#Boil did give her a ration stick though which I found sweet

[sunnythesecond]

One of my favourite bits of the Clone Wars is in the Innocents Of Ryloth arc. I'm talking about the bit where Numa hugs Waxer an Boil and how differently they react to the hug. Waxers reaction is mostly, slight surprise with a facial expression of "you poor child" and then he pretty quickly hugs her back and softly strokes her lek (head tail) to try to comfort her. Meanwhile Boils reaction is just to tense up with a look of "wtf is going on" on his face and then gives her an awkward pat on the back.

Then they cut to Cody and Obi Wan confused about where they are because they should've checked in by then. Then they cut back to Waxer, Boil and Numa and Boild still isn't really hugging her back. Like... he really had no idea what to do and I just find that so very funny for some reason.

#I just find it so funny that Waxer is such an older brother to her and Boil straight up suggests that they handcuff her lmao #Like #Boil jabs his finger at her face and then is surprised that she BITES him #So Waxer is like “Dude you're an idiot. Stop scaring her. She probably thinks we're droids” so he uses the braincell they share which seems #to be his for the most part of at least this arc to think and take his helmet off so he can show her that they aren't threats #Boil did give her a ration stick though which I found sweet #Clone Wars #Boil #Waxer #Numa #I feel that they are the disaster twins of the 212th

[gideongrace]

5 & 23 from the ace prompts 🤩

5. "I have been waiting for you my entire life." 

+

23. "You are not allowed to die first, got it?" 

Okay, this one had me stuck for like, a week. I just couldn't come up with anything for it that wasn't super cheesy and tropey and cliche. But then I just decided to be cheesy and tropey and cliche instead anyway. 

(And to everyone else that sent prompts, sorry! I did get them, I am getting to them! I just also sorta got carried away by plotting out that amnesia steve fic…)

//

Billy runs in through the front doors of the hospital at full speed, ready to roar and to scream and to tear the place apart but instead of any of that, he takes a deep breath, adjusts the strap of his duffle bag that he suddenly realizes he had no need to drag inside and looks around for the front desk. This isn't the hospital he's used to, so he has no idea where it is. 

And he can't find it.

He looks and he looks and he looks and still, he can't find it.

This isn't the hospital he's used to, he doesn't know anybody who works here and he's fresh off a really rough, really long shift. 

He hadn't even gotten to go home and shower, he'd only just stepped out the door into the bright, warm, mid-afternoon sun, taken a single, deep breath and only just decided his plan of action was he was gonna go home, shower, then maybe go surprise Steve with a pizza when he'd gotten the phone call.

And he hasn't taken a single deep breath since. He just ran straight for his car, drove all the way across town to this neighborhood he doesn't know and this hospital he doesn't know and he tries to think of everything, of anything El's ever told him about PTSD or panic attacks, stuff she's said help people calm down when they're experiencing things like that, because he's experiencing something like that right now, he's got enough sense left to know that much but none of what she's said is sticking, none of it is applicable and -

The rage he's gotten so good at tamping down boils over in his blood and swims in his skin and he feels like he's gonna scream but instead he pulls at his hair, but he only manages to grab at too-short, freshly shaved sides with not near enough left on top and he takes a breath, and he's going to scream, he's going to scream - 

But then there's a hand on his shoulder and a soft, sweet voice saying, "You need some help?" and everything in him crumbles as he turns to see a sweet-faced and tall (very, very tall) man in poorly-fitting light blue scrubs behind him. 

"Uh, yeah," Billy says, somehow managing to get the words to push out past his numb, numb lips, "do you, uh, do you know where the, uh, front desk is?"

The guy nods, shaggy brown hair falling into his big, brown eyes. (It doesn't make Billy think of anybody. It doesn't.)

"Sure," the guy says, his hand still clamped to Billy's shoulder. "I'll show you." 

He directs Billy towards a slightly labyrinthine-looking set of corridors that Billy had distinctly avoided and he does it still with his hand on Billy's shoulder, guiding him like a captain guides a ship, like he'd seen the look on Billy's face, the terror and the panic and he'd recognized it. It makes sense. El and Mike are always telling him people panicked about - about loved ones, those who really, truly care, they almost always have the same look, even if it's contained itself to just their eyes, it's always there, it's always present, that panic, that fear. And Billy guesses this guy, working in a hospital as he does, he's probably as familiar with that look as EMTs like El and Mike would be. 

"Just right here. Ellen'll help you find who you're looking for," the guy says as he deposits Billy in front of the front desk with its big, red 'reception' sign, the one Billy wishes he could've - knows he should've - found on his own. 

"Yeah, thanks," Billy says as the guy claps him on the back and wanders off, probably to help some other poor soul like the good, good dude he is. 

Ellen, the nurse behind the desk, on the other hand, looks Billy up and down appraisingly, cold green eyes assessing, assessing, assessing and clearly finding him wanting somehow. Maybe it's the rough haircut he'd given himself, maybe it's the sweatpants and grungy white tank top he's wearing, maybe it's the big, fat, homemade "Station 52" logo patch on the front of his duffle bag that Max had custom made for him. Maybe this woman hates firefighters. Maybe she can tell that he's gay, can smell it on him and maybe she's homophobic.

Or maybe, the last five percent of his brain capable of rational thought tells him, maybe that's just her face and it's not personal.

"Who're you looking for, dear?" she asks, even though she clearly thinks he's anything but dear. 

"Um, uh," he stammers and god, he hasn't been this awkward, hasn't said um and uh this much since middle school, "Steve Harrington?"

Her face tightens, her tall stack of thick gray hair wobbles just a little and Billy's stomach prepares itself for free fall, for bad news, for - 

"Alright, he's in Room 357, just on the third floor-" and she keeps going, keeps giving instructions after that, but Billy doesn't hear them, is too overwhelmed with the taste, the feeling, the rush of sheer relief that hits him with the knowledge that Steve has a room number, which means that Steve has a room, which means that Steve hasn't died in the time it took him to drive here or in the time he spent wandering, lost. It means Steve isn't in surgery and these are both very, very good things.

That surge of joy fades out with a mewling whimper after Billy gets lost another two times looking for Steve's room, as it occurs to him, What if Steve's only not in surgery because he's too weak to survive it? and, Just because he wasn't dead however many minutes ago, doesn't mean he's not dead now.

And he still can't find the room, isn't even sure he's on the right floor anymore, but there is one thing he knows for sure, one thing he knows for certain:

Whenever he sees that partner of Steve's, Dustin whatever, he's gonna tear him limb from limb, gonna tear him apart, gonna rend flesh from bone for not telling him more over the phone than, "Steve's been shot and we're at St. Mary's, you should get here like, now."

As he wanders down yet another meaningless white hallway, he feels that rage boiling again, feels like he's going to lose it again until he turns a corner and sees a row of feet all clad in plain, dark, sensible shoes and looks up to see a line of officers, most still in uniform, all sitting stuffed end over end, just one too many in a row of old, creaky, metal and ugly navy felt hospital chairs. 

He almost smiles at having finally, finally found them - because of course there's a whole crew of people waiting for his boy, of course there is, that's probably why the nurse at the front desk got so annoyed, there's at least ten people sitting and jamming up this small hallway and here he is, adding to it, but -

Then it occurs to him:

Why are all these people waiting here? 

Why are they all…

He looks around at all their faces and each and every one of them has that pinched look, that capsized-rowboat-in-the-ocean look that Mike's told him about, that panicked look that loved ones get that El's talked about, that restless, hopeless rage that he's been feeling on and off since he got that call and if -

And if they all look the same way then maybe…

Then maybe those feelings he's been feeling aren't an overreaction like the last five percent of his brain capable of hope has been hoping, praying, wishing for it to be.

That last five percent shuts down and dies a quiet, lonely death as his eyes connect with those of one of the guys sitting in the middle of the row and he sees fear there, sees panic, and sees rage there. 

He feels himself capsizing in the ocean of this near stranger's sad blue eyes and as his terror over this spreads he feels his stomach pick itself up and ready to launch at his lungs which have suddenly decided to forget what it is they're supposed to do, like they've ever had more than just the one job and now maybe they're just a little confused. 

Billy himself is a lot confused, because he and this guy just keep staring at each other and nobody is saying anything.

Why is nobody saying anything? 

Then someone comes stumbling into him from behind, saying, "Well, it certainly took you long enough," and it's Heather and the way she says it sets Billy's teeth on edge because he can't figure out her tone, can't figure out what she means and - 

She points him in the direction of Steve's room, even if it's almost right in front of him and he's grateful, really, he's grateful (he's grateful and he's terrified) as she pushes him inside, not giving him the space nor the time to chicken out or run away. 

And he lets out a sigh at the sight of Steve lying before him, lets out a sigh even as his heart ripples and creaks under the weight of his exhaustion. 

He pulls a smooth, blue, and terribly squeaky plastic chair up to Steve's good side and tries to hold his breath, tries not to smell that cloying, abrasive antiseptic smell that fills the room, tries instead to imagine Steve's favorite cologne, that woodsy, citrusy one. 

He tries not to focus on the IV in the back of Steve's hand, tries not to focus on the cannula in his nose, tries instead to think of Steve pressed up behind him in bed, of Steve's hands warm and comforting on his chest and Steve's nose pressed into his hair or the back of his neck and inhaling deeply.

He tries to ignore the thick, white, starchy-looking bandages covering Steve up from his left shoulder to his elbow, he tries to ignore the way Steve's eyes are closed and what that might mean, he tries to ignore all of that and just see Steve -

He tries to but he can't. 

"I have been waiting for you my entire life," Billy says. He grabs Steve's hand and grips it tight. "You are not allowed to die first, got it?" 

Steve surprises him by squeezing back and saying, "I'll try my best," and being an idiot and trying to sit up with a freaking bullet wound in his freaking arm.

Billy pushes him back to the bed with his free hand on his good shoulder and winds up positioned very awkwardly for a moment before Steve finally relents and lays back down.

What he says next makes it worse. 

"I'm fine, though, you know." 

Like it's nothing. Like getting shot is nothing. Billy supposes it's meant to be comforting, to be reassuring, but instead it makes Billy see red. 

"You're in the hospital." Billy tries for soft, he really does. He wants to cradle Steve's face in his hands and press sweet, quiet kisses to his lips, but instead Steve said that and now he's snarling.

"Yeah," Steve says, voice either forced calm or drugged oblivious and Billy isn't sure which, "but it's okay, it didn't hit anything vital and the doc says I'll be fine in about a month or two." 

"You're in the hospital," Billy says again, louder this time. He can feel himself growing claws and he feels overwhelmed, feels a need to claw at something, to scratch, to bite. To destroy. 

Lucky for him, this is exactly when Dustin strolls in carrying flowers and looking particularly guilty.

Unlucky for him, Dustin says, "What the hell, man? I barely got to telling you we were here and you told me you were coming and hung up. Me and Heather tried calling you back like six times and no answer. We  were just about to send someone out looking for you." 

And. 

"Oh." It's all Billy can think to say. Then, "Sorry."

But then Steve just has to pipe back in with, "See? If you'd let Dustin get to it, he'd have told you that I'm fine, too." 

And boy, is that ever the wrong thing to say because it has Billy roaring with, "You are in a hospital with a bullet in your arm, Steve, you're not fine."

And Dustin politely interjecting with, "Okay, woah, woah, nobody said anything about you being fine. There's a lot of distance between you and 'fine' right now, Steve."

Steve's eyes narrow, that medicated calm sliding from his face even as Billy sees the last drops of whatever medication they've got him on dripping down from the bag and into the IV line. 

"You literally came home with your hair singed last week," Steve says, like he thinks the fact that they both have dangerous jobs is somehow going to win him this argument. 

"Yeah, and that was just my hair! You're in the hospital!" Billy shouts. This time, he fully shouts because apparently, Steve's not going to get it unless it's screamed at him.

"And I'm fine!" 

Or maybe he's just not going to get it at all.

From the doorway, Dustin laughs and Billy is on him in a second.

"What's so funny?" he snarls but Dustin keeps laughing.

"Just…" he says, unable to stop laughing even as he's trying to speak, "Just say 'I love you' and get it over with, already, both of you."

Steve's face goes as tomato red as Billy's suddenly feels. 

But neither of them says it. Neither of them says anything. 

fic tag squad:

@a-magey @xgardensinspace @myboyfriendsteve @haxpr0cess @thinger-strang @nagdabbit @demi-don @lissieisspacey @tracy7307 @ihni @yourneighborhoodace

@harringrovetrashh

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #stranger things #harringrove fic #misc au #angst #modern #gideonwrites #asexual #asexual fic collection #asexuality

[moonlightchess]

On Lesser Ghosts, my perpetually in-progress novel, a cast of current characters:

Brandon Graham: 30 years old, police investigator for the Dorset Police Department of Dorset, Vermont. The sole survivor of serial killer Seth Morgan, active throughout the bulk of the 90s and all the way through 2003, when he was captured shortly after a 15-year-old Brandon escaped his nightmarish year of captivity in the Morgan house. Casually alcoholic, gay, entirely jaded and weary of the world, but stronger than he appears at first glance. Recently assigned to the case of Cora Tycho, a promising young physics student from the Lower Prince area of Vermont who has gone missing.

Dr. Casey Tycho: 30 years old, and Dorset PD’s newest medical examiner. A British expatriate originally hailing from north London, Casey is the antithesis to the human disaster of Brandon. Sharp, extensively educated, responsible and diligent, he wears silk-lined suit vests and ties to work and has been sleeping with Brandon for six months in an arrangement that Brandon refuses to acknowledge as any sort of relationship. He’s quietly accepted this, both out of respect for Brandon’s boundaries and because being black and openly gay in a small Vermont town may not be the most desirable situation. His sister Cora has gone missing, and he hates how little he wants Brandon on the case, but he knows better than anyone how unstable the man can be.

Sara Graham: Brandon’s younger sister at 27 years old, a folk musician and “crafty mess” by her own admission. Bright, curious, extroverted and warm, much of her life has been dedicated to worrying about her brother. She makes beaded jewelry and pottery on the weekends, collects coffee mugs, and is a driving force in Brandon’s life, though he occasionally wonders if she doesn’t resent him at least a little for the way his kidnapping and subsequent fame as Seth Morgan’s sole surviving victim dominated her younger years. The two are very close, and she’s determined to not allow him to lie down and give up on the Cora Tycho case, no matter how much tension and distance it’s created between he and Casey.

Sasha Prescott: Brandon’s boss, police chief of the DPD. Tough as nails, but she harbors a soft spot for Brandon in spite of his sporadic displays of instability and recklessness in the past. Especially protective of Casey, having long since come to the conclusion that Dorset’s black community is small at best and they have to stick together - the disappearance of Cora, a young black woman in her town, has been keeping her up at night. Her hawk’s stare and firm hand keep the entire department in line, but this also means that she has a constant target on her back.

Kris Alden: A mystery. Was with Cora Tycho on the night she went missing during a camping trip in the woods. Claims he went home early, a result of stomach problems. Not much intel on him yet.

Audrey and Stephen: The forensic lab techs, working directly under Casey. Odd, dreamy types, ensconced in their own little world much of the time. May know more than they’re letting on.

Read the first few pages below!

                                                   🔍🔍🔍

09.12.19:

A burning and industrious early-morning sun insisted upon bullying the pleasant warmth of Casey’s skin into something too harsh to ignore as Brandon groaned, rolling over onto his stomach in bed.  Beside him, Casey stretched, languid as an enormous cat, his sleep likely having been far more restful. Still, his smile was tender as he reached for him, and the scent of coffee brewing from the kitchen suggested that he’d already been up once to make it for him. The sweetness of the gesture hurt, and he curled away from his touch. “Too fucking hot.”

“It’s only going to be about seventy today.” Because of course Casey knew the day’s predicted weather already, of course he was as on top of it as he was everything else in his life. Casey, with his autumn-brown skin and gentle, fox-gold eyes like candlelit amber, of course he was ready with coffee brewing and the forecast on his phone. They were the same age, thirty, but Casey was one of those rare people who had been an adult since twelve. He’d probably delighted in collecting school supplies for a new year when none of his friends gave a shit, he was the type of person who always knew where his keys were. He had a set-in-stone laundry day, which had blown Brandon’s mind when he’d first learned of it. Even now, at six AM, he smelled like fresh fucking bread. Literally the worst human, Brandon had long since concluded, but the sex was fantastic.

Wordlessly, he rolled over for his first cigarette of the day, ignoring Casey’s softly disapproving sound behind him. He briefly considered reminding him of his total lack of access into his personal life, that whatever happened between them sexually meant ten kinds of nothing outside the bedroom, but Casey had never pushed or questioned his boundaries. He kept his distance as Brandon rolled naked out of bed, ambling to the window to shove it open before disappearing into the bathroom without further comment. He gave him time to shower before following, tapping his fingertips against the glass shower door with a quiet, “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Want company?”

“Oh, uh. No.”

There was a pause, and then Casey’s silhouette nodding silently, turning to go. He was unique in that Brandon never felt so much as a semblance of guilt about bluntly rejecting the affections of anyone but him, and now it felt sharp. The hot spray of water went needle-harsh against his skin, but he still ignored the coffee Casey had left on the counter for him, as well as the text blinking on his phone. Eat something. Don’t be too late for work, Sasha will have your ass. Even now, he did his best to take care of him as much as Brandon would allow, but he rationalized that he’d never promised the man a damn thing. In fact, he’d made his limitations abundantly clear on the first night they’d tumbled, panting, into bed together, roughly six months ago. The problem was, there was another man. He was persistent and jealous, and he was always around. He was sitting on the edge of his bed right now, in fact. Late forties, moon-pale skin and sleek, ink-black hair, his deceptive youthfulness undercut by the coldness lingering in his dark eyes.

Seth waited, silent, watching Brandon dress. The most attention he ever paid to his honey-blonde mess of hair was a quick tugging of his brush, and the woodsmoke cologne his sister had given him for Christmas last year was left mostly unused on the dresser. His morning routine had long since boiled down to a quick shower, shave, and brushing of teeth and hair before throwing on whatever happened to be clean regardless of its fashionable implications. Today, Seth watched him button up a loose black Oxford over a pair of battered jeans, before embarking upon a ten-minute search for his keys because he wasn’t Casey and never would be.

A light drizzle began to dissolve the heat of the day like sugar in warm coffee once he was on the road, clouds going dense and dark with the sweet threat of a proper rain. Sasha had already texted him - 9:10, Graham. Late again. Casey had tried to warn him, but then he always did, and Brandon never listened. Elgar helped to swallow Sasha’s nearly tangible contempt for his time management skills as he drove, and beside him, Seth settled into the passenger’s seat to stare thoughtfully out at the increasingly heavy rain.

10.4.2003:

This far north into Vermont, where Seth’s house teetered on the border into Canada, winters descended early and lingered long. The ceiling-to-floor steel and rebar support pipe Brandon had been handcuffed to by the wrists for the past two weeks had absorbed the seeping chill, and Seth had only dressed him in a filthy, tattered wifebeater and a pair of old blue flannel pajama pants that smelled suffocatingly of mothballs. He woke every few hours with numb, stinging toes, shivering and dripping. The handcuffs Seth had restrained him with had to have been ordered from somewhere - there was no soft pink fur lining to suggest an intended use of foreplay, and instead they were solid in a deadly way, a way that thunked every time he slid them locked with a firm sense of finality. 

A fever burned through his bones overnight near the middle of October, and finally some part of Seth seemed to awaken to his basic human needs. He was provided a deeply itchy wool blanket that felt woven from canvas and sandpaper, but it did the job of keeping him warm. Every few nights, his worn boots would thud down the basement steps to offer him a plate of cold, congealed noodles that he’d clearly been keeping in the fridge. His wrists went raw and scabbed with the endless scrape of the cuffs, his knees cramping in their bent position. Stretching his legs was possible, but uncomfortable. The days began to melt together, the constant darkness of the basement transforming time into a static thing. He slept when the wave of exhaustion became too much to fight, he woke and watched the shadows when sleep eluded him. He lost all sense of night or day, the passage of hours.

Three weeks deep, the frantic hope that he’d be found began to fade. The basement began to feel like his place, and he began to forget what it felt like to not fall asleep hugging a metal pipe. Seth was strangely reassuring, an exponential effect that seemed to correlate with his slow acceptance of his situation. As time dissolved and desperation waned, Seth’s approval bloomed. Sometimes, now, the noodles were warm and slick from boiling water, fresh. His blanket was replaced with a less abrasive one, albeit filthy. At fourteen years old, Brandon learned that life began and ended here in his cold, dark basement. The memory of the day he’d been taken seemed irrelevant now, the faces of his parents to whom he’d clung so desperately in those early days.

“I know that you don’t understand.” Seth’s voice was soft, gentle more often than not, sedately erudite like a classics professor on vacation in the woods for the holidays. He was quite articulate, expressing himself fairly eloquently whenever he came into the basement to speak to him. “It sounds trite, like something Keats might have written, but believe me when I say that this is your chrysalis phase, Brandon. It’s tight and uncomfortable and emerging will be a painful struggle, but I want you to trust me. I know it’s asking a lot of you right now, but I also know that your eyes are open and you’ll get there. I trust you already.”

He wore a lot of high-collared fleece sweaters in earth tones and he kept his silky hair longish, framing his face in a soft sort of way that left him mild and relaxed to the eye. Brandon learned to crave him, the only human voice, presence, that he’d experienced in a month as the end of October approached. He couldn’t express this yet, but Seth would smile down at him, bending at the knees to wrap him in a new blanket or to offer him the day’s plate of noodles. Sometimes the blankets were splattered with fresh bloodstains and sometimes the noodles were wrapped around bullets of sausage that tasted blandly wrong, but he was there.

Once, shortly before Halloween, the burgeoning bond between them inspired him to blurt, “I wouldn’t say anything, you know. You could just let me go, you wouldn’t even have to drive me home. I’d never tell anyone, I understand your work here--” because Seth had often referenced his cryptic “work” without elaborating. “I won’t try to stop you, you could just--”

Seth’s open hand slammed into the side of his head, smacking his skull into the metal pipe with a gut-churning clang. The world exploded into white fire, his vision briefly going dark as his brain struggled to retain consciousness. A thick, hot ooze of dark blood began to gush from his nostrils, but he was too resigned at that point to so much as scream. Instead, he moaned softly, sagging forward as his head began to throb in time with his heartbeat. The agony was blinding, but he didn’t pass out, which came as something of a disappointment.

A month and a week passed.

09.12.19:

Dorset’s PD’s station was one of the lingering bastions of old-school police architecture, all museum-high ceilings and wooden desks arranged in rows. Brandon wove his way between them on his way to Sasha’s office, set high above the ground floor grunts and their ancient desktop computers. He’d always respected the way she’d left the glass panels that made up the front wall of her office intact, leaving her visible to her officers and techs alike. She was typing on her own laptop when he tapped his fingers against said glass, waving him inside. A still-steaming paper cup of Two Brews sat on her desk, littered with loose papers that themselves were littered with her scribbled notes. My office, whenever you decide to show up, she’d texted him.

Sasha Prescott was forty-four years old with dense, dark curls clipped short and precise. With her high cheekbones, full lips and velvet-dark skin, she could easily have been a model even in her middle age, dominating an industry obsessed with youth. And dominate it she would have - there was a carefully cultivated air of laser focus that she wore like armor wrapped around her, her narrow, jewel-black eyes piercing through lies and alibis like a hot knife through butter. She and Brandon’s mutual respect had led to a highly efficient and successful working relationship over the years, and they both appreciated that neither was in any way interested in developing any sort of personal friendship outside of work.

Now, he dropped into the Quaker chair in front of her desk and considered making an attempt for her coffee, which she didn’t appear to have started drinking yet. Her signature plum lipstick had not yet stained the rim, but she zeroed in on his intent with her standard razor perception and shook her head. “I will literally stab you,” she said casually, and he let his hand fall to his knee instead.

“What’s up?”

“First off, roll in here late again and I’ll write your ass up. Secondly, we have a delicate situation in our laps right now and I want some input on how to deal with it.”

Arching an eyebrow, Brandon kept his tone as nonplussed as possible. Too much visible interest might have convinced Sasha to change her mind, one of her stranger quirks. “I’m listening.”

“Cora Tycho is missing, as of somewhere around midnight last night.”

He nearly rose to his feet despite his resolve, an icy fist punching straight through his ribcage to seize his heart. “Casey’s sister?”

Sasha confirmed this with a short nod, her lips pressed tight. “She was out camping with a friend near the Lower Prince quarry. Her friend, Kris Alden, fell ill shortly after they ate dinner and decided to go home. Cora wanted to drive him, but there was no one available to take her back once he was home and he claims he felt guilty about making her miss some super-moon or whatever the hell it is, told her he could make it home on his own. She never came back from the woods, the Alden kid shared a class with her that she skipped this morning and no one has been able to reach her via call or text. It’s not enough to assume that she’s officially a ten-fifty-seven just yet, but people are starting to worry. She’s never been someone to just bail on everything like this, Kris described her as very thoughtful and responsible.”

“You’ve already sent someone out to talk to him? Does Casey know?”

“Not yet. That’s actually what I wanted your input on - obviously he’s not getting anywhere near this case, but given the personal nature of your relationship with him what are your thoughts on his capability to handle the work environment in general as it’s investigated? Should I just send him on a vacation until this is cleared, or is he frosty enough to stay professional here at the station while his sister is missing? You know him better than any of us.”

Brandon’s brain reeled. “Personal nature? I don’t know what sort of relationship any of you are under the impression that we--not that any of you should have any impression of our relationship, I mean. Shit. We’re not in a relationship! I barely know him!” His voice was raising in pitch while he remained completely unaware, his knuckles going white around the armrests of the Quaker chair. Sasha exhaled sharply through her nose.

“Jesus. Do I need to send you on a vacation too? Get your shit together.”

“Fuck. Okay.” Pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, he exhaled. “Casey is one hundred percent able to handle working while this is being solved, but that doesn’t mean he should. I doubt he’ll let you send him on a vacation, but try anyway. He doesn’t deserve to be here all day, trying to focus on other shit while half of Dorset is trying to figure out if his sister’s body is rotting in the woods somewhere. He should be with his family.”

“I’ll do my best. I’m giving this girl until tonight to turn up, and then I’m issuing a gloves-off ten-fifty-seven.” Sasha’s voice went to iron, and it occurred to Brandon that she cared for Casey as much as anyone at the DPD did. He was the lifeblood of the forensics labs, their unflappable new medical examiner whose lingering British accent left over from a youth spent in west London had a way of soothing even the most panicked and horrified relative of one of his corpses. 

“I need you to go into far more detail about the supposed “nature” of my relationship with Casey, up to and including just how the hell you even knew about it at all. Not that it’s anything. At all.”

“Would you kindly climb off my dick, Graham? I’ve got enough shit on my plate right now.”

“Sasha.”

“Settle down. No one else knows anything, even though according to you there’s nothing to know. It’s just that a lifetime of police investigation have left me a highly observant person--”

“A lifetime? You’re in your forties, don’t start writing your memoirs yet you drama queen.”

“...And as such, I’ve noticed you two leaving work together occasionally, showing up around the same time in very deliberately separate cars but sometimes accidentally wearing each other’s shirts, things like that. Things only I would ever notice, I promise. No one else has mentioned anything to me, and you know they would if the rumor mill was running about it.”

“Fine. Whatever. Any more intel on Cora?”

Wordlessly, Sasha slid a manila envelope across her stately desk. Opening it, Brandon was confronted with a glossy photo of a beautiful young woman, all sparkling honey eyes and rich dark skin like a sunset’s sweet glow, thick black hair meticulously oiled and wrapped and beaded into immaculate dreadlocks that she’d pulled back with a sky-blue silk scarf for her senior high school photo, Cora wore her brother’s beauty as elegantly as he did. They shared the same royally rounded nose and high cheekbones, full lips and dimples. His chest ached, and he brushed his fingertips against the photo thoughtfully without realizing he was doing it. Sasha had compiled everything - her academic records, notes on her hobbies and habits, her generally expected whereabouts on any given day. She had no legal record to speak of, her profile speaking to a bright, clean-cut girl with a gleaming future in physics.

“She was a student at NVU,” Sasha supplied. “Is a student. Solid grades, a quiet type, well-liked by her peers but not known to be a partier. Close with her family, especially our Casey. Loved to cook, according to reports. She entered several baking competitions last year, even won a couple. Played the violin all throughout high school, but turned down a suggested spot on NVU’s student orchestra. Said she didn’t want it to interfere with her study time, according to the orchestra leader I called. She seemed laser-focused on her goal of working for NASA someday, had a whole vision board about it on Pinterest.”

“I’ll start with Kris Alden. I’ll head out to his place today.”

“Start with Casey. I don’t want him to hear about this on the news, and my official statement on the case is going live tomorrow morning.”

“Shit. Okay.” Scooping the file up under his arm, he rose to his feet. “I’ll go talk to him, he down in the forensics lab?”

“With Audrey and Stephen. See if you can get him alone, he won’t like his techs seeing him break down in front of them if he reacts poorly.”

“How the hell else do you expect him to react to the news that his sister is missing?”

“I’m just saying, let’s be conscious of how difficult this is going to be for him. You’re not exactly known for your tact, but you have the best shot at holding him together here. You know as well as I do that the longer we go without finding this girl, the less of a chance we have.”

Brandon paused at her office door. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Took me a year to get out of that basement.”

He hated the way her gaze softened, and so he made his way out without a goodbye to make a point, ignoring the irritating hiss of her compressed-air door mechanism that refused to let him leave with a satisfying slam. The forensics lab and department morgue was located in the basement of the station for obvious reasons, a narrow elevator depositing him into the DPD’s underground two minutes later. The temperature dropped by a few degrees once the doors slid open, the stone all around them cooling the air. He couldn’t hear the rain anymore, down here, and he found Audrey and Stephen hunched over a severed hand on a sleek chrome examination tray in the lab.

Audrey was tall and willowy, twenty-six with ice-blonde hair wound into a messy braid that she’d draped over one shoulder, so pale and slim that there was something ghostly about her, especially when taking into consideration her gray eyes so light and translucent they were nearly colorless, like a mirror or a deep-sea creature. She wore a white lab coat over a pair of black jeans and a loose, baggy gray sweater - she wore a lot of gray, black and white, and she always looked like a spectre, an overcast ocean. The selkies would have accepted her as one of theirs upon sight. Stephen was only barely as tall as her, with a much friendlier face, soft freckled cheeks and tanned skin suggesting a childhood spent outdoors working off baby fat. He had peanut-brown curls tumbling over his forehead and round, intelligent hazel eyes, a sharply defined mouth and an easily cheery demeanor. Oddly enough, he and Audrey were quite close.

“Hey guys. Anyone seen Casey?”

“Down in the morgue.” Audrey pointed to her feet, indicating the sub-level beneath them. “He left this hand with us and told us to collect data samples and disappeared. He’s been down there all morning.”

“Do you know whose hand it is?”

“Pretty sure it belongs to that wheat farmer who turned up in the hospital last week missing one. I mean, how many hands could there be unaccounted for in Vermont right now?” Stephen grinned, snapping his gum. He took a kind of morbid glee in his work, something Brandon had always suspected Audrey shared with him.

“Left hands, to boot,” Audrey added, shrugging. “How are you, Brandon?”

“I’m fine. I’d love to stay and um, look at the hand with you guys, but I’ve got to talk to Casey. Have...fun?”

Stephen’s grin widened. “Oh, we will, friend.”

“I hate the way you say things.”

Stephen’s laughter followed him back into the elevator, which delivered him to the bottomost floor of the DPD headquarters. Casey was there, bent over his own work, having forgone his stiff lab coat in favor of his neatly tucked-in dove-gray button-down, black silk tie, charcoal dress vest and matching creased slacks. His leftover British sensibilities were evident in his crisply classic style, always semi-formal and expensive even when he dressed “down” in Burberry cashmere sweaters and custom-tailored jeans. He looked so unflappable that Brandon’s faith in him was stirred anew, and he approached with more tenderness than was normal for him. His aura alerted Casey to something amiss upon impact, and he narrowed his eyes at him before saying a word. “Don’t see you down here often, love.” The last word slipped out before he could stop it, and Brandon watched him flinch minutely, almost imperceptibly.

#wip #nanowrimo #murder mystery #writing #gay #lgbt #mystery #cw: murder #cw: horror #cw: serial killers #forensics #my writing #lesser ghosts

[myheroaizawashota]

Hey there! I was wondering if I could request a fem reader x aizawa fic where the reader is a teacher at UA lifelong bffs with all might and everyone assumes they're together or at least into each other which prevents aizawa from saying anything but ends up fluffy! also maybe have aizawa and/or others walk in on easily misinterpreted situations just for shits and giggles? Thank you!

[*salivates and flails body at the thought of this prompt* yes boo YAS BOOO YAAAAAAASS. Sorry I absolutely ADORE All Might. I think being best friends with Toshinori/All Might is one of the the most purest friendships one could have!! So I’m DOWN for this! Sorry this took so long to get out my inbox has been a bit full and I’ve been getting super carried away with the pieces I’ve been writing haha]

Most things in life didn’t bother Aizawa. He was rational and calculated with every one of his emotions, making it very difficult to get a rise out of the aloof and deadpan man. It took quite a bit to boil the mans blood, but you made it look easy. He nestled his face into the currently soft scarf wound loosely and lazily around his neck, listening as his fellow teachers in the lounge did nothing but gossip. A frivolous pass of time if you asked him, though as the teachers all speculated on your relationship with the worlds currrent top pro hero, he couldn’t help but grow tested as he listened in. “So what’s the deal with Y/N and All Might...are they a couple.” Nemuri hummed gently shoveling rice into her mouth as she waited for a response.

Aizawa rolled his eyes unamused by today’s lunch conversation. If you asked him he’d tell you it was because gossip was childish and should be left to the students, but in actuality he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy ravage through him as he thought of you in the arms of anyone else. Over the few months you’d been teaching here at U.A the 1-A teacher and yourself had become rather close. In fact you’d become so close that subconsciously Aizawa found himself completely consumed by the thought of you. It was odd, when he was with you he felt himself smile more. He felt himself enjoying the work day just slightly more than usual. He even found himself sleeping less during his lunch breaks, he preferring to spend the time with you instead. Aizawa never had a desire to be with anyone. Up until this point he convinced himself that he didn’t need a significant other in his life, that it’d be just another vacuum of his energy and time. Then you came into his life and now all he can do is think of spending all his time with you. His irrational feelings for you drove him wild, all he wanted to do was grab you by the wrists and press your lips together. The desire for your company was foreign to him, you were the only one to make him crave attention.

A sigh rippled through aizawa as he watched Yamada stretched himself out, pushing his chair back with the toe of his boot “I’d put money on the fact those two are totes a thing! Everywhere one goes the other follows, it’s your classic love song!”

Unable to listen to the conversation anymore, aizawa picked himself up from the table eager to leave the home base of all the gossip. “You’re all juvenile. The students talk less about these kinds of things than the rest of you.”

Leaving the room, aizawa wandered through the halls, hands tucked away in his pockets as he slugged his way down towards your classroom. His chest filled with emotions as his feet shuffled further down the hall, pausing when he heard laughter coming from the other side of your door. He felt his breath hitch as his heart skipped a beat in that moment, the image of your smile smacking him right in the face. It was enough to pull the corners of his lips into and small hardly noticeable smile. Drawn to your laughter like a sailor to a Sirens call he moved in closer, eyes peering through the small cut out window on the door. Disappointment shattered through his body as he watched your arms wrap around All Mights neck, his heart sinking to the pits of his stomach as he watched how happy you looked.

“Yagi! Put me down!” You giggle as the intimidatingly large but incredibly sweet pro hero held you in a bridal type style. “Stop you’re tickling me you giant jerk!” You smile as the others finger tips gently pressed and poked at your side you squealing as you wiggles around his arms.

A deep roaring laugh shook through Toshinoris body as the toned symbol of peace continued to ceaselessly tickle away at your soft spots “Ha ha! I see you’ve had enough! This will teach you to be more careful next time about climbing up on desks instead of just asking me for my help to reach things”

Aizawas hand slowly let go of the door, swallowing the emotions that had began to swell in his throat. Seeing you with All Might like that, he could understand how everyone could jump to the conclusion that the two of you were a couple. The thought of that hurt, his mouth tugging down into a frown as he lowered his hands back into his pockets, eyes cast down to floor. He’d rather be tied down to a chair and forced to listen to Mic’s never ending chatter at full blast than to stand and see anymore of this. With a heavy sigh, he closed his eyes and shook the images of you from his head as he walked away, though the sound of your laughter and voice still followed him as he walked on more somber than usual.

“Some hero you are assaulting your damsel” you laughed finally shoving yourself out of Toshinoris arms.

The instant your feet hit the ground the other let his muscle form fade he giving a few pained coughs. “Hey i don’t assault all my rescuees, just you” he smiled, knuckles brushing away a few droplets of blood that spilled past the corner of his mouth.

You couldn’t help but laugh, lightly shoving the other hero playfully “serves you right for tickling me you god damn villain”

He couldn’t help but smile, head shaking as he pulled out your desk chair and sat himself down. You and the worlds beacon of hope had a long history together, though it was no where near what anyone spectated it to be. You were both aware of the ridiculous rumors circulating around the campus of your alleged relationship, however they were all just that. Ridiculous rumors. While the bond you and Yagi shared was one forged by the fires of time, it was in no way a romantically relationship. It drove you crazy when you heard the way the others talked about the non existent spark between you too, especially since it was starting to effect your other relationships. Since you’d started here at U.A one teacher has stuck out to you the most. Just thinking about him was enough to make your chest ache. He wasn’t exactly the warmest of men, in fact getting close to him was like getting close to a wild horse. Though you managed to do the impossible and tame all the rough edges of typically emotionally detached teacher. So caught up in your own thoughts you almost didn’t even realized when your friend snapped his match stick thin fingers in front of you“y/n? You doing okay over there or what?”

You shake your head clearing yourself back to reality, a blush brushed over the bridge of your nose, a hand scratching the back of your head as you laughed nervously “yeah I’m fine, i was just...I got distracted.”

The elite pro gave a hum, a smirk dancing at the corners of his mouth. “Right, distracted thinking about Aizawa again?” Immediately your eyes widened you trying to deny him your truth, though that look in your eyes was enough to tell him everything he needed to know. Laughing lightly he leaned himself back in your chair arms folded across his chest “why are you still standing here anyway? I thought we talked about this, didn’t you say today was the day you were finally going to talk to him about things?”

He was right, after weeks of complaining over your feelings, Toshinori finally had talked you into confesssing yourself to the other. You didn’t say anything in that moment just giving your friend a nervous smile as he looked your way. He motioned towards the door with sunken eyes and you knew what you had to do. You made your way down to your fellow staff members class room, you giving a soft knock on the door. As anticipated there was no answer. You shoved the door to the side, poking your head in to see the shape of his sleeping bag full. With a smile you pushed your way into the room closing the door behind you, all but jumping when the lump on the floor all but growled at you “get out.”

Your chest tightened as you stopped in your tracks. “It’s jus-“

“I know who it is. I’m not in the mood for company. I have 15 minutes of break left and I’d prefer to use it for sleeping.” The tone of his voice was so corse and rough, you flinching at its sound.

It was unlike the man to turn down your time and attention. Typically he’d put up a fuss, making some comment about how you were taking him away from his nap but he’s never once told you that he’d prefer sleeping to the warmth of your company. Ignoring his warning you crouched down allowing your body to kneel down on the cold floor next to his. “Not even my company? I know I’m late for lunch..I’m sorry Shouta. I got a little caught up with All Might..”

“I saw.” His response was cold and robotic, your lips tugging down as you saw his body curl up. He had seen you and Yagi together? You knew there was no reason to, but you felt ashamed and dirty that the other saw your antics.

“I fell.” You pushed out, shoulders hunching up as you crushed your ears in the process. You felt a burst of anxiety course through your body as the need to compulsively explain what the other had seen took you over. You watched as the others body twisted and turned in his current hideout, the scratch and shuffle of the sleeping bag muffling the sound of your increased breathing. As his soft tired eyes met yours with concern you let the words fall almost like vomit from your mouth, it uncontrollable. “It’s kinda funny but also it’s kind of not, haha. See I was trying to get this book from the top shelf of my book case and I couldn’t reach because I’m so short, so I started climbing on some desk to get some height but I didn’t realize my footing on the desk tops was so unsteady that when I went to stretch myself up to reach for the book I almost cracked my skull open! If it wasn’t for All Might I would have killed myself.”

Shouta rose a brow as he listened to your story. It made sense to him, the way All Might held your body would be supported by the story you gave him. He moved to say something but before he had the chance, he saw the way your chest began to rise and fall quicker. He noticed the glossy glean in your eyes as your hands trembled and his heart stopped. Unzipping the sleeping bag he pushed his body to bend at the waist, he sitting straight up as he pulled you right into his chest giving you a hug. You felt yourself shake more as you were pressed into Aizawas chested, leaning into the calming touch of his palm against the back of your head as he held you tightly against him. “Just take a breathe Y/N. I’m...sorry” he murmured out, the scruff of his chin resting against your forehead a deep sigh passing his lips. “Admittedly....when i saw you and All Might together in the class room I was hurt. Up until now I couldn’t rationalize why I got so mad when i saw the way he held you back there, though now that your here in my arms I think I understand. I like you a lot Y/N. I understand if you’re uncomfortable due to your relationship with All Might, but I don’t think I can lie to myself or you anymore by hiding just how much you mean to m-“

His eyes widened as he was cut off mid sentence by the warmth of your lips. It didn’t take long before his body relaxes under yours, hands moving to cup your cheeks. He allowed himself to sinfully enjoy the kiss just a moment longer before parting your lips, hands holding your face back from his as he let his eyes capture yours. “You kissed me? But what about-“

“Yagi is just my friend Shouta. I’ve never seen him the way I see you.” You whisper, watching as his eyes began to light up. “If we’re both being honest...i came here with the intentions of telling you the same thing you told me” you blush eyes casting down to the ground. “I like you too Shouta.”

The pounding of his heart could be heard in his ear, as he took in every inch of your face. He could see the genuine emotion in your features the corners of his lips tugging up as he pulled your face back to his, lips hungry for yours. You smiled and pressed him back against the floor with a laugh “looks like your the one who kissed me this time”

His face looked brighter than it usually did, even if the corners of his lips only twitched you knew inside he was smiling back. “Stop talking. Do you wanna maybe finish this nap with me?”

You gave him a grin, lips pressing once more against his before sliding your body into bag, you two pressed flush against each other. With a strong blush on both of your faces you closed your eyes and laid your head against his chest. “I’ll nap with you as long as you promise that when we wake up, this won’t be a dream.”

Pressing a kiss to the top of your head, his arms wrapped securely around your body, eyes already closed. “Deal. Now stop talking and sleep.” It wasn’t how he imagined this moment would be, but he was grateful to have you so close to him like this. Lord help the person who tried to wake the two of you.

#aizawa shouta #aizawa x reader #hizashi x reader #toshinori x reader #toshinori yagi #yamada hizashi #bnha requests #bnha x reader #my hero academia x reader #my hero academia

[thebrochtuarachs]

A Right To Claim

A little expansion of Claire and Laoghaire's confrontation (1x10) plus a little imagined post-scene fic if Jamie has seen the entire thing.

A/N: Gosh, I love this scene so much. In this time in the books and series, Claire was still on the fence between her old and new life but it's in major moments like these where she's clearly falling (or fallen) in love with Jamie that I love most.

This post scene has been in my prompt for a while and after rewatching the episodes, I found the inspiration to write it. This prompt has probably been written before but I hope you like and enjoy!

Claire’s walk to the kitchen went surprisingly quick, her feet dragging her faster than she intended. It was nearly lunchtime and the kitchen will soon be bustling with hurry to feed the clansmen at Leoch.

She and Jamie rose a little late in the day. He left their bed first to help Alec in the stables while first on her agenda is a little chat with a certain blonde who left a little something underneath her bed last night.

Early in the morning, Jamie warned her against what she wanted to do, even going so far as trying to make her forget by giving her a full English breakfast to boot (nice try, Jamie!) but she couldn’t get over the idea of Laoghaire going to their private bedroom unannounced and unwelcome. At first, she understood the lassie’s frustration of “losing” (ugh!) Jamie but the ill-wish under her and Jamie’s bed was unsettling and she had to do something before it escalated even further.

Her mind was calm at first but with each step closer to Laoghaire, holding the damned item in her hand, she was surprised to find an anger – was it anger? - bubble inside her that threatened to come out.

She spotted Mrs. Fitz and Laoghaire, immediately asking for a private conversation with her granddaughter, which she obliged. Now, alone, Laoghaire broke the ice.

“If ye have something to say, say it. I have chores to tend to” Claire didn’t like her tone. She really didn’t and it was pushing her buttons. Claire might’ve – just might’ve - underestimated her a bit.

“Look familiar?” Claire raised the offending stick in front of her.

“Why should it?” Laoghaire innocently said back.

“Because you placed it under my bed” Claire accused.

“What cause would I have to do such a thing?” Laoghaire really wanted to play the dumb card and Claire had to restrain herself from completely lashing out. She took a deep breath and decided to try to talk to her rationally, hoping this path would work.

“Look, I know you have deep feelings for Jamie and that when tender regard is denied, it can be very hurtful, especially in one so young as yourself. I even understand why your jealousy would be directed at me, even though I never conspired to take Jamie away from you.” Claire even surprised herself at the lecture she was suddenly giving. Questions raced in her mind to her sudden claim of Jamie. They were married after all, that’s a big reason, she tried to justify to herself but deep in her gut, Claire knew it wasn’t just that.

It clicked then – it wasn’t just anger for Laoghaire that she felt but a possession of Jamie and all that he was that proceeded from their coupling last night. It was an unexpected realization that she, maybe, wasn’t ready to fully acknowledge just yet but here it was, in display and in full force. “The truth is, he was never yours to begin with.” The words were out of Claire’s mouth even before she comprehended what she just said.

“That’s a lie! Jamie Fraser was – and is – mine!” Laoghaire bit back at Claire, no longer hiding in shadows of her innocence. “And you did us both a wrong past bearing when you stole him away!”

“You’re mistaken, child!” Claire said through gritted teeth. She emphasized on using the word “child” hoping it would put Laoghaire back to her place. The girl knew nothing of what happened in the last 4 weeks of her marriage – how it came to be and how it has grown beyond what any of them could imagine.

“My poor Jamie, trapped in a loveless marriage, forced to share his bed with a cold English bitch” the girl held no bars but Claire thought of last night and could laugh at how inaccurate she was. Trapped, no. Loveless, definitely not. Forced, negative. “He must have to get himself swine drunk every night before he can stand to plow your field.”

Next thing Claire knew was her hand swung and made contact with Laoghaire’s cheek. It was slightly involuntary but she did not feel any regret whatsoever. “I shouldn’t have done that. Sorry” Claire said with as much sincerity as she could but she Laoghaire knew which buttons to press and should’ve, at least, seen that coming.

She didn’t intent to get violent but something about Laoghaire just made her blood boil. Claire knew of Laoghaire’s affections for Jamie, heck, in the few days they’ve been back at Castle Leoch and the story of their marriage broke through the highlands, she heard more and more stories from different girls and women, who, apparently, have lusted over Jamie for years. They spoke gaelic when talking about such matters and sure, she didn’t understand it all but she understood enough. Claire felt a little jealousy but more so pride because at the end of the day, she knew which bed Jamie laid his head on.

Laoghaire held her reddening cheek and Claire saw a shift in her demeanor that told her that it was on. “Aye, I did put that ill-wish ‘neath yer bed in the hope that it would make Jamie hate ye as much as I do.” she confessed. “He belongs with me, and one day, it will be so.” She declared.

“Well, I hope the price you paid wasn’t too dear because that will never happen” Claire said confidently, stepping closer to Laoghaire, using her tall frame to her advantage, but her opponent was going to fight her cause.

“Yer wrong about Jamie just as ye’re wrong about yer friend, Geillis. It was she who sold me the ill wish” Claire’s glass face betrayed her and Laoghaire immediately saw through it. “It surprises ye, doesn’t it? Good.”

She could not believe her friend will do that. Surely, she had no idea what the Laoghaire was to make use of it. But Geillis was there when Jamie took Laoghaire’s beating, been here long enough to learn of the castle’s gossip – that’s not important, she’ll deal with that later.

“Just stay away from me AND my husband.” Claire said in finality, making sure to emphasize who Jamie belonged to then walked away.

Her cheeks were slightly warm from the silly fight with Laoghaire. Damn her and damn Jamie for choosing this woman to have a “swiving” with. She decided to walk back to her surgery hoping to get distance from Laoghaire and the sure gossip she’ll spread around about how Claire mistreated her or something else she’ll make up. More gossip around is sure coming her way.

She opened the door to her surgery to find Jamie sitting on one of tables.

“Jamie! What are you doing here? Are you hurt?” In two strides, she was in front of him, the healer in her in full active mode, rummaging through each part of his body, looking for something wrong.

“Aye, I think there’s a splinter in my hand” Jamie help out in hand and she took it, bringing it close to her face, examining closely how he could’ve managed such a thing in his hand’s calloused state. Just as she was to protest that she can’t see anything, in one swift motion, Jamie grabbed her face and pulled to his lips for a hasty kiss.

Claire went weak to the knees but thankfully, was able to grab at the back of Jamie’s neck for support. The kiss went on and on as if air weren’t an issue, their hands eventually taking stock from Jamie’s curls to Claire’s waist, their heated moment ending with ragged breathes, foreheads close together, Claire perfectly settled between Jamie’s legs with a smile blooming from their lips.

Mine and no one else’s, she professed in her mind.

“Bloody Scot” she joked, tugging him close. This, she thought. This is what it is all about. Just them, in peace, in privacy, in passion, holding each other, whispering sweet nothings to another, trusting, touching, kissing and so much more that they couldn’t (or wouldn’t) define.

“Your bloody scot” Jamie teased back and it hit Claire. She tried to pull away but Jamie chased her with another kiss to her lips and she settled back.

“How much did you hear?” Claire asked, curious. She nor Laoghaire heard anybody enter.

“All of it.” Jamie replied. He was about to grab some bannocks from the kitchen, hoping to find Claire afterwards for some afternoon delight but stopped when he heard her voice echo through the hallways, became surprised when he heard her talking to Laoghaire. He didn’t want Claire to talk to the lass but of course, she didn’t listen to him. Despite that, Jamie was curious and hung back to watch the discussion happen. He had to fight the urge to cut at Laoghaire but his heart swelled each time Claire defended their marriage – he did not need to interfere after all.

“I heard ye demand answers but Laoghaire was acting too innocent. Then ye tried to reason with her but she got triggered and started laying claim on me and insulting our bed. Then my second favorite part, Sassenach, was when yer hand came flying to her cheek. I had to keep myself from cheering ye on.” Jamie kissed her cheek softly sensing her growing embarrassment.

“You don’t mind that I did? Everybody in the castle probably knows about it by now. Do you know the rumors being spread around me?” Claire said, suddenly feeling insecure and vulnerable of Jamie’s coming honest answer.

“No. I knew before I marrit ye that you’d not be the meek and obedient type, Sassenach…that ye’re one fierce lassie who’d always speak her mind, stand up to others especially those in the wrong. No, Claire, I dinna mind. And those rumors around, I kent they aren’t true.” Jamie knew her, the kind of woman she was, the kind not of this century and he didn’t mind at all and if Claire was reading him right, he looked a little proud even.

“What else did you hear?” Claire asked, willing to hear more.

“Then she confessed to putting the ill-wish between us then said something about Geillis, then my favorite thing – when you told her to stay away from me and you” he kissed her on her other cheek. “I ken how it feels when I lay claim to ye but it feels so much better hearing ye say it to other people” Jamie turned to explore her neck and she could feel his smile as he peppered her with soft kisses along the path.

“Jamie?” she called out, her voice a different tone that had him stop his ministrations and look directly in her amber eyes.

“You are mine?” Claire softly but bluntly asked. In the heat of passion, Jamie laid claim on her and now she’s laying and declaring one on him. She needed to know and hear directly from him that there is no one else as long as they were together.

Jamie couldn’t believe the slight hesitation in her tone. Hadn’t she known that she’s owned him since the first time I saw her? That he panicked when she said that she can’t marry him? That every part of his life is now better because of her? She probably didn’t know yet – and now is not the time but he can offer her something else for the meantime.

“Always, mo nighean donn. Always.” He replied and he saw her entire face light up in approval. She brought their lips together again and what started as tenderness, slowly built up to a growing need that led them to finally christen the surgery with their love.

They had their first major fight as a couple and overcame it. Now, everything was set right with them again but the future loomed still unsure. But it didn’t matter because what was important was they wanted each other, they said as much last night in darkness of the evening and proved it again in the morning and it was enough.

They couldn’t say those words yet but now, they had a deeper understanding of their relationship and the feelings within them. There was something more between them and it was a powerful thing that neither of them could stop or deny. What else to do than surrender to it and let it run its course to wherever it takes them.

Unspoken but not for long.

I love you.

I love you, too.

#Outlander #Outlander Fanfic #Outlander Fanfiction #Fanfic #Fanfiction #1x10 #jamie fraser #claire fraser #jamie x claire #laoghaire mackenzie #glenna fitzgibbons #personal

[souslejaune]

During the food shortage my sister... (Folio 1: Part 4)

iii

During the food shortage my sister and I spent our hours reading. In the rainbow world of the written word we found holes in which to hide from the reality of our existence. 

On the news we saw flickering images of flat bodies steamrollered by hunger. People dotted the city waiting for rations of flour and yellow corn. We had never seen yellow corn before the drought, but it was the colour of the corn the American government finally sent us as aid. Ronald Reagan’s yellow reaction to humanitarian pressure. The Americans didn't owe us anything but because the corn was yellow, our gratitude was measured. 

Kenkey, a national staple made from fermented corn: milled, rolled into balls, wrapped in corn husks and punctured in the middle to hold the husks in place and provide better heat transfer; changed its colour from white to yellow like a chameleon. No amount of boiling could make the shade fade. We could no longer identify with our food. 

Grandma’s chronic need to consume kenkey before she declared herself sated meant that she was never full during the drought. Yellow kenkey was a hollow statement. 

Men wandered around with bloodshot eyes seeking answers. The parched ground offered nothing. Even priests and witchdoctors queued for food. There was an air of persistent mourning. Richer families crossed the border to Togo or La Côte D’Ivoire to buy food that had been shipped in from France. The entire West African sub-region was hit by dry Sahelian winds that came to steal moisture from plants and render them barren. Across the region, breezes played a new kind of music – no longer did we hear the harmonious chorus of green shoots; instead a harsh rattle of brown stalks making sticks of themselves invaded the air, assaulting us, striking a frantic rhythm that left dancers spent. France supported its former colonies with vital food shipments. Although they remained hungry in those countries they thinned slower. 

My father drove out into the villages and farming communities where there was still some food, and brought sacks of food home. Plantain, cassava and yam. Tomatoes were scarce. Out of season, they festered like wounds across the nation. There was no infrastructure to process them and our people didn’t like sun-dried tomatoes. Our Uncles and Aunts heard about my father’s haul quickly. Faster than the sweep of bush fires across the farmlands. They came for their “share” of the spoils and later conveniently forgot about us when they managed to get a store of food. My mother told my father that he was too kind-hearted, even though her sister, Stella, was one of the Aunts that came to take our food away. 

All through the drama Naana and I read. We fought in the Spanish Civil War alongside Hemingway’s heroes Anselmo, Pablo, Pilar, Maria and the tragic Robert Johnson. We watched them plot and double cross and fall in love and die. We ached with them. We cried with them until the bell for our single meal tolled. 

In 1984 a Japanese philanthropist called Ryoichi Sasakawa brought food aid to Ghana and started to consult with West African governments on finding a lasting solution to our sensitivity to drought. I immediately read everything I could about Japan. It wasn't easy reading. While I admired them for Judo and for Walkmans, they had a terrifying history of violence; in Malaysia, in the Philippines, in China – even in Russia. They were just like the British in South Africa and India and Kenya. Still, I decried the nuclear bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki and got mad at the United States for putting over 100,000 Japanese Americans in captivity at the end of World War II. The anger came easily. We were still eating yellow kenkey and Grandma was developing a permanent look of hunger. 

That year – 1984 – was an especially difficult year for my sister Naana. She was studying for her A-levels and had to deal with hunger at the same time. Rations at her boarding school reduced dramatically. Her workload increased in an inverse relation to the rations. Predictably, her head appeared to grow ahead of the rest of her body. She looked like a stick drawing by a talented five-year-old. Still, Grandma said she couldn’t afford to weaken or stumble. The exam questions were oblivious to the question of hunger amongst the masses. Universities the world over would still rank us by the same criteria as everyone else, because modern society has no sensitivity to life. I tried to help. Anytime she was home, I read her notes to her when she started doing something that prevented her from reading herself. I read outside the bathroom door. I read in the kitchen and by the ironing table. She began to speak to me like a friend rather than a little brother. We talked about everything and made jokes about our hunger. 

“Don’t hold your finger too close to my face,” she’d say. “It looks too much like food and I might bite.” 

“If you bite, I might think you’re a big fish. Perfect for kenkey.” 

We’d laugh a pained laughter that involved as little motion as possible, although Naana’s head still shook involuntarily anytime she laughed. Every time I made a comparison with something from Great Expectations, which had become my habit after reading the full version that year, her head would shake silently. 

 We were as close as twins until our parents decided that GeeMaa – my father’s mother – should come and live with us, since living alone in hard times is doubly hard. Naana automatically lost her bedroom and had to share mine. I did my best to make it easy for her but I was very untidy, and I refused to move my mounted spider, which gave her the creeps. Sixteen is a terrible age to lose your privacy. Particularly if you are female. Hormones kick in. Unfamiliar cycles become bedmates. Changes occur almost daily. You need time and space to adapt. Apart from the obvious sexual differences, I was a curious boy with a penchant for reading. Her diaries, letters, notes and schoolbooks became targets. She had no inclination to share the soaked blood of her growing pains and concerns with me. I was too wide-eyed. My questions too detailed. We grew apart. 

Nevertheless I think I was good for her. I asked her endless questions about her schoolwork; asked until she could reel off answers without thinking. I also pestered her with information from my favourite information trove – the encyclopaedia – and what I had gleaned from old magazines. 

“Naana, did you know that Somoza Garcia’s dictatorship in Nicaragua was supported by the US?” 

 Impatiently, “No.” 

“Twenty years. Then his brother took over, then his son…” 

“Ebo, I’m trying to study.” 

“Oh, OK. What is it today? I didn’t understand the differentiation thing you explained yesterday.” 

“Ebo!” 

“OK. Just give me the book.” 

 She threw it at me. 

 When I wasn’t with her, I spoke to GeeMaa. 

GeeMaa liked to go for walks. We left our house in Tesano and strolled. Sometimes to the Industrial Area. Sometimes to North Kaneshie. She bought me groundnuts on the way when we could find some. The dusty roads had become dustier still. With fewer traders lining the banks of the open gutters along the roads, the city had become a faded monochrome of its former self. GeeMaa seemed impervious to the despair that clung to the city like grey blight on trees. She told me fantastic stories. Water maidens, sorcerers and the living dead. Being the student I was, turned on by basic science and its neat explanations, questioned her stories. She always smiled when I doubted her. “Mi bi, there are two sides to every story,” she would say. “More than two sometimes.” 

It was the same thing she said when I asked her about my grandfather, FatherGrandpa, whom I had only met twice. She said it with a tender smile. With the quiet assurance that Mr. Wemmick from Great Expectations had when saying “portable property.” The clear air of those who have tested the truth of their statements. On the way home she often recited her favourite poem

Elegy Written In A Country Churchyard by Thomas Gray.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Alone at home with her one afternoon, I told her about my Dee Dee dreams. It was a Friday and I was helping her slice onions in the kitchen. I chopped onions so regularly that I no longer cried when I did. GeeMaa had taken over in the kitchen since she moved in with us. She insisted she had nothing else to do and she didn’t want to be waited on. Her intervention was well-timed. The drought had pushed prices up and, although the food situation was improving, prices showed no inclination of easing down. With GeeMaa living with us my mother didn’t need to be home as much so she went back to work as an accountant. Business was slow in my father’s hardware store; sales of farming implements had reduced to a trickle. He continued to sell cooking utensils and specialist items like laboratory equipment, but his income was not enough to support the family. Undeterred, he contemplated importing irrigation devices from China. He revealed this while we were cleaning his well-kept Datsun. 

“It will be the next big thing,” he announced with a smile. “The drought has taught everyone that rain is not a reliable servant.” 

 My father’s optimism always made me smile.

—–

continued >> here <<… | start from beginning? | current projects: The City Will Love You and a collection of poems, The Geez

#novel #series #fiction #niiayikweiparkes

[raendown]

Chapter 53

@booklovergirl01 You made a post ages ago about a soulmate au where they can taste each other’s food and I finally got around to writing something for it. Not sure if you follow the Naruto fandom or if you ship crack pairings but you asked to be tagged if anyone ever used it. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Anywho folks, whipped up the latest chapter for the Soulmate Collection. Read it under the cut or on AO3!

Pairing: KisameSakura Soulmate au: The one where when one person eats something their soulmate can taste it if they lick their lips

She wasn’t very old when she realized what was happening. When five-year-old Sakura pattered over to her parents and told them that her soulmate must be eating beef they were overjoyed. Many people didn’t have a soulmate and it was considered extremely lucky for those that did. Sakura just wished hers would eat more sugary things. She liked candy and apple sauce and juice. Her soulmate liked to eat beef and fish and pork. She wasn’t so sure that they would be able to agree on anything if they didn’t even like the same foods.

As the years went by Sakura developed a love for fish that she hadn’t had as a toddler. Having it on her lips so often had her craving it, always requesting it for dinner when her opinion was asked. She came to appreciate the days when she could lick the taste of garlic shrimp off her lips in the middle of an academy lecture. Sometimes while on the playground with her friends she would suck on her bottom lip obsessively, chasing the flavor of teriyaki.

There were downsides of course. It was horrible trying to eat her lunch and having her peanut butter sandwich try to mesh with the taste of hard boiled eggs. She tried not to lick her lips whenever her soulmate ate super spicy curry; she was only a fan of the milder spices herself and she knew if she gave in to habit and licked her licks she would spend the next thirty minutes trying to chew the heat off her tongue. She always gave in. It was always horrible.

Sakura was sixteen now and damn annoyed. She was on a diet, did her soulmate not get that? He’d been eating chocolate for the past three days and now she had been stuck with the taste of a sugary glaze on her lips as if she were eating dango. She did not need these cravings, damn it! She was hoping to lose a few more pounds and that simply wouldn’t happen if her soulmate kept eating sweet things and tempting her to fall off the wagon.

Thus was her frustration when Kakashi and Naruto wanted to stop in a dango shop just inside the town they would be staying in for the night. Well, Naruto wanted to and Kakashi wanted Naruto to shut up. Her sensei wasn’t a big fan of sweet but he did enjoy his peace and quiet, which right now would only be achieved by caving to Naruto’s demands for dango. Sakura was fuming with annoyance as the she and her teammate made their way inside, Kakashi slipping off to book them a couple rooms at a nearby inn. She wondered why none of her important people were supporting her personal endeavors. Was it too much to ask that they help her stay away from sugar and bad carbs for just a few more weeks? She didn’t think so.

It was with a sigh that she warily eyed the large plate of delicious, sticky treats that was set on the table before her. Always happy to share with his friends, Naruto had insisted that she order some as well. He’d even paid for them. Sakura felt despair as her fingers played with the sticks, each bearing three different colored dumplings. She was going to give in, she knew she was, but that didn’t mean she would need to feel good about it.

The first bite was almost heavenly, she admitted to herself. She had been sticking to vegetables and low-sugar fruit for nearly a month now and her taste buds virtually sang as that delicious thick glaze slid over her tongue. Was there any sweeter treat than dango?

“Finally!” A gruff voice burst out from the table next to theirs. Sakura looked over curiously – and froze. The two men at the next table were wearing Akatsuki robes! One of them wore a large hat with strips of white silk hanging from the brim, obscuring his identity. The one that she could see was a huge man, muscles rippling under his blue-gray skin and dark blue hair standing nearly straight up under the slashed headband of a Mist Village missing nin.

A quick glance to the side showed Sakura that Naruto hadn’t even noticed their neighbors. Before she could catch his attention the one who sat with his back to her spoke up in a smooth voice.

“What is it?” he asked. He sounded vaguely familiar, though she couldn’t place why.

“I’ve been shoving sweets in my face for days trying to get my soulmate to eat something good! I think the stupid girly’s been on a diet of all things. She’s been eating nothing but rabbit food for weeks!” The large man viciously tore in to the last dango on the stick he held. “I finally gave her a craving she couldn’t ignore! She just ate some dango!”

Sakura blinked, looking down at the stick dripping glaze on to her fingers.

“You always say ‘she’. How do you know it’s a woman?” the smooth-voiced one asked.

“Easy. I like girlies.” The big one shrugged. “Why would my soulmate be a man if I’m not attracted to them?”

“You think too simply.”

“And you complicate everything.”

Sakura swallowed and rested her sweets on her plate. Naruto remained oblivious, munching away without a care in the world. It had to be a coincidence, right? It couldn’t possibly be her. There was no way she was soulmates with a member of the Akatsuki!

Determined to prove herself right – and maybe gain a little peace of mind as well – Sakura dug through the pouch on her hip, fingers sorting through each item by touch until she found the one she wanted. The ration bar she extracted was probably at least ten years old. It was a running joke among the jōnin to never ask how old your ration bars were because they were probably still eating the original ones made when the village was founded. Sakura detested them as much as the next person but they were packed with just enough nutrients to keep you healthy with no extraneous additives. They were the perfect health food even if they tasted like wet cardboard rolled in ash with a drizzle of three day old gravy.

With her eyes trained on the large man at the next table, unconsciously memorizing his unique shark-like features, she unwrapped her bar and made sure Naruto was still distracted by his meal. Then she raised it to her lips and took a bite, deliberately smothering the disgusting taste all around her mouth.

“Ugh!” She froze at the same time that the large man did. “What the hell, Girly!?”

“Gone back to sensible foods, has she?”

“I went through all the trouble of convincing her to eat something good and just when I think she’s giving in – what the hell did she just eat?” His tongue hung out for a brief moment in an exaggerated face of disgust. Then he realized this wasn’t helping; he should keep his tongue away from his lips if he didn’t want to keep tasting it.

“Well?” his companion seemed slightly amused at his predicament, though it was hard to tell through the flat tone.

“I don’t know what that was but if she takes another bite of it I am eating nothing but sugar until she gets the point!”

Sakura lowered the ration bar, swallowing with some difficulty. Only one more step to test, one more step and she would have convinced herself of the opposite of what she had been trying to convince herself. Reluctantly, cringing, she reached for her dango. She plucked one of the dumplings off its sewer, took a deep breath and closed her eyes, then popped the whole thing in her mouth.

With her eyes closed she chewed as fast as she could, licking the sweet syrup from her fingers. When she heard a startled but pleased noise she winced, cracking one eyelid open to see her target grinning. His teeth were all pointy and sharp looking. In the very back of her mind she noted that it was kind of attractive.

“There you go! Back on track! I dunno what happened there but she’s gone back to the dango again.” He nodded to himself in satisfaction. “Good choice, Girly.”

“These updates on your soulmate’s eating habits are riveting, I assure you,” his companion drawled.

Her soulmate rolled his eyes and before he even opened his mouth she knew they were about to start bickering. It was obviously from the expression on his face that he was slightly offended by that comment. Sakura, however, wasn’t able to listen in on their little spat.

“Naruto, Sakura,” a quiet voice hailed both of their attentions. They both turned their heads to see that Kakashi-sensei had slipped in to the shop without either of them noticing. He was sitting on the opposite bench from her, beside Naruto, and his gaze was trained on the same spot hers had just been. “I want you to stay quiet Naruto but do you know who that is at the next table?”

“Kakashi-sensei,” Sakura whispered. He met her eyes, his eyebrow raising at the slightly worried look on her face. “I think that big one is my soulmate.”

His eyebrow lifted even higher and his hand shot out to cover Naruto’s mouth just in time to muffle the incredulous shout from the boy’s mouth. She and her teacher held each other’s gazes for a long time, speaking without words. She watched the calculating look fade away to be replaced with what she might almost call sympathy – strange from a man who so rarely showed his emotions.

“That changes things, doesn’t it?” he said to her softly. Sakura wanted to hug him for being so understanding. She didn’t. She respected her old teammate’s boundaries. So instead she simply nodded and looked back over to see her large blue-skinned soulmate jabbing one finger against the wooden tabletop as he made some point or other.

“Gah!” Naruto gasped in a breath as he finally managed to pull Kakashi’s hand away from his face. “But doesn’t Itachi travel with that guy? I’ve seen him before! I’d swear he’s the guy who’s partnered up with Itachi!”

“Two birds, one stone,” Kakashi murmured, the corners of his eye crinkling in a smile that Sakura didn’t need to see in order to know that it wasn’t friendly at all.

The fight, when they ambushed the pair in a dark alley, was short but brutal. Itachi didn’t put up nearly as much of a fight as he was capable of when he noticed that their main focus was on securing his partner’s capture instead. His Sharingan eyes took in the way Sakura was looking at the large man and, curious, allowed himself to be restrained. In the way that he always did, Naruto immediately busted out with his trusty Talk-no-Jutsu. He pleaded with Itachi for the reasons behind his actions and begged for his help to being Sasuke back home. Sakura would have been amazed that he actually seemed to be succeeding if she weren’t so distracted by the tall muscle-bound man beside him.

“You didn’t seem to like the taste of my ration bar,” she said with as much confidence as she could muster. “So if you give us any trouble you can be sure we’ll both be having them for dinner.” His eyes widened as her meaning settled over him. Then his mouth split in a sharp grin, teeth glinting in the low light.

“Hello Girly,” he said. “You’re a pretty one, though you could use a little more meat on your bones. The name’s Kisame; you?”

“Sakura,” she breathed, entirely unaware of the enraptured expression she wore, falling in love from the very first word.

Team 7 abandoned the rather inconsequential mission in favor of bringing their prisoners back to the village. No one thought it was strange that Kisame made no effort to free himself. Indeed, he seemed happy to follow where ever Sakura wished to lead him.

#soulmate collection #rae writes #kisasaku #kisame #sakura #naruto #kakashi #fanfiction #naruto shippuden

[thebearwitchproject]

Grandfather Tales; Wicked John and the Devil

NOTE: If you just want the story of Wicked John and the Devil scroll down past my set up of how I learned Richard Chase’s Grandfather Tales to next set of bold print. If you enjoy sappy memory stories about grandparents keep reading. If you really enjoyed the story and want to read some of my insights and a discussion on why I would probably end up just as “wicked” as Wicked John keep reading after the story. At the very least if you enjoy this folktale and would like to see others like it reblog, like, or comment on this post. I have a wide array of folklore texts in my personal library and enjoy sharing them with others. I would love to work my way through all 24 of the Grandfather Tales the way I have done with Wicked John and the Devil but I will only do so if there seems to be an audience for such work. Constructive criticism, friendly commentary and continued discussion is always welcomed and encouraged!

As far back as I can remember I have loved folklore, ghost stories, myths, and legendary tales. A lot of this probably stems from growing up for the most part in my grandmother’s house. I am the oldest grandchild on that side of the family by several years and both of my grandparents were in retirement but the time I came along. My grandparents house was my second home. I rode the same bus to school in the morning from my house as I did to my grandma’s house. They no longer live in that house as after my grandfather had a stroke (and is pushing 93 years old) they could no longer handle the upkeep, steep drive way or two sets of steps to their bedroom. But from the time I was 3 to 8th Grade I rode the bus after school to this house.

I am fortunate that I still have both grandparents on my Dad’s side and even more fortunate for the close relationship I have with my grandma. She taught me to read, write, tell stories, and to use my imagination. My grandma was a school teacher in rural North Carolina. She taught for over 50 years and then turned around and basically taught me for another 10. The thing that I loved most as a child and even today at 30 years of age are her stories. She grew up on a North Carolina tobacco farm during the Great Depression and there are so many stories just from her childhood that that I could write a book. 

Being with her was a constant stream of folklore and stories. Sometimes the stories she told me just recast me in my favorite movie at the time (the plots of both Home Alone and Home Alone II: Lost in New York were definitely ripped off many times. Sorry John Hughes) and sometimes they were stories that she had memorized and told over and over again in her classroom.  I loved her stories so much that they became a way to fight my picky eating habits. When I (as I often did) would leave the veggies on my plate during dinner or the weekly full family Sunday lunch she would entice me to eat them by telling me a story. She would tell the story to up to a point and say “Eat a bean” if I refused it was the end of the story. If i wanted to hear the rest of the story I had to eat my veggies (they were always green beans though, usually canned, and I have my own Green Bean Story that gets laughs when told).  

The most memorable stories she told me all come from a book called Grandfather Tales collection by the great storyteller and folklorist Richard Chase. If you aren’t familiar with his work you then you should definitely check out either Grandfather Tales or his collection Jack Tales. And now I am finally at the point of this rather long-winded post. As I have been researching folklore from the Blue Ridge Mountains to help inform my practice I have found my way back to the stories of my childhood. Stories that I have often told to anyone who would listen long enough to hear my versions. What follows is the full text of one of those stories and one of my favorite from Grandfather Tales. After the text of the actual story at the end of this post will also be some commentary about the story both from my reading of the text and from the notes provided by Chase in the Appendix of Grandfather Tales. So with no further ado, I give you:

Wicked John and the Devil (as retold by Richard Chase in Grandfather Tales)

One time there was an old blacksmith that folks called Wicked John. They say he was right mean: never would join the church, never did go to meetin’.  always laughed about folks gettin’ saved and being baptized and sech. One thing about him, though, mean as he was, he always did treat a stranger right. And one mornin’ a old beggar came along: Crippled up, walkin’ on two sticks, all bent over if rheumatism, look right hungry-like. Stood there in the door, and Wicked John fin’lly hollered at him says, “Come on in! Whyn’t ye come on in and sit down?” So the old beggar he heaved over the doorsill, sat down on it, and they talked a while. Wicked John he kept right on workin’, talkin’ big, and directly he throwed  his hammer down and went to the house. Come back with a big plate of viddles: boiled sweet potato, big chuck of ham-meat, greens, beans, big slice of cake, and a glass of sweet milk. Says, “Here old man! You might make out with these rations- if there's anything here you can eat.”

The old beggar thanked him and started in eatin’, and old John he went on with his work. Well he was a-hammerin’ and around over there, sort of watchin’ the beggar man, and pretty soon he saw him lay that plate and the glass to one side and start to get up. He let them two sticks fall to the ground and commenced straightenin’ up, straightenin’ up, and all the kinks come out of him, till the next thing Wicked John knowed, a big stout-lookin’ man wa r’ared up there in the door: had a long white beard and white hair, white robe right down to  his feet, and a big key in his hand. Old John had done dropped his hammer and was a-standin’ there with his mouth hangin’ open and his eyes popped out. So the old man says to him, says, “Well John, I'm Saint Peter. Yes that's who I am, and once every year to see can I find any decent folks left down here, and the first man treats me right I always give him three wishes. So you can just go ahead now and take your three wishes. Anything you’ve a mind to, you can just wish for it and hit’ll be that-a-way.”

Wicked John looked over there at Saint Peter sort of grinning like he didn't think it was really so, says, well, Peter, you better let me study on in a minute. Three wishes. Lord!”

Looked around, started wishin’ on the first thing popped into his head. He didn't care!

“Well now, I've got a fine old high-back rockin’ chair there by the door, and when I get my work done up I like to sit in my rocker, but, don't you know, every day nearly, blame if there ain't somebody done gone and got there ahead of me- One of these loafers hanging around in here of an evenin’. Makes me mad! And I just wish:- that anybody sits in my old rocker but have to stay there and  rock right on so I let ‘em get up.”

“Aaa Lord- Lemme see now. Well, there's my old sledge hammer. It's them blame boys come in here and get to messin’ with it, take it out there across the road, see how big a rock they can bust, and con-found I don't have to go out there ever’ time I need it and hunt for it wear them feisty boys have done gone and dropped it down there in the grass somewhere. And I jest wish:- that anybody teches my sledge hammer would have to pound with it. And keep right on a-poundin’ till I let ‘em stop.”

Well, Saint Peter he looked kind of sorry like he thought old John was a-wastin’ his wishes pretty bad, but that old blacksmith he was mean, like I said, just didn't care about nothin’ or nobody. Looked around at Saint Peter right mischievious-like, grinned sort of devilish says “Well alright, Now-- I got a fine form Bush just outside the door there, fire book, it's full of red blooms real early in the spring of the year; and I like my old Firethorn, but confound everybody comes here to get their horses shoed, blame If they don't trample all over that bush, back there wagons into it, break it down; and Aaa Lord these highfalutin folks come over the mountain a-fox huntin’. Humph! Fox-huntin’ in red coats!- looks like they jest got to have ridin’ switches ever’ time they pass. And I jest wish: anyboyd teches my fire thorn, it ‘uld catch ‘em and hold ‘em right down in the middle of all them stickers till I let ‘em out.”

Well, Saint Peter he stepped over the door sill and he was gone from there and we could John couldn't tell which way he went in or nothin’.

So that old blacksmith he kept on blacksmithin’ in his blacksmith shop, and it wasn't long till John and his old woman they got to fussin’. Well, she was jawin’ at him and jawin’ at him and he jus jawed right back at her, till fin’lly she told him, says, “The Devil take you anyhow, old man! I jest wish he would!”

So that day the old man was a-workin’ in his shop, look up and there was a little devil a-standin’ in the door, says, “Daddy said he'd take ye now. Said for me to bring you right on back.”

“ All right, son. I'll be ready to go with ye in just a few more licks. Reckon you can let me finish this horseshoe. Come on in. I'll not be a minute or two.”

Well, the little devil he stepped over into the shop, hung around while, and then he went straight and sat down in that old high-backed rocker, but the more he tried to get up the worse that old chair rocked him, till that little devil’s head was just a-goin’ whammity- ban! Against the chairback. And fin’lly he got to beggin’ and hollerin’ for Wicked John to let him go.

“All right. I’ll let ye go if you go on out of here and not bother me no more.”

So the little devil said yes, he'd go, and when the chair quit rocking, he jumped out of it and a whippity cut out the door he flew.

Well, not long after that the old woman she lit into the old man again about somethin’ or other; and they was a-havin’ it! She was just a-fussin’, and he was just a-laughin’ at her, till fin’lly she stomped around, says “I’ll jest tell ye, old man! The Devil can have ye right now for all I care! He shore can! He can send for ye and take ye off from here, and the sooner the better. That’s all there are to it now!”

That day another little devil come to the door of the shop, little bigger’n the first ‘un, says ”Come on old man, Daddy sent me for ye. Said for me not to wait for nothing, bring ye right on back. So come on now, and we'll go.”

“All right son. Yes, indeed. I'm jest about ready. Come in, and I know you'll let me hit a few more licks on this wagon-tire. I'm bound to finish hit ‘fore we start.”

Well, that little devil he come on inside the shop, got to hangin’ around lookin’ at what old John was doing, seen he was havin’ it kind of awkward the way he had to hold on to the wagon-tire and beat it with one hand, says “ Here, old man, you hold it and let me beat it. We got to hurry or Daddy’ll get after me for staying so long.”- Picked up the old sledgehammer laying there on the ground, starting in poundin’.

so we could John he held the wagontire up and turned it where he wanted it fixed, and when it was done he pulled it out from under the hammer between lips, set it against the wall. And when the little devil try to let go of the hammer handle, he just stuck to it and hit a-poundin’ right on. Well, the way the old sledge swang that little devil around in there, a-jerkin’ him up and down with his legs a-flyin’ ever’ which-a-way- hit was a sight in this world! So he got to  beggin’, “Please let me go! Please, sir! Make this thing turn loose of me!”

“All right. I'll let ye go if you get on out of here and don't never come back. Ye hear?”

The little devil said yes, he heard and no, he'd not be back never no more; and then he fell off the hammer-handle and out the door he streaked.

Well, a few days after that the old woman she started raisin’ another racket. They hadn't spoke many words for she r’ared back and stuck her hands on her hips, hollered at him, says, “Old man I just wish the puore- old- Devil himself would come and git ye! I shore do! Now you get on out of here ‘fore I knock you in the head with this stick of firewood!”

So old John he dodged The Stick of wood and laughed at the old lady, and went on out to his shop, and- sure enough, he hadn't any more’n gotten started workin’ ‘fore he looked up and there standin’ in the door with the Old Boy himself, with his horns and his tail and that old cow’s foot of his’n propped up on the sill, says, “COME ON NOW, OLD MAN! AND I AIN’T A-GOIN’ TO TAKE NO FOOLISHNESS OF YE NEITHER!”

“Yes, sir! No, Sir! I’m ready to go, mister, right now. I jest got to finish sharpenin’ this mattick. Promised a man I’d get it done first thing this mornin’. Come on in and sit down.

“NOW! I’LL NOT SIT IN NO CHAIR OF YOUR’N!’

“All right, sir. All right. We’ll be ready to go quicke’n you can turn around if you’d jest give this mattick blade a lick or two while I hold it here. There’s the sledge hammer leanin’ there on the doorsill.”

“NO! I AIN’T GOIN’ TO TECH NO SLEDGE HAMMER!” says the Old Devil. Says, “YOU DONE MADE ME MAD ENOUGH ALREADY, OLD MAN I DIDN’T LIKE A BIT THE WAY YOU DONE MY BOYS, AND I A-TAKIN’ YOU OFF FROM HERE RIGHT NOW. YOU HEARD ME!”

And the old Devil reached in and grabbed Wicked John by the back of his collar, started raggin’ him out. So old John he started in fightin’: punchin, knockin’, beatin’, poundin’, scratchin’ kickin’ bitin’. They had several rounds there just outside the door, made the old Devil awful mad, say, “CONFOUND YE, OLD MAN! I’M GOIN’ TO LICK THE HIDE OFF YOU RIGHT NOW. JEST SEE IF I DON’T-- WHERE’LL I GET ME A SWITCH?”

The old Devil looked around and reached for that bush, and time he touched it, hit grabbed him and wropped around him, jerked him headforemost right down into the middle of that bush where them thornes were the thickest. The old Devil he tried to get loose but the more he thrashed around in there, the worse he got scratched up till fin’lly he just stayed right still, with his legs a-stickin’ out the top of the bush.

“Mister”

“What ye want?”

“Please, sir, let me out of here.”

“All right. I’ll let ye go on one condition:- you, and none of your boys, don’t none ye never come up here a-botherin’ me no more. Ye hear? You promise me that and I might let ye go.”

“Heck yes, I’ll promise,” says the old Devil. “I’ll not come, and I’ll not send nobody neither- not never no more.”

So the bush turned him loose, and sech a kickin’ up dust you never did see. The Old Boy left there and he wasn’t moseyin’ neither.

Well, Wicked John he kept on blacksmithin’ and he wasn’t bothered by o more devils. And after a long time he died and he went on up to the pearly gates. When he got there he knocked, and Saint Peter opened up a little crack, looked out, says, “Ot, it’s you, is it? What ye want?

“Well,” old John told him,”I thought I might stand some little show of gettin’ in up here.”

“You? Why old man, don’t you know we got your record in yonder? I’ll tell ye right now; I was lookin’ at your accounts just the other day; and on the credit side-yes- you have a few entries ‘way up at the top of the page; but on the other side- why man! Hit’s fille up right down to the bottom line. There hain’t a chance in the world of your gettin’ in this place.” And Saint Peter started shuttin’ the gates to.

So old John turned around and down the stairsteps he went. Got down there on the road to hell, a-staggerin’ along with his hand ins his pockets a-whistlin’/ And when he come in sight of the gates of hell, one of them little devils happened to peak out.

“Daddy! O Daddy! Look a-yonder!”

The old Devil come runnin’ and when he saw who it was a-comin’ he hollered out, says, “Bar the door, boys! Bar the door!”

Them little devils grabbed the big gates and slammed ‘em to quick, tuned the key in the lock. So when Wicked John come on up and looked through the bars there stood the old Devil with his young ‘uns crowdin’ around behind him just a-tremblin’.

“Uh-unh!” the old Devil says. “Get on away from here now! No, indeed, you ain’t comin’ in! I’ll not have ye! Don’t ye come no closter! You just turn around right there now, and put off from here.”

Wicked John studied a minute, says, “Well con-found! I don’t know what’n the nation to do now. Saint Peter wouldn’t let me in up yonder, and here you’ve done locked me out. Why, I don’t know where to go!”

So the Devil he looked around, grabbed him up a set of tongs, reached in the furnance, and got holt on a hot coal. Handed it out the bars, says, “Here old man, you jest take this chunk of fire, and go on somewhere else, and start you a hell of your own.

Old John he took it; and they tell me that if you go down to the Great Dismal Swamps, you can kook out of a night and see a little bob of light a-movin’ along out there. And some folks call it the Jacky-my-latern and some call it the will-o’-the-whisp- but I reckon you know now who it is.

If you feel like reading some of how I engage with the text feel free to keep reading below. What started as a simple post morphed into an almost essay length discussion of the story that I would love to discuss with other readers. Also see the end of this post for some information about future plans to do more posts like this one in the future.

There are quite a few elements to this story that makes it such an entertaining tale and it’s no surprise that it’s one of the earlier story in Chase’s collection. Grandfather Tales its self is made up of 24 different stories and like Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales or Boccaccio’s Decameron uses a framing narrative to tell the stories. The book is written as though a Grandfather is telling all of these stories to Chase (an outsider) and his grandchildren on an Appalachian Old Christmas Eve (or Twelfth Night Eve). There are no Scrooges, sugar plum fairies, or twelve little reindeer pulling Santa’s sleigh in these tales. They are stories out of the Appalachian landscape, with an Appalachain voice. Which brings me to the first thing I love about this story ( and the others in the book) the dialect of how the stories are written. 

As former actor and student of theatre dialect work is some of the most fun work to do and when I tell these stories I lay it on thick. It’s hard not to. It is engrained in the story. It’s what makes telling them so fun. I always joke with my husband (also a native North Carolinian and a far better actor than I ever was) that you can tell when we are talking to our grandmothers on the phone because the accent that we worked hard to neutralize for stage comes out as soon as we start talking with them. My grandma can pick out someone from her childhood county out of a crowd just by the way they talk. She calls it the Person County accent. (There is also a Person County Song that is fond of singing if prompted.) I love the way that Chase writes the dialect into the text. Some of my favorite words used in this story are fin’lly not finally, the use of jest for just, shore for sure. I also just adore the comic book level quality onomatopoeia phrases whimmyity-bang and wippity-cut describing just how fast the little devils run away from Wicked John’s tricks.

Getting into the story itself I am really taken of how this story handles the folkloric Devil as trickster trope present in a lot of Southern folktales. Though the Devil (or Old Boy) could fill in a trickster role in this tale Wicked John out-tricks the trickiest trickster of them all.  There are plenty of other stories about the Devil being outwitted or bested by a mortal in Souther folklore, but for me this one is up there with Johnny and his fiddle. Its truly an epic reversal that the Devil gets tricked in such a way by someone living a pretty mundane life as a blacksmith.

Is Wicked John Really All That Wicked?

Now the text doesn't provide us with a lot of information about Wicked John and how he got that nickname. It does tell us that he: “never would join the church, never did go to meetin’.  Always laughed about folks gettin’ saved and being baptized and sech.” Now if making fun of people who go to church, or who are “saved-again” Christians is a crime for which one can earn the nickname “Wicked” then I defenitley qualify for that title as well. But this does tell us a lot about the culture that is telling us this story. One steeped in religion and superstition. But whats even more curious is how even though he is a “Wicked” man in the public eye the text paints him as very hospitable. He opens his house to a stranger and feeds him without question and this seems to have been common practice for John. Full scale wars have been fought and epic poems have been written as a result of betrayals in hospitality (yes I am looking at you The Illiad and not the dumpster fire that is the film Troy but I digress)  How is John “wicked” when he is known for his hospitable nature? I guess his wife would have some words to say about that, and as we see with his devilish visitors his hospitality only extends so far...

One could argue that the three wishes that are granted to him by Saint Peter (according to the notes his transforming visitor is sometimes Saint Patrick instead) are testaments to his wicked ways and even question just how hospitable John truly is but hear me out. John seems to be a rather hard working man. He’s a blacksmith, like I can’t think of a more backbreaking, labor intensive, or hotter premodern era job than being a blacksmith. He works all day swinging a heavy sledge hammer, getting things red hot and using all of his energy to do so. All of the thing he requests for wishes really go back to his work.  They are pretty simple wishes in fact. He doesn’t wish for riches, immortality, a less naggy wife ( I know, I know, I am certainly not thrilled with the way that the story portrays John’s wife or their marriage either. But come on she's the one who throws a stick of firewood at him even if he did do something that deserved a tongue lashing from her.) He simply wishes to be able to enjoy things THAT ARE ALREADY HIS! At the end of a long day’s work in his workshop John just wants to sit in his antique rocking chair, but no. He has to wish for his chair to be bewitch because people come over and sit down in his favorite antique chair WITHOUT PERMISSION. Then they don’t offer him his own damn chair when he is done with work for the day. I certainly understand this gripe. I often want to sit on my sofa or armchair after a long day at work and I certainly don’t always feel like entertaning uninvited guests, especially when I have been working in a hot workshop all day! I would probably wish for the same thing if I was in John’s shoes. 

Now I can totally understand if you think the rocking chair situation is a bit extreme. You might be saying “But what about John being so hospitable? How is not letting people sit in a rocking chair being a good host?” But I in no way blame John for his second wish. John wishes for his sledge hammer to be bewitched so the neighborhood kids will stop stealing it from the shop and throwing it outside or using it with out permission. I TOTALLY GET why he makes a wish for a magic sledge hammer. 

Having worked in costume shops off and on for around 11 years I know I get infuriated when I step away from the sewing machine I am using at the moment for a quick break and come back to it being rethreaded in a completely different color. It’s a pretty quick fix for me, but still its a headache I rather not deal with. Now imagine if you will you’re a blacksmith, after a grueling day of labor you close up your shop for the day, put away your tools, get things set up for work the next morning. You go home, (more than likely in this case next door) and don’t want to think about work for a few hours. That’s completely understandable! What would you do if the neighborhood kids STEAL YOUR FUCKING TOOLS, TRY AND CRUSH ROCKS WITH THEM AND THEN LEAVE THEM OUTSIDE FOR YOU TO HAVE TO FIND ON YOUR OWN? You can't say you blame John for making this wish. I certainly don’t

Now John’s final wish for his fire thorn bush seems at first glance kind of a thrown away opportunity for improving his life in a more meaningful way but lets pick this a part. The reason John wishes for his bush to fight back is because people of a higher socio-economic bracket keep a) breaking off and stealing switches, aka branches off his property and b) his clients keep running over or trampling the bush. Again I find John completely justified in his wish. 

When it’s all said and done all of John wishes relate back to work in a way and at the end of his long workday John simply wants to enjoy rocking in his chair, people not to fuck with his tools and get to enjoy his favorite shrubbery. Simple requests. If all of this makes John a “wicked” man, then maybe I am just as guilty of being “wicked” myself.

 Before wrapping this post up I want to highlight a few more things that I find really interesting about this story. They aren’t super integral to the stories plot but they are common among folktales and I just want to point them out. The text’s use of three, the story’s myth like ending and a few of the notes about the text by Chase. It’s really easy to notice all the use of threes several times in this story. You have the three wishes, three enchanted tools, three visiting devils and by the end of the story the three other worldly realms ( heaven, hell and The Great Dismal Swamp) and as we all know the use of three is pretty common in these types of stories (The Three Little Pigs, Goldilocks and the Three Bears, Three Billy Goats Gruff, etc.) but its always useful to call attention to things. I am also taken by how the story ends. You don’t realize to the end of the tale that not only are you getting a trickster tale but at the end you are getting a explanatory myth/legend for unexplained phenomena in the Great Dismal Swamp. It’s a pretty clever explanation and rather unexpected. 

Finally there are just a few notes from the book’s Appendix I want to bring attention to. This story like all the stories in this collection are retold by Chase after collecting them from storytellers through out the North Carolina and Virginia stretch of the Appalachian Mountains. This particular story was told to Chase by several different folks across the region.  A mother and daughter from Charlottesville VA (my current hometown) and another person farther west in Bristol, VA. Chase also notes that in other tellings of the story John is referred to as Jack, he is sometimes characterized as a drunk and in some versions he is a shoemaker and not a blacksmith. Also according to the notes the fire thorn bush in question is a Japan Quince (Cydonia Japonica). 

This post is certainly longer than I planned it to be but there is so much to pull out of this story, it’s why I chose it to write about. I would would love to hear your comments, interpretations and feelings about the story.  All of the stories in Chase’s work were collected from the Scots-Irish/ English colonists and their descendants that settled this part of the Appalachians but I would be fascinated to hear other versions of this story that  may approach it from a different cultural lens or landscape.  I know have defentielty adapted it a few ways myself when I have told it to an audience. 

I am thinking about working my way through all 24 stories in Grandfather Tales in a similar fashion as I have this one. If you found this post (essay really) useful in anyway please feel free to reblog it, like it, comment or send me an ask or PM. The more response I get to this post the more likely I will be to working my way through the whole book and there are some really great stories to share. 

At the very least I am planning to share and analyze at least three more of my favorite stories from Grandfather Tales, the chilling jump-scare tale Chunk O’Meat, The Weekend at Bernie’s-esque Old Drye Frye and my absolutely favorite story to tell any time I can get a captive audience Gallymanders.

#appalachia #americanfolklore #virginia folklore #Blue Ridge Mountains #north carolina folklore #childhoodmemories #folklore #folklorefriday