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dramaqueeenamby · 7 years ago

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The Tulips Are Too Red

A/N: So, I have a favor to ask of you all. Sooooo many of you have shared such kind words with me, sending encouragement my way in regards to my writing. Many of you even believe that I could be published my day. That still gets to me.

Anyway, here’s the thing, before I ventured into writing BP fics, I created a completely fictional story that I planned to post on Wattpad once I finished the other stories on there. Well, that never happened. I was working on chapters, getting up to three done but stopped as I was busy with other Wattpad fics. However, you guys have really got me thinking about my writing and just future in general.

So, I’m posting one of the chapters that I’ve written in the hopes that you guys will let me know your honest opinion of it. If it’s shitty, please say so. Constructive criticism will only make me better as a writer.

Also, as I was rereading it, I realized that I could really turn this into a BP fanfic as well, a T’Challa x OC story once I finish up the rest of the fics that I’m juggling.

Okay. I’ll shut up and allow you to read. I also won’t tag anyone because this is far from what you’re used to seeing from me.

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It Is Winter Here

Chapter 1

It is Winter Here.

There are exactly twenty-four hours in a day. In minutes, that number grows to 1,440, and in seconds, it’s a whopping 86,400. Most people don’t think about stuff like that. Time. Unless they’re wondering how much they have left before they can clock off and go home to their adoring wife who’s been slaving over a stove all day. Or maybe their kids who’ve been home alone since they got out of school doing God knows what with God knows who. Other than those scenarios, and maybe a few more, like I said, hardly ever cross the mind.

But I’m not most people.

I tend to think about these things. I think about a lot of things actually. Like how long Craig plans to grow out his hair, or if Tammy will ever realize that that infomercial with claims of a one hundred percent success rate is based on a trial of exactly five participants, four of them, paid ‘volunteers’. I also notice a lot of things. Most of which, again, people are never privy to because of their supercilious concerns.

Like I said.

Not most people.

I watch her, not even attempting to hide my suspicious stare. She’s been sitting in the same spot for over an hour, a People magazine in hand and expensive shades over her eyes. To anyone else, she’s just another patron with plenty of time to spare. To me, she’s a hawk. No one reads the same magazine for an hour straight, especially one with a Kardashian on the cover.

“For someone who literally needs someone to wipe his ass, this guy is one hell of a di*k.” I look over at Candi who has been reading for roughly thirty minutes and is almost halfway through with the 400-page novel. “He sounds cute though. At least, the way she describes him makes him sound cute.”

“So you’d take him to the shop?” Zaria shifts in her seat, eyes staying on the photographic book in her lap. She’s had the same one for over an hour.

Candi giggles and lifts her left shoulder. “He could own the shop.” I roll my eyes and tap my nails against the mahogany wood armrest of my spacious chair. “Candi likes being on top anyway.”

“Candi likes all positions.” I chime, finally throwing in my two cents.

She sighs loudly and flips her blonde locks over a naturally tanned shoulder. “I’m a lover, Nova. You should try it sometime.”

“Oh I think you have enough to give for the three of us, Candi Cane.” I wink and return my eyes to the woman in question. I squeeze the solid chair, ignoring the pressure it puts on my weak nails. She still has that same damn magazine and has again started from the first page, looking over the front cover like she doesn’t already have the scandalous image and cliched caption memorized.

“Guys.” Zaria’s voice brings me back to reality as she pulls down the sleeves of her white shirt. There’s no need for her to do so, but it’s a habit of hers. “It’s time.”

Sure enough, Pat is only feet away from us, that stupid rehearsed smile on his droopy face.

“Already.” Candi pouts and puts her arms in front of her, hands in between her thighs, her busty chest on full display. “But I’m almost done.”

Pat offers a strained smile, chubby fingers going up to adjust his thick-rimmed glasses. “Why don’t you just buy the book, Candi?”

She tilts her head to the side and deepens her pout. “I already spent my allowance.”

“On?” When she smiles wickedly, his Adam's apple moves up and then down. “Candi.”

“Oh relax, Patty.” She giggles again and chews on her bottom lips, untangling her long legs and rising to her full height. “What kind of girl do you think I am?” She pulls out a southern accent and pulls a finger to her mouth, pretending to think. “Or is it woman?”

“I wanna buy mine,” Zaria informs, also standing up, looking like a lost child next to Candi’s lengthy frame. “Nova?”

I get up, taking Candi’s book and placing it on top of mine. “Yeah. Let’s go.” Zaria pulls her sleeves down again and tucks the book under her arm, walking in front of me, leaving poor Pat to deal with Candi while we complete this transaction.

On our way to the registers, I look back and see that the Hawk is walking out, stuffing the magazine in her black Hamilton bag.

She can’t be stealing. It’s a possibility, but judging by the tennis bracelet on her wrist and that rock on her ring finger, stealing seems rather out of character. No. The magazine is clearly hers. I wiggle my fingers and fix my jaw.

Who in the hell comes to a bookstore to read a magazine they already own?

Like I said, hawk.

✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻

The car ride back is long, bumpy, and crowded. The van, overdue for some serious improvements or a junking, has a strong odor. It’s not vomit inducing, but its stench will leave you crinkling your nose when you first get a waft. In the second row, seatbelt stretched and clutching onto a protruding chest, Candi engages in conversation with the driver.

He’s new, probably a tempt, and after a car ride with Candi Wallace, this will be his last time filling in.

“It’s so beautiful.” Zaria murmurs to my left, her tiny fingers and raggedy nails trailing over a portrait of the grand canyon. “The view from the top must be breathtaking.”

I give the picture a few seconds of my time, for her sake. It is nice, but nature has never really stood out to me. Too many elements that I can’t control. “Maybe one day you can take your own picture. That one, I’d maybe even frame.”

Aside from a small smile, she says nothing.

The rest of the ride is filled with Candi’s musing and Pat’s occasional business calls. When we pull up, the driver and Pat flash ID’s; the guard peaks his head in the car to make sure that everything checks out.

After Candi flashes him a wink and places her index finger in her mouth, he gives her a one-over and lets us in.

“He wants me.” She mouths to us and then giggles, clapping her hands together and resuming her goal of bugging the driver. When we pull up to the entrance, she’s the first one out, blowing him a kiss and happily waving. “Call me.”

“Maybe,” I add on, smiling when she shoots me a glare. “I couldn’t help.”

“Jealousy really isn’t becoming of you, Nova.” She raises her chin and saunters through the automatic doors, switching her hips and uttering variations of hello to everyone she passes.

“You gotta admit.” Zaria starts, keeping her book clutched against her chest. “She’s fun to be around.”

I look over my shoulder to see Pat watching us closely. He’s so annoying.

I roll my eyes. “My lady, you and I have very different definitions of fun.” Swinging my arm around her shoulder is easy as we’re roughly the same height. I think I have an inch on her, maybe even less.

She laughs, and I crack a small smile. Those are becoming more prevalent by the day. It’s a stark contrast from our first meeting where she woke me up out of my sleep with screams and sobs that were only silenced by a heavy sedative.

We’ve come a long way.

“Ladies.” Pat interrupts. I suppress my eye roll.

As always, Candi is the first to volunteer. Smiling happily, she keeps her arms up wide and legs spread perfectly. “It’s new.” She informs happily when the man reaches her chest and pouts when he says nothing in reference to Candi’s new bra. When he’s done, Candi mouths ‘as*hat’ to us, and I put myself in front of the man before he gets a chance to call on Zaria.

With a bored face, I let him do his job, sending a glare when he keeps his hands on my as* for too long.

Creep.

When it comes to Zaria’s turn, I take her book from her, sending her a reassuring grin. She doesn’t return my gesture, but I’m okay with that. Her eyes say thanks. That’s enough for me.

Any sign of trust from Zaria is enough for me.

My glare stays on the jerk the entire time. I watch his every movement, waiting for him to try something with her. When he gets to her chest, I feel fingers move about, fighting the urge to ball my fist. I can literally see the discomfort on her part. She’s literally counting the seconds until he moves his hands anywhere else. I don’t know if he can tell that I’m willing to have my level 5 access revoked or if he senses the ardent apprehension radiating from her, but he keeps it short and professional. As soon as he’s done, she’s back by me, reaching for her book.

“Well, he was a meanie,” Candi comments as we wait for Pat to put the key in the panel right next to the elevator.

“Too touchy feely for my liking,” I reply loud enough so Pat can hear. He says nothing. Neither does Zaria. The rest of the elevator ride is in silence aside from Candi humming “Oops! I Did It Again.”

When we finally reach our floor, the three of us stand outside the elevator for our evaluation.

“Well, you ladies seemed to have done rather well today.” Pat smiles, the fat on his face parallel with the rolls that make up his neck. “If you’d like, we can try again next week.” I yawn, wishing that I could just walk away. I’d risk losing my clearance for Zaria or even Candi, but not myself.

Someone has to keep these two from extending their bid.

“Tomorrow the group outing is to the aquarium.” He smiles fondly like this is the best news we’ve heard all day. One glance to a somewhat excited Zaria makes me realize that for her, it probably is. “I think you all would have a fine time.”

“I wanna show off my new bra. I’m game.” Candi grabs her boobs, lifting them with a wink and a smile. “Nova?”

I can literally think of a million things that I’d rather do than spend a day at the aquarium, but one look at Zaria, and I know my decision has already been made for me.

“I guess a day with Happy Feet won’t be too bad.” What I want to say is it won’t kill me, but around here, there are just some words you want to try and avoid. Kill being one of them. It’s for good reason though.

Even I’m not too much of an as*hole to admit that.

✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻

For dinner, we had chicken lasagna with mixed vegetables, garlic bread, and apple pie for dessert. If it sounds magically delicious, you’re magically wrong.

The chicken was bland, the vegetables cold, and the garlic bread might have left me with some cracked teeth. The apple pie was decent, but nothing to brag about. I shouldn’t complain. Yesterday we had beef casserole.

Majority of my plate ended up in the trash.

“He was cute though, right?” Candi brushes through her hair, that dazed look in her eyes. That can only mean one thing. She’s already been given her nighttime dosage. “Of course he was. I only fu*k with the best.”

Zaria, fresh-faced, arms out and exposed in her short-sleeved shirt and blue Soffee shorts, offers a small laugh. “He must have been close to forty Candi.”

“And I thought you only liked ballers?” I wondered aloud from my position on Zaria’s bed. Next to me, she continues to admire the pictures in her book.

“Well, duh. I need a middleman to get to him.” She says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, moving her shoulders from side to side, admiring her reflection. “I think my tits are getting bigger.”

“Your tits or your ego?”

She glares through the mirror and then pouts. “Boo, you whore.”

Zaria frowns. “You know I don’t like that word.”

“You don’t like anything, Zaria.” Candi rolls her eyes.

“Better than liking everything.” Zaria shoots back with a sly smile. I high five her, much to Candi’s chagrin. “If you catch my drift.”

“You guys are mean.” She stomps her feet and resumes brushing her hair.

When Zaria yawns, I realize her that her Clonezepam has already kicked in. Her lids are heavy, and she moves to put her book up.

“Uh oh. I think someone is sweepy.” She says in a baby voice and moves to pinch Zaria’s cheek, but Zaria swats her hand away. Candi laughs and sits on the bed, giving her a half hug. “Night, ladybug.” She kisses her cheek and brushes the top of her head.“You know I’m right down the hall if ya’ need me, sugar.”

“And I’m right next door,” I add on, lightly punching her on the arm. “Sleep tight, kid.”

“Thanks, guys.” She smiles gratefully, getting up at the same time we do so she can pull back the covers. She doesn’t even care that the horizontal lines on the inside of her thighs from not even two years ago are on full display. In the privacy of her room, even with Candi and I, Zaria is true to be herself.

We all are.

Candi yawns loudly with outstretched arms. “I’m wiped.”

“Doesn’t take much.” I chuckle, but hug her side. “Good night Candi Cane.”

She smiles brightly, her pearly whites distracting the small mole on the right side of her chin. “Night, babycakes.” I don’t even react as she squeezes my butt. I simply shake my head and walk over to my door.

I stop when I go to turn the handle, noticing the light peaking through the bottom of the door.

Smirking, I walk in and shut it behind me.

“Can I help you with something?”

He’s sitting on the green, faux leather chair in the corner of my room. I narrow my eyes, wishing that I could wipe that smug grin off his chiseled face. He leans forward, his green scrubs a contrast against his sun-kissed skin, the short sleeves clinging against solid muscle.

“I’m here for night check.”

I chuckle, purposely taking my time as I make my way over to him. “Well, I hate to be the one to break it to you Mr..,” I look over at the badge on his shirt. “Collins, but I have level 5 access. I don’t need a night check.” My body is jolted forward, my knees immediately separating so that I’m straddling him. “This is highly unprofessional and extremely inappropriate.” I moan as one hand goes to stroke my already hardened nipple and the other slips into my shorts.

He mimics my chuckle, satisfied when he feels the wetness already pooling from my core. “I’ve seen your records, Ms. Young.” He stands us up, his hand still in my shorts, teasingly running his finger up and down my folds. “Breaking rules is your specialty.”

I look down at him, his blue eyes holding nothing but pent up lust. Using my index finger, I run my finger down his cheek, parting his mouth and tugging on his bottom lip.

“Then what are you waiting for, Doctor?”

With a guttural growl, he throws me on the bed. I don’t think I need to tell you what happened next.

Two hours later, he’s long gone, and I’m out like a light.

Just another typical day at Lakeshore Mental Hospital.

#personal #DQAFics #PLEASE do not steal

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athenril-of-kirkwall · 6 years ago

Note

For DWC: Fill, Wanted, Trouble for Hawke x Athenril

Woohoo, more of Hawke and his bae/boss/it’s complicated/(?)

m!Hawke/Athenril, “Wanted in Ostwick” (AO3)

“You said you wanted to see me, Aveline?”, Hawke asked innocently.

“I did indeed,” the Guard-Captain said, folding her hands together on her work desk. “Oh, come off it. You’re not in trouble. Not this time, anyway.”

“Right,” Varric said, “because people only ever get hauled up to the Guard-Captain’s office for social calls.”

Glaring at the dwarf standing behind Hawke, Aveline said, “I don’t recall inviting you.”

Hawke explained, “Oh, that was on my initiative. I figured that if I was being dragged here I’d need him to talk me out of whatever circumstances I’d find myself in.”

Aveline felt a headache coming on. “You…oh, never mind. What I wanted to talk to you about was this.”

She reached into a drawer, carefully lifting a well-worn piece of parchment covered in writing and decorated with two portraits. A stamped decree on the corner denoted Ostwick as its place of origin. Hawke and Varric leaned in to study the poster as Aveline explained why and how it’d come into her possession.

“You see,” she said, “I was clearing out some old files when I moved in, and I just so happened to spot this old poster. What’s this all about?”

Hawke shrugged his shoulders. “I haven’t the foggiest, Aveline. This is clearly a wanted poster for ‘James Faulkner’ and ‘Jessie Varvel’.”

“Oh for the love of the Maker…!” she yelled, jabbing her index finger at each picture in turn, saying “That’s clearly you, right down to that stupid smear of blood you’re never able to wash off after a fight,”

“I beg your pardon!” Hawke ejaculated, defensively wiping at his nose, which was perfectly clean this time round.

“, and that’s obviously your old employer Athenril!” she continued, pointing at the redheaded elf whose picture was right next to his.

“I, ah, hasten to remind you that she happens to also be your old employer, my dear Guard-Captain, so I wouldn’t be screaming this from the roof of the Viscount’s keep,” he retorted.

“Oh, please. That’s not even close to the worst skeleton in anyone’s closet here,” Aveline said, rolling her eyes.

All three of them waited for Merrill to interject with some confused comment about skeleton infestations in the keep, until they realised that she was still in the Alienage.

“Anyway,” Hawke huffed, “I claim the right of habeus corpus. My lips are sealed.”

Varric stared at him. “I think you mean protection from self-incrimination, Hawke.”

Squinting as her headache got worse, Aveline said, “Actually, you’re both thinking of the statute of limitations, which I assure you is well past.”

Hawke turned to Varric, asking him, “Isn’t a statuette of limitations that thing Bartrand had us fish out of that creepy thaig?”

“I suppose you could call it that,” the dwarf quipped.

It definitely was worse now. “A ‘statute of limitations’, you numbskulls, means you can’t be prosecuted for a charge after a certain amount of time, but this doesn’t happen to include murder, robbery, or grand theft, so don’t get ideas. And no, I’m not telling you how long right now either.”

Eyes dimming after lighting up at the idea of gaining clemency for the odd felony by getting away with things for long enough, Hawke turned back to Aveline. “Oh all right, I suppose you’ve got a right to hear this story. This was a special assignment Athenril had for me, hence why you were left out of the loop when we went over to Ostwick.”

Aveline leaned forward, steepling her fingers. “Special assignment, huh?”

“It was, ah, a two-man job.”

Raising an eyebrow, she asked, “Is that what they call it now?”

“Look, if you’re going to take perverse pleasure from questioning me about this, I think I have a right to make Varric tell you the story so we’re even.”

They both started to protest, but Hawke clapped the merchant on his shoulder, telling him, “Too late! You’re up, says me and your unpaid tab at the Hanged Man, which will disappear tonight, if everything goes well right now.”

“Oh, all right,” Varric said, “but only because Hawke’s still kind of hung up about…”

Hawke was staring daggers at him.

“Look, you drag me into this, I’m going to take you down with me.”

Aveline gently pounded on the tabletop. “Do you mind getting on with it, Varric?”

“Very well, so this was, as you can guess, sometime during Hawke’s first year here…”

Somewhere, sometime in the future, a short-haired Nevarran Seeker of Truth let loose a disgusted noise once she realised that she’d let Varric recursively nestle his narratives within each other yet again. The dwarf’s smile threatening to reach both his ears, he began.

Sometime during Hawke’s first year in Kirkwall, and when he was still working for Athenril the Hightown smuggler, he went on a special assignment to Ostwick with her, namely smuggling lyrium mined around Kirkwall and selling it to their branch of the Mages’ Collective at a killer rate in return for certain services, specifically getting them, along with some Tal-Vashoth mercenaries she’d pay for this one-off, to come over to Kirkwall and deal the Coterie such a bloody nose that they’d get off her back forever, ladder or otherwise.

Hey, you’re the one that mentioned the statuette of limitations, Red. Once you tell us how long that is for lyrium smuggling, I’ll just say it happened that long ago plus a month.

So anyway, they were supposed to go there with just a small sample of the stuff, with Hawke as “James Faulkner”, an eccentric Fereldan nouveau riche who was wasting his parents’ money on a tour of the rest of the world, starting out at Val Chevin, then Cumberland, followed by Kirkwall, then the coastline of the Free Marches, which left Ostwick as his next port of call. Athenril was posing as Varvel, his elfin mistress, because you know, that’s the kind of world we live in.

That said, I don’t think she wasted a single opportunity in their shared quarters reminding Hawke just who was boss.

…I did say I was going to drag you down with me, Hawke. You don’t like how I’m telling this story, you can take over any time. I can pay for my own drinks, you know. Fine, Aveline, I’ll get to it. Where was I? Oh yeah. After riding the rough seas day and night, they finally got within sight of Ostwick, and the loving couple…of business associates…disembarked, with a heavy suitcase of the stuff in tow.

This, as you might expect, is where everything started going wrong. You see, the Coterie firstly didn’t really fail to notice their chief rival, even with her hair and ears wrapped in a headscarf, leaving the city, and secondly, the Coterie happened to have friends of their own in Ostwick, specifically amongst the Templars, whose lyrium addictions they were already feeding, so this really was a ship doomed to sink before it launched. Figuratively, although it could well have been literally too if they had so wished.

Still, they probably wanted their marks to get a little bit further into the city before getting at them, so that they had the opportunity to really make examples of them. Such was it that “James Faulkner” and “Jessica Varvel” rather overconfidently got through the customs, what with their specially lead-lined valise nominally containing the various curios that this Fereldan fop had been picking up on his Grand Tour but instead secreting the good stuff within its secret panels.

Finding lodgings in a chateau so ridiculously beyond their usual accommodations that it’d have broken their budget had they actually intended so stay more than the night, or, well, not just steal it back once they were done in Ostwick, Hawke and Athenril went on to indulge their fantasies of wealth and privilege, strolling through Ostwick’s rich markets and supping on fine food and wine – a fleeting dream, that they only wished they could hold onto for more than just one day…oh, all right, Hawke, I’ll move on. I hate seeing you grumpy.

In truth, they were also reconnoitring the streets, seeing where and how they’d approach the drop-off point, having picked up their contact’s signal at the bottom of a tankard in one of their better establishments, also surveying the rooftops for possible exits and escapes. This in particular would come in handy afterwards, when it all went to shit. Their supposed contact was in fact a mole, a double-agent for the Templars if you will. Safe be it to say that if they had actually turned up at their agreed-upon alleyway in Ostwick they’d have never made it out alive.

But you see, Templars in Ostwick are a bit more of an organised and efficient bunch than the hobnailed thugs…excuse me, Aveline, beleaguered civil servants…we have over here, and from the moment they’d landfall there they were already making preparations to nab the two of them, and as they slept in their down-lined bed, posters were already going up and their informants were already spreading the word that this Fereldan dandy and his elvhen maid were both Public Enemy Numéro Un.

Still, to give Hawke and his lady-boss some credit, they did sense the air shifting outside their room well in time to get dressed into their armour, shoving their finery into their lyrium case, dumping the mass of worthless Lowtown gewgaws onto the carpet, before the Knight-Lieutenant assigned to the case started kicking down the door after his usual “you-are-under-arrest” speech, bolting out of the window to the waiting rooftop outside.

Well, you can imagine the sort of wonderful escapade that resulted. Real exciting stuff, these rooftop chases, what with being weighed down by that precious valise which was the source of all their troubles. Hawke can tell you just how difficult it is to balance on a slanting roof with five pounds dragging you down on one side. Clutching it to his chest like it was a child, Hawke zigzagged his way to the harbour, with Athenril leading him the way there.

It was all going well until he twisted his ankle and slid all the way down a tiled roof to land amongst a pile of grain sacks, only to find himself surrounded by a group of opportunistic bandits who were on the lookout for “James Faulkner.” Wincing in pain as he drew his daggers, Hawke prepared for the inevitable. There were a lot of them and just one of him, and his foot was aching something fierce.

Then, like an avenging spirit, Athenril dove off the next roof, her arrows landing in one thug each, making a perfect descent to the cobblestone quay, fighting her way to Hawke.

“Come on, don’t make me do all the work,” she said, smirking at him.

Returning her grin, he told her, “I was distracting them while you lined your shots up.”

Oh what? You don’t like it when I do the voices? Fine, Hawke, you do yourself since you know yourself so well, Red, you do Athenril since I can’t hit the high notes. Well, if you’re both going to be like that, no more dialogue. Wet blankets.

Anyhow, you can pretty much guess how that fight went, and eight or nine corpses later, Hawke, still gripping to that case like his life depended upon it – and let’s face it, it probably did – hobbled his way along the waterfront. It was clear that unless they found a boat they’d never make it out of Ostwick. Neither of them being sailors, they settled on a dinghy they cut loose from a docked caravel, slipping between the ships until they made it to the coast.

Well, Ostwick and Kirkwall, different as day and night as they are, do share a common problem, namely big horny men along the shore. Turns out they’re even thicker with Tal-Vashoth than here, because their kinsmen decided to start spreading the Qun at Ostwick, and over time more of them got disillusioned of their ethos, and so they’ve got a worse infestation of wandering, directionless, ox-heads on their stretch of the Wounded Coast.

Wandering and directionless as Hawke and Athenril were at this point, it was pretty much inevitable, really, that they would run into them, and so they did. A camp full of dozens of them wasn’t all that far down the coast, and wounded as Hawke was, there was no way they could fight their way out of that one, so they did the only thing they could think of.

Namely, surrender.

After convincing her of that very point, he crouched down to the valise whilst maintaining eye contact with their leader the whole time and popped open the secret compartments, pulling out the enriched lyrium as it shone in the night. Turning to the saarebas to see their reaction, the leader nodded in approval, gesturing to one of their tents.

And, well, what happened that night, after she tended to his wounds, I leave as Hawke’s prerogative.

They left the next morning on a fishing boat headed for Kirkwall, having impressed upon its captain that they were more trouble than any bounty was worth, with no lyrium, no mages, and no gold, but a fine story to tell and memories of living it up in Ostwick that would last a lifetime. And that, Red, is the story behind that poster on your desk.

“Hawke?”

Varric and Aveline turned to their mute companion. He hadn’t moved an inch since Varric had finished spinning his tale, just sitting quietly in his chair in front of the table and gently tapping at the poster lain upon it. Blinking in silence, he eventually looked back up at them.

“Hm? Oh, right,” he said, “Well told, Varric. Very discreet, very tasteful. Just had to mention my impromptu roof dive though, didn’t you?”

“Well, it does explain why you handed it over to the Tal-Vashoth without a fight.”

“I suppose it does,” Hawke murmured.

Aveline looked over to him concernedly. “Are you feeling all right, Hawke?”

“I’m always all right, Aveline,” he said, standing up. “See you at the Hanged Man tonight? Drinks are on me, and not just Varric’s. Thanks for reminding me of, well, simpler times.”

“I’ll let you know, Hawke,” she said. “We do have a bit of a lull at the moment, hence the social calls. And, well, thank you both. I suppose that is one story I’d been waiting to hear.”

With that, Hawke and Varric, the former still oddly silent, left the Guard-Captain’s office.

“Funny thing,” Varric told the Seeker some unspecified time in the future, “when Aveline came back the very next day that poster was missing from her desk. Some of us say it was next seen pinned to a wall in the Hawke Estate, some say it flittered its way to the Red Lantern district after that, but there’s no way to know one way or another now.”

Cassandra groaned and asked, “Was any of that the truth, dwarf?”, pinching at her slightly throbbing forehead as she did so.

“Well,” Varric said, “it does explain why Hawke remains persona non-grata over in Ostwick, statuette of limitations or otherwise.”

“I suppose it does, at that,” she said. “But is the Champion of Kirkwall really such a…sentimental creature?”

“Lady Seeker,” he asked as he innocently raised his palms, “aren’t we all?”

Letting forth another disgusted noise, Cassandra said, “Absolutely not.”

Still, she too was quiet for a long time before resuming her questioning, idly tracing circles on her copy of The Tale of the Champion with her fingertips as Varric discreetly swiped a drink of grog from her mug. Stories were hard work.

@dadrunkwriting

#hawke/athenril #m!hawke/athenril #hawke #m!hawke #hudson hawke #athenril #varric #cassandra pentaghast #aveline #dragon age #dragon age ii #ao3 #fanfic #prompt fic #bearlytolerablethethird #athenril-of-kirkwall #da drunk writing circle #dadrunkwriting

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storiesbybrian · 4 years ago

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You Live In A Zoo

Ken was riding alone in the elevator, holding a large black forest cake when he sneezed. He aimed his face away from the cake, but the volume of snot and spit oozing down the elevator’s wood-paneling suggested the cake had not escaped the sneeze’s blast radius. Well, Ken thought. Maybe the cake deserves it for preventing my hands from taking one for the team. So it was unsurprising to turn back and see the white-piped letters reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY JESSICA glistening with effluvia, but it was still dismaying. Ken would have loved to blame the person who insisted that cake boxes, with their thin cardboard and non-biodegradable plastic skylights, were preposterously wasteful, but that ever so environmentally ethical person was the same one who just exposed the cake to his own inner environment. He tried blowing the cake clean, which sent a flagella of mucus he hadn’t realized was dangling from his nose lashing across both Ps, just as the elevator stopped on his in-laws’ floor.

He stepped out and placed the slimy cake on the hallway carpet. Sounds of merriment streamed from the cracked door of his wife’s childhood home. Sounds of merriment and his father-in-law’s favorite record, Extensions by the Manhattan Transfer. That damn record was going to play on repeat all night. Ken took a tissue from his pocket and poised a corner of it over the cake, hoping to absorb his nose’s unwelcome contribution without disturbing the calligraphy. He caught one substantial gob that way, but a few streaks still glared up at him. Using a different corner of the tissue, he swept these toward the nearest cherries where they could just blend right in.

When the most damning of the evidence was cleared, Ken stuffed the tissue into his back pocket and carried the cake the rest of the way to his mother-in-law’s 70th birthday party. Jessica and Boris’s apartment had five bedrooms and four and a half bathrooms, all centered around a dining room so large, Ken always expected Irish wolfhounds to come running in at dinner time, even though the building was pet-free. Ken was nearly sure he would have hated the art they slapped all over their infinite wallspace even if his in-laws’ rent wasn’t lower than what he and Caroline were paying for a one-bedroom 10 blocks away. But maybe he did feel more brutally assaulted by that economic outrage than he did by the enlarged ads for a French liqueur, the brown, crumbling opera announcements, the braille transcriptions of rap lyrics and poetry by Havel, the portraits of all six members of their immediate family, all those ornate frame corners poking from the mint green walls like dungeon spikes.

“Happy Birthday!” he said loudly enough, he hoped, for his mother-in-law to hear him anywhere in the cavernous apartment. He turned left, ducking under copper whisks and ladles hanging from the kitchen doorway to hand the snot-smeared cake off to his brother-in-law Gene, who ruled the kitchen with a despotism his cooking did not merit. Gene took it with one hand, without looking up from his phone. Caroline was pinned to the living room sofa by two of their nephews. Ken stood at the edge of the room, giving the entire party one more chance to herald his arrival, and maybe give him subtle guidance on who to kiss first, his wife, the birthday girl or scotch. Just in case any of Rebecca’s guests noticed he was there, he imagined them judging him most harshly if he greeted anyone before his wife so he wended his way past Caroline’s siblings and parents’ friends to the skirmish on the couch.

“Hi Uncle Ken!” his nephew Elijah said. “Can I tickle your armpits?”

Ken knew permission didn’t matter so after glancing disgustedly at the cluster of paintings, charcoals and lithographs, united in their celebration of 19th Century Japanese agriculture, he stiff-armed Elijah and leant over to kiss Caroline. He wanted to be able to confide in her about the splash he’d made on her mother’s cake, to have it be their dirty little secret, which made him think of Betsy, a girl he’d known years before getting married who, one winter, dared him to stick his tongue up her nostril, which he did. And while getting his tongue poked by her jagged, salty boogers wasn’t much of an erotic thrill, goddamn it was intimate! But Caroline’s devotion to her mother was too slavish to allow her to conspire, even mildly, against her so, with Elijah swiping away at his underarm and kicking at his shin to get closer, Ken just smiled and told her she looked nice, wondering why breathing in the chopped herring on her breath didn’t feel as intimate as Betsy’s boogers.

Elijah reached a few finger tips to Ken’s armpit. Ken clamped his arm down, trapping Elijah’s wriggling fingers against his ribcage. Ken smirked and said, “Still too thin to win, boy.”

“Uh, Ken?” Gene said, swatting his own torso with a spatula right where Joan Jett’s eyes squinted from his dark denim Meow Mix apron. “May I see you in the kitchen?”

Everyone at the party intoned her own version of, “Uh oh, what’d you do?”

Ken assured Caroline that everything was fine and dragged Elijah toward the kitchen ready to deny everything. Absolutely everything. Just before the utensil stalactites, Ken raised his arm and Elijah ran back to the sofa, stopping briefly to try crying but abandoning the project when no tears sprang forth. In the kitchen, Gene gave Joan Jett a break and pointed his spatula at a Royal Copenhagen gravy boat on a shelf he couldn’t reach.

“Gene,” Ken said.

“Yes, Ken?”

“You know I’m not the tallest one here. I’m not even your tallest family member.”

“Darling,” Gene’s father Boris said, poking a rare nude spot on a wall repeatedly. “I’m hungry.”

Boris tried to maintain deference to his son while also entering his own kitchen and sticking spoonfuls from every pot into his mouth, using a different spoon each time, and leaving it there, until it looked like he was trying to swallow a very fancy bicycle gear. Boris was almost elfin in his slightness, his ribbed turtle neck sagging from the slender limbs of his 4’ 9” frame. But then there were his eyebrows, which Ken believed could hold carnations by their stems.

“Daddy!” Gene said. “How is it?”

“That one’s great, that one’s pretty good, that one’s very good, that one’s too mushy and that one needs salt,” Boris said, extracting the spoon corresponding to each critique separately.

Ken felt like the entertainment value of the family schtick had reached its apex, so he handed Gene the gravy boat and made his way to the bar.

Boris had hired the same catering company that handled Ken and Caroline’s wedding, but only for beverage and waiting service. All of the food was courtesy of Gene, who bravely ignored the disappointment shrink-wrapping every thank you and congratulations his parents’ guests lavished on him. Gene’s menu was modeled on Boris and Rebecca’s first date, when Rebecca’s grandmother had served them beef stroganoff by candlelight on the fire escape of Rebecca’s childhood apartment in Middle Village. In addition to the egg noodles and beef stew, Gene had kasha varnishkes, steamed carrots, roast broccoli, cold potato leek soup, and fried zucchini blossoms stuffed with goat cheese. The shard of blossom batter Boris had hacked off with a spoon edge was what needed salt. Ken had never eaten Rebecca’s cooking, which led him to believe it was bad, and he wondered how Boris finessed deploying gusto on their first date with exiling her from the kitchen for the next 40 years.

“Scotch and soda?” Ken said to the bartender.

“Single malt or blend?” the bartender asked. Ken was slightly perturbed to be delayed by further consideration, but this was a special occasion so maybe Boris had sprung for some of the good stuff.

“Single malt,” he said. “Hold the soda.”

The bartender poured a slug from an oddly shaped bottle of a brand Ken never heard of into a wine glass. Tattooed flames rose above the cuffs of her tuxedo shirt, licking at her palms, making Ken feel warmer.

“Hey,” he said. “Have I seen your band play? At the Mercury Lounge?”

“Nice try,” she said. “But I don’t think so.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ken saw Caroline’s twin brother Tommy watching him get his drink and somehow Ken knew that Tommy had already made the bartender tense about getting hit on.

“No really,” Ken said. “I’m… married, but I do get out to see music pretty often.”

The bartender nodded with all the polite contempt she could contain within the boundaries of professionalism. Ken had his drink and now she’d really like to stop interacting with him. Have a nice day, sir. But Ken felt embarrassed and protected by his connection to the payer of tonight’s bills, so, beneath the shroud of his own bullshit version of decorum, he declared himself the arbiter of when this little chat would be over.

“Drums?” he asked.

“I’m not in a band,” she said. “You don’t recognize me.”

She looked past him to someone else who wanted a drink. Ken turned to see who, hoping it was somebody he didn’t know. In five minutes, he’d secretly ruined the birthday cake and meta-cheated on the birthday girl’s youngest daughter.

“Two red wines please,” Caroline’s sister Gretchen said.

“Hey,” Ken said. “Elijah’s really getting stronger!”

“Yeah,” Gretchen said, taking her wines. “I really wish you’d help me discourage his more violent tendencies, Ken.”

Am I crushing it or what? Ken thought. Well, the scotch was very good. Time to move on to the next exhibit and pay tribute to his mother-in-law.

Rebecca was in a group that included her brother Alan, and her department dean at CUNY. They stood by Boris’s large oil of a barn in Vermont. Ken couldn’t look at the painting without picturing two farmers holding Boris by the ankles so they could paint the barn with his eyebrows.

“No!” Rebecca said to her brother.

“Oh yes,” Uncle Alan said. “Ken, maybe you’ve heard about this.”

“About what? Happy birthday, Rebecca.”

“Thank you, Ken,” she said, extending her cheek to be bussed. Ken never found Rebecca attractive, but her hair was well-coiffed and her jawline was strong and she usually smelled nice. “How’s the cake look?”

“Like a potential fire hazard,” he said to a heartening amount of chuckling. “What am I supposed to settle here?”

“Well, Alan says there was a guy on his flight who was whittling. Whittling! On an airplane. Is that really a thing now?”

“Oh yeah, I have heard something about that,” Ken said. He had not.

“See?” Alan said. “And it was a full-on bowie knife too!”

“Must’ve been a service knife,” Rebecca’s dean said, waiting for his subordinate to laugh at his wit. Rebecca nodded without mirth and Ken tried staring at the dean, daring him to be petty enough to make a note of Rebecca’s defiance, but wary that the dean might mistake his look for a ha ha I’m funnier than you taunt. Someone tapped Ken’s shoulder. It was Tommy, beckoning Ken into the bedroom where he still lived.

“Boys,” Rebecca said. “No vaping!”

Tommy closed the door. Ken had never been able to square Tommy’s bedroom decor with his personality. Floating shelves jutted from one burgundy wall, holding several dozen coffee table books on subjects ranging from wartime photography to arctic wildlife photography, none of which Ken had ever heard Tommy talk about, even when relevant subjects came up in family conversations. The opposite wall was dominated by a wide oak desk that held three monitors across which Bloomberg financial data perpetually ticked. His bed was a stately four-poster that Ken doubted ever saw any action. Tommy sat on it and invited Ken to sit next to him. Ken declined.

“I do have a pen, if you want some,” Tommy said.

“No thanks.”

“So… uh, just thought you should know that the reason Gene called you into the kitchen was to settle a bet we had.”

“Uh huh?”

“Ken,” Tommy said. “You know Caroline tells me everything, right? Like, everything.”

“Well I’m sure there are some-”

“Everything.”

“I see.”

“So, like, my bet with Gene,” Tommy said, now fiddling with the vape pen. “Gene says he can smell how long it’s been since somebody’s… you know. Had sex?”

“Um, for just how much was this bet?”

“Five bucks.”

“Ooh, high stakes!”

“Hey, you can make fun of me if you want Ken, but has it ever occurred to you that I might be helpful to you here?”

Ken tried to leave the room and Tommy yanked him by the arm til he was sitting on Tommy’s plaid comforter with the edge of a sham pillow under one buttock, Tommy’s weight by the foot of the bed seesawing Ken till his feet didn’t reach the floor. And sure enough, Caroline had told Tommy everything, everything being that Ken had not had sex with his wife in several months, and that she correctly surmised it was because he had gotten so tired of being the sole initiator of sexual contact with his wife that he had vowed to leave his balls in her court until she was ready to pick them up and play with them of her own volition. And even with Tommy’s spin on the state of his sister’s marriage, it all sounded pretty reasonable to Ken. What Ken was afraid to say, to Caroline or Tommy or anyone, was that he just wanted to be wanted, that he was tired of doing all of the wanting, so tired, and ashamed of how unwanted he felt and further ashamed of how hopeful he was that his wife’s overweight twin brother might actually be able to help him out here. So they talked some more. And vaped. Ken was about to ask Tommy to put on some music when his phone chirped. It was a text from Caroline reading CAKE!

Ken and Tommy emerged from the bedroom to see everyone gathered and facing Boris and Rebecca. Boris signaled Gene to turn down the music mid-Coo Coo U. Ken stood next to Caroline, trying not to seethe at her for exposing his private foibles to what now felt like the entire party. Did everyone around them seem extra gentle and sympathetic with him? Or was that Tommy’s pot?

Boris gave a bland speech about how thrilling it was to share this milestone with so many of his and Rebecca’s nearest and dearest. Ken estimated the toast was about 15% too long, but Rebecca managed to keep her smile looking genuine the whole time.

Ken went off to use Gretchen’s bathroom, because it was the only one with a door that shut completely. Gretchen’s room was being used for changing and storage by the caterers. Among the various duffels and totes was one Hello Kitty backpack scaled with buttons featuring ostensibly rebellious slogans: Save the Rainforests, They/Them, Fuck White Supremacy, Stop All Wars, People Over Profits, Health Care Is A Right, Leave Britney Alone, Oil Kills and more, plus a few that were just pictures or symbols. Ken used his toe to undo the backpack’s zipper, and then the same toe to widen his view into the backpacks contents, just enough to see the scarred blonde wood of a few drumsticks. He tried his best to not feel ashamed by how good this vindication felt. But with that much joy for a triumph that frivolous, the shame could not be kept at bay. Out of fury at the flame-wristed bartender for her role in his present difficulties, he did not bother to rezip her backpack.

Gene was waiting for him outside of Gretchen’s bathroom.

“Best lock?” he asked, handing Ken a piece of birthday cake.

Ken nodded and took the cake without eating it. They ambled together back to within earshot of the Manhattan Transfer. Ken pretended not to notice Gene’s pretending not to notice the guests smiling more widely over the cake than they had over his fare.

“Saw you talkin’ to Tommy,” he said. “And I dunno what he told you, but if you want the advice of somebody with a more robust love life?”

“You mean you,” Ken said.

Gene stopped walking for a millisecond, as if to warn Ken that he was about to blow his shot at the gems Gene was feeling generous enough to offer. And while he was still hiding how desperate he really was, Ken put enough remorse on his face for Gene to continue.

“You’ve gotta be an animal Ken! You know? Primitive! Find something deep within yourself and just let it out. Rowr! That’s sexy.”

Ken nodded agreeably. Too agreeably, like, give me a medal for being such a good agreer.

“Thanks Gene,” he said. “Here. You can have my cake.”

#Short Fiction #Short Story #Fiction #Happy Birthday #Family #Cake #Marriage

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lpdwillwrite4coffee · 5 years ago

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CHILDREN OF LILITH CHAPTER TWELVE

Nikki inhaled the aroma of fresh bread as they walked up the second flight of stairs to Amsterdam’s apartment. The deli Griffin had said the Historian lived above was the same one she bought bagels from at least once a week, and she tried to ignore how her breath caught at the realization of how closely the Underground bordered her world.

“How old did you say he is?” She asked, looking up at Griffin who was a few steps ahead of her.

“I’ve never actually asked,” he said. “But he mentioned King Henry the Eighth’s eating habits once, and how awful Marie Antoinette’s wigs smelled during the summer, so that would put him at around-”

Nikki halted, hovering her right foot above the next stair. “He’s at least five hundred years old,” she said, trying to ignore how her stomach fluttered.

When she was at NYU she’d taken courses on medieval history, and read dozens of books about the monarchs and their constant ebbing and flowing of power and glory. She’d even snuck into a few art history lectures, and listened to professors discuss the development of portraits and painting techniques. She had sat, hunkered down in the back row, staring up at the projector screen as the professor clicked through slides of British, French and Italian royals in furs, jewels, and pale tights, and tried to imagine what a single moment of their lives would have been like. Amsterdam didn’t have to use his imagination. He had been there.

“I feel like I’m meeting a living piece of history,” Nikki said. “Er, well, an undead piece of history.”

“I’m sure he’ll be flattered to hear how impressed you are by his age,” Griffin said, smiling.

“Wait,” Nikki said, stopping again. “He’s a Vampire.”

“Didn’t we already go over this?” He arched an eyebrow at her.

“You didn’t tell me if there’s anything I should or shouldn’t do around him,” she told him. “Vampires are predators, so should I not make sudden movements? Should I put my hair up- No, wait, that’ll expose my neck…” Her hand lingered over her collar bone as she fretted.

Griffin laughed and the sound echoed in the stairwell. He shook his head, continuing up the steps.

Nikki scowled. “What’s so funny?”

“When you meet him, you’ll know exactly why I’m laughing,” Griffin said, still chuckling.

In moments they stood in front of a wood stained door with polished brass numbers nailed at eye level and matching brass knob. Griffin lifted his loose fist and rapped his knuckles on the door in quick succession. A muffled bark made Nikki start, glancing up at him in surprise.

“He has a dog?”

“And a cat,” Griffin said. “He has a soft spot for animals.”

Before she could comment, the door opened and the youthful face that greeted them made Nikki’s jaw slacken.

Amsterdam stood a few inches shorter than Griffin, but his frame was still well-muscled and lean. His broad shoulders tapered into narrow hips and long legs, and his build reminded Nikki of a professional swimmer. His green and gold plaid shirt and tan corduroy trousers fit him so well Nikki was convinced they had to have been tailored. Gorgeous hazel eyes stared out from a strikingly handsome face topped with thick hair the color of ink.

Nikki had expected a middle aged man in tweed with crow’s feet and a bald spot. Not the college junior that stood before them.

“Griffin,” Amsterdam greeted happily, extending his hand. “It’s so good to see you again.”

Griffin clutched the Historian’s hand and smiled. “How’ve you been John?”

“Very well thank you.” He nodded. Turning his gaze to Nikki, his grin broadened. “And you must be Miss Anderson.”

“Nikki,” she corrected gently, reaching out with her own hand. When Amsterdam took it in his, she noticed the change in body temperature. It wasn’t unpleasant- more like he had just come in from outside on a particularly cold winter day.

“Nikki,” he repeated her name with a melodic tone and she felt a slight blush reach her cheeks. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I bet he does alright with the ladies, she thought.

Amsterdam released her and stepped to the side. “Please, come in.” He gestured with a wave.

Griffin was close at Nikki’s shoulder as he followed her into the apartment, angled between her and John. He blinked as if in a daze, and checked himself, moving a few inches back, despite the quick unhappy snarl the dogs made. John wasn’t a threat, even if his body was responding as if he was.

“May I take your coats?” Amsterdam offered, holding out his hands.

Nikki pulled off the denim jacket she borrowed from Lisa, and handed it to him with a quiet ‘thank you’. Griffin did the same and took off his holster as well. The Vampire wasn’t a fan of guns in his house.

Amsterdam took their garments and stored them in the small closet by the door. Turning, he gave Griffin a concerned once over. “It looks like you’ve had quite a morning,” he said, eyeing the cut above the Hunter’s eye.

“Yeah, you could say that,” Griffin said.

John scented the air, inhaling in fast breaths through his nose. “You’ve broken a rib,” he said.

“What?” Nikki gaped.

“It’s not a big deal,” Griffin said.

“A broken rib is a huge deal,” Nikki countered. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because-”

“Because Blooded Hunters heal faster than other humans,” Amsterdam interjected. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you hadn’t mentioned it,” he said to Griffin. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, that’s alright,” Griffin murmured.

“Exactly how fast is faster?” Nikki asked, glancing between the two men.

John gave the air another sniff. “His body is doing an excellent job of healing itself,” he said. “I would say by this evening he should be fine.”

Nikki’s eyes popped. “Broken bones heal in a day?”

Griffin shrugged, and she was almost irritated with how casual he was acting. “A day, maybe two? It just depends.”

She blinked. “Depends on what? Your exposure to Kryptonite?”

He laughed. “Usually it depends on whether or not the bone is re-broken in another fight.”

Nikki fought the urge to groan, and instead briefly massaged her temple. “Wow, that’s…” She trailed off, unable to finish the thought. “Okay, well, now that I know you’re eventually going to be fine…” She turned to look at Amsterdam, who was watching them with amusement.

“Would you care for some coffee?” John asked, stepping towards the kitchen. “I’ve just made a fresh pot.”

So Vampires drink coffee. Good to know.

“That would be great, thank you,” Nikki said, offering a smile.

Amsterdam moved almost silently into the other room, and at first Nikki thought it was another Vampire characteristic until she saw that he was barefoot. She only saw two pairs of shoes by the front door- black Chuck Taylors, and brown flip flops. Again, not what she thought of when the word ‘Vampire’ was used.

“Caesar, come greet our guests,” Amsterdam called from over the dinette bar.

A large golden retriever stood up from his spot on the floor beneath one of the windows and trotted across to them. Nikki crouched down, opening her hands for him to sniff.

“Hi there,” she said smiling at the dog and scratching behind his silky ears. “Aren’t you a handsome guy,” she cooed.

Caesar lifted his head and licked her chin with a long lap of his tongue before padding over to Griffin. The dog nuzzled his hand and sniffed him heavily before leaning into his shin gently.

“Hey buddy,” Griffin whispered, running his fingers through Caesar’s soft fur. “Long time no see, huh?”

Nikki stood up from her squat and turned to truly take in the surprisingly large apartment. The walls were paneled wood painted butter cream yellow, but most of the color was blocked by floor to ceiling bookcases that over flowed with volumes of books. There were also smaller shelves pushed up against the walls that were too small to accommodate the huge library style behemoths that took up most of the space.

The entire place was just one large room except for the bathroom and a dinette bar that separated the kitchen from the rest of the apartment. On the far side four great windows looked out over the neighborhood, with gauzy drapes tied back with similar ribbons of fabric. Leather couches and armchairs were arranged in a group around the stone fireplace and television. A round oak table was covered in books and newspapers from all over the world. Tucked away in the far right corner of the room was a queen size bed with a white mesh curtain hanging from the ceiling, as a kind of divider, secluding it from the rest of the living area.

Nikki wandered to one of the large bookcases, her eyes growing wide as she took in all of the leather bound volumes. She breathed deeply, taking in the rich scent of paper and wood polish. It was difficult to control the impulse to reach out and touch a particularly well kept first edition of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales sitting on the shelf in front of her, and she took a half a step back just in case her fingers betrayed her direct orders.

“Impressive isn’t it?” Griffin’s voice said behind her.

She turned; unaware of how close he’d been until she nearly knocked into him. Faltering, she glanced up at him. “Oh… Yes,” she nodded, looking back to the books. “I’ve never seen so many first editions. And they’re all so well taken care of.”

“And this is only part of his collection,” Griffin said, gazing over her head at one of the top shelves.

“The rest is in a climate controlled vault in the basement. Well, apart from what you have, Griffin.” Amsterdam said, appearing next to them with two mugs of coffee.

Nikki hadn’t heard him come into the room and she clamped her jaw shut so she wouldn’t yelp with surprise. Instead she smiled, hoping it didn’t look as awkward as it felt.

Amsterdam held out a mug to her, handle outwards, and grinned. “I hope it’s to your liking,” he said, nodding to the coffee.

“Thank you,” she said, cupping her hand under the bottom. She smiled at the Garfield print curving around the ceramic. “Wait, did you say Griffin has some of your collection?”

“Only the books I thought would be most beneficial to him,” the Historian said, handing Griffin the other mug with a Snoopy and Woodstock design on the side. “Maps mostly, and a few volumes on the Codes and Vampiric laws.”

“Remind me to rummage around your place when we get back,” Nikki said, looking to Griffin and sipping her drink.

Amsterdam turned back to the dinette bar where he had placed his own mug- A bright red one with Calvin and Hobbes dancing around the circumference. “Please, have a seat,” he said, inclining his head towards the cluttered table.

Nikki chose the straight back chair across from the Historian and settled into her seat, careful not to spill her coffee. Griffin sat next to her and leaned back, still favoring his side.

Amsterdam shuffled a large section of papers into a stack to clear a part of the table, and just before he sat, a black and grey striped cat leapt down from the top of the nearest bookshelf, stretching its back after the successful landing.

“Cleopatra,” Amsterdam chastised with the scowl of a disappointed parent. “Not on the table,” he said, scooping her up with one hand and setting her down by his feet. The cat meowed in protest before lazily prowling towards a sunny spot under the window.

Shaking his head, John looked back to the others. “Now, what was it you had to show me?”

Griffin lifted his mug to his lips and tilted his head towards Nikki. “You’re looking at her.”

It took a moment for John to understand. “You?” He asked, his dark eyebrows popping to his hairline.

“I’m afraid so,” Nikki said, biting the inside of her lip.

“I’m more accustomed to analyzing manuscripts or documents,” he said. “Not human beings.”

“Well I’m not accustomed to any of this, so I guess we’ll get through it together,” she said, tracing a pattern on the handle of her mug.

John’s smile was sweet and understanding. “Yes we will,” he said with a nod. “Alright, where to start…” he murmured to himself. Retrieving a yellow legal pad and ball point pen from under a stack of loose papers, he made a quick notation at the top. “I take it you’ve been made aware of the Underground and Griffin’s… role?”

“Vampires exist, so do Hunters, and I’m apparently one of them,” she rattled off. “A Hunter, not a Vampire. No offence.”

He smiled again and shook his head. “None taken.”

“She’s the target of an Alpha, John,” Griffin said, his tone somber. “We need to know why.”

The Historian frowned. “Alphas rarely make such an effort to eliminate one human, unless they’ve wronged them somehow.” He looked to Nikki questioningly. “Not to place blame prematurely, but have you ever been involved in anything... illegal?”

“Not unless you count cutting class to go smoke in the girls’ bathroom in high school,” she said with a light smirk. She noticed the surprised lift of Griffin’s brows, but he didn’t comment, and she tried not to chuckle.

“No, I don’t believe I would,” Amsterdam said.

Nikki shifted forward in her seat, cupping her hands around her warm ceramic mug. “I only found out I’m a- a Blooded Hunter this morning,” she said, aware of how strange the words felt in her mouth. “But I was attacked last night. And before then I think I was stalked… twice.”

Griffin sat up, the beginnings of a scowl tugging at his features. “You didn’t tell me about that,” he said.

“I didn’t think it was relevant,” she said. “I just assumed it was a coincidence, but now with everything that’s happened, I don’t think that’s the case.”

Amsterdam made another mark on the paper that looked like a date and glanced up at Nikki. “Why don’t you start with when you first thought you were being stalked,” he prompted.

Drawing in a tight breath, Nikki nodded and told them everything. She started with the businessmen in suits staring at her on her way to the subway. She explained about her migraines, and the medication she’d been prescribed. She told them about the homeless woman who had cornered her to ramble about wolves with white eyes and someone she should trust, with a lion’s heart and eagle’s wings…

“Holy shit,” she blurted, mid-sentence. “She really was talking about you.” Nikki stared at Griffin as if seeing him for the first time. “A lion’s heart and an eagle’s wings… She was talking about a griffin. About your name.”

“You must have run into Maggie,” Amsterdam said, continuing his notes. “She’s the only Veil Walker in Manhattan.”

Nikki felt a pang of guilt. “I thought she was just a crazy homeless woman.”

“Homeless, yes,” Amsterdam said. “But she isn’t crazy. She can communicate with the other side, with people who have crossed over. Sometimes they come to her specifically to deliver a message, which is what it sounds like she did.”

“You brought her up last night, while you were still threatening me with pepper spray,” Griffin said, smirking over the lip of his mug. “You asked if I hung out with homeless people.”

“That was when I thought this was all some kind of elaborate prank,” she said. “Or that you were a murderer. You can’t exactly fault me for not being a hundred percent trusting at the time.”

“Your encounter with Maggie does give us another clue,” Amsterdam murmured, rereading what he’d written. “It certainly suggests this was premeditated.” Sipping from his cup, he nodded to Nikki. “Please, continue.”

Settling back in her chair she started where she’d left off. She described seeing the same businessman outside of her apartment building, and the continuing migraine she felt throughout the night. And the bruises on her abdomen.

“Bruises?” Amsterdam interrupted.

“They, um, showed up one day,” she said, wincing at how unbelievable her explanation sounded. “I know it seems impossible, but it’s true.”

“Don’t worry, after everything you’ve gone through, I’m inclined to believe you,” Amsterdam said. “Would you feel comfortable showing them to me?”

Nikki nodded. “Sure,” she said, standing up. Her fingers trembled at the hem of her shirt, but she brushed away her nervousness and lifted the fabric up to her bra line. She waited for the concerned expressions, or even mumbled curses at how bad her torso looked, but the two men only blinked at her.

“Um, Nik?” Griffin said, scanning his gaze over her stomach and then up to her face. “What bruises?”

Nikki looked down at herself and gasped. Her once mottled flesh was back to its smooth paleness. She ran her fingers over her abdomen, inspecting herself. Even the new bruises that had formed the night before had disappeared, leaving behind unblemished skin.

“They were there,” she said, shocked. “They were… They were awful. Dark purple, and they covered…” She shook her head. “I don’t understand…”

Amsterdam wrote at an impossible speed, scribbling line after line of notes. “I believe you Nikki,” he said as he wrote. “I think this may have something to do with your new found gifts.”

“So I can heal fast, just like him?” She asked, nodding towards Griffin.

“Yes, I think so,” Amsterdam said.

“But what caused them in the first place?” Nikki asked, lowering her shirt and sitting back down.

“That, I’m not sure of,” Amsterdam said.

Nikki sighed, feeling the burden of defeat drape over her shoulders.

Griffin pressed his forearms into the edge of the table, and leaned forward. “Mary said you might have records,” he said. “Maybe some kind of registry or list? Something we could look over to try to find some answers?”

Amsterdam frowned, first in thought, and then deeper. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but Hunters were notoriously secretive. Not many records survived, if they were taken at all. And you know what happened when a Hunter King or Queen passed away.”

“I’m sorry,” Nikki started, swiveling her head to look at them both. “Did you say Hunter King or Queen?”

Amsterdam glanced at Griffin. “You didn’t tell her?”

“I wasn’t really sure how,” Griffin admitted with a shrug.

“To tell me that you people have royalty?” Nikki asked, arching her eyebrow at him. “You couldn’t have slipped that into the conversation last night?”

He tried to hide his grin behind his coffee cup. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Gee, thanks,” she muttered, but there was no heat in her words, and Griffin broke into a brief smile that flashed teeth and reached his gaze.

“So who are these Kings and Queens?” Nikki continued.

Amsterdam was silent, but his stare said everything as he locked his hazel eyes on Griffin….who was trying unsuccessfully to shrink down in his chair while seeming to be enthralled by the corner of the table.

“You’re a King?” Nikki exclaimed.

“It’s just a title,” he said. “I’m not royalty, I’m just…” He trailed off, looking shy. “I’m the most powerful Blooded Hunter in the city.”

“Hunter traditions are much different from normal hierarchies,” Amsterdam explained. “They decided their leaders based on abilities, not bloodlines or family succession.”

“Then what’s with the name?” Nikki asked. “Why call them King or Queen?”

“It was the only translation that seemed to fit,” Amsterdam answered.

“Translation? So Hunters have their own language?” Her gaze flicked to the tattoo on Griffin’s wrist. “You mean like that?” She gestured to the markings.

“That’s part of it,” Amsterdam said. “But remember what I said about Hunters not really keeping records? Well what little they did keep, they used multiple languages at once, melding together any that they knew into their own bastardized version. It was to keep their secrets safe in case anyone found their documents.”

Nikki paused, reminded of what spurred the topic change. “You said something happens to documents when a Hunter King dies,” she said.

“They’re burned,” Griffin responded. “And those ashes are used to make the ink we use for our tattoos.”

“Literally taking their secrets to the grave,” Amsterdam commented.

Nikki stared at the line of symbols on his skin. “That sounds… Intense. And not exactly sanitary.”

Griffin shrugged. “It’s tradition.”

Inhaling until her ribs ached, Nikki blew out the breath and nodded firmly. “Okay, well that tradition probably means we won’t be able to find anything about who I am or what I can do.”

“Could you describe the rest of what happened this morning at Mary’s?” Amsterdam asked, holding his pen over the paper.

And so she did, in detail. She told him about the pain before she fainted, and that she had been certain she’d been on fire when she woke up. She told him about her eyes, and how fast she ran after that pulling sensation that yanked her across several city blocks.

“Hmm.” Amsterdam leaned back in his chair, reading his notes. “This is definitely a challenge.”

“Like a Rubix cube kind of challenge or something worse?” Nikki asked.

Amsterdam lifted his gaze to hers and held it for a beat. “A challenge I promise to do my best to overcome,” he said.

Working the inside of her bottom lip between her teeth, Nikki nodded. She stared down into her mug, absently noticing the decreasing level of coffee, and trying to remember when she had drank so much of it. A strong gust of air rustled a lock of her hair making it tumble into her eyes, and when she glanced up to push it away from her forehead, Amsterdam wasn’t across the table any more.

Only the sound of something heavy scraping against wood gave away his location behind her. Twisting in her chair, she swallowed the gasp that almost catapulted from her throat and squashed it into something similar to a hiccup. Griffin, however, continued to sip from his mug, completely unfazed.

Amsterdam turned at hearing the noise and dipped his head apologetically. “You’ll have to forgive me,” he said, picking out several books. “When I’m at home I tend to forget to restrict myself to a more human pace. If it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll make an effort to move slower.”

“No, that’s okay,” she said, ignoring how her voice hitched. “It doesn’t bother me. You just happen to be the first Vampire I’ve been around who wasn’t trying to kill me.”

The smile that curved Amsterdam’s lips was tinted with sadness, and Nikki felt a fresh knot tighten behind her ribs.

“I am a bit of an anomaly,” he said, stacking two more books in his left hand.

“Griffin said that you’re neutral?” Nikki asked, feeling braver. “What does that mean exactly?”

“I’m not aligned with an Alpha,” Amsterdam explained as he walked back to the table at a slower pace. “I never was, even when I was a Newborn.”

When he set the volumes down on the table top, Nikki caught sight of his unmarked left wrist. She leaned forward a fraction, looking at the Historian. “Can I ask why?”

“I felt the practice was archaic,” he said. “Trading your body, your servitude, for relative safety in the shadow of a dictator… It wasn’t how I wanted to spend my immortal life.” His expression grew distant for a moment before he continued. “When Vampires only keep the company of other Vampires, they incite more cruelty in each other. They become beasts.”

Nikki thought she was starting to understand why Griffin trusted the Historian so implicitly. John might have been a Vampire, but a bloodthirsty monster was the furthest thing from his true nature.

Silence enveloped the room briefly as Amsterdam finished laying out the books he’d collected.

“Thank you for helping us John,” Nikki said, her words soft like cotton.

Given the startled and gracious look in his eyes, Nikki was sure he understood the implication in what she’d said. That she didn’t see him as a beast.

Amsterdam nodded once, tearing his gaze away from hers and clearing his throat. “If there are any answers about what you are, they might be in these,” he said, gesturing to the books in front of him. “However I can’t make any certain guarantees.”

Griffin reached out and touched the soft leather cover of a smaller tome. “What’s this one?”

“A journal I found while traveling through Vienna,” he said. “It was actually written by a merchant who had been stranded for some time before being aided by a tribe of nomads.” John’s mouth quirked up in a smile. “He had no idea they were Hunters.”

“Does he talk about them?” Nikki asked.

“Quite a bit actually,” Amsterdam said. “He was, ah, rather enamored with their Queen.”

Intrigued, Nikki slid the book closer and opened it to a random page. She frowned when she saw it was written in German. “Damn,” she muttered.

“Can’t read German?” Griffin asked, finishing his coffee.

“Nope,” she said. “French, Italian, and a little bit of Portuguese, but not German.” Glancing up, she chuckled at Griffin’s evident surprise. “My mother was very adamant about her children knowing more than one language.”

He blinked. “I’ll say.”

Nikki shifted her stare back to the other books spread in front of Amsterdam. “You said Hunters blended languages?” She asked. “Do any of those have French or Italian in them?”

Already engrossed in a passage, Amsterdam nodded. “Yes, those do,” he said, waving vaguely to two thicker books to his left.

“Great,” Nikki said, downing her coffee and reaching for the closest volume.

The Historian’s head jerked up, realizing what she was doing. “You’re going to try to translate them?”

“Heavy on the try,” she said, opening the cover.

Griffin shifted in his seat to face her. “Nikki, we don’t know what we’re looking for,” he said. “And reading through books written in mangled languages could take hours.”

“Do you have anywhere else to be?” Nikki asked, leveling her stare on him.

He smirked. “Not exactly, but-”

“Good,” she cut him off. “Then pick a book.”

“Nikki, as much as I appreciate the offer to help,” Amsterdam started. “Griffin’s right. Translation could take days, and even then I’m not sure we’ll find anything useful.”

“I know, I just…” She inhaled steadily through her nose, before releasing it. “My life has been turned upside down,” she said firmly. “So if there’s anything I can do to gain some traction again, and maybe find a little equilibrium, I’ll do it. Even if that means reading bastardized Italian until I go blind.”

The two men exchanged knowing glances that bordered on proud, before Amsterdam nodded. “If you’re sure.”

“I am,” she said. Turning, she eyed Griffin. “So, do you know any languages other than English?”

Amusement flickered in his gaze as he fought the grin threatening to break across his face. “Yo hablo Espanol,” he said. Jerking his chin towards Amsterdam he added, “Oh, and if you’ve got anything in Irish Gaelic, I’ll take that as well.”

Nikki couldn’t help but stare at him, and Griffin arched an eyebrow.

“What? Did you think the name O’Connor was just for show?” He asked.

She rolled her eyes, but still found herself smiling as she passed him a book. “Here,” she said.

Nikki watched as Griffin leaned back in his seat, maneuvering his limbs into a more comfortable position and gently opening the hardcover. He looked at home, nestled amongst bookshelves with a worn volume in his hands. The same hands that had been covered in blood a couple of hours before.

But this Griffin- the one whose nose wrinkled when he reached a particularly daunting passage- seemed more at peace. There wasn’t the same itching tension underneath his skin or the deep creases of a frown etching into his face.

Griffin’s eyes lifted from the page, and Nikki felt that rush of exposure again, but this time it didn’t make her shudder.

“What?” He asked, the corner of his mouth drawing upwards.

Praying the heat blooming up her neck wasn’t visible, Nikki shook her head and stared at the first line of her book. “Nothing,” she murmured.

It took more effort than she expected to keep her attention focused on the words in front of her.

* * *

As if Kaelin’s day wasn’t creeping up her worst-day-ever list already, her landlord called to say there was an issue with her plumbing and she was needed back at her apartment immediately. Picturing a great flood worthy of the book of Genesis, she’d told her boss she needed to take off, and after arguing with Jim, the team lead for the advertising proposal, for fifteen freaking minutes about it, she was finally out the door.

By the time she had made it back to her building, she was stress-sweating worse than a hung over grad student about to defend their thesis. Please just let her shoes be okay. Please just let her shoes be okay…

Wrenching the key in her deadbolt and throwing open the door, Kaelin stumbled inside, spilling the contents of her purse all over her perfectly dry cream colored carpet.

“Son of a…” She muttered, kneeling down to start scooping everything back into her bag. “Tom?” She called, figuring her landlord had probably let himself in considering the emergency. “I’m sorry it took me so long. Please tell me it’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad, right? C’mon Tom, lie to me if you have to.”

There was no response, and she tossed her client files back into her bag with a frown.

“Tom?” She yelled a little louder. Maybe he couldn’t hear her if he was buried shoulder deep under her bathroom sink.

Something blurred past her right shoulder, slamming the apartment door shut and flicking the lock. Kaelin gasped, turning to stare in shock. A distinctly human shadow darkened the floor nearby, and she whipped her head around.

Silver stiletto heels pressed into the carpet and Kaelin arched her neck, frozen where she was on her hands and knees. Long blonde hair tumbled over the stranger’s leather clad shoulder, framing her beautifully terrifying face.

“Sorry,” the woman said, with a voice cold and sweet like peppermint candy. “Tom’s not available right now.”

Tilting her head, a slow, predatory grin spread across her face, and her canines elongated into pearlescent daggers. Kaelin wanted to scream, but it was lodged in her throat, choking her.

The woman’s ice blue eyes blanched, just before she lunged.

#Children of Lilith #free fiction #free novels for pandemic times #my work #my writing

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mihenna · 5 years ago

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Getting Henna Tattoos! :)

Just constantly it does not mean it's edible that's not what synonymously ok what do you think we're doing no alright here's the clue though don't worry this is only a little permanent what this is only a little permanent like a piercing like how we're going to bury Valley but Holmes done what do you think I mean like most of the stuff we do isn't permanent this is making me nervous what it was henna.

Okay here's the thing I feel like you always know what we're doing no you're guessing correctly I don't know but I mean okay I can see us doing henna how do you even do henna I don't know well I guess we're going to find out soon enough what saw way but it's a panel we need to get you're getting it like the hand thing like face tattoo probably taking a horse house on a face tattoo should we get matching ones should we get like best friends get prune oh my gosh no jokes aside what is what I got something like you know like Rihanna's Texas oh and like the under-17 pudendal show during Coachella cos I didn't see through top like my boob otherwise it out to worry about it hand ones are cool though I mean it's again if it even is henna.

Honestly there's so many this fist show continues to surprise and I can't read good smell but it could be a really high flash tattoo they have ones that last for three weeks now do that yeah they do and it's not I didn't know that that was a fish yeah and I would love to get like maybe like a lion across my whole like upper half of my back garden or something hi Jocelyn Sergio yeah welcome to the round here house thank you I love you here thank you I love both of your hair yeah here we go so today I'm gonna get something on oh my god you were right about the blue a little bit how to be self it loo blue aqua nice to meet you.

We're so excited I've always wanted to do this oh my god and you look so cool oh thank you very much so cool food do you have any henna happening I did actually on my hand have a lot of 36 hours saying henna actually takes 48 hours to get to its most mature stage did you do that on your help yes Wow I was around somebody to go through the getting it oh my god back and usually do the other end oh I can clean so she's a magician is when you are a creative magician ya know I just get bored cause you know I can't really overly have as much space or wanting elevate and all you did my legs do my hand weight-bearing it all of it how long is this going to last I'm about seven to ten days on the hand it tends to go a little faster doing okay wash your hands okay I do have a question yes you have it on your hand yeah did people get it anywhere else yeah I like about a whole body oh yeah Ola henna doctor yeah oh my god I haven't done one of those but yeah people do like especially in like Indian ami marriage like Oh Riedel Henna's I get it all up great everywhere.

So what do you say well we put on the hammock house I just kind of freaks out I'd like more florally type stuff I can give you something like that if you want more like a jewelry style like glove style tea as I do if they're like a standard go-to style for most channel create my own style a little bit I feel like listen I've known you for five minutes but can already tell you're way cooler than me for sure so like anything you want to do is gonna plus me up I shoot I pick cool that we want to be exactly but we just try really hard instead I mean your name is Blu and blessings oh all right so did you know what you wanna do is wonderful just like hold on there's my vibes girl for it whatever you want to do I trust you more than myself for sure cubed I mean anything whatever she wants don't do that okay oh there what you're thankful it feels like it's going to be very therapeutic to watch it actually is it's there Peter to watch and do and it smells good.

Oh yeah what is this stuff anyway when is kinda it's a plant it's like a farm it's a plant called henna they try the leaves and then they make it into a powder and then you make it into a cake and this one's been fused with essential oil so like lemongrass and argan oil I mean they look like that cuz I know that it's like a crossing yes I've always want to try frosting cakes oh my god no way I feel like you'd be really good at decorating that right and this is plant-based which obviously needs was edible have you ever tried it not on purpose and also just because it does not mean it's edible that's not what's anonymous a little either blonde again where I guess about I guess to Shane it's actually going to start getting cold it's gonna have like a menthol the effect it does I can feel it's like a little mold the way that I processes it takes some take the heat from your skin and that's how it actually process really our friend Mari that you also did her henna tattoo.

Hmm she has had two incidents now that it's definitely not your fault it's purple but she went to sleep and slept on her hand and then it's transferred to her face she actually got something different is called shag wood table so let me tell black henna tattoo hot black henna doesn't really exist there's something called a goal which is like a safe 100% all-natural alternative to it and what it is it's a fruit from the Amazon so what they do is I collect this fruit that's like on the floor they turn it into a juice and then turn into a gel and it goes on like Henna but it comes out black oh that's cool but the only thing is that was Henna when it first falls off you're going to have like an orange pumpkin any color same but with Jaguar you don't have a stain for the first 24 hours like it's not there.

So if you go and fall asleep on your hand or something it's still transferable even though you can't see it so everything is like clear it's like clearing then the next morning we gotta sound like black dad I don't know when you're doing it because it looks like this you know that get off and then they're like oh yeah that'll cool so we're not going to wake up with this on her yeah though you will be totally fine as long as you let it dry then you're cool you ever find like I don't have any tattoos you ever find that people do a cable you try to follow me so that I can see if I like it and then they'll kind of you have to do it henna or I recommend people told you that I hate will be we're like oh like do like my grandma I'm like I can't do a portrait but not know so what is inspiring so far.

I love what's happening over here but what how would you describe you guys we either I feel like you really get me out all right last three dots and then we're done then we can read odd oh my god I'm so good this is look at my pinky fingers shaking it's so overjoyed and doesn't know what to do this is so cool Holmes I let it dry just honestly let it stay on as long as you've handled on rxa is the better okay like I do until you can't take it anymore the flooded one starts falling off if you're annoyed with it then you can go inside off is it all appealing thing it's gonna be fine under dance I understand well your turn I guess okay bye as you wander like flowers or more like a actually I'm gonna go I'm gonna do it okay yeah you know best.

Okay cool I was live one almost oh dear do your final dot is lopsided no it wasn't even lopsided I really would like oh my gosh well and we like anything oh look I love the best like we automatically go to like Beyonce it's really cool honey is ready to Beyonce for not being at Coachella oh my gosh oh my god you like it that looks so rad genius thank you.

Okay well I guess we're all done it's going to be crazy to figure out how we're getting home I'm a little nervous I told you I'm messing my nails what's the season thank you so much you around Genta thank you y'all have fun of Coachella and you be careful especially because they're still wet give me a two foot radius on enough weight like this goodbye thank you for being here today special prison sorry yes I like you careful okay I'm sliding into the car okay it's all right we're gonna help what did you offer that I already don't know what I did you need oh no this is what they don't warn you about I were not allowed to do this kind of I can get okay.

Okay hold on now we protect it okay oh my gosh Wow friendship oh gosh the coffee my Bridget goals achieved well I got a little she said it was okay that it's it she said it's bound to get messed up a little bit she was so cool you know very cooler than anyone else I could aspire to be that effortlessly cool so you guys if you're ever in the Long Beach or LA area hit her up blue is amazing she makes house calls she does hey countdown to 2018 y'all ever thanks for reading nice bye guys leave a wave like this hey going to love towards Rylan and I get our skin probed or click to the right to watch our MTV Movie Awards version at dirty laundry.

#henna tattoos

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