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loudsnapdragon · 7 months

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-- okay, so i've never posted a wip before, but i've been staring at this word doc for three hours and really want to send some of it out into the world without much explanation, so have a wip wednesday without warning. from a robin buckley character study, it's some angsty stobin post-starcourt --

Later, ash and dust settled on the burnt-out shell of the mall, cover-ups plastered all over the newspapers selling slower than the ultra-fast gossip that spreads in the smallest of smalltown suburbia, and her wrist still sore from signing like, a million NDAs, somehow the worst injury she sustained, she returns to her favorite debilitating coping mechanism. She hides.

Her parents are blissfully unaware of the truth, spending the summer digging out the lawn and working on a too-late vegetable patch, picking out weedy carrots and raising them up high so she can admire them from her bedroom window, waiting until she responds with a shaky thumbs up before they chuck them into a wicker basket. She shuffles back under her sheets without showering or brushing her hair. She stays there for seven days.

Her mom drops off mugs of tea, organic chamomile and lavender, kissing her forehead, checking in. Tells her Sarah from band called. Robin won’t remember to call her back. Her parents haven’t given her time limit on the freak out, but they’re expecting it to end soon. Her mom tells her a bedtime story of some folk festival in Nebraska going alight with her dotty friend’s forgotten cigarette. The patchwork tents in flames just another funny anecdote from their previous childless nomad lives. I get it sweetie, it’s scary, mom says, fussing with her hair, dragging the longest strand down her back, clearly reminiscing to the time when Robin was uneducated on The Runaways, before she gained an affinity for cutting her hair short with her dad’s razorblades.

I’m so glad you’re okay. Take all the time you need.

And Robin nods, because she is okay, in the grand scheme of universe shattering things. Her mom hugs her, and like always, she forgets to hug back at first, the motion only kicking in after smelling the arnica medicine rubbed onto her mom’s elbows. The sensory trigger doing the trick. But arnica doesn’t scent her dreams, it’s just sickly-sweet ice cream and tepid water from the nasty mall fountain and the strawberry cleaning chemicals they used to pour down the cinema toilets and oh, Steve’s blood. The dark red drip scabbing at the edge of his mouth, the rancid iron she could smell from even three feet away.

The next day, she finally leaves the house. Takes her bike and cycles adrift through Loch Nora. Like, it has to be one of these rich bitch houses, it has to be. But she doesn’t see a Beamer, even if she did, she probably wouldn’t recognise it, and she doesn’t find a handy mailbox with orange neon light details blaring: STEVE IS HERE.

She does find Carol Perkins, popping gum as she lazily waters her family’s front lawn, the sprinklers broke with the last big power outage, and she says her mom is going to be pissed if the grass is anything less than lime green. She wouldn’t normally talk to Robin this much, but eh, privileges of being a victim of the supposed Starcourt electrical fire must win her some short-lived perks, cos when she asks which direction is it to Steve’s (cos even if they’re not friends since the dingus’s dramatic high school dethroning, Carol always knows what's up) Carol doesn’t even try to be mean, she just pushes her gum to the inside of her cheek, and says that Steve doesn’t live in this neighbourhood. His place is on Elm Street, largest house there, you can’t miss it.

She cycles faster than before, hunting down a desperate unidentifiable need. Knocks on his door as soon as she sees it, sudden dread filling her with the thought that it could be the asshole dad to open, but no, she exhales, it’s just Steve. He smiles, scratches his nose. He didn’t expect her visit, he tells her, needless information considering his current outfit, a pit-stained basketball tee, plaid pyjama pants, and a single greying sock.

We should do something.

Cool. Sure. Um. Let me get my keys.

He gets changed into jeans and a clean polo first, thankfully, but it’s only a few minutes later that they’re sitting in the Beamer with her bike stashed in the back. He asks her where she wants to go, and her brain empties of all articulate thoughts. In the quiet that follows, peppered with the tinkling of his keys as he fidgets with them in his left hand, she’s flooded with everything she’s tried so hard to not think about.

There’s blood, loads of it. The elevator floor falling beneath her feet. Vomit landing in the water of the toilet bowl. Monsters, real life monsters, squelching with human guts dragging over the mall’s star-patterned tiles. But that’s just the background noise, the slow bass line to the screaming chorus. He knows, not everything, but he knows. She looked it up in her copy of that dumb D.A.R.E. pamphlet, Ketamine can take up to fourteen days to leave the body. It can make you inexplicably happy and numb to external disturbers. It can warp your reactions. Make bad things appear good. And Steve, someone real, knows.

Slowly, so slowly she doesn’t realise it until his big man thumb is digging into her palm. And oh, look at that, they’re holding hands again.

It’s going to be okay. It’ll get easier, I freaked out so bad the first time, but like, you get used to it.

It’s not just that. She admits, but, um, thanks. Thank you.

What’s up?

You really don’t care? She waits, sees his slanted not-so dumb eyes blink as he tries to understand. About me?

Oh. Yeah. No. No. I don’t care. Like, bummed I got rejected by another pretty girl, sure, but also, well… we’re alive? Aren’t we?

He squeezes her hand, and once again, she gets it. Why all the other pretty girls used to fall for him. Fuck. If only she could be normal. But it’s enough. She looks down at her scuffed sneakers, Sharpie-ed Patti Smith lyrics on the rubber dropping into the footwell as the soles peel around her toes. She knows where they need to go.

Cool. Let’s go shopping.

Nice. He snorts like a boy. Releases her hand to turn the ignition. Fuck yeah, let’s go shopping.

Shopping for designer-clad Steve usually involves a short road trip to Muncie, so she takes a little thrill by squashing that plan, suggesting the thrift with a cheapskate smirk instead. And ah, of course naïve ex-rich boy Steve didn’t even know Hawkins had a Salvation Army, so she has to direct him as he drives. Ah, to be an oblivious member of the upper middle class, ignorant of all the grimy places she considers local landmarks.

Do your parents know? Steve asks from the driver’s seat.

They’re not talking about Russians under Starcourt. But also, they are. The ambiguity frees up a little breath caught in her throat. She's not scared to tell her parents, but she's not ready. Maybe never will be.

No way. Yours?

Nah.

He opens the store’s door for her when they get there, waving her in, like they’re on a date, which makes her laugh, which makes him grin. She can tell he’s putting it on a bit, his general snooty disdain for everything inside, comically put-upon disgust when picking up a pair of grubby cowboy boots from the shelves, which do, to be fair, smell like horseshit, but come on Steve, they’re real cowboy boots, they’re going to have stepped on some horseshit in their previous life.

Eddie Munson is in the corner of the store, picking through the jewellery display before diving headfirst into a box of cassettes. Not an uncommon sight in these parts, but she steers Steve away from that section, not yet sure if she can trust him yet to resist acting cold around the super-senior freak, like he used to when Eddie stumbled into Scoops to buy a butterscotch waffle cone.

Mrs Mulgrew by the cash register never smiles, but she seems quietly tickled by the smartly dressed boy Robin’s dragged in, and she waves them over, showing off a recent donation of genuine silver teaspoons. Robin tries a joke about stealing them to sell on the illicit teaspoon black market, which makes Steve roll his eyes, gently bumping Mrs Mulgrew shoulders, like: God, I can’t take her anywhere. And Mrs Mulgrew’s icy composure cracks, her crinkly wrinkled lips itching at the sides into an almost-smile.

She buys some old black work boots and two oversized man’s shirts, and Steve clearly, really, really doesn’t understand why out of all things, those are her purchases, but he doesn’t say anything. Both of them still figuring out how much they can push the line. The snide remarks stilling on their tongues when the obvious need for something kind is binding them together.

She kicks off her old Converse in the car before they drive home. Shoves on the new boots and wiggles her toes under the steel caps. Counts out the last few dimes left remaining in her wallet and curses under her breath.

We need new jobs.

Yeah, duh. Steve says, and Robin smiles, because they’re finding their line. She grabs at his hand.

We are going to find gainful employment. She swings their hands into the air, like it’s a joke, and he laughs too, but they are a we, now, and she might never let go of this hand ever again.

#stranger things #wip wednesday #stobin #robin buckley #stobin ficlet #is this how u do tumblr.com cos i have no idea #steve harrington #platonic stobin #playing hard and loose with canon but somehow more compliant than anything else i've written

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hamburgerhelpersotherhand · 2 years

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Absence

Edward Cullen x Reader

Warnings: Implied character death.

Notes: This is very short, but I’m mainly testing an idea.

It was early in March, and the last time anyone had seen Bella was hours ago.

You sat at your desk during your afternoon course, the empty seat beside leaving you feeling cold. She should’ve been there to fill it, but nobody on campus seemed to care as much as you.

A day later, the local police department had issued a curfew along with a statement to all citizens.

She was missing.

There was no reason to believe the recent animal attacks were connected, despite what some residents liked to assume. Bella was spotted walking with an unidentified suspect. You feel a guilty jab in your chest at every mention of the case.

You knew something the police didn’t.

On the day of her disappearance, Bella Swan was accompanied by Edward Cullen into the woods off the side of the campus.

Bella’s absence was everywhere. It made her the talk of the town for weeks. You couldn’t go a day without hearing her name or seeing her face on one of those wet posters stapled around town. But, Edward seemed to be the complete opposite. After that day, he seemed to completely vanish with barely a trace or mention. The other Cullen kids were still around but they seemed less care-free, more tense. You wondered if they knew, too.

The Cullens always stood out from the rest. They were distant, but relatively friendly if your paths did cross. You recall a brief exchange between Rosalie and yourself, the exact subject was lost to you. She was nice, but didn’t push the conversation any further and neither did you. It was suffice to say the Cullens often kept to themselves, but that hadn’t quite been the case with Edward.

Earlier in the semester, you recalled the looks Edward gave in your direction. You’d nudge Bella into attention but both of your gazes never really deterred him into looking away. Who was he looking at? You wondered aimlessly.

It wasn’t until the final few days of the semester that Edward would show his brooding mug once more. He stuck around his family, never departing unless attending a class. They seemed to follow him everywhere, as though it were an obligation, but it did little to discourage that awful stare.

Halting at the top of the front courtyard stairs, you watched the Cullens hover near the fountain. The sky looked to threaten a rainfall. You thought back on that same day in early March and remembered the similar look in the clouds, then. Whether you were right or wrong, one thing would remain true: Edward had been the last to see her alive.

Without another beat, Edward’s hard stare met yours from across the courtyard.

#twilight x reader #twilight #edward cullen x reader #edward Cullen #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere edward cullen

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original-character-championship · 1 year

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Bracket D Round 1

Poll 10

Pier Lombardi (@raybotonline) vs. Gil (@lektricfergus)

211. Pier Lombardi (@raybotonline)

he/him

Me and my friends have literally gone insane over this man multiple times. He is like my very own tumblr sexyman. He has been a fountain of memes since early 2020 and one of my friends has a jackbox tee-ko t shirt with him on it. In terms of character though he is the most guy of all time, hes divorced, he tried to make himself into a robot, he is like a small wet hamster in terms of personality, he has memory loss problems along with 50 other mental illnesses and he is 6'7''

Hes a tall white man wearing glasses with a scar over his eye, long black hair, and patchy stubble, hes wearing a salmon coloured turtleneck under a white lab coat and blue jeans, and he has a robotic arm and robotic leg.

212. Gil - Gilberta Maravilla Reyes Carillo (@lektricfergus)

she/her

it’s either Gil or Gilberta Maravilla Reyes Carillo and there is no in between. milf! long-haired butch woman! kinda sleazy! literally full of ghosts! chainsmokes in the desert!

has a whippet-greyhound-coyote-unidentifiable-canine mix named pez, because she had one (1) pez candy stuck to her fur when gil found her

is very religious not in the sense that she is super committed to one religion but in the sense that she is kind of into all of them as a Ghost Treatment thing (she attracts ghosts and they possess her). played for laughs (she has a ton of religious symbol necklaces that are actually sorta sentimental value)

lanky and awkward and very laid-back! fun to be around if you don’t mind the smell of cigarette smoke. may steal your wallet if you look like you can spare it. altogether pretty swag and she’s in my brain a lot

latina. 6 feet tall even and skinny to the point of slight boniness. sandy skin weathered dark by years in the sun. dark brown eyes. a somewhat scraggly dark brown mullet reaching to her shoulders. wrinkles consistent with being in your fifties. likes to wear short sleeve button-down shirts tucked into jeans, as well as cowboy boots and her many religious necklaces.

(art by biracy)

#oc championship #tournament poll #bracket d #round 1 #211 pier lombardi #212 gil

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enigmatist17 · 1 month

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Weight of the World (Pt 2)

Part 1 3 4 5

-----

It's been a long time since Ripper had been out.

Rupert did a lot to distance himself from that part of his life, and while the darkness lurked underneath his Watcher visage, the two sometimes blending when things became dire.

So it was surprising that Ripper was not the one to take Ben's life, but Rupert himself, the broken man beneath his hands weakly struggling for breath before he finally stills, glazed eyes closed when the Watcher was sure he had breathed his last.

Ripper was the one to tend to Buffy, tucking Rupert into a blissful void as he searched for a blanket or some such cloth, eventually stumbling across Glory's trove of things she'd wanted to bring with her return to Hell. He finds a beautiful blue blanket and gathers it into his arms before slowly returning to Buffy, gazing down at the child that Rupert had grown to love as his own. If it wasn't for the still of her chest and the blood that had stopped spreading from a shattered skull, Buffy looked to all the world like she was merely asleep.

She's so light when he picks her up, covering the Slayer with the blanket before vanishing into the rapidly disappearing night with the bundle in his arms. His apartment is mercifully empty as the man enters and kicks the door shut, eyes flickering around the room before he decides that his couch would suffice for now, carefully setting the bundle down before running a hand through his hair.

The cigarette is out and lit before he realizes, the long drag settling frayed nerves as he slowly exhales. His bruised ribs don't appreciate it much, but Ripper ignores them as he heads for the phone, dialing a number and waiting.

"Rupert." The voice is gravelly from sleep, and Ripper exhales once more before he clears his throat.

"I need you here." He can hear some shuffling in the background as the person on the opposite line sits up from bed, and for a moment there is only silence. "She's gone."

"What do you need?" Tired eyes trail over to the couch, the ticking of his clock breaking the oppressive silence.

"Whatever you 'ave, whatever you can spare." Another cigarette is lit when the other side of the line is silent for a time, the two just stealing the small moment. "He'll need you too."

"I'll be there soon, alright? I'll call some people I know for...for the girl, and they'll tend to her."

"Door's open." Ripper hangs up before the person on the other end can say anything else, shaking his head as he treads up to the loft. A blood-soaked shirt is cast aside and a fresh turtleneck is slipped on, his extra smokes are grabbed from the nightstand before he heads back down the stairs, grabbing a chair and dragging it outside before closing the front door.

Ripper sits and waits, just smoking one by one until a familiar warlock and two unidentified women soon trail down to his courtyard, the two hanging back with a stretcher as the warlock approaches Ripper with a slight frown.

"Who're they?" Ripper stubs out his umpteenth cigarette as the other stands before him, taking an offered hand when he moves to stand.

"They're from a funeral home that owes me a favor, they'll come take care of her."

"Ah...she's on the couch." The women nod before heading inside his home, both giving pitying looks as they get down to business with Buffy's body. Ethan watches as Ripper fades, cradling Rupert as he sags into his open arms with a noise he can't describe, gently drawing the man away to sit on the edge of the dried-out fountain in his courtyard. The morticians are quick and gentle, Ethan shielding the other from seeing the stretcher eventually wheeling by with the foreboding black bag on top, waving a free hand to make one of his neighbors forget the sight when they poke a curious head out.

They sit together for a long time, not even the heat of the California sun warming the dead void of Rupert's heart.

-----

Xander isn't sure how he was able to convince Dawn's school she was going to be out for a few days due to illness, but as he steps out of the front doors and into the sun, he sighs in relief.

The night had been long, signing forms and talking to nurses as his friends and family were treated, and he was glad that he'd been named a primary contact by Buffy a long time ago for Dawn. She'd not said a word after Willow had pried her away from Spike, those eyes that normally sparkled dull as her wounds were tended to by a nameless doctor, one hand holding his in a grip that could shatter bone. He didn't blame her, Ben had truly seemed like a nice guy until his secret was outed, and a small part of him didn't care that he was dead.

Xander didn't see what happened, but had been the only one to see Giles come from the room Buffy had been fighting the bitch inside, taking off those familiar glasses with a steady look.

Good.

The drive toward his home is silent, and he can't help but remember the day Joyce died, how the world had been muted as if in mourning. A lot of that day is a blur, but for some reason today is the opposite, every twist and turn and car that he passes seemingly etched into his mind. He doesn't want to remember all of this, doesn't want to be able to recall the crunch of gravel under his boots when he decided to stop outside of a familiar bar, the various demon patrons either paying him no mind or staring at the human who stalls at the entrance.

"Hey, kid." Willy gives him a wave, the movement jump-starting his feet to start moving forward, the bartender whispering something to his employee before slipping out from behind the bar with a small smile. "You look like you could eat."

"Eat? I guess?" He's not sure the last time he ate, honestly, and doesn't question when he's led to the back with a friendly arm on his back. The room still smells of blood as they move, and Xander can't help but wince when he catches a resting Spike safely out of the sunlight in what was most likely a break room, the vampire more bandages and braces than anything else. "He gonna be okay?"

Xander wants to laugh when he thinks Spike looks like death.

"Vampires heal quick, so I wouldn't worry too much." Willy whistled into the kitchen, motioning for Xander to park it on any of the chairs scattered around as he called out an order Xander couldn't quite catch. He ends up choosing a worn armchair, eyes drifting to the sleeping vampire in a mixture of concern and faint distaste.

He'd not been a fan of learning that Spike had moved into the Summers' household after Joyce's death, disgusted to see blood in the damn fridge after a research party was wrapping up. Yet, despite his anger, seeing the way Dawn in particular had cheered up with the vampire's company, it melted the barrier a little bit. Despite knowing she was some mystical fancy schmancy key that hadn't existed for long, Xander loved her like the little sister he never had, so the comments and jabs lessened, the two usually riffing on Angel to send Buffy's eyes rolling to their laughter. Hell, he really was a hopeless case when Buffy asked his help to fix the basement floor into something more for Spike. Both he and the vampire were surprised when he agreed to take on the project, the bitching lighthearted but neverending as the basement project began.

Xander is shaken from his thoughts when something warm is placed in his hands, a bowl of some sort of stew when he looks down.

"On the house, just for today." The bartender pat his shoulder before pointing to a red bottle that had been set on a table close to Spike. "If he wakes, make sure he drinks it aight?"

"Okay." Xander shrugged, already inhaling the stew he'd have to kill for the recipe to as the other headed back to the bar. Days of being on the run and trying to save Dawn's life had suppressed his appetite, and now it was returning with a vengeance, a demon he'd never seen before showing up with more when Xander had finished his first helping. "Oh, thanks!"

The other nods and leaves with the empty bowl, the human truly stuffed by the time he drinks the last of the broth and slumps back with a yawn.

"Smells good." Jerking forward, he looks over towards the far wall, a slowly waking Spike looking confused at his surroundings.

"Hey man, how ya feelin'?" The vampire blinks as Xander hauls himself onto his feet, suddenly wishing he'd gone home to his bed when the room spins and his spine aches.

"Like shite." He snorts at the honest response, moving towards the bottle and swapping out the empty bowl for the carafe of blood.

"Well, yea, you broke like 90% of your bones I heard." The younger man winced as he stalked over, pulling off the cap. "Time to eat deadboy, think you can?"

"Just hold it," Spike grumbled, far too exhausted to snipe back as he shifted his face, not missing the slight tremble of Xander's hand as the bottle was raised to his lips. The human blood nearly comes back out as fast as it goes down, but Spike needs it desperately, so he drains every last drop before dropping his head back with a quiet wheeze. Surprisingly, the whelp checks him over in concern, and after seeing no visible signs of stitches tearing or the like, he sets the carafe on another table.

"You need anything else?" He watches as Spike reverts his face with a small shake of his head.

"How's the Bit doin'?"

"She's...not good." Spike's brow furrows as Xander goes back to the chair he'd been in before, dragging it over to Spike's side before settling back in. "She's okay physically but hasn't spoken a word since we got her to Tara and Willow's dorm. I had to tell her school she'd be gone, and then I came here for...uh, well, I'm not sure? And now, we're just sitting and talking, or well I'm sitting and you're more lying, but talking all the same." He knows he's rambling, but for once, Spike says nothing, just watching with that gaze akin to an X-ray.

"Is she safe?"

"No one's gonna get to her, not with two witches by her side." Xander clenched his fist, watching his knuckles turn white as he waited for Spike to answer, only to realize he's asleep when he looked up. He decides that the vampire might have something there, and after adjusting his seating, the carpenter is out like a light, suddenly not afraid to be asleep next to a vampire.

---

It's so strange to have her mind back.

Tara doesn't remember anything past seeing Glory lunge for her head, but had a good guess when she "awoke" in the middle of a battle to save Dawn, Willow tearfully hugging her when she saw her mind was restored. What little elation they both had gotten back was taken just as quickly when Buffy sacrificed herself, Tara doing everything in her power to keep Willow upright as she screamed in agony for her dead friend. Giles was the one to take charge after an agonizingly long amount of time, Tara's eyes tearing from Buffy's corpse to look at the rest of the group to take in their injuries. Anya is being carried by Xander, blood spilling down her face and one arm is bent at an awkward angle as she bites back cries of pain. Dawn is holding her side as she slowly moves down the stairs, and any other thought is cut off when there is a noise that defeans the world. She jumps when it seems to rattle her bones, Xander stumbling back while Giles stares at the source with a pained look she's never seen before.

It was Spike, the vampire crumpled on the floor with his head in his hands, letting out a wail that was the very definition of pain.

Dawn is the only one to move, stumbling over bits of construction before kneeling down, hugging Spike the best she was able.

"Xander…find a car, we need to get everyone - well - most everyone to the hospital." His voice has an edge Tara hasn't heard before, but judging by the way he leaves without a word, carrying Anya as he rushes off to find whatever he can to drive them to the hospital. The remaining eyes turn to the vampire, Giles unsure of what to do as he couldn't take the broken man to a conventional hospital.

It's her time to step up.

"I'll take him," Tara offers, feeling Willow stiffen against her side as the Watcher looks over. She places a gentle kiss on Willow's cheek before motioning to Dawn, who was beginning to look unsteady as she cradled Spike. "G-Go, keep Dawn safe." Willow looked unsure, but with a gentle prod, they headed over towards Dawn, who gave them an unweary look.

"Dawn? It's going to be okay." Willow leaned down when she reached Dawn's side, the teenager looking at her with wide eyes.

"B-But he fell, a-and his bones are broken, and we don't have any blood left." She sounded terrified as she looked up at them, waiting for an answer that was going to fix everything.

"Go pet, I'll be right as rain." Spike's voice is scratchy as he gives Dawn's knee a gentle squeeze, and the small smile he gives her is enough to get Dawn to slowly stand up to lean against Willow. Tara takes her place to help Spike sit up, the vampire putting on airs until the moment Dawn and Willow round a corner to freedom, nigh-on collapsing with a pained noise.

"Take him to Willy's, he knows." Giles helps get Spike up and roughly onto his feet, the vampire surprisingly light as Tara starts the hobble down familiar side streets. Spike is breathing in time with his steps, body trembling as he suppresses any noises of pain as he moves his battered body.

"I-I'm sorry, we'll b-be there soon." She hoped she was a comfort as they took a turn, the vampire's face changing when some demons took an interest in the duo. Tara supposes she should be scared stiff at the growl he makes, but strangely, she doesn't as the demons take off running from the angry man. "T-That is so cool."

"Thanks luv." Spike mumbled something she couldn't catch, his steps becoming increasingly unsteady. "Wish everythin' would stop spinnin'."

"Willy's is v-very close, I see the sign." Tara soothed, the vampire mumbling again and putting all his energy into walking one step at a time. Neither of them is sure how they'd managed to get to the bar, but Willy shoos her out with a fresh shirt and some takeaway almost an hour later.

"He's gonna be fine, you go where you're needed eh?" His kindness, along with Clem offering the exhausted witch a ride to the hospital helped push some fear away, the sympathetic demon chattering away about something to fill the silence on the ride over.

"T-Thank you for the ride Clem," Tara whispered when they pulled up at the back entrance, the other giving her a small smile.

"You're good people, want to make sure you're safe. Give little Dawn my best will you?"

"Of course." He doesn't stick around once she's out of the car, and the next few hours are spent tracking down Xander and the others, waiting for the discharge paperwork and then an awkward drive to the campus.

Revello Drive is far too painful to be at right now, so it's silently decided Dawn would spend a day or two until Giles reappeared and they could properly discuss what was next. Dawn drifted off at some point, curled up against Tara on her bed while she and the other two quietly talked about everything and nothing, filling the void until Xander left to deal with Dawn's school.

"Poor Dawn." Willow's voice is a whisper as she kneels on the floor beside Dawn's head, the tears again starting as she gently squeezes the teen's lax hand. "What will we do now?"

"Protect her." Tara carefully leans down and kisses the top of the sleeping girl's head. "Love her, make sure she knows that we'll all be here for her." Willow sniffles as she watches Dawn sleep, a firm resolve settling in her gaze when she stops crying again.

"No one will ever hurt her again." Willow looks up when Tara extends her hand. After some awkward shuffling, she and Willow hold Dawn between them as exhaustion finally takes over, and sleep grants them temporary peace.

#personal #buffy the vampire slayer #spuffy #ethan rayne x ruper giles #buffy summers #dawn summers #tara maclay #willow rosenberg #xander harris #spike #spike btvs #william the bloody #ethan rayne #rupert giles #ripper btvs #part 2 let's go

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sw5w · 2 months

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Rising Up From the Fountain

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace - Deleted Scene: The Waterfall Sequence 01:37

#Star Wars #Episode I #The Phantom Menace #deleted scene #The Waterfall Sequence #Naboo #Theed #Theed Royal Palace #Obi-Wan Kenobi #Qui-Gon Jinn #unidentified fountain #Jar Jar Binks

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vivelareine · 2 years

Photo

I happened upon a lot of late-1940s tourist photos of Versailles recently, all featuring the same unidentified woman. The woman is likely part of the ATS or WAAF (thanks to Fake History Hunter & friend for the info!). Each photo has a handwritten note on the back. These are the first three of the six photos; all images are from my scans/collection.

Caption 1: "Nice fountain, and a good view of the Hall of Mirrors, the rest is terrible."

Caption 2: "Xmas, when I got a little cross eyed and boy was it cold. This is the entrance to our billets, in Versailles."

Caption 3: “I bet she got fed up of having her photo taken.”

#versailles #1940s #vintage photography #vintage #chateau de versailles #my scans

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handeaux · 11 months

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The Scandalous Can-Can Amused Cincinnati Until One Newspaper Clutched Its Pearls

No one really knows when or where the dance known as the can-can originated. Although associated with France, some authorities point to the exotic corners of Asia. Other boffins find roots in the Middle Ages, and a few discern a mutation of the Eighteenth-Century quadrille.

It took a long time for the can-can to land in Cincinnati. The first rumblings appeared in the local newspapers around 1860 with a few brief mentions about the sensation this dance caused in Paris. Mozart Hall, on Vine Street just north of Fountain Square, seems to have been the first Cincinnati venue to present the can-can locally. The Daily Gazette [10 March 1868] approved:

“Undine [a sort of Victorian “Little Mermaid”] drew a very large house last evening. The scenes are splendid as ever, and their audiences lose none of their enthusiasm. The new feature of the evening, the Can-Can, was a perfect success, eclipsing the former ballet completely.”

Among the Cincinnati theatrical community, anything that sold out one theater was soon added to the bill at several other stages and so it was with the innovative can-can. The Gazette [8 July 1868] reported that a newly redecorated Wood’s Theater, across the street from Mozart Hall, now offered this “fancy dance”:

“The little theater on Vine Street is so clean, with its new paint, and so cool, with its lace curtains, and its company so good, that there is little wonder that it is crowded nightly. The programme is full and complete, and very attractive. The rage for fancy dancing has got into the company, and can-can is given nightly.”

Only the Cincinnati Enquirer grumbled about the new can-can fad, but even the staid “Grey Lady of Vine Street” devoted a couple of lines [20 July 1869] in defense of the dance, quoting an otherwise unidentified “Cincinnati lady”:

“Now, I believe I know enough to know when a dance is improper. To me the can-can is full of all grace and refinement and bewitching charms. And I believe it is the fault of those horrid newspapers that have said so much about it.”

Just three days later, the Enquirer, presumably in its role as a “horrid newspaper,” editorialized [23 July 1869] against a production offered by Yale’s concert hall and saloon on Walnut Street:

“The Can-Can is not the most moral thing in the world when put forward in its most presentable shape. As rendered by the depraved creatures on Walnut Street it is filthy, obscene and disgusting, without arising to the dignity of the lascivious.”

The Enquirer rejoiced when the proprietor, whose name is variously reported as Phillip Yale, G. Wilkins Yale and J. Croissant-Yale, was arrested a week or so later. The competing Commercial Tribune reported the arrest [2 August 1869] but noted that the key witnesses for the prosecution were all Enquirer reporters:

“The local reporters of the Enquirer, who have assumed to determine the exact degree of immorality characterizing the can-can, as danced in the Walnut Street cellar, have been subpoenaed as witnesses against Yale, and will probably make some interesting revelations concerning this indecency, as compared with the many other indecencies which they seem to have seen.”

The Enquirer’s campaign drove the Yale family out of town. One news item had one of Yale’s sons accompanying one of the can-can dancers, Nellie Whitney, on a train eastward. The article specified that she danced at the Yale saloon on Walnut Street and identifies her as a “cyprian,” in other words, a prostitute. That could be some libelous hyperbole or it could be accurate, but it emphasizes the Enquirer’s objection to women dancing the can-can. While Cincinnati’s on-stage performers were exclusively female, the can-can, among the demimonde, was danced by all genders at Cincinnati’s bohemian soirees.

Despite the Enquirer’s disdain, the can-can continued its invasion of the Queen City. Just as the Yales closed their saloon, an advertisement appeared in the Commercial Tribune [14 August 1869] that Mademoiselle Aline Lefavre, who claimed to have introduced the can-can to the United States, would appear nightly at the Variety Theater on Race Street. In its advertisements, the Variety described Mlle. Lefvare as “the most beautifully formed woman in the world.”

The Commercial Tribune [3 May 1870] observed a sort of irony at work in the city’s esthetic morals. An exhibition that month at Wiswell’s Gallery, largely supported by charging admission to view paintings of “the type men like” as they used to say, featured a canvas depicting a very nude woman titled “Sleeping Beauty.” The paper’s art critic found it interesting that the can-can was condemned while a fully nude woman was celebrated:

“It was formerly a subject of animadversion that our ball-room belles dressed very low down in the neck – that is, wore no clothes much above the pit of the stomach; but had they gone in and become decollete down to their heels, that would simply have been Art – High Art. We see, too, how the moral comes in; to see the lady of the Can-Can is shocking, and we call for the police, but seeing her at second hand, through the eyes of the artist, it is great, and the price is all the same – only twenty-five cents.”

Perhaps the Commercial Tribune convinced the Variety Theater on Race Street to lean into the fine art proposition, because that establishment soon began offering, in addition to the can-can, an exhibition of “tableaux vivants” or “living pictures” in which women, clad only in flesh-colored tights, posed in the manner of Greek statuary or famous paintings. This despite the proprietor enduring several stints in the Workhouse on charges of operating a disorderly house.

Not to be outdone, the Vine Street Opera House announced a program headlined by “The Queen of the Serio-Comic Vocalists” Jennie Engle, Irish comics Mullen and McGee, as well as living pictures, the can-can and something billed as “weird dance.”

The show, it seems, must go on. And so it did. The forces of propriety and the minions of moral turpitude held an uneasy truce throughout most of the 1870s, with an arrest here while a new show popped up there, like whack-a-mole.

The fragile peace was broken dramatically in 1877 by the National Theater who booked Madame Ninon DuClos’ “Dizzy Blondes” for an extended engagement. The troupe claimed to specialize in the authentic Parisian can-can regardless of the reality that Mme. DuClos’ origins lay a lot closer to Dublin than Montmartre. Even though the Blondes were hauled into court and although they had been kicked out of Indianapolis, the show went on in Cincinnati for months. The Cincinnati Star [1 December 1877] simply sighed:

“The Dizzy Blondes at the National Theater have captivated a number of our young men, who come home exclaiming: “Did you ever?”

#can-can #cincinnati dance #cincinnati newspapers #cincinnati demimonde

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fruitymocha · 1 year

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The Sky Project: Background

A Human Experiment Genshin AU

Warnings: human experimentation (obviously), bad conditions

A/N: for those who asked for the experiment au on my poll, here’s this little thing I wrote for it in the format of someone telling you a rumor. not sure if I want this to be a series or just a bunch of random scenarios/imagines with established continuity and/or timeline, but here, have a little teaser with background info :)

—-

Teyvat Laboratory.

A place that looks nice on the outside, but hides many secrets on the inside.

Or so the rumors say.

Would you like to hear what they say about Teyvat’s top secret laboratory?

Supposedly, there are 9 special rooms.

Those special rooms are for the special kids with supernatural abilities. They have recreational activities and opportunities to socialize with the other lab kids in there, but supposedly they don’t spend that much time in there.

You don’t believe in supernatural abilities? Well, maybe if someone triple dog dared you to sneak in and you saw it for yourself, then you’d change your mind.

But anyways, let me continue.

Kids with the power to control fire go to the Flame Room. A room with red as its color scheme, and fireproof walls.

Kids with the power to control earth go to the Stone Room. That room has gold as its color, as well as a rock wall and stone paths.

Kids with the power to control plants go to the Flower Room. It has green as its color and a few potted plants under a small sky light.

Kids with the power to control wind go to the Breeze Room. It has teal as the main color, and high quality vents that let outside wind in.

Kids with the power to control water go to the Raindrop Room. It has dark blue all around, and a mini fountain and waterfall curtain

Kids with the power to control ice go to the Snowflake Room. It has a pale blue motif as well as a constant cold temperature and automated sprinklers.

Kids with the power to control electricity go to the Thunder Room. It has purple everywhere and electric gadgets, wires, rods, and conductors.

Kids with unidentified, uncategorized, or versatile abilities go to the Star Room. Rumor has it, only five kids have ever been in there. And that room is just white.

As for the kids who have some behavioral issues, they go to the Butterfly Room. That room is bitterly cold, and hostile to any newcomer. There is nothing to do in that room, so those who enter often mess with each other to fill the hole of boredom. There’s always one senior member in there though. They always listen to him.

There’s also the Light Room, so that certain kids get enough sunlight.

But this place is meant to observe and experiment on their abilities first and foremost.

Your guess as to why is as good as mine.

How would I know all this?

It’s like I said.

They’re just silly rumors.

Right?

#genshin impact #genshin #genshin au #the sky project

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garthcelyn · 2 years

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Original Thieves chapter 2: Featuring a fun mention of Atlas(Dogteeth)'s ex girlfriend, Marlowe. Dogteeth really is just a reference to unfinished projects huh?

TW for slight body horror in this, it's not major, but it's there.

4217 Words

Dorothy Marlowe had been missing for weeks. She was a woman that Blue had served many times over the years at his father’s tailor shop. He sold her rolls upon rolls of deep blue yarn every few months, a detail that had lived in his mind since they had met. And now she was missing, suspected dead. Blue had the honour of working with the suspected culprit. Dougall, the self-proclaimed charmer of the Ivory Rose, who used her boyish good looks to gain whatever it was she needed. Or so she said. Blue had yet to see it work, as they now sat outside a museum where they had been tossed after Dougall’s failed attempt at seducing a guard. Dougall kicked rocks along the pavement, scaring away the doves that pecked happily at scraps that had been thrown for them. She bristled against the wind in her deep blue knitted jumper, tugging its sleeves over her hands as she refused to look upon the newcomer to the team. He was now a member of The Ivory Rose, an organised crime unit who famously stole the Crown jewels and had yet to be caught. A group made up of unidentified, disgruntled mages of varying Mabrisian origins, who had several bones to pick with the justice system and the monarchy. That Ivory Rose had also stolen Blue’s memories in what he’d consider being an ever greater heist. That is whose home Blue had fucked his way into. That is who had him shot on sight and promptly recruited purely to spite Dougall. He had never regretted a one-night stand more.

Dougall shot him one last glare before she set off down the street. He kept hot on her heels, eager to keep his mentor in his sights. She hadn’t looked like much, in fact, she had barely looked as charming as she seemed to believe, and had the personality to match. She looked closer to a weasel, her face pointing in a long point to the ground. Gaunt cheeks and ashen skin, as if she had been deprived of basic necessities such as sleep and water, paired with her shadowed blue eyes. She barely seemed alive. He watched as she sucked down one cigarette after another, barely slowing her movements. Not even his customer service smiles and demeanour had broken through to the woman.

His trial assignment had been to break into the Museum of Arts undetected and steal a painting by Rennyn Navarre. It was simple, according to the Ivory Rose ringleader who simply went by J. However, it seemed impossible. Dougall huffed yet again, tossing her stub to the ground and letting it fizzle out.

“Alright, your turn,” she growled, “see if you can do any better.”

He pointed at himself, scowling. “Aren’t you supposed to be the expert? You know what happened back there.”

Dougall grunted. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting from the woman who had ordered his memories to be erased. Her brother was far nicer, despite him being the reason why he was in the situation in the first place. Blue fought back the urge to roll his eyes at the display.

“Alright,” he sighed, annoyance seeping into his tone. “I’ll try again when they swap shifts.”

Dougall had actually rolled her eyes, much like a petulant child not getting her way. She couldn’t have been much younger than him, at the ripe old age of twenty-four. Her attitude was one of a grouchy teen, and yet she looked far older in a way that her brother Ezra didn’t, despite them being identical. Her brother held himself with his head high, energised by his sheer excitement for life. Dougall, not so much.

Blue sat on a park bench, overlooking the fountain at the centre of the square. He idly picked at his sandwich that he had bought from a vendor, overfilled and dripping shredded lettuce over his lap. Dougall sucked through her pack of cigarettes early on and had been drumming her fingers against the wooden seat for a lack of a better thing to do. Blue glanced at her now and again, watching how she did everything in her power to escape a conversation. He tore off half of his sandwich and handed it to her, gaining a suspicious glance.

It had relieved him when the hour had been up. Surely stealing a painting would be far easier than dealing with the young woman. His joints cracked as he stood, stretching and popping his back. He looked towards Dougall for guidance; any hints or tricks she found useful over her years as a thief. He wasn’t sure what he had expected but wasn’t surprised when she stared back at him in silent loathing.

“What? Nothing?” he asked in a jeer, crossing his arms and staring at the mess of a woman before him. “You’re supposed to help me, J said -”

“J says a lot of things,” she mirrored his stance with a look of sheer apathy, “she’s still the newest to the team, besides you. She needs to earn my respect.”

“I’m sure your respect means a lot,” he muttered, “whatever, let’s get this done so we can go back, and I can keep my memory this time.”

Dougall barked out a laugh. “You’re still hung up on that?”

Blue didn’t dignify her with a response.

The museum hid in the back alleys of the major city, overshadowed by tall homes of the rich, the manors that they buried themselves away in. It had been sponsored by Earl Henry Douglas of Greyhaven and had was used as a boast of his wealth. It was his collection on display, after all. Things he had imported from Shales and hid, or outright stolen. For that reason alone, Blue was happy that it was the Douglas Museum Of Arts that they had sent him to pilfer, not that he had a choice in the matter.

He wandered in through the large wooden doors, taking in the scenery as if he were just any other visitor. The inside was built like a cathedral, which shouldn’t have phased him too much since it had been built in the hollowed-out carcass of the Temple of Omos. The Queen had refused the Temples their right to exist upon her coronation - an action that hadn’t won her any favour. Its corpse was now the home of the Douglas family’s stolen artefacts. A fitting end, he supposed.

The rows of art and sculpture lead all the way to the back of the building and branched off into what used to be the military barracks. Blue couldn’t help but stand in awe, despite himself and his situation. The collection was impressive after all, despite their origins. Unfortunately, the large space had also been full of visitors gaping at the displays, and guards. Blue could count at least a dozen, and that had only been close to the entrance. Beside him, Dougall tensed yet again, seemingly uncomfortable with being in the museum despite her dubious occupation. Blue couldn’t spend too much time thinking about her. His memories were on the line after all.

He meandered through the rows of paintings, just as any regular visitor would. Looking, before moving on with the crowd. He picked up a leaflet, flicking through as he went, looking for a glimpse of where the painting the Rose wanted could be. The portrait of Sheridan Sørensen, the last wolf of Bannaheimr. He wasn’t into art, not truly, but even he knew the stories behind it. How she gave up everything to chase a woman across Kirus. He didn’t like the story very much.

He had found the partner painting, that of the husband, Maxwell Waverley, and yet the painting he needed was nowhere in sight. He huffed and turned to Dougall, who had been busy picking at her fingernails and avoiding eye contact with anyone and everyone.

“What now?” he asked, “it’s not on display. Do they have storage? Restoration facilities?”

Dougall shrugged. “I heard they have a warehouse which is almost impossible to break into.”

“Almost impossible?”

“There’s a reason I’m here and not the entire team, and it’s not just for punishment.”

She left it at that, beckoning him to follow with no further explanation.

Dougall swiftly led him back outside, eyeing him curiously as she grabbed him by the arm and steered him away from the museum and down the street. He looked at her bewildered but decided against asking what the hell she was doing until she offered the information up herself. She kept walking, half dragging him down the street to Daver Lane.

Daver Lane was a quiet street, mostly populated by the elderly and not much else. Corner shops sold their necessary wares, the local newspaper set up their office for easy access to their larger client base, and the smell of grease and oil-polluted the area from the abundance of takeaways. Daver Lane - a perfectly mediocre street. Dougall pulled Blue around the corner, bodies mostly hidden by the Farspeech Box.

“Are you going to help?” he asked in a low hiss. Not that the grand majority of the street could overhear, let alone care about what two young adults pressed into a corner could say. Quite the opposite, in fact. No matter how uncomfortable Blue was with the situation, they’d be safe from prying eyes. At the very least none would suspect anything other than two idiots in lust having a private moment, and not the two thieves’ nefarious planning.

Dougall smiled sardonically, baring her teeth. Her left canine broken, levelling it out to the same height as the rest of her teeth. “You really want my help?”

“As much as I despise having to ask help from some fucking alleged murderer,” he groaned. Dougall stopped smiling. Whatever act she had disappeared, replaced by a look of sheer hurt. “yes, I want your help. Where’s this warehouse?”

An old woman toddled down the pavement, walking frame clicking against the ground before her with each movement. Dougall made a sour face and pressed herself into Blue. He let out a sigh and hid his face near her shoulder.

“Do you know where the warehouse is?” he whispered, hoping to sell the act that Dougall had unfortunately cast upon him.

“It’s at Lakeside,” she whispered back, “Y’know, close to the Douglas Lake house in Greyhaven.”

She spat out the name as if it were poison on her tongue. There must have been an old grudge there somewhere, but Blue didn’t want to ask aloud. Not when he seemed so close to getting this errand accomplished.

“Then… we’ll drive over?” he asked, “do you guys even have a car?”

Dougall shook her head. “Do you?”

“Well,” Blue tilted his head to one side in hesitation, “yes. It’s my father’s. He needs it for work.”

“Then we steal it for the night, it’s fine.”

“Oh, it’s not fine.”

Blue drove into Lakeside in the car that he had borrowed from his father. His father, who had voluntarily handed him the keys to their “Carlisle & Son” branded van for him to ‘show his girlfriend a good time’. He had fought back the urge to gag and gladly took the keys before fleeing the establishment. It had been bad enough that the man he had met up with, so to speak, was Dougall’s identical twin brother. He would prefer it if he would never be involved with both siblings. Makes for an awkward family reunion.

He pulled into an alleyway, just wide enough for them both to open their doors a crack to slink out, and thin enough to obscure his name that was blatantly painted on the sides.

“So, Jake,” said Dougall with a grin. He regretted letting her inside his house, letting her meet his father even more so, “what do you want to do now?”

“Don’t call me that,” he said sternly. Little Jake Carlisle Jr may as well have been dead for years. The name of the father who’d never understand, who was never there. “It’s Blue. Now, where’s this warehouse?”

“You’re a shit boyfriend,” she joked. It had been the most he’d seen her smile since meeting her this time around. “you’re lucky you’re pretty.”

Blue massaged at his temples. “Please, just answer the question.”

“It’s close to here.”

Blue nodded, ushering her to lead the way.

The founders had built the town around a lake, much like the name suggested. The buildings followed the curvature of the water, overlooking the boats that bobbed along its surface. Nice buildings, unlike the outskirts of Kingshill. Tall, white and gleaming leading into the more rustic cabin-style houses. Night had begun to fall, the twin moons reflecting in broken semi circles over the ripples in the lake.

It was peaceful.

The perfect night for a break-in.

The warehouse sat barely hidden in the residential area. A wide building compared to its counterparts and teeming with guards. Blue swallowed hard and looked to Dougall for advice.

“So you said there were other reasons for you to be here-”

Dougall sighed. “I’m what most would call a dark mage, my magic is siphon based.”

“Which means?”

“I can copy or steal other’s magic. I’m basically a jack of all trades.”

“Good to know.”

The two crouched in the shadows of a cabin-house, watching the guards do their patrol like hawks. Blue tensed, Dougall grabbed his arm to keep him steady. He nodded a thanks, hoping that she knew what he meant by the gesture. She grunted and gave him a thumbs up.

“So, dark mage, you got anything up your sleeve?” he asked in a hushed whisper.

Dougall threw her hands up in an overdramatic shrug. “I… can mess with their memories a bit? Got that off of Remy.”

“Will it hurt them?”

“Has it hurt you?”

He tilted his head in a half shrugging gesture, “no, I guess not. Can it buy us a few minutes to get a better look at the place?”

“Thinking like a true thief, perhaps you’re one of us after all.”

“Can you get on with it?”

Dougall let out a low chuckle and flashed a grin. This was her element, and she made sure to show it. With one last glance, she moved, going as fast as she could while sticking close to the ground. Blue deflated, watching her go, debating his next move. The guards looked heavily armed, and he was not looking forward to another gun in his face that day. One had been too many.

Dougall stood once she had crossed the road, waving a hand in greeting. The guards shifted, pointing their drawn weapons at the young woman. Blue moved to follow, to get her out of trouble, or do anything, but Dougall held up a finger in a stopping motion. Whatever she had planned, she seemed confident that she would not fail. Her hands seeped a glittering grey mist that slowly thickened to dense fog. Her skin seemed to crystallise, turning to glass with her movements until Blue could see all the nerves and veins and bone. He almost recoiled, but felt drawn to the sight at the same moment. He had never seen magic so close, only in tricks, and even then the mages used staffs to protect themselves - to funnel away any damage that they could do to flesh.

In a quick burst, she threw her arms forward, the fog that she had accumulated shooting forward in two quick shots. One guard fired, but if it had hit, Dougall showed no reaction.

“You’re on a break,” she yelled at the guards, “go on, get.”

The guards looked at each other in confusion, then back at Dougall. She shook her head.

“You know who I am, don’t make me tell you again.” she held herself tall and proud, staring down the two guards. They hesitantly nodded and left the door clear for the two to run in. Blue stared up at her, curious how much had been the magic and how much had relied on her reputation.

“Impressive,” he said, standing and making his way to her side, “did they hit you?”

Dougall looked at him, confused, then patted herself down. Once satisfied, she gave him a thumbs up and a forced smile, which he returned.

Time to get the job done.

Regardless of having to deal with two fewer guards, the two made their way over as silently as possible, cracking open the large wooden doors of the warehouse.

Blue held back a cough as he entered. The interior was brimming with dust and the smell of oil and rust. Boxes and crates stacked high to the ceiling, likely having never disturbed or seen in years. The sight alone made his blood boil. Earl Douglas was a wealthy old bastard who kept culture in boxes to fade away to nothing. People had fought and died to keep their rights to their own history, and yet here it was. Collecting dust, mingling with other stolen artefacts, to be forgotten by the gentry that cared not for its own people, let alone foreign rights.

“We’re never going to be able to shift through all of this,” he groaned, “Creator, I hope it’s not boxed up.”

“It’s disgusting,” agreed Dougall, a sneer pulling at her rough features. “come on, best crack on. We don’t have long and I’d rather make the most of my time, don’t you?”

Blue nodded and rolled his shoulders. He dreaded what had come of his weekend. Dougall blew on her transparent fingers, rubbing heat into them and shoving them into the pockets of her dark leather jacket, setting off towards the back of the warehouse, her form disappearing into the darkness. Blue sighed and closed the door behind them, hoping to look as inconspicuous as possible, and hopefully buying the budding thieves more time to search for their needle in a haystack.

He climbed on top of one box, ripping off the lid of a taller crate with a pop. The motion caused him to sway backwards, but he caught himself before he could topple onto the ground and cause harm to himself or draw attention. Placing the lid to lean against the taller crate, he rifled through what he could see. Pots, mainly, hidden haphazardly in loose hay. There were onto jewels that cost more than his entire worth, but not what they had asked him to acquire. The night was still young, he figured, and he had plenty more crates to keep him occupied for weeks.

He cracked open a few more crates to no avail. More pots and vases, and some shiny jewels he pocketed so at the least he wouldn’t return empty-handed. Dougall had yet to return from the blackened void that was the back of the warehouse. He had heard nothing at all from the woman since she sauntered off and feared the worse. They couldn’t have had much time left, surely. He hopped off of the crate with a grunt, knees popping.

He wandered the darkening maze, hoping to at least find his mentor and partner in crime. He pulled a lighter from his trouser pocket, flicking it once, twice, three times for the spark to catch. The soft glow illuminated next to nothing, but Blue pressed on, hoping to find his partner safe. He wasn’t sure how he’d ever explain that she got hurt or worse on his watch.

Running his fingers across wood and metal, subconsciously counting how many boxes deep he had gone. He counted eighteen long, and the warehouse’s end was nowhere in sight. He had gone too far in, the light from the entrance no longer guiding him. A soft breeze threatened his tiny flame, he quickly cupped his spare hand around it to keep it alight, to the loss of counting each crate. He’d just have to rely on his footsteps now.

Two voices muttered words that Blue couldn’t pick up. A tangled mess of hushed words and garbled tongues. He walked softer now, hoping to get a glimpse before he scared them off, or worse, startled an attack. He took his thumb off his lighter, extinguishing the flame. He plunged into darkness, hobbling along the best he could.

The voices grew louder, more heated as he got closer. Blue hesitated, waiting around a corner to not be caught by the flickering light that hovered in between two people. One was definitely a guard, clean suit and armed to the teeth, her hair tugged back tightly out of her face. Yet he couldn’t catch a glimpse of the other, but it was definitely a woman speaking.

“You can’t keep doing this,” said the guards woman, an exasperated tone that one might use on a younger family member trying to break into the snack cupboard.

“He doesn’t own me,” hissed the other woman, the voice he could now recognise as Dougall. “He never has. I don’t owe him anything.”

“This isn’t a matter of owing, Dot. He’s your-”

“I know who he is,” Dougall snarled, the air seemingly growing colder as the seconds ticked by, “now let me go. I have my own business to attend to. That’s an order.”

Dougall brushed past where he hid, storming down the aisle of crates. Blue let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He could hear a door squeak open and closed, presumably from the guard exiting the building.

He stood slowly, careful not to knock over any of the boxes as he went, flicking his lighter yet again. The soft yellow light barely lighting his way, but it was enough to make his way back the way he came. To pretend not to have heard whatever had transpired. He wasn’t a true member of The Ivory Rose, not yet. As much as the situation had been against his will, he refused to mess up his chance at a life of adventure just yet. It was in his blood after all. If he could not follow his mother, to travel across the seas, this was the next best thing.

He reached the end with little trouble, standing before the double doors of the warehouse. Returning to his crates, rifling through them again in case Dougall found him. He’d at least have plausible deniability in case questioned.

Dougall sauntered over from the left of the warehouse, letting out a single sharp whistle to get his attention. He looked over, almost dropping the vase he had found. There, in her hands, was the large framed painting of the one and only Sheridan Sørensen. The professional thief grinned, carefree and proud. Blue looked at the painting then slowly back at her in distrust. If she caught any of his doubt, she didn’t waver.

“Time to go,” she grinned, tossing him the painting - which he barely caught - and running out the door. He huffed and chased after her, feet pounding against the dense earth floor. Blue couldn’t be sure why they were running, what with the sudden lack of guards. Dougall’s order seemed to have worked, for whatever reason.

Blue parked the car in front of the Den, after an underwhelming drive back to the capital. He unbelted the painting from where it lay in the back of the van, following Dougall back inside. Dougall, who yelled at the top of her lungs the very second she entered despite the late hour.

“We’re back!” she whooped, sauntering into the living room, where the gaggle of women sat around; exhausted from waiting.

J, the team leader, rolled her eyes.“What do you want, a medal?”

Blue stepped in cautiously, painting held in front of him as if it could shield him from the many pairs of judging eyes of women he knew no name.

“Ey, he did it!” grinned one, a tall woman with purple ribbons braided into her hair, from where she sat cross-legged in front of the fire.

“Took longer than it should have - but yes, I suppose he did. Congratulations, Mr Blue.”

“You really can just call me Blue,” he said sheepishly, carefully setting the painting up against the wall. Sheridan Sørensen’s piercing gaze glared over the room as if her ghost lived on within the oil paint.

With a pop of a bottle and a thump on the door, the group froze. They stared warily towards the front door, looking amongst themselves as if daring someone to move. Blue braced himself, opting to take initiative, hoping that it would gain favour with the women.

He crept to the passageway, peaking out through the frosted glass panes that bordered the door, no matter how unhelpful they proved to be. A blur of black and silver stood swaying, moving forward to rap at the knocker again. Blue bit his lip, taking in a deep breath, and opened the door. Two of the Kingshill guards, pistols drawn, pushed past him into the house, no matter Blue’s yelps of discouragement.

They filed into the living room where the crew sat like statues, the froth from the popped alcohol dripping languidly down the side of the glass untouched.

“Dorothy Douglas,” boomed the male guard, pistol pointing towards Dougall’s face. Dougall hardly looked surprised, much less interested. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Dorothy Marlowe.”

#WIP: Thieves and Necromancy #kd writes #writing #WIP: Let Us Live #Wip: Let Us Live; For We Must Die

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