#Macbeth's witches move aside

[nemo-of-house-hamartia]

Also, fml, I just decided that my Rook is going to be the younger sister of my Inquisitor, Velahris Lavellan.

Like, I can see Ravenna just poking at her sister to actually spill the beans about Varric (because yes, I ship my Inquisitor with Varric AND NO ONE CAN STOP ME FROM DOING SO LOL.) because SHE KNOWS that her sister is hiding something.

Like, she just cannot stop mentioning him in EVERY SINGLE LETTER they exchange (even if she always refers to him in a professional manner), but Ravenna CAN READ through those lines.

Because yes, I am going with the whole shtick of Stoic sarcastic emotionally constipated older sister vs fun-loving, little ray of sunshine (to hide away the sadness) younger sister.

I mean, this just means that Ravenna is already equipped to deal with Lucanis, considering she had to deal with her sister's grumpiness HER ENTIRE LIFE.

But one thing is for sure: at least Lucanis will make a better coffee lol though, I do envision some rivarly between him and Ravenna because MY GIRL CAN COOK (sorry, but as an Italian, I cannot for the life of me have an Italian-Based Character that has no idea how to cook. It's a matter of personal pride lol).

Like, I have to be honest, from what little I know about Lucaris and his personality, I can see him as a bit of a grouchy sad cat.

So now I want Ravenna to be his safe haven, from when things are so dire that not even a good cup of coffee can chase troubles away.

Now I just have to see how things are going to be in general, considering that I made Ravenna's sister a Mage lololololol

gods am stocked.

This will be running in the back of my mind for a while, I already know that things are brewing.

BREWING.

And now I have basically both that and Mephistea running parallels.

this is going to be FUN.

[theultrablog]

Pulp Storytime #72: The Palladium Peril! By Paul "Wiggy" Wade-Williams.

In 1938, Austria was invaded. In 1940, London was not. Was a statue to blame?

We open in Verona. Journalist Trudy Truman has an inkling of the story… a Greek artifact that was said to be lost to time. To help her get it, she teamed up with an all-new adventurer, Dr. Hemet Hazoul. He’s a genius with a doctorate in engineering and history… and has all the humility of a Hollywood publicist at award time. He had been "encouraged" by the rest of the staff of his Turkish university to go on permanent sabbatical, and submit his research via correspondence. Rounding out the posse was Tacito Uriel Velasco, lawyer, boxer, and wielder of a Mexican panther spirit, and stuntwoman Lala Santinella. She and her adopted daughter Devika (millionaire, mystic, etc.) were visiting her homeland to work out a few glitches in their relationship. They brought a lawyer because of a little business that was… What’s the word? Elective? "Compulsory," corrected Tacito. Trudy was contacted by a member of British Intelligence. He was being followed, so the best place to talk would be during a local performance of Macbeth. Someone must’ve said the play’s name outloud too much, though. All the agent could divulge was "Minerva, at the pantheon" before being shot. The killer timed it during the witches’ lightning, and despite the lawyer's best effort, the killer got away. Hemet explained, with no degree of humility, the Pantheon was a famous structure in Rome. Lala went under protest, in disguise. She wasn’t popular in Mussolini’s Italy after publicly leaving a Germany/Italy film collaboration. Unfortunately, that very same movie was shooting at the Pantheon! Lala’s old pal and rival, Elena Altieri, was starring in the movie Santinella turned down. The stuntwoman tried to hide in her car, while Trudy used her gift for blathering to distract Director Leni Riefenstahl. The statue itself weighed hundreds of pounds, but with Hemet’s advice, the lawyer moved it aside and looked underneath. There was a gem and a scroll, which claimed a secret would be revealed at the sun’s zenith in the Flavian Auditorium. Wait, what did they call the building nowadays? The Colosseum! The stadium was 30 minutes away and it was 11:40. The group was blessed to have an Italian leadfoot! The group got to the Colosseum with seconds to spare, barely noticing the new platforms and fresh sand. At noon, Hemet directed the sunlight onto a brick on the emperor’s box, burning up a Nazi flag…And springing the trap! Herr Strauss, a Nazi commander with delusions of grandeur, told our heroes the score. They could live with the knowledge they acquired… if they could beat him and his unit in gladiatorial combat. He presented a range of ancient weaponry… And the battle was on! Trudy had always been blessed with a strong nose. Instead of immediately joining the fight, she observed her surroundings… and could smell a very unfamiliar scent. LIONS. The “fair” Nazi challenge was a deathtrap! The professor was used to brawls and ancient weaponry. He held off the brown shirts… but the lions had the opposite effect on him and Tacito that Trudy might’ve expected. Hemet had the world’s greatest ego. The lawyer had the instinct of a panther, and there was no way he’d surrender to another large cat. Lala, brimming with common sense, snuck off to open an escape hatch. Tacito and Hemet kept the lion away from Trudy. After choking the beast unconscious, Tacito flung blood onto his opponents… Making them all the more appealing for the other Pantero leos. Egos assuaged, Trudy led a retreat.

After fleeing, the group laid low at a much less historic venue… Their local library. The Palladium, the object of their search, prevented cities from falling, so there was no way it was still in Rome. But some dusty tomes suggested it’d been moved to Constantinople! It was an awkward homecoming for Professor Hazoul. His rival, Cleric Marduk, had charged him with violating the school's decorum code… By fighting animals in a world wonder. But Hemet had an ace up his sleeve. It was his new friend, one of Earth’s greatest lawyers. Tacito emphasized that the lion fighting had been done in self-defense, and in pursuit of an archaeological treasure. This set Hemet up for some self-serving lies… and the honor committee was completely, 100% on board. The cleric shook his fist as the other panel members suggested that HH could teach ancient weaponry as an elective next semester. Trudy got to the telegraph office to send in her story. Nazis digging up the Colosseum was front-page stuff. She had another contact in town, Stavros “The Bull” Papadopoulos, a merchant mastermind with an interest in antiquities. He agreed to meet her and her cohort at the Turkish baths. Suggested wardrobe: a towel. Papadopoulos, (when not interrupted by Hazoul), explained that the Palladium they saw was in a monastery 70 miles out of town. And completely coincidentally, he had a delivery truck headed in that direction. A spare ride at a reasonable price. Trudy’s astounding senses paid off again… As she heard footsteps down the hallway. Assassins! The fez-wearing killers had the group at a disadvantage, but no sword can defeat the human mind. Especially when that mind belongs to a dirty-fighting professor. He soaked one end of his towel in water, and set the other on fire. The hashish-eaters caused problems, slashing Trudy’s arm badly, but the crew was clever. Tossed braziers set their foe’s robes on fire. Tacito held a goon’s head under the bath. Lala soaped the floor and smashed people in the face with water buckets. Soon, there was gap in the flow of hired killers. The group rushed to the changing rooms, and from there to Papadopoulos’s cousins’s truck. Kristos let Lala drive, but the cabin was cramped. A few people would have to ride in the back. Devika, feeling useless, gave Trudy one of the many crates. Trudy, playing along, opened it up, asking what it was. Devika read the label.

"Nitrog…nitro gly…" "Nitroglycerin."

Yep, Kristos was hauling enough explosive fluid to send the truck into orbit. Not a problem, until a Nazi half-track came around the bend. The party had very little in terms of ranged combat skill. They did have a maniac behind the wheel, so when the Ahnenerbe machine gun opened up, Lala hit the gas like she was driving a Ferrari. And although they needed to cover miles and miles of ground, and couldn’t dodge bullets forever... the group had a mechanical genius on board. His idea was rebellious. It was dangerous. And it was perfect. They had a truck bed full of explosives? Why not just detach the truck bed? Instead of throwing crates one at a time, they unleashed a huge trail of explosive ordinance. Far behind, a commandant demanded his troops check what was in these mysterious crates… And then proceeded, very slowly, to remove them. By the time the nitro was safely disposed of, the players had gotten away. The monastery was a bust. But it could’ve been much deadlier if the group didn’t travel with a design historian. Trudy detected a trap, and Hemet was able to keep the hidden wall blades recessed. Tacito and Hemet examined the corpses of less careful Crusader tomb robbers… skeletons with coins from 14th-century Vienna. Could Austria be the place?! It turns out it was. And after an ambush in Europe’s second-largest graveyard, the group found a gigantic statue of the Pallas Athena! While the antiquarians examined the device, Devika and Lala had some one one-on-one time. Devi was concerned that Lala had gone off the deep end after the failed wedding and Devi’s time in a coma. Lala admitted that things had gotten drastic, but moms were allowed to get a little crazy. Just the way things go. The group hurried. Austria wasn’t a Nazi state yet, but brown-shirts had free reign there. The statue opened a nearby fountain, which led to a cavern containing the Palladium, and a weird electrical grid pattern. Lala was about to unplug it… When Professor HH had a better idea. The group rewired the trap. The fascists might have outnumbered our heroes, but hatred can do very little against electricity. Herr Strauss’s dueling saber was nothing more than a lightning rod. Lala, Tacito and Hemet mopped up the rest. The only thing left to do: figure out where to move the statue! Trudy was loyal to the British crown. Tacito argued that they should honor the sacrifice of the agent who told them about the thing in the first place. Hemet was fine with any option as long as he got to write the archaeological report. The Palladium was stored securely in the tower of London.

Towel Fight by JORDAN PEACOCK!

[daffelreign]

Macbeth commentary. Because I’m bored. And judgemental. (Pt. 1)

Background information: Personally, the most I had heard about Macbeth prior to actually having to read it was a lot of students complaining about how hard it was to read and debating over Macbeth and his wife’s relationship. So the bar was pretty low to start.

Just like my thoughts, this has no structure. I hope it is comprehensible enough to be funny.

Anyways, (Act I: Welcome to the show)

Act I (scene 1):

I don’t know how I expected this to start, but witches were not it. Initial shock aside though, the only thing that stuck out to me was the familiars. I understand that people are supposed to watch the play performed on stage (so some things are meant to be implied), but I have no idea how or why the familiars were included. We’re never going to hear about them again, are we? Le sigh.

Act I (scene 2):

A lot of this scene is just background context and character introductions--- nothing very exciting. However, I have lost all faith in the modern text translation. The captain explaining Macbeth’s prowess on the battlefield is supposed to be important--- to showcase what kind of brutality Macbeth is capable of, and build onto his aforementioned status. But instead of that, my brain was entirely focused on the phrase “unseamed him from the nave to th’ chop”. I got the general premise--- big cut= big ouch--- but I was convinced that the navel was part of the forehead?? And I was trying really hard to wrap my head around why on EARTH Macbeth would cut someone from forehead to chin and then cut their head off to put on a steak.

By the time I figured out what the navel actually was, my attention was entirely spent for the scene. So all I can say is that the modern translation should’ve said ‘belly button’ for those of us less cultured in anatomy.

Act I (scene 3):

The witches gossiping is so not important to the plot, but so entertaining to me. They’re actively plotting revenge while idly waiting for Macbeth, and I love that for them. Anyways, enter: Macbeth! And Banquo too, I guess. The besties are not-so-silently judging the witches just before the witches’ rock their world. I think the witches got some satisfaction from that--- just a little. It’s the feminine urge for spite.

Speaking of spite, Macbeth is going to be king but Banquo will be happier? Banquo’s descendants will be king? Doesn’t that mean that either 1. Macbeth doesn’t have children, or 2. Macbeth doesn’t remain king (which in terms of literature, usually means killy killy- stabby stabby). That thought doesn’t seem to hit him, apparently. I’m sure that’ll have consequences.

More boys enter the chat! Here for plot convenience to tell Macbeth that the witches were right. Who would’ve guessed? It’s not like they disappeared into thin air like some abra cadabra witchy-woo. We should just brush them off--- totally. Except now, with Macbeth’s new title, the besties start reconsidering their disbelief. Not quite looking at the big picture yet, but don’t worry--- I’m starting the murder board for them.

Murder board (who I think is going to die): Banquo is the first on the board as an eventual victim once Macbeth realizes that Banquo’s kids are gonna be a problem (so better to snuff out the source, right?). He’s gonna destroy their friendship bracelets :(

Act I, (scene 4):

This is where things start to get interesting (from a plot standpoint, anyways. I didn’t find it all that interesting, but it is important to move the story along). Macbeth gets his second title from the king, and is very surprised that the prophecy the magical-non-human-witch-ladies told him is now coming true. Shocker. Macbeth has also started to think about how he could become king, and what stands in his way (cough cough, the newly appointed prince).

Which is why we have a murder board update!

Duncan, Malcom, Banquo

Duncan is an obvious kill, since Macbeth needs to get rid of him to be king. Malcolm is on the murder board for the same reason, as he is now set up to be the next king, and that’s kinda what Macbeth is supposed to be. Both would need to come before Banquo’s death since Banquo’s only leg up on Macbeth is a problem he can deal with at a later time. (Aka, the murder board is in chronological order for who would need to go first).

Act I, (scene 5):

The girlboss has arrived. Right off the bat I already love and hate Lady Macbeth (I hate what she’s up to, but love the way she’s characterized). She comes off as very elegant and kind, but very quickly turns out to be one of our main antagonists. I am very interested in how Macbeth and Lady Macbeth’s dynamic will play out, since the typical role of the wife is a supportive person who loves the main character and has a generally positive effect on them (and that is not what is happening here). I can’t see those two getting along for much longer, especially after her instant reaction to being told her husband might be king is ‘murder is a valid option’.

Which is why I return with the murder board.

Duncan, Malcom, Lady Macbeth, Banquo

I think Banquo will outlast her simply because he’s not attempting to manipulate Macbeth in any way, and I can’t see him trying to do that in the future. I think he’ll turn on Macbeth at some point because of his conflicting personality, but I think Macbeth will get sick of his wife before he does his best friend. Hopes and prayers for the girl boss.

Act I, (scene 6):

I love that this scene opens with Duncan and Banquo admiring the scenery, and then it instantly turns into “Oh hey, we’re invading your house. Aren’t you lucky?” as soon as Lady Macbeth shows up. I think that didn’t help Duncan’s cause any. It probably snuffed out what little sympathy she might’ve had for him.

Macbeth seems to be having an existential crisis, and has decided that murder isn’t a good idea (you know, like any rational person would). Unfortunately, this does not comply with what Lady Macbeth wants, and she badgers him with insults and strangely graphic imagery until he agrees to it.

He says that Lady Macbeth should only have male children, but by the way she described killing her own baby, I don’t think she should be allowed to have children at all. I wouldn’t even let her hold someone else's baby, just in case. Her homicidal tendencies seem to have no limits as long as she can justify it to herself.

Also, Macbeth is starting to acknowledge the murder board, hello???

[cakesandfail]

Let's say Shakespeare was still knocking about, reckon he would like Discworld? Favourite character? Discuss at your leisure.

Oh god this is actually a really hard question to answer because Discworld is so influenced by Shakespeare... I’m going to say yes though, on the basis that his work and Terry Pratchett’s have a lot in common even aside from the fact that Terry wrote a book that was pretty much ‘Macbeth, but it’s about the witches and everyone else is fucking useless’. There are so many puns, pop culture jokes, and clever pivots from silly situations to profound moving beauty that I can’t imagine a situation where the influence and respect wouldn’t be mutual. I have no idea who Will’s favourite Discworld character would be though. Probably Nobby Nobbs. (I’d like to say Vetinari would be up there too because he has such massive “hee hee ho ho I am a posh man in a terrible disguise, nobody will ever know it’s me getting these kids together” vibes, but idk if that’s just me projecting wildly because I love these two dead nerds and Vetinari is my fave.)

[afoolandathief]

The OC ask Succubus whispers in your ear: When was your OC's first time? How did it go down? Were they satisfied with the experience? How soon before they wanted to have sex again? How soon before they got to?

Have you ever been asked a question about some degenerate characters you created and hyper-fixate so much you write 1,400 words on the subject?

Anyway, while I didn’t write anything exactly explicit here, it is somewhat, I don’t know, spicy? So, I’m putting it all below the cut.

Casimir Mraz, he/him, bisexual; currently a 617-year-old vampire turned at 27:

Caz is 17 when he loses his virginity. A girl from the village, maybe a year or two older than him, had gone up to the shepherd’s cottage, looking for one of his brothers. Instead she found a skinny, blonde, blue-eyed boy leading his sheep to their fold, offering to prepare the rabbit he had caught in one of his snares for supper. While his mother still makes dinner for the whole family back at their home, sometimes it’s too much of a trek after working, he explains.

Caz is a bit annoyed by his own politeness that he now has to split his rabbit stew with someone. But she touches his arm as she passes him to the cottage, sending a charge up his spine, and he no longer cares.

The girl, Caz thinks her name is Anca, is instructive in her affection, guiding him to where he needs to go. He’s a bit clumsy, at first. Caz has only ever kissed anyone. But he’s a fast learner, Anca tells him with a quick kiss when they’re done.

Ce pula mea, pula mea … It’s the best sensation Caz has ever experienced. Better than a stomach full of rich food; better than the dull buzz from the fruit wine he makes or the numbness from the wódka shipped from up north. Better than anything he attempted on his own during long winter nights in the freezing cottage.

He has to experience it again. He pursues it hungrily. Leaving his dog Boian to guard the sheep, he slips down around midnight to join his brothers at the village inn. It doesn’t take long for Augustin to pull him aside and warn him not to act so desperate when flirting with girls.

After several months of following his brothers’ instruction, and some failed attempts with a few village girls, he notices a new face watching him across the inn. Mária, the Hungarian boyar’s daughter, is short and plump, with thick curls and brown eyes that could melt in your mouth. La naiba, she’s rich, too.

Caz drapes a long arm over her. At his height, he dwarfs her. He has an offer, an invitation. Not for tonight, though. He’ll be hard at work in the pastures all of tomorrow. Would she stop by, sweet little lamb she is, and make his day less grueling?

He grins like a snake that swallowed an egg and slinks off before getting an answer, instead letting the question hang with her.

But he’s still surprised when Mária finds him the next day, bringing dates and almonds, soft cheese and mulled wine. Caz catches a fish from the lake nearby, and they stuff themselves, before Caz lays Mária in the warm grass and kisses her.

In the woods there are bears and wolves; Strigoi lurking in the shadows, Moroi clambering out of shallow graves, and witches waiting for unsuspecting travelers. But here in the sunshine, everything is sanitized, made safe, and Caz promises he will protect Mária.

This time he’s instructing her, lifting her skirt and pressing their warm flesh together. It’s also messier this time. His brothers told him, if he insisted he didn’t want a brat yet, there were certain things he had to do. So it’s messier, but the lake is nearby, and they clean themselves there, splashing each other with water before returning to the field where Boian is barking his annoyance at being left to watch the sheep himself.

Caz does miss the ability to let go, to lose control, let someone else guide him along. But he’s resigned to the fact he likely won’t be able to play that role again.

Jade Shaw, she/her, bisexual; currently a 26-year-old witch and Seer:

Jade is 19 when she loses her virginity. She’s on a date with a boy, and it’s going well. They see a terrible action movie and follow it with Thai takeout, opting to eat it in the seclusion of his car rather than at the restaurant. He has soft brown hair and warm hazel eyes, and they swap stories of pirating television shows they weren’t allowed to watch growing up.

So she feels her stomach tighten in anticipation when he asks if she wants to go to his place. Jade would offer her apartment, but her roommate is there; and her bed is covered with papers and clothes, and has a new kitten sleeping on it.

It’s awkward at first, and there’s a bit of that pinching feeling. But she finds a rhythm to it, and it feels good, their two bodies intertwined.

Then she claps her hands against his bare chest, and something else connects. Her head falls back, eyes glazed over. The boy, Eric might have been his name, thinks at first it’s a seizure.

But then Jade is conscious and she’s crying, grabbing Eric’s arms, trying to convey to him his grandmother is going to die tomorrow.

She wants to curl up and die after that; after she’s stopped crying and is dressed and Eric awkwardly attempts to comfort her and she explains it away as a panic attack.

But it’s even worse the next morning, when she gets a call asking what the fuck kind of joke she’s trying to pull, how did she know, was she stalking him and tracking his Nana’s health or something? And she can’t offer an answer. She just hangs up.

It’s six months later, and Jade hasn’t gone on any more dates, saying she’s too busy with her classes. A friend invites her to a cast party for a campus production of “Macbeth.” She’s reluctant at first; crowds are almost as bad as contact when it comes to invoking a vision. But her friend tells her it will be a small group, and Jade hasn’t left her apartment except to go to classes for months.

She hangs back in a corner of the kitchen, but the actress who played Lady Macbeth is asking her questions. The girl still has a full face of stage makeup that leaves her eyes starry with smudged eyeliner, and her pixie cut is slicked back from the wig she was wearing.

She’s half-a-foot shorter than Jade, and has to reach up to touch her ear when she asks about her helix piercings. Jade shrugs her off, and again when she attempts to trace her fingers along the tattoo on Jade’s forearm. I don’t like being touched, she finally tells her.

The girl pulls her hand back, and instead hooks a finger through Jade’s belt loop.

What do you like, then? she asks.

Jade chugs her wine cooler, and takes a hit from someone’s joint. Eventually, she finds herself in a walk-in closet with Lady Macbeth on top of her.

Caz will someday tell her his favorite play is “Much Ado About Nothing,” and Jade will piss him off by saying this was the closest she got to having an emotional reaction to one of Shakespeare’s works.

This time, Jade is cautious in where she allows the Scotswoman’s hands to go. She allows her to trace two fingers in circles on her thighs before it becomes too much, and Jade moves the girl’s hands to rest on her waist instead. Then her chest, her arms, her neck. She realizes this prevents a vision from happening, this interruption to touch. So she lets her guard down a little as she kisses Lady Macbeth’s bloody red lips clean.

The two don’t notice the house start to shake or hear the shrieks as partygoers run inside. Probably because the Scotswoman’s head is currently between Jade’s legs. When they finally dress and leave the closet, they learn from the soaked cast members a freak storm passed through.

It’s a little early for Las Vegas’s monsoon season, but that doesn’t mean rain this time of year is unheard of. But there’s shingles blown off the roof and an entire sycamore tree uprooted. One girl’s insistence lightning almost struck them is confirmed when they find a white lawn chair scorched brown and melted slightly in the middle of the yard. No one was sitting in it but, Jesus, could you imagine if they had?

It’s after this that Jade realizes she cannot allow herself to lose control like that again.

[takoyakitenchou]

How about an Isshiki x Shun or a Hayama x Nao prompt?

yusss isshun is under the cut

It was three in the morning and Hayama Akira was squatting on the floor in his office at Legislation, his nose plugged with tissues.

Why, you ask?

You see, despite fervent claims to having developed an impenetrable immune system in tandem with taking involuntary responsibility for all of the first and second seats’ Elite Ten work, life had kicked him in the ass and given him a goddamn cold. And when Akira got a cold, his abnormally sensitive nose suddenly found itself unable to distinguish between brown sugar and onions, and to say the experience was terrifying was a major understatement.

When Sadatsuka Nao arrived on the scene bearing a plate of what had to be the most pungent Surstromming in history, and Akira could not smell her from a mile away, he realized just how brutal this cold was. Despite having four other functional senses—somewhat—he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was what death felt like.

“Yo,” he said when she came into view, her red eye practically glowing from under her raven hair. “Need something?”

“Hisako onee-sama sent me,” Nao replied. “I would do anything for Hisako onee-sama.”

Oh? That was interesting. Arato’s methods had always been... digressive. “What for?”

“Hisako onee-sama said you were sick, Hayama-kun. Although you are my main rival, I must do whatever Hisako onee-sama asks of me. Maybe she will let me be her secretary!”

Nao approached Akira and set the plate on the ground next to him. “Eat this or Hisako onee-sama will be very upset with me. It’s one of her special medicinal blends combined with my strong aromas.”

Akira took one look and knew that under normal circumstances the odor would’ve knocked him to the promised land, but he seriously could not smell a damn thing.

“Thanks, Sadatsuka-san.” He picked up the offered chopsticks and took a bite of the herring. The second the salty, creamy flavors and the tangy herbal sauce exploded on his tongue, his nose cleared and the acrid odors of the Surstromming really hit him.

Arato and Sadatsuka—now that was a scary pair.

“Hayama-kun, you must remain at least 30 feet away from Hisako onee-sama at all times. She is mine, you understand?”

Akira blinked. “Sorry?”

“Hisako onee-sama is mine. I’ve been sending her seventy six letters a day and she burns them all. But once she finds out that I made you better she will surely return my affections.” With an evil cackle reminiscent of some witch in Macbeth, Nao left him in her pungent wake.

Terrifying.

i have like 0 writing capability so you can have hcs for isshun lol

shun is known to be like the only person in PSD (and probably the whole school aside for Nene, tbh) to know the extent of isshiki’s power

shun’s been lowkey interested in isshiki since the rentai shokugeki (the man used my smoking tq ;U) but he’s eccentric to the point that shun’s afraid he’s ace

isshiki has always been into shun but never made his move bc he’s afraid they might lose their friendship if shun ends up being into ryoko or even zenji

one day they’re the only two in PSD following a long morning of gardening and isshiki goofs and calls shun cute

this is followed by major nosebleeds by both parties and then the nsfw happens (it’s on the mild side tho, more like shun tugging on the straps of isshiki’s apron and isshiki leaving hickeys)

and this is why shun faints of heat stroke on a 41 degree summer day bc he can’t take off his turtleneck and naturally isshiki mothers the living daylights out of him while he’s sick lol

[nightybreeze]

Sound of Fury

Original female character/Billy Hargrove

A/N - I've created it with a Lady Macbeth/Macbeth dynamic in mind. I'm gonna try incorporate that into this fic as we go along. This is gonna be a long series. You could call it a slow burn but in terms of the plot. But I promise I'm pouring my heart and soul into this thing.

Summary: Action takes place in the season 2 of stranger things.

Word count: about 2 200 words

Chapter 1

Smash of the door. The twist of the key. Loud roar of the engine. Sudden rush of adrenaline that made goosebumps rise up on her skin. And then quick and daring take off.

The feeling was nearly invincible each and every time, but in its steadfast nature it never failed to bring a little bit of joy to her heart. As the machine accelerated it felt like taking a shot directly to the veins. And then what came next was just a steady, subtle drift that set her off into the wide blue. Mika in those moments was finally able to relax. Could forget about the sombreness of the reality that sourrounded her. Even if it was just a second, she could finally get a glimpse of how it felt to be truly free. The wind grizzled into the girl's ear and winnowed wildly through her hair to the beats of hard rock music coming from the radio. As the next track blasted out from the speakers, Mika was quick to recognize the piece. The song began with a distinguishable, descending tetrachord in a form of slow tremolo. It repeated itself a couple of times before the second guitar and the drums joined in. Soon enough, the lead vocalist started singing. Mika tightened the grip on the steering wheel and clenched her jaw in response. On paper the song seemed her type: full of energy and spark, quick-paced, with off the chain solos. If it was not for the lyrics, it would surely land on one of her personal cassette tapes. The persona came across as someone with real naive worldview and it was enough to struck her nerve. It didn't take a minute before she was speeding up.

𝘈𝘯𝘺𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘫𝘰𝘣

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘦𝘴

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘯𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭

'𝘊𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰

𝘛𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘬 '𝘯 𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘭 

She pushed the gas pedal even harder placing her well beyond the speed limit. As the song was reaching an end, she pushed the brake and sharply turned the wheel. The car smoothly slid across the street, making a one-eighty, and with a screech of the tires came to a halt. Mika didn't bother to move it closer to the pavement, it was good enough. She turned off the radio, released the keys and heedlessly slammed the door after leaving the vehicle. The girl entered the liquor store. She didn't seem out of place. She's been here many times before and it was like she had had every right to it. She was confident that nothing would ever jeopardise the purpose of her being there. Mika grabbed a standard-sized bottle of cheap tequila and went over to the counter. She noticed that the man behind it wasn't someone she recognized. She quickly then grabbed the ID from her pocket and casually flashed it at the shopkeeper while handing him her drink. The salesman glanced at it.

𝘔𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘢 𝘑𝘰𝘩𝘯𝘴𝘰𝘯

𝘔𝘢𝘺 13𝘵𝘩 1962

Soon enough she was settling up the bill and on her way out of the store until suddenly a police officer entered the shop. He scanned the place with his eyes before giving Mika a suspecting glare. The girl tried to manoeuvre around him but the cop didn't let her.

- Woah, woah, woaaah there young lady. Not so quick - he said stopping her in her tracks - Is it your car outside the building?

It took her a second before collecting herself.

- Yes, sir, is there a problem? - she said calmly while fluttering her lashes and giving him the world's fakest smile.

The officer didn't seem to notice, she was a true pro.

- It's parked incorrectly. It's disturbing the traffic.

Mika looked above his shoulder. There was no traffic outside.

- I'm terribly sorry, I was just about to leave! It won't happen again, sir - she sighed dramatically.

She tried to take a step forward but the officer held her back.

- I'm afraid I'll be forced to check your ID

Mika's heart sped up a beat. She knew she could be busted. On the other hand her calm demeanour seemed unbothered. She glanced at him, smiled and quietly passed him the card. She took a peek at cop's badge and then noticed a couple of thick, white hair strands on his uniform. Just as the officer was about to get a closer look, Mika chimed in.

- Oh gosh, you've got a dog, Mr. Brown? - the girl asked cheerily, trying not to tip off her immense frustration.

- Am I that obvious? - the man chuckled while trying to examine the ID

- You struck me as the type - she said smiling innocently and after a short pause added - It's nice to meet a fellow dog person.

That was of course a plain, ugly lie -  the best card she could play at that very moment. She figured the best way to distract a man is to have him start talking about himself.

- So what's his name? - she asked but she couldn't care less

- Her - Officer Brown corrected - Becky. A pitbull. Loyal little beastie.

Of course, she thought, what else could have she expected than a national pride that is a fighting ring dog.

- I sure hope she is.

The cop seemed like he was about ask something, but he was then quickly interrupted by another male voice coming from behind the girl.

- Jerryyy!! What's good, is your wife alright?

Jerry Brown looked up and Micheala turned around to see another man who freshly left the back.

- Old Nick! Yeah the migraines finally stopped and she's better now.

- Say, what brings you here today? - Nick said while eyeing the girl up with concern

- Nothing much, just duty, sir.

- Duty, ey? - shopkeeper gave Mika a knowing look - Did the girl do something?

- I think she's too young to be buying stuff here. And besides, her car isn't nowhere near the sidewalk.

- Awh you know how women are, their parking is horrible, they shouldn't be driving in the first place

Mika furrowed her eyebrows at Nick but the man just gave her a sheepish grin in response.

- Tell that to Sarah! - Jerry laughed, clearly entertained - She's insisting on getting a driver's license. Can you imagine?!

The two men burst out laughing in unison. After a couple of seconds they stopped and then carried on with their conversation for another good minute or two. Mika stepped to the side, clearly bored. She was considering running off to her car and just driving away.However she didn't want to get in trouble with the police again and besides, Jerry still held her ID captive. Nick saw that and that was his cue to finally get to the point.

- So whatcha gonna do about... - he paused focusing his eyes at Mika

- The girl? I don't know man. What if she's underage? - the cop Jerry raised the card with his hand, recalling that he still hasn't properly inspected it yet.

- I assure ye, she's not. Mika's my loyal customer since she hit 21! She wasn't showin' her ass here before.

The police officer looked at the ground lost in thought. Then glanced to the side at Mika and back again at Nick and sighed.

- You'd vouch for her?

Nick hesitated for a second but after that a wide grin crept onto his face.

- Yeah, I would.

And that was enough for the officer Jerry to resign from his witch hunt. He moved aside to stand in front of the girl and finally handed the ID back to her.

- Here you go Miss, sorry for the inconvenience.

He left the store and called out from the outside.

- Practice your parking!!

Mika was so done with this whole situation but she managed to put on a one last smile.

- Sure thing, officer!

And with that it was over.

She wasn't this close from being caught by the police since her late evening trip to the pub near the centre - a foolish decision on her part. This wasn't New York. Not only was she the only woman at the bar, she was the only young woman at the bar. She managed to talk her way out of it of course, but the encounter still left a sour taste in her mouth. "Cops" she thought. "Always acting like they're noble and benevolent. Like they don't have anything better to do than meddle with somebody else's fucking business instead of doing something that is actually important".

Micheala stood there seconds longer, following Jerry with her eyes. After a while she grunted at Nick.

- You should've let us be.

She had it under control, she didn't need his help.

- You're welcome? - the man raised an eyebrow at her visibly amazed.

- I had it handled! - the girl scoffed.

- Like shit you had! I've saved your sorry ass, some words of appreciation would be nice.

Mika looked at him with hateful eyes, her pride hurt.

- Didn't ask for your help - she murmured quietly under her nose as she turned around and pushed the door open.

She walked outside but Old Nick quickly rushed after her.

- Hey, hey, Mika don't be like that - Nick closed off on her, undeliberately catching the girl's attention - I know you don't do well with that kind of talk, I'm sorry, okay? I just wanted you to be safe. Wasn't too keen on getting in trouble for selling booze to a minor either. You understand that, right? - he looked at her with pleading eyes.

She did, yes. It was his store after all. Mika was a little mad at herself for snapping like that. She just really hated being given favours though. She sighed.

- Yeah.

     Thanks Nick.

***

The girl arrived back home - a shithole that was looking same as always. Except at the house on the opposite side of the street were parked two cars. Which wouldn't be anything worth noting, but the 5280 Cherry Street stood empty since Mika came back from college a couple of months ago. At least it's what she recalled. So yeah. A bunch of new shitty neighbours. If her mother made her bring them a "welcome pie" she swore she was going to murder someone. Or she'll just end up throwing it in the dumpster as a big ol' "Fuck you". Or eating the thing herself. She's not decided which out of those three ideas appealed to her most.

Mika leaned against the trunk and lit up a cigarette. She spied some figures moving behind the window curtains.| "Please, don't borrow any fucking sugar". On a further inspection she noticed that one of the cars parked outside, the blue one, was a Camaro. "Right, another pathetic male playing macho" Suddenly a front door swung open. A boy came out of the house. He strot in a hurry. Mika took a nice, long drag of her cigarette. The boy was young, approximately her age. Pleasantly looking. She stared intently at him as he made his way to the blue Camaro. "Of course" - she thought as a slight grin crept onto her face. The boy wore the most generic bad boy hairstyle, a pair of tight, midwash jeans and a black crew neck. He seemed irritated, quite over the edge. But then again, maybe it was just his bad boy facade.

She let out a big puff of smoke.

Okay, yeah, he was handsome. He looked like taken out of a goddamn TV screen. The Boy was gorgeous. So gorgeous, Mika started wondering when was the last time she's seen a man so damn pretty? Ah, yes. 𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘠𝘰𝘳𝘬.

What was he doing in Hawkins? He really must have been new. Was he there unpacking when she went out to that store? Guess she couldn't care less to notice.

No no, she would've seen him.

Probably...

The unnamed Boy took a large box out of the back of his car. He held it with his one hand while he slammed the boot door shut with the other. And then, unexpectedly, as Mika was about to take another blow out of her cig, the Boy's and hers eyes met. They held each others gaze for a split second. She breathed in the smoke and he adjusted his seemingly heavy pack. And then Boy disappeared behind the same door he so quickly came from.

Mika stood there, finishing her smoke. She threw the burnt bud on the ground and crushed it with her shoe.

Alright so maybe she wouldn't be so mad if 𝙝𝙚 was the one to ask for that bag of sugar. The girl decided she must make herself acquainted with this handsome newcomer. Yes, she was planning to get to know him real 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘺.

She grabbed the tequilla out of her car along with the cherry coke that was laying there on the floor. She wrapped the liquor in paper and wandered off into the nearby woods.

[hudscnwilliams]

ooc: alright, so hudson does want macbeth, although who knows if he actually mentally would be right for that right now considering the whole murder bit. i think truthfully, he just wants one opportunity to shine, considering he thinks he probably won’t have much of a career after this. this is his big chance to show how talented he is. he’s also, of course, grappling with covering up orson’s murder and so that’s left him in a rough spot right now. so, he honestly has more he should be worrying about than macbeth. given the fact that he knows he was going to be the lead, though, it would probably make him sad and maybe a little bit bitter towards whoever does get macbeth if he doesn’t. 

i think he’s been able to shut off some of his emotions this week and compartmentalize it all. he will have to confront his feelings at some point, but right now, he can focus on this audition. that’s why he goes in so well prepared and performs well. he’s ignoring how stressed, scared, and upset he is in favor of focusing on iago’s maliciousness. love that for him. 

in terms of roles, i think he would prefer macbeth first, and then malcolm, then macduff or maybe even lady macbeth if that’s a thing that could be possible. then banquo or the witches or one of the other thanes. but also, casting could completely not go his way! who knows!

the lights in the theatre felt too bright, and the stage too warm. maybe that was just hudson’s nerves talking, though. auditions always took a lot out of him. he spent the week leading up to them pouring over his monologue, working on analyzing it from beginning to end, and making sure all of his character choices made sense. and in the past, it had always been for nothing. he had spent so long stressing himself out, hoping that perhaps this would be the audition that made orson give him a lead, but he was always left playing the understudy. 

heidi had said that wouldn’t necessarily be the case this time, but hudson had his doubts. what was the point in getting his hopes up if she just went with the obvious casting choices orson would make?

and yet, well...his hopes were up, a bit. more than hudson would like to admit. maybe this time would be different. maybe this time, someone would see that he was talented and hard working and deserved to be the lead role. maybe, just maybe, he would be macbeth.

he wanted it badly. the chance to take center stage, and pour his heart out completely, to open himself up and be raw and vulnerable in ways he’d never been able to before. but did he deserve it? after all, what sort of future did he have after this, anyway? he couldn’t afford to move to new york or london, and unless he impressed some sort of casting agent who came to see their last show, he doubted anyone would be itching to cast him in anything once he left school considering the roles he’d played here at alderidge. maybe it would be better if mathias, jonah or teddy were able to add it to their resume.

but...but was that really fair? all three of them had had moments to shine over the last three semesters. whether it be as the dashing hero, the handsome young lover, or the wicked villain, they had made an impression. they had been center stage. they had been memorable. 

maybe someone else should get a turn, just this once. and why shouldn’t it be hudson? after all, he had learned his lines and their’s for three semesters. he had learned all of their blocking, all of their motivations, all of their research. he’d dived deep into so many character, only to never get to show his work to an audience. maybe, he deserved the chance to prove that orson had been right in finally casting him as the lead.

orson...he couldn’t think about that right now. no, if he let orson get in his head - or if he let himself think too much about that night, and the things he had done to protect teddy - he would never be able to do this. and hudson deserved to be able to get through this. he had done bad things, and he didn’t really believe he was a good person anymore, but he did deserve to have one last good audition. 

he deserved the chance to show heidi that he was better than a small part with a handful of lines. 

waiting was agony, more so than it had been in the past. the stakes were high now, higher than they ever had been before. hudson was ready to rise to the challenge, though.

finally, from heidi, “hudson williams.”

he squared his shoulders, taking a moment to breathe before standing and walking towards the stage. he wasn’t confident or cocky as much as he was poised; he was self-assured. he could do this. hudson could show heidi that he could play someone as complex as macbeth, he just needed to focus. 

standing center stage, hudson stared out into the house, his eyes well-above the blurred face of his new director. she waited patiently, allowing hudson a moment to center himself. 

“i’m hudson williams, and i’m auditioning for the role of macbeth. i’ll be performing iago’s soliloquy from othello. act two, scene three.” he announced with a smile, giving heidi a moment to write that down. then, he got into character, and hudson disappeared. in his place was the confident iago.

“and what’s he then that says i play the villain?” he asked curiously, an eyebrow raised in challenge. he knew the answer already. “when this advice is free i give and honest, probal to thinking and indeed the course to win the moor again?” 

the key to playing iago was in grounding him, hudson knew. he had never played the role himself, but he had seen enough productions to know how easy it was to turn him into some sort of fantastical, animated villain. rather than leaning into the mustache twirling, or maniacal laughter, hudson instead chose to make him feel real. he walked calmly downstage right, allowing this moment to be just between himself and the audience. 

“for ’tis most easy th' inclining desdemona to subdue in any honest suit. she’s framed as fruitful as the free elements.” desdemona was sweet; she had a good heart. iago didn’t necessarily see this as a fault, but he did see it as a ways of manipulating her and others. desdemona meant nothing to him - she was a means to an end. so why should he care about her feelings?

“and then for her to win the moor, were to renounce his baptism, all seals and symbols of redeemèd sin, his soul is so enfettered to her love that she may make, unmake, do what she list, even as her appetite shall play the god with his weak function.” hudson as iago didn’t allow judgement to enter his tone until he spoke of othello. desdemona was innocent, and that made it easy to bend her to his will. that was the trick to getting rid of othello, who had cost iago so much. othello deserved what was coming to him. hudson smirked slightly, unable to stop himself.

iago did not consider himself the villain of this story. he was a man who was over looked and cast aside in the past, and now it was his time to take what he wanted by whatever means necessary. macbeth would surely approve of his ambition and passion, for he himself had those qualities. hudson did not, although he didn’t allow his own thoughts to shine through. iago wasn’t conflicted; he didn’t need hudson’s own morality to make an appearance today. 

“how am i then a villain to counsel cassio to this parallel course, directly to his good?” the advice he had given cassio in the scene before this soliloquy wasn’t wrong or bad; it would actually help him. appealing to desdemona in order to regain favor with othello was a good plan. it just wouldn’t end well for cassio or desdemona, if iago had his say. iago, ever the intellect, used the fact that the advice was sound in order to prove to the audience that he wasn’t a villain. he was a character saturated in grays, full of moral ambiguity. 

“divinity of hell.” hudson scoffed, his emotions bubbling under the surface. he wouldn’t give himself away, though; he could control himself.

“when devils will the blackest sins put on, they do suggest at first with heavenly shows as i do now.” he was aware that his plan would hurt people. however, iago didn’t really care. it wouldn’t hurt him - and othello deserved to be hurt, in his mind. in order to make things right for himself, he had to go through with his plan. 

did the ends justify the means? to iago, they did. hudson didn’t have a good answer for that. if you had asked him a year ago, he would have told you no. but now, after the things that he had done? well...maybe he did agree with iago on that. a little bit. he pushed forward, crossing to downstage center. 

“for whiles this honest fool plies desdemona to repair his fortune and she for him pleads strongly to the moor, i’ll pour this pestilence into his ear: that she repeals him for her body’s lust.” he would convince othello, who trusted him and believed in him, that desdamona was unfaithful to him. that she loved cassio, and was repulsed by othello. it didn’t matter that it was a lie. “and by how much she strives to do him good, she shall undo her credit with the moor. so will i turn her virtue into pitch and out of her own goodness make the net that shall enmesh them all.”

ruining othello would be easy. casting doubt upon those he loved would make him insecure, and that would bring about his downfall.

yes, iago was the villain. he was evil and cruel and greedy, but hudson refused to let him see that in himself. he was justified. iago was only taking back what was owed to him; if he hadn’t been mistreated in the past, then this wouldn’t be happening. 

it was a dark thought, and hudson wasn’t sure he liked going to that place in his own mind. he had been able to separate the character from his own life this week by refusing to think too much about his own experiences. and, truly, he himself wasn’t an iago. maybe there were things that he deserved that weren’t his, but he wouldn’t manipulate someone into ruining themselves for a role.

that wasn’t him. 

perhaps that had helped with compartmentalizing all of this. iago was a character. a rich, layered character, but a character all the same. iago was not hudson; hudson was not iago.

hudson wasn’t macbeth, either, though he could certainly play him.

macbeth was a man who let his ambitions run wild. that was his downfall. hudson? he had ambitions too, although he would never let them hurt those he cared about in the way that macbeth did. he would never hurt teddy the way macbeth killed banquo in order to remain king. nonetheless, his ambitions were real. he wanted more than this - more than bit parts, more than a handful of lines, more than always being the second, third, fourth choice for roles. he craved more. 

maybe that would be his downfall one day too. 

dropping out of character and returning to himself, hudson glanced back into the audience and gave heidi a small, almost shy smile. he hoped he had done enough to impress her. his performance had certainly contained more passion than usual. hudson had breathed life into iago, giving the role his all in a way he hadn’t always been able to achieve in the past. 

“thank you, hudson.” heidi offered him an unreadable smile. he nodded, turning to leave the theatre. 

he had done his best. that was all he could do. 

[rachelkaser]

Stay Golden Sunday: The Custody Battle

Dorothy’s sister Gloria arrives and wants Sophia to come live with her. Rose and Blanche clash over a production of Macbeth.

Picture It...

Dorothy and Sophia are tidying ahead of the arrival of Gloria, Sophia’s other daughter and Dorothy’s little sister. Sophia subtly needles Dorothy for not having a date -- and fortuitously, Blanche enters and asks to borrow Dorothy’s jewelry for her own date. She’s going on a date with the director of the local community theater, who she’s hoping will soon cast her as Lady Macbeth. Sophia continues to nag Dorothy for not having a date. Dorothy gets angry at Sophia for her meddling, and demands space. Sophia leaves in a huff.

The next morning, Blanche is confident her tete-a-tete with the director will get her the part, though she and Rose are still going to the audition. Dorothy and Sophia are still annoyed at each other, but put it aside when Gloria arrives. Gloria, a wealthy widow, gives her mother and sister fabulous gifts. When Sophia guilts her over staying in a hotel, Dorothy offers to let Gloria share her (Dorothy’s) room.

DOROTHY: Hi! How was the audition? BLANCHE: Wonderful! I’m 99% sure I got the part. ROSE: Oh Blanche, there were so many good people there. BLANCHE: Trust me, I got this part in the sack. ROSE: She means in the bag. DOROTHY: No honey, she means in the sack.

That night, as Sophia and Gloria are out shopping, Blanche comes back from the audition convinced she got the part. She and Rose ask about Gloria’s relationship with Dorothy, and Dorothy confesses she’s always felt her parents favored Gloria. Blanche relates how she felt the same way about her parents and her sisters. Rose exposits about her idyllic family life, annoying the other girls enough that Blanche lets the kitchen door slam in her face.

Gloria and Dorothy settle down in bed together, with Gloria asking if Dorothy resents her for having money, a happy marriage and successful children -- none of which Dorothy has (and gee, nice of you to point it out, Gloria). Dorothy says she has grown beyond such sibling rivalry. Gloria continues to go on about her palatial home in California. Dorothy says she and Sophia would love to come out for a visit, and Gloria finally drops the bomb: She wants Sophia to come live with her, and Sophia agreed.

GLORIA: This reminds me of when we were little and you used to read me bedtime stories. DOROTHY: Oh yeah, yeah... the Bogeyman and the Little Girl... the Zombie in the Hamper... Cannibal Parents. I think between the ages of 5 and 7 you might have gotten two hours’ sleep.

Dorothy talks to Sophia about her plan to live with Gloria. Sophia avoids talking about what she wants, and says this way she can give Dorothy space. Dorothy doesn’t try to dissuade her, saying Gloria can give her a better life. Sophia looks very uncertain when Dorothy leaves.

In the kitchen, both Rose and Dorothy deliver bad news to Blanche. Rose says Blanche was cast as Witch #3, and Rose got the part of Lady Macbeth. Dorothy tells both that Sophia is leaving, and they’re heartbroken, insisting that they don’t want Sophia to leave. Dorothy forbids them from guilting Sophia, and leaves. Rose offers to let Blanche fill in for her as Lady Macbeth, but Blanche demurs gracefully.

BLANCHE: Well Rose, isn’t that sweet? And I do love you for it, honey, but I just couldn’t. I could never fit this trim little body in that big old tent of a dress they’re going to have to make for you.

After avoiding it for a few hours, Dorothy gives in and confronts Gloria, telling her it’s not fair of her to steal Sophia away when she’s already the favorite. Gloria reveals that she thinks Dorothy is the favorite, because Sophia respected and trusted her and constantly pointed out how much smarter and self-reliant she was to Gloria. Gloria admits she’s envious of how happy Dorothy’s life is compared with hers, and she wanted part of that. She says she knows Sophia doesn’t want to leave, and Dorothy goes to talk to their mother.

Dorothy demands that Sophia stay, and Sophia at first refuses but then agrees. She says she and Dorothy both need a little space from each other occasionally, but she’ll stay and look after the Girls. She breaks the news to Gloria, who understands. Sophia says she’s happy that both of her daughters love her and want her around so much.

SOPHIA: I love you. I love all my children. GLORIA: Even Phil? SOPHIA: Sure -- but don’t tell him, he’ll want to borrow money.

Later that night, the Girls are ecstatic that Sophia isn’t leaving. She brings them presents she was planning to give them when she thought she was moving. They open the presents and discover their own things, which Sophia purloined. After she leaves the kitchen, they wonder what else she might have taken and go to search her room. Rose cautiously exits last, worried about the door slamming in her face again.

“I think all my children are special... except Phil.”

I’ll be honest, there’s a reason for the gap between this review and the last one. Sure, Christmas and New Years (not to mention a busted keyboard) shifted my priorities a bit, but were this almost any other episode, I would have still gotten it out no matter what else was going on. But the truth is, I didn’t allot the necessary time to analyze this episode because... well, I didn’t want to. Because this episode is just not very good.

Remember when I said that Golden Girls had no truly bad episodes, but there were some that were noticeably lower-rung than others? This wasn’t the episode I had in mind when I said that (I’ll tell you which episode was when we get to it), but this is still a pretty good example of what I mean. It’s not particularly funny, has no meaningful message, doesn’t involve any character growth, and is confusingly written.

SOPHIA: I should have known you couldn’t make it without me. DOROTHY: You’re right, I can’t. And neither can Blanche. And neither can Rose. SOPHIA: Of course not Rose. The woman can hardly find her way to work!

I’d never given it much thought before I had to pick it apart for this blog. Now that I’ve watched it with a necessarily discerning eye, I couldn’t help but get this weird sense of flatness. Not badness, per se, just a total lack of good distinguishing features.

For example, I usually insert one of my favorite one-liners as the header text above my analysis section, and I had to really pick apart this episode to come up with any single line that gave me a little smile. That’s not to say that there aren’t funny exchanges in this episode, but no Girl is given a single stand-out line that’s still funny, divorced from context. I’m using an “except Phil” line because this is the first time we see Sophia use it as more of a catchphrase.

I don’t have any behind-the-scenes material that might explain why the episode feels so lacking. Maybe it’s because this is Terry Hughes’ first episode as director? There are definitely places where the script doesn’t feel nearly as tight as it could be -- the several minutes Rose spends reminiscing about her happy childhood don’t really do much besides fill time, except maybe set up for the “kitchen door face slam” gag.

ROSE: *reminiscing about her saccharine family Christmases* And then Daddy would tell us a story, and tuck us into our feather-- DOROTHY: Who was your father, Rose? Michael Landon?

If I had to put this down to a single element, I think it’d be the portrayal of Gloria. Sisterly rivalry is a recurring theme in this show . . . seriously, none of the Girls have good relationships with their sisters. We saw this already with Blanche and Virginia, but Dorothy and Gloria provide a slightly different take on it. Whereas Virginia and Blanche have been clashing their whole lives and are only just now starting to reconcile, Dorothy and Gloria have a warm and loving relationship with unaddressed resentment beneath the surface.

The difference is, Virginia gave the impression of being a three-dimensional character. There were subtleties to her, such as her inability to keep from rising to Blanche’s bait no matter how much she claimed to want a more peaceful relationship. That just doesn’t exist with Gloria, or at least not Gloria as she exists in this episode.

In fact, the writers don’t seem to have a clue what to do with Gloria. She’s explicitly stated to be distant from her mother and sister, never inviting them to her home in California and only calling three times a year and yet wants her mother to move in with her. She’s sometimes obliviously insensitive, and yet has enough self-awareness to shoot holes in Dorothy’s insecurities.

I’m not sure if I like the fact that the resolution of the rivalry is Gloria saying, “Actually, I’m envious of you and want part of your happiness for myself,” as opposed to, “I, too, wish to spend some of my mother’s last years with her.” It just doesn’t seem realistic that Gloria’s desire to spend time with Sophia is rooted in her feelings towards Dorothy. It seems more like the ending to a revenge fantasy than a proper wrap-up of the story.

BLANCHE: Now, when were little, every year my sisters had huge parties. With clowns and magicians and tons of presents. DOROTHY: And you didn’t? BLANCHE: Well not exactly. I mean, I did have parties and I had presents but... I never had a clown. *smiles* Not until I was... BLANCHE & DOROTHY: Much older.

It doesn’t help that the B-plot is a little undercooked. Blanche’s extreme desire for a part in “Mister William Shakespeare’s masterpiece” is funny enough, especially since she thinks her sexual performance is an adequate substitute for theatrical performance -- I mean, she’s Blanche. She probably thinks her sexual performance is enough to eclipse all other forms of performance anywhere, ever.

But what I don’t get about it is how Rose managed to snag the part of Lady Macbeth despite not wanting it. Granted, it’s been a long time since my community theater days, but I think you generally have to say which parts you’re auditioning for before you audition, so the director doesn’t cast someone who can’t commit the time to a big role. I could be wrong about that, though. I get that Rose not expressing any of her own interest in the play makes it extra funny when she actually gets the part, but it’s still a little confusing to me.

Still, I don’t want to end the review on a sour note, so I’ll say this: There’s not much in the way of a moral or character growth in this episode, but there is something to be said for Dorothy and Sophia coming to the conclusion that too much togetherness isn’t good for them. Given that we’re now going on a year in pandemic lockdown, I can’t help but think that’ll resonate with some of us.

Episode rating: 🍰🍰 (two cheesecake slices out of five)

Favorite Part of the Episode:

The exchange between Rose and Blanche over the casting of Lady Macbeth, culminating in Blanche brandishing a kitchen knife in the most darkly funny way possible:

[lynxtwink]

A Modern Macbeth

Spoiler alert: Macbeth by Shakespeare

Okay y’alls gotta hear me out

In the original Macbeth, the witches prophesize that Macbeth is safe from any man born of woman. Macduff is revealed to have been born by C-section, therefore bypassing the prophecy, and Macbeth is defeated in battle.

However. There’s a better, gayer way to fulfill the prophecy.

Macbeth: NO MAN BORN OF WOMAN CAN HARM ME

Macduff: ... *aside* wtf

Macbeth: I saw prophecies from witches. They showed me that no man born of woman can harm me. Your sword is useless against me.

Macduff: Then forget what foul deals you’ve made with the devil. My father is trans, ftm.

Macbeth: *eyes widening as realization hits, but tries to deny it and act chill* and your father is important in this conversation because...?

Macduff, glancing shyly at the ground: Before he realized he was trans, he and my mother were having a secret relationship as a lesbian couple. They ran away from home and got jobs. They wanted a family more than anything, so once they saved up enough money... My father, before he ever realized he was trans, birthed me by in vitro fertilization. He transitioned a few years later. Shortly afterwards, my parents had earned enough money to move and settle down. I was raised as the child of a straight couple, and no one ever suspected a thing.

Macbeth: ...so your childhood must have been rough?

Macduff: ...it was.

Macbeth: I’m so sorry. I have taken too much of thine blood...

Macduff: Then you shall spill blood no more.

*They fight. Macduff wins obviously and holds Macbeth’s head triumphantly.*

*Note: the label “gay” is used as an umbrella term for the LGBT+ community in this instance.

[the-light-followed]

WYRD SISTERS (1988) [DISC. #6; WITCHES #2]

“‘No one would come up here this time of night.’  Magrat peered around timidly.  Here and there on the moor were huge standing stones, their origins lost in time, which were said to lead mobile and private lives of their own. She shivered.  ‘What’s to be afraid of?’ she managed.  ‘Us,’ said Granny Weatherwax, smugly.”

Rating: 6/10

Standalone Okay: Yes

Read First: Yeah!

Discworld Books Masterpost: [x]

* * * * * * * * * *

I’m just going to jump right in with this one: the best part about the Witches sub-series of the Discworld is that they are all, in their own way, stories about stories.  They’re stories that follow other stories, the tropes and archetypes and established narrative structure, but they’re also stories that subvert that structure at just the right moment to make something that feels much more truthful, and often, much more real.

Stories about stories.

This is sometimes very literal: Wyrd Sisters, for example, has very obvious Shakespearean roots, notably from Hamlet and Macbeth, and seems to gleefully delight in throwing around references—three witches meeting to cast spells, blood on the murderer’s hands that won’t wash away, the ghost of a murdered father begging his son to seek revenge, a theater called The Dysk that mimics Shakespeare’s Globe, etc., etc., etc.—that then get turned over on their heads.  We’ll see it done again with the fairy tale elements of Witches Abroad, and the Phantom of the Opera parody that is Maskerade. These books are, in a very real sense, skipping the setup and instead using cultural touchstones as framework. The books starring the witches are literally new stories being told about stories we, the audience, already know and recognize.

But sometimes it isn’t literal at all: witches, after all, work magic most often through psychology and metaphor.  “Headology,” as the witches call it, is the basis of witchcraft, and it’s all about the stories being told.  It’s in the things the witches do for respect, like their hats and black outfits and their out-of-the-way cottages they pass down from one witch to the next, or the way they bow instead of curtsey.  It’s in the things they call magic even when it isn’t, like using real herbs and medicines to cure illnesses, or waving their hands over a pot of tea and chanting nonsense before ‘reading the future’ in the leaves, all of it only for the look of the thing from the outside.

And it’s also in the things they tell themselves. For example, when Magrat’s broomstick stops working in Wyrd Sisters, she does what she calls a Change spell—which simply means that the rest of the world remains the same, but she changes the way she sees herself.  Before, she was a young woman on a broom rapidly falling out of the sky, and now she’s a confident young witch who can deal with any disaster that comes her way, so she’s therefore a lot less worried about it.  

And it works.  That’s the thing: Magrat is just fine.  Witches do magic in and on themselves, it’s all nothing more than a thought, and yet it works.

None of the Witches books are particularly subtle about the point they’re trying to make with the whole deal, either.  In Wyrd Sisters, it seems like everyone is talking about the power of words and stories, the way that the things we tell ourselves and each other can shape the reality of the world we inhabit.  There are some negatives you can pull out of that message—history is malleable and written by the victors, propaganda triumphs over the truth, etc., etc.  But there are a lot of more interesting, thought-provoking ideas to consider, instead. For example: just because narrative structure has already delivered us the broad strokes of the plot (anyone who’s studied any Shakespeare, which can reasonably be assumed to be any native English speaker older than about sixteen, can probably guess the general course of Wyrd Sisters by about page twenty), it doesn’t mean there can’t be originality and meaning in the specifics.

And that originality and meaning is what makes all the Discworld books work so well.  Pratchett is parodying, sure, but he’s also creating something very new and earnest and sincere, and that just doesn’t work if the story is an exact beat-for-beat retelling of an already-told tale.

Wyrd Sisters agrees with that idea. Destiny is all well and good—it’s nice to think that what’s to come is pre-planned, easy to predict, and impossible to subvert—but the world just doesn’t work like that.  The story isn’t plotted out in advance.

As Pratchett says later in the book: “Destiny was funny stuff…You couldn’t trust it.  Often you couldn’t even see it.  Just when you knew you had it cornered, it turned out to be something else—coincidence, maybe, or providence.  You barred the door against it, and it was standing behind you.  Then just when you thought you had it nailed down it walked away with the hammer.”

The witches certainly don’t truck with destiny.  Or, well, it may be a tool in their storytelling arsenal, but they don’t see it as a concrete thing.  Destiny is what you make of it, and Granny and Nanny are movers and shakers.  That makes it especially ironic that the book is called Wyrd Sisters—the word “wyrd” is an old Anglo-Saxon concept referring to fate or personal destiny, so the “wyrd sisters” themselves typically would be the three Fates, a la Greek mythology, rather than three women who tend to grab Fate and Destiny by the ears and twist until they decide to agree that the witches have the right of it.

Honestly, though, if Granny Weatherwax looked at me like that, I’d do whatever she wanted, too.

I just want to bring up something I really like about Pratchett’s writing style: despite the fantastical setting, despite how far from reality he can get, he’s not afraid to switch to Roundworld concepts or just flat-out break the fourth wall in exchange for better, more impactful descriptions.  I like to call this cinematic writing, and sometimes that’s actually very literal. There are quite a few passages in various Discworld books where he starts to write in an almost movie-script style.  After Moving Pictures, which is still a good four books away at this point, I think that becomes less notable.  Here, and in the previous few Discworld books (Mort, Sourcery, Equal Rites), when Discworld does not have any parallel equivalent to Roundworld’s Hollywood, it’s pretty damn unusual for an author to just outright throw aside their own fantasy setting to make a description in real-world terms.

My favorite example of this from Wyrd Sisters:

“It is almost impossible to convey the sudden passage of fifteen years and two months in words.  It’s a lot easier in pictures, when you just use a calendar with lots of pages blowing off, or a clock with hands moving faster and faster until they blur, or trees bursting into blossom and fruiting in a matter of seconds… Well, you know.  Or the sun becomes a fiery streak across the sky, and days and nights flicker past jerkily like a bad zoetrope, and the fashions visible in the clothes shop across the road whip on and off faster than a lunchtime stripper with five pubs to do. There are any amount of ways, but they won’t be required because, in fact, none of this happened.”

You can practically imagine the way that scene would look in a blockbuster movie, and it’s wonderful that Pratchett describes it crystal clear just to let us know that it is not, in fact, how it looked at all.

There’s a lot more to like about Wyrd Sisters, too, for all that it isn’t one of my favorite Discworld books.  It’s a far better introduction to the witches—specifically Granny Weatherwax—than Equal Rites is, even though Equal Rites is technically the first book in the Witches sub-series.  It introduces some characters we’ll see a lot more of later, like King Verence and the greater Ogg family, but also characters that will go on to become staples of the Discworld, like Nanny Ogg and Magrat.  We also have some lovely cameos from already established characters: notably Death and his interactions during the play at the castle, but there are some good Ankh-Morpork moments, like the Librarian’s appearance at a barfight.

And we get to see the good old Discworld humor really click—it’s all about that balance between absurdism and realism, or between established tropes and self-awareness.  One of my favorite examples of this comes right at the beginning of the book:

“As the cauldron bubbled an eldritch voice shrieked: ‘When shall we three meet again?’  There was a pause.  Finally another voice said, in far more ordinary tones: ‘Well, I can do next Tuesday.’”

Pratchett’s really got a sense for it by this point, and he can deliver zinger after unexpectedly delightful zinger.  Discworld books are always beautifully funny, of course, even though after a while you really get a feel for when a good joke is coming.  Some people might think that knowing the punchline is coming might make it less funny: it absolutely does not.  All it does is make the unexpected, sneaky moments—when the humor Pratchett has been secretly setting up for ages finally creeps up to smack you in the face—hit harder.  Maybe others disagree, but I can read Discworld novels again and again, and they always get me just as much as they did the first time through.  In my opinion, that’s real comedic talent.

Up next in the series we have Pyramids, our first unconnected one-off story, which is wonderfully weird even for a Discworld book!  Stay tuned!

* * * * * * * * * *

Side Notes:

Every time that oh-so popular Ankh-Morporkian dive bar, the Drum, pops up, it’s fun to note where it’s at these days: Mended Drum, Broken Drum, etc.  In Wyrd Sisters, Tomjon and Hwel go drinking in the Mended Drum.

There are several adaptations of Wyrd Sisters, including a 4-part BBC radio show, an animated film, and a stageplay.

As I go over my highlighted quotes and annotations from each book, putting these posts together, I learn more and more about myself.  What I like, what I find funny, what I care to notice.  For example, Vetinari shows up exactly ONCE in this book, and just in a footnote, and yet I still highlighted it and wrote a note next to it that contained mostly exclamation points.  There’s no real point to this; I just want everyone to know how much I love Vetinari.

Favorite Quotes:

“As the cauldron bubbled an eldritch voice shrieked: ‘When shall we three meet again?’ There was a pause.  Finally another voice said, in far more ordinary tones: ‘Well, I can do next Tuesday.’”

“Witches are not by nature gregarious, at least with other witches, and they certainly don’t have leaders.  Granny Weatherwax was the most highly-regarded of the leaders they didn’t have.”

“Now, just when a body would have been useful, it had let him down.  Or out.”

“‘No one would come up here this time of night.’ Magrat peered around timidly.  Here and there on the moor were huge standing stones, their origins lost in time, which were said to lead mobile and private lives of their own.  She shivered.  ‘What’s to be afraid of?’ she managed.  ‘Us,’ said Granny Weatherwax, smugly.”

“‘How many times have you thrown a magic ring into the deepest depths of the ocean and then, when you get home and have a nice bit of turbot for your tea, there it is?’ They considered this in silence. ‘Never,’ said Granny irritably. ‘And nor have you.’”

“His body was standing to attention.  Despite all his efforts his stomach stood at ease.”

“Back down on the plains, when you kicked people they kicked back.  Up here, when you kicked people they moved away and just waited patiently for your leg to fall off.”

“The Ogg grandchildren were encouraged to believe that monsters from the dawn of time dwelt in its depths, since Nanny believed that a bit of thrilling and pointless terror was an essential ingredient of the magic of childhood.”

“She gave the guards a nod as she went through.  It didn’t occur to either of them to stop her because witches, like beekeepers and big gorillas, went where they liked.  In any case, an elderly lady banging a bowl with a spoon was probably not the spearhead of an invasion force.”

“‘You’re wondering whether I really would cut your throat,’ panted Magrat.  ‘I don’t know either.  Think of the fun we could have together, finding out.’”

“Wizards assassinated each other in drafty corridors, witches just cut one another dead in the street.  And they were all as self-centered as a spinning top.  Even when they help other people, she thought, they’re secretly doing it for themselves.  Honestly, they’re just like big children.  Except for me, she thought smugly.”

“‘Man just went past with a cat on his head,’ one of them remarked, after a minute or two’s reflection.  ‘See who it was?’  ‘The Fool, I think.’  There was a thoughtful pause.  The second guard shifted his grip on his halberd.  ‘It’s a rotten job,’ he said.  ‘But I suppose someone’s got to do it.’”

“Granny’s implicit belief that everything should get out of her way extended to other witches, very tall trees and, on occasion, mountains.”

“Only in our dreams are we free.  The rest of the time we need wages.”

“Words were indeed insubstantial.  They were as soft as water, but they were also as powerful as water and now they were rushing over the audience, eroding the levees of veracity, and carrying away the past.”

“‘Witches just aren’t like that,’ said Magrat.  ‘We live in harmony with the great cycles of Nature, and do no harm to anyone, and it’s wicked of them to say we don’t.  We ought to fill their bones with hot lead.’”

“‘I shall haunt their corridors,’ he said, ‘and whisper under the doors on still nights.’ His voice grew fainter, almost lost in the ceaseless roar of the river.  ‘I shall make basket chairs creak most alarmingly, just you wait and see.’ Death grinned at him.  NOW YOU’RE TALKING.”

[until-we-fall-in-love]

creature-song

Pairings: Wanda Maximoff x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader, light Steve Rogers x Reader, light Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers, light Wanda Maximoff x Bucky Barnes

Summary: You should turn away. But you let it happen, let it happen because some dark, most trapped part of you wants to. A piece of you that you have chained like an animal, a mongrel bitch, and tried to let die. It paces inside you now, hungry and waiting and ready.

1600s America AU, Witch!AU, Possesed!Bucky, Gothic, Horror

Warnings: Smut, gore, violence, demons, possession, sacrilegious themes. This is 18+ as most of my works are.

If you are under 18 you should not be reading this!

A/N: hello guys!! this is a little late but its for @barnesrogersvstheworld​ writing AYAOTDchallenge!! it was supposed to be for halloween, but i’ve been insanely busy and i think November is spookier anyways because it’s when things truly die and whither away and the cold comes on lol. this is a whole mess, but i’ve been heavily inspired about witches and possession because of a class im currently taking! it got long so i’ll split it into two parts! enjoy and pls let me know what you think!!

my prompt was: the task of navigating darkness by candlelight

***

1692, Massachusetts

The day is filled with fog and smoke, a bleak grayness that shrouds all in it’s gloominess. The whole town seems washed out, everyone’s faces grey and slack. The crops are dying, growing brown and muted in color, fading away into death and nothingness. Your world seems covered in death recently, in the thick, heavy, inescapable blanket of it. 

There’s been another two murders. People torn apart, their bodies lie in the main road of town for all to see and gawk and pray over. 

Their blood is the brightest color you have seen in all of November. Saturated and sticky, sliding from them like the juice of berries in high summer, like the color the leaves had been before they’d all fallen away, like poppies and roses. Their skulls are bashed inward, as if made of clay, the sludge of them leaking through as flies buzz, buzz, buzz around them. As if they weren’t people once, but always food for insect, for the earth. Their limbs are twisted at strange, rag doll angles, and you think there was nothing but softness inside of them. No bone, there couldn’t have been with the way they lay there, all twisted and slack.

Their eyes are hollow. Open. Their mouths agape as bugs skitter and crawl and press outward in their feast of flesh.

There’s moaning in the streets, howling cries of a mother or a sister or a wife. It’s horrific, if you dig into the pit of yourself, but it’s the fourth pair of bodies that have been found dead in recent weeks. It almost isn’t shocking anymore. 

Wanda presses closer to your side, your dearest friend, her body warm and soft. Flushed with color and light, the cold nipping at her cheeks, her nose. The wind lifts her auburn hair from her cheeks, her lashes fluttering in the breeze. She catches your hand with one of her own, tangling your fingers together. Her palm fits yours easily and swiftly, as if it’s where she belongs, as if it’s where you belong, too. 

“At least he’ll stop breathing down your neck about an engagement.” Wanda says quietly, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. She is warm and lulling in the cold autumn air that seems to be pushing through your wool dress, your scarf. Trying to worm it’s way beneath and make a home of your body. 

Perhaps you will never be warm again, if the cold decides to settle deep into your bones.  

“What?” You ask, blinking away from the bodies, from your murky thoughts. 

“Mr. Fowler.” Wanda murmurs, nodding to one of the bodies, “He always upset you, he always pressured you for an engagement.” 

You glance towards the bodies once more, find the shape of them, the faces so crudely misshapen now, but you finally catch the lines of his features. The dark hair, short and balding. As if you finally see the full picture. 

Oh. It’s Mr. Fowler, then. And Mr. Adams rotting beside him. 

“Yes,” You say quietly, weary of the spark in Wanda’s eyes, the glimmer that ensnares you, “I suppose so.” 

Wanda is all you have in recent years, another orphaned girl your village does not wish to worry or feed. So you worry and feed each other. You both claim to be trying to find husbands, trying to marry off into another household. Truthfully, though, neither of you have ever searched. You’re content to live together, secluded, removed from all of the prying eyes of your small, imposing world. You wish to go home with her now, in fact, want to curl up beside a fire and lean into her side until your eyes grow heavy and soft. You want her nimble fingers carding through your hair, her touch upon your neck-- 

A broad hand comes down upon your shoulder then and you jump, almost let out a yelp in surprise. You whirl around to face them, tilting your face up to find Steve Rogers looking down upon you. The sculpted lines of his face, the shocking blue eyes, the flush to his pale cheeks. He has always looked like a tragic hero to you; a Hercules, Perseus, noble and damned and fighting against all odds. 

Beside him, Bucky stands broad and pale faced. He won’t look at the bodies. There are deep, darkened blossoms beneath his eyes. It makes his already depthless and haunted eyes look worse, blackened out, charcoal blue. He crosses his arms across his great, wide chest; one of them the off-beat shine of metal, iron and leather creaking with the movement. Like a piece of armor, the leather strap reaching up to his shoulder, so that if he moves it, it may move the forearm of his appendage. The fingers lay motionless, cold and gleaming. Such an odd, strange invention to the rest of the town; they fear him because of it. But he has only ever helped you and Wanda, the way Steve has kept a watchful eye on the pair of you. 

If Steve looks like a Greek hero to you, you think Bucky looks like a Shakespearean one; damned because of his own choices, falling from grace; A Hamlet, Macbeth. 

“You shouldn’t watch this,” Steve murmurs to you two, already turning you from the gore and bloodshed with his warm hand, wishing the flesh of him would sink into you and flush you with heat, “Come on,” He then urges you gently, “Buck and I will help you with some morning chores.” 

He’s always been so giving, overly helpful, a twinge protective over the pair of you. Loyal, terribly so, as he stands beside Bucky, the pariah of town. 

And you let him guide you away, your fingers still woven tightly with Wanda’s, who still peaks over her shoulder at the seeping crimson of flesh and blood and body, as if they were petals of flowers to admire than corpses to rot. Her eyes glitter strangely when she turns back to you. 

Bucky follows like a shadow, head hung low. 

***

The crack, snap of wood being split into two is felt in your chest, the steady motion and sound falling into tune with every other beat of your heart. Bucky lifts the axe high with one arm, before bringing it down sharply upon the wood. It splits easily, a crack of lightning, of metal as it falls apart then. 

You feed the few hens that you and Wanda share, spreading feed onto the ground as they cluck and scurry around you. 

Steve helps Wanda fix the barn door, their figures blurry and grey in the fog and bleakness. 

You gaze at Bucky, the shadows that seem to cling to him. 

“You look tired, Mr. Barnes.” You speak up, tossing the rest of the feed to the chickens who scurry after it. You leave their pen, the gate creaking as you step nearer to him. The axe falls with strength and brutality, bursts the wood in half. 

“I haven’t been sleeping well.” He grunts, tossing the wood aside. He sets another piece upon the block, lifts his axe high. You can see the movement of muscle, the strength and cutting edge of them.

“No?” You ask, curling your fingers into your sleeves; you’re so cold still, stiff and frigid and snow hasn’t even touched the ground yet. You shiver, you think it will be an awful and long winter. “Why not?”

The axe smashes down upon the wood. 

He lets out a breath, shakes his head, the dark locks of his hair brushing his cheeks which are deeply flushed from the cold, from the exertion. He looks handsome, you think, with the peak of his chest beneath his long shirt. 

“I’ve been having strange dreams recently.” He then admits with the soft gruffness of his voice, eyes flickering to you.

You stand idly, know that idleness is a sin; you should be working. Working, busy hands can never sin. But you step towards him and your eyes watch the movement of his chest and torso, wonder what he looks like bare--

“What kind of dreams?” You ask, voice gone soft as you peer at him.

He straightens up a moment to his full height, now turning his eyes on you, “Curious little thing, aren’t you?” He half scolds you, and you feel small but suddenly bold. There’s a catch in his eyes, a gleaming not dissimilar to Wanda’s. It’s haunting, exhilarating, it makes you take another few steps closer as if drawn to him by an unnatural force. And then he answers, “They’re nightmares. Horrible dreams.”

“Of what?” 

His lips twist into a ghost of a smile and he shakes his head, “They’re not for a girl’s ears.” 

“I’m not a girl,” You counter, “I haven’t been for many moons.” 

His eyes flash to you, at the rather crude reference of the blood that spills from you monthly. He is not appalled, he is not shocked or scandalized, instead he peers deeper into you. As if he can see the twisting of your innards, all of the blood that might spill from you the way it had from Mr. Fowler. Would you paint November in the bright flare of red, too? Bring color to this washed out world. 

“I dream I slip from my body.” He says and his eyes grow glassy, far-off. You near him as he continues, “Or that I no longer control myself.” His breath stutters and you are fully ensnared in him now, “And I do monstrous deeds.” 

“Of what?” You breathe, looking up into his face, so haunted and hollow and frightened.

His lip trembles, and he exhales;

“I knew they would be dead this morning.” 

“Mr. Barnes,” You gasp and his eyes suddenly snap to you, wholly black and wide, and you are so startled that you try to lurch back. 

But he grabs you with speed and strength, and cold metal wraps around your wrist, around the fluttering, lively pulse beneath your thin skin. A moth’s wings pinned, a rabbit in a snare. When he speaks, it is strange and spellbinding, “I know you hated Mr. Fowler.” He says through a wall of his white, white teeth. 

You look down at the metal hand that seems to have come to life, yelp at the way the unnatural fingers tighten upon you, squeezing, as if they are his very limb. As if it is flesh and bone, a steel skeleton come to life. 

“I have peered into your soul, temptress, and I know you thought his blood was pretty.” He snarls low and guttural, his eyes digging into you like a curved, arching dagger. 

Wildly, your eyes fly over his face, now twisted into such misery and rage. You try to pull your wrist from his metal grasp, your face flushing with color from exertion. Your eyes glitter with sudden tears, the cold air pricking at them. “Mr. Barnes--” You gasp, voice catching, breath curling into the air between you two. 

All he does is pull you forward, jerking you into the strong expanse of his chest as he lifts your wrist. “I know your thoughts are rotting.” He rumbles, and the sound vibrates through him and down into the marrow of your bones “You want more than this. Your heart longs for what it shouldn’t.” 

“Bucky, you’re hurting me.” You whimper, trying to twist and squirm but it's useless against the strength of him.

“Am I?” He hisses, voice like insects swarming, “I know what you want, little one.” He then croons so lowly that it slithers down into you like a serpent, coils into the darkest, most wretched parts of you. Sinks down into your core to unfurl in a sudden burst of heat--

And with the way he looks at you; as if you are to be devoured, as if you are to be torn apart by him or worshiped on an unholy altar. Your heart beats an unsteady, thunderous rhythm in the cavity of your chest. 

It echoes inside of you, demanding of you something you don’t know how to feed. 

His body is warm against yours, unnaturally so, save for the frigid hand constricting around the delicate skin of your wrist. You think he’ll bruise you, you think he’ll mark you for all to see and you’ll carry his brand. His eyes are as dark as a starless sky, blown out black as coal, as black as the he goat in the barn, as the smoke of hellfire.

“Bucky!” Steve shouts suddenly, and the two of you lurch away as if something has forced you apart. You cradle your wrist, try to rub the ache away, your heart still ricocheting around inside of you, as if it very well might escape entirely. 

Bucky blinks in horror, his eyes returning to the gentle midnight blue that you know so dearly. He stumbles back, his metal arm returning inanimate by his side. If it weren’t for the frightened, wild look in his face, you’d think it would’ve never happened at all.

“I need your help for a moment!” Steve yells, voice echoing. 

A flock of black birds burst into the shapeless, endless, grey sky at the loud noise. You jump at their sudden explosion of flight. They squawk and screech, wings flapping like your heart beating. 

Whatever had filled Bucky has fled now and his eyes are clear and shining, his cheeks flushed again, no unnatural darkness tracing the edges of his features. You watch him warily, your mind suddenly feverish with what he’d said to you, with the searing touch that now seems to scorch your skin. 

I knew they would be dead this morning. 

You should tell someone; Steve, Wanda, a minister. You should flee. 

But all you say is, “Go,” And you nod your head towards Steve and Wanda, “I will light a fire to warm you after.” 

He looks at you warily, as if he might apologize or thank you or question you; there’s such confusion in his eyes. He is lost, swimming in that black sea. What did I do? He asks silently, pleads with you, what have I done? 

You look away, unwilling to answer. He moves on cautiously, towards Steve and Wanda in the distance. You begin to make a fire as if all is normal, and all you can think about is how you are no longer shivering with cold. 

As if an ember has sparked, been cradled to a small flame in the cavernous depths of your soul. 

***

Some days later, Wanda wakes you at an odd hour of the night, moonlight spilling in through the small window of your shared bedroom. It fills the room with reaching shadows and cutting, silver light. You’d been sleeping soundly, curled onto your side when you are roused by small, seeking hands. 

You turn, eyes fluttering, a blurry shape in front of you. You make out Wanda’s impish features, the shadow of her slender figure. And her eyes--

Oh, her eyes. 

They’re glowing strangely, fever bright and glittering like rubies in the night. She sinks upon you, her body sliding so she straddles your hips, laying herself along you. You can feel the soft lines of her; her chest to yours, the heat of her nose and lips upon your neck and shoulder. 

“Wanda,” You exhale, twisting, a little confused. Her fingertips are hot, like little embers, dancing along bare skin. 

“Hush, my heart.” She shushes, “My little shrike.” She cooes, “My moon and stars.” Her nose and lips brush your cheek, her searching hands dipping underneath the thin, cotton nightgown that wraps around your body. 

“Wanda,” You gasp as her lips settle into a kiss upon the flamed skin of your cheek. “What are you doing?” 

She pulls back so that you may see her in all her nightshade glory, her hair sliding along her bare shoulders, her nightgown down, spilling around her arms so the tops of her breasts are revealed. She looks almost wild-eyed, strange and beautiful and seductive in the night. Her eyes swim before you, blood red and glittering and enchanting. There’s something heady and intoxicating about her, something you want to taste, that you want to sink into and drown in. 

“Giving you what you want,” She says on a simple sigh, just as her fingers find the curve of your breast, little dancing flames that have you shutter and arch. She tilts her head with wide, bright eyes; there’s a sweet, coy smile playing at her lips, her lashes fluttering like moth’s wings, as she asks too innocently, her voice gone high and soft and beguiling;

“Isn’t this what you want, little one?” 

Her clever fingers find the peak, make you squirm, make heat flood through you. She draws back the covers with her other hand to find your bare leg, your bare thigh, sliding up to your bare--

“Wanda!” You jolt, suddenly shy, trying to sit up but she forces you down. 

She grins wickedly, “Don’t hide from me.” And her nimble fingers stroke between your legs where you’ve become slippery and warm and silky. You feel flushed and heady, hypnotized by her. She sighs against you, settles deeper into your body like a corpse sinking into a grave, pushing her finger inside to make you gasp aloud. To claim you, to touch you in a way that no hand has ever touched before. 

“This isn’t new to you, though, is it?” She breathes, almost hisses, “I know because I hear you some nights.” Her fingers twist and a moan tumbles out of your lips, and she laughs, bright and warm, “Just like that, dearest.” 

You squirm, and slowly lose your inhibitions with every push and pull of her fingers, every glide of her. Had you not dreamed of this? Had you not wondered with a sinful mind what it might be like to feel her like this, to taste and be tasted by her? Had you not wondered what heaven or hell might have felt like? She’s damnation, sweet salvation; something so visceral and entangled within the pits of you, something profound and holy. 

The world falls away so that it is only you two and the moon, the pleasure she gives and torments you with. The town slips away, the rules, the Bible, your Holy God all dissipates like fog until you are only born of this warmth and vicious sweetness. She keeps you teetering on an edge, cruel mistress of night that she is. She trembles with you on a new beginning, baptized between your thighs, between hers. She lets you touch and explore the softness of her body with curious and hungry hands, no longer idle. 

She brands you with lips and teeth and tongue, makes you wild and insatiable. Her fingers wrap around your tender throat as she guides you towards another sharp and jagged edge. 

Her cheeks glow against yours, a face of fire and heat, her breaths tumultuous and warm against your shoulder. “You’re mine,” She seems to half-sob, her little hand tightening upon your throat as if to claim you, “Mine. I live in you, and you have possessed me so thoroughly I think I could die.” 

A broken moan from you, a gasp. 

“Say it,” She then hisses through her teeth, “Say you’re mine.” 

You whimper, push your hips into her hands as if she has bewitched you, taken hold of your very soul. The words fall from your kiss stung and abused lips, eager and knowing it to be true, “I’m yours, Wanda, I’m yours--” 

And then she claims you with lips, with body and soul, forces you into oblivion. She laughs with delight against your mouth, drinks up your cries and buries herself into the crooks and corners of your body. Of your very being. 

She lays with you beneath the moonlight, a new strange power surges through her, a brightness that cannot be dimmed. You think she might be a devil, a witch, a creature of the night with her lullaby voice and twilight kiss. You think she is damned and maybe you are, too.

You think she has claimed you and, as you tighten yourself around her body, your nails digging into her soft flesh, you think that you have claimed her, too. 

***

Wanda has never looked brighter, more flushed with life and vitality. She is radiant, even in all the grayness of devouring and lonesome autumn, when winter is on it’s tails. The town is thoroughly terrified and sick with horror as another two bodies arise. They’re just as the others, a bright mess of crimson and maroon and sludge. 

Steve and Bucky stay near you and Wanda, watch over you both closely. Bucky is changed, too, something in him has been bent and broken and fractured. You think he’s bleeding internally, you think there is something in him that needs to be taken out. 

Or maybe it doesn’t. His smiles are more hooked, shadowed, strange and tempting. You wonder what his teeth would feel like against your neck-- if he would taste like Wanda, if he’d touch you like her, too. 

You’ve never touched a man before. You’ve never been touched by one, either. 

Wanda and Bucky are strange together, you think. And you grow jealous when you see her fluttering her lashes at him and cooing. You don’t know who you’re more jealous of, which one of them you want to claw and tear apart with viciousness, with love and heat and something demented.  

Steve notices this new change, too, and he tries to console you when you pout. You think he would make a good husband if a husband was something you were interested in. So valiant and golden, too polished for your unclean hands. 

But husbands are so base, so simple. Wanda has opened your mind to something higher, something more enchanting and powerful. 

And in the middle of the nights, when it is only you and her, she promises to give you more. She promises to guide you further into such wonder that she has discovered. Then she devours you and makes you tremble and shake with her might and love. 

She grows stronger with each day; odd happenings following her. She grows angry and a glass may shatter. A neighbor who glares at you suddenly loses two of his cows. Someone calls Bucky an abomination and suddenly they are struck ill. 

When she returns to you, while you still pout with Steve, still mad over her attention to Bucky, she smiles brightly. She wraps her arms around your shoulders and kisses your cheek, “Tonight is the night, my stars.” And then she nuzzles at your jaw, amorous and warm, “Tonight is the night that I give you all the power I have been harboring.” 

She takes your hands in hers, kisses the inside of your wrist, “Tonight you become like me, in eternal darkness.” 

Her teeth nick your wrist playfully and she looks at you with burning, hooded eyes. You think if she could, she’d lay you out on the dirt and take you right there. Hitch up your skirts and grind her hips against yours until you were both desperate and wild for release. 

But Steve is there, and Bucky, too. 

You wish she would, still. 

She laughs and saunters away as if she knows your thoughts. The wind howls and bays, as if it knows, too. 

***

She dresses you that night in a thin, white gown. You whine that you’ll freeze to death, but she shushes you with burning lips. She promises not, promises that you will never feel cold again after tonight. 

She leads you barefoot and shivering out to the forest by the dim, flickering light of a candle. It burns in her hand, wax dripping and sliding the way honey does in the summer. You long for summer suddenly, for the warmth and sea of green. The candle casts little, dancing shadows that seem to lurk and follow you both.

She leads you by hand, guides you into the thick of the forest where the wolves howl and the foxes yip and the coyotes yowl. The owl cooes, eyes peering at you in the darkness. You are lead to a clearing, and the small, fluttering candle that you’ve used to navigate illuminates the shape of a man.

Large and muscled, broad shouldered and lonesome in the woods. 

“Don’t be scared,” Wanda coos, “Go to him.” 

Warily, you ease past her, past the flickering, gold light of the candle. And even in the darkness, you recognize his face, the unnatural metal arm--

Bucky stands bare from the waist up and you flush at his nudity, at the shape of a man. Hadn’t you wondered about his chest beneath his clothes? About his abdomen? Your eyes flicker lower and you blink, quickly avert your eyes as your blush grows deeper. His body is far different than Wanda’s. 

“Mr. Barnes,” You breathe, and Wanda comes to your side, lifting the candle up to illuminate his handsome and shadowed face. 

His eyes are purely black, inky, the way they’d been that day not so long ago, when he’d seized you so tightly. He looks different, cutting and jagged. 

“Somewhat.” Wanda answers you with a smile. “He is changed, though.” 

“Possessed,” You gasp, the thought striking you deeply and suddenly. Like a blow to your chest, you realize you gaze upon a demon. 

His eyes snap to you,“Hello, temptress.” He says in a voice that is his and not his all at once. 

“Are you afraid?” Wanda purrs and you shudder at her voice, at the cold that pricks your skin, at the hungry, hollow look in Bucky’s face. The forest seems alive and breathing, shuddering with you, terrified and expectant of what it is to transpire. 

The moon is full, hanging and heavy and open mouthed in a horrified scream against the sea of blackness. 

“Should I be?” You ask quietly, a whisper of the wind, and Wanda’s eyes glitter excitedly. Her eyes flash red, warming and shimmering like embers. 

Wanda sets the candle aside, comes to your back. She slides her fingers beneath your nightgown, begins to ease it down past your shoulders. You should protest, you should force her to stop, shield yourself from the gaze of the man in front of you. From the demon in front of you. But you let it happen, let it happen because some dark, most trapped part of you wants to. A piece of you that you have chained like an animal, a mongrel bitch, and tried to let die. It paces inside you now, hungry and waiting and ready. 

It runs its teeth along the tender, pink inner flesh of you. It’s creature-song sings to you now, a siren to surrender to.

So you stand in the darkness, the guttering flame of the candle upon you, bare and shivering in front of evil.

And evil lies you on the cold, unforgiving ground. Wanda is there beside you, stroking your face and your hair with warm, gentle fingers. More gentle than she has ever been with you, as if she can hear the fearful, pounding of your heart caught between your shuddering ribs. You’re suddenly new to touch, virginal and trembling, a new flower to be opened.

The weight of Bucky settles upon you, his body unnaturally warm and burning, his broad shoulders wide upon you. His lips and nose nuzzle your jaw, your neck, also with surprising care. You shift your legs, open them tentatively to fit his waist in the cradle of your hips and—

You can feel him there, the hard line of him and you flush, suddenly squeak. 

“Don’t be afraid, little one.” He rumbles, and his voice sounds clearer, as if the demon doesn’t speak for him any longer, but only the midnight timber of Bucky’s sweet voice. He lifts his head and only the slate, blue eyes of him gaze down at you. “I’ll be gentle,” He promises, rubbing his bearded cheek to yours; so rough compared to Wanda’s smooth one. 

“I know this is what you wanted.” Wanda says softly, her lips at your ear, tucking your hair from your face. “I know how you gaze at him.” 

The first touch of Bucky’s hands are rough and make you jolt; one calloused and scarred and another cold and metal. They slide along the dips and curves of you, firm and gentle. You squirm slightly, base and animal upon the ground. 

“I’ll make you mine,” He murmurs, nosing at your neck, his teeth skimming lightly there. “My bride of darkness, queen of beasts.” His voice dips now into that lowly, snaking one of a demon, “I’ve been waiting for you for so long, my love.” 

His hips roll, a push against yours that have you clinging to his large frame. He is so much bigger than what you know, so overpowering. Wanda ravishes you but she is slight and nimble. You make a noise of surprise, a whimper, a squeak. 

“Relax,” He coos darkly, his flesh hand sliding up your bare legs. “You’re hurting here, aren’t you? Aching in the pit of you.” And his warm, rough fingers slide against you; revealing that, despite your fear, you’ve become molten and slick. You can feel his hooked grin, “Oh, little queen, and how you’ve longed for me, too.” 

He strokes until you are pliant beneath him, urging you on, Wanda pressing kisses to your cheeks and neck, collar bones and shoulders. You shudder beneath him, let something inside of you curl and coil, like a serpent, like the tightening of a rope, pulled to its full length, creaking and swaying as everything grows that much tighter. 

“You were born for me,” Bucky’s rumbling voice is in your ears, against your throat laid bare for him, his voice seems to echo in the darkest pieces of your mind and heart. “Born for this.” He sighs, leaning heavier into you before he suddenly pushes down the length of your body.

He settles between your legs, spreading them wide with his shoulders. Pearl moonlight, silver and opal fall across his features like pale silk that you have only ever dreamed about. In this light, he could’ve been an angel, a creature made of softness and delicacies, his black eyes turning up to find you and stuttering back into lovely blue. 

He bows his head like you could be holy, like you are to be prayed to. His hair tickles the bare skin of your thighs, his fingers prodding gently and then his mouth presses to where you’re most sensitive. 

You arch like a bow off the ground at the first touch and Wanda is there to comfort you. She eases you up slightly, let’s your back lay against the soft warmth of her chest and strokes your face and neck, down to your breasts. 

She grasps your hands when you pull and twist at him so that you lay helpless in her arms, helpless to the too-hot glide of his mouth against you. The forest is silent save for your cries, you are the wolf that howls, the crying fox, the whining coyote. You let go, let them consume you until you don’t recognize yourself. Until your nails feel sharp and your heart feels so full it could burst from all the aching. 

“Please,” You whimper, your hips pushing towards his lips in desperation, “Please, I can’t take this any longer!”

He laughs darkly against the slick pink flesh of you, “Didn’t their God teach you patience, darkling?” 

And he waits until you’re nothing but an animal for him, until your head is spinning and there are tears streaming down your heated cheeks. Not until you dig nails into Wanda’s hands so deeply that you have broken skin and she hisses through her teeth. He gives you no release, cruel as he is, and eventually slides up along your body once more. 

He grasps Wanda by the back of the neck and pulls her sharply to his shining lips. She moans, the sound going straight down into the depths of you. 

“My loyal servant,” He tells her, his eyes once more black as a raven, shining under the flash of silver moonshine. “You brought her to me.” He murmurs reverently and she looks up at him adoringly, her wide eyes that flare deeply red and maroon are glittering like gemstones in a cave.

“Make her ours.” Wanda then breathes, and he smiles all sharp and gutting. 

He grasps your hips with metal and flesh, draws them closer and slides you towards him. Your head falls to Wanda’s abdomen, her lap. Her fingers brush your wet cheeks and you mewl, twist into her touch. He kneels before you, worshiping, and opens his trousers. 

You don’t have time to think because you can feel him between your legs now. He brushes the hard length of him along where you’re most sensitive and desperate. You feel empty suddenly, knowing that he will fill you, and suddenly tentative. 

He is large and burning and the crown of him dips inside of where no man has been. He exhales harshly, eyes seeped in black, so depthless and dark that it swallows the moon light. The first slow, heavy push of him makes you cry out.

“I-I can’t—“ You half beg, feel the stretch and breach of him deep inside of you, the pressure and heat that terrifies you. 

“Oh, you will,” He almost growls, as if you’re undoing him. His eyes are fixed to where he eases in deeper, slides slowly and he groans, broken and in the back of his throat. “You will, even if you’re so small.” 

Another slow push and then he sinks into you entirely, sinks down so that he covers you in all his strength. His breaths are ragged; he is unwoven by you, falling apart as he stretches you open.

You give another cry, hold incredibly still beneath him as the pressure mounts. You feel as if you’re splintering, broken open like ripe fruit, bursting forth with a new heat. Your hand squabbles over the muscles of his back before sinking into his skin with nails. 

You become overwhelmed, drag your nails deep into his skin to mark him, to urge him on or force him out, you can’t tell. You bare your teeth, let out a broken moan, a half-growl against the vein of his neck. You realize your own vulnerability, belly-up and soft to him, open and waiting. 

Wanda soothes you when he begins to move in you, traces her fingertips over your swollen lips, sinks inside the sweetness of your mouth and lets you suckle and kiss and bite. There’s a fever inside you, tormenting your insides. You whimper, the sound pulling at Bucky, and when he looks back down at you, his eyes burst back into blue. The demon seems to slink away, or Bucky has regained control, again. 

You almost expect him to jolt away again, to flush with fear but—

“Oh,” He gasps instead, unraveled man, fallen from grace. He gathers you in his arms, pulls you closer and tucks you into him, as if he could pull you beneath his skin and bury you behind the strong bones of his ribs. He holds fast to you, suddenly lifts you into his lap, into his arms. “Oh, pretty girl.” He murmurs as he moves you slowly over him, foggy and heady with you. 

Your world begins to blur. You don’t know where the demon ends and Bucky begins. You don’t think you care, when all of that pain and burning gives way to a hedonistic pleasure. You move over him on your own, can feel the slickness of you, you can feel the deep seated ache you need to ease. 

The teetering edge, the right and creeping rope, ready to snap. The leash on the beast inside of you begins to splinter. 

Wanda’s at your back then, lips at your neck, brushing your ear. “Repeat after me,” She murmurs, voice a lulling warmth that sinks into your marrow. 

“Et dabo tibi animam meam,” She murmurs, her voice gaining a haunting, otherworldly inflection, as if other voices buzz alongside hers. 

So you repeat with a thick, honeyed tongue the Latin words that seems to simmer and etch themselves into you. You feel the power surge in her, in him, in you; a tether woven tightly between you three. His thrusts become rougher, his eyes flooding with crude black once more. 

“Nunc, et in perpetuum magis.” Wanda finishes in your ear, a possessive hand curled around the bones of your waist, along the curve of your breast. 

The words fall from your mouth as easily as if you’ve known them your entire, unforgiving life. And then there is a pull, snap of your heartstrings. The howling mongrel in you bursts loose, the heat and life and viciousness unfurls from within. You feel as if you’re being torn apart, as if another creature is clawing its way out of your core, your soft stomach and aching chest. 

The demon groans, spills inside of you; his seed so hot that you feel it may burn you. As if it burns its way through you, into your womb and heart and being. 

“You’re mine now,” The demon and Bucky say, rough hand cradling your cheek. “Semper magis.” He hushes against your lips and seals it with a claiming, damned kiss.

Then he sinks talons into your soul, teeth into your bottom lip and your heart, locks his essence tight to yours and throws away the ancient, heavy key.

***

Part Two

[popnchips]

Urban Myth

It is said that word of mouth is the most powerful way to get your message across to the masses. I am inclined to agree. The recent pandemic was proof of this.

I had people, very sane and ordinary people espouse to me the belief that vaccine inoculation was a way of implanting a " tracking device" in a person's body. Apparently, these people are unaware of the fact that the device from which they received this "information" does a dandy job of tracking your every move, every dollar spent, and what you spend it on. How to tailor the bombardment of advertising to you personally, based on your wants and desires. And it is carried entirely voluntarily. I can see no reason why any government would spend enormous amounts to be redundant. (I take that back. I am, after all, Canadian.)

Of the people I know, most receive their most trusted information from a neighbor. It does not matter where that person got their information, all that seems to matter is that the idea is verbalized. Once it has been spoken, it has been given life, and as does all life, it struggles for survival.

We all know someone who knows a girl who has used her pet dog for a little erotic stimulation, armed with a jar of peanut butter and a free afternoon. Don't get me wrong, Rule 42 of the internet ensures that such an act does indeed exist in photographic glory, never to be expunged from the annals of human knowledge.

The subject of this essay is well known to people who talk for a living. A certain German statesman, based on what he saw from an Italian statesman, became a master of manipulating this knowledge for his own purposes. It was not new then, but this example stands out as perhaps most memorable to us at this time. Herr Shicklegruber was a wizard at using this method, learning that the tertiary repetition of a thing makes it a "fact" in most simian brains. Like the witches in Macbeth, say it thrice, third time is the charm.

There are more recent examples of this method being used in political rhetoric, perhaps most notably, in a recent election in a neighboring country. A lie was proposed and repeated endlessly. It came to take a life of its own, in spite of a complete lack of evidence.

Most people believe what they want to believe. (I know because I am prone to this. My awareness of this weakness does not always keep me from practicing it. It does not help that certain algorithms in my personal device do not allow me a balanced news feed, instead tailoring it to what it thinks I want to hear.) Once that belief has been created, it is very hard to remove. For most, any research done will be in the reinforcement of said belief, tossing aside any information that is contrary to that tenet. It does not help that the AI's of the tech companies help this along by cherry-picking information for us, in the hopes of parting us from our money.

The tail wags the dog.

I had great hopes for the internet, at its inception. It was going to be the shining beacon of truth for us, the peons of the modern age. It was going to be impossible for THEM to keep us uninformed. It has, in fact, been quite the opposite, being the greatest source of disinformation ever in existence. Why try to suppress information when it can be lost in the turbidity of disinformation?

I am sure Dr Goebbels wished that he had such a thing.

[letterfromtrenwith]

A Feast for the Senses

A George/Elizabeth AU fic.

While hunting for a last minute gift, George Warleggan is drawn to the Cusgarne Chocolate Company, where he meets the chocolaterie's lovely owner, Elizabeth Chynoweth, and finds himself unable to resist returning...

~

George mentally cursed himself as he hurried down the street, turning up the collar of his coat against the chilly autumn wind. How could he have been so stupid? He could blame the chaos of the move and setting up the new office. Except part of the reason he had been so keen to move back to Cornwall was to be nearer his Aunt Joan, and now he had gone and forgotten her birthday!

For once in his life – and completely unintentionally – Uncle Cary had actually managed to be helpful, in that he had been the one to remind George, during the course of an otherwise all-business call.

“I suppose you’ll be out at your godmother’s tonight…I’ll tell you what, finding out she was born on Halloween wasn’t much of a surprise.” Cary had probably kept talking, considering he rarely let an opportunity to complain about Joan pass him by, but George had zoned out, staring in seasonally-appropriate horror at the date on his desk-top calendar.

He’d essentially just hung up on Cary, pulled his coat on and hurried out passed a bemused Margaret and Emma, saying he had an appointment and would see them in the morning. It was already just after 4pm, so he didn’t have long before the shops closed. The supermarkets would be open later, of course, but he didn’t want a cheap bunch of flowers and a bottle of Asti. Joan had been his mum’s best friend, and George had been close to her his whole life. She deserved something special.

Although he’d visited her several times while he’d been living in London, he hadn’t actually been into Truro proper for years, not even in the time since he’d moved back. He’d been too busy opening up the new branch. Almost all of the shops had changed from what he vaguely remembered, which did nothing to help him. How he could possibly have failed to remember the date became more bewildering as he went, considering almost every building he passed, and not just the shops, was covered in orange and black decorations. Now he thought about it, at least two of the other flats in his new building had had pumpkin lanterns outside their doors when he left this morning.

Even the little art shop he came to had delicate strips of black crepe trailing down its windows, framing several suitably gothic paintings. Knowing his aunt’s fondness for art, he went inside. Despite some difficulty extracting himself from the overly chatty owner, he considered it a successful visit, coming away with a very nice watercolour of Mousehole and a birthday card featuring a charming illustration of two foxes frolicking in awoodland.

George was just deciding whether to finish off with flowers or chocolates when the scent of the latter decided it for him. Warm and rich, the scent was fleeting but incredibly enticing. He managed to follow it to the entrance of a small courtyard, which was made up of half a dozen traditional shop fronts gathered around a paved square and big stone fountain, its water covered in the orange and yellow leaves which fell from two trees growing up between the stones. Directly in front of him was the obvious source of the aroma. Gold lettering flowing beautifully over midnight blue paint proclaimed the establishment to be The Cusgarne Chocolate Company.

Their window was also decorated for Halloween, but far more uniquely than the plastic skeletons and furry spiders in the other shops. Across the glass, delicate white cursive quoted Shakespeare: “Double, double, toil and trouble, Fire burn and cauldron bubble…” The display itself centred on a witch’s cauldron, which George realised was actually skilfully crafted out of dark chocolate. Green goo oozed over the side and orange flames burned underneath, both likely made out of sugar.

To the left was an odd assortment of chocolate creatures: bats, snakes, and what looked like lizards. He recalled the Macbeth reference – the ingredients of the witches’ brew. It also made sense of the little tableaux on the right hand side: trees made of chocolate and sugar, with tiny human-like figures hidden amongst them; the woods advancing on Dunsinane. The artistry and creativity of the display was truly amazing. Now, he wanted to go in as much out of curiosity as to buy something for Joan.

A traditional shop-bell tinkled over his head as he pushed open the door. Inside, the smell was incredible, and his stomach chose that moment to remind him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. At that same moment, a woman appeared behind the counter. He was about to say hello but then she smiled at him and he found he couldn’t say anything. She was tall with dark hair and soft features, and her smile took his breath away. The colour of her apron matched the décor outside, and the colour suited her.

“Can I help?” At her raised eyebrows, he realised he was probably staring at her like an idiot. He cleared his throat, gripping his parcel tightly. “Were you looking for something in particular?”

“Oh, er – “ George finally shook some sense into himself. “I want to get a present for someone.”

“Wife? Girlfriend?”

“No! Er, no – I don’t have – That is, it’s for my Aunt. It’s her birthday. Today.”

“Oh, last minute, hmm?” She smiled again, gently teasing and he couldn’t help but smile back.

“Well, I’ve just moved and – “ Why was he telling her that? “Never mind.”

“Let’s see what we have for her.” She indicated a display of chocolate in a cabinet in front of her and George finally left where he’d been standing awkwardly in the doorway. “I can make you up a selection box of a few different flavours.”

“That sounds nice.” He propped his bag from the art shop up against the counter. “I was just, er, admiring your window display. It’s very original.”

“Oh, thank you.” There was that flooring smile again. “But that’s Morwenna’s work, really. My cousin – and business partner. She’s the real artist, I just make the chocolates.”

“Well, they look lovely, as well.” They really did. The cabinet held an extraordinary variety – milk, dark and white chocolate in many different shapes.

“What does she like? Your Aunt?”

“Er – “ George had never said ‘er’ as many times in his life as he had in these last few minutes. “She likes liquors, and nuts, and dark chocolate.”

“Oh, a woman of taste! I can do her a box of 16, with four different flavours?”

“That would be great, thank you.” She fished in the pocket of her apron, coming out with a pair of glasses. Putting them on only made her more attractive and George had to glance away, pretending to examine a display on the other side of the small shop floor, although he barely actually took it.

“So, where did you move from?”

“Hmm?” He looked back to see her peering intently into the cabinet, considering the selection in front of her.

“You said you moved.”

“Oh, yes. From London. Although, I’m from Cornwall, originally, actually. But, I’ve been working for the family company, and we’ve opened an office here.”

“What sort of work do you do?...Would she like a gin truffle, do you think?”

“Er, yes, she would, and we do investment banking.”

“Oh, that sounds interesting! Dark chocolate salted caramel?”

“Yes, please, and not really. It’s just lots of numbers. I imagine it’s not as interesting as making chocolate.”

“Maybe not.” She flashed him another smile; she really was stunning. “Does she like marzipan?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Then what about….pistachio squares and marzipan cherry deluxe?”

“Sounds delicious.” She finished packing the chocolates, neatly folding the lid of the elegantly embossed gold box closed then sealing it with an imitation wax seal bearing what George assumed was the company logo.

“I hope she likes them.”

“I’m sure she will.” After he had paid, she passed him the box, their fingertips touching as he took it. With her leaning forward, he finally got a good look at the name sewn into her apron. “Thank you, Elizabeth.”

“It was my pleasure.” 

~

About a week later, George found himself loitering on the street outside the entrance to the courtyard, debating whether or not to go in. He did have a legitimate reason to go back to the shop, but still felt like a silly teenager, manufacturing an excuse to see a pretty girl again.

Pretending it was just out of interest, he’d taken the invitation on the little business card clipped to his receipt, which suggested a visit to the shop’s website. He’d learned that they’d been in business just a little over three years, and it was a family company, owned by Elizabeth and the cousin she’d mentioned, Morwenna, as well as a third girl with the same surname, Rowella. He’d heard of the Chynoweth family before; they’d been landowners a few hundred years ago, same as the Warleggans.

From a professional point of view, the business seemed very impressive.  Aside from a small selection of unusual products sourced from around the world, everything they sold was handmade on site, using local ingredients wherever possible. All of their honey and edible flowers were sourced from the big Trenwith estate, which had its own organic farm shop now, according to Joan. They offered special ordering for occasions and even had a small online business, delivering to the local area. From their website, he found their Instagram profile, which included pictures of some of the window displays Elizabeth had credited to her cousin. They really were stunning. According to a post from a few months ago, the shop had won a Cornish Business Award, the three women posing proudly in evening dresses.

Macbeth had disappeared from the window today, replaced by a sugar bonfire and a chocolate Guy, flanked by brightly coloured candy Catherine wheels. At the sound of the bell, Elizabeth looked up from where she was adjusting a display next to the till.

“Oh, hello again! Did your Aunt like her present?” He had to admit to a slight suffusion of pleasure at the fact she remembered him, even though it had only been a few days.

“Yes, she loved them. I actually came back to get her some more of those marzipan cherry things.”

“Oh…” Her face softened, the corners of her lovely mouth turning slightly downward. “I’m afraid we don’t have any. We sold out but one of our suppliers has been having problems, so we don’t have the ingredients to make any more at the minute.”

“Oh. Well, that’s all right.”

“Is there anything else you’d like?”

“Yes, as it happens.” Just then, George realised they weren’t alone. A girl George recognised as Morwenna was talking to two women at the far end of the counter, in front of several copper pots warming on burners, something he somehow had managed not to notice the last time he was here, although they were clearly creating the wonderful smell that had brought him here in the first place. “One of my colleagues is going on maternity leave this week, and I’d like to get her something.”

“How lovely! When is she due?”

“In about six weeks.” Margaret finding out she was pregnant just after she’d agreed to re-locate to join the new office hadn’t been the best timing, but it was hardly her fault. Besides, part of the reason she’d agreed was that her and her husband wanted to get out of the City. Unfortunately, it meant that he and Emma had to take on her clients themselves at the same time as getting the new branch on an even keel. At least until they could find someone to cover her.

“Wonderful! What do you think she would like? Rose and violet creams might be nice for a new mum?”

“I think she would like those, actually. Thank you.”

“How are you settling in? To your new house? And job? If – er – if you don’t mind me asking.”

“No, er. It’s a bit hectic, but it’s going okay. I still haven’t unpacked at the flat, though.” There he went, talking too much at her again. God, it really had been too long since he’d had any kind of normal social interaction with anyone. Let alone a beautiful woman. Her laugh was wonderful. Suddenly, he became aware they were being watched. While they’d been talking, Morwenna had been pouring hot chocolate into paper cups for the other customers, and now she was finished she was looking over at him and her cousin with a quirked eyebrow. She probably saw men making utter fools of themselves in front of Elizabeth every day.

“Here you are. Um – I could, er, I could call you when we get more of those chocolates made, that your Aunt likes. If you’d like to leave your details, that is.”

“Oh, well, er, yes, that would be very good of you. Here.” Rummaging in his jacket pocket, he produced a business card. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She read the card with a hint of a smile. “George.”

~

“There’s a woman on the phone for you.” Emma waylaid George as he returned to the office from a meeting with some potential new clients. “Says she’s from some chocolate company?”

“Oh, put her through.” George tried not to sound too excited, even though he’d felt a little thrill knowing Elizabeth had called him, even if it was only to tell him that she had some chocolates in stock that his Aunt liked. God, he was pathetic.

“George? Hello, it’s Elizabeth Chynoweth here, from Cusgarne. I’m sorry it’s been so long, but we ended up having to find a new supplier. I think the new recipe is just as nice as the old one, but maybe your Aunt can be our official tester!” Even over the phone, her laugh was musical. “I’ve put a box aside for you.”

“Oh, thank you very much. I’m a little busy at work at the moment, but I’ll try to drop in – “

“I was going to say, we’re having a special evening at the beginning of next week – the 2nd -  for the Christmas light switch on. When they do the late night shopping, you know? Well, I suppose you don’t – Anyway, would you like to come? We’re open until 8.”  

“Oh, that would be nice. I’ll – I’ll see you then.”

George spent the next week in a state of eager anticipation, as if he were going out on a date, instead of dropping into a Christmas sale at a chocolate shop. He even found himself considering what he should wear, looking at his wardrobe on the morning of the 2nd and trying to decide which was his nicest suit. Crossly, he told himself not to be so pathetic, but still pulled out a dark blue one which Margaret had once told him complemented his eyes. 

The shop was busy when he arrived just before half past 6, people milling about with glasses in their hands, some already carrying bags emblazoned with the shop’s logo. Clearly, the event was doing well for them. Christmas music was playing quietly and thankfully unobtrusively in the background, and the usual delicious aroma was even more so, layered with other flavours George couldn’t place.

“George! You came!” Elizabeth slipped between two chatting couples. Tonight, her apron was worn over simple black dress, which made her look even more stunning. Her smile was wide and welcoming and she seemed almost excited to see him. Considering the obvious success of the evening, she couldn’t be that keen to get one sale, could she? “Would you like a drink?”

“Er…”

“There’s mulled wine, or not mulled wine, or – “

“Or a chocolate martini. Here.” George took the glass, because it was presented to him so firmly he didn’t feel like he could refuse. He recognised the young woman who handed it to him as the third partner in the business, Rowella Chynoweth. Unlike Morwenna, who resembled Elizabeth quite strongly, she was more petite, with fair hair, but she was still unmistakably a Chynoweth. “I may not know much about chocolate, but I do know how to make a killer martini.”

Killer was right. It was very tasty, but also incredibly strong. One sip and George had to blink several times to feel like he could see straight again. Then again, he hadn’t had more than a single glass of wine to be polite at business dinners in he didn’t know how long.

“Rowella helps out in the shop sometimes, but she mostly deals with the business side of things for us.” Elizabeth explained, giving her cousin a look George was unable to interpret.

“I’m the brains, and they’re the beauty.” Rowella grinned. “So, you’re the famous George.”

“Er – “ He doubted that, somehow.

“Rowella – “ Before Elizabeth could say anymore, she was interrupted by a cry from across the room.

“George?! George Warleggan, is that you?” A petite brunette politely elbowed her way through the crowd towards him. It took a couple of moments to place her, although he didn’t know if that was because he hadn’t seen her in years or the effects of the martini.

“Verity? Wow!” George had gone to school with Verity’s brother Francis Poldark a long time ago, but they’d mostly lost touch after going off to university. “How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you! And you? I saw the new office, but I didn’t know you’d come with it!”

“Well, I have.” Wanting to get the conversation away from himself – especially as Rowella was still looking at him speculatively – George looked between Verity and Elizabeth. “Do you two know each other?”

“Verity’s one of our suppliers – Trenwith Organics.”

“Oh, of course!” He had forgotten that the estate belonged to the Poldarks. When they’d been at school, Francis’ father had been having some financial troubles with it, troubles which it seemed his children had managed to solve. “You’ve got the big farm shop now, haven’t you? I saw the signs for it when I drove down. How’s that doing?”

“Oh, great!” This thankfully led into a business related discussion, a topic George was much more comfortable with. It turned out the Poldarks were looking to expand their business even further by opening a full restaurant at the farm shop, and George was able to refer Verity to some financial people in that line. “You know, the Cusgarne range is one of our best-sellers in the shop. We can’t replace the stock fast enough!”

“Oh, well, you know – “ Elizabeth looked charmingly embarrassed at Verity’s praise, a wonderful soft pink blush creeping over her cheeks.

“And Morwenna made us a chocolate Trenwith for our birthday celebrations! It was amazing! She’s a true artist.”

“She is.” George couldn’t argue there. Tonight’s window was back to Shakespeare again – a Winter’s Tale complete with intricately painted chocolate bear.

This led onto talk of Cusgarne’s own expansion plans, Rowella explaining that they hoped to increase their online business, as well create some new product lines.

“Once we can afford the R&D, of course. I’ve made a contact with a local distillery, and we’d love to make a chocolate gin with them. We’ve done some small test batches, but we really need to put some more substantial time into it, which we just don’t have at the moment. We’ve been focusing on the beauty side.”

“Beauty?” George wasn’t sure he’d heard that correctly.

“Yes. Verity’s sister-in-law, Demelza, she makes her own line of soaps and hand creams and things.” It took him a moment to process the news that Francis had managed to get himself married. “She uses ingredients from the Trenwith estate, usually, but her and Elizabeth came up with the idea to do some cacao-flavoured products. We’re just testing the waters with them at the moment, but – Hang on.” Rowella hurried away to the other side of the room, Elizabeth watching her go with a smile.

“I’m sorry, she’s very enthusiastic.”

“That’s okay. It’s very impressive, actually. I meet a lot of business people, and not many have the kind of focus and vision you all seem to.”

“Oh, that’s so kind of you to say.” There was that blush again, and George feared a far less attractive version might be appearing on his own face.

“While she’s off, let me get you those chocolates for your Aunt, and I want to ask your opinion on a new recipe.” Verity excused herself to talk to someone else, and George followed Elizabeth over to the counter, on which sat several little platters of different chocolates, over which was a beautifully handwritten sign saying ‘Eat me’. Evidently Shakespeare wasn’t Morwenna’s only literary inspiration. “These are my new Christmas flavours.”

He saw White Chocolate Coconut Snowball, Christmas Pudding Truffle, and Milk Chocolate & Roast Chestnut, but Elizabeth picked up the tray marked Mulled Wine Truffle.

“I’m not completely certain about this one, so I’m canvassing for opinions tonight. Would you try one for me?” George shifted his now empty martini glass to the other hand so he could pick up a chocolate but, to his surprise, Elizabeth lifted one and held it out to him, close enough to his mouth to make her intention clear. Imagining she could probably hear his heart pounding, George leant forward and took the sweet, his lips just touching her fingertips. Since she wanted his opinion on the flavour, he tried to focus on that rather than the way his blood was doing its level best to rush away from his head. “What do you think?”

“I think – “ He coughed slightly. “I think that Morwenna isn’t the only artist in your family.”

“Oh, my – “ Just then, Rowella appeared again, brandishing a tube of cacao & burnt orange hand cream, which she insisted George try.

Later that night, the charming scent still on his hands and boxes of chocolates on the coffee table, George sat down at his laptop and pulled up a search engine. He needed to do some research. 

~

Christmas shopping was his next excuse to visit the shop, which was almost as busy as it had been on their party night. Clearly it was a popular place to buy gifts, and the wintery weather which had settled over Cornwall made their hot chocolates especially appealing. Morwenna poured him an orange flavoured one, having failed to persuade him to accept a shot of brandy in it instead.

“I have to go back to work after this.”

“I’m at work,” she replied, adding a measure of Irish cream to the cup she had behind the counter. He assumed she didn’t drink on the job when she was doing her windows – today was a chocolate Santa’s sleigh filled with brightly-coloured sugar gifts, soaring over a white chocolate and powdered sugar snow scene.  

“Yes, but you’re the boss.”

“So are you.” This was an excellent point, but he was saved from having to refute it by Elizabeth appearing with a welcoming smile. She was more than happy to help him pick out his gifts, most of which were either corporate ones, or for his employees. Cary got a bottle of whisky every year, and besides him there was only Joan to buy for on the personal side.

“So, what are your plans for Christmas?” Elizabeth asked as she made up a box of their different flavoured chocolate squares for a private trust the firm handled investments for.

“Oh, er, not much. Dinner with my Aunt here, but back to London for the day itself.” He’d probably end up working. Cary wasn’t the festive type, but for some reason he got grumpy if George didn’t come home for Christmas, despite the fact he usually spent most of the day drinking in his study. “Although I’m actually going to be there for a while.”

“Oh. Really? How long?” She made an odd expression as she closed and sealed the box, placing it with the others.

“Maybe a month. Just some things that need finished off back there.” With Margaret still off, Emma had been displeased to find George was going away for a month, as well. They had maternity cover for Margaret now, as well as support staff in place and a graduate trainee, so he was entirely confident Emma could manage.

“Oh, well. You won’t be away too long, then.”

“No.”

“Shall I gift wrap all of these for you?”

“Oh, I don’t know – “ He glanced at his watch, and then back at the door as two new customers jangled their way in. “I’ve got to get back, and you’re getting busy.”

“I’ll do them this afternoon. You can come back and collect them later.”

“Oh, thank you.” He paused. “Er – When I come back – from London, that is, there’s something I’d like to talk about, with you.”

“Oh?”

“About your business.”

“Oh.” Was it just him, or did she sound slightly disappointed? “Well, I look forward to that. I’ll see you later.”

It was oddly dismissive, and George spent the rest of the afternoon wondering if he’d offended her somehow. Maybe she didn’t want some corporate type interfering in her family business? He hadn’t considered that. How arrogant of him. Perhaps he should apologise to her. However, when he got back to the shop later on, he found Morwenna alone. Apparently, Elizabeth had gone out to see a supplier. George did his best to hide his disappointment.

“But she did leave you all these.” She handed him a pile of beautifully wrapped boxes, before placing a final one on the top which he didn’t recognise.

“Oh, that’s not.”

“It’s on the house, for being such a good customer.” She winked at him, and he wondered how many of those ‘special’ hot chocolates she’d had.

At home, he opened the package, finding inside a selection of poinsettia shaped chocolates flavoured with caramel, and a little note in soft, flowing hand which he knew instinctively was Elizabeth’s.

Merry Christmas. Good luck in London, and make sure to come and see us when you get back.

Underneath that was a phone number. 

~

It ended up being closer to six weeks in London, and they were the longest of George’s life. He spent several days debating whether to call Elizabeth – she had given him her number after all. But why had she? Just because he’d said he wanted to talk business? He wanted to do that face-to-face. In the end, a few days after the New Year, Elizabeth settled it for him.

Hi. Hope you had a good new year. Your aunt came in for some more marzipan cherry. She’s found some new flavours she likes, too! :D

This led into them texting occasionally throughout his stay, George feeling a little blip of excitement every time his phone trilled a text alert, and then immediately scolding himself for acting like a love-struck teenager. A little while after the first message, he received an email from his aunt, mostly just her usual general chat, but with a small PS tacked onto the bottom:

You never told me that Elizabeth girl from the chocolate shop was so lovely – although I suppose I should have guessed by how much you were talking about her. Although, I’m sure she only keeps inviting me back so she can talk to me about you.

That couldn’t be true, could it? Surely Elizabeth just liked Joan – he could see why they would get on well. From Elizabeth’s messages, Joan had quickly become something of a regular at the shop. George imagined she would appreciate Morwenna’s ‘enhanced’ hot chocolates.

Meanwhile, in his spare moments , he worked on the proposal he wanted to make to Elizabeth – the business proposal. He was going to offer to secure investment in the business: to fund their research & development, maybe expansion to larger premises if they wanted, to take on extra staff so Rowella could devote herself full time to the management – and so they could increase production. George generally didn’t deal with a lot of small businesses, but the model wasn’t actually that different to larger companies in some ways. He did know about the failure rate of small businesses, especially food related ones, and they’d already beaten the odds on that.

He kept telling himself he was doing this solely because he was impressed with their work – and he was – but would he really be offering to find funding for some other nicely run little shop he might have accidentally wandered into, one where a beautiful woman hadn’t stepped out behind the counter and floored him with a single smile?

Well, it didn’t matter what his underlying motives were, he honestly did think the Cusgarne Chocolate Company deserved a boost, and a boost was really all they needed. He’d have to have a proper look at their accounts, but considering their current expansion plans they seemed to be operating on a steady financial basis.

A few days before he was due to arrive back in Cornwall, George sent Elizabeth a message:

Hi Elizabeth. I’m going to be back in Truro next week, and I was wondering if we could meet up? I’d like to discuss that business matter with you. If you’re interested, that is.

Every second until she replied felt like an age.

I’d love to. Friday, okay? You can drop by shop after closing. Any time after 6.

~

He gave the window a quick look – a sort of sculpture that looked like a mineral, painted purple. It was very pretty, and executed with Morwenna’s usual skill, but he couldn’t quite make out what it was.

The door was locked, and there was no sign of anyone inside, although the lights were still on. Perhaps they’d forgotten? Or maybe they were running late. He’d assumed Elizabeth would bring in her cousins – his aunt had managed to clarify the exact relationship between the three women, George not having liked to ask – since they were her co-owners in the business, and Rowella was the manager.

At his knock, Elizabeth hurried out from the back and came to let him in. Although it was not as strong as during opening hours, the warm scent of chocolate still lingered. It was such a comforting aroma, and George hadn’t realised how much he’d missed it while he’d been away. He knew how much he’d missed Elizabeth’s smile, however.

“Come in! It’s freezing out there.”

“It is.” He followed her through into the back. The kitchen was, as he’d suspected, rather compact; these old buildings usually didn’t have much space. It was actually impressive that they produced so much here. To his left, he saw a tiny office with a safe. Rowella’s domain, presumably. She was not there now, though. In fact, she wasn’t in evidence at all, and neither was Morwenna. “Are the others on their way?”

“Oh, they’re not coming.”

“Oh.” He didn’t know what to say to that. Was Elizabeth just here to let him down gently? It was kind of her, but she could have just told him they weren’t interested in whatever he had to say. He attempted to counteract his slight disappointment with a moment of levity. “I was hoping to ask Morwenna what her window is!”

“Oh, it’s amethyst. February birthstone.”

“Oh. Well, it’s very pretty.”

“Yes. I don’t know how she comes up with them all. She’s being very secretive about her Valentine’s Day one.” There was a slightly awkward pause as they stood facing each other next to a spotlessly clean metal bench. George decided to make one last ditch attempt at persuading her.

“Look, about my proposition – proposal.” Quickly – and far more nervously than he’d ever spoken even when addressing a conference hall full of hard-nosed hedge fund managers – he outlined what he wanted them to consider, and the potential for their business it could bring. “You could increase your beauty line, or even move into other foodstuffs, different merchandise, maybe even a recipe book…But, maybe you don’t want some bloke you hardly know interfering in your business and you’ve just kindly let me waste your time.”

“No!” Elizabeth had been listening in what seemed to him to be politely tolerant silence, but suddenly she became a lot more animated. “No, I’m – we’re – immensely grateful for your offer, and I know Morwenna and Rowella want me to snatch your hand off.”

“You’ve discussed it with them already?”

“Well, after you put Verity onto those restaurant venture people, I guessed what you might be going to offer us when you said you had something…and your Aunt tipped us off a bit.” George bit back a sigh. He loved Aunt Joan, but sometimes she could be as frustrating as Uncle Cary. By all rights, they should get along better, considering how much they loved to interfere in his life.

“But you have reservations?”

“Yes…” She stepped back slightly, glancing down as she trailed her hand over the surface of the bench. “Not because I don’t think it’s a wonderful plan, and not because I don’t think it’s incredibly kind of you to offer, but because – Well, you know what they say about mixing business with pleasure.”

“Wh – what?” George had to put his slightly rude response down to complete confusion at what she’d said. Having gone to the back of the room, Elizabeth returned with one of the shop’s golden boxes in her hands; a long, thin one. Standing in front of him again, she bit her lip – a gesture George struggled to tear his eyes away from – and flipped open the lid. Spelled out with individual letters on two rows of chocolates was a message: Be My Valentine.

“I mean – I don’t know how much more obvious I can be. The first day you walked in the shop, I asked if you were married; the next time, I asked for your number. Then, I invited you to a party, and gave you a present, and my number. I did my best to impress your Aunt, and I texted you for weeks, and now I’ve invited you here to see me, alone, at night and….Oh. You were expecting the girls to be here as well, weren’t you?” She pressed the box shut, suddenly looking distraught. “You’ve just been being polite this whole time, haven’t you? And now I’ve gone and made a complete fool of myself and I’m sure you’ll never want to give us the investment now – “

George leant forward and stopped up her tirade with a kiss, not caring that he crushed the box of chocolates between them. Elizabeth hesitated for a moment before wrapping her free hand around his neck and kissing him back. When they broke apart, they were both breathing heavily.

“What you said before – about business and pleasure – “

“Oh,” Elizabeth shook her head. “Whoever said that was an idiot. Besides, no matter how much I fancy you, Rowella would kill me if I turned you down. And Morwenna would help.”

Before he could reply, she threw the now hopelessly squashed box aside and wrapped both her arms around his neck, kissing him again.

She tasted like chocolate.  

[idolizerp]

LOADING INFORMATION ON NIGHTMARE’S MAIN RAP, LEAD DANCE JIA MAIALEN ACOSTA...

IDOL DETAILS

STAGENAME: Medea CURRENT AGE: 22 DEBUT AGE: 20 TRAINEE SINCE AGE: 17 COMPANY: Koala.T SECONDARY SKILL: N/A

IDOL PROFILE

NICKNAME(S): Brujita; because of her heritage, Jia is popular among some Latin Americans. They declared her their little witch, or “nuestra brujita”. The name has caught on, so others now call her “little witch” INSPIRATION: Jia’s personal inspiration comes from her years of acting and her father’s obsession with gothic literature. He would have preferred for her to become a professor instead of an idol, but her family is still very supportive.  SPECIAL TALENTS:

Languages-Jia was born in America to a Puerto Rican/German father and Korean mother. She grew up surrounded by different languages. As a result, she speaks English, Korean, Spanish, and German. Her German is probably weakest, but she can still speak enough to entertain people on variety shows.

Monologues-Because of years of acting auditions, Jia has several monologues she can still recite off the top of her head. Macbeth is a popular request.

Tarot-Jia doesn’t personally believe in tarot readings, but it seemed like a good skill to learn once the group changed direction. She now knows how to do readings and carries a deck of cards as a prop.

NOTABLE FACTS:

Jia has been acting since she was six years old, though most of her experience was small scale commercials and school productions.

In December of 2017, she had a mediocre appearance on Hit the Stage. It could have been better, but it certainly could have gone worst. Mostly it was a combination of nerves and food poisoning. She has not touched oysters since.

Koala.T has been pushing Jia to continue acting. Her most recent experience was a lead role in Last Minute Romance.

Jia is incredibly intelligent. Her father is a professor so she grew up with a nose in a book.

She has a fascination with Japanese horror, particularly anime and manga. Her current favorite anime is Angels of Death.

IDOL GOALS

SHORT-TERM GOALS:

Jia wants to grow the popularity of Nightmare. While their followers are fervent, there aren’t many. It would be nice to see Nightmare more widely accepted by the mainstream population, particularly because Jia actually believes in the concept.

LONG-TERM GOALS:

Someday,  Jia would like to be a soloist. It seems like the only opportunity for her to take some type of agency in her career and she is genuinely devoted to music, particularly to writing lyrics. However, the company thinks she would be better off continuing her acting career. Despite this, she is determined to prove to them that she can be a viable candidate for a soloist someday.

IDOL IMAGE

Sassy. Fiery. Extroverted. Sexy. Koala.T quickly realized Jia would never fit any of those molds, despite their expectations of what a Latina should act like. She was too quiet, too introverted, too uptight. She had spent most of her life sheltered, especially for a child actor. While this meant Koala.T never had to worry about her getting into trouble, it also meant they had to rethink who she would be in the group.  The most they could hope for was quirky, odd, maybe a little eccentric. They settled on restrained. After all, what was a nightmare without a bit of mystery? Everyone would dream of uncovering the “real” her and her other, bolder, group members could take the lead in interviews. She could speak every once in a while, make people work for her words. Koala.T never had to worry that she would take it too over the top and become unlikable. She had acted for years and certainly knew when to smile and when to hold back. In fact, it would make their vision for her as an actor all the more impressive. People would line up to see her quiet nature break down, to find a crack in her armor on screen. Since Nightmare’s debut,  that has been the role Jia played. She is cute, quiet, and shy, except when performing. She raps and dances with her entire soul, almost becoming a different person. Koala.T knows she wants to be a soloist someday, but they don’t see that in her future. Not with her image and not with her past as an actor. It is much easier for them to market her as such, to place her in television shows and web dramas. They see her as perfect for the small screen. Unfortunately, her personality has typecast her in roles  similar to her image, despite her range.

IDOL HISTORY

Everyone in Los Angeles is an actor. Jia was no exception. Her father, Gabriel Acosta, was Puerto Rican and German and damn proud of both. Her mother, Da-un, was Korean. Among Americans, she went by Daisy. Both might have never met had her father not broken his arm. Her mother was the nurse on call. Her three older sisters strived to be academics or doctors, but Jia knew that was not for her. She was a quiet child, almost worryingly so. Her mother began putting her in school stage productions hoping it would cure her shyness, despite the lack of love she had for the theater. Everyone was stunned to realize Jia was actually good in front of an audience. Despite her nerves, she excellent at memorizing lines, having always been a smart kid.

After a few school plays, her parents decided to explore the world of child acting, figuring it was a good way for her to earn money for college, because she was certainly going to go to one if it killed them. It was a tough market. Though Jia knew several languages, Asian roles were few and between, and no one would cast her as a Latina despite her proficiency in Spanish. She was never a stranger to racism, but those years helped her realize just how different she was. She didn’t fit in anywhere, not entirely.

When she was twelve, her grandfather on her mother’s side developed cancer. Her mother was the only one left to care for him, so the Acostas uprooted their children and moved to Korea. It was a culture shock for Jia, who had never set foot in its soil. Her Korean wasn’t bad per se, but it was rougher than her Spanish and certainly worse than her English. It was a difficult time for her. She decided to continue acting, mostly to make herself comfortable with speaking Korean among natives, but she did not have any jobs for a while. During that time, she discovered her love of writing.

Jia grew up around books. Her father never failed to bring classics home. She read Frankenstein at an age most kids were looking at Judy Bloom, but she never considered writing anything, not until she moved to Korea. She always had trouble making friends with her quiet personality, so writing was a way to escape her problems. At first it was about her day, then turned into practice for her Korean, until it shifted into creative pieces. However, she had to push that aside once her acting jobs started coming in again. Jia was filming a commercial when Koala.T scouted her. She was seventeen and figuring out what to do with her life, already becoming tired of the same acting roles over and over. They thought she had potential as an idol and invited her to audition. Her parents had mixed feelings about the situation. They wanted her to go to a university, for her to be a doctor or even a theater teacher, not a performer. She managed to convince them, mostly because it was a long shot. Her vocal and dancing experience was limited to school musicals, and there idol market was much more difficult to enter than the child acting market. To her surprise, she left the audition as a trainee.

Her parents gave her three years after she graduated high school to debut or else they were pulling the plug on the whole thing. It it was their compromise because while they were supportive of their daughter they were unwilling to have her throw away her life on something so impractical, something that had so little chance of working out. She trained every day and discovered a talent for rapping, which she honed. She found herself in a line up for a fairytale themed girl group until the company pulled the rug out from under them. Having always been obsessed with Japanese media, Jia had a much easier time adjusting to the shift into the pop rock occult. Jia always had a fascination with the macabre. Despite her meek personality, she loved horror movies and had the stomach for the goriest of films, having spent her share of time in the ER, waiting for her mother. She even suggested several stage names, before they decided on Medea, figuring the witch from the Greek myth fit the idea of the group well and would lend an edge to the sweet Jia.

While none of her other languages were useful in an Asian market, they made her a favorite in some international markets, particularly Latin America. For the first time in her life, being a foreigner was an asset, especially when domestically Nightmare was practically a flop. It was disappointing, but Jia remains hopeful. It has after all only been a little over a year. There is still plenty of time to turn things around and she is determined to make it work. However, some contention does exist between her and Koala.T. They want nothing more than for her to continue acting, having already seen her capabilities on the small screen. However, Jia would rather explore being a lyricist, maybe even a soloist. She has had people tell her what kind of material to produce her entire life. While it wouldn’t be perfect, being a soloist would allow her to finally shine on her own. Of course, it is still early in her career. She has to exercise a bit of patience as she can’t rock the boat too much, not when they are just getting started and certainly not before she has enough fans to back her up. Thankfully, Jia is good at playing the long game.

[hamzaamir7-blog]

Ambition

Ambition is defined as the desire or drive to achieve something which requires hard work. Although not stated in the definition the word ambition has an underlying morally good connotation behind it nowadays due to society. Although this wasn’t always the case in Macbeth ambition is portrayed in a manner which seems somewhat foreign to us and carries a different outcome and response from others then we would expect. In the modern-day ambition is intertwined with success, it seems as though without ambition success is hard to achieve. We can see this in very popular phrases that are used all the time such as, “reach for the stars” or even more literally “a man’s worth is no greater than his ambitions” which show that ambition is necessary and is rewarded greatly. In the 1600s though when Macbeth was written this wasn’t the case which we see in the play, instead we start seeing phrases such as “a man with too much ambition cannot sleep”. In this we can see the lingering negative undertone of ambition, in this play ambition is portrayed to lead to madness. In the play, we know that Macbeth and Lady Macbeth based on the prophecy of three witches decide to murder King Duncan and take the Scottish throne. Which leads Macbeth wracked with guilt and paranoia, and portrayed Lady Macbeth as insane in a sense too. Spoiler alert but not really it's over four hundred years old so if you don’t know what happens its not my fault, but as you should know they both end up dead. So even if we go to the source of this ambition it came from the prophecy of three witches which we know are supposedly evil and very dark spirited creatures, so even the root of this idea comes from a bad place. When we start seeing them actually going out and fulfilling the prophecy they aren’t rewarded instead Macbeth starts hallucinating and going insane. It's not as if they went through those perils and finally were rewarded but instead in the play this ambition leads ultimately to their demise. This shows us very clearly how different this one characteristic is in different periods of time and when you think about it, it wasn’t even that long ago although it may seem like it. Macbeth was written about four hundred years ago and the average life span is about 80 so if you divide them that’s was only like five people ago which isn’t a long time at all, like just 5 people ago, crazy huh? Jokes aside though it is interesting to see the change between risk/ambition and reward from now and then I feel as though the main reason for this was back in the day it was a very controlling and modest environment people had orders from the king and they just had to put their head down and obey them otherwise it was treason, so the thought of being ambitious wasn’t a great idea it was more about staying in your lane and just getting by in life if you weren’t the king or the leader per say. Now we have a lot more freedom over what we do and being ambitious is often times more tied to working hard then it is just to make a risky move, so someone in today's society being ambitious whether its in school their job who they want to be with is a great motivator and often times leads to excellence because now more than ever its not just about getting by we have resources to be successful no matter who you are and what talents you have which is the main difference between now and the 1600’s in Scotland.