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keilemlucent · 4 years

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lavender latte: i

(T (for now!))

hawks | takami keigo x reader

chapter 2 || chapter 3 || chapter 4

ao3

word count: ~3k

You serve Hawks a lavender, oat milk latte. Not only is he hooked on your drinks, but he's also hooked on you as well.

a fluffy multi-chaptered piece i’ll release when i’m feeling it :’^) enjoy y’all. coffee shop au hell

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You and Keigo met each other on the coldest, snowiest day of the year.

The temperature was near glacial. The air stung and bit like hell, wind kicking and spitting powdery snow as it fell in sheets from the grey sky.

The weather, horribly, prevented two of your coworkers from working the morning shift at the tea shop. Half of the trains were shut down across the city in addition to power outages. But, your cheap ass owner forced you to open. Alone. In a blizzard.

You were fairly certain that you wouldn’t be getting many customers.

Opening at the tea shop on a normal day was a hellish amount of work. As you unlocked the door and walked into your humble establishment of employment, you grimaced at the thought of all of the work you were to do.

After disrobing from your thick winter jacket, scarf, and mittens and throwing on your apron, it was time to begin. You made yourself a simple, oat milk latte and then started to get to work setting up for the day.

It was hardly dawn.

Keigo was on early morning patrol. It wasn’t his favorite shift, oh, hardly, but he did enjoy watching the sunrise. And, while his wings were powerful, the snowstorm did force him to fly much lower in the grey haze of the day than he normally would. Stepping out of his apartment around just before 5:30 AM, Keigo almost moaned in anguish at the cold. He was infinitely glad he had worn a thermal bodysuit under his uniform.

His quirk afforded him much in terms of battle prowess, in addition to a few avian mutations. Most notably at that moment was his difficulty conserving heat. As Keigo stood on his balcony, frowning at the can of coffee in his hand, he made the prompt decision to fly to his area of patrol and grab a hot drink. The thought of downing something cold made his stomach turn.

Gracefully, Keigo turned and flew, letting himself be carried across town. The area he was patrolling was relatively quiet, mostly small businesses and lower-middle-class apartments. As he touched down, shivering and sleepy, he padded through the empty streets with his wings folded to his back.

The wind was wild, wiping between buildings, making snowdrifts that blocked some of the doors of shops nearby. Part of you cursed, shaking your head. You desperately wanted to be warm, curled in bed with your cats, and watching cartoons.

You set up the shop, moving chairs and turning on machines. Though you were a tea shop, you sold more coffee than any sort. On a normal, fully-staffed day, you’d be in the back, crafting tea blends. But, that day was, in fact, a very abnormal day and it was about to get weirder.

Keigo meandered around the streets, strangely at genuine ease. There were no civilians and very few stores open allowing him to walk freely, albeit coldly. Part of him wondered if he would even find a coffee shop.

But lo and behold, he did.

Keigo opened the door, a cute bell ringing. The shop was themed warmly with yellow-toned wood counters and furnishings. There was a smattering of local art on the walls and jewel-toned accents. All in all, it was a cozy reprieve from the icy nature of outside. Keigo relished the heat.

It seemed only one person was working, you.

When you heard the bell sounding at the entrance of a customer, you piped up from behind the counter, “Just one sec!”

A kind laugh, “Take your time.”

You were struggling to reach a tea blend. It was high on the many shelves behind the counter. You clamored on top of the counter, rising on your knees to try and reach it. Your hands stretched to grip it with an arch of your back. You grinned in victory as you managed to grab it. You pulled back, miscalculating in your pride—

And then you were losing balance.

And then you were falling.

(How fucking cliche).

You would’ve hit the floor if it wasn’t for some unknown force, pushing you back onto the counter, steadying you. The sensation, new, perked you up, causing you to let out a high noise of surprise. You turned, your eyes going wide.

Several beautiful, scarlet feathers caught your fall.

Your eyes flickered up to your patron savior.

Number two hero, Hawks, smiling at you and giving you a bit of cheshire grin, stifling a laugh.

You slowly descended from the counter, turning to face him at the register, “Well, I really have to say thank you. I nearly ate shit there.”

“All in a day's work,” Hawks winked at you. You beamed easily. Local heroes came and drank at the shop fairly regularly, but never anyone particularly famous, let alone the top ten. Never the incredibly stunning, wind-whipped bachelor hero that was Hawks.

“What can I get for you today?” You asked, going for a notepad.

Hawks eyes scanned the menu behind you. He hummed, pretty, amber eyes settling back on you, “Surprise me.”

Your eyes widened, but you nodded. You couldn’t stop smiling.

“Alright, let me ask a few questions, just to make your drink the best it can.” You told him. “First off, hot or iced?”

“Oh, definitely hot,” Hawks almost wiggled a feathered eyebrow at you and you couldn’t help rolling your eyes.

“Okay, how much caffeine? Any allergies?” You asked, scribbling an idea down on the notepad. “Milk preference?”

“As much as you can legally supply me with, no preferred milk, and no allergies. Though, I do like things sweet,” Hawks was removing his gloves as he spoke. “Go crazy, give me the best thing you got, angel. Something that gives me the warm and fuzzies.”

Oh, that was a move.

Hawks was notoriously (in the media) shamelessly flirtatious with fans and other heroes. It was always painted as something that was in good fun, never sexual, and just part of his brand. This was just common knowledge, but god you never expected it to be directed at you with a cute pet name.

“On it,” You smiled back at him, face hot. You smoothed yourself down before beginning to craft his drink.

It wasn’t often that you worked the front counter, and there was a good reason for it. Most of the time, you got too into making drinks, customizing them frivolously (often due to your quirk). Though you were skilled, it took a lot of time that people didn’t have for a coffee run.

But, on the day of a momentous snowstorm, you and Hawks had all the time in the world.

Keigo was a bit stunned by you.

You were cute, one.

You were wearing a soft-looking turtleneck sweater, and high-waisted, wide-leg pants. They were fashionable but obviously aged. But it worked. A cute, embroidered apron was tied over you snuggly around your waist. It was adorned with buttons and pins, brightly colored.

You spoke so frankly to him. You didn’t gawk at him for even a second, even when his feathers propped you up from falling. You blushed at his pet name but didn’t seem any more fazed than a bit of embarrassment. He liked it. It felt normal.

Keigo rested his hands on the counter, watching you flit about behind the counter.

“I gotta ask, why are you open in this blizzard??” Keigo tilted his head as your gaze flickered to him. You were still smiling, just a bit, even hard at work.

You snorted, “Cheap boss who won’t close, and my coworkers are stranded without the trains running. I live close by and work hourly, so I might as well come in, ya’ know?”

Hawks laughed, something warm and full, so juxtaposed to the storm of flurries outside.

It was odd, talking to the number two fucking hero so casually, but it felt good. There was a sense of awe and idleness, but it dimmed. There were no flashy heroics, just one person wanting a drink and the other making it.

Your quirk activated on its own as you stared at the syrups. Your quirk’s tell was so small and normal, no one ever caught it. A heavy dilation of the eyes was not something most people were tuned into. Yet there you were, submerged in sensation. Touch, sight, smell, taste, even sound, all blending together. They elicited something deeper in you, creating something abstract you could make tangible.

To make a feeling into a physical reality was a gift, but it came with drawbacks of course.

You poured a few syrups into the bottom of the cup, carefully selecting them.

“I can’t imagine how cold it is up in the sky,” You mused to yourself just before steaming some oat milk.

“Oh, you have no idea, ” Hawks lamented to you with a groan. “I feel like I’m gonna lose a few toes whenever I work in this weather.”

“Just toes? I’d be worried about a whole foot,” You grinned back at him as you poured more things into the cup, stirring every few moments.

The feeling in your mind was so tangible to you, and you could perfectly translate it to reality. Something warm, to beat away the frost of the world beyond the tea shop.

You sprinkled the top with a few dashes of cinnamon, setting it on the counter in front of him.

Keigo looked down at the drink you made him, raising an eyebrow. He went to take a sip, but you stopped him, “I’d give that a few minutes if you don’t want to burn your tongue, tailfeathers.”

Hawks nearly fucking squawked as he set down the drink, giving you a look of false anger, “ Tailfeathers? That’s not a kind name to call me. I don’t even have those.”

Keigo huffed, pouting at you.

“You call me, a stranger barista, angel, I call you tailfeathers. Easy trade.” You shrugged at him, tapping into the register system. “I’m not charging you until you try it.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to upcharge if I don’t like it?” Hawks continued to pout, jokingly so, pulling out a wad of bills that was undoubtedly much more than any drink would cost.

Your eyes widened, leaving you sputtering, “Oh, never— it’s on the house if it bangs as much as I think it will.”

Hawks laughed, out loud, bending back a bit. You watched his pretty red wings shudder and reflect the warm light of the coffee house. Keigo collected himself, over-dramatically straightening himself.

You watched with anticipation as he took his sip.

Keigo was a man of poor taste. Sure, dropping an unholy amount of money on frivolities was one of his small pleasures, after so much of the ascetic bullshit that the Commission put him through, it only seemed fair. But, caffeine was a necessity with his fucked up schedule and he’d be damned waiting in a line or making it at home. Canned coffee was saccharine and speedy and that’s all he fucking wanted.

But, when the first drops of that stupid oat milk latte hit his tongue, Keigo was beyond enamored.

Yeah, he wanted coffee to feel warm in this storm, but he didn’t expect to feel warm. With just one gulp, he could feel the heat, like the flames of a steady hearth, drift around his body.

He brought the cup down from his lips, looking at you with awe.

You had the smuggest grin spread across your face, arms crossed over your chest.

“Thoughts?” God, you were so cheeky. He loved it. You were so subtly bold.

“This,” Keigo took another greedy swig, wiping his mouth on the back of his ungloved hand, “is the best coffee I’ve ever had in my damn life.”

Your smile just got wider.

“Glad I could meet your tastes, tailfeathers. No charge,” You gave him a cheeky little wink. You swore you saw his face get redder, but you dismissed it a moment later.

“Oh no, nu-uh,” Keigo pushed the bills towards you. “Take it as a tip then. Seriously. How did you make this?”

You stared down at the bills and Hawks’s hand. His hands weren’t particularly large, but they were scarred plenty. Veins and bone were accented by the dryness of his skin.

You looked back up at him, still not taking the money, “Can you keep a secret? It’s a big one, especially considering you’re a hero.”

Hawks tilted his head, “If you say you used your quirk to mess with this drink, I don’t know if I’m legally able to keep it a secret.”

“Nah, nah. I didn’t ‘mess with your drink’,” You shook your head, nodding down to it. “Do you know what synesthesia is?”

(He did, surely. But he just wanted to listen to you talk more.)

“Enlighten me?” Hawks ask, stooping to rest his elbows on the counter, chin cradled in his hands.

For being a man who could kill you in a split second, Hawks was remarkably cute. You understood his sex appeal long before he entered the shop. His hair looked unnaturally fluffy, wind-ruffled, and honey blonde. His eyes had a few cute bird-like markings ringing the sweet, amber irises. He had a delicate but defined jaw.

He raised a sculpted, feathered eyebrow at you.

(He’d caught you staring).

You cleared your throat, laughing it off easily (though you were mentally kicking yourself), “Synesthesia, broadly, is like senses overlapping in your brain. Like... The common example is seeing colors when you hear a month of the year.”

“Now, what does this have to do with my lovely drink?” Hawks batted his eyelashes at you. You could tell he was definitely flirting with you, but you brushed it off the best you could.

He’s a hot guy you made coffee for. Happens all the time.

“Well, you had me a little bit, I did use my quirk, but it doesn’t mess with your drink physically at all. Not even close,” You laugh. “My quirk allows me to conceptualize abstract ideas into tangible ideas.”

“That really makes it sound like you used your quirk to make my drink,” Keigo watched your eyes dilate as he spoke.

You blinked, and they went back to normal.

“No, no. It’s like for your drink,” Both of your eyes looked towards the steaming cup. “I took your request for ‘warm and fuzzies’ to heart.”

Keigo blinked at you.

Your pupils expanded again, “I figured ‘ you know, this guy has to fly around in the cold all day, right? Probably is freezing and far away from home ’— and there was my inspiration.

“I used my quirk to conceptualize... the idea of being warm and safe into a tangible concept. A nice, easy coffee drink. Four shots of espresso, oat milk, homemade lavender honey syrup, two of my own, specially made tea extracts, and a bit of cinnamon for good measure.”

Hawks blinked at you, “Your quirk gives you the... blueprints, to turn ideas, literal feelings, into reality and these blueprints just work?”

You nodded and shrugged, “Most of the time. The less I’m focused on it, the more likely it is that the feeling won’t be able to manifest. I just get more exact with my construction with the fewer stimuli.”

“Drawback?” Hawks quirked an eyebrow, already having a good idea as to it.

You gestured lazily to the empty coffee shop, “I get overstimulated easily, quirk activated or not. Makes a lot of shit hard, but I like my quirk. I mean, it’s nothing like having a crazy strong pair of wings, but it services me well.”

“Did you really ‘manifest’ ‘warm and fuzzies’ into a drink, or did you make it a bit deeper than that?” Keigo sipped again, relishing how it warmed him all over once more. The taste that was dancing over his palette seemed a little more complex than what they were saying.

“To be frank and to have a bit of an ego, yeah, I went for my go-to feeling when making drinks for myself,” You averted your eyes from him. “A good drink should feel like you’re getting hugged from the inside out, you know? Comforted. It’s hard enough to get that tangibly without a quirk. I just try to help where I can.”

Keigo blinked at you.

You had turned suddenly, shy, eyes anxiously darting and a hand tugging at the sleeve of your sweater. A cute flush was spreading over your cheekbones when you finally looked at him again, “Kinda corny, right?”

Despite the fact that Keigo’s heart was fucking pounding, he shook his head, voice steady and sure, “Nah, I think it’s cool. You’re doing a lot more than just making coffee for folks.”

Your face got even redder as you rubbed the back of your head,

“I usually work in the back, so I don’t tend to make a lot of coffee for people. I make the tea blends that we sell. I don’t always use my quirk, but sometimes I do.”

Keigo watched you nervously pull at your apron, giving him an oddly desperate deadpan, “Please don’t turn me in.”

That made Keigo bust out laughing again.

You couldn’t help but stare at him in shock, and then join him. You covered your mouth at first, but finally, just let yourself laugh with him. All it seemed like that there was in the world was you, Keigo, the lavender latte, and the snowdrifts outside.

Hawks’s pager beeped, almost instantly pulling him from his laughing fit. He glanced at it, giving a dull grimace, “Duty calls, it seems.”

“You’d think villains would take snow days?” You told him as he re-gloved his hands.

“It would really make my job easier,” He chuckled. Hawks pushed the forgotten money on the counter. “That’s all for you, ya hear me? Keep it or I will actually turn you in.”

Oh, you were feeling bold.

Before Hawks could pull his hand away, you placed your own on his, stopping his movement.

“Only,” You somehow, one-handed, managed to pull a bit of receipt paper from its machine. Still one-handed you grabbed a pen and scribbled onto the paper. You pushed it towards Keigo. “If you take this very conveniently small piece of paper that totally doesn’t have my name and number on it. Just in case you’d like another lavender latte like that.”

Oh, Keigo was floored.

He had rapid fucking fans. They were feral. He’d had fans drop their entire life stories on him, gush to him, stalk him— one time, a fan dropped to their knees and licked his boots. And he’d certainly received many phone numbers in his day, so many, but never like this.

This felt a little different.

“Well, I was gonna say, I might need some contact to know when you work next. Just so I can grab one of your lovely drinks,” Hawks winked at you, all smitten. He walked backwards towards the door, still meeting your eyes

“Feel free to.” You were just as starry-eyed as he was. “I have a lot to show you!”

And with that, Hawks whisked himself out of the door, fast as ever.

And you both simmered, full of intangible feelings.

#salem writes #takami keigo x reader #keigo x reader #hawks x reader #hawks x y/n #keigo takami x y/n #reader insert #mha x reader #my hero x reader #mha smut #hawks reader insert #my hero academia #bnha x reader #takami x reader #mha lemon

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tpwkjerii · 3 years

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as you wish | 1

your one true love was lost in a pirate attack five years ago, and now you’re engaged to a cruel prince. with all your misfortune, you didn’t expect three unconventional thugs and a painfully familiar pirate to save you from a dreadful future. (inspired by The Princess Bride)

pairing: pirate!seokjin x princess!reader

warnings: fluff and angst, reader is forced into engagement and becoming a princess, death (no main character), kidnapping, choking (nonsexual), mentions of murder

genre: fairy tale/pirate au, semi established relationship au

word count: 1.5k+

a/n: first (and def not the last) seokjin fic!! loosely inspired by The Princess Bride, but doesn’t totally follow the plot! jin isn’t in this first part much but he will be a lot in the rest ;)) this part is on the shorter side but the rest will be longer!

next | m.list

There was once a time where your life was wonderfully simple, and with blissful simplicity came peace and harmony.

Before your father fell ill and passed away, you spent most of your days on the family farm. Every morning followed the same routine: wake up, get ready, prepare breakfast, and summon Seokjin for work. You remember Seokjin with a fond smile; he was your farm boy and, if you were being completely honest, the only man you ever truly loved.

In the beginning, you and Seokjin had a very average relationship. You were merely the daughter of his employer, and he was just the farm boy your father hired since he needed more help after your mother passed away. During the first few weeks, you hardly saw Seokjin as you favored spending your time alone in your room while you mourned the loss of your mother.

However, when the months grew warmer, you found yourself spending more and more time outside. You easily gravitated towards Seokjin, who had a smile that brightened everything within a ten mile radius and told jokes that always lifted your spirits. You and Seokjin quickly fell into a comfortable routine and dynamic together. Whenever you called him, he was there, and he did whatever you needed, whether that was fetching the bread to providing a shoulder to cry on, with a smile and three words in response: “As you wish.”

Now, as you sat in your new room in the country’s castle, you realized you would do anything to hear Seokjin’s “as you wish” just once again. Unfortunately, that was impossible.

Seokjin died two years ago in a pirating accident. What was supposed to be a simple visit to his parents across the sea ended with the loss of his life and all others on the ship. The news hit you heavily, and once again you found yourself holed in your room; although this time there was no Seokjin to lift your spirits and make everything feel alright again.

You still remember the last conversation you shared with him, and how he told you that he would return with “a gift that would make you happy for years to come.” That very conversation was when you discovered he loved you, and was also when you first told him that you loved him.

Unfortunately, you didn’t expect that the first time you told him “I love you” would also be the last.

You wondered how different your life would be if Seokjin hadn’t boarded the ship that day. Would he live with you on the farm? Would you have moved overseas to stay with his parents? There were several potential scenarios, but you knew one thing was sure: if Seokjin was still with you, there was no way you would be trapped in this suffocating castle like you were now.

You sighed as the maids knocked on your door for the third time.

“Princess Y/N, please let us in. The ceremony is to start soon and the King is awaiting your arrival,” they pleaded, and you willed your anger away as you knew that the maids were only trying to do their job and your reluctance would only get them in trouble.

With a sigh, you stood from your seat by the window and moved to unlock the large doors. Instantly, the maids darted in, pushing you into the chair in front of the vanity and attacking your face and hair with brushes and creams.

You remained silent as they worked, still unaccustomed to your sudden lifestyle change. Your quaint home and expansive farm turned into a stone castle with guards on every corner and maids ready to cater to your every need. These days, all you wished for was time alone, and the only time you really had that was when you went for a ride on your horse.

After a dreadful announcement ceremony where you stood before the people as their new princess and soon-to-be queen like a doll for sale, you rushed out of your formal gown into a much simpler dress more suited for riding. Without even saying a word to Prince Donghae, the man who forced you into your current arrangement, you ran out of the castle to the stables.

In lightning speed, you unchained your faithful horse and hopped on top of her. Admiring the beautiful sheen of her smooth black coat, you lightly kicked her side, a gesture to take off. Luna, your horse, took you along your usual course along the river at the edge of the kingdom. The serenity at the outskirts of the kingdom reminded you of your days at the farm, and the quiet allowed you to ignore reality and reminisce the past.

You felt the wind in your hair as you rode through the woods and wished that you felt this free every day. Ever since you arrived at the castle three weeks ago, your days were often occupied with various unenjoyable tasks. As someone who grew up on a farm, you were very much out of your league at the palace, and the court royals made sure to remind you of that every chance they could.

“How can the future Queen of this kingdom be this stupid?” they would mock you and force loud laughter out of their throats. You knew you weren’t unintelligent just because you didn’t know the rules of court (since you didn’t grow up in it like many of the others), but you bit your tongue back each time they ridiculed you — the commanding presence of the Prince always held you back from defending yourself.

Prince Donghae was not a kind ruler. Those rumors you heard around your small village were confirmed when he almost killed you the first night you arrived at the castle.

“Anything you do out of line embarrasses me,” Prince Donghae told you the first night you arrived after you caused a scene while being escorted to your new room. “You will not talk back in this castle, do you understand me?” he asked, his voice deep and threatening.

You had no choice but to agree as his grip around your throat tightened. You nodded frantically as you choked for air, your eyes tearing and your hands shaking on top of his. He smirked in satisfaction at your struggle and dropped you to the ground before walking away, leaving your struggling body alone on the cold stone floors.

Ever since that day, you did your best to avoid the Prince. You attended court when needed, putting up with the officials’ relentless bullying, and spent the rest of your time in your room or outside riding. Now more than ever, you wish Seokjin was here to comfort you.

Luna slowed as you reached the river, her pace slowing to a light tread along the banks of the large river. You admired the scenery; a few flowers were beginning to bloom and the river waters were crashing gently along the bank. Everything looked like it did yesterday, except for the small ship and three men that were just ahead of you.

Your eyebrows knitted together in confusion as one of them gestured for you as if he knew you personally. Considering that you didn’t know many people, and that his face was completely new to you, you doubted that was the situation at hand. Your horse slowed down as you neared them, allowing you to get a good look at the three men.

They all looked young, potentially around your age or even younger, and were dressed like commoners. One of them had black hair that fell messily against his forehead and ended just on top of his eyes. He had strong and sharp facial features that you’d never seen before. The man standing next to him was equally beautiful; his bright red hair contrasted beautifully against his tan skin and drew attention to his pink lips and fox-like eyes. The last man matched the other twos’ beauty — he had blond hair that accentuated his sweet eyes and plump lips.

“Do you need assistance?” you asked as you finally reached the three men, hopping off your horse

The blond one stepped forward first, a thankful grin on his face. “We are poor, but lost performers. Is there a village near here?”

You frowned and shook your head apologetically. “No, I’m afraid that there’s nothing nearby for at least a mile.”

His grin quickly flipped from friendly and grateful to sly and sinister. “Then there will be no one nearby to hear you scream,” he stated, nodding to the dark-haired man next to him.

Your face dropped in confusion, and you were barely able to scream before the dark-haired man pulled you off your horse and into his strong arms. He covered your mouth with one hand and used the other to touch a spot on your neck. You instantly felt yourself lose consciousness; the world grew dark as your eyes slowly closed, and the last thing you heard was the cry of your horse as it trotted away.

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dwellordream · 3 years

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“…The complex design of the Victorian house signified the changing ratio between the cultural and physical work situated there. With its twin parlors, one for formal, the other for intimate exchange, and its separate stairs and entrances for servants, the Victorian house embodied cultural preoccupations with specialized functions, particularly distinguishing between public and private worlds.

American Victorians maintained an expectation of sexualized and intimate romanticism in private at the same time that they sustained increasingly ‘‘proper’’ expectations for conduct in public. The design of the house helped to facilitate the expression of both tendencies, with a formal front parlor designed to stage proper interactions with appropriate callers, and the nooks, crannies, and substantial private bedrooms designed for more intimate exchange or for private rumination itself.

Just as different areas of the house allowed for different gradations of intimacy, so did the house offer rooms designed for different users. The ideal home offered a lady’s boudoir, a gentleman’s library, and of course a children’s nursery. This ideal was realized in the home of Elizabeth E. Dana, daughter of Richard Henry Dana, who described her family members situated throughout the house in customary and specialized space in one winter’s late afternoon in 1865. Several of her siblings were in the nursery watching a sunset, ‘‘Father is in his study as usual, mother is taking her nap, and Charlotte is lying down and Sally reading in her room.’’ In theory, conduct in the bowels of the house was more spontaneous than conduct in the parlor.

This was partly by design, in the case of adults, but by nature in the case of children. If adults were encouraged to discover a true, natural self within the inner chambers of the house, children—and especially girls—were encouraged to learn how to shape their unruly natural selves there so that they would be presentable in company. The nursery for small children acknowledged that childish behavior was not well-suited for ‘‘society’’ and served as a school for appropriate conduct, especially in Britain, where children were taught by governesses in the nursery, and often ate there as well. In the United States children usually went to school and dined with their parents. As the age of marriage increased, the length of domestic residence for some girls extended to twenty years and more.

The lessons of the nursery became more indirect as children grew up. Privacy for children was not designed simply to segregate them from adults but was also a staging arena for their own calisthenics of self-discipline. A room of one’s own was the perfect arena for such exercises in responsibility. As the historian Steven Mintz observes, such midcentury advisers as Harriet Martineau and Orson Fowler ‘‘viewed the provision of children with privacy as an instrument for instilling self-discipline. Fowler, for example, regarded private bedrooms for children as an extension of the principle of specialization of space that had been discovered by merchants. If two or three children occupied the same room, none felt any responsibility to keep it in order.’’

…The argument for the girl’s room of her own rested on the perfect opportunity it provided for practicing for a role as a mistress of household. As such, it came naturally with early adolescence. The author Mary Virginia Terhune’s advice to daughters and their mothers presupposed a room of one’s own on which to practice the housewife’s art. Of her teenage protagonist Mamie, Terhune announced: ‘‘Mamie must be encouraged to make her room first clean, then pretty, as a natural following of plan and improvement. . . . Make over the domain to her, to have and to hold, as completely as the rest of the house belongs to you. So long as it is clean and orderly, neither housemaid nor elder sister should interfere with her sovereignty.’’ Writing in 1882, Mary Virginia Terhune favored the gradual granting of autonomy to girls as a natural part of their training for later responsibilities.

…Victorian parents convinced their daughters that the secret to a successful life was strict and conscientious self-rule. The central administrative principle was carried forth from childhood: the responsibility to ‘‘be good.’’ The phrase conveyed the prosecution of moralist projects and routines, and perhaps equally significant, the avoidance or suppression of temper and temptation. Being good extended beyond behavior and into the realm of feeling itself. Being good meant what it said—actually transfiguring negative feelings, including desire and anger, so that they ceased to become a part of experience.

Historians of emotion have argued that culture can shape temperament and experience; the historian Peter Stearns, for one, argues that ‘‘culture often influences reality’’ and that ‘‘historians have already established some connections between Victorian culture and nineteenth-century emotional reality.’’ More recently, the essays in Joel Pfister and Nancy Schnog’s Inventing the Psychological share the assumption that the emotions are ‘‘historically contingent, socially specific, and politically situated.’’ The Victorians themselves also believed in the power of context to transform feeling.

The transformation of feeling was the end product of being good. Early lessons were easier. Part of being good was simply doing chores and other tasks regularly, as Alcott’s writings suggest. One day in 1872 Alice Blackwell practiced the piano ‘‘and was good,’’ and another day she went for a long walk ‘‘for exercise,’’ made two beds, set the table, ‘‘and felt virtuous.’’ Josephine Brown’s New Year’s resolutions suggested such a regimen of virtue—sanctioned both by the inherent benefits of the plan and by its regularity.

As part of her plan to ‘‘make this a better year,’’ she resolved to read three chapters of the Bible every day (and five on Sunday) and to ‘‘study hard and understandingly in school as I never have.’’ At the same time, Brown realized that doing a virtuous act was never simply a question of mustering the positive energy to accomplish a job. It also required mastering the disinclination to drudge. She therefore also resolved, ‘‘If I do feel disinclined, I will make up my mind and do it.’’

The emphasis on forming steady habits brought together themes in religion and industrial culture. The historian Richard Rabinowitz has explained how nineteenth-century evangelicalism encouraged a moralism which rejected the introspective soul-searching of Calvinism, instead ‘‘turning toward usefulness in Christian service as a personal goal.’’ This pragmatic spirituality valued ‘‘habits and routines rather than events,’’ including such habits as daily diary writing and other regular demonstrations of Christian conduct. Such moralism blended seamlessly with the needs of industrial capitalism—as Max Weber and others have persuasively argued.

Even the domestic world, in some ways justified by its distance from the marketplace, valued the order and serenity of steady habits. Such was the message communicated by early promoters of sewing machines, for instance, one of whom offered the use of the sewing machine as ‘‘excellent training . . . because it so insists on having every-thing perfectly adjusted, your mind calm, and your foot and hand steady and quiet and regular in their motions.’’ The relation between the market place and the home was symbiotic. Just as the home helped to produce the habits of living valued by prudent employers, so, as the historian Jeanne Boydston explains, the regularity of machinery ‘‘was the perfect regimen for developing the placid and demure qualities required by the domestic female ideal.’’

Despite its positive formulation, ‘‘being good’’ often took a negative form —focusing on first suppressing or mastering ‘‘temper’’ or anger. The major target was ‘‘willfulness.’’ An adviser participating in Chats with Girls proposed the cultivation of ‘‘a perfectly disciplined will,’’ which would never ‘‘yield to wrong’’ but instantly yield to right. Such a will, too, could teach a girl to curb her unruly feelings. The Ladies’ Home Journal columnist Ruth Ashmore (a pseudonym for Isabel Mallon) more crudely warned readers ‘‘that the woman who allows her temper to control her will not retain one single physical charm.’’ As a young teacher, Louisa May Alcott wrestled with this most common vice.

Of her struggles for self-control, she recognized that ‘‘this is the teaching I need; for as a school-marm I must behave myself and guard my tongue and temper carefully, and set an example of sweet manners.’’ Alcott, of course, made a successful career out of her efforts to master her maverick temper. The autobiographical heroine of her most successful novel, Little Women, who has spoken to successive generations of readers as they endured female socialization, was modeled on her own struggles to bring her spirited temperament in accord with feminine ideals.

So in practice being good first meant not being bad. Indeed, it was some- times better not to ‘‘be’’ much at all. Girls sometimes worked to suppress liveliness of all kinds. Agnes Hamilton resolved at the beginning of 1884 that she would ‘‘study very hard this year and not have any spare time,’’ and also that she would try to stop talking, a weakness she had identified as her principle fault.

When Lizzie Morrissey got angry she didn’t speak for the rest of the evening, certainly preferable to impassioned speech. Charlotte Perkins Gilman, who later critiqued many aspects of Victorian repression, at the advanced age of twenty-one at New Year’s made her second resolution: ‘‘Correct and necessary speech only.’’

Mary Boit, too, measured her goodness in terms of actions uncommitted. ‘‘I was good and did not do much of anything,’’ she recorded ambiguously at the age of ten. It is perhaps this reservation that provoked the reflection of southerner Lucy Breckinridge, who anticipated with excitement the return of her sister from a long trip. ‘‘Eliza will be here tomorrow. She has been away so long that I do not know what I shall do to repress my joy when she comes. I don’t like to be so glad when anybody comes.’’ Breckinridge clearly interpreted being good as in practice an exercise in suppression. This was just the lesson of self-censoring that Alice James had starkly described as ‘‘‘killing myself,’ as some one calls it.’’

This emphasis on repressing emotion became especially problematic for girls in light of another and contradictory principle connected with being good. A ‘‘good’’ girl was happy, and this positive emotion she should express in moderation. Explaining the duties of a girl of sixteen, an adviser writing in the Ladies’ Home Journal noted that she should learn ‘‘that her part is to make the sunshine of the home, to bring cheer and joyousness into it.’’ At the same time that a girl must suppress selfishness and temper, she must also project contentment and love. Advisers simply suggested that a girl employ a steely resolve to substitute one for the other. ‘‘Every one of my girls can be a sunshiny girl if she will,’’ an adviser remonstrated. ‘‘Let every failure act as an incentive to greater success.’’

This message could be concentrated into an incitement not to glory and ethereal virtue but simply to a kind of obliging ‘‘niceness.’’ This was the moral of a tale published in The Youth’s Companion in 1880. A traveler in Norway arrives in a village which is closed up at midday in mourning for a recent death. The traveler imagines that the deceased must have been a magnate or a personage of wealth and power. He inquires, only to be told, ‘‘It is only a young maiden who is dead. She was not beautiful nor rich. But oh, such a pleasant girl.’’ ‘‘Pleasantness’’ was the blandest possible expression of the combined mandate to repress and ultimately destroy anger and to project and ultimately feel love and concern.

Yet it was a logical blending of the religious messages of the day as well. Richard Rabinowitz’s work on the history of spirituality notes a new later-century current which blended with the earlier emphasis on virtuous routines. The earlier moralist discipline urged the establishment of regular habits and the steady attention to duty. Later in the century, religion gained a more experiential and private dimension, expressed in devotionalism. Both of these demands—for regular virtue and the experience and expression of religious joy—could provide a loftier argument for the more mundane ‘‘pleasant.’’

…The challenges of this project were particularly bracing given the acute sensitivity of the age to hypocrisy. One must not only appear happy to meet social expectations: one must feel the happiness. The origins of this insistence came not only from a demanding evangelical culture but also from a fluid social world in which con artists lurked in parlors as well as on riverboats. A young woman must be completely sincere both in her happiness and in her manners if she was not to be guilty of the corruptions of the age. One adviser noted the dilemma: ‘‘‘Mamma says I must be sincere,’ said a fine young girl, ‘and when I ask her whether I shall say to certain people, ‘‘Good morning, I am not very glad to see you,’’ she says, ‘‘My dear, you must be glad to see them, and then there will be no trouble.’’’’’

…No wonder that girls filled their journals with mantras of reassurance as they attempted to square the circle of Victorian emotional expectation. Anna Stevens included a separate list stuck between the pages of her diary. ‘‘Everything is for the best, and all things work together for good. . . . Be good and you will be happy. . . . Think twice before you speak.’’

We look upon these aphorisms as throwaways—platitudes which scarcely deserve to be preserved along with more ‘‘authentic’’ manuscript material. Yet these mottoes, preserved and written in most careful handwriting in copy books and journals, represent the straws available to girls attempting to grasp the complex and ultimately unreconcilable projects of Victorian emotional etiquette and expectation.”

- Jane H. Hunter, “Houses, Families, Rooms of One Own.” in How Young Ladies Became Girls: The Victorian Origins of American Girlhood

#history #victorian #jane h. hunter #how young ladies became girls #gender

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waywardwrestlewritingwaif · 4 years

Text

The Guardian’s Oath, Part Two

Here’s the second part in the series! You can read the first part here (and you probably should, since it won’t make any sense otherwise and because there are some plot points in there that will come up again later).

Pairing: Feargal Devitt/ Finn Balor x OFC

Word count: 2,978

Content advisory: Nothing for this part, however there is adult content to come in later sections, so if you’re underage or prefer to avoid sexual material, you might as well spare yourself the time and effort of reading these early sections.

I rose early the next morning, my body aching from fruitless attempts to get comfortable enough to do more than doze off for a few minutes. The children were still in bed but Kate was already hard at work in the kitchen. Seeing my face, she quickly prepared me a cup of coffee.

“Are you having a time of it trying to sleep, dear?” she inquired.

I gave a wan little smile. “It just feels quite different than what I’m used to. I’ll get used to it soon enough.”

She fried some toast in the skillet with bacon fat and served me, Telling me a little of her life and of Bray as we sat in the kitchen together. I learned that the reason people referred to both “the town” and “the village” was to differentiate the newer and more prosperous area- the town- from the older settlement that had been home to the tenant serfs dating back to when the area had been part of a large estate. Kate had lived her whole life in the town, while Susan, who I had yet to meet, was from the village. The way she put it, it felt like the difference between the two parts of Bray marked everything, down to two women who both made their living as servants.

Susan arrived at six-thirty. She was younger than either Kate or I, although taller by some measure than either of us. She gave a friendly greeting and her pleasant demeanor lasted until she began to sort through the basket of clothing to be washed.

“Not again,” she grumbled. “They’ve gone out in the rain and just look at the state of these stockings! I’ll never get the grass stains out!”

“Mind your tongue, Sue,” Kate cautions her in a kindly enough tone. “They’re children. Even the best ones can’t help but get into some mischief.”

As she turned to say more to the girl, I saw her expression change.

“Miss Miles, did you not have any of your own clothing to be washed?”

“I didn’t want to trouble anyone. I can wash them myself. I’m afraid that there’s sand and salt on them and I didn’t want to make any more work for…”

Susan gave an exasperated sigh.

“You’ll have your hands more than full with the children, ma’am. Susan, go collect Miss Miles’ clothing from the garrett and add that to the washing.

Susan made a show of balancing the already full basket on her hip and her footfalls were heavy as she proceeded to mount the stairs to the attic.

“I should have gone to fetch them myself.”

“Don’t let her moods get to you,” Kate answered. “She’s a good girl but she’s got a lazy streak. If you give in to her, you’ll end up doing all her work as well as your own.”

Eager to change the subject, I decided to tell her of my discussion with the children the night before.

“The children were regaling me with other stories of Bray before I could get them to sleep last night. Stories of all the fairies and monsters you have here.”

“Oh yes,” she sighed, “they do love their stories. A bit too much if you ask me, although I’m partly to blame because I’ve told them enough myself.”

“They recited a dark little rhyme for me about something named Finn Balor that can’t have helped me sleep any.”

Kate pursed her lips as Susan flounced back through the kitchen and out the back door, my clothes piled on top of the others.

“They’ve heard that from her,” she muttered with a sharp glance back towards where Susan had exited. “I’ll tell them some stories my grandmother used to tell me but she goes telling them all manner of ghoulish things and getting them all excited over it. They’d no business bringing it up to you.”

“Oh it was just one of the things they wanted to share, like the ghost in the cemetery or the Bog Queen. We have a version of her where I come from too. I believe Balor must be unique to this place, or to the coast. Is it a common story?”

“Common enough, certainly. It’s the sort of thing parents tell their children or young women to frighten them. But Master William and Miss Sophia seem to delight in that sort of thing.”

“Well I hope that I can find some healthier outlets for their imagination.”

Kate collected the mugs and my plate and took them to the sink.

“I suppose I should go and wake the children so that we can get their lessons started.”

As I rose, I saw Kate staring at me. Her face was tilted and filled with concern and her fists closed tightly on her apron.

“Their father, the Reverend, is as good, as gentle and as pure a man as God ever made,” she began haltingly. “I liked to think that I come from good folk but he is truly unmatched in his character.”

I started to agree with her but she spoke again, her tone darkening a little.

“The children, though, have a little too much of their mother in them. She was… she was a wild animal. I know I’ve no business speaking of my former mistress this way but you’ll hear it from the townspeople asif you don’t hear it from me. He brought her back from a mission to the Brittany coast and she was peculiar at the best of times. I’ll not burden you with any stories but I can tell you that no other man would have indulged her the way Reverend Devitt did. He treated her well throughout her life and mourned her passing with his whole heart.

“I would never say that the children are bad. They are smart and they can be as gentle as angels. But they do have her blood in them and it makes them prone to a certain amount of… mischief and trickery. And I beg your pardon for speaking so far beyond my station but I know that the other governesses have struggled to take them in hand.”

I shook my head to indicate that I had no problem with her speaking in this way. “How many other governesses have there been?”

“You’re the fourth ma’am.”

“The fourth? How long ago was it that their mother passed?”

“She died when Miss Sohpia was five and her brother four.”

My jaw slacked a little. “There have been four governesses in four years?”

“They are good children but they are always easy to manage. I told you when you first arrived that I felt right away that you could be at home here. I believe I can see a spark in you that the others lacked and I would hate to see your chance to flourish thwarted when I could have offered you a warning. Treat the children with a sense of caution and keep in mind that they are prone to tricks and mischief, more so than they should be. Don’t be afraid to assert yourself.”

I nodded and thanked her before ascending the stairs to rouse my young charges.

Over the next days, as I settled into the best pace for their lessons, I could see the truth in Kate’s words: much as they had on that first night I had read to them alone, the two of them had little routines designed to lead me where they wanted to get me. They were innocent enough but it made me wonder how far they could push their advantage. It also made me wonder about their mother and what strangeness they might have inherited from her.

They were fast learners, and the greatest challenge was keeping them from growing bored. It was when they were bored that their tendency to misbehave presented itself. Both of them loved hiding things the other needed and making them work clues to find it. Both loved seeing how far they could push a rule imposed on them without actually breaking it. I had to admit that even their bad behavior was interesting because there was so much thought put into it. After a couple of months, I started to come up with puzzles and games of my own to help them remember and focus on what we were learning. I knew that this would have been frowned on by any school and by most other employers. I gambled that Reverend Devitt would be unlikely to question any method that saw his children happy to be learning.

The times the Reverend was at home were brief but I treasured all of them. Those times were dominated by the church service on Sunday mornings over which he presided. He went early and we would follow afterward, taking our places near the front, the children and me, as if we were all a family. I loved that hour of the week when I sat looking up at him, flanked by his angelic-looking children. Even more, though, I loved that he almost always invited me to join them for dinner, as if I were an equal. His attention was focused on his son and daughter, of course, but I was never left out and as he saw how much and how quickly they were learning, his warmth toward me grew greater than ever.

Once when he was back for more than just the day, we packed a picnic lunch and made our way to a rugged area along the water, just past the crescent beach where I had first seen the ocean. I tried to preoccupy myself with the children but it was the height of summer and they only wanted to run around, leaving me for an extended period alone with my employer.

“Please be careful,” I pleaded with William as he deposited a couple of new shells for his collection onto the blanket. “The path down to the beach is steep and rocky here. You could fall and hurt yourself.”

William was off again without another word. I was about to call to him but the Reverend waved his hand to indicate I shouldn’t bother.

“Let him work off his energy,” he sighed. “The tide’s out, so if he falls making his way down the hill, maybe the scrapes will teach him the lesson he needs.”

“I just worry that he could-”

“Helen,” he insisted, “they’re children. And you worry too much.”

“I’m sorry, Reverend,” I murmured. “I just don’t want to see any kind of harm befall them, no matter how small.”

“It’s Feargal,” he said softly, leaning back on his arms and regarding me through his long lashes. “I prefer you to call you Helen and I would prefer you to call me Feargal.”

“Of course, sir.”

He laughed and rolled onto his side to face me. “I owe you a debt of gratitude, Helen,” he told me. “You’ve been a marvel with the children. I’ve always known they were smart but they’ve never learned as fast or as well as they have with you. Most times when I’ve come home, they’ve found something to grouse about with their governesses, but with you, it’s quite the opposite. They adore you. And Kate loves you, by the way. She always makes a point of telling me what a humble, kind woman you are.”

“I am greatly flattered,” I answered, desperately wanting him to say he had similar feelings for me. “I can’t imagine that anyone could be unhappy working in your home and with your children.”

“I assure you, it’s possible,” he said wistfully.

I thought he might say more but William and Sophia rushed up, dropping handfuls of seaweed on the blanket. Some bits were dry, but most was sodden and stunk. I tried to hide my distaste for the scent but William and his father spotted it right away and teased me a little. We all laughed and I told myself that I would adjust to things such as these strange plants over time.

“Look at this one!” William exclaimed, scrabbling up next to me and brandishing a new specimen. “Look at these!”

The weed he held was unlike the others he’d brought. It was still soaked but it was built like a vine and it was covered in blister-like growths. I found this one even nastier than the others and my face showed it, even though I tried to contain my dislike.

“Watch!” William ordered.

He pressed down hard on one of the blisters and it popped, the viscous contents spraying out and hitting my face. I made a sound, muffled slightly because I didn’t want to open my mouth in case some of the weed guts fell into it.

Sophia laughed delightedly but the Reverend upbraided his son.

“That was terrible behavior. I think it’s time I took a switch to the back of you again.”

William looked terrified and I heard Sophia give a little gasp.

“No, please, sir. It’s just a plant. I overreacted.”

“You’re too kind, Miss Miles. But if I catch any more behavior like that, I can assure you that a hiding will follow.”

There was a moment of silence, after which William tossed his seaweed samples off to the side and wound his arms around my waist. I let my arm rest on his shoulder, unsure of the appropriate amount of affection to show in my position. He clung tighter and I rubbed circles on his shoulder, trying to quell the nervous tension I felt in his arms.

During the summer, I often delayed going to bed. The garrett was pleasant enough but it was hot even if I opened the window. I was much happier to retire to the drawing room once the children were in bed, where I could write in my journal or read a little. I had finally settled in enough that I was able to sleep a little but the heat robbed me of that. I tried to fight through the fatigue and nerves but sometimes it overwhelmed me.

One such night, Kate could see that I was in such an overtired state that she insisted on putting the children to bed herself, so that I could rest in the drawing room in peace for a little. It was not quite dark, although the sun had gone. I could see the last streaks of light trailing towards the west, the last traces of a glorious summer day.

Looking out the window, I saw a dark figure next to the gate. My first thought was that it was an itinerant laborer from the village looking for any work he could find. It wasn't unusual for them to stop at the cottage, but none had ever passed so late. My only other thought was that he was a gypsy hawking door to door. I'd seen a few near the town. I'd never seen one alone, or in this area, but I knew very little of their ways.

I watched the man for a few minutes and realized that he was making no move towards or away from the house. He stayed still and silent. If Mr. Jones had been there, I would have dispatched him to deal with the situation but the gardener had gone home for the night. I didn't want to confront a strange man on my own but I felt a sense of danger coming from him. I had been charged with caring for the two children and that meant protecting them.

I stepped outside and waved my hand to get his attention.

"You there! What do you want?"

He showed no sign that he'd seen or heard me and so I walked a few steps on the path towards him. In the distance, I could hear the waves crashing and the branches of the trees clattered overhead, but the wind seemed light in the yard, so there was no chance the man did not hear me when I called to him again. Nevertheless, he paid no attention and I was forced to approach closer still.

As I did, I observed that he was striking at the gate post with his hand. It took me a moment to see that he was holding a rock and that he was actually marking the post with a few scratchy lines.

"What do you think you're doing?" I demanded, stopping just out of arm's reach. "Move on and don't let me catch you hanging around this place again."

It was difficult for me to see much of his face, for he wore a brimmed hat that kept most of it in shadow. He had on layers of clothing, completely inappropriate to the heat, that appeared old and dirty. I thought his face remarkably dark but when I looked at his hand, still grasping the rock he'd been using to mark our gate post, it seemed like there was dirt clinging to his skin as well.

"I told you to be off," I snapped.

For the first time, he reacted to me, a sneer crossing his lips. His eyes flickered in my direction, shaded by his hat, and some ugly, guttural sound came from his throat. I could smell a mix of salt and leather and smoke hovering like a pungent blanket around him.

The sneer spread and I could see a quick flash of teeth before he tightened his grip on the rock and raised his hand.

I gave a little cry and took a quick step back, believing he was about to hurl it at me. However, he simply lowered the hand and placed the rock on the post before disappearing in total silence. I went over and pushed the rock away, tossing it to the far side of the street. There were three parallel lines roughly scratched and nothing else.

#finn balor imagine #finn balor fanfic #wrestling imagine #wwe fanfiction #nxt fanfiction #nxt imagine #wwe imagine #wayward wrestle writing

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gifti3 · 4 years

Text

homewrecker

Ao3 link

Summary: Bruno helps you ruin your marriage.

---------------------

Someone new had moved in next door.

And being the nosy and bored house spouse that you were, you spent a decent amount of time that day looking through your kitchen window to the house next to yours.

Other than the movers carrying various furniture, you spotted flashes of shiny black hair and a lithe body which you assumed was the new neighbor.

You decided that you would introduce yourself once everything had settled down. And when that time comes, you take the cookies that you made as a welcome present, like any good neighbor should.

The door opens a few moments after you ring the doorbell and you are greeted by an attractive man.

Very attractive.

"Hi! I just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood. My husband and I live next door to you."

You pushed the plate you were holding towards him "I brought cookies."

He raised a well groomed brow before grabbing a cookie and smiling. "Thank you, you're the first to visit me. Your husband couldn’t show?"

"He's at work right now maybe you can meet him when he comes back. Oh, I'm y/n by the way."

You tell your husband about the new neighbor Bucciarati. He didn't really seem very interested though.

----

Bucciarati seemed to be in his home usually when your husband was at work, and since it got pretty dull once you finished the daily chores, you would spend a decent amount of time with him.

"Do you want anything? Food? Drinks?"

Bruno smiled at you "You're always trying to feed me."

"You do the same thing whenever I visit though!"

You really enjoyed his company and he hoped he enjoyed yours too.

One day Prosciutto comes home early (later you’ll notice the missed call from him) and finds you and Bucciarati in the middle of one of your usual rendezvous.

The two of you were sharing tea at the dining table. Completely innocent, yet you felt kind of scandalous.

"Oh Prosciutto did you get off work early? This is Bucciarati, our neighbor I mentioned the other day."

------

"That Bucciarati turned out to be the new manager in the department above me." Prosciutto brought this up over dinner.

You perked up a but at this. "What a small world."

----

You laid in your shared bed alone. A common occurrence as of late.

You were already pretty lonely during the day but now it had to be the night too? However, you couldn't blame your hard working husband though. His job was what was keeping you both fed and him late.

He had probably said something about a new project? You weren't really listening.

----

After being dragged along to a waste-of-time company party held by Prosciutto's employers, you sat in the car as your husband drove you both home.

Bruno had also attended the party. He had been dressed up in a strange but flattering suit.

"I don't like that Bucciarati. Something about him puts me off...and that bob cut."

You liked his bob cut.

"What a people pleaser."

Even though your husband's complaints stook under your skin, you kept your feelings off your tongue and hummed in acknowledgment.

----

"You seem down lately, what's wrong love?"

You and Bruno were doing the usual date and sitting on the couch in his living room, watching some terribly cheesy romance. Bruno seemed to enjoy it though.

You laid against the sofa arm. "Do I?"

"Is it Prosciutto?"

You tensed slightly at that. "What do you mean?"

"Sorry, I wasn't trying to upset you."

"...No you might be right. I guess I’ve been feeling a little lonely lately… but I'm just being needy." You weren't sure why you were telling Bruno all of this but it was spilling from your mouth either way.

"Prosciutto's hard at work for us and how do I react? Whiny." You could feel tears forming at the corner of your eyes and you quickly rubbed them away.

You felt a comforting weight on the side of your arm and looked over to see Bruno looking at you with understanding and something else you couldn't really place.

"It's normal that you feel this way. Even though he's busy, it's not impossible to make some time for your spouse."

You sat up. "I mean...I guess so. It has been like this for a couple of months."

"If I managed to get someone like you, I would make all the time in the world."

What?

"....But you could get anyone you wanted though"

"Can I?"

Somehow Bruno had gotten closer without you noticing.

"Y-Yea"

He reached out and his fingertips gently touched your cheek. "Then why can't I get you?"

Multiple thoughts ran rapidly through your head and the many things that Bruno had done these last couple months became way less friendly and innocent.

You looked into his dark blue eyes unsure. "...I don't know what to do."

"You don't have to do anything."

He leans in and you don't move away.

---

You laid in Bruno’s bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking.

You learned two things in the past hour. One, Bruno wore a lacy bralette under his clothing and you wondered if he always did that. Nonetheless, it was sexy and fit him well.

Second, you were more pent up than you thought. You weren’t really sure when the last time you and Prosciutto had sex and it if it left you as satisfied as you felt right now.

Bruno was very attentive. Sensual. And he liked to take his time.

Just thinking about how his hands drifted against your thighs made you feel much warmer.

Bruno wrapped his arm around your waist and looked at you in what you could only described as complete bliss. "You're perfect for me y/n"

-----

Finally Prosciutto makes time for you. He even takes you out for a nice meal at that restaurant you had been wanting to go to for a long while.

And when you get home? He kisses you with so much fervor...but you really couldn't get into it.

At least he still got off though. It made you feel less guilty, like you owed him less now.

Most of that night, Bruno was stuck in your mind like a polarizing tune. You finally get what you've been yearning for for months but now you wanted something else. Was it selfish? Maybe immature?

Most likely both.

------

You keep fooling around with Bruno. He made you feel amazing and loved. Just how Prosciutto used to.

“Leave Prosciutto and be fully mine, amore”

“I can't just do that. I’ve only known you for a few months.”

He wrapped his hands around yours and brought you closer. "Haven’t they’ve been amazing though?"

You struggled to respond as he placed his head in the crook of your neck. "...Maybe we should s-stop this."

Bruno hummed in response but you both knew that you didn’t mean it.

-----

It was only a matter of time before you were caught. You had gotten extremely careless lately and having some of your adulterous romps in your own home was the biggest proof of that.

Your husband didn’t come home early often (especially not without calling), but apparently today was one of those days. And like a man with too much well earned confidence and nothing to lose, Bruno smirks at him as he continued to move against you.

You, on the other hand, were completely frozen savoring the last seconds of calm before everything would fall apart.

#i dont write often but sometimes i like to give it a try!#bruno x reader #bruno buccellati #bruno buccerati #bruno bucciarati #jjba #my writing #bruno bucciarati x reader #prosciutto #im not gonna do x reader for pro since hes the one being cheated on oof #jojo x reader

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honeybammie · 5 years

Text

momma › jackson wang

↳ babysitting jackson wang’s daughter was not the first option on your list of summer jobs, but it pays well, and how can you complain when you get to see his face every day? ↳ singledad!jackson, fluff ↳ wc: 3,733

Babysitting was not first on my list of potential summer jobs, but “struggling artist” wasn’t paying rent, and my parents were growing tired of my increasing demands, so I had to look elsewhere. Between my list of potential options, including part-time waitress or grocer, Jackson Wang paid the most. I could take care of his two year old throughout the week, he could go to work with peace of mind, and in the evenings I could continue commissioning off my paintings for less than they were worth. Everybody won.

My first obstacle was the tedious interview process. At first, he called over phone to ask the more basic information of his potential applicants. Name, age, previous experience. I would’ve bet I was the oldest of everyone, and with three younger siblings, I hoped for a slight advantage, but I knew nothing of anyone else vying for the job, so I relied on my crossed fingers for luck.

The second step of the process included meeting Jackson in person. A renewed sense of hope flooded my veins when he gave me the follow-up call and explained that he’d like to meet me, but the pressure of knowing he was to meet with four other girls did nothing to salve my nerves. Neither did the caffeine in the coffee I ordered when we met. For many of his questions, I had to gather myself. Why did I want the position? What was I studying in school? I blushed peach when I had to answer that I was an art major. No one ever took that one seriously, but Jackson nodded anyway, and after forty-five minutes—had it really been that long?—he thanked me for my time with a smile.

The third and final step, which came down to me and an eighteen-year-old high school senior, was meeting his daughter, Meilin, the true judge. I met the two of them in a park near his home, Jackson still in his work clothes and Meilin dressed head-to-toe in pink floral. Apparently she picked the outfit herself. The shoes I wore had a flower print, too, one I designed, and this fact pleased her so much I got the job without saying much else. I felt almost guilty. The other candidate may have had every qualification for taking care of a toddler, but two-year-olds cared not for credentials. Evidently, they cared very much for cool shoes. Some things are learned young.

My second obstacle was trying not to fall in love with Jackson.

An obstacle much more difficult than my first, despite how little I saw him after the interview process. Every morning I showed up at 7:30, and upon my arrival he handed me a twenty dollar bill for lunch (which I never spent in its entirety and tried to return at the end of the day, but he always declined), told me any play dates or birthday parties I had to attend, and grabbed his briefcase before heading out the door. When he returned at 4:30, he handed me my daily pay, thanked me, and I returned to my apartment. Our paths barely overlapped.

Still, I dwelled on our meet-up for coffee a number of times. Had he spent so long with the other girls? Maybe he related more to me since I was the oldest, but surely we had little in common other than both being in our twenties. He was a successful single dad, and I had neither success nor children, just an in-progress art degree and an atelier that was just a closet I cleared out for my paintings. Stains covered my carpet even after the immense effort of cleaning, whereas every surface of Jackson’s house was glossy and unmarred. Even if I wanted to have a conversation with him again, I had no idea where to begin.

Until a month into the job, when upon Meilin was playing dress up for the umpteenth time and Jackson called.

“Hello?” I answered, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder so that I could continue to applaud Meilin as she twirled in circles and fell back into her chair.

“Oh, thank goodness,” he sighed, breath heavy like he was in pursuit of something. “Can I ask you a favor? I’m caught up at work and need you to watch Meilin for a few more hours. I’ll give you some extra money for dinner and pay you overtime hours.”

“Daddy!” Meilin exclaimed upon hearing his voice, climbing up onto my lap and making grabby hands at my phone

“Hello, honey,” he hummed, like the sound of her voice renewed him after hours of office work.

“Don’t worry about the dinner money. I didn’t spend any for lunch earlier. What time do you think you’ll be back?”

“I’ll try to be back by 7:30. Thank you for this. How’s Meilin?”

“Daddy!” she repeated in a similar squeal as earlier, hardly fazed by her father’s news.

“I think she’s holding up. She was in the middle of her debut fashion show, so you ought to be glad she’s not a diva and made time between changes to talk to you,” I tsked, earning a laugh from him, the sound curling around my heart and constricting.

“Tell her I appreciate it very much,” he said, “and thank you. Again. Seriously.”

“It’s no problem. Seriously,” I mocked him, and he hung up in haste. At the loss of her father’s voice, Meilin grabbed the phone out of my hand, looking between me and the device, perplexed.

“Where daddy?” she wondered, turning the phone upside down and flipping it over and over. “Daddy home?”

“Not yet. Daddy’s working late, so you get to spend more time with me!” I threw my hands in the air, and she copied the action with a grin on her face, arms high above her head in the most excited display the world had ever seen.

“Momma!” she giggled.

I lowered my arms with the sudden shock of my title. Usually she called me my name, or various incoherent versions of it, but “momma” was new, and definitely not close to my real name. “Oh, goodness. Uh...no, not momma,” I stuttered.

“Momma! Dress up!” she pulled her princess dress over her head, throwing it down and running into her closet for what I could only imagine would be another dress.

Her newfound favorite manner of addressing me continued through the rest of the evening. Even when I took her to a nearby restaurant and cut up her chicken nuggets with a fork, feeding her one tiny piece at a time, she persisted.

“Yum Yum. Here, momma,” she’d say, picking up a piece and shoving it towards my face. A couple passersby even complimented me on how cute my daughter was, only setting her off more.

I realized I had no idea what happened to Meilin’s mother. Had Jackson been married, or was Meilin perhaps the result of a brief fling? Had her mother died? Abandoned them? I hadn’t considered the possibilities before, but they weighed on my anxious mind as the next few hours passed.

She ran into Jackson’s arms when he returned, oblivious to how late he had gotten off work. “Good evening, hon. What’d you guys do today?”

“Play dress up! With momma!” She clapped her hands, at which Jackson’s eyes widened and landed on me.

“I tried to tell her I’m not momma, but she kept calling me momma and I didn’t know what to do, and then people at the restaurant kept saying I had a cute daughter, and...I’m sorry,” I blurted out all in one breath, afraid the subject might strike a chord.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. No harm done,” he chuckled, setting his daughter down. She scuttled along into the living room to play with some toys while he pulled out a wad of money, counting out double what he usually paid me in a day even though I had only done three hours overtime. “I really appreciate you taking care of her, you know? She goes on about you all the time, most of which I can’t understand, but what I do understand is good. She still loves your shoes.”

I wore the same pair every day, and now I looked down at them with redness flooding my face. “It’s nothing, really. She’s great. She makes me laugh more than most people my age.”

Jackson slipped the cash into my hand, smiling gently at me. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“Do you mind me asking something else?” I added, almost against my own will, but the question had been beating me down all day, and I had to know.

“Go ahead,” he prompted, sliding the jacket of his three-piece suit over his broad shoulders and folding it over one arm.

“Where is her mother?”

“Oh. She doesn’t have one,” he said with a little shrug. Just like that. So nonchalant. I glanced around me for the presence of, perhaps, hidden cameras. Was he messing with me?

“She...left?” I asked in a low whisper, desperately trying not to offend him.

He shook his head at me in amusement, pulling out a stool from the kitchen island and taking a seat. “Meilin has a mother, biologically, but she was a surrogate. I...really wanted to have a baby, so I found someone and after some legal work and nine months of waiting, Meilin was born. I guess a lot of the children’s books we read mention mommies and daddies, and she knew who daddy was, so you must’ve been the closest resemblance to mommy to her.”

“Huh,” I said. Of all answers, I didn’t expect that one, but it was one of the better ones. “I’m glad, then. I was worried her mom passed away or that there was a divorce.”

“No, nothing like that,” he said, “but you’re sweet for being worried.”

I was blushing scarlet now, no longer able to hide it. He was only a few years older than me, but him having his life so put together made me feel like putty in front of him, and the “sweet” rolling off his tongue made me feel like I was stuck in sugary goo.

“I guess I should get going, then,” I said. “See you on Monday, Mr. Wang.”

“Jackson,” he corrected me. “I’m not that much older than you.”

“Most people don’t call their employer by their first name,” I pointed out. Being on a first-name basis with him was too informal, too intimate. “And we’re not friends or anything. Not to be rude, but—”

“No, I understand,” he nodded, eyes travelling to his daughter. This was usually her bedtime, and she wasn’t playing with her toys with the same energy as earlier. “Give me a moment to put her in bed, would you? I’d like to talk for a few more minutes.”

“Uh, sure.” I wasn’t sure if he was going to fire me or somehow promote me or what, but I sat at the kitchen island as he carried Meilin to her room, her cheek pressed to his shoulder.

“Night, momma.” She waved, and after spending the day denying it, I conceded and waved back, blush still covering my cheeks. I hoped it didn’t secretly bother Jackson.

He was gone maybe five minutes, and the house doesn’t make a sound. I was used to the constant thudding of feet, of pint-sized chaos roaming the halls, but the space was at a standstill and I had to busy myself by picking up the stray toys left on the living room floor.

“Oh, please—no, no, don’t worry,” Jackson said when he found me cleaning up, touching a hand to my elbow so that I stood. There was a doll in my hands but he took it and tossed it into the nearby basket of toys he kept in the living room. “You’ve done enough today.”

“Sorry. Force of habit, I guess.” I folded my hands together to steady myself. Being alone with him was as nerve-wracking now as it was during the interview process. “What did you want to talk about?”

He nodded towards the kitchen, where I returned to my previous seat. I shook my head no when he offered a glass of wine. I’d have to drive home soon, but he proceeded to pour himself a glass and sat down. He always struck me as more of a rum guy—not that I had spent my time thinking about what he liked to drink. Well, not too much time.

“I don’t know that this arrangement is going to work much longer,” Jackson said, reaching across the table to cover one of my hands with his. My skin froze at the proposition.

“Mr. Wang—Jackson, please,” I sputtered in a half-thought out attempt to save my job. Not seeing Meilin or him again? Asking my parents for more money? The thought made my heart lurch. “I adore your daughter, and I need this job because I don’t make near enough from painting to sustain myself. If you’re mad that she’s calling me her mother, I’m sorry, and I’ll try to take care of it, but I can’t lose this position.”

He took a sip from his glass, swirling a finger around the rim. “Earlier, you said we weren’t friends, and it made me think of how I don’t want to be your friend.”

“Ouch.”

He smirked a little, tired from a long day of work but still thinking me amusing nonetheless. “Let me finish. I don’t want to be friends with you, but that’s not because I’m your boss. Hell, I don’t want to be your boss, either. I want to take you out sometime—to an art museum or a play downtown or for another cup of coffee with a different context. Even with what little I see of you, I think about you all the time, and I just…”

Jackson’s voice faded out, words lost to him. I’d never been very good at words, either, hence why I pursued artistry instead of English, but I turned my hand over and slipped his fingers through mine. It felt like a good place to start, despite how much my hands were shaking. “I don’t...really want to be your friend either. Or your employee. Ever since we first met for coffee, I’ve had the stupidest middle school crush.”

“As long as we’re coming clean, I knew after our first meeting that I wanted you to be the one to watch Meilin. I had only met with the other girls for fifteen minutes, maybe, but we talked for how long? An hour? When she ended up choosing you, I was happier than it made sense to be.”

“What if she hadn’t?” I implored, hoping he would indulge me.

He rubbed the back of his neck, contemplative and maybe a little nervous, too, a side of him I decided that I liked. “I...might’ve asked you out sooner, actually, or I might’ve talked myself out of the idea, thinking you’d say no. I guess we don’t have to find out.”

“And I’m glad it was me. Meilin is the highlight of my summer.” I smiled at the thought of her round cheeks and moony eyes staring up at me but remembered a moment later that I do need the job. “Listen Mr. — Jackson.”

“Mr. Jackson,” he interrupted, chuckling.

“Shut up,” I scoffed. “This is serious. I need money somehow, and if I’m not watching Meilin, I’m out of luck.”

“Then let me help you with some of your art. I’ll buy a few pieces off of you for however much you need or want for them—just enough to give you a jumpstart and afford rent while you look for another job,” he suggested.

“I want to date you, not for you to be my sugar daddy.”

“I’m not—” he started, but he must’ve seen where I was coming from because he stops short. A pinkish blush started to show on his cheeks. Finally, I wasn’t the only one.

I didn’t want to date him as long as I was making money from him. My parents taught me not to mix work and personal life, and hooking up with my boss sounded too scandalous for my taste.

“Give me time to find another job. It’ll take a few weeks, maybe, but then I’ll quit and we can go on a date. Until then, we should keep things professional.” I realized my hand was still in his, and I slipped my fingers away and held them in my lap.

He was silent for a while, and from the way his eyes flitted all over me, he didn’t seem to want to wait. He’d probably take me out right then if he could, and if he asked, I wasn’t sure I had the willpower to tell him no, despite the front I tried to keep from crumbling. “Can I give a suggestion, then?”

“What is it?”

“Wait here,” he said, running upstairs where I knew he had another bedroom and an office, along with other rooms I had yet to step foot in.

He returned soon after, pressing three business cards into my palm. I filed through, brows furrowed, to see that they were art exhibit coordinators, critics, buyers. Alternatively, all the people I needed to impress.

“Where did you get these?”

“I’ve been to a few showcases in my day. I’m not entirely ignorant to the world of art, and I never turn down a business card. You never know when you might need someone you thought you wouldn’t.”

My mouth hung open, entirely ungraceful and no doubt making me look like a fool in front of him. Then, I shook my head. “It still seems like too much of you to—”

“I’m only giving you their cards. You don’t even have to tell them you know me, just that you’re looking for work. If they hate your paintings, they won’t hire you, and if they love them, that has nothing to do with me and everything to do with your talent.”

I tried to refute him. It still didn’t seem fair, but he had a point, and maybe it was selfish of me but I wanted a date with him soon, and I wanted the validation of someone in the community telling me that I had what it took to make a living from my art. Was that too much to ask?

“Im Jaebum selects artists to showcase at the art gallery each month. He has a soft spot for young artists just trying to find a way in, and if he really likes you, he’ll showcase you more than once. BamBam runs a section of a popular magazine— focused on art, obviously, and he kind of does what Jaebum does: spotlights an artist or two each edition, gets their name published. You never know who might see your name and reach out. Park Jinyoung is the hardest of them to please, but he’s more constructive than harsh, and you’re in great shape if he likes you. He’s a buyer, too, and pays more than I ever could. He’ll tell his friends about you, too, if you want to commission work.”

“I don’t...I don’t know what to say,” I stuttered, the cards heavy in my hands with the prospect of chances they might hold, doors they might open. “Thank you, Jackson. Really, I—”

“You can thank me once you book your first showcase. I’d love to be your plus one.”

“Oh? And who said you would be my plus one?” I teased, but it was taking every ounce of my composure not to throw my arms around him and kiss him silly.

“Call it my wishful thinking,” he said. “And until then, you can keep taking care of Meilin, and our relationship can remain strictly professional.”

Right. I had suggested that. So much for kissing him silly. “Yeah. Yes, of course.” I nodded. I’d be sad not to see Meilin every day, but if all went well, I’d continue to see her often.

Jackson looked into the bottom of his wine glass, almost empty, and after a couple beats of silence said, “I’ve probably kept you long enough tonight. I’m sure you’d like to get home.”

You can keep me as long as you want, I thought, snapping back when I caught his eyes on mine. “I’m...yeah. I should be on my way.” We both stood, his movements a mirror of mine. He walked me to the door a few times before, usually while counting my payment, but he had already given me my cash.

“Thank you again for staying late to watch her,” he said while I slipped my shoes on, grabbing my belongings.

“Don’t mention it. Seriously, I’d do it any day.” I waved a dismissive hand at him.

He opened the door. I grabbed my keys. Both of us lingered in the threshold, like he was waiting for me to say something, or like I was waiting for him to. The porch lights set his face aglow, warm evening honey.

“Goodnight, then,” he said slowly, like such basic words were a struggle for him. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yeah, goodnight.” I took one step, reconsidered, and looked back at him. “Jackson?”

“Yes?” He hadn’t moved, but his eyes widened with some combination of hope and curiosity.

“I’m having this problem where I really want to kiss my boss, but we agreed to keep things strictly professional for the time being, and I was wondering what you think I should do.”

“Hm,” he considered, and I prayed he wouldn’t tell me just to go home. I wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye again. “Do you think he wants to kiss you too?”

My breath hitched. “I hope so.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, the smallest ripple I barely noticed. He was enjoying himself so, so much. “Only one way to find out.”

I hesitated, momentarily afraid of stepping into a trap, but without any semblance of patience, he was reaching for my waist. My fingers found the pulse of his neck and his lips found mine in the lamplit dark. My second obstacle had been trying not to fall in love with Jackson, and I was failing miserably.

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awackyphdinadorkable · 5 years

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Snippety snip 2 for that Pearl Harbor AU I keep obsessing about... for reasons.

Why do I keep doing this to myself? Oh, right, because I am a biatch for Cherik as kids and being all sweet and corny. And I did it again, even after I already cut out that first snippet. Either way. I keep purging those snippets until my mind stops obessing about it. So you’ll have to deal with it until my brain catches up to the news. Cheers!

Erik looks out the small window from their living room. It’s dark outside, but he can make out the outlines of the mansion, framed by the lanterns shining like fireflies about to flit away, though they never do. He sighs, then grimaces when the mist of his own hot breath against the cold window clouds the glass.

His eyes drift back down on the small rectangular package in his hand, wrapped in brown paper and with a blue bow on top. His mother did most of the wrapping for him because Erik’s fingers wouldn’t work the way they normally would – because he is good at crafts, he really is. Paper is no metal, though, which makes it harder to control at times than most people would tend to think, if they even knew what that meant in the first place.

He was grateful for his mother being so helpful, she always is, because she just silently took the box from his hand and wrapped it for him without ever losing a word about it, well aware how embarrassed he would have been if she had made him ask for it.

Maybe this was a bad idea from the start, though, considering.

Charles’s parents seemingly invited all of the high society to the occasion. Erik’s mother and the rest of the staff had been fussing all week to get everything in order for tonight, which left Erik briefly wondering whether the President would also attend.

For the record, he did not.

Nonetheless, Erik watched with great fascination as one fancy car after the other rolled up the hill to the estate. He could hear the metal roar all the way to their small house.

And no matter how closely he pressed his face against the glass of the living room window, Erik knew from the moment on the cars wheeled past the big iron gates that this world out there is by no means his world, despite the fact that it’s only a few hundred feet away. He doesn’t fit in. Charles does, though, which gives Erik any urge to throw the little box away and go to bed early. Because it is those days that make him feel different, that make him feel like he doesn’t belong right where he wants to be, where he feels he belongs every single day safe for this one of the year.

Erik knows that people would give him not just one odd look if he were to just show up at the estate, dressed in plain clothes those people wouldn’t even use to work in the garden with, which is stupid enough. And after that, he’d probably be thrown out, because Erik does not belong to those people with fancy cars and even fancier clothes, no matter the occasion.

Charles doesn’t make the difference, though, he never did.

When Erik came to Westchester, he was instructed not to come to the mansion unless ordered. He was supposed to keep up with his language lessons, to go to school, come back, and not cause any trouble around the property otherwise. Erik’s mother reminded him that they were very fortunate for the position, even more so because Kurt Marko actually pushed for Erik to attend school and paid extra for his studies to be sure Erik caught up, which was not at all common for an employer to do.

Erik understood that much even at such a young age. They were very fortunate. The money was enough to provide for them and start over new after they had to leave everything in Germany behind.

So yes, Erik showed his best side and stuck dutifully to the rules he was given. He didn’t want to cause his mother any more trouble than that which they had escaped back in Düsseldorf after his father died and they had to find a way to fend for themselves in the Americas.

His orbit, his little world, became the small house at the far end of the property which was given to them as lodgings for his mother’s work in the mansion. Erik either sat inside, tried to focus on his language books and form the words still unfamiliar to his tongue. And if he did not do that, he played in very close periphery to their house, built himself toys out of wood and wire. He listened to the buzzing of the insects on hot summer days and waited for his mother to come back from the mansion, day in, day out.

This orbit expanded vastly one afternoon when Erik roamed through the vast garden of the estate, pretending to be a pilot, only to fall, nose first, into the dirt. When he looked up, he saw a dark-haired boy, a little younger than him, and eyes bluer than the sky itself. The boy stared at him with wide eyes, rubbing his side with a wince.

It took Erik a number of seconds to remember his mother talking about the two sons of the family who lived in the large mansion, which Erik always found a ridiculous waste of space. Charles and Cain. By the looks, it could only have been Charles. No matter which one it was, though, Erik was sure to be in trouble because he was given orders not to interfere with them. Ever. At the same time, he knew there was no escape now that the boy had seen him.

Mentally, Erik prepared himself for the worst, which is why he muttered a hasty apology with a bowed head: “I… I am sorry. I did not see you.”

He briefly wondered how he had to address the boy. Was he some “lord” or “little mister” or did you address even boys by their last name if your mother worked for them? Erik didn’t know by the time, and everything made him want to run, so to escape giving a wrong answer, but his feet wouldn’t move.

“No, no, I’m sorry. I was not paying attention.”

That was the one answer Erik did not prepare himself for, neither could he brace himself for the kind smile and the sympathetic gaze that made those blue eyes impossibly more vibrant.

Erik was still fully convinced that he was in for some trouble, because rich boys always made trouble to his mind, at least from what he heard his mother recount about the older one who only ever cursed her whenever she came into his room without knocking first.

“Are you hurt?” Erik asked dutifully.

The boy only shook his head with a smile. “Not at all. You?”

“No.”

“Then I am relieved,” the boy sighed in relief, only to stare at him. “Oh.”

Erik frowned. “Oh?”

The boy struggled to his feet, then, a book falling out of his lap and onto the ground. He wiped his hands over his back to get rid of some blades of grass before stretching out his right hand to Erik. “I’m Charles Xavier.”

“Erik Lehnsherr.”

“You are from Germany, right?”

“… Yeah,” Erik said slowly, not liking to be called upon it, after all, he was trying his best to catch up on his language lessons as he was told to do. “I am still learning the language.”

“Oh, you must be very talented, then.” The boy beamed at him.

Erik could do nothing much but stare. “Talented?”

That was nothing Erik associated with himself. He wasn’t dumb by any means, but talented? Erik always tended to think being talented meant to be exceptional at something, and he couldn’t say of himself that he was. Yet, there stood a boy who, from what he had heard, was as bright as a star can shine. And that boy was complimenting him on his language? None of it made sense to Erik. And yet, it made him want to ask questions where he was so used to ducking his head and swallowing down any kind of curiosity he may have had.

“Why yes, you speak English very well already,” the boy explained. “By contrast, I can’t speak German at all.”

It was only then that Erik looked at the book lying on the grass, which turned out to be a beginner’s guide in German language learning. But it couldn’t possibly be that Charles had picked up that for his sake. That was out of the question.

Right?

“I… I suppose you’ll learn it fast,” Erik said, not daring to meet the other boy’s gaze any longer. “I think I ought to go. Mama doesn’t want me to be late for dinner.”

“Oh, sure, I didn’t mean to keep you from it. Sorry another time for making you fall. It was nice meeting you, Erik,” the boy assured him quickly, and Erik would have thought that he saw disappointment in his eyes, but that couldn’t possibly be either.

Right?

“It was nice meeting you, too… Charles.”

That day changed everything for Erik going forward.

That boy’s smile changed everything, it made Erik’s orbit larger with every day passing until it reached way beyond the fences of the estate, to the point that only the sky was the limit.

Because ever since that day, Erik caught glimpses of Charles wherever he went. It was as though he only now noticed that boy’s presence, as though he only materialized now that Erik took notice of him. It left the young boy wondering whether Charles had been watching him without his notice much longer than he’d taken notice of it.

At first he was irritated by it, because it felt like Charles was watching him. He was, in fact, as Charles admitted to him later, but it was because he sensed Erik’s hesitation and didn’t want to bother him.

Charles kept sitting in the grass, reading German language books while Erik pretended to play without noticing the other boy’s presence. That went on for about a week. Then Erik couldn’t take it anymore, and just blurted out asking what Charles was doing there, sitting in the grass, watching him instead of playing himself. Because Erik couldn’t imagine the boy had any shortcomings in toys and whatever else to fill his days with the delight of playing whatever game he could think of.

Why would he bother watching Erik play?

Erik was surprised by the shock in the younger boy as he bowed his head, the mob of dark curls falling into his blue eyes, looking straight-up miserable within seconds. “I… I didn’t mean to bother you, Erik. I am sorry. I just… I can also go elsewhere if you preferred.”

“That’s not what I was asking. I want to know why you don’t play yourself.”

“You amaze me,” came the reply that did nothing to lift Erik’s confusion. He had to take a moment to think of that word. He remembered to having read it not long ago. Amaze. Amazing.

Oh.

“How?” Erik asked bluntly. First talented, then amazing – Charles kept attaching meanings to him that Erik didn’t know belonged to him, but to the younger boy they seemingly did. And it left young Erik wondering whether Charles had the rights of it, because he was so bright and clever already at that age – how could he be wrong?

Right?

“You can play on your own to have fun,” Charles answered. “I can only read on my own to have fun.”

Erik had to ponder that for quite some time because he always thought that rich boys had to have fun playing because they had all those fancy toys and such whereas he had only his imagination and a bunch of sticks and wire.

“Well, you could always have a friend over to play with you,” Erik suggested.

Charles’s lips curled at that, before settling into a tight grimace. “I don’t know any boys my age. And Cain doesn’t… we don’t play. Ever.”

Erik found that all very curious. He always thought rich boys had a bunch of friends, even those fake friends that only ever stayed around for the money and nice gifts, but here sat a boy about his age who had everything and yet had no one other than himself and his books, for what it seemed.

Erik himself chose to be mostly on his own because the children at school made fun of his accent or pestered him about his faith. But he was friendly enough with some of them to play with during the breaks. He even played over at their houses from time to time, though he hardly ever felt like it. That was never any trouble. Yet, here sat a boy who was smart enough to read such big books already at that age, and he seriously didn’t know how to play? Who didn’t have anyone to play with? It boggled Erik’s mind even more than some of the stuff in his curriculum did at the time.

“… You can join… if you want, that is.”

He could see the lights go up in the other boy’s eyes, but Erik could also spot the restraint he put on himself, so not to show too much excitement. “I don’t think I know how to play the game, though.”

Erik shrugged at that. “I can show you.”

The smile that met him shone brighter than the stars in the sky on a clear night. “You mean that.”

“Sure.”

“You really are amazing, Erik.”

Ever since that day, they played together on a daily basis.

And their worlds kept growing as they allowed the two to overlap.

Charles burst open like a flower does with the first sunbeams of spring, giggled until his sides hurt and smiled so much that his eyes smiled, too. And Erik found himself doing the same, unable to hide from that joy he suddenly found orbiting in his little yet expanding world.

He enjoyed playing alone, alright, but that was until he started playing with Charles, which was so much better. Charles liked many things Erik enjoyed. He was always one to praise Erik for his crafts and imagination. And the things that Charles enjoyed that didn’t really interest Erik? He found himself doing what Charles had done before – and still did on occasion – to watch. Erik lost count of the hours he’d spent watching Charles read, devour page after page.

However, on most things, they agreed – when it came to playing games. And so they spent hours pretending to fly over moist grass. They climbed the tree right by the small lake that Charles said his grandfather planted, and played hike and seek, a game Charles always won, no matter how well Erik tried to hide.

Over time, Erik’s orbit became very large, to the point that he could hardly make out its limits anymore. He played in Charles’s room, they stole from the kitchen to have picnics on the roof, he went in and out as he pleased, and because Charles called him his friend, no one questioned his presence in the mansion, safe for some odd glances he got from Cain until he left for boarding school for good.

So no, Charles never made the difference, he dissolved any feeling of Erik being other at the estate.

He showed interest in Erik when most others just ignored him or didn’t even register his presence. Charles was eager to learn German phrases from him, insisting that languages ought to be spoken not just read in order to be learned. Charles wanted to know all there was to know about Sabbath and Chanukah, the city of Düsseldorf, wanted to learn to make toys just like Erik, the ones with nothing but wire and wooden sticks. He smiled at the splinters in his hands and the fine red tears in his pale, freckled skin, all the more cheerful once he finished his first toy and was eager for Erik’s approval. Charles gave Erik the feeling that he was a very special person when normally, he felt like most people hardly ever noticed him.

Where Erik tended to feel like one tiny star amongst millions, Charles made him feel like he was the only star in the sky around which Charles’s world revolved.

By contrast, Charles’s stepfather barely took notice of his presence, as did Charles’s stepbrother. Erik hardly ever saw Charles’s mother, and Charles made a habit of it to bring toys to Erik’s house rather than bring Erik to his house – at least when other family members were around.

In the early beginnings of his orbit’s expansion, a lingering fear told Erik that Charles was ashamed of having him in the house, but he realized rather fast that this was entirely wrong: Charles was ashamed of this large house and its emptiness. He was ashamed of the lack of warmth in the way the rest of the family treated one another. Over time, that shifted, because Charles found that Erik brought warmth to the house, which was part of the reason why they ended up playing about as often in the mansion as they did in the small house at the far end of the property.

Thanks to Charles, Erik found his orbit so much larger yet very much tied to that boy’s smile, that boy’s presence.

Yet, Erik’s orbit shrinks whenever Charles is called back that mansion and he knows he can’t follow him. While they still steal into each other’s rooms more often than they should, Erik knows that on certain occasions, he is not wanted there, isn’t welcome, is not a part of Charles’s life. Because he is not like them. He is different, even when Charles won’t make that difference.

Charles seems to fit wherever he sees fit, though. He can be right in Erik’s orbit, but he knows how to handle himself around adults all the same. Erik saw that, too, one time when Charles and he had played longer than they should have, as the family expected guests. Charles hid Erik in the brushes while charming them so Erik could sneak away. Charles knows how to make others the same as himself and thus come into his orbit. Erik can’t do that, though. And it makes him realize that, in the end, no matter how close he feels to his best friend, Erik is not like Charles, not entirely, not enough to be around him all the time.

Erik is pulled out of his thoughts by his mother calling out from the kitchen. “Ich dachte, du wolltest Charles das Geschenk geben, bevor der Tag vorbei ist.“

Erik told her that he wanted to give this gift to Charles before the day was over, yes. That was before he started fussing with the wrapping, however, before the cars rolled up and he found his orbit shrinking until it was a painful throb in his chest.

The plan was to sneak over to the mansion early on, maybe even before Charles woke up – Charles loves to sleep in – and then surprise him with the gift. Erik would have been the first in the morning to greet him and wish him a happy birthday. And the more he entertained that thought the more intrigued he became by the idea. Erik found his confidence fleeting, however, as he saw deliveries being made to the mansion early in the morning and Charles standing by the large open door, already dressed in fine clothes, seemingly ready to welcome the guests as soon as they arrived.

Normally, Erik gives Charles a small gift the next day. The younger boy is always very, very thankful for it, completely overjoyed, in fact. Erik wanted to change it this time, because this is a special gift, and he wanted Charles to have it on his birthday, not the day after, but he found himself drifting more and more out of Charles’s orbit as more and more rich people found their way into the gardens, into Charles’s orbit.

Sharon Xavier had invited a great many, important – or at least important-looking – people to attend the garden party meant to celebrate Charles’s birthday and his most excellent grades guaranteeing Charles to obtain his high school diploma even a year earlier than expected, and they expected him to graduate very early anyway. Now turned thirteen, of that his stepfather is convinced, Charles will be the youngest student to ever attend college in the school’s history. Of course that called for celebration. But that celebration lies far out of Erik’s orbit, shrinking his little big world to the confines of the house all over again, leaving Erik to look out the window instead of going to where he would much rather be, to see the light that made his universe so much bigger and so much brighter.

Erik has no doubt that Charles will exceed even those expectations and excel in every subject. Charles is outstandingly smart and athletic. No small part of Erik is proud of Charles and his achievements, is proud of being that boy’s friend.

And yet, when Erik heard of the prospect of Charles graduating even earlier than he would have anyway, he had to swallow hard. Because that means Charles will be out of his orbit even sooner. He will go on to college and ease into new orbits, new worlds. And while Erik knows that Charles will remain his best friend – and will see to it that Erik knows this – he also knows that distance between them will inevitably pull their worlds far apart. And then his world will shrink to the house again – for all days of the year, every other year.

“Willst du nicht gehen?” his mother asks, peeking her head out of the kitchen into the living room, drying a pan. Yes, he wants to go, but no, that’s nothing he can do, can he?

“Vielleicht doch lieber morgen, Mama,“ he tells her. Perhaps it’s best to stick to tradition after all and only go there tomorrow. It worked before, why shouldn’t it now?

She shrugs at him. „Wie du meinst. Ich glaube, Charles würde sich trotzdem freuen, wenn du es ihm heute noch gibst.“

Erik knows she is right about that. Charles would be happy to get it today. He is always happy about any gift Erik ever made him, but thankfully, his mother might be pushy in her own, calm way, but she wouldn’t ever force him into going.

“Es ist schon spät.“

Being too late is a passable enough excuse, isn’t it?

His mother gives him a look. “Das hat dich noch nie abgehalten, mein Schatz.“

She is right yet again, the way she always seems to be: No, it being late never hindered him from going. Erik knows that this is just another cheap excuse he wants to tell himself, so not to feel like he is failing himself – and Charles.

Yes, he wanted to go earlier, but no, he somehow couldn’t when he saw Charles up early, dressed in a fine suit jacket and knickers, the hair neatly combed, looking so much different from the boy he tends to roll over the grass with until both are positively disheveled and dirty.

Yes, he says that he wants to wait until tomorrow, but no, he wants to give it to Charles now. Even though a voice tells Erik that it’s stupid and that Charles likely received much better gifts than the one Erik put together with the limited resources he had – and failed at wrapping, if not for his mother’s aid.

Yes, his mother is likely right that Charles would be enthusiastic if he brought it today. Charles would be enthusiastic about Erik gifting him a handshake and a piece of gum. Maybe even just the handshake. He’s too kind, simple as that. But no, she was right, it being late never hindered Erik from sneaking into the house to see Charles.

So why did it now?

That would be the point where Erik would ask Charles for help to solve this paradox, but Charles is not here to help him with that. Charles is up there whereas Erik is glancing out the window, clouding his vision with his own hot breath.

Erik turns around when he hears his mother walk into the living room, having finished cleaning up the kitchen. She puts her hands on his shoulders, offering a kind smile. “Ich gehe jetzt ins Bett. Es wird ein langer Tag morgen.“

“Gute Nacht, Mama.“

“Schlaf gut, mein Schatz.“ She kisses his forehead. “Bleib nicht zu lange wach.“

“Werde ich nicht, Mama.“

His mother grins at him, winking. “Und schließ das Fenster.“

Erik bows his head, hiding a smirk of his own. Charles had been right about that after all – his mother certainly knew about their antics of sneaking into each other’s rooms, but then again, mothers always seem to know. Safe for Charles’s mother, perhaps, who is too busy with her own problems, as far as it concerns Erik, though he is not supposed to say that around Charles because he wants to see the good in everyone and everything.

His mother disappears before Erik can protest, leaving him to stay by the window, looking out to the world now containing his orbit, considering what to do next, whether to keep on the same plane Erik followed year after year ever since Charles and his smile and his bright blue eyes became the center of a new and exciting universe.

The movement comes before the thought, and before Erik knows what’s going on, he is walking up the hill, over moist grass that tickles his ankles as he goes. His heart pounds louder and louder the closer he comes the mansion, but Erik swallows it all down because he made a plan and he is supposed to stick to it, right?

Right?

The young boy does quick work to find his way up the drain, courtesy of his ability to control metal, swiftly landing on the windowsill and pulling up the glass with a flick of his wrist.

“Erik!”

He finds himself momentarily frozen when his eyes fall on Charles sitting cross-legged on the bed, his eyes finding Erik at once. The sheer excitement in his tone leaves Erik wondering how Charles can make him feel like he is right where he belongs with no more than the raise of his voice. No one can say Erik’s name to make him feel like that, really. That is only possible in Charles’s world.

“Sorry for being late. I didn’t want to come before all the fancy people were out of sight,” Erik lies as he slips inside, hoping that Charles won’t pick up on it, and even if he does, be graceful enough to ignore it.

“They would not leave,” Charles huffs, throwing his head back, leaving his soft curls to fall into his eyes. Erik can tell that Charles spent at least quite some time ruffling up his hair after Sharon certainly seemingly forced him to comb it straight to the sides. Charles hates that and is normally very vocal about it, arguing that it’s against his nature as he has a tendency to run his fingers through his hair – and since his hairs grow on his head, he should be allowed to make that call. His mother tends to disagree on the matter, as she does on so many other things.

“I suppose they wanted to get all of the champagne, huh?” Erik snorts.

“And the caviar and the lobster and the Belgium chocolates… You don’t want to know how many people I had to listen to, thinking to themselves how smart they are for having brought extra bags just to get some extra caviar. One would think that rich people like them can buy their own, but no.”

Erik makes a low gurgling noise in the back of his throat. “That sounds like fun.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “It’s like Christmas for me!”

Erik smirks, but then lets his gaze wander about the room he normally knows inside-out, having spent many, many hours in here to recognize every item and memorize its exact position. However, looking around now, it seems that things are somewhat out of order. Chairs were pushed back, and the small table they tend to pull into the middle of the room to play chess at seems vanished.

That is until Erik gifts over gifts over gifts piled up in one corner of the room, likely having buried underneath their chess table and the chairs. His mouth falls open silently for a moment, but then Erik gathers himself. “Wow. Large booty you got this year, Charles.”

“It was a lot of people, so yes, it is quite a pile, though I’d rather had an actual pirate’s booty with a treasure chest and a quest than this festivity,” Charles comments, wrinkling his nose. “Which, again, only leaves you wondering why they are so eager to steal caviar off a buffet. They can afford all these gifts but can’t seem but get as much of that black stuff as they can.”

“Humans are weird.”

“Tell me about it.”

Erik keeps studying the elaborately wrapped presents with golden cords and perfectly tied red ribbons, feeling all the more inadequate about his own little thing that would quickly disappear in the mass of large gifts. Erik left it sitting in the pocket of his jacket, finding the edges of it poking his sides almost painfully much now.

His attention quickly turned to Charles, who is still dressed in that fine suit jacket and knickers, looking like any English boarding school students.

“Did you grow tired of unwrapping them or why are there still so many left?” Erik comments, cocking an eyebrow at the younger boy.

“I didn’t unwrap any,” Charles answers, barely moving his lips apart as he speaks. Erik can tell that there is something deeply upsetting Charles about them. It would explain why Charles chose to sit on the bed, as far away from the gifts as possible and why he keeps eyeing them as though one of those packages may decide to eat him any minute now. However, he wants Charles to say it himself instead of guessing, so he just plays along for now.

“Why? That’s the big deal about wrapping them, isn’t it?”

Charles shrugs his shoulders. “I already know what’s in them.”

“And nothing you enjoy?”

“Nothing that means anything,” Charles sighs, letting his head fall forward so that his chocolate curls cover his eyes almost completely.

Erik frowns. “What now?”

Charles gesticulates at the boxes with both hands before running them through his hair nervously. “There is something in there, but they are empty. Those people give me a gift because it’s good tone and because they want to show off their wealth. They try to outdo one another with gifts. With how much they cost or how pricey they look. To me, those are all empty boxes they might just as well have given to themselves instead of me. They aren’t really for me, they are for my parents to see.”

“You know, you sound a bit ungrateful right now,” Erik teases, but he is quick to regret that when he sees Charles’s shoulders slump in defeat. “I know. I am sorry.”

Erik rolls his eyes at him. “I was just joking, Charles.”

“But you are right. I have all these things, but I don’t want them because they mean nothing. That’s… decadent. I know all that. But… those boxes feel like ghosts, and I’d much rather have them gone.”

The older boy grimaces at that. While he cannot really fathom it, Erik knows that Charles’s abilities make him see the world very differently than most other people see it. Charles knows when someone lies to his face. He knows when someone means it when they wish him a happy birthday. He knows how much care went into a gift, how much it means to the person gifting it. He knows when people are lying to his face and he has to pretend not to know it. He has to smile back even though he knows the others don’t actually mean it.

Erik understood by now that Charles is not just ashamed but afraid of emptiness. He finds that in abundance in the house, which made him cling all the more to Erik’s presence in the mansion once he found the confidence to join him there instead of just playing outside all those years ago. Charles is afraid of empty spaces that should have meaning but bear none. They are like black holes threatening to swallow him. And in that way, Charles not wanting to have anything to do with these gifts should actually not come as a surprise at all.

“There was not a single person at that party today who… who was there for my sake. There was no single kid my age. Kurt invited a bunch of teens who go to Bard College, to show me off and to make me want to go there. Mother presented me like… like I was some new dress she’d just bought in Paris. There were only adults who wanted champagne and attention,” Charles laments, unable to hold it back anymore.

Erik finds himself strangely glad for Charles sharing that with him, though, because it means that Charles trusts him enough to show those sides he either wants or was taught to hide from other people, now fancy people or not.

Charles rubs his eyes. “And I had to greet them all and thank them for coming and make conversation and talk about how much I love studying and answer their foolish questions about how I can know that much at such a young age and ignore just how many of the men called me Charlie or Champ or Chuck, trying to act like we were friendly.”

“Charlie.” Erik can’t help but grin at that, well aware of Charles’s aversion to be called anything other than his name.

The younger boy narrows his eyes at him. “You call me that once, I swear to God, Erik.”

“I won’t,” he assures him quickly, holding up his hands.

“Then I rather would’ve had things like last year when no one came,” Charles sighs.

Erik makes a face at that. “You had the flu last year, that’s why no one came.”

He hated that entire week because Erik was not allowed anywhere near Charles, so that he didn’t get sick himself. That was one of the longest periods of time he was left not just without Charles but worrying about Charles, which made it all the worse. By day 8, Erik couldn’t take it anymore and just sneaked in to read German fairytales to a still recovering Charles – and Erik never got sick of it, this way or the other.

“And it was quiet and no one called me Charlie,” Charles sighs almost wistfully. “And you read stories to me. That was so much better than listening to one guy boasting about his handicap in golf. And for the record, it’s not as good as he says it is.”

The older boy offers a soft smirk. “You are a party pooper.”

“Maybe I am,” Charles sighs wearily, but then looks back at Erik with that bright smile shining brighter than any star Erik ever saw. “I am glad you came by, though. This is definitely the highlight for me today.”

“Highlight,” Erik repeats, feeling the poking in his side all the more presently now. Many years passed since the day he quite literally stumbled over Charles, but to this day, Erik finds himself amazed at what meanings Charles keeps attaching to him, making Erik see things in himself that only Charles seems to know how to bring to light.

Charles rolls his shoulders. “Well, you normally don’t come on my birthday. Today you did, though. So this is rather special, right?”

“Right,” Erik says, chewing on his bottom lip pensively. “Well, you know your parents wouldn’t want to see me around.”

A cheap excuse again, Erik knows, but he is still trying to process the thought that he is Charles’s highlight of the day, which only ever makes him feel worse for having waited that long, for having kept Charles waiting that long, to be more precise.

“I know. And it’s stupid. And I know you don’t like being around those people either,” Charles ponders.

“Neither do you,” Erik snorts.

“Which tells me that birthday parties are entirely overrated. I should only ever celebrate the day after my birthday,” the younger boy concludes.

Erik furrows his eyebrows at that. “Why?”

“Because that’s the day you come and wish me a happy birthday,” is the simple yet all-revealing answer. And while Charles would not know, Erik likely would have to thank Charles for solving the paradox he couldn’t figuring out on his own.

“… So, birthday for you would be better if I winded up to the occasion,” Erik asks cautiously.

“Very much so,” Charles agrees, nodding his head. “But I understand that you’d rather not. It’s just a date anyway. One day in the entire year. And thankfully, I normally see you on any other day, for which I am more than glad. Those days make up for that one stupid day most certainly.”

Erik suddenly doesn’t know how to smile because he wants to smile so desperately, but it’d be straight-up ridiculous and foolish, he knows that, too. So instead, he focuses on the poking in his side, reminding him of why he came here, why he wanted to change the direction of his orbit just a bit, to maybe gravitate a little closer to where he wants to be every day of the year, and not every day safe for one.

“By the way, I expect you to help me unwrap all of these tomorrow and sneak as much as possible to charitable causes,” Charles informs him.

“Why do we have to do that in secret again?” Erik wants to know, absently patting his palm against the chest, right where the present sits right before his ever beating heart.

It is another habit of Charles’s he never quite understood. When Erik comes by to wish him a happy birthday, Charles always tells him that if there is something Erik would like for himself, he is free to take it. As for the rest, Charles always asks Erik for help to get rid of most of it, sneaking it to orphanages or giving it out to surprised classmates at Erik’s school.

“Because Kurt is obsessed with money. And Mother will forget about it after she had her morning drink. So that means we have to make this disappear before Kurt can ask questions about it,” Charles explains.

Erik shakes his head. “Your family’s weird.”

“You don’t have to tell me, but I suppose it’s as you say, that’s just how humans are,” Charles sighs. “I’d rather not have to hide these things, but I don’t want to have another fuss. Fusses are… never good for Mother.”

“And you by extension,” Erik argues. It is one of those things Charles likes to forget, or rather, wants him to forget, but Erik certainly does not and won’t ever. Ever since he learned of what Kurt did to Cain and still does to Sharon when he is having one of his mood swings, Erik knew not to hold Kurt Marko in any kind regard, even less so once he saw what a toll it took on Charles. Because he can’t help but feel their pain, share in their suffering.

Once Erik learned of that, he learned to hate Kurt Marko. Charles doesn’t want Erik to act upon his anger, however, still trying to find a better solution, hoping to find a way to stop Kurt from acting that way entirely, but Charles doesn’t have that ability and perhaps even if he did, he couldn’t because something tells Erik that Kurt Marko is simply a bad man, and some bad men are beyond saving, simple as that.

What drives Erik near mad, though, is how Charles developed the tendency to act like he doesn’t suffer from this just because Kurt doesn’t let his anger out on him physically. For a boy as smart as Charles, Erik sometimes has to wonder how he can be so blind to this most evident truth. That is no paradox, that is plain obvious, but Charles won’t see it. Instead, he only ever seems to see hope returning to him when Erik finds him those nights and offers comfort his family can’t or won’t give to him.

But Erik will, always.

Charles says nothing, just licks his lips and looks at some dark corner in his room. Erik learned by now that money can’t buy you everything. It certainly can’t buy you a good and kind family, even though Charles would be one of the few rich people Erik knows would be deserving of it.

“Either way, will you be helping me?” Charles asks, hoping to lift the mood again, for what it seems.

“Do you even ask?”

Charles smiles at him faintly. Both know he will. They always help one another. It’s just the way their universe works. It’s just that simple.

“Thank you.”

“Oh, I almost forgot…,” Erik says. No, he didn’t forget, he couldn’t ever, but he lacks better words to say it with instead, so that will have to do. Erik reaches into his jacket to retrieve the small box, grimacing at the wrapping which got a bit dented, and the ribbon now hanging on the gift in a rather slanted way. Erik knows there is no going back anymore, however, which is why he simply adds, “Uhm, this is for you.”

Charles beams at him so brightly that Erik squints his eyes for a second. He takes the gift from Erik’s somewhat shaky hands and unwraps it with the same childlike enthusiasm he seemingly reserves for Erik’s presents alone.

“It’s nothing much, I just…,” the older boy mutters, but before he can talk his gift down, Charles retrieved it from the box and holds it against the cool light of the moon filtering through the window.

“Oh my God! This is absolutely stunning! You really are talented – and creative! I mean, look at that! This is amazing!” Charles shouts in sheer delight. He holds the little airplane Erik crafted from metal above his head, studying it intently.

Erik winces at every bump he knows to be in the middle as Charles runs his fingers across it, but then the younger man is up to his feet and hugging him so tightly that Erik finds the air knocked out of his lungs.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you so much. This is the best gift ever!” Charles mutters against the fabric of Erik’s jacket as the younger boy keeps his nose tightly pressed against it.

“You… you’re welcome,” Erik whispers faintly, awkwardly tapping his palms on Charles’s back as the other boy keeps holding on, radiating with every bit of himself nothing but happiness and light, so much so that Erik can see candle lights flicker up before his eyes.

Charles smiles at him and Erik completely forgets any limitations that were there earlier, in his little world, because once he is with Charles, they are no more.

“And you made that yourself?” the younger boy asks as he pulls back to look at the airplane again, eager to seemingly memorize every detail.

“I am still learning, but…,” Erik says, but Charles cuts him off before he can finish, “You truly are talented. I now have something absolutely singular in the whole world. Thank you so much, Erik. You really are the best.”

“It’s nothing,” Erik argues, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“It’s surely not,” Charles argues, shaking his head. “This is a great something. It’s… everything.”

Erik smiles at him, pushing any thought aside about how his mother is going to tell him that she told him so in the morning. For now, none of it matters, because Charles smiles like Erik wants to see him smile all the time, every day for the rest of their lives. Because that smile opened up his world until it became his world.

“Will you stay over?” Charles asks, tilting his head to the side.

“If you want me to.”

The younger man grins at him. “Do you even ask?”

“Not really,” the older one smirks back.

“Good, then how about you grab that present over there and unwrap it for me while I find a spot to put this beauty here?” he suggests, not really bothering to wait for a reply as he already busies himself finding the perfect spot for the little airplane.

“Why am I supposed to unwrap this?” Erik asks, frowning.

“It’s the only passable gift I’d mean to keep for myself,” Charles informs him, calling over his shoulder. “It’s a chessboard with metal chess pieces. You can move them with your mind, which should be a nice training for you, right?”

“Sure.”

Erik watches as Charles roams around to find the perfect spot for a small gift that means so much more to Charles than Erik ever could have dared to hope. He turns his gaze away before Charles can notice and instead does quick work to free the chessboard from the large bow and the red wrapping paper. It is, in fact, a very fancy chessboard and the metal is singing to him instantly, making Erik eager to train, but far more importantly, play with it.

With Charles.

“Against all odds, this just turned out to be my best birthday yet… I suppose thirteen is my new lucky number, then,” Charles muses as Erik sets up the chess pieces, already moving a few pieces with his abilities, even though he still needs to work some more on the smaller movements, the ones that require more finesse and attention to detail. But he is getting there. He already made an airplane, which means this is only a matter of time.

And Charles will certainly make sure of it that Erik will get a lot of practice.

“If you want me to, I will come up on your birthday next time,” Erik offers.

“I’d very much appreciate it if you did.” He sits down cross-legged across from Erik as he shrugs out of his jacket and unbuttons the top of his white shirt. Charles gets rid of the tie, which leaves him looking much more like the Charles Erik knows best, free and smiling brighter than the stars can shine, nowhere near a black hole as his entire world appears before him, morphing into a checkerboard wherein they can decide the way their worlds are meant to turn.

“Since it’s your birthday, you get to make the first move.”

“How considerate of you, Erik.”

“I’ll go easy on you.”

“No, you won’t.”

And neither one would want it to be any other way.

“Happy birthday, Charles.”

And just like that, Erik finds that his world is right where it should be, now also on the one day out of the year it used to be far away and out of reach.

Because his world is right within reach, making the first move, smiling so brightly that Erik knows that there is no way either one is going to sleep tonight.

And he is already looking forward to Charles’s lucky number fourteen.

#cherik #charles x erik #charles xavier #erik lehnsherr #cherik au #x men au #fanfic #fanfiction #snippets #something fanfic like #because it just keeps ghosting through my head #and it won't stop #halp

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riddledeep · 4 years

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Timmy’s Full Character Profile

Slight Riddleverse ‘fic spoilers. Your mileage may vary.

OVERVIEW

Full Name: Timothy Tiberius Turner

Title(s): The Chosen One, The Worst Fairy Godkid Ever (Formerly), The Longest Fairy Godkid Ever

Preferred Form of Address: Timmy (Until age 16); Timothy (Beyond age 16)

Alternate Forms of Address: Timothy / Twerp / Turner / Cleft the Boy Chin Wonder / Mr. Turner / Sport / Dad

Aspiration: Form a strong, loving, intimate connection with someone who’ll stay forever

Born: Spring of the Pink Star

Zodiac: Sky

Birthday: March 21st, 1992

Hometown: Dimmdale, California; USA

Age During Frozen Timestream: 10

Species: Human

Ethnicity: Has English and Welsh heritage on his father’s side; has Ustinkistan heritage on his mother’s side

Nationality: American

Mindset: Often childish and immature, but he means well.

Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder - Timmy has ADHD, but is more inattentive than hyperactive (Compare with Mikey Munroe). During his life he occasionally takes Adderall, but he's rarely consistent unless someone else urges him on. He doodles a lot and takes frequent stretch breaks too.

Stats:

Power: Below Average | Average | Above Average

Endurance: Below Average | Average | Above Average

Wisdom: Below Average | Average | Above Average

Adaptability: Below Average | Average | Above Average

Charisma: Below Average | Average | Above Average

Openness: Below Average | Average | Above Average

Conscientiousness: Below Average | Average | Above Average

Neuroticism: Below Average | Average | Above Average

Residence: 1010 Cobbler Street

Moves in with parents again after Tommy is born

Dream Career: Comic book artist; likes to think he’d be a good elementary school teacher too

Other Employment: Pencil Nexus (“The Boss of Me”), delivered pizzas throughout his teenage years

BACKGROUND

Self-Perception: Fun, friendly, and creative, he’s a pretty great guy (albeit average) who’d love to have a family of his own someday and possibly travel the world with his future wife once they become empty nesters.

Alignment: Neutral Good

MBTI: INFP

Deadly Sin: Sloth

Heavenly Virtue: Kindness

Love Language: Quality time

Reinforcers: Attention; small accomplishments

History: Smothered in his childhood by helicopter parents, then tortured for several years by his over-the-top babysitter. Timmy received Cosmo and Wanda as godparents at age 9 and later wished for them to have a baby named Poof. The joined him in many wacky adventures and even helped him save the world a time or twelve.

Timmy’s godfamily remained with him for years (especially since Timmy secretly froze time for fifty) before they finally parted ways. This left Timmy with memories of an imaginative childhood and encouraged him to get into tabletop RPGs.

Personality: Timmy has always been an emotionally cautious kid. As a young child he was able to make a few friends, but after years of disappointment, secrets, and betrayal, he’s been wary of allowing new people close to his heart. Timmy has a very gentle view of the world and that’s been used against him in the past (by Remy in particular). He’s guided by his heart more than his head.

Introverted and a little shy, he often hesitates to initiate conversation. That said, he isn’t afraid of asking for help when he needs it. Until he was eight, Timmy was raised to have impeccable manners. He’s still quick to say “Please” and “Thank You” (most of the time) and tries to respect his elders. Although cautious to share his feelings, he values the intimacy of being with someone you can trust completely, leading to his desperation to have a girlfriend.

Although Timmy can be oblivious (often selfish), he really does have a heart of gold. His first instinct is to defend himself since he doesn’t trust easily, but he’s also a sensitive child who tries to do the right thing even if it means he doesn’t get exactly what he wants. He has a sassy tongue, but also a sense of shame; much more likely than, say, H.P. to lie awake in bed thinking over his words and wondering if he should apologize for them.

Timmy is very curious and likes to explore, but he requires high stimulation. He likes adventure, action, danger, and intense emotions. He knows what he wants and how to get it (which of course has resulted in him having little patience). Although he causes problems almost as often as he fixes them and he has a habit of shoving himself into other people’s business, he doesn’t want to hurt people (but will defend himself and his friends if it comes to it).

Timmy has a tendency to commit fundamental attribution error, perceiving actions as a result of personality regardless of situation. He tends to back away from those he considers problematic and hesitates to give someone a second chance... but if he feels you’re willing to change, he’ll extend the hand of friendship (Befriending Mark is the most notable example of this). As of “The Switch Glitch,” he’s tried to take a “Kill ‘em with kindness” attitude and not retaliate just because he has the power to. He isn’t the type to actively seek revenge... though he might read your diary and tuck away the info he finds for a rainy day.

Deep down, Timmy knows he’s become reliant on his fairies and would like to develop better life skills... but he’s also become so accustomed to them, he has a hard time imagining what life would be like without.

Education: Attended school in Dimmsdale and is extremely knowledgeable when it comes to the basic subjects his classes covered during the frozen timestream. Knows an extreme amount of random trivia like world capitals after decades of pop quizzes. Can tell you which countries border other countries but struggles to identify them on a map.

Elementary School: Attended Dimmsdale Elementary and is extremely familiar with its layout and teachers.

Middle School: Thanks to his fifty years of repeated elementary education, Timmy was mostly prepared for middle school. He performed well in world history, science, and English, though new topics in math tripped him up. His biggest struggle was lack of motivation.

High School: Timothy played on his high school soccer team, which helped motivate him to keep his grades up. After decades of familiar information, learning new material proved a struggle. Frequently comparing himself to Chloe and A.J. didn’t help. Procrastination became a constant problem, leading to him staying up late and often falling asleep at his desk.

Further Education: Briefly attended community college before dropping out to care for Tammy and Tommy. On one hand he’s not planning to return since he doesn’t like school anyway... on the other he’d kind of like to finish what he started.

Favorite School Subject: World History

Least Favorite Subject: Geography

Had Fairy Godparents: June 3rd, 2001 (Age 9) - October 15th, 2010 (Age 17)

Favorite Wish: Poof

Notable Likes:

His godfamily

Visits to Fairy World

Hamburgers

Sour candy

Amusement parks

Video games

Soccer

Spending time with his family

Tabletop RPG games

Exploring the woods

Hunting

Goals:

Have a committed partner who loves him

Maintain good relationships with friends

Publish a fantasy novel

Be a good dad for his kids

Move out of his parents’ house

Finish school someday so he can be a better elementary teacher than Mr. Crocker was

Beliefs:

People and positive relationships are incredibly important

Success is mostly hard work, not luck

Kids have a lot to say and their views are as valid as adults’

Animals are very intelligent and need to be treated kindly

Raising kids is a lot of work, but also a lot of fun

Fears:

Abandonment

Boredom

Clowns

Vicky

Upsets:

Frustrated by a lack of caring attention.

Stressed when placed under time limits.

Flustered when confronted by authority figures one on one.

Comforts: Doodling, scrapbooking, talking about his feelings (Usually with his godparents, Sparky, or his therapist), playing with Sparky, exploring nature

Indulgences: Video games, drawing, and (from age 17 on) writing fantasy

EXTERNAL

Verbal Notes: Says “Hey!” and “Guys!” often; “Aaah!” is also common in his vocabulary. Constantly gives people nicknames, though he usually keeps them to himself (Cosmo and Wanda don’t know he thinks of them as Mr. and Mrs. Literal). Chloe is one of the few he calls nicknames out loud.

Timmy’s natural inclination is to say “Please” and “Thank you.” He often says what he thinks without realizing he might hurt his friends’ feelings, and that sass can ruffle feathers. Despite this, he can be a bit of a smooth talker at times, especially when flirting. Timmy and Molly bonded over both being direct, blunt people (although this caused their relationship to suffer in the long run). Timmy’s charming gestures of affection and flirtation skill have won him girlfriends even if he is a little sassy around the edges.

Language: Speaks English fluently, took several years of Italian in school.

Physical Notes: Timmy has always been short for his age and wasn’t well-muscled in his youth. He mostly ran, played soccer, and swam for exercise. After dropping out of school to raise Tammy and Tommy, Timmy devotes more time to working out. He’s more muscular as an adult than he expected to be as a kid.

Handedness: Somewhat ambidextrous; favors left hand

Body Language: Often talks with his hands in his pockets, leaning back on his heels or adjusting his weight to one side. Has a tendency to look up while he’s talking. Quick to wave his hands to grab attention. Usually makes gestures with both, not just one. Prone to twitches and is rather jumpy. As a young adult he often plays with his necklace.

Hair: Soft and scruffy; usually kept short, though he grew it long at ages 15-17 and had a crewcut at age 18

Teeth: Infamous buck teeth

Scars: A few random scars across his body from wishes gone wrong; the one he notices most is a long cut on the back of his right hand, which he picked up around “Abra-Catastrophe”

Tattoos: Three small shooting stars (Pink, green, and purple) on the inside of his right forearm; match the ones Chloe has on her left arm

Style: Casual; doesn’t come off quite like a nerd, but doesn’t come off quite like a jock either. Refuses to lose the necklace no matter how many times he’s teased about it.

Regular Clothing: Usually wears pink, though in later years switches his pink shirt out for a pink jacket. Sometimes ditches it and sticks with the white shirt, though carries the jacket from room to room with him.

Casual Clothing: A plain t-shirt, usually pink or white.

Nightwear: Wears striped blue pajamas, occasionally pink ones.

Formal Clothing: Prefers white suits (the fancier the better) with pink accents, though mint green accents are his second favorite.

Height: 5′3″ (Shorter than average)

Hygiene: Excellent oral hygiene; average hygiene where all else is concerned. He rarely brushes his hair. He prefers showering before bed over showering in the morning, especially since he often works out late in the day.

Morning Schedule: Timmy wakes up about 7:00 every day, has breakfast, and heads to school or work.

Typical Day Schedule: When he first dropped out to care for Tammy and Tommy, he didn’t have a job (or consistent schedule) and his day mostly revolved around caring for them.

Evening Schedule: Once, Timmy preferred spending afternoons with his godparents and playing video games in the evening. Since dropping out, he no longer has to do homework and tries to spend time with Tammy and Tommy. Living with his parents has been a blessing in that respect since some evenings they can all play board games together.

Sleep Schedule: Stays up late working on homework and only sometimes crawls into bed. Sleeps as late as he can and throws himself together in the morning, leaving just enough time for a cereal breakfast. Living with Molly helped him focus, and she’d usually wake him if he drifted off at his desk.

PERSONAL

Relationship Status: Dates and then cohabits with Molly for several years; spends part of his adult life as a single dad. Eventually marries another woman (giving Tammy and Tommy a step-mom) and he fathers another girl

Ideal Relationship: Timmy needs to feel loved, appreciated, and important, and wants a partner who isn’t embarrassed to hold hands with him in public, or introduce him as “my boyfriend.” He’s affectionate. Having someone he can openly flirt with and kiss in front of his friends would be ideal. Timmy likes all kinds of food and would hate to date a picky eater (especially since he loves spontaneous outings). He has a history of going for girls with long, dark hair.

Sexuality: Definitely questioned his identity a lot over the years before concluding he doesn’t want to pin a definitive label on himself and that’s that. He’s very “go with the flow.”

Intimate History: Molly was his first “official” girlfriend, and they cohabited for several years in their early adulthood. In that time, they had both Tammy and Tommy. He always remained faithful to Molly and didn’t engage in any one-night stands even after their break-up. Though out of the dating game for a few years due to being a single dad raising two small kids, he eventually picks himself up again in the hopes of getting married someday.

Turn-Ons: Spontaneity. Timmy is a bit of an adrenaline junkie and likes to be kept on his toes, and is easily bored by predictable dates. He finds holidays such as Valentine’s Day and anniversaries romantic only so long as they promise an exciting day; if his partner acts like they’re some boring obligation, he’ll be miffed.

Children: Tammy Wanda Turner, Tommy Gary Turner, Addison Julia Turner

Father: Thaddeus “Dad” Turner

Grandfather: Trevor “Pappy” Turner

Grandmother: Teryl Turner (née Jackson)

Aunts: Great Aunt Gertrude (“Power Mad”)

Uncles: None

Notable Ancestors: Ebeneezer Turner (One of the original settlers of Dimmsdale)

Mother: Dominika “Mom” Turner (née Vladislapov)

Grandfather: Vlad Vladislapov

Grandmother: Gladys Vladislapov

Aunt: Anabel Kane (née Vladislapov)

Cousin: Kimmy Kane

Fairy Godfather: Cosmo Julius Cosma

Met June 3rd, 2001

Fairy Godmother: Wanda Venus Fairywinkle

Met June 3rd, 2001

Fairy Godbrother: Poof Nebula Fairywinkle-Cosma

Met February 18th, “2008”

Godsister: Chloe Carmichael

Met March 1st, 2004

Timmy and Chloe see one another as step-siblings. Their relationship was rocky in the beginning, but it blooms into a friendly step-sibling-like relationship over the years.

Dog: Sparky

Met March 8th, “2053”

After Timmy parts ways with his fairy godfamily, Sparky remains by his side for many years (albeit under strict orders to keep his mouth shut). During Timmy’s teen years, he gets into hunting with Sparky as his faithful companion.

Girlfriend: Molly Gwendolyn Oakes

Met June 17th, “2011”

Mother of Tammy and Tommy while they cohabited

Endgame Spouse: Presumably Tootie or Trixie, but left up to reader interpretation

Mother of Addy, whom she was pregnant with during the epilogue of “Channel Chasers.”

Other Important Relationships: Timmy maintains his friendships with Chester and A.J. into his adult life, and even begins to see Sanjay as a good friend too. He mocks Crocker on occasion, but after parting ways with his fairies, sees him more as a quirky teacher than a threat, and ends up on average friendly terms with him.

Timmy eventually makes his peace with Vicky, even attending Doidle’s funeral (“Bones”). He maintains a fond friendship with Mark, although sees him less and less as they grow older. He also befriends Kevin over time, especially once he begins dating Molly since Kevin and Molly are step-siblings. Timmy dates both Trixie and Tootie at different points during his adult years following his break-up with Molly (Along the Cherry Lane) and presumably marries one of them in the end. Or maybe he marries Veronica; who knows?

TRIVIA:

He lives at 1010 Cobbler Street. Chloe lives at 1011.

His favorite sport is soccer, which he’s played since he was 7; he continues playing in high school.

He’s a scrapbook keeper (“Abra-Catastrophe”).

During his teen years, he taught himself a lot of sleight-of-hand magic tricks and is pretty skilled at them.

He’s allergic to sauerkraut (“The Fairy Flu”) and oranges (“A Bad Case of Diary-Uh”).

His aunt Gertrude (“Power Mad”) is actually his great aunt (“77 Secrets of ‘The Fairly OddParents Revealed’”).

His house phone number is (323)-555-9597 (“Boys In the Band” along with the assumption that Dimmsdale shares Hollywood’s area code in reference to the Dimmsdale sign on the hill).

His locker number is 110 (“Power Pals”).

His Squirrely Scout troop is Troop 13 (“Girly Squirrely”).

The license plate on the Turner station wagon says RO32TH (“Mooooving Day”).

Due to spending so much time with his godparents, Timmy has picked up a few of their magical immunities, like being more resistant to pain than non-godkids. For example:

He’s more acrobatic than average (and much more difficult to kill).

He can’t get paper cuts, stub her toe, slam his funny bone, and it doesn’t hurt if you yank his hair.

When he’s itchy, he has to scratch his skin much harder than normal in order to find relief.

APPEARANCES

Riddleverse Classic Timeline: “Pulling Your Puzzles Apart” > Come What May > “Seven Days At Sea” > “See That Dust Fly” > “Bells On Bats’ Tails” > Along the Cherry Lane

130 Prompts Timeline: “My Life, Your Death” > “Back In Action” > “Do the Math” > “Best. Day. Ever.” > “Nonbeliever” > “This Is a Box” > “Take a Break” > “Bones” > “Repeat”

AU Appearances:

“School’s Out! - The Sort-Of Musical”

“Project Carmichael”

Dust to Dust

#RD Timmy #RD canon characters #RD character ref #RD profiles

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enchantedxrose · 5 years

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The Monster of West End: A Victorian-Era Retelling of Beauty and the Beast The “Beauty” of this story is a young seamstress desperate for work to pay off her father’s debts. Her new employer, though Beastly in appearance, is coldly tolerated by society because he has money and status. She is quickly charmed by his warm heart and sense of humor, but his monstrous form isn’t the only obstacle to their budding relationship.

Part 1/?

London, 1837

It was a dull, overcast January afternoon when young Miss Viola Weston hired a hansom cab to take her to an unfamiliar part of town. Damp, heavy snowflakes drifted from the hazy sky and turned the cobblestone streets to rivers of grey slush. Clumps of snow clung to the horse’s mane and even coated the driver’s hat and cape.

Viola winced at the very thought of the unnecessary expense—usually, she walked everywhere, regardless of the distance or cold, because she could hardly afford the fare—but today she would regard it as an investment of sorts.

She smoothed out the newspaper advertisement that she had tucked into her skirt pocket, though the runny ink was smudging onto her fingers.

Help Wanted: Skilled seamstress to serve in the household of Mr. Albert Carlyle, esq. Eight pounds a month, plus room and board. Please bring samples of your work.

Viola could hardly be presentable for an interview in a respectable household if she arrived flushed and windswept. From the cab window, she watched pedestrians burying their faces in mufflers and hunching over to shield from the biting chill. She thought of her father, left behind in a dismal, bare room, struggling to warm his hands by the feeble coal stove.

“Please, my dear, do not take this position if it is demeaning and low,” her father had urged her this morning. “We can get by without you slaving away in some factory or scrubbing floors.”

Viola had bit her tongue against the obvious wry observation that their family was not, in fact, getting by: they were living in the Marshalsea debtors’ prison. For years, their family’s pride had prevented them from seeking help from friends and relations, until they found themselves buried in debts.

True humility, and seeking a domestic position in a wealthy household, was the only remedy Viola could see. That, or an advantageous marriage, but she had no desire to leap from one prison to a wholly different one.

As she rode on, the houses and buildings grew smarter, neater. Gone were the shabby, narrow pawn shops and public houses with dingy windows and peeling paint; they gave way to gilded music halls and libraries with gleaming marble pillars. The unfamiliar address that she had given to the cab driver turned out to be a brick townhouse with newly-painted green shutters, nestled comfortably in a nouveau riche neighborhood.

Promising, but not intimidatingly ornate, she noted with satisfaction.

Her knock on the front door was brisk and confident. She straightened her bonnet and smoothed back the wisps of hair that had begun to escape in the breeze. She was greeted by a sullen-looking housekeeper with an upturned nose.

“Yes? What is your business?”

Her prepared speech tumbled out in a rush. “Hello, my name is Weston, Viola Weston, and I’ve come about the position you advertised in the newspaper—if it’s still available?”

“Slow down, child, what are you saying?”

Viola exhaled in a gust, endeavoring to speak more coherently. “I was wondering if the position is still available. I sent you a letter…?”

“Oh, Miss Weston, of course, you’re expected. Do come inside.” Despite her words of welcome, the housekeeper peered at Viola critically as she beckoned her inside. “You’re rather younger than I was expecting,” she remarked.

Viola met her gaze without wavering and lifted her chin defiantly, refusing to feel self-conscious. Young hands were more nimble with a needle, and young eyes could see up close without spectacles.

The interior of the house was just as cheerful and comfortable as the exterior promised. Though the foyer was long and narrow, it felt bright and airy with its sunshine-colored wallpaper and stair carpets flecked with poppies and daisies. It was as if someone were trying to bring the English countryside inside, to spite the dingy, smoggy city outside.

The housekeeper led her through a front parlor, but instead of directing her to sit, crossed to a heavy oak door on the other side.

The housekeeper rapped her knuckles on the door. “Master, Miss Weston is here to see you.”

From within, a smooth, refined tenor voice responded. “Promptly on schedule. Excellent. Be kind enough to send her in, Mrs. Hutchinson.”

The housekeeper leaned closer to Viola to speak to her in a whisper. “The Master asked to meet you in his study. He thinks the front parlor is too formal.”

Viola chewed her lip thoughtfully. “Is he an agreeable man, Mr. Carlyle?” she asked in an undertone. “Do you like him as an employer?”

A curious look passed over the housekeeper’s face. “Agreeable, yes. He’s a fair and generous employer. A man? That depends on who you ask.”

Before Viola could make any sense of this cryptic remark, the housekeeper opened the door and all but thrust her into the study.

A cursory glance over the room suggested a man of curious tastes and scientific interests. Much of the wallpaper was hidden by detailed diagrams of vascular plants and root systems, and framed collections of beetles and butterflies pinned to cards. The mantle was bedecked with ammonite fossils, and the bookshelves stuffed with taxidermied weasels and hedgehogs.

But Viola’s impressions of the study quickly faded from her attention when she caught sight of its occupant.

She thought she had prepared herself for any and every possibility when meeting her prospective employer, but she could not have been more wrong. The figure standing by the desk was shaped vaguely like a man—and yet it was not a man.

It stood nearly seven feet tall, its body lean and lithe as an antelope. Every visible inch of skin was covered in thick, shaggy chestnut-brown fur. Its long face was framed in a heart shape by a soft tufted black mane, like a lion’s, and from the top of its head sprouted two wide, elaborate antlers, like those of an elk. Its arms and hands seemed dexterous like a human’s, but each of the fingers was tipped with a sharp, curved talon.

Surely—surely that soft, genteel voice had not come from this creature?

Despite the figure’s bizarre chimera appearance, he was dressed neatly as a gentleman in grey silk waistcoat and cravat. When he looked up from the letters on his desk, she saw his eyes were large and catlike, golden amber.

“Miss…Weston, is that correct? Thank you for coming. Please, do be seated.”

She sank wordlessly into a chair. He seated himself in the armchair opposite, folding his absurdly long legs underneath it—she then noticed he wore no shoes, for his feet were formed into two wide, splayed toes like a camel’s.

If he noticed her distraction, he cheerfully ignored it. “Will you take some tea, Miss Weston? It is such a dismally cold day and I know you have come some distance to us.”

She accepted the steaming cup and saucer with numb hands, still unable to unfurrow her nonplussed expression. His manners and tone were impeccable, courteous, designed to put her at ease, yet he seemed determined not to acknowledge the reason for her stunned silence.

“Ordinarily, I would not accept a domestic employee without references,” he said as he offered her the sugar bowl, “but at present, I am more concerned with your mending skills. I trust you have brought samples of your work, as requested?”

“Yes—yes, I have,” she said, shaking herself out of her confused haze. She drew out a fine cambric handkerchief that she had embroidered with bluebells and daisies. He put a pair of pince-nez on the end of his long snout-like nose to examine the stitches more closely.

“Hmm. Yes, you have a neat hand,” he muttered in an approving tone. “And you can mend just as well?”

“Yes, I mend all my own clothes. And my father’s.”

He nodded, giving her back the handkerchief, carefully avoiding brushing her hand in the action.

Viola could not take it any longer. “Forgive me for being blunt, sir, but I must ask. What…manner of being are you, exactly?”

He raised his eyebrows.

“That was a terribly rude question,” Viola sighed. Why could she never simply keep her mouth shut?

Instead of contorting his face in outrage, as she might have expected, Mr. Carlyle chuckled. His smile revealed a row of dagger-sharp teeth.

“If I knew the answer to that, Miss Weston, I would certainly tell you,” he said.

His light, conversational tone emboldened her to press onward. “And have you always been—like this?” she asked, leaning forward in her seat.

“As far as I can remember, yes. My guardians told me I was born like this, though I suppose I must take their word for it.”

Viola studied him for a moment in disbelief. He stared right back at her over his teacup with a placid smile.

“I apologize for all the impudent questions,” she said with some chagrin. “I suppose you must be used to it by now.”

“Most people in my circle are content to leave those questions unspoken. It is truly amazing what eccentricities people will tolerate when enough money is involved,” he added wryly.

Viola straightened in her seat. “I cannot bear to leave the obvious unspoken, sir. I think it is an affront to common sense. But I understand if my lack of delicacy makes me an undesirable candidate for your household.”

He cocked his head to the side as he studied her. Despite his inhuman features, his expressions were surprisingly easy to decipher.

“Quite the contrary, Miss Weston,” he said mildly. “I find your frankness refreshing. As you say, it is foolish to tiptoe around the obvious.” He opened a small chest on the side table and pulled out a pipe. “Will you object if I smoke? Some ladies find the aroma offensive.”

“Not at all, sir.”

He methodically filled his pipe and lit it before turning his attention back to her. The wisps of tobacco smoke smelled warm and redolent, like spiced tea from India.

“You haven’t yet asked the most obvious question,” he noted. “Why should anyone employ their own seamstress instead of bringing their clothes to a tailor?”

“The thought did occur to me, but I assumed you would explain in due course.”

“The answer is somewhat…awkward. But your candor has convinced me that I may be just as forthright with you.”

For the first time in their interview, Mr. Carlyle looked uncomfortable, his amber eyes fixed determinedly on his lap. He took a deep breath.

“As you might imagine, Miss Weston, tailors find me a frustratingly difficult subject to fit. And I am…rather prone to tearing my clothes if I am not careful,” he added, holding up his sharp claws in explanation.

“Ah.” Her heart swelled with pity. “That must be quite irritating for you. I can understand why our arrangement might be more practical in the long term.”

His eyes were wide, earnest. “Are the terms of this arrangement agreeable to you, Miss Weston? That is to say—you needn’t make up your mind this very instant, you may think on it as long as—”

“They are,” she said emphatically. “Your offer is fair and generous.”

He smiled, again displaying that row of jagged teeth. “I am pleased to hear that. I am prepared to take you on immediately, on a trial basis of course.”

There was a brief pause in the conversation as he poured out another round of tea and offered her a plate of biscuits. His solicitous manner made her feel more like an honored guest than a potential employee.

“Have you any family in the city, Miss Weston?”

“Yes, I live with my father. He used to be a clockmaker, quite a good one in fact.” She fiddled with a loose strand of lace at the edge of her sleeve. “Unfortunately his health has forced him to set aside his business, which is why I must look for work.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie, but it skirted uncomfortably around the truth.

She had come to this interview intending to be forthright about her family’s financial situation. But now that the moment had come, she felt too queasy at the thought of this strange, kindly gentleman knowing how desperate their circumstances were.

No, I can’t mention the debts. Not while he’s speaking to me like an equal. He’ll look down on Father—or worse, he’ll feel sorry for me.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mr. Carlyle said. “I always give my staff Sunday afternoons off, but perhaps you would like the entire day to visit him if he is in poor health.”

“That’s very kind of you, sir. I should like that very much.”

“That’s settled, then.”

Viola glanced nervously at the sun outside, weakly sinking toward the horizon. “Mr. Carlyle, would you happen to have the time?”

He drew out a silver pocket watch. “Twenty minutes past four. Are you expected elsewhere?”

“No, sir, but I must get back before the gates—” (before the gates to the Marshalsea are locked) “—before dark, that is.”

She colored a little at her slip, but he did not comment on it.

“Are you certain that’s wise? This blizzard seems only to be getting worse. Wouldn’t you rather set out in the morning? There is a spare bedroom in the servants’ quarters, and I’m sure my housekeeper could lend you some nightclothes.”

They both froze for a moment, listening in dismay as the wind howled over the chimney and made the fire stutter. The shutters rattled against the windows as if some unseen creature was struggling to get inside.

Nevertheless, she pulled on her shawl and replied, “Thank you for the offer, but my father will fret if I do not come home.”

“Then do take care, Miss Weston. I’ll hire a cab to take you—”

“No need, sir. I can hire my own cab.” She winced: that had come out sharper than she had intended. It would have been a a perfectly ordinary courtesy for her new employer to help with travel expenses, but it was now so ingrained in her to pretend she needed no help, that she no longer knew how to accept it.

Mr. Carlyle looked a trifle crestfallen, and she suddenly wished she could apologize. But he quickly recovered and smoothed over the awkward moment.

“In that case, I shall see you first thing tomorrow, if that’s quite convenient,” he said briskly, rising from his seat to bid her farewell.

“It is. Thank you for everything, Mr. Carlyle,” she added with feeling; “I am much obliged to you for the opportunity, and for your hospitality.”

She extended a hand for him to shake. He stared at her uncertainly for a moment. When he hesitantly took it, he bowed his head and kissed the air above her hand, as if he were taking leave of a duchess.

She suppressed a shiver at the subtle scrape of his claws against her palm.

To be continued...

#beauty and the beast #fairy tale #my fiction #victorian era #not a disney fanfic just my version of the fairy tale #i'm really proud of it so far #open to suggestions though

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roleplay-fan · 5 years

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Why You Should Learn Another Language

So a brief description: I’m Multilingual, I speak three languages (still learning two of them), and i currently want to learn more. As a linguist, I want to express and encourage others to also learn another language. so here are some reason why you should learn another language.

1. The majority of the population is Bilingual (at least). Many people speak their native tongue and another language (the most common being English or Chinese).

2. It eases the pressure in travelling. Sometimes when you’re travelling, you feel more desire to go to a country, in which English is not the first language. However, languages barrier always tend to be an issue.Studying another language will help you communicate with locals.

3. You can impress people. This is something that still surprises me when I speak another to someone. Often people are caught off-guard but are so amazed you took the time to learn another language.

4. You can make new friends from other countries. This can be if you or your new acquaintance are studying abroad. This is great for when you’re meeting someone who speaks a different language studying abroad. They may feel either home-sick or are shy due to language barriers. If you can speak some of their language you may form close bonds with said person.

5. (If you’re in high school) You may go on amazing trips abroad. I say may because many trips don’t always goes ahead. My class had one trip abroad with one of the performing art classes, however, the trip got cancelled because the cost increased as people pulled out. But if you DO get the chance, you will get to see a whole new world.

6. You can teach others and they will teach you. In intercultural relationship, both parties can learn more about language and culture, so in ways you are helping each other. Therefore increasing the bond.

7. Employers look for people, who are skilled in various way. With businesses going overseas, employers tend to look for people who can speak 2 or more languages. if you speak at least 2 languages, you are basically gold to your potential employer. And if you’re a doctor or nurse and have a patient who if from a foreign country, chances are you may be able to communicate with them, making your job a little easier. I tell my friends this all the time in the hopes they’ll

8. You learn more about culture. When you’re learning a language, you not only know grammar structures and vocab, but the culture of that language. Such as myths and legends, special holiday’s, non-verbal cues (ie bowing vs hand- shake), ect. you become more knowledgeable about the world around you. And also will be able to decrease stereotyping.

9. (This may vary for anyone but it definitely helped for me), you may be able to adapt to new things or learning more. Growing up I struggled a bit with comprehension and stuff. but then I learnt another and I was able to adapt new ways to help me study. So I believe it helps you adapt with most things.

10. (This is more of a joke my friends and I make) You could say “I love you” to you’re crush, and the chances are they’re not gonna know what you said 😂.

So there you are reasons why you should learn another language. I hope this inspired or encouraged you to learn another language. And if you already do, spread the word that language is the future.

#language #languages #learning #studying #world #travel #multilingual #polyglot #bilingual #work #trade #intercultural

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lorentzen25bynum-blog · 5 years

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End up being A Much better Employer In 5 Minutes Chris Hillside Tool.

Annually, six National and 12 Nationwide Honor letters are selected from the tens of thousands of entrances. So outdoors work, people find it difficult to understand how you can connect to one another ... They end up being uncomfortable because the framework within which they carry out the partnership is gone. Naturally, like the majority of suggestions, it is easy to use and occasionally difficult to adhere to - all businesses can take advantage of being a little much better organised, a little much better managed or having a far better connection with distributors. Family-friendly multiplayer - order a friend or relative for two-player cooperative play. I did learn from Buddy & Enemy a I was offered this publication by the GoodReads First Reviews program. Boss has gained that second possibility, and also while it will certainly never be just what you may call a happiness flight, the trip is substantially extra taking in currently. I was still in a connection with my youngsters father, so i maintained running away from the various other guy after he would certainly inform me he loved me. Deep down inside i recognized the sensations were common yet i was torn in between him as well as my family. Some stress that self pleasure may trigger health and wellness or emotional problems-- yet that's not true. The guidance so frequently given to novices concerning jealousy is that they need to function it out themselves. Try When Love an Employer begins, your tongue is already on the floor from one of the most stupid discovery. Although there are some fun shocks as well as terrible shocks to be had, Buddy Request struggles to locate anything new to say, feeling instead like something you would certainly half-remembered from a years ago. A more oblique variation of this method is to ask your boss out for coffee or a drink, with a view to speaking about work. Yet Jimmy Kimmel is wishing his campaign to weed those disordered Facebook close friend lineups will certainly become an American custom. buyitdirect-my.com . Martin is the very popular writer of the fantasy collection A Song of Ice and Fire The first publication in the series, A Video game of Thrones, has additionally been become a hit television collection on HBO. This is one of those movies that would certainly be immensely improved by the arrival of 100 insane Somali pirates who would continue to take the whole actors hostage. The unsurprising part of the searchings for was that just attempting to prevent the abusive boss or outlining means to retaliate really did not work. Like the partnership in between many couples, their alliance had been a difficult interplay of power and also dependence. Cadi Dewi, providing the case against her, stated: Worries first came to light regarding the partnership when the woman's father made a referral to her college. End up being a multiplier who assists others grow as well as develop as well as create a culture you would certainly desire from your boss. Like every one of her other publications, she has an appeal her hands with Alluring Her Best Friend. Norwegian mass killer Anders Behring Breivik's closest friends worried that he had fallen under a deep depression or was not able and gay to accept it when he cut off all social relations and moved in with his mom, the court in Oslo listened to on Tuesday. The results of enduring any kind of intimate partner violence could affect lifestyle and also general well-being for you, your companion and any other relative straight entailed with the partnership. Be honest concerning your reservations if your good friend reveals interest in a work where you function. One of one of the most powerful things in guide is exactly how the partnership between Lucy and her mom is illustrated via their communications in the hospital room. Mr Branson, child of Virgin businessman Sir Richard, was not thought to be component of the Las Las vega party however will hold Prince Harry and buddies to celebrate his 27th birthday on his papa's island. We'll give you their call information in instance you have any kind of questions or need guidance in between scheduled appointments. Inquire, 'Can we discover a different way of working together?' or 'Just what do I have to change?' or state 'When you do this, it makes me really feel very undervalued.'" The factor here is, that you make it regarding how you feel as well as what you do. You don't call your employer out as well as say, Why are you such a w-er?" as this will certainly cause battle. The partnership in between the protagonists never appeared to establish from its shallow, sexual beginnings. There are nuances in the reasoning for our rate but the overriding element was to strike a sweet spot which placed Employer 101 in as several hands as possible AND give us monetary breathing space to proceed working with the Boss 101 franchise (i.e. Employer 102, 103, etc). This is the story of best friends Abby and Gretchen, who meet each other at a roller derby ET birthday event when they are the only 2 there. Several of Mr. Giuliani's elderly advisers stated yesterday that the mayor's statement caught them by surprise, also, even though Mr. Giuliani had actually made no secret of his estrangement from his spouse during the last few years and also had announced recently that Ms. Nathan, 45, a separated mommy and also signed up nurse who works for a pharmaceutical firm and survives the Upper East Side, was a great close friend. With remarkable timing, Bachelor's Degree has made a decision to drop its trips from Heathrow to Chengdu, the Chinese city that was cited by pro-expansion advocates as an essential destination. As a lately diagnosed hypertension client at age 37 as well as place on Amlodipine pills for the remainder of my life, I turned elsewhere aside from the physician for advice. You must send amusing life estimates to your buddies' day-to-day a number of times a day. The previous congressman pressed her to create 2 more letters to her daddy as well as educator stating that she existed concerning the natures of their connection as well as both of them were just pals. For example, if you captured your buddy dishonesty with your hubby, it could be almost impossible to forgive her. Opportunities are your friends are reviewing their favorite (and least favored) publications on Goodreads.

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limitedrevolverworks · 6 years

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Little Stinger

The bull’s eyebrows began a steady march across his forehead that left his beady eyes alone with their bewilderment. His ears shook the dreads partially covering them like predators about to pounce their prey - an attitude which, for that matter, seemed to accurately describe the most likely intention for his next course of action. Kl’athr regarded his employer, specifically the fingers coiled into fleshy boulders seething with painful promises, with a faint trace of interest reflected on his ocelli. The bull had reacted exactly as predicted: by jumping to conclusions and preparing to do so the same with the people he felt had crossed him, like brutish muscleheads of his ilk were wont to do. “This isn’t what we agreed to, buzzer. And Grudo doesn’t take well to no lying bitch.” Grudo’s breath was a fetid miasma with a consistency that bordered on outright liquidity. It splashed all over Kl’athr face with the welcome pleasantness of a flytrap vomiting on its victim, only with far less grace. But the wasp stood his ground, over which the bull’s shadow loomed like a stormy and somewhat rancid cloud. It would have taken three of the former to at least match the latter’s height, or just one of him fluttering his translucent wings. But there weren’t enough of the first, and he purposefully chose not to rely on the latter, in a show that combined humbleness and defiance in an ambiguous cocktail that served its purpose well: he hadn’t been turned into a plulpy, goopy mess yet, for instance. Now, he only had to ensure this wouldn’t be going to change anytime soon. “No lies. You agreed to pay us to help you. We cannot do so if you hinder us.” Kl’athr’s mandibles and the rest of his mouth’s apparatus worked carefully as possible to articulate in a Common heavily affected by his sharp, clicking cadence. It was an effort unworthy of the language - an imprecise tapestry of noises it was, signifiers turned into bowls full of diluted meaning, insipid if easily digestible, just sort of skirting the line of efficiency for the sake of universality. The entire reason he was risking his carapace to begin with… but without that weakness and the risk that came with it, he wouldn’t have been able to take the job. Not by the terms he was about to clarify. Compromises in the wastelands always came with this sort of edge, and Kl’athr relished in dealing with them with the cautious abandonment of conscious alcoholic. It was a good reminder of what had driven him from the hivepost, of the dullness of its disputes and the staleness of its resolutions. He really could have done without the noxious odor of bovine halitosis, however. “You tryin’ to bullshit me, buzzer? Is that funny to you?” Kl’athr refrained from commenting. Life in the hivepost hadn’t fostered much of a sense of humor in him - mostly, though, he was smart enough to tell that the joke was terrible, both for his prospects of survival, and because, from a comedic standing point, it just plain sucked. “The shot will be taken. The job, completed. Either we get your money, or you get nothing. What will it be?” “He’s fucking with us, Grudo.” The deer snorted through the bandana covering his mug, tightening the grip on the steel pipe he was holding. “This little shit must have thought he could pull a fast one on us. I say we pull off those spindly limbs of his and feed him to the diremaw. Should net us enough time to recover the cargo.” “Enough time to become a carcass no richer than you are now.” Kl’athr’s ocelli met those of the deer like a steel emergency door stomping close in front of a blazing fire. The rusted pipe began playing a dull rhythm against the brute’s palm, all too eager to do the same against the back of the wasp’s skull. The three other mutants that made up the motley crew joined soon thereafter, an orchestra of pain waiting to happen. “Hold on. Wait. Just give me a goddamned moment to think.” Grudo began pacing nervously around the cramped interior of the abandoned outpost’s guard cabin, each step leaving behind a tiny cloud of dust like an echo of his passage. Rummaging through his thick hair and scratching the juncture from whence jutted out a fractured horn wasn’t helping much, Kl’athr reckoned. And that, too, he knew well in advance. Greed had a way of narrowing options down for those too stupid to do so on their own - especially with a little push from the right insectoid. “Fine. Fine.” The bull’s lazy charge ended back where it had begun, in front of the wasp that hadn’t moved a single reed-sized leg from his spot. A furry finger hovered menacingly in front of Kl’athr’s face, reeking of cheap booze distilled from fuel and slightly singed from some past accident involving a campfire and six or so glasses of the aforementioned. Bovine eyes stared, bulging from their sockets as if all too eager to deliver the beatdown of a lifetime, a nice preview of things uncomfortably likely to come. “I don’t know whether you’re crazy, an idiot, or trying to pull a fast one on me, in which case you’d be both. Do whatever, but if you fuck this up and somehow come out of this alive? I’m coming back to finish the diremaw’s job.” Heavy breaths like quiet growls sent violent vibrations against Kl’athr’s antennae. He let them dissipate into a steadier, subdued fury before turning on his heels and walking towards the window without sparing a look over either of his four shoulders. “The only job to be completed will be ours.” Behind him, the wasp could hear the lack of attempts on his employers’ part to conceal their comments, which ranged from the dubious to the vulgar, the latter spoken in that soporific bovine tongue of theirs. Beasts, the lot of them; but they were well-paying beasts, at least. That about covered the angle of ‘necessity’. The other, more important reason for taking the job was kneeling on a chair propped in front of the window, minute gloved hands perched atop the shattered pane and a jacket some sizes too big draping over her like a coat. The child turned her head, meeting Kl’athr’s gaze with the glass eyes of the rubbery gas mask slung over her face. A series of clicks and buzzes and frrr’s struggled to make their way from her hidden lips through the thick material, to which they clung until only a warped, muffled shade of their original self could make it out. It was a good thing that Kl’athr’s antennae were sensible enough to welcome those scraplets and suck the essential marrow of their significance, and that the young human’s grasp of Vespa had gotten about as good as her vocal apparatus could ever achieve. “You got into trouble again because of me, Kl’athr.” The wasp stopped right next to the child, casting his attention to the uneven road that stretched to and fro two different ends of the horizon, mere meters in front of the abandoned outpost. To the east, about half a kilometer from their position, he could see the target. He answered in his usual tone, which was about as matter-of-factly as Vespa gets - that is, a lot. “No trouble has befallen me yet. Whether that ends up changing is entirely up to you, Little Stinger.” They shared a silent exchange of looks, peppered with the occasional sound of beefy arms thrown up in rapidly mounting exasperation from the back of the room. Then, with the measured discipline of a dutiful student, the girl - ‘Little Stinger’, like Kl’athr called her - shifted on the chair so that she could face the wasp, exhibiting herself in a deep bow punctuated by a single snap of her tongue. Following the same motion, she bent forward a little further, and took ahold of the rifle. The old thing had seen better days, and it appeared unlikely there were many left yet to see. Already cobbled up from scratch with parts salvaged from guns past their useable prime, the original gun had been modified, repaired or tweaked to the point it was hard to say if there was anything of the original left in the current version. And what was left didn’t amount to much anyway: it was the kind of tool best described with the word ‘trusty’ inked on a yellowed page, the t so smudged as to be barely visible. It was long past its prime, somewhat ugly, and still somehow served its purpose with uncanny affidability. The rifle was a testament to Kl’athr’s technical prowess - and perhaps kept together by trust and sheer stubbornness, than with any number of screws and bolts. The girl hoisted the firearm with methodical care colored by a sentiment akin to reverence. It had been accompanying her and Kl’athr’s travels ever since her awakening within the artificial cocoon: in a sense, it was like the third, silent member of their strange little family. The big brother specifically, considering it stood a head and a half taller than her. To the surprise of nobody, and the livid consternation of at least two beastly customers, it made her sniping position look awkward, uncomfortable and any number of other monikers save for reliable. The girl pretty much had to make use of the windowsill to help balance an entire half of the weapon, while somehow stretching her frame and limbs over the remaining segment in a way that would make aiming and shooting at least feasible. It took her several tries and a good portion of her contractors’ rapidly diving patience before finding the ideal positioning. She marked her success with a low hum that did not go past her throat, at which point she reached for the straps that held her gas mask tight, and loosened them enough to let her remove it. Kl’athr received it with the practiced speed of motions that grown into a secret, intimate ritual of sorts. Deep green eyes, framed by short curtains of pale yellow hair, peered down the barrel that seemed to stretch ‘til the horizon, accompanying the ironsights in their search for the target that Kl’athr had already spotted. “Do you see your prey, Little Stinger?” She did. The beast was a minuscule shape no bigger than the steel rectangle tiptoeing at the edge of the barrel, a cruel silhouette prowling amongst a caravan’s scattered remains. Crates brimming with precious materials and provisions lay upturned around the carts that had been transporting them, their contents spilled on the ground like guts of a maimed beast. In the same fashion, only far more literal, the strong-limbed beasts tasked with pulling along the cargo were now little more than scrap meat ripe for the picking, bones exposed to the elements and the hunger of their stalkering assailant. “The diremaw is unlike any prey you have slaughtered thus far, Little Stinger. Once the first shot has hit, it will know where the next come from, how fast and how strong they are. When it knows the shot, your life is forfeited, for it will charge with uncanny speed and relentless fury. That is why it is said that the first bullet which strikes a diremaw must also be the last - whether for you, for for it.” She could see it. Lean muscles rippling underneath a thin coat of gray fur. Hind legs like maws ready to hungrily snap on the concept of distance. Arms like steel beams warped by evil intent, tipped with razor-sharp claws that tore fleshy strips from a meal made stale by boredom. A head drawn by some twisted god to resemble that of a rabid dog, a porcine mutant and a cancerous growth. Ears long and flat, deceptively so. Lidless eyes darting in every direction without being able to settle on one, paranoid and attentive. And the kind of mouth that left no doubt as to why this beast had been christened ‘diremaw’ by the inhabitants of the region. An ugly, terrible beast that entirely warranted its fearsome reputation as a killer among killers. “But those who say so, unlike us, do not follow the Wasp Ways.” Kl’athr followed the invisible pathway that connected his protégé’s line of sight and the almost indistinct figure at the end of it. He was fully aware that what appeared to him like nothing more than a vague assembly of limbs in continuous movement, to the child was the perfectly distinguishable outline of a prey. That was what Grudo and his cronies failed to grasp - that this was a shot only she could have taken, not him. “The bee stings once to die. The wasp stings many times to live. Fell your prey like a wasp, Little Stinger, or you will perish a bee’s death. Do not falter. Take aim and strike relentlessly. If the prey moves, sting it again. If you miss, sting it again. If the prey stops moving, sting it again. Yours must be the silent fury that kills before you are killed. Follow the Wasp Ways. Conquer your prey, Little Stinger.” Her fingertip felt the familiar cool touch of the trigger as it pushed against it. She had long since acquired the target - that was the easy part. What she needed to prepare for, the reason why air was trapped inside her lungs and her heartbeat’s rhythm subdued by conscious effort, resided in the part after that. The first shot boomed across the plain with a thunderous echo. “Did she get it?” “Shit, ‘course not! Look, it’s coming! The bastard’s coming! Run for it” Frantic footsteps. Panicked voices, frustrated voices. Metal, wood and lead clicking together as her hand pulled the bolt back and chambered the next bullet. A distant screech like a blade tearing a wound open across empty air. “Sting, Little Stinger. Do not stop until it has stopped.” Urged on by Kl’athr, the young girl steadied her aim on the gun almost twice her size and erupted another shot. The diremaw was fast, so much so that the description felt unfairly diminutive to its prowess. Its leaps fed dozens upon dozens of meters into the jaws of a mere seconds. Erratic patterns sent it flying in a myriad different directions in its relentless pursuit, defying the attempts of its wannabe predator to bring it down with the cowardly aid of a firearm. It kept moving, steadfast in spite of the twin tails of viscous yellow that seeped from its flank and a shoulder. It knew, and likewise did child. She could see her eyes reflected in those of the diremaw, aware that the opposite was true for it. Their mutual understanding was one built upon something more indistinct yet definite than hatred: it was sheer, utter purpose that pit them against each other. Survival and murderous instincts, meshing together in a blur where one defied and sought the other. The rifle fired a third time, lopping off most of the creature’s right ear off and prompting another rabid screech. It mingled with those being emitted by the mutant gang, scrambling and yelling at each other in their inability to decide whether they’d find better chances of survival in the open, or within the confines of the cabin. The child nor her mentor paid no heed to them. Already the fourth shot had pelted the diremaw in the middle of the stomach, but it hadn’t been enough. Not yet. Not enough. Another bullet went in, the last one in the clip. There wouldn’t be any time to load a second batch: the next leap would make null the distance between the beast and the window, along with the little sniper holding her position. The bolt slid back, welcoming the bullet in the rifle’s chamber. At the same moment, the diremaw put its everything into exerting strength on its legs to leap forward, its claws outstretched and already clasping the empty space where soon the child’s neck would take its place. The bolt slid forward and locked in position. Kl’athr’s mandibles snapped once, loud and imperative. “Sting!” The barrel blazed brightly, devouring the beast’s last screech as it was brewing inside its throat, where the bullet had tunneled a fresh, lethal opening. The carcass, propelled forward by sheer momentum, painted the dusty wooden floor with the sickly yellows and greens that filled it. The massively sized bovine stared in horror, rippling muscles quaking madly from broken horn tip to hoofed toe, as the once lively diremaw slid lifelessly in front of him and his speechless gang. They spent at least a dozen seconds in motionless contemplation, before finally raising their heads in unison. On the opposite side of the room, Kl’athr was busying himself dutifully wiping off diremaw blood from the child’s face, her eyes and mouth scrunched shut with all the innocence that had no right to belong there. The wasp, without interrupting his task, turned his head to the carcass, then the clients. The trinity of his eyes betrayed no emotions whatsoever, like always. “We have done our job. I trust your pockets to do the same sooner than later.”

#wordy seeds #Hey look it's Maira 2: featuring less radioactive veggies and more talking wasp mentors

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spellsword-archer · 6 years

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Egvir do Fo Dinok

Arcwind Point was a very open place, with not a single building that had not been filled in by snow and ice at some point in its long history.

The Draugr that populated the place had all been buried on the surface; Their deeper brethren were forever sealed beneath the ice sheet, and the survivors' own sarcophagi sat amongst large drifts of snow and sheets of ice. This meant that there was a finite amount of them, and an expedition to clear them out wouldn't have to worry about more Draugr spawning from the darkness as they fought. Unfortunately, that also meant less treasure would be available upon success, but that wasn't the main reason they were there.

Crouching atop an icy rock formation, Tarene tapped his fingers against his knee in thought.

The soft, rhythmic tapping of flesh upon metal served as a metronome to keep the elf's thoughts on track as he tried to figure out their best method for approach. Following the near-disaster in Valundre's Cairn, Tarene had traded his usual robes for a set of Nordic armor, crafted by Adrianne Avenicci. The new armor - very clunky in comparison to the monk's robes he seemed to prefer - forced his archery distance to increase, lest his enemies hear him coming, but it afforded him much more protection in close combat…and that was becoming an unusually common occurrence in their adventures. Marcurio lay on the rock beside his Altmer employer, also looking down at the ruin, though his attention was more focused on the ornate treasure chest sitting in the snow behind the main alter and its Draugr Deathlord guard. It was too much to hope for any serious amount of gold or jewels or such to be inside. Anything within must have been scavenged from what was left of the ruin, or stolen from the corpses of unfortunate adventures there before them. Still, treasure was treasure, and every enchanted weapon and armor piece could be sold for good septims somewhere. All they were waiting on was a plan of attack, though that had never been his employer's strong suit. The thought of Tarene as a functioning tactician actually made Marcurio smirk. The Altmer was far more likely than anyone else he'd met in Skyrim to set off a trap no matter how carefully he walked, or to curiously touch enchanted items and get his body hijacked by undead Draugr mages (as had happened back in the Falkreath forests). It was a nice change of pace to see him finally pausing to think things over before charging in, even if the situation was as simple as the limited Draugr at Arcwind Point, but the mage predicted that any plan made today would fall to pieces within minutes of combat. Tarene growled under his breath as his eyes scanned the ruin below them. This wasn't going to be the easy task that bounty letter had made it out to be. Some of the ruins structures were rather scattered, which meant that they might have to split up to cover it all, and the entire thing was populated by skeletons. Those on their own were no great challenge - they fell apart for a strong breeze, for Mara's sake - but the assorted Draugr were a more dangerous opponent, and then there was that damned Dragon that sat perched at the top of the largest structure.

They might have been able to kill the dragon had it been the only hostile, but with all those skeletons and Draugr about? There was no way the two of them could take on all those enemies at once. "Supposedly, this dragon is the one that's been sighted over Windhelm." The Altmer muttered allow, causing Marcurio to glance up. "Every day without fail for the past two weeks, it's been seen circling high over the city for hours on end." The mage raised an eyebrow. "So, what…are we waiting for it to fly away?" He asked. Tarene looked down at him. "Are you really so eager to fight a host of Draugr, twice as many skeletons, AND a dragon, all at once?" He asked back. Marcurio quieted. While destroying reanimated skeletons and Draugr was both fun and satisfying, having a dragon coming down about their heads at the same time sounded less so. "I thought as much." Tarene smirked a little, then looked back down at Arcwind Point.

"We'll wait a little while longer….but if that beast doesn't leave, this may not be worth the trouble." Having arrived in the early morning, the two lay there in hiding, watching the Draugr go about their usual paces as the dragon slept and the sun rose. It was several long hours, but finally, the dragon - having awoken some time before and sat observing the undead - finally leapt from its perch and took to the skies, winging off into the clouds with a roar that slowly faded with the distance. Marcurio smirked. "That's our cue." He muttered. Tarene climbed down from the rock formation, and drew his dwarven bow. "This is a large ruin, with a lot of undead," He recapped as they slowly began creeping down towards Arcwind Point. "We're most likely going to get separated, the way our luck runs. If we do, and you get in over your head-" Marcurio made a face. "I do not-" He started to protest, but Tarene looked back at him sharply. "I said "if"…" The elf added to placate the mage. Marcurio still sulked a bit, but said nothing more on the subject. "IF we get in over our heads after being separated, just shout, so we can find each other. " He finished. The Imperial smothered another laugh. "That should be easy enough for you, Dragonborn." He retorted. Tarene rolled his eyes and made no reply, instead drawing an arrow from his quiver and nocking it to his bowstring as they approached the first intact archway of the ruins. It was less than ten minutes before the first sounds of combat had drawn the attention of what felt like every undead warrior in the ruin, and Tarene lost sight of Marcurio amongs the bones and shields and axes.

However, he could still hear the crackle of lightning and the roar of (shudder) fire, however distant they were, which meant that the mage was still very much alive and fighting. Tarene focused on his own enemies, and soon found himself racing toward the Draugr Deathlord standing above the alter. The crackle of his own enchanted sword was now the only magic he could hear, but the Altmer kept his focus on the undead Nord, trying to simultaneously block its battle axe with his shield, strike at its limbs with his sword, and not fall victim to the Draugr's use of the Thu'um. It was a tough battle, but it only lasted - at best - five furious minutes. The Draugr Deathlord finally collapsed as the last of the life was shocked from its body, and that eerie blue glow disappeared from its eyes. Tarene stood still for several long moments, breathing hard and waiting to see if the monster would get up again. When it became clear that, yes, the Draugr was quite dead, the Altmer relaxed a little and looked around the ruin. The icy courtyard was now littered with scorchmarks, singed and broken bones, and the remnants of the undeads' armor and weapons. Not a soul was still alive…and Tarene suddenly realized how quiet things were. His heart started to rise in his chest, but he swallowed it back. Don't go worrying so much, he told himself. Marcurio was a very competent and powerful mage, and could more than handle a few undead. That's why he'd been hired after all. Tarene turned his back to the courtyard, looking instead for that ornate chest they had seen from high above.

Curiosity was taking over, now, and he just had to see what was inside…

On the far side of Arcwind Point, Marcurio allowed his Flames spell to dissipate as the last Draugr collapsed to the ground, a mere burned corpse in armor. The mage smirked confidently to himself, briefly wondering if his employer had experienced the same ease and success. There had been quite a lot of undead to destroy, but the bulk of them had turned out to be simple skeletons, and they fell before his arcane flames as easily as sweetrolls fell before a hungry child. Dusting of his hands even though his spells left no residue to remove, Marcurio began to pick his way through the bones and burned corpses, heading in the direction of the main structure, which he could see jutting above the wall that separated this courtyard from the other. He couldn't hear any sounds of battle, which must have meant that Tarene was still alive, or at least had won the day. However, the mage couldn't help but notice a nagging feeling in the back of his mind; there was an enemy he had missed, or something was terribly amiss. Marcurio paused near the middle of the courtyard, straining his ears and listening, but he heard no creaking of bones, no Draugr groaning, and no footsteps…he could only hear the rhythmic flapping of ancient banners still hanging from their posts at the top of the ruins. A cold feeling suddenly ran up his spine, and Marcurio's eyes widened.

There were no banners at Arcwind Point. Before the mage could move, the flapping sound intensified, and a powerful wind swept the courtyard, clearing it of bones and all but the heaviest of armor and weapons. Caught off guard, and with his back to the wind, Marcurio was sent staggering forward, then lost his footing and fell. Rolling onto his back, the mage looked up just in time to realize that the dragon had returned, and was landing practically on top of him. He scrambled to get out of the way, but the dragon was just a little bit faster, and pounced upon the mage like a cat would pounce upon an unfortunate mouse. A massive clawed foot crushed the wind from his lungs, and claws nearly as long as a man's forearm sank into the stone, trapping Marcurio between the rock and a hungry-looking hard place. The mage gasped, unable to draw a breath for several long, terrifying moments. The dragon leaned its head down over its prey, almost appearing to smirk as it watched the mage in the shadow of its wings struggling to breathe. "Aam? Mu ni hon hiu, joor." It laughed, though the words were lost on Marcurio, as the dragon tongue was an ancient one. "T-….Tarene…." Marcurio gasped, barely able to make the sounds. "T-Tarene…!" He was never one to up and beg for help, but his arms were pinned at his sides (which made his magic fairly null in void), he couldn't breathe, and this dragon was about to eat him. That constituted special circumstances. "Tarene!" The best he could manage was still just a squeak, and the dragon laughed - laughed at the mage - for his breathless voice. "Hiu laas fen oblaan nu, mey joor." The dragon almost seemed to leer down at the trapped man. "Alduin fen du hiu sill ko vulom." It raised its head over Marcurio, opened its vicious, toothy maw, and at the very back of its throat, the Imperial could see the beast's icy frost breath slowly building into a lethal blast. His eyes widened as he watched his death loom ever closer, wondering if this dragon's jaws were the last thing he'd ever see. Ugh, not the glamorous way he’d hoped to die. Just as the dragon began to lean down to administer its bitter chill, a dwarven arrow buried itself into the beast's nose with an audible 'thwack', and the dragon reared back in pain, breathing its arctic weapon out harmlessly into the sky. Another arrow followed soon after, digging into the dragon's wing membrane, and the creature rocked back a few steps and staggered, limping on its wing before roaring furiously at the Altmer rushing down from the upper courtyard. As soon as his arms were free, Marcurio charged up and fired duel Flames spells, though he remained on the courtyard floor, still fighting to breathe. It was slowly becoming easier, but still too slowly for his liking. Tarene charged right past the recovering mage, even ducking beneath the arcane flames to get in closer to the dragon, who had taken most of the damage on his wings, and was sufficiently grounded. That struck the mage as odd, because as long as he'd known Tarene, the Altmer's pyrophobia had restrained them to lightning spells in combat, and to using lanterns instead of torches, most times. The surprises didn't stop there, however. Tarene continued his charge up the leg of the dragon, climbing like a goat onto its back, and using its own horns to keep the beast from tossing him off as it flailed. The Altmer moved with unusual confidence, striking at the dragon where it's scales were soft, and balancing on its writhing neck like an old sailor at sea. As the dragon attempted to swing around and bite him, Tarene flipped over its horns and landed in a crouch atop its head, though he lost his ebony sword in the move.

Without missing a beat, Tarene pulled a glass dagger from his belt and plunged it into the dragon's skull. The blade exploded with heat and fire upon contact, and the frost dragon shrieked in fear and agony. Tarene drove the blade in further before yanking it out and jumping for safety. The dragon collapsed to the icy stones of the courtyard floor, mortally wounded, and Tarene crouched down by its face. "Hiu nis haalvut fin fahdon se Dovahkiin." The elf whispered. The sound of a mortal speaking the language of the dragons was an odd one, but then, Tarene was Dragonborn. It was fitting, in a way, that he should know a little of the language of those whose soul he shared. The dragon made a growling sound, but no real words left its mouth, and it died after clinging to life for a few weak moments. As the last of its life left the dragon's body, it began to glow, flake, and burn; it the skin and muscle and fat all disintegrated into the sky, leaving behind naught but the ashen bones and scales on the mortal plane. Then, it's soul began to rise, swirling up in the air in a myriad of ever-changing colors, and it all began to flow into and around Tarene. Still holding the bloody dagger and breathing hard from the exertion, the Altmer stood up and half-turned to look back at Marcurio. His face was streaked and splattered with dragon blood, and the smirk that pulled at his mouth was one the mage had never before seen on his employer.

It was confident; it spoke of power, and it was almost…frightening to see on Tarene. Another shiver ran up the Imperial's spine, but this one didn't carry the fear of an impending dragon attack. This was a side of Tarene that he hadn't seen before…and he was a little surprised to find that he liked it. The surprise must have bled into Marcurio's own expression, because Tarene's smirk faltered, and confusion flashed through his eyes. The Altmer suddenly turned back to face the dragon as the last of it's soul was drawn into his own, and he looked down at the dagger he still held, turning it over as if only just now seeing it. Finally able to regain his breath, Marcurio sat up and climbed to his feet, moving forward to join Tarene.

But as soon as he stepped within arm's reach, the Altmer held out the dagger to him, now holding it by the hilt in the manner one might hold something filthy. "Pretty strong fire enchantment, this has…" The elf muttered. Ahh, that was it. Tarene's pyrophobia extended even to the enchantments, as they carried the pretty consistent promise of fire. "Good against arctic beasts, though. You should take it." Marcurio shrugged and obediently took the dagger, sliding it into the sheath on his belt. His original dagger had served him well, but it had shattered against the skull of a troll some weeks before. Besides, he wasn't about to turn down a weapon of this quality. "Where did you find it?" The mage asked instead, for surely Tarene hadn't brought the dagger from Ivarstead (as if that homely town could produce such a fine quality weapon anyway), and the ancient Nords certainly didn't use glass weaponry. The Altmer nodded his head back towards the upper courtyard, where resided the main alter and (the body of) it's Draugr guardian. "Up there," He replied. "In the chest. Wasn't much else in there but a little gold, one or two potions, and few books that might have been spell tomes, had the snow not gotten to them." Tarene shrugged. "Not much really worth the trouble." He eyed the dragon skeleton splayed across the courtyard. "If we cart some of these bones and scales back to Whiterun, though, we could get a fair price for them." He mused. "Dragonbone and scale armor is getting popular, and the blacksmiths are itching for the materials." "Just as long as you carry your fair share." Marcurio muttered, though not without a smile. "I'm not your pack mule." Tarene fought for several moments to bite his tongue, but eventually broke into a grin. "You keep telling yourself that…" He chuckled under his breath. Behind him, he heard the tell-tale sounds of a lightning spell, and gulped. "Ah, just kidding! I'm kidding!" He added hurriedly. Marcurio dissipated the spell with a triumphant smirk, and they set to work breaking apart and collecting what bones from the dragon they could carry.

By the time both had packed their bags and headed for the pathway out, the sun was hanging low in the sky, and the temperature had dropped a noticeable amount.

The icy uphill path made for slow going, but the archer and the mage were making pretty good time. Their pace would pick up just as soon as they reached the top of the hill, and with any luck, they would reach the roads before sundown. The cleared pathways would make the hike back to Ivarstead much easier, and they could take a room at the Vilemyr Inn no matter when they tromped in, and from there, they planned to take a carriage back to Whiterun. However, as they approached the the top of the slope, Marcurio had other thoughts on his mind. While it was all well and good that a dragon was dead, the Imperial had never seen his employer fight so ferociously; not against bears, trolls, Draugr, or even bandits. Why had this battle been different? The question bugged Marcurio until he finally decided to speak up, just as they reached the crest of the hill. "If I may be so bold as to ask," He began, and Tarene half-turned to look back at him, though still walking forward. "When did you become such a dragon-slaying beast?" The phrasing was meant as a joke, but it struck Tarene speechless, and Marcurio saw fear flicker through those amber eyes moments before the elf slipped on the ice and faceplanted into the snow. The mage immediately began to laugh out loud, and as Tarene picked himself up from the cold snow, he threw his follower a glare. "That's not funny…" He muttered indignantly. Marcurio shook his head and just kept laughing. Of course this was funny. Growling, Tarene scooped up a handful of loose snow and vengefully lobbed it at the mage. The faceful of cold white successfully cut short Marcurio's merriment, but almost immediately, the mage was grinning again. "Oh, so that's how it'll be, eh?" He shrugged off his bag and dropped it in the snow. "As you wish, Dragonborn." Bending down, Marcurio scooped up a handful of snow and briefly cupped it in his hands, compressing it into a ball shape before he threw it back at his Altmer employer. Tarene yelped and dove out of the way, landing in the snow with a puff of white. He surfaced covered in snow, and wearing a mask of determination. Soon, the snowballs were flying, and everything from their bags to the snowdrifts to rocks were being used as shelters. As he gathered up material for another snowball, Tarene couldn't keep the smile off his face. He hadn't participated in a snowball fight since he was a child, in Winterhold, and all of those battles had been against his elder brothers, which made winning difficult. Against this Imperial mage, however, Tarene thought he stood a fair chance. The elf stepped out of hiding to launch his attack, but found himself facing a lonely snowdrift. Confused, he paused just a moment too long, and Marcurio leapt out of hiding from above Tarene's very own hiding place, landing with most of his weight on the Altmer's shoulders. This coupled with the weight of Tarene's own armor and bag (which he hadn't taken of, as the mage had done), brought the archer crashing down into the snow, with a triumphant Marcurio sitting on his chest. Tarene blew snow off of his face, and looked up at the mage with a resigned grimace. "Alright, alright, you win…" He relented. "Now let me up." Marcurio smirked and shifted, but instead of getting up, he rolled onto his stomach and stretched out parallel to Tarene, putting himself face to face with the very confused Altmer. "Um…" "I'll let you up when you answer my question." Marcurio revealed. "I've been traveling - and fighting - with you for going on three months now, and I have never seen you fight as hard as you did against that dragon." He explained. "You even ignored my fire spells to kill that beast, when I normally have to use a lantern because torches make you uncomfortable." Tarene started to look guilty. "Then you talked to that dragon-" "Okay, okay," Tarene held up his hands in surrender, cutting the mage off before he could go any further. "I'll explain, just….stop." Marcurio obediently closed his mouth, and then looked down pointedly at the Altmer. Tarene squirmed a few seconds before starting to speak. "You remember Azaron, right?" He asked. "And that we're both-" "Both Dragonborn, yes, I remember." Marcurio cut in, gesturing for the elf to speed it up. He remembered quite well the Khajiit who'd first hired him, and then recommended his services to Tarene. What did that have to do with his question. Tarene made a face, clearly having planned to stall for a little more time, but did continue. "Well, as we absorb dragon souls, sometimes things…um…." How could he explain this. "…sometimes things 'slip'." Marcurio slowly raised one eyebrow. 'Slip' as in….? "It started with just a few words here and there…such as saying "kroisis" instead of "sorry", or curses when we get frustrated." The elf started avoiding eye contact, and Marcurio realized that this secret bothered Tarene more than he'd anticipated.

"We asked the Greybeards, and they think it's normal….we have the souls and knowledge of these dragons, so it's acceptable that some of what they are is bleeding into us. But that idea….scares me." Tarene revealed. "In my case it's been manifesting another way. I'm…ah, shit." He cursed dropping his head back in the snow and squeezing his eyes shut in frustration.

"Look, Marcurio….I know I only hired you for protection in places like this, but…you've become my friend, and I don't like seeing you hurt. This 'bleeding' effect is…it's amplifying that. Dragons see certain things as "their's", and they don't take well to sharing. That dragon…today….would have killed you. "Taken" your life. I didn't like that, and….well, went a little overboard." On the outside, Marcurio tweaked his expression to remain the same, and hide the surprise he felt on the inside. Tarene considered him a friend? And a good enough one to fight a dragon for? That….that was very different from his usual clientele. Most people who needed his services hired him on for that one job, and even if they got along well, most never came back more than twice. The relationship was always professional - strictly employee and employer. But with this new information, Marcurio felt another smirk creeping onto his face. It was rather flattering that Tarene would fight a dragon for him (even if it was partially motivated by a surge in dragon influence that sounded quite like a woman's monthly cycle, now that he thought about it). "It scares me when this happens, though." Tarene continued, unaware of his mage captor's inner thoughts, and on a roll with this confession. "I can feel the dragons' influence in every part of me, when it rises up like that, and I…I don't know if I can control it-" "Oh, I'm sure you can." Marcurio interrupted with a grin. "You seemed to do fine today." Tarene stutter stepped, his thought process now off track. Marcurip pushed himself up off of the elf and straightened up, offering his employer - his friend - a hand to stand up. Though still clearly confused, Tarene accepted the hand, and with a grunt, Marcurio hauled the Altmer and his heavy armor back to his feet. "Let's get going, then." The mage turned and walked a short distance to pick up his own discarded bag and slip it back on. "We don't want to be this far out from civilization when the sun sets." Tarene stared hard at the Imperial for several long moments. He opened his mouth, then paused, and closed it again. He brushed a last bit of snow from his hair, and the pair picked up their trek to Ivarstead.

#mun's writing #Tarene

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