#the castle in los makes me feral

[monochromatictoad]

I would have never imagined the comparison with Hecula lmao... But I kind of see it?

This is strictly my interpretation, but I imagine that Dracula grew paranoid and possessive after Lisa died. So he kinda... needs Hector. Not just as his servant and Devil Forgemaster, although he does (Isaac is always there and competent in his own right, but he trusts Hector's abilities more), but he needs him emotionally. He needs someone close to him that won't die easily and won't abandon him, someone devoted to him and that he can control easily.

And if you've seen some of my posts, you know that Hector eventually rebelled and chose himself and his morals... and that Dracula was not happy about it in the slightest :)

Sorry for exploding in your inbox :P but your Dracastle (Gabastle?) post piqued my attention. My friend ships Dracastle in the main series but in a "the castle is deeply connected to Dracula and is an extension of him" way... Imagine my surprise when I learn that it's almost canon in LoS, but the castle is a yandere about it 😂

That's kind of why I compared Gabriel to Hector! Gabriel eventually rebels against the castle and chooses his humanity and family over it! However, because Gabriel is alive, so is the castle! They are literally blood bonded to each other! Personally I see it as, it manipulated Gabriel in the height of his madness and gaslit him into sharing his immortality with it! In the DLC and main story, it is Desperate to keep Gabriel within its walls, and is more than willing to destroy everything and everyone to do so! I don't typically like the whole yandere scene, but something about them is just so intriguing, and I wish it was expanded more in the games! Feel free to flood my inbox! Also, I will absolutely tag anything to do with them as Gabastle that is a glorious ship name.

[the-reaper-of-maidens]

Deep Winter Hunt

Lady Dimitrescu x OC~  I wrote this to this song, because I have Destiny 2 brain rot sometimes, lol, so it’s my excuse to show you this song. Also, huuuusssh, I love soft Alcina with all my heart. 🥺 TW: injuries, sex mention

Snow crunched beneath the Reaper’s boots as she scanned her surroundings, each breath manifesting as a frosty puff. It was overcast, so it made the winter’s morning look even drearier than would be typical, and it was lightly snowing. This wild hunt was starting to drag on a bit too long for her liking, but her stubbornness refused to let her return home empty handed.

Two weeks. That was how long the hunt was going on for, taking the Reaper all over Romania, from the steppes to pine forests. She even almost wandered off to Serbia when she temporarily lost track of the maiden she was after. This is no ordinary maiden, the Reaper thought to herself as she settled down for the night, starting a small campfire to stave off the cold as she rested. Her heart ached for her love, Lady Alcina Dimitrescu, but she had to forge on so as to not disappoint her. “I’ll be back soon, don’t worry,” she said out loud as if she was on the phone with her.

The last time she contacted Alcina was two days ago, and the Reaper was wrestling with if she should call her beloved. “No… gotta conserve my phone’s battery,” she muttered to herself as she had a tight grip on her phone, decided to wait until the morning. Normally, she’d call every two days if the hunt was long, but… her power bank was running a bit low, and her phone’s battery was just as low. She breathed, leaning against a tree as she looked up at the night sky, the stars shining especially bright on this cloudless night. She wondered how Alcina was doing, hoping the lady wouldn’t fret too much.

Naturally, the opposite happened. Alcina was just constantly wringing her hands in worry. “Oh, damn, I knew I should have let you three join her…” she hissed in worry, her daughters watching.

“Shall we go after her, Mother?” the oldest, a brunette named Viorica, asked.

“I… I don’t know, Viorica,” Alcina reluctantly admitted. “That damn tenacity of hers, she could have easily called off the hunt, but no… this maiden was just too pretty to pass up, and she just had to try to bag her for my wine.”

“Where could she even be?” Daniela, the blonde one, the middle child, mused. Of the three sisters, the Reaper was the closest to Daniela, so the witch was understandably concerned. “Last she told us, she was somewhere in Țara Românească, yes?”

“And that’s why I’m worried. The prey could have easily made off into București, if she’s smart. It’s only the largest city in Romania, after all… not to mention others would try to follow the Reaper back to us if she made one mistake this deep into her hunt,” Alcina wanted to send her daughters off to track the Reaper down, though she had no idea if the trail would be still warm enough, with the snow coming and going. No… she couldn’t risk her daughters; she just had to trust the Reaper to manage to get back. “Leave… for now, at least. We’ll just have to wait for her next call.”

Daniela and Viorica, swarmed away, though her youngest, a redhead named Aurelia, stayed behind. “Why are you so worried about… her, Mother?” she almost growled. Of the three, the redhead was the least trusting of the Reaper, though she didn’t directly antagonize her. 

Alcina’s lips almost curled into a grimace. “My reasons are mine alone, Aurelia. You don’t need to know why, you just need to respect it. The Reaper has given us many gifts, has she not?”

“But she’s still just… some girl you picked up from the streets,” Aurelia almost spat. “All it took was a ‘boohoo, my life is sad, can you please take me away’ to get you to cave in, Mother.”

“Aurelia, you’re being rather mouthy, and you know I hate those who sass back to me,” Alcina glowered, as if threatening to revoke her daughter’s privileges. “Now, go back and relax with your sisters as I told you to. I won’t repeat myself, you hear me, young lady?”

“I just need to know why you care so much about this silly little girl! She’s… just an intruder trying to ruin our lives… A foreigner who thinks she’s all that!”

“Because I love her!” Alcina finally snapped. “I… love her,” she repeated, quieter this time and with more deliberation. It was rare that the good lady lost her composure, but… emotions flared up. She held a hand to her chest, slowly realizing her romantic feelings for the Reaper.

“I… I see how it is, Mother,” Aurelia swarmed away before her mother would actually punish her. It would take a while for the youngest to process her feelings about a new vampire among their ranks...

She supposed it was a bit strange, finally feeling a flicker of romance, despite the many trysts between her and the Reaper, but it felt amazing when she came to terms with it. “Oh, my darling Reaper… you better come back home soon.”

And after a day and a half, return, she did, though wounded. “Sorry… I got attacked by a feral one. Wanted the prize, I think,” the Reaper said as her teeth chattered. Her bones were ice cold, and some of her wounds were caked with ice and dried blood. Her breathing was ragged and exhausted, exhaling frosty puffs with every breath. It was clear that she had not stopped to rest and warm up ever since she bagged her prey.

Alcina didn’t care about that, though; all that mattered was her beloved was safe, she would handle this feral monster soon enough. “Let us be,” she simply said to the servants as she carried her beloved in her arms, being her caretaker for the next week or two.

“Aaaaah,” the Reaper relaxed in a tub of hot water one day during her recovery. The water was a slight red tint, undoubtedly from her own wounds that were still open. It stung, but… having something nice and hot to clean those gaping injuries felt amazing. She hunkered down with a book to read when Alcina carefully stepped in with some clean clothes and tea. “Lady Alcina,” the Reaper grinned, revealing a row of shark-like teeth.

“My dear Reaper,” the castle’s mistress smiled warmly, setting the tea down next to her before kneeling down to plant a kiss on her lover’s cheek.

“Ah, thanks,” the Reaper eagerly took a sip. “Earl Grey, sweetened just right...~” she kissed Alcina back. “Sorry the tub is pretty… normal-sized, I’d invite you to join me,” the brunette vampire mutant giggled.

“Oh, don’t you worry. I’m just glad you’re safe,” the gargantuan woman held her love’s hand. “What an interesting book you have there. What’s that about?” she immediately knew it wasn’t from the castle’s library, it looked way too new.

“Oh, just stuff about Las Plagas. It’s always a fascinating topic, I really think you should at least check out some books on it,” the Reaper explained. “Even back in my mortal days, I was… always intrigued by the horror of parasites taking over your body. Reminds me of this one movie…” she was cut off by Alcina’s lips touching hers.

“You talk too much,” Alcina purred when she broke the kiss, “but no, really… tell me more. I know you like to hold strong on your little Los Iluminados and Umbrella Corporation conspiracy theory, so I’ll lend an ear this time to seriously consider the merit behind it.”

“You’re being awfully cuddly today, Lady Alcina~” the Reaper nuzzled, though she didn’t mind the extra special attention.

The lady of the castle gently squeezed the Reaper’s hand. “I love you, my darling,” she admitted. “I know, I always say that to you, but… this is different,” she leaned in to kiss her love on the cheek again, leaving behind another kiss mark.

“I know. It feels different than how you usually say it,” the Reaper nodded. “You really have no idea how happy it makes me hearing that from you, Lady Alcina.”

“I know, since you’re such a hopeless romantic,” the giant woman snorted in laughter, her crow’s feet bunching up. “Once you get patched up, we’ll enjoy a nice dinner… and, well, let’s just say, I missed having your tongue wiggling around inside me.”

“Hehe, I hope dinner’s as spicy as you’re being right now, Lady Alcina. I just miss being in your arms after sex, I feel… safe and comforted.”

“Are you sure it’s not because of my chest?” Alcina playfully rolled her eyes, knowing how much the Reaper loved sleeping on her breasts. “But really, not until you’re healed up. You look like you still have much healing to do,” she pointed at the slightly pinkish water and one of the Reaper’s rib wounds. “...Whoever attacked you deserved what they got. You’ll be pleased to see their head hanging on a mount by the castle door... No one gets to hurt what is mine and live.”

[bruisedark]

 I was tagged by my friend, @pastelpauper​ , so here are the 10 songs I’ve been listening to recently! <3 

1) The Ravine - Mimicking Birds (One of my favorite songs to listen to in the fall. It’s deeply resonant and slightly spooky)

2) Vanished - Crystal Castles (My fav Witch house band of all time! Their music is literally life changing.) 

3) The Melody of Dust - Hot Sugar (This is probably cheating, but it’s the whole album lol. I’ve been reading and studying a lot, and this is my go-to background music.)

4) Tongues and Teeth - The Crane Wives (This song makes me go absolutely fucking feral. If you like Folk Rock that makes you feel like tearing things apart with your teeth and running through a dark autumn forest, i can’t recommend them more.)

5) Golden Light - STRFKR (Super sultry indie rock. Literally my go-to getting ready track because it makes me feel like I could own the world. The music video is also prime aesthetic.) 

6) 123 - Girlpool (Lo-Fi indie rock. Very chill and incredibly good and gay!!) 

7) All The Good That Won’t Come Out - Rilo Kiley (Kind of wistful song about making dumb mistakes and feeling lost. It’s a lot better than it sounds lol)

8) Thryy Wyyrd Tyyns - Alec Holowka (I just finished my annual NITW play-through and the whole album is incredible, but i’ve have had this in particular stuck in my head since. It’s a good song to play when you’re just wandering around.)

9) Death By Two Trucks - Toby Fox/Lemon Demon (I can’t stop thinking about this remix. I’ve been listening to it everyday sdfghjkl)

10) Run (Acoustic) - Daughter (A demo of one of my favorite songs of theirs. Very autumn-y and a bit dark.)

Thanks so much for the tag! I tag @floralpisces @killrot @cryingemoji @gintoki-sakataa and anyone else who wants to do it! 

[shirk-raya]

Castle of Glass [ One-Shot ]

Characters: Shirk, Vinny ( @vinnydoesbad​ ), Disaster ( @disaster-doll​ ), Ace ( @acesinadeck​ ), Vulpe (mentioned, mine.), Dr. Majesty (mentioned, @ a-wanderin-whirlybird ) Rating: T for language, graphic descriptions of violence and heavy topics Warnings: Heavy amounts of blood, graphic descriptions of violence, mentioned kidnapping, mentioned torture, hurt/comfort, angst, allusions of self harm, needles, self care of injuries, head injuries, character going nonverbal, panic attacks, sign language Word Count: 4,036 Words Relationships: Shirk/Ace/Disaster/Vinny (The New Gods) Summary: Prompt fill:  "You can't expect me to believe nothing happened, not when you flinch every time something touches you." A/N: So, uh, remember that fluffy drabble I posted not long ago? Yeah, this is the complete fucking opposite. Sorry that I’m not sorry. This was written in one night, without sleep, and not proofread, so if there are any mistakes, welp. This is rather heavy, so read at your own risk.  I like making my boy suffer ;3c

The clouds rolled low over the tops of the buildings, hung heavy with bellies full of the promise of rain, threatening to break their hold at a moment's notice. They completely covered the sky in a thick blanket, blotting out the moon and stars which twinkled high above without a second thought about what occurred below their light. The only illumination that lit up the dingy streets were the flickering street lights, old and unkempt, which lined the black asphalt in mirrored, uniform lines. A dark, hulking shape shuffled itself through their pockets of light, hunched in on them and sending darting glances to every shadow like the world itself was readying to pounce on them. Their left leg dragged uselessly behind them with a quiet, and all too loud, scuffing noise. A long, jagged metal pipe was held in a white-knuckled grip in their left hand, a serrated knife hanging loosely from their right. Both had rivers of blood and ichor falling away in a rhythmic drip, drip, drip as the person slowly made their way through the streets, leaving a bloody trail that mingled with the person's own blood.

 Bright red, disheveled hair was lit up underneath a street light, calling focus to the gore and unsavory grime that caused the ruby strands to clump disgustingly together, staining their head and neck an ugly shade of red. A flash of lighting followed shortly by a sharp crack of thunder caused the figure to seize up, hands clenching impossibly tighter around the weapons held within. When no one jumped out from the darkness, no glint of a gun meeting their eye from within the creeping shadows, they let their shoulders slump and began their trekk once again. Another flash of lighting and another sharp CRACK thundering through the sky caused the person to jump and glance upwards in an unsteady squint, green eyes weary and unfocused. A fat drop of rain, bone-chilling and foreboding, fell between their eyes, causing them to flinch away from the freezing touch and pick up their slow shuffle to a slightly faster amble.

 As the clouds finally broke under their pressure and the rain began to pelt down painful bullets of ice-cold water in earnest, soaking everything their chill-inducing hands grasped, including the lone figure in the street. A familiar building rose out from the darkness like a beacon of hope. The abandoned mall. A painful smile cracked across the person's face despite the way they flinched violently against every thunderous wave, splitting a previously unseen cut across their bottom lip open again and spilling fresh blood down their chin, rough with unshaven stubble. Their amble picked up speed once again, and they forced weight on their injured leg, sending sharp spikes of agony up their spine into their chest with every step. Each excruciating step brought them closer and closer to safety.

 They finally, and quite literally, stumbled into the building, water cascading off of them in waves and mixing with the bloody footprints left behind after every step as they made their way to the single elevator in the middle of the main entrance area. They stepped into the elevator and hit the floor they wanted to go to. As soon as the doors slid shut, they collapsed heavily onto the railing, weapons clattering heavily to the carpeted floor with a series of dull thuds. The mantra that was being chanted in their head like a song on repeat thudded painfully loud within their skull. I am Shirk Raya, the Dragon of Los Santos. I will not betray my family. I will not give in. I am Shirk Raya, the Dragon-

 The doors opened with a cheerful chime and he stooped down to pick up the abandoned weapons before stepping off the elevator, watching dully as the doors slid closed once again. He then slowly turned, head and leg throbbing painfully with every beat of his heart, and shambled down the short hallway to the room he knew was his. He fished out his keys-the only thing left on his person after his captors destroyed everything else-from his jacket pocket, unlocking his door with a cuh-chunk and taking a single step into the dark threshold. The door shut with a soft click behind him and he finally allowed himself to relax, beaten and battered body nearly giving out where he stood.

 Shirk was exhausted, wanted nothing more than to sleep, but he knew that it was highly unlikely he would get any amount of rest for a while, what little sleep he would manage to capture would almost surely be plagued with nightmares. Plus, he was getting nowhere near any of his furniture being covered in slick blood as he was. First thing: shower. Tend to his wounds. Eat or drink whatever he could stomach without throwing it back up. A flash of lightning alighting the room through the single window to his left caused the normally fearless man to startle so violently he nearly passed out, a vice-like grip crushing his lungs and causing his heart to pound painfully against his ribs. He quickly scurried like a frightened cat to the bathroom, closing the door tightly and locking it before allowing himself to breathe. He kept the lights off, didn't want to see himself in the mirror until he was at least somewhat presentable, and turned the shower on as hot as it could get. He had enough cold water to last a lifetime-

 A quick shake of his head dislodged the memory, and he quickly shucked off his clothes and climbed into the shower, not for the first time glad it had a seat-like slab in it as his busted leg finally gave out on him and he fell heavily onto it. He let the blistering water pour over his skin, washing away the physical reminders of what had happened barely hours ago. He felt more than saw the blood wash down the drain, no doubt coloring the water a horrid red as it swirled around. He quickly cleaned himself, taking extra time and special care on his hair, making sure it was completely clean and snarl free before moving onto his injured body. He washed himself down the best he could, mindful of every fresh wound and abrasion, some still dribbling blood even as he cleaned them. He attempted to move his left leg to give some attention to it, but it spasming sharply at the smallest movement caused him to forgo cleaning the limb entirely.

 He shut the water off and clambered out of the shower ungracefully, left leg refusing to bear anymore weight. He grabbed one of the towels off the rack- leaning most of his weight onto the bathroom counter- and patted himself dry, ignoring the white linen turning red in spots as he did so. Once suitably dried off, he wrapped the towel around his waist and turned the light on, ducking his head at the bright assault to his eyes. Once his eyes adjusted to the change in light, he opened them and glanced at himself in the mirror. The man staring back was hollow-cheeked, with sunken eyes and cuts and scrapes littering his face. The beginnings of a beard colored his chin and cheeks, below the dark hair his skin was pale and sickly. The man's eyes lacked any emotion in them, being closed off and mistrusting of everything.

 The only thing that told Shirk it was him and not some stranger were the all too familiar scars brandished across his face. This wasn't the man Shirk had left as three weeks ago, this wasn't who he remembered. He didn't have the beard, or the nearly feral look in his eyes for starters. Unfamiliarity stung as his brain and he tore his eyes away from his face, to take inventory on the rest of his body. Numerous new wounds- some already scarred, others fresh- littered what unmarred skin he once had. Some were sticky and hot with infection, and yet others were scabbed over uncomfortably. A plethora of different wounds in different states of healing; most intentional, torturous wounds meant to hurt, not kill, though a few were gained in his escape-

 He once again shook his thoughts away, moving to crouch in front of the sink and rummage through the cabinets. Shirk pulled out his first aid supplies, including a needle and stitches, and began to patch himself up. He'd maybe go to Doc Majesty, but probably not. Never does seek out her aid, lady makes him nervous, only when forced to go or on death's door would he find himself at her lair. He found he had zoned out, deft fingers working on auto pilot as he sewed and bandaged himself up. His torso and arms were done, all that was left was his leg.

 Which, unfortunately, had the head of a crossbow bolt stuck in his calf. Not one of the small ones, one meant for hunting large game, broad and triangular. He kneeled down so all his weight was on his right leg, moving his left to a position where he could reach the wound. Prodding gently, not without sharp pain radiating out from each touch, he located the foreign object. Holding his left hand over top it from the outside, he grit his teeth and took a deep breath. Positioning his right hand, he dug his finger into the wound, biting his tongue to keep from making a noise. He breathed heavily through his nose, the stench of blood and antiseptic clogging up his senses. He fished around and his finger finally brushed over the hard edge of the arrowhead, and he quickly yanked it out, pressing in with his left hand to staunch the fresh blood flow from the wound. He couldn't help the pained grunt- too loud- from escaping his lips, and he stilled, holding his breath.

 Shirk thought he heard movement from outside the bathroom, so he waited, daring not to breathe, listening for anything further. When no other sounds greeted his ears, he turned back to his leg, grabbing the stitches with a hand he refused to acknowledge was shaking. He quickly stitched the offending limb back up, wrapped a tight bandage around the rushed job, and stood up, still bearing most of his weight on his right leg. He washed his hands, ignoring the one injury he refused to touch-they re-carved BEAST just below the brand.

 He couldn't help the way his eyes drifted down to the age-old brand, phantom pain of the hot metal biting into his skin causing the muscle underneath to twitch and jolt as if it were being branded all over again. He swallowed, throat dry, and remembered step three of his plan. Get something to drink. Easy. The nausea suddenly rolling in his gut promised he'd be unable to eat anything, but he's gone this long without food, what's a few more hours? Shirk pointedly ignored his ribs poking out from under his skin, and turned to the door. He hesitated, glancing back at the mess he left; a pool of blood, used bandages and towels, other medical supplies strewn about… He'd clean up later, he decided. He really needed water. He hesitated again, before praising the Gods he kept a spare change of clothes in bathroom for times like this. He quickly threw on the sweatpants and t-shirt, not bothering to tie up his hair.

 He swung open the door without second guessing again, turning out the bathroom light as he did so. Another grumble of thunder caused him to jump. Shit, he fucking forgot it was storming. What a damn coward. Jumping at a little thunder. He let out a quiet, humorless laugh, limping his way towards the kitchen. The knife and the broken pipe he had brought home with him sat on the wooden table, neatly placed. Strange, he didn't remember putting them there. He could've sworn he had dropped them somewhere by the door…

 The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and that was his only warning before footsteps approached behind him. His hand reflexively reached out and wrapped around the handle of the knife, and he ducked into a crouch, springing away from the person behind him. They gasped. He whirled around and bared his teeth, pushing the pain away. Brandishing the knife like a sword, he narrowed his eyes, just seeing the outline of the person standing before him. Their hands were raised, hands empty. Shirk didn't trust them-

 The light turned on and he violently flinched, backing up on instinct. His foot hit the counter, his bad leg, and sent a shock of pure agony up. He groaned, resisting the urge to grab his leg, and opened his eyes into a glare. As the people in front of him came into focus, he froze, knife clattering to the floor. Disaster was the one who came up behind him, in a nightgown, eyes flashing with worry and confusion. Ace stood behind her, slowly putting down the book they had grabbed. Vinny was over by the door, looking ready to bolt but trusting Shirk enough not to hurt any of them. All the fight in him left in a rush and he suddenly felt light-headed, headache back double-fold and leg angrily pulsing in pain with every heartbeat. He slowly lowered himself so he was sitting on the floor and hung his head, focused on drawing in breaths that didn't cause his chest to shudder.

 The rush of blood in his ears receded, and a voice right in front of him- too close, too close- replaced it. "-irk! Shirk, answer me!" His head snapped up and he attempted to scoot away, panic seizing his body again, but his back was to the counters so he had nowhere to go. He was trapped. His hand reached for the knife again against his own accord- "Woah, shhh, it's okay." Disaster was crouched in front of him, trying to calm him down, hands held out once again. He hand gripped around the blade of the knife, serrated edge slicing easily into his palm. "Please put down the knife," she told him in a calm, soothing tone. She was too close. He hand reached out to touch his arm, his vision swam, and he curled away from her outstretched palm.

 He heard Ace- or was it Vinny?- ask something in a scared voice, but all he could focus on was how close Disaster was and how he wanted her to back up. "Nnn," he tried, mouth unable to form the words his brain was screaming.

 "Shirk?" Disaster asked, attention back on him.

 "Bhhh," he tried again, frustration mounting the fear. His eyebrows furrowed, and his hand clenched further around the knife. The bite of the blade didn't register in his mind. "Bhhk," he ground out, chest heaving-in anger? In fear? He wasn't sure-and heart somewhere in his stomach.

 "I don't understand, sweety," Disaster told him, and he nearly brought his head back to connect with the cabinets behind him, but barely restrained himself.

 A sudden thought came to him, and his hand slowly uncurled around the knife. He brought his hands to his chest, shaking like a leaf. He refused to look at Disaster or Vinny, instead meeting Ace's eyes. 'Back up,' he signed at them. Again and again, repeating himself. 'Back up. Back up. Back up back up back up-'

 It took a few tries, Shirk's movements jerky and sloppy, but Ace's eyes soon lit up in recognition. "He wants you to back up, I think?" When Shirk nodded, too desperately in his opinion, Disaster's mouth turned to a deep frown, but she moved away a couple of feet, finally giving Shirk room to breath.

 "Shirk," Vinny piped up, moving to sit next to Disaster. Now that Shirk didn't look like he would shank one of them or hurt himself out of fear, they felt more confident to approach, in slow, deliberate movements like one would do around a frightened dog. That's what he was, huh? A fucking scared animal. "What happened?" Vinny's word stopped Shirk's train of thought, face shuttering over.

 He wanted to tell them, he really did. But something held him back, something screaming about not trusting anyone, something scared and broken from weeks of torture and abuse. His hands moved of their own accord.

 "'I'm fine, nothing happened,'" Ace translated, settling near the other two.

 "Bullshit," both Vinny and Disaster said at the same time.

 "You can't expect me to believe nothing happened, not when you flinch every time something touches you," Disaster told him. Her tone rose as she spoke, clearly upset, and Shirk had to fight back the instinct to curl away from her volume. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of proving her words.

 He glared back at her. 'I'm fine,' he stressed, ignoring the blood dripping down his arm. 'Nothing happened. Got a little banged up, that's all.'

 "Shirk," Ace said quietly, after translating. "Why are you lying to us?"

 'I'm not-'

 "You are," Vinny told him. Shirk raised his hands to sign something back when they stood up a little too quickly. Shirk shifted before he realized, back in a crouch and fingers brushing the knife again. "You wouldn't look 10 seconds from slitting one of us if something didn't happen."

 Shirk curled his lip at that, averting his eyes. Damn Roach was too perceptive for their own good. He startled when he looked back and saw Vinny closer than they had been. Not within touching distance, but closer. Shirk's breath caught in his throat.

 "What happened?"

 Shirk wanted to use words, his voice, for this. He forced his mouth to work, frowning at its reluctance to do what he wanted. It had been over a week since he spoke. "I-its nnnothing you neeed to con-concernn yourselvess about," he started, slowly and haltingly. His words came out slurred, and for the first time he worried about brain damage. Maybe that's why his head hurt so much.

 "Shirk, we just want to help you," Disaster piped up, having moved closer too. Ace wasn't far behind her, in the process of crab-walking over beside her.

 It was like a dam broke, and something that had been misplaced clicked in his brain, mouth suddenly spouting words he didn't want to be spoken aloud. "What do you want me to say?" he nearly shouted, voice wavering and cracking from lack of use. "I fucked up, okay? I got caught, I was stupid, I fucked up." His breaths were coming out in gasps, but he couldn't stop the words anymore. "I was caught, and tortured for three fucking weeks, and I didn't think you were coming-" his voice cracked harshly, but he barreled on, "and to top the shit pie, it was the fucking Burgundy Beasts who got me. I was in their grasp again and I was alone and I didn't know what to do-" His voice broke completely, and his legs gave out below him. He gripped his hair, finally allowing his head to connect with the surface behind him with a CRACK. "He's coming, he's coming, and we're all fucking screwed because he's on his way," he said, quieter. A shudder passed through him, and he whispered, "I thought you weren't coming for me."

 "Shirk," Ace started, but Shirk cut them off with a frantic shake of his head.

 "You know how fucking scary it is, to be tortured for three weeks, and you try, oh you try to hold on hope that help is coming. They have the best damn hacker in Los Santos minutes away, of fucking course they're on their way. But the days pass and the torture gets worse, you go fucking insane trying not to say anything, and then you realize the ones you love aren't coming. If they were, they'd be there by now. You start to doubt they ever loved you at all," he told them, tears welling up in his eyes. God he was so fucking weak, crying like a bitch over this. "Do you know how that feels?"

 A spur-of-the-moment thought made him lift his shirt up and off, showing the bandages hiding new and old wounds he would normally never show anyone. He almost unwound the white linen, but just  stopped short of doing so. Brain damage was likely. He gestured to the scars, peeking from beneath the bandages, across his chest in anger, staring at Disaster and Ace who didn't know what the Beasts were capable of. "Do you know how it feels to be ripped to pieces, day in and day out? To have old wounds-" he gestured with his bloody hand to the re-carved words under the brand- "reopened with the intent of breaking you?" He ended with strained breaths, entire body shaking.

 "Shit dude," Ace whispered, getting elbowed in the side by Disaster. No one knew what to say for a moment, the only sound being Shirk's ragged breathing, too fast to be healthy.

 Vinny moved first, breaking the tension that had fallen over them. They moved forward, slowly and deliberately, knowing that when Shirk got like this a hug was the best thing to do. They got within a couple of inches and paused. "Can I touch you?"

 Shirk started to shake his head no, but changed his mind and nodded a quick yes. His eyes were screwed up against the tears that still threatened to spill. When Vinny's arms wrapped around his body, he jumped, inhaling sharply. But he quickly melted into the hug, arms coming up to clutch at Vinny's back. "I thought-I thought-" he blabbered, barely suppressed sobs shaking his frame. "I-I thought y-you-" he hiccuped, pressing his face into Vinny's chest.

They had never actually seen Shirk break down like this, but the two had some close moments when talking about their shared experiences within the Burgundy Beasts, and they simply ran their hand through Shirk's hair, shushing him whenever the babbling got to incomprehensible. Disaster and Ace soon joined them, wrapping their own arms around Shirk's frame- which was much thinner than they remembered-and giving him soothing words and touches. They avoided any and all fresh wounds, sticking to his head, his neck, his arms.

 His sobs quieted, exhaustion settling over his body, and he pulled away from them, eyes glassy. He crossed his arms across his bare chest, frowning at himself. In a fit of anger towards his actions and words over the past… however long, scooped the knife up off the floor and stood. The others gave him questioning, almost doubtful looks as he turned the blade in his hand. He stabbed it behind him into the counter top before he mumbled something and stomped away to the living room and collapsing face-down onto the couch. He felt someone gently grab his hand in their own and had to force himself to not snatch it back. They wrapped something around the cut down his palm, and he signed 'thank you' from the side of his head, unwilling to move his face from the pillow.

 He heard Ace mumble something about how he "had mood swings so violent it'd must hurt," from behind him, and then heard what sounded like a smack followed Ace whining.

 Shirk realized dully that he never got the water he was originally after, and he fought with himself whether or not to get up and get it. One the one hand, laying down for the first time in weeks felt so good, and the sleep was pulling at his body. On the other, he was unwilling to sleep as he knew what would happen if he did. Mind made up, he went to push himself up when a comforting weight settled onto his back. Hands started carding through his hair, and Shirk sighed in bliss, pressing his head back into the hands. He could… lay here for a little longer. At least, until whoever was on top of him moved. The hands didn't still and he found his thoughts slowing and his consciousness being pulled away from him. He would get up… he would. Just after... he took a small nap. -- A/N: There are some questions left unanswered, which aren’t spoilers for a maybe story about what happened before, so I’ll put them here: Q: What prevented Enigma and the others from finding Shirk for so long? Also how was he not found during a sweep of Los Santos if he was missing for so long? Were they under the pretense that he’d be out of communications for a while? A: Shirk had been out on a job, gather intel and spy on a group that was claiming a little too much land within the city, and while told not to engage, followed them back to their base in the mt Chilliad region. The group happened to be a subset of the Beasts, and Vulpe themself was personally visiting the crew to make sure things were running smoothly. There was a shootout and Shirk was overwhelmed and captured.  No one thought anything was wrong until too many missed calls, and bu that time it was too late. Vulpe is a Specialist, not only an expert with strange weapons (ahem, the crossbow) , they're also rather good when it comes to covering tracks, whether physical or digital. They wiped all the cameras before the Freaks realized shirk was MIA. Their base is underground, like one of the bunkers in-game, and hidden, its no wonder they didn't find him.  Q: How far did he walk from where he was being held to the mall? He’d have to be pretty close, right, or did he walk for over 24 hours? Wouldn’t they have found him then? A:  He didn’t walk far, but where he was being held was not near the city at all. Opposite side of the island, in fact. The final fight actually happened quite close to the city. They were transporting him to the docks to send him to the main land, to Fabian, and he broke out of the van, killed the men who were driving and fought Vulpe again, this time getting away (was it purposeful on Vulpe's part to let him flee? yes. Did they let him leave unscathed? The arrowhead in his calf says otherwise.) Q: Was he tortured the entire three weeks or would it alternate between days of torture and days of isolation? Because would’t he die if it was three weeks of consecutive torture? A: It did alternate between torture and isolation. Vulpe did want information, yes, but the intent of everything was to make Shirk hurt and weak, before Fabian could fully break him. Vulpe never forgave Shirk for what he did to their beautiful Leader’s face.

Q: Why is everyone in Shirk’s apartment, anyway? Don’t they all have rooms/apartments within the Mall? Why weren’t they out looking for him? A: Well, yes, they do. But you know when someone misses their s/o who’s on a trip or smth, so they wear their clothes and sleep on their side of the bed and stuff? It’s a comfort thing. They all missed Shirk, and the easiest place to regroup without feeling so hopeless was his apartment. They broke in, of course, but Shirk doesn’t need to know that. And the reason they weren’t all out is because they were getting rest and regrouping. They had been looking all day, and when this happens it’s really late at night/early in the morning. Like, 2-3 AM. People need their rest, whether or not any of them were actually sleeping. Q: Who the fuck is Vulpe? Why are they important? Why are they after Shirk? A: Oh! They’re someone we haven’t properly met yet! One of the Fox Twins, and one of the two Third-in-Command, Fabian’s most trusted crew members. They take turns with their sibling, Corsac, running the Los-Santos branch of the Burgundy Beasts, and all the smaller crews owned affiliated with them. You’ll learn more about them later, as well as the Beasts as a whole.

[aladdins-attic]

What music can you see the Kou family enjoying in the modern day???

OH BOY OH BOY OH BOY I’m doing the ENTIRE KOU FAMILY (minus parents) for this because this is some GOOD SHIT

Hakuyuu Ren

The first Imperial Prince of Kou would like classical music or light indie rock. Anything that’s soothing and helps him relax. He’ll also listen to smooth jazz when he’s cleaning or in a good mood.

“Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby” by Cigarettes After Sex

“Arsonist’s Lullabye” by Hozier

Pachelbel’s “Canon in D”

“Greensleeves”

“We Don’t Talk Anymore” by Rick Braun feat. Peter White

Hakuren Ren

This boy would enjoy songs in different languages, songs that had a sort of funk to them, and songs that made him happy.

“Tous Les Mêmes” by Stromae

“Peace Song” by Kye Kye

“Munou (無能)” by österreich

“fashion week (it’s different remix)” by Blackbear

“Take A Slice” by Glass Animals

Hakuei Ren

Lovely Hakuei would listen to songs that have interesting lyrics, songs that tell stories. Most of the songs she likes are about love, but she also really really likes songs that carry some sort of lesson or are just… Aesthetic?

“Show Me That You Love Me” by Space Pirate

“Upward Over The Mountain” by Iron and Wine

“sakura sakura” by Rin’

“White Dove” by eagle/deer

“It’s Only” by ODESZA

Hakuryuu Ren

Crybaby Hakuryuu would end up having a mix of his siblings’ preferences. He likes calming music, alternative stuff, and songs with meanings. However, he also likes songs that carry a harsher tone than the ones his siblings like.

“Grey Skies” by Catching Flies

“Miracle” by The Score

“Poplar St” by Glass Animals

“West Coast” by The Neighbourhood

“The Public” by J-SOUL

Kouen Ren

En would listen to songs that consist of just music or very little words, as he finds it makes it easier to concentrate when studying or reading. Like his older cousin, Hakuren, he would enjoy songs in different languages, humming along and sometimes singing under his breath.

“Next to You” from Parasyte the Maxim OST

“[alone]” by Sl.drft

“Vor í Vaglaskógi” by Kaleo

“I’ll Keep Coming” by Low Roar

“The Gospel of John Hurt” by alt-J

Koumei Ren

Smooth songs that sort of fade into the background are the kinds of songs Koumei would prefer to listen to. He doesn’t care much about learning the lyrics of songs, though for his favorites he’ll learn them and try to decipher the meaning, if there is any.

“Mama’s Gun” by Glass Animals

“Somebody Else” by The 1975

“don’t leave me this way” by Tomppabeats

“Falling” by Fair Game

“Choking on Flowers” by Fox Academy

Kouha Ren

Shorty over here would like excited songs, songs that make you wanna run a marathon. He would also like rap to a certain extent, and would work to learn the lyrics and sing them in time to impress his friends and family.

“Gimme Sum (Hydraulix Remix)” by Slop Rock feat. Feral is Kinky

“(INTRO) LOS FAVORITOS” by ARCANGEL FT. FARRUKO, ÑENGO FLOW, ÑEJO, GENIO, ALEXIO, PUSHO

“I’m Poppy” by Poppy

“Comics” by Caravan Palace

“Poppin Percs” by TOP $HELF

Kougyoku Ren

The princess’ choice of music is like a weird mix of Kouha’s and Hakuei’s, with pretty songs mixed in with songs that make your heart beat faster. She listens to songs in her room at night and think of dances that could go with them.

“Wonderland” by Caravan Palace

“Gee (Disco Remix” by Pax

“idfc (ZETO x Arabella Remix)” by Blackbear

“Never Gonna Catch Me” by Skan & El Speaker

“Holiest” by Glass Animals feat. Tei-Shi

Judar

come on this guy’s practically part of the family. Judar would like rap, songs that have darker meanings, songs that he can relate to, and songs that many would consider sort of odd. He wouldn’t listen to music in front of anyone.

“Bounce” by Logic

“Pale Flesh” by Crystal Castles

“you’re the only one that wants me (around / to die)” by nvrmore

“Dead To Me” by Sex Whales & Fraxo feat. Lox Chatterbox

“Crawl (Christian Rich Re-Work)” by Childish Gambino

[roseamongroses]

Antithesis(12): “gays go feral briefly and i watched them burn”

[Specific-Summary]: With senior year approaching, some stresses are inevitable, and they’re certainly not looking forward to them, but for now it’s summer and it’s okay to breathe a little while longer.

[General Warnings]: Implied Emotional Abuse, Implied Physical Abuse, Bad Parents are Bad Parents, Mild Sexual Content/jokes, Mentioned Homophobia, Mentions of underage drinking (backround), Some Catcalling,Cursing  

[Tags/mood:] highschool au,  fluff and angst but its all good, chat fic, teen stress, its flordia no snow we die like men [Pairing:] Roceit (Roman Sanders/ Deceit Sanders), hinted future/possible logince/roloceit/loceit [Characters]Roman Sanders/Deceit (Dmitri) Sanders, Virgil Sanders, Logan Sanders, Patton Sanders, Remy (Sleep) Sanders, Nate Sanders, Dragon Witch (Diana)

(Ao3) (Previously)

(8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14)

---

Seawater sputtered from Virgil’s nose and mouth as he screamed, Remy, hefting him over his shoulder easily, victorious, before lunging for Roman. Ignoring his brother’s pleas for help, Roman scattered away, cackling as he tucked and rolled through another group, and sprinted down the coast. 

Dmitri snorted as Roman turned around, jogging backward to blow a kiss. Seconds afterward he got tackled to sand, with the nearby Patton only mildly alarmed from behind his camera. 

“I like your sketches,” Logan said simply, dropping the jug of water to the ground, alongside his bags and towels. He wore a simple sports bra and cargo pants, his braids pulled tight in a bun to the back of his head. 

“Thanks…” Dmitri said, looking up with a wave, he eyed the bags, “Are you preparing for an apocalypse or something?” 

“You’d be surprised, “ Logan said, sliding a pair of sunglasses over his glasses,“Remy once forgot to bring his swimsuit--” he opened his sunscreen,  layering it on, “And instead of just swimming in his underwear he decided leather jeans, boots, and shirt were more appropriate.” 

“I’m assuming they egged him on?”

Logan’s expression soured, “The twins always do,” he sighed, “But they’ve…” he eyed how the Virgil managed to jump from Remy’s grip, dragging him to the ground by his swim trunks, teeth bared, “...Calmed to an extent. ” 

Dmitri cast a doubtful look and Logan shrugged, sitting on his beach towel and starting to build a sandcastle intently. At one point the sun was uncomfortably warm enough to make Dmitri sleepy and he shifted to just watching Logan mumble to himself whether a tower would be better on the east or west end of the castle, occasionally chiming into the one-sided argument, but overall it was a comfortable silence. 

Logan lifted his head, eyes narrowed, “Fuck.” 

“What happened?” 

“Did they put on sunscreen,” he gestured, “Of course they didn’t-and, of course, I’m going to have to deal with their damn burns, and whining, and I don’t get paid for any of this, " he shook his head

“You sound like an overworked dad--” Dmitri said.

“I’m not--” Logan frowned, “Hell I am.”

“Who’s a dad?” Roman called out,  clinging to Remy’s back as the pair walked towards them. Dmitri did note the angry red patches on Remy’s skin, though he doesn’t seem to be bothered.

“I am apparently,” Logan said dry, sipping his water. 

Roman glanced at Remy, who raised an eyebrow in return. 

“Does that mean Patton’s daddy?” Remy said. 

Logan sputtered, water spraying, “Absolutely--no--”  he coughed, “ Absolutely not.” 

“Aw Lo,” Roman cooed, hopping down from Remy’s back, hand briefly brushing Dmitri’s shoulder as he passed before crouching down in front of Logan, “You can be daddy if you want to,” he blinked wide-eyed and Remy snickered behind him. 

Wiping his hands indignantly, Logan scowled, “I hate all of you. Equally. And passionately.” 

“No, you don't. You loooo--ogan!” Roman hissed jumping back, but unable to dodge being thoroughly sprayed in water. 

 Remy’s cackling reached a new height and Roman sniffed turning around, recently dried curls dripping, “Dmitri,” he whined, redirecting his puppy eyes. 

Amused, Dmitri opened his arms, Roman immediately climbing into his lap, tucking himself under Dmitri’s neck.

“I’ve been attacked,” Roman bemoaned, “Viciously and utterly attacked.” 

“It's such a tragedy, I know--I know,  ” Dmitri hummed, cheek resting easily in Roman’s hair, noting how the sea salt still lingered as he relaxed around them. Virgil and Patton later approached Virgil, catching Logan’s eye with a raised eyebrow. 

“What happened to him?” Virgil said. 

“He’s being a baby,” Logan said, rummaging through his bag. 

“I am not-” Roman said, getting a towel to the face, “-Oh. Thank you, Lo!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Logan said, crossing his arms and redirecting his attention on Virgil, “You getting food?”

Virgil nodded, “Yep, unless y’all are still swimming?” 

“I can always go for another round,” Remy said, looking at Roman expectantly. 

Roman squinted at the reddening sky, “I dunno, it’s getting late…” he said, 

“C’ mon,” Remy tempted, “Night swimmings the best--hell we could probably get away with skinny-dipping.  ”

Interest peaked, Roman, opened his mouth, getting a resounding “No.” from everyone else.  Roman closed his mouth, sheepish. 

“Y’all are fuckin lame,” Remy said, turning on his heels and storming away. Virgil sighed and he and Roman exchanged looks.

“He should be...fine…” Virgil finally said, “Let him blow off some steam.” 

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Roman said, frowning, “Maybe I should go get hi--”

“No,” Virgil said, “He knows he’s over-reacting, let him chill out first.”

“But--”

“Nope, I’ll get him later,” Virgil picked up his jacket, sliding it on, “You stay away from him,” he shoved his hands in his pockets, tossing a pointed look at Roman again before walking off towards the parking lot, Patton close behind. 

Roman deflated, “That’s not fair,” 

Dmitri felt sorely out of place, “Huh.” 

“Virgil’s right,” Logan finally said, rummaging in his bags once again.

“That doesn’t mean he’s right,” Roman said, nearly flinching when Logan tossed a pack of UNO cards in his lap.

“I know, I know, ” he said, “Just deal.” 

---

Ro: I BEAT LOGAN 

Lo: It was a tie.

Ro: [blurred picture of logan flipping him off while roman holds up reverse card.jpeg]

V: this is the best our class has to offer

V: my god we’re all going to fucking die 

Pat: now hold on there

Ro: [finally some good fucking -support- .jpeg]

Pat: L and R aren’t the reason the worlds going to die

Pat: that's primarily the corporations 

Ro: you see patton actually loves me. 

Pat: but w/ l and r our doom will speed up by at least a decade or so

Ro: LOVE IS DEAD TO ME. 

Lo: I second that motion

---

!!!taglist!!!

@daflangstlairde​

@ace-anx​

@cataclysm-al​

[ecotone99]

[SF] Arthur Part one

This story takes place in the Warhammer 40K universe, this one is fairly long but the future ones are to be shorter

Void shields failing

Void shields failing

Void shields down

The cold wailing of the ship’s machine spirit faded, like the light of the fire that followed it. The space marine’s eyes shot open. His eye-lenses were shattered, but through the cracks, he saw a blue sky above. Debris from the battle above burned as it entered the atmosphere. Warning sirens from his battle plate echoed softly in his ears, but the hormones of sleep set him into hibernation again before he could address them.

He awoke again to the earthy smell of woodsmoke and the chanting of a woman. His eyes snapped open and she screamed, backing up, “Hark, the angel awakes!” He was laying on the ground in the middle of the room, a bed of leaves below his bruised and beaten body. He realized he was in mostly in his under-armor body glove Eyes darting around he quickly gathered he was in a small hut, clay walls plastered over what he assumed to be a wood frame. The roof was low, he would have to stoop if he stood. His eyes stopped on a pile of his power armor in the corner, and he felt a sharp pain in his gut. He looked back down at himself and saw where a shard of shrapnel, red with blood, had pierced his ceramite when he had worn it. How did she get the armor off? He thought as the young woman began to gather her senses. She wore a gown of some animal skin, tied together with cords along her left side. She had light skin, bright red hair down to her waist, wild and unkempt. She held a tall staff, a green-tinted wooden pole with an animal’s skull set on top. The skull was long, horned like a daemon, and bleached white.

The Space Marine wrapped a massive hand around the shard of shrapnel and yanked it out. Ignoring the horror of the woman, he crawled over to his armor and found a small vial that lay within it, slamming it into his wound. His Mucranoids immediately went into effect, covering the hole in a waxy substance that grew out of his skin. He leaned his back up against the armor, breathing hard through clenched teeth, and looked at the Woman. She held her stick out towards him. At first, he found it comical, but then he noticed the subtle flare of witchfire ringing her eyes and burning on the skull of her staff. He put his hands up, away from the armor trying to make himself seem non-threatening. He knew a rogue psyker was a dangerous thing. “No weapon,” he said, his deep voice rumbling through the hovel. “Name,” She said as she began to bring the staff back up, and the witchfire fading. “Arthur,” said the Space Marine.

Arthur stepped out of the hovel and looked around him. The building stood on a low hill, hidden in a copse of trees. All around him was the lush green of forest, but to the north was a break in the trees. Far off in the distance, A large construction of stone rose up out of the ground, tall walls and towers grey against the stark blue sky. The fortification had banners flowing down from the towers, heraldry showing a white sword stuck point down in stone on a black field. If there is a choir, it will be there thought Arthur. I may have fallen into a feral world.

He went back into the hut, the witch jumped at his entrance, he pointed at the armor on the ground. “Where did you find this, where did you find me?” She just looked at him confused and in awe. Sighing, he inspected his armor on the ground. It was worthless, shattered, burned, and with the powerpack broken beyond repair. Sorrow welled up within him. His plate had kept him alive through countless battles, it had been a second skin when he had it on. It was akin to losing a battle-brother. The sorrow washed over him, he took a deep breath, and he moved on. He had no time to let this affect him. He grabbed two more unbroken vials of the Mucranoid catalyst from their housing. He found two clips of bolter rounds and thankfully, his combat knife was maglocked to a leg plate. His bolter was nowhere to be seen. He turned to look at the witch as he gathered up his gear. Standing, he rose nearly two feet above her and weighed at least four times her weight, towering over her like the statue of a god. She probably thinks she has unleashed a giant. He felt as though he should slay the witch, an unknown psyker was a dangerous thing, but something stayed his hand.

He found a dirt path down at the bottom of the hill, he turned to follow it north towards the fortification. An hour passed, he carried his gear in his thick hands, nowhere to store the items. There was a sound like the roll of soft thunder. Arthur turned to see two human men riding out on eight-legged beasts. The creatures resembled the horses of old Terra, the descendants of which had come with humanity on its quest amongst the stars to many different worlds. The stink of unwashed men met Arthur’s nose as they approached him, they wore shirts made of small metal rings and wielded crude ancient swords. They tried to look as menacing as possible, but Arthur felt nothing but contempt for these poor examples of low humanity. “Lo!” one shouted at him as they approached, “ye knave, ye troll! drop thy blade or Wulf and I will ride thee down!”

Arthur snorted in disgust, “Standing before you is an Adeptus Astartes of the Imperial Fists, scion of Rogal Dorne and I know no fear!” The two men just looked at each other and back at Arthur and began to advance. Disappointed, Arthur began backing up, walking to the edge of the road. He stooped down as if to drop his combat blade, but instead reached for a rock. His strength was such that the man who spoke was struck before he could get another word out. In one fluid motion, Arthur spun the rock around through the air and threw it through the man’s jaw. His lower skull exploded in a shower of blood and bone as he jerked back off his horse-thing. The other one, Wulf, turned around and fled.

Arthur hated himself for doing it, but he took the bag off the fallen man, in it were a few coins, some stale bread, and a place to put the gear he already had. On a whim, he decided to add a few stones as well. He climbed atop the man’s frightened beast, finding the saddle small and uncomfortable. All the same, he turned the creature north. He worried he was too heavy for it, but it held him for now.

A short ride passed and Arthur found himself approaching a small village, plots of land tilled for farming and small hovels similar to the witch’s took the place of green trees and bushes. Up ahead stood the stone castle with the banners he had seen before. That thing would not survive a single lance strike critiqued Arthur. The villagers, human peasants living in squalor, looked at him agape as he passed. As he rode on, closer to the castle, the conditions got a little better. Arthur could hear the ring of a hammer on steel and smell fresh bread. As he rode further in, observing his surroundings with a blank countenance, a man with a large floppy hat appeared out of nowhere. “Ser Knight, Ser Knight, hast thou ridden forth to enter the lists?” he said, “I am no knight, I am an Imperial-” Arthur was interrupted. “A knight, a knight, verily, by what title shall thee ride as?” “Arthur is my Emporer-given name…” The small man interrupted him again, making marks on a sheet with a primitive pen, “Arthur, glorious, the bards shall sing your glory to the stars” and then just as soon as he appeared, he ran off. Unsure, Arthur rode on slowly, noticing larger wooden and stone buildings with many people milling about. He noticed men riding tall on their own eight-legged horses, wearing some sort of primitive armor made of steel, wearing swords belted to their waists. His combat knife was about as large as some of them. He turned his eight-legged beast and followed them as they headed towards the castle, seeing a great field of flags outside its walls.

The file rode its way further through the outlying town, the field of flags revealed itself as some sort of tourney grounds. As Arthur rode up, he noticed sidelong looks from the other armed men and their servants. Making his way into the grounds, another floppy-hatted man ran up beside him, “Noble ser! Hast thou entered into the lists?”

“Some other man like you has already asked me, what is this here” returned Arthur. “Why ser!” the man looked alarmed, “verily thou comest upon the auspicious eve of Pendragon day, on the morrow, there is to take place a joust and mighty feast, surely a knight such as yourself ride for the event?” Arthur looked at him confused, but nodded and began to ride off before a large pot-bellied man ran out next to him “Woah there, here be my…. Mine own cousin! Verily we hast invited him, unbeknownst of the celebration” The man gave a wink to Arthur. The other man, whose floppy hat swung around as he turned to face the other, said “Oh verily, excellent! May the light above guide thine arm!” Then the man trotted away, his hat flopping over his head with each step.

“What is thine name, come, follow me, thou are sure to emerge victorious on the morrow, with mine help.” The pot-bellied man said to Arthur in a hushed voice and motioned him to follow. Arthur steered his mount after the man, and they quickly arrived at a small stone building. Arthur could smell the crude musk of burning coals and hot iron. “Mine name be Witege, and thou are?”

“Arthur” responded Arthur, waiting to hear what the man had to actually say. “Verily, Arthur, a man of your size and strength, none can hold you back.” sais Witege. Arthur eyed the man, sensing his motive, “my only goal is to get back to my chapter, does this planet have a choir?” Witege looked confused, “why dost thou seek bards?” Arthur sighed, he decided he would take part in this man’s scheme, it would help him in the short run and he could figure out his next move after learning more about the planet he found himself on. “You want to ready me for this joust? Why?” Arthur responded. Witege’s eyes lit for a moment and he said “Verily! Mine own hands shall arm thee and mine own son shall be thy squire, your humble servant only begs of half the coin reward” That’s what Arthur figures the man would say. It was the best option Arthur had at the moment, so he nodded his head in assent. Witege called forth his son, an older boy named Urien who Arthur guesses to be about 15 standard years old. They got to work refitting armor to the space marine’s massive form. Arthur helped as well, his strength astonishing the mortals. The finished armor was dubbed “Wygar” by Witege. Arthur decided to hold onto his combat blade instead of taking Witege’s offered sword. The combat blade was familiar to him and made of better steel besides. By the next morning, the mortals were exhausted, Arthur found himself dozing for about half an hour, his bones still ached from the crash and he figured the rest would do him some good for the “joust” to come. Whatever that meant.

He found out that next morning, Arthur stood at the edge of the field, underneath one of the black and white banners, and watched as two men. Fully armored, rode their 8 legged horses at each other with a thin wooden barrier keeping them parallel. The beasts thundered at each other, each strike of the ground kicking up a cloud of dirt. They each carried metal shields and wooden lances that they struck against each other with a mighty crash that it reverberated through his new steel plate of armor. Both men’s lances shattered, and one went down while the other barely managed to hang on, and then he shot his hands up in triumph. A tremendous cheer went up from stands that had been built at the sides of the arena, they were stocked with humans. At the far end of the field sat a monstrous tent, a black veil obscured its insides.

As Arthur stood watching stoically, Witege walked up behind him. Arthur turned and saw the man leading a massive 8 legged mare. “This be Llameri, she fits thine stature, verily, more than thine beast thou doth approach with.” Indeed she did. Arthur couldn’t help but admire the cords of muscle hidden just below the horse’s flesh. He looked back at the man and gave him a nod. Witege looked like he was expecting more, and then continued, “mine son hast a saddle for thee as well, Llameri shall be chomping at the bit for thine ride…” Arthur nodded his appreciation, face impassive. Witege shrugged and whispered “okay ser” as he walked away, leading the beautiful beast by the reins. Arthur watched a few more of the jousts to get an idea of how it worked, coming up with plans of his own.

His name was called. He strode forth on Llameri, donned in Wygar, feeling almost as powerful as he did holding a fortified position with his battle brothers. He smiled to himself under his helmet, he could probably secure the planet for the imperium by himself if he still had his plate and bolter. Against him, a knight in shining steel arrayed himself, a bright red plume trailing off his helmet. His horse was powerfully built, but even still his foe looked considerably smaller than Arthur.

Urien ran from his cover near the stands and handed Arthur his new unpainted shield and a tourney lance as the man across from him was also equipped by a squire. The other man raised his visor, he had a face red from the heat, with a large mustache. “Verily! I face a giant this day, wherest thou hail from, O Arthur?”

Arthur thought of a suitable answer before calling back “the Imperium.”

“Arthur of the Imperium, on this day thou ridest against Cador of Camelot!” Arthur shut his visor, and Cador did the same, their mounts stamping the ground in anticipation.

A man in a floppy hat took to a stand above the middle of the lane, holding a flag aloft. When he dropped it, both riders spurred their mounts forward, readying themselves for the clash. With Arthur’s enhanced psychology and physiology, Cador didn’t stand a chance. As Llameri thundered down the lane Arthur calmly sat into position, bringing his shield up and across to meet Cador’s lance, while he brought up his own to smash into his opponent. At the last moment he arrayed his lance in a calculated position, and when they struck with the blast of splintering wood, Cador was thrown off the back of his mount. Arthur rode down the rest of the lane to the adoring cheers of the crowd, before turning and going down Cador’s side, jumping off Llameri to help the man up. “You rode well,” he said, offering a hand. Cador slid his visor open, red-faced, and smiled at Arthur and said, “Aye, and thou ridst better” before taking his hand.

As Arthur doffed Wygar and Urien took Llameri off to take care of her, he heard the crash of the next joust. The shattering of lances and the yells of men and beasts as the first pass was completed. Arthur stepped out of his tent to watch, still half armored, to see the men prepare for a second pass. As both were handed new lances, Arthur focused in on one of the knights. He sat taller than any normal man, armor painted in the red of arterial blood and the screaming face painted on his shield seemed to writhe in pain. The knights began their second pass. The bloody man’s steed screamed as it flashed down the lane, tearing clouds of dirt into the air. When his lance struck his opponent’s shield it shattered, while the other man’s split and slid from the shield with the screaming face. The man careened off his mount into the dirt as the bloody knight rode to the end of the lane, hoisting his shield into the air. Arthur’s hearts felt a chill of cold as he watched the unnatural knight. When the vanquished man tried to get up, his shield arm lay limp, broken back in a sickening angle. Arthur clenched his jaw, wary of the knight in red.

The day wore on, Arthur vanquished whoever he rode against, while watching the bloody knight do the same. That afternoon, while taking a meal in his tent between jousts, the tent flap flew open and the witch from the woods burst in. Urien ran in hot on her heels trying to hold her back. Arthur held up a hand, “I know this woman” he said to Urien. The boy looked confused and waited, the witch turned to Arthur and said, “Lo! Angel of steel, I have pierced through the mists of time. Verily, as mine own form stands before thou, mine eyes saw one who seeks to send thee to the spirits! A knight, armored in blood, blessed by dark powers beyond the light of the stars. If thou shouldst ride against him, he shall smite thee to thine end!” She heaved with excitement, eyes wide as he looked back at her from his stump. Arthur stood up, “My thanks woman, by what name are you called?” he responded, holding out his hand.

“Morgana” She said, shaking his hand, “Arthur, forsooth, this thing must not come to pass” Arthur nodded and said, “I will deal with this” he looked to Urien, and told him what to do.

The time came for the final round, the joust to crown the champion. The crowd hushed, even the wind stilled from blowing the flags as Arthur took his place across from the bloody knight. The knight lifted his visor to reveal a hard lean face, clean of any hair, even eyebrows. His eyes shone pure red. He breathed deep, sucking in air like a drowning man before calling out in a guttural voice “Mordred rides against thee, I have vanquished all before, feast thine eyes upon me and despair!”

Arthur raised his own visor to shout, “You ride against Arthur of the Imperium, a warrior of ages long forgotten here. I am a wall your lance will break upon, your malignity has no power over me!” before slamming it back into place. He still beat the man in stature, but Arthur knew Mordred carried more than just his own power in his body.

They both spurred their mounts forward, Llameri bolted down the beaten lane, bursting forward more than she had at any time previously. Arthur readied himself and couched his lance as the bloody knight grew ever closer. They crashed together, both lances shattering to splinters upon the other’s shield. Arthur absorbed the force well, and watched Mordred regain his balance after the hit. The crowd roared its approval of the spectacle. They circled, coming back around to the ends of the lane. As Urien ran up with another lance he gasped “Arthur, thine arm!”

Arthur looked down, splinters of Mordred’s lance had defied the laws of the universe, they had split off and the wood had stabbed its way through the inside of the plate on his arm, and blood now seeped out of the wound. He clenched his jaw and yanked the shards out with a grunt, and then took the new lance. “If he does not fall here, bring me the magic lance” Arthur whispered to Urien.

They readied themselves once more, Arthur spurred on Llameri and her hooves thundering with the power of the engines of a thunderhawk, flying down the line. Arthur rammed his lance home, just as Mordred did the same, but the bloody knight’s lance slid off the shield, smashing into Arthur’s breastplate. Again, shards of wood punched themselves through Wygar, and Arthur breathed hard, smelling blood, as he looked down and saw foot-long spikes porcupining his chest. Mordred had almost fallen in that pass, but he regained his composure and circled on his steed. The crowd fell into another hushed silence as the two knights circled back into position. Blood now ran in rivulets down the front of Arthur’s armor. Urien ran out, eyes wide with concern, and handed Arthur the special lance. “I’m fine” Arthur grunted out through clenched teeth, shooing the boy away. He focused himself, and spurred Llameri one last time, as Mordred did the same. The two knights thundered at each other, as they neared Arthur took a deep breath in his helmet and threw his shield to knock Mordred’s lance aside. At the same moment, he smashed his lance into the other knight’s shield, the bolter round hidden within kicking off as the lance shattered. The round smashed through the knight’s shield, ripping apart Mordred’s armor, exploding within his arm.

There was a shower of blood accompanying the loud burst of the bolter round, everyone in the crowd jumped to their feet screaming. Mordred collapsed to the ground, falling off his mount, his left arm completely blown apart. Nothing was left but a twisted mass of steel and bleeding flesh. Mordred didn’t even scream. From the ground he grabbed the saddle and his horse began to move. It dragged him through the dirt and he turned back to yell at Arthur “Thee shall see me again, O cursed Arthur!” Together they tore through the camp, headed south.

Arthur stumbled off Llameri, and fumbled into his tent to grab a vial of the Mucranoid catalyst. He smashed it into his chest, and rubbed the coarse liquid into his arm. Inhaling sharply with the pain, he tore off his helmet. He realized that outside, the crowd of mortals had gone silent. He stood up to his full height and walked out of the tent. The crowd stood in a semicircle about him, with Witege, Urien, and Morgana a few steps forward. A floppy hatted man stepped out of the crowd and said “uhh Ser Arthur, King Pendragon will see thee now”

submitted by /u/GreyWanderers [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/2O62kVp

[how2to18]

THEY SAY literary novelists can’t do genre. This is perhaps most acutely felt with mystery and noir, which has fascinated and occasionally defied postmodern eminences from Pynchon to Auster and beyond. Antony Lamont, antihero of Gilbert Sorrentino’s incredible Mulligan Stew, stands out as the funniest case study, albeit fictional. A fading, minor experimental writer immersed in an awful fusion of the new novel and a noir potboiler (the same sort of novel it seems Paul Giamatti’s character is working on in Sideways — his “Robbe-Grillet mystery”), the pompous Lamont’s tilt is equal parts cynicism and desperation — his radical approach really just a bald-faced cash grab, so smugly assured is he that the dark ambience, gratuitous sex, and abrupt violence of his meandering and largely content-free novel will finally nab him the hit he deserves. This is not, thankfully, the sort of novel that Jonathan Lethem gives us in The Feral Detective. Though you can be forgiven for imagining otherwise if you’re not familiar with his work, Lethem is no stranger to noir, or genre fiction in general — he came from genre, and is, in fact, a genre writer, especially when he promiscuously blends genres together as he’s been doing since his fantastic Philip K. Dick-meets-Raymond Chandler debut, Gun, with Occasional Music. In short, Lethem is a master, the sort of master for whom narratives about genres, as opposed to genres themselves, are the quarry. That he’s reached a high degree of mainstream success within the genre of literary fiction only burnishes his bona fides as a master of form.  

The Feral Detective follows Phoebe Siegler, a thirtysomething New Yorker and former Times staffer who has traveled to the West Coast to track down Arabella, the missing daughter of her friend Roslyn. Arabella, a freshman at Reed College, stopped answering Roslyn’s attempts to contact her a few weeks into her first semester, and Phoebe — newly liberated from her job — decides a trip to Portland to pay the girl a wellness call is just what she and Arabella need. Arriving to find her gone and school officials oblivious, Phoebe digs in and discovers a slim trail of several-weeks-old credit card transactions leading down the coast to Los Angeles’s Union Station and finally, cryptically, to a travel plaza purchase in an unfamiliar corner of San Bernardino County, where the lead goes cold. Because she is worried about Arabella, and because she loves her friend — Roslyn is herself a mother figure to Phoebe — and because she is not ready to go back home, Phoebe decides to extend her vacation. The reason she is not ready to face New York — the reason she quit her job — haunts the novel from its first pages:

Blame the election. I’d been working for the Great Gray News organization, in a hard-won, lowly position meant to guarantee me a life spent rising securely through the ranks. This was the way it was supposed to go, before I’d bugged out. I’d done everything right, like a certain first female nominee we’d all relied upon, even my male friends who hated her, as a cap on the barking madness of the world. Now she took walks in the hills around Chappaqua and I’d checked into the Doubletree a mile west of Upland, California.

The Feral Detective is not only a novel of the Trump era, it is a novel largely about it — specifically, how the Trump era has felt for a certain set of us who woke up on November 9, 2016, with a newfound appreciation for the arguments of reality simulation theorists. If noir is at its core fundamentally the cruel stripping away of illusion, there could hardly be a better subject than a liberal coping with the Trump era. So thoroughly and suddenly was the narrative of Hillary Clinton’s inevitable victory evacuated, so traumatic was the puncturing of the optimistic Obama-era bubble, and so bizarre and even nightmarish have been the subsequent years that it’s easy to think of the whole world as having taken a noir-ish turn: worst timeline confirmed, doomsday clock ticking ever closer to midnight. For Phoebe, it is all too much to take:

My room reminded me of a gun moll’s wisecrack, in some old film I’d seen, on entering an apartment: “Early Nothing.” I was left with Facebook, where my friends had responded to the election by reducing themselves to shrill squabbling cartoons. Or I could opt for CNN, where various so-called surrogates enacted their shrill hectoring cartoons without needing to be reduced, since it was their life’s only accomplishment to have been preformatted for this brave new world. Television had elected itself, I figured. It could watch itself too for all I cared. I read my book.

There is, in her quest to find Arabella, more than a little self-interest — it is also a quest to find, if not the fictional world she thought she inhabited, a way to understand the one she never knew she lived in all along.

Her guide in this is Charles Heist, the eponymous feral detective, so called because of his penchant for tracking down lost, troubled, cult-brainwashed, and otherwise disappeared or off-the-grid kids. Working out of a nondescript strip-mall office in Upland, Charles Heist takes Phoebe’s case with a typically non-committal “no-promises” sort of attitude, but also with a decidedly nontypical disinterest in any sort of upfront payment. Other unusual details include the presence in Heist’s office of a wounded possum, which Heist is doggedly though unsentimentally nursing back to health, and a ragged, mute young girl named Melinda, apparently recently and quite literally feral herself. Phoebe is nonplussed but also, she must admit, intrigued — and Charles is a looker in a flinty, sunburnt sort of way:

He resembled one of those pottery leaf-faces you find hanging on the sheds of wannabe-English gardens. His big nose and lips, his deep-cleft chin and philtrum, looked like ceramic or wood. Somehow, despite or because of all of this, I registered him as attractive, with an undertow of disgust. The disgust was perhaps at myself, for noticing.

His services are retained. With nothing to go on except the travel plaza purchase, and a hunch that Arabella — a devoted fan of Leonard Cohen — might have ascended nearby Mount Baldy where the late, great songwriter frequented an isolated Zen retreat, Charles sets out and Phoebe returns to her hotel to brood on the case and the mysterious dashing man onto whose broad shoulders she’s laid her last, best hope.

These introductory chapters are incredible — it truly is a lot of fun to see Phoebe fall so quickly and so hard for Heist. Making Heist the honest and unapologetic object of Phoebe’s post-Obama rebound fantasy is a delicious complication of the femme-fatale tradition, and it’s great to see her unapologetic voraciousness respectfully, even somewhat meekly, received by the terse but game Heist. Lethem wrings plenty of comedy out of the improbable culture-clash romance that rapidly develops between the two, but there is something troubling that develops, too. For a writer who is normally so good with voice and so adept at playing off types while still imbuing his characters with enough specificity and depth to keep them from becoming cartoons, Phoebe begins, as the novel progresses, to feel at times much too broad — a weird gestalt of awkward comedienne, working girl, and other tropes whose presence isn’t entirely exorcised by cheeky self-consciousness:

I’d go home with a California story or two in my back pocket. No, sorry, I didn’t ever set eyes on the ocean or the Hollywood sign, but did I tell you the one about the porta-potty levee? The trailer park blowjob? Oh, what a Manic Pixie Am I! I pictured telling this over late lunch at Elephant & Castle.

Through Phoebe, Lethem means to implicate himself and by extension the whole cohort of urbane, liberal, upwardly mobile folks too assured of victory and too preoccupied with themselves to imagine the failure of their certainties in 2016. But although Phoebe’s preoccupation with what Heist thinks of her, for example, is funny, it began to worry me. On the one hand, it is great that Lethem allows Phoebe to be shallow — as he does — and to seem at times to forget about the search for Arabella while daydreaming about her new gumshoe boytoy — as she does — but is this an unvarnished caricature of complacent white feminism of the sort that both the left and the right now routinely flog for predictable results?

The plot, depending on how well the conceit works for you, congeals, or thickens — it is discovered that Arabella is caught between two warring cultish groups of desert dwellers, the feminist “Rabbits” and the boorish “Bears” and some genuinely funny moments, striking passages, and typically excellent walk-on characters follow. Each band is a primal caricature of the current partisan divide and not much more nuanced than what you’d get from reading Daily Kos or The Daily Caller. It’s mostly burlesque, but there are hints at a deeper reckoning. Phoebe, who spends much of the book in sidekick mode, gets a memorable “flower-pot” moment. The gesture — which Phoebe names after the belated contribution of a corseted heroine in a half-remembered Western she used to watch with her dad, which involved the woman throwing a flower-pot down on the head of a villain from a second-story window — kicks off an extended denouement that pleasurably complicates the existing dynamic between Phoebe and Heist. By the novel’s end, most of my doubts were, if not totally expunged, at least leavened by the complex affection I’d begun to feel for Phoebe.

Heist, a kind of subterranean Trump foil — a paragon of non-toxic masculinity — is the more lovable character, but Phoebe is ultimately more interesting. The feral detective, true to form, spirits Phoebe away from the old assurances and dead narratives to which she reflexively, repeatedly, retreats, even, in the end, the old one about the guy getting the girl, and she realizes ultimately that learning to live in the new world means letting go of the old.

Perhaps the ultimate truth of noir is that no matter where you’re standing, there is always another floor to fall through. If there is a central lesson of The Feral Detective, it might be simply to embrace this fact; as the Cohen-head Arabella might quote: “You want it darker.” Yes, and for a reason. Darkness can be a renewal, death and inversion driving out the old to make space for the new.

¤

Seth Blake is a writer from New Hampshire living in Los Angeles.

The post Always Another Floor to Fall Through appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

from Los Angeles Review of Books http://bit.ly/2WD7hbA via IFTTT

[davidoespailla]

Revitalizing a Michigan Midcentury Marvel

Brian Kelly for The Wall Street Journal

Shane Pliska lives in a glass house. He wakes at dawn and spends hours gazing out of his windows at a forest and a pond. Snapping turtles lay eggs on his yard, and fawns sleep right below his deck. But this isn’t Walden Pond. It’s a suburban cul-de-sac in Bloomfield Hills, Mich.

“It’s changed my life,” says Mr. Pliska, 38, president of a family-owned plant and interior-landscaping company. “It gives me clarity of mind.”

When Mr. Pliska first saw the house in 2012, he was living nearby in a condo building. But he knew he wanted to live somewhere connected to nature. A decision by his condo board to install a bright-blue awning—giving it the look of an IHOP restaurant—motivated his move.

The renovation included replacing cork flooring with slate in the conversation pit. A sheepskin rug keeps the space cozy when it’s cold outside.

Brian Kelly for The Wall Street Journal

The house, which was built in 1956, wasn’t for sale. So he asked a real-estate agent to keep a close watch. When the home was listed—and marketed as a teardown—Mr. Pliska immediately offered $5,000 over the asking price and bought it in 2012 for $230,000.

The home, a 1,890-square-foot glass-and-wood rectangular box on 1.3 acres, was designed by Edwin William de Cossy, a former instructor at Yale University who had studied under Paul Rudolph, known for his Brutalist style. The cost of construction at the time: $30,000.

To better understand the architect’s vision, Mr. Pliska traveled by train to Connecticut to meet Mr. de Cossy, who was wearing a tie and white racing gloves when he picked him up at the New Canaan train station in a vintage black Mercedes. Over lunch, Mr. de Cossy explained that the style of the house was partly influenced by his work on modern homes in Florida in the 1950s and partly by the time he’d spent hanging out with Philip Johnson at his Glass House in New Canaan. “It’s a dream site,” says Mr. de Cossy, 89, adding that he built it originally for his brother-in-law, Leo Calhoun, who owned a Ford dealership outside Detroit.

Mr. Pliska lived in the house without changing anything for about two years. Then one stormy night, he heard a loud boom and felt shaking as a giant oak tree punctured his flat roof. The redwood roof beams saved the house from complete collapse.

A modern Italian Scavalini kitchen inside Shane Pliska’s home in Bloomfield Hills, Mich.

Brian Kelly for The Wall Street Journal

“It was in a pretty sad state,” says Roman Bonislawski, the co-owner of Birmingham, Mich.-based architectural firm Ron & Roman who led the $300,000 renovation, which took two years to complete. The project includes new windows, replacing the cork flooring with slate in the living-room conversation pit, redoing the bathrooms and bumping out the master bedroom to add a small balcony. Mr. Pliska picked a modern Italian Scavalini kitchen (paying a discounted $35,000 because it was a floor model) with reflective avocado-green glass cabinets and put in new decks made of composite materials in front and out back.

What didn’t change was Mr. de Cossy’s fundamental design. The house is raised on a pedestal with redwood beams that cantilever out from below on all four sides and on top to hold up the roof, giving it a floating illusion. All the rooms are visible from the exterior except the bathrooms, one of which is enclosed by the kitchen wall and the other by the fireplace chimney.

After graduating from Emerson College and working briefly in film in Los Angeles, Mr. Pliska moved home in 2004 and six years later took over as president of Planterra, a business founded by his father, Larry.

The younger Mr. Pliska oversaw the building of a new glass-enclosed headquarters with a plant-adorned courtyard that doubles as a wedding-venue business. “He really changed things,” says Larry Pliska, 72, who still works there.

Mr. Pliska eschews curtains. He wakes at dawn and spends hours gazing out his windows at a forest and a pond.

Brian Kelly for The Wall Street Journal

Shane Pliska’s neighborhood has also changed: It was once a laboratory for modern design, inspired by the nearby art academy Cranbrook, which owns the Eliel Saarinen Art Deco-style Saarinen House. Now, existing houses are torn down to make way for large new structures that Mr. Pliska calls “Barbie castles.”

Still, some Midcentury Modern homeowners there have tried to preserve an element of the past, gathering regularly for cocktails to admire each other’s architecture and discuss design. Neighbor Nancy Lockhart says one thing about Mr. Pliska’s house remains unchanged: A feral tabby cat cared for by the former owner, an artist named Fern Tate, still sleeps under the house and roams the neighborhood. They take turns feeding the cat, which they named Fern.

———

An Architect’s Comeback

In the early 1950s, fresh out of the army with no college education, Edwin William de Cossy started designing modern homes in St. Petersburg, Fla. His work caught the eye of Paul Rudolph, who became one of the central figures of postwar American architecture, and the two began collaborating.

Mr. de Cossy earned a degree in architecture from Yale University in 1957, where he later became an instructor. As a principal with Douglas Orr, de Cossy, Winder & Associates, Mr. de Cossy designed a number of significant buildings, including the Knights of Columbus Museum in New Haven.

Mr. de Cossy’s career lagged until 1975, when he resurfaced as a builder of wooden sailboats. He had a comeback five years ago, designing several homes, and is now retired, currently building a 20-foot cruising sailboat with his daughter in North Branford, Conn.

The post Revitalizing a Michigan Midcentury Marvel appeared first on Real Estate News & Insights | realtor.com®.

Revitalizing a Michigan Midcentury Marvel

[gillespialfredoe01806ld]

Revitalizing a Michigan Midcentury Marvel

Brian Kelly for The Wall Street Journal

Shane Pliska lives in a glass house. He wakes at dawn and spends hours gazing out of his windows at a forest and a pond. Snapping turtles lay eggs on his yard, and fawns sleep right below his deck. But this isn’t Walden Pond. It’s a suburban cul-de-sac in Bloomfield Hills, Mich.

“It’s changed my life,” says Mr. Pliska, 38, president of a family-owned plant and interior-landscaping company. “It gives me clarity of mind.”

When Mr. Pliska first saw the house in 2012, he was living nearby in a condo building. But he knew he wanted to live somewhere connected to nature. A decision by his condo board to install a bright-blue awning—giving it the look of an IHOP restaurant—motivated his move.

The renovation included replacing cork flooring with slate in the conversation pit. A sheepskin rug keeps the space cozy when it’s cold outside.

Brian Kelly for The Wall Street Journal

The house, which was built in 1956, wasn’t for sale. So he asked a real-estate agent to keep a close watch. When the home was listed—and marketed as a teardown—Mr. Pliska immediately offered $5,000 over the asking price and bought it in 2012 for $230,000.

The home, a 1,890-square-foot glass-and-wood rectangular box on 1.3 acres, was designed by Edwin William de Cossy, a former instructor at Yale University who had studied under Paul Rudolph, known for his Brutalist style. The cost of construction at the time: $30,000.

To better understand the architect’s vision, Mr. Pliska traveled by train to Connecticut to meet Mr. de Cossy, who was wearing a tie and white racing gloves when he picked him up at the New Canaan train station in a vintage black Mercedes. Over lunch, Mr. de Cossy explained that the style of the house was partly influenced by his work on modern homes in Florida in the 1950s and partly by the time he’d spent hanging out with Philip Johnson at his Glass House in New Canaan. “It’s a dream site,” says Mr. de Cossy, 89, adding that he built it originally for his brother-in-law, Leo Calhoun, who owned a Ford dealership outside Detroit.

Mr. Pliska lived in the house without changing anything for about two years. Then one stormy night, he heard a loud boom and felt shaking as a giant oak tree punctured his flat roof. The redwood roof beams saved the house from complete collapse.

A modern Italian Scavalini kitchen inside Shane Pliska’s home in Bloomfield Hills, Mich.

Brian Kelly for The Wall Street Journal

“It was in a pretty sad state,” says Roman Bonislawski, the co-owner of Birmingham, Mich.-based architectural firm Ron & Roman who led the $300,000 renovation, which took two years to complete. The project includes new windows, replacing the cork flooring with slate in the living-room conversation pit, redoing the bathrooms and bumping out the master bedroom to add a small balcony. Mr. Pliska picked a modern Italian Scavalini kitchen (paying a discounted $35,000 because it was a floor model) with reflective avocado-green glass cabinets and put in new decks made of composite materials in front and out back.

What didn’t change was Mr. de Cossy’s fundamental design. The house is raised on a pedestal with redwood beams that cantilever out from below on all four sides and on top to hold up the roof, giving it a floating illusion. All the rooms are visible from the exterior except the bathrooms, one of which is enclosed by the kitchen wall and the other by the fireplace chimney.

After graduating from Emerson College and working briefly in film in Los Angeles, Mr. Pliska moved home in 2004 and six years later took over as president of Planterra, a business founded by his father, Larry.

The younger Mr. Pliska oversaw the building of a new glass-enclosed headquarters with a plant-adorned courtyard that doubles as a wedding-venue business. “He really changed things,” says Larry Pliska, 72, who still works there.

Mr. Pliska eschews curtains. He wakes at dawn and spends hours gazing out his windows at a forest and a pond.

Brian Kelly for The Wall Street Journal

Shane Pliska’s neighborhood has also changed: It was once a laboratory for modern design, inspired by the nearby art academy Cranbrook, which owns the Eliel Saarinen Art Deco-style Saarinen House. Now, existing houses are torn down to make way for large new structures that Mr. Pliska calls “Barbie castles.”

Still, some Midcentury Modern homeowners there have tried to preserve an element of the past, gathering regularly for cocktails to admire each other’s architecture and discuss design. Neighbor Nancy Lockhart says one thing about Mr. Pliska’s house remains unchanged: A feral tabby cat cared for by the former owner, an artist named Fern Tate, still sleeps under the house and roams the neighborhood. They take turns feeding the cat, which they named Fern.

———

An Architect’s Comeback

In the early 1950s, fresh out of the army with no college education, Edwin William de Cossy started designing modern homes in St. Petersburg, Fla. His work caught the eye of Paul Rudolph, who became one of the central figures of postwar American architecture, and the two began collaborating.

Mr. de Cossy earned a degree in architecture from Yale University in 1957, where he later became an instructor. As a principal with Douglas Orr, de Cossy, Winder & Associates, Mr. de Cossy designed a number of significant buildings, including the Knights of Columbus Museum in New Haven.

Mr. de Cossy’s career lagged until 1975, when he resurfaced as a builder of wooden sailboats. He had a comeback five years ago, designing several homes, and is now retired, currently building a 20-foot cruising sailboat with his daughter in North Branford, Conn.

The post Revitalizing a Michigan Midcentury Marvel appeared first on Real Estate News & Insights | realtor.com®.

from DIYS https://ift.tt/2DrnN7x

[readbookywooks]

There was a click, the thwack of sinew against metal, a zip of air, and a groan. The groan came from Cutwell. Mort spun round to him. 'Are you all right?' he said. 'Did it hit you?' 'No,' said the wizard, weakly. 'No, it didn't. How do you feel?' 'A bit tired. Why?' 'Oh, nothing. Nothing. No draughts anywhere? No slight leaking feelings?' 'No. Why?' 'Oh, nothing, nothing.' Cutwell turned and looked closely at the wall behind Mort. 'Aren't the dead allowed any peace?' said Keli bitterly. 'I thought one thing you could be sure of when you were dead was a good night's sleep.' She looked as though she had been crying. With an insight that surprised him, Mort realised that she knew this and that it was making her even angrier than before. That's not really fair,' he said. 'I've come to help. Isn't that right, Cutwell?' 'Hmm?' said Cutwell, who had found the crossbow bolt buried in the plaster and was looking at it with deep suspicion. 'Oh, yes. He has. It won't work, though. Excuse me, has anyone got any string?' 'Help?' snapped Keli. 'Help? If it wasn't for you —' 'You'd still be dead,' said Mort. She looked at him with her mouth open. 'I wouldn't know about it, though,' she said. That's the worst part.' 'I think you two had better go,' said Cutwell to the guards, who were trying to appear inconspicuous. 'But I'll have that spear, please. Thank you.' 'Look,' said Mort, 'I've got a horse outside. You'd be amazed. I can take you anywhere. You don't have to wait around here.' 'You don't know much about monarchy, do you,' said Keli. 'Um. No?' ' She means better to be a dead queen in your own castle than a live commoner somewhere else,' said Cutwell, who had stuck the spear into the wall by the bolt and was trying to sight along it. 'Wouldn't work, anyway. The dome isn't centred on the palace, it's centred on her.' 'On who?' said Keli. Her voice could have kept milk fresh for a month. 'On her Highness,' said Cutwell automatically, squinting along the shaft. 'Don't you forget it.' 'I won't forget it, but that's not the point,' said he wizard. He pulled the bolt out of the plaster and tested the point with his finger. 'But if you stay here you'll die!' said Mort. Then I shall have to show the Disc how a queen can die,' said Keli, looking as proud as was possible in a pink knitted bed jacket. Mort sat down on the end of the bed with his head in his hands. 'I know how a queen can die,' he muttered. They die just like other people. And some of us would rather not see it happen.' 'Excuse me, I just want to look at this crossbow,' said Cutwell conversationally, reaching across them. 'Don't mind me.' 'I shall go proudly to meet my destiny,' said Keli, but there was the barest flicker of uncertainty in her voice. 'No you won't. I mean, I know what I'm talking about. Take it from me. There's nothing proud about it. You just die.' 'Yes, but it's how you do it. I shall die nobly, like Queen Ezeriel.' Mort's forehead wrinkled. History was a closed book to him. 'Who's she?' 'She lived in Klatch and she had a lot of lovers and she sat on a snake,' said Cutwell, who was winding up the crossbow. 'She meant to! She was crossed in love!' 'All I can remember was that she used to take baths in asses' milk. Funny thing, history,' said Cutwell reflectively. 'You become a queen, reign for thirty years, make laws, declare war on people and then the only thing you get remembered for is that you smelled like yoghurt and were bitten in the—' 'She's a distant ancestor of mine,' snapped Keli. 'I won't listen to this sort of thing.' 'Will you both be quiet and listen to me!' shouted Mort. Silence descended like a shroud. Then Cutwell sighted carefully and shot Mort in the back. The night shed its early casualties and journeyed onwards. Even the wildest parties had ended, their guests lurching home to their beds, or someone's bed at any rate. Shorn of these fellow travellers, mere daytime people who had strayed out of their temporal turf, the true survivors of the night got down to the serious commerce of the dark. This wasn't so very different from Ankh-Morpork's daytime business, except that the knives were more obvious and people didn't smile so much. The Shades were silent, save only for the whistled signals of thieves and the velvety hush of dozens of people going about their private business in careful silence. And, in Ham Alley, Cripple Wa's famous floating crap game was just getting under way. Several dozen cowled figures knelt or squatted around the little circle of packed earth where Wa's three eight-sided dice bounced and spun their misleading lesson in statistical probability. 'Three!' 'Tuphal's Eyes, by lo!' 'He's got you there, Hummok! This guy knows how to roll his bones!' IT'S A KNACK. Hummok M'guk, a small flat-faced man from one of the Hublandish tribes whose skill at dice was famed wherever two men gathered together to fleece a third, picked up the dice and glared at them. He silently cursed Wa, whose own skill at switching dice was equally notorious among the cognoscenti but had, apparently, failed him, wished a painful and untimely death on the shadowy player seated opposite and hurled the dice into the mud. 'Twenty-one the hard way!' Wa scooped up the dice and handed them to the stranger. As he turned to Hummok one eye flickered ever so slightly. Hummok was impressed – he'd barely noticed the blur in Wa's deceptively gnarled fingers, and he'd been watching for it. It was disconcerting the way the things rattled in the stranger's hand and then flew out of it in a slow arc that ended with twenty-four little spots pointing at the stars. Some of the more streetwise in the crowd shuffled away from the stranger, because luck like that can be very unlucky in Cripple Wa's floating crap game. Wa's hand closed over the dice with a noise like the click of a trigger. 'All the eights,' he breathed. 'Such luck is uncanny, mister.' The rest of the crowd evaporated like dew, leaving only those heavy-set, unsympathetic-looking men who, if Wa had ever paid tax, would have gone down on his return as Essential Plant and Business Equipment. 'Maybe it's not luck,' he added. 'Maybe it's wizarding?' I MOST STRONGLY RESENT THAT. 'We had a wizard once who tried to get rich,' said Wa. 'Can't seem to remember what happened to him. Boys?' 'We give him a good talking-to —' '— and left him in Pork Passage —' '— and in Honey Lane —' '— and a couple other places I can't remember.' The stranger stood up. The boys closed in around him. THIS IS UNCALLED FOR. I SEEK ONLY TO LEARN. WHAT PLEASURE CAN HUMANS FIND IN A MERE REITERATION OF THE LAWS OF CHANCE? 'Chance doesn't come into it. Let's have a look at him, boys.' The events that followed were recalled by no living soul except the one belonging to a feral cat, one of the city's thousands, that was crossing the alley en route to a tryst. It stopped and watched with interest. The boys froze in mid-stab. Painful purple light flickered around them. The stranger pushed his hood back and picked up the dice, and then pushed them into Wa's unresisting hand. The man was opening and shutting his mouth, his eyes unsuccessfully trying not to see what was in front of them. Grinning. THROW. Wa managed to look down at his hand. 'What are the stakes?' he whispered. IF YOU WIN, YOU WILL REFRAIN FROM THESE RIDICULOUS ATTEMPTS TO SUGGEST THAT CHANCE GOVERNS THE AFFAIRS OF MEN. 'Yes. Yes. And . . . if I lose?' YOU WILL WISH YOU HAD WON. Wa tried to swallow, but his throat had gone dry. 'I know I've had lots of people murdered —' TWENTY-THREE, TO BE PRECISE. 'Is it too late to say I'm sorry?' SUCH THINGS DO NOT CONCERN ME. NOW THROW THE DICE. Wa shut his eyes and dropped the dice on to the ground, too nervous even to try the special flick-and-twist throw. He kept his eyes shut. ALL THE EIGHTS. THERE, THAT WASN'T TOO DIFFICULT, WAS IT? Wa fainted. Death shrugged, and walked away, pausing only to tickle the ears of an alley cat that happened to be passing. He hummed to himself. He didn't quite know what had come over him, but he was enjoying it. 'You couldn't be sure it would work!' Cutwell spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. 'Well, no,' he conceded, 'but I thought, what have I got to lose?' He backed away. 'What have you got to lose?' shouted Mort. He stamped forward and tugged the bolt out of one of the posts in the princess's bed. 'You're not going to tell me this went through me?' he snapped. 'I was particularly watching it,' said Cutwell. 'I saw it too,' said Keli. 'It was horrible. It came right out of where your heart is.' 'And I saw you walk through a stone pillar,' said Cutwell. 'And I saw you ride straight through a window.' 'Yes, but that was on business,' declared Mort, waving his hands in the air. That wasn't everyday, that's different. And —' He paused. The way you're looking at me,' he said. They looked at me the same way in the inn this evening. What's wrong?' 'It was the way you waved your arm straight through the bedpost,' said Keli faintly. Mort stared at his hand, and then rapped it on the wood. 'See?' he said. 'Solid. Solid arm, solid wood.' 'You said people looked at you in an inn?' said Cutwell. 'What did you do, then? Walk through the wall?' 'No! I mean, no, I just drank this drink, I think it was called scrumble —' 'Scumble?' 'Yes. Tastes like rotten apples. You'd have thought it was some sort of poison the way they kept staring.' 'How much did you drink, then?' said Cutwell. 'A pint, perhaps, I wasn't really paying much attention —' 'Did you know scumble is the strongest alcoholic drink between here and the Ramtops?' the wizard demanded. 'No. No-one said,' said Mort. 'What's it got to do with—' 'No,' said Cutwell, slowly, 'you didn't know. Hmm. That's a clue, isn't it?' 'Has it got anything to do with saving the princess?' 'Probably not. I'd like to have a look at my books, though.' 'In that case it's not important,' said Mort firmly. He turned to Keli, who was looking at him with the faint beginnings of admiration. 'I think I can help,' he said. 'I think I can lay my hands on some powerful magic. Magic will hold back the dome, won't it, Cutwell?' 'My magic won't. It'd have to be pretty strong stuff, and I'm not sure about it even then. Reality is tougher than —' 'I shall go,' said Mort. 'Until tomorrow, farewell!' 'It is tomorrow,' Keli pointed out. Mort deflated slightly. 'All right, tonight then,' he said, slightly put out, and added, 'I will begone!' 'Begone what?' 'It's hero talk,' said Cutwell, kindly. 'He can't help it.' Mort scowled at him, smiled bravely at Keli and walked out of the room. 'He might have opened the door,' said Keli, after he had gone. 'I think he was a bit embarrassed,' said Cutwell. 'We all go through that stage.' 'What, of walking through things?' 'In a manner of speaking. Walking into them, anyway.' 'I'm going to get some sleep,' Keli said. 'Even the dead need some rest. Cutwell, stop fiddling with that crossbow, please. I'm sure it's not wizardly to be alone in a lady's boudoir.' 'Hmm? But I'm not alone, am I? You're here.' 'That,' she said, 'is the point, isn't it?' 'Oh. Yes. Sorry. Um. I'll see you in the morning, then.' 'Goodnight, Cutwell. Shut the door behind you.'