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lunnybunny12 · 4 years ago

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Sandor Clegane X reader (Rory)

MODERN AU

A/N: This is a modern AU based off of this headcanon.

Word count: 2036

Warnings: Swearing, alcohol, mentions of death

Master List

As an Infantry Soldier, Sandor served in the field, working to defend his country against any threats on the ground. He'd capture, destroy, and deter enemy forces, assist in reconnaissance, and help mobilize troops and weaponry to support the mission as the ground combat force. He'd seen good people get murdered, shot, hanged, killed. People with families to get back to and friends who would miss them. Sandor had neither, and yet he was allowed to return.

He took a large gulp of his drink and looked at his surroundings. Sandor had been to the bar many times before and the familiar hum of other patrons as they'd pull frothing glasses of beer to their lips was there like always. He heard the occasional clicks from the back where the pool-tables were placed. The smell of alcohol, snow and pine-scented air freshener drifted through the air as you dragged a damp rag across the bar.

"Oi Barkeep. Beer." Sandor called, fiddling some change from his pocket.

"Keys first, Dogface. Then you can drink," You retorted, not moving from your place at the bar. (Dogface- A nick-name for Infantrymen because they sleep in "Pup-tents" and hide in "dugouts")

Sandor sighed in annoyance and paused to look at you. It hadn't been the first time you had told him this, he never understood why but he knew full well that you weren't joking with him.

"Again?"

"Yes, again. now hand them over."

He begrudgingly did as he was told and slid the car keys across the bar, avoiding your outstretched hand completely. You snatched them away and placed them in your pocket, with a fake glare.

"Good boy. They'll be in the same place when you come to pick them up tomorrow." You said popping of the cap of a beer and sliding it towards him and going back to cleaning the bar.

"You're lucky you're one of the few people I can stand in this town" He grumbled.

"Oh I feel so honoured" you joked and rolled your eyes.

Since there were other customers to attend to you couldn't talk long, but it's not like he'd say much to you anyway. The community he had found himself in was quite tight-knit. Everyone knew everyone and it was tricky to not run into someone who had something to talk about. Sandor however was a very quiet individual who often kept to himself making him stand out to many of the residents.

As the night continued and other staff started their shifts, Sandor found himself looking at you from time to time. He watched you collect glasses, chat to customers, tell jokes and take orders. He found himself doing it allot recently and he didn't understand why. At some points, he had even begun te eavesdrop on your conversations since he had nothing better to do.

"Ah (y/n) hows Rory? Heard the lad had an accident" A customer asked as you took their order.

Sandor's ears pricked up. He'd never heard of a Rory before at least not from you, and from what he knew there wasn't a Rory in the village.

"Yeah, the silly thing fell down the stairs and hurt his leg. He's upstairs having a lie-down. he should be up and about in a few days though," You chuckled.

You had changed so much since he was dragged off to the army. You weren't a crazy teenager anymore but a grown woman, with a proper paying job and a life outside of work. Yet you were still the same when it came to your personality: humerus, silly, carefree, cheerful and stupid... my god were you stupid, you had to have been to be his friend.

"Right, consider me.. clocked out" You smiled to yourself and looked at Sandor.

"Why do you need to clock out? You own the bloody place." Sandor said.

"Yes, but its this new fangled technology thing that Mr Ray insisted I use, and you know what he's like. 'His town his rules.' Plus it helps me keep tabs on whos working."

"At least you understand half of the tripe you just said." Sandor joked taking another sip of his drink.

You rolled your eyes and patted his shoulder as you headed towards the door. "Goodnight everyone!" You yelled earning a cheer of goodnights.

Everything was different when Sandor went away. One day he was there and the next he wasn't, no warning, just a letter that said that he had been accepted into the army and to not expect him back for a long time, that was if he came back at all.

When he did eventually return he had also changed. His personality remained the same, as you expected but he had changed physically. He was taller, broader and stronger and his hair had been cut making his burn a more prominent feature.

If it was up to you, you would've stayed away from him but since yours was the only bar in town, he would come for a drink. Out of politeness you talked to him and sent the occasional harmless jab his way and in return he was civil. You were still angry that he hadn't said goodbye but you still cared, you must have done to take his keys.

It was misty that morning. All mornings were misty since the Autumn season rolled around. You loved Autumn. You loved the feeling of the wind rushing past your face and how the leaves crunched beneath your boots. Your favourite place to walk was at the park and since Rory had stopped limping around your apartment, you thought the park was a good idea.

Rory was a large thing. The hound was easily half your height when stood on all fours and towered above you when on his hind. In his youth, he would have been jet black and full of energy but as he aged, the fur around his snout and paws had dimmed to a light grey and he had mellowed out.

As you walked along the wet grass a sudden yelp bit through the air.

"Someone get their fucking dog!"

You immediately ran to the voice to see Sandor, on the ground with your dog licking his face.

"Rory! come here. You silly thing" you laughed as you latched the lead onto the dog's collar and pulled him away from Sandor.

The man looked awful. His hair was a mess and he was covered in dirt. The shirt he wore was the same as the day prior and he seemed half asleep.

"Were you sleeping in the bush?"

"Oh yes, I'm fine thanks for asking" Sandor huffed as he pulled himself off of the grass.

He was in a mood and in all honesty, you would be too if you were sleeping in a bush.

"What kind of dog is that? Looks like a living mop"

"He's a wolfhound and I can guarantee he's cleaner than you."

"Well, you try and stay clean when you've been sleeping in the park for 5 days," Sandor growled, dusting off some leaves from his pants.

"5 days?" you asked. "You've been sleeping here for 5 DAYS! What happened to your apartment?"

"No money to pay for an apartment."

"What about your job?"

"Why do you care?" Sandor asked, bending down to grab the blanket that was hidden in the shrubbery. He was about to walk away until you stood in front of him with a serious look.

"I care because we were friends once and I'll be dumbed if I let my friend sleep in the cold. So I will ask again... What about your job?"

The look Sandor gave you wasn't out of shock or surprise. It was a look of familiarity. A look of relaxed friendliness that you hadn't seen since before he left.

Sandor sighed and scratched his neck. " My job fired me a few weeks ago. Said that 'I have talents that could be useful elsewhere.'"

"They fired you without reason?"

"I stacked boxes (Y/n) and that's all I did."

"Load of cunts," you sighed. "Right you're coming home with me, you're gonna get a shower and we can talk about a job later."

"I didn't ask for your help."

"No, but you're getting it anyway. Follow me Dogface."

A month had passed since then and things once again changed.

You gave Sandor a job at the bar more suited to his skillset and became the security. The town was a tourist hotspot in the summer months and you would get the occasional rowdy bunch that you nor the rest of the residents liked to deal with. In the other months, Sandor would just hang around, help with any shipments that required heavy lifting and occasionally cover for a staff member. Since you couldn't have him sleeping in his car or in a bush you gave him the spare room in your apartment and when he could afford it he insisted on paying rent and wouldnt take no for an answer.

One day when Sandor came back from his shift, he was met with you, laying on the couch with Rory draped over you with his head on your chest. Rory had done this more than once and you thought it was adorable, whether it was to protect you or because he was cold you didn't know but it was adorable just the same.

"You look comfortable," Sandor said slipping off his shoes at the door.

"Oh, I am. Very much so. I was in the mood for cuddles and since you weren't here Rory stepped up" you joked, petting the sleeping dog.

At the corner of your eye, you saw Sandor's demeanour change. He straightened his posture and took a sharp breath in.

"You alright?

"I'm fine. move your legs." Sandor said sitting on the couch beside you as he leaned to grab the tv remote.

He had been doing that a lot. Whenever you joked about ding something a couple would do, he would shy away or close himself off and to be honest you were only half-joking. It why you were so upset when he left without a word of warning. You liked him but if he liked you was a different story.

"You jealous?" You asked

"Jealous?" Sandor chuffed. "Of Rory? Nah. You wouldn't go for an old dog like him"

"I like old dogs. They have more charm and personality than the younger ones." You answered as you ran your fingers through Rory's fur and kissed him on the head.

Sandor sighed and continued to look at the TV. He looked so handsome to you, he always did. Sure he was rough around the edges but its what drew you to him in the first place.

"I like you too, you know."

"What?" Sandor laughed and looked a you. He thought you were joking like you usually did but by the look on your face, you weren't.

By that point Rory had jumped off of the couch to get some water, allowing you to sit properly.

"I like you, Dogface."

"In what way?"

"In a romantic way... since before you left" a second of silence cut between you when you started laughing at yourself. Like a real laugh. "I don't know why I'm telling you this, it's not like you feel the same anyways."

"How do you know I don't like ya?"

"Look at me, Sandor. The only men in my life are you, the customers and my dog, I'm not exactly a noble-born am I? Just a daft bar made"

You stood up and walked to the fridge to grab a few beers.

"I like a daft bar made. They're way more entertaining than the smart ones."

"Very funny" you said handing him a bottle and sitting back on the couch with a huff.

"I also like my bar made: brave, and strong, and funny. With... a nice dog and a home of her own. Look, I like you too. I like being around you. I...I like your face."

You laughed and shuffled closer to him and leant your head on his shoulder.

"Cute" you mumbled and leant up to kiss his cheek. " I like your face too"

#game of thrones x reader #game of thrones #sandor clegane x reader #sandor clegane #sandor clegane x you #sandor the hound clegane #sandor x reader #the hound x reader #the hound #sandor clegane deserves the world #house clegane

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years ago

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Eccentricity [Chapter 14: Love Keeps The Monsters From Our Door] [Series Finale]

A/N: Thank you for your encouragement, enthusiasm, laughter, rants, screeches of anguish, and unapologetic thirsting for “sexy undead Italian man” Joseph Francis Mazzello. I hope you love this conclusion more than Baby Swan loves pineapple pizza. 💜

Series Summary: Potentially a better love story than Twilight?

Chapter Title Is A Lyric From: “Til I Die” by Parsonsfield. (The #1 song I associate with this fic!)

Chapter Warnings: Language.

Word Count: 7.7k.

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @bramblesforbreakfast @maggieroseevans @culturefiendtrashqueen @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @escabell @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee @deacyblues @tensecondvacation @brianssixpence @some-major-ishues @haileymorelikestupid @youngpastafanmug @simonedk @rhapsodyrecs

Mercy

We have to stay in the Vladivostok palace until her transformation is complete, and I hate it.

The floors are cold and sterile and every clang of noise ricochets off them like a bullet. The earth outside is stripped bare and hibernal. There is no green to interrupt the bleakness of the sky, the cruel absence of color: no spruces or hemlocks or bigleaf maples, no evergreen forests, no verdant fields, only a grey that bleeds from the sky in sheets of hail and driving rain. This land is a stranger. So many of the faces, too, are strangers, although they try. Honora sits with me—her large dark eyes, like mirrors of mine, polished and wet with aching pity—and braids my hair. Morana invites me to bake homemade bread with her. Austin tries to make me smile. Cato visits me as much as he can, because he feels responsible; or maybe he would do it anyway, maybe lessening suffering is as instinctual to him as bloodshed is to so many of our kind. And when Cato is with me, I do feel a little better, like my story might belong to somebody else, like it’s a name I can’t quite remember, like it’s a transitory moment of déjà vu I can catch glimpses of but never touch. And yet, still, I send him away.

I don’t want to be with Cato. It’s painful for him to be around me, I can see that. It’s painful for Rami, and for Ben, and for Joe, and for Lucy and Scarlett. It’s even painful for the Irish Wolfhounds that Cato found locked up for safekeeping in Larkin’s study; they skulk around the palace vigilantly but leave great swaths of uninterrupted space around me like open water. So I conjure up a mask of brave, hopeful acceptance and wear it everywhere I go.

Joe says very little, never leaves the girl he calls Baby Swan’s side, dabs her scorching skin with washcloths soaked in ice water and murmurs in sympathy when she screams through the unconsciousness, from beneath the ocean of fire we all know so well. He nods off sometimes, snatching minutes of sleep like fireflies in a jar, before jolting awake to make sure her heart is still beating. When Ben isn’t checking on them, he’s with Cato, helping to draw up plans for the future, reminiscing about the past with slick eyes and clinking midnight glasses of whiskey. Scarlett sprawls across the desk in what was once Larkin’s study and spends hours on the phone with Archer as she gazes up at the ceiling, telling him how to care for the farm animals and the garden, reassuring him that we’ll be home soon, whispering things to him that I try not to hear; and I know she wouldn’t want me to anyway. Lucy weeps delicate, ceaseless tears as she perches on the staircase landing and Rami entombs her in his arms, never having to ask what she needs from him. And I wander meaninglessly through the echoing, unfamiliar hallways like a moon without a planet.

I know what they all think about me, perhaps even Rami, for I keep it buried as deep as all skeletons should be: that I’m irrevocably kind, effortlessly forgiving. That I’m as incapable of bitterness as I am of aging. But they’re wrong. It’s a choice, and it always has been, ever since a late-November dusk in 1864 when madness eclipsed mercy. Every day I choose whether to surrender to the beckoning, malignant hatred that lurks in the back of my bedroom closet, in the dusty and ill-lit loft of the barn roped with cobwebs, in the twilight tree line of the western hemlocks crawling with shadows that whisper through fanged teeth. Every day I decide whether to become a monster. And it has never been harder to remember why I don’t.

My future is unimaginable. The nights are endless. I feel black, razored seeds of what I am horrified must be bitterness burrowing beneath my skin and taking root there. I am consumed by infected, fruitless questions that I can’t silence: Why Gwilym? Why Arthur? Why Eliza and Charlotte? Why is it always fire?

The first words that Gwilym ever spoke to me, as I unraveled from unconsciousness under a grove of sycamore trees with smoke still clinging to my unscarred skin, rattle around in my skull like windchimes beneath thunderous skies. His voice was colored with an accent I couldn’t place, and yet it sounded like home: You’re in a dark place right now. But you don’t have to stay there.

That might have been true once. That might have been true in the ruinous autumn of 1864. But now I can’t find my way out.

Seventy-three hours after our arrival in this barren corner of the world, Charlie Swan’s daughter wakes up as a vampire. Her heart is perfectly still, her skin faultless, her senses sharp, her mind as impenetrable as ever; at least, that’s what Lucy says when she finds me. And Lucy tugs at my hand, wearing her first smile in days, insisting that I have to come meet the newest member of our coven, to welcome her. I don’t know how to tell Lucy that I’m afraid I don’t have it in me to love this girl, that I don’t have it in me to love anyone but ghosts. And yet—compliantly, yieldingly, expecting nothing but disappointment in the monster I have become—I follow her.

The door is already open to the Swan girl’s room; chattering, beaming vampires flood in and out like the tides. I step inside. And I see the way that Joe looks at her, the way that Ben does; and all those seeds that I had feared might be bitterness blossom into nothing but open air.

It’s Not A Fucking Wedding (A.K.A. 13.5 Months Later)

The ocean is a universe. Its arms are not ever-expanding, spiraling galaxies of suns and planets and nebulae and black holes, this is true; its belly is not a vacuum of inhospitable oblivion, its bones are not invisible strings of gravity, its language is not a silence older than starlight, older than eternity. But the ocean is a universe nonetheless, its borders tucked neatly around the seven continents, slumbering there until the next hurricane or tsunami or ice age comes conquering; and inevitably equilibrium is restored—like defibrillator paddles to a heart, like naloxone to an addict’s blood—and our two worlds can coexist side by side once again.

The ocean’s arms are sighing waves, bubbling and brisk, grasping and retreating in the same breath. Its belly is swollen with life from immense blue whales down to swarming clouds of single-celled, sun-hungry phytoplankton. Its language is ancient whispers; not parched and blistering and brittle sounds like the desert’s but cool, serene, supple, engulfing. And I can hear them all, if I listen closely enough. I can hear the sentient whistling of orcas, the breaking of waves against rocks, the scrabbling of sand crabs beneath the earth, the gruff distant barks of sea lions, the rustling of evergreen pine needles in the breeze. And I understand now why it was always so easy for vampires to be introspective, to lapse into thoughtful, unhurried silences. I could imagine spending decades just sitting here with my knees tucked to my chest and my hair whipping in the brackish wind, watching the seasons roll by like a wheel.

Joe was coming back from the gravel parking lot. I turned to watch him: red U Chicago hoodie, messy dark auburn-ish hair, a pizza box clasped in his hands. The GrubHub delivery driver was returning to his car with the toothiest of grins.

“Buon appetito!” Joe announced, dramatically presenting me with the pizza box. It had become our post-finals tradition each semester: pizza at La Push beach, half-pepperoni, half-pineapple.

“Grazie, sexy undead Italian man. Your accent is getting so good!”

“I know, right?! I’m on a twelve-day Duolingo streak. I can’t let that little green owl dude down.”

“I’m impressed, I’ll admit it. I gotta brush up on my Welsh. Why’s the GrubHub driver so cheery?”

“I tipped him $500.”

I smiled, opening the box and lifting out a semi-warm slice of pineapple pizza. Elastic strands of mozzarella cheese stretched like rubber bands until they snapped. “Aww, really?”

Joe plopped down onto the cool, damp sand beside me. “No. I lied. We’re actually having a torrid love affair.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “How could you possibly have time for all that?” Between school, business ventures, family activities, and me, Joe was very rarely unoccupied. And he preferred it that way.

“I’m so glad you asked. I’m very speedy, if you recall. And that’s just one of the exclusive services I offer. I am a man of many talents. I make people’s wildest dreams come true. Who am I to deny the GrubHub delivery man the wonderland that is my spindly, annoying body?”

“You are the fastest,” I said, winking.

“Oh shut up! I mean, uh, uhhh, silenzio!” He pointed his slice of pepperoni pizza at me reproachfully. “That’s not what I meant. I’m not the fastest at everything.”

“Whatever you say, mob guy.”

He lunged for me, pinned me down in the crumbling sand, both of us laughing wildly as the crusts of our pizza slices bounded off and were snatched up by diving, screeching seagulls. He growled with mock savagery, braced his hips against mine, kissed his way from the corner of my jaw to my lips. That oh-so-familiar commanding, craving ache for him came roaring to the surface; and now there was no bittersweet edge to it, no inescapable backdrop of lambent numbers ticking down from five or ten or fifteen years to zero. Now there was only the calm, unurgent promise of forever.

“Joe—!”

“You have besmirched my honor, Baby Swan. I am left with no recourse but to refresh your clearly flawed memory and prove you wrong.”

“Public indecency? That’s illegal, sir.”

“Okay, you gotta stop stealing my catchphrases. It’s extremely difficult for me to come up with new ones. I’m almost a hundred years old, you know.”

“Alright, I guess you’re not bad in bed for a basically-centenarian.”

He smiled down at me, his dark eyes alight, the wind tearing through his hair, one palm resting on my forehead, uncharacteristically quiet.

“What?” I asked, worried.

“Nothing,” he said. “I’m just really glad we’re a thing.”

“You better be. You’re kind of stuck with me now. You’ve stolen my virtue, you’ve made me fall in love with your entire demented family, you’ve forced your torturous immortality upon me. I’m not going anywhere. Unless you ever stop funding my pineapple pizza addiction, of course.”

Joe chuckled as he climbed off me and took my hand in his, pulling me upright. “It’s absolutely ridiculous, by the way. Your insistence on being a sort-of vegetarian. It’s embarrassing. You’re the wimpiest vampire ever. You’re a disgrace to the coven.”

“I eat animals!” I objected.

“Yeah, when you have to.” And Joe was right: I steered clear of flesh outside of the two or three times a week when I hunted. For environmental sustainability reasons, I mostly consumed deer or rabbits; although the very occasional shark was my guilty pleasure. Joe gnawed on his second slice of pizza and peered out into the overcast, dusky horizon, wiping crumbs from his stubbled chin with the back of his hand. “We only have one more of these left,” he said at last, a little sadly. “One more finals season at Calawah University. One more celebratory dinner at La Push.”

“We’ll just have to get used to a new view. Pizza by the Chicago River, maybe.”

Joe looked over at me, thoughtful again, smiling. He had received his acceptance letter to the University of Chicago three weeks ago. I got mine eight days later. “It won’t be hard for you to leave Forks?”

“It will be. Once upon a time I didn’t think that was possible, but I will miss Forks. And not just because of Charlie and Archer and Jessica and Angela and all the Lees. But it was hard to leave Phoenix, and I’m sure one day it will be hard to leave Chicago. Just because change is hard doesn’t mean it’s not the right thing to do.”

Joe nodded introspectively. “Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.”

“Don’t quote classic rock songs at me, mixtapes boy.”

“You love my mixtapes,” he teased, circling his left arm around my waist, pulling me in closer, touching his lips to my forehead. Mint and pine and starlight sank into my lungs like an anchor through the surf. “And that saying actually goes all the way back to Seneca, my dear.”

“Don’t tell me he’s still philosophizing in some cloudy corner of the world somewhere.”

“Not to my knowledge. Although that’s an intriguing thought. We need more famous vampires. Caligula would have made for very interesting conversation. Lincoln, Napoleon, Cleopatra, Shakespeare, Dante...I guess it’s possible that anyone is still around. Maybe we should turn Meat Loaf. You know, for the good of posterity.”

“Is it not enough that they’re already cursed with student debt and global warming?”

Joe cackled, took my face in his palms, kissed each of my cheeks one after the other, then nudged my nose with his. “You ready to go, Baby Swan? I suspect we’re expected to participate in some holiday festivities tonight.”

“I’m ready,” I agreed. We threw our leftover pizza to the seagulls, disposed of the grease-spotted cardboard box, and walked back to my 1999 Honda Accord with our pulseless hands intertwined.

The evergreen trees along Routh 110 fled by beneath a sky freckling with stars. Sharp winter air poured in through the open windows. And I could feel that it was cold, in the same way that I could feel the warmth on Forks’ rare sweltering days; but there was no discomfort that accompanied that knowledge. Pain only came when the sky was unincumbered by thick clouds churning in off the Pacific, and then it felt something like staring into the sun had as a human. Sunglasses helped, but the surest remedy was avoidance, was surrender. And what an inconsequential price to pay for forever.

“Wait,” I said, spying the mailbox that marked the start of the Lees’ driveway. “They still deliver mail on Christmas Eve, right?”

“Uh, I think so, why...?” And then he remembered. “Oh, yeah, let’s check!”

I pulled up beside the mailbox and Joe leaned out, returning to his seat with a mountain of Christmas cards and business correspondence and advertisements from Costco and Sephora. He sifted through them until he found a single white envelope from the University of Chicago Pritzker School of Medicine. It was addressed to a Mr. Benjamin August Hardy. Joe held it up to show me as we drove down the driveway, the Lee house coming into view and ornamented with a frankly excessive amount of multicolored string lights and inflatable reindeer.

“Oh my god!” I squealed, drumming the steering wheel.

“You want to be the one to give it to him?”

“Are you serious?! Yeah, can I?”

Joe passed the envelope to me as I parked my geriatric Honda, which Archer had pledged to keep alive as long as physically possible. In return, Ben let him and Scarlett borrow the Aston Martin Vantage no less than once a week. I dashed out of the car, up the steps of the front porch, and into the house that bubbled over with the sounds of metallic kitchen clashes and frenetic voices and Wham!’s Last Christmas.

“Ben?!” I shouted.

“Hi, honey!” Mercy called from the living room, where she and Lucy were putting the final touches on Scarlett’s gown. Scarlett was playing the part of semi-willing victim, wearing gold heels and an impatient smirk and her hair out of the way in a milkmaid braid; her train of vivid red lace billowed across the hardwood floor. From the couch, Archer and Rami were playing Mario Kart on the big-screen tv and nibbling their way through a tray of homemade gingerbread cookies.

“Oh wow,” I said, clutching the envelope to my chest, mesmerized. I kept waiting for Scarlett to start looking like a normal person to me, and it never happened. Tonight, in the glow of the flameless candles and kaleidoscopic Christmas lights and draped in lace the color of pomegranate seeds, she was Persephone: a goddess of resurrection, a face that death himself could not pass by unscathed. “You’ve outdone yourself, Lucy. Seriously.”

“One day I’m going to get you out of those thrift shop sweaters,” Lucy threatened me, placing a pin in the fabric at Scarlett’s waist.

“Yeah, okay. Let me know when that shows up in one of your visions.”

“Bitch,” Lucy flung back, snickering, knowing how improbable that was. I still appeared in her visions extremely infrequently, and then only when I happened to be standing next to whoever the premonition was actually about.

“Language, dear,” Mercy tutted, inspecting the hem of Scarlett’s gown.

Joe arrived beside me, his arms still full of mail. “ScarJo, I almost didn’t recognize you! Why do you have, like, no cleavage or fishnets or thigh slits?”

“Why do you have like no eyelashes?” Scarlett replied. “See, I can ask unnecessary and invasive questions too.”

Joe frowned, wounded. “What’s wrong with my eyelashes?”

“Lucy, darling, I think it’s just a tad uneven on this side,” Mercy said, showing her. “Maybe by half an inch...?”

“No, seriously, what’s wrong with my eyelashes?!”

Mercy replied distractedly: “Nothing, honey, you’re perfect just the way you are.”

“Mom!” Joe groaned.

“It really is gorgeous,” Mercy marveled as Lucy flitted around her to investigate the hem situation. “And so Christmasy. So perfect for the season. Scarlett, dear, you were right after all, and I’m so sorry for doubting you. I’d just never heard of a red wedding dress before.”

“Mom, it’s not a fucking wedding!” Scarlett exclaimed, for probably the thirtieth time since Thanksgiving. “It’s a nonbinding, informal celebration of an egalitarian romantic partnership. Will somebody please inform this woman that it’s not a wedding?!”

“Yes, yes, of course, whatever you want, sweetheart,” Mercy conceded dreamily.

Joe pointed to Archer. “Isn’t he supposed to not see the dress until the day of or something?”

“What a great question!” Archer replied, still deeply invested in Mario Kart. “You see, that would be the case if this was a wedding. However, I’ve been informed in no uncertain terms that it is most definitely not.”

Scarlett grinned triumphantly at Joe. “There you have it.”

She might snap petulantly, and she might complain, but Scarlett wouldn’t be doing this if she didn’t want to; we were all intimately familiar with the futility of trying to force Scarlett into anything. The not-wedding, as improbable as it seemed, had been her idea from the start. And she wasn’t doing it for herself. She wasn’t even doing it for Archer. Scarlett was doing it for her mother.

The first six months had been hell for Mercy. She didn’t resent me, as I had feared she might; Mercy made that clear, and Rami confirmed it. But she was gutted. She wouldn’t speak of Gwil, wouldn’t listen to us talk about him, locked every photograph of him away in dark drawers, wandered around with a remote, uncanny, unseeing smile until she walked straight into walls; and then she would blink inanely up at them, as if they had dropped out of the sky rather than been built by her own hands. She baked hundreds of cakes and almost never slept. She told us she was fine every time we asked, which was more or less constantly. But on the very rare occasions when she was left alone, Mercy would unfailingly end up in the field behind the Lee house, gazing out into the forest of western hemlock trees with tears snaking silently down her cheeks, the muted light of the cloud-covered setting sun flickering red and furious on her face like wildfire.

And then one afternoon, a package had arrived from Arviat, Canada, where Cato and the rest of the surviving Draghi had relocated shortly after the rebellion at Vladivostok. It was five feet tall and another three wide, and what we found after carefully peeling away all those layers of foam padding and packing tape was a portrait of Gwilym so skillfully painted that it could have been mistaken for a photograph. Mercy had stared at it for a long time—ignoring Lucy’s attempts to guide her away, deaf to any of our concerns—until she at last picked up the portrait herself and said, quite evenly: “I think we should hang it in the living room, don’t you?”

Things had been better since then—very, very gradually, and yet unmistakably—and Gwil’s portrait remained mounted above the living room couch like a watchman, his eyes sparkling and blue, his faint smile stoic and fond and omniscient. But even in the wake of Mercy’s continued improvement, none of us kids were about to risk another agonizingly despondent Christmas. So the solution was obvious. We would keep Mercy preoccupied with what thrilled her more than absolutely anything else: the pseudo-weddings of her children. Rami and Lucy had already secretly volunteered to go next year...and after that, who knew? And there was one other thing that was making Mercy’s burden a little lighter these days.

Charlie sauntered into the living room, wearing an apron covered in cartwheeling Santas and wiping white dust like snow—powdered sugar? flour? baking soda?—from his ungainly hands. He was palpably proud. “The sugar cookies are officially in the oven. And I managed to fit them all on one baking sheet, isn’t that great?! Cuts down on dishes!”

“Why, yes, I suppose it does!” Mercy said, alarm dawning in her eyes. Had my beloved father placed the globs of dough too close together? Would we end up with one hideous, giant monster-cookie? Only time would tell. Providentially, Archer and Joe could be counted on to eat just about anything.

Joe sniffed the air, his forehead crinkling. “What’s burning?”

“Nothing should be burning,” Mercy replied, almost defensive, forever protective of Charlie and all of his profound, incurably human imperfections. Sometimes I thought that she preferred him that way, that he was a link to a simpler world in the same way I had once been, that he was a puddle of memory she could drop into, that maybe he wasn’t so unlike her first husband Arthur. “Not yet, anyway. The cookies need at least ten to twelve minutes at 350.”

“Wait, 350?!” Charlie exclaimed, horrorstruck. “I thought you said 450!”

“Oh, this is tragic,” Scarlett said.

“I can fix it!” Mercy trilled buoyantly, breezing off to the kitchen as Charlie followed after her with a fountain of apologies. She shushed them away affectionately, patting his chest with her soft plump hands, chuckling about how luckily they had fire extinguishers stowed away in almost every closet just in case. And there were other reasons for that besides Charlie’s perilous baking attempts, but he didn’t know them. Now the record player was belting out Queen’s Thank God It’s Christmas.

Archer lost another round in Mario Kart and exhaled a great, mournful sigh. “Hey, Baby Swanpire, can you do something about this guy?” He nodded to Rami. “This is criminal. It’s nowhere near a fair fight. He knows every freaking time I’m about to toss a banana peel.”

Rami smirked guiltily up at me from the couch, not bothering to deny it.

“Do you mind?” I asked him.

“Not at all,” Rami replied. “I want to show this loser I can beat him even without the benefit of mega-cool extrasensory superpowers.”

“Rude!” Archer cried.

“So rude,” Scarlett agreed, smiling.

“Okay, here we go.” I sat down beside Rami, still holding Ben’s envelope in my right hand, and laid my left against Rami’s cheek. And I felt a fistful of numbness—like instant peace, like milk-white Novocain—pass from my skin into his, rolling into his skull, deadening whatever telepathic livewires had been ignited there in the August of 1916. The effect would last anywhere from thirty minutes to a few hours; and it worked on every vampire I’d met so far.

“Whoa, trippy,” Rami murmured. “It’s still weird, every single time.” He peered drowsily around the room. “It’s...so...quiet?! You guys really live like this? No one is constantly bombarding you with sexual fantasies or romantic pining or depressive inner monologues? How do you function?! Now I’m alone with my own thoughts, that’s actually worse!”

“Hurry up and beat him while he’s all freaked out and vulnerable,” Scarlett told Archer.

Archer laughed, picking up his Nintendo 64 controller, radiant with the promise of vengeance. “Yes ma’am.”

“Any good mail?” Lucy asked Joe.

“Yeah. Coupons and a ton of Christmas cards from random people. The vet sent us one with alpacas on it, so that’s cute. Oh, and here’s one from our favorite Canadians.”

Joe held up the card so we could all see. The picture on the front showed Cato and Honora sitting on a large velvet, forest green couch with a hulking Christmas tree illuminated in the background. The others were arranged around them: Austin, Max, Ksenia, Charity, Araminta, Akari, Morana, Phelan, Aruna, Adair, Zora, Sahel, and a few new faces I couldn’t name yet. They were all wearing matching turtleneck sweaters. And every single one of them was smiling.

Joe cleared his throat theatrically and read the text on the inside of the card:

“Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

(Oh, and Scarlett, congratulations on your not-marriage.)

- Cato Douglass Freeman”

“That bastard,” Scarlett muttered.

Rami offered me his controller. He had just slipped on a banana peel and rocketed off a cliff. “You want a turn?”

“No, thanks though. I have to talk to Ben. Is he around?”

Rami shrugged ruefully. “I would help, but my brain is temporarily broken.”

Scarlett rolled her eyes, taking a gingerbread cookie from the tray and biting into it as Lucy batted crumbs from the red lace dress, exasperated. “I think he’s out in the hot tub.”

“Cool. I shall return.”

Joe took my spot on the couch as I departed, shoveling cookies into his mouth, seizing Rami’s controller and kicking his feet up on the coffee table.

I opened the door to the back porch, and frigid December air rushed in like an uninvited guest. The field was coated with a thin layer of snow, the animals safe and warm in the barn, the garden slumbering. And in the spring and summer, when blossoms of a dozen different varieties came open beneath the drizzling grey skies, Mercy’s calla lilies didn’t bother my allergies at all. Nothing did anymore. Ben was indeed in the hot tub, puffing on his vape pen, wearing only a beanie hat and swim trunks.

“What flavor is that cartridge?” I asked as I approached. “Gummy bear?”

“Close. Strawberry doughnut.”

“Ohhhh, yum!” Ben passed me the vape pen, and I took a drag as I kicked off my boots and sat near him on the rim of the hot tub, slipping my bare feet beneath the steaming, roiling water. Then I handed his vape pen back. “So. Guess what I have for you.”

“Uh.” He glanced at the envelope. “Jury duty.”

“Better.”

“Someone I hate has jury duty.”

I flipped the envelope around so he could see the University of Chicago logo on the front.

“Oh god,” Ben moaned.

“Don’t you want to see what it says?”

“Not really,” he admitted, grimacing.

“Come on, Ben. Open it.”

“Nah.”

“Why not?!”

Ben sighed. “Look, if I open it and it’s bad news, it’s gonna make Christmas weird. Rami will know. They’ll all know. They’ll all feel bad for me and it’ll be pathetic and depressing and awkward. You can look if you want to, just don’t tell anyone else yet.”

“It’s not going to be bad news,” I said, tugging at the floppy top of his beanie hat. He swatted my hand away, but he was smiling grudgingly.

“You have positively no way of knowing that. Unless Lucy’s had a vision I’m unaware of.”

“She hasn’t. You know she never sees anything important.”

“She saw you coming,” Ben countered.

“She saw human-me and Joe in love and gobbling down pretzels at a Cubs game. So I’d say there were at least a few minor details missing.”

“There’s no way I got in,” Ben said, his green eyes slick and fearful and now fixed on the envelope. “We can’t all be geniuses like you.”

“That’s an unfair accusation. I’m far from genius. I’m just obsessed with the ocean.” I’d written my senior thesis on the feeding habits of Pacific angelsharks, and my advisor was still trying to figure out how I, an amateur scuba diver at best, had managed to get so many quality photographs with my underwater camera. The secret, of course, was superhuman agility and not needing to breathe.

“I fucking hate calculus. The MCAT wrecked me. I got a 517.”

“And their median score is a 519, so I’d say you still have a fighting chance. Plus you have like eight million volunteer hours.” Ben had spent the vast majority of the past year either in class or at the hospital. The psychiatrist-in-chief, Dr. Siegel, had been more than happy to take one of Gwil’s foster children under her wing. Every human in Forks except Archer believed that Dr. Gwilym Lee had drowned in a tragic boating accident while he and Mercy were on vacation in Southern California, and that his body had never been recovered. The town had held a wonderful remembrance ceremony and dedicated a free clinic at the hospital in his honor. “Now open it.”

“You do it,” Ben relented finally. “My hands are wet. Go ahead, open it up and tell me what it says. And then kindly euthanize me to end my immortal shame.”

“That wouldn’t work,” I pointed out, tearing open the envelope. I pulled out the tri-folded piece of paper inside, flattened it against my thighs, and read the typed black text.

“...Well?” Ben pressed, vaping frantically.

I looked up and smiled at him.

“No way,” he whispered.

“I hope you like pretzels and bear-themed baseball teams, grandpa.”

And for a second, I thought he might bolt up out of the hot tub, hooting victoriously, splashing water all over the back porch as he danced around bellowing that he’d gotten into one of the best medical schools in the world, that he would be following me and Joe to Chicago. But that wasn’t Ben. Instead, a slow smile rippled across his face: it was small, but perfectly genuine. Pure, even.

“Goddamn,” he said, watching me. Venom doesn’t just resurrect or ruin; it forms a bond that is simultaneously intangible and yet immense. It’s an evolutionary adaptation, a way to facilitate stability and the building of covens in an often violent and ruleless world. And now that he had turned me, Ben had family here in Forks in more ways than one.

“Gwil would be so proud of you, Ben.”

“I hope so. I really do.”

The back door of the house opened, and Joe stepped outside. He studied Ben for a moment, and that was all it took for him to know. “Benny!” he shouted, elated.

“I know, I know. Fortunately, I look amazing in red. Thanks, supermodel genes.”

“This is going to be so fun!” Joe said, sprinting over to wrap Ben—who was characteristically lukewarm on this whole physical displays of affection business—in a hug from just outside the hot tub. “We’re going to go furniture shopping, and eat deep-dish pizza, and find apartments right next to each other, and mail home Chicago-themed care packages, and get you hooked up with some gorgeous Italian woman...or whatever you like, I guess I shouldn’t assume. Women. Men. Gang members. Marine mammals. Jessicas. Whatever. There are options.”

Ben laughed as he playfully shoved Joe away. “Sounds like a plan, pagliaccio.”

“Oh my god, stop learning Italian without me! You realize you have to tell Mom now.”

“I will,” Ben agreed, with some trepidation. “I’ll wait until after Christmas.”

“It’ll be hard for her,” I said. “But she knows it’s what you want. She knows it’s what’s best for you. So she’ll get through it. I think it would be worse for her if you didn’t get in, if she had to see you unhappy.”

Ben nodded, exhaling strawberry-doughnut-flavored vapor, gazing up at the stars, Orion and Auriga and Lynx and Perseus reflected in his thoughtful jade eyes. “She’ll still have Rami and Lucy and Scarlett here with her. And Archer. And Charlie.”

“Especially Charlie,” Joe said, grinning.

Mercy would have to leave Forks eventually, of course. The Lees had already been here for nearly four years; they could stay another ten, perhaps fifteen at the absolute maximum. And there had been a time when ten or fifteen years seemed like quite a while to me, but now it felt like I could doze off one afternoon and wake up on the other side of it, like swimming a lap in the sun-drenched public pool back in Phoenix. We would find a new home somewhere after Joe and I finished our PhDs, after Ben finished medical school, maybe Vancouver or Buffalo or Amsterdam or Edinburgh or Dublin or Reykjavik. Wherever we went, I hoped it wouldn’t be far from the sea. But Mercy couldn’t bear to leave Forks yet. It was the last home she had shared with Gwil, the last house they would ever build together, and leaving it would make his loss all the more irrevocable. She would be ready to leave someday, but not today.

In the meantime, there would still be visits for breaks and holidays. Scarlett and Archer had the shop to keep them busy, a brand new eight-car garage that held a virtual monopoly on both the Forks and Quileute communities. Lucy had opened a bohemian-style clothing boutique downtown, which confounded most of the locals but attracted more adventurous customers from as far away as Seattle. Rami was interning for a local immigration lawyer and entertaining the possibility of applying to U Chicago’s law school in another few years. And Mercy had the farm; and she had Charlie. He had asked her for cooking lessons to try to help rouse her a few months after Gwil’s death, and it had grown from there. If it wasn’t romantic just yet, I believed it would be soon. And there were moments when I thought my father might have figured something out, when his eyes narrowed and lingered on me just a little too long, when his brow knitted into suspicious, searching lines, when the hairs rose on the back of his neck and some innate insight whispered that we weren’t like him and never could be again. But then he would chuckle, shake his head, and say: “You’ve gotten weird, my gorgeous, brilliant progeny. But Forks looks pretty good on you.”

“Can I talk to you upstairs?” Joe asked me suddenly; and did I see restless nerves flicker in his dark eyes? I thought I did.

“Sure,” I replied, climbing down from the hot tub. “Ben, are you coming inside? My dad is trying to bake Christmas cookies and failing miserably. It’s pretty hilarious. Not that you should be the one to critique other people’s kitchen-related accidents.”

“I do enjoy your company a lot more now that I don’t want to murder you and slurp you down like a Chick-fil-A milkshake,” Ben said. “Yeah, give me a few minutes and I’ll be there.” And as Joe and I headed into the house, I saw Ben pick up the acceptance letter that I’d left on the rim of the hot tub and read it for himself with incredulous eyes, grappling with the irrefutable fact that it was his name on the opening line, that he had somewhere along the way become the sort of man who dedicated his immortality to saving lives rather than ending them.

In the living room, Scarlett was back in her yoga pants and absolutely brutalizing Archer in Mario Kart. Rami and Lucy were entwined together on the loveseat, murmuring, giggling, feeding each other pieces of gingerbread cookies. In the kitchen, Charlie was leading Mercy in a clumsy waltz to Meat Loaf’s I’d Do Anything For Love, and each time he fumbled his steps or mortifyingly trod on her feet she would cry out in a peal of laughter brighter than the sun she had learned to live without. Joe spirited me up the staircase, into his bedroom—which, honestly, was more like our bedroom now, in the same way that my room in Charlie’s house had become Joe’s as well—and closed the door.

“You’re in luck,” he said. “Your dad totally ruined our song. Now I can’t hear it without thinking about some moustached guy in plaid trying to seduce my mom.”

“It’s the best Christmas gift I could ever ask for. Meat Loaf is vanquished. Oh, just so you’re aware, Renee and Paul are getting an Airbnb and coming up for New Years.”

“Cool. Do they still think I have a super embarrassing sunlight allergy and will break into hives and asphyxiate and that’s why we can’t visit them in Florida?”

“Yup.”

“Spectacular. Also, can you please tell me what’s wrong with my eyelashes?”

“They’re just a little sparse, amore. But I still like you.”

“Well, I am only moderately attractive, you know.” Then Joe steeled himself, taking a deep breath. Uh oh. He was definitely nervous. I still couldn’t believe I had the power to make him that way, but here we were. “So I get that we’re doing presents with the whole family tomorrow morning, and you do have some under the tree, so don’t worry about that. But there’s one I wanted to give to you alone. You know. With just us. Without an audience. Or whatever.”

“...Okay...?” A secret gift? A naughty gift? “I hope it’s a new vibrator.”

“Shut up,” Joe begged, laughing. “Here.” He reached into the drawer of his nightstand—our nightstand—and produced a small blue box topped with a turquoise bow. It wasn’t a ring, I was sure of that; I didn’t feel especially attached to the idea of marriage, and neither did Joe to my knowledge. How could rings or papers seal commitment when you already had eternity? I was right: the mysterious present was not a ring. When I removed the lid and emptied the box into my palm, what appeared there was a small plastic airplane.

“What is this?” I asked, amused but puzzled.

“Are you not college educated? It’s a plane.”

“Well, yeah, I can see that. But it’s also like two inches long.” I scrutinized the plane. “Are you magically transforming me into a tiny, tiny, little plastic person? Is that my gift? Because I actually got you something good.” And I really did: there was a collection of vintage Chicago Cubs photographs from the 1910s and 20s downstairs under the Christmas tree, packaged in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer wrapping paper.

“We’re going on a trip,” Joe said, grinning. “The day after Christmas. It’s just a short trip, nothing huge, don’t get too excited, we’re not going to Mt. Everest or Antarctica or anything. I think you’ll still like it. But I don’t want you to know where we’re going until we’re there.”

“How will that work? Considering the tickets and signage and pilot announcements and obnoxiously noisy other passengers and all.”

“ScarJo’s going to fly us.”

“Really?!” We were taking the jet. We almost never used the jet. “What’s in it for Scarlett?”

“She found out that Archer’s never had In-N-Out Burger before and is very much looking forward to initiating him into the cult of deliciousness.”

“Oh nice. I could go for a vanilla milkshake myself, now that Ben mentioned them.”

“Obviously I’m gonna buy you all the milkshakes and animal-style fries you want. Bankrupt me, bitch. But we have to get one other thing taken care of first.”

“So it’s somewhere they have In-N-Out Burger...” I pondered aloud. California? Texas? Las Vegas? I felt a brief but unambiguous pang of homesickness for Phoenix. But there was nothing there for me anymore.

“Stop,” Joe pleaded. “I’m sorry. I’ve already said too much. Please forget that. Get a traumatic brain injury or oxygen deprivation or something.”

“I hate to disappoint you, but I’m rather indestructible at the moment.”

He smiled wistfully. “I wouldn’t want you to be any other way.”

There was laughter downstairs in the living room. I could detect the aroma of a fresh batch of sugar cookies baking in the kitchen, mingling with the cold night air and pine trees and peppermint candy canes. I loved Christmas. The entire world smelled like Joe. The U Chicago décor, classic rock posters, and Italian flag were now interspersed with National Geographic pages and photos of the two of us together. The Official Whatever You Want Pass hung in a small, square picture frame on the wall above Joe’s bed. Our bed.

“How real is it, Joe?” I asked quietly. I climbed onto my tiptoes, linking my hands around the back of his neck with the tiny plane still tucked between my fingers. “Seriously. The wishes thing.”

“The world may never know. Akari never met me as a human, so she wouldn’t be able to say. But if I had to place a bet...” He shrugged, grinning craftily. “Kinda real. Kinda not real. Just like vampires, I guess.”

“I am alarmingly glad that you’re real, mob guy,” I said, abruptly somber. “I never thought I’d meet someone who saw me as remarkable, who could make me see myself that way. And it’s miraculous. And it’s terrifying too, honestly. Being a thing with you. Falling for someone you could have for centuries and lose in a second.”

“It’s the scariest thing there is,” Joe concurred, taking my hand to lead me back downstairs.

Joseph

Scarlett looks like a goddess, and she knows it. But she’s not one of those magnanimous, fragile, harp-plucking, pastel-colored goddesses. She’s ferocity and wildness and crimson like blood, and that’s exactly why Archer loves her. And as they stand in front of the Christmas tree with their hands clasped together—ivory on bronze, snow on sun—with matching sprigs of holly in Scarlett’s hair and pinned to the jacket of Archer’s suit, reciting truths but no promises, I can’t help but watch the other faces in the room: Rami, Lucy, Ben, Charlie, Mom with her beaming smile and shining eyes, the woman I met sixteen months ago and now can’t fathom life without. And it occurs to me for the first time that love, in its cleanest form, isn’t something that changes people as much as it allows them to become who they truly are.

On the evening of December 26th, as soon as the sun dips beneath the western horizon, we board the jet in the Forks Airport hangar. It’s much easier for Scarlett to fly at night; otherwise she has to wear two or three pairs of sunglasses on top of each other, and even then it’s still painful, it still feels like blinding needles burrowing into the jelly of her retinas. That’s not a wrench in my plans or anything. It needs to be night where we’re going, too.

Vampire hyper-acuity notwithstanding, FAA regulations require Scarlett to have a copilot, so Archer joins her in the flight deck with his newly-minted license and spends most of the journey flipping through the latest issue of Motor Trend. As we begin our descent, he peeks back at us and teases: “It’ll be your turn eventually, guys. Scarlett and I did our time. Rami and Lucy can go next year. And after that...unless Ben happens to find someone worthy of a not-wedding...” He wiggles his black eyebrows.

“Bring it on,” I reply casually. “Fake wedding are my jam. It’ll be ocean themed. Or Roaring ‘20s themed. And we’ll all do the Cha-Cha Slide in the living room and shame Ben as a bonding activity.”

“Mercy can set up a mashed potatoes bar,” Baby Swan adds.

“Yeah. With pineapple.”

“No. Not on potatoes.”

“Yes on potatoes.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Too late,” I tell her, touching my lips to the knuckles of her cool, steady hand.

We touch down at a small noncommercial airport just outside the city, and Scarlett and Archer stay back to secure the plane as Baby Swan follows me outside. And she realizes where we are as soon as the wind hits her, as soon as her eyes soak up the sand and cacti and cloudless night sky like rain swallowed up by parched earth.

“Phoenix,” she whispers, smiling like a child.

“But wait, there’s more!” I announce in my best Billy Mays voice. I take the little glass bottle from my pocket, walk across the runway to the naked desert, crouch down when I find a suitable spot, and fill the bottle with dry, sandy earth that crumbles in my palms. Then I seal the bottle with a tiny cork and bring it back to give it to her.

“I know what it’s like to have to leave home,” I say. “You’ve had to say goodbye to Phoenix, and soon you’ll have to say goodbye to Forks, and next will be Chicago, on and on forever. You’ll always be leaving the places you learn to call home. Every five or ten or fifteen years, we start over again. Like a snake shedding its skin, like a hermit crab swapping shells. Like the water that travels from rain to seawater to mist and then back again. But now you can always have a little piece of home with you, and maybe that will make it easier.”

She takes the glass bottle and shakes her head in disbelief, in wonder. Because this is exactly what she wanted, what she needed, even if she didn’t know it yet. “Joe...how did you...?”

“What’d I tell ya? I’m a talented guy. Now you have to dance with me.”

She laughs. “Oh no. Hard pass. I don’t dance.”

“When we’re alone in my bedroom you do. So just pretend we’re alone now. In, like, a really really spacious, sandy bedroom. With probably some lizards.”

“Fine. But only because I’m willing to degrade myself for milkshakes.”

She slides the glass bottle of Arizona earth into her pocket and takes my hands. She’s still a pretty terrible dancer, honestly. She hasn’t lost that. And I love that about her. I love damn near everything about her. And it took me a long time to figure out what exactly her subtle yet peerless cocktail of fragrance is, because it wasn’t somewhere I’d ever been. The scent that drifts from her pores—the scent that now lives in my bedsheets like a shadow or a ghost—is sunlight and heat and clarity and resilience and wisdom older than the pyramids. Her scent is the desert.

Now she’s mischievous, her eyes gleaming with the reflections of the Milky Way and the full moon and the stars that are dead and yet eternal, just like us. “So what, you think you’re Vampire Boyfriend Of The Year material now or what? Some dirt and In-N-Out Burger? That’s the height of your game? Is this what I have to look forward to for the rest of my perpetual existence? I totally should have pursued that polyamorous triad with Scarlett and Archer when I had the chance—”

“Yeah,” I say, very softly, smiling, tilting up her chin to kiss her beneath the universe and all its eccentricities. “I love you too.”

62 notes · View notes

neon-junkie · 4 years ago

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some shy!Flaco and gn!Reader for y’all

Also a modern setting cause I LOVE the thought of Flaco driving around in classic cars with big snazzy sunglasses on 8)

Modern Flaco is 100% a retired movie star. He used to play the antagonist role in classic western films. Whenever a western came out, people would say "I bet Hernández will be playing the villain again," and surprise surprise, he is. Everybody loves it though, he's good at what he does and very famous for it.

Only issue is, Flaco hates the fame. He played in those movies because he wanted to. The money was a bonus, but the fame is a downfall.

So many people would kill to be in the position he is/was in, and the thought makes him chuckle. It's funny how life works.

Flaco lives in Hollywood, as cliche as it is, but he loves being able to drive down scenic routes, to drive past his old studios and set locations, and to have everything he enjoys at his doorstep.

He owns a really nice 1961 Chevrolet Impala. It's black with a red interior, and he spoils that thing cause it's his one true love.

Flaco rides around often with the top down, cigarette in one hand, other hand on the steering wheel, with some big bad boy sunglasses on. He's quite the sight and he knows it.

But he ignores everyone. Bunch of women fawning over him at the traffic lights? Ignore. Idiot in the car next to him revving his engine, wanting a race? Ignore.

He once accidentally ran over Micah Bell and didn't give a shit. He shouted "watch where you're going, blondie!" and looked in his car mirror to see Micah picking himself off the road. He was fine.

Flaco has a loose routine, and every Wednesday, he picks up Black Belle from her fancy mansion and they go get something to eat. He always picks her up around midday, and their meetups can take anywhere from an hour to all day.

Belle met Flaco many years ago when they were put on set together, and they've starred in a few films over the years. Belle doesn't mind the fame as much, she's happy to sign autographs and pose for photos here and there.

The two usually get some form of lunch together, though most of the time they day drink and get hammered by 3pm. Flaco just gets a taxi back to Belles and passes out on her sofa, cuddling her Irish Wolfhound. He then walks and picks up his car the next day, or the day after, depending on the hangover.

"Where we going today, Hernández?" Belle asks as she gets in his car. It's her usual greeting for him.

"How about we do exactly what we do each week, and drive around until we pick somewhere?" Flaco suggests, as always.

So the two of them do exactly that. They cruize around, fussing over where to eat.

Flaco always keeps a carton of eggs in his glovebox, as gross as that is, just so him and Belle can throw one at Little Boy Calloway whenever they see him. He's a sellout, a washed-up, grumpy old man, and they love to torment him for being such a wuss.

Flaco drives by this small cliche American diner on the corner of one street. As always, the traffic lights change so he has to wait a while, but he'll peer in the window, eyes glistening at that young server inside.

"They're far too pretty to be working in there, BB," Flaco tells Belle, as always.

"Here we go," Belle mocks, rolling her eyes. Flaco does this every week, driving this specific route just so he can enjoy his five-second gaze at you through the window. You've never noticed, surprisingly.

"They'll be mine one day, just you wait," Flaco grins, pushing his sunglasses back up his nose as the lights change to green.

"How about today, huh? Let's go inside," Belle suggests.

Flacos gaze quickly flicks over to Belle. "You crazy?!" He shouts.

"I am, and so are you. Come on, pull up here," Belle points at the car park just down the street.

Flaco's mumbling under his breath but he does it anyway. Belle always gets her way, he's a sister to her, and Flaco's an only child so it's hard for him to deny his adopted blood.

"I'm not even dressed nice. I look scruffy. Why can't we just go another day?" Flaco grunts as he parks.

"You wear the same damn thing every week. Now come on, quit your moaning," Belle says as she gets out of the car.

"No, I don't! I'm wearing new pants this week, look," Flaco says as he points to his jeans.

"Oh wow. New pants that look exactly like your old ones? You're really dressed to impress here, ain'tcha?" Belle teases.

Belle leads the way, hurrying Flaco along, teasing him over and over. "You gonna ask for their number? Ask 'em out on a date? Maybe you can take 'em for a ride? Hm?" She pokes and prods at him. Flaco stays silent, frowning, his sunglasses covering up half of his sulky face.

Belle's energetic when she enters the diner, greeting you with a smile and asking for a table for two. You talk to them in your customer service voice, seating them at a booth by the window.

You know exactly who they are. Who doesn't? Though you haven't seen all of their movies, you know the stuff that they've been in is really good, classic western films. A genre that you've studied at college.

Flaco takes his sunglasses off, placing them on the table. He keeps his gaze down and tries to focus on the menu you've placed in front of him.

"Would you like anything to drink?" You ask them.

"A chocolate milkshake please, sweetheart," Belle smiles at you. You've heard that she's a kind woman but you weren't expecting her to be this friendly.

"Sure. And for you?" You ask Flaco, who keeps his gaze down.

"Ermm. Uhh. I'll just have the same as her," Flaco replies, quickly brushing you off.

You tell them you'll be quick with their drinks and leave them to it. You assumed Flaco was just tired, maybe his reddened cheeks is from the heat outside?

"A milkshake?" Belle mocks once you've gone into the back. "Hernández, you hate milkshakes!" She laughs.

"I panicked, alright?!" Flaco grumbles.

"Why don't we call her back over so you can fumble about even more as you change your mind?" Belle teases.

"No!" Flaco almost shouts. A customer nearby jumps out of his skin, intimidated by Flacos deep and sudden voice.

"Alrighhttttt," Belle grins. "You make sure you know what you really want to eat though," Belle talks to him in a baby voice. It always winds him up but since they're in public, Flaco can't make a scene and playfight back.

You bring the drinks over and the two of them thank you, Belle smiling up at you whilst Flaco keeps his head dipped down. "You ready to order?" you ask, and they both nod.

You take their orders and everything seems fine, so you head back into the kitchen to hand them over to the cook.

"You not want a side order of their number with that, Hernández?" Belle grins again.

"I should never have agreed to come here. You are the most embarrassing woman I've ever met," Flaco sighs, looking at Belle with the most blankly frustrated look he's ever pulled.

All Belle does is grin and enjoy her milkshake, urging Flaco to drink his own.

He does, and he can't handle the sweetness. But Flaco drinks it anyway, not wanting to make any more of a mess than he's already in.

The rest of their time there goes smoothly, enjoying their food and nattering away. Flaco slowly relaxes, but Belle notices the way his eyes flick to watch you every time you appear.

"So, you gonna ask? or have I gotta do it for you?" Belle asks.

"Why don't you feed me whilst we're at it? Maybe drive me to the bar so I can get blackout drunk and try to forget this humiliating experience?" Flaco groans, half chewing his food. He doesn't care and Belle's used to seeing him talking whilst he eats.

"Fine, I'll do it then," Belle rolls her eyes. Flaco goes to stop her but it's too late, she's called you over.

"We'll take the bill when you're ready, sweetheart," Belle tells you.

"Sure, no problem." You're about to walk off but Belle speaks again.

"Flaco, ain't there something you wanted to say?" Belle asks, grinning from ear to ear as the two of you look at him.

"Oh, erm..." Flaco mumbles, quickly wiping the ketchup off his stache with a napkin. "Could... could you send my compliments to the chef, please?" He asks.

"Of course! She'll be happy to hear it," you smile at him, quickly turning away to head into the back.

"Hernández!" Belle kicks him under the table.

"You can't put me on the spot like that!" Flaco frowns, trying to keep his voice down again.

"Fine, I give up," Belle sarcastically sighs.

"You do?"

"Yep," she shrugs. "You've won, Hernández. You'll have to pick them up in your own time," she sighs.

"Hmm. I've known you far too long to know that you don't give up this easily," Flaco squints.

"Nope, I've truly given up. No point wastin' my time when you won't co-operate," Belle shrugs again.

Flaco's suspicious but leaves it.

The two of them pay and leave, giving you a fat tip that makes your eyes sparkle. Belle insists you take it, Flaco nodding in agreement but still staying quiet.

Finally, they head off, leaving the diner and heading back to the car.

"Oh, shit! I left my purse in the diner," Belle sighs. "I'll meet you at the car, alright?"

Flaco's about to say he'll just come back with her but she's already ran across the street, flipping off the stranger that almost ran her over.

Flaco rolls his eyes and heads back. He starts the car, putting on his sunglasses and lighting a cigarette.

Belle comes round the corner, grinning from ear to ear.

'I knew I couldn't trust her, what's she done now?' Flaco thinks to himself.

"Why are you smiling?" Flaco snaps as Belle gets in the passenger side.

"This is for you," Belle mischievously grins, handing Flaco a piece of paper with your number on it.

"BB, why you gotta put me on the spot like this, huh? This is so embarrassing," he shakes his head, taking out his wallet so he can put the piece of paper away safely.

"Oh, don't you worry. They said they get just as nervous as you do," Belle tells him as she puts her sunglasses on, leaning her arm on the car door.

"They do?" Flaco asks, seeming surprised.

"Course. It's that natural attraction, Hernández," Belle teases.

"Oh, shut up you," Flaco swats his hand.

Maybe one day he'll be able to get her back, but for now, he needs to work up the confidence to call you.

65 notes · View notes

dishonoredrpg · 5 years ago

Photo

Congratulations, ROSEY! You’ve been accepted for the role of THE HIGH PRIESTESS with the faceclaim of SOO JOO PARK. The High Priestess fits you like a well-tailored glove, ma’am, I must say that. Levana is a fascinating study in what occurs when you let Necromancy take root without letting it fully control you. This application very much made me feel like a student of Levana’s, someone who could look up to and admire her while also trembling at the power she dragged along behind her. The human elements were there, yes, but it became clear by the end of the application just who Levana was: a frame, a shell, a portrait of a woman in the middle of decay. She’s cold and merciless and starving, and I can’t wait for her to meet the dashboard.

Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.

THE HIGH PRIESTESS APPLICATION

- OOC -

NAME: rosey

PRONOUNS: she/her

AGE: 23? i think?

TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL: PST area and i don’t even know...i think i can put out 3-4 replies a week, although i do take breaks sometimes just to keep myself refreshed and going! so i think my activity could be a 7/10

ANYTHING ELSE?: ty for taking the time to read the app !! uwu please feel free to throw it in the garbage disposal BECAUSE IT’S TRASH

- IN CHARACTER-

TW: Death, child death, dark themes, and abuse throughout the application

SKELETON: The High Priestess

UPRIGHT

Intuition -- She has always had a remarkable intuition, knowing exactly how to pull and tug at minds and heartstrings. And so too has she always trusted in the way that she works her magic, in the way that she pulls and weaves the energies of the world to give life to once-beating hearts. Her intuition has always been her greatest asset, as though the Undying God herself has granted it to her and made it a blessing greater than her powers.

Sacred knowledge -- From a young age she understood her place in the world and why the Undying God had placed her upon it. There was a certain surety that came from understanding the Beginning and the ever-looming End, the tale of the wolf, the serpent, and the folly of man. How the birth of the Undying God came to be. Her parents looked at her and were jealous of the daughter that they had, of the age-old look in her eyes and how ignorant she made them feel.

Divine Feminine -- A divine woman is one who is circumspect in all things, tying together intuition, compassion, empathy, and inner wisdom. And at one time, she did have empathy for her fellow man -- for each person who sweated, bled, and ached as she did. But the ability to commiserate is no longer an option to her, but that does not taint her very intimate understanding of the plights of others because, at one point or another, it is likely she has felt such things herself. Having lived the life of man three times over, how could she not?

Subconscious Mind -- It’s in her dreams that she feels closest to them, the Undying God. There have been times where she swears she can hear their voice, and feel her touch. But then she wakes and the voices fade to whispers, which fade to breezes, which fade to nothing more than a melancholy silence. Every time she wakes and finds herself conscious, she wishes to hold a wake and mourn the loss of being so close to something so divine. But, as she wakes, that hunger comes for her again, and her subconscious mind is eclipsed by that yawning hunger for power once more.

REVERSED Secrets -- She keeps too many of them. Hoards them hungrily, like a bear dragging one poor doe after the other into its den to gorge on before the long winter comes. She keeps them even when she knows that they are of no use, even when she knows that they’ll die with her and none shall ever be able to taste the potency of their sweetness on their lips. Maybe it’s because she thinks she’s given too much to the world at this point in her life -- and these are the only things she can think of to call hers and hers alone.

Disconnected from Intuition -- It happens when she begins to perform resurrections that drain more from her and those around her. The weeks that follow leave her disconnected from herself, leave her tormented by her own silence. Her eyes shift around the room, trying to linger on a face that would give her that familiar pull in her gut, that certainty in her soul. But she’s left adrift in an ocean of quiet, and she has no choice but to lean on her logic and reasoning, to deduce until she can be as certain as she can be. All she has is her intuition and that, too, is slowly dying.

Withdrawal & Silence -- At a young age she became very adept at withdrawing into herself, at slipping into shadows. She realized that biting at the hands that sought to strike her only ended up in her getting hit harder. That raising her voice only ended up leaving her hoarse from her sobbing and tears. As all things in life, this means of survival was learned and it was a more difficult lesson to swallow. But after living two lifetimes, she realized that it was difficult to feel pain when you’re made of nothing but hard, unmoving stone.

NAME: Levana Morrigan Morrell

LEVANA Being given the name of a dead thing was perhaps the most ironic prelude to her story. Being forced to act as they would have expected her sister to, the most cruel. Her mother never missed the chance to tell her how beautiful her older sister would have been, with her wide, dark eyes and sweet disposition. Even though her sister never lived past the second summer of her life, she was the one that was meant to bring them out of their destitute life. What a disappointment then that the namesake had to be given to a child that was far less capable-- according to her mother -- of gaining such a future. To which her father would sagely nod his head, watery, large eyes blinking at her sorrowfully as she sat at the rotting table, cheeks burning as she pushed her food around. She forgave them for it, though. After all, Death could rob people of their ability to love.

MORRIGAN It’s the name of her rebirth. It’s the name that she gave at the Temple, the name that she would give at courts when bestowing them with the great gift of her presence and knowledge. Sometimes used in place of Levana, other times attached to it. Nevertheless it was a name that would forever remind those who had bore witness to her power the Undying God had blessed her with. It was the name that was tied to the image of a woman bent low over the corpse of a wolfhound, teeth bared, eyes as dark as the coal that she smothered around her brow. Then the wolfhound’s teeth bared, like hers. It’s eyes opened, like hers. And soon Death gave way to Life, just as Levana gave way to Morrigan.

MORRELL -- NO LONGER USED/RECOGNIZED A name that was never meant to make something of itself, and a name that never would. Her father, whenever he was in his drunken stupors, would always remind her that the Morrell name was cursed and that she was the culmination of its disappointments. The words would slide off of his lips, the slurs a true litany illustrating her uselessness and shame. There was no use in taking the bottle away, though, not until it slipped out of his grasp and rolled onto the floor. Now, though, she never bothers to acknowledge her surname. Why should she, when they know her as Levana the Necromancer? She had promised to let the Morrell name die with her, and it did. It died with her the moment she put breath into the life of the first corpse that was laid at her feet.

FACECLAIM: Soo Joo Park Marquita Pring Golshifteh Farahini Freida Pinto Inbar Lavi

AGE: 220 years old

DETAILS: You have not always been power-hungry. It was from the very first line that I think I fell head-over-heels in love with her. She has so much power held within the palm of her hand but the cost has been so very, very great. When you read about the necromancers all you can really see is their power and glory of the title, the High Priestess being a force within herself, gaining the ear of a king, the power of a God, the reverence and awe of so many more. But there is such great weakness and pain that comes from holding power -- and it’s reverberated within every single aspect of the High Priestess. She’s suffered such great loss and the most tragic part is that she can’t even grieve it because that ability, too, has been stolen away from her.

I feel like...in general, people might think of a character like her -- old, withering, so close to death as someone boring. What is there to do with a character like her? What does she have to live her? But that’s what I love so much about her. She’s seen so much, has been through so much and she’s jaded by every single thing in the world. She’s lived for so long, what’s to keep her from doing what she wants and saying fuck all to everyone and everything? There’s a motivation that’s keeping her from completely letting loose on them all. Perhaps it’s the mere love of the long game but I think it’s because, at her core, she’s a giver and she wants to leave some semblance of good -- what she defines as good -- in this world.

BACKGROUND:

It’s an unfortunate thing, to carry the legacy of a ghost before you’ve even taken your first breath. Her parents were never able to really let go of dead things, though. Their marriage was long dead before they even tried for their first child, the love that they had once had for one another before even that. They held onto their dead ideas and dreams just as they had held onto the memory of their first daughter years after she was buried six feet beneath the dry soil of the summer ground. A famine had swept through their country and Levana’s poor sister had never stood a chance, despite the prayers that had been offered up by the Morrells time and time again. The last vestiges of their hope for something living had been placed on Levana and even when she had been placed into her mother’s arms, howling and red-faced, it hadn’t been enough. Where her sister had been a thing of beauty, she was a shock of white hair and sharp edges -- looking like the corpse that her sister very much had been.

The irony of it all was not lost on her. It was perhaps why she had such a wry, dry sense of humor despite how tragic it actually was. In the face of fate’s cruel humor, she couldn’t help but laugh along with it. She still had air in her lungs, a brightness in her eyes and a smile so bright that the moon had no choice but to look on in envy. When her mother would bite and spit at her, she would simply turn her gaze the other way and go out to the fields once more - either to lay in the wheat or lounge upon the back of their old, weary work-horse. As the sun would shine upon her pale, ivory skin she was more than content to let it eat away at her, all too happy to live a life of ease, if it only meant that she not bother the world with her existence and it not bother her with its woes and tragedy. Levana had disappointed her parents enough, there was no need to disappoint the rest of Tyrolhm by imposing her useless heap of skin and bones, her cutting mouth and staunch moralities.

When she wasn’t blissfully sketching away with a bit of charcoal stolen from the hearth or wrestling another bottle out of her father’s hand, she always managed to corral the kids of the neighboring farms into grand, elaborate games. She was always the leader, the one who set the rules, who dictated what was fair and what wasn’t -- just as she was always the one to clean up the scrapes and bruises of her comrades, whether they “fight for the king” or not. Even when she ruled with an iron-fist it was clear that she was soft around the edges, forever armed with a warm smile and a bawdy joke that would have made her mother balk and her father grab the broom to smack her with it.

What a lovely childhood she had. She wished she could remember it, now. She wished it had lasted longer.

The days of playing games of mages and holding mock-court were long behind her. The reality of her inability to be anything more than a farmer’s daughter was beginning to make the Morrell household a rather suffocating place to be. Too odd-looking to marry off, not savvy or competent enough to hold the land and keep it to herself. There was no profit to be made in caring for the children of the countryside or teaching the war-ravaged and orphaned creatures how to find joy in capturing the smile of another in charcoal, or coaxing them into sweet sleep with tales of pirates and warrior women. No man wanted a woman so useless. No family wanted to pay a dowry for useless little Levana who could only offer a shining -- albeit impish -- smile. The only suitor that had come knocking had left in quite a hurry when he realized how strong-headed she could be, how sharp her tongue was and how her eyes seemed to see right through the facade of gentility and courteousness. For the umpteenth time in her life, she had been sent to bed with an empty stomach -- though, throughout the night it had been full of laughter at her suitor’s expense.

Not long after, on the night of her 20th birthday, when her parents were ready to sell her to the most ill-reputed house in Tyrolhm that was furthest away, the Undying God decided it was high time that the blessings they had placed upon her be brought into the light -- the revelation of her abilities shining unabashedly in the bright, spring sun.

Her little gaggle had all grown and had children of their own or moved to have adventures across the Sahrnian sea. Some of them even became clerics at the Temple, while she was all too content to take each day as it came, toiling away at the dying soil, listening to the bickering of her loveless parents, frequenting the markets and listening to the songs of bards that were passing through. Levana had taught the children of the countryside her games -- telling them tales of the glorious adventures she and her friends had when they were in the golden years of their childhood. Wars raged while wielding sticks in the place of swords, and pieces of barks as shields. One of the girls had stumbled into the stream -- its waters tumultuous and high from floods that had come from the melting winter snow. The fretful, panicked hands of the small children tugged at her skirt, pulling her from her place beneath the shaded tree, voices high and weeping as they tried to pound life into little Errena’s chest.

That was the first time Levana could recall giving everything.

That was the first time Levana could remember trying.

She remembered peering up through the leaves, watching them sway in the light breeze. Years later, she knew that it was the last time she had ever known the meaning of peace.

Untrained and reckless, she had poisoned the earth that was there -- and because it hadn’t been enough, she had poisoned something within herself as well. The grass had grown black beneath her fingers, parched and dry as though it had never known green days. She remembered the cries of horror from the children as they had watched her body bow over little Errana’s, had heard the guttural noises that tore from her lips, the darkness that had been cast over her eyes. If the Undying God were to have had a voice that could be heard, it would have been the very same that poured from her lips as she called Errana’s name from the land of the dead. When she had arisen with the girl’s cold, trembling hand in hers, she looked at the children that stared at her in terror -- a weary smile on her lips as she told them to run along and keep this secret between them. There was no need, though; terror was the most effective muzzle.

She packed her bags and made her way to the Temple, leaving the Morrell lands and the Morrell name far behind her. Levana never thought to question why it was so easy for her to leave those ties behind -- the land of golden wheat and warm, drowsy memories. She never thought to ruminate on which part of her had died that fateful day when she had exchanged a life of peace for Errana’s beating heart. Levana built her life anew as Morrigan, giving the name at the steps of the Temple, while enlightening them about the tale of a girl once known as Levana. There had been no need, though; it would always be worth it for the lives that she managed to call back from the arms of the Undying God. Her tutelage at the Temple illuminated the path that she had willingly turned a blind eye towards in favor of lazing days spent adventuring under Tyrolhm’s golden sun. Ravenously, she consumed the tomes that they placed in front of her, testing the limits of her power and reflecting on the tolls that they took on her. For one of the orphan girls she resurrected a bird that had been target practice for the impish little boys -- and for that she lost her taste.

For a queen’s handmaiden, she had animated the limbs of her poxed brother, and for that she lost the life of the only person she had made there that she could have called friend -- a wizened old tutor whose eyes were milky and whose lips carried lines from smiling so often. The years began to bleed into one another, her hunger for knowledge growing as her abilities did until she began to spend restless nights squinting into tomes as the wax of once-tall candles melted into stubs. The coldness of corpses and the silence that they offered became more familiar to her and far more preferable than playing the enigmatic mage at the courts that the Temple recommended she visit. But for many years, she clung to who she remembered herself to be, the charming and vibrant girl that had spent so many days dictating which child would be allowed to be king, who was to be the advisor, the general, the serf, the mistress, and the queen. Her cutting tongue was known to cause riots within courts, stirring subjects with barks of laughter, making handmaidens and queens flush -- charming kings and princes and royals alike.

They whispered of her across the lands and the wide, raging sea -- the necromancer with silver hair and dark eyes, whose smile you wished to see before you died, whose siren-like voice you heard call you from the embrace of the Undying God.

But just as death and life were inseparable, were one, so too was the love and hatred of those who heard the tales of Morrigan. There were those who sought to control her, just as she had controlled the corpses -- shackling her in dungeons until she did their bidding. There were kings and queens who wished to bed her and use her for nothing more, casting her out of their castles mid-winter when they realized she would not. Poisonings and beatings were something she learned to become familiar with (demoness, devil, defiler), prejudice, bigotry, and poverty haunted her as assuredly as her sister’s nearly-forgotten ghost had. And what did the Temple do but preach to her about the practices of her power and her duty to guard wayward kingdoms from their tumultuous, violent ways? What more was she meant to do but bear these burdens and slights, so that they might know she might usher in a new age of peace? In her many travels and over the two centuries that she walked the earth she had lived a number of lives. The mage, the pick-pocket, the farmer’s daughter, the con, the philosopher, the artist, the scholar. Not a single one of them had known peace as intimately as Levana Morrell had.

But she was dead.

Only brought back to life once, in the chamber of a queen she thought she had loved, across the Sarhnian sea who always kept a wolfhound at her side. Morrigan thought she had the heart of a wolfhound too, which made it all the more easy to lay her heart at the queen’s feet. She remembered how she had poured herself into the creature, had harkened for its heart to beat, for its heart to rise. Some nights she can still taste the growl that had torn through her throat -- an echo from the wolfhound’s maw. She could still feel how her spine had bent over the limp form, arms twitching, back arching as the creature began to rise to its feet, tongue lolling, eyes black. In restless fits of sleep, her and the hound became one in the same. Sometimes she would wake, touching her teeth, thinking that they might be sharp. Within that week, she had been ushered out of the castle by one of the queen’s advisor, his eyes unable to meet hers as her threw her traveling cloak over her shoulders, shuddering away when his skin had grazed hers, paying no mind to the way he had the guards drag her since her legs didn’t seem to respond and gave way.

When she was returned to the Temple she wept for a fortnight, unable and unwilling to leave her bed. She had given everything and they had taken everything. There was no one but herself to blame -- and what was worse, she still craved the power that had poured forth from her. She hadn’t noticed how her legs had failed her, only the way all eyes within the court had looked to her in awe, in terror, in reverence, in horror. In the years that followed, she learned to use her legs once more, the iron casts and crutch aiding her, adding further allure to the century old necromancer whose bright eyes brought corpses to life in the Undying God’s name. She knew what power the whispers of common folk and courtiers had. When she had laid her heart out for the queen consort, something within her had exhaled its final, shuddering breath. Something within her had risen from its ashes and come to life -- awakening with a ravenous, insatiable hunger that eclipsed any she had ever known.

In the eyes of the great court, she had seen within them the reflection of the death defier that was whispered about. In them, she had seen the power that she had. She could realign the stars and there was no doubt that they would look at her with that intoxicating concoction of horror and awe. They would have no choice but to do as she wished -- and what she wished was for that power to be wielded by her and her alone. To bring about the Golden Age of the world as she would define it.

The woman that stepped into the court of King Septimus was a far cry from the girl that had spent her days lounging beneath the large branches and green leaves of an age-old tree. Her iron casts had echoed as she entered the large, grand doors of the castle and from the moment she laid eyes on Septimus, she saw a future of glory -- the Golden Age made incarnate. He was malleable beneath her touch and in the first decade of his rule, she flourished. It was not unlike when she was a child, dictating this and that, her the cutting edge of her words coming off as roguish and charming, refreshing and novel as the entirety of his court leaned in to listen. Morrigan forgot, though, how quickly novelty can wear off and before long the revulsion sets in, her contempt for Septimus beginning to become a nigh-impossible pill to swallow. She thought that perhaps her intuition had failed her, that once again fate, with its cruel humor, hoped to make a mockery of her once more.

The mage with all the power in the world at her fingertips was unable to bring anything more than a handful of decades of tenuous peace, known for nothing but carnage and carnage alone under King Septimus’ rule.

She didn’t even have the ability to laugh, as she once might have been able to. That power had been taken from her, too.

The yawning hunger within her, though, did not balk in the face of kings, though. It recognized neither the limitations of Morrigan’s own body, the intricacies of politics, nor the iron, bloodied fist of Septimus. All it knew was how close she had been to power -- fingers outstretched, yearning, reaching, grasping. She remembered the weary faces of the soldiers as they returned from the carnage, how pale and wide-eyed they had been, how their armor had shone, painted with the scarlet blood of the fallen. One soldier’s eyes had lifted to hers and within them, she saw the lifelessness of so many corpses that had been laid, prostrate at her feet before harkening to her call, their once-still hearts beginning to beat something fierce.

If she could not bring them peace with King Septimus then the issue was simple; she did not have enough power to. That made her culpable for this carnage. The sharp-toothed hunger within her stirred, sinking its claws deeper into her as the last vestige of her patience was swallowed whole. She would take the power that was not given to her. She would crown a new king and usher in the Golden Age of peace that she had envisioned, or upturn the board and start this game anew, with the rules dictated by her and her alone.

Her lips had twitched as she recalled a girl, standing atop a rock, dictating to those beneath her the new rules of a new game.

That young girl had been rather good at that.

She would be too.

PLOT IDEAS:

THE GATHERING: The most difficult part about being a necromancer is the fact that everyone fears you. Levana is quite aware of the fear that she incites in people -- and the problem with wanting a major shift in power is you need support in order to make sure that the kingdom isn’t lost in total and complete anarchy. The best way to ensure that the shift of power has some control and stability is by having a group ready to take control when there is a vacuum of power. And in order to have a group with a shared agenda and mission in a monarchy, one has to have a figurehead to throw their support behind. First, though, she has to assess who is loyal to who -- or who, at the very least, can be swayed. Which means networking, connecting with people, communicating with them. This is going to be a rather difficult piece of her plan to achieve since the way that people connect with others is by emoting -- and she can’t do that anymore. It’s going to certainly push her out of her comfort zone and is going to be an interesting test that will force her to reflect how much she’s changed, and how she’s lost the ability to do one of the most human things: connect with others. THE REVOLT: I broke this up in two parts because right now I see two definitive ways for The High Priestess to incite a revolt (although this could totally clash with the plans for the rp, I would be more than happy to completely scrap these OR do them and have them fail). So I think, first, she would have to find someone to support -- because she would never ever ever be the face of a revolt -- if she were, it would be coming from a mage and that would throw a wholly different light to the war and it’s not one she cares to think about (much). First, I think that she would find two of the more malleable minds that are in line for the throne -- the World and the Chariot. Depending on which one she thinks is better for the position, she would talk to them directly and either enlist their help OR if they have something in the works already, try to push herself into a position of power within the revolters group so she can have a definitive say in how this is going to play out. THE FLOURISHING: Despite how much she’s grown with her power, there’s always an opportunity to grow even more. One idea that I keep on playing around with is mass resurrection. She’s been able to resurrect individuals with repercussions, but I think she wants to try and do more. The frustration with the limitation of her powers is beginning to grow more and more apparent, and I don’t think she’s going to be satisfied until she’s exceeded everyone’s expectations. Including her own. When she performs her magic, she gives everything she has into it, pouring pieces of herself until there is nothing left -- but it still isn’t enough. If she learns how to do this, the tides of war will be changed at her say-so. Why wouldn’t she want that? THE INSTITUTION: The Temple taught her a lot, there is no doubt. But it did not teach her everything and distinctly ties the power of the mages to this idea that they are either blessed/cursed and that they owe something to the Undying God for their abilities. However, the fact that there’s only one way of learning how to control something so personal and unique to oneself does not sit well with her. It makes her lips curl and coats her tongue with bile whenever she thinks of the waste that there must be -- how a mages power can be limited by such narrow-minded thinking. And I think that the Wheel of Fortune, the Moon, and the Hierophant are evidence of that -- that, though they study the arcane there is no need for their methods to be archaic. The times are changing and so should their perceptions of magic, their understanding and belief in the Undying God, and their perception of themselves. THE EVOLUTION: One aspect that I would like to explore with the High Priestess is her perception of herself because as she grows more disconnected with the humanity that there is within her, it’s only natural that she would reflect over whether or not this is the next stage of the necromancer. There is no other like them, so why aren’t they considered gods? Why aren’t mages revered for all that they do for those who are could be conceived as “lessers”? It’s a dangerous train of thought that I think she’s careening whole-heartedly towards and something that I think could take a dangerous turn for her. Her body is literally decaying and yet she can stave off death itself at the expense of others. Isn’t there something god-like about that? WHO IS GOING TO CHECK HER? THE AGENDA: Okay this is gonna sound ICKY but Levana is the type to utilize her resources and the thing about being an orphan is that no one looks twice at you. Which makes you an asset -- someone unseeable, someone who can listen with there being no threat. The Temple didn’t utilize the orphans as they should have, and I think that (if it’s allowable) Levana has no problem utilizing these resources and taking advantage of them. For every whispered secret, she gives them a coin or resurrects a beloved pet. For orphans who give especially prized information or promise their loyalty to her, she might even hold the possibility of resurrecting their parents above their head. No one gives to her without receiving in return. Besides, you can’t survive long at court without having a means of leverage or the assurance of mutual destruction.

CHARACTER DEATH: Triple dog fishy dare you to do it, coward.

- WRITING SAMPLE -

Another bawdy dinner -- lavish, opulent, and wasteful. Dark eyes drank in the scene before her, the court members whose mouths were stained red with wine, howling and cackling. The women of the night, scantily clad, flitting from one odious lord to another, shoving their breasts in the faces of those who seemed more like boars than men. Their wives drinking more and more so that they might pretend that they didn’t notice. Perhaps, in another life, she would have acted like one of the boorish men, drinking to her heart’s content until the room grew hazy at the edges of her vision and the smile became a fixture on her face. But not now. Not with this path that she walked.

Instead, all she could do was look on in disgust.

Every barrel of wine that was rolled in might have been used to pay for a bowl of stew for a child, Another bed in the orphanage. A bushel of wheat for a hungering family. The ingredients for a doctor to mix a rare salve that might soothe the growths on a suffering, aching face. Or, at the very least, they could have saved it for when the economy of the kingdom would assuredly crumble. But who was she to say? It wasn’t as if Septimus had the capacity to process an intelligent thought. Levana had a working theory that he had three main thoughts and they rotated between power, pussy, and potent wine. Anything more than that would throw him off and likely send him into a tantrum. She supposed it hurt his brain to expend itself in such a manner, which is why he would only be able to respond in the most barbaric way.

When he patted her hand to garner her attention, she wanted to let her lip curl and pull away -- but her body was slow to respond. Today was particularly vexing -- she had brought The Wheel Of Fortune to an orphanage and the two of them had set about practicing their animations on corpses. She was resistant, which had meant that Morrigan was forced to do the majority of the work.

It’s a shame that such intelligence was outweighed by cowardice.

Her limbs were weary and deft to her commands, choosing to listen when they wanted to, which meant that her movements were labored and slow. As a result, she had no choice but to sit, watch, and endure the putrid smell of the sweaty man who was unfortunately the crowned king. So she swallowed down the bile that coated her tongue and turned to him -- she had never been more thankful for her inability to show her disgust -- brow rising as she subtly pulled her hand onto her lap.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” she apologized, playing coy as she tilted her chin down. It made her look as though she were batting her eyes at him, but the fumes of his breath made her want to gag. It was nothing more than an avoidance tactic that required minimal usage of her facial muscles. Morrigan’s eyes slid away from his. “I couldn’t hear you over the sound of your bloated sense of self-importance...”

Her voice wouldn’t carry in the room. It always seemed to fall away, giving out at the end before she could quite finish, fading into the noise, into nothing.

“WHAT WAS THAT?” He bellowed, shoving the poor drunken woman off of his lap as he leaned towards her. “SPEAK UP, MAGE.”

Against her own sense of self-preservation and thoughts for cleanliness, she leaned closer to the king, turning into his ear. “I said that your subjects will no doubt speak of the debauchery of their king.” It wasn’t exactly a compliment but it was the truth. Hopefully he would hear her over the sound of his own labored breathing -- she was curious to see what his reaction might be.

Septimus leaned back with a grin and looked at her, hesitating a bit as he tried to process what she was saying. Perhaps he was waiting for someone to tell him whether or not he should consider the words a compliment. He didn’t quite have the faculties to gauge it for himself. His eyes flickered over her face -- not quite seeing her and unable to interpret the micro-expressions.

It was like looking for fog within mist.

There was nothing to be found except further nothingness. There was something blissful about knowing that she could never be understood, that interpretations of her words and actions could never be understood correctly. Another beat passed and then another. Her mouth didn’t shift upwards, her eyes didn’t wrinkle in delight -- she merely looked at him as she waited for him to grasp her words. Then Septimus let out a loud guffaw and she inclined her chin, turning away.

“You’ve got quite the mouth on you,” he howled, “I bet back in your day before you started wearing the ugly make-up and looking like death you could’ve used it for something too!”

“Yes,” she answers, eyes flickering back to him briefly. “I happily used it for making already small men feel smaller.” Her lip twitched, nothing more than a slight lift, before dissipating quickly. It seemed that her muscles were too tired for that, even. “To chew up bones and spit them back out.”

He certainly caught that.

He snorted derisively and waved his hand. “Don’t bring talk of death here, not tonight, Morrigan.” Ah, Morrigan. So he truly was done with her for the night if he wasn’t calling her m a g e. Tediously, she rose to her feet, nodding at the Wheel of Fortune to hand her the crutch, leaning against the wall. Levana’s eyes shuttered wearily as she rose to her feet, iron casts around her legs groaning and creaking as she righted herself.

The king watched on in boredom, not bothering to help as he pulled another woman onto his lap.

Levana turned around and bowed.

“Long live the king,” she sighed, a pretty little (little, nothing more than a light lift of her lips, barely-there) smile pulling at her lips as she bid him goodnight.

One could only hope that he choked on his own tongue between now and tomorrow morning. As she put herself to sleep she couldn’t help but smile as she thought of the sound of him choking.

EXTRAS

Anything you’d like can go here, whether that be a playlist, a pinterest board, some headcanons, or whatever you’d like to show us!

#accepted #accepted: the high priestess

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lukes-writing · 5 years ago

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Chapter 2: Out of Body

Project introduction | Previous chapter | Next chapter

Word count: 2900 Warnings: Soft drugs usage

September 22nd, 10:33 AM, Great Moors district, Trinity Gate

The blinds of the large room are impenetrably closed, all the lights are switched off. The only source of light is the flickering flame of a scented candle in front of the girl who is the only person in the room. She is sitting in a lotus position with hands resting on her lap. She inhales the heady smell of the candle, helping her to relax even more, to let go of all the tension and focus only on her own thoughts.

The room is silent except for an occasional screech coming from one of the four budgies which reside in a large aviary occupying the corner of the room. The girl has them named - Godric (pink), Rowenna (blue), Helga (yellow) and Salazar (green). It’s no wonder she chose such names - another prominent part of the room is a massive wooden bookshelf carrying hundreds of books.

However, the girl doesn’t focus on either the birds or the books. When she feels completely relaxed, she lays on a soft carpet like a plank and starts to detach. She soothes her mind to get on the verge of sleeping, but she doesn’t fall asleep. Instead, she starts to visualize two versions of herself - her physical body and her consciousness as two separate entities. It took years to master and the first attempts were usually unsuccessful, but now, at nineteen, she’s able to detach rather easily.

She already doesn’t feel her body, but not in a numb way. It’s almost like her body was something unnecessary she can leave behind freely. Then, something starts to happen behind her closed eyes. A light, almost like an open gate. When she saw the gate for the first time, she backed off and woke up immediately, afraid to go further. Now, she just embraces it and completes the detach.

The girl’s astral body, or a soul, as some people prefer to call it, slips out of the body, almost like peeling a sticker off a surface. Then, when the last bit of her astral body leaves the material body, she slips through the light which guides her into the Astral Plane. The girl can see again, even though her physical eyes are closed. The room she sees is seemingly unchanged, except for the unexplainable feeling of unreality it gives now.

She looks down and sees her sleeping physical body, visible only faintly in the candle’s glow. The thing that glows brighter is a rope made of silver light which emerges from the belly of her physical body and ends in the same spot of her astral body.

The two parts of her being are now apart, but still connected. The girl’s astral face smiles. Now she’s not restricted by the limitations of the physical body. She can… fly! She spreads her arms and, with a mere thought, ascends through the roof, above her house, into the morning sunshine. The silver rope, called a “lifeline”, extends according to her needs, always connected with her physical body.

This never gets old, she thinks as she looks at her surroundings from above. She sees the solar panels on the roof of the eco-friendly mansion her family owns, the garden in front of the house, the greenhouses, fields and farms typical for the Great Moors district.

She can roam anywhere she wants. Just a thought is enough to carry her into any direction. Maybe today, she will make it all the way to Hestia, the capital of the Commonwealth of Great Moors located on the borders of Montana and South Dakota. A few days ago, she made it all the way to Iowa before her physical body started to get restless and violently sucked her astral self back into it.

She has heard about people who can cross thousands of kilometers in a blink of an eye while in the Astral Plane, but she hasn’t reached such levels yet.

After spending a little longer floating above their mansion, the girl’s astral body starts flying to the west. Like always, her detach is accompanied by feelings of happiness and absolute freedom. The slight toothache she suffers from is also gone - the tooth is a part of her physical body she left behind.

“I’m going on an adventure!” she shouts even though nobody in the material world can hear her and the Astral Plane is usually empty. She accelerates, flying towards the fence which creates a border between the city of Trinity Gate and the state of Indiana, a part of the Commonwealth of Great Moors.

Then suddenly, her astral body is violently taken back into her physical body. In a matter of seconds, she flies all the way back to their mansion, through the roof and into her body. Her soul is screaming the whole time.

Whisper Johanna Archer-Gutenberg sits up, gasping for breath. Her head is spinning and it takes her a while to get oriented - like every time her soul returns to her body too abruptly. After she settles up a bit, she realizes the blinds in her room have been open and there’s someone in the room with her.

“Libby!” Whisper yells at the girl who woke her up. “Just… just how many times do I have to tell you not to wake me up when I’m out of body? It can be dangerous! You have to be crazy!” She hates that her voice is ridiculously high-pitched and keeps changing tone when she’s angry. It makes her sound… less intimidating.

Her sister sneers at her. “Out of body? Sure. I bet you were tripping on this,” she looks at the remaining half of a joint resting in a small ashtray on Whisper’s bedside table.

Whisper already gave up on explaining the astral travel to her sister who is a skeptic just like their parents. “Are you going to judge me for that?” Whisper spits out.

“Nah, that shit is legal for some time now, isn’t it?” Libby replies. She is a slim, pretty girl with short, blonde hair and intelligent brown eyes. Judging from her outfit, a skirt suit which subtly accentuates her curves, she’s heading to work soon. She is twenty-five, six years older than Whisper.

Her full name is Liberty Camilla Archer-Gutenberg. The Archer-Gutenberg siblings discussed their parents’ strange name choices countless times - the two sisters have an older brother who goes by the name Knight Edward. They came to a conclusion their parents wanted to somehow compensate for the fact their names are Jack and Mary, the most basic names anyone can think of.

“I hope you at least have a good reason for waking me up,” Whisper mutters when she finally gets on her feet. The four budgies in the corner of the room greet the sun with an apparent whistling contest and Whisper strides towards them to feed them.

“I do,” Libby replies. “Uncle John is here to speak with you.”

“Do you mean uncle Wiccan?” Whisper corrects her.

The older girl rolls her eyes. “No, I mean uncle John. Maybe you play along with him, but I refuse to deal with the bullshit he sticks to since he married that Ophelia woman.”

Whisper once again ignores her and leaves her room. Wiccan Salisbury was born as John Archer, younger brother of Jack Archer, Whisper’s father. Later, he took the surname of his wife and changed his first name, too. Wiccan fits him much better, Whisper thinks.

The girl descends the stairs to the large, airy atrium of the Archer-Gutenberg mansion where she’s greeted by the three dogs the family owns - a female golden retriever, a corgi and an especially large specimen of the Irish wolfhound. They follow the same naming pattern as Whisper’s budgies - Arwen, Frodo and Gandalf.

Wiccan is already standing there, just like every time - casual, smiling, dressed in a leather jacket, white T-shirt, basic jeans and sneakers. “Wisp, good to see you!” he greets her with his trademark, slightly breathy voice, probably affected by the fifteen years of smoking he quit some years ago.

“Uncle Wiccan!” Whisper cheers and her voice grows into falsetto once again, this time out of joy. “What brings you here? I haven’t seen you in a while!”

“That’s for a longer talk,” Wiccan replies. “What would you say about a short walk?”

After looking at the uncle and the niece together, one has immediately an idea which one of her relatives has the biggest impact on Whisper.

Just like her uncle, the girl wears her hair braided into long, fair dreadlocks, long enough to reach her waist. She’s wearing an airy green sleeveless dress with floral pattern, soft and thin like a spider web, ending above her knees. On principle, she always walks barefoot unless the situation asks for some kind of shoes. This is, however, not the case, so the girl walks beside her uncle with nothing on her feet.

It would be unfair to say Whisper is not pretty, but not all people can appreciate her authentic type of beauty. She doesn’t wear any make-up and her face usually shines with a smile some people may consider strange or even uncanny. Her dreamy eyes usually have a spaced-out look. They are hazel-colored, fluctuating between brown and green according to the lighting.

This combination can make the girl appear a bit like a lunatic, but those who know her know it’s nothing but a part of her complex, dreamer personality.

Whisper and Wiccan walk together through the Great Moors district. They pass several eco-friendly, futuristic-looking houses and mansions similar to theirs. They also see large greenhouses whose glass walls reflect the golden sunlight. The gardeners are working on the fields and garden beds inside. The greenhouses can simulate any type of climate thanks to advanced technology, allowing them to grow many types of fruit, vegetables and crops. Outside the greenhouses, there are also vast animal farms and ranches which successfully combine traditional methods and modern technology.

The girl loves this district - besides the farms and greenhouses, there are also beautiful parks, forests, lakes, adorable ponds and natural swimming pools. Whisper is a nature lover and taking a long way in the woods is her everyday ritual. She sometimes meditates or practices violin there when nobody is around.

Whisper picks a flower from the flower bed lining the pavement they’re walking and weaves them into her hair - that’s what she frequently does. Then she turns to Wiccan. “So? What did you want to discuss?” she asks him with a smile. While she loves all of her family, she always prefers the presence of her alternative uncle over her boring, materialistic nuclear family.

“Where should I start,” Wiccan thinks out loud. “Wisp, remember when I taught you the techniques of astral traveling? Have you been perfecting this skill?”

“Of course I have! I once made it to Iowa before my physical body disturbed the travel!” Whisper boasts. She speaks with a singsong voice which frequently changes tone and loudness. It makes her sound like she was a part of a theatrical play even though she’s just shopping for groceries.

“Very good,” Wiccan nods. “The thing is - me and some of my friends, including Ophelia, are trying to assemble a team of people with special talents and abilities for… a certain job.”

“Really?!” Whisper’s eyes brighten up; they appear green in the sunlight. “Like… a Hogwarts letter? Charles Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters? Like the…”

“Not really,” Wiccan interrupts her before his niece can overwhelm him with fictional schools and academies. “In order to join, you have to give up some romantic ideas about such things you have from books.”

Whisper scowls. “Why so?”

Wiccan looks at her with a strange expression. “I haven’t interacted with you much lately, did I? Now I can tell you it was because one of my closest friends died in action. Even though it’s not the first time, it’s always an off-putting experience.”

His niece looks at him with a betrayed look in her eyes. “Uncle Wiccan! Since I was little, you kept telling me you’re working as a researcher in AgriCo Trinity Gate,” her voice starts low, but once again escalates into much higher pitch as her emotions grow stronger. “And now you’re just casually telling me you have a job which involves people dying? Have you been lying to me all this time?”

“Well,” Wiccan sighs, “it’s not the kind of job I can talk about. I’ll try to explain.”

Wiccan examines his niece with his eyes and, for the first time, he feels doubt. Does he have a right to expose his niece to the dangers of working for The Society involves? Whisper is tiny. Rather short, with a thin frame. Not slim or lean. Thin.

Her limbs look gentle and fragile. There are only slight hints of feminine curves underneath her clothes - people often find amusement in comparing Whisper to her beautiful, tall, curvy sister. It looks like God forgot to distribute certain things evenly here. There is also a running joke claiming Whisper changed the way she looks and acts because she likes the nickname “Hippie girl” more than “Surfboard”.

On the other hand, the man knows Whisper is intelligent and headstrong. And her ability to detach her soul from her body can make her a valuable ally.

Whisper catches the look he’s giving her. “No need to worry,” she says with a firm voice. “People think I’m weak, but I’m not. Whatever job you have for me, I can do it.”

This is not the first time Whisper appears to be capable of mind reading. However, there’s not anything supernatural about it. The girl is naturally empathetic and can read anyone’s body language like one of the many books she has in her room. She can work as a natural lie detector with surprising accuracy. It can be both a blessing and a curse. Sometimes people feel things that make Whisper hurt.

“Are you sure about this, Wisp? You don’t even know what does it involve.”

“Look, uncle. I was born as a third daughter of the Archer-Gutenberg family, the founders and owners of Sagittarius Plantations, the biggest agricultural company in Trinity Gate. They expect me to study economy, something I hate with all my heart, and they also expect I will be as successful as Knight and Libby. Which I can never be, at least in the fields our parents consider important.”

Wiccan silently listens to the girl’s vent. This is the first time she talks so openly about her position in the family. So far, she always seemed ready to do what she has to do, but now it seems she has doubts.

Whisper continues: “They don’t see I’m… yeah, it’s a cliché to say this, but I’m different from them. I don’t give a twig about the company. I… I just want to be myself, nothing more, but they want to mold me into a businesswoman, an heiress of the empire. Like they didn’t already have two.” She looks at Wiccan. “You are the only one who understands this. So I’m willing to follow you no matter where you take me.”

First, Wiccan has to resist the urge to laugh at the girl’s habit to replace profanity with innocent words - Whisper’s legendary phrase Egg this! successfully made its way into his own vocabulary. Then, he gets overwhelmed by Whisper’s sincere loyalty.

He knows that Jack and Maria, Wiccan’s brother and sister-in-law and Whisper’s parents, are boring people with money on their minds. But he wasn’t aware they make Whisper this unhappy. She seemed reconciled with her fate which involved studying at the First University of Trinity Gate and then starting to work in the company alongside her older siblings.

But now, she probably saw a chance to escape this fate and grasped it firmly.

“But first,” Whisper says, “so we can be sincere with each other, I have to know who you really are and what you do. It seems that everything I know is a lie, isn’t it?”

“Not everything,” Wiccan replies. “The only thing I lied about was the true nature of my job. But as I already said, it’s not something I can talk about with people who don’t need to know.”

“And do I need to know now?”

“I guess so. In fact, I’ve been preparing you for this moment for some time now - it cost me many arguments with Jack, but screw him. He blamed me that I’m attempting to steal his daughter away, like you were some kind of commodity. From the start, I knew you’re destined for something better than sitting behind the desk and counting money. Now it’s your turn to prove I was right.”

The girl’s eyes are once again shining with zeal and enthusiasm. Maybe she’s a bit too eager, Wiccan thinks. He didn’t allow ELIPSA to create a file about her, just like they did with Parker and yeah, also about him when he was a new recruit. Even without the file which would contain everything from the girl’s privacy, he decided Whisper is perfect for the job.

“I can’t tell you much right now, but if you follow my instructions, you will know everything soon,” Wiccan tells the girl. “Now let’s just continue the walk, should we?”

Whisper seems that the idea of waiting isn’t pleasant to her, but she doesn’t object.

Author’s Note

I hope you enjoyed meeting Whisper, one of my favorite characters I’ve written :)

I also wholeheartedly thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and if you did, please leave a comment, send me a message or share and let more people know about this story! You can also consider a small donation at www.paypal.me/lukassladky. Have a great day and stay tuned for the next chapter!

#writeblr #writers #my writing #urban fantasy #original fiction #TeamDreamcatcher

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mistaandmercury · 6 years ago

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Tag Game

Rules : Answer 21 questions and tag 21 people you want to get to know better

Nickname: Maddy, Bubbles, Big Thirsty (its not what it sounds like), possum, and others.

Star Sign: Taurus

What I’m wearing: My sister’s Grateful Dead t-shirt and plaid pajama pants :3

Dream Job: hooo boy this question keeps me up at night y’all...Right now I’m obsessed with the idea of opening a bakery, but I also would like to make a cartoon show.

Favorite Quote: “Tomorrow the birds will sing.” Charlie Chaplin, City Lights

Favorite Food: anything italian honestly, if it involves cheese and pasta I’m sold.

Favorite Movie: I’m super indecisive so uhh here’s a few, Jurassic Park is probably my all time favorite, but also I love Kong Skull Island, Shrek 2, Practical Magic, and Robin Hood: Men in Tights.

Favorite Sport: To watch: baseball, basketball and hockey. To play: baseball, I’m not great at sports..

Dream Trip: I’d like to go just about anywhere so I’ll say everywhere.

Languages: English, tiny tidbits of korean and ASL. (I get hyper-fixated on learning languages for like a day then poof it’s gone.)

Favorite Song: I can’t decide I love too many and my 1 braincell can’t make decisions. “Good Ol’ Fashioned Lover Boy” gets me fucking PUMPED and I love it, also “Almost (Sweet Music)” by Hozier has been in my head for days and Unmbrella Academy has printed “I think we’re alone now” on my soul forever.

Favorite Book: The Great Gatsby, The Good Earth, Call The Midwife (I’m actually a 67 year old grandmother), Angela Ashes...The Hobbit...I cant think of any more.

What do I hate: Money, the fact that everything costs money, animal abuse/ cruelty, having my life mapped out for me by someone else, the government, getting into arguments with my mother about the government etc etc

Random Fact: My mother used to tell me that Hey Jude was actually called Hey Jules and that the beatles wrote it for me, my three year old self was livin man.

Describe yourself as aesthetic things: Getting lost in a drawing while listening to music, having a favorite hoodie and wearing it all the time, getting so excited by a new movie you start shaking, sitting alone in a library avoiding everyone and everything.

Do I get asks? No never, I’m really awkward.

Other Blogs: I have a main blog but honestly I never really use it except to talk to my friends in that fandom y’know what I mean?

Hogwarts House: Ravenclaw!

Patronus: Irish Wolfhound

Favorite Characters: Thor, Captain Marvel, Evelyn from the Mummy, Giorno Giovana from jjba, All Might, Remus Lupin, Luna Lovegood, Molly Weasely, Trixie Franklin, Wonder Woman/Diana Prince, Scott Lang/ Antman, Edward Scissorhands, Veronica Sawyer from Heathers.

That was super fun! Thanks for tagging me dude!

Feel free to ignore this but I’m going to tag @cloveofmylife and @readyy-freddiee

#tag game #this is really loooong sorry yall

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killerqueendynamite · 7 years ago

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for your consideration: lunar chronicles high school teacher au

Cinder: Mechanics/Shop teacher

always a mess, never dresses professionally even for meetings. astounds students when she dresses nice for special events but there’s always still an obvious grease stain somewhere

seems organized and she is but unbeknownst to you she decided to completely redo her lesson plan at 2am last night so she is flying by the seat of her pants

kids are always trying to figure out her ~mysterious~ past, like how she became friends with Miss Iko and Mr Thorne

always drinking coffee, stirs it with screwdrivers +other random objects she has laying around

fixes students’ cars if they break down or stall in the parking lot

Kai: Social Studies/History teacher

always wears a full suit, confuses people when he takes his jacket off once a semester

75% of students have had a crush on Mr Rikan at some point (taking his jacket off makes it worse, rolling his sleeves up makes it more worse)

the Most Organized™ teacher in the school, also the Vice Principal

kids know he is the easiest to distract and send on a rabbit trail. surefire distraction topics include social justice, politics, asking his opinion on various world leaders, Miss Linh

makes sassy comments constantly but only a few kids get them

Scarlet: Foods/Home Ec teacher

kind of a hardass, kids are lowkey scared of her

the best at classroom management

brings cookies and cake and stuff for her students at least once a week

brings cookies and cake and stuff for the staff at every meeting

pretends to be gordon ramsey when marking food projects. it terrifies students at first then becomes a school legend. older kids tell their younger siblings about it, younger siblings come into her class waiting for it with bated breath

wears a leather jacket and drives a motorcycle to school

Wolf: PE teacher

kids coming into his class are terrified but soon realize he’s the Softest and Nicest

the school’s version of the unexpected john cena meme. pep rallies are a lot of blaring horns and ‘NOW FOR OUR COACH, MR ZE’EV KESLEY’ *john cena song blows the speakers* he is highly embarrassed by this

his sports teams may not always win but are always the most sportsmanlike

rides to school on the back of Mrs Kesley’s motorbike

figures out when the shy kids are being bullied and does something behind the scenes to help no one ever knows its him

Thorne: Physics/Chemistry teacher

never makes lesson plans but somehow meets all his outcomes/standards

he’s the substitute bus driver and always drives like a maniac

drives his shitty but classic car to work and talks about it constantly

his own adherence to safety standards is questionable but his kids are always safe. blows things up in class at least once a week. blinded himself for 3 days once trying out an experiment

tells students embarrassing stories about the other teachers including how he met Miss Linh in prison which everyone thinks is probably a joke but Miss Linh plays along and seems serious about it???

insists students call him Captain Thorne or just The Captain

Cress: Music/Computers teacher

shorter than all her students

keeps a stash of unhealthy snacks in her filing cabinet, gives them away constantly in violation of the healthy meal policy. Coach Kesley visits her often.

“Miss Darnel, The Captain said you were a genius. Like an actual for real genius. Is that true?” Cress, completely emotionless and matter of fact: “Yes, now today we’re going to --.” they're all very intimidated

everyone knows she’s in love with Mr Thorne and that they were caught making out at the school dance once and that’s why they’re not allowed to chaperone together anymore

fixes all the computer problems. the district has an actual employed tech person but their school never calls them bc Miss Darnel can fix it faster. spends 90% of her breaks fixing the copier w Miss Linh

Winter: English/Art teacher

stereotypical crazy english teacher (chaotic good), also the stereotypical crazy art teacher

talks in riddles and weird metaphors, reads really dramatically and has a habit of jumping up on desks. assignments are sort of abstract but she grades really easily

somehow related to Miss Linh but no one really understands how?

hits on Mr Clay in front of her students

75% of students have had a crush on Miss Hayle at some point, 99% of students would die for her, a couple students have actually gotten into fights defending her honour

her unit plans look like the wall in a conspiracy theorist’s office

Jacin: Math teacher

roasts the other teachers during his classes. this is the only way to distract him

cranky and everyone complains about him but they secretly like him because he’s really clear and direct

everyone says he’s in love with Miss Hayle bc he always hangs out in her classroom but no one has ever seen him respond to her flirting? (someone claims that someone else saw them kiss, but no one has proof and no one else ever sees it, it becomes a school legend)

kids are really confused when they see their teachers in public and it actually looks like Mr Clay is friends with them???

rumor has it Mr Thorne punched him once. some say that’s wrong, it was Miss Linh. it’s a school-wide debate. they think teachers don’t know about it but they do. what the students don’t know is that Mr Clay has been punched multiple times, by both Thorne and Cinder

Iko: Fashion teacher/Counselor

only teaches one class bc ~fashion~

has convoluted mental trees of ships, one for students, one for teachers

students are always asking her where she gets her shoes/complimenting her outfits

constantly getting phone calls from parents who don’t like her advice to their kids

knows all the gossip, more than even the other teachers or the students themselves

goes by her first name

always brings starbucks for the other teachers, has memorized everyone’s faves but sometimes gets them something new and different and makes them try it

Levana: Principal

Evil™ -- everyone says she killed her husband but no one could prove it

every student is terrified of her but Miss Linh and Mr Rikan and Captain Thorne make fun of her in class sometimes and the kids are??? in awe???

acts as a sub when necessary and the students dread it. teachers avoid calling in sick to save their students from her

particularly enjoys subbing for Mr Rikan and intentionally skews the lesson to her completely opposing political views

always trying to get Miss Linh fired

Sybil: Librarian

also Evil™

wears scary clicky high heels, students scatter when they hear her coming

has been known to make kids cry for yelling at them for being too loud in the library

rumoured to have made Miss Darnel cry once, which is rumoured to have made Mr Thorne do something that almost got him fired

Miss Linh used to prank her but found out she took out her revenge on students and stopped

bans books from the library for almost no reason. Miss Darnel has a stash of banned books in her closet bc of this

Dr Erland: former School Nurse

they hire Aimery when he retires

Miss Darnel has dragged Mr Thorne to see him on multiple occasions after lab incidents, lowkey thinks Thorne shouldn’t be a teacher, isn’t entirely wrong

rumour has it that he used to work for the mob or something?

lowkey crazy

doesn’t really have a relationship with any of the kids or teachers, the ghost teacher that you only see once every two months

Aimery: School Nurse

no one admits to being sick or injured bc they don’t want to have to go to the infirmary

that one teacher that everyone has a creepy or uncomfortable story about including the other teachers

everyone knows he likes Miss Hayle and hates Mr Clay and also that Mr Clay hates him

he gets fired one day and no one knows why – he just disappears. someone says he pushed it too far with Miss Hayle and she sicked her wolfhound on him. others say Mrs Kesley shot him but they checked the news and there was no obituary so??? their next guess is that he’s in prison but someone says he’s too beautiful for prison

Kinney: Biology teacher

that one teacher that’s always complaining about how pointless option courses are

always arguing with Miss Iko but no one ever takes his side

the only teacher that never talks smack about other teachers (except Miss Iko)

sometimes has old-fashioned borderline prejudiced ideas but he changes over time. older kids who had him can’t believe when their younger siblings come home saying he’s dating Miss Iko

someone draws him as a robot once and he’s irrationally offended by it. Miss Iko frames it and hangs it on her office wall

Torin: School District Administrator

comes to visit the school from time to time, always leaves exasperated

half the school complains to him that Ms Blackburn should be fired, the other half complains that Miss Linh should be fired. he’d like to do the first but doesn’t have enough evidence, doesn’t want to do the second and therefore ignores the evidence

has known Mr Rikan since he was a baby, may or may not have supplied Miss Linh with an unfortunate baby picture which Mr Thorne may or may not have stolen and given to Miss Darnel to add to an assembly presentation

used to be a teacher and gives really good advice to the new young teachers (which is most of them)

#lunar chronicles #tlc #this is my magnum opus #shoutout to my own bad habits also my colleagues quirks for 80% of this lol

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fae-fucker · 7 years ago

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Crown of Midnight: Chapter 3-4

Chapter 3

Nothing fucking happens. Sardines has a nightmare about Cain and later she and Nehemia talk about the rebellion and the king’s plans without really saying anything, and my hatred for that fucking dog just keeps growing. Observe.

Fleetfoot took off through the pale grass like a bolt of golden lightning

[...]

Dorian had never said what breed, exactly, he suspected her mother had mated with. Given Fleetfoot’s size, it could have been a wolfhound. Or an actual wolf.

Are you telling me this fucking dog is a fucking golden wolf?

I will eat this spaghetti-lookin’ bitch.

Nehemia’s creamy brown face paled slightly.

Why does the word “creamy” upset me so much in this?

Nehemia wants Sardines to try to figure out what the king is planning, but Sardines is like “nah”.

She wasn’t even sure if she truly wanted to know what the king was up to—let alone share that information with anyone else. It was selfish, and stupid, perhaps, but she couldn’t forget the warning the king had given the day he crowned her Champion: if she stepped out of line, if she betrayed him, he’d kill Chaol. And then Nehemia, and then the princess’s family.

But then, literally the next sentence:

And all of this—every death she faked, every lie she told—put them at risk.

Sardines: Hmm. Finding out the king’s sinister plans and telling my allies about them is a bad idea -- even though said allies desperately need that information -- because that might put them at risk, but saving various noblemen for no reason and put my unknowing allies in danger just so I can keep the moral high ground makes total and absolute sense!

What a master schemer this idiot is, huh?

WHAT A KWEEN.

People say they love Sardines but hate Alien and I frankly don’t get it. Sardines has always been a dumb, selfish twat, that will clearly never change.

Celaena swallowed hard. That word—“act”—scared her more than she’d like to admit.

Good self-burn there, buddy.

Chapter 4

Salad (which is my new nickname for Chaol) and Sardines are having a jog.

They’d bundled up as best they could without weighing themselves down—mostly just layers of shirts and gloves— but even with sweat running down his body, Chaol was freezing.

Layers of gloves? What the fuck?

Noticing his stare, she flashed him a grin, those stunning turquoise eyes full of light.

Eat my entire ass, Sarah.

Salad angst about how he killed Cain. He’s very sad about it. This is what you get for hiring an inexperienced twenty-something to be the captain of the guard. But if we don’t make him young it’ll be icky for Sardines to fuck him, and if we don’t make him captain then he’s just NOT GOOD ENOUGH for Sardines, ain’t that right, Sarah?

I’d say you’re being transparent but you’re already pretty white.

He was the Captain of the Guard—he was bound to have killed someone at some point. He’d already seen and done enough in the name of the king; he’d fought men, hurt them.

SJM: Hey guys I’m clearly aware that this is dumb but if I acknowledge it’s dumb you’ll accept it, right?

No.

Salad asks Sardines if she ever thinks about the people she’s killed, and since she’s the most ruthless and epic and badass assassin the world has ever known, ever, she angsts on about how she never forgets anyone she kills.

I don’t give a single shit.

Salad angst about how he desperately wants to nestle his dick between Sardines’ pearly white and hairless asscheeks, but can’t because uuuuhhh angst angst loyalty to the king and also Dorian wants to do her and he doesn’t want to betray his friend.

Whatever. I don’t give a damn. Unlike many other antis, I don’t consider Chaol to be a good character and I couldn’t give less of a shit about his problems.

Listen. You guys only think he’s good because everyone else is pretty much terrible. You cling to him because his mediocrity looks impressive when compared to the literal ass-garbage that is the rest of the lineup.

We jump POV back to Sardines.

And what’s this? GIRL HATE? FOR ME?! IN CHAPTER FOUR?!

Christmas Yulemas has come early this year.

Since Salad is all sweaty from their jog and his shirt clings to his HOT MUSCLED MALE MANLY MASCULINE VIRILE MAN-BOD, there are DUMB VAPID BITCHES there to check him out.

Celaena could have sworn their eyes had bulged out of their heads and their tongues had rolled onto the ground.

Then the next morning, they’d appeared along the path again—wearing even nicer dresses. The day after that, more girls showed up. And then several more. And now every direct route from the game park to the castle had at least one set of young women patrolling, waiting for him to walk by.

“Oh, please,” Celaena hissed as they passed two women, who looked up from their fur muffs to bat their eyelashes at him. They must have awoken before dawn to be dressed so finely.

You see, when Sardines ogles Salad or Doriass, that’s okay because uuuuuuuuh Sarah loves her little baby girl and she can’t do no wrong and also she feels TRU WUV (even though her TRU WUV is made irrelevant with the arrival of Ratty to the point where every other love was just useless before that I guess) when she checks those boys out.

THESE GIRLS DRESS NICELY!! TO IMPRESS MEN!! WHILE ALSO CHECKING THEM OUT!!

THEY’RE VAPID DUMB BITCHES!! EVEN THOUGH THE ONLY WAY FOR WOMEN TO GET POWER IN THIS SOCIETY IS THROUGH MEN!! LOOK AT THEM AND LAUGH!! SO PATHETIC!!

Cool cool.

God, I hate this series so much.

Salad offers Sardines to help her with her Archer-related business and she turns him down.

Hey Salad, aren’t you, like, I dunno, the captain of the guard? Don’t you have STUFF TO DO?!

Sorry, I forgot that this world and its characters all revolve around Sardines and her problems. How silly of me.

They come across Doriass who is walking around with his cousin Roland, who I’m sure is totally chill.

His voice was pleasant enough, but something in it made her pause. It wasn’t amusement or arrogance or anger … She couldn’t put her finger on it.

[...]

Just the way he spoke told her enough about his history with women.

[...]

As she let Chaol lead her inside the castle, she realized she was in desperate need of a bath. But it had nothing to do with her sweaty clothes, and everything to do with the oily grin and roaming eyes of Roland Havilliard.

Yeah, I’m sure this guy is totally cool!

We all know that SJM can clearly write very nuanced characters and that this incredibly obvious and cliché character introduction is just here to mislead us and make us think that Roland is a gross douchebag only so Kween Sarah can prove us wrong and develop his character into someone truly heroic!

Anyway, turns out that Roland is the “lord” of some place called Meah, which doesn’t tell me anything, but whatever. He’s been offered a position on the king’s council, which is suspicious, apparently, because Roland is more interested in getting his dick wet rather than politicking. This is framed as disgusting, even though that’s pretty much exactly what Doriass is. It’s not the first nor the last time SJM makes hypocritical exceptions for her faves.

Doriass introduces Sardines as Lillian.

They still used her alias whenever she couldn’t avoid running into members of the court, though most everyone knew to some degree that she was not in the palace for administrative nonsense or politics.

So the official story is that a petty jewelry thief became the king’s champion, then?

Holy shit, this world is filled with morons.

I also love how “administrative nonsense” and “politics” are looked down upon, but when Sardines does her BRILLIANT MIND GAMES, it’s not politics, it’s uuuuh ... Fuck man, I can’t even begin to imagine how SJM’s mind works.

Roland hits on Sardines, and her two daddies really don’t like that.

Chaol smiled—if you could call it that. It was more a flash of teeth.

Have you considered that I don’t care and that this clarification doesn’t matter?

She wouldn’t mind working with him—but not in the way Roland meant. Her way would include a dagger, a shovel, and an unmarked grave.

Actually, her way would include a corpse, a staged murder scene, and the hope that he stays hidden and nobody recognizes him for who he is.

Eat my entire ass, Sarah.

We switch to Doriass’ POV.

Chaol positively hated Roland, and whenever he came up in conversation, it was usually accompanied by phrases like “conniving wretch” and “sniveling, spoiled ass.”

So Sardines and Doriass, respectively, though “conniving” might be overstating it.

Roland was a pain in the ass, and too aware of the effect his looks and his Havilliard name had on women, but he was harmless. Wasn’t he?

Dorian didn’t know the answer—and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

SJM: Subtlety? I don’t know her.

We switch back to Sardines’ POV.

Her salary as King’s Champion was considerable, and Celaena spent every last copper of it. Shoes, hats, tunics, dresses, jewelry, weapons, baubles for her hair, and books. Books and books and books.

Books? She likes reading? How relatable? You like reading too, don’t you, young female reader who is the target demographic for this book? Don’t you feel connected to Sardines on a deep, meaningful level?

You see, when other women dress nice, they’re whores and idiots and brainless. When Sardines does it, she’s just embracing her femininity!

Ain’t that right, White Feminism?

Whatever. Doriass is there in her room/s when she returns, which she doesn’t approve of.

“Aren’t friends allowed to visit each other more than once a day?”

She stared down at him. Being friends with Dorian wasn’t something she was certain she could actually do.

Seems like SJM has been taking writing lessons from Cakeass.

Didn’t you spend an entire book angsting about how you couldn’t be friends with Doriass and then deciding that you would rather stay friends than be lovers? And now you’re back on square one? Are we really doing this again?

I’m so tired.

“And you have so much time on your hands these days that you can spend hours with me again?”

“Well, I have my usual flock of ladies to attend to, but I can always make time for you.”

Dorian is written as a player, but whenever we see him interact with women who are not Sardines, he’s shitty and hateful towards them. But it’s okay though, right? Because those dumb sluts are worthless and stupid, not amazing and brilliant like Sardines! It’s okay that Dorian clearly doesn’t respect any other woman aside from Sardines (and presumably Nehemia, since SJM has bestowed her godly blessing upon her for now), because those other women are simply not worthy of any respect!

And obviously, even though Dorian clearly wants Sardines but plays around with other women, that’s totally fine! Women checking out men though? That’s disgusting.

SARAH J MAAS IS A FEMANAST KWAAAN!

Doriass makes it clear he still wants to tap that, but Sardines tells him to fuck off.

Alone in the foyer, Celaena clenched and unclenched her fists, suddenly disgusted with all of the pretty packages on the table.

Eat my entire ass.

#eff reads: crown of midnight #book rants #anti tog #anti sjm

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topazshadowwolf · 8 years ago

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Just a Walk in The Park

Day 4 of Soriel Week... only three more days... Dang this is going by fast (even faster since I’m scheduling them in one day). Anyway! The prompt is “protection” and this is technically my first collaboration. I had started this before even agreeing to do this fun piece with Poisond. @smashedkittkate and I were talking about this prompt and agreed I’d write a story if she draws a picture. Make sure to check out her half!

An Undertale Fanfiction by: Topaz Shadowwolf Undertale is owned by: Toby Fox Relationships: Soriel Rating: Everyone Heads up: There is one pun of a curse word that doesn’t actually use the word.

Just a Walk in The Park

When it came to planning dates, Sans kept it simple. The less work involved, the better. Go out for a movie in a theater that will also serve you food. As the saying goes, two birds with one stone.

After that, well, Tori likes taking walks. He never understood the appeal of it, but if she enjoys it, he’ll join her. On the way back from the theater, there is a park they have never been to, which should be interesting for her.

He didn't bother looking up the park, after all, it's a park. It has grass, trees, a sky, fresh air, and possibly a pond or stream. What else would one need to know about it?

Both thought nothing of it as they pulled up. Sans did notice that a lot of the cars had those “I love my (whatever breed of dog)” stickers but this was a park. Parks attract outdoorsy people, and they generally have a dog or two. So what? Most parks he has seen have leash rules.

Back when they lived underground, Sans never had any problems with dogs. Yes, sometimes the non-monster dogs would chase after bone attacks, or lightly chew on finger bones when being petted. But never was it anything that would cause any actual harm, or concern, just minor annoyances.

Then again, those dogs had become used to the idea of bones not being chew things. Monsters turn to dust when dead, leaving nothing for dogs to gnaw on. That, and monsters made of bone tend to fight back if used as a chew toy. Leading Sans, and even his brother Papyrus, to not understand the full threat dogs are, until a few ill encounters on the surface.

There were near bites when petting them, and one dog did bite Papyrus, leading the dog's owner to apologize profusely. But the worst case was when they had been invited with Frisk, Toriel, Asgore, Undyne, and Alphys to an informal dinner at a senator’s house. Papyrus, as the monster mascot and friend of the young ambassador, was also invited with Sans as his plus one.

The dog there was very well behaved, and clearly loved, almost to spoiling. Sans listened to all the important talk while petting the dog, both over all enjoying each other’s company. It wasn’t until dinner did the skeletons learned what it would feel like to have your skin crawl.

A few days ago, the dog’s owner had given it a cow bone, which it opted to gnaw on while everyone was eating. The brothers quickly lost their appetites at the sound of crunching, splitting, and cracking bone. Once the senator realized what was wrong, he took the bone away from the dog and apologized. Both skeletons said it was alright, and not to worry. Inwardly, they fully understood, that if a large cow femur could be cracked so easily, perhaps fraternizing with dogs is something they should avoid.

It was after that, Sans did notice a change in Toriel when it came to dogs and him. If they are out walking, and see a dog, she grabs his hand, and even pull him closer. One time, when a lady was walking towards them with a pack of dogs, Toriel not only held him close, but she shifted herself between him and the dogs.

He didn't complain. It was nice being temporarily pressed against her. Soft, warm, and safe.

If there are any dogs being walked, it shouldn't be that bad. If the leash rule is kept, it may just lead to more enjoyable moments of impromptu cuddles.

A short way into the park, the next thing they noticed was a bowl of water by the fountain. “An odd thing to do,” Toriel commented. But then they reasoned it must be for someone's dog or another pet.

There didn't seem to be a play set, but there were toys scattered about. Tennis balls, without a tennis quart. An abandoned stuffed toy of a rabbit. And a… plastic fire hydrant?

Eye socket lights deadened, realization of what kind of park this was sunk in. There won't be any leash rules here, as dogs in these kinds of parks are allowed to run free.

To add insult to injury, just then something hit him on the head. It didn't hit hard, but it was noticeable, and left a small sore spot. It bounced off his skull and landed just a few inches away.

“ouch,” Sans mumbled.

“Oh, Sans, are you alright?” Toriel asked, while lightly petting his skull. She must have used some healing magic, as what little pain he felt was eased away.

“yeah, thanks tori,” he replied while looking down at the offending object. It was a ball, a tennis ball. Much like the one Undyne and Papyrus took turns throwing for the senator’s dog that one night.

When Sans looked up from the ball and saw dogs; not just one, but a pack, barreling towards him, and he froze. His magic didn’t know what to do. Should it flare up in defense or attack? Should it prepare for a short cut to escape? He had to decide as they were closing in fast. Granted, the little dogs were in the lead, but small dogs still have strong jaws.

Just as he started to take a step back he felt the ground disappear from under his feet. Toriel had quickly lifted him, and now held him up high over her head. He hoped he wasn’t hurting her, as he grabbed her arms for dear life. Even if he was, at this moment, he was not about to let go. One slipper slipped off along the way, and was now the prisoner of a rambunctious miniature pinscher who proudly ran around with it.

Toriel used her feet to try to usher the dogs away, but that only seemed encourage them to keep trying. “Go on, away with you!” She said. The dogs didn't seem to care.

Some thought she was playing some game. A few, including a lab and a collie, ran around happily, unsure what the excitement was about, but, dang it, they wanted to be a part of it! Then there was a golden retriever and a few small dogs looking up at him as if they just won a lifetime supply of chew toys.

The sound of tearing fabric caught his attention, and he glanced over to see the min pin was playing tug-of-war with his slipper against a beagle mix. He’s had those slippers since he was a lot younger while living in the underground. And now some dogs were tearing holes in the well-worn, yet still fluffy, cloth.

“Your slipper,” Toriel’s voice held the same sorrow he felt for the ruined footwear. It had surpassed clothing, and was more than just something comfortable to wear. Those old slippers were a part of who he was. If any of his friends were to describe his style, his hoodie and slippers would always be mentioned.

“it’s okay, tori, let's just get out of here,” it pained Sans to say that. But it was impractical to ask her to rescue it while keeping him safe. “it may be gone, but it won't be furgotten.”

Toriel struggled not to laugh, “Be careful making me laugh, my dear, we wouldn't want this to get any hairier.”

Although her teasing was not to be taken seriously, it still made Sans a little nervous. Relief came in the form of owners coming and collecting their dogs. One owner commented on how silly it is for a skeleton to come to a dog park. The other owners told that one off.

Over all, he managed to avoid any contact with most of the dogs, save for an interested sniff from an Irish wolfhound and a friendly lick, on his bare bone foot, from a bullmastiff when Toriel wasn't looking. He knew they were only being friendly, but considering their size he couldn't help but feel a shiver go up his spine.

To avoid any incidents on their way to the car, Toriel carried him. As they neared it, she hummed, “Well, I do believe that is enough adventure for me. And I’m sure it be rather ruff on you.”

Tension, Sans didn't even know he had, dissolved as he laughed, “oh, tori, that was bad, and over used.”

“I like to think of it as a classic,” Tori smiled.

“i guess it's as the saying goes,” Sans replied as if in deep thought.

“What saying is that?”

“you can't teach an old dog new tricks.”

Toriel was about to unlock the car, but that made her pause. Her snout wrinkle in that way it does when she doesn't want to laugh but it is brewing within her. “Is that so,” she finally said once she had calmed herself, “Well, perhaps I should, as the saying goes, throw you to the dogs. Though in the less figurative and more literal sense.”

“shih tzu wouldn’t actually do that, would you?”

The goat monster giggled, “I don't know, that comment was rather shar pei. Besides, you are rather husky, and my arms are getting tired.”

“mercy, please t, if not for me, then for my dear brother papillon,” Sans accented the idea of pleading by putting his hand together while opening his sockets wide.

Toriel laughed then nose nuzzled his nasal bone, “Enough with the puppy eyes my dear, I love you too much to do that.”

In the distance one of the dog owners whistled at them while another cheered. Sans felt a little flustered by that, and judging by the blush peeking through her fur, so was Toriel.

When it comes to planning dates, Sans likes to keep it simple; but that doesn't always mean it will be. Lesson learned, he now puts more effort in so things, hopefully, go smoothly.

#sorielweek #sorielweek2017 #undertale #fanfiction #soriel #this was fun #i enjoy doing colabs #but i'm scared to agree to them #i can be lazy and forgetful #i hope you like it

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sherpawhale · 8 years ago

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I HAD THE WILDEST DAY AT WORK THANKS TO LOCKING THE KEYS IN THE TRUCK ALONG WITH MY PHONE.

WHAT A DAY! This definitely ranks up there as one of the most exciting days I’ve had on the job (not all of it good). This is going to be a long post, so I’m going to split it into 4 parts: yesterday’s plans, locked the keys in the truck, machetes, and animal abuse.

Jsyk, I work at my county’s mosquito control, and we go out to a lot of the rural areas looking for standing water.

YESTERDAY: To preface this story, I must turn the clock back 24 hours to when Kaori and I were investigating the valley west of town. There’s a spot where there used to be some old water slides that we check regularly, it has some groves of trees and cattails, and it’s one of the most overgrown sites in our entire district. We talked about trail maintenance (our previous field supervisor was not a big believer in it), either getting some machetes sharpened or using a hardcore weed whacker to get through some of the reeds and cattails that have really become overgrown with all of the rain we received this spring.

Later on in the day, I start telling Kaori about the time one of my aunts was really getting into the metaphysical, and saying that “you just have to put it [your hopes and dreams] out there.” Not even half an hour later, the conversation has moved on to how screwed we would be if we ever accidentally locked the keys in the truck along with our phones, because in our modern era, nobody has ever memorized anybody’s number back at the shop, or even the shop’s number. So I look at my contacts to try to memorize the number and see that it’s pretty close to a code I already use, and think it’s easy enough to remember.

After we clock in this morning, we start bellyaching about how there’s so much brush to get through, and our coworker Dustin chimes in that he actually brought in his sharpener to sharpen the machetes, and while they’re of a pretty poor quality, they’re at least better than what was used before. So we grab two machetes and put them in the bed of the truck, and say if nothing else, we’ll at least have them for aesthetics.

LOCKED TRUCK: So we head out to today’s route, what we at Mosquito Control call the Siphons, because there are two huge siphons that carry a large flow of water from the irrigation canals north of road 16 on Stratford. We check a few spots here and there before heading out into the fields around the siphons, with absolutely terrible cell reception because there are a bunch of craggy basalt bluffs surrounding us, and drive out to Osborne Lake. We squeeze through the barbed wire and walk to this “lake” which is mainly just a few puddles here and there, then walk back to the truck.

The truck is locked. It’s very surprising, because there is absolutely no reason to lock the truck here. We haven’t seen sight of another human in 45 minutes, and there aren’t even any cows around. I check my pocket, and I don’t have my phone on me, because I had put it on airplane mode earlier. Kaori has also left her phone in the truck. We’d also left our work iPads, car keys, absolutely everything locked inside this truck, and I hadn’t even opened any windows, which is something I almost always do (usually for air).

We decide to hop in the back of the truck to look in the tool box on the off chance there was a spare key or something we could use. Lots of product in the tool box, a tow rope, some latex gloves, and a pen. I try stripping down the pen and jamming it in the key hole on the off chance I will magically discover I have an innate ability to pick a lock, but no dice. So we pick up the machetes in the back of truck, just because we have them and maybe nobody will fuck with us if we’re carrying them, and we start walking backing to the main canal road, because usually there’s a farmer’s truck or somebody from the irrigation district going by who we can stop and ask to use their phone. In the meantime, we contemplate our strange luck that we had finally just memorized the shop number the day before.

We keep on walking, and we head in the direction of some houses we had passed earlier (in total, we walked about 3 miles, in heavy irrigation boots). The first house is extremely sketchy, lots of junk everywhere, and just has a bad vibe. We decide to continue on, and come to the next house several hundred yards later. We duck underneath the barbed wire and walk up to the house and knock on the door. No one answers. We go to knock again and finally hear a vehicle driving on the road, but this truck was driving so fast that we wouldn’t have even been down the driveway before he’d be over the next rise. We curse ourselves for both of us going up to knock at the door (at this point, it is some time between 7:30-8:00am).

At the next house, there are around 10 vehicles in varying states of repair around the property, but at least two parked next to the house, and there are two dogs in the yard that have fresh food and water. Surely, somebody is here willing to help us. I stay by the road in case a vehicle drives by so I can flag it down, and I also hold on to the machetes while Kaori walks up to knock on the door. She knocks several times, and nobody ever answers. So we continue on to the next house. This time, she stays by the road, while I walk up to the house.

When I finally get up to the porch, I see a tiny kitten on the porch, probably 4-5 weeks old. It’s pretty scraggly looking, and something wet has clearly stuck its fur on its head together. The owners had just dumped out some adult cat food on the porch, no water, and there were several little poops on the porch. I pick up this kitten trying to claw its way up my leg, and it immediately claws its way up my shirt to perch on my shoulder, purring. I start knocking on the door, louder and more forcefully once I don’t receive an answer. I’m sorry to get someone up so early, but we’ve got stuff to do and really need to get the spare key. No answer.

I set the kitten down and try to walk off the porch, but it follows me down the steps. I walk back and set it again on the porch, then run off; no good, it follows me. At this point, Kaori is walking up the driveway, having seen me pick up something, and being a cat person, she is clearly going gaga over the baby kitten. I hand it to her, saying she might have better luck getting it to stay, and we end up full-on sprinting to get this kitten to stay home (again, still in our clunky irrigation boots). We both agreed it’s pretty clear these people don’t care enough about this cat, but she has a cat already and I have 4. We move on.

Next house, nobody home. Finally, the next house is where some lady had glared at us from her yard, and we can see her car is there. We walk up the road and almost reach her drive when we spot at the end of the road, about half a mile away, a fabled vehicle driving towards us. We wave our arms to flag it down.

This car drives up, and it’s an older gentleman in his 70s with a 10-gallon hat, droopy mustache, and Irish wolfhound in the back of his car. He says he’d be more than happy to let us use his phone if we don’t mind following him, hope we don’t mind, we wouldn’t fit in his car with the dog. So we follow back another quarter mile to his house, and he offers us his landline and some water (he also offers Gatorade, ice cream, and beer, which I politely decline).

As Kaori is calling the shop on a number we had just memorized the previous day, he asks where our truck is parked, and I tell him it’s at Osborne Lake. His eyes grow real big and he absolutely insists on driving us back to it, we will not be walking back. Kaori gets off the phone and says we’re just going to meet our field supervisor, Jake, out at the calf roping decoration that’s just off of Stratford. Once again, he offers ice cream, so we take him up on it, and he gives us ice cream sandwiches.

He then starts telling us about himself, after asking if it was a summer job in between school, and it turns out he’s a retired Big Bend English instructor and that he’s now a published author. It turns out he’s won multiple prestigious Western awards as well as awards for poetry, and that he’s one of 8 recipients in the country having received a grant from Boston College for his work, and he’s also written plays that have been performed in San Diego, Fresno, etc. I ask for his name so I can look up his work, and he insists on giving us some books. So Kaori ended up with a collection of his poetry while I took a play on the diminishing water supply of the Oglalla aquifer. And then we meet his wolfhound before we leave, and it is the largest dog I have ever met in my life. This thing could easily be ridden in to battle by a child.

He drives us back to the calf roping decoration (I’m hiding the machetes in my sweatshirt) and drops us off, and we read his books for 5 or 10 minutes while we wait. Jake finally pulls in, and we hop in the truck. We tell him about our morning, and after a few minutes go by, he says, “Wow, you girls walked really far.” And then we finally reach our truck and get going.

For lunch, we went back to the shop and recounted our morning tale to our manager Annie, who I swear I saw whisper “Oh my god” when I mentioned we didn’t have to walk that far, “only 3 miles or so.” We also ask her policy on whether we can take cats from people who are clearly abusing their animals.

MACHETES: we finally reached a spot where we could cut some cattails with the machetes, and were just overjoyed and overcome at seeing how neatly and cleanly they sliced through the brush (we’d tried using them when they were dull, and they were honestly worse than butter knives). At last, life will be better to get to our sites. There were a couple of llamas that stared at us, unimpressed, at another site where we excitedly shouting about our success. It’s the little things in life, it really is.

ANIMAL ABUSE: Towards the end of our day, I suggest we get Edward’s nursery over with. This nursery is so overgrown and the owner is very eccentric, so it successfully breeds mosquitos like crazy with hundreds of buckets and kiddie pools everywhere holding standing water. Fortunately, neither of us found much there, but just as we’re about finished I head a very loud “KELSEY?” outside the greenhouse I’m in, and Kaori comes in with her eyes very wide.

She led me over to this little cardboard box with loud, frantic mewling coming from inside, and it had a cardboard lid over the top (inside this greenhouse that is well over 100 degrees inside). She uncovers it, and there are 3 kittens inside that might be about 1 week old, at most, and there are ants inside the box and on the kittens. She holds on up, and there is gunk covering its face and infecting its eyes, even though they’re closed.

I had already reported Edward’s to animal control a few months ago for another cat with an infected eye, so we just look at each other for a minute before contemplating how to take these kittens. I decide we should call Annie and ask for advice, so I call her, and she recommends at least talking to the people before just stealing their cats.

We could only find one of the employees there, and she dismissively said they were giving the kittens eye drops (which would just roll off their faces and do no good because eye gunk that should be cleaned) and they were hand feeding. I asked if I could speak to the owner, so we could offer money or to take the kittens to vet. The lady said Mrs. Edwards was at lunch, but gave me her number.

I called, and Mrs. Edwards vaguely said they were giving the kittens drops and hand feeding because the mother cat was sick and couldn’t nurse (turns out it was the cat I reported months earlier, extremely small and kitten-like as it was), so they were hand nursing. She defensively said they were fine, but I offered our help for money or to take to them to the vet or find homes, but she turned me down. The second the phone call ended, Kaori dialed Animal Control, and they promised to dispatch an officer immediately to investigate.

Now, we’re just hoping that they really did send an officer because those kittens would not have survived long, and we’re going to go back soon (as long as Edwards doesn’t shadow ban us from entering the place).

Big day. Long day. One of the more action-packed days on the job. We're only going to mention positive things happening to us in the future, and quit talking about how for sure, we are going to be the ones to find dead body dumps. Too much shit came true today to test that out.

#my posts #work stories #this kind of turned into an essay whoops #long post

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