#I swear to every third lawful evil god | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pamphletstoinspire · 4 years

Photo

Thirteenth Sunday After Pentecost.

by Fr. Francis Xavier Weninger, 1882

“There met Him ten men that were lepers, who stood afar off.”–Luke 17.

St. Augustine and the other holy fathers remark, that the words of the Holy Gospel are not only instructive, but that the deeds, of which mention is made, have almost always a spiritual signification.

Christ Himself gave us a manifest illustration, when, after the abundant haul of fishes He told St. Peter: That He would make him a fisher of men; also when He caused the tree to wither, because it did not bear good fruit. The holy fathers behold in the leprosy, of which the Gospel speaks several times, an image of sin. The reason for this comparison is very evident. There is a great deal of similarity between leprosy and sin which we should well consider.

Leprosy is one of those diseases which entirely disfigures the human body. It is at the same time a very contagious disease. This accounts for the precautions which the law of the Jews compelled them to take, in order to keep all those infected with leprosy at a distance from the others; on the other hand, we perceive the care and fear of those in health, not to come in contact with the diseased ones.

In the same manner, and still more frightfully, does sin disfigure the soul, and it is also very contagious. How just, therefore, is this warning: Avoid the company of sinners, especially of those sinners whose lives spread the infection by the bad example they give.

In this sermon, I will direct your attention to the kind of lepers you ought especially to avoid, lest the threat of Holy Scripture should be verified in you: With the wicked thou wilt become wicked.

Mary, protect us in our intercourse with evil men, when it is not in our power to avoid them! I speak in the most holy name of Jesus, to the greater honor of God!

Although the company of sinners, in general, is the source of many dangers, as Holy Scripture assures us, yet there is a certain class of sinners whose company is particularly injurious to us, and whom we have to shun as much as possible. The Gospel of to-day speaks of ten lepers. And I will draw your attention to ten kinds of sinners with whom intercourse must be especially avoided.

To the first class of lepers, parents themselves but too often belong. They are those parents who do not carefully instruct their children in matters of religion, who do not urge them to prayer, who do not guide them in the path of virtue, and do not give them good example; but, on the contrary, give scandal to their own family by their bad example. They are those parents who do not care for the practice of their religion, who are themselves not instructed in matters of faith, who do not pray, nor let their children pray; who, on the contrary, by cursing and swearing, teach their children even at an early age to do the same; those who eat meat on fast-days, neglect going to Mass on Sunday, do not receive Holy Communion for a number of years, ridicule the priests and the precepts of the Church in presence of their children; who encourage them by word and example to care only for the increase of their temporal possessions, to enjoy this life to its full extent; who, perhaps, by intemperance, immoral language, immodest dress, offensive demeanor, sow the seed of the vice of impurity into the hearts of their children.

Who can calculate the number of children, especially in America, that catch the leprous infection of sin from their parents, who are covered with it from head to foot! Poor children! And when it does occur that such a child approaches a priest in the Sacrament of Penance, what is more natural than that he should advise the child: Endeavor to leave your home as soon as possible?

Yes, there are actually such monsters of moral depravity, that we are obliged to exact from their adult children the promise to leave their parental roof, under pain of being refused absolution. Terrible!

To the second class of lepers belong children whose company can not be frequented by those of their own age without danger of corruption. Familiar intercourse with brother or sister may become an occasion of sin. And the same is to be said of neighbors children and school-mates. What pest-houses of leprous children the public schools are, in many instances! and what an account will parents have to render, if, without further inquiry into the state of such schools, they send their children to them!

To the third class of lepers belong those with whom,, sooner or later social relations, bring us into contact as so-called friends, comrades, partners, associates in business, who lead a sinful life.

Fourthly, the old proverb is often verified: “Tell me your company, and I will tell you who you are.” And in this respect, we ought especially to avoid the following scandal-giving sinners, namely: Willful infidels or heretics, willful contemners of the religion of Christ those who, although baptized and raised as Catholics, do not fulfill the duties of their holy religion, and encourage others, by word or example, to imitate them. To this class belong those who do not hear Mass on Sunday, never attend divine service; but, on the contrary, spend the Lord s day in idleness, in visiting ale-houses, in going out hunting, or in some diversion or other. Avoid all these.

To the fifth class belong those of other denominations, who make it a point to tempt Catholics to attend prayer-meetings or Sunday-schools, or to send their children. Beware of these.

To the sixth class belong those who are addicted to drink, and whose only thought is the gratification of their senses who pass their nights at balls, theaters, picnics, and other places of amusement. Shun these persons, and also avoid the use of intoxicating liquors of every sort.

To the seventh class belong all those who do not make their Easter duties, even if in other respects they act like Catholics, and wish to be regarded as such. They are persons who, as a rule, care only for worldly treasures and enjoyments, and who stifle Catholic life in themselves and others.

To the eighth class belong those who are wont to remain alone with persons of the opposite sex. If you wish to preserve a pure heart, whoever you are, young man or young woman, heed the following admonition, and follow it inviolably as your rule of life:

Granted that your intention is to marry, still you are never allowed to hold clandestine intercourse with persons of the opposite sex; for, as Holy Scripture assures us: “It is putting fire and straw together.” Yes, even if both parties are good and innocent, they can not allow themselves secret meetings, since these are always an occasion of sin. And grant that one does not feel any temptation whatever, still the other party may, and you will be held responsible. And when parties are already engaged, there is still more reason to urge them not to remain alone, so as not to give occasion for false suspicions and insinuations.

Finally, to the tenth, and by far the most dangerous class, belong all those who, by their words, dress, forwardness, or in any manner whatsoever are occasions of temptations against holy purity.

If you value your happiness and the salvation of your soul, shun such persons, and never allow your self, under any condition, to remain near them, or to have any intercourse with them.

Flee! Only then will you conquer, and preserve your heart pure and free from the leprosy of sin! Amen!

“Go; thy faith hath made thee whole.”–Luke 17.

What a treasure is the gift of holy faith! No doubt it is the greatest blessing which God, the Creator, has bestowed upon man, both for time and eternity. For in what darkness of spirit lives the man without faith! how weak is he in the practice of virtue! how feeble in the combat against the world, the flesh, and the devil! And, on the other hand, how brilliant the light which the sun of faith sheds upon man's path! for revelation gives him definite and satisfactory information about God, about the world–its creation, its destiny, and all that concerns us as human beings.

It is faith which clearly explains moral evil in this world, and likewise the origin and cause of all the tribulations and adversities with which we are obliged to contend during our brief and much-troubled life. And it is faith, again, which teaches us how God, in His infinite mercy, has sent us salvation through Jesus Christ.

But it is not mere faith which will save us; it is not because we professed the belief of the Catholic Church; but because we have lived according to our faith, and have performed our duties in the manner which our faith prescribes, that we shall be saved. In other words: If we, as children of the one saving Church, really wish to be saved, the words of St. Paul must be verified in us: “The just man lives by faith.” Let us to-day consider how this assertion of the Apostle is to be understood.

Mary, thou who hast believed, and whose life has been such a glorious testimony of the faith which animated thee, bless us, that we may follow thy example, and live according to our faith! I speak in the holy name of Jesus, to the greater honor of God!

I said, that the greatest blessing which the Lord has conferred upon us, and for which we can never be sufficiently grateful, is the happiness of being children of the one true Church. This is apparent from what I have remarked in the introduction, regarding the light which she imparts concerning our existence and our destiny; and because she offers us also the means to advance in the way of salvation.

This grace appears the more important and precious when we remember that, until the present time, so large a portion of mankind were deprived of it.

It is, therefore, our most sacred duty to prove our gratitude by making a proper use of the gift of faith; that, after having fought and conquered, as true children of the Church militant, we may, for all eternity, share the joy and glory of the victory with the Church triumphant.

And the better to appreciate the happiness of being called to the true, and therefore only saving Church, let us first consider the many nations that have lived in this world before the advent of Christ. The Egyptians, Persians, Greeks and Romans, under whose sway the world once trembled, were all denied the blessing to be children of the true Church.

Then, since the advent of Christ on this earth, how many millions of heathens have lived during these two thousand years that have almost passed, and how many are still living upon earth!

Furthermore, what a number of infidels, heretics, schismatics, Jews and Turks have, since the time of Christ, languished in the darkness of error! What would be our fate for all eternity if God had permitted us to be born in heathen lands, or to spend our lives among infidels?

Our Lord has chosen us to be the children of His Church, without any merit of our own. What an inducement for us to thank God, and, by our lives, to prove the sincerity of our gratitude!

What our duties are in this respect, and what God demands of us, is, that by our lives we give testimony of the truth and sanctity of our faith. If that were not the case, what would it avail us to be Catholics? Does not Christ Himself affirm, that of him “to whom much has been given, much shall be required? ” And again: “If I had not come and spoken to them, they would have no sin: but now they have no excuse for their sin.”

St. James reminds us of our duties by still more forcible language. He says: “Thou believest that there is one God. Thou dost well; the devils also believe and tremble. But wilt thou know, O vain man, that faith without works is dead?”

As to the qualities which should characterize our faith, in order that we may be saved by it, I will say: Our faith, in the first place, must be complete, which means not only that we believe all revealed truth without the admission of a willful doubt; but, more over, that we be instructed, as well as possible, in matters of faith, so that all its doctrines may be a source of enlightenment, encouragement, and consolation for us, and we may be thus enabled, when questioned by non-Catholics, to give an explanation of all the truths which our holy faith teaches, as the Christians were able to do in the time of the Apostles, and in the first centuries of Christianity.

This does not imply that we may be satisfied with the mere knowledge of the doctrines of faith, with learning them by heart, so as to fit ourselves for the reception of the Holy Sacraments; but it signifies, more over, that we must embrace every opportunity, and do our utmost to instruct others in the truths of our holy faith, and thus to bring them also to a knowledge of the same. But how small is the number of the Christians that do this! Many who call themselves Catholics are only superficially instructed in the doctrines of their Church, and hence can not do this. For this reason, every one should seek the company of the well-in-structed, and also accept the assistance which is offered him by the numerous books and pamphlets published for this purpose.

In the second place, ours must be a faith which enlightens; that is to say, not a faith in the letter of revelation; but one whose light clearly indicates the way of salvation, and which enables us to discern the particular state to which God has called us, and the means which He has given us, according to our vocation, that as children of God, we may serve Him and be made happy.

It must, likewise, be a living faith, an active faith, replete with the love of God and our neighbor. The first thing necessary in this respect, and which will prove that our faith is active, is, that the considerations of the truths of our holy faith incite us to use all means to preserve our souls free from the leprosy of sin. If all sins and vices, even when viewed in the light of reason, seem so detestable, how much more when we regard the capital sins of pride, covetousness, anger, envy, enmity, dissension, gluttony and lust, in the light of faith; and when we consider how much our Lord has suffered for us, to save us from the evil of sin, and regard the means He has left us for this purpose, in His Church, by the institution of the Sacraments! Who does not see from this, how abominable is sin in a child of the Church contemning all this, and how great therefore will be the extent of the punishment which awaits him in eternity?

That our faith may lead us to salvation, it must also be a sanctifying faith; first, as regards ourselves, that it urge us to follow in the footsteps of Christ and his saints, by the zealous practice of Christian virtues, for which the Church has provided us with so many and so efficacious means. But it must also be sanctifying with regard to others, in compliance with the advice of Christ: “So let your light shine before men that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father Who is in heaven,” that they may be induced to profess the true faith, and to live according to it.

Finally, our faith must be firm and constant, that we may ever be prepared to sacrifice all, even life itself, in defense of our belief.

Examine, question yourself, whether these are the qualities of your faith. Are you thoroughly instructed, devoid of sin, actuated with a desire for holiness; and, at the same time, firm and constant in the practice of virtue? If not, then you are in a pitiable condition; perhaps infidels and heretics are then leading a far better life than you; then I fear Christ will one day, as your Judge, pronounce this sentence against you: Depart from me; your faith condemns you; because you have professed Me with your lips, but by your life you have denied Me! Amen!

General Confession by Fr. Johann Evangelist Zollner, 1883 “Go, show yourselves to the priests.”–Luke, 17: 14.

In the Old Testament, all lepers who had been cleansed from leprosy, either in a natural way or by a miracle, were to be examined by the priests, whose duty it was to declare them clean. Before this declaration had been made they were considered unclean, and were obliged to abstain from all intercourse with the healthy. In the New Testament, all Christians who are contaminated with the spiritual leprosy of sin, must show themselves to the priests, that is, they must confess to them their sins, that they may not only be declared clean, but that they may be really cleansed; for sacramental confession is the means ordained by Christ for the remission of sins. We may distinguish confession as ordinary and extraordinary. The ordinary confession consists in accusing ourselves of the sins committed since our last confession; the extraordinary confession is that which extends itself over the sins of the whole life, or of a great part of it. As this extraordinary or general confession is very important, eternal salvation even sometimes depending upon it, I shall speak of it today, and answer the three following questions:

I. To whom is a general confession necessary? II. To whom it is useful? III. When is a general confession necessary?

Part I.

A general confession is necessary whenever the previous confessions were invalid; for invalid confessions cannot be rectified and amended in any other way than by a repetition of them, i.e., by a new confession of the sins already confessed. There are six classes to whom a general confession is necessary for salvation.

1. The first class comprises those who through shame or fear conceal a sin which they know to be mortal, or in regard to the mortal character of which they entertain at least grave doubts. Every confession in which a mortal sin is knowingly and willfully concealed is invalid. The same holds good of confessions in which the number of mortal sins is not truthfully given, or purposely diminished, or in which essential circumstances which change the nature of sin are left out. He who, for instance, says that he committed the vice of impurity three times, knowing that he committed it oftener, confesses invalidly. If a married person has sinned carnally with a single person, and does not add that he or she is married, his or her confession is also invalid, provided he or she purposely conceals this circumstance. All those who have concealed anything that should have been confessed, have confessed invalidly; and if they wish to save their souls, nothing remains but that they repeat their confessions, i.e., make a general confession.

2. The second class comprises those who leave out mortal sins or aggravating circumstances, or such as change the kind of sin; because they either do not examine their conscience at all, or examine it only superficially. Every penitent must diligently examine his conscience and spend as much time in the examination as is requited for the knowledge of the sins committed, together with their number and circumstances. He who on account of a totally neglected or very careless examination of conscience does not perceive what he is bound to confess, and therefore does not confess it, receives the Sacrament of Penance sacrilegiously, and his confession is as invalid as if he had knowingly concealed some sin. For this reason all those who confess only once a year are in danger of making sacrilegious confessions. As they mostly live in thoughtlessness and forgetfulness of salvation, they ought, in order to overlook nothing, to examine their conscience very carefully, but this they frequently neglect; they think only superficially and hastily of their sins; and the whole business of the examination of conscience is done in a few minutes. How is it possible in such a way to come to the knowledge of all the sins which a man has committed in the space of a year? Hence it is that many confessions are invalid from the want of a proper examination of conscience. Now all these invalid confessions must be repeated and rectified by a general confession.

3. The third class comprises those who at confession have no true contrition for their sins. Most of the invalid confessions that are made, are perhaps so made from the want of contrition. How many are there who are not sorry at all for having offended God! They confess from habit; they do not detest their sins in the least, nor do they change the disposition of their mind. How many are there whose contrition is not universal! They are infected with certain favorite sins, to which they cling with all their soul, and from which they will not detach themselves. How many are there whose contrition is not supernatural! They are not grieved on account of their sins, but on account of temporal loss, temporal shame and punishment. All these confess invalidly, because they lack true contrition; and they must repair these bad confessions by a general confession.

4. The fourth class comprises those who make no firm resolution of amendment. This resolution is a necessary consequence of contrition, and is therefore absolutely necessary for the forgiveness of sin. He who is not resolved not to offend God, at least by mortal sin, confesses invalidly. And from the want of this firm resolution many invalid confessions are made. If you never show an amendment of life; if shortly after confession you fall back into your former vices of unchaste conversation, of fornication, of drunkenness, of cursing and swearing, it is most assuredly a sign of a want of a firm purpose of amendment.

5. The fifth class comprises those who after confession are not willing to shun the proximate occasion of sin, which they could shun, and who did not employ the necessary means of amendment. Contrition and an earnest resolution are most assuredly wanting to such penitents; for if they really hate and detest their sins and are willing to amend their lives, they will gladly make use of the means which are required for that amendment, and which are a preventive against relapse. Those who by experience know that whenever they enter a saloon they become intoxicated, and who yet continue to frequent them; also those who fall repeatedly into sin with a person of the opposite sex, and yet continue to live under the same roof; those who make no use of the remedies prescribed by their confessor as absolutely necessary for an amendment of life, confess invalidly, and can find grace with God only by a general confession and amendment of life.

6. The sixth class comprises those who make no restitution of ill-gotten goods, nor repair damages inflicted on others, who practice injustices and impositions in business transactions, and continue them after confession; and lastly, all those who, living in enmity, refuse to be reconciled with their neighbor.

Now examine your conscience and see if you do not find sufficient reason to doubt the validity of some of your former confessions, from failure to comply with the conditions necessary for the forgiveness of sin. If you do, go, show yourselves to the priests, and make a general confession.

Part II.

A general confession is useful and advisable to all those who have never made one. This is a rule admitting of few exceptions.

1. General confession is one of the principal means to obtain a true knowledge of the state of your soul. “If you set a forest on fire on all sides,” says Blessed Leonard of Port Maurice, “you will be surprised at seeing how great a multitude of wild beasts, wolves, bears and foxes were hidden in its coverts.” You witness a similar effect when you make a general confession, by which you set your conscience on fire on all sides. How great may appear the multitude of sins concealed from you heretofore! Many Christians who resolved to make a general confession only as an act of devotion, avow after its performance that they discovered sins and causes of uneasiness of which they had never thought before.

2. By general confession our heart becomes more contrite. In an ordinary confession our contrition is seldom very profound, because we do not know ourselves to be guilty of many and grievous sins. But it is different in a general confession. We see all the wild beasts of our sins, the monsters of our own soul, on the path of our past life, from our childhood to this day. This bewildering sight urges us to sigh with King Esdras: “My God, I am confounded, and ashamed to lift up my face to thee; for our iniquities are multiplied over our heads; and our sins are grown up even unto heaven (1 Esdras, 9: .6).” But the greater our contrition, the greater is our certainty of a worthy reception of the Sacrament of Penance and the more abundant the sacramental graces, so that we may obtain even the release of all or nearly all the temporal punishment due to our past sins.

3. The result of a general confession is also that we make firmer purposes of amendment than is the case in ordinary confessions. He who once resolves to make a general confession, has also the earnest will to amend his life and from henceforth to be solicitous for the salvation of his soul. This resolution is still more increased when, in the course of the general confession, we come to a clear knowledge of our sins and see how often and how grievously we have offended God; how ungrateful we have been to him for all his graces and benefits; and in what peril our salvation has been. And if then we receive the priest's absolution of all the sins of our past life, shall not this be a motive for us to remain faithful to our promises?

History and experience prove that a general confession is one of the most effectual means for a thorough and permanent change of life. How many sinners who confessed for years and always relapsed into their former sins, have amended their life after a general confession! And how many of them have by their penitential fervor reached a high degree of holiness! Even some of them, who after a general confession relapsed, rose again from their fall, for conscience gave them no peace till they resolved by a sincere confession to be reconciled again with God. Hence it is that most penitents date their conversion from the time of their general confession.

4. From this it follows that a general confession is the source of great inward peace. William, Duke of Aquitaine, after he had made his general confession to St. Bernard, felt a sweet peace and heavenly joy, such as he had never before experienced in the midst of all the joys and pleasures of the world. In like manner does every sinner, in consequence of a sincere general confession, experience the delight of heart which King David felt when he exclaimed: ”How lovely are thy tabernacles, O Lord of hosts! my soul longeth and fainteth for the courts of the Lord. Better is one day in thy courts above thousands in the pleasures of the world (Ps. 83: 2-11).”

5. Finally, by a general confession the salvation of our soul is made more secure. Suppose that you have not been careless in your former confessions, as many lukewarm Christians are, you do not know whether you have every time complied with the conditions which are required for a valid confession. At all events, it might be possible that in some of your former confessions you may not have sufficiently examined your conscience, may have had no true contrition with a firm purpose of amendment, or may have concealed something which you were bound to confess. In such a case you have confessed invalidly, and therefore all your subsequent confessions have been invalid. Do you not then act more securely when you make a general confession? Would it not be criminal negligence for you to neglect the many opportunities which are afforded you for making a general confession, and without such a confession to pass into eternity? The solicitude to secure their salvation as much as possible and to die quietly is one, of the principal motives why all good Christians make a general confession. A general confession, therefore, is necessary and advisable to all Christians who have never made one.

Part III.

When is a general confession necessary?

1. It is necessary for every one who earnestly resolves to amend his life. Without such a resolution no confession is valid, whether it be an ordinary or a general confession. He who makes a general confession must be determined at any cost to shun evil inclinations, to put off sinful habits, and to lead a penitential life, because otherwise the general confession would be invalid. Every sinner has days and hours in which he deeply feels the misery of his sins and is urged to put an end to this misery. These are days and hours of grace, which God gives to man to save his soul. The sinner must make good use of these times of grace; for if he permits them to pass by without a thorough confession, he runs the risk of dying impenitently and of being delivered to eternal perdition.

2. When one changes his state of life; especially those who enter into matrimony. Most young people do not comply with the duties of this state as they ought; they live heedlessly, yield to many excesses, and confess often invalidly for the want of contrition or resolution or sincerity. How ill would it be with them if they should enter into matrimony without a general confession! They would begin that state with a triple sacrilege, therefore not with God, but with the devil. What can be expected from such a matrimony? How can it be expected of such married people to live contentedly and happily together, fullfil their duties and endeavor with their children to increase the number of the elect? It is therefore necessary for all those who enter into the nuptial state, to make a general confession before they receive the Sacrament of Matrimony.

3. When one retires from business to rest. Many Christians in their business life think little of God and the salvation of their souls; they accommodate themselves to the principles of the world, and burden their conscience with many sins; what can be more advisable on retiring from active business life than to make a general confession, in order to set the affairs of their conscience in order, and to devote the time of rest to the atonement of their sins and to the preparation for a good death?

4. At the time of a mission or a Jubilee. At such a time many spiritual exercises are performed; the word of God is preached frequently and forcibly and the faithful are earnestly exhorted to renew themselves in spirit and to bring forth fruits worthy of penance. The confessors have at the time of a Jubilee or mission greater faculties than at other times; they can especially absolve from all cases reserved to the Pope, with only a few exceptions. Moreover, God imparts at such times greater graces to sinners, often even extraordinary graces, which he is not wont to give at other times. What important reasons then have all who never made a general confession, to make it and to set the business of their salvation in order. He who suffers such times of grace to pass without profiting by them exposes himself to the danger of persevering in sin and of dying a bad death. This is corroborated by history and experience.

5. Finally at the hour of death. It is assuredly not wise to defer the general confession to the death-bed, for no one knows whether he will then be able to confess. Death may overtake him suddenly, or he may lose his senses and speech, when confession becomes impossible. Christians who are solicitous for the salvation of their soul do not defer their general confession to their death-bed. If it should, however, be the case that one never made a general confession in his life, he should do it at least on his death-bed, for, as already remarked, no one should go out of this world without having made a general confession.

Peroration.

After having explained to you why a general confession is necessary, useful and advisable, and at what times such a confession should be made, I conclude my instruction with a history of a certain nobleman who, in his youth lived a careless life, but having entered into himself, made a spiritual retreat and a very good general confession after it. After this confession he experienced sweet peace and heavenly joy; and as often as he thought of it, tears of joy trickled down his cheeks. Coming to his death-bed after a few years, he said to those who stood around his bed: “I would have perished eternally if I had not made a general confession. When I think of that confession, it appears to me to be a letter of introduction into heaven.” A quarter of an hour before he died he requested one of the attendants to read for him the good resolutions which he had made at his general confession and which he had written down. At the reading of each of these resolutions joy beamed from his face, for he had faithfully kept them, and thus he died with all the signs of a good death. Go and do likewise; make a good general confession, keep the promises and resolutions which you make, serve God with fidelity, and you will die well and be saved. Amen.

#13th sunday after pentecost

2 notes · View notes

anuschkalova · 5 years

Text

Salvation (Jeremiah x Reader)

Requested by anon: can i request a post-spray (crazy?) jeremiah x reader based on the song chills by down with webster?

Pairing: Jeremiah Valeska x Reader

Word count: 1,878

The dark zone was comparable to a tumor - destructive and toxic, with a insatiable appetite for the innocents. Growing day by day, spreading the deadly madness by infected minds, Gotham was helpless against Jeremiah’s power.

The lost connection to mainland had turned the city into a place of pure chaos. It was satisfaction that ran through your veins as you stood on the church’s roof and admired the city’s downfall.

Pitch-black smoke, echos of gunfire mixed with the desperate screams of murder victims - the combination was enchanting. The GCPD has lost the fight, Gotham had finally fallen and was now ready to be reborn.

You had joined Jeremiah shortly after a burglar cut your parents’s throats one night. While you sat in the waiting area of the GCPD, a rather disinterested looking officer approached you.

„Y/N Y/L/N?“, he called your name and you jumped up.

„That’s me! I’m here because of the murder of…-“ But the man just waved his hand to hush you.

„Yeah, I know. Well…“, he said and briefly looked over the file in his hands, „… we found no fingerprints at the crime scene. Case closed.“ His monotone words hurt like a resounding slap.

„There were no police officers at my home, no one investigated the bedroom and-!“

„Listen up, doll. We have a lot of cases to handle that are way more important, okay?“

More important. That are way more important.

Two people had died, honest citizens of Gotham City that had paid their rents in time and worked in voluntary capacity.

It was the third time that week in which your case got denied.

You wanted to scream, to push and punch the emotionless visage of the man in front of you that showed zero sympathy nor dedication.

Anger spread across your body like a wildfire, making your cheeks burn and your heart beat twice its regular pace. You were sure that lava had replaced your blood and just as you raised your burning hand to hit the officer, another one screamed intently: „That maniac is in front of the building! Jeremiah Valeska!“

All of a sudden, everybody left their desks to storm outside. And even the bored office seemed tensed as he passed you. Without thinking twice, you followed the crowed to spot a group of people that stood erectly in line, all armored like soldiers. Their faces painted in white, they firmly yelled „Jeremiah! Jeremiah!“ after the man in front of them had spoken to Harvey Bullock.

I fell, like soldiers on the front line Under your spell, in the magic you inspire Every farewell, sets me on fire And I find it all so funny, Like a joke without a punchline

It was your first encounter with Jeremiah, a decree of fate that would change your life.

He then pushed the button in his hand and the Gotham Clock Tower, the solid huge building that stood there since your birth and long before, exploded and collapsed like a house of cards. And as the bricks and steel case crumbled down, your faith in justice did as well.

Gotham deserved it.

This rotten city deserved every god damn bloody attack to force its corrupt law on their knees. A smile formed on your lips that day.

You climbed down the roof and entered the prayer room through the broken window. Countless corpses covered the floor, stacked over one another, but you walked over the meaty pile recklessly, lighting one of the many shrines.

„How virtuous“, Jeremiah’s voice resonated from behind and you shuddered. The little flame of the candle danced raptly as his foot steps approached you. His hand touched your cheek to wipe away the blood stains of your last victim. Jeremiah let his gaze casually glide over the dead bodies before he spoke.

„You take your job very seriously“, he remarked and you nodded.

„Of course. Loyalty is best shown with a gun pressed against your head“, you purred, the memory made your eyes sparkle in excitement.

Jeremiah copied your smirk and while he rewarded you with his deep intense stare, he licked the blood off of his fingers.

My heart's racing, trying to catch up to you, The light that you let off is gold I can't shake this feeling it fills the room, These chills didn't come from the cold They came from you They came from you

With his hand around your waist, Jeremiah guided you down to the underground where his adherents, the ones you had chosen to be worthy, carried heavy boulders. The tunnel was doing great and you felt proud.

Jeremiah inspected the progress while you admired his stern face. His pale skin and sharp jawline lured you into the illusion that his head was made of marble. And like stone, his skin felt cold as you brushed your fingertips against his cheek.

„Do you need more workers?“, you asked.

Jeremiah, who elegantly turned around to face you, greeted you with hungry eyes. „Oh, I need so much more…“

Whatever it was, you were more than willing to get it for him, because he was the one who had opened the door of your cage. Who’d opened your eyes.

Now, you were finally free like a bird, spreading your black wings to fulfill his visions.

Suddenly, a piercing scream echoed from the tunnel and a man walked out with a limp. The fabric of his left pant leg was soaked in blood and a hole exposed the ugly flesh wound.

„Help me!“, the man whined and fell on his knees, screaming again.

He then crawled over to Jeremiah and grabbed his ankles. The man’s dirty hands stained the pearly-white socks, but Jeremiah didn’t move an inch.

Instead, he raised his chin to shot you a glance, one that hit like a whiplash and caressed you feathery, all at the same time. Automatically, you knew what to do as you pulled out the gun, a xx, and pressed it against the man’s forehead.

„Please“, he tried to swayed you, but it was too late. The bullet bored itself through his brain and killed the poor man instantly. His lifeless body collapsed on the ground and Jeremiah stepped over it, releasing a deep theatrical sigh.

„What a shame.“

All the workers who’d witnessed the incident became silent. The air felt heavier than before, the smell of death and fear lingered around and no one dared to say a word. They were afraid - the craziness in your pretty eyes was reason enough to shut their mouths.

„Get him to the stove“, Jeremiah commanded and two men put the dead body in a wheelbarrow to get him out. By now, this had become a regular procedure.

„Inability is not acceptable“, Jeremiah spoke up, pacing slowly forward to meet the tensed faces of his workers. „We have a strict schedule and incompetence, my dear fellows, will be punished.“

I hear your voice like an ocean, Washing over me I'm frozen stuck in time. And I swear, I never seen the likes of you before. And I promise this ain't difficult, doesn't happen every night

His voice was like a drug. Like sweet wine, you would savor every drop of it, capture every single vibration.

While every men within whose stonewalls met Jeremiah’s face with horror, it was pure admiration that he spotted on you. True love hidden in your eyes that put an evil smirk on Jeremiah’s lips.

Lips that rewarded your loyalty at that night.

Gotham might had become a place like hell, but every time your lover’s lips touched your skin - it was heaven.

„Tell me…“, Jeremiah whispered against your naked stomach and you shuddered.

„How far would you go for me?“

The question was too easy. „I would do everything for you“, you replied honestly, closing your eyes and sighing in pleasure as his cold hands caressed your sides. Every touch ignited a little fire on your already burning skin.

„Good“, he said. „And would you die for me?“

This time, you opened your eyes to look at Jeremiah. He was sitting next to you on the bed, his green eyes gleaming in the dark as he stared at you.

„Yes.“

A small sound, comparable to a moan, escaped his throat.

„Proof it.“ His command caught you off guard. In the next moment, you sat up straight, covering your naked upper body with the old bedcover.

„Don’t be afraid, dear…“, he hissed and leaned closer. His pupils were dilated, sparkling black in the weak moonlight.

Suddenly, you were his prey; being trapped by his towering figure and intense glare. It made you feel helpless, small, vulnerable and so much aroused.

Before you could react, Jeremiah sneaked his right hand under his jacket and the slowly revealed gun took your breath away.

„Take it“, he softly instructed and you obeyed. With the gun in your hand, Jeremiah let his eyes absorb the delicious sight in front if him - a sight for the gods. Your exquisite obedience befuddled his mind better than any expensive whisky.

You raised the gun, the sweet weight of it sending chills down your spine. The closer you guided the weapon to your head, the wider Jeremiah’s smile grew - until it turned into an evil grin.

Soon, the gun’s muzzle was pressed against your temple and you waited for his next words. For his final order.

„Look at you…“, Jeremiah said, running his hand through your hair. He touched your cheek and a muffled moan escaped your lips as his thumb entered your mouth forcefully. Without missing a beat, you stared to suck.

„. so good.“ His praise fueled your devotedness. Sucking harder, you closed your eyes and found your inner peace. Your life belonged to Jeremiah.

You knew, the moment you’d taken his hand the first time you saw him in front of the GCPD building, that you’d sold your soul to the devil. He saved you. He made you. He owned you.

A quiet chuckle caused your eyes to open. Jeremiah was ecstatic. His exaggerated smile looked painful, but it was the dripping madness in his striking green orbs that made you swallow.

„Tick tock“, he cut the silence and pulled his thumb out of your mouth. „It’s time, little bird.“

You nodded.

He watched intensely as you cocked the gun; the clicking noise released an overdoses of adrenaline in your veins. Your heart was beating like crazy as you hung on Jeremiah’s every word.

Then, his features turned dead serious. He slowly put his head back, taking a deep breath. It looked like he prayed, muttering unintelligible words under god’s roof. But he didn’t.

No, because god didn’t exist. Gotham was bleeding - criminals ran the city, people had no homes and died of hunger. The only god that watched over this lost city was Jeremiah himself.

Seconds passed, but you waited patiently - until he lowered his head again to look at you.

„Do it“, he whispered and you gulped.

„Do it!“, Jeremiah yelled.

Your eyes widened, hand shaking as you realized that there was no going back. With blood running cold, you finally pulled the trigger.

Bang.

My world came crashing down right under you, These chills didn't come from the cold, They came from you.

#jeremiah valeska #jeremiah x reader #jeremiah x you #Gotham #gotham season 5 #cameron monaghan #cameron monaghan x reader #Crime #fanfiction #request

55 notes · View notes

ryanmeft · 4 years

Text

Movie Review: A Hidden Life

“You have to remember what you knew in a better hour.” So speaks Franz Jagerstatter, as he is held behind the walls of a Third Reich prison and heaped with endless emasculation and abuse for refusing to swear loyalty to Adolph Hitler, or fight in the German army. Before even being marched through the prison doors he has suffered much. His hometown spits at his feet, snubs his children and insults his wife. His own mother struggles to look at him. No one can be found to help with the work and so the days are long and full of toil. Those better hours seem few and far away. Yet they are there, in his mind.

Jagerstatter was a very real person. His film self, played with both stoic determination and singular emotion by August Diehl, is a typical Austrian peasant of the late 30’s. The film jumps around in time a bit, and we see him meet and steal the heart of Franziska (Valerie Pachner). They have three children, and they spend their days working the farm, helping their neighbors, playing games, and flowing with the cadences of everyday life in a rural Austrian mountain town. Franz reports for mandatory training with the army, but at the time thinks little of it: war is far away, and they are guarded from it by their hills like mountains and mountains that reach beyond measure. The Austrian landscapes have inspired many myths, and among them they build their own small-but-important one: that the war can be held off, that they can be happy. Franz and Franziska know, though, that sooner or later Franz will be called. As surely as they know this, Franz knows he cannot serve. It is against God and Jesus and the spirit of his own culture, but more importantly it is against him, for when the Nazis come to punish anyone who will not submit to their will, it is Franz, not his culture or his faith, which must take the blows.

Terence Malick has never made a film quite like A Hidden Life. Certainly, the impressions of his handprints are to be found, and in abundance. The camera relishes low shots of faces that tower above it, frequently contemplates the surroundings of the people and the untranslatable power of nature, and virtually all of the dialogue is thought, rather than spoken. Yet it has been the filmmaker’s modus operandi to exist within dreams---dreams based on his life, sometimes, but most often dreams based on a shared collective American consciousness. Tree of Life captured the small details of life in the American Heartland circa mid-century; The New World retold an essential American myth in Malick’s patented cinematic language. None of his films have ever been very concerned with linear plot, have never deigned to be constrained with reality, and certainly have always floated above physical pain---his characters drift and never touch the ground even when fallen, something his fans call genius and his detractors call tedium.

We may be surprised, therefore, to find this latest film prefaced by something we’ve never seen in a Malick picture before: that this story is based on true events. I settled into that idea, but I admit I inwardly scoffed at it. I was certain that when I left the theatre and did my research for this review, I would find there were not a few dissenters from the Nazis, that they were treated as terribly as might be expected, and that perhaps the general cadences of Franz’s lifestyle were true to the time. Instead I found that Malick, a man whose wandering mind and frequent cinematic deviations are core to his artistic identity, had stuck remarkably close to Franz’s true story. His identity, and his wife’s, were accurate. He did have three children. He was born and lived where the movie has him living. He trained on the bases where he trains, and even the specific prisons he was placed in are accurate.

One question I had was, why the attention to accuracy, when his fans would have forgiven him any transgressions---and indeed would likely never have known of them, since if you are seeing a Malick movie you’re there for the director and not the subject? The answer is that in every other respect than historical details, Malick has made a Malick film. If every daily movement and every minor character were found to be meticulously researched, it would still be true that Malick has painted them with the soaring brushstrokes of myth and timelessness, rather than the workmanlike attention to dry biographical detail that usually gets in the way of a good story in such films.

The first example of this is Franz himself. What he went through is true. The version of him seen on screen, though, is a deep philosopher, a man of very long thoughts who seems to contain the entire national identity of Austria in his heart, and who can look at a man and disassemble them into the things that make them tick, understanding the nature of everyone around him in moments. The real man left behind little writing and certainly never composed anything so grand as the musings given to him; most of what we can know is from the memories of his wife, who lived for decades after Franz’s death. The man seen on screen is a mixture of the real Franz---a simple man who could not tolerate evil nor make concessions for it, and who followed his convictions to the end---and the thoughts Malick has on this. Franz-Malick’s internal monologues are wide-ranging. He muses on the struggle to remain true in a world where ethics can be bought, sold and traded. He ponders the nature of God and how men can possibly tell themselves that such a being would condone hate and death. He gazes at the beauty of the land he is a part of and ponders how small he is in it. He has incredible faith in the basic good nature of people. When the local representative of the church (the late Michael Nyqvist in his final role) insists Franz must do his duty to the fatherland, Franz believes he is only afraid to publicly display his resistance. The audience is, I think, rather more doubtful.

These are themes that have animated most of Malick’s films. In some cases they are spoken out loud by tertiary characters. A church painter (Johan Leysen) decorates the local church with idealized images of Christ and Mary, but laments that he has not the courage to display their sufferings as they really were---someday, he says, he might. The local mayor (Martin Wuttke, who also played Hitler in Inglourious Basterds) is a hateful, drunken windbag who goes on long tirades against immigrants and Jews; since the horrors are taking place far from the village, he serves to give presence to the terrors Franz is rejecting. Complications and dissenting opinions are expressed by his mother (Karin Neuhauser), who cares little for current events but seems to believe Franz should serve as his father did, and his sister-in-law (Maria Simon), who both admires his courage and dislikes him personally, suggested to be because her own life has not gone the way she wished it. Matthias Schoenaerts and the late Bruno Ganz play representatives of whatever the Nazis have that passes as a justice system; they say mildly sympathetic things and Franz believes on some level they are hearing what he is saying with his protest, but ultimately they are indicative of the fact that when faced with evil, most people will go along.

God is mentioned often, for Franz Jagerstatter was a devout Catholic. The landscapes and beauty of Austria are an equal focal point. These two things seem to instill in Franz a powerful sense of something larger than himself---that if he should give in, he will have to answer not only to his maker but to the very land whose air he breathes and which the Nazis are despoiling. Jorg Widmer’s camera, certainly at Malick’s insistence, lingers on shots of the battered church as it does on towering mountains capped with snow and running with tiny waterfalls. It also takes time to lovingly film everyday activities---Franz and Franziska playing a game of cups and blindfolds with the children, a dirt-encrusted hand stroking Franziska’s pristine golden hair in a moment of emotional distress, a black shawl against the frigid mountain snows, the rhythmic patterns of bringing in the crops and keeping the buildings repaired. The movie, early on, exults in shots of the towering and majestic. As hate grips the village, it closes in, and in the first scene where the mayor goes on a bigoted rant while Franz maintains silence, it eventually squeezes the two men into a small alley, the wonder of nature compressed by hatred into a small world where a man can find little hope. Yet as Franz’s world contracts, his hope strengthens. The real man held onto something indescribable, and Malick has captured that something for us---at least, as much as film ever can.

Verdict: Must-See

Note: I don’t use stars, but here are my possible verdicts.

Must-See

Highly Recommended

Recommended

Average

Not Recommended

Avoid like the Plague

You can follow Ryan's reviews on Facebook here:

https://www.facebook.com/ryanmeftmovies/

Or his tweets here:

https://twitter.com/RyanmEft

All images are property of the people what own the movie.

#terence malick #a hidden life #movies #michael nyqvist #bruno ganz #august diehl #valerie pachner

17 notes · View notes

calpalirwin · 4 years

Text

Evil Author Day #5

My parts of the (really long) brain child with @baldcalum. Maybe one day we’ll finish it. Who knows.

~Shay

March 2020~

“Hey, Raz, turn on the radio station that’s downstairs,” I said, peeking my head in her office at 8:55 on the dot, just like I did every morning.

“Why?” my business partner, roommate, and best friend asked me. I knew she had gotten here at 8 am on the dot, liking having the office to herself before the day started. I kept telling her to start coming in with me- New York was full of creeps and weirdos- but she was stubborn. And I couldn’t exactly argue with her, as I too, traveled to and from work by myself. No, we could handle ourselves just fine, thanks.

“5SOS interview today,” I told her simply as I shrugged off my jacket and draped it over my arm

“Oh, that’s today?” she asked, her eyes going wide in excitement.

“Yep,” I grinned, before heading to my own office. We had been hoping to snag 5SOS as a client when we started our business 2 years ago. We had our- less than pleasant- opinions about their current management and thought we could be the change they needed in order for their band to go from punk kids out of Sydney to the talented rock band of grown men they actually were. After all, who better to understand the struggle to be taken seriously than 2 women with their own management company in the Big Apple?

As I leaned back in my desk chair, I let my mind take me back in time to when I had first met the woman in the office next door to mine.

~~~

~June 2015~

“Alright, so your big project for this class is a business plan. You will work in pairs of 2. There is a rubric online for you to follow, but the better thought out the plan, the better the grade. Any questions?”

I rolled my eyes and put up my hand. There was no way I wasn’t going to at least try and see if I could do this project myself. Anything to get out of dreaded partner/group work. “Yes?” The professor asked, and I couldn’t tell if she was looking at me or the girl next me to me, who also had her hand up.

“Can we work alone?” we both asked at the same time.

The professor looked at us both and smiled one of those smiles that made me curl my hand into a fist. I knew what was coming. “If you’re both so inclined to work alone, maybe you should partner up.”

I suppressed the sigh and accompanying eye roll as I turned in my seat to get a better look at my partner. If I had to guess I would’ve pegged her as a bright-eyed freshman straight out of high school, probably a fashion major from the way she was dressed. I suppressed yet another eye roll. Could you die from rolling your eyes too much? Eh, whatever. A business plan was child’s play to my own plans. If little fashionista wanted to prove herself with yet another clothing line, I’m sure I had some old shit lying around we could tweak up.

“Raz,” the girl whispered, a terra-cotta hand reaching out to shake my tawny one.

“Shay,” I whispered back, shaking the offered hand, before turning back to pay attention to the same old first day lecture I’ve heard a thousand times before.

“Hey, wait up!”

“What?” I said, my hand pushing my way out of the building, my foot sticking out to hold the door open for the voice behind me.

“We should probably arrange something so we can meet and do this project,” Raz demanded, hands going to her hips.

I made a face before gesturing at the building behind us. “It’s not like I’m hard to find.” Seriously, a 3 hour class that met 4 days a week? Why was I doing this to myself again? Because you broke up with your boyfriend and have nothing better to do? Shut up!

“Still though. I want a good grade on this assignment.”

“You and me both, kid. Relax, it’ll get done.”

“Kid?”

“Yeah. You’re like what? 12?”

“I’m 18, asshole.”

“My point exactly. Look, this isn’t my first business plan, alright? I know what they’re looking for on these assignments. Just tell me what you want so I can show you what I have next class, alright? Enjoy your day, kid,” I smirked before walking off.

“Hey, where are you going?!”

I stopped in my tracks, wheeling to face the younger girl once more. “Work. God damn…” Then, I started walking again, calling out to her as I did so, “walk and talk, kid, walk and talk.”

“You work?” She fell into pace with me.

“Yeah cuz that’s what adults do!” I said in an obnoxiously cheery voice.

“Would you cut the crap, already? We’re like the same age.”

“False,” I corrected. “I’m a 21 year old with a minor in business. You’re an 18 year old freshman who’s about to get your world rocked when you finally realize that you're not special. You’re just a regular fish in the same boring ass pond as the rest of us.”

“So, what are you doing taking a business course if you already graduated?”

“Killing time until law school,” I shrugged.

“Oh, that’s cool. What do you do for work?”

“I’m an assistant at a law firm downtown. They offered me a job after my internship with them. Pays well and they work around my schooling.”

“And they let you dress like that?” she asked, eyeing my outfit of sneakers, jeans, a t-shirt, and a hat covering up my short hair.

“No, I’m going home to change first.”

“Oh, cool, I’m going to the dorms, too.”

“I don’t live in the dorms. I have an apartment. Law student, remember?”

“Oh, cool we can work there instead.”

This kid would not quit! I liked it. “Alright,” I said, pulling out my phone. “Put in your number. I’ll text you when I’m off work. And please, just put your name. No weird shit with emojis.”

“You better text me,” she muttered, putting in her number and handing me back my phone.

“I will, relax,” I told her, allowing myself to smile at her.

~~~

“Yeah, you know, we’re in our twenties now. Mike’s getting married. We’re growing up and we want our music to show that,” Ashton’s voice said through the radio. “We just want to be true to who we are both individually and as a band.”

I shut off my radio. This was it. My moment. “I’m going down there,” I said, poking my head in Raz’s office.

“Relax, Shay. At least wait for the interview to be done.”

“Are you coming or not?” I asked, already making my way out of the office.

“Alright, alright,” she said, getting up from her own desk and following me. “Shit, business cards!” she said, once we were in the elevator, a hand clapping around her pockets.

“I got it,” I said, pulling a few out of my own pocket.

“What would I do without you?” she smiled.

“Playing ‘What If’ is a fool’s game,” I smiled back as the elevator doors opened.

“You ladies going down?” Luke Hemmings asked with a heavy accent.

I shared a look with Raz before thanking whatever forces were behind this perfect timing.

“Yeah,” I answered, keeping my voice steady as I stuck out my arm to hold the elevator. “C’mon,” I said as the 4 members of 5SOS crowded in around us. Small, one syllable words. Don’t fuck this up.

“Lobby or parking garage?” Raz asked them, a small squeak in her voice that was undetectable to the untrained ear. She was nervous. I was nervous. This was crazy! But we had learned to keep our wits about us long ago. Our nerves were undetectable to anybody but each other.

“Parking garage,” Calum Hood said, reaching a tanned and tattooed arm across her shoulder to hit the button. “Thanks, loves.”

“How was the interview?” I asked, trying not to freak out that I was in an elevator with my favorite band and that my arm was touching the arm of my favorite drummer from my favorite band.

“Good,” Calum, Luke, and Mike all answered.

“God, it sucked!” Ashton said, giving voice to what I imagined was closer to the truth than his bandmates polite response..

“What do you mean?” Raz pressed, while the men sucked their air through their teeth at their friend’s admission of the truth.

“It’s the same old shit every time. We’re in our twenties. We’re not those high school dropouts anymore, and I wish they’d realize that.”

“You alluded to that,” I commented, glancing up at him.

“Yeah, and they blew past it to talk with Mike about his engagement.”

“Oh. Congrats, by the way,” I said over my shoulder to the shorter of the two tall blondes.

“Thank you!” Mike smiled as the elevator dinged and opened.

They all stepped out, and I followed on instinct. This was my chance. I was going to take it. “So, you’re tired of not being taken seriously?” I asked.

“So tired,” Ashton said, his hazel-eyed gaze locking with my brown-eyed one.

“Well, here,” I said, pulling out the business cards and handing them each one. “If you’re serious about being taken seriously, give us a call,” I said, giving his arm a quick pat before stepping back on the elevator. “Enjoy New York!” I waved as the elevators closed.

“That was your plan?!” Raz rounded on me. “Give us a call?! Shay!”

I tsked, holding up a finger. “Do you trust me?”

“Always, but Shay, we really should’ve planned this better.”

“Then trust me. When have I ever let you down?”

“Never.”

“Exactly. Trust the process, kid.”

We were stepping back into the office when the phone rang.

The receptionist, a cute young thing named Maya, moved to answer, but I waved her off, moving to answer it myself. I picked up on the third ring. “C. S. Management, this is Shay.”

“Hey, I think we were just in the elevator together. You gave us your card?” Ashton’s voice said over the line.

“May I ask who’s calling?” I asked, playing coy and professional as I switched the phone to speaker mode so Raz could listen in.

“Uh, it’s Ash. Look, we’re gonna go talk this over, but we wanna hear what you and your company has to say. Can we arrange something?”

I looked at Raz, raising an eyebrow.

She raised 2 fingers at me.

“We have an opening at 2 if that works for you gentlemen,” I said, putting power behind the word “gentlemen” purposefully.

“2… 2 sounds perfect. We’ll be there.”

“We’ll be here,” I told him back.

~Ashton

March 2020~

~Before the meeting~

I looked at the business card in my hand the woman with shining brown eyes behind large glasses had given me, watching her slink off back into the elevator, her heels clicking with purpose. I swear I saw her wink at me as she waved and called out “Enjoy New York!”

“Ash? Ash! ASHTON!”

“What?”

“What the fuck are we gonna do with this?” Calum asked, looking at the business card in his own hand.

I shrugged. “I dunno. We’re still in a contract. But…” But, what? But the way her voice had sounded when she said the word “serious”, almost like she knew we were sick of being jerked around, like she was offering us a way out, not a way to promote her own business.

“He’s gonna call her. Oh, God, he’s gonna call her!” Calum said, his hands going to his head as he spun in a circle.

“Hey!” I snapped. “Are you happy with our management still trying to pass us off as the teenage boy band? Cuz I’m not. That wasn’t the image we wanted.”

“Mate, maybe slow down?” Luke said.

“Luke, you hate this band more than anybody,” Mike laughed. “I’m with Ash. We can at least see what they gotta say, right?”

“Thanks, Mike,” I grinned at him, pulling out my phone and dialing the number on the card.

It rang once, twice, three times. “C.S Management, this is Shay,” her voice chirped professionally over the line. Oh, I bet she was feeling pretty damn proud of herself right about now.

“Hey, I think we were just in the elevator together. You gave us your card?” I answered.

“May I ask who’s calling?” she asked.

I held back a giggle. Damn, she was good. “Uh, it’s Ash. Look, we’re gonna go talk this over, but we wanna hear what you and your company has to say. Can we arrange something?”

There was a short pause, then “We have an opening at 2 if that works for you gentlemen.”

I smirked at the way she said “gentlemen” rather than “boys” like everyone else usually referred to us as. “2…” I looked around at the other 3 who all shrugged, “2 sounds perfect. We’ll be there.”

“We’ll be here,” she chirped back before hanging up the line.

~After the meeting~

I twirled the business card between my fingers. Back and forth and back again, I twirled the card, their logo spinning with my movements. “Oh, just call her!” Luke said, giving me a shove.

“What?” I asked, snapping to attention.

“Shay! Just call her, mate.”

“No. That’s unprofessional, Luke. Her company just offered us a new start. She might be our boss. I can’t just call her.”

“I’m with Ash. Don’t call her. Just drop the whole thing, please?” Calum put in. “Don’t let this stupid crush fuck this up for us.”

“Hey, Ash, can I see your phone?” Mike asked suddenly.

“Why?” I asked skeptically.

“Mine’s dead. Gotta call Crystal.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.” I dug my phone out, unlocking it for him before handing it over.

“Sweet, thanks,” he said before typing something. “And send. Thanks, mate!” he said again, tossing me my phone.

“Mike, what did you just do?” I asked.

“What you were too scared to do yourself.”

“Michael!” my voice thundered as I got up to get in his face. “That was unprofessional on so many levels!”

“No, you said calling would be unprofessional. I texted. Big difference.”

“That’s not any better!”

My phone pinged in my hand.

“A ‘thank you’ would be fine, mate,” Mike winked as he put a hand on my shoulder.

“How about you’re lucky I don’t kick your ass?” I muttered, looking down at the notification. I clicked it open as I walked to my bedroom in our suite.

Hey, it’s Ash. Coffee?

Little late for coffee isn’t it?

Ha-ha, sorry. That was Mike.

Oh… so that’s a no on coffee then?

Didn’t you just say it was too late for coffee?

Oh, I meant for me. But… if you’re getting coffee… I can keep you company? NY's a dangerous place for a man to be out by himself.

I laughed as my phone pinged again with an address and the simple instruction of: Meet me here in 30 minutes.

I’ll be there.

~~~

I did a double-take when I walked in the small cafe and saw Shay. She was dressed completely different from her black slacks, black heels, and white blouse she had been wearing at our meeting. In their place were blue jeans, a plain navy blue t-shirt underneath a thin cardigan, sneakers, and a hat- that she was wearing backwards- covered up her short and chic half bob. Professional woman to 90s skater chick in the blink of an eye. Damn, was there anything she couldn’t do?

“Hey,” she greeted, patting the empty seat next to her.

“Hey,” I greeted back, taking the offered seat. “You look… comfy.”

She laughed. It was both light and full of life, much like the owner. “Gotta blend in, y’know?” she laughed again. “Should we?” she asked, her gaze shifting.

I followed her gaze to the counter. Right. Coffee. Focus, Ash. “Yeah,” I smiled.

We approached the counter. “Hey, Ty,” she said to the barista.

“Shay, finally gonna order?” he teased her.

“I was waiting for a friend,” she joked back with him.

The man eyed me before giving her a look. “Hot or cold today, babes?”

She brought a finger to her lips in thought, her gaze flickering out the window. “Let’s do cold today.”

“And for your friend?” he asked with a pointed glance at me.

“Uh, I’ll have a medium iced caramel macchiato, please,” I said.

“Coming right up,” he said before giving us the total.

Both of us reached for our wallets. “Oh, I got it,” Shay told me, waving her hand at me.

“Nah, I asked. My treat,” I told her, inserting my card into the chip reader before she could protest.

“Technically Mike asked,” she giggled. “But, thank you.”

“Here ya go, Shay,” a different barista said, placing two identical drinks on the counter.

“Thanks, Maddie,” she smiled, grabbing the cups and handing me one. She gave her cup a swirl before taking a sip, eyes closing in a state of bliss.

“I thought you said it was too late for coffee,” I teased her as we made our way back to our seats.

“Feeling a little wild today,” she responded.

Good. I was too. She gave her drink another swirl, and I caught a glimpse of the tattoo on her wrist I had noticed earlier on at the meeting. I hadn’t wanted to ask her about it then, but now seemed like a good time to ask. “What’s that on your wrist?”

“Oh, it’s a dreamcatcher,” she told me, offering me her arm so I could take a better look.

It was simple line work etched into her slightly sun-kissed skin. “Wow, that’s nice. Is it your only one?”

She gave a shake of her head. “Nope, I got some birds on my shoulder. Another simple linework piece. I like the minimalistic look of it.” She tapped her shoulder to show where the other tattoo was hiding. “Then I have another tattoo on my ankle,” she added with a giggle.

My hand went up to rub at my own bird tattoo on my neck. “That’s cool,” I smiled at her. “Do they mean anything, or are they just because?”

“Bit of both. They were both graduation presents to myself. The dreamcatcher’s a heritage piece. The birds are just symbolic in a way.”

“Shannon’s an Irish name though, isn’t it?”

“It is. I’m only half-Irish, though. Then part Native American, hence the dreamcatcher. And a bunch of other things thrown in for good measure.”

Half-Irish girl meets half-Irish boy, both with bird tattoos and a liking for caramel macchiatos. What were the odds? “And the one on your ankle?” I pressed, curious about the giggle she had associated with it.

“A newer piece,” she giggled with a blush. “It’s… uh… well, let’s just say I’ve been a fan of your band for a while,” she concluded, reaching out to tap my tally tattoo on my wrist.

My teeth bit into my lower lip. Bird tattoos and actual matching tally tattoos? Damn… “A fan, huh?”

“I’m into drummers,” she shrugged with a playful smirk. “But yeah. Been a fan for a while. Still a little starstruck if I’m being totally honest.”

I would have never guessed that I made her nervous. She was so… level-headed. “You saying that I make you nervous?” I asked, a flirting edge in my voice.

She gave a small chuckle. “Nobody makes me nervous. But yes. A little. You’re well-spoken. You’re talented. You’re cute…” her voice trailed off as she ticked away my traits on her fingers.

“Cute, huh?” I asked, leaning forward and biting my lip again.

“Just an observation,” she shrugged. Then, “So, did you have questions about the meeting? I know it was a lot thrown at you all at once. I always think of my questions after the fact, too.”

“What?” I asked, blinking slowly and sitting back in my seat, wondering how she had switched from flirty to professional so quick. “Oh! No, I just… wanted to take you out for coffee.”

“Oh?” Her eyebrows quirked up as she took a sip of her drink.

“Yeah, as a thank you.”

“Sure…” she said.

“Alright,” I giggled. “So, I might also think you’re cute. And I might like you a little bit.”

“I might like you a little bit, back.”

I leaned forward towards her. “Oh, do you?”

She leaned forward herself, the light bouncing off her glasses, making her brown eyes shine a billion different shades of melted chocolate. “It’s unprofessional,” she whispered, leaning back and crossing her arms, closing herself off to the idea.

“It is,” I agreed with a huff.

“I mean, you might be my client. I might be your boss.”

“But, I’m not your client yet. We haven’t agreed to anything,” I countered.

“Are you saying you won’t be taking us on our more than generous offer?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Shouldn’t you talk with your bandmates about this? I should really be consulting with Raz… This is…”

“Unprofessional. I know.”

“Very,” she agreed with a nod.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Start dating me before I become your client.”

“What? Fletch, I can’t just… people will… I hardly know you!”

“Bullshit!” I giggled, my head reeling at her calling me “Fletch” as no one had ever called me that before. I liked the way it sounded coming off her lips, the way her front teeth nipped at her lower lip and her tongue poked out of her mouth. “You’re gonna sit there and tell me you being in the elevator at the same time our interview ended was pure coincidence? Little Miss Fan?”

She ducked her head, a blush forming on her cheeks. “No… and I’m not little. I’m 7 months older than you, actually.”

“We both just admitted to liking each other. What’s the problem?”

“People will talk.”

“People do little else.”

“You don’t know me!”

“You do know how dating works, right?” I giggled.

“This is insane…”

“Look, there’s no real moral issue here. I’m not your client yet. And when I am, it’s really my band that’s your client, not me individually.”

“Why do you want to date me anyway?”

“Because you’re the first one to take me seriously. Because of a million reasons I can’t wait to discover.”

“This is insane…” she repeated.

“Definitely,” I agreed. Then, I leaned forward and kissed her. It was soft, then it grew as she kissed me back. Her hands came up to cup my face as one of mine came to rest at the base of her neck, pulling her closer to me. All I knew in that moment was that I would never again be able to kiss a woman and not wish it was her. It was animalistic, the way I needed her. I didn’t know why. I just knew I needed more. And something in the way she kissed me back let me know she was feeling the same way.

~Shay~

“There you are,” Raz said with an eye roll when I finally breezed into our apartment.

I glanced down at my phone. 9:17 pm. Whoops… “Must’ve lost track of time,” I shrugged.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at me. “Oh, for fucks sake, Shay! You kissed hi,m didn’t you?!”

I brought a finger gingerly to my lips. I could still feel his on mine, the way his teeth had nipped at my lip, the way his breathing had caught in his throat. “Maybe…” I grinned.

“God damn it, Shay!” she started.

I held up a finger. “I know! Okay? I know. Unprofessional. 100 percent. But damn, can you blame me?”

She rolled her eyes, but “He is a babe. They all are.”

“Oh yeah,” I agreed. “And we figured it out.”

“We? Figured out? Oh, God, Shay. What did you do?”

“Remember how you’re always telling me to get a boyfriend or a girlfriend? Well, let’s just say I finally listened.”

“Shay!”

“I know! I know how this looks. We both do. But, look, there’s no real issue here. He’s not actually our client yet. And even when he does become our client, it’s his band, not him. And people are gonna talk their shit anyway. And need I remind you, it’s Ashton fuckin Irwin!”

Her eyes narrowed again as she thought it over. Then, “I hate you. This is a bad idea.”

I rolled my eyes. Maybe the bubble of anger I felt rising up inside of me was because she was giving voice to the own doubts I had in my head. Maybe I found her “holier than thou” act a little off putting because I know she had a thing for one of our actual clients. Maybe, because for the first time in 5 fucking years I had put myself out there to go on a date, with a hell of a guy who actually liked me back, and now my best fucking friend was shitting all over that happiness just because it may or not be a conflict of interest. I didn’t need her on the side of the critics and the skeptics. I needed her on my side. Maybe it was a combination of all of the above. But either way, my temper flared and I was going to let it fly. “You know what? Fuck you,” I said, keeping my voice level but throwing as much venom in my words as I could.

Her eyes widened for a bit at my sharp words, but then they narrowed and I knew she was about to fight back. “Fuck me? Really Shay? This is unprofessional and you know it. People are going to think you’re using him to get the band.”

“I’m not you, Raz!” I shouted, knowing I was hitting low, but too pissed off to stop myself from doing it. “I don’t flirt with everything that’s got a fuckin’ pulse!”

“Fuck you!” she practically spat at me, her own words fierce, but I saw the quiver in her lip.

I laughed. A harsh, humorless sound. “Yeah. Fuck me,” I said with an eye roll before heading down the hall to my room.

“Where the fuck are you going?!” her voice called out.

“The fuck do you care?” I asked, reappearing with a thicker jacket and a beanie in replacement for my hat.

“Shay! SHAY!” she yelled as I slammed the door behind me.

I jogged my way down the stairs, praying she wouldn’t follow me, and ignoring the nagging voice that taunted me. Shay, how long are you gonna run from your problems? Shut up! I don’t run from anything! And just what the hell are you doing right now, Shay? I said shut up!

The phone was ringing by the time I hit the ground floor. The line picked up by the time I pushed my way out of the building. Funnily enough, I couldn’t even remember taking my phone out of my pocket. “Hey, Shay,” he answered, and I could hear his smile. God, how I found security in him so fast was fucking mind-blowing.

“Hey,” I replied, my voice sounding tired and on the verge of a breakdown.

“Uh-oh, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m fine,” I lied.

“Where are you? Are you home?” I could hear him moving around in his room, his voice holding a slight trace of panic.

I smiled despite the hurricane of emotions raging in my chest. He was worried about me. I didn’t realize how much I had missed having a potentially romantic partner being able to read me so well. And so soon? Add intuitive to the growing list of things that made me adore that man. God, he was sweet. Why couldn’t Raz see that? Why couldn’t she be happy I found a nice guy? “No,” I answered. “I… uh…” Where was I going? “I need to clear my head.”

“Shay, it’s dark out. Go home, please. Or tell me where you are so I can come get you.”

“Central Park, 5 minutes,” I told him.

“Central Park, 5 minutes,” he repeated. “I’ll see you soon.”

“See you soon, Fletch.”

I hung up and let my mind wander as I walked, my hands burrowing into the pockets of my jacket. Back home wearing a leather jacket in March, even at night, would have made me sweat. I would never get used to the biting New York cold. But I’d be damned if I went back to LA looking like this. Me this morning? Sure. Shay from this morning could roll up to LA and brag about how great her life had become. But Shay right now? No, I couldn’t go home the same insecure wreck I was when I left. I needed to pull it together.

~~~

~December 2017~

A knock sounded on my apartment. “It’s open,” I called out, too lazy to get up and actually answer. I didn’t know why Raz was knocking. She had a key.

“Honestly, Shay, you shouldn’t leave your door unlocked like that,” Raz tsked as the door shut behind her and she flopped down next to me on the couch.

“Honestly, Raz,” I joked back, “you should just ditch your dorm room and move in with me already. You’re here all the time anyway.” At two and a half years of knowing each other Raz had become my very best friend. She made the ache of missing home a lot more bearable.

“What and give up my freedom?” she scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

I shrugged. “We’re graduating next semester. Where you gonna go, Raz?”

“Where are you gonna go?” she countered, referring to my career options, not my living situation.

“Somewhere we can both be free,” I answered, spreading my arms across the back of my couch.

~~~

“Shay?” Ashton’s voice laced with concern startled me out of my thoughts.

“Hey, Fletch,” I answered with a small smile.

“Are you okay?”

I shrugged.

“Shay, what’s wrong?”

“Everything,” I breathed, scared if I said anymore I would shatter. I didn’t want to shatter in front of him. I didn’t want him to see me vulnerable. But something in his voice made me think it would be okay if I did.

He wrapped me tightly into a hug and I breathed in him in. I wasn’t the biggest fan of cologne, but I could get used to liking his citrusy scent. Just like I could get used to the way his strong arms held me tight, his heartbeat hammering in my ear, his breaths as steady and solid as he was. “C’mon,” he murmured, leading us to a nearby bench. “What’s wrong?”

“Something’s gotta be wrong for me to enjoy Central Park at night with a cute boy?” I added with a small chuckle.

He frowned.

“Sorry. Not boy. Man,” I amended with another chuckle.

The frown deepened. “You just said everything was wrong. And now nothing’s wrong? Shay… what’s going on?”

I sighed. “I really don’t want to be vulnerable with you right now.”

“What do you want?”

“For this to be easy. To just be able to like someone without people thinking there are bigger things at play.”

“Who’s thinking bigger things are at play? Shay, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I like you. Not as lawyer Shay trying to close a deal. But as Shay Shay. Just a woman with a hopeless crush on a man that the rest of the world is going to blow way out of proportion.”

“It’s not hopeless,” he said, his eyes a pool of swirling honey underneath the streetlights, his breath hot against my face as he pulled me in for a kiss. I wished for time to stop as I melted into him, letting his kiss glue all the pieces together before they could fall.

~~~

“Morning, Maya,” I greeted as I strolled into the office the next morning.

“Morning, Shay.”

“Did you manage to hunt down 5SOS’ current contract agreement?” I asked. I had asked her yesterday before the meeting, but I wasn’t sure if she had gotten around to it as she got busy pleasing her other boss.

“No, Shay,” she fumbled. “Sorry…”

“Don’t worry about it,” I smiled at her. I’d have my assistant Alejandro track it down when he got in.

“Raz, ready to rock the world?” I greeted, poking my head in her office. I was back to being my chipper self, ready to put our lover’s quarrel behind me if she was. Neither one of us had apologized. But that was the beauty of our friendship. At the end of the day it didn’t matter what was said, because we had each others backs no matter what. But does she Shay? The nagging voice asked. What if is a fool’s game, I answered back fiercely.

“Yep! I’m working with Waterparks today. Can you send me the schedule you worked out for them?”

“Check your email, Raz,” I winked. I was damn good at my job. The schedule was already on there. “I’ll be working on drafting a contract for 5SOS. So, I’ll hold down the fort. Keep a good eye on those Waterpark guys, and try not to drool over the green-haired one so much,” I smirked.

“Awsten is a babe, Mrs. Irwin,” she teased me back.

“Oh, hush!” I laughed, walking to my office, smiling to myself. Good, if she was teasing it meant she was being civil about the idea, if not completely accepting. That was fine. I didn’t need acceptance. Well… No, civil was fine. Civil was good. Acceptance could and would come later, I was sure of it. “Oh, Ale,” I said, my eyes locking in on the tall law student striding my way.

“Morning, Shay,” Alejandro greeted me. Alejandro Juarez was a Puerto Rican lad in his first year of law school. The law firm I worked at in my college days had him as an intern and contacted me when they said the young man was interested in working more directly with a lawyer, rather than doing the equivalent of paper pushing. That had been 3 months into Raz and I starting our business and I was desperate for help. And one look at the ambitious man and I was hooked. I had even written his recommendation for his law school application and attended his graduation from his undergrad program last May. His drive and positive attitude had made him essential and I had come to think of him as a little brother.

“How long do I have you today?”

“I have class at 2:30. So 1?”

“That’s fine. I remember the rigor very well myself. I have a small task for you. Think you can handle it?”

“I can do my best.”

“I need you to track down 5SOS’s current contract for me.”

“Shay, they’re not in our system.”

“I know. They have an LA team managing them right now. I need to see what it entails. And I need you to get it for me.”

“How?”

“Mmm… lie. Say it’s for school, Ale,” I told him, placing my hand on his chest. “You’re a smart man, I believe in you.”

“I’ll do my best,” he told me, swallowing.

“You always do,” I smiled brightly at him. I loved how being a powerful woman felt. “I’ll be in the office if you need me. And don’t bother Raz, she’ll be with a client until further notice.”

“Should I let Eloise know?” he asked, referring to Raz’s assistant.

“Eloise should already know, Ale. Contract, please and thank you.”

“Coming right up.”

I turned to go into my office when my phone rang. “This is Shay,” I answered, stepping into my office and shutting my door.

“Hey, babes,” Ashton’s voice sounded over the line.

My heart fluttered at the pet name. I could definitely get used to that.“Oh, hey Fletch. What’s up?”

“Nothing, just wanted to hear your voice.”

I smiled as I sat down at my desk and pulled up a blank document. “Aw, you’re sweet.” But there was something in his voice that seemed… off? “Is something wrong?”

“No.”

“Fletch,” I started. “I know we have our walls. I’m extremely appreciative that you’re patient with me while I figure out what is too much to share with you too soon. I’m extending you that same respect. But, please. I can hear in your voice that something’s off.”

“You can?” came the incredulous reply.

“You’re very expressive,” I admitted. “Please. Talk to me. That’s the only way we’re gonna figure this whole mess out.”

“Something’s gotta be wrong with me to enjoy a phone call with my girlfriend?” came the teasing tone as he used my own words against me.

I smiled. “What’s going on Fletch? You don’t have to be vulnerable and lay out your life story just yet. But c’mon, give me a little something.”

He chuckled, then sighed. I could picture his brows furrowing together and his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s Cal. I don’t think he’s on board with the whole us dating thing. I think he thinks you’re seducing me to get us as a client. You know, like you said everyone would think. I think I was too swept up in the moment to realize the deeper implications of what you were trying to get me to understand. But, I see it now. And from Cal, it’s… Fuck, I dunno what to do here.”

“Neither do I,” I confessed.

“Can I ask you a question without you getting offended?”

“Of course,” I nodded.

“Are you using me to get my band to sign with your company?”

“No,” I promised. “Look, this is nothing but a huge coincidence. I’m just as afraid of this going badly as you probably are. I’ve been hurt before, and I certainly don’t want to re-experience that pain. But, I’m also a professional. Whatever happens between me and you is between me and you. It has no effect on my company’s desire to take your band on as a client, I can promise you that much now. It’s two totally separate things that just look related.” As I spoke I became less sure of who I was reassuring: him, Cal, Raz, or myself. “Shay the lawyer would love to sign your band, yes. But, Shay the woman just wants you.”

He let out a small chuckle and I could picture his dimples. Man, my boyfriend was such a babe. And damn that sounded good. Ashton Irwin, my boyfriend. Shay Gibson, Ashton Irwin’s girlfriend. I got chills just thinking about it. “Alright. So, what is my gorgeous girlfriend up to?”

“She is smart, not gorgeous. And she is working, so she needs to go. I’ll text when I go for lunch, okay?”

“She is smart and gorgeous. And I hope she doesn’t work too hard.”

“Me? Never,” I laughed. Working hard was the only way I knew how to work. “Bye, Fletch.”

“Bye, babes.”

We hung up and I stretched my hands out in front of me, cracking them as I did so. Then, I set to work, outlining a foolproof contract for our potential new client. My intent was to ensure that they would have full creative control of what they did and how, the same we promised every client we had. It was part of why we were so successful. Our motto was after all “Let art speak for itself, because to tamper is to diminish.” But, I still needed my hands on their current contract to see what they were currently being offered. We didn’t want to give them what they already had. We wanted better.

When I had a basic draft, I moved on to checking schedules. I knew 5SOS’s current management had a North American tour planned for the band to go on after their sad 2 month stint in Europe that was 1.) not long enough and 2.) had upset a lot of fans by the reckless skipping around. I needed to have something in the works to help sweeten the deal. And thankfully, I already had a rock band that we were sending off on a world tour of their that was set to start next March and carrying them into November, both for their benefit and to the benefit of one of our up-and-coming duos- a sweet brother-sister act with the voice of angels and attitude to boot. “Eloise?” I asked after I hit the button on my phone to buzz Raz’s assistant.

“Yes, Shay?”

“Is Raz busy currently?”

“Uh… yes. She’s in with Waterparks in the conference room.”

“Thank you, El,” I said. Perfect. Both of them in the same spot.

“Oh! Shay, they just sent over the contract. Would you prefer a hard copy?” Alejandro asked as I walked out of my office.

“Ale, you’re the best!” Today was going fan-fuckin-tastic and I loved it. “Can I get 6 copies, please?”

“Sure thing, Shay.”

“And email the pdf of it anyway,” I added as an afterthought. Better to have too many copies than not enough.

“Already did.”

“Thank you, Ale. Get me those copies, and you can cut out early if you like,” I told him. I knew he would appreciate the time to relax or get in some last minute studying before dashing off to the crazy world that was first year law school.

“Thanks Shay!”

I rapped on the conference room door before I entered. “And here’s Miss Gibson now,” Raz said, glancing up at me. “Impeccable timing.”

“Hey,” I greeted. “I take it Raz showed you gentlemen your tour schedule?” While Raz liked to up her professionality by referring to everyone as Miss or Mr in the office, I brought in the friendlier side by opting to stick with first names or nicknames. It was a perfect balance; the way we liked to run our business. The only time Raz slipped from that professional demeanor in the office was one-on-one. The only time I slipped into that formality myself was when I was mad. It was a simple unspoken norm in the office that “Miss Toliver referring to you by your first name is fine, but if Shay uses your last name, you better run.”

“Yeah, we’re looking it over now. 8 months, huh?”

“Make sure those passports are up to date,” I told them, then “It’s what you wanted, right? To be as accessible as possible? There’s no interviews scheduled during that time. Just shows and meet and greets.”

“This is perfect!” they told me.

“Did Raz also show you the interview schedule. It’s a little less than a year away so we got plenty of prep time. It’ll be a very busy week, but short so you can rest up before the tour.”

“Yeah, it all looks so great.”

“Awesome. And I actually had a question for you all.”

“Uh-oh, you have that look,” Raz said, crossing her arms. “What crazy idea do you have now?”

“How would you feel if you co-headlined with 5SOS?” I asked, a smile on my lips.

“5SOS? Hell yeah! Is that one band still opening for us?”

“Yes, Lucky Mess will still be opening,” I assured them.

“But, don’t get your hopes up about 5SOS,” Raz warned them, and me. “We’re optimistic. But no promises.”

“Nah, this is great. Can we make the tour name Punk Rarities Tour?”

“I like where your mind’s at,” I smiled again.

Raz rolled her eyes, “Anyway!”

I chuckled to myself as I walked back to my office. Time to focus my attention on the contract. Everything was lining up perfectly, now I just needed to stick the landing.

“Everything’s on your desk, Shay. It’s still early, though. Are you sure you don’t need me to stay?” Alejandro told me.

“Is your test today?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer. I knew everything about my staff. It was a habit I picked up in my years at the law firm. If you knew everything going on, nothing snuck up on you. And I wasn’t in the business of unexpected surprises. I may have created a reputation of being impulsive, but that was because everybody only heard what flew from my lips. What they missed was how my brain was already 3 steps ahead of the game.

“It is!” he smiled, pleased I remembered.

“Then, I’ll manage.”

“Thank you!”

“Give ‘em hell, kid,” I smiled before shutting myself in my office once more. Alright. Let’s see what type of shithole mess 5SOS is in, I thought to myself as I took in the stack of contracts neatly piled on my desk, an email notification on my browser showing the message from Alejandro that held a pdf version of the papers in front of me.

I took a quick glance at the time. 10:30. Wow, it was early. Perfect.

I picked up one of the contracts, giving it a quick glance. Looked pretty standard. Creative control, plenty of touring and promos before tours. I clicked my tongue. Damn, c’mon, I needed to strike gold here. Aha! My eyes glanced at a section titled: Relationships. “Oh this is great,” I said out loud as I learned that while they were free to flirt and sleep around, girlfriends-emphasis on girl, oof fuckin’ homophobes in LA? Alright- needed to be “approved.” I snorted. “Good, God. That certainly explains a lot…”

I was about to continue my digging when my desk phone buzzed. “Yes Maya?” I asked, hitting the button to connect me with the front desk.

“Shay, a Calum Hood is here to see you?”

I pulled a face. Of fucking course he was. First Raz, now Calum. I was beginning to wonder what our best friends were more concerned with- protecting Ashton and I from potential heartache, or protecting their own image. Frankly, I didn’t care. Ashton and I were grown ups capable of making our own decisions and we didn’t need anyone’s approval. So why was I letting this cut deep the way it was? Because all you ever wanted was to be accepted, my brain supplied. I let out a breath to steady myself. “I’ll be right there,” I answered, getting up.

“Calum,” I greeted, opting for the middle ground by not calling him by the nickname I had picked out for him, but also keeping my temper in check. For now. “Glad of you to drop by. Can I get you anything to drink?”

“No, this’ll be quick,” he told me, his brown eyed gaze heavy as it locked on mine.

“Please, right this way,” I said, leading him back to my office. “So, what can I help you with?” I asked him, gesturing to one of the chairs I had in my office.

“You need to stop,” he told me. It was direct and simple. A demand. He remained standing, rather than taking a seat. A power move. Time to show Calum Hood just who the fuck he thought he was fucking with.

“I’m sorry?” I blinked, meeting his gaze and holding it steady. Keep it cool. Play it dumb.

“With Ash. Stop it. Whatever this thing is. End it. Now.” Again, the words were direct. No malice. No begging. As simple as asking someone to pass him the salt.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“What’s your angle here?” he demanded, his brown eyes hardening, his arms crossing. Now came the malice. Game on.

“I don’t have an angle, Mr. Hood,” I told him, keeping my arms down at my side, our eyes still locked.

He scoffed, dropping his gaze. “Bullshit.”

“Is that so?” I asked, continuing to remain cool and level-headed. No way I was going to get lectured by Calum “love is a scam” Hood. I turned my computer screen and thrust a copy of his current contract in his hand. “I take my job very seriously, Mr. Hood. When we said we could do better, we meant it.”

“This is my current contract,” he scoffed again, shaking the document in his hand at me.

“And this,” I gestured at the computer, “is my offer. Giving your band total control in every aspect of your lives. We want to represent 5SOS, Mr. Hood, not the other way around. There’s no ulterior motive here at play. This is my offer. Take it or walk, I don’t really care. But this ‘thing’ as you so lovingly called it I have with Ashton? That’s personal, and frankly none of your concern.”

His eyes squinted as he stepped forward to look at my computer screen.

“Oh, and I already have a tour lined up for 5SOS with Waterparks. Co-headliners with a small opening act. You each get a 75 minute set. Better get started on that setlist,” I told him, dual-screening my computer so he could see the tour dates. “There’s also a week long press tour of sorts. Just interviews around here to generate buzz.”

“These are a year out. What if you and Ash break up?” he asked, finally getting to the point. His eyes still had a hard edge to them, when they locked back on mine, but it wasn’t as stoney as before. This was worry. He cared about his friend, that much was obvious. I would admire it more if it wasn’t at my expense.

“What if we don’t?” I countered. Then, “Don’t answer that. The answer is the same either way. Nothing happens. I’m a professional. If my company represents your band, then my company represents your band. Plain and simple. Your account will most likely get passed to an associate anyhow. There’s no real conflict in interest, here, only the imagined one you, and I assume the rest of the world, want to see.”

While his eyes showed him weakening in his stoic stance, he still had fight left in him. “You’d rather risk losing us as a potential client, than break things off with Ash.”

I shrugged. “I have other clients, Calum. Waterparks is already preparing to headline the Punk Rarities Tour by themselves. The only loss here is your band’s. Seems a bit selfish of you to keep them from what is an amazing offer just because you have your own reservations. But, that’s neither here nor there. Point is, I’m not walking away from my relationship with Ashton. I’m serious about your band, and I’m serious about him.”

“You barely know him!”

His temper flare, brought out my irritated professionalism again. Damn, just as I was back to the middle ground. What a shame. “Yes, I do believe that’s why they call it ‘dating,’ Mr. Hood. You should try it sometime. Too bad your current contract is a bit… hmm, let’s use the term ‘restrictive’ in that area. If only there was a management company that didn’t give a damn who you choose to associate yourself with. Oh… wait, that would be this company, now wouldn’t it?”

“This is stupid, you know that right? The rumors this is gonna cause when your relationship gets outted? It’s gonna be a total shitshow. Are you prepared for that?”

I narrowed my eyes at him with his nasty snarl that seemed out of place on a man so pretty. “Nobody’s holding a gun to your head, Mr. Hood. You and your band are free to walk away from my offer. So what are you really scared of here? Scared that I might break your friend’s heart? Or scared that my company can and will do better for you and your band?”

“I’m not scared of anything,” was the cold reply.

“Could’ve fooled me,” I replied, just as cooly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Hood, I have work to do.”

“This isn’t over,” he huffed, stalking out of my office.

“Merely the beginning,” I said to his retreating back.

~Ashton~

“Cal, how could you?!” I rounded on my friend when he came back to the hotel from his morning “walk.” “I really like her! You could’ve fucked everything up for me!”

“More than you could’ve fucked this up for all of us over a stupid crush?!” he yelled back.

“She’s not like that!”

“How do you know?! You’ve known her for what? 24 hours?! How do you know she’s not seducing you to sign us?!”

“I just do, okay?!” His sullenness was already making my stomach churn, but his outright hostility was taking it too far. If he wanted to blame someone, he should be blaming Mike for sending the text in the first place. But no. Instead he stormed into my girlfriend’s office and raised hell. But yeah, me and her were the unprofessional ones. Sure. That was fair… I was about to continue tearing into him, but all our phones pinging had me stopping in my tracks.

I opened the email on my phone. It had 3 attachments and a simple message:

Dear 5SOS,

Meet me at 2pm today to discuss the attached files. No excuses. I know you’re still in town.

Shay Gibson

Head of Legal Department

C.S Management

~~~

“Shay, 5SOS is here to see you,” the receptionist said into the phone.

“Thank you, Maya, I’ll be right there,” Shay’s voice said through the speaker. Then, she was in front of us, the epitome of professional in a grey blazer covering a flowery blouse, fitted skinny black slacks showing off her small curves, her black heels clicking along the floor. “Ashton, Luke, Mike, Mr. Hood, good to see you all again,” she greeted, her voice holding a small edge to it. “If you’ll follow me, please,” she continued, turning and leading us into the same conference room we were in yesterday, where 2 folders were placed in front of each of the 5 seats. “So, blue folder is your current contract with your current management system. Red is C. S. Management’s contract. I’ve taken the liberty of highlighting key differences in each contract so you know exactly what’s different. Basically, I’m keeping what I liked and tweaking what should have been tweaked the day you stopped touring with One Direction. Also in red folder you’ll find the Punk Rarities Tour which you will have a 75 minute set as co-headliners with Waterparks and Lucky Mess as your opening act. I highly suggest you make sure your passports are up to date, and that you don’t lose them, Mike.” Her eyes danced playfully behind her black frames as her gaze shifted to the shorter of the blondes who looked down sheepishly.

“How did she know?” Mike whispered.

“I know everything,” she whispered back with a wink. “Now, as I was telling Mr. Hood this morning, there is also a week long interview press tour of sorts before the actual world tour takes place.” It was the second time she had referred to Calum as “Mr. Hood” and I knew she was doing it on purpose. Being friendly with us and cold with him. I smirked to myself. It wasn’t like he didn’t deserve it.

“This is great and all but 1.) we’re still in a contract and 2.) where’s Miss Toliver?” Luke asked.

“Oh, see you are smart! Luke, your contract with C. S. Management takes effect the second your current contract ends. You and your bandmates just need to sign it of course, and not sign a new one with your current company. That leaves plenty of time for any amendments and revisions to make sure this contract is exactly what every single one of you wants. As for my business partner, she‘ll take a more hands-on approach once 5SOS becomes a client. I just handle contracts and scheduling.”

“This tour looks long…” Mike said.

“It is,” Shay agreed. “Waterparks wanted to make themselves as accessible as possible to their fanbase, so I did what I could to make that happen. If a conflict of interest arises, we’re more than prepared to handle it. We’re very… flexible here at C.S. Management.”

“Look, no jumping all over the place other,” I said, looking at the cities tied to the tour dates. “Just a simple zigzag, up and down.”

“Yeah, I was never fond of the idea of jumping recklessly all over the map,” she said, with a small smug look. “I like order.”

“Do we have to make a decision now?” Luke asked, his blue eyes scared. I didn’t blame him. This was all happening so fast. Much faster than our first contract when we became a band. That’s because you’re established now, my brain told me, you’re no longer those punk high school dropouts from Sydney. Hey! I didn’t drop out... These are your thoughts. Focus!

Shay shook her head. “No, not at all. Please feel free to take the time to look everything over. Let me know if you have any questions, or need me to adjust certain aspects. I don’t need a decision from 5SOS until the end of November. And even then, I’ll tell you the same thing I told Mr. Hood, I don’t really care if you take the offer or not.”

“Wow, you sure are confident in yourself,” Calum scoffed.

“I know what my company is capable of Mr. Hood. I know we can do better for your band than what you’ve been getting. Which isn’t bad, by the way, it’s just child’s play, and you’re men now. You have been for a while. I’m open to working with 5SOS to ensure the band gets the best management possible. Whether or not you choose to take me as seriously as I’m willing to take your band, that’s on you.”

“And this isn’t some ploy? Cal said that you might be using Ash to get at us,” Luke put in.

Shay rolled her eyes, clearly sick of the back and forth she was having both with herself and with the rest of the world about our forming relationship. “Could you excuse me for a minute?” she asked, a smile on her face that I didn’t like the look of. She didn’t wait for an answer as she turned on her heel. We watched her go and I watched as another worker’s eyes went wide as she nodded her head wildly. Some words were exchanged and then Raz came out of her office looking frazzled for a brief second before following Shay back to us.

Shay didn’t say a word as she quickly gathered up the red folders and promptly shredded them. “I am good at my job. I earned everything I have with my brain, not with what’s between my legs,” she spoke, her tone sharp as she continued shredding folder after folder while we watched her in horror. She looked down at the shredder as she pushed the last folder through it with a blank expression. “Pity. That was some of my best work, too. I’ll leave you in the hands of the professional, now, gentlemen,” she said with a look towards Calum and Raz specifically. It was a terrifying look, eerily calm with a cutting look. “Enjoy the rest of your stay,” she added before strolling back out of the office.

Again, I watched her go, completely stunned. What was that quote? Though she be but little, she is fierce? Yeah, that was it. Quotes like that were made about women like Shay.

~~~

“So, is it safe to assume you like rock music?” I asked, leaning my arms on the table as I looked at her.

She smiled over her cup at me. “Yeah, that’s a pretty safe assumption.”

I giggled. “Well, do you only listen to rock, or do you listen to other music?”

“I listen to other music. I enjoy rock music, obviously. I manage rock bands so of course I like rock music. But given the choice, I listen to country.”

“Country?” I asked my eyes going wide.

She laughed. “Yeah. Makes me feel close to my dad.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Why?” she laughed again. “My dad’s alive, Fletch. But, my parents are divorced. So, mom raised us on 80s rock and 90s grunge. And dad raised us on country.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said again, not sure what else to say.

She smiled and reached for my hand. “Don’t be. My parents split when I was too young to understand.”

“That still sucks, Shay…” With my own dad not being in the picture and a slew of stepdads in his wake, father issues were not something I was blind to.

She squeezed my hand and continued to smile. “No, it doesn’t. It would suck more if they had stayed unhappy together. My mom had primary custody, but we saw my dad plenty. I have healthy relationships with both my parents, and they have a healthy relationship with each other.”

“You keep saying ‘we.’ Do you have siblings?”

She nodded. “I have one. Well 3, actually, I guess. My older brother. And then a stepbrother and stepsister. Also both older.”

“And the step siblings?”

“One from each stepmom.”

“You have 2 stepmoms?”

She laughed. “Yeah, Mom’s a lesbian. Probably why she was so unhappy with my dad. That, and they were young when they had my brother and me.”

I laughed with her. “Your family dynamics are weird.”

She continued to laugh. “Oh, it gets weirder, trust me. But, there’s plenty of love, which is the important part.”

“So, you’re the baby, huh?”

“Guilty as charged. But, I act older. Or, at least I’ve been asked if I was the older sibling before.”

I chuckled, “I don’t really buy into that birth order nonsense.”

“Neither do I, Fletch, neither do I.”

“You know, you keep calling me that, and it’s really not fair. I don’t even know your middle name.”

“Oh, you do.”

“I do?”

She nodded, a devilish smile on her lips. “Shannon’s my middle name.”

“Well, what’s your first name?”

“Bridget.”

“Oh, so you’re like Irish-Irish,” I teased.

She just laughed. “Yeah, my name’s an Irish trainwreck.”

“So, when did you start going by your middle name?”

“When I moved to New York.”

“Oh shit, really? Where are you from originally?”

“LA,” she smiled.

“You gave up LA for New York? Why?”

“Change of pace. Job opportunity. Law school. Take your pick,” she shrugged, leaning way back in her seat and crossing her arms.

“Did I say something to upset you?”

“No. You’re just asking a lot of questions.”

“I’m trying to get to know you,” I laughed. How did a woman as smart as her not know how dating worked?

“Oh,” she said, uncrossing her arms. “Sorry. I’m not used to talking about myself much.”

“I can tell,” I smiled. She had alluded in our phone call this morning to have been hurt in the past. I wondered if this, along with her hesitation to ask me to slow down last night, was part of that hurt. It both broke my heart and angered me that someone would make her make her doubt herself in any way. But if someone loved her right, she wouldn’t be on a date with you, my brain told me. True. Their loss. My gain. “Must’ve been a hell of a job offer to trade one coast for the other.”

She shrugged, but it was less closed off than her first shrug. “I spent the summer before my last year of college interning at a law firm here in Manhattan. I liked it. They liked me. They offered me a job. I said I live in LA and have a year of school left. They said that was what computers were for. So, when I applied to law schools, I applied out here because that’s where my job was.”

“What caused you to take an internship in New York, anyway? I’m assuming you grew up in LA, went to school there and whatnot. I mean, New York is great and all. But LA is… well it’s LA. That was home, right?”

She nodded. “Yeah. But, uh, I was ready to expand my horizons a bit. And I had a boyfriend who supported it. Or so I thought.”

There is was. The damaging ex-boyfriend “What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, my ex was a sweetheart. He was the one who encouraged me to take the internship in the first place. I’ve always loved New York, but never had the chance to go. So, he was like ‘well here’s your chance, take it.’ So, I did. And it was great. And then I realized he said ‘your chance’ not ‘our chance.’” She shrugged again.

I frowned. That didn’t sound damaging. He sounded… well to steal her words, like a sweetheart. “That’s rough, but, at least he didn’t hold you back.”

She offered me a sad smile as her mind took her backwards through the years. “Yeah, he was always good about that. Part of what made it all so hard, if I’m being honest. We were both making plans for a better life. I just thought it was for us together, not individually.”

“Jesus, I’m sorry,” I said, covering her hands in mine. Who wouldn’t want a life with her?

The sadness left her smile. “That’s the third time you apologized for something that 1.) isn’t your fault and 2.) I moved on from long ago.”

“It’s called sympathy, babes.”

~Shay

May 2020~

“Fletch!” I greeted happily, pulling him in for a hug.

His arms wrapped around me and his head dipped down to burrow into my neck. “Missed you,” he mumbled against my skin.

“Missed you too,” I smiled, running my fingers through his ink-black hair. “How long do I get you?”

“All week. The guys fly in Thursday, and then we all fly out Friday afternoon,” he told me, lifting up his head.

“I get you all to myself for a whole week? Wow, lucky me.”

“Lucky you? Lucky me. Now, get in here,” he said, tugging me into his hotel room.

~~~

Tag List (Leave a message at the beep)

@goeatsomelife @flameraine @cashtonasff5sos @here-for-the-uproars @cxddlyash @1-irwin-94 @baldcalum @sparkling-chaos @tea4sykes @youngblood199456 @5-seconds-of-obsession

#evil author day #galcal irwin

3 notes · View notes

talvin-muircastle · 5 years

Text

Victory Song

"She has the soul of a Bard," they said, "a pity she lacks the voice."

Passeria loved music. As a baby, music was the only thing that would still her when she was cranky. As she grew older, she tapped, plucked, beat rhythms on anything she could find. She had her first wooden flute not long after she could walk, and her first harp before she was ten summers old. With any of these, she could make a pleasing sound--but no tune could pass her lips without a wince from the audience. Her speaking voice was unremarkable, neither good nor bad, but the gods that had blessed her fingers with music stole it from her breath.

When she had seen thirteen summers, a Queen's Bard passed through their village. This was a rare thing, for they lived in the Marches, a day's march from the foothills that marked the border of the Kingdom, and such a noble personage did not normally risk himself so close to the fell things that dwelt in those woods. He played for them, and he sang, and Passeria's eyes shone even as her heart broke, for it was a delight to hear such music, and torture to know it would never be hers. The Bard saw her little wooden flute and invited her to play with him, an honor that the cheering villagers would not permit her to refuse.

That night, after most had gone to bed, he found her. "Your elders have spoken to me of you. Come with me. You will play. And then you will sing. And we will talk." Shaking, she followed.

He had her play her flute again, and her harp, and he had her try her hands upon his own lute. He listened closely as she beat out rhythms on her little drum, his foot tapping along the while. Then came the dreaded command: "Sing for me, child."

Tears in her eyes, she did, and she hated herself for every note. She knew the words by heart--oh, she could sing beautifully, in her heart!--but the song was that of a sickly crow, not a beautiful songbird. He nodded solemnly, and asked for another song, and she sang it. Three songs he demanded of her, each more challenging than the last, and she hated him for humiliating her so.

Finally, "Enough. Here, drink this. It is watered down, and you must replace those tears you lost." She drank, making a face at the hint of wine in the water. "Mind me well, Passeria, for this is very important: you are a Bard, and let none ever tell you otherwise. You have the talent for music, but more importantly, you have the magic that only our kind possesses." She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and blinked at him, made now uncertain by his words.

"Master Bard," she whispered, "please do not mock me so." In answer, he left his own chair and took a knee before her, his eyes meeting hers.

"Passeria, I do not mock you, but speak only the truth. There is a power in your voice that I can sense. Not all music is meant for human ears, young Bard. The Gods granted me my gift that I might please Kings and Dukes and Knights and Guildmistresses. That is no small thing in this world--but the Gods granted you a gift that can part the waves of an evil sea. You have within you to do something that I cannot--that only a bare handful of men and women in this Kingdom can do. I knew this as soon as you started singing--I only made you sing three songs so I could fully judge the strength of your gift, and it is a powerful one. The Gods only grant such a gift in the time and place where it will be needed." She shook her head, understanding and yet not.

He sighed, and raised an admonishing finger, "Mind me well, Passeria! Someday--it may be soon, it may be when your grandchildren dance around you--but someday you will hear singing like unto your own! When that day comes, you must answer it with your own song! If you do not, many will die. That is your gift and your burden. Will you promise me that you will remember this?"

She gulped and said, "I swear." For the first time since they had played together by the fire, he smiled at her. Then he stood and turned to go.

He stopped at the door. "Oh, yes: the lute is yours now. You are worthy of it. I will tell your Elders." Then he was gone.

The Bard rose with the sun the next morning and rode on his way. The Elders, puzzled but obedient, confirmed that the lute was indeed hers--as was the olive-green cloak permitted only to recognized Bards. He was the King's Man, and his orders carried the weight of the King's Law.

He had also commanded that young Passeria should learn the ways of blade and bow. "She'll need them," he had said.

She wore the cloak, and practiced the lute, and found to her surprise that she was passable with the bow and better than most with the sword. The villagers were more respectful when they asked her to play of a long evening, and she went on the march-rides with the hunters, watching for sign of the evil things from over the frontier.

She never sang.

When she was sixteen, the evil things came.

It was late autumn, and the harvest was almost finished. The herds had been culled for the winter and the meat salted down. Three hunters went out looking for whatever had been savaging the pigs that were left to run wild in the woods. One came back, minus an arm.

The evil things of legend had come down out of the mountains, the evil things that had not been seen since their mother's father's mother's time. They had no names: some had the shape of beasts, some had the shape of men, some had whatever shape they pleased, but they were all bone-white, their blood did not darken as it dried but stayed crimson until the rains cleansed it, and they killed for pleasure rather than need. "Evil" was the only name that fit.

That first day, they sent runners to the garrison a day's travel further in, and they gathered what they could and withdrew inside the palisade.

The second day, they peered over the sharpened stakes of the wall and listened to the screams of the herds as the things savaged them and ran them to death.

The third day was quiet. Evil had sated itself in the night and needed to sleep.

The fourth day they knew despair, for if the runners had made it to the garrison, the soldiers would have arrived by then. They were cut off and alone.

The fifth day, the evil things attacked.

Passeria stood the wall with the hunters and the veterans, loosed arrows until her quiver was exhausted, then another took her place while she gulped down water and replenished her ammunition. They had many arrows--arrows and bolts were as good as coin at tax-time when you lived in the Marches. The Evil things had a sound battle-plan, even so: keep throwing themselves at the walls until they ran the defenders out of arrows. Foolish for any mortal host, but the monsters had the numbers to make it work.

The First among the hunters patted her on the shoulder as he came down for his own water and arrows. "How are you holding up, Passeria?"

"Well enough, I suppose. Most of my shots hit. I just hate that damned song of theirs!"

"Song? Ah, that raucous keening of theirs? Has a rhythm to it, I guess...I suppose a Bard would find it more vexing than most." Another light clout on the shoulder, and he was back to the wall and his work.

She leaned her head against the water barrel and listened to the monsters at the walls. That song...that damnable song. Everyone else seemed to tune it out, but it got inside her, into her bones, and it resonated there. Horrible, ugly, screeching...

She dropped the cup and turned to stare at the wall. What a disgusting sound...like her own singing voice.

She left her bow and quiver at the water station and climbed the short flight of steps to the top of the palisade. Someone growled a warning at her to "be careful with that thing!" and she realized that she had her sword in her hand. She looked out at the screeching, tumbling horde of their foes, and she took a deep breath.

The first note was as painful to sing as it was to hear, but it caught the attention of a thing with the head of a dog and the body of a ram that had been clawing at the logs, ignoring the arrows studding its flanks. So she sang to it, and it sat back on its haunches, staring at her raptly right up to the point that it slid back into the ditch, bright red blood mingling with the muddy pool at the bottom.

She sang louder, and more of them stopped and stared. A few raised their own voices, a chorus of demons in answer. She jumped down from the palisade, voice faltering for only a moment, and scrambled out of the ditch to face them directly.

The first thing died with her blade in its throat, never moving a muscle.

The second was man-shaped, and sang with her even as she slid the sword into its belly.

The third died under the axe of the First Hunter.

The fourth fell to a hammer blow from the smith.

The fifth opened its mouth to sing and took a shepherd's sling bullet in its gullet.

She sang and sang, voice croaking out refrains to every song she knew, and when that failed her she sang wordlessly, scales of death and blood and slaughter. The moon was high in the sky when the business was finally done, and one of the shepherds caught her as she collapsed.

The next morning they loaded her onto the back of one of the three surviving horses, which rolled its eyes at the stink of decaying bone-white flesh and blood that would not turn brown. The hunter's First and the Headwoman's son led her between them, and whenever they encountered a roving thing, she sang to it in a voice that cracked from overuse while it died under their blades. That night they reached the garrison.

The winter was hard, but the King sent wagonloads of provisions, and promised that the spring would see new herdstock sent from his own lands. Other Bards, others like Passeria, dwelt with the garrison, and patrols were pushed out almost to the foothills.

A hard winter, but filled with song.

#My Writing

18 notes · View notes

mst3kproject · 5 years

Photo

Elves (1989)

Christmas is a weird holiday. We all talk about joy and generosity and love, while it’s actually a season full of stress, greed, and hate. We hate our politically incorrect grandparents, we hate our in-laws asking why we’re not pregnant yet, we hate the expense, we hate the crowds, we hate the traffic, and most of all we hate anybody who doesn’t partake in this flaming bag of holiday. Partly because how dare they actually relax and enjoy the season while we go festively mad, but mostly because we’re white people and we just hate everybody.

That brings us to Elves, a Christmas movie about Nazis.

Three ditzes meet in the woods for a dark ritual in which they officially swear off Christmas. In the process one of them cuts herself – the blood falls on the ground and naturally awakens some primal horror sleeping below. It follows her home in a POV shot, and then we spend a little time getting to know Kirsten and her abusive family. There’s her German grandfather who slaps her around and enforces weird rules, her mother who steals her money and drowns her cat, and her perverted little brother who spies on her in the shower. All right, these people definitely need to die. Bring on the evil elves!

But no, instead we follow her to work at the department store, where she gets hit on by a drunken Santa Claus. This guy at least dies quickly, stabbed to death by the elf while trying to do a line of coke without getting it in his beard (is this a Santa Claus and Coca Cola joke? I hope so). Later, the evil elf digs up the body of the cat and leaves it on Kirsten’s windowsill, which gets Herr Grandpa thinking. He meets up with some of his old Nazi friends, and learns that after forty years, their terrible plot is finally coming to fruition. It seems that Kirsten is the last pure Aryan virgin, who is destined to mate with the evil elf on Christmas Eve and give birth to the Antichrist!

Are you going wait, what the fuck? at this point? Don’t worry, so am I, and this is only the first third of the movie.

Meanwhile, we’ve also been following a homeless guy who gets hired to replace the murdered Santa Claus and decides to play detective. The girls invite some of their boyfriends for an orgy sleepover in the department store, but the boys are killed by Herr Grandpa’s Nazi buddies who are here to offer Kirsten to the elf. Replacement Santa saves Kirsten herself but her girlfriends get killed, and the elf (and the Nazis) decide to follow her home. Herr Grandpa tries to atone for the mistakes of his past while Replacement Santa consults some scholars to find out what’s up with the Nazi Rape Elf. The elf was the product of genetic engineering. Kirsten was the product of incest between her mother and grandfather. A car blows up for some reason. The elf has a gun. My brain hurts.

The upshot is that with Herr Grandpa dead and Santa Claus neutralized, it looks like Kirsten’s got to save herself. I don’t give that good odds.

There’s quite a bit of foul language and a few boobs in this movie that MST3K would have had to cut or cover, but it would have been worth it because god damn this movie is bad. The summary above probably makes it sound weird and incoherent but trust me, it’s a vast improvement on actually having to watch this thing. There is no entertainment value here whatsoever. Thirty minutes in I felt like I’d already been watching it all day. Not even my incredulity that I was watching a Christmas movie about a Nazi Rape Elf could carry me through it. This is the Manos: the Hands of Fate of Christmas movies.

Most of the time you can barely tell what’s going on. An awful lot of important scenes take place in various levels of darkness, and then they pile the distorted elf-cam on top of that. There are bits where you can’t hear the dialogue and when you can it doesn’t make any sense. The characters aren’t likable and nobody can act – the nearest thing to an exception is the Santa Claus guy. The character seems like a really decent person who doesn’t need to get involved in this but does, simply because it’s the right thing to do. Dan Haggerty occasionally tries to give a performance, but mostly he just stumbles through the film in the same dead-eyed how did it ever come to this? haze as Graham Greene in Atlantic Rim.

Kirsten and her two friends are annoying bimbos. The friends’ names are Brooke and Amy but I don’t remember which one is which… one of them’s the horny one and the other one is the stupid one, and that’s the extent of their personalities. Maybe they’re both horny and stupid. Their boyfriends are absolute assholes, who are thankfully only on screen for thirty seconds total before they get killed. Kirsten’s mom is a sadistic bitch (I guess at least she’s got a reason), her bother’s a brat, and the bad guys are a bunch of German accents distinguishable only by the fact that Herr Grandpa is in a wheelchair.

The elf is made of disconnected puppet parts so ugly and immobile they almost wouldn’t be out of place in Troll II. It moves about as fast as the Creeping Terror and kills people by stabbing them repeatedly with a fruit knife. There is nothing remotely threatening or scary about it. The only emotion it inspires in me is an urge to punt it across the room. It looks like a cheap, shitty Hallowe’en decoration that isn’t sure how it wandered into this cheap, shitty Christmas movie.

Every so often the movie tries to be funny, but it never succeeds. The thing with the tape on the door seems like it’s setting up a wacky misunderstanding, but it’s a joke without a punchline. The guy explaining the history of Nazi Rape Elves while his children sit there waiting for him to carve the turkey is probably supposed to be a joke, but again, it never goes far enough to get a laugh. The closest we get is with little details that are often more clever than funny, like Santa and his coke – or my favourite, a shot of a rack of guns with a sign that says gift ideas for mom.

I understand the urge to make a Christmas-themed horror movie. Christmas is, frankly, just begging to be ironically subverted, and plenty of film-makers have tried to rise to the challenge. Not all of them have succeeded, but Elves doesn’t even try. A movie that has, say, a serial killer dressed as Santa Claus (examples are numerous) is commentary. It’s saying something about how we tell children to put complete trust in a guy in a weird outfit who breaks into our houses every year. The Christmas imagery in Elves is completely irrelevant. If this were a movie about one of Santa’s elves snapping and killing people, it could be about holiday stress and taking advantage of the working class. It’s not.

The movie can’t even keep its own mythology straight. One of the scholars tells us that the elves were on Noah’s ark and are supernatural beings that have been around since the beginning of time – that’s why the offspring of an elf and a human will be the Antichrist, and why it must be conceived on Christmas Eve. The other one says the elves were genetically engineered by the Nazis to be the fathers of the master race… so which is it? The fact that Kirsten has had visions and the elf is so desperate to get the deed done before midnight speaks for version one, while some of the stuff the Nazis say seems to point to version two. If this ambiguity is intentional, they could have made that way clearer. The elf draws a rune by each of its victims but these don’t seem to serve any purpose besides being creepy and giving Santa Claus a clue.

I think some symbolism may be intended by having the guy investigating all this be a department store Santa Claus. Santa Claus is a lover of children and a giver of gifts. When he catches the girls sneaking into the store after hours, he allows them to stay and have their fun as long as they don’t steal anything – this might metaphorically be considered a gift for good children. Later he gives another gift, when he passes the ‘elfstone’ to the little brother to pass on to Kirsten. This isn’t really developed enough to accomplish anything, though. It’s more of a motif than an actual theme.

And of course, there’s the ‘it’s not over!’ ending, where the credits begin to roll over a shot of a fetus. What? There was definitely no rape scene in the movie, nor any implication that one had occurred and the film-makers, showing more restraint than usual, didn’t show it. While Kirsten waited injured in the woods for her brother to bring her the elfstone, the elf was distracted eating a toad. Did it impregnate her by passing a hand over her stomach, like the guy in Abraxas: Guardian of the Universe?

Man, do I ever hate this movie. What a boring, stupid waste of my time. Who makes something like this? Who decides to put the words Nazi Rape Elf in that order and then thinks the result would make a good Christmas movie? I dug this piece of shit up in search of something to watch and review besides The Star Wars Holiday special and I’m actually sorry I did. I’m not even joking. Elves is that fucking bad.

#mst3k #reviews #elves #episodes that never were #tw: incest #tw: rape #holiday reviews #fuck this movie #80s #just fuckin weird

17 notes · View notes

fallenesspoetry · 5 years

Text

A Bullet in the Chamber (full text)

AO3|FFN

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Donald Ressler

Warnings: Swearing, OOC, Suicidal thoughts.

Summary: The alternative ending of the “Mako Tanida” episode.

Every five seconds someone is dying.

Car crash. Cancer. AIDS. Murder. Suicide.

I bet neither you nor me don't even think about it. Why bother, right? We are one hundred percent sure about the next morning.

Aren't we?

* The alarm clock. Wake up. Bathroom. Shower. Shaving. Dressing. Pants. Pressed shirt. Tie. Holster. Jacket. Breakfast. Two toasts, butter, jam and strongly brewed, sugar-free coffee. Turn off the lights. Shoes. The keys. Grab a coat. Lock the door. Keep to the speed limit and get to work.

That's how most of my days begin, and end the same—sending the case report about another thug of a criminal our team's caught and locked up.

That's how it'd always been.

Until that very day.

When I got Audrey back.

My Audrey.

I spent five years trying to make my name, chasing a notorious elusive “Concierge of Crime” Raymond Reddington.

Five fucking years!..

No one could compete with him. My best pals quit asking if I'm free on Fridays, and my colleagues—asking me out for a drink or two.

Audrey stood a little longer.

Until she gave me the ring back.

“You're engaged with him, Don. And your job.”

I don't blame her.

* I'm used to do my job in a certain way.

Gather evidence. Lay out the facts. Connect the dots. Point out the possible suspects. Bring them in for questioning. Prove they're guilty. Close the case.

The world is black and white for me. Good and evil. I have faith in the system, because my job's to uphold the law and punish those who're breaking it.

My job isn't about guessing or profiling. It's all about facts and proof. And, most certainly, it's not playing ball with Interpol's “Number One”, traitor and double intelligence agent.

My job was all that until Raymond Reddington surrendered the FBI, and I got a case heavily tied to my past.

* Three months.

Is it a lot or a little?

90 days. 2160 hours. 129600 minutes. 7776000 seconds.

Because of a completely impossible coincidence in my paradigm, Audrey had been brought back to me.

For just three months.

“You sure you're alright, Donnie?” “I got lucky. They're saying I'll be good as new in a few weeks.” “I'll stay and make sure of that.”

Her genuine smile tore something away from me.

It couldn't be...

“You okay with that?” “And him?” I'm pointing to a new engagement ring, “I'm your ex, after all.” “He'll understand.”

* On average, a bullet travels at over 4,000 feet per second.

Is it possible to foresee this bullet to have gone through your girlfriend, her body collapsing on a dirty pavement?

Is it possible to foresee your best friend and partner to secretly murder in cold blood a yakuza boss and take over his business?

It it possible to foresee that the brother of the deceased would be seeking revenge, leaving a corpse trail of wives and kids?

Is it possible to foresee that Raymond Reddington, the “Concierge of Crime” would be the only one to truly fathom the hate and desire to avenge Audrey's death?

I'd never found the answer to that.

* Another knock on the door.

Fuck you all.

Fuck these walls. Fuck another report. Fuck the taste of a strongly brewed sugar-free coffee, its bitterness a constant reminder of how I'd fucked it all up.

Fuck it all.

Her things are still at my place. She'd never had the chance to put them on a free shelf in my closet.

I'm breathing in a delicate scent of her perfume. Something very light and subtle. It's the one. The day we met.

I have to let her go.

I have to.

Have to.

But I can't.

* “Take a couple of days, grieve. There's no shame in that.”

My firm and polite “No” puzzles the opponent.

I don't need your compassion.

I don't need your understanding.

Leave. Me. The fuck. Alone.

* Days are blending in one. Hour by hour. Minute by minute. Long, empty and liveless.

...Something has fallen out from her make-up bag. I guess, one of those women things.

A pregnancy test.

I'm doing a quick math.

A week, then. Maybe, a bit longer.

I'm literally knocked off my feet realizing it. Something else is falling down shattering into pieces.

I don't care.

Hot, scorching tears are running down my cheeks.

I don't scream.

* Since that day all my evenings begin with a bottle of whiskey. Dry.

But I can't get drunk.

Then another one.

The third one—and I'm finally knocked out on my couch.

If it's Friday, I'm going out to a bar nearby. Rudely than usually, I brush a couple of girls off hanging around, looking for a cheap treat.

I start with beer. Then shots. Bourbon. Whiskey. And if by this time my stomach isn't turning, I'm drying a couple of tequilas.

When it's almost closing time, I'm asking a bartender to call a cab.

* Each time I got into a shooting, I was hoping I'd catch a bullet.

But the God saw it the other way.

* Unloading a gun has always been the best stress reliever for me. I could easily do it with my eyes shut.

Press the mag catch and remove the mag. Remember that any of your fingers shouldn't be near the trigger while doing that. Now, pull back the slide as far as it goes and hold it open by pushing up the catch slide lever with your thumb. Check carefully for any left ammo in the chamber. I mean, check. Carefully. At last, release the slide on an empty chamber and depress the safety lever. You may also unload your mag and check if you need more ammo.

You can do a field strip in case your gun had been wet from snow or water. I sometimes do it. Not too often, though. But if I do, I can strip and assemble it well in under two minutes.

Let's assume you're curious about the field strip. Let's also assume you have already unloaded your gun.

First, turn the take-down lever to a 6 o'clock position and pull back the slide slightly. It will disengage the slide lever. Hold the slide firmly and let it glide forward gently. Don't be in a rush if it's your first time doing that. Now, slip the complete assembly, comprising slide, barrel, recoil spring and guide forward and off the frame. The recoil spring is under tension, so be careful when removing it. Finally, remove the barrel from the slide.

It sounds difficult but trust me, it's far easier once you try doing that yourself.

* I always carry my gun with me. And lately, in spite of Audrey's killer is dead, I'm used to fall asleep with my gun under the pillow.

I'm not being paranoid, no.

Just a precaution. That's it.

Anyway, I've started having this kind of fun—if you can call it like that—unloading the ammo from the mag, lining up all the cartridges, one by one on the table.

And I'd stare at them, thinking.

Thinking...

Once in two minutes someone is commiting suicide.

Statistically, those who keep a firearm in their house are committing suicide ten times often than those who don't.

For every criminal killed by a firearm stored at the house, there are thirty–seven suicides who get themselves killed with their own.

There's no one to leave a note for, so the “Mail” tab is not even opened.

I'm not registering that I'm fixing my tie so casually like it's one of those days I'm up and ready to go.

And only the dim lights above my head remind me it's not another morning.

I'm fidgeting with one of the fifteen cartridges for my gun.

The cartridge isn't getting any warmer in my palm.

Like an unmelting ice cube, burning the skin with its coldness.

The gun is on the table—its surface scratched with the knife and stained from numerous coffee mugs.

My phone is set to “No Disturb” mode—I don't want anyone to bother me.

My heart is beating unusually steady—I'm trained well, after all.

Audrey comes into my thoughts again.

Her smile. Her laugh. Her touch. Her scent. Her voice.

Her whisper.

Her last words.

My hands covered in her blood.

That was my bullet.

And tonight I'm gonna make it right.

#the blacklist #donald ressler #the blacklist fanfiction #nbcblacklist #mine

2 notes · View notes

knittastically · 6 years

Text

A Lioness Amongst the Wolves Pt 14

As always thank you for reading, I love to read your comments and if you could reblog that would be fantastic.

Warning: Mention of miscarriage and death of a newborn

Jehanne is grumpy, I can tell it just from the look on her face and she frowns at me as I walk past her to escort Blanche from the Chateau. As Blanche turns to say goodbye she leans in and drops a kiss to my cheek, I stiffen slightly for I am not completely reconciled with her and she knows it.

“Shall I see you on Sunday Isabé?”

“I expect so, I will be at Mass with the Baron”

“When does Raymond return?”

I am losing patience, I can’t stand this forced, polite conversation, I don’t like myself for it but the wound of her not telling me who she really is has cut me deep.

“I have no idea”, I shrug “it will doubtless be when the King gives him leave to come home” My voice is flat and clipped.

Blanche’s smile never drops, her voice never wavers and she fixes a smile on her face. “I am sure he will be home as soon as he can Isabé.” She takes hold of my hands but I pull them away after only a brief moment.

“I must go, there is much to do and we have spent a long time talking with each other, Jehanne is waiting.”

She is being dismissed by her own daughter but she holds herself in check and gives little away, though her eyes are a little glassy.

“I understand my dear, I won’t keep you any longer”

She nods “Until Sunday then” and makes her way down to the steps, to where Julot waits for her to help her up into the saddle. Does she look up at me and wave, I have no idea for I am already back in the hall.

“You, look like shit Isabé” Jehanne stands hands on hips and stares at me with a sour look on her face.

“Hmmph, and you have a face like an Alaunt chewing a wasp.” I spit back at her.

Laughing she links her arm through mine and pulls me against her side “It will all come right about you know she is the same woman that raised you, what difference does it make what name she goes by she has always loved you.”

“You have clearly been talking to the Baron, he said almost the same”

“He is right, you should reconcile yourself, for fear it eats away at you; so are you going to tell me about it or not”

“This is what I like about you Jehanne” I waggle a finger at her. “Straight to the point, as always you just jump in with your big feet and ask”

“I see no virtue in waiting to hear a third hand tale” she winks “which would doubtless be wrong”

“Well if you really want to know I will tell you as we clean, it’s nothing very interesting really”

We make for the chamber next to mine, it looks like it has been used as a storage room for years and before we can begin every stick of furniture, every pot, chest and tapestry needs to be hauled into the corridor. It is so damned hot that we are sweating and lathered like draught horses in minutes.

“So who is your father Isabé” Jehanne’s voice is bright with excitement and curiosity.

“Oh that is the one thing Blanche was careful not to tell me, no matter how often I asked she evaded or even flatly refused to tell me”

“But for God’s sake why would she not tell you?

“All she said was that he had made her promise not to and he would tell me himself when he felt the time was right” I sling a chipped jug out onto an old mattress, my aim is good but there is too much force, it bounces onto the floor and shatters. I cannot even be bothered to swear, just roll my eyes and hiss breath out in a long sigh.

“So I may never know” I could feel the tears ready to fall and I dash them away with the back of my hand.

Without another word I start to push at one of three remaining chests, trying to move it towards the door, Jehanne shakes her head at me and comes to help. Grunting and groaning we shove and heave them into the corridor.

“Isabé, sit down for a moment, sit and talk with me” I lean back against the cool wall and let myself slide down to the floor. Jehanne follows suit and sits close, our arms touch. For a moment I just hug my knees to my chest and then it all spills out.

Their meeting in ’87, a pretty farmer’s daughter and the youngest son of a wealthy official. A love affair cut short when, as was the way, he was packed off to a life of celibacy, obedience and prayer at Jumièges Abbey. His swift move from postulant to Junior and then his appointment as Cellarer was remarkable, no doubt his family’s generous gifts to the Abbey of both land and money eased his path and gave the Abbot reason to keep him. Though by all accounts he was a handful and often kicked against the goads of authority.

I give an unladylike sniff and let loose a hiccoughing laugh.

Jehanne hugs me closer, “So he was troublesome and rebellious” She smirks at me.

“Hmmm, it seems he was always at odds with his superiors” I grin back at her, “He didn’t stay a Black Monk for too long.”

“Then you must be your father’s daughter, I can see where both your obstinacy and sense of justice come from!”

She gives a false yelp and feigns hurt, as I smack her arm but she is laughing at me and of course she is right. I continue the tale of how he came back to Rouen to find that Blanche had left to go and stay with her Sister and Brother in Law, Marielle and Thomas Pelletier. That he had no time to search for her as he had taken service with the Baron and joined the ranks of his company, all of them seemingly hell bent on getting themselves killed in a Holy War. Already under orders to leave the soldiers were ready to move out, he had no option but to go.

“But surely he was not a fighter, not a soldier” Jehanne frowns at me.

“Oh, it seems he never gave up his training and practiced in secret but of course he was found out, another mark against him.”

I manage a weak smile, then shiver a little and squeeze at Jehanne’s hand.

“Isabé, please, if you don’t wish to tell me more then don’t, I know I am a nosy baggage but I have no wish to see you in distress.”

Burning tears prick my eyes and now I begin to feel some remorse for how I have behaved to Blanche. “It did not end well Jehanne.”

I lean into my friend as she slides her arm about my shoulders.

“Marielle was overjoyed, she too was expecting their first child and was glad of the help, it did not matter to her that Blanche was not married and it seemed she was settled and safe. The birth was hard and the child survived for only a few hours but Thomas named her Ève, and at least she was baptized, but Marielle was so very weak and only lived for a few more days. Blanche is sure that she gave up on life, that she died of a broken heart as much as much as the fever.”

The tears start again, I let them fall fast and hot as I remember the pain and heartache of losing my own child so early, that poor scrap of life. Jehanne understands for she was there, my dearest friend, who helped me, a naïve girl who did not really know what was happening.

I think on how harrowing it must be, to carry a Child all that time only to see it lose the fight to survive and I wonder if there is there a God?

I push on, stuttering out my words with a ragged, uneven breath, telling of how Thomas was good to us at first, letting us stay on after I was born and that he doted on me until something evil worked into his brain and he sought solace in wine, more so after the anniversary of their deaths. To him Blanche was responsible, she had not done enough, had not been vigilant enough. He called her a whore and a slut and wondered how he could have allowed such a lecherous bitch take care of his beloved Marielle.”

Jehanne gasps in her breath. “The Arsehole, the bastard” what was he thinking?” She hisses between her teeth then strokes at my hair and makes soothing noises.

“We could not stay, not when he started to become free with his fists or his belt. Blanche was in fear for our safety and the only place she could think to go was Madame Bouvier’s. One night when Thomas passed out again from too much wine, she bundled up only what she could carry, though she made sure to take some coin and he was so drunk he did not even realise she was rifling through the coin pouch on his belt.”

“She should have taken the whole purse from that shit”

I Shake my head at her,” No she would not do that she took only what she felt was her due”

“Remember” I rest my cheek atop my knees and look across at her. “His heart was broken and it seemed that his mind was following.”

She snorts at me and her eyes flash with anger, “Don’t you dare, don’t you damned well dare make excuses for him Isabé”

I ignore her, for I never heard Blanche speak ill of him.

Recounting how with a sling across her body to carry me, Blanche walked away from that place, pausing only to say a prayer at the grave of Marielle and Ève. I tell more the story before I can forget the things Blanche has told me, the nights sleeping in barns or even in the open, that she begged rides on carts when she could and for a while joined with a group of nuns, then later walked with Pilgrims heading here to Rouen to seek a blessing at the Cathedral before they set off to Santiago. There were always plenty of people on the road and it seems that on the journey back here, I became Isabé Pelletier her niece, child of her late sister.

The pain in my head has worsened, like an ever beating drum the thumping sensation is relentless, and my eyes are gritty and sore.

“Isabé, you look so weary, stop now, tell me the rest later hein”

“I think I shall burst if I don’t tell someone whilst it is fresh in my mind and who better than you my friend,” I smile broadly at her “My sister”

I see a flush settle on her cheeks, “Don’t be so silly Isabé.”

“Truly Jehanne, you are like a sister to me” Her blush deepens and she shakes her head.

“But you survived Isabé”

“Indeed, Madame Bouvier confirmed Blanche’s story to whoever asked and no matter what anyone thought in private, no one challenged her to her face. It was she that told Blanche my Father had left to fight in the Holy War”

“When Hénri returned from fighting, Blanche helped to care for him, I think he had always held a place in his heart for her, twice he proposed marriage, and twice she refused. Finally she told him she was waiting for my father’s return but when he heard the name, he had to break the news to her that he had seen him fall on the battlefield and that although he had watched his body carried away he was sure he had not survived.”

“Poor, poor Blanche” I sigh, “to hear such news after waiting so long, it must have felt like a blow.”

Tears are still not far away and my voice cracks, “Yes a short love affair, but I know now that he was the only man she truly loved, indeed still loves, Hénri knows it too.”

“But your father is alive is he not?”

“Oh yes and somewhere in Rouen, he returned many months after the other survivors and found Blanche married and already pregnant with Guillaume.”

“Sweet Mary Mother of God, he must have hated her for that.

“No, No Jehanne it seems that in spite of being rebellious he is also a very forgiving and practical man, for that matter so is Hénri and he never forbade my father the right to visit Blanche or me, though I have no memory of anyone in particular, we had so many visitors once we moved to the Manor.”

“Do you know why he returned so long after the others?”

“Blanche would not say, it seems that is histale to tell.”

I hear the bitter note in my voice, I can’t help it for I fear that I shall never know the truth of it.

Jehanne scrambles to her feet and reaches down to clasp my hand, standing quickly I grow dizzy and sway a little as everything goes black.

“Isabé what is it, are you well?

“Just a little light headed”

“For God’s sake when did you last eat, I know you had nothing before you went to the Mason’s yard”

As I frown at her I think back.

“I don’t know, yesterday perhaps, yes, yesterday, midday.”

“Idiot, all this upset and upheaval, the cleaning, Raymond going to Paris and not least Blanche”

“That’s why I forgot with all this shit happening” I snap back at her, “Christ, you’re not my mother, so don’t speak to me as if you are.” I stare wide eye at her and bite at my bottom lip as I realise the stupidity of what I have just said.

“Jehanne I...” She cut’s me off, but she smiling.”

“Kitchen, Now!” She bellows at me. “I will carry on here”

“Alright, Alright I’m going, I need to speak with Fournier anyway”

Jehanne rolls her eyes and shakes her head, then leans forward to kiss my cheek.

“You will need to be fit for Raymond coming home, he will want a wife who can match his energy and from what I have seen so far he has plenty of that” She winks and leers at me “Now go”

I make my way down the stairs and across to the screens passage. A blast of hot air hits me as I enter the kitchens, in the centre of the room the Seneschal stands straight as a spear and whilst everyone else wilts in the heat he seems indifferent to it.

Shorter than Fournier by at least a foot, the Chef stands toe to toe with him and cranes his neck. He is clearly agitated, though with all the noise I can’t hear what he is saying. I smile for what he lacks in height the smaller man makes up for in build, his ruddy, sweaty face is contorted into an angry mask and as he speaks he waves his arms around. This would hardly matter were it not for the fact that he clutches a large knife in his right fist and in his left, a cleaver, both of which seem to swipe perilously close to the Seneschal.

Fournier stands as calm as if he were being addressed by a venerable old Aunt, when he speaks it seems to infuriate Chef all the more, until finally he quietens, gives a curt nod and stomps off to another part of his domain.

The Seneschal misses nothing, he knows I’m there, I saw him slide a sideways look at me as I entered the kitchen and he strides across and bids me good morning.

“Good Day to you Monsieur Fournier, if you have time I should like to speak with you about the wedding” I smile up at him. “I may be the Bride but I know nothing of the arrangements and as Sieur Raymond has been called to Paris not even the date is settled.”

“Of course I have time Mam’selle, but it is just Fournier.”

I nod my head and notice his grey eyes are almost silver in this light.

“First though if I may, I should like some food, I have been so busy that I have not eaten since midday yesterday”

“We must set that to rights Mam’selle , what can I have brought for you?”

“I must admit I have no real appetite some cheese and bread will suffice”

He waves a kitchen maid over and speaks in a low voice, as she scurries away he guides me across the kitchen to where a large table and two chairs are wedged in a corner.

“Mam’selle my office.”

“Forgive me, but I should have thought that as Seneschal you would have your own private office”

“Oh indeed I do, close by the Baron’s quarters, but this is convenient for the day to day business of the Chateau and everyone knows where to find me. The other is for more private matters with the Baron or Sieur Raymond, besides I like the bustle and the noise in here.”

He gestures towards the chair nearest to me “Please, sit” He waits until I do before he settles into the other.

The dark wood of the table is battered and ink stained, on it an earthenware jug, two beakers, ink pot, quills and four neat stacks of parchment sheets arranged in front of him. Each, one weighted down by some object, an unusually shaped and coloured stone, a small wooden box, a carved stone hand missing two fingers, and on one, what looks to be the remains of a child’s toy, battered and broken now but unmistakeably a small wooden horse. Something about that discarded toy strikes at my heart, it makes me feel desperately sad.

Taking two sheets of parchment from the stack beneath the stone hand and one from each of the others, he runs a long finger down the columns of words and figures on each sheet and reads out each item. His attention to detail is impressive.

As he speaks my food is brought across, so much for bread and cheese, I widen my eyes and smile at him. A dish of peaches, fresh young cheese and warm bread, a dish of honey, thick slices of ham, a dish of almonds with spices, enough for three at least.

I pull some bread, spread it thickly with the cheese and drizzle it with a little honey then sink my teeth into the soft, sweet, salty, tangy whiteness. “Delicious, thank you” “My pleasure” He leans back in his chair “So Mam’selle as you see everything is well underway.” His smile is broad and generous. “Whatever supplies we cannot provide for ourselves will be brought in, they will begin to arrive tomorrow, though of course it will be only be those items which will not perish in this heat. The rest we can arrange when.” he smiles across at me “When Sieur Raymond advises me of the date”

“I understand perfectly Fournier” and I smile back in sympathy “I too should be delighted to know exactly when he has decided drag me before the Priest.” I am rewarded by a rumble of laughter and his eyes glitter “Indeed Mam’selle, indeed! Though I am given to understand that the Archbishop will conduct your wedding at the Cathedral. As for quests the number is already at,” he rifles through his lists “One hundred and fifty three and should His Majesty deign to grace us with his presence, the number will increase markedly” I gasp, “His Majesty?” my voice is no more than a squeak. Fournier pours wine into a beaker and passes it to me, my fingers tremble as I raise it to my lips to take a sip. “Sieur Raymond is held in very high regard by the King, so personally, I think it is more likely than not that he will attend.”

“Then thank goodness we have started to clean the Chateau.” I sip at my wine and watch him from under my lashes as he rearranges the sheets of parchment.

“I think you will be a good friend Fournier, another ally”

We sit in silence as I eat, enjoying the delicious, simple food.

“I must go Fournier, thank you for the food and for what you have told me” I rise to leave and he accompanies me to the screens passage.

“Should there be anything else you need Mam’selle, you know where to find me”

I smile up at him, “Oh you have everything well in hand, I don’t think for one moment I shall need to trouble you much at all”

He nods, smiles “As you wish Mam’selle but you are most welcome here at any time and I have some ideas for the feast that you may like to hear, I was” he chooses his word “I was discussing them with DuFour as you as you arrived.”

“Yes I saw, is he always so excitable?”

“Oh sometimes far worse but,” he taps the side of his nose “Humbert DuFour is a master of his craft, he is an artist, the King has tried to entice him away more than once.

“He really is that good?”

“Oh indeed and I know he would be delighted if you would come and taste some of the wonderful dishes he is creating for your special day.”

I look across to where Chef DuFour is working, rapt in concentration, his brow deeply furrowed

“I will not disturb him now, but would you tell him please that it would be my pleasure?”

“Of course Mam’selle, though I fear it will make him even more unbearable, God help us” His laugh rumbles up again.

“Thank you for your time Fournier, for everything.”

“It is what I do” He shrugs and bids me good day.

There is a brightness to Fournier’s eyes, a soft indulgent smile on his lips and as Isabé walks away he smiles and whispers.

“How could I not do this for my own Daughter?”

Raymond and his Captain Mathieu Descoteaux ride side by side. A Sadness works deep into Raymond, sadness and disappointment, that Guillame of all people should be working against him, it has cut his heart.

“Keep your eyes on him when I cannot Mathieu, I hope I may yet save him if he is not in too deep” Mathieu gives him a searching look, Raymond nods, for if Guillaume cannot be pulled from this mire there is only one solution “If needs be then he must die, either at my hand or yours Descoteaux”

“Understood Sieur, Understood.” And with a nod the Captain reins away to ride a horses length behind his lord.

Raymond, pulls a corner of Isabé’s veil from his tunic. It is a little grubby now but still carries her scent of roses and he breathes it in, then unseen, he presses the cloth against his lips before tucking it away again.

“Sweet Christ all I want is not to have to do this shit anymore, to be home with you in my arms”

He closes his eyes for a moment, smiles and whispers her name.

**To reach the position of Cellarer as a Benedictine Fournier would have had to serve a much longer period than he did. From Postulant to Novice and Junior could have taken at least 4 years if not longer. So I’m taking licence here and using the premise that family would have gifted the Abbey a substantial sum of money or land and that would have “eased” his progress. I have tried to keep other timelines correctly fitted, but hey my sandpit my rules.

49 notes · View notes

clansayeed · 4 years

Text

Bound by Destiny ― Chapter 2: The Gallery

PAIRING: Kamilah Sayeed x MC (Nadya Al Jamil) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Destiny ⥽

Nadya Al Jamil (MC) has been struggling from the day she moved to Manhattan, but her new job as assistant to the mysterious CEO of Raines Corp was supposed to turn her luck around. Until she finds herself caught in the middle of a war involving the Council of Vampires who secretly run the city. An evil from the birth of Vampire-kind stirs beneath, feeding on the conflict, and finds Nadya bound to a destiny she never asked for.

Bound by Destiny and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series and spin-off, Nightbound. Find out more [HERE].

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Nadya’s first formal event goes about as well as to be expected. At least there are pretty girls to look at.

[READ IT ON AO3]

“You know, these are the kinds of events that incite supervillains and large gangs of jewelry thieves.”

“Are you a supervillain?”

“I was waiting for the right time to tell you.”

“Do I not pay enough?”

“Being a supervillain has crappy benefits. Raines Corp. dental, though? Top notch.”

Nadya doesn’t want to imagine what she’d be doing if Adrian weren’t here. Or — even worse — if he wasn’t able to match her joke-for-joke. He could very well have been the type of boss who was enjoyable in private but had to shove the proverbial stick up his butt when it came to public events like these.

But nope. Adrian Raines, one of the top bachelors in New York City, is skirting the wall near the chocolate fountain right along with her.

Sure, he did his rounds when they first entered the ballroom of the Gallery. “If you want I can introduce you,” he had whispered before the first wave of Estee Lauder and old money came their way, “but these types… they don’t really expect the assistants to talk.” He’d been ashamed — maybe not for himself but for society.

But that was fine by her. “I don’t like being introduced anyway.”

So for each newly greased palm or sharp-cut suit that came their way she took a step back, zoned out for the brief-but-polite conversation, and made sure to give the alarmingly attentive college kid who always seemed to have one extra refill glass of champagne just for her a tip that would make the oldest crone here wither and fall into an early grave.

Every once in a while Adrian would point out a prominent figure here or an only-famous-in-Europe artist there. It was hard not to feel overwhelmed at the number of famous faces in the same room as her.

“That’s Adam Vega. You’ve heard of him, right?” Adrian points to a set of too-white pearly whites attached to the Senator across the floor.

“Presidential hopeful next election, yeah,” she shrugs, “he’s not given a clear stand on his support of the queer community yet, though, so Lily and I are leaning towards Representative Hartley from California.”

His eyebrows raise; visibly impressed. “I agree. Politicians hate giving direct answers. Vega especially.”

There’s a hint of a personal vendetta there that Nadya notices but doesn’t bring attention to. It wouldn’t surprise her if Vega’s campaign had asked for donations from the company — or if, after tonight, she would see that very email at work Monday evening.

Off to the left corner — where she remembers seeing some marble sculpture, something to do with Venus maybe — it looks as though every photographer allowed into the event flocks around an obscured figure.

“Mademoiselle! Over here!”

“Wonderful, absolutely stunning!”

“Look this way next, Miss Lacroix! Over here!”

Standing on her tip-toes does nothing to help reveal the hidden subject, but that doesn’t stop her from trying.

“Don’t bother,” mumbles Adrian under his breath. “feeding her vanity is the last thing anyone should be doing.”

“Feeding whose vanity?”

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Have you tried one of these pineapple slices in chocolate?”

Before Nadya has a chance to respond a voice comes purring behind her.

“You could at least try and be unpredictable, Adrian. This is the third event you’ve spent sulking by the sweets.”

Though Adrian brightens considerably at the woman who lurks behind Nadya, her reaction couldn’t be more opposite. Chills down her spine and the air in her lungs catching in her throat — desperate not to be let out in the same space as that familiar tone. She’d heard the woman named Kamilah only twice since the meeting-that-shall-not-be-named and both were phone calls. No name, no caller ID, just Nadya’s usual greeting of “Raines Corp., desk of Mr. Raines speaking, may I help you?” and the curt reply: “he’s expecting my call.” It was as though Adrian had been waiting with his ear to the door — the line transferred before she even had a chance to ask the woman to hold.

And now in person the voice was as unmistakable as it was beautiful; a soft yet commanding tone with a slight accent that curled on the tip of her tongue. If she hadn’t first been introduced to Kamilah by snooping on a meeting that may implicate her boss in murder, she’d be smitten. But falling for killers was morally wrong.

Though that was a moral stance that goes right out the window the moment she turns to meet Kamilah face-to-face. If Amazons existed, they were modeled after her. The statue of Venus across the ballroom would probably start weeping if it laid eyes on her. Nadya’s entire female celebrity hotness scale, which went from sweet Lady Hana Lee to sexy AME star Bianca Sandoval, was thrown horrendously off-kilter.

Is she gaping? Oh crap, she’s gaping. But there had to be laws against dresses that form-fitting on such attractive people. And if there weren’t then she needed to have a talk with Senator Vega at some point that evening.

Then Adrian’s arm is around her shoulder and he’s squeezing her gently against his side. Her name might have been thrown somewhere in there.

“And this, Nadya, is Kamilah Sayeed, CEO of Ahmanet Financial and a very close personal friend of mine.”

Kamilah’s nose scrunches up ever-so-slightly and she rolls her eyes.

“Adrian you make it sound so… tawdry,” she scolds, “when honestly the very thought of you very close and personal with me threatens to ruin my evening meal.”

There’s a private laugh between the pair — something Nadya is witness but not privy to — but it’s enough to wake her from the stupor of sudden racing thoughts concerning her sexuality.

“Uh—n-nice to meet you. I’m Nadya, Nadya Al Jamil.” She offers Kamilah her hand. Kamilah ignores it.

“Yes, though I suppose we’ve met before.” The comment sends her blood running cold; leaves Nadya gaping like a fish for excuses, apologies, anything that would keep them from silencing her for what she knows.

Adrian looks between them — chuckles through his confusion. “What? When?”

When all her floundering is for naught, Kamilah takes the reins.

“On the phone. If you’d call that a proper meeting, that is.”

Her exhale is a little too long, a little too relieved. Adrian’s used to the quirks that she’s made of; stacked like a game of Tetris abandoned near the end. But Kamilah — she notices. Combining the lights overhead and her makeup; Nadya could swear her pupils narrowed into slits.

“Something the matter?” She doesn’t even pretend flippancy and that Adrian notices. The way he looks between them makes her erupt in goosebumps.

Nadya shakes her head hastily. “Just not used to these sorts of things, right? Am I right?” But before she can drink for something to do Adrian’s hand snakes the champagne flute from her grasp. It lands delicately on a passing serving tray and is whisked off into used-stemware oblivion.

“Maybe that’s enough for you, tonight.” He’s teasing but the concern is genuine. Nadya watches a look pass between the mutual moneymakers — hopes to dear god whatever isn’t being said isn’t about her.

When a greying gentleman takes the podium up front the entire floor goes into a hushed silence. His first words, “I’m sure I don’t need to introduce myself,” are followed by snooty, nose-up polite laughter and that’s all anyone feels obligated to say while he drones on about donations to the Gallery, funding, and various sponsored artists featured tonight. The silence in the room is so thin a dropped pin might send the roof crumbling down on them — so there go Nadya’s hopes of asking Adrian what the man was talking about. One chocolate strawberry turns into two, and by the time the room breaks into restrained applause and the man takes his leave, her fingers meet an empty tray.

Doors open off to the side to the Gallery’s displayed collection. Large canvases filled with blurry vibrancy that, even from her distance, Nadya can tell is skill unparalleled.

She’s already several paces towards the beckoning beauty when she notices she’s alone. Turns with a frown — until she spots Adrian speaking to Kamilah in hushed tones.

“Adrian, you coming?” calls Nadya — when she catches the slightly desperate crack in her voice she wishes she hadn’t.

His infallible smile reaches her even at their distance. “You go on ahead. I’ve just got a bit of business to discuss first.”

That’s when she notices the portly man in a too-tight tuxedo behind the glamorous pair. He’s average, curly hair and beard shaved just a little too short on the right side. But he moves in a strange, graceful way — like Adrian and Kamilah. They congregate and then like statues remain still, close; secretive. Despite the movement towards the exhibition around them.

It brings a chill down her spine. “Are you sure?”

Something in Kamilah’s brow furrows; her annoyance clear. Adrian remains nonplussed.

“Yes, I’m sure,” he nods, gestures for her to follow the crowd, “I’ll catch up with you in a moment.”

At risk of her own neck Nadya leaves them, despite every bone in her body screaming at her not to turn her back.

At first Nadya was surprised at all of the faces shown at the event. It gave her a little hope that art was still appreciated in the world. Hope that she found dashed when she realized the truth: that the majority of people looking at the blown-up photographs in all their high-definition only cared about the people looking at them.

The majority of attendants skirt around the edges of the works; file strangely in the middle of the gallery’s hall like some opposite-day weirdness. Every once in a while someone will step forward, alcohol in hand, and air a compliment or observation that their party agrees with in nods and murmurs and subtle toasts. Gallery workers, all identified by their matching ties and lapel pins of the Gallery’s logo, stand here and there with clipboards at the ready and wearing rolls of stickers like fashion statements.

One woman stands passive beside a beautiful canvas of a sprawling rocky valley. The grey of the sky is dark but the grass underneath it shines bright like the sun was just out of view. Nadya approaches — notes her high-and-tight blonde bun and is briefly reminded of how grateful she is Adrian didn’t invite Nicole along — and offers her a friendly nod.

“Hello.”

The woman arches a brow but says nothing.

Twenty-eight agonizing seconds of awkward silence pass. She tries again.

“This is a really pretty piece.”

The woman’s jaw sets at pretty, features then easily schooled into a complacent smile. She’s seen people look at garbage with kinder eyes. “Indeed, miss.”

“Where was this taken?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know, miss.” The worker’s responses grow terse; clipped. A flush of shame floods over her cheeks.

“Oh. Of course. I—”

There’s a familiar click-clack of stilettos that stop just behind her. Nadya sucks in a breath but before she can continue a crisp voice interrupts.

“Wow, you’re serious right now?”

Nadya whirls around but the woman and her shock of vibrant violet hair are trained on the Gallery worker.

Who seems to have found the only person in the room she likes less than Nadya herself. “Pardon me, miss. I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Violet-Hair raises her glass of wine — near empty — and points a nail at the piece.

“Pretty sure I was speaking English, was I speaking English sweetheart?” She looks to Nadya; who nods dumbly. “Right. Yup. English.”

The worker’s patience is wearing thin. “Indeed you were, miss. What I did not understand was your… exclamation.”

Violet-Hair laughs; loudly, unabashedly, not caring that she’s drawing the attention of at least a dozen people standing nearby. In fact she seems to relish in the attention. “Oh! Right! Silly me. I guess I was just, I dunno, like, super surprised to hear that you work here and you don’t know where this shot was taken.”

She’s spoken just loud enough that anyone else having a conversation either has to wait until she’s done or abandons it altogether for something more interesting. Two women loudly arguing with a Gallery employee must never happen at one of these things, Nadya guesses, that or they figured it would happen later on in the evening. But it’s safe to say they’re the current stars of the proverbial show.

“I mean isn’t that what you’re trained to know? Jeez, at least stand next to a big old hunk of art you’re familiar with.” With the crowd at her advantage the woman jerks her thumb at the employee, now flush with offense, as if to say ‘get a load of this.’

The half-moon around them murmurs around one another and it’s the final straw. “Of course I know — these are some of the most detailed photographs of the Scottish Highlands ever taken. I’m offended at your insinuation, miss.”

If she had a dictionary on hand Nadya was suddenly sure that the face of the violet-haired troublemaker would be the picture definition of ‘cat that got the cream.’ Her eyes narrow, painted lips turned down into a sultry frown, and there’s a poisonous edge to the sweetness in her voice.

“Wow. You don’t say?”

“Despite this being one of the most acclaimed shots taken by the photographer, to think I would not know the piece I’m auctioning off is — well — it’s affronting to say the least.”

She sips the last of her wine; forces a pregnant pause on those looking on. Then her hand falls on Nadya’s shoulder with nothing short of intimacy.

“Then why’d you tell my friend here you didn’t know?”

If she had the courage or the voice, Nadya would try to smooth the situation over as best she could. Instead she just stands there, a statue, and wishes she hadn’t eaten two dozen chocolate strawberries.

“P-Pardon?” asks the worker; eyes flicking between the pair.

“If you knew, why didn’t you just tell my friend where it was?”

“Well, I—”

“Why’d you have to be such a stubborn bitch that I had to get involved?”

“Your language is—”

“I may curse like a sailor but at least I’m not a cunt.”

“Miss!” she gasps at the curse, thrown for a loop. Unsure of what to say next. She looks ready to call for security, but the violet-haired vixen made sure to tear down her confidence first. She’s left hanging and Nadya is absolutely awestruck.

“But you know, I think I’m gonna be generous today. I should be generous today, right,” she glances briefly at Nadya who nods like it’s somehow her decision, like she’s culpable in the absolute slaughter of the worker’s self-esteem, “yeah, I’ll be generous I think. I won’t tell your boss you were being horrible to a potential buyer just because she looks like she bought her dress on a clearance rack.”

Nadya could object. She doesn’t. It’s not entirely false but still hurts to hear it.

Then she steps forward and coaxes down the gallery worker with one perfect finger. Wordlessly bats away the woman’s hesitance and whispers something in her ear that lasts long enough for the attending crowd to mill back into their own circles of conversation and for Nadya to watch the blonde woman go absolutely pale — almost sickly green with what she can only assume is fear.

She passes something like a business card between them and Nadya watches while the worker scribbles something down on her clipboard and places a bright orange dot underneath the plaque bearing the photograph’s title. Orange, she recalls, means a purchase. No bid worth it, apparently.

A tender hand on her arm brings Nadya out of her thoughts, looking up into the eyes of her apparent rescuer and her tender-yet-sultry smile.

“Come on, let’s get out of the snake pit.”

She didn’t know she needed the fresh air until it hits her in a chilly wind. She follows the woman onto some outside terrace overlooking the Gallery’s gardens; a strange and fragrant floral oasis in the middle of a bustling metropolis.

“Katherine, by the way, since you forgot to ask.”

Katherine’s hand is offered in a polite way — soft skin hiding a surprisingly firm grip when Nadya takes it.

“Nadya.”

Her new friend wanders to the balcony’s edge and leans over. There’s no invitation but somehow she feels expected and plants herself beside.

“I just hate people like that, you know? People who think they’re better than everyone else because maybe they had more opportunities, or got lucky and were born with money, or whatever. Man, let a girl look at a fucking picture and think it’s cool!”

Nadya silently agrees to Katherine’s whole rant. “I’ve always wanted to go to Scotland. Nearly went on a year abroad in England during college but, uh, something came up, exams, maybe… and I had to cancel the trip.” And she hadn’t thought about it since. Not until she caught sight of those craggy sloping hills that looked so much like the photos in the brochure she kept on her pin board for all four years of her degree.

Katherine leans back on her elbows; her smile almost pitying. “There’s nothing special over there, hon. Trust me.”

“You’ve been?”

“Too many times.”

“I’m still jealous.”

There’s no one around to refill their drinks — either they aren’t supposed to be out here or the free booze is limited to the indoors. Katherine’s definitely sad about her empty wine glass but the scent of the garden down below is enough of a high for her.

“So…” she fumbles to try and fill the silence, “you come here often?”

Katherine’s laugh is demure and restrained. She can’t help but think the woman is containing herself from something. Brick by brick an invisible wall is being formed to keep them at a distance. It makes no sense but Nadya isn’t one to judge. Well — out loud, anyway.

“No, not really. Didn’t know if you could tell but I hate these rich people types.”

“So why are you here?”

“Meeting clients.”

“Oh? Are you an artist?”

She pauses like it’s the most important question in the world. Finally shakes her head and releases Nadya’s bated breath.

“No. No, I’m not.”

“Why do you —”

The door opens behind them and a sudden breath of relief catches their attentions.

“There you are, Nadya, I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Adrian emerges into the night and though his face is the picture of casual calm she could have sworn there was the briefest flash of panic in his eyes — now hidden far and pushed down deep.

“Here I am.” She teases, offers him a casual shrug. Hoping, praying to any listening god that there isn’t a weird flush in her cheeks at the way he talks. “Just needed some air.”

“Of course.”

He brushes a stray bit of hair from her shoulder — a passive, familiar touch that means her shiver has nothing to do with the outside breeze — and in his smile everything seems alright again. He’s just one of those people blessed with a disarming charm.

“A-hem.”

Katherine’s fake cough doesn’t fool anyone. Draws Adrian’s attention away from her and to their guest. It’s an irritation Nadya’s only seen on his face a few times in the months they’ve known each other but it doesn’t settle well regardless.

“Can I help you?”

Katherine looks at Adrian the way all women look at Adrian: like he’s a prize. Her eyes comb through the polished shield of him and linger on his face with predatory accuracy.

“Well you’re kind of interrupting girl time, so —”

“Katherine,” scolds Nadya in a single word, “this is my boss.”

“Hm. I see. Well hello, boss.”

The tension doesn’t dissipate. Fight-or-flight mode kicks in and leaves Nadya looking between them frantically. “Erm… Adrian, this is Katherine. We met on the floor. Katherine, this is my boss: Adrian Raines.”

If she had seen him only as a hot man in a suit before, now she knew his name — and it shows. Something changes in Katherine’s stance — all ease gone. But rather than focusing her energies on Adrian, her eyes flick to Nadya — suddenly hot under the collar.

“W-What? Something on my face?”

“No, sweets, you’re perfect. Just… small world, it turns out.”

Nadya frowns. “What do you mean?”

When Katherine and Adrian shake hands they meet eye-to-eye. She catches sight of their white knuckles and wonders why they’re trying to have a competition over a handshake.

“Well I’m obviously not here because I like the crowds, kitten,” Katherine speaks to Nadya but her eyes remain trained on Adrian, “since the real reason I’m even here is to meet with, well, you Mr. Raines.”

She doesn’t give Adrian the chance to ask, “I’m Ms. Sayeed’s private contractor.”

That invisible brick wall slots into place with a thundering silence. Locks Nadya on one side and Katherine on the other — Adrian caught with her. She can’t remember a time she felt so invisible, so utterly removed from a moment in time. It makes her sick to her stomach.

Adrian’s voice is low when he finally replies. “We’ve been waiting for you for over an hour.”

“I showed up, didn’t I?” quips Katherine.

“Not a very good way to impress your potential employers.”

“If it’s my punctuality you want, and not my skills, then you hired the wrong girl.”

“Perhaps we have.”

The silence is considerable before, within seconds of one another, Katherine and Adrian remember they aren’t alone. Adrian looks to her, flustered, but Katherine’s cool is never-ending.

“I’ll catch you some other time, Nadya. Mama’s got business to take care of.” Her passing wink, easy to miss, is Katherine’s only farewell.

Now the terrace seems stifling — the breeze blocked by all the things Adrian isn’t saying.

“I—well, you see…”

He stops when Nadya holds up a hand. “You don’t have to explain anything to me, Adrian,” her sincerity is true; and thick enough to hide her hurt, “I’m just your secretary after all.”

If he says anything she doesn’t stick around long enough to hear. The heat of the bodies milling around the photographs makes her skin crawl but Nadya forces her way back into the event like nothing strange happened. Like strange isn’t her life’s new normal.

It would have been nice for her to turn and see Adrian following her through the displays — a silent apology was better than none at all. But a brief glance over her shoulder tells a different tale. Across the room she catches the sight of Katherine’s shock of violet hair and the pretty mauve of Kamilah’s dress.

Probably something you don’t want involved with anyway, she tells herself.

Nadya continues on.

The event starts winding down around one in the morning — she suspects half the guests have secondary parties already plugged into the navigators of their limos. She walks around the emptying gallery for half an hour; partially enjoying the fact that she no longer needs to look at the pieces from a distance but also on the hunt for Adrian, Kamilah, Katherine, anyone.

Two laborers are in the middle of dismounting the purchased photograph of the Highlands when she gets Adrian’s text.

[TEXT]: Had to move a business discussion to Ahmanet Financial. Car waiting outside to take you home whenever. Sorry for leaving you high and dry. I’ll make it up to you Monday. Promise.

Sincerely, Adrian.

At first his official-sounding texts — which he always signed ‘Sincerely, Adrian’ like he forgets assigned contacts are a thing — were funny, charming even. Now she just looks at his name in LED pixels on her work-issued phone and wants to throttle him. Not for abandoning her — okay, maybe for abandoning her — but also because it seems like a cathartic release of her pent up frustration.

But making her way to Ahmanet Financial, which was hella far across town, would cost her energy she simply didn’t have. Wouldn’t life be nice if she could buy energy packs like in Lily’s games…

Just like Adrian said there’s a car waiting right in front of the Gallery when she makes it to street-level. Like, right in front — she doesn’t even want to think about how long he had to wait or the fights he had to get into for such primo vehicular real-estate. She recognizes the driver — Benjamin, William, Robert, something old-fashioned like that — from late nights escorting Adrian to the car for his meetings outside the office. The familiar face relieves her in a way she wasn’t expecting.

Maybe-Benjamin smiles and opens the back door for her. “Have a good time this evening, Miss Al Jamil?”

She glances back at the looming figure of the Gallery; now ensconced in shadow and the faint lights of buildings on either block. It looks like a dead thing stuck in the middle of a party. Like taxidermy.

“I’ll get back to you on that.”

He closes the door behind her. The darkness is warm, inviting. Nadya throws propriety to the wind and lays down on the buttery black leather seats. She’s out before they pull away from the curb.

#kamilah x mc #kamilah sayeed #adrian raines #bloodbound #choices #katherine nightbound #mc: nadya al jamil #; my fics #oblv: bound by destiny #oblv: new chapter

14 notes · View notes