsurugi (Sword of Strength)

Su Song's Armillary Sphere

Suzanne Oldsworth's Silver Thimble *

Svante Arrhenius’ Gloves

Svetlana Pankratova's Shoes

Svyatoslav Nikolayevich Fyodorov's Patient's Glasses

Sweeny Todd's Barber Shop Razor

Swiss Miss-Hap Mug *

The Sword in the Stone

Sword of Damocles

Sybil Leek's Smudge Fan

Sydney Newman's Rotary Phone

Sylvanus Morley's Pith Helmet

Sylvester Graham's Original Graham Crackers

Sylvia Browne's Pearl Earrings

Sylvia Plath's Typewriter *

3 notes · View notes