#Medusa Unit | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

foundtherightwords · 4 months ago

Text

Love, If You're Near

Pairing: Michael (Hoard) x OFC

Summary: With a troubled past and a hopeless future, Gwen is just trying to survive on the streets of London. When she meets a man named Michael with a rather strange request, she shrugs and goes along with it, never dreaming that she will find a soul just as broken as hers, or that sometimes broken pieces can fit together perfectly, to bring healing and hope when one least expects it.

Warnings: discussions of prostitution and domestic abuse

Word count: 6.8k

A/N: I've had this idea for Michael even before "Hoard" was released, and after watching the film, I was happy that it was still viable. I don't condone Michael's actions, but I can see where his desire for love and affection comes from, and I hope that after what happened with Maria, Michael could start his own journey of redemption and healing. It is what I based my idea on. I also took some inspiration from "Frankie and Johnny" (the 1991 movie with Michelle Pfeiffer and Al Pacino, not the song).

"Hoard" takes place in 1994, and this is about 4 years after that.

Also, big thanks to @wheels-of-despair for sending me a transcript of the movie. It's helped me tremendously in deciphering the East London dialogue!

Gwen dropped down on a bench outside Dalston Junction Station, slipped her right shoe off her aching foot, and gingerly touched the raw red spot on the back of her heel, through her fishnet. "Cheap piece of shit," she grumbled. Except the shoes weren't exactly cheap. Twenty quid down the drain and they hurt like fuck, even after she'd tried every trick in the book to break them in. But her last pair had broken beyond repair, so it was either this or go barefoot, and she didn't want to step on broken needles and used condoms and whatever garbage that littered the backstreets of Hackney. Plus it was freezing. She'd met a stag do the previous night, and they had kept her out until the morning, eventually straining her all the way over in Chiswick. It was almost noon by the time she crawled back to her flat. It was too cold to sleep in, so she'd whiled away the day in coffee shops and pubs, waiting until it was time to go back out on the street. At this rate, she would take a five-quid blowjob in a car if it meant getting somewhere warm.

Across the street, the Hackney Carnival Mural shouted at her with its peeling musicians and protestors waving their "Unite for Peace" banners. Gwen turned away, annoyed. Idiots. What good is peace, when one is cold and tired and doesn't even have a decent pair of shoes?

It was almost Christmas, and a slow night. The nights had been slow for a while now, not like when she first started. Ten years on the streets, she thought she'd known how it worked. Then three years in the clink, and when she got out, it was like Brave New World out here. Foreign girls flooded the market. The pimps and the punters liked them because they were younger and easier to control, but the local girls knew that naïveté was just an act. These newcomers were tougher and meaner, and they wouldn't hesitate to pull a knife on those that dared to encroach on their territory. That was if they were still on the streets in the first place. It was all indoors now, and they didn't even have to rely on the old tart-card-in-phone-box method of advertisement. The Internet had that covered.

Gwen readjusted her long blonde wig and sighed. Sometimes she felt much older than her thirty-one years.

She put her shoe back on with a grimace. Perhaps she could try her luck up the road, near the Shacklewell Arms. Her friend Medusa worked that corner, and sometimes she would let Gwen stay with her so they could team up against the new girls.

Medusa's real name was Melissa, but all girls needed some exotic street names. For Halloween one year, back when they were both younger and sillier and full of hope, Gwen had even helped her attach plastic snake's heads to her dreads, both giggling like mad.

Gwen took the backstreets to avoid the twinkling lights, the sound of Christmas music, and the scents of evergreen and cinnamon that spilled out from every door and shop window. They depressed her. Her feet would not thank her for the detour, but her heart would.

By the time she reached the Arms, she was sure her blister had burst and was bleeding. Some indie band had just finished their gig, and the front of the pub was crawling with people. Gwen peered into the crowd, trying to make out Medusa's statuesque form. As she spied Medusa's dreads swinging to and fro, Gwen opened her mouth to call her friend. Her eyes fell on the man next to Medusa, and the call died in her throat. It was Medusa's boyfriend and pimp, Nico.

Despite Medusa's insistence that Nico was "not that bad", Gwen knew better than to face him. At best, he would cajole her into coming to work for him, and at worst he would threaten and force her. Gwen knew what it was like to tie yourself to a man. Usually, she could chase Nico off with a few choice words, but in her current state, cold, exhausted, and irritated, she had no strength to deal with him. She beat a quick retreat.

And collided with someone.

It was a man coming out of one of the cheaper and seedier establishments that lined the back alleys behind Shacklewell Lane. "Excuse me," he mumbled.

"'s alright," Gwen said. And, because he was a man and she was working, she added, out of professional habit, "You looking for company?"

"No, thank you," the man said, a little too quickly, and started to walk away. A few steps, then he seemed to have second thoughts and turned back. "How much?" he asked.

Gwen gave him the once-over. He was probably in his mid-thirties, medium built, dressed in old jeans, an older jumper, and sturdy boots. A working man, then, not a tourist or an out-of-towner looking for some cheap thrills. Not her ideal client, but beggars cannot be choosers.

She told him her hourly rate. "Forty quid and I'll do whatever you want, darling." It wasn't high, all things considered, but it wasn't cheap either. She had her dignity.

The man shook his head. "That's—that's out of my—sorry." He turned away again.

Gwen slumped against a brick wall with a sigh. Maybe she should call it a night. The prospect of her cold flat with its empty fridge was not very welcoming though. Maybe she could find Medusa again. She was desperate enough to even risk Nico.

As she struggled to her feet, she staggered backward and collided, for the second time that night, with someone. This time it was a little girl who was coming out of a doorway with her mother. The girl was holding to the hem of her mother's coat with one hand and in the other was a teddy, which she dropped to the ground.

"Sorry," Gwen said. She quickly picked up the teddy, dusted it off, and handed it to the girl with a smile. "Here you go, love."

The girl stared back at Gwen with enormous eyes but said nothing and made no move to take her teddy. The mother snatched the toy back. "Why don't you watch where you're going, you slag!" she snarled. "And stay away from my kid."

"You watch where you're going!" Gwen spat. "What are you doing, dragging a kid out on the street this late anyway? She should be in bed!"

The mother's nostrils flared. "Don't tell me how to raise my own kid! What does a slut like you know about being a mother?" With that, she snatched the kid up in her arms and stormed off. Swallowing her anger, Gwen walked away in the opposite direction.

A moment later, a wail from the little girl caused Gwen to turn back, just in time to see the woman yank the teddy out of her hand and toss it into the nearest bin.

An inexplicable fury prompted Gwen to chase after them despite her blister, not even knowing what she would do if she caught them, but the woman turned down a side street and disappeared. Only the teddy stared up at Gwen from the bin with a rather mournful look, or so she imagined.

She picked it up and straightened up the bowtie around its neck. "I know more about being a mother than that bitch," she said to the teddy, and, without knowing why, she put it in her bag.

Feeling eyes on her, she looked up to see the man who had rejected her still standing at the mouth of the alley, watching her with a strange expression. Something in his dark eyes made blood rush to her cheeks, and she growled, "What the fuck are you looking at?"

He approached her slowly. "Forty an hour, you say?"

She stood up a little straighter. "Yeah."

"And you'll do whatever I want?"

"Within reasons," she said warily.

"Where can we go?"

"You have a car?" He shook his head. "Well, then that depends on what you have in mind," she said. "Even an alleyway would do, though I have to tell you, I'm not keen on getting any more blisters tonight." He colored slightly, and Gwen found herself wondering if this was his first time. She glanced at his hand. No ring. But then again, this type always takes care to leave their ring at home, don't they?

"My flat's not far from here," he said. "Do you mind—?"

Gwen hesitated. She made it a point never to go with a customer to a place she was unfamiliar with. Too risky. But she was cold and tired and just wanted to get this done.

She scrutinized the man, more carefully this time. He had dark hair pushed away from his forehead in soft curls, and a face that, had she been feeling better, she would have found quite handsome. What really struck her, though, were his eyes. They were dark and large, fringed by ridiculously long lashes, which made him look almost boyish. Gwen, who had to rely on false lashes and mascara to get such a doe-eyed look, stared at those lashes enviously. Noticing her scrutiny, he glanced at her briefly and looked away again. That shy, beseeching look finally cinched it for her.

"Alright," she said. "But cash up front."

"Fair enough." He opened his wallet and handed her some crumpled fivers and a tenner. Gwen counted them carefully before stuffing them into her bag. She also checked that her pepper spray was still in her bag—no matter how unassuming the man looked, or how sad his eyes were, she had to be careful. Technically, it was illegal to carry pepper spray, but Gwen never let a small thing like legality stop her.

Her fingers brushed across a little card, and Gwen paused momentarily. She'd been given that card by a group of women who roamed the area in twos and threes, who might be mistaken for working girls at first glance. She supposed that was their disguise. They were a non-profit helping to get women off the streets, they said. Give us a call anytime, they said. Gwen had scoffed at their optimism, yet for some reason, she still held on to their card.

"What's your name?" the man asked.

"What do you want it to be?" she said, again out of habit, too tired to actually be coquettish. The man raised his eyebrows at her, and Gwen relented. "You can call me Queenie." Medusa wasn't the only girl with a ridiculous street name.

She didn't ask his name. She didn't care.

They went down Shacklewell Lane, away from the bright lights and loud noises of the Arms, crossed the A10, and through some side street lined with terraced houses. Then the houses gave way to chippies, greasy spoons, Laundromats, and off-licenses. Gwen was whimpering by the time they reached a block of council flats, its brown brick façade the color of dry blood under the dim streetlamps.

"You all right?" the man asked, glancing at her.

"How far up?" Gwen managed, looking up at the looming building, trying to calculate how quickly she could run out of there, if necessary.

"Fifth floor."

She let out an involuntary groan. The man looked at her for a moment. And then, before she realized what he was doing, he scooped her up in his arms in one smooth movement and carried her up the stairs, bridal style.

"Do you mind?!" she protested. The man said nothing, only kept walking.

Gwen tried to wriggle out, but she was too tired and his arms were too strong, and after a moment, she gave up and leaned her head against his shoulder. He smelled, not unpleasantly, of soap and sweat and rollies, and she found herself pressing her nose into the crook of his neck, breathing in his human scent, to purge from her memories the stench of piss and stale beer and rubbish that had assaulted her all through the night.

For all his strength, the man was panting a little by the time they arrived at his door. He set Gwen down on her feet and fumbled with the lock. The moment they were through the door, she collapsed on the nearest available surface, which happened to be an old, rather threadbare sofa, and pulled her shoes off.

"Take it from me," she said. "Never wear heels."

He seemed amused. "OK, I won't." He went about flipping on the lights. "Do you want some Epsom salt for that?"

"Nah, I've had worse."

The man disappeared behind a door down the hall—the bathroom, she supposed—and emerged a second later with a plaster. He then knelt in front of her, rolled down her right stocking and lifted her foot into his lap, not in a sensual or seductive way, but rather matter-of-factly, and stuck the plaster on her heel, like a parent cleaning up a child's skinned knee. This done, he pulled out the sofa and made a bed on it, still in that same matter-of-fact manner.

Something rolled out from under the sofa—a piece of Lego. Gwen's eyebrow went up. Following her eyes, the man saw the Lego as well and turned red. He quickly kicked it back under the sofa and went on making the bed as if nothing had happened. Well, if he wasn't going to say anything, then she certainly wouldn't either.

"Right," she said, rolling down her other stocking. "Let's get started, shall we?"

He turned toward her, looking alarmed. "No, no, no," he said and put his hand over Gwen's, stopping her. "Clothes on, please."

Gwen tilted her head. It wasn't the first time she'd been asked to keep her clothes on, though it was rare enough that it still came as a surprise. She wasn't keen on having her dress all wrinkled and stained. It would be a nightmare to get it clean. But she pulled her fishnets back up anyway

The man sat down next to her on the sofa bed, sheepishly avoiding her eyes. "I'm Michael, by the way," he said.

"Nice to meet you, Michael," Gwen said, because that's what one is supposed to say when someone introduces themselves.

"Would you like something to drink? Cup of tea?"

If he'd offered her some wine or whiskey or even beer, she might have accepted, but tea was probably the least erotic drink Gwen could think of. "No, thanks," she said. She didn't trust him not to slip her a Mickey—hey, Mickey and Michael, that's rich, she thought, chuckling to herself. When Michael didn't say anything, she reminded him, "You only paid me for an hour."

"Could you—" he began, looking down at a spot on the scuffed floor. "Would you mind—could you just hold me?"

Is that it? Gwen had to stop herself from grinning. This really was his first time then, poor lamb. She scooted closer and wrapped her arms around him. "Like this?" she whispered into his ear. Michael nodded and eased them both down on the bed until they were spooning, with her behind him, so she couldn't see his eyes. "What else do you want me to do?" she asked.

"Just this."

Gwen frowned. "What?"

"Just hold me like this, please."

She sat up to look at him properly. He was lying on his side with his eyes open, staring not at her but at something or somewhere else, miles away.

"You're not going to make me put a giant diaper on you and breastfeed you, are you?" Medusa had once met a punter with that request. It had been part of the reason why she'd decided to work for Nico, so she could avoid another awkward situation like that, though, in Gwen's mind, it was rather like out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Michael turned to her. "What?"

"You don't want to tie me up, and you don't want me to tie you up?"

"No."

"You don't even want to have sex?"

He blushed again. "No."

"So let me get this straight," she said. "You're paying me forty quid to—spoon you?"

"Yeah." He sat up as well. "Look, if you're not comfortable with it, I understand. I'll pay you for your time, and then you can go."

She considered. As far as requests went, it was an odd one, but certainly not the strangest she'd had. And it sounded innocent enough—perhaps the most innocent of all. Still, she would not be lulled into a sense of safety. She pulled her bag a little closer to make sure she could reach inside and get the pepper spray if necessary. Her shoes would be a write-off—she could run faster barefoot anyway.

"Just—hold you?" she asked again, wanting to make sure. "For an hour?"

He looked up at her with those dark eyes, imploring, infinitely sad, like those of a lost child or a dying animal, and Gwen felt her heart stumble. "Yes, please," he said.

"I'm not charging you the full rate just for a bit of cuddle!"

"It's OK, really. I don't mind."

"I do," she insisted. "It's about being professional. What do you do for a living?"

He seemed taken aback by her question, but he answered anyway. "I'm a cleaner. At St. Mary's Hospital." He was quiet for a moment, then added, "Used to be a bin man. But I couldn't take the stink anymore."

Something in the way he said it made Gwen think that there were other reasons besides the stink for him to give up being a bin man, but it was none of her business. "You wouldn't take the full wage for cleaning half the hospital, would you?" she asked.

Something like a smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I guess not."

"OK, so let's say twenty an hour, and we have a deal."

A moment's hesitation, and he extended a hand. They shook on it. His hand was warm, his grip strong and steady, and Gwen wondered why such a man could be so alone, and so lonely.

She made to give him back the twenty quid, but he pushed her hand away. "Keep it. I may ask you to stay longer."

"All right," she said, tucking the bills into her bra. "No funny business, mind."

"No."

She lay back down and put one arm around him again, leaving the other free so he couldn't easily pin her under him. "Is this OK?" she asked.

"It's fine," he said. "You don't have to do anything. Just—be natural."

Natural. Gwen wasn't even sure if she remembered how to be natural in bed anymore. She knew how to be enthusiastic, how to be dominant or submissive, how to be seductive, even how to be afraid. But natural? She no longer knew what that meant.

The minutes ticked by.

While they lay there, Gwen let her eyes wander around, trying to find some clues that might point to danger. She saw a sparsely furnished flat, similar to her own. There were only the sofa bed, a coffee table, and a TV taking up the front room, a kitchenette to the side, and two closed doors, one leading to the bathroom, the other she had no idea. She saw more evidence of a kid—childish drawings on the fridge door, a small toothbrush, a bowl of half-eaten cereal on the coffee table. If he had a kid, she certainly hoped the kid wasn't locked in that spare room.

Her wandering eyes returned to Michael. He had taken his jumper off and was now in a vest. There was a tattoo on his bicep. "Who's Billy?" she asked.

"Mate of mine, from school," he said in a small voice. "He OD'ed."

"Shit," she said. And then, "I'm sorry."

"It's all right." His hand found hers, clasped it to his chest.

"What are you doing?" she asked, pulling away.

"Sorry," he said quickly. "Your hand's cold. I was just trying to warm it up."

"I would've worn a coat, but unfortunately it doesn't go with this outfit," she joked. Her only warm coat would've covered up what she was trying to sell. She left her hand in his, feeling the heavy thump of his heart under her palm. He nestled into her with a sigh, but she remained stiff, keeping some distance between her chest and his back, so she could bolt at the first sign of danger.

But it never came. Instead, his breath evened out, and soon he was asleep.

Gwen must have dozed off as well, for she remembered jolting awake. Michael was still sleeping, holding her hand to his chest as if afraid she would fly off if he let go.

This could be her chance. After making sure Michael was sound asleep, Gwen carefully slid her hand out of his grasp, got out of bed, and tiptoed down the hall. She opened two closed doors. One was a bathroom, just as she suspected. The other was a bedroom, a kid's bedroom, painted in bright, buttery yellow, with a frilly little bed and cheerful toys and books piled on the shelves, a complete contrast to the sad, gray flat outside.

Gwen's feet took her into the room almost of their own volition. She gazed about, a strange melancholy washing over her. No, there wasn't anything strange about this sadness. She knew exactly where it was coming from; she just didn't want to think about it.

There was a framed photo on the bedside table, and she picked it up—it was of Michael, smiling a big, happy smile, carrying on his shoulder a little girl of about two or three years old, who had his same brown curls and his chocolate button eyes.

"What are you doing?" said his voice behind her.

She jumped and dropped the picture, which landed safely on the bed.

"Sorry," she said, fumbling to pick up the frame. "I was looking for the—uh, bathroom. I didn't mean to snoop."

"It's OK." He didn't look angry, only a little awkward, like she had stumbled on an embarrassing secret. It emboldened her.

"This your kid's room?" she asked.

"Yeah." He took the picture frame from her and set it back on the table. "She lives with her mum. I only have her on weekends and when her mum has to work nights, but I try to keep the room nice and clean for her," he explained.

Gwen let out a small breath and reminded herself to stop watching so much The Bill. From the way he had been so secretive about it, she was expecting something tragic. She was glad it wasn't.

"That her?" She nodded at the picture.

A ghost of a proud smile hovered over Michael's lips. "Her name's Amelia."

"Pretty name. Suits her."

"Don't let that face fool you, she's a little terror."

"How old is she?"

"Turning four soon."

"Oh, that's a great age," Gwen said without thinking. "That's when you can start to have a real conversation with them, and it's so fun."

"It is." Michael looked at her sharply. "Have you got a kid?"

For a moment, Gwen considered telling him the truth. It felt so nice, so normal, to talk in that cheery little room, as if sunshine had been stored in its bright yellow paint and the warmth of it was seeping into her, chasing away the cold of those long, lonely nights out on the street. She wanted to hold on to that feeling a little longer.

But she was here to work, not to have a heart-to-heart like she was on some bloody chat show.

"No," she lied.

"Because you sound like you know kids," he said.

Anger pricked at Gwen's insides. Who did this punter think he was?

"It's none of your business," she snapped. Michael continued to stare at her, and the intensity of his eyes forced her to look away. The flat was closing in on her, suffocating her, like her old prison cell. She couldn't breathe. She had to get out of here, get away from this strange man whose eyes seemed to penetrate her very soul.

She grabbed her bag. "I have to go."

Michael glanced at the clock on the wall, surprised. "But I paid you for two hours."

"Here." She tossed the money on the bed, picked up her shoes, and all but ran. He caught her at the door.

"What did I do?" he asked.

"Nothing. I just have to go."

"Don't do this," he said, clutching at her arm like a child afraid of being separated from its mother. "Don't leave. Please." The pleading note in his voice now sounded more like a command. That voice, the hard grip of his hand, and the dark glint in his eyes awoke something savage within Gwen, a cold fury she hadn't felt in years.

"Let me go," she said quietly, "or I'll kill you."

He dropped her arm in an instant. "I'm sorry," he muttered, his eyes glistening with what looked like tears. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you—I just don't know how to—"

As suddenly as it appeared, Gwen's anger vanished. She couldn't afford to lose her temper like that.

"It's fine," she said. "Just let me—"

Before she could finish, there was a knock on the door. "Michael?" said a voice on the other side. "You in?" A woman's voice.

Michael turned to Gwen, his eyes enormous on his pale face. "Hide," he mouthed to her.

A part of Gwen wanted to be defiant and face whoever was at the door—a wife? A girlfriend?—so she could watch Michael squirm, but another part of her took pity on his panic. Rolling her eyes, she made her way into the bedroom and shut the door behind her.

"Leah," she heard Michael say, as he opened the front door. "What's wrong? Is Amelia all right?"

Peeking through a crack of the bedroom door, Gwen saw a woman standing in the doorway. She had auburn hair pulled into a tight bun and a scowling, disapproving expression that seemed terminal. A little girl was asleep in her arms.

These must be his ex and their daughter then. Gwen retreated into the shadow of the room, feeling strangely embarrassed, like she had intruded on an intimate scene. In some way, she had.

"She's fine," Leah said, and Michael let out a breath of relief. "It's my mum," Leah continued, looking harried. "She's had a fall. I have to go to Cardiff to see her. Don't know when I'll be back, so I can't take Amelia with me—" She looked around the flat, her eyes narrowing as they landed on the bills scattered on the sofa bed. Michael looked away, his cheeks flushed. "Is this a bad time?" Leah asked.

"No, not at all," Michael said quickly. "I'll take her. Call me when you get to Cardiff and let me know how your mum is."

With a curt nod, Leah handed their daughter over. She brushed a curl away from the sleeping child's forehead and went downstairs, but not before throwing another suspicious look over her shoulder.

Gwen waited for another moment or two until the coast was clear, and emerged from the bedroom. Michael, with his arms full of a sleeping toddler, gave her an apologetic look.

"Well, I'll be off then," Gwen said, trying not to show how the sight of the little girl was affecting her.

Michael hesitated. "Listen," he said. He tried to take her hand, but his arms were too full to reach. "You don't have to run off like that. I'm sorry about earlier. Stay for a bit. It's cold out."

"I'll be fine," Gwen said lightly. "And you're busy. I should go." At the door, she paused. "Good luck, Michael."

At that moment, Amelia lifted her head from her father's shoulder. "Daddy?" she said, her voice thick with sleep.

"Hey there, sleepyhead," Michael said, and the tenderness in his voice made Gwen want to cry. She knew she should be going now, but some invisible force was rooting her to the spot, making her watch Michael with his daughter as if hypnotized. "Mum has to go to Grandma's," he was saying, "so you're staying with me for a bit. Is that all right?"

The little girl rubbed her eyes with a chubby fist. "Where's Snappy?" she said.

Michael looked around. He patted the pockets of Amelia's coat and came up empty. "You don't have him with you?" The girl shook her head. "You must have forgotten him at home then."

"I want him."

"We'll get him when Mum comes back—"

"I want him now!" Amelia demanded. She no longer sounded sleepy.

Michael gave Gwen an exasperated look over his daughter's head. Despite the twist of pain in her heart, Gwen couldn't help but grin back in rueful sympathy.

"What's Snappy?" she whispered to Michael.

"Her crocodile." Turning to Amelia, he said, "Don't worry, Snappy will be fine—"

But Amelia was not having it. "No!" she shouted. "I want Snappy! I'm not going without Snappy! Give me Snappy!"

"Let's just go to bed first, and then I'll find Snappy for you, yeah?"

"No! I don't want to stay here without Snappy!" The little girl started kicking and wriggling to get out of Michael's arms, and there was a shrill note in her voice that Gwen knew well would be followed by a tantrum. Wincing, Michael set Amelia down on the floor. The little girl pushed at her father, shouting, "I want Snappy!"

"Hey, hey, stop," Michael gently admonished her. "I don't have a key to Mum's place, so we can't get in. You have a lot of toys here—"

"I don't wanna stay here! I wanna go home! I want Mum!"

At that, something seemed to break within Michael. Without saying a word, he dropped Amelia on the sofa bed and went over to the kitchenette, where he plopped down at the table with his head in his hands. All the while, Amelia kept crying for Snappy.

Gwen looked between the despondent father and the wailing toddler. None of this had to do with her. She did not need to get involved. She should leave now.

She didn't leave.

She sat down in front of Amelia, who continued to sniff and snuffle. The violence of her tantrum seemed to have passed into a sulk.

"Hi," Gwen said. "You're Amelia, right?"

The little girl wiped a sleeve across her runny nose. "Who're you?" she asked.

Gwen glanced at Michael. He was still sitting with his head in his hands. Odd, that. Why was he acting like a tantrum was the end of the world? "My name's Gwen," she said. Michael raised her head at this, but made no comment. "I'm—I'm a friend of your dad's. Amelia's a very pretty name. Have you ever heard of Princess Amelia?"

At the mention of a princess, the girl's large brown eyes, so like her father's, widened in interest. "Who's she?"

"She was the youngest daughter of King George III. She was very nice and kind. Her father loved her very much, and so did her mother and her brothers and sisters." Gwen paused. Perhaps she shouldn't mention that it was Princess Amelia's death that drove her poor father to madness. "And there's also Amelia Earhart," she said. "She was the first woman to fly across the Atlantic." Again, Gwen paused when she remembered that Ms. Earhart disappeared while trying to fly around the globe. She looked at Michael to see if he'd noticed her bungled attempt to cheer his daughter up. He was still at the table, watching her with an inscrutable expression, just as he had when they first met in the alley. She cleared her throat and returned her attention to Amelia. "Now, can you be kind like Princess Amelia and brave like Amelia Earhart?"

Hesitantly, the little girl nodded. Gwen smiled. "Good. Tell me about Snappy then."

Amelia's little mouth screwed up, and she blinked rapidly, threatening tears again. "He's—m-my croc-crocodile," she hiccupped. "He's gold and has black teeth and he's very scary and he protects me."

"Ah, so that's why he has to stay home then," said Gwen, as if she'd just made a great discovery. "He has to keep it safe for when you and your mum come back."

"Really?"

"Yes. He knows you'll be perfectly safe here with your dad. And"—here Gwen pulled out the teddy from her bag and handed it to Amelia—"in case you're feeling lonely, here's Teddy. He may not be as scary as Snappy, but he can keep you company until you see Snappy again, all right?"

Amelia took the teddy, turned it this way and that, and held it experimentally. Finally, satisfied that the teddy was safe, she hugged it to her chest and smiled at Gwen through her tears.

"Now there's a great big smile," Gwen said, smiling back and giving the girl's nose a little bop.

"My dad always says my smile's as big as Christmas," said Amelia.

"And he's right."

As if on cue, Michael appeared next to them. He nodded at Gwen gratefully and took Amelia into her room.

Gwen was still sitting on the sofa bed when he came out a few minutes later and sat down next to her. "You're really good with her," he said.

"So are you."

"No, I'm not. You heard what she said. She didn't even want to stay with me."

"Michael, she's four," Gwen said. "She's knackered. A four-year-old would say they hate you one minute, then turn around and kiss you the next. That's what they do."

"How do you know?"

Gwen rubbed a hand across her eyes. Amelia wasn't the only one who was tired. Gwen felt like she could lie down and sleep for a thousand years. "I lied earlier," she said. "I do have a kid. Her name's Emma. She's six—no, seven now."

Michael tilted his head, looking at her more closely. "Where is she?"

"She lives with a foster family in Croydon. I haven't seen her in three years." The foster mum sent photos, and Gwen tried to call when she could, but it wasn't the same. "Sometimes I'm afraid she's forgotten me."

"Why can't you see her?"

Gwen didn't answer. It was a wound she wasn't ready to open yet.

Michael went back to the kitchen and fiddled about with the kettle. He came back a moment later with two steaming cups, and handed Gwen one. It reminded her of the tea she used to make for herself as a kid, too sweet and milky for her liking now, but she said nothing. They sat sipping their tea in companionable silence.

"Do you believe some people just can't be loved?" Michael asked.

"What?"

"Some people always seem to end up alone. It's like they can't be loved."

Gwen took a moment to answer. The punters all liked to talk. They would complain to her about their jobs, their wives, their girlfriends, their mothers. She could hear Medusa now, telling her, "We're like trick cyclists, darling"—Medusa was not Cockney, but she'd heard that slang for "psychiatrist" on The Bill or EastEnders and liked to slip it into her talk because she thought it made her sound cool—"except we're cheaper and they get some sex on top of that." So when a customer talked, Gwen would just nod absently and say "Is that so?" while thinking of something else.

Now, having been brought closer by the talk of their kids, she asked Michael, "Why do you think that?"

"Everybody in my life is gone," he said, his voice bleak. "My parents—well, they weren't fit to be parents, really. I lost count of how many foster homes I lived in. None of them wanted me. My brother took me in, but then he moved to Australia with his wife and kids. Maybe it's my fault." His head drooped. "I met someone once. I loved her. Or I thought I did. But I fucked it up. I didn't see what she was going through, and I made it worse."

"Was it Amelia's mum?"

"No." He sighed. "But I fucked it up with her as well. She's too good for me. They're all too good for me."

"Is that why you hired me?" Gwen asked before she could stop herself. Michael turned to her, and the look in his eyes went through her heart like a pin. It was the same look he'd given her when they first met, so lost and vulnerable, the look of a lifetime of hurt and loneliness. Now she understood why she had been so taken by it. It was a look she knew well, for she had seen it plenty of times when she looked into the mirror.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean—"

She shrugged. "It's alright. I'm used to that."

He put a tentative hand over hers and closed his fingers around it. "Thank you, Gwen," he said. "Thank you for being here. Thank you for helping me with Amelia."

"Hey, my pleasure." She grinned. "She's a good kid."

"I was frightened to death when she was born, you know," Michael said. "I didn't know what to do. I still don't. What if I fuck it up like I fuck up everything else in my life?"

Gwen squeezed his hand. Finally she understood his despair earlier, just as she had understood his loneliness; understood it because she saw it in herself.

"Want to know why I went to prison?" she asked. "Why I haven't seen my daughter?"

He looked at her, not with morbid curiosity as most people did when they learned she'd been to prison, but with interest and sympathy. She pulled off her blonde wig, and, turning her head, spread her mousy brown hair over her ear to show him the ragged scar just above it, which the hair couldn't quite cover.

"Her father, my piece-of-shit boyfriend—he gave me that," she said. "And worse. Then one time, he pushed me too hard. I pushed back. He hit his head on the kitchen counter." Her voice trembled. It was the first time she spoke of this in three years. She steadied herself, and continued, "I could've called an ambulance, but I didn't. I just stood there and watched him die. Got me three years for that. Involuntary manslaughter." She lifted her eyes to Michael's face. "Think you can fuck up your kid's life worse than I did?" she asked. She tried to laugh and began to cry.

Michael reached out and drew her to him until she was in his arms with her head on his shoulder, just like how he'd held Amelia. He said nothing, but in his embrace, she could feel her fears quiet down, if not fade away entirely. She thought of Emma, and herself, of Amelia, and Michael, of the frightened child inside all of them, waiting only for someone to reach out and hold them and tell them that it's going to be all right.

She buried her nose in Michael's neck, taking in his scent of soap and sweat and smoke, and let out a breath she had been holding for three years, or perhaps even longer. "This is nice," she said. "I can see why you'd pay for this."

Michael's shoulders and chest rumbled pleasantly with laughter, and Gwen smiled as well.

"Can I see you again?" he asked.

Her smile faltered. Somehow, his question made her sad. It brought her crashing back to reality, a reality in which she would have to go back out on the street soon, back to the cold and the loneliness and the emptiness.

But professional habit won out in the end, and she didn't even sigh as she gave him the answer she'd always used with all her customers, "You know where to find me."

"No, not as Queenie," he said. "I want to see you again as Gwen. And without the wig. Can I?"

She lifted her head to look at him. He didn't let go, only slid his hand up her shoulder and her neck to cradle her cheek. As the warmth of his gaze and the tenderness of his caress enveloped her, Gwen made a decision.

Tomorrow, she would go and buy Emma a Christmas present. And bring it to her in person.

Tomorrow, she would ring that number on the card of the non-profit group.

But today, tonight, she would stop running away.

"Yes," she told Michael. "Yes, you can."

THE END

Yes, "Snappy" is the crocodile that Maria gave to Leah.

And of course, it wouldn't be my fic without a Snow Patrol song to accompany it (the title comes from the first line of lyric):

youtube

#joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic #hoard #hoard film #michael hoard #michael hoard fic #michael x ofc #Youtube

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thatonebirdwrites · 1 month ago

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Poet

On AO3

The ballad of two hearts uniting as one Is eclipsed by the moon and the sun. Her emerald eyes gaze upon her, She meets with her own sapphire A spark ignites between the two Weaving all their lies and truths.

Kara soars above the city and closes her eyes. Sounds cascade and dance through her awareness: each melody of people's voices in tune with the rhythm of their steps; each harmony of insects with the pulsing of bird's chords; each rhythm of the heartbeats in tandem with the breeze's caress against trees and buildings alike.

One beat echoes above it all, her finely honed ears elevates the one heartbeat for which her own heart beats. There, in the penthouse downtown, it pulses in syncopation to the trickle of ice in a glass and the soft pouring of a liquid.

Their lives collide and strive with each day, pirouetting and flunging, they seek their way, Medusa, family, poisoning, a worldkilling crisis Broiling conflict pierces, what was once priceless shattered and infected, shards of brittle glass crumble hardened hearts, the lies can't last.

Lena pours her scotch over the ice cubes in her cup. The tinkle echoes in the lonely realm of her penthouse, the drab greyscale a reminder of her station but an affront to her personality.

Beyond, within her bedroom, colors shine in a warmth hue, to herald the effusive glow of the sun as if that alone will chase away the cold of her demons.

She steps onto the balcony and raises her face to the moon. Far above, the silver face narrows its eyes to judge the world beneath. The haze of streetlamps crowd away the milky flow of the stars. A few stubbornly peak through the gloom, their lights dimming and fading as the urban life poisons the darkness, illuminating any chance for freedom in the wash of night.

Two hearts intertwined and bound Lost for a time but soon found, Hurt and pain surge along their strings like puppets trapped forever performing. Escape the narrative, exist beyond, Surrender to a heart so very fond.

Kara opens her eyes and narrows her hearing to Lena's balcony. There she hears the symphony of Lena's existence. She dives and spins, a dance in the clouds, until she hovers before her loved one.

Lena, sheathed in moonlight from above and urban glow from below, stands like a goddess in Kara's sapphire eyes.

Kara, glowing with a residue of the sun, her blonde hair like water in the growing breeze, illuminates the sky in Lena's emerald eyes.

As one, they gravitate, their hearts intertwined, their dreams woven into a rainbow tapestry. Beyond the monochrome of Lena's fears, beyond the painted landscapes of Kara's grief, their hands press against one another, as if trapped on either side of an impenetrable glass.

Each night their hearts call to the other, their heartbeats in a rhythmic symphony, and their hopes brittle with past sorrows, past betrayals, past horrors.

And yet, their past is eclipsed by the moon and sun. No escaping the truth that unites them as one. The decorum of friendship shatters in one kiss, and in the glow of the city, they proclaim one wish.

Kara and Lena, hearts pulsing in a joyous accolade, the greyscale births into a multi-hued cascade, The bars of friendship dissolve in another kiss, In the glow of the bedroom, they unleash their wish.

#supercorp #lena luthor #supergirl #Kara Zor El #Kara Danvers #supercorptober #supercorptober2024 #Yes I read this out loud several times to make sure the rhythm and word choices flowed well #If you're going to give me poet as a prompt then I will full-out write poetry #Hope you all enjoyed #Pirouette is a ballerina move and flunging is a fencing move

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kymerawrites · 6 months ago

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Sir Simon Riley (ghost x OC)

Author note: welcome to my Tumblr! Where I will post my story which is also on wattpad called sir Simon Riley.

Book summary:

In the heat of a

deadly mission, shym "Medusa", a shy and reclusive operative with the ability to turn 'enemies to stone', is paired with the enigmatic Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley. Both are elite members of a secretive unit called 141, tasked with retrieving a powerful artifact from enemy territory. Despite their skills, Medusa and Ghost struggle with their growing feelings for each other. Medusa fears her power will hurt those she cares about, while Ghost, haunted by his past, keeps his emotions tightly guarded.

Caught between duty and desire of both. Together, they face the dangers of their world, finding strength in their shared vulnerability and unyielding love.

EPISODE 1

"Be quiet, stop moving." Ghost's low, husky voice catches your attention. At any other time, you would have seen it in his face but this time...it was different. His gloved hands, working to bandage the wound on her arm, leaving a small trail of goose bumps on her skin.

"Are you some kind of suicidal? Throwing yourself in front of the bullet like that.." he said, sighing and tightening his grip on the bandage on his arm. The skull mask covered all of his face except his eyes.

I sighed "No I am not, I just did what I thought was right lieutenant. I am a part of this team now, it would be pathetic if I didn't do something." I jolted in pain when his grip tightened on my arm

"Stupid.." Ghost muttered under his breath, tightening the bandage so firmly on her arm that it hurt. It took all his strength not to throw her over his shoulder and yell at her, telling her to stop endangering her life. He was about to say something else when the door opened behind him and Soap appeared. Ghost took a quick breath of relief, letting go of her arm and stepping back.

"I've got it from here Soap," he said in a low, cold voice as he walked out of the room. Soap raised an eyebrow and sat down quietly next to her.

"Ghost didn't seem to let you off the hook, huh?" Soap replied with a small, playful smirk. He leaned back slightly, his gaze shifting between her eyes. What's going on in that crazy head of hers?

"The bullet didn't damage anything important..you'll be back in the field in no time." He said softly, his hand reaching out and gently squeezing her shoulder as he assured her.

frustration, that's how I felt as I glared at soap who had just delivered the news. "In no time? That doesn't give me relief!" I exclaimed.

My voice tinged with exasperation and anxiety. I shifted uncomfortably in the stiff hospital bed, my fingers tapping nervously against the thin blanket covering her legs. The sterile smell of antiseptic hung heavy in the air.

Soap chuckled softly at her words, leaning even closer to her. His smirk turning into a mischievous grin. "I know, I know. You're the best on the team. We couldn't possibly do without you." He replied in a playful tone, giving her shoulder one more squeeze.

Ghost's footsteps echoed down the hall, getting louder with each second. He was coming back. Soap immediately pulled his hand back from her shoulder, just in time for Ghost to reappear in the doorway.

"Lieutenant." I nodded

He approached her, a stoic expression on his face. He crouched down in front of her, his gloved hand gently lifting up her bandaged arm to inspect the wound.

His eyes scrutinized every inch of the bandages, making sure there were no mistakes.

"Soap, give us a minute." he said, his voice cold and serious. Soap nodded and immediately left the room, closing the door behind him.

"I need to make something clear.." he began, his grip tightening slightly on her arm.

she looked surprised almost puppy like into his eyes I turned my head away from him to not let him show I was smiling.

Ghost noticed her small little smile, his heart racing just at the sight. He cleared his throat, tightening his grip just a bit tighter to make her look him in the eyes. "You can never do that again. Do you hear me?" he said firmly, an edge of sternness in his voice. He leaned down slightly so his face hovered just above hers.

His grip tightened ever so slightly on her arm, but his eyes...they were searching her face, for something he couldn't quite explain.

I chuckled "lieutenant, this is the battlefield. If I die I die with honour you do understand that is part of my job? And this was just a small graze. I experienced worse."

Ghost's gaze hardened even more, his eyes never wavering from her own. "You do not understand, I cannot... I do not want to see you dying on the battlefield. It is not part of your job, it never will be."

He tightened his grip on her arm almost painfully tight, his gaze shifting to her arm and seeing the wound under the bandage. He took a deep breath and loosened his grip, his eyes returning to her face.

"Ur grip is hurting me, u do know ur hands aren't that weak right, ur strong.

Ghost's eyes hardened slightly under her comment, a low growl emitting from his throat. He leaned in even closer to her, his face mere inches away from hers. "Do not tempt me," he said firmly, his free hand coming up to cup her chin in his iron grip.

"I could break you like a stick without even trying. Yet, here I am, trying to keep you safe. Why, do you ask?"

I looked into his eyes "This conversation is over, I will return to where I left off." I stood up and walked off

His eyes widened in shock as she stood up from the bed. "Are you insane?", he exhaled, rising from the floor and quickly following her. "You cannot go out in that condition, you need more rest."

He reached out and grab her wrist, yanking her back towards him and pinning her against the nearest wall. His arms on either side of her, trapping her between him and the wall.

Lieutenant Riley.. my heart started racing, this heart racing I only felt when I had the worst anxiety. But now it felt like something else. I slid away from the wall he tried to trap me.

"As I said, this conversation is over. I am going back there. This isn't the worst I experienced, get that in ur head."

And so I walked off and closed the door behind me.

Ghost stood there, watching as her figure disappeared through the door. His jaw clenching tightly, fists balling up at his sides as he tried to contain his emotions. He wanted to follow, grab her and bring her back to the room. But the door slammed shut behind her, leaving him alone in the silence of the room.

His heart was racing, thumping furiously against his chest. His eyes searched the room, the feeling of...desperation growing like wildfire in his chest. "Damnit!" he whispered, the first curse word he'd uttered in a long time.

I continued fighting, I felt an adrenaline rush when I was on the fields, not caring about anything but just enjoying every second because you never knew when ur last second was. Until I heard on my walkie talkie my lieutenant, Simon "Ghost" Riley saying I need to come back this instant to the room I just left

"Shym, if you won't return now I need to inform shepherd of ur departure when it was stated you needed to rest."

Ghost's voice was cold, firm, yet there was a certain tension in his words as if he was trying his hardest to remain professional. He stood in the middle of the room, his hands balled into tight fists at his sides as he waited for her response.

His eyes scanned the room, searching for anything to distract him from the growing anxiety in his chest. The feeling he couldn't quite explain, but whatever it was... he knew it was going to destroy him if he could no longer keep it under control.

I came back to the room, if there were actual consequences I would have been doomed. But deep in my heart, I knew it was my lieutenant wanting me to come back and rest.

As soon as she walked back into the room, Ghost spun around to face her. His eyes were filled with a mixture of anger, worry, and something else that she couldn't quite identify.

His arms crossed over his chest, his jaw clenching slightly. The urge to scream, to yell at her...to hold her close and protect her from the dangers of the world was overwhelming. But instead, he stood there in silence, He let out a deep sigh, his eyes watching her closely as if he was trying to figure out why he had called her back. "Sit down, you shouldn't be walking around yet." he said in a low voice.

I sat down back on the bed "Why did you call me back? I think our commander rather want us to find that artefact than us being here and me needing to 'rest'"

Ghost's eyes darkened slightly in response to her question. He pushed away from the doorway, stepping closer to her and leaning against the edge of the bed. He folded his arms across his chest, eyes scanning her face with a cold gaze.

"Shepherd is not here right now, and besides, I am currently in charge and I want you to rest." he said firmly, the edge in his voice making his statement quite clear.

I sighed "fine, I will rest for now, but I want you back on the field. Our team needs u. I went outside and I saw It wasn't going as smoothly as it should be going. What a shame if we lost members because their lieutenant is here with me instead of outside trying to get that artifact."

Ghost's jaw tightened in response to her words, his eyes darkened with a mixture of guilt and frustration. He stepped back from the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair as he let out a sigh.

"We will continue once you've had some rest. I'll have Soap and Gaz cover for me." he replied, his voice low and tense. He walked to the door, his hand already on the knob as he turned around to glance over his shoulder at her.

"And why do you care so much about what I do?" he said in a low, teasing tone. His chin was lifted at a cocky angle, his body tilted slightly forward to put them face to face.

"Because..." I couldn't come up with a word to say I was surprised by his reaction.

What if I didn't care would that matter or wouldn't it? I was thinking fast when an abrupt answer came out of my mouth.

"I do not care I do not wish to care. I want us to win this battle, easy and without any distractions, so, join our teammates and let me rest and get us this artifacts that we need."

Ghost's eyes widened at her words, his jaw clenching tightly as he fought back the urge to grab her and shake some sense into her. He took a deep breath, his heart racing as he struggled to process her words.

He wanted to argue...wanted to scream, wanted to do anything to make her understand...but all that came out was a small, defeated groan.

He knew she was right, and no matter how much he wanted to stay by her side...he had a mission to complete.

He turned back around and closed the door behind him. I sighed full with relieve. What even was that, the tension that filled the room slowly dissapeared. I gave up with going back on the field to fight with my teammates against our opponents. It was a long day and I felt the pain in my arm once ghost has left me to rest.

Ghost and Soap led the team back into the room, followed closely by the rest of the task force. The room was quickly filled with the sound of footsteps and voices, the team discussing the events of the day.

Ghost's eyes immediately searched the room, looking for her as he pushed past Soap and stepped further into the room. He was still covered in dirt and grime from the battlefield, but his eyes were clear and focused. He spotted her sitting on the bed and his relief was palpable.

I looked at the team, all of them looked tired. And here I was sitting when I saw ghost searching for me. He looked relieved somehow. "Did you really expect me back on the field and dead somewhere in the corner?" I exclaimed laughing

Soap's face lit up and he was the first to jump at the suggestion "Oh hell yeah, we're definitely in!" he exclaimed, a grin on his face as he elbowed Gaz in the side. The room quickly filled with voices as the team started agreeing.

Ghost however, remained silent. His gaze focused on her, the same tension filling his chest as before.

"Well seems it's time for a night out! Everyone get ready because you guys all look dirty." I stood up from my bed and walked with the rest of them towards everyone's base rooms.

The team quickly dispersed, everyone scrambling to get their gear and clean up as best they could before they headed out. Ghost hung back, watching as the team dispersed. As soon as they were alone he stepped up besides her, his voice low as he spoke.

"You should be resting." he said firmly, his eyes scanning over her body for any sign of exhaustion or injuries. "You should stay behind, rest your body." he added, his gaze shifting back to hers.

I chuckled "and what if I don't want to rest? I'm going out with my team. U might be my lieutenant but you cannot decide what I can and cannot do."

Ghost tensed at her words, his jaw clenching tightly as he tried to keep his emotions in check. He took a deep breath, a low growl escaping from his throat.

"This isn't a suggestion, soldier. You're needed in peak condition and being out in a crowded environment is not going to help." He said firmly, his gaze fixed on her face.

He took a step forward, closing the distance between them and grabbing her arm tightly, pulling her closer to him. "You are not going anywhere...that's an order." he growled, his eyes burning into hers.

I looked angry into his eyes, I was done with this man. "I won't follow your orders tonight. I am not some damsel in distress so I suggest you let go off my hand, and let me enjoy a night out."

Ghost's grip tightened on her arm, his body tensing up as he fought the urge to lash out. His brow furrowed, eyes narrowing as he stared at her with an intensity that could make even the most fearless man tremble.

"You don't understand." he growled, the anger in his voice almost palpable "What if it happens again...you can't keep doing this. You are not invincible.

I cannot...I will not sit by and watch you get yourself hurt again."

searched her face, trying to find some hint that she understood what he was trying to say. But then finally, his grip on her arm loosened and he took a step back.

"Have you ever heard what they say about me? I am Medusa, and I can make my enemies of stone. God they gave a whole backstory for my great achievements!" I laughed and looked out of the window. "A bar or maybe even a club is not a place where I will get hurt, I am a soldier and I know how to defend myself. So if you will excuse me I will go and shower now."

"Go... take a shower." he said softly, his voice filled with something akin to defeat. He turned away from her and stormed off, disappearing into the crowd of soldiers heading back to their barracks.

#simon ghost riley #cod mw2 #modern warfare #ghost cod #simon riley x reader #simon riley smut #call of duty

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life-imitates-art-far-more · 2 years ago

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Théodore Géricault (1791-1824) "Study of the Model Joseph" (1818-1819) Romanticism Oil on canvas Located in the Getty Museum, Los Angeles, California, United States This portrait was made as a study for Théodore Géricault's most famous painting, "The Raft of the Medusa" (1819). In a clear case of ineptitude, the ship named Medusa foundered in the sea off the coast of Africa in 1816; a raft with 140 passengers drifted for thirteen days before being rescued; only fifteen people survived. In preparation for his disturbing and controversial painting of the incident, Géricault made many studies from life, like this one, to achieve a sense of realism and specificity.

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oonaluna-art · 1 month ago

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In summary: I am in graduate school and don’t have as much time for drawing/writing as I did previously.

Following some recent comments, I realized that some followers are interested in a more detailed update on the status of my creative projects. I wanted to offer an explanation to those curious, as I often like knowing what my favorite creators are working on.

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What follows is a summary of my active projects and their status; they are ordered alphabetically rather than in order of importance:

City of Medusa: A semi-modern retelling of the story of Perseus and Medusa becoming friends, emphasizing that both were victims of circumstance. -- This project is canceled. The first draft was completed, but the story felt too personal and emotional to tell, focusing heavily on themes of depression and mental illness. I would have made myself depressed while fleshing it out as a comic.

Daughters of the Sea: Focusing primarily on the protagonist, Photine, this story is of several teenage protagonists (and one villain) who find magical rings that imbue them with the power of the Greek god Poseidon. The two groups fight over personal drama, and who will unite the rings to become Poseidon’s heir. -- This project is inactive. I would like the prose series to be a trilogy, but I am stuck on the second book's ending.

Juno’s Legacy: The story of a young woman who discovers that she’s the reincarnation of an ancient, immortal warlord. She travels the universe while trying to establish her role in a series of interplanetary nations that have gone on 1,000 years after her death. This world is filled with allies and enemies who have a variety of opinions of who she was and who she should be. -- This project is semi-active. I am several drafts into the first book, but I keep putting this project on the back burner.

Maite: The story is set in the Late Greek Bronze Age, during a period of armistice in the mythological Titanomachy War. A young woman partially raised by Athena discovers that her father was an Ancient Greek Titan. After running away from her home, she sets out on a quest to discover who her father is. -- This project is semi-active. Currently, the comic is in its first draft of the script. I am not 100% sure I will pursue this project, but I will make my decision after I wrap up Our New Hope.

Our New Hope: A comic-format fanfiction of the Skywalker twins discovering their identities in their teen years (12-14) thanks to Ahsoka Tano and Darth Vader entering their lives. -- This comic is on hiatus. I had planned to finish this before leaving for graduate school, but my laptop broke, so I wasn’t able to work on it anymore. I hope to finish this project after completing my one-year program.

Resurrection OCT: An Original-Character Tournament around the theme of winning a flower that can return one individual from the dead. This is my only active project on the list. I help judge and moderate this community. If you’d like to follow the story, check out the canon reading guide I made on TVTropes.

---

As a final announcement: I am aware my art is slowing down. I’ve decided to queue up some of my old works. If you don’t want to see these “re-runs” just blacklist the tag “OonaLuna reblog.” Once I’m done my graduate school program, I will resume my old hobby. You will still see a handful of new posts, as I haven’t totally given up drawing.

#update #update post #oona lore #graduate school.

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steellegacy · 4 months ago

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Do you remember the story of Medusa the Gorgon?

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Medusa was cursed by Athena for desecrating her sacred temple, and the goddess turned her into a Gorgon. When Perseus the Greek hero came along and murdered her, he gave Medusa’s head to Athena as a tribute. Athena then took Medusa’s head and placed it on her shield, or in some versions her breastplate. Thus, Medusa’s head, slain, became the symbol of Athena’s victory.

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👉 Medusa Shield of Charles V, 1541

Steel, silver, gold

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This is one of the most dazzling pieces not only in the Royal Armory of Madrid and in the oeuvre of Filippo and Francesco Negroli, but also in the entire history of Western armor.

Form, color, and technique unite in a felicitous synthesis. The superlative gold-and-silver damascening creates an aureole around the Medusa head, which, with its rhythmically waving hair and delicately engraved wings, is modeled with rare mastery.

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Помните знаменитую историю про Медузу Горгону?

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Медуза была проклята Афиной за осквернение ее священного храма, и богиня превратила ее в Горгону (змееволосое чудовище). Когда греческий герой Персей убил Медузу, он отдал ее голову Афине в качестве дани. Затем Афина поместила голову Медузы на свой щит или, в некоторых версиях, на нагрудник. Таким образом, голова Медузы стала символом победы Афины.

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Несмотря на образ Медузы, о котором обычно говорят как о монстре, голова ее часто рассматривается как защитный амулет, способный оберегать от зла. Имя «Медуза» происходит от древнегреческого слова, означающего «защитница, повелительница».

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👉 Щит Карла V с Медузой Горгоной, 1541 год

Сталь, серебро, золото

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Это одно из самых великолепных произведений не только в Королевской оружейной палате Мадрида и в творчестве мастеров Филиппо и Франческо Негроли, но и во всей истории западного оружейного искусства. Форма, цвет и техника исполнения сочетаются в прекрасном синтезе. Богатая отделка золотом и серебром создает ореол вокруг головы Медузы, которая с ее ритмично развевающимися волосами и изящно выгравированными крыльями выполнена с редким мастерством.

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#Shield #CharlesV #MedusatheGorgon #МедузаГоргона #КарлаV #древняяГреция #мифология

#medieval #средневековье #middleages #history #история #щит #shield #charles V #Карл V #медуза Горгона #Medusa #gorgon

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middleearthpixie · 3 months ago

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The Ties That Bind ~ Chapter Two

Summary: Although Erebor is his once more, Thorin knows there is still a great threat to the peace of Middle Earth. Azog is gone, but another has taken his place and has sworn to finish what Azog began. Erebor is back, but it’s sadly lacking in protection and as much as he hates the thought of it, Thorin knows there is one thing that will guarantee the safety and continuation of his line.

War is coming and all Eirlys of Mirkwood wishes to do is fight alongside her brother Legolas and the other elves, united with Men and Dwarves in their attempt to quell the renewed tensions between them and the orc army of the north. But, her father, Thranduíl has other plans. Unite his kingdom with the newly reestablished kingdom of Erebor and use the power of both to defeat the orcs.

An arranged marriage that neither side wants, but both sides need. But what happens when the two sides realize that maybe—just maybe—being together isn't quite as bad as they'd thought...

Pairing: Thorin x ofc Eirlys of Mirkwood

Warnings: None

Rating: T

Word Count: 3k

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Previous chapters can be found here.

Snow fell, lightly at first, but it wasn't long before fat white flakes swirled past the coach’s windows. With a low sigh, Thorin settled back against the thick velvet seat cushion. “I don’t recall Mirkwood being this far. It feels as if we’ve been in this coach for weeks instead of days.”

“Patience, Thorin. We’re traveling in the snow. The last time we made this trek, winter hadn’t settled in yet.”

He bit back a sigh. His stomach was in knots unlike any he’d ever felt and he wondered, for about the fiftieth time since they’d departed Erebor, if he was making a terrible mistake.

Normally, it took roughly three days, give or take an hour, to go from Erebor to the Elvenking’s Halls. But this trek seemed to be taking so much longer, indeed. True, the weather didn't help, but it was the fact that he’d rather just be cozily ensconced beneath the Lonely Mountain than on his way to be married. Somehow, he never thought he’d dread his own wedding day.

“We should be there soon,” Dís went on, reaching out to catch the edge of the curtain. “I hope. I rather dislike traveling in this weather.”

“I told you this was not a good idea.”

She shot him a look. “Are you going to be this grouchy the entire time we’re here? Because that will make for a memorable wedding, and not in the good way.”

He leaned his head back against the soft cushion. “No, I won’t be the grouchy. I just… I have a bad feeling about this, is all.”

“Why?”

“Mirkwood has never made me comfortable,” he told her, waiting for her to sit back away from the window once more. “And it has little to do with how Thranduíl thought nothing of tossing us into his dungeon. It’s this place… it wreaks havoc on my mind.”

“Havoc?”

He nodded slowly, trying to find the best way to describe the effects of the enchanted forests of Mirkwood on him and the others the last time they passed through. “It’s rather like having too much mead, only the thoughts are far darker and far more persuasive. And I know there are enchantments in the water, but I think it’s more than that. This place… I’d rather not be here.”

“Why, Thorin,” Dís leaned forward to cover his hand with hers, “I don't think I’ve ever seen you so apprehensive of a place before. You weren’t like this when we were here for Kíli’s wedding.”

“I think it was because it was his wedding and not mine.”

She smiled. “Baby.”

Despite his dark mood, Thorin couldn't help but laugh. “I know, I know. But in all honesty, this is not my favorite place and I don't have the luxury of knowing I won’t ever have to return once we leave.”

“Perhaps Thranduíl will share Mirkwood’s secrets with you.”

“Why do I think that won’t be his wedding gift to us.”

“Probably not.”

The coach rocked around a curve and the heavy feeling dissipated some. A few minutes later and they were rolling up to the Mirkwood stables, and as he alit from the coach, Thorin glanced up. Snow filtered through the canopy of interwoven tree branches from the towering trees that made up the forest. In the distance, the soft rush of water reached his ears. Water he knew was heavily enchanted and to be avoided at all costs.

Dís tucked her arm through his as the second coach rocked in behind them and drew to a halt. Dwalin and his brother Balin climbed out, with the former groaning as he bowed his back and stretched both arms overhead. Balin, nearly a head and a half shorter than his younger brother, strolled toward them. “I thought this trek would never end.”

“Oh, did ye?” Dwalin growled as he joined them. “That’s surprising, considering ye snored almost the entire way.”

Dís rolled her eyes. “And I suppose you didn’t?”

“How could I? He could wake the dead with those snores.”

Balin waved off his brother’s complaints. “And if I’d stayed awake, you would have complained about that as well.”

“Ah, welcome, Your Majesty,” a low, smooth voice rolled up from behind and Thorin turned to see Thranduíl’s majordomo, Aimar striding down the woven wood bridge leading from the drive to the woodland palace, “I trust your travel wasn't too uncomfortable?”

Thorin shook his head. “No more than usual.”

“Good.” Aimar smiled, his gaze sliding to Dís. “Lady Dís, it’s lovely to see you again.”

“And you as well.”

“And this is the rest of your party?” Aimar gestured to Dwalin and Balin, who came up to stand with them.

“That’s it.”

Aimar smiled. “Wonderful. If you will follow me, then, I will see you settled. His Majesty is in the Throne Room, but will join you shortly in the Great Hall for supper.”

“Thank you,” Dís replied before Thorin could say anything. She tucked her arm into the crook of his elbow and they followed Aimar into the palace.

The main gate closed behind them and Aimar led them down along a narrow walkway that wound around what looked like a massive tree trunk. Woven branches and vines made up the palace walls and vaulted ceilings, and while no snow actually made it through the canopy, some sort of enchantment made it appear to be snowing, although not a single white flake reached the floor.

At the central hall, the walkway went both up and down, and Aimar led them down below the main floor. It was the same wing where they’d stayed when they were in Mirkwood for Kíli and Tauriel’s wedding, and when Aimar showed him to the same chambers, Thorin smiled at the sense of familiarity. It was a far cry from his first visit to Mirkwood, where he spent the better part of several days locked in the dank, dark dungeon far beneath his feet. If it hadn’t been for Bilbo Baggins, they might still be locked away.

He wondered how Bilbo was doing, wondered how his oak tree fared. They hadn’t exactly stayed in touch since the hobbit returned to his home in the Shire not long after the Battle of the Five Armies. A letter here and there, but that was it. They’d discussed each coming to visit the other, but nothing had come of it so far.

The chambers he’d been given were large and airy, opening out onto a wide terrace that overlooked a peaceful part of the forest, one that didn't press so heavily as other parts did. Here, he found it tranquil and serene, a good place to sit and think, as he’d done when the festivities surrounding Kíli’s wedding were over.

That same peaceful silence still hung in the room as he thumped from one side to the other and out onto the terrace. It was late afternoon, and twilight had already begun to set in. Much as he loved the cold weather, he looked forward to the spring, but they had a long way to go before the warm weather arrived.

With a sigh, he sank onto the edge of the woven wood railing, his back against one of the rough-hewn support pillars. Serenity. He needed it. Now more than ever.

“My lady?”

Eirlys looked up at her maid, Madris came into the room. “What is it?”

“King Thorin and his party have arrived. Aimar showed them to their chambers.”

“Wonderful. I suppose it’s only a matter of time, now.”

“Your Highness, may I be frank with you?”

“Will it stop you if I say no?”

“Of course not.”

Eirlys smiled. “Then, by all means, be frank.”

Madris crossed over to the heavy oak wardrobe in the far corner, the left side door squeaking as she tugged it open. “You know, you could do far worse than His Highness. If memory serves, he was handsome.”

“He was,” Eirlys replied with a slow nod. “He was very handsome, at least, from a distance. But I’m not exactly a young girl, swayed only by a beautiful face, you know.”

“Nor am I suggesting that you are,” Madris replied, her voice somewhat muffled by the wardrobe, into which she’d poked her head as she rummaged about. “But I know you’ve hesitations over this marriage.”

“I do, but whether or not he is attractive is not one of them.”

Madrid backed out of the wardrobe, her arms laden with several gowns in a spill of bright jewel tones. “Which did you wish to wear this evening?”

Eirlys chuckled over the rainbow her maid held. “I have given it no thought, really. It isn’t as if I have to impress him, is it? I mean, he and Papa must’ve come to some sort of agreement already.”

“Well, be that as it may,” Madrid spilled the jumble of silk across the large, four poster bed that dominated the room, “it wouldn’t kill you to look nice, would it?”

Eirlys joined her at the bed’s foot. “Very well. If you were choosing, which would you go with?”

Madris looked first at her, then at the gowns piled on the bed, then back to her. A finger pressed to her lips, her eyes narrowed, and finally, she said, “I would go with the peach.”

“I knew you would suggest it.”

“So why ask?”

Eirlys grinned. “I wished to see if I was right.”

“Very well and now you know, so let’s get you ready, shall well? The supper gong will be going off very soon.”

“If we must.”

Eirlys remained still as Madris hummed about her, stripping off her dusty and somewhat wrinkled dark green day dress. “Your Highness, might I ask why you are in such a disheveled state?”

“I went riding early and took a tumble from Willow’s back.”

Madris clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Alone, I suppose?”

“Is it my fault that Merith cannot keep up with me?”

“Your father would have kittens, if he knew you’d gone off without your guard.”

“But he doesn’t,” Eirlys replied, offering up a smile over her shoulder at her maid. “And he won’t, isn’t that right?”

“Your Highness, you know he only wants you to remain safe.”

“I know. And I know he fears the orc army again, but we both know orcs have not yet come this far south. And we both know that, should they, I am more than capable of defending myself.”

“That is not true, you know. About the orcs coming south, I mean.” Madris moved to stand before her, the peach silk gown draped over her forearm. “Galan said there was evidence of an orc pack just beyond the northern border.”

“What?”

Madris nodded. “Aye, so you need to be more careful when you decide to go gallivanting about.”

“First off, I do not gallivant. And second of all, I will be married before the week is out and I’ll wager as the Queen of Erebor, I’ll do nothing more than wander about beneath a dark, suffocating mountain, praying I don’t offend any dwarves.”

A deep crease appeared between Madris’ eyebrows and her expression grew stern. “I certainly hope you will not say such things when you’re in the King Under the Mountain’s presence, for I don't know if he’d tolerate such rudeness. You have no idea what will be expected of you, once you’re queen, but I daresay insulting your home and possibly your husband’s people is probably not wise.”

Heat climbed into Eirlys’ cheeks as Madris helped draw the filmy silk gown over her head. “I beg your pardon, or his pardon, or whoever’s pardon, of course, but I have no idea what it will be like to never see daylight and always be under ground. And you saw them when they were here for Tauriel’s wedding. They are dusty and loud and unlike us in every way possible.”

“And that might not be so terrible a thing.” Madris moved around to the back to do up the row of small buttons. “They are also high spirited and laugh and sing and seem to know how to enjoy life. And I daresay that a bit of laughter and high spirits would be good for you.”

Running her hands along the smooth, cool skirts, Eirlys sighed softly. “Perhaps. But, I’d be lying if I didn't say I was nervous, Madris. What if I am a disappointment to him?”

“Then he would be a fool to think so,” Madris told her firmly. “Just remember, you’re both strangers to one another, but many marriages start out with a bit of distance. It’s what you do to overcome that distance that can make or break a pairing. Give him a chance, Your Highness. You might be surprised.”

“I just… I’d rather not have to do it this way. I always thought my husband would be someone who I would have a long, romantic courtship with, and be marrying him because I was madly in love with him. I never thought I would know only his name and where he calls home.”

“You will know more about him in time, though.” Madris offered up a mischievous smile. “And think of the fun you will have in getting to know him.”

“Madris!” Eirlys laughed even as her cheeks grew warm. “You should not be saying such things.”

“Perhaps not, but you are not a child any longer. And you will enjoy coming to know him. I guarantee it.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You can say I told you and cast me out to the wolves or the wargs or whatever.”

“Wait… you’ll come with me?”

Madris’ dark eyes softened. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I didn't think you’d be allowed.”

“Well, think again.”

Eirlys moved to hug her maid. “This is a weight off my mind, Madris.”

“Good.” Madris gave her a gentle squeeze. “Now, let’s get you above so when King Thorin enters the Great Hall, you stun him into utter silence.”

Eirlys heart pounded like mad as she paused at the top of the staircase leading to the Great Hall. The dwarves were just ahead of her, as she heard them well before she saw them. Their voices, deep and growly and boisterous, rang out along the corridor, as did their booming laughter. She didn't know what amused them, but their laughter was enough to make her smile just the same. Perhaps being around them wouldn’t be so terrible after all.

“Have ye seen yer princess?” A tall dwarf, whose bald head was tattooed with an intricate pattern, asked.

“She’s not my princess.” Thorin’s voice was deeper than his companion’s. Deeper and rich, like thick black velvet, it glided over her ears and rippled along her spine.

“Not yet.”

“Let’s not speak of it now, if you don't mind. The last thing I wanted or needed was to be trapped with a spoilt, pampered girl who probably has never done a thing for herself. And yet, here we are. And I will soon be trapped with a spoilt, pampered girl who will expect everyone to wait upon her hand and foot.”

“Oh, I don't think that will be a problem at all,” she said, staring hard at the two men who stopped dead in their tracks and whipped about to face her. “For I can assure you, I am quite capable of doing for myself.”

“Princess Eirlys,” the bald one had the good grace to flush as he spoke, “I beg yer pardon of course. I dinna mean—”

“For me to hear? Of course you didn’t. I image you’d rather your gossip not be heard beyond the two of you. But perhaps next time, you’ll take greater care before disparaging a woman you’ve never even spoken to before. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me.” She brushed by them, her heart hammering her ribs as she did so, and made a beeline for her father, sitting at a table upon a dais, determined to pretend everything was just fine.

But the truth was, hearing their assessment of her stung to a certain degree. Neither man even knew her and yet…

Spoilt.

Pampered.

Wonderful.

She settled into her chair alongside her brother, Legolas who leaned toward her to whisper, “What troubles you, Eir? You look ready to spit nails.”

“Nothing. At least, nothing I can change.”

“Are you certain?”

“Quite.” She forced a smile to her lips as she watched Thorin and his man come into the Great Hall, neither one looking too happy as they did so.

They both came up onto the dais as well, but thankfully settled on the far side of Thranduíl, who sat in the center chair, of course. Neither man looked at her as they and that was just fine as far as she was concerned.

Thranduíl waited until the last stragglers filed into the Great Hall and had taken their seats, then rose to silence everyone with a simple lift of his hand. Then, he smiled. “Welcome, everyone. I’m sure you’ve taken notice of our newly arrived guests.”

A buzz of conversation rose, which made him smile even more. Eirlys’ heartbeat sped up, black dots dancing before her eyes as her father said, “And there is, of course, a good reason for that. Please welcome King Thorin II of Erebor and his sister, the Lady Dís, who have joined us for a very joyous reason. I am pleased to announce to you all, the betrothal of my daughter, the Princess Eirlys to his Royal Highness, King Thorin II. And so, I do hope you will join me in celebrating the joyousness of the occasion and to offer our soon-to-be wed couple your congratulations.”

The hall erupted in applause and cheers, and while her own spirits weren’t so high, Eirlys noticed from the corner of her eye, Thorin only looked slightly happier than she felt. He offered up a hint of a smile, and then turned toward her. As their gazes locked, for a brief moment if felt as if all of the air had been sucked from the room.

#Richard Armitage #AU #The Hobbit #Thorin Fic #Thorin Oakenshield #Is it hot in here?#Hobbit Fic #Romance #Hobbit Fanfic #Thorin x OC #Fan fiction #The Hobbit fan fiction

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