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blasphemous-lies-and-deceit · 3 months ago

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"I fucking hate it here."

"Understandable," Michael agreed, the bitter, sullen disgust in his voice somehow greater than Gerry's. He gingerly approached a dresser that was in the middle of the hall, for some ungodly reason, and tugged on the stuck upper drawer until it opened. The documents inside were spotted with mould, and he was very glad he had brought a respirator and gloves. Paging through them revealed years of sales receipts, which could be of interest, if they weren't in such bad shape. Michael made a mental note of them and shut the drawer again. They weren't what he and Gerry had come to Pinhole Books for.

It had been a slow and gradual process to move Gerry into Michael's flat with him. Neither of them had ever come out and admitted that's what was happening‒ at first it was some of Gerry's clothes in Michael's closet, then it was his jewelry joining Michael's own on his dresser, then Gerry's art supplies started piling up on the rarely used kitchen table. Michael had treasured each and every addition, and made space for both Gerry and his things. They were all welcome.

This was the first deliberate venture they had made to Pinhole together, with the express intention of collecting more of Gerry's things and bringing them to Michael's‒ their flat. Two suitcases waited by the stairs, packed with shirts and trousers and other articles that hadn't made the journey already. Gerry was still in his old room, gathering more things, but the rest of the flat was stuffed to bursting with books, and there didn't appear to be much else of Gerry's worth taking.

That was making Michael's chest hurt, and not because of the mold and mildew. Pinhole was so obviously Mary's domain, her store, her home, and Gerry was like an afterthought. There was barely anything in the rest of the flat to show that there had been another inhabitant‒ no shoes by the door, no pictures on the refrigerator, no additional furniture for him to sit on. No touches of Gerry.

In a way, that made things easier, as far as extracting Gerry from such an awful place. But it still made Michael feel utterly sick to his stomach.

He paused at what must have been Mary's office, struck by the large painting on the wall. What had once been a large and intricate eye was in tatters, shredded to pieces by what looked like large claw marks. The rest of the room was in disarray, as if whatever had caused the mess had left it for someone else to clean up. Michael didn't know if it was Gerry or Mary herself, but it clearly hadn't been touched.

"Mum's poltergeist phase." Gerry's flat voice came from behind him. Michael immediately turned and reached out, pulling his boyfriend into his arms. Gerry's face was blank and pale beneath his respirator, eyes dull and vacant, as if being in that place had sucked all the life from him. He gave no reaction to being in Michael's embrace, stiff and unmoving, even as Michael hugged him closer. "I thought…I thought she actually liked that painting, but then she…ripped it apart like nothing. And chucked books at my head. And…and…"

His words dried up, lost to the pages of books that filled the space around them like a tumor. Michael bumped his forehead against Gerry's, the only show of affection he could manage with the safety gear. "Do you have everything?" he asked, desperate to get Gerry out of the damned building. Gerry shook his head, brushing past him into the room, moving like a ghost lost to the past. He crouched, and the floorboards creaked and complained as he lifted one up, sneaking his hand beneath to pull something free.

When he returned to Michael's side he could see that it was a glass jar stuffed with papers, sealed against the dust and mildew, that Gerry cradled very gently against his chest. "It's the only place she wouldn't think to look for it," he explained, the hurt in his voice sneaking out past his face mask. Michael nodded, taking hold of Gerry's arms and guiding him out of the room and through the hall, past the towering piles of books that threatened to collapse on top of them. He didn't bother to ask again, just pulled Gerry along with him, collecting the suitcases on their way out. Out into the fresh air and sunshine, finally free of Pinhole Books.

Gerry stayed silent for the trip back to their flat, holding his jar with a blank look on his face. Once they were there and stripped of their work clothes, he drifted away towards their bedroom, and Michael opted to leave him in peace for a bit. He busied himself with the laundry, not wanting to risk contaminating their flat with whatever had been in Pinhole. When he finally emerged from the kitchen, smelling strongly of chemicals, he found Gerry sitting on the floor of their room, the glass jar empty and its contents laid out around him. Michael paused, unsure if he should intrude, but Gerry looked up at him with eyes wet with unshed tears, and he was helpless to resist.

"I saved everything that I could," Gerry explained as Michael sat down behind him, wrapping his arms around his middle and setting his head on his shoulder. "It wasn't a lot, but for a while she left things as they were before. Didn't bother to throw them out." He scrubbed his arm over his eyes, his burned skin coming away wet. "When I was…twelve, I think, it was the first time I snapped back at her, and she…it was like a storm, she destroyed everything. There was nothing left." His fingers hovered over a ripped piece of paper, a scribbled outline of a flower in a rainbow of colors. "I felt so stupid, but I wanted to hang on to whatever I could. I know we were never a happy family, but maybe…we were a family. Once."

Michael reached over and picked up a photograph by his knee, creased with lines from being folded to fit in the jar. A lump formed in his throat as he looked at the baby held between Mary and Eric, plump and bald and smiling gummily at the camera. Mary looked like she was merely tolerating the experience, but Eric was positively beaming. "You look like him," Michael commented quietly.

"I think that's why Mary couldn't stand to have me around," Gerry noted, his voice thick with emotion, passing Michael another picture. He was a toddler in that picture, standing next to a crouching Eric at some sort of park, both of them wearing large sunglasses and smiling exactly alike. "I used to hear him through the walls sometimes, when Mary summoned him after I'd gone to bed. I thought I was just dreaming, and when I learned…" the tears in Gerry's eyes finally spilled over as his breath stuttered painfully. "She stopped summoning him. And I never got a chance to…know him."

Michael gently set the pictures aside and pulled Gerry back against his chest, pressing his forehead against his temple. "I'm sorry," he whispered, because that was the only thing he could say, because there were no other words to say that could ease Gerry's grief. "I'm so sorry." He was mourning too, for a man he'd never met, but who's absence had affected Gerry all his life. "He would have loved you so much."

Gerry nodded against his collarbone. Whatever he tried to say was broken by a choked sob, so instead his hand scrambled for a roll of papers amidst all the others. They were tightly coiled around an object, and as Gerry struggled with them, a thick metal pen slipped out and onto the rug. Michael picked it up and passed it to Gerry, who held it close and watched as Michael unfurled the papers.

He barely made it past the first line before he was crying too. It was a letter from father to son, a pre-mortem that Eric probably didn't know would be one of the few things he left to his child. Michael couldn't even bear to finish it, putting it aside before his tears ruined the paper. Judging from the places on the letter where the ink was smudged and blotchy, that had happened before.

Gerry was running his fingers over the pen, his own tears falling unheeded as he stared down at it. It was obviously a custom piece, something intended to be passed down, and now it was safely in Gerry's hands where it belonged. Michael tugged him close again, burying his face in Gerry's hair. Now he knew for certain that his boyfriend had inherited his mother's hair color. No wonder he hated it so much.

"He was an artist, too," Gerry choked out, pulling a few pages loose from the tight coil. It was lettering, looping and beautifully crisp, made by the pen now in Gerry's hand. His son's preferred name seemed to be Eric's favorite to practice. "I found these in her office and hid them. When she asked what happened to them I lied and said I didn't know, but I don't think she believed me. I wasn't as good at lying to her then."

There was more unsaid about what Mary's reaction to that was. There was no way for him to soothe that pain, but Michael ran his hands over Gerry's chest, gentle passes up and down, with as much love as he could. A kind touch for every one of pain. "That's all over now," Michael managed to say, sniffing inelegantly and shifting so Gerry's hair came unstuck from his wet face. "You, you don't have to ever go back there again. If you forgot anything I'll go get it for you, but you don't ever have to go back there. You're home now."

Gerry shook in his arms, like Michael's words were a physical thing that had settled over him. "Say that again," he asked, turning and wrapping his arms around Michael, desperately tight, tucking his face into the hollow of Michael's neck. "Please say that again."

"You're home," Michael repeated, rocking them from side to side, hands in constant motion across Gerry's body, familiar and loving. "You're here with me now, you don't have to go back. This is where you should always be." Gerry's sobs sounded like they hurt, but he was clinging back, held safe in Michael's arms, where he belonged. "You're home, my love. You and everything that matters to you, we're all here now. We're not going anywhere."

Those words were as true as he could make them. He didn't know all that the future would hold, but Michael knew that he wanted Gerry in it with him, for him to love and care for and show how good life could be. And he could feel the full weight of Gerry's love for him, the way he clung back to him, seeking comfort from him. Gerry trusted him with his pain and his grief, freely sharing it with Michael after a lifetime of holding it in. That mattered to him more than anything in the world.

Over Gerry's head, Michael examined the pieces of Gerry's childhood, carefully salvaged and hidden for so long. No more, he decided. Those treasured childhood photos could join the ones on their refrigerator‒ the strips from all the photobooths Michael had pulled Gerry into, and the stupid selfies he'd printed off because they made him laugh. Eric's calligraphy would be preserved in a frame, where Gerry could see it whenever he wished. And Michael could take that empty glass jar and fill it with the memories of them together‒ ribbons and snapped shoelaces and love notes and candy wrappers and a million pieces of them. To show to Gerry and anyone else who looked at it that their lives were full of love, and neither of them needed to hide it away anymore.

#the magnus archives #tma fanfic #gerrymichael #doorkeay #gerry keay #michael shelley #heavy warnings of grief with this one #its very sad #mary keay's a+ parenting

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nearest-dearest · 2 years ago

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Sunny (Wally Darling x fem!reader!)

Just a story about a day dreaming girl always in melancholy. Finding her sun in the most quaint little neighborhood. (If you got the references I used in this story let me know 👀.)

(Y/n) three prizes so far. That means there's a lot more to find. At least that's what she assumes. The world she travels to is quite vast, they say that the world is small, but people really under estimate how much a single world can keep some people from seeing each other again. And it's not uncommon for objects that got lost during an adventure to be never found again. Unless you look a little closer to places where you would last look for it. But (Y/n) found no urgency in collecting all the prizes, she just wants to explore and see what this world has to offer. But that will have to wait, for (Y/n) found herself opening her eyes once more. The world turns into her small little room, with the sun rays peeking though the curtains of the window.

She's awake. . .

And she has a story to write.

The neighborhood is as warm and peaceful as it always is. The residents began to emerge from their sleep. Julie Joyful starts her morning off by giving Frank Frankly a surprise visit to rattle on about a new game she had created. Eddie started sorting out mails and letters to be delivered, Howdy Pillar gets his store ready for the day and the rest start off their morning with a cup of coffee. Such resident includes the neighborhood painter, Wally Darling. As he waits for inspirations to come to mind, he caught a peculiar sight outside his window.

(Y/n), dressed in a lovely (F/c) summer dress and carrying her signature leather journal. She must be off to write another story by the woods. Albeit it's a bit too early, but Wally understood. Artists often create art when the inspiration is fresh before they forget.

Speaking of inspiration. One had just came to Wally, and it requires the help of the presence of a certain author. Finishing his cup of coffee, he began to get ready for the day and gather his art supplies.

No matter how (Y/n) thinks and write away, she couldn't get that image out of her head. The way the blonde girl turned into a strange dark creature, (Y/n) already doodled the strange creature on her journal, and it did nothing to calm her urge to fall asleep and find that house where the blonde girl lived. She needed to see that creature again. So her curiosity can be satisfied. So she could complete her dream journal and eventually, complete her story.

The rustling of the bushes had (Y/n) looking up from her journal. A small dread tugged on her stomach at the prospect of a dangerous woodland creature. Dread into relief quickly took place in (Y/n)'s face when she saw familiar blue hair and a painting easel sticking out of the green background like a sore thumb.

"Howdy Neighbor!" Wally greeted as he got out of the bushes and dusting off any leaves that caught on his lovely hair and clothes.

"Wally! Hello, what brings you here today?" (Y/n) asks as Wally walks over until he's next to you.

"Oh nothing much, just trying to look for inspiration for my paintings. And I thought nature would be the perfect theme."

"Sounds great Wally."

"It does, but I don't know what to paint though."

"What?" (Y/n) looked up from her journal again.

Wally continues "Should I paint flowers? The trees? A rock? Or should I try painting all of them? What do you think neighbor?"

"Hm." (Y/n) pondered for a moment "Maybe you should do all of them in once scenery, it would be nice to see the forest painted."

"Great! Thanks for the suggestion. I'll try painting the scenery before me."

Wally then began, sketching , all while (Y/n) focuses on her writing.

It's always been like this with Wally and (Y/n). With both being artists of different mediums, silence is a given, as focus and patience is needed to complete the project at hand the project at hand. And sometimes basking in a fellow artist's presence is enough. The sound of pen and pencil scribbling tangled with the forest ambience. Wally likens the atmosphere to the first time (Y/n) came to the neighborhood.

A shy demure fellow she was, but after spending time with Julie, (Y/n) slowly but surely, came out of her she'll. Reveling her hobbies and interests, and also began writing stories for the neighborhood. The first time Wally ever got to really know her, was when he got out of his house for the a night time stroll. Why? Because he spotted (Y/n) walking around the neighborhood with nothing but a lantern to guide her way.

Curious as ever, Wally got out and started following (Y/n) was as easy as pie.

"Why so Gloomy neighbor?"

We're the first words he asked when he approached (Y/n). Who's expression is akin to that of a rainy day. Given that though, her carrying an umbrella everyday made some sort of sense, rain or shine, gloomy gray clouds always follow her everywhere she goes. If (Y/n) was a weather, Wally believes that she will be rain. But that was a long time ago, Wally can see that gloominess is still a part of her, but she's now more akin to a cloudy day. Cold, but warmth can still be found.

"Is that a new story you're writing neighbor?"

(Y/n) shook her head "No, it's just a dream journal, I've been getting a lot of strange dreams lately."

"Oh? What kind of dreams?"

(Y/n) shrugs "Just a vast world with a touch of surrealism that is. It's just that there are so much traveling there, and if I were to have those dreams again, at least I where I left off."

Wally laughs a little "Well I hope your endeavors bare fruit. Does it make you happy?"

"Of course! I love traveling new places."

"Then cherish your adventures."

"Don't worry Wally, I will."

At least Wally understood, or rather, at least respect your hobbies. Your old neighbors would've called you silly for it. Wally is just like that, understanding for those around them (Unless it involves apple pie.). Maybe that's why she was completely comfortable with telling him what she said on that night he accompanied her on her walk.

"I'm not really fond of sunny days."

Naturally, Wally wanted to know why. And wanting someone to listen to her problems, (Y/n) says why.

"The sun just irritates my skin, that's all. I was born with sensitive skin, that's why I carry an umbrella at all times."

(Y/n) sighs "I never knew what the warmth of the sun felt like."

And Wally gave you nothing but understanding and support, which was already more than enough for (Y/n).

If only (Y/n) could clarify, if only she can reveal that she finally knows what the warmth of the sun feels like. All thanks to Wally Darling. She started making friends, because of Wally introducing her to the whole neighborhood during a picnic. She started out more despite her condition, thanks to Wally taking her to the forest to gain some inspiration. She started opening up more, thanks to Wally.

They say that the break of dawn can mean a new beginning. Well, (Y/n) finally left the eternal night and into daylight. (Y/n) likens Wally to the sun that shined his bright light, by just being a good friend and neighbor.

Though, you wouldn't caught her saying all of these. Even if you pried her lips open.

All she needed is someone who understands or respect her, and Wally is willing to provide that.

"What's got you smiling (Y/n)?" Wally asks and (Y/n) answers.

"Just thought of a story in my head."

"Is it a funny one?"

"Maybe, maybe not."

"Awe come on, I can keep a secret."

(Y/n) laughs a little at Wally's attempt to get a sneak peek of the story.

"Sorry Wally, but not today."

Wally will know one day, or maybe he won't. Regardless of what happens, (Y/n) is just glad to have him as a friend.

#welcome home #wally darling #wally x reader #wally darling x you #wally darling x y/n #fanfic #wally darling x reader #open ended #wally darling my beloved

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honeysmokedham · 1 year ago

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TIMING: August 3rd, 2023 PARTIES: Nora @honeysmokedham & Thea @notstinky LOCATION: The Crypt of Annalise Bellowmore SUMMARY: Thea decides Nora NEEDS to have a clean crypt and she's going to make it happen. Nora's just trying to be okay. CONTENT WARNINGS: None!

The thing about chapels was that they didn’t have a doorbell. Thea felt wrong inviting herself inside, but she justified it by thinking of the chapel as an apartment lobby and Nora’s apartment was just down a very narrow set of stairs. She dragged her clothing rack down the stairs, tucking the stack of hangers under one arm and her broom under the other. The bow she had put on the rack so the present appeared more dressed up, had fallen off in the chapel somewhere. It was too late to go back for it. “Nora?” She called out. “Nora? Is that…is someone crying?” It was probably some recording Nora had to add to the atmosphere but Thea had to admit, the crypt had great acoustics. Why wasn’t Nora hosting karaoke nights down here?

Nora was more paint than human, bear, whatever she was supposed to identify as, at this point. Her crypt has steadily been growing into a collection of stolen art supplies, and now, after her return from the mines, she had thrown herself into the art of creation. The only time such an act was more valuable than its sister, destruction, was when her brush touched canvas and the world stopped to exist. The world didn’t stop existing. The clattering sound of metal on stone steps brought Nora to an attention that not even the crying Munch doll could have. “Thea?” She had invited the other over, but Nora wasn’t used to people accepting invites to her crypt. This was her first official visitor. Nora extracted herself from her place in front of the canvas and moved through the empty space to the door. Babadook following close on her heels. “I told you not to buy anything.” It was a poor thanks for a gift that was so thoughtful. “Thanks.” Nora helped, tried to help with the rack and getting it into the main part of the crypt since Thea had her hands full. “Welcome to my crypt.” It was really one large room, everything in view once you got to the main area. “This is Babadook,” Nora nodded a chin to her dog. “Then Munch is the one crying, over there.” She pointed. “He’s a sad clown. I think its his thing to cry.”

Thea wanted to be polite. She didn’t say that Nora’s crypt-house smelled like dirt, dust, mold and paint— like the wet rotting corpse of an artist had crawled into the stone. She didn’t say the cobwebs were unsightly or that she didn’t exactly think it was safe for Nora’s horrifying cosplay dog to be in a space with snakes and spiders. As she did with everything else in her life, Thea focused on the positives. It was cool down here despite the summer heat and all the spiders must have been fun to watch crawl around. It was a unique place to live and, certainly, very Nora. “Hello, Babadook— we met last time, actually. I’m happy to see him in his costume again.” When the rack was settled, Thea busied herself with setting the hangers up for Nora to use, hoping that her clothes would get out of the pile on the ground and somewhere clean. She thought about the scene from Mary Poppins during ‘A Spoonful Of Sugar’ where Julie Andrews snaps and all the clothes and mess goes back into place. When she snapped, the best she got was a spider shifting on one of its many hairy legs on a web that was a little too close to her face. Thea wasn’t even going to say anything about the floating clown doll, that was, in fact, the source of the crying.

“Were you painting, Nora?” Thea asked, picking up her broom. She had a lot of work to do— the crypt was more dirt than stone. And she wasn’t going to ask about the floating clown doll. “I am a little confused about what you do with the paint smells.” She was not confused, one sniff to the air told her exactly what Nora did with the paint smells. She was not going to ask about the crying, floating clown doll. “It’s not entirely healthy to breathe them in all the time.” She was not going to ask about the doll. “I also wonder about what you do with food… do you have a fridge or…” She wasn’t going to do it. She wasn’t going to— “How are you doing that?” She pointed at the floating clown doll, asking. “Is it on strings? Does it have a speaker? It’s moving like it’s actually floating. Is it magnets? It’s magnets, isn’t it?”

"Oh right." Last time. Nora knew there had been a last time. Because it had been the first time Thea and she had hung out. It had been the start of their friendship, and the day that Thea had become damned for her association with Nora. Because last time was before Debbie. Last time had been before the phantom memory of the pressure it took to plunge her knife into Debbie's skull haunted her hand. Nora blinked, at the realization that last time had been a lifetime ago. Suddenly a new guilt was weighing her down. Why hadn't she been checking on Thea. Why hadn't she been apologizing to the girl who hadn't even wanted to break into a supermarket that day? Why was she letting that same innocent Thea, come into her crypt and clean it. Because Nora had already proven that she was a black hole, taking and taking, and Thea had already proven that she was better. Nora stood there, a statue as she tried to find the words. How've you've been since Debbie? Are you okay? Are we okay? Please don't clean. Please just be here as my friend.

But words had never been her friend, and each imagined sentence never made it past the lump in her throat.

And Thea was talking. Wonderful, kind, thoughtful Thea didn't question the black hole consuming everything she was giving without returning anything. Thea didn't stop and ask why she was carrying the conversation along with the burden of friendship. Nora swallowed back the lump in her throat and forced he voice to croak out a "Yeah.' She had been painting. It was a self-portrait of crystals consuming Nora's body, a successor to Goya's Saturn Devouring His Son. Because just like Goya, a madness overtook her in this art. An escape from the truth.

"I don't have any ventilation." Nora kept forcing the words past the lump, begging it to disappear back inside her. Let her deal with it later. Let Thea be free from this extra burden. "No. Maybe I should get a fan." But wouldn't the fan only flow it around the crypt? It wasn't like the paint fumes would escape. "I don't have a fridge. I don't normally eat here." Then Thea was pointing at Munch, who was still sobbing. The crying clown doll was perfect for him. How Sofie hadn't noticed that there was a ghost in there was beyond her. "It's possessed. We talked about it. You can touch him if you want, but he'll punch you."

Microplumes of dust flew up under Thea’s rocking broom. Her gaze was fixed on the magnetic clown doll. Possessed, Nora kept saying, as if it was a state of being that made sense for a doll. Thea was possessed, in the metaphorical— the only way that word could be used and mean something. Grief possessed her, memories haunted her, her body was hollowed out like the sort of fake rock her father put their spare set of keys in, thinking no one would ever look inside. Sometimes, even Thea lost that rock in the sea of real ones. She’d have to pick each of them up and shaking, waiting until she heard a ratting. No one had stopped shaking Thea. Thea was possessed, the doll was just a trick of science. Thea approached the doll.

Thea was always a curious person, as a child, if a question struck her in the night, she couldn’t sleep until it was answered. The world was a massive, horrifying jumble of mysteries and questions; if she understood it just a little, just enough, nothing was scary anymore. Everything became normal. She ran her hands along the side, hoping she’d feel the magnetic pull on her bracelet and be down with her questions. Nothing. She tried underneath. Nothing. She tried on top. Nothing. Behind. Nothing. Thea poked it. The doll’s hand snapped out and punched her in the nose and Thea stumbled back; it wasn’t that the doll was a particularly heavy hitter, it was some mixture of confusion, fear, and the embarrassment of being punched by a floating clown doll. When she spun, regaining her footing, she opened her eyes to find Nora’s self-portrait. Thea shrieked; fear pulsed off of her in heavy waves.

Thea snapped her hands over her mouth. “Sorry, it, um…” She swallowed, lowering her hands. “It’s a very visceral painting. It, um, for a moment…I really thought that was you. It felt like you were really…” Thea’s gaze dropped to it. “….consumed by crystals.” She turned to the doll, still floating, still a clown. “H-how did you program it to punch me? How did…” Thea turned around again. “Nora, this…” she gestured around. “…isn’t normal, is it?”

It was weird seeing Thea come into her home with the intent of cleaning it. As if it was something Nora should want. It made Nora examine her living space with new eyes. There had been a joy in the reclamation of herself, and space, with the lack of care. A direct pull into doing the opposite of everything she’d been told to do her whole life. Keep herself clean. Keep herself presentable. Become approachable. Now her personal hygiene, the state of her home, everything about her had become a rebellious statement against that. But Thea cared. Thea cared enough to bring a broom and a clothing rack and clean up a place she’d never considered worth cleaning before.

Luckily Thea became distracted by Munch. With Thea bothering the doll instead of sweeping, Nora got to forget the uncomfortable feeling that came with watching the back and forth of the broom. As if the broom was more than just a broom, but what the broom stood for was something she couldn’t put her finger on. Nora blinked once. Twice. Three times as Thea moved her hand around Munch until Munch punched her. Right in the nose. “Brutal.” Nora mumbled. “Munch stop, she’s a fucking guest. You can’t just go around fucking punching people.” The ghost was shouting, the ghost was in a temper. Munch was always in a temper. Nora suspected his temper was how he became a ghost in the first place.

Thea was screaming and Nora was feasting. A tasty little snack. A treat for Nora. She walked over to stand next to Thea, tilting her head at her unfinished portrait and trying to imagine how Thea saw it. “Are you sure it wasn’t being punched by a ghost that scared you?” Nora questioned, but Thea still didn’t believe in ghosts. “I didn’t program Munch to do anything.” The sad clown ghost had flown off to a different part of the crypt to cry, and Nora kept staring at the self-portrait parsing through what Thea had said about it. The crystals had consumed her. “It was me.” Nora agreed finally. It was still the me she wanted to be. “You know those weird crystals that sprouted all around town?” Nora gestured to one that had popped up in her crypt. A large space was left around it. “If you touch it, that’s what happens. You receive the “blessing” and you become a crystal.”

The world spun and Thea stood unmoving— left-behind. The first time she saw the grainy footage of her bones shattering and fusing together into the hulking frame of a wolf monster, she’d felt much of the same. It wasn’t a new feeling then; every time a ‘bad day’ turned to days and even opening her curtains felt like too much of a chore, time stretched to swallow her. It wasn’t a new feeling now. The only thing that tethered her to reality was Nora, whose contorted face in the painting knotted Thea’s stomach with concern. Nora was hard to read and her painted face was no different; it was the words that Thea clung to. There was no blessing in the world that involved the transformation of the body into other: not a wolf, not a crystal. Thea knew that Nora didn’t adhere to the conventions of normal like she did, nor did Nora seem to find comfort in the idea, but she did understand transformation. “Did it hurt?” She asked, turning to face Nora. “When I…” Thea gulped. She glanced over at Munch, the magnetic programmable clown doll that was not possessed, because ghosts didn’t exist. Her nose throbbed. She glanced around her: all the dust and cobwebs and gray stonework. Finally, she looked back at the painting and into the crystals that couldn’t have literally consumed Nora, because crystals didn’t do that. Well, if they were going to talk nonsense, what did it matter?

“When I transform, my bones snap and my skin stretches and—I don’t really remember it much, mostly I just feel it after, everything hurts and sometimes I just lay down for a few hours waiting for my legs to feel like legs again but—it’s like…” Thea swallowed, searching Nora’s impassive face for understanding. “It feels wrong. When I wake up… My body feels wrong. It feels like something bad happened to me and everything feels wrong. I don’t feel like me anymore, it feels like someone else crawled inside and shook everything up. And just when I start to feel like me again, it happens all over.” Thea pointed at the painting; her grip tightened on the broom’s handle. “W-was that how it felt for you?”

A pause in time to consider the question. Did it hurt? “Yes.” Physically Nora had thought she was dying. She had ripped flesh off her face to reveal crystal underneath. Her body had torn in new ways as the crystals popped through her flesh. It had been brutal and drawn out. Answering the question, did it hurt, wasn’t what it took time to consider. What Nora considered was it didn’t hurt enough to stop. If her mind would remain her own she would touch the crystals everyday for the rest of her life to become that, become her, the portrait on her easel. Or maybe the real pain was emotional. Being given the gift of your dreams with a burden attached to it, too heavy to accept. A carrot dangled in front of her face by a master who wanted a different beast. “It hurt.” Could three words encompass the experience? Could they tie the turmoil up in a nice bow, and offer it as a shared experience? Were words that powerful?

Nora might have gotten lost there, in her own thoughts, had she not offered a shocking new turn of conversation. When I transform. The hair raised along Nora’s arms at the confession. Thea was a shifter? There had always been something animalistic about her scent, but Nora had ignored it. Part of Thea’s job, or something. She was sensitive about her smell, there had never been a reason to ask, but the picture was coming into focus. “You’re a shifter.” There was nothing in Nora’s voice. No judgment. No acceptance. Just the plain neutrality that her monotone always offered. “When the crystals transformed me it was long. I felt like I was dying.” Or had that only been the banshee’s lie that put the thought in her head? “When I turn into a bear, it’s a moment. My body breaks and remakes. Then I’m me again. As a bear.” Nora blinked as she digested the words Thea had offered. “You don’t-” She paused, trying to make sure she had this right. “You make it sound like you don’t remember when you’re shifted? What do you change to?”

“Shifter?” Thea felt the word in her mouth, the weight of each syllable and the curve of her tongue around the sounds. The word was new for her; she assumed--if she was going to assume she was anything--that she was a werewolf. It made sense to her, based on the grainy footage of her sleepwalking camera. Like most things regarding her issue, she didn’t really think about it. “I’m not a shifter,” she swallowed, scratching her forehead, leaving behind pink streaks across her skin. “I’m not a--I’m me. I’m not anything. I’m just me. I’m a normal girl. I’m a normal girl with a little problem.” The broom trembled in her grip, her fingers tight against the plastic rod. “B-bear?” Thea blinked. “Bear?” She asked again, as if the answer could change. She wasn’t a bear, her grainy recorded body was too slim and her mouth too dog-like. She knew there were big cats, like Felix, and now bears? Why had she gotten a wolf? The broom snapped in her hands. “D-do you eat people? Does the bear eat people?”

The conversation about crystals seemed far off. She didn’t know what crystals had to do with Nora--what they had to do with the bear. She wanted to ask how different each had felt; if the crystals hurt but made her whole again or if it was just the bear that did that. Thea couldn’t get anything out but a series of hiccups and gasps. “I don’t remember,” she croaked. “Only a little. Sometimes. But I know…I know because…” Her trembling body didn’t care for the breathing exercises she attempted to employ; in, out, hold, in, out, none of it mattered. Her throat tightened. “...hair between my teeth and blood under my nails and I feel full. Inside. I feel full.” Thea sucked in a quivering breath. “It happens with the moon. I don’t know what it is. I’m normal, I’m a normal girl. It just--with the moon.”

With each stuttering word, and trembling finger Thea seemed to crumble. A shell of anxiety and emotion. Fear radiated off her friend, mixing with denial and apprehension. The broom snapped. A similar sound to her bones, their bones during shifting. Nora blinked at Thea, puzzling through the fractured broken sentences that had yet to shift into something complete. They lay wounded and open between the two of them while Nora waited for their transformation to complete. With each additional statement from Thea a form began to shape and Nora began to understand. Compassion, love or something of the like bloomed over Nora as she saw her friend painted in a new light before her. A girl alone and scared in a world that no longer made sense. A story she thought might be familiar to many of the werewolves she’d met, but they would have to know other werewolves to know it was familiar. With each panicked and hurt word, Nora felt herself become calmer and more resolved. How could she be angry about crystals and the mines in the face of her friend’s turmoil?

Nora stepped forward to her friend who just confessed to have eaten people. To her friend who didn’t want to be stinky. To her friend that had come over to clean Nora’s place because she wanted to. To her friend that had once told her she would die on the hill that nothing is a lost cause. Nora’s hand reached out, gently placing it on Thea’s arm. “You’re just Thea.” Nora confirmed. Because what else did you tell your friend who could turn into a wolf and ate people, but couldn’t remember it. “Normal can be different things. Normal can be turning into a bear or a wolf. Normal can be what we make it.” When Nora had been alone, she wished there had been someone else like her. Someone who ate fear and turned into a bear and could show her what her normal was supposed to be. Nora wasn’t a wolf, but she could make sure her friend knew she wasn’t alone. “You can be normal and the wolf. Just like I’m normal and the bear. We’re just us. You know?”

Thea whimpered, the sound caught in her throat and left a watery sob. Tears stung at the edges of her red eyes and when Nora touched her, the dam broke and they rained down her face. All her life she had wanted to be normal. She was too poor to be like the other girls in her school, her shoes had holes in them and her clothes came down from her older cousins. She was too smart to be average in class, which hadn’t felt like a curse until every hand she raised threw a series of daggers into her back and whispers burning her ears. She liked girls too much to join in on conversations about boy bands and movie star heartthrobs. No matter what she did, she was different. She was born different. Normal could be what they made it; Nora made it sound easy and Thea wanted to believe her. “C-can I hug you?” She sniffled. The second the affirmative left Nora’s lips, Thea threw her arms around her friend and held her tightly.

She breathed in her scent of dust and mold; felt the scratchy fabric of her clothes with dubious laundry schedule; and felt more at home holding Nora than she’d felt under any roof. “You’re a good friend,” Thea whispered into her hair. “I’m sorry I tried to clean your crypt; it’s just you and I like you and I don’t want to clean you up and turn you into something else.” She’d only been trying to take care of her a little but truly, through the fog of her lies, she’d been hoping to make Nora a little more normal and she was sorry for that. “We’re just us,” she repeated, “we’re just us.”

They were a bear and a wolf and somewhere behind them a floating crying clown doll that was definitely possessed, and that was okay. That could be normal. It was only the two of them and their life and it was normal.

#chatzy #chatzy: thea #mtv crypts

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rozinaaa · 6 months ago

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I Miss Doing Art

I feel like I need to do art now more than ever, especially as I keep on getting slapped in the face with an endless amount of rejections from literally every company ever, to the point where continuing to work at my current job until the end of the month feels absolutely exhausting, especially as I know that it's quickly going away, but more importantly, I feel like I need create art for myself.

Not working for clients (for a bit), not endlessly promoting myself on social media or creating any imaginary brands, not researching everything about the subject, but actually creating art for myself.

Hell, I might even whip out the art supplies that have been collecting dust in the drawers and maybe create a painting or two, where I just create whatever's on my mind.

I think I probably need to read more fiction just to be able to escape from reality a bit, since I deal with information all day, to the point where reading a bit of non-fiction just before bed each night feels like work.

However, that's easier said than done, because although I'm going to be 23 in just ten days from now, I'm so drained of literally everything ever to the point where celebrating my own birthday doesn't even excite me as much as it should do, although it's probably due to the fact that it's most likely going to be a very frugal and minimal one (since I always used to count down the days and look forward to my personal big day (the 14th of June) every year, although now, that day just feels like another Friday and another date in the calendar for me, but I get to have a bit of cake for doing another lap around the sun), and where I barely have the energy to do anything apart from survive and endlessly fire out my CV everywhere whilst still doing well at my current job, because I instantly know the things that will happen next, where I know that I'm most likely going to get thrown into unemployment, but I don't want the fact that I'm feeling super dead and vacant on the inside to influence my life, because I know that it's very hard to get out of that mindset once you slip it into it through no fault of your own, especially if it's through no fault of your own, since you feel powerless and helpless in the situation.

Another thing I've realised is that I'm always at home, and I very rarely go out, so this probably might explain why I just feel so numb to everything, since I'm essentially reliving the same day over and over again, with the fear that I'm going to randomly get wiped out by a heart attack (since I definitely feel it coming, and it feels as though I've been pinned down by it) if I dare decide to live and actually have a decent amount of energy for once, so at this point, I'm basically too scared to live, but too scared to die for some reason, which is not a good look, since I actually want to do stuff (such as improving the curation front and going freelance, as well as other things, such as exploring different hobbies that don't involve staring at a screen) without feeling like I'm constantly and forcefully pinned down by something or the other.

I think all of this stems from the fact that I've neglected art for such a long time now, to the point where it's actually having a negative effect on me, not to mention that deleting Instagram (for real this time) was probably a bad idea, especially since that was my main gateway into the art world, along with being my source of inspiration.

I thought I could create art in a vaccuum, but it turns out that I can't, since I realise that I actually need a community of likeminded people, especially now much more than ever, since I want to allow others to know that I exist.

Going forward, I'd most likely create social media accounts for the curation front (because at least it'd justify the insane amount of hours I used to spend on Instagram, since it'd now be classed as research), and I'd perhaps create an Instagram (or maybe a TikTok, since I'd probably get better reach on there) for my art (where I basically use the same username as the one on this blog, since using my full name feels too formal and professional, especially when it comes to actually expressing myself), since LinkedIn and artists don't really seem to mix that well with each other, unless you also happen to have a bit of an entrepreneurial streak within you, but then again, it's like working full time at an unfulfilling job and struggling to muster the energy to actually create art in your free time.

I guess I could always try joining some illustration agencies, and see what they say, so I guess there's no harm in trying.

Overall, I think what I need is an escape from reality itself, since that's just felt like a weight that keeps on dragging me down.

#context

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thewestern · 10 months ago

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Chapter 23

Of note, all Ari found were the front bumper of Billy’s car, a positive pregnancy test in a hamburger bag and a one-eyed cat. Little devil nearly clawed His Eye out when he lifted the lid. Dumpster diving — that’s all counterintelligence work amounted to nowadays. Analog investigation, at least. No need anymore for gumshoes. Not in the era of Electronic Surveillance. He couldn’t have deduced anything about Billy, or any of these barfly meshuggenehs for that matter, that couldn’t have been much more easily ascertained from the comfort of a cubicle somewhere, with a few deft clicks and keystrokes. Like all modern currencies, information was now being traded programmatically on a digital exchange. Millions of micro-transactions processed per second. No non-institutional intelligence broker could ever hope to keep up with Big Brother and the Holding Company. Cell phone records, email transcripts, browser histories, unpaid parking tickets, voter registration, bank statements, dating profiles, grade point averages, blood types and sperm counts. It was all out there for the taking … Somewhere In The Cloud. (The rainbow is over. Or at least you can’t see it behind … The Cloud.) Hell, even Billy’s car was a computer. That wasn’t how Ari had found it though. It was Perlmutter Agency policy to keep tabs on clients and any relevant associates. Only as a contingency. Within reason, of course. Therefore, Ari had stashed a transponder under the chassis, of both this car and its backup. They had all types of cool shit like that down at the office, despite that most of it was in a broom closet collecting dust. Listening devices, hidden cameras, a primitive pair of night vision goggles. (This particular rig weighed no less than twenty pounds, like a toaster oven hanging off your damn face. These were your classic Tom Clancy-ass, Cold War-era specs … on some Buffalo Bill shit.) Really anything you could conceivably use in the spying on and/or blackmailing of somebody. They even had an audio processor … you know, for making the monster voice. (No guns or live rounds, however. Again, agents were expected to supply their own service weapons and munitions.) Secret agent gadgets were like office supplies at Perlmutter. They were back there with the fax machine and photocopier. Nobody hardly used them anymore either.

Yes, sadly, tradecraft was a dying art. But, hey, that was no skin off Ari’s dick. He didn’t harbour any delusions about becoming an international man of mystery. Intelligence wasn’t his core competency anyway. He had been carving out his own, adjacent niche. You see, even if Ari wasn’t much for a risk analyst, as it were, you don’t need a Bloomberg Terminal to know which way the shit runs. (Downhill.) Whereas the market for information was going global, he could plainly see how good old-fashioned violence was once again being made right here in USA America. Wholesale bloodshed, manufactured in bulk. Government buildings, houses of worship, art museums, strip malls, supermarkets, sporting events and of course, schools (fucking especially schools) — potential combat zones, all. Home theaters of war. WE are soldiers. And, in addition to automatic weapons, soldiers require training. Ari would be personal trainer. Like he had been before, but not anymore at gymnasium. No longer to teach housewife fitness and nutrition. (At least, not exclusive … they are crucial part of any well-balanced threat-respond practicing.) Teaching the will to survive. The will to kill. They are same one.

However, death would have to wait, because today he was off running errands for Hildy. At least she gave him the car, for to pick up the China-man with. The airport was so fucking far, man. When he did finally get there, he had to hold a sign at baggage claim with two Chinese characters printed on Wolffenbeir Company letterhead.

Hildy had also offloaded on him the dogs. She said she needed some space. Obviously they rode up front with him, of where there was precious little. (They couldn’t well be back there drooling on this very important China-person, could they?) Needless to say, the boys were a wreck without their mummykins, and the Deep House he played in the driver’s compartment was exacerbating their separation anxiety, as well as it was wreaking havoc on their inner ear issues. (The passenger’s cabin was completely soundproof, even just beyond the thin partition. Billy could have been driving up there watching hardcore female orgasm cumpilations turned up to eleven and Mr. Wang wouldn’t have heard a damned thing.)

Having dropped off Wang the dogs, now Ari was back on to chasing Billy. Such a silly boy. How had he gotten himself involved with these silly fools? He was following them in their station wagon. Normally it would have been a difficult tail, on account of there were so many similar station wagons on the roadway. Only the girl with the boy’s haircut had drawn a penis with her finger in the dirt on the rear windshield. Ari was disgusted by this. Women should act and look a certain way, his father taught him. All the same, he could not help but admire this presumed lesbian’s athletic physique. Broad shoulders and toned triceps. Women had vanity muscles like men but they were opposite. Legs and glutes rather than chest and arms. Not her. She would be good for soldier in IDF.

(The Israeli army ranks among the global military leaders for LGBT inclusion practices, this according to a study conducted by a Dutch defence industry think tank. A far cry from a fighting force of homophobes, such as ours, here in the land of the Don’t Ask and the home of the Don’t Tell. Had Grace been so swept up in patriotic fervor following the hijacking attacks on the World Trade Center, that she marched down to her local recruiter to enlist in the forever war against global terrorism, they would have turned her away, soley on the basis that she had come out as an openly gay person three days prior. Not to mention, she was eleven.)

The large kushi boy wouldn’t have fared so well, for him. (Not only because the Israeli rank and file were markedly less tolerant of racial minorities, generally speaking.) Physical size was no more a strategic advantage in modern, urban warfare. Even in increasingly rare hand-to-hand combat scenarios, with proper instruction, sheer technique could overcome brute strength. Ari was a studied practitioner of Krav Maga, a proprietary fighting style developed by the IDF special forces, which became fashionable as a group fitness craze among civilian American women, nominally as a means of self-defense training in suburbia. Cherry-picking components from multiple martial arts, KM explicitly aims to mitigate size disparities through efficiency of force displacement. This via the shameless exploitation of one’s opponent’s physical vulnerabilities. I make demonstrate: David headbutt Goliath in groin, in repeat. Bang, bang, bang. Work combination. Alternative stomping toes with uppercut haymaker to livers. You Do Not Do That, Goliath.

(Ari couldn’t have known this, but Zeke’s size had been similarly undervalued by violent-doing elements on the home front. Perhaps in part because they lacked the same opportunity to participate in extracurricular activities as their peers at SciTech, gang affiliation among the student body at West High had reached an all-time high during Zeke’s tenure. However, certain trends allowed for him to remain an unconscious objector in such a way that would have been previously impossible for a promising young man of his considerable build. Foremostly being the surging proliferation of affordable firearms on the secondary market. Doesn’t matter how big you are, not if you’re strapped. Why would I lift weights when all I’m finna lift this nine? Lift these stacks. If anything, Zeke’s broad stature only made him an easier target. The hoppers and the corner kids had no use for a true Heavy — an old-school enforcer-type. For a fact, they all laughed at him when he passed by. Called him names, like Suge Light and Ashy the Giant and Freak-A-Zeke.

Now shout out the radio station that gave ya what ya wanted. W Boom Boom Beat, baby.

Additionally, there were the corrosive, trickle-down effects of the so-called RICO statutes. You see, before the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, the street gang economy had been a cut-and-dry oligopoly. One wherein an elite ruling class of felonious actors wielded cartel power with near impunity. Which is to say in any given market, defined be it by geographic radii or ethnic grouping, there were usually only one, two or at the upper band three competing producers for robbery, extortion, running numbers, drug dealing, whatever, what have you. In just such an environment, Zeke would have been inevitably recruited to a life of crime, itself only to be inevitably cut short by untimely death or incarceration. What RICO did via grand jury indictments was force the CEOs of these underworld conglomerates — be they the Lucchese and the Gambinos, the Crips and the Bloods, the Hells Angels and the Oath Keepers and the Juggalos — into an early retirement to be served in a maximum security prison community. However, rather than the desired upon effect of stifling organized crime from the top down, the resulting power vacuum only served to metastasize petty malfeasances among middle management-level gang bangers and cultivate a more competitive illicit marketplace, thus begetting a halcyon age of thug entrepreneurship. A free agency of chaos, call it. [For a fact, one could quite plausibly make the argument that RICO was the lone effective piece of antitrust legislation passed in the latter half of the Twentieth Century. But that’s a panel discussion for another day.] In Zeke’s hood and others like it, a kaleidoscopic network of tribalist crews and sets arose from the ashes of their absent forefathers. Known by the Sheriff’s Department gang task force to be operating in the City Public School District alone, there were the Fifty-Ninth Street Mafia, Rolling Twenties, los Gatos Ojituertos, the Bullet Hole in the Drywall Gangstas, JD & the Straight Hittas, KFBR392, the Pussy Posse, TH YNG PUSHRS, Outlaw Aristocracy, the Barrio Bourgeoisie and several others. With sundry potential suitors for his services, somehow it became easier for Zeke to slip through the cracks altogether and maintain his independent status. And that was a-okay with him. Commanding in stature though he was, Zeke was as calmly dispositioned as they came, always content to mind after his own store, so to speak. You’re familiar with the beloved children’s story of Ferdinand the Bull? All the other young Spanish bulls wanted to roughouse with one other to prove their machismo, with hopes of someday being selected for the bullfights in Madrid. (Must have been they were an optimistic bunch. In terms of a win-loss ratio, the bulls are the Washington Generals to the matadors’ Harlem Globetrotters. Of course there are exceptions, because as Maggie Thatcher can attest, the bull only hast to get lucky once. The matador, meanwhile, has to get lucky every time. Case in point, Hank had once spectated a bullfight in Mexico City at the Plaza de Toros, the largest such venue in the world. [Bienvenidos a Estadio del Cartel de Sinaloa.] That day a matador proved the old adage: you mess with the bull, you get … well, you know what you get — a belly full of horn, in this instance. Subsequently Hank took some flack from his compadres, for standing in gleeful applause as the man in the blanco pantalones’ guts spilled out there on the dirt. Que pasa? You don’t cheer for the bull?) But Ferdinand, despite being the biggest bull of them all, only wanted to have a siesta beneath the shade of his favorite cork tree and smell the flowers. No spoilers, but suffice to say that Zeke was like Ferdinand.

The black and the lesbian were led by a sad-looking caucasian male in a hoodie. What did he have to be sad about? Ari could tell from his mopey demeanor that he was American Jew. How he pitied them. The diaspora had made his people weak, as his father had so often said. No longer a sense of pride in protecting something. Nothing worth fearing makes afraid of everything. Like fear for losing identity. This, always groaning on about … Identity, this. Culture, that. Ari knew there is no such thing. Place. Only this is real. Ground beneath your feet on which to stand. Surrounded by four walls and a tall fence. Armed to teeth. Proud culture of a warrior people, fighting for homeland. Here is your identity.

Then last there was the woman who took his beer right out from his hand. Women shouldn’t drink. Especially beer. Father was adamant about this. It clots the bleeding. Old man had many opinions of the menstrations. Ari was only ordering it for cover anyway. He drank vodka. Someday, after his personal brand as self-defense influencer had scaled, he dreamt of having his own spirits brand, as side hustle. But the beer store give him idea. He had never been to a place where they made the alcohol to serve. Maybe he could make the vodka and sell it in same place, and this could combine with also dream of owning discotech? Im Tirzu, Ein Zo Agadah. (If you will it, it is no dream.)

She was driving. Typical of sad American Jew boy to be chauffeured by his lead-footed gypsy wife. On a routine tail, maintain at least three car-lengths’ distance between you and the target vehicle. More difficult in non-urban driving scenarios. Ari could barely keep up on these winding backroads. They were all four off to the foothills. Headed in the direction of the Double W Ranch. Summoned by Billy for some or other silliness. Left the foul-mouthed couple to tend the bar. Mother would never speak to his father in such way before she left home for good.

#novls of tumblr #petey pablo #ferdinand the bull

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azpaintingltd · 1 year ago

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Transform Your Space: The Ultimate Guide to House Painting

When was the last time you painted your walls? If it's been more than five years, it may be time for an update. Whether this is a room in your house that desperately needs an overhaul or simply to relieve boredom, painting can be an easy weekend project that'll make a big difference in your home. In this guide, we'll walk through everything from choosing colors to picking the right paintbrush and primer. So read on!

Prepare the area.

Before you paint, you'll want to prepare the room. Remove all furniture and rugs from the area so that they don't get covered in paint. Cover the floor with plastic sheeting and tape it down to keep it from sliding around during painting sessions. Cover walls with painter's tape and paper if necessary (just remember not to use masking tape). You may need more than one color of paint depending on how large or small your project is--so make sure you have enough supplies on hand!

Primer is your friend.

Primer is your friend. It's true that priming a wall can be time-consuming and tedious, but if you want to give your paint job the best chance of lasting, it's worth the effort. Priming helps seal in any existing stains or moisture damage on your walls so they don't bleed through when you apply new color. In addition to preventing peeling and cracking over time, priming also makes sure that all those dark colors will stick to your walls without bleeding into each other like some sort of abstract art project gone wrong (or right).

Use a roller tray and paint tray.

Once you've chosen your paint, it's time to get started! If this is your first time painting walls, here are some tips: First off, don't go overboard with the number of tools or supplies needed. You can always add more later if needed (and trust me--you will need them). For now just get one or two rollers and brushes so that you can focus on getting used to how much paint goes where without worrying about cleaning something else up before moving onto another step in the process. Second off--make sure there is plenty of ventilation when working with any kind of aerosol product like spray primer or latex exterior sealant because these things can be dangerous if inhaled too much over time! Lastly but not leastly...don't forget about safety goggles!!

Don't forget to sand in between coats.

Sand between coats to ensure a smooth finish. To do this, use a sanding block and fine grit sandpaper. Sand in the direction of the wood grain, making sure not to remove too much material or you'll end up with holes in your paint job! Use a damp cloth to wipe off any dust before applying another coat of paint.

Don't get carried away with your brush strokes.

Brush strokes are a big part of the painting process, but you don't want them to be too heavy. If you apply too much paint with your brush and then try to remove it, the result will be uneven coverage and an uneven finish. To avoid this problem:

Use a roller for large areas and use brushes for detail work (like filling in around windows).

Don't overwork the paint with your brush; once it's on there, let it dry completely before moving onto another section of wall or trim.

When using a roller or brush, don't apply too much pressure--you'll only end up wasting time scrubbing off excess that could have been saved if used elsewhere!

Let it dry before you clean up!

It's important to let your paint dry before cleaning up. If the paint is still wet, it could smear or flake off, which will ruin your work. Don't use a wet rag to clean up! You could accidentally wipe away some of the fresh paint and ruin all of your hard work. Likewise, don't vacuum or sweep over freshly painted surfaces--the bristles can pull up some of that fresh coat and spread it around instead of collecting dust in their nooks and crannies. Instead, wait until everything has dried completely before starting these tasks again so that there won't be any risk at all of messing up what you've done so far!

If there are any drips or splatters left behind after everything has dried out enough for safe handling (usually about 2 hours), use an old toothbrush dipped in water to gently scrub away small imperfections like these without damaging anything else nearby on either surface being worked on; larger areas may require scraping off with something like an old credit card before applying more coats later down line depending upon how much repair work needs doing upfront prior."

Painting is easy and can make a big difference in any room of the house!

Painting is a great way to add color and style to any room of the house. It's easy, too! But before you start, there are some things you should know about painting so that your project turns out great.

You should always use high quality paint (and primer) when painting over walls or furniture. The best kind of paint has been formulated with special ingredients that make it last longer than other types of wall coverings.

Painting isn't just for professionals--it can also be done by amateurs who have never picked up a brush before! If this sounds like something that interests you, keep reading our guide on how best practice this skill at home today!

Middlegate

Middlegate is a neighbourhood in Burnaby, Vancouver eastern suburbs. Middlegate is situated nearby to the neighbourhoods Edmonds and Stride Avenue.

AZ Painting Ltd. is the best painting company in Vancouver that has been around for over many years. We provide you with the highest level of professionalism and quality painting services. Our team is made up of experts who are well-versed in all facets of interior and exterior painting, as well as wall repair and maintenance. AZ Painting Ltd. offers free quotes, so don't hesitate to contact us if you want to get started on your next project!

AZ Painting Ltd. 7235 18th Ave, Burnaby, BC V3N 1H4 1(778)231-6622 https://azpaintingvancouver.ca/

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thegreenwolf · 5 years ago

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(This post was originally posted on my blog at https://thegreenwolf.com/its-okay-to-not-hustle/)

There’s this meme going around Facebook right now, saying “If you don’t come out of this quarantine with a new skill, your side hustle started, or more knowledge, you never lacked time. You lacked discipline.” Thankfully multiple people have already skewered it, but it continues to be shared around by the sort of person who is trying to one-up everyone else, or who’s just plain clueless–or, for that matter, just trying to guilt you into buying whatever they’re selling.

Now, there’s not a damned thing wrong with self-promotion. That’s how indie artists, authors, and other self-employed folks get the word out. You have to be able to talk good talk in order to get people’s attention. But leading with this meme? Guilting people for not leaping from sudden unemployment straight into the thick of the ever-shifting gig economy? That ain’t gonna fly, Brocephus.

You Have Good Reasons to Slack

Excuse me while I dust off my counseling psych degree a sec, here. *ahem* We are in a very sensitive, turbulent time right now. We’re in the middle of a pandemic, the likes of which hasn’t been seen in a century in the Western world. We are in a hugely traumatizing situation here. Not just for the financial losses, but the fact that COVID-19 has killed thousands of people and left many more with permanent lung damage. We still haven’t gotten a handle yet on exactly how contagious this thing is, how long you’re contagious for, or whether you’re immune once you’ve had it, assuming you survive. We don’t have adequate testing, emergency rooms estimate that for every positive test there are 10-20 people out there infected and untested, and everyone with a cough is suddenly Schroedinger’s COVID case. Governments worldwide are slow to react in spite of the rising death toll. People have had friends and family die horribly from this thing in a short period of time. Even people who didn’t already have issues with anxiety, depression and other mental illnesses are feeling stressed, strained and scared–and, yes, traumatized. This image is guilt-tripping people who are actively being traumatized.

So we’re already starting with a populace that is dealing with this collective trauma, as well as whatever personal trauma each individual is experiencing. Not always easy to seize the day when you’re going through that. And I can think of a few other reasons that might further complicate this whole “Just get a side gig!” thing:

–They’re a parent who suddenly has all their kids at home, all the time, demanding time and attention and food, AND they still have to work eight hours a day from home, or maybe even more if their S.O. is unemployed/sick/etc. By the way, if someone trots out Isaac Newton or William Shakespeare or some other historical guy who managed to do epic things during a pandemic, remember that they usually had wives or servants to do all the laundry and cooking and cleaning and (if applicable) childcare for them.

–They’re disabled or chronically ill, and don’t have the ability/energy/etc. to just go and make something happen, just like that. Imagine if you just randomly got the fatigue from a really bad flu, and you never knew whether it was going to last a day or a month. And if you tried exerting yourself when you were feeling better, chances are you’d slip back into fatigue-land. That’s what a lot of my chronically ill/etc. friends have to deal with, to say nothing of issues with accessibility of resources for starting a side gig.

–They don’t have any money for the supplies needed to start a side hustle, or the supplies have been hoarded by hobbyists preparing for a Pandemic Staycation.

–They don’t have the skills for something that just requires what they already have (like, for example, writing on a laptop you already happen to own). Often these skills are things that can’t be perfected in a few weeks at home, but may take years to develop before they’re really marketable–like, for example, the skill to make a decent living on side hustles.

–They have anxiety, depression or other mental health conditions that make it hard to function even in the best of times, but even moreso in this…well…mess. Even people who were mentally healthy before are going to be developing diagnosable anxiety and depression disorders before all’s said and done. And speaking from personal experience, those of us who look successful on the outside can still be internally hamstrung by these conditions at times.

–Plus there’s the fact that we’re not supposed to, you know, leave our homes, which narrows down the field of potential side gigs by a lot.

Even doing something less financially-wrought like learning a new skill or subject takes time, energy, and sometimes money, any or all of which may be scarce for the reasons above and more.

Comparison is the Thief of Joy

I am saying all of this as someone who is arguably an expert on the side gig. I have spent the past eight and a half years 100% self-employed (and a lot longer doing it part-time) as an author and artist, able to cover all my bills and expenses, and for a time I was the primary breadwinner of a multi-person household. I have like ten different things I was doing for a living before this all hit, a pretty diverse set of streams of income, even if most of them just up and evaporated in the past few weeks. And while I’m definitely a hell of a lot leaner now than I was a month ago, I still have my head above water for the moment. So I think I know side gigs.

I’m one of the lucky ones. I’m overall healthy. I have a dog who is a lot less demanding of my time than kids would be. I have my own space where I can focus more or less without interruption. More importantly, I have the skills, the knowhow, the drive and the personality to go out and seek new opportunities. And I’m used to fluctuations in income, though admittedly this one’s unprecedented. Don’t gauge yourself by where I am now. I’ve spent twenty-two years building up my art business, my first book came out in 2006, and I’ve had a series of really good opportunities come my way that I had the privilege to be able to make the most of. I am not your measuring stick, so don’t say “Well, if she can do it why can’t I? I must suck!”

If you’re feeling crappy because you aren’t hopping to it and carpeing the diem and getting everything done, here’s what I have to say to you: Look, you just had your world turned upside-down. Job loss, scarce commodities, sudden lack of outside childcare, restricted movement and inability to be around much of your support system, and did I mention a pandemic is happening, too? Any single one of those things would be difficult for just about anyone to deal with, never mind all at once. And I don’t even know what all else has already been going on in your life–unstable or unsafe living situation, other health issues, breakups and other losses, interpersonal conflicts. You know, normal life stuff.

You’re Not Lazy, or Screwing Up, or (Gods Forbid) Undisciplined

It is totally okay if all you’re doing right now is surviving. It’s okay if you feel like you’re drowning, overwhelmed by all that’s happening both on a global level and more personally. It’s okay if all you can manage right now is to get out of bed and stumble through each day a moment at a time, struggling with a tidal wave of emotions. It’s okay if you’re just trying to keep your kids busy, dealing with a crowded home every single day, or trying to keep COVID-19 at bay. It’s okay if, instead of firing up DuoLingo or opening an Etsy shop, you spend your evenings vegging to Netflix or reading a book or playing hours and hours of Animal Crossing.

Not every moment in your life has to be about being productive even in the best of circumstances, and that goes exponentially so right now. Be patient with yourself, and be kind. You may be one of those folks who literally has to spend all their time scrabbling to try to cover the bills or get some leeway from bill collectors, and you have to dedicate your waking time hunting for resources just to try to get through this week. Believe me, I feel for you, I have a lot of friends in that situation right now, and I hope all of you can find some relief and assistance.

May I suggest something? If you have the energy for something more than the bare essentials of getting by, put that energy toward self-care, whatever you can manage under the circumstances. You can use it to recuperate, to rebuild your emotional and physical resilience. That way if things get rough again in the future, you have more internal reserves to build on. If your usual methods don’t work or aren’t accessible due to lockdown, ask others what they’re doing to keep themselves grounded in this trying time.

Just because you have more time doesn’t mean you don’t have to throw yourself right into something productive! Don’t feel pressured to just go-go-go the moment you have a little freedom to move. If you do decide you want to try a side gig, or a new skill, or learn all about some specialized topic of interest, go for it! If you have the energy and attention and opportunity to pursue something new, it can be a great coping skill during this traumatic time. Just don’t pressure yourself; keep it fun.

One last thing: I want you to save the image I have at the top of this post. And then if you see someone post that meme, saying “Come on, you lazy bums, get up and make that side gig happen! Learn new stuff! Do all the things! No excuses!” you pull out this version, and you look at the edits, you remember that it’s okay to be where you are, and you get back to doing things at your own pace no matter what someone else says. (I find visualizing stapling a printout of the edited version to the offender’s forehead to also be therapeutic, but that may just be me.)

Hang in there, okay? It’s going to be a rough time, but you’re not alone, and what you’re feeling right now is shared by so many people. So just let yourself be where you are in this moment, and we’ll see what hope tomorrow brings. And remember that whatever you’re capable of in this moment: it’s enough.

Did you enjoy this post? Please consider supporting my work on Patreon, buying my books here on my website, buying my art and books on Etsy, or tipping me at Ko-fi!

#COVID-19 #mental health #executive dysfunction #anxiety #depression #mine

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princesslocket · 4 years ago

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🥣 Made With Love 🥣

Hi hi! Before we get to the fanfic, I'd just like to say a big thank you to @ina11writingexchange for hosting this awesome writers exchange! I'm so glad to have been able to participate for this round as well as being given the opportunity to gift @hachuna yet another gift this year!

With that being said, I hope you enjoy this Hachuna! It was a lot of fun to write ((Btw this fic is also cross-posted on AO3 if anyone is interested in reading it there too! The link is in the title))

If anyone were to ask Endou Natsumi what her favorite pass time activity was, she’d automatically answer with “cooking!” and then excitedly list off all the dishes she had made within the past week. It always amazed her friends just how passionate she was about preparing food in the kitchen.

However, she hadn’t always been a fan of cooking.

Natsumi’s love for cooking had originated during her time spent managing the Raimon soccer team in her middle school years. In the beginning she had been quiet hesitant to even try making a rice ball but after she mastered the art of the rice ball, her love for cooking sparked almost instantaneously. It only took preparing a couple more meals before Natsumi was fully onboard with the idea of preparing food in general. It filled her with a sense of pride whenever she was able to witness the team enjoying the meals she, Haruna, and Aki made for them. The compliments they dished out were a great source of ego boosting as well, but she always made it point to stay humble. And even after the team graduated, leaving her with no one else to cook for, Natsumi continued to search up new recipes to try making for herself in the comfort of her own home.

Over the years her cooking had improved, albeit not as significantly as everyone had hoped for, but just enough to where she no longer mixed up the salt and sugars when she tried baking the occasional birthday cake. It was a subtle yet profound type of improvement that left Endou that much more hopeful for their future meals seeing as he had married her not too long after her cooking had started to improve.

One thing that really helped Natsumi improve in her cooking was through the aid of an old looking cook book she just so happened to borrow from Endou! She’d seen the book several times laying in various places throughout their house but had never bothered to look through it until one day when her curiosity got the better of her and she found herself rejoicing at all the cool looking recipes inside. Oh the joy she felt while flipping through the pages was almost too good. How had she not opened the book sooner?

Following the days upon opening the cook book, Natsumi happily followed the messily written instructions provided by the cook book to prepare dishes that she could only assume had been passed down from Endou’s family. She would later find out from Endou himself that the cook book she had been using was actually Endou Daisuke’s hissatsu manual. The discovery came as quiet a shook to Natsumi seeing as she had been following the instructions of the book for several weeks, even going as far to serving a boy named Matsukaze Tenma some of said dishes as well. But all Endou could do was laugh at the situation they found themselves in.

“You mean to tell me that this really isn’t the kanji for egg?”

“I’m positive, Natsumi. These are the instructions for God Hand- Wait a second! How were even able to mistake this for a cook book? I thought you knew what Daisuke’s hissatsu manual looked like?”

“It’s been a while since I last saw it okay!”

Even after the discovery of the ‘cook book’s’ true nature was revealed Natsumi continued to use it. Admittedly, the food Natsumi made following the hissatsu manual never inherently tasted terribly bad. So what harm was there in letting her continue to use it? As long as Endou was there to assist her with some of the misinterpreted kanji of the book, everything was fine.

Unfortunately, not all good things lasted forever. On one particular day an unforeseen disaster appeared out of nowhere…

Natsumi had been preparing dinner in the kitchen when it happened. She hadn’t thought anything of it at first. Ever since Endou took over as Raimon’s coach, he would occasionally return home late, so why would this time be any different? As the minutes ticked by Natsumi continued to prepare dinner. While she maneuvered around the kitchen she kept herself entertained with the quiet sound of the T.V. playing in the background.

Although she usually paid no mind to what the news anchors were saying, something about that night in particular urged her to listen carefully. She had been cutting away at a bundle of carrots when a certain news report caught her attention. Although they weren’t showing video footage of the incident taking place, the news anchors reported a massive car crash near Raimon.

Upon hearing the name of the school, Natsumi put all food to the side and quickly ran to her phone, dialing up Endou to ask if he was still at the school. Knowing her husband, he would most likely be assisting whoever had been unfortunate enough to get hurt outside of their old school. But when he didn’t answer her first, second, or third call, Natsumi began to worry. The news anchors wouldn’t disclose the names of the people involved in the accident, nor would they show the faces of anyone other than the reporter on duty. They did, however, announce the arrival of special dispatched services on the scene as well as the name of the hospital the heavily injured were being taken to.

After a while Natsumi’s phone began to ring, which she immediately answered. Letting out a sigh of relief, Natsumi pressed the phone to her ear, ready to hear Endou’s cheerful voice. With everything appearing to be taken care of on screen, Endou was surely going to fill her in on everything that had happed. It was a good thing she had prepared so much food for the night!

“Natsumi, it’s Kidou, we don’t have much time- It’s Endou… He got into a car crash and- You need to hurry. An ambulance is already taking him to the hospital but… I’ll fill you in on everything once you get here-“

“I’m on the way.”

Within seconds Natsumi was already racing out of the house, dinner abandoned in the kitchen and T.V still playing quietly in the background. She did everything in her power to get to the hospital as fast as she could but it was too late. By the time she came rushing in through the hospital doors, Endou had been pronounced dead.

Time flashed by in a blur following Endou’s death. His funeral came and went, the days following blended together a little too seamlessly and Natsumi’s love for cooking diminished along with her once cheery life. Without Endou around, she no longer held the motivation to prepare any kind of meal in or out of the kitchen. Even when Haruna, Aki, and Fuyuka tried to rekindle their little cooking arties, Natsumi couldn’t bring herself to make anything. Everything she had ever made was out of her love for Endou.

As time went by, Natsumi slowly began to store her cooking utensils away. If she wasn’t going to be cooking anymore, than why bother keep them out in the open to collect dust?

She was in the middle of labeling a soon to be packed away box of kitchen ladles one day when the sound of knocking stopped her. Setting her marker to the side, Natsumi walked to the front door. Her knees nearly buckled when she gazed out the peep hole to see who was outside.

Standing just outside the door was Endou… But it couldn’t be him, right? He had passed away months ago. She had gone to his funeral and everything! There was no way her could possibly be standing outside. As she was thinking these thoughts an almost indescribable feeling washed over her. Suddenly she couldn’t remember attending a funeral nor could she remember why she had started packing away all her cooking supplies. It was as if she was just now waking up from some type of horrible nightmare, a nightmare had clouded over her real life for the past several months.

Whatever nightmare she been under was finally over. Any trace of sadness and despair melted away the longer she stared at Endou. Instead, the feelings were replaced with joy and relief. Although the sudden change in feelings were a little unexpected, they weren’t unwelcomed. In fact she was all the happier to embrace them!

Not wanting to keep Endou waiting any longer, Natsumi decidedly threw the door open, startling Endou as it swung to the side, and proceeded to jumping into the arms of the man in front of her.

“Mamoru!” Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she pressed herself as tightly as she could to her husband. “I can’t explain it but it feels like I haven’t seen you in forever! Where have you been all day?”

“Woah! I missed you too! Oh man, Natsumi, you wouldn’t believe all the crazy things that happened to me ‘today.’ I’ve got so much to tell you but, uh, I think it’d be best if we went inside first.” Contradictory to his own words, Endou hugged Natsumi even closer to himself, thus rendering any attempt to head into the house useless.

For several long minutes the two stood outside their house, hugging each other, and exchanging a few words before wither one of them made any real attempts to pull away. But when they did, it was Natsumi who moved away. She waisted no time in dragging Endou inside and towards their dining room table, pulling out a chair for him to sit in and then rushing off towards their refrigerator in search of something for them to eat.

Strangely enough, the refrigerator was once again filled with an abundance of food Natsumi had almost no recollection of buying. She glanced a look to Endou, who at first made no comment, but as soon as she turned her back had heard the faintest of words from him.

“I guess time really did reset itself.”

From that day on life returned to normal, or as normal as it could be with Natsumi knowing her ‘nightmare’ had in fact been real but was now a part of a separate timeline of sorts. But seeing as their current timeline was restored, Natsumi decidedly let her supposed bad months drift away.

She started cooking again, only this time she followed tutorials online through YouTube and an odd app called TikTok. When Endou asked why she was following so many different cooking videos, Natsumi would claim that “the hissatsu manual could only offer so much.”

Despite her best efforts her cooking still left much to be desired from. But Endou never truly cared about the overall outcome of the food he’d be offered.

“It’s the thought counts.” He’d tell himself whenever a dish was placed in front of him. “If it’s for Natsumi, I’d gladly eat a thousand more meals of her cooking- I’d do anything to make her happy.”

#inazuma eleven #ennatsu #ina11writingexchange #endou mamoru #natsumi raimon #endou natsumi #angst #implied/referenced character death #But no one really dies #trust me #cooking

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jaskiersvalley · 4 years ago

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AAA I loved that Jaskier attacking Stregobor -fic. I have re-read your fics multiple times and the centaur ones are my favorite (jaskier is my fav..) . I'm going on a 4 hour train trip the day after tomorrow (I'm terrified of trains and travel), so I'm probably going to use reading your blog as a distraction from anxiety heh. Thanks for doing what you do!

Wishing you safe travels on the train, Nonnie! For what it’s worth, I’m super proud of you for doing it despite being terrified of trains and travel. Will definitely be keeping you in my thoughts today as you make your journey (hopefully you’re off to do something nice !). To keep you well supplied with distractions, have a whole new AU just for you!

Witchers were an abomination but they were a necessary creation. Wingless and half wild with blood lust, society feared them, shied away from their unnatural looks even if they were created and not born like that. The trials and mutations stripped them of their wings, left them grounded and unreadable. Society was too used to reading social cues from wings, someone without them was a blank, emotionless figure.

However, they were an unwanted necessity. Airborne monsters were easy enough to deal with, there were teams and departments celebrated for their heroics in dealing with harpies and griffins. But things like arachasae, nekkers and drowners needed to be controlled and taken down. However, wings were too vulnerable and delicate to be subjected to being dunked in filthy water or crawling into dark, damp caves with. It was how witchers came into existence. They were given strength, stamina and healing power in exchange for their wings and their worth in the eyes of society. Needed but universally loathed, if a witcher was in town, people held their wings tight to their bodies for fear of a witcher getting jealous and tearing it off, fashioning fake wings for themselves out of them.

Jaskier’s wings were large, brown with white tips. He was especially proud of how the whites sparkled in the sunshine. It led to him preening, rubbing oils into the feathers to keep them perfect. He also spoke a lot with his wings, lifting them, flaring for dramatics, fluttering when excited and puffing up to flirt with anyone who gave him the time of day. Spotting a witcher in the corner of a tavern, his wings flared out, showing off and flirting out of habit. He wasn’t deterred by the lack of a wing twitch of dismissal or an answering fluffing of acceptance. Instead, Jaskier sat down at the table with a wide smile.

As far as first meetings went, it wasn’t Jaskier’s finest but Geralt didn’t verbally (or physically) eviscerate him for approaching which was as good as accepting the propositions as far as Jaskier was concerned. He was working with limited information so he had to do his best and hope.

The more he trailed after Geralt, the more he learned to read the smaller nuances of his body. When his shoulders tightened, Jaskier knew Geralt was worried. But a small raise of the corner of his lips meant mirth or fondness. Not to mention the tick of a jaw muscle which only ever came about when Geralt was engaging some horrible creature. As much as he denied it, Jaskier knew it meant worry, maybe even fear. No matter what anybody said, Jaskier knew that witchers felt emotions as deeply as anyone else, they just didn’t have the means to express them in the same way.

Life on the road was not an easy one. Jaskier soon became glad his wings were mostly brown, the whites were dust stained and less than glamorous. Oils and cleaning products had to be used sparingly because they ran out sooner than they got to a town that stocked Jaskier’s preferred brands. It was a worthwhile trade off, oils in exchange of inspiration and a muse for his art.

They were sat in another clearing, perched on logs and Jaskier was trying to reach the base of his wing where a few feathers were tangled and in desperate need of a tidy. One of them was probably loose but there was no way for Jaskier to see what he was doing. From the side, Geralt was pretending not to watch him struggle.

“You could help rather than gawk,” Jaskier huffed, annoyed that his arm wouldn’t bend exactly as he needed it. What use were good, strong bones when they stopped him from reaching the base of his wing?

Silently, Geralt stared at him before grunting. “You don’t want me help.”

“I think you’ll find I blood well do. Come and make yourself useful.”

Jaskier thrust the oil towards Geralt and huffed to hurry him along. He watched as Geralt’s eyes widened and he stood up, the most hesitant Jaskier had ever seen him. Steady hands took the proffered oil and Geralt settled on his knees behind Jaskier.

“See the feathers at the base? They’re giving me such trouble and itch like crazy.”

Careful hands reached to untangle them and Jaskier heard Geralt gasp.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt murmured. Without seeing him, Jaskier could read him so much easier. “I didn’t mean to.”

Not quite sure what had happened, Jaskier hummed and twisted to look back at Geralt who had a brown feather between his fingers and was staring down at it in horror.

“I’m too brutish for something as delicate as your wings.” Geralt made to stand up but Jaskier flared his wing, trapping him.

“It was loose. You need to pull a lot harder than that.” A suspicion was swirling in the darkness of Jaskier’s mind. “Have you ever touched wings before.”

Never before had Geralt looked so timid. Eyes wide, he looked up at Jaskier before his gaze skittered away. A small shake of his head told Jaskier everything.

“Well then,” he said and stretched his wings out wide in invitation, “have your fill.”

At first, nothing happened and Jaskier almost started worrying that he’d gone too far. Usually only mates and family groomed each other. Though he doubted Geralt knew that, having spent so long without wings. So he tried to tamp down on the emotions bubbling away in his chest. They were all driven from his mind with the first, hesitant touch that skimmed across the ridge of a wing.

Each touch was light, barely there and Jaskier could hear how gently Geralt was breathing, barely making any noise.

“You can touch all you want,” he reassured. Gradually, the touches got braver, after a few more loose feathers dropped thanks to Geralt, he settled into the moment.

Fingers buried themselves into each wing and Jaskier gasped at the touch. Geralt growled a little. “You’re so soft.”

As Geralt’s hands dug into the feathers, a thumb brushed against an oil gland at the base of a wing and Jaskier stifled a groan. It had been a long time since anyone had touched him there. Though he was free with his body and affections, there were some taboos even he didn’t break with a stranger. But Geralt was no stranger. They had been travelling together for so long now.

“Am I hurting you?” Geralt asked, frozen.

“Quite the opposite.” The admission didn’t fluster Jaskier as much as he had expected. “Your touch is very intimate.” The hand moved though Jaskier could feel the reluctance in it. “It’s a welcome touch, if you’re interested.”

A soft, quiet “yes” was barely audible but the touch returned and Jaskier bit his lip when Geralt mirrored his touch on the other wing too.

He didn’t last too long without begging. “I want to touch you too.”

Hesitant, Geralt moved from behind Jaskier. It was all too easy to tug him down to straddle Jaskier’s lap and his arms wound under Jaskier’s, returning to playing with the bast of his wings.

Instinctively, Jaskier’s hands wrapped around Geralt, hands splayed flat on his back. For all the scars he had, there wasn’t even that much to remind them of the fact he had been human once. Exploring the expanse of a smooth back, Jaskier shuddered. He was a little disappointed Geralt’ back wasn’t as sensitive as his but all it meant was that he got to explore and try new things.

Jaskier was delighted to find that nipping along Geralt’s jaw and kissing down his neck were met with favourable reactions. It emboldened him until their lips were pressed together, tongues licking against each other playfully.

It was a first that was definitely worth remembering. Geralt was so careful until Jaskier all but growled at him to grip his wings better. While lovers had done that before, none compared to Geralt and his raw power. There was no doubt in Jaskier that if he wanted to, Geralt could rip his wings off without even exerting himself. Instead, he was so careful and gentle with them, cherishing each touch, nuzzling under Jaskier’s chin and mouthing at the skin there as they fucked. While Geralt didn’t have wings that flew out to full span to shake and quiver with pleasure, there was no missing his enjoyment. Soft words, half lost murmurs dipping into growls and whines. Never before had Jaskier felt so worshipped and pampered.

They didn’t really mention it the next morning. Jaskier would have almost worried but, a few days later, he was unpacking bags from Roach for the night. At the bottom of the satchel for the bedrolls, he saw a handful of carefully stored feathers he recognised. They were the ones Geralt had loosened and pulled. Jaskier hadn’t realised they had been gathered up, cleaned of any dust and stashed away. There was nothing for it, Jaskier was going to have to keep adding to the collection. Maybe Geralt would appreciate a couple of white ones added to them when the time came.

However, the first white feather Jaskier shed didn’t end up in the bag. Instead, Jaskier brushed Geralt’s hair out of his face and pushed the quill through the bun he’d managed to put it up into. The fact they were in the middle of a tavern and Jaskier was declaring in a very public setting his claim on Geralt was only a secondary motive. As much as Jaskier wanted Geralt to be his, he also wanted to be Geralt’s. What he didn’t expect was for Geralt to smile, touch the feather now in his hair and then hold a hand up.

From a bag, he pulled a dagger, ornate with flowers and a wolf on the handle. Understanding the gesture, Jaskier accepted the offered dagger and tucked it into his waistband. With a stroke over Geralt’s cheek, he got up, slinging his lute across his chest, staring up the strumming for the first song of his set. If there was a slight swagger to his steps, a proud smile, nobody would have picked up on it because all eyes were on his puffed up wings as he showed off for Geralt and nobody else.

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the witcher #winged au #tldr: geralt lost his wings to mutations but jaskier can still read his body language

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fanficimagery · 5 years ago

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Another One Bites the Dust

Summary: In which you accidentally run into the new guy, only for him to take an interest in you.

Words: 2.8K Warnings: None really. Requested? This wasn’t requested, but it was inspired by THIS POST posted by @thehargrovewhore It’s not necessarily what they were looking for, but this fic is what snowballed from me thinking about someone running into Billy XD

High school would have been a living nightmare had you not been befriended by Heather Holloway. She was one of the- if not the most- popular girls at Hawkins High and she made attending school bearable for you. But being friends with someone like Heather was bound to land you high up in the popularity rankings and it unfortunately made you a target for people like Carol and Tommy who wanted to tear down those they considered a threat to their own ranking.

Fortunately for you, Heather wasn't one to back down from a confrontation. If you weren't particularly feeling up to defending yourself, then Heather stepped in with her too sweet words laced with venom that usually shut the couple up. And though Heather was popular, she wasn't the type that everyone feared. She was the cool girl everyone idolized, the girl everyone adored, and since you were her best friend everyone else made sure to respect your boundaries and leave you be if you weren't feeling very sociable.

But now it's been about a month since the girls of Hawkins High have gone crazy for newcomer Billy Hargrove and you're so over all the giggling, the whispers, and the cocky persona he puts on when he notices he's being stared at. Normally someone's attitude like his wouldn't bother you, but the girls don't seem to have a care in the world when attempting to get close to him even if it meant pushing you out of the way to do so. And that, that bothers you.

"What's wrong with you?" Heather asks, leaning against the lockers next to yours, popping her bubblegum. "You're in a mood."

You sigh as you pick out your sketchpad that you need for your last class of the day. "I only got four hours of sleep last night and I've got a headache. I thought that by now the fascination with Mr. California would have died down, but apparently the girls are more desperate than ever, including Carol who seems to see me as some sort of competition and won't stop pestering me about the new guy."

"Really?" Heather perks up, pushing off the lockers. "You've talked to that sunkissed God?"

"One, ew." Your nose wrinkles in distaste and you start walking towards the Art room. Heather follows. "And two, no. I haven't talked to him which is why I'm confused and so over Carol talking shi-" You're cut off as you walk into a wall- or what you think is a wall- and you actually fall backwards down on your ass with a startled yelp. "What the hell was that?!" You ask, rubbing at your now sore nose before glancing upwards. An amused Billy Hargrove stands above you, hands on his hips which hold open his denim jacket to show off his white tee that fits him like a second skin. "Did I just run into you?" You ask, clearly not distracted by his cocky stance at all. "What the hell are you made out of? Brick?"

He smirks, but before he can say anything Heather is bending down and collecting your dropped sketchpad. She giggles. "You really shouldn't walk and talk, Y/N. You never know who you're going to run into."

"You're a bitch. You know that? You totally saw him standing there and didn't warn me."

"It's about time you get some one on one with Mr. California. I think you're the only girl he hasn't chased yet."

"And it's going to stay that way!" You hiss.

"Need a hand there, Princess? I mean I don't mind your current position, but-"

Your head jerks to stare up at Billy, gaze narrowing. "Not another word." He holds his hands up in mock surrender, winking. You roll your eyes. "And thanks, but no thanks."

You stand up without any aid, avoiding everyone's gazes who had stopped to stare. Yanking your sketchpad back from Heather, you scowl at her. Then when you move to continue on walking, you and Billy end up going in the same direction at once. You sidestep at the exact same time he sidesteps and he chuckles when you get visibly annoyed. Groaning, you slap a hand to Billy's chest and push him aside. But before you can step away, you glance at his chest where your hand is at and you end up poking him. "Jesus. Why are you so-"

"Hard?"

Heather giggles and you quickly glare up at him, snatching your hand back. "Gross. But essentially, yes."

"Well-"

The warning bell rings, startling you from hearing what Billy has to say. Glancing at your best friend, you say, "Shit. I need to get to class. If you're not in my car ten minutes after the bell's rung, I'm leaving your skinny ass behind."

As Y/N runs off, Billy watches her go. Heather smirks, pulling down her heart-shaped sunglasses from the top of her head to perch on the bridge of her nose.

"Where have you been hiding her, Holloway?"

"Don't even think about it, Hargrove." Heather pops her bubblegum, grinning. "Y/N is happy to be a wallflower. She doesn't care for that seductive charm of yours when you set your sights on a girl."

He waggles his eyebrows. "Been talking about me with her, huh?"

"Nope. Your girl Carol won't stop harassing her about you." Letting her smile fall, Heather practically sneers at Billy. "Get Carol in check. If Y/N is unhappy, I'm unhappy. And trust me, you won't want us to be unhappy."

Billy chuckles, stepping closer and tugging on one of Heather's curls that's been gathered into a sideways ponytail. "Don't worry about Carol. Y/N, however, I have a feeling she's going to be begging me for a ride pretty soon."

Heather's smile makes a comeback. "Good. And since I think my best friend needs to have some sort of fun, I'll give you this piece of information. Be pushy, but not too pushy. Rile her up just enough and her annoyance with you will eventually turn into fondness."

The final bell rings and Heather starts to walk backwards, wiggling her fingers in a mock wave before Billy can say anything in return.

A few days later, you've stayed behind after the final bell has rang for the school day. The art teacher is off making copies of some worksheets she plans to hand out the following week in the main office and you're adding the finishing touches to your current project. The painted cassette tape takes up nearly seventy percent of the canvas and the plastic film is painted in a mangle of loops around the tape. The tape is just wide enough for you to carefully paint lyrics along it which is what you're doing right now since there are no distractions around.

You're painstakingly painting the lyrics to Girls Just Want To Have Fun with the thinnest paint brush you could find when you hear footsteps behind you.

"Just ten more minutes, Miss Ackers. I'm almost done."

"I know I'm pretty, Princess, but not as pretty as that art teacher of yours."

That particular voice makes you sigh before you lean back, placing your paintbrush in a cup of water. "What are you doing here, Hargrove?" Turning around you see him staring at your canvas.

"Not bad," he says. "You're pretty good."

"It's just a cassette tape. Nothing fancy."

"Oh but it is." He says. "You didn't just paint a tape. You painted a tape that looks like it's been handled numerous times. Almost like it's.. worn down."

Your lips twitch at the sight of Billy actually studying your art. You inhale deeply, swallowing down the urge to immediately bicker with him. "Thanks."

He smirks, tucking his hands into the front of his jean's pockets before dragging his gaze back to you. "So a little birdie told me you liked burgers. Wanna grab a bite to eat with me, Y/N? I promise to make it worth your while."

"And you ruined the moment." Your shoulders slump and you turn back around to gather all your supplies. Walking towards the back of the room where a sink resides, you wash off your paint pallet, clean your brushes, and rinse out your cup. When you turn back around, Billy is a lot closer than before and you gasp in surprise. "Jesus."

"Close. It's Billy."

"Whatever you say, Bobby." He snorts and when you sidestep him you bite back a smile at the brief back and forth. "I've actually got stuff to do. If you're looking for a date, I hear Nicole's seconds away from getting down on her knees. Have fun."

"You'll cave sooner or later."

"Keep dreaming, Benny."

A few more days pass and your walls are starting to crumble.

Billy Hargrove has learned your entire class schedule and is now just around every corner. You can't seem to escape him, and when you do Heather takes up the reigns and talks non-stop about him. His flirtations, instead of making you blush, start to make you laugh and he's got you right where he and Heather want you. The rest of the high school female population, however, are not happy with the turn of events.

Lunch has just ended and you've dumped your tray alongside Heather. The both of you have walked out into the hallway, but in order to keep the conversation going you've turned around so you're walking backwards.

"Alright. Who would you rather: Joe Perry from Aerosmith or Roger Taylor from Queen?"

You scoff. "You could have made it harder. Roger Taylor, of course."

Heather's eyes briefly flicker behind you, but you don't pay it any mind. Not even when her eyes light up. "Oh. Of course," she grins. "You obviously have a thing for those light-haired boys."

"I might have a thing for some light-haired boys." You shrug and start to turn, keeping your gaze on Heather. "But if anyone's going to get me on my knees, it'd be- oomph!" You crash into someone and stumble back, your cheek hurting from the chest you've hit. Heather cackles as hands quickly grab onto you to steady you and then wraps an arm around your shoulders.

"Princess," Billy drawls.

You tense. "Nope." This can't be happening. You did not just crash into Billy while talking about getting on your knees. Chancing a glancing up, you cringe. It's definitely him.

"What were you saying just moments ago? Who's going to get you on your knees?"

Heather laughs some more and you shake your head. "We're not doing this today, Hargrove."

"Well I mean, just pick a day. Any day. I've been dying to get you on your-"

"Gross!" You wrinkle your nose and elbow him in his side, he smirking down on you. "I was talking about Roger Taylor. You know, the drummer from Queen."

"You mean my twin?" This time it's your turn to laugh and you don't even fight him when he starts leading you down the hallway with Heather practically skipping at your side. "So what were you ladies up to before Y/N tried seducing me with her words?"

"We," Heather quickly cuts off your retort, "are just going to kill the rest of the lunch period in Y/N's car. Care to join us?"

"And before your brain runs away with whatever it conjures up, no this isn't an invitation for a threesome. We're just going to listen to music and talk, and that's it. If you can't keep your dick in your pants for twenty minutes, then you're not welcome."

Billy sighs. "Take away all my fun." Heather giggles and you grin, and Billy continues to walk you to your car. "Next time though, we're skipping school food and going out."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Bennett."

After the final bell rang, it was no surprise to find Billy waiting outside the art classroom. He waited until everyone had left, he then entering the room to help you carry a couple of your canvases you were taking home now that they've been graded and on display long enough.

Even after weeks of flirting and getting absolutely nowhere, a real friendship somehow blossomed between you and him. He's still the most arrogant boy you've ever met, and downright mean at times to your peers, but it's.. it's Billy.

So after laying your artwork in the trunk of your car and still no Heather, you join Billy over at his car. You readily hop onto the hood, smirking when he glares at you, and promise to not scratch his baby. He rolls his eyes, lights up a cigarette, and leans on the spot right next to you.

"So you're telling me you never once hooked up with Tina?" You ask, giggling. Billy shakes his head, the corner of his mouth quirked up in a grin. "Seriously? She's been telling anyone and everyone that she's slept with you at least twice."

Billy shrugs. "There was some heavy petting the night of her Halloween party, but that's about it."

"Jesus. Halloween? Didn't you move here like a day or two before?"

"Something like that."

"That girl sure does move fast."

Billy chuckles and takes a long drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke sit for a few seconds before exhaling it all out. With your backpack next to you, you open up the front pocket and take out a bag of skittles you'd been snacking on during lunch. Pouring some into your palm, you hold out your hand towards Billy to see if he wants some. He chooses the red ones since he knows they're your favorite and quickly tosses them into his mouth.

"You're a dick."

The school kids are slowly pouring out from the main entrance and still there's no Heather. There is, however, Carol and her little lackey Nicole.

"Careful, Billy. The cow you have sitting on the hood of your car is bound to leave a dent or two." Nicole practically cackles at Carol's remark- Carol who's smirking as if she's just won some sort of confrontation.

You merely smile in return. "Careful, Carol. Jealousy doesn't suit you."

She scoffs. "Jealousy? What exactly do I have to be jealous of? You're nothing."

"Oh I don't know," you slowly grin, leaning towards Billy and sliding an arm around the back of his shoulders. He chuckles. "Maybe you're jealous over the fact that Billy hasn't given you the time of the day. Then again, your boyfriend is practically his little lap dog so maybe you're pissed because the only one on one time you can have with him, he spends it with me."

Her amusement completely vanishes, but before she can open her mouth to retort Tommy is putting an arm around her shoulders. "Hey, babe. What's going on?" He asks before nodding at Billy. "Hey man."

"Nothing." Carol then pastes on a smile and kisses the underside of his jaw.

"Nothing?" You muse, feigning innocence. "Now I wouldn't say that." Carol glances at you, eyes narrowing and Nicole frowns before taking a step back. Glancing at Tommy, you then say, "Put a leash on your girl, man. She's acting kind of bitchy because Hargrove hasn't asked her to get on her knees for him yet."

Tommy's smile drops. "What?"

"Sorry, man, but it's true." Billy tells him. "I've known my fair share of persistent girls, but yours really takes the cake."

"Hey fuck you, man." Tommy stands a little taller, clearly defending his girlfriend.

You roll your eyes. "Don't get pissy at him, Tom-Tom. Carol's the one who can't take a hint and get bent somewhere else."

"Screw you, Y/N!"

"Nah. I rather save the screwing for Billy." You smirk.

You hear a slight sharp inhale from your friend, but don't bother looking at him. Carol sneers, Nicole cracks a grin, and Tommy scoffs. "Lets go, babe. Obviously Billy isn't a friend of ours."

"Took you long enough to catch on, did it?"

As the trio finally take their leave, you lean back and slide your arm off of Billy's shoulders. He turns, but you immediately shake your head. "Don't. I didn't mean it."

"Are you positive?"

"Oh my god." You laugh. "I just said it to get under her skin."

"Get under whose skin?" Heather's finally joined you, smacking her gum.

"Carol's." You slide off the hood of Billy's car, but he doesn't let you go far.

"Y/N told Carol she would screw me."

Heather gapes, but you're quick to defend your word choice. "In a joking manner!" Billy laughs and you groan as he pulls you under his arm as usual. "Goddammit. I'm never going to live this down."

"Not a chance in hell, Princess. Wanna go to the movies with me?"

You sigh and start to walk towards your own car. "Get bent, Brad."

"That's not even close to sounding like Billy," he calls after you.

"I don't care!"

Heather starts to giggle and Billy smirks over at her. "Progress, Holloway. This is good progress."

#billy hargrove imagine #billy hargrove x reader #stranger things imagine #billy hargrove #stranger things #heather holloway #fanficimagery #imagine

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mythiica · 4 years ago

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amber astrolabe | ikevam | leonardo

The museum looms in front of you, practically swallowing you with its grand glory as it reaches for the sky. Sunlight sparkles in the new windows, yet to be touched by peoples’ hands as they stare into the street. Even from the outside, you can see the top of the arched glass roof letting natural light pour in.

You remember it when it was the train station and how you would sneak past the guards to climb the stairs hidden behind the walls. Tipping your head back, you squint hard against the bright sun to spot the window of your old room on the top floor.

It’s a bad idea to return to the museum– this beautiful building hosts so many memories that are not as wonderful. Still, against your better judgement, you pay your admission ticket like any other tourist that clamours through the doors of the Musée d'Orsay before melting into the crowd.

In honor of the museum's grand opening, more people have gathered to see the new displays for themselves. You were specifically interested in the exhibit that you had read about in the newspaper a few days prior. After nearly five decades, the lost works of a famous artist have resurfaced. A trove of sketches – namely hundreds of half-finished drawings of an unknown woman. Pieces of her face were scattered across blueprints, hidden on the backs of oil paintings, and even etched into the lacquer of strange wooden contraptions.

You walk past the main exhibit, not really having an interest in seeing the Mona Lisa again. Still, the painting smiles at you from over the churning sea of heads, as if she knows something you do not.

Now in the traveling exhibit, you take your time, pacing around to admire the art. You marvel at the broken wing of a plane that did not survive a test run, awe at the elaborate blueprint of a flying machine with gold sails, and even laugh at the obligatory comedic comment that this mystery artist must have had an obsession with someone.

However, from the corner of your eye, you notice something glinting in the spotlight just a few meters away. As you approach it, you can’t help but be a tad bit sad to see that it has lost its original shine over the years – in fact, you had held the astrolabe when it was brand new. The hands of the device point towards the end of the exhibit just beyond the corner, but you don’t pay it much attention. Instead, you search your memory, thinking hard to collect the pieces of the past before you can fall against the events that transpired nearly a lifetime ago.

“Cara mia, close your eyes. I have a gift for you.”

“If you drop a screw in my hand again and say you found it behind my ear, I’m going to throw it at you!”

His laugh rumbles deep in his chest, but you close your eyes to humor him. Without wasting a moment, he takes your hand and presses a cold, circular object into your palm. “You can look now.”

Your eyes flutter open, but you don’t know what to say. “A pocket watch? Did you steal this from Arthur?!”

“No.” He pulls the lid back to reveal a much more complicated interior. You take a moment to admire the fine engravings around the edge of the disk before your eyes graze over the centre of the object: an oblong piece of metal resembling the hands of a clock stretch across the diameter, overlapping the intricate second layer that sits atop what looks like a miniature map of the world. It is a deep copper color, and you immediately think of his eyes. They are nearly the same shade of amber, so deep and intoxicating that you wonder if he made it like this on purpose. “It is an astrolabe.”

“Well, it looks like you took a watch and a compass and made some… strange hybrid. What does it do?”

When he cups his hand over yours, your breath catches in the back of your throat. His hands are so large and warm. “It’s used to calculate the position of the Sun and other stars in the sky. Here, I’ll show you.” Now, his fingers lace with yours, the astrolabe pressed between your palms. It fits there perfectly, as if it were made to be held by your hand and his.

The two of you step over the incredible mess that has accumulated over the past week. No matter how hard you try, this place always remains a mess. It is no use to scold him for it now, for he has something set in his mind – nothing you say or do will be able to draw his attention away from showing you what this strange device is capable of doing.

He allows you to climb up the winding staircase first.

What a gentleman.

Then again, it’s the perfect opportunity for him to place his free hand on your waist. To ensure you don’t fall, he explains with the slyest of smirks.

Upon reaching the roof of the building, he leads you to the large telescope pointing towards the night sky. A breeze ruffles through your clothes, so he pushes you between the device and his body. Warmth radiates from his chest, so you lean against him slightly as he explains what he is doing.

“This telescope is completely uncalibrated, alright? Cara mia, are you paying attention? Look inside. You’ll see that it is not pointing at anything memorable.”

You smile to yourself. He always is so passionate about his work. To humor him, you take a peek through the lense. There is only darkness.

“I see.”

“Now, if you’ll give me a moment…” Lifting the astrolabe to the sky, he fiddles with it, mutters to himself, and then changes a few settings on the telescope. It swings around to point at a seemingly equal void in the sky – you cannot see anything of importance against the night sky, but he nudges you slightly, prompting you to look through the lense once more.

“Is… is that Venus?”

“It is!”

You lean back and squint, trying hard to see a flicker of green against the black. However, your eyes are too weak to spot anything. “That’s very impressive.”

“Oh, but that’s not all!” He side steps around an open box of art supplies and turns over a large piece of paper. It is obviously a flying contraption, but it looks so strange… like it is straight out of a steampunk novel. And is that gold on the sails? How is this thing supposed to fly?

Raising an eyebrow, you take a seat on the small stool next to the lamp resting on the ground. “What is it for?”

A grin captures his lips. “I’m taking you to the stars. No more sitting around on Earth. I’m tired of this place. When we wed, I promised you a life of adventure. We left the mansion, and now we’re living in the closet of a train station. This isn’t the glamorous life you should have.”

“I think it’s pretty fancy, actually–”

He shakes his head with a laugh, and his dark brown hair falls over his forehead. “We’re going to fly amidst the galaxies that make up the vast universe. How tiny we are, compared to them.” He whips around. “Imagine, reaching your hand out and catching a handful of dust from the time of creation. How amazing that would be…”

You laugh, but don’t correct him. Instead, you take his hands between yours again and kiss his calloused knuckles. “Where would you like to go first?”

He leans his head against yours and points at the horizon. “Sirius. It is one of the brightest stars in the night sky.” Turning to meet your gaze, he brushes his thumb against your cold cheek. “There is only one star that rivals its beauty. Would you like to know which one?”

“Of course.”

“A moment, if you please.”

Taking a dramatic step backwards, he plays around with the astrolabe until it clicks into place. The long hand is pointing directly at you.

“I don’t understand,” you tell him.

“Cara mia, you are the brightest star here tonight. You will always be the most beautiful star as well. Trust in that.”

You flush at his words, and it is hard to contain your smile. “You’re such a smooth talker, why can’t you put some of that effort into cleaning your room! I swear, it looks worse than it did when I first arrived here. Remember that time I found a mouse amongst your things?!”

“Don’t bring Lorenzo into this, he’s done nothing wrong!”

The two of you break into a fit of laughter, and that’s when he puts the astrolabe in your palm once more. “This is yours though.” He’s looking at you again with those pools of ochre mischief. “In the case that we are separated before we can reach the stars, use this to find me. Go towards Sirius, and I will meet you there. I’ll wait for you.”

The white noise of the museum filters into your mind as your eyes flutter open, and you ease back into reality. Tears roll down your cheeks, but you do not move to wipe them.

Looking at the astrolabe again, you see the tender scratches against the metal: his initials coupled with yours. An impressive layer of grime dulls the shine of the device, making it less impressive than how it looks in its natural state.

A week after he showed you his plans, a tank of a train exploded, plunging the east side of the station in flames. As the fire grew, it stretched to the opposite side, where the hotel was. You had begged him to escape before the roof collapsed, but he insisted on returning for the astrolabe and his telescope, because he had been using it to calculate stars the night before.

As you had expected, the wooden beams were not strong enough to withstand the fire but, by some stroke of luck, he managed to thrust you to safety before everything collapsed.

Neither him nor the damned astrolabe made it through.

A painful hatred for the device burns in your lungs, so you turn away from it and nearly run into someone. Tossing an apology into the air, you hurry forward and move past the rest of the salvaged artworks without paying them much attention. Guilt tugs at your heartstrings and weighs your feet down, retarding your motions.

Despite the tears blurring your vision, you throw your head back and glances back at the astrolabe. You don’t know if it is taunting you or trying to tell you something. And yet, your eyes follow the long hand forward, just beyond where you’re standing, until you realize that it is pointing directly at the final, most impressive display of them all.

It towers over your head, stretching up the entire length of the wall. Pieces of blueprints, canvases, loose papers, wood, and more are all arranged to create a larger than life depiction of– you.

The eyes.. Her nose.. That beauty spot on her cheek that you hate… it is all there. He had to have reproduced it all from memory because you don’t remember him taking any photographs or sketches of her.

In the bottom corner, you see a plaque:

Believed to be a portrait of his lover, our favourite artist would have had to spend years creating this piece: in fact, our experts needed months to put the pieces together in order to reveal a face! In the left margin of the paper with her eye, the phrase ‘my star’ is written, so we have named her ‘Étoile’ for reference. Who was this woman? It was thought that this was lost to a massive fire in the nearly five decades ago, but the recent excavation proved fruitful in its treasures among the basement of the Gare d'Orsay when preparations for the museum began...

You hear his voice loud and clear in your mind.

Cara mia, I am waiting for you, but do not rush. When you are ready, join me, so that we may explore the world beyond this one together.

Unable to contain your emotions anymore, you break into sobs. The sadness ebs from your broken heart and stretches through your body, making your legs click in place. You lose your balance and fall to the polished tiles, clutching your chest in an attempt to relieve the pressure. Other guests swarm to your side, offering you help or to call for someone, but you ignore them all.

Even overwhelmed with memories, you can feel the warmth of his promise, just as if he were standing beside her.

I’ll meet you again, Leonardo.

I’ll meet you at Sirius.

#ikevam #ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevam leonardo #ikevam x reader #ikevam leonardo x reader #cybird #otome

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tabbyrp · 3 years ago

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{Tropes in the Wild West, part 4} {Cont from [x]} @brooklynislandgirl @tarnishedhalo

Sleeping in the saddle required two things: skill and a steady horse. Sam considered himself reasonably adept at the fine art of riding and Red Wing, in his humble opinion, was one of the finest mares to grace the lands. Rattlesnakes didn’t spook her in the slightest. Streaks of lighting could split the heavens while thunder roared, and it would barely raise a flick of the mare’s tail. Not that her resilience in that regard had been tested lately. Along each step of this ride, started a goodly time before the first cock’s crow and continuing well past the sun’s zenith, the sky stayed clear and the ground bone dry, dust kicking up with each strike of the hoof. A current flicker of wind sent a near hand’s worth of grit straight up Sam’s nose, made him sneeze violently, and dragged him out from the otherwise pleasant doze.

As the cowboy righted himself, drawing brim of hat higher to survey his surroundings, it became possible the horse had roused him on purpose. They had reached the stretch of trail which led a winding path to the Riley stead, beaten down over the years by equestrian hooves, plodding cattle, and the occasional trip by cart or wagon. Sam knew it well, even if lately he had not travelled it as often as he should, matters between him and Riley being ever complicated since the incident. Complicated, but not uncivil. As horse and rider trotted towards the house, Riley was there to greet them, the setting sun causing two waiting glasses of whiskey to ascend into sparking gold.

Later, Sam reclined in one of the family’s chairs, still plump with padding despite a long journey from the old country. His stomach was full from a hearty meal and weary bones found comfort in the stillness. Miss Beth and the other guest had both retired gracefully once the plates were cleared, disappearing with lanterns and laughter that spoke of a secret joke between them. Sam was none the wiser as to how Miss Tabitha had come to be part of the residence. An innocent inquiry over dinner had been deferred by Riley and enforced with that certain set to his posture. The one that taught men quickly to keep civil tongues in their heads about Miss Beth. Miss Tabitha appeared to raise his same guard dog hackles, though Sam was wise enough to resist laying bait to see what Riley would bite over.

Their previous partnership had worked well for numerous reasons, one being Sam’s calm balance to Riley’s strong will. Caution tempering boldness, except for when those bold choices were exactly what the situation required, and Riley had always been willing to lead the charge. Fearless was how Sam had viewed his friend from the first moment they met, two young bucks about to learn how this wild land needed to be treated. Now, Riley appeared weary as he poured them both a fresh glass of imported drink, one that Sam took a light sip from, lest he give in to temptation and fall asleep right then and there.

Perhaps Riley took pity on him after the long journey, for he skipped the polite type of conversation that would involve asking how the cattle were faring and what the other cowboys had been doing whenever granted free time to carouse in the township. “Now that the ladies are gone to bed, are you going to explain why you’re really here? I know you miss my cooking and the wit of my conversation, but it’s a long journey for one meal.”

There… there… beneath the crooked smile, lingered a ghost of the Riley he remembered. It hurt Sam in the chest, for he was about to snuff it out before the flame had time to grow. “We’ve got trouble at the ranch.” He gave Riley the due respect by facing him square on, as was right when about to ask a man for aid. “The kind that only you and your sister know how to deal with.”

They left the following morning. The two men had spent time in discussion about the safest mode of transportation. A small wagon was slower, though it had advantages should anything untoward happen out on the trail and they needed to defend the women. Riley was prepared to begin greasing the axles when Miss Beth emerged from the stables, her steed in a trot while she led another by the reins. Miss Tabby, being from the town and used to working on her feet instead of in a saddle, had clutched the pommel tight to keep from lurching off, though she carried a grit of determination that Sam could find respect for.

Both were dressed ready to travel, supplies and bags strapped securely in place, with Miss Beth making statements implying that the men should hurry up before they were left behind. Riley was none too pleased, that much was plain, but arguing would only waste more daylight. Even a horse whipped until bloody could not complete the journey between sunup and sundown. Making camp at night always carried a risk, although there were certain spots on the plains where lingering too long meant not rising come the dawn, and Sam had no intention of becoming grub food. Not today, at least.

Compared to Red Wing, with her steadfast nature, Sam’s friends favoured more spirited equines. Riley needed only a light squeeze of thighs to send Sally into a rocking canter, man and horse in perfect unison as they scouted ahead for trouble. Miss Beth’s gelding was a restless creature, endlessly flicking his mane and resisting the reins, keen to break free from a plodding walk. On occasion she split off, never travelling far, mostly to examine a particular shrub or other object of interest. While the brother and sister pair were absent, Sam and Miss Tabby engaged in idle conversation. He learned she was not a whore, despite a residence at the saloon, and nothing more about what bound her to the other. For all Miss Tabitha demurred, she did so with a warmth that few white women ever offered Sam.

Miss Tabitha’s charisma, however, took a dent when it came time to stop for the day. After horses were fed and a fire stoked to life, she insisted on breaking off pieces of her dried apple and depositing them outside the edge of the stone circle which Miss Beth and Riley had lain around their camp. Protests about attracting animals landed on deaf ears. Even after the ladies fell asleep, huddled together nose-to-nose beneath woollen blankets, Riley suggested Sam leave things be. So, he did, until a pair of ruby red eyes appeared in the shadows and four claws, scythe shaped like a barn cat if not so large and twice as thick, dug into the offering.

Sam looked away, deciding it best if he saw no more if he were to cede to his friend’s request for restraint. Already a part of him screamed to wrench a log from the fire and strike the cursed creature away into the blackened landscape, if not send it screeching back to the hell from whence it came. “It’s gone now.” Riley’s low, steady voice drew him away from those malignant urges, and indeed, when he glanced towards the darkness, nothing stared back at him.

“Is she like you?” Sam’s question hung in the air. Riley sighed, reaching to toss another fistful of kindling into the fire before standing.

“You can take first watch.” The man clapped his shoulder, unapologetic for everything, and made his bed beside his sister. Stars spread across the night sky and a chill carried in the air, making it hardly scandalous for Riley to roll onto his side and tuck in behind Miss Beth, trapping in the warmth of her body. A few hours later, when it came time for Sam to stretch and rouse his companion, he equally made no mention of how Riley’s hand had drifted during slumber, one arm draped heavily over his sister and a lock of Miss Tabby’s hair twisted around his fingers.

The remainder of their journey passed quick enough, the foursome covering ground faster than Sam may otherwise have predicted. He estimated it barely an hour past midday when they crossed the invisible property border to the cattle ranch which he called home. Previous plans for expansion in both land and numbers were currently postponed. Waiting for better weather, the current herd needing all their attention in an endless hunt for blades of grass still holding moisture. A dam and her offspring had wandered away from the rest, nosing at the ground as the group rode past. Sam would have to round her up at some point. There were other matters to attend to, and Riley had expressed his desire to deal with those sooner rather than later.

Further within the boundary, while far away from everything else, stood a corral. The small collection of wooden beams and panels nailed tight together, if certain slants to joints suggesting a hasty assembly. Remaining atop their horses, Sam led them closer. Slowly, cautiously, for even steady Red Wing gave a nicker of protest at the approach. One of the other ranch hands had draped a circle of rope at roughly a yard’s distance from the enclosure, locking it down with heavy iron nails. That was where Sam halted them. Close enough for a clear assessment, far enough for safety.

It took a moment or two for the dozen bovines within to notice their presence. Leathery heads lifted, empty eye sockets unseeing and gaunt nostrils sucking in the air. Their hair was gone, every last strand, leaving behind bleached skin that clung to gaunt bones. Unlike the docile mother cow they had passed, these creatures shivered and swayed, endlessly shifting their weight from one spindly leg to the other. The largest of them rocked forward, pressing up against the fence. It licked the air with a decaying tongue, got a proper taste of the observers, and gave a guttural howl. Two more went flank to flank with the leader, catching the scent. Sinewy necks extended towards Sam and the others as far as captivity allowed, falling short, yet still teeth flashed as jaws snapped wildly, bone clicking against bone.

Miss Beth and Riley exchanged a look, the elder saying something under his breath. Sam possessed enough experience catching his friend’s muttered comments to piece together this one. It’s spreading. Riley raised his voice to ask what methods they had tried to dispose of the creatures with, impassive while Sam listed off lead bullets, noxious poisons, and an attempt with an axe which left the wielder with a broken arm. “Take Tabitha up to the quarters.” Issuing what was more order than request, Riley dismounted with his old engraved pistol in hand, his sister following and starting to unstrap certain bags from her saddle. “And bring a few strong men back with you, along with some shovels.” Being dismissed caused a protest from Miss Tabby, and it took another terse, private conversation between her and Riley until the lady relented.

Perhaps it was none of his business. Still, as he and Miss Tabby rode away from the corral, Sam took in the downcast twist to her expression, and said in a tone of someone making merely a passing mention, “He’s only like that with people he cares about.” She sighed, lips parting as if to reply, but whatever she may or not have intended to say was cut off by the sound of a single gunshot ringing through the air. A high-pitched scream, bestial and ferocious, came after, then another crack of the gun. Miss Tabitha covered her ears and Sam took her reins, leading the horse with the sounds of death following close behind.

#brooklynislandgirl #tarnishedhalo #the AU that just won't quit #au: on a steel horse I ride [weird west]#/all errors are my own/

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theepost · 4 years ago

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My Video Game Journey | Discovering Games & Game Play

When COVID-19 hit and the whole world went into quarantine, it felt like almost every single young adult was playing Animal Crossing: New Horizons. People who never normally played video games were buying gaming consoles just to play. Personally, I have never found a game that I enjoy and want to continue playing until my fiancé suggested this game.

I am probably speaking for a lot of people here, but New Horizons is addicting. Don’t get me wrong I definitely had times where I felt very burnt out, but I still played every single day with only a few days missed between now and when I started playing in May 2020. That is pretty consistent, especially for someone who has never really played video games on a regular basis.

Growing up with parents who are against video games.

When I was younger, my parents did not allow us to play video games. Don’t get me wrong we were allowed to take turns playing games on our family computer, but we were never allowed to have a gaming console. My parents felt it would be a distraction from school and homework.

I'm not a parent, but I know there is a lot of back and forth about this topic between parents. Some think it's completely fine and helps kids learn how to manage their time between school, homework, and their personal lives. Other parents allow it, but are very strict about when their kids can use it. Then their are parents who are completely against it.

The way I look at it, however you want to raise your kids and teach them life lessons and life skills is completely up to you. Obviously don't abuse your kids, but whether they are able to play video games or not is completely fine either way. It's the parents choice and no one should be giving them a hard time about it. Well, unless you are the kid who wants to play video games and your parents tell you that you can't. I think at that point there is no avoiding the tantrums.

Getting my first handheld gaming console.

When I was in middle school or when I just starting high school, I asked my parents for the Nintendo Game Boy Advance SP for Christmas. I remember thinking they were never going to get it for me because they were so against my sisters and I playing video games. To my surprise, "Santa" left me a Nintendo Game Boy Advance SP under the tree that year.

The games that came with the Game Boy was Crash Bandicoot: The Huge Adventure and Need for Speed: Porsche Unleashed. Since I had never really played any video games before I wasn't on top of what games were new and trendy at the time, however I absolutely LOVED Crash Bandicoot: The Huge Adventure. I remember when I finished all the levels, I played them all again so I could have a perfect score.

I purchased a few other games after getting my Game Boy and The Simpsons: Road Rage was another game I enjoyed. If anyone ever reads this they are probably going to be completely surprised by what I am about to say, but I never really watched The Simpsons growing up. I know a lot of people did, but I never really got into it. For some reason though, I wanted to get The Simpsons: Road Rage. I played that game a lot, but I do not think I played it nearly as much as Crash Bandicoot: The Huge Adventure.

Around my senior year of high school I slowly stopped playing on my Game Boy. I was either at school, doing homework, working, or hanging out with my friends. There wasn't as much free time to play anymore. I am now 25 years old and to this day I still have my Game Boy. Cannot remember the last time I played on it, but I do not think I will every get rid of it. It was my first handheld gaming console, there are a lot of good memories with it, and it still works! I see no reason why I should or need to get rid of it.

Discovering Animal Crossing.

After I stopped playing on my Game Boy, I never really found a game that I consistently played. Usually when I found a game I would play it for a couple weeks to a couple months then would grow very bored of it and eventually uninterested. However my fiancé was big into playing video games and was mainly playing them on his Xbox One. If he was growing tired of a game, he usually had another one lined up.

At one point the Nintendo 2DS was very popular and was sold out everywhere. My fiancé really wanted one so he could play Pokémon Moon. Somehow, I managed to get my hands on them and surprised him for Christmas. He played that game for a few months to a year then he slowly stopped playing. One day I asked him why he stopped playing and he explained that he just grew tired of it. I completely understood because I have also been in that situation before with the games I played on my Game Boy.

To avoid having the 2DS sit and collect dust, I asked if he wanted to get another game for it. He didn't seem interested in any of the 2DS games they had to offer at the time, but he suggested a game to me that he thought I would enjoy. That is when he told me about Animal Crossing: New Leaf and Animal Crossing: New Horizons.

At the time, there was only Animal Crossing: New Leaf and Animal Crossing: New Horizons was scheduled to be released in the next few months. I believe this was around the end of 2019 and New Horizons was scheduled to release in early 2020.

After doing some research on the game, I was VERY excited. I purchased Animal Crossing: New Leaf for the Nintendo 2DS and I played all the time. Any downtime I had, I was playing. I LOVED this game! After playing for awhile, Animal Crossing: New Horizons was released and I wanted it so bad.

youtube

At the time, Nintendo was completely sold out of the Nintendo Switch everywhere. They were insanely popular because of the new game release and since everyone was forced to quarantine due to COVID-19 everyone was stuck inside with nothing to do but play video games. The only console that was available was the Nintendo Switch Lite.

What is the difference between the Nintendo Switch and the Nintendo Switch Lite? The Switch can used when connected to a TV in the docking station provided, as a handheld, or as a tabletop display by using the kickstand on the back of the switch. The Switch Lite can only be used as a handheld.

Since I was so excited for the game and wanted to play so badly, my fiancé got me the Switch Lite as an early birthday gift. I really wanted the Switch, but since I am so impatient and Nintendo was not clear on when they would restock I decided that the Switch Lite would be perfect because I was use to using a handheld anyway.

Playing Animal Crossing: New Horizons.

When I finally started playing the game I played nonstop for hours a day. Collecting supplies, catching bugs, digging up fossils, popping balloons, catching fish, planting trees, planting flowers, designing the island, inviting new villagers, expanding my home... You name it, I was doing it. Anything to get a five star “aesthetic” island that is considered Pinterest worthy.

Like a lot of other people, I have completely redesigned my island countless times. There is nothing better than completely changing everything up to design a newly styled island. I have also completely restarted my island two times. Which I mainly did this because I did not want to go through the whole island and tare everything down, I didn't really like the villagers I had, and I also just wanted to experience the game again from square one. I have always enjoyed designing spaces and have always been really into art, so it feels like this game was made for me.

My future with video games.

Now that I have been playing New Horizons for about a year now, I feel like I am going to continue to play it for awhile. I will admit when I first got the game, I was playing it way too much. Recently I have been so much better about it and only play for about an hour a day. On days I feel very lazy and do not really want to do anything, I'll play for longer than an hour, but it also depends on what I am doing in the game at that time. I'm just glad I'm not spending all day playing anymore.

For me, I think video games are fun and good to play in moderation and I am not planning on cutting video games out of my life anytime soon. I know there are people who play video games hours daily or do it for a living. After that, on completely the other side of things, there are people who have never played video games and completely hate the idea of video games. Then there are people out there that say that they have tried playing video games and never enjoyed it, but I personally think they just haven't found their game yet. If you happen to be one of those people and you are reading this, do not give up on finding your game! Once you find it, you will be so happy you kept looking.

At the end of the day, do whatever makes you happy. I am just another person on the internet telling their story. If anyone ends up reading this, I hope you enjoyed and continue to read my future posts. There isn't really a plan on when I will be posting or what I will be posting about, but I do know I will be posting regularly.

- E

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xbellaxcarolinax · 4 years ago

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Forging A Heart (Ivar the Boneless) 17- Goddess

Pairing: Ivar x Artemis (OFC)

Word Count: 5586

Warnings: Slight mature content, nothing major

AN: Ya’ll have no idea how much I love this GIF of Ivar. His eye roll is literally what I imagine him doing all the time.

16- Free

...

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Steady your stance.

Pull the string.

Release the arrow.

It was a lot harder than Artemis anticipated.

She missed her target, a small, dark rabbit that fled the moment the arrow pierced into the damp earth beside it.

She sucks her teeth.

"Mm, that was better, but you still lack the patience." Ivar says to her with a chuckle. To him it was second nature, but watching Artemis with a bow was like watching a babe attempting to walk.

He sat as comfortably as he could on a chair brought by one of his many other thralls, and he watched as Artemis lowered her bow in defeat. It amused him to see her strive for perfection. It reminded him of himself when he was a child and still learning the ways of archery.

At his heels were his obedient elkhounds brought with him from Norway, eager to run wild and hunt even in the early summer heat. They were the same ones Ivar threatened her with, but that was neither here nor there.

He held one of them tightly in place with a leather strap, the other 3 pulling hard against a male thralls grip. They were beautiful things, large, with cream and black fur and large dark eyes. The hounds were adorable at first glance, but they were fierce, destroying anything in their path with ease if Ivar commanded them to.

Ivar snapped his fingers, and the wolf like dogs immediately ceased their whinning, staring up at their master with expecting eyes.

"Go." He commands, both he and the thrall letting go of the leather, the hounds instantly fled into the trees. All 4 returned with a dead rabbit in its mouth in a matter of minutes, surrounding their masters feet.

"Your hounds are show offs." Artemis pouts while Ivar grins, giving his beasts meat treats as the thrall collects the rabbits.

"Who else is to provide our dinner if you can't manage to shoot anything?" He says with a tired chuckle. His features betrayed him, revealing his discomfort from the usual pain that inflicted him daily, but it passed just as quickly as it came. He extended his arm out, palm open as an invitation for Artemis to hand over the bow.

Once securely in his hand, Ivar places his crutch to the side. He looks about slowly, listening to the sounds of the forest with his blue eyes closed and his lashes dusting over his cheekbones. Moments like these were the ones that Artemis admired the most, quickly scanning her eyes over him.

Ivar was no master of blades, but he was extremely skilled with a bow, and he almost never missed his target, Artemis had witnessed it many times when he use to train with his brothers.

Suddenly his piercing eyes fluttered open, and he silently motioned for Artemis to hand him an arrow from her quiver.

"Wha-"

"Shh."

He quickly reprimands her, putting a finger over his lips before placing the arrow in its place and stretching back the bow string as far as he could, aiming the sharp arrow towards the bright green tree tops. He stared up toward the skies for a moment in comfortable silence. Artemis would have spoken again if it weren't for the whizzing of the arrow soaring through the air at a raging velocity.

The tree tops shook a bit, and a squeal emitted from its depths before a dark shadow descended from above, falling at the foot of the large tree trunk. How Ivar had the ability to shoot down a squirrel from such a distance was beyond her, but most impressive nonetheless.

"Did you not mention your patron goddess was a huntress?" He asks with a smirk, and Artemis rolls her eyes with a snort.

"I am named after a goddess, but it does not mean I am one." Ivar shrugs, handing her back the bow.

"I like to think you are." He says, turning his blue gaze towards the familiar brown.

Artemis blinks, only able to conjure up a shy smile as she felt her cheeks burn. A strange feeling began to flutter in her lower abdomine. It was a strange feeling indeed, but she liked it, the fluttering intensifying when he bites his lips in apprehension.

"And what have you done to elicit such flattery from my brother?" Both too distracted with each other, they failed to noticed Hvitserk watching their scene, smirking at them in the way all the brother's

It was borderline infuriating.

"Shut up, Hvitserk." Ivar says with a growl, far less malicious than he wanted. He watches his hounds charge from sniffing at the green pastures to leaping towards his older brother in excitement.

"Forgive me for interrupting," Hvitserk laughs, trying to individually caress eat dog that pounced up his legs, "But the bishop has come to a decision. He wishes to speak with you."

Ivar hums nodding his head as he grabs his crutch, "Very well. Perhaps we shall gain a warrior on our side."

"Why do you wish for the bishop to fight for you?" Artemis asks quietly, cocking her head to the side in curiosity, "I thought you hated Christian's?"

"I thought so too." Hvitserk agrees, the smirk never leaving his lips.

"I suppose there are a few that aren't so bad." Ivar speaks just as quietly, his penetrating gaze lingering on her for another moment before motioning with his hands for the party to head back into the city.

...

The bishop, after being humiliated in the streets of York by the foreigners, proved himself, killing a taunting man before Ivar's very eyes and swearing allegiance to him. To sink a knife into another man's flesh and ending his life was enough to ignite Ivar, it could be seen in the way his eyes glowed.

Plans were set in motion once again, this time with King Harald Finehair, who had been a head strong ally with them thus far. The viking settlement in York would be overseen by one of Ivar's men now that the king of Northumbria was eliminated and the kingdom of Wessex weakend tremendously. Many who came with the Ragnarson's decided to stay in the Yorkish settlement, and that included Arvid and Alfhild. Artemis didn't know whether it was their decision or Ivar's, but she supposed it was for the best.

Alfhild was pregnant, perhaps a sign of their gods that their growing family should remain on English soil until their call back to Kattegat would come.

She was excited as any future mother would, rubbing her still flat belly in affection for her child to be. Arvid was pleased, though not as much as a man who truly loves his wife. There was a pride in knowing that a man could impregnate his woman, but if he could not love her, then what was the point? Arranged marriages usually ended in this way, loveless and disconnected, but it was clear Alfhild held much love for her husband who was as stubborn as mule. Arvid was a good man, but like most men, he failed in the arts of love.

The news spread rather quickly: Ivar the Boneless's slave was a woman whose life was now her own to command.

A few men saw it as an advantage to steer their eyes away from their duties. Admirers would visit to forge for idle talk, much to Artemis's annoyance, and Arvid's. Usually he'd send them away with a mouthful of curses.

Ivar remained good spirited. The leader of the largest army known to man spent whatever free time he had giving her archery lessons on days where he had the most time to spare. Normally any great leader would strain their minds on more pressing matters, but Ivar always seemed to make the time for her. She never asked for it, but she was starting to enjoy him company.

Artemis supposed life was bearable, for now. Ivar treated her well as he said he would, with a decent space in the church of her own, and she had access to as much food as she could want. After supper, she'd collect as much as she could, offering bread and fruit to the other thralls who were in far worse conditions than she’d ever been. It was the least she could do.

She spends her days in the forge with the other smith's, repairing weapons and restoring the ships, replacing the large iron nails holding the thick wood together. Her nights were held under candle light, mending and creating new chainmail.

Sometimes, her mind wandered off to her father, and whenever it did, she'd have to pause to gather herself before she could burst into tears.

The only thing she could hope for was for the dreadful weather to clear.

...

The weather never did clear.

The rains of York bombarded them. Each day the clouds grew darker and closer, bringing with them the harsh rains that soaked them to the bone. It worried some if they were to travel in a few days time in such conditions, but the men worked through it, preparing their supplies for their journey back to the north.

Ivar managed to crack the iron on the side of his brace, and Artemis spent her morning welding the split metal back together. After wiping her hands on a wet cloth, she quickly puts her cloak on with the hood over her face, running through the showers and into the church.

Inside was mostly vacant, save for a few guards that roamed about with ale in their hands as their pass time. Their eyes lingered on her for a moment, but she learned to ignore it.

The bishop sat alone with a dreary look on his face as he was clearly annoyed with the intoxicated guards. He was seated among the many rows of benches placed within, his chained hands set atop the wooden table top with a plate in between of bread and cheese.

He greets her with a nod of his head. His dirty hands worked to rip apart bread, popping them in his mouth and chewing the pieces unbecomingly. She returns the greeting, quickly making her way to Ivar's chamber.

"You will not like what you see." The bishop's smile was hidden behind a crust of bread. Her obvious confusion amused him.

"What?"

Heahmund chuckles in the way that older men do, deep and guttural. He shakes his head, ripping another piece of bread.

"I've heard many rumors of the boneless leader and his...condition," He begins, watching Artemis's mouth twitch at the corners, "Well, nevermind. I suppose you will see soon enough." Annoyed with his chatter, she stomps over to the chamber, finding the door slightly ajar.

She hesitates, before stepping in.

"Prince Ivar, I've repaired your braces as reque-" She stops, eyes wide at the scene before her. The blonde, Freydis, was completely naked and looming over a shirtless Ivar with a predatory smile. She was in the middle of kneeling, before both look towards the intrusion.

His fingers paused their skimming over the nakedness of her side, and Artemis thought it would be in her best interests to leave such an intimate sight, yet she found herself momentarily frozen in place.

"Gods, Artemis, have you no regard for privacy?" Ivar reacts quickly, pushing Freydis away roughly as he eyed Artemis with a look of...well, she didn't know what to call that look. It was strange, almost apologetic.

"F-forgive me." She stutters, placing the sack with his braces neatly into a corner before running off. She stops beside the bishop, placing a hand over her beating heart as she let's out a shuddering breath. The bishop raises a brow, watching her in amusement as she places her hands over her face in embarrassment.

"I warned you."

"Shut up." She snarls at him, dashing off into the rain without another word. The last thing she heard was Heahmund's laughter echoing after her.

She stomps into the forge, the heat of the fire mixed with rain made an uncomfortable combination of humidity and moisture, dampening her mood further.

"Did Ivar favor the repairs?" Arvid asks cautiously, raising at brow at how disheveled she looked. He was already sensing her foul mood. They were barely on speaking terms, treading softly around each other, but he knew when she was upset, and it was very obvious that she was now. He didn't want to leave her alone, but his duties were to help the other men load their wares onto the ships. He places his cloak about his shoulders, awaiting an answer.

"It was fine." She grunts, not meeting his eyes. Arvid frowns, placing on his hood.

"I am to help the others gather the supplies for departure. See to the repairs." With that he stepped out into the rain, leaving her alone with her troubling thoughts.

So what if he preferred the company of Freydis? That was no business of hers...she attempts to lecture herself.

She peels off her cloak, tossing it aside carelessly. Her hair was soaked, chunks of it across her brow and cheeks from running without her hood on.

The scene replayed in her mind over and over again. The image of Ivar's face and how his fingers lingered over Freydis's skin was seared in her mind. She wondered how his touch would feel on her own skin before scowling.

"Shit." She groans dramatically, wasting no time in busying herself pounding away at the whatever weapons needed repairs. She was glad for the distraction, as her mind raced with unholy thoughts that bolied her blood. She found comfort in the sounds of metal hitting metal, the pattering of the rain soothing her for once.

The familiar scraping of metal and the stabbing of a crutch engulfed the empty forge. She sighs, her eyes peering up at Ivar as he entered. Now fully dressed and looking very much like himself, he was certainly amused.

She glares but says nothing, looking back at the task at hand. The blade was almost new again, and with one more dip in the fire it would be complete.

"Artemis," Ivar grins, grabbing a stool to sit beside her as she worked, "I can hear your ridiculous hammering from my chambers," His smile remained, and before she could raise the hammer again to beat the sword, he curls his fingers around her wrist, halting her actions.

"Something is troubling you." He remarks, easily snatching the hammer from her hand. She rolls her eyes, placing the sword into the bucket of cold water behind her. It was finished anyway.

"I am fine. " She replies stubbornly, attempting to grab the hammer, but he successfully holds it away from her. Even sitting he was much taller then her, and he held the hammer above his head like a child stealing another's toy. Artemis scowls, not bothering to reach for it anymore.

"Why are you here?" Ivar rolled his eyes, handing her back the tool.

"I think it only right to check on the work of my blacksmith."

"Here," She says, removing the sword from the bucket to shove the blade in his face, "Here is my work. Good?" Ivar smirks, humming as he moved two of his fingers to push the blade away from him.

"She was just a whore, Artemis, a bed warmer." She gives him a sharp look, watching as his blue eyes twinkle with mirth. He was teasing her.

"So?"

"So why do you seem so upset?"

"I am not upset."

"You're a terrible liar." She scoffs, pursing her lips.

"They say you freed her. Is it true?" Ivar hesitates.

"Yes."

"I wonder what she has done to merit that," Artemis mutters, "But I suppose it is no concern of mine." She turns away from him, wanting so badly to hide her emotions.

Ivar frowns.

"Artemis, look at me." She sighs, but obeys, moving to bring her gaze back to his. He reaches a hand out, gently moving away the wet pieces of hair from her face with a chuckle. He admires her for a moment, watching her lashes flutter in nervousness. Her cheeks were flushed, and she worried her lip between her teeth.

Ivar sighs, bringing his hand back to run it down the expanse of the new braids he sported. He couldn't bring himself to admit what he was truly feeling, and neither could she. Instead he teased her, offering her a toothy grin.

"Did you want to be in Freydis's place? Did you want to be the one about to suck me off?"

There it was, the reaction he knew was to come. Her face transformed into that of an angry wolf, eyebrows arched and lips set in a line. She wanted to punch him so badly, feeling her fists curl up on instinct.

She stops herself. Still not a good idea to punch a viking prince.

She quickly grabs her cloak, removing her gloves and tossing them at Ivar before stepping out into the foul weather. She needed to think, and be away from him.

...

"So, have you done...anything with her...yet?" Hvisterk inquires, ripping the meat off a chicken bone with his teeth, chewing unceremoniously. Ivar sat quietly, picking at his food, his mind running off.

"Who?"

"You know who, " Hvitserk rolls his eyes but continues, "Because if you don't, I would not mind." He shrugs, a smile breaking out when his brother glares at him.

"You will do no such thing." Ivar growls, slamming his hands down on the wooden table top, immediately silencing the church. He looked around before motioning for everyone to continue their meals, and so the chatter began again. Hvitserk laughs, tossing the chicken bone at Ivar, who quickly swatted it out his way.

"So I see she is still yours without being yours. Tell me brother, how can you have such a brilliant mind for war, yet such ignorance towards affection?" Hvitserk wasn't much of a romantic man himself, but even he wanted to feel the tender touches of love.

"Blame these useless legs." Ivar snarls. His nose flares in annoyance, reaching out to gulp down his own ale, and once he finished it, he grabbed at Hvitserk’s. He slammed the cup down when he finished, and after a moment, he relaxes, drumming his fingers over the table top and finally meeting his brothers eyes.

"Artemis is a distraction," He begins with a hiccup, "She is a Christian."

"That cannot be the issue," Hvitserk snorts, reaching out to eat another leg of chicken, "She is educated in our ways, you saw to that. I think you're scared baby brother."

"Hvitserk," Ivar warns, "Shut. Up."

"And she is beautiful, Ivar, " He continues, lowering his tone, "You decided to free her. You know men will venture towards her like hawks. If you desire her, then claim her." He shrugs.

"She is not the type to be...claimed, Hvitserk. She is not like...Freydis." He mutters the blonde girls name as if a poison were coated on his lips. She had been so convincing, whispering in his ear all the things he wished to hear, telling him the things he was capable of, and yet it all felt so wrong. Especially seeing Artemis's eyes after that.

"What happened with that anyway? Was she any good?" Hvitserk asks, crossing his arms over the table and leaning forward with a suggestive wiggle of his brows.

"Nothing happened," Ivar hisses, "She couldn't-I couldn't," He hesitates, "Artemis walked in on us-"

"She what?" Laughter bubbled in Hvitserk's chest, and he couldn't hold back the grin, "Ivar you must be daft. You’re setting her up to fall into the arms of another! As I said, I wouldn’t mind taking her off your hands-"

"I will fight you and all the others that dare approach her!" Ivar booms, slamming his hands onto the table, raising himself up as if ready to pounce at him. He gulps down the sudden rage, his eyes blinking, noticing his men once again stop to look at him.

"Then what are you waiting for?" Hvitserk asks, far use to his brothers outbursts. Ivar exhales through his nostrils, willing himself to relax. Slowly, he lowers himself back down with a plop, his eyes following his brother as he gets up and leaves the church.

He sighs, ripping apart a loaf of bread, and shoving the piece in his mouth.

How could he feel the way he did for a Christian? He swore to the gods he would stay faithful to his people, and to be with a true northern woman, but he found himself less interested in the women faithful to his gods, and more interested in that insuffereable woman faithful to her one.

"Shit." Ivar groans, dropping his head into his hands.

He was stupid.

...

Daylight came to an end and it had continued to rain in light showers that evening when the moon began to rise into the sky. Artemis searched for a moments peace, leaving the other blacksmith's with the remaining work that needed completing.

She bid England a farewell, knowing she'd never cross the sea again to view its horizon. Although it rained as if the sky were weeping, the surrounding nature was beautiful. Maybe not as beautiful as the hills of Crete or even the mountains in Norway, but it was peaceful.

There was a little yelp behind her, and she felt light nips against her ankles. Looking down she smiles at the pup as it cocks its head at her before wagging his tail, jumping on 2 legs to balance his paws on her leg. He was small, and a bit malnourished, with cream colored fur, black floppy ears and snout.

She often gave him bits of food when she had the chance, giving the pup reason to trail after her.

She smiles, bending down to scratch him behind his ears, grateful for his company. Picking a spot on the dewy grass, she spreads her cloak over it before laying down and closing her eyes with a content sigh. The rain had finally stopped and she was grateful, breathing in the night air. The river Thames' rushing waters helped to sooth her nerves.

It had taken some time, but her anger diffused. She couldn't be angry at him anymore, it was nearly impossible. Or perhaps she was just tired.

Or stupid.

The hound went to snuggle beside her, seeking out her warmth. It must have been an eventful day for both hound and girl, but they could forget all their troubles in that moment.

"Goddess of the moon, and hounds? And perhaps of torment as well." Ivar's voice was unmistakeable. Artemis could pinpoint it in a noisy crowd if she needed to. The sound of his voice in the distance was enough to have the hound act in suspicion.

"Prince Ivar." She greets him, eyes still closed, "To what do I owe the pleasure?" He slithers along the damp grass, shushing the baby hound when it moved to growl at him.

"I never thanked you for repairing my braces, so...thank you." He plops beside her, laying down with his arms behind his head.

Artemis cracks an eye open with a snort. She turns to look at him, her eyes following the line of his profile. Ivar had his long hair loose, the dark strands forming waves from his earlier hairstyle, spread over the grass. It was a look Artemis was enamored with, but would never cared to admit. He was handsome indeed.

"Something tells me that is not why you are here." She says, and he finally turns to look at her, his blue eyes hard with determination.

"I wanted to...apologize for earlier. I did not mean to tease you so." Artemis sat up, turning to peer down at Ivar with a look of disbelief.

"Prince Ivar the Boneless does not apologize."

"I am being serious."

"So am I." He huffs, turning away from her to look at the moon, bright among the stars.

"It's fine." She finally says.

"That's it? It's fine?"

"Yes. "

"I meant what I said, you know," He continues, "Freydis was only a whore to warm my bed." He could almost hear how hard she was thinking.

"It's fine," She repeats, "There is no need to explain yourself, P-"

"Ivar," He cut her off, "You may call me Ivar." She pauses, fingers passing over the pups fur.

"Ivar." She corrects with a sigh, biting her lip to fight back a smile. It was different addressing him without his title.

She plops back down against the damp grass, her eyes moving across the night sky to catch a glimpse of all the stars. There was a comfortable silence that fell between them as they looked up at the heavens.

"Do you ever wonder," Artemis begins, "About the night sky, or the moon and stars?"

"No." Ivar snorts.

"There are stories my ancestors believed of the night," She recounts, "My father use to tell them to me when I was a girl."

"We have stories too. Nótt is the night sky, Mani the moon, and one of Aurvandil's toes is that star right over there." He points up, turning with a frown when Artemis laughs.

"What's so funny?"

"A toe?"

"Yes," He grunts, "What is it you Christian's believe?"

"That God created everything, of course."

"How dull." She laughs again, rolling her body to her side, finding he was already looking at her.

"The old Greeks believed the stars were people rewarded by the gods for noble deeds." Ivar smiles through his confusion.

"I like Aurvandil's toe better."

"It's, uhh, a beautiful toe, I suppose." Ivar chuckles, leaning up on his elbows.

"Why the sudden interest in the stars?"

"It was never sudden," She says, "I would sleep under the stars everyday of my life if I could. It is a comfort to admire the beauty in this world when it can be so cruel."

"Do you think me cruel?" Ivar utters the words softly, lowering himself to face her. It was getting darker, her features hard to make out with the simple light of the moon, but there was enough to see the surprise in her eyes.

"I...I think you cruel when the moment calls for it. Because you feel you need to be." Ivar closes his eyes for a moment, swallowing the lump in his throat. She was right.

"Cruelty wins wars. It conquers land," He pauses with a shaky breath, "But it would not win your heart." Her brows knit together in confusion.

"What?"

Ivar rolls his body closer to hers until he looms over her, maneuvering himself easily between her legs. She didn't put up a fight, though her eyes were wide with shock. He holds himself up, putting a hand atop her chest and feeling how her heart beated like drum.

"What must I do to win your heart?" She blinks up at him, debating if she should take him seriously.

"Why would you want to win my heart?" She holds his stare, their breaths puffing over each other with every timid exhale, "I thought perhaps you held the heart of another."

Ivar sucks his teeth, knowing exactly of who she meant. He dips his body lower until their chests touched and the tip of their noses brushed. His hair shields the sides of her face, cocooning her with his intense eyes. She hesitates before bringing her hands up to his chest, skimming the leather until her fingers curl over his shoulders.

"You are a foolish girl, you know that?" He chuckles, "A beautiful, yet foolish girl." He pauses, biting his lip in nervousness before gently placing his lips over hers.

Her lips were so soft, molding against his like a dance they had rehearsed over and over again. It was everything he could have hoped for, and he already begins to feel the buzz of excitement. She grips the back of his neck, bringing him closer, needing to feel his warmth. She melts into his kisses, feeling a pleasant heat engulf her.

It was...perfect.

After what felt like an eternity, their lips parted with an obscene sound, and he places his brow on hers, breathing in her scent of damp earth. Artemis brings a hand up to trace her fingers over his face, down the length of his nose, and to his jaw. She bites her lip, feeling her skin blaze like a fever.

"Do you really think me foolish?" She whispers, her eyes lingering over his lips before trailing them up to his eyes. They lit up when he smiles, crinkling at the corners.

"Did you really think she could warm my heart?" He counters.

"It was quite convincing." She mutters, "I thought perhaps I’d have to make one for you as I did your braces." She shifts her head away from his to save herself the embarrassment.

"Stop," He says gently, nudging her face back with his nose, "Do not hide from me anymore." He rolls off of her, and within a few seconds, he tugs her over him, her legs coming to rest on either side of his thighs. She grips the neckline of his leather vest to stabilize herself, and his hands sneak up to settle on her hips.

"Ivar, I-"

"Just listen to me, Artemis," She nods, resting her hands over his chest, "I was never fortunate enough to show affection as plainly as any other man could." He takes in a breath, closing his eyes as if to sum up the courage, before opening them again.

"I cannot explain it, but there is something you ignite in me that I could not ignore, no matter how hard I pleaded with the gods to make the ache in my heart stop. I can no longer ignore it." This time he turns his face away from hers, and this time, she brings him back, her palm brushing gently over his sideburn.

"Do not hide from me." She repeats his words with a smile, pushing a lock of hair behind his ear. The same fluttering sensations in her abdomen from days ago resurfaced just from the simple intimate action.

"My heart aches for you." He admits, and she could feel his heart beating wildly as he said those words, his eyes swimming with...fear. She watches him carefully in silence.

"Artemis." Ivar pleads in a tone that was foreign to her ears. He was anxious.

"What of Freydis?" He sucks his teeth, lifting himself on his elbows to get a better look at her.

"If I truly wanted her, would I be wasting time revealing my heart to you?"

"I am not sure what you would do, Ivar." She admits, and he sighs, understanding her skepticism.

"I've never used her before." He mutters under his breath.

"Hmm?" Another sigh.

"I said, I've never used her...services before. Today would have been the first time." Artemis lowers herself over him, pushing him back down so that her face hovered a few inches above his.

"Are you lying?" She questions.

"No, baby bird, I am not," He smooths her over with the nickname, bringing both his hands up to grip the sides of her delicate face, her eyes suddenly glossing over.

"I did not have the strength to rid my thoughts of you. I thought perhaps she could rid them for me. For once, I was wrong." He runs the pads of his thumbs over her cheekbones, and her eyes flutter at the sensation.

There was silence for a moment as their eyes battled each others.

"You torment me." He whines.

"Not a pleasant feeling, is it?" She laughs at the pout forming on his pink lips, letting him guide her back to his lips. He nips at her lips, smiling when she moans in what was a mixture of discomfort and desire. She pulls away, panting slightly as she buried herself in the crook of his neck.

"You are not alone in your affections," She mumbles over his skin, "But I must confess that I am afraid."

"I must confess the same," He says, "Love turns even the bravest of men into cowards. I see that now." She shifts her face to skim her lips over the hot skin of his face before lifting her upper body up again.

"Hmm." She considers his words as she shifts her hips over his, watching how his eyes screwed shut, mouth falling open. She freezes, unaware of what she’d just done.

"Fuck," He growls, his fingers sinking into her hips, "How did you do that?" Her eyes widened, totally naive of her own actions.

"I-I dont know." She stutters. Ivar shifts her hips over his again, and she chokes, closing her eyes as her body trembled from the foreign sensations.

"That," Ivar moans, drinking in the sight of her own face of pleasure, "That."

She feels him growing under her, the pressure pushing up against the heat between her legs. She licks her lips, feeling a desire surge through her that she'd never experienced before.

Ivar stares up at her in wonder, chest heaving and hands twitching over her hips before pulling her down for another heated kiss. His large hands explore the expanse of her back, settling right on the dip, pushing down to follow the rhythm in which she moved.

"I've never done this before." He pants shyly over her lips, releasing another moan that seemed to vibrate through her.

"Neither have I." She pants back, gripping his shoulders tightly.

"But the rumors-"

"Forget the rumors," She interrupts him, moving back just enough to make eye contact, "You believe love is what you feel for me?"

"I do." He nods without hesitation. She throws caution to the wind, swooping down for another kiss before replying.

"Then show me."

...

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