#still very proud of the stylization on his eyes making it look like the bottom one is a teardrop

[totally-not-an-awkward-okapi]

Still thinking about that little angel I dreamt about a bit ago so I’ve been binging other angel stuff and felt inspired to try to draw him as @hoaxghost ‘s style of angel.

#weirdly the halo was the hardest part to figure out because he very explicitly doesn’t usually have one. but man I’m charmed by it now #I was worried about balancing what’s damage he received VS slight cracks that ended from that damage making him a bit too human in nature #but it turned out pretty nicely even if it was hard to keep them simple and contained #still very proud of the stylization on his eyes making it look like the bottom one is a teardrop #nope he’s a freak #also yeah committing to he/himing the angel #less in a Boy Way and more in a like… gendering a hen male because you need to refer to that specific hen instead of the group #the boy vs the girls #idk if that makes any sense but that’s my own grammar and how it affects the little grub #my art #my ocs

[theskywaslookingback]

[AO3] - [read the rest of the series here]

Martin has the TV set to a low murmur, letting Bake Off reruns play in the background as he combs his fingers through Gerry’s hair. It’s warm in the flat, the summer worming its way in through the cracks of the place and turning everything hot and tight. The fan is louder than the TV, oscillating back and forth between the two bodies slumped on the sofa and the one on the chair.

Jon grumbles as the movement rustles his papers, his glasses low on his nose and gaze intent on the paper he’s reading.

“You know,” Gerry says from his comfortable position on Martin’s lap, “if you didn’t assign so much work, you wouldn’t have so much to grade.”

Martin pinches Gerry’s ear in admonishment as Jon makes a noise of protest from his comfortable perch on the arm chair. Gerry yelps and then laughs, swatting at Martin’s hand.

“I’m just saying, you do this to yourself.”

“Hush,” Martin says, tugging gently on a lock of black hair, “It’s too hot to deal with you.”

Gerry hums, picking his head up enough to wink at Jon who just sighs in reply. Gerry settles back in and Martin resumes his petting. It’s nice, despite the heat, one of the very few days they have to spend together. Jon had offered to help out with a summer class at the university that had been overbooked and Gerry had recently been promoted to manager at the bar he’d been working for, which was all phenomenal and Martin was so proud of them both, but it left them all with shockingly little time together.

Martin’s thumb strokes down Gerry’s neck, rubbing over an old tattoo of an eye, pressing down slightly at the pupil. Gerry huffs a breath into his lap and turns just enough to look at him. “Hi,” Martin says.

“Hey.” Comes the soft reply, warm and fond.

Martin would very much like to kiss him, but that would require a level of flexibility he’s never possessed, so he settles for bringing his own hand up to his palm and kissing the center of it before setting it back down lightly over Gerry’s mouth. He can feel the smile tugging at Gerry’s lips before his palm is being kissed in return and Martin brings it back up to his mouth. “Tea?” He asks after finishing the ritual.

“Christ,” Jon says, letting his papers and pen fall onto the small table at his side. The pen jumps at the small shock and rolls off onto the floor. “Please? If I don’t take a break I may actually start pulling my hair out.”

“Well we wouldn’t want that.” Martin says.

“Mmm, I don’t know.” Gerry says, tapping his finger to his chin as if in indecision, “Bald can be sexy. I seem to recall a time when you shaved your head and it didn’t look that bad.”

“Oh?” Delight suffuses through Martin like honeyed sunshine, “Now that’s something I would have loved to have seen.”

Gerry’s face lights up and he sits bolt upright. “Wait here a second,” he says before hopping off the couch and bounding toward the bedroom. There’s a loud crack, like the door has banged off a wall, and then the sound of things hitting the floor in a hurry.

Martin looks over at Jon, bewildered, but Jon just gives a helpless shrug, looking just as lost as he feels. He’s about to get up and go see just what the hell Gerry is doing when he comes tearing back into the room, clutching something in his hands.

“Look!” He crows, clearly pleased with himself, and hands out a book to Martin.

It’s not very large, about the size of a standard journal, and bound in worn, brown leather. The front of it is scuffed, the top corner bent inward like it’d been stepped on or stuffed somewhere and left like that for a long time, forgotten. “What is-“

From the chair he hears Jon say, “Is that-“

But Gerry drowns them both out with his plea of, “Open it!”

So Martin does.

Inside the front cover is a mess of pen drawings and doodles. A stylized eye, a moth, an anarchy symbol, a middle finger, half of them overlapping and the lines blurring. There’s a burst of black in the top right, a dark blot like a burst pen. In the center of the mess are big blocky letters, all caps.

PROPERTY OF GERRY KEAY

Below that, in a much smaller font that Martin can only decipher from years of recognition and practice.

and Jon Sims.

Martin looks up at Gerry who just grins and flops back down on the couch next to him, pressing hard up against his side like he’s eager to watch. Martin flips to the next page.

There’s a polaroid taped to the center, two young boys staring up at him with twin grins of mischief and joy. The boy on the left has chestnut brown hair cropped short. His mouth and hands look sticky and stained a bright red, the likely cause of which being the ice lolly stick still clutched in his right hand. The boy on the right is much smaller, with unruly black hair and red stains on his button down shirt and a matching red mouth. At the bottom someone had written in a tight, cursive script ‘Gerard and Jonathan, August 1999.’ Someone had drawn an ice cream van on the bottom of the page. At the top, in Gerry’s capital letter font, were the words PARTNERS IN CRIME.

The following pages are similar, photos taped onto the pages, sometimes overlapping each other. Some were clearly taken by Jon’s grandmother - the two of them dressed in suits for some function, the two of them sitting at a table and studying, the two of them asleep in the backyard. Others were clearly taken by the two themselves - Gerry smoking a cigarette and flipping off the camera, Jon holding a bottle of beer, Jon reaching for the camera and looking angry, Gerry riding a skateboard, Gerry on the ground with his skateboard upside down next to him. Some of them held commentary - WE LOOKED LIKE TWATS we were eleven!, Gerry has never once landed a kick flip HEY!!!!, we stayed up waiting for the meteor shower, BEST MATES FOR LIFE. Even more held doodles - ocean waves crashing against a rock, a pair of doves, zig zag mazes and tic tac toe, a lit cigarette and a bottle of beer.

“Ah-ha!” Gerry exclaims when Martin is more than halfway through the book, jamming his finger down at the picture taped there.

Martin jumps and looks at him.

“I knew it was in here,” Gerry says smugly.

By this point it looked as if Gerry had already started dying his hair black and growing it long, almost past his shoulders. His eyes were rimmed in black eyeliner and he had at least two piercings that Martin knew hadn’t come with parental permission. Next to him was Jon, hair buzzed down to his scalp and scowling impressively at the camera, wearing a too large leather jacket and a t-shirt for a band Martin had never heard of.

“Oh!” Martin says, grinning, “It looks so good!” He looks up to gauge Jon’s reaction, maybe even tease him a bit, but the words die quickly in his throat.

Jon’s looking right at Gerry, his face a mass of emotions that Martin is at a loss to try and describe. His eyes look wet.

“Jon?” Martin asks, concern tugging away his amusement and leaving it raw.

Gerry’s head snaps up, his own smile rapidly disappearing in the weight of Jon’s gaze.

There’s a long moment where none of them say anything and the room is stifling from the heat and tension. Martin looks between the two of them, trying to piece together what on earth could possibly be wrong, but he’s coming up short on pieces to work with.

It seems like forever before Jon finally says, “You kept it?” The tone of his voice is raw and brittle.

Martin very gently closes the book and sets in down on the coffee table.

Gerry’s mouth opens and closes a couple of times, confused noises eeking out like the squeaking of a rusted hinge. He seems almost as lost as Martin is. Finally his words take shape and land on, “Yes? Yeah, of course I did. Why wouldn’t I have?”

Jon’s eyes flicker away, to the oscillating fan and then to the TV kindly asking if they were still watching. He picks at a loose thread on the chair, fingers working anxiously. “I thought…after your mother- after you left- I thought that…”

Gerry’s eyebrows pull together, his lips tipping down into a frown. “What? Did you think I’d thrown it away?”

Jon shrugs, first one shoulder and then the other, like the collapse of a building. “Just kind of...assumed.” His hands were wringing together now, picking at the skin gently and scratching at his wrist. “After the...after the funeral we weren’t really talking, and then you were just...gone. Thought maybe…” Jon shrugs again, this time lower, hunching himself down smaller, “maybe you didn’t want to remember.”

Oh, Martin thought distantly. Gerry’s mother, Mary, had died when he was only 16, apparently by suicide. It had been a sudden, violent thing that had sent Gerry’s childhood spiraling in a direction he couldn’t control. Less than a week from the time his mother had died, Gerry had been uprooted from the home in Bournemouth he’d always lived in and made to move in with a distant relative named Gertrude up in London. He’d barely had time to process any of it, let alone let Jon know what was happening. It was over ten years before they’d seen each other again, and the gap had always been a sore spot for both Jon and Gerry.

Gerry makes a choked noise and crosses the room in quick strides to kneel in front of the chair. He gathers Jon’s hands in his own, cradling them together. “No,” he says, so softly Martin can barely hear him, “Not you.” He brings their hands up so he can kiss the backs of Jon’s hands, brush his lips over the knuckles. “I never wanted to forget you.”

Jon’s breath hitches.

Martin watches Gerry hold Jon’s hands to his face and mumble something that he can’t make out. Jon’s fingers twitch in response and he huffs out a breath. After a moment he gets up and goes into the kitchen to make them all some tea, flicking the switch on the electric kettle and rummaging through the pantry to find the container of lemongrass tea that he knows Jon likes and the mint tea that Gerry prefers. It doesn’t take long, but he likes the ritual of it anyway. He gathers their two mugs in one hand, and his own mug of a spicy black tea in the other and heads back into the sitting room.

Jon has moved over to the couch, tucked under Gerry’s arm with the book in his lap.

Martin smiles and sets their tea down.

When Jon looks up, Martin bends down and kisses his forehead and then grins wider when Jon’s nose and forehead scrunch up.

“Okay?” Martin asks.

Jon waves at him dismissively but makes a grab for his shirt when Martin turns like he’s going to take the chair. “Yes,” he says, exasperated, “come here, please.”

Gerry squishes himself into the corner and pulls Jon closer to make room, so Martin sighs and fits himself in next to them on the sofa. It’s a cramped fit, but ultimately worth it for the way Jon relaxes against him, flipping absently through the book of memories on his lap.

“Gerry had a point, at least.” Martin says.

“Hm?”

“You looked good with a shaved head,” Martin says too lightly, “might be a good summer to try it again.”

Jon’s protests are drowned out by Gerry’s instant and joyous peal of laughter.

Jon says something about ‘nothing being sacred’, the tips of his ears burning, while Martin tries to hide his grin in his cup of tea. He almost succeeds.

#fic #my fic #visible world #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #gerard keay #jongerrymartin #((here I’ve been writing for like three hours)) #((you can have it)) #((edit: just realized this was missing a whole ass paragraph??)) #((also added a keep reading since apparently no one will reblog anything anymore))

[starthornisscratching]

Day 5: Take Him Down.

TW: Stabbing/Impalement, Betrayal, Blood

Image descriptions/worded version after the cut. :)

Description of my Hetalia Mongolia design: A reasonably tall man with a braid of dark hair slightly longer than his waist. He has a scar underneath his right eye and is wearing a tunic, he also has a shadow covering his face in many panels. His sword is slightly curved and significantly longer than the one I drew China with.

Description of my Hetalia China design: A man of relatively average height with long hair in a ponytail that reaches to right below his shoulder blades. He has a Hetalia Italy style ‘hair curl’ sticking out of his ponytail which vaguely displays his emotions. He is wearing very stylized Han Dynasty leather armor. His sword is relatively short and much straighter than the one I gave Mongolia.

Description of the comic itself: I drew all of these pages on lined notebook paper with black pen. These drawings are rough sketches, however they are cohesive enough for me to consider them good! The descriptions provided should convey what is going on well while still making sense and being interesting.

That’s all, please enjoy!

---

Page one.

In an angular panel the reader sees a close up of Mongolia's face, he looks proud and frightening. The word DOOM is displayed beside him.

In a second angular panel China brandishes his sword, looking nervous and defiant. Here, the sound effect displayed is just a nervous sound from him.

In the next two small panels Mongolia reaches for the hilt of his sword which is in a sheath at his hip.

He then pulls it out to the side, showing how sharp it is- it sparkles.

Page two.

In three small panels, Mongolia walks forward.

Then, he pulls out his sword and points it directly at China, who is shown shaking from the angle of this panel.

In the next two panels Mongolia tilts his head to the side, asking China “You’re scared?” In response, China looks angry and grits his teeth.

Mongolia looks happy with this, joyful that he seems to have the upper hand here. “You’re scared that I’ve grown too strong for you to beat?” He gloats, his arm bends a little bit, the sword pointing less directly at China now.

Page three.

In a small panel, China grits his teeth.

From a perspective that draws attention to his now steady arm, China points his arm at Mongolia and responds angrily but calmly. “I’ll never bow to a traitor like YOU.” he says.

In the next panel, Mongolia shrugs, sword wobbling in his hand as he rolls his eyes, saying “Should have seen it coming…” (Referring to China not realizing he was going to betray him.)

Angrily and yet pleadingly, China replies. “I tend to TRUST people!”

In a large panel at the bottom of the page, Mongolia re-points his sword towards China and looks down at him again. “It’s a wonder you’ve survived in that case, it really, REALLY is…” Mongolia mutters.

Page four.

A close up on China’s annoyed eye shows him responding to Mongolia’s statement, saying “I have lived all these years; I should know HOW to live.”

“But clearly, you… DON’T,” Mongolia responds strongly. A close up of his face shows a similar expression to the first panel, defiant and proud.

China seems to gather himself in the next panel, and raises his hand sarcastically as a challenge. He grins, but his hair curl is messed up in a way that shows he’s scared. Still, he speaks. “Feh. You’re so confident- yet we have not fought yet.”

Page five.

Mongolia points forward, smiling like he knows something China doesn’t. “But you are clearly frightened by me?” he asks.

In a smaller panel next to the first it is shown that Mongolia is referring to China’s visibly frazzled hair curl. China looks horrified to see that he’s noticed that.

In the next panel, he seems to put himself together and tilts his head down, growling in annoyance.

Then, Mongolia lifts his sword again, humming. China’s stance changes to a more defensible position.

“Ready?” Mongolia says as he grips the hit of his sword.

Sweat rolls down China’s cheek as he grits his teeth, clearly thinking hard. His eyes are not shown in the drawing, symbolizing the indecisiveness.

He struggles to smile, the tip of his sword raised slightly. “Of course,” he seems to decide, though the unsureness in his voice is still shown in the fact that the upper part of his face is not shown.

Page six.

In a very large panel, taking up half the page, Mongolian sword sparkles as he balances it one more time. “Then let’s…” he says.

For the second half of the page, China’s less deadly sword is also balanced in his hand. He finishes Mongolia’s statement, saying the last word in the phrase, “Go.”

Page seven.

Mongolia jumps into the air, raising his sword above his head.

A closeup on China’s eyes shows him tracking the other’s movements, calculating where he is going to land.

At the last second, China jumps out of the way of Mongolia’s sword- which buries itself into the ground.

Furiously and in surprise, Mongolia looks up at China.

Over his shoulder, China glares back. Apprehension shows on his face.

Face in shadow once more, anger clear in his posture, Mongolia yanks his blade out of the dirt.

Mongolia’s eyebrow lowers as he glares at China, “You don't move like you’re old.”

Page eight.

Confused, China half-smiles, eyes wide. A question mark is displayed next to him.

In the next panel, he waves and smiles (eyes closed for just a moment). “Uh, thank you I guess?” he says, though his sword is still raised and pointed towards Mongolia.

Then, his eyes snap open and absolute anger fills his expression. “Except,” he says, “You didn’t mean it.”

Swooping his body to the side and twisting his arm upwards, China readies a strike towards Mongolia.

He follows through and slashes the blade to the side!

Mongolia blocks and the two nation’s weapons clang together.

Page nine.

Furious, Mongolia appears visibly angry though his hair is now disheveled and swooped over his face.

Then he jumps to his feet, slashing China’s sword nearly out of his grasp with a, rather emotional unfitting for the tense moment, sound effect of ‘ding!’

In a short and long panel to exaggerate the sudden distance between them, Mongolia and China both fall back. Mongolia steadies himself on one knee, his sword still following through with the powerful swipe. It hits nothing but air. China jumps back onto one foot, the other knee raised in the air to catch him once he starts to fall.

China huffs for breath, now standing straight up, previously shaky sword arm steadied. Even his hair curl does not appear distressed, as he is too focused on surviving this battle.

Mongolia also huffs for breath, but he makes fun of China for it anyway, saying “Already so out of breath?”

Page ten.

Finding hypocrisy in Mongolia’s remark, China (rather unwisely) raises his sword to attack again. “You’re out of breath too,” he fires back.

Though he still has the ‘low ground’ as he is bent down, Mongolia manages to block China’s attack.

“Hm,” he hums, still gasping for air.

Suddenly, he is prepared again, evidently swapping sword hands from two to only his left. “You’re right,” he agrees with China (who is now shaking with effort to break out of the parry).

Mongolia swipes his sword away, this time successfully disarming China. (And appearing to bend the latter’s arm back in a painful way with the force of the blow. He exclaims in surprise.) “And I should be ashamed…” he continues, moving a chest to his heart in mock honesty.

“Because at least you have the excuse…” he continues as it becomes his turn to raise his sword for an attack.

“...of fighting someone…” he continues, as China grits his teeth in terror, eyes widening and hair curl sticking up.

“...SO much better than YOU.” Mongolia finishes, driving his sword straight through China’s chest. Blood sprays outward and both men’s hair is drawn swiping through the air, filling the seemingly empty space behind them. Mongolia is shown above China, signifying that he is the definite winner of this battle, if that were not clear from the sword through his opponent’s chest.

---

That’s the end.

Let me know if I did okay with the descriptions! I tried to keep them interesting while still staying true to the comic I made. I hope it was alright, thanks for reading!

#whumptober2021 #no.5 #betrayal #fandom #hetalia #fic #art #comic #impalement #blood #hetalia china #hetalia mongolia #hws mongolia #hws china #historical hetalia #this is based upon the part of history where the Mongol Empire betrayed the Song Dynasty #but Hetalia of course #yep

[kyberconfessions]

Omega Squadron - Clones

Please don't use them. These are mine and I created them and I love them.

Do not steal. Thank you.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Delta - Commander CC -7767

Stoic, kind, quiet, always has his arms crossed. Completely and utterly in love with his General. But knows she loves another. Still loves her. Will still give his life for her. Will follow his general to the ends of the earth. Protective of his team and family. Fuck you, you're not Omega. Really, really loves tea and meditation. Will meditate long into the day with Chidori and Maul. He doesn't have the connection to the force they have, but being able to clear his mind and have a moment of silence is more than enough. Best friends with Captain Rex of the 501st and Commander Cody of the 212nd. Will frequent 79s with them when they're all planetside and complain, er discuss, about their Generals and the crazy situations they put themselves into.

Has military cropped hair with one side shaved and the GAR symbol tattoo'd. Small smattering of grey at his temples. Not a fan of it, but his General said it made him look distinguished, so he kept it. Has one line on his chest and neck for each member of his squad in their company purple.

large scar across the bridge of his nose. Not from the war, but from breaking up a fight in 79s and getting a glass slammed into his face.

Jedi symbol tattood on inside of left wrist, keeps it hidden.

Donner - Communications CT - 4459

Prankster, always cracking jokes, knows that making someone laugh can usually help alleviate the pain they're feeling. Enjoys fried foods, thinks of others, always has the biggest and most genuine smile. Really loves those scented oils he got from naboo, especially the cardamom.

Long hair on top, undercut buzzed on bottom. Wears hair in topknot. Two tattooed rectangles under right eye, three lines shaved into left eyebrow, black out tattoo on entire right arm. May or may not have been involved in the '79s Incident'.

Niner - sniper CT-9999

Gentle. The most gentle man in the entire GAR. so very kind. Will give all of his food rations away to street urchins, just so they know someone cares for them. Has tried to adopt lothcats multiple times, but a stern glare from Delta usually has him putting it back.

Amazing shot. Will be the first to volunteer for whatever mission his General has. Always tries to talk down situations. Prefers to use his words over his fists. But will finish fights if he has too. Heart is to big for war, will sit and let you cry on his shoulder if its needed. Gives the best hugs. Best friends with Donner.

Regular military issued hair cut, nothing fancy, no facial tattoos, has the republic gear on his entire left shoulder, chest, deltoid, trapezius, and into his back. Still sees everything with wonder and big eyes.

Bama - Medic CT-3524

No nonsense guy, will call you out for making stupid mistakes. Dry bedside manner. Oh? You've got a hunk of shrapnel lodged in your side? Here, let him rip it out if you all the while telling you how stupid you were for standing to close to a bomb. Can and will drug Delta if he thinks he's not sleeping enough.

Had to learn a lot about Zabrak anatomy when Maul was added to the team.

'Two hearts! Why the kriff does he have two hearts?!'

Will drink everyone under the table. Once ran into a dangerous warzone to grab a kid who had wandered from the alleys.

Shaved head, sometimes sports a few days old shadow, but likes to keep it clean. Black out tattoos on both arms, completely covered. Wears a necklace with the Republic Gear. Has heteochromia from an injury sustained on Geonosis. Basically one normal colored eye and one almost completely black eye (can still see fine and doesn't want a stupid kriffing implant.)

Familial grump.

Ares - Weapons Specialist ARC-8599

CONTRABAND EXTRAORDINAIRE. You want something, he can get it! Correlian wine? Easy. Sabaac game from the Palace of Naboo? Childs play. Religious regalia from the Chiss? Please, find me something hard.

loves his gun. Named it Mesh'la. Yeah its Mando'a. Fuck off. can and will shoot every weapon in the GAR. Usually is the one laying down heavy fire so his brothers can maneuver or escape. Can curse you out in 6 different languages. Was the first to accept Maul into their ranks.

'So what if he was a sith? We've all done stuff we're not proud of. Who are we to judge? The General trusts him and thats all that matters to me.'

loves working out. Will workout every chance he gets. "Mesh'la isn't the only big gun I've got! BAM!" MASSIVE FLIRT.

Has a more stylized version of the military cut, bottom fades into the top with a longer section on top towards the front. Two red bands on upper right arm, Omega symbol branded into chest. Not tattoo'd, branded. Bama had a field day cursing him out in Mando'a and applying bacta patches.

Nero - pilot CT-1966

Great pilot, best pilot, can fly around the best of those clankers. Not very smart. Look, don't expect him to be able to recite Alderaani Poetry, but has read every manual for every cruiser this side of the galaxy. Really wants to do the Kessel run, Delta told him no. Rrreeeaaallly wants to though. Donner and Ares may sneak him off with one of the y wings, see if they can do some damage. Has a crush on the Civilian Auxiliary that helps fuel their ship. Stumbles over words, very shy, turns hot faced and wide eyed when Ares flirts for him. Boy is pretty and has a good heart, but definitely will not become a Senator any time soon. Everyone thinks he and Maul are best friends, when really he's absolutely terrified of the red and black Zabrak and can't physically speak when he's around. Maul on the other hand finds Nero's silence and calm demeanor relaxing and enjoys watching space go by, so he will sit with Nero as they go through hyperspace. So Maul sits up with him in copilot chair and Nero sweats bullets and internally screams the entire time.

Buzzcut and intricate pattern shaved in, swears its a map into Wild Space, Bama told him it looks like he list a fight with his clippers.

Soul patch and checkerboard diamond tattoos on left forearm GAR symbol on left calf.

#clones #clone wars #OCs #omega squad #my clones #do not steal #mine

[bthenoise]

Hometown Heroes: These Are Destroy Boys’ Top 10 Favorite Bay Area Bands

Photo by: Ash Gellman

Whether you’re looking to discover your next favorite punk rock group or rekindle your connection with Bay Area artists such as The Cramps, Dead Kennedys or Primus, you’ve come to the right place. 

Today, to help learn more about emerging Hopeless Records act Destroy Boys, we’ve asked the talented trio to let us in on their musical mindset and show off some of their favorite hometown heroes from the Northern California community. 

To check out which ten artists vocalist Alexia Roditis, guitarist Violet Mayugba,  and drummer Narsai Malik picked as their favorites from San Francisco to Sacramento and everything in between, be sure to look below. Afterward, for more from the punk rock powerhouse Destroy Boys, head here.   

ALEXIS RODITIS 

Burd 

Burd is this awesome duo from SF. I don’t remember the first time I saw them, but I went to every single one of their shows that I could get to. The guitar rips and the drums are so creative. Their two instruments combined with the vocals put me into a trance state where all I wanna do is spaz out and yell along. I feel very inspired by Burd’s hard, melodic, and clever guitar riffs. So sick. 

Rituals of Mine

Rituals of Mine is another one of my favorite Sacramento bands (Sacramento is not the bay, but Sac is where my roots lie. Don't @ me). Terra puts on an incredible performance, taking the crowd on a journey with them through the songs. Their music is very intricate and emotional, something I try to emulate in my own way in rock music. 

The Cramps

Gosh, I love The Cramps!! Another Sacramento band. They were one of the first local rock bands I got into when I first started going to shows. I couldn’t get enough of the sexual energy that comes through their songs, I hadn’t heard anything like it! I love they they’re proud freaks. Their music makes me want to dance and contort. 

VIOLET MAYUGBA 

Tørsö

Torso (stylized as Tørsö) is an absolutely ripping hardcore band based out of Oakland, CA. I heard them for the first time when I was 17 and still living in Sac. They completely changed my vision of hardcore, and influenced me to add a bit more power to some of the riffs I was writing.

Dead Kennedys 

Everyone knows this one. DK's Give Me Convenience Or Give Me Death was the first record I had ever bought for myself at 13 (2 years before we started the band). I couldn't stop listening. The urgency and the anger of this band completely painted a picture to me of the kind of music I wanted to make.

RAD 

RAD were a thrash hardcore band from Sacramento that Alexia and I used to go see all the time. Completely consuming hardcore that would bust through 15 songs in close to 15 minutes. They were the first female fronted hardcore band I had ever seen, and I NEVER went back. 

Deftones

My favorite Sacramento band of all time. Around The Fur helped me create a higher expectation of my guitar parts, and influenced me to add darkness and character to our songs. Also, just the sickest band ever. 

NARSAI MALIK 

Juicebumps 

The best current band in San Francisco, hands down. Their debut album ‘Hello Pinky’, which came out in July of 2020 is a top to bottom work of freakish genius. Recorded on tape, this album is all over the place in the best way possible. From tracks that consist only of samples, to full on timeless bangers, to music made by and for computers, there’s something for everybody. I’m sure in another dimension, Juicebumps formed because Devo and Nirvana met in a club in Berlin and had a naughty one night stand, and they were the spectacular creation that popped out nine months later. Their range in style is truly inspiring because I always strive to be stylistically diverse, and I never want our band to be stuck to one sound. Listening to Juicebumps and seeing them live always leaves me thinking, grooving and laughing my ass off which is the perfect trifecta of emotions when I’m listening to music. 

Primus 

My older brother’s hand-me-down iPod Nano had many nuggets of wonder in it, many of them heavily contributing to the music that now embodies who I am as a person. One band on the iPod was Primus and the only song saved under their name was “Harold of the Rocks”. Because I had enjoyed the rest of what was in my brother’s music library, I remember putting it on and thinking nothing of it, but I couldn’t make it past the verse because it was way too advanced and non-traditional rock for my lower school brain. Many years later when I had gotten into Primus’ other hits like “Jerry Was a Race Car Driver” and “John the Fisherman”, I revisited the fabled song and had a revelation that Primus was one of the most important bands to ever come out of San Francisco. At this point in my life, as opposed to when I first found out about them, I had started playing drums. Something I take away from listening to Primus even to this day, is how their drummer Tim Alexander fits in notes where you would have never imagined playing them in a million years. He opened my eyes to the fact that there’s more than just on-beats and off-beats, and that there’s way more room to throw in flurries of hi-hats or whatever, tastefully of course. 

Sly and the Family Stone 

I honestly didn’t know that Sly and the Family Stone were from San Francisco, until I did a quick search for bands from here, but I’ve always loved them! My mom grew up in Chicago in the 70’s, so funk and soul have always been a part of her. It was played in our house and on road trips but I never fully appreciated it until much later. What I like about Sly is that he has the charisma of James Brown, but a  down-to-earth, not so untouchable feel to his music. Before I listened to Sly, all l knew about funk was the flashy, ‘show-biz’ side of it, but Sly and his band made me feel like I could play this kind of music too. I love funk music because it feels so open and freeing, and it’s just really fun to play on drums. It has a sense of candidness and inclusivity that draws you in, even when you’re just playing along to songs in your headphones. It’s the only type of music where I can completely shut my brain off and just play. I’ve always tried to apply that unrestricted feeling to my drum parts, and Sly’s songs are the epitome of that for me.

#Destroy Boys #Hopeless Records #Sly & The Family Stone #Primus #Juicebumps #Deftones #RAD #Dead Kennedys #Torso #The Cramps #Rituals Of Mine #BURD

[askbittyerror]

Wedding RP part 3

with-bells-upon09/27/2020 "...please come out?" they reach for Fresh, pausing long enough to give Greylu a 'please just let me have this right now' look, before offering their hands to their rad buddy, clearly in much need of a hug and nuzzle from their bitty pal.

salty darkness09/27/2020 Greylu pauses, watching his spouse reach for the bitty. He looks away, grumbling under his breath... but he doesn't seem as openly opposed anymore.

Askbittyerror09/27/2020 Fresh opens his wings and lands on Bells' hands after a few flaps, immediately flopping over and nuzzling with many soft purrs.

with-bells-upon09/27/2020 He is immediately hugged. Just, immediately. Much nuzzles. "...I'm glad you came. Sorry I didn't really get to talk to my husband about it beforehand- the cutiegoop kinda vanished on me to go grab his friends, I guess."

salty darkness09/27/2020 "..." Blushy goop! "Cutiegoop?"

with-bells-upon09/27/2020 "...oh please, hardly the first time I've called you that." The smile Bells offers him is just a bit more collected now, and maybe a tiny bit teasing. "would you prefer, 'my king of starlight and shadows?' 'my starlit king?' 'my beautiful nightmare?'"

salty darkness09/27/2020 Greylu stammers a little, face glowing a bright, bright blue. "I mean- well- I wouldn't be against it, but-" A tendril baps Bell's cheek, gentle and careful. "Shut up."

with-bells-upon09/27/2020 a giggle, reaching to catch the tendril gently. "-but I love that shade of blue on you, beloved!"

salty darkness09/27/2020 The tendril baps them again, a little harder. "And we have a perfectly good honeymoon for this behavior, beloved. At least not in front of our guests."

with-bells-upon09/27/2020 A huff, but offend. "...I like showing you off, but fine. Grumpy."

Askbittyerror09/27/2020 The bitties giggle, staring to look fond, and Fresh chuckles. "Ya'll are cute." He nuzzles Bells.

salty darkness09/27/2020 Despite himself, Greylu smiles, warm and happy. "I suppose we are, aren't we?"

with-bells-upon09/27/2020 "I think to think so," Bells agrees, giving their new husband an utterly soft look. "...the people at the shop when we went to pick out clothes for the kids seemed to disagree. but they also missed our babies being abso-fricking-lutely adorable, since they decided to all go running out of the store in a panic like that. you'd think they'd never seen a king of darkness, a lich, and an army of excited toddlers show up to get clothes for a wedding."

Askbittyerror09/27/2020 The bitties giggle. “Oh!” Magnus yells, shooting up, grinning wildly at Bells. “We got you gifts!” “But…” He deflates. “They’re with Huitzi.” The goopdad/grandparents/great-grandparents look at each other and vanish for moment, returning quickly with a wide, flat box, a small (at least for biggies) ribbon-tied bag, and a pair of envelopes. “Gifts!” They shout.

with-bells-upon09/27/2020 "...oh?" Bells seems a bit intrigued, and decidedly curious. "Is this part of that wedding gift thing that my friend Candy mentioned earlier?"

salty darkness09/27/2020 Greylu glances to the bitties, raising a brow. Tendrils curl around Bells, grabbing their wrist and giving it a soft squeeze. "...what are they?"

with-bells-upon09/27/2020 "Um, apparently 'gifts to celebrate and help the new couple get settled.' I'm not sure about the second bit, but celebrating I can get behind." Another nuzzle to Fresh, before gently shifting him to their shoulder, as they hold out their hands to accept the gifts. "-may we?"

Askbittyerror09/27/2020 “Of course.” The goopdads offer the gifts, Domino speaking. “The box is from our family and Huitzi, the bag is from Flare, one of the envelopes is from Dame and Moose and, uh… we, don’t really know who the other is from.”

with-bells-upon09/27/2020 "Thank you-" they accept the gifts, looking at them curiously. "-oh, and remind me I need to talk to that tall red winged dork later, would you?"

salty darkness09/27/2020 Tendrils pick the bag up and out of Bells' arms, carefully opening it. "...remind me to make sure that 'tall red dork' doesn't attack me, would you?"

with-bells-upon09/27/2020 "...yeah, that's coming right along with 'sorry our child made a solid effort to bite you in the face for looking at her da funny.'"

Askbittyerror09/27/2020 Inside the bag is a small glass jar that fits neatly into his palm. It’s filled with dried fuschia petals and has a handwritten label. It reads; AlcheLust Echo Flower Petals STRONG APHODIASIAC, USE ONLY A LITTLE Enjoy your honeymoon~

with-bells-upon09/27/2020 "..." "Remind me to have a few other words with that man too." They are not. Blushing. Shush.

salty darkness09/27/2020 The goop closes the bag so very, very fast. "..." "Beloved? Maybe be careful with opening the rest. Just in case."

Askbittyerror09/27/2020 "What is it?" Magnus frowns, trying to somehow see through the bag.

salty darkness09/27/2020 A tendril bats Magnus away with a lot more force than what's probably necessary. "NOTHING."

with-bells-upon09/27/2020 Brightly green flushed cheeks, which they try rubbing at with an embarrassed mutter of agreement, opening the box now, and pretending that didn't just happen. "...nothing. if Flare gives you a present for your wedding, uh... be, careful." [4:27 PM] "..." a frown, and narrowed gaze to their beloved at this.

Askbittyerror09/27/2020 Magnus squeaks and gives Greylu a reproachful glare. "Me bitty." He gestures to himself. "You be careful, or I go squish. Understand?"

salty darkness09/27/2020 "..." "Sorry. Just, uh- don't look inside the bag. Please."

with-bells-upon09/27/2020 "...do not squish my 'new dad.' he' a massive improvement over the last."

Askbittyerror09/27/2020 "It's okay." Magnus says, giving Bells a incredibly soft, fond smile. "...thanks kiddo, I appreciate it."

salty darkness09/27/2020 "..." Greylu glances to the box in Bells' arms, trying to see what's inside.

Askbittyerror09/27/2020 Inside the box is a circlet, roughly the size of Bells’ head, carefully cushioned on a small mountain of tissue paper. The circlet’s base is intricately carved from mountain mahogany with little painted Aztec symbols for blessings of luck, happiness, good health and swift victory over ones enemies. Wound around and through it are strands of gold and black metal, twisted and spiraled to form simple feathers and delicate tendrils. Set in the wood and weaving are a pair of opals that shift between violet and gold, two dark, river smoothed pebbles that shine with flecks of neon in the right light and a single turquoise stone, a simple, stylized raven cut into it. “We made it.” Domino smiles softly, the bitties looking proud. “All of us. It was supposed to be a ‘welcome to the family’ present, but…” He shrugs. “We figured this was as good a time as any to give it to you.”

with-bells-upon09/27/2020 "..." A soft, soft smile, tears springing to the lich's eyes. "Th- thank you." They whisper. What more personal, sincere gift in the world could their new family give them, than a circlet like the ones they themselves wore? What better way of saying... you're one of us too now? "...thank you... so much."

salty darkness09/27/2020 Greylu smiles, looking down at the beautiful thing. "..." He looks back up at the bitties, tendrils gently wiping Bells' tears away. "Thank you. Thank you all."

Askbittyerror09/27/2020 Fresh nuzzles them gently and Magnus looks to Blue, the whole family all at once overtaken by the sudden intense need to hug. “You mind if we move over to the kid for a moment, beloved?” Magnus asks.

with-bells-upon09/27/2020 "Go on," Blue whispers, nuzzling him softly.

Askbittyerror09/27/2020 The bitties fly, teleport and swing over to Bells, curling up around and partially on top of Fresh, sitting on Bells' shoulder and nuzzling against their chin, and all just collectively giving hugs and soft little purrs.

salty darkness09/27/2020 "..." While Bells is being hugged, Greylu picks up the letters. He opens one of them with just a little difficulty, tilting his head.

with-bells-upon09/27/2020 Bells does their level best to cuddle and nuzzle every available bitty, while Blue watches quietly, more than willing to give their kid this moment. They still had moments like this too... Their family? Was everything to them.

Askbittyerror09/27/2020 The envelope contains a purple and black coupon, a note scribbled at the bottom in pink pen. The coupon is for a free bitty (or bitties within reason) adoption, all fees waived and all bitty items, clothing, toys, furniture, medicine, etc., considered paid for. Applicable at all Fell and Friends Bitty Rescue locations and affiliates. The note reads; We didn’t know what to get you, but we hope this suffices should you find someone you wish to bring home. Congratulations on your union! Signed, Dame and Moose

salty darkness09/27/2020 Greylu is quiet, reading the note. Then he reads it again. And again. And once more with feeling. Then he looks to Bells, clutching the coupon tight in his hand. "Beloved- Odium-"

with-bells-upon09/27/2020 "..." they look over his shoulder- their breath catches softly. "...oh." a whisper, faint, followed by a slow smile. "Do you think, we could find someone willing to be our baby's partner?" There's definitely hope in their voice, if hesitant. "I mean, the babs are evenly numbered right now, but there's no way to tell when the next seed might-" They pause at this point, realizing this probably sounds strange to their bitty family. "...what about your baby?" Blue presses, sounding concerned.

Askbittyerror09/27/2020 "Are they okay?" Magnus asks, the entire bitty fam, Fresh included, making worried noises.

salty darkness09/27/2020 "..." Greylu sighs, taking a deep breath in and out. "It's... complicated. The way guardians work in our Multiverse is that they have to have a partner that they're bonded with- Mea is Raine's partner, for example. Almost all of our children are bonded with eachother, except Odium." "...if they don't have a partner, they... have health complications. And generally don't fare too well overall. As I said, it's complicated."

#wedding rp #part 3

[purewhitepages]

Desert Heat Chapter 5

Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 |

A/N Hello friends am back i swear. I lost a lot of momentum on this fic due to personal reasons / school / life, but I think I’m back for good this time. I promise. 

Digging had halted at the House while further notes and sketches were taken of the lower level. John had come up with another handful of papyrus he’d found buried in the corner. These were much more fragile than the ones he’d inherited, and Claire immediately set to work preserving them in the resin of Lamb’s own recipe. She remembered spending many painstaking hours of her childhood making this same thick, sticky brown substance. The bottle she was currently working out of had the stylized “QLB” in the corner of the label, signified it was made by Lamb himself. Perhaps it was one of the last ones to be so. Her eye kept catching the letters in the bottom corner and she smiled a bit every time she saw it. He was still helping in his own ways.

She was sitting hunched over the table that functioned as John’s desk when a book being placed next to her elbow made her jump nearly clear out of her skin.

“Och, sorry lass.” A strong hand had found her back and she looked up to see the voice belonged to Mr. Fraser. Was it night time already?

“What have you got there?”

Claire blinked and shook her head slightly. “Papyrus, John found it under the House.”

“Preserving it are ye?”

She nodded.

He chuckled. “I can sympathize, manys an hour I lost to painting over bits of paper and paint.” He examined what she was doing even closer. His arm was still in the sling she had applied and she took a sort of pride knowing that he had listened to her advice to rest. “How is it that ye’re applying the resin?”

She held up her pinky finger to show how red and dirty it was. “After nearly destroying one with a brush, I found a more delicate touch did the trick.”

He looked impressed at least. “How many have you done?”

“Five, this is my last one.” She took a moment to stand. “It’s all the standard cartouches, at least according to my eye. I could never do much without Lamb’s notes to guide me.”

He smiled secretly at her. “Funny you should mention that.” He tapped the book he’d set down on the desk and Claire looked at it.

It was strange, the things you remembered. A stack of books delivered to the house when she was a child; people approaching at the museum with a sparkling look in their eye, a tome tucked under one elbow; the plain black spine with gold lettering sitting in a pile in her own tent. Mr. Fraser traced the letters on his copy of Path to the Ancient Ways by Dr. Quentin Lambert Beauchamp with familiarity and reverence.

“It’s a pity you couldn’t have met the author,” she said. “He was always happy to meet his audience.”

“Ah weel, ‘tis probably best this way. I dinna think I could bear to see my idol as a mortal man, ye ken?”

“Idol?”

Mr. Fraser met her eyes and nodded. “Aye.” He tapped the cover of the book. “When I was a lad, I was hungry for knowledge.” He gestured broadly. “No doubt ye ken the feeling. I was determined to read every book in my parents’ library.” Claire settled into the chair. She’d always loved a good story. “Now, that’s well over a thousand books, Sassenach. My family has been building that library since before they built the house.”

“I see your family has their priorities in order, then.”

He glanced up at her and nodded with a proud grin. “Aye, always loved a good book, my father. Anyway, I read and I read. Books about animals and philosophy, the latter of which I dinna understand a lick of, and then I came upon this book.” He tapped the cover once again. “And I stopped looking at anything else.” He opened up the cover and thumbed through a couple of pages absentmindedly, lost in memory. “Ye could barely catch me without it in my hands or my bag, damn near ruined my copy.”

“It looks alright to me,” Claire said, inspecting the book. Other than a few wears and tears, the book looked to be in good condition.

Mr. Fraser smiled. “This is my second copy. Damn nuisance trying to find it, too. I scoured every bookshop, old and used, looking for this book.”

Claire snorted. “You should’ve contacted us, we have probably a hundred copies.”

He nodded. “I never understood why it didna sell so well. Ye’re uncle was a genius.” Claire nodded and smiled. “Yes, he was. They just didn’t understand him.” Her smile turned sad as she looked back up at her companion. “And I saw what it did to him, how it stifled and disheartened him. I knew what he was.”

Mr. Fraser nodded. “As do I, Sassenach.”

They were soon interrupted by John coming back into the tent.

“How goes the preservation?” he asked.

Claire showed him the papyrus and explained her progress and theories. John nodded and smiled when he saw Mr. Fraser’s book.

“Thanks for the sentiment, Fraser, but you should’ve known we’d have a copy of our sacred text or two.” John pulled out his own copy of Path to the Ancient Ways. “Wouldn’t be good followers, if we didn’t.”

They shared a laugh.

“I do appreciate the help, though. And you have mine should you ever require it.”

Mr. Fraser nodded. “That is related to what I have to tell you all today.”

Claire remembered his outburst the day before, having nearly forgotten about it.

John nodded. “Yes, you’ve had your 24-hours, and then some by my watch. What do you have to say?”

Mr. Fraser looked as if he was choosing his words very carefully. “I would like to, first, apologize for my behavior from the day before. Ye have to understand, this Season has been very strange. We had been all set to dig at Dashoor, I had prepared everything for excavating the pyramid there, including bringing on Miss MacKimmie. And we get to Shepheard’s and Dougal tells me that we are going to Behribu? I was in shock. I was completely unprepared for this excursion, and I’ve found myself quite idle ever since we started digging.”

“So you have no idea what MacKenzie is hoping to look for?” John asked.

Mr. Fraser shook his head. “If there is a plan, he hasna shared it with me. That, in itself would not be such a change, I’ve gone behind his back to Column a time or two to get things I needed and he is none too pleased by this. But this is different. He’s planning something.”

Claire and John looked at each other and back to Mr. Fraser. “What does that have to do with the writing we saw yesterday?”

Mr. Fraser ran his good hand through his hair, the russet curls standing on end in his frustration. “Ye’ll think me daft.”

“We already do,” John pointed out. “Out with it, already.”

“Before we left, Dougal had made the... acquaintance of a woman very interested in Ancient Egypt religious practices. Not in an academic sense, mind you. She believed she was a Pharaoh’s wife reincarnated.”

“Which one?” Claire asked with a laugh and John scowled.

Mr. Fraser shook his head. “I didna ever listen to her long enough to find out. But I did catch enough to hear her hypothesis about-” He stopped himself, as if once he spoke the words, they would legitimize whatever daft theory this woman had in mind. “ Time travel. ”

He glanced up at the two other adults, who were staring back at him intently.

“Does Dougal believe her, you think?” John asked. “That’s why he took the site, that’s why the writing we found in the House scares you?”

Mr. Fraser rubbed the back of his neck. “I dinna ken what to believe, if I’m being honest. I just feel, somewhere deep inside me, that this canna be a coincidence.” Mr. Fraser had always looked so put-together, Claire had noted. But now, he really seemed to be questioning his very sanity. And though the notion seemed quite extraordinary, he said it so incredulously that she couldn’t help but believe him. Or, at least, believe that he believed it.

“But it could be,” Claire stated. Both the men looked at her with startled expressions. “I do not doubt your story, Mr. Fraser. But, well, you yourself think this woman Dougal knows has crazy ideas. Maybe the writing is graffiti like John said. It could be a coincidence.” Claire crossed her arms over her chest. “Afterall, are we really debating the existence of time travel?”

“I think what we should do is assume everything is alright until we have something better to go on,” John suggested. “Fraser, what did your team find recently?”

Mr. Fraser looked up to John. “How did ye ken we found something?”

“We guessed,” John said, looking over in the corner where Fergus and Miss MacKimmie were engaged in their own deep conversation.

He nodded. “Another stone, in the very middle.”

“Quite the find.” Claire nodded with John. Claire had predicted as much in her own research. In many circles around the world, there was a middle stone.That should’ve been my discovery, she thought with a snarl.

“As Claire says, it could be nothing. We’ll gather any info we can and regroup. Fraser, I’m game to start on these papyrus tonight if you are.” John moved to the desk, moving one of the chairs from the table so that he and Mr. Fraser may sit side-by-side.

“I think I’ll take that as my cue,” Claire said. “Good luck to you both.”

“I’ll see ye to the door, at least.” Mr. Fraser did and they paused in the entrance to the tent.

“What’s troubling ye, Sassenach?” he asked, no doubt from the look in Claire’s eye. She had always had a hard time keeping her thoughts to herself. The moonlight stretched across the desert and illuminated Mr. Fraser’s face. He looked thoughtful and slightly worried for her, stranger as she may be to him.

“Things are not turning out like I had anticipated this season. First Lamb and now-”

He nodded and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Ye’ll get through this, I ken it. Ye needn’t be worried or scairt, so long as I’m with ye.”

“And what about after?” she asked. “I don’t even know what is after this.”

“One step at a time, Sassenach.”

"You keep using that name, what does it mean?”

Even in the moonlight, she could see him blush, as if he hadn’t even realized he was doing it. “Och, just a wee nickname is all. It just means ‘English’ in the Gaelic, ye ken? Seeing as we’re pretty much divided according to Hadrian’s Wall here in the middle of nowhere.”

She chuckled and moved to go to her tent. “Goodnight Mr. Fraser.”

“Goodnight, Miss Beauchamp.”

#claire/jamie #jamie x claire #outlander #outlander au #outlander fic #outlander fanfic #outlander fanfiction #Jamie Fraser #jammf #james alexander malcolm mackenzie fraser #claire randall #claire beauchamp #Claire Fraser #jamie x claire fanfic #claire x jamie #jamie x claire fanfiction #jamie x claire fic

[blackirisposts]

Early Breakfast

Summary:  The team comes back from a bad mission, but it's going to be ok because Darcy has a plan.

Chapter 2 of 3  of Showing Support Through Paraphernalia

Word Count: 1642

Notes: Unbeta’d, fluff, angst, comfort, feels. Set several months after part 1′s Team Building Exercise of Sorts, Darcy shows her momma bear qualities. After Bucky’s first real mission with the group; you’ve been warned. 

Originally posted HERE

Today they got in at 5AM. Either early or late. Flip a coin, you decide.

She always had Jarvis tell her when they were an hour and a half away from being home, regardless of how long their missions were. So today, Darcy was up at 3:30AM.

It wasn’t bright, but it was early. And Darcy always had a plan, even at this ungodly hour.

She always made a group meal for them after their missions, regardless of the group, duration of mission, or even if they refused to eat it together. She had developed a sixth sense about the missions and how they would be when returning. Granted Jarvis helped with that most of the times, but she was getting better at it regardless.

She had originally planned on a large brunch; full of hot sandwiches, omelets, waffles, pancakes and fruit salad. Coffee and tea was always a staple regardless of the time of day. She had prepared specialty mugs for each of them. That part of her plan would not change.

Jarvis informed her that this mission went particularly dark, so pure comfort food was in order, plain and simple. She pulled several stacks of bacon, three 18 count cartons of eggs, a few gallons of milk, various fruits and veggies, and a healthy amount of butter from the fridge to start. Now all she needed was flour, sugar, baking soda, baking powder and elbow grease. Bread, she decided, was the key to getting everyone to a somewhat calm enough state so that they could crawl off to their respective rooms and sleep. Irish soda bread, one of her specialties, and most likely some whiskey; if butter and whiskey couldn’t fix it – nothing could. And well, adding bacon as a side to everything could never hurt.

Time flew by and before she knew it she had ten large, steaming, round loafs resting on wire racks, a large plate of bacon and various other comfort foods prepared by the time they stumbled in a little after 5 o’clock. She had hoped, and she was right, that the smell of the bacon and coffee would draw them in, even in their worn states.

Stark was the first so wander in. “Donuts, bacon and whiskey. Really, Lewis?” He grinned, but it didn’t fully reach his eyes. “My favorite. I’m impressed.”

“I’m glad you approve.” Darcy said. She tried not to notice the small burn marks and dirt that littered his face. “Is anyone else coming down?”

“Hmm. Barton and Natasha will be shortly. Thought Thor would already be here.. Roger and Barnes, I don’t know. Bruce will probably be the slowest getting here.” He said between bites of bacon.

“Okay. Did you want any coffee or bread?”

“Yes. Bread.” He said around a mouth of donut. “And coffee. Please.”

It had to be bad if Stark was this quiet and polite. She moved efficiently in a speed that would not alarm nor disturb him. She brought the bread to him first. The coffee she gave to him in a very Tony specific mug. It was clean white ceramic with “Don’t turn down my music” written neatly and boldly across it with a stylized arch reactor on the side. The bottom said “You know who I am.”

Natasha and Clint limped in next, followed closely by Thor. They sat down without a word, Natasha and Clint to one side of Stark and Thor on the other. Seeing the looks on their faces told her exactly what she needed to know; not to say anything and just to be there. She brought them all a loaf of bread, Thor got two to start. For Clint, she made a greasy hash of sausage, potatoes and various veggies paired with a large cheese omelet. In front of Natasha, Darcy placed a plate of Nutella filled crepes and a side of hashed browns. They both nodded their thanks. And for Thor, Thor was always fun for her to cook for. She made him a small roast that would normally feed three to five people, but it was Thor she was cooking for. Bringing over the mugs and placing the whiskey in the middle of the table, Darcy made eye contact with Thor momentarily. He tried to smile at her. In return she softly wrapped her arms around his shoulders as best she could for a quick hug. The big guy was like the older brother she never had and seeing him like this was the hardest.

Natasha eyed her mug, and then eyed Darcy before the darkness lifted from her face little by little. Darcy worked the hard on Natasha’s mug. It had the lyrics to her favorite song on it. In Russian. So yes, Darcy was a little proud that Natasha was pleased with her hard work. On the bottom of the mug was a small black spider encircled by the words, “I don’t see how that’s a party.”

Clint’s mug was simple. An arrow was curved down the handle of the mug and a large, dark purple “H” was scribed graciously across it. On the bottom, it said “Budapest.” A low chuckle came from him, as he was the only one who checked the bottom after seeing the bottom of Stark’s mug as he took a large gulp of coffee.

Thor’s mug was simple and elegant. It had a stylized drawing of Mew-Mew on it with Nordic swirls along the bottom. On the very bottom it said, “Welcome to the Thunder Dome.”

She smiled lightly to herself as the tension in the room was slowly disappearing as they ate in silence. She started another pot of coffee and put the kettle on to make tea for herself and Banner.

Steve and Bucky slowly sauntered in as the new coffee smell drifted through the room and mixed wonderfully with the smell from the bacon on the stove. Steve looked exhausted and Bucky looked lost. Darcy felt her heart grow heavy as she set their respective mugs in front of them. She thought it was hard seeing Thor like this, but oh, was she wrong; these two took the cake for ‘best hurt puppy face.’

Darcy brought over fresh loafs for both Brooklyn boys with extra bacon on the side and a glass of OJ for Bucky. She knew it was his favorite. Steve barely smiled as she set his mug, which was adorned with the skyline of Brooklyn, and a loaf of Irish soda bread in front of him. When she brought over a large bowl of oatmeal dusted with cinnamon and plate of sausage links, he genuinely smiled at her. He looked like a little kid at Christmas the way his face lit up. Bucky just shook his head until he caught sight of the design that covered the mug in his hand. It had an elegant silver snow flake that was over laid on a red star that was over laid on an US flag. Along the bottom edge of the mug it read “Welcome Home James.” The underneath of the mug had Steve’s shield on it; just like Steve’s mug. His pulse quickened and his eyes widened. Bucky turned his attention then to Darcy as she quietly shuffled around the table making sure all her heroes were taken care of. That was when he really took her in. She was clad in loose sweat pants that had various heroes on it, a green tank, and a black wrap. Her hair up in a messy bun, a few curls spilling out the top and sides. She wore no makeup but looked beautiful regardless of how tired she was. She was completely selfless in her actions that morning; caring to everyone’s wordless needs and wants as they grunted their thanks. He looked at her again, eyes still wide, face full of confusion. She softly smiled back at him before walking quickly past him into the kitchen. His confusion grew as the distance between them grew. No one else seemed to notice her actions or really anything at all; they were all so calm, like children at home with their mother.

Darcy went to the stove and took a casserole dish out of the oven with the towel that was former draped over her shoulder. She brought the dish up to her face and sniffed happily. Realizing that Bucky was still watching her, she looked over and winked at him before walking directly to him and placing the dish in front of him.

“Careful, it’s hot.” She said in a low voice as she lightly brushed her hand over his left arm before returning to the kitchen for coffee for the others.

He couldn’t move. He just stared at the quiche in front of him. She made it just for him. How could she have known that this was what he wanted? That this was one of his comfort foods? Even Steve didn’t know that; it was something that developed when he was still the Winter Soldier on a mission in France.

Bruce walking into the room brought him back to the present. Bruce was clad in sweats and wrapped in a fuzzy purple blanket..that smelt of..lavender?

“Hiya Doc. Do you like it?” Darcy asked in a whisper as to not disturb the others while handing him a cup of tea. The mug was covered in molecules and underneath it had a small purple flower.

“Yes. It’s perfect. Thank you so much. I don’t know how you knew.” Bruce then made the same face that Steve made.

Bucky nudged Steve’s arm. “She do this every time?”

“Hmm?” Steve looked up from his plate, mouth full of food.

“Darce.. Uh, Darcy. She always take care of you guys after.. after a bad mission?”

“No.” Steve’s smile returned. “She does it every time we come home.”

#bucky #bucky barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes x darcy lewis #darcy #darcy lewis #tony #tony stark #clint #clint barton #bruce #bruce banner #steve #steve rogers #jarvis #thor #thor odinson #thor of asgard #natasha #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #fluff #fluff and angst #angst #comfort #comfort food #pre relationship #pre bucky x darcy relationship #paraphernalia #blackirisposts

[motherlyra]

Chapter 48: Plan Day

I’ve been planning these next few chapters for-fucking-ever and because of one line of dialogue I had to completely change what I originally planned. Fml.

Back from Hawaii, not sure if I told you guys I was going there- but yeah now I’m back haha. Got lots of inspiration for future Sans Nights if you guys were interested, but for now, enjoy the Sans Day!

Warnings: idk was a short chapter but then I accidentally added three pages, lots of build up to next chapter, hiccups are the worst, vomiting is pretty bad too, alcohol aesthetic

[Sans Days/Nights]

[Buy me a coffee] [Patreon]

.

You stood staring at the destruction of your apartment, thoughts drawing a blank on what exactly you should be feeling at the moment.

“Alphys?”

“Y-yes?” Alphys stepped beside you, looking between you and your home quickly.

“You guys took Samus to your place right?” You asked, finding yourself only able to place concern for your snake.

“Yes. S-she is in our living room.” She confirmed. You nodded, sighed, and stepped over the busted door into your apartment.

You looked at your burnt couch, shattered tv, broken table… And knelt onto the floor. There was a faint smell of chemicals hanging in the air, probably what was used to burn your couch- you were surprised the entire building wasn’t gone if they set fire to something…

“You okay?” Sans asked from behind you. You gave a very long sigh and placed your head in your hands, suddenly very, very tired.

“Yep,” You flatly said. “I have no idea what my insurance will cover.” You muttered as an afterthought. You didn’t even want to see what they did to the other rooms.

“I’ll call the police, just... take a moment.” Sans gave you a pat on the back, before walking down the hall and pulling out his phone.

You rubbed at your growing headache, and looked back to see the other monsters clustered around the busted door, looking around but not stepping in. You sighed, stood up, and pushed some shattered glass with your shoe. You were half heartedly trying to clear a section of floor for you to sit down before you accepted that it probably wasn’t a good idea at the moment- unless you wanted some glass in your ass. You shook your head and continued kicking a small path clear in the living room, not really leading anywhere but your mind was too blank to focus on anything at the moment.

You brushed away part of your table, and noticed a small black card on the ground. It seemed clean despite being under the mess, and you realized it was a laminated business card. You felt your eyebrows lower, and you picked it up.

On the back you could see a silver map of part of the city, downtown, you realized, with an address on the bottom. You turned it over to see its front, seeing a stylized [M-M] fake burnt on it like a brand, and “Man-Made” next to it. No phone number, no clarification.

“You find something, human?” Undyne asked, finally stepping into the room.

“What’s ‘Man-Made’?” You asked, turning and showing her the card. Papyrus spoke up despite not being in the room.

“I believe it is when you humans make something, you put a little label on-”

“No Paps,” You cut him off. “I-... I appreciate it, but I mean like, is there a place called Man-Made or…?” Undyne looked at the card, frown growing slightly.

“Don’t know of any place called that, but we can look it up when we get back to our place.” She shook her head. “I have a feeling they aren’t very monster friendly though, if they are recent.”

“May I?” Gaster startled you and Undyne, suddenly appearing beside you. Undyne looked back to the entryway and back at Gaster as if trying to figure out how he moved so quickly. You were already used to his teleporting, for the most part, and recovered quickly.

“Sure.” You held out the card to him between two fingers, and he quickly examined the card closely. He turned it around, eyes slightly narrowing at the map.

“This is a high quality card, it would not belong to a simple business.” He reasoned, explaining out loud probably for your benefit. “However the silver on black is of atrocious taste. It is simply bad color scheme choice. Unless, of course, you were in a place with artificial lighting, then it would be understandable.” He offered the card back to you. “Someplace expensive, someplace without natural light.”

You thought about it, mind tripping on what it could be. Then you realized you two were honestly critiquing a business card while standing in your ruined home. Maybe you should focus more on the… situation at hand. “Thanks.” You sighed and tucked the card in your pocket.

You heard a door close, and Sans walked from the hallway a moment later.

“So...?” You asked, watching as he scratched the back of his head and looked away from you.

“The police are busy, but they’ll send someone over here once they have the time...”

“Really.” You deadpanned. “They can’t- My home is-! They- they honestly can’t send anyone?” Anger started boiling your blood, not at Sans, but your voice rose a little. You sharply inhaled and placed your face in your hands again, trying to put a cap on your anger.

“I know- I know. I’m sorry, I tried getting through to them but it seems like there is a lot going on around town.” Sans sighed, and motioned to the others. “Lets… Lets just get to Alphys and Undyne’s place and figure out what to do.” You nodded, so very, very tired of everything.

.

Your headache wasn’t going away.

The walk to Alphys and Undyne’s place was annoyingly long, and seemed to drag out more than you would care. Sans seemed to notice how quiet you were, and offered his hand to you while you walked. You accepted it, and his thumb rubbed small circles on your hand to try and comfort you. You appreciated the effort, but what you really needed was a nap.

You’ve never been to Alphys and Undyne’s before, you realized as you stepped into their apartment. It looked almost the same size as yours, but with a different layout and smaller kitchen. There was various anime posters around, along with shelves of figures as well as a couple swords. It looked more lived-in than your pre-destroyed apartment, before the monsters moved in at least. You couldn’t help but to notice Gaster silently staring at the the mess piled in the corners and the trash that was kicked under the futon. You weren’t going to say anything about it.

“M-make yourself at home. I’ll gra-grab the laptop for you.” Alphys said, quickly shuffling past the living room and leaving the rest of you at the entry. Undyne and Papyrus made their way to the kitchen, and you, Sans, and Gaster sat on the futon against the wall. It was an older model, you realized, feeling one of the support beams uncomfortably under the thin cushion. You shifted your weight and let your head rest back, though you apparently were slightly too tall to let it completely rest against the back of the seat.

Sans pat your thigh to get your attention as Alphys walked back in with her laptop, and held it out for you. You grabbed it and opened it, noticing that it seemed like it was self repared in a few places, and a few keys didn’t quite match the rest of the keyboard. Did she get this out of a dump?

“W-well, yes.” Alphys answered, shocking you. “I got attached to it in the underground and have lots of… Human history, saved already on it.”

“Oh shit, I didn’t mean to say that out loud. Sorry.” You put a hand to your mouth, eyes wide. You must be more tired than you thought.

“It’s… Okay. I mean, you aren’t w-wrong.” Alphys’s hands knotted into themselves before she walked over to Undyne and Papyrus. Sans chuckled quietly beside you.

You rubbed your eyes trying to brush the sleep away, along with the still growing headache. It didn’t work, but you tapped the laptop awake anyway. You pulled the card out of your pocket to look it up, getting Sans attention.

“Where’d you get that?” He asked.

“It was at my apartment. Thought it might be a clue.” You quietly typed in ‘Man-Made’ onto the search engine, seeing the definition pop up as the first few dozen results. You hummed, disgruntled, and clicked on the maps tab. It took a moment to load, the few seconds dragging out as the front of your head ached ever so slightly stronger.

“Are you doing something?” You snapped, looking at Gaster. You caught him completely off guard, and actually managed to make him startle ever so slightly.

“Am I… What? No.” His eye halos looked you over before his brow rose in confusion.

You bit the inside of your cheek and shook your head, looking back at the computer.

“May I ask, why?” He asked anyway.

“I am having like, the worst headache right now. Sorry, didn’t mean to accuse you.” You quickly said, voice not as harsh as the outburst. The maps finally loaded, and a red dot appeared in the downtown area.

“You associate me with pains in your head?” Gaster leaned forward, still looking at you.

“Kinda, yeah.” You shrugged. “Static, numbness, and headaches-etc.” Out of the corner of your eyes you saw Gaster’s shoulders drop ever so slightly before he sat back again. You turned the card around and held it up to the gps result, seeing that it was the same location as the silver map. It took a few tries to get the little circle thing in the middle of the keyboard to move the mouse to the dot and click, but when it finally did a little side window popped up with the location’s info.

“A bar?” Sans was looking at the result as well.

“Looks like it.” You clicked through the images, seeing that it indeed looked like a bar, or some sort of club. It didn’t open till around sundown, but there still was no number available to call. “What kind of place doesn’t have a phone?” You mumbled.

“Maybe we could just drop by, see what connections it has to your apartment.” Sans suggested, but you shook your head and clicked to another picture of the establishment. A large sign hung in the window, declaring ‘NO COVER CHARGE’ in proud bold text. Below it, and just as proud, was the words ‘NO MONSTERS’.

“You guys won’t be allowed in- unless you just teleport in there.” You thought aloud.

“We have discussed this previously.” Gaster said softly. “We cannot teleport to someplace we have not been- or at the very least seen in person. Our magic simply does not have enough information to relocate us. Besides, teleporting to someplace you are unfamiliar with is dangerous enough. You might lose a limb.” Oh yeah.

“Right…” You looked down at your hands.

“Though perhaps, I could assist with my current… condition.” Gaster added. Both you and Sans turned to look at him.

“What do you mean?” Sans asked, keeping his voice low. You glanced back at the kitchen, seeing Paps still busy making something with the others. The clanging of pots and lids and boiling water seemed to be just enough noise to hide your current conversation safely.  

“Human, you remember how we managed to separate the Weed from my brother?” Gaster raised a hand and leaned back, crossing a leg over the other.

“You guys do know my name is Flowey, right?” A quiet voice asked from the other side of the room, from your pile of bags. You completely forgot that Flowey was with you, he’d been keeping so quiet for so long.

“When you turned Sans into the giant bone dog?” You asked, ignoring what Flowey said.

“No, before that.” Gaster waved his holed hand slightly. “We had used your shadow as a secretive way of transport, remember? I could simply hide myself though you, and once we are in the clear I could teleport my brother in- if needed, of course.” He smiled, proud of his plan. You thought about it, shrugging. You looked to Sans, and he nodded.

“Seems like the best option we have.” Sans said.

“Then it’s a plan.” You closed the laptop.

A little bit of movement caught your attention, and you noticed a brown long creature in a glass tank on the other side of the room. “Samus!” You shouted louder than you intended, and ran over to her.

“Oh my precious baby!! How are you, sweet thing?” You asked her as you popped off the lid to her tank and grabbed her. Her tongue flicked out and she let herself be pulled up without any resistance. You ran your hand over her beautiful scales, feeling like she got a little bigger- as unlikely as it would be. You heard creaking from the futon, and you turned to see Gaster standing on it, looking at the snake.

“What in the world is that?” He demanded, and at the same time both you and Sans burst out into laughter. Brother like brother, it looked like.

.

After a small attempt of getting Gaster adjusted to Samus, (which strangely, she acted like he didn’t exist and only seemed to want Sans) Papyrus announced dinner was ready. You placed Samus back in her tank, and shortly after eating, the three of you said goodnight to the others. Paps, Undyne, and Alphys didn’t know about about the plan. Far as they knew, you three were going to share the small futon for tonight.

“Night human! See you in the morning!” Papyrus gave you a tight hug before going to a bedroom separate to the one Undyne and Alphys were sleeping in. You waved him night as he closed the door, and slowly exhaled.

“Okay. How are we getting there?” You asked, turning to the others. You found it hard to concentrate with your headache ringing in your head. “No offence, I don’t want to be walking around in the dark.”

Sans shook his head. “Mettaton usually takes a limo to the stage, so his car should be out front.” He walked over to the coat rack, seeing keys hanging off of one of the holders.

“Sounds good.” Even though the thought of using Mettaton’s car in this situation did make you a little uncomfortable. You walked around the room, taking a deep breath and thinking the plan over though your head again to calm your nerves.

“Okay so we get over there…” You mumbled while tapping a finger, visualizing the steps one by one. “Gaster hides in my shadow.” Tap. “Get in, find out what’s the deal.” Tap, tap. “Find a hidden place to let Gaster out of my shadow. Gaster teleports to Sans- HIC!”

The hiccup completely disrupted your thoughts, causing you to pause in your steps and gather yourself for a moment. You blinked, and looked at Gaster and Sans, who were standing close to the doorway and looking at you with concerned faces.

“Oh… Sorry, lost my train of thought.” You shook your head, and realized your headache vanished. Your mouth opened without your permission for another hiccup, so strong you almost had to take a step back. “Wow those came out of nowhere.” You commented, feeling rather confused on the hiccups. Another one came, quieter than the last ones, but still just as shocking.

Gaster and Sans looked at each other, seeming to say something through their eyes alone.

“Should we-” Gaster started, but Sans quickly turned to the door.

“Come on, let’s get going. We have a night club to shine some light on.” He opened the door for you and Gaster, and the three of you headed out in the night.

You guys found Mettaton’s car fast enough, and climbed in. Sans took the driver’s seat, you behind him and Gaster in the back on the right. You could tell Gaster was trying not to look so obviously bewildered by the car, now that he was able to look at one closely, and he mostly just mirrored whatever you did.

“I didn’t know you can drive.” You half asked, followed by another quiet hiccup. You buckled yourself, and noticed Gaster watched your movements carefully before he did the same with his own buckle. The strap of fabric seemed to confuse him, but he didn’t question it.

“I’m not the best.” Sans admitted, adjusting his seat forward and putting the gear into drive.

The drive through town was mostly quiet, you just leaned against the window and watched the lights pass by the car one after another in the darkness. Sans tended to hit the break a little too hard for stoplights and stop signs, but thankfully there wasn’t much traffic to worry about anyway. Your mind started to wander, letting the sounds of the drive lull your thoughts as your eyes drifted from person to person on the sidewalks.

A flash of purple caught your attention outside.

You blinked, tilting your head to better see what the purple was. It looked like a purple light, wait no… a thread, hanging across the road. Your eyebrows knitted together, confused at why there would be a glowing thread. Sans didn’t seem to notice it, driving right into it- or apparently through it.

The purple thread passed right through the glass, metal, Sans, and the chair like it was nothing but a ghost. You reflexively reached up in front of yourself, catching the purple thread-

“-recall you reading something by an Einstein describing exactly this?” Gaster wildly motioned to the left of you as if he was half way though an argument. Wait, weren’t you on the left side? You looked out the window to the right of you, remembering being on the other side of the car, and looked back at him confused. “Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results? Do tell me you have- … Human, what is wrong?” He asked, his voice shifting and echoing unnaturally. Your vision swam as the noise grew in volume around you.

“I…” You felt light headed as the world seemed to spin slightly.

“Vertebae?” Sans asked quietly, voice echoing despite the volume. You blinked and shook your head, trying to make sense of what was going on. You felt your heart racing, and your stomach tighten.

“What…” You opened your hand, and everything was back to normal. You were in the left seat, Gaster was calmly looking out of the window on the right side. No conversation was being made.

“Pull over.” You grabbed Sans’ shoulder from behind, putting your other hand to your mouth.

“What? Right now? We-” He asked, but your grip tightened and you leaned forward, trying to keep your breathing steady. You felt the car veer over and slow down, and you immediately unbuckled and stepped out of the almost-stopped car onto the median strip, and promptly vomited.

“What happened?” Gaster asked, appearing behind you quickly. You were breathing hard with your hands on your knees, but the wave of nausea seemed to have completely vanished. Sans was slower to get out of the car, parking it horribly on the median. Luckily this must have been perfect timing, since these streets were mostly clear of other cars at the moment.

“I touched… I touched a purple thread.” You said, swallowing and shaking your head.

“Here?” Sans asked, confusion heavy in his voice.

“It… was in the middle of the road, you drove right through it.” You took a moment, before slowly standing up. Gaster’s eyes trailed around, frowning slightly.

“Now, that cannot be a good sign.” He said. Sans nodded in agreement.

“Are you okay or…?” He stepped up to you, silently offering to revise the plan. You shook your head.

“I’m okay now… Just really, really confused.” You motioned to the car. “Come on, let’s keep moving before we attract any attention.” You quickly said and headed towards the car, though the brothers were less sure about your decision.

They got into the car and buckled up, but Sans took a moment to look back at you. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. The… whatever that was… must have just passed through me. It’s like it never happened.” You confirmed, and Sans thought a moment before pulling off of the median.

“Maybe to you… but your breath probably isn’t going to be the best. Hey bro.” Sans got the attention of Gaster. “Look around below the seats real quick, see if you can find any alcohol.” Gaster nodded and looked, but you stared at Sans with wide eyes.

“What?”

“The bouncer isn’t going to like the smell of vomit, but alcohol they’d be used to.” He reasoned, and you figured he was right. Gaster eventually found a bottle of Rumple Minze, and he passed it to you.

“... Why would a robot have alcohol?” You asked, taking the bottle and giving it a look.

“He likes the aesthetic.” Sans half laughed, looking at you through the mirror. He saw you hesitate. “Just enough to mask the smell. I know you aren’t that much of a lightweight.” He tried lighting the mood. You nodded, and took a swig from the bottle- and immediately used all of your willpower to not spit out the peppermint flavored liquor.

You struggled to swallow it, and immediately stuck out your tongue and made a face. If Metatton had an aesthetic he could at least make it a good tasting one. “It tastes like bad mouthwash.” You said with a heavy frown. Sans laughed a little, and even Gaster had a slight chuckle at your displeasure. You rubbed your tongue against your teeth, trying to lift the taste away.

After a little longer of driving, Sans started to slow down.

“Looks like this is the place.” Sans said, pulling over to a building you’ve never seen before. You could feel the bass of the music through the closed door, and see the flashing lights through the tall windows.

Two large guys standing in the entrance were wearing dark shirts with the [M-M] logo on it, yelling at a human and monster couple that looked like they were trying to get in. One of the men pointed to the ‘NO MONSTERS’ sign, and the couple finally left.

“... Yeah, looks like it.” You swallowed, still tasting the mint alcohol on your tongue.

“I’ll be across the road, if you guys need me. Just grab me when you can.” Sans pointed to the other side of the road, and Gaster examined the sidewalk a bit before nodding.

“You know where I will be.” Gaster gave a slight bow to you while sitting, and promptly melted away into the darkness of the car.

You took a moment, looking at the bar. You really didn’t want to go in there. You really didn’t.

But you needed to know.

You stepped out of the car, and towards the music.

#Sans Days #Sans x reader #undertale fanfiction #plan day #yaaayyyyy its done #let me know what you guys think!

[dream-love210]

In 1933, Prince Charles was eighteen and Disa, Duchess of Payn, five. The allusion is to Nice (see also line 240) where the Shades spent the first part of the year; but here again, as in regard to so many fascinating facets of my friend’s past life, I am not in the possession of particulars (who is to blame, dear S.S?) and not in the position to say whether or not, in the course of possible excursions along the coast, they ever reached Cap Turc and glimpsed from an oleander-lined lane, usually open to tourists, the Italianate villa built by Queen Disa’s grandfather in 1908, and called then Villa Paradiso, or in Zemblan Villa Paradisa, later to forego the first half of its name in honor of his favorite granddaughter. There she spent the first fifteen summers of her life; thither did she return in 1953, “for reasons of health” (as impressed on the nation) but really, a banished queen; and there she still dwells.

When the Zemblan Revolution broke out (May 1, 1958), she wrote the King a wild letter in governess English, urging him to come and stay with her until the situation cleared up. The letter was intercepted by the Onhava police…

Eventually he managed to inform her that he was confined to the palace. Valiant Disa hurriedly left the Riviera and made a romantic but fortunately ineffectual attempt to return to Zembla…She flew back to her perch in a mood of frustration and fury (mainly, I think, because the message had been conveyed to her by a cousin of hers, good old Curdy Buff, whom she loathed). Several weeks passed and she was soon in a state of worse agitation owing to rumors that her husband might be condemned to death. She left Cap Turc again. She had traveled to Brussels and chartered a plane to fly north, when another message, this time from Odon, came, saying that the King and he were out of Zembla, and that she should quietly regain Villa Disa and await her further news. In the autumn of the same year she was informed by Lavender that a man representing her husband would be coming to discuss with her certain business matters concerning property she and her husband jointly owned abroad. She was in the act of writing a letter...She looked up--and of course no dark spectacles and make-up could for a moment fool her.

Since her final departure from Zembla he had visited her twice, the last time two years before, and during that lapse of time her pale-skin, dark-hair beauty had acquired a new, mature and melancholy glow. In Zembla, where most females are freckled blondes, we have the saying: belwif ivurkumpf wid snew ebanumf, “A beautiful woman should be like a compass rose of ivory with four parts of ebony.” And this was the trim scheme nature had followed in Disa’s case. There was something else, something I was to realize only when I read Pale Fire, or rather reread it after bitter hot mist of disappointment had cleared before my eyes. I am thinking of lines 261-267 in which Shade describes his wife. At the moment of his painting that poetical portrait, the sitter was twice the age of Queen Disa. I do not wish to be vulgar in dealing with these delicate matters but the fact remains that sixty-year-old Shade is lending her a well-conserved coeval the ethereal and eternal aspect she retains, or should retain, in his kind noble heart. Now the curious thing about it is that Disa at thirty, when last seen in September 1958, bore a singular resemblance not, of course, to Mrs. Shade as she was when I met her, but to the idealized and stylized picture painted by the poet in those lines of Pale Fire… I trust the reader appreciates the strangeness of this, because if he does not, there is no sense in writing poems, or notes to poems, or anything at all.

She seemed also calmer than before; her self-control had improved. During the previous meetings, and throughout their marital life in Zembla, there had been, on her part, dreadful outbursts of temper. When in the first years of marriage he had wished to cope with those blazes and blasts, trying to make her take a rational view of her misfortune, he had found them very annoying; but gradually he learned to take advantage of them and welcomed them as giving him opportunity of getting rid of her presence for lengthening periods of time by not calling her back after a sequence of doors had slammed ever more distantly, or by leaving the palace himself for some rural hideout.

In the beginning of their calamitous marriage he had strenuously tried to possess her but to no avail. He informed her he had never made love before (which was perfectly true insofar as the implied object would only mean one thing to her), upon which he was forced to endure the ridicule of having her dutiful purity involuntarily enact the ways of a courtesan with a client too young or too old; he said something to that effect (mainly to relieve the ordeal), and she made an atrocious scene. He farced himself with aphrodisiacs, but the anterior characters of her unfortunate sex kept fatally putting him off. One night when he tried tiger tea, and hopes rose high, he made the mistake of begging her to comply with an expedient which she made the mistake of denouncing as unnatural and disgusting. Finally he told her than an old riding accident was incapacitating him but that a cruise with his pals and a lot of sea bathing would be sure to restore his strength.

She had recently lost both parents and had no real friend to turn to for explanation and advice when the inevitable rumors reached her; these she was too proud to discuss with her ladies in waiting but she read books, found out all about our manly Zemblan customs, and concealed her naive distress under a great show of sarcastic sophistication. He congratulated her on her attitude, solemnly swearing that he had given up, or at least would give up, the practices of his youth; but everywhere along the road powerful temptations stood at attention. He succombed to them from time to time, then every other day, then several times daily--especially during the robust regime of Harfar Baron of Shalksbore...Curdy Buff--as Harfar was nicknamed by his admirers--had a huge escort of acrobats and bareback riders, and the whole affair rather got out of hand so that Disa, upon unexpectedly returning from a trip to Sweden, found the Palace transformed into a circus. He again promised, again fell, and despite the utmost discretion was again caught…

What had the sentiments he entertained in regard to Disa ever amounted to? Friendly indifference and bleak respect. Not even in the first bloom of their marriage had he felt any tenderness or excitement. Of pity, of heartache, there could be no question. He was, had always been, casual and heartless. But the heart of this dreaming self, both before and after the rupture, made extraordinary amends.

He dreamed of her more often, and with incomparably more poignancy, than his surface-life feelings for her warranted; these dreams occurred when he least thought of her, and worries in no way connected with her assumed her image in the subliminal world as a battle or a reform becomes a bird of wonder in a tale for children. These heart-rendering dreams transformed the drab prose of his feelings for her into a strong and strange poetry, subsiding undulations of which would flash and disturb him throughout the day, bringing back the pang and the richness--and then only the pang, and then only its glancing reflection--but not affecting at all his attitude towards the real Disa.

Her image, as she entered and re-entered his sleep, rising apprehensively from a distant sofa or going in search of the messenger who, they said, had just passed through the draperies, took into account changes of fashion; the Disa wearing the dress he had seen on her the summer of the Glass Works explosion, or last Sunday, or in any other antechamber of time, forever remained exactly as she looked on the day he had first sold her he did not love her. That happened during a hopeless trip to Italy, in a lakeside hotel garden--rose, black araucarius, rusty, greenish hydrangeas--one cloudless evening with the mountains of the far shore swimming in a sunset haze and the lake all peach syrup regularly rippled with pale blue, and the captions of a newspaper spread flat on the foul bottom near the stone bank perfectly readable through the shallow diaphanous filth, and because, upon hearing him out, she sank down on the lawn in an impossible posture, examining a grass culm and frowning, he had taken his words back at once; but the shock had fatally starred the mirror, and thenceforth in his dreams her image was infected with the memory of that confession as with some disease or the secret aftereffects of a surgical operation too intimate to be mentioned.

The gist, rather than the actual plot of the dream, was a constant refutation of his not loving her. His dream-love for her exceeded in emotional tone, in spiritual passion and depth, anything he had experienced in his surface existence. This love was like an endless wringing of hands, like a blundering of the soul through an infinite maze of hopelessness and remorse. They were, in a sense, amorous dreams, for they were permeated with tenderness, with a longing to sink his head onto her lap and sob away the monstrous past. They brimmed with the awful awareness of her being so young and so helpless. They were purer than his life. What carnal aura there was in theme came not from her but from those with whom he betrayed her--prickly-chinned Phrynia, pretty Timandra with that boom under her apron--and even so the sexual scum remained somewhere far above the sunken treasure and was quite unimportant. He would see her being accosted by a misty relative so distant as to be practically featureless. She would quickly hide what she held and extend her arched hand to be kissed. He knew she had just come across a telltale object--a riding boot in his bed--establishing beyond any doubt his unfaithfulness. Sweat beaded her pale, naked forehead--but she had to listen to the prattle of a chance visitor or direct the movements of a workman with a ladder who was nodding his head and looking up as he carried it in his arms to the broken window. One might bear--a strong merciless dreamer might bear--the knowledge of her grief and pride but none could bear the sight of her automatic smile as she turned from the agony of the disclosure to the polite trivialities required of her. She would be canceling an illumination, or discussing hospital cots with the head nurse, or merely ordering breakfast for two in the sea cave--and through the everyday plainness of the talk, through the play of the charming gestures with which she always accompanied certain readymade phrases, he, the groaning dreamer, perceived the disarray of her soul and was aware that an odious, undeserved, humiliating disaster had befallen her, and that only obligations of etiquette and her staunch kindness to a guiltless third party gave her the force to smile. As one watched the light on her face, one foresaw it would fade in a moment, to be replaced--as soon as the visitor left--by that impossible little frown the dreamer could never forget. He would help her again to her feet on the same lakeside lawn, with parts of the lake fitting themselves into the spaces between the rising balusters, and presently he and she would be walking side by side along an anonymous alley, and he would feel she was looking at him out of the corner of a faint smile but when he forced himself to confront that questioning glimmer, she was no longer there. Everything had changed, everybody was happy. And he absolutely had to find her at once to tell her that he adored her, but the large audience before him separated him from the door, and the notes reaching him through a succession of hands said that she was not available; that she was inaugurating a fire; that she had married an American businessman; that she had become a character in a novel; that she was dead.

No such qualms disturbed him as he sat now on the terrace of her villa and recounted his lucky escape from the Palace. She enjoyed his description of the underground link with the theater and tried to visualize the jolly scramble across the mountains… But when he began to discuss the political situation (two Soviet generals had just been attached to the Extremist government as Foreign Advisers), a familiar vacant expression appeared in her eyes. Now that he was safely out of the country, the entire blue bulk of Zembla, from Embla Point to the Emblem Bay, could sink in the sea for all she cared.) That he had lost weight was of more concern to her than that he had lost a kingdom. Perfunctorily she inquired about the crown jewels; he revealed to her their unusual hiding place, and she melted in girlish mirth as she had not done for years and years. “I do have some business matters to discuss,” he said. “And there are papers you have to sign.” Up in the trellis a telephone climbed with the rose. One of her former ladies in waiting, the languid and elegant Fleur de Fyler (now fortyish and faded), still wearing pearls in her raven hair and the traditional white manilla, brought certain documents from Disa’s boudoir. Upon hearing the King’s mellow voice behind the laurels, Fleur recognized it before she could be misled by this excellent disguise. Two footmen, handsome young strangers of a marked Latin type, appeared with the tea and caught Fleur in mid-curtsey. A sudden breeze groped among the glycenes. Defiler of flowers. He asked Fleur as she turned to go with the Disa orchids if she still played the viola. She shook her head several times not wishing to speak without addressing him and not daring to do so while the servants might be within earshot.

They were alone again. Disa quickly found the papers he needed. Having finished with that, they talked for a while about nice trivial things, such as the motion picture, based on a Zemblan legend, that Odon hoped to make in Paris or Rome. How would he represent, they wondered, the narstran, a hellish hall where the souls of murderers were tortured under a constant drizzle of drake venom coming down from the foggy vault? By and large the interview was proceeding in a most satisfactory manner-though her fingers trembled a little when her hand touched the elbow rest of his chair. Careful now.

“What are you plans?” she inquired. “Why can’t you stay here as long as you want? Please do. I’ll be going to Rome soon, you’ll have the whole house to yourself. Imagine, you can bed here as many as forty guests, forty Arabian thieves.” (Influence of the huge terracotta vases in the garden.)

He answered he would be going to America some time next month and had business in Paris tomorrow.

Why America? What would he do there?

Teach. Examine literary masterpieces with brilliant and charming young people. A hobby he could now freely indulge.

“And, of course, I don’t know,” she mumbled looking away, “I don’t know perhaps if you’d have nothing against it, I might visit New York--I mean, just for a week or two, and not this year but the next.”

He complimented her on her silver-spangled jacket. She persevered: “Well?” “And your hairdo is most becoming.” “Oh what does it matter,” she wailed, “what on earth does it matter!” “I must be on my way,” he whispered with a smile and got up. “Kiss me,” she said, and was like a limp, shivering ragdoll in this arms for a moment.

He walked to the gate. At the turn of the path he glanced back and saw in the distance her white figure with the listless grace of ineffable grief bending over the garden table, and suddenly a fragile bridge was suspended between waking indifference and dream-love. But she moved, and he saw it was not she at all but only poor Fleur de Flyer collecting the documents left among the tea things. (See note 80).

When in the course of an evening stroll in May or June, 1959, I offered Shade all this marvelous material, he looked at me quizzically and said: “That’s all very well, Charles. But there are just two questions. How can you know that all this intimate stuff about your rather appalling king is true? And if true, how can one hope to print such personal things about who, presumably, are still alive?”

“My dear John,” I replied gently and urgently, “do not worry about trifles. Once transmuted by you into poetry, the stuff will be true, and the people will come alive. A poet’s purified truth can cause no pain, no offense. True art is above false honor.”

“Sure, sure,” said Shade. “One can harness words like performing fleas and make them drive other fleas. Oh, sure.”

“And moreover,” I continued as we walked down the road into a vast sunset, “as soon as your poem is ready, as soon as the glory of Zembla merges with the glory of your verse, I intend to divulge to you an ultimate truth, an extraordinary secret, that will put your mind completely at rest.”