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briyourmotherdown · 1 year

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cool water ★ part I

James Hetfield x fem!reader

★ everyone is running from something ★

Words: 6.7k

Warnings: i know nothing about arizona and it shows. VERY incorrect timeline. mentions of rehab and alcoholism. james is a moody prick. 18+ in the future but part I is PG minus some swearing.

A/N: so i'm asking you all, please, PLEASE be kind to me because this is the first fic i've written in well over a year and the first metallica one I've ever posted. this is so unbelievably self indulgent it's insane. title named after a marty robbins song because that's where this whole idea stemmed from. i tried not to use y/n because i know some people hate that jhskjfhkjhfthftdhftkj. also i really really hope the fact that rehab is in here isn't a trigger or upsetting to anyone!!! it just makes sense for the plot. it's also very inspired by the some kind of monster documentary. this will probably be a shorter fit made up of a few parts but it may take a while since i'm literally about to graduate uni and i'm drawing in assignments. anyways i hope you enjoy <3

parts: (1), (2)

★

A few states over, a little over a thousand miles and a few days long trek away, lies a life– packed crudely into a beat up Subaru with too many miles on the metre to go about adding another thousand. The air conditioning unit cracked out one state back, leaving only the rolled down windows to offer any sort of reprieve against the Western American summer heat. The unknown lies in the interstate ahead, yellow lines and road signs guiding you closer to your next destination. Only the front windows are open, the rear windows obstructed by precariously stacked belongings in unsealed cardboard boxes and garbage bags balanced against the glass. To roll them down would mean losing a good chunk of your clothing.

A map is sprawled out open on the passenger seat, red lines and circles marking the last stretch of your journey into Yuma County, Arizona. Golden light pours over countless acres of sprawling farmland ahead of you, the setting sun glaring into your eyes beneath your sin visor as you drive with one hand on the wheel and the other propping your head up against the open window. Your yellow Subaru is the only vehicle for miles, alone on the barren road as the sky fades into an inky blue. It’s eerie, being this alone. Eerie as you turn down yet another country lane, rolling the windows up. Eerie as you make sure the doors are locked and the gas tank full. Eerie for a girl who’d only left the city twenty-four hours prior, where such silence and solitude was such a rarity that you never stopped to consider what it felt like to actually be completely alone.

The night is still when you reach a stop sign, the hiss of crickets and cicadas audible even from inside the car. There’s no breeze that rustles the trees, nor a cloud to taint the clarity of the starry night sky. You feel as though you should be quiet and hold your breath, goosebumps raising on your skin. They only begin to subside when your headlights illuminate a sign reading Palo Verde Ranch.

Tires kick up dust as you roll down the tree-lined passage, inching closer and closer to where you will spend the next summer, checking the map one more time and breathing a sigh of relief when the trees part way to an opening. The ranch and lodgings look the same as the pictures in the brochure you were given, apart from being shrouded in a heavy darkness from the night. The porch lights are on, along with a few lamp posts circled by moths and mosquitoes. Pulling into an empty space next to a pick-up, you kill the engine and rest your head back against the headrest. The roar of the crickets seem even louder as you sit silently in the driver’s seat.

With a few final taps on your steering wheel with your fingers, you heave yourself from sitting position and stretch your aching legs, lifting your arms above your head before grabbing your suitcase from the backseat and forgoing the rest until tomorrow. It’s far too dark to go about it now. Boots crunch on gravelly dirt as you make your way to the lodging house, reading the brochure once more to check where the key is kept. It lays underneath a small terracotta pot, placed upside down and completely indiscrete. It makes you smile to yourself when you lift it up to examine it against the porch light– a small, metal cactus keychain hanging from it. You smack a mosquito from your arm as you unlock the door.

With a creak, the door opens up into the lodging house, though to you it seems more like a bungalow that had been converted into some sort of bed and breakfast. There’s a small kitchen to your left, under-cabinet lights casting an amber glow over the linoleum countertop and laminate floors. You take note of the humming refrigerator before turning to your right to examine a quaint sitting area, equipped with a floral printed sofa straight from the 1970s and a chestnut bookshelf housing a sparse assortment of books and magazines. It reminds you slightly of a waiting room– pretending to be lived in as to put you at ease.

Straight ahead lies the hallway, two doors on the left-hand side and three on the right, one of which has been left ajar. Upon further inspection, with slow, easy steps, you come to realise that it’s the bathroom, nose scrunching up slightly at the prospect of having to share one bathroom with multiple other people. On every door is a hand painted number, accented by flowers painted on in pastel colours. Very Bohemian, you note, eyeing the beaded curtain that hangs in the windowsill of the window at the end of the hall. Dim light spills from underneath doors three and four, but the other two remain dark.

Your room number is two.

Opening the door, you flick the light switch on before closing it behind you, a small puff of air escaping from between your lips as you take in the room. It’s cozy– genuinely, unlike the sitting room from before. It nearly reminds you of the room you’d grown up in, or, at least spent the earliest years of your childhood in. A golden oak bed sits against the wall in one corner of the room next to the window, fitted in cream and pale green floral patterned sheets. There’s a dresser-vanity and a wardrobe of the same golden oak, and a small nightstand next to the bed. On it beneath the small tiffany lamp lies an unopened note and a small plush teddy bear.

Tears fog your eyes as you sit on the edge of the bed and drop your suitcase at your feet. It feels so familiar– like a distant memory of a time in your life where things weren’t so turned upside down. A time when you weren’t running from something. Clutching the teddy bear against your chest, you open the note– a sweet, handwritten one from the owner of the land, welcoming you to your home for the summer. It tells you of breakfast in the main house at 10am, that there are fresh towels in the wardrobe, and that the vanity drawers tend to be a bit fiddly.

With a watery sigh, you blink up at the ceiling to clear your cloudy vision, flopping backwards onto the bed.

★

James knew that he needed a distraction.

He knew better than to be around all the same people and places from how he was before. Breathing the same California air he knew and once loved now feels too thick in his lungs, like some sort of poisonous gas.

He knew better than to be around reminders.

Due to his therapist’s orders, James was to go somewhere different for a little while. In his words, to “relax, be at one with nature”. He had spread a pile of pamphlets across his desk, closing his eyes and laying his pointer finger down on the first one it came in contact with. Arizona didn’t seem to appeal to James’ bandmates as much as it did to his therapist. They had a hard enough time communicating as is, too many alcohol-fueled yelling matches only worsened by the unmade upcoming album that loomed over their shoulders. James wasn’t sure how he could make the album to begin with, not while he was walking this tightrope. If he was constantly teetering on the edge, how could he be a productive member of the band?

Part of him didn’t want to go. Running away from it all felt cowardly, as though he’s weak for not being able to handle what once was so normal. A few drinks at the bar with friends turned into something else, something monumental. Gigs, rehearsals, afterparties, bar to bar to bar to bar. People who once gave him comfort now only serve as reminders of how he has ended up.

His PA booked his flight and had his truck sent to meet him at the airport. His intentions were clear– he would spend a few months working on the ranch away from anything that might tempt him, and then he would return home in autumn and attempt to clean up the mess he had left behind. The mess in question haunted him on his flight, tension aching behind his eyes as he rubbed at them. Divorce papers. A band that might hate him, left hanging and waiting for him to get his shit together so that they can release another album. Loose ends, after loose ends. Mouth set in a straight line, he realises he’s clenching his fists, blunt nails pressing into his palms.

Settling in was fairly easy. There was only one suitcase to unpack, clothes folded neatly into the dresser and notebook placed haphazardly on the nightstand– blank paged and unopened. For a few days it was only him in the lodging house, resting and rising in silence, eating a bowl of cereal by the kitchen window before heading out to work on the ranch with Wayne, the owner’s husband. Wayne is a shorter man, or at least much shorter than James, with salt and pepper hair he keeps hidden beneath a straw hat, and a laugh that often turns into a smoker’s cough if your joke is good enough. Wayne is friendly and a hard-worker, unafraid to put James to work too.

A few days later, a couple more lodgers began filtering in, two men who based on their accents, come from the south. They didn't spare James a second glance, and James gratefully did the same in return. There was no need for making friends.

When you arrived it shook up his routine. He now had to wait for his morning showers, entering only after you had spent far longer than he would’ve liked, only to be met with fogged up mirrors and the scent of vanilla and jasmine. He could hear music playing gently through the thin walls, some shit from the 70s that he wasn’t into, and he’d have to put up with the way you’d softly hum along. Truthfully, he avoided bumping into you at all costs. There was no concern of seeing you at breakfast or dinner– he skipped them in favour of some cheap crappy microwave meal– and he worked more on the ranch with Wayne while you settled into tending the vegetable garden.

Avoiding you seemed like a waste of time, however, because you didn’t notice him anyway. You always seemed too lost in your own head, focussed entirely on pulling weeds to notice him walking back and forth by you, carrying bags of feed. He didn’t offer a greeting, or even his name, but then again neither did you, and he was more than happy to keep his distance.

Your name only came up one day as James was sitting with Wayne. They’d both spent hours of the morning tending to the stables in the intense heat, James doing most of the heavy-lifting, and took refuge under the shade of a large tree. After collecting a few random chopped logs and sticks, James took out his pocketknife and began carving. Wayne spoke of plans to make his wife a wooden sculpture of a cactus for their front porch, with James silently shucking away at the wood to bring it to a sharp point.

In the distance you’re harvesting crops from the vegetable garden, wearing denim cutoffs and a t-shirt with the sleeves torn off. From here James thinks he can spot the image of Garfield printed on the front. He stares for longer than he should, eyes trailing down the expanse of your bare legs, and admittedly, over your behind when you turn and lean down to grab a shovel.

Wayne breaks through the intensity of his gaze by saying a name, the glass shattering when James averts his eyes and returns to sharpening the wooden shiv with care. His finger slips against the grain and he winces, plucking the splinter from his thumb, “That girl. She’s here from Seattle.”

He remains silent, lip twitching with a hint of annoyance at the older man’s intrusion. Yet he lets your name settle in his mouth, silently testing the way it feels on his tongue. Aware that he was caught, he keeps his eyes trained intensely on his craft to avoid Wayne’s gaze.

“Pretty, ain’t she?” Wayne muses, stripping bark from an ash log and looking at you in the distance as you pick weeds from the cauliflower beds, “We don’t usually get people like her out here,” he turns to James, simpering, “Don’t usually get rockstars ‘neither.”

He turns away to continue stripping the log and James uses the moment to steal another look at you. The sun beats down on your back and you wipe sweat from your brow with your bare forearm, pushing a few loose hairs back that had fallen from your ponytail. There’s a half empty sack of compost on the ground by your feet that stains the tips of your gloved hands. You look tired, standing back from the garden bed to study your handiwork before tilting your head all the way back to soak up the sun, hands on your hips. When you turn and glance in James’ direction, squinting your eyes through the heat mirage, he averts his gaze, once again all too aware of Wayne and the way the man lifts his hand to wave dramatically at you.

He doesn’t look up to see if you wave back.

He sees you again that late afternoon, in the same way he always sees you— in small vignettes, in short scenes that make him think momentarily that you might just be a figment of his imagination. He sees you walking past him with a crate full of lettuce, too focused on not dropping any from the heaped pile to pay him any notice. He sees you when he walks by the wire fence, where you’re being walked through the steps of feeding the chickens in the coop. He sees you now, entering the same house he’s staying in, the same one he’s walking to, only a few paces behind.

But still, you seem to pay him no mind, as if he’s a ghost. He thinks he might be one if it weren’t for the acknowledgment of Wayne and his wife, Marie. The other workers don’t much like him, interpreting his silence as him being a stuck up rockstar. He wonders if it’s for any reason that you don’t notice him. Does he skulk around too quietly? Sure, he’s not been the most conversational since he’s been here, but he’s sure you would’ve at least noticed him.

It really bugs him.

For a man whose profession is to be seen and to be heard, he typically really likes fading into the shadows in his everyday life. There had been too many days of butting heads with Lars, too many arguments with his ex, too many paparazzi, too many expectations of him. He was only one man, and he knew he was too fucked up to be a role model for anyones kids. Before he entered rehab, he enjoyed the anonymity of a small town bar and the way no one knew who he was there. If they did, they didn’t care, clinking pints with him over the bar as if he was just another one of them. And even though Wayne and Marie do talk to him and put him to work, they still treat him like all the others staying on the farm for the season. And he does enjoy the fact that Wayne and Marie seem to pay him no mind, as well as the other workers.

But when he really thinks about it, he doesn’t like slipping into the shadows as much as he thought he did. Perhaps it’s his ego talking, but he at least likes being acknowledged.

It was as if you didn’t even know he was there.

It bugs him as he opens the door behind you after you’d let it close, watching you saunter down the hall and into the room only a door away from his own, not offering a glance as you shut it behind you. It bugs him as he makes his way into his own room, sitting at the edge of the bed and rubbing his hands over his tired face. It bugs him even more when he hears your door open and close again, squeaking on its hinges, followed by the click of the bathroom door and the rush of the shower turning on.

You claimed the shower before he could, as you always seem to do. Only today he had worked hard, back sore and legs aching with strain. Annoyance twitches at his lip but he tries to brush it off, taking deep breaths, groaning lowly as he lays back onto the bed. The day's work sits heavily in his bones and he shifts uncomfortably. He feels grimy, a layer of sweat having dried on his skin, sticking the Arizona desert sand to the hairs on his arms. He grimaces and tries to brush some off.

Minutes pass while he waits for you to finish in the bathroom, then more, and after thirty minutes he’s grown more and more impatient with you, rising from the bed and storming into the hallway. He doesn’t take any time to notice that the shower has stopped running, the blood rushing too loudly through his ears, and as he’s about to aggressively rap his knuckles against the door, it swings open. You jump back with a start when you see him, his fist raised and face twisted in irritation.

Momentarily, he’s stunned, face contorting into an expression that matches your own as his eyes trail over your form– wet hair against your shoulders and fresh skin dewey with what he assumes is lotion. You’re gripping your towel tightly in one hand, the other clutching a toiletry bag.

As he lowers his hand, he realises that this is the first time you’re noticing his existence. Wide eyes glimmer up at him shyly, lips parted from the shock of opening the door to a man standing angrily directly on the other side.

With that realisation comes another—actually, two realisations that took him possibly too long to register– the fact that you’re almost naked, and he’s blocking your way out of the bathroom. Embarrassment nips viciously at the back of his neck, tinting the tips of his ears pink as he takes a step back.

James has never been good with embarrassment. His ego always gets in the way or gets him into trouble. Sure, it has won him many arguments, much to the chagrin of his opponents, but it has also gained him the title of an egotistical asshole to many people. Whenever James becomes embarrassed, the outcome is always the same– confrontational, cruel, unnecessary words he doesn’t really intend to say bubble up in his throat before he has any chance to stop them.

“Knowing that there’s only one bathroom, you should be more aware of how fucking long you take.”

He snaps his mouth shut the second the words are out, lips pressing together in a firm line. You raise your eyebrows at him, taken aback at the gruff rudeness of his tone.

You want to say something. Some witty comeback or even something to match his hostility, but your tongue struggles to find any words. Words have never come easily to you in the first place, always choosing to be quiet unless you’re around people you know, but they especially don’t come when you’re half naked and an angry, 6’1” man is towering over you.

All you can muster is a small, “I’m sorry.” as you push past him and retreat to your room.

James is paralysed in his spot, the increasingly familiar scent of vanilla and jasmine wafting over him from the bathroom as you walk away, listening to the door slam behind you. He’s not sure how long he stays standing in place, fists clenched at his sides with frustration directed at both you and himself. With a defeated sigh, he locks himself into the bathroom, turning on the shower. Once he’s stepped in he wastes no time in pressing his forehead against the cool tile, cursing himself for not being able to hold his tongue.

James really wants to spend the evening the same way he’d been doing, skipping dinner and smoking a cigar out on the front steps, but Marie had taken notice and when she bumped into him earlier in the day, had all but forced him into promising to come to dinner tonight. It didn’t sound appealing at all. It felt like fucking summer camp, having to sit around a big table with everyone staying at the ranch and talk about your day and the work everyones’ been doing. He’d quite honestly rather starve.

It didn’t help that he assumed you would be there.

He had made up his mind that he disliked you. The annoyance of the way you’d practically ignored him for a week seems to only have increased with the duration of your shower. It was like you had no consideration for anyone else and didn’t look past the tip of your nose. He didn’t want to eat at the same table as you for that reason, is what he told himself. Not because he saw you in your towel and was so unnecessarily rude to you, no– James doesn’t do embarrassed.

He’s taken a nap directly after his shower, waking up even groggier and in an even worse mood, throwing on clean clothes and making his way down to the main house where Marie would be making dinner. The front door is already open when he gets there, and he takes an already exasperated breath before entering,

The smell that meets him is already mouthwatering, as much as he hates to admit it, and for a moment it makes him question why he’d skipped out on dinner for the past week. Wayne greets him as he walks in, already sitting around a large wooden table with a few men he recognises from around the ranch. Wayne has a cigar attached to his mouth, bobbing as he talks.

“James!” He exclaims, raising his hands in the air to greet him warmly, “Come on in, you should meet my guys.”

James nods curtly, having already met them in passing and discovered they didn’t much like him. But he puts up with it for Wayne’s sake, standing over the table but not sitting down, nodding in acknowledgment as he introduces everybody. They seem nice enough, greeting him with smiles, apart from two men at the end of the table who don’t so much as return James’ nod. They’re Dylan and Wes, the other two lodgers in the house. They offer him forced smiles, but James can see that the second Wayne turns his head to speak to someone else, they narrow their eyes in his direction. For a moment he wonders if you’d met them– if they treated you in the same way or if you hadn’t even noticed them in the same way you did him.

With that thought, Marie comes bounding in, wielding a wooden spoon in one hand, “James!” she grins, “I’m so pleased you came,”

She diverts her attention to Wayne, smacking him on the shoulder with the wooden spoon and scolding him in Spanish. The cigar between the man’s lips threatens to fall, but miraculously remains sturdy as he says something back, a sheepish expression on his face.

Marie rolls her eyes and turns back to James, “You, help me in the kitchen because my bum of a husband apparently has better things to do.”

Any other time James may have cringed at the idea– he’s not the best chef– but now, as he turns to glance at Dylan and Wes who stare at him with a look of contempt, he takes the out and follows Marie into the kitchen.

The moment he enters, his eyes land on you where you stand chopping vegetables at the butcher’s block island. You’re not looking at him yet, too focussed on dicing a tomato, and he takes a second to look at you. Your hair has dried, thrown back into a ponytail while you’re cooking, and you wear a white cotton sundress with thin straps that contrast against your skin. It’s different to how he’s seen you dressed, in denim cut-offs and cowboy boots, and for a moment he’s halted in the doorway to watch you.

“Could you shuck this corn?” Marie asks James, and your eyes finally snap up to look at him, trailing over his attire before you quickly go back to chopping.

He clears his throat with a small sure, taking his place across from you at the butcher’s block. You don’t dare to look up at him again, hoping that he doesn’t see the blush that tints the tops of your cheeks.

“You’re both very quiet, you know that?” Marie laughs, stirring a pot both metaphorically and literally, “Come on! Talk to each other.”

A short silence follows, painful and uncomfortable and it makes your skin crawl, clearing your throat and daring to glance at James. You break the silence by offering your name, extending some sort of peace offering.

He doesn’t seem to extend the olive branch in return. uttering a gruff, “James,” as he shucks another ear of corn.

You nod, You’d hoped that he’d say more to make you feel less nervous, hands shaking slightly as you hold the knife. You knew his name already– Marie had told you a few days ago when she caught you staring at him while he repaired the broken gate near the stables– shirtless. He had been sweating, lugging planks of wood from the shed on the other side of the lot, tattoos and bare skin glowing. Marie had snorted at your pink cheeks and made a smart comment about how he could fix your gate– whatever that meant. You’d been stealing glances at him since, averting your gaze quickly whenever he would begin to turn his head.

You soon became aware of his dislike for you, and other than the earlier shower incident, you can’t think of why. You tried to stay out of his way as much as possible, which wasn't hard considering he hadn’t showed up to dinners so far, and always kept to himself except for when he was working with Wayne.

It really bugs you.

You sigh when he doesn’t say anything else, glancing at Marie who’s back is to you as she leans over a large pot of stew, hoping that the heat of your gaze might burn just enough for her to turn around and save you. No dice.

“I–” You begin, “The gate looks really good.”

Instant regret rushes over you as a look of confusion paints his features, brows furrowed. You rush to explain, “The- the one by the stables, I saw you fixing it. It looks really good. I haven’t had to scale the fence to get through since.”

You embellish your compliment with a breathy laugh, audibly nervous, cursing yourself at your ability to make things so much worse. He didn’t return the laugh, and in fact, it seems that somehow your compliment had soured his expression even further.

“Thanks.” He deadpans, averting his gaze from yours and back to the corn.

You sigh, chopping another tomato.

Meanwhile James is internally kicking his own ass, unsure of why he can’t be fucking normal, intending to say one thing and actually saying another. He watches you from his place across the counter, the concerned furrow of your brow, pinched in the middle, to your nimble fingers diligently doing what Marie had instructed you to do. He feels a flash of guilt in the pit of his stomach. Maybe he misunderstood you. After all, you had noticed him– the gate was proof of that. Maybe he wasn’t as invisible to you as he thought he was. But that still leaves one question unanswered– if you noticed him, why did you intentionally ignore him? It’s silly and it’s childish, but it’s enough for him to continue on with his negative opinion of you.

Time goes by wordlessly between you both, Marie instead taking the time to explain everything she was doing in detail, sure to send both of you home at the end of the night with the recipe for Birria engraved in your brains. Time passes this way until the table has been set and the food is ready, Marie ushering you both out of the kitchen and to the dining table.

The only three empty seats are lumped together, one of which is at Wayne’s side. It would be rude to sit where you know his wife would be sitting, so you take the next one with a small frown, waiting for James to take the one next to you. You’re aware that he’s not happy with the arrangement, and for a moment you wonder if he would take Marie’s chair, but he doesn’t and instead fills the vacant spot on your other side. The table is tightly packed, and due to James’ frame, he has to keep his shoulders pinched together slightly to avoid rubbing them against yours. It’s nearly insulting, watching the amount of effort the man puts into not touching you, rolling your eyes to yourself as you eat the food Marie (and you and James, but mostly Marie) had prepared.

“So…,”

The mention of your name has your head snapping up, paused with your fork halfway raised to your mouth to look around at who had said your name. Your eyes fall on Dylan, who’s sat at the table directly across from you. You’d only met him once before and hadn’t really been able to form much of an opinion on him. He’s around your age, maybe a bit younger around twenty-three, with shaggy brown hair he let fall over his blue eyes and a smile that had a tinge of something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. He had helped you reach a pair of garden shears from the top shelf of the shed, and all you’d talked about within that span of two minutes was your names and where you were from.

“Hm?” You hum in acknowledgment.

“You mentioned you’d stayed in Europe for a while, what was that like?”

You recognise the invitation of small talk, and you’d be thankful for it if it were just the two of you, but as everyone’s eyes settle on you for your response, you feel a little put on the spot.

“Uh, yeah, it was really cool,” you swallow, “Beautiful architecture.”

It’s a lame comment, and you're aware of it, but you're not sure of what else to say at the moment. Dylan nods slowly, eying you up and down in a way that makes you squirm nervously.

Wayne comes to your rescue, “James, have you been to Europe? I imagine y’have.”

The man beside you freezes, and he’s close enough that you can feel the tension, shifting in his chair. His bicep rubs against yours for the first time and you inhale quietly.

“Yeah,” he sniffs, “Been a few times.”

“You been there on tour, I imagine?”

This piques your interest, eyes flitting to look at James profile. His jaw is clenched as he nods, “That’s correct.”

“On tour?” You ask.

He turns to you, and the intensity of his eyes this close up almost makes you regret asking. He nods, “My band tours here and there.”

“Ha! Understatement,” Wes snorts from across the table, southern accent strong through his laugh, “Mr. Big Shot over here has toured a whole lot more than just ‘here n’ there.”

He holds his fingers up in air quotes to emphasise his words, and you’re left confused. Mr. Big Shot? You thought James looked slightly familiar, but couldn’t place from where, so you’d just brushed it off as nothing. You turn to look at him again, studying his face and racking your brain to think of where you might have seen him before. It would make sense for him to be in a famous band, but which one? And why would someone in said famous band be out here in the middle of nowhere?

“What band?” You ask, ignoring Wes.

James looks uncomfortable, “Uh, Metallica.”

It’s as if bells go off in your head, piecing it all together and finally realising where you've seen him before. It wasn’t just one place you’d seen his face, but many. He’d been everywhere, on MTV, on the front covers of magazines on the newsstands back home, on billboards– dare you say Wes wasn’t too far off by calling him a Big Shot.

“Oh,” is all that comes out despite the revelation– despite the fact that you’re now painfully aware of how famous he is. Your pre-existing nerves have only worsened with this newfound information, struggling to get a bite of your food down, wincing.

James, however, takes your lack of response and pained expression the wrong way and gets on the defensive, scoffing into his glass of water before slamming it down. The entire table goes quiet, and he doesn’t miss the way you flinch at his action, momentarily pausing to meet your gaze. Your eyes are wide as they lock with his, confusion written all over your face.

He pushes his chair back from the table and stands up, “If you’ll excuse me.”

You watch his back as he retreats through the front door, letting it slam behind him. You flinch again and turn to look at Marie, who’s sitting next to her husband with a distraught look on her face. Sighing, you stand up and place your napkin on the table.

“Dinner was absolutely wonderful, Marie, please excuse me.”

Marie flashes you a sympathetic glance as you walk to the door, and despite their chittering you don’t care to look at the expressions worn by Dylan and Wes. Instead, you make your way out of the house and down the front steps. The evening has finally matured into darkness, the pathway to the lodge lit only by lamp posts and strings of fairy lights that Marie had just put up earlier today. You’re not sure where to look for James, or even if you should be looking in the first place. If you truly are the cause of his bad mood, surely you’d be the last person able to talk some sense into him; but curiosity eats away at you, the need to fix whatever you’ve done gnawing at your stomach.

It doesn't take too long to find him, sitting on the front steps of the lodge, mostly shrouded in shadows except for the orange cast of the fairy lights.

“Hey,” you offer carefully, slowing your pace as you near him.

You debate whether or not to sit next to him on the stairs, thinking it might piss him off if you do, but awkwardly rocking on your heels feels even worse. You take a seat next to him with a light huff, making sure to keep your arms from brushing against his like at the dinner table. He’s smoking a cigar, the burning tobacco lighting up his face ever so slightly on each inhale. Though he doesn’t verbally acknowledge your greeting, he doesn't leave either. As if he’s waiting for you to say something worth his while.

“I’m sorry, you know,” you offer softly, “I’m not quite sure what I did to upset you, but whatever it was, I’m sorry.”

He remains quiet, the sounds of the crickets and cicadas deafening. You exhale a sigh of defeat, tilting your head up to glance at the vast array of stars in the clear sky, counting the brightest stars until you lose your place.

James isn’t quite sure what to say. The longer he’s left to sit with his thoughts, the more he doesn’t understand what you’ve done to bug him so much. There’s been an explanation for every misunderstanding so far, leaving no reasons for his disdain, yet for some reason he just feels immensely frustrated by you. It’s something he feels under his skin, fizzing in his blood uncomfortably. He’s starting to wonder if it’s even got anything to do with you to begin with, or if this entire trip out to the desert has backfired and he’s got too much time and space to think about his life. Stress eats away at him, bubbling up slowly.

“I’m sorry about hogging the shower,” you ramble, “I didn’t realise you were waiting for it and I just got kinda…kinda lost in thought, I’ll hurry up next time.”

Nothing. It’s radio silence on his end, the air so thick that you feel it clouding your lungs along with the smoke from his cigar. You can’t stop your mouth from running, ”And it’s really cool that you’re in Metallica, I um, I don’t really know much about you guys but-”

“You can stop,” he interrupts, the stress bubbling over, your face flaring with heat you’re glad he can’t see in the lighting. ”I don’t really care, honestly.”

He looks at you for the first time in the last five minutes, emotions flat and guarded, and for the first time since you’d met him, you feel your own anger rise up in your stomach instead of nerves– frustration, annoyance, fatigued with his attitude.

“Look,” you stand up, “I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but I’d appreciate it if you'd stop being a total dick.”

He puts out his cigar, standing up to tower over you, not letting you have the upperhand of being taller than him. He opens his mouth to speak but you don’t let him.

“All day, you’ve been awful to me, and we just met. I don’t get it, what’s your problem?”

He scoffs, “I have a whole fuckin’ list of problems, sweetheart, don’t feel special.”

You stare, dumbfounded, arms crossed over your chest, “Yeah? And what about it?” you challenge, eyes narrowed, “Why do you think I’m here, huh? We’ve all got our shit, we’ve all got things we’re running away from, what makes you think you can treat me like shit for no reason? Because if this is how it’s going to be all summer then I’m already real fucking tired of it.”

Cicadas are the only thing you receieve in return, the chirping filling the empty space between you and James. There’s nothing. There’s no apology to speak of, not even any retaliation. His face is void of emotion, hands dug into his pockets as he stands and stares.

His stare is intense and unmoving, but there’s something hidden behind it. It’s almost a sort of hollowness, as if this is something he’s been through a billion times before. It almost makes you falter, trying your hardest to search his eyes for any clues as to what he may be thinking. But his eyes are still those of a stranger’s, and you can’t place exactly what it is that he’s thinking. Shaking your head, you finally back down, taking a step back.

“I came here to apologise, and I did. I have nothing else to say,” you turn to the lodge and step towards the stairs, “But Marie didn’t deserve that shit you pulled tonight. I think she at least deserves an apology.”

The words hang between you in the night, heavy and oppressive. There’s a moment where your fingertips hesitate over the doorknob, casting one last look in James’ direction in hopes that he would say something. But he’s remained stoic, gaze set hard towards where you’re standing, hands shoved into his pockets. Shaking your head again, you step inside, leaving him in the dark.

Only when you’re gone does he rub his hands over his face and swear under his breath. With a sigh that holds the weight of the world, he takes begrudging steps back towards Marie and Wayne’s house.

★

A/N: god pls bear with how slow and badly written this felt. anyways i hope you enjoyed jsdhgkjshdkjhgsdjg

#james hetfield x reader #james hetfield #metallica #metallica x reader #reader #x reader #fic #metallica fanfiction #i was supposed to be writing an essay #i did this instead #anyways stream marty robbins gunfighter ballads and trail songs

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pristinekanesays · 1 year

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��Life Is Strange: General Headcanons

🦋 just some pretty normal headcanons

🐺 GN!Reader, no specific pronouns are mentioned!

🦋 warnings: dorky stuff, bad mental health and swearing.

🎧A/N: Been super busy lately, thanks for the loads of support though guys! Gonna be writing more for Skip because nobody's writing for him and he's actually REALLY attractive??

🦋Chloe Price:

📄It's obvious that Chloe literally adores punk rock and possibly heavy metal music. She's also a HUGE PissHead fan, from listening to Skip's demo to then asking if she can hear more of his music.

🖤She doesn't wanna admit it but she definitely sees Skip as an older brother figure, they're basically family and they have such a sweet bond together.

📄Chloe and Steph are actually pretty close in Before The Storm, from how Steph asks Chloe for permission to ask Rachel out and how she's okay with Chloe venting to her if she wanted to.

🖤Her favourite songs are Nothing Wrong - Pisshead and Everything Reminds Me Of Her - Elliot Smith. (those are all literally my favourite songs as well..oops)

📄She is actually secretly a bit of nerd, like not a huge nerd but she's played Dungeons & Dragons multiple times with Steph and Mikey before and after Episode 1.

🖤Her favourite animal is the Palos Verdes Blue butterfly, since a blue butterfly is her spirit animal but she also really likes Tiger Sharks and 100% thinks she could take them in a fight.

📄She sucks ass at cooking and Joyce has tried to teach her before but she gets bored so easily.

🖤When she got her skull tattoo, she teared up and nearly started sobbing but told everyone she knows that she was totally 100% cool + badass during it.

(hella pissed about the zero skip gifs and lack of fanfiction, he's literally so attractive?? wtf)

🎤 Skip Matthews:

📄He secretly flips people off behind their back as they walk away if they've pissed him off, will totally freak out then switch to standing still and laughing awkwardly if they turn around.

🖤Listens to Taylor Swift but apart from that he's a huge punk rock + heavy metal fan.

📄Okay now, Skip is a HUGE horror game nerd. I'm talkin' Outlast, Resident Evil, Amnesia: The Dark Descent and Silent Hill.

🖤He can cook, okay?! He doesn't look like your average chef but he can definitely serve up some good fucking food.

📄Talks shit about anyone he doesn't like with you, if you guys are together of course or really good friends, he's like Victoria Chase sometimes because oh my god is he a bitch.

🖤Apart from listening to music, he'll also listen to urban legends podcasts on his way to work.

📄Skip comes from a pretty normal family in the suburbs of Denver, Colorado with two older sisters and a younger brother.

🖤(He's such a dork, I love him.) He's also pretty into fishing and is constantly taking trips for his band when he has to.

📄His favourite animal is the Polar Bear, like yeah he'd piss himself if he ever saw one in real life but he thinks they're pretty cute online instead of them being outside his door ready to beat his ass.

🍂Kate Marsh:

📄She's very religious but also very supportive. She just wants to settle down with someone, falling in love + possibly starting a family together, sitting on the porch swing in the afternoon while drinking tea/coffee side by side.

🖤Can Kate cook? Yes, she could totally make a living out of her talent but she just isn't into that for a career.

📄She never really has anything bad to say about anyone, she doesn't believe in being mean to other people because that just isn't in her blood.

🖤Kate is sort of sensitive, she won't cry if you bump into her accidentally but would tear up if you were to raise your voice/insult her in any way like any normal person. (so don't, you asshole)

📄Listens to soft, classical music sometimes but also some indie pop now and then.

🖤She's a walking angel, her personality, her looks and smarts, everything about her is just *chefs kiss*.

📄Her favourite animal is either the Florida White Rabbit or the Harp Seal, commonly known as Saddleback/Greenland Seal, Kate adores Harp Seal's so much and is always smiling while looking at photos of them.

🖤Hobbies? Playing the violin & the piano, back when she lived with her parents she was super into gardening + cooking.

📷 Max Caulfield:

📄She's always cooped up in her dorm either studying away, practicing her guitar skills or hanging out with Warren and Chloe.

🖤Max is a proud geek, alright? She's a board game, video game, everything remotely geeky fan, 100% played Dungeons & Dragons with Warren and has a few photos of the whole thing in a box under her bed titled 'W&M DND'.

📄Has overplayed Speedy Ortiz & Syd Matters so much but surprisingly never gets bored of their songs, but everyone else around her already has.

🖤Max sucks complete, utter ass at cooking and she knows it, she'll still try her best though but she can't even make toast properly without making it suffer through the toaster.

📄She can say some bad shit about people if they're assholes but she'd never say anything about someone who's innocent/someone she knows is a good person.

🖤Her spirit animal is a Doe and while she adores it completely, she also really likes Koala's and thinks that they're absolutely adorable.

🎭 Rachel Amber:

📄Rachel is that perfect, pretty and amazing popular girl that everyone knows, she struggles with her emotions pretty bad and I can see her going to Rose for help but never really her father.

🖤She wants to be an actor, right? Then that's what she's aiming for, to be in the public eye with a smile on her face and an award in her hands.

📄Multiple public bathrooms, walls and doors across arcadia bay are marked with 'RACHEL AMBER WAS HERE' or 'R.A'.

🖤Best chef in the world, clap clap! She's honestly so good at cooking and baking, has definitely thought about being a badass chef instead of a badass actor before.

📄She can sing really good, her and Chloe made a song together which was stashed away ..kept in a safe place after she went missing.

🖤She's heard about Skip from Chloe + always thought he was a cool older brother/father figure to any fucked up kid around the campus and 100% agrees with his nerdy horror game lifestyle.

📄Rachel's favourite animal is the Red Panda, she has a photo of one on a shelf somewhere and also has a Red Panda stuffed animal.

🖤Listens to punk rock and some heavy metal if she's in the mood, she loves PissHead and Firewalk.

🎬 Victoria Chase:

📄Her schedule is nearly always full, she's either bossing Vortex Club members and others about or practicing with her camera.

🖤She secretly listens to punk rock sometimes but will roll her eyes and say 'you don't look like the type' if anyone else like her takes an interest in her music taste.

📄She's got a geeky side to her from the figures in her room to the shit she's stuffed under her bed (video games, etc) so nobody else will find out about it and make fun of her.

🖤Victoria isn't the best at cooking but she isn't awful, she's told everyone in Blackwell that she's a master chef though. There's room for improvement, she needs MAJOR improvement cooking-wise.

📄She's really good at playing the piano, photography (of course) and she can make her own outfits with the right fabrics + tools.

🖤Her favourite animal is the Cheetah and she makes that very clear, even told someone 'i could claw you like a cheetah, bitch.' once before.

📄Definitely posts stuff about positive vibes on her socials while acting like a total bitch in real life.

🎮 Warren Graham:

📄He's broken his hand before during a fight, it sounds so badass but he's hella embarrassed and ashamed about it.

🖤Listens to small bands he found through his dorky websites that he's always on and always attends their gigs.

📄(Sucks dick at cooking), will totally hype his friends up about it then laugh awkwardly and act completely clueless at their grossed out reactions.

🖤He knows Skip pretty well since Warren was already in Blackwell at the same time that Skip was working there, they've exchanged opinions about games and movies way before the first game.

📄His favourite animals are Owls especially the Great Horned Owl, he saw one at night while he was hanging with Max and watched as she took a near hour taking photos of it.

🖤He hangs out on websites nearly all the time to read about the local bands, owl sightings, when the new video game he wants so bad is coming out.

📄Has probably searched up shit like 'how to get a boyfriend/girlfriend' before.

🧨 Nathan Prescott:

📄(He looks like a bent ass banana from the fruit bowl with the weird ass way he's sitting, fix your posture man.)

🖤He's 99% busy all the time, he's either attending therapy, in class, doing stuff for the Vortex Club or doing his usual..shady shit.

📄When he's texting you or his friends, the messages are barely readable because he texts like 'CU Thre, LOL, 2nte' and adds an unnecessary amounts of ?? and !!.

🖤Nathan doesn't have a specific music taste but he does sort of like listening to heavy metal.

📄Doesn't know how to cook at all, his parents never cared to teach him and why bother when you're filthy rich?!

🖤He doesn't really care for shit other than his fucked up photography or the Vortex Club, he'll maybe sketch some stuff here and there but even his sketches come out looking severly fucked up.

📄His favourite animal is the Indian Saw-Scaled Viper, he's into some scary shit because he's a scary asshole so don't be surprised. I mean, he also likes dogs..i guess.

🖤Huge horror movie fan as well like you sit him down, turn on a terrifying, traumatizing ass movie but he just rolls his eye and stays there completely unphased.

#🤍kane's headcanons #nathan prescott x reader #kate marsh x reader #victoria chase x reader #max caulfield x reader #chloe price x fem!reader #rachel amber x reader #warren graham x reader #lis headcanons #life is strange headcanons #skip matthews x reader

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dragongirl028 · 1 year

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Take To the Skies

Holy shit! My first fanfic on Tumblr!? And it’s Onyx Equinox related!? You bet it is, and YOU BET IT IS!!! (Heh, heh ... bet? Get it!?)

Word count: 1521 (😨)

“I love you, Izel. It’s okay. Be br—”

Before she could finish her words of reassurance, a warm feeling instantly emanated from her throat and quickly flowed down her chest as a profuse stream of blood ran down from where the obsidian knife slashed across her neck. No pain, no haunting gurgling; just darkness and an almost complete silence, were it not for the light breeze blowing west and the steady drops of blood pooling between her feet. Seconds ago, she was standing; as the supportive hand of the priest drew away, Nelli’s body fell backwards, and her descent down the cenote began. Her headdress, with its elegant streams of quetzal feathers dancing wildly as she fell, soon came off of her head entirely just before her body made contact with the groundwater in a loud splash echoing throughout the sinkhole. From a fast-paced descent to a slow, cradling slump, Nelli’s body unhurriedly lowers towards the large, glowing gate to the Underworld hidden deep within the cenote’s waters.

A bright flash of white shines as Nelli’s body crosses the gate. Seconds later, she finds herself seemingly alive, standing on the edge of a dense jungle. Ahead of her is a small, yet foreboding range of limestone mountains, the sun’s rays shining behind them just as they were as the star ascended in the mere final minutes Nelli had in Uxmal. The ground ahead of her is reminiscent of xeric shrubland, occasionally dotted with palo verde trees colored with their typical yellow-orange flowers. She looks down upon herself—the elaborate sacrificial attire no longer drenched in her own blood; her feet, hands, collarbone, and parts of her face still painted in bright Mayan blue; her headdress firmly in place atop her head.

“What is going—”

A gust of wind blows behind her. Nelli braces herself momentarily, closing her eyes before they snap open at the sound of a loud roar coming from above. She can only stand in awe as her eyes widen upon seeing an enormous teal and red serpentine-like creature weave though the sky, its flowing scarlet mane of fur-like feathers trailing along its back as the creature flies to the peak of the tallest mountain centered among the range. One thing comes after another, and a large flock of macaws emerge from the jungle and fly above Nelli, calling as they too, fly towards the mountain range, some scattering to different peaks, while others make a beeline towards the centermost peak. The wind settles slightly, and after a momentary pause to collect what she just witnessed, Nelli finds herself staring at the most prominent peak of the mountain range, entranced. Wordlessly, she finds herself walking towards the peak, almost as if something is drawing her in. As she moves, an occasional rattlesnake either retreats into its burrow, or silently gazes as she walks by. Passing by a tree every once in a while, butterflies flit around the flowers, some coming close to her face, to which she smiles warmly. Eventually, she finds herself at the base of the mountain, and a smooth, almost frequently treaded path weaves its way up the peak. Wordlessly, she begins her ascent. Nelli takes her time climbing, and despite the growing elevation, she doesn’t find herself needing to catch her breath or take a momentary pause.

Many hours pass, but eventually, Nelli reaches the summit. She gazes at the horizon from which her journey began, the jungle’s green expanse contrasting with the somewhat drab shrubland sandwiched between it and the mountain range.

“Well … I’m glad to see you’ve finally arrived.”

At this, Nelli turns around and widens her eyes. Sitting upon a marble throne—painted in a range of red and green paints, armrests stylized as feathered serpent heads, and a top adorned in intricately carved marble quetzal feathers—is Quetzalcoatl. Appearing in his King Form, he resembles a youth with white hair and yellow eyes, wearing an ornate headdress and red beak mask. Yellow face paint runs vertically down his face surrounding his eyes, a bisected conch shell hangs against his chest, and his shoulders are covered by a green serpent, whose body trails down the god’s back into a train of dark green feathers. Resting on his left hand is a macaw casually preening itself, which the god lightly moves to one of the trees bordering his throne, raising his hand high enough for the tropical bird to reach.

“I must say, you look elegant. Then again, a noble and willing sacrifice such as yourself deserves especially ornate attire.”

“Quetzalcoatl!” Nelli exclaims before quickly but respectfully bowing on her knees. The god chuckles slightly.

“Now, now … no need to be so formal. You can stand.”

Nelli hesitates for a moment before slowly rising back to her feet.

“You chose me?” Nelli inquires.

“Are you surprised? Why, I figured your attire would give you as much of a hint. Your willingness to sacrifice yourself in place of your brother was an incredibly noble act. Not just any god could take such a willing sacrifice.”

“But you’re opposed to human sacrifice. Why would you want me?”

At this, Quetzalcoatl pauses momentarily, staring intently at Nelli.

“… Because I need your assistance to help me save humanity.”

Nelli’s eyes widen slightly and her mouth drops open a bit.

“… What?”

“I’m sure you heard about what happened at Dani Baán.”

Quetzalcoatl pauses for a moment and chuckles slightly.

“Well, of course you did. Otherwise, why would you have been sacrificed, besides taking the place of your brother? Anyway, Mictlantechutli shamelessly began a holy war by abducting Dani Baán due to the ongoing blood drought; though, I know this isn’t the only reason for the destruction of the city. In due time, I shall tell you what I know.”

Nelli furrows her brow slightly, but continues listening intently.

“Tezcatlipoca believes the constant wars and infighting taking place among humanity have spilled wasted blood which could otherwise feed us gods. He intends on starting the world anew at the equinox. I believe your kind is worth preserving. So, I have chosen your brother to close the five gates of the Underworld.”

“Izel? But he’s never fought anyone, let alone traveled great distances without me. How is he even supposed to find the gates to the Underworld!? And even if he does find them, can he even do this—close five gates and save humanity—on his own!?”

“Oh, he’ll have help, I assure you. Nobody can do this alone, not even a god. I have bigger plans for him besides closing the gates, which I will also divulge to you in due time. However, I can’t keep watching over my champion, lest I catch Tezcatlipoca’s attention. This is where you come in: I need you to follow Izel on his journey and report back to me whenever you can. You can … nudge him along a few times as needed; otherwise, you must maintain a fair distance from him, and don’t intervene or interfere in any way. Or else, Tezcatlipoca will take notice.”

Nelli looks down at the ground in front of her before speaking.

“Izel has always been rather fearful. I don’t doubt that—even with help—he’s going to be afraid and unsure of himself. But if you truly think he’s the one who will save humanity … and from what I’ve seen when I’ve encouraged him to persevere … I think this journey will mature him. Whether or not he succeeds, he’ll be remembered by the gods, and perhaps our descendants, through legend.”

At this, Nelli looks up at Quetzalcoatl with a stern, yet determined expression on her face.

“I’ll help you, Quetzalcoatl.”

Underneath his mask, Quetzalcoatl smiles.

“But … how am I supposed to follow Izel and report back to you?”

“I expect you … to fly.”

At this, Quetzalcoatl rises from his throne and a gust of wind blows from behind him to the west. Various dark green feathers from the long train behind him fly towards Nelli before spinning around, enveloping her completely. Small rays of cyan light penetrate through the spinning mass of feathers, which distorts into a large ball floating towards Quetzalcoatl, who now has his right arm outstretched. Finally, the mass of feathers disappears and the wind dies down, revealing a medium-sized heron with white feathers, black legs, and cyan eyes, perched on Quetzalcoatl’s arm.

“Not only will you be able to fly, but you’ll be able to travel great distances instantaneously with my power in order to reach me. You should be proud, Nelli.” Quetzalcoatl praises while looking ahead to the now setting sun.

“Not only will you watch history be made, but you will see your humble brother ascend to eminence in more ways than one. Now, go, follow him, take to the skies.”

At this, Nelli flaps her wings once and rises before taking off in the direction of the sun. Quetzalcoatl lowers his arm and simply watches in silence as his emissary flies further west before disappearing in a flash of light—her duty having just begun.

#onyx equinox #nelli #quetzalcoatl #izel #tezcatlipoca #mictlantecuhtli #fanfic #my work #my fanfic #fanfiction

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cryptid-quest · 2 years

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On This Day in Cryptid History

August 17th: In 1971, in Palos Verdes, California, two people claimed to have seen sentient brain like creatures, that were blue and surrounded in a vapor like obstruction. They described them to be the size of a softball, with a single red eye in their central lobe. One of the witnesses underwent hypnotherapy five years later, and claimed one of the brains talked to him.

#cryptids #Cryptid #cryptozoology #cryptid history #august 17

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aggiepython · 2 days

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did this hairstyle meme with suzi, i'm still figuring out what clothes she would wear. the flower on the middle left is Clarkia amoena (satin flower), the flower on the bottom right is Parkinsonia florida (blue palo verde), they're both south california natives.

#my art #suzi #saluki #furry #sighthound #palo verde #i imagine she picks flowers off of shrubs and trees with no regard for the wellbeing of plants #she probably laid on the flowers during the superbloom in california to get instagram pics

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heronoegg · 2 months

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Hey! Okay so I have a question. Regarding pro hero’s like Edgeshot, Best Jeanist, and maybe Mirko too, what would you give to them for your wing AU? Same with Nana shimura (Shigaraki’s G-Ma) and Eri, if you don’t mind me asking

OK SO i was gonna draw them but im kinda tired im sorry anon maybe another time (idk if you expected a drawing anyway)

my friend said Edgeshot is a crane/stork i don't remember what her reason for this was but something about it being graceful i dunno

and i deiced on BJ being a Little blue heron cause they look like jeans personified as birds lol and they aren't little at all

Now as for Mirko, i felt like it made zero sense to make her not a rabbit cause rabbits, rats and other things exist in this AU in 3 forms

People exaggeratedly large animals and pets i have this idea that trees and plant life is over sized as well and the bird,bat and bug people live higher it's a whole society thing we came up with and rats and things like that live lower on the ground forest floor, but Mirko she lives up there in bird society cause she's just cool and i wanted her up there with them.

I never gave Nana any thought nfjdbxnthj i guess she's a vulture as well? im assuming the whole Shimura family are vultures maybe idk i have to think about it

As for Eri she is a palos verdes blue butterfly it's a rare almost extinct butterfly from my brief google search of "rare butterflies" i wanted her to be something little, rare, and uncommon

i have how society works written down on a document if you wanna see that i can copy paste it so you can see what we were aiming for when we came up with this AU

#anon ask #bnha wing au

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velvethopewrites · 1 year

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Tagged by @quiltedcottage (also is that you in your new avatar? You are so cute!! 🥰)

Share your wallpaper: ipad will have to do, my desktop is dead

I was in the mood for greenery.

The last song you listened to: Blues for Mama - Nina Simone (I was in a MOOD)

Currently Reading: I am still in between books; I just can’t find one that holds my interest (sometimes this happens) but I am, of course, always reading fic. Currently reading Lonesome Town by green eyes & illusions

Last Movie: Guardians of the Galaxy 2, in preparation to see 3. It had been awhile. 🤷🏼‍♀️

Craving: to go on a road trip - I never get to go anywhere anymore, it feels extremely oppressive, to be quite honest, wanderlust is a part of me and I miss hitting the open road with some tunes and a good friend by my side.

What are you Wearing right now? My pajamas. It’s only 7:30 am here.

How Tall are You? 5’4

Piercings? Just my ears. I hate needles. I admire tattoos but yeah, never gonna happen.

Glasses? Contacts? Glasses to read, sometimes. Other times not needed. It’s just old age.

Last Drink? Oat Milk with nutmeg before bed

Last TV show? Star Trek/DS9 -we’re re-watching it for the 10,000th time

Last Thing You Ate? Double chocolate fudge cake ( I haven’t broken the ol’fast yet. It was last night, I don’t eat all that for breakfast!)

Favorite Color: Purple and green, like Mardi Gras.

Current Obsession: Still Supernatural, I suppose, still brain-rotting (but fun!)

Unrelated Obsession: the palo verde trees are in bloom in Arizona and they look amazing against our blue-skies but damn, they make me sneeze my ass off so I am obsessed with photographing them from a safe distance, lol like this:

Any Pets? Yes, my cat, Kitty B who is whining and meowing very loudly because I am late with The Food (tm) The Food must be given between 6:30 and 7 or his highness is very displeased and I will suffer the consequences.

Any Crushes On Anyone? I tend to have crushes all the time, they are usually fleeting and quick but I do get them on mutuals, on writers, on certain blue-eyed cutie patooties, etc. I think we should all fall in love a little bit every single day. It’s good for the heart muscle (and the imagination!)

Favorite Fictional Characters? Castiel. And Ginny Weasley. And Lois Lane. Jadzia Dax.

Last Place You Traveled: Probably Strawberry, Arizona for my birthday two years ago. Woes. It’s been far too long.

I tag: @thechaosthatismybrain and @cacklingblobbittyrabbitty

#Tag you’re it #whoo this was long #And I haven’t even had my coffee yet

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wonder-in-wings · 10 months

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The Collector's Basement

TIMING: Wednesday July 12th, Evening LOCATION: Parker’s House PARTIES: Inge (@nightmaretist and Parker (@wonder-in-wings SUMMARY: After an interesting first interaction, Parker invites Inge to his house to see his more exotic collection - and hopes to get some of her mare blood while he’s at it. CONTENT WARNINGS: Medical Blood (brief mentions of surgery)

It had taken Parker a few days to arrange his collection in an aesthetically pleasing way, at least by his standards which he acknowledged could be unreasonable sometimes if the mood gripped him. He was in his living room, the sun having set hours ago and after briefly entertaining making his guest for that night some dinner, he ultimately decided against it though he did make enough gumbo to last for several days. The process was slower than he’d have liked, still feeling the aftermath of his fight with the lake nymph a couple of days ago; he kept being reminded that he shouldn’t lift his arm too high or bend over - he’d already opened the one on his stomach once. He couldn’t keep himself from being a little nervous, however. Parker was incredibly proud of his collection, obsessively so oftentimes but it was also a very intimate affair with him - usually when other people saw the wings, it was during a transaction so they could hang them on THEIR wall or whatever else they did with them. They weren’t something for other people to simply view with the same pleasure Parker did… But maybe that could change. Inge was to be among the first to see his secret collection, and certainly the first one this year. She wasn’t a fae though, she was supposedly a succubus. With shimmery, powdered blood. Nonetheless, Parker kept his breathing even and he sat in a small, comfortable armchair next to a bookshelf that held books with curios wedged between them such as a polished wolf’s skull, jars with animals suspended in fluid and, of course, a magnificently kept Palos Verdes Blue Butterfly in a display case. He faced the door, leaning on his other arm, a bowl of steaming gumbo in his hand and occasionally his blue eyes darted to the knob as though expecting it to start turning on its own.

___ Though Inge spent her nights instilling terror in strangers (and sometimes familiars), there tended to be a feeling of monotonousness that took her over. Life had a steady rhythm, an artist’s spirit never tired if inspiration kept coming. But sometimes she felt so very dead amidst it all, and required some kind of thrill to feel grounded once more. Maybe this was that thrill, or maybe this was just her looking for more inspiration. Either way, willingly going to the house of a hunter was a risk.

The sun had sunk already and that meant Inge was able to travel a little quicker, observing the hunter’s house from the plane before manifesting herself near his doorstep. With sunglasses perched on her nose, she made her way to the front door of the address she’d been given, pushing the shades onto her head when she’d rung the bell. Red glowing eyes might as well be a trait of a succubus, she supposed. She did hope he didn’t get greedy for her eyes, though.

When the hunter showed his face, she smiled. It was easy to be outgoing and sociable, a natural instinct honed years and years ago. There was no need to mention the blade she carried on her body as a safety measure. “Good evening,” Inge said, “You have a very nice home, Parker.” But he himself didn't look his best self. Keen eyes took in a bandage peeking from underneath a T-Shirt. For now, she refrained from commenting, despite her wondering who or what had caused such a thing. ___ She rang the doorbell and Parker got to his feet, his brow twitching as he did so but he approached the door easily enough where his blue eyes met with glowing red ones. For a moment, he found himself staring intently at them, completely ignoring what she’d said as his mind started to simultaneously wonder and remain fixated on what he saw. Succubus eyes glowing red didn’t seem like an abnormality when Parker thought about it but she said herself that succubi were a rarity. He wondered… An exhale brought the Warden back to reality and he shook his head, blinking and tearing his gaze away from her mesmerizing eyes. “I appreciate the compliment.” He said, stepping aside and allowing her entry. “I didn’t make any food for you because I assumed this was just a business arrangement but I have… gumbo. If you’d like some.” Parker offered awkwardly, his delivery carrying a slightly different tone to it, one that hadn’t been present at the museum. He closed the door behind her, one of his hands resting on his stomach subconsciously for a moment before he straightened up. “Unless you’d rather skip straight to the collection. That can also be arranged.”

—

She blinked at him, eyelashes batting as if to emphasize their unnatural color. There was something so entertaining about this too, the way she had him convinced she was some biblical creature. Succubi were somewhat iconic, anyway, in Inge’s humble opinion nothing but an invention to keep women pure and chaste. Because of course a woman confident and indulgent in her sexuality could only be evil!

Walking into the house, she let her gaze travel around. She had resisted the urge to look inside each and every room from the astral plane, wanting to keep the entire ordeal something of a surprise. She was disappointed to not see any interesting trinkets lining the walls just yet. “No thank-yous in this house, hm?” While Inge didn’t know a lot about fae, she knew the basics: don’t verbally give things away and don’t thank people.

She waved away his offer, “No, I’m quite full. I appreciate it, though,” she said. He had probably prepared the soup with salt and besides, she didn’t trust him not to have poisoned it. Inge would like a drink, admittedly, but even that wouldn’t do. “Whatever you wish. Like I said, I’d appreciate to talk about fae with you. I’ll gladly answer your questions in return, of course.” But she did itch for the collection. Best not to show her cards, though. “I have all night.” She did, aside from her plan to go step by Jeane for her weekly feeding.

—

His gaze followed her as hers moved in turn, casting her red eyes on this and that and he followed behind her casually, wanting to cross his arms but finding the task somewhat difficult so instead he placed his hands into his pockets. “You can say ‘thank you’ as I’m not a fae and have no intention or ability to bind you to your word.” Parker explained at the start; if she wanted to learn more about the fae, that was as good a starting point as any he supposed. However, Parker also knew that Inge wasn’t here to make small talk. She’d have to be okay to wait for him to at least manage his affairs when it came to the dishes, though; he was a creature of habit and besides, he only made one meal a week, most of the time. What did succubi feed on, anyway? “What would you like to know?” He asked, indicating that he was going into his kitchen and for her to follow while he cleaned up, sweeping the bowl from his chair up before doing so, slower than he’d have liked considering the thudding holes in his abdomen. Parker would’ve been lying if he thought Inge was actually interested in discussing fae matters with him - it’d been a long time since someone implied genuine intrigue instead of mockery or derision when it came to his profession, the one instilled upon him by a legacy and a name and not one he chose for himself. He entered the kitchen, a roomy place with a table off to the side and he got to work starting to put the remaining gumbo in a container. He did make sure to lock onto her astonishingly beautiful red eyes on occasion to nonverbally let her know that he was still participating in the conversation.

It seemed Parker Wright was a very serious person. Inge was fine with that, even if it didn’t align with her own nature — never able to take anything too seriously, in case it forced her into a state of reflection or deep thought. “Got it. Thank you. Still, it’s good praxis, isn’t it? To avoid the words altogether. Make it a habit.” It was one she’d developed over the past decades, fae popping up more as she ventured into more places filled with other supernaturals. Bars in New York, campgrounds in Sweden, gatherings in LA. There was always something.

“I’ll tell you what I know, which isn’t much. I know there’s the binding, the language tricks — or at least, I know not to verbally – and maybe also not literally – give fae things, like a name. The no-thank-you’s. What else should a person such as myself look out for, when it comes to words?” There had to be more. Inge wished her tongue could be so powerful, that she could bind others to her will at any time of the day or night. “Besides that, I don’t know much. They tend to look like you and I, hm? Regular humans, I mean.” A smile. “If you ignore my eyes.”

The red glow had lessened now that they were inside and there were lights again. She watched him clean his kitchen, took note of the way he seemed somewhat slow, tried to get another glance at his injuries. It was strange, to get such an inside look into the life of a hunter. Inge had to remind herself of this fact: this was a hunter, and despite the lack of violence there was still room for threat. She wondered if what- or whoever had harmed the warden had been fae, or something like herself. “Are there many here, in Wicked’s Rest?”

—

Fae knowledge was simultaneously complex and yet also very simple once you had a grasp on it. Fortunately, it seemed that Inge already seemed to understand the notably important ones, at least from what she described to him. Parker glanced around his kitchen slowly, making sure everything was put up as part of his ritual that he had to perform whether or not he had company. “Binding, language tricks. No ‘thank-you’s, if they ask for something, explicitly say ‘you may not have it’.” He started, drying his hands on a towel that hung from a hook. With that, he turned to regard her this time, his own eyes subconsciously flickering to hers occasionally before he turned his unblinking stare to something else, something just past her so it looked like he was making eye contact, which Parker knew humans enjoyed. He wasn’t sure if succubi did but he assumed this one did by how she looked at him. “There are; this place is like a beacon for them, it seems.” He explained, motioning for her to follow him out of the kitchen and down a hallway with yellowing paper that threatened to peel itself away from the panels below them - this house was old and he held little interest in renovating it. “They disguise themselves with something called a ‘glamour’.” He went on to explain as he approached a door that looked decidedly different from the rest of the house, with dark wood and painted filigree on it - it looked newer than the rest of the house by at least thirty years. “A veil of magic that allows them to exist with humans.” Parker reached for a keyring that hung on his belt and loosened it, unlocking the door and opening it to reveal a wooden staircase that led into the inky black mouth of what seemed like a basement. He paused, inhaling as though to steel himself for the descent. “And never make promises or deals with them.” He said, his flat affect punctuating the importance of the sentence he said. “That is why I don’t ‘make deals’ in that worded sense.” His gaze drifted and for a moment Parker was staring at nothing in particular. “But I’d still appreciate if you didn’t tell anyone what’s down in this room.” He said, casting his gaze down to her as they stood at the opening of an abyss.

—

She was listening intently, a thing that was rare for Inge. She was, however, not very fond of being tricked or driven into corners and it seemed that fae did have this enviable ability. As Parker gave his fae 101, she nodded along with his words, sure to remember what the warden was telling her. This wasn’t to say she agreed with his general praxis or the way he had come to gain this knowledge. Probably in murdering fae 101. Still, who was she to deny a lesson? She should try a little harder to focus on self-preservation, anyway.

“It seems to be a beacon for plenty of non-humans,” she pointed out. It seemed harmless, to say such an obvious thing. There was a reason this place was filled with hunters, and it was because it was filled with supernaturals. As she moved through the house, she was momentarily distracted by the ugly wallpaper and the lack of decorations on the walls. No fae memorabilia on these. That might be a bit gruesome, anyway, but that hadn’t deterred Inge in quite some time.

Still, she was aware of the weapon on her body as he pulled her further into his house. “Interesting. And you … see through it, or?” How hunters functioned exactly, she also didn’t know. They were annoying, stubborn brutes more focused on mindless murder than doing something else with their lives. But that bitter train of thought was abandoned as he opened a door, revealing a staircase that might have come straight out of a horror film. She stared down it, then at him.

“I appreciate the information. It’s good to know.” Maybe this was deflection. If this were a horror movie, the audience would surely be chastizing her for considering going down those steps. But Inge knew her role in the story: she was no martyr, was she? She was the monster in people’s dreams. And this warden did not know of her ability to slip away into another plane of existence, nor her ability to put him to sleep with touch. She nodded solemnly. “Of course. And I’d appreciate your discretion in return.”

—

“Indeed, if it draws succubi to it, as well.” Parker kept looking at Inge, his eyes moving in subtle ways as though looking for a fine detail among a bigger picture - he was gauging to see if she was going to be deterred by the mouth of the cellar. She didn’t seem to be though it wasn’t until afterwards that Parker realized that if there was one who probably wouldn’t have, it was her - after all, she came to the museum specifically for knowledge on which bugs were considered the scariest. So with that, Parker was ready to lead the way into the basement of this antiquity of a house in the neighborhood where the sun sets astonishingly early, which is fine by him. Instead of falling silent and letting the treasures that waited below sit in anticipation for their arrival, he opted to follow up on some of her statements and inquiries. “Of course; you aren’t fae, you’re out of my jurisdiction.” He loosely repeated what he said that day at the museum as he descended the stairs. “What you are is none of my business.” Once he was a few steps down, he reached into the darkness and flipped a switch from seemingly nowhere, bathing the room in rich warm light. It was decorated almost like a jazz lounge, with deep wood panels on the floor and partially covered with a large wine-red rug. There was a recliner in the corner with a small table next to it and a few books stacked on top of it. Tucked under the staircase was a bookshelf that was molded to fit into the space but while there were a healthy amount of books, half of the shelves were covered with decidedly stranger things such as taxidermies of what appeared to the untrained eye as ‘fairies’, more jars that contained a variety of strange-looking creatures and the stretched mandibles of a large insect. The main attraction and one that was impossible to miss as one made their descent, however, were the wings. In large display cases both on the wall and a few glass stands aesthetically placed on the floor were wings much too large to belong to any normal insect and far too exotic to seem to be from earth itself. One of the sets on the wall were hooked at the ends, representing pincers, a deep rusty red in color. Another in one of the stands flowed around each other appearing almost like water, though if you looked closely you could almost tell that they moved with an unseen, impossible breeze through their feathers. There were about seven pairs in total, each one as unique as where they came from, the light dancing off the intricate patterns and ethereal textures. “This… is my collection.” Parker reached the bottom and immediately his expression turned into something few had seen. It was gentle, soft, as though he were a normal man gazing upon the angelic visage of a child. He hadn’t forgotten that she asked how Wardens could sense their quarry but at the moment, he was taken by the beauty of what he created, the hours of meticulous work, the spark of his imagination that was strange, but unique in his vision. He didn’t even looked back at Inge to watch her reaction; for a few moments, she could’ve fatally stabbed him and he probably wouldn’t have even acknowledged her.

—

Parker Wright was certainly an interesting individual, different from the other hunters Ingeborg had come across in her decades roaming this earth. He was informative, somehow almost respectful of her supernatural form. Ignorant, even, too ignorant to know what a mare was and that they bled glitter and had glowing red eyes. And then, of course, there was that tendency to collect. This cool attitude towards his appreciation and approach. From the few interactions they had (two, actually, including this one) she figured him an apathetic individual.

“Good. And what you do is none of mine.” Because it shouldn’t be. Inge had no interest in making more hunter enemies. This wasn’t to say she was looking for hunter friends, either: she sought experience, the kind of things that could still stir her and move her, affect her in a way that most other things no longer did. Thrill. Shock. Fucking anything. Life was fun, certainly, with the way she followed whim and little reason, but it was also sometimes incapable to make her feel alive. She figured herself an apathetic person as well, after all.

But the warden seemed not so apathetic after all, once he was in his basement – which was decidedly less intimidating with the light on – and a sheen of peace seemed to pass over his face. Inge kept her composure, following down after him and letting her eyes take in the neatly decorated room, where suddenly a level of taste did reveal himself. Parker Wright was, as it turned out, a basement-dweller. It was almost funny.

Eyes passed over books and jars, but remained stuck on the sight of wings. Her breathing ceased as she approached, an almost human response if you forgot that she didn’t need to breathe. In front of her were wings, similar to those of a bee but somehow more colorful and large, large enough that they could fit between her shoulderblades and look like they could fit there. She was, for a moment, silent. This was a perfect representation of what was wrong with hunters, wasn't it? Entitled creatures born in some kind of murderous legacy where they felt they were owed something — people's lives, or in this case their body parts. Displayed in a cozy reading room. It was, in a sense, horrifying. The glow on his face, the pride with which he brought her in, the way it was clear he came here often. Hunters would call themselves protectors and then do this. At least she was willingly offering blood, but that was because she had plenty of it. How had he acquired the rest of these bits of the supernatural? What kind of force had it required? Was it a byproduct of murder, like a serial killer collecting trophies or was it something else entirely? She turned to look at him. “Impressive,” she said. “How do you get your hands on them?” There was no judgment in her tone. Inge knew how to play docile when she had to. She moved to look at a different pair. No matter her disapproval, these wings were still a beautiful sight and she’d always had an appreciation of the aesthetically pleasing.

—

Much to his relief, Inge hadn’t shied away or immediately gotten aggressive, as people tended to do when they saw his work. Parker didn’t necessarily blame them, simply attributing their horror and disgust as intellectually-weak and unable to appreciate the artistic beauty in his arrangements. Or even a misplaced sense of duty, an empty sympathy for creatures they’d never met and couldn’t know about unless they were there. The assumption that fae were innocent beings and that all hunters were inherently evil was something Parker was warned about in his youth. ‘They’ll never look at you like you’re one of them, like you’re protecting them’ he heard his father’s voice in his head. ‘You’re different. Your brain is broken but I’m not upset about it anymore. You need to find your own way to fulfill your role as a Wright Warden.’

This was what Parker did, the man with the inadequate mind, the Warden who was assumed to treat anything non-human as the pestilence it was when that couldn’t be further from the truth. Fae were entitled, possessive, petty but enjoyed fine things and collecting their own treasures. He was a reflection, or so his brother had told him once; they liked to play their games but acted affronted when someone decided to play by their rules, as though surprised that they weren’t the only ones who could think. Parker could collect things, too. It wasn’t about the kill or the despair - it was simply about the acquisition of things he deemed precious. He knew deep down that they understood that. None of that mattered now though as Parker pulled his gaze away from the sylph wings, his blue-eyed stare, softened with appreciation for his own work, drifted over to Inge. “I ask for them.” He explained. “Sometimes they say yes - those entomid wings you were standing near, she hated them. Never wanted to see them again.” He straightened up, placing a hand on his stomach with a twitch of his upper lip as he went over closer to the succubus. “Others are more violent. Sometimes I have to kill them but that’s not preferable.” He gazed up at another pair with a soft exhale. “Otherwise, sedation. Surgery. I make it as quick and painless as possible. Then I leave them somewhere they won’t be exposed to live and walk among humans, doing whatever it is they did before.” He turned his head now, his eyes following behind from gazing at the nymph’s appendages to snap to her. “Most of them don’t take compensation. But I’m willing to pay for them. I have before and I am now.” One of Parker’s eyebrows flickered up for a moment. “Is your blood still an offer? I have a space on my shelf for it.”

—

Inge didn’t do fear, at least not for herself. Fear was failure, wasn’t it? It was a confession to the humanoid side that remained within her, that young mother she’d once been, plagued by nightmares that seen her institutionalized, afraid of the man she’d married and looking at her daughter as if she was the greatest opportunity for both success and failure she’d ever get. Fear was something of days past — but it snuck in. Not now, certainly, now there was only a quiet anger and disgust. But still, an instinct unfurled.

The wings were things of beauty. So, to her, were mares. There had been days with Sanne where they had laid on an abandoned corner of a beach, shining bright in the sun. They had looked in each other's red-glowing eyes at midnight, met each other in the astral and other dreams. Beauty could be terrifying — was perhaps best when terrifying. It was hard not to look away, even as the other explained how he’d gotten his hands on them.

How pitiful, to hear of a fae who had wanted to be separated from such glorious things. If Inge had wings (preferably leathery and black, like those of a corvid) she’d never let them go. “Ah.” She looked at the other as he calmly explained his history with murdering for trinkets and nonconsensual surgery. Quick and painless, he called it, as if it was a favor, and she swallowed her tongue to stop herself from wondering who he thought he was, to be entitled to any of this. To decorate a room that nearly no one saw with the body parts of creatures better than him. It didn’t scare her, no, but it fazed her. There was no use in anger, to become justly furious over actions that had occurred in the past. There was no point in attack, either — Inge was no good at combat, and she valued her life most above all else. Heroism was reserved for others. “So why let them live, when you’ve taken from them? Shouldn’t hunters …” She cocked her head as she looked at him. “Finish the job?”

Her fingers flexed. The astral was so easily accessed, but she wasn’t a coward. She did not do fear, but she certainly did disgust. At least those years married to Hendrik – when she’d still been pitifully human – had prepared her to pretend not to be disgusted. Inge lifted her shoulders. More money never hurt, especially as she grew more and more uncomfortable in this town. It sadly did cost quite a bit to upheave her life and move. “It depends on what you’re willing to offer. My blood doesn’t come cheap. I don’t think you very likely to come across another one like me in your short lifetime,” she said, feeling comfortable in the lie. There were at least two more mares in this town. (No succubi, though, as far as she knew.) “How much are you willing to part with?”

—

He paused for a moment, letting the environment sink in. Was she afraid? If she was then she was proficient at hiding it. Was she disgusted? That seemed more likely but again, most people who didn’t know or couldn’t see the nuances in behavior, the appreciation for beauty tended to be disgusted. ‘How dare Parker take something that wasn’t his, it wasn’t as though fae did that– oh wait.’ It was his brother’s voice that said that in his head, a comment he remembered from many years ago. His brother was more cognizant of Parker’s thoughts than the man himself was most of the time. She had said a few things he would need to address but it made more sense in his mind to go in the same order she did, regardless of how that would affect the flow of conversation. He was a state of pseudo-euphoric bliss anyway; she could turn away and storm off, horrified or furious or whatever emotions she could choose to feel and he probably wouldn’t even pursue her. “Oftentimes, I find them first.” Parker explained, his eyes now dancing over every intricate detail of the bumblebee entomid’s wings. “When they’re existing in the world. Contrary to our reputation, not all Hunters are inherently bloodthirsty and obsessed with needless killing.” He cast her a brief glance. “My brother is that way. I’m not. If a human life isn’t actively in danger or if their illicit dealings are done out of my jurisdiction, I don’t seek fae to murder. “Some of them do want to die once I relieve them of their vestigial appendages.” The man seemed to lower his head in contemplation, a strange, corrupted reverence. “Some of them die because they relentlessly push back against my–” It was then that Parker suddenly cut himself short, a sharp inhale through his pointed nose barely audible. He cleared his throat and placed his hands behind his back. “They enter a fight-or-flight mode. But I don’t prefer to kill, even when they’re actively harming society behind closed doors.” Strangely, though knowing his history would’ve told someone that this shouldn’t have been the case at all, he was telling the truth. “Not to mention violence just makes things messy and might damage them.” He inhaled deeper this time, more collected after his brief but notable verbal slip-up. Whatever Parker was going to say in that moment had managed not to leave his mind and, indeed, it was questionable whether or not whatever that thought was was still there. “How much do you think it’s worth?” He asked now, turning his steely-eyed gaze to Inge. “If you’re to be believed, and at this juncture I’ve no reason to think you a liar, then I’d wager you actually think your blood to be priceless.” He raised his eyebrows slightly. “Though for the record, I don’t regret showing you my collection.” Not that he’d ever say that he enjoyed getting to share it with someone aloud.

—

Perhaps this was more terrifying than those murderous, single-minded hunters, or maybe Inge had just grown desensitized to the notion of slayers wanting her dead. Besides, if she were to die she left nothing for them to lay claim to besides a terrifying energy in the air. And sure, there had been hunters that had been excessively cruel (the same way, some would argue, Inge was to her sleepers) and had watched her suffer rather than go for the killing blow — but this was something else. A kind of entitlement that didn’t just pertain to a life, but to body parts.

It was, in a sense, inspiring. She wasn’t easily stirred or shaken after all, but here she was, her imagination twisting the things she saw into other images. She watched Parker, listened to him speak with that cool distance and thought about how hunters hated this about her kind: how they appeared so human if they wanted to. She didn’t believe in the concept of monsters, except for the creatures she created in nightmares — but if she was to be one, then he certainly was one also. One who claimed pacifism despite the proof of his mutilations around him. “So you have a code you abide by, then.”

That was more than she could claim. Inge tried to avoid murder herself, certainly, seeing no value in letting her sleepers die (and then becoming competition) and having a few limits to what she tended to do (haunting people she knew intimately, for example, or plaguing her students with nightmares) but still. Morality was dull to her. “Well, it seems that the way you approach it all leaves you with some beautiful benefits. It is a gorgeous collection.” And it was. Things could be beautiful and terrifying all at once. She looked at him intently, trying to gauge what words he’d swallowed and why he’d done as such. “I suppose it makes sense, though, that they put up a fight, and that you give one in return.” Only part of that statement she agreed with. “I doubt you’d want someone to take your arms, but I recognize that your arms and these wings … are not the same.”

She considered that question for a moment, “Sure, my blood is priceless. Very precious to me. It is, however, much like your own: I can lose a fair bit of it and be okay.” How mortal, to let someone draw her blood. Would he check her values? It was almost amusing. “You wanted a vial, no? I’m sure I’ll live after parting with that. Compensation wise, though …” She thought, hummed a little. “Five thousand US dollars? Wired or cash, I don’t mind.” Inge looked around. “And I’d like to see your workspace. You’ve got me intrigued.”

—

“...Thank you.” Those words were very personal, very rarely said coming from him as Parker’s expression softened slightly but not because of the fondness with which he held his collection. Make no mistake, he was immensely proud of it, despite the voices of negativity, both quiet and loud. It was something he was good at, something even he could create, something even he could do when he couldn’t do anything according to his father. It was something he poured his time and effort into, something intimate. A treasure for him to clean and admire during sleepless nights. His collection was something that made him feel, that much he knew but the acknowledgment also made him feel and that was the small, priceless thing that Parker coveted more than he ever remembered until it came up. She was probably just saying that to placate him, Parker understood that almost as immediately as she said it but she said it regardless. And he fell for it regardless. She had complimented his work, even if the true beauty was in the wings themselves and he was just the tool that helped immortalize them. It was an unfair deal and a selfish hoard, inherently, but it was also an addiction that he refused to acknowledge. A machine’s drive, a hunt to chase that feeling. Five thousand dollars was her asking price and the numbers printed themselves through Parker’s mind, comparing it to things he’s sold, jobs he’s done, work, effort, labor. She was supposedly a succubus, surely her blood was worth more than that? Or perhaps she was much older than he thought and money wasn’t that big of a deal despite her saying it didn’t come cheap. He thought on it for a moment and his eyes were lifted to glance up and to the right slightly in thought. And then there was the matter of her wanting to see his workspace. He’d never allowed a non-fae to enter it before, excluding the insects but even then, most of the time he did that in the house. It was one thing to introduce her to the displays in the basement, another entirely to bring her to where he operated, where he worked the hardest on his projects. It was a private place, one he valued knowing as well as valuing that other people didn’t know where it was. Parker slowly looked over at Inge, his unblinking expression narrowing and boring into her, as though trying to perceive what intentions lay under her pale skin, her shimmery blood. The risk was greater. Was the reward worth it? Parker could just pay her now and decline her request. “How do I know you won’t use that against me.” He asked, his tone lacking accusation but the concern, subtle as it was, still tinged his flat delivery.

—

There was concern in his voice and Inge reveled in it. Not from a place of cruelty, but because in a way she felt a level of concern herself — not closely, not viscerally, but still. All around her was proof of the results of the others hard, torturous labor, the rewards he’d reaped from violent and intrusive sewing. From theft and entitlement. From being, at the end of the day, a hunter. A poacher.

Inge was a liar, and a good one at that, and this meant she assumed most others were duplicitous as well. At least in these corners of the world, where people were aware of the supernatural and didn’t mind causing harm the way some mere humans would. Perhaps Parker Wright was telling the truth, but what did it matter? He still stood among the proof of his greed and there was no way of knowing whether there were uglier intentions lying beneath his willingness to pay her. So wasn’t she the one who should be concerned?

That was why she wished to see it, why she thought this a risk worth taking. Fear and concern for her well-being were emotions Inge thought below her, but the fact that something in her had been stirred was still thrilling. Was something she wished for again. This wasn’t enough, this nicely decorated room with pretty things, this after-effect of the other’s methods and approach to his status as a hunter. This wasn’t enough to appease that part of her that needed constant shocking in order to function.

“How do I know that you will not use it against me? I hope you can appreciate the risk it might be for me to come down there and offer my blood,” she pointed out, tone calm and flat as well. What if he’d trap her with salt lines or cover the keyhole? What if he brought out an axe? What if he knew, somehow, that she’d been lying about her nature?

Maybe both their respective concern was valid, because there could be a future in which Inge used this knowledge against him. She felt no loyalty to any hunter, but for now he had two things she wanted: cold hard cash and a place that might inspire her both as an artist and nightmare creator. “There is no way to know either of us won’t use this against the other. I can tell you I have no interest in doing so — I’m here and will be there as a curious individual. Chalk it up to my demonic nature, to wish to see these things.” Sure, that made sense. It wasn’t even half a lie. “I suppose what we have to do is trust each other. Which, considering … might not be easiest. But I can assure you I have no motives besides curiosity and intrigue.”

—

There were times that Parker wondered if part of his inability to properly read other people was because of a fae’s inability to lie. They played word games, avoiding topics, opting out of certain terminology and danced through carefully-crafted sentences and structures but he could always tell when they were lying. It was a double-edged knife, a gift that harmed both of them at some point or another. Here, he wasn’t sure of her true intentions. He didn’t know if she was actually a demon, he didn’t know if this was part of some grander scheme. He didn’t know if Ingeborg was her real name. He couldn’t tell if she was lying which made both of them more human than he’d have liked as they stood in one of his troves of gilded treasures. But while Parker couldn’t tell if she was lying, what he could do was allow himself the time to do some research. He was a Warden (and a rather isolated one, at that) but he’d made and kept contact with others over the years, irritating as they were to deal with. Or perhaps he should look into an exorcist? … Or he could just consult some religious texts. In any case, the gears started turning in his head as he took three steps in one direction, then turning and taking the same three steps the other direction - a slow, steady pace back and forth, all the while keeping those blue eyes on her keenly. A deep inhale, quiet through him but lingering in the silence between them. “Very well.” Parker replied quietly. “Give me one week to gather the funds and sort my affairs.” Even as he said the words, he felt that tug of uncertainty on his mind. It was a rare feeling, one he wasn’t accustomed to and wasn’t sure how to navigate around at the best of times. “Is that agreeable to you?” He asked, watching her carefully, wondering if maybe she’d call the whole thing off so he wasn’t the one who looked like he hit his limit first.

—

His pacing made him human, fragile, interesting. Inge watched it as she herself remained still, keeping any negative emotion and worry buried deep enough where she could not reach it herself. She was not human, after all. To Parker she wasn’t even a mare — to him she was something not born human, contrary to her actual nature, so all hints at humanity were abandoned. It was how she lived plenty of days anyway. Sure, as professor Endeman she played at humanity with dedication, but it was all play.

If she had any doubts, it was mainly about her asking price. Maybe she could have asked for more, bled this hunter more dry of his funds in exchange of her blood. Blood that, admittedly, spilled pretty easy and often — no matter how precious it was to her, it wasn’t that hard to get to. But to backtrack now would be bad praxis. “Very much so,” she said, deciding to come to an agreement despite instinctual distaste at this entire ordeal. All of this came back to her main philosophy: art demanded suffering. To be comfortable with life and existence would be to lose what she was. Inge moved towards the hunter and did what she never did with his ilk: she shook his hand in agreement.

#wickedswriting #writing // The Collector's Basement #writing with // Inge #The Collector // Writing

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