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takami-rising · 1 year

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tempore pluvarium: part i ☀︎

tempore pluvarium

➳ at the time of the rains

character: rengoku kyojuro x reader notes: aah so this is my first proper fic, i poured my heart soul into this i really hope you'll like it!! part ii is in the works, i promise it will have more plot genre: fluff with sugar on top and a speck of angst warnings: canon typical violence, but nothing too graphic ambience: rain (yt) | music (spotify) (play simultaneously for the ultimate reading experience) preview: You’re beautiful. He’s always thought so, that you belong there, amongst blossoming trees and their dew dropped leaves, harmonizing with the gentle breeze. The rising sun tries to compete with the tranquil your presence brings, but ultimately it fails.

Rain pours horribly that afternoon when Kyojuro finds you scurrying down the main street, geta grinding against soaked gravel, dirt staining the pristine white of your tabi. The sight is quite endearing, so out of your perceived character to have put yourself in this rather reckless predicament. A side of you he has not witnessed much of. The downpour is unforgiving, your lovely silk komon sure to be ruined at this rate, no matter how the magenta lilac littered across the fabric seem to bloom in color by the skies' gift.

You nearly trip and fall when the wet drops no longer stain your skin with their awful cold and you look up to find the man smiling down at you from under his haori held high. His eyes flicker like fires in the night, even in this dreadful weather, the orange glow showering you with an illusion of warmth. Or perhaps this sensation is merely an afterthought of how your pulse suddenly gallops.

Still, you utter his name with thankful relief. "Rengoku-san..."

The aroma of cedar embar mix with the fresh air is near intoxicating as you settle in by his side, transports you to another time and place, empties your mind of worries that weigh heavy. You nearly forget about the medicinal herb that had willed you into town before anything else, a soft pat to your erireassuring that it is indeed tucked neatly between the folded fabrics.

Your poor father had awoken in a terrible pain, clinging to his missing leg as if it were still there. How awful it is to relive the day of his accident, too young to have understood back then that all you could do was cry when he returned home without the lower limb. It never did heal how it was supposed to despite the doctor's efforts and now he suffers daily. Humid days are always the worst. A run to town was the least you could do to not feel as helpless as that night.

Kyojuro laughs a little when you call yourself foolish for trying to outrun the rain without an umbrella, especially when the skies have been idling all day, but quickly draws attention to the fact that he had tried to beat the very same disadvantageous odds. The world stops when a soft snicker sneaks past your lips as well, delicate hand lifting to hide the extent of your grin.

He hears you sing sometimes in the woods, soft melodies that lifts through the air like bird’s song while your little sister skips at your side. There’s a small basket on your arm, your fingertips hovering, searching for fruit and vegetables to pick. You’re beautiful. He has always thought so, that you belong there, amongst blossoming trees and their dew dropped leaves, harmonizing with the gentle breeze. The rising sun tries to compete with the tranquil your presence brings, but ultimately it fails.

His heart hammers against his chest like it wants to break free.

Your eyes glance up and meet his for a fleeting moment before darting past him. You do hope his haori is not ruined.

The roads always start to look the same after a short while. It becomes so easy to get lost in your surroundings, leaves that flutter by, imitating butterflies as they ride the wind in a playful chase for one another. You invite the blonde to stay for tea once you pass the threshold to your father's estate, insist on it, at least until the rain subsides. Kyojuro escorts you to the door, doesn't lower his arms before you are safe from the drops on the engawa. You will not have it on your conscience lest he falls ill, but he is quick to decline, insists that the rain does little to bother him and he does not wish to impose. In truth, he is not entirely convinced his heart can spend another moment at your side without bursting.

You offer him an umbrella, your brother's, you can only roll your eyes at the thought of how he will inevitably chew you out later, but the gesture is justified. Kyojuro is a gentleman and you are certain he would have provided any other with the same kindness he has shown you with no thought for reciprocation. It feels only fair in your heart that his act of chilvalry is rewarded. You stand firm before he can express his gratitude, that he may return the umbrella once he invited back for dinner. You will send a letter.

He bows before taking his leave. “I shall await it with idle.”

Every meal can be appreciated once you have faced death on an empty stomach. When you've walked endless miles as your limbs quiver from a hunger that's wrenching its way through your guts like acid. It alters your heartbeat, makes you want to drop on your knees to shove dirt down your throat, just to fill your stomach with something. Kyojuro treats every meal like it may be his last; he never knows when it might be. You haved prepared his dinner this evening with such careful love he soars from the very first bite. An ecstasy that spreads throughout his body, seeps into his bones and fills him to the brim with a symphony of flavors. Words don't come easy, but your eyes gleam so wonderfully as you offer him yet another taste. They're like fireflies, your eyes, vibrating.

Your mother finds him... eccentric. But he is kind and honorable. His laugh is loud from the depths of his belly, yet patience shines through when your baby sister becomes enamored by the vermillion in his hair. It's like flames, she exlcaims and simply must how him the kanzashi pin she owns in the very same shade. He tells a tale of a fire wielding prince, travelling the world for his father's accept to one day rule the kingdom, with dragons and spiritual beings, but only once the prince looks inside himself will he find what he is truly looking for. Your sister eats it up with wide eyes. Kyojuro treats your family like equals despite the debt you owe his and he looks at you with such rapid falling adoration, your mother can only have nothing to object when you return his gaze.

Your encounters with Kyojuro are frequent, they always have been. He appears in uniform and over the years, it became rarer to see him out of it. Black, darkness smothers it, seams that have been ripped apart and stitched back together. You do not recognize the fabric, but it is clear that it has been recycled and repurposed time and time again. The texture is rough the time your hand brushes by his wrist, heavy against his broad frame, unlike anything you have come across in the shops. You've searched in quiet curiosity, cannot quite fathom what work could require such an attire, but the burden must be so heavy, lonely. Yet, you do not ask about the scars that paint his complexion nor the time he returned through town with a broken arm. You do not need to question the hardened skin as your fingertips trace lines in his palms to know that he sacrifices a part of himself that can never be regained.

He escorts you along the riverbank when you go to retrieve water, breath stuck in his throat as your arm curl under his, your form pressed to his side. It slows his steps to an amble walk in the hopes that you'll follow his attempt to savor each other for just that of a while longer. Sometimes your index finger draws absent patterns into his bicep while you comment how busy the water seem this morning. Perhaps it's eager to bathe in the lasting colors of the sunrise.

He misses your warmth when you stop to kneel by the stream, gazing at the cloud's reflection in the river. You declare it a crime to disturb such a scenic picture. Natural and untouched by man and here you are trying to take a piece of it home. A guilty part of you quietly wishes you could do so.

"I would hang it by my bed, I think," you muse.

The tasuki sash keeps your sleeves locked as you dip the wooden bucket in the river, hands still careful not to dirty too much of your kimono. Your face drops, almost disappointed that sky isn't painted in the liquid water anymore.

Your voice bears trace of melancholy. "But I suppose there would not be much reason to come here other than drudgery could I look at it every day without effort."

Sparrows gather curiously, skittish at first but a hop in their step once your chore has been put aside. They almost welcome your company. Kyojuro finds himself near convinced that you may very well be the reincarnation of a spirit in this forest until you reach into your sleeve and retrieve a small pouch of sunflower seeds to empty in your palm. The tiny birds are simply acclimated to your song and the soft, carefree giggles that break up your melody. He joins you on his knees and you take his open palm, gently like he's sculpted from the finest porcelain money could buy, to drop the remaining seeds. You take great joy in watching the skittish chicks peck at his hands with caution. He captures the height of your smile, your touch imprinted on his wrist, engraving your very presence onto himself. The birds twitter and chirp.

"They think you are kind," he says.

You cannot help the airy laugh that leaves your lips. "I'm sure they do."

Kyojuro allows himself the silent pleasure of resting his hand upon yours the way back to your estate, fingertips lingering before you slide from his side. He's not sure you even realize, but it's enough to keep the fluttering in the pit of his stomach all the way home.

There are days where he pulls himself away from you, from the world. Blood stains his uniform on those days. Your gaze longs for him but he keeps his eyes locked to the sky, talks heartily of the clouds and their shapes, muses on the stories they tell. If you did not know him any better you would think nothing wrong. But his voice is thick in his throat, swallows like shards of glass that tear his vocal cords apart. He does not even attempt to reach for the lunch wrapped in your furoshiki, fingers restless against the blanket he so politely unfolded for the both of you on the grass. He remains court and genteel as ever, but even his voice wavers when his thoughts can't seem to keep up, catches him off guard as he apologizes for fumbling his words.

You utter his given name for the first time then. It slips out unconsciously the way you've chanted it in your head so many times. Dripping with a love that scours every crevice of his soul for an opening to pour it into. It beckons him within your embrace, eyes wet and glossy as he searches for your touch, presses himself against you with caution. He does not always trust you to be real, worries that some deep, dark part of him has fragmented you in his mind in order to cope. One wrong move and you may shatter, vanish from before him in a cruel nightmare.

A gentle breeze gives him the final push and he collapses into you. Face buried in the fabrics of your kimono, limbs curling up with a strained tremble as the sound of your steady heartbeat and the vibrations your quiet hum carries to your chest, finally coaxes him over the edge. His arms move around you, hands nearly tearing apart the knot of your obi.

You hold him, cradle his head to your chest as the world disappears from around you.

Kyojuro told you keep your eyes looking forward. Grabbed your shoulders and pleaded with you to perservere, a promise that he would nurture the wound on your soul if it did not heal. Such big words from such a small boy. You had felt even smaller in his embrace, crumbled and shivering against his form. He bore a sword on his hip even then, naive and barely adolescent.

The night had been so early. You only snuck out with the innocent want to see the fireflies They were always so pretty as they flickered and soared, illuminated in the moonlight. You hadn't meant to leave the door open, only managed to sense the hunched over beast sneaking into your home out of the corner of your eyes. Your father convinced you later it had been a rabid dog, but you are sure your fragile mind would have believed anything.

By the time your young wit realized the ominous presence, it was already too late.

All you remember is the nauseating fear, the bile gathering in the back of your throat before you are dragged away. Calloused hands gripping yours, the locks of gold and crimson that obscured your view. Kyojuro had you tucked away in a corner of the house. Ordered by his father to keep an eye on you until help could arrive, draped in his cloak of fire and flames, katana stained with the blood of the beast that had infiltrated your home that night. He'd comforted you to the best of his ability, as much as a stranger could, a child no less, but the tortured screams of your father as they had to tend to his mangled leg immediately sent you into a frenzy, buried your face in the older boy's chest in the hopes of muffling the ghastly sounds. Kyojuro covered your ears, eyes alight like guiding candles drawing you towards their everglowing flame, into his warmth. You wished so earnestly to stay in his arms for eternity.

Gratitude of his close proximity grew up with you. A small detour to the river or town and you may pass the gates to the Rengoku estate, locks of flaming hair and deep laughs glimpsed through the corner of your eye, settling a blossoming comfort in your chest.

The image of that night still haunts you to this day, the memory eating away at your very essence, physique heavy and paralyzed as you lay sunken in the softness of your futon unable to find sleep, just waiting for it to wither away with the night.

It's inadvertent how your arms clutch his collapsed form tighter, soaked in the warm rays of the sun in this absent clearing of the woods, secluded and hidden like it had appeared just for two of you. Hands brushing through the forest of his unruly tresses as you urge him not to be so strong. You won't tell. Voice soft and hushed, only for him, you sing a lullaby to cleanse his being of malice. It becomes your little secret, that he spills tears wrapped in your embrace, tongue-tied and voiceless while his mortal soul bleeds.

Kyojuro is ever aware of the things in life that are beyond his control. Wheels in constant motion, there is no need to dwell on them. But, it still manages to put a stagger in his movements when one day his eager tsugoku asks if he plans to pledge his devotion to you soon.

It stems from how he had tucked a finely sculptured hair pain in between your locks. Your sister's grave fascination with Mitsuri's hair enough of a distraction he needed. Of course, he did not disclose how the kanzashi has been carried in his sleeve for three days now, on the account that an opportunity may present itself. He simply thought the color complimented your eyes, petals and pearls like waterfall against your shimmering strands. Your fingertips touch the delicate jewelry with care as you tell him how lovely it is, a wonderful shade of pink adonishing your cheeks.

He offers to wait for you, eyes of amber follow you through the shop as you check off the items on your list. Your sister catch sight of recently stocked honey and hangs off your arm, asking to make castella with stars in her eyes. How can you possibly refuse?

Denying his love for you is futile. You enflame his heart with passion. A yearning that spreads all the way into his fingertips, twitching for the chance to grace your skin. You are softer than the finest silk. Minutes with you are infitnite and he wants to spend each one pouring his soul into you like you're the very essence of his existence. He loves you. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you. But, some deep, dark part of him accepts that he is bound to lose you.

Misturi leans close to his ear. "Master, they must be a beautiful soul to have your affection. Do not doubt yourself."

Kyojuro escorts you home. There is no doubt he is a swordsman when he brings your hands between his tightly, wants to memorize each bend of your knuckles before he has to let you go once again, with rough palms but a touch so gentle your heart jumps in your throat. He places a small pouch in your palm, closing your grip around it as he tells you with grave intent to keep it on your person at all times. It may soothe him more than you, but his eyes are pleading. The finely embroidered wisteria flower in the fabric a promise to protect you when he cannot.

next part

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scotianostra · 2 months

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On 20th February 1472 Orkney and Shetland officially became part of Scotland.

Less than four years earlier, in 1468, the Northern Isles were mortgaged to Scotland for 8,000 florins as part of the marriage dowry between the future James III and Princess Margrethe of Denmark.

But you have to go back a wee bit further for some of the history, following the Battle of Largs, in 1263, and the loss of the Western Isles as a result of the Treaty of Perth, in 1266, Orkney and Shetland were the only part of what is now Scotland to remain in Norwegian hands.

Although the islands were still officially under Norse rule, the control Scottish Earls had over Orkney was on the increase.

This culminated in the appointment of Henry Sinclair, Earl of Roslin to the Earldom in 1379, and heralded changes in the ownership of land and the gradual break-up of the Norse systems of tenure.

The Earldom of Orkney was held for the Norwegian (and later Danish) Crown until 1468, at which time the impoverished Christian I, King of Denmark, Norway and Sweden, “motygaged�� Orkney to the Scottish Crown as part of a marriage agreement with King James III.

The Scottish king was to marry Christian’s daughter, Margaret, and by this agreement Orkney was held as a pledge, redeemable by the payment of 50,000 Rhenish Florins.

At the end of the first year the payment had not been forthcoming so Shetland was pledged for a further 8,000 Florins.

Two years later, Christian had still not made the payment so the Earldom of Orkney and Lordship of Shetland were annexed to the Scottish Crown.

As the years passed, the Scottish influence over the islands grew and gradually the Norse way of life and language slipped away. By the late 17th century the variant of the Norse language of Orkney - Norn - was spoken only by the inhabitants of one or two remote parishes.

In 1564, Mary Queen of Scots gifted the Royal Estates in Orkney and Shetland to one Robert Stewart - her half-brother and natural son of James V. Thus began the tyranny of the Stewart line - traditionally hailed as Orkney’s darkest years.

Robert Stewart’s acquisition, and subsequent “handling” of the islands, was documented as followed:

“This miscreant, having secured in addition the whole temporal estates of the bishopric by an excambion effected in 1568, and having become Earl of Orkney in 1581, spent the rest of his life - with the exception of a short period during which he was imprisoned, partly as a penalty for improper negotiations with Denmark - in oppressing the islanders for his own personal advantage.”

#scotland #scottish #history #northern isles #Orkney #Shetland #scandanavia

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oakandgumtrees · 1 year

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The Lady in the Library, Part 1

It was a dreary November Thursday that the call came in. I was the only one in the office at the time, since the others were out sick or doing inspections, so I was the one who answered the phone.

“Berkshire Library Effect Professionals, how can I help you?”

At first, I assumed it was another fucking bookshop owner trying to organise their annual certification - it seemed like that was all I’d been doing for a month and a half. (When the phone rang, I’d been writing up the assessment of a shop with twelve shelf metres per square metre. Twelve.) So maybe I wasn’t paying as much attention as I should have been.

I was opening up a booking form for an estate assessment when the words “twenty thousand” lodged in my brain.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

The fancy lawyer on the other end did not seem impressed. “The late Mr Stockton’s collection contains an estimated twenty thousand volumes,” he repeated primly. “It has been built up by several generations of Stocktons, in the library at their family home.”

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh fuck.

-----

John and I went out that same afternoon to do a preliminary assessment. It was already four when we left, but the solicitor hadn’t cared about paying for overtime, and had cared about getting things started quickly, so we loaded up our kits and set out for Alderford Manor.

John had been doing this job for nearly forty years, and had gone through cynicism and out the other side. It didn’t surprise him that we were going to a country house where the library was probably going to have spatial, temporal, and eccentric distortions. He’d seen it all before.

I, on the other hand, had been a library effect professional for about eight years, and was at the peak of my cynicism. “Twenty thousand, he said, and it’s never been assessed!”

“Mind the tractor.”

I slowed down so the aforesaid tractor could squeeze between us and the hedge. “Bloody self-important, over-confident bastards,” I muttered. “It’s probably all crammed in there, too. Private owners never give a shit about book density.” Not that density would make much of a difference with that many books. Mild library effects started kicking in around a thousand books per room, usually. Twenty thousand almost guaranteed trouble, especially with pre-Edwardian architecture.

“Does that mean you want to be site manager while I do the walkthrough?” John teased. “Next left now.”

If I hadn’t been driving, I’d have glared at him. (Which he definitely knew.) “Of course I want to do the walkthrough!” I snapped. Pacing out large libraries was the riskiest part of our job, but it was also the most exciting, and the chance didn’t come around every day. Who knew what we’d find? “...I just want to be able to bitch about stupid clients when we’re out of earshot.”

He smirked at me.

I checked the mirrors and pretended I couldn’t see him.

-----

Alderford Manor was the sort of eighteenth century country house that was scattered all over England, and like many of them, it was starting to look a little shabby. Nothing drastic, but the curtains were a little worn, the upholstery faded, and I could tell whatever staff worked here, they were falling behind with the dusting and polishing. In short, exactly what you’d expect from a house that was going to be sold because it was too much trouble to whatever distant relative had inherited it.

Its library was anything but ordinary.

Long aisles of shelving stretched from the entrance into shadow, dividing a seemingly cavernous room into narrow passages. There were no windows to relieve the gloom, and the inbuilt lights illuminated little but shadows and the occasional gilded label. Every vertical surface was packed with books, some as old as the house, some purchased in the last few decades.

I exchanged looks with John, and began to pack my vest and kit bag.

Phone. Spare phone battery. Notebook. Pencils. Chalk. Voice recorder. Film camera. Mechanical stopwatch. Digital stopwatch. Compass. Plumbline. Light meter. Altimeter. Water. Emergency food rations. First aid kit. Emergency blanket. Radio. If I was lucky, I wouldn’t need most of it. If I was unlucky, it might not be enough.

Anchor rope hooked to my belt, radio around my neck, and surveyor’s wheel in hand, I ventured into the library. “From the door, ninety degrees left, following the wall,” I reported quietly. My footsteps were nearly silent on the rug, and the space had the deadened atmosphere of noise cancellation. Who knew, if there had been bells like a monastic library, if I would have even heard them?

Deeper and deeper I followed the wall, calling out measurements to John as I went. His voice was steady on the other end, if a little crackly, anchoring me as much as the rope did.

And then I turned a corner, and saw a silhouette that definitely shouldn’t have been there.

“John?” I asked carefully. “Didn’t Mrs Jones say everyone was accounted for?”

The figure in the shadows stood, and moved towards the light. “Good afternoon,” she said warily - definitely a woman’s voice, low and refined. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

She stepped into the light, revealing an outfit straight out of an Austen novel.

“N-No,” I stammered, dipping into an utterly mangled half-curtesy out of some bizarre instinct that the gesture would help. “I don’t imagine you have.”

Part 2

#the lady in the library #original #inspired by discworld L-space

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mangoshorthand · 1 year

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Flesh and Blood- [Five Hargreeves x F Reader]. Ch1 (Hard Feelings Part 3)

SUMMARY: As Christmas approaches, everything between you and Five is perfect...until a destructive temporal anomaly gets in the way. Five is convinced another permutation of himself is to blame. Nothing's simple when you're in a relationship Five Hargreeves: could your loyalties be tested in a way unique to him? Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five - Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight - Chapter Nine - Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven - Chapter Twelve - Chapter Thirteen

It's a March Holiday fic. Just what you always wanted, right?

Chapter One: Another Apocalypse

It’s Saturday morning. When you left him, the bedroom window and curtains were cracked so that pale-toned winter sunlight bathed the bed in a slanting shard. The chilly air felt pleasant on your skin and clean in your lungs, warm as you both were between the bedclothes.

He was asleep with his head turned from you, the light and shadow falling on his face. The fine hairs on his neck stood on end with the cold air. He had been snoring very lightly. The rays of light and very slight breeze tangled in his hair, fluttering it occasionally. You might have wanted him to wake, yet you could also watch him sleep for hours; you could be happy here, feeling his warmth.

But your bladder was no respecter of such sentimentality. It soon became imperative to leave the bed. After relieving yourself and taking a painkiller for a threatening headache, you’d make your way down to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee.

You try to be quiet as you re-enter the bedroom but he stirs almost immediately.

“Mmm…coffee?” his voice is hazy.

“Yep. Good morning.”

“Morning, dear one. C’mere”

You put down the breakfast tray and rejoin him on the bed. He wraps his arms around you and you lay your head on his chest. He puts his mouth and nose against your hair and inhales.

It's been a blissful six months since the JUICED scandal. Since you started paying the (largely symbolic) rent to Reginald's estate, you'd felt better; stronger. As a result there's a new feeling between you; you can riff, harmonize and improvise around one another like a string duo- switching who plays the base notes as needed. True, it's not as if he's been seriously tested again since the JUICED scandal but, so far, it's been...nice.

Again, the breeze plays around your entwined bodies. He’s sure he can feel the rush of serotonin as he breaths in your scent…serotonin or love; call it what you want.

"How are you today?" he asks.

"Another headache."

"Really?" You can hear the worry in his voice.

"I took a painkiller: it's fine." then, to distract him, “How about we go out today?"

He grunts.

“Gonna need at least three coffees.”

You extract yourself from his arms and bring him over a cup. He takes a grateful sip.

“Ahhh. That’s good. Do I smell bagels?”

You hand him one plate and grab your own, sitting back down beside him with your own mug. For a few minutes, you eat and drink in companionable silence. Then, with your breakfast eaten, you turn to him.

“Shall we go Christmas shopping?”

He groans, “I think I'd rather scoop out my own testes with a grapefruit spoon.”

“I could arrange that for you?”

He grumbles. You kneel on the bed and swing one leg over him.

“Watch it!” he puts his coffee cup on the nightstand to avoid you knocking it out of his hands.

You sit on his knee, facing him.

“Come on,” you wheedle, “we can go and get cocoa and walk in the park and go to the German markets.”

“Kill me,” he groans but he’s smiling too, bringing his hands to your hips.

“You’re the one with the huge family to buy for. Let’s get all our gifts out of the way.”

He sighs, rolling his eyes.

“Fine.”

“Yes!” you say, pumping your fist, “but you have to promise not to be surly. Ooh, and let’s go ice skating!”

“NO ice skating!”

You laugh and kiss him. He responds enthusiastically, laughing a little into your mouth.

“I gotta draw the line at ice skating but I’ll do the rest.”

Five’s enjoying himself more than he wants to admit. Today, your joy is infectious in a way that makes you radiant.

His Christmases since arriving home had always been participated in out of obligation. He’d only really bought gifts for his nephew- he and his brothers didn’t often exchange them, although they all got together for a meal.

Though he’d been with you last year, you were still recovering in hospital from your encounter with Michael Monroe so hadn’t been able to go Christmas crazy...which he's just learning is natural to you.

Despite feeling slightly sick from the glühwein, this is undeniably pleasant. He even found himself fully engaged in picking out a gift for Lila, of all people. He'd even gone so far as to recommend one bracelet over another- and it was the bracelet he thought Lila would like more, too.

Now he’s standing in a store debating the merits of various gingerbread houses. He's laden with all your shopping bags as well as his own because you keep leaving them on the floor in your excitement to make the next purchase. If he were a less cynical man, he might call this adorable rather than annoying.

While Five valiantly tries to remain cynical, it’s hard. God knows he is not an easily led man, yet he's helplessly borne along in the wake of your excitement.

"It's style over substance," he says, indicating the giant gingerbread house you're standing beside, "if it's gonna get eaten then it's the taste that matters. Santi will demolish whatever we buy in five minutes anyway so what's the point?"

When you look at him, you're impassioned to a point that makes him want to laugh.

"Your shitty-ass gingerbread house doesn't even have a second floor. This is a gothic revival gingerbread house. Look at the windows! Look at the little wreath on the door! Look at the roof gables!"

"You're gonna eat it, not move in....and it's ninety dollars!"

"Oh fuck off. I've seen your bank balance, Five Hargreeves. This is Christmas."

He shakes his head at the absurdity of it all.

"You know, for an atheist with criticisms of capitalism, you're pretty into this."

You pout, forcing a smile from him. Despite this, he still tries to dissuade you.

"You know it will have gone stale by Christmas, anyway.

"You think I’m stupid? I'm not saying we get one now. I'm thinking to PRE-ORDER."

You give him a look of impatient, electrified enthusiasm, shining eyes bulging out of your head, eyebrows in your hairline and corners of your mouth turning down. You look entirely mad.

And then he’s impelled to take action by something stronger than his reason.

“You want to meet me on the square in an hour?” he asks

“Why?”

He tilts his head noncommittally.

“Maybe I’ve got…stuff to buy.”

“Hmm. Ok,” you say, grabbing him by the front of his coat, “maybe I got stuff to buy too.”

Then, you kiss him briefly on the lips.

And there's your smell, your soft lips, your smile….

He doesn’t consciously know where his feet are taking him until he’s there and staring in the window. How the hell has he come to this?

He’s not an easy man to buy for. His birthday back in October was tricky enough. He’s been experimenting more recently with clothing beyond suits...but you don’t just want to buy him a shirt or something: he's not your Dad. You find yourself in an antique bookstore with creaky floorboards. It smells strongly of furniture polish and beeswax. The mahogany counter and bookshelves shine with them.

It’s one of those places where the salespeople don’t fully trust you unless you look like a fellow collector. The tweed-suited man eyes you with benign suspicion as you enter. He takes his feet off his desk and stands to assist rather than letting you browse and potentially damage his stock.

“Good afternoon Ma'am."

"Hi," you smile.

"Are you looking for something in particular?”

“Uh- just a Christmas gift for my partner.”

The guy retains his polite smile, but you think you see something die behind his eyes nevertheless.

“Do you have anything in mind?”

You were overjoyed with your purchase. It had set you back a pretty penny, but it was more than worth it when you imagined his face. By the end of the encounter, the salesman had become much more unctuous.

One of the advantages of living all but rent-free in the family compound of an eccentric dead billionaire was being able to save pretty much your whole paycheck.This was aided by the fact that said paycheck had increased significantly a couple of months ago.

You'd finally achieved the promotion you privately thought you'd deserved for eighteen months. You'd like to think that the higher-ups simply noticed all your hard work but this would be optimism to the point of stupidity. You'd become a bit of an office celebrity since the JUICED scandal.

The domino mask you'd worn at the press-conference did not shield your identity from those who already knew you. You knew the news footage had been widely shared between whispering co-workers. For weeks afterwards, you'd catch people looking from you to their computers and back again. In addition, Neil from HR told a pretty convincing story about how he'd seen you meet and be driven away by 'that Hargreeves boy from the papers' in a reconditioned Corvette Stingray.

The book you'd bought for Five was a rare find and couldn’t be more perfect for him - it was beautiful, meaningful and came with that old-book smell that you’ve come to associate with him.

He collects voraciously, spending hours re-stitching broken bindings and restoring or replacing worn endsheets. Having lived most of his life in a ruined library where most of the books had been completely destroyed, he hoarded books on almost any subject. The older they were, the more he valued them. He's never confirmed this, but you think that perhaps his love of these aging survivors is a deeply personal identification.

Another headache has been threatening for the last quarter of an hour, so you sit down on a bench to wait for him. Shoppers pass with the bustle of human activity. You let your head lean forward a little and close your eyes.

And then, a rushing sound and whip-like crack.

You feel a ripple like electrical wind pass through your skin. Your stomach flips as if you’ve just missed a step walking downstairs. You and many of the people around you let out little exclamations of surprise- as you look sharply up, you see people's hair and shopping bags rustle as the almost-invisible force, (whatever it is), passes. A man standing a few feet away begins to scream. His body is caught in what looks like a film of blue light into which energy courses with a thrumming that hurts your already aching head. As he yells, fights and flails to free himself, it warps and flexes with his movements. Sparks fly with a rumbling sound like thunder.

You only have time to gasp in horror before Five blinks into being, still holding shopping bags. He raises his arms in an instinctive protective gesture, one over his own head and the other holding you back and behind him. You both watch as, in under a second, the void consumes the shrieking man and collapses in on itself with a buzz and flumping sound. Dropping the bags, Five’s hand smacks against his forehead.

“SHIT.”

People around you scream, the man who had been beside the void’s victim panics and yells:

“Kevin! KEVIN?”

Five ignores him and looks wildly around. He scans the sky, the ground, surrounding buildings and then the crowd. His body language has taken on that frenetic energy that comes over him when on the job. He pats down his own body, searching urgently.

“Pen. I need a pen. Anything.”

You pat your pockets uselessly, knowing there’s nothing there either.

“Why don’t I carry pens?”, his hand flies back to his forehead he looks around desperately, before yelling, “SHIT!” again.

“What is it?”

“I don’t…it can’t be…wait- is this stage one? No…because then I wouldn’t have asked that. Or is that what I want me to think?” he scratches his neck distractedly, his face lined with mistrust.

“Five?”

He begins to pace.

“It was me. I felt it.”

“What?”

His wild eyes find yours. He hesitates for a fraction of a second and then tells you:

“That was my power. I know the feeling. I felt it from across the street. That-” he points at the yelling man, “-was me. That was one of my temporal portals. What the hell do I think I’m doing?"

His hands come out to feel the air in front of him in the direction of the vanished portal. He draws in breath through his nose as if searching for a scent.

"It feels...like nonsense." His eyebrows contract even tighter. Again, his eyes rove your surroundings and then, finding nothing, he yells with frustration.

“WHERE ARE YOU, ASSHOLE?” he screams into the crowded street. After a few more moments of pacing, he snatches up the bags and grabs your hand.

“Come on, if he’s going to go anywhere, it'll be the Academy.”

Back at home, you sit downstairs in the living room. Five’s rapidly filling a notebook with scribbled calculations and mutters to himself compulsively. He’s been like this all the way home, speaking in random disconnected phrases that don’t mean anything and don’t seem to answer your questions: "Doesn't work with the fifth principle" or "Is this a Dallas permutation?"

“Five"

He jerks his head as if displacing an irksome fly.

"Can you explain this more?”

He holds up a finger imperiously and continues scribbling for a few seconds before looking up at you, his pen poised above the paper as if it’s taking all his self-control to pause its track across the page.

“I will. I promise. Just give me a few minutes. Get them all here- all of my brothers. Now. We need a meeting,” he holds your eyes for a second, clearly seeking affirmation that this satisfies you for now.

You nod your acceptance; your appreciation of this consideration.

Five took a lot of persuading to join the Hargreeves family group chat, but since giving in, he’s been a solid contributor. Now, as you message the group, your message appears right below one from this morning in which he joked that he used Lila’s lost razor to shave his balls.

You: Emergency meeting asap. Five says apocalypse-level shit. @all

Diego: Fuck.

Sloane: With you in 30 minutes

Viktor: Coming. 30 minutes too.

You: @Klaus??

Lila: Try the 3rd floor bathroom.

It took you having to nearly knock the door off its hinges to get Klaus to respond . He’d been listening to headphones and seemed mildly surprised when he popped his head around the door to find you looking exasperated. When, with a towel wrapped around his waist, you and he re-enter the living room, Lila and Diego are attempting to question an impatient Five, still scribbling incomprehensible math.

“Shut UP. I’m nearly done.”

Lila matches his exasperated tone.

“The hurry the fuck up!"

Finally, he throws the book down and stands.

“Okay: I’ll explain it to the others when they get here. We all need to be on the lookout for another me.”

Klaus and Diego let out sighs of frustrated weariness as Lila says:

“Oh great. Younger or older?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. All I know is, there’s a version of me running around making real shitty time portals to suck up Christmas shoppers."

“Why would you do that?” Diego asks, as if stung at Five’s behavior.

“I. don’t. know." the toes of one foot begin to tap, "I just know it was my power and the math on the relativity vector is nonsense.”

He runs his fingers through his hair, sweeping it out of his eyes.

“Time travel’s a crapshoot at the best of times but this…I’d barely even call this time travel. I doubt if that guy it caught even exists anymore. He’s probably in a thousand pieces all over the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.”

He turns to you, looking at you intensely.

“You were right there. Did you see where it came from? Did you see me?”

“No,” you say, “I felt it though. I felt it ripple.”

“Are you absolutely sure? Maybe a kid in the shorts, like in the painting? Or older, with a mustache, probably in a suit?”

You cast your mind back, “No, I didn’t see you. All I saw was the guy.”

He accepts this.

“All in all- this is not good. I know things are more flexible at the Commission now but Herb’s gotta be pissed about whatever I’m doing.”

He paces again, looking down at the last few pages of his notebook.

“This could be another apocalypse, people.”

“Really,” opines Klaus, “when I just got my hair nice?”

Again, Five sits behind his father’s desk across from Herb, whiskey poured for them both. He arrived within a second after Five used his personal pneumatic pipeline to contact him.

“I have to tell you Number Five, so far, we’re as clueless as you on this. The switchboard gave us the alert about the temporal anomaly but that’s as much as we know.”

He sips his drink, looking troubled. “Can you give me any insight on why a version of you might be running these ‘experiments’?”

“Wish I could Herb. The equations as far as I can detect them make no sense. I would have told you that I’d never try it...if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

He pushes his notebook across the desk to Herb. He scrutinizes a few pages of calculations, face the picture of confused concern. When he's seen enough, he looks back up at Five.

“You know we may have to take action on this.”

Five meets Herb’s eyes. It’s not a threat, not aggressive; he simply says it as an uncomfortable fact.

“Well it’s not me me. It’s different timeline me. I can promise you I don’t intend to start spitting out nonsense woodchipper time portals,"

Five placed his glass down on the desk, leaned back and sighed.

"He’s just likely to give you a lot of trouble.”

Herb just drinks his scotch, not meeting Five's eyes.

You lie in bed together that night.

“I need you to be vigilant,” says his voice, out of the dark, “the other versions of me…part of my power means we can exist almost independently of each other across different timestreams if we do the right math. At least...theoretically. I can’t answer for my motivations under different circumstances.”

“What do you mean? Vigilant?”

He sighs, “It might be a version of me that wouldn’t care if he hurt you.”

You stay silent.

“Maybe from before I met you. Or it could just be a me who’s traveled back. So you need to keep your eyes open.”

“Ok.”

“I need you to watch me closely too. If the other me gets too close, I’m going to develop paradox psychosis. I thought I felt a bit of it today- it’s what made me sure I was nearby. Problem is, the first stage of the psychosis is denial, so I won’t be much help when the time comes."

"Huh?

"You shouldn't really be around your doppelgangers. It's not good for you. There are seven stages you need to be on the look out for." He holds up his hands and counts them off on his fingers. "We have denial, itching, extreme thirst and urination, excessive gas, acute paranoia, uncontrolled perspiration and then homicidal rage."

You laugh nervously, "Sounds like your average Saturday night."

"Very funny." he says, though unamused, "If you see any of the warning signs, we’ll know I’m around. Then we can assess the situation and do what has to be done. I'll need you to keep a close eye on me. I might get...unmanageable but if I'll listen to anyone, I'll listen to you. ”

You lie there silently. Your overtaxed mind races. Homicidal rage? Versions of Five that could hurt you? He rolls over and turns to you, you feel his breath on your cheek.

“I know this is a lot to get your head around. I haven’t myself. But we’ll manage. Whatever it takes.”

Under the sheets, his hand strokes your hip.

Tag list: (please comment to be added or removed.) @dilfjohhny , @sunsunhe, @w4stedtr4sh, @nevbrooke-555, @theredvelvetbitch, @td-miley01, @five-hxrgreeves

Masterpost

Alternatively, join me on A03. Here is a link to the whole series

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lynnarang · 9 months

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Doll of the Month

Every lunar cycle, your witch selected one lucky doll to be the werewolf's chewtoy on the night of the full moon. She claimed it was based on which doll had performed the best that month, but somehow each doll under her care got a turn.

This month it was yours.

Normally a quiet and reserved maid who spent her days acting as your witch's bodyguard, the werewolf always seemed so fidgety and anxious beforehand.

It was cute, although you couldn't help but share in her nervous anticipation.

There was a little area of your witch's estate that she had fenced off and enchanted so that the two of you would be trapped together until morning.

Some dolls liked to run, participating in a killer game of hide-and-seek that the wolf always won.

You decided instead to keep the werewolf company and watch the sunset together, nestling against her body with your little arms wrapped around her waist.

She seemed to appreciate the comfort, although her shaking didn't stop.

You wondered how broken you'd be in the morning.

When the transformation began, you clutched onto her tightly.

Her nervous trembling strengthened and changed, no longer a leaf in a storm but a mountain in an earthquake. The fur seemed to dig through her skin and replace it, her face elongating and fangs becoming more visible.

With the last vestige of its humanity was stripped away, the creature you clung to was nearly four times larger than before.

Its snout raised and bellowed a powerful howl, as beautiful as it was terrifying. It rattled your body audibly, enough to remind it of your presence.

Its large grey eyes reflected the moonlight as they peered down at you, immediately registering you as prey.

Before you knew it, you were pinned under one massive claw, the wolf's maw clamped down onto your shoulder with no restraint.

The porcelain you were made of was no flimsy stuff, specifically enchanted by your witch for durability but…

Well, canines are known for tearing their toys apart, and you were no different. With a sickening crunch, your shoulder gave way, your right arm going with it.

You had stuffed your insides with raw meat, at your witches command, and the wolf seemed eager to gorge itself on it while you whimpered and squeaked beneath her. Seconds transformed into hours of blissful agony, your porcelain sensitive to every scrape and tear of its teeth.

Eventually, satisfied with its meal, it took your severed arm away to gnaw off, giving you a moment's respite to gaze at the night sky.

The stars were so beautiful, but all paled in comparison to the gleam of the full moon. A silly thought briefly entered your little doll head, and you couldn't help but indulge it.

You lifted your head and howled with all your might, a pathetic little cry compared to majesty the your predator was capable of, but it felt good regardless.

You grew quiet as you heard heavy footfalls crunching the dust near you, the werewolf having been drawn back by your mimicry.

Flesh and porcelain dust glistened in its fur, although you couldn't see all past its waist from your current prone position.

To your surprise, it didn't continue feasting on you, instead curling up on the ground next to you and resting its head on the part of your torso that was still intact.

Unsure how to react at first, your hands tentatively reached for its ears. Its eyes followed your every movement, but it seemed to judge you weren't a threat, and even leaned into your fingers as you begun to stroke it gently.

A giant murderous puppy, cuddling its prey.

When morning came around, your witch was surprised to see you mostly intact. Normally repairs required at least a minor temporal reversion.

She began to speak, but you hurriedly shushed her, gesturing to the now naked woman cuddling against your lightly mangled body.

Amused, the witch left behind her repair tools and a set of instructions.

When your slumbering companion raised from her slumber, still covered in flecks of gore, she repaired you with apologies and tender hands.

You feel privy to a secret, that even as a feral beast she's still the same sweetheart as the one following her mistresses heel.

The blush when you tell her what a good puppy she is makes the whole night worth it, if the fresh bitemarks to brag about didn't already.

As your repairs finish and the two of you set off for a warm bath together to wash off, you think about how much you can't wait for the next full moon.

You hope your witch will pick you for chewtoy duty then too.

#empty spaces #microfiction #writing #repost from twitter #werewolf #dollposting

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fatalism-and-villainy · 4 months

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12, 17 for the choose violence ask game?

12. The unpopular character you like and why more people should like them

Taking "unpopular" to mean "not actively popular" rather than "actively disliked", because I don't think she's really disliked - Chiyoh!!

I talked more at length about how I interpret her deal here and here, but god, there's so much interesting stuff going on with her! The nature of justice and what it means to enact it, the meaning and uses of violence; the way she's slotted in between Will and Hannibal in terms of the parallels (and contrasts) with what Hannibal did to Will (and Abigail, and Bedelia), and the way she's part of something Hannibal set up years and years ago that Will swept in and finished; the way she kind of splits the difference between them in terms of having a very solid code of conduct she adheres to, but one a bit askew of conventional morality and laws. The fact that aside from Bedelia, she might be the one person on the show who consistently speaks in the same sort of over-the-top metaphor speak that Will and Hannibal use. She's on their level! (And, let us not forget, makes conversation via talking about how snails can survive digestion. She's extremely odd, and I want to see that show up more in portrayals of her!)

Her determined stoicism, and the way it gets shattered when she's forced to defend herself, and how devastated she is post-murder. The way she can subject a man to considerable cruelty and then whisper "I'm sorry" before she kills him. The fact that she dedicated her life's purpose to the memory of a dead girl she never met. The weird Gothic temporality stuff going on with her character, where she was in stasis during the time she spent on the Lecter estate, and time only passed outside, leaving her behind. (When I write the fic I'm planning, I am going to write her as having a very very weird sense of time and memory.)

Those are the threads I'd love to see more uptake on!

#chiyoh #hannibal talk #i will answer 17 in a reblog i just wanted this in my tag for her #hannibal #wolffyluna #replies #awkwardly memes

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thesmallmeggles · 7 months

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🌑 Hi-Fi Rush: Shadows Across The Moon 🌑

Horror Fantasy AU

(The AU name is inspired by the lyrics of In A Blink)

Since it's close to Halloween, I wanted share this AU I came up with earlier in the year.

*Background Info*

The Vandelay Estate, located on a remote island, is overrun with monsters following Roxanne Vandelay's disappearance five years ago. Most human denizens have either fled for the mainland, hid in their homes, or met gruesome fates while attempting to fight off the monsters.

Prior to canon events, Kale struck a deal with a paranormal entity (SPECTRA equivalent) in exchange for wealth and power (because he's too lazy to work for it). The entity demands that Kale lure others to the island to appease it. The only way to banish its' tie to the mortal plain is with these special medallions the bosses have. (The source of their monstrous powers.)

Deal with the Devil scenario: magical prosthetics in exchange for giving Kale blanket permission to feed off your life force and mind control you.

*Characters*

🎶 Chai is a human summoned to the island by a supernatural lure. He gains magical music powers in a ritual.

🧙‍♀️ Peppermint is a human witch - her magic is based around temporal and spatial manipulation. She's also skilled with firearms and technology. 808 is her familiar.

🧙‍♂️ Macaron is a spellcaster/inventor who specializes in creating constructs (fantasy robots) like CNMN.

💀 All the Kale Era robots are replaced by various monsters like slimes and skeletons. The BK models are constructs similar to CNMN.

🧅 QA-1MIL is an ogre (big, mean, eats humans)

👺 Rekka is either a Frankenstein's Monster type deal (big, strong, powered by electricity), a Gargoyle (protection), or a Demon (contract). She is responsible for summoning/creating monsters along with Zanzo.

🐍 Zanzo is a Rogue Scientist (he already is one) Gorgon (the hair). (Man can be both!) He wears mirrored safety goggles for personal protection and to keep from petrifying others by accident.

🧟‍♀️ Korsica is a human later revived as a Zombie. She keeps outsiders from interfering with Vandelay Bosses' business. Might be under Kale's thrall.

🧜‍♀️ Mimosa is a Siren (enthralling voice and wings). She is responsible for luring folks to the island.

🐺 Roquefort is a Werewolf, of course. He is the resource management guy.

🧛‍♂️ Kale is a Vampire. He feeds on psychic energy rather than blood.

#hi fi rush #hfr #horror fantasy #au #alternate universe

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usafphantom2 · 5 months

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Czech government approves $9.8 billion for supersonic combat aircraft

Czech Gripen fighters will operate until 2035.

Fernando Valduga By Fernando Valduga 12/01/2023 - 14:00 in Military

The Czech cabinet on Wednesday approved $9.8 billion in funding to finance its supersonic combat aviation by 2035, including the purchase of 24 F-35As and the continued operation of the Gripen C/D fighters now in service until they are delivered. (Photo: Saab)

This week, the Czech government approved an investment program that establishes the maximum possible expenses for the maintenance and development of supersonic aviation by 2036. The total costs were set at a maximum of 212.8 billion Czech crowns (approximately US$ 9.8 billion).

This includes the acquisition of F-35 aircraft, the continued operation of the JAS39 Gripen aircraft in service until 2035 and the construction of the necessary infrastructure. Reserves for exchange rate fluctuations and other financial and material risks are also included.

The preparation of a document called an asset reproduction program is required by law. The approval will allow the protection of the sovereignty of the Czech Republic's airspace, as well as the fulfillment of obligations to NATO and the European Union beyond the year 2050.

The Czech Republic decided to acquire 24 F-35A fighters.

The total cost of maintaining and developing the capabilities of the Czech supersonic air force is set at US$ 9.8 billion. “They do not only concern the acquisition of F-35 aircraft, but investments in the entire supersonic air force of the Czech Republic Army until 2036,” said Defense Minister Jana Cernochová. The amount also includes the use of Gripen aircraft, expected until 2035. In the same year, the new F-35 aircraft should also reach the intended operational capacity.

The program includes, for example, the acquisition of 24 F-35 aircraft, expenses to ensure the real estate infrastructure necessary for the fighter force, an estimate of the costs of renting or supporting JAS39 aircraft and a foreign exchange reserve.

The asset reproduction program is a planning document required by the Budget Regulation Law that defines the maximum financial, temporal and material framework for planned investment expenses. The total amount cannot be effectively used, but cannot be exceeded. The plans are therefore drawn up with all possible risks in mind.

Saab JAS39 Gripen fighters will continue to operate in the Czech Republic until 2035.

Each asset reproduction program includes in its financial framework the consideration of possible material and price risks, i.e. prices of materials and services, exchange rates in the case of contracts in foreign currencies and other phenomena very difficult to predict for a period of almost fifteen years.

The purchase of 5ª generation F-35 aircraft was approved by the government in September this year based on the military recommendation of the Army of the Czech Republic. Acquisition costs will be paid gradually between 2024 and 2034. The entire project was calculated at about 150 billion crowns ($6.7 billion), including the purchase of aircraft and the construction of the necessary infrastructure.

Tags: Military AviationF-35 Lightning IICzech Air ForceJAS39 Gripen

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Fernando Valduga

Aviation photographer and pilot since 1992, has participated in several events and air operations, such as Cruzex, AirVenture, Dayton Airshow and FIDAE. He has work published in specialized aviation magazines in Brazil and abroad. Uses Canon equipment during his photographic work in the world of aviation.

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astrohkid · 4 months

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genuinely feel like the internet might eat itself relatively soon if they don't get this AI shit under control. i've been looking everywhere for an archive of 70s-80s high fantasy artwork/artists and old original nes game artwork/artists and AI is just..... everywhere. and horrible. i realized i should just go to the library and look for books about that and had a eureka moment. maybe there's a bright future where curation, research, and publishing become the coveted insanely high-paying positions in the workforce because of their necessity for a market of consumers who don't want to navigate a sea of product that is autonomous, self-sustaining, and algorithmic and doesn't chronicle anything real. i feel like all artmaking is about engaging with the past to a certain degree and maybe if the internet becomes unnavigable because of a surplus of "content" that doesn't look in any meaningful temporal direction, old modes of organization will become essential and possibly lucrative? there's already such a vicious war for our attention online and it might eventually be drowned out by like... i know it's often referred to as sludge content but that seems apt. like we'll run out of tangible real estate online. and then you just have to choose if you want to be advertised to forever or avoid the whole thing and everyone will agree to live in a new world and there will be new modes of commerce and economics. is that too optimistic. is that too obvious. am i a dullard. who is to know

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ask-de-writer · 7 months

Text

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to CLASSICAL FANTASIES

THE FISHERMAN'S LEG (Part 12 of 20)

A sequel to Dee 1/2 Demon

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

13269 words (work in progress)

TUMBLR EXEMPTION

Blog holding members of Tumblr.com may freely reblog this story provided that the title, author and copyright information remain intact, unaltered, and are displayed at the head of the story.

Fan art, stories, music, cosplay and other fan activity is actively encouraged.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

New to the story? Read from the beginning HERE.

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Things went quietly and happily for the next few days. Besides fish sales, the whole Fish Market gang, Minara, Takahara, Tanira, and Ichuru, would take out one of the Shop of Repairs' larger boats to fish for crabs and sand sharks. Besides those, they often took snappers, flounders, sea bass and rock cod to liven their sales displays.

At their now almost “traditional” dinners with the Shop of Repairs gang, which included all of those working for the Shop of Repairs, the Chiasu Estate, and Sabo's Better Fish Market, Miko suggested, “Tanira san, Minara has told me that since Magistrate Lim separated your debits and Minami's you are no longer in debit. Rather, you have caught up those that are properly yours and are making cash beyond what you owe.”

Tanira, a little worried at where Miko was going with this, nodded a bow and replied, “That is so, Miko san. Why have you brought this up?”

Dee, at the long table's head answered, “Minara san and Takahara san have asked us if they can be released to work for you, that is why!” Pulling a comic frown, she went on, “They like you better than us!”

Smiling now, Tanira bowed deeply to both girls and replied, “I shall be most happy to have them, but on two conditions. First, my house is so empty without Minami's boasting and bluster, that I wish them to live there with me, as a family with Ichuru san. It will be good to have friends and peace in the house for a change.

“Secondly, they must be willing to accept at least five more of copper cash daily, making a full ten. It has been wonderful to have them but their help is worth far more than I have been able to pay before this.”

Ichuru, eyes alight, clapped his hands and exclaimed, “That is wonderful, Mother san! They are as sisters to me already!”

Tanira smiled happily and hugged her son as she said fondly, “Ichuru san, they have not yet accepted my conditions.”

Takahara simply whooped and pounded Minara on the back! “She does want us! Yes, Tanira sanma! When we asked, we were afraid that you might not want us underfoot all the time!”

Tanira nodded a deep bow to them both. “You are indeed most welcome to work with me and share my home.”

Turning to the head of the table again, she asked, “Dee san, how will this affect our agreements, which are only oral and made in conversation? Especially about ice? But other things too, like using your boats to fish for crabs?”

Dee nodded thoughtfully, “Tanira san, I can see no reason to make any changes to our present practices, including having you all here for dinner.”

Patsu took up, “Got an offer for you. I will soon have three new girls that I need to train. Would you accept as a training project a boat of twelve paces length? It will be equipped with fan like lateen sails, like some of our larger boats and set up for sail, oars, and to fish how you would like.”

Instead of temporizing, because she well knew her hosts, she bowed deeply and inquired, “Could it be set up for trolling but have space to install nets later if it seems wise?”

Patsu simply nodded a bit of a bow as she replied, “I will see to it.”

Ichuru, forgetting his manners in his excitement, waived his arms and called, “Can I help to make it, Patsu?”

Tanira corralled her offspring and remonstrated gently, “She can answer you, Ichuru san, as soon as you ask politely.”

Abashed, but still eager, he bowed deeply and offered, “Patsu san, apologies for my unruly eagerness. May I please be allowed to assist in the making of mother Tamira san's fishing boat?”

Patsu returned his bow and replied, “When your other work, which includes some lessons in reading, writing and figuring, is done, you may help us to build that boat.”

One of the young ladies bowed to him and asked, “Do you still have that toy boat that I gave to you?”

“I love it, Ontara san! I keep it and my floats at the Fish Market. Mother, um, Tanira san lets me take it down to the shingle beach to play with it, as long as I wear my floats and Takahara san is there too, in case I fall into the water. She can swim really well.”

Looking about, he felt secure enough in this company to confess, “Sometimes I fall in on purpose so that Takahara san will pull me back to shore.”

A giggling Takahara grinned, “I can always tell when he's going to do it, too! He pushes the boat over to the shore, so that the wind can't take it away. As soon as he does, I get ready!”

The whole table, including his mother, had a good laugh at the whole idea.

After the friendly and actually productive meal, Takahara and Minara happily called, “Wait for us, Tanira san! We don't have a lot to pack!”

When they came down with their first arm loads, Patsu had an odd looking cart waiting for them. Seeing both Tanira and Ichuru's interest, she explained, “We use this cart to bring our boats up to the boat house when we are done for the day. Its shape has room for a keel under the boats with sails. Beats dragging them up that boat ramp.”

Tanira tilted her head quizzically as she asked, “You bring them up each night? Why? Other fishers only bring their boats out once a week or so.”

Patsu jerked a rude thumb at the door and the street beyond as she spat, “Minami. If we leave them out, he will try to ruin them somehow. It has happened three times already.”

Nodding slowly, Tanira nearly whispered, “I can see how that might be, Patsu san.”

The cart loaded, they pulled it out of the Chiasu Warehouse.

Minami was waiting, but across the street from them as required by Magistrate Lim's order, and the Constable who stood patiently beside him. He sneered loudly, gloatingly, “So, thrown out by the Demon spawn for helping another? Where will you go now, worthless ones? Nobody wants orphans like you!”

To everyone's surprise, it was Ichuru who snapped back, “Silence, Foul One! They are coming home to be my sisters! You are not a father to me! I turn my back to you!”

The enraged Minami started to charge across the street to strike the boy! Takahara dropped the pull bar of the cart and slid into a dangerous karate combat stance. Unneeded this time! A fast swipe with the handle end of the constable's ceremonial but very functional naginata had him down face first in a tangle of tripped legs! Before could catch his breath, his arms were bound behind his back!

As he was being led away, they all overheard, “Didn't you hear what my insolent son called me?”

“I did. I also heard your provocation. Why do you always assume the worst of others without the bother of asking what is happening?”

The next morning was a happy one in Tanira's suddenly busy household! The girls had taken Ichuru out to clean, weed and harvest the fairly extensive but much neglected kitchen garden!

To be Continued

<==PREVIOUS ~~ NEXT==>

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to CLASSICAL FANTASIES

#THE FISHERMAN'S LEG #Part 12 of ?#Classical Fantasy #sequel to DEE 1/2 DEMON #WORK IN PROGRESS #Written by De Writer

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chongoblog · 1 year

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If you were to make Behindtale today, SODA joke? My bets are on yes

Oh yeah almost definitely. In terms of temporal real estate, it would only be like a second long and it would go a long way

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rhianna · 3 months

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CHAPTER IV. THE FEUDAL SYSTEM—GENERAL PRINCIPLES—INFLUENCE ON PEOPLE.

In accounting for the crusades we must consider the governmental condition of Europe at the time. Under no other system than that of feudalism would it have been possible to unify and mobilize the masses for the great adventure. Had Europe then been dominated by several great rulers, each with a nation at his control, as the case has been in subsequent times, even the popes would have been unable to combine the various forces in any enterprise that was not purely spiritual. Just to the extent in which the separate nationalities have developed their autonomy has the secular influence of the Roman see been lessened. Kings and emperors, whenever they have felt themselves strong enough to do so, have resented the leadership of Rome in matters having temporal bearings.

Nor would the mutual jealousies of the rulers themselves have allowed them to unite in any movement for the common glory, since the most urgent calls have never been sufficient to unite them even 33for the common defence, as is shown by the supineness of Catholic Europe when, in the fifteenth century, the Turks crossed the Marmora and assailed Constantinople.

But in the eleventh century there was no strong national government in Europe; kingship and imperialism existed rather in name than in such power as we are accustomed to associate with the words. At the opening of the tenth century France was parcelled out into twenty-nine petty states, each controlled by its feudal lord. Hugh Capet (987-996) succeeded in temporarily combining under his sceptre these fragments of Charlemagne’s estate; but his successors were unable to perpetuate the common dominion. In the year 1000 there were fifty-five great Frankish lords who were independent of the nominal sovereign. Indeed, some of these nobles exercised authority more weighty than that of the throne. Louis VI. (1108) first succeeded in making his lordly vassals respect his kingship, but his domain was small. “Île de France, properly so called, and a part of Orléannais, pretty nearly the five departments of the Seine, French Vexin, half the countship of Sens, and the countship of Bourges—such was the whole of it. But this limited state was as liable to agitation, and often as troublous and toilsome to govern, as the very greatest of modern states.

The age of the crusades by James M. Ludlow http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/72852

#project gutenberg #history #europe #feudalism

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simshousewindsor · 1 year

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News out of Sumpterson Estate of the sudden death of King George I was received by the nation with profound sorrow. The announcement from the palace at 10:20 this Tuesday morning said:

"The King, who retired to rest last night in his usual health, passed peacefully away in his sleep early this morning."

King George was 61 years of age and was in the thirty-first year of his reign. He was known to have been suffering from a worsening heart condition.

A meeting of the Accession Council was held this morning to proclaim the accession of Princess Katherine as the new Sovereign. She will soon be on her way home with the Duke of Brindleton Bay and the royal aircraft, which will now leave Brindleton Bay at 9:00 AM after being delayed by a thunderstorm. The Princess is expected to reach Easton at 1:30 PM tomorrow afternoon, when she will take the Royal Oath which will seal her accession to the throne.

The King's last public appearance was at Edward I Royal Airport on Thursday last week to depart for Sumpterson, a private royal residence. Although he looked thinner in recent weeks, many speculated His Majesty’s weight loss was due to diet changes. His sudden death comes just over a year after having a heart operation.

The Queen consort was at Sumpterson with the King, who was out on Monday morning and also in the afternoon. Her Majesty had just arrived in Sumpterson yesterday, later than initially scheduled.

Arrangements for the lying-in-state and for the funeral must wait on the decisions of the new Queen.

After the Prime Minister in the House of Commons and Lady Nadira Romanov in the House of Lords had expressed their grief at the news both Houses adjourned, as did also the Courts of Justice.

Prince Phillip is now heir to the throne and his sister Princess Grace becomes second in succession with Princess Lara third.

The Proclamation of Accession to be read tomorrow was signed by members of the Privy Council at Windenburg Parliament this morning. The text is as follows:-

"Whereas it hath pleased Almighty God to call to His mercy our late sovereign lord King George the First of blessed and glorious memory by whose decease the Crown is solely and rightfully come to the High and Mighty Princess Katherine Isabella: we therefore the Lords Spiritual and Temporal of this Realm being here assisted with these his late Majesty's Privy Council with representatives of other members of the Commonwealth with other Principal Gentlemen of quality with the Lord Mayor, Aldermen and Citizens of Easton do now hereby with one Voice and Consent of Tongue and Heart publish and proclaim that the High and Mighty Princess Katherine Isabella is now by the death of our late sovereign of happy memory become Queen Katherine the First by the grace of God. Queen of this realm and of her other realms and territories, head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the faith to whom her lieges do acknowledge all Faith and constant Obedience with hearty and humble Affection beseeching God by whom Kings and Queens do reign, to bless the Royal Princess Katherine the first with long and happy years to reign over us. God save the Queen"

The Prime Minister will broadcast a message to the nation at two o'clock tomorrow afternoon. Stay tuned to SNN for live coverage from both Sumpterson and Buckingsim Palace.

Previous | Beginning | Next

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mangoshorthand · 1 year

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Flesh and Blood- [Five Hargreeves x F Reader]. Ch5 (Hard Feelings Part 3)

You and Five need a place to hide.

Proceed at your own risk and Merry Christmas, I guess....

Chapter Five: Keechie's Cabin

Keechie was a dedicated follower of Destiny’s Children. When he died in April 1997, he left his cabin and the bulk of his estate to his Prophet, believing in his divinity to his dying day. Klaus had been lucky to have been able to claim it nearly twenty-five years after the fact. Deep in the forests near the Maine border, it provided Klaus with the perfect bolthole in the last few years. Whenever he needed to get away for a bit of much needed self-care, the cabin always welcomed him.

As cozy as it was, Klaus didn’t envy them spending winter there. Luckily, she and Five would be able to get there with relative ease now but in a few weeks’ time the roads might be hard to pass. The cabin boasted an outbuilding complete with tools, Snowcat and snow shovels, but the isolation still worried him a little, especially considering they would have to stay there for the rest of her pregnancy. They'd have to go completely dark. Their phones were left, switched off in their bedroom. They couldn't be traceable.

She runs around upstairs packing them both clothes and personal objects while Five creates himself a small arsenal from the weapons room. Klaus empties the whole pantry into the trunk of the larger of Five’s two cars. Anything non-perishable or long dated. Just in case.

When confirmation came through, Herb drummed his fingers on the desk and scribbled a note on his pad. They’d lost Wynn and the mark had survived. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected- the Commission employed many extraordinary agents, but Number Five had always been in a league of his own.

Herb had certainly been no fan of The Handler’s, she was a terrifying woman and particularly sinister when it came to Five, now he thinks about it. One thing she’d said a few times had stuck with him though: could the Commission be like jazz? Could it…improvise? Was it worth doggedly pursuing the same course of action when even your partial attempt might tweak things? Why not take a more iterative, free form approach? When he made the order, killing Five’s partner (or fiancée now, apparently) had been the kindest cut, but since this news he’d had an inkling. After years in the office, Herb had learned to trust his inklings about things.

So when Betty returned with the rerun files, Herb had read them carefully two or three times. Sometimes, things take care of themselves. No more cuts were needed, kind or otherwise: it seemed that they’d already taken the decisive action. Things would resolve themselves and, this way, Five would only have himself to blame.

Five is weird about laundry. You both had to adapt to each other’s idiosyncrasies, (Five had taken to wearing socks in bed because you got freaked out if the soles of his feet touched you unexpectedly in the night) but his laundry thing had been one of the first.

When you’d moved in, still recovering from your injuries at the hands of Michael Monroe, you’d bought some new detergent, done a load of laundry, pressed it and put it away while he was out. When Five had gone to dress himself the next day, he’d tensed and ripped the shirt off him as if it was filled with writhing insects.

“What’s that smell?”

“It’s a new detergent” you’d said, bewildered, watching him scratch at his arms where the shirt had touched.

“I hate lavender.” He’d grumbled, still hugging himself a little.

“Who hates lavender?”

“I do. Just…thanks and all but let me do the laundry from now on.”

Considering this was your most hated chore, you hadn’t looked this particular gift-horse in the mouth. This had stuck, and Five was now in charge of laundry. As a result, when you’re hurriedly stuffing clothing into suitcases, you’re not sure where most of your panties and his favorite pajamas are.

"There’s a load still sitting in the drier." he mutters, distractedly, sat on a stool and checking a scope fits the Remington he intends to bring.

Before you can hurry away, he calls you back. His eyes and tone of voice seem detached.

"You said you felt it this time?"

"Yeah. I felt it come...out. It pulsed my stomach."

He looks back down at the rifle.

"You need to understand what you're getting into here. This is going to be months of isolation and I can't predict what will happen with the portals," when you meet his eyes, there's only business-like seriousness, "Diego's a sack of shit but he's right. We could go down to planned parenthood."

When the words are out, a sliver of emotion comes back into his eyes, perhaps at the look in yours.

"I..." you consider, chewing your lips, "I still don't want to."

He closes his eyes and nods.

"I thought as much," he takes one hand off the gun and rubs at his forehead, "I just wanted you to know you have the option. I know it would be the logical way forward but is it weird that I'm relieved?"

"No. Logic doesn't always come into these things. Plus, I could still hurt people: the doctors, the public."

He smiles, and the angle of his lips signals that he's still feeling the effect of drink.

"We could just aim you at the protesters outside?"

You let out a hum or two of laughter and kiss the crown of his head.

With the packing finally done, (though a little haphazardly), everyone except Diego and Santi had said goodbye as you’d got ready to leave. You couldn’t really blame Diego, but Lila gave you a hug.

“Just ignore him, kitten. He just got a scare." she kisses your cheek and hands you a box, "I found this for you, it's a doppler from when I was pregnant with Santi. It lets you hear the heartbeat."

"Thank you," you'd hugged her again, tears in your eyes.

As Viktor said his goodbye, he held you extra tight and whispered to you.

“I know what it’s like to be treated like a bomb that could go off at any moment. It’s not fair.”

You reciprocate his tight hold.

Diego watches you drive away from an upper window.

How Lila can wave you off as if you couldn’t maim her in a second, he doesn’t know. Well, if Lila loses a limb, she shouldn’t expect any sympathy from him.

They’ve already argued about it. Apparently Lila cares more about Five’s kid than her own. She watched Santi bleed like a firehose just like he did, and yet she’s downstairs acting like nothing happened?

The helplessness was the worst thing. He thought he could protect his boy from anything, but that portal chewed him in like a devouring maw.

Absent-mindedly, he runs the sheathed blade of one of his knives between a finger and thumb. He only turns around when a small voice sounds from Santi’s bed.

“Daddy, can we play video games now?”

It makes him smile.

“Sure. But nothing too intense. We're gonna play Animal Crossing or something.”

He turns away from the window as the car exits his field of vision.

Five has roughly six stages of drunkenness, (one fewer than Paradox Psychosis): Stage One: Elevated and jokey Stage Two: Surly Stage Three: Awful dancing Stage Four: Karaoke Stage Five: Maudlin Stage Six: Vomiting and blackouts

When he’d been called into action against Wynn, he’d been somewhere between three and four, but the hour or so of abstinence since then had brought him back down to a two.

You were driving the whole way- nearly seven hours. You could tell that not being in control of the car was difficult for him, especially with the chance of another portal appearing at any second. Your insistence that he was several times over the legal alcohol limit was the only thing that stopped him from taking the wheel. He’d tried to argue that he was fine to drive, (hadn’t he just fought Wynn well enough?), but you’d put your foot down. So instead, he sat morosely for the first hour, backseat driving in a way that made you want to drive him off an overpass.

“That’s a yield sign!”

“I know, I can see it too.”

“Sorry.”

He’d leaned his head against the door instead. His leg was shaking restlessly.

“Will they find us at the cabin?” you ask.

“Yes. Eventually, I just don't know when. We need to be vigilant and we may have to run. I can deal with the Commission once you’ve had the baby.”

“What do you mean, ‘deal with’?”

“Boom.” he mimics an explosion with his hands.

You scoff, “So the first thing you’re going to do when you become a Dad is blow up a bunch of people?”

“Yup. I’m protecting you both. Isn't that what Dads do? The limit’s 70 here, by the way”

“I know!”

“Sorry.”

“Last year you told me you were done with them- done with killing for them.”

“Correct. And what better way to ensure I keep that promise than blowing them sky high?”

His voice and eyes take on the look that scares you- the unhinged look he wore as he held the gun to your head on the night you met. That look is really just the B-side of the disorder he’s unwilling to acknowledge out loud; the other face of the neuroses that cause him to wake screaming at least once a week. You try to bring him down:

“And what if you don’t come back? How do you protect us then?”

He looks out of the window, cheek pressed against the glass. After what seems like a long time, he replies.

“Once the baby’s born, the threat should be neutralized. I suppose I could renegotiate with Herb.

“Then do that.

“Watch your blind spot.”

“FIVE I swear to God-“

“Sorry.” he says and falls silent.

You drive for a few more minutes in silence until a thought hits you,

"Shit."

“What?”

“I forgot your Christmas present.”

“Don't worry about it, dear one. We had more important things to worry about."

"So you forgot mine too?"

He lets out a little laugh. “Would I forget something like that?”

"Well now I feel bad."

He snickers, pulls out the road atlas and spends a few minutes following the route. An idea seems to strike him and he smiles boyishly.

“Hey- let’s try and make the most of this.” He leans towards you, angling his jaw in the way he knows you find most attractive. “Me and you, before the baby comes. What do they call that these days? A ‘babymoon’?”

Apparently, he’s back down to his drunk stage one.

“I’m not sure imminent threat of assassination or consumption by a rogue time portal is what the Instagram moms had in mind.”

“But would you expect any less from a baby-daddy like me?”

You catch his eye briefly. His grin broadens and his eyebrows almost disappear into his hairline.

“Plus…” he continues, “A Christmas snuggled up by the fire…Bing Crosby playing…snow outside” his voice has taken on a silky quality; smooth-talking you, “it sounds pretty ideal to me.”

It does sound nice. You rock your head from side to side, seeming to weigh his words.

“Maybe I can go cut us a little Christmas tree?”

You smile, unable to keep playing nonchalant. “That does sound pretty perfect.”

He puts a hand on your leg and strokes you, inching his hand upwards and inwards. With his finger-tips, he makes little circles high on the inside of your thigh.

“I’ll have you all to myself…and out there in the woods, there’s no-one to hear you scream.”

This gives you the giggles:

"Is that supposed to be sexy?"

Five scowls, though it doesn't reach his eyes. You push him a little further; you consider teaching him to laugh at himself one of your primary responsibilities.

"That was like, the opposite of hot, Five. It makes it sound like you're going to murder me."

He laughs reluctantly, keeping his brows lowered in mock-irritation.

"I'm not ruling it out."

The first few weeks had been the idyll he’d foreseen. Once you’d got used to all the Klaus-based iconography hanging here and there, the cabin was undoubtedly pleasant. The walls and floor are wood-paneled and give off that slightly minty pine smell.

It's a small building, consisting of a single living space made up by a rustic kitchen, dining area and living room. Upstairs, on a mezzanine level is the bedroom and bathroom. In the middle of the downstairs sits a wood stove, the chimney reaching up through the center of the house, spreading warmth throughout.

Though a little threadbare in places, Klaus has clearly kept the cabin in good repair. The floors are covered in rag rugs; the chairs and bed in crocheted quilts. It would have been the perfect vacation were it not punctuated at least once a day by increasingly uncomfortable portal eruptions.

On December 20th, Five had indeed brought in a little four-foot pine. You decorated it together with threaded popcorn, a few cookies, holly and some pink hydrangea you’d found in the woods. Left from summer, the flowers had faded on their stems to a deep rust color, individual petals brown and skeletal. After unearthing some 1960s household candles from a kitchen drawer, you had managed to secure them to the end of the tree's branches with wire, lighting up the whole thing pleasantly. It was a makeshift tree but all the more special for that.

Five was, of course, an extremely adapt hunter. Thirty minutes on Christmas Eve was all he had needed to return with a buck slung over his shoulders. This he’d hung, skinned and butchered over the course of the rest of the day. The chest-freezer in the outbuilding was stuffed full of meat by the time he’d finished. You’d been both impressed and saddened by his unflinching efficiency. Survival had been his way of life for so long. He took no pleasure in hunting like some did- it was a means to an end.

The beautiful roast venison loin was the star of your Christmas meal. The canned potatoes and greens you ate with them had not done the meat justice.

After dinner, he had produced two wrapped boxes, a large and a small one.

"One of them I'm pretty sure you'll like, the other was just a guess so maybe open that first."

He handed you the smaller of the two boxes, wrapped (badly) in paper patterned with sleighs. Before you had done opening it, he'd already started talking.

“I…er…I know you don’t wear much perfume but I thought it might suit you. It reminded me of the body wash you use. Apparently that’s geranium?”

You took the bottle out of its box and spritzed it on your wrist. It was nice. While it was true that you don’t wear perfume very often, this one might be an exception.

“Do you like it?”

He was clearly trying to project his usual confidence and failing. You could tell by the slight sway in his hips that he was anxious for your approval. It was helplessly endearing. You could just imagine him, stalking around the fragrance counters of a department store before a brave retail assistant approached him.

"I love it. I'm just surprised you didn't get me Chanel No.5."

He grinned back at you, "I considered it but it seemed a little...gauche."

You'd laughed at this, an ironic smile forming.

"As if you jack off in the mirror and really love the smell of your own farts?"

"That's a weird way of putting it, but yeah."

You laughed again, applying it to the pulse point of your neck, then stood a little on tip toe to give him a peck on the lips.

"It suits you. But don't forget about the other one now."

Inside the larger gift's paper was a brown paper shoe box, tied with a red ribbon. You gaped on noticing the branding.

"Shit...Five!"

His smile was broad, "That's the one I'm sure about...but I think you might struggle wearing them as the baby gets bigger."

Inside, as you hoped, were the scalloped-edged designer pumps you'd tried on months ago but dismissed as too frivolous an expense. You looked up at him, eyes wide. He looked back at you, trying to conceal that he was proud of himself.

"Wow...how did you...?"

"I have my sources," he said, mouth twitching.

You picked up one of the shoes as if it was made of glass. It was the right size. Your shining eyes met his.

"Did Lila tell you about them? Or Klaus?"

"Can't I have a bit of goddamn mystery?"

This was as good as admitting it, so you laughed and gave him a quick, fierce hug. Before breaking apart, you kissed him on the nose.

"Thank you, darling, I can't believe it!"

"Don’t mention it. Merry Christmas, beautiful."

He moved as if to kiss you again, but you were out of his grip too quickly, peeling off your thick socks to put the shoes on. It was better to make the most of them before your ankles swelled to the size of hams. Five had watched with amusement as you looked down at your feet admiringly and gave a little squee of excitement.

"So you're quite the champagne socialist at heart?"

"Oh shut up. I just wanna redistribute the champagne!"

He laughed a little. He was enjoying spoiling you. The gleam in your eye gave him what a less cynical man might describe as ‘the warm fuzzies’. All he knew was that seeing the woman he loved carrying his baby and eyes filled with childlike joy was nice, to say the least.

You spent the rest of the day lying on the rug in front of the fire, listening to and singing along with old songs, making out and talking softly about how things would be this time next year. Occasionally, you raised your feet above your heads, looked at your shoes and let out more exclamations of pleasure.

His smile was smug.

“So your gift for me has a lot to live up to, then?”

"You'll see."

As the time drags on and Christmas fades into the new year, you both begin to feel the effects of confinement. Your pregnancy bump seems to grow daily after barely being visible for so long. The baby also begins to press on your bladder, making you irritable and needing to rush to the bathroom with alarming regularity.

The hormones are also a killer, especially in this uniquely stressful situation. You find yourself beginning to cry more regularly while your sex drive, (already healthy) has rocketed to a slightly deranged level. Five struggles to keep up with your lightning-fast mood changes; confused by how quickly crying could turn into sex and vice-versa.

Ever vigilant in case the Commission made another attempt, he had set up booby traps in the surrounding woods and he checks these compulsively, never wandering out of earshot, lest he's needed to close a portal.

He's sleeping even worse than usual: you often wake in the night to find him maintaining his weapons or else reading about fetal development and how to soothe crying infants from one of the many books on the subject he brought from his Dad's study.

On one such night, a portal erupts in your sleep, waking you up with a shriek from pain like intense menstrual cramps. Furniture slides across the room, ready to plug and then be devoured by the portal.

“It’s okay- it’s okay!”

Five throws back the covers, blinking in the sudden eerie light. Finding his feet, he feels the portal’s resonance with his hands, allowing his power and instinct to work in tandem. The furniture slows by a tiny amount and he manages to key-in.

“It hurts!”

“Hold on!”

The portal thrummed and spat static electricity. This is bad. This isn't right. They've been getting worse, sure, but these pains are like a wet washcloth being wrung tight inside you.

“The baby, Five! I might be having-" but your final words are engulfed in a shriek as the washcloth ratchets to an even tighter apex.

His face screwed in concentration and grunts of effort escaping the corners of his mouth, he leans forward into his outstretched arms. Saliva flies from his mouth with his hard, hissing breathing through gritted teeth

“Nearly.”

With a yell and a forward lurch, Five dispels the portal, falling onto his hands and knees. The pain recedes, like the tide going in over rocky ocean bed. You're able to breathe fully again, so you pant. Meanwhile, Five scrambles to his feet and tosses through the bedside cabinet with little regard for the rest of the contents.

“Are you ok? Does it still hurt?”, he says, wildly.

“I…don’t know.” He finds what he's looking for: Lila's doppler. He throws the covers off you to expose your stomach.

His shaking hands fumble with the box and the machine and gel fall out onto the bed. You grab the gel while he readies the sensor and handset. You manage to get the screw-top off with difficulty and spread it onto your stomach. The handset beeps on in Five's hand and he applies the sensor. He skims it over you.

Nothing,

You’d seize his wrist and move it lower; you looking up at him and he down at you. Your eyes exchange a single look of panic while nothingness still rings in your ears.

"No." murmurs Five, answering the growing certainty in your eyes. He moves the sensor again.

...and there it is; the doppler detects the steady whoosh whoosh of the heartbeat. You breathe identical sighs of relief. He leans forward and presses his forehead against yours, breathing coming to an easier rhythm.

Tag list: (please comment to be added or removed.) @dilfjohhny , @sunsunhe, @w4stedtr4sh, @nevbrooke-555, @theredvelvetbitch, @td-miley01, @five-hxrgreeves, @fivefolklore, @jamiebower88

Chapter 6 on Tumblr Next Tues

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Alternatively, join me on A03. Here is a link to the whole series

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trekkiewatt · 4 months

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The following letter of 1824 was addressed to Charles McCutchan-Johnstone (later known as Charles ~McJohnston), who was the first settler at MC:Cutchanville, Indiana, in 1819. It was written to him by his sister-in-law, Ameha Fox McCutchan-Johnstone, from the Foxbrook estate in County Meath, and dated March 29, 1824.

My very dear and much beloved brother- I embrace the opportunity of one of our workmen going out to America to write to you. I received your letter a few days ago. It was a welcome letter indeed: It brought us the pleasing news of you and your family being in good health and that poor, still dear, tho unfortunate, Robert is alive.

'Twas reported in this country he was dead. 'Tis almost a year and half since his last letter to me. I wrote several to both you and to him and sent them to Dublin to a person I thought would have got them sent either to England or America, but I believe they were never sent. I have lived the last year at Foxbrook with my family. I have been greatly tossed by the lease of Goshen dropping. There was so much rent due at the time. I moved my furniture. Thot I might try to get a valuation for the timber for which (except the young ones) there was no registry. His Lordship has agreed to allow me a valuation for them when I am leaving. This which I have taken at 30 per acre (as tenant at will, for he gives no lease to anyone), and I am to pay the arrears at 20 pounds half yearly until all is paid. Not knowing what to do or where to get a place cheaper. Indeed I tried, and as bad as Goshen is I could get no place that would answer me so well- for living so far from Corboy was a ruinous thing. Many a time this year I have sighed and wished I was living near you. To describe all my mind and body has suffered since I saw you would be to much for me.

I feel a hope when my boys have their professions that we will go and settle in your country. My son Matthew is in his second year in the college, and Robert is studying surgery. I have no doubt but he will be one of the most leading men in his profession. They are both very sensible well minded gentlemanly stout fellows and well looking. Matthew is six foot four inches- Robert beyond six feet, very clever and reckoned very handsome- but he is better than handsome- he is most proper in his conduct as they all are thank God.

Andrew is the same industrious laborious fellow and has little for it. He is a good brother and obedient son. He would gladly go to America if he could, but I can’t grant him leave until his ‘It’s only He can keep you from sin. You cannot keep yourself. Cry mightily to him and he will save you from the tempter, and become a preacher in your family -both by example and precept. By and by you will you will be called on to give an account of your stewardship. May you by divine grace be enabled to be a faithful one- Giving God all the glory. I wish you had a religious wife- one about your own age that would be satisfied to give up all her time and interest herself for the spiritual as well as the temporal advantages of you and your children. Such an one is not easy found. I have been looking all around me everywhere I could think of and say I know no one I could recommend and that would be satisfied to go to America. One has just struck my mind at this moment. ‘Tis likely you may not approve of her. You know her I believe. She is not handsome and rather old- but she is an industrious person rather gentlewoman like and that might be an advantage to your daughters. She has been among the Methodists. I don’t know whether she is now. She is Jack Bickerstaff’s sister and always lives with him- but has a daughter of a very amicable character only I fear you would not get her to go to America, and she might bring a young family that would clash with the interests of the other children.

Therefore it is my duty on that hand to be silent - but if you could come over we would try to get you one your mind for it is not good good for a man to be alone. My very dear Charles I have your interest much at heart and should be glad to see you happily settled both for time and eternity- the woman I mention is both agreeable and notable. I think she must be beyond 40. You must have seen Ally Bickerstaff. I only mention her as she struck my mind since I began to write and never before. If you would not like the idea laugh at it. Write soon and and tell me candidly. Your children as they are of a large greed must be by this time pretty well grown. I fear the want of female society must be a great loss to them- both male and female should be refined, but when females are not it is a sad thing. Give my love to them. Let them have useful improving books to read if you can. Give my love also to Mrs. Hilliard. You did not mention in your last how she is doing. Tell her for me to prepare for eternity. I hope you have family worship with your family night and morn.

My brother Wm. Has a prospect of getting out of his difficulties. He has six sons and two daughters and will soon have the addition of another child. Mathilda has six children. She and Creighton are beginning to do better. I have not seen her since her trip to America. Wm. Goslin is now agent to Lord Froman, he was Colonel Barrey, and as Creighton lives on the estate he has been friendly to him and got him —-(a portion of the letter here is missing).

Amelia McCutchan-Johnstone

March 1824

(PS) - I will write soon again if I get an opportunity. The Douglases are preparing to go. There are numbers going from this neighborhood this year. All that can go are determined to go. Billy Kennedy would gladly take out his family, but is not quite able. He hopes he may at a future period. Tom Gardner intends going in June. So Will Wm. Gardner if he can accomplish it. If I were to set out I think there would be a great many would wish to come with me. Write to know is Robt. Indeed alive or why he does not write to his family-and let me know. My family are still at Foxbrook until May. Only Andrew is here with me. He desires his love to you and yours. Your brother James is doing very well in Longford. He says you lost your-( )- by going to America. So you will see how people differ in their opinion. The fellow who carries this is a hard working well behaved individual. His name is James Taylor. I desire him to put this in the post at New York.

Note: Charles McCutchan-Johnstone had married Maria Fox of Foxbrook, a sister to Amelia, the writer of the above letter, but Maria died shortly before Charles set out for America, so at the time he received this letter at McCutchanville he was a widower. “Still dear though unfortunate “ Robert ( who was not known to be dead or alive) was Amelia’s husband, a brother to Charles. Robert McCutchan-Johnstone came to America but disappeared and it is believed that he died in Philadelphia. Amelia and her son, Robert, eventually came to America and settled in Cleveland, Ohio, where Robert set up a medical practice using the name, Dr. Robert Johnstone. The Mrs. Hilliard mentioned was Charles’s eldest sister, the former Elizabeth McCutchan, who had come from Granard in County Longford, Ireland, in 1819 and settled north of McCutchanville.

brothers are ready. Their professions will support them as gentlemen anywhere. I am told America is a good place for their professions.

My girls are almost quite grown up and improved. I doubt not they could keep a boarding school in some of the cities of America, for to do country work they would not like. I should like the country. I am fond of industry, and I think they would anything to serve themselves. I am sorry to find you do not have not the advantages of religious society, which from your letter I would suppose. Could you not have the Methodist preachers to visit you ? I could not be anywhere I could not have the people of God to visit me and associate with. I think if I was near you I would strive in the name of God to have the to have a neighborhood flaming with the glory of God. Oh my dear brother, betake yourself to prayer. Resist in the name of your redeemer all temptation.

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