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fanfictionfansmiction · 3 years

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George reader insert modern au. Basically George has been your barista for months and you bump into him at the club but something gets in the way. Word count: 2533

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“Admit it! You’re in love,” Lavender extended the vowels like chewing gum, “don’t look at me like that! You haven’t stopped talking about him all week!” She buzzed with excitement, that finally her loveless roommate had a crush. She could barely contain the gasp that too anyone else would seem completely over dramatic but for Lavender this was tame. She eyed me knowingly as she reapplied her burgundy lipstick. Just as I was about to break and admit my crush Luna floated in draping her paper white arms delicately over Lavenders deep brown exposed shoulders. Luna planted a kiss on her cheek leaving a shiny residue of her sparkling lip gloss and then she gave me one to. In her hand she had a large glass of shimmering champagne that she somehow managed not to spill a drop of.

“What’s the crack girls?” She asked looking at Lavender. All Lavender gave her was a look. Unsurprisingly that was all it took. A wild grin grew on her face. The excitement of love! They would say and start giggling. I loved all of it really, but I had to keep my cool.

“I have absolutely no idea what she’s told you Luna but it’s not true! You know what she’s like,” I side eye Lavender who had resumed her knowing look, “I don’t even know the guys name! Yes, he gave me a free coffee one time but that was it! A gesture of goodwill, please can we drop it.” I plead dramatically.

“A free coffee! When’s the wedding?” Luna started.

“I was thinking a winter wedding.” Lavender finished.

My cheeks were burning, and I couldn’t stop myself from throwing my head into my hands. Shaking my head. God why are feelings so embarrassing.

“Right young lady,” Lavender said sternly, “I can’t have you feeling sorry for yourself. We are going out and we are going to have fun. So, for the moment you’re just going to have to get over the mortifying ordeal of feeling fuzzy feelings for someone you barely know! Here take this.” Lavender hands me a plastic shot glass of a green liquid that smelt like apple. I peered up and looked at my friends. A smile gave me away and then we drank.

We had made it from the flat, to the pub and now we were in line for the club. All of us dressed up and feeling very much like the most beautiful, funny, intelligent and wonderful people to ever grace the earth. Luna brought along some old school friends who had names I probably had been told but I was shooting blanks. She had her arm slung around the waist of a strong looking girl, face splattered with freckles and fiery ginger hair. Nattering with Lavender a girl with wild curly hair and hands somehow still covered in ink. We weren’t too far from being let in, each of us clinging to our ID’s and laughing about something stupid that happened earlier in the night. I kept fidgeting. Looking around and chewing on my fingernail.

“What’s up your arse?” The ginger girl asked me.

“Oh, she’s just in love.” Lavender said stretching the vowels a little further this time.

I slapped her bare arm, shooting her a look that I hoped would put this conversation to bed. She was about to open her mouth again.

“If you drop this conversation right now and for the rest of the night, I will buy everyone a shot.” They considered it and then all of them nodded and quickly changed the subject.

“Ginny why are you complaining?” I heard Luna whine.

“Because my brothers are out tonight and I’m pretty sure they’re already in the club.” She stamped her foot like a younger sibling does. I had to stifle my laugh because I could see my younger sister doing the same thing.

When we got inside, we weren’t cold and shivering anymore. The air was thick and the wooden floor disgustingly sticking. The girl with the large hair whose name I learned (Hermione) checks in her wool coat and Ginny’s denim jacket.

I make a bee line to the long bar that stands away from the crowded dance floor. The line was almost too long for me to care but I did promise shots and I am a girl of my word. I was quickly wishing I were more covered up. All the crowds pushing and shoving me. Being jabbed by sequins and zips. Not incredibly fun.

I found myself pushed up against someone much taller than me. Wearing faded jeans and a strange graphic t shirt. That’s all I could see from my restricted viewpoint. But then he looks down at me. A face full of freckles and orange hair illuminated by the changing lights. My barista. His brown eyes look down at me and I almost expect him to recognise me, but he doesn’t. His smile is wrong, not enough teeth and he’s missing a dimple. Not my barista. My face must show my disappointment because he starts to stay something. Which I can’t hear so he leans down. Hot breathe on my already sweaty neck.

“Don’t look so disappointed love, you aren’t my type either.” He chuckles. Then I look at him and feel the urge to explain. So, I plant a hand on his neck that must still be cold because he shivers and I talk in his ear.

“Sorry, you look like someone I know. But you aren’t the right one.” I say shrugging. Before he can respond I’m called forward to the front of the line. I’ve upped my order to two shots a person. They give me a silly circular tray that I am determined to defend. When I reach my friends, I have successfully kept everything together.

A chorus of yay and yeahs squeal over the thudding music. The shots are gone before I know it and Hermione only took one, so I have her other one and I’m ready to dance. That’s when I see the guy who’s not my barista again, it seems like he’s about to approach me until he looks beyond me and I can’t help but turn to see at who he’s poking his tongue out. He must be Ginny’s brother. He decides that whatever he was going say is worth it because he saunters over. Definitely not my barista. A wild look in his eyes and a wide grin.

“Hello again love.” He mouths. “I think you might know my brother.” He says. “Do you go to his coffee shop?” He asks. I nod. Then somehow his grin grows wider. Before I could ask if his brother is here, he disappears into the crowd dancing. I shake it off because I’m here to dance. I take Lavender by the hand and spin her around. We dance like an old married couple in a kitchen singing songs to each other. I’m having fun and I feel light. Someone catches Lavenders eye, and she sways over to them. She is going to have a fun night.

So, I go to dance with Luna, but I see that her and Ginny are closer than I knew so I decide to let them have their fun. I notice Hermione having fun and I decide to join her. We jump around in a circle and laugh together. She says she’s spotted her boyfriend and they need to have a conversation. I follow her eyeline to see someone who looks like Ginny and my barista. How many of them are there? I shrug again. Must be time for another drink. This time at the bar I see my barista. Black jeans instead of blue and a mustard colour crew neck. I look up at him to see if he sees me too. He’s not but his face is flushed pink and he’s chewing on his lip like his life depends on it. Why didn’t I read his name tag? I’m in that coffee shop every morning and evening why haven’t I learned his name? He quickly looks down at me like he’s checking I’m looking at him. Now the pink is a little darker. He looks down at me now smiling. That’s my barista. All teeth and a single dimple that casts a little shadow on his face. Now my cheeks are burning red. It’s my turn to look away. He bumps into me purposely and I look up at him. He bends down slightly to talk into my ear. The hair stands up on the back of my neck.

“Caramel latte with almond milk, right?” He asks, he voice deep and struggling to be heard over the music. It’s my turn to talk in her ear. I place my hand on his neck to steady myself.

“And you’re my barista.” I say.

He pulls away to look at me but keeps my hand there. He asks, “Your barista?”

I take a shaky breath in deciding how to play this. I’ll be someone I never am, someone who says what she means.

I tilt my head, “Yes. My barista.” He chokes on something and coughs a little.

“Can I buy you a drink?” He asks but he doesn’t wait for me to answer. He orders me a drink and leads me to smoking area where we share one chair. It’s still cold outside and my body heat seems to be running out of me. He drapes his arm around my shoulder rubbing his red hands up and down my arm. I turn to look at him and I realise I’m basically sat in his lap. I look up and we’re basically nose to nose. Looking away I down my drink which makes him laugh. A low rumble that I can feel in his chest.

“So do I get to know you name?” I ask.

“George.” He smiles at me, the light from the club dancing over his face. I go to ask if he needs mine but then he says it. As though he’s been waiting to say for months. It makes me blush like he said something inappropriate. It sounded like he did. So, I begin to question if it was my name he said.

“You know my name?” I ask a little breathless and beginning to feel the heat re-enter my body.

“Of course,” he brushes a strand of hair out of my eyes, “prettiest girl to come into the shop and the best tipper I’ve noticed. My brother said he ran into you at the bar. He sent me there to wait for you. I was beginning to feel a little ridiculous. Until I saw you staring at me.” He laughs quietly like we’re alone.

“I was making sure it was you.” I say in a hushed tone reserved for museums.

“How’d you know?” He asks edging closer so our noses bump.

“Well you’re the prettiest barista in town. Your brother doesn’t compare.” I say. Just as I feel us edging closer and his lips brushing mine someone clears their throat in front of us. I slump my head onto his shoulder and George looks at the person.

“What Gin?” He asks in a huff.

“There’s a girl emergency and she is needed.” Ginny says strongly like she’s asking for her toys back. George groans like he’s not done with me. I sigh because I know I’m needed but I’m also not finished with him.

“I have to go. If I don’t see you tonight, I’ll see you tomorrow.” I say kissing his cheek and push his hair out of his eyes.

“I hope you know you don’t have to pay for coffee anymore.” He shouts after me.

After finding Lavender weeping in the toilets I do my best to carry her back to our flat. Where I take her makeup off, brush her teeth and carry her to bed.

“Night Lav.” She whines in response. I switch off her light and close the door.

I wake up before Lavender and as I wander out the door in clothes, I’ve thrown on I see the rest of the girls laying across the sofa and the floor. The plan is to get everyone coffee. I don’t expect to see George in the shop but he’s not working. He’s in the queue looking as bad as I feel. When he sees me, he flushes red and doesn’t know where to look. Suddenly I feel just as shy, but I go next to him anyway. He looks down at me and then wraps an arm around me and kisses the top of my head.

“What are we getting?” He asks.

He pays for the drinks and brings them back to the flat me, not letting go of my hand as we walk. Ginny groans when she sees her brother causing Lavender to peak out of her door wrapped up in her duvet.

I give everyone their orders and make toast for them all. George and I laugh when Luna makes a quick exit to the bathroom. I cover his ears and he cover’s mine. So we don’t hear her bring up last night in the toilet. Slowly all the girls shower and collect their stuff to begin the walk home. Lavender manages to cry through the full story of what happened last night, blowing her nose dramatically as she does. I rub her leg and tell her men are stupid. George agrees making us another hot drink.

Lavender’s phone rings and she scurries back to her room. For the second time in twenty-four hours me and George and alone together again. Standing in the kitchen. Closer than you would stand to a friend. I don’t know what to say. So, I just look at him. He looks at me. I hug him, holding him close. Close enough to smell the coffee beans and to feel his heart racing. The TV still on the music channel begins to play a mushy love song I never learned. I move my arm to rest on his lower back and take his hand with the other. We sway in the small poorly lit kitchen. Laughing as we stand on each other’s feet. Still we dance together in the kitchen like an old married couple. Until the song changes to something I didn’t know you could slow dance to.

The TV goes on standby and now we’re just holding each other in the kitchen. His hand brushes through my knotted hair which makes us laugh. I rest my hand on his neck which makes his face soften. He says my name again like a wish I know will come true. I wait for him to kiss me or to say something to acknowledge how strangely familiar this all feels. Then his phone dings. He groans again. Cursing under his breath.

“It’s Fred, Mum’s expecting me for dinner.” He looks at me with pained eyes, “I have to go.” I whine. This time Fred kisses me delicately like he knows if he kissed me harder, he wouldn’t be able to leave. I give him my number before he leaves, promising that next time we won’t get interrupted.

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everlarkbirthdaygifts · 4 years

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Happy Birthday, jbsaucy!

Happy belated Birthday, @jbsaucy! We hope you had a wonderful day back on the 16th, and that you celebrated in style! To bring your party back around, the lovely @mega-aulover has written a story just for you!

For this year, I am recently divorced and trying to get the nerve up to get out there. So I would like to request a 30/40s Everlark, post divorced meeting

Jbsaucy

Dear Jbsaucy I hope you had a wonderful birthday. I apologize for the lateness, and I hope you had a wonderful day. This prompt BTW was amazing and I had a great time writing it. It was a blast. Thank you to Norbertsmom for Betaing

Rated T

Title: OFF THE MARKET

-kpkpkpkp-

Divorce sucks. SUCKS.

Getting divorced sucks, being divorced sucked.

But nothing, not the tedious nature of dividing unwanted movies, the fear of root canals, or getting a speeding ticket, compared to dating. Dating, ladies and gentlemen, after being married for ten years sucked royally.

ROYALLY!

After my divorce, my attorney suggested I get a hobby or join a club. I really wasn’t a social person. Not much of a talker, and avoided any and all spotlights. It was this fear of the spotlight that originally brought me in contact to my now ex-husband, Darius.

My best friend Gale pushed me to do one of those karaoke nights. I panicked and ran straight into Darius. He thought I was cute, and I was grateful he went up with me to the karaoke microphone. He sang and I laughed. The rest is history; the marriage only lasted ten years. But I knew we weren’t right for one another, partially because Darius was a very sexual person, for me sex wasn’t important. I got more enjoyment out of getting my teeth cleaned. He found someone who revved his engine and I got the fica and dates.

Yup Dates.

How did that happen you ask?

Well, I’ll tell you I followed my divorce attorney’s suggestion. Preface-OUTSIDE OF A COURTROOM NEVER EVER FOLLOW YOUR DIVORCE ATTORNEY’S ADVICE.

With that warning sign, I digress. Taking a deep breath, I pinch the bridge of my nose. Wait for it... I joined a book club.

It was the only natural course of action. After our divorce I got all of the books. You see one of the things Darius and I loved to do was go to bookstores. We’d buy all of these books with the intention of reading them, and we never did. We had bookshelves filled with books from the 100 Must-Read Classic Books by Penguin. So after my divorce, I sat in my newly minted apartment with a box of wine and all of these books.

I was looking at the boxes, my divorce papers jutting out. Amongst them there was a note - with the name of a book club, the real 451 book club, with an address. I called them the Squad 451 or the Squad. The women were a hodgepodge of personalities; the right blend of sweet and crazy. There is Mags, the motherly type. She has boatloads of grandchildren. Then there is her neighbor Greasy Sae who runs a diner in town. I used to go to her diner as a kid and consume her mystery meat soups. The older woman is bawdy and half of the things she says makes me blush redder than a red bean. Next is Annie, a shy, slightly mad girl who is a librarian. Delly has the personality of the southern bell who wears pink and believes in romance. I’ve known of Delly forever; she and I went to the same high school.

Foxface, has one of those names with multiple consonants and vowels but prefers to go by Foxy or Foxface. She is freakishly smart and sometimes, I think she has blackmarket dealings because she’s so secretive. Then there is Effie, the middle aged, tightly wound woman whose book choices are as repressed as she is, like Jane Eyre. And last, but not least, is my divorce lawyer, yes the very same one who suggested I get a hobby, Johanna Mason who is, well, a sex fiend.

I started meeting up with them, and six months after my divorce, that’s when the ladies conspired against me and set up my profile on one of those dating websites looking for men, for me. I had no idea, and on my birthday, they presented me with their “gift.”

It was the gift you didn’t want, like a pimple on your wedding day or the runs before an important interview, or bad breath before a first kiss.

Greasy said that if I didn’t use my, well, feminine - looks around - petals. That they’ll dry up and turn into ugly petunias. I announced sex wasn’t important, and even friged Effie said a lady needed to literally, figuratively, and metaphorically, occassionally let her hair down.

I said NO.

I demanded.

I scowled.

Nothing helped.

They created a profile based upon themselves, and yet through describing themselves they pegged me. I was nurturing. I had a sexy edge. I was introverted, and yet mysterious. I was smart, honest, loyal and a closet romantic. But if you tell anyone that, I’ll hunt you down, even after I’m dead.

They split me up like a kid of divorced parents being schlepped from one house to the other. They set themselves up in teams and each team got to pick my dates. And everytime we met for a book club meeting, I was to dutifully report on the date. Based upon their success, a second date would be permitted.

It was a simple proposition.

I was naive. A stupid idiot, or as Bugs Bunny say’s, a maroon.

Because I hadn’t really ever been out there.

To be honest, I met Darius right out of high school, at my first college party, and we were married - okay it wasn’t a big wedding. It really wasn’t a wedding at all. It was a spur of the moment, we got drunk and ended up at one of those Elvis chapel impersonators. Annnnd bada-bing.

I never really dated, so I agreed with the book club’s plan, because how hard could dating be?

And thus began my nightmare.

I must state, or emphatically note, not all of my “dates,” were catastrophically bad. To be fair, most of the time I wasn’t interested. Delly said I wasn’t romantically pulled. Johnna said my engine wasn’t revved up. Greasy said if the man didn’t make me want to orgasam with a look, then he wasn’t worth my time. I posed this question to the universe: How in blazing blue inferno does a man make a woman...well you know, with a look? Was that even possible?

A hazy yellow fuzz enters my head and my mind wanders. I conjure up blue eyes and translucent lashes that never tangle.

Sigh.

…. (my brain just short circuited at the thought of large hands)

Earth to Katniss.

Okay sorry, I spaced out for a little bit, and their words spurred me on to continue my journey. And one year after my divorcce I had stories, no I have battle scars. To prove my point, the following are my top three worst dates. In no particular order.

Date Disaster # 1 was with an artsy type at a chique Italian restaurant. He arrived late, and was drunk, high, or both. Then fell asleep on his plate of bolognese. Yup, in his plate of spaghetti and meat sauce. I paid for my half, tucked my tail between my legs and left.

Date Disaster #2 was with a small man with glasses and a massive intellect who didn’t stop talking about flamingos. FLAMING PINK FLAMINGOS. My brain shut down. I didn’t hear the music in the jazz themed restaurant. I didn’t even taste the heat in the gumbo. The only factoid I remembered when we said goodnight was that flamingos were gray when they were born. I couldn’t even tell you how they became pink. The man was the human form of anesthesia for my soul.

Date Disaster #3 was a nice man. We laughed. And everything was going well. We ordered drinks, a cranberry and soda for me, the bartender special for him while we waited for our table. Turns out he has a milk allergy and the bartender special had milk. When we sat down at the table and we were talking about our hobbies, his stomach began to grumble loudly. He became pasty and then as the waiter brought out our appetizers, he threw up all over the place. It was a good thing that throwing up didn't bother me, but it bothered our waiter who gagged. Needless to say, I burned the outfit I was wearing.

Those were the top three...but there were more, just simmering to become the top one. And for a time I thought I wasn’t made to date. But the ladies had faith and they were really trying to choose nice, interesting guys. However, nothing, nothing that I could ever imagine could top my latest date.

I’m rushing along the sidewalk. I don’t want to be late, but at the same time, I don’t want to tell them how much of a calamity my latest date was, but to be completely honest, I don’t want to miss it. Tonight is also the night the group meets at Mellark’s. The friendly cafe style bakery with its rich and yummy pastries, both savory and sweet. It is my favorite place to meet. Squad 451 meets twice a month in different locations, including one of the two meeting rooms in the library, one of the community rooms in the Justice Building, and on our birthdays, we meet in a restaurant, but the bakery on Main Street is our favorite location. The Mellarks owned several locations. The flagship store was always managed by one of the original family members.

If George Senior, or the middle son Ryan Mellark is at the helm of the bakery, they allow us to cavort in the shop until close. When his older brother George Junior or their Mother Muriel was in charge, we tended to be quiet, relegating our conversations to the books. When Peeta is in charge, there are free cheese buns and chaos.

Please, stomach gods, let Peeta be there. I skipped lunch today because I had a deadline. I also forgot my wallet at home. Thankfully, my license was at the bottom of my backpack. I need food before my stomach eats itself. I am starving when I walk into the bakery. When I see Peeta, I stop. His blue eyes meet mine and my stomach flip flops. He gives me a slow sweet smile, before his eyes slide back to the customer who is ordering.

“Katniss,” Delly squeaks, waving frantically.

Somehow, my feet carry me over to the table and there is a plate of cheese buns and I thank every celestial being in the universe. His buns are heavenly. Sitting down, I take a napkin and snatch one. My mouth waters and my lashes close as I bring the cheese bun to my mouth. The smell of melted cheese, fresh bread, and the hint of dill, assuage my nose, before I bite into one of Peeta’s coveted flaky concoctions. The combination of the oozing cheese, the herbs and the buttery bread elicit a moan from deep within my being. These freaking cheese buns will be the death of me.

“Wow.” Peeta’s voice causes my lashes to fly open.

Peeta is standing near me with a cup of tea; his face and neck splotchy and red.

My mouth is full of delicious food, but I forgot how to chew.

Delly is looking between us. Her pale blue eyes quizzical, like when she’s trying to understand a concept or theme in a book.

“Okay, bitches,” Johanna says, slamming her brief down. “Where’s the rest of the motley crew?”

“Mags and Greasy just arrived,” Delly answers absentmindedly.

“Hey, Peeta, I need a strong black coffee.”

“Sure,” Peeta says, all the while staring at me. I finally remember to chew. “Here Katniss, your tea.”

Taking the paper cup, I can’t help feeling bashful. “Thank you.”

“Peet,” the girl behind the counter calls.

Whenever Peeta is here, the business is brisk. He is charming. He was always charming, even back in high school he was the most popular guy, not only because of his looks, but because he was genuinely nice. I, like all of the other girls, had a mini crush on him.

Looking over his shoulder he says, “I’ll be right back with your coffee, Jo.”

Now Jo is looking between him and me, but hers is a wicked grin, like right before she nails a sleazebag who doesn’t want to pay for his children. I quirk an eyebrow, clueless as to what has Johanna showing off her predatory gleam.

“Oh, it’s chilly outside,” Mags says.

“It’s colder than Rudolph’s balls outside,” Greasy says, her gruff voice is booming. Several patrons look at her. Greasy does not care. She’s well past her sixties and it’s her motto that she should live each day as if it was her last.

In walks Effie, Annie, and Foxface, and they all say, “Hello,” in unison.

The book of the month is actually a YA fiction called, The Fault in Our Stars, about teens with a terminal illness. I cried when Gus...I tear up once more...at the memory. But I know we aren’t going to discuss Hazel’s predicament with her parents.

“So,” Delly says, bouncing in her chair.

I can’t help but grimace.

“How did it go?” Foxface says. She has an accent, but I can’t place it.

“He looked like he belonged on one of those erotic books Johanna loves to read,” Greasy says, grabbing a cheese bun.

She’s not wrong. Gloss was a blond adonis, with slate blue eyes. And abs that have a flipping twelve pack, I ought to know, I counted them. The words are out of my mouth before I am aware of what I am saying. “He really does with a twelve pack,” I say drinking my tea.

“Did you say twelve pack?” Johanna sat up.

My eyes widen.

“Wait, why are you blushing Katniss?” Foxface narrows her eyes.

“Did you and he…” Annie trails off. Her doe eyes are wide.

“Did you have your first sleepover?” Effie leaned in.

“Or did you dry hump him like a horny-toad dog?” Greasy’s voice bounces in the bakery.

Peeta’s pauses , wiping down the counter and looks directly at me.

“NO!” My voice sounds half strangled.

Jo and Delly exchange a look. “Peeta,” Delly calls him over.

Oh, no, no, no, I say to myself, eyeing how quickly I can get from the back corner to the exit. It is one thing to tell the squad, it is another to have Peeta know. I think I can sprint around the chairs and clear the table near the door like an olympic hurdle jumper.

Peet walks over. “Hey Dells, can I get you ladies anything?”

“Katniss was going to regale us with her latest date,” Delly says.

“She’s going to tell us how she knows her date has Thor’s body.”

“You’re dating?” Peeta asks, looking at me intently.

He doesn’t know I am dating or rather, being raked through hot coals.

“Oh,” Foxface chortles. “She’s dating.”

“Remember the guy who was texting with his mother during the entire date,” Effie said.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Mags saids grinning.

“Only the part when he had Katniss talk to her, and it turned out she was psychoanalyzing her to make sure she wasn’t an ax murderer,” Annie said laughing.

“Or what about the guy who kept on mentioning his ex and cried through the crème brûlée,” Greasy slaps her knee, laughing.

I can’t help but laugh.

“Man, those are pretty bad,” Peeta says.

I hold up my finger. “No, those are tame.”

“Tame?” His blue eyes are sparkling. “You mean there are worse dates?”

Delly snorts. “Oh there are worse. I am so glad I am out of the dating pool.”

“Yeah, Gale just loves you,” Annie sighs.

Delly and Gale met when I joined the book club. And while I floundered, they fell in love and now Delly was pregnant.

My eyes shift to Annie. “It’s so much easier when you fall in love.”

“Oh?” I say.

“I met someone,” Annie says softly. “He wants to meet all of us.”

I wonder what type of guy would date quiet, shy, introverted Annie who sometimes says things that remind me of that song from those Freddy movies from the 80’s. I shake my head. Then I narrow my eyes. “Bring him to the next session,” I hear myself say. I want to meet this man, and make sure he will take care of my friend.

“Really.” Annie clasps her hands.

I nod, but I notice Peeta is looking at me with this strange gleam in his eyes. “Ah...yeah.” My voice sounds breathy. I frown, wondering why the heck I sound like one of those girls. You know the ones that always appear in the music videos washing cars and dancing on super yachts. Darius was fascinated by those girls, heck, his new girlfriend looks like one of those girls.

The women are chatting with Annie about the new guy in her life.

“We'll discuss Annie’s beau later,” Mags holds her hand in the air. “I want to hear about Katniss’ date.” Her white hair spills over her shoulder as she fixes me with a look. “So tell us, how do you know Thor has a twelve pack?”

Somehow or another I knew the scrutiny on Annie would be short lived. My time to shine would come, but when I open my mouth to speak I can see a conspiratorial glance between Mags and Annie. And it hits me that they chose this man, because he looked like Thor. I scowl at the women who set me up on this one. Mags and Annie both have a pink tinge to their faces. I would have expected this from Jo or Greasy, but Mags and Annie, well it’s INCONCEIVABLE!

I begin to speak. “He asked me to meet him at the edge of town, near route twelve.”

“Isn't that where Ripper’s place is?” Effie questioned, and she couldn’t hide her revulsion.

“Yup,” I said, popping the ‘P’, thinking of the bar that disguised itself as an eatery. It was a seedy diner with cracked linoleum floors, yellowing formica, booths that had patches, blinking lights, and rickety chairs.

“That’s where he asked you to meet him?” Mag’s sounds outraged. “That place is…is-”

“- a bedhaven for unsavory characters,” Foxface finishes.

“You're brainless,” Jo mutters darkly. "Ripper's isn't the type of place you can go to Katniss. You should have called me."

As protective as I am about my friends, so is Jo. She's tough on the outside but has a really soft center. It's what makes her a perfect shark in the courtroom. Not that Darius was a jerk during our divorce. He actually wasn't. Johanna was present at the restaurant where he announced he wanted a divorce. Johanna later said it was my face, the vulnerability I tried to hide was why she took my divorce pro-bono.

“I drove and brought my bottle of mace.” I know what everyone was thinking. The area in town where Ripper’s is located at, made the bad side of town look like a tourist destination. I didn't mind meeting my date there. I was looking forward to a basket of fries. Ripper's had amazing beer-battered fries.

I've been to Ripper's once. I was with Gale and Thom who needed to score fake IDs. I ordered the fries, since I wasn't there for an ill gotten identification. But let me tell you, those fries. Oh! Holy mother of fries, no other fries can compare.

Shivers!

I love food; it's why I'm a food critic now. What's so funny is that it was those fries that began my career as Buttercup, the elusive food critic. Back then I was Buttercup, the fussy eater. I blogged about them, no, I lavished them with love. I love my job. I can go into any restaurant, order anything on the menu, blog about it and get paid handsomely. And, most importantly, I can do it anonymously. Not even Darius knew I was Buttercup. He thought I was a boring housewife. Getting back to the fries, I wasn’t deterred from getting my fries.

“So then what happened?” Annie asked.

“He was there waiting for me. He stood up and smiled. And he's massive-"

"Just like a book cover," Foxface mutters.

"He said his name wasn't Anthony, it’s Gloss.”

“Gloss?” Everyone said at the same time.

“Yup.” I sighed. “It was a sign. I should've left." Damn those fries!

“So Gloss…" Peeta's sparkling eyes are on mine, his are an amazing hue of blue, like the indigo milk cap mushrooms. "Looks like Thor." He frowns. "Thor with the long hair or short?"

"Long." The women around me answered as one.

Peeta turned those gorgeous eyes back to me.

Thor isn’t my cup of tea. I shrugged to show my indifference. "Gloss was sporting the Ragnarok look, short hair with facial hair."

I swear I watch Peeta mouth, "short hair."

"Anyway, we sat at a booth. It was packed, actually." That should've been clue number two. Men at a joint like Ripper's at 8:30 on a Friday night, it was by the highway, plausible. But packed with just as many women. "The waitress who took our drink order could barely hear me."

"Was he nice?" Annie asks.

"He was sweet." Truthfully Gloss was a sweet guy. He talked about his mother in a positive way, even if she gave him the name that was another descriptor for shiny objects. "He was attentive too. He told me his mother worked in the makeup industry. "

"That doesn't sound too awful," Delly says.

"He sounds delightful." Mags pushes her reading glasses up the bridge of her nose. The gang is getting tired of the story and I hope they will move on to the reason we are gathered, discussing the book we were reading. I begin to reach into my backpack because I really hate purses.

"If he's so delightful, why did he ask you to meet him at Ripper's?" Johanna says in her cross examination voice.

I wince as I take out my book.

"Yes, you must explain." Foxface demands.

"It's not nice to leave us dangling." Effie levels a look at me that has me squirming, feeling like I was being summoned into the principal's office.

"I wanna know how you know Gloss has a twelve pack," Greasy says.

Peeta looks at me expectantly.

Anndddd were back. I sigh. Will he run for the hills when I tell him? Most likely.

"We were talking about dancing.” My voice loses all it’s warmth. “I don't dance."

This causes a rumble of laughter and giggles amongst the women. Peeta looks confused. Finally Delly wipes the tears from her face and gasps, “You should never dance. Ever!”

"That poor man’s toes,” Mags says, her shoulders shaking.

“Do I need to know?” Peeta looks between them.

“I don’t dance!” I growl. The group erupts into another bout of laughter.

“It was a scheme, a dirty underhanded scheme,” Effie says.

The guy I was supposed to date was a dance instructor. He used the dating app as a way to drum up business. When the women meet him, he pairs them with guys who were there for a lesson. He paired me with a poor man named Harry. My nerves got the better of me, because I don’t like to be touched. Harry’s hands were sweaty. Harry tried to dip me as per my date’s instructions. I tripped, and in the process his toes were crushed, and I ended up with a sprained ankle.

When I arrived in crutches to the next book club, well, that was one of those dates that simmers at the surface vying to be in the top three.

“Gloss didn’t believe me. He said anyone can dance. I told him no, and explained that there are people who are predisposed to fly in airplanes, and some who get motion sickness in a car. “

“What happened next?” Foxface asks, moving to the edge of her chair.

“He went to the jukebox.”

“Oh no,” Johanna mutters. “Did he end up in the hospital?”

“Is that how you know he’s got a twelve pack?” Greasy questions. The ladies, and Peeta are all staring at me.

I shake my head. Why couldn’t there be a rush of customers right now? It is calm and I know the odds are against me.

“Spill it!” Johanna demands.

“Well, he queued up a song and waited a beat, and then Lenny’s Kravits’ American Woman started blaring. Gloss started sauntering and spun and did the splits on the floor. Next thing I know, the women in the place go nuts. They surround him, like a rabid pack of wild dogs.”

“Wait, what!” Delly exclaims her pale eyes bright, she grips the book in her hand.

“That doesn’t happen,” Peeta says.

“It does to her,” Foxface said, her eyes shining with ferocity, like the eyes of those women at Rippers.

“Shut it blondie,” Johanna orders.

“Yeah,” Annie says.

Taking a deep breath I continue. “He started dancing...hips…” my brain flashing to his hips gyrating. “...jutting out and…”

“Ohhhhh yeah,” Greasy cackles.

“Gyrating, his hips gyrating,” Foxface gasps.

With eyes closed I nod. “His hips were doing that all over the place. He then jumped on the table and proceeded to rip off his shirt. He shouted my name and told me his next move was his favorite. He spun onto his knees and slid up in my face before dropping his drawers.” I lower my eyes.

“What,” Delly squeaked. “His pants?”

“It’s like Magic Mike,” Mags whispers.

I know the movie Mag’s is referring to. I’ve never seen it. “Yes.”

“Was he naked-” Foxface began.

“-or was he wearing-” Annie cut Foxface off only to be cut off herself.

“A G-String!” Greasy shouted excited.

I shook my head no. He wasn’t wearing anything, I can feel the heat burning my ears.

“Well don’t stop! What happened next!” Even Effie has lost her sense of propriety.

“As I looked for an escape. It’s then I noticed the poster on the wall, for the Slag Heap.” I pause and sigh, “Men’s Magic Friday Night Extravaganza, and Gloss was the headliner. I realized he’s a stripper.”

And the place erupts in laughter.

“What did you do?” Peeta asks.

My eyes connect with his.

“I slunk down to the floor and crawled my way out...drove to the hospital and made my sister administer a tetanus shot.”

“Can I have his number?” Johanna says laughing but her eyes are dead serious.

Peeta is smiling at me and I grab a cheese bun because they are as delicious as the man staring at me.

Eventually we do get to the book, and it’s a pretty good discussion. Peeta let us stay until closing. Mags and Greasy are the last of the ladies to leave. It’s just me and Peeta since he let the staff go home. I’m loitering because I feel like I need to explain to Peeta why I let the ladies talk me into dating.

I’m putting up the chairs on the tables when Peeta comes out.

“You’re still here?”

“Yeah.” I look down at my feet.

“Katniss.”

“Peeta.” We both say at the same time, followed by a nervous chuckle.

“You first,” Peeta insists, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Dating wasn’t my idea.”

“It wasn't?” He raised an eyebrow.

I shake my head.

“So what happened?”

“The ladies, they got me a year long subscription for my birthday, and knowing I wouldn’t go through with it, they choose who I date...until I find someone,” I can feel the heat rising from my neck and reaching my cheeks, “I like.”

“Really?”

I nod, incapable of speaking. I cannot stop watching the way he blinks, those darned translucent lashes that never tangle.

“Dating is pretty brutal.”

“Yeah,” I snort because dating is horrible.

“My family is constantly setting me up. I went out with a girl who sang through the entire meal. She chose the pasta and sang On Top of Spaghetti.”

“What?” I laugh.

“That was my dad’s doing. My mom’s choice was a lot scarier. She made me do an obstacle course and made me do it three times until I beat the time she wanted me to reach.”

“Wow.”

“I was dressed in dress slacks, a nice shirt, and a tie.” He deadpans, “I even had on dress shoes.”

“I am so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he shrugs.

I couldn't help but smile.

“Dating sucks until you find someone who makes you laugh, someone who makes dancing easy.”

He approaches or maybe it’s my own feet that carry me to him. But it doesn’t matter because when his arm slides along my waist, and the other cradles my hand, I have no fears. There is something familiar with him as I dance with him. A slow shuffle, that has the room spinning but none of it matters because I feel at home.

“Will you dance with me Katniss?” His voice rumbles in my ear and my heart is pounding in my chest.

His scent is a warm heady mixture of spices, dill, vanilla, and cinnamon.

“Would you go out with me Katniss?”

“Yes,” I answer, and just like that my dating profile goes up in flames. Ladies and gentlemen, I am officially off the market.

#everlark #everlark fanfiction #everlarkbirthdaydrabbles #everlarkbirthdaygifts #fan fic #by mega-aulover

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kai-n-ali · 4 years

Text

In the Fields of Asphodel (My Regrets Follow You to the Grave) | Chapter Three

Eleanor Blum didn’t know what to think of this man, this Peaky Blinder devil that made all of Small Heath cower before him, this almost-stranger with his dead wife and dead stare, but she wished he’d stop showing up at the flower shop she worked in. And that he’d stop looking at her with those blue eyes of his.

Follows aftermath of Season 03 throughout Seasn 04. Tommy x OFC.

Warnings: Depictions of child abuse, antisemitism towards OFC (slurs), canon-typical violence, canonical deaths, sexual themes, etc.

Word Count: 12K

Chapter One ❀ Chapter Two

Ao3 ❀ Wattpad

Chapter 3: Celandine (Joys to Come)

She met her uncle for the first time barefoot and half-feral, wearing old blood on her fingers and streaked across her dress.

When they called Eleanor down to Headmaster Grafton’s office, her fingertips were still tender from embroidering dresses at the local dress shop earlier that morning. She rubbed them against the pleats of her skirt as she took the stairs two at a time, willing the sting away. Having left her shoes somewhere under her bed, still caked in mud from the rainy day, her big-toe poked out of a hole in her pantyhose and hit the wool carpet with every step. It scratched.

When she was younger, maybe eight or nine, the sight of the big oak door with its perpetual dust settled into the engraving of Mother Mary would’ve made her break out into a cold sweat, a phantom sting of leather hitting raw skin making her spine stiffen and her eyes water.

But she was thirteen now.

It sent a jolt through her system, seeing the door already open. Usually, the headmaster made all the girls knock before entering, waiting until they started to shift on their toes or rock on their heels. He liked spending long hours complaining to all the teachers, disparaging the young orphan girls’ lack of discipline. Sometimes, if he caught them fidgeting too much, he’d rap their knees with his cane.

Once, when she had been sneaking to the kitchen for a quick snack—she was the favorite of the cooks, but don’t tell anyone—she’d seen him frothing at the mouth over when one of the girls got snot on his new coat, due to some awful crying jag earlier that afternoon. His face had been a very fierce shade of red, she recalled, as he’d paced about in one of the empty classrooms, hands flicking about. The color disguised the faint pockmarks on his cheeks and the paleness of his complexion. Eleanor preferred it. He looked more… human, that way. It was nice knowing he bled like any other man.

Today, however, the door was open. Inside, sat the headmaster with one of Eleanor’s least favorite teachers, Sister Sarah, whose lips pressed into a smear of rosy pink rogue as soon as she caught Eleanor at the doorway, barefoot and with smudges of rust smeared down the cream of her skirt. She liked to say the lip color was all-natural, but Eleanor knew better. Across from them, in an over-large chair of what she knew was buttery-soft leather—she once got in trouble for curling up and falling asleep in it at nine-years-old, near delirious from a nightmare of her dead mother and having snuck out of bed and hunkered down in the unlocked office—sat a man she’d never seen before, his back to her.

The headmaster was a man with light hair and even lighter eyes—this chilled, near clear grey—with a thin, cruel mouth. Slim in that fashionable way wealthy people always were with pearls dripping down the languid lines of their throats or Patek Philippe watches wrapped around the delicate curves of their wrist bones. Eleanor was envious—they never had any awkward bits, no hollowed cheeks that looked scooped out with a melon spoon, no knees that stuck out in knobs of bone under paper-thin dresses.

“Anne,” Headmaster Grafton beckoned, hand waving her inside. Eleanor bit her lip to avoid doing anything stupid, like curse him out or attempt to deck him, and felt the familiar sting of her front teeth sinking into the torn skin. Her knobby knuckles weren’t very good for punching, unfortunately, quick to bleed with the semi-fresh welts stretched across them from Sister Martha, the only teacher who still rapped her with the leather strap when she got an answer wrong. The only teacher who ever called on her anymore.

It said something about her that Sister Martha was perhaps her favorite person here.

Grafton clucked his tongue, waited until she stood across from his desk, hands folded in front of her. She kept her eyes on the carpet, this fluffy, garish thing the color of blackberry wine, and his eyes on her forehead seared into her skin. “Anne,” he said again, and it made her want to tear at her hair, or maybe his eyes, those cold eyes—because, yes, Anne was her middle name, her mother’s name, but it wasn’t fucking hers. And she’d stopped biting at her nails, recently, and they’d grown long enough to do some damage if she tried. She could do it.

Eleanor, apparently, was too Jewish of a name, and while none of the staff or teachers could do anything about her last name, as full-on kike as it was, they could switch out Eleanor for Anne. Saint Anne, at least, was the mother of Mary.

Eleanor, christened Anne, baptized anew.

(There were nights when she was laying in her bed, still damp from when one of the older girls had dumped buckets of ice-cold rainwater into the sheets—or on one particular occasion, from being freshly scrubbed of pig’s blood from the butcher’s a street over; the stains never came out—where she just repeated her name in her head. Over and over again. Mouthing around the syllables, tasting them on her tongue just so she remembered. Just in case. They’d scrubbed out the Yiddish with lye soap, the language of her mother, but her own name she’d keep.)

The next bit of what the headmaster said sounded off to Eleanor’s ears: a record scratch, a jerk of a needle. Nothing but a string of words. And now her eyes were on this stranger.

Even sitting, he seemed towering to Eleanor, a looming presence—a well-built man going soft in the middle. He looked like he could snap Eleanor’s wrist with the press of his pointer finger and thumb, but when she risked a glance at his face, swiveling her neck very covertly, his face was made up of long lashes and crinkles at the corners of his hazel eyes. On his head was a shock of red hair, left wavy rather than gelled back slick and going strawberry blond at the temples. His cheeks were peppered in white-as-snow stubble. This man could’ve been ancient as time itself or, maybe, thirty-five—Eleanor didn’t know.

But what caught her attention most was that word the headmaster said—that word. Uncle. Your uncle. This strange man with too-expensive clothes and a floral lapel pin, this was her family, her kin. Eleanor spun on her heel, away from Grafton and towards this new man, this silent man whose brown leather loafers must have cost more than her entire wardrobe.

“You’re Ma’s brother?” she asked, unable to believe it. Even through the blurred memory of her five-year-old self’s eyes, her mother had been a woman made up of dark colors, brunette curls near black and skin that tanned brown in the sun. This man was all light, all pale gold. But it was the only explanation that made any sense.

She’d seen a photo of her grandparents once, obviously red-haired despite the black-and-white, and thought maybe that explained it. Though they had possessed much darker complexions.

Her uncle—her uncle—blinked. “No,” he said, short and to-the-point but not cruel, and his voice was feather-soft. There was an odd lilt to his voice she’d never heard, a funny way he spoke his vowels. “Your father’s brother, actually. Will Connolly.”

An Irish last-name if she’d ever heard one.

Eleanor stared at Mr. Connolly. “My mother was a whore,” she said, tone gone flat between grit teeth. Grafton hissed. Sister Sarah snapped out a sharp “Anne!”, but that wasn’t Eleanor’s name, so she didn’t respond. On the fine-boned features of her so-called uncle’s face, she looked for any traces of shock. There were none. Not even a furrow of his faintly-lined forehead. “How d’ya know I’m his?”

Mr. Connolly only smiled. “You may not see it, but we look a lot alike, you and I. I haven’t a doubt.” She opened her mouth, shut it again. She couldn’t find the words. “He passed, unfortunately. Last summer. But he wanted to know you. Make things right.” At some point, Grafton opened his big mouth again, and some sort of grown-up talk ensued, but Eleanor couldn’t get herself to focus, couldn’t rip her eyes from this stranger’s face.

She tried to be sad—hearing that this man, her father, was dead.

But her head was stuffed with cotton; her very system gone numb.

In a flash, the headmaster’s hand white-knuckled her shoulder, his form too hot along her back, and Eleanor went very still. Felt her limbs lock into place. Her heart stuttered. “Be good, dear,” the man said, and his tone was saccharine, sticky sweet as a bubblegum cigarette. She didn’t answer, didn’t breathe, and in a moment, she heard the click of Mrs. Lynch’s sensible shoes before the door shut behind them both with a heavy thud. Eleanor’s eyes flinched closed.

After a breath, or two, and a silence so heavy it weighed down her shoulders, she sat in a recliner across from Mr. Connolly, crossing her legs at the ankle as she slumped into the velvet material. She could be a lady when she wanted to be. But one foot couldn’t stop tapping against the carpet. The one with the bare toe. Eleanor took in a deep breath. “It’s lavender, isn’t it?” she asked, abrupt, and he arched a brow at her, leaning forward, hands propped up on his thighs and elbows bent. “That pin.” She gestured with the jerk of her chin.

He laughed. It was a low sound, rumbling deep within his chest. Warm. “Keen eye. Aye, it is.” The tied sprigs of lavender were delicate for such a large man, the feathery fronds rendered in silver, and the whole pin perhaps smaller than the stretch of his thumb. It really was beautiful—she wanted to sketch it with the charcoal pencils hidden beneath her mattress. “It was me mother’s.”

Even more embarrassing, she wanted to hear that laugh again. He hadn’t been laughing at her. It hadn’t seemed unkind at all.

But when she looked up from a scab at her knee, she saw his expression didn’t look like he wanted to laugh much anymore. His own gaze was glued at a spot by her right wrist, and for the first time, the man that was probably her uncle looked rattled. His jaw clenched. His eyes perhaps a bit wide, blue and brown and green. There was a flush to the tops of his cheekbones that hadn’t been there before.

She took a quick glance down, then darted back up to stare at him again. Her sleeve had ridden up.

Eleanor bit at her lip. He saw. It didn’t matter. It didn’t.

(“Little pig,” one of the girls said, almost loving, almost fond as she held her down into the dirt and muck of the backyard, and another pressed the glowing eye of her cigarette into the skin of her forearm. This girl’s hair was in pretty blonde braids, frizzed in the summer humidity, and her grip was tight on her wrist. The cigarette steady between her fingers. The flesh sizzled and sizzled while she held it there, and Eleanor thought of the mud caking the back of her hair and of the blue of the sky and of how much she didn’t want to cry. While they laughed and laughed and laughed.

But, no, it didn’t matter now. It didn’t.)

Eleanor tugged down her sleeve without looking away. The thin, healed skin of those circular burns disappeared behind the stained cuff of her dress shirt. Say something, she thought her eyes might have said when they locked with his, and her skin felt like it was burning all over again, hot and too tight. I dare you. Mr. Connoly’s lips pursed. Then he opened his mouth.

“Anne,” he started. And didn’t seem capable of saying anything more.

If she squinted, he really did look like her a little—in the straight arch of his brow, the curve of his top lip. The own red of her hair. The freckles across his nose bridge were fainter than her own, but the shape of the nose itself was the same. A fair counterimage, masculine where she was either soft or gaunt. “It’s Eleanor,” she said after a beat, and her voice sounded strange to her own ears, like from somewhere far away. She flexed her toes against the carpet. Knew there was no place to hide. She’d corrected him—this stranger that wanted to take her across the sea, this man who, from the sound of it, wanted to bring her home with him.

To her eyes, the hands resting on his pressed trousers seemed the size of boxing gloves.

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, got stuck in her throat. She swallowed around it. But all Mr. Connolly did was cock his head, just so.

“Eleanor?” he asked, and his tone was mild as milk.

“My name,” she explained.

He sounded puzzled. “But they call you Anne?”

Eleanor shrugged, picked at a run in her hose. “Because it’s my middle name,” she said. Because they’re bastards, she thought. “But I wanna be called Eleanor if I’m comin’ home with you,” she told him, pushing onward. Maybe she was imagining it, but she thought the corner of his mouth quirked, just a little. “Not Ella or Ellie or anythin' like that.” She paused. “Please.”

And the stranger that was her uncle smiled, wider than before. “Call me Samuel, then.” And he reached out to offer his hand to shake. She leaned forward to take it. “Eleanor.”

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

After a month at Sam’s home—what the few staff there dubbed Narrow House due to its long and low layout—Eleanor made her first grave mistake.

Narrow House was the most strange and most fantastical place Eleanor had ever stepped foot upon. While it was in Chelsea, London, a place with a good bit of bustle from the glimpses she’d catch outside the car window, the sycamore trees that sat shoulder-to-shoulder at the front of the house cut off the outside world, blanketing the whole place in shade. It felt like a place for the fae. Not for man. The first two weeks of near silence she experienced, only disrupted by the rustle of leaves and the static hiss of cicadas, had left her jumping at every sound at night, curled up on top of her covers and hiding her face in her knees. Waiting for the monsters to come.

There weren’t any, of course. She should’ve known better—she wasn’t a kid, anymore.

Or maybe they were very shy monsters. Either way.

Truthfully, Eleanor couldn’t recall her reaction towards the place when she first stepped into the house, just the feeling of Sam’s hand settled feather-light between her shoulder blades. The way her eyes were welcomed by warm hues of gold and cream and deep red. A few leafy plants draped over a table just at the entryway; senses itching, she wanted to touch the waxy film of the heart-shaped leaves but flexed her fingers instead. There’d been a similar plant on Sister Agnes’ desk; it had always looked so parched.

(By the time she hit ten years old, she’d mastered the art of tip-toeing on her stockinged feet, having learned which floorboard squeaked, which route ensured the most carpet coverage. There was a single board in the main lobby that shrieked a blood-curdling sound if you hit it with your big toe just so—she’d learned that the hard way.

At night, when all the other girls were pretending to sleep, too afraid of a lashing to even breathe out-of-turn, Eleanor would go to Sister Agnes’ desk with her cup of water, steps hidden amongst the cacophony of gasps. Walking in wide sweeps over the creaks and sighs and moans of the wood and never spilling a drop.

The nun called its sudden revival an act of God. Maybe it was cruel, but she let it die after that.)

The entryway was dotted with chairs stacked high with pillows and throws, and through the open doorway to her left, she caught a flash of what could have only been a chandelier, though she’d never seen one outside of a magazine, all delicate cut crystal spiraling down, hung over a long and dark dining table that seemed to stretch into infinity.

Before she could absorb any of it, however, an electric jolt of fear overcame her, stole the breath from her lungs. A giant mass of dark fur appeared from another room, launching itself in her direction. Eleanor went rigid.

Trapped between her uncle’s hand and this eldritch horror, there was nowhere to turn.

“Sweet-Pea,” Sam said in a stern voice she’d yet to have heard from him, one that came from somewhere deep in his chest, and she flinched so hard she thought her bones must’ve ground together.

But he needn’t have used it, because the shadowy figure had already sat back on its hind legs right at her feet without any prompting, slobbering globs of drool onto her patent leather shoes and looking up at her with big, patient eyes. Its tail beat against the ground.

“Hi, Sweet-Pea,” she said, faint. The big dog near came up to her chin. She had to yank back her own hands when they automatically reached out to pet it—its coat looked so thick she thought that once she buried her fingers into the coarse curls, they’d be done for. They’d sink so far in they’d never come out again.

“He’s still a puppy,” Sam said, sounding apologetic. Tall and skinny with paws too big for his stick-thin limbs, and no longer a blurred-out nightmare created by his quick scamper towards her, the only thing frightening about Sweet Pea was his magnificent height. His teeth were exposed in a doggy grin, tongue lolling as he panted. “He gets excited.” His hand moved from her back to her shoulder, giving an awkward two pats that made Eleanor go even more still. He dropped his hand fast. The next words came out soft, a gentle nudge, “You can pet him if you want.”

And so, she had, resting a tentative hand on his head. His fur wasn’t very soft, she found out, but the feeling of his head butting against her stomach for more attention made a smile bloom on her face before she could bite it back.

Later that day, she’d met the rest of Sam’s pack. Besides Sweet-Pea, his Irish Wolfhound, there was Fennel, a Spinone Italiano; Ginger, a Border Terrier; Lady Susan, a Scottish Terrier; Cricket, a Rough Collie, and Billie, an English Water Spaniel. Though she’d asked after the breeds—more to be polite than anything, because men always seemed to get so worked up over their dog breeds, or at least the headmaster had—all the names spun around in her head, muddled and mixed. Though, Billie’s name was impossible to forget from the start: the stout pup with his chocolate fur was as round and fat as a sausage link, and as soon as she’d offered the little guy a treat, he’d nipped it out of her hand and rolled over for a belly rub.

Very quietly, she’d whispered an “I love you” to her new friend—because how could she not?—and she’d ducked her head at her uncle’s chuckle.

It was still a really nice laugh.

They’d spent a good twenty minutes where Sam would drop treats into her palm to bribe the dogs with, showing her how to make them roll over and sit, to beg with their paws up and to run circles and other tricks. Eleanor learned a lot in that short time. That Lady Susan had a very imperial look to her whenever she demanded treats, arching her head and narrowing her eyes as if to say: “Well? ”. That Fennel had a love for licking between toes, as she’d left her shoes at the door. That Cricket’s fur felt like a cloud. By the time they were done, her clothes were littered with dog fur, white and brown and black stuck to the grey of her dress.

Her uncle had also promised a tour and an introduction to some of the staff, but one look at the overwhelmed expression on her face once they’d hit the sitting room, full of ceiling-high bookcases and couches that could seat a small army, and he offered to show her to her room instead. Her head still spinning over the fireplace as he guided her up the stairs. He left the door cracked open before he left.

“Come get me if you need me, yeah? I’m just across the hall,” he’d said, and she’d nodded like she’d meant it. He didn’t look convinced. “Bathroom’s the door next to this one,” he told her, a wrinkle to his brow, and was gone with the pad of footsteps on hardwood.

That night, she’d slept on top of the covers of a bed that could’ve housed four or five of her fellow orphans. Afraid to disturb that array of artful pillows at the top of the bed, she curled up at the bottom in a tight ball. Velvet and silk and in colors she’d never thought she’d be able to touch with her own hands. She still wasn’t sure she could.

The summer night meant it wasn’t even that cold.

That night, Billie hopped up onto her bed while she laid with her eyes wide open, listening to the wind whistling through the trees, feeling ungrateful and homesick and wanting the midnight roar of Brooklyn’s streets. Wanting her mother. He’d pressed his wet nose against her cheek, and she’d cried into the soft, downy fur of his chest until her eyes grew so puffy, she had no choice but to close her eyes and sleep. Eleanor was only glad that Sam couldn’t hear her. She’d mastered a silent cry years ago. It had taken a while, but she’d learned.

(You see, the headmaster liked to watch. Until it got boring. He’d bring the nuns in to witness. Maybe he spoke—she wasn’t sure. Her knees dug into the carpet; she could feel the indents form on the scraped-up skin there, red and raw and irritated. Bits of fluff sticking to half-formed scabs, still gooey with tacked-up blood. And the belt buckle clinked with every swing. It made more noise than her. One day, she promised herself, she wouldn’t even cry at all. The headmaster liked to watch, so she bit at the inside of her cheek until she bled, until salt and snot ran down her chin and dripped onto that hideous fucking carpet, the color of blackberry wine. Until it got boring.)

But it was different now, weeks later. Eleanor had learned the layout of the place, the few staff that her uncle kept around the house. And she knew his habits—what he liked. What he expected from her. As long as she was good, he’d keep her around, and maybe he’d even end up liking her a little bit.

She’d done so well until now.

It’d began over breakfast, a butter knife dripping marmalade hovering over her burnt toast as her uncle set down the newspaper in a rustle of pages, peering down at her through the thin frames of his spectacles. There was a sense of finality in her uncle’s expression that made her mouth go dry. A scraping sound reverberated throughout the kitchen, knife on toast.

Eleanor didn’t feel so hungry anymore.

It was a shame, too—she'd only just started allowing herself these bits of extra luxuries. Climbing under the covers at night. Picking a mint leaf off the plant in their windowsill to taste. Taking the dogs on a walk without asking for permission. Drawing a bath instead of washing up with the sink and a rag. Running her fingers along the spines of Sam’s books, instead of just using her eyes.

Marmalade. She liked it when the bits of rind stuck to her teeth, chewy and sweet.

“I think it’s time we get you a new wardrobe,” Sam said, and she felt dread wash over her, settle into the chinks of her armor. She knew what that meant; she knew what he was going to say. “I called the family seamstress”—and who the fuck has a family seamstress, anyhow?—“and she agreed to come over today to get your measurements.”

Eleanor opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “You don’t need to do that. My clothes are fine,” she said, voice low, and hoped the defensive bite in her words was heard only by her. No such luck. By the wrinkle that formed at Sam’s brow, that wasn’t the case; if her tone hadn’t alerted him, the way her hand shook the triangle of toast in her grasp was clue enough. The toe peeking out of her stocking met the hardwood of the floor as her whole foot began to tap against the surface in a full-blown jitter.

Sam seemed to piece together his words very carefully. “Eleanor,” he began, and Eleanor’s knees were shaking so bad she feared rattling the table with the force of it. When he got serious, his speech went much more formal. “I am your guardian. I know... you feel as though you don’t need new things. And I’ve held off for all these weeks. But being as I am in a place to provide you all the luxuries in life, I feel as though getting you clothes that do not have holes in them—and aren’t several sizes too small, at that, clothes that actually fit —is more than reasonable.” This had to be the most she’d ever heard him speak in one sitting. His eyes were roving her face, but her face was already directed towards the poached egg on her plate, not him. “D’ you understand?”

Eleanor nodded. Her cheeks blazed.

Sam let out a breath she hadn’t realized he’d been holding in the first place. “Alright then,” he said around a sigh. Like a burden had been lifted from his shoulders after her compliance. Like her opinion had mattered to him. “Good. Mrs. Davies’ll be here at two. Eat your breakfast now, eh?” There was a smile in his voice when he said it, but she scrambled to shovel in the remains of her breakfast anyhow, gulping orange juice and scraping the runny yolk off her plate with the crust of her bread. Smearing marmalade across her face in her gusto. He didn’t say it like an order. But just in case. Her stomach churned.

Orange peel was still stuck in her teeth when the sun hit her face, fifteen minutes later.

It was always coolest out in the early mornings, so that’s when Sam (and now her, it seemed) did the garden work. This was his normal morning routine, he’d explained to her, until the winter frost made it near impossible to go out until midafternoon when the sun was at its height. The mist felt like a balm to her frayed nerves, brushing against her skin; the morning dew coated her shoes in a gloss. Taller blades of grass left wet trails on the stretch of tights over her ankles.

Autumn was just beginning to touch the trees, glimpses of ochre and pinpricks of cherry red among all the green like a child’s finger-painting. The white stone pathway was framed by heather growing taller by the day, sprigs of pinkish-purple, or lilac, that tickled the pads of her fingertips when she brushed through them. Though, she and Sam kept having to replace their mulch whenever the dogs dug it up. Said path led to a man-made pond stocked with fat, happy koi; they nibbled at her fingers for food when she stroked her hands through the water. She wasn’t sure how long she spent knelt by the pond in the first few weeks, just watching it ripple under her hands, disrupting lily pads that were sent bouncing on the waves

Sam had cut her some of the heather to hang upside down in her closet, bundled up with dental floss and left in the dark on a clothing hanger to dry out. It didn’t have much of a scent, but its color had made her eyes sparkle at the very first sight of it. She couldn’t wait to hang it in her room; maybe on one of her bedposts, if it didn’t shed too much.

Besides helping with maintaining the heather, she also pruned the asters planted in clusters out in the sunlight, placed close to the patio furniture. She liked the touches of yellow and purple at their centers best. “You could press one, if you like,” Sam told her one day in early September when they’d just began to bloom. She hadn’t been able to tear her eyes away. “I could buy you a book for it. You could collect any you want.”

Eleanor hadn’t responded, wondering if it was a test—ribbing her, attempting to trip her up into asking for too much—but she hadn’t needed to speak a word. Her uncle plucked a flower from its stem, bright white against the tanned calluses of his hands, and held it out towards her until she offered up cupped palms for him to drop the bud into. It landed center face down.

“I’ll get you one,” he had said as if that transaction settled it, simple as that, and now, weeks later, a leather-bound journal rested on her bedside table. Parchment paper was tucked away in one of the drawers, though she wasn’t allowed to touch the iron without permission.

This rankled at her, sometimes. She’d worked as a seamstress’ assistant, for God’s sake, but Sam insisted, and Eleanor didn’t dare protest. In any case... It felt. Nice. To be worried over.

Among Sam’s backyard and dedicated garden, there were countless other flowers Eleanor had gotten acquainted with, though their names she had yet to quite master. White and pink autumn crocuses, she could identify without a pause or hint of self-doubt, but the miniature yellow blooms with their outreaching pistils she could not, for the life of her, recall any details of. Just that they liked hugging warm walls in the winter, shielded from the biting cold.

Currently, Sam was ruining the fine wool fabric of his trousers, knees sinking into the damp earth, checking on his radishes with careful touches. He patted the spot at his side. Eleanor rushed to kneel. His smile was a small one; she was graced with no baring of teeth. No threat. Not bite. Just a smile. He offered up the bag of mulch at his other side. “They’re not retaining moisture,” he explained, in that voice he often used when instructing her in any way, patient and steady with little variation in tone. No abrupt rises in volume that made her skin prickle with nerves. “Mulch will help with that. But we’ve gotta keep it a real thin layer, y’ see, like this.”

Eleanor heaved in a breath and let it escape in a little puff of air. “Why thin?” she asked, tentative, and watched her uncle’s eyes light up.

“Good question,” he praised, and Eleanor felt her ears burn, felt her cheeks pull with a reluctant grin. Sam grinned right back. “If you’ve got too thick a layer, it’ll keep any water from getting in, from reaching the roots. Ruin all your progress then, won’t it?”

The rest of the morning passed in this manner, checking all the plants, watering and pruning and patching up holes in the mulch from overzealous paws, before the housekeeper, Ms. Catherine Moore, let out the dogs at 11 AM sharp, a pitcher of what looked to be lemonade in hand. Eleanor inwardly cheered: lemonade was her favorite. The dogs chased each other throughout the garden, nipping at their siblings’ tails and rolling in the dirt. From where Eleanor now rested, sweat beading her brow as she took cover beneath the picnic table’s umbrella, Cricket trotted over, resting her head on her grass-stained knee with a flick of her mane and a small yip escaping her mouth. Eleanor dug her hand into the scruff of Cricket’s neck, offering a scratch—that fur was still cloud-soft.

From the corner of her eye, Eleanor watched Ginger, unkempt and often indifferent towards the other dogs, make straight away for Sam. He was lounging in a chair opposite to her, nursing a cigarette; the strands of his hair unshaded by the umbrella lit up a striking red-gold, like fire woven into thread. Her hair never looked so brilliant. “Little monster,” he greeted with a smile, inviting the dog onto his lap for pats. “I know it was you, digging up the mulch. Menace that you are.”

Ms. Moore reached them then, pitcher clutched in one plump fist close to her chest and two glasses pinched between the fingers of her other hand. The ice rattled within its glass container, sloshing the juice near over the brim and swirling the ladle in the pitcher ‘round and ‘round. Up close, Eleanor saw bits of fruit suspended within, sliced strawberries and what looked like quartered peaches, dying the drink more orange-pink than yellow where they settled at the bottom.

The pitcher, then the two glasses, were set against the patio table, cushioned with a pinky. Ms. Moore was a woman even older than her uncle, perhaps sixty years old, with a crinkle-eyed smile that she shot at Eleanor right now, head ducked under the umbrella to escape the sun. She pulled from a pocket in her apron two straws.

Eleanor took one when it was offered to her and watched with eager eyes when Ms. Moore began filling up a glass, holding the ladle still to avoid spillage; the housekeeper then used said ladle to spoon out several more pieces of fruit, slipping them into the glass with barely a splash. “Here you are, Miss Eleanor. You look parched.” She clucked her tongue, and the fine wrinkles around her mouth creased deeper. “Samuel, now y’ know I told you to get that girl a hat, didn’t I? She’s goin’ t’ burn right up at this rate.”

She’d never heard anyone else ever call her uncle Samuel, but being as Ms. Moore had worked for the family since Sam was in diapers, Eleanor imagined she was the exception.

In any case, Eleanor didn’t think she’d burned in her whole life, spending hours beneath the rays of the summer sun, skin growing darker and darker still. New freckles peppering her skin. But it was sweet—that she cared at all. She hid a smile behind the brim of her glass.

The few hours left until the arrival of the seamstress blurred by, her nose buried in a book that Sam recommended for her, a collection of short stories. Her fingers were coated in remnants of juice, having reached into the glass to pull out chunks of peaches, syrupy and dripping. They stuck against the pages if she lingered too long. She was more than halfway through “The Yellow Wallpaper,” wondering at what that smooch must’ve been that the protagonist was seeing, wrapping about her room and marring the paper that was driving her so mad, when Ms. Moore came back again, an odd look in her eyes when she peered over at Eleanor, squinting in the sun. Sam looked tense. His eyes flickered to Eleanor.

“Mrs. Davies is here, Samuel, in the parlor.”

And oh. She’d forgotten. She’d forgotten all about the seamstress.

This was where she mucked it all up.

A subtle shiver taking over her fingers, she tucked her book beneath her armpit before wiping imaginary crumbs off her skirt. Eleanor took a very deep breath, one that rattled in her chest. Mustering up a smile for Sam, one that felt like an open wound stretched across her face, she sat up. Her chair pulled up hunks of grass as she pushed it back. “You don’t need to come,” she said, tried to mean it.

Sam just shook his head. “It’d be rude of me, not welcoming a guest. And Mrs. Davies is an old friend of me mother’s, besides.”

Mrs. Davies was a small and squat woman in her late fifties, shorter even than Eleanor, who stood just a few inches below five feet at thirteen. Her cheeks were round and pink, her hair a dark blond. Barely greying. Her skin looked almost leathery, and those round cheeks pushed her eyes shut with the force of her smile. All smile lines.

“Oh,” she gasped, as loud as a gunshot even across the room, and only the pressure of Sam’s hand at her back prevented her from flinching back and away. Her voice was fairy-soft, airy and light. Like it could just float away with the wind. “She looks just like Winnie! Your mother had the same nose. And her hair, Samuel,”—yet again, with the Samuel, was that an old lady thing?—“such a lovely shade of red, it is.” That bright smile was spun her way. Sam slowly inched her forward, bit by bit by bit, until she was a mere handshake away from the older woman. “We’re going to have such fun together, dear. Every girl deserves pretty clothes.”

Eleanor didn’t know what she deserved, but it didn’t feel like this, trapped in the too-hot room of her uncle’s parlor, baking from the heat radiating off the fire-place. Those red bricks of the mantle, she knew, would be warm to the touch. Trapped in this room, to be poked and prodded. Left exposed. Don’t be so dramatic, she scolded herself.

This is what her uncle wanted.

And shirts that fit would sure be nice. No snags. No missing buttons.

Her uncle’s hand was heavy on her shoulder, this barely-there pat; she was ready for it. Didn’t flinch. There was a smidge of satisfaction burning away in her chest at that. “I’ll be just outside, then. Put on the kettle,” Sam said as if trying to reassure her, and he held out a hand for her to place her book into. With one last pat, a little stronger this time, he was gone with the click of the door behind him. Instead of looking at Mrs. Davies, she traced with her eyes all the titles on the bookshelf behind her instead.

She didn’t seem to mind. Out of the corner of her eye, Eleanor noticed the length of measuring tape curled around one wrist. “Alright, sweetheart, we’ll get into all that you’re lookin’ for—oh, I can just imagine you in dark green, you’d look so sweet, or some rose. So precious! But first, I really do need your measurements.” She beckoned Eleanor closer still, to where she was standing in the middle of the carpet, her little brown heels set against the cream with its deep red patterns, vines and roses twined into diamond-esque shapes. Eleanor tried not to drag her feet.

She was right in front of Mrs. Davies, now. “Thank you, ma’am, for agreeing to do this,” Eleanor said, because she could be a polite little girl if people let her be.

Mrs. Davies cooed. “Marge is perfectly fine, dear.”

“Thank you, Marge.”

Marge stroked her hands up and down Eleanor’s arms from shoulder to elbow, like soothing a startled animal, and Eleanor felt her whole body lock up in reply. “Alrighty now,” she said, and her voice really was just like a fairy, “let’s get to it.” Eleanor tried relaxing at the sweet sound of it, uncoiling her tense muscles bit-by-bit, starting with her toes and finishing with her shoulders. Best to start small and build up. Marge kept pushing onward. Hands still on Eleanor’s arms. “Take off your clothes for me, Eleanor dear.”

Static.

“’M sorry?” Eleanor asked, and her voice was not her own, something stretched thin and alien. The hands were gone, now, and Marge was unrolling that measuring tape from around her wrist. For a moment, Eleanor just counted how many times it unwound: one, two, three, four, five... Quick, practiced jerks that she missed if she blinked too slow. Six, or seven?

“Well, I’ve got to measure you, don’t I? And all that extra cloth gets in the way. We want these to fit you nice, with just a bit of growing room.” Marge went on to mumble something about “Samuel needing to fatten her up, just look at those boney arms,” but Eleanor’s ears were roaring, louder and louder and louder. She couldn’t hear a thing.

She couldn’t think; she couldn’t think; she couldn’t think—

Eleanor must’ve said, “Okay,” must’ve agreed, because her hands were moving on their own accord, reaching up to undo the first button of her blouse without needing any guidance from her mind at all. But they shook so bad, these tremors that jerked at her fingers and strained her knuckles, that she couldn’t get the button free from the loop. Her breath rasped in her throat, coming quicker and quicker: it was like breathing through a straw. She squeezed her eyes shut. It was just a fucking button, just a fucking button.

(Whenever Grafton got irritated, truly irritated, he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. This awful, wet sound. He did that now. Eleanor kept her eyes on the carpet, traced the pattern there with her eyes over and over again. Counted how many loops there were in a sequence. Sixteen. It was an ugly fucking carpet, she thought. She thought that every time. “Shirt. Off,” he said after he was done clicking, and she undid her buttons one-by-one. She did not raise her eyes to the belt. But still, her chest tightened with the anticipation of it, the slap against bare skin, and she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe.)

She couldn’t breathe.

If she saw the scars—if she told Sam, he wouldn’t want her anymore. Just seeing the burns trailing up her arms made his jaw flex, made his eyes go all dark and wet. She’d saw. It’d upset him. He wouldn’t want her. Eleanor gasped for air, moved her hand up to her throat like she could somehow coax out the breaths trapped within in. She couldn’t breathe.

There was a concerned sound, this slight lilt of a question being asked. A shuffle. A brush of air. And then, there were hands on her arms again.

Eleanor flinched so hard she swore it must’ve wrenched her shoulder out of socket.

The hands left, but it didn’t matter. Eleanor sank to the floor, knees-to-chest, and clapped her hands over her head. Watched the world fall in a blur of colors, even behind closed lids. Like a flicker of flame, red and orange and terracotta. “Samuel,” and this she did hear, high-pitched and hysterical, sounding far off even though it must’ve been shouted right in front of her. Must’ve been screamed to be heard through the water and sludge, the mud that clogged her ears, her throat. “ Sam! ”

There was a bang. The rattling of hinges. “Fuck,” a man’s voice said, and Eleanor thought she must’ve recognized it. Curled up as she was, all the soft parts tucked away, it was easier to focus, a little. “Get out, Marge. Go,” and there was an unsteady pause, “go and turn off the stove, please.”

In response, there was a click of the door shutting once more. And footsteps, sharp and clear before becoming muffled by the carpet, sounding off closer and closer. It was followed by the creaking of old knees. She smelled Sam’s cologne, woodsy and a little sweet. Like vanilla and cedar. But it was so safe, curled up in the dark of her knees, so she just tightened her hands over her head.

A sigh, soft but close enough that it ruffled her hair. “Eleanor,” Sam said. “Eleanor, love, what’s wrong?” She’d never been called love before.

“Please don’t be mad,” she whispered into the skin of her knees.

“What? ”

“Please don’t be mad,” Eleanor gasped, ragged enough that it scraped, and felt the tears welling up in her throat. Salty, like sweat and blood and other unpleasant things. She swallowed them down. “I’m sorry. I tried to be good. I’m sorry—I’m sorry.”

“Eleanor, no, no.”

“I’m so sorry. I-I, I—” She choked on her own breath, coughing and sputtering.

“Hey, hey,” he shushed, and she could hear the fluttering of his clothes, the shifting fabric of the light cardigan he wore. “Just look at me, okay, love? Please just look at me.”

Her arms ached, and her head pounded from the stress of holding back tears with nothing but a fraying strength of will. She let her hands fall from where they, without her knowledge, hand become entangled in her hair. Her scalp stung. “There we go now,” Sam said when she peeked out from behind her knees, raising her head to meet wide, concerned hazel eyes. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow. “There’s my niece.” Eleanor shook her head, though at what she didn’t know, coughing again when she tried breathing in.

“Whoa there. Just breathe with me, okay?” And Sam took in a deep breath, holding it in before letting it out again. Eleanor found her attention hyper-focused on the rise-and-fall of his chest. “In through the nose,” he said, “and now out through the mouth.”

She wheezed on the first exhale, but by the third, it didn’t hurt much anymore. Sam looked almost boneless with relief. Eleanor stared down at her knees, felt her bottom lip begin wobbling. A damning tell she couldn’t shake.

“Eleanor,” he breathed out, sounding like a deflating balloon, and her eyes shot up to look at him again. She would never get sick of hearing her name; she wondered if that was why he said it so often. “Eleanor, you don’t have to be sorry, okay? Not at all.”

Eleanor shook her head, violent enough that her curls went flying. She had to clear her throat to speak, and her voice came out hoarse. “But I think I upset Mrs. Marge.” That damn fucking lip wobble again—it made her feel five-years-old; it made her feel small. “I was bad.”

Seemingly speechless, Sam stared at her, knees on the carpet and hands limp at his sides. He was making that expression she’d feared before, where his eyes went all dewy, and he looked, for all the world, like she’d socked him in the jaw. Wounded. One of his hands, massive enough that it could wrap around her wrist two, three times, reached out. Up towards her face. Eleanor flinched her eyes closed. He sucked in an audible breath.

This was it. This was it.

But Sam just placed a hand on her cheek, cupped her jaw. His palm was softer than she thought it’d be, even with the callouses. It made Eleanor feel strange. Warm. If she pressed in closer, she worried the touch might burn her.

(“Look at me when I’m speaking to you, young lady,” Grafton said, and his fingers had a tight grip on her jaw. She looked. She thought his eyes were very grey, and she didn’t want to think about what else she thought.

Later, when she was in an empty lavatory, scrubbing at the crescent moons on her palms with soap that stung, she thought back to that moment, when his hands were on her chin, thumb and forefinger pinching the skin there. His nailbeds were well-maintained. Clean, pushed-back cuticles. Her mother had always taken good care of her nails. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you, young lady,” he’d said, and she had thought his eyes were very grey. She had thought that if he moved those fingers any higher, she’d bite them clean off, bite through blood and bone. She wondered if she’d done it, if she’d be picking his veins out from between her teeth right about now.

Eleanor ended up throwing up in the sink. God, hopefully, no one heard.)

“Eleanor,” her uncle said, like trying to call to her from underwater, and she blinked. Couldn’t remember where she’d gone. “Eleanor, I’m never going to hit you. Not ever, y’ hear me?”

And Eleanor said back, instant, “I hear you.” It was what she was supposed to say.

Sam’s brows furrowed. “No,” he insisted. Brushed a curl from her eyes with a finger. It had a half-healed cut from what looked like garden shears. “I feel like you aren’t understanding me. Even if you think you’re bad—and you’re not, Eleanor, you’re not. But even if you ever are, I will never hit you. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” she said, and she almost believed it, too.

Later, she told Marge that she’d like a green dress, maybe, if that was alright. And that she enjoyed mother-of-pearl buttons. Marge said she could have whatever she liked. She got measured in her shift, and Sam lounged on one of the couches, reading from a large tome with deckled edges. And it was alright. It was all alright.

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

She wore that green dress when she met her father’s wife for the first time with her two children—her half-siblings, she couldn’t comprehend it—in tow. Whenever Eleanor felt her nerves start to rise, her palms start to itch, she’d trace the daisies Mrs. Marge had embroidered on the sleeves and breathe a little deeper, a little steadier.

When Sam had come to her, hands wringing nervously in the doorway of her bedroom, she hadn’t known what to think. Learning that her father had been married when he was with her mother... Well, that hadn’t been a shock. Married men had laid with her mother all the time; she may have been only six years old when she’d been taken to the orphanage, but she hadn’t been stupid. Or blind. She knew the look of a wedding ring, even if her mother had never worn one herself.

Learning that Sam wanted her to meet her late father’s family, his wife and his children... That had given her pause. Eleanor had stared at him, aghast, mouth agape; her attention entirely torn away from the journal in her lap. Her pen, still pressed deep into the paper, left a spreading stain over the dot of one of the i's, a black cloud of ink. She’d been practicing her cursive, the careful loops of it—Sam was in the process of picking out tutors for her, and she’d sworn to whatever higher power there was out there that she would not be an embarrassment—but how ugly her uppercase S was no longer mattered.

“Sam, they’ll hate me,” she’d blurted, digging her fingers into the fabric of her comforter. Sam had looked at her then, the agitated fidgeting of his fingers slowing to an abrupt stop, and he’d strolled over to sit beside her before she could barely blink.

“It’s impossible to hate you,” he said, which Eleanor knew to be a lie. “And if they tried, they’d be out of our house, wouldn’t they? Just like that.”

And so, here they were.

Josie Connolly was a woman who loomed over everyone around her without even trying, easily above six feet in her lace-up boots, and made all the taller with her hair piled high on her head, its color so dark it was near black. Like Grafton, she was thin in that fashionable way, slim wrists encased in lavender gloves and the curve of her cheek both sharp and soft, silk over steel. She peered down her nose at Eleanor from where she stood behind Sam, near hidden in his shadow. Sam stepped forward to take her coat, and never, never had Eleanor felt so exposed from one pair of grey eyes, so stripped down and flayed. Which was saying something. “She looks more like you than Will,” was the first thing past her lips, the slim line of her eyebrow raised in some sort of amusement gone sour.

To be fair, Eleanor thought, being faced with your dead husband’s infidelity would make anyone bitter.

Her uncle’s smile was a brittle thing. “Josie, good to see you. As always. Hello, Junior. Hello, Lottie. Merry Christmas.”

That’d been another thing Sam had fretted over—whether a Christmas dinner would insult her Jewish sensibilities. Like she hadn’t grown up in a Roman Catholic orphanage. Or, perhaps, she noted, an amused curl to her mouth, that was why he asked at all. He always got scowly at the slightest mention of her time there, though he tried his best to hide it.

It’d been almost cute, watching him leap up from the edge of her bed to pace the length of her bedroom, flinging his hands about in endless motion, his sleeves rolled up and the freckled skin of his forearms stark against the background of her dark green walls, recently painted. It was one of the first times that Eleanor thought they really looked related, like kin. The way he puffed stray strands of hair out of his eyes, his wrists too busy lolling this way and that.

“You’re laughing at me,” he accused, once he’d paused long enough in his rant of telling her, for the fifth or sixth time, that her comfort was paramount, that they could schedule a different date—that'd it’d been Josie’s idea, anyhow, not his own—to actually take a good look in his niece’s direction. He sounded very pleased.

“I’m not,” Eleanor protested, but she was still smiling. “Christmas dinner is fine, Sam, honest.” In truth, she’d liked Christmas back at the orphanage, if only because the sisters were nicer that time a year, less likely to strike out with the leather strap. Christmas cheer and all that. Besides, Christmas dinner was almost always more delicious than any other meal of the year, more plentiful: potatoes and chicken, green beans fresh from the market. One year, they’d even got slices of pumpkin pie. Christmas time was very kind to orphans, even Jewish ones.

It hadn’t compared to making latkes with her mother for Chanukah—her mother had never allowed her to grate the potatoes, and she remembered, even now, watching with saucer-wide eyes as the pile of shreds grew and grew and grew, a small mountain on their kitchen table. The smell of onions caramelizing in Bubbe’s cast-iron skillet, the promise of them being jammy and sweet, almost buttery on her tongue. The bubbling of the vegetable oil on the stovetop. She’d scoop applesauce onto her mother’s latkes, heaps and heaps of it, until Anne scolded her for the mess. Withholding laughter that glittered behind her eyes. “You can’t fit all that into even your big mouth!” Her fingers had always been so tender, wiping at the applesauce oozing from the sides of her mouth, down her sticky chin, that the memory of it all always made Eleanor want to shut her eyes, to wrap her arms around herself and lean into that great love again, even if only the remnants of it.

Not to mention the honey and apples on Rash Hashanah, the perfect treat to her five-year-old eyes and tastebuds. And challah, eggy and so, so sweet: sweet as everything was meant to be in the New Year. The bread perfectly round, braided by her mother’s careful hands. Its top always so crunchy. Her mother hadn’t been a religious woman, not at all, but “Food is the language of love, my sweet, and our family has passed onto us so much of it.” No, Christmas couldn’t compare.

But maybe all Christians were kinder on Christmas, even to the bastard children of cheating, bastard husbands too dead to curse their names. The thought perked her up. It felt like a silly hope, but one she was willing to cling to. “Besides,” Eleanor told her uncle, giving him her most nonchalant shrug, like the thought of meeting the family of the man she hadn’t been good enough for didn’t send a chill down her spine, like it was better than fine, “it’s just a dinner.”

Just a dinner, indeed.

The kids behind Josie were perfect and pretty in the way that made Eleanor’s teeth clench, that made her want to tuck her hands behind her back and scratch at the half-healed scar tissue, scaly and ugly, that stretched across her knuckles. She did not do that.

The younger one, Charlotte, shot her (their) uncle a smile—there was a gap where one of her canines should’ve been. She looked like she belonged in a Monet painting, all strawberry blonde hair and soft pastels. Up close, Eleanor noted her eyes were the palest shade of green she'd ever seen. “Merry Christmas, Uncle Sam!” Their chins might’ve been the same, she thought, as she tried not to fidget when those pale, pale eyes fell on her face.

William Jr., sixteen, was a carbon copy of his mother, already towering over all of them, even Josie, with skin so light it was translucent. “Merry Christmas.” His voice was nasally from what was probably a cold, if the red tip of his nose was any indicator. He didn’t look at her at all, trained his gaze studiously on Sam, on his mother, on the wall coat rack where he placed his winter jacket. On anything that wasn’t her. It wasn’t subtle.

“This is Eleanor,” Sam said—like they couldn’t have known. Abruptly, he was behind her again, his hands curled around her shoulders; his presence warm at her back. It was almost baffling, how quickly Eleanor eased under his touch. Felt some of the tension leach out of her. She’d been grinding her teeth without even noticing it; her gums felt tender. At least I’m doing it with you, she thought. At least it’s you. Josie’s eyes were narrowed in on her. Her own gaze trained on the woodgrain of their floor, Eleanor straightened her spine and choked out some form of a hello, pleased to meet you. And steeled herself for the rest of the day. You’ve got this.

There was one thing she could say about the whole affair: dinner, at least, was delicious. Her plate was piled to the point of excess by Sam, slabs of dark turkey meat, stuffing and gravy, roasted potatoes with garlic, cranberry sauce, and some strange pancake-like side called Yorkshire pudding. By the time she was less than a third of the way through her meal, her fork not even scraping the bottom of the plate, her stomach had begun cramping to the point that she felt vaguely ill.

Normally, she could get away with feeding scraps to the dogs when this happened, slipping them bits of fat among other treats under the tablecloth while Sam looked the other way, their teeth closing around the food so gentle their canines barely grazed her fingers at all. But Josie didn’t like dogs, apparently, so they were all out playing under the watch of Ms. Catherine. Eleanor longed to join them. She nibbled at a Brussels sprout.

The small talk was unbearable.

“Have you gotten your invitation yet?” Josie asked her brother-in-law, cutting her potatoes into dainty, bite-sized pieces. Sam arched a brow as if to say: be more specific. She gave a light scoff in reply, popping a morsel into her mouth and chewing carefully, lips pursed, before speaking up again. “Don’t be daft, Sam. You know I mean Leo Amery’s New Year's soirée.”

Sam shrugged. He looked elegant in a way that Eleanor could never pull off. “I believe so. To be honest—I didn’t pay much attention.”

Charlotte, who had lit up at the mention of the party, made more sprite than girl from the glittering of her eyes, shot an affronted scowl Sam’s way. Her nose crinkled. “You’re so boring, Uncle Sam! It’s going to be perfect this year—Mum promised I could go. The invitation said the theme's A Midsummer Night’s Dream!” It looked, for a moment, like she was about to start waving her hands around, enthusiasm clear in the way she vibrated in her chair, but a cool look from her mother had her settling back down. Her smile shrank. Still, she pushed on, in a much more sedate tone. “Summer in winter. Fairies and magic, isn’t that fun?”

“Very fun,” Sam agreed, shooting her a smile, voice kind enough he seemed almost sincere, even to Eleanor’s ears. Charlotte smiled back, but her eyes were on Eleanor now, her head cocked to one side.

“Are you going to come, Eleanor?” Maybe she was imagining it, but the younger girl seemed almost pleased at the thought.

Josie clapped her hands, a thunderous sound that sent Eleanor into a fit of flinching. “Yes, how about it, Eleanor?” She said her name in this slick, mocking way that made her feel filthy just hearing it.

Eleanor exchanged a frantic look with Sam from where he sat at the head of the table. Will Jr., who up to this point had been silent and motionless at her side besides the steady consumption of his plate, turned to look at her with his mother’s grey eyes. Well? he asked. She opened her mouth but couldn’t find the words to speak. She could imagine nothing more hellish, dressed up just to be stripped to the bone by the sharks of London polite society.

“Eleanor’s got time,” Sam responded for her, and there was a firmness, a finality, to his reply that had Josie straightening in her seat. It was quite the feat—her posture had already been impeccable. “And if I never had to go to one of those stuffy things again, it’d be eons too soon.” His smile had an edge, and Eleanor hid her own, blotting her mouth with her napkin. “Though, fairies do sound nice, Lottie. You’ll fit right in.” Lottie beamed at him from her place beside her mother.

Whatever reply Josie had on the tip of her tongue, it was disrupted by one of the cooks trotting in, a jolly man named Joseph who clutched a large platter in his hands. Following close behind was June, a part-time maid, who darted about the table with whispered apologies as she gathered up plates and used silverware. Eleanor forked over her still overflowing plate with poorly-hidden relief. June stopped just long enough to tut at her, a smile lingering at the corner of her mouth. “You’re too thin by half, miss,” she scolded, quiet enough not to be heard over Lottie, who in a surge of passion, started regaling to Sam her recent sewing project, something about embroidering a landscape into the hem of a dress. If she weren’t her half-sister, only a year out from her father’s death and sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with his widow, Eleanor would want to pick her brain for what exactly that entailed.

“I’m saving up for dessert,” Eleanor lied with the bat of her lashes. June just shook her head and moved on to hoist Junior’s empty plates on top of the pile. Meanwhile, Joseph had sat several dishes in the center of their table: a fruitcake, a Yule log, and to Eleanor’s equal amount of dread and delight, what looked like an apple tart.

This is the end of me, she thought, eyes wide. “Thank you, Mr. Joe,” she murmured as the man walked past, and he shot her a grin before disappearing through the door with a whirl of his apron. By the time she had looked away from him and back towards the table, Sam had set a sizeable slice of apple tart right in front of her, the filling already oozing onto the plate. She shot him a look of betrayal. The corner of his mouth quirked up, even as his eyes blew wide in mock-innocence.

For a blissful moment, there was just the sound of forks hitting ceramic and a pleased hum or two. Even Josie picked through her slice of Yule log with something close to relish, patting away imaginary crumbs or smears of chocolate ganache between bites. It was almost peace, that thrum of tension from the start near silent.

Then Junior opened his mouth for perhaps the first time since they sat at the table, head twisted Eleanor’s way. “D’ you even celebrate Christmas, Eleanor?” Silence. He said her name the same way his mother did: like it was something rotten in his mouth. Like it was something to be spat out. Josie’s face peeled back into a smile.

It would’ve been beautiful if her eyes weren’t so cold.

“Um,” Eleanor stuttered and could’ve heard a pin drop. Charlotte’s head perked up in interest over her tart, and Sam opened his mouth to speak, so she pushed onward. “I did celebrate it. At the orphanage with everyone else, like I’m doin’ with you. But no, um, I don’t personally celebrate Christmas.” She thought it sounded rather diplomatic of her. Sam’s shoulders uncurled, just a little.

“Right,” Junior pushed onward, and he leaned into her direction far enough she could almost feel his breath on her face. The high points of his cheeks were very pink. “Because Da didn’t just fuck a whore, he had to fuck a Jew, too.”

Eleanor didn’t know what to say to that. It was true. Sam looked like he wanted to spit. “William—”

Josie cut in, clearing her throat and scolding, “Now, Junior, language,” but it was the most pleased Eleanor had ever seen her. Lottie looked pale, even paler than usual, slinking back into her seat, sweet tooth forgotten; she looked so much smaller than before, this girl who already had Eleanor beat by a few inches at eleven years old. That thrum rose to a near roar.

Sam scraped his fork across his empty plate, a deafening, obvious screech. It cut through the tension like a knife through butter. “I’m getting awful tired, Josie,” he said like there were several things he was getting tired of right about now. But his tone softened, directed towards Charlotte. “My old age must be catching up to me.”

Eleanor didn’t look up from the tart, uneaten, on her plate. Josie’s voice grated, smooth and polished as it was. “Well, it’s getting late.” Junior didn’t say anything at all; his eyes were still burning a spot into her cheek.

They left with the adjusting of coats and kisses and hugs sent Sam’s way, and only Lottie waving her a goodbye, a simple wiggle of her fingertips before her mother grabbed her wrist and tugged. The closing of the door sounded like a gun going off. Bang.

Staring into the empty space where they once were, Eleanor didn’t really know how to feel, her body slumping into a chair set up against the wall of the wide entryway. She sank, boneless, into the countless throw pillows, covering her eyes with the palm of her hand. Her head pounded. “You didn’t have to make them leave, y’ know. It's okay that they're mad at me.”

�� Sam let out a sigh that was equal parts exasperated and fond. “Eleanor, what did I say when we first discussed them coming over?”

I know what you said. Still. “But they’re your family,” she insisted, pulling back her hand to glare up at him.

“So are you.”

Sam looked at her, backdropped by the several feet long pastoral painting behind him, and must have seen something in her expression—bewilderment, maybe, or discomfort at that bewilderment—because he let out a great sigh. With a rustle of clothing, he crouched in front of her, his forearms resting against his thighs. The set of his jaw said, look at me. And so, she looked. Really looked. He still had a smile for her, small and warm.

“And I like you better,” Sam told her, eye-to-eye with her now, and his words spoken with that sort of earnestness in his voice and demeanor that he always had around her, that made her ache when she lingered on the thought of it too long. Like poking at a still-healing bruise. Eleanor tucked her smile into her hand, but it didn’t matter: he grinned back.

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

The Chelsea Physic Garden glasshouses were some of the most beautiful structures Eleanor had ever seen in her twenty-four years. The long glass panels stretched high above her head, matching on either side and meeting in the middle. Plants bracketed her and Sam, the foliage so thick it near shielded their guide from sight, a stout, middle-aged man with his eyes on his watch ever since Sam told him a verbal tour was unnecessary.

Huge benches ladened with terracotta pots, blossoming with blues and pinks and purples and reds. Pops of color so bright they were practically eyesores. She thought The Garden of Medicinal Plants’ section on herbal remedies had been her favorite, based on smell alone, or maybe the pond at the center of the garden itself, chock-full of lily pads and mosses, boggy and messy and alive, rife with aquatic life, but this, this took the cake.

Eleanor was staring, eyes growing bigger and bigger as she tried to take it all in, when Sam knocked into her arm with something sturdy. It crinkled against the sleeve of her blouse—the present he’d brought with him, tucked safely underneath his arm no matter how much she whined and cajoled. “Finally caving, old man?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Just take it, old woman.” He bugged out his eyes, all drama. “Twenty-four! Already one foot in the grave.” She ripped it out of his fingers with a bark of a laugh.

“I doubt you’ve got more than a pinky toe in yours. Gonna outlast us all, remember?”

It was his turn to laugh. “Just open it, Eleanor. Before I go greyer, yeah?”

Eleanor could live the rest of her life without another gift, but the sound of ripping through wrapping paper was still one of her favorites. All the destruction without any of the guilt. She peeled back the final layer and went still. “Oh,” she whispered, breathy, near soundless.

It was a flower dictionary, with deckled edges that fit the tips of her fingers perfectly, the leather of the cover worn and well-loved. The gilded title sent a rush of familiar fondness through her, a rush so strong she was almost dizzy. She laughed. “Where’d you find this? It looks exactly the same.” Exactly the same as the one she’d gotten for her first birthday from Sam, fourteen years old and curious about anything she could get her hands on. Sam hadn’t really seen the appeal in the language of flowers, she knew, but he’d indulged her anyway. It’d been the only thing she’d asked for that year, the only thing she’d really wanted.

She’d used it for years, a great reference for whenever she wanted to sketch a particular flower, but it’d been chewed up by Sweet Pea right before she turned eighteen years old, made a total ruin of slobber and teeth indents, the ink all smeared and the spine cracked clean down the middle. An apparently rare edition he’d scrounged up for the first time at an old bookstore in East London, she thought she’d never see the likes of it again.

“I have my ways.” Laughing again, Eleanor just shook her head, grinning so wide it hurt.

There was an odd bump between the pages, a groove where everything else was smooth, and when Eleanor went to inspect it, expecting a bent page, she found a pressed flower instead. Bookmarking a page of tiny, yellow petals and even tinier rows of font, was a celandine plant, its ruffled leaves still attached. Perfectly preserved.

“I did some reading,” he explained, when Eleanor couldn’t get herself to speak. She shook her head until she could breathe right again.

“You’re such a sap.”

He gave her that smile, the one just for her. And Eleanor tucked the book tight against her chest, holding on. She bumped his shoulder with hers. “Ready to go home?”

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esabri · 4 years

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nebris · 5 years

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The Goddesses Al-Uzza, Al-Lat and Menat formed a triad in pre-Islamic Arabia. They were widely worshipped: from Nabatean Petra in the North to the legendary Kingdoms of Arabia Felix in the South, including Saba, the Biblical Sheba; as far east as Iran and Palmyra; and the three of them were very popular Goddesses in Mecca at the time of Mohammed. From left they are: Al-Uzza, whose name means "The Mighty One", the Goddess of the Morning Star; Al-Lat, the Mother, whose name means simply "The Goddess", as Al-Lah simply means "The God"; and Manat, Crone-goddess of Fate or Time. Sometimes the three of them are referred to as the daughters of Al-Lah; sometimes Manat and Al-Lat are considered daughters of Al-Uzza.

Al-Uzza, "the Strong One", was one of the most venerated Arab Deities, and the Goddess of the morning and evening star, Venus. She had a temple at Petra (though which one that was has not been determined), and may well have been the patron Goddess of that city. Isaac of Antioch (a writer of the 5th century CE) calls Her Beltis ("Lady", a title shared by many other Semitic Goddesses), and Kaukabta, "the Star". He also says that women would invoke Al-Uzza from the rooftops, a form of worship appropriate to a Star Goddess. St. Epiphanius of the 4th century CE calls Her the mother of Dusares, the local mountain God, calling Her by the title Chaamu or Chalmous, meaning "young girl or virgin". She has connections with the acacia tree, and Her sanctuary at Nakhlah had three acacias in which She was believed to descend. She has much in common with Ishtar and Astarte as Morning and Evening Star Goddesses—they all have aspects of both Love and War Goddess, and big cats were sacred to Them. She is shown here armed as a bellatrix, standing before an acacia tree, with a caracal, or desert lynx. She was associated by the Greeks with their Aphrodite Urania, "Heavenly Aphrodite".

Al-Lat, whose name is a contraction of al-Illahat, "the Goddess", is mentioned by Herodotus as Alilat, whom he identifies with Aphrodite. She is sometimes also equated with Athena, and is called "the Mother of the Gods", or "Greatest of All". She is a Goddess of Springtime and Fertility, the Earth-Goddess who brings prosperity. She and Al-Uzza were sometimes confused, and it seems that as one gained in popularity in one area the other's popularity diminished. The sun in Arabia was called Shams and considered feminine, and may represent an aspect of Al-Lat. She had a sanctuary in the town of Ta'if, east of Mecca, and was known from Arabia to Iran. Her symbol is the crescent moon (sometimes shown with the sun disk resting in its crescent), and the gold necklace She wears is from a pendant identified to Her. As a Fertility-Goddess She bears a sheaf of wheat; and in Her hand She holds a small lump of frankincense, as Her emblem is found carved on many incense-holders.

Manat or Manawayat derives Her name from Arabic maniya, "fate, destruction, doom, death", or menata, "part, portion, that which is alloted". She is a very ancient Deity and Her cult may precede both Al-Uzza's and Al-Lat's. Her cult was widespread, though She was particularly worshipped as a black stone at Quidaid, near Mecca. She is connected with the great pilgrimage, as Her sanctuary was the starting point for several tribes. She is known from Nabatean inscriptions, and tombs were placed under Her protection, asking Her to curse violators. She is accordingly a Goddess of Death, and Maniya (Death personified) is mentioned in poetry as actively bringing a person to his or her grave, holding out the cup of death. She is shown as an old woman with a cup, and the symbols at the bottom of Her gown spell Her name in Sabaic (which does not use vowels and is written right to left), M-n-t. The waning moon is shown over Her head as the symbol of the Crone-Goddess of Death.

http://www.thaliatook.com/AMGG/arabtriple.php

#The Sisterhood

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loquaciousquark · 6 years

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30th Wintermarch. Sunlight peeked through the cloud cover for almost a full two minutes this afternoon and I nearly took flight from joy

I’ve been reading Art and Shame: Forbidden Wonders of Faith by Foisine De Petitforet, and aside from the forbidden wonder of Foisine’s name, I am vastly intrigued by the asides she keeps adding in the margins of the more controversial pieces. One of them talks about how she believes the absence of clear power always leads to the worst person possible seizing it, and I couldn’t help but think about Kirkwall.

The viscount’s seat has been empty almost three years now. There are more templars than city guard in the streets these days, and Aveline says Meredith’s officers keep coming to her demanding she account for herself whenever she makes a decision that doesn’t involve them. She’s refused them so far--she says she won’t ever turn over the city’s authority to what ought to be a Gallows-restricted arm of the Chantry, no matter how much they press, but Donnic looks uneasy when she says so.

Well, it’s not

Hm. I was going to say it’s not any of my business, but somehow it feels like everyone will be caught up in it whether they like it or not. (Elthina would prefer not, according to Sebastian, but I think she thinks Meredith and Orsino are more reasonable than history has shown me.)

Well! I shall remain optimistic. Until the city starts coming down around us, anyway, and then I shall take my dog and my favorite blanket and flee into the hinterlands to live as a hermit for the rest of my days, eating rabbits and the moss that grows on trees and shaking my staff at passersby.

13th Guardian. Shocking cold front came through last night--all the world’s icy glass. Very pretty and violently annoying, especially when one’s great hall holds heat as well as a linen dropcloth

Was at Elegant’s today for tea, and Tomwise came! It was the first time she and he and Worthy and I had all been in the same place since before I moved to Hightown. Had a marvelous time reminiscing about simpler (poorer) years, and then Elegant’s husband came in to say hello and we all went prim as roses. He knows, I think, but he’s awfully dour about questionable legality, so she’s asked us to avoid the more overtly murderous stories when he’s around.

Reminds me of Stinton, to be quite honest, with the difference that Elegant seems to genuinely like her husband. Curious!

Tomwise did say business has been worryingly good lately. He said the Coterie’s been ordering poisons in bulk, that everyone seems to be feeling the tension lately. Not much any of us can do for it from Elegant’s tea-room.

Oh! And Elegant told me Aveline’s not the only one with Chantry bells ringing--Jule and Pelarie are getting married in the summer! I’m to be invited over Lady Ashbridge’s objections as I’m the one who introduced them. I’m so glad for them--and if nothing else, they’ll be able to get away from their mothers now. Oh, good for them both. Maker keep them in health and happiness, at least until they’ve managed their own place.

19th Guardian. Not quite as cold, but "brisk” is the most generous of interpretations

Rarely does a trip to the market leave me quite so wrung. Then again, rarely do I eavesdrop quite as blatantly as I did (I’m normally much more surreptitious), so perhaps it’s what I deserved.

I just wanted some sweets. There’s a chocolatier beside Jean-Luc’s who makes the most amazing honeyed almonds and nut brittle, and I thought it might be a nice surprise tomorrow at cards. Merrill’s been bringing this sweet dessert-y liqueur along lately, and it seemed like it would match well. (I also managed to find the owner of that little carved figurine with “Bright Heart” engraved on the bottom--turns out it belongs to a little girl who lives just down the road from Jean-Luc, a gift from her father for her seventh birthday. It had fallen out of her bag and he’d taken her all over the city without luck. Glad I could find that one’s home again.)

Anyway, after I finished off the first little bag of almonds myself and had to go back for a second to actually bring to WG, I was walking back through the Hightown Market and happened to glimpse Orana standing at a stall I didn’t recognize, one of the new ones that came in with that Orlesian caravan last month. It was covered in fancy silks and the trader wore a silk half-mask lined in jewels. (I wish I were joking. And considering I strongly doubt an Orlesian would be caught dead in paste rubies, that mask was almost certainly worth more than my entire wardrobe.)

She was asking about a pipe. I knew why the moment I saw it--it’s perfect for Bodahn--he’s been looking for something like it for years, as long as I’ve known him. It was made of meerschaum and had a lovely intricate geometric pattern carved into it. Very beautiful and very dwarvish. And very expensive, which is why the merchant wore a sneer so enormous it knocked his mask askew.

I tell you, journal, I was ready to storm him like the Black City. I was halfway across the square when I saw Orana draw herself up in that way that usually means I’m about to be crushed like a beetle, so I--well, I stopped, and ducked in the most awkward fashion behind Hubert’s stand so she wouldn’t notice.

Orana’s trade is very good. I forget how good, sometimes, aside from the occasional odd sentence structure, because she has hardly any accent. That changed for this merchant. She went full Tevinter on him--cold as ice, her accent thickening with all those heavy vowels that could make anyone sound noble, even a slight elf of barely twenty, and even though she didn’t raise her voice in the slightest she made it perfectly clear that her patronage was an honor to him instead of the other way around, that everyone in this city knew who she was and in whose household she served, and that if he didn’t improve his demeanor immediately he would find his tariffs of import abruptly so high he’d have to forgo the feed for his mule and pull his silken cart himself.

Flames, but he went white. Gave her a mighty discount, too, and flinched when she scattered the coins on his stand instead of handing them to him directly, as if she couldn’t bear to touch him. I didn’t even know her face was capable of haughty. Haught?

I didn’t know what to make of it. I’d half a mind to go after her and make sure she was all right, if nothing else, but then who should come around the corner but Fenris, and when Orana saw him she went straight up and said something in Tevene I couldn’t follow. He looked concerned, but not unduly so, and said something back in the same language, and then he turned and went with her back up the stairs towards the Amell estate and out of sight.

I’ve been thinking about it all day.

Did she learn that behavior from Hadriana? She must have--I can’t imagine someone as gentle as she says her father was teaching her such things. It was certainly effective in putting that snide little man in his place, but...surely it must rankle to have to pull on lessons learned during slavery when you thought you were free, learned from someone infinitely cruel, who taught only by example on you and on the ones you loved.

Or is it worth it? If the payoff is forcing someone to respect you at last, when no one ever has before. When no one ever thought they should.

I wondered if Danarius

I think Merrill would say everyone ought to respect everyone else just because they’re people. I wish someone had taught the Orlesian merchant that lesson.

I asked Varric to help temporarily misplace some of his paperwork on the way out, though, just out of spite.

25th Guardian. Drizzly, chilly

Fenris said Orana was a little shaken but otherwise all right. She hadn’t meant to make a scene but his mask had reminded her of a man who used to attend Hadriana’s parties who made the slaves’ lives miserable, and she grew so angry she had to stand up for herself, and by proxy for them. She hadn’t thought it would work quite so well and was a little afraid he’d come after her, which is why she’d asked Fenris to help her get home.

He didn’t elaborate further, and I didn’t ask. Even I can tell when there are parts of a story I’m not meant to hear.

I will say Bodahn adores the pipe, and Orana looked so proud as she gave it to him that it all seemed worth it. Though I suppose that’s for her to decide, not me.

(I’d still very much like to give that fellow a knock right over the Hightown wall. Hmph.)

9th Drakonis. I hate Drakonis. What a miserable month

Letter from Carver today I’ll tuck in for safekeeping later. He reminded me of how he and Bethany used to talk in their own language and make me so angry at being left out. For whatever reason they’d slowly stopped using it as they grew up, and I’d forgotten all about it... Apparently there’s a set of twin sisters in one of the Warden units and they can read each other so well they don’t even have to speak.

I wonder if they have a sister at home waiting for their letters too. I’m wondering all sorts of things these days, it seems.

14th Drakonis. Toby took two steps out the back door this morning and immediately came back in soaking wet and exceedingly indignant

Spent most of the morning’s trip out to the Coast wondering why Fenris’s scarf looked so familiar. I’d forgotten it’s the one I’d given him two Satinalias ago, oops. At least it looks very warm.

Came home in time to hear Orana reading off a shopping list to Bodahn, and had the realization three damned years late that for all the time I spent teaching Fenris to read, it never one flaming time occurred to me to ask if Orana could.

Bodahn said her father had taught her a handful of letters in secret, and Bodahn himself had taught her the rest, a few months after she’d arrived. He didn’t mention it because it was right after Mother had died and he’d thought I’d had enough on my plate.

Not too much for that, though. I wish he’d told me. I wish it had occurred to me any moment before today.

He said she had been a very quick study but hadn’t wanted me to know, in case I’d been angry she’d learned. Then she’d grown to understand us all better, but by that time it hardly seemed worth bringing up because everyone around her was reading, anyway.

Damn.

Damn!

25th Drakonis. Almost comfortable outside, which is saying a great deal

Got Orana a little journal. I haven’t the faintest idea if she’ll use it, but burn me at the pyre if she doesn’t at least have the chance.

Had such vivid dreams of Fenris last night I was quietly panicking about desire demons all morning, but Merrill says she’s not noticed anything lately. (That could be because she’s been so deep in the mirror issue she hasn’t seen daylight in weeks, but who am I to break mirrors, no matter how much I might wish to?)

In other news, Aveline marries in just under six weeks! Had Sebastian and me over yesterday to help her with a few details, since Sebastian has an in with the Chantry and I have exquisitely fine taste. And the willingness to carry things from room to room, which I suspect is more the purpose Aveline wished. She said Donnic intends to ask Fenris to stand up with him and she wanted to be sure I was all right, since I’m standing up with Aveline. Of course, said I, almost entirely meaning it, but it was at least enough to convince her to drop the subject.

I made her show me her gown at the end. White and gold, and Merrill’s going to make her a crown of marigolds for her hair. She will be beautiful. Is, too, but when they open those doors Donnic will see the light of the Maker coming to meet him.

Aveline told me (very gruffly) that she’d sent an invitation to Isabela’s last known location, but hadn’t heard anything in return. She knows as well as I do not to expect anything from that quarter. If three years without my scintillating company hasn’t brought the pirate wench home again, Aveline’s wedding hardly will either.

Ugh.

I know very well that the only reason I’m so bitter is that I miss her dreadfully. How tedious, to be so aware of one’s faults and too stubborn to do a single thing to rectify them.

19th Cloudreach. The sun shone today so brightly the sea nearly looked warm

Drowning in wedding preparations. Should I ever marry, I will stand before a Chantry mother with no one else present and not an ounce of cake. I’m not even sure I’ll allow my spouse-to-be to attend.

25th Cloudreach. Went out without coat or scarf today and skipped across Hightown at how light it felt

Anders has been rather withdrawn lately, so I went to Darktown this morning to help him out at the clinic. I’d made up some potions and poultices from the cache of elfroot we found rooting out those slavers last month, and I thought that’d be enough to please him. Instead he looked hollow-eyed and thin as paper, and barely said “thank you” before asking me to help him dig through sewer waste.

He looked as bitter as he did during that whole mess with Alrik a few years ago, down in the tunnels beneath the city. There weren’t even any innocent girls to nearly kill this time, so I haven’t any idea why he’s so faint.

He did say there had been unfortunate circumstances regarding certain underground factions. He wouldn’t tell me anything else.

That man used to trust me, once.

30th Cloudreach. Promise of clear warmth on the horizon--it better follow through, too, or I’m taking it straight to Andraste

Night before Summerday, and the night before Aveline’s wedding! She’s staying here at the estate tonight so we can all help her get ready tomorrow. It’d have been a shorter walk to the Chantry from the barracks, but she’d have also had to walk through the barracks in her wedding dress, and even now I think there are some things she’d like to keep private. Even if she does look splendid in this gown.

We hosted a small dinner for her and Donnic tonight--the big wedding feast will be tomorrow, but this was just for us and two of Donnic’s brothers. Anders came--I doubted, but he did--and Merrill, and Sebastian and Fenris and Varric, and everyone was so civil to each other I nearly fainted from shock.

One of Donnic’s brothers also asked to take me to dinner some time, which was very funny. Not at the time--I know my eyes flickered a bit helplessly between all involved and utterly oblivious parties scattered across the room--and then I shrugged and said I was complicatedly in love with someone who either complicatedly returned the sentiment or just deeply enjoyed stringing me along, but I’d look him up should it ever fall through. He laughed and thanked me for my honesty, and brought me another glass of wine to drown my sorrows.

I asked Aveline, later, how she was feeling. Bittersweet, she said... she had been thinking of Wesley a great deal, and wondering about Donnic’s parents, and daydreaming about how their lives might change over the next few years. She said she’d worried about falling in love again, once upon a time, until my mother had sat her down and talked the sense right into her again. She’d told her hearts always found a little room to grow, no matter the scars, and that happiness could sometimes be all the sweeter for the grief that came before.

I will say only it had better not show the slightest peep of a cloud tomorrow. After everything else, she deserves to have decent weather on her wedding day.

1st Bloomingtide, Summerday, clear as a glass and warm and beautiful in every way, thank you Andraste for your kindness, I’m blowing you dozens of kisses

They are married. Beautiful weather, and a beautiful ceremony--as I’d thought, Donnic nearly toppled over as he and Aveline came out the doors towards each other and he tripped twice walking her down the aisle to the Chantry mother. Merrill’s marigolds shone in the sun like little suns of their own. She’d done a circlet of sorts that trailed down in the back and wove through Aveline’s hair, which was loose for the first time in my memory and softened her so much I should hardly have recognized her if I hadn’t been the one helping her do it.

Donnic looked marvelous, too. He wore a simple brown suit and a white vest with just a trim of gold around the buttons--a sound decision, given he’s so steadfast and calm, and leagues better than the flashy embroidered nonsense all over the last society wedding I attended with Mother. Not that I think he could see a thing aside from Aveline’s face the whole hour the mother spoke, anyway.

Fenris and I were right behind them, and I’m delighted to report, journal, that I was so preoccupied with my overweening gladness for Aveline that I handled myself with more aplomb than I’ve ever managed in my life. He wore the same coat he did the night he came to the Champion’s ball for me, and I must say it looked sharp as a knife next to my own dark yellow gown (less fine than Aveline’s, naturally, but it was kinder to me than some shades she nearly chose).

I will also say I was very, very pleased at the attendance. More of the guard came than I expected, and all our friends, of course, and Donnic’s enormous family, but so too came quite a few friends of both Aveline and Donnic I hardly knew aside from the faces. We didn’t quite fill the Chantry, but it was awfully close, and anyway they all looked glad enough for the two of them I was satisfied.

The feast after was enormous and had excellent wine. Varric found some artisan pâtissier straight from the Winter Palace who is the direct cause of my pants not fitting tonight, and between the glorious Fereldan-style flat cake and the three-tiered champagne glass tower, it’s a wonder anyone will be able to roll out of bed tomorrow.

Aveline and Donnic are away tomorrow morning for a honeymoon in Orlais. No one will say precisely where, though I’m certain Varric knows, and for once I’m glad she’ll be away so long. We’ve all promised to keep an eye on the guard in her absence, just in case the templars begin edging somewhere they shouldn’t. (Not, in retrospect, that I’ll likely be able to do much, but a promise is a promise.)

They played Fereldan fiddle songs once everyone was deep enough in their cups to dance without worrying about what their neighbors might thing. I haven’t danced the River Dane’s Line since Lothering, though more people knew it than I’d thought, and then they played Those Sweet Brown Eyes, Oh, and before I could help it I looked over and saw Fenris across the room looking back at me. It was the same tune we danced to a hundred years ago at the Hanged Man for Satinalia, when Mother was still alive and I was wondering if we’d ever be friends again.

He smiled when he saw me looking. Neither of us danced--the whole room was between us, and by the time I’d have reached him the squares would have been set, but I could see the memory was as plain for him as it was for me, and as pleasant.

He did come over after and compliment both my dress and the decorations (part of my wedding present). This time I had the presence of mind to admire his coat in candlelight, instead of the shadows behind shrubbery, and it looks as good on him as I’d thought. It has just the barest lining of gold thread at the sleeve cuffs and the trim of the wide belt, and he wears it so very well.

One final note, and then I must sleep: towards the end of our conversation, Donnic’s brother (the middle one, who asked me to dinner the other week) came up and joined us in the conversation. He said nothing overt and was as pleasant throughout as any family of Donnic’s ought to be, but at the end he bowed over my hand and told Fenris that should he ever cede the war, he’d be happy to take up the colors in his place.

Fenris looked confused long enough for me to stumble over some nonsense explanation as Donnic’s brother left, but I’m certain he put it together soon enough. One day I should like to meet someone who declines to heckle me to my face.

It was a beautiful wedding, though.

#fenris #hawke #fenris/hawke #dragon age #quark writes #hawke's journal tag #and some #aveline/donnic

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kewltie · 6 years

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“It’s still not too late to make a run for it,” Heechul suggest slyly, his elbows resting on the table because he has absolutely no manners.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that and elbows off the table, please. How many times have Lady Haine had to yell at us about that already,” Donghae says snidely. He doesn’t have the time to entertain any of Heechul’s silly ideas, not anymore anyway, instead, he looks out toward the sky garden—lushes green, hanging waterfalls, and an endless stretch of blue that opens up above them. It’s a picture of serenity and quiet beauty painted with an array of sweeping colors from flowers at bloom.

If Donghae can ignore the shadow of Serpentine guards close by keeping an eye on him, one part deterrence and the other his jailer, it’s almost perfect.

Heechul scowls but removes his elbows from the table anyway because even when their wetnurse is currently buried seven feet under in Terra, the fear she had instilled in their younger selves is good enough for Heechul to complied even now.

Donghae lets the silent settle comfortably between them once more, they had known each other too long to have the need for words to bound them together, contents to relish this rare peaceful moment while they still have it with each other. Heechul’s presence here in Donghae’s wedding party is unnecessary; he isn’t Jeongsu who is master of diplomacy and negotiating or Kangin whose skilled on the battlefield will assure Donghae’s safety and that the wedding will go on unscathed but Donghae is quietly pleased that his cousin is here all the same.

Let Jeongsu and the rest of the Avian’s council work out the diplomacy of having to arrange a hotly controversial marriage, while Donghae and Heechul enjoy this beautiful view out here without any of the thinly disguise politic hovering over them.

A gush of wind blows past time, ruffling Heechul’s hair and causing Donghae to shiver. Despite the beginning of spring’s spirited step into the region, the open air is cool and biting up here on Orion forcing Donghae to pulls his winter cloak closer. Heechul, annoyingly, remains unbothered as he pats his hair down again despite the natural inclination of their race toward heat and warmer weather.

Everything is different here in Orion, from the strange weather and stranger creatures that inhabit this space that Donghae is supposed to call home. He doesn’t know if he can get used to it, to look up and see the sun or moon above them, to plant his feet on the soil and know that this piece of land isn't anchored to the earth, and to look upon one of the shadows and see distinctly human figures with giant wingspan upon it. All of this while Donghae is several hundred miles above ground.

But even higher still, massive flying behemoths circle the floating islands that made up the Sky City of Orion—the living heart of the mighty and fierce Avian’s kingdom.

Donghae had only seen the legendary city in the old pages of history books and tall tales told to children to warn them to behave. “Be good my dear or a winged beast will swoop out of the sky and take you to their holy city where you will never be seen again,” Lady Haine said to the five years old Donghae, who looked so horrified by the thought of that he’d made sure to eat all his greens for that week.

Orion is a part myth and a cautionary tale, a paradise made by the terrors of the sky. But for all its beauty and allure, when Donghae close his eyes he sees the dim figure of a city cloaked in darkness and build in the belly of the earth.

Terra stands in stark contrast to Orion with it stone pillars that hold up the earthy roof over their head, the underground lake and rivers that are the lifeblood of their city, and their only form of light comes from the artificial fuse created by thousands of lamps that line their city and the living light gave off by the luminescence bugs. Terra is dark and grainy but life flourishes unrestrainedly and it is home to Donghae; he will miss it dearly.

Heechul suddenly perks up, eyes alight with another idea and Donghae knows he is already dreading what comes next. “We can steal one of their cute flying rodents—”

“They're called aroo and they’re not meant to ride on,” Donghae corrects because the journey to Orion took four and a half days even by the standard of their fastest komodos so he had plenty of free time to waste. Jeongsu had prepared a stack of books on Avian’s lore and customs for Donghae to read lest he offend his new in-laws by blinking or smile the wrong way but it was the long hours and idle curiosity that eventually led him to devour all the books he had in his possession.

“Whatever,” Heechul says, rolling his eyes. “If we leave now we can make it to the closest human town before sundown.”

“And what’s going to happen to the wedding then?” Donghae asks, deciding to humor Heechul’s madness this time around. “Who is going to replace me? Because Kangin is not going to be pleased if he has to chase us down the night before my wedding.”

Heechul hums thoughtfully. “We can offer up Kyuhyun instead,” he suggests, face completely serious.

Donghae raises a brow. “You think Kyuhyun will readily accept marriage to a stranger and live among a group of people we have hated and been at war with for over several hundred years? Nobody in their right mind would do it.”

“Well,” Heechul says, stretching out the vowel pointedly as he stares at Donghae, “don’t we have one right here who did?”

Donghae makes a face. “I’m just finishing what Donghwa started. He’d always wanted to see this war come to an end and now that we have it, I want to cement that goodwill between our two races.”

Heechul slam one of his palms against the table harshly because he clearly hasn’t outgrown his dramatic flair since they were children. “It doesn’t mean you have to marry him!” he hisses. The glamor on his face breaks with his emotional outburst and sleek black scales appears around the corner of his left eye and stretches down to his cheekbone.

Donghae pointedly taps at his cheek to clue Heechul in and it takes a couple of seconds for Heechul to regain his composure again and for his scales retreat and human skin once more take over. He at least has the grace to look chagrin about having slipped his fine control and fall upon such animalistic instinct; they’re not like Avians who gave into their beastly side and shamelessly untethered their wings, showing exactly how different the two race view the other side of their humanity. More beast than human so are the Avian but the Serpentine hadn’t come this far to go backward. They cling to every visage of their human self because the Avian can sweep their wings across the sky and others would turn their eyes to it and call it beautiful but a glimpse of a Serpentine’s scale is akin to a demon.

Heechul mustn’t forget that and neither can Donghae.

Heechul coughs awkwardly. “Thank you,” he says, scrunching his nose and before Donghae can open his mouth and reply, Heechul plows through any further interruption and continues his lecture. “Anyway, he had terrorized our army for five years and kept Kangin and the Dragoons on edge and so paranoid that they only spoke his name in hush whispers and dying prayers. Donghwa was the only one who managed to keep him in check all these years but,” Heechul pauses, casting a keen look at Donghae, who now had carefully don a blank expression over his face to not give away any of his true feelings on the matter, “since he no longer here we were afraid he was going to finally make his way to Terra and raze it to the ground. Instead, he’d chosen to let the centuries-old grudge and infighting be buried and peace is now within our grasp. The King and Elders are all too happy to eat up this peace treaty knowing if they continue with the war we’re only going to lose but I don’t buy it for a second. It’s too easy, there must be more to this.”

“I think,” Donghae says slowly as though he is speaking to a small child, “after several centuries of war and seeing the people you love die in a conflict that you didn’t even start but you inherited from past generations, I would be tired of it as much as anyone and any mean to end a war that had plagued our people for so long is a small price to pay for everlasting peace. I know it may seem bizarre to you right now, even I can’t fathom the stalemate that we have, but quite frankly you worry too much. Everything is going to be fine.”

“Of course I can’t help but worry, you ignorant brat!” Heechul says viciously, nearly jumping out of his seat but the words that come out are lace with familial concern. “In what world is it sane and normal to see your favorite cousin is marrying the man who killed his brother?! That shouldn’t be a prerequisite for peace!”

Donghae’s eyes light up as the corner of his mouth twitch. “I’m your favorite?” he asks.

“You knew that already,” Heechul snaps but his anger is already deflating as he settles back down in his chair.

Donghae really did, but, “It’s nice to hear a verbal confirmation anyway,” he says, tucking a small smile between the pressed of his lips. Donghae was practically raised by his wetnurse and Donghwa when their parents died in another Avian’s raid, but Heechul was a strong presence in his childhood memories growing up. He was always there like an overgrown fungus but as much as Donghwa had held up Donghae’s world, Heechul had shaped it greatly. He is one of the few people Donghae will miss with an aching clarity when this is all said and done with.

Heechul sighs, sinking further down into his seat. “Tell me you want really want this. Tell me you’re not doing this to further your own agenda,” he says, and it almost sounds like a plead at this point. The crack of his cool armor reveals itself to Donghae. “And most importantly, please tell me you’re not going to do anything stupid.”

Donghae blows out a heavy breath. “I won’t,” he insists.

Heechul gives Donghae a considering look, scrutinizing every movement he makes and every facial expression he wears as though he can reach out and rip Donghae’s mask off and see through all the lies and plans he has been hiding. If it was anyone else Donghae wouldn’t be afraid and let them really look because Donghae’s secret is locked and stowed away deep within his ironclad heart. The only person who had the key to it is dead. Nobody can read him, nobody can touch him now but Heechul knows him.

Heechul knows him well, a little too well and he must not have forgotten the early months of Donghwa’s death when Donghae had locked himself in Donghwa’s room for days on end and refused to come out for nothing and nobody. Despair and anger had been his sole companions those two months as he was swept up in the grief for the beloved brother he had lost. He had cried and cried, cursed the name of the man who had taken his brother from him and sworn vengeance until his throat gave out.

Heechul had seen it all. He’d saw Donghae at his lowest point when hatred had burned itself deep in his heart because as a much love and entitled child of the Serpentine Royal Family, Donghae’s love is a heavy thing and Donghwa carried it effortlessly. Having lost his parents at young age, Donghwa had been Donghae’s everything. His parent, his brother, and his best friend all wrapped up in one singular being and Donghae knew love as it existed in a person and not within his heart. And in turn, Donghwa had spoiled him religiously and gave him everything he wanted and wish for.

For all the moment since Donghae has been alive, Donghwa had been with him every step and every breath. He had never known what it's like to exist without Donghwa by his side until now and as he found out it was a lonely and empty existence.

He’d eventually come out of his catatonic state of mourning just in time for the King to select someone to consolidate the peace between their two kingdoms by marrying off one of their own to the Great Hero of Avian-Serpentine War, Lee Hyukjae. Donghae was the first to volunteer himself for the marriage much to the surprise and delight of everyone involved.

The spoiled and much useless nephew of the King had finally grown up and was now ready to fulfill his duty to his people and kingdom with a subdued maturity and a willingness to see peace bear fruit between two enemies. But the hatred wasn’t gone completely, it was only honed and sharpened as a blade that will bring Lee Hyukjae closer to Donghae.

“I wouldn’t dare to jeopardize our hard-won peace for something as selfish and petty as revenge,” Donghae says solemnly, painting a carefully hurt and weary expression on his face as he wring his hands under the table. “I thought I have shown you and the Council these past few months that I have matured and outgrew my childish anger. I know Donghwa wouldn’t like to see me obsessing over his death so all I want to do now is to fulfill Donghwa’s last wish for peace and let his death be the beginning of something new and good for us all.”

Donghae had practiced his speech many, many times over the last few days but going up against Heechul’s keen eyes won’t be easy.

Heechul is silent and for once the silence between them is agonizing and suffocating as Donghe waits to be judged, then finally a drawn-out sigh leave Heechul’s lips and Donghae knows he had won the battle. “At least make sure to come back and visit us sometimes,” Heechul says, a tender and sad smile makes its way to his face. “Donghwa may be gone now but no matter where you are, you are always a Serpentine and a part of the royal family. You are always welcome in Terra.”

“I know and I’ll definitely come back to Terra one day,” Donghae says, and it’s another lie added to the larger pile still that Donghae had collected ever since he stepped out of his room, walked straight toward his uncle, and said, “I want peace.”

If it all goes well as planned then this will be the last time he’ll share the same space with Heechul before tomorrow night because since the moment Donghae had agreed to marry Lee Hyukjae, he knew it won’t ever stepped back to his home soil again. Even his family can’t save him from his crime of treason against the kingdom.

“Tomorrow will be a memorable day for us all,” he says, thinking of Lee Hyukjae and the dagger tucked deep in his wardrobe chest that he had taken from his family treasury; it’s a family heirloom that had passed down from generation to generation as a protection charm but this time Donghae will use it for another purpose.

On his wedding night, Donghae will betray Donghwa’s greatest wish and shattered the fragile peace that they all had been fervently wishing for in order to avenge his brother murder. He won’t ask for forgiveness because knows it’s too heinous of a crime to ever hope to be forgiven for but at least he hopes Donghwa will accept this final last selfish act of his willful younger brother.

#fic snippet #eunhae #wings tribe fic #[2.0]#AS IN PLEASE IGNORE ALL PREVIOUS VERSION #we are starting ALL OVER AGAIN #also aka that shifter verse set to the backdrop of political marriage #REVENGE!!!!!! POLITICAL INTRIGUE!!!!!! DUTY VS THE HEART!!!!#also i really REALLY HATE YOU BUT I ALSO WANT TO HOLD YOUR HANDS AND KISS YOUR KNUCKLES!!!!!!!!!!#more on this after i sleep and go to school a;sjdf;aljsdfa;sdjf FUCK ME IT'S 4AM

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the-redmane-family · 6 years

Text

The Deaths of Emelye Nesterova, Part 1

[ Hello all! This is part one of a three part short story I’m at work on to act as a sort of “introduction” to Emelye Darkmar, a newer character born of an old concept that I’ve been sitting on for some time. Parts two and three will follow shortly. Happy readings! ]

“And now, O blessed divine, lead us ever onward in fervent pursuit of victory. May our people ascend to the knowledge of the true destiny that lies before them, and in your darkest embrace may we be found in all strength and sufficiency.”

The dank, musty air of the rotted chapel hung heavy in the pale gloom of midnight as the priest finished intoning the final words of his prayer. Emelye knelt in genuflection behind a smashed pew of moldy wood, its splintered back revealing the mildew that had set in after years of neglect. The years since the plague had not been kind to this place, nor had they been kind to her. As she opened her eyes, she stared indifferently at the pair of gauntlets resting on her knee, one folded over the other.

Within these gauntlets were two hands—her hands—that had once caressed her baby brother’s face. Hands that had once been held by a young suitor in the springtime of love, before her duty took her away from him. These hands had once sewn bandages and wrapped tourniquets for the beleaguered soldiers of Lordaeron, her former comrades, and body bags for those less fortunate. They had gripped shovels that dug trenches, fixed machinery that waged war, wielded sword and bow and rifle that had rent flesh from neck and knee and breast. Now they sat idly upon one armored knee, wrapped in filthy bandages wrapped in sleek chainmail gauntlets. Her hands—or, what was left of them.

“Go now in the grace of the Dark Lady, fellow Forsaken. May the benevolent Shadows guide you.” The speaker stepped down from the pulpit, his eyes now fixed on Emeyle as she knelt.

Several strands of her dark hair fell back from her face as she lifted her head, standing up before the pew as the tall bishop made his way toward her. The other Forsaken who had come for the prayers were already shuffling out, the chapel rapidly beginning to appear abandoned once more as the Cult of Forgotten Shadows slipped quietly into the blackness of the night. The priest’s stride was purposeful as he approached, his gait betraying not a hint of hesitation despite his considerable age. A thin, close-trimmed white beard clung to the sallow, dead skin on his face and his robes of crimson appeared almost to be the color of dried blood in the poor lighting. Yellow eyes gleamed in aged sockets as he approached her.

“I sense a burden upon your shoulders, Darkmar.” The priest raised one bushy eyebrow, his hands clasped behind his back. “The manner of your posture easily betrays the weight you carry.” He peered down at her, standing a full foot taller than the armor-clad woman and scrutinizing her with a look that might appear to some as condemnation. To Emelye, it was simply the way of things. She knew this man, and he knew her. A single nod was her only reply.

The man returned her nod with one of his own, and then gestured with one bony hand toward the back room of the chapel, around to one side of the small pulpit from which he had delivered the prayer. “Come. Let us spend time in palaver. I would hear more of what troubles you. As well you know, it is pointless to hide such things from me for long, and in the grace of the Shadow, the expulsion of weakness is the adoption of strength.”

The pair made their way into the back room, Emelye’s armor clinking softly in the stillness of the empty building. Her armor was fashioned from blackened chain links, and bound in places by straps of leather and cloth to strategically keep the mail rings tightly fitted to her figure. As she followed the shadowy bishop, she moved with a similarly deliberate and almost graceful stride, and whether it was the tight-fitting armor or perhaps simply the illusion caused by her movements, she appeared to still possess a fit and able body beneath her armor.

Were one to strip away the protective carapace however, the full extent of her decay would be revealed: much of her arms and legs had been wrapped in ichor-stained bandages and cloth to keep the bugs from coming and going freely, and though her hands and forearms were the most heavily wrapped, they also suffered from the greatest damage. Large strips of flesh had rotted away from time and use, revealing decayed muscle and bone that she had meticulously bound to keep them from causing her any hindrance.

The back room was much smaller than one might have thought, leaving only enough room for a small wooden confessional against the far wall which the bishop now moved toward. It was not the first time the two had sat together as they were about to. Once more, the pair made their way toward the wooden booth, fashioned from material that appeared to have undergone the same neglect as most of the furniture that filled the small church. It did not matter to the priest, nor did it matter to Emelye; the comforts of the living were something that neither party much considered anymore.

Emelye moved right as the priest moved left, a wordless understanding between the pair as both settled themselves and sat in silence for a moment before the aged man spoke again. His deep voice did not boom in this smaller space, but it lacked nothing of its rich, ominous bass quality—the kind of voice that could inspire courage as well as dread, a fair voice that could persuade even the surest of men to doubt themselves and drive even the noblest of heart to despair.

“So, my shadow hand. You return to me at last.” He paused. “The conflict in Stormheim is all but concluded. I trust that your service to our queen was carried out with the utmost dedication and excellence, as per your record.”

“Yes.” It was the first word Emelye had spoken since her arrival at the chapel for the prayers. Her voice was low, almost hoarse, and somewhat ragged sounding in comparison to the dark bishop’s rich tonality. A light, eastern Lordaeronian accent graced her vowels. “But even now, there’s no clear victor. We’re still fighting battles across the isle with Genn’s forces. Small battles, of course. Most units have been recalled for… well.” She let the final word hang as she looked down at her hands once more.

The priest was silent for a moment before responding. “To serve in the queen’s army is an honor. You and your fellow dread-riders must have struck fear into the hearts of the pathetic worgen soldiers—a rabid lot of mongrels whose ferocity is a feeble substitute for the tactical genius of Forsaken commanders. The Gilneans will be cowed soon enough.”

Emelye did not reply, instead offering only a nod that the priest could not see. After another moment had passed, the man continued.

“But a detailed account of the Stormheim conflict is not why we sit here tonight. I know you well, my shadow hand. Well enough to know that no duty asked of you by your people would ever be too great for you to bear without the steely determination for which you are known.” He paused naturally, and then added, “Save perhaps but for one. Your thoughts linger on him tonight, do they not?”

“They do,” she replied curtly, turning her head away from the confessional’s partition which now separated the two. “Returning home will always come with memories of him.”

“He was a traitor to our people. A traitor to our queen.”

“Yes, he was.”

“I know you better than to think that some part of you has gone soft, Darkmar,” the shadowy priest said gravely. “All the same, it was not intended to be an easy assignment. The defining moment in one’s career ought always to be one in which they are tested against the strongest of their convictions.”

Emelye was silent for a moment before answering. “I feel no regret. No remorse. Only bitterness. I am not at peace with his memory. If I could, I would return to that moment just to savor the last bit of unlife leaving his eyes. I would kill him again, and again, and again, and I’d still be filled with this hate.”

“Then speak of him, Darkmar, and kill him once again for me. Hold him in your mind as a child, watch him become a man, see how he was given the same gift you were—and kill him for squandering it.” The bishop’s words were spoken in a harsh, almost hushed tone. “Unburden yourself in the Shadow’s welcome embrace.”

Emelye’s fists were now clenched as she leaned forward in the booth, her eyes shut. She said nothing for a moment, and then, “All right.”

“Start at the beginning. What was his name?” The harshness was gone from the priest’s voice with startling immediacy, replaced instead by a calm evenness that invited the woman to share her secrets at length. A persuasive voice. A dangerous voice.

“Kegan. Kegan Darkmar.” She stopped as her fists and her eyes opened. Leaning back in the confessional, she stared vacantly across the room at the wood of the far wall. “Kegan… Nesterov.”

“Who was he?” “He was my brother.”

#world of warcraft roleplay #wow rp #warcraft #Wyrmrest Accord #wyrmrest rp #dark #fiction #fantasy #dark fantasy

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marinaaniseed · 4 years

Text

Ooh la la

Song: Ooh la la from the album Supernature by Goldfrapp.

Summary: The team goes to a burlesque night.

Pairing: Female reader x Sam Wilson

Length: 1,012 words

A/N: Mention of people taking advantage of drunk people. See here for what this is all about.

***

You’re covered in glitter, but it doesn’t hide how attractive you are.

Sam’s not really sure whose idea it was to visit the local amateur burlesque night, but he’s glad they suggested it.

Your number finishes with you in box splits. Somewhere to Sam’s right, Thor is loudly recounting a story of a courtesan he once knew who could do that.

“Please give it up for Miss Minnie Apolis,” the MC roars, and Sam is on his feet applauding and shouting.

Nobody else seems to be quite as enthusiastic, offering polite applause and the occasional whistle.

During the interval, Sam heads to the gents. The beer here might be watered down nonsense, but it still goes straight through him. He washes his hands, drying them on a towel and checks out his reflection.

He looks good, handsome. Not sleazy. You probably get a lot of sleazy guys approaching you at shows. If he gets the chance to talk to you, that’s not the impression he wants to give you.

He’s a nice guy. Not a nice guy.

Heading back out, he opens the door straight into you.

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry - are you ok?” he asks as you step back cautiously in your skyscraper heels.

“I’m fine, it’s ok,” you insist. “I don’t know why the doors open outwards in such a narrow corridor.”

“I should’ve been more careful. Can I buy you a drink to apologise?” Sam asks, seizing the opportunity. He won’t be upset if you turn him down, but he has to try.

“Sure,” you say, with a shy smile. You’re only confident when you’re on stage because you’re pretending to be yourself. “I’ll be over in a few minutes.”

Normally you don’t drink with the audience but you’d looked over to see where all the noise was coming from. You didn’t necessarily recognise him, but in the dim light of the club, you had recognised Thor, sitting at the same table, as well as Bruce Banner and Tony Stark.

Apparently, the Avengers had come to watch some tassel twirling.

It’s only when Sam sits back down at the table that he realises he didn’t ask you what you wanted to drink.

“What’s a good drink that a lady might like but would also impress her?” he whispers to Nat.

“Miss Minnie Apolis?” Nat asks, smirking at Sam. “Order the Ooh La La. It looks like a pretty cocktail, but the spirits aren’t too strong, so you won’t think you’re trying to get her drunk to take advantage.”

“Thanks, Nat. I owe you one.”

Sam knew there was a reason he asked Nat these sorts of things, even though there was a self-proclaimed playboy at the table.

Money talks, and for Tony it flirted, whereas Thor could just show ladies his hammer. Sam didn’t have it quite as hard as Bruce, in the dating stakes, but he wasn’t too far off.

Sam is somewhat relieved when you shuffle into the booth next to him, Nat getting up to make way for you.

Seconds later, your drink arrives, and you sip it gratefully.

“Good choice-”

“Sam. Sam Wilson,” he says, with a smile and shaking your hand. He knows Thor would’ve kissed your knuckles and said something poetic, but that’s not his style.

“Good choice, Sam Sam Wilson,” you giggle. “Y/N.”

“I am shocked to learn that your name is not Minnie Apolis,” he says in mock surprise.

“And I’m shocked that you have a normal name, and not the Mighty Incredible Iron Widow, or something,” you say, still smiling.

Nat snorts into her drink. Even when she pretends not to eavesdrop, she always is.

“It’s Falcon,” Sam tells you.

“You got bitten by a radioactive falcon? Or you have a trained falcon that does cool stuff? Or you have a falcon that only lets you pet it if you’re worthy?”

“No,” Sam laughs. “I have wings built into my suit so I can fly.”

“Nice,” you note, elongating the vowel.

“I really liked your performance,” Sam says, trying to turn the conversation towards you.

“Thank you,” you tell him. “Want to see another trick?”

“Sure.”

You lean over and say something to Nat, who lets you take the cherry from her drink. You remove the stem and pop it in your mouth. Even though he thinks he knows what’s coming, Sam’s still surprised when you take it back out with a small knot tied in it. He has to take a long swig of his beer while his brain tries to form words.

Even Thor looks surprised. Apparently, even after a millennia, there are still new things to see.

“I’m impressed,” Sam says, trying not to stare at your mouth. Your lipstick is an unusual shade of purple, picked to match your iolite jewelry.

“Would it ruin the illusion of everything if I took my shoes off?” you whisper to him, as the second half starts. “My feet are so sore.”

“Not a problem,” Sam says, before adding. “Would you like me to massage your feet?”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to be a problem.”

“I want to touch you,” Sam insists. “You're just made for love.”

You feel your cheeks tinge red at that, but go with it. It takes a bit of moving around to get your feet up, and into Sam’s lap. But when you do, it feels amazing. It’s hard not to moan at the table as he does it.

“Are you good at other kinds of massage?” you ask.

“Yeah, I can show you, if you like?” Sam offers, meaning he’ll give you a head massage or a shoulder rub while you watch the show.

“Cool,” you say, moving your feet out of his lap and putting your shoes back on. “I’ll go grab my things and meet you back here, so we can head off.”

Sam’s stunned. It’s not what he was intending, but he’s not complaining either. He just hopes Tony won’t be too disruptive when he sees the two of you leaving together in a few moments.

#366songshots #Female reader #falcon #sam wilson #The Avengers

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brokensmilefanfiction · 7 years

Text

Chapter Seven

“What do you mean you said no? How could you say no?” demanded James as I stood getting my microphone pinned to my dress. The woman was having such trouble that if it had been a guy, I would have accused him of trying to fondle my breasts.

“James I’m about to go on the Graham Norton show. Would you give it a rest?” I said pointedly.

I was wearing a long-sleeved blue, floral dress. With matching blue heels and blue rock earrings.

“I just don’t understand, what did you say?” he demanded, completely ignoring the fact that there was another woman with us, still trying to pin my microphone on my chest.

“I just said that I was really busy and that now wasn’t a good time.” I explained.

“What do you mean now is not a good time? He’s Kit Harington! It’s a perfect time!” he argued.

“No its not!” I hissed, smiling awkwardly as the woman finally put my microphone on me and left, I whipped my head around to James, “I have so much going on right now, I don’t have time for anything else. So I told him that.”

“Wait, so you didn’t actually reject him did you?” he asked.

“Well,” I began, as I thought through my answer, “not technically-”

“Ha! I knew it!” he cried.

“Bridge! We’re heading on!” called Peirce.

“We’ll continue this conversation later.” He promised.

I flipped him off before I lined up behind Nicholas as Graham called our names and we one by one all headed out and sat on his famous red couch.

“She’s a comedian, she’s a ventriloquist and now she’s an Emmy winner actor, please welcome Bridgette Mendez!”

The audience cheered as I came out from back stage. I waved and smiled, feeling the positive energy of the audience as I sat on the couch in between Peirce and Nicholas.

“Now welcome back Nick,” began Graham as he sat down, “But the rest of you, you’ve all never been on the show.” He said pointedly.

“No, we haven’t.” agreed Emma.

“Now you’re all here to promote your new film Ninety Days. It’s in cinema’s now.” Said Graham, “Now, Bridgette, this is your first film!” he said turning his attention to me.

“First feature film. Not my first film though.” I corrected, “I have a few DVD’s of me doing stand-up.” I explained.

“Yes, but this is the first film you’ve acted in.” he prompted.

“Yeah.”

“And your already getting awards attention for this film.”

“Am I?” I asked in shock.

“Well yes,”

“I’m gonna be honest Graham, I haven’t read the reviews.” I said honestly.

“How annoying is that!” said Peirce, “Never acted on television before and she gets an Emmy. Never acted in film before and she’ll probably get an Oscar.” He said, shaking his head in annoyance.

Everyone on the couch laughed, so did a few audience members.

“Well you all do very well in this film. It deals with quite a heavy topic of suicide yet it’s actually really funny.” Said Graham.

“That’s mainly because of her.” Said Nicholas, pointing to me, “She is so funny.”

“Well I would hope so otherwise I’d be a pretty bad comedian.” I grinned.

“Are you still a comedian though?” asked Graham, “I mean, you’ve been doing so much acting lately.”

“Well I guess comedy will always be where I got my start, but I’d like to be like Robin Williams in that I can always do a bit of both.” I explained.

“She’s amazing in this film. She’s going to go far.” Said Emma seriously.

“Oh shucks Emma, you make me blush.” I said bashfully.

“Yes she does very well in this film.” Said Peirce.

“Stop it you guys!” I shushed.

“Have you honestly not read any of the reviews Bridgette?” asked Graham.

“No, because I made the mistake of reading my first reviews when I was starting out in comedy and they were just mean. They said I wasn’t funny. So you know, I figured all reviews say that. They say singers can’t sing. Or actors can’t act so I just decided not to read any of them ever.” I said.

“Well let me give you a little snippet, they all say that you are quite good.” He said, “Some people are even mentioning the ‘O’ word.”

“What ‘O’ word?” I asked in confusion.

Everyone on the couch pulled a face, “What ‘O’ word do you think?” demanded Emma.

“The only one that comes to mind is orgasm!” I said honestly.

Everyone on the couch and in the audience laughed.

“Oscar darling. Their talking about the Oscars.” Said Graham.

“Oh!” I said in understanding, “Right. I get it now.”

I immediately dismissed their comments, there was no way I would win an Oscar. Not in a million years! I was a comedian who was trying to act, nothing more. I’d never trained or aspired to be an actor, it was just something I’d fallen into. True I wanted to do well at it, but I wanted to do well in most things I tried.

Graham talked a little bit more about the movie when he asked us if dealing with such a heavy and depressing film made us depressed, I had a brilliant idea of what to say.

“Well you see Graham whenever I get sad, I remember that we live in a world where Gilderoy Lockhart cheated of Professor Trelawney with Bellatrix Lestrange and everything is alright then.” I smiled.

Everyone burst out laughing. Including Emma, to who the joke was directed at. I briefly wondered if it was a bad idea to bring up the fact that in the early nineties Kennath Branagh cheated on her with Helena Boham Carter, but I figured it was such a long time ago that any offense the comment might have caused wouldn’t be so bad.

“How do you know about that? It happened before you were born?” she demanded.

“I read!” I defended.

That just made everyone laugh harder.

“Now, we have what I call a bit of a franchise couch,” began Graham, “I mean, Emma you must get recognized for Harry Potter all the time.”

“Yes I do.” She agreed, “People get disappointed when I don’t tell their futures when I meet them.”

The audience laughed.

“Nick you were in X-Men,” he said.

“Yes, and I’m not blue in real life.” Said Nicholas.

“And Peirce of course, you were James Bond.” Said Graham.

“Yes, I was for a time.” He said.

“What do you think about all the James Bond rumours going around now?”

Peirce then talked a little about what he thought of the prospective James Bond candidates.

“Now speaking of rumours, Bridgette, I need to have a talk with you,” said Graham, turning his attention to me.

“You want to talk to me on a chat show? Are you serious?” I demanded in mock outrage.

The audience laughed.

“Yes, I need to ask you a question.” He said.

“How dare you!” I said.

They laughed again.

“Now, there has been some rumours about you and a certain someone.” He said, elongating his vowels, “You and a certain Jon Snow.” He grinned.

The excitement in the audience was tangible.

“Well Graham, you know how rumours start.” I said seriously, “I mean, if I do this,” I began as I ran a hand through Peirce’s hair, “People are going to say that we’re dating.” I explained, “But if I do this,” I said as I draped my legs over Nicholas’s lap before I leaned over and kissed his cheek, the audience laughed, “People will say we’re dating.” I told him as I swung my legs back around and sat properly.

“So are you saying you’re not dating?” asked Graham.

“I’m saying people like to make up a lot of things.” I told him.

“I see and if we were to ask Mr. Harington would he say the same thing?” he asked, his eyebrows raising curiously.

“I don’t know.” I shrugged, “Why don’t you ask him?” I challenged.

“Well its funny you should mention that,” began Graham as he once again addressed the audience.

I kept a smile plastered on my face, but on the inside, I was screaming. There was no way Kit was waiting back stage was he? No!

“You see we get a lot of people in the audience here. And we happened to notice a familiar face here today.” began Graham, and I watched as the camera’s swivelled to face a section of the audience that had suddenly been lit up.

It only took me a moment to spot him, but to cover up my absolute horror, I laughed. Well this was just perfect. Kit was here. As an audience member.

Awesome.

“Kit, why don’t you come up here.” Offered Graham.

I silently pleaded with him in my head, willing him with whatever Jedi Force I might have to remain seated… but he didn’t. The audience cheered and a very red face Kit suddenly came up on stage, I stood up along with everyone else to clap. For some reason, Nicholas ducked behind me just before I sat down. Then I realized it was so Kit could sit down next to me, which he did.

“Hi.” He said, smiling at me.

“Hi.” I smiled forcefully, “What are you doing here?” I demanded as politely as I could.

“I came to see the show.” He replied.

He came to see the show? Seriously? Why? Did he not realize how awkward this was?

“No, no, don’t just talk amongst yourselves, we need to hear. Can someone get Kit a microphone?” called Graham.

I was extremely uncomfortable. So I reverted back to doing what I did best; being funny.

“Here!” I said, puffing my chest out and pointing to the tiny microphone pinned to my dress, “Talk to my boob.” I instructed.

Everyone laughed which made me relax slightly. But to my surprise Kit leaned down and spoke into the microphone on my chest, “Hello Graham.”

“Now Kit there have been a lot of rumours about you and the lady whose bosoms your awfully close to.” He began.

I giggled in what I hoped was a convincing manner.

“Can you tell us about how you feel about one another?” he asked.

Kit paused for a moment and I watched him intently as he leaned down, keeping his eyes on Graham, he said, “I’m very fond of her.”

There was a universal “aw” around the room.

I wasn’t sure if it was the studio lights but I suddenly felt unbearably hot.

“And is there anything romantic going on between the two of you?” asked Graham.

I saw Kit lean down to speak into my microphone again but I spoke first, “Well not right now Graham, we’re on a talk show.” I quipped.

Everyone laughed and I felt myself relax a little.

“What about later?” asked Graham cheekily.

“I’m going to let Bridgette answer that one.” Said Kit simply before he turned to me with an easy smile, “Bridge?”

I sat, absolutely frozen on that couch with a fake smile plastered on my face. In that moment I felt not only the eyes of every single person in the room on me, but also the cameras, who I knew would be beaming my face around the world at that moment.

I scrambled to think of something funny to say, “Unfortunately my heart belongs to a furry little fella. He’s about fifty centimetres, sounds like Sean Connery. I spend a lot of time with my hand up his ass, so it would kind of be disrespectful if I was to be seeing anyone else.” I said pointedly.

The audience laughed, everyone on the couch laughed, including Kit. Even Graham laughed.

I was off the hook.

For now.

The show finished off quite quickly after that and Kit headed backstage with the rest of us where I rounded on him.

“How could you do that? What were you thinking? Are you out of your mind? What are you even doing here?” I hissed, smacking his shoulder with each word.

“Ow.” He complained, “Are you seriously hitting me right now? Your like five feet tall!”

I smacked his shoulder again, “Do you have any idea how embarrassing that was?” I demanded.

“Hey, I didn’t plan this. It was embarrassing for me too.” He defended.

“Yeah right.” I snapped, rolling my eyes.

“I just came to see the show. Honestly.” He said throwing his hands up in apparent surrender.

I didn’t believe him.

“I just wanted to see you. You haven’t been answering my texts lately. I had to do something to get your attention.” He reasoned.

“Mission accomplished.” I said sarcastically before I turned on my heel, grumbling to myself and walked away.

…

After a quick trip to America to finish off the press tour for Ninety Days, I was back in London doing what I loved most; stand up.

These performances were a little more low-key than what I had been doing of late. I was getting back to the roots of my comedic beginnings and performing in little bars and clubs around London.

They were a lot less formal than the performances I had been doing of late. The bars tended to hold just over one-hundred people and my jokes would flow as easily as the beer did.

I’d been so stressed ever since the Graham Norton show. My publicist had practically had a meltdown when she heard what happened, on one hand she liked the free publicity, on the other hand her job of campaigning to have me being taken seriously as an actor was marred by tabloids being far more interested in my love life than my performance.

My management team had of course hounded me about Kit and as had most of the interviewers, but I told them all the same thing; we were just friends. Not that anyone believed me. Kit was texting me at least once every day, all of which I was ignoring. I had not forgiven him for showing up uninvited to the Graham Norton show.

I was relieved once the press tour was done and I could step away from the spotlight for a little while. Being in a bar and going back to doing my stand-up routine had a calming effect on me and I took the opportunity to order myself a drink, or two, or three.

I had done this routine thousands of times. I knew it off by heart and could perform it blind folded let alone a little drunk.

“I want to do an impression.” Declared Monk halfway through the show.

“Alright, quickly.” I agreed as I held my pint glass in my other hand.

Monk stared out into the audience blankly.

“Are you doing it?” I asked.

“Yes.” He replied.

I giggled despite myself. It was funny because he wasn’t doing anything, “I don’t know Monk, who is it?” I asked.

“Helena Bonham Carter in Planet of the Apes.” He told me.

The audience laughed and I had a bit of a giggle too.

I waited for them to quiet down before I continued on with the next bit, I was sort of making this up as I went along. It probably wasn’t a good idea for me to be drinking whilst on stage but I didn’t care. I was still funny, everyone was still laughing, so where was the problem?

“Ok, here we have the pint glass.” I declared, holding the glass up in my other hand.

“Oh shit.” Commented Monk.

“I’ve just got to finish this, so don’t say anything for a moment.” I told him.

“Like what?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Just look out into the audience for a bit.” I told him.

“Ok.” He agreed.

As I put the glass to my lips it occurred to me that this was a very similar trick where ventriloquist would talk while drinking. I couldn’t do that, but as I gulped down the remainder of my beer it occurred to me that was what the audience was waiting for.

Once I finished, Monk spoke, “For a moment there they thought you were going to do something clever.”

The audience laughed as I placed my pint glass on the little stand next to him, “So Monk, do you think you can get in there?” I asked.

“Yes, I think I can.” He replied, “Start with the tail.” He advised.

“Alright.” I agreed as I lifted him up above the pint glass and then slowly lowered him so his tail was inside the glass.

“As you can now see, my tail is firmly in the glass.” Said Monk as the audience laughed.

“Very good Monk, are you ok?” I asked.

“It’s a bit wet. But I’m ok.” He told me.

“Alright, now your leg.” I said as I grabbed his little leg and began to push it into the glass.

“Oh Jesus,” Monk complained.

The audience laughed and I did as well as I finished pushing his little leg into the glass.

“As you can see, my tail and my leg are now firmly in the glass.” Said Monk, looking down at his contorted body in the glass for a moment before he stared out at the laughing audience.

“Now your other leg.” I said.

“Are you crazy?” he asked, turning to look at me in shock.

“It’s going to be ok.” I giggled as the audience laughed harder, their laughter was infectious.

As I grabbed his leg and placed his foot in the glass he groaned, “Oh god. Oh my hip!”

I giggled in response as the audience laughed.

“Not good!” he complained as I shoved his leg in.

“Monk its ok.” I soothed.

“No! No not good!” he said as he began to thrash about and look down at the glass in panic.

“Monk, calm down.” I told him.

“I look like a genie!” he declared.

The audience burst out laughing.

“Let me out!” he complained as he began to thrash about.

“Monk, calm down.”

“Let me out!”

I couldn’t contain myself as the audience laughed, I laughed as well, barely able to address the puppet on my hand, who was still thrashing about, trying to get out of the glass.

“Calm down Monk.” I giggled.

“No, let me out!” he cried before the glass slipped and he went crashing down onto his side.

“Oh Jesus!” I said as I held the glass firmly in place to keep it rolling off the stand.

“Oh, that was terrible.” He groaned.

“Sorry.” I giggled, I wasn’t sorry at all.

“Take it off.” He commanded.

“Ok.” I agreed.

“Slowly.” He advised.

I slowly began to pull the glass from Monk, freeing his hips and the top of his tail as I pulled the glass away.

“Warning.” Interrupted Monk, when I got half way.

“Warning?” I asked.

“This pint glass may contain traces of nuts.” He said dryly.

The audience burst out laughing and I giggled once more as I pulled the glass off, freeing his legs. I had to cover my face with my hand, I was laughing so hard at my own jokes. But the audience was laughing too so that made me feel a little better about it.

As my eyes scanned the crowd lazily as I listened to the audience laugh. As I did, I noticed a familiar mop of black curls laughing with the rest of the crowd; Kit.

…

After the show, I confronted Kit.

I’d gone through the meet and greet with the audience members that wanted to talk to me after the show and Kit had waited at the bar for me to finish, knowing that I would approach him afterwards.

Flopping down onto the stool next to him, quite forcefully, I glared at him. He stared straight ahead as if nothing was wrong while he continued to drink his beer. I could see he was trying to play the innocent and I wasn’t having it.

“Are you stalking me?” I demanded.

He waited a moment as he swallowed his mouthful of beer before he looked down at his glass on the bar in front of him, “Not in a threatening way.” He finally answered.

I rolled my eyes, “I knew it.” I sighed in aggravation.

He ducked his head and looked over at me impishly.

“Why are you doing this?” I demanded, working to maintain my anger, which was becoming considerably harder when he was looking so cheeky.

“Have you ever considered that I might be a fan of yours and love to see you perform?” he asked with a cheeky smile.

“So you are stalking me.” I quipped.

He smiled again.

“Me or the monkey?” I joked.

“Definitely the monkey.” He grinned.

“That’s it. I’m calling animal services.” I declared.

The longer we talked the more my anger melted away. For some reason I could not maintain my anger when I was around him. Perhaps it was because I enjoyed making him smile too much as it was such a rare sight. Or I enjoyed his company more than I’d care to admit. Or it might have been because I had feelings for him. Each reason was more complicated than the last and I didn’t want to face those reasons just yet.

Instead I went back on the defensive, “Seriously Kit. Why are you doing this?” I pressed.

He grew abruptly serious as he turned away from me and stared ahead as he brought his glass to his lips, “You know why.” He muttered before he took a sip of his drink.

I rolled my eyes, not this again. Why could he not see that something between us would never work? He was a serious, brooding actor loved by millions. I was a small time comedian with a small but loyal fan base.

Sighing, I leaned against the bar and refused to look at him, “Persistent aren’t you?”

“I’m more just trying to show you that no matter how busy you are, we can always find a little bit of time to be together.” He said simply, “Everyone makes time for the things that matter.”

“And I matter do I?” I asked sarcastically turning to look at him.

“You matter quite a bit to me, actually.” He replied sassily.

I blinked in shock, taken aback by his statement.

Everything became a little muddled as I tried to understand that Kit Harington, said I mattered to him. I was shocked and confused that it took me a little while to notice that he was staring at me expectantly, waiting for an answer.

I couldn’t take the way his big brown eyes seemed to look at me with a puppy-like, hopefulness. I turned away and stared at the wood on the bar. Aware that he was still watching me, I knew I needed to say something to break the suddenly tense silence.

“I don’t know what to say to that.” I muttered quietly.

“Well, you could say that you feel the same way. And that you find my hair particularly attractive and you would like to take me and my sexy hair out on a date.” He said unbashful.

I couldn’t help but grin at his attempt to be funny, “I see, and would this date ideally end up with the two of us naked in bed together?”

“Ideally. But I’m open to alternatives. The couch, the shower.” He shrugged.

“Just as long as we’re naked, correct?”

“And in private. I’m open to doing anything naked with you, as long as no one else can see.”

“Well that’s refreshing. Australian men are exhibitionists, nice to have someone who likes to leave things to the imagination.” I said in a matter of fact tone.

“I think I’ve been semi-naked enough on television for you to get a general idea.” He grinned.

He was trying to one up me by being funny and I wasn’t about to let him get away with it.

“Oh naked monopoly sounds like a great idea for a date to me.” I said in a mock serious tone.

He nodded, matching my serious tone, “We could get creative with the forms of payment.”

At that I burst out laughing, unable to keep up my serious façade any longer. Was I seriously talking about not only a potential date with Kit Harington, but getting naked with him? How on earth did my life end up this way? Why was he doing this? It was a question I needed answers too.

Propping my head up with my hand, I turned to look at him, intent on getting answers, “Why are you doing this?”

“What do you mean?” he asked lightly as he took a sip of his beer.

“Pursuing me like this.” I said pointedly, “I’m sure there are far more attractive girls out there that you could spend your time with.”

“Are you calling me shallow?”

I wasn’t actually calling him shallow, I was more calling myself ugly. But I ignored that and turned my attention back to him as I sighed in exasperation, “My point is that I turned you down. Most guys would accept that and move on.”

“Well here’s the thing, you didn’t actually say you didn’t want to go out with me. You said you didn’t have time to go on a date with me.” He said simply.

“Most guys would be able to read between the lines that not having time is another word for no.” I said pointedly.

“Ok.” He said simply, “Say it.”

I frowned in confusion, “Say what?”

“Say you don’t like me. And I’ll leave you alone.” He bargained.

“I don’t want you to leave me alone Kit, we’re friends.” I reasoned.

“Is that why? You don’t want to take the chance and ruin our friendship?” he asked intently.

“What? No!”

“Then why?”

“What do you mean why?”

“Why don’t you want to go out with me?”

“Because things between us would never work!” I burst out angrily.

“Why?” he asked simply.

That threw me for a moment. I had my reasons as to why they wouldn’t, but none of them were reasons I thought he would accept, “They just wouldn’t.” I insisted stubbornly.

He eyed me for a moment and I stared back at him determinedly; there was something about his calm expression that showed me just how determined he was. This whole conversation had not frustrated him like it had frustrated me and it had definitely not deterred him in any way.

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” I guessed.

He simply shook his head with a cheeky smile, “Nope.”

I rolled my eyes, slightly annoyed by his persistence, “So I guess you’ll be at my show tomorrow night?”

“I certainly will be.”

I shook my head in disbelief, “Is this persistent attitude why you’re such a successful actor?”

“I’m not a successful actor.” He scoffed.

“No?” I challenged, “Being on the most watched television show in the world isn’t the definition of a successful actor?”

“Well, yes. I guess I am successful.” He allowed, “But I’m not that good of an actor.” He said, suddenly seeming bashful.

“See, that’s the difference between you and me,” I began, latching on to any reason I could to explain why a relationship between us was a terrible idea, “You have constant proof that you’re a good actor and you refuse to believe it. I have constant proof that I’m a bad actor and I refuse to believe it.”

“So your saying that you have confidence in your abilities and I don’t?”

“Yeah. We are at opposite ends of the scale. A relationship would never work out between us.” I said pointedly.

“No, you want to know the real difference between us?” he asked, suddenly sounding argumentative.

“What?” I challenged.

“I’m not afraid to go after what I want. You on the other hand, you just let good things pass you by because you believe you don’t deserve them.” He told me.

By the end of his speech he was breathing heavily, the first semblance of frustration showing through in his voice. For the first time he had lost his calm, almost playful demeanour, now he was clearly aggravated.

I felt like I had been slapped. I wasn’t sure why but his words had ignited a furious fire inside of me.

He could obviously see he had upset me and he instantly looked regretful. When he opened his mouth to speak, I was sure he was going to apologize, but I didn’t give him a chance.

“Let’s get something straight,” I began aggressively, “I wanted to become a ventriloquist, I did that. I wanted to become a comedian. I went out and did that. I wanted to become an actress, I’ve gone and done that. Don’t you dare say I don’t go after the things I want!” I said angrily.

“That’s not what I said,” he fired back, “I said you think you don’t deserve-” he began but I cut him off.

“I deserve everything I have!” I practically shouted, “I have worked my ass off to achieve what I was constantly told was impossible! I deserve every bit of success I get!”

He sighed deeply once I had finished speaking. My words hanging in the air around us created a tense silence.

I could see the look of regret in his eyes as he stared at me but my anger was spreading through me like fire. I thought after my outburst I would feel some sort of release of the pressure building up inside of me, threatening to explode. But it didn’t. Instead it began to fester and boil just beneath the surface of my skin making me feel vindictive. And strangely vulnerable.

“Not all of us can wear our hearts on our sleeve.” I muttered darkly as my old insecurities rose to the surface.

With that, I snatched my handbag that contained my monkey off the bar and stormed out of the pub.

#chapters #fanfiction #fanfic #real person fanfiction #Broken smile #Kit Harington #graham norton show #emma thompson #pierce brosnan #nicholas hoult #Ventriloquist #comedy

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txintedsorrow · 7 years

Text

Leave The Soul Alone.

Soukoku Week.

Day 3 : Historical AU.

AO3

Summary: Shouwa Genroku Rakugo Shinjuu AU He was fit to become a performer. To be on a stage all alone, becoming multiple people at once. Changing his intentions in the flicker of an eye, reciting stories that people loved for centuries. He was born to become a storyteller, hiding himself behind carefully planned lines and reactions to everything around him. Through the 1930's until the World War 2, they keep on telling their stories, waiting for the Shinigami.

Hello everybody! A few notes so the story will be understood with more ease.

This is an AU based on Shouwa Genroku Rakugo Shinjuu. Rakugo is a form of storytelling in Japan, where a storyteller has to act several characters on stage, sitting on a mat on his knee, with only a small fan by his side, sometimes a candle as well to set the atmosphere. The stories they tell are usually funny but some very dark ones exist as well. The zenza is the lowest position you can have as a performer, later on you become a futatsume and lastly a shin’uchi which basically is like a Master of the art.

At some part of the story, I have a link to an actual performance, please watch it if possible so you will get how amazing it is!

Well I hope you will enjoy this!!

Year: 1929

When they first met, it was autumn. The brown leaves danced across his feet, as cold brown eyes took in the sight in front of them. The House of a Rakugo Master. His family had a connection with the arts for generations, so they decided to sent their youngest son to learn under a Master. Everyone had realized that Shuuji’s words had something magical in them, that made you pause and listen. The ones around him had no idea what a dark place his mind was. He was far too observant, picking up little reactions, knowing just the right words to say. He made people laugh, because laughter allowed people to relax and let their guard down.

He was fit to become a performer. To be on a stage all alone, becoming multiple people at once. Changing his intentions in the flicker of an eye, reciting stories that people loved for centuries. He was born to become a storyteller, hiding himself behind carefully planned lines and reactions to everything around him.

Shuuji felt the hand of his father resting on his shoulder before he entered his new home. It was the start of another life. He inhaled sharply, before he opened the door to the garden. It was quite large just not as the one they had in his previous home. Chocolate eyes widen as he sees a single figure sitting underneath the red maple leaves dressed in a red kimono. His breath caught in his throat, as the other’s fiery orange hair was caressed by the wind. Etheral. That was what this sight seemed to his eyes. He had never seen such a striking colour. Without realizing it, he was moving forward hoping to reach out and see if it was real or just a fragment of his imagination. He stepped on the fallen leaves and that was when their gazes met. Light blue bore into brown, as he finally could see the one that had mesmorized him.

“You must be the new student.” It takes a bit until the words get registered into his mind and that is when he realies that the sight before him is indeed real.

“Beautiful.” he murmurs under his breath.

“Huh? Did you say something, newcomer?” Shuuji shakes his head in response and suddenly the other one is standing in front of him. He is petite with blue eyes staring at him curiously, but his every move is filled with grace.

“No, it’s nothing. My name is Shuuji...who are you?” the other smiles at him widely.

“I am Chuuya and the Master’s oldest student. So in short your senpai.” Shuuji blinks once. Ah. A guy. This feeling he had before should have disappeared but it didn’t. He whistled.

“Well, what is short here is you though.” he can’t help but respoind with a small grin.

“HUH?! What did you say?!” Chuuya’s voice turned into a shrill and the boy couldn’t help but laugh. Ah. This would be interesting.

In the end, they had to share a room. Shuuji stared into the thin celeling , lost in his thoughts. The sound from his left made him turn his attention to the boy sleeping next to him. Chuuya. Chuuya who moved with grace, Chuuya whose reactions were always so genuine, he had something captivating about him. He hummed as he reached out to run his fingers across that long red hair thinking about what he had learned.

Chuuya was apparently going to be a dancer, but his family lost their fortune in an incident, being unable to continue their career any lnger, they begged the Master to take him in, so the theater’s lights could still shine on him. He was glad, they had. Otherwise, they would hadn;t met in their lifetimes.

Rakugo was hard, but having someone to practice with was fun, having someone to listen to him as he acted out was fun. He loved making Chuuya laugh, but in reality, he enjoyed the darker stories much more. They would challenge each other and perform in front of Master to see who was better. Whoever would win would get the dessert on that day or force the other to buy him something. Once, when Chuuya had won, he had used Dazai’s money to buy a hat, like the ones the adults wore. Dazai prefered their usual outfits, those foreign ones didn’t catch his interest, but Chuuya was in love with it, he would wear it even at night, it actually got annoying. He almost burned it once. Sadly Chuuya chose to return at that moment so his plan was ruined.

Year: 1937

Chuuya got to act in a theater first. Shuuji observed him carefully. Not many people were there to see a simple zenza. However his friend was performing even better than how he did at home. His eyes were shining much more. Ah, Chuuya loved to perform in front of an audience, the sound of their laughter would make his hands behind his sleeves turn into fists of satisfaction. Truly. The stage was where he belonged.

Shuuji’s turn didn’t come much later, his piece was a story of a trickster who took advantage of people around him. Blue eyes watched mezmorized as the teen changed his expression into a smug one holding the fan open with his left hand.

“It is I! The one you were after all along, but now it’;s too late!” his voice echoed clearly in the small theater. A few weeks later they were upgraded to futatsume’s. They received new names as well. It was huge honour. On the following weekend, after they had finished with all the ceremones and pratices, the brunet had a plan.

“Hey, Chuuya, let's go out to celebrate!” Shuuji had said smilling widely as he tagged the other teen through the busy streets of Kyoto, beautiful ladies dressed in kimono were chatting to theirselves as they ran through the crowd. The red laterns lit up their path, cherry blossom petals followed their every step.

“Hey, Shuuji! Where are we going?!” the red haired managed to ask as they reached yet another street.

“My name is Dazai now, remember, Chuuya?~” he drawled out his name dragging out the vowels in a teasing tone as his eyes shone with mischief. Chuuya rolled his eyes.

“Whatever, idiot Dazai! Answer to my question!” he demanded, getting free of the other’s hold and punching his shooulder.

“Ow! Chuuya your name should had been changed into mean!” Dazai whined as he rubbed his arms “Truly, you are so impatient! We are really close!”

“This better be worth it, idiot.”

“Don’t you trust me?” Dazai faked a gasp looking at his best friend with shock in his eyes which made the poor guy shake his head.

“Of course not, now let’s just finish this game of tag already.” and with that he started walking forward. Dazai smirked.

“Chuuya, it’s on the other side!~” he pointed out cheerfully, loving how the tips of his ears turned red. Heh, cute~ Chuuya ran back to where Dazai was standing with a frustated expression on his face and that beautiful crimson across his cheeks, as the brunet gave him a smug look.

“I knew that!” he exclaimed glaring at the other futatsume, who hummed rather pleased.

“Sure you did~” soon they reached their destination. Chuuya raised an eyebrow. A bar? They were still 16 , could they even drink? Dazai grinned at him, motioning to him to come closer.

“It’s fine, as long you pay and they have food too, Chuuya, no need to order anything like that anyway~ We can have food and some tea if you prefer that~” his companion frowned slightly “Or maybe you are scared?” the brunet added using his last restort, his hands sneaking to throw an arm across his head, so his breath would settle just on his ear.

“What would I be scared of?” Chuuya tried to seem unfazed for now, but Dazai knew his habits like the back of his hand having growing up with him for so long, when Chuuya was nervous, he would grab onto his right sleeve and roll it betwteen his fingers. Something, he was doing just now. Dazai leaned clsoer making it sure, that his friend could feel the smirk on his voice.

“That you will lose to me. Are you up for a challenge, Chuuya? Or will you run away, hm?” Dazai asked in a darker tone and that was when he was grabbed by the hair and moved forward so Chuuya’s lips were just above his ear.

“Bring it on.” the growl just right to his ear made a shiver run down his spine and something darker shine in his eyes.

“Just what I wanted to hear!” and with that pulled back “Now, let’s do this!” they entered the shop. They ordered food first, as Dazai insisted that they shouldn't do this with an empty stomach, they needed to be able to walk back after all. When the drinks first came, Dazai didn’t hesitate at all and took a few sips. However that was not the case for his friend.Chuuya looked at his own cup with an expression of incredible focus and ferocity that made his partner laugh.

“Chuuya, it won’t kill you or anything~ Really, you must be so scared~” Dazai coaxed him as he tapped his fingers against the wooden table. Dark blue eyes turned to stare at him with a flame so strong that his breath almost hitched in his throat. Chuuya lifted his cup.

“Watch me.” and downed it in making Dazai stare in shock before he laughed at the other’s idiocy.

“Sure you can handle that, Chuuya?~”

“SHUT UP!” he exclaimed loudly “This is nothing!” and with that he filled his cup again “This burn is nothing! Huh, like I would lose!” and with that he gulped it all down,tasting the sake on his tongue. Dazai shook his head and drank a bit from his own cup.

“If you say so~” it wasn’t much later that Chuuya was slurring against his ear and shouting loudly in the shop that the pair had to excuse theirselves. Chuuya leaned on Dazai so he would be able to walk.

“See, Chuuya, you were so easy. Makes sense, nobody drinks like that on the first time.” the storyteller muttered under his breath as they crossed the bridge. It was late now, so less people were around.

“Shuuuut upp.” was the only response he got. Thankfully, their home wasn’t too far from there. Dazai opened the door and dragged Chuuya into their shared room.

“There we go.” he basically threw him across the futon, before letting a sound of relief. He hoped the red haired would just fall asleep now, but as he was ready to leave to grab something, he was pulled down harshly by his right hand, so he landed on the futon next to Chuuya with a groan of pain.

“What was that for?” he questioned turning to stare at Chuuya who was taking off his outer kimono, slowly. Maybe it was the alcohol in his system, but the sight of him undressing slowly under the moonlight made his heart twist.

“I won.” Chuuya said simply as he leaned forward “It’s hot so I am taking this off. I want to get my prize.” he added with his eyes clouded as his gaze buried into the other’s form.

“Well, you didn't really win but whatever, what is it that you want?” Chuuya paused llooking to the side flustered making Dazai raise an eyebrow “So?” Chuuya murmured something under his breath but he couldn’t hear it.

“Huh?” Say it louder.”

Chuuya just growled and pulled him forward clashing his lips against Dazai’s. Brown eyes became open wide as hands reached to tug his hair applying force. He felt unable to breathe, his hands stayed motionless on his side as Chuuya sucked out the oxygen out of his body. When he pulled away, a trace of saliva connected their lips. Their breaths came out in loud pants.

“Shuuji.” his true name being whispered hotly right after what just happened, really wasn’t good for his health. But when did Dazai care about his health anyway? He wanted to hear it again. Chuuya looked so beautiful right now.

“Yes?” his voice came out slightly hoarse. He felt heat suffoating him. The alcohol. Yeah. Totally the alcohol. The other licked his lips before he spoke.

“Kiss me again.” he moaned softly leaning forward.

Fuck.

Dazai no longer cared, if it was the alcohol or if the attraction he always had towards Chuuya, all he wanted to do was kiss him until he left him breathless. He pushed him against the futon caging his smaller body with his arms, loving the surprised gasp that left his target. His gaze darkened.

“As you wish, Chuuya.” instead of kissing him on the lips, he aimed for somethimg more risky. He had no experience whatsoever but, he knew that Chuuya’s neck was sensitive and that he hated other’s touching it. He let his breath ghost all over it before kissing it. The sound that Chuuya made to his actions was heaven to his ears, as he sucked on it more.

“Fuck.” this time it was Chuuya who let out a curse in the midst of pleasure.That was when Dazai realized that this would be his demise. But well, it was a good way to go. Burning this sight into his memory. Of Chuuya’s pale neck being decorated by marks he made, of how wide his eyes were, of how much fucking wrecked he looked. Dazai didn’t care, if he would go to hell at the moment, as long as he had this.

Since that night, their relationship changed. They kept it hidden from everyone else, only when they were alone, their true feelings would show. They said their first words of love a few days later, Chuuya in an embarassed murmur as he slept on Dazai’s side and Dazai while playing with his hair as he fell asleep. They continued to practice hard every day and apppear at local theaters, now as futatsumes they had more costumers waiting to see them act. It was rather satisfying. The seats would be almost full in both cases. It sure was a satisfying sight.

Year: 1939.

Dazai had been wanting to find more works to cover, as he chatted with other fellow storytellers, the name Shinigami caught his attention. It was a story about how a doctor who always seeked money, one day a shinigami appeared in front of him. It sounded more like his type of story, the chilling ones were always his favourites. He decided to try it out.

As he crossed the busy streets of Kyoto, he could feel the uneasiness in the air. His own gaze turned colder as he read one of the newspapers that were handed to him. The wheels were turning. War was starting. The alliance that had been done with Germany since a few years ago was finally set into motion. Japan would plunder and take more territories. Expanding its power, so everyone would bow their heads to them.

Dazai threw the newspaper away as he noticed a familiar hat standing nearby a shop. Chuuya had taken the job of a waiter so they could get a slightly bigger apartment, Dazai had teased him about how he looked on the unifrom countless of times, but Chuuya enjoyed the dress up. Of course, Dazai had invited himself to the restaurant more than once just to annoy his lover. This time however he knew that his shift was over.

“Hey.” he called out as he let a gentle smile appear across his face. Chuuya smiled at him but his was much more forced. They walked back together.

“Hey.” Chuuya hummed back wanting to do nothing but rest in his lover’s arms “I heard some stuff on the shop...will we be alright?” the worry was crystal clear and it made sense. The sense of doom was slowly approaching.

“We will just do what we do best.” Dazai assured him “Perform.” Blue eyes rested on his form, hesitantly interwining their fingers as they reached their papartment.

“You are right.” he agreed in a soft voice before grinning “Let’s see who will become a shuuinichi first.”

“Oh Chuuya, of course it will be me. I have an ace up my sleeve.” that caught his interest and shortly he raised his eyebrow.

“Oh?” Dazai smirked.

“Its a secret.”

“Bastard.”

“You know you love me~” and with that he wrapped his arms around Chuuya’s form, inhaling his scent of cigarette and rose. A muffled idiot was heard but it only made him grin wider.

“I am your idiot though~”

“Oh, shut up you sap.”

Chuuya soon couldn’t take it anymore, after a day of hard work, he fell asleep in Dazai’s arms. Fingers run through his hair in soothing motions as the night came.

Year: 1940

War finally broke out. Orders were sent out. Even the performers were affected. Some would be sent to entertain the soldiers. Chuuya was chosen as well. Dazai had insited to go with him, but his own post was on Tokyo to ease the civilians. Chuuya was needed to make soldiers laugh so they can hold ou t a bit more. He would be sent to Manchuria. That night, they had a fight but soon they found themselves returning to each other.

“Hey, Chuuya.’ Dazai said as the night sky was covered with clouds hiding the moon from their eyes.

“Hm?”

“Promise me that you will come back.” its a uiet murmur and Dazai doesn’t look at him in the eye.

“Dazai...”

“We still haven’t become shuunichis, haven’t we? You need to be here to celebrate with me when I win, so...promise me you will do that.” Chuuya le out a sigh, hiding his eyes with the outer side of his palm, trying to hold back the tears,.

“You are an idiot...” the usual insult was said in a slightly choked tone, because he knew like Dazai did, that war was cruel and would take away lives without any mercy “I...promise..”

A few days later Chuuya left. It left an emptiness in Dazai’s chest, unable to hold back the terrible unease he had, he kept performing and memorii zing scripts. Letters would arrive from Chuuya every few months.

Year: 1943

It was a snowy winter night in Tokyo. The war was cruel, he needed to do his best and entertain costumers as much as he could. He walked into the stage his footsteps being followed by the sound of Koto playing and people clapping. It was mostly elders as well as women and children. Men were sent to fight after all. Dazai smiled at the audience before sitting down on the small mat. Next to him was a candle and a small fan. The candle’s flame was dim but he didn’t notice yet.

“Ah, hello there. Thank you for coming on such a cold winter night.” he said before standing up. His eyes stared into the audience as he started reciting.

“Overtime things fall in and out of fashion, yet the world of the gods never changes.” he took off his coat, making his voice sound hostile as everything began. It was the story of a Shinigami. (Perforamance)

The story unfolded slowly and a darkness was surrounding Dazai slowly. All he could see was the light of the candle. It represented the human life, the shinigami laughed in his mind as he tried to make the flame stay alive. It was futile.

“It’s going out, your life will disappear.”

“SHUT UP!”

The light trembled and a wide grin spread across his face as it died out. He was left alone in the abyss.

“See....it went out...” he drawled out slowly his voice turning daker and hoarse. The crowd errupted in cheers amazed by the perfomance. Dazai wore his smile again, his first mask before bowing his head again. He went home feeling empty and dead inside, he needed to remain alive for Chuuya’s sake if anything. He wished the Shinigami would just leave him alone. That night, his dreams showed the crashing waves taking his body away, until it had all faded away.

A letter arrived on his doorstep that very morning.He rushed out and teared the letter open, agonizing unable to hold back any longer. It had been months since he had received a letter from Chuuya. He was so relieved, he could almost start crying now.

The file fell from his hands and his knees were too weak to hold him with a thud he found himself lying on the floor, still clutching onto the paper so hard it almost started getting teared up apart.

“Nakahara Chuuya was killed in the last bombing of December.”

“That can’t be true.” denial washed over him as the smilling face of his lover appeared o n his mind, replaced by a lifeless corpse with a hole across his chest.

“Shinigami.” he uttered out in shock he tried to stop the twars from falling, he couldn’t breathe. “Shinigami, why did you take him?! Why didn’t you take me instead?!”

Dazai laughed as he hid his face with his hands.

“Ah....that’s right....Chuuya...we promised woe would be always together, didn’t we?” with each step he took he was getting closer to the balcony, the house he was staying had a view over to the river. Brown eyes stared down without any emotion in them.

“Let me be with him, Shinigami. Let me rest in his arms.” He stood on top of the balcony, before letting the water swallow him whole.

Chuuya....I will find you...even in death.

The end.

#soukokuweek #soukoku week #soukoku #dachuu #day 3: historical au #nakahara chuuya #bungou stray dogs #bsd #bungo stray dogs #dazai osamu #chuuya nakahara

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writerspink · 5 years

Text

K-12 Words

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capture remark western outcome risk current bold compare resident ambition arrest furthermore desire confuse accurate disclose considerable contribute calculate baggage literacy noble era benefit orchard shabby content precious manufacture dusk afford assist demonstrate instant concentrate sturdy severe blend vacant weary carefree host limb pointless prepare inspire shallow chamber vast ease attentive source frantic lack recent distress basic permit threat analyze distract meadow mistrust jagged prefer sole envy hail reduce arena tour annual apparent recognize captivity burrow proceed develop humble resist peculiar response communicate circular variety frequent reveal essential disaster plead mature appropriate attractive request congratulate address destructive fragile modest attempt tradition ancestor focus flexible conclude venture impact generosity routine tragic crafty furious blossom concern ascend awkward master queasy release portion plentiful alert heroic extraordinary frontier descend invisible coax entrance capable peer terror mock outstanding valiant typical competition hardship entertain eager limp survive tidy antonym duplicate abolish approach approve glory magnificent meek prompt revive watchful wreckage audible consume glide origin prevent punctuate representative scorn stout woe arch authentic clarify declare grant grave opponent valid yearn admirable automatic devotion distant dreary exhaust kindle predict separation stunt

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evade debate dedicate budge available miniature petrify pasture banquet pedestrian solitary decline reassure nonchalant exhibit realistic exert abuse dictate minor monarch concept character strategy soar beverage tropical withdraw challenge kin navigate purchase reliable mischief solo combine vivid aroma spurt illuminate narrator retain excavate avalanche preserve suspend accomplish exasperate obsolete occasion myth reign sparse gorge intense revert antagonist talon aggressive alternate retire cautiously blizzard require endanger luxurious senseless portable sever compensate companion visual immense slither guardian compassion escalate detect protagonist oasis altitude assume seldom courteous absurd edible identical pardon approximate taunt achievement homonym hearty convert wilderness industrious sluggish thrifty deprive independent bland confident anxious astound numerous resemble route access jubilation saunter hazy impressive document moral crave gigantic bungle prefix summit overthrow perish visible translate comply intercept feeble exult compose negative suffocate frigid synonym appeal dominate deplete abundant economy desperate diligent commend boycott jovial onset burden fixture objective siege barrier conceive formal inquire penalize picturesque predator privilege slumber advantage ambition defiant fearsome imply merit negotiate purify revoke wretched absorb amateur channel elegant grace inspect lame tiresome tranquil boast eloquent glisten ideal infectious invest locate ripple sufficient uproar

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apprehensive dialogue prejudice marvel eligible accommodate arrogant distinct knack deposit liberate cumulative consequence strive salvage chronological unique vow concise influence lure poverty priority legislation significant conserve verdict leisure erupt beacon stationary generate provoke efficient campaign paraphrase swarm adhere eerie mere mimic deteriorate literal preliminary solar soothe expanse ignite verge recount apparel terrain ample quest composure majority collide prominent duration pursue innovation omniscient resolute unruly optimist restrain agony convenient constant prosper elaborate genre retrieve exploit continuous dissolve dwell persecute abandon meager elude rural retaliate primitive remote blunder propel vital designate cultivate loathe consent drastic fuse maximum negotiate barren transform conspicuous possess allegiance beneficial former factor deluge vibrant intimidate idiom dense awe rigorous manipulate transport discretion hostile clarity arid parody boisterous capacity massive prosecute declare stifle remorse refuge predicament treacherous inevitable ingenious plummet adapt monotonous accumulate reinforce extract reluctant vacate hazardous inept diminish domestic linger context excel cancel distribute document fragile myth reject scuffle solitary temporary veteran assault convert dispute impressive justify misleading numerous productive shrewd strategy villain bluff cautious consist despise haven miniature monarch obstacle postpone straggle vivid aggressive associate deceive emigrate flexible glamour hazy luxurious mishap overwhelm span blemish blunt capable conclude detect fatigue festive hospitality nomad supreme

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exclude civic compact painstaking supplement habitat leeway minute hoax contaminate likeness migration commentary extinct tangible originate urban unanimous subordinate collaborate obstacle esteem encounter futile cordial trait improvises superior exaggerate anticipate cope evolve eclipse dissent anguish subsequent sanctuary formulates makeshift controversy diversity terminate precise equivalent pamper prior potential obnoxious radiant predatory presume permanent pending simultaneously tamper supervise perceived vicious patronize trickle stodgy rant oration preview species poised perturb vista wince yearn persist shirk status tragedy trivial snare vindictive wrath recede peevish rupture unscathed random toxic void orthodox subtle resume sequel upright wary overwhelm perjury uncertainty prowess utmost throb pluck pique vengeance pelt urgent substantial robust sullen retort ponder whim saga sham reprimand vocation assimilate dub defect accord embark desist dialect chastise banter inaugurate ovation barter muse blasé stamina atrocity deter principal liberal epoch preposterous advocate audacious dispatch incense deplore institute deceptive component subside spontaneous bonanza ultimate wrangle clarify hindrance irascible plausible profound infinite accomplish apparent capacity civilian conceal duplicate keen provoke spurt undoing vast withdraw barrier calculate compose considerable deputy industrious jolt loot rejoice reliable senseless shrivel alternate demolish energetic enforce feat hearty mature observant primary resign strive verdict brisk cherish considerate displace downfall estimate humiliate identical improper poll soothe vicinity abolish appeal brittle condemn descend dictator expand famine portable prey thrifty visual

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stance vie instill exceptional avail strident formidable rebuke enhance benign perspective tedious aloof encroach memoir mien desolate inventive prodigy staple stint fallacy grope vilify recur assail tirade antics recourse clad jurisdiction caption pseudonym reception humane ornate sage ungainly overt sedative amiss convey connoisseur rational enigma fortify servile fastidious contagious elite disgruntled eccentric pioneer abet luminous era sleek serene proficient rue articulate awry pungent wage deploy anarchy culminate inventory commemorate muster adept durable foreboding lucrative modify authority transition confiscate pivotal analogy avid flair ferret decree voracious imperative grapple deface augment shackle legendary trepidation discern glut cache endeavor attribute phenomenon balmy bizarre gullible loll rankle decipher sublime rubble renounce porous turbulent heritage hover pithy allot minimize agile renown fend revenue versa gaunt haven dire doctrine intricate conservative exotic facilitate bountiful cite panorama swelter foster indifferent millennium gingerly conscientious intervene mercenary citadel obviously rely supportive sympathy weakling atmosphere decay gradual impact noticeable recede stability variation approximately astronomical calculation criterion diameter evaluate orbit sphere agricultural decline disorder identify probable thrive expected widespread bulletin contribution diversity enlist intercept operation recruit survival abruptly ally collide confident conflict protective taunt adaptation dormant forage frigid hibernate insulate export glisten influence landscape native plantation restore urge blare connection errand exchange

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feasible teem pang vice tycoon succumb capacious onslaught excerpt eventful forfeit crusade tract haggard susceptible exemplify ardent crucial excruciating embargo disdain apprehend surpass sporadic flustered languish conventional disposition theme plunder ignore project complaint title dramatic delivery litter experimental clinic arrogance preparation remind atomic occasional conscious deny maturity closure stressed translator animate observation physical further gently registration suppress combination amazing constructive allied poetry passion ecstasy mystery cheerful contribution spirit failed gummy commerce prove disagreement raid consume embarrass preference migrant devour encouragement quote mythology destined destination illuminating struggle accent ungrateful giggle approval confidence expose scientist operation superstitious emergency manners absolutely swallow readily mutual bound crisp orient stress sort stare comfort verbal heel challenging advertisement envious sex scar astonish basis accuracy enviable alliance specific chef embarrassed counter tolerable sympathetic gradually vanish informative amaze royal furry insist jealousy simplify quiver collaborate dedicated flexible function mimic obstacle technique archaeologist fragment historian intact preserve reconstruct remnant commence deed exaggeration heroic impress pose saunter wring astound concealed inquisitive interpret perplexed precise reconsider suspicious anticipation defy entitled neutral outspoken reserved sought equal absorb affect circulate conserve cycle necessity seep barren expression meaningful plume focused genius perspective prospect stunned superb transition assume guarantee nominate

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install reticent corroborate regretfully strength murder concise cunning intention holy satire query confused progression disillusion background mundane abrupt multiple enormously introduce emulate harmful pragmatic pity rebut liberate enthusiastic elucidate camaraderie disparage nature creep profitability impression racist sobriety occupy autonomy currently amiable reiterate reproduce cripple modest offer atom provincial augment ungratefully expansion yield rashly allude immigration silence epitome exacerbate somber avid dispute vindicate collaborate manufacturer embellish superficial propaganda incompetent objective diminish statistics endure ambivalent perpetuate illuminate phenomenon exasperate originality restrict anxiety anthropology circumstances aesthetic manufacturing conventional dubious vulnerable reality precedent entity success term critical repair underscore stepmother republican hesitantly classic wary contents prediction immediate invoke notorious implicit excluding input skeptical foster element punish frank humanity profound dessert orthodox substance disappear encourage neighborhood elder superfluous naive ascertain complacent resilient deafening military tend prudent glare acceptance skillfully induce monster beam gullible conciliate vessel petty cantankerous disclose archaeology anecdote disdain electronics substantiate subjective tourism advisable joyful incredible provocative psychological ruins discipline condone indifferent misfortune judgmental industrialize tasty assume astute mission mar protective definitely escape oppress shocked virtual zealous endorse qualification hostile eccentric abstract disparate geographical scrutinize generalization tolerate activity claim dogmatic influential obsolete extol implausible subsequent resource chronic benevolent improve confidential ambiguous seriously dearth perplex hatred throughout dine contemporary evoke essentially economic flagrant obscure alleviate eloquent dreaadful clumsy sympathy victim condemn vigor condescend spontaneous quell reprehensible substantially sleeve equivocal ironic decry errand articulate progressive eradicate refreshments elicit aspiration recently exemplary bribery theoretical disingenuous partisan revere particle nostalgia self-aggrandizement debunk tyranny rhetoric hierarchy warning whimsical venerate commend assert miserable awful vibe constrain undermine explicit differentiate compliment scrupulous contempt erroneous ideal refute imply cynical rash presume insight revival vary delay renounce indignant offensive temperate circumstantial export peep logo advertise suppress distort chunk convoluted denounce overwhelming fertility rigorous acquire arrogant university antagonize profitable indulgent strategic breathing idiosyncrasy profession frugal discern accommodation adversary incredulous disturbance digress social belie roam smug continual pertinent voluntarily elite subtle blame sincerity lick horror censure involvement candid infer futile impetuous exploit bewilder sustain diligent sincere protect sealed musical empathy callous parenthetical insure acorn sarcasm seize sacrificially allege emphatic irrelevant progress diplomatic stunned improvise deride reconcile meticulous deject scientifically incontrovertible pressure justify gloomy depict supplant endurance analogous diary bolster slip contemplate pesticide glow religious advocate negligent creator lament fundamental embrace throne inherent inferior valuable thrive trivial pretense reserved capricious refresh refusal flight boost explanation coherent prevalent tenacious official royalty assassin rub poach delete

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warrant circumscribed somewhat explosive optimistic mandate previously detract opinion intuitive feasible intimate persistent humble simplicity tempt deliberate painful unethical fundamentals discrepancy remorse pessimistic possibility conclusion acknowledge impregnate soberly creation paralyze suitability oblige tranquil medal arbitrate pacify illusory susceptible vibrate vengeance infection democratic stressful grave speculative sample identification stifle obligation revenge organization namely mediocre practical scream weaken consensus affectionate deficient treacherous console isolation ingenious memory melodrama despair awestruck composition regret recommendation celebrity decision devoid opaque ornamentation longevity participate dread restore interrogate aid accordingly mislead embarrassment optimism domestic apt funds virtue geography fundamentally thoroughly press despite horrible chilling rental esteemed disappointment innovative contemplation assign popularize haunt deafen serene percent estrangement suffer extravagant throng estimate comment priesthood mass dreadfully promote periphery animated saying relate clarity triple derivative succeed distortion register suicide improvement discreet inquisition probable curative incident praise convenience baffle covet dreadful genuinely weary undisturbed disgruntled humility renown nonchalant monopoly comedy vague decisive inconsequential announcement fabricated nevertheless vigilant scarce neglectful hushed attainment tedious explode snatch pslm agency sentimental tension adhere meanwhile sacred avert conformity likewise challenger accessible responsibility peril contact event roast fallible catastrophic competitor violate resolute deceive exaggeration discredit intolerable approve paste dimly novelist demeanor norm politician satisfaction obvious vehicle reservation defer involve restoration crush audible assistant backpack attain inanimate commemorate confrontation emigration parasite disperse quantitative laughter policy vulgar occasionally repay effective eulogy starvation empty therapeutic overall immortal encompass inappropriate opportune engagement illustrate turmoil observatory classification expression reminiscence comedian invention depress remedy protagonist gesture texture diplomatic election prolong conducive emotional invigorate curiosity expressive %

K-12 Words was originally published on PinkWrite

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