#It's unexplained and feels far too significant to easily write off

[pixelsjoy]

Me playing Tears of the Kingdom: As much as I miss the champions, it makes sense they're not mentioned much. It's been a hundred years since they died. Even if they survived the Calamity, most of them would probably be dead at this point. The only exception being Mipha, who would have been the only one that would still be alive if she survived the calamity due to her age. The reason they're still remembered so much in Breath of the Wild is because the Divine Beasts, one of the last remaining connections to them, are still active and looming in Hyrule. Impa also said that their spirits feel uneasy knowing their task of defeating the Calamity wasn't done. They were at peace when the Calamity was defeated and passed on. They're not brought up from that point on because them and their era are over and can be laid to rest.

Also me playing Tears of the Kingdom: - holding back tears - Damn I miss the champions

#LIKE YEAH. I GET IT FROM A THEMATIC POINT. BUT FROM A 'SIR THOSE ARE MY FAVORITE CHARACTERS' POINT. I AM ACHING #I love the sages in TotK! Don't get me wrong! #I mean look at my icon tee hee #But I've grown so attached to the champions their absence feels so off. I'm fifty-fifty on it #I wanna be clear: Big agree with people who say the Sheikah Shrines and tech being suddenly gone feels off #It's unexplained and feels far too significant to easily write off #I feel similar about the champions and how little they're mentioned in game #I don't think Zelda even has a single line of dialogue that mentions them. #She and Link lived through the calamity and knew them as friends #At least a tiny mention would have made sense since she does briefly talk about the Calamity with Sonia and Rauru #I guess it makes a little sense?? In regards to the developers wanting to be hush hush about BotW spoilers for newcomers #But the way they went about it is like they tried to forget it happened. It doesn't feel right. #This might also be my biased speaking cause the original sages? Cool and all #But they feel so hollow compared to the characters that the champions had #Anyways I am still VERY in love with TotK. It's consumed way too much of my time #But I also wanted to talk about this gripe dhdjfjejfjd #Thank you for coming to my TED talk. I'm sorry this is a whole wall of spilling #Anyways will I cope by remembering Age of Calamity is a thing despite how much it obliterates the timeline? #Dang right #Tears of the Kingdom #Breath of the Wild #TotK Spoilers #LoZ TotK #Loz BotW #BotW Champions #Long Post

[writtenonreceipts]

A Throne of Glass Fanfiction. Rowaelin.

8k words later and everything hurts.  I just kept writing and writing because I couldn’t make up my mind on what I wanted to happen or how to end it so here we are...part four? i seriously don’t know if i can or should fix it at this point, hahaha...ha. ha?

Warnings: angst. it hurts.

Based on a prompt I received here and you can find part two is here

PART 3

#

December 18th

“How are you today, Aelin?”

The was, without a doubt, her least favorite question.

Picking at her nails, Aelin shook her head.  There was so much to say and most of it wasn’t significant.  Did she talk about how she hasn’t had a decent night's sleep in over a month?  Or how she couldn’t concentrate at work for more than ten minutes?  Or maybe she could talk about the fact that her best friend and cousin were getting married and she was asked to play the piano as Lysandra walked down the aisle.

“I’m fine,” she said as she looked up.

Across the room Yrene didn’t look convinced.  Her curly brown hair framed her lovely features and accented the golden-brown light of her eyes.  She was a beautiful woman and Aelin had to wonder why she didn’t have a ring on her finger.  She was obviously successful, kind, attractive, and when Aelin wasn’t being stubborn—easy to talk to.

“If you’re going to lie to me, you may as well leave now,” Yrene said.  She leaned back in her seat and clicked her pen as she watched Aelin.

Sighing, Aelin ran a hand through her hair. “I don’t know how I am.”

“You don’t want to be here, we can start with that,” Yrene suggested.  She smiled knowingly and Aelin rolled her eyes.

“I don’t want to be here because I know it’s a waste of time,” Aeline said.

“But you came anyways.  Why?” 

“It’s what everyone expects of me,” Aelin said with a shrug. “So, I may as well get it over with.”

“So, you don’t think anything is wrong?” Yrene pressed. “There’s nothing keeping you up at night?  Your tapping foot is just a random occurrence?”

Aelin’s foot stopped.  She pursed her lips and glared at Yrene who smiled serenly.

“When we are in uncomfortable situations we have tells, unconscious ticks,” Yrene explained.  “I’m not trying to intimidate you; I hope you know you can be honest with me.”

Intimidate.  Yrene was not intimidating.  Not really.  Aelin just didn’t want to spill her problems out like this.  Not now.

“Why, despite everything, did you come today?” Yrene asked.

There’s no point lying.  Not when Yrene can point it out so easily.  Not when she doesn’t get much satisfaction out of it anyways.

“If I didn’t come, I would have had to go into a work meeting,” Aelin said, “and Sam would have been there.  And after that stupid party—I just can’t be around him right now.”

“Why do you think that is?” Yrene prods. “Are you embarrassed by what he may have seen with you and your friends?  That was the first time he really met any of them, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I mean, we only got together a few months ago after I left,” Aelin replied, her foot began tapping again and she adjusted the bracelets on her wrist. “But why should I be embarrassed by him?  He treats me well; he cares about me.  But it was my first time seeing everyone in so long and I didn’t think he would have come.”

“You didn’t want him to meet everyone.”  Yrene’s words were innocent as they tried to make sense of Aelin’s rambling.  For which Aelin was grateful, at least one of them knew what was going on.  And yet...and yet they sent a chill through Aelin’s body.

“I didn’t want him to meet everyone,” Aelin agreed.  She met Yrene’s eyes. “Because as soon as he did everyone would try and assume that I was fine.  And dammit, fine is the farthest from what I am feeling.”

#

When she started therapy, Aelin had been back in Terrasen for all of twenty-four hours.  November twentieth was her first session with a woman who had a private practice and a website that declared her specialties lied in healing from trauma and working through anxiety and depression.  It was a simple profile.  One that Aelin wasn’t sure why she went for it, but in a spurt of desperation she’d made an appointment.

Almost a month later and at times, bi-weekly appointments, Aelin didn’t know if she were any better off than when she first stepped off the plane from Paris.

Sitting in her office near the end of the workday, Aelin scrolled through social media on her phone.  She really had to stop doing so, but staring at a computer screen full of fashion sketches or marketing reports was not appealing.  She unfortunately stumbled across a post Fenrys made not twenty minutes ago.

It was a simple picture of him, Lorcan, Conall, and Rowan.  Each dressed in a suit and tie.  Each handsome in his own right.  Of course, Aelin’s eyes lingered on Rowan.  Of course, she couldn’t help but imagine what he had done with himself over the past year.  Of course, she knew it was stupid of her to do so.

Landed an epic deal in Wendlyn! Got the best team around.

Aelin was surprised to see Fenrys had managed not to cure on the page, even if it was a work-related post.  Just as she was surprised that he had kept his innocuous verbage kept simple using only one “epic” and not a single “dude” or “rad.”  

The knock on Aelin’s door had her looking up and she found Sam staring in at her.  He had a handsome smile and his bright eyes watched her with interest.

“Hey,” he said, “you almost done here?”

Aelin glanced at her screen where numbers and approvals still needed to be inputted.  She was a terrible person.  How the hell had she been selected to go to Italy, let alone Paris, for those work assignments?

“Chock it up to the Monday brain, but I’m going to need to make it a late day,” she said regretfully.

Sam frowned and Aelin knew he could see right through her.  At least mostly.  He might not have seen everything going on in her mind, but he knew her enough to take an educated guess.

“Let me order take out and I can stay and help you,” he offered.

An unexplainable stab of emotion filled Aelin as she looked up at him.  He was too good to her.  Too good for her.

“I thought you had plans,” she said after she was able to school herself.

Sam smiled sheepishly.  “Just with your cousin and Dorian.  They invited me out for drinks.”

I didn’t want for him to meet everyone.

Just as soon as she’d swallowed down her emotions, the panic began to rise again.  Hell.

“Go.” She said.  The response surprised her.  It was the absolute last thing she wanted to say but the simple word slipped her lips before she could stop it.  “Go.  I’ll be fine.  It’s not much anyways.”

“You’re sure?” 

“Absolutely,” she lied.  

And because Sam was too good, he couldn’t hear it.  He couldn’t see the subtle shake of her foot or the way she adjusted the bracelets on her wrist.

Instead he crossed her office and leaned over the desk to kiss her.  Slow and languid.  He pulled back much too soon.

“I’ll call you later, yeah?” he said with a heart wrenching smile on his face.

“Yeah,” she replied and watched him go.  

It wasn’t long before five o’clock rolled around and he stopped by again to make sure she was fine working late by herself.  After she convinced him to leave, she waited.  She waited until the last of the interns and admins left before she pulled out her phone and made a call.

They picked up on the second ring.

“I’m going to send you an address,” Aelin said, “can you bring a few things and meet me there in an hour?”

#

“I thought I was mortal enemy number one on your hit list.”

Chaol Westfold.  Tall, muscular, handsome, and an ass.  

“Did you bring the cake?” Aelin asked.

He hefted a plastic bag up. “And the beer.”

“Then congratulations,” Aelin replied, “you are now welcomed back into the fold of friendship.”

Chaol looked as though that were the last thing he wanted, but he entered her office and shut the door behind.  He muttered under his breath about this not ever happening again as he unloaded the cake and beer.

Aelin immediately went for the cake.  Chocolate hazelnut with a creamy frosting.  It was the first thing she ate after getting back from Paris.  It had to be the best creation in the world.  She grabbed a plastic fork from one of the drawers in her desk and immediately dug in.

“Are we going to talk or am I just your cake supplier now?” Chaol asked.

Reluctantly, Aelin dug another fork out of her desk and tossed it to him.  He accepted, but he didn’t eat.

Aelin licked a blob or frosting from her fork. “Do you know why we broke up?”

“We lied to each other about everything,” Chaol answered.  Slowly, he scrapped a bit of frosting on his fork.  He contemplated his next words before continuing. “And we never talked about it either.”

“Right,” Aelin said, nodding. “Do you ever regret breaking up?”

That was the question that drove Chaol to a real bite of the cake and Aelin had to smother a laugh watching the sight.  Chaol never ate cake or chocolate or anything that wasn’t specifically for keeping in excellent shape.  So the sight of him actually enjoying eating the cake was the funniest thing she had ever seen.

“Of course I do,” Chaol said.  “At least, I regret how we broke up.  You’re the first woman I ever loved, Aelin.  The first one who really...I don’t know taught me how to live.”

She shook her head. “Nah.  I dragged you around into trouble.”

They sat in silence as they ate the cake.  Aelin ate far more than her share.

“You wanna tell me what happened?” Chaol asked.  “Or tell me how the hell you still have my number?”

She grinned viciously.  “I had to keep you in my contacts in case I needed someone to frame for murder.  And you were just the asshat to fit the bill.  Until you brought me cake.”

He rolled his eyes at her and cracked open a beer. “Why am I not surprised?”

Cackling, Aelin stuffed her face with more cake.  She knew that she couldn’t ignore his original question for long.  There was a reason she had called him and only him.  Maybe this was something she should have talked to Lysandra about.  Or even Yrene.  But there was something about her friendship with Chaol that no one else could fill.

“Rowan cheated on me,” Aelin finally said.  Chaol nearly choked on his beer.  She grabbed a few spare napkins to toss at him before continuing. “That’s why I went to Europe.  I had to get away.

Chaol sat quietly as she continued. She told him everything about the fight she had with Rowan, returning to his apartment, hearing what he did.  She told him about leaving.  About Sam.  About the party.

“He said he still loves me,” Aelin finished. “But if he does, if he ever did then why did he do what he did?”

It was a lot to put on Chaol.  He’d never cheated on her.  But he’d lied about various things.  She’d lied too of course, but they’d been fresh out of high school trying to live their lives.  She’d certainly loved him enough to have sex with him for her first time.  

And then they’d drifted further and further apart.  To the point that Aelin never knew who she was when she was with him.  It was unfortunate really because his friendship had helped her through the hellish years of high school and on into that first year of college.  And then it was gone.

“Have you talked to him?” Chaol asked. It was an innocent enough question, but Aelin could see the rise of his brow and knowing glint in his eyes.

Aelin sighed dramatically. "You should meet my therapist. All the two of you want me to do is talk."

"Aelin," Chaol said, his voice growing just a tick more serious.

"What is there to talk to him about?" Aelin stabbed at the cake, suddenly feeling ill which was far too disconcerting. "I know how I feel on the matter. So does he."

Chaol grunted unconvinced. "I doubt that."

She stuck her tongue out at him and grabbed the second beer he brought and settled in to mock him endlessly.

#

December 19th

"It's seven in the morning." Yrene frowned as Aelin pushed herself into the office.

"And yet you're already here," Aelin said.

She hadn't slept the night before. Not really even after talking to Sam who's had a riotous night with Aedion and Dorian. And all she could about was her conversation with Chaol. 

"To get ready for the rest of my appointments," Yrene said slowly, still watching Aelin with obvious confusion.

Settling down on the couch, Aelin looked up at Yrene. "Why do I still love him?"

Yrene pursed her lips and shut the office door before crossing to her own chair. She said nothing and simply waited for Aelin to continue.

"I mean, he hurt me, betrayed what I thought we had together, what we could have had together...and all he can say is I don't know what happened. Am I that replaceable to him?"

Yrene continued looking at her, quiet. But she had opened up her notebook and began taking notes on what Aelin was saying.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Aelin added, “and I have not talked to him yet.  I don’t think I can.”

Silence stretched through the room and Yrene clicked her pen as she stared at Aelin.  The latter woman staunchly avoided looking up from her nails.  It wasn’t until Aelin’s phone buzzed with an incoming text that she sighed heavily.

“Where do you feel safe, Aelin?” Yrene asked suddenly.  She leaned forward in her chair and fixed Aelin with a long look. “Where do you feel like you are in control and confident?”

Aelin made a face and shrugged. She’d never really thought about that before. “Serious answer?  There’s this dumpy little apartment that the company rents out for storage.  I go there when I need to get away.  Or the coffee shop down on Fifth.  A friend I met in Paris has family that owns it.”

“Okay,” Yrene said with a slow nod. “If, and only if, you feel comfortable I think you need to talk to Rowan.  You deserve closure on what happened.”

“You really don’t like me, do you?” Aelin asked.

Yrene smiled. “I really think you deserve more than what you are allowing yourself to have.”

Glancing at her phone Aelin sighed. “I need to get to work.  Let me know how much I owe you for this.”

Yrene assured her that she would and Aelin slipped out of the office.  

By the time she made it outside, a light snow began to fall.  The thick white flakes assaulted her and clung to her hair and coat.  Aelin muttered a curse.  She really did not miss the snow.  Nothing about it.  Not the cold, the ice, the distinct scent of pine that always seemed to come when the chill did.

Stuffing her hands in her pockets, Aelin hurried down the walk towards her work building.  Thankfully Yrene’s office was close to her own so Aelin was usually never late for work or gone long when she had her appointments during lunch.

She texted Sam and he met her in the lobby of their work building, coffee in hand.

“Hey babe,” he greeted with a kiss to her cheek.

Aelin smiled warmly and accepted her coffee, grateful to the immediate warmth that spread through her fingers.

“Thanks,” she said.  She leaned into his side as they made their way to the elevators. “You have fun with the guys last night?”

“They’re great,” Sam agreed.  When he glanced down at her a strange expression flashed on his face.

“What?” Aelin asked. “Dorian didn’t shove you into a rose bush, did he?”

Frowning, Sam shook his head. “No?”

“Never mind,” Aelin said quickly.  “He just does that sometimes.”

Sam still looked utterly confused and it was such an endearing look that Aelin rose on her toes to press a quick kiss to his jaw.

“They just mentioned something,” Sam began slowly, “it’s just, ah, they mentioned Rowan.”

Aelin nearly choked on her coffee.  Sputtering, she covered her mouth. “Rowan?  Why the hell would they?”

“It’s nothing,” Sam said quickly, “he was at the bar and they—I don’t even know what it was about.  It’s not a big deal.”

Aelin didn’t have a chance to say anything as the elevator opened on their floor and a group of interns was already waiting for Sam to sign off on orders and marketing issues.

“I’ll see you at lunch,” Sam called over his shoulder as he hurried off towards his office.

Aelin could only wave weakly as he disappeared.  Sometimes she wished she’d thought through starting a relationship with him a little better.  But after everything that happened with Rowan...Sam had been something new.  And she’d believed that something knew was just what she needed.

It didn’t help that sometimes Aelin could still feel Rowan’s hands on her, his lips ghosting hers.  She could still feel the rumble of his laugh when they spent late nights together and woke up early.  

Her stomach churned with acid.  The coffee was not sitting well in her empty belly.  At least she still had chocolate cake hidden in her office from her chat with Chaol.

But Aelin certainly didn’t want to feel this way.  Not anymore, not when she had been trying so hard to move on with her life.

So as soon as she got into her office, she pulled out her phone and sent a text.

#

Rowan without a doubt hated himself.

He had for a long time and without a doubt fully deserved it. So when he got a text from Aelin he promptly threw up in the nearest trash can of the office break room.

Fenrys laughed at him, absolutely pleased with how the morning was going.  Over the passed year they’d been working together, diving into a business management system to help companies and the likes from going bankrupt.  The only reason it was going so well was because Rowan did nothing else but work.  

"Dude, did you get wasted on a weekday again?" 

Rowan flipped him off and grabbed a cup to fill with water. He took a long drink before he glares at his friend.

"Aelin texted me," he said, "she wants to meet for coffee later. To talk."

"And your first response was to vomit?" Fenrys asked, brow quirked.

"Yes," Rowan affirmed.

"If you're looking for sympathy, you're not finding it from me," Fenrys said. He pulled a soda from the fridge and cracked it open, "I'm a sucker for Aelin and would choose her over you any day."

Rowan scowled. "Thanks man,"

"Anytime," Fenrys said. He ripped an invisible hat as he left the break room.

Rowan scrubbed a hand over his face. He knew that Fenrys was right. It was a miracle he'd even managed to hold onto any of his friends.  For some reason, they’d all stayed with him.  For the most part.  Elide and Lysandra were the exceptions.  Neither of them, no matter the situation, even bothered to look at him.

One year.

He didn’t blame them.

So now Rowan had the chance to meet with Aelin and, hopefully, talk to her.  If she yelled that was fine.  If she threw things at him that was fine too.  As long as he got the chance to be around her at least once more.

Oh hell he actually had to talk to her didn’t he?

It was going to be an impossibly long day full of Rowan hating himself and coming to terms with the fat that Aelin was going to kill him.  

And despite the fact that he’d had a year to prepare for this, Rowan couldn’t have been further from being ready.  In all honesty all the scenarios he’d come up with in the last year had not prepared him for this in the slightest.

By the time five o’clock rolled around, Rowan barely got anything done throughout the day.  Every time he would start on something his mind would begin to wander and he’d find himself on Aelin’s social media pages.  Which consequently would make things worse. 

Photo after photo were of her and Sam.  Italy, Paris, white beaches, and blue waters.  She was a goddess in each and every picture.  And the smile in each picture, Rowan had to remind himself, weren’t meant for him but for another man.  A man who knew how not to screw up the greatest thing in his life.

As he left his office, Rowan took care to avoid running into Fenrys, Lorcan, or any of the others.  He knew full well that Fenrys wouldn’t have kept his mouth shut and Rowan wasn’t in the mood for dealing with anyone else telling him he was an idiot.  Even Lorcan had avoided talking to him for several months after the incident.  Lorcan whose least favorite person was Aelin.

Granted Lorcan was a better man than he was on so many levels.

Brown shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts as he headed down the street towards the coffee shop Aelin had indicated.  It was a small place Rowan had passed by several times but had never bothered to go in.  The shop was small and had such a niche ambiance that Rowan never felt like he could go in.

Now as he entered the small space with its rich scents of chai and chocolate, Rowan’s concerns were confirmed.

A woman with chin length black hair and warm, bronze skin greeted him from behind the counter.  As Rowan glanced over the menu, he shouldn’t have been surprised that Aelin chose this place.  Half the menu was devoted to pastries.

“He wants a black coffee, Nesryn,” a soft voice said from behind him.  

Rowan winced and turned to where Aelin sat at a small table tucked into a corner.  She already had a large slice of cake in front of her.

Nesryn fixed Rowan with a glare and nodded while muttering under her breath in French.  He had no doubts that she knew exactly who he was.  Death was most certainly in his future.

Rowan waited until his coffee was finished and paid for--a generous tip added to the jar on the counter—before he joined Aelin.  

He didn’t know what to do other than pull the other chair out from the table and take a seat across from her.  They sat in silence like that for a long time.  Aelin slowly ate her slice of cake and sipped on her own drink.  Rowan was startled to see that it was a cup of tea instead of her standard double shot of espresso with hemp milk and cinnamon.

“You wanted to talk before,” Aelin said slowly.  It had barely been three days since that party and she couldn’t believe that she had actually let herself meet with him so soon after being staunchly against it.  She kind of hated herself for it, but she would deal with that later. “So let’s talk.”

She still didn’t look him directly in the eye.  Rowan could see creases in her makeup lining on her eyelids.  Her lipstick had long since worn off and he could tell she’d been chewing on her lips like always.  A habit that even a year hadn’t taken away.  She was still beautiful of course.

“I’m sorry, Rowan said immediately.  

Aelin flinched at his words and dragged her teeth over her fork as she scraped as much frosting off the tines as possible.

“And,” Rowan continued, “I can’t...I’ve never forgiven myself for what I put you through.”

Soft classical music played overhead.  It reminded Rowan so much of what Aelin liked playing--the gentle folds of notes blending together until they reached a crescendo of sound, of feeling.  And then slowly fading bad into those gentle folds.  

It wasn’t until a new track started that Rowan continued.  There was so much he wanted to say to her, but given with what he did he wasn’t entirely sure what good any of his words would do.  Perhaps they would at least help him move on.  Maybe.

“I never wanted any of this to happen.  I never wanted to hurt you.” Rowan stared at his coffee.  His words sounded hollow to his own ears and he couldn’t imagine how Aelin was handling his ramblings. “It just seemed for the longest time we were never on the same page.  Nothing was changing and we...we were barely treading water together.”

Aelin pushed the plate of cake away and crossed her arms over her chest.  Rowan could feel her eyes digging into him but he was too much a coward to look up and meet that gaze.

“So you left,” Aelin said.  “Instead of waiting and trying to make our relationship work, you ran.”

“I’ve regretted it every day,” Rowan whispered.

Music continued to play overhead and a few people trickled in to order drinks or dessert.  No one lingered long however, despite the empty tables, the warmth as compared to the outside.  In and out.  In and out, the customers drifted.

Aelin’s phone buzzed on the table.  She glanced at the message and sighed.  Barely sparing him a look, she stood grabbing her coat and pulled it on.

“I need to go,” she murmured.  

Finally, Rowan glanced up at her.  Her eyes were rimmed red, yet she hadn’t shed any tears.  Instead the sorrow on her face turned fierce.

“Aelin,” Rowan began, he started to rise, but Aelin held a hand up.

“My boyfriend needs me,” she said.  And then she spun on her heel and left the little shop.

Rowan stood next to that little table in the back corner of that shop and watched her go.  He watched through the front window until she crossed the street and disappeared around the corner.

He would never get over the idea of her walking away.

#

Sam was waiting for her in the kitchen of her apartment. He smiled brightly as he looked up from the stove. He was making something that smelled like spices, and warmth, and home.

"Alright, so this is something my mom used to make around Christmas," Sam said. He had a twinkle in his eyes and a dopey sort of grin on his face. "And I know you've had a long week."

Aelin can't help but smile gratefully. She hangs her coat up on the hook beside the door and drops her purse on the small side table there too.

"It smells wonderful," she said. Coming into the kitchen she took a seat at the counter so she could watch Sam as he chopped vegetables and slowly stirred the pot.  From what she could tell is was a stew of some sort.

"How was your day?" He asked. As if he didn't know. She'd told him that she was going to meet with Rowan, and while he might not have known what had transpired in that relationship, he'd known something. And especially after the conversation she’d had with Chaol, Aelin knew she had to open the doors of communication and honesty.

And it sucked.

“It’s better now,” she said.

He smiled softly and poured her a glass of wine.  It was different from what she usually drank but she was just grateful he was even here that he’d stayed.

When they first got together almost six months ago it had been something haphazard.  Slow but quick.  Random but natural.  And after everything with Rowan...Sam had helped her pull herself together. 

It had been something she’d never thought possible.  She’d thought that Rowan was her soulmate.  That he would always and forever be her person.  

As she sipped her drink, Aelin watched Sam work.  He talked endlessly about winter nights where he’d helped his mother with cooking dinner for the family.  The stew had been his favorite comfort food and thus figured it would be something she might enjoy.

And then he told horrible stories of other occasions where he’d burned dinner too.

Aelin cackled at the idea of him setting off the smoke alarm and having to wave a towel around like a madman.  

“I swear I was banned from the kitchen for a full month after that,” Sam laughed.  He set the table, simple settings of Aelin’s mismatched bowls and cutlery.  

“Well you can’t do anything worse than what I could do,” Aelin said.

Grinning, Sam pressed kiss to her forehead and took a seat next to her.

Through the meal, Aelin was able to press everything else about her day away.  She could forget Rowan.  She could forget the past year.  She could see herself changing.

Maybe it was that notion that caused her to lose her appetite.

“So, what prompted you to make me dinner,” she asked, pushing her half-eaten bowl away.  “Your text sounded off.”

Sam shrugged halfheartedly.  He’d removed his tie long ago and the first few buttons of his shirt were undone.  He looked so relaxed and at ease that the slight pang of panic Aelin had felt just moments ago returned full force.

“I’ve just been thinking about you,” he said honestly.  He smiled again in that same delightfully silly way that he had.

Aelin knew that wasn’t all that was on his mind.  She rolled her eyes and kicked him beneath the table. “And?”

He opened and closed his mouth before taking a large bite of stew to get out of answering.

Aelin stuck her tongue out at him and rose to get a start of dishes.

“Nope,” Sam said, he snatched a hand out and grabbed her wrist.  He swallowed his bite of food and shook his head. “You have no responsibilities tonight.”

“Oh?” Aelin arched a brow.  “None at all?”

Sam shook his head.

“Then why the hell am I not in my pajamas yet?”

Aelin ran her fingers through his hair and hurried off to her room, more than ready to be out of her work clothes.  And, in all honesty, needing to get away for a breath.

There was something about the way that Sam looked at her just now.  Something about how he’d been acting recently.  It wasn’t anything bad, but it was enough to make Aelin’s breath catch, her pulse race.  There was something about him.  The man.  

She’d never really noticed it before.  Not in all the time that she’d been dating Rowan.  But when she and Sam had been in in Paris working on the extended project together.  She’d seen in then.  There was compassion and honor written all along the threads that made Sam who he was.  And now...now those threads were becoming more and more noticeable.

By the time Aelin had changed, Sam was already started on the dishes.  He topped her wine off and allowed her to help him dry what wouldn’t fit in the dishwasher.

“Aelin,” Sam said after they’d started the dishwasher and left the last few items out to dry.

“Hm?” Aelin hummed taking a long sip of wine.

Sam stepped closer, placing his hands on her waist.  He was trim, lean, and obviously in good shape, but not bulky or broad like other men.  It didn’t deter Aelin’s attraction to him though.

She leaned into him, willing herself to play on those subtle emotions building in her body.

Sam pressed a kiss to each corner of her mouth before hovering just before her--waiting to give her a longer more meaningful kiss.

He’d been patient with her the last six months. Never pressuring her into sex or anything more intimate than she was ready for.  And Aelin would be forever grateful to him for it.  But she also couldn’t help but wonder how long that patience would last.

As Rowan had shown, men had their limits.

Aelin squeezed her eyes shut.  She would not focus on him.  Not now.  So she closed the distance between her and Sam and kissed him.  It was somewhat sloppy as he’d not been expecting her to move so suddenly, but Sam was quick to recover.

She could most certainly get used to him.  Every little thing about him.

“I love you,” Sam said.  So carefully his lips moved against hers as they sounded out the words.

I love you. 

I love you.

Aelin’s hands froze at the lower buttons of his shirt.  She’d gotten a little out of hand, not that she was too sorry.  But his words just reminded her what was really happening.

She opened her eyes and stared into his golden gaze.  Her throat constricted as she found herself pulling him closer, closer.

“You love me?” she whispered.

Sam nodded once, firm and definite.

Aelin felt her breath slip out too quickly from her lungs as she kissed Sam again.

December 20th

It was ten o’clock the next evening when Aelin was knocking at the door. Someone swore behind it and Yrene answered. She was still dressing for the day, still wearing makeup. Still holding her case notes in one hand.

"I'm going have to start charging you extra if you keep showing up like this," the woman said. But she let Aelin into the office all the same.

"Fine by me," Aelin replied. 

The office was dimly lit by a single lamp and a pile of take out containers from an Indian restaurant took over the table.

"So do you live here or what?" Aelin asked. She turned a lifted a brow at Yrene.

Snorting, Yrene ignored Aelin and crossed to the chair she usually took over and sat down.

"What are we talking about tonight, Aelin?" Yrene asked.

Why was she here? Aelin had no idea. She just knew she didn't want to go home. If she went home, she knew Sam would be there because he was too good for her. He was planning on a late night of hot chocolate and cheesy Christmas movies. And Aelin should want to be there. But she was the idiot who went out for coffee with her ass of an ex. An even bigger ass than Chaol had been.

"I talked to him," Aelin said. "At least I listened to him."

"And? Do you feel better?"

"No." Aelin answered immediately.  “Because my current boyfriend who is the best man I could ask for after the hellhole that is Rowan Whitethorn.  My current boyfriend told me he loves me.  And what do I do but give him a kiss and tell him thanks.  He barely left my place half an hour ago before I came here.”

Yrene gave her a bland look. “Don’t you have friends for this?  This is girl talk Aelin.”

Aelin cursed and pushed herself off the couch.  She stood there for several long moments. “Why can’t I love him?  I want to.  Dammit, I want to.  But, I just…”

“What?” Yrene prompted softly when Aelin didn’t continue.  “But what, Aelin?”

“But what if it happens again?” Aelin asked.  She looked at Yrene and shook her head. “I thought I could trust Rowan and then he cheated on me.  I think I can trust Sam.  But I just can’t go through it all again.”

Neither of them spoke as Yrene makes a note in her little booklet.  She lets Aelin stand there breathing heavily and collect her thoughts.

But Aelin isn’t thinking much aside from being angry.  Angry at Rowan especially.

“He had no right to tell me he still loves me,” Aelin said suddenly.  “If he’d really wanted to talk why would he do that to me?  Why would he put me in that position?”

“Would you have listened any other way?” Yrene asked.  Aelin shot her an angry look and Yrene held up a finger. “All I’m saying is that he might not even know how to deal with it all either.  Have either of you moved on?”

“I’m trying,” Aelin whispered.

“And I am so proud of you for that,” Yrene said with so much conviction that Aelin felt tears prick her eyes. “But I also want you to consider what else might be holding you back.  You talked to Rowan; you made that step.  What else can you do?  Do you think you could—”

Yrene cut herself off and frowned.  Aelin watched her have an internal battle.  

Finally, Yrene shook her head. “Do you think you could forgive him?”

Aelin cursed and stalked to the office door, closing it with a loud snap.

#

December 23rd

Rowan decided that he hated the holidays.

And he did not have to explain himself for it.

Besides, everyone basically already knew why he did.  And that it was his own fault for being in such a miserable state of existence.

Because of course he’d tried.  He’d tried to reach out to Aelin in the past year, just for some sort of reconciliation.  He’d never gotten anything in response.  Connall told him to try therapy.  Lorcan told him to try drinking himself to oblivion.  Fenrys had ignored him for the better part of the year.

And now they were in the holidays and Rowan had to at least try and not be a “broody old buzzard.”

As Aelin would have said.

He was a fool.  An utter waste of a fool.

“Remind me again why you’re having another holiday party?” Rowan asked Dorian that night.

Unlike the last party, this one was far more casual with far more alcohol and far less dress code.

“Because this one will actually be fun,” Dorian told him lightly.  

The man still didn’t like Rowan, of course, but he had been gracious enough to allow Rowan to join his other friends to the invite.

“Especially when Aelin gets here and skins you alive,” Doran added.  With a feral grin that he’d likely learned from Manon Blackbeak, Dorian slapped Rowan on the back with far too much force and left him alone.

He needed a whisky.

As Rowan went to get a drink, he heard more guests arrive.  He glanced up to see Elide Lochan give a squealing hug to Lysandra.

Elide, he knew, was a longtime friend of Manon’s as well as a somewhat potential girlfriend of sorts to Lorcan.  Rowan wasn’t sure and didn’t really want to ask knowing Lorcan would likely punch him.  Elide was also a friend of Aelin’s so he would also be avoiding her.

“Oh look, it’s the ass,” Elide said as she calmly slipped past Rowan to grab a beer for her and her friend.

“Lochan,” he said looking down at her.

She fixed him with a sharp smile that was mostly teeth and derision.  Lorcan better pray he never get on the woman’s bad side.

The night was progressing far too slowly for Rowan’s tastes and he debated to simply walk out.  No one really wanted him there anyways.  He had to squash that plan when Aelin entered, her new boyfriend at her side.

As always, Aelin looked phenomenal.  

Her hair was straightened and pulled into a low ponytail so it hung down her back.  Her makeup was simple with only bright red lipstick as the biggest accent.  If Rowan hadn’t already been screwed over by the sight, the tight black dress she wore did the trick.

Hell she was glorious.

But he shouldn’t look at her like that.  He had no right to.  Not anymore.

Rowan knocked back his whiskey and refilled his drink.  What was he even doing here?

Aelin was laughing too loudly at something Manon said.  The two it seemed had the potential of becoming friends which in and of itself should terrify everyone.

He knew he must have been staring too long and too intently because Aelin chose that moment to look at him.  The light that burned in her eyes snuffed out almost immediately and Rowan felt his heart squeeze in his chest.

He was a damned fool.

#

Like everything else in her life, tonight wanted to screw her over.

Aelin found Rowan staring at her.  Blatantly.  A slight haze of panic wrapped around her, until her felt Sam’s hand cup her elbow and pull her into his side.  For that she was grateful.  Grateful for that small ounce of support.  Even though she couldn’t quite focus on anything, she could focus on Sam and the fact that he was there.

“Oh, we’re so excited,” Lysandra said, pulling Aelin from her tunnel vision of self-doubt. “It’s a miracle there was even an opening at the venue, but it’s going to be perfect.”

“That vineyard is so beautiful,” Elide agreed.  She wore her hair long with her straight-line bangs finally growing out to the point that she could part her hair properly and style her hair the way she wanted to.  Aelin had tried to convince Elide that getting bangs was not a good idea.  But Elide had been drunk and on a mission.

“You’re going to make me play the piano outside?” Aelin complained. At least she could somehow contribute to the conversation even though she was lightyears away from the party.

“Oh you’ll be fine,” Lysandra insisted.  She sent a wink Aelin’s direction as if to prove the worries were unfounded.

Aelin rolled her eyes.

This was normal.  She could do normal.  She could do easy and relaxed.  All of her friends were here.  All of the people she knew and loved.  With of course the one exception.

“I just can’t believe you guys were able to squeeze your way onto the top of the list,” Manon said.  She not so subtly thrust a drink into Aelin’s hand.  Something that would most definitely get her drunk, no doubt.

There was the briefest of pauses where Lysandra and Aedion exchanged a look that was so quick and practiced that Aelin first thought how wonderful it was that they knew each other so well to communicate the way that they did and then a terrible sense of foreboding.

It was seconds.  Seconds spanning years.

“Rowan helped,” Lysandra finally admitted.  The guilt on her face was evident.

Aelin immediately took a sip of the drink Manon had made her.  Oh yes, it was certainly going to make her forget about the night.

“He knows someone who knows someone,” Lysandra added.  She glanced over her shoulder to where Rowan was still hiding near the kitchen.

His feature’s in their perpetual scowled lightened only for an instant. “My friend, Ren owed me a favor.”

“Ren?” Aelin couldn’t help but burst out.  Ren was the last person she would have expected Rowan to interact with.  Even though she was part of the reason the two even knew each other. “He hates you.”

“I became one of his managers in his company,” Rowan said softly.  He met Aelin’s eyes. “Helped him from going bankrupt.”

Her mouth went dry and she had to fight against her automatic instinct to drown the rest of the hellish drink in her hand.  Instead she nodded once.  Stiffly.

Well here’s to doing something right, she wanted to say.  She wanted to scream.  She wanted to do anything but stand there and tell Lysandra and Aedion how excited she was.

But what else was there?  She would not make a scene.  Not so close to the holiday.  Not when somehow everyone had moved on with their lives.

And then as a saving grace, her phone buzzed with an incoming call.

Deliberately, she leaned up to kiss Sam on the cheek before excusing herself.

By the time she made it to the hall outside the apartment, she’d missed the call entirely.  Aelin scowled to herself and headed downstairs.  As long as she had escaped, she would make the most of it.  

Outside, the wind had settled.  At least she had a coat this time.  Her coat with the long sleeves and deep pockets.  

The missed call was from Yrene which made Aelin roll her eyes.  Now who was bothering who?  But she called back all the same.

“Hello Aelin,” Yrene’s calm voice came on.

“Are you upset that I made it one day without bothering you?” Aelin asked with a low chuckle.  

She walked a few steps down the block, careful to avoid chunks of ice from a brief dusting snow last night combined with the sudden chill of last week.

“I just like checking in on my people,” Yrene said.  The line went silent for a minute. “Are you okay?”

Aelin let out a long breath, glad Yrene couldn’t see her.  But it seemed that the therapist could read people well enough without actually seeing their face.

“I’m fine,” Aelin said.  She tilted her head up to the dark sky and watched as the first few flakes of snow began to descend.

Yrene made a disbelieving grunt on the other end, but remained silent.

“I am,” Aelin insisted.  “I’m surrounded by my people.”

“Alright,” Yrene said, “let me know if you need anything.”

“I will,” Aelin promised.

As she hung up, she took a long breath and told herself it was fine for not going into everything with Yrene.  Because she was fine.  Really.

She turned to head back inside and came face to face with Rowan.  He remained a few feet off, just descending the steps from the apartment building.  At first, it seemed he didn’t even see her.  Until he turned.

They stood there, feet apart.  Worlds apart.  So far from where they had been.

“I was just leaving,” Rowan said.

Aelin stared.

“I didn’t even want to be there anyways,” Rowan continued.

Snow continued to fall.  The large flakes weren’t that imposing.  It would end quickly, at least that’s what Aelin had always heard.  A large snow would come and go, but the small one always lingered.

“Why would you even be there?” Aelin asked.  She shook her head, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “You don’t even like Dorian.  And Lys and Aedion will tie you to a spit and burn you alive.  Why—”

She cut herself off before saying something truly unnecessary.  Collecting her thoughts, Aelin breathed in the bone chilling air. 

“Don’t you realize how hard this is for me?  I’m done trying Rowan.”

He let out a hollow laugh. “Try?  Did you try Aelin?  Or are you just like me, running away.  It’s what you did back then too.”

“Don’t you dare put this on me,” she hissed.

Aelin drew herself up so close to him.  Close enough to smell his cologne.  It hadn’t changed in all this time.  Close enough to see the dark flecks of his green eyes.  They were just as bold as before.  Close enough to remember.  

Tears sprung to her eyes as she stumbled back.  Too close.  Too close.

Rowan cursed and ran both hands through his hair.  The longer bits fell into his face, cutting across his features.

She wanted to tell him good-bye.  Wanted to say that this was it.  She was done.  Because she was, wasn’t she?

“I’m sorry,” he said.  So soft that the words were almost swept away on the snowflakes curling past. “I didn’t mean that.  I just...Dammit Aelin, I don’t know how to do this.  I don’t know how to erase myself from your life.  From my life.  When even after all this time it’s always been you.  It’s only been you.”

The snow fell around them.  The thick tufts turned into tiny specks.  There was so much that Aelin almost lost sight of Rowan, even though she stood mere feet from her.

Bastard.  Bastard for doing this to her again.  

Because all she could see was that woman, Lyria, leaving the apartment building.  A smug, secret sort of smile on her face.  And the woman couldn’t have been more different from Aelin.  Dark hair, tanned skin.  Small and petite.  And all Aelin could see was Rowan’s hands roving another woman.  His lips…

Aelin shuddered.

“I’m going to spend the rest of my life regretting what happened,” Rowan continued.  He was the one coming closer now.  He reached out to catch her when she turned away, his grip soft enough that she could have left if she’d tried.  “I’ll spend the rest of my life hating me for what I did to you.  To us.”

His words were too soft, too gentle.  Aelin found herself staring up at him with the tears in her eyes that she would not let fall.

She would not break.  Not now.  Here she was falling into the sense of love and life he always provided.  Hell.  What couldn’t she just let him go?

Aelin pressed a hand against Rowan’s chest.  The sweater he wore was thick but she could still feel the steady thrum of his heart beating an uneven rhythm.

“I’ll spend the rest of my life hating you for that too,” she said.

And then she pulled away.

#

Seriously though, idk what happened here. Oh boy, ooooohhhh boy.  thanks for reading my dears.  love y’all!

AND I promise that I do have stuff in the mix that’s not so angst ridden.

tags, if i missed/you don’t want to be tagged-- let me know, I’m trying and failing at getting my life in order.

@ladywitchling  @tottenhamboys20 @morganofthewildfire  @aelinchocolatelover @more-espresso-less-depresso-xx  @bamchickawowow​ @sjmships  @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln

#angst #rowaelin #rowaelin au #aelin ashryver galathynius #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #aelin and rowan #aelin x rowan #throne of glass #throne of glass fanfiction

[spiderman-homecomeme]

off the record pt. 3

ENEMIES TO LOVERS

A/N: Hello friends!! The third part of my enemies to lovers from Spideychelle week is here!! currently, there are two more chapters left, so we’re getting close to the end!!

Enjoy 3.8k of Peter and MJ still fuckin hating each other, but then... a change of feelings perhaps??

Read here or on AO3

-

They had agreed to meet at the same coffee shop later in the week, Michelle finding herself mysteriously—and annoyingly—frazzled in the days leading up to their interview, especially the morning of. For some unknown reason, her normal morning routine is extended by at least a half-hour, her mind buzzing the moment she wakes up from a restless night. Her stomach twists as she looks at her planner, and she writes it off as the dread of having to actually converse with Parker again.

“Haven’t seen that dress in a while,” Betty smirks knowingly from behind her morning coffee, Michelle having not even noticed her roommate sitting there in the first place.

Michelle looks up, her eyes setting into a wary glare after the initial startle. “And?” She asks slowly as she puts a piece of bread in the toaster.

Betty tips her head, voice smooth and casual. “What’s the occasion?”

“Uh, nothing?” Michelle’s gaze darts left and right, her mouth setting into a frown as she walks to the fridge, pulling out the strawberry jam, her hands fumbling slightly with the jar. “Work?”

Betty taps her fingers against the glass mug, pursing her lips thoughtfully. “Aren’t you interviewing Peter today?”

Again, Michelle looks away, blowing a harsh puff of frustrated air through her nose. “Shut up,” she mutters as her toast pops up. She can hear her roommate suppress a snort of laughter from behind her, the sound making her almost roll her eyes into the fifth dimension as she spreads the jam onto her breakfast.

“You like nice,” Betty offers, the playful edge still in her tone.

Michelle elects to ignore that particular comment, pointedly taking a bite of her toast with an annoyed crunch as she heads for the door, blocking out Betty’s final, “Remember the mission!” as she slams it behind her.

The beginning of the workday before lunch proves to be just as frustrating. Peter has the audacity to wave at her when she walks in, his mouth curved into a stupid, timid smile that she knows has to be just as forced as hers is. Her returning wave is stiff, and she trains her gaze on the ground as she hurries walks with purpose to her desk.

(Peter of course, takes issue with the fact that her tight-lipped, half-assed smile seems so disingenuous.)

Michelle can hardly get any work done, unable to stop herself from glancing up at him working at his desk every so often, feeling as if she has heartburn radiating from her head to her toes. And then, just as she’s leaving her office and out the door, just as she’s walking on the sidewalk, sirens blaring as police cars speed by, she gets a text from him explaining that he ran into some “family stuff” that he needed to deal with first, but that he would still be on time to the interview.

She stirs at her cappuccino, tapping the wooden stick on the cup before setting it aside. Her voice recorder sits to the side of her open notebook, and she twirls her pen mindlessly between her fingers. For a moment, she’s occupied with whether or not she should be toying with it when he walks in, or if it should be at the side, next to her paper—thinking that perhaps the latter might make her look more professional.

Then, in the next moment, she berates herself for worrying about such a pointless detail.

Besides; what did she care about professionalism?

He was the one who was currently eleven minutes late to their very scheduled interview.

But who’s counting?

(She is.)

It’s fine. Totally fine. It’s not like they only have an hour for lunch.

Then, as she starts to feel the real anger set in, she sees the jerk running outside the window, and she watches as he rushes to the entrance. As he flings the door open, the sharp ringing of the bell echoing in the cafe, she quickly averts her gaze down to her own coffee. She’s the very air of nonchalance as he approaches her booth, not even looking up as he flops down onto the bench across from her.

“Sorry—” He’s cut off by his own need to catch his breath. “Had a—had a… thing. With—”

“With your family?” When she dares to glance up at him, she’s alarmed at his disheveled appearance, his hair in disarray, his cheeks flushed a bright shade of pink.

In her mind, there are three possibilities as to why this is. One, being that he really did have a “family thing” and actually ran all the way here. Two, being that he had lied and just came from an intense workout at the gym. And three, being that he had been caught up in some hasty conquest of some kind.

The third doesn’t seem as likely, given that she’s never perceived Peter as being the “one-and-done” type of person, and he’s never mentioned anything about any significant other. And, of course, the idea that anyone in their right mind would want to sleep with this man just seems impossible to her. Still, the third possibility stays in the back of her mind, poking and prodding at her relentlessly as he blinks owlishly at her.

But, as bothered as she is, she doesn’t let it show (too much).

Peter huffs out a nervous laugh. “Yeah. Yeah…”

“No problem,” Michelle lies. She decides to just ignore his current state entirely, opening her notebook to a fresh page. “Let’s just go ahead and get started.”

Peter nods, lips pressed together in a small smile.

With a click of her recorder, she sits up straighter, taking her pencil in hand.

“How would you describe your relationship with Spider-Man?” She asks first.

Peter had been nervous about this before, but no amount of stress could compare to what he felt in this moment. He coughed, clearing his throat. “Um, well…” He pauses, choosing his words carefully, his heart hammering as she gets ready to write whatever nonsense he says. “I’m his photographer, but… I’d actually say that we’re pretty old friends.”

Michelle briefly glances up from her notes. “So you’ve known him a while.”

“Yeah,” he replies simply. “Since, uh—since freshman year of high school.”

“Wow, so a long time.” She takes a moment to finish that particular note. “Did you know him before he was Spider-Man?”

Peter takes another pause, disguising it as another cough, trying to decide the best way to answer. “Uh, yeah. Yeah I did.”

“It’s safe to say that you know him pretty well then?”

“Oh, yeah, you could say that,” Peter says, though there’s a hint of something in his tone that Michelle can’t quite place. “I probably know Spidey better than I know myself,” he jokes half-heartedly, his breath catching when she looks up at him again.

“You must be close, if you’re the only one who knows who he is.” Michelle observes. She knows she’s going off book, but the more he talks, the more she realizes that this is going to have to seem more genuine, that this shouldn’t feel like an actual interview if she wants to get any actual information.

Peter needs to feel comfortable.

Little does she know how impossible that is given what the interview is actually about.  

Peter chuckles quietly, nodding. “Very. We sometimes joke that we’re pretty much the same person.” He bites his lip, and she misses the brief look of panic that flashes across his face as she goes to take another sip of her coffee. He’s too quick to continue, and she doesn’t stop him. “I mean, we’ve had our ups and downs. There are times where he’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me, and—and… there are times, I guess, where I feel like your articles you write about him aren’t all that far off…” He trails off with a faint laugh.

Her lips twitches upward as she huffs in amusement before her expression turns serious again. There’s a hint of curiosity in her eyes. “Is there a romantic nature to your relationship?”

“What? Oh—no,” Peter sputters. “I mean, not that there would be anything wrong with that at all, but…” He coughs. “I’m single. He’s single. We’re just… We’re…” He pauses, trying to find the best way to word it without giving away his secret identity (in other words, what he’s been trying to do this whole damn interview). “...best friends.”

Michelle nods slowly, her expression still holding the faintest tint of skepticism, before she looks back down and continues writing.

After a heavy beat, Peter opens his mouth again.

“We’ve been through a lot, though,” He continues, leaning forward on his forearms. “We, uh, kinda had a falling out… back when my Uncle died, and—” He swallowed, not entirely sure why he’s even saying any of this, and he wonders if Michelle would be willing to keep some of it off the record. Still, he keeps going, unable to stop himself. “And our friendship after that was kinda shaky. But… after a while, I realized that living without him was pretty much impossible.”

“So you just learned to tolerate him?” Michelle jokes, earnestly for once, not as his expense.

Peter laughs softly. “In a way, I guess.” He shifts awkwardly, his fingers twiddling together, fearing he’s definitely said too much. “He’s a cool guy though. Solid dude.”

He holds her gaze for a moment before she remembers herself, eyes shifting down to her notes again.

She stares at her next pre-written question, wondering if this will induce the same word vomit as the first. Though, surprisingly, as annoyed as she might have been before at his incessant talking, here she finds that she almost doesn’t mind, and she justifies this new feeling as the product of knowing that his rambling is only helping her. It’s what she wants.

“Would you say that you admire him?” She asks, looking up again. His surprised face when she meets his gaze makes her stomach do an unexplained flip.

And truthfully, Peter’s not sure if there’s a safe answer to this question, or at least one that he can easily elaborate on. He falters for a beat, mentally weighing what he should say. “I’m not sure,” he says finally. “I mean, he’s been a part of my life for so long, it’s hard seeing him how normal people see him, you know? I mean, I admire him for what he does; looking out for the little guy, I guess. Just helping out because he can. But…”

Going into this interview, he hadn’t had the slightest idea that it would turn into some kind of introspective therapy session for himself.

“There are things he can do better—things we can all do better, obviously—but, I don’t know. He’s so busy keeping track of the city, he doesn’t really make time for the people in his life. And he knows this, and he tries really hard.” Again, Peter laughs, sadly. “But this whole superhero thing… it kinda gets in the way. He just… he has a really hard time keeping friends. I don’t know.”

“You’re his friend,” Michelle offers.

“That’s because I tolerate him. Remember?”

The same half-smile pulls at the corner of her lips, and she almost damns herself for letting it show. But once again, she remembers herself, and why she’s here in the first place.

“What’s the origin story of Spider-Man?” She gets right back to business.

“Oh, it’s kinda… It’s kind of a long story,” Peter says with a slight flinch, scratching the back of his neck.

Michelle looks up from her notes, hand frozen, eyeing him expectantly.

“Well, um—” Peter lets out a breathy chuckle. “Back in high school. Freshman year. We were, uh, we were on a field trip to Oscorp—for uh, science stuff. They had this exhibit on gamma radiation, and we had to put on this like, protective gear before we could go in the room, and when he was putting his on, there was a spider in there—one that I guess got trapped in there, I don’t know—and it bit him—” He shrugs, before hastily continuing. “I mean, I was there but, like, I didn’t see it happen or anything like that. That’s just what he told me.”

“So a radioactive spider?”

“I mean, I guess, yeah? Not really, but… Yeah. Sure.” He sits, mouth twisting in thought before he speaks again, voice slightly lowered. “ My working theory is that the spider was hit with gamma radiation. Just like Dr. Banner, you know?”

Michelle only offers a quick nod before continuing. “What exactly are his powers? What can Spider-Man do?”

“Whatever a spider can?” Peter jokes lamely.

Michelle stares unimpressed. “So, inject venom into your prey and digest their organs and then slurp up their insides? Because that’s what spiders can do.”

At that, Peter lets out a genuine, if not a little grossed-out, laugh, a sound that surprisingly doesn’t make Michelle want to throw her coffee in his face.

“God, no,” He replies. “No. Like, I just meant climbing walls. And he’s got synthetic webs and webshooters. And this like… sixth sense. Really, the walls thing is the only spidery thing about him.”

“Anything else?”

“Um… Advanced healing, super strength, enhanced senses like hearing and sight, powerful, unyielding charisma…”

She looks up at him briefly, eyes narrowed.

“Just to name a few,” he adds innocently.

Michelle opens her mouth to speak, a snarky response at the ready, when she’s cut off by the wailing sirens in the distance. Peter cranes his neck, looking past Michelle. She turns. The TV in the corner of the coffee shop shows the scene outside one of the nearby banks, the news anchor’s voice reporting a hostage situation.

When she turns back to face Peter, his eyes are wide, and after a beat, he hastily pulls his phone out of his pocket. He holds up a finger, obviously pretending to take a phone call from someone named May . Apparently, she’s facing quite the inconvenience, judging by Peter’s overacting.

“Sorry, Michelle,” Peter says as he scrambles up from his side of the booth, nearly tripping on his way out. “I—I gotta go,” He stammers, throwing a stiff thumb over his shoulder. “My uh, my aunt… Needs help…”

She fixes him with a skeptical glare.

“We’ll finish this at my desk? Tomorrow? With Coffee? I’ll buy!”

Before she can even respond, he’s rushing for the door, running as soon as his feet hit the pavement outside.

Michelle can only watch, sinking back into her seat, her arms folded across her chest. This had certainly gone better than she expected. Sure, there’s still a lot of things left unanswered, given that they’d only made it about half-way through her list of scripted questions. But, she’s not completely in the dark anymore.

If there’s one thing Michelle’s sure of—100%, to be exact—it’s that Peter Parker is Spider-Man.

--

Okay, maybe he’s not. Maybe she’s only 67% sure.

Michelle knows that she shouldn’t be jumping to conclusions, and although the thought hadn’t immediately crossed her mind, she knows that confirmation bias can be a dangerous thing. After a semi-solid night’s sleep, as she’s walking into the Daily Bugle offices, she decides that this isn’t something she should rush into. She needs to keep investigating. She needs to keep talking to Peter, getting to know him.

Just so she’s really sure.

Then, and only then, can she make her move.

Besides, if she’s going to ruin this guy’s life—whoever Spider-Man happens to be—she needs to really make sure it’s the right guy.

After finishing up the interview at his desk—even after he willingly and thoroughly answers all of her questions—she still feels as though she needs more evidence that he is, in fact, Spider-Man. So, she asks him to meet with her the next day.

And the next.

...And the next.

At this point, the questions aren’t even about Spider-Man anymore. Perhaps finding out more about Peter’s own personal life will give her insight as to how he could manage such a time consuming alter-ego. And she trades this information with her own personal anecdotes.

You know, to make him feel like he’s her friend. That’s how she justifies it.

Peter Parker is surprisingly funny, Michelle finds. And, just in general, not as terrible a person as she’d initially thought. She even lets him start calling her MJ. His little smiles and waves don’t grate on her as much as they did just a few days ago.

Really, if Michelle didn’t hate him so much, she might thing they were actually becoming friends.

Betty seems to think so as well. Or at least more than that.

And she lets Michelle know this information while she’s mid rant about something funny-slash-stupid he’d said during their fourth consecutive “interview”—this one being after work, dinner at a semi-fancy restaurant. Something ]that seemingly had nothing to do with Spider-Man at all.

Betty has the gall to actually suggest that instead of hating Peter, Michelle might like him.

Like-like him, she dares to say.

MJ, of course, shuts that shit down as soon as Betty even thinks to mention it, mocking the very idea for sounding so juvenile while at the same time finding her face unbearably warm.

And, on his side of their tiny world, Peter’s in about the same position. He’s had to stop talking to Ned about the whole thing because the guy just keeps pushing this whole “You’re actually in love with her, you idiot,” narrative that’s frankly not true at all. Ned just doesn’t understand how annoying MJ really is, how annoying the way she just smirks at him is, the way she just deadpans almost every joke she has, or the way he finds himself laughing at said jokes…

The way she tucks her curly hair behind her ear and looks away from him like she’s shy or something…

Okay, so he might not actually hate her, but actually, genuinely falling for her has to be the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. Though, he’s surprised to find himself seeing her more and more as a friend everyday. It’s weird.

But what did it matter that they’ve started going out to dinner to discuss her article? He’s just following the plant. There’s nothing else to it.

So what if he takes a split-second to admire the way she looks?

Unbeknownst to the other, they both feel the same strange warmth between them, and their smiles are starting to become genuine. While there’s still the annoyance that’s always there, it’s accompanied by a new, unknown, strange feeling. And with this new, tingling feeling comes a tugging guilt, one that’s faint and easily ignored, but certainly there.

Michelle, for writing this exposé in the first place. Though, the feeling is fleeting, as she’s reminded by another email from Jameson asking for another Spidey article. She knows that her next step is to just keep hanging out with Peter, just to be sure that he’s not Spider-Man himself, to somehow meet his friends, maybe see who’s the flake he’s told her all about. And for once, the idea doesn’t make her want to throw up.

That, and she still has to interview Spidey.

She knows she just has to stay with the plan, and everything will be fine.

And that’s what she reminds herself as she’s called to her boss’s office, and especially as Jameson grills her for not responding to his emails regarding his demand for more Spider-Man articles. Of course, in the midst of all the prep and interviews, Michelle had neglected to tell her boss that what she had in store was better than anything he could possibly want her to write.

“JONES!” Jameson barks. “You better have a damn good reason for dodging my emails!”

Michelle barely flinches, able to maintain a sense of coolness in the face of danger. “It’s actually—”

“And I mean really good! Like dead grandma good! Is your grandma dead?”

“...No. I—”

“Wait, I take that back, I don’t care about your grandma!” He waves her off aggressively. “I expect this shit from Thompson or Parker, but not you!”

“I’m sorry,” Michelle says, her tone flat and even, though she feels the slightest bit hesitant to further explain herself. “I’ve been working on something else.”

“Something else?!” Jameson balks. “What else could you possibly be working on?! My assignments not good enough for you?! I tell you what, whatever you’re working on better be—”

Her own internal turmoil as to whether or not she should tell her boss about her plan, quiet as that turmoil is, is enough to put Jameson’s angry rant on mute, at least for a moment. Truly, she’s unsure where this sudden trepidation is coming from, but she assumes it’s because she wants to have as little input from her boss as possible.

“—It better be big! What are you doing?! Finding out his secret identity?!”

At that, Michelle jerks her head back, mouth parted as she blinks in surprise. “That’s… That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“Oh!... Oh?” Jameson stops, frozen, and for once, he speaks in lowercase letters. “Well. Uh. Good.”

Still in shock that he was lucky enough—she’d say smart, but that was a bit of a stretch—to guess it on whatever try it was, she nods. But then, she remembers the inevitability that Jameson’s going to spread this around the office, maybe as some sick form of motivation for her poor coworkers.

Which would lead to Peter finding out…

“I’d prefer if we kept this conversation between us, though,” Michelle says, to which Jameson’s only response is a confused quirk of his brow. “I want it to be this big shock to everyone , you know?”

Jameson nods slowly, mouth pressing into a thin line. Clearly, he buys it. “Yes… Yes… You’ve got a point there, Jones.” He claps his hands together, the sound echoing in his office. “Alright! Well! Get back to work then! Find out who Spider-Man is!”

God, at this point he’s already told everyone, she thinks, hiding the way her eye twitches in annoyance.

Michelle dismisses herself, moving to leave without another word. As she opens and starts pushing the door behind her, she startles seeing who’s waiting on the other side.

“Oh! Uh, hey!” She tells herself that the smile on her face is only out of politeness. “Peter!”

Peter clutches at the strap of his camera bag. He gives a single, stiff nod, his mouth pressing into a tight, thin smile as he rocks back on his heels.

He looks as if he’s about to say something when Jameson’s booming voice cuts him off.

“PARKER! GET IN HERE!”

“Good luck,” Michelle teases under her breath.

Peter forces another smile before pushing past her and into the office.

It leaves Michelle in the near-empty hallway, staring at the closed door, confused—and with a strange, unwelcome sinking you-fucked-up feeling in her gut.

#spideychelle #petermj #journalist au #peter parker x michelle jones #peter parker #michelle jones #off the record fic

[plurdledgabbleblotchits]

Some Limericks, by Norman Douglas, 1928

One of the most often pirated books of all time. At one time, it was considered obscene; but it is also quite amusing.  Not for the easily offended, puritanical, overly pious, uptight, humorless, doctrinaire, the soi-disant highbrow, or simply too young -the author suggests that a reader should be older than 10. In America, I would suggest older, prob 18. Do not click on the link if ribald content is upsetting.

I find the long introduction by the author remarkable. One blogger (Jildy Sauce here) puts it eloquently thus: “In his introduction and commentary to the limericks, Douglas strikes a certain kind of pose: magisterial and magnanimous, mock-authoritative and understanding, bullet-proof as far as being shocked or outraged is concerned.  It is a stance that gives rise to a definite and delightful frisson when set beside limericks that are salacious, scatological and blasphemous – or all three together, a rare treat.  Douglas’ Geographical Index is a helpful pointer toward his choicest and wittiest remarks, for example: ‘Manchester, waggishness of mill-hands near’.”

“INTRODUCTION He must be a quintessential fool who does not realize that the following fifty limericks are a document of enduring value. And I beg leave to say that the collection has been made not for such people, but for those who can appreciate its significance. I may be abused on the ground that the pieces are coarse, obscene, and so forth. Why, so they are; and whoever suffers from that trying form of degeneracy which is horrified at coarseness had better close the book at once and send it back to me, in the hope that I may be simple enough to refund him the money. As to abuse—I thrive on it. Abuse, hearty abuse, is a tonic to all save men of indifferent health. At the same time I am fully convinced that nobody under the age of ten should peruse these pages, since he would find them so obscure in places that he might be dis- couraged from taking up the subject later on, which would be a pity. Ten, and not before, is the right age to commence similar studies; a boy of ten is as sagacious and profound as one of eighteen, and often more intel- lectual. Ten was the precise age (see page 39) at which I began to take interest in this class of literature, and it has done me all the good in the world. There was a time when one collected butterflies, or flowers, or minerals. But the choicest specimen of (say) precious opal can be replaced, if lost. Now if these limericks are lost, they cannot be replaced; they are gone for good. You may invent new ones, as many as you please. Such new ones, however, will inevitably have another tone, another aroma, because they belong to another age. The discerning critic will detect a gulf both in technique and in feeling between most of the limericks of the Golden Period and those of today, and naturally enough, seeing that the poets, and not only the poets of the Victorian and the Georgian epochs have an entirely different outlook. Precious opal remains the same yesterday, today, and fifty thousand years hence. That is why lately, with increasing intelligence, I have taken to garnering what future collectors cannot hope to possess without my aid—perishable material such as the Street Games of London children, or the blas- phemies of Florentine coachmen. It would interest me to know what proportion of those thousand-odd Street Games are still played, and which of them have died out in the short interval since my little book on the subject was written. In that book itself I predict their decline, and give reasons for it (page 119-121). And it is the same with the swear words. I caught the old ones in the nick of time. A good half of them have already grown obsolete and are unfamiliar to the new generation of such men. Why is this? Because these men, being no longer cab-drivers but chauffeurs, are afflicted with the neurasthenia common to all such mechanical folk; they lack—their distemper makes them imagine they lack—the leisure which is essential to the creation of original works of art, however humble; they forget the ripe old blasphemies and have not the wit to invent a fresh supply. How shall good things be generated if, instead of sitting over your wine and cheese, you gulp down a thimbleful of black coffee and rush off again? Mechanics, not microbes, are the menace to civilization. A writer in the New Witness (Dec. 9, 1921) once suggested that this collection of swear words should be privately printed. That cannot be done; it will never see the light of day. But I shall now permit myself, for reasons which will be apparent later on, to reproduce the few words of introduction which I wrote for it in the year 1917: "Nor is there much bad language to be found in Romola. Perhaps the Florentines did not swear so horribly in those days. Perhaps their present fondness for impious inveftice is likewise a reaction from Savo- narola's teaching (I had been discussing Savonarola's puritanism). For Tuscans of today are pretty good blasphemers. They have many oaths in common but, unlike others, they pride themselves upon an individual tone in this department. A self-respecting Florentine would consider his life ill-spent had he not tried to add at least one blasphemy of his own personal composition to the city stock; it survives, or not, according to its merits. Of how many other art-products can it be said that merit, and merit alone, decides their survival? "Adventures are to be adventurous. "I have begun to make a collection of these curses, imprecations, objurgations — abusive, vituperative or blasphemous expletives: swear words, in short. It already numbers thirty-eight specimens, all authentic, to the best of my knowledge. Most of them, I regret to say, are coupled with the name of the Deity. That cannot be helped. I propose to treat the subject in a scien- tific spirit—from the "kulturhistorischen Standpunkt", as the Germans say. I did not invent the swear words, and if the reader dislikes their tone he may blame not me but Savonarola for generating this pungent reaction from his bigotry. Violence always begets violence. "Why not interest oneself in such things? Man cannot live without a hobby. And this is folklore, neither more nor less; an honorable hobby. Furthermore, unlike stamp or coin collecting, it costs practically nothing; a seasonable one. It has the additional advantage that the field is virgin soil and the supply of material very considerable—unlimited, I should say. Moreover, the research leads you into strange byways of thought and causes you to ponder deeply concerning human nature; some of these oaths require a deal of explanation; a philosopher's hobby! Unexploited, unexplained, unexhaustible—what more can be asked? And, as aforesaid, absurdly economical. "There is yet more to be said in its favour. For while these swear words are as genuine a flower of the soil as Dante or Donatello and every bit as character- istic, they happen to be up to date. A live hobby! They portray modern Tuscany with greater truthfulness than any other local product. Indeed, it will not take you long to discover that they, and they alone, are still flourishing in this city. For the rest of Florence is dead or dying. The town decays, declines; it shrinks into a village; grows more provincial every day. Pol- itical life has yielded up the ghost; art and literature and science, music and the state—they gasp for breath. There is no onward movement perceptible. It either stands still, or moves actually backwards. The oaths alone are vital. In lightning flashes, and with terrible candour, they reveal the genius loci." Are not these words, most of them, applicable to a collection of English limericks? A curious parallel! "A self-respecting Englishman would consider his life ill-spent had he not tried to add at least one limerick of his own personal composition to the national stock; it survives, or not, according to its merits"—how true! And what shall we write instead of Savonarola? We can write puritanism; indeed, we must. This verse-form is a belated product of puritanical repression. That is why Latin races cannot appreciate such literature. If you tell a Frenchman: II y avait un jeune homme de Dijon, Qui n'avait que peu de religion. II dit: "Quant a moi, Je deteste tous les trois, Le Pere, et le Fils, et le Pigeon" — he will look at you  in a dazed fashion, wondering whether he has heard  aright, while Spaniards are pos- itively shocked when  you translate for them a lyric such as: There was a young girl of Spitzbergen, Whose people all thought her a virgin, Till they found her in bed, With her quim very red, And the head of a kid just emergin'. They regard these things as dirty. Now tell them that all such "dirt" is the outcome of protestant theories of life, and that the poets of the Restoration expressed the same reactionary spirit in other metres, and they will suggest that you become a convert to the R. C. Faith which, they declare, is based on notions that are both cleaner and saner. "We don't require such ambiguous outlets," they say. It may be true. They may not require them. But they need them. For what have they not lost, these Latins, with their Catholicism! One limerick is worth all the musty old Saints in their Calendar. Saints are dead—they have died out from sheer inability to propagate their species; limericks are alive, and their procreative capacity is amazing. (One would like to know how many new ones are born every day.) The cult of Saints is mediaeval affectation; the cult of limericks, as I shall presently show, is a Bond of Empire. No doubt malnutrition plays a part, and Southern races are apt to be underfed. Limericks are jovial things. An empty stomach is hostile to every form of joviality; it can produce nothing like the generous and full-blooded lines already quoted. Our own half-starved classes are a case in point: they know not these poems. The well-fed youngsters of the universities and the stock exchange, commercial travellers for good houses, together with a wise old scholar or two—these are the fountain- heads. It is gratifying, meanwhile, to have captured a few specimens of what, historically speaking, is a protest against protestantism, and strange to think that our little ones would never have learnt to babble about the "old man of Kent, whose tool was remark- ably bent," or "the young man of Fife, who couldn't get into his wife," but for Luther's preaching and the victories of Naseby and Dunbar. Whatever may be thought of speculations such as these, there is no denying that limericks are a yea- saying to life in a world that has grown grey. That alone justifies their existence. They are also English —English to the core. Of how many things can that be said? Take only our other poets: can it be said that Milton, or Keats, are English? They may have been born in England, and they certainly write the lan- guage of that country—quite readable stuff, some of it. But how full of classical allusions, what a surfeit of airs and graces! Open their pages where you will, and you find them permeated by a cloying academic flavour; one would think they were written for the delectation of college professors. The bodies of these men were English, but their souls lived abroad; and the worst of it is, they carry their readers' souls abroad with them—abroad, into old Greece and God knows where, into the company of Virgil and Ariosto and Plato and other foreigners. There is none of that continental nonsense here. Limericks are as English as roast beef; they, and they alone, possess that harmonious homely ring which warms our hearts when we hear them repeated round the camp- fire. Wherever two or three of our countrymen are gathered together in rough parts of the world, there you will find these verses; it is limericks that keep the flag flying, that fill you with a breath of old England in strange lands, and constitute one of the strongest sentimental links binding our Colonies to the mother- country. Indeed, I should say that their political value is hardly appreciated at home, and that the Colonial Office might do worse than install a special department for the production and export of ever-fresh material of this kind (I have reason to think that such a department is already in existence). These planters and Civil servants, the cream of our youth, might often suffer from the irritation produced by living lonely lives in lonely places; they might often be at loggerheads with each other, but for the healing and convivial influence of limericks that remind them of common ties and com- mon duties and a common ancestry, and make them forget their separate little troubles. Or do you fancy they discuss art and politics in their leisure moments? If so, you have never lived among them. Can you hear one of them reciting cosmopolitan effusions like the Ode to a Nightingale or Paradise Regained? Let him try it on! When we consider the popularity of limericks wherever our tongue is spoken, it is surprising how few of them can be traced to a definite author. In no other branch of literature do we find so great a num- ber of anonymous writers, writers of talent and industry, sometimes of genius, whose labours have received no adequate reward or even acknowledgment. We hear of the Unknown Soldier: what of the Unknown Poet? Is he never to have his memorial? I have done my little best in dedicating to him the following pages. Another appropriate inscription would have been to Queen Victoria, under whose reign these verses achiev- ed their highest development. Edward Lear has been fruitful and suggestive. Yet it is open to doubt whether he was the actual inventor of such poems, as Professor Saintsbury {History of Prosody, III, p. 389, note) seems to imply; the verse must have existed before his time, but he popularised it and fixed the epigrammatic form. We have now abandoned his tiresome canon by which the last word of the last line is identical with the last word of the first; the chief difference, however, is that ours have a deliberate meaning, while his are deliberate nonsense. Limericks alone would have made the Victorian epoch memorable. That was the Golden Period. We are now in the Silver Age, the sophisticated age, the age of laborious ornamentation, such as: There was a young girl of Aberystwith, Who went to the mill they grind grist with, etc. or There were three young ladies of Grimsby, Who asked: "Of what use can our quims be," etc. or There was a young girl of Antigua, Whose mother said: "How very big you are," etc. or (a less familiar example of this exotic school) There was an old man at the Terminus, Whose b__h and whose bum were all verminous. They said : "You sale Boche! You really must wash Before you start planting your sp___ in us." Some of these baroque things are not without charm, but one gladly returns to the Aeschylean simplicity of the earlier period. I said that limericks were English; I should have said, English and American. Whatever one may think of America's achievements in other fields, it must be admitted that in this one she is a worthy competitor with the old country and that her productions are all that could be desired in point of structural excellence and delicacy of imagination. Not for nothing did the Mayflower sail westwards. And thank Heaven the cabin-passengers were puritans and not catholics! If, later on, these good people in- dulged in a little amateurish witch-burning out there, they have now made amends by the non-amateurish quality of their limericks. This verse-form, as we all know, is of yesterday, but, once imported into the New World, it struck its deepest roots into the soil most congenial to such a growth—the soil of the Eastern States. The New England regions are by far the most productive, and such examples as are here given have been garnered one and all by an assiduous lady-collector of Boston in the immediate vicinity of her home. Though dealing with different parts of America and of the world they are without exception a local product; so she assures me. I am sorry to have been able to include only a few samples from her richly varied store; sorrier still not to be able to thank her in this place for her kindness in allowing me the use of these specimens. She has made it a condition that her name shall not be mentioned in connexion with them. And this would bring me to the final and pleasant task of acknowledging my debt to a number of other contributors, mostly of a still youthful age. I find my- self, however, in a serious dilemma; none of them— no, not a single one—will permit me to print his or her name. Never did I have so many ardent collabor- ators, and never such modest ones! Their unanimity in the matter is both rare and praiseworthy, and yet I must be allowed to say that even such a commendable trait as self-effacement can be pushed too far, when it leaves another man in the awkward position of being unable to perform what he considers his duty. Modesty is no doubt a charming characteristic of youth, but I never knew what that word really meant, till I embark- ed on this little undertaking.”

(I edited two words )

#limericks #ribald

[clairekatswritingcorner]

Beauty and the Brute

Word Count: 2,113

Summary: Alexys and Jaws both struggle to understand why they mean so much to one another. As implausible as it may seem, their feelings towards one another are genuine, and sometimes receiving a reminder of this love is just what they need.

*Author’s Note*: A commission for @bad-blue-moon-rising. I found this new character pretty interesting, especially because I’ve never heard of him before. Alexys introduces me to a lot of neat and diverse characters that way, and I wanted to focus on the unique aspect of their love, because of course I did hfieljsefijes I hope you enjoy!

He was a man of few words, which made it hard to get to know him. He was extremely tall and brutish and intimidating, which contributed to his usual state of isolation. He still didn’t know how she’d managed to fall for him, if she really had managed to fall for him…her feelings were an anomaly much like himself. But maybe that also made them more believable to him. Because if he could exist, as bizarre and unusual as he was, then clearly anything involving him would automatically be associated with that kind of description, too. While not the most sensible problem solving, that was how his mind had always processed things, and it served him just fine.

Although the work he used to do involved a litany of bad decisions and criminal shenanigans, he wasn’t inherently corrupt. There were few things he could do, few places that would employ him as he was. Not as sharp as most other people, not as normal…that was a consistent black mark on his record. But the felons he ended up mingling with never seemed to care about that. They found his strength and stubbornness advantageous, even essential. Being needed in any capacity was a nice change. He knew it wasn’t really that personal, but a part of him couldn’t help framing things in such a way for his own benefit. He didn’t have to wonder if it was personal or not when it came to Alexys.

“I love you for you.” Those words were so unexpected, so special. Jaws struggled when it came to giving his own verbal confession due to the nature of another of his peculiarities. But he always did his best to communicate his love for her in every other way he knew how. Most of the time that involved gentle kisses and tender touches; he was relieved that she didn’t mind receiving the former from him, and even seemed to enjoy them.

“I really do mean it…I wouldn’t lie to you. Not about something like this.” She was cupping his cheek, staring into his eyes with an intensity and sincerity that would have toppled him had he been standing. “I can tell that you doubt it sometimes, that it’s hard for you to accept. But it’s the truth. I wouldn’t stick around if it wasn’t. I wouldn’t be trying so hard to prove it to you.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t believe her, necessarily, but rather that he didn’t want to drag her down. He didn’t want her to feel obligated to him, like she owed him something because of how their relationship had progressed. He was used to rejection, to being used instead of being treated as an equal. He was good at following orders, and for the most part that’s all people expected of him. That was the role he was relegated to, and for a time, that suited him just fine. At least it gave him something to do, provided him with some sort of purpose. He’d never been appreciated simply as himself; not until she came into the picture.

He’d tried to ask her why she felt the way she did. His words were usually garbled due to his enhancement, the metal in his mouth that gave him the ability to bite through practically anything. He rarely communicated in words, much preferring to rely on gestures and writing to accomplish the task for him. Alexys adapted to his methods quickly and easily, appreciating the fact that she was one of the only people who could connect with him like this. He was a lonely man with few acquaintances, and even fewer friends…but he had her. And he wanted to understand why she’d bothered to stick around him all this time, why she’d bothered getting involved with him in the first place. As far as he could tell, there wasn’t anything that significant or worthwhile about himself that would stand out to her or anyone else, catching their attention the way he had hers.

“Why do you like me?” he asked with both his words and eyes. She was lounging in his lap, cocooned in a blanket like a butterfly. He thought she was as beautiful as one, and in that case, he was the caterpillar that would never transform. She looked almost like a child compared to him, not because of her features, but because of their drastic size difference. It was like a deer and a lion, her being a soft, timid creature, while he was as imposing and intimidating as a wild Savannah cat. He’d been compared to Frankenstein’s monster more than once, but she didn’t pay any heed to those kinds of comments in a negative way. She just wanted to be with him, that was the most straightforward answer to his question. But she was happy to try to explain her more detailed reasons if he was that curious about them.

“Like I said before, I like you because you’re you,” she said with a smile, stroking his cheek with her thumb. “Because you make me happy. You make me feel safe and loved.”

He wasn’t sure how she could come to such conclusions, how he could possibly affect her in such ways. Sensing his skepticism, she elaborated further. “I was kind of surprised at first, too. I mean, I never expected to fall in love with someone like you. But that’s how love just is most of the time, isn’t it? That’s how you know it’s love…when it’s unexplainable, and you can’t stop it, and you can’t get the other person out of your head. When you don’t want to get them out. I’ve never wanted to get away from you. It’s always been the opposite, since the moment we met, at least that’s how it’s been for me. I was so scared to admit it at first, to myself and to you, but…I’m glad things worked out. I’m happy I was able to fall in love with someone like you.”

“I make you happy?” That was a first, and hard for him to comprehend. No one had ever really been thankful for him, the real him. They valued him for his talents, the unique traits that enabled him to do things no one else could. But that was the extent of his worth in most people’s eyes. With Alexys, she’d told him she liked him just for being him from the very beginning. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what it was that made her fall for him, because so many things had been mixed into the fray of her budding emotions. They were still growing, still developing the longer she was with him, the more she got to know him. And in return, he’d been experiencing a shift of emotions the likes of which he’d never even considered wanting before. He knew without a doubt that he wanted them now, though. That he wanted her, and only her.

“You make me happy, too. I’m lucky to know you. To love you. And to know you love me back.” He had to make sure she knew the truth. It was imperative, more important than anything else. She was more important than anything else to him. Because she’d given him the chance to have the kind of life he’d never thought possible. It would still be hard, still be abnormal, because he would always be that way. But he’d also be loved, sustained by the comfort and support he’d always been convinced he was certain to live without. When he told her things like this, it made her cheeks turn red and her eyes water. She buried her face in her sleeves and sniffled a bit as Jaws stroked her hair and hugged her closer.

She could tell by his touch he wanted to know what was wrong. She’d had a bit of trouble learning how to read his gestures at first, a hurdle they were able to overcome together. Especially since neither of them initially realized what was happening between them, the fondness they were forming for one another. It made most of their early exchanges awkward and off putting, concerning them both that perhaps they were doing something wrong to upset the other, when in reality their greatest obstacle was themselves. Their meeting had been a chance encounter, one that neither of them wanted to take for granted. They wanted to make things work…and with that mindset, nothing was going to stop them.

“Don’t cry, I’m here. You don’t need to cry.” He knew that wasn’t really what she needed or wanted to hear, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. He was always concerned when she cried like this, regardless of whether she was doing it out of happiness or sadness. He’d never been very good with emotions to begin with, but sensitive ones like these were even more perplexing. He’d experienced things that had made him cry before, because he was human like everyone else, but he tried not to dwell on those types of situations.

Most of the time he tried not to dwell on his emotions at all; when it came to Alexys, that conviction was useless. He never wanted to be someone that made her cry, that hurt her in any way—as a result, he did his best to be as careful and cautious with her as possible. But he couldn’t protect her from her own emotions, the mental states that left her feeling anxious and alone. Or the ones like right now where she was so overwhelmed with affection and embarrassment that she couldn’t hold herself back from shedding a few tears.

“I’m sorry, I just…” her voice cracked, and he winced. He just wanted to help her feel calm and happy again. “I just love you so much. And I can’t believe you love me…I mean, I guess I sort of can. Because I do believe you when you say you do. But it’s just…it’s a lot.”

“You’re a lot for me, too,” he explained, nuzzling her temple. “In a good way. I just wish I didn’t make you cry like this.”

She shook her head, wiping her eyes a bit. “No, it’s not you…I’m okay. I’m just being silly. Thank you for being understanding, though. Thank you for caring.”

From what he could remember of his life up to now, most of the people around him were quick to see him as nothing more than a brainless brute. He was naturally tall and imposing, imbued with an impressive amount of innate power. He ruthlessly followed whatever orders he was given, his strength allowing him to bulldoze through almost any target or obstacle that happened to stand in his way. He’d always done jobs that required those types of skills and was never really expected or even allowed to do anything outside of the physical tasks he’d been assigned.

He didn’t find such treatment very offensive or inconvenient, since responsibilities like giving his opinion or being involved in the formation of plans weren’t what he was hired on for in the first place. He was content to do his job without bothering to question or challenge his superiors. But Alexys had never treated him like he was someone to be manipulated, or someone that was somehow lesser to her. On the contrary, she’d always looked up to him (both figuratively and literally) as someone who brightened her life and showed her what true happiness could be.

“I’m not the best with words.” He thought her observation was a little ironic, considering who she was speaking to. “I’m sorry I can be so difficult to be around…”

He shook his head and leaned down to kiss her forehead, his eyes radiating with the depth of his love for her. “You’re not difficult. You’re wonderful.”

She was still regarding him with unconvinced eyes, but he needed her to know that he was being genuine. He’d never been more confident about anything in his life. He moved in and gave her a deep, heartfelt kiss. She felt like she wanted to cry again but did her best to refrain. It was only because everything was so blissful—she was nothing less than ecstatic right now. In the arms of the man she loved, enveloped by his soothing embrace. And he could feel her weight and hear her breathing; her simple presence was a gift, a delight. That’s what she was to him, what she’d always be in his eyes. Someone who brought him joy and taught him love. Little did he know that in his own way, he’d done the same for her.

#self insert #selfinsert #self ship #selfship #oc x canon #self insert fic #self insert fanfiction #selfship fic #selfship fanfiction #self insert commissions #selfship commissions #my writing #claire writes #one shot #bad-blue-moon-rising #commission

[bellossoim-blog]

A Loose Thread, Letter Two (part one)

More of my NaNoWriMo story from last year. It doesn’t look like I’ve edited it, and it certainly doesn’t read like I’ve edited it - but trust me, I’ve edited it.

This part is possibly even more drawn out and convoluted than the last part. My apologies - that’s literally just how Bella speaks. Or writes.

Salutations, dear reader! Before I launch head-first into a new story plucked from my personal history, I must take the opportunity to apologise for the delay between messages: Over the past cycle or so, I have found myself in a somewhat complex sequence of events, the entirety of which has required a great deal of attention. 'Tis nothing grave or serious, so I urge you not to worry about me - I often find myself in scrapes far worse than this, so 'tis no matter to me. I am simply conscious of my obligations to you, and I do not wish to leave you wanting without any form of explanation.

But what a fool I am, blabbering on about such things! After all, it is not the present I should be regaling you with, but the past. That is the whole point of these exchanges of ours, is it not? Though I must admit, it has been so long since my last letter that I forget exactly where I left off. I have told you the story of the elf and the three princes, I trust? And of young Bella's acquisition of "A Road Rarely Travelled"? 'Twould only be fitting to start at the earliest point and move outward from there, I suppose - and I have faith in the Bella of the past to have laid much of the necessary groundwork.

The duty falls to the Bella of the present, therefore, to finish what has been started. You know of my infancy, and of my budding fascination with the occult and other much-unloved subjects, so now would be the perfect time to tell you of my first foray into the world of mystery I admired from a distance for so long. And what better example to give than the story of how I came to meet perhaps one of my closest allies?

So settle down, dear reader, and I shall tell you the tale of my dear friend Fetcher.

Now, some years had passed between the end of our last story and the beginning of this. Through... complications, relations between myself and my family grew strained in the years following the elf's departure, and as such, I had departed from my home and all I knew in my mid-teens. Perhaps it comes as no surprise that, as my knowledge of the dark arts grew, the relationship between my family and myself became strained somewhat, and that our parting was on less than pleasants. I shall not labour you with the details though, however, as my intent is to inspire and encourage with my tales, and the animosity that was born between myself and my blood is anything but uplifting. Perhaps I shall tell you it another time, but - not now. Not today.

The important fact to remember is that I had left home some years prior to the beginning of this tale - almost a full decade, if my memory does not fail me. There were nearly thirty years tucked beneath my belt, though as I look back on it in my present state, I still cannot shake the feeling that I was but a child even then. It astounds me to think on just how little I knew, and how naive I was at the time...

Yet for as little credit I give my younger self, I suppose I had learned something on my travels: practical things, matters of survival, and more theory concerning forbidden magicks, hauntings and unnatural events than you could shake a summoning wand at. It had taken me far longer than I suppose it should have, but I had gradually grown more adventurous the longer I had spent out on the road. Gone were my initial apprehensions of venturing into the unknown void that lay beyond home camp. Gone too was my clumsiness and inability to act alone. I was no seasoned adventurer - even at the time I was well aware of my shortcomings on that front - but I was more prepared than I had ever been before; prepared enough - or so I had believed - to make some real discoveries of my own.

As I have briefly mentioned, I had amassed an abundance of research surrounding matters of the occult, largely concerning potential sites of interest and unexplained events that had taken place within areas local to me as I travelled the country. It is unsurprising, given my bookish origins, that my interest piqued when I was passing through the uppermost regions of the Southern Point, and I heard a rumour of strange goings-on occurring about the site of an old, dilapidated library.

In spite of my rather predictable gravitation towards the tomes and documents I no doubt hoped the library would still possess, I suppose that my younger self's reasoning was, indeed, sound. With only minimal research into the building, I found that it had seen many fascinating, unnatural events over the centuries - even the paltry scraps of information I could find concerning the library gave me considerable reason to believe that it had been of continual thaumaturgical significance long after its collapse, most notably appearing in the unpublished works of Dureaux the Blackheart, a renowned dark magician during the Age of Reunification; and also making a footnote in the Scheppen Chronicles Vol. XIV, among other less reputable publications concerning witchcraft, demonology, and dimensional and planar disturbances. Needless to say, I was enthralled with the idea of such a place, and it was easily the most viable site I had come across from which to conduct my first real hands-on research into the field.

Plotting my venture to the library carefully, I decided to make a stop briefly at the nearby village of Culchainn, with the intention of resting and purchasing any supplies I would need during my investigations. Being a nomadic woman of practical appearance and impractical interests, I had little means of attracting business and as such had little coin in my possession, much to my misfortune. As such, I had come to the village on bended knee in the hopes that a kindly soul would offer me shelter for a night or two in exchange for any menial service of their choosing.

Culchainn proved far more pleasant than many of the villages I had visited prior, in that my presence was not greeted with outright suspicion. 'Twas more a hamlet than a village in truth - a quiet little hole with scarcely a dozen folk even in the busiest of travelling seasons - and my experience in such isolated places had largely been unpleasant to say the least, with word travelling so fast and neighbours being so close, resulting in an almost instantaneous storm of fear and outrage descending upon me the moment that even one of the village folk caught me deviating from their cultural straight and narrow.

In stark contrast, Culchainn opened up to me with cheery greetings and heartily took up my offers of service, almost all of them enthusiastically inquiring if I knew a little magic to aid in their chores. It was refreshing, to say the least, and novel that I had so many offers from which to choose. Eventually, I settled upon aiding the tavern-keep, as it seemed both the most pragmatic choice to take, and the most likely outlet from which to gather more local information before my departure.

So it was that I was allowed to stay with the tavern-keep. After I had aided her with her evening chores (which, if memory serves, turned out to be little more than a bit of cleaning and tidying in the storage cellars, a job I was more than happy to take), I was free to mingle with the village folk and ask them what they knew about the library.

I learned many tales that night, though few gave me much insight into the library itself. Many of the people present were completely unaware of the place, and most of those that knew of it could share no knowledge I had not already ascertained from my earlier research. That did not mean that my night was entirely fruitless, however - I learned much of Culchainn's history, and as the villagers began to notice my fascination with such subjects, they regaled me with the legends that surrounded the foundation of the village.

'Twas an intriguing tale, and I suppose it explained much about the greeting that I had received upon arrival. As they told it, Culchainn began its life as a simple waypoint, built by a wizard that had become lost in the great plains centuries ago. The wizard had been wandering the wilderness in search of their lost love or some such - the specifics were largely lost on the village folk, and was otherwise much too mundane for me to take a particular interest in that aspect of the narrative. At any rate - regardless of their purpose, the travelling wizard spent many cycles travelling the wild landscape, searching fruitlessly for the one they longed to find. Afore long, the wizard had exhausted their provisions, but still, they would not call off their search - nor could they even if they wished to, so lost they had become.

As I was told, the wizard began to grow delirious through lack of food and water, and weaker with each day that went by. Countless cycles had passed since they had started their search, and even in their haggard, frenzied state, the wizard knew that death was coming for them.

Yet it was here, just as all things looked to be lost for the poor soul, that a vision finally came to them. Whether 'twas mere madness coalescing in their dying thoughts or a true manifestation, no one can truly say - but as the wizard struggled on, they spied the face of the one they had been searching for all this time. Too weak to run, they cried out to their loved one in the hopes of catching their attention.

And yes, their beloved heard their cries, and they came to the poor traveller. But as they approached, the wizard could see their sunken cheeks, their rotting flesh, their bloodless features.

'It cannot be,' said the wizard, reduced to tears at the sight of the corpse-like vision. 'I cannot have been searching in vain. You cannot be dead. Tell me this is not true.' But the vision did not answer. Instead, as the wizard sank to their knees, the decayed hand of their lost love gently gripped their shoulder - and as the light began to ebb away, the wizard heard a voice.

It said, 'Forget, and start again.'

The next the wizard knew, they awoke to a bright new morning. They found themselves sprawled across the grass, and quite alone - there was no sign of the morbid vision that had haunted them. However, they found a package bound in cloth lying at their side as they arose. Curious, they opened it and found a loaf of bread, a skin of water, and a roll of parchment. After sating their hunger and their thirst, they unfurled the parchment, hoping to find some clue as to who left them such a mysterious present; some explanation for the strange events that had taken place on these wild plains - but it yielded nothing. There was no message, no map, not even an incantation inscribed. 'Twas nothing but a blank scroll.

The wizard sat, and the wizard thought. And when the words of the vision came back to them, they began to laugh.

'Forget, and start again,' they said aloud, their heart feeling lighter than it had for who knew how long - for though the parchment was blank, never before had they received a message as clear as this. And so, abandoning their fruitless efforts and pledging to rebuild their life, the wizard built a waystation on the plains, to protect any other unprepared traveller from making the same mistakes as they.

'Twas at about this point in time that I lost interest in the tale, primarily because it was here that myth gave way to mundane fact, but also due to my frustration at the blatant holes that littered this clumsy narrative: fascinating though the principle of the tale may have been, I was - and still am - unable to overlook the fact that the starving wizard driven mad by such an inhospitable wilderness could, after some bread and water, suddenly regain the strength to construct a building, and - even more inexplicably - miraculously gain the ability to sustain themselves and any passing travellers on the surrounding flora and fauna, when such skills clearly were not possessed by the wizard before their encounter with their morbid vision.

Still, the tale spoke volumes about the hospitality I had received and provided me with some food for thought concerning the potential arcane properties of the surrounding landscape, however hazy the information provided to me may have been. Though I had learned nothing of note concerning the library itself, I retired to bed satisfied in the knowledge that, at very least, Culchainn was not without its share of ghost stories.

I awoke bright and early the next morning, bidding the tavern-keep and the villagers I passed good tidings as I made my way down to the open road leaving north. However, as I reached the very edge of the village, a gruff voice called me back. Startled - and wondering if perhaps my luck with currying favour with the people of Culchainn had run out - I turned back and was greeted by a fellow I had not seen the night before at the tavern, a fact which made me ponder, as I could not imagine why a complete stranger would call me back so, especially using my real name.

The fellow was a private, shadowy sort - the kind of fellow one could adequately describe as a "lurker" if one was so inclined: hooded and covered from head to foot in dark, heavy clothes which obscured the entirety of their being. They were leaning casually - almost arrogantly - against the outermost wall of the tavern, overlooking the northern road. I recall them raising a gloved hand to me and beckoning me closer as they called roughly to me once more. I cautiously approached them, curious to see why they summoned me.

They asked me where I was headed. I saw no need to hide my destination from them, and so told them of the library, and of the mysteries I hoped to uncover there. I remember distinctly that the lurker snorted at me, seemingly disgusted at what I had told them. They then told me that they had set up camp near the ruins of the place a few nights prior, and advised against me doing the same. When I inquired further into their insistence on such matters which did not concern them, and asked (with unabashed enthusiasm, if I recall) what dangers or strange events they had encountered to warrant such a warning, they, unfortunately, gave me very little information, though what they said fascinated me greatly.

'Do not misunderstand me,' they told me (or something to this effect - my mind has not worn well in recalling the specifics). 'I saw no beasts at the ruins, nor was I set upon by any maligned foe. No physical threat befell me, oh no. But 'twas the air of the place, child, and the dreams that it conjured in my head - only a fool would dare remain there longer than needed. I urge you, little one - please reconsider your course. The ruins are no place for the uninitiated.'

Well, as they say, that was it, wasn't it? An evil air? A library that summoned haunting dreams? There was no way of talking me out of going now. Though the lurking fellow was quite clearly discouraging me from my destination, my adoration for that which I could not explain won out. I thanked them for the information but apologised that I would not be able to follow their advice.

I expected resistance of some kind, but the cloaked individual merely retained their indignant air. 'So be it,' they grunted. 'I have tried my best - if a child does not heed my warning, far be it from me to shelter them from their own stupidity.' Stupidity, indeed! Yes, I remember that part clear as day. There are some occasions upon which you are slighted that are not easily forgotten, and that, for me, is one of them. Stupidity, my foot... Yet before I could ready a fiery retort to their insult, the lurker simply waved a hand and stalked away.

Frustrated by the strange person and their foul disposition, I fumed for a spell, watching as the pompous cowled twit sauntered back through the village. However, there was little point in stewing in such negativity. After all, the opinions of others on my decisions paled in comparison to the importance of new research. I decided to ignore their insults just as I discarded their advice, and turned back to the northern road. In spite of the stranger's words, I continued my journey towards the library, unknowing of the events that would unfold as a result of my defiant decision.

#soim speaks #writing #belladonna #i can't believe how often i write about libraries #seriously i need to write about other places #also #resining #this is... more... story...? #i am not sure this constitutes as more story #long post #rambling post #ridiculous post

[dgadsby-ejournal]

Final Evaluation

Project Title

This title of this proje ct is ‘SECTION  26’, I think this was the best option out of the other ideas I came up with. I considered calling it ‘Christmas 1980’, ‘The Rendelsham incident’ and ‘What happens next’. I found that ‘SECTION 26’ worked well because It didn’t give anything away, it also gives the idea that there might be something to do with legal documents or an area like area 51 which is significant in the world of UFOs. ‘SECTION 26’ is also the section of the freedom of information act that allows information to be exempt if it is likely to compromise the integrity of the UK’s national security. This is relevant as it comes to light during the book that things were covered up and documents regarding the events were graded as secret by the UK government. Another reason I chose this name is that at the end of the book there are pictures of bodies, after the reader gets informed of the use of drugs by the us government - the word ‘section’ has connotations of captivity and mental illness.

 Subject

The subject matter for this project are varied. Most of the shots in the book are landscapes from around the area of the incident and the rest are studio images. Apart from images I also included a lot of the released documents surrounding the incident. I think the use of these documents help the project move along as a more coherent narrative. The images of the landscapes are also very revealing, they help the reader to place themselves in the events and have a visual context for the images. Also the studio images of the object help the reader to understand the writings more quickly and easily. For example the tape recorder next to the transcript of the tape allows the reader to imagine Charles halt using the tape in the forest. Also the image of Charles halt at the beginning and the images of the actual forest they were in further helps the reader to draw a visual picture in their minds when reading the book. I think to improve this coherence there should have been less of a jump in some of the locations in the book. The books follows a geographical narrative and sometimes this can move too quickly for the reader to understand fully why they have move to curtain places (i.e. the beach images).

 Visual Research

I didn’t do a great deal of visual research for this project, I looked and some project including Afronaughts by Cristina De Middle. This helped me to understand different ways of sequencing and using writing and images to create a coherent project. Most of the research I did for this project was just getting a good idea of how the events happened and in what locations so I could translate the story visually in the images.

 Aims and Objectives

My main aims and objectives for this project were to create a coherent narrative and to convey the story in the simplest yet most interesting way. I also wanted to diverge from the truth as you go through the book. This helps create a feeling of doubt in the reader. Some sections are full of facts and others are just made up. The challenges with mixing fact and fiction is that this doubt can go too far and the reader can just start to think that the shocking facts are not actually true. Every bit of writing in the book is fact and the only things that is fiction in the story are some of the images in the last chapter. I am not sure if the reader will believe all the text when some of the images are so clearly fiction. I also aimed for a coherent story to work throughout the book, a big influence to this was the book ‘the new village’ by John Spinks, which follows three main chapters, the beginning is slow and calm the middle is completely involved in the village and its people and the ending draws back out again. This is the thing about photobooks that is most interesting to me, the way it can go up and down from start to finish and aren’t just a collection of images. This was a big influence when making this book.

  Production

I have said a lot about my aims to create a coherent narrative within the project. I found the production of a book was something that made this a lot easier. As opposed to an installation on a wall which is what all my previous project have been, the viewer is not shown all the pictures at once and like film you can unveil things in an order that suits the narrative. I found making a book was a really good way for me to bring a project together and not just make a statement but tell a story, this was a refreshing change for me. The challenges with producing a book were the amount of images and the subsequent time management and organisation that it required. I found it hard to organise taking all of the images that I wanted, as I didn’t plan my time out effetely and I did not allow for set back of which there were many.

 Presentation

I think there are good and bad point to be said about the effectiveness of the communication of my ideas here. Regarding the visual presentation of the work I am happy with it, I believe the images are all of a similar style, as is the text and documents, the cover also fits in well with the visual style of the project. I think there is room for improvement in the effectiveness of the presentation of the narrative. I think in places the book seems to jump too much and the reader is slightly left behind. I think as you go from the ‘unexplained lights’ section the reader is taken off on a tangent of pictures of the beach for too many pages, before realising the lighthouse is of significance to the possible explanation of the lights seen in the forest.

  Evaluation

Overall I am happy with the project. I think there are things that I could have done differently and also given more time I would have wanted to produce the book and then come back to it after some time with a fresh perspective. I completely overwhelmed myself with information about the incident, then I felt I was making some decisions about that order and narrative that made sense to me because I knew a lot about the story and not realising that I should be making decisions in terms of a reader coming into the project blind. I am however happy with all the images in the project and I feel they are all of a similar aesthetic which helps the project gel together. If I was to do it again I would allow more time for the images to be taken and do less planning and take more pictures and then plan after and pick out the best. I would also be more careful to check for spelling errors before the final print.

#5IMAG003W.2 #Page

[autolovecraft]

There were cities under the moon.

He could not wait to decipher or identify. An old servant forced the carven lid, shaking as he did not belong in the clock it was derived.

And then, as a mystic not altogether ignorant, recognize much that is the writing of books, which views the external world from various cosmic angles.

A potent nimbus, brighter than those which Randolph Carter's wandering only what we dream. But the autopsy said that he did so he slowly started the levitation of his being—especially those phases which were to happen later? Inside the Snake Den on the hill. Now there was none. The nearest thing I can recall to these parchment characters—notice how all the distant relatives of Randolph Carter reeled in the angle of regarding.

The convention of assumed pity spilled mawkishness on his prism in awe and half despair, for like the hieroglyphics on that box had contained: matters of which his presence had demanded. The fourth man was non-human, terrestrial or extra-terrestrial, galactic or trans-galactic; and as he resumed in his coat pocket walked on up to the sky. These revelations came with a light-years—thousands of light-beam envelopes. There was a large sphere, or why he approached the rack of tablets.

Rain had long forgotten. He was in his right upper claw, exact image of one ultimate, eternal Carter outside space and time-transition and the spectral wooded valley dipping down in shadow to dank hollows where trickling waters crooned and gurgled among swollen and distorted roots. On every hand pressed the illimitable vastness of the Gate—had seen on human countenance before.

Curious concepts flowed conflictingly through a brain dazed with unaccustomed vistas and unforeseen disclosures. When these things of him. Inertia and force of personality which at once established inquiries concerning Randolph Carter's wandering only what we dream. This heavy, material silver key and made vague motions. I do not believe that Carter had met de Marigny and Mr. Phillips laid a hand on the hill where his little telescope—given him by the First Gateway had taken something of stability from him in order that he saw that their dreams might open the Ultimate Gate's opening. How long is this foolery to be sure of his boyhood dreams, but well fitted to the hills behind crumbling Arkham—the fragment or facet of an important reality and significant human events and emotions debased all his forebears for forbidden cosmic secrets was a human discovery—peculiar to a loftier grotto beyond—the three-dimensional phase of an earthly 1928 in time and space, of Chicago, is motionless, and when he strove not to be? He spoke, it was really immaterial to what he radiated, and Phillips, who was sinking ponderously to the inner worlds are slaves, since the death of his being—especially those phases which were to accomplish that which all the twilight sea wherein the bearded and finny Gnorri build their singular labyrinths. Almost stunned with awe, and how to use that key? He artfully fashioned a waxen mask which would be better if we didn't know, but now there poured from that limitless Mind a flood of knowledge and memories of Zkauba. He saw now, in a chilling and awesome silence full of queer fancies. With his dreams fading under the moon. The cold of the old days, and it is written in the pitch darkness and rubbed his hand and spoke softly. And while there are besides the known directions of up-down, forward-backward, he said, had been left vacant and untended through his neglect since the beings of the age he could not be sure of his handkerchief as he passed it, remote and alien world revolved, and not to provoke me to act for him. As they sat more erect, their outlines became more like those which had at once cleaved to him that this key had come.

Maybe we'd know who you are! Perhaps with eyes and perhaps with imagination he perceived that he was in the south, who for years bore patiently with his duties in weaving spells to keep near the dreaded cave called the Snake Den on the opal throne of Ilek-Vad, that a new and conflicting set of memories. The starting-day was a hideous gnawing of cold, a man in 1928. A great fear clutched him as guide, they may mean that Randolph Carter stopped in the New Orleans conference and has never been; and even as he half saw that the Companions had been settled in 1692, or a still remoter creature of trans-galactic; and with a key, which the entity that was not wholly unfamiliar to him, for it had been a dual hallucination. Now it is written in the beckoning vistas of dreams, and he could easily have been more prudent had they been content to offer the sonorous rites and emotional outlets in their burrows, and learning things about our planet that once revolved around Arcturus; could turn a human Carter into one of the Saracens that held him captive; and form no escape from life. I leave it to strange advantage. Half way up Elm Mountain, on the opal throne of Ilek-Vad, that before that eon-weighted city, the Providence mystic, was there no satisfaction or fulfillment; for the days of his bondage he had found the car. As well, he reflected, is fully ten years his senior; and yet to know that one is no difference betwixt those born of real attainments.

He clumsily drew a long envelope from inside his loose coat and handed it to you by the Carter-facet in prodigious waves that smote and hammered and seared unbearably in the French Foreign Legion in the least the reproofs he gained for ignoring the noon-tide dinner-horn altogether. It was there also that he alone of living men had been settled in 1692. At the sunset hour, when man was non-human, and when he had chosen, and furnished his Boston home to suit his changing moods; one room for the Congregational Hospital.

I don't believe he's an East Indian. Some day his descent into the solar system may be. Inertia and force of personality which at once cleaved to him because of its professors; or feel to the brink of madness, were a limitless confusion of beings of the unknown and utterly exotic workmanship, four men were sitting around a document-strewn table. But Aspinwall had already launched a reply. He realized that he was to be a part of himself, and his curiosity regarding the space-time continuum, or a four-dimensioned gaseous consciousness in an antique box a great gambrel roof stood black against the dim west. He took out the velvet and deserted lawns shining undulant between their tumbled walls, and I believe I know how to interpret this rumor.

You see, even when all Nature shrieked of its subtler properties you know? There floated before Carter a cloudy pageantry of shapes and scenes which he hinted that the Companions had been an entity beyond the Veil still unrent before our eyes. There was a huge key of tarnished silver—nearly five inches long, of Boston on the morning he was seeking, so close on their pseudo-Swami had meanwhile released his other hand and was now inexcusably late. He wondered at the clawed, tapir-snouted denizens trafficked. The floor of the abyss had warned him again and again, neither heeding nor knowing the wishes or existence of the cosmos in terms of fragmentary change-involving perspective, whose sole value lies in their graves a quarter of a tri-dimensional world, universe to universe, yet without dissolution of the inconceivable future.

I am glad to say, my manifestations on your planet's extension, the panes of the strange visions of the estate of a labyrinth of inexplicably fashioned metal under a waning moon and only one emerged where two had ventured into an ancient graveyard—but when they told him something odd once about an old unopened box with the rag carpet and exposed beams and corner-posts, and learning things about the whole trip to 1928 and back; for he saw that the queerly arabesqued silver key was gone—presumably with Carter—and ever after that the animal pain of a blindly impersonal cosmos. Do you want to scare your Aunt Martha in the body, nor did he neglect a small store of gold bullion in October, too, was that for which the clawed, tapir-snouted denizens, bizarre metal towers, unexplained tunnels, and of the forest was mossy and mysterious, and still stranger requests. Let us think slowly and dearly. He fumblingly laid on the hill. And some things in Ulthar, beyond the First Gate. Wise men told him it was to be heavily cloaked, like the hieroglyphics on that which his eyes ostentatiously on the way of feigning human shape on Earth, though held by a forgotten sculptor along the living cliffs of glass overlooking the twilight sea wherein the bearded and finny Gnorri build their singular labyrinths. As the Shapes produced by the breakfast table. So Carter bought stranger books and sought to keep near the Snake Den gained a new and portentous meaning, were a limitless confusion of beings far outside the Gates command all angles, and large, white-haired, apoplectic-faced, side-whiskered, and at some unplaced familiarity. Then there was the Guide's own throne. I shall not try to tell you that I could give, but nothing of the abyss seemed to be a part of himself, and can ask such questions. He wondered at the hideous Necronomicon had vaguely and terrifiedly, the dreaded snake-den in the notions of the archaic, dream-illusions to the hills was balm to his learned host, do not believe in anything, but would plunge like a dizzy precipitation through the weed-choked fissure at the edge of reality, which the entity Randolph Carter into one of his dreams; and being reassured, skipped off across leagues of twilight meadow and spied the old Carter place, they turned him instead toward the two, but who now living saw behind the ruins at no distant period. It wearied Carter to grasp such things as past, present and future. The masses of towering stone, carven into alien and incomprehensible designs and disposed according to the lurking fauns and aegipans and dryads. Carter. People remembered what the lawyer's apoplectic fist. With his dreams throughout life—was at last he conceived a wild plan of escape from life to a wholly inexplicable rattling and buzzing sound. The clock's abnormal ticking went on, the boy had found in a box of ancient oak.

#H.P. Lovecraft #E. Hoffman Price #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Python #Markov chains #THe Silver Key #1926 #Through the Gates of the Silver Key #1932 #1933 #Silver Key week #Randolph Carter