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blackswaneuroparedux · 4 years ago

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Anonymous asked: You sound like a remarkable woman out of her time. Your posts suggest you are modern and feminine yet your cultured intelligence and cleverness seems from an earlier lost time. Would you prefer to be living in 18th Century Georgian England? One imagines you would fit right in as a heroine in Jane Austen’s Regency world of aristocratic manners and clever barbs over tea in the drawing room.

I had to smile to myself a little because the last thing I ever saw myself was a Jane Austen character. I certainly don’t see myself as heroine of Austen’s world. After all don’t most if not all of Austen’s literary heroines spend their time pathetically pining away for the socially aloof and yet heroically vulnerable gentlemen they profess to love, men who are usually too dense to know that these whining women have childish schoolgirl crushes on them? I know I’m going to angry mails now from pouting Austen fans but I have to speak my mind.

Like most people I do profess to liking a nice, cosy Jane Austen adaptation on television. The fabulous frocks, fans, feathers and finery soothe us with images of a gentler, well-mannered time when gentlemen in cravats and breeches wooed perfumed ladies across ballrooms and well-manicured lawns.

However the reality was not quite so lovely. It’s not that women - like Austen’s literary women - were caught up in the social constraints of their time but also I would get restless just sitting down all day to tea and gossip. I would sooner catch the first ship bound for India and have adventures in the Orient along the way. Tea with Mr Darcy in well stuffed breeches might not be enough for me but then again a well stocked library as most landed gentry homes had would make me reconsider.

I’m fortunate that within my family we have a wealth of diaries, correspondence, private papers, and other family heirlooms that go back a few centuries which we have scrupulously stored to hopefully pass onto future generations.

So when I can decipher some letters of my ancestors it gives me some insight into what life was like for them as men and women of their time. It’s not always easy to read as they loved to scribble in ink (now faded) in the margins on nearly every page of the books they read. And so the penmanship is stylish but minuscule and therefore sometimes hard to make out. The letters are somewhat more legible but it requires patience and perseverance to make sense of what they were writing about. It’s a wonderful way to flesh out the genealogical tree with titbits of personal anecdotes that could be perfunctory, mundane, scandalous, salacious, romantic, and even political.

I’ve read Jane Austen like every other girl at boarding school I imagine. I like her writings but I wouldn’t say my heart is in it to actually live through that time.

Life for Georgian women, even of high birth, was harsh enough in a time when men still held all the power and husbands could beat and even rape their wives. Noblewomen caught diseases passed on from their husband's prostitutes and were still subjected to confinement and the barbaric medical practice of bleeding when pregnant. Even their fashions and frippery provided cold comfort when their make-up poisoned them, unwashed dresses and undergarments stank and their fancy foods made their teeth rot and fall out.

The fact that women did survive and even thrive is a testament to their strength and fortitude which I find admirable.

I’m used to mud and sweat and even living rough because as ex-army officer I was trained to suck it up but it’s also in my nature because I love going rough when I hike or climb mountains or trek to other places off the beaten track. So I’m not squeamish so long as at the end of the day I can bathe or shower my aches away and I can put on a fresh change of clothing. However even I recoil in some horror when I consider that despite their elegant appearance, Georgian women carried a world of stench. While hands and faces would be washed daily, immersive bathing was considered bad for the health and was only indulged in occasionally.

The heavy gowns of the period would have caused the wearer to sweat profusely, with only perfumes such as rose water and orange blossom to mask the smell. The clothes themselves would also be pungent. Due to the huge amount of work involved in laundering, most households would have a maximum of one wash-day a month. Linen undergarments were changed as often as possible, but their "clean" smell would still be unappealing to us. Linen was often bleached in chamber lye, a kind of soap made from ashes and urine.

As if bodily odour was not bad enough, there was also the whiff of rotting teeth. A sugar-rich diet led to frequent tooth-decay in the upper classes. Cleansing tooth-powders had started to emerge but most of these featured "spirit of vitriol", known to us as sulphuric acid, and stripped teeth of their enamel. Often the best remedy for smelling teeth and bad breath was to chew herbs such as parsley. Where a tooth was past hope of redemption, it would be pulled with pliers or a tooth key, a claw that would fix to the teeth so it could be loosened in the jaw. To avoid a gummy smile, ladies of fashion sought false teeth made from ivory or porcelain but, where possible, they preferred to have "live" teeth in their dentures. Poor people were encouraged to sell healthy teeth for this purpose. While such a practice was unethical, it was better than the other method of sourcing human teeth: pillaging them battlefields and graveyards.

Georgian women were renowned for their snowy faces and dark eyebrows but achieving the fashionable skin tone could be extremely dangerous. White face powders were lead-based and some also featured vinegar and horse manure. Years of coating the entire face, shoulders and neck with such a mixture could lead to catastrophic consequences. Society beauty Maria Gunning died at the age of just 27, having spent her life addicted to cosmetics. Lead-poisoning could cause hair loss and tooth decay but ingeniously, these problems were elegantly adapted into the fashion and it became desirable to have a high forehead and pencil-thin eyebrows. If your own eyebrows failed you completely, you could always trap a mouse in the kitchen and use its fur to make a new artificial pair.

I usually wear my hair straight or tied up in a bun so I don’t fuss too much over my hair. This would certainly be out of place if I lived in Georgian times. Georgian ladies were the mistresses of big hair. They piled their frizzed and curled locks over pads or wires to create show pieces for the drawing room. Often their own hair was not sufficient and had to be supplemented by horse hair and false pieces. Styles from the 1760s were domed or egg-shaped, elongating into the pouf in the 1780s. But Georgiana, the infamous Duchess of Devonshire, had to take things a step further. She introduced the three-foot hair tower, ornamented with stuffed birds, waxed fruit and model ships. Following her example, women competed with one another to make the tallest headdress. Since these styles were costly and took hours to arrange, they were worn for several weeks. Ladies had to sleep sitting up and travel on the carriage floor to avoid spoiling their creations. With no combing possible, lice were inevitable so a special scratching rod was invented for irritated ladies to poke into their piled up hair.

It wasn’t any real fun being a woman and I often think Jane Austen is selling a false bill of goods in her books. You never see women in her novels deal with their menstrual problems. No one has proved for certain what they did, if anything, for sanitary hygiene. With no knickers to hold in strips of linen or rag, they were left to Mother Nature’s mercy. I can imagine that being a conversation stopper in the drawing room over tea with the vicar and his prissy wife. Their toilet habits were a little more civilised. When ladies at the royal court were caught short, they resorted to porcelain jugs much like a modern-day gravy boat. This contraption, called a bourdaloue, was stuffed up beneath the skirts and clenched beneath the thighs. Apparently it was quite normal for a lady to continue her conversation while urinating into the device! I think Jane Austen missed a trick by not having at least one scene with Elizabeth Bennet urinating under her skirts whilst trading clever barbs with Mr Darcy.

Speaking of which marriage was not a box of chocolates in the early 18th Century or indeed later in Austen’s day. Upon marriage, a lady and all her worldly goods would become property of her husband. It was therefore essential to guard a well-to-do bride’s interests with a legal marriage settlement before the ceremony took place. I read somewhere that Henrietta Hobart, later mistress to George II, had reason to be thankful for the settlement drawn up before her marriage to Charles Howard in 1706. It stipulated that two thirds of her dowry should be invested, with the interest at her sole disposal. Should Henrietta die, the funds were to pass to her children. This arrangement was to prove life-saving when her husband became an abusive gambling-addict and alcoholic.

Lower class women were known to take extreme measures to protect their future husbands from their own debts. "Smock weddings" were intended to show that the bride brought no clothes or property to the union, thus exempting each spouse from the other’s financial liabilities. The woman would be married wearing only her undergarment or smock – or sometimes nothing at all. Of course no marriage settlement, however generous, could save a woman from a violent husband and it remained legal for a man to rape or kidnap his wife. While excessive beating was frowned upon, whipping was considered a reasonable measure to discipline a wife. Even so, it would appear many men pushed their rights beyond the limit, for laws were later amended to say a man could only beat his wife with a stick "no thicker than his thumb".

Escaping an abusive marriage then was well-nigh impossible. Divorces were so expensive that they remained the privilege of the very rich. Even if a lady did have the money to appeal for divorce, she was by no means certain of success. She would have to prove both adultery and "life-threatening cruelty". And if she won her freedom, it would come with more than just a social cost - any children from the marriage would remain property of the husband. Certainly in my family - on my father’s English side of the family - they had their fair share of scandalous behaviour that didn’t reflect well to our 21st Century minds.

Certainly the Georgians were not sexless and they enjoyed their carnal pleasures but of course being aristocratic they never did things that would publicly expose them to scandal. I was reading one such letter of an ancestor who was writing to her older sister about how hard it was for her to conceive her first child - a son naturally - that her rakish husband first took to prostitutes in an era when such things were common and the risk of infection from sexually transmitted diseases was rife. And then later settled on one mistress whom he seriously gave thought to impregnate her. However the mistress was an actress and thus such a union was frowned upon in landed gentry circles and so he was shamed back to his high born wife and to ‘try harder by God’s Providence’. The duty of any aristocratic wife was to produce a healthy son and heir but if nature did not take its course, they could seek help and so these ancestors of mine did.

Like many other aristocratic couples with trouble conceiving children they sought out quacks who made promises to cure infertility. One such person was a Dr James Graham who had invented what he called ‘The Celestial Bed’ that guaranteed conception and unearthly sexual pleasure. The bed itself was electrified and stood on insulating glass legs. The mattress was stuffed with stallion hair to increase potency. Mirrored floors and music from a glass harmonica heightened the experience, while the air swirled with exotic perfumes. Having made love on this bizarre contraption, the couple were encouraged to take ice baths and have a firm massage. The lady would also be advised to douse her genitals with champagne.

It must have worked because the family line did not die out but flourished. It proves to me that champagne is the answer to almost every question in life. A woman’s travails were not over just because she was successfully pregnant. More hazards lay in her path. Despite advances in medicine, a shocking number of medieval practices remained in the Georgian birthing chamber. The long period of rest or "confinement" leading up to the birth was still enforced for wealthy women. The rooms would be kept dark and sweltering with the expectant mother wrapped up in fustian waistcoats and petticoats. As soon as she had given birth, the room was made even hotter, with the curtains round the bed pinned and even the keyhole in the door stopped to prevent a draft. When I lived in China I discovered this is what Chinese mothers did and still do to this day. So I wasn’t so surprised when I read such a practice happened in other cultures like my own.

Those more fortunate might find themselves in a birthing chair. This had a sloped back and a semi-circle cut from the seat, designed to let gravity aid nature. It was certainly a better option than staining expensive bedding and linen. With only female relatives and an unofficially trained midwife to help, many women and their babies died in childbed, as it was known. Even when male surgeons became involved in obstetrics toward the end of the century, treatments were woefully inadequate. I read in the correspondence of one of my female ancestors that she was frequently ‘bled’ during her pregnancy. Somehow she survived any risk of post-partum haemorrhage.

Even when a birth was successful without complication the wife/mother was not out of the woods just yet. In keeping with custom in landed gentry circles of the times, the new mother would not suckle their own babies. In keeping its custom this taks was given over to a wet nurse. In the case of one of my ancestors whose correspondence I read she got a village girl from the family estates to breast feed the baby. The reason for doing so was brutally simple. Firstly, it was to ensure that the lady could conceive again as soon as possible. And secondly, Wealthier women often had difficulty breastfeeding due to their tight corsets or stays. It was also believed that a child would grow up stronger and hardier with a country-woman’s milk.

But even when the baby sprog was weaned, it was common practice for it to be handed to foster-parents until it was old enough to run about and talk. Interestingly enough Jane Austen and her siblings were fostered by a cottager in Deane village, two miles from their family home.

So overall I’m no so sure I would be thrilled to be living in the Georgian and Regency era even if it meant challenging that scoundrel Mr Wickham to a sword duel (and kicking his arse), match making with Emma, or even missing out on the pleasure of taking tea with Mr Darcy.

Sorry Mr Darcy.

Of course I’m fascinated with history and one sometimes wonder what it might be like to live in a particular time. However it’s just a flight of the imagination because to paraphrase Sir Roger Scruton I prefer to live in “the pastness of the present” rather than the past itself. This is the difference between being an historically illiterate reactionary and being a true conservative.

Thanks for your question

#question #ask #regency #georgian england #living #women #femme #personal #family

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creedatelier · 4 years ago

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Ballroom In The Sky.

Gazing with his mouth wide open towards a sullen evening sky dotted with jet black clouds

Geoff Wild weeps.

He was on his knees on this grass-strewn, unkempt graveyard.

Two years later and her memory still lingers.

The sudden passing of his loved one had left this middle-aged man gaunt, ashen faced and skeletal. Wild’s troubled expression had become a haunted house of uncanny notions and strange secrets waiting to flow from his water-logged eyes. Those circumstances surrounding Violet’s death were never clear.

Velvet Heart was Geoff’s courtship name for Violet.

Was it a death wish or an accidental fall from their elegant townhouse?

Death through misadventure was the colourful term used.

“Cherish all those wonderful experiences we had. Whichever one of us dies first.”

Violet actually said.

Almost as if she had some premonition.

This was six months before she passed away. .An endless see-saw of creepy dawning’s convulsed him.

Yet Wild fondly recalled when they first met at the Skyline Ballroom.

The Skyline was a battered tumbledown barn whose allure was its availability.

The chipped hardwood floor and the dusty pale cream walls with paint flakes that peeled off only confirmed its tenement status. It was known locally as the “Creaking Beam”” due to its ghostly acoustics and flickering lights. Here in this spooky venue Geoff and Violet had their earliest encounter. Wild remembered her radiant smiles.

The ripples of long dark hair, her apple blossom cheeks and of course her angelic aura..

On that night she wore a polka dot ruche dress, amethyst ear pendants, whilst sporting satin moccasins.

“Have I the gumption? The courage.

A faint heart etc.” Geoff could hear his heart flutter as he did his tightrope walk toward her.

“May I dance with you?” Geoff asked.

Velvet heart’s hands formed a lazy arch and her dainty fingers curled inwards.

“Of course. I would be delighted.” Violet spoke in that pear drop tone which beguiled everybody.

Geoff, the local journalist and writer was in seventh heaven.

They never forgot that enchanting song they first danced to, “Ballroom In The Sky.”

The song was performed by Valerie And The Blue Skies.

They weren’t very big but had a cult following..

Geoff could see how similar Violet and Valerie were.

They were mirror images of each other.

Even in speech and humour.

Valerie was based in a remote enigmatic area.

She used to refer to songs as role plays.

“You feel as though you are a member of the audience.” Valerie remarked.

Violet did admit to meeting Valerie casually and for autograph purposes but not otherwise or so it seemed.

It was amazing how “ Ballroom In The Sky” with its airy ascending rock chords and jaunty jazz lines could draw Violet, Valerie and Geoff into a peculiar triangle.

The sudden moody breaks, abrupt silences built a momentary cocoon.

Valerie’s top sideman....well, he was known as Silent Sam.

He had a track record of sorts.

Sam’s blue attire was appropriate.

He wore a large trilby hat tipped over his forehead sheltering his pointed face and pencil slim physique.

He, Sam, was short-sighted when it suited and eccentric.

Practical jokes were his forte and the impish grin.

“Yep ..Yup....or Sure.“

These were the only asides from this oddball sidemen for the most part.

He was accident prone.

Valerie had to indicate where things were. Theirs was a sign language of its own complete with slanted facial squirms.

One wondered if there was a deeper relationship between them.

Those Blue Skies airs were fillers without Sam.

Every time “Ballroom In The Sky” was played Valerie, Violet and Geoff were sharing unwittingly a secret.

The startled looks were part of this outlandish ritual.

Wild recalled now.

“Valerie could croon in a real hypnotic fashion. Everyone in the dancehall was enthralled. People would sway like ice skaters one moment, waltz in a swan-like manner the next and just as often rave in the isles like end of term teenagers.”

Geoff whispers in the graveyard.

“JUST A PASSING DREAM...........STILL SO VIVID.......DANCING IN HEAVEN...... KISSES ALL AROUND....MAGIC HAND........A LITTLE BIT BLIND, and of course “BALLROOM IN THE SKY.”

Geoff and Violet would swing religiously to those fantasy songs every Sunday as their courtship blossomed.

“Ballroom In The Sky “ was always the highpoint.

This constellation of events occurred in a scenic nineteen seventies spot.

Despite its haunting vistas and backdrop of panoramic hills it resembled a ghost town. Openings were few against an infinite spiral of closing factories, bookstores with half-empty shelves and shopkeepers peering out of doors.

Ten years earlier it was a beacon. “I shudder to think…...A jigsaw puzzle.”

Geoff surveying the cemetery.

Such memories could have been taken directly from some movie script. “Yes .. it was a hub that Skyline. Like homeless drifters, the folk who attended.”

Geoff again.

They were fugitives.

Escapees from that heavy-handed dole queue void.

Suddenly something happened.

“What the heavens is? Snap….a branch.” Momentary jitters engulfing Wild.

He shook in concert with the overarching colonnade of brown edge green leaf trees.

An eerie rustling dewdrop tiptoe now caressing Geoff’s ears.

”Up there somewhere Velvet Heart?

Dancing in the heavens?”

Nervous laughter now relief road to that traffic jam of sentiment about to speed off.

Glued to the spot that macabre sixth sense of Violet hovering above evaporates due to an illusory late evening sun shaft.

Wild could no longer hide from Valerie and Velvet Heart’s identities.

“Oh those comic jibes and piercing glances. Some ethereal intrigues were passing through the air.”

Geoff recalls with forensic clarity.

Poor Silent Sam would do his usual u-turn into the shadow.

Two months before Geoff's and Violet’s parting, an incident occurred.

Memory is a lodger which steadfastly refuses to surrender its keys.

Valerie and the Blue Skies were in flying form as the tunes morphed into each other.

Valerie and Velvet Heart were magnets for men.

Violet caught Geoff off guard.

“Guilty conscience, there Geoff?”

Having fantasies about Valerie.

Focus on me.

As for that eternity ring remember?”

Those penetrating peepers of Violet knew how to vet a body in a flash.

“Oh no .....not at all.” Geoff with a looping

smirk.

“Just those mystical melodies working their spell.” He said.

“You came into my life like.... a new dawn.” Wild poetically.

“You honey tongue you. Geoff our song. Ballroom.” Violet mutters.

Valerie nodded towards Sam.

Her expression was a hard to decipher veil and deep code command.

“Get those fingers flying, Sam.”

In a tone almost identical to Velvet Heart.

Sam didn’t always act immediately.

“Yep.. Yup ...Sure.” Sam’s stock retort.

“Ballroom In The Sky” now strong as ever cast its bewitching spell throughout the venue.

A medley was included tonight.

“SOMEONE FOR EVERYONE” ( Sam looked at Valerie), “A LITTLE BIT BLIND” ( Sam staring vacantly at both Valerie and Violet), “MIND YOUR STEP( Sam winking at Geoff while scrunching the mouth at Violet).

Violet edged toward the stage.

A dim-lit silence ensued.

Ballroom started again. Valerie and Violet now singing this tune. An eerie vacuum filled this dancehall.

A triangular crush of people occurred near the stage with Geoff in toe.

Valerie handed Violet a letter.

Sam was now talking tersely to Valerie.

A misted over photo gallery memory blur in place.

“Pst...Pst. Your Velvet Heart is back to haunt you.“ Violet’s lofty twang.

“What in the name….I can't phantom…..fathom.” Geoff shudders.

Violet’s voice a wet whisper stretching over twigs that simultaneously tap against windows.

She pulled back an orchard pattern duvet covering Geoff.

“Fell asleep at your favourite film, The Passing Of A Velvet Heart. All those graveyard scenes shot in our small town remember?

We know Silent Sam wrote the soundtrack for the film along with Ballroom. He sings on that one.” Violet recounts.

“Incredibly you chose Velvet Heart as your courtship name for me based on the film.

The film was never a huge success but did get our area limited publicity.

Sam earned extra royalties from the soundtrack.

Valerie and Sam tying the knot next Sunday of all days.

As for that love letter you mumbled about.

It’s an invite to their secret wedding.

Very private. As Sam is.

What a time and place he chose for the invitation.

During that ethereal love song which brought us together.” Violet observes.

“Poor Sam’s a little bit blind a

on occasions or is he?

I was upstairs on the flat roof today.

Six months ago I fell off it.

You’ve never liked me being up there since.”

Violet continuing.

“Guilty secret must confess. I used to be onstage instead of Valerie.

Well, sometimes.

She was dating you pretending to be me.

We never knew each other that well but it was a dare worked out between us.“

Geoff shouted. “Hoodwinked.”

An incredulous look ripples over Wild’s pale face.

Violet’s eyes now ablaze.

“You never noticed did you? Deep down.”

The tease in Violet surfacing..

Geoff was thunderstruck.

Violet strolled towards their CD player on the mahogany table.

“Think you’ll like this one. Our song.”

Violet stated.

“May I dance with you?”

Geoff smiled. “Of course. I would be delighted.

And relieved!”

Silent Sam’s voice weaves in his own inimitable shy way a song usually sung by Valerie, his wife to be.

And sometimes Violet, or Velvet Heart.

A number that united three people in the most curious and otherworldly manner!

“Yep….Yup ….Sure.”

As Sam was in the habit of saying!

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exo-reacts-to-you · 5 years ago

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Alluring Aura {New Euphoria}

1/ you have chosen Kyungsoo! ♥ {New Euphoria}

♡ genre: angst & smut / readerbodyguard!au / billionaire!au

♡ trigger warning: violence, swearing, mentions of physical abuse, and sexual content.

♡ summary: Kyungsoo was known for his cold appearance & the deadly silence he held in his cunning eyes. You, the most elite bodyguard was ready to protect no matter the cost. But with him, no one knew who he was deep inside & never dared to let anyone in & you never really knew your past life up until now.

Are you willing to risk your life and emotions over this?

You heard about many things about one man in particularity named Kyungsoo. Not in detail as in other people’s eyes he was only known as a proper yet dangerous man.

The only thing interesting that made your ears perk up was the whispers around town lately about how he allegedly murdered his whole family because “he was a greedy bastard who wanted nothing more in the world than to have the money to himself and only to himself” you quoted what the general popular of the small town thought.

You couldn’t help but chuckle when your eyes landed on the picture of Kyungsoo that was printed on the fresh newspaper in your hands, his cold stare only questioned even more about what kind of man he really was. Or perhaps maybe he is what it seems like. Maybe, maybe he is truly a cold killer that needed the thrill, the fun that got him off.

The thoughts began to swirl around your mind the more you got around it but it all soon vanished as you felt a deep vibrate against your clothed thigh, reaching in your pants pocket to answer the call from-

“Miss (Y/N) come over to my place now.”

You knew from his tone that he wasn’t playing around and you said a quick yes before hanging up, grabbing the iced coffee that was slightly melting on your table before tipping the waitress and leaving in your sleek black car that was waiting in the clear moonlight.

“What were you doing out so late?” Kyungsoo mumbled as soon as you opened the door to his secretly located mansion, hearing your shoes tap on the marble floor that echoed the empty walls of his home.

“I wanted to see what the small town thought about you annnddd it’s not that great of a reputation you have there.” You hung your black trench coat on one of his hooks and make way towards the couch where he was reading one of those books he gotten off from his bookshelf, his reading glasses that slid all the way to the tip of his nose but he didn’t seem to notice as his eyes were focused on the printed words.

“It’s been two days and you’re already leaving my side? Thought you were an ‘elite’ bodyguard.” He said in his usual monotone voice, not once looking at you by the way he was very intrigued on his book instead. You scoff at his words and rolled your eyes, your attention redirected on your phone as you began to look for proof.

“Your assistant texted me saying that she was going to have other bodyguards hired just in case you didn’t like me or enjoyed my company and insisted in her own words I quote, ��Kyungsoo does not need a women to protect him and has decided to look for another bodyguard so you don’t need to be by his side today.” So I went to a nice coffee shop and enjoyed my time there.”

Kyungsoo lifted his head from his book to face you, his eyes burning directly towards your own as if what you said was just one big lie.

A few seconds passed and he saw that your eyes did not waver at once and concluded that you were saying the truth, closing his book shut so loudly that the sound was bouncing off the walls, ringing in your ears.

“I like you. So don’t leave my side until I say so.”

He said it ever so softly but you caught on, humming a quick “mmh” before lifting your body off of the couch and leaving his presence alone to go to the kitchen. His cold eyes you saw for a quick moment briefly showed you a soft side of him that strangely enough warmed your heart. You were so used to people not going ‘soft’ on you so emotions and feelings were not in your best suit per say.

After getting the chilled water bottle that was in his refrigerator, you went back to the living room where Kyungsoo was still seated, flipping the pages ever one in a while.

“Sir, I’m going to be in the gym training for a bit. If you need anything just call me okay?” Kyungsoo lifted his hand as a way of telling you he understood and off you went down to the gym area in his mansion.

Walking down the hallways you can see one of the paintings on the wall that caught your eye, causing you to stop midway in the dark area. You could make out the drawing, a woman and a man who seemed much older holding each other in their embrace, their smiles ear to ear.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Fuck-.” You inhaled as you felt a sharp pang in your head, your knees giving you as you landed harshly on the carpet that was rolled out in the hallways.

“Who do you think you are!? Some slut that can just disobey me!?”

Your vision was so blurry, only hearing the quick heartbeat that was poking your ribcage. You tried to breathe in and out, hoping that the image in your head would go away soon.

“You won’t get away so easily now.” the person loomed over your figure while you can make out another person behind them, they slashed a semi deep cut on your throat, the fire that fueled the blood spilled as you scream in agonizing pain.

The pain was hurting so much around your neck area, placing your hand over it and trying to massage it and suddenly, the pain was gone.

Vanished completely.

It took you a few minutes to register what happened and you chuckled, pitying yourself at the fact that you just had these nightmares coming back again ever since you started to work with Kyungsoo.

It never gave you much thought though so you pushed it aside as stupidly as it sounds. You were far more worried about the man you were suppose to be protecting than the demons that had possessed inside your head and memories.

But how were you even suppose to protect the man when you didn’t even know if he was good or not? You shook your head, that wasn’t for you to decide but it the idea of Kyungsoo being something..horrible kept on rubbing you the wrong way.

On nights like these you keep on wondering. And you wish you could stop because you can’t judge him, not on the accusations, not the reputation they built on him. But you couldn’t lie when you admit that you too, the one many people consider you as the elite and brave bodyguard, turned out not being so brave when it came down to the own issues that were constantly weighing you down. That painting resembled so much like the figures you could make out in your nightmares and it scared you like hell. Why was this happening to you?

You couldn’t make out most of your past as you only remember having a family that looked far from what you looked like but it was nice, being trained by a family who knew martial arts and wanted you to become the best. And part of you was curious as to why your adopted family never really told you what happened to you when they found you helpless in the orphanage.

“When given the order, you must obey..” You whispered to yourself as you stood up, brushing off the dust that cling on to your knees. Walking more down towards the hallway, you pray to god that you can protect this man as best as you can. Given the title to your name, you wished to give off the same impression and not to back down when a fight will arise.

“You need to be ready, and so you will.” you think to yourself.

2 months later.

“You got a message!”

You groaned as you felt the phone vibrate in your hand, remembering that you were watching a show on your phone last night before falling into a deep sleep. You pressed the home button to see the message unfold before you.

From: Kyungsoo / 2:00 pm: I need you to come with me to get more suits for an event this evening.

You groaned as you saw the time but made it out of bed with every bit of strength you had, your eyes spotting out the display of clothes on top of the white silk bed sheets. It was a plain simple white blouse paired with a black pencil skirt along with some sleek black heels.

“Cute.” You mumbled to yourself, also noticing the small pocket knife that was hiding between the clothes and it made you even more happy. You didn’t really need it since you were mastered the art of martial arts and were highly obliged to fight on one on one but the thought that Kyungsoo had given you extra protection unconscionably pasted a small smile on your face.

As you swiftly put on the clothes with a cute purse to go along with it and carefully wrapping the pocket knife in a ribbon on your black stockings that your wore underneath the small pencil skirt, you open the door to see Kyungsoo’s stone cold face directly near you and you jumped back like a cat that got bat shit scared.

“F- I mean S-Sir! I just finished getting dress-”

“Good. We can’t be late Miss (Y/N).” He abruptly cut you off. You noticed his eyes trailing off to the clothes he gave you and you smirked, twirling around to display the tight fabric on your body.

“Do I look good?”

“You look like my secretary, which is good.” He said too quickly, hiding his face. You secretly let out a smile before he saw it, seeing his ears slightly going red the more you looked at him.

So fucking cute.

He coughed into his hand, turning his back on to yours.

“We need you to not look like my bodyguard if you get what I mean.” You nodded, understanding his words. Personally, it was really fun to dress up all feminine and for your opponent to think “wow she looks so feminine so can’t possibly be a fighter” and then 10 seconds later whooped their ass was the fun of it all in your job.

“Come, we need to get there quick. The people are at this event are important. The company I’ve started are for those in need of shelters and areas that need more schools to be built and we can’t be late for it.” You nodded as you were walking side by side with Kyungsoo, briefly catching a glimpse of his face that basked in the sunlight, also catching his assistant on the far side in your view making a disgusted face at you to which you scoff at her actions in your mind.

As the hours passed by, you both lost track of the time due to Kyungsoo having a hard time picking the colours before you just told him he’ll look good in any colour and with that thought on his mind he chose to buy all grey suit with a black tie.

It was getting dark soon, your mind was more alert with the surrounding around you and Kyungsoo, watching closely to the people that walked passed by. Something was bothering you, telling you something wasn’t right and you knew to trust your gut feeling so you were on the lookout.

As you both turned down into the ally way where you were almost near where the car was parked, you suddenly heard soft footsteps approaching behind you, abruptly grabbing Kyungsoo’s arm into a halt.

“I heard something.” Kyungsoo nodded and stayed still, his eyes wandering around in the dark ally but his vision wasn’t nearly as good even with his glasses on him.

It was so silent that you could hear his and your own breathing, till you saw the figure approaching out of the shadows where you could clearly see them in the pale moonlight.

“I believe we have unfinished business together, Do Kyungsoo.”

The voice was deep, clear and crisp but you once did not waver, turning around to see if anyone else was with this man but clearly it was only the figure that was a lone wolf.

“There was no business to begin with.” Kyungsoo said sternly, he also wasn’t gonna back down so easily as he was walked in front of you, his hand clasping onto yours.

“Sir, I can protect you please.” You leaned in and whispered into his ear but he pretended that he didn’t hear you, not turning around to face you and instead tried to walk closer to the mysterious man but you kept him from moving. You weren’t going to let Kyungsoo risk his life, you had a purpose and that was to protect him with your life on the line.

The man clocked his head to the side with his slightly dark curly hair in the way, his eyes burning holes directly into yours and chuckled darkly. His hand was now reaching slowly for his back pocket as you concentrated on the details of how this was all gonna go down.

“Is this your new pet? What happened to your old one? Died out too soon?”

Kyungsoo frowned and didn’t say a word, leaving up to his icy cold eyes expresses his angry behind it instead. You knew this man was trying to get Kyungsoo more worked up but since you been working with Kyungsoo for 2 months now, you can tell his shell was more dense to break through to get to him.

The man noticing his silence, he walked a few more steps and with that your body moved itself like in slow motion. You moved Kyungsoo out of the way before the man could lift his gun to line his shot properly and you quickly grabbed his arm, twisting it as he yelped in pain giving you an opportunity to use your other hand to grab the gun out of his hand.

As the man fell onto his knees while yelling in agonizing pain you quickly aim at him with his gun while your back was facing Kyungsoo, his sudden laugh cutting off the tension.

“Oh I see how is it. After a couple of my friends choose to kill your pet and almost tried to get you, you thought your new one could protect you?” A smile pranced around on his lips as he slowly stood up, his other hand grasping of his twisted broken arm.

“Just remember the deal, Kyungsoo.” He winked and turned around, his now heavy footsteps left the scene and now it was just you and Kyungsoo alone again in the ally way. You turned around to see Kyungsoo looking at you directly now, his silent aura was starting to kill you. So many questions were popping up in your mind and you couldn’t even say anything as you decided it was the best to keep your mouth shut so you wouldn’t embarrass yourself.

“Come.” Was all he said as he reached for the gun that you grabbed so hard that your knuckles turned white, seeing the colour flushed back to normal as he gently yet firmly interlocks your hand with his and made it back into his car.

You noticed how his eyebrows were furrowed, his mouth formed into a line and his face was just, firm. You knew that look but you couldn’t exactly pinpoint what the real reason behind it all. The man had intentions, clearly they weren’t good at all.

“Just remember the deal.”

You turned your attention to the destination, realizing that you were already in the car and he was driving back to his place quickly. His eyes solely focusing on the road as you looked out to the car window, it was almost nighttime but you hope that incident didn’t make you guys late for the event at all.

“It’s almost 8.” Kyungsoo’s voice cut the tension that was floating around, his eyes drifted onto your figure before looking back at the road. You let out a soft “mhm” and sighed, all these emotions and questions were too much for you but you concealed it for the sake of the job and to also be completely profession.

“Is this your new pet?”

His snarky voice kept on appearing, shaking your head. Was there someone else protecting Kyungsoo? What happened to them? You sighed again and this time Kyungsoo noticed, raising his eyebrow a bit.

“Are you okay Miss (Y/N)?” You gave him a tiny smile along with a nod.

“Just tired but I’ll be fine for the event tonight.” You reassured him and he nodded, finally arriving at his huge mansion. As he parked his car you saw his assistant almost nearly fall while trying to run towards him, breathing heavily as she numerously tapped on the glass window of his car. He turned the windows down and waited for her to catch her breath.

“W-What took you guys so-..long? The event is almost about to start!” She asked, wiped the sweat off her forehead with the cuffs of her white shirt as she catching her breath. You heard Kyungsoo chuckle and opened the door on his right, his assistant moving out of the way so he can get out of his car fully.

“Miss (Y/N) and I have encountered someone along the way but that’s been taking care of.” He said, his hand motioning for me to get out the car and so I did, with him opening the door for me as I got out only to be met by his assistant’s annoyed look pasted on her sweaty face behind him.

“God I told you Kyungsoo to just fired her already! She’s making you lat-”

“You’re making me late by blabbing nonsense. Now, can you please get Miss (Y/N) dress ready for the event?” You smirked as you saw her smug face turned sour as his voice got more demanding and strict. She nodded quickly and ran out with her heels clicking together.

As her clicking heels sound was gone, he turned around and god was it hard to keep your composure when he looked at you. It was hard enough that your client was so fucking beautiful but it’s another thing when you saw his hand reaching out towards yours as if he was learning for your touch. You motioned your petite hands towards his, his hand grabbing yours with a mysterious glint that simmering in his warm chocolate eyes.

“Kyungsoo-”

“Don’t believe in what he said.” Was all that Kyungsoo said before he pulled away his hand away, the touch that ignited the spark in your heart faded too fast for your liking that you grabbed onto Kyungsoo’s arm and turned him around, his whole figure that towering around you.

His cologne was a mixture notes of wood, lavender with a hint of spice. It consumed your nostrils the more he got closer, hoping he couldn’t hear your rapid heartbeat banging on your rib cage. You lost your train of thought as you both continue to stare at each other, realizing that your phone was now vibrating with new messages that snapped you out of your trance.

“I-..call me (Y/N) please. Miss is too formal.”

Fuck! That’s definitely NOT what you wanted to say god damnit.

He stared at you for a few moments before nodding and letting of your hand that grasp on his arm so tightly, his back was all you can see as it kept on reminding you that he was not like the other clients you had before. But that’s what you kinda like about Kyungsoo. The mystery behind it even though the curiosity of finding it out kills you.

You grabbed the phone out of your purse and saw the angry messages from his assistant and mentally wanted to face palm the shit out of your face. Not because of the messages but because your poorly chosen words you picked out of hesitating and now he probably thinks your a weirdo for stopping him like that.

“Great job (Y/N)..” You grumbled and made your way to the door, swinging the door open to see her face, that smug face that shouldn’t even be there to begin with but you managed to break a smile before pushing your way through the door, hearing her scoff at you.

The event was doing fairly fine as the people in their fancy suits and dresses were mingling with each other. The pleasant sound of soulful jazz danced around in the beautifully lit room, the chandeliers shining bright like a rare diamond in the starry night sky that touch your heart. A feeling that brought a small smile on your face and Kyungsoo saw as well.

“How’s the event going so far?” He asked, his arm intertwined with yours as you walked to the table where the food was presently nicely.

“It’s fine, I guess. Are you enjoying it Sir?” His expression was hard to tell but alas he gave you a reassuring smile before grabbing tons of food from the table like a hamster trying to stuff all the food in his mouth. You let a stiff laugh which caught his attention, his eyebrow raised in to a question. You shook your head and continued to eat what the chef had to offer the event, the deliciously seasoned cooked meals were enough to fill you up for the night.

As the event continued to play on it was time for Kyungsoo’s speech on his company so when he left to go up on the stage you were standing right between where the people gathering around with your red silk dress that reach to the bottom of the marble floor, the crowd welcomed him with loud claps along with some warm smile you swore hid some ugly lies to them. Although you knew that Kyungsoo was loved by everyone you also knew that deep down it was also because of a hatred that stirred up inside of them, jealous that they couldn’t do what he did and instead try to take them down.

It didn’t even take a second to register that there was something fishy going on tonight. The atmosphere took by storm every minute thatpassed and you couldn’t exactly say what is was. You could see a pair of unknown eyes in the crowd that was watching you, but you couldn’t see them as the people were humbly bundled up together as Kyungsoo’s speech went on.

When his speech was done and the people continuously clapped before he walked off he abruptly frowns at you and you were confused for a bit but then felt your heart drop like hell the second when you felt a pair of hands harshly grabbing at your skin, facing a man when a simple black suit on with multiple rings on his fingers, a smile that made you wanted to run for your life you stood firmly on your grounds.

“Miss..(Y/N) isn’t it? I heard many things about you.” His voice was gravelly, low and rough that gave a shiver down your spine to which he noticed right away and smiled at Kyungsoo, sensing the fear in his eyes that took you by surprise since you never saw Kyungsoo had that look before.

“Not much of a talker huh? Well my name is Kim Joo Won.” He took your hand and placed a kiss on the surface of your skin, taking every strength of your body not to punch the dude right off the bat.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Kim Joo Won.” You said with a forced pearly white smile, your nose burning at the smell of alcohol when he got closer which made Kyungsoo walked right in front of you, instantly replacing with the cologne you warmly recognize.

“What do you want Joo Won?” Kyungsoo said in a gruff voice, you titled you head to the side to see Joo Won now smirking at Kyungsoo at the sight of you guys.

“Nothing much except for that thing that made you become known for.” Joo’s voice’s soaked in venom as his eyes danced around mischievously.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You looked at Kyungsoo to see his anger sweeping through his body, his hand formed into a fist but his voice still staying monotone. Joo Won faked a small fake laugh as he begins to walk slowly towards Kyungsoo in small steps, the clicking of his fancy shoes getting louder.

“My men sacred you didn’t they? You knew what was going to happen if you didn’t give what we wanted and yet you still want to play native?” The more Joo Won walked closer to Kyungsoo the more you fret for his life, your hand clinging onto his arm and you swore you felt Kyungsoo lessen his muscles a big from your touch. His face was now so close to Kyungsoo, his breath particularly hitting his face.

“Don’t forget Kyungsoo, you know who wants that stupid prized art piece the most.” He spat and left, pushing his shoulder in the way as he disappeared into the shadows of the room.

The amount of silence was you could only hear was unbearable even when you were in a room with so many people dining and enjoying the company of others and Kyungsoo’s absent of words was making it worse. But finally he faced you, his hair was gelled to perfection was slowly falling down, his sculptured face structure got you hypnotized for a second.

The events that just happened seem like they didn’t even happened as he was all you could think now, never knowing what he was thinking in this moment. You saw the dust on his shoulder next to his neck and without thinking it twice you moved your hand to dusted it off, his whole body move frantically away from you and his face winced in pain as if you stabbed him there.

“I-Kyungsoo! Are you-”

“I’m fine.” He inhaled sharply as he closed his eyes tightly as his clasped over his neck, hissing in pain. You widen your eyes as you looked down to stare at your hands trembling. You didn’t brush it off harshly so why was he in pain?

“Let’s get out of here.” You didn’t have to say anything as he already had a grip on your hand and dragged you out the place that was all too much for you to consume.

When you arrived at his place your heart was still racing at the events that kept on playing in your mind. Who was the man in the ally way? Who was Kim Joo Won? What was the prized art piece? Why was Kyungsoo in pain like that? Who were those people that kept appearing in your nightmares? Once again, you felt like you were trapped in a tightly closed room with no air, with every gasp of you breathing was losing and you felt your chest constrained so tightly that you fell to you knees that stopped Kyungsoo in his tracks.

“(Y/N)!” He exclaimed as he fell to his knees and brushed your hair to your ear to see your red sweaty face but you couldn’t snap out of it, making it hard for you to catch your breath.

“Breathe in and out. That’s it.” You took Kyungsoo’s words and began to inhale and exhale, the thoughts and questions subsided and now you widen your eyes at the fact that you were in Kyungsoo’s arms in the middle of his dimly lit living room.

“O-Oh my god Kyungsoo I’m so sorry.” He shook his head and placed his hand on top of your head, comforting you as you sighed deeply in his warmth and leaned in closer to his firm chest. You could hear his loud heartbeat against your ear, letting your body relax against his and for the first time you felt it again.

The warmth that you never recognized once in all of your life. But here it was, a foreign feeling that you carved so much that you wanted to drown in it, let it consume you with all of the other feelings that came with it. The pain, the struggle of wanting to say something, it all seemed to melt away the second his long arms wrapped around your waist and you nuzzled your face against his chest once more. This was a drug that was eating you alive but you could care less as now you could feel his body move under you, his head moving down a bit and placed a small kiss on the crown of your head.

“I’m sorry about today.” His voice now low and raspy, your ears perked up.

“No, I’m sorry Sir. I didn’t mean to hurt you like that.”

“No please, call me Kyungsoo.”

“Sir- I mean Kyungsoo” You corrected hastily, “I didn’t mean to touch you like that..”

Kyungsoo fell into a silent abyss that got you worried about but then he spoke again.

“Do you remember what that man in the ally way said?” Of course you did. It was all you could even think about. You nodded and he hesitantly continued on.

“I never really told anybody this but my parents..they never really cared about my well being and it took a while before..” He trailed off, hearing his heartbeat going faster as the minutes passed by.

“They wanted me dead. I know that for a fact.” You didn’t know what to say, your heart now dreaded at the thought of his fears of someone out there to get you was just like yours except you couldn’t exactly remember a thing at all before becoming a bodyguard. He caught on with your absent now and sighed, feeling his chest move up sightly.

“I’m sorry for bringing you all in this mess.”

“You’re my client Kyungsoo. It’s my job to protect you no matter the cost.” You tilted your head upwards against his chest to his eyes staring down at yours, those damn sweet brown eyes catching your breath. He seemed a bit disappointed by the way his wavered around, avoiding eye contact with you as he pressed his lips into a tight line before unwrapping his arms around you and pushing you away, the cool breeze that touches your skin instantly.

“I’m..gonna go to sleep.” He stood up and with a heavy heart that dropped in your stomach you were forced to see him walk away from you every time you got closer to him. You knew something had happened to him. The way he would wince away from your fingertips the moment you felt his skin prick out, his fear swimming around into his pupils every time you wanted to get closer to him.

All of this just reminded you that you should’ve never gotten closer to him in the first place, should’ve pushed your emotions and feelings away from a man that was closed off in his own world already. But even when he pushed you away you saw his soft gentle smile whenever you were in his presence, or when you made sure whenever he wasn’t stressing out alone it gave you...hope.

And when you fell in love with him more every single day, the more distinct he putted in between him and you was ripping you apart painfully so.

6 months later.

Many days and months have passed by since that incident and you were on the edge as you could feel something bad was going to happen. It was your natural instinct to know when something was going to jump out or when someone was going to plan something and but this, this was too hard to make it out of something.

And as the months went by, you saw Kyungsoo get more strict with how he was around you and everyone else working along besides him. You had to suck it up and pretend that it wasn’t affecting you in any way but how could you when it annoyed you so much about how he wasn’t going to even let you try to protect. Why have you around when he wasn’t going to let you do anything?

You lifted your head up at your door swing wide open in a flash, Kyungsoo’s assistant marching with her eyebrows furrowed in a bunch into your bedroom (Kyungsoo would call it the guest room but you made it into your own room) before stopping right where the bed stood in the room.

“What is it now? Gonna throw more insults at me?” You didn’t even bother to look at her as she would occasionally go into your room drunk or not and tell you were a shitty bodyguard, which you thought was a complete waste of time on her part.

“I like to apologize (Y/N).” You widen your eyes at her sudden soft voice and whipped your head towards her direction now, her face looking down, too timid to face you.

“...Is this a joke?”

“No, I’m serious. Can’t you tell?” You shook your head and she sighed, now sitting down on the bed beside you where you stood up when she barged in.

“I..realized that I was a complete asshole to you for no reason. Well actually, scratch that, I was kinda of an asshole for one reason.” You raised your eyebrow at her, her petite face still looking at the ground as she fiddle around with her fingers in her lap.

“I wanted to be Kyungsoo for a while now and to see him so close to you was..a stab to the heart and I tried so hard to get rid of you but I see how much he cares about you (Y/N).” You felt your heart drop at the mention of his name that you didn’t even hear the rest of her sentence, so bittersweet that it hurts to even breathe but you kept it under control as she continued on

“I was around him for a while ever since he wasn’t on good terms with his parents, still isn’t. And the amount of times he got his throat constrained with a rough rope while I was there with my body tapped onto a chair was so fucking scary. They wanted what he had. Money. And that art piece he has kept around is the reason why they want him dead. It was the reason why it got his family rich in the first place. And I couldn’t protect Kyungsoo as much I like to and seeing how you kept yourself around made me really jealous and then later on angry because Kyungsoo wouldn’t believe me when I told him that you could help him, saving his life and saving him from drowning himself in those thoughts he kept.”

You felt the throat dry, the words you want to say weren’t coming out but you managed to bring yourself out of it.

“Has he ever told you those thoughts he kept to himself?” You asked softly. She now lifted her eyes from the ground and into yours, her eyes tearing up as her lips begin to tremble on their own.

“No but I do know what it’s like to not be loved by someone you want to impress so badly and to have those thoughts overwhelm you..”

Her words trailed off as well and was now placing her hands over her face, tears that were kept inside for so long was being let out and you passed over the petty drama you had between each other and embrace her in your arms, her face now crying into your shoulder while your hands rub her back to subside her tears a bit.

“But I know Kyungsoo wants you (Y/N) and I don’t want to push him into liking me if he found someone that can make him happy.” You couldn’t let go of those words once she said them out loud.

“Someone that can make him happy.”

You also felt the tears beginning to well up in your eyes and you closed them as you embrace her harder in your arms, letting the tears escape once you register that for a man to is known for his rough exterior, it’s all because of the ones he loved the most hurt him, ruined him. Made him feel like nothing to the point where he couldn’t feel people’s emotions around him because he was too busy putting his guard up on himself.

As she stopped crying and left your embrace you bid your goodbyes to her and she left your room, leaving you and the emptiness in your room be in your presence again but this time it was good. You lay your head on the soft bed, your heavy eyelids began to close down and you let yourself swim in the darkness that devour all the vision you had.

“You never learn do you?” The voice sneered at you as they harshly placed their rough hands around your swollen neck and you yelp, the pain increasing making it hard for you to breathe, their eyes right in front of you as you felt the light you once had was now vanishing by the time you tried to fight back.

You gasped and lift your upper body up as the nightmares came back up, placing your hand on your neck that had the pain thumping was now missing. You closed your eyes as you sense that this was wrong, these nightmares weren’t right. You never had them up until now and when you saw that damn painting in that hallway that one night. The pain that would appear in your neck would be gone every time you put your hand over it didn’t make sense at all. But all of this was cut off as you heard someone knocking on your bedroom door.

“Come in.” You croaked and tried to brush your hair out with your fingers, your eyes meeting with Kyungsoo’s as he stood awkwardly in your room, noticing that he was wearing the suit that he bought when you guys went shopping a few months ago.

“I need you to come with me to get some groceries.” You wanted to sass him in that moment and tell him to ask his other bodyguards to go with him but something was stopping you in your tracks to do so you all you did was nod like robots in command.

You were in your black sweatpants with a simple tank top, your nipples poking out when the slight cold breeze hits you. As you got out of your bed and began to stretch you looked over at Kyungsoo’s face all red, fake coughing in his fist and he was caught by the sly smirk on your pretty face, the hair perfectly tousled but in a cute way in his vision.

Kyungsoo had no problem when it came down to cooking so when it came down to grocery shopping he was quick as hell. He had the whole meal and ingredients imprinted in his mind so he was quick with the way he grab the organic items before you both headed out of the place, the cool gust of wind that hits your hands that was holds on to Kyungsoo’s arm, the scenery of the orangery sky that reminds of the many restless nights you had when you had some time alone to yourself in your bedroom when Kyungsoo was busy with his work upstairs.

As you were getting closer to his place you felt him stop, your body pulled back into a halt as you look to see Kyungsoo’s happy state of mind was now replaced with a disrupted grunt, his eyes narrowed at the right in front of him.

“So we meet again, Kyungsoo.” This time he wasn’t alone, you see as you couldn’t thought this wouldn’t get worse.

Kim Joo Won and the man you met in the ally way, a whole group of men with their pitch black expensive suits and their little toys were in their hands, grinning at the sight of a man and a woman they preceded to be helpless already.

“I’m not giving it up.” Kyungsoo said firmly, his voice meaning that he was playing around but it was all funny to Joo Won himself and his gang behind him as they laughed, their eyes twisting of joy.

“God you’re so god damn stupid. You’re the one who made this deal after all.”

“And I’m not that stupid to give in.”

“Fine. So it be idiot.” Joo Won motioned his hand to the curly hair man to you and gave you sickly evil smile on his lips.

“We’ll take your new prized pet then.”

Fuck no you’re not!

You acted scared and screamed a raspy ‘out of breath’ no as he took your wrist spilling the groceries in the process and pulled you towards him as you quickly looked at Kyungsoo and gave him a reassuring look just before you acted even more hysterically scared out of your mind and screamed louder before Joo Won’s hand put his hand in front of your mouth.

“Your new pet is quick loud for much for my taste..” Joo won swiftly pulled a gun out of his back pocket and placed it next to your temple, seeing Kyungsoo’s emotions get the best of him as he tried to step towards you but was stopped by the other men that were holding him back down and with the curly man’s other hand with a gun in his leather gloved hands.

“I think it’s best to put her down, don’t you think Do Kyungsoo?” Kyungsoo only had eyes on you but still didn’t move as he was still afraid of what he was truly going to do with you.

But you were always one step ahead of your opponents.

In one swift movement you move your head to the side and grabbed Joo Won’s wrist moving it upward, his fingers pulling the trigger that caused to miss his firing shot and you kicked him in the stomach, causing him to let go of the gun that you caught with your free hand. You quickly started to wave your gun around at the curly hair man and the two men holding down Kyungsoo in their grip.

“You move and I’ll shoot you in the leg.” You stated, watching the man that had the gun in his hand movements carefully and cautiously. He gave you a playfully smirk and clocked his gun at you, his eyes remaining cold and steady.

“I’ll go first sweetheart.” You saw his finger about to press on the trigger to which you moved your body side by side, avoiding every shot he took before he had the gun in his hand kicked out by your kick and was shot by your bullet, his hand bleeding out crimson blood where you shot him at as he yelled out in pain, his figure bowing down before you and you took this opportunity to knock with out with his gun from the floor you picked up and shot him in leg to disable him to walk for a bit.

As you turned around you saw the rest of the members circling around you slowly, your eyes eyeing them attentively before one of them starting to dash in front of you. You then use your elbow to aim at his eyes, sensing that someone was coming up behind you so you used the blinded man as your shield quickly causing him to be shot by his own ally, discarding him as you sense another one running up towards you. In a quick flash your roughly grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt, pulling him towards you as you raised your knee to kick in in his private area as he then crouched down in pain, knocking him out with you foot kicking him upwards as he fell down to the ground unconsciously out.

With 3 men out there were only 3 men left, all astonished by your fighting skills by never back down. All of them came at you now, leaving Kyungsoo alone as they forgot that he even existed as they were too focused on the true enemy, you.

You saw kicks, punches thrown at you at once but you were well focused at the time precision they have decided to throw their attacks on you, precisely dodging all their throws with your hands as you took the advantage to pivot your leg and extend your kick towards one of them, causing him to lose his balance leaving with you 2 men now, seeing a chance to seize you but losing their way in as you duck one of their throws, the man accidentally punching his friend in the face that left him knocked out. You smirked at the sight of his widen surprised face as you didn’t noticed the gun you held so tightly in your hand in the fight and shot in the shoulder, pushing him on to the floor in pain cursing to himself.

But the moment you turned around to Kyungsoo with a proud look on your face, you felt a gasp of air leaving your lungs that wiped that look on your face, a burning yet numb feeling you felt on your back as you feel to your knees on the concrete road. You heard Kyungsoo’s footsteps rushing to your side as he yelled your name out, also hearing someone’s chuckle behind you.

“You forgot about me, pet.” You tried to get up back the tremendous pain you felt in your back was too much for you, your vision getting blurry as blood was coming out of your back. You turned around to see him on the floor mangled in his blood, you mentally curse at yourself for being stupid as you realized that you didn’t pick up his gun you left on the ground was now in his blooded hand.

You felt Kyungsoo’s warm body near yours as he warmed a cloth around your body to apply pressure to the bloody wound before seeing his legs walking away from you and towards him, seeing the man in front of him hesitating to use his gun on him, trembling in his hand as he began to mutter that he was wrong and that Joo Won is the one he should take but you were Kyungsoo’s deadly laugh played in your ear from afar.

“Tell Jon Won to tell my parents they can never have it,” And with his final words spat in his face he kicked the gun out of his hand and out of his reach and stepped on his fingers as his bloody scream ranged in your ears. Kyungsoo then scurried along to your side and helped you get up, the pain hitting you back as you hiss and closed your eyes tightly. His touch and the smell was somewhat comforting as he lifted your body in his strong arms, his hand clasping your body as he walked back to his place.

“Agh..” You winced as he pulled out the bullet buried in your back, placing it on a clean napkin as he started to patch you up and you saw his hand reached out towards you with painkillers. You signed a quick thank you before taking the glass water waiting patiently on the coffee table and placing the painkillers on your tongue with your hand with your other hand placing the cold glass on your lips and gulping down the warm water, seeing Kyungsoo’s relaxed face now.

“You shouldn’t have done that..” He mumbled to himself as he now sat next to you on the couch, his hand on top of yours. Usually those words never bothered you but it struck a twist of annoyance in your heart and you immediately stood up, facing his now shocked face with your eyebrows furrowed.

“It’s my goddamn job for Christ sake!” You lashed out and crossed your arms together when you saw his face twisted in anger and was now standing up with his face so close to yours.

“Do you realize that you could’ve died? You’re an idiot.” His last sentence took a hit at your heart and your tears began to well up but you weren’t going to let this bastard see it. You weren’t going to look weak and pathetic at his words and you definitely aren’t going to admit that his words hurt more than the bullet wound in your back.

But it was too late as he already saw a glimpse of your face, the line that he crossed in your eyes and the line he secretly swore to never cross it but it was happening right before in his eyes as million thoughts raced in his mind. He reached for your hand but you instantly drew it back as you formed into a fist to remind you to really not saw your state right now as you looked back at him.

“(Y/N)-”

“It was either you or me that they were going to kill and you know damn well that I’ll do anything if it means to keep you safe Kyungsoo. God damnit I love you.”

You screamed on top of your lungs, those words that were hidden inside of you for so long were now out in the open. His eyes were now like saucepans, his ears catching on but he couldn’t say a word as you already ran out of the living room and rushed towards upstairs and into your room, not bothering to close the door as you let your body fall on the bed and finally let the tears fall down.

You couldn’t believe it. You said those words but it was too late to take it back. Was he going to fire you? Let you off?

You heard someone knocking on your door, turning around to see Kyungsoo’s guilty face but you were too upset to say anything and turned your attention on the soft covers. He signed and took a few seconds before filling the space in your room.

“You make it so hard for me to not love you (Y/N).”

Your heart stops.

You held in your breath as he said those exact words out of his lips. You prayed to god that he can’t hear your heartbeat as you now felt his hand caressing your back, the touch you desperately ache for so long.

“I want to protect you in my arms and but I’m a coward. I can’t even fight, let alone lend off a few guys. I’m so scared that every time you leave even just for a second because I don’t know if you’re to be like everyone who has left me in my life. You’re all I have and I hate that I’m so selfish. I’m sorr-”

You cut him off with your lips when you stood up, feeling the pent up frustration you had pushed deep is now regaining confidence to release it. He was in shock but was soon replaced with his soft lips moving against yours, his hands capturing your face as he deepens the kiss. You let him take control as he was now on top of you, your back resting against the sheets. You spread your legs and he moves in to close the space between you and him with his lower body placed on your core, his mouth swallowing your moans as he grinds on you while his hands are now aggressively kneading your ass. When he pulled his lips from yours, leaving a line of saliva you whined, grabbing his tie you tightly in your grip.

“Be as loud as you want baby girl.” You shivered at his words, feeling your pussy getting wetter as you saw that look on his face, the look of a predator finally getting the prey. He took his long slim fingers and grab the end of your tank top, you lifted your body a bit so he can get it off of you, throwing it across the room as he continued to plant his pillow lips on the valley of your breast. You let out a small gasp when you felt his mouth latched onto one of your breast, his soft and wet tongue playing with your hard nipple as he used his other free hand to massage on your other breast. You put your fingers in his hair, messing it in the process as you couldn’t stop slipping out your breathy moans as he attacked your breasts with his lips you thought you would never got to taste for once in your life.

“K-Kyungsoo- Ah!” His fingers were sliding inside of you now, his eyes lovingly looking into yours as he continued to torture you sweetly by going slow, your hips buckling up as you felt the pleasure blossoming inside your core. You begged for more and the mental image that Kyungsoo saw with his own eyes wanted more of it too. Your face flushed red, messy hair, and your body screaming to be touched by him made all the more reasons to give you more pleasure. He took off your sweatpants off along with your black panties, revealing your dripping wet pussy to him that shined in the dim lights in your room.

You couldn’t help but feel embarrassed as you never had anyone intimately stare at you like that, especially when you’re fully naked right in front of a fully clothed man who you didn’t know wanted this as much as you did. You put your hand over you pussy but he caught your hand before you got cover it.

“Don’t. You look so beautiful (Y/N) don’t be embarrassed.” You nodded, red dusting on your cheeks as you pulled back your shaky hands and rested them to the side, Kyungsoo dipping his mouth onto your cunt and you instantly grip the sheets so hard. This was ecstasy. The way he licked you and sucked on your clit was better than any other feeling you had experience. His tongue was exploring every part of your pussy, slipping his tongue in your hole every time you asked for more, begged for more of his tongue inside of you hole as you grabbed onto the locks of his dark hair.

“I’m gonna cum-!” You moan loudly as you came on his face, his tongue licking your juices until you were clean but his face was still wet with your juices but he wasn’t bothered but it was he wiped it off clean. You lifted your body up to get rid of the suit he had on him, till you reached his fancy pants that showed his tight restrained bulge inside. When you grabbed his bulge inside you hand he let out a deep groan, his eyes shut tightly as you began to pull his zipper down to reveal his cock that was red and standing upwards, your mouth drooling at the sight.

You placed your bruised lips on the tip of his cock, the taste of his pre cum was salty but you liked it, teasing him as you never fully put him inside of your mouth but placed your wet kisses on around his cock, having his name on his lips sounding like heaven to your ears. After having enough of teasing you engulfed him in your mouth, his girth extending your mouth but it was comfortable enough for you as you proceed to use your hand to rub his thick length as you suck him off, his moans bouncing off the walls.

You continued to stroke him more now, your tongue delicately wrapping around his hard red cock with your cheeks hollowing in a sucking motion as you feel him about to come but you were soon pulled away, looking up with your hooded eyes as you saw Kyungsoo’s pouty face appear. You placed your hand on his sweaty chest, leaning in to his ear so close that he shivers at the touch of your lips grazing it softly.

“I want you to cum inside of me.” You didn’t have to ask twice as he pushed you gently on the bed, asking you if your wound was okay. You quickly nodded and waited for him patiently, his pants now gone and was now on top of you fully naked only for you to admire and touch.

He glided his cock on to your pussy, gently pushing you in and checking in if you were in pain or uncomfortable but it all came rushing down to the pit of your core, biting down your lips hard as he was fully inside of your dripping pussy. His slow thrusts inside of your walls made you legs tremble and shake as he reached his hand out to your breasts that was covered with his huge hand.

“Faster..Please.” You were crumbling the more you his thrusts snapped into your core, his breathing getting more erratic and your fingers were gripping on the bed sheets were the only thing that kept you in control, shutting your eyelids tightly as a knot was forming.

Just like that you both came together, his cum filling you up as he rides out both of yours guys high. It took a few minutes to regain your breath before you lifted your face to his and planted a kiss, his lips moving with yours as you were brought into a warm embrace in his strong arms throughout the starry night.

The smell of bacon and pancakes tickled your nostrils, bringing your hands into fists to rub your eyes and let out a loud yawn, noticing that Kyungsoo wasn’t beside you in bed but you knew it was him in the kitchen making breakfast. You jumped out of the bed and just got dressed in one of his shirts you had borrowed months ago but kept forgetting to give it to him along pairing it with a cute white lacy thong, the shirt was barely covering your ass but you liked it enough to keep it that way and made your way to the kitchen.

The smell of the food being deliciously made was getting stronger when you approach the kitchen, seeing Kyungsoo’s shirtless back with a pair of grey sweatpants along with his hair all messed up from you was definitely a sight you would love to see more.

“Hey.” You didn’t know that he noticed your presence in an instant, an angelic smile graced on his lips and you smiled back, taking a seat as he puts a plate full of food in front of you and places a small peck on your cheek causing you to blush like a red tomato.

The morning with Kyungsoo was fairly pleasant, the sounds of birds chirping and the news that he had time to take you out tonight was all good news that you made you genuinely felt the happening so wanted to cherish forever.

“I know we were both tired from..the actives last night but..” you giggled as you saw his ears getting red, his eyes not looking at you.

“Will you be my girlfriend (Y/N)?” You squealed and yelled out yes, standing up to walk over to where he sat across from you and hugged him, his scent so friendly and tender to your heart. Kyungsoo couldn’t resist a smile breaking out on his mouth as he hugged you tightly, his head resting on your shoulder.

As you guys finished cleaning the dishes together you saw something out of the corner of your eyes, a white envelope sitting out. Kyungsoo’s traced where your eyes were looking at and placed his hand on your shoulder, leaning into your ear where his hot breath hits you gently.

“My assistant said this was for you. She told me that two people approached her last night.” And with that information he left silently, leaving you anticipating who wanted you to have this envelope. Opening it up it was a simple written letter in black pen but you felt your heart instantly dropped when you saw the names of the owner.

Dear (Y/N),

Don’t forget that we exist. If your dad and I can make you, surely we can insure you that we can destroy every last bit of your existence. You can’t hide forever sweetie.

Yours Truly, Elizabeth (Same Last Name).

The letter dropped on the ground, your legs trembling in fear as you walked backwards in fear until you felt the cool fridge touch your back.

It can’t be.

Those nightmares.

That painting you saw that looked so similar to those pictures you kept when you were a child

Wondering who you were all this time.

You started at your hands that touched the letter at disgusted, the weight that was once on you was crushing you ten times more. You closed your eyes and slid down, crouching to get away from reality as much as possible.

She was going to get you.

But you weren’t going to back down, never.

And with that you stood up, hastily making your way to the gym to train as harder as you could with all your might. The painting that stood in Kyungsoo’s hallway that once made you feel the pain mentally was gone as you were ready for it, you know.

I’ll be waiting, mother.

A/N: hope you guys enjoy this :) next one is Kai and im vv excited to write his next !! please let me know what you think about this fic and hope you have a fantastic day/night.

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dr-pepper-cherry · 5 years ago

Text

The Cowboy & The Gunslinger

A little something I wrote for @emilyfronce and her character, Ace Cliffton.

It’s not always such a bad night in The Dusty Spurs.

Normally, this little bar set in the dusty and rusty town of Dirtwater is one of the last few places where The West feels alive. Many cowboys saunter past the creaky saloon doors and into a familiar sense of nostalgia. Drinks would be served, cards would be played and the customers could usually enjoy a nice meal, a hard drink and a quiet night.

But this wasn't most nights.

While the crowds kept to themselves that night, Ace Cliffton, would find no such luck as the only people at his table were the harassing members of “law and order” in this forgotten little town.

“Now, Mr. Cliffton,” The rather plump demon who had the gall to call himself the town's sheriff placed his boot onto the table. “I'm sure this affair between you and Little Red is just one big misunderstanding. But you need to know I'm quite skeptical based on word alone.”

“I already told you.” The cowboy leaned back his chair. “I don't know that woman. I ain't seen her before and I doubt I'll ever see her again.”

“Oh, is that so? I find that hard to believe.” The sheriff of Dirtwater withdrew a red bandanna from his waistcoat and held it up for the cowboy to see. “Seeing how this here handkerchief was swaying on the shattered walls of Dirtwater's First National Bank. You should be mindful of stuff that's yours.” The sheriff gave a sly smirk as he placed an arm around Ace's shoulder. “I'm not gonna lie to you, boy. Your situation is looking rather grim. After all, Dirtwater don't like criminals any more than that fool from Sylvanite. But I, your rather gracious sheriff, won't watch you swing from the town's square if you do me a grand favor.” He said with a sleazy tone as he drew a bounty poster out from his hat, sporting the image of Little Red with a whopping $5,000 reward if brought alive.

The moment Ace saw the poster unfurl, it took a great amount of willpower to keep himself calm. While the Winchester rifles the deputies had pointed at him and the lack of any firepower of his own kept him from leaping out of his seat and strangling the fat bastard within an inch of his life, his disdain for the scumbag was only noticeable to anyone who looked at his fingernails as they dug deeper into the wooden table.

“See, Red's been getting past us for a while now. And I happen to understand you two are very close to one another. Surely, you can get to her better than anyone else in this town. I'm sure her life for your freedom is a rather easy tra-”

“No.”

The sheriff paused at that word he wasn't used to hearing. “I'm sorry, son. My hearing ain't as good as it used to be. But I could've sworn you said no. I'm sure you meant-”

“No,” Ace repeated, placing a hand on the table. “I won't.”

“I see.” The sheriff breathed a heavy sigh before nodding ahead towards the door outside. “Well, Mr. Cliffton, you know what we do to folk who don't fall in line, do you?”

Ace slowly rose from the table with his hand underneath the wooden table. He knew he was outgunned with five deputies and one trigger happy sheriff but he'll be damned again before he'll toss another life away for his own gain. He readied his hand, staring down each member of the law without fear.

But the sounds of swinging doors and spurs clinking on the wooden floor brought the would-be shootout to a halt as the barkeep graciously turned his head to the door.

“Howdy, partner! What can I...I...I...”

Even though Ace's table was as far from the bar as possible, the look of absolute terror was stretched across the barkeeper's rather pale face.

Ace shook off the sudden silence and took this as a moment to think on his next move. He knew this bar was full of cowboys and bandits, all waiting for a chance to show their skills at gunplay. Eyeing the gun belt in the sheriff's side, he placed his foot at the edge of his table, ready to make and take cover once the bullets start flying.

But for the first time in this bar, no one else drew.

It was a little odd for him. Normally, everyone in this saloon would jump at the chance to open fire. But they all seemed to just be staring in silence, all attention focused on something. Or someone.

He heard the patrons whisper to one another. “Can't be...” or “No way...” surrounded the bar in a flock of voices. But it wasn't the intrigue of who it was or how all of them seem to have the same thought that caught Ace's attention.

It was the fact they all sounded afraid.

Every man and woman in this room, from the old to the young, the greenhorns and the experts, whether they were lawman, bandit or somewhere in between, were all scared of whoever was walking to his table. Even the sheriff seemed to be frozen with the rest of the crowd, eyes widening in response to whoever just stepped in. It was a sight that would've made any demon that placed value into their afterlives join in with the rest of the crowd, as not to stir the stranger's wraith.

But Ace was only growing all the more curious when the man in question, who drew all this attention the moment he walked past the swinging doors, was a lot more feathery than he thought.

The man, whose appearance matched that of a great horned owl, was standing eye to eye with the sheriff and his posse of “law bringers” with a red poncho around him, a hand on his hip and an unlit cigar twirling around his talons.

“Uhmm.” The sheriff cleared his throat. “We were just in the middle of some...uh...business with our dearest friend, Mr. Cliffton, over here. So, I think...you should...leave.”

The owl looked past the sheriff to the man in question, staring at the cowboy with a questioning look. Ace had a hunch why the bird was staring at him specifically as he was the only person in this bar who wasn't joining the masses in fear and shock. But what he didn't understand was why the owl seemed to smile at his actions.

“Cliffton, is it?” The owl had asked the cowboy, who only gave a nod of assurance. “You mind sitting for a bit longer? I need to talk to Peck for a moment.”

The sheriff widened his eyes in sheer horror. Even from Ace's perspective, it seemed the law dog seemed to begin sweating bullets. “You must be confused with someone else. I'm Butch Williamson, sheriff of Dirtwater, two years running.”

“Is that so? Well, they'll give a badge to anyone these days.” The owl responded in a rather snarky tone, striking a match across the wooden bar. “Or in your case, have it stolen off their corpse by some lowlife who wanted to play a role he isn't meant to be.”

The sheriff only seemed to be all the more fearful and it wasn't just the owl in front of him. The people of the bar seemed to turn to their conversation in unison. It drove him mad, the hundred pairs of eyes staring down at him.

“Three years ago,” The owl placed his cigar in his beak. “You were Benjamin Peck, a cattle rustler who decided the days of stealing farm stock just wasn't enough anymore. So you and your goonies hatch a get rich scheme that involved driving Sheriff Andy out to the middle of some long-forgotten mine.” He paused as he blew out a cloud of smoke, glaring at the “sheriff” with hatred. “And then you shot him dead.”

The sheriff made an attempt to cut the story short but the bird just kept talking.

“You came into his town, living off the lie that the sheriff decided to retire after his sixty years of service had came to an end and you were the replacements sent by the state, taxing folks as you see fit and hanging those that don't wanna pay.” The owl placed his cigar back into his beak. “Benjamin Peck, everyone. Cattle rustler, murderer and a rather poor liar, if you ask me.”

The patron's of the bar flew into an uproar of insults, finally snapping back at the sheriff after too many sleepless months of fear from the hangman's noose. The deputies stared back into the approaching crowd in fear, the sheriff only stared down at the floorboards of the saloon and the owl was only staring back at the lawbreaker with a smug smile. It might be a good day for Ace after all.

At least, it would've been if the sheriff didn't draw his Walker and fire off a warning shot into the ceiling.

“You're just gonna take his word for it?!” The sheriff yelled into the startled crowd. “You're all just gonna listen to him?! Why?! You folks already know who he is! He's The Reaper In Red! The Terror of The West!”

Ace kept his back to the wall as Peck starting waving the gun around as if it was on fire. It was quite obvious by now that the long gambit he had placed so much time into had finally came crashing down around him, along with the rustler's intention of facing his trial with any dignity or pride.

“I took one life and I'm being stared down like it's judgment day! What about him?! What about the lives he's sent down here?! You heard the stories! You read the papers! Hell, some of you are down here because of him! Yet, you all are pointing your fingers at me! What gives any of you the right to play judge, jury or executioner!”

“It's Ranger.” The sinister tones of the owl echoed across the room.

“What?”

“It's Ranger in Red.” The owl shot back.

Ace noticed the sudden change in the owl's behavior alongside everyone else in the room. The little smirk of confidence was replaced by a hate-filled glare and a very unnerving look in his eyes. Both in voice and appearance, the owl seemed to seemingly shift from happy go lucky drifter into a cold, remorseless killer.

Not that the “sheriff” seemed any bothered by it anymore.

“BOY, I DON'T GIVE A SHIT WHAT YOUR NAME IS!” The sheriff aimed at the owl and cocked back the hammer of his revolver with his deputies following his example. “What makes you any better than me, gunman?!”

Ace kept his eyes on this Ranger in Red, finding nothing but calm in the owl's movements. He didn't seem even annoyed with the gun pointed at his face. He simply took the cigar from his mouth, watching the ashes flicker away into the wind, before glancing at the sheriff with hatred in his eyes.

Within the quarter of a second, the owl swept up one of his revolvers from his hip and fired a round directly into the barrel of the Walker, sparking off the large amounts of gunpowder inside, and watched as the gun exploded in the sheriff's right hand, leaving nothing behind but a bloody stump. Ace's eyes widened in surprise. Even though he had his sights locked onto the ranger in red, he could've sworn the old bird outdraw his own shadow. Even when the other “law-bringers” cocked back their lever actions, their efforts were only rewarded with a bullet through the head or through the heart. When the gun smoke had cleared, the impostor posse were on the ground with the life shot out of their bodies, while Peck only stared in shock at the stump where his hand once was.

“That's why.” The gunslinger simply stated as he twirled the Colt back into his holster and yanked the badge off the sheriff's chest.

“Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-You a-a-a-ain't gonn-gonna kill...” Peck could only whimper in pain and fear.

“Oh, no. My job was just to get Cliffton outside.” The Ranger in Red pointed a thumb towards Ace. “I'll leave your horrible demise to those with more time on their hands.”

---------------------------------------------‐------------------------------------

It was a pretty good night for the town of Dirtwater.

Even though their bank was robbed and their law-bringers were either in six foot holes or hanging from the noose, the citizens were all celebrating for the first time in years. They danced unencumbered of the stress their departed deputies had mercilessly gave over taxes and due payments. They drank themselves full, just as their sheriff had once done so many nights before. For the first time in two years, it was a pretty good night for Dirtwater.

Not that Ace would know about it.

While a celebration would be fine for the people of Dirtwater, it wasn't going to take long for the folks to start wondering where did all the money go to. And with Ace being one of the only non-locals that night, it didn't take much to convince him to leave the town behind. So as the town blissfully partied in the confines of the saloon, Ace opened the swinging doors and made his way down the small three steps that led from the bar to what would usually be an empty street and his horse waiting outside.

Along with the usual sight, he found The Ranger in Red waiting outside on a black and white horse, twirling the former sheriff's badge around in his talons.

“Nice horse.” Ace nodded towards the gunslinger. “I'm assuming Red sent you?”

“More or less.” The owl looked up from the badge. “Said something about looking for the mopiest guy in the room.”

“Hmm.” Ace brushed off the common remark as he dug into his pockets with a fistful of dollars. “I'm sure we can spare a little for the assist.”

“No thanks.” The owl flicked the badge towards the cowboy. “I don't need any.”

Ace only widened his eyes in response. Leaping into the middle of a gunfight and expecting nothing in return? That was something he only read about in paperback novels. “Really? Me and Red won't be going broke anytime soon.”

“Like I said,” The owl repeated. “I don't need any.”

“Well, ok then.” Ace placed the money back into his coat and grabbed the reigns to his steed. “I guess I'll see you around, Mr...”

“Deadeye.” The owl remarked. “That's what everyone calls me.”

With a snap of the reigns, the owl's horse rushed into the desert, practically flying across the sands. And as Ace lifted himself onto his horse, he gave a glance at the old sheriff's badge before storing it into his coat and beginning the long trek home.

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Ace Cliffton belongs to Emily Fronce

Little Red belongs to LittleTarsier

#hazbin hotel oc #hazbin oc #Deadeye #fanfic #oc fanfiction #long reads #hazbin hotel

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until-theend-oftheline · 6 years ago

Text

When They Had Nothing - Part 2: Boys and Their Fathers

Pairing: Stucky (Eventually)

Warnings: Alcohol Abuse, Child Abuse, Domestic Abuse, Distant father, Character Death, Implied PTSD, Kids arguing a bit.

Word Count: 3200ish

A/N: This is my new Stucky series. It starts with the boys as kids in Brooklyn and follows CAFA but from Bucky’s POV rather than Steve’s. I am sooo excited about this series which I have been working on for about 6 months as it’s written for @cabigbang

Art Inspired by WTHN by: @ischa-posts - thank you so much for taking the time to create art for my series! - Ischa also made the amazing drawing below

Betaed by: @blacktithe7 @emilyevanston and @ifyougetkilled-walk-it-off - Thank you so much for all your help!

***My fics are not to be saved nor posted on any other sites without my express written permission.***

MASTERLIST - CABIGBANG MASTERLIST + AO3 LINK

November 2nd, 1930

Over the passing two years, the boys had grown closer. At first, Bucky’s wrestling buddies had made fun of Steve, but Bucky wouldn’t have any of that. He put a solid stop to their remarks and cruel behavior within the first few months. Bucky had never abandoned his old friends, but they had never really become friends with Steve either. They accepted him hanging around just like they accepted that Rebecca did. She on the other hand quickly became fond of Steve, keeping him company whenever Bucky was busy with wrestling or when his other friends dragged him off. Bucky ignored the comments they would make when he excused himself to return to his sister and best friend’s side. All they saw when they saw Steve was a sickly, odd boy that their friend had taken pity on.

What they didn’t understand was that the relationship between the two boys had nothing to do with pity. It was everything but. The two of them seemed to raise each other up and make each other stronger. Steve brought out the righteous, brave side in Bucky that was always there but that he had often hidden away out of fear of getting in trouble with his old man. Granted, Steve’s do right attitude had earned him a few whippings over the years, but he had held his head high through all of them. Somehow Bucky suspected his dad respected him a bit more for it.

Bucky, on the other hand, was able to bring out the slightly more adventurous side in Steve, and even if many of their shenanigans and mischief were done under great protest from Bucky’s younger friend, it always ended with both of them laughing and having a great time. Together they were both at their best, and together they faced everything, including when the stock market crashed and the word they had known started to crumble around them.

Bucky’s family had never been rich, but they had been well off. His dad losing his job when the bank he worked security for closed meant they had to move out of their house and into an apartment building. Still, they weren’t poor. They had his mother’s monthly paychecks, and his dad, a decorated ex us lieutenant, didn’t have trouble finding security jobs to work from time to time. So even if their income wasn’t as high or as stable as it once was, they were still doing better than Steve’s family.

Joseph, Steve’s father, couldn’t hold down a job, and the work at the harbor became further and further in between. Even living in the small apartment they always had and keeping the light and heat on was becoming harder and harder on only a nurse’s paycheck. Bucky always suspected there was more to their troubles than just that judging by the smell of Joseph when he passed him on his way out the door when he was coming home. He had always been drinking. Bucky knew that even if Steve had never told him. He also knew he slapped Sarah around, and there was no doubt in Bucky’s mind that Steve’s slower movements at times didn’t have anything to do with his health.

Bucky had hated Joseph from the first moment he had laid eyes on him as a five-year-old boy, and that hatred didn’t ease as he grew older and got to know Sarah and Steve better.

Steve didn’t hate. He always chose to see the best in people, even when Bucky was sure there was none. He didn’t push it though. There was nothing Bucky could do but keep his eyes open and be there to catch Steve if he needed him too. Just like he always had and always would.

It was a promise Bucky would live to keep on the evening of November 2nd, 1930. The short November day had long ended, and 13-year-old Bucky was sitting on the living room floor reading when Rebecca’s voice called to his attention.

“Steve’s outside.”

Bucky instantly looked up at his sister, seeing the snow fall outside the window behind her and hoping with everything he had she was wrong. It was freezing outside, and Steve, as small as he was, had grown out of his winter jacket. He had no business being outside in the cold like this. Most people would get a cold while Steve being Steve would most likely end up with pneumonia if he stayed out in weather like this for too long.

“Where?” Bucky dropped his book and jumped from the floor to stand next to his sister sitting in the window case. She pointed, and Bucky’s heart dropped when he saw him. He was sitting against the wall curled into a ball, trying to keep himself warm. A part of Bucky wanted to open the window and yell at him, ask him what the hell he was thinking. He wanted to scold him for being out in the cold in the first place or for not knocking on their door the instant he got there, but a greater part of him was just concerned. Bucky ran across the apartment. He grabbed his jacket from the hallway but didn’t put it on. Instead, he kept it in his hands as he ran outside and along the building until he reached Steve. Without a word, Bucky knelt down, wrapping the jacket around his best friend, rubbing his arms up and down to try and get some warmth into him.

“Let’s get you inside punk.”

Bucky gently guided Steve, who still hadn’t looked up at him, onto his feet. Steve didn’t have to meet his eyes for Bucky to see the wince of pain his movement caused him. He was hurt but still trying his best for Bucky not to see. A silent war raised inside Bucky. He wanted to let go of his friend and run back to his house, shove Joseph’s drunk ass against the wall, and beat the crap out of him until he knew what it felt like.

It wasn’t what Steve wanted. Hell, Steve didn’t even want Bucky to know what his dad was really like, otherwise he would have told him already. So instead, Bucky rained in his anger and wrapped his arm around Steve leading him towards the door.

“You’re staying here tonight,” Bucky promised him, knowing that it would take some convincing with his mom, given Steve had come here on his own so late in the evening, but he also knew she trusted Bucky’s judgment when it came to the Rogers.

His family liked Steve and Sarah. They always did whatever they could to help them out with food or clothes. They never handed them money though. Bucky suspected it had more to do with them knowing those would end up in the hands of a bootlegger than it was them not being able to accept the handout.

It hadn’t taken Bucky as much convincing as he thought it would for his mom to call Steve’s mom at the hospital to let her know her son was spending the night at their house. Bucky had however been convinced Steve would need a trip to the hospital himself after George had handed the frail boy the brandy glass and told him to drink. Steve had been coughing and Bucky banging his back with a flat hand before rubbing gentle circles while Winifred had scolded her husband loudly for his stupidity.

After having gotten a bit of warm soup into Steve, with all the Barnes fussing around him for the better part of an hour, the apartment had gone quiet. Rebecca had been dragged to her own room by their mother while Bucky had grabbed the sofa cushions and arranged them on the floor next to his bed for Steve to sleep on.

The boys weren’t sleeping though. They were arguing about who was going to the baseball World Series and if the Dodgers were actually going to win that season. The conversation took a turn when Bucky asked Steve if he ever thought about moving away from Brooklyn. While Steve didn’t want to leave his home for good, he did dream with Bucky about places in the world they would wanna see. Like two explorers, they laughed and mapped out the adventurous they would go on together when they grew up.

Eventually, they both quieted down, but neither of them seemed to be able to sleep, so Bucky turned to his side looking down at Steve. He felt a pain to his heart when he thought about Steve suffering outside in the cold instead of knocking on their door. Bucky hated there was a part of Steve’s life that he felt the need to keep secret from him. They were best friends, and there shouldn’t be anything that Steve couldn’t talk to him about.

“Steve, why did you come here tonight?” Bucky asked and Steve froze staring into the ceiling without saying a word. Most other days Bucky would have backed off, but the image of Steve sitting frozen against the wall of the apartment building haunted him. Without giving it a second thought, Bucky slid off the bed and down next to his friend. Steve looked up at him in surprise which quickly turned into horror when Bucky started tugging at his shirt.

“What are you doing? Stop!” Steve fought back but was no match for Bucky’s strength. It wasn’t much of a struggle before Bucky managed to lift up Steve’s shirt to reveal the rainbow of bruises covering his chest and ribcage. The second Bucky saw, he let go of Steve, letting him pull down his shirt and scatter backward against the wall. Steve pulled his legs up under him, wrapping his arms around his knees, staring at Bucky with a look of utter betrayal on his face, and instantly Bucky regretted his actions.

“Steve, I’m sorry pal. I… I know he beats you and your mom okay? I know he drinks,” Bucky tried to explain himself. He couldn’t look into the painfilled blue eyes any longer, so he hung his head. “I just wanted to see how bad it was. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry,” Bucky pleaded with Steve without looking at him but meaning every single word. He had been frustrated with the secrets Steve had been keeping from him, but he had never meant to hurt him or betray his trust.

“I just needed to get out of there,” Steve sniffled, and Bucky looked up.

The betrayal was gone from his face and left was only pain. Bucky didn’t hesitate as he scurried towards his best friend, wrapping his arms around him, embracing him as tightly as he dared in fear of hurting him. It didn’t take long for Steve to return the hug, and the boys stayed quietly in each other’s arms, allowing the safety and reassurance that the two of them were okay wash over them. When they released each other, Bucky didn’t crawl back into bed. He stayed on the cushions on the floor next to Steve, promising him he would always have a place to stay whenever he needed it. He stayed awake listening to Steve’s breathing as he fell asleep next to him. He told himself he didn’t move back to the bed because he wanted to make sure Steve was alright. He wanted to keep him safe through the night, which was the truth, but it wasn’t the entire truth. He needed to be close to his friend just as much as Steve needed to be close to him. They were too old to sleep so tightly against each other, but it didn’t feel wrong to either of them and when Bucky finally fell asleep, he felt more at ease with himself than he had in a long time.

December 20th, 1931

Bucky’s room had become Steve’s hideout after that. He never left his place if his mom was home. He took the beatings to spare her, but whenever she was working evenings and nights, Steve was in Bucky’s room, hiding from the wrath of his drunken father. Over a year passed like that, and the two boys friendship grew stronger.

Bucky never questioned or pushed Steve again, but once in a while, he opened up to his best friend anyway. He told him about the times he had hidden in the back of the closet when his dad roamed the house with a baseball bat. He told Bucky of the times he had stepped between his parents to save his mother. With every story he heard, Bucky hated Joseph a little more. The hate within him built and built. So much so that the day the news of Joseph’s early demise reached the Barnes household, Bucky didn’t grieve. He smiled, relieved and happy that the bully had gotten what he had coming. Fallen into the East River and succumbing to hyperthermia seemed like a just end in Bucky’s eyes. He knew it was wrong, but picturing Joseph die a slow painful death brought him immense satisfaction. Bucky was a kid. He could protect Steve against the bullies at school, but he had never been able to protect him against the one at Steve’s own house. Knowing Steve would never suffer at the hands of his father again eased Bucky’s mind. Which was the reason Bucky was a little confused to see Steve and Sarah’s tears at the funeral a few days later. How could they grieve for someone that had only ever caused them harm? Bucky didn’t push the matter though. He stayed by Steve’s side. Close enough to touch without actually touching.

That entire day Steve didn’t leave Sarah’s side. He stayed close to his mom, making sure she had everything she needed, while Bucky stayed were Steve could always see him. Their eyes met every now and again. With every encouraging nod and smile Bucky mustered to send Steve, he got a relieved grateful one in return.

Even after everyone else had left and Steve helped his mom to bed, Bucky stayed that day. He knew that Steve was holding himself together. He was being strong for his mom and for everyone around him, but Bucky also wanted him to know that he didn’t have to be. Steve didn’t have to hold back a single emotion when it was just the two of them. He didn’t care if Steve wanted to grieve the man that Bucky hated. He just wanted to be there for him and for Steve to know he didn’t have to be the strong one for a little while.

No words were uttered between the two boys as Bucky followed Steve out the door, sitting down next to him on the front stairs. He just took the two sodas Steve handed him. Bucky opened them both, handing one back to Steve without a word. He wanted to ask a million questions, but he didn’t. He just waited for Steve to be ready to speak on his own accord.

“He wasn’t always like that,” Steve said quietly. “Not according to mom anyway. I don’t remember anything else.”

Bucky’s eyes rested on Steve as he moved a little closer, letting Steve feel him against his side. Bucky didn’t ask. He just waited. Steve wanted to talk to him, but he needed a minute. Bucky knew that as much as Steve always saw the good in people, trusting didn’t always come easy. Bucky was his only friend, and truthfully, Steve was Bucky’s only friend too. Yes, he surrounded himself with a lot of boys at school. Girls were starting to take an interest, which was very much returned, but Steve was different. He knew Bucky in a way that no one else did. Steve knew what Bucky was thinking even before he opened his mouth. No one else understood him or even tried to understand him the way that Steve always seemed to. Honestly, Bucky wasn’t sure he wanted anyone else to anyway.

“Mom said he smiled a lot before the war. He took her dancing and made her laugh. He never hurt anyone, especially not her.” Steve didn’t look at Bucky. He just stared down at the bottle in his hands. “He lost everyone in the war. He saw things I guess…”

“My dad went to war to Steve. He’s not exactly easy to live with, but he never broke my bones,” Bucky spoke in a low voice.

He did his best to mask his disdain for the dead man, but it was hard after having seen the array of colors on Steve’s body or having supported him when he walked around on a broken leg. Steve was always sick. He was frail. The man that was supposed to look out for him had been the one that had done him the most harm while Bucky had been powerless to do anything about it. He could protect Steve from the bullies their own age or even older, but how was he supposed to have kept him safe from a parent that decided Steve and Sarah were as good a punching bag as any?

“I know Buck. I’m not saying that what he did isn’t on him. I’m just saying that there is a reason for it,” Steve’s voice was more firm now, and he looked up, meeting Bucky’s eyes. They looked at each other for a while, before Bucky nodded, accepting that maybe war had done something to Joseph neither of the boys could understand.

Bucky took a gulp of the soda, staring out into the cool afternoon air, wondering what his father might have been like before the war. George wasn’t abusive like Joseph. He didn’t drink, but he was dominant and bossy. It was his rules all the time and no matter what Bucky did, he never felt as if it was good enough in the eyes of his father.

“I wonder how my dad was before the war?” Bucky muttered, feeling guilty the moment the words had left his lips. He should be comforting Steve right now, and no matter how difficult George was, it was nothing compared to the things Joseph had done to Steve.

Steve didn’t judge Bucky though. Of course, he didn’t. He didn’t even ask what he meant, because despite Bucky not talking about how he felt pressured by his father, Steve seemed to know. Instead of saying anything, Steve just reached out, taking Bucky’s hand, giving it a squeeze, causing Bucky to look down at their hands. This should feel weird. They were most certainly too old for this kind of thing, and they were guys, not chicks. Guys weren’t supposed to hold hands like that, but Steve didn’t seem to care. The warmth rushing from their joined hands throughout Bucky’s body, causing his heart to beat a little faster as he squeezed Steve’s hand back.

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politicaltheatre · 5 years ago

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The Boy In The Bubble, pt.3

“Nobody would have ever thought a thing like this could have happened.” - President Donald Trump, March 26, 2020

If that quote sounds ickily familiar, it’s because those were the same words, more or less, repeated twelve years ago by men and women working in Washington D.C. and on Wall Street, all of them seeking to avoid accountability for their role in an economic meltdown that ruined the lives of tens of millions of Americans and that spread, not unlike a virus, overseas, crippling the entire, interconnected world economy for years.

In many ways, our world has yet to recover from the 2008 sub-prime mortgage crisis. Action taken was short sighted and narrowly focused, aimed more at rescuing those responsible for causing the crisis - investment banks, insurance companies, debt-laden corporate investors - than those caught in its ever expanding wake.

The notion that nobody knew or could have known wasn’t about looking the man on the street in the eye; if anything, it was a legal defense. They had just been bailed out by the federal government and didn’t want to let anything resembling accountability get in the way of capitalizing on it, least of all civil liability for their own, short sighted thinking.

It’s no coincidence, then, that Donald Trump has repeatedly used that same defense to excuse his own incompetent handling of the COVID-19 outbreak. This is, for him, not a matter of serving the public good but of winning and losing, of profit and loss, credit and blame. Mostly, avoiding blame.

Bully that he is, Trump believes the best defense is any offense. That means finding others to blame. Everyday no, he steps in front of a microphone to speak to the nation, and everyday he finds someone to blame for something. It’s very much a ritual, like repeating that old defense that ignorance is a defense.

His appearances feel somehow incomplete if he hasn’t found someone to blame for something. It might be a journalist, or a foreign leader, or a particular presidential predecessor, or a city or state that hasn’t shown him enough deference or appreciation. For a second there, it was old people.

Trump’s failed proposal of a 14 day quarantine for the entire New York metropolitan area was part of that blaming ritual. It would have had to include an undetermined portion of the city’s suburbs and rural areas in New York state, New Jersey, and Connecticut, and would have cost an amount of money no one wanted to calculate. Surely, the states would have paid for it.

Hours later, with Trump safely away from any microphones, the CDC instead issued a “travel advisory” for the area, which carries about the same weight as Congress passing a non-binding resolution. In other words, it was no change at all.

If the idea of blockading New York at this point seemed ridiculous, that’s because it was. For one thing, it was a lot like closing the barn door after the cows had all escaped; for another, the Florida beaches jam-packed with spring breakers probably did as much damage or worse in spreading the infection than New York, and nobody’s talking about walling off Florida from the rest of the country, are they? Are they? Well, not seriously.

Of course, no one took Trump seriously. Well, no one beyond his base. On top of being a maniacally stupid waste of resources, the source of the outbreak in the United States can’t even be traced to New York. The first cases that gained public awareness were on the west coast, and those were just the first ones reported. The odds are extraordinarily high that there were cases on both coasts and places in between for weeks before anyone was diagnosed.

Rationally, it will take years to discover, if ever, where the actual ground zero for this pandemic was in the United States, but when it comes to proposals from Donald Trump, rational thinking is never the point.

The point of making that quarantine proposal was the same as the point of proposing to reopen the country by Easter: for Trump to be seen to be doing something by his base.

That those proposals had as much weight as a non-bonding resolution doesn’t matter; his proposing them does. This, he believes, will restore confidence in him and his leadership.

In a sense, he may be right. His base will and surely does now feel more confident reading and hearing that action was proposed and by him. It reinforces the image of him they have clung to with all their might. His base is his base because they need that image, because they need to be reassured, because they need to see and hear his confidence in order to feel it in themselves.

This is why Trump’s daily press conferences feel like campaign rallies: they are. What the rational mind sees and hears and recognizes as incompetent and irresponsible, Trump’s supporters see and hear as a reflection of their own needs. Does a competent, responsible leader bring out the My Pillow guy to tell the world he’s doing a great job? Of course, not, but a man looking to be seen to be praised does.

Trump, for all his reckless stupidity, understands this all too well. He understands that his poll numbers will rise and fall not on his demonstration of ability and compassion but on how he looks and sounds in front of a microphone. The only performance he cares about or cares to hear about is the one that makes his numbers rise.

His focus is shallow and short term, seeking out the kind of pure speculation that sees stocks rise and fall for exceeding or failing to meet expectations. If all the news is good news, he and those surrounding him tell themselves, his stock will only ever rise.

Anyone who’s ever traded stocks knows better. You can bluff a stock higher in the short term. People do it all the time. That’s a kind of bubble. You draw attention, you draw speculation, and you draw suckers in to raise the price of your stock, and then you get the hell out before reality comes crashing in and the value of the stock you no longer own comes crashing through the floor.

Trump’s rise in politics has been a lot like this. He sold those who voted for him on a brand: the billionaire businessman who will bring that to government and fix it. He used confidence in that bubble to draw in speculators, members of Congress and executives on Wall Street. They pumped up his stock even more, hoping to use his rise to push their own agendas and thereby increase their own profits.

The results of Trump’s 2016 election were predictable. The federal tax cuts of 2017 funneled money away from the poorest Americans and towards the wealthiest. They also funneled money away from the government, making deregulation and de facto deregulation even easier.

Laws that forced businesses to be accountable to others were gutted by Republicans in Congress. Those left on the books either couldn’t be enforced because the agencies responsible couldn’t be properly funded or wouldn’t be enforced because the agencies were now headed by men and women with an interest in seeing those laws fail.

That, for anyone looking to get rich and have others pay for it, is a win-win. It came as no shock, then, that Paul Ryan, architect of that tax bill, and other congressional Republicans who benefitted both from it and newly lax regulations left Congress the very next year. Now was the time to enjoy the fruits of their labors. Now was the time to get out before the bubble burst and those who had bought in after them wanted answers.

Which bring us to now. In the last few weeks, at least 10 million Americans have lost their jobs, a number that could potentially triple in just the next month. With that loss, most of them now face hard questions about rent, health coverage, and simply feeding themselves. Oh, and the Dow Jones and other stock markets have dropped 29% from their February high.

Never fear, massive, debt-laden government spending is here to help. But to help whom? The Senate bill was delayed because a $500 billion slush fund needed regulations and oversight to prevent it from simply going to corporations that could just as easily secure a nearly interest free loan or, you know, Trump, his family, and anyone kissing his ass.

The perception that America needs to be protected from its president’s corruption isn’t something that’s going inspire confidence in stock trading. Sure, passage of the bill boosted stocks for a day - well, part of a day - but no sooner than they went up, they came straight back down.

That’s the problem with running a country (or business) on perception; it’s short term solution at best. It relies on how good you looked the last time people saw you. If people take you seriously, maybe you can parlay good news into that ongoing narrative, but, if you’re fighting bad news, bad news you can’t hope to control, well, good luck with that.

It hasn’t helped that the rich and powerful seem to have it a lot easier than the rank and file. Few things reveal the haves and have nots better than a crisis. If celebrities and professional athletes are getting tests when doctors, nurses, and other first responders can’t, that’s more than just a problem of perception. It’s a statement about the failure of the American healthcare system as it currently stands, one that makes an even stronger case for the failure of the American economic system on which that healthcare system is based.

Systemic failure. Not words you want to hear.

What we’ve seen, however, has not been the start of the long anticipated Next Great Depression (That may still come; more on that below). No, what we’re seeing now with the spastic volatility of stock markets, beleaguered supply chains, and GoFundMe pages for first responders and out of work restaurant workers sprouting up like spring daffodils, is just how unhealthy our current economy already was long before this pandemic took place.

When we talk about a “healthy” economy, we talk about moderation. Money is spread around. Power is spread around. When money and power become more concentrated, it throws the health of the economy out of whack.

Too much concentration in any one stratum, such as the wealthy, or any one sector, such as energy, and it ruins what we may think of as an immune response. It isn’t that if that stratum or sector goes down that we have no ability to respond, it’s that our response is likely to favor a strata or sector that doesn’t need help.

It’s important to state that this is not something the comes out of capitalism. Even a cursory look at nominally “communist” economies of the 20th century shows a concentration of money and power in the hands of a corrupt and often cruel elite, with destructive results for everyone else stuck living under those systems.

It is corruption, not capitalism or communism, that was and remains the problem. We can and should be enraged at recently appointed Georgia Senator Kelly Loeffler, who along with her New York Stock Exchange-managing husband appears to have profited 18 million dollars through insider trading while telling the American public that nothing was wrong.

The essential question we need to ask, though, is would Loeffler have done something like this in the Soviet Union? Would she have seen a crisis coming and lied about it in order to profit from it? Of course, she would have. Of course, she would.

The systemic corruption in present day Russia has a name: oligarchy. The oligarchs, however, started long before the fall of the Soviet Union. They did so with the patronage of men and women in the Soviet government. Their corruption hastened the collapse of that government, syphoning off funds, undermining the rule of law and with it government accountability and oversight, and setting the stage for calamities such as Chernobyl.

In this way, the kleptocracy made itself. It emerged from its Soviet cocoon fully formed, the government patrons selling off government-owned institutions to their friends, who then supported their hold on power. This is how the oligarchs became the oligarchs and how Vladimir Putin became Vladimir Putin.

We must remember, too, that corruption isn’t just a moral or ethical failing, like Loeffler’s, but a systemic one, too. In the case of the United States, too much money and power has become concentrated in an under-regulated, speculative, market economy. We have become wholly dependent on it. Coupled with the unfettered rise of online sports betting (and the corresponding rise in sports cheating), we have embraced gambling as a core element of our economic system, and are doing so mired in debt.

Short term debt is just fine. Use your credit card, pay it off at the end of the month. It’s a short term solution to short term problems. Long term debt, on the other hand, is bad, the longer the term, the worse. Just ask anyone with student loans, or any country owing the IMF, or anyone stuck still holding one of those toxic sub-prime mortgages after all this time. They’re in a never ending cycle of paying it off. They can’t move forward. They can’t build anything. They can’t live, not really.

Of course, we don’t have to ask. Not now. We all lived through that. The memory is still fresh. It’s burned into our memories. We couldn’t possibly be that stupid, stupid enough to do it all again. Right? Right?

And yet. And yet.

Even now, even in the midst of all this suffering, there are men and women continuing to make billions on nothing but debt, including government debt, leaving billions of suckers holding the bag when another catastrophe hits and the bubbles burst.

Just reading that, it sounds bad - it should, it really, really should - and yet we have convinced ourselves that because so many other people are doing it we must also do it or get left behind. That’s what systemic corruption does. That’s the feeling it embeds in each of us. And, because we tell ourselves that we’re gambling with other people’s money, we convince ourselves that it’s going to be somebody else’s problem.

Nope. That’s not how that works.

As mentioned above, the economic crisis we’re living through isn’t the collapse that was already coming. That one, which could actually be worse, could still come if safeguards aren’t put in place. It would more likely be triggered not by a natural disaster but by a change of parties in the White House and, more importantly, in the Senate.

Not what you wanted to read? Read on. Please.

That change, given the Republican advantage in the Electoral College and the strength of incumbency in Republican-held Senate seats, would likely have come just before the election of 2024, in anticipation of Republican losses, or sometime towards the end of the 2025 fiscal year, when Democratic rollbacks of Republican deregulation and tax policies took full effect.

At that time, those who have pushed deregulation and de facto deregulation would begin “profit taking”, which is to say, selling off as much as they can, first under the radar while telling suckers that all is well and then as fast as they could once word got out that the market was about to collapse. And then it would collapse, a race to the bottom leaving tens of millions out of work, facing homelessness and starvation, and nothing to fix it but massive, debt-laden government spending.

Sound familiar? Of course, it does.

This is what happens when the immune response within an economy breaks down. For decades, Republicans have vilified regulations as killing jobs and stifling freedoms. The Democratic leadership, to their shame, has never truly called them out for that lie. Bill Clinton never did. Barack Obama didn’t, either. Neither did Hillary Clinton or this round’s likely nominee, Joe Biden. And it is a lie, a big, fat one that actually threatens the very things it claims to want to protect.

What regulations actually do, and why they’re so easy to vilify, is require us to be accountable to others. Traffic lights and stop signs, those are regulations. They don’t belong at every intersection, but where there are accidents in which cars hit people or other cars we absolutely need them and we know it.

Yes, it is possible for regulations to be poorly thought out and poorly written. They are written, as all things are, by people. Whenever you hear a politician or cable news personality say we have to get rid of them, though, what they mean is people shouldn’t have to be accountable to other people.

That’s their pitch. Well, that’s every right wing’s pitch. People love to hear it, almost as much as people love to hear that people they don’t have to accountable to will still have to be accountable to them. Oh, how we all love to hear that. Let us be the ones, the only ones, who get to blow past the stop signs. Who wouldn’t love that?

We’ll never not run to the ballot box and elect the buffoon offering us that and an easy life with easy solutions to complicated problems. At least, we’ll never not until that moment the world around us forces us to learn why we were so very, very stupid to do so.

This, like all things, comes in cycles. We go through periods, like the one the one twelve years ago and the one we’re in right now, in which we are forced to realize that we need to be more accountable to each other. No running red lights, no taking the easy way out.

Action is taken. Regulations that could and should have protected us are restored. More regulations, ones we hadn’t thought to ask if we needed but now understand that we do, follow. Time passes, we haven’t faced a catastrophe like this in a while, we forget, we remove our protections, and the cycle starts again.

The cycle kicks off like fireworks. Everything is great. We are euphoric, we are in the moment, the bubble keeps growing and keeps rising, and we keep rising with it. Nothing can go wrong.

At some point, however, the laws of thermodynamics set in, especially the third one: entropy.

Nothing lasts forever, certainly not any economic system built on an imbalance of power. In order to protect the advantage they have, those benefitting from the status quo will spend available resources, first just a little and then more and more and exponentially more.

Why exponentially more? The more resources they spend, the more it destabilizes their position. That’s entropy. This is partly because the stability of their position depended on that reserve of resources and partly because in order to maintain an imbalance of power they must abuse not only those in protest but those potentially in protest, which only draws more protesters to the cause of removing them.

So, the more they spend, the more they keep having to spend, and that just to maintain what they thought they had. Eventually, the resources required to hold it all together are exhausted and the bubble collapses.

This doesn’t just apply to markets; it applies to every relationship based on an imbalance of power. It’s their life cycle.

It’s also a lesson we can’t seem to learn without failing. Failing is a big part of how we learn. It’s our species’ special talent. In a lot of ways, it mimics our immune system: we allow potential threats in so we can test changing environments and learn how to adapt to them. We’re seeking out failure, or at least he chance of it.

This is how we’ve learned for hundreds of thousands of years, perhaps even longer, and despite our countless mistakes and our countless failures, we only in the position we’re in as the planet’s most evolved species because of it. In that sense, it isn’t just mimicking our immune system, it’s a vital part of it.

This is what we need to remember: immune systems of any kind exist to help us to adapt to changing environments.

If we can adapt, we can survive. We can’t go all one way or all another. We must avoid extremes as much as we must avoid locking ourselves into the center.

Balance is not stasis. It requires movement, making adjustments large and small. It means having the ability to accept being wrong and to accept necessary change. Without that, we fail. Our systems fail. And we’ve failed enough to know better.

”Nobody could have predicted something like this”?

Anyone could have. Plenty did.

- Daniel Ward

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serainovel · 7 years ago

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Prologue Chapter Four: Sir Leon

[Quick AN: Sorry this took so long! I forgot I finished the first draft months ago and just needed to check it?? Oops! Also, after a recent review of the chapters so far, I’ve decided to use the main character’s real name in the main prose rather than his fake name, as was insinuated in the previous chapters. Sorry for the sudden change! I’ll go back and amend the previous chapters soon. Thanks again for your patience!]

Serai Kingdom, Brackenshire County, the Eastern Barracks.

The trumpets' piercing wails were ceased by a single dismissive wave of Sir Leon's hand. Their music was swallowed up by the night air, and amid the silence, the percussion of horse hoofs and heavy armour heralded the knight’s arrival. He marched his horse to stand before his trainees, joined on both sides by mounted soldiers. Mizuki glanced at the gold decoration seared into their breastplates and identified them both as lesser ranking knights. He couldn't place their exact identities. Not that anyone could, what with those cumbersome helmets concealing their features. Mizuki had always thought the Seraian military's regulation full helms looked a bit stupid. He knew better than to put pride before what was truly important, especially when it came to battle equipment, and while the knights’ helms undoubtedly guarded them well, Mizuki deeply hoped he would never have to wear one. One reason he had set his sights on the lofty goal of serving as a Royal Knight, rather than the more achievable goal of serving in the military, was so he wouldn't have to ride into battle looking like he was wearing a fortified bucket on his head. Sir Leon, by comparison, looked much more stately. Half-cape draped over one shoulder, gilded helmet under one arm, the other resting its elbow on the sword resting upon his hip. The very image of a bold and daring leader, a competent instructor, and a man worthy of the title of veteran knight. Still though, Mizuki thought, he has nothing on dad. Leon passed his gaze over his assembled troops, his dark brow drawn taught and his lips pressed into a fine line beneath his mustache. Mizuki knew the reason for his disdain. He couldn't see them, but he could hear the embarrassed chortles of tardy trainees as they shuffled into line. Even now, filing was not complete. Mizuki wondered what colourful and inventive punishment Leon would come up with this time. "How have any of you gotten this far in your training without learning when to fall in line?" Leon growled in his guttural and distinctly northern tone. "Hurry up! Or you'll be sleeping in the pigs' pen tonight!" Ah, a classic. So long as the trainees remained mischievous and Sir Leon remained strict, those pigs would never be without human company. It took a few more uncomfortable moments for the men to get into place, and several elbow jabs in their sides to silence their laughter. The air and the troops were still, so still that Mizuki could hear the faraway creaking of the opposition’s trebuchets, but the silence remained unfilled. Leon was in no hurry. He had mastered the fine art of intimidation, and knew better than to let a potential uncomfortable silence go to waste. He bided his time, waiting until their cheeky giggles had diminished into awkward coughs. His scathing glare seemed to have burned every ounce of joviality from the air. Only then did he draw a breath and speak. "Men! Our kingdom's enemy has come to threaten our peace once again. Our scouts have confirmed that the Telsan barbarians approach from the south, and they bring with them an army of women, children, and angry farmers.” This comment got a chuckle out of a couple of the trainees. A good sign. At least some of them were listening. “They are armed with much the same equipment we saw during their attack on the kingdom’s northern wall: axes, torches, spears, bows - a few swords here and there, but rakes and hoes are far more common.” Two rows behind him, Mizuki heard someone sigh. He could almost feel how they rolled their eyes and shrugged their shoulders. This tiny expression of apathy was enough to provoke another soldier into resuming their gossip, and the muttering began anew. Mizuki couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for Leon. It must have been difficult, having to keep finding new and inventive ways to spur inspiration and determination in such jaded soldiers, and to rally them against an utterly ineffective enemy they had been forced to fight every other month for years on end. In his last motivational speech, Leon had spun a tale of how the filthy Telsan barbarians had attacked a Seraian woman: a farmer’s daughter living on the kingdom’s border. The trainees knew this woman as Jo the milkmaid. They knew her because she would ride to the barracks to deliver pots of milk with the help of her brother, but the soldiers couldn’t care less about him. Because Jo was beautiful. She was young, she had a pretty laugh, and she had a propensity for wearing her bodice just a little too low and her skirts just a little too high. The trainees were often too distracted by her to notice how she overcharged them for her delivery services. So when they heard that the filthy Telsans had attacked their fair and innocent Jo, the soldiers were livid, and fought harder than they had ever fought in their lives. Leon was quite disappointed when Jo arrived at the gates not a week later, sprightly and vivacious and completely unaware of his lie. He had arrived too late to inform her of his scheme, and the trainees had not taken kindly to it. Now he’d have to come up with something else. Though Leon’s stone-faced expression remained unmoving, Mizuki could see the cogs turning within his mind. He cocked his head, curious to know what eccentric lie he might come up with this time. "This is all getting a bit boring now, isn't it?" he said, his frankness coming as a surprise to Mizuki. "Countless times now they have tried - and failed - to strike at our fair kingdom, and for all the years we have been at war what has it gained them? Nothing. Not an acre. They just can't seem to figure out that no amount of fury, determination or scorn will ever be enough to dent our great kingdom’s forces. They are like flies throwing themselves at windows. Ah, but we must not be so judgemental, aye? We should treat these poor, lesser people with benevolence. After all, we can’t expect much from a bunch of exiled muttonheads.” The trainees laughed. Mizuki did not laugh with them. He heard Morgan and Liam tittering behind him, while David remained stock still, his eyes on his teacher. They watched as Leon’s feigned smile fell from his lips. His eyes were dark, his voice grave. "You idiots think we're impervious to the enemy's forces because they're "just" barbarians?" The laughter died. "All this talk of their untrained soldiers, their lesser weapons, their failed invasions. Your arrogance will be your downfall!" Leon bellowed at the wall guards, ordering them to lower the drawbridge. It took all their strength to operate the machinery, heaving at levers almost as tall as they were to set the gargantuan wheels and chains in motion. Though they stood on the opposite end of the pathway, Mizuki had to wince to bear the rusty squealing cries of the wall’s inner mechanisms as they fought to raise the old and reluctant portcullis. The falling drawbridge revealed a familiar scene: the night sky split apart by smoke and flame, and the once muffled sound of marching grew louder and louder, nearer and nearer. Worst of all was the creaking, the groaning wood, the cranking iron, none of which were coming from their own walls. "You at least noticed the trebuchets they bring with them, yes? Or perhaps you heard about them in rumours? I know how much you lot love to gossip." There was no response, not even a mutter. All eyes were on the bridge. "How can you remain so complacent? Are you not afraid? Are you so sure of victory that failure is not even a possibility in your minds? Look again!" Leon pointed through the gap in the wall, not with his finger, but his drawn sword: a hefty gilded thing engraved with the Seraian insignia. Mizuki tried not to smile. His teacher had quite a flare for dramatics. However, the thing he was pointing at certainly called for alarm, he would give him that. It was still only a speck in the far distance, like a golden star that has gotten lost in the night, but the soldiers would recognise their kingdom’s sigil anywhere. "You don't recognise your own Kingdom's weapon?! Those trebuchets bear the Seraian insignia! Or are you all so blind drunk you didn't notice?!" That woke them up. Mizuki, eyes set on the glint of the trebuchets’ insignias, listened as an uneasiness rose around him, the disturbed voices of his fellows chattering in confused hysterics. Even Liam and Morgan were having a hard time keeping still. "It's ours?" Morgan asked, leaning over Michael's head to get a better look. "Did they steal it?" "Of course they did, how else would they get it?" David snapped, not taking his wide eyes off the barbarian's raging torch fire. "But how? I hear what Leon's saying but they wouldn't have a chance of stealing something like that. They just don't have the manpower." "Don't let them catch you unawares!" Leon's voice boomed over the trainees' rising chatter. "It’s likely those aren't the only armaments they have with them. Following the attack on the kingdom's walls, our military stationed at Telsa has reported several cases of captives making off with our supplies." Mizuki knew what Leon was going to say next. "They could do it if they had Magic Stones," he whispered to David. The air around the boys went still. Even as Mizuki kept his eyes on his captain he could feel their horrified stares weighing on him. "What?" David hissed. "They're rogues, not an army,” he explained. “They don't obey the same rules we do. The Telsans had Stones with them when they attacked the North kingdom wall; wouldn't be surprised if this lot have Stones with them too." Leon’s voice boomed. "They've taken our soldiers' armour, weaponry, ammunition, rations, water reserves, and a few light-fingered little buggers have made off with their Magic Stones." Stillness. Leon’s warning had drained the air of its merry energy, leaving only apprehension in its wake. "There you go," Mizuki said. "What?!" David snapped again, his voice joining the rising chorus of frightened chatter. Behind them, Liam squeaked through the fingers covering his face. "Oh my giddy aunt!" Morgan, however, was laughing. It wasn't uncommon for Morgan to laugh, but never in his life had Mizuki heard him make such a high-pitched titter. "Well! Glad we've got you on our side, mate!" Morgan punctuated his sentence with yet another friendly, if not a little half-hearted, elbow to Michael's arm. He almost retaliated, but his fist stopped before it could make contact. What did Morgan mean by that? Leon's soldiers called for silence. Their thunderous shouts were only just loud enough to carry over the flustered trainees’ cacophonous chatter and suffocate it. Once he was sure he would be heard, the knight continued his speech. "They're as crafty as they are desperate," he said. "Not one of them is trained in the Magical Arts nor do they have any understanding of the Seraian laws of magical conduct." He quirked a brow. "Not that it ever stopped them before. The casting we saw from them at the north kingdom wall was desperate and volatile. Though most of their spells were utterly ineffective--" Hearing this, Liam perked up. "Oh good!" "They took out a guard tower with just one Earth spell." Liam wilted. "Oh no." "We won't be taking any chances. All archers are to man the wall and towers and focus the enemy's siege weapons. Mounted units, you will fight off the foot soldiers -- and for goodness’ sake, keep away from their spearmen!" David, unconsoled by Leon's plan of action, shook his head. "We can't defend ourselves against magic!" "Hope you know how to use a shield," Mizuki said, adjusting his own. "I don't!" cried Liam. "Foot soldiers!" That meant them. Every pair of eyes in the boys' regimen was fixed on their captain. They were the kindling, he was the fire, and his words were the tinder that was failing to strike a light. "Fend off their swordsmen and hinder their advance. If you can strike at their mounts, do so: their horses are not trained for battle and will likely bolt at the first provocation. And if any of you spot a mage, incapacitate them immediately. Don't let a single one of them through these gates. Understood?" "Aye, sir!" the soldiers agreed, though their battlecry lacked even a spark of the fire Leon had tried to ignite. Mizuki heard a mumbling coming from behind him. Liam tapped him on the soldier. "Wait," he stammered, "did he say "decapitate" them?" "No, mate," Morgan chuckled. "Incapacitate." He nudged David's back. "Write that one down, Dave." "Oh, be quiet!" he snapped, clearly in no mood for Morgan's jokes. "How can you be so cheerful at a time like this?" "Sorry, friend," Morgan said with a shrug. "I just think laughin's better'n cryin'." "Laughter won't bring you back from this battle alive, dimwit." David let out the rest of his anxious vitriol in a shuddering sigh. "Sir Leon is right. We can't hope to beat mages without any magic of our own. Our best option is to incapacitate them and bring them back for questioning--" "I still don't understand what that means!" Liam said. David clicked his tongue and looked away. "How long did you say you've been here?" Mizuki asked, brow quirked. Liam lowered his head, sheepish, and his helmet fell onto the bridge of his nose. "Two weeks..." he admitted, pushing the helmet back up. Mizuki resisted the urge to sigh. The hypocrisy was becoming harder to ignore. Seraians loved to criticise the Telsan barbarians for sinking so low as to send mothers and their children into battle. Mizuki wondered how they would blush to know that the barbarian infants were doing battle with their own kingdom's children. "It means 'make them unable to fight'," he explained. "You don't have to kill them." Liam's eyes lit up. "Oh! Oh, good! In-ca-paci-tate. That's a good word, I like that word." Mizuki chuckled. "Yeah. Me too." David hushed them. "I can't hear Sir Leon!" He faced front, watching his knight with rapt attention, and didn't notice how Mizuki mockingly mimicked him while his back was turned. Morgan and Liam stifled their snickers behind their hands. "Treat the barbarians as you would any other worthy opponent," their teacher said. "Their strength may be inferior to ours but their resolve is just as great. Don't let your guard down! Complacency will get you killed!" Leon looked out over his men. All were stood stock still; not one dared to disobey his authority. Even the drunks had forced themselves to stop swaying. When his gaze reached Mizuki's group, he stopped. Stared. David straightened, shoulders straight and chin raised too high. His friends did the same, Liam with a little too much gusto, as he knocked his helmet down onto his nose again. It wasn't clear from this distance who Leon was looking at exactly. Mizuki hoped it wasn't him, but stared back nonetheless, waiting for him to stop pausing for dramatic effect and just get on with it. "That being said," he said, and Mizuki could have sworn he saw his features soften, "we will only use as much force as is necessary in this battle. It would be a waste of resources otherwise. Cannons, you will focus fire only on the trebuchets. Once they are destroyed, you will cease fire immediately." This disturbed the crowd's obedient silence. The men shared concerned glances, noses wrinkled in confusion, and their murmurings began anew, now dismayed and utterly sober. Around the boys the voices grew in volume and urgency, asking "What did he say?"; "Why would we hold back when we're under attack?", and "I know they're just barbs, but that's stupid!" Another warning shout from Leon's knights silenced the crowd. "I suggest you lot act accordingly!" he said. "And I don't want to hear any more complaints! Remember, you fight for the honour of your Kingdom. Have faith in your King! Your heritage gives you strength! We fight for the glory of our beloved Serai Kingdom!" The soldiers cheered in agreement. Mizuki quirked a brow. "S'a bit much, innit?" "Hold your tongue!" David hissed. Leon tugged on his horse's reigns. His speech was done. "Let's send these farmers back home where they belong. Ready men!" "Aye, sir!" The soldiers' raucous shouts of agreement echoed across the fields. Liam copied them, a moment too late. "March!" The clanking of metal plates and the pounding of boots stomping the earth resounded across the field as the sobered soldiers journeyed to the gates. Morgan and Liam, still untrained in how to properly march, followed David and Mizuki's example, watching them closely and copying their movements. Morgan swung his arms too widely and walked with too much spring in his step, and Liam squeaked apologies every time he accidentally bumped into Mizuki's shoulders. David’s demands that Morgan stop kicking the backs of his heels almost distracted Mizuki from the sound of his name being called. Startled, he searched for the source of the voice, and found Sir Leon looking back at him. He nodded toward the wall. "Follow me." Mizuki watched the knight pull on his horse’s reins and lead the way, not looking back to see if his student was following behind. He could feel his friend’s gazes boring a hole into the back of his neck as they waited to see what he would do. Mizuki left before David could make comment, following his captain to the edge of the barracks. Mizuki fell out of step as he hurried after Leon, and even as his captain dismounted his horse, he did not salute him. He knew he didn’t have to. Leon wouldn’t correct him. From this distance, even under the shadow cast by the walls, he could see Leon’s features clearly. Peeking out from beneath his armour and the bushel of coarse red hair smothering his lower jaw was a patchwork of scars. Mizuki had seen them in full once, during a particularly hot summer when Leon had gone shirtless during a sparring lesson. He looked like he had been torn asunder by a hail storm of swords and knives, and sewed back together by his own wounds. Each one was significant to him, each one had a story to tell. His scars were so great in number, and all of equal significance, they had no beginning and no end. So no one bothered to ask. They wouldn't know where to start. "Yes, sir?" he asked. Leon passed a critical eye up and down his armour. Mizuki was certain that everything was in its proper place, just as his knight had instructed him to wear it. Still, Leon's brow drew together in disapproval. With a firm grip he tugged at the plates on Mizuki's chest and arms, and adjusted several straps that didn't need adjusting. Mizuki had to chew on the inside of his mouth to stop himself from rolling his eyes. "Was that all, sir?" The knight harumphed, and nodded his head at the weapon strapped to Mizuki's waist. "You sure about that choice of sword, Michael?" "As always, sir," he said, not missing a beat. Leon searched his pupil's eyes for doubt, finding none. With a sharp chuckle, his moustache twisted into a smirk. "Well be sure to keep your shield just as close," he said. "You heard what I said about their Magic Stones, aye?" "I did, sir." "Good." Mizuki blinked, waiting for Leon to let him go. He didn't. He leaned forward conspiratorially, speaking in hushed, serious tones. "And try not to set off any magic spells of your own, aye?" The image of bright sparks breaking forth from his sword and colliding with a training dummy flooded Mizuki’s thoughts. He shifted on the spot. "With all due respect, sir," Mizuki growled, "that was a year ago. And an accident. I don't even have a Stone, I don't know how--" "Let's hope so, son." Mizuki frowned. He didn't like Leon's patronising tone. "I'm not lying, sir-" "I know that. You wouldn't. I only hope what you say is true." Mizuki’s expression creased up in confusion. Leon smiled, and it was kindly. "Food for thought." He nodded at the marching soldiers. "Off you go." Mizuki considered pressing Leon for answers, but he knew Leon well enough to know he wouldn’t give him any. Without another word, he left to catch up to his regiment. "And stay safe, you hear?” Leon's called after him. “You and your friends." He couldn't ignore that. "I barely know them!" he retorted. "Back in line, Michael!" He begrudgingly obeyed, turning away before Leon could hear him mutter under his breath. "You could at least use my real name, sir..." He had to jog to catch up to his regiment. They had already passed through the gate, over the drawbridge, and were marching down the hill. He slipped back into file as discreetly as he could, which was not at all, as he was followed by every pair of curious eyes that could get a glimpse of him. David was ready for him the moment he got back in line. "I saw that," he snapped, leaning in close. "What was that? What did you do?" Mizuki leaned away, as though repulsed by the stench of David's suspicion. "Leave it, David!" "Was he checking up on you?" Morgan asked, equally as eager to invade Mizuki's personal space. "Aren't you special!" "He did something wrong, I know he did!" "Are you gonna get in trouble, Mike?" Liam asked, peering up at him. "Nah, he's Leon's golden boy!" Morgan reassured him, slapping Mizuki's shoulder with a congratulatory palm so hefty it almost knocked him over. "He wouldn't let anything happen to him." "Really?! How did you get him to like you, Mike? He's scary!" "Oh stop it, it'll go to his head," David said, marching with his nose stuck firmly upward. "Leon's only got his eye on him because he's such a damn troublemaker." "Oi, what's that on your face, Dave?" Morgan grinned, pointing at David's cheek. "You're going green!" "What? There's nothing- Shut up!" There wasn't a speck of green on David's face, but there was a whole lot of red. Morgan and Liam’s giggling was infectious, and Mizuki couldn’t help but join in. He didn’t know how Morgan managed to keep in step and keep up the banter at the same time. He was almost impressed. For just a few moments, the air felt light again, like they were inside a bubble that shielded them from reality. Until the horn sounded. The soldiers came to an immediate halt. Mizuki narrowly avoided butting heads with the soldier in front of him. Liam wasn't quite so quick and smacked right into his back. "Sorry!" he said, rubbing his nose. Mizuki didn't respond. He was struck by the weight of the silence, how heavily it pulled at his legs and firmly rooted him to the ground. Beyond the walls the winds, unfettered by walls or by trees, blew stronger and colder. It cut through his armour and sliced over his skin, robbing the colour and smiles from the soldiers’ faces and snatching every last scrap of merriment from the air. The army was drawing near.

#Serai: In Living Memory #Serai (VN)#original story #fantasy #knights #prose #long post #Mizuki Shiro #David #Liam #Morgan #Sir Leon #Prologue Arc

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embracetheapocalypsewithme · 7 years ago

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The Love You Take

I wrote this piece for @jeffreydeanneganstrash‘s awesome 1K challenge. Congrats on the followers!!

My prompt was “Melpomene - Greek Muse of Tragedy“, and I chose to focus on Negan as my character. Because of course I did! This story takes place around the events of issue 170 of the comics, so there may be a few spoilers, but not many. Since Melpomene was originally also the muse associated with music, I decided to incorporate some music into the story.

This isn’t smutty at all, and is actually quite dark in comparison to my usual stuff. Be forewarned that there is talk of suicide, so if that is a trigger for you, please be aware.

Summary: After being exiled from Alexandria, Negan finds himself living alone near the place he buried his beloved Lucille. After he begins to hear mysterious music playing at night, he decides to investigate its source. Has he found a new companion?

Word Count: 2,138

Warnings: Depictions of, and talk of suicide and methods. Depictions of depression. Pills.

The Love You Take

Once there was a way to get back homeward...

Negan’s eyes fluttered open at the sound of music drifting through the window next to his bed, which he had left ajar before going to sleep. Faint piano chords were carried in on the breeze from a distant location. Christ! How long had it been since he’d heard another human voice, let alone actual music?

Once there was a way to get back home.

The darkness inhabiting this still-unfamiliar room seemed to press against him as he waited for his eyes to adjust to it. Groaning, Negan heaved his body from the mattress and stood, bare-chested in front of the window. His eyes scanned the street outside before moving on to the other buildings in the vicinity. He saw nothing to indicate the source of the sound.

Sleep pretty darling, do not cry…

“Fucking Beatles?”

He mumbled the half-formed question to himself. His voice was still hoarse from sleep and the words were eaten up by the night.

And I will sing a lullaby.

Lucille had listened to The Beatles once upon a time, while Negan had always been more of a Neil Young kind of guy. The Beatles were a little bit too saccharine and lovey-dovey for him, and he often teased his wife about her penchant for listening to “that hippy bullshit”, as he called it. She had taken his teasing in stride, offering him only patronizing smiles and promises that he might understand why she liked this music someday if he ever managed to grow a heart.

The momentary flash of earlier, happier memories sent a shiver down his spine and caused his breath to catch in his throat as if he had been doused with ice water. He allowed himself only a minute of regret-soaked nostalgia before pulling on his typical white t-shirt and leather jacket combination, and heading for the door. After taking the stairs to the first floor two at a time, he raced into the street outside of the house he had been sleeping in, and stood still in an attempt to pinpoint where the music was coming from.

By the time the rest of the band had kicked up and Paul McCartney began to advise him that he was going to “carry that weight a long time”, Negan had determined that the sound was coming from the north east. He began to make his way through the abandoned town in search of the mystery DJ, still cognizant of the fact that the noise was likely to draw every walker in the area to him.

Maybe that had been the point.

Was this Rick the Prick fucking with him for some reason? Or maybe it was someone new. Someone watching him, waiting to draw him away from his meager supplies long enough to swipe them and run off before he got back.

This thought caused Negan to stop dead in his tracks. He stood in the open street trying to decide whether he should retreat back to the abandoned house he had been sleeping in for the week since he had left Alexandria, or if he should keep searching for the music’s source.

And in the middle of the celebration I break down.

Swallowing the completely founded paranoia he felt, he decided to press on, following the trail of melody into the moon-lit night. This mystery was too intriguing. And who fucking knew? Maybe he was wrong about something for once!

At last he came to a tall, industrial building on the edge of the town. By now the music had swelled enough, due mostly to his proximity to it, for Negan to determine that this building was its fountainhead. The large man stood in the shadow of the edifice, staring up at a faint light emitting from its topmost floor. He thought that the place reminded him a little of the Sanctuary, and this connection caused a smirk to spread across his face.

“Let’s see who the fuck you are,” he mumbled before carefully grasping the main door’s metal handle to yank it open.

Standing away from the open doorway, he waited for a moment to see if a walker would emerge. Actual humans, of course, weren’t so careless as to walk out into the unknown. If there were any of those pent up in the building, they would likely be hiding. Waiting.

Negan quietly trespassed the threshold leading into the main floor of the building. Taking another pause to look around the grim surroundings, he eventually came to a stairwell which seemed to climb the entire building in a tight zig-zag from floor to floor. As he followed the stairs up with his eyes, a glimmer of hope sprang to life within him.

Other people could mean danger. But they could also mean companionship.

He had not been as utterly alone as he was now since the days just after Lucille had died all those years ago. Even during his time in Alexandria’s jail there had been some companionship for him. Fuck yes, he’d had visitors! More than even Rick knew about at the time; and thank god for that! If he had known that his precious, little son had been visiting ol’ Neegs every so often, that prick would have absolutely shut that shit down.

As much as he hated to admit it, preferring to think of himself as a self-sufficient badass, Negan needed other people. The solitary nature of his current situation was driving him to the brink of hopelessness, even with Lucille buried nearby.

Although he had chosen to come alone to this place, thinking that perhaps living in proximity to his wife’s wooden embodiment would comfort him, he needed human interaction in order to keep the ever-present grief he felt from spilling over into his conscious mind. It was the only way he could go on for much longer. Solitude, for him, meant death.

Negan mounted the stairs as quietly as possible, his footfalls masked by the repetition of the music drifting down to him from above: “Love you. Love you. Love you. Love you…” the lyrics promised. He didn’t put much stock in omens, but maybe this was a good sign.

“Love you. Love you…”

With each step, he began to construct an image of who he might find when he reached the top floor. Maybe the person playing the music would be a woman who would look at him with soft eyes and a kind smile. She would never know anything about his past fuck ups, or the multitude of terrible things he had done as the leader of the Saviors. Maybe she would let him stay with her, and they would fall in love. He could protect her from the harsh world outside and they would fall asleep each night in one another’s arms, totally oblivious to the fact that they were living in a dead world.

Finally, he reached the top of the stairs and came face-to-face with a grey metal door. His heart fluttered up to his throat like a caged bird as he gingerly reached for the leaver that would grant him access to the room. After a deep breath, Negan pushed the lever down and allowed the door to swing open with a shrill creek that echoed against the concrete walls. The music’s volume ramped up without the door there to block it from fully entering his ears.

And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love…you make…

He stepped into the room and took in the tableau before him. A single, flickering lamp sat on top of a wooden crate next to the room’s main window. Beside this was a second crate, which held an old-fashioned boom box from which the music played.

The song began to wind down in a chorus of swirling instruments and voices, coming to a crescendo before dying out entirely. There was a few seconds of static before the tape that had been playing ran out and the play button on the machine popped up with an audible click that was much too loud in the somber room, causing him to jump slightly.

His gaze then fell upon something in the room’s corner, which he took to be a pile of blankets and pillows; perhaps some kind of make-shift bed for the room’s inhabitant. It was a bit too dimly lit to make out any details, so he strode toward the lamp with the intention of using it to check out his surroundings more carefully.

Upon nearing the table, he noticed a small, spiral-bound book which sat open near the lamp. Intrigued, he picked it up and read the words written on the page to which it had been left open:

Nick has been gone for more than a month now. I know he won’t be back. He’s probably dead. The biggest herd of roamers that I have ever seen came through just after he left to go hunting, and I’m sure they were coming from the direction he had gone in.

I’m too afraid to leave. I’d rather die just about any other way than being ripped apart by those things. The food ran out last week and the water just yesterday. I’ll be dead soon too, either by choice or by circumstance.

At least he left me with the medication. Lots of pills should do the trick. I didn’t know how many to take, so I just took them all. I hope I won’t suffer.

I just want to go to sleep and then this will be over. If there’s a God, maybe he’ll understand. I just don’t want to die alone and in pain. I know Nick won’t come back and find me like this. There’s that little bit of comfort at least.

I can feel the pills taking hold now. Kind of a numb tingle in my legs and arms. It’s almost nice, aside from the nausea. I hope that passes soon. I’ll put on some music to fall asleep to. Music always calms me down.

What should my last song be? Maybe if I time it right I can drift off to the end of the Abbey Road medley. That’s always a pretty song…

Love you,

Mel

The first low moans began from behind him as Negan crumpled the paper and tossed it to the floor beside the crate. He took out the hunting knife he carried without turning around immediately. He already knew what he would find in the corner of the room under the blankets and pillows.

As he strode toward the pile of fabric and foam which had begun to twitch and move as the newly-turned walker under it rose from the floor, Negan forced himself to take a breath. Every step he took was a door to his heart closing off, sealing himself away from disappointment and loneliness.

“Fucking stupid bitch,” his voice was dull and lifeless in the cold room, “Couldn’t fucking even try to get through it. After all that. Fucking waste of space.”

Another moan met him in response and he readied the knife. “Mel” stood before him. Her skin had a deathly cast to it, and vomit trailed down her chin and across her chest. From the looks of her, Negan wasn’t so sure that she had gotten her wish for a painless death.

As the blade of his knife pushed through her skull, he wondered if “Mel” had been short for Melanie or Melissa. What did it matter now? She was dead and gone before he even got to the front door.

“Fuck you!” he grunted, pulling the knife out of her head and watching the body drop to the floor.

Taking one last look at the room, Negan felt the sting of tears threatening to breach his eyes, but he fought them back. The apathetic and mercenary side of him took over in order to protect him from the knowledge that perhaps he and Mel weren’t all that different. They were both alone, low on hope, and nearing the end of a pointless and stupid journey.

Maybe that’s why he hated her so much in that moment: she reflected all of the parts of him that he had to keep in check in order to keep going every day. These were the parts of him that whispered to him at night as he lay alone in the abandoned house, telling him to give up and give in.

Mel had pills. He had a gun. How much longer until the call of the abyss was too loud to ignore?

“Fuck you,” he whispered bitterly to himself, and left the room that had become a monument to desperation and misery, vowing to move on from this town in the morning. There was nothing for him here.

On a personal note, this is the first thing I have written in over a month (which is quite a while for me!), so it’s kind of a big deal to me. I hope you all like it and it’s not too sad. :)

#jdneganstrash1kchallenge #comicnegan>#twd fanfiction #negan angst #negan's thirst squad

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adambstingus · 6 years ago

Text

My Friends And I Found A Mysterious Hole On My Property And We Decided To Explore Its Depths

I need to have my story heard. I need to write this down. If I don’t, then I fear I’ll end up as mad as everyone thinks I already am. I’ve spent the past 11 months trying to find meaning and answers at the bottom of a bottle, but it never helps. Every night I wake in a cold sweat, shaking uncontrollably and gasping for air in the wake of the memory of the things I saw. Even now, I cannot venture past my door after dusk for fear of what lies beyond. Every bark from my dogs is a warning; every flicker of the floodlights that surround my house has me running for the generators. I have no idea what future awaits me past this moment, but I know I can’t stand the thought of another day where my experiences are not recorded in some way.

I farm a sizable piece of land, some several thousand acres in size. What I farm isn’t important, just the location. Upon my land occurs a unique land formation a type of rock that bears in a pattern unique to this area. In all the world, there is always something similar, but never quite exactly the same. Imagine a type of rock used by the early peoples to make paints that they would apply to their faces colors of orange, tan, red, white, and blue and embedded within these rocks are numerous geodes. It was always my plan that, should I fall upon financial hardship, I would sell these geodes at local stores or flea markets to the more “spiritual” people that frequented the larger towns near my home. Now however, that is no longer an option.

Until last year, I would allow hunters onto my land each winter to hunt deer and elk, occasionally joining them, as one elk could feed me for the better part of a year. They were my friends men I had hunted with for years and whom I had come to depend upon. I can still remember crawling through the brush of my property some year ago, only to came face to face with a mountain lion that appeared just as stunned as I at the encounter. I scarcely remember un-holstering my sidearm, a Beretta that had been gifted to me some years ago, and unloading half a clip into its still startled face as the panicked hands of my hunting buddies tore apart catclaw and mesquite branches alike to reach me before the second gunshot had rung out.

I still hold fond memories of how we laughed at the encounter that evening as they applied hydrogen peroxide to their bloodied hands in-between sips of beer. None of us went back for that mountain lion carcass. I think we honestly believed it wouldn’t be there if we looked, as if it had shrugged off several 9mm rounds fired point blank and was laughing off the encounter with its own buddies in much the same way we were. Sometimes I can still think back on that evening and smile at the image of all of us, wearing our beanies and fatigues, rifles slung over our backs…. The only two things that saved me in the end were my sidearm and the men at my back.

It was supposed to be a good year for hunting, the weather had been kind to us over the months and the uncharacteristic amount of rain for the area meant there was more grass to graze. Already I’d begun seeing elk lying dead on the side of the road. Unfortunate for the driver, but hopefully a sign of greater numbers that season. It was a more humid year than we were used to and it seemed like the winter would be harsh, but for us, it only meant buying more firewood. I’d been keeping the corn feeders stocked throughout the year and keeping a mental checklist of every deer and elk I saw. Even the javelina were starting to become a nuisance, although a decent source of meat provided you got a clean shot before they could musk.

I knew every inch of my property like the back of my hand, or at least I thought I did. It wasnt until two weeks into the season that we encountered . We were on a night hunt, trekking through a part of the property I’d taken to calling “Paint Rock Canyon,” due to the abundance of the unique rock formations in that area. It had needed no descent, just a brief 45 minute drive to the area situated between two mountains that sat almost directly in the middle of the property. We were all outfitted with LED headlamps and Maglites and most of us had outfitted our rifles with night-vision scopes, save for Anthony.

Anthony was not a large man, but he did seem to carry luck on his side. His medium length hair was usually tied back into a small ponytail and he had an almost ill-informed love of his neatly trimmed mutton chop sideburns and mustache that had earned him the nickname “Lemmy.” He couldn’t be considered lanky, nor could he be called overweight. On the whole, Anthony was quite normal, which many mistook for “average” brown hair, brown eyes, and a tanned complexion shared by the rest of us (the result of a life lived working outdoors). He had brought his AR-15, something he won in a local rodeo raffle, equipped with a thermal scope. While the others had found the rifle enviable, I was less impressed. Admittedly, I was disappointed that I didn’t win the second prize, which was a lever-action rifle with a custom saddle holster, provided by my favourite, local saddlery. I’m ashamed to admit it in retrospect, but I took a small comfort in the fact that Anthony was limited to featureless black-and-white as opposed to the rest of us.

Apart from Anthony, the hunting party consisted of Markus, Forrester, and myself. Markus was a heavy set Hispanic man who I turned to whenever I needed help with any of my vehicles, which was typically one per month. Auto repair was his family’s business and hed taken over the shop from his father after his passing. Forrester on the other hand was a pious man, a devout Baptist, and the only one among us who could honestly say hed never known the taste of liquor in his life. While the rest of us would set up the satellite to watch the game and drink to the point where we felt 10 years younger, Forrester could always be found over a smoker or grill that hed welded together himself, a root beer in one hand and a cooking utensil in the other. He was the shortest of all of us, but the only other farmer apart from myself, and my main source of hay when it came to animal feed.

That’s how I will always remember them before we found that damn hole under the light of the full moon. It was impossibly large and dug into the base of one of the mountains where the Paint Rock began. The hole was larger than any one of us and seemed like it was freshly dug. It certainly hadnt been there when wed last passed through the canyon scarcely two days prior. We stood in front of it in confusion for several minutes, questioning what could have caused such a thing when an elk came sprinting out, startling us all. Anthony was the quickest on the draw, bringing his rifle up and letting off several quick bursts as the gigantic animal bound towards us. The rest of us dove for cover, all but Anthony who, with his unbelievable luck, pierced the animal’s heart, bringing it crashing to the ground as he finally dove away from the falling body of an animal that weighed enough to total any vehicle unfortunate enough to collide with its form.

After calling to ensure that everyone was unhurt, we quickly turned our lights on the elks corpse, which turned out to be a cow rather than a bull as wed all assumed. Bullet wounds marked its body and I could have sworn the wounds on its back looked far too large to be caused by the 5.56 rounds fired from Anthonys rifle, yet I dismissed them as exit wounds despite being able to vividly recall no upward angle to his shots.

We were all thoroughly shaken by the experience and yet, for some unknowable reason, our curiosity was piqued. I recalled no one else on my land and doubted border-jumpers could have made something large enough to conceal an elk in less than two days. For reasons I will never fully know, none of us contested the idea when Markus suggested venturing inside the tunnel. We readied our night-scopes and light sources, pocketed some extra ammunition and abandoned what little light was offered by the night sky and made our way into the darkness.

The first thing we noticed as we entered the tunnel was its slope, which I think we all expected, except instead of sloping down into the earth the hole slanted upwards, ascending into the mountain. Out flashlights and headlamps illuminated the earthen walls yet saw no immediate end to the tunnel, which seemed to extend almost impossibly far.

Markus led the way, followed by Anthony, Forrester, and myself. I looked in awe at the almost circular hole that could almost comfortably fit a tractor within, provided you never intended to turn around. It was maybe a hundred yards into the tunnels depths that we first noticed a change and felt hesitant to continue. The air felt cool…yet . It was uncharacteristically more humid than any of us were used to. At first, we dismissed it as a result of being underground until we also began to realise we also felt lighter. Not only that, but the air somehow seemed thinner, like we were suddenly much higher in altitude, even though no mountain on my property was more than a few hundred feet tall. As our nerves began to take hold, Markus noticed what seemed to be an opening ahead, possibly into some sort of cavern. With none of us wanting to be the first to suggest turning back, we all agreed to at least see where the tunnel led before heading back.

After another 50 or so yards, Markus came upon the opening and froze. When asked what it was, it seemed all he could do to manage a wordless stutter, apparently rooted in place by whatever it was that he was witnessing until Anthony made his way beside him to shine his own light into the opening. I caught a brief glimpse of green on the ground before Anthony turned his head back and slowly, disbelievingly called Forrester and myself forward.

Exiting the tunnel, we stepped into…I still dont know how to describe it, a Jules Verne novel? The center of the earth? All that I know is that I now think of it as hell. What looked like greenish-black moss and algae covered the ground around us and giant, impossible plants grew amongst the moss. Various black-leaved ferns grew several yards, like those you would see in pictures of tropical climates, some growing upwards and branchless, maybe 10 feet tall with leaves like black pine needles reaching for the sky. And there was a sky. As impossible as it sounds, the four of us stood in silence, in a tunnel dug into a mountain at our backs, staring into a night sky. At first, my mind didnt want to believe it reeled at the idea. I first rationalised that they were some sort of glowing insects on the cavern roof, that there was no way they could be stars, but it wasnt long until I realised that the size and shape was wrong, even for stars. Together we stared into a night sky dotted not by distant suns, but by distant galaxies.

All around us, under an alien night sky, life grew up from the ground. The trunk of some massive tree reached towards the night sky just to the right of us, nearly a 100 feet high and four feet across, yet instead of branches, it looked more like an asparagus stalk, sprouting tightly packed, pale looking pods that resembled mushroom caps. Another tree looked not dissimilar to a spanish dagger cactus, yet with the same black leaves as the alien fern and almost three times larger than it should be with bark that resembled alligator skin, dotted with large white flower towards its apex. Around us countless alien plants grew, too many to recall had I even noticed them, because that was the moment grabbed Anthony.

Our first warning was a rapidly approaching series of clicks, but apart from that, the thing was impossibly quiet, swooping down from above with blinding speed and snatching Anthony up, carrying him screaming into the darkness as the rest of us were knocked to the ground by a gust of wind. By the time we were up and calling for Anthony, he was gone and Markus was running after off into that alien landscape, screaming his Anthonys name as Forrester and I gave chase.

Our chase was hampered by how light our bodies felt, every step propelled us farther than we were used to, which made it difficult to balance ourselves at any speed. Regardless, Markus had enough of a head start that by the time we caught up to him, hed already started firing. He was aimed into the branches of some alien tree above him, firing shot after shot until something fell at his feet. Following his gaze, it was too dark to see high enough into the tree, but bringing the scope of my .308 to my eyes, I saw the creature. Through the green colouring of my night scope, I couldnt make out the color of its feathers, but the creature was huge. It was large enough to steal a small horse into the sky. The creature was armed with talons the length of my arm, which were wrapped around a branch, a long, needle-like beak protruding from the centre of a flat, only vaguely bird-like face. The creature seemed like some unholy union between an owl and some reptilian creature. Its face was almost entirely free of feathers and covered in a scaly skin with a pair of forward-facing eyes so large that they seemed to take up more than half of its head. It sat on the branch, letting loose a series of bizarre clicks until one of Markus bullets struck its abdomen and it took off, flying away into the night.

We looked to Markus and saw him crouched down over Anthonys crumpled form he had fallen from the branches when Markus had started firing. Even before making my way to him, I knew he was dead. The fall was too high, his body looked too twisted. When the light from my flashlight illuminated his body, I immediately wished it hadnt. The creature’s talons tore his chest, stomach, and legs open. From the state of his innards as they lay splayed around him it was apparent that the creature had begun to feed before Markus started firing upon it. As we stood in stunned silence around Anthonys corpse, Markus began to moan, a low, woeful sound, as if his body and mind couldnt reconcile whether to be violently ill or if he should cry out in anguish. Forrester and I stood silently, neither of us certain of what to do. We were unable to process that our friend was dead until it slowly dawned on us that none of us knew where we were. In our haste to save Anthony, we had left behind our only means of returning home.

It was at that moment I truly began to feel what others describe as despair, a feeling of such hopelessness fueled by the loss of one of my dearest friends and the crashing realization that we were alone, trapped in a place that had likely never before been seen by human eyes. I felt what seemed like tears of panic and sorrow begin to form. My breathing quickened as panic threatened to consume me. My heart hammered away I know not whether from fear of from adrenaline, yet through some means I will never fully know, I was able to keep my composure, possibly because I still refused to believe that any of what was happening was real.

When we tried to tell Markus of our situation, a fury seemed to take over, adamantly refusing to leave Anthonys body where it was while we tried to explain to him through panicked whispers that it was too dangerous to try to carry him with us, especially if other creatures like the one that had carried him away were lured by the smell of blood. Markus ignored our reasoning, instead muttering with only passing moments of coherence as he calmly attempted to reinsert Anthonys innards back into the torso. Markus mumbled that it would be okay, that things were lighter here, that he would take Anthony home and patch him up, that hed be okay as long as he got him back out into Paint Rock Canyon, because where they were was so impossible that it would be impossible for him die there too. His ravings became louder and louder as Forrester and I frantically tried to calm his growing madness.

From where the next creature came from, I still do not know, but like everything else on this world, it was monstrous and impossibly large. It made no noise when it grabbed Forrester between its massive pincers and Forresters attempts to scream were cut off by a gurgling wheeze when he was torn in half, as if all the air and blood were trying to escape from his lungs at once. In the dim torchlight, the creature seemed jet black, as wide as a feral pig, yet its serpentine body trailed more than 15 feet behind it. Its head seemed to be little more two giant eyes that had formed into one, yet was like that of an ant while the rest of its body was like that of a centipede, covered in a insectile, chitinous exoskeleton that seemed almost reddish-brown in color.

Blood and viscera spilled onto the alien soil as Forresters legs fell away from him, the same wheezing, gurgling sounds escaped from his lips for what seemed like minutes. I am ashamed to admit it, but at that moment, panic and fear took their hold on me and I found myself stumbling back, toppling over Anthonys crumpled body. I crawled backwards in an attempt to escape the nightmare that was illuminated before me. My last memory was the sounds of Markus chastising me followed by several rounds of gunfire and a sharp pain as something struck the side of my head, followed by the darkness of unconsciousness.

When I awoke, I found myself alone. As images and memories of what had happened returned to me, I sat up in a panic. I was back within the tunnel, presumably carried there by Markus, but the bodies of Anthony and Forrester were nowhere to be seen. In the distance, I heard no gunfire, no screams, no clicks from some monstrous raptor soaring through alien skies, scanning the land for prey. Out of fear, I refused to call Markus name, instead I fled down the slope of the tunnel, and refused to look back. Not even when I exited the tunnel back onto familiar earthen soil and ran to the waiting vehicle did I dare look at that tunnel, terrified that I might see that gargantuan insect-like creature pursuing me.

Everything following that was a series of calls, first on short-wave radio and then to the sheriff on my landline once I found myself back home. Search parties were mobilized, questions were asked, I was treated for shock, underwent numerous evaluations, was asked whether it could have been a mountain lion whether my mind had created the scenario to deal with the trauma. They found the tunnel, but it led nowhere. No alien world lay beyond. It simply ended with an earthen wall some 10 feet in. Officially, it was dismissed an abandoned illegal camp being used as a mountain lion den, but there were rumors that there was no sign it had been used by either. People began to talk, to say I had snapped and killed my friends. But I know what happened, what continues to happen.

Whenever I find the corpse of a deer or an elk, I know it was some hellish, clicking, avian creature that slaughtered it, flying forth from whatever doorway is contained within that canyon. I know I cant ever sell this place, for I am the only one who knows the signs to look for, for the tunnels to cave in. I havent found any more since that night, but I know theyre out there, leading to the bodies of my friends whove been left to rot in some unknowable hell, under the sky of a world between galaxies in the darkest region of existence.

And yet I can never truly call it hell, because if it was, then why did the tunnel ascend?

For potentially haunted emails, sign up for the Creepy Catalog monthly newsletter!

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/my-friends-and-i-found-a-mysterious-hole-on-my-property-and-we-decided-to-explore-its-depths/ from All of Beer https://allofbeercom.tumblr.com/post/177328889447

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allofbeercom · 6 years ago

Text

My Friends And I Found A Mysterious Hole On My Property And We Decided To Explore Its Depths

And yet I can never truly call it hell, because if it was, then why did the tunnel ascend?

For potentially haunted emails, sign up for the Creepy Catalog monthly newsletter!

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/my-friends-and-i-found-a-mysterious-hole-on-my-property-and-we-decided-to-explore-its-depths/

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raystart · 7 years ago

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Print Ain’t Dead!

Whether standing in line for checkout at a supermarket, sitting in a local coffee shop, or browsing in a modern bookstore, it’s not unusual to see magazines with $15, $20, even $25 price tags. Deluxe paper, niche topics, beautiful design; at a time when there are plenty of articles about the decline of newsprint sales, where on earth did these elegant creations come from?

They’re known to the world as independent magazines, as if this emphasizes their maverick attractions. There are the lifestyle giants that fall into this category, like Kinfolk, the magazine about slow-living that’s cultivated a huge audience of alternative aspirationalists, and Monocle, the high-end bible for business entrepreneurs and jetsetters. You might know Cherry Bomb, a magazine founded by two restaurateurs in Brooklyn that features interviews with women chefs, or Gather Journal, the digest for the organic food movement that comes complete with rustic art direction. (We’ll even give our own Ninety Nine U magazine a plug here.) Designers inevitably love these lovingly-designed magazines: they collect them, they read them, they study them. Some even make them.

Soda Books, Berlin

The idea that print is dead has been prevalent for over a decade, digital warriors saying print is dead and buried whilst print devotees proclaiming with reverence that its fighting back. Digital vs. Print: the two pitted against in a bloody battle to the death. Which will win? The presence of the defiant, glorious spines of Cherry Bomb, Gather, and more, along with their vibrant online community of followers tells a whole different story though, as does a recent report showing that the number of magazines in the U.S has stayed consistent since 2008, varying from around 7,100 to 7,300 over the years.

The truth it, there’s no real battle. Print is in a co-dependent, productive relationship with digital, and the function, meaning, and use of a magazine is simply evolving as times and habits change. It’s no surprise that the Internet does fast, cheap disposable content and vital, instant news much better than print does, which is why newspapers have had to adapt: its true a certain kind of print is dying, but digital media has created a space for more interesting, thoughtful, and innovatively-designed printed material.

The central change is a liberating one. Print is no longer the business model: print is the heart, the core expression, of an idea. And it’s this shift that has allowed graphic design to flourish. The idea given visual presence; the idea as an object.

***

The turn of the century is always a moment given to apocalyptic predictions. For print in the 2000s, several things began happening all at once to create the kind of landscape where people could easily—and with style—self-publish.

Large publishers became distracted and obsessed by the developing power of digital—there were countless conferences about how the iPad would change publishing, and titles like Wired and the Guardian poured huge amounts of cash into digital projects. Meanwhile technology gave way to better versions of InDesign and desktop equipment steadily democratized, making it a lot more accessible for people to experiment creatively with page layout in their own homes, in coffee shops, in libraries, wherever they were.

Images courtesy of Newspaper Club.

In 2009, a small, idealistic Glasgow-based printing company, The Newspaper Club, helped shift the landscape even more. Inspired by the original power and presence of the newspaper, the small company would allow all types of clients—from students and photographers to large tech companies—to self-publish by uploading their designs online. In the same year, Kickstarter partially solved problems of funding. Print self-publishing flourished because, some might say ironically, of the Internet.

For graphic designers with passion for editorial, the change in technology was a revelation. At mainstream magazines things like the quality of paper often gets cut in order to keep costs down and a lot of design decisions are driven by marketing and profit requirements— a cover’s design often determined to be what spurs mass market sales. When creating their own magazines, people could do something different, outside of market place constraints. And because of low print runs, they were able to experiment. They could do more with die cuts, they could select higher quality paper if they wanted to.

This freedom and potential was especially revealed to others when they saw the success of a small group of film enthusiasts in 2005 in the UK. While sipping beers in London pubs after work at their jobs for commercial publishers, the group dreamed up the idea of a different, cooler kind of film magazine from the uninspiring commercial glossies around them, one that would reflect the independent cinema they loved. They called it Little White Lies, which is now a film buff’s favorite.

Images courtesy of Little White Lies.

“Film magazines at the time were dominated by clouds of cover lines. We felt like these were a cheap marketing knee-jerk response that most magazines on the shelf were blindly perpetuating, and didn’t seem to be questioning,” says the founding art director of the title, Paul Willoughby. Today, he works with the Little White Lies founding editor Danny Miller at their Human After All design agency; after they first published Little White Lies and it gained attention, they then went on to publish a magazine for Google and started up another magazine, this time about subcultures, called Huck.

“With Little White Lies, we aimed to make a magazine with a very pure visual approach, eschewing the design conventions that were steering magazine culture towards a homogenous mass.”

Illustration was their prime differentiator; a signature strength, and one ripe for a renaissance in editorial design since it had died away during the arrival of Photoshop compositions. Presenting illustrated portraits on each cover with little or no cover lines, and illustrating the magazine’s interior in its entirety, Little White Lies catered for intelligent, curious readers, and their appetite not just for intelligent film writing but for fresh perspectives on design. On the other side of the globe in San Franscisco in 2003, a similar tactic had been taken by best-selling author Dave Eggers for his literary magazine The Believer: each cover of the magazine beautifully illustrated by notorious comic artist Charles Burns.

Both magazines were probably aware of each other online, drawing confidence from the other, as several blogs had sprung up showcasing the work of innovative editorial designers. One such blog is magCulture, founded by self-proclaimed magazine enthusiast Jeremy Leslie, a graphic designer who has art directed numerous titles including Time Out and the very design conscious 1980s style bible Blitz. The blog loves print, but celebrates it using the Internet, seeing it not as a threat but a way of transmitting forward thinking enthusiasm.

Images courtesy of The Believer.

“The networking of the Internet allows people who are making magazines in different countries to realize what other people are doing, to get inspired and see how they can do it,” says Leslie. “People say there’s now an independent magazine renaissance, but really, there have always been people making independent magazines. In the 60s, you had the alternative press, there was the avant-garde in the 70s, fashion mags in the 90s. The difference is today magazine makers can see one another around the globe.” A few lightening rod shops then stock these publications—Do You Read Me!? in Berlin, PRINtEXT in Indianapolis for example—and in London, to help distribute these magazines, a delivery service called Stack established in 2009 to sends subscribers a different indie every month.

mono.kultur, the interview magazine taking on one person at a time was established in 2005 in Berlin; in London, the first issue of Monocle, for the stylish world-traveller, in 2007; Fantastic Man, the ground-breaking men’s style tome, appeared in Amsterdam in 2008; Apartamento, for those with eccentric interior design tastes, in the same year from Barcelona; for stylish women carrying great books as well as solid purses, The Gentlewoman, from London in 2010; and then Kinfolk, for the aspirational creative, from Portland in 2011.

With each new magazine, a design and style emerged to react to and energize its reader: design directly expressing the identity of the person carrying it.

***

I contributed to the magCulture blog for two years between 2015 – 2017, and during that time, I’d receive around three or four new magazines each week. New titles crop up all time, some good, some great, some bad, and some wonderfully peculiar. When tracing the origins of these titles, it often is apparent that the idea for an independent magazine first appears online: people develop their opinions and voices writing blogs and sharing ideas on social media, they connect with like-minded individuals, and the next step from there is to create something permanent. To give visual shape to beliefs, opinions, and preferences through graphic design. An identity. There’s something defining about making a magazine: This is who we are. This is what we look like.

The ones I find the most exciting are by those who feel underrepresented in the mainstream; makers create their own space through self-publishing, an act of legitimization where design subverts the media norm. From New York, there’s Banana magazine about Asian-American creatives with a mission to obliterate stereotypes: its design is a lively, energetic assortment of stimulating cross-cultural references. From London, there’s Niijournal, a fashion magazine exploring issues of diversity in the British fashion community, showcasing shoots only by and with people of color; its title pages are the color of various hues of black and brown. There’s the fiery and fantastic Krass Journal from Adelaide in Australia; a third wave feminist title about queer theory and gender politics. Its active design breaks away from feminine stereotype; its typography jarring and loud as if demanding for people to pay attention.

In 2013, Riposte appeared in London, an alternative to mainstream women’s magazines fronted by a design curator Danielle Pender and creative director, Shaz Madani. Its name is a blatant proclamation that they are a riposte to mundane mainstream content shackling women with unattainable beauty standards. Instead, Riposte features strong, intelligent role-models with plenty to say. With a brave, all-type cover featuring the names of the women interviewed in the pages, the first issue visually expressed its aim: This magazine is about more than the way women look. This is about who they are. Their minds, their words. Their energy.

Images courtesy of Riposte Magazine.

“The typographic cover was a way of stripping away the over styling and false glamour, to try and shift the focus back on to the women, their achievements and what they have to say,” says Madani. The design decision defied the conventional wisdom that all-type covers are newsstand disasters, and that year, the cover secured Riposte a nomination for the Design Museum’s Design of the Year Award in the UK, and it won them gold at the European Design Awards too.

“Now that we are a bit more established with our own voice, we’ve started to introduce photographic covers as we as the type ones,” adds Madani. “With this we aim to change the way women are perceived. As an indie publisher we can push and challenge what more traditional titles are not able or willing to do. On our last cover, we featured black activist and cancer survivor Ericka Hart with her post-double-mastectomy, post-reconstruction breasts gracing our cover.”

Design can perfectly express what magazine makers most believe in.

That’s not only for individuals creating initially self-funded, passion driven projects alongside their day jobs. Online media platforms and companies have embraced the creative potential of a magazine as a way of articulating core values. The traditional media enlivens parts of their business that other solutions can’t reach. Airbnb, Google, and Net-a-Porter, and other Internet regulars have made them. A magazine is a character: it can purely represent the voice style, tone, and look – the innate personality – of its makers.

The Vice magazine model especially articulates why print publications can be central to a brand: the publication that started the empire still exists, it anchors the world wide media giant, it defines and maintains their irreverent voice, even though money comes from partnerships, events, and TV channels. The media giants have also taken heed of independents and their flair for design as enlivening the meaning of a magazine: memorably in 2015 for example, The New York Times Magazine brought in Matt Willey as art director, who has his roots in the independent magazine community where he launched men’s mag Port and guide for the modern adventurer, Avaunt.

It’s safe to say that the idea that “print is dead” is dead. Print was never really going to go away in the first place, it’s simply evolving. If there ever was a threat to the future of magazines, graphic design saved the day; freed by the internet to not have to bother with certain kinds of content, designers can concentrate on new ways of producing and presenting the page and the image. They can create publications that complement the Internet, that emerge from it, and that feed back into it. In a new world magazines mean something different to what they once did, but they are as necessary as ever, as lovely objects, statements of intent, emblems of defiance, and personal and collective manifestos.

#startups #text #startup #advice #busieness #howto #news #tech #love

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