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lizzy-williams · 4 years

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𝐦𝐫. 𝐛𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐫 (𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏)

((Howdy there, this is my first time writing on here, so I hope you enjoy!))

Masterlist

Summary: You accept a job as an assistant to the now world-famous Colson Baker, who shattered the charts with his album Tickets To My Downfall, and an Oscar winner for his success in the award-winning film titled Midnight in the Switchgrass, which also starred his ex, Megan Fox. But once you are accepted for the job, you seem to get closer than anticipated with Mr. Baker.

𝑾𝑯𝑬𝑵 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑯𝑨𝑫 graduated with a bachelor’s degree in business administration, you had never expected to be getting a job like this. Sure, you had heard about your employer. He had won an Oscar for christ’s sake. Not to mention a Grammy-winning album. You had to say that personally, you were a fan, which was one of the main reasons you interviewed for the job. But never in a million years did you think you would land it.

When you were employed, you were expected to start right after you had applied, which you obliged, even though his house was a thirty-minute drive away.

So now, there you were, sitting in your car, taking deep breaths. You had arrived several minutes early. You had pulled into the driveway, breathing in and out as you prepared yourself. You were excited but scared out of your mind.

“Come on, AJ, you got this, just go in there and try to not be a nuisance,” you spoke to yourself. With a deep breath, you exited the vehicle brushing yourself up, walking up the long, intimidating stairs.

You raised your hand up, taking hold of the lion-shaped knocker and knocked three times, the echos being heard even from the outside. The door was large and almost looming over you with its height. You took the waiting time to look around at the garden out front, trimmed to perfection and colorful pink roses littering the gravel. It was nothing less than stunning.

“Who’s there?” a voice asked, making you jump, your eyes shifting around.

You then realized the voice was a Ring doorbell system, and you mentally slapped yourself for not just using that. You leaned down slightly, trying to meet the camera’s eye, giving a warm smile.

“Um, I’m Adeline Williams, I’m the new assistant for Mr. Baker, I was instructed to start today,”

“Yeah, I’ll be right down.”

The voice was deeper then what you would think Mr. Baker would sound like, having seen plenty of interviews. Suddenly the door swung open, revealing a tall African-American male. He had to be at least six feet tall.

“What’s up, I’m Slim,” He held his hand out for a handshake, which you quickly took.

“Yeah, I’m Adeline, but you can just call me AJ,” you responded, “Where is Mr. Baker?”

“Yeah, he’s still asleep. His manager made you a binder for your duties and other stuff. It’s good to meet you though, just feel free to come in and grab your stuff in the kitchen.” He stated, stepping aside and motioning for you to enter.

You walked in, taking in the entryway. The walls were littered with gold record plaques for collabs he had done with other artists. Paintings of him were scattered around, some furniture almost automatically spotted that looked more expensive than your entire apartment. The ceiling was high-up, light fixtures illuminating the space, giving off a warm feel to the area.

You slipped off your flats, Slim already slipping away into the maze of the house, leaving you to find the kitchen by yourself. Your sock-clad feet patted across the hard floor, your eyes wandering around, trying to find the kitchen in the stupidly large house.

You walked down a hallway, reaching another large room, but now the walls were covered in posters and guitars, a drum set in the corner, recording systems, speakers, and even a Monster Energy Drink sponsored mini fridge which was fully stocked, drawings and art above it, the window next to it letting a fair amount of light in, the curtains drawn. You walked over to the drum set, running your hand on one of the symbols, which had sadly had a light coat of dust on it. Come to think of it, so did most of the other instruments.

“You could play them if you want,” another voice said behind you, making you jump and whip around, your eyes instantly meeting the eyes of your employer.

He was tall, six foot four according to Google, his exposed chest littered with so many tattoos, you couldn’t possibly count them all. His bleach-blond hair was long and shaggy on top of his head, meaning he had probably just woken up, grey sweatpants covering his bottom half, the hem of his boxers peeking over the waistband of the grey material, making you blush and meet his eyes again.

“Oh, um, I’m sorry, I don’t play,” you then mentally slapped yourself once again, “Sorry, what am I saying. I’m Adeline - Um, Williams, I’m here as your new assistant.”

He looked you up and down, taking in you attire, a slight sneer appearing on his face, only for a second. You guessed by his reaction that you were over-dressed.

“You look like a kindergarten teacher.” he laughed.

“Uhm, noted, do you... want me to take off my sweater or something?” you asked.

He scoffed, biting his lip and turning away, holding back from saying something that you were guessing would piss you off.

You sighed, slipping off your sweater and messing with your hands, “Would you mind showing me to your kitchen? Your friend, Slim told me that your manager had had something in there for me,”

“Yeah, follow me,” he muttered, turning on his heel and walking away, your own small feet scuttering across the floor, following him.

And of course, the kitchen was as stunning at the rest of the house, the size, making it look like a gourmet kitchen. And there on one of the granite countertops was a .5 inch pale white binder. Colson walked over to his coffee machine, starting it up and watching you walk over, opening it up.

It listed normal duties like setting up venues for tours, making appointments with the production company, merchandise shipment, and payment, normal duties for Colson himself, (Making iced coffee, booking flights, rides for Casie, his daughter, for school, etc.), and traveling with him to the recording studio for sessions, along with renting time for the studio itself.

“So, what do ya think. The list gonna scare you off?” he asked, a sly smile on his face.

“Well, seems easy enough. It just seems like a lot of booking things.” you smiled, “But it shouldn’t be a problem at all, Mr. Baker.”

He grimaced, “Yikes, just call me Colson. You make me sound like an old man. And if I’m going to be seeing you every day, we kinda need to be on a first-name basis.” he said, opening one of the hundreds of cabinets on the wall, pulling out a mug, “What’s your name again?”

“Adeline. But you can just call me AJ.” you looked back down at the papers, turning to a page to all the numbers needed for your position.

“What’s the J?”

“Huh?” you asked, not looking away from the page.

“Well, in AJ I already know what the A is, so what’s the J?” He smirked, pouring the coffee grounds into the coffee maker, pressing start.

“Oh, um, Jane.” you shrugged off.

“Adeline Jane Williams,” he repeated to himself out loud.

Your heart unintentionally fluttered. Never in a million years did you think that Colson Baker, Machine Gun Kelly, would ever say your full name.

The day went by smoothly, your brain soon catching onto the rhythm of things, you and Colson making small talk as you typed away, sending emails to the publishing companies, his agent, manager, and PR team. Colson would occasionally text you to make him a drink, which you did, always getting right back to work afterward. People came in and out, paying you no mind. The only one you honestly recognized was Rook, his drummer, who only came in to grab a beer from the fridge. Soon enough, the time reached 5 o’clock.

“So, what do you wanna eat?” he suddenly asked, walking into the kitchen area, leaning over the counter you were working at.

The sound of the TV played as you heard the laughter of a group of people in the other room.

“Oh, I honestly have no preference,” you answered honestly, looking up from your Chromebook.

“You sure? Me and the guys were gonna Postmate some stuff, but they can’t decide either.”

“Ummm, I heard there’s a really good restaurant downtown called Beau Jo's. Hear they have a mean menu of Cajun food.” you perked up,

“Alright, Beau Jo’s it is.” He responded, picking up his phone and walking away.

Even though you two had small talk, you still felt like he was so cold to you. Like he didn’t like you, or he didn’t trust you. But you really needed this job. After you finished with your work, you walked out of the kitchen and into the living room.

There, you were greeted with glancing eyes of 20 or more people, who were scattered throughout the space.

A man walked up to you, looking eccentric as ever. You only knew him because you knew he dated Bella Thorne, but you would never tell him that.

“Heyyyy, you must be the new assistant. Welcome to the best years of your life!” he greeted, slinging an arm around your shoulders, a cola in his other hand. The smell of expensive cologne.

“Modern Sunshine, I presume?” I asked in a snobby British accent, making him laugh.

“Yo Kells! I like this chick!” he called out to Colson, who was across the room talking to some blond broad in short shorts and a crop top.

“Why don’t you come meet the rest of the guys.”

Well, you knew it was coming. It was the end of the night and everyone had gone home, and it was your job to order Ubers for everyone who wasn’t fit to drive. (Which was close to half the people there).

You gathered up your things, sighing as you grabbed your kindergarten teacher sweater, packing it in your bag along with your computer and everything else. Finally, you tucked the binder into the back pocket.

“You heading out?” Colson asked from behind you, his hand on your shoulder.

Your arms formed goosebumps as you looked back smiling, “Yeah, I think it’s that time.”

“Cool. Well, have a good night.” he said while you slipped on your flats, “Oh, and one more thing before you go.”

You turned your head to look into his eyes.

“Tomorrow wear something more... spicy,”

#machine gun kelly #mgk #mgk smut #mgk imagine #tickets to my downfall #hotel diablo #megan fox #rookxx #slimxx #colson #colson baker #mgk x reader #colson baker x reader #love #romance #imagine #fanfiction #alpha omega #lace up

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dustedmagazine · 3 years

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Dust, Volume 7, Number 7

What are Grandbrothers doing to that piano?

Greetings from under the heat dome, where shipments of vinyl are melting mid-journey and even the coolest of cool jazz sounds a little wilted by the time it reaches your ear. We are sitting in the shade. We are drinking lemonade and iced tea. We are looking for the window fans and lugging old air condition units up from the basement. We are, perhaps, headed to the community pool for the first time since our kids were young, though also, perhaps not. In any case, we are still getting through piles of recorded music, even in this heat, and finding some gems. Here are dispatches from the furthest reaches of Japanese psych, European free jazz, self-released indie folk, Irish lockdown angst, Moroccan raging punk and lots of other stuff. Contributors included Mason Jones, Jennifer Kelly, Bill Meyer, Tim Clarke, Bryon Hayes, Jonathan Shaw, Arthur Krumins and Chris Liberato. Stay cool.

Yuko Araki — End of Trilogy (Room40)

End Of Trilogy by Yuko Araki

These 16 tracks whoosh past in just 35 minutes, with most of them clocking in around two minutes in length. Many don't reach a conclusion: they simply end abruptly, and the next one starts. Araki manipulates electronics to create whirling, sizzling atmospheres of confusion, sometimes fast-moving burbles of percussion and synths, at other moments pushing distorted hissing and confrontational tones to the front. The aptly-named "Dazed" begins with a cinematic feel, then its galactic drones give way to static and metallic scrapes. "Positron in Bloom" is like a chorus of machine voices shouting angry curses into space, and "Dreaming Insects" sounds as if the titular creatures are being pulled downstream in fast-moving rapids. Oscillating between menacing and humorous, End of Trilogy's bite-sized pieces of surrealist electronics are never boring.

Mason Jones

Alexander Biggs — Hit or Miss (Native Tongue Music Publishing)

Hit or Miss by Alexander Biggs

Alexander Biggs blunts sharp, stinging lyrics in the sweetest sort of strummy indie-pop, working very much in the Elliott Smith style of sincerity edged with lacerating irony. “All I Can Do Is Hate You” finds a queasy intersection between soft pop and tamped down rage, Biggs murmuring phrases like “I want you to fuck me til I can’t say your name,” but melodically, over cascades of acoustic guitar. “Madeline” is the pick of the litter here, a dawdling jangle of guitar framing knife-sharp lyrics about romantic disillusionment. “Miserable,” sports a bit of lap steel for emotional resonance, demonstrating once more, if you had any doubt, that very sad songs can make you feel better somehow. Biggs is good at both the softness and the sting, and for guy-with-a-guitar albums, that’s what you need.

Jennifer Kelly

Christer Bothén 3 — Omen (Bocian)

Omen by Christer Bothén 3

Dusted’s collective consciousness has spent a lot of time considering Blank Forms’ recent publication, Organic Music Societies, which considers Don and Moki Cherry’s convergence of artistic and familial efforts during the 1960s and 1970s, as well as the two archival recordings by Don and associates, which shed light upon his Scandinavian musical activities. All three are worth your attention, but their liveliness is shaded by the awareness that almost every hopeful soul involved is no longer with us. But Christer Bothén, who introduced Don to the donso ngoni and subsequently played in his bands for many years, is not only among the living, he’s got breath to spare. This trio recording doesn’t delve into the African sounds that bonded Bothén and Don. Rather, the Swede’s bass clarinet draws bold and emphatically punctuated melodic lines, driven by a steaming rhythm section that takes its cues from Ornette Coleman’s mid-1960s trio recordings. This music may not sound new, but it’s full of lived-in knowledge and vigor.

Bill Meyer

Briars of North America — Supermoon (Brassland)

Supermoon by Briars of North America

New York-based trio Briars of North America take patient, painterly, occasionally cosmic approach to folk music. With “Sala,” Supermoon sounds like a backwoods Sigur Ros. A falsetto voice intoning a made-up language arcs elegantly over sustained waves of electric piano. Soon after, the album touches down into more grounded guitar-and-cello territory on pieces such as “Island” and “Chirping Birds,” which bring to mind Nick Drake, albeit less contrary or withdrawn. At the album’s midway point, the listener is carried into the aether with the eerie sustained brass and wordless vocals of the eight-minute “The Albatross of Infinite Regress.” A similar space is explored at the album’s end with the 12-minute “Sleepy Not Sleepy,” as strings and warbling synthesizer tones intermingle with the return of the made-up language. Though the band’s more conventional vocal-led songs, such as “Spring Moon,” are decent enough, Briars of North America touch upon something expansive and ineffable when they explore their more experimental side.

Tim Clarke

Bryan Away — Canyons to Sawdust (self-released)

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Chicago-based actor, composer and multi-instrumentalist Elliot Korte releases music under the moniker Bryan Away. His new album, Canyons to Sawdust, begins with what feels like two introductions. “Well Alright Then” is a Grizzly Bear-style scene-setter for wordless voices, strings and woodwinds, while “Within Reach” sounds like a tentative cover of Radiohead’s “Pyramid Song” that runs out of steam before it had the chance to build momentum. The first full song, single “The Lake,” gets the album up and running in earnest with its melancholy piano and string arrangement spiked with pizzicato plucks and bright acoustic guitar figures. Half Waif lends her vocal talents to “Dreams and Circumstance,” another highlight featuring some lovely interplay between guitar arpeggios and drum machine. One pitfall of exploring romantic musical territory is the risk of sounding a tad saccharine, and the weakest links in the album, companion tracks “Scenes From a Marriage” and “Scenes From a Wedding,” have the kind of performative tone you’d expect to find on the soundtrack of a mainstream romantic comedy. Elsewhere, though, Korte’s judgment is sound, and there’s plenty of elegant music to be found. Fans of Sufjan Stevens will no doubt find a lot to like, and it’ll be interesting to see where Bryan Away ventures next.

Tim Clarke

Jonas Cambien Trio — Nature Hath Painted Painted The Body (Clean Feed)

Nature Hath Painted the Body by Jonas Cambien Trio

On its third album, the Jonas Cambien Trio has attained such confidence that it’s willing to mess with its signature sound. The Oslo-based combo’s fundamental approach is to stuff the expressive energy and textural adventure of free jazz into compositions that are by turns intricate and rhythmically insistent but always pithy. This time, the Belgian-born pianist Cambien also plays soprano sax and organ. The former, stirred into André Roligheten’s bundle of reed instruments, brings airy respite from the music’s tight structures; the latter, dubbed into locked formation with the piano and jostled by Andreas Wildhagen’s restlessly perambulating percussion, expands the music’s tonal colors. The tunes themselves have grown more catchy, so much so that their twists and turns only become apparent with time and repeat listening.

Bill Meyer

Ferran Fages / Lluïsa Espigolé — From Grey To Blue (Inexhaustible Editions)

From Grey To Blue by Ferran Fages

When discussion turns to a pianist’s touch, it’s tempting to think mainly of what they do with their fingers. But it must be said that Lluïsa Espigolé exhibits some next-level footwork on this realization of Ferran Fages’ From Grey To Blue. Fages is a multi-instrumentalist who functions equally persuasively within the realms of electroacoustic improvisation and heavy jazz-rock, but for this piece, which was devised specifically for Espigolé, he uses written music and an instrument he doesn’t play, the piano, to engage with resonance and melody. The three-part composition advances with extreme deliberation, often one note at a time, turning the tune into a ghostly presence and foregrounding the details of the decay of each sound. This music is so sparse that the shift to chords in the third section feels dramatically dense after a half hour of single sounds and corresponding silences. The elements of this music have been sculpted with such exquisite control that one wonders if Catalonia has looked into insuring Espigolé’s feet; her way with the piano’s pedals is a cultural resource.

Bill Meyer

Grandbrothers — All the Unknown (City Slang)

All the Unknown by Grandbrothers

The duo known as Grandbrothers hooks a grand piano up to an array of electronic interfaces, deriving not just the clear, gorgeous notes you expect, but also a variety of percussive and sustained sounds from the classic keyboard. In this third album from the two—that’s pianist Erol Sarp and electronic engineer Lukas Vogel—construct intricate, joyful collages, working clarion melodies into sharp, pointillist backgrounds. The obvious reference is Hauscka, who also works with prepared piano and electronics, but rather than his moody beauties, these compositions pulse with rave-y, trance-y exhilaration. If you ever wondered what it would sound like if the Fuck Buttons decided to cover Steve Reich, well, maybe like this, precise and complex and shimmering, but also huge and triumphant. Good stuff.

Jennifer Kelly

id m theft able — Well I Fell in Love with the Eye at the Bottom of the Well (Pogus Productions)

Well I Fell in Love With the Eye at the Bottom of the Well by id m theft able

Al Margolis’ Pogus Productions imprint has cast its gaze toward the strange happenings in Maine, netting a mutant form of electroacoustic wizardry in the process. Scott Spear is the one-man maelstrom known as id m theft able, an incredibly prolific and confounding presence in the American northeast. He draws influence from musique concrète and sound poetry, but adds a whimsical spirit, a tinker’s ingenuity and the comedic timing of a master prankster to his compositions. Sometimes this leads to the bemusement of his audience, but he tempers any surface madness with an endless curiosity and a playful sense of the meaning of the word music. Well I Fell in Love with the Eye at the Bottom of the Well ostensibly came to be via Spear’s desire to create a doo-wop tune. Only Spear himself knows whether this is fact or fiction, because it is clear from the opening moments of “Shun, Unshun and Shun” that this disc is full of sonic non-sequiturs, amplified clatter and delightful mouth happenings that are as far removed from doo-wop as possible. The madness is frequently tempered with beautiful moments: a broken music box serenades a flock of chirping birds in the middle of a mall, Spear hypnotically chants at a landscape of crickets, flutes pipe along to the patter of rain on a window. As one gets deeper into the record, the sound poetry aspects become more and more pronounced, such as on “The Curve of the Earth” and the closing piece, “Purple Rain.” Those seeking a humor-filled gateway drug into that somewhat perilous corner of the sonic spectrum would be wise to pop an ear in the direction of this frenetic assemblage of sound.

Bryon Hayes

Mia Joy — Spirit Tamer (Fire Talk)

Spirit Tamer by Mia Joy

Mia Joy turns the temperature way down on gauzy Spirit Tamer, constructing translucent castles in the air out of musical elements that you can see and hear right through. The artist, known in real life as Mia Rocha, opens with a brief statement of intent in a one-minute title track that wraps wisps of vocal melody with indistinct but lovely sustained tones. The whole track feels like looking at clouds. Other cuts are more substantial, with muted rock band instruments like acoustic and electric guitars and drum machines, but even indie-leaning “Freak” and "Ye Old Man,” are quiet epiphanies. Rocha sounds like she is singing to herself softly, inwardly, without any thought of an audience, but also so close that it tickles the hair in your ears. Rocha closes with a cover of Arthur Russell’s “Our Last Night Together,” letting rich swells of piano stand in for cello, but tracing the subtle, undulating lines of his melody in an airy register, an octave or two higher. Like Russell, Rocha sets up an interesting interplay between deep introversion and presentation for the public eye; she’s not doing it for us, but we’re listening anyway.

Jennifer Kelly

Know//Suffer — The Great Dying (Silent Pendulum Records)

The Great Dying by KNOW//SUFFER

It’s not inaccurate to describe The Great Dying as a hardcore record. You’ll hear all the burly breakdowns; buzzing, overdriven guitars; and grimly declaimed vocals that characterize the genre, which since the mid-1990s has moved ever closer to metal. But Know//Suffer have consistently infused their music with sonic elements associated with other genres of heavy music. Most of the El Paso band’s 2019 EP bashed and crashed along with grindcore’s psychotic, sprinting energy. The Great Dying is a longer record, and it slows down the proceedings considerably. There are flirtations with sludge, and even with noise rock’s ambivalent gestures toward melody: imagine Tad throwing down with a mostly-sober version of Eyehategod, and you’re more than halfway there. As ever, Toast Williams emotes forcefully, giving word to a very contemporary version existential dread. But there’s frequently a political edge to the lyrics on this new record. On “Thumbnail,” he sings, “I swallow what must be hidden / Hoping assimilation makes me whole / The whole that everyone thinks I am / Smiling under this mask knowing / I’m not hiding my face in public.” “Assimilation” is a loaded word, especially on the Southern Border, and it’s no joke walking around in public as a proud black man anywhere in Texas. Wearing a mask as you walk into Target? P.O.C. stand a chance of getting shot. Know//Suffer still sound really pissed off, but the objects of their anger seem increasing outside of their tortured psyches, located in the lifeworld’s social planes of struggle. That gives their grim music an even harder charge, and makes Williams’s performances of rage even more powerful.

Jonathan Shaw

Heimito Künst — Heimito Künst (Dissipatio)

HEIMITO KÜNST by Heimito Künst

The debut album from Italian experimental instrumentalist Heimito Künst, recorded over several years in his home studio, uses an array of electronic and primitive instrumentation to create an overall woozy, dark atmosphere. From groaning, atonal slabs of organ, like a detuned church service, to murmuring field recordings and scrapings, these seven tracks are less like songs and more like unsettling journeys through sound. Pieces like "Talking to Ulises" blend quiet Farfisa tones and a wordlessly singing voice in the distance. Ironically, although the final track is titled "Smoldering Life", it's unexpectedly brighter, with major-key synth notes over the cloudy sound of a drum being bashed to pieces before ending with an almost gentle, summertime feel.

Mason Jones

Jeanne Lee — Conspiracy (moved-by-sound)

Conspiracy by JEANNE LEE

Lots of 1960s and 1970s jazz reissues offer beautiful music, but few redefine how liberating improvised music can be. Conspiracy, originally recorded in 1974 by Lee on vocals with an ensemble that includes Sam Rivers and Gunter Hampel, falls into the latter category without feeling forced. It combines sound poetry, the conversation of spontaneity, and grooves that don’t stay on repetition but still get ingrained into your brain somehow. Best digested in a contemplative sitting, the album demands you give your whole attention to the direction of the music and words mixed with extended vocal techniques. The sound shifts from a full-on medley of flutes, drums, bass and horns with voice, to more minimal experiments. The recording is clean and uncluttered, even at its busiest. A lushly enjoyable listen.

Arthur Krumins

Sarah Neufeld — Detritus (Paper Bag)

Detritus by Sarah Neufeld

Sarah Neufeld’s third solo album grew out of a collaboration with the Toronto choreographer Peggy Baker, begun before the pandemic but dealing anyway with loss, intimacy and grief. The violinist and composer works, as a consequence with a strong sense of movement, underlining rhythms with repeated, slashing motifs in her own instrument and pounding drums (that’s Jeremy Gara, who, like Neufeld, plays in Arcade Fire). You can imagine movement to nearly all these songs. “With Love and Blindness” rushes forward in a wild swirl of strings, given weight by the buzz of low-toned synthesizer and airiness in the layer of denatured vocals; you see whirling, bending, graceful gestures. “The Top” proceeds in quicker, more playful patterns; agile kicks and jumps and shimmies are implied in its contours. “Tumble Down the Undecided” has a raw, passionate undertow, its play of octave-separated notes frantic and agitated and the drumming, when it comes, fairly gallops. This latter track is perhaps the most enveloping, the notes caroming wildly in all directions, in the thick of the struggle but full of joy.

Jennifer Kelly

Aaron Novik — Grounded (Astral Editions)

Grounded by Aaron Novik

Aaron Novik is a clarinetist with an extensive background in jazz, klezmer, rock and in-between stuff, but you wouldn’t know any of that from listening to this tape. Its ten numbered instrumentals sound more derived from the sound worlds of 1970s PBS documentaries, Residents records of similar vintage, and Pop Corn’s fluke hit, “Pop Corn.” Recorded during the spring of 2020, when Novik’s new neighborhood, Queens, became NYC’s COVID central, it manifests coping strategy that many people learned well last year; when the outside world is fucked and scary, retreat to a room and then head down a rabbit hole. In this case, that meant sampling Novik’s clarinets and arranging them into perky, bobbing instrumentals. The sounds themselves aren’t processed, but it turns out that when recontextualized, long, blown tones and keypad clatter sound a lot like synths and mechanized beats. There’s a hint of subconscious longing in this music. While it was made in a time and place when many people didn’t leave the house, it sounds like just the thing for outdoor constitutionals with a Walkman.

Bill Meyer

Off Peak Arson — S-T (Self-released)

Self Titled by Off Peak Arson

Presumably named after the Truman's Water song — a fairly obscure name check, indeed — Off Peak Arson hail from Memphis, TN. Their debut EP's five songs are less reminiscent of their namesakes than of heavier, noisier bands like Zedek-era Live Skull, Dustdevils and Sonic Youth. Which is not a bad thing at all. The four-piece leverage the dual guitars to nicely intense effect, and with all four members contributing vocals there's a lot going on, at times blending an interesting sing-song pop feel with the twisty-noisy guitar. The band have a way of finding memorable hooks amidst sufficient cacophony to keep things challenging while also somehow catchy. Keep your ears open for more from this quartet.

Mason Jones

Barre Phillips / John Butcher / Ståle Liavik Solberg — We Met – And Then (Relative Pitch)

We met - and then by Phillips, Butcher, Solberg

In 2018, ECM Records issued End To End, a CD by double bassist Barre Phillips which capped a half-century of solo recording. You might expect this act to signal the winding down of the California-born, France-based improviser’s career; after all, he was born in 1934. And yet, in 2018 he played the first, but not the last, concert by this remarkable trio, which is completed by British soprano/tenor saxophonist John Butcher and Norwegian percussionist Ståle Liavik Solberg. Recorded in Germany and Norway during 2018 and 2019, this CD presents an ensemble whose members are strong in their individual concepts, but are also committed to making music that is completed by acts of collective imagination. The music is in constant flux, but purposeful. This intentionality is expressed not only through action, but through the conscious yielding of space, as though each player knows what openings will be best occupied by one of their comrades.

Bill Meyer

Round Eye — Culture Shock Treatment (Paper +Plastick)

“Culture Shock Treatment,” the lead-off track from this unhinged and ecletic album, swings like 1950s rock and roll, a sax frolicking in the spaces between sing-along choruses. And yet, the gleeful skronk goes a little past freewheeling, spinning off into chaos and wheeling back in again. Picture Mark Sultan trying to ride out the existential disorder of early Pere Ubu, add a horn line and step way back, because this is extremely unruly stuff. Round Eye, a band of expatriates now living in Shanghai, slings American heartlands oddball post-punk into unlikely corners. Frantic jackhammer hardcore beats (think Black Flag) assault free-from experimental calls and responses (maybe Curlew?) in “5000 Miles, “ and as a kicker, it’s a commentary on ethno-nationalist repression (“Thank…the country. Thank…the culture”). “I Am the Foreigner” hums and buzzes with exuberance, like a hard-edged B-52s, but it’s about the alienation that these Westerners most likely experience, every day in the Middle Kingdom. This is one busy album, exhausting really, a whac-a-mole entertainment where things keep popping out of holes and getting hammered back, but it is never, ever dull.

Jennifer Kelly

So Cow — Bisignis (Dandy Boy)

Bisignis by So Cow

This new So Cow record is a mood. Specifically, that mood during the third and “least fun” of Ireland’s lockdowns, when you head to your shed and bash out an album about everything that’s been lodged in your craw during a year of isolation — including, of all things, the crowd at a Martha Wainwright show (on “Requests”). And while sole Cow member Brian Kelly might have dubbed the record Bisignis, the Old English word for anxiety, it’s his discontent that takes center stage. “Talking politics with friends/Jesus Christ it never ends” Kelly sings on early highlight “Leave Group” before employing a guitar solo that could pass for some seriously fried bagpipes to help clear the room. This album takes the opposite approach of The Long Con, the project’s 2014 Goner Records one-off where So Cow made more complex moves towards XTC and Futureheads territory but obscured its greatest weapon: Kelly’s deadpan wit. And while a couple of these songs overstay their welcome with their sheer garage punk simplicity, others like “Somewhere Fast” work in the opposite way and win your ears over with repeat listens. “You are the reason I’m getting out of my own way,” Kelly sings, and in doing so has produced the project’s best full-length in a decade. So what? So Cow!

Chris Liberato

Taqbir — Victory Belongs to Those Who Fight for a Right Cause (La Vida Es Un Mus)

Victory Belongs To Those Who Fight For A Right Cause by Taqbir

In our super-saturated musical environment, another eight-minute, 7” record of scorching punk burners isn’t much of an event. But the appearance of Taqbir’s Victory Belongs to Those Who Fight for a Right Cause (the title is almost longer than the record itself) is at the very least a significant occurrence. The band comes from Morocco and features a woman out front, declaiming any number of contemporary socio-political ills. So there’s little wonder that the Internet isn’t bursting with info about Taqbir; you can find a Maximumrocknroll interview, some chatter about the record here and there, and not much else. It must take enormous courage to make music like this in Morocco, and even more to be a woman making music like this. The long reign of King Mohammed IV has edged the country toward marginal increments of cultural openness — if not thoroughgoing political reform — but conservative Islam and economic struggle are still dominant forces, combining to keep women relegated to submissive social roles. And the band is not fucking around: their name is a Moroccan battle cry, synonymous with “Alu Akbar!” Their repurposing of that slogan in support of their anti-traditionalist, anti-religious, anti-capitalist positions likely makes life in a place like Tangier or Casablanca pretty hard. The songs? They’re really good. Check out “Aisha Qandisha” (named for a folkloric phantasm that ambiguously mobilizes the feminine as murderous and rapacious monster): the music slashes and burns with just the right dash of melody, the vocals go from a simmer to a full-on rolling boil. Taqbir! y’all. Stay safe, stay strong and make some more records.

Jonathan Shaw

TOMÁ — Atom (Self-Release)

Atom by TOMÁ

Tomá Ivanov operates in interstices between smooth jazz and soul-infused electronics, splicing bits of torchy world traditions in through the addition of singers. You could certainly draw connections to the funk-leaning IDM of artists like Flying Lotus and Dam-Funk, where pristine instrumental sounds—strings, piano, percussion—meet the pop and glitch of cyber-soul. Guest artists flavor about half the tracks, pushing the music slightly off its center towards rap (“A Different You featuring I Am Tim”), quiet storm soul (“Outsight featuring Vivian Toebich”), falsetto’d art pop (“Catharsis featuring Lou Asril”) or dreaming soul-jazz experiments (“Blind War featuring Ben LaMar Gay”). Thoughout, the Bulgarian composer and guitarist paces expansive ambiences with shuffling, staggering beats, roughing up slick surfaces with just enough friction to keep things interesting.

Jennifer Kelly

The Tubs — Names EP (Trouble In Mind)

Names EP by The Tubs

“I don’t know how it works” declared The Tubs on their debut single, but they’re diving right in anyways on its follow-up, Names, with four songs that explore the self and self-other relationship. Their cover of Felt’s “Crystal Ball” tightens the musical tension of the original in places but still allows enough slack for singer Owen Williams to stretch the lyrical refrain — about the ability of another to see us better than we see ourselves — into a more melancholy shape than Lawrence. Of the EP’s three originals, Felt’s influence is most obvious in George Nicholls’ guitar work on “Illusion,” especially when the change comes and his lead spirals off Deebank-style behind Williams while he questions his connection to his own reflection. “Is it just an illusion staring back at me?” “The Name Song” is the longest one here at over three minutes, and in a similar way to The Feelies, it feels like it could go on forever, which might prove useful if Williams adds more names to his don’t-care-about list. “Two Person Love” is the best track of the bunch, though, with its classic sounding riff that swoops in and out allowing room for the chiming and chugging rhythm section to do the hard work. The relationship in the song might have been “pissed up the wall,” as Williams in his Richard Thompson-esque drawl puts it, but The Tubs certainly seem to have figured out how this music thing works.

Chris Liberato

Venus Furs — S-T (Silk Screaming)

Venus Furs by Venus Furs

Venus Furs sounds like band, but in fact, it’s one guy, Paul Krasner, somehow amassing the squalling roar of psychedelic guitar rock a la Brian Jonestown Massacre or Royal Baths all by himself. These songs have a large-scale swagger and layers and layers of effected guitars, as on the careening “Friendly Fire,” or hailstorm assault of “Paranoia.” A ponderous, swaying bass riff girds “Living in Constant.” Its nodding repetition grounds radiating sprays of surf guitar. You have to wonder how all this would play out in concert, with Krasner running from front mic to bass amp to drum kit as the songs unfold, but on record it sounds pretty good. Long live self-sufficiency.

Jennifer Kelly

Witch Vomit — Abhorrent Rapture (20 Buck Spin)

Abhorrent Rapture by Witch Vomit

Witch Vomit has one of the best names in contemporary death metal (along with Casket Huffer, Wharflurch and Snorlax — perversely inspired handles, all), and the Portland-based band has been earning increasing accolades for its records, as well. They are deserved. Witch Vomit plays fast, dense and dissonant songs, bearing the impress of Incantation’s groundbreaking (gravedigging?) records. Does that mean it’s “old school”? Song titles from the band’s previous LP Buried Deep in a Bottomless Grave (2019) certainly played to traditionalists’ tastes: “From Rotten Guts,” “Dripping Tombs,” “Fumes of Dying Bodies.” And so on. This new EP doesn’t indicate any significant changes in trajectory or tone, but the songwriting makes the occasional move toward melody. See especially the second half of “Necrometamorphosis,” which has a riff or two that one could almost call “pleasant.” If that seems paradoxical, check out the EP’s title. Is that an event, a gruesome skewing of Christianity’s big prize for the faithful? Or is it an affective state, in which abject disgust somehow builds to ecstatic transport? Who knows. For the band’s part, Witch Vomit keeps chugging, thumping and squelching along, doling out doleful songs like “Purulent Burial Mound.” Yuck. Sounds about right, dudes.

Jonathan Shaw

yes/and — s-t (Driftless Recordings)

yes/and by yes/and

This collaboration between guitarist Meg Duffy (Hand Habits) and producer Joel Ford (Oneohtrix Point Never) is an elusive collection of shape-shifting instrumentals. Each piece is built around Duffy’s guitar, yet the timbre and mood tends to switch dramatically between tracks. The album’s run-time is fairly evenly split between dark, atmospheric pieces, such as “More Than Love” and “Making A Monument,” and hopeful, glimmering miniatures, such as “Centered Shell” and the wonderfully titled “In My Heaven All Faucets Are Fountains.” “Learning About Who You Are” looms large at the album’s heart, as nearly eight minutes of hazy, wind-tunnel drone pulses and reverberates across the stereo space. Despite the variation in tone, each track stakes out its own territory in the tracklist, and it’s only “Tumble” that comes across as an unrealized idea. While it’s only half an hour, yes/and feels longer, its circuitous routes opening up all kinds of possibilities.

Tim Clarke

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mirkwoodshewolf · 4 years

Text

Guardian of creatures; AU!Queen x oc female x reader Chap. 2

*Author’s note*

Here we are guys, the second chapter of my latest Hallowqueen series. Now this one is longer than the first part so buckle up. I wanna start off by saying I'm NOT an expert dancer, especially jazz dancing so I hope you all who are dancers either by interest or profession forgive me for my improper naming of certain dance moves, I REALLY tried my best to research the types of jazz moves, if I get something wrong PLEASE TELL ME.

Also warnings for this cause the second half gets pretty graphic for blood, real life fae myths, violence, descriptive death scene.

Taglist:

@plethora-of-things

@waddles03

@psychosupernatural

@ixchel-9275

@simonedk

@queensdivas

@jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels

@dancingcoolcat

@queen-paladin

@queendeakyy

@geek-and-proud

@klausidiot

@kinole009x

_______________________________________________________________

Chapter 2,

The rescue

Friday. The day that everyone looks forward to when work can finally take a rest and people can enjoy a good weekend off with family and friends. Friday nights especially seem to be the most busiest nights for any big or small businesses. And as usual your boss insisted that you go back to the BEWITCHED club because you still ‘haven’t delivered the goods’ according to him.

Even after explaining to him that you didn’t want to seem suspicious to the owners or any of the employees, he didn’t care. He just wanted the dirt on the club and he needed it by Monday or else you were fired. Not wanting to disappoint him, you agreed and this time you made sure to hide your camera in your bag but hide it within some other stuff like tissues, gum, handwipes, etc.

Once again as night fell, the club was already starting to pile up, if not even be bigger than it was when you went on Tuesday. You even noticed how more people were dressed up in dancing clothes than the usual club-like clothes.

Security lets you in like he did before and you hear the band playing nothing but loud jazz music. You also see that the dance floor is more lively than it was the last time you came. Almost a hundred couples were cuttin up a rug on the dance floor, flying and leaping, tapping their feet onto the hardwood floor or lifting their partners in the air.

“So you came back.” A soft voice said behind you. When you turned to your right there stood the blonde Siren singer. His blue eyes staring straight into your soul as he teased you again, “Couldn’t get enough of us the first time?”

“I—I was just……” he softly chuckled and said.

“No worries love. I’m sure Serafina told you that I don’t bite that hard. Unless you want me to.” He cheekily gave you a wink and a smirk as he took a drag of his cigarette. You felt your face heat up as he turned and blew out the smoke from his lips.

“Why aren’t you up on stage performing?” you asked him.

“Sadly love tonight is not my night. Friday nights are reserved for the Dance competition. Though honestly I don’t know why we hold one, John and Serafina win every time. No matter who’s the best.” He said as he took a sip of a drink he now stole off one of the waiters who passed by with a tray of champagne.

“A dance competition?”

“Oh yeah. John especially loves to show off his skills on the dance floor. And when he dances with her…..” he let out a low whistle. “Maybe that’s why she hasn’t fallen for me. Prefers a dancer to a singer.”

“Do you really like Serafina? Like in a romantic sort of way?” you ask him, remembering back to how he looked at the female owner of the club compared to the other women he seduced with his song the first time you came.

Before he could answer, the music stopped and everyone started applauding as Brian now came up onto the stage.

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen. First we’d like to give thanks to the McKinney’s Cotton Pickers band for traveling here from Detroit to be a part of our contest tonight.” You and the crowd applauded as the spotlight came onto a band that sat in the back of the stage. 11 men stood up and waved to the crowd before sitting back down in their seats. “Now the theme for this week’s competition is Jazz. Whether street Jazz dance or how it’s done with the twist of Broadway, Jazz is the game tonight. Anything outside of it shown in your routine is terminated. Good luck and may the best partners win. First up we have Flora and Sir Tom.”

The crowd applauded and soon a dainty young woman with a child-like face and short bobby blonde hair along with a man who had a fairly good looking appearance of brown hair and blue eyes came on the dance floor first and took their positions. The band soon began to play their first song and they began their routine.

You’ll admit they were pretty good keeping in time with the rhythm of the music and they lit up the stage, for the first act of course.

“C’mon, let me buy you a drink. This will take a while.” The Blonde Siren tells you as he touches your arm.

“Why do you say that?” you say.

“No offense to them, but Flora is a full on diva. She tries to make her routines last about as long as the night stands.” You both walk over to the bar and sit down as he continues, “Just last month she tried to make their tango routine last about 30 minutes.”

30 minutes!? Damn how anyone could dance that long without falling flat on their face was beyond you.

“Oi Maz! Two cocktails over here!” the singer called out.

“And how would you like it sir? Snorted up your nose drip by drip or poured straight up your ass!?” a brown skinned female with long flowing hair sneered at the singer. He smirked at her and said.

“Ahh Maz you never change.” She glared at the singer before turning to make the cocktails.

“Well that was rude. You should tell Serafina that she spoke to you like that.”

“Ahh Maz is like that with everyone.” He brushed it off nonchalantly.

“Then why does she work here?”

“Let’s just say she owes us one.” He said as our drinks finally came. “Thank you lovie.” He sung out to Maz.

“Screw you!”

“Here? Now? Just kidding, I know you’re still sore from last night.” He teased her as he picked up his cocktail and took a sip of it. She stomped away and went back to work.

“That was uhh—pardon me for saying this but—inappropriate. On what you just said to her.”

“Oh believe me that’s about as nice as we get with each other. You never wanna see Maz and I really go at it. Hell even I don’t like it when we go at each other. John and Serafina never forgave us for that.” You both hear the crowd cheer and you saw that Tom and Flora had finished their routine.

“Wow, that’s a record. Guess John and Serafina told her to keep it short.” The Siren said as he took another drag of his cigarette.

More people danced their routines and they were all pretty good. You’ve always secretly admired a good dancer and you wished you could move half as good as any professional dancer, but sadly you couldn’t. You’ve always described your dancing as having ‘2 left feet’.

Brian came up to the stage after the last couple came up to dance and he said into the microphone.

“And now, to end our competition we have John and Serafina Deacon. And singing a song that they composed for their routine, we have rising Jazz singer Aerin.” Aerin? You had never heard of a name like that before, was he from Europe or something? Cause that was clearly not an American name.

As the crowd applauded, a young and attractive African American man came up (god you were beginning to wonder just how all these people were inhumanly beautiful!) he wore a beautiful three piece grey suit as well as sported a matching fedora hat.

It was then Serafina came up onto the stage wearing a beautiful burgundy red flapper dress and like an actress on stage, she acted like she was wandering around the stage lost and confused. That was until this Aerin fellow came up to her and presented her with a lamp of some sorts.

Play video

She took it from him and admired it curiously as he stepped away back to his spot on the stage. Serafina rubbed the prop and soon with a flash of lights and an explosion of smoke on the stage, the band soon exploded into an upbeat tune that timed with the beat of the special effects. You then see on stage a man roughly around the same age as Serafina, maybe even a bit older.

Again like every other man in this place he was attractive to the eye with short brown hair. He wore a black satin shirt with what almost looked like diamonds stitched all over the shirt, giving it a starry-like quality. A few of the top buttons were undone, exposing a bit of his upper chest, white satin pants and white platform shoes.

He turned to Serafina with passionate eyes and a soft grin but she turned away from him with her arms crossed. It was then Aerin began to sing as he snapped his fingers slowly and the cello began to play a single note.

As Aerin sung his song, you couldn’t take your eyes off of John and Serafina play out their little act. John slowly walked towards Serafina to the beat of the cello before coming up right behind her, snapping his fingers along with Aerin.

He looked her up and down but not like a lion eyeing his prey, it was like a husband admiring his wife. With love and admiration, not with lust or desire. The two of them did an in-sync tap dance with their right feet but Serafina quickly glared up at John before pushing him away from her.

*Aerin*

Well, Mr. Rochester had his double dose Romeo had his Juliet But, my dear, you’re in luck

'Cause up your sleeves You got a lover that never fails You got some power in your personal Some heavy ammunition in your camp You got some punch, pizazz, yahoo and how All you gotta do is say my name And I'll say

Madam Serafina What will your pleasure be? Let me take your order Jot it down You ain't never had a lover like me No no no

The band began to pick up with the Cello player and John quickly got in front of Serafina and took her hands in his and the two did a jazz dance together, tapping their feet or John dancing around Serafina. Every now and then Serafina would try to get away from John.

Life is your restaurant And I'm your maître d' C'mon whisper what it is you want You ain't never had a lover like me

Yes ma’am, we pride ourselves on service You're the boss, the Queen, the goddess Say what you wish, it's yours! True dish, how about a little more baklava?

The two of then danced to a two beat as they scaled down the stairs to the dance floor and John pulled Serafina close to his chest stroking her cheek before removing the flapper headdress from her head. The two of them began to do the Turkey trot, his hand every now and then brushing some strands out of her face, or maybe just to feel the touch of her skin as his ‘Loving master’.

Have some of column A Try all of column B I'm in the mood to help you love You ain't never had a lover like me

The two of them then began to do a little dance duel off. John first did a fast paced tap dance routine for the first line. Serafina then did a tap routine of her own, adding a twirl and wave of her arms before turning back to John.

He then did a triple spin before taking Serafina’s hand, spinning her right towards him before giving her a quick dip.

Can your boys do this? Can your men do that? Can your brothers pull this out their little hat? Can your daddy go, poof!

You then see Serafina break her ‘hard to get’ façade as she finally let lose and her and John danced together. The Blonde Siren wasn’t kidding, seeing the two of them dance together it was—ethereal.

It was like seeing two puzzles fit together, two birds dancing in the sky. It was like they were made for each other. The two then began to Charleston around each other, dancing rapidly as they refused to break eye contact with each other till John took her hand and brought her close to him him before spinning her around.

So don't ya sit there slack-jawed, buggy-eyed I'm here to answer all your midday prayers You got me bona fide and certified You got a lover for your charge d'affaires I got a powerful urge to love you now So whatcha wish? I really wanna know You got a list that's three miles long, no doubt Well, all you gotta do is love me so oh oh

He spun her faster and faster and faster almost to the point where you swear she had vanished. What even amazed you was that she was actually being lowered down to the ground while still spinning at a rapid speed before coming right back up again.

Soon their dancing exploded as they danced with passion and grace. Jazz squaring, the Charleston with jazz hands, or this one move with their arms and feet. Their arms made a flossing like motion while they stepped backwards twice before quickly racing up the stairs back to the stage.

John spun Serafina into his arms and she gave him a kiss on the cheek. His face lit up as a grin spread across his face.

Madam Serafina, have a wish or two or three I'm on the job, as your Casanova You ain't never had a lover, never had a lover You ain't never had a lover, never had a lover You ain't never (never)

Had (had) a

Lover like me You ain't never had a lover like me

With a point of his hand, another special effect of smoke blew up the stage and they both disappeared.

The crowd went berserk. John and Serafina soon came back on stage, hands joined with each other as they took their bows and the crowd continued to cheer. The two lovers acknowledged and clapped for the band as well as for Aerin, who also took a bow.

“Our lovely and reigning championship couple John and Serafina Deacon everyone.” Brian said into the microphone. After clapping and letting out a few whistles you turned to the Blonde Siren and said.

“You were right they were amazing!”

“I prefer masterful.” He said. “But you’re right. They were good. Like I told you, two partners meant for one another.” His eyes seemed to stare at the two of them in a daze-like trance. “You’ll never find anyone more worthy of each other in any books or film.”

Wow. He must really love Serafina if he was willing to let her fall in love with someone else. He was willing to put aside his own feelings for her just so that she could be with John.

“It must’ve been hard, to let her go like that.”

“I’m sorry?” he asked confused.

“My question earlier. You never answered it. You must really love her, but yet you were willing to let her go so that she could be with the one she really loves.”

He looked at you confused before he let out a snicker. That snicker soon developed into a chuckle which then turned into a boisterous laugh.

He was laughing? Why was he laughing? Was he in denial or something? I mean it you hear it does make people act a certain way, right?

“Oh that’s rich! Me in love with Serafina!” his laughter slowly died down but when he saw your face he continued, “Oh wait you were serious?” he scoffed softly, “Look I know I may come across as a flirt, especially towards the ladies, but not even I can break the spell that John and Serafina have with each other. Their loyalty and love has been with them since childhood. They were lovers long before I even met them.”

“You mean they were childhood sweethearts?”

“Yeah if you wanna go that way of saying it.” Aww that’s so sweet. You could tell that John and Serafina had something extra special about each other.

You may not know about the connection it takes between dance partners but you knew that it takes knowing someone a really, really, really, really long time to form a bond and make any time you see a couple like them together, feel like there’s magic surrounding them.

“Well done as always John and Serafina.” The Siren spoke as he raised his glass to them. You see the young couple coming towards you and John says.

“Thanks mate.” He then turns to you and says, “I could be mistaken but aren’t you the new person that came to our club on Tuesday?”

“Yes. Yes sir I am. (Y/n) (l/n). You and Serafina were amazing up there tonight.” You say as you extend your hand out.

“Thank you.” he takes your hands and the two of you shake in introduction. “John Deacon. Financer and co-owner of the BEWITCHED jazz club. And also lucky husband to this beautiful woman right here.”

“You honey-bear you’re too kind.” Serafina blushed. She then turned to you and said, “Hope our friend here hasn’t scared you like he did the first time you came here.”

“Oh Serafina love, you wound me so.” The Blonde Siren said as he placed his hand over his heart. “You know I know my limits when mingling with the guests.”

“Of course you do hound dog.” John muttered.

“Stuck up prick.” The Siren snapped back.

“Prima donna.” John snapped back.

“Posh flamingo!”

“Alright now boys settle down, settle down!” Serafina broke the two of them apart before they went at it. “You both know the law here. No fighting in front of the guests.” She scolded them.

“Sorry love.” They both chorused out like children who had been caught with their hands in the cookie jar. She turned back towards you.

“Come on honey, why not come outside with me to get some air? And you two behave yourselves. I better not see another mess.”

“Yes ma’am.” The two men said as Serafina guides you outside.

You both exit out the backway and now stand in an alleyway. The cold spring night air dancing around you as you rub your arms to keep warm.

“Oh I’m sorry sweetie, do you want to go back inside?” Serafina asks concerned.

“No I’m fine. Just—had to get used to it after being inside is all.”

“Sorry. I like to come out here after John and I perform a routine. It just gets so hot after doing a full on jazz routine.”

“I’ll bet. Especially with the practical effects you guys used in your routine.”

“Practical effects?” she questioned softly with a tilt of her head.

“The smoke and the sparks of light.”

“Oh yes that! Sorry honey we never really called them that before. Or at least I never did. I just call them smoke bombs and flashy lights. As you can see I’m not really technologically advanced.” She admitted the last part shyly.

“Yeah you have always been a bit slow to technology Serafina.” A male voice soon spoke up. You both turn around to see a hidden figure standing in the shadows.

Slowly walking out from the darkness was a tall and handsome man. He roughly looked to be around his early to mid 30’s, had strange yet fitting long white hair and……wait were his eyes golden? Like a honey-colored gold? You didn’t know anyone could have golden eyes before.

But you notice the look on Serafina’s face and you saw nothing but pure anger on her face. Her brows furrowed and a sneer appeared across her lips.

“What is it you want Jarod?”

“Be calm dear I don’t mean any harm but umm…..” that’s when Jarod turned his eye to you. “Who’s your friend back there?”

“They are none of your concern! Now move along!” Serafina snapped as she stood protectively in front of you. Why was she being so rude to him? All he wanted was to know my name. “Listen to me honey, I need you to go back inside and find either John or Brian. Do not leave their side till I come back and find you, okay?” she whispers to you urgently as she looks back at you.

“Oh well now that’s just rude.” Jarod cooed. Wow—his voice was……so soothing, and rich (it could’ve also been the accent, you didn’t know but you also strangely didn’t care). Like the honey color of his eyes. “And I thought you were said to be the supreme hostess?”

“Not to your kind! Now I won’t ask again Jarod. Get. Out!”

“Wait.” You suddenly say. “I—I don’t want him to leave.” You find yourself saying. Serafina’s eyes widened at your decree.

“Sweetheart you can’t be serious.”

“She is Serafina. And what your guests want, they get.” Jarod said with a smug grin. “Come here child.” He says to you and you find yourself walking straight towards them.

“No!” Serafina cries out but Jarod lifts his hand and she goes flying backwards against the wall and falls lifelessly on the ground.

You were unaware of what happened because all you kept thinking about were Jarod’s eyes and his voice. You finally stand face to face, well more like face to chest with him as he looms over you about a foot. He takes your chin between his fingers and whispers.

“Exquisite.” God his breath—it smelled so sweet. Like honeysuckles. “What’s your name my dear?” you were about to open your mouth to answer when a voice enters your mind.

‘Don’t tell him! Don’t tell him your name! If you do it’ll bind you to him forever! Please for Merlin’s sake honey don’t give him your name!’ Serafina? How was her voice speaking to you.

“Going shy on me now hmm? Maybe a little bit of courage will help loosen those delicate lips.” He cups your face with his soft, gentle hands. Your eyes staring straight into the other’s, his nose slightly grazing over yours as his lips tease against yours.

Electricity is shooting up your spine as you get the urge and lift yourself up on your tiptoes to kiss this handsome angel of a man. His strong arms pull you closer to him as a deep, resonating moan escapes his throat making your legs feel like jell-o.

When you separate from each other you finally give out your name in a soulless whisper.

“(Y/n).” he lets out an orgasmic gasp as he says.

“What a lovely name. Come with me my love.” And soon your vision turns black as you feel two arms lift you up and the last thing you hear are screams of your name.

Your vision is blurry for the next little while, but what you can make out is darkness, screams of horror and pain, and hundreds if not thousands of people with pointed ears and sharp fangs hissing at you.

The smell—it smelled like…..rotting flesh, why did it smell so bad here? Where were you? You then find yourself being shoved straight down onto some sort of chair. The voices around you chanting out some sort of foreign language till suddenly a loud bang was heard and all went quiet.

Slowly lifting your head maybe an inch from where your head rested, you could see through whatever light there was coming down in his cave-like structure a tall female figure walking towards you. You could make out that she wore some sort of black and green clothing and a crown of spikes stood across her head, like antlers on a deer.

Proud and regal.

But soon your vision went back to black.

*3rd Person POV*

Play video as you read below

Walking towards the mortal was none other than Queen Titania of the Faeries. Now faeries are not as they are in your fairytale books, they are dark creatures. Like mermaids, they are in touch with all things of the supernatural and mysterious.

While beautiful and handsome compared to any human being there is one rule you must always remember; Never, ever under any circumstance give a fae your name. If you do, it binds a contract to your very soul and you will forever be possessed by them forever. Faes, especially the Dark faes of Titania’s clan are incapable of showing and expressing real love.

They view whatever or whomever they love as possessions and are only really out for themselves. Draining the life force of anyone, especially humans of their essences, or using them as a way to give birth to future faelings.

“Mother.” Jarod said as he stood beside his prey.

“My son.” Titania spoke in a commanding yet soft voice. She then turned towards her son’s recent catch and said as her eyes soon became lustful, “And just who is this you brought with you?”

“They’re mine mother! They spoke their name to me!” Jarod hissed possessively.

“Shut up!” she snarled as she slapped her son across the face. “You know of my law when it comes to fresh prey!” in her hand appeared a small dagger, “While it is our law for a human to be bound to the one they speak their name to, my law is to enact—prima nocta.” She then stabs the dagger into (y/n)’s left shoulder.

Not too deep to cause excruciating pain, but deep enough for the mortal’s blood to start pouring out. Queen Tatiana slowly moved her dagger down (y/n)’s arm right down to their wrist. The Queen watched with pleasure as their face softly clenched up in pain and admired the red human blood seeping out from her dagger.

She took back her dagger and made it disappear as she now sat down upon the young mortal’s lap. She stroked (y/n)’s cheek gingerly and whispered.

“Just…….a little taste.” She slowly began to lower herself down towards (Y/n)’s shoulder to get her first taste of fresh human blood after 1000 years.

When suddenly a crack was soon heard from above. Titania, her son Jarod and all the other faes looked up. The ceiling cracked even more before finally a portion of it caved in and water soon rained down upon them. Titania, her son and the faes all backed up as now standing before them were Brian May, Roger, John and Serafina Deacon.

Roger was now in his true Nokk form, his fangs bared and gills extended outward as he let out an animalistic roar. Brian was in full Elvish silver armor as he withdrew two long swords his eyes glaring pure hatred, meanwhile John and Serafina stood each of their hands glowing either purple or red respectively.

All four of them protectively guarded their human friend as Serafina snarled.

“You dare come near them again!” Titania smirked wickedly at them.

“You four are fools to think you could come into my kingdom and win. But no matter, my babies have longed for a fight. And they will enjoy tearing you four apart.” She then banged her staff once on the ground and that’s when a female fae came flying straight towards Brian.

Her fangs exposed and claws growing outward as she flew towards the Elf Lord. But she was stopped as Roger pounced on her and forced his hand (which now turned to water) down her throat.

Drowning her alive while still on land.

Even after she was dead, he ripped her throat apart just to show those faes that they meant business. He then roared out again as blood dripped from his fangs.

Soon over 50 faes flew right towards them. John and Serafina fired out with their magic, shooing some of them away, but the others managed to get past. Ten female faes went over to Roger, attacking him with bites and scratches, Brian fought off against 15 male and female faes, while John and Serafina tag-teamed against the remained dozen.

The battle was brief and short as Roger found himself being over powered by the brutality of the female faes as they dragged him down to the bottom of the caves.

Brian tried as best as he could but one large and strong fae managed to actually break his swords in two and to add salt to the open wound, he actually broke the Elven lord’s dominant arm.

John and Serafina unfortunately weren’t doing any better. Even after shifting into a lion and lioness hoping that animal force could overpower these faes, they too were soon overpowered and were forced to roll down the ramp of the throne and forced to be pinned. Queen Titania watched with disinterest as her foes were now defeated and she could now once again claim her prize.

But something would once again stop her, however it was the one thing that faes, along with every mythical creature fears.

Bursting out from the back of the caves was a loud hiss and a flash of scales. Screams of terror were heard from the faes in the back as they all tried to flee, unfortunately some of them ended getting caught in the coils of something big.

When Titania turned glaring with pure hatred at just what was causing the delay now, her hatred soon turned to horror. Quickly slithering up towards her was a half human-snake creature. With one single hiss and launch at her, Titania crawled away in fear.

The faes around the throne also tried to flee, but as the creature wrapped itself around the throne, the faes who were trapped (one of them being Jarod) were forced to stay put as they were being suffocated between the stone rock and the pure muscle of the coils pressing down on them.

Slithering down to finally reveal himself was Freddie, the last of the Nagas. As mentioned before, all creatures especially the faeries fear the Naga. They can’t even stand to look a Naga in the eye less they fall under their spell and become their next meal.

For you see Nagas are the only beings in the world, as well as dragons, who cannot be affected by any type of magic. Which is why the faeries fear them so much. Anything that cannot be put under their spell, is a threat and a frightened fae is a weak fae.

As Freddie’s coils wrapped around the throne with about five of Titania’s people including her son were shown before the rest of the faeries, he let out a angry hiss.

“HEED MY WORDS fae scum! The human belongsss…..to USSSS!!!!” His eyes filled with nothing but pure hatred and protectiveness. He made sure to show his many rows of teeth before the fae Queen to ensure she took his warning to heart.

Frightened and refusing to look upon the last Naga, Titania took off flying and the faes that had John and Serafina pinned also backed down and took off flying.

Freddie let out a hiss as his forked tongue poked out and he looked down to John and Serafina.

“You dears alright?” phasing back into their human forms again with blood stained across their faces from the faes claws.

“We’ll live. But (Y/n)……” John said as he gestured towards the human. Freddie looked down at the small human with concerned eyes.

“Freddie, they told Jarod their name. What if…….”

“It’ll be alright Serafina dear. While it is true fae law states that if someone speaks their name, they are bound to the fae for eternity. However, should the fae be killed then the contract is no longer in effect. They are free of him.”

“Thank Paracelsus.” Serafina sighed with relief. The faint groans came out of (Y/n)’s mouth as their eyes began to open up once again.

Freddie’s head just stood a few feet above them and he looked down at them with soft reassuring eyes.

“It’s alright my darling. Just sssleeeep.” He cooed down at them before lowering himself down to them and picked them up. The remaining faes now couldn’t even look at their former prey/plaything cause now they have been touched by the Naga.

“Now clear out, all of you!” John fired a purple bolt of lightning straight at the wall and soon the faes all took off fleeing deeper into the darkness.

“That’ll hold them for a while.” Brian groaned as Serafina was now healing his broken arm. After that she quickly repaired his swords and that’s when he asked.

“Where’s Roger?”

“Don’t you worry about our Nokk friend.” Freddie told the Elven lord. “There happened to be a small stream of water that our friend used to finish off his faes. He’ll meet us back home since the stream connects to a river outside.”

“He’s right, Roger can take care of himself. Right now we gotta get (Y/n) healed up and make sure Jarod’s spell is off their soul permanently.” John said. He extended his hand to Serafina who now joined hands with John. The two of them joined their other hands together and placed their foreheads against each other.

Focusing their magic, they soon disappeared out of the dark cave before the faes could change their minds and return to finish the job.

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kingofdirtandnothing · 4 years

Text

@polyfacetious big ass Christmas Drabble Extravagaza: Day One

The shop smells like old paper, the lingering sort of scent that gets into the bindings and takes hold. It reminds Alice of her time in university, when she could spend hours of her day in the library without being bothered.

Except for when someone wanted to ask if she was lost, and if she was looking for her parents. The joys of getting your PhD at the age of eighteen. Being petite on top of her young age didn’t help either. Unless you counted the undue attentions of slavering professors. But she didn’t.

Alice trails up and the aisles, fingertips tracing over gilded letters stamped into the spines. She likes this place, not only because it’s tucked into the corner of a charming little street but also because the owners weren’t the type to follow you around like a thief.

It helped of course, that all their expensive tomes were on the shelves behind the counter where they had the register. Being polite was all well and good, but you had to protect your investments as well. And there were books on those shelves that had price tags that ran up into the thousands.

She didn’t know what language the two men behind the counter were speaking, but it was very easily not local. If there was a gun to her head, Alice would make a guess for the African continent. But she wouldn’t guess beyond that. Their conversation felt idle to an outsider’s ear, none of the kind of laughter that would make the hair on the back of your neck stand up with that completely irrational feeling that you were being laughed at.

Alice rounds the corner onto the next aisle of shelving, passing from science fiction into science fact. These were still her favorite types of books, even after years in the field. Her love for the vast unknown of space was still as awe struck and full of curiosity as it was when she was a little girl.

But that same girlish curiosity drives her from the science books stacked neatly in rows like little tin soldiers, to a wall nearly hidden in shadow. And on it, a series of snapshots that were framed.

None of them were under any sort of spotlight. The photos themselves weren’t in direct line of sight from the cash register. Curious. Alice steps in close, hands clasped behind her and held at the small of her back to keep her from touching. She was a tactile woman. Sometimes touch felt like her most valued sense. But there was a faint layer of dust on these photos, and touching them would give away the game.

The first photo was grainy with exposure from how late at night it was. It was the two men at the counter, one with his arm thrown over the other. They were grinning ear to ear, a backdrop of flat earth and ramshackle buildings behind them.

The next seemed almost opposite in contrast, the summer sun beating down on dark little heads. There were three rows of boys standing in front of what looked like a single room school building. The boys were all smiling, some of them gap toothed with their young age. They all wore crisp white short sleeved button down shirts and creased black shorts. They even had on little striped navy and gold ties.

“Adorable.” The words are faint whisper, carried out on an exhale of breath. Alice doesn’t even realize she’s said anything at all as she moves on to the next photograph. This one is vastly geographically different. Gone is the flat plains of dry, cracked yellow grass beaten down by a long reigning sun.

In the window in the back of the room in the photograph, there is a riot of lush green leaves blocking out the view of anything else. The room itself was wood paneled, pieces slotting together in a geometric pattern. There were bamboo mats laid out on the floor in neat rows, a hint at a lingering purpose.

Front and center in front of the camera were too men. One was tall and dark, with skin like good chocolate. His hair was cropped short, and Alice could just make out a tattoo on the inside of his left bicep. His hands and feet were taped up with white tape, a dark contrast against his skin. Next to him was a smaller man, European by skin tone and feature set, though his skin seemed warmed by the sun wherever they were. He too was taped up, both of their chests bare and their bottom halfs wrapped in silken red shorts with blue trim and a blue stripe down the side.

“Thailand.” The voice behind her startles Alice out of her thoughts, and she steals a glance over her shoulder. It was one of the men from the first photograph. The taller one, it looked like. Though he didn’t have glasses and a sweater on in the photograph. They made him look deceptively smaller, like he wasn’t built like an oak tree. “That’s where that picture was taken.”

He points to the first picture. “Nigeria.” And then his finger slips over to the second, a fond look sinking in behind the neat curve of his glasses. “Nigeria.” And then his finger drops to his side again.

“Is he one of the other boys in the second photo?” It’s the only thing Alice can think of. Another schoolmate, maybe. Because this wasn’t the quiet one behind the register with the cough. The man in the picture was much more good looking, though Alice was polite enough not to say that out loud.

“He is.” M’Baku nods, smile a little more present, a little less nostalgic. “That’s John. He was quite the rage in the Muay Thai scene for a couple of years. That’s his mate, Justin.” There’s a moment’s pause, and then a soft huff of laughter. “I never did understand how you could keep being friends with someone who kicked you on a regular basis. But those two are thick as thieves, even now.”

Even now. Which meant that lovely man in the photograph, with the sweat cooling on his skin and the knowing tilt of his smirk, wasn’t in Thailand anymore. What were the odds that Alice would be lucky enough to see this specimen in person? “Even now?”

M’Baku gives her a knowing look. Alice doubts she’s the first person to show this kind of interest in his friend. You didn’t look like that without drawing the eye of everyone on your side of the Kinsey scale. “Even now. They opened a gym together when they’d both retired.” He’s stringing her on. Alice can see it. The question was, which one of them would run out of patience first?

The moment hangs in the air, and Alice bites down on the side of her tongue. Of course she wants to know where this gym is. But she doesn’t want to get her hopes up and then look like a fool for asking.

But it’s all for naught, because M’Baku is even more impatient than she is, and after a couple of seconds of awkward silence, he moves to fill in the blanks with a big, booming laugh. “It’s here. I could give you the address, if you want.” He holds up a single finger, wagging it back and forth like a metronome.

��It depends.” Alice loathed favors. And she never responded to them sight unseen. But M’Baku, if he was bothered by her response, he doesn’t show it.

“I have a copy of your book on dark matter theory. I’d be willing to trade an address in exhange for a signature.” It’s Alice’s turn to laugh. This man wasn’t a fan of her work. But he knew her enough to ask. And that was a shrewd businessman at work. He’d fetch a better price for it, with her autograph inside.

“Deal.” Their handshake must look a little ridiculous, what with M’Baku being a full head taller than her, maybe two. But they shake on it firmly and Alice follows him back over to the desk, a polite smile for his exasperated business partner before she takes his blue ink pen and scrawls her name along the first page, opposite the dust cover. No names attached, no kind messages. It would sell easier this way.

And when she looks up from her signature, Alice is rewarded with a piece of paper out of a yellow legal notepad, an address scrawled between the blue lines. “Don’t tell him we sent you.” That gets M’Baku a sputter from his partner, a breath of we?! That Alice hears as she turns away.

“Your secret is safe with me.” She waves the paper overhead as she hip checks the door open and steps out into the warm afternoon sun. It was a beautiful day, the breeze catching between the baked clay exteriors of the building. And just like Alice thought, the address is on the very same street she was on, just down at the far end, closer to the gently downward sloping cobblestone street.

She’d walked right past the place, with its frosted glass windows and its small sign hung over the door. If window shopping hadn’t caught her fancy today, Alice might have very well gone the rest of her life without seeing such a gorgeous specimen.

Well. Fate was on her side today. Alice gave a small push to the door to the gym, pleased to find that it opened easily, even if the jangle of the bell on the other side of it heralding her arrival was a touch annoying.

At the back of the gym, there was generic rock music blaring, the beat something idly palatable. Like if mayonaise was made into music for muscle bound men. There was a ring back there too, red ropes hung around it. Trailing the sides of the building were heavy bags and small ones in various sizes. Some even had men squared up and taking shots at them.

Alice’s eyes scanned over them all. She was used to drawing attention. Being the only woman in this gym right now was no exception. “Can I help you?” The voice that called out to her was very much not local, and not Nigerian. It was very, very British. Northern, if she hadn’t lost her ear for home.

And sure enough, there was the other man from the photograph watching her curiously. He was older, grey at his temples and peppered through his hair, and he was...stauncher as well. Broader across the chest. Age had treated him well. Now just to hope that age treated her curious specimen well, and this wasn’t a botched job from a bored book keep. “I’m looking for John, if you don’t mind.”

The man raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t ask. He jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “He’s in the office. Down the hall, second door on the right. You can’t miss it, it says ‘office’ right on the glass and everything.”

Alice thanks him, shifting her purse to her other shoulder and starts her march down the hallway, ignoring the bubbles of conversation popping up in her wake like effervesecence. They didn’t matter. She was a woman on a mission.

A woman on a mission who didn’t knock.

She opens the door to the office, and is greeted with the very lovely sight of the man from the photograph. And like his friendly counterpart, he’d aged like a fine wine. A little grey at the scruff on his cheek, and clinging to spots of his hair like the first faint dusting of snow.

Absolutely gorgeous, and absolutely worth whoring out her PhD for an afternoon.

Alice takes just a second to glance at the hands sitting on the desk, fingers curled around an ink pen and a coffee mug, respectively. No ring. Perfect.

“Hello, John. I’m Alice. Would you like to have dinner with me?”

#carlota's christmas drabbles #there's gonna be 25 of these so you guys can blacklist that if you want #this is the only way I made it through nano #via pure self indulgence #ch: alice #polyfacetious | luther #queued

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afarcryfromgotham · 4 years

Text

A Far Cry From Gotham

Jason’s story if he didn't go back to Gotham after leaving the League

He gulps down air, sitting on his knees, face staring up to the sky. White and auburn hair plastered to his forehead. Birds circle overhead occasionally blotting out the unforgiving sun. Eyes open as a shadow falls over him. He meets the steeled grey eyes of the older woman, biting his tongue as he learned to do a lifetime ago.

“Well done Jason.” the skin wrinkles around her eyes as she shows her gratitude, “Not only did you survive the trials, but you survived the cleansing. I have nothing else I can teach you.”

Jason raises an eyebrow, huffing a laugh as she hits him on the head before poking him in the chest, “Control your Rage, little one.”. She cups his face with a calloused hand, “One day your heart will shine brighter than that dark fury inside you, when that day comes it will be glorious.” she smiles at him “tonight you rest; tomorrow you will continue on your quest for knowledge.” she turns walking away, her robes drag over the stone floor as she hobbles away

Jason rises to his feet, stumbling on limbs that feel like jelly “I thought you said-”

“I know what I said, man child.” she glares back at him “you have learned all the all caste can teach you. I know you will not stay here, you are not one who enjoys clipped wings. You will leave tomorrow to find your father for a study in Tranquility.”

Jason scoffs as he follows after her into the mountain face

The next day sees Jason on a jet funded by the League of Assassins, flying halfway around the world, and air dropping into the wilderness of California.

The next month is spent tracking trails that barely exist, of searching abandoned safe houses and truckstops, all signs are directing him to Hope County, Montana. A name, Richard Dragon, and a reputation, as one of the best Martial Artists in the world, is all he has as he hitchhikes into the southwest corner of Montana.

Jason squints against the sun as the truck rumbles to a stop. He swings down off the bed waving his thanks to the driver.

He looks up at the Water Tower looming above the town, Falls End, it reads across the side. He raises a hand to block out the sun as he looks around, a pristine white church is to his right, a broken-down bus blocks half the road ahead of him, the town lays beyond it. Light glints off the broken windows of the bus.

“You look lost.” a calm voice comes from the direction of the church. An older African American man is leaning on the fence work around the church, in one hand he loosely holds a bible, the golden cross glinting light back at him “It's okay to be lost, the Lord leads us places all the time, often without us knowing where we’re going.”

“I'm looking for someone,” Jason says, shifting his backpack up onto his shoulders, more than ready to book it up the rock face to his back.

The pastor, signaled by the white-collar, and white leather-bound bible, hums in response, his eyes roaming over Jason. His body language is curious but relaxed, unafraid of him. He's open and patient and Jason doesn't trust it. “Perhaps I can help, do you have a name?”

“Mine or who I'm looking for?” Jason responds shifting in the shadow of the bus so he can see the man across the road better.

“Either. I'm Pastor Jerom Jefferies, this is my church.” he waves to the building behind him as an introduction.

Ok well now he has to introduce himself, Jason Grumbles “I'm Jason, looking for Richard Dragon.” he sees the man stand up a little more at that, a little more guarded, a little more cautious. So he knows Richard Dragon, or at least the reputation of the man.

“You a student of his?” Jerome asks he friendly tone still his voice

“I'm his son.” Jason finds joy in how startled the other man seems by the declaration “come on in, I’ll give him a call to come down.”

Jason follows under the arch and into the church. The pews are simple and wooden, a few knitted blankets sit on them. The sunlight filters through stained glass windows painting the floor and pews a rainbow of colors. He drops into a pew where he can see the front door and the door in the back and takes a deep breath practicing the meditation Ducra had been into him. He listens to the pastors' voice in the office space not actually paying attention to what's being said.

“His shift at the lumber yard ends in a few hours,” Jerome says and sits on the opposite side of the pew, “would you like something to eat?”

Jason looks around studying every crack in the wall, and the building in general before shrugging

Jerome stands to motion for Jason to follow. He shoulders his bag and follows him.

Jerome asks him questions that Jason barely answers saying he's from Gotham and well-traveled.

Jason looks up at the bar, the neon sign is out but it still shows a woman on the sign with the words SPREAD EAGLE.

The door opens and a girl a few years older then Jason is working the register, two older men are cooking and running food.

Two other patrons, one is carrying a flame thrower the other has a taser. Jason looks around, a set of stairs to his left windows along the back, he can hear a door in the back, it smells pretty good though.

“Jerome” one of the guys greets “whos your new friend.”

“Apparently, he's Dragons son.” Jerome greets

Everyone is looking at him now in surprise, Jason shifts his weight slightly “Jason, sir” he nods hello keeping his hands hooked into the backpack straps

“I can see it, Mary why don't you go help your mother upstairs.”

“But,” the girl pouts

“Go.” he says his eyes never leaving Jason

Jason stares back, he can see the man is worried and curious. He wants to protect his family. He's got a pistol on his hip tucked under the apron, and a knife on his belt, that Jason doubts he's good enough to use.

“Gary Fairgrave, nice to meet you son.” he cleans the glass he has in hand looking to Jerome

“A table for three, Richard’ll join us when he gets off.” Jerome says

They're seated at a four-person table away from the other patrons. Jason doesn't trust any of it, but he appreciates being sat by a window

“So where’d you serve?” Gary asks as he hands them menus

Jason blinks “I don't understand.”

“Son, you picked out my peacemaker almost as soon as you walked in the door, where’d you serve?” he asks

“I didn't, I grew up on the streets in Gotham,” he responds glancing the room over again

Gary whistles “been there once, back when the Waynes were alive, it was a shit hole then, can't imagine what it's like now.”

“Hell would be kinder,” Jason responds before looking at the menu

Two glasses of water are set down before Jason decide to just order what the Pastor orders

Jason meets Jerome's eyes and the Pastor is studying him, in return, he sees the Pastor is curious but not concerned by Jasons appearance. He's relaxed even, confident that Jason won't do anything. He's right but he doesn't know that. He bleeds a patience that so sickeningly familiar to his past life it makes Jason want to punch him, the face of an older English butler flashes across his memories. Jason breaks eye contact to look around again, counting anything that could be a weapon “so what's it like here?”

“Falls End is fairly quiet, we’re the only constructed town here, good people, reliable people. What about you?”

“Not much a good people, but I'm reliable,” Jason says with a shrug taking a sip of water before crunching down on an ice cube.

“What makes you say that?” Jerome asks

“Everyone from Gotham is a sinner of some sort, pastor,” he shrugs looking anywhere but at the man in front of him mostly out the window at the slow traffic “you do what you have to to survive.”

‘You've killed.” Jerome concludes Jason nods not supplying that he was an assassin or killed other assassins.

Burgers and fries are set in front of them, they pick at the food, Jason answering his questions.

Jason's eyes go to the door, as the man who walked past the window walks in. The older man is dressed in sawdust-covered jeans, and a sweat-stained shirt, his hair is red with streaks of grey through it, similar to Jason's dark auburn with the white stripe. He smiles talking lowly to Gary at the register before turning and walking towards them. He doesn't carry a weapon, but he doesn't need one. He reminds Jason of a tiger, all lean muscle, coiled and ready to pounce.

Jason meets his eyes, the crystal blue, like what he had before, widen slightly. He wonders what the man sees as Jason stands.

“You look so much like your mother.” is what the man says silencing the bar beside the radio. Everyone's attention is on them again

“I think I look like you.” he responds offering his hand “Jason”

“Richard, but you knew that.” he sits beside Jerome, a beer and an order of fries appear on the table soon after

Jason meets his eyes and is surprised when he can't get a read on the man, beyond the surface level. His hands are scarred from fighting and work, he's content because he has nothing to fear.

“If I’d known about you, you would have been living with me and not him.” the venom in the Russians' voice is surprising. His hand clenches around the bottle. A silent agreement of the two to not speak of the other life before till in private

Jason hums “who was she?”

“Her name is Sandra WOo-San, one of my biggest rivals in the Martial Arts scenes, she had you, then not too long after she slept with that Cain fella, and had your half-sister. I don't know what her name is or where she is, just that Cain raised her to be a fighter.” he polished off his beer and fries as he talked. The man looks at Jason

“Come on i'll take you back to the house, and we can talk more there.” Richard hums standing tossing down a couple of bills “thanks, Jerome.”

“Of course Richard, call if you need anything. That goes for both of you.” he nods to Jason.

Jason climbs into the passenger seat of an old ford escalade that has seen better days.

Dragon just sits there for a second “I am really sorry, I wish I knew about you before your passing. Sandra, you’d know her better as Shiva, only told me about you after you were dead in the ground.“ he shifts the truck into reverse and backs out onto the road, before pulling onto the road

Jason looks out the window as he rides, unable to look at the older man whose regret is nearly palatable. “I was only dead for five months. no one knows what brought me back. I only got my mind back after Talia dropped me in the pit.”

He hears the shocked inhale “where. Where have you been this whole time?”

“Talia found me wandering Gotham as a Zombie. She took me back to Nana Parbat. We guessed at first at how long I'd been back. I was mindless for over a year, she said. Left her son with me. Damian is his name. He brought me out of pit madness after I was put under. I spent a year and a half on her Leviathan guard before Ras started to take notice of me. She sent me around the world to various teachers before I spent the last year training with the All Caste.”

Jason looks over when the man doesn't say anything, there's pride radiating off him, “sounds like you've learned a lot. Why did you come here, Jerome said you asked for me by name.”

“Ducra sent me here said I need to learn tranquility” he responded

“And Talia?” Dragon asks slowing to turn

“She knows I'm looking for you, I haven't told her anything,” he responds

Dragon nods “good, it'll stay that way, I have no need for the Demons to come for me.”

“Does anyone?” Jason asks and Dragon huffs a laugh

“Absolutely not. “ a small ranch house comes into view surrounded by cars and trucks in various states of disrepair. Jason climbs out looking around his eyes going to the muscle cars

He hears Dragon grunt, turning to face the man, he's pulling metal and scrap work out of the bed of the truck. Jason moves to help but is waved off.

“Go inside, the guest room is straight back past the kitchen across from the backdoor” Jason nods and after a moment heads inside. It's a standard hunters cabin on the interior, several sets of various deer and Moose antlers line the wall up the stairs. The kitchen counters are covered in fresh produce and cleaned dishes. He continues past into the narrow hall, the guest room as a bed, a dresser, and a safe in the closet.

Jason sits on the bed listening to the springs squeak and the birds outside. He fishes the burner phone out of his backpack looking at Talias number

“Help yourself to the kitchen kid, I'll be out in the barn if you need anything.” Dragons say after knocking on the door frame

Jason turns the phone off and stands “anything I can help with?”

Dragon smiles and waves for him to follow. Jason tosses the phone on to the bed without a second look. NEXT

#jason todd #far cry 5 fanfiction #far cry 5 #jason todd fanfiction #jerome jeffries #richard dragon #talia al ghul

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mx-adrian · 4 years

Text

( idris elba , cismale, he/him) • • • not to gossip but i just saw adrian pierce down town. The forty-seven year old alpha works as a/an police chief here in brookside, and has been living here for thirty-five years. I’m fairly certain they live in east brookeside, in the pack they are consider a head alpha. Don’t tell anyone, but I heard they’re + ambitious & - reclusive, and super into biting & voyeurism. • • • ((blinki-est-they/them-21))

[[MORE]]

• wolf info •

* alpha or omega: alpha

* scent: fig, citrus, sandalwood

* typical heat / rut length: 6 days

* color of wolf: deep grey

* size of wolf: large

• general stats •

* name: Adrian Pierce

* age: 47

* birthday: November 24th

* gender: cismale

* pronouns: he/him

* ethnicity: African descent

* nationality: American

* occupation: police chief

* education: BA in History

• appearance •

* height: 6’4

* weight: 215lbs

* build: buff, little pudge on his hips

* hair: Black

* eyes: Brown

* tattoos: sleeve of wild flowers down his arm

* piercings: right ear

* scars: large scaring down his back, big one over his chest, down the side of his right calf, little ones all over (from various fights, Liam related mishaps, etc)

* distinguishing features: always looks exhausted

• personality •

* postive traits: protective over the people he loves, extremely driven and motivated, always wants to do what is morally right, shockingly great with kids

* negative traits: big recluse, has a temper, horrible at sharing his emotions, very short with people, a dick sometimes

* likes: Gordon Ramsey, his son, popcorn (the big tin cans with three types), bird watching, his job

* dislikes: laziness, people who treat wait staff like shit, loud noises/bright lights (clubs), rabbits

* skills: athleticism, great at his job, great with his kid, fighter

* weaknesses: cooking (pretty much can only make cereal and popcorn), when his son cries it fucks him up

• nsfw •

* dick size: 9.6 inches

* kinks: biting, voyuerism, body worship, harness/garter, edging/controlling, leaving marks, aftercare

* anti-kinks: feet, latex/zentai, wax, whipping

* safeword: llama

• headcanons •

* Adrian has a four year old son named Liam. He absolutely adores him and would kill for that child. He loves taking him to the park or on his play dates because seeing a smile on Liam’s little face is what he lives for.

* He loves his mate more than anything. He’s had more than one mate at a time but his omega is his and he would move heaven and earth for them to be happy.

* He is a major a hard ass when it comes to work. He does not fuck around. But he has a rule, he respects those who respect him. He loves the people that he works with even if it doesn’t seem like it. He wants to mentor the people he works with and bring them to their max potential.

* When drunk, he is a completely different man. He loves karaoke and is super loud and happy and smiley. He’s also incredibly generous when he drinks, giving out big tips and plenty of smiles.

• wanted connections •

* Best friend! Grew up together and bro out together. Although Adrian isn’t too keen on talking about his feelings so he can be a bit standoffish.

@howlboost

#howl:intro #its blinki again hi!

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softlovelypetal · 5 years

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Hi, I don’t know what to do anymore or when to look or where to begin again. My Maxximus baby and I had a happy-loving and learning relationship. He was 12 years old and I adopted him when he was 7 in 2014 where previously he had been neglected for years. But after awhile (4 months after getting to know me) I would sing for him in the mornings while I gave him fresh water and food. Maxximus loves fruits especially bananas, grapes and oranges. He loves music and to dance. His favorite artist is The Weeknd. Maxximus is shy around strangers and doesn’t make much sound around people because he’s very observant to know if he can trust you. He’s curious and playful and incredibly smart. He isn’t just a bird. He’s so much more than that. I will never give up hope to see him again. Please, if anyone has seen my baby Maxximus (AFRICAN GREY) please please call me (650)798-4047. He escaped on 05/28/19 near Georgia Ave and Madison St in Paramount, California and there will be a **$300 REWARD**. His wings are not clipped, but isn’t the best flyer. He doesn’t have any rings on his feet either. He’s grey, with bright RED tail feathers. He will approach you if you have food but he can and will bite if he is scared or nervous. Please, if anyone has him, please turn him in. He is my everything, my family, my baby. I am so shattered and in utter heartbreak. Please share/repost as many times anywhere and everywhere. He is probably so scared right now �� (at Paramount, California) https://www.instagram.com/p/B2o-dSKAJ_n/?igshid=1cmcjdscullvp

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yukihime916 · 6 years

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Roleplay starter with @untilmiyukisdawn (A/N-pic is when she's looking at his display)

She was running, running as fast as she could down a dimly lit corridor, the stone under her bare feet hurt but she had to keep going. She had to warn him. Warn him? Warn who? She couldn’t remember but she knew she had to keep running, to him. She cried out a name, a name she did not hear with her own ears, but received no reply. She called out again, but heard nothing but her jagged breaths as she ran. Finally she reached the chamber that she intended and flung the door open without announcing herself. Whomever she had expected to see in that chamber was not who she found, in fact she wasn’t even sure it was human. A black mass, almost that of a shadow man, stood from the bed in the room and approached her. She turned to run, to scream, but she was frozen where she stood as he was suddenly there, wrapping an arm about her shoulders and pinning her to him. “I warned you to stay away from baby brother. You could have had me. Too bad.” The next thing she could see was the blade of a dagger shining in the moonlight, and then plunging for her abdomen…

Jolting upright in her bed she released what sounded like a gasp and a muffled scream. Panic, sheer panic had over taken her and she knew she needed to get control. Breathe. Breathe. Get a grip and breathe. She repeated it like a mantra as she heavily inhaled and exhaled to regain her composure. After a moment she suddenly had something settle upon her hand, a paw. She looked down to her side and saw her beautiful Great Pyrenees there, worry showing in those brown eyes. “I’m okay Yuki, it was just a dream,” she told her. Yuki, as if she didn’t believe her, nudged her hand with her paw again. “Yuki, I promise I’m fine. Thank you for bringing me back.” She leaned to the side and kissed the big dog right between the eyes to assure her she was okay now. “Watch out, mama’s gotta wash her face, she’s all sweaty.” With that Yuki moved out of the way and she made her way into the adjacent bathroom.

Once inside, Akasha Einzbern, turned on the sink water as cold as possible and then washed her face to cool herself down; she’d take a shower after she walked Yuki. When she was successfully cooled down she patted her face dry with a hand towel and then dared to look at herself in the mirror. Exhaustion was evident that was for sure, but then her icy blue eyes traveled down to her stomach. For a moment she hesitated, but then lifted her black tank top; she had to be sure. Normal. Not a wound in sight. Sighing she lowered her shirt and then rested her hands on the counter and leaned forward slightly.

Always the same dream, or rather, nightmare. Over the years it had been the same each time. Running, panic, a man in the shadows, and pain. The man had never been clear enough to make out any features, he had just always been a figure of shadows. Often she wondered if she would ever see his face, but what did it matter since he always harmed her. Even though each time she woke she was perfectly fine, with no stab wound, she would always check, almost like it was a compulsion.

“Get it together Kash. It’s just a stupid dream. It doesn’t mean anything. Get over it.” She gave herself the smallest of slaps with both hands and then left the bathroom to start the day; she was never able to go back to sleep after that dream.

It was just after 8:00 am on Saturday morning. She didn’t move fast around her apartment for she had the weekends free from work. She put on a pot of coffee, not a full pot since she lived alone, and while it was brewing she walked Yuki around the complex.

She didn’t eat breakfast, she considered coffee always to be her breakfast. After situating herself on the couch, with Yuki at her side and head in her lap, she scrolled through her Facebook feed on her smart phone. She looked at nothing in particular, just idle scrolling while she drank the heavenly nectar of Joe. When she got bored of scrolling she decided to browse Netflix. Deciding it was a Dinosaur documentary type of day she moved into a more comfortable position with Yuki and started episode one.

About an hour into her rampaging Dinosaurs, her phone rang. Checking the caller ID the name read “Scary Larry” a nickname she had given her best friend growing up because they used to sneak into abandoned haunted houses and snoop around together. “Hey Larry what’s up?” she asked her best friend.

“Hey Kash, I have Nicky this weekend and I’m taking him and a couple of his friends up to the museum for a tour. You wanna come? You have yet to see it you know.”

Yeah she knew. But their schedules never actually allowed it and it wasn’t often that Larry was awake during the day since he worked nights at the museum. Larry and Akasha were very close in age and grew up together, she was even named God mother to his son Nick. They were friends, always, nothing more. He even had a place on her couch for a few months after his divorce from his wife. When he got the job at the museum she saw him and Nicky less and less, so yeah she would go hang out any chance she got. “I’m down. What time?”

“I was thinking we meet at Tony’s Pizza at noon for some lunch, you know kids always want pizza.” At this they both laughed. “Then we’ll head over to the museum.”

“Sounds great Larry, I’ll be there. Have fun.” They hung up and she went back to her Dinosaur documentary until it was time again to walk Yuki and get ready. “Be good and keep the place safe baby girl. Love you.” She kissed Yuki between the eyes and left her apartment.

It was the middle of fall in New York so she dressed accordingly. Black slacks, an elegant grey blouse and over it she wore a tan jacket that zipped up in the front. Her make up was easy, eye liner, mascara and light shadow to bring out her eyes; she wasn’t a model so she always kept it simple.

When she turned the corner that led to the pizza shop, they saw her before she saw them. “Auntie Kasha!” little Nick shouted happily as he ran towards her and hugged her tight around the waist.

“Hey Nicky. It’s so good to see you!” she said with a smile, returning his hug. She looked up to see Larry approaching them with a little smile of his own.

“Hey kids, here’s a few bucks. Why don’t you go play in the pizza arcade for a bit?” Larry suggested placing some bills in Nick’s hand. The boys cheered and quickly left to play some games. “I got a table over here on the patio for us.” He knew Akasha preferred to be outside when it was cold. They sat down at a table where they already had two slices and a soda. “How are you doing?” Larry asked in concern. Akasha was about to take a bite, but stopped and let out a heavy sigh.

“Larry I’m fine. Please don’t do this here,” she pleaded with him softly.

“It was a nasty break up Kash. Police were involved. He came at you with a gun. It’s okay to not be okay.”

“And now he’s in Sing Sing. He’s locked up and I’m not. I’m fine Larry. Please let this go.” She looked at him with such a fierceness in her eyes that he had no choice but to let it go, for the time being anyway.

“I’m just worried about you Kash.”

“I know. Thank you. But really, I’m fine.” And with that the topic was dropped and they moved on to another.

After lunch Larry lead them to the Museum of Natural History to give them a tour. Akasha’s eyes were instantly drawn towards the skeleton of the Tyrannosaurus Rex. As far back as she could remember it was her favorite Dinosaur and she was highly impressed by this one. “That’s Rexy. A very playful tyke,” Larry told the group.

“Playful? The T-Rex would eat you whole!” one of the boys in the group said. Larry waved him off.

“Nah he’s harmless. Let’s move on.”

And the tour really began. He showed them around the Neanderthal exhibit, the miniature civilizations, the Aquarium, the African jungle. When they were about to enter the reptile exhibit Akasha took a step back. “You guys go on, no way am I going in there.” Larry laughed.

“You know they are just wax figures right?” Akasha crossed her arms.

“I don’t care. A snake is a snake. Wax or not.” Larry rolled his eyes and led the kids on. Now that she was by herself she made her way back to Africa to admire the lions more. Just as she reached the room she felt an odd sensation come over her, almost a sort of pull. As strange as it sounded, something was pulling her in another direction. She couldn’t say why, but she followed it. She came upon a dimly lit room and without hesitation entered it. The first thing she noticed were two giant black and gold jackal statues. Her hand came up to her heart and she bowed towards them as a sign of respect; she didn’t know why she did this, but she was compelled to. Akasha walked passed the jackal soldiers and up to a beautiful sarcophagus lying in a glass case. She felt like she was no longer in control of her body as her hand reached out and gently touched the gold coffin. A wave of sorrow over came her and she didn’t notice the tear that escaped her eye until she felt it on her cheek. “What the?” she gasped quickly wiping it away. “Probably just got dust in my eye,” she said wiping away another tear that formed.

Akasha stepped away from the sarcophagus and turned to her right. There stood a figure of an Egyptian Pharaoh and when she met his eyes, her heart stopped and her body froze. He felt somehow…familiar. There was that pull again, but it was more than a pull, she needed to he close to him, to touch him. When she was just a foot before him, she reached a hand out and was so close to touching his cheek…

“I wouldn’t touch the exhibits Kash,” Larry said suddenly and Akasha jumped back, her heart racing like crazy. Whatever spell like trance had overcome her, was gone now.

“Jear Desus Larry don’t do that!” Akasha said playfully hitting his arm with her fists. After she composed herself, Larry looked back to the statue of the Pharaoh.

“So, taken a liking to Ahkmenrah huh?” Akasha put her hands in her jacket pockets and sighed.

“Sure I guess. His name is Ahkmenrah? I feel like I’ve heard that name before,” she said softly, but Larry still heard it.

“Probably in history books or one of those documentaries you watch.” Akasha smirked.

“Yeah probably.” But Akasha didn’t believe that herself. She knew the name but couldn’t say how.

Larry noticed she was still staring at Ahkmenrah and wiggled his eye brows. “You know, I could set you guys up if you’d like.”

Akasha elbowed him in the side. “Oh yeah sure. An Egyptian Pharaoh wouldn’t have any interest in me. He probably had many concubines back in the day.”

“You know I’ve never asked him about his love life,” Larry said rubbing his chin. Akasha raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t tell me it’s so lonely here at night you started talking to the exhibits like they’re real? You’re not turning 7:30 on me are?”

“Hey I can’t have it being boring around here at night. Come on, there’s more to see,” Larry said leading her out of the Pharaoh’s Tomb.

“Actually I should get home to Yuki,” Akasha suddenly said adjusting her purse on her shoulder.

“Alright. Text me if you need me okay?”

“I will. Thanks. I had fun. Hug Nicky for me.” With that they hugged each other and Akasha left the museum.

#night at the museum #night at the museum roleplay #ahkmenrah #ahkmenrah x oc #ahkmenrah x akasha #pics won't always be edited to OC preference

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sparksthatfly · 5 years

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Love is Made of a Cup of Sugar, a Hint of Spice and a Pinch of Madness

“Pipe down,” said Nan. She was trying to hear the 7 O'Clock news. The same gassy old man burped up the news. He spoke so slowly he made our pastor sound like Eminem.

Mr Patel and my Nan lived next door to each other and one day Mr P. broke down a piece of that wall to build a door, well actually, a beaded curtain.

Tonight, he was making his famous spicy curry for dinner. Mr P. looks a bit like a tanned walrus. His prolific grey mustache curls down the sides of mouth and grey stubble dot his chin. His bushy eyebrows often raise above his tortoiseshell glasses with another cheeky response that would slide across his lips.

He sang as he cooked, instinctively tucking his fingers into bright spices and adding them into his curry. The smell of strong after-shave and turmeric wafted through the apartment.

The radio was still playing in the background. Slow-talker Schimmel was interviewing a gentleman involved in the making of the new Gillette advertisement pushing men to be ‘be better’ and ‘slamming toxic masculinity ‘. Ultimately, it gave off the feeling that ‘men are toxic’. After years of celebrating masculinity, Gillette infuriated loyal male customers in the masses.

Mr Patel couldn’t care less about the interview. He called out, “Erma, how can you listen to that man. He’s so boring. He makes me want to fall asleep in your kitchen.” He quickly walked into his apartment and came back bustling through the beaded curtain with a tape in his hand. He pressed it into my gran’s radio and blasted what sounded like a Bollywood soundtrack.

Nan tilted her head back and breathed in the atmosphere that is Mr Patel. Replying to my curious look, she said, “ I never traveled Love, but when Mr Patel is here I feel like I’m a million miles away. I feel like a little piece of India has broken off and is standing in my kitchen.”

My gran told me that she only started to know Mr Patel one early Summer morning. Nan had coincidentally come out to water her pansies at the same time Mr Patel was tending to his herb garden.

He hadn’t realized she was there. He laid back in the dark green plastic garden chair on his balcony. After a brief sigh, he started speaking in Hindi.

My gran, who had seen so many seniors going loony living alone chirped,” Mr Patel, who are you speaking to?”

“He looked like he was speaking to a ghost,” Nan said.

He was so stifled his glasses fell off his face as he rapidly turned to see who was up at 5 AM - a time he reserved for private solace.

“Please, call me Rajesh,” he said when he discovered it was Erma leaning on her rusty balcony bars.

“Can I call you Raj?” smiled Erma.

“Actually, Mr Patel was fine,” he said in a half sarcastic, half happy manner.

“Are you okay, Rajesh?” Erma asked sympathetically.

He rested his quivering lips against his fingers, trying to fight back tears biting the back of his throat, “I had the most beautiful wife in the world. She’s been dead for ten years. But, I still miss her. Every. Single. Day.”

“So, you come out here and speak to her when you think no-one is listening,” Erma interrupted. Rajesh looked away and dried his tears on an initialed handkerchief from his wife - no doubt.

“You know there’s no shame in loving someone. To be honest I’m a little jealous ...” Erma pulled a cigarette from a box hidden in her pot plants, taking a drag as she reveled in her envy. Sure, she had been married. Even before he left to buy some milk and never came back, she knew he was in love with someone else - the one who got away. For a second she couldn’t help but pretend she was Fatima (her imagined name for Rajesh’s wife).

The next day at 7 AM (5 AM became a time Erma avoided as an unspoken rule) she called out from her balcony,” Mr Patel, do you have a cup of sugar I could borrow?” After his feet dragged his leather slippers to his own balcony he replied, “Madam, you can call me Rajesh,” he said as he slightly wobbled his head as he spoke. “Well do you?” she curled her faint lips.

When he came back Erma was sitting on her balcony with a tea kettle and two cups. “Would you like some tea, Rajesh?” she said sweetly. Her bright blue eyes that always shone with childlike content melted his suspicious mind. “Why do you want my sugar?” he questioned playfully. “For the tea. And, maybe I’ll bake a cake later,” she beamed.

Weeks went by ‘asking for sugar’. Sometimes Erma asked for sugar and sometimes it was Rajesh. And, on days they were feeling blue it was okay to say,” I’m sorry but I don’t have any sugar”.

Then, one Sunday they decided to go out for coffee together. There was an excellent restaurant downstairs from their apartments called Wendy’s Waffle House. Erma met Rajesh at the restaurant after she went to church. An ebony waitress with thin eyebrows and her wavy fringe pressed to her forehead came to take their orders. She looked like her meant to be job was auditioning for The Great Gatsby. Ultimately, her coquettish demeanor was shattered by her northern accent. She sounded like Amy Winehouse when she spoke.

As Wendy’s Waffle House became a regular spot for Erma and Rajesh, they became increasingly protective over their favorite waitress and friend - Ivy.

Ivy didn’t seem to have her eye on any particular guy. They all seemed manufactured by her insistence to have a bad boy. They all came stomping into the waffle house with their heavy black boots, slick hair and tattooed arms, looking for Ivy to take her on a date. She would come running out the restaurant’s bathroom dressed up and ready to go.

Erma and Rajesh would scowl at her 24-hour boyfriends. Eventually, Rajesh couldn’t take it anymore and demanded to meet her dates. It became such a regular litmus test Ivy’s manager would joke,” Ol’ Karma over there is going to grill his ars,” whenever a new date arrived. Ivy secretly liked it. Where she came from there was nobody who cared enough to see if a man was worth his salt.

Out of the blue, on a Tuesday, after Ivy had cleared the cups from Erma and Rajesh’s table she asked when they would be back at the restaurant. She smoothed her denim apron admitting that there was a guy she liked and she wanted them to meet him.

Mr Patel almost fell over whilst Miss Wise smiled so widely that her wrinkled pink cheeks thinned her cheerful blue eyes. “Oh, that fabulous!” she cooed.

Mr Patel with a serious look reasoned,” Why don’t you bring him up to my apartment and I’ll make my famous curry?”

Miss Wise sensing that this could be a bit invasive suggested,” At least let them go on a date first. We’ll make some tea at my place.”

“I’ll bring the sugar,” replied Mr Patel.

It was early Saturday afternoon. Ivy and her new boyfriend came to visit Mr Patel and Miss Wise. They were playing cards on her tiny balcony, drinking tea. Well, Rajesh was drinking tea and Erma was drinking Irish coffee. Cigarettes weren’t the only thing she hid in her pot plants.

Although Ivy’s date had a full sleeve of tattoos, his cotton collared shirt and freshly pressed jean shorts impressed Mr Patel. Miss Wise couldn’t help but notice the fresh bouquet of sunflowers resting on the cardboard box her date was carrying. He placed the box on the table to give Mr Patel a firm handshake and Miss Wise a gentle hug. He then handed Ivy the bouquet, she blushed.

“Hi, I’m John. It’s nice to meet you both. You mean a lot to Ivy.”

Mrs Wise curiously peaked inside the box. A group of puppies huddled together were sleeping. John explained that he had recently found this abandoned box of puppies outside his tattoo parlor and that he was planning to find them homes but at that moment he didn’t want to leave them alone. “Miss Wise would you mind looking after the puppies while we go out on our date,” he asked kindly.

Erma would have looked after a T-Rex if John had asked because he was such a good-looking and charming young man.

Rajesh inquired,” Erma and I are having curry tonight if you and John would like to join us?” The moment Ivy and John agreed the goofiest smile Erma had ever seen snuck up upon Rajesh’s face.

The date started with a picnic at Hyde Park. The only thing John had in his picnic basket was a bottle of wine and blanket with the Union Jack printed on it. He ran down the street to get a takeaway pizza. “A heart-shaped pizza,” Ivy exclaimed, “You are the cheesiest guy I have ever met,” she grinned.

“I thought we’d be tourists for a day,” John replied.

“Cheesy tourists,” Ivy cheekily touted.

Next, they took a cab to the London Eye. When their glass bubble finally arrived he pulled out a small Bose speaker from the picnic basket he still had in his hand and started scrolling down a list of songs on his phone. He settled on ‘I can’t get no satisfaction’. He looked around at the four other people in the glass capsule and said, “Does everyone know this song? Aren’t the Rolling Stones great?”

John was the type of guy who always lived like there was nothing to lose. Ivy found him seductively strange.

A German man wearing a canary yellow jersey with a bright blue collared shirt, matching pants and designer sunglasses pushed Ivy towards John. She stumbled towards him and grabbed his waist. He spun her until she was dizzy. The metro male German and matching wife were jiving in the background. But, the two voluptuous South African ladies who were brightly dressed in green outdanced everyone. When the ride was over, John quickly grabbed his speaker off the floor and they both hurried out of the capsule feeling invigorated and silly in the best way.

Their last stop was the pinnacle of every tourist’s experience in London - trying to make a Buckingham Palace guard smile.

It was time to go back to Erma’s apartment.

Dinner politely moved over to Mr Patel’s apartment, next door. Between the vibrant atmosphere and spicy dishes even John, a stranger, could see the chemistry between Miss Wise and Mr Patel. Between their private jokes and trinket arguments was some sort of spark. As he took another spoonful of curry John blurted out,” I’m surprised there’s even a wall between the two of you.”

Miss Wise’s cheeks turned bright red. But, Mr Patel’s eyes widened and almost exploded as his ego inflated trying to protect itself from a truth he hadn’t thought about before…

John quickly defused the situation,” I just meant you’re such good friends that you could be roommates.”

Ivy sardonically whispered, “Good save, Mate.”

hat night John’s words were fixated in Rajesh’s mind. “Mmm â€¦ Roommate, it could be fun,” he thought. He could finally have the beaded curtain he always wanted. He was secretly fascinated with hippie culture. He remembered walking into a flamboyant record shop with hippie slogans and floral designs on the walls and the smell of marijuana that clung to the air. He shrugged thinking about how incense and Yoga were never anything new to him but it would be nice to be a little more ridiculous and free for once.

His used his fixation to mask what or who he was thinking about.

The next day he phoned John. A professional sounding voice responded to his call.Rajesh was dumbstruck by the response and asked again if it was John on the other side of the phone.

“It’s me, Mr P., can I phone you back I have to operate on a Jack Russel right now.”

“John, I thought you owned a tattoo shop.”

“I have part ownership in a tattoo parlor and I’m a vet.”

“I would give this man my blessing tomorrow to marry Ivy, he’s a doctor,” Rajesh thought to himself, “An animal doctor but still a doctor.”

“Hey John, will you help me break down a wall?” he asked awkwardly.

“Uhm, sure. Let me phone a friend to help,” John never expected his comment at dinner to be taken seriously.

The next day whilst he was helping John break down a piece of his wall and put in a bright orange beaded curtain, Ivy went shopping for Miss Wise.

Rajesh entered her apartment like a genie from a lamp through the hole in the wall when Erma arrived at her apartment. She yelped, “ Is this your idea of an overdue mid-life crisis. I was hoping for a much younger girlfriend or for you to become Uber’s first tuk-tuk driver in London.”

Rajesh rolled his eyes, “Don’t you see we’re roommates now.”

“The real rebels of Bloomberg apartments,” Erma chuckled.

“Hippies, actually…”

“I get it,” tears of laughter streaming down her face, “Communal living.” “

She calmed her laughter which seemed to be bruising his dreams and his ego like a soft peach.” I think it’s a lovely idea Rajesh. Life would be so boring without you, Deary,” she admitted tenderly.

Erma went to bed but Rajesh stayed up and sat on his balcony praying to Ganesh - the remover of obstacles. He finally admitted to himself that he was falling for a woman who’s not his wife and nor is she Indian. Ganesh whispered,” I am not the god you are looking for.” His mind veered to the God of Duty - Vishnu. Rajesh wondered if there were any obligations he truly had left toward his community.

He had been a faithful husband, a good father and a stable pillar of his community for many decades. Was it not, in fact, his duty to live his life to the fullest. He didn’t want to live the last remaining years of his life with any regrets. He walked through the beaded curtain, towards Erma’s bedroom. He laid behind her and wrapped his arms around her.

Erma woke up to a familiar warmth and asked,” Why are you in my bed?”

“You were right I am having a midlife crisis but it’s not over yet. I need a much younger girlfriend.”

Perhaps when Nan is speaking about her spicy neighbour it’s not in reference to his cooking ...

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geminiwrld · 6 years

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The Jacket 01.

Sweet Pea x Reader

Riverdale, a town where everybody knows each other and their business. A place that had a great divide better the posh north side and the destitute south side. One side had the Serpents and the Ghoulies while the other had the Lodges. Each side had their dirt, maybe more than the other, but there was something special about the both of them.

A new family was coming to Riverdale, and rumors were already brewing. Well, one of the family members was familiar with the small town. The mother, Diane Jackson, a chocolate firecracker, with an afro big enough to supply Earth, Wind and Fire,was born and raised in Riverdale. When she was eighteen she left her hometown, because she wanted to see what was outside of her tiny town. She went to Seattle, Washington a city where her past would not catch up with her and she could peacefully start a new life their and she did. A force drew the family to Riverdale and the three members all agreed that the city life was becoming to reckless. So they decided to pack up, leaving their life in Seattle and moved to the seemingly peaceful town called Riverdale.

-------

The gruff sounds of a Uhaul and the soft humming from a motorcycle were the only sounds heard on the road. Upon the family’s arrival the weather was depressing, grey skies and cool winds, shades of green whipped passed the drivers as they made their way to the town. In the Uhaul, Diane sat in the driver seat and her husband Vontae, a tall caramel man and had a short fro, who was the sunshine of Diane’s eyes slept in the passenger seat.They met soon after Diane moved to Seattle and were connected by the hip ever since. Their daughter

rode behind them, trying not to go too fast.

Cassandra Jackson, the new sophormoreat Riverdale High. A medium toned African-American teen, with tight brown curls touching the middle of her back. Her dark brown eyes ignited with passion and rebellion as she goes about her days. She was a perfect mix of boom and street smart, just like her mother. She always knew how to play the game, without getting caught up,even in unfamiliar places like Riverdale. Another thing Cassandra got from her mother, was a jacket. The leather jacket, with a two headed red eyed, green serpent on the back. The words “South Side” on the top and “Serpents” on the bottom, was always found on the teen. The jacket came from her mother, a symbol of her time in Riverdale, the truth but not the whole truth.

------

The family continued driving along the bumpy road and soon made a turn disappearing amongst the trees. The further they drove, a sign on the side of the road became more visible.A curious Cassandra slows down and puts her foot on the ground as she stopped to read the sign.

“Riverdale, the Town With Pep!” she mocks in a high pitched voice “Tch.”

She sets herself back on the bike and continues to drive to her destination

————

The trees left and were replaced with shabby houses, trailer parks, small shops, an abandoned school with graffiti all over,and this large log cabin styled building with motorbikes decorating its parking lot. The trees took its place once again and Cassandra began to ride faster. After playing speed racer behind her parents and hearing the glorious honks of the other riders on the road, the family crossed the train tracks that led to the other side of town. A retro diner right by the train tracks,caught Cassandra’s attention.

“How cute.” she thought.

She continued to ride and soon the scenery changed again. This was obviously the nicer part of town. The small shops looked more kept together and the streets weren’t as dirty as it was on the opposite side of the tracks. The homes on this side were a lot more upscale. A complete 360 from what was behind the diner. This is the side of town the Jackson family would be residing for the rest of their time in Riverdale.

Driving through the suburban neighborhoods of Riverdale,the Uhaul began to slow down approaching a of a white two story house. Cassandra stopped at the mailbox and took off her helmet, while her parents backed into the driveway next to their red Toyota Camry and her navy blue Ford truck behind it. The cars and the bigger furniture was brought to their new house a 3 days in advance. She leaned on the bike and waited for her parents to come out. Her mother, Diane, jumped out of the truck first followed by her father,Vontae. Her father started unloading the U-haul while Cassandra and Diane started talking.

“Hey mom, I got the jacket,” Cassandra smiled “almost forgot it.”

“All these years and this jacket still looks good as new.” Diane rubbed her daughter shoulders

“That’s ‘cause it has an awesome owner.” she gave spin with a smirk.

Diane laughed softly at her daughter antics.

“Come on let's help your father with the stuff.”

“Yes m’am.” She nodded.

After what seemed like a decade, everything was unpacked. The only that remained was a small box in Cassandra’s bed that contained memories of her past life back home. Diane and Richard were down stairs fixing dinner, while the curly haired girl was upstairs taking a shower.She came out of the bathroom with a purple cotton towel wrapped around her body and made her way to her room, shutting the door behind her. Cassandra changed into pajamas, black shorts that stopped mid-thigh and a random shirt, and went downstairs to eat.

Everyone ate in silence, until Cassandra decided to break that.

“So, what’s the school called again?” She looked up at her parents

Vontae dropped his fork, “How could you forget and we just told you?” His deep voice could vibrate the table.

“You told me a week ago, how could I not forget.” Cassandra said sarcastically.

“Riverdale High is the school and you start tomorrow.” Diane sighed and continued eating.

“Tomorrow! I can’t even see what this town is about?” She dropped her fork.

The parents continued to eat.

“You can… after school.” The mom stuck out her tongue in a cheek my matter.

“If you say so” she sighed “Where is this place at?”

“We passed it up on the way here. ” She knew her daughter was trying to get out of going to school.

“Right.” She rolled her eyes and started eating again.

“It is a good school, I enjoyed going there.” she said reassuringly.

“I thought you went to Southside High?”

“Yeah I went there for my last two years since they finished building the school after ny sophomore year.”

“Oh.” she nodded

“You have to start for eight, so be up at 7 or before then”, He said sternly, “and no shenanigans!”

She took a final bite of her food and said, “Yes sir and yes m’am.” She got up from her seat and headed to the kitchen to put her plate in the sink. Cassandra told her parents goodnight and headed up the stairs, to her room, and finally to sleep.

————

Banging on the door slowly faded in the sleeping teens ears.Cassandra peaked from under her covers, immediately regretting her decision as she groaned at the sunlight that passed her curtains.

“Wake up sweetheart, it’s your first day!” A loving voice came from the other side of the door.

Cassandra huffed and sat up, glaring at the door through her hair in her face.

“Kill me why don’t you?!”

The door opened and Diane leaned against the threshold. She put a hand over her heart and gasped.

“Oh, I couldn’t do that.” she shook her head.

Cassandra slung the covers off of her body, letting her feet touch the tan carpet.

“Oh yeah why not?” In groggy voice she stood up.

“Duh, I would go to jail and who wants to go jail?” She yanked one of Cassandra’s arms and dragged her to the bathroom.

“This counts as abuse you know.” She whined.

“No it’s not.” Vontae says standing next to the bathroom door, sticking out his tongue.

“I know my rights, and this” she pointed at her parents, “aint right” you shut the door.

“Sure Jan.” They said together and laughed.

The curly haired beast looked at herself in the mirror and huffed. She started to the run the water and brushed her teeth while waiting for the water to get warm. Cassandra spat into the sink and rinsed her mouth out. She smile at herself in the mirror and proceed to take her shower.

——————

After her shower she returned to her room to get dressed for the day.

She went to her closet and found a pair of ripped skinny blue jeans and a loose white t-shirt. After putting those on she went to her vanity and picked out her hair and then brushed it up into a bun. Light makeup was applied and she was ready. Cassandra grabbed her black combat boots, her book sack, and her leather jacket and left her room.

“Come on!” A feminine voice rang from down stairs.

“I’m coming!”

She walked down stairs and met her parents at the bottom of the stairs.

“How do I look?” Cassandra gave a fake smile.

They stared at her.

“Alright let’s head out” Richard said.

“Slander. Pure slander.”she said under her breathe.

Diane had Cassandra’s keys in her hands. Cassandra grabbed the keys from her mother’s hand and started going towards the door.

“Alright I’ll be on my way.” she rushed out of the house and locked the door.

Her parents stood side by side of each other stared at the door that their daughter went through.

“Have a nice day” Vontae said softly

The rumble of her motorcycle was heard from outside and soon faded out as she took off to her new school.

“Shit!” Diane jolted, scaring her husband.

“ What ?”

“Was she wearing the jacket?”

“I don’t know I was paying attention. I think so..”

“Shit!”

“What’s the problem she wears it all the time?” Vontae crossed his arms.

Diane sighs, giving up “I need to tell you something.”

#sweet pea x reader #riverdale x reader #riverdale fanfiction #sweet pea #riverdale #betty cooper #jughead jones #southside serpents #toni topaz #fangs forgarty #the jacket #sweet pea fanfic #sweet pea imagine #serpents #riverdale serpents #sweet pea x oc #southside

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reckoningss · 6 years

Text

The Gap

Summary: A girl meets Bucky at a bar in Brooklyn and finds that they’re both pretty far from home.

Pairing: Bucky x Unnamed Character

Warnings: Mild violence, Angst

Wordcount: 5.5k

A/N: I’m reposting this for @carryonmywaywardcaptain ‘s 1500 Follower Fav Fics challenge. Congrats! Short commentary on why I love this fic at the bottom.

New York isn’t her kind of city, though she’s sure she can be persuaded to…appreciate it. With time. There’s a claustrophobia to it, a manic sort of pressing closeness, without order. The buildings loom, huddled together, roads cutting tightly between them; there’s no true structure to it, no symmetry. And not nearly enough trees. But she’s here with a purpose; there’s work to be done and she can tolerate the teeming masses and the disorder. For now.

It’s just a drink, just one tumbler of South African whiskey that swims silkily between thick blocks of ice and goes down smooth. She revels in the glow for a moment, caramel and earthy vanilla that tastes faintly like home. She sees him across the bar over a sip. It’s a dark place, classic, or so she would believe, all dark oak wood everywhere and low, round tables, and the scent of tobacco and wood smoke. Traditional, like a speakeasy or a place where soldiers would gather to swap stories of their lady loves in the old Hollywood movies. She sees him through the haze of cigar smoke that’s drifting through the air and it’s almost like viewing an old picture of him from 1942, grainy and hazy around the edges.

He’s propped up on a bar stool staring down into his drink, a lager by the looks of it, but she thinks he looks like he could use something a lot stronger. She doesn’t want to take her eyes off him, doesn’t want to lose him through the haze and the throng of people slipping through the tables. The baseball cap on his head is pulled down low, but she can tell he has a strong brow, can see the lack of sleep pooling in the shadows beneath his tired eyes and she sympathizes with him. Without knowing him, without ever having spoken to him, impossibly, she sympathizes with him.

He looks up now, feeling eyes on him, hyper-aware that he’s being watched, practiced eyes picking over the crowd subtly before they land on her. She’s rewarded with a gentle thrill, excitement running down her spine when his gaze meets hers, and she feels like he’s studying her - eyes narrowing imperceptibly as he tries to place her. Classify her. She sees him relax ever so slightly; she’s obviously not the kind of threat he should be worried about. So she raises her glass to him in acknowledgment, nearly empty, before lowering it again to her lips and taking down another mouthful. She sees a reluctant smile tip up the edges of his lips as he raises the bottle to them and swigs.

She takes it as an invitation, rising from her chair, picking up her empty tumbler, ice clinking gently against the glass. She makes her way over to the bar and settles onto a stool near to him, one seat in between them, no need to be too forward. It’s a safe distance, distance enough to chat casually, leaving room for more. More conversation, more familiarity, more intimacy.

She notes the layers of clothes - the long sleeves beneath a jacket despite the increasingly warm weather, the black gloves over large hands, and she says nothing. He takes her outstretched hand in his right one apprehensively (after taking a moment to assess it suspiciously) but shakes it firmly. She offers her name, listening to him repeat it back to her like he’s testing it, considering the weight of it on his tongue and she appreciates the sound. He offers his and she tilts her head at him because he very well could be a James, but he doesn’t look like one to her. She accepts it anyway.

He’s standoffish, and to begin with she can’t tell if it’s because he’s impolite or just unsure. It’s the latter, but it takes some time to work that out. They start off slow, testing the waters with polite small talk. Boring. Safe. But eventually she draws him out; he’s a lot lonelier than he’ll let on and she could use some company in this brimming, primitive city too. He’s an old soul, she finds, nostalgic for the old days and the old ways. A world that he could’ve made sense of, one that he could belong in. She feels that familiar sensation rising in her chest but this time it’s empathy because she too is a stranger adrift in a strange land, longing for the comforts of home.

He warms to her slowly, gradually, like winter snow caps running off the mountains, but she has the persistence to wait. She warms to him too, liking his old-fashioned manners, liking the way he speaks like an actor from the golden age of radio. By the time she’s finally rewarded with his laugh, they’re so deep into conversation that they feel like old friends. He feels like he recognizes her, he says, feels as though he’s seen her before. Something about the roundness of her face, the depth of her brown skin and eyes feels familiar, reminds him of someone he’s met. She laughs. She’s not from around here, she says, not even close. He buys her another whiskey - on the rocks - just like the first.

The hour’s not too late when he rises, ready to leave. She’s long since finished her second drink and he’s just finished nursing the beer, the last drops of it going down flat and frothy. He pushes her stool back in for her when she stands, and she smiles at the politeness of it - what a man. She follows him outside, smiles again when he holds the door open for her, the bell still tingling quietly overhead as she passes. They stop on the sidewalk, the sky gray with night and the thick smoggy haze of the city, the streetlights haloed in smoke. He tries to say goodbye to her, his voice low and, she thinks, tinged with regret. Regret to go back to a world of unfamiliarity and solitude. Her heart aches for him.

“Let me walk you home.” She says it meekly - no need to be presumptuous - not wanting to scare him off.

He pauses, taken aback for a second. Smiles wryly at her. “I think I should be offering to walk you home.”

She shrugs. “I’m in a hotel just up the street.” His eyes follow the path indicated by her back-turned thumb over her shoulder. “You have a longer walk than me.” She grins. “And I didn’t think we were done talking yet.”

So they walk, her boot-clad feet scuffing lazily against the cement. He’s not a great talker, not like he used to be, but he’s found himself rather animated with her. And she’s found herself enthralled with him. She likes to hear him speak, the rise and fall of his voice, the cadence lost to time. She likes to listen to his stories. Stories of a friend and of travel and a lifetime long past. She can see the far-off look he gets when he reminisces, hear the wistful lilt in his voice and she wants to make it better. To dust off the relics of a life he used to know and restore him to his former glory, but she doesn’t think she can.

She stops at the steps leading into his flat to say goodbye, looking up at him from the sidewalk, and he’s looking down at her and she doesn’t want to go but she has to.

“Have a good night, James. It was nice to meet you.” She offers her left hand to shake and for a moment he looks as though he’ll raise his, but he doesn’t. He’s staring down at her hand like it will bite him - like her touch will set him ablaze, so she switches to her right. He takes it, an air of relief settling around him as his large hand surrounds hers and holds.

“Do you want to come inside?” There’s apprehension in his voice when he asks and an unsure fidget in his posture and she wants to end his unease so she accepts with a smile.

He leads her inside and up the stairs to the second floor and down the hall toward the last door on the left. She stands behind him as he unlocks it, gloved hand reaching into the pocket of his jeans to retrieve a sparsely populated key ring. He unlocks the door and holds it open, shuffling out of the way so she can step inside and for a moment she’s cloaked in darkness before she hears him follow after her and the door closes softly and the deadbolt slides home and he flips the switch and the front hallway is flooded with light.

It’s a minimal apartment - bare walls, no pictures, little furniture. No plants, she notes. She can see a low, grey couch in the living room across from a humble television set sitting atop a small TV stand. It’s not much but at least the colors tie together, she thinks, and it almost feels like a home. She follows him to the living room and perches upon the love seat when he offers. It’s stilted at first, he’s not used to having anyone in his space, not in a long time. Certainly not in Romania. In Bucharest, he was just beginning to taste freedom again, but it was false. Freedom that required that he always look over his shoulder, that he hide himself away; there was no room for another person. No space on the mattress on the floor or in the small kitchen. A guest would’ve meant one too many obstacles between himself and his mode of escape. Too many contingencies.

But now she’s in his living room in New York and she feels huge. It’s as if she’s taking up all the space in the room, sucking up all the air, the crown of her head brushing the ceiling. But he doesn’t hate the feeling. He offers her a beer because he doesn’t know what else to do, and she happily accepts. The re-formed ice is weak; they break it easily, conversation beginning to flow again. Picking up where they left off. They talk for hours, her asking questions and him answering them. He’d forgotten how good it felt, to converse, to laugh. To feel…normal again. Human again.

He is a perfect gentleman, maintaining a respectful distance on the couch, careful not to brush his hand against hers as he hands her the bottle, eyes forever on her face, and she’s glad for it, but she hates the waiting and guessing. So she has to make a move.

She catches him in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, leaning against the frame as he bends to retrieve her second beer from the fridge. He kicks the door shut as he backs away and when he turns he’s inches from her. Stock still. He wants to say something, but the words die on his lips and all he can do it stare down at her, her big brown eyes staring up at him. He thinks he stops breathing when she places a hand on his bicep and leans in, rocking up onto her toes so she can press her lips to his. Her forehead tipping the bill of his cap back until it topples off of his head and tumbles down his back and hits the floor.

For a moment he does nothing, just stares in wide-eyed shock at her face so close to his, eyes closed, and then he feels it, and his eyes close too and he’s kissing her back. Her arms snake around his neck and she sighs, ever so slightly, and sags into him. He’d almost forgotten what it was like, to be held. To be kissed. He remembers that he likes it. His right hand finds the small of her back and pulls her closer, the left still at his side, unsure. Unused. So she reaches out, never taking her lips off his and takes a hold of the strong wrist, guiding it to her waist. He hesitates for a moment, fingers hovering over her, before giving in, his hand forming to the dip of her waist. She stifles a shiver; his fingers are cold through the fabric of the glove. Cold on the strip of skin where her shirt has lifted away from the waistband of her jeans.

She’s smiling when she pulls back and he can’t quite place the warmth in his chest, but he’s pretty sure he’s smiling too. He resists the urge to pull her in again; that would be forward. She presses a cheek to his chest and listens to his even breath rush in and out and waits as his arms surround her, halting, but inevitable. He lowers his chin to the top of her head. Her hair smells like cocoa and amber.

It’s late now, late or early, and he’d rather if she didn’t walk home, and his conscience won’t let him put her in a cab alone at this hour so he takes a chance. He asks her to stay. She’s not scandalized like he feared she might be and relief washes over him when she accepts. She laughs when he offers to sleep on the couch, knowing that its length won’t accommodate his height. But she’s touched by his traditional sensibilities and his concern for her comfort.

“We’re both adults here. I think we can share a bed responsibly.” He looks unconvinced, an expression creeping onto his face that suggests that she might scandalize him instead. She grins. “I’ll stay on my side if you’ll stay on yours.”

In the bedroom, he offers her a T-shirt and a pair of shorts. She accepts and watches him leave the room so she can change. She breathes deeply as she pulls the tee over her head, pressing the fabric to her face. Leather and a subtle, powdery floral. The scent is intoxicating and overwhelming and for a second, maybe longer, she’s lost in it until he knocks, the door opening just a crack he sticks his head in, eyes down-turned modestly. He asks if she’s ok and she wrestles the shirt over her head quickly, thankful that her deep brown skin hides the evidence of her embarrassment.

She picks at the cotton hem and calls him in. He gives her a quick once over as he shuts the door behind himself, noting how the shorts fall past her knees and the shirt hangs to her hips. She perches on the edge of the bed as he rummages through a drawer, watching the muscles of his back move beneath the fabric of his shirt. The door shuts quietly as he retreats to the bathroom to change and she listens as she piles her braids into a bun the top of her head to the sounds of cabinets opening and closing and water running and after a while she slips under the covers and lies back.

The room is just as minimal as the rest of the house but the bed is comfortable. There’s not a lot identifying it as someone’s place of dwelling, somewhere safe they can return to at the end of the day, but there’s room for improvement. Room to grow into it. He emerges from the bathroom in a pair of shorts and a long sleeve dri-fit, the thin material hugging the slope of his shoulders and the curves of his arms, that same black glove on his left hand.

His clothes are discarded in a simple hamper and then he lowers himself into the bed, slowly. Deliberately. She imagines that she can hear his bones creaking like old wood and she laughs.

“You’re such an old man.”

He peers back at her over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised and a smirk tugging at his lips. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

He reaches over and flicks off the lamp on the crate that serves as a nightstand and they’re plunged into darkness. She can hear the mattress whine as he lowers himself all the way down and fidgets to get comfortable, sighing when he finds just the right position.

For a moment they lie in silence, side by side, their breathing falling in time. Once again there’s a respectful amount of space between them and once again she makes the first move, reaching out in the darkness, her hand searching blindly for his until her reaching fingers meet the fabric of a glove and she intertwines them. He stiffens beneath her touch, silence stretching taut between them before he breaks it.

“That’s…my bad hand. It won’t be comfortable.”

She waits for a moment, considering, before turning onto her side to face him. “I don’t mind if you don’t.”

And he doesn’t. He tightens his grip, glad for the first time in a long time to have a hand to hold. His hand is hard in hers and she doesn’t say anything but before he turned the light out she could see the faintest metallic glint beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

He sleeps fitfully beside her, tossing and tangling himself in the thin sheets well into the night. Anguished murmurs punctuate his unconscious panting, words too low and unintelligible to decipher. Occasionally she wakes, places a hand on his arm and listens to his labored mutters until his breathing evens again. In the faint glow of a streetlight that filters in through the curtain she can see the curve of his brow and how it furrows, deep lines of worry and despair working their way into his face when he dreams, and she watches until they disappear fading into nothingness when he stills and peace returns to him. She keeps her hand on him and after a while he stills, slipping into more restful sleep.

She wakes in the morning before the light has even had a chance to slant through the shuddered blinds. Her back is to him but she can hear his easy, whistling breath coming in the rhythm of sleep. She turns toward him, curling in until her face is only millimeters from his. He doesn’t stir. So she leans in closer, tucking a tendril of brown hair behind his ear so she can whisper into it.

“Kulala ngokujulile, ingcuka emhlophe.” The xhosa is familiar on her tongue as she chants the practiced words, low and soothing like a lullaby. He sighs, the shroud of sleep tightening around his well-conditioned brain.

She goes to work, sitting up on the edge of the bed, every movement silent and careful so as not to wake him. She brings her foot up onto the mattress, pulling off the bracelet that hangs snugly around her ankle, the magnetic force that holds it together responding to her ministrations. A small bead comes off the end, only a few millimeters in diameter, and then the bracelet goes around her wrist as she slips from the room.

In the hall, she presses on the bead and it gives a mechanical click, collapsing and separating into a series of translucent, faintly iridescent disks. Thin. Nearly invisible. Absolutely untraceable. She presses a disk to the wall just outside his door, right above the baseboard, where it blends into the paint as though it had never even been there. Then she stretches up on her toes, using the door frame for leverage, as she pushes one into the wall where it meets the ceiling. A blue grid of light tracks down the wall as the disks sync before blinking out - armed. She continues.

She places disks in the kitchen and living room, presses them to the corners of the glass of the windows, each perfectly hidden and immediately functional. She’s quick, efficient and careful, mindful not to step on the sections of floor that she noticed prone to creak the night before and light on her bare feet.

It’s in the front hall, as she’s stretched up onto her toes again to place a disk near the ceiling that a metal fist goes flying past, mere inches from her face. She feels the rush of air as it rockets by and buries itself in the wall by her head in an explosion of dust and drywall. She throws herself away from it, reflexes rebounding quickly from the shock of being ambushed. Her back collides with the wall and he’s on her immediately, crowding her, the tight sleeve of his dri-fit shirt ripped away from his bionic arm. His human hand is on her shoulder, gripping like a vice and she could probably fight her way out of this, could probably get away alive, but she didn’t come here to fight.

There’s rage in his blue eyes, pure and unadulterated, nostrils flaring, his chest heaving with it. She ignores that, turning her head to look at the hole in the wall where he buried his arm up to the elbow yawning wide.

“You probably shouldn’t have done that.”

He practically growls, rage mounting at her flippant tone, at the audacity, and his metal hand flies to her neck, fingers clasping around her throat and shoving. Her head contacts the wall with a little too much force and probably leaves a dent in the drywall. Her vision swims, only for a moment, but she already feels annoyance rising in her spine when she touches back down again. She has to hold back.

“Who are you? Who do you work for?”

She can hear the rising panic in his voice, mingled with the anger and she knows it’s a dangerous combination. So she tries to calm him.

“Bucky-”

His brows knit together at the sound of his nickname, a name he never told her. He pulls her forward by her throat, bringing her face only millimeters from his and she can feel the heat radiating off of him before he shoves her back, her tall frame leaving an imprint in the wall with the force of it and it hurts this time. His grip tightens on her throat and he lifts, her whole body coming off the ground, feet flexing as her toes search for purchase on the floorboards where there is none.

“Who. Are. You.”

His hold on her is starting to hurt now and she raises her hands to the cool metal of his arm, for the first time alarm beginning to rise in the back of her constricted throat.

“Bucky, pleas-”

She chokes the words out, hisses them, all the while his hold tightens, the metal slats of his arm working together to constrict with every exhalation. Like some mechanical python, the pieces ratcheting to squeeze every last breath out of her as she speaks. Her eyes are going to roll back into her head, she can see darkness beginning to creep in around the edges of her vision but she forces herself to keep her gaze steady on him.

“I can’t…talk with your…hand around my throat.”

He releases her, her body dropping back to the ground, feet contacting the hardwood like coming home and she gulps lungfuls of sweet air. She almost wants to be sick. But she won’t.

He says a name, the one she had told him, the false one. He spits it back at her like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. She doesn’t blame him. So she straightens and tells him her real name, all pretense falling away, the syllables rolling off her tongue naturally, her accent thick as she crosses her arms over her chest in the Wakandan salute, right over left. He turns away from her, angry and relieved and unsure how to feel.

“I am a member of the Dora Milage,” she calls after him.

The pieces are falling into place in his head; he’s seen her before. The memory is sparse. Full of holes and whirling wildly with color and light but he remembers. He sees himself pinned to the ground in a Wakandan field, the tall grass waving around him like the sea. An outrider sits on his chest, three of its clawed hands grasping his arm, his bad arm. Its snarling maw leering in his face, rank breath washing over him. There’s pain from where the metal meets his skin, rending pain like being torn apart and he just knows he’s going to lose his arm again. But then there’s a flash of red and the alien chokes on a shriek as a spear pierces its thick hide. It tumbles off of him and he looks up to see his savior. A Wakandan warrior, nameless, nearly faceless but for a moment before she’s gone and he’s fighting again too.

He turns back to her as the memory falls away from him, eyes searching out her face and registering the familiar features. The roundness of her face, the fullness of her mouth. The braids are new but, then again, it has been months. Then anger pushes out his gratitude and she sees it passing over his face like a storm cloud, leaving gloom in its wake.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is low and tight and she knows better than to set him off again. He paces away from her as he speaks, anger bubbling up in his voice. “Who sent you? T’Challa?”

“Shuri.”

He turns at the name, remembering the girl, the princess. A scientist smarter and more capable than anyone he’d ever known. The woman who’d silenced the echoes of Hydra’s programming rattling around in his head.

“The princess. Why?”

“To check on you.”

He bristles, remembering the night spent laughing and the cold empty bed that followed.

“To spy on me!” He grabs her hand, raises it so they can both see the remainder of the disassembled bead, the disks fanned out in between her forefinger and thumb. “What are these?”

She looks down when he lets go, hand falling back to her side. Feels as though she’s been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

“They’re biometric scanners.”

He looks confused so she explains.

“They pick up vocal patterns, heart rate, brain waves. Body chemistry. To make sure-”

“That I’m in my right mind.” He glares at her from beneath a heavy brow, blue eyes full of hurt.

“They just test for triggers. To keep you safe!”

He scoffs. “And everyone else. Can’t have me killing another world leader can we?” He turns away, pushing past her to stalk out of the hallway and into the living room and she follows.

“I know you didn’t kill T’Chaka.” He stops in the middle of the room, some of the defensiveness leaving his posture. A good sign. “In any case, we both know how dangerous you could be in the event of a relapse.”

“Gotta keep me contained.” He keeps his back to her, hiding the hurt. Holding it compactly in his center.

“No.” She can’t help the frustration that’s beginning to color her tone; his refusal to trust her is expected, but no less disappointing. “The entire point - the only point - of this is to protect you!”

“Then why not just talk to me?”

“Shuri didn’t think you would like the idea of being surveilled, even for your own protection.”

“You’re right, I don’t.”

She clasps her hands together to keep her temper at bay. “Well, what were we supposed to do? We lost contact with you months ago! You left Wakanda before you had a chance to fully complete your rehabilitation.”

He sighs, tired of the arguing and the going in circles. He runs a hand over his face. Tries to calm himself down. There’s no use in fighting when help is being offered. “You could’ve just said something last night.”

She moves into the room finally, coming to a stop beside him. “That wasn’t part of the mission.”

His mood dips again at the word ‘mission.’ It’s clinical, a dehumanizing distance to it and if there’s anything he hates, it’s feeling like a thing. A test subject. An objective. A mission.

“A what exactly is the mission?”

For a moment she debates whether or not she should tell him. But by now she’s well past the point of discretion so she does anyway.

“Confirm visual contact, infiltrate, place the biometric scanners and confirm operation.”

He scowls. “So all of that small talk and the flirting was just a nice touch. You could’ve just climbed in through the window, done your business and left when I wasn’t home so why the act?”

For the second time she’s grateful that her deep complexion hides her self-conscious blush. She reaches out to him, her palm contacting the cool metal of his arm. “It wasn’t an act.”

He scoffs again, jerking away from her but she follows.

“I mean it.” She can see him building up a wall again - putting space between them again - distrust pushing her back beyond his defenses once more. “I saw you…In Wakanda. You were the first person I ever saw from the outside. Face to face. And even then it was indirect. I only caught glimpses of you. Only ever heard stories. And then we fought side by side against Thanos and I just –“

She stops herself, feeling too many things at once, wanting too badly to explain herself. Ashamed at having been reduced to a scrambling girl by a virtual stranger.

“Everyone at home knows the stories of the white wolf. I just wanted to meet you.”

“So I’m just another story for you to tell.”

“Bucky. I’ve never left Wakanda before. I didn’t just volunteer for this mission for a cheap story. I wanted to see the world.” She takes a chance, reaching out to cup his cheek, raising his head so that the shoulder length brown hair falls away from his face and he’s looking at her. “And I wanted to see you.”

He doesn’t pull away from her touch and she strokes his stubbled cheek with her thumb. He sighs, softening ever so slightly in her hand. She knows he doesn’t trust her but perhaps there are more important things to worry about.

“So I’m not fixed yet?” There’s no hiding the disappointment, thick in his tone, apparent on his face.

“You’re not broken.” She taps the tip of her index finger against his temple gently. “We just want to ensure that you’re the only one banging around in there.”

He drops himself onto the couch, all of the fight leaving him, defeat taking its place. It’s moments like this when he can feel just how long his life has been, can feel all 101 years clinging to his bones and he just wants to give up. He barely remembers his life before anymore, the fragments of it, just the good ones, hazy in his muddled brain like some childhood home that one barely recalls but remembers fondly. Romanticizes. It’s been so long since he’s lived without fear of Hydra’s conditioning knocking around in his head. He’d just begun to hope he could be free of it, hope that in Wakanda the last vestiges of the rusted machinery Hydra had implanted in his brain had been extracted with thorough care. But now… Now, who knows? From the corner of his eye, the shape of a hand can already be seen purpling around her throat and the sight terrifies him. He can almost feel the Winter Soldier breathing down his neck again, feel the invasive presence working its way back into the spokes and cogs and circuits of his metal arm. His fist clenches almost of its own accord.

She’s watching him and she can see the worry and despair festering behind his eyes. She reads them on his face as he thinks and blanches and grits his teeth; he’s warring within himself, fledgling optimism no match for years of crushing hopelessness. She hates herself for hurting him. Curses herself for not being more alert, for feeling the need to meet him and speak to him. To kiss him. It’s her fault. She’s managed to revive decades of fear and oppression - dumped all of his nearly forgotten problems at his feet - and now he’s drowning in them. The Bucky she drew out last night, the one who laughs and kisses like he’s been waiting for years, is losing the battle to the Bucky who hides and locks himself away behind stone and she doesn’t know if she can shift the tide.

She kneels between his knees and takes his face in her hands. “Look at me.” She says it with a lot more authority than she feels but he complies, anguished eyes meeting hers through the fray of conflicting emotions. “You’re not a prisoner anymore; this body is yours. This,” she takes his clenched bionic hand in both of hers, “is yours. No one owns you. Not anymore.”

Eyes shut. His metal fist unfurls, just a bit, and he can breathe again. A deep intake of air and when he lets it out he exhales a demon, one of many.

“You’re going to be who you want to be again, white wolf.”

When he opens his eyes, when those blue eyes meet hers, he looks like he wants to believe her. And it’s enough.

She doesn’t know what she’ll do when it’s time to go back to Wakanda. She doesn’t know how she’ll explain away her stupid fumbling of the mission objectives, but she knows she wants to help him. There’s still hurt in his eyes - pain at having been lied to and she can still feel the suspicion radiating off of him. She’s painfully aware of the space her actions have put between them - so many steps taken back in this new friendship - and she doesn’t know if she can bridge the gap this time.

But she’ll try.

This was the first piece of fanfic that I ever wrote. I just really enjoyed briefly exploring the idea of Bucky being flung or ripped out of time and homesick for a life he didn’t get to live for, relatively, very long. After seeing Black Panther I was really taken with the Idea of Bucky having found peace in Wakanda for the first time in decades, but I felt like - at the time that I wrote The Gap - there weren’t as many Bucky x Wakandan character/reader fics floating around as I would’ve liked to see so I decided to contribute.

Congrats on 1,500!

#CapsFollowerFav1500 #repost #Bucky x reader #Black panther #Dora milaje #Buck x Wakandan!reader #Bucky x you #James buchanan barnes #Bucky Barnes #My writing

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onthewingsofpoesy · 6 years

Text

Here Beside Me 2

“And what is this thing supposed to be?”

Yuuri stirred from his nap at the sound of now-familiar Russian voices drawing nearer. Heavy footsteps resounded over the cement floors, accompanied with a rhythmic and heavy thumping sound. A shadow suddenly loomed over him, so large and wide, it blocked the light of the entire cage.

The kitsune stared disgruntled at the imposing figure looking down at him with disinterest through the bars. The big man leaned against a heavy cane, the source of the resounding thumping. It was capped with a heavy metal jaguar head baring its canines in mid-roar.

A thin, hunched man stood next to him, twiddling his fingers nervously as he regarded Yuuri.

“We think it’s some sort of fox species from Japan,” the thin man replied, adjusting the glasses on the bridge of his nose as if trying to see the kitsune better. “However, he’s a bit of a peculiar case since his fur is quite thin rather than bushy like most fox fur is. He also has a strange set of markings on the crest of his head, quite like Tabby cats with that signature ‘M’ mark on their forhe-”

“It’s quite disappointing, wouldn’t you say?” The imposing figure interrupted, eyebrows raising in consternation. Thin, wrinkled fingers smoothed a heavily gelled cap of salt-and-pepper hair flat against his long skull.

Yuuri bared his teeth at him, irritation flaring through his body. Who did this guy think he was?

“What kind of exotic flair does a black fox have over, say, a tiger? Or a monkey? Even cockatoos are in higher demand than foxes, and they’re just ugly, disgusting little birds. Although, this beast has quite the taste for drama, wouldn’t you say? Look at the way it challenges me.”

“Ah...yes, sir.”

A low growl built up in Yuuri’s chest, rumbling up his throat.

The large figure smiled back, all teeth as if baring them at the kitsune. Without warning, he swung his cane at the steel bars of the cage. The heavy baton blurred as it struck the metal so hard the entire cage threatened to collapse. Yuuri jumped back, startled at the violent shaking of the bars and the loud sound of steel being bashed with a blunt object. The figure laughed, a sound so oily and wicked that Yuuri’s ears pulled back in distress.

“Perhaps this thing can be domesticated. Like a dog. Smack it around a few times and soon enough it will lay at your feet and surrender.”

Yuuri’s tail twitched in agitation and he fought his body not to release the hiss building up in his chest. This man was certainly no stranger to teeth and claws. He must fear none of the animals in this godforsaken warehouse. In fact, he seemed to delight in torturing the creatures enough for them to scream out in agony. Often, the sound was loud enough to be heard over the din of chatter from the other beasts.

Yuuri did not want to be on the receiving end of the heavy cane in the man’s hands.

“It’s already learning not to test me. Perhaps it’s just a strange dog. Quick to bite, quick to fear, easy to condition. Even if it is only a fox, I sense no use in its investment here. No one will pay for this thing, and if they do, it won’t return much profit. I assume the expenses involved in capturing this beast will outweigh the return value. What a poor waste of resources, da?”

The thin man let out a nervous whine and ducked slightly as if expecting a blow.

It never came.

The large man simply tapped his cane on the ground and watched Yuuri with hungry eyes. “Perhaps it will look good lounging on my lap during meetings. They get so tedious these days, and my men are starting to question the mass of my power. Perhaps this little fox would be a lovely addition to the office room, wouldn’t you say? I honestly don’t care if it’s alive to be there or dead and skinned as a rug on my floor.”

The large man turned away and the sound of heavy boots and a tapping cane echoed down the cement walkway. He paused suddenly and called out, “Oh and Marat?”

The thin man turned expectantly.

“I would advise a better settling of our expenses next time. I expect investments to garner suitable interest from our buyers. Returns must be more than the costs taken to make them. It’s all simple economics, you see. Our customers have certain needs and desires when it comes to exotic pets. We capture and ship them cheaply, sell them exorbitantly, and then start the process again and again and again. You won’t get another chance if our next shipments go awry. It would be unfortunate if you were to be involved in a little...accident on your way to Kazakhstan to see your family, wouldn’t you say?”

The thin man shuddered visibly and bowed his head. “I won’t fail you again. I already have a team with a shipment full of animals from a South African black market trade. We will get what our buyers are asking for.”

The boss let out a quiet chuckle. “For your sake, I hope you succeed, Marat.” He turned away and continued down the dirty cement floor, wooden cane tapping the ground as he walked away.

The thin man let out a quiet sigh of relief, shoulders hunching impossibly forward.

Yuuri took a couple more soundless steps backward until the fur of his tail brushed the back wall of the cage. He curled up in a small ball and watched warily over the bulk of his tail as Marat, the thin man, straightened up, a determined expression lighting his features.

Chocolate brown eyes met a set of slate grey ones. Marat broke the stare first and glared down at Yuuri. “I made a mistake with you. You’re nothing special.”

That you know of.

“The boss will kill you, skin you, and use your fur as a place to rest his feet after a long day of work. You’re nothing here and you will die as nothing better than the ground that we trod upon. I won’t make the same mistakes again.”

Marat turned away and strode purposefully after his boss, probably to settle the rest of his plans for the animals being exported from South Africa and get back into his boss’s good graces.

Yuuri felt a twinge of sadness in his chest at the thought.

Every animal in this room and many creatures in the future would be bought and sold by wealthy people who wanted exotic bragging rights, circuses who wanted a set of extraordinary beasts in their repertoire of strange acts, people who would use them as rare meats, who would turn them into handbags, use their organs in drugs, crush their bones to dust, feed their carcasses to other animals, and destroy every trace that they’d ever existed in the world. Their life would be snuffed without a second thought.

It would be as if they’d never existed. Meanwhile, time would keep on moving forward and most of the world would never give a thought to the thousands of animals that perished alone and in pain every single day.

With a heavy heart, Yuuri rested his chin on his tail and watched the bright lights dim in the warehouse. He fell asleep gradually to the quiet noises of the nocturnal animals as they stirred awake and made their restless pacings around the perimeters of too-small cages.

#yuri katsuki #yuuri katsuki #yuri on ice #yoi fanfic #hbm au #kitsune #victuuri

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crimsondustofficial · 3 years

Text

Fallen Saviors

Opening her eyes, Ruby felt warmth around her body again. But this time, she wasn't back at the hotel. It looked like she was in some sort of old apartment. The fading in color, charcoal grey paint was chipping away. The once clean white curtains, now brown with age and torn up, gently danced with the wind that blew in through the open windows, the bustling streets and faint sounds of impatient cars honking at one another. Something wet and slimy licked her cheek before felt warmth and.. fur? Looking over, she reeled her body back when she saw a dog, very close to her face. Slowly and carefully moving her body forward, Ruby got a good look at the creature in front of her. A mastiff, pit bull mix breed sat a few inches from her, a long and pointed tail wagging in a friendly manner. Grayish tan colored fur, deep chocolate brown speckles and stripes splattered and spotted here and there, clung to the body of the animal like a warm, incredibly soft, blanket. Pointed up ears twitched every five or seconds. The very last feature that Ruby noticed were the eyes. The poor dog had empty, inky, black voids for eyes. "Glad to see you're awake." A soft, mellow voice turned Ruby's attention to a figure hidden in a corner. Her bright, sky, baby blue eyes took in the features of a man. Doing the comparison, the puppy in front of her was about the same height as the mysterious man in the corner and the dog was sitting down! Deep chocolate brown, almost dark as the deepest night hair, with tips that faded into either a blood red or a deep blue color barely brushed against his face. But his tufts couldn't cover the visible and incredibly painful looking scar that ran down the side of his face. A single, ruby red eye stared at her with warmth and gentleness, only a dark void for the right eye showed. Pale skin hugged his body perfectly. Various wounds covered any visible part of his body that Ruby could see and they all looked extremely painful. Shiny, black pairs of horns curled on either side of his head while two piercings fit together in his ears and a single lip piercing stood out in the spotlight. A soft, black, comfortable looking hoodie hugged his body perfectly, the image being that of two adorable Sanrio characters wearing a bunny hat and a bat hat, a pink skull in the middle. A pastel pink skirt hugged his waist and upper legs comfortably, his lower legs wrapped up in stretchy, dark socks and his feet snugly fitting into a matching pair of ink black and pastel pink platform shoes. A dark red halo hung over the top of his head with one cross pointed upwards on one side, an upside down cross on the other. Appearing from behind him was a long, spade tip, black Demon tail that began swinging back and forth in a gentle, hypnotic state. The wings were the very last things that Ruby's eyes burned into her memory. From what she could see as they stretched out and ruffled a little bit was the fact that they looked a bit. . . torn. A dark grey colored painted the proud and soft, beautiful looking angel wings. Was he. . .a fallen angel? "Don't worry, I won't hurt you." Ruby sat up and felt something cool and slightly wet pressed against her forehead. Sitting up, a washcloth fell from her forehead. How long was she out for? Last thing she remembered was being surrounded in the alleyway and then, those shadows. . .Did they save her? "It was a good thing that Damien and I got there just in time to save you. Nobody really messes with that trio or goes to that section of town." The fallen angel spoke once more before looking up at Ruby after gently fixing the sleeve of his hoodie. "I'm Anex. What's your name, Sweetness?" Anex asked, a gentle glimmer in that single, bedazzling, ruby red eye of his as he gave Ruby a patient yet kind smile. Ruby grabbed her teddy bear as she looked to the floorboard before glancing back up at Anex. "R. . .Ruby." She stuttered, the shy side of her personality breaking free from the cage of emotions inside of her. It almost looked as though Anex's expression changed drastically as she mentioned her name. "You mean the Ruby that everyone's been talking about?" Well, this was news to Ruby. She didn't know that she had become so famous and she's only been in Hell for maybe two weeks. The quiet sound of a door opening and closing could be heard, followed by the sound of heavy boots clomping against the old wood. "From what I hear, you're the talk amongst some of the guys down at the bar. They say that you're under Princess Charlie's care." That voice. Ruby looked up to see her second savior from earlier. A very tall African male stepped into the room, his upper body having to bend down just a little bit so he wouldn't hit his head. First glance, she took note of his deep, chocolate brown skin. His hair were long, black dreadlocks that brushed against his back and shoulders softly. Dark brown, close enough to black eyes held a calm but piercing aura. A black t shirt with the name of a rock band, written in bold, white text stood out in the middle of the fabric. Torn at the knees, navy jeans clung to his broad legs and heavy, black combat boots hugged his feet. Various, pure white tattoos of skulls, eyes and roses were embedded into both of his arms. Getting up, she wrapped her arms around the tall male, nearly knocking him back before he settled underneath her hold. "There, there. Happy to help." Gently placing his hands on the small of her back, Ruby was encased by warmth and the calming smell of his cologne before she looked up at the African male. Although, she had to crane her head back a bit to be able to look at him fully. "Thank you both for helping me out earlier, Misters." If it's one thing that Ruby remembers, it's to use her manners. If her mother were here, she'd be beaming from how well she raised Ruby. "Name's Damien, kiddo. Now, before we get any further, I do gotta ask. . .What were you doing in that bad part of town?" Hearing Damien's question, Ruby looked down with a bit of an ashamed expression glued to her pretty little face. All because she had been preoccupied in her thoughts and Pentagram City was a very big city to get lost in. Even though she had been here for two weeks, she hadn't really explored all of Pentagram City since everybody at the hotel was busy with their own thing. "I. . .I got lost. I've been down here for two weeks but never had anybody to really show me around the city." Ruby explained, the truth dripping from her every word, like drops of rain dripping down onto a green leaf and rolling down, dripping off of the tip of the leaf. Damien exchanged a glance over at his friend, Anex. It was as if they were thinking the same thing before a small smile stretched onto Anex. Standing up and stretching his arms, Anex bent down to scoop up a small fox. The pastel blue color painted its fur as innocent, dark colored eyes glimmered and focused on Ruby. Small, pure white angel wings stretched out on the small of its back. "I got Algiz and Daisy, Damien. Why don't we show her around the city for a little while before we take her back to her home?" Nodding to his friend's gentle order, Damien turned to the little girl and extended his hand out for her to take. Small fingers were soon grasped in the warmth of his gentle, chocolate brown hand. Once outside, Ruby strolled alongside Damien and Anex, glancing at the many Demons who watched them from afar Daisy happily walked alongside the four of them, Algiz flapping her wings in a slow and graceful manner while she hung around her owner. A couple of them were the same Demons from before, but they were holding their wounds and soon, dashed off in fear as if they were set on fire. Or the hard, icy cold glare from Damien made their blood chill. "Pentagram City is divided into sections, Kid. Each section is ruled over by an overlord. But every so often, Angels from Heaven come down and have a day to annihilate any Demons they find. We call it 'Extermination Day'. You see that tower over there?" Ruby looked to where Damien was pointing and could see a huge clock tower with a pentagram as a part of the clock. Little Devil looking spears were the hands of the clock and the words 'Next Cleanse' sat above a counter of days. At the moment, there were zero days. "It doesn't take too long for that to be updated but each day that ticks by, it's another day that the Angels look forward to coming down here and eradicating all of us." Damien explained, his fist clenching tightly at the mention of Angels. And Anex had to quietly swallow a hard lump in his throat, remembering how things were before he came down here with Damien. . . It made Ruby realize that her mother could most likely come down here. But it wouldn't be for a visit. "Just as long as you mind your surroundings and you keep an eye on that clock tower, you'll be just fine. You understand what I'm saying, Kiddo?" Ruby gave a soft nod in understanding as she looked up at Damien with a soft, almost innocent smile. However, neither of them heard the soft click of a phone camera or a glitchy, yet quiet and crazed chuckle from the shadows of an alleyway. "Gotcha." Business at the Happy Hotel had been rather slow. Not a new face ever since Ruby came into the picture. The Hotel was dead. Both in residents and in noise. The sound of feet walking back and forth echoed in the main lobby area as Princess Charlie was worriedly biting down on her lower lip. "Charlie, you shouldn't worry too much. I'm sure she's fine." Vaggie, the co-owner of the Hotel and the beloved girlfriend of Princess Charlie, groaned softly as she watched her lover walk back and forth for nearly ten minutes. "Vaggie, she's been gone for hours! I'm just worried if anything has happened to her." Charlie replied, the nerves just continuing to eat away at her. Multiple scenarios raced through her mind of what could've befallen poor little Ruby. All of them were not good. Cleaning a cup behind the bar of the Hotel, was a casino themed Cat Demon. Orange irises checked the glass carefully for any specks he might have missed before his taupe colored ears perked up at the mention of Ruby's name. 'Kid's been gone for almost three hours. Better go see if she's alright.' Setting the glass and rag down, the bartender and front desk clerk of the Hotel left the bar, which caught the attention of both Vaggie and Charlie. "Husk, where are you going?" Vaggie asked in utter confusion, looking over Charlie's shoulder when she saw that Husk was at the front door of the Hotel. His wings, large and a beautiful red color with the suits patterned on the inside and outside of the feathers, stretched out as his hand was pressed onto the door. "I'm gonna go see if I can find the little one. I'll make sure to bring her back in one piece." Before either of them could say anything, he headed out the door and took off to the sky. The wind whipped through his wings as he flew over Pentagram City. "Given the current circumstances with a few of the Overlords, I better hurry up and find her before something really bad happens to her." (All credit for Damien, Anex, Algiz and Daisy goes a good friend of mine on Discord.)

#crimson dust #hazbin hotel

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scripttorture · 7 years

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I'm mostly sure this question is under your jurisdiction, though I apologize if it fits under another ScriptX blog. I have a character who commits a crime in the early 1900's that the public hates him for. While he is being transferred between police stations, he is attacked by two separate mobs, the two ordeals lasting ~3 minutes each before he's wrestled away from them. He is later killed in an electric chair by being shocked 3 times. Could you explain how these experiences might feel?

Well I can give it a gobut for hopefully obvious reasons I can’t describe what dying feels like.

There’s a certainamount that additional details would have been helpful here. I don’t know whatcountry this is in and that could potentially change things. I think theelectric chair implies America but you could be writing a fictional world basedon somewhere completely different and I don’t like to assume.

I also feel like it’sworth pointing out that a mob can easilybeat someone to death in three minutes. A punch to the head, when someone isn’texpecting it and can’t defend themselves, can knock a victim unconscious andkill them by the time they hit the floor.

That doesn’t mean thata three minute beating is impossible. But be aware that with a large angry mobthat isn’t going to mean a few cuts and bruises. It’s going to mean thecharacter is beaten black and blue and probably suffering from multiple brokenbones and fractures. Ribs, collar bones, fingers and toes, wrists and nose allseem likely sites of breaks.

I am assuming that themob attacks are just beating withhands and feet rather than armed attacks or the more prolonged torturesassociated with lynchings in America. So far as I know (and my knowledge ofAmerican history is patchy but I am better at African-American history) thesealso commonly included breaking bones and burning before death bystrangulation. More varied scarring tortures were also sometimes employed.

Common ways I’ve seenbeatings described include descriptions of pain as an ‘explosion’ anddescriptions of vision and hearing briefly fading in comparison to the pain.

The Amnestyreport on Syria that I’ve linked to before has descriptions of beatings andelectrical torture but it also includes descriptions of rape, starvation,unsanitary prison conditions and a wide variety of other abuses. It’sparticularly difficult reading and may not be the most relevant to yourscenario.

There’sa report on the Ukraine crisis from 2016 that also describes beatings andelectric shock torture, but once again the descriptions aren’t very helpfulfrom a writer’s perspective.

Beating is anincredibly common torture worldwide. Unfortunately that often means it’soverlooked. I see it noted in a lot of reports but not often described in thevictim’s words the way other tortures are.

Henri Alleg’s The Question is probably a good place tolook. Alleg describes beatings, electrical torture and waterboarding along witha few others things. His account is a lot less bare than most Amnesty reports.

Generally speaking, Isuspect you like most people know what it feels like to be hit or to fall over.You can remember that sort of pain. That’s what beating is. That sort of pain,repeatedly all over again and again.

Don’t be afraid to tryand find your own way of describing that sort of blunt force trauma. Thinkabout the worst fall you’ve ever had and how the ground seemed to shake its wayup through your bones. If you’ve broken a bone before try and remember whatthat felt like as well. Include that. Include the shock and the numbness andthe world going grey round the edges.

Electrical torture ismore difficult to extrapolate to, it’s outside of most normal people’sexperience. From what I can remember about American electric chairs burning wasa relatively common phenomena in the early models. In terms of how that feelstreat it as though it’s a normal burn. Any burns would be around the points ofcontact with the electrodes. I am not entirely sure where these would be in anearly model electric chair, they have changed over the years. I’d suggesttrying to find a picture and description of models from this time period if youcan.

The character wouldconvulse when shocked. This can mean injuries caused by the restraints or chairitself. In other forms of electrical torture it can mean broken bones. I’munsure if this happens with the electric chair. Convulsions of this kind canalso lead to the victim biting off their own tongue.

Beyond that I think thebest I can do for you is copy out Alleg’s description of electrical torture.This was in Algeria during the Franco-Algerian war and it was using a magneto.There might be some difference in the sensation but I think it’s probably thebest place to extrapolate from.

‘Suddenly, I leapt in my bonds and shouted with all my might. Cha- hadjust sent a first electric charge through my body. A flash of lightningexploded next to my ear and I felt my heart racing in my breast. I struggled,screaming and stiffened myself until the straps cut into my flesh. All thewhile the shocks controlled by Cha-, magneto in hand, followed each otherwithout cease. To the same rhythm Cha- repeated a single question, hammeringout the syllables: ‘Where have you been hiding?’

Between two spasms I turned my head towards him and said ‘Youare wrong to do this. You will regret it!’ Furious Cha- turned the knob on themagneto to its fullest extent.

‘Every time you say that I’ll give you a packet!’ And as Iwas continuing to scream he said to Ja- ‘My God he’s noisy! Stuff his mouthwith something!’ Ja- rolled my shirt into a ball and forced it into my mouth,after which the torture continued. I bit the material between my teeth with allmy might and almost found some relief.

Suddenly I felt as if a savage beast had torn the flesh frommy body. Still smiling above me Ja- had attached the pincer to my penis. Theshocks going through me were so strong that the straps holding me to the boardcame loose. They stopped to tie them again and we continued.

After a while the lieutenant took the place of Ja-. He hadremoved the wire from one of the pincers and fastened it down along the entirewidth of my chest. The whole of my body was shaking with nervous shocks gettingever stronger in intensity, and the session went on interminably. They hadthrown cold water over me in order to increase the intensity of the current andbetween every two spasms I trembled with cold. All around me sitting on thepacking cases, Cha- and his friends emptied bottles of beer. I chewed on my gagto relieve the cramp which contorted my body. In vain.

At last they stopped. ‘All right untie him!’ The firstsession was over’

That’s one of the moredetailed accounts of magneto torture out there from a book that set the tonefor talking about torture for decades. I think it’s probably the bestdescription for your purposes.

I hope that helps. :)

Disclaimer

#tw torture #tw death #tw rape #electricity #electric chair #mob violence #beatings #descriptions #alleg #Anonymous

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