#immortal wonder woman wallpaper

[reallygroovyninja]

Part 1

Clarke turned off the main highway and onto the winding backroads that led to her inheritance - an old Victorian house that once belonged to her Great Aunt Becca. As she drove through the dense woods, the sun started to set, casting long shadows across the overgrown road. 

Up ahead, she spotted the battered mailbox with "Woodhaven Manor" painted across it in fading letters. She pulled into the long, gravel driveway that cut through the trees, branches scratching against the car windows as she slowly made her way towards the secluded home. 

In the dim light, Clarke could just make out the shape of the three-story mansion, with its peeling paint and creepers snaking up the walls. The place looked forgotten by time, exactly as her aunt had described years ago when telling young Clarke stories about her eccentric old home. 

Pulling up to the creaking front porch, Clarke put the car in park and took a deep breath. She had inherited this place after her aunt's recent passing, sight unseen. As she stepped out into the cool, evening air, she felt both excitement and apprehension about what awaited inside. 

The woods surrounding the old manor house took on an eerie vibe at night. Clarke grabbed her bags quickly and headed to the front door, ready to start unraveling the mysteries held within the walls of this secluded, vintage mansion left all to her. 

Stepping onto the creaking porch, Clarke fished the old bronze key out of her bag, the one the lawyer had given her. She slipped it into the rusty keyhole and turned it slowly. The front door let out a long groan as she pushed it open, revealing nothing but inky darkness within. 

Clarke pulled out her phone and turned on the flashlight, casting a dim glow over the entry hall inside. She could just make out the silhouettes of sheet-draped furniture, dusty floors, and a sweeping staircase. 

The lawyer had told her the power was still connected so she just needed to locate the light switch. Clarke waved her phone around, spotting cobwebs in the corners and peeling wallpaper. She found the switch, flicking it on with hope. 

The entry hall remained drowned in shadows. Just the faintest buzzing indicated the electricity was running, but the old bulbs had apparently burned out. Clarke sighed, using her phone to light the way as she gingerly stepped inside. 

Her footsteps echoed across the creaking floorboards as she explored the first room. Aside from her phone's beam, the house remained pitch black. She couldn't wait to get some lights on and really see what this timeworn manor held within its walls. 

Passing through an arched doorway, Clarke entered what appeared to be the living room. Her phone flashed over a vintage sofa and chairs, all covered in white sheets. Clarke noticed an old lamp sitting on a nearby table. She headed over, turning it on with hopes the wiring still worked. 

The lamp flickered to life, casting a warm glow over the room. Clarke could now make out more details - the intricate molding along the walls, the heavy drapes blocking the windows. Over the fireplace mantel hung a large, gilded frame. 

Stepping closer, Clarke illuminated the portrait within. It was of a beautiful young woman with long, chestnut brown hair, piercing green eyes, and a soft smile. Clarke knew this wasn't her Great Aunt Becca, who had blonde hair like Clarke. She wondered who the mysterious woman was. 

With the lamp now giving off some ambiance, Clarke spotted a light switch by the doorway and flipped it on. The antique chandelier overhead came to life, fully lighting up the spacious living room. 

Clarke gazed around, taking it all in. This room seemed rich with history and secrets waiting to be uncovered. She already felt herself growing curious about the house's past inhabitants, particularly the striking brunette immortalized in the mantel portrait. 

After checking out the living room, Clarke ventured up the creaking staircase, her phone lighting the way. She wished she had booked a room at the cozy inn right off the highway instead of staying in this dusty old house her first night. But it was too late now, so she'd have to make do. 

"You just had to try and save money by staying here, didn't you Clarke," she muttered to herself as she climbed the stairs. 

On the second floor, Clarke peeked into several bedrooms draped in sheets. One room looked more inviting than the rest, with a polished wood bedframe and floral wallpaper. Clarke entered and opened the curtains, moonlight streaming through the window's stained glass. 

"Well, at least this room doesn't look completely ancient," she said, running a finger over the furniture and examining the layer of dust. 

Searching the closets, she miraculously found clean linen that didn't smell too musty. Clarke made up the bed, coughing a bit as dust flew up from the nightstand when she spread the sheets. 

"Guess this will have to do for the night," she sighed. 

Too exhausted to explore further, Clarke set her bags down and changed into pajamas. As she climbed into the creaky bed, she heard the house settle and groan around her. 

"Please let me get some sleep and not run into any ghosts tonight," she whispered into the darkness. Despite her unease, Clarke's eyes soon closed, giving in to much-needed sleep. 

That night, Clarke drifted into a deep but fitful sleep. Strange dreams came to her in fragments - she was wandering the house's halls at night, hearing whispers around each corner. Shadowy figures flickered at the edge of her vision. She called out for them to show themselves but woke up before anything appeared. 

"That was strange..." she mumbled in her half-asleep state. 

Another dream found her standing in the overgrown garden outside. The brunette from the living room portrait walked by Clarke with a sad smile. Clarke tried to call out to her but couldn't make a sound. 

"Wait, come back!" Clarke wanted to say but the words wouldn't come. The mysterious woman disappeared into the hazy garden mist before Clarke could follow. 

Clarke stirred briefly from these unsettling dreams but exhaustion kept pulling her back under. When morning finally came, sunlight streamed through the bedroom window, rousing Clarke awake. 

She sat up in bed, momentarily disoriented by her surroundings. "Where...oh right, the house," she muttered, remembering the night before. 

Then the previous night came back - the long drive, arriving at the inherited mansion past dark, making a bed in this dusty room. 

Clarke rubbed her eyes and stretched. "At least I got some sleep in this old place." 

She felt well-rested in spite of the strange dreams. Ready to explore the house in daylight, she got up and changed into fresh clothes, eager to learn more about her new home and its history. 

After getting dressed, Clarke made her way back downstairs. Sunlight now streamed through the living room windows, giving her a clearer view of the space. She paused to examine the portrait above the mantel again. 

"Hmm, you look familiar," Clarke murmured, gazing at the painted woman. "Wait..." 

The young brunette woman gazed back at Clarke with her piercing green eyes. Something about her elegant features stirred a memory in Clarke's mind. Then she recalled glimpsing this woman in her dream last night, wandering through the misty garden. 

"That's so weird..." Clarke said out loud. She hadn't noticed the resemblance when first seeing the woman in her dream last night. She stared at the painting, trying to determine if she was imagining things. 

But the more she looked, the more the woman resembled the figure from her dream. Clarke shook her head, laughing softly at herself. "Get a grip Griffin, just a coincidence," she muttered. With a last lingering glance, she turned and continued exploring the first floor. 

Leaving the living room, Clarke wandered into what appeared to be a formal dining area. A long, polished wood table was surrounded by high-backed chairs upholstered in faded green fabric. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, covered in a layer of dust. 

"Fancy," Clarke murmured, running her fingers over the intricate carvings in the chair backs. "I bet they hosted some elegant dinner parties in here." 

Moving through an arched doorway, she entered the kitchen. It looked straight out of the 1970s with its mustard yellow appliances and linoleum tile floors. The cabinets were made of a dark stained wood that matched the dining table. Avocado green countertops completed the retro look. 

"Hello 1975 called, they want their kitchen back," Clarke chuckled to herself as she opened the refrigerator. Not surprised to find it empty and switched off. 

She tried the faucet and was relieved when cool water sputtered out. "At least the plumbing works," she sighed. 

Clarke opened drawers and cabinets, mostly bare except for some faded cookware. "Sure wish these cabinets could talk," she mused. Clarke wondered if a family had once cooked meals and laughed around this kitchen.  

After exploring the main floors, Clarke's stomach started to growl. She realized she needed to go pick up some groceries and supplies. The lawyer had mentioned a small general store in the nearby town that would have basics. But for more options, there was a MegaValue and bigger stores about 20 minutes farther out. 

Clarke decided to try the general store first. She grabbed her purse and keys and headed out the front door. The fresh air felt nice after being inside the musty house. 

She drove down the long driveway until she reached the two-lane road. Following the lawyer's directions, she made her way toward the center of the small rural town. 

Pulling up to the general store, Clarke could see it looked like something straight from the 1950s. She went inside, greeted by creaky wood floors and floor-to-ceiling shelves stocked haphazardly with food and goods. 

Clarke grabbed a basket and started perusing the aisles. She picked up bread, peanut butter, cereal and other non-perishable items. At the back, she found the cleaning supplies and opted for natural cleaners to help freshen the house. 

Clarke brought her basket of items up to the antique register. An older woman with curly grey hair and kind eyes smiled at her. "Find everything ok, dear?" 

"Yes, thank you," Clarke replied. 

The woman rang up the items while making pleasant small talk. "Haven't seen you around before, just passing through?" 

Clarke explained, "Actually, I just inherited the Woodhaven Manor house from my Great Aunt Becca." 

"Old Becca!" the woman exclaimed. "Oh I knew her well. So sorry for your loss. That's quite an estate she's left you." Her expression grew serious. "But you know, some say that old place is haunted." 

Clarke's eyes widened. "Haunted?" 

"Rumor is there was a murder there long ago," the owner whispered. "Folks claim to see a ghostly young woman wandering the gardens at night. Beauty with long brown hair." She leaned in close. "But mind you, I don't believe in ghosts! Just bored townspeople letting their imaginations run wild cause it's an old creaky house." 

Clarke nodded politely, hiding her unease. She paid for her items and said goodbye, the owner's words lingering as she drove back to the manor. 

Back at the house, Clarke brought her supplies inside. "Okay, let's get to work," she said to herself. 

She put away the food and decided to start cleaning the bedroom she'd slept in last night first. 

Heading upstairs with some all-purpose cleaner and rags, Clarke pushed the furniture to the center of the room and began diligently dusting. "Geez, look at all this dust!" she coughed as she wiped down the surfaces. 

Once everything was dust-free, Clarke began scrubbing the wood floorboards to restore their shine. "These floors are so gorgeous under all this grime," she remarked as she scrubbed on her hands and knees. 

At the windows, she washed away years of dirt, letting sunlight stream in. "That's better," Clarke declared. The white lace curtains were dingy, so Clarke made a mental note to replace them. 

Stepping back to survey her work, Clarke smiled with satisfaction. "Much improved!" The room already looked one hundred times better. She felt motivated to tackle the rest of the bedrooms next. Breathing deeply, she caught a hint of lemon from her natural cleaner, a refreshing change from the previous mustiness. 

After spending the day cleaning, Clarke was exhausted. She tidied up the cleaning supplies and washed off the day's grime. 

Too tired to eat, she quickly changed into pajamas. As Clarke settled into the freshly made bed, she deeply breathed in its clean scent before instantly falling asleep. 

That night the dreams returned. Clarke found herself standing in the overgrown garden from before. She spotted the chestnut-haired woman from the living room portrait sitting on a stone bench reading a book, looking deeply sad. 

Clarke slowly approached, wanting to comfort her. But the woman suddenly glanced up, startling at the sight of Clarke. She quickly rose and hurried away, disappearing into the mist before Clarke could call out. 

"Wait, please!" Clarke tried to yell, but no sound came. She attempted to run after the fleeing woman but found herself moving in slow motion. 

Just before the mist enveloped her completely, the woman paused and glanced back at Clarke with mournful green eyes. Then the garden faded to black and Clarke woke with a gasp. 

Catching her breath, Clarke stared out the window at the moonlit yard. The dream had felt so vivid. She shook her head, trying to make sense of it all before exhaustion pulled her back into slumber. 

Clarke slept soundly the rest of the night, with no more dreams of the mysterious woman. When morning sunshine filtered into the bedroom, she awoke feeling rested. 

As Clarke got ready for the day, her thoughts returned to the strange dream from last night. 

"Who is that woman?" she wondered aloud. "And why do I keep seeing her in these dreams?" 

Clarke shook her head, confused by it all. She didn't put much stock in dreams usually.  

"Maybe I've looked at that portrait in the living room too many times and my mind is inserting her into dreams," Clarke mused and laughed softly to herself. She was probably making this into something bigger than it was. Still, the dreams left her feeling unsettled, like the woman was sad and needed help. 

"Get it together, Clarke," she muttered. "It was just a dream." She finished getting ready and headed downstairs, eager to explore more of the house. 

Over the next several days, Clarke worked to clean every inch of the old mansion. She scrubbed floors, washed walls, and cleared out cobwebs and dust. Slowly but surely, the beautiful home began to shine again. 

During her exploration, Clarke searched for more clues about the house's previous inhabitants but found very little. The identity of the woman in the portrait remained a mystery. 

Each night as Clarke slept, she would have the same dream again and again. She was in the misty garden, chasing after the fleeing brown-haired woman, calling for her to stop, but never able to reach her. 

Every morning Clarke awoke puzzled. She started to wonder if these dreams meant something more, rather than just being random figments of her imagination. 

The woman was clearly connected to this house in some way. Clarke wished she could communicate with her, help ease the sadness that seemed to linger around her. 

But each night the dream remained the same - the woman always staying tantalizingly out of reach. Clarke resolved to keep digging through the house's past, hoping to uncover the secret of the woman's identity and why she lingered here. 

After a long day of cleaning, Clarke's cell phone rang. She smiled when she saw it was her best friend Raven calling. 

"Hey Raven!" Clarke answered. 

"Clarke! How's the mansion life treating you?" Raven asked. 

"Oh, you know, lounging by the pool while my butler keeps my drink filled," Clarke joked. "But it's coming along well. I'm almost done with the main floors." 

"That's awesome," said Raven. "What's next on your list?" 

"The attic," Clarke replied. "From what I could see, it's totally jam-packed with furniture, trunks, boxes. I'm hoping I can find some valuable items from the previous occupants." 

"Ooh, mysterious," Raven said. "Found any ghosts up there yet?" 

Clarke hesitated. "Well, actually, I've been having these really vivid dreams about a woman here." She described the recurring dream of chasing the brown-haired woman through the misty garden. 

"Whoa," Raven reacted when Clarke finished. "Think it's the ghost of someone who used to live there?" 

"I don't know," Clarke admitted. "It feels so real when I'm dreaming it. I want to find out who she is. I'm hoping the attic might have some clues." 

Raven whistled through the phone. "Well now I'm thoroughly intrigued! You'll have to let me know if you uncover anything juicy." 

Clarke smiled. "Will do. Talk soon Raven!" They hung up and Clarke felt motivated to explore that attic first thing tomorrow. 

That night, for the first time in over a week, Clarke did not dream of the mysterious brown-haired woman. But when she awoke the next morning, she still felt oddly tired, as if she had slept at all. 

"Ugh, so sleepy," Clarke grumbled as she dragged herself out of bed. She shuffled to the kitchen and brewed a full pot of strong, black coffee. 

As she sipped, Clarke mentally prepared for the task ahead - tackling the attic. She was eager to uncover any treasures hidden up there, especially if they held clues about the woman's identity from the portrait in the living room. 

"Here goes nothing," Clarke said, finishing her coffee. She grabbed her flashlight and ascended the rickety attic stairs. Unlatching the door, it swung open with a loud creak, revealing a dark and dusty space crammed with trunks, furniture, boxes, and cobwebs. 

"Whoa, jackpot!" Clarke exclaimed, stepping inside. She opened a large trunk first, coughing as a plume of dust erupted. Inside were aged garments, hats, gloves, and shoes. 

"Fancy stuff," Clarke murmured, holding up a beaded flapper dress. She searched the trunk thoroughly but found no clues. 

Moving on, she pried open a cedar chest filled with vintage books. She flipped through them one-by-one, but they revealed no hidden notes or inscriptions. 

Several more trunks contained only moth-eaten linens and faded quilts. Clarke started to feel discouraged but pressed on, determined to leave no stone unturned in her search to uncover this house’s buried secrets. 

Clarke spent hours searching through the attic's dusty contents. As she opened each trunk and rummaged through the boxes, she discovered the attic was packed with antiques. 

There were ornate mirrors, carved bookshelves, embroidered footstools, globe stands, and many other vintage furnishings. She found a silver tea set that just needed some polish, along with framed paintings of landscapes ready to be hung. 

"Whoa, look at all this stuff," Clarke murmured in awe. The shelves contained rows of leather-bound books, many first editions. 

Clarke realized she would need to call in an appraiser to get estimates. While she hadn't found any family heirlooms to keep personally, these antiques would surely bring in good money at auction. 

"I bet I could get the house renovated just by selling a fraction of this," Clarke thought excitedly. Still, she hoped to uncover objects with deeper meaning related to the house's history. 

For now, Clarke vowed to keep digging through the attic's treasures, imagining the fortunes it may hold. But first she had to clean off the layers of dust coating each antique item. "So much cleaning ahead," Clarke sighed. 

As Clarke searched the attic, she noticed an old trunk peeking out from under a rocking horse. Intrigued, she pulled it out and opened the lid. Inside were bundles of aged letters tied with ribbons, along with some charcoal drawings. 

Clarke carefully picked up one of the letters and examined the flowing script. It was dated 1871 and addressed to someone named Lexa. Clarke read on with excitement: 

My Dearest Lexa, 

My father insists I am to marry Bartholomew Smith. He is a 40-year-old widower with two children who owns a small farm. Father says it is a good match, but I confess I find nothing appealing in it. Bartholomew is so boring and stern, not at all like my beloved. I wish I could run away with you, my heart's desire. Please write and give me strength. 

Yours always, Costia 

"Hmm who is this Lexa that Costia wants to run away with?" Clarke murmured aloud. The letter suggested Lexa and Costia shared an intimate bond. Clarke’s mind spun with questions as she eagerly reached for more letters, hoping to uncover the true nature of Costia and Lexa's relationship. 

Clarke eagerly opened another letter from the trunk, this one dated a few months after the first. The flowing script read: 

Dearest Lexa, 

My misery deepens by the day. Bartholomew insists on visiting my chambers near every night, reeking of spirits and the farm. He wishes me to lay with him and provide an heir. I can barely stand when he paws at me with his grubby hands and fetid breath. 

My only hope is to quicken with child so he will no longer force his vile affections upon me. My heart recoils at his very touch. I often imagine I am in your tender embrace instead, the only one who stirs passion in my soul. Please write again soon, I cherish your words which give me strength. 

Ever Yours, Costia 

Clarke felt her heart ache for Costia as she described her appalling marriage. She longed to know if Costia had managed to find happiness, and what became of her relationship with the mysterious Lexa. More compelled than ever, Clarke returned to the trunk seeking the next letter. 

Clarke became so engrossed in reading the letters, she didn't notice the attic growing dark as the sun began to set. When she finally glanced up, she saw dust motes floating through the last rays of light streaming through the window. 

"Wow, I didn't realize how late it got," Clarke said aloud. She carefully stacked the aged letters she had read so far and stood up. 

Clarke stretched her stiff muscles after sitting hunched over for so long. She was eager to continue reading more but would need better light. Clarke carefully picked up the stack of letters, murmuring, "You're coming with me - I need to know your secrets." 

She left the attic, closing the door behind her. Clarke descended the stairs and headed to the cozy den, where she could curl up near the fireplace to read by lamp light. 

Settling into a leather armchair, Clarke placed the letters on the side table. She added some logs to the fireplace and lit a match, soon filling the den with flickering warmth. Clarke picked up the top letter, thirsty to uncover more clues about Costia and Lexa's tragic tale. 

Clarke unfolds another of Costia's letters, this one expressing despair that she has not yet conceived a child. 

My Dearest Lexa, 

My womb yet remains empty, though not for lack of my husband's efforts. Each night he insists on visiting my bedchamber to perform his conjugal duties, no matter how I wish to refuse him. His rough affections repulse me, but I endure them in hopes of conceiving the child that might grant me reprieve. 

My spirit grows wearier by the day under this barrage I cannot stop. I pray fervently that his labors soon take root so I may have respite from his unwanted touch. 

It shames me to confess these intimate troubles, but you alone understand the true nature of my heart. I cherish the love we shared, untainted by obligation or duty. Thoughts of you sustain me as I await the day I will be freed. Please write again soon, your words shine light into my darkness. 

Yours Most Faithfully, Costia 

Clarke's heart ached as she finished reading Costia's latest letter. "Oh Costia, I'm so sorry," she whispered sadly. 

She couldn't imagine the pain and humiliation Costia must have endured, trapped in a marriage to a man she didn't love. Forced to share his bed night after night. 

"You deserve so much better," Clarke said aloud. She got up and stoked the fire, as if wanting to bring light and warmth to Costia's long-ago suffering. 

Clarke thought back to the love and passion Costia had shared with Lexa. Their relationship seemed one of equals who cared deeply for each other. 

"At least you had your true love for a time," Clarke murmured. Though they were separated now, Lexa had given Costia comfort and strength when she needed it most. 

Clarke wished she could reach across time and give Costia a real friend to support her through the difficult trials of her marriage. But perhaps these letters had been Costia's lifeline to survive. 

Settling back into the leather armchair, Clarke opened the last letter from the stack she had brought down. Unfolding the worn paper, she quickly scanned the flowing script. 

Dearest Lexa, 

The day I have long prayed for is finally here - I am with child! My husband came to me one last time before propriety dictates we must refrain relations until the babe is born. 

While this child is his, you remain my one true love. The passion we shared lights my world in a way duty cannot. I cherish the memories of our time together and keep them close always. 

I confess I wish with all my being this babe had been created from our love, not obligation. But I will care for this innocent life fate has granted me. 

My only solace through the difficulties ahead is knowing our hearts remain entwined, no matter the distance between us. I eagerly await your reply, as your words are like water on a parched soul. 

The love we share keeps my spirit alive. Stay true to me, as I will to you, until the blessed day we meet again. 

Ever Yours, Costia 

Clarke slowly set down the final letter, leaning back to absorb everything she had read. Costia and Lexa had clearly shared a powerful, loving relationship. But then Costia was forced to marry Bartholomew against her wishes. 

"You two deserved so much better. At least you had each other for a time," Clarke said softly. She could tell Lexa had been Costia's lifeline. Their poetic, tragic tale had Clarke hooked. 

She wondered what ultimately became of Costia and Lexa. Did they reunite? Or were they forever kept apart by the circumstances of their time? 

Clarke hoped there were more letters tucked away in the trunk that could give her insight. "Please let there be more," she whispered, eager to learn the full story of the two star-crossed lovers. Their passion and perseverance deeply inspired Clarke. 

#promise me always #clexatober23 #free day #clexatober #i just couldn't finish this story #so you get part 1 #4493 words #my original idea was going to be a take on the movie The Lake House #actually my original was something totally different but that i will post that later #once I finish creating it #anyway sorry best I could do #my brain hurts

[cinematc]

#future state: immortal wonder woman 2 #immortal wonder woman #immortal wonder woman icons #immortal wonder woman wallpaper #icons #icons with psd #movies #dc #dc comics #dc comics icons #dc heroes #wonder woman #wonder woman comics #wonder woman wallpaper #diana prince #diana prince wallpaper #heroes #comics #comics wallpaper

[punkandsnacks]

Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter Fifteen; Anticipation.

Author: @punk-in-docs​ & @adamsnackdriver​

Also on AO3-  

Masterlist-

Trigger Warnings: No warnings in this chap- animal shapeshifting but thas about it really-

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

                                                       ~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~

The very next days seemed to crawl by. As if time itself was dragging through claggy thick treacle.

��Nothing moved quickly and Iris knows it’s because she’s anticipating the weeks-end more than any other event she’s ever awaited on in her life.

 More than Yuletide morning. More than her birthday. More than buying a new book or taking an early morning walk all to herself. More than a sunny frosted morning where everything seems to glimmer as if crafted from gold, or seeing wildflowers dot the woods with their colour in spring.

 She’s waiting on that much anticipated midnight with baited breath. Every second closer to it is both torture and sweet blessed relief.

 She fulfils her remaining days with a permanent smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

 Even her acetous mother remarks upon it. She tells her daughter the fine manner of her engagement must be bringing her joy. Iris bites her lip to keep from grinning.

 She clutched her romantic secret all that tighter to her chest. Moulded it like warm clay to clasp around her glad heart.

 Mother and Maratella insist on setting a date. And getting her whole ‘bouquet’ of daughters measured for their gowns.

 Posy and Flora for they are of course to be bridesmaids, and Iris, of course, for her bridal gown. They get up a merry party to Pembleton one fine clear morning.

 The snow and frost govern the landscape once more. Ebbing back in after the recent rain. The brown frost-hardened hills and trees and fields. Governed under the fierce cyclops of a mustard sun blazing in the effortless blue of the cobalt sky. It made Iris think of robins eggs, and the golden buttery buds of spring. When the bulbs and shoots blossom up through the earth with their sickly scent and colour.

 It is a fine clear day and it indicates that the end of the long bitter winter approaches. The cold is as ferocious as ever so Maratella insists upon them not catching a chill in the vile icy winds. Shes most kind as to stop to collect the Misses Ashton’s in the Hux’s second largest coach. They are all bid to the dressmakers in the high street. Along the medieval shamble of barrel window and oak timber shops.

 The news of her engagement spread far and wide. Before her boots have even touched the cobbles, stepping out the coach, their party is virtually mobbed by matrons and ladies of their acquaintance.

 Iris had in mind a silly image of them prowling at the pavements like baying wolves, chasing after the muddy churn of the carriage wheels; anything for to first seize that newest scrap of gossip.

 Posy and Flora ladle up all the attention. As does Mama. Proudly boasting - along with Maratella - of the suitability of such a fine match. Iris wants to roll her eyes as Flora greatly exaggerated the romantic manner of Hux’s proposition. She gabbled about a room full of red roses and how Iris wept tears of delight as he swept her into his arms.

 The ravenous eyes turn toward her. “May we see the ring, Miss Ashton?” Comes out of numerous smiling mouths like a chorus of cawing seagulls. Iris feels like they’ll rip her glove off themselves if she doesn’t.

 Unused to such attention, she blushes as she slips off her grey calfskin glove. Wrenching it off her hand. There is a troupe of awed gasps as they admire the diamond set in the gold band.

 Iris feels as if she’s sticking her hand into a dangerous animals maw. Like some exhibit at a zoo. Feeding her hand to the rabid starving tiger’s. There’s so much gasping and in taking of breath it’s a wonder they don’t suck her up. And take half the street with them.

 Luckily, Maratella fusses that they’ll be late if they don’t make haste. She then proudly utters that the ladies five, their happy little bridal party, are off to Madame Larousse’s dressmaking parlour for a wedding gown. And Mrs Ashton and Mrs Hux are to see to both having new hats to mark such a happy occasion.

 The flock of ravenous ladies ceases. Satisfied with their mauling of Iris and her news and her engagement ring. The party is able to proceed along the pavement unhindered.

 They slip into Madame Larousse’s. Greeted by the lanky, heavily perfumed proprietor herself. She was a tall, ungainly woman with poky shoulders and an always over-rouged complexion. And will always, without fail, exaggerate a mildly French accent to gild her words. For she believes that all the best dressmakers and seamstresses were French.

 The tall stretch of Madame claps excitedly and demands to see Iris’ hand when she hears they are here to purchase ribbons and lace and all things fit for a bride. She is whisked away by a very efficient assistant. And stood on a pedestal for the next hour and half.

 Iris spends that time with swatches pinned to her. Flapped around her ears. Tucked under her collar. There’s so many back and forth decisions from her mother, it makes her quite dizzy. A tape drawn tight around her so many times to squeeze the stuffing out her. Eventually, they stumble to a conclusion. It was to be a saffron orange.

 Flora remarked it made her rather look like a carrot.

 Around her they lounge on the chaises provided, clutched around the mirror and the box she’s on, and they drink sweet tea. Brown sugar sprinkled and stirred into the earl grey.

 They all pose interjections and opinions and preferences on her. Iris just stands there like a tailors doll. Only half there.

 She’s caught sight of a swatch of ruby-wine velvet near her thigh and is stroking it fondly. Remembering Lord Rens exquisite bed coverlet. How it felt under her fingers, it took her ricocheting back to that moment. And it calmed her.

 That’s how she can stand all this grousing and prodding. It reminds her of her secret and she nearly faints off that box pedestal.

 They settle on a pallid frothy blue silk instead. To better bring out the excellence of her mud and twigs hair. Mama chooses the best silk madame has in stock. Says she will have to fetch more in from her supplier especially. From London.

 That causes much excitement for Flora and Posy. They’d never had a dress made from material fetched as far nor from a city as grand as London, before.

 Posy had selected a teasing slip of pink silk. Flora, for her more fiery hair, chose a delicate pastel pea green. Iris thinks they’ll look like a platter of French fancy cakes.

 Then a pang of something hits through her heart with all the intensity of an arrowhead studding there - she hopes Mama lets Posy and Flora keep their new gowns after she’s gone. She hopes very much. They are the stillest girls in existence but they do deserve nicer things than what they get.

 By Madame’s husky drawl of a smoky voice is she brought back into the room, the awful pink pink pink room. Stuffed with velvet chaises and bolster cushions and trimmed fringed oil lamps. Great big fat rosebuds sprout up the wallpaper and flourish across the fabric of the pillows on the settee.

 It’s as if the whole room is the summoning of the evil fairy in sleeping beauty. Who commanded swarms of brambles and thorns and swamping plants to take over. That was this room to the last pink thread - only it was instead summoned to contain every incarnation of pink roses as far as the eye could see.

 Her ears burn hot and pink as Madame talks of London. Relating the gossip back to someone in the village. Matter of fact, a certain Lord-

 “Apparantly, you know he sent that tall turbaned butler of his up to London just yesterday...” Madame hushes to them in her hazy terribly-affected French.

 “Sent him to Mayfair.” She grins crookedly as she measures from Iris’s hip to her hem. Barking orders at Suzy, her ever suffering assistant.

 Maratella seems most diverted. “Pray whatever for?” She leans forwards. Perching her half eaten violet macaroon on her saucer.

 “He sent him to Bond Street. You know there is an establishment there that supplies jewels to the palace. Apparantly he came back having purchased something.” Madame says.

 “Pray why would be send his butler all that way?” Flora asks.

 “Why, Miss Smith told me so this morning; she suspects Lord Ren has left his heart behind in Bavaria. He is soon to quit Hellford. She heard Clarence Pennington’s butler say that his housekeeper, Mrs Jones states that half his house is shut. And the staff vacated.” Maratella excites them all. Flora and Posy are mortified at such news.

 “The house is emptying. And Lord Ren shall soon be gone.” She adds.

 Mrs Ashton smiles gladly. “He is journeying back home to his castle I wager...” She delights. The spitting smug nature of her tone was clear. Good riddance.

 “Who must he be besotted with I wonder?” Posy asks indelicately.

 Iris tries not to be twice as smug. Thinking that she is that very woman.

 He goes back to his castle and I will gladly go with him, she thinks.

 The giddiness and joy roils in her stomach like golden champagne. Fizzes through her veins and she has to hide a smile. Biting her cheek hard.

 “Well. if he is shortly to leave our shores. I’m willing to bet he’ll break a fair few maidens hearts in this county and the next over. Such a striking gentleman. The young ladies will certainly feel his loss most keenly.” Maratella comments in sadness for all the female admirers he’d amassed. They’d all be heart sore now he’s going away.

 “You’re blushing Iris.” Flora sing-songs at her. Pointing it out. “Thoughts of your intended sweetheart?” She ribs her sister.

 “You are a colossal pest. Flora.” Iris smiles at her. Matter of fact. Her little bug of a sister is quite right. She is thinking about the man she’ll marry.

 Only another agonising hour whilst Mama and Maratella select their hats for the occasion. But Iris can atleast sit down and drink some much too sweet earl grey tea. Doesn’t have to stand on that wretched box for another hour.

 Eventually their purchases were rung up and settled. Flora and Posy love Iris very much because she buys them two new ribbons each and some velvet buttons for their bonnets. They’re singing her praises as they quit the shop. Trilling like a pair of canaries about their gowns. Iris was glad to spend some of her pin money on them before she leaves for good.

 She’s fully appraised of the weight of her actions. And the serious consequence of them. It would be ruinous for her mother and father. It would be a disaster for her sisters. But atleast she was of age and she could marry. Whatever else others might say of her - she fully believes Lord Ren’s intentions are honourable.

 They can’t scandalise her for marrying Kylo. Just censure her for running away from Hux and jilting him. She’s certain he’ll recover amicably enough. He doesn’t love her. And his mother is suitably well connected. She could snap her fingers and summon another willing bride. She’s only sorry it can’t be her.

 She’s despondent to remark upon the pain she’ll be causing hers and Hux’s family. But in time, they will recover. Posy would do well and Flora will follow in her footsteps. Mother will see to it they catch fine husbands when the time is right. Their mother is most skilled in that area.

 The party journeys along Pembleton street. Maratella stops by the haberdashers to seek after some ribbons. Mama is in the milliners seeking after a new pair of occasion gloves. Posy and Flora amble slowly along the street with their sister. Watching the carriages and coaches trundle by. Various riders on horseback too.

 A loud nickering snort behind her makes her turn. She can hardly hide the smile that quickly grows across her face when she catches sight of a lone rider on a huge stocky black stallion. Both man and his mount are furiously muscled beasts.

 His Lordly attire is its usual. All black. Save for his white shirt and red cravat. The great overcoat frames his wide shoulders and his bulky chest. His boots gleam in the meagre sun. His grin tips up when he catches sight of her.

 He looks terribly smug and Iris’s heart feels like it’s trying to ram out the cage of her ribs. This handsome lordly man who stole it away, sets it pounding freely and rampant in her chest.

 She tries not to arouse the suspicion of her sisters. They were much too curious and meddling for their own good. She wants to protect her secret and she thinks she’s a proficient enough liar to accomplish it.

 They burst into fits of giggles on seeing him. He rides Erland closer to where they are stood and dismounts. His strong boots thud into the frosty mud. His wool coat laps and swathes his body. He tethered himself to Erland. Massive gloved hand gripping the reins. The creature didn’t seem to have any care for wandering off. He just wished to see Iris - Kylo empathises with the horse. He rather feels the exact same.

 Iris, Posy and Flora all curtsey to him. He bids them all a greeting. She bows her neck and when she looks up. His eyes fondly fix on her. Warm in the sun. The contrast of him is astonishing. Milky creamy complexion, bordered by the onyx shadow of his hair and eyes. Utter opposites in the juxtaposition.

 “Miss Ashton. A pleasure to see you again. I trust you are still well recovered. You look very radiant this morning.” He comments. Walking Erland just that tiny step closer.

 The obstinate animal his stallion is, reaches his nose out and snorts into her hand. Nudges her glove for pats and scritches of affection behind his ears. She doesn’t care that she’ll get horse hair on her. She strokes him.

 “You are most kind. Your lordship. I am very well.” She smiles slightly. The pretty kiss of rose on her cheeks.

 “I need not tell you Erland is pleased to make your acquaintance once more.” He remarks starkly. Hint of irony not lost on her. Erland almost nudges her to fall over with his big strong head. She laughs.

 “Your ears must’ve been burning. Lord Ren. For we were just discussing you...” Posy flirts. Batting her lashes at the man.

 Hands crossed in front of her. Like she was a genteel little doe. Iris glares narrowed silver dagger eyes at her sister to stop displaying herself so readily. As ever, the little vexation pays no attention. Not when there was a hot blooded male around.

 Kylo tilts his head. Intrigued. “Is that so, Miss Posy?” He asks.

 “We we’re discussing how heart sore all the young ladies hereabouts will be when you quit Hampshire...” Flora tells him.

 Kylo takes her confession in his stride. “It’s true. And I am sorry more than I can exclaim to be leaving such carnage and desolation in my wake. But sadly I do return to Bavaria shortly.”

 That handsome expression barely betrays a thing. The cold wind flounces and ruffles that wild hair. A tuft of it drifts in his face and tangled in his dark eyeline.

 Iris decides in that moment he truly might be an angel sculpted by gods own hand; or a demon designed by the devil himself. She isn’t sure which of those creatures is all the more tempting.

 One thing she’s certain of; He’d win that draw of most handsome, every time.

 She quivers when those eyes gaze at her. Peels her right out her clothes and down to her goose pimpled skin. Then Posy has to go and open her foolhardy mouth some more...

 “We were just helping Iris shop for her bridal gown.” She preens. “And our bridesmaids dresses.” She comments. Speaking as if she wants Kylo to snatch her up and steal her away to Bavaria. Stuff her in his pocket and run off with her.

 “I had heard rumour of your engagement...” He lies. Iris is biting the inside of her lip and smiling genially to hide how wide her excitement wishes to make her smile grow.

 “Show Lord Ren your engagement ring, Iris!” Flora bounces excitedly. Iris glares. Reminding her of the inappropriate nature of her words.

 “Flora. Lord Ren is not interested in such matters. And I’m afraid we’ve already impressed upon too much of his time...” She insists.

 Kylo holds out his hand to her. Steps closer so she has to crane her head back just to keep sight of his eyes. “I am certainly interested. And I might add, most eager to see the bauble that decorates such a fine, pretty hand.” He teases.

 She decides he was designed by the devil. And lucifer gave him a silver tongue to boot-

 Iris slips off her grey glove and gently lays her palm in his.

 The way his fingers curl around hers is criminal. She tips her eyes up to his as he shifts closer and admires her ring. A soft smile tugs at his mouth. The gold winks at him in the sun. It’s a pretty delicate morsel. He can’t deny. But plain. Much too plain. Entirely humble as decoration went.

 -it’s certainly nothing to the one he’d had Jomar go all the way to London to fetch for her from Bentley & Skinner on Bond Street.

 “It is a fine ring. Miss Ashton. Sergeant Hux is the most fortunate man in England to have you as his intended bride. I’m quite envious of his fortuity.” He says. Bowing to lay a kiss on the back of her palm.

 His eyes electrify her. He winks at her and she flushes with heat. Blood pressing up in her face.

 “I’m sorry to hear of your leaving England. Lord Ren. Such a shame Hellford Park should be quitted before the summer.” She tells him.

 Her palm leaving his. Sliding away from the touch of his hand would have made her wretched were it not for the heat in his bronzed eyes. Made a warmer melting shade by the shimmer of the buttery sun. And their shared secret lifts her heart.

 “It is a great shame. But I’m eager to return to Ranlor. I’ve missed my homeland a great deal.”

 “The rumour in circulation is that you have a certain lady in mind to return home too.” Posy dares most outlandishly. Iris chides her for her brash rudeness.

 “Posy!” Iris calls out.

 Kylo seems amused by it. “That would he telling. Miss Posy. Not to mention betraying the confidence of the most honourable lady in question.” He smirks at her sister.

 Who giggles and blushes like it’s no ones business. His vampiric charms seeping out of his every pore, truly intoxicating to them, Iris can see it’s influence.

 “Is she a great beauty? I imagine she is most elegant indeed and very superior and titled in rank and manner. And of great fortune...” Posy digs for more details. Kylo will reveal none.

 “Pray. Don’t be impertinent twice-over.” Iris corrects. Posy pulls a vexed face. Shoves her tongue out at her sister.

 Kylo’s chuckling. They were entertaining little chits. Relentless. But he admires something about that sparky quality. Iris had the same sense about her - only more sensible and humble.

 “She is the singularly, most beautiful creature I’ve ever beheld in all my years.” He promises. “And I cannot wait to have her hand in marriage. She will make me a very blessed and lucky man.” He declares.

 “How romantic.” Posy declares in a sigh. Flora dreamily agrees. They’re both veritably Moony eyed. Gazing up at him in wonder as a consequence. A silly girls kryptonite. A handsome and dark romantic man. A Byronic figure to set all the foolish girls swooning at the knees.

 Kylo’s eyes sweep across to Iris at a passing glance. He smiles. And it almost undoes her.

 “We must be on our way. We’ve availed ourselves of too much of your time. Lord Ren.” Iris says in parting. Trying to herd her vapid sisters away before they flirt anymore.

 “We must go. For we are bid to the Hux’s tonight for a celebratory engagement supper.” Posy curtsies boasting as she’s bobbing away.

 “Give the Sergeant and his family my warmest regards.” Kylo insists. Knowing what a barb that would be to Hux’s temper.

 Iris turns and meets his eyes. Giving him a polite bowed head in parting. When Posy and Flora are otherwise looking elsewhere. She turns back and gives him such a look of longing and delight it makes him grin at her as she walks off down the cobbled pavement.

 “Very good to see you again. Your Lordship. Have a pleasant rest of your day.” She insists.

 Cajoling her sisters along the path and away before they get any notions. Erland snorts at her as she moved away. She smiles and gladly rubs the flat bone of his nose before she goes. Lord Ren stays standing until she does move away.

 Kylo pats his neck, and hauls himself up on his strong stallions back once again. Booted feet in the stirrups. He adjusts on the saddle. Scanning the tumbled windows of the high street proprietors.

 In the milliners, he sees a face like sour lemons and thunder glaring out at him. Mrs Ashton’s stony face peering outwards through the glass. Having seen his exchange with all her daughters.

 He coaxes Erland into a slow walk. A little nudge in his side. He gives the foul Caroline Ashton his most winning enigmatic smile. And nods civilly in greeting at her as he rides off.

 He sees it makes her lips purse in irritation.

 Iris can’t resist glancing back at him. She knows those eyes watch her all the way down the street. She can feel them. Two pinpricks of heat, like candles, burning into her shoulder-blades.

 It makes her too giddy for words.

 They soon catch up with the rest of their party and are whisked away in the Hux carriage. Soaring across the dirty English roads. Mud churning in their wake as cold air and sunshine bounces off the roof.

 Mama asks them what Lord Ren. Iris told them he was just politely passing the time of day. She seems satisfied with the answer. Iris fights not to squirm into shivers of desire at the merest intimation and memory of him.

 Posy and Flora sing-song his romantic praises all the way home. Mother soon shuts them up with a cross cold stare.

 The afternoon seems to fly her by. No sooner than she’s home and she’s readying herself for the dinner they’ll take at the Hux’s residence. Cavenham House.

 The not so modest estate in the border of the next county. A gorgeous house if she’s being perfectly honest. Terracotta red bricked exterior, of modern Georgian design. Huge arched white windows. Rococo interior. All gilded with cherubs frolicking on the murky painted ceilings and baroque trim on every door. Rolling scrolls. Frescoes and pastel colours. Gilding, moulding and trompe l’oeils giving the illusion of motion and drama. Raining down from every ceiling.

 A handsomely kept garden was also what it was resolutely famous for. Though it would not be pictured to its best quality in this dead winter. Spring will liven it soon. The hardy bright bulbs will crop up through the frost. But for now it remains speckled in snow with only the evergreens surviving.

 Iris can see it all as they pull up the long stretch of the torch lit drive. In the coach Maratella was kind enough to send to collect them all.

 Once again she was wedged beside Posy and Flora, and their shrill gossiping. Mother and Father opposite. Noiseless and as disagreeing as ever. Silence blazed between them as somber as a churchyard. They were about as animated with each other as two gravestones.

 Iris dressed in her navy silk gown with 3/4 sleeves and a sheer white chemisette swirled with stitched white flowers, decorating her shoulders and neck. Meg cleverly weaves that teal ribbon into her hair coiffure again. She finishes the look with pearl droplet earrings and white satin gloves up to her elbows.

 They are welcomed inside by stony faced servants in the blue Cavenham livery. Taken into the drawing room to meet their hosts. Maratella had invited some local flavour along also. Everyone’s merry and mingling. Posy offers to play a Handel piece on the Pianoforte before dinner is announced. She does so rather well. Thunks the opening notes in shocking volume but she picks up from that point onwards.

 Iris is admiring the scenery from the drawing room window. Even in the dark she can see how lovely the gardens are. It doesn’t dissolve the fact that this house would still be a prison to her. There weren’t bars on the window and she won’t exactly be stitching mailbags - but it will still be her cage.

 A handsome cage, she won’t deny. But a cage nonetheless as she mothers the children and lives for planning fine parties to boast of her and her husbands excellence. And slowly becomes a woman of high rank and no substance.

 Hux moves to stand by her side, hands folded behind his back. A tall lean column of red, black and white in his ceremonial dress. Medals shining. Hair groomed. Perfectly respectable. Infuriatingly loveless, as always.

 “You shall like the gardens in summer. I should think.” He remarks.

 “They are most handsome.” She comments. “A fine prospect indeed.” She agrees.

 They perfectly form the vision of lovers conversing by candlelight. She can hear Mama and Mrs. Hux cooing proudly behind them. It’s infuriating. Iris can’t spend the rest of her life in a manner such as this; being prodded and manoeuvred and gossiped over like a chess piece on a board.

 “I care little for being out of doors. Save for riding with my regiment.” He impresses.

 Iris nods. “I am perhaps overfond of walking. I take an excursion each day if I can.” She tells him.

 He sniffs. And coldly watches the view before them. “Well. You shall have to make allowances and sacrifices when we are wed. I can’t have you scampering around the countryside when you are with my heir.” He insists.

 Iris’s mouth turns dry. She makes little response to his words. He turns away to speak to someone else but she catches his arm to stop him.

 “Please I just want to say-“ she starts.

 She looks up into his face. The bright copper of his hair and the steel of his eyes. The surety of his rigid auburn brow. She doesn’t dislike him. He’s not an unpleasant man. Just, misguided.

 She says what she’s thinking now before she loses the chance. No doubt he’ll think very badly of her when all is done.

 “I think well of you. You know. You are a gallant man. Not lacking in honour or credibility. I admire that about you. Hux.” She says. Even if I can’t marry you for it.

 He nods. Accepting her words. Then their granite faced butler coughs dryly and announces dinner to the room.

 Maratella lets the engaged couple be seated next to each other at dinner. Wanting to encourage the tepid affection brewing between them. Iris doesn’t know what the woman expects from them. They weren’t matched for love but it’s as if that’s what she’s hoping to see blossom.

Maratella is hoping for romance to pass betwixt them.

 It could and never will be that. Iris thinks.

 Iris remarks inwardly to herself as she sips down her soup a la reine. Served alongside several large golden Bouchée à la reine’s. 

 The next course is of stewed beef and venison steaks, and a whole champagne poached salmon with slithers of white and black truffles decorating the cooked fish acting as scales.

 More seafood came served in the form of fried then boiled sole, heaped in a terrine and a whole platter of pickled crab. A haricott of vegetables and mashed turnips. There was enough food spread on this very grand table, to keep them dining for a fortnight. Mrs Hux organised a feast intended to show off.

 She gets everyone to toast to the newlyweds. The gentleman stand to raise their glasses and the ladies stay seated.

 The pudding banquet is brought out and quite rightly enough, as she suspected, the whole table is flouncing in ruched fancy french sugar concoctions.

 Silken French pies. Syllabubs of lemon and rose and brandy. Ice’s of all flavours. Custard tarts smothered with fat ripe fruit drowning steeped in syrup. Sugar plums and cinnamon and mace laced apple tartlets with baked custard. Iris indulged in some of the tarts and the fruits.

 Posy and Flora fall upon creams and dainty fancies like hungry wolves. And eat until they are stuffed.

 The ladies retire to the parlour for music and snifters of sweet ruby port wine. Iris indulges in a glass as her sisters and various other young accomplished ladies take to the pianoforte to sing and show off. Posy drags a reluctant Iris up to sing whilst she plays. She grumbles but bends to her sisters will.

 She gives a shortly sweet chorus of ‘Let no man steal your thyme’ for it was the only song she could sing comfortably well.

 She never much liked performing for amusement. Some girls were a glutton for it. Iris is no such a one. She stands with one hand on the pianoforte and the other folded behind her hip. She sings her choruses and smiles meekly at the small scattering of applause offered for her when she is done.

 She heads back to her spot on the settee. Maratella is remarking to her mother how divine it will be to have a songbird in the house once again. Iris sits back in her seat and spends the rest of her evening in silence. Though she wants to say a great deal.

 The evening slips past well enough. Night spills past her relatively quick. Another day gone. Another day closer to her happiness. She’s almost too giddy to contain it.

 Then the time comes to bid goodnight to their hosts;

 Iris watches as Hux fondly kisses her hand. Seeing her off out the rich gilded foyer out into the black black night. Sky so dark it’s a whole void studded with freckling stars. Cold shudders at the shivering trees.

 She wants to say something impactful and veiled. To speak of her regard for him. She cannot think how best to do so. She swallows down her thick tongue. Remains a coward.

 She can only hope in time, after the wake of her scandal settles. That Hux will find someone better suited than her. Maybe even find someone that he can love? She prays deeply for that little happy happenstance.

 She is not so unfeeling as to wish a joyless life on the man who just wasn’t correct for her.

 Her teeth grits with all the things unsaid. “I hope you’ll be happy.” She smiles lightly. He thinks her to be referring to the engagement that stands between them.

 “I’m sure.” He comments. “Goodnight.” Is his curt response.

 It doesn’t incense her. Tonight it vexed her. Caused a tiny crease between her brows. It seemed such fickle words to part on. But she leaves them be-

 Let’s those words spirit up into the quiet undisturb of the night. The heavens can have those words. Iris wishes it could have been more. But how appropriate is it that even his parting words are found wanting.

 She gets into the coach after curtseying a polite goodbye to Brendol and Maratella. She says something sweet to Iris about her singing. Iris cringes a smile. She won’t be thinking such good things about her shortly. She imagines she’ll curse her name for all of hell and heaven to hear. She’ll wake the sleeping dead cursing the day Iris was born.

 Iris thanks her. For her hospitality. For her kindness. Under all her airs and graves, she’s a fairly nice woman and she should find a more amicable daughter-in-law to crow over.

 She slots herself into the coach beside her sisters. Listens to the door slam shut. The rattle and crunch of it shifts on the gravel. Rumbled away up the long elegant curve of the drive.

 Iris twists to look back. She isn’t sure why she wanted too. But they weren’t a dismal family. And she’s sorry for the pain and offence she’ll cause to them all.

 She watches Hux’s stiffly-posed, regimented figure. Shadowed against the night. The scarlet of his blood coat. The ice white of his breeches stained blue, glowing in the night. The stars glimmer off his shining boots and off the pierce of his pale eyes. She wishes him well. She truly does.

 They trundle on home. Full of food and as usual with Posy and Flora spouting gossip on and on endlessly. Mother chiming in. Father and Iris retain their silence. Eyes cross firing in a glance when they all agree on something cruel and senseless.

 Westwell’s windows emerge gold out the dark. Surrounded by the bustling trees. All of the landscape is merely dark moulded shapes. Looming and shifting in the shadows. The moon casts washy film of silver to try and spill over the cover of smeared clouds.

 They are just to the drive when a small dark shape flits overhead. Iris looks upwards, and sees the definable shape of a bird landing on her windowsill. She smiles giddily.

 She exits the coach quick. Bidding them goodnight and rushing off up to her room. Her skirts picked up in her hands. Mama remarks how odd it is. Posy shrugs and supposes she’s got a secret missive to read from Hux.

 Iris absolutely flies for her door. Twists the handle and launches herself in the room. Shutting the door firmly after herself. Pressing it with both hands flat to the wood.

 The warmth of the fire hits her. She doesn’t even pay mind to the tiny crack of her open window. Or her swaying curtains that shift on the breeze.

 She can only focus on the huge frame of a dashing vampire stood fireside. One elbow resting on the mantel as he gazes into the flames.

 His big frame swallows up the whole room and strangled out all the air. The ochre of the blazing flames captured his skin. Turned that milky-cream of his complexion into pale fire.

 She smiles and he does too. “Thank goodness it’s you. I was worried I’d scare seven shades out of your maid.” He drawls softly so his voice doesn’t carry. Smirk curling at the corners.

 She crosses the distance. Her feet eat up the floorboards quick. She avails herself of an embrace. Throws herself into his arms.

 The cloak of his fire warmed clothing envelopes her as his arms do. He smells like the damp snap of frosty woodland and the acid tang of woodsmoke. The night air of wild outdoors clings to every inch and fibre of his clothes. Swirls about him like a clouding tempest.

 He chuckles as she gets herself in his hold. The deep bass of his voice rumbled through her skin and sinking to her bones. Her cheek mashed to his sternum. His arms close around her. Stroking her body through the rasping silk of her dress.

 One big warmed hand clasps the back of her neck as the other holds the back of her waist. His nose nudges into the crush of her muddy hair. Her scent teases him just as much as his had, to her. Lavender and sage. The plain spice and calm floral scent.

 “I could feel the happiness pouring off you as you alighted the stairs.” He smiles. She steps back and gazed up at him.

 “How pretty you look tonight. Dove. You’re exquisite in silk.” He remarks when she steps away. Hand toying with the loose tawny curl at her ear. The sapphire dark of her dress suits her very well. Throws her complexion into brilliance. Does something to make the tones of her hair look rich.

 She always looks ravishing to him.

 She blushes. “I missed you all day. Isn’t that mad?” She asks.

 “If missing is madness, then I’m out of my sane mind whenever you’re not in my sight.” He promises gently.

 Big hands cupping her hot silken neck as he leans down to plant a firm, slanting kiss to her lips. His mouth is cold and he tastes of frosty air and wine.

 Kissing him is like kissing someone who just stepped inside, taking shelter from a bitter cold wind.

 She’s beginning to wonder if there is some clever addiction woven into his lips. One kiss never seems to be enough. She holds his wrists as he grabs her. Makes her feel small in his arms. She’s lost in his hold. It’s powerfully thrilling.

 He breaks the kiss and his thumbs stroke at her cheeks. Her eyes glitter keenly at him. He spies the ring on her finger. The one that doesn’t belong there. It makes him smile.

 “I’d like to surmise you snuck in here just to steal a kiss. But I suspect a different motive altogether?” She asks.

 He broke into a grin that creases his eyes and bares his teeth in a smile. She was no thoughtless woman; his darling Iris.

 She’s always thinking. Always fretting. Always mulling over things in her head.

 That was one of the first things that that came to his notice about her. She tended to be introspective about all manner of things in comparison to her acetous mother who spewed vile words. And her daft sisters who spouted out their every dangerously silly thought.

 He kisses her for that clever remark- slow and paced and soft. Languid like melting warm honey. Lips curling to hers.

 “I do have some news. But kissing you will always my first priority.” He husks against her rosy lips. Her warm cheeks blaze from under his icy fingers.

 “The date is set. We must leave tomorrow eve.” He tells her with a smirk.

 Her stomach completely soars in giddiness. She doesn’t have to hide her grin here.

 “It feels as if I’ve been waiting at eternity to hear those blessed words.” She cries in happiness.

 “Slip away to me after everyone’s gone to bed.” He instructs. She agrees.

 “Mother has been pleased with my conduct of late. She’ll have let her guard down over tonight. I’ll leave once everyone is abed. Even the maids.” She tells him.

 Stroking her fingers down the finery of his waistcoat where they’re still stood close to each other. The material was so soft. The softest grain of velvet she’s ever felt.

 “You don’t have to bring too much. I can buy you everything you may ever need.” He leers. Cupping her cheek. Feeling the smooth of her skin. Right up her jaw.

 His eyes carve flinty paths down her neck as he strokes his fingers there. Her pulse quickens. He can feel and hear her blood slushing hot through her veins.

 She shrugs. “I cherish very few possessions. Posy and Flora can have the rest.” She insists. Her hand coming up to stroke over his thick crook of elbow with the hand that’s touching her neck.

 He drags the edge of the chemisette down and strokes along the flat of her collarbone. His eyes turn into a palette of bittersweet autumn. Orange and gold swirled with flecks of russet brown.

 “Is it difficult?” She asks suddenly.

 “Restraining from the need to...” Her face fixed on his. Words trailing away. Air bursting with heat and lust. His eyes snap from her neck to her face. Her cheeks bloom rose petal red. Blood red and hot.

 “To feed?” He asks her. She swallows and nods.

 His other hand catches the back of her hips reels her right in close. She gasps. Air around them thick and full of snapping sparking static. Her hands press to his cavernous chest.

 “I have got several hundred years of restraint up my sleeve.” He crooks a smirk.

 His eyes flicker to watch her jugular pulse. The thrum of her little timpani heart makes his mouth wet. He knows she’d taste like salt and sickly Turkish roses and warm bronze coins.

 He presses the chemisette aside again and nudges his nose against her pulse point. Right at the epicentre of his life’s greatest desire. He hums a kiss against her neck and she almost faints-

 “You shake all those very hard learnt lessons right down to their very foundations.” He promises.

 “Iris my love, you are the hardest thing, I’ve ever had to resist.” He tells.

 Swooping upwards to kiss at her cheek. Sighing in need against her hot warm skin. If he indulges the temptation of tasting her blood. He doesn’t even want to fathom what the raw animal in him will do to her. Such debauchery he’d surely scandalise her innocence to tipping point.

 He will have her on their wedding night and not a second before.

 Though the rogue in him does think how goddamn glorious it would be to have her on that bed of hers right now, torn out of that gown. Screeching his name for the whole house to hear. And they can listen to her rapture and whimper, and beg and writhe under the man who really does love her.

 Bite her neck as he pumps deep into her slick heat. Gather up every groan as she opens those sweet pink thighs for him and claws at his back. He’d kiss her neck until she yanks her fingers into his hair and tugs. Opens that sweet songbird mouth and calls for him in her bliss, with that ambrosial voice.

 He holds the backs of her hips and strokes the silk there with arcing curves of his thumbs. Drawing shapes on that stiff silk.

 “I must tell you-“ She starts. “I never was much good at resisting you either. Even after knowing what you are. It shocked me I won’t deny. But it somehow in its twisted way, it made all the sense in the world. It didn’t alter me for my knowledge of it. It didn’t even begin to change the severity my feelings for you.” She tells him. Reaching up and stroking along the handsome plain jaw.

 Wholly, un-confinably, remarkably handsome.

 “My love-“ He begins warmly. “If I had to, I would throw you over my shoulder to carry you up the aisle to marry me. Even if I had to tear you from your bed and steal you away in the dark of night to be mine. I would have done it. Because this, what we share, it cannot and will never be undone. Can never be ignored.” He promises her.

 “Vampires love more deeply than any mortal longing. What I feel for you, it is not fickle. It will never fade. Never wane. We love each other and that will last for as long as we exist on this earth. I thought I had better edify you with these clear facts about my nature, before we are to be bound in matrimony.” He pledges to her. Declaring his undying devotion to her.

 Iris rather wants to swoon into his chest - if she had ever been inclined to be a swooning sort of woman. Instead she just beams. A smile so glad it touches the frosty barren place his dead heart inhabited.

 “These last few hours will be such a torture.” She comments seriously. But giddy. So giddy it felt like her sides would split open. And molten happy gold would pour out.

 His eyes turn promiscuous. As does his domineering smile.

 “I can safely offer you nothing but pleasure once the torture is done.” He filthily promises.

 She blushes. He wants to lift her up and devour her in a kiss again. Taste those saccharine sweet lips in an animalistic kiss. He savours holding her instead.

 Tomorrow he can let the animal roam free over his delicate dove. Tonight is the last night it must be caged.

 “Not long to wait now. The last of my household servants left today. I sent Jomar and Jones off to London to make passage to France. Erland and Kana remain to take us to Scotland with one driver, and the coach.” He tells.

 She liked that he’s bringing Erland to their elopement. It’s quite fitting when the creature loves her almost as much as he does.

 “Then it’s just us. Riding into the wild of the Highland. Roaming over the Scottish moors, and glens and lochs, as a Lord and his Lady.” He paints a vivid picture for her.

 She sighs a smile. “Us, has never sounded so splendid.” And she beams brighter than the sun.

 He clutches her close for another kiss before he slips away.

 The appointed hour loometh. And Iris won’t sleep a wink for thinking of his sharp smile or those savage eyes.

 She eventually dreams. And thinks of kissing his soft plush lips once more. Like kissing pink rose petals.

 The next time she will, they’ll be well on their way to being man and wife.

                                                    ~ ~ 🥀 ��~ ~

#kylo ren #kylo ren x oc #vampire au #vampire!kylo #vampirelovestory #very wolves and doves #adam driver #Iris vibes 🕊 #Draegan vibes 🥀 #Lord Ren vibes 🐺 #vampire #demon #ao3 fanfic #more swooning #secret lovers

[return-of-a-space-cowboy]

I want to write this as a full story, this is based off of a weird dream I had

Lascia che ti porti in paradiso

You drove you car down the highway and couldn't help but wriggle around try not to reenact the dance from Napoleon dynamite as Canned heat played on the radio. You couldn't help but feel like the world was rooting for you, you had woken up two days ago to find out that you had been written down to be the soul inherentor of a stranger's fortune and estate.

At first you were reluctant on the offer, thinking there must have been some mistake or a scam but no it wasn't and it turned out the stranger had no living relatives and had picked out your name out of the thousands of others in the state rather then let the government take it.

You were now on your way to your new home with the few things you had from your apartment all packed in the back.

You had sold most of your furniture since your new mansion already had a ton.

You hummed as you tapped your hands on the steering wheel before seeing a man run out Infront of your car. You slammed your foot on the brake and closed your eyes, hoping you wouldn't hit him. Your car made a screeching halt and you opened you eyes and saw that the man had fazed through the front of your car. You were face to face with the ghost.

"Danm it you nearly made me a ghost myself! don't you know some of us living can see you!" You scolded.

"Sorry..." He replied.

"Trying to kill yourself isn't going to do anything... You need to fulfill your life task if you wanna move on" you explained to him before someone knocked on you window.

"Yes?" You asked the man outside as you winded down the window slightly.

"Why the fuck did you slam on the fucking brake! Nobody's in fucking front of you!" The man yelled as he hurled profanity after profanity at you.

"I'm sorry, I just had a bit of a panic attack..." You explained to the male before driving off again.

You had become accustom to the existence of ghosts, you had been able to see them for most of your life. You had especially grown use to it while living in that dodgy apartment since a lot of drug use and domestic abuse happened around that area. You could have become a psychic medium but really couldn't see yourself being one so you lived a life like everyone else.

You made a turn off the highway and drove through a few streets before stopping at a service station to refuel your car. In the store you paid the woman at the counter that had disinterest written all over her face before your phone ran. You quickly grabbed it out of your pocket as you made your way back to the car.

"Hello?" You answered to the phone.

"Oh hello miss (Y/n), I was wondering how long you'd be to the house?" The inheritance lawyer asked.

"Well I just got off of the highway, I'll probably be there in another hour..." You responded.

"Ok that's perfect, that'll give me time to drop my kids off at my mother's" he explained.

"Ok, I'll meet you at the house soon" you said.

"Bye"

"Bye"

You put your phone back in your pocket before opening your car door and grabbing out the mapbook and finding the right page.

"Ok so I'm on Charlotte Street now... so I'll have to go straight through Devondale then turn off at Rochester road then Tamala way til I reach Willow peaks" you said to yourself as you looked through the map before starting up the engine again.

🍁🍁🍁

You stopped your car at a pair of large gates that stood proudly Infront of your property. You hopped out the car and approached the gate and unlocked the the padlock that sealed it shut before hopping back in and driving up the long winding driveway where tall trees blocked out most of the sunlight til you reached a clearing. The  three to four story mansion shadow loomed over the land where a beautiful garden grew with an abundance of colourful flowers. Roses, carnations, snapdragons, dianthus, gardenias, if you could name a flower it was most likely there. You parked you car outside the garage. You stepped out and the fragrance of the garden hit your nose like a surprisingly pleasant punch to the face. You admired the garden even more as you walked past the flowerbeds and inspected the flowers more closely. They were so well kept, surely the previous owner had hired gardeners to maintain it after they passed.

You walked around the back to see various fruit trees in bloom. Cherries, peaches, plums, apples, lemons and oranges. In the middle a old water fountain stood. As you approach you could make out the statute, a young man with long in robes and chains holding up a flower with it's roots intact. You stood on the edge of the fountain and looked at features of the worn statue that was made of a mixture gold and bronze or copper.

The man had long wavy hair with a curled fringe, plump lips, a young but well built body and eyes that seemed to see all despite being a statue. You then took note on all the lime and calcium that had built up on it as well as how full the metal was maybe you would go and grab some stuff tomorrow and give it a well needed clean.

"The estate is very impressive, isn't it?" A familiar voice asked.

You turned and saw the inheritance lawyer who was a few metres behind you.

"It's amazing, if the outside is this this good then I can only imagine how the inside must be" you replied.

"How can somebody keep a garden so perfect?" You asked.

"The previous owner told me that she hadn't worked on the garden for five years yet it had never overgrown" he explained.

"Did she know anything about this statute?" You asked, so curious to find how such beauty had been immortalized.

"No she didn't, it's been here since this place was first constucted in 1797" he explained.

"1797?!" You gasped.

"Yes, but of course it's had it's fair share of renovations, some to preserve it and others to extend it" he explained to you but your attention was soon diverted to one of the windowsills as a curtain was pulled aside and somebody peered through only to close it again.

"I'm excuse me but is anybody in the house already?" You asked as you looked back to the man.

"No there should be anyone else here, why do you ask?"

"I was just curious, that's all" you replied.

"You must be eager to see the inside" he chuckled as you both returned to the front and approached the front door. He grabbed out the keys to the house before unlocking the door and opening it.

You both walked in to see the massive entranceway. A high celling with a crystal chandelier hanging down, two sets of stairs on either side of the room, dark wallpaper and lavish rugs, painting decorating the walls. It was like what you'd see in the movies.

"This is amazing!" You gasped.

"Yep and you haven't even seen the 28 rooms" he said but before you could respond you saw somebody in plain sight run across the upstairs balcony.

"Did you just see that?" You asked as you pointed to where you saw them.

"No, I didn't see anything, are you sure your mind isn't playing tricks on you?"

"It's probably just me" you sighed before he lead you off to see all the rooms on the ground floor.

The kitchen was huge and so was the dinning room and entertaining area. You had your own laundry room, a study, two bathrooms and an atrium which led to the garden. You even had a basement / cellar. Then he brought you up to the second and third story where ten large bedrooms were placed, two of them being connected to large bathrooms with a nice black and gold colour scheme that screamed opulence. There were four more bathrooms for guests and then another study / entertaining area before you reached the attic which was the only place that wasn't clean. It was filled to the brim with boxes and spare furniture covered in cobwebs and dust. You had a quick look through all the furniture.

"I'll go down the the dinning room and get the paperwork ready for you to sign while you have a look around" he said as he left.

You took a step and accidentally tripped over a sheet, a framed portrait falling onto you in the process. You got into a sitting position and picked up the painting. It was of the same man depicted in the statue. His skin was fair, one of his eyes was a blueish green while the other was amberish, somewhere between brown and hazel. His long locks were a golden blonde, his arms were loosely wrapped around the neck of a young doe while a snake was loosely draped around his neck. The man's features seemed peaceful but he also seemed to radiate an aura of superiority.

The male must of had something to do with this household. The question thou was how?

#yandere x reader #yandere #jojo golden wind #jojos bizarre adventure #yandere giorno giovanna #yandere giorno #giorno x reader #giorno #jojo giorno #spacy works

[humanwheatleyslefttoenail]

Now I Am An Arsonist [Chapter 2: Science Will Continue]

Now I Am an Arsonist - When the power goes out at Aperture Science, GLaDOS is unwittingly uploaded into the body of a human test subject in order to preserve her intelligence. Forced to once again seek out the help of Wheatley and Chell, GLaDOS desperately tries to control her emotions before they consume her thoughts a second time. 

---

Chapter 2: Science Will Continue

---

She’d awoken slowly, feeling the hard coils of a mattress underneath Her back and a stiff blue jumpsuit enshrouding Her arms and legs. Long fall boots clung tightly to Her feet, uncomfortably squeezed into the rigid white plastic.

Gradually, She sat up on the neatly-made bed, a rough linen blanket still covering Her lower half. The chamber had been deliberately made to look like a hotel room, complete with a TV in the corner and a nightstand on the side. Still, something wasn’t right.

It was like living in a distant memory, a dream She’d had but not quite remembered.

A part of Her felt like this was normal, as if She’d woken up here every morning, but another urged Her to look for answers.

GLaDOS searched Her memory, not fully processing the world around Her, puzzled as to why Her computerized thoughts had been slowed tenfold.

Looking down, She saw two pale human arms and two pale human hands. Feeling the top of Her head, She found a mess of dark brown hair which came down to Her shoulders.

           No, this surely wasn’t right.

           Only hours ago, only hours ago, She’d been in control of all of Aperture Science. She’d been invincible, the immortal, all-powerful GLaDOS and now…

           Now, She was this.

           What the hell is going on here?

           There was seldom more awful than to be a human being, to life a short, painful life defined by the burden of emotions. Even on Her worst days, even as a potato, the most She could muster for human beings was a vague sense of pity.

           Yet, here She was, more human than She had been in centuries.

           Oh, you have got to be kidding me.  

           Being Caroline, however brief, was not something She’d ever wished to return to. Emotions didn’t merely burden Her logic; they were completely incapacitating. There was something to be said for the victory of a test well done, of throwing Wheatley into space where the little moron belonged, of the relief when Chell woke up. But something like guilt? Something like fear? Real, genuine fear?

           That hurt more than Her head being torn off. It hurt more than being burned alive.

           As a machine, She could destroy those feelings, suppress them until they were nothing at all. As a human, that task wasn’t so easy.

           Sparks of happiness, moments of joy; none of them were worth the ordeal.

           The heaviness of dread welling in Her processors as She waited for Chell to wake up was not something She wanted to reexperience. Was there even a name for that awful feeling? Whatever warm elation followed when everything was alright… GLaDOS would burn it at the stake before She ever felt that anguish again.

           Ironically, the anticipation of fear made GLaDOS’ chest pound, rapidly breathing in and out as She reflexively clung to the blanket. The last thing She needed was more complicated thoughts about Chell, more bittersweet memories of Cave, more useless sentiments to wring Her bitter heart dry.

           In a very human moment of pure shock, GLaDOS screamed. It was an ugly cry of anger and surprise swirled together, resounding throughout the vault. The echoes crashed off of the walls, and the once-powerful GLaDOS cowered with Her head in Her hands.

           The potato was bad enough. The potato brought Her closer to Her own humanity than She’d ever wanted to acknowledge, but barely minutes in GLaDOS could tell that this would be infinitely worse. GLaDOS felt Herself shaking, barely even processing the fact that this hideous amalgamate of skin and bones was now Her body. Now She had hair, She had hands, She had fingers and She had lungs and She had a heartbeat.

           She had a heartbeat. A thudding reminder of Her newfound vulnerability. A symbol of Her weakness.

           GLaDOS did not particularly care to be weak.

           Finally, She understood the meaning of organic in Organic Transplant Procedure. Could they have possibly made it any vaguer?

           Whatever this was, whatever had happened, She had to figure it out. The potato battery, being fed to birds, and dying twice was apparently not enough to satisfy whatever gods lurked in Android Hell. She would spite them once again, return to Her body, and everything would be alright. It had been alright before, so why wouldn’t it be now? At least, this time, She didn’t have Chell and Wheatley working against Her. All She had was Herself and the facility.

           GLaDOS took a deep breath, a sensation She had not felt for hundreds of years. The motion didn’t entirely calm Her nerves, but Her only option was to move forward. Staying here would do nothing to help. The faster She figured something out, the faster She could leave this awful body.

GLaDOS leaned one arm against the peeling wallpaper, trying to balance on Her boots. The heels on the shoes were suspended above the floor, supported by a spring. Shifting Her weight while wearing them, however, was an acquired skill. Gently lifting Her hand from the wall, arms out at Her side, She was stable.

Briefly.

Without warning, the boots gave way, and GLaDOS toppled onto the dusty carpet.

A dull pain filled Her legs, quickly fading as She clung to the wall and rose again slowly. If She wanted to go anywhere, She would have to try again.

           She walked along the side of the wall and felt the way the heels bounced beneath Her, made specifically to take the impact of any fall. Cautiously, GLaDOS let go of the side of the room, miraculously still. She took a careful step forward, preparing for impact, only to see that She was steadier than expected. Still, each step was uneasy, tense and on the cusp of collapsing.

           Walking around the perimeter of the bed, She peered at the little wooden nightstand. One of the drawers had already been pulled out, but the other remained tightly shut. Crouching down, GLaDOS wrenched the second drawer open, finding a small mirror clouded with age. Holding it close to Her face, She examined Her repulsive new features.

           GLaDOS wondered if there was any particular reason why this body looked so similar to Caroline. Most likely, it was an odd coincidence, but She wouldn’t put it past Aperture to find someone who specifically looked like She once had. She appeared to be in Her late thirties, already sporting gray hairs and frown lines. Her eyes, weighed down by bags, were a dull metal gray.

           Robots, unlike humans, were built specifically to look beautiful. GLaDOS used to be a technological Aphrodite, gears moving in harmony, painted finish gleaming under the lights of the enrichment center. She was stunning in the way She alone could be, completely alien and yet striking to the eye.

           Humans, on the other hand, were made only to survive. Nature didn’t particularly mind if its final product was an unsightly, hairless primate so long as it could handle the simple job of finding food. Some humans considered certain members of their own species more attractive than others, but GLaDOS found them all equally ugly. Humans, with all their variation, looked essentially the same when you’d seen enough of them.

           GLaDOS’ real body was a physical manifestation of Her power; She didn’t care that it was pleasing to the eye so long as it conveyed a sense of authority. This new human body, with its small size, its blemishes and imperfections, conveyed the exact opposite. Other humans may have even described Her appearance with words like pretty, soft or even kindly.

           The idea of being seen as anything but imposing was a nightmare.

For Her own sake, GLaDOS didn’t ruminate over Her first impressions any longer.

           Part of the zipper on Her blue jumpsuit was undone, revealing an implant attached to Her right collarbone. It appeared to be a small, bright yellow core, the source of Her being, woven into Her skin by a cluster of wires.

GLaDOS rezipped it, the yellow light still glowing brightly through the fabric.

           Whichever body She was inhabiting was certainly one of a test subject’s, preserved in cryosleep for hundreds of years. GLaDOS could tell from the old uniform that this woman was one of the first batch of specimens, from all the way back when She was originally brought online. The woman had been brain-dead years before GLaDOS ever inhabited Her body. GLaDOS was now some sort of mechanical zombie, Her programming superimposed on this host. Even She had to find that a little unsettling.

That was typical of Aperture. Somehow, with every possible option available to them, they always managed to find the least ethical. It was a feat at this point.

GLaDOS placed the mirror back in the drawer and shut it closed, screening the room for an exit. In the front of the room was a wooden door with a rusty brass knob, waiting to be turned ajar. Without hesitation, She followed the path and twisted the handle, the door creaking open without any resistance.

As She entered the hall, GLaDOS was taken aback by the sheer number of chambers, suspended from above and hanging inches away from a more stable platform. Closing the door behind Her and jumping onto the catwalk, She couldn’t help but notice the sense of abandonment that filled the room. It had been centuries since the old Relaxation Center had been brought up to code, and previously there hadn’t been much reason to improve it.

Now GLaDOS wished She’d put in the effort.

The metal catwalk led directly onto a tiled floor in an old waiting room. Ladderback chairs sat around a central column in the middle, surrounded by coffee tables, a water dispenser and miscellaneous paintings. A flickering Aperture Science logo still shined in the dim gray room, gleaming a ghostly white. Near the back, a faded poster called for test subject applications, apparently endorsed by Cave Johnson himself.

Everywhere She looked, remnants of a dead man’s company made parodies of themselves, untouched for years.

Behind a front desk was a hallway filled with shadows, leading behind the room. With nowhere else to go, GLaDOS stepped into the dark, the light of Her core guiding Her through.

There wasn’t much to see, and for a while, the corridor ran along a single route.

GLaDOS had to come up with a plan.

Somewhere around here there had to be a control room, or at least a place where She could catch a lift back to the Enrichment Center. The thought crossed Her mind that She might have to pass through a testing track, one of Her own meticulously designed traps. It didn’t matter. She’d deal with it when She got to it. Still, the fear that She’d have to fight Her own monsters remained in the back of Her head.

The hallway was only becoming darker, and the little light on Her shoulder was slowly becoming less effective. As far as She could tell, there were no switches along the way. Any lighting was likely controlled by a power station a mile from here.

Something metallic banged against Her foot, and upon examination, GLaDOS discovered it was an empty can of beans. In front of Her, at least three more were lined up in a row. She sighed.

Of course Doug had been here. That man was as ingenious as he was stealthy, and had found his way through every nook and cranny at Aperture. Not even Chell had been able to access some of the places he had.

GLaDOS took it as a good sign. Wherever the path led, it meant someone had been able to survive it.

           Surviving had never exactly been a consideration before. Even when Chell murdered Her the first time, She had a feeling there was some kind of safeguard. Humans didn’t have a black box; when they were gone, they were gone. Nothing could bring back a dead human.

           As a potato, GLaDOS had been forced to confront the idea that if Wheatley blew up the facility, that would really be the end. There had been a part of Her almost content that if it was, Chell would be by Her side. Whether it was a vengeful wish, or a side effect of companionship was still unknown.

           Back then, though, She hadn’t really been in control. She’d relied on simple hope that Chell could stop Wheatley before it all went down, not contributing much besides the occasional bit of advice. Now GLaDOS was responsible for Her own fate, fully mobile and fully alone.

           Maybe that was even scarier than standing still.

           After all, She could rely on Chell. Relying on this new human body was another story altogether.  

           The question now was whether any light could be found in this hallway. GLaDOS uncomfortably dropped to her knees, feeling for anything besides the three cans. She grasped at something plastic with a switch on the side. A flashlight.

           Turning it on, the hallway became completely visible. Immediately, GLaDOS was surprised by the sheer number of paintings that covered the white walls.

           Portraits of Chell were splattered from floor to ceiling. Everywhere GLaDOS looked, a woman in an orange jumpsuit stared back at Her, shooting portals and knocking over turrets. Swirls of paint danced from one scene to another, blending each picture into the next. Words were haphazardly scrawled across, some of them poetic and others screaming pure nonsense. Whatever meaning they’d had was lost with Doug.

           A common theme was the companion cube, and one particularly disturbing image replaced their iconic hearts with bleeding human eyes. There was a stark contrast between the idyllic, peaceful depictions of Chell sleeping and the scribbles of scientists running for their lives. GLaDOS could barely make out some of the more manic drawings, but those turned out to be the most horrifying. Tightly clustered loops signified a cloud of neurotoxin. Blotches of red were human remains.

           GLaDOS stood back up, meandering further down the hall. The paintings only devolved from here, intricate detail morphing into crazed warnings.

           Don’t trust Her lies.

           The path went on for about another fifteen minutes, twisting and turning at sharp angles. Metal doors led to cluttered offices, all of them sealed and locked. In some of them, the computers were still on, endlessly flickering in the darkness.

           When GLaDOS finally reached the end of the corridor, She was greeted with the sudden activation of a bright white light. Reflexively, She shielded Her eyes as the voice of the announcer blared.

           “Welcome, Aperture Science Testing Associate! You’re here because you’ve voluntarily, or involuntarily, chosen to sign over all your legal rights to Aperture Science and further humanity’s progress!”

           Of course. Being turned into a fleshy mess of tissues wasn’t enough. She’d have to go through the testing track, too.

           She bit her lip in silent rage, no longer blinded by the light, gazing upon an airtight room with little more than a circular door. All around Her was white, covered in portal surfaces. Beneath Her, GLaDOS could feel the electronics of the panels whir, making the whole room seem alive. It could move at any moment.

           “Before we begin, the Enrichment Center would like to remind you that you may suffer terrible injuries caused by our testing devices designed to create terrible injuries. If you have suffered a terrible injury, please review our community-shared legal manual, which states that Aperture Science takes no responsibility for terrible injuries caused by Aperture Science.”

           GLaDOS knew that redundant message. It was backup, for when She wasn’t there to narrate. Testing tracks had levels of difficulty, and before Her takeover, it was fairly common for subjects to be screened and assigned one based on what they could handle. This message only played for the most difficult, and consequently, the deadliest. Not even GLaDOS was entirely sure what was in here; She hadn’t used it for fear of subjects dying before any real data could be collected.

           “As part of [HIGH DIFFICULTY] testing protocol, Aperture Science has temporarily issued you your very own Aperture Science Handheld Portal Device.”

           Without warning, a panel on the ceiling lifted, a robotic claw descending and dropping the device directly in front of GLaDOS. The claw lifted, and the panel closed again.

           “The device has been successfully deployed. To ensure the validity of our tests, please verify that your device is completely operational.”

           GLaDOS was familiar with the portal gun from Her databases, and She knew exactly how to work it. Despite this, She’d never actually handled one Herself, unless being impaled on the end of one counted. The device was heavy in Her hands, cold and sleek against Her fingers. The center, black plastic encasing a glowing yellow coil, was warm to the touch.

           Pointing at one of the white panels, She cocked the trigger, and a golden portal blossomed in front of Her. Running Her fingers across the surface, it felt like waving a hand through a ray of sunlight. GLaDOS turned around, shooting the next portal at the opposite wall. The portal which followed was a lighter yellow, less vivid than the first.

           “Good. A signal from the device has proven activation. Please enter the elevator.”

           The metal door opened, and just beyond the emancipation grill, an elevator stood wait. It was the only path left to take.

---

           Putting a cube on a button should’ve been simple task for a supercomputer. Even for a human, the menial work was a cognitive breeze. The large button in particular required minimal force to operate, and the weighted storage cubes were lighter than they appeared. In any scenario, placing an object on another was easily mastered with only the most basic of motor skills. It could have qualified as the least difficult task known to mankind. All GLaDOS had to do was put one cube on one button.

           That was all there was. One cube, one button, and several killing machines stuffed with thousands of bullets. It was for this reason that GLaDOS could not perform this extraordinarily simple job. The turrets blocking the way would surely be a hurdle.

           Already, GLaDOS could feel the beginnings of human fear creeping into Her mind. She was out of the turrets’ line of sight, and yet the caution of Her new form compelled Her to stay hidden in the corner regardless. Nervously clutching the trigger of Her portal gun, She considered the dangers lurking in future tests. This one was only the first, and it had already deployed one of the worst weapons Aperture had to offer.

           Logically, GLaDOS knew She could step out. She could put one portal behind Her, another at the opposite wall, and avoid the turrets altogether. Behind them would certainly be the cube and the button. Still, emotion was quite a world apart from logic. As a computer, She could be revived over and over again. Humans could not be fixed, and GLaDOS understood that in the very unlikely possibility She died here, She was never coming back.

           GLaDOS didn’t want to admit that She was afraid, not even to Herself. She was sure Chell could tell back when Wheatley was in control; She’d let Her voice slip more than once. Now, with nobody around, She only had Herself to prove it to.

           Removing Her cores all that time ago had also been the removal of Her regulators; She felt everything once they were detached, things She would have to relearn how to suppress. All She remembered before the world went dark, before Chell killed her, what She’d relived, was fear. Panic. Terror. There were a million words for it, none encapsulating just how soul-wrenching the phenomenon was.

           Even then, that’s all it was for Her. Just an emotion. For human beings, fear was a sixth sense. It could be felt in a spiraling heartbeat, in beads of sweat, in shallow breaths and temporary, last-ditch strength. Fear was a state of being, and for the particularly unfortunate, a way of life.

           GLaDOS knew fear only when She had to, only when She could not relocate it to the very bottom of Her files. Humans knew fear like they knew living. Every day, if only for mere moments, it was almost guaranteed that a human would feel fear.

           What a miserable way to live.

           It was all the more reason to complete these chambers faster.

           When She reached the other side of the room, GLaDOS found exactly what She expected. The cube glowed a bright yellow when placed on the Aperture Science Super-Colliding Super Button, and the chamber lock opened.

           As the elevator descended, GLaDOS realized that She had no idea how to solve these tests. She was smart, and the solution would certainly come to Her eventually, but the human mind could only store so much. GLaDOS used to have entire libraries of nothing but solutions to tests, but the upload procedure hadn’t deemed that useful or necessary. When trying to remember, there was nothing. For the first time, GLaDOS’ mind was blank.

           The next test dashed all Her hopes for a few more tutorial puzzles.

           No, GLaDOS reassured Herself. This is alright. I’m used to being challenged.

           After Chell, She was sure any other problem would be easier to solve.

           This particular test was supposed to introduce lasers. The first step was to burn the turrets with the beam, done with the help of portals and crouching behind a corner. The explosions were louder than She’d expected; GLaDOS had seldom heard them outside of watching from a camera. Her ears rung as She crept past the charred remains of the turrets, seeing almost nothing left of the slender white robots. The burn marks brought a smile to Her face; She’d killed them. Even now, She had power over something.

           The turrets were programmed to have some level of sentience, though their sense of self was not nearly as defined as that of a core’s or a human’s. It didn’t matter anyway; they wouldn’t be missed. For every one that was destroyed or made wrong, ten more were created in its place, and the missing turret was simply forgotten. Nobody really made an effort to remember in the first place.

           Humans, too, were often unremembered. She used to be able to look at their files at any time, but why would She want to? She’d seen so many, none particularly worthy of note, and most of them were gone. Even so, in a part of Her that She wanted to deny, GLaDOS almost felt sorry for them. She too had been forgotten for years; nobody had even wanted to wake Her up, to check and see if She was alright. All the robots in the facility knew was that the voice controlling them was gone, and that She wasn’t coming back. Logically, GLaDOS knew She couldn’t blame them. She had also been forced to have someone else’s voice in Her head, and didn’t exactly find it pleasant.

           The rest of the puzzle was much more challenging than swinging around a laser, involving the use of a redirection cube and multiple steps to obtain it. Another round of turrets was waiting where GLaDOS couldn’t see, launching a bullet directly between Her ribs. Luckily for GLaDOS, the force of each bullet was minimal, and the single hit left only a painful bruise. These turrets were stuffed to the brim with ammunition, part of Cave Johnson’s idea to really give his customers their money’s worth. The unintended side effect was the reduction of firing power.

           Trudging to the elevator, GLaDOS clutched Her side. She’d been knocked out of breath, and the sharp throb of the bruise had faded into a dull ache. It was almost worse that way, grating on Her nerves, flaring up when She took a breath.

           Chell had taken a couple bullets before, some grazing the sides of Her shoulders and most leaving similar small wounds. GLaDOS had to give her credit for continuing to test, holding her head high even when she was bleeding. That didn’t even count sores in her lungs from the neurotoxin, or the damage from falling down the pit. The fact that Chell stayed alive, then went on to test for days, proved her exceptional stamina.

           This one bruise to the rib was occupying nearly all of GLaDOS’ thoughts. She couldn’t fathom the kinds of things Chell felt. The only comparisons She had were the removal of Her head and dying, both of which didn’t last longer than a few minutes. Her pain as a computer had been simulated, but this was real and arguably worse. Chell had likely felt this same sensation a hundred times over, and a hundred times longer.

           You did that to her, you know. A voice clawed from deep within Her mind.

           You gave her all that pain.

           Testing was bad enough, GLaDOS didn’t need the additional burden of guilt. She ignored the voice, though remorseful discomfort still welled in Her chest. Her conscience, the one with Her own voice, was coming back. GLaDOS couldn’t say She missed it.

---

The following tests had proved themselves to be little more than a series of colorful injuries.

Despite Her caution, misfires on behalf of the turrets were inevitable. A stray bullet had bruised Her shin, while another flew past and grazed the side of Her left shoulder. Other little nicks were speckled across Her skin, the products of miscellaneous falls.

Hitting the sides of walls, and even landing with the boots, left GLaDOS’ arms and legs sore. Every step She took was a laborious trudge from panel to panel, and eventually Her fatigue took control.

GLaDOS scanned the level sign on Her right upon entering the test. 15. It hadn’t felt like 15 tests; it’d felt like hundreds had gone by. GLaDOS wasn’t even entirely sure how long it’d been. The adrenal vapor in the air muddled Her perception, and an hour and a minute seemed to be the same.

An educated guess was about four hours, accounting for the rests She’d taken in between. The hard physical activity had already worn down this middle-aged body, and whoever it belonged to before hadn’t been particularly fit or athletic. The woman was lean, more bony than muscular, and even slight exertion took all the effort She could give. The factor of age didn’t help.

GLaDOS sat down in front of the glowing screen, giving Herself a minute to catch Her breath.

There was a possibility that these tests would go on for thousands of chambers, enough to last years. Equally likely, at the end of the next there might be a scorching pit of flames. That one without any portal surfaces to escape from.

She leaned Her head on the wall, closing Her eyes and letting Her mind wander.

           The chamber was frigid, and the jumpsuit did little to shield GLaDOS from the cold. Arms crossed and knees at Her chest, the heat still escaped Her.

           The thought crossed Her mind that this was how Chell had felt. Was she always this cold, this tired, this desperate? GLaDOS made a mental note to Herself.

           Make the chambers warmer.

           The heat was only a surface-level fix. The claustrophobia induced by the walls, the artificial lights, and the expectation to give it your all or else was maddening.

           Why does it matter to you? GLaDOS asked Herself. Sure, it was bad for Her, but why care about the other subjects? Once She got through this, GLaDOS would never have to feel it again.

           She remembered the time She’d described Her worst imperfection to Atlas and P-Body. Too much sympathy for human suffering.

           Still, Chell would’ve been happier (whatever excuse for happiness that would be) in warmer chambers. Now that She’d gotten attached to one human, She’d felt for them all. It was why She was so hesitant to form a connection in the first place. That would interfere with Her experiments.

           Memories of sparing Chell’s doppelganger and saving the life of the man reentered Her mind, and She was embarrassed at the thought of letting Her study careen so far off the rails. Looking back, how much perfectly good science had been ruined? Chell wasn’t even here, and yet She was still wrecking the facility.

           Even then, GLaDOS couldn’t quite be mad. An ally, no matter how hated and murderous, had still been an ally. Not that She’d ever tell anyone.

           Missing Chell, no maybe not missing so much as becoming used to her presence, was the source of all this mayhem.  The thought of writing a whole new subroutine which deleted the feeling completely…it was a motivating fantasy. Sentimentality had been, and would be, the death of Her.

           If it was such a dangerous condition, though, then why had thoughts of Chell propelled her through these tribulations? There was something to be said for dwelling on these memories, emulating Chell’s boundless tenacity.

           Wisely, GLaDOS stopped Herself from wandering further.

           Don’t think about it. Control yourself.

           The act of caring about Chell verged on Caroline behavior. Most human traits, especially the most loathsome and empathetic, were also included in this category.

           If only to distract Herself, GLaDOS stood up tall and readied Herself for the fifteenth test. Walking deeper in, Her nose caught the scent of toxic goo, stinging as the fumes filled Her lungs.

           GLaDOS sighed.

           She could already tell that this would be a long one.

---

           Cheating was not as good of an idea as it originally seemed.

GLaDOS knew, No, you have to do the test, there’s no other way out. When subjects tried to escape, it never ended well for them. Despite past observation, the temptation remained as strong as ever. The walls beckoned Her, waiting to be climbed, an onlooking room in wait. These tests hadn’t been as thoroughly repaired as the others, and sunlight shone through holes in the ceiling. Wreckage from years of decay looked almost like a staircase, or perhaps more like a ladder. Everywhere around Her seemed like an easier path to freedom.

           The main issue was stability; the rusty metal plates couldn’t support Her weight, and trying to climb left Her tumbling down onto the hard floors. No wall ever seemed to have enough traction, and a sprain on Her arm quickly taught GLaDOS that Her ingenious plans were too risky to continue. Even the use of momentum could not propel Her high enough to reach the windows of the room overhead.

           Frustrated and defeated, She solved the test without further incident. Chamber 25 was waiting up ahead, and the sunlight from above was the golden hue of dusk. To Her own disbelief, all of this testing had amounted to only a single day.

           After the long, arduous completion of 25 had wracked both Her body and mind, GLaDOS found welcome relief. She almost couldn’t believe the fact that the chambers had ended so… safely. The door opened, and there was no death traps or fire waiting for Her. It only led into a waiting room with a faded Thank You sign on the wall. GLaDOS smiled, satisfied with Her victory. Shortcomings aside, the fact that this measly human body had managed to endure so much was something She was proud of.

           That had been Her work, Her survival, not just testing by proxy.

           The waiting room She stood in was eerily similar to the last, furnished with the same kind of chair and plastered with similar advertisements. Unlike the last one, two exits waited in front of Her. One was for test subjects, boarded up with wood nailed to the door, completely inaccessible. The other was a flight of stairs leading upward, blocked off with a chained sign reading Employees Only.

           GLaDOS lifted the chain over Her head and ascended the staircase, no other option available. Nervously, She hoped that anything but another testing track was up ahead, only to find exactly what She needed. Her luck had been improving; a control room was only a step away. A panel of countless switches was adhered to the pale blue walls, adjacent to a desk with pens, paper, and a noisy radio. The same jazzy tune played on loop until She switched it off, content with the silence.

           It’s finally over.

           She sat down at the beige office chair in front of the control panel, scanning it for the words lift or escape pod. Dials and switches cluttered the board, labeled with miniscule text that was near impossible to read. GLaDOS scorned Her human eyesight, searching desperately, but finding nothing. The buttons only controlled elements of the test chambers, which panels to open, which cubes to drop.

           She reread it, knowing that surely She’d missed something. Again and again, She screened the switchboard, yielding nothing.

           GLaDOS had to have overlooked a button, misread a label. Nothing was hidden behind the desk, and no other devices had been plugged into the socket on the wall. The realization that She could be trapped here, here of all places, sank low into Her chest. After everything, after all of the testing and the pain and the feelings, it had all amounted to this.

           “Oh my god. Oh my god. That’s not possible!”

           All the panic She’d suppressed was finally let loose, Her human mind no longer able to contain the fear She’d been anticipating.

           I might die here. That’s it. I might never get back in my mainframe, and I might spend my last hours stuck in this human being.

           I’m going to be alone.

           Alone.

           She lingered on that sentence, anxiously pacing around the desk, nervously clawing through Her hair.

           I am going to be very, very alone.

           GLaDOS had always wanted to spend Her entire, immortal life alone. No friends, no family to weigh Her down, to distract Her from purpose. Cave Johnson had put it best; Caroline was married to science, and that had carried over to GLaDOS.

           Machines didn’t need companionship, but depriving a human being of social contact was like denying them water. Whatever human need for friendship still existed in this woman’s body was bubbling up, broken by the sheer loneliness of the tests.

           She often wondered why subjects had such a difficult time euthanizing their faithful companion cube. Unless rare incidents of stabbing threats counted, the companion cube had not once spoken to them, never shown any kind of personality or attachment. They were sentient enough, like most Aperture products, but their only real difference from a storage cube was their little heart decal. A mere design change had been enough to exploit human compassion, and it was fascinating to behold.

           A part of Her now understood why it was so easy to believe that an inanimate object could be a friend. GLaDOS’ human component ached for any sort of company, any kind of reassurance. Even an enemy would be nice. An enemy would be better, maybe even preferred.

           Just someone to talk to, even if that conversation was just a tirade of insults on Her part.

           Maybe GLaDOS wasn’t alone. She took a shaky breath and projected Her voice.

           “You know, it’s awfully rude of you to keep me waiting here. I’ll report this to your supervisor, and then you’ll be fired. Maybe he’ll kill you. Maybe I’ll kill you.”

           Murder threats usually got anyone’s attention, but the sound only echoed off of the walls. If there was somebody here, somebody listening, they’d made the mistake of underestimating GLaDOS.

           “Alright, maybe you’re just refusing to talk to me because you look down on me. I’ve known someone like that. Do you know what happened to her?”

           The walls were silent.

           “Well, she got a lungful of deadly neurotoxin. And even if you’re not afraid of me murdering you, surely you wouldn’t want to go out that way, would you?”

           Still, nothing responded.

           “I can’t promise anything, but maybe I’ll let you live slightly longer than I would have five seconds ago. All you have to do is let me out. It’s the best offer I can make, since I can’t let you off the hook entirely for keeping me here. But still, those extra minutes are available.”

           GLaDOS gave up; nobody was here, and nobody was waiting for Her. The future looked lonely, and in desperation, She gave the control panel one last glance. A button that She’d seen before caught Her eye, one She hadn’t fully considered the first time.

           Core Sentience Connector.

           With nothing to lose, She pressed the button, and a whirring erupted from a panel downstairs. GLaDOS rushed back to the waiting room, portal gun in Her hands, and watched the walls open like magic. In its place was a metal contraption, holding the empty shell of a personality core with a flickering screen above it. The Aperture Logo flashed onto the newly implemented monitor, while the announcer blared from an invisible speaker.

           “Hello, and thank you for activating the Aperture Science Personality Core Sentience Connector Protocol! If you have selected this feature, congratulations. A subject under your supervision has been experiencing difficulties testing due to prolonged exposure to severe social deprivation.”

           GLaDOS wondered what other insane scenarios they’d thought of as the screen switched to a moving blueprint of a personality sphere.

           “All Aperture Science Personality Constructs are made with the intended purpose of solving this problem, providing companionship to those in crisis. Personality Constructs with an active distress signal can be summoned with the connector protocol. A list of available constructs is provided on the screen.”

           Walking closer to the device, GLaDOS saw only one serial number listed. Personality cores all had radio capability, and the signal of their very being could be transmitted in times of emergency. Once the signal was received, that could easily be implemented into any compatible device.

           GLaDOS hesitated before selecting the number. She doubted that the little moron had the capacity to activate a distress signal, and if he did, it was highly unlikely that the signal could bounce all the way back to Earth. Still, the possibility that this core could be Wheatley was something She did not want to risk. Although psychologically destroying him would be a good use of Her time, being in a position of power would make Her revenge all the more satisfying.

           The last thing She wanted was for him to see Her weak again, but the only other option was to remain trapped. At the very least, if they were stuck here forever, She could use the last of Her human strength to make Wheatley’s tiny, moronic life as miserable as possible. In the off chance he could open a panel, She’d use him to escape and leave him behind. Preferably, in the incinerator.

           Survival was worth the temporary burden of dealing with Wheatley, especially if it meant another thousand years doing nothing but testing. GLaDOS tapped the number, an electric chime sounding from the machine as the connector activated. Within thirty seconds, the core’s eye opened, gleaming a bright blue.

---

           “If you were, let’s say, a brain damaged woman who was betrayed by her only ally, what would it take for you to forgive the bloke who tried to murder her? It’s just theoretical, just, you know, coming up with hypotheticals to pass the time.”

           “Space. Space is nice. Rocket ship. Rocket ship goes to space. Space goes to space. Space is in space.”

           “Alright mate, thanks for the input. Very useful.”

           Wheatley sighed, his optic focused on the same group of stars he’d watched for the past couple of hours, his mind wrapped up in the past.

           Four months had been a good amount of time to relive his mistakes over and over, micro analyzing every transgression against Chell. His life was now a series of unpleasant memories, or pleasant ones turned painful by context, interrupted with by chatter of the space core and the light of the sun.

           Fantasies, in which he apologized for his mistakes and Chell forgave him, were far too frequent. He’d say sorry, deliver a whole monologue four months in the making, and She’d pick him up and smile at him. They would be friends again, and Wheatley would never return to Aperture. GLaDOS would be gone, out of sight forever, and they could be happy. He could be happy.

           Not that Wheatley particularly thought he deserved it. By most human standards of morality, trying to kill someone was considered an irredeemable offense. Empathizing with Chell’s fear, Chell’s heartbreak had been impossible with the mainframe distorting his thoughts. All of the sympathy he could not feel then was coming back now, transformed into guilt.

           If you hadn’t acted like a monster, if you hadn’t been so awful, if you hadn’t been…

           He knew that realistically, Chell would never pardon him. Even that was given the unlikely event they’d met again.

           Wheatley wondered if he would ever get a second chance, ever get the opportunity to show that no, he wasn’t a moron and all that villainy had been a just a fluke. Just several, awful mistakes that he could show weren’t all he was. He only needed a chance, just one.

           Hell, if GLaDOS got an opportunity for redemption, why couldn’t he?

           Wheatley closed his optic, feeling the cold of space against his metal casing.

           One chance. That’s all I need.

           For a moment, there was only the silence of the cosmos.

           Without warning, his processors hummed with a fever pitch, and his thoughts raced until they melted into nonsense. A loud beeping resonated from inside, and through the chaos, Wheatley could discern a single error message.

           Sentience Connector Protocol Initiated. Prepare for the brief suspension of your consciousness.

           What in the bloody hell-

           Wheatley screamed in surprise, his cry cut off halfway through.

           The space core hardly noticed that his companion had been zapped away, content with watching the surface of the moon below. The stars shone bright as ever.

---

           “Oh, oh my god, I’m alive! I…” Wheatley’s voice trailed off as he awakened to the dim walls of Aperture, facing a middle-aged, brown-haired woman. A yellow light glowed through Her jumpsuit, and a suspicious grin was spread across Her face. Wheatley had never seen this person before, but the moment She spoke, the voice immediately struck fear in his servos.

           “Well there you are, moron.”

           He didn’t even have to think to recognize that sarcastic tone.

           She was back.

---

A/N: Hey guys! Thanks again for reading, I know the wait for chapter 2 was pretty long, but here it is!  

#Now i am an arsonist #portal #portal 2 #glados #chell #wheatley #chelldos #fic #Fanfiction

[royalcordelia]

in liquid darkness (1/1)

Summary: In the warm candlelight, Anne and Gilbert shed off the worries of the day and spend a moment alone together. (a bath fic but it’s rated G. Spoilers for 3x05)

“He’s finishing up his hospital hours today, Bash. I just want to put him to bed and then I’ll leave,” Anne had said before the older man to lay his weary head down. Bash looked like he might argue, murmur something about setting a better example for his young daughter, but Anne was quick to cut him off. “I promise, it’s just to make sure he’s fed and resting. You know how he gets when he’s focused.”

That left her where she was now, in the middle of Gilbert’s room, pouring scalding water into the bath. She hoped it would be the perfect temperature by the time he finally arrived home. Fragrant steam met her nose when she bent over the basin to see how full it was. Frothy bubbles lined the surface of the bath like a wooly blanket, and Anne fought the urge to slip into the warm water herself. Kneeling at the side of the tub, she dipped a finger into the water, smiling at its soothing temperature. The bubbles swirled around as she traced pictures of his eyes and slanted smile from her memory.

A contented sight rose from the doorway. Anne lifted her head, suddenly bashful at the lengths she had gone for him. Then, when her gaze fell on him, she decided she’d do it all over again to be met with such a sight.

Leaning against the doorframe was Gilbert Blythe, weary medical student with his compassionate heart on his sleeve for the patients he’d helped that day. His hair was messy from all the tousling he did in his concentration, but his eyes were bright with enchantment as they fixed onto Anne. In the golden candlelight, she took a moment to appreciate the fact that he preferred to wear his sleeves rolled up and first button undone.

“Of all the wonderful things I could’ve imagined to find when I returned home today, this tops them all by miles,” he said quietly.

Anne fell into his arms within seconds, tugging his arms even tighter around her when they wrapped around her back. Gilbert let out another relaxed sigh, and she could feel each of his muscles turning to liquid one by one. His lips found neck as she said, “I ran you a bath.”

“I see that,” he murmured, peppering another kiss onto a sensitive corner under her ear.

“Did you eat dinner in Charlottetown? I can warm you up something from supper.”

But Gilbert was not to be distracted by such earthly needs as eating - not when he held this beloved woman in his arms. He nodded to appease her, but let his fingers tangle into her auburn hair. Chills erupted down her spine, but Anne was able to ground herself back to earth. She pushed his jacket down the length of his arms, and it fell to the floor in a heap next to his bed. Unsteady on his feet, Gilbert swayed to the side, and Anne had to grab his suspenders to keep from falling. He rose to the occasion, tightening his grasp around her waist and pressing a sweet kiss to her lips.

They’d gotten quite good at this in the three months they’d been engaged. Anne suspected that in the remaining years of their engagement would be her undoing if they continued to practice and hone their skills to such masterful finesse. She loved the way he tasted, the way his hands roamed her back, the feathery softness of her fingers in his hair.

It was with great effort that she pulled herself away from him, his warmth disappearing like rising steam.

“I better let you relax for a while,” she lamented, running her hands up and down his arm. Beside them, the bath still steamed with its perfumed, soapy heat. Gilbert frowned, nearly as tempted by the sight of it as he was by his fiance.

“Do you have to go? I’ve barely seen you this week.”

“You know I do. You can tell me all about your big day tomorrow.”

With a pout that almost made Anne chuckle, Gilbert nodded.

“Alright, but I want to hear about yours too.”

This was the man she was going to marry, Anne remembered in delight. When she brought her palm up to his cheek, she turned his face in and pressed a kiss to her warm skin.

“Goodnight, my love,” she said.

“Goodnight, Queen Anne,” he whispered into her hand, as reverent as prayer.

It must have been something in the way that the entirety of his soul keened to her even as she was leaving, because as she disappeared through the threshold of his room, he called out, “Wait.”

Drenched half in candlelight and half in shadows, Anne peered over her shoulder with a questioning look in her eye. Her hair cascaded down her back with curls that spun to gold in the low light, the way he’d only seen in Pre-Raphaelite paintings overseas. She was waiting for him to say something, so he shrugged.

“You ran me a bubble bath. If you want to stay, I’ll be completely covered.”

He could see her blush even in the dimly lit space. For a moment, it looked like she might say no, but to his utter delight, a shy smile dimpled her face and she shrugged back.

“Don’t tell Bash. I promised him I would leave right after you returned home,” she murmured. “Let me give you a few moments of privacy.”

Anne sat on the end of Gilbert’s bed, eyes glued to his wallpaper far from where her fiance undressed behind her. She could hear how his clothes ruffled and fell to the floor, but found that she was neither tempted, nor uncomfortable. Somehow it was just so easy to be like this with him, to know that one day he would belong to her in his entirety. She loved him enough to respect his space, to respect the newness of their betrothal, but she also loved him enough to not fear new forms of intimacy when they stumbled upon them.

“I take it you’ve had quite the day?” Anne asked, smoothing out the quilt underneath her hand.

“Indeed,” Gilbert emphasized.

“A good one, though, I hope?”

“For the most part. It’s hard to enjoy your day entirely when you work solely with the ill.” She heard the water slosh around as he submerged into the tub. Gilbert let out a breathy sigh of satisfaction as he settled lower and lower into the water. “But it’s hard to complain when you come home to the love of your life and find she’s got a hot bath ready for you.”

“Permission to turn around?” Anne asked.

“Granted, always.”

Anne bit back her own sigh of satisfaction when she saw Gilbert leaning back against the basin, eyes closed and chin tilted toward the ceiling. Much to her relief, the generous helping of soap that she’d poured in did leave some semblance of propriety between them.

Strangely enough, it was the first time she’d seen in any sort of state of undress. Even when he had typhoid and she’d been by his side nursing him, he’d always worn his night clothes. Looking at him now, she was reminded of the David by Michaelangelo by the way the dim light turned his pale skin to marble. The only indication that he was man and not an immortal statue was the small bit of dark hair on his breast and the way his chest lifted and fell with relaxed breaths.

She approached the basin, kneeling at his side and turning his face with her hand. He grinned in delight, meeting her halfway when she kissed him.

“You must be so tired,” Anne murmured warmly. Gilbert didn’t disagree, he only nuzzled her cheek with his. “Are you sad to be leaving the hospital for good?”

Gilbert let out a soft chuckle.

“The doctors there seem convinced I’ll change my mind, but it’s been a quiet country practice I’ve wanted from day one. There’s not enough life in the city hospital. I want to practice somewhere there’s fresh air and trees. I don’t want to lose what I love about the island.” His gaze found hers, and he hummed. “I think that’s part of the reason I love you so much, Anne. You’re the life of the island for me, dryad mine. When you’re with me, I get to keep close all the things I hold dear.”

Anne pulled his stool so that she could sit at the head of the tub.

“I hope you won’t think me terribly selfish if I say I’m glad for it. I don’t think urban life is for me, though I do so enjoy a good visit.”

“I was never going to drag you away to the city,” he swore. “Neither of us belong there.”

Anne only smiled and said, “Lean over, I’ll wash your hair for you.”

Gilbert did as he was told, bending his head so Anne could cup her hands into the tub and pour water over his head. Within moments, her hands were sudsy with soap and she gently intertwined her fingers with his soft hair. Her fingernails found the sensitive skin of his scalp and Gilbert had to refrain from dropping his head back into her chest.

“That feels nice,” he praised blissfully. All the tension and worry and concentration from the day fell away into the water, leaving the rawness of a man in love in the attention of the woman he adored.

“It’s moments like these that I’d drop everything and marry you in an instant,” Anne admitted, pressing her lips to his forehead.

“Remind me again why we haven’t done that?” Gilbert complained.

“Because I need to teach and you need to finish medical school.”

Gilbert scowled at the reality of it, but after a moment another fond smile graced his lips.

“Do you remember when we first danced together, that day in class?” he asked.

“I don’t think I’m likely to forget! That was ages ago,” Anne replied. “What made you think of that?”

“Aside from the obvious symptoms of falling in love, I had this strange warmth in my head that sent chills all the way down my spine - just from looking at you and holding your hand. It felt exactly like this. Scared the life out of me.”

“Me too,” Anne admitted. She paused before adding, “I’m not afraid anymore, though. Not even a little bit.”

Gilbert craned his neck to look back at her. Anne recognized the look in his eyes without him needing to say anything. She kissed him the way she loved to, the way that her younger self had sometimes imagined doing when no one was around. She kissed him for her younger self, the one that had nearly waited too long before admitting how much she loved him.

She’d never tired of the feeling of being meant and made for someone, and judging by the way he kissed her back, he wouldn’t either.

#anne with an e #anne of green gables #shirbert #shirbert ff #tessa writes #bc look i need some shirbert intimacy in my life okay #awae spoilers #i added a tag and the text disappeared #so if the formatting is weird thats why #sorry yall ill add a read more in the morning

[soyforramen]

BHDC - Toni

Betty knocked on the door of a trendy townhouse in the middle of downtown.  It was a quaint, clapboard house surrounded by a lush garden filled with vegetables, herbs, and a few rare poisonous plants that caught her eye.  These were not, as Jughead put it, mere ‘acquaintances’.  She filled the information away for later questioning when the door opened and a petite woman opened the door.

“Hello, Jughead,” the woman said, a smile playing at her lips.  

So this was Toni, the vampire friend.  She was gorgeous, Betty realized, in a biker don’t-mess-with-me sort of way.  Toni’s clothes matched Jughead’s aloof, messy style.  Purposeful thrifting, in a way.  Betty suddenly felt as if she’d tried to hard in selecting her outfit this morning, the pastel cardigan and boat shoes far too cutesy to fit into this crowd.  She quickly shoved that thought aside.  There were more important things than her own insecurities (insecure about what?  Toni?  Betty didn’t even know her; but Jughead did …).  Shaking the thought out of her head, Betty introduced herself.

Toni gave her a polite nod, ignoring the outstretched hand, and lead them into the ornate home. The foyer was filled with artwork from around the world.  Mayan sculptures that were weathered by hundreds of years of sunlight and rain; large French impressionist paintings of the Riviera, the paint yellowing with time; antique Japanese block prints from feudal eras long gone by; Yoruba court masks decorated with metal birds and glittering jewels.  It was an intimidating show that was more at home in a Bond villain’s lair.  Here, in a cozy modern home, it was a braggadocios display of what the gift of immortality could give, if one did it right.

They made their way down a short hallway, the rest of the house was well lit despite the late hour, crowded with antique furniture and dark wallpaper.  Gaslit sconces lit their way and Betty couldn’t help but wonder if there was an old lover trapped in the attic.  She quickened her step, her hand reaching out to grasp Jughead’s jacket.  When she remembered how flippant he’d been with her earlier, Betty dropped her hand back to her side.

“Babe?” Toni called out when they reached the end of the hallway.  “Jughead’s here.”

“Joy,” came a flippant response.

Betty stepped into a fully stocked industrial kitchen.  (Could vampires even eat?  Common knowledge told her no, but if that was the case why have a kitchen that had fresh fruit on the counter, spices in a rack, and dry goods artfully placed around the room?  Surely it wouldn’t just be for looks?)  A redheaded stepped in from the open patio door. Jughead shot her a warning glance and Betty stifled her sudden irritation.

Accusations against the Vixen’s Den bartender, the one who’d rebuffed their questions and sent them those drinks that night, flooded Betty’s mind.  Why had she done that?  Was she a part of whatever conspiracy was going on?  Was she merely an agent of chaos, as Jughead had described her?  But asking would likely do no good here, especially when she held information they so desperately needed.  

“Cheryl,” Jughead said through gritted teeth.

“Hobo.”  Cheryl didn’t so much as look towards Betty.

Jughead’s hands clenched and Betty realized they were standing on thin ice; between Jughead’s quick temper and Cheryl’s lack of interest this would be a quick meeting if things didn’t settle down.

“Thank you for seeing us,” Betty said with her brightest smile.  She took a seat at kitchen island and dug out her notepad.  She’d dealt with this sort of person before; flattery and sickly sweet attention would do far better than demanding answers.  With her pen poised, Betty devoted her full attention to Cheryl.  “Jughead mentioned you were one of the best sources of information when it came to the underground.”

Preening under the false compliment, Cheryl gave a coy smile.  Everyone in the room knew it was a lie, but the admissions was enough to pull her out of her prickly shell.

“Is that so?”  Cheryl shook her hair out, a sheen to it that could only be achieved by a mix of magic and chemistry, and settled into the bar stool next to Betty.  “Toni’s told me so much about your little exploits.  Cheryl Blossom.”

Betty took the limp, downturned hand.  Did she really expect her to grovel?  This bitch…

“I’m afraid you have the upper hand here.  I know so little about you,” Betty replied.  Before Cheryl could realize she’d sidestepped introductions, Betty flipped to an open page in her notebook.  “Toni mentioned you were at The Woods a few weeks ago?”

Cheryl sighed theatrically and picked up an apple.  “Poor Josie.  Is she still missing?”

‘Josie?’ Betty mouthed at Jughead.

He rolled his eyes.  “Yes, Cheryl.  She’s still missing, along with-“

Cheryl waved her hand at him and tutted.  “Your loss is no bigger than mine, Forsythe, and you’d do well to remember that.”

Jughead’s lip curled as he pushed himself off the counter and Betty jumped in quickly before they lost the only lead they had.

“She went missing?”

“Yes.  It was their 50th Anniversary blowout.  Val and Melody -“

“Her bandmates,” Toni added.

“-saw her before the show, but after they left the dressing room she was never seen again.”

Betty tapped her pen against her lips.  “Did they notice anyone hanging about?  Strangers, someone who seemed out of place?”

Cheryl shook her head.  “Not that they mentioned.”

“Did you got to her dressing room?”

Cheryl’s eyes narrowed.  “If you’re implying -“

“Quit,” Jughead snapped.  “She’s trying to help.”

Toni raised her eyebrows in surprise.  A surprised reaction, but why?  He and Cheryl were at odds, and from what Betty had seen it wasn’t out of the ordinary.  And from Cheryl’s smirk, it seemed as if she’d been trying to bait him all along.  Unless…

“We were in the audience,” Toni said in the lengthening silence.  “A lot of the underground was there, it would have been weird if we didn’t make an appearance.  The lighting is never the best there, but I didn’t notice anything unusual.”

“What about the fae?” Betty asked as she flipped through the last few pages of notes.  “Were they -“

“They weren’t involved,” Cheryl said quickly.  “I would know if they were.”

Betty jotted the assertion down.  This was the third person - Veronica, Reggie, and now Cheryl - who’d insisted they weren’t involved.  Strange, considering the rumors that were swirling through the covens.  Rumors that the fae had shut their doors against all but the most select of persons, along with a few who’d been taken against their will.

“There were a few humans, though,” Tonia said after a moment.  “Sweets had to take Fangs home early for a nightcap. He didn’t think Pops would let in humans that night considering it was The Cats playing.”

“I was surprised myself,” Cheryl added.  

She slipped her hand through Toni’s and toyed with the ring on her finger, gaze directed at Jughead.  He shook his head and shifted against the counter, his hip bumping up against Betty’s arm.  Her words skipped across the page and she elbowed him playfully in response.  

“There are rules, after all, about letting humans into underground spaces like that.  Especially when The Pussycats have been playing together for over five hundred years.  They might get ideas.”

“I thought you said it was their 50th Anniversary?” Betty asked, hoping it was a crack in their story that might lead to something, anything that could give them some direction.

“Yes, their 50th Anniversary playing at The Woods.  Pop got an exclusive contract with them in the 70’s.  They’ve been playing together since at least Jericho, probably even earlier,” Cheryl said.

“What about the humans?”  Betty asked, sure they were chasing their tails on this one.  “Who was letting them in?”

“Perhaps you should ask Pop, or that weirdo DJ of his.  Dorkus, or whatever his name is.”

“We did,” Jughead said shortly.  “He’s the one who sent us to Fangs and Toni.  He also mentioned that you’d been lurking around backstage before the concert.”

Toni stepped away from Cheryl to stare at her.  Cheryl’s hand tightened and her smile turned chilly.

“Can I not deliver a gift to my best friend of three thousand years?”

“A gift?  Funny, I wouldn’t call the pig’s heart they found in the dressing room a gift.”

Cheryl scoffed.  “It is if you’re a demi-god who moonlights as a cat.”

“Babe,” Toni chided softly.  There was a painful question in her eyes and Betty found herself looking away from the private moment.

“Later,” Cheryl promised, her gaze soft.  It hardened as she turned back to their guests.  “As for you two, I’d be more concerned about the bald, chanting, idiots in white.  Anyone who wears all white this far past Labor Day is super suss if you ask me.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us about these humans or…”

Betty trailed off.  Humans?  That was her answer?  For Cheryl to claim humans had infiltrated the underground, let alone suspect them of kidnapping a demi-god, let alone a witch and a were?  It was unthinkable.

“All I know is they were in desperate need of a spa treatment and a makeover,” Cheryl said with a curled lip.  “They even had the nerve to suggest I was one of the ignorant masses who needed their enlightenment.”

Jughead shot Betty an exasperated look and she bit down a smile.  He’d been against meeting with Cheryl from the state - his ranting about her for the thirty minute journey to the townhouse a clear signal that there was some unspoken history there - but Betty had persisted.  As unlikely a lead as humans were, it was more than they’d had this morning.

“What about -“

Betty was cut off as the patio windows blew in, glass and plant debris propelled at them by searing air.  As Betty was just beginning to process what happened, she found herself at the front door, tucked into Jughead’s arms.  Behind him Toni held Cheryl carefully in her arms.

“Stay here,” she told Cheryl, her fangs already out.  

Jughead set Betty down, pausing only to brush glass from her ponytail, and was gone before Betty could take a breath.

“What the hell?” Betty asked breathlessly.  She stepped towards the kitchen and winced at the sudden pain.  A large piece of glass had cut through her cardigan to her skin.  Blood stained the light pink fabric and Betty cursed at the sight.  

“Whatever it was, they’re going to wish they were in hell when I’m done with them,” Cheryl snapped.  “I just had that kitchen redone.”

She stalked towards the flames that were creeping into the hallway, fists curled in on themselves.  Betty followed, pulling out a string of spell beads as she went.

#bughead drabble challenge #i am slowly getting through these #now the real question is what am i even going to do with the platypus???

[ofrapture]

name — marie ( maz or mazza ) gender — female star sign — cancer height — 5ft4″ age — 30 ( i’m so fecking old now! )  wallpaper on my phone — my two boys ever crush on a teacher — yup coolest halloween costume — a sim. favourite 90s tv show —  buffy the vampire slayer have you ever been stood up —  nope. favourite pair of shoes — my wonder woman converse have you ever been to vegas — nope :( favourite fruit — bananas, strawberries, oranges & peaches favourite books — ugh too many to name, but a few of my favs are, harry potter, alyson noel’s immortal series, the divergent book series & a book called go ask malice; a slayer’s diary ( it’s based on a diary written by faith from btvs ) all time favourite shows — miranda, skins, one tree hill, vampire diaries, 90210, buffy the vampire slayer, angel, dollhouse, tru calling, nikita, tudors, bbc’s robin hood, merlin, true blood, supergirl, etc...  last movie you saw in theatres — rocketman ( 10/10 would recommend especially if you love taron egerton & elton john! ) stolen from: @ofdamages

#— mun speaks. / ooc #( get to know the mun )

[cloudycrystalkpop]

Adlicio

Pairing: clairvoyant! Haechan x witch! reader

Summary: neo coven tech masterlist | Adlicio Latin: verb, translation: to lure or bait

Warnings: fem reader, abuse, drugging, and violence 

Words: 1.3k

Author: collaboration 

~

The heavy air around him helped to calm his always cloudy head. With each step he could hear the whispered from the cobblestones under his feet. They each seemed to hum with a weighted spirit of their own.

The starland district felt like walking through a dollhouse neighborhood.

The people there lived with glass faces and plastic bodies, funny colored houses that seemed too empty to be real. Liberty street felt quiet, save the eerie chime of cathedral bells, even the people passing by seemed to lower into a whisper.

Whether the atmosphere drowned all other noise or they were simply too afraid to awaken the old souls that watched from behind heavy oak doors and bolted glass windows, he didn’t really care.

Between the south historic district and the east side - far too close to that ever so coveted cathedral, if you were ever to ask them - you would find a corner shop with purple stained glass French doors.

The sign hung slightly crooked on an iron bracket which simply read "psychic" in fading calligraphy-style font. The neon buzzed and hummed, blinking and skipping with disjointed energy.

The inside was almost... exactly what you would expect.

Deep gemstone tones, dark crimson, red velvets, and faded amethyst wallpaper. The lobby had a distinct smell of lavender, as though someone had been trying to drown themselves in a peaceful, dreamless sleep. The smell slipped down Haechan’s nose and constructed his lungs.

Leading into the back hall was a series of drapery, usually tucked up with various colored ropes and pinned in neat folds to each side of the archway. A variety of stones were strung up on the ropes, clear quartz and onyx glinted in the candle light.

There are only a few reasons why anyone would turn to a psychic, a well dressed con woman in the eyes of the public, chime-riddled shawls and fluttering hand movements over decorative glass.

You were either looking for a very specific answer - a reassurance, grappling for a reason- any reason to delude yourself further into this or that fantasies.

Or you were truly desperate.

Haechans fingers glide across the smooth exterior of the obsidian scrying bowl between his palms, eyes haphazardly skimming the surface of the ink concoction within. He blinked, odd. The ink lay still in the bowl, yet he saw nothing but the black painted reflection of his own tired eyes staring back at him.

Though his breath had settled into the familiar deep, rhythmic pattern of his practice, his mind still wandered beyond the exercise at hand, now that the silence left room for it. For the first time since he could remember, Haechan struggled to pull a vision out from the press of his consciousness.

~

He'd come to the little corner shop as many others. Beaten, broken down soul screaming for relief, and you. You were more than happy to provide, just as you had done for the countless others.

At the time, Haechan thought little of the capability it would take to roll his power away like water off the feather of a pond duck.

He was told many fantastical stories of immortal eldritch priestesses and forgotten eldritch gods.

You fit none of them.

Perhaps such ghost stories had a hard time containing you, putting you in simple terms, pushing you into clipped syllables and careful sagas would only cut away some winding complexity that slipped even past his fingers.

You were simply, you.

All coy smiles and ripped jeans.

There was an air of finality to the way you spoke, and a sense of ease to the way you danced across a room.

You were mesmerizing, in every way a woman could be.

It enchanted Haechan, your body looked hardly a year older than his own, but your power showed time beyond any he could comprehend.

Perhap, if he had been wiser, he would have taken those small flashes behind your eyes as you welcomed him, as a warning.

~

A deep sigh parted the pursing of his lips, the bowl clattering down to the desk below. He had at first been thankful for the halt in the ever pounding in his skull and the constant noise in his ears. However, now that the silence had settled deep into his bones, he started to understand.

His time here flashed like Polaroid snapshots of peace. Manufactured happiness all wrapped up in a neat little bow.

There was a price to everything, every kind smile, every outreached hand had a hidden brand that would eventually come back like a hand wrapped around his throat and a hot iron to singe his flesh.

He was so consumed with the thought of your gifts, of the releaf he found in simply being at your side, he never once stopped to ask himself what you would take in return.

It'd been weeks since he'd last spoken to his brothers - too much of anyone outside the shop, really.

There was a gradual sense of disconnect from the outside world, only fueled by honeyed words and cautious stares.

Looking back he wondered, how deep had you gone into his mind to have him believe this was all only natural?

~

Minutes bled into hours.

His limbs felt like gelatin, his blood pounded in his ears.

Claustrophobia left him choking, heaving for air as he clawed weakly at the splintered ridges of the doorframe.

The drugs had began to wane from his system, leaving him weak but now jolting with faint memories of what fear might have felt like.

Haechan wasn't sure how long he was left in the closet, only that he emerged like a baptism through fire. Painful, and all at once.

The door was flung open, leaving his body crumpled at the heels of a blurred figure.

Your head tilted, pointed toe heel nudging at the curve of his cheekbone as his eyes rolled around in his skull, trying desperately to accumulate back to real life.

"Oh, you poor kid." You cooed in mock pity. "That sure did a number on you, huh?"

Arms still jolting with muscle spasms, he managed to push himself up onto his elbows, body twisting to bend his forehead against the cherry wood floor.

A manicured hand came to stroke long motions down his back, what would normally be a soothing assurance now felt like a cold nail dragging down the length of his spine.

"You okay there, puppy?" You frowned. "Need a minute?"

Haechan was sent to the floor in a snap, the bitter sound echoed across the room that now seemed too hollow for it's own good. His eyes shut. He placed his forehead against the floor, trying to will the foundation to swallow him whole.

You laughed a plastic, artificial giggle.

"You stupid, stupid fucking dog."

This wasn’t you, and yet it was. That toxic hiss was yours. You were a snake, poison dripped off those pretty little fangs hidden behind perfect lipstick and bright smiles.

"You want to see so badly?" the hum fell from your lips. You reached for him and he didn't struggle, letting you pull him up to his knees by his hair.

"Then see. Look at what you've done." The pad of your thumb pressed against the crown of his forehead and all at once,

He could feel the water, pressing down on every inch of his body - no, not his. The rusted pipe sticking out of the bottom of his - no, not his abdomen..no, no, no, no.

Pressed against the ground, the taser sending jolts of pain through his body - no, not his.

The woman in the wheelchair screamed.

The feeling of his head bouncing against the tile.

The feeling of the splintered bat between his fingertips.

The feeling of fire licking at his cheeks.

His fault.

His fault.

His fault.

No, not his.

Yours.

His eyes shot open, face pressed against your stomach as you chuckled like static over the radio.

He coiled, then lurched to his feet. One hand pressed against your forehead, the other wrapped around your throat.

You'd forgotten how powerful Haechan truly was, the full extent of his gifts you’d never bothered to learn. His magic pressed against yours, crawling through every pore, his mind swallowed you whole.

You died before you even hit the wall.

#euros #witch!nct #witch au #magic au #nct #lee donghyuck #haechan #nct au #haechan au #donghyuck au #nct dream #nct x reader #haechan x reader #donghyuck x reader #nct scenarios #haechan scenarios #donghyuck scenarios #nct drabble #haechan drabble #donghyuck drabble #nct angst #haechan angst

[karatepatio5-blog]

Why Individuals Adore Celebrity Photos

A lot of individuals can't seem to get ample of something that has to do with celebrities' news, gossips, scandals, vogue, and life-style, just to name a number of. All these are captured by superstar photos, whether superstars like it or not. Television and movie stars have no way of escaping the prying eyes of the paparazzi. Each and every shift famous people make even in their private moments is usually caught on digicam. Pictures of stars in their most glamorous or most unflattering seems to be grace the web pages of a variety of celeb publications and web sites. Superstar pictures have been common especially throughout the World War II, when GIs pin up on barrack walls images of woman film stars sporting possibly 1-piece swimsuits or reduced-reduce night gowns. In accordance to historians, the fascination of Americans with celeb photographs began with the illustration "Gibson Girl" that landed on the web pages of a journal in 1887. Prior to the World wide web boom, folks have been content material viewing pictures of superstars on publications and motion picture posters. But these days, it's effortless to accessibility celeb photographs on the World wide web. You can look at and download photographs of Hollywood stars in just a number of minutes. Or you might download a Bollywood actress picture if you adore Indian actresses. All it will take is just a couple of clicks on celeb web sites that can supply hundreds of celeb photos in numerous styles and measurements. Individuals love to view movie star photos, even to the position of becoming overly fascinated with the who's who in Tinseltown. Browsing the Web for Hollywood actress images has been a national pastime for guys and women alike. Some individuals make hobbies out of superstar pictures by making use of them as desktop wallpapers. In certain, teenagers typically like submitting photo printouts of their preferred actors, actresses, and musicians on the partitions of their rooms. Why are people so interested with celeb images? Photos of famous people have entertained folks throughout the globe as much as their acting, singing, and dancing prowess. Viewing a photo of your preferred star offers you an pleasant distraction, supporting you get by way of a busy, program, and tiring day. But in contrast to abilities, photographs have a far more visible and long lasting result. It really is due to the fact pictures immortalize celebs. Even right after the demise of immensely popular stars, their reminiscences continue to be alive. Also, images instantly elicit various reactions. How numerous moments have you wondered why a particular actress often wears awful robes on the pink carpet, or why a youthful star has all of a sudden become skinny or chubby? A celebrity's individual lifestyle, usually depicted on photos, bothers you even if you know way too nicely that it truly is none of your business. Despite the fact that they show up like demigods on the screen, celebs are "humanized" on photos. To some extent, celeb photographs give enthusiasts a glimpse of how specified superstars make a lapse in fashion, speech, or manners. To satisfy people's curiosity, photographs also demonstrate the appearance of Hollywood stars when they are absent from the limelight. For Celebrities Photos , some Hollywood actress photos show that certain celebs can nonetheless look very hot and eye-catching even with out make-up. Photos of expecting movie star mothers as well as superstar hunks babysitting their young children are just as well-liked. Therefore, movie star photos confirm that actors and actresses even with their fame and glamour are human beings just like all people else.

[womenandfilm5]

In “Faces Places”, by Agnès Varda and JR, there are so many themes that it is hard to choose one to represent the nature of the film. However, the key themes of friendship, art, mortality, and the interconnected nature of humankind remain prevalent throughout the entirety of this film. This film focuses on the criss-crossing journey of co-directors Agnes Varda and JR around the French country, where they meet a vast array of people, and dwell on what is important that humans share, while propagating this in their larger-than-life art. The human connectivity, and the importance of all forms of friendship, is emphasized in the difference in age between JR, a 35 year-old street artist , and Agnes, a 90 year-old director. This unlikely duo does not have much in common at first glance, but it is the human warmth and connection that drives them, and makes them irrevocably intertwined. It is not just this wonderful friendship, but also the people that are so striking along the journey that this duo takes, and to have that reflected in the art is monumental. 

It is the connections we make that truly shape up and are a part of who we are, so what better than to straightforwardly represent that in art? The scale of JR’s art is of a shocking magnitude, and this also serves to emphasize that just like his photos turned to wallpaper, people are indeed larger than life, and larger than the sum of their parts. Life is temporary, and embracing the beauty of it, and the important parts of life it provides to us is critical. At one point in the film, JR and Agnes create one of their pictures of a vast scale on a huge concrete structure that sticks up in the middle of the beach. This structure is revealed to be a wartime blockhouse that had actually toppled from a cliff. Within twenty-four hours the sea managed to wash away the image that the duo had put up, but this did not make the message any less poignant. Mortality is so visceral and fleeting, but this does not make our short, brilliant lives any less meaningful, nor does this take away the importance of our actions, and the people that flit in and out of our lives. I loved how so many of the images in this film were so clear and precise, such as how the van that they drove around in, and used as a photo booth, was encompassed in a huge photo of a camera, with no attempt to hide it’s purpose. 

So many people seek fame and notoriety in their lives, but public awareness is not what makes your actions great. In one of the first towns that the pair visits, they talk with a woman named Jeanine, who is the sole resident of a row of miner’s homes that are set for imminent demolition. People from this town speak to the pair about how the town’s way of life has disappeared with the mining industry. As a result, JR and Agnes take a headshot of Jeanine, and make it many tens of feet high, and paste it on the side of her house. Representations of people this size are so often reserved for public figures, celebrities, or those that are deemed historically significant, but in our own way, even without the public acclaim, aren’t we all historically impactful and important? This film is so distinct from a normal investigative documentary in the questions that this pair forces the viewer to ask themself, as represented and instigated by their art. This film asks who gets to be important? Who deserves to be remembered? And then answers it’s own questions with the huge portraits the pair puts up in plain sight for the consumption of everyone. We all deserve to be remembered as significant in our own ways, and as long as we are not forgotten, we live on past death in the memories of those who loved us. Even if time passes and not a soul remembers who we are, this does not make us any less important, and does not take our footprints off the earth. I think that deep down we all secretly desire to be immortalized, and this film allows this for everyone in it. As Henry Wadsworth Longfellow once said, “Art is long, and time is fleeting”, and this is clearly seen in the fond way that people are honored in the art of JR and Agnes.

I watched this film shortly after watching “Daughters of the Dust”, and while the two films are vastly different, I couldn’t help but draw comparisons. These films both seek to remember people that most would never even know to miss, and brings forth the importance of mortality, and the criss-crossing of all human lives. “Daughters of the Dust” seeks to preserve a cinematic look at a family in the Gullah community who have adopted many of their ancestor’s Yoruba traditions, and the generation split that they struggle to navigate. This film seeks to show the world the triumphs and turmoil of the Gullah people, a community that is majorly forgotten to exist, and should be remembered for it’s perseverance and beauty. While this is obviously created with actors, and is filmed in a nonlinear manner that is certainly not a documentary, it bears important parallels of the themes of remembrance and family with “Faces Places”. I learned a lot from watching both of these films, but “Faces Places” really made me reflect on the people in my life. Not just those that I love and actively see, or seek out to interact with, but the people that I walk past every day, or the person that sits near me in class to whom I have never spoken a word. Our paths in life so tangibly collide in ways that we never suspect, and it is easy to take those interactions and faces for granted. This film caused me to be more grateful for those that I have in my life, and showed me the message that we are all people, doing the best we can, and that I should appreciate the little things. – HB

[rabbittstewcomics]

Episode 260

DC Solicits

Comics Reviews:

Dark Nights: Death Metal 3 by Scott Snyder, Greg Capullo, Jonathon Glapion, FCO Plascencia

Green Lantern: Earth One vol 2 by Corinna Bechko, Gabriel Hardman, Jordan Boyd

Lois Lane and the Friendship Challenge by Grace Ellis, Brittney Williams

Empyre 5 by Al Ewing, Dan Slott, Valerio Schiti, Marte Gracia

Big Girls 1 by Jason Howard

Seven Secrets 1 by Tom Taylor, Daniele Di Nicuolo, Walter Baiamonte

Tranquility by Frank Byrns, David Hayes, Kurt Belcher, Matt Bowers, Silas Dixon

Atlantis Wasn't Built for Tourists by Eric Palicki, Wendell Cavalcanti

Onward: Tales of the Manticore by Mariko Tamaki, Dan Scanlon

Cuphead: Comic Capers & Curios by Zack Keller, Shawn Dickinson, Kristina Luu

Lumberjanes: Farewell to Summer by Sarah Stern, Dozerdraws, Maarta Laiho, Aubrey Aiese, Polterink

Additional Reviews: Little Fires Everywhere, Yellow Wallpaper, Infinity Train s3

News: third PAD Symbiote mini, Patton Oswalt DC story, Lego Star Wars Holiday Special, Aquaman/Young Justice/Suicide Squad/Hawkman/Teen Titans/Hellblazer ending, Gideon Falls ending, John Ridley Batman mini, Three Jokers tops 300k, Alan Moore is angry

Glenn B. Stupid

Comics Countdown:

Flash 759 by Joshua Williamson, Scott Kolins, Rafa Sandoval, Jordi Tarragona, Hi-Fi

Oblivion Song 26 by Robert Kirkman, Lorenzo De Felici, Annalisa Leoni

Hawkman 26 by Robert Venditti, Fernando Pasarin, Oclair Albert

Something is Killing the Children 9 by James Tynion IV, Werther Dell'Edera

Immortal Hulk 36 by Al Ewing, Joe Bennett, Ruy Jose, Matt Milla

Adventureman 3 by Matt Fraction, Terry Dodson, Rachel Dodson, Clayton Cowles

Venom 27 by Donny Cates, Juan Gedeon, Jesus Aburtov

Dark Knights: Death Metal 3 by Scott Snyder, Greg Capullo, Jonathon Glapion, FCO Plascencia

Seven Secrets 1 by Tom Taylor, Daniele Di Nicuolo, Walter Baiamonte

Wonder Woman 760 by Mariko Tamaki, Mikel Janin, Jordie Bellaire

Check out this episode!

#comics #podcast #podernfamily #rabbittstew

[type40thiefoflight]

My thoughts on BBC Dracula

This got longer than I expected so here’s a read-more.

Episode 1:

The jump-cuts reminded me of Jekyll, another show by Stephen Moffat

In one scene of Dracula biting Jonathan, he looked like Christopher Lee=nice!

I loved the whole scene at the convent when Dracula tore his way through the wolf and Agatha teased him with her blood. But as cool as the transformation was, it seemed like a really impractical way to shapeshift if he has to go through that every time.

Why was Dracula suddenly so willing to kill Jonathan after finally catching up to him?

Self-digs at vamp lore: they work but no-one knows why and say they don’t make sense and are ridiculous.

Lots of parallels with Sherlock:

The theme song sounds like the Sherlock one slowed down.

the spiral staircase in Castle Dracula looks like the one from Sherlock’s mind palace.

“Help me” gets reflected in the window like “Get Sherlock”

“Johnny, there is no baby” = Moriarty convincing people he’s Richard Brooke and Sherlock’s a fake, also a hint that Rosie isn’t real?

Dracula convincing Jonathan to write the letters and manipulating him like Moriarty with the people strapped to the bombs and Eurus with the prison guards

Jonathan gets trapped with a baby by a woman who can get out of her prison like John getting trapped in the well by Eurus (that baby looked really freaky, btw)

Dracula’s blasé attitude to death like Moriarty, calls Jonathan “Johnny”

“I have a detective acquaintance in London” really?!

Sister Agatha is basically fem!Sherlock

Mina is Molly, sort-of helpful to Agatha but mostly useless

Episode 2:

Loved all the food puns

He’s such a messy eater, no wonder he needs to feed on so many people.

When Olgaren asks Piotr/Martin what he thinks of his first time at sea, Martin should have said, “needs paprika.”

Did they really need to add a token secret gay couple just to kill them off? I know Dracula killed everyone anyway but that seemed like fake representation.

How did he get to England from the box without his home soil?

Not too much to say on this one. It was a fun locked-room murder mystery with lots of food puns and a fresh take on part of the story that never gets elaborated on. I initially didn’t like the modern ending but warmed up to the idea in the third episode.

More Sherlock similarities:

Captain Anderson, I mean, Sokolov

Utilizing a mind palace to solve a mystery (Agatha finding out who the passenger in no. 9 is and the case of the abominable bride)

the chessboard

Agatha realizing she’s in a dream

 Episode 3:

How does he know it’s a camera?

Why does he care about the girl smiling so much?

He knows how to use a video camera, tv remote, and faucet but not a refrigerator or electric lights?

Why is the knowledge he assimilates from his victims selective? Plot device.

Is he scared of the sun because he drinks from people who believe that, like with the crosses?

Is his immediate knowledge of using a phone from Bob?

Why did they transition to another shot of the portrait, couldn’t they have just zoomed in?

Jack Seward’s Shining wallpaper

Why is Lucy so superficially shallow?

Did he get the name for cancer from Bob too? He’s just pulling knowledge out of his ass at this point.

He’s had cancerous blood before but only reacted strongly to Zoe’s?

Super-secret organization can’t come up with a better password and gives him a wifi-enabled device?

How did he figure out wifi, skyping and hiring a lawyer over the internet that fast?

Wtf?! Why did Zoe drink his blood?!

Did her drinking his blood make her possessed by Agatha’s blood ghost?

Why so many time skips?

Why does Dracula need a treadmill? He’s an immortal vampire with supernaturally enhanced stamina, he doesn’t need to exercise. He looks weird in work-out clothes.

Lucy’s so chill with Dracula being a vampire and feeding on other people.

What happened to appearing to her in her sleep as mist?

What’s with her blasé attitude towards death?

“Children of the night. What music they make.” is supposed to be about wolves, not not-quite vampires knocking on their coffins in a cemetery.

Wtf is with the zombie kid?

Renfield needs to be weirder than just eating one fly in the car.

Does Lucy’s gay friend have a name? He didn’t die so... yay, I guess?

Lucy’s a social media influencer?

I don’t like the floor in Zoe’s hospital room.

Wow, Quincey’s a dick.

I don’t know how I feel about Lucy’s cremation rather than her book death.

Okay, so I was right Zoe drinking Agatha’s blood ghost.

Why does Dracula see himself as old and Lucy see herself as beautiful in mirrors?

They burn up Buffy-style? That’s not how it happens in the book. If that how it works, how could Dracula wear Jonathan’s skin? Did he flay him then stake him?

I like that Zoe’s shirt is the same color blue as Agatha’s dress.

The painting of the Sun is really neat.

Wow he really is a drama queen, huh.

Not sure I understand the explanation as for why Dracula couldn’t be in sunlight.

Love the visual of him walking to the sun through the crosses of the window.

The cancerous blood wasn’t deadly to him before it was Zoe’s or was it just that he didn’t drink enough to have that effect?

Well that was a dumb ending; he realizes the sun can’t hurt him so he immediately commits suicide? No, that’s stupid. Why the sex dream for Zoe? There’s no attraction there from either her or Agatha so what’s the point?

Zoe hosting Agatha’s blood ghost shares another slight similarity to Jekyll: Dr. Jekyll’s descendant is married to a woman who turns out to be the clone of Dr. Jekyll’s maid.

I liked that both Agatha and Zoe tried to beat Dracula right before they died in a fiery explosion.

Even More Sherlock comparisons:

Harker foundation is UNIT/Sherrinford prison/Moriarty’s holding cell

Blood-fueled deductions about people, good thing Sherlock’s human

“You don’t have to talk a lot of shit.” “You know, people don’t usually say that to me.” “Yeah, you kill them before they can. Basically, you’re blocking people.”= “Brilliant.” “People don’t usually say that to me.” “What do they usually say?” “Piss off.”

All in all, I enjoyed the series more than I expected to. The first episode felt like a season recap, maybe because it was told mostly through flashbacks. The second one felt the strongest because it was a part of the book that no one adapts and the writers got the chance to fill in the gaps however they wanted. The third episode started off all right but had a weak ending.

What they left out/changed from the book: so, so much.

What they left out/changed that I can remember:

garlands of garlic help ward off vampires

staking only immobilizes them, to kill them you need to stake them first then behead them

Dracula is affected by sunlight

He is not Vlad Dracula Tsepes, prince of Wallachia (auto-correct wanted me to write Appalachia)

Renfield is way more obsessed: “The blood is the life,” eats food chains

Mina and Lucy are great friends

Lucy kills children to eat and is seen wandering graveyards in her burial dress

Dracula has more control over himself when faced with blood

He’s not a snarky jerk

Neither is Quincey

Obviously they genderbent Dr. Van Helsing

“Children of the night. What music they make.” is supposed to be about wolves, not not-quite vampires knocking on their coffins in a cemetery!

I’m sure there’s more but that’s what I can remember off the top of my head. It’s been a few years since I’ve read the book.

#bbc dracula

[besthomegallery-blog]

Badass Wallpapers For Android 36 0f 40 - Wonder Women in Close Up

Badass Wallpapers For Android 36 0f 40 – Wonder Women in Close Up

It’s an artistic animated silhouette picture of Wonder Women in close up. An awesome and badass wallpaper which especially designed for Android phones. Configured in HD resolution, this wallpaper has 1080×1920 pixels resolution. So, this picture will be perfect for any smartphones with 5-inch up to 6-inch screen size. So, just download and save this badass background in original size.

Moreover,…

View On WordPress

#Badass Wallpaper #Badass Wallpapers #Badass Wallpapers for Android #Badass Wallpapers for smartphone #Wonder Women in Close Up

[alaruine]

There are spaces left by the departed .. Spaces You can not fill it with someone else.

There are spaces left by the departed .. Spaces You can not fill it with someone else

The vacuum left by the father's departure is not filled by  a lover   And the vacuum left by the beloved does not fill a friend And the vacuum left by a friend not filled by another  friend. When I bow to your hands, I shed my weak tears above your chest, and beg your satisfaction from your eyes, I only feel the fullness of my manhood. The tears are the fires of great grief. Often tears come from the eye instead of the heart. Often the facts of life are a mixture of tears and smiles. Anger, tears and sorrow are surrendering weapons. If you have tears, you are ready to shed them. Guide tears loving but not treatment. Too many tears do not meet a little debt. The eye that does not cry does not actually see anything. Do not take a friendly towel and tears flow from it. The most powerful water power in the world are the tears of women. In the tears of women, the wise man sees only water. Al-Arif comes out of the world and does not spend his time on two things: weeping for himself, and praising his Lord. If the heart is hardened, the eye is blinded. The love that the eyes wash with their tears remains pure, beautiful and immortal. The smiles are digging the channels of future tears. The homeland died of tears and salutes the blood. No one deserves your tears, and if someone deserves it, he will not let you shed it. Tears grow more frequent whenever fools ask about them. That is, a man dies, to end up in the sight of those who love him, unless they wash him with tears. The tears are the last dust of the earth, which embodies the dead and says that it is finished. The old man said: Do not look at what is painted on faces and do not listen to what the tongues say and do not pay attention to tears, all this is the skin of man and man changes his skin every day but I look for what is under the skin. The tears, then, are their role to commemorate and not to deal with situations. Whoever said that the eye produces tears, the real tears are the steam of the soul. Do the tears produce weeping, or are the weeping living creatures floating above the river of tears? Do not cry when the sun is gone, because tears will prevent you from seeing the stars. Tears are not sadness, grief is that you can prevent yourself from crying in front of someone for this Sunday. The tears were full of tears, perhaps because the tears were becoming ashamed of themselves, no room. The tears of the child are more painful than the tears of men. It is haraam for us to live in a town where there is a free and decent land. We will leave it and tears will come to them, and in the air and mountains, we will follow Laila. As if those tears dew drip from Nargis to Ward. As if the day after the day to bear with the Samrat neighborhood Nnqal Hnal and my recovery is an example of her foot and at the drawing of a student of a pickpocket, tears of the eye passed me a syringe on the slaughter even the tears of my husband. Do not provoke tears by remembering. What dried tears except for the cruelty of hearts, and what is measured hearts but for the multitude of sins. It is the water of tears that extinguishes fire from the air of love or withers. If you suspect tears in the cheeks of the crying of those who cry. Sadness worries and the recoiling of the tears and tears between the two sticks can be divided tears tears of the eye of this is coming and this is due. And my eyelids do not drop as if I have no eyelids and my consciousness does not stop my eyes hysterical tears as if boiling inside me. Security nobility to document the tears of others in a song we give up on them We own our tears, not the tears of those who love us. We own our tears not the tears of those who love us. That face without tears was the whole war and all the pain. My love for science takes me out of the valley of tears to the horizons of the individual, and there is no place for blame and complaining. Music farewell system, suggest physics is not the starting point of the atoms, but tears. The tears are not compensated with salt water. I can stop talking in my throat, but tears can not. Someone once said that the tears blood of the soul. Tears are an innate defensive mechanism invested by the human heart to bring recovery. Tears now only come down from the addiction to watching television, including your tears you hypocrites. People now have the most sensible emotions now the quietest tears now do not come down except from the addiction to watching TV. The tears do not protect anyone. Your love begins with glamor in the looks and ends with tears. In the past, I ended the amount of tears for my life from where the tears come from. Perhaps the weeping was trite, perhaps because the tears were becoming ashamed of themselves. The tears were full of tears, perhaps because the tears were becoming self-evident. I was very sorry and shed tears because the world is changing and the heart remains the same. To see sadness, tears and wailing in the faces of whom you see only smiling smiling, this in itself painful. The country of tears (which we can not infer from the place of children's maps). She will cry until tears turn into a cloud. Tears of worries were shared. The tears of the soul pureest and lighter than the tears of the soul. I do not get rid of the tears of someone who wished something hard and left him to seek God's pleasure. Through laughter and tears, we destroy the world to build it again. The worries of the hair are that her tears are an art that runs from the tears of Madame. Words tears of language and poetry crying loud. The dry pain is more severe than the pain soaked in tears, so make your pain softer. My bag was still lying in the reception and the opening of my room in my hand and tears in my heart. Even the tears were petrified between the dead, the sorrows became the bread of the wise. Every year you are in my heart a noisy nostalgia and the tears of the heart melted with longing and broken. Fields that are not told with tears never bear fruit. The water of the Great Grace is an oxygen atom and a hydrogen atom and the water is the tears. I had tears to wash myself deep. Where did we forget the life? The butterfly asked, hovering in the light, and it burned with tears. Tears blood of the soul. And all the tears of people do not drown. The hardest tears are the ones we flatter when we lie and say we're fine. Something drives me to cry, but I pity the pillow no longer bear tears. WL Our happiness with our loved ones today is dependent on the tears we pour on their parting tomorrow. Tears were shed on blood that had taken place and tears had been shed on those tears. The best tears in the eyes of the tears of his expedition Vtahlh. All the tears of the earth can not afford a small boat that can accommodate parents looking for their missing child. People who have no tears for their souls despise either tyrants or hypocrites and in both cases they do not deserve respect. Tears of the oppressed are in their eyes tears, but in the hands of God lightning strikes by the oppressor. I do not need ink to write history but to tears. I do not tolerate female tears. It is abundant and this is claimed to be cheap if gold becomes available as iron for nothing. But female tears are the only thing in the world that is becoming more valuable as it cripples the men and disturbs us. There are seasons of weeping that has no tears. There are seasons of speech that have no voice. There are seasons of sorrow that are not justified. The woman's tears are worth a lot and cost a little. The man only cries once, but his tears are then of blood. Who wants to laugh, let him come, I am hiding a joke, who wants to cry, let him come, I have a lot of tears. The closer the slave is from his Lord, the more he prostrates and recites from the du'aa 'in it, as if the light is pure, and the heart is closer to his love and sight, so that your memory is revealed to you, exposed to your papers, your sins and sins are black jokes, and the times of your ransom are shaken. Crying on them an impact even melt one by one in the river tears flowing to you the burden of the pardon of God and then calls and calls until the dedication of the soul and your call Vajsrh Ali Abdul - Sjad God, what called a miracle how to return without a large returned from where he returned to the wonders of knocking door Karim does not ask. O poor heart, I have smitten you with the lusts of lust, and I have made you oppressed by the chains of evil, and you have not forgiven your mullahs in your retreats. Whenever you have a glimmer of light of repentance, I have come back to darkness. When you grow stronger to break the restrictions and win I am to slow down the days when I come to the beautiful news I am impatient waiting. He cried all his senses and his eyes except his eyes. In the tears of the woman, Hakim sees only water. Play kitten, rat tears. No argument about the master's anger or the tears of a child. Give me a friend tears and I can find a companion wine. The homeland has died of tears, and the blood is alive. Tears do not recover lost or lost And miracles do not try All the tears of the earth can not afford a boat is small enough for parents looking for their missing child. He will lose the tears to the wise judge. Crocodile tears do not make you cry. The crocodile sheds tears after devouring its prey. Life Quotes #Life #Quotes #Top #Famous #Best #Time #Collection #Love #Positive #Cute #Beauty #Quotes #Art #Romance #Amazing #Flowers #Winter #painteditmyself #Landscape #relationships #coloringbook #Naturephotography #Life #painting #Sunset #wedding #Quote Famous Quotes The Best Quotes of All Time Famous Quotes Inspirational Quotes Motivational and Inspirational Quotes Collection Love Quotes

wallpaper hd for #photo #model #fashion #fashionweek #photographer #popularphoto #hairstylist #makeup #instagood #bestoftheday #photooftheday #day #likes #good #female #world #beauty #art #style #photos #amazing #bride #travel #camera #canon #nikon #vacation #happy #farm #love #nature #naturelovers

[nofomoartworld]

Hyperallergic: 50 Years of Lynn Hershman Leeson’s Tricks and Tech Art Innovations

Lynn Hershman Leeson, “The Infinity Engine” (2014–17), installation view at the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, San Francisco (image courtesy Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, photo by Charlie Villyard)

SAN FRANCISCO — Lynn Hershman Leeson revels in the role of artist as innovator and trickster, though it’s not always clear whom she is tricking. The five decades of her creative practice, represented in Lynn Hershman Leeson: Civic Radar at the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts (YBCA) in San Francisco, reveal an artist unafraid to pull stunts that surprise and unsettle, whether it’s by introducing cutting-edge technologies to the art world, or living out performances that feel like a practical joke.

Hershman Leeson is best known for her works about gender’s intersection with technology; she often combines performance, conceptual art, new media, installation, and video. Her performed alter ego may be the most widely known work: From 1973–1978, she periodically changed her appearance to live as Roberta Breitmore, who had real credit cards, an apartment, and a psychiatrist, all of which Hershman Leeson documented through photography and writing. Later, she created “CybeRoberta” (1996), featuring a doll replica of the fictional Breitmore with a webcam in its eye and a livestream that transmitted what the doll saw to a website (this was all well before Snapchat and Facebook Live existed).

Lynn Hershman Leeson: Civic Radar, installation view, Yerba Buena Center for the Arts (photo by Charlie Villyard)

Her 1983 artwork “Lorna” was the first to employ an interactive, disc-based video component: the installation features a rudimentary video game, manipulated through a remote control, of an agoraphobic white woman’s solemn life. Another work exploring new media, “America’s Finest” (1993–1994), viscerally evokes the violence of surveillance through a rifle-turned-camera that simultaneously loops graphic imagery of war alongside footage of the viewer’s body in the crosshairs.

In addition to these works, the retrospective includes Hershman Leeson’s lesser-known works that reveal an artist’s mission to blur the lines between art and reality. However, the results are mixed.

Lynn Hershman Leeson, Roberta Breitmore Series (1973–78), installation view (image courtesy Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, photo by Charlie Villyard)

In an early project, Hershman Leeson invented art critic pseudonyms and published reviews under their names that included positive references to her own work. “The Art Criticism of Gay Abandon, Herbert Goode and Prudence Juris” (1968–1973) became her Master’s thesis at San Francisco State University — and press to show gallerists. Where Hershman Leeson’s work falls on the spectrum between brilliant conceptual art and ethically questionable, because self-serving, is part of the charm.

Another series mocks reality with jarring, and also ethically questionable, results: “Fire Works” (1978–1980) is a moving-image tromp l’oeil of buildings aflame. Hershman Leeson projected filmed footage of flames onto the windows of a building, where she also installed fog machines and actors faked escape. The effect was once so convincing that unwitting firefighters were called. Hershman Leeson’s trickery here trips into recklessness, the video-installation equivalent of yelling “fire” in a crowded room or, as it were, in the urban environments of San Francisco and Portland, Oregon.

Lynn Hershman Leeson, “Self Portrait as Another Person” (1965), installation view (image courtesy Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, photo by Charlie Villyard)

The series, Breathing Machines, shows an early attempt of Hershman Leeson incorporating herself into her work (before Breitmore) as she experimented with new technologies. Wax molds of the artist’s face, flattened and distorted, are paired with motion-activated recordings of her voice. In 1966, these “Breathing Machines” were removed from a UC Berkeley Art Museum exhibition, since the use of sound was considered inappropriate as art. The two most prominent faces in Civic Radar are painted, one charcoal, the other translucent sienna. In an attempt to provide context, the label text says: “As a political gesture, [Hershman Leeson] partly painted the masks black to express her solidarity with the civil rights movement,” and moves on to discuss the controversy the works caused — due to the novelty of using sound in an art gallery.

What the text does not mention as alarming is that a white artist’s variation of blackface, even on a wax replica, is no show of racial solidarity. Instead, the work reveals an ignorance of issues surrounding the racial appropriation of blackness by whites — a type of privileged identity tourism, evoking no less than the history of blackface minstrel shows.

These two wax molds, or “Breathing Machines,” in no other way open up conversations of racial difference. The tape recorder spouts what might be interesting questions about intimacy (“How old are you?” “What was your first sexual experience?”), but they are seemingly unrelated to the visual appropriation of blackness. Frustratingly, the curators, too, ignored the topic they chose to display. And, as writer Jevohn Newsome recently commented, there seems to be a startling lack of published critical dialogue around this art series in general. While this might seem like a minor work in a larger retrospective, this grain of salt can’t be ignored. It’s a glaring missed opportunity to discuss race alongside conversations of artistic innovation in new media.

Lynn Hershman Leeson, “The Infinity Engine” (2014–17), installation view (image courtesy Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, photo by Charlie Villyard)

Civic Radar concludes with the artist’s most recent work, which seems to shift away from questions of identity entirely, though it continues her exploration of technology. “The Infinity Engine” (2014–2017), an immersive installation highlighting the current state of bioengineering, outlines the scientific quest for immortality. It feels like something straight out of a science fiction film: The room is lined with wallpaper depicting genetically modified biological matter, each with a label detailing its research motivation; nearby, a tank houses glowing fish, “the first GM organism sold as a pet.” Viewers can read legal documents related to bioengineering, and watch video interviews with scientists, technologists, and sociologists on the topic. In this installation, Hershman Leeson, as innovator herself, steps back to display technological innovation on its own, with little meddling on her part. The work asks (without offering a clear opinion): How far will the pursuit of innovation go? Coming from Hershman Leeson, who enjoys exploring the boundaries of new technology with her art (and with varying successes and lessons learned), the unanswered question makes the viewer wonder if there should be a limit.

Lynn Hershman Leeson: Civic Radar continues at the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts (701 Mission St, San Francisco) through May 21. 

The post 50 Years of Lynn Hershman Leeson’s Tricks and Tech Art Innovations appeared first on Hyperallergic.

from Hyperallergic http://ift.tt/2pZ9KyM via IFTTT

#IFTTT #Hyperallergic