#but I am infinitely grateful for that book brush I found

[solardee]

[Here have some library practice scribbles]

[beauregardlionett]

all or nothing (it’s a game no one can win)

AO3 Link

Realization was a cold, viscous curl in her gut.

Her thoughts were racing, but they passed through her grasp like wisps of smoke—like illusions. None of them stuck where terror turned her mind into a slippery slope.

Eyes locked on Caleb’s, Beau imagined that his expression of horrified comprehension was mirrored on her own face. Her chest felt tight, ears ringing to where she could barely hear Fjord’s worried questions. His confusion meant little to Beau at the moment.

She and Caleb stood scarcely a foot apart from each other, bare feet planted to the floor and vulnerable in every sense of the word. Dressed in their sleep clothes, chests heaving from the dream—the nightmare. Caleb had torn his shirt off over his head and stood facing her with a naked chest. They had been asleep and still they were marked with those horrid eyes. Beau hypothesized they marked one for death—Lucien had died once already, Molly died, Vess died.

A curse.

Her thoughts were racing, but one clear, overwhelming emotion stuck at the back of her throat. It burned like the brink of nausea—that hint of relief. A sick part of Beau overwhelmingly grateful she wasn’t alone in this. That she had Caleb beside her like always. But she saw the heavy panic settling into the lines of his expression that tore through Beau with guilt.

The rest of the party stirred around them, and the tension snapped in Beau’s chest with all the force of a broken rib.

On instinct, Beau’s eyes flicked to Yasha where she leaned up against the door. She couldn’t face Yasha with this—not yet. Beau still didn’t want to face this, and she was the one with the unwarranted tattoo on her hand.

Seconds after Yasha’s eyes opened, she seemed to understand something was wrong. Jester’s sleepy question only enhanced that sense. Her muffled, “what happened?” against the pillow she pressed into spurred Yasha to shove to her feet, alert already, always a light sleeper.

She wasn’t ready. Beau moved faster than all of them.

Grabbing Caleb’s wrist and his discarded shirt, Beau yanked him from the room. Sleeping in Yasha’s bed had filled her with warmth, a sense of security. Now her fingers felt like they had been left out in the snowbanks of Eiselcross overnight, and her heart along with them. Her skin seemed too tight, too little to contain the frightful chaos underneath. Her breaths came with rapid fervor as she fled like an animal cornered to the worried calls of their friends.

Still clinging to Caleb’s wrist, Beau leapt off the platform into the middle of the tower and they began to ascend.

“Beauregard,” Caleb said tremulously at her shoulder.

“Take us to the eighth floor,” Beau said, her tone sharper than intended. At least it masked the tremor that wracked her chest.

Caleb unlocked the iris that lead to the upper floors with muttered Zemnian that Beau understood but couldn’t process. The contraption slid shut behind them with a soft shink that echoed against Beau’s nerves. Releasing Caleb’s wrist, she slid her hand into his and frantically intertwined their fingers.

“The first door,” Beau whispered. “Where was it?”

Caleb went rigid beside her, but Beau struggled to force her gaze to focus on anything at the moment, to even try looking his way.

They stood shoulder to shoulder in labored silence before Caleb finally took that infinite first step. He led her to a door and pushed it open with heavy intent. Somewhere among the tangle of threads, Beau understood. She just couldn’t seem to parse them apart long enough to comprehend anything beyond the exact second she was living in.

Standing just inside the door, hand in hand, shaken to their core, Beau and Caleb lingered.

Beau closed her eyes and took a deep, unsteady breath. Dairon had told her in one of their training sessions that when she needed to find her center, find a foothold to begin, to start with a breath. Inhale, and look forward.

She breathed in again, deeper and steadier, swore she tasted the salty air of Nicodranas on her tongue. With a tremulous exhale, Beau opened her eyes and latched onto the teacup sitting on the tiny, worn kitchen table. She could scarcely make out a hairline fracture against the lip of the cup in the dim light. There were flowers and vines painted against the fired ceramic, faded with use and more so in spots that welcomed fingerprints.

Caduceus.

The kitchen was stocked with necessities as far as Beau saw, so she inhaled once more and laid out a brief roadmap in her head.

She found purchase.

Turning to Caleb, Beau almost flinched at the expression of hollow dread etched into the exhausted lines of his face. Beau pressed his shirt into his hands and gave Caleb a nudge toward one seat at the table. He sat without protest, but Beau’s palm felt cold and empty without the weight of his presence there.

With a shake of her head, Beau mentally checked off the first step and turned to the kitchen.

A quick heft of the kettle on the counter found it full, so Beau set it over the fire crackling quietly in the hearth and returned to the counters. There was one other mug, faded brown clay that was chipped in so many places Beau was surprised it still held water. A tiny tin box held a scant amount of mint leaves, but it was enough for two mugs of tea.

She worked through the motions of brewing—the way Caduceus had shown her. It was a grounding sort of practice, almost like meditation. Each step required just enough attention to banish all other thoughts from creeping in.

Minutes later, Beau sat across from Caleb and hooked their ankles together beneath the table. Somewhere in Beau’s process, Caleb had attempted to put his shirt back on. He had gotten as far as pulling his arms into the sleeves before giving up, since it sat in his lap, his hands poking through the ends of the sleeves. Two steaming, steeping mugs of tea sat between them, steam curling lazily from the surface.

“This isn’t good,” Beau pressed out, her voice thick in her throat. That hint of nausea still lingered at the back of her tongue, accompanying the sensation of vertigo still spinning in her head from the dream.

“Nein,” Caleb said, voice hoarse.

“What do we do?”

Caleb was silent for a long, suspended moment before, “I don’t know.”

Beau had seen the way his fingers brushed and lingered over the eye on his shoulder, then the scars on his arm back in Yasha’s room. The marks on his arms were paler skin than his usual complexion, raised and puckered slightly—tangible things of torture endured and surmounted. They were evidence of something removed.

The eye against his shoulder was flat, etched and inked into skin with a permanence that neither of them had ever had the privilege or sanctuary of knowing. Beau imagined the mark against the back of her hand felt much the same, but she couldn’t even find the courage to look at her hand again.

With frustrated resignation to their fate, Beau curled the fingers of her left hand around the steaming mug before her and held fast. The weight of the eye on her skin stung like a caustic burn.

Caleb’s eyes flicked to her hand at the movement, his expression doing something complicated before he made a wounded noise. The sound came from the back of his throat, like a creature accepting its fate. He pressed his face into his hands, shirt dangling between his elbows.

“Scars and eyes,” Caleb muttered from behind his fingers before Beau could find her voice. “I’m becoming more and more like our purple friend every day.”

“Shut up,” Beau choked out near immediately, eyes narrowing. Her anger wasn’t for Caleb, but she was angry. At Trent, at Lucien, at everyone that had ever made him and her friends feel inferior, defective, and worthless. “Don’t you dare.”

“Beauregard,” Caleb dropped his hands to his lap again, eyes tired and dark. She hated this expression. “I know you care for me, but be realistic. My appetite for knowledge bears frightening comparison to Lucien’s…” His fingers drifted toward his shoulder, face turning bitter.

“It’s only a matter of time, it seems.”

The anger banished Beau’s haze of panic entirely.

“What about me, then?” Beau bit out at him. He flashed her a look of confusion and Beau released her mug to wave her left hand in his face.

“I’ve got scars and eyes and a need to know everything I have no business in. Am I going to turn into Lucien, too?”

“No,” Caleb said, sounding strangled at the very notion. “No, Beauregard, you’re different.”

“How?” Beau fired back, the furrow of her brow daring Caleb to put himself down in front of her. “Am I different because I’m younger, I’ve got more time to make it right? Is it because I wasn’t manipulated as a child the way you were? Or maybe I’m different because you assume I’m not afraid. Well, newsflash, asshole—I’m fucking terrified.”

Caleb blinked at her, lips parted slightly as he stared.

“We both know I’m blunt and I don’t have a filter,” Beau said by way of preamble. “But if you truly think you’re more like Lucien than you are like me, then your intelligence is fucking wasted. Lucien clings to that book because he wants the power he thinks will come of it. We,” Beau gestured empathetically between them, making the steam from their tea waft in erratic spirals. “Went into that book looking for information, for a foothold to understand. We’re sitting here like this because we don’t want this.”

Beau sucked in a tremulous inhale, her eyes stinging as she glared at Caleb. “So fuck you for implying otherwise.”

Caleb seemed at a loss for words, his jaw snapping shut, a muscle twinging beneath his cheek with the force of it. He looked down at his hands in his lap, tangled in his shirt, and said nothing. Dashing at her traitorous eyes, Beau didn’t even try to be subtle about the tears she furiously wiped away. The silence pulled, and they let it, the crackling logs being devoured by flame an undercurrent of white noise.

“Why are we up here, Beauregard?” Caleb’s haggard voice pushed through the silence between them.

Beau stayed quiet for a beat before answering. She weighed her options, wanting to tell Caleb everything that had been in her head since they were up here earlier. She just wasn’t sure if this was the right time.

The eye on her skin burned, and Beau remembered Fjord’s words from a couple nights before.

Who knows how long we have.

“Because I don’t think Lucien can get up here,” Beau replied to the surface of her tea. She paused and made her choice. “And I needed to tell you I understand now.”

The snap of Caleb’s eyes finding her was palpable, but infinitely more comforting than the stare of that stupid eye from their dream.

“Caduceus said you were going about this the wrong way. Jester said it was a punishment rather than a memory—but this isn’t here as a punishment, is it? You put this here as a reminder, so you don’t forget where you came from. So you don’t forget them. This is here because you’re scared you might forget them the way you forgot those years after you were tricked. You have this here so that it exists because it’s the closest thing you can get to without actually going back. You keep thinking about this past, about what it would cost to go back and fix things.”

She looked up finally, and the jarring lock of Beau’s gaze into Caleb’s previously fixated stare almost threw her. There was desperation to his eyes, a longing sort of hope that Beau might manage to put his way into words.

“I’d give up quite a bit for the chance to fix a few things in the past now, too,” Beau murmured. “So yeah, I understand why you keep this place around, why it’s hard to let go.” She looked around at the simple kitchen, at the cheerful hearth. “Jester’s right, it is a nice house. None of us were trying to judge you or shame you for it, Caleb. But you understand why we were worried before, right? Everything comes at a cost—even the right thing.”

They sat silently for a long moment, staring at each other in the dim. The press of Caleb’s ankles against Beau’s a warm, comforting weight.

“Caduceus asked you if you thought Lucien had a room like this,” Beau whispered. She could all but sense the amount of effort it took for Caleb to not flinch at her words.

“Even if he does, Caleb,” Beau spoke in a measured, firm tone. Her grip around her teacup tightened as she leaned in marginally to keep his gaze on her. “You aren’t like him. And I won’t let you be, either.”

Caleb held her gaze for a lengthy, tenuous moment before he seemed to come to some kind of conclusion. The furrow between his brow eased, and he raised his arms to tug the shirt fully over his head. He scooped up the clay mug before him with a trembling hand. The eye on his shoulder hidden away for now, but Beau’s still glared out at them with red intent.

“So how do we fix this?” Caleb asked, accented and gruff. His ankles pressed with more resolve against Beau’s where they were locked together. “Going forward.”

Hope was not a swell in her chest. Instead, it was the heated comfort of a mug of tea against her palm and Caleb’s warm hand covering her knuckles. His fingers obscured the eye etched into her skin, and Beau could almost pretend for a moment that it wasn’t there at all.

Inhale, and look forward.

[cockasinthebird]

"My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee the more I have, for both are infinite.” -William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act 2 Scene 2

He had brought Laurie, Amy, Becky here. Never Nancy. Robin several times, at first with certain intentions, but it quickly became their place to watch the sweaty, athletic bodies of cheerleaders and football players, all the while sharing what shitty weed they could come across in such a puny town.

“Man, you can really see everything from here, huh?”

And now he has brought Billy here. It's only been three days since he caught him red-handed, slipping a loving note into his locker.

-

“I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.”

Billy had stood frozen in place, utterly paralyzed by the perfected fear of facing something you had not prepared for. Never intended to prepare for, as he explained to Steve that he was content with just wishing from afar, green with envy and yellow with melancholy.

But Steve had refused him that, to let this die before it has even had a chance to bloom under the sun or moon, as he just wants to feel the truth behind the letters, and encouraged him to continue.

-

Although restless through the night till Friday, he felt relief most unimaginable, as he opened his locker and found more of the same handwriting.

“For where thou art, there is the world itself, and where thou art not, desolation.”

And Robin had explained, “It simply means that life only exists around you. That with love everything is beautiful, and without it everything is dead.” She then looked to Steve with an inquisitive gaze. “Do you know who it is?”

He didn't speak, but nodded still.

-

In a few short hours, the sun will set to color the sky in beautiful hues of red, and Steve is happy, but sickeningly nervous.

On Friday before Billy got to drive home, Steve had found him and asked to meet under the bleachers on Saturday- today.

“Yeah,” he finally says and scratches the hairs on the back of his head, but carefully so as to not disturb the well kempt style. “I come here with... a friend, to smoke and watch the football team practice.”

Billy turns to look at him and grins, knowingly yet with reservation. “Oh? You wanna join the football team?” His gaze travels up and down with a teasing glint in his perfect blues. “I don't think you have the physique for it.”

And Steve laughs at that, arms crossed high up his chest in a hesitant stance. “No, I...” he braces himself before attempting to be bold, “I'm just enjoying the view.”

Yet Billy proves bolder, his grin twisting into something more suggestive, and takes a few all too confident steps closer. “See anything you like, then?”

Bright pink paints across Steve's pale skin, and his lips twitch as he parts them to whisper, faintly, “Yes.”

Gently so, Billy reaches out to touch Steve's arms and pulls them apart, to tangle their fingers together in a frighteningly perfect fit, calloused on soft. A first touch of skin that is not mean or cruel. And hopefully not the last.

Both in agreeance of such dear notions, they move closer till the toes of their shoes meet, a foot or so apart, never having been this close without bloody intentions. It is a bewildering thrill, that forces both hearts to beat with reverence.

Steve watches lips closely, as Billy speaks with a lull, “Love goes toward love, as school-boys from their books, but love from love, toward school with heavy looks.”

And they both laugh at the comparison that seems all too apt. For once a quote that even Steve, a fool, can understand without Robin to act as his royal translator.

“But how do you know it's love?” Steve then asks and he meets heaven in Billy's eyes.

“Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?” his voice that of an angel, at home behind those well-cushioned lips and beneath that canopy of a mustache.

“In English?” Steve chuckles out with the warmth of his aching heart, and squeezes Billy's hands tighter in a frail attempt to show his appreciation for such fanciful words.

“It means that love at first sight is true, that from the moment our eyes met, my heart was yours.”

Words that brings forth something so deep in Steve, a feeling that has suffered the painful silence of lying dormant, that now upon awakening, he cannot resist its vivid urging for him to lean in through the air heavy with emotion between them, lips parted.

But even then, with all too daring a gesture from the brunette, Billy doesn't do his part justice, till he asks, “Can I kiss you?”

And Steve's mouth spreads soft like butter on warm bread, as he gives a light and affable laugh, “God yes.”

The joyous sounds they both harmonize in becomes muffled when they embrace one another so fondly, that all the agony and misfortune they've caused each other in the past simply melts away by the heat of their yearning.

Billy raises up his hand to gingerly hold Steve's chin between his fingers, to keep him still so that Billy alone can angle his head to the side and find himself an explorer on Steve's skin, along the shoreline that is his jaw, across the moles on his skin like precious landmarks, to fall along the slope of his exposed neck from wherein hums echo, till his journey is obstructed by the border of his brightly colored tee.

“How do you know Shakespeare?” Steve asks, and pleads with loving hands for the return of those clear eyes.

The amiable smile that Billy carries so well goes crooked, and Steve is quick to dread the witty response that comes out as, “By reading.”

“Intelligent, handsome, and funny,” Steve laughs near mockingly, but with only playful intentions that becomes clear once his expression grows fond once more. And by the peeking of Billy's tongue, he understands that the tone of it all was apparent. “I mean why do you know so much Shakespeare?”

Billy lets out a complacent sigh, brushes Steve's hair behind his ears, as he thinks of a proper way to convey his internal monologue, ever the lustrous garden that it is. At the very least he can start with the undeniable truth,

“My mom was into plays, as in a lot. She often talked about going on Broadway some day.” His gaze travels aside to somewhere farther off than possible, as if in a dreaming state to lovingly relive the memory of her. “She would read me his stories and sonnets, and when she...” Then blue eyes falls to the green beneath, a shade darker with a dreary shadow over his mind. “When she left us, my dad and me, all I had of hers is this necklace and a dear love for Shakespeare.”

Steve's fingers a feather across the golden pendant nestled between clean pecs, the dolefulness palpable in his faint expression. When warm fingers wraps around his own, just to then be lifted up to meet Billy's lips, plush against each digit.

“I've been... very angry for a very long time, Steve,” the honesty to his tone jarring.

And Steve's name sounds more precious than buried gold when carried along by that dulcet voice. His heart throbs at it, ready and willing to stop dancing forever, if that would mean this to be his last memory of too short a life.

“I've been a real shithead to you.”

A confession that makes Steve burst out with unexpected laughter. “Oh have you now? Even with both of my hands and yours I can't count all the times you've hit me in the last year or so.”

“I know!” Billy doesn't mean to smile the way he does, but Steve's own stretch of perfect lips infects him. “But I hope you can forgive me for it, although I don't deserve it. I just want you to know how sorry I am that I took out all of my frustrations on you. It has taken me all my life to find out what's wrong with me, and then found that it comes down to two things only. My fucked up dad, and...”

He hesitates now more than ever, does not meet the eyes of kindness that bestows their grace upon him, and instead he plays around with Steve's fingers between his, watching as winter skin meets sun-kissed.

Steve remains a quiet statue of patience, knows exactly what endeavor Billy is about to step through. One that he has not been brave enough to face himself, but understands all too well the danger of it, viewed from a window of presumed privilege till he only short ago discovered a crack in the glass.

But perchance the road wont be as treacherous with another near his.

Silence drags on, however, and Steve observes how the bravery of spilling guts in such candor falls sourly into the pits of despair, and in a show of solace for such pain, Steve is now the one to bring their hands up to kiss them with such tenderness that would make anyone believe love to be the truest of human emotion.

“You don't have to finish that sentence,” Steve whispers benevolently, then guides warm palms to cup his grateful expression, hoping that this gesture will prove to Billy everything he knows.

“Yeah?” he requests for reassurance never the less, but who among any one person can resist such clear form of validation and not to be tempted by the belief of such words to be lies.

“Yeah,” Steve coos out and leans into that touch as was it the one of a lover's already.

And this time Billy does not find cause to ask for acquiescence, as he too leans towards the touch of infatuation, to taste the mirth of youthfulness on Steve's soft existence.

[tinkerd]

Interview with www.achuka.co.uk

See Original post here: https://www.achuka.co.uk/blog/meet-an-illustrator-14-david-litchfield/

Meet An Illustrator 14 – David Litchfield APRIL 17, 2021 BY ACHUKA  self-portrait © David Litchfield

ACHUKA is thrilled to have David Litchfield as the 14th guest on Meet An Illustrator, an informal weekend feature introduced this year.. Do visit the backpages  to read the responses from previous guests.

The Bear And The Piano, David’s debut picture book, was published just 5 years ago, but he is already established as one of the UK’s leading illustrators and picture book creators. That debut title won Waterstones Illustrated Book Prize in 2016. Much more recently he has come to attention as the cover illustrator for David Almond’s Bone Music:

The Bear And The Piano became a trilogy with publication in 2019 of The Bear, The Piano, The Dog And The Fiddle and, this year, with the third title The Bear, The Piano And The Little Bear’s Concert.

A particular favourite of ACHUKA’s is Lights On Cotton Rock:

His 2021 publishing year kicked off with illustrations for A Shelter for Sadness by Anne Booth

and the paperback edition of Rainbow Before Rainbows by Smriti Halls is published this coming week:

Next month (May 2021) we can look forward to Pip And Egg written by Alex Latimer:

and, as we hear below, there is lot lots more to come.

As a child, what were the first illustrations you remember being pleased with?

I think that it was a drawing of a panda. It was in primary school and we all had to draw one. We then put them all on the wall and I remember feeling a bit arrogant and quietly smug that my panda was definitely one of the best ones on that wall.

Who/what inspired you when you were young?

Again at primary school our teacher sat us all down and read us Where The Wild Things Are. I remember being absolutely blown away by Maurice Sendak‘s drawings and characters and totally felt transported away from the reading mat in that classroom to that dreamy monster island. Mr Sendak and Albert Uderzo were absolutely the two biggest influences on making me want to draw every day.

Who inspires you today?

Still mainly Sendak and Uderzo. But I love finding out about new illustrators. There are an infinite amount of styles and techniques and approaches to drawing and I love being surprised by how different people create a spread or tell their stories. My current 2 favourites are Sydney Smith and Frances Ives. They both have such a free and natural style. They are amazing.

Did you study art/illustration?

I actually studied Graphic Design at Camberwell College of Art. Graphic Design felt like the most sensible career choice in the art world. I loved the course and I met some great people there. But I was really shocked at how little drawing was involved. I think more than anything that course showed me how much I really loved to draw and that I just wasn’t a Graphic Designer.

What is your favourite artist tool/product?

It sounds obvious but a pencil and a sketchbook. My absolute favourite part of a project is when it’s just me, a pencil and a sketchbook and I am just letting the idea develop by scribbling and experimenting and making a mess.

Where do you buy your art supplies?

I have two favourite shops here in Bedford. One is called the Arc which sells all kinds of incredible arts supplies and exotic paints and brushes etc. I also like Coleman’s which is obviously more of a standard stationary shop. But I don’t know, I like their pens. I spend far too much money on pens.

What software/apps do you use?

I only really use Photoshop. I tried to get my head around Illustrator but I’m just not that technically minded to be honest. I have had a play with Pro Create but my kids keep stealing my iPad so I have not had enough time to learn it yet.

What was your first commission?

My first commission happened when I was 13 years old and I drew a poster for a local comic shop. They paid me in comics. My first proper paid commission was with The Beano comic. I think that it was in  2013 or so when the editor Michael Stirling found my drawings online. For a few weeks I drew the illustrations that accompanied a poetry section in the comic. It was amazing to be drawing for a comic I had been in love with for most of my life. I will forever be grateful to that team for giving me that opportunity.

What are you working on at the moment?

I am just finishing drawing a pretty epic book written by Gregory Maguire. After that I’m so happy to be working on another ‘Earth’ book with Stacy McAnulty. I love drawing these books, and I learn so much about our planet too. After that I’m starting a beautiful book with the writer Nell Cross Beckerman which is going to be a total stunner. Towards the end of the year I’m creating artwork for my next author/illustrator book too.

Which is all very exciting. I always feel like I’m being very vague when I don’t give too much info but I’m never sure how much I’m actually allowed to say. What I can tell you is that my author/illustrator book is going to be a Christmas story set in Victorian times.

Twitter or Instagram? Instagram I think. I love Twitter but Instagram just feels a lot friendlier. Also as an illustrator it is a great, visual medium to share work on. I have also found so many new great artists from this site.

Coffee or tea?  

I love coffee. But I have had to cut back a lot. I was getting the jitters because I drank it so much. Now I just have two cups a day. And only in the mornings.

Cat or dog?  

Oh my goodness Dog. Dog every time. I always had dogs growing up. They were my best friends. We got a dog last summer. I was adamant that my two boys should have a dog growing up. My wife wasn’t that convinced I don’t think but now that we have one she loves her as much as we do.

Grape or grain? 

Hmmm, both good, but I would have to say grape.

Sunrise or sunset? 

Sunset. I don’t know if it’s a getting older thing but I love sitting in my garden as the sun starts to go down. It’s like a magic time of the day where everything is winding down and becoming peaceful.

What do you listen to when you are working?  

Mainly loud rock music.  But I’ve also started to listen to a fair few podcasts. My favourite ones at the moment are ‘Pod Save America‘- helps me get my head around American politics, which I can sometimes find quite baffling from time to time- and The Force Center – which is a massively geeky Star Wars podcast which has none of the snark and negativity of other fandom type discussions. I recommend it if you are a Star Wars nerd like me.

Where can we follow you on social media? I’m on twitter: @dc_litchfield Instagram: @david_c_litchfield

I also have a blog at:

tinkerd.tumblr.com

and a Facebook page at

facebook.com/davidlitchfieldillustration

-but to be honest I do keep forgetting to update that one.

[womanwhowritesformany]

We’ll Be Alright

Ellie x Original Female Character

summary— When Ellie and Joel arrived in Jackson County years ago, Lars was another teenage girl that Ellie met. The two of them instantly clicked over their shared experience of losing family, knowing how to use a gun and bonded over the nature of Wyoming, drawing and the music they found. As Lars and Ellie grow up side by side their friendship grows stronger, and when they're old enough for patrols, it goes further than friendship... but sometimes things like this is hard to figure out, especially when you barely have experience.

*this one shot can also be found on my A03 account @ womanwhowritesformany

warnings: none + no spoilers. just fluff. friends to lovers

When Ellie and Joel arrived in Jackson County years ago, Lars was another teenage girl that Ellie met. The two of them instantly clicked over their shared experience of losing family, knowing how to use a gun and bonded over the nature of Wyoming, drawing and the music they found. As Lars and Ellie grow up side by side their friendship grows stronger, and when they're old enough for patrols, it goes further than friendship... but sometimes things like this are hard to figure out, especially when you barely have experience. But when a girl named Ellie and her dad Joel (she assumed it was her dad, but later found out that it wasn't actually her dad), Lars immediately showed Ellie the county.

Although the man, Joel, was very protective and followed the two around the whole entire day, not leaving Ellie's side. But as the days and weeks went on, Joel realized Ellie had made a friend. Lars and Ellie were close, doing almost everything together and it gave Joel a reason to smile, despite everything that was going on in his head. “Hi! My name is Lars.” She’d introduce herself, smiling very big, missing a baby tooth or two. “Lars is just my nickname, my real name is Larsa. Please, don’t call me Larsa!” Her eyes were wide.

“I’m Ellie.” She would say, standing with her arms strictly at her side with her posture straight and chest out (like Joel had stood most of the time to push off the impression he was strong).

Ellie felt a bit overwhelmed at Lars’ presence; She was very eccentric, the way she had worn mixed up clothes but somehow made it work, the way her hair was cut short and usually messy, but extremely stylish. Lars may have been awkward with things she would say, or how she stood, but she was always an extrovert, and that worked. But within the hour that they met, Ellie was extremely excited to have a new friend.

For the few years they had become friends, their friendship blossomed into something special. It was like they had known each other since they were young, but in reality, it was just a couple of years. And now, they were finally old enough to go out on patrols together. When the days they weren't out on patrol or going on runs, they were either hanging out like teens normally do with others. But sometimes, almost every night, Lars and Ellie would stay up talking all through the night about anything and everything. They were always both curious, except Ellie was a bit more reserved with her feelings; that’s where her room really showed off who Ellie was. And Lars loved that. Posters, music, books and numerous drawings of Ellie’s and even sketchbooks lying around. And as for Lars, well, she was very energetic and always spoke about the movies she remembers and the movies she would see here in Jackson, Lars was curious about everything, and soon enough, she became curious about love. She saw in the movies all the time a man and woman falling in love, so she wondered if that would ever happen to her.

Lars took the definition of love from the movies she saw and the books she read (the books were from Ellie’s room) and the more she focused on it, the more she applied it to herself and Ellie. And that had suddenly sparked an epiphany on her feelings towards Ellie.

No matter how much Lars constantly spoke and hardly ran out of energy, Ellie liked it. And that’s where Ellie felt curious about feeling something for someone.

Curiosity for them both, was more than just their realization of what they felt for one another. Obviously, they kept it to themselves. But the curiosity for liking each other had reached a small amount of physicality. Their hands would brush against each other whenever they were alone in Ellie’s room, or during a movie at the small theater in Jackson. (They were both completely oblivious to their feelings, but other people weren’t - they picked up on a special bond between them two. Especially Joel. Joel knew something was happening before they did. He knew, and he was happy for Ellie - happy for Lars. He could barely admit to himself, but he was excited to see it blossom).

They were on patrol. Ellie was sitting in a chair with her gun by her side, watching the trees that moved in the distance as the leaves would fall off of the branches. Winter was about to arrive, and they felt it as the air got colder and crisper. Lars stood just a few inches away from Ellie, her back against the wooden wall of a small cabin like home. It was getting darker out, and soon they would leave so another pair could take over for the rest of the night.

"Whatcha thinkin' about over there?" Lars asked, as she observed Ellie's face, the moonlight shining on her making her face glow.

She shrugs in response and tilts her head to look at Lars. "I don't know."

"You don't know? Jesus, Ellie, your face is so scrunched up." She laughs, walking over to sit by her. "You alright?"

"I think so," ellie answers, "just your typical teenage stuff."

"You know I understand all too well! I mean, just last week, Jesse was trying to go on a date with me. A date! Like seriously, where do you go on dates around here? The community's hall where you eat? And besides, Dina and Jesse are good together. I think. They do argue a lot, but then again it's not my problem. Also, Jesse is cute--adorable and all, but he's not my type. At all."

Lars looks over to Ellie, who wears a blank expression as she blinks at Lars. "What?"

"You really ramble a lot." Ellie smiles.

"Oh sorry."

"Lars, when do you ever have to be sorry to me?" She bumps her shoulder into hers. "You're being you, and that's great. You're great."

Lars starts to panic internally, as she takes in Ellie's compliments and her support of her awkwardness. "Oh Ellie, thank you." Her cheeks begin to heat up.

"So, why don't you like Jesse? Besides Dina being in the picture."

"I said he's just not my type." Lars answers, looking away. She begins to think about Ellie, the friendship they shared all these years. How grateful she was to find someone like Ellie, the way she just came into Jackson and in her life out of the blue. The nights they spent together, whether it was up and out here on patrols, or inside her little home with Ellie's drawings and posters and books and sketchbooks everywhere. The way Ellie would look out for her and the way she would look out for Ellie. She felt almost too lucky... and suddenly, Lars is staring at her, without noticing that Ellie is paying attention. She looks at all her freckles that cover her face faintly but still noticeable. She likes her nose, the way it's small and just perfectly fits Ellie's face. The way her eyebrows pull in and her lips scrunching up to the side. Oh.. her lips. Her pouty, adorable lips.

"Can I kiss you?" Lars blurts out, and immediately regrets it as she averts her gaze away from Ellie's and to outside. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking."

"Lars." Ellie pulls her shoulder so that she could look at her. "Its okay, really."

"Yeah, good. Just forget it." She nods.

"No, really. It's okay."

Lars is confused, but once Ellie pulls on her arm, she cups her hands on Lars' jaw on both sides and looks into her eyes. "It's alright."

"You don't have to do this for my sake, Ellie. Just forget it." She didn't want sympathy, not now and not ever. From no one, especially Ellie.

Ellie chuckles, then pulls her face in and hovers her lips over Lars'. They face each other, lips centimeters away. Lars' breathing picks up as she panics, gulping away as she's so not ready for her first kiss. But then it happens. She feels the softness of her lips, but such a strong force it was. It was euphoric, Lars swore she was on fire by how heated she got, how the butterflies in her stomach were an infinite amount, just fluttering away with nowhere to go.

It was sorta ironic, a bit funny too, that Ellie was the one to be so energetic with the kiss and not being shy about it. Whereas Lars was the shyest she had ever been. The kiss between the two friends had advanced from a peck, to a full on almost making out, lips fighting each other for dominance. Although Lars wanted to be the one to control it, Ellie wasn’t having it; the way she held Lars almost still as her lips molded onto hers, very rarely giving a bite or two, it had made both the girls let out their own type of moan; Lars’s surprisingly like a wince, and Ellie’s almost like a growl.

Once Ellie pulls away, they sit breathless, eyes still closed. .

“I really want to say what's on my mind right now, but I am so scared.” Lars admits, keeping her eyes shut.

“Hey there, don’t go shy on me now.” Ellie kept her hand on Lars’ cheek as she emphasized the ‘now’. “It’s okay, it’s just me, Lars.”

“Yeah I know,” she scoffs, “that’s what makes me scared.”

Ellie leans in and kisses her jaw, then slowly up to the corners of her mouth and finally reaches her lips, tongue slightly running over her bottom lip. Lars shivers as the gesture. “Whatever you want to say, I guarantee you I won’t run.”

Lars opens her eyes to see Ellie staring at her. She sighs and squeezes Ellie’s thigh. “I think I’ve loved you for some time.”

“Loved?” Ellie teases.

“Ellie…” She sighs as she blushes. “I do..I do love you.”

“I love you too, Lars. Just like you, I think I always have.”

They sit there during the remaining time on patrol, waiting for the others to come relieve them. Side by side, their thighs are squeezed against each other as they keep their hands on their weapons, to be responsible and ready for any clickers, stalkers or even people that come along. Ellie glances over at Lars a few times, just soaking the feeling of how she made her feel, in. This meant something more now, more than just a friendship.

"By the way, what and who the hell is your type?"

Lars shyly smiles, leaning into Ellie's tattooed arm, "You."

“Was it like the movies?”

“What are you talking about Ellie?”

“The kiss. This…” She intertwines her hand with Lars’ and squeezes it. “Was it like the movies you’ve seen.”

“No,” Lars tilts her head up on Ellie’s shoulder and stares. She can see Ellie’s eyebrows furrowed in, and her lips in a pout. “Because when I watched every movie with love or whatever, it just never had someone like you or me. So, I guess I’m trying to say it was better than the movies.”

Lars tilts her head back and lets her lips kiss on the inside of Ellie’s neck, and that’s when she relaxes, finally content with something in her life. “This isn’t going to ruin anything right? Between us.” she asks as she cuddles further into her neck.

“Nah,” she feels Ellie shake her head. “I think we’ll be alright. Yeah, we’ll be alright.”

[argylemnwrites]

Gifts and Games

Pairing: Levi Schuler x MC (Tara Day)

Book: Mother of the Year (about one month after the end)

Word Count: ~1500

Rating: PG (some mild innuendo)

Summary: Levi hadn’t had a reason to celebrate any holidays for a long time.

Author’s Note: Alright, started off Hanukkah with a Seth piece, let’s end it with a piece featuring my newest Jewish LI, Levi. Just starting to dabble in some MOTY fic here. I loved that book a lot and found all the LIs really compelling, so even though it’s a standalone, I’m still gonna play around with these characters. This piece is for Day 29 of both the Choices December Challenge (Sunset) and Day 30 of 41 Days of Cheer (Celebration) because I am unabashedly working time zones to my advantage here.

Levi hadn’t played dreidel in years. Nah, scratch that. It had been several decades. That fact made him feel older than the fact that he was at a point in his life where dating a woman with a 10 yo kid was a reasonable thing ever did.

Honestly, Levi had never really felt that connected to his faith. If someone had pushed him on it, he’d have to say he really didn’t believe in anything spiritual or religious. Being Jewish to him was more about his connection to his family, and as he got older, he knew he’d gotten more and more disconnected there. It was just strange, being the unmarried, intermittently unemployed uncle, so often, he’d chosen to work instead of going to his grandmother’s for any of the holidays.

But when Zoey had asked him about Hanukkah across the dinner table the other night, he’d been caught off guard. She was so genuinely curious, because of course that smart little nerd wanted to know everything.

“Levi, you’re Jewish, right?” she’d asked between bites of spaghetti.

“Yeah, why are you asking, Rocket?”

“Well, we were learning about winter holidays in my world cultures class, and Ensley was talking about how she got the new iPhone for Hanukkah, and I was just wondering if you celebrated Hanukkah or not. I’ve never been Jewish or anything, so I don’t know exactly how it works.”

Levi had swallowed his mouthful of spaghetti before he answered, “Uh, I haven’t really celebrated Hanukkah in a few years.”

“Why not?”

“Haven’t had anyone to celebrate with, I guess.”

“Do you have to be Jewish to celebrate Hanukkah? Because we could celebrate with you, right mom?”

Tara had locked eyes with him, clearly trying to make sure he was okay with Zoey’s plan. They hadn’t really talked about his background, so he was grateful that she was trying to gauge his feelings about the topic, but he honestly didn’t care. If Zoey wanted to try out Hanukkah, who was he to throw a fit about that? So he’d shrugged and given Tara a little smile. And that’s how he found himself on the floor around the coffee table now, playing a game of dreidel with the two of them.

“So, all you do is spin the top? That’s it?” asked Zoey, a skeptical look on her face that was almost comical.

“That’s it, Rocket.”

She frowned at that, “But there’s no strategy then. It’s all just luck.”

“Yup.”

“Huh, that’s kinda boring.”

“Zoey!” chided Tara, shooting a look at her daughter, “Don’t be rude. You were the one who wanted to celebrate Hanukkah, remember?”

Zoey bit her lip and looked down before glancing up at Levi. “Sorry, Levi. I didn’t mean to say your game was boring. I’m sure it will be a lot of fun.”

Levi just shrugged, “No worries, Rocket. I didn’t make the rules.”

And so they’d started a game, using some leftover rocket parts as their pieces, passing around the little top and taking their turns. But after about 50 rounds, Levi could sense not only Zoey getting antsy, even though she was trying her damnedest to sit still and stay interested, but Tara was also frequently checking the time on her phone when she thought no one was looking. Levi honestly couldn’t blame them. He’d forgotten how long and dull dreidel games could be. In fact, he was impressed that Zoey had stuck with it as long as she had. 

“Hey, Rocket?”

“Yeah, Levi?”

“I think you’re right. This is a boring game.”

Zoey blinked at him before giving him a bright smile. Tara just shook her head.

“It’s not that bad, Levi.”

“Nah, you don’t have to pretend. I totally forgot how long this could drag on. I don’t know how I had the patience for it as a kid. So what do you say, kiddo? Should we call it?”

Zoey looked between him and Tara, who gave her a slight nod. Zoey paused for just a second longer before nodding, “If that’s okay with you guys.”

“Completely fine with me,” said Levi, “It’s just a little game to pass the time, anyway.”

“Thanks, babe,” said Tara, squeezing his shoulder as she stood up, wandering into the kitchen to check on the frozen lasagna she had in the oven. Not exactly traditional Hanukkah food, but hey, nothing about him or Tara’s life was exactly traditional.

Levi hefted himself off the floor and onto the couch, watching as Zoey much more nimbly hopped up and took a seat on the couch next to him. 

“Is there something else we could do to celebrate Hanukkah?” she asked him as she crossed her legs beneath her on the couch.

Levi paused for a moment, trying to think of what he could share with her. He wasn’t sure if any of the chocolate he had was safe for her, and handing out candy right before dinner seemed like a great way to annoy Tara. He didn’t own a menorah. Suddenly, an idea hit him.

“Did your world cultures teacher tell you about the reason we celebrate Hanukkah?”

Zoey nodded proudly, “Yup! It’s because after the Maccabees fought and reclaimed their temple from the Syrians, they only had one jar of oil for light. They sent out someone to get more oil, and when he got back eight days later, that tiny jar of oil was still burning.”

“Exactly. That’s why we celebrate after sunset and usually light candles. Basically, a lot of the shi… stuff Jewish people do to celebrate Hanukkah focuses on oil or light. And I bet you have something squirreled away in your bedroom that uses some oil.”

Zoey chewed on her lip for a couple of seconds before she answered, “Well, the engine kit I got from Luz and Thomas for Christmas uses oil, but that’s a different type of oil.”

“Well, I say the type of oil doesn’t matter one bit. So what do you say, how about we work on that after dinner?”

She grinned brightly at him. “I’ll go get things ready,” she said as she climbed off the couch and bounded into her room.

“Only five minute until dinner!” cried out Tara, “And you need to wash your hands before then!”

Some muffled sounds of agreement drifted out of Zoey’s room. Deciding to see if Tara needed any help, Levi strolled over to the kitchen. “How can I be of assistance?”

Tara glanced up from the green beans see was stirring on the stove top. “The bread could use slicing. It’s on top of the fridge.”

“On it.”

As he grabbed a cutting board from the cabinet and the serrated knife from the drawer, Tara spoke again, grabbing the oven mitts and pulling the lasagna from the oven.

“Quite the history lesson I got there. All I knew about Hanukkah prior to tonight I learned from Adam Sandler.”

Levi laughed at that, “Chanukah Song or Eight Crazy Nights?”

“Both, of course! It’s a shame it’s the last night, though. Otherwise we could have had eight crazy nights of our own.”

Levi turned to face her at that, stepping closer so that they were practically touching. “That is a shame. I guess we’ll really have to make tonight count, then,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows comically. Tara smirked at him at that, but any response she might make was cut off as Zoey bounded into the room.

“Hands all washed, Mom,” she said, walking into the kitchen and grabbing three sets of silverware out of the drawer as she went to set the table, oblivious to what she’d just interrupted.

“Levi’s just finishing up slicing the bread, then we’ll be all set,” said Tara, stepping away from him, turning back to the stove, and grabbing the green beans to drain. He had to marvel at her ability to go from sexy as hell to mom mode without missing a beat, but as she brushed past him, she oh so casually dragged her hand across the front of his jeans, throwing him a wink.

Levi just shook his head, grateful that he had a few moments of slicing the bread to redirect his thoughts, calm down enough to get back in the family mindset. Compartmentalizing was something he was getting better at since he started seeing Tara, but she was still infinitely better at it than him. Probably because she had years of experience compared to his few months. And while with other girlfriends, an innuendo-laced conversation like that would have led to a burnt and late dinner, Levi honestly didn’t mind having to wait until Zoey was in bed. Tara was worth it. They both were worth it. So he sliced the bread and joined his two favorite girls at the dinner table. He never thought this would be his life, but it was amazing how comfortable it felt. It felt nice, and honestly - it was probably the best holiday gift he’d ever received.

Permatag: @mfackenthal   @lilyofchoices @thequeenofcronuts @jamesashtonisbae

Mother of the Year:  @sunnyxdazed @octobereighth

Levi x MC: @srta-give-me-my-jax-rl

Events: @choicesbyjade @jlpplays1-41daysofcheerchallenge @choicesdecemberchallenge​

[etherealwaifgoddess]

What He Wants (Pt. 24)

Main Characters: Bucky Barnes x Enhanced Reader

Summary:  On going series of Bucky getting his shit together and falling in love with you.

Warnings/ Content: showering together but it’s surprisingly lemon-free, and sweet fluff

Word Count: 1560

Author’s Note: Hello lovelies! Welcome to the last installment of What He Wants. I’ve agonized over what to say here for most of today and nothing sounds quite right. I guess it’s never easy to say goodbye, but part of the journey is the end. Some of you will leave happy and satisfied, some of you will grumble, and some will beg for more. I stand by this as a good stopping point though. I’m not saying I’ll never pick up where you and Bucky leave off; to maybe do another story or some one shots, but I don’t know yet. I need to let my brain rest after two weeks of daily updates and pouring my soul into this little world. I do want to say thank you though. You readers (especially my darling tag list peeps) have been so kind and welcoming to this little writing community here on Tumblr and over on AO3. I am eternally grateful for every single one of you. Every like, comment, and reblog has given me infinite joy even when shit got real in my real life. So thank you for going on this journey with me and hanging out until the very end. I love you all 3,000.

If you missed the first few parts, you can read them here: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

XOXO - Ash

What He Wants, Pt. 24

The bathtub shower combo in your bathroom is really only meant for one person. Squeezing a super soldier in it comfortably with the curtain closed is a feat in itself, but with both of you in it, it verges on comical. Bucky is determined though and as soon as you have the water falling at a reasonable temperature he’s guiding you in under the spray. He lathers your perfumed bar of soap between his palms and you’re surprised he isn’t worried about getting his vibranium arm wet. The marvels of Wakandan tech, you suppose. 

Bucky rubs his soapy hands across your chest, kneading your shoulder muscles before moving lower to caress your breasts. He lavishes them with attention only for a moment, intent on actually cleaning you instead of starting something again. His palms slip down your waist, rubbing soothing circles across your soft tummy, and he reaches for more soap to lather his hands up again. Bucky smooths his slippery hands down further down, cupping your sex gently in his palm as he works gently to clean you. You brace your palms on his shoulders for support, his hands are relaxing all of your muscles as he works and making it difficult for you to stay upright. Your thighs tremble as he moves to them, working out the knots in your muscles as he goes. Delicately, he lifts each of your feet as he reaches the bottom of your calves and even takes the care to wash them as well. 

“You’re gonna have to turn around, sweetheart.” he tells you gently and you oblige, holding on to the wall for support instead of him. He moves back up your legs, stopping above your knees for more soap. Bucky is savoring every moment of washing your well loved body and he works your tense glutes until you’re sighing in relief. Bucky continues upward, ending finally as he works the last of the knots out of your shoulders. Once he’s satisfied you are completely clean he trails kisses across your shoulders, “All set, doll. Do you want me to do your hair too?” 

You moan again, “I would say no, you’ve already done too much, but god help me your hands are magic.” 

A satisfied chuckle rumbles in Bucky’s chest, “I haven’t done nearly enough, doll. Turn around and I’m gonna do your hair too. Let me take care of my girl.”

Your heart speeds up when he calls you his girl. It’s so old fashioned but it makes you feel cherished and loved. You turn to face Bucky, getting your hair under the spray, and he’s ready with your shampoo bottle. Bucky’s hands are just as skilled massaging your scalp with your shampoo and then conditioner, even knowing to work the knots out of your hair as the conditioner rinses out. You are completely spineless by the time he’s done and you wish you could return the favor but he swaps your positions and starts washing himself with quick, efficient swipes of his soap. He’s gorgeous as his vibranium hand rubs the soap across the hard muscles of his body and you are chastising yourself for not offering to reciprocate, especially as he moves down to wash his thick thighs and your mouth goes dry at the thought of running slippery hands down and in between them. 

Pulling yourself together you grab Bucky’s shampoo and wait until he finishes washing himself. “Let me at least do your hair?” you ask him.

“I’d love that, doll.” he moves to kneel in front of you and you’re amused by how tall he still is compared to you. You tilt his head back into the spray, ensuring it’s well soaked. The shampoo Bucky picked out smells crisp and piney, it compliments his natural scent and you love it on him. You work your fingers over every inch of his scalp slowly, ensuring his hair is clean and he’s able to enjoy your gentle massaging. Bucky’s eyes are closed, a peaceful smile on his lips, and you’re pleased he seems to be enjoying it. Since he’s letting you take care of his hair, you grab your good conditioner and start massaging it in too. He might not think it’s worth using on his hair but you suspect once he feels the difference he’ll be hooked. 

You finish rinsing Bucky's hair and he’s still sitting back on his heels, seemingly lost in his own little world. Leaning down you place a kiss on his forehead, rousing him from his thoughts. “That was fantastic, mouse.” He says as he stands. 

You shut off the water and Bucky steps out, grabbing your towel to hand to you. He looks inquisitively at the stack of four large towels and when he turns back to you he finds you bent over twisting your hair up in the towel he’d handed you. “Interesting.” He muses looking at the towel wrapped securely around your head. 

“Do you not do this?” You ask, surprised, “There’s two towels for each of us. I figured you did because your hair is so long.”

Bucky shakes his wet head, “No, but I’d like to learn.” 

You grab one of the towels and have him lean forward, mirroring how you did yours. You walk him through the steps and a minute later he’s doing it perfectly fine on his own. “I like this.” He says patting at his handiwork. 

“It saves drying time, I think.” You explain. 

Bucky nods and starts drying himself off, looking over occasionally and smiling at you. There is an unexpected intimacy as you share the bathroom, even as you brush your teeth together. It makes your usual morning routine more enjoyable having someone to share it with. You plan your day as you get dressed in the bedroom and Bucky insists he’s going to make you his ma’s spaghetti for dinner. You’ll need to stay home all day while the sauce cooks on the stove but neither of you mind. Bucky wants to get the laundry done and offers to help fix the wobbly shelf on your bookcase in the living room. It’s drizzling outside now and there’s a slight bite to the air that makes you more than happy to stay inside all day. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bucky loves putzing around your apartment. It makes him feel productive and useful. He wants to do everything possible for you, not because you can’t but because you shouldn’t have to with him around. Bucky ends up putting your old toolbox to good use, not just on the shelf, but on a window that sticks, a loose cabinet drawer, and the wiggly handle on your large soup pot. You watch with amusement over the top of your book as he works, knowing if you try to move from the sofa you’ll just be scolded again. 

You’re trying to wrap your mind around the concept of this becoming a regular thing. Waking up together, Bucky trying to spoil you and splitting the chores, quiet cozy days spent relaxing and enjoying each other’s company. Even once you go back to work, having him with you will change that routine as well. Getting ready, driving in, lunch breaks, coming home, everything done together. It might seem smothering to some people but the idea of spending all of your time with him sounds perfect to you. Eventually the occasional nights out with your coworkers out will resume, and Bucky will want to make time to go see his friends, and that will be okay too because at the end of the day you’ll be coming back to your cozy little apartment, together. 

Bucky has run out of things to do and after a quick check on his sauce, he joins you on the sofa. He watches you quietly, wondering what thoughts are keeping you so occupied. Bucky picks up a worn, copy of “American Gods” and settles in to relax. The book only holds his attention for a few minutes as you shift in your seat across from him. Bucky takes a moment to just watch you, the way you worry your bottom lip between your teeth and the way your eyes crinkle on the edges when you read something that amuses you. He could watch you all day given a chance and he finds himself baffled by how much his life changed in just a few days. 

Steve has been gone just over a week and the pain is still fresh but it’s softening around the edges. Now that Bucky understands the type of happiness and peace he’s found with you, he can only imagine how rare and beautiful it had to be for Steve to go back to Peggy and live out his life by her side. He will always miss his best friend, but he can honestly say he understands the choices Steve made and that they were the right ones. Bucky smiles to himself as he listens to the soft falling rain and let’s himself really be present in the here and now. This is his life now, a cozy little place off of SHIELD’s radar, a good woman who loves him, even though they hadn’t yet said the words, and endless possibilities for the future. Because for the first time since 1944, Bucky Barnes is looking forward to the rest of his life.

The End. 

Tag List Lovelies: @my-current-fandom-is @blacklightguidesnic @amazonianbeauty@ladyemofhousestark@abswritesfandoms@rupestria @dark-night-sky-99 

[marvelousbirthdays]

Happy Birthday, mistressstrange

September 16-Stephen Strange/Wong, something fluffy or smutty maybe with "Will you marry me?", for @mistressstrange​

Written by @lj-todd

Wong had done his best, in those five long years, to hold the remaining sorcerers together. He had done all he could to ensure the protection of the Sanctuaries and the innocent people left behind in the wake of Thanos’ reckoning. 

He was no Sorcerer Supreme, he had never been destined for such responsibility, but until another one rose or until a way was found to undo what Thanos had done he would stand in the position. He would honor the Ancient One and Stephen by fighting on. He was in the library, tending to the collection, ensuring the protective spells around the more dangerous books were still in effect, when a portal suddenly opened. Wong reacted instinctively, his sling ring a familiar weight against his knuckles and the magic, the energy, flared bright as he readied for a fight only to have the world once more yanked out from under his feet. Stephen gave him a rather unimpressed look before, in true Stephen fashion, barking out orders he immediately expected followed, turning to disappear through his portal but paused when Wong called out to him. Wong would forever remember the look of surprise on the great Stephen Strange’s face when he reached out, cupping that handsome, if arrogant, face and pressed a kiss, chaste yet promising, to lips that smiled in friendship just as easily as they sneered in disdain. He would forever remember the look on Stephen’s face when he drew back and whispered to him that if he got himself killed again than Wong would use every dark spell imaginable to resurrect him just so he could kill Stephen himself. Stephen had smirked at him. That cocky quirk of his lips that, once, had driven Wong crazy with the desire to strangle the man. Now it just served as a reminder that Stephen was there. Was back. Alive and whole. When the battle was done, dozens of sorcerers lost, Tony Stark sacrificing himself for the good of the entire universe, Wong’s only true concern was Stephen. The man was quiet, in a way he rarely was, and, back in the warm familiarity of the New York Sanctum, Wong watched as Stephen guided the Cloak of Levitation from his shoulders, the fabric drifting away to rest in the cabinet Wong had kept clean for five years now. He watched as Stephen, tired and drained, from the battle, from the losses and the realization that the world had in deed continued on, finally slumped in a chair. Wong drew a deep breath, moving to fix Stephen a cup of tea, only to still when the man called his name. “Sir,” he asked, frowning, turning back to Stephen, who had not moved but was watching him. When Stephen slowly extended a hand, fine tremors dancing along his fingers, Wong moved without thought. Without question. The moment he was close enough, Stephen reached out, taking his hand, lacing their fingers together and, even then, Wong could feel the tiny tremors. He wanted to grasp Stephen’s hand tighter, to assure him that he was not alone, but he worried about the pain it might cause the other man. He would never do anything that would harm Stephen. “I wish I could say I missed you,” Stephen said softly, thumb, shaking slightly, brushing over Wong’s knuckle. “But for me…I blinked and five years has gone by. Everything is different. Everything moved on.” He smiled slightly, just the barest upturning at one corner of his mouth. “But here you are. Still guarding the Sanctum. Still defending our world.” “As you would have done in my place,” Wong reminded. “As you did when you gave up the Time Stone.” Stephen gave the faintest of nods, the weight of the Eye of Agamotto a familiar weight around his neck, his thumb still rubbing against Wong’s knuckle. “When I opened that portal and saw you…” Stephen blinked and a vulnerable light passed through his eyes. “God, I was so relieved. So…So happy. You were different but still…you. Still Wong. Still…” “Beyonce?” Wong lifted an eyebrow, grinning, and Stephen chuckled at what had become their shared joke. “Yes.” Stephen nodded. “Still Beyonce.” Wong’s smile became a grin as he lifted Stephen’s hand, pressing a soft kiss over the scars, faint little lightning bolt lines, that graced the man’s knuckles, the back of his hand, turning it over to press another kiss to Stephen’s palm. “I have never been so relieved, so grateful, to see someone as I was when I realized it was you stepping through that portal,” he confessed. “All I wanted was to take you into my arms and never let you go. To make sure that I…that I never lost you again.” “Wong…” Wong silenced Stephen before he could speak, pressing a kiss to the other man’s lips, and he felt Stephen smile against his lips as the other man returned the kiss. Without breaking the kiss, Wong drew his slip ring from his pocket and, though it was too big for Stephen’s lean fingers, slid it over them, causing Stephen to draw back slightly, looking down in surprise. “Wong?” Stephen blinked at him, though Wong knew the man was not as dense as he was trying to let on, and a tiny smile graced his face. “What’s this?” “What does it look like?” Stephen’s smile was slowly growing as he looked from Wong to the ring and back again. “Like you’re trying to use your sling ring as an engagement ring.” “And if I am?” Stephen chuckled. “Most proposals are prefaced with a question. I believe there are four very simple, very easy, words that…” Wong kissed Stephen again, which earned him a muffled laugh and the man’s free hand gripping at his shirt, drawing him close. When he drew back, just enough to speak, his lips brushed against Stephen’s. “Will you marry me,” he whispered and Stephen’s smile couldn’t have gotten any bigger. The warmth and light and love in his eyes bright as the sun itself. “In an infinite number of worlds and futures,” Stephen replied softly. “The answer will always be yes.” It was Wong’s turned to smile as they kissed again, his hands tangling in Stephen’s hair even as the other man drew him closer, leaning up into him with a quiet murmur of joy and approval.

[firstfootingscotland]

Shuffles at Féis Lochabair

Greetings from Lansing where I am spending a few days before heading to Washington and Oregon for shows with banjo-player Allison de Groot. While Scotland is feeling more and more like home, it's wonderful to pay a visit to the state of Michigan where I grew up for a mouthful of dry cold air and lots and LOTS of snow!

Before returning to the United States I had the pleasure of spending Saturday, February 9 working with step dancers from Fèis Lochabair in Fort William. Fèisean nan Gàidheal have been incredibly supportive partners in the First Footing residency, facilitating interaction with dancers from across their national network. I was eager to get to interact with dancers from this community as I boarded the train from Edinburgh at 7:15am on Saturday morning. 

The trip was quiet until six bearded men in all-weather gear boarded the train an hour into the journey. As big men are wont to do, they straddled the aisle, taking up two tables on the train with backpacks and crampons. Amid their outdoor accoutrement, soon their table was also strewn with cans of Tennents lager and empty crisp bags as they laughed and boisterously chatted to the trolley hostess. They played pipe band renditions of "Amazing Grace" and pop versions of "Caledonia" on repeat on the speaker of their smartphones as we sped northward through the Trossachs, through Rannach, Corrour, and Roy Bridge. Here the men rowdily disembarked, pouring out of the train still singing and I presume in search of hills to walk and bothies to nap in while the rest of the train rode on in silence until we reached Fort William. As I alighted from the train, the sunlight made the snow on the mountains sparkle in the afternoon light. Shortly I was picked up opposite the train station and whisked away by car to work with the dancers of Fèis Lochabair. 

(Snow on the mountains en route to Féis Lochabair)

Dancer and dance teacher Jane Douglas hosted me incredibly warmly, greeting me as the enduring afternoon rays streamed in through the windows of the bright community centre. As the dancers arrived, I felt very lucky indeed to meet such a welcoming group of movers. The first class, specifically for dancers in under the age of eighteen, impressed me with their crisp percussive articulation and their astute timing. After warming up, I led the group through a series of step dance combinations that I hoped would be both stimulating and challenging. I was startled by their verve; they were eager, even willing to execute the steps one at a time in a circle consecutively as we endeavoured to dance as one, each dancer continuing the phrase where the previous left off. "As though we were singing a song or playing a tune together," I told them. Soon we were passing steps back and forth around the circle together, working to maintain a consistent dynamic and tempo.  

(Working with a group of students and their instructor Jane Douglas during my February 9 visit to Féis Lochabair) 

Over the course of the class, I began to get a sense for the patterns of footwork the dancers were familiar with. When teaching I find it takes some time for me to observe and process the specific step conventions the students have previously been exposed to; to gain a sense through of their movement history as we dance together. For me, the goal then is to share material that departs from these physical patterns or builds on them to break physical patterns, proposing new physical possibilities. For example, this group was familiar with the common step dance pre-fix of audibly placing weight on one foot, brushing the opposing foot forwards and backwards striking the floor once in each direction, hopping on the weight-bearing foot, and tapping with toe of the non-weight-bearing foot. "Step, shuffle, hop, tap." The convention of hopping after the shuffle is found throughout many step dance forms and as I watched the practiced ease with which the dancers demonstrated this step, I could tell it was a gesture their bodies were comfortable with from their great work with Jane! 

I hypothesized internally that a similar step convention with a slightly different use of weight would be challenging but also help develop new neural pathways and motor skills among the students. To that end, I suggested the dancers try a step with a similar beginning, again audibly placing weight on one foot, brushing the opposing foot forwards and backwards striking the floor once in each direction, and instead of hopping on the first, weight-bearing foot, rocking back and placing weight on the shuffling foot, then finally stepping again with the first weight-bearing foot. "Step, shuffle-ball, change." While this step enunciates same number of sounds, it uses a slightly different use of weight.... and shifting weight is what step dance is all about! This new step proved to be a challenge but the students took it up swiftly. After a few repetitions, suddenly the class was collectively departing from well-worn physical patterns, using their weight percussively in new ways. 

(My second group of students with their instructor Jane Douglas during my February 9 visit to Féis Lochabair)

The second group of students, all adults this time, smiled encouragingly as I thanked them for attending and for welcoming me so warmly to their community. We began the second workshop by warming up and then working through a series of exercises reconsidering the dynamic possibilities of one particular step dance rudiment: the shuffle. 

(Diagram 11.1 from Flett & Flett’s 1964 book, Traditional Dance in Scotland)

Shown above in a digram from Flett & Flett's 1964 book Traditional Dance in Scotland, this step is comprised of a swinging brush contacting the floor in a forward motion, followed by a retraction, brushing the floor as the foot returns. The shuffle is a two-way exchange of energy directed through the foot, striking the ground twice in action and reaction. 

In my ethnographic work, I've encountered many gestures that employ a similar pendulum-like step dance rudiment with diverse names: Flett & Flett call it a “treeple.” In tap dance they’re called "shuffles," while in Appalachian clogging, they are referred to as "double-toes," "rallies," "trebles," or "batters" in Irish step dance, “látigo” (Spanish for "whip") in flamenco, and “frotté” (in French, literally, "to rub") in Quebecois gigue. 

In addition to its wide geographic dispersions and culturally-specific meanings, this step is also an incredibly malleable rudiment. It can be altered in many ways, including changing which parts of the foot contact the floor, shifting the rhythmic feel of the shuffle, the step's metre, and even its timbre. After discussing, demonstrating, and having the students embody these various axis of variation during Saturday's class, I asked each student to dance two shuffles with the stipulation that could be similar or contrasting) and instructed the group to repeat them. In addition to a few giggles, this exercise also usually yields some really interesting variations in the infinite variability of the step. This workshop was no exception! My hope in sharing the exercise was that the dancers might reconsider the shuffle's many possibilities, identifying their own tacit presuppositions about the step or biases based upon culturally-specific experiences of the different ways the shuffle functions in percussive dance forms. (1) I've found this strategy consistently helps students discover something new in a step they may have known for many years. I was certainly not disappointed as the dancers extemporized new combinations of shuffles that I had never seen!

After the workshop, a quick rest, and a bite to eat, I was one again whisked to the next event, a cèilidh benefiting Fèis Lochabair at the Ben Nevis Distillery. There, musicians from the Fèis Lochabair Cèilidh Trail set up the PA, called the dances, and performed for and with one another as students from Jane's school performed both highland and step dance pieces. Afterwards, I took to the floor myself to perform two short solo sets. (After which one attendee remarked, "that was proper Brechtian theatre with step dance!") 

(Dancers at the February 9 Féis Lochabair cèilidh at the Ben Nevis Distillery)

As I watched dancers sashay through a Virginia Reel at the end of the night, I couldn't help but genuflect on the opportunity to share steps and shapes here. It had been a full, rich day, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. As I sped southward on the train towards Edinburgh the following morning, the sweet sounds of pipes, piano accordion, mandolin and dancing feet ringing in my ears, I was very grateful indeed to have spent a day dancing in the shadow of Ben Nevis among the rich community of Fèis Lochabair. 

First Footing is a collaboration between dancer and dance researcher Nic Gareiss, the Traditional Dance Forum of Scotland, University of Edinburgh Moray House School of Education, and the School of Scottish Studies with support from Creative Scotland. For engagement opportunities check out the First Footing website.

(1) This method of teaching and creating is largely informed by the work of philosopher Michel Foucault, especially the way that his writing explicates and reveals the power of tacit presuppositions. Here I apply this to step dance pedagogy: What do we presume about a step, about its morphology, its utilization. Once we identify the assumptions we've made, it's possible for us to explore new movement possibilities that critique or work against those presuppositions. For more on this, see Michel Foucault's 1969 book, The Archeology of Knowledge. 

[libraryofvanhin]

A Deal

Each footstep hurt more than the last, the agony building as sweat poured from Talvi’s brow. The sun above might have been veiled by the enormous leaves and branches that crafted the canopy, but the heat could still be felt, mixed with a humidity and it was sweltering. The sun refused to set, the summer would not abate, not until it suited Titania’s whims. A stranger to the Feywild might have lost track of time, but there were subtler influences that the half-elf kept track of on her journey. The movement of animals, the growth of the plants, the ebbs and flows in the magical current that coursed through the Feywild like blood through veins; these all marked the hours and days like the setting sun would in other planes.

Talvi paused her journey and rested upon the gnarled root of a tree, catching her breath and drinking deeply from her water skin. She savored the light breeze that swept through her silvery-white hair and cooled her pale skin. It was quiet here, or at least as quiet as the Feywild could be. Birdsong and the chattering of animals could still be heard, and somewhere in the distance there was music, but it was an improvement from the clamor of her old life. Talvi was weary, but felt secure with her decision to leave. There would be no drudgery here, nor nobles that would look down their noses at her perceived inferiority.

The half-elf had not been sure of her destination when she had left, she just wanted a new start. Talvi had heard that the Feywild could lead to other places, and had sought out such portals to no avail. She refused to be dour about her lack of discovery. She simply assumed she would know the right place when she found it, which was a way of thinking that was perhaps a strand of impulsivity left over from her fey heritage. As she dusted herself off and started to follow a winding creek, she saw it.

Hovering above a the sandy bank, there was a ripple in the air. It seemed like a mirage one might find above the sands of a desert, but at its center was a tear. It was a thin and jagged line, that seemed to widen at the top, bending over itself. Talvi felt the urge to peel it back, much like she had the aging wallpapers of the high hall. With her long nimble fingers, she grasped the corner of the tear, her fingers buzzing with a strange numbness. It crumpled back like paper, revealing the image of another world. Dim lighting and towering shelves beckoned her as a cool, dry air rushed from the entry. She stepped through the portal, her boots leaving the mossy forest floor and meeting dark wooden boards.

Talvi blinked, trying to get her senses to adjust, but the adjustment never came. It was as if some of the color had been been drained away. All sound was dampened in this space. It was like an echo of some muted and distant memory; quiet and peaceful, lacking any of the raucous and overwhelming fanfare of the fey. Her own footfalls were almost imperceptible as she walked down the hall.

There were more books and scrolls than she could have possibly imagined. She had once crept into the noble Eladrin’s archives, and had thought it had been a trove of knowledge. The archive been wildly larger than her family’s grandiose collection. This place, however, dwarfed all others. You could surely live thousands of years reading the books here and barely scratch the surface of this library’s offerings. There was no end to the long hallways. The stairs spiraled up into the heavens and down into the voids below, all lined with bookshelves. The words upon spines were in all manner of languages, and while there was surely a method to the madness of their organization, she could not parse it. She reached out to pluck one from the nearest shelf, but her blood ran cold.

“You do not belong here, outsider. You have wandered in, but do not presume this to be your home.”

A voice bloomed in her skull, echoing in her mind with a silky overlapping sound that contained a multitude of tones. Her focus was pulled and directed, as the shadows of the shelves convalesced. They gathered and pooled together into a gargantuan form that seemed lighter than the air itself, pieces of it floating away and others gathering into long spindly arms that gripped the shelves. The form of the creature was serpentine and spider-like, its long neck tapering into something between an elk skull and a bird’s cranium. The whole mass of it was not wholly opaque, as the shadows shifted and stirred, they revealed the shelves the massive form clung to. The library’s keeper regarded her with distaste, the way one might look at a cockroach that had wandered into one’s kitchen.

Talvi knew that this must be one of the Archfey, for no other being she had seen had the presence that radiated from this being. She dropped to a knee and bowed her head.

“Rise, small one. I seek no titles and claim no subjects.”

Talvi kept her head low, and though she feared the words would catch in her throat, she spoke in Sylvan.

“I do not bow to your power, or out of respect for your status as my brethren might. I bow to the wonder that is your collection, and your devotion to knowledge. I have seen all manner of magic and riches, I have witnessed beauty that would steal the breath from my lungs, but I have never seen a place as perfect as this.”

There was a pause, and she felt the Archfey draw closer, its nearness like a chilling wind. Talvi squeezed her eyes closed tightly and held her breath, her whole body tense. The presence withdrew slightly, though it kept nearer than before, still perched upon the shelves.

“You seem earnest in your flattery. This place is kept perfect because it is isolated. I am its sole inhabitant, and that is by my design. You must go now.”

There was a crushing feeling in her chest as Talvi thought of leaving the library so soon after discovering it, a part of her mourned the realization that she would never find such a place again. It was that overwhelming sense of dread that made her forget the fear she should have felt.

“No! Please don’t make me leave.” She cried out, her silver eyes opening and staring directly into the countenance of the keeper of the library. She immediately cursed her stupidity, and clapped a hand over her mouth. The Archfey seemed perplexed, angling its large head in a slight tilt. It hadn’t struck her down, and so her traitorous tongue kept moving.

“Surely there must still be knowledge for you to collect, books and scrolls not on your shelves. Wonders and marvels you have not yet encountered? I could help you, I could bring them to you. If there are not books for me to find I will write them! I would devote my whole life to placing more knowledge in these halls, as short as my existence may be compared to yours. Please, do not banish me from this place; for the thought of never returning is more than I can bear. Let me prove myself to you.” Her voice shook and her limbs felt leaden, but she spoke. The creature was quiet for quite some time, and it seemed to be contemplating her offer.

“What is the name of the mortal that would claim to be worthy of offering knowledge to Tiedon-Vanhin-Haltija?”  It reached forward and brushed her hair away from her face, to get a better look at her. Talvi only barely managed to keep from flinching as its claw-like hand moved in front of her face. The Archfey was as vast and incomprehensible as the library it curated, its shifting form holding infinite patterns and shapes.

“Talvi Alin, I do not claim to be worthy, I only ask for a chance to try to prove myself.” She breathed out in a whisper. The nearness of the Archfey Lord was stifling.

“The Eladrin and the Fey’s long lives and history has still left them with a lack of creativity in their naming.” Tiedon-Vanhin-Haltija mused, it let out a low hum that shook Talvi to her core. She realized it had just sighed.

“Fine. You seem more sensible and less grating than many of the intruders that have wandered into my halls. I will give you your chance... but know that if you do not provide me with worthy knowledge, you will never step into this plane again.” From the mass of writhing shadow, an arm extended, long bony fingers splayed out expectantly. Talvi knew deals with the fey were often foolhardy to take, but something about this creature seemed different than the wiles of the Seelie and Unseelie courts. She reached out and grasped its outstretched hand.

Tendrils of shadow curled around her fingers and wrist, gripping her hand and holding it in place. Her skin prickled and crawled for a moment, and then the creature withdrew, its arm vanishing into the larger cloud of shade. It had left wisps of itself upon her, curling inky darkness that spread out along her skin and curved into intricate glyphs that danced all the way up to her lower arm. The creature ushered her forward towards another portal.

“Go now, and see what you can find for me in this place.”

Without another word, the half-elf found herself thrust out of the library. Beneath her feet was now a smattering of cobbles and above her a sea of stars and moonlight, she realized that she had gotten her wish: she was no longer in the Feywild.

[lesdenouements-a]

Belle finally gets to meet @monstcrmade

If Belle had time to herself, very often it was spent in bookstores and libraries. Sure, some people said it made her predictable. She found little interest, however, in spending her nights every single night in front of the TV. Books had always held more appeal to her, and today as she browsed this chain book store, she was grateful. Grateful to get out of her little apartment, and to look at people as they also meandered through the shelves. Hell, if people thought seeing one another on television was so damned interesting they ought to try the real thing once in a while. That was infinitely better, in her eyes.

She had wandered into non-fiction today, and was nose-deep in a book on Imperial Russia, back to the stack, barely noticing people moving around until she became acutely aware of a presence nearby, over around the P’s. She didn’t think much of it, at first. He must be by Puerto Rico or Portugal. But after absorbing another paragraph she glanced up and nearly jumped when she saw he was in the R’s too now.

That had to be Reykjavik, very nearly moving in towards Romania. She pushed herself up from the shelf quickly, too quickly. The big, heavy book in hand flopped to the floor and she winced and cursed under her breath, dropping down to pick it up. “I’m sorry, I....was just going to move out of your way.” And now you look like a clumsy jackass. Splendidly done, Miss Pigalle.

She could feel the slight burn of pink in her face but managed to pick the book up and brush the dust-jacket gingerly, a nervous smile pulling at the corner of her mouth before she even got to set her eyes on him, and as soon as she did, her eyes stretched wide and her mouth fell open. She knew that face. Belle had seen it too many times on the inner jacket of several books over the years.

Although come to think of it, it had been a while since anything new had graced the shelves of this very store. “...oh.” She managed to exclaim, the light blush of pink from before deepening to a darker color as blood rushed to her face. “Oh, Mr. Draculesti I....God. I really am sorry, I’m just a walking disaster today....” The book now securely hugged to her chest, she smiled away her embarrassment. “I hope this isn’t too terribly cliche but...I’m a really big fan of your work.”

[leiascully]

Fic:  An heni a vez e grass ar merc'hed, 1/?

Taking a leap here.  WWII AU, PG-13, wartime trauma and injuries, mentions of Nazis.  French puns.  Names changed to reflect the time and place.  The Syndicate are Nazi-adjacent but working for a different new world order. Title is from a Breton proverb, but I just used the part that means “he who has the grace of women”.  Hoping getting some of this out of my document lightens the load a bit.

The uniform protected him.  That was what his father had told him, more than a year ago, as he and his parents had stood in their kitchen.  Sanne was somewhere else, in her room or with her friends, enjoying the last days before she went to stay with their grandparents.  

"Put it on, Rayner," his father said as Mulder weighed the cloth in his hands.  The dense wool felt ominously heavy.

"A German uniform?" Mulder had asked.  "Vati, we're Jewish.  German soldiers haven't been kind to those like us."

"I know," his father had said, weariness in his voice.  His mother had turned away, blowing the smoke from her cigarette out the open window.  The day had been lovely, the sun bright and the breeze cool.  Not the kind of day that should have changed his life, and yet.

"I won't do it," Mulder had said, squaring his shoulders.  

"They will take your sister away if you don't," his father had said.  "They will not let her leave.  They won't let any of us leave."

"We should never have left Amsterdam," his mother had said.

His father had sighed; the sound was well-worn.  "That may be so.  But we have lived here ten years now, and the work has been good."

"You've worked only toward your own destruction," his mother had said, stubbing out the end of her cigarette on a saucer.  Ashes had fallen on the table and she hadn't noticed.  She was already gone, the door swinging shut behind her.

"My colleagues have gotten you a commission," his father had said.  Something in his eyes had begged Mulder to understand.  

"And if I don't?" Mulder had asked.

"I don't know," his father had said.  "You're a man of the right age, or the wrong one.  There may be no other options."  His father had looked old, very suddenly.  "I pray that you are able to make different choices than the ones I made, but I fear there is no choice now."

They would come for him, he had understood.  They would come for all of them, and this was the only chance to save them, to put on the hated costume and pretend to be someone he was not.  It was better that he took the opportunity that his father's superiors had offered, on the strength of his father's work.  Perhaps they did not know that the Mulders were Jewish.  They had not put a menorah in the window for years; it would only have illuminated the stormclouds gathering.  Perhaps his father's religion had never come up, doing the work that they did, whatever it was.  Mulder had not asked what his father did at work in many years; the fatigue in his father's eyes had warned him away as soon as he was old enough to see it.  The same fatigue was there as they faced each other across the kitchen table.  

He had reached out and taken the uniform.

It fit perfectly.  That didn't make things any better.  None of his family could look him in the eye as he marched away to meet his fate.  His shoulders were not broad enough to carry them all, he thought.  Perhaps they never had been, despite the joys of his youth.  He wondered when the pride in their eyes had faded.  He had been lost in his studies for so many years, and in caring for Sanne when the work took their parents away, which had been more and more often.  And now he was going out on the same errand, the mission his father had always had faith in: to remake the world in a better image, although not the one the Germans had in mind.  He had glanced back and they had all been in the doorway: his mother with her hands resting on his sister's shoulders, his father with his arms hanging limp at his sides, defeated.  

He got a letter, later, from his mother.  His father's colleagues had taken Sanne away anyway, insurance for his father's compliance, insurance for his mother's silence.  They had said they would keep her safe, somewhere out of the way of the war.  His mother would never stoop to beg, but he could read her pain in the tense strokes of her writing.  Be a dutiful son.  Be a dutiful soldier.  Stay alive.  Come home whole, holding Sanne by the hand.  Whatever world they found themselves in after the war, what mattered was that they would be together.

The army hadn't been the nightmare he imagined.  For the most part, it was a job like any other.  He did as he was told, and cherished the fact that he had never been ordered yet to do something that he could not fathom.  The uniform protected him.  It kept out the damp wind's chill.  It might, for all he knew, deflect a French bullet - at least none had fired at him yet, though he was alone on the road.  It had let him pass unscathed through the German lines, his truth hidden under the layers of fabric.  

His superiors had proclaimed him too intelligent (or too sensitive) for the front lines.  It was a nice excuse for the fact that he was a poor soldier: bad at following orders, bad at staying in line, bad at displaying the proper reverence for the Reich.  Instead, they sent him out as an advance guard, a reconnaissance force.  He wasn't a spy, exactly, but he wasn't entirely a soldier either, despite the pistol at his side and the sharp woolen creases of his uniforms.  He worked alone, most of the time, although every now and again he was expected to give orders.  His officer's insignia gleamed at his breast.  The men deferred to him.  He didn't work very hard to unravel the truths of the Allies' positions, but he did seem to have a gift for it.  He could look at a coded message or a collection of points on a map and discern the pattern without much effort, solving riddles that it took others weeks to tease apart.

So he was here, in the northwest of France, puttering slowly along on his motorcycle, scanning the countryside.  He was officially assigned to ensure that the maps matched the terrain.  Other places, the landscape had changed: bombs or trenches or traps had been laid along the roads or sliced through the fields.  One day, the Germans would move in force on this place too, and when they did, they would need accurate maps.  He had a bound book of them in his bag, stolen from a library by someone else, along with a box of colored pencils.  He was, again, grateful that he was not being asked for any more than that, and angry at himself for being grateful, and furious at his father for giving him the uniform.  

He had passed already through the Forest of Broceliande, an eerie place where he had stayed in inns whose public rooms served mostly men with wounds that still pained them and abandoned cottages, their small gardens overgrown, their inhabitants presumably lost to the wars.  He no longer bothered to change his uniform before he went into a village - as a man of military age, he was given away before he even spoke his accented French.  So far, the worst response he had gotten was a quivering lip and a glare that might have withered him.  He made certain that he paid well for things.  He had wanted to tell them that he, too, was occupied territory, under siege, hiding from his own choices, but he deserved no sympathy.  He wore the uniform.  

The Breton sky was embroidered at the edges with heathered hills.  Clouds scudded inland as he puttered westward.  He had gas enough for his moto, and the wind was dulled from cutting to refreshing by the wool of his jacket.  He seemed alone on the road, possibly in the world.  He could forget, in moments like these, what the uniform meant, what it had made him.  He couldn't forget what was happening, but he could misplace himself in the machine of war.  He could imagine that he was reading about it from a distance, struck by the horrors but not a part of them.  

The uniform protected him until it didn't.  He wasn't even certain what was happening: a shout, a cracking noise, a thudding impact against his leg, a commotion of bodies dimly glimpsed in the scrub, and a sudden bloom of agony.  His bike teetered, tipped, skidded on its side across the road.  He disentangled himself from it and tried to stand.  His legs wouldn't hold him.  He fell, as if in a dream, gazing down at the tatters of his pants.  The cloth was red.  It hadn't been red before.  No.  He was bleeding.  He was bleeding very badly, very quickly.  

He lay in the road, the moto still puttering in the dirt.  He contemplated the sky above him.  The clouds had cleared and he felt as if he were falling into the blue of it, untethered from the weight of his body and of his guilt.  At least it was a lovely place to die, the hills with their scrub like no other place he'd ever been.  A land with wild magic.  King Arthur's land, he'd heard, where Merlin was imprisoned and Morgana played her tricks.  It felt possible, some crackle of the infinite in the air, but perhaps that dizziness came from the blood loss.  He was vaguely aware of scuffling, shuffling, high panicked voices, and then he was lifted toward the sky.  He raised his hand to brush his fingers against the blue.  

He came to on something hard and flat; pain seared through his body, centered in his thigh.  Blurs above him resolved into a saucepan, a braid of garlic, a bunch of herbs hung to dry.

"Hold still," said a voice, and he rolled his eyes toward his leg, caught a glimpse of red hair and a profile cut from marble.  She looked at him and her eyes were the blue of the sky; he was caught up in the endlessness of them.  

"Who are you?" he asked, but she did something to his leg and blackness took him.  

He woke up again in a bed.  She was watching him, mending something.  He hoped it wasn't the same needle she'd used on his leg.

"You're awake?" she asked in French, her accent throaty.

"I'm awake," he confirmed.  "Where am I?"

"You're a guest of the White Whale of Châteauneuf-du-Faou," she told him.  "You had a little accident, it seems.  Some local boys out hunting for their families mistook you for a wolf at the door.  They brought you to my inn when they realized there would be no bounty for your hide."  

He wanted to laugh at her joke, but the edge in her voice told him she wouldn't appreciate that.  He knew he was dressed as a Nazi.  He knew she knew what the Nazis wanted to do to her country.  The master race had little place for redheads, however blue their eyes.  

"I'm no wolf," he said.  Her expression didn't change.  Whatever she thought of him was sealed behind the ice of her eyes.  "My name is Rayner."

"Reynard?" she asked wearily.  "The Fox?"

"Rayner," he corrected.  "Not a fox.  Not a wolf.  Captain Rayner Mulder."

"And what are you doing in our little town, Monsieur Capitain?" she asked.

He indicated the bandage on his leg.  "I think that should be evident.  I gather you're the one who stopped the bleeding and stitched me up."

Her blue eyes were unamused.  "You are welcome," she told him in a dry voice.  "I also dug the gravel out of your thigh, and bandaged the burns you got from your moto.  But why you remain here does not explain why you came here."

"I was sent to discover whether the ports of Bretagne are as vulnerable as the Fuhrer would like them to be," he told her.  He saw no reason to lie.  She might have killed him already as he lay bleeding on her kitchen table.  

"For the Germans?" she asked with disdain.

"It seems that way," he said.  She did not need to know the sordid history of his family, or how his father had pulled strings to secure him a German uniform, and a German passport to replace his Dutch one.  She did not need to know that he took it only to spare his mother the pain of losing both her children.  She did not need to know that he cursed himself daily for a coward, despite it all.  

"Thank you," he told her.  "You could have let me die."

She turned away.  "There are still a few people who remember the world they dreamed of living in," she said quietly.  "I might have let you die, but then the dream would slip even further away.  I studied medicine once, for a little while.  I am glad when I can put it to use.  There is enough harm done these days without my help."

He wondered how a woman who sat through lectures on the various maladies of the human body and dismembered cadavers had come to be running an inn in a small town.  Perhaps they both had stories that would not be retold until after the war.  She turned back to look at him, as if she had caught his thoughts, and her eyes narrowed only slightly as she studied him.

"I will call you Reynard," she said at last.  "Not a wolf, but perhaps a fox.  My name is Dana.  The shot lodged in your leg and nicked your artery.  In addition, your muscle is damaged.  You will need weeks to recover, if not longer."

"I can pay you for my lodging," he said.  

She nodded.  "I appreciate that.  We have few guests these days."  She rose, tucking the needle into her mending.  "My mother or my sister will look in on you later."

"Thank you," he said.

She tilted her head and left.  He let himself sink deeper into the pillow.  It smelled of salt and lavender.  His leg throbbed, but the ache soothed him somehow, draining some deeper reserve of hurt inside of him.  He fell asleep to the lullaby of his pain.

[nyfacurrent]

Conversations | Director Carolyn Jones on “Defining Hope”

“If we focus on the fact that we have a limited amount of time here, could we make better choices? Could we cherish one another more?” - Carolyn Jones, Fiscally Sponsored filmmaker

Carolyn Jones is a filmmaker and photographer who gracefully documents intimate stories highlighting the power of courage and human dignity. Utilizing the transformative elements of storytelling, Jones’s projects, from Living Proof: Courage in the Face of AIDS (1994) and The American Nurse (2012), are spirited and powerful, creating both a realism and an optimism that allows us to confront the true nature of the things we perhaps forget about the most.

Jones’s most recent film, Defining Hope (2017) is a documentary that weaves together stories of patients who are confronted with life-threatening illnesses. The film entrusts audiences with that same effect. When we spoke with her recently, Jones stated, “I had discovered early on that life is somehow brighter when death is in the room.” The film situates us in that room and makes us question, What makes life worth living? What are our choices?

Read through the interview with Jones here to learn more about her own considerations on death and the choices we make in life, and how NYFA Fiscal Sponsorship, as well as various partnerships with healthcare entities, helped make Defining Hope (Sponsored Project) a reality. You can see the film in various locations throughout the U.S.

Defining Hope Screening Information

When: October 21, 2017 at 5:00 PM Where: Carmel International Film Festival, Carmel, CA Tickets: Purchase here. 

When: November 1, 2017 Where: In select U.S. theaters; find a screening near you.

NYFA: As an award-winning photographer and filmmaker with a professional history in commercial projects, what drew you to begin capturing personal stories that illuminate the human condition?

Carolyn Jones: I authored a book called Living Proof: Courage in the Face of AIDS in 1994, and it changed the course of my career. I spent a year photographing and interviewing people who were living positively with AIDS. I spoke to them about what mattered most in their lives, whom they loved, and what gave them purpose. Those meaningful conversations made me think about my own life in a new way. I realized the power of storytelling and how transformative it can be.

NYFA: Which experiences, circumstances, or lessons led you to undertake a documentary project that sheds light on the choices one has to make under life threatening circumstances?

CJ: Ever since I worked on Living Proof and spent so much time with people at the end of life—in 1994, the drugs available for treating AIDS were far more limited—I have been interested in how much we can learn about life and what’s important when we are at the end of life. I had discovered early on that life is somehow brighter when death is in the room. I have often wondered if there was a way to feel that appreciation of life, that sense of cherishing simple things, and bring that forward into our everyday existence. When we see how fragile life really is, we cherish it. If we focus on the fact that we have a limited amount of time here, could we make better choices? Could we cherish one another more?  

As soon as I started working on The American Nurse Project, I became focused on how complicated our end of life experience has become with the development of new technologies. We have to make difficult choices, and I believe that if we can witness others and hear their stories when they are at these complicated junctures, we can learn and make better choices when we, or our loved ones, are faced with the same challenges.

NYFA: Much of the content of Defining Hope is personal for your subjects. Were there any difficult, ethical dilemmas you faced when filming and interviewing?

CJ: Yes, there was one. When I started this project, I believed that we have a responsibility as citizens to know when to stop fighting, to accept the inevitable, and face our fate with some grace. I believed that we had to learn to not tax the system by going far beyond what is natural to prolong our life and avoid the dying process. I truly believed that this is our responsibility, and I wanted to make a film that guided people toward that end. I also believed that as patients we had to learn to make better choices, so that we don’t spend our last days in intensive care units, unconscious with tubes coming out of every orifice when in fact we could be, if possible, surrounded by family in a completely different setting that hospice could help us find.

There is a young woman named Alena in Defining Hope who was presented with the choice of brain surgery to remove a recurring brain tumor located dangerously close to the part of her brain that holds her short term memory. I was in the room when the surgery was suggested. Every bone in my body told me to pipe in with “Don’t do it! Don’t take the chance. Travel and see the world and write about your experiences—don’t risk losing everything.” But of course being a documentary filmmaker is like being an anthropologist; you’re there to observe and record, not change the course of someone’s life. So I stayed quiet, and I had to really watch and listen what was going on in that room as Alena and her parents decided to move forward with the surgery. I realized right then and there, that there is no right or wrong. The will to live is powerful, and we each have to make our choices when we are ready in our own way. On that day, the name of my film was changed from Dying in America to Defining Hope.

NYFA: The film shares just a handful of stories, but countless interviews were conducted for research. Can you tell us a story about an individual who stood out to you but whose story did not, in the end, fit within the narrative’s arc?

CJ: We met a young family who had been faced with incredibly difficult choices. They were informed, before their baby was born, that she would most likely not live out the week. This young family was told that their precious child’s health was “not compatible with life.” They brought their child into the world and she was immediately placed on hospice care. They knew that the best case scenario, with the genetic issues that she has, would be that she would live for four years. The progression of this child’s illness and symptom management was like putting a finger in a hole in a dam, one finger at a time. Each time one issue was solved, another came forward. This child had to undergo so many treatments and surgeries, and this young family had to be so strong. It brought up many questions. I didn’t think I could do justice to the story in the time frame that we had, so I didn’t include it in the end, but it continues to haunt me.

NYFA: How do you envision this film being used? Who is the target audience, and what would you like them to consider?

CJ: My dream is that this film is a tool used by people in the healthcare field to look at patients through a different lens, and also by the public who can hear the words of family members in the film as they let their loved ones go, or support their wishes. 

We need to let our loved ones know what we want. Technology has made decisions infinitely more difficult than they ever were before, and new life-saving technologies will make decisions even more complicated. Someone needs to know what we want and advocate for us. Almost all of us will have decisions to make or be made for us—the best thing we can do is let someone know what makes life worth living to us personally. So I hope people will see the film and look to someone they love and say, “When it’s me, I hope you can let me die the way Bert did,” or “I hope you’ll help me keep fighting.”

NYFA: Which organizations have partnered with the film and what criteria do you take into account when deciding to partner with them? What roles do these organizations play in outreach?

CJ: It was really important that we partnered with organizations that philosophically are aligned with us. The Jonas Center for Nursing and Veterans Healthcare and the The American Nurses Foundation were obvious choices since I believe nurses are in a profoundly unique position to guide us at the end of life. I am committed to doing whatever I can to encourage people to reach out to nurses for guidance. I have always wanted the footage gathered for the film to be used as a learning tool for healthcare professionals. There are so many teaching moments in the film, so we were excited to bring Walden University into our group of partners. We wanted an educational partner who would offer CNE credits to nursing professionals for watching the film. All of these organizations will help enormously with our outreach.

NYFA: What first led you to initially seek NYFA Fiscal Sponsorship, and how has it helped in achieving the film’s goals?

CJ: Many years ago when I was working on Living Proof, I chose NYFA as my Fiscal Sponsor. I found guidance and advice then that was invaluable. I hoped to find that same level of thoughtfulness and guidance again with this project and I wasn’t disappointed. When we have reached out with questions we have received such well thought-out responses, and I’m grateful for that.

Carolyn Jones is an award-winning photographer and filmmaker who specializes in telling stories that shed light on issues of global concern. From people “living positively” with AIDS to women artisans supporting entire communities and nurses on the frontlines of our healthcare system, Carolyn Jones has devoted her career to celebrating invisible populations and breaking down barriers. Her most widely acclaimed book publications include Living Proof: Courage in the Face of AIDS and The American Nurse, which led to a feature documentary included in the U.S. State Department's American Film Showcase. Jones’ career was punctuated by two brushes with death: first, running out of gas in the Sahara as a racecar driver, and second, a breast cancer diagnosis. Her newest project, the forthcoming documentary Defining Hope, is the culmination of a journey investigating how we can make better end-of-life choices.

- Interview conducted by Priscilla Son, Program Assistant, Fiscal Sponsorship & Finance

Are you an artist or new organization interested in expanding your fundraising capacity through NYFA Fiscal Sponsorship? We accept applications on a quarterly basis and our next no-fee deadline is December 31. Click here to learn more about the program, current fiscally-sponsored projects, and to apply.

Images: Film stills by Jaka Vinšek, cinematographer of Defining Hope (Sponsored Project)