#i should pronounce her skin texture more the next time though

[khanidae]

Something a little different: concept sketches because I can't commit to drawing actual reference sheets for these guys. Humans are a struggle...

#rahim #alois #olga #1312verse #oc #i still like the little grayscale alois sketch #i think thats the only one where i managed to capture his likeness #his face is insanely difficult for me to get right #i dont have a faceclaim plus he lacks any “outstanding” features #besides blandness #if he was be a spice he'd be flour #and I do like how Rahims face came out on his fullbody pose #really feels like him somehow #olga is honestly the least difficult of them but thats also due to me not being so hellbend on a specific design #funky face goes brrrr #i should pronounce her skin texture more the next time though #human #mild nudity #still insanely amused by the fact i accidentally created the german flag with their hair colors

[downwiththeficness]

In the Bond-Chapter 16

Summary: Lilah often wished she’d never said yes to working with the Gecko brothers—usually while dodging gunfire. At no time was she regretting that decision more than when she’s hanging upside down from the ceiling, staring down a group of hungry culebras and one (1) extremely powerful sun god.

Word Count: ~6,100

Warnings: Smut

A/N: This is an AU of my Story In the Blood, which can be read here. Basically, this fic explores what would have happened if Lilah had met up with Geckos before she met Brasa.

Taglist: @symbiont13

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Lilah woke unwillingly. Rolling over, she scrubbed at her eyes, still swollen from crying herself to sleep. Brasa had held her closely as they drove away from a home Lilah wasn’t sure she would ever return to. She’d managed to hold her tears for about ten minutes, and then her will had given out.

In her state, Lilah could be forgiven for how long it had taken her to notice that they weren’t on course for Brasa’s bar. When she’d asked where they were going, Brasa had simply said, ‘home’.

‘Home’ was quite literally carved into solid stone. Accessible through an elevator hidden cleverly in a low rock formation. It opened into a completely dark corridor. Lilah let Brasa lead her by the hand into the darkness, looking back only once to catch Javier reaching down to close the doors to the elevator carriage, shutting out the only light.

Blind, Lilah’s step had faltered. Brasa took it in stride, wrapping an arm around her and acting as her guide. They reached a door, which opened to… ‘home’. It was, she supposed, average in size, though she hadn’t paid much attention to the architecture. Brasa had cosetted her in yet another deliciously comfortable bed and she had spent the rest of the afternoon and evening putting off Brasa’s questions regarding her well being.

To be fair, Lilah hadn’t known how she felt the night previous. She still wasn’t sure how she felt. Her emotions wavered between indignation and deep depression, both of which made her head ache. She pushed the covers back and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

Padding quietly to the bathroom by the illumination of a small nightlight shining near the door of the bedroom, Lilah went through the motions of cleaning herself up. No stranger to a rough night, she was unsurprised to find shadows beneath her eyes and her hair in disarray. A quick look in the vanity drawers found a comb that the used to gingerly comb out the tangles.

After washing her face, Lilah made her way to the bedroom door, peering out into the hallway. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, she tip toed towards the living room. In the few moments that she’d spent standing at the threshold, waiting for Brasa to shrug off his coat and hang it up, she’d noticed how sumptuous the furniture was—an overstuffed couch, soft carpets, dark and heavy woods. Everything was all rich fabric and soft textures. And yet, it was strangely bare. No pictures, no art, no...personality.

As she made her way deeper into the house, Lilah came upon Brasa sitting in the plush chair, a book in his hand. Head bent over the pages, he looked...so completely normal that she had to blink a few times to make sure that it was, indeed, him.

Sensing her approach, he looked up, eyes assessing, “How did you sleep?”

Lilah watched as he closed the book, setting it aside, She watched as he stood and approached. She watched as he became more concerned as she failed to respond. He grasped her above the elbows, head dipping to catch her eyes. Lilah couldn’t hold the gaze, and felt ridiculous for it.

“You should eat,” he pronounced, turning her and leading her gently through a set of double doors to a small, intimate dining room.

He bade her to sit, moving past the room and through to the kitchen. Lilah leaned her elbows on the table, resting her head in her palms as she waited. Drowsy from too much sleep, she blinked lazily into the middle distance, until movement in her periphery caught her attention.

Brasa approached, a plate in one hand, a glass of water in the other. He placed both before her, nudging the plate when she hesitated. Lilah looked down at what he made, a small chuckle sounding from low in her throat. Eggs in a basket. Toads in a hole. He’d remembered.

Charmed, and more than a little grateful, Lilah picked up the fork and cut into the edge of the toast, nicking the egg yolk. As she chewed,  she glanced over at Brasa, who was watching her. Though his posture was relaxed, there was a sharp light in his eyes that signaled he was studying her carefully.

“He will change his mind,” he said casually, gesturing smoothly with one hand.

Lilah paused, swallowing, “What?”

Brasa smiled, “Seth. He will change his mind.”

Eyes falling to her plate, Lilah busied herself with cutting into the second piece of toast, “You know that?”

“I do,” he answered.

“How?”

He shrugged, “I’m old.”

“You’ve mentioned.”

With a smile, he countered, “Old enough to know how men like Seth think. He’ll be mad for a while, but if he cares for you—and I think he does—he will come around.”

Lilah sighed and leaned back into her chair, “I’m so mad at him.”

Brasa nodded, saying nothing, waiting for her to continue. She looked to the ceiling, trying to gather her thoughts, to sort her emotions in a way that made any kind of sense.

“I know he’s struggling to accept…” she gestured broadly, “All of this. I mean, I’m still trying to accept it. But...the way he treated me, like a…”

Lilah stopped, ‘kid sister’ sitting like lead on her tongue. Her eyes closed as the implications of her own thoughts sunk in. He’d treated her just like a kid sister, an annoying kid sister that didn’t know what they were doing. And, somehow, that made her feel worse.

Sensing her unease, Brasa leaned forward and touched her hand, brushing his fingers over the back, “As I said. He will get over it.”

Casting him a sorrowful look, she murmured, “I hope so. We’re friends, you know?”

“I know.”

“And,” she continued, turning her hand over to thread her fingers through his, “I still want to be friends.”

He nodded, giving her hand a squeeze before picking up her plate and taking it to the kitchen. Lilah fiddled with her glass in a kind of soft resignation. This would have to play out however it was going to. Pushing the issue wasn’t going to make things better. Neither was dwelling on it. Still, she gave herself permission to feel sad for a while. That seemed fair.

Brasa returned and held out a hand to her, which she took. They walked amiably back to the living room where he sat her down on the couch and handed her the remote.

“I have some work to do,” he explained, leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of her head, “It’ll take a few hours. Then, we’ll decide what to do for the evening.”

Lilah spent maybe half an hour scrolling through the many streaming services that were on the top menu of the TV, amazed that Brasa had gotten so fully up to speed on modern entertainment. Furtively, she glanced through some of his watch history, smiling when she noted that he’d made it all the way through every season of House and, oddly enough, had recently watched The Princess Bride.

Eventually, she settled on restarting Drunk History from the beginning. Prior to signing on with the Gecko brothers, she’d watched a few episodes a month in her down time. There were always TVs on in the bar, so she’d never thought to purchase one for her room. Now seemed a good time for some comfort.

Brasa had been right when he’d said that his work would take a few hours. Lunchtime came and went, Lilah making her way to the kitchen and finding that he’d stocked it with some basic staples. They were going to have to take a shopping trip, though. The man had eggs, bread, a bag of various fruits, and a jug of milk. Her guess was that he’d googled basic foodstuffs and had run with it.

After eating her meal perched over the sink, Lilah washed her dishes and returned to the couch to start the next season. That was where Brasa found her, half asleep, stretched out over the cushions. He smiled as he approached, reaching down to lift her legs and sit, draping her feet over his lap.

“Done for the day?”

He shrugged, “In one manner of speaking.”

“What does that mean?”

Another shrug, “Benny’s following has grown again. We think he’s turning a few humans a week.”

Her brows came together, “What does that mean for you?”

Brasa took a few seconds to think about it, his fingers drawing little circles over the sensitive skin of her ankle, “It means that he is likely going to resort to violence, and soon.”

Lilah felt her muscles tense, a kind of latent anxiety rolling along her body, “How do we prevent it?”

Looking at her, his expression was soft, but sure, “I don’t think we can.”

She sat up, disbelieving, “Why not?”

Turning a little bit so that he could prop his arm up on the back of the couch, Brasa explained, “Men like this…there is only one thing that checks them, and I promised you that I would look at other options. He wants blood, will be satisfied by nothing else.”

Lilah pulled her legs up and under her body, folding her hands in her lap, “We can talk to him, right?”

“We tried that.”

“For like two seconds,” she countered, her anxiety melting into frustration, “There has to be a way. Nobody has to die for this.”

Head tilting to the side, he said, “When has, essentially, a coup, ever not resulted in bloodshed?”

Lilah rolled her eyes, “This isn’t a coup. Its...an administrative change.”

Brasa shot her a look that very clearly said that she was bullshitting, “In their eyes, I have taken away their way of life. You know this.”

She shook her head, “You’re giving them a better life. A life where they’re not hiding in the dark, picking off humans, and running from local hunters.”

“Some don’t see it that way.”

There was a kind of finality in his tone, a tension borne of having had this argument over and over with different people. Lilah sighed and wriggled deeper into the couch, feeling not a little bit petulant.

Brasa reached over and took her hand in a loose grasp, “This is not the first time I’ve brokered peace—did so just recently with the most stubborn people I’ve ever met, if you’ll recall.”

She laughed, “Yeah. There were a couple times I almost threw something at one or all of you during those meetings.”

One side of his mouth quirked up, “I could tell. You do not hide your feelings well.”

“Um, excuse me, I think I do,” Lilah shot back.

The little quirk in his mouth widened to a smile, “You do not. At least, not from me.”

Again, she rolled her eyes, “That’s because of the bond.”

He hummed in the negative, “You have a very expressive face.”

Lilah scoffed, “I have an excellent poker face.”

This earn her a low chuckle, “You do not.”

“I was able to keep the bond a secret for months.”

Brasa leaned into her space, his hand running up the length of her arm to settle behind her neck, “Richie knew within seconds of seeing you the night we met. And Seth’s powers of perception are mediocre, at best.”

Lilah was not too proud to admit that she was a little dazed at how close they were, coffee and caramel filling her senses. He’d given her a lot of space over the last twenty four hours—she wasn’t even sure where he’d slept. She found herself yearning to crawl right into his lap and stay there for the rest of the night, and some part of her figured that he’d probably let her.

But, while he’d been working, she’d been thinking. And, the first order of business was to get some food that would make more than one kind of meal in the house.

“We need to go shopping,” she said, smiling when he tilted his head to the side in confusion, “Groceries. We need them—well, I need them.”

Brasa gave a curt nod, rising and pulling her to standing, “Do you want to go now?”

Knowing that she looked pretty fucking bad, Lilah shook her head, “Let me get cleaned up. I’ll be out in about forty minutes.”

She took her time with getting ready, making sure that she washed every inch of skin, shampooed and conditioned her hair, covered her dark circles, and put on some fresh, clean clothes. As she dug into her bag for socks, her phone and the case for her comm fell out. She touched them gingerly, noting that there was no service and that the comm was redundant, given that she didn’t have anyone to connect with. She tucked both away.

In the end, it took a little longer than forty minutes, but Brasa didn’t seem to mind. When she emerged from the bedroom, he was lounging on the couch, CSPAN playing on the TV.

Lilah’s eyes narrowed, “Why are you watching this?”

His eyes scanned her lazily, taking her in, “You didn’t think my entire business was in medical supplies, did you?”

She shrugged, “We never discussed it in detail.”

Reaching for the remote, he turned off the TV and stood, “I like a diverse portfolio. Keeps things stable  across the board.”

Lilah knew nothing about stocks, and even less about portfolios, “I’m sure that’s a good strategy.”

“It can be, though some people prefer a more adventurous technique.”

She moved towards the door, looking over her shoulder at him, “But, not you.”

He followed, “No.”

That tracked. Every decision Lilah had ever seen him make was calculated with brutal efficiency. Brasa did nothing by halves, nor did he make impulsive decisions. It was one of the things that Lilah liked most about him.

The hall was dark as it had been the day before, a chilling lack of light—except for a small triangle in the distance, the illumination so dull that it almost didn’t look real. As before, Brasa took her hand, leading her. As before, she went willingly. Unlike before, Lilah was alert enough to ask questions.

“What is this place?”

Brasa’s voice sounded next to her, “I’ve already told you.”

“Yeah, but what is it?”

They neared the light, and it was cast in shadow for a moment as Brasa pressed the button, “I needed a more secure place, a place to allow myself true rest. A place where I could keep you safe, when the time came.”

Leaning into his side, she asked, “Because of Benny?”

Though she couldn’t see him, Lilah felt him shake his head, “I have lived a life of nearly total violence. That comes with a cost.”

And, here they were, back to the same conversation they’d had at least twice before. Her safety. Her weakness. Her humanity—though, not her mortality.

“You think I’m safer underground?”

The doors opened and Brasa ushered her inside, “Only Javier and I—and now, you—know about it. It is secret.”

She smirked at him, “I’ve always wanted a secret hideout.”

He returned her mirth, “I live to serve.”

They held hands all the way to the surface and up until Brasa helped her up and into an SUV that was hidden in what basically amounted to a hollowed out rock. Lilah had to hand it to them. If she hadn’t known that this was here, she would have never guessed. There was literally no indication that the formations were anything but rocks, once all the entrances were closed.

She looked up a local store and they headed out, guided by the navigation in the dash. As they drove, Lilah drew up a list on her phone, having memorized her standard grocery order long ago. To it, she added a few items that she might not otherwise pick up, telling herself that she deserved a treat or two after the emotional fallout of her confrontation with Seth. She also decided that she was going to pick up a few bottles of wine.

Lilah had to admit that she never once thought about what it would be like to see Brasa in such a mundane setting. She doubted that he did his own shopping, what with Javier taking care of most menial tasks. Now, she was watching him step through the automatic doors of a local supermarket, his head turning to glance at her for direction.

It was surreal. Truly surreal. Lilah had the insane urge to laugh as she looked from him to the milling crowd that parted around him. She caught a few curious glances from them, even further amused that Brasa seemed to take no notice.

Shaking herself from her thoughts, Lilah took his arm and led him to the shopping carts, pulling one from the long line and taking a moment to study the layout of the store. Tall shelves were lined one after another, stocked full with wares.  Veering to the left, she headed for the bins of fresh fruits and vegetables.

Lilah was intimately aware of the way Brasa observed her going from bin to bin, picking out one or two and setting in the cart. He gave her space, but paid attention to how she chose her wares. Lilah mostly ignored him, focusing on trying to get enough to last her at least a few days.

As they passed the dairy aisle, Brasa finally said, “Things have moved...so quickly in the last few hundred years.”

She was leaning down to pick up an extra carton of eggs when he spoke, her head turning awkwardly to look at him, “What does that mean?”

He pushed his hands into his pockets, giving a shrug, “Advancements that would have taken a millennia several thousand years ago now happen in a hundred.”

Putting the eggs in the cart, Lilah thought about it for a moment, moving slowly towards the canned food, “I suppose you’re right.”

“I am,” he pronounced, smug.

She scoffed, pulling cans off the shelf to stock the small pantry behind the kitchen. Her voice, when it came, was tinged with a tease, “I’m an ancient vampire, I’m so smart, and I’ve seen everything.”

His laugh was soft, but genuinely amused, his chin dipping down towards his chest in a movement that was nothing short of demure. If Lilah were just some anonymous person in this store, if she were looking at him for the first time in that moment, her breath would have caught—as it was now—and she would have scurried away feeling so completely embarrassed at finding a total stranger so endearing.

As it was, she wasn’t anonymous. He very much knew her, a thought that would have been no less than frightening a year ago. Lilah felt no such fear now, only warmth that unfurled comfortably in her chest.

Brasa steered her down an aisle, gesturing at a shelf full of Gatorade, “Javier has sent me four texts reminding me that you will need this.”

Mouth open, Lilah stared at him in confusion for several seconds, “I will?”

He nodded, “Javier is adamant that I keep this in stock. He says you prefer the red color.”

Agog, Lilah asked, “How the fuck does he know that?”

Brasa cast her a look that said she should know the answer to that question. Javier might be quiet and unassuming, but he was better than the FBI at finding out the minutiae of people’s lives.

“Okay,” Lilah relented, “He’s right, but I don’t know why you would need to keep it on hand. Its not like I’ll need to constantly replenish my—oh.”

Without another word, Lilah leaned down and picked up two packs, setting them in the cart. She lost her battle to keep the nervous laugh at bay when she glanced at Brasa’s smirking face. He wasn’t even trying to hide the satisfaction in his expression. To give herself something to do other than smile stupidly, she turned her attention to navigating to the check out.

Brasa was quietly helpful in loading the groceries onto the conveyor, and Lilah didn’t miss how he maneuvered around her to pay before she could get her card out of her pocket. Casting him a knowing smile, Lilah moved past him, hands briefly touching his hips so that she could slide out from between the partitions to load the cart.

A few minutes later, she was pushing it out into the warm, humid night, and towards where he’d parked the SUV. A few more minutes, and they were making their way back to what she was going to continually call the ‘secret hideout’. The title brought a small, ‘secret smile’ to her lips.

As they pulled to a stop, that small smile turned into a grin. She looked to Brasa, “You’re about to be witness to an ancient human custom, going back at least a century.”

Head cocked to the side, Brasa looked at her in confusion, “I believe I am aware of most human customs, ancient or otherwise.”

Rolling her eyes, Lilah hopped out of the car and made her away around to the trunk, pushing the button to initiate the automatic open. She’d only picked out enough food to last for the week she promised him when he’d been negotiating her stay. Lilah was not going to think about how she likely would have to extend her stay indefinitely.

Lilah reached down and looped a few bags over her arm, “So it goes like this: No matter how much you buy, you never, ever, take more than one trip to get it in the house.”

Brasa looked at her arm, laden with bags, and back to the rest, his brow rising, “I...was not aware of this custom.”

She fixed him with a serious look, “Its a very important tradition.”

A little crease formed between his brows as he studied the bags they had left. Lilah swallowed the laugh that threatened to break the whole act apart, and hefted a few more onto her free arm. Brasa looked at what she carried, then leaned in and snagged the rest, hoisting them effortlessly in one arm.

She stared at him, chastising herself for forgetting how powerful he really was. She chastised herself further when she stayed right where she was as he reached up, closed the trunk, and tugged one of her arms free of the bags. It wasn’t until she was looking at his back as he opened the door to the elevator that she was able to make her feet move.

As they made the descent, Brasa shifted the bags to one arm and took her hand, turning it over to see how the bags had made little creases in her skin in the short time before he’d taken the load.

“I don’t understand this tradition,” he muttered, thumb rubbing at her palm.

Lilah smirked, “You don’t have to understand it to be a part of it.”

His eyes lifted from where they were studying her skin, “You are right. Some things just are.”

She had the distinct feeling that he wasn’t talking about defeating the grocery bag challenge. The weight behind his gaze made that place in the back of her mind flare up, the bond almost stinging her. Reflexively, her fingers curled, wrapping around his thumb.

There was a clinical ‘ding’ and the doors opened. Adjusting his grip, Brasa led her into the hall and to the door. A few taps, and the door opened. They carried the bags into the kitchen and Lilah took her time figuring out where to put everything.

As she was standing in the middle of the kitchen with a small bag of potatoes, Brasa’s phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket, held up a finger, and stepped from the room. She looked at the place where he’d been for a few seconds before shaking herself to attention. The potatoes could stay on the counter.

It was then that her stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten in several hours. With new food to choose from, she found herself a little bit at a loss as to what to make. In his kitchen, bare save for the food and the tools she needed to cook it with, she again longed for comfort. Broccoli cheese soup, it was.

With renewed purpose, Lilah began assembling the ingredients and putting a pot on the burner. She hadn’t made this particular recipe since high school, when she was still living with a family that she hadn’t talked to in years. Her hand on the knife paused as she took that in.

When she was running dangerous jobs for shady people, she had deliberately cut them off in fear for their safety. Now, she knew she could definitely never rekindle that relationship. What would happen in ten years, twenty, fifty, when she didn’t age, when she didn’t die?

Sniffing, she set her mind to cutting the broccoli florets into one inch pieces. There was no need to deepen the emotional anguish she’d experienced this week. She could do that at another time. Just to be safe, she opened a bottle of wine and left it and the glass on the counter to breathe.

As she was preparing to stir in the cheese to thicken the broth, Brasa returned. He leaned against the counter to watch her cook, arms crossed.

“Work?” she questioned lightly.

He gave a nod, “Javier worries.”

She hummed, glancing over her shoulder at him, “And?”

Pushing from the counter, he touched the small of her back. His hand traveled around her waist to rest just below her belly button. Lilah leaned into him, her head tilting to the side so that he could lay his chin on her shoulder. She relaxed into his hold, stirring slowly, in no hurry to move. Eventually, the soup thickened up as it was supposed to, and she reached up to turn the burner off.

Brasa already had a bowl ready for her, a spoon in his other hand. Lilah took it with a grateful nod and ladled a serving for herself. Rather than sit at the dining room table, Lilah hopped up onto the counter and spooned some into her mouth.

“You going to answer my question?”

His eyes dropped, though his mouth quirked in amusement, “He thinks we should be more aggressive with Benny.”

Lilah waved her spoon at him, indicating that he should continue.

“I find myself wondering if I should follow that advice.”

“Why?”

He sighed, his shoulders slumping, “His numbers grow along with the recklessness of his actions. He attacked a hotel last night, slaughtered the guests and staff. The police are investigating.”

Swinging one leg, Lilah asked, “You can’t buy them, bribe them to close the investigation?”

“We are working on that. The police chief is...remarkably stubborn about policy. Javier wants to eat him.”

She should not have laughed, but the thought of the prim and dapper Javier ripping the throat out of a police officer did not mesh together. He’d be too worried that he’d get blood on his suit.

When she finished, Lilah slipped down from the counter and rinsed out the bowl, setting it in the sink to clean later, “You want to watch a movie?”

“I could do that.”

“Cool,” she replied, already heading for the living room, grabbing the bottle of wine she’d opened along with the glass, “Where do you keep your extra blankets?”

She picked the softest, fluffiest one of the bunch and threw it over them both as they sat next to each other on the couch. Wine glass in hand, Lilah flicked through the streaming channels, already knowing which selection she was going to make.

His hand on her thigh, Brasa settled deeper into the cushion, letting out a light chuckle as she hit play, “I like this one.”

“Me, too,” she said, shifting so that she could lay her head on his shoulder.

Warm, full, and comfortable, Lilah found herself drifting even as Princess Buttercup argued with the Dread Pirate Roberts. The familiarity of Brasa’s scent wrapped around her and the story on the screen made everything inside her loosen for the first time since she’d left behind an angry Seth—well, that and two glasses of excellent wine.

By the time the credits rolled, Brasa had leaned back into the arm of the couch, pulling Lilah down to lay atop him. Her body pressed against his, Lilah soaked up his unnatural warmth. His arms held her loosely, but his hands were firm on her back and hip.

Lilah pushed up on her hands, looking down at him, “Thanks for bringing me here.”

“Of course,” he said, a little too quickly, “Of course.”

She smiled, dropping to an elbow and kissing him. Intending it to be a sort of ‘thank you’, Lilah started to pull away only to feel Brasa cup the back of her neck and hold her in place as he twined his tongue with hers. He warmed beneath her, burning hot, body arching. Lilah pulled her knees up underneath her, balancing on one hand so that she could run the other down the front of his shirt to pull it from where he had it tucked into his slacks.

He lifted his hips when she moved around to the back, his own hands roaming over her jean clad legs, pulling on each so that she sat astride him. And then, in a move she could have never accomplished on her own, he swung his legs over the edge of the couch and stood. Her ankles crossed to anchor her body on his hips, her hands grasping frantically to clasp the back of his neck. Lilah laughed as he kissed her cheek, her neck, her shoulder, all the while moving towards the bedroom.

He laid her carefully on the bed and systematically undressed her. Shoes, socks, jeans, underwear, shirt, bra—everything was peeled off without ceremony, without patience. Lilah was stripped bare before her brain caught up to the fact that this was actually going to happen. And then he was crawling over her, his mouth sealing over hers.

He kissed her like he was starved, as if he might never kiss her again. Deep, unrelenting kisses that left her gasping beneath him. She reached up to to get at the buttons of his shirt, managing to get one or two free before he was moving down her body, nuzzling the skin between her breasts. Thumbs circling her nipples, he drew one into his mouth, releasing it with a wet sound. He licked at her biting down gently, and laving the spot with his tongue.

Shifting a little to the side, Brasa pulled her knee up and around his waist, fingers drifting so that he could run them up the length of her slit. She keened, spine arching up so far that her shoulders lifted off the mattress. Her skin was seared where they touched, sizzling with sensation that only seemed to grow. He massaged her in wide circles, the pad of his forefinger brushing over her opening.

Rubbing his cheek against her, Brasa moved steadily downwards, kissing and sucking and nipping until he rested between her spread thighs. If Lilah had any thought that he would ease into it, those thoughts were shattered by one long, enthusiastic lick. Sighing into the motion, he sucked at her folds, emitting a contented growl when her legs tightened around his shoulders.

He held her open, wedging his massive body into her hips until her inner thighs ached with the strain. Lilah was beyond caring, her fingers digging into the pillow beneath her as she rose higher and higher towards orgasm. There was no teasing, no drawing this out. Brasa worked with a singular purpose, tongue swirling around her clit, hands holding her up to his mouth.

She grit her teeth, the need so vast and deep that it became a vibrant pain, soothed only by his touch. It tunneled down deep into her bones, sticking in her throat when she cried out, the spasms raking over her voice so that it came out hoarse and rasping.

Lilah breathed forcefully, eyes squeezed shut as he worked her through it, easing up when she shook, too sensitive. When she was able to look down at him, he was rolling his tongue over his lips, eyes focused on where she was still fluttering sporadically. Her mouth went dry at the sight, the hunger that he wasn’t even attempting to veil.

The hand on her hip rotated, and she felt him push two fingers inside her, the motion sending little frissons of electricity over the nerve endings. She shivered. He smiled, fangs peeking out. Then, he brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean, black gaze watching her reaction. Lilah bit her lip, giving up totally on controlling her breathing.

He kissed his way up her body, settling atop her. Lilah pulled him even closer, yanking at the buttons of his shirt. It was nearly impossible to focus when he was kissing her, hands turning her head so that he could nuzzle against her neck, inhaling. She gave herself some credit. She got his shirt unbuttoned and halfway down his arms before she got distracted by a particularly hard nip just above her collarbone.

Hissing, she pulled him up, trying to gain a little leverage to push him over onto his back. Lilah was not successful. He held her down, smirking when she made a small sound of frustration.

“I want,” she started, a whine cutting off the rest of the words.

Brasa caught her hands, holding them down onto the mattress with almost his full weight, “What is it?”  

Oh, now he wants to tease, she thought.

“Is this what you want?” His hips swiveled in a slow, firm grind, “I’ll give it to you, if its what you want, querida.”

Lilah moaned, writhing beneath him, desperate to get the friction she needed. She was close, close enough that she was willing to forgo any sense of pride to get there.

“Yes, yes,” she breathed, head thrown back as he rolled his hips against her.

He let go of one of her wrists, and she felt him reach down and open the fly of his slacks. Lifting off just enough to kick off the offending material, Brasa laid back down, gathering her to him. The next kiss was venom soaked, sweet and hot. Lilah groaned, pushing her hips into him, needing to feel him inside her.

Brasa slid in to the hilt in one strong, fluid motion that filled the emptiness inside Lilah completely. Her breath stuttered in her lungs, her legs lifting to accommodate him. He was so fucking hot—his mouth, his body, his cock. Sweat pooled in the hollows and bend of her limbs, darkening the hair at her temple. She gripped his shoulders, pulled on the shirt he still wore, caught by the buttons on his cuffs.

And then he was moving. The sound of his cock pushing into her wet body, the feeling of him both easing and stirring the blooming ache of her arousal, the way he ground out a helpless sound against her neck. It all meshed together, overwhelming her until she could do nothing but hold on as he fucked her.

The pleasure grew inside her, reaching into every inch of her body. She wailed, head thrown back, fingers fisted in his hair. Spurred on, his pace picked up, breath punching out of him when she raked her nails up his back. It took very little to push her the rest of the way over the edge, the feeling spiraling through her.

Brasa’s grip on her tightened as he thrust into her one last time, his spine arched, lips pulled back from his fangs. She could feel him pulsing, could feel every reflexive spasm as he came.

When his strength returned, Brasa rolled gingerly off her, his large hand tracing down the center of her body to rest heavily on her belly. She grasped it, holding him by the wrist as she caught her breath. Lilah looked over at him, smiling at the fact that he was still wearing that shirt, though she’d torn the collar and it was wrinkled beyond nearly all recognition.

Her fingers touched the tear, “That’s going to be a difficult one to explain to the dry cleaner.”

Brasa smirked as he unbuttoned the cuffs around each wrist, “I may keep it like this.”

Lilah’s brows lifted, “Like a memento?”

He hummed in confirmation.

“I didn’t realize you were so sentimental.”

Throwing the shirt off the side of the bed, Brasa laid on his side, observing her from where he’d perched his head on his palm, “I am not, generally. But, with you…” He trailed off as he leaned down and kissed her softly.

#from dusk til dawn #from dusk til dawn: the series #Brasa #In the Bond

[imagine-loki]

The Slutty Webs one Weaves

Title : The Slutty Webs one Weaves

Chapter NO. 3 of 10?

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki’s Asgardian wife learns women write fanfiction about him on a trip to Midgard. She’s edgy for the duration and lets him have it when they get back.

Author: lokilover9

Rating: M

Notes: Hello everyone. I will get to writing another chapter of Irked, but for now, here’s a mini crack fic. Should be good for a laugh or two.

Thor was bodybuilding to a song by Right Said Fred, when his phone rang. ...'I'm too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt, so sexy, it hurts…' "Hello?"

Tony held the phone from his ear and yelled. "DO YOU…" The music suddenly stopped. "...ever look at your call display?"

"Sorry, flying human. Was working my gluteus maximus."

"To the detriment of my earius drumius."

"Oops. How's life?"

"Riveting in the last twenty four hours. You alone?"

"Jane's in Vegas with Darcy."

"Perfect. Think you can you put aside selfies with groping seniors and visit me ASAP?"

"The cougars are more troublesome. Their claws resemble a bilgesnipes. Bloody frightening."

"Buy Hulk bandages. Well?"

"Sounds serious."

"It is. I've a friend that wishes to meet you and it's mandatory you oblige."

"Who?"

"Can't say until you agree to abide by our terms of said meeting."

"Tony, are you in cohorts with an enemy?"

"Thor, are you on crack?"

"Don't know what that is."

"The universe is grateful. Please listen. You cannot hitch a ride with Mjolnir, or come by plane. You must drive here and take every precaution to avoid being recognized or followed. Most importantly, keep it secret."

Thor gave his word and was blown away by what he learned. "Spoil her rotten if need be, I'll foot the bill. Do 'not' let her leave."

"I'm a billionaire ya silly arse, remember? Start packing."

After gathering his suit pieces from the sixtieth floor, Stark went to tell Brianna, but she'd fallen asleep following a bathroom break, halfway through the movie. When Pepper went in there to clean, it looked like a photo from Architectural Digest.

Upon waking, Little Warrior was thrilled to hear the news. "Thanks, Iron Man. Where's Pepper?"

"Out buying you clothes."

"Yaaay!" *****

Thor arrived two days later and instantly fell in love with the girl. She showed him similar acts of magic Tony saw, but still wouldn't reveal anything more about herself. Her abilities and resemblance to Loki were so uncanny, he was ninety percent convinced she was his.

"Your quite talented, Brianna. Why is it you wish to meet my brother?"

"Based on in-depth research, I believe he's a sorcerer, yes?"

"He is."

"Good. I was hoping to ask him some questions about my abilities. Do you think he'll come?”

"I'm sure of it. Will you please stay with Tony and Pepper until we return?"

“I’ll be here.”

Tony rode the elevator down with him.

"How did she know Loki is a sorcerer?"

"I'm questioning the same. Only Fury, his bosses and the other Avengers know. None of us would spill the beans. I suspect Brianna's abilities are more extensive than she's letting on. How will you convince Prince Jezebel?"

"Who?"

Tony deadpanned. "Loki?"

"Threaten to tell Astrid."

"If it comes to that, have mercy and offer the guy some earplugs. Her drama queening is like fingernails down a blackboard."

"My sister in law's wrath will be a walk in the park compared to our Mother's. She's my backup plan."

Stark recalled Ellen Ripley's experience with an angry, Alien queen then pictured a seidre in its hand. "Have a nice trip, big guy." ***** On the morning Thor returned to Asgard, Astrid woke early to find Loki pensively staring out their bedroom window. "What's wrong?"

"There's no easy way to say this, my lovely. You continuously speak of longing to start a family, but this sneaking off realm without a word..it's left me hesitant to believe you're ready."

"Why?"

"Your temper flares and you often act without thinking. I keep questioning had we children…"

"They would've stayed with your Mother." She angrily started searching for attire. "But no problem. I'll stay on the pill."

"Is this reaction not a perfect example?"

"Maybe I'm insulted you think me so dumb!"

She slammed the bathroom door, started the shower and he walked out. "Nice talk, Astrid. Love you too."

Following a meeting with Odin, Loki saw Thor hastily approaching within the corridor. "Brother!" He called in a disingenuous pronounced tone. "How art thou?"

Loki was dragged by the collar into a side room and assertively shoved him off. "I've repeatedly warned your bullying days are over. Do that again and find yourself in another dimension. Painstricken."

Thor locked the door. "I'm disappointed in you."

"I've an extensive list of mutual sentiment. Make an appointment and we'll talk."

"We'll talk now. Stark and I believe you've fathered a child on Midgard."

Loki proceeded to laugh. "Impossible...ludicrous. There isn't a female there nor here I haven't used a termination spell on."

"While they slept?"

"Precisely."

"What about the time you woke naked in a dumpster in California? With no recollection of how you arrived there after leaving a club with three women? Which one did you fuck?"

"None. The last thing I remember were two pleasuring each other on a bed while the third was on her knees pleasing me, when everything faded into blackness. Crazy bitches drugged me. I never saw the route travelled, the house number, nothing, but the inside of a bedroom and then the dumpster when a pigeon rammed its beak into my nostrils."

"You aren't making sense."

"I let them blind fold me in the car."

Thor choked back a laugh. "Midgardian females tricked the trickster?"

"Do I look amused? That was the last time I drank from a bottle I didn't personally open."

"Just listen?" ~ A half hour passed. ~ "I understand your lingering skepticism. At least come help the child. If you don't, Tony fears she may leave without him knowing."

"Fine, but what exactly am I to tell Astrid?"

Loki returned to his chambers to find a note on their bed; 'Gone to my parents for a week to cool off seeing as though you think I'm always angry.' He tossed it in the trash and left one for her; 'My turn to disappear. Janes on vacation so I've returned to Midgard to bond with big brother. Do say hello to your parents, my lovely. Kisses.'

"Satisfied, Thor? Now how do we keep Heimdall from tattling?"

"By leaving immediately. His new trainee is on duty."

"Maxome? That nincompoop will send us into orbit."

"Don't let appearances fool you. He looks like a troll, but knows his job. And Maxi Waxi takes bribes."

Loki's eyes narrowed. "Who are you? Impersonating a Prince of Asgard is punishable by death." *****

The bifrost vanished and Thor's phone immediately rang. "Slow down, Tony. We can take portal taxi to…" The call suddenly ended. "...the Towers underground."

Stark exited the elevator in hyperdrive. "Holy shit, am I glad to see you guys!" He poked Loki's arm. "E..specially..you, fornication fabler. Whatever big guy here told ya? I've an update. Not only is my guest up there adorable and a bonafide genius, but definitely of a life form I've yet to encounter."

"Have you been eating Count Chocula again?"

"No, but I know what you're thinking and get in line. Pepper already threatened to duct tape me to a wall."

"Relax, flying human."

"I'm relaxed every second I'm around that kid. Can't a guy unwind a little? This is me unwinding, okay? Stop talking because I'm talking."

Both Gods locked their lips with imaginary keys.

"The day after you left, Thor, I suggested Brianna and I bake cookies with M&M's, but asked she not tell Pepper as I get in trouble for sugar highs. Then I jokingly asked if she'd ever hidden cookies in her pockets and she said yes. 'Interdimensional pockets'."

Loki cocked a brow.

"Pshh, yeah, hello? The next day, she demanded to know where the clothes she'd arrived in were. Pepper had put them in the wash and Brianna raced to the laundry room, swung opened our front loader with magic, gathered them into a ball and screamed at us while her skin turned blue and eyes Ruby red. 'DON'T TOUCH MY STUFF! DON'T 'EVER' TOUCH MY STUFF!' I just about fucking shit myself!"

The God sighed. "You 'have' encountered that life form."

"Notta, buddy boy. I would've remembered."

"Are you wearing a diaper?"

"Huh?"

"Maybe you should be." Said Thor.

Loki stepped away and partially revealed himself. His skin turned blue, but remained human in texture and eyes reddened like Brianna's.

Stark backed into a pillar. "What the hell are you?"

"Remember I said he was adopted and later educated you on the nine realms?"

"Uh hu."

Loki returned to Aesir form. "I'm a Frost Giant from Jotunheim."

"Ha! I'm not a loon, after all!"

"No one thought you were."

"I knew Brianna was yours and Pepper wouldn't believe me! Wait, isn't that realm mostly ice? Can you conjure it out of nowhere?"

"Yes to both questions, but it's exhausting without the Casket of Ancient Winters. Why?"

"Whatever that is. Little Warrior can too."

"What did you just say?"

"After yelling at us she ran into her ensuite and we followed to find ice crystals forming around the edges of the closed door. It wouldn't budge and with our calls going unanswered for a good ten minutes, I panicked, took an axe to it and hacked into a thick inch layer of ice on the other side. Brianna was out cold in the tub, slept through the hacking to reach her, then for another seventeen hours. We were frantic."

"Take me to her, now." He commanded.

"Why the sudden urgency?" Asked Thor.

Loki had a foresight he opted not to share. "Shouldn't we both be eager to meet a child so skillful without the casket?"

The trio entered the elevator.

"You better not be thinking of turning Heimdall into an icicle again."

Loki bypassed him and eyed Tony. "Eh he he he."

"Screw you, Snowflake. These are jeans and a shirt. Not a silk, pink robe and yes I'm wearing underwear."

Thor smirked. "Ah, the Boopsicle story."

"That's nice. I'll bet he told you the pink fishnets story too."

Loki pursed his lips and Thor stopped smirking. "No. No he didn't."

Stark tried a witty save. "Pepper looked great in them. Sucks to be you for missing it."

"You let my brother see your lady in fishnets? I'd never let another guy see Jane in lingerie."

Thor was being so daft, Loki laughed harder and Tony frowned at him. "Asshole."

They exited and as Virginia approached with Brianna, amusement never left Loki so quickly. Thor had said she was young, but this child craning her head to look up at him barely reached the height of his hip. From everything learned of her, he'd imagined one sturdier, yet she resembled a miniature ballerina. So delicate and beautiful, how was she the daughter of a Frost Giant? Yet the evidence couldn't be denied. He was staring into a mirrored image of himself in female form. Her body structure, ivory skin and elegant features. The striking eyes, thick lashes and hair so black, hints of blue danced upon it like the feathers of a Ravens in daylight.

'"Hello. I'm Loki."

She offered a tiny hand to shake which vanished amidst his as her voice invoked a strange sense of familiarity. "Hi. I'm Brianna."

'Og Min Lille.' He quietly whispered. Then as overwhelming guilt struck from not knowing of her existence, she made him chuckle.

"Mythology states you're the God of Mischief, right?"

"Correct."

Her smile was enchantingly impish. A perfect replica of his own. "Then I believe we'll get along splendidly." She addressed the others. "Kindly excuse us. I wish to speak with Loki alone. Right this way." Brianna closed her bedroom door gesturing to a chair, then sent a blast of light from her hand towards the ceiling.

He watched it spread in a clear ripple down every wall and politely asked. "What did you do?"

"Created a special sound shield. We'll hear them, but they can't hear us. Unless I allow it." That and bypassing Jarvis, was how she'd snuck back to the sixtieth floor the previous night to retrieve a backpack hidden there.

Loki concealed astonishment as he hadn't mastered that trick until his early teens. "Very impressive."

"Thanks and for coming."

"A worthy venture to meet a fellow magician."

Brianna sat on the bed and gave him the strangest look. A combination of curiosity, bewilderment and resentment were he to guess. "I did tell Thor my questions regarded sorcery, but those can wait. First, tell me everything about your ancestry."

She couldn't have asked an odder question based on his secret foresight. "Why do you wish to know?"

"Because you're the only person who can explain exactly what I am, 'Dad'. Now start talking or Jarvis bites it."

#loki #other #submission #Submitted fic #chapter 3 #the slutty webs we weave #lokilover9

[queen-scribbles]

Saoirse

@pillarspromptsweekly fill #59: Remember. I’m going with the way Saoirse Ronan pronounces Saoirse(SEER-shuh), since she’s where I got the idea from, but if you say it differently in your head that’s cool, too. :)

If Elihu fell behind one more time, she was going to leave him, Galawain as her witness. Saoirse huffed in frustration, the agitated breath pushing cinnamon brown curls out of her eyes. She wanted to show someone the estramorwn ruin, and who better than him, right?

Had she realized what his travel pace was going to be, she’d have brought someone faster. Like Jago’s pet turtle.

“El!” Saoirse hollered, only feeling slightly bad when he flinched, a vibrant butterfly flitting away from one of the flowers growing near his laft ear. She kicked the dirt to hide her embarrassment and raked her hair back again. “Hurry up or it’ll be too dark to see anything by the time we get there!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Elihu replied, green of his eyes deepening in amusement as he caught up to her. “Gods, I know you’re excited, Saoirse, but you know I stop for butterflies.” He shot her a teasing grin. “You’ve only had four decades to account for extra time when we travel together.”

Saoirse rolled her eyes and twitched her wrist so the bracelets encroaching on her hand slid back down her arm. “And you know you don’t have to stop every time.” It was wasted breath and she knew it; the only thing in this life more sure than her dragging Elihu on adventures was him pausing to indulge the winged insects who mistook his head or arms for flora and fauna. “And for the record, I did account extra time, just not this much.”

“Saoirse, my darling, my dearest, my brave adventurer,” Elihu chuckled. “It’s a ruin, love, it’s not going anywhere.”

“But the daylight is,” she said emphatically, jerking her head toward the sky.  “Hence my worry about it getting dark. And we don’t know what might be in there, so I don’t want to burn through all my spells calling down sunbeams so I can see.”

“Maybe there will be torches,” he said helpfully as they crested a ridge, reaching for her hand. Saoirse gave it to him without a second thought. Forty years they’d been doing near everything together, the barky texture of his skin had long since ceased to phase her.

“And maybe next time the butterflies can just try to keep up,” she teased.

It wasn’t too much longer before their goal came into view: a wide river, strewn with rubble, and on the far side, the crumbling moss-grown walls of an estramorwn castle. The gates lay fallen in, and there were holes in the walls at several points, but it was still impressive enough to earn a whistle from Elihu.

“By the Builders,” he murmured. “You’d think they would guard a treasure like this with their lives...” 

Saoirse scoffed. “You know the estramorwn don’t respect their past like we do. Or, at least, like we used to.”

“Saoirse, not this again.” He squeezed her hand and tugged her into motion toward the ruins.

She bit her lip and followed him. He was right, and besides, there was no one around she could try to persuade. He agreed with her, if less passionately. “If nomads we must be, should we not at least try to stay closer to our roots?” She’d heard the history of places of places like Twin Elms and Rock of the Tears, and burned with mostly-quiet fury that the estramorwn had spread enough to edge the shrinking tribes of Eir Glanfath from their sacred sites.

But that was a concern to voice before Father headed to the next Gathering. Right now she was standing outside a ruin that teemed with history; the last thing she wanted was to be distracted.

They made it across the river with relative ease, clambering from piece to piece of the crumbled bridge. Saoirse paused by the wall, scraping off moss and ivy to examine the stone underneath.

“El, look!” She pointed at the stone only a foot or so above their heads. “The kith who built it put their names.”

He joined her and brushed his hand over the timeworn carving, the millennia-old words barely legible. “They did fine work; it’s good they achieved some form of immortality.”

“Mmhm.” Her attention was already wandering through the tumbled gates, toward the collection of buildings protected within. She heard Elihu chuckle as he followed her through the overgrown arch.

“Where do you want to start?” he asked as the two of them stepped in to survey the layout of the castle.

“The big one, of course,” Saoirse smiled. She skirted the wreckage of an outdoor forum, its wooden seats long ago dry-rotted, and started hauling open the door of the main keep.

Elihu caught up in just a couple long legged strides and helped her pull open the heavy door. “Anything particular you’re expecting to find?”

“Rocks, moss, maybe a few artifacts that haven’t completely turned to dust yet?” she shrugged. “It’s been a few hundred years at least since anyone was in here. Who knows what shape they left it in.”

The main hall was fairly bare as they strolled up its length. Whoever had emptied it--looters or the former occupants--had done a good job. Still there was something about the room that called to her, as if she could feel the history of it swirling just below the surface. Close enough to reach out and touch, pulsing with familiar warmth.

Slightly offput by the familiarity of this room, but still curious, Saoirse detoured through one of the doors that opened off it. She found herself in a library, the shelves mostly empty. The few books that remained looked brittle, and one fell apart when she touched it. This room, too, felt familiar. Safe. Her chest tightened with emotions she could neither name nor explain. Taking slow breaths to calm herself, far more quietly than her norm, Saoirse ventured further into the library. She thought, ever so briefly, she glimpsed a dark-haired elven man reading at one of the tables. But that was ridiculous. This place had clearly been abandoned for at least a couple hundred years--

“The whole keep is falling apart, but this room does seem to have been particularly neglected.”

She flinched. “What?”

“What do you mean, what?” Elihu frowned. “I didn’t say anything.” He shot her a concerned look. “Hearing ghosts?”

“Very funny,” Saoirse sighed, tugging at one of her longer curls as she kept walking. It was a fairly basic library, if well crafted. Only the outside wall was anything special--half its width was covered by a cracking mosaic of adra pillars.

She froze at the sight of it. She remembered that mosaic--”Gareth, it turned out wonderfully!”--but how could she? The tightness in her chest morphed into a tingle, like a sleeping limb regaining circulation. She was vaguely aware of the quick scuff of Elihu’s feet as he came to an abrupt halt behind her, the soft rush of his breath on the back of her neck as he chuckled.

“Seeing another ghost?” he teased, but the voice was only half his. The other half was deeper, but still warm, rich. Kind.

She started and heard the tumble of books hitting the floor. The deep, warm voice--Kana, something in her prompted--was apologizing, but she was distracted by the books. Where had they come from? Where they there before? Either way, no sense leaving a mess. “It’s alright,” she replied, though the voice was too soft, too high. “And in a sense, yes? I was picturing what this place used to look like. What I want to make it look like again.” She cocked her head, smiling sheepishly. “Not that books have souls.”

“Well, you know what they say about good stories coming alive,” he said teasingly, setting the rescued books back on the table, and she laughed again.

“I’m tired of the library being so shabby, Kana,” she admitted. “I’m going to have the workmen fix it up next.”

The... sensation faded abruptly as an elbow dug hard into her back. Saoirse rocked forward, arms jolting out to keep her balance.

“You alright? What was that?” Elihu demanded, brow wrinkled in concern.

“...Nothing,” she tried, rubbing her forehead.

“Nothing? Saoirse, you were still as a rock.” The concerned furrow deepened.  “You were just... staring at the wall. That doesn’t seem like nothing to me.” He circled in front of her and cupped her cheek in his hand. “Did you see something?”

Saoirse forced a smile and focused on staring at the mossy patches above his eyebrows rather than meet his gaze. “Just my imagination runnin’ a little wild. Come on, I don’t think there’s anything to find here.” She briefly pressed his hand closer to her cheek before turning on one heel and marching out of the library without a backward glance. The tight, agitated tingle in her chest didn’t go away when they returned to the main hall. Indeed, it almost seemed to grow stronger, drawing her... somewhere.

The dais. She paced with confidence  toward the head of the room, eyes locked on the throne that waited upon the three-step rise. It was overgrown with lichen and ivy, but some hints of the ornate carving still peeked through. That was it, the source of the tug in her chest. The lichen came off far more easily than Saoirse expected, and her hand brushed the cool marble underneath--

“My lady, it’s so good to see you again!”

Saoirse jerked her hand back as if the stone had burned her at the soft yet delighted greeting. “Where-?”

Behind her, Elihu had tensed as well, both of them searching the chamber for whoever had spoken.

“I apologize,” the voice came again. It was close, Saoirse noted. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, it’s just been so long...”

“Startle’s a better word than frighten,” Saoirse said, still scanning for the woman speaking. “And I’m no one’s lady-- ‘cept his, I guess” --she nodded jerkily toward Elihu-- “and I don’t know who you are, but I’m pretty damned sure we’ve never met.” She wasn’t, not after the library.

There was a soft laugh that sounded as if it came from the throne. “Not in this life, perhaps. But your soul is a beacon, my lady, I could not miss it if I wished to.”

Saoirse looked back at Elihu. He shrugged, raising his hands in a gesture of ignorance even as his eyes flared bright with curiosity that seemed for once the match of her own. “Is that right? I’d think being... acquainted with a castle would be a memory that managed to poke through.”

“Souls are funny things sometimes.” The voice, which sounded amused, was definitely coming from the marble throne. 

Saoirse knelt on the seat and swiped at the lichen and ivy until it was mostly cleared away. The tingle in her chest grew stronger as she sat back with lichen under her nails to survey her handiwork. The throne was carved to resemble a woman, her arms the arms of the throne, her head and shoulders rising behind whoever occupied it. 

The throne gave a gentle, almost motherly, chuckle. “Ah, an elf this time.”

Saoirse frowned, playing with one of her bracelets as she parroted, “This time?”

Before the throne--statue?--woman could reply, the tingle in her chest erupted like flames catching tinder. Right before her eyes, the ivy and other growths vanished, though the hall still lay in ruins, covered in dust but bathed in a pale blue light.

“Another Watcher in Caed Nua. Glowing very brightly indeed to these eyes. A strange happenstance.”

“Who are you?” The question and the voice were both hers but someone else’s, as was the underlying curiosity. The same soft voice from the library, in fact. When she flinched in surprise at that, it shifted her arm into her peripheral vision. Only, it wasn’t her arm; lightly tanned and perpetually sporting bruises and scrapes from time spent outside. It was blue, marked by swirling silver designs, the wrist scarred under a trio of woven bracelets much like the ones Saoirse herself wore. She remembered the answer to her question even as a hand rested on her shoulder.

“Saoirse. Saoirse.” Elihu shook her gently. “Are you alright.”

She blinked and the ivy was back, curling around everything. Keeping her gaze on the marble throne, Saoirse raised one hand to cover the one Elihu had rested on her shoulder. She gave it a reassuring squeeze as she spoke to the statue.  “Steward.”

“You remember.” The Steward’s tone was wistful. “I’m unsure whether to be grateful or apologize that our connection had such consequences for you.”

Saoirse shook her head. “I... don’t think it was you,” she said slowly. Her mind was reeling from a literal lifetime’s worth of new memories, but she was pretty confident in that. “I think it’s just... being here.” She glanced around the hall, chest aching with remembered care. “The life that knew you... She bonded strongly to this place.” It wasn’t a question.

 “Moreso than any of the occupants before or since,” the Steward confirmed fondly.

“This was her home, in a way few ever find it,” Saoirse murmured, the ache flaring into pride at her home. But it wasn’t. It had been this past life’s, the Watcher. Lucky woman.

“Yes,” the Steward said, her voice warm with memory. “Lady Emiri fought very hard for this place. She even rebuilt it, twice. She was quite happy here, and I hoped...” She hesitated. “It might be foolish, but I did hope that bond would draw her--you--back. So I could see what you made of yourself in whichever life returned here. I take it from your attire you’re Glanfathan now?”

Saoirse nodded. “Trained as a druid, yes. My father is anamfath of the Twice- Split Arrow” --she squeezed Elihu’s hand again-- “Welcomers of outcasts.”

“A fine life.” The Steward’s voice brimmed with motherly pride. “It does me good to see you so happy, my lady.”

“Just Saoirse,” she corrected with  a chuckle. “Like I said, I’m no one’s lady.”

“If that is your wish, I will respect it, but you will always be my lady, Saoirse.”

“I’ve always wanted the loyalty of a ruined, sentient castle,” Saoirse joked. “I imagine there’s lots of exploring to be done here?”

“Oh, yes. A few parts have fallen into dangerous disrepair, however, so I would advise caution.”

“And the full light of day,” Elihu murmured in her ear. “If we’re not back soon, the rìow will start worrying.”

He was right and she knew it. The light was fading fast and this part of the Dyrwood teemed with predators at night. “Well, then I’ll have plenty of excuse to come visit, won’t I?” she said, both to him and the Steward.

“Oh, my-- Saoirse. I would appreciate that very much.” The Steward sounded so happy, Saoirse half expected her to start beaming, despite being made of marble.

“Alright, then. I have to train new druids tomorrow, but the day after, I’ll be back.”

“We’ll be back,” Elihu corrected. His hand slid from her shoulder down her arm, fingers linking with her own. “Exploring’s not a thing to undertake solo, Saoirse. And this place is fascinating. I’ll come with you.”

She flashed him a giddy grin before turning back to the Steward. “So you’ll see both of us the day after tomorrow, then.”

“I will look forward to it,” the Steward replied. The marble expression didn’t change, but her voice carried a smile.

After a beat more hesitation, bouncing slightly in excitement, Saoirse tugged Elihu’s hand and the two of them headed out the way they’d come. Elihu ducked as they passed through the doorway, narrowly missing a trail of ivy trying to snag on his horns.

Outside was darker than expected when they exited the hall, and Saoirse shifted by reflex into her cat form, removing any concern about seeing. She could only hold it long enough to get them back to the forest, but that was better than picking  their way across the rubble-strewn river blind.

“Well, that was..  an adventure,” Elihu said dryly, clasping her hand once more as they strolled briskly through the woods back towards camp. “Not every day you meet a talking statue.”

“Yeah,” Saoirse mumbled. She could feel Emiri’s sense pressing close to the surface, near-bubbling with excitement over something; though whether a memory or something else she couldn’t tell. The feeling of overwhelming, giddy joy only increased when Elihu squeezed her hand. Apparently her past Lady Watcher life had some strong, fond emotions tied to walking through this part of Dyrwood.

“It’s not where you are, it’s who you’re with, right?” that soft voice from inside the keep laughed in her mind.

“I would have to agree with you,” the deep, kind one Emiri remembered as Kana replied, his tone light and happy. “Good company can vastly improve all manner of circumstances, and yours is among the very best, Emiri.”

Saoirse felt the thrill Emiri was quick to tamp down as she shyly mumbled yours as well and bit back a smile. Oh, that’s cute. She was sweet on him. Wonder if she ever did anything about it. And why I’m seeing that now... She glanced at her hand, still clasped in Elihu’s.

“It’s not where you are, it’s who you’re with.”

She grinned as glimmering suspicion turned to near-surety. Well, even if she didn’t, I sure did. Impulsively, she pulled Elihu closer and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for having my back, El.”

He chuckled, and she could feel his bemused gaze as he squeezed her hand again. “Always,” he promised.

Warm as the sentiment had made her in the past, this time Saoirse couldn’t help but smirk. Darling, you have no idea.

--------------------------------------------

Time for notes!

I was all set to write this other, bittersweet idea I’ve been holding onto for ages that would have ripped my heart out in the best way, when randomly, out of nowhere, I remembered the chorus to Katy Perry’s “The One That Got Away” (”In another life/I would be your girl/we’d keep all our promises/be us against the world”) and my brain went HEY DO THAT INSTEAD. 

Obviously someone somewhere found a way to fix the, uh, Events of Deadfire’s ending. Not necessarily Emiri, just someone.

Saoirse and Elihu are both elves(Elihu is a nature godlike) and are childhood sweethearts

Yes, Elihu absolutely has Kana’s soul like Saoirse has Emiri’s. This is not necessarily Soul Twin-ness and is more I wanted to do something nice for my girl after the frankly ridiculous amount of crap she goes through as Emiri

So, yes, I gave her the guy she liked in a later life where both of them will live to be 250. Ish. They’ll be gloriously happy together and adopt kids and fluff will abound and no one can stop me. NO ONE.

Saoirse’s Awakened soul falls somewhere between what the Watcher gets with the Inquisitor and Aloth gets with Iselmyr(Emiri’s memories are more frequent, Saoirse gets a few little cipher powers on top of her druidic abilities, but Emiri’s voice isn’t ever gonna come spouting out Saoirse’s mouth)

I sort of played with the future of the world, since this is a good 500-ish years down the road, but I really wanted the Current Life to be Glanfathan, bc I think their culture is neat

All of the things Saoirse “remembers” in Caed Nua are from my fics or the game itself. There’s one from Secrets and two from Stories, then her conversation with the Steward is game dialogue. That last one(”It’s not where you are...”) isn’t, but now I wanna make it be

I think that’s everything?

Oh, and I absolutely did NOT make Saoirse in Deadfire to see how Oracle (Druid/Cipher) plays out functionally. Nope. Totally didn’t.

Didn’t use Emiri’s worldstate to do it, either.

#queens fic #pillars prompts weekly #emiri #(sort of) #pillars of eternity #now i wanna write more about saoirse and how her awakeing affects her life

[nevecaddick]

01/10/20

 MP1

To begin my research, I thought it would be best to begin bringing together ideas that are most relevant to the work I want to create in this project - to inspire me. A few of these images are photographs I had already sent in initially and others that I have found today.

In this moment in time, I want to produce a project around women. I quite like the idea of doing gender (men, women, transgender) in general, but narrowing it down to one gender seems like it would have a greater effect on conveying the tone I want the audience to feel when they look at my work. I want to translate a feeling of power, strength and bravery but at the same time still conveying an emotional side with weakness, imperfection, and perhaps fragility. In order to produce a project based on this topic, I will need to commit to thorough research and take the time to focus around what makes a woman, a woman, in a psychological sense rather than a biological one.

- Occupation - Education - Politics - Relations (family, friends, married/single) - Femininity (or perhaps, masculinity) - Hetro/bi/homosexual - Hobbies - Expectations - Fashion

I want my work to represent women by how they choose represent themselves. I want to capture exactly what is on the other side of the lens. For the most part, I want the subject to be natural and candid and to be following her daily routine, preparing for the next signifiant moment in her day. I intend to take photographs in a documentary style to capture particular points in time. However, to push myself, I would like to capture in portrait, under studio lights/equipment etc, to highlight certain features. Despite intending to capture this gender in a psychological sense, I think it would be interesting to capture the biological side of a woman, too, as it is what makes a woman unique. Photographing shapes and different parts that identify with a woman.

The following images are images all photographed by Rosie Matheson. I found this photographer online, on Instagram, which is great for researching and inspiring new ideas. I have found that these images have great relevance to the work that I intend to create. They each have certain elements of woman-hood or femininity that I hope to capture and provoke emotive responses from. Or, some images follow the portraiture-style composition that I would like to consider in my future work - a composition that highlights shapes, emotion, or relationships.

Rosie Matheson:

(Photograph by Rosie Matheson)

For me, the lighting in this photograph is perfect. The shapes and the contours of her face are perfectly pronounced by the sunlight that reaches her face. Also, contrasting elegantly with the shadows that are captured. This image is soft and her body positioning reflects that. I feel as though textures of this woman are also well communicated, with her silky blouse being accentuated along with her skin tone and hair colour. The colours that she is wearing also contrasting well with the background saturation. I think the composition of this image presents a gentle but strong character.

(Photograph by Rosie Matheson)

This visual representation of a woman, and I assume, her child, is a powerful combination of a bond, love and happiness. The interesting contrast of facial expressions with the baby crying and, what appears to be, the mother posing with a calm smile on her face produces an almost unconventional portrait of a mother/baby relationship.

I like the idea of incorporating what a woman wears into the photograph as I think it adds an element of identity through other means. What a woman chooses to wear should be a choice made by them. It is something that represents them in a way that they want to be perceived by the world. It is a layer of identity, and it is a powerful aspect of the composition that I need to remember.

The lighting in this image also works really well, however, for me, I would have created more shadow to add more depth to the image.

(Photograph by Rosie Matheson)

To me, this is a successful photograph because it exudes femininity and the composition is unique to the others. Perhaps the flower is used as an intentional prop or maybe this woman spontaneously picked it up for a moment. Whichever it is, her body language and facial expression doesn’t look forced. Instead she looks comfortable and at ease. This is a sense that I want my subject to feel, as well as my audience when they look at my project.

The camera is positioned in a place that allows the light to positively effect the image and the subject, itself. The subject seems carefully situated with background colours complimenting tones saturated from the main subject. I also really like the direct eye contact being made by the woman, it allows the image to feel more intimate.

-----------

All of these images appear to be taken on a medium format camera which is something I would like to incorporate into my work to push myself. My work in the past has been predominately digital, due to the nature of my work I intend to pursue after university, but the idea of using a medium format camera (as well as digital?) seems to work really well, especially in bringing a soft and calm tone to the photographs. As well as, being able to deliver a high quality shallow depth of field which will be ideal for more personal portraits.

[lagarconne-journal]

La Moderne Mother — Christine Muhlke

Should you happen to run into Christine Muhlke on the street in Manhattan, she’ll likely have a bike helmet in one hand. In the other, a crisp wax paper bag of baked delights, perhaps? Or a brown paper bag, which she’ll extend and offer, “Fresh pluot?” With an inquisitive mind that’s always raised up to eleven the Bon Appétit Editor-at-Large and founder of food consultancy Bureau X knows everyone in the food industry and everything related to fashion and beauty, so what she has curated from both categories comes from a whole lot of research—and maybe a sixth sense?—which she gamely shared. This Mother’s Day, take a page from Muhlke’s lunch pale, and get ready to shop great buys from Aesop to Issey Miyake. Or, when in doubt, give mom the gift that keeps on giving: a La Garçonne gift card.

What is your most worn fashion item?

These days it’s a pair of 80's Yohji Yamamoto pants that I found at Ritual Vintage. They’ve got kind of a poopy-diaper silhouette (I love an awkward trouser…). Now that I’m no longer in an office everyday, I can put outfits on REPEAT. These pants were my base all fall and winter.

What is your most beloved fashion item?

A vintage Plantation by Issey Miyake cocoon jacket. My fairy godmother gave it to me before my junior year in Paris. It’s my winter staple even though it has a few small holes. I only wish that I hadn’t given away the pants senior year…

What is your wish list fashion purchase for summer?

Another pair of Merida pants from Apiece Apart, but this time in painter’s-pants cream. I can’t stop wearing them in blue, so I might as well mix it up.

How would you best describe your fashion look?

Asymmetrical art mom.

How would you best describe your beauty look?

Lo-fi.

Did you get any beauty advice growing up? What was it, and who gave it to you?

Not really. But when I was 22, I was on a shoot with a famous makeup artist, and he told me to always remember to moisturize the neck and décolletage, which I’ve done religiously ever since.

Who do you think is beautiful?

Any woman who thinks for herself and knows what suits her.

Who did you find beautiful when you were growing up?

Grace Kelly, Isabella Rossellini, and Princess Stephanie, in her short hair phase.

What’s the best thing about being a mom?

Spontaneous joy pockets.

What surprised you most about having a son?

The physicality!

How has being a mom affected your beauty routine?

Wait, did I brush my teeth this morning?

How has being a mom affected your fashion routine?

I hope you like this outfit, because I’ll be wearing it for the next two weeks.

Does your son have any sentiments about fashion?

Yes! He really responds to prints and “beautiful dresses,” and often asks me to wear them. (Once I put on a black jumpsuit before going out and he cried.) He also wishes that I wore more jewelry.

Otherwise, he’s pretty agnostic. Recently, his father got him into Greek mythology. One day, he came home and said, “Dad said that Hermes is your favorite god, and that they pronounce it differently in France.”

What is your definition of luxury beauty?

To me, “luxury beauty” is a combination of time and care. Great packaging and fragrance are key, too. This all comes together with the treatments at CAP Beauty, where everything from the sheets to the playlist to the scents of the all-natural products has been considered to the Nth degree.

Do you have a tried and true beauty product you've been loyal to for ages?

Neutrogena Healthy Skin Anti-Wrinkle Cream with SPF 15. It has retinol and SPF 15. I’ve been using it for fifteen-years, and I’m pretty sure it’s why you can’t tell that I’m 97.

What is your:

Shower gel: Aesop Geranium Leaf Body Cleanser and Jo Malone Lime Mandarin Basil Shower Oil.

Body lotion: Belcampo Farm to Face Intensive Moisturizer. It’s made from pig lard and it goes everywhere!

Face cleanser: Linné Purify face wash in the A.M., and Tata Harper Nourishing Oil Cleanser at night.

Face moisturizer: Neutrogena Healthy Skin Anti-Wrinkle Cream in the A.M., and Tata Harper Beautifying Face Oil at night.

Hair product: I am so addicted to Oribe, particularly the Dry Texturizing Spray and Supershine Light Moisturizing Crème. (Full disclosure: I’ve been a copywriter for Oribe for almost a decade now. I’ve even done some product naming).

Makeup: Quick: Bare Minerals concealer, Olio e Osso Sofia Stick on cheeks, NARS mascara.

Fragrance: Jo Malone Amber Lavender cologne in the fall and winter, Jo Malone Lime Mandarin Basil cologne, and Grapefruit cologne in spring and summertime.

Does Max have favorite grooming products?

He uses Weleda Calendula Shampoo and Body Wash—I’m jealous!

Toothpaste?

I would say Tom’s of Maine, but he got me to buy him some Minions Colgate toothpaste…

Does he like fragrance?

He loves it and puts it on with his Dad. He loves all of the citrusy Hermès men’s fragrances.

What beauty task are you not interested in?

It’s all pretty weird when you think about it. Especially shaving.

Which beauty step do you think is bullshit?

I used to think that serums were a crock, but then my friend went to work at Lancôme, and I got hooked.

Any beauty product you're curious to try?

I was dying to try the Jeanette Multiple Tint from the Nars Cosmetics collaboration with Charlotte Gainsbourg in a way that I haven’t experienced in years. I even went into a makeup store! But, in the end, it wasn’t for me. The associate got me to try what looked like lip gloss from that collection (not my bag). Turns out, it’s a sheer stain with a coconut-oil base. Obsessed!

Any beauty product you wish someone would invent?

An all-in-one everything stick or pencil. Or maybe a spray-on face.

Do you consider yourself wellness/health minded?

Yes. I’m one of those healthy-ish types who makes her own kombucha, energy ballz, and kimchi; puts all sorts of powders (tocotrienols, He Shou Wu, Schisandra Berry Moon Juice, and Shop Spa Blog’s Reishi Mushrooms) and magic berries (mulberry, goji) on her oatmeal and in her smoothies; and then goes to Wildair and inhales a buttery fried potato cake, steak tartare with half a loaf of bread, two desserts, and a bottle of wine…then gets up for a 7 A.M. Modo Yoga class.

Do you exercise?

Before having a kid I worked out six days a week and was still heavy because I was starving all the time. Now, I’m able to swim maybe three times a month and make a weekly yoga class—and, weirdly, I’m much more fit. I’ve gotten my son into helping me with the Scientific 7-Minute Workout (try planking with a four-year-old on your back!) once to twice a week. Otherwise, I build in activity wherever I can: biking everywhere, taking the stairs to my sixth-floor apartment, doing wall sits if/when I’m in an elevator (also good with a four-year-old on your knees!) and beginning each morning with pushups and boat pose.

Who do you think has aged beautifully?

Charlotte Rampling, Ruthie Rogers, Linda Rodin.

Christine is wearing the Wool Suit Coat by Lemaire and the Oversized Short Sleeve Shirt by La Garçonne x Save Khaki

Shop Christine’s favorite looks

Styling by Sarah Levett, Photgraphy by Morgan Howland

#christine mulkhe #bon appetit #mother's day #beauty secrets #moderne #lagarconne

[imakemywings]

What About the Children? (Ch. 5)

Summary: When London becomes a target of Nazi Germany, Mrs. Kirkland sends her two youngest sons away to the countryside to wait out the war. Life at Robinson House–a refuge for other London boys–falls into a predictable rhythm, until they receive an unexpected addition, right from the war  front.

Chapter summary: Arthur settles into America

Ao3 | FF.net | Pillowfort

On Arthur’s first day at school, he learned he was something of a novelty for the American children, most of whom had never met anyone English before. At recess, a group of them crowded around him and kept asking him to pronounce different words, until he finally snapped at them that he wasn’t a toy and they should all bugger off.

                Annoyed and feeling the part of a spectacle, he took a seat on a bench in the shade of the school building. It was colder there, but it meant no one else was trying to hang out there. Alfred waved from the swing set with a group of third graders, and then jogged over to Arthur’s bench.

                “Hey! What are you doing sitting over here? You wanna come play with us? We were gonna play hide and seek.” Arthur looked down at his shoes and shook his head.

                “No, thanks.” Alfred hesitated, but one could practically see him reciting his mother’s instructions about giving Arthur space in his head.

                “Okay. If you change your mind though, we’ll be over here!” He ran off again, full of energy that Arthur couldn’t fathom. Had he ever been so perky?

                At lunch, he and Alfred both had sandwiches that Mrs. Jones had made for them. Arthur took his back to the same bench, and ate by himself. Alfred was over at one of the lunch tables, chatting animatedly with a big group of people. Vaguely, Arthur considered the possibility of going to join them, but his feet stayed firmly planted on the ground.

                He was busy studying the chain-link fence around the playground when he realized someone had sat down next to him. He turned, prepared to tell Alfred he didn’t have to come over here and help Arthur celebrate his pity party, when he saw that it was not Alfred, but a girl from his class. She had curly black hair and big green eyes, and round cheeks dressed in shades of pink under the smooth brown of her skin. Her name was Rose, and she looked like a porcelain doll on the shelf of an avid collector, dusted daily and arranged pleasingly. She tended to dress like it too.

                “I thought you might want some company,” she said with her hands in her lap. “It looked a bit lonely over here.”

                “It wasn’t,” Arthur said. “If I go back over there, they’ll only make me talk the whole time anyway.” He nibbled on a dry carrot stick. Alfred had told him he used to get apples in his lunch, but now those were for Fridays or special days.

                “They can be a little much sometimes,” Rose said with a little laugh, and the beauty spot by her left eye winked. Weak winter sunlight bathed the playground as the first few students broke away from the lunch tables, drawn over to the wood and aluminum structures.

                “Yeah,” Arthur grunted, picking up another carrot stick.

                “So, are you from London?”

                Look at this, Francis. At least at Robinson House, no one cared about my life’s story!

                “Yeah.”

                “That’s pretty swell. I’ve never been to England.” At least when Arthur didn’t give more of a response than glancing over at her, she stopped asking questions. After a long period of silence, she offered him a slice of pear without a word. Arthur stared a moment, then took it. Ah, sweet, sweet fruit! How had he never fully appreciated the complexity of flavor in a pear? The lovely texture, with just enough crunch that it wasn’t mushy, but not so much his teeth ached trying to bite through it? Rose set her little napkin of pear slices between them, and they took their time parsing out the rest.

                “Thanks,” Arthur said when they were done. “I can’t remember the last time I had a pear.” He licked at his lips, knowing how his mother would scold him, trying to clean up the last of the delicate fruit juice.

                “Things are rationed in England too now, huh?” she said.

                “Much worse,” Arthur said. “It’s impossible to get sugar now.”

                “I suppose it will be like that here too, if the war goes on,” she mused, swinging her legs. “But, things were already bad in a lot of places because of the Depression…”

                “Mhm…” Arthur nodded.

                “You’re not very talkative, are you?” Rose said with a smile. The stickiness of pear juice on her chin caught the sunlight with a shine.

                “I’m thinking.”

                “About what?”

                “England.” I suppose this makes two of us homesick now.

                “It must be hard to be so far away from home,” Rose sympathized. “I’ve never been out of America before.” Arthur found this of little value; America, as he understood it, was as big as Eurasia.

                “I was never out of Britain before the war,” Arthur said. “I had a grandmother down in Wales though.”

                The bell rang before anything else could be said, and the children returned to class for the rest of the day.

                Thursday after school, Alfred was bouncing along beside Arthur on the walk home, swinging his lunch pail, when he said, “Hey! It’s sunny out today, we could go down to the park and play football if you like!” This drew a pause of consideration from Arthur.

                “Yeah…that would be fun,” he said. He was exhausted from all the new things assaulting him here Stateside; he’d be glad for something familiar and simple.

                “Great! I’ll get the stuff from the garage!” Alfred smiled like the boy on the toothpaste advertisement and they continued on their way. “Today in class Bobby Snitterman tried to fit a whole quarter up his nose and he almost got it but then Mrs. Schwartz saw him…”

                Most days Alfred talked the majority of the way home. Arthur was still learning to tune him out, because most often, Alfred did not require a response to keep talking. His exuberant, often exaggerated voice was a tune for Arthur to daydream too, with his mental conversations and vivid imaginings of what was going on back home.

                At the house, Mrs. Jones was fixing holes in Alfred’s clothes, which seemed to sprout up like dandelions in spring. Alfred stopped only long enough to sling his books onto the floor in the living room, and then Alfred vanished into the garage to get the ball.

                “How was school?” Mrs. Jones asked Arthur as he loitered around the den, waiting for Alfred’s return.

                “It was alright,” he said, taking care of his speech to his host, as always. “There aren’t very many English people in America, are there?”

                “Oh, I’d say there’s lots of ‘em,” Mrs. Jones disagreed gently. “Just not very many who still have the accent.” She smiled. “You’re one of a kind for them.” Arthur frowned, finding no good reply, but shying away from being rude by not responding at all. His relief came in the form of Alfred, banging in through the door with a bag slung over his shoulder.

                “Troops out!” he shouted, pausing to run over and give his mother a quick hug. “We’ve got ball to play!” A smile spread across Arthur’s face, and he followed Alfred out the door, letting it slam shut behind them as they ran down the street. Alfred waved to a few people on their way by, calling out, “Howdy, Mrs. Dubose!” and “Hey, Jerry!” as they passed. At the park, which wasn’t much more than a big grassy field that perhaps aspired to park status in the embrace of the currently leafless trees that dotted the perimeter, but had not yet reached that level of cultivation. “Ready?” he asked Arthur as he dumped the contents of the bag out—a sweater, a white ball with red stitching, what looked to be a lumpy hunk of leather folded in on itself, and an oddly shaped brown ball.

                “You forgot the ball?” Arthur asked, raising his gaze from the sporty mess to Alfred. “How could you forget the ball?”

                “I didn’t forget it! It’s right here, ya nimrod,” Alfred said, who had heard the word on a radio program several months back and had still not gotten over being tickled every time he heard it. His mother had changed the station. He picked up the egg-like ball. “It’s not a real one,” he said with a frown. “That’s my dad’s…but I can’t fit my hand on it good enough to throw, I’m too little.” His frown deepened, his forehead furrowed in solemnity. “But I’ll get there. Go down that-a way, I’ll throw it to you!” He pointed.

                “That’s not a football.” Even as Arthur opened his mouth to object to this bastardization of his reality, this Alice in Wonderland country where nothing was quite as it ought to be, he told himself he ought to just let it go. But one may have observed up to this point that refraining from comment was not Arthur’s best skill.

                “’Course it is,” Alfred said. “Ain’t they got footballs in England? You said you played!”

                “Footballs are round,” Arthur objected, folding his arms. Now the argument carried the weight of his intelligence and reliability on it—he wasn’t some fool who couldn’t tell a football from—whatever that was! “And black and white!”

                Alfred frowned as deeply as ever, his small brow wrought with furrows. “A soccer ball!” he shouted at once, throwing the egg ball down into the grass. Then he started to laugh his carefree laugh. “You’re thinking of a soccer ball Artie!”

                “What the bloody hell is a soccer ball?” Arthur demanded, tightening his arms at the unpleasant sensation that he was being laughed at. Alfred gaped in shocked delight at the swear, and then laughed again.

                “This is a football,” he said, picking up the not-a-football from the grass. “You throw it and your teammates have to catch it and get it past the 100-yard line! If you’re really good, you can make it spiral!  A soccer ball is round and black and white and you kick it!” Clearly he was exceedingly pleased to be able to provide this complementary lesson to Arthur.

                Frustrated, but unable to convey that all this was wrong, even if he had no proof, Arthur made another effort. “Well yes it is, but that’s football!”

                “Not here,” Alfred said, tossing the egg ball from hand to hand until he dropped it. “Come on, play with me,” he pleaded. “I’ll teach you how, it’ll be so much fun!” Bored, wanting a good run in the grass, and without the tools to win the argument, Arthur caved. He was not won over by American football, but by the time they trooped home for dinner with Mrs. Jones, he was glad they had gone anyway.

                Sometimes, he reflected back to Francis, it was important to have fun.

                More fun came in the form of Christmas merriment: a letter from Alfred’s father, and an invitation to Rose Jackson’s family Christmas party.

                There’s a curious thing when a tumultuous upheaval occurs in one’s life for the first time—or perhaps even for the ninety-ninth time—most particularly when one is a child. That is, the powerful sense that everything has changed for all time and nothing can ever return to its previous state because of this upheaval. This feeling had been pervasive in Arthur’s mind since the news of his imminent exile to the United States. And after all, how could anything go back to the way it had been, when so much bad had happened?

                “Soit corageux,” Francis urged him.

                “The sun will shine out again,” Samwise Gamgee told him from Arthur’s recollection of Lord of the Rings. “And it will shine out all the clearer!”

                So it was to his bewildered shock that he found he had begun to settle in with the Joneses. Life fell into an altogether foreign, yet increasingly familiar routine. Mornings, with cold cereal (or on weekends, “grits”) and Alfred’s mother hollering for him not to slam the door. The walk to school. Class with Rose and George and Max and Dorothy. The walk home. Dinner with something called “collard greens”, followed by radio programs. Entirely, Arthur was gripped by the life-altering realization that the Joneses, in their own normalcy, were just like his own family. The only thing that continued to strike him as truly otherworldly was how distant the war seemed, stretched out on battlefields an ocean away, no nearer to Alfred than the African front was to Arthur back in England.

                Accompanying Arthur’s new American rhythm was a closer inclusion in the Jones family, which included the regular reading aloud of Mr. Jones’ letters from the Pacific.

                Weekly, Alfred checked for letters from his father. If there was one, Mrs. Jones read it aloud to them on Sunday. She perched on the couch, giving her weary feet a rest, and the boys—for Arthur was immediately drawn into this ritual, without question—knelt on the rug to anticipate the words of the mythical Mr. Jones.

                This week, as she read aloud the words, “I have been granted leave to come home for Christmas”, Alfred screamed with excitement and flailed his arms somewhat akin to what Arthur had always imagined someone being electrocuted looked like.

                “Daddy’s coming home,” he breathed, gripping his knees. “For real!” Mrs. Jones stared at the letter, taking a shaky breath through quivering lips.

                “Yes dear, it looks that way.” The next day, there was a batch of molasses cookies cooling on the counter when the boys got home from school. Joy all around the Jones household—save for the kernel of seething jealousy in Arthur’s heart that made him feel at once righteously angry that he didn’t get the same privilege of having his family together for the holidays, and desperately selfish, to begrudge Alfred his family.

The Rose matter was no less complicated. She approached Arthur about it in early December before class.

                “Morning, Arthur,” she said, while he sat at his desk reading a book from the small shelf beneath the window. Other kids were sprawled about, talking and throwing paper airplanes while they waited for the bell to ring.

                “Hello, Rose.” It took her third greeting before he heard her and looked up, apparently startled to see her. It made her giggle, but he couldn’t imagine why. “What is it?”

                “Like your book?” She wrapped a loose lock of black hair around her finger and gave it a tug.

                “Huh? Uh-huh. It’s good.” It was Robinson Crusoe.

                “Looking forward to Christmas?” she asked. Arthur shrugged, looking down at his desk, over to the floor, and then up at the blackboard. Decorations had started to appear around town, and already Alfred was needling his mother to get the Christmas tree early. There was nothing in the world to drag Alfred down now, with the knowledge that his father would be returning, not even being harassed in the schoolyard, which Arthur witnessed from his classroom window. By the time he got down to Alfred to investigate, the bullies were gone, and Alfred seemed hardly worse for wear. Certainly no less excited about the upcoming holidays. “I know you must miss home,” Rose went on in a rush of breath, lacking an answer from Arthur, “and Mama says being alone on the holidays is the worst, so I thought you might want to come to my Christmas party!”

                “What’s that? A party?” Alfred, who on some mornings hung around Arthur’s classroom to talk with other kids, perked up when he saw his English visitor being invited places. The look Rose threw in his direction, only partly turned his way, said plainly she wished he hadn’t overheard.

                “It’s invite only,” she said, attempting to walk a mature line between shutting Alfred down and not being mean. Being of a sixth-grade maturity level, this proved exceedingly difficult.

                “Well you can’t invite Arthur and not me,” Alfred said, wandering over. “We’re a team!” Rose stared at him.

                “You’re a third-grader,” she said. “You can’t come to a sixth-grader party.” It was the perfect out, the eternal age-restriction of children!

                “I can too!” Alfred protested. “I can handle it! And if you invite Arthur, you’ve got to invite me!”

                “She doesn’t have to do anything,” Arthur intervened at last, his gaze dimmed by annoyance as he lowered his book. “It’s her party.”

                “But…” Unable to formulate an argument, or else afraid to prove Rose’s point by whining, Alfred spun and left the classroom.

                “I’ll have to ask Mrs. Jones,” Arthur said.

                “That’s fine!” Rose said, brightening in relief when the awkwardness was over. For Arthur, though, it had only just begun.

                He knew when Alfred was quiet on the walk home that he had not forgotten about Rose’s party, despite Arthur’s best hopes for the distraction of the school day. The majority of the walk was spent kicking a seed pod along the road, eyes fixed down, refusing to look at Arthur, or speak to him. It might’ve been a whisper of the wind but Arthur was almost sure he heard “traitor” muttered at least once. Upon arrival at the house, he made for the kitchen where Mrs. Jones was already prepping for dinner.

                “Mom-mom-mom!” He dropped his books and lunch pail and grabbed Mrs. Jones’ dress. “Rose Jackson is having a party and she invited Arthur but not me! She can’t do that, can she?” Not wanting to be involved, but inextricably so already, Arthur lingered with a foot on the bottom stair, listening.

                Mrs. Jones sighed quietly and dried her hands on a dish towel.

                “Well Alfred, it is her party, sweetie,” she said.

                “That’s what Arthur said!” Alfred burst out in betrayal, flailing his fists at his side.

                “Maybe she only wants it to be a big-kid party,” Mrs. Jones suggested, tossing a handful of chopped onions into a pot.          

                “But I’m not little,” Alfred protested desperately. “I’m eight!”

                “Alfred, when you see the little six-year-olds at school, do they seem like little kids to you?” she asked, wiping her knife and picking up a skinned potato.

                “Well yeah…” Alfred attempted to foresee where this line of questioning was going, and failed.

                “So, to the eleven-year-olds, you’re a little kid,” she reasoned.

                “But—!” Alfred’s jaw worked furiously as he tried to come up with a good counter to a painfully logical argument.

                “Alfie, why do you even want to go to this party?” his mother asked. “Is Rose a friend of yours?”

                “No…”

                “Do you want to spend the night with sixth graders?”

                “…No…”

                “Or do you just not want Arthur to go somewhere without you?”

                Silence.

                Mrs. Jones temporarily abandoned her chopping and crouched down in front of Alfred. “Alfred, do you remember how we talked about giving Arthur space? He’s our guest—sometimes he may want to do things on his own.”

                “But this isn’t on his own,” Alfred argued. “It’s with kids from school!”

                “On his own, apart from you,” Mrs. Jones clarified. “Besides, aren’t you glad he’s making friends? Isn’t it good that he fits in? Don’t you want him to feel at home here?” Alfred made a detailed study of his shoes and the old kitchen tiles.

                “Yeah…”

                “So. Arthur will go to the party, and you can stay here and listen to an extra radio program, how’s that? And maybe if you ask nicely, Arthur will tell you about the party when he comes home,” she said, straightening up. Alfred frowned at his feet, but when his mom went back to chopping vegetables for dinner, he eventually sulked off.

                He started talking to Arthur again, but with considerably less enthusiasm. On Friday, Arthur received a bowl of sweet potato something-or-other from Mrs. Jones to take to the Jacksons’ party. Arthur walked to the house and arrived punctually to find Rose and her older brother the only other kids currently at the party.

                Maybe I’ve come early, Arthur thought. There were many adults mingling around the dining table and the living room, though. Arthur passed off his gift to Mrs. Jackson who took it graciously and put it on the table with the others, nestled among tall candlesticks with shining flames and glossy sprigs of holly.

                Rose emerged from the kitchen in a gray and white checked dress, her hair in neat braids. She beamed when she saw Arthur, her pink cheeks bright.

                “Arthur! What did you bring?” she asked.

                “Mrs. Jones made sweet potatoes,” he said.

                “Oh goodie. If I saw another casserole come in…” She laughed. “Do you want a look around?” she asked, when he did not leap to denigrate the noble casserole with her.

                “Sure,” he said.

                Rose took him around the house ablaze with Christmas décor, from the white crown molding around the dark wood furniture to the twinkling lights overhead. Coils of tinsel danced a conga around the ornaments on the mantle, sprang down the branches of the tree, and shrugged around the bookshelves. Solitary candles stood watch in the windows, and beneath the tree, commanding the whole attention of the front room, Arthur could already see a few crisply-wrapped packages. He did not see sheets split down the middle, resewn at the edges, as he had heard Mrs. Jones discuss with Mrs. Dubose over the fence. He didn’t see a patchwork of repairs on the Jacksons’ clothes, and on the counter in the kitchen, there was a fresh, full dish of butter.

                David Jackson—age 14—appeared in the doorway of the study to slingshot a piece of candy at Rose, with no more goal than basic sibling-baiting.

                “You get out of here!” she cried, shaking a fist at him as he cackled. “Go kiss Aunt Myrtle!”

                “I was just trying to share the candy,” David said innocently.

                “Out!” Rose seized the offending candy off the floor and hurled it vaguely in David’s direction, so he danced out of the doorway with another laugh.

                “Later, sis!”

                Rose frowned. “I’m sorry about that,” she apologized sincerely to Arthur, but he shook his head, trying to articulate his thoughts.

                “It reminds me of my siblings,” he managed after marshalling his considerations.  

                “You fight with them?” Rose asked, those picturesque green eyes widening. The thought of Arthur doing anything he wasn’t supposed to seemed beyond her comprehension.

                “Oh, all the time,” Arthur assured her. “It’s never quiet back home.”

                “Really?” Rose sat down on a creamy ottoman, which paired with a love seat. She gestured for Arthur to join her. “Did your mama get mad? Mine hates it when David and I fight.”

                “Of course, mums always hate fighting,” Arthur said, taking a seat. “My mum says she can’t hear herself think when we yell.” Rose giggled.

                “That’s funny.” She leaned over, apparently tickled.

                “Francis said that fighting is just a sign you’re passionate though,” Arthur mused thoughtfully.

                “Is Francis one of your brothers?” she asked.

                “No!” Arthur’s response was emphatic, almost offended on Francis’ behalf. “He’s…a friend I made…back in Britain.” He had never explained before about Robinson House, and he didn’t want to hear concerned questions or pitying expressions. Not now—not at a party.

                “Are you still homesick? Or are you getting used to America?”

                Arthur tipped his head from side to side. “Both, I suppose.”

                “I’d like to go to England someday,” Rose said. “When this is all over. Maybe I’ll see you there.” She smiled amiably. Arthur opened his mouth to say probably not, it was a big country, only to remember that wouldn’t mean nearly anything to an American, possessed of a third of a continent. It turned out it didn’t matter much anyway, because Rose wasn’t waiting for a response—she was waiting for a chance to kiss him.

                It couldn’t have taken Arthur more aback than if a train had crashed through the wall. He just sat there like a dolt, thinking that his books had not prepared him for this at all. Finally, something snapped and his wits came rushing back, jabbing at him to pay attention. At once, he shoved Rose away and he heard her squeak as she crashed off the ottoman onto the floor.

                “What’s the matter with you?” she exclaimed, indignant and flushed. Arthur bolted to his feet like a compressed spring.

                “Me? What’s wrong with you?” Arthur’s cheeks burned with high color and his fists clenched agitatedly at his sides. His lips felt wet from Rose’s kiss. “You can’t just—assail people like that!” Rose’s dark brow furrowed at Arthur’s word choice.

                “It was just a kiss!” she defended herself, fading into bemused injury, and from there leaping on the defensive. “You’re acting crazy!”

                “I never said you could kiss me!”

                “But—no one asks—”

                “I don’t want to kiss you!” The thought of hurting Rose’s feelings was nowhere in Arthur’s mind; his only consideration was making sure this never happened again—thus, clarity was paramount. The color in Rose’s doll-like face deepened at the perceived insult.

                “Then just go, if you’re having such a bad time!” In her tone, the attempt to wound was clear.

                “I will!” Arthur declared, realizing there was nothing he’d like more.

                “Then go!” Rose covered her mouth, still splayed on the rug, as Arthur fled the room, wiping his lips. Without even thanking Mrs. Jackson, he quit the party and walked back to the Joneses’. Embarrassment—nigh humiliation—seared his breast.

                Mrs. Jones had offered to drive him before, since he was unfamiliar with the neighborhood, but, not wanting to inconvenience her, he had insisted on walking. Now he was glad he had refused, for retracing his steps through the warm, swampy darkness, lit by the glow of passing windows and the occasional street lamp gave him time to breath and reflect on the party.

                Clearly, Rose was nuts. But, Arthur pondered, was it possible he had overlooked or misread her signals? No—that had come out of nowhere. Rose was totally out of order. Sweat beaded on Arthur’s lip as he made his way at a clip down the sidewalk. The weather of North Carolina was yet another mystery of America to Arthur—he had never been anyplace so warm at Christmastime.

                As he reached for the front door, he remembered Alfred’s sulking and groaned. Inside, he saw the living room had been transformed into a lumpy sea of blankets, propped up by unseen furniture. Confused, he looked over to the kitchen, where Mrs. Jones was going over bills and listening to Ella Fitzgerald croon out Christmas songs.

                “You’re home early,” she remarked in surprise when she saw home. Arthur wandered through the doorway.

                ‘Yes,” he said, sliding his hands into his pockets.

                “How was the party?” she asked. Arthur shrugged again.

                “It was alright.”

                “Alfred’s in the living room,” she said. Arthur nodded and took his leave. When he looked out again at the blanket fort, Alfred’s face was peering out.

                “You want to come in?” he asked after a long pause.

                “Sure,” Arthur said, halting outside the “entrance”. He crouched down.

                “There’s a password,” Alfred told him. Arthur’s brows pulled together.

                “How can I know what the password is if you made it up while I wasn’t here?” he asked. This paradox was not something Alfred had considered, and he spent a long moment processing it before deciding that his desire for company in the one-man fort outweighed the sanctity of password rules.

                “Sixth graders are jerks,” he said. It took a moment for Arthur to understand that this was the password, and not an out-of-place comment on his own behavior. A wry smile tugged at his thin lips.

                “Sixth graders are jerks,” he said. Alfred dove into the sheltered depths, allowing Arthur to lift up the blanket flap and crawl in, still in his party attire. Comic books carpeted the floor like daisies in spring, poking out from under blankets and pillows.

                “Want a Captain America?” Alfred resumed what had clearly been his earlier nest, drawing a bedsheet over his lap.

                “Sure.” Arthur took the proffered comic with no intention of reading it, and lay back, propping socked feet up on the edge of the couch. In the quiet that followed, Alfred appeared to be reading his comic book, but this was a cover for preparing to ask the question they were both waiting for.

                “How was the party?...Did you have fun?”

                “…kind of terrible, actually,” Arthur said candidly. “It was still going when I left.” He debated telling Alfred about the kiss, but there was still unease in his gut about it, so he held back.

                “Really?” Alfred’s face glowed with poorly-disguised delight—Arthur couldn’t have brought back better news.

                “Yeah. I think I was the only one from school that Rose invited.” Arthur’s puggish nose wrinkled. “She was weird about it.”

                “Girls are weird,” Alfred said, hoping for more wonderfully deriding news about Rose and her exclusive Christmas party.

                “Yeah.” Arthur was apparently not in the business of providing such desirable gossip.

                “Well, we’ll have more fun here!” Alfred declared. “We can pretend we’re camping and tell ghost stories and stay up late!”

                “Do you know any ghost stories?” Arthur asked.

                “Duh! But you have to go put on your PJs first! No one camps in a button-down!” Rolling his eyes a little, Arthur exited the fort to comply.

                The rest of the night was spent in the homemade fort, with Arthur trying to decide if Alfred was more fascinated or terrified by the ghost stories. Safe in their sanctuary, they were able to pretend, if only for an evening, that spooks and boogey men were the worst things they had to fear, and that evil could be defeated with a surge of courage and a wooden stake or a silver bullet.

                When Arthur dropped off to sleep on the Joneses’ living room floor, he dreamed of more pleasant kisses. Not from Rose, but from a lovely blonde whose face he could never quite see, but whom he felt a powerful draw towards. In the morning, he woke feeling at once comforted and possessed of a hollow longing he couldn’t name, an age-old pain beginning to blossom in his heart, handed down memory by memory from those who had already suffered its curse.

                That day, Mrs. Jones unpacked the Christmas decorations, and they helped arrange them. This involved a lot of Bing Crosby, Alfred running around trailing tinsel off him like tentacles, and Mrs. Jones breaking to dance to the music. The chaos reminded Arthur of home, and he smiled as he took baubles out of their newspaper cradles to put them on the tree. A few friends and neighbors stopped by around lunchtime, and Mrs. Hansen brought her dog, whom Alfred gladly entertained in the yard while his mother socialized.

                All was well and merry until Alfred look out the window and hissed.

                “Anna!”

                The bell rang again, and Mrs. Jones gave Alfred a look before opening the door.

                “Mrs. Braginskaya,” she greeted the woman at the door warmly.  Alfred peered out in a squint from behind his mother. Accompanying the plump woman in red and white was a little girl with silvery blonde hair past her waist, in a black dress with a white-trimmed collar. Her face appeared impassive, but she gave herself away with a look at Alfred. As the mothers conversed and exchanged holiday treats, the two children glared.

                “Say goodbye, Anya,” Mrs. Braginskaya told her told her daughter, putting a hand on her back.

                “Goodbye, Mrs. Jones,” Anna said graciously, giving a little curtsy. As they turned to go, she took her last chance to offer grievous insult to Alfred, and stuck her tongue out at him.

                He gave a strangled noise of offended disbelief, but Mrs. Jones shut the door, cutting off his chance for retaliation.

                “Did you see that?” he demanded of his mother. “She stuck her tongue out at me!”

                “I saw,” Mrs. Jones replied, her lips twitching in amusement.

                “Ooh! I’m going to get her back!” Alfred threatened, shaking a small fist.

                “You’ll do no such thing, Alfred F. Jones,” she said. “Go get the red tablecloth.” Squinting again, Alfred grumbled off to do as he was bade.

                In another week, something even more thrilling than the start of Christmas break from school occurred: Mr. Jones came home.

                Alfred and Arthur were on the way home with the neighbor boy Jerry when they arrived at the house to hear a distinctly male voice in the kitchen. Alfred dropped his football and screamed.

                “Daddy!” Very nearly leaving a cloud of dust in his wake, Alfred seemed to simply blink out of being on the doorstep and reappear in the kitchen. Arthur heard the rumble of Mr. Jones’ greeting, but rather than join the reunited family, he crept upstairs to his and Alfred’s room. The sense that he was intruding on other people’s lives had never been stronger, and he thought persistently of Robinson House, where they had all been exiled together.

                Arthur liked to believe he was not a lonely type of boy—he rejoiced in solitude and was never more at peace than secreted alone with a book. So why was it now so unpleasant? No brothers or sister to tease him, no mum telling him to go do chores, no Francis bothering him, no groups of boisterous boys disturbing him. Not even Alfred nagging him to go play. Alone had never felt like such a sharp pain between his ribs.

                His mind persisted in trying to determine the difference between being alone at home and being alone here or even at Robinson House. He was still distracting himself with these contemplations on the camp bed when Alfred bellowed up, “Hey, Arthur! Come meet my dad!”

                With the strong feeling this was a courtesy offer, Arthur guiltlessly ignored him. So it thus came as a great surprise when Mrs. Jones’ head appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, stray curls stringing down her cheeks.

                “Arthur,” she said in a gentler tone than her son, “do you want to come down with us? We’ve decided to have a cookie early. And I know Mr. Jones would like to meet you.”

                “Me?” She took him by surprise again, throwing off his planned polite rejection.

                “Yes,” she replied. “Alfred’s written him about you.” Arthur remembered his name coming up once or twice in Mr. Jones’ letters, but that had never registered that Mr. Jones saw him—Arthur—as a part of his family’s life back in America.

                “Oh. Er. Okay. Yes—I’ll come down.” He certainly wasn’t going to be rude on such an occasion!

                “Great!” Mrs. Jones’ smile was soft, but there was a glow in her of a joy that could not be contained. Arthur followed her downstairs and into the kitchen, where Alfred was zipping around his father, talking so fast his words collided and tripped over themselves and even Alfred seemed to get confused at times.

                Arthur halted in the doorway, but Mrs. Jones sailed ahead to place a plate of sugar cookies on the table. Mr. Jones, Arthur thought, was the most “all-American” man Uncle Same had ever produced. He was tall, with squared shoulders, resplendent even in his lieutenant’s uniform, with a jawline that in itself might’ve qualified as a weapon, and positively atomic blue eyes. Thick blond hair fell in waves, soft and freshly regrown from the army shave. In perfect honesty, his looks felt like an assault they were so striking. His time in the Pacific had tanned his skin to a warm golden-brown tone like Alfred’s natural color.        

                It reminded Arthur of the time he’d spent standing in front of the mirror before his bath a few days ago, peering in the mirror. He kept trying to see that he had matured somehow, but if anything, he felt gawkier and more awkward-looking than when the war had begun—his cheeks were losing the charming fullness of childhood, making his face more angular, and despite mummy’s best assurances, he did not seem to have grown into his heavy brow at all. He was all sharp edges and points—elbows, knees, shoulders, ribs. If he bent over and turned at the right angle in the mirror he could see the ridges of his spine. Was that normal? He didn’t know.

                North Carolina hadn’t brought any tanning or warmth of skin tone to Arthur—he still looked like a creature of the night, with errant pink blotches here and there, like on his cheeks or kneecaps. He was so absorbed in these other things he didn’t have time to worry about the coarse nest of straw-blond hair crowning his odd head.

                He thought of the other boys—or he had that day, before someone far more interesting had stood before him—Daffyd and Roger and Francis. Did they look different now? He tried to imagine Francis looking as coltish and unfortunate as he did, and it was impossible. Francis had been the age he was now when they’d first met—maybe he was already past this stage? If so, it could be that a mere year would clear up Arthur’s problems too!

                “Ah—you must be Arthur!” The golden man was speaking to him and he realized he ought to answer if he was still intent on not being rude.

                “Yes! That’s me. Arthur.” He should never have even bothered coming downstairs.

                “A pleasure to meet you.” Mr. Jones strolled over and thrust out a calloused hand, which Arthur shook feebly, remembering only halfway through to put some effort into his grip. Dad always said you could tell the kind of person a man was from his handshake.

                “How’ve you been settling in? Alfred sharing alright?” Mr. Jones’ accent was just as heavy as his wife’s, a charming slow roll to his words that sounded wonderfully foreign.

                “Oh yes, yes,” Arthur babbled.

                “Good to hear!” They all seated themselves around the table and continued talking. Alfred was determined to tell his father absolutely everything that had happened since he was last home. He surrendered this goal only to hear the stories Mr. Jones had brought back from the Pacific, tales more vivid and electrifying than in his letters (and with no parts blacked out).

                In Alfred’s reflective eyes, consuming half his awed face, Arthur could almost see the poisonously green palm leaves, dripping with humidity (worse than here, Mr. Jones said! As if such a thing were possible!), sheltering the wet dirt and elephantine bugs below. In the distance, he heard the buzz of fist-sized flies, and the shouts of the Japanese—a language Arthur himself had never occasioned to hear. He could taste his own sweat, and the salt of the tropical air, could feel the chaffing pack pressing his damp clothes to his back.

                Wet, wet, wet, Mr. Jones described it. Everything was soaked, dripping, oozing, wrung out. If he had two words for the battlefield of the South Pacific, they would be thus: hot, and wet.

                Owing to the unique circumstance of Mr. Jones’ return, Alfred stayed up an extra hour and twenty minutes: An hour because Mrs. Jones allowed it, and twenty minutes because he spent that time trying to argue for more.

                From there, the days seemed to skip by and by until they were crowded ‘round the tree on Christmas morning, Alfred near to leaping out of his own earthly skin with excitement. After ripping through a few presents, and passing a few off to mom and dad, Alfred examined one label a little closer and said, “It’s for Arthur!” He handed it promptly off and waited expectantly for Arthur to open it. “Santa must know you’re here!”

                When he had laid off blinking in surprise—and trying to deny himself his longing for the once-expected holiday gifts—Arthur tore it open, exposing a new notebook and a set of pencils tied together with a scrap of ribbon.

                “Oh, look at that,” Mrs. Jones remarked. “You can write down your thoughts now!”

                In addition to the notebook, he received a new used pair of trousers for school and some socks. When Arthur was alone with Mrs. Jones in the kitchen later, he wanted to find a way to tell her that he was grateful—he suspected his gifts had more to do with her than Santa Clause. He tried, but stood wordless in front of her, until she reached out to him and he lurched forward into the embrace, just for a hasty moment before pulling back.

                “Thank you!”

                There was no magical, climactically improbably snow that night, but there were cookies and Christmas music and the peaceful shield of love so present in the Jones family home. And although Arthur wondered briefly, laying on his camp bed that night, Alfred out like a light hugging his new baseball glove, what his family was doing, he had the dim, placid sense they were doing something pleasant. Maybe there was a fire in the hearth, and Mairead was telling a story, while mum darned some of dad and Angus’s socks. At Robinson House, maybe Daffyd was having a laugh with friends, and Francis had gotten a letter from home, or at least been allowed to light his candle.

                Perhaps, for a night, things were alright—not good, but alright.

#aph england #hws america #hetalia fanfiction #hetalia #arthur kirkland #alfred jones #alfred f. jones #aph: england #aph: america #rocky writes #here's the christmas chapter before valentine's day #this is why i don't do holiday chapters

[a-lesbian-goth]

A Monster’s Trip to Justice

@mymywhataninterestingsight

@magicandheart

@magestaves

@banbutsunoriron

@idontknowanythingandthatsok

I remember the first time the moon changed. I remember how there was a feeling of tranquility after the sun fell. Usually people would feel trapped in concrete walls. But for a wolfman, concrete walls are comfort for a long night in. This was how it was always going to be. I would never hurt any living being, and that was a great comfort for me. I’d been through enough in my life to know what harming a living being could do. I hated the sound of suffering, sometimes I even hated the sound of the world around me. Here is was quiet, no sounds leaked through the thick walls around me. My mentor had brought me to this place.

We’d worked at the lumber yard together, and it’s amazing how you can bond as you cut through a forest everyday. My mentor Cecil Fields, had been a werewolf or more commonly known back then as a wolfman ever since he was 30 years old. And he still looked 30 years old. But to a kid fresh out of high school with starry eyes and rose colored glasses, Cecil Fields was a jaded old man. In fact he was a lot like a Father to me. Funny how you realize so much about someone after they’re gone. And he had brought me to that same basement one night precisely on the full moon. He promised me he wouldn’t hurt me, so I sat in his basement and waited for what he wanted to show me. I was suspicious of the basement, but I trusted him enough to stay put.

I remember how he changed, how his body became deformed and filled with hair. It wasn’t like in the movies, it was quick and painless. He looked like a big black dog standing on it’s hind legs. He stared at me with pure red eyes, and I knew he was still in that mind. Contrary to popular belief, you don’t lose yourself in that form. But of course, my little idiot self screamed their head off and scrambled across the room, falling on my own damned shoe laces and smacking my head against the concrete. I was bleeding like crazy, and was lucky I didn’t die then. I still regret screaming and doing that. I was frozen on the floor, my ears ringing from the echoes of my screams. That was all the time he needed. It was over quickly, and I should have been lucky he didn’t decide just to kill me right there. A swift bite to the arm, quick and as gentle as possible. The bite didn’t tear out my flesh or muscle, but in my terrified state it looked that way. He went to the corner of the room and curled up, satisfied with his work. I waited for the sunrise anxiously, knowing now why I couldn’t open the door. I cried like a little kid, begging him not to kill me. It should have been more obvious than it was, but he explained it all to me when he changed back in the morning.

And I was back with him in the basement, this mentor staring at me from across the room. My first full moon. I was a little too happy about it, knowing how proud Cecil was of me. Knowing that we were bound together, an inseparable pack of two. And I would have loved that, to stay in his guidance forever. But that just wasn’t my luck. Cecil gazed at me like I was his first born child, yet in his proud stare there was sadness, maybe even a little pity.

“ I cursed you, Porfirio.” He muttered, sitting on the concrete ground with a groan. “ What, with eternal life? Never getting old?” I was naive then, just a kid with a starry eyed, dewy dream of never getting old. Typical Peter Pan or some bullshit like that. “ No, you dear boy.” Cecil sighed, staring down at the ground with the face of a tired man. “ Then with what?” “Being alone.” “ But you said-” “ Forget what I said.” “ T-Then-” “ I’m dying.” He held his head in his hands, and for the first time, his face grew red and he burst into tears. “ Cancer, cancer they told me it’s in my back near my spine. There isn’t shit I can do, Porfirio. After all these years there isn’t shit I can do!” He stood, and punched the wall, leaving his first bloodied and a dark stain on the sterile gray. The moon was out now, and our features were changing. I felt the energy going through me like I was caught up in ocean waves, drowning me as I became something greater. The peace I had felt was gone, filled with sorrow and fear of what was to come. The waves of this new power held no meaning, because the image I’d had of the future had shattered into some fragment of a nightmare. And that’s reality would be for a very, very long time…

Now what do I remember of Albert? Well, for starters, his name was pronounced in the pretentious French way where you pronounce it like Al-Bear. Secondly I remember what he did, of course, I doubt anyone could forget that. And thirdly, I remember his face from my childhood; a kid that sat in the back of the class, the smart one that got bullied a lot by his parents and the kids in the schoolyard. I don’t remember if I was one of them, and I wonder still if it would have made a difference.

I remember writing in for a roommate. The typical “person wanted” ad-no stoners, no conservatives, no devil worshippers, I was looking for your average Joe, Jane, and John. Then Albert came, Albert from my home town. That was a weird coincidence, considering our home town was half a country away from the point where we both ended up. I didn’t know he moved, but I remembered that we both had our reasons. Mine was an escape from my abusive parents and from the death of Cecil. For him, something similar to the first reason, maybe even the second. We didn’t talk about it, we know where we came from, there was no reason to know specifics. In fact, I thought I was going to enjoy living with Albert for a while. He seemed nice, and didn’t care when he found out my secrets. I thought he was a good roommate for a long time, until…

It started.

Albert wasn’t the hot rod in the dealer’s lot. He was a beat up Ford MK1. His chin was sunken into his neck, and his skin was the color and texture of a rotten peach. He was awkwardly built and lanky, and to make this guy a real winner, his shoe size couldn’t have been more than 6 and a half. The only feature that stood out were his eyes. They were bright blue, like the picture of the ocean on a postcard. They locked you in, held you there for a long time. Something about them was unsettling, but I could never place my finger on what. I thought it was something wrong with me, like everything else. Like I said, he was a “nice guy”. So I shoved my suspicions about Albert aside and tried my best to get along.

But everything changed when he actually found a girlfriend. Peg was a factory worker and she wasn’t a real looker either. She had features similar to that of a brick wall, and an attitude exactly of that. She smelled like grease even after she showered. I didn’t care about Albert’s love life, because to be honest I was pretty confused about my own at the time. One night I heard Peg screaming in Albert’s room. I thought it was some fetish thing, so I stayed quiet in my room until morning. Her screams still ring in my ears sometimes, because oh god, how could I be so stupid? The next morning, Albert emerged, disheveled but otherwise looking completely proud of himself. But something about him seemed…wrong. As in more wrong than usual.

Half asleep and mulling over a cup of instant coffee, I leaned over the table and watched as Albert went over to make himself a cup. “ So, uh, will I have to make her breakfast later?” “Nope,” he said, his voice joyful and half laughing at my question.

“ I didn’t hear her leave last night,” I said, taking a long sip of my coffee.

“She didn’t.” “ Then, is she-”

“ I killed her, Porfirio.” It didn’t seem real for a few moments, and I felt in many ways disconnected from myself. There was Porfirio, looking like a deer in headlights, eyes blurring with disbelief. His heart had fallen past the pit of his stomach and feet, melting into the floor. And then he asked, “ What?” As if he didn’t already know. You heard the screams, genius. Then he started making connections, and there it was, the elephant sized tiger in the room. Porfirio stood up, almost falling over on the table, and he ran over to Albert’s, room, throwing open the door and almost breaking it off of it’s hinges. And there she was.

Peg was horribly mutilated when Porfirio found her. Her breasts were cut off, and she was cut through the middle with a jagged knife. Her organs spilled out in a bloody mess on the floor. Her eyes were wide open, blood shot with the fear and agony she had gone through in her late life, her mouth still hanging wide in a scream. But I didn’t answer her screams for help and mercy. I, Porfirio, had stayed silent in my room the whole night. My heart wretched and beat, pounding as though it was tired of me and wanted to be free. I didn’t realize how heavy I was breathing. My eyes darted across the floor which was stained in a dark color.  I looked over to where her bottom half, or what was left of her bottom half, was. It was cut apart, and stacked like lincoln logs in the corner of the room. The lower half of the torso almost like a crumbling house with the organs and spine protruding out from it, the skin marred from knife wounds. The legs were leaning on the side of it, cut off from the lower half, the soles of the feet touching and holding it all together. There was no beauty in it, in murder there is no beauty or grace. Murder is not art, and I’m sorry if your fucked up mind ever tells you it is.

I felt a metallic and bitter taste rise on my tongue, and out from my mouth flowed the coffee I drank and bits and pieces of what I had ate the night before. It even took me a few moments to realize that that new fluid solidifying on the floor had come from me.

And behind me,

Albert was laughing.

“ With what you are, and you can’t even stomach this?” He said with some sort of dry, fucked up laugh that I never wanted to hear again. I was a werewolf, dammit, but I wasn’t a killer! My mind was blank as it searched for answers, my mind darting across the carnage. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t move, it was as though the moment had locked me into a cage where I would never escape.

When I could move again, I was ten minutes late for work. That fucking asshat had made me ten minutes late. I forget a lot of what Albert told me, but I couldn’t respond so it wasn’t really important. Something about art I think. But any person would know what he did wasn’t art. I went into my room, and thought about it all being some sort of dream. But it wasn’t. I could still hear Albert cleaning up his “masterpiece” in the other room. I slid on the black pants which were a typical quota for where I worked, and I noticed that my legs were still shaking. My hands shook with them. I buttoned my pants with my fumbling hands and slipped on my red shirt. I pushed myself off from the bed and went over to my mirror, taking some hair tonic on my comb and slicking it through my black hair. I was ready to go, but I looked like a deer after it’d been hit by a car and left on the side if the road to die. I figured there was nothing I could do to fix that, and I tried my best to head out into the world and be a functioning being.

That was one of the hardest shifts at the Five and Dime I’d ever done. My eyes kept darting to the clock, watching the black hands tick onto each number, going onto the calendar to see the moon schedules. Full moon next week. Full moon, and what would I do? What could I do? How could I fix this? I said absent minded hellos to the customers, half hearted “have a nice day”s. Occasionally, a “buenos dias” and a “gracias”, and each time one of the abuelas tried to start a conversation, she noticed something was wrong. After I refused to tell her why, she scurried off to make a big lunch or something. Damn, did I want to tell her. I wanted to gush out my feelings, cry and melt onto the counter about how my roommate was a murderer. I wanted confess like I was the murderer. I felt guilty, like a man being convicted of his crimes on death row. My mind kept calling me back to the room, and I sure as hell didn’t know what to do about it. I couldn’t kill Albert, because in my heart I knew that I wouldn’t finish the deed, and he’d find a way to frame me for the murders. I couldn’t tell anyone-if I did, I’d be shot up as soon as I turned on the full moon. It was perfect conditions for Albert, and I cursed my rotten luck. I’d climbed the hill to fall back down it again, and I wondered if that would be how I spent my eternal life now that Cecil was gone…

The answer came to me after Albert had killed so many, I had to stop counting them for my own sanity. Albert was an expert by now, and he was coming up with new “creative” ways to get rid of the bodies. Leaving them in the woods or throwing them into a river, turning them into soaps and sweets he’d share with cronies at his office job. Knowing how to clean the blood, taunting me at work as he went into my Five And Dime and buying supplies to clean his messes. I felt myself being torn apart with every kill, separating like egg whites and yolks for a demonic pastry. I wanted so desperately to do something about it, but I couldn’t. Albert knew it too, Albert mocked me for it. When his eyes locked me in, they were challenging me, daring me to do something about it.

Then it appeared to me one night.

I was in the kitchen, sitting at the table. Our counter space was occupied by a junk tv I bought. I turned it on to drown out the screams, to drown myself in whatever protests were happening. I turned it on after work, sitting to watch the daily news that was never new at all. But that day was an exception. It was turned on to some hippies out in California, a reporter with a pole up their ass along with McCarthy’s head in the mind talking about why these younglings were important.

LSD.

LSD. Sweeping the college campuses and the student protests, they said. Said protesters reported how it opened the mind, how it felt like heaven was right in front of them, how great they felt. An escape from reality.

It sounded foolproof.

If I went wolf during a trip, I could kill Albert with ease while having no idea what I was doing! And even if I didn’t, it could help me with how I was feeling, help me find a way to kill him. It was perfect. “ Why are you smiling?” Albert asked, staring back at me as he did the dishes.

“ I wanna try it,” I said, pointing at the television screen.

He shot me a suspicious look. “ Why?” “ Why not?” “ You can’t be serious. Those protesters with their liberal bullshit wouldn’t know their head from their asses.” Well, looks like Albert really didn’t fit one of my roommate specifications after all. “ Listen Albert, I just, uh, have a good feeling about it.” I shifted in my chair, and I realized then my smile. Albert asked about out but I didn’t really pay attention to his question. “You’re going to the college today, right?” Albert, much to my disgust, had recently taken an affinity to killing college students. Told me it was something about the vitality and robbing of innocence that got him off.

Albert nodded, “there’s going to be a frat party tonight.”

“I’ll go with you and I’ll get it there!”

Albert thought about this for a minute, shooting me a sideways glance that made an anxious feeling rise into my heart. It didn’t matter if he said no really, but maybe I could prevent another murder if I took the LSD before he killed somebody. A part of me still feared the consequences, but a larger part of me was desolate-it had no fear or much of anything really.  Maybe LSD could fill it with something, but then again that was pure assumption based on this horrible, wonderful plan I had.

I sat in the front seat with Albert as we drove to the college. He’d been hesitant around me the whole day, and for the first time, I started to reconsider my plan. What if Albert was preparing for the moment I was going to trip like I had? What if he sat in his cubicle office job the whole day, answering phones and typing out sheets, all while thinking about all the ways my trip could hurt him and his plans? With the way he looked at me, it wasn’t too far fetched. “ You sure about this whole LSD thing?” Shit. “ Yeah, of course I’m sure,” I responded, staring out the window. I watched people passing by on the street, my sweaty palms against the dashboard, and the quick beating of my heart. I tried to focus on the people outside, and imagining how Albert would kill them. Although, this made me think about what if I were to do it on my trip, so I quickly abandoned the thought.

There was no moment of bravery, there was no moment at all which I realized “I am doing this no matter what because it is right.” No, I was fucking petrified about the consequences, I was resolute that everything could go wrong and that was it. I wasn’t a hero then. I’m still not. I was and am just a wolfman, going through the desert, horribly out of place but with no way to get out of it. I didn’t have Cecil . God, Cecil  would have killed Albert right after Peg. But I didn’t have that courage. If I was trying to be Cecil , I was only a dull reflection of who he was. So I never tried to be Cecil , though at that moment, I wondered what he would do. I wondered how he would have torn Albert apart, gutting him alive as he screamed, just like his victims before him…

I wondered if I could get to that.

The night air hit me like a bat to the stomach. Going into the clammy, hot frat party, it wasn’t hard trying to find drugs. Most of the students were already drunk, high, or tripping or somewhere in between all of it. The place smelled of pheromones and drugs. I watched them for a few moments, sinking into the crowd. I only looked around 18 after all, so me going into the party wasn’t a huge stretch of the imagination. I surveyed them, some of them were kissing and fucking, some of them were looking at themselves as though they’d never looked at themselves, and others were shouting about absolutely nothing at the top of their lungs. The only lights on were stage lights, multicolored and in various random places around the room. Some of them were out,so I decided that people were moving them. The air buzzed with loud radios, announcers playing the latest tunes, people babbling on about pointless advertisements on things the kids could probably never buy, and people reciting the nightly news. I almost felt high just being in the place, taking in the fumes. But eventually, I found one with acid. The transaction was simple, I handed him a roll of money, and I had 5 strips. They were at the bottom of a small brown bottle with the label scratched off. Sketchy, but I didn’t really care what they did. I just wanted to be out of my skin.

I returned to the car successfully, the bottle in my pocket. I felt proud of myself, sitting in the back seat of the car, laying down with my head against the back of the window. I heard footsteps approaching the car, and I turned my head to see Albert walking a college girl towards the car. She had unkempt brown hair, and wore a flowing dress of some thin material. She got into the side of the car, and by the way she was stumbling, I could tell she was drunk out of her mind. Albert’s tie was undone a little, and he had a look of excitement on his face. Watching that disgusting, putrid piece of filth stumble with the girl towards the car made me want to vomit.

I heard the car doors open, and slam shut. The girl in the front seat smelled like she had taken a bath in a whiskey keg, and she chuckled. “ Who’s the Puerto Rican in the back?” She asked, her voice slurring. I didn’t bother correcting her and telling her I was Mexican. It wouldn’t make a difference. She mattered, yet she didn’t matter at all. She was a human life, a woman who deserved to become someone great. She could have the cure for cancer in that brain of her’s, and humanity deserved to have that. She didn’t deserve to get killed by Albert, snuffed out too soon. Her family didn’t deserve to mourn her and never find the body. She didn’t matter because I had no right to know anything about her, and she had no right to know anything about me. I could have told her to run, tell her Albert was a murderer, but that wouldn’t do any good. She’d run out of the car, inform everyone at the party, and Albert would deny it. If the police came, there wouldn’t be enough evidence linking him to anything, and he’d be let go. Then he’d tell the world about my existence, and I would die. Albert would kill more people. So I couldn’t do anything, except sit there, and hope the little pieces of paper in that bottle would end this whole mess… “ Don’t mind him,” Albert said, smiling to the full extent which his sunk chin could allow. I wondered if the girl could even tell how ugly Albert was. I despised how he talked about me. It reminded me of how my Mother would tell the women in her church group about all the things I’d done wrong, when I’d done absolutely nothing. I was a good child and she fucking knew it. My Dad just filled my body with scars for no reason other than he liked to have that power over me. Albert liked to have that power over me. He liked knowing I was a wolfman, and he liked knowing that to keep me quiet. He liked knowing that anything I said to the girl would do nothing. He liked having me powerless.

But not for long.

By Jesus, not for long.

A few minutes into the drive, I opened the bottle with the strips. I shook it until two fell into my palm, and I was surprised by the color. They were bright, neon colors like pink and green. I wondered if I hadn’t been handed something else by the college junkie, but then I realized it didn’t really matter. I popped two on my tongue, and counted three more left in the bottle. I was tempted to take them all in one go, but I didn’t want to wake up dead. Being dead wasn’t too bad in the situation, hell, maybe that’s how they’d catch Albert; but I wanted to know that Albert would be dead. I wanted him dead and gone. I wanted to know that he wouldn’t hurt anyone anymore, even this girl in the front seat. Maybe her life wouldn’t go anywhere, and she’d wish she was dead just like me. But there was still a chance it wouldn’t. And that chance, was worth it.

I closed my eyes and felt the strips dissolving, and I let myself go calm, knowing that this was only chance one. I had three more left. Three more…

I felt my skin grow more receptive to the air around me, the staunchness of the car. My senses became more aware of the insides of the car, and I felt like I could feel everything in myself. I felt like I could feel my brain firing off, my stomach processing my dinner. It felt like my life had ended, and I’d risen again, learning the layout of this new, beautiful body. I opened my eyes and looked at my arms, and my vision took me by surprise. Everything felt sharp, clear, as though I’d been seeing through a fog my whole life and it had recently cleared up. I laughed, and the sound echoed as though I was in a cave-no, the basement. Cecil. I laughed, and things started to change. They grew different colors-the leather came to have flecks of green, light blue, and in amazement I sat up and touched it. Albert and the person had began to talk again, and their voices became echoed was well, distorting as my thoughts seemed to talk, sounding out all around me. It was as though I was back in the party, only the party was myself. My thoughts moved at a lightning fast pace, marathoning in a circle around me. The place I was in felt new, it felt refreshed through this clear lense of colors that were so perfect. I wanted more. I moved my arms and felt the muscles within them contracting to commit to my movement, I felt in control. God, I was finally in control. For my whole life others had controlled me, my Father, Albert, with the exception of Cecil. God, Cecil, you should have seen this! I felt a flooding sense of joy and comfort come over me, nothing was wrong.

I forgot about Albert in more wonderful world.

He was so far away, and I was so close, so intimate with the world around me.

I was in heaven.

When the car stopped, I was very aware of it. I got out of the car, and onto the sidewalk. The world was fluid around me, as though each part was fragmented into many pieces like a stained glass mirror, only the pieces of glass were moving as though there was one great force pulling them. I walked up the stairs to the apartment, Albert was ahead of me and so was the girl. They became closer as though I had put a pair of binoculars upon them, and far away as though there was a football field of distance. The stairs grew bigger and smaller, and I paused on a few of them, thinking that if I moved, I would lose my footing and fall off the edge. The images then separated, one image layered with a rotating translucent version of the other. So I was back in the apartment, and I found myself completely in love with the tiles. I fell to the floor and watched them. They were changing to different colors, different patterns which moved like a river on the floor. And I touched these patterns, and found that when I came closer to them they faded. My thoughts had somehow gotten lost into a greater loop that was beyond myself, and I had forgotten about killing Albert. I was pounding my hands onto the moving patterns, the texture of the tile so sleek and glossy beneath my hands. And new voices joined my trekking thoughts, asking me in both English and Spanish about things I hadn’t thought about before. I felt so happy, so happy that tears slipped down my face, feeling so hot yet comforting. “ Beautiful,” I said, my voice joining the continuous echo.

Around me, shapes began to rise, I had lost all sense of time although I know it was slipping by like the patterns around me. Shapes rose and went to the ceiling which flowed like an expanding and shrinking river, rose up to touch the ceiling and fall back onto the fluid tile. The pure, free joy came over me and surrounded me as I laid down on my back near the table. I had almost forgotten there as I watching the towers rise and fall. I fell in love with it too, stroking the sides like a soft animal. The spires swirled into the air then swirl back down, rise up from me, then swirl back down. It was mad, glorious, I loved it. Warm hands were touching me, all warm hands were pulling me down into the floor, warm hands that loved me. There was a great sense of everything being resolved, including Albert. Everything was okay. Heaven. Heaven was where LSD had brought me, a new bright world where I was free from anything and everything. A place where I could hear everything and nothing. It was beautiful.

Then, I found myself closing my eyes, feeling the great weight possessing them. I closed my eyes, and the world quickly went black.

When I woke up, I knew I was back in reality. The LSD had worn off, except for a large feeling in my chest. I sat up, hoping it would go away, and something thumped on the floor next to me. It was then I realized my shirt was covered in wet blood, and on the side of me with eyes wide open was the girl.

I’d failed.

I’d fucking failed.

Like the rest of Albert’s victims, she was cut in half. The torso now lay on the ground beside me, pale as a sheet with her skin sunken inwards. Only this time, I noticed that she was clean cut, as though someone had taken out the organs inside her. I let out a scream and curses.

“ Porfirio? More like, Poor Fear Rio.” Albert laughed at his own fucking stupid joke, which didn’t at all alter the total panic I felt from the girl’s dead body and my own failure. “You killed her, you know. You killed her in that form of yours!”

“ ¡Calláte, hijo de la chingada!” I spat bitterly, my words coming out in sharp, fearful breaths. I looked down at my hands, feeling dizzy and unable to catch my breath. He was a lot worse than an hijo de la chingada, but at that moment those were the only words my mind child find. I suddenly missed the LSD trip, because it felt better than reality-hell, it felt more real than reality. I was resolute that I didn’t kill her. It was impossible. I knew I was on the ground the whole time, and Albert was too fucking stupid to even make it look like I killed her. Although I knew this was true, it added onto the sudden hatred I had for myself. The feeling of failure and self betrayal. I felt like vomiting as I looked over to the dull eyes of the girl, and I pulled my legs to my chest and put my face down into my knees. I couldn’t even ask Albert if I had turned to my wolf form during the entire thing, because I was panicking to much to think of anything but the dull eyes, no longer watery from her drunkenness. Both living and dead, they seared themselves into my brain, and all the revelations I came to during the acid trip had disappeared. I felt exactly where I had started-

Powerless.

I took and shower to wash the blood off, relied on the sun to dry my hair, and got on my uniform to go to the Five And Dime. Before I forgot, I rummaged through my clothes from the night before to get the medicine bottle with the LSD. I put it on the top of my dresser, and stared at it as I prepped myself for work. My hands went slowly on the tie, and suddenly the girl’s eyes came back into my mind. I pulled it tighter, and tighter, and tighter-

Until my eyes focused on the LSD again.

I released my grip on the tie, coughing a bit and feeling the all too familiar wave of nausea creep up from my stomach. “ I won’t fail again,” I promised myself and the bottle. “ Two more tabs of it, and I’ll kill him. I won’t fail again.” Fear was surrounding me, closing me up in the darkness like a trash bag smothering my body. Trash bags were Albert’s signature when he threw someone into the river. I had failed. I had robbed her family a chance of having a daughter. I had robbed her of a chance to live her life, whether that be for the better or for the worse. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, still don’t, but at that moment I felt like I killed her. Maybe I couldn’t kill Albert, whether that be on acid or not. I was a coward, I knew that much. I had defied all the bravery that I had ever seen in Cecil, I spat on his legacy when I was supposed to carry it on. A headache throbbed in my skull, an alarm to fire off that I needed to go to work.

It was like I’d witnessed Peg’s death for a second time, only this time I had a plan. Everything I did felt dull and mechanical, rehearsed over and over. Any stamina that I’d gained from working and escaping the apartment was gone, drained by the dead girl’s eyes that stared down on me. I tried to think about my trip, remember what I’d seen and what I heard that had made me happy. It was all gone, gone…

I popped two strips in my mouth, the same as the last time. I closed my eyes for a few moments, then found relief in my senses sharpening. And it all came back to me, coming in like an old friend. The hurried thoughts, the voices, and the spires of color, the patterns like stained glass reaching into the sky as they touched the ceiling moving like a river of color.  I looked at my arms, expanding and retracting, full of color and light. It was then I felt myself rising, I was going somewhere else. I was floating along the air, I had become a different being. Around me the world had changed, I was no longer in a bed, I was no longer anywhere that I recognized.

This new world was full of the geometric patterns which I looked at with great awe, patterns that rose endlessly into a sky where they gathered and swirled together. Below me was a sensation like heaters blowing around me, then I felt myself changing, changing into my wolf form. Had I forgotten the full moon, or was it the drugs? This thought was lost in the echoing voices and thoughts that all seemed to pass by fluidly, like the blue and green surface where I stood. And when I looked up from where I stood, I saw a being absorbed by these colors, a familiar form almost like a mirror image of the form I had taken on. Only this image was not me. From it I gathered a familiar sense, as though I had found-

“ Cecil!” My voice became loud like a scream, echoing and remaining through the trail. I was so small in comparison to this wide, majestic place where I now was. It wavered, the images folding onto themselves and creating new ones, the world around me beautifully distorted save the being before me. The rapture of seeing Cecil was so immense, and I heard his voice again. Cecil, whom I had watched fade away in the hospital, whom’s coffin I lifted and left behind, Cecil, Cecil my mentor, my spiritual Father, whom I had mourned. Engulfed in the beautiful and unclear world, where we were both a part of something much larger.

“Do what is right,” Cecil told me, his words then getting lost. “ Kill Albert. Do not forget.” “Cecil!” I cried again in amazement, rushing towards him in the energy that I was.

“ You are strong. You are a part of something much greater, Porfirio. You are worthy. You are whole, and you are loved. What you are going through is a muddy stone in a river, a river of what your eternity shall be.” “ I get it,” I cried, my voice shaking through the world. “ I get it!”

Cecil neared me, his presence filling me with the paternal warmth and guidance it had offered me in the past. Gone was the image where he wasted away, gone was the weight of his coffin in my hand, gone, all gone. He was there, holding me, filling me with a purpose that I had forgotten. Filling me with faith, the hope, the love of myself that had gotten lost, that I never fully discovered. It felt like the gate to everything had been unlocked, and here I was, inside of it all, a part of it all. I may not be brave, yes. But that was alright. I was brave in the eyes of others, and bravery did not matter. I was myself, I was a part of something greater. I was a part of a loving world. And it was time for me to destroy something for that whole.

Instead of fading to darkness this time, I faded back into reality. When the effects were gone, there I was, lying on my bed. I got out of my bed and went to find Albert, fear coming over me like the waves of something that I felt when becoming a wolfman. I decided quickly on how to do it if it was not already done. I didn’t know if I’d killed him already or not.

          My thoughts were answered when I heard someone screaming in the next room, a man this time. Albert usually didn’t do double kills, but since he was, this was all more of a reason for it to happen tonight. I was running quickly, and only then I realized-

I had been in the form of the wolfman. I ran on my hind legs, feeling my paws running against the floor. I jumped on the door, knocking it down. I saw Albert, the man on the bed tied to it as Albert laced him with cuts that weren’t deep enough to kill him. He turned to me, and I saw the surprise widen his horrible eyes.

Surprise.

And horror.

Like the girl.

I bit into his stomach, taking a mouthful of his torso. I tasted his blood, felt his organs between my jaws, and tossed them aside when I felt the waves reversing. It didn’t matter. I kept him pinned beneath my weight as I changed back, and wrapped my hands around his throat. He tried to fight me off, but he was weak from my bite and his arms felt like rag dolls as they tried to push me away. I saw his face turn bright red as I squeezed his neck as tightly as I could, I saw it turn redder, then violet, then blue-and dead. His eyes lulled back in his head, and I continued squeezing, my grip as tight as it could go. Even though I knew he was dead, I threw his body off of the bed and watched it fall onto the floor with a thud. I went onto the floor, launching into obscenities, and I cut my hand as I pried the knife from his dead hands. He’s managed to cut me a few times, but he had failed once I had torn into his stomach. The truth possessed me, and I couldn’t stop. He was dead, but some part of me told me he was still living. I took the knife from his hands, and stabbed it, I continued stabbing it into his head until it split open, the brain flowing out like a smashed pumpkin. Then, a great sense of tranquility came over me.

I stopped, my breaths shaking my body, and I dropped the knife.

I looked at the victim on the bed, surprised, looking at me with fear. “Stupid,” I said to myself, although I was bound to break that habit sometime. I took the knife, and cut the rope at the boy’s foot. He seemed horrified, watching me in shock. He didn’t thank me, he just laid on the bed, filled with fear. I dropped the knife on the ground, and it clattered onto the floor. “ It is done.”

I left the room, my feet feeling heavy as the rush had faded. I’d done it. I’d fucking done it. I succeeded. I went back into my room, a great sense of relief and tranquility coming over me. And that was it. I turned to my mirror above my dresser, and saw myself, covered in blood. Covered in small nicks. Then, I saw the reflection of the pill bottle.

One tab left.

Why the hell not? Some part of me still felt disgusted in myself, felt wrong, although what I had done was the right thing. I may have killed him, but I prevented the death of future victims. I needed to be away from it again. I needed one last time to get myself away, one little reward for this thing that I had done. Maybe I’d even see Cecil again, and he’d congratulate me on my good work. Albert was my first killing, and my last.

My hands fumbled on the white lid, and I nearly dropped the brown bottle.

I let the small, green tablet spill out onto my shaking hand.

Shaking? I laid back on my bed, feeling relief and tiredness. This wouldn’t last long.

I slipped the tab onto my tongue,

And I went to heaven one last time. 

#child abuse tw #suicide mention tw #drugs tw #hallucinations tw #this is a horror story with mentionings of lsd #reblog if you want too! #if you read it i congratulate you #if you want you can tell me what you thought of it #this is a short story set in the 1960s about a mexican american werewolf who takes lsd and tries to kill a serial killer #tagging people who said they wanted to read it #likes are also nice #oh also #gore tw #also i don't really have a solid title so suggestions are nice

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The Tales of Valandras and Lorafaen 5 (Commission)

The following is a commission. Mild sexual stuff may come and go, but, nothing overly mature.

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The Tales of Valandras and Lorafaen - Mother Talk

Time had passed after Valandras’ thirtieth birthday - a few weeks, three-and-a-half to be more exact. Now, it was a bright, warm Tuesday, and Valandras and Lorafaen had agreed to go to the each again. They hadn’t seen each other for a while, not since early last week on Monday, and even then, only briefly. Since their previous meeting - rather, since his birthday - Valandras had spent some time working on his physique. He was lounging about at home, waiting for her, currently wearing board shorts and no top. It was a little strange to be so… well, less modest than normal. But, he enjoyed the way Lorafaen reacted to his physique. He’d only toned up a little, specifically working on his abdominal region. He recalled he’d once spent a great deal of time working on his arms, only for them swell up a little too much, to the point where he looked more like a troll than a man. He couldn’t have that, so, he kept his arms toned, but his chest and stomach were a different matter. He chuckled to himself as he waited. He was eager to see Lorafaen’s reaction - and he, admittedly, wondered how her physique had changed, if at all. He knew as well as she that her body had the exact same effect on him, after all. If anything, she’d be buffer now, too. He could just picture it… But he shrugged this off, preferring for her to be in front of him in person before he began to fantasize about such things. For now, he waited, calm and collected, his scar out in the open - he had decided not to use magic to mask it, not when he was with Lorafaen. He felt more… confident when he was with her, more willing to expose the scars given to him so long ago. It would be different if he were travelling far and alone, but going to the beach with his girlfriend? A harmless enough excursion, and he felt no need to hide the scars. No one tried to kill them or threaten him. Yet. ‘I can’t wait to see her,’ Valandras thought. He was giddy like a child despite his age, not that he minded all that much. ‘It’ll be fun going to the beach with her again.’ He paused and eyed his physique. ‘And I do hope she likes the effort I’ve put into myself. I’m sure she’s done the same…’ He stopped then and his nostrils flared. Lorafaen’s scent reached his nose, and he turned, ever so slightly, toward the source of the smell. He could hear her sneakily moving toward him from behind, likely trying to surprise him once more. He snorted to himself - he wasn’t going to be fooled that easily, not after the previous time. Valandras grinned and stood up, casually strolling over a few steps. He waited, listening intently as her footsteps neared, and then, he turned around in the blink of an eye. Lorafaen stood there, looking ready to pounce, only for her to gape when she saw him and freeze in place. “Nice try, my move,” Valandras said, shaking a finger. “Aw, dammit,” Lorafaen grumbled. “I was so sure I’d get you again. Stinking werewolf.” He chuckled, only to notice - as Lorafaen straightened up her posture - her volutous form. And, lo and behold, he wasn’t wrong in his expectations. Lorafaen’s body was even more built than it had been weeks ago during his birthday party. Before, she’d developed a good amount of muscle from working out, a testament to her desires to match Valandras in the muscle department. Then, he’d been wowed by how gorgeous she looked. Now, he was practically salivating. In his days, Valandras had met only a small handful of women who worked out enough to boast the level of muscle one would typically see in men. He knew plenty - PLENTY - of toned women with nice biceps and abs for days, the sorts who looked damn good and would kick any fool’s sorry behind that belittled or thought lesser of them for their gender. Yet the ones Valandras was thinking of went beyond that, with impressive, sculpted forms that would make average men jealous. And now, Lorafaen was heading that way. Her stomach was perfectly chiseled, blending the rock-hard look of her six pack with the still pronounced curves of her waist and hips. Her arms, too, were looking damned impressive, and Valandras couldn’t for the life of him NOT stare at and admire such physical empowerment. Of course, she looked gorgeous either way - she’d just gone from a lithe, voluptuous beauty to a beefy voluptuous beauty. “My eyes are up here, Val,” Lorafaen said, pointing to her face. Her lips curled into a smug, satisfied grin. “I take it you like the additional work I’ve put into my body?” “Y-yes,” Valandras said, blushing. “Very much so, Lora.” She giggled, then noticed his physique. Her cheeks burned and she bit her lip, trying - and failing - to hide the satisfactory smile she developed. “Ooh. Wow. Seems you’ve been working out, too, Val.” She reached out and ran one hand down his hardened stomach, feeling the muscle there and smiling. And, as Valandras expected, her finger pressed into his navel. A surge shot up his spine and he stifled the gasp he would’ve uttered otherwise, but rather than pull away, he stood there, watching his Tiefling lover probe the umbilical scar with a bizarre amount of interest in her eyes. “You know, I swear your belly button is even cuter now than before,” Lorafaen said. “It’s like a little cave in the center of those sexy abs of yours. Mm.” She removed her finger and trekked her hand across his stomach again. “You could grate cheese on these babies.” Valandras, amidst his interest and blush, chuckled softly. “I appreciate it. But, you know…” Lorafaen removed her hand and took Valandras’, silently placing it upon her own abs. She grinned at him, clearly already knowing where his head was at, since he was about to say the same of hers. His cheeks burned hotter, and he did as she had, trailing his hand across the hardened plains of her abdominal area. And by the gods did it feel wonderful. Valandras was both aroused and amazed by the texture, how smooth Lorafaen’s skin was despite the fact her abs were almost as pronounced as his. “I think we should both sell our middles out to the local butcher shops,” Valandras said softly. “They’d get more meat ground in a day that way.” Lorafaen giggled, a hint of devilish glee mixing with genuine smugness in her eyes. “I’m sure they would.” Valandras was about to retract his hand when he, deciding to give Lorafaen a taste of her own medicine, poked his finger into HER navel. He was surprised, first by the quiet, almost contented sigh that escaped Lorafaen’s lips the second he did so, and then by the fact her navel was… “I had no idea it was so… soft,” Valandras murmured. He was a little transfixed, in fact. Lorafaen smiled at him. “My belly button’s pretty deep, too, isn’t it?” Valandras nodded. “It’s like it wants to eat my finger.” “Told you.” Valandras had to admit he liked the soft texture, and he liked how he could feel Lorafaen’s breathing - the rising and falling of her stomach, plus the way she seemed to twitch when he moved his finger in the little divot. He retracted his finger and looked at her, noting the satisfied grin still sitting on her face. “You really do have a navel fetish, don’t you?” Valandras asked. Lorafaen shrugged. “I might. I might not. But, either way.” She patted her abs and let her tail flick out, running it from his ankle up his leg, pausing at the hole where his leg left the board shorts. “You said you wanted to head to the beach again?” “Yes,” Valandras said. “I was going to suggest we do our trip like before - head to town first for some drinks and then have a nice little picnic at the beach?” Lorafaen giggled. “Booze sounds lovely, of course. Perhaps we could even liven things up a tad, hm?” She flicked her tail up to his stomach. “Body shots?” Valandras swallowed the lump in his throat. “M-maybe.” Lorafaen giggled once more. “Oh, Val.” She kissed him. “You know, you come off like the ‘big, strong hunk’ when you want, but the moment I act a little sexy, you melt on the spot. All buff, but no tough, aren’t you, love?” “Hmph.” Valandras kissed her back, then folded his arms. “It’s not my fault. You’re no different, you know. You act all cocky one second, then you’re blushing and demure the next.” “True!” Lorafaen said. “But it’s hard to stay uber cocky when your lover is sex on legs.” Valandras face was on fire, so much he had to look away. “You’re one to talk…” “I’m aware.” Lorafaen winked. “Now, are we going to spend our day trying to up the other in who is sexiest and why, or do you want to go to the beach as planned?” Valandras rolled his eyes. “Yes, let’s go.” They kissed once more and proceeded to leave, heading again toward the town for food and drink. As they walked, Lorafaen kept her eye on Valandras, taking in his emotions. While she didn’t show it externally - nor mention it - she was, in fact, very mindful of how he acted or looked whenever they were in public together. His heightened senses granted him many benefits, but the fact he was a werewolf also left him with a great deal of anxiety and nervousness. And with his scars showing, it was even more of a reason for him to be that way. Lorafaen didn’t expect Valandras to be fully okay with showing his scars in public - sure, he would claim he was fine and he would, on the surface, feel more at ease with her around, but she knew the inner workings of the mind - any mind in general, really - were not so forgiving. She knew he was bothered by it, and even though he seemed alright, she could tell in his eyes - deep in the tides of those lovely orbs - that Valandras was still thinking and reacting to every potential encounter as if it might turn hostile. “Shall we get more Four Oceans Bourbon this time?” Lorafaen asked, hoping to distract Valandras. No one looked at him with fright or suspicion, but, even so, it never hurt to be too careful. “Oh! And some more The Thunderclap Ale?” Valandras nodded. “That sounds good, actually. And while we’re at it, food sounds good. What are you in the mood for? Chicken? Lobster?” Lorafaen tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Chicken sounds nice, but I’d rather fancy some lobster, actually. Been a while since I’ve had it. Oh, and hows about Wild Rose Wine to go with it? I’ve heard from some friends that the wine goes great with cooked lobster.” Valandras eyed her. “Really now?” “Yup,” Lorafaen said. “It’s a sweet-tasting wine, with an almost floral fragrance to it. It’s not quite like you’re drinking roses, but, it’s close. But, trust me - as odd as it might sound, it’s wonderful.” “I’ve never had it before,” Valandras said. “You’ll love the taste,” Lorafaen said, nodding confidently. Valandras smirked, and he opted to give it a shot. It didn’t take too long for them to purchase everything for their beach picnic. Once they had them, they walked to the beach together, chatting casually about whatever happened to cross their minds. Lorafaen was pleased to see Valandras in good spirits, although being away from a public place packed with people certainly helped. When they arrived, they set their things up and sat together on a nice, isolated patch of sand. The weather was still grand, and they had a great view of the beautiful ocean stretching out before then, as well as the friendly ocean life. A few dolphins were playing in the distance, crabs scurried about at the edge of the ocean, and fish swam close - they even spotted a lone shark drifting about. “If ever there was a place that I could describe as the essence of peace, it’d be this beach,” Lorafaen said. She and Valandras sat together, drinking and eating as they gazed out at the sea. “Agreed,” Valandras said. They rested their heads against one another’s for a while, drinking their beverages in silence. Valandras tasted the Wild Rose Wine and was taken aback by the sharpness of the sweet taste on his tongue. It was a little TOO sweet by his standards, but, he sipped at it slowly, enough to where it didn’t overwhelm him. It wasn’t bad, just took getting used to. “May I ask a question, Val?” Lorafaen asked. She sipped at her Wind Rose. The flavor was perfect to her, the sweetness far from being overbearing. Valandras sipped at his glass of Thunderclap. “Of course.” “What was your mother like?” Valandras took another, longer drink, and considered this. “To tell you about her… it’s not a simple feat, though it might seem that way. Granted, as her son, I’m biased. I know my sister would be the same if you asked her.” He chuckled at this, and turned his gaze to Lorafaen. “My mother, on the surface, was beautful, wise, and kind. She was the sort of woman you would picture in children’s fairy tales or bedtime stories, I suppose, as the regal queenlike figure that did her best to help whoever the real hero of the story was. But, in many regards, she was like this ocean.” “Peaceful and calm?” Lorafaen asked. “Yes,” Valandras said, “but also fully capable of shifting at a moment’s notice. Her anger… it wasn’t something you would want to lay eyes on. There are many different types of angers in the world. For me, even with the wolf lurking, my rage is more of a quiet, tense affair. Clenched teeth, hands balled into fists, a surge of heat to reflect my anger.” He eyed her speculatively. “There’s you, then…” Lorafaen showed no shame in responding. “I’m more external with my anger. I curse and shout, I’m well aware. Mine’s pretty explosive.” He nodded, unwilling - or unable - to say she was wrong. “But, my mother? She was… on a different level. When she got angry, truly angry, the air would grow thick and tense. You’d start to breathe heavy, and she would get this… LOOK in her eyes. A look of malice, a look of pure fury. It was terrifying. And her voice - she swore as violently as you, Lora, but she did so calmly. Icily, almost. The combination was… frightening.” Lorafaen stared at him, taking in the look on his face as he said this. Stern and completely serious - a surprise to her given how much he adored his mother normally. “Did you…?” “I never angered her to that level,” Valandras said, his voice quiet. “Zelyra did, but only once, and it was a brief episode. No. I’ve just… I remember seeing her enraged several times. It’s not something you forget, even when you’re a child at the time.” “That bad?” Lorafaen asked. He nodded. “The first time Zel and I witnessed our mother’s fury was probably the worst. I think it was her eyes that scarred me the most, truth be told. Even as a child, I’d heard plenty of cursing - foul language was second nature to my mother, and Zelyra picked it up after her. No, it was her eyes. That… death glare she took. It was almost as if shadows somehow formed out of thin air to surround her face, and as it did, her eyes transformed. Her pupils were gone, and she just had these… blank, vicious blue eyes that glowed. It was terrifying. I had nightmares about it for weeks.” Lorafaen grimaced. “Oh. I had no idea. I’m sorry.” He waved a hand. “It’s fine. My mother was incredibly apologetic to us. She hated when she lost her temper in front of us when we were children.” “What did Zelyra do to get her upset?” Lorafaen asked, unable to help herself. Valandras’ lips twitched. “She lied. Lied on top of another lie, that sort of thing. She was young, of course, and the whole situation was… It wasn’t some terrible thing, really. It was just that sort of ‘I’m young and I want to do this, but to do it, I have to lie’ scenarios, if that makes sense?” Lorafaen giggled. “I’ve done that a few times.” She drank more of the wine, smiling when Valandras arched an eyebrow at her. “Oh, don’t give me that look. We were all young once.” “True enough.” He smiled, briefly, before continuing, “At any rate, our mother found out, as all mothers tend to do. And when confronted with it, Zel lied. Thing is, you couldn’t lie to our mother. She was far more in tune with the spirit and psychic realms, far more than I ever will be. She had a sixth sense for these things, so, she called Zel out. Zel lied again. She kept spinning this lie out because, as you said, she was young. Young and arrogant and foolish. And our mother got upset.” Lorafaen nodded slowly. “I imagine it wasn’t a pretty sight.” “Not at all,” Valandras said. “Zel was traumatized for months. Granted, again, our mother was very apologetic and felt horrible for it. Fortunately, they mended fences, and, Zel opted to NOT lie to her again.” He rolled his eyes. “Don’t feel bad for Zelyra. She’s just as arrogant and foolish as she was back then. She’s just smarter, now.” Lorafaen giggled. “Smart and arrogant? Always a bad combination.” He chortled. “Yes, but she gets along just fine. She’s at least got a consience about her ego, the fool.” He sighed then. “Our mother was a strong, stubborn woman. Temper or no, she was a good mother, a good teacher, and a good friend. I know she would’ve loved you. You’re alike in a lot of ways, truth be told.” “Stubborn and foul-mouthed when angry?” Lorafaen said, snickering. “Yes, for sure,” Valandras said, grinning. “But, you’re also very similar in personality and demeanor. You’d have gotten along perfectly, I’m certain.” “She sounds like a lovely lady, even with the temper,” Lorafaen said, nodding to herself before her grin turned smug. “And I’m quite aware that she would’ve loved me. I’m a lovable sort, if I do say so myself.” Valandras snorted, and Lorafaen nudged his shoulder, grinning wide. Her expression gradually softened up. “You know, I do still feel she would’ve been proud of the man you’ve become.” She smiled. “And I’m sure she’d be proud of Zelyra, too.” “She would,” Valandras said, flicking his gaze back to the ocean. “She was always the sort to gush about us to random strangers. That proud-yet-somewhat-embarrassing mother figure. She played that trope well.” Silence fell, and the two sat together for a while longer. Lorafaen was the one to break it again. She kissed Valandras on the cheek first, then got to her feet and squeezed his shoulder. “How’s about a swim, Val?” Valandras pondered this. “Sure, sounds nice. But what about we have a little bet?” “A bet, eh?” Lorafaen arched one eyebrow. “I’m listening.” “If you can get to the coral first…” He pointed to his navel. “This is yours for the rest of the day, and maybe something more…” He winked, “intimate. And if I win, then I get to explore YOUR belly button.” He pointed at hers. “How’s that sound?” Lorafaen’s lips twitched. “Trying to stick your finger in my belly button, Val? Naughty, naughty boy.” She grinned. “I accept. I especially like the combination I get if I win.” “You have to win first,” Valandras said. “Easy.” Lorafaen beamed. “Last one to the red coral is a stinky werewolf.” And then she took off. Valandras blinked once, laughed, and chased after. It was a close race. But the winner was obvious.

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#commission #commisions open

[sportsandfitnessinfo]

New Post has been published on http://fitnessandhealthpros.com/beauty/i-swapped-indie-beauty-for-sephora-products-and-the-results-were-cray/

I Swapped Indie Beauty For Sephora Products–And The Results Were Cray

A version of this article previously appeared on JacalynBeales.Com.

Approximately five years ago, I made the decision to go green and natural with my beauty. That meant ditching all “generic” beauty products for those typically only found online for $ 40 per jar/bottle, which further meant spending most of my monthly income on natural skincare.

Yes, it is as ridiculous but worthwhile as it sounds.

Then, three years ago, I stopped wearing makeup altogether and now only wear the odd bit of concealer when I feel I need it. Though I don’t spend nearly as much money on makeup as I do skin care, natural makeup products made with ingredients that are actually natural and palm-free can be a bit pricey, especially when you live in the snowy tundra that is Canada (for UK people, that’s a totally different country from the US, just sayin’) and most of those items are shipped from the United States.

But I digress.

Over the past five years, I’ve tried – and ditched – many a natural beauty product, not only for their greenwashed ingredient labels but also due to their ineffectiveness as a product overall. But my experience with natural skincare – and my commitment to it – has meant avoiding all of the brightly, albeit unflatteringly, lit stores such as Sephora, where most women my age go to play with makeup and drop their paychecks at the checkout counter on the way out.

Cynical? Who, me?

Even I am not immune, however, to the draw and pull of Sephora. Whenever I do have occasion to visit a Sephora store, it is often with a friend or family member, and I never fail to become extremely overwhelmed every time I walk into one. The selection and array of brands is unreal, but what may perhaps be most surprising to us green beauty junkies out there is the fact that Sephora actually carries a few natural brands – or, as close to “natural” as mainstream beauty stores can carry. For example, my recent trip to Sephora revealed shelves lined with Farmacy and Drunk Elephant products, in addition to other “indie” and cult brands like Herbivore Botanicals. Though these brands are quite expensive – the average price of their products starts at around $ 40 and only increases frighteningly from there – I have been known to spend $ 100 on facial serums that prove totally effective, so I bit my tongue and stepped down from my soapbox.

For every one natural brand in Sephora, there are five more completely unnatural ones, and watching my friends pick out products that are clearly made with only-God-knows-what was surprising; in fact, while watching other shoppers, I became fascinated by the lack of discerning taste in products. People like certain brands and products, and they stick to them. No judgment, just keen interest.

After speaking to one of my friends in the UK over a series of hilarious Snap Chats recently, she said something that truly resonated with me. To paraphrase, my friend put me in line by betting that I couldn’t last a week using Sephora-sold brands, and my head began to spin. She’s totally right, I thought to myself as I was applying my $ 65 facial oil that night; there’s no way I could do that.

So, of course, I challenged myself to two weeks of using only Sephora-sold beauty brands. And it kind of really sucked.

How It Went

Upon accepting this self-induced challenge, I made a trip to the mall and entered the Sephora store with immense trepidation – not only for my skin and hair, but also for my bank account. There was no way I was coming out of this challenge unscathed, and neither was my debit card.

Hurray!

As I was perusing each display of different brands and products – many of which were Korean, as is currently the latest trend in beauty and skin care – I kept in mind the type of products I was looking for: facial cleanser, face mask, moisturizer, dry shampoo, under-eye treatment, spot treatment, hair oil, facial oil, and concealer. I would try to acquire samples of each type of product where possible but also ended up buying a few full-size items due to lack of sample-availability.

Facial cleanser. The facial cleanser I purchased was the Clear Bloom Cleansing Oil from Farmacy, which starts off as an oil and eventually turns into a “milk-like” texture for cleansing purposes. It purports to be a makeup remover and cleansing oil, but it was the cheapest cleanser I could find that came in a bottle bigger than my thumb for the same price as others. Aside from the fact that the first 5-8 ingredients are just alcohols and things you seriously cannot pronounce without a sherpa to guide you through the ingredient label, the cleanser smells oddly like dirt and window cleaner mixed together and removed my makeup just about as well as a L’Oreal cleanser would.

So, not a great first start.

Face mask. The next product at hand was the Dr. Jart Water Replenishment Cotton Sheet Mask which, aside from making me look like a serial killer, was ridiculously difficult to use and smelt purely like chemicals, something I haven’t been accustomed to since my days as an over-the-counter, drugstore-beauty user. I purchased two of the masks and used them once each week and saw no visible results, but they did sting like a mo-fo and caused my skin to breakout, so I suppose there’s that.

The ingredient list on this mask (and other Dr. Jart masks) was also quite heinous, as was the fragrance, leading me to conclude that these masks need to go die a slow death somewhere, preferably not in the ocean where the obscene amount of plastic used to wrap these masks will likely end up.

Face moisturizer. After my skin was suitably dried out by both the cleanser and the mask, I needed to layer up with a decent moisturizer and settled on the Ultra Repair Cream from First Aid Beauty. I’ll fully admit here that this facial moisturizer made me swoon thanks to its uncanny ability to hydrate my skin all day long without causing my t-zone to imitate an oil spill. It has a subtle fragrance to it that, shockingly, didn’t overwhelm my nose all day, and it works awesomely under concealer. The ingredients in this bad boy are pretty much what you’d expect – not to natural – but I couldn’t help falling in love with it and I feel terribly guilty about that.

Dry shampoo. Next up was dry shampoo, and I have to tell you that my body was freaking ready for this. For some time leading up to this self-induced challenge (read: torture), I had wanted to try the new Dry Shampoo Foam from Ouai. I had seen the dry shampoo foam all over Instagram, as well as in many an online article, with rave reviews, and the devil’s advocate in me kept insisting that it would be more effective than the natural dry shampoos I own and use – though I’ve alway preferred a natural dry ‘poo to the artificial ones. Upon first using the foam, I was impressed; this was doing its job and I raved about it to friends on Snap Chat like it was my job. I watched the brand’s instructional video to learn how to properly apply and use the foam and felt myself actually becoming Jen Atkin…until I looked in the mirror 30 minutes minutes later.

Not only does the foam have a perfumed scent to it that is totally overwhelming and grandma-like, but the foam had actually made my hair greasier-looking than it was when I first applied the foam. Ouai claims that the dry shampoo foam will give you volume while cleansing the hair; the foam goes on wet but dries dry for a chic yet totally useless user experience that yields unfortunate results. I proceeded to use the dry shampoo foam for another five days – even on washed hair, for volume, as the brand’s video says you can do, and I trusted Jen Atkin because, well, she styles Kim K’s hair and for some reason that made me trust her? – and promptly tucked it away into the back of my bathroom drawer, never to see the light of day again. Is it possible for dry shampoo to make your hair look dirtier, even if it’s clean???? Because that’s what happened.

I should have trusted Sephora’s online reviews of the foam rather than a brief brand video, but I guess this only proves that I’m a sucker for dry shampoo. I’m also totally embarrassed by my semi-promotional snaps I subjected my friends to about this dry shampoo for literally no reason.

Did I mention the dry shampoo foam is $ 30/bottle? BECAUSE IT IS.

Hair oil. After the harrowingly greasy experience that was the Dry Shampoo Foam, I decided to give Ouai the benefit of the doubt and try the Hair Oil, thinking that not all Ouai products could be bad. And, honestly, for the most part, this hair oil isn’t actually that bad. Unless you factor in the smell. My god, the smell. Applying even the tiniest amount of this oil resulted in a head of hair that smelt as though I had dunked myself in a bath filled with floral oils of I-don’t-know-what-the-heck, and that made this hair oil difficult to use. I found leaving it in overnight was the best solution, but only when I was willing to sacrifice my first hour of sleep being kept up by the stench. So, basically, I used the oil five times and never, ever again.

Oh, and the first ingredient? It’s listed by the EWG’s database as being considered potentially harmful as well as tumor-causing in animals. So yeah…take that as you will.

Eye treatment. Following the hair oil was the under-eye treatment. For my bank account’s sake, I bought two of Sephora’s brand name eye masks in Pomegranate, which purport to tone and energize the under-eye area using, well, you guessed it: pomegranate extract. A salesperson at Sephora recommend it to me as a cost-effective and quick solution to pricey eye treatments, and the color of the packaging caught my eye (no pun intended), so into my Sephora basket they went!

As far as eye masks go, I was surprised by the results of this one; it actually brightened my under-eye area and made my usual bags look less severe. I was impressed by how simple they were to use as well, though they’re a bit slimy and the smell is quite strong. However, for $ 6 a pop, the results outweigh the low cost, and I’m ashamed to say I would buy this eye mask again.

But, you know, I never will, because the ingredient list is not so lovely.

Spot treatment. Moving onto the spot treatment, and my skin was ready for some TLC from a blemish-fighter that would [hopefully] help repair the not-so-stellar results of the cleanser and face masks. The lovely sales people at Sephora were kind enough to give me a sample bottle of the Super Spot Remover from Origins, as there was no way I was going to spend $ 25 on a bottle of gel with an ingredient list longer than my college application. Nah.

Like most generic spot removers, I found this one from Origins to have a slightly chemical-y smell with the ever-popular burning sensation typical of spot treatments which seek to burn the blemishes from your skin. Though it wasn’t entirely useless, as far as spot treatments go, I found it dried out my skin quite severely and worked best when applied over a facial oil at night. It did help to banish the odd blemish or two I experienced after using the face masks and cleanser, but I fear to think of the ingredients used and how dry my skin could potentially become with continued use of this spot treatment.

Facial oil. The facial oil in question was a sample of the U.F.O Ultra-Clarifying Face Oil from Sunday Riley, a brand I see on Instagram and beauty pages quite regularly. The oil purports to be a medicated dry oil which absorbs quickly and clears congested pores for problem prone skin. And while it did absorb into my skin quite nicely, I’m unsure as to where the “dry” part comes in. Within half an hour of using the oil, my skin not only became quite oily itself, but the oil did little to calm my naturally red cheeks. It was also next to impossible to use under makeup as part of a moisturization routine, and the smell was something else. Something not very good. Like burnt grass and tea tree oil mixed together. Was I losing it??

Considering a full-size, 35ml bottle of the oil costs $ 100 (before tax), I said a silent prayer of thanks to the sweet women as Sephora who were willing to give me a sample.

Concealer. When it came to concealer, I decided to purchase one that wasn’t at all natural – and doesn’t purport to be. It was, however, recommended to me by both friends as well as Sephora employees who swore by its effectiveness and ability to mattify the skin. So, needless to say, I was all for giving this concealer a go. It’s the Soft Matte Complete Concealer by NARS, and yet again I was able to get my hands on a small sample of it. The full-size container of the concealer goes for $ 38 a pop, but my small sample was enough to last me almost the two full weeks, and matched my skin quite well, in the color “Macadamia.”

Real talk: this stuff works. And I’m not at all ashamed to say that I would probably buy this concealer if it weren’t filled with ingredients I’m wary of putting on my own skin. It provided amazing coverage without drying out my skin and worked well as an under-eye concealer on days when my bags were particularly awful. It even did a great job of mattifying my skin, which was a welcomed surprise.

The Takeaway

Over the course of two weeks, I pampered my skin with Sephora-sold brands which were at times totally overhyped or completely justified, both in their pricing as well as their overall effectiveness.

Though my skin and hair don’t appear to have benefitted from the products I used, apart from the under-eye mask and concealer, which both pleasantly surprised me, I learned a very important lesson over the two weeks of this challenge; mainly, that many brands are pretty awesome at greenwashing, especially when the packaging they use to do it totally distracts from that greenwashing. I was disappointed to learn, for example, that the cleanser I was using had a palm derivative in it but made no effort in its packaging to attest to that. The ingredients in the hair oil also concerned me, and I found it slightly off-putting that something as simple as a hair oil could have potentially harmful ingredients.

Was I at all surprised that some of the more artificial and chemical-laden products worked well? Not really. But I didn’t expect to like them, let alone find them to be as effective as they actually were. And though I’m committed to using only natural products – I’m not-so-subtly glad for the challenge to be over – the two week period did help me to recognize why some people may be wary of ditching their tried-and-tested products (like concealers) for more natural options. Some of these not-so-natural products really do work, but it’s up to us as individuals to determine whether the risks and results from using artificial ingredients on our skin and hair are truly worth the temporary benefits.

No one made me “suffer” through two weeks of using Sephora-sold products, but I’m happy to have put myself through the “ringer” of not-so-natural beauty. Now, I’ll never have to wonder again what some of beauty’s most currently-coveted items are truly like.

Oh, and neither will my bank account. Don’t try this at home, kids.

Are you a green beauty convert? 

Also by Jacalyn: The Moon Juice Cookbook Is As Woo-Woo As You’d Think–And I Love It

Related: Is Your Green Beauty Habit Actually A Fast Beauty Addiction?

Get the Glow–Not Clogged Pores: 3 Best Non Comedogenic Oils for Your Face

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Photo: Sephora, Tolph Cam, Fashionista, Mrs. James Recommends

After several years spent traveling the world, Jacalyn settled back in her native home of Toronto, Canada to earn her Degree in Classical Studies. A dedicated wildlife advocate, she has for the past three years written on the issues and conflicts threatening the world’s wildlife and advocates for the conservation of Africa’s lions. Jacalyn’s dedication to and involvement in wildlife activism inspired her to join the global movement of conserving wildlife and living an ethically conscious, eco-friendly lifestyle. As a writer, she has had many opportunities to report on wildlife conflict and, through her writing, raise awareness and become a voice for conservation. In 2014, Jacalyn founded the social media community called PACH, through which she works with global NGOs and NPOs whose efforts are helping to save Africa’s lion. Read Jacalyn’s work on www.jacalynbeales.com.

Originally at :Peaceful Dumpling Written By : Jacalyn Beales

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