#he was also selling a cobblestone flooring so i bought it

[echo-goes-mmm]

Silas and Wren 2.0 #2

Masterpost

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Warnings: none

Master quickly paid, and soon he was unlocked from his chain. The other slaves eyed him with pity, and it didn’t help the worry growing leaden in his stomach.

The streetlamps were already lit when they left, casting their warm glow on the road. 

The fresh air was a welcome change from the warehouse, but it was rapidly cooling, and he shivered as Master led him through the streets. 

“What’s your name?” asked Master, startling him.

“W-whatever you want it to be, Master.”

People kept looking their way, and he kept his eyes lowered and head down.

“Well, what did your mother call you?”

“W-wren,” he said, teeth chattering. His worn clothing wasn’t enough for the chilly air, and the cobblestone roads were freezing on his bare feet.

“Then that’s your name,” said Master, looking at him from the corner of his eye.

“Thank you, Master.”

Wren tucked his fingers under his arms as Master stopped to browse at a stall selling street corn.

It smelled delicious, but he couldn’t understand why they stopped.

Master paid for a cob of the grilled corn, and handed the tinfoil package to him.

“You look cold,” he said, “and you should eat.”

Wren took it gratefully, and the hot corn kept his hands warm until it was cool enough to unwrap. It was nice to know his new Master was a generous type.

He nibbled slowly to make it last. His feet were still freezing, but he’d had worse.

When the crowds had thinned, he took a better look at his Master.

He was handsome: tall, with dark hair and gray eyes.

Many of his old masters weren’t nearly so beautiful, and maybe that would make bed service more bearable.

But he was also a vampire, and there was no way to tell how that was going to go. He half expected to be hypnotized already.

Master walked in long strides, seemingly in a hurry to get home, and Wren had to work to keep up.

He was surprised when a half hour into the walk, Master stopped in front of a narrow townhouse.

He pulled a key from his jacket pocket, and unlocked the door, ushering Wren in.

It was dark inside, the windows covered in thick blackout curtains to presumably block out the sun, and Master opened them to let in the light from the streetlamps.

The house was nice, certainly, but it wasn’t the infamous nest in the upper city he had heard about.

Was Master a lone vampire?

He didn’t voice his thoughts, instead keeping quiet as Master pulled candles from a shelf in the living room.

Wren waited for Master’s first orders, but Master didn’t seem interested in bedding him yet.

“Are you hungry?” asked Master, searching for matches. “I bought food, but I, uh, forgot to make something.”

“I’m alright, Master,” he said politely, confused.

Master turned, matches in hand. “Oh good,” he said, smiling sheepishly. “I don’t think I can cook anyway.”

Master lit one of the candles, the dim glow casting his face in warm yellow. “I’ll show you to your room.”

Master had prepared a room for him? His heart sank as he thought of chains and cages.

Wren chewed the inside of his cheek in worry as he followed Master upstairs to the second floor, and then up another, smaller staircase.

There was a short, narrow hallway, and then a door that led to the attic.

“I know it’s not much,” said Master, putting the candles and matches on a table off to the side of the door. “But it’s something.”

Wren stood stunned for a minute, taking it in. 

“It’s beautiful,” he said truthfully.

The room was small, with a low cozy ceiling, and Wren loved it immediately.

There was a circular window across from the door, with parted blackout curtains that let in moonbeams.

A bed sat below it, with a nightstand. A rug was under that, with a blue and cream design.

There was even a small, low bookshelf against the right wall with books, and a plush chair to sit in.

He couldn’t read, but it was a nice thought.

“I’m glad you like it,” Master said. “I- um- I’ll let you rest. I know you sleep at night, but...”

“I’ll work on it, Master,” he promised.

“Thanks,” he said, smiling. “I’ll be downstairs, if you need anything.”

Master closed the door behind him, and Wren was left alone.

___________________

He woke up late in the morning, sunlight streaming through the attic window.

Wren tried to go back to sleep, to prepare for the night ahead, but he didn’t have much success.

Soon he was too hungry to stay in bed, and he went downstairs to look around.

A closed door on the second floor was probably Master’s room, and he peeked into a couple cracked open doors to get his bearings.

A full bathroom, claw tub and everything, was on the right, along with a linen closet and a guest room.

Downstairs held a kitchen, living room, and dining room. There was a backyard, with a high fence and a small patio, and Wren briefly smiled at the idea of Master mowing a lawn.

His stomach grumbled, and he cut the exploring short to cook a quick meal.

The kitchen had brand-new pots and pans, a tea kettle, and an untouched stove and oven.

The cabinets were stocked with food, and there was fresh meat and vegetables in the ice box. The most surprising item was a spice rack that was stocked with more than he knew existed.

There was no way he could eat all of it, even within a week.

He would have to ask Master not to buy so much.

Wren started on a pot of rice, and pulled out some broccoli and chicken from the icebox.

He looked for some olive oil, and found it in a cupboard above the stove.

It was nice to work without someone looking over his shoulder. He had served in kitchens before, a long time ago, and had watched the cooks as he washed his Master's dishes. Now he could do the cooking, which had always seemed more interesting.

Wren pulled out spices at random, sniffing them to figure out what to put on the chicken.

He was having fun, really, but cooking wasn’t the quietest chore.

He glanced up at the ceiling, and hoped Master couldn’t hear him as he chopped the broccoli.

Over the years, and after many masters, he had learned that a beating on the first day was bad luck.

The rice came out a bit undercooked, but it was his first time and no one else was eating it.

He ate slowly, wondering what his new Master was like. He seemed nice enough, but a bit… odd.

Was that the vampirism, or was he just unused to giving orders?

And why didn’t he have a nest?

taglist: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @secretwhumplair @freefallingup13 @mylovelyme @whumpzone @paintedpigeon1 @haro-whumps @whumpthisway @fanastyfinder @extemporary-whump @susiequaz12 @keepingwhumpwiththekardashians @the-cyrulik @morning-star-whump @writereleaserepeat @annablogsposts @tobiaslut

#slavery whump #my writing #whump #silas and wren #vampire whump

[delusional-mishaps]

everyone buying overpriced pitchforks from pierre after i make them live the same few hours because i messed something up so i reset the game

#THERE WAS A CUTE MUSHROOM WALLPAPER THAT PIERRE WAS SELLING #and i had a grass flooring and i thought they would look cute together #he was also selling a cobblestone flooring so i bought it #and then i put the GRASS FLOORING IN THE WRONG ROOM #MULTIPLE TIMES #not to mention having to restart the game twice because of a bug 😩 #except clint sent me an iron bar and the last time i reset (i got everything right this time 😰) it was a gold bar! #anyway i can only image the hell i put them through the past hour <3 #i hope they enjoy it <3 #stardew valley #sdv #jesters ramblings

[imaginesmai]

Peter Parker - See the light (7)

Is it a bit shorter? Yes. Is it a bit more sentimental? Of course. Be prepared! If you know the film, this goes a little bit different, becuase Peter deserves some love!

Small sneak peek 

First part

Second part

Third part

Fourth part

Fifth part

Sixth part 

Plot: after all this years, you’re finally going to fulfill your dream. Having Peter by your side is surely the best way to do it.

You had some expectations for the kingdom, but that didn’t help your jaw form dropping when you finally caught sight of it. You were completely speechless. You didn’t bother to pick up your hair as you bounced as quickly as you could across the stone bridge and towards the kingdom. The sun beamed down, and distantly, you could hear the sounds of music drifting through the air.

Peter, who had been holding your hand the whole trip there, let his smile drop. He wasn’t fond of the city, where all of his dreams and hopes had been crushed. Still, he let himself be pulled along by you.

When you entered the kingdom limits, you were immediately surrounded by people. The city seemed to be throwing some magnificent festival. A child ran by you, and you watched as he knelt in front of a huge mural on a wall close by. A man and a woman were depicted in the painting – both standing tall and regal. Both also incredibly beautiful.

In the woman’s arms, was a tiny baby. She had long, curly hair, big bright eyes and looked happy; with a piece of jewellery on her head that looked far too big. The kid placed a small flower in front of the mural.

“For the lost princess” he mumbled.

You were about to go over and ask what he was doing, when a particularly hard tug on your scalp made you lose Peter’s grip and reel back, yelping. Looking back, you saw people stepping all over your hair, and soon you lost Peter trying to avoid all that tugging. The boy immediately lunged forward and started picking it all up, his arms quickly filling.

Peter looked around for a split of second before smiling. He moved your hair and you walked with him, rubbing the back of your head painfully.

“Hey kids!” Peter called out, catching the attention of a group of small girls. He didn’t say anything, just showed them his hands full of hair. He raised his brows, and the girls shouted in excitement.

Soon enough, you were sitting on the cobblestone while five girls ran around you, braiding your hair and lessening the weight. Peter sat besides you all the time, talking about everything and nothing. He told you about the memories he had there, facts about some places and explained some things you still didn’t understand.

When you were finished, you span around. Your hair was collected in one big braid, formed with smaller ones that had pretty flowers and ornaments in between. It almost reached the floor, but it wasn’t long enough for people to step on it. Peter babbled all the way while he payed the girls and tried to tell you how pretty you were. After some embarrassing tries, he gave up.

“I could show you what this festival is really about” Peter offered you his arm, blushing. “Y-you’re, well, you… you’re already the prettiest girl here. W-would be, uh, a shame if I d-didn’t show you o-off?”

That time, Pascal wasn’t close to stick his tongue on his ear, and Maximus was busy trying to watch out for crime. To Peter, you had always had some kind of special beauty; but there, morning sun just shinning for you and curious big eyes looking up to him, you looked ravishing.

Maybe, it was his chance to kiss you. He had never been too good with women, apart from the girl he had dated back then; MJ, threatening and self-sufficient. Peter had been the one guidable in that relationship; but now, he knew you knew nothing about them. Kissing you felt suddenly wrong, taking that from you, your first kiss.

So, swallowing down the urge of pressing his lips against yours, he took your hand back and starter walking towards the group of people who were dancing.

For the next hours, you danced. Peter taught you the main steps to the popular dance, and was by your side the whole time; holding you closer, spinning you around, laughing with you when you stepped on him. The sun slowly came down, as you learned more about the city. Peter bought you a small flag from a traditional post, and let you try every food you found on your way.

Maximus and Pascal appeared long into the day, when you were hanging from Peter’s arm. To end the night, the boy had decided to surprise you. You were laughing with him when suddenly you stopped. The sun was setting and you were in front of the water.

“What is this, Pete?” you asked.

“Best day of your life. Thought I might give you something to remember your birthday.”

Peter gestured to a rowboat tied close by. Maximus huffed behind you, and Pascal frowned. Together, you climbed inside the boat and watched as Peter showed you how it moved. The animals emitted some noises.

“Here, fetch” Peter said with a grin. He threw an apple onto the dock, landing at the horse’s feet. When it didn’t make a move to eat it, Peter continued. “If you’re worried  about if being stolen, don’t be!”

Maximus still glared at Peter, but ate it anyway.

“Besides” Peter said, leaning in so only you could hear him. “He already ate all the stolen ones”

You laughed, and Peter smiled. It was silent for a while, only interrupted by your occasional offer to take the paddles. He used that time to think that, if there was a thing that he could do until he died, it would be spending every minute and second by your side. The girl that had managed to steal his broken heart and fix it.

When Peter stopped the boat, it was dark. The moon and the starts were being reflected on the water, and the lights of the kingdom could be seen in the distance; besides that, you were barely able to see his face. You had your doubts about the final ‘surprise’, and were a bit nervous about not being able to see the flying lanterns because of it. Yet you trusted Peter, and if by any chance you lost the opportunity to see them, but got to watch him talk excitedly for another hour, it was okay. You weren’t going to ask for a better birthday present.

“I – uh, it’s a bit soon” Peter scratched the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, I didn’t really measure the time. I thought –“

“It’s okay” you leaned forward and took his hand in yours. “We can wait”

“Mh” Peter didn’t say anything else, but stared at your hands.

In comparison, yours were much more soft, and perfect. His were full of scars – at least one of them – and bruises. You watched him fight with his mind for a while.

“I had fun today. A lot” you smiled, even if he wasn’t looking at you. “The dancing was – wow, I didn’t know something so wonderful existed. I want to repeat that again.”

Peter’s head rose up at your words, and he looked surprised. Against what you thought, Peter hadn’t forget about the deal; you watching the flying lanterns, and him getting his crown back. But, against what your mother thought, it wasn’t his only intention. Everytime he thought about you, he thought about the possibility of staying. Of actually staying with you for the long run.

He could see how much your mother had hurt you over the years, and secretly hated the idea of you going back to the tower. Peter wondered that, maybe, if he could keep you away with the money he got from the crown. Selling it would be difficult, but worthy if it gave him the chance of having a future with you.

His interests, his dreams, had changed; he no longer wanted the sunny island with loads of money. In his opinion, a crazy chameleon and a girl with magic hair was enough, wherever that was.

You took his silence as something negative, so you frowned and your shoulders slumped.

“Not that I could” you looked down. “Mother will be worried, and tonight are the flying lanterns. So tomorrow morning I –“

“You could stay with me” Peter blurted out. He worried not being enough for you, but a future with your mother could only be worse. He shifted towards you. “I know – I don’t have much, but it’s better than being locked in a tower”

You blinked surprised at his confession, and gaped. The world seemed more illuminated, or maybe it was just your eyes being used to the dark. But you could see every detail on Peter’s face; from his little, almost invisible, mole under his left eye, to the way his thin brows couldn’t stay neat. He had his jaw clenched hard, lips pressed in a thin line. And his brown eyes, burning with hope and determination, were boring into you.

Peter didn’t let you talk.

“Don’t answer me now” he rushed, and brought his hand to his lips. He was blushing, yet held a confidence that made you blush. “Just – think about it”

You were going to ask him how were you supposed to sit in an unmoving boat, with him and no other distraction, and say nothing about it. But soon, the first two lanterns appeared floating through the air, and your breath caught in your throat.

You knew what came next.

The air is suddenly flooded with hundreds upon hundreds of lights, all of them much bigger and brighter from the ones you saw from your window. The world glowed, and you felt content. Happy, because it was everything you had hoped for; just as you thought so, you turned to look at Peter.

He was already looking at you with a half-smile, and two lanterns of his own. The boy moved so that you could also fit on his side of the boat, and you sat beside him. Your shoulders brushed and his warmth evolved you.

“For you” Peter said softly, and gave you one. It had beautiful and elaborated purple draws, only matching the beauty of the moment and Peter turned his head and talked close to you. “Sometimes – you know, uh, sometimes you h-have to let go. Freedom is about letting go, Y/N”

Everything that had been built for years, locked on the tower and dreaming of the lanterns, broke up that night. Maybe it was because of his words, because of the encouragement and the possibility of taking your on decision of them. Your fingers un-curled around the bottom of the lantern when Peter leaned forward, tilting his head so that your noses didn’t touch, but your lips did.

The lantern wasn’t being held down anymore, as your fingers lost strength when Peter kissed you. And Peter’s one flew away, because he used his hands to cup your cheek and search for your own. Both of the lights became one of the flying mass that commemorated the missing princess. To them, might had been only another year of flying lanterns.

To you, was letting go of the weight that had chained you to the tower for years. The pain, the fear, it all melted away as Peter pulled you close, and crashed his lips with yours once more.

Want to know more about me? Here is my Masterlist! Feedback is always appreciated!!

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#peter parker #peter parker imagine #peter parker one shot #peter parker x reader #peter parker tangled au #peter parker disney au #peter parker au #tangled au #disney au #avengers imagine #avengers one shot #avengers #avengers x reader #avengers disney au #avengers tangled au #spiderman #spiderman imagine #spiderman one shot #spiderman x reader #spiderman tangled au #spiderman disney au #spiderman au #avengers au #tom holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland x reader #tom holland one shot #tom holland disney au #see the light #i see the light

[thelovecore]

To The Races Part 2 -Tommy Shelby-

I just felt a need to make a second part to this, to kind of wrap up this little thought I had.  Tommy Shelby x Fem Reader

Masterlist

Part One

_______________________

I had been working for Tommy for a few months, taking care of his horses while watching over my pony he took in from my father. My family heavily disapproved of me working for the Shelbys, insisting they were rotten people and I was going to get them in a load of trouble. I moved out into a small place of my own, since Tommy was paying me very well. Tommy had also been taking me to the races more often, and after some time, took me to a horse auction.

“See that one there?” I said, pointing to a lanky dark bay horse. Tommy looked up, putting a cigarette between his lips. He nodded in response.

“If you put some weight on him, he’d be wonderful. See how his back is short? That means he’s a smooth ride. He’s got nice straight legs on him too. He just needs fed properly.” I said. Tommy looked over the horse as we walked closer. The bay looked at us, his big brown eyes scanning the two of us. Tommy finished his cigarette and put it out on the cobblestone floor of the auction barn.

“How old is he?” I asked the man holding the thin horse.

“Bout to be three. He’s not our farm’s best, there’s a colt a few behind that looks better...” The man started but Tommy waved him off. Tommy picked up the horse’s front leg and inspected his foot.

“I’ll buy him before he hits the auction floor.” Tommy said, reaching into his coat. “How much?”

“Well, sir, I do recommend the other colt...” The older man started, wiping sweat off of his forehead.

“I don’t want the other colt, I like this one.” Tommy said. “Two hundred pounds?”

“Oh, Mr. Shelby, I won’t take more than a hundred for this one.” The old man said. Tommy handed over the money and I took the rope from him, guiding the tall bay to the transport truck we had brought.

“You really have faith in this one?” I said as I loaded him. He was so quiet.

“He’s so calm. That colt he wanted to sell us was dancing all over the place. I want this one to be yours.” Tommy said as we climbed in the front seat. I was taken back.

“Tommy, he’ll be yours, into the training program.” I said.

“You can’t ride that old pony forever.” Tommy said as he started the engine. We silently left the auction yard.

“Thank you so much, Tommy. I owe you everything.” I said.

“You can repay me by marrying me.” Tommy said, keeping his eyes forward on the road. “Consider the bay a wedding gift.”

“Tommy...I...I...” I stammered, looking over at him, feeling tears in my eyes. Of course my feelings for Tommy had grown in the months working for him, and I had become more comfortable and accepted by his family.

“I haven’t met anyone that shares my love for horses as much as you do. You want to build a whole branch of the Shelby empire on the track, which is great for my business. You have to admit, we work together very well as a team. It makes the most sense that you stop being my hired stable hand and become my beautiful wife.” He said, finally glancing over at me as a huge smile formed on my face.

“Tommy, of course I’ll marry you.” I said, leaning over and kissing his cheek. The corners of his mouth barely turned into a smile, but to me that meant the world. I felt one of my tears slip and roll down my cheek. I smiled out the window as Tommy and I pulled the truck into the stables and I hopped out quickly to unload the horse. Tommy followed me slowly, watching my interactions as I stroked his neck and spoke softly to him.

“Have you picked a name yet?” Tommy asked, lighting a cigarette. I looked at Tommy, and back up at the horse, and back to Tommy.

“I like Sonny.” I said.

“Than Sonny it is.” Tommy said. I took him to a stall next to Toby, who lifted his head above the door to sniff at the newcomer.

“You’ll always be my first love, Toby.” I said, ruffling the mane of the pony over the door. Tommy walked up behind me and put his arms around me.

“We’ll build a name for ourselves at the track, just you and me. Not Shelby Company, just Tommy and Y/n Shelby.” He whispered.

“I’d like that very much.” I said.

“How about we go to the Garrison and celebrate? I told the family what I was planning today, so they’re already there.”

“Of course.” I said. We got into Tommy’s car and went straight to the bar.

We were greeted with shouts and a huge hug from an already drunk Arthur.

“He finally did it! Ol’ stone-faced Tom finally found himself a woman!” Arthur said, ruffling Tom’s hair and pulling me into a tight embrace.

“Welcome to the family.” John said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

Polly smiled and handed me a drink, raising her glass to me and Tom. Tommy actually had a smile on his face, looking over his family and fellow Blinders.

“To Tommy and Y/n!” John shouted. Everyone raised their glasses and Tom and I looked at each other. I fell so deep into the blue eyes I had been met with on the day my father was going to shoot my pony, and I couldn’t believe those eyes were going to be with me for the rest of my life.

Our wedding night was very similar to the night at the Garrison, but with more dancing. Arthur and John barely let me sit down, and just when I got to take a breather, Ada pulled me up for the next dance. Every now and then, I’d glance at Tom, who was smoking with Polly, and my heart would skip a beat. As the evening was winding down, Tom pulled me close to dance with him.

“I think you’ve danced with my brothers more than me tonight.” He joked.

“They wouldn’t let me sit down.” I giggled.

“I love you.” Tommy whispered.

“I love you too, Tommy.” I said. We danced slowly next to the fire, until everyone had gone to bed or passed out on the lawn. Tommy and I went back into what was now our home, and almost immediately fell asleep.

“Easy, Sonny.” I said, pulling the handsome bay up as we rode near a small creek. I stopped and let him get a drink, taking in the cool breeze and closing my eyes in the warmth of the sun. I pulled the horse’s head in the direction of the house and rode up as I saw John pull up in his car. I dismounted the horse and saw Polly as she got out of the passenger seat, smiling.

“Feeling alright dear?” She asked as I wiped sweat off of my forehead. I nodded and John got out of the car, carrying a box.

“He should be home within the hour. Just take this to the stable then?” John said. I nodded, smiling.

“Thank you both for coming to be here for this.” I said. “I’m worried how Tommy will take it.”

“He’ll be fine dear.” Polly said. “Let’s get this horse put away.” We followed John in the direction of the stable and I slid the saddle off of Sonny’s back. John had set the box he was carrying in front of Toby’s stall. The old pony was currently out to pasture, but I called him up when I turned Sonny out.

Toby trotted up gently, and I put a rope around his head and lead him towards the barn. John was smoking a cigarette, far away from the barn, and yelled to Polly and I that Tommy was home.

“Tom!” We heard John yell. If we didn’t let Tommy know where we were, he would have just gone in the house and started drinking whiskey. Polly and I stood with the pony, my heart racing a million miles a minute. Tommy strolled across the lawn with his brother and looked and Polly and I quizzically.

“What’s all this? Why do you have the pony?” Tommy asked.

“I bought something for him, it’s in that box. Can you take it out for me? I’d like to try it on him.” I said nervously. Tommy walked over and opened the box and pulled out a small child sized saddle. He looked from the saddle to me. I smiled bashfully, unaware of how he was going to react to the news, if he was even putting it together at all. Tommy glanced at Polly, who nodded, and then put the saddle down and hugged me.

“Are you…really...” He whispered in my ear. I nodded into his chest, and he gripped me tighter. Polly took the pony and put him back in the pasture. Tommy kept his arm firmly around me as we walked back up to the house. John called the rest of the family to come over for a celebratory dinner.

After dinner, the family was getting ready to head home for the night and Tommy and I were left in the sitting room on the couch together.

“This is real, isn’t it?” Tommy said, resting a hand on my stomach.

“Yes. I’m nervous, Tom.” I said. He shifted his gaze to look at me, and in those eyes, I felt peace.

“You’ll do wonderful, love.” He said.

“Finding out about this baby has really made me think Tommy. If it weren’t for you, not only would I not be Mrs. Shelby, but I wouldn’t still have my childhood pony to teach my child to ride on.” I said, tears slipping down my face. Tommy reached up and wiped them away.

“That pony was the best fifty pounds I’ve ever spent.” Tommy said, kissing me softly.

#tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #tom shelby #tom shelby x reader #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinder headcanon

[somenewsarah]

Goodbye For Now

Requested: Yes: “Hi I love your work! I was wondering if you could do a Draco Malfoy x reader. Where they’re at Malfoy Manor during deathly hollows. And the reader has always been best friends with the trio so she’s with them and hasn’t seen Draco since they left. And they aren’t really dating but they kind of act like it sometimes I guess and everyone (people at Hogwarts and trio)  knows they like each other and kind of just say they’re dating. But could you have them get brought in and the death eaters want her because she’s pretty and she needs help from Draco but he can’t break their cover to his parents or anyone. But he takes her to his room and kisses her and wants to keep her safe and she hears Hermione and is scared but needs comforting, but then has to leave with the others and Dobby. And they share a final kiss before she touches they others to teleport and Draco gives her his ring or something cute idk. Idk hahaha. I know it’s so much. Please do whatever you need to do to make it simpler.”

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Reader

Genre: Angst/fluff? Maybe? Idk hahaha

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 2.4K

The Burrow is in full swing, and you’re just doing your best from getting swept up in it. At this particular moment, you’re hanging decorations in the garden with Hermione for Bill and Fleur’s wedding, who you weren’t particularly fond of.

“If you had told me during the Triwizard Tournament that I’d be decorating for that heinous creature of a girl’s wedding, I’d have laughed in your face,” you huff, using your wand to straighten out the fairy lights.

“The only reason you don’t like Fleur is because Draco made comments about her,” Hermione snickers.

“That’s not true,” you gasp, trying to hide your smile from her. “I don’t like her because she’s a ditz. She was the first one out of the second task, and the first one to quit the third, and the Goblet thought she was the most qualified for the tournament?”

“You’re not exactly wrong,” Hermione laughs, stringing photos along the fairy lights. “But also because Draco made comments about her.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “Sure, we’ll go with that.”

“You can’t hide from it forever, Y/N. Everyone knows you fancy him, and he you.”

“I might fancy him, but he definitely does not return it,” you scoff, trying to shrug off the wave of hurt that it brings.

“Oh, of course, because Harry kisses my forehead, gives me shoulder massages, carries my books, buys me expensive gifts all the time, and defies his entire upbringing just to be my friend. Sure, he doesn’t fancy you.”

“Hermione,” you sigh. “We’ve had this conversation before. It’s nice to be able to be with him the way we are at school, but other than that, there’s no realistic chance of us making anything of it. You know how his parents are. I’m not a muggle-born, but even half-bloods aren’t good enough for them. It’s pure blood or nothing. Besides, his parents don’t even know I exist to him.”

“Oh, so you’re Malfoy’s dirty little secret, then?”

“’Mione,” you groan, throwing the rest of the hangers at her. She laughs, but doesn’t push the subject any farther.

“Come on, this is finished. We need to get ready for the wedding. Have you picked out a dress yet?”

You had. Coincidentally, you’d complained to Draco about the wedding before summer rolled around, before all the awful things with Albus Dumbledore happened and Draco took part in his death, and he’d bought you a dress to wear. You’d never tell anyone where you really got it, but it was the most beautiful piece you owned. You almost felt bad- you could never condone Draco’s lifestyle as a Death Eater, even if he didn’t truly want to be a part of it, but you did love the dress.

It was an emerald green silk with a lace overlay. The neckline scooped down to an almost inappropriate length, but stopped short; it was enough to show that you had some cleavage but not enough to be asked to change by Mrs. Weasley. The bottom of your dress flowed around you toes, and your hair fell in waves around your shoulders. A crown of baby’s breath and lilies adorned your head, and you kept your makeup light.

“I thought Fleur was the bride,” Fred Weasley jokes as you make your way downstairs.

“Oh, Y/N, that dress is just darling!” Mrs. Weasley exclaims. “You must tell me where you got it from!”

“It was a gift,” you lie swiftly. “From Hogsmeade I’m sure.”

“It looks lovely. Run back upstairs and hurry the boys along, yes?”

“Absolutely,” you smile. You turn on your heels, heading back up what felt like twenty flights of stairs to hurry along Harry and Ron.

“Y/N,” Hermione calls from your shared room with Ginny Weasley. “Could you come help me?”

You enter the room, looking at her from head to toe.

“Hermione,” you exclaim. “You look fantastic! I think everyone coming is looking to show up Fleur, and for good reason.”

“Oh, stop it,” she says, waving you off. “Help me zip this, yeah?”

~

The wedding goes off without a hitch. You spend most of your time at the reception dancing with Harry, Ron, and Hermione, with the occasional slow dance with one of the twins. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley really knew how to throw a party, and Bill and Fleur make their rounds, thanking everyone for coming and for all their help, even though now wasn’t really the greatest time for a celebration.

It comes so quickly you don’t even realize that it’s there. A glowing blue orb announcing that the ministry has fallen. Death Eaters fill the tent, and at once you search for Draco. You’re able to run out of the tent, knowing that what was going to happen; Harry had filled you all in about his search for Horcruxes in his fight to destroy Voldemort once and for all, and you were going with him.

Draco is waiting for you outside. You rush to him, knowing you only have seconds before you must go.

“I’m going with Harry,” you say quickly. “I won’t be at school, so don’t look for me. Please, Draco, don’t come looking for me. Do what you have to do.”

“Be careful. You know he only wants to kill Harry. Promise me you’re going to be careful,” he rushes, his fingers in your hair, holding you head steady.

“Draco, I promise.”

“They’re going to hunt him. If you see them, run. Find a way to let me know where you are, and I’ll come get you. I promise you this,” he says, kissing your forehead softly. Although the inside is chaos and people are running around you as if you aren’t there, you feel a wave of calm. “I knew that dress was the right one.”

“Now’s not the time,” you smile. You lean up wrapping your arms around his neck for a brief hug. He kisses your cheek. “Be safe. I have to go.”

You release him and turn back to the tent, willing yourself not to look over your shoulder. If things went south, you’d find him.

~

The Horcrux hangs around your neck. You’re irritable and angry and you’re snapping at everyone, but it was the only way to keep it safe until you could find a way to destroy it. Ron had long since gone, and Harry and Hermione were more on edge each day.

“Here,” Harry says, holding his hand out to me. “I’ll take it for a while. Give yourself a break.”

“Fine,” you sigh. You rip the Horcrux from your neck and place it in his hand. The coldness almost instantly leaves your body, and you drop back onto your cot, resting your hands over your eyes.

“Get some sleep,” Harry whispers, trying not to wake Hermione. “I’ll take the first watch.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

~

The rustling of the leaves catches your ear. Hermione stands next to you, looking out into the deep forest covered in orange leaves.

“Someone’s out there,” Hermione whispers. “I don’t know who it could be.”

“We need to run,” you whisper back, looking over your shoulder at Ron and Harry. “We aren’t safe anymore.”

“They won’t be able to see us. We’re protected by an invisibility charm.”

“What if they’re wizards? Won’t they know we’re here?”

Before she could answer, though, they materialized, and you’d never felt more afraid in your entire life. Snatchers. Many of them, too. They start down the hill, stopping to listen for any signs of movement of human life.

“He said it, didn’t he?” Hermione sighs. The name ‘Voldemort’ was taboo. Anyone who said it had an automatic trace on them, and Harry had just let it slip again.

“He did,” Ron says.

Suddenly, one of the snatchers is at the wall of the invisibility charm, and almost like he knows that it’s there, he knocks through it. The wall crumbles.

“Run!” You shout, taking off in the direction opposite the gang. Hermione and Harry are hot on your trail, followed closely by Ron. There were only three wands between the four of you, and you use your own to fire spells at the snatchers, trying to knock them off your tracks.

~

Your arm burns, fingernails dig into your skin, and your head pounds as your hauled up the cobblestone path of Malfoy Manor. It’d been hours since you’d been caught, and you were praying for some way for Draco to get you out of this safely.

You’re brought inside and dumped on the floor in front of Bellatrix. She walks straight to Harry, whose face had been disturbed past the point of recognition.

“Is it him? Is it the Potter boy?” Bellatrix asks, kneeling in front of Harry. “Oh, to be the one to bring Harry Potter to the Dark Lord!”

“Don’t forget who really brought him in,” the snatcher sneers. “I’ll be expecting my reward.”

“Yes, yes,” Bellatrix dismisses. “Draco, come here. Maybe you can tell us who our new friends are.”

Draco is pushed forward from the shadows, and your heart leaps. He makes eye contact with you briefly, and you can see just how scared he is. You shake your head, silently begging him not to sell Harry out.

“I- I can’t be sure,” Draco stammers, looking between Harry and you. Bellatrix notices the flicker in his eyes.

“Ah, and who is this? We have Weasley, the blood-traitor. Granger, the mudblood. And you, the pretty one,” she spits the word as if it were dirty.

“Please,” you beg once, your voice drowning out. “Draco!”

“Draco?” Bellatrix asks, a lilt in her voice. She eyes the Sword of Gryffindor in one of the snatcher’s hands and quickly immobilizes them. “Why don’t you dispose of this one, dear nephew. Someone take the boys to the cellar, I want to have a little chat with our friend here, girl to girl!”

Peter Pettigrew is quick to pull Harry and Ron to the cellar, and as he does, Draco roughly pulls you to your feet, putting on quite the show of pushing you out of the room, out of view from the other Death Eaters and his parents. You look back at Hermione, your eyes wide as Bellatrix remains in her face.

You’re pulled into the parlor, away from the scene unfolding in the sitting area, though Hermione’s screams don’t go unnoticed. Draco’s grip softens on you and he quickly pulls you into his arms.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, stroking your hair. “I’m going to get you out of this, I promise.”

“Draco,” you whimper, holding onto him. “I tried to run and fight them off so I could get to you, but there were too many of them. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be, Y/N,” he whispers. He pulls you back, rubbing his thumb along a small cut on your cheek. “This won’t last forever. I’m going to get you all out of here.”

“But what about you?”

“I have to say,” he says, his eyes imploring your own. “But I’ll come and find you. It won’t be forever.”

You nod, resting your forehead on his shoulder. You shudder as you hear Hermione’s deafening screams, and Draco holds you even tighter.

“I’ve been working on something for you,” he says. You pull away from him, and he opens his front jacket pocket and removes a silver chain with a little encrusted ruby in the center.

“Draco, it’s beautiful,” you say, taking it in your hands.

“It’s not just a necklace. Use it to let me know you’re safe. It can send messages to my room that can’t be taken or intercepted,” he says. He takes the necklace from your hands and clasps it around your neck carefully. “I studied all year long last year with Flitwick to get the charms down to enchant it for you. We should head back soon, but don’t lose that, no matter what you do.”

“Is this goodbye?” You ask, looking up at him.

“It’s only goodbye for now,” he says, holding you at arm’s length. “When this is over and done with, I will come and find you, Y/N. We’ll finally be together, because I don’t think I could bare it any longer if we weren’t.

Hermione’s screams quiet down, but not for long. Suddenly, a loud crash rings throughout the manor.

“Draco?” You start.

“We’re out of time, my love,” he smiles at you sadly, then kisses your forehead, his lips lingering on your skin. “That’ll be your ticket out. I’m gonna make a show of bringing you back in, but I won’t hurt you, okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper, your eyes watering. Draco grabs your arm again and you’re pushed out of the parlor and back into the sitting room. You struggle in his grasp, forcing his hands from you as you run to the other side of the room, in between the spells being thrown around, to join Harry, Ron, Hermione, Griphook, and Dobby.

“You stupid elf!” Bellatrix exclaims. “You could’ve killed me!”

“Dobby never means to kill,” Dobby explains. “Dobby only meant to maim, or harm, or seriously injure.”

Narcissa Malfoy is the first to move. She rounds her wand above her head, but before she can even fire a spell, Dobby snaps his fingers, and her wand is in his hands.

“How dare you take a witches’ wand!” Bellatrix exclaims, huffing up. You eye Draco, offering him a small smile as tears fall down your cheeks, your heart pounding. “How dare you defy your Masters!”

Dobby straightens up. “Dobby has no masters. Dobby is a free elf.”

And with that, he snaps his fingers once again, and you’re pulled from the manor.

~

Harry sobs over Dobby’s grave, but you can’t find it in your heart to cry anymore. Hermione has been quiet ever since ‘mudblood’ was engraved into her wrist. Ron does his best to comfort her, but it’s really no use.

You walk to the ocean alone, feeling the sand between your toes. Your fingers involuntarily reach for your neck, and you feel the necklace that Draco clasped around your neck just before you could escape with the others.

You rub the ruby softly, holding it between your fingers as it begins to warm up and glow. You lean down, whispering into it: “Goodbye for now, Draco. I’ll see you on the other side.”

And on the other side you did.

 @painttedskies

#Draco Malfoy #draco malfoy angst #draco malfoy smut #draco malfoy imagine #draco malfoy fluff #Harry Potter #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter imagine #hogwarts #angst #fluff #golden trio

[mystiphying]

Moonlight Music Bar

↳ CHAPTER ONE

PAIRING: Producer!Chanyeol x Singer!OC SUMMARY: Park Chanyeol stumbles into a small bar downtown that happens to hold the most captivating voice he's ever heard. CHAPTER THEMES: Angst-ish, Alcoholism CHAPTER WORD COUNT: 1.1k

⇢  MASTERLIST 

  Late nights downtown were beautiful; couples wandering around, street lights dimly lighting the cobblestone streets, and best of all the Moonlight Music Bar (月光音乐酒吧). Calming tunes, beautiful melodies, and warm liquor brought in different people every night, and the regulars.

  And Park Chanyeol.

  Laying quietly on the uncomfortably small sofa, his few friends argued over dinner plans, Chanyeol nodded to the music playing through his earphones. The two were one against one, staying in versus going out. They couldn't figure it out between themselves so they brought in a third and final decider.   "Okay, you have the deciding vote." Baekhyun said, directing his attention to the lanky body sprawled across the sofa. Both sets of eyes were on the one who couldn't really care less. He had been like that for the past few months. All his friends were becoming fed up with his out of character quiet, depressed person who had replaced their friend. And, if he was honest, Chanyeol was getting fed up with himself. Chanyeol pulled a cord, plucking half the music from his ears. The two watched the boy expectantly, hoping for a straight answer.   "Out." he muttered, slipping the earphone back in his ear as he stood up. Sehun groaning in defeat as Baekhyun silently celebrated victory. Chanyeol walked to the old upright piano that had become a shelf, grabbing his wallet and the keys to their shitty car. The three caught the lift down to the garage and went to the car Sehun slipped into the backseat, Baekhyun in the driver’s seat and Chanyeol in the passenger seat. Head in his hand, Chanyeol blankly turned the dial on the stereo, tuning the radio to whichever station wasn't playing the same three songs over and over again. Baekhyun slapped Chanyeol's arm away, as it sat dangerously close to the gear stick, as Sehun slouched lazily in the backseat telling the two older boys about good clubs he'd visited with their other friends while he scrolled through his phone.   "Where was it?" Baekhyun asked from behind the wheel. Chanyeol turned his head to the youngest, then looking to Baekhyun, a smirk playing the driver's lips.   "Near Jongin's place."   "Ah, there are a lot of gay bars around that area."   "Only you'd know, Baekhyun."   "I don't want you to forget that you're younger than me."   "But I'm taller."

  The childish and maybe distasteful banter died down as they reached whichever restaurant it was they decided to eat at. The car light flicked on as Chanyeol opened the door to get out. After deciding on their usual place, the boys quickly ordered, agreeing to share a few dishes and ordering the cheapest alcohol the restaurant sold. They stayed relatively tame through their meal, you know, for slightly drunken young men. But no matter how many beers and laughs the boys shared, after the high died down, Chanyeol still felt the emptiness he'd felt constantly over the past few months lingering at the back of his mind. He felt he had lost meaning in his life. He still worked on and off, producing and selling songs he'd never sing himself, empty sounds and lyrics, that somehow, companies still bought. But there was just no soul, no passion, the very things music thrives on. Everything except his state of mind was okay. But he didn't know how to fix it.

  As the youngest boy chatted up the waitress, they discussed whatever came up. Chanyeol concentrated on the empty bottle in his hand, tapping in and out of the conversation here and there. By the time they decided they'd better be heading home, Sehun had managed to get the waitress' number and his last beer on the house. As they exited, eyes were on Chanyeol for the second time this night, still expecting from him.   "Aren't you coming home?" Sighing, Baekhyun knew Chanyeol would end up hungover at the door in a few hours anyway. Baekhyun pulled Sehun into the car muttering things that they've all heard before. And this was how Chanyeol spent his nights; filling his emptiness with alcohol.

  Now, he was wandering down quiet streets, hands in his pockets, breath wispy and warm, his cheeks slightly pink. Chanyeol's eyes searched for an open bar. At the end of the cobblestone street he had somehow found himself walking down, a small tavern like bar glowed against the dark cafes around it. An older couple exited as Chanyeol's curiosity made his legs walk faster. The soft muffled sound of blue beats almost echoed through the street, though only at a low volume. The tasteful neon light laced sign shone, advertising the bar's name. The music died out slowly as Chanyeol's cold hands pushed open the door, his heart dropping, disappointed the music had stopped.   "Are you still open?" He asked in a small voice. A woman behind the bar, dressed in a surprisingly smart fashion, nodded, welcoming the tipsy Chanyeol. Ordering a glass of whatever he fancied in that moment, Chanyeol observed the small bar. Warm, dimmed lamps lit the room, as well as a crackling fireplace. You could smell wooden tables, stools and floor. The warm ambience was welcomed by his cold body. But what really caught his attention was the dusty piano and stage, a microphone stand standing alone, a spotlight shining over the microphone. A few people sat scattered around the room watching the stage expectantly.   "She'll be on soon." The barkeep spoke as she passed the glass to the coaster she'd set on the table.   "Who?" He asked. The barkeep laughed in response, as if Chanyeol was meant to know what was going on in a bar he'd never even heard of.   "You'll see." Chanyeol looked at her then over to the stage, confused. "And then you won't be able to not come back." 

  Cool glass in hand, Chanyeol waited impatiently. When ten minutes had ticked by, Chanyeol decided to prepare to leave. The tall man slid his arm into the sleeve of his jacket, sighing as he placed a ten dollar note under the empty glass. But as his hand gripped the handle of the door, the instrumental started and the spotlight dimmed. Her slender but full figure stepped carefully towards the front of the stage, fingers wrapping familiarly around the microphone, her head swaying to the music ever so slightly. Soulful, beautiful tones and phrasing slipped her lips, old lyrics reaching the hearts of everyone in the room. Her hips swayed as the jazz instrumental played and Chanyeol's eyes flicked to the absence of piano player. As she started the second verse he sat again, slipping his coat off. Her dress gripped to her body in a ridiculously flattering manner, he couldn't keep his eyes off her. As she sang through the chorus, Chanyeol moved seats to one that was closer to her.   "Thanks for coming to the bar tonight, safe trip home." she murmured into the microphone, bowing slightly as the patrons clapped.

Her voice was beautiful. She was beautiful. And he was infatuated.

A/N: This is also published on my Wattpad! I haven’t had active readers for this fic for a very long time and it’s a story I’m actually kind of proud of. I wrote it ages ago when I was like sixteen? But it’s still incomplete. Thanks for reading!

#chanyeol #park chanyeol #chanyeol fanfic #chanyeol imagine #exo imagine #exo fanfic #exo fanfiction #kpop #kpop imagines #kpop fanfic #fanfiction #writing #exo au #chanyeol au #exo angst #chanyeol angst

[we-built-the-shadows-here]

it’s Snape’s birthday and I’ve been sitting on this for a bit so here is a new fic to close out my fic recs of 2018, and I’m just gonna throw chapter 1 up here on its own!

LD50 (ao3) (ffn)

January 3 1981: Belladonna

Knockturn Alley is full of furtive movement and mutterings even though it is thirty minutes until the newly-imposed curfew and bitterly cold. It is the first Saturday in 1981, and the street has well-hidden inlets and outlets; the people flow through like a river. No one wants to catch the ire of the Aurors who are, even now, certainly watching. Most of the legal transactions still have the sly movements of the illicit; most of the illicit transactions have the easy grace of a carefree conversation. Everyone’s head is covered in hats, scarves, hoods both to stave off the cold and to disguise identity.

That's how Severus hides: hood pulled high, collar turned up against the chill, stubbled chin and telltale nose hidden behind a lumpy wool scarf. It’s cold enough to warrant it. He’s looking at a fogged window at an assortment of cursed books, watching one drag itself to and fro past the others--the one that shakes, the one bound in human skin, the one whose gently shifting cover pattern could hypnotize if you weren’t careful.

The books are a pretense; his real focus is the reflection in the window of the people as they move up and down the street. He straightens when he sees his target: a bright yellow scarf, catching the dim streetlamps in the snowy gloom, strolling slowly down the alley. He jerks his head as the yellow scarf walks past, tugging his own collar tighter, making sure the tiny brass star pin--his own marker for his partner, nicked from a pawn shop--is exposed. He turns, and they fall in stride, looking straight ahead.

“You’re late,” Severus mutters.

“You’ll wait if you need it,” he drawls. “For your little haemophiliac customer, you said? Sad story.” He sounds as if he’s heard about a dozen of them today and gives credence to none. “It’s five galleons, now. Do you have the money?”

“Yes,” Severus huffs, the word making a puff of mist in the cold air. He had hoped for a discount, with the whole cloth tragedy of a sick child woven in, but clearly struck out. Perhaps the man was raising his prices to charge for the lie, as well.

What they are doing is not precisely illegal , which is why the item is not delivered by one and the payment taken by another to thwart law enforcement. But this transaction is also not entirely above-board. Were a Ministry official to inquire after it, certainly no tax would be paid, and Severus knows for a fact that the brewer would not be certified. There are a number of reasons not to be certified, though; one could be unable to find a Master to apprentice to, or one could be a registered werewolf or vampire or half-breed of some description, or one could simply lack the galleons.

Even galleons themselves are muffled where Severus holds them between his fingers, and the flagon of potion is swaddled in dirty canvas. They pass hand to hand with ease, and Severus takes the vial easily even though nerves have his fingers shaking. He’s bought ingredients from the black market like this, but never a finished potion before, and it feels less like a transaction between fellow professionals and more fully illegal, which means more frightening, with the Aurors permitted to attack with Unforgivables first and interrogate later.

But there’s more he’s supposed to get, more than just the vial. “Your supplier--” he starts.

But his companion has already turned to go into a dimly lit shop door. The shopkeeper greets the man with a thin smile and the door shuts behind them both, and Severus fights the urge to look after, to look around at all. Looking around is worse than walking alone, but his heart is still pounding. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slow, through his teeth, so it doesn’t make a huge puff of steam; it was clumsy to ask like that, clumsy to pry so openly at the supply chain when he’d only just won the dealer’s trust enough to sell. He has to keep his gait even, step by step, soles slipping on the icy cobblestones. Well, half of Dumbledore’s task was to get blood replentisher. He has blood replentisher. The other half--meet with his new contact and begin some kind of work with them in person--will be more painless. It has to be.

Near the end of the alley he slips into a doorway and, spine rigid with the effort it takes to not glance backwards, he disapparates.

The designated place Dumbledore had indicated is not so far as it might be; he makes two stopovers before coming to rest along the foggy, moonlit street. He walks five long blocks, takes two  left turns, and crosses a street to ensure he isn't being followed despite the fact that there is no body in the darkness trailing him, no footsteps in his ear to betray a follower. It helps calm him, and it is perhaps the only spycraft that he'd managed to think of on his own that wasn’t entirely lifted from a pulp novel. His heels are muffled on the sidewalk by snow and charm, and his dark cloak sucks in the light. He feels like a shadow, and is comforted by the thought.

The dingy, dim muggle lane with its dirty shutters and spindly trees comes to an end and there, in the dimmest corner, is the address he was given. One light is on in an upstairs room. Up the stairs to the door, and Severus pauses at the threshold, tugs his hood closer to his cheeks, and knocks.

The door opens of its own accord. Charmed, it must be. Or a trap. He could walk away. It would be safer. Severus thinks of the light upstairs. They must have heard. Might have opened the door using their own wand. It could be an Auror ambush, or a Death Eater ambush, or an Order ambush from those who embraced the more brutal methods Dumbledore claimed to not endorse.

Severus has scrounged in the dirt for as much information as he could for Dumbledore for over a year: it was, all of it, thin, barely sufficient, little of it actionable. Then, on new year’s eve, an owl carrying Dumbledore’s sprawling script: Acquire a blood replentisher potion and meet your new contact, I have an assignment uniquely suited to your skills. This is your opportunity to gain my trust-- and the date, time, and location, this anonymous, run-down home. He had barely managed to find someone who would sell him the blood replentisher in time for the meeting.

Severus decides that he wants Dumbledore’s trust. It’s the only hope he has of surviving this. He strides across the threshold and shuts the door behind him, throwing the bolt.

Warm light is pouring down the stairs in shattered shapes, carved by a banister, but no light is on in the first room, a parlor with an arm-chair and a fireplace. Dimly through a doorway he can make out a kitchen. He waits to hear someone call or speak, but no one does. When no one appears, he whispers, “Hominem revelio.”

His senses expend for a swooping moment and--yes, someone is upstairs in the lit room. He begins slowly moving toward the stair. A floorboard creaks beneath him and he pauses, briefly.

Someone is humming. The tune is half-familiar, half-remembered, something from the Muggle radio from a long time ago.

Two more steps. Only one room is illuminated, the one he saw from the street, half a bookcase and a desk visible behind the banister. No person. Two more steps, and still nothing. Three more, and he’s at the landing. Four more--

A door with no light behind him flies open and there’s a wand stuck in the back of his neck. “Don’t try anything,” a woman’s voice demands. “Were you followed?”

Snape's head turns slowly. Something very odd is happening in his gut. The seller’s voice had been an intentional cipher, but this one, that voice is-- “Do I know you?”

She scoffs, then. “I said, were you followed?”

“I wasn’t followed,” he says. He could shoot a hex over his shoulder, could sweep her legs out from beneath her, could run. But this is about trust. “I have what Dumbledore asked of me.”

“All right.” The pressure comes off the back of his neck. “You can turn around.”

He very nearly doesn’t want to. He stares for a single, flat moment into the opposite room, lit so well, and curses himself for being tricked, for having a secret, for defecting to Dumbledore, for being so damn predictable.

Then he turns.

There she is: red hair, green eyes, anger, and the reason Dumbledore hadn't told him the name of the handler who would meet him. “You,” he says, pushing all the loathing he has for himself into his tone. “Dumbledore didn't say--”

“Dumbledore didn't say because you wouldn't have come,” Lily Potter says. “Frankly I wouldn't have believed it myself if you weren't standing here.”

He had begged--on his fucking knees in front of the old man--for her life, this exact woman’s life, almost a year ago. Dumbledore had taken the defection and assigned it a price: information. He had paid it, over and over again, through a Protean charmed quill and through the Auror Bones and, very rarely, Dumbledore himself. Too much obvious, direct contact was dangerous to Severus himself. Dumbledore cared at least that much for his life.

He had wondered, briefly, if it was meant to be an Auror sting to lock him up. While gray market potioneering could lose his certification if it happened too many times, it wouldn’t put him in Azkaban, it wasn’t really any more illegal than the woman selling homemade pasties by the train station, and Dumbledore had far worse against him.

Far worse that was now standing before him. Severus spits on the floor at her feet.

Lily wrinkles her nose and glared down at the little wet patch on the carpet, then returns to glaring at his face. “Are you done?”

“I'm not working with you,” he says hotly.

“Fine,” Lily says. “I told Dumbledore you we're better suited to Azkaban anyway, when he gave me this assignment. Glad to know I'm right.”

The idea that she didn’t want to work with him-- that she had been assigned when all of this had been to protect her--and her prophecied son and her dreadful husband--that she might be right -- “Is that what you think,” he hisses, stepping closer.  He has grown since the last time they had stood so close together. He has also learned many things, learned to use his voice better than just to shout, learned to imply violence instead of just reach for the blunt tool first when anger flared, learned to be quick and smart and keep a level head in a fight, which maybe this was shaping up to become. He could look down his long nose at her, eyes narrowed in disdain, thinking you’re nothing to me and make it plain on his face without saying a word. He keeps his tone just barely level through sheer force of will. “You know what I am, then. Perhaps you should think twice before threatening me.”

Her wand must be up her sleeve, the way her finger twitches, as if considering bringing it to her hand. “I don’t think you’re going to hurt me,” she says, voice tight but even.

“The Dark Lord has murdered mothers before, witch.”

“I know he has. I don’t think you are going to hurt me.” Her eyes are fixed on his, even, open, brow knitting back together, but not in anger--in frustration, as if he were being particularly dense. She pushes past him, toward the light. “Come on. Let’s sit in the study. Don’t touch anything. This is the house of a Muggle on holiday so I’d ask you not to make me stage a break-in for him.”

He could leave. He could leave, right now, throw the swaddled potion down a sewer grate, disapparate, go home, get blind stinking drunk and go to sleep on the couch. He could do it right now and likely wouldn’t even suffer for it. Dumbledore wasn’t the kind to punish, not the way the Dark Lord is.

He follows her into the study. She takes the seat at the desk. There is a fat floral armchair that Severus would rather set on fire than sit in, so he stays standing.

“Our assignment,” he says, with all the disdain he can muster.

“Yes. Right.” She pulls a piece of thumbed parchment out of her pocket and sets it on the desk.“You’ve got your Mastery and certification, you’re probably brewing, right?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “There is an artificial shortage in medicinal potions ingredients, Ministry’s throttling imports and increasing hunting down home-herbologists growing ingredients. And there’s an all-time low of potions masters.” Her eyes go narrow and sharp, as if daring him to say anything about why she isn’t one--the marriage, the baby, her blood status and the fact that most potions masters would hesitate even in peacetime to take on a mudblood.

Severus is glaring at the window, at his own reflection and hers. He flicks his fingers at Lily as if he doesn’t care, gesturing in a loop. “Get on with it.”

Her hand on the desk becomes a momentary fist, but then she goes on. “The biggest pinch is blood-replentisher. Even St Mungo's is feeling pinched on that one. The only place that can reliably stock medical potions is the black market and the prices--”

“You owe me five galleons, by the way,” he interrupts.

“Five?” She looks shocked. “Last week the going rate was three.”

“I suppose they aren’t giving me the new customer discount that they offer to Order members,” Severus says bitterly.

“Not to slimy bastards like you, anyway,” she retorts.

He moves to the door. “Tell Dumbledore--”

“Oh, hell, sit down Sev.” She passes a hand across her brow. “I’m sorry, all right. That was uncalled for. You did what we asked.” And then she starts digging in her pocket. “I don’t think I have five. I only brought what I needed. I’ve got a few quid--”

“It’s fine,” he says harshly from the doorway. He can’t exactly afford all five of the galleons but he’s not about to beg for two. There is enough rice in the cupboard, he won’t starve.

She produces three coins and places them in a neat little stack on the desk, as if asking him to come back in. He does. They’re warm to the touch when his hand covers them--the warmth of her body, he realizes uncomfortably. He inspects one. It’s so bright, it must be fresh from the bank, but the mint date is 1716.

Potter gold, then, minted and then put in a bank. That, too, he swallows, and shoves the gold into his pocket. He can feel her watching him and tries not to allow the ugly flush that he knows is creeping up his stubbled neck to reach his cheeks.

“Anyway,” she says, clearing her throat and reverting her gaze to the well-thumbed note. “Fully half the potions the Order managed to source have turned up tampered with or outright poisoned. And they were poisoned really well, even I had trouble when I went through our stores.”

That is interesting. Some Death Eaters had died of tampered black market potions, and they suffered the same difficulties the Order had. Detecting the tampering was a feat in itself, Severus knew firsthand. “And you want me to inspect further? Follow up your work?”

“No,” she says. “Dumbledore wants us to trace the tampering back to their source. Figure out who’s doing it, and why. Maybe even stop them, if we can.”

“I would sooner suggest you stop taking medical potions,” he snaps, rattled by the ambition of the task--and the word us. Himself and her, working together; not the occasional report, but real work.  Low risk spy work compared to the passing of information that he had already done--that would get him killed, this could be played off--but still valuable or he wouldn't be doing it. But then again, he had never been a spy before. His forearm itches, at that thought. He doesn’t reach for it.

“People are dying, Severus,” she says, deadly serious. “We can’t trust anything but charms and you know well as I do that potions are better for the worst of it. People are dying and will keep dying and you and I are the best brewers the Order has. This is our assignment. Do you accept it or do I have to tell Dumbledore that I’m working alone?”

He resents that. It’s not as if he had a choice regardless. “Your first sample, then,” he says stiffly, dropping the cloth-wrapped vial before her on the desk.  “I take it you will require more?”

#snily #sevlily #snape/lily #severus snape #lily potter #my fic #original #fanfic #fic #fanfiction

[maupatron]

Circadian Rhythm

Publicado originalmente en Voices of Mexico

In the artificial glow of electric lights avenues are repaired and sidewalks and public squares are washed. In Spanish we use the passive voice, preceded by “se” when the subject of the sentence is omitted. An action is taking place without a subject. It reads as if avenues, sidewalks, public squares, trees, public lighting, and other infrastructure maintained themselves, as if their state were free. The subjects of such work are rendered invisible on account of their standing as handlers of excesses. It is a job conceived to eliminate what we do not want to see and the workers who do it share the same fate.

Personare from Ana Gutiérrez S. and Diego Martínez on Vimeo.

Keeping a place like Mexico City clean involves repairing, removing, or scrubbing a seething mass of imperfections with no beginning or end. It is the work of hundreds of thousands of hands kept busy so that the rest of us can move through it. Their goal: to remove time that has been transformed into dirtiness; it is a relentless task. Maintain means “to have in one’s hands.” They grasp every square inch of city, tentatively, to make sure it is in good shape; they examine and feel, making sure it is sound. Their work is of such importance that, in times of epidemic, they have been recognized as essential workers. Cleaning crews advance with motorized and manual sprayers and high-pressure power washers, disinfecting the city’s main business districts and subway stations. They spray sidewalks, curbs, street furniture, posts, and handrails with a mixture of bleach and water. Today, cleanliness and health are nearly synonymous, but it has taken hundreds of years to align those two universes to the point where they look alike to our common sense. Understanding health as a consequence of hygiene is a tendency that emerged in medicine in the nineteenth century and is known as “social hygiene.” The social hygiene movement has its origins in the fight against epidemics; it treats people as cells in a larger system, and imposes order and cleanliness not on an individual but on the social body. To eradicate epidemics it manages the population as a whole. Its goal is preventive and it applies medicine on the scale of public policy. Its soul is in the order of bodies. For that reason, social hygiene found its way into the logic of governance, urbanism, and architecture; its application was assigned to groups regulated with military logic: police corps, doctors and nurses, cleaning crews, etc. The social hygiene movement in Mexico City began with the late eighteenth-century Bourbonic reforms. Count Revillagigedo made cleanliness, control, and order his priorities when he took over the government of New Spain in 1789. His reorganization brought with it the first public lighting project; works were undertaken to create the first underground sewer system; paving streets with cobble stones was planned; and the first public transportation system was created, transforming the city’s landscape and health. From this enlightened perspective, the public spaces of colonial life, streets and public squares, should no longer be places to spend time but to move through. People and goods, along with their fluids and soil, should only pass through. These ideas took more than a century to become part of the population’s common sense, first with the Reform laws and then with Porfirian positivism. Prior to this transformation, people used the streets as an extension of domestic life. Public squares were a Baroque whirlwind. It was common to defecate in public, pile garbage at intersections, use the street as workspace for various trades, or set up vending stands. People washed clothing and animals drank from public fountains. People occupied and conducted their affairs in the streets, but Revillagigedo wanted them to be merely a place for movement, where nothing stood still. Inside homes, where people’s private lives played out and which were their preferred space for socializing and entertainment, architecture also underwent notable changes. Priority was given to outhouses and baths; the former were placed on the upper floors far from the rooms, while baths were rooms with tubs for bathing. Maintenance efforts linked private spaces, like the bathroom and kitchen, with the rest of the metropolis. Water, electricity, and telecommunications are services that form a territory over the territory and connect homes and buildings with one another. Hygiene combined personal cleanliness with large hospitals and public health policies. This extension allowed habits to be managed as another form of governance. Order would allow policymakers to make uniform decisions about a larger population in a shorter time. Order is the prerequisite for control. This reordering included a change in the thinking of the city’s inhabitants. Public space began to be seen as a necessary condition for private space and, at that point, urban services began to be a decisive factor in property values. Already hygiene was linked to medical and military logic and its strategies dominated urban planning. The changes that shaped the modern city included many other theories beyond social hygiene, and according to the ideas of the Enlightenment, a clean city was also a beautiful city. In fact, it was in that period that Mexico was named the City of Palaces and people began to feel repugnance toward their own collection of feces, urine, blood, and other fluids. For Mexico to be spectacular, it was necessary to hide its waste, dispose of its garbage, and eliminate its foul odors. The modern city installed its taste, its light fixtures, asepsis, and cobblestone streets, its government of sewers and drainpipes, over a larger, chaotic city. That other city continues to multiply in the incessant hum of activity, cultivates popular culture, and finds ways to survive. That city lacked running water; in its slums and neighborhoods, a wagon still collected its human waste, hauling it away to hide on the outskirts. The social hygiene plan imposed its aesthetic and its morality, but forgot to urbanize, to construct its project, in that other city without palaces and with no court. Today, the fantasy of the city crumbles at every turn. The urban scenery is as thick as a layer of dust. You need only cast your gaze about to find what social hygiene considers imperfect, ugly, and dirty. Crushed soda cans, used pieces of chewing gum, potholes, and cracks in the pavement are the rubble making the way to the other city, where the multitudes in charge of maintenance prepare to make their entrance. When I see cleaning crews at work, I observe that social hygiene has failed as an ideal to extend health to all. Urban maintenance personnel lack decent working conditions; however, their work is what dignifies our lives. To date, some 50 of them have lost their lives to Covid-19. The patterns of our production, consumption, and waste give rhythm, shape, and flow to our communal existence. The city is a hub where increasing population density accelerates exchanges and the production of garbage. However, society places greater value on producing and consuming goods than on disposing of them. Day after day the cry is heard: “We buy mattresses, bed frames, refrigerators, washing machines, microwave ovens, or any scrap metal you want to sell.” In Spanish, the spectral recording uses the impersonal voice of “se,” —these items are bought, “we” don’t buy them—, reminiscent of the waste wagon of colonial times. It is broadcast by a loudspeaker in the voice of those who recycle scrap. You see them only if you have something to sell. When the day’s collecting ends, the cleaning of the whole scenery begins. On the dark side of the day, by law the night shift starts at 10 p.m., an hour defined based on biological time. Night workers contradict their own circadian rhythm; their bodies release more of the stress hormone cortisol, altering their blood pressure, and are forced to change their digestive habits; they sleep much less, either because they go against their natural cycles or because they work a second job by day. On this stage with no audience appeared the first workers of the night, the night watchmen. They were responsible for regulating street lighting, and their position as guardians of the light also made them police-like figures, linking their work to cleanliness, order, and control. In the tenuous glow of the lamplight, a labyrinthine roster of trades before dawn unfurled. Street sweepers, gardeners, cleaners of street furniture, watchmen, restorers, laborers . . . sleepless people, because if they dreamed, the city would fall to pieces. Underpaid and laboring in unsafe conditions, hundreds of workers wield brooms and hoses, drive tank trucks with chemicals, suit up in coveralls, or prepare paint and mortar to restore historic buildings. Plastic barriers and cordons of reflective tape go up in the streets, workers tear up the asphalt carpet while others lay new asphalt or pour cement to pave the sidewalks. It hardly matters that somewhere a dog immortalizes its footprints, because they will do it all over again anyhow. Their job is to erase the passing of time from the streets and bring them back to the present; and the work never ends. The time for cleaning and maintenance contrasts with the time for production, which is why it is usually done at night. The city that makes and spends money should not be interrupted. That city forgets that the city of maintenance has been scrubbing and repairing until sunrise. In the historic downtown, 200 people are in charge of sweeping, applying high pressure water spray, watering plants, and removing graffiti after protests. How must it feel to scrub a “killer government” off marble hundreds of years old? It is thanks to its maintenance workers that Mexico City functions, but they do not even receive a decent wage and benefits. On the contrary, social hygiene has seen to it to classify its workers below the poverty line; they clean and maintain a city they are unable to enjoy. Today, maintenance workers toil through the wee hours, underpaid and underappreciated, resisting a pandemic. Early, as denizens of the daylight stumble about finding our coffee makers, the multitudes of maintenance workers migrate back to the city’s outskirts.

PhD candidate in creative writing at the University of Houston. He writes about outsider or external corporalities; [email protected]

#personare #Ana Gutiérrez #Diego Martínez #cdmx #maintenance art #maintenance #mantenimiento #arte del mantenimiento

[queerwalrus]

Tender Loving Kisses On Your Stab Wounds

He hears them before they reach his bench, two men, quietly bickering, voices saccharine with love, bitter with lust. Their feet crunch across the fallen leaves, marking their progress towards John. He closes his eyes against the possibility that they had bought the police with them.

“Hello, Mister Silver.” purrs the Black Canary.

(The DCTV AU porn absolutely no one asked for in which Thomas and James are superheroes and John runs a supervillain crew)

Read on AO3

John Silver, known to the media and the Star City Police Department as Silvertongue,  stretches his legs out across the cobblestones of the path in Nassau Square, and tilts his head back to look at the stars.

“This seems like a terrible plan.” says Max Gold, aka the Glider, gorgeous as always in her tight black leather, gold gun strapped to her thigh. Her bike is parked next to them, and her helmet is half-hooked over her knee. She’s sitting forward, ready to run.

“It probably is.” John admits. One hand drifts up to his forehead and pushes his hair back, while the other rests on his knee, letting his thumb rub back and forth across the denim of his tight black jeans. “I’m still going to do it.”

“Are they worth potential jail time?” asks Max.

“Those leather costumes are tight enough that I can tell you they certainly are.” says John, leering in his sister’s direction.

“Size Queen.” bitches Max.

“Jezebel.” John shoots back.

“Jerk.” says Max, not without affection.

“Trainwreck.” says John, in the same tone.

“If this all pans out, I want all the details. You’re taking me to brunch on Monday. With mimosas. And you’re paying.”

John grins.

“Naturally. Now leave me be so our local superheroes can kidnap me for a weekend of kinky, kinky sex.”

Max rolls her eyes, but kisses him on the cheek and straddles her bike.

“Be careful, Johnny.” she says, and pulls on her helmet.

“I’ll make sure they know my safe word.” drawls John, and Max looks unconvinced as she flips down her visor and kicks up the kickstand.

John knows she meant he ought to be careful with his heart, and he hasn’t the courage to tell her he’s already lost it.

He hears them before they reach his bench, two men, quietly bickering, voices saccharine with love, bitter with lust. Their feet crunch across the fallen leaves, marking their progress towards John. He closes his eyes against the possibility that they had bought the police with them.

“Hello, Mister Silver.” purrs the Black Canary. John opens his eyes and looks back at the stars.

“Pretty Bird.” he purrs right back. He can feel the Green Captain bristling at the nickname, and he smirks to himself. There are no policemen here. If there were, the Green Captain would be too smug for the nickname to phase him.

“Have you been good for us?” asks John’s Pretty Bird, and John nods.

“Don’t be absurd.” says the Captain, and there’s so much command in that tone that John has to fight his instincts down from sitting bolt upright to a full-body shiver. “There’s not a good bone in his body. He’s a disobedient little shit that we’re going to have to discipline until he submits.”

Oh, fucking hell. John’s not going to be able to walk to brunch with Max on Monday, and he’s going to love every second of the next two days and nights.

“I think he’s perfectly capable of being a good boy, given the right - inducements.” says the Canary. “Shall we test that theory?”

The Captain grunts an agreement.

“Stand up, Mister Silver.” says the Canary. “And then turn around so we can see you.”

John does, and then laughs.

District Attorney Thomas Hamilton smiles back at him, an immaculate and benevolent god in his bespoke suit and black silk tie. At Thomas’ left is returned hero Lieutenant James McGraw Flint, Thomas’ lover and Nassau nightlife icon, looking dangerous in his worn-soft and see through white t-shirt and leather motorcycle jacket.

“No wonder you’re not selling me out to the police.” says John. “Do you think they’ll put us in the same cell block at The Fort, if they catch us all? I could look after you in prison. People are scared of me.”

It’s a lie, of course. People are scared of Charles and his burn scars and wild eyes, and therefore John, as the one ‘holding the leash’ (another lie) is also to be feared, but in a lesser fashion.

Flint smiles, bright and dangerous.

“The police won’t be involved in this relationship.” he says. “But there’s a definite possibility this ends with you being ours.”

John shivers a little, despite the lingering warmth of the day.

“I think we ought to have the rest of this conversation somewhere more private.” says Thomas, his eyes dark. “Knowing what you now know, would you still like to come home with us?”

John looks between them - a returned war hero and a dogged lawyer, an archer and a man whose scream can punch a hole in a reinforced concrete wall - and then looks back up at the velvet sky and the diamond stars.

Fuck it.

“Let’s go.” he says to Thomas, and links arms with him, waving impatient fingers at James until he relents and steps closer so they can all walk together.

“How do you feel about using the color system?” Thomas asks, after they’ve walked about half a block in contented silence.

“As long as I get a hard-stop word, that works for me.” John says. “Are you planning anything that means I might need a non-verbal safeword?”

“Why don’t we establish one anyway.” says Thomas. They stop to wait for a crossing light, and John sneaks a look at James, who is practically glowing with how much he’s blushing.

“What brought that on?” John teases.

“Must you do that in public?” asks James, squeezing the arm he has around John’s shoulder a little tighter.

“Does it bother you, darling?” John says, and then yelps as Thomas pinches his side. “What was that for?”

“Don’t tease, darling. Good boys don’t tease.” Thomas scolds, and then he starts walking again, the lights having changed. John takes a half-second to reboot his brain from the mush it turned into at the timbre of Thomas’ voice, and finds himself towed along in Thomas’ wake.

“I’m not exactly a good boy.” John says.

“No shit.” drawls James.

“But I have to ask,” John continues, ignoring the interjection. “Exactly how bad would you like me to be?”

They make a sharp left turn and start to climb the stairs of a beautiful brownstone. James withdraws his arm from John’s shoulders and fumbles in his pocket for his keys.

“Are you asking how bratty we like our subs?” Thomas inquires, and John grins.

“I absolutely am.”

“That rather depends.” says Thomas.

“On what?”

“On how much you like being punished.” says James, and then he opens the door. “Coming, Silver?”

This last is said in a purr so low it sends shivers up John’s spine instead of down it, and John pushes forward and over the threshold. Thomas and James calmly shepherd him into the kitchen, and then they all pause for a moment.

“So, how are we doing this?” John asks, propping his hip against an expensive-looking marble countertop.

“How do you want to do it?” James asks, and John opens his mouth to reply, only to have James shoot him a glare that makes him realize the question wasn’t directed to him at all.

“I think we should start by seeing just how good he actually is. We can go from there, I think.” Thomas says, thoughtful eyes fixed on the crown molding.

James hums.

“Bedroom?” he asks.

“Yes.” says Thomas. “Come along, darling.”

John follows instantly. There’s something warm beginning to pool in the base of his stomach, something that has been growing for a while but has suddenly ignited. There are hands at his waist now, sliding under the fabric of his t-shirt, and James’ breath is warm against his ear.

“Good boy, Silver.” he purrs, and John shudders and pushes back into his hands, and James laughs and bites at the lobe of his ear and pushes him forward and into the bedroom. Thomas is waiting, his jacket and tie already gone, sprawled in an armchair sitting in the corner.

“Strip.” says James, still pressed against John’s back. John does, but it’s slightly awkward, trying to navigate around James’ wandering hands and biting back moans when James hits on a sensitive spot. Thomas watches, eyes dark, hands resting flat on his thighs, until John is entirely naked and James has his hands on his shoulders.

“Down.” says James, and the commanding voice from the bench is back. This time John doesn’t try to suppress his instincts and rather goes straight to his knees, fixing his eyes on the floorboards in front of him.

“Good boy.” purrs James. “Now, crawl.”

John freezes.

“Come here, darling.” says Thomas, letting his knees sprawl lazily open. John swallows against the roaring lust in his brain and slowly, slowly, creeps across the floor on his knees until he’s seated between Thomas’ still-clothed thighs. “How are you doing?”

“Green.” says John, wondering what’s going to happen next.

“I think that answer was missing something.” says Thomas, suddenly sharp. “Try again.”

John swallows. If that was a taste of what punishment could look like, he’s definitely going to misbehave.

“Green, sir.” he says, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor so Thomas can’t see him planning.

“Good. Is there anything you want from us tonight?”

John knows exactly what he wants. It’s been his go-to fantasy for, at this point, literal years.

“Do you remember the first time you caught me?” he asks. “The both of you, together.”

Thomas smiles, slow and filthy.

“Tell me exactly what you’re thinking about.”

“You’d stopped me, and in order to make sure I didn’t escape while you checked on the civilians, you cuffed me to the bars of the vault. And when you’d made sure there were no injuries you came back down the stairs, side by side in those fucking costumes -”

John’s voice trails off into nothing.

“What did you think?” James prompts. “What were you thinking, Silver?”

“I wanted you to - I wanted - I hoped -” John says, but he can’t make his infamous tongue cooperate.

“Did you want us to take you, Silvertongue?” asks James.

“Did you want us to punish you ourselves?” asks Thomas.

“Did you want us to leave you chained and helpless while we used you?” asks James.

“Well, Silvertongue?” says Thomas, rolling John’s codename off his tongue like a taunt. “Is that what you wanted?”

“Yes.” says John, because it’s true.

“Yes, who?” says Thomas.

John looks him in the eye and very deliberately keeps his mouth shut.

James, behind them, laughs.

“I told you he was a disobedient little shit.” he reminds Thomas.

“I think you also told me we’d have to punish him until he submits.” Thomas observes.

“I did.” says James, and John fights back his grin.

“James, dear heart, what punishment did you have in mind?”

“Let me put him over my knee, won’t you?” James says, and John might almost classify that as a plea. “He’s been begging for a spanking since the first time he opened his mouth in my presence.”

Thomas grins, blinding, and he lifts his hands, palms up, in invitation. John bites his lips and pretends that he wouldn’t beg for this, beg to be the subject of their bickering, beg to be the source of the laugh lines on Thomas’ face, beg to be manhandled by James like this, beg for all of it.

Judging by the glimpse he gets of the look on James’ face, he fails miserably. James pushes him down so his ass is facing back towards Thomas, and John lets his hands fall to his sides, dangling.

“Count for me, Silver.” says James, one hand resting against the middle of John’s shoulders and one teasing across his ass. “You’re going to count for me, out loud.”

“Sure thing.” says John, deliberately casual.

James’ hand cracks down, and John gasps and arches.

“And you’re going to call me Captain.” James says, almost conversational. “Thomas will be Sir. Tell me you understand.”

“Yes -” says John, and waits for a breath, for another burst of hot-pain, before he adds “Captain, yes, I understand, Captain.”

“Good boy.” says James, and John’s whole body twitches in response.

“Would you look at that.” says Thomas, thoughtful. “He wants to be good.”

“I suppose we were both right, to a degree.” James admits. “Time to count, Silver.”

The first strike and the second have a long moment between them, and John counts them with a breathless anticipation - that is punched out of him as soon as three and four and five and six rain down one after the other after the other.

“Six, fuck, fuck.” John pants, and he can feel James’ hands smoothing over his ass.

“What a lovely shade of red he turns.” Thomas observes. James just hums.

“Seven!” gasps John, and rocks his hips against James’ thigh.

“He wants to get off.” James says. “What shall I do about it?”

“Silver, darling, you’ve got two choices.” Thomas says, voice even. “You can come now, and we can put a ring on you for the rest of the night, or you can wait, and suck me off while James opens you up, and then you can come while we fuck you.”

John doesn’t even have to think about it.

“The second one, sir.”

“Good boy.” says Thomas, and John is sure this is going to be how he dies. Put that on the certificate - cause of death: the way Thomas Hamilton’s lips look wrapping around the words, the way his voice echoes with fondness and affection and truth.

“Let him up, dearest.” Thomas says.

“After seven? Let me make it a round ten.”

Thomas makes a contemplative noise, like he’s deciding.

“I’ll make him beg for them.” James wheedles. So that last wasn’t a fluke, Thomas is very clearly the one in charge here. That - well, it actually doesn’t change anything for John. It only clarifies something that had only been partially hidden.

“Please.” says John, because the entire reason he had mouthed off by not opening his mouth was that he actually does enjoy getting spanked.

“See?” says James. “He’s already asking.”

“Alright, James. Round it out to fifteen, if he’s that eager.”

“Oh, fuck.” says John, possibly more of a moan than words.

“And don’t even think about coming.” Thomas adds.

“Yes, sir.” John manages, but the honorific gets cut off by his gasp when James spanks him again.

“Eight!” John yelps, into the resulting silence.

“Turn him around, dearest.” says Thomas. “I want to see his face.”

James drops his hands under John’s stomach and just - turns him. The noise John makes is frankly inhuman.

“Fuck, shit, fuck, please, please, please.” John says. “Seven - seven more.”

“Hush now, Silver, you’ll get what you want.” says James.

“Be good and count for us.” says Thomas.

John does, and each time he counts James tells him how well he takes it and Thomas tells him how good he is. John is shaking by the time they get to fifteen.

“Color, darling?” asks Thomas.

“Gr - green.” pants John.

“He’s still trying to get himself off on my thigh.” says James, the traitor.

“In my defense, they’re very nice thighs.” says John, which draws a laugh from Thomas and another, more playful, spank from James. John hasn’t laughed this much in years.

“I think it’s time we put that smart mouth to better use.” says James, urging John off his lap and back down to his knees. “Get, Silver.”

Silver slides back across the floor to the space between Thomas’ thighs, and looks up imploringly with the same expression Max used as a child to distract businessmen from where John was relieving them of their wallets.

“Please, sir, can I suck your cock?” he asks, batting his eyelashes.

“You’re not Oliver fucking Twist.” says James. “You can do better than that.”

Thomas twines his fingers into John’s hair and pulls until John’s head is tilted back.

“Fuck my mouth, please.” says John. “You caught me, now use me.”

“Is that how you want to play it?” asks Thomas. “Did we catch you, Silvertongue? Have we whisked you away from a heist? Are there millions safe in a vault because you’re here and on your knees?”

John suddenly has no air in his lungs, and Thomas sounds like the Black Canary that John flirts with every time he steals something in the hope that precisely this would happen.

“If I’m good,” says John, “then you’ll look the other way while I slip out of your back door.”

“You think you’re a good enough fuck to get you out of jail time?” says James, and that’s the Green Captain’s voice, the same gravelly growl that has every talk show host in Star fanning themselves.

“I know I’m a good enough fuck.” says John, Silvertongue’s cocky boast floating to the fore.

“We’ll see about that.” says Thomas. “Open up, then.”

John does, and is rewarded with his first taste of either of them. He moans around Thomas’ dick, letting his eyes roll back in his head dramatically. Thomas’ hips roll slow but deep and John drops some of his theatricality in favor of focusing on not gagging, although that doesn’t stop him from making noise.

“Fuck me, he’s loud.” says James.

“He’s enjoying himself.” says Thomas, and his voice sounds strained. John is suddenly reminded of the amount of times Thomas’ screams have bodily moved him, and wonders how they handle the logistics of such a circumstance. “He’s going to make the nicest noises when he’s stuffed full of cock, don’t you think?”

Holy Fort Knox, they’re actually trying to kill him.

“I want to tie him up.” says James. “I want to hang him from the ceiling.”

John tries to say yes please, and although it’s muffled it’s still clear enough to make Thomas groan and James chuckle darkly.

“I’ll get it ready, shall I?” says James. “And you can get him ready?”

Thomas hauls John off his cock with the fist in his hair, and John pants for a moment, resting his forehead against Thomas’ thigh.

“Gonna fuck me ‘til I scream?” he taunts, as soon as he has his breath back. “I thought screaming was more your department.”

Thomas tugs sharply on John’s hair again, pulling until John makes eye contact.

“When I scream, I win.” says Thomas. “When you scream, when you scream for more, and harder, it will be because you’ve lost.”

John whimpers and thrusts his hips against nothing.

“Get up here.” Thomas tells him, manhandling him until he’s seated across Thomas’ lap, thighs spread by Thomas’ own sprawled legs, arms wrapped around Thomas’ neck and clutching at the back of the armchair. He honestly has no idea where Thomas gets the lube from, but there’s slick fingers teasing at him and there’s only so much he can take.

“Oh, fuck,” says John.

“That’s the general idea, yes.” Thomas says. His voice slides sideways into taunting. “Where’s that tongue of yours now? Don’t tell me this is all it takes to get you to shut up.”

“Fuck off, Canary.” says John, without much heat. Thomas spanks him, harder than James did.

“You’d better be more polite than that.” Thomas tells him.

“Sorry, sir.” says John, and doesn’t mean it at all. Thomas shoves two fingers in and then tutts at John as his back arches.

“So easy.” Thomas says, almost a scold.

Listen, John knew this was coming. He’s got himself off once already today. He’d been making it easier. None of that changes the fact that right now all he feels is the stretch and Thomas’ half-mocking, half-appreciative judgement.

“He asked for it - literally.” says James.

John attempts to turn to look, to see what James is doing, if the ropes are set, but Thomas grabs his chin with the hand not otherwise occupied and keeps him looking forward.

“Need a hand?” James asks, and his voice is closer than it had been.

“Why not.” says Thomas, and then John’s arching again because James is opening him up further, and then Thomas sinks his teeth into John’s chest, in just the right place to tease his tongue over one of John��s nipples, and John moans, loud and long and uninhibited, and someone’s finger drags over his prostate in a way that makes him want to yell, and all he wants is more.

“Do you?” asks Thomas, and John realizes he must have said that out loud. “Do you want more, Silver?”

“Yes, fuck, yes.” says John, trying to fuck himself down on their fingers.

“Tell us what you want, beg us for it.” says James. A pair of fingers nail John’s prostate again and he writhes.

“Oh, fuck, fuck me, take me, use me.” John gasps. “Please, sir, please, Captain.”

“There we go.” says Thomas.

John’s eyes fly open when they pull their fingers out - he hadn’t even realized he closed them - and then manage to get wider when Thomas wraps his hands around John’s thighs and lifts. He lets them move him - lets Thomas hold him while James ties his hands just high enough over his head that his feet just brush the floor and he won’t have any leverage - and revels in the softness of their hands on him. Thomas presses kisses to his biceps, to his neck, to his wrists.

“Good boy.” says James, smoothing his hands all the way down John’s sides until they rest on John’s hips. “So good for us.”

Thomas comes to stand in front of him, and his hands are busy, toying with John’s nipples, teasing across his straining triceps, brushing just barely over his straining cock.

“Go on, James, fuck him.” says Thomas.

“Fuck me, Captain, please, fuck me.” John begs, rocking his hips back, arching his spine.

James pushes in slow, fucks his way deeper with tiny thrusts that punch gasp after gasp out of John. As soon as he’s pressed flush against John’s back, Thomas catches his face in two hands and kisses him, biting and strong and hard. John can’t quite believe it’s taken this long to get a kiss, but that doesn’t change how enthusiastically he throws himself into returning it. Thomas pulls back and runs a thumb over John’s lip, which must be swollen.

“James, my love?” says Thomas, but his eyes are still focused on the thumb John’s just sucked into his mouth.

“Yes?” says James.

“Make him scream.”

John opens his mouth to say something, and then -

He’s not actually sure what he was going to say anymore. All he can really process is how good it feels to have James McGraw Flint, the Green Captain himself, absolutely taking him apart. James’ hands are leaving bruises on his hips, and Thomas is pulling on his nipples, and John’s never been this close to coming without some kind of friction on his cock. There’s no way John could string together a coherent sentence to beg for anything. James shifts his grip, adjusts his stance, and starts pounding John again, except this time every second or third thrust smacks straight into his prostate.

John screams, wordless and desperate, unable to contain it.

Thomas leans all the way back in, shifting one hand so it’s wrapped around John’s neck, just enough pressure to make sure you couldn’t forget about him.

“Looks like you lose, Silvertongue.” he says, and John keens.

James hasn’t lightened his onslaught and Thomas’ other hand is pulling on John’s cock, so there’s really no option left except to keep screaming.

“Listen to you.” James whispers into his ear.

“All ours.” Thomas says, kissing the side of his neck. “We caught you, and you’ve lost, and you’re all ours, to keep and to hold.”

John bucks and writhes between them, and then Thomas pulls just right while James nails his prostate and John is shaking apart between them, still screaming, eyes rolling back involuntarily, arms twitching.

“Fuck.” gasps James, like it’s punched out of him, the vowel sound dragging on as he shudders and comes, hips twitching against John again and again.

“Darlings.” says Thomas, taking half a step back to look at them both. “Oh, my darlings.”

Thomas has dropped one hand to start pulling at his own cock, and John starts pulling against his bindings.

“Shhh, Silver.” says James.

“No - I -” John says, and then he makes himself swallow and thinks about his articulation. “I want you to fuck my mouth again, sir.”

Thomas’ facial expression suggests that he can’t quite believe Silver is real. James unties him, hands careful, and helps him to his knees, settles on the floor behind John so he’s cradling John against his chest, framing him with those beautiful thighs. They must make quite the picture, and Thomas’ blown pupils only evidence that further.

James keeps his arms wrapped around John’s chest while John presses kisses to Thomas’ shaft, presses close so he can kiss at John’s neck while Thomas rocks his hips and John sucks as best he can.

“Come on him, Thomas.” James urges. “Mark him as ours.”

John moans at the thought, and Thomas gets a slightly desperate look on his face and staggers half a step back so that he can do just as James suggested. He flops back into the armchair afterwards, and John licks the come from his lips as lewdly as he can manage.

“Fuck.” says Thomas.

James helps John with the rest, the both of them licking it from their fingers as they go.

“Fuck.” says Thomas, still watching.

“An accurate summation of how we’re spent the evening.” drawls John, and James snorts inelegantly.

There’s a few minutes that feature a half-hearted cleanup and Thomas bodily carrying John to the bed and tucking him against James before pulling a quilt over the three of them, and John refusing to be ashamed of snuggling in to their hold.

“What do we do now?” John asks the curve of James’ pectoral, finally. “We can’t just go back to the way things were.”

“I don’t suppose-” Thomas starts.

“I can’t leave my Rogues.” says John, cutting him off at the pass. “That’s non-negotiable.”

“They’ve got a code, Thomas, they’re not so bad. The Flash likes them.” says James.

“The Flash’s opinions on criminals and criminality come entirely from you radicalizing her.” Thomas says, voice almost a whine. “Her opinion doesn’t count.”

“She’d be hurt to hear you say that.” says James. “Don’t listen to Thomas, the Flash loves you.”

James kisses the top of his head, and John flushes, a soft smile on his face.

“So we carry on as we were with small changes.” says Thomas.

“Like what?” asks John, suddenly suspicious.

“Well, the next time we catch you red-handed -” says Thomas, sliding a hand down to cup John’s ass.

John pushes into the touch, grinning.

“Now that I can work with.”

“Now you’ve created a monster.” says James. “He’ll never stop stealing after that. It’s an engraved invitation!”

John listens to them bickering with half an ear, already planning his next heist.

When they catch him robbing Alfred Hamilton blind, it will take no convincing at all to get them to fuck him over the man’s desk.

#silverflinthamilton #my fic

[sansvirtuosity]

Home

I guess I wrote some uhhhh The Arcana fic. Here it is on AO3. I don’t know how this happened. This isn’t even my fandom right now. (I mean, neither is Dragon Age, but I keep the same icon. I’m so confusing. RIP my readers, you guys are the true champions.)

Anyways here’s some Portia PoV Rowdy Raven shenanigans with some background Julian/MC.

Being a port town, the streets of Vesuvia at night were not the safest. Even though Portia was sure she could steal a company of royal guards from the palace as escort if she needed, she preferred to do her errands quickly and unburdened. Guards were conspicuous, and vendors were less likely to cut you a deal if they thought you were trying to intimidate them. So, armed with nothing but a pair of gardening shears for defense, she made her way through some of the shadier back streets in search of a specific drink.

The magician brought a bottle of the unusual liquor back with them the last time they went out into town, and Nadia had fallen in love with the unique flavor and demanded that she find another bottle for her own collection. But the magician has been too busy with her investigations to go out and buy another bottle herself, so she wrote down the directions to the tavern where she bought the original and handed the job off to Portia.

It wasn’t that she minded being out this late, but the darker it got, the smaller the streets felt. Like the stone walls of the houses that loomed precariously along the cobblestones were finally giving in to gravity and sliding ever closer to one another. Vesuvia was a town built on top of itself over and over again, and with every new floor tacked on to each building, the more it felt like the city was only standing by the sheer force of the buildings being pressed so closely to one another.

Portia came around a bend in the road, and was immediately assaulted with the sound of off-key piano music coming from a dingy building that looked particularly like you could sneeze it apart without much trouble. There was a lamp hanging just outside of its main window, and Portia used it to double-check her directions.

There was a crude drawing of the city streets in the center of the page, and underneath it were the words: Left, right, down the corridor, left, straight past the fountain, right, Rowdy Raven.

Easy.

She looked up at the sign, which luckily sported a painting of the exact bird she'd hoped to see. She shoved the directions to the bottom of her satchel, figuring she wouldn’t need them until it was time to return home, and turned to face the tavern. The music was still flowing freely, this time in a slightly better tone. It was some jaunty tune that was just common enough that she’d definitely heard it before.

She pushed the door open with slight difficulty. The wood stuck to the frame oddly, and it reminded her of her own front door at home that stuck because of her poor lacquer job. Despite the dingy exterior, the tavern itself was very homey, the candlelight casting the place in a soft orange glow. The main bar was directly ahead of her, and there were several rooms that shot off of the entrance that held booths and tables of all sorts. It was a patchwork place, and the patrons themselves reflected the sentiment. Tired field workers and sailors, old women and grocers, murderers and thieves alike all sat at the tables from where she could see.

But she wasn’t here for company. She needed to find that liquor.

Portia made her way to the bar, and confidently sat at one of the stools that lined the counter. The barkeep held up a finger, signaling that he’d get to her in a moment, and ducked behind the counter. There were rows upon rows of bottles lining the wall behind the counter, but not every bottle held liquid that looked particularly… ingestible. Were those fermenting coins ?

There was a crash from the room flanking her to the right, and the music ended abruptly. The barkeep peeked out from behind the bar, but ultimately just rolled his eyes and went back to whatever he was doing. Portia leaned over, trying to get a better look into the room. The door frame was partially obscuring whoever or whatever caused the crash, but she could hear them swearing from here. Whoever she was, she cursed like a sailor. The bawdy language almost made Portia want to buy her a drink on principle.

“No, don’t worry darling, I’ll take care of it.” She heard a familiar male voice say from the room, “Don’t stop your performance on our account, sir. You’re doing lovely.”

The piano player began again, this time a new piece entirely. The conversations in the other room started up again, and she lost the familiar voice in the crowd.

But for a moment, she swore it sounded just like-

“Pasha?”

“Ilya!”

To her surprise, her brother rounded the corner, balancing a collection of glass shards in a half-broken whiskey glass. He looked around, and a guilty look crossed his face. He held up the broken glass in greeting, as though he were toasting her. She couldn’t hold in the giddy laugh that escaped her. So this was where this idiot was hiding.

“I, uh. Fancy meeting you here.” He said, placing the glass on the bar. A hand came up from behind the bar and spirited it away without a word. Ilya leaned on the counter, a casual smile creeping up onto his face. “Needed a drink, did you? The palace will do that to you, I hear.”

Portia shook her head and clapped her brother hard on the shoulder, sending him staggering towards the counter. He recovered quickly enough, but by his reaction, she was sure he was extremely drunk.

“I’m not here for me, but if you’re offering, I wouldn’t mind.” Ilya grinned, and opened his mouth to agree, but she continued, “In exchange, you need to tell me what you’ve been up to all this time. I’ve been worried out of my mind knowing you’ve been sneaking around town for who-knows-how-long.”

His grin faltered, and he seemed to deliberate it for a minute, but sighed and nodded. “Alright, you win. But you need to be willing to keep a secret,” he held up a gloved finger to his lips, “because I might be borrowing something from the palace that I’m not supposed to have.”

Portia nodded, and before she could say anything, the barkeep slid three whiskeys Ilya’s way. Ilya dropped a handful of coins on the counter before taking two of the drinks and nodding at the third for Portia to grab. He nodded again towards the room he came from, and Portia stood up to follow him in. He lead her through the room, which faintly smelled like smoke, to a booth in the back, closest to the stairs to the second floor. Just far enough away from the piano player to be able to hold an actual conversation without yelling. A wise choice.

Portia gasped when she saw that there was already someone sitting there, nervously playing with a hand towel that was soaked with some kind of amber liquid. Nadia’s magician.

She turned to her brother, eyebrow raised. He just answered by placing the drinks on the table, and smoothly sliding into the booth next to the magician. The magician finally looked up from the table, and was about to say something to Ilya before she noticed Portia standing there.

“Oh gods,” she coughed into her hand nervously, “Portia. You can’t tell Nadia I’m here; She’ll have me flayed alive.”

Portia slid into the seat opposite them, and sipped on her drink, unsure of what to say. She had no idea that the magician was meeting with her brother in secret like this. It explained a lot about her hesitance to openly condemn her brother in the presence of the court. In fact, Portia was sure she’d never heard the magician speak a bad word about the ‘treasonous Doctor Julian’. It was… interesting information.

“She swore herself to secrecy.” Ilya said, leaning over to tuck the magician’s hair behind her ear.

Very interesting.

“I swore no such thing. You didn’t give me a chance to say anything, really.” Portia said, rolling her eyes. Ilya looked shocked, like he hadn’t actually noticed, and guiltily avoided the magician’s unamused gaze. “But Ilya, what are you doing here? The guards patrol not even two streets down. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

He lifted his glass to his lips, but put it back down without taking a sip. “There’s no safer place in town than the Raven. See that beautiful young man right there?” he gestured to a large bird that perched up in the rafters of the building that she hadn’t noticed until he pointed it out, and continued, “He hates the guard. Don’t ask me why, but whenever they get near the shop, he completely loses his mind. It’s a sight to behold, truly.”

“Not very easy on the ears, though.” The magician chimed in, her earlier nervousness gone. She must trust Portia enough to believe that she wouldn’t sell her out to Nadia. It was flattering, in a way. She could see why Ilya would be fond of her.

“There’s so much I want to ask you, but I don’t have much time. I’m actually running an errand-” she trailed off, a realization hitting her smack in the face, “Wait. You,” she narrowed her eyes at the magician, whose own eyes widened under the scrutiny, “If you’ve been sneaking off here, why didn’t you just grab the liquor yourself?”

Ilya turned to the magician, brows furrowed, clearly unaware of the situation. To Portia’s surprise, the magician swore with vitriol, and gave her an apologetic look.

“To tell you the truth, I’ve been meaning to do that every time I come here. Somebody,” She briefly glanced Ilya’s way, and then turned her gaze back to Portia. “Keeps distracting me, and I end up forgetting why I came in the first place. Also, I might have maybe hoped you would run into Julian if you came here yourself. I knew you’d want to talk to him if you knew where he was.”

“Crafty witch.” Ilya said fondly, under his breath.

“Well, you’d better believe I’ll be back here.” She took a deep swig of her drink, and fixed Ilya with a hard stare, “Especially now that I know you’ve been ‘borrowing’ Nadia’s favorite magician. Nadia would kill you if she knew. The least I could do is make sure you’re not… misusing her.”

The magician laughed, and Ilya colored.

Gross.

“I’m a perfect gentleman.” He whispered unconvincingly, not looking at anything or anyone in particular.

Really gross.

“Well,” Portia said, desperately slamming back the rest of her drink. “I really need to get this errand done before I forget about it. And you,” she gestured at the magician who was smiling her way, oblivious to Portia’s discomfort, “Make sure you get back alright. I’ll feel responsible if you go missing along the way.”

She meant it with genuine concern for her well-being, of course, but the looks that crossed both their faces were dark, and very far away. Had something happened? It was probably better not to press. They were both adults, and could take care of themselves. They’d gotten this far on their own, after all.

She sighed and patted her satchel before standing up, making sure everything was still there. You never knew in taverns like these. It was best to be safe.

Satisfied that everything was still in her possession, she readied herself to leave. Ilya stood up from the booth, and awkwardly opened his arms to her. She pulled him into a tight hug, nearly toppling him over. He was so tall, and smelled like the incense that the magician liked to burn in her room. It was both familiar and alien at the same time. How long had it been since they’d hugged like this?

Too many years.

“It was good seeing you, Pasha.” He said, pulling back to see her face, his hands sliding up to grip her arms. He brought her to an arms-length away and gave her a brief glance-over, and in that moment he looked very much like a doctor. She couldn’t hold back the swell of pride at seeing it. He nodded, apparently satisfied, and then clapped her on the shoulder. “Definitely come back. I’d be glad to see you any time. Just be smart about it.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Portia.” The magician added, lifting her hand in farewell. Portia waved back.

“Take care, brother. Or else.”

Ilya swept a bow and nearly stumbled over, again betraying his drunkenness. “Of course.”

It wasn’t very convincing. But then again, when was he ever?

Portia waved the two off, and returned to the bar. She picked up her liquor, and the barkeep told her it was already paid for. She remembered the coins that Ilya dropped off earlier. More than necessary for three drinks and a broken glass. She found herself cursing Ilya just as often as she felt grateful for his return into her life. She hoped more than anything that the magician could prove her brother’s innocence and free them all from the looming threat of execution that even now left her cold.

She would see herself to the gallows before she would ever let Ilya disappear again.

She’d burn the directions to the Rowdy Raven when she returned home, and to anyone but the magician, pretend like she’d never even seen the place.

And if Nadia asked what took her so long, she was just off seeing some family.

#The Arcana #The Arcana Game #Julian Devorak #Portia Devorak #The Apprentice #rated T for language and alcohol consumption #I don't even know what to tag this as really #it was just something that I wrote for practice #but I figured someone would like it #make sure to leave kudos on AO3 if you liked it #it'll motivate me to work on some more Arcana stuff on the side #my fic

[everyonethinksmynameiskayla]

Casa to Barca part three: Sangria and fake French soldiers

First of all, I posted some short video clips from Morocco: 

Imlil - https://youtu.be/laZnpeIvUNs

Akchour waterfall drive/hike - https://youtu.be/dbahZRt1lBI

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

When I got to Ronda I was really confused because I couldn’t find any taxis anywhere near the train station and my phone was telling me my hostel was a 40 minute walk away and the bus stand had no numbers or schedules on it, so I tried to ask a guy at the train information desk but he didn’t speak enough English so I basically just wandered in the direction of my hostel for about 20 minutes before I finally came across a cab. So glad I found one too because I did not realize that my hostel was at the bottom of the massive cliff/rock formation that Ronda is built on top of, so you have to drive all the way to the bottom of this huge hill and onto a dirt road which winds around next to the rock/cliff until you get to the hostel, which is next to the river that goes the middle of the rock (and Puente Novo, the famous bridge in Ronda, is built over). This picture is on Wanderlust too, but I figured it would put here it also for reference and also because I just really like this picture:

So the previous night I had broken out in body hives for some reason which escapes me still, and I had worn loose clothes and done the things WebMD told me to do but they were still there so once I set my stuff down I decided I would set out to try to find a pharmacy to get me some steriod cream and more anti-histamines. It was super hot and I was super itchy so I was not to excited to be walking up the giant hill, and then I heard a car coming behind me and I looked and recognized the guy who worked at the hostel in the passenger seat so I asked them for a ride and they were like sure. I got in the car and realized that Fernando, the guy who worked at the hostel, was wearing traditional Spanish ‘mountain bandit’ clothes (in his words) and he was like there’s actually a festival in Ronda this weekend do you want to come with me and my friends and I was like well I have mysterious body hives so I kinda wanted to go to the pharmacy but sure, but since that didn’t seem like appropriate we-just-met conversation, I stuck with “sure”. (We did stop into a pharmacy eventually and I got what I needed and it took like three more days but the hives eventually went away - the Spanish guys in a bar we stopped in, including the bartender, had a great time ‘helping’ to try to translate my steriod cream instructions). Fernando’s English was good enough that we could have basic conversation but he had a bit of a hard time explaining the festival, from what I understand it was to celebrate the era during which the mountain men in Ronda pushed Napolean away, so there was a parade with people from each surrounding village all dressed up and fake French soldiers being defeated etc. 

^ Note the guy plugging his ears, they were firing blanks but it was indeed quite loud

In the evening, there were stands with giant vats of potatoes and chorizo and huge coolers of red wine mixed with lemonade which, as it turns out, is amazing. There was a flamenco performance too (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4KEj9xOYIn0). All of this was happening in the park that overlooks the mountains and fields (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YWtzJf6EsD0&feature=youtu.be), although it was dark, but the festivities continued into the next day. 

Basically for a couple of days it was just me and a bunch of Spanish people dressed in fancy traditional clothes drinking sangria and eating a lot and celebrating in one of the coolest most beautiful cities I’ve ever been too. Ronda is known for its bridge and the whole cliff situation but if you walk a bit down the hill, its also got lovely winding cobblestone streets lined with white moorish puebla style houses/buildings which are typical to the region. There are pictures on Wanderlust. 

^ Fernando in his costume 

After Ronda I took the train to Granada, which is famous for the Alhambra palace/fort. But you have to get tickets for that online like 10 years before you’re even born, but I’ll get to that in a minute. My first full day there I took the bus into the Sierra Nevada mountains up to a little white puebla village called Capileira, from which you can hike down to another little village, Pampaneira, through a third village, Bubion. The mountains were amazingly beautiful and each village was more adorable than the next, with little narrow cobblestone streets up and down the hill lined with white adobe houses with flat roofs and these crazy looking chimneys (there are pictures on Wanderlust). 

So then the next day, since I wasn’t able to get tickets for the Alhambra online, I went at 5 AM to get in line (the way it works is that you can always go into the complex and the military part but to go into the palace you need a special ticket and those are the ones that sell out like crazy but if you get there early enough you have a chance of getting one of the few they keep on hand for the day-of). I wasn’t super excited about sitting around from 5-8 AM in line but I figured I was there I might as well. I was maybe the 20th person in line and I still wasn’t able to get a palace ticket, so I just went in with a normal ticket. I dilly dallied around for a while in the gardens waiting for the clouds to part and the sun to come out so I could get better photos of the view from the military fortress part, which was by far the best part of the whole place (https://youtu.be/aS_LST-9dT0). 

^ Not a bad view

Then I went to check out the view point where you can see the whole Alhambra from the old Jewish quarter, which was a hard spot to leave, despite the weird drunk guys selling jewelry there. 

Early the next morning I took the bus to Córdoba to spend the day on the way to Seville. As per usual, some great views along the way (including what I’m pretty sure was the original Windows background):

Córdoba is most well known for the Mezquita, which started as a mosque and around 1200 when the Catholics reclaimed southern Spain became a cathedral. I think that by that point the past two weeks of traveling were catching up to me and I was just about dead on my feet, I was so tired. So I mostly walked from bench to bench in the Mezquita, which was a truly awe-inspiring place (there are pictures of it and Córdoba generally on Wanderlust), resting and enjoying that the marble kept it cool in there. 

^ Mezquita selfie

After I left I walked in what felt like slow motion across the bridge and went into the tower/museum on the other side. From the roof you can see the Mezquita and most of the city, and the river was sort of green looking and the sky was super blue with fluffy white clouds, it was lovely. But I was exhausted so I didn’t stick around to check out the little miniature dioramas that seemed to make up the museum downstairs, instead I went to the gardens. There were orange trees everywhere and accordingly the whole area smelled like an orange peel. 

From there I wandered through the Jewish quarter into the newer area and back to the train station to head to Seville. Córdoba is filled with history and really a fascinating city so I feel like I should have more to say about it but I was so damn tired that day that’s about all I’ve got. But I recommend doing some clicking around about Córdoba. 

Anyway, I got to Seville that evening and took the bus to my hostel right downtown in the shopping district. 

^ Hostel rules, by doge

It was a huge place with lots of rooms with like ten bunks each and some people who were clearly living there. It was a holiday that day apparently so I couldn’t really find anywhere open to eat dinner and I can’t remember what I did, but I think I may have found some gelato open somewhere because I seem to remember eating ice cream for dinner. The next morning I took advantage of the laundry machines to wash my clothes and went and bought some pasta to make for lunch and later dinner since they had a nice kitchen and Spain was proving to be shockingly expensive after six months in Senegal. I basically toured Seville on foot for the rest of the day - I walked at least 15 km that day. I walked from the Cathedral to the river to the to Alcazar and around again. 

^ At the Alcazar. I loved the detail like this in all the Moorish architecture in Spain and just about everything in Morocco

Then that evening I went to a Flamenco show at a really small but famous Taberna (place to watch Flamenco) which was so cool - took me back to my days watching Riverdance/Lord of the Dance where there was that once scene with the really emotional lady in red doing Flamenco. I used to fast-forward through that part when I was little because it was too slow and I think maybe I was a bit freaked out by her intensity, but now that I am an ice-cream-for-dinnner-adult I can’t get enough. 

I had saved the Plaza de España for the whole next day (until I had to get to my evening flight to Barcelona) because they filmed parts of Star Wars (Phantom Menace, but still) there, so obviously it was important. 

^ !!!!!!

Finally, Barcelona. I got there around 9 PM and got the shuttle bus downtown and then the train to where my hostel was, which wasn’t actually in the city, it was in some sort of park in the hills about 15 minutes outside (because it was the cheapest per night by about $30). But I guess I was expecting a bit more civilization so I got of the metro and walked up this huge hill through this park to get to the hostel, which was absolutely massive. It was like three buildings, including an athletic complex with a pool and a full restaurant - I felt like I was at sleep-away camp. It’s staffed entirely by special-needs adults and is also a non-profit so that was cool. For some reason the rooms on my floor of my building seemed to be entirely filled with American and French school groups or scouts or something because there was a ton of 12 year olds with their chaperones everywhere all the time. 

I started my self-guided walking tour of Barcelona with La Rambla, the quintessential pedestrian walkway up from the water into the central shopping district:

I branched off to check out the cathedral, although at this point I feel like I’ve seen so many cathedrals that they all blur together and also I was pissed because they made me pay a euro to go to bathroom. Like a whole euro to pee?? Usually it’s just 50 cents and I already resent that. I passed by some of Gaudi’s buildings, which are crazy and look like something straight out of Dr. Seuss (just google Gaudi or look at the pictures I posted, you’ll see what I mean). I could always tell when I was getting close to one because there would be tons of people standing around on the street taking pictures for no apparent reason, until you got close enough to see the building they were looking at. I weirdly felt like the Catalan language, in my limited experience of hearing and seeing it for a few days, matched nicely with Gaudi’s work - it was sort of a distorted Spanish with a different rhythm, just like Gaudi made buildings that look like a reflection in a fun mirror. My favorite part of Barcelona was definitely the outdoor market, the name of which now slips my mind. There were so many stands with so many colorful delicious looking things that I ended up just getting some coconut and then walking around because I was too overwhelmed by all the choices to actually chose something. 

^ The market 

I walked all the way up through basically the whole city (I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much of one place in just a day) to this spot at the very top of the hill (the city gradually goes up hill from the ocean) to check out the view: https://youtu.be/DDqhBcSL0tU. Then I walked back down in the other direction to pass the Sagrada Familia, another Gaudi work and definitely not like the other cathedrals that just blend together (although technically it’s a basilica but I’ve never been super clear on the difference). Unfortunately it’s being restored so none of my photos turned out because of the scaffolding, so here’s a picture I got from the internet instead:

Then I made my way to a park by the water and then back up the hill again (can’t even tell you how sweaty I was) to Parc Guëll, ostensibly Gaudi’s masterpiece. It’s a big park on the hill and in the middle theres a large wiggly terrance that looks out over these two buildings that look like Dr. Seuss drew a gingerbread house, very surreal.

The next day I went back into the city briefly but since I had to leave the hostel at 2 AM to get my 6:40 AM flight (because the trains stop running and I wasn’t about to shell out 40 euros for a taxi) and was already exhausted but hoping to jump right back into working the Monday after I got home (I got back at noon on Sunday), I only stayed a few hours and then went back and slept from about 7 PM to 1 AM, then got my train to the airport. 

[lattefics]

your whisper stilled my heart: ch. 3

Summary: Vex has been raised by her dedicated father, Saundor, since she was stolen away to the Feywild as a babe. Saundor has now requested she steal a mortal soul from the material plane.

Rating: Teen+

Total Words: 7500

Warnings: Child grooming, emotional abuse, kidnapping

--

Vax blinked a few times in the direction the woman had run off in. He could feel his mind flailing, the thousands of urges that warred inside him, words rising and falling in waves as he stared at the cobblestone streets until the woman disappeared around the corner.

His chest hurt. Vax looked down at himself, putting a shaky hand over his heart. There was a sharp pain, like someone twisting a thin knife between his ribs, jostling it with each flashing image of the woman through Vax's mind.

By the time he shook himself and looked around with clear eyes, she was nowhere to be found. Vax cursed at himself.

It was a strange coincidence, one that roiled deep in Vax's belly and nested uncomfortably at the base of his spine. His first thought had been holy shit that looks like me who is that a mirror no wait she's a woman but and then she'd run and he hadn't been able to go anywhere with the thought.

His second thought– he wasn't sure but it was the most obvious among the myriad of things flying through his head– was actually a memory, the knowledge trickling in like a river; he'd had a sibling when he was born, who had died of sickness, but his mother had said many times how she wished they were in a good place and happy in their rest. Vax had thought many times how sad it was, that she'd been given two children only to lose one within days, but also relieved; they had little money to spare to begin with and one less child was more coin for his mother to spend on what she needed for herself and Vax.

He shook himself and pulled his mask back into place, his hood over his slick, messy hair. It was a silly thought, that somehow his dead twin had come back. His mother had shown him the little plot behind their house where the infant had been buried when they passed, and Vax had spent a few years trying to grow a garden around it before giving up on the constantly dying plants. 

He knew the child was dead.

The woman he'd just seen was nothing more than a weird coincidence.

He brushed himself off one last time and turned back the way he'd been going, pausing as he did. On the ground was the brooch he'd just sold to the pawn shop, shining in the afternoon light. He bent down, tilting it this and that in his hand.

So. That was what she'd meant by thanking him.

Why she would give back something he'd just sold– something she had clearly bought immediately after– was beyond Vax, but he wouldn't question it. The stupid piece of jewelry from his father's house would fetch another pretty penny; maybe next time he'd ask for more than fifty, since it was clearly worth more.

He slipped the brooch into his bag and kept walking. He'd never had much patience for haggling, and it bit him in the ass sometimes. The fifty gold he had was nice, but between meals and finding places to sleep that had actual roofs and weren't crawling with bugs, it would be gone inside a month, maybe two if he stretched himself thin. And he had that dumb bear to worry about, too.

The farther Vax walked, the more he was forced to slow, a hand coming up to grip at his shirt. Pain had fluttered to life, pulsing weakly just under his ribs. Vax frowned at it, pressing on, looking for a place he could grab a meal without anyone noticing him. He wasn't in the rich part of the city yet– he hated that goddamn area– but if he went much farther he might start to get strange looks for his outfit, so Vax veered, going deeper into the current neighborhood.

Damn, but his chest stung. He stopped, dipping into an alleyway and leaning on a large building wall as he pulled his collar down. Had the tiefling stabbed him somewhere? But no, there were no cuts or stab wounds, or even any bruising that he could see. The pain was like a dozen sharp pin pricks, digging into his bones and spiking every time he moved. Vax frowned and breathed deep, hoping the pain would fade if he rested a moment.

It didn't; if anything, it got worse. Vax hissed to himself and stepped back onto the street. He'd have to deal with it for now if he was going to grab some food for himself and Trinket, cursing his stupid self for even caring about the animal. He was a bear and could very well have hunted for himself, if he didn't insist on staying as close to the city as possible and waiting for Vax to come back every day. He'd go thin from lack of hunting if Vax didn't feed him.

There were a few food vendors in this part of the city, and Vax scoped out the most vulnerable ones, the stands that were too busy to notice missing stock or staffed by someone with too much time and boredom on their hands. Despite the still pressing pain that rose in his chest with every step, Vax shifted his stance, moving his weight to the balls of his feet to slip quietly between the people on the street, sidling up to a stand selling baked goods.

The clerk, an older woman, didn't even glance in his direction as he walked slightly too close to the stand. While she helped a young child buying pastries, Vax slipped a loaf of bread and a few muffins into his bag, walking away without a scratch on him.

He did the same with a fruit stand and a butcher's stall, carrying away a bushel of apples and dried jerky that would please Trinket. He took one piece for himself, munching on it when he was safely away from his targets. It . . . it hurt, going down his throat. Vax paused, biting off another chunk of meat with a frown. It scrapped raw inside him, like it was edged with spikes, and he tucked the food away to take out his water skein and take a long swig.

That hurt too, like swallowing lead, and Vax nearly choked the water back up in shock. What the hell, he was just trying to eat! Vax coughed and capped the water again, a hand going up to his throat to feel around it. No bruising, and he wasn't sick, hadn't been for a few weeks at least. If he'd somehow caught a cold he wouldn't be able to afford the medicine for it.

And yet, spending the coin he would need for it seemed trivial as the stabbing pain in his chest rose up. Vax coughed again, needle sharp pricks digging hard against his ribs, like something small and weak and desperate was clawing at his insides. Fuck, shit, he couldn't remember the last time something had hurt this badly.

Vax hurried out of the street, taking a side path between buildings and ducking into an alcove, out of sight. The needles in his chest kept digging, clawing, like it was trying to rip his ribs out. He blinked a few times, slapped a hand against his chest, but there was no relief to be found.

It twisted sharply and Vax stumbled. His chest throbbed and his head started to pound, a moment before he lost himself completely to blackness.

--

He woke up in a bed, and his first thoughts were, fuck, shit, damn it. He blinked a few times to clear his vision, trying to sit up, but his chest still ached and moving felt like when he tried to push Trinket anywhere after the bear had decided, no, it was staying, and plopped his furry ass on the ground.

“Oh! Oh, don't move, please!” A high, delicate voice called out to him, ringing slightly in Vax's confused ears. He huffed, gathering enough of his wits to turn his head and see a very concerned, wide eyed gnome standing next to his bed. “You're up!” she said, smiling at him. Her hair was as bright as the rays of the sun and her smile nearly matched, though there was a waver to it as she watched him. “Are you . . . feeling all right?”

“No,” Vax said immediately, because she was a stranger and he didn’t give a damn about politeness when he didn’t even know where he was. 

“Oh! I'm so sorry, um.” She fluttered a little, shifting between his head and his body, which was twice as big as hers. She was wearing armor, a thick plate set, but the gauntlets had been taken off and her hands were only covered in thin white gloves. “I tried to take a look at you but you weren't bleeding and didn't have any trauma signs that I could see, so I just cast a spell and let you rest.”

. . . ah. Cleric. That made more sense, then.

“Well,” Vax said with a sigh, “whatever power fantasy trip you get out of helping the needy, you can end it right here, because I'm fine and I need to go.” Trinket would still be waiting for him, and who knew how far this bed was from where Vax had apparently fainted.

“What?” the gnome woman turned to him with round, offended eyes, her nose crinkled up adorably in her disgust. “I'm just trying to help.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Vax got his arms underneath him and tried again to sit up, this time with more success as his head cleared, though the twinge in his chest was still there. He hissed as he sat up, patting over his chest with one hand.

“What's wrong?” the woman asked, her tone much more serious as she stepped closer, shoving Vax's hand rudely away to press her own over it. “This hurts? Where? How much?”

“Get off!” Vax snapped, trying to push her back, but when he did she just braced herself against the floor and didn't move. Vax almost crumpled at the unexpectedness of it, his hands twinging as his wrist muscles protested against the hard push on her torso that went exactly nowhere.

“You better do as she says. She knows better than all of us.”

Vax tensed, and turned around slowly.

Someone else had joined them; a human man, taller than Vax, and thinner, with shock white hair and a long, blue coat. He was leaning against the open doorway with an infuriating smirk, and the glasses he wore– four lenses instead of two, a pair of smaller ones attached to the corners of the actual glasses– tipped down his nose as he tilted down to look at the gnome woman. “How's he doing?”

“Stubborn,” she replied with a sniff. “He won't tell me what's wrong.”

“I'm still here,” Vax reminded them loudly. “And I feel fine, so let me go.”

“You clearly don't. I didn't just cast healing spells on you.” The woman's eyes were hard as steel when she met his own. “I know about the curse so you can go ahead and forget about pretending it doesn't exist.”

“C– curse?” Vax sputtered, brows furrowing. “I'm not cursed! Let me leave. If it's money you want I can give you some, all right?” Not that he wanted to throw his hard earned coin at people who had been nothing but rude assholes, but Vax might not have a choice at the moment. 

“Oh, my, he doesn't seem to know.” The man in the doorway shoved off at the hip, sauntering across the room to the small cot Vax still lay on. “Tell me, did you interact with anyone strange lately? Or perhaps commit a crime that you might have gotten an excessive punishment for?”

Vax snorted, refusing to look at either of them. Crime was practically his middle nam at this point; he couldn't remember one from the next if he tried.

The man hummed, tapping a hand against the side of his face, and looked back down at the gnome woman. “Do you have anything that could knock him out again? It might serve us better to try and figure this out while he's asleep.”

“Oi!” Vax snapped, shoving the blankets off his legs. Wherever they were, it was colder than he liked, and he had to fight off a shiver. “This isn't any of your business, all right?” he said, swinging his legs over the side to stand up. “Even if I did have a curse, I don't know who you are so it's not any of your business.”

“But–” the gnome woman started.

“No,” the human man cut in, “if he wants to leave that's his business.” He met Vax's eyes, his own a steely blue behind his ridiculous glasses. “Nevermind that we could potentially help remove such a dangerous curse and give him some peace of mind.”

Vax's mind jumped to the woman, his dead sibling, the sharp pain still eating at the inside of his chest. He put a hand over it, hissing quietly. “I don't–” He inhaled sharply, and repeated, “I don't have any money to pay you, so drop it. I'm fine.”

“We could still–”

“Pike, stop.” The human put a hand on her shoulder. “There's no use forcing him. The door is that way,” he pointed, “and down the hallway on the left. Your, uh . . . pet is waiting for you.”

His pet . . . Vax's eyes went wide.

“Okay, yeah, sorry, I'm outta here. Thanks for the help or whatever but I really need to go.” He hurried past them, clipping the human man on the way out as he scurried out the door and down the hall, shoving the second door open to reveal the city street.

Trinket was there, sitting back on his haunches, tongue lolling out of his mouth. Next to him was a tall, lean woman, her hands around his neck to scratch and ruffle his fur. She had long, gorgeous red hair and a circlet with massive antlers attached, giving her the effect of looking like the world's most beautiful deer.

Vax skirted to a stop, his eyes glued to her. 

She paused in petting Trinket, the little coos she'd been giving him dying in her throat as she looked up and met Vax's eyes. “Oh, hi,” she said, shrinking into herself. “Are you doing okay? Pike said you were really sick and that it might be something dangerous and if she couldn't do anything, I have these herbs that might help–”

“My bear,” Vax blurted, because he had no sense of subtlety. “You, uh. You're petting my bear.”

“Huh? Oh! I'm sorry, should I not have?” The woman's hands shot away and she backed up from Trinket a step, the motion jerking her hair out of place. Vax could see her ears now, with their familiar, rounded point. Shit, she was a half-elf, too. As if he needed reasons to like her more. 

Trinket blinked when the petting stopped and turned to the stranger, pushing against her arm to seek out more attention.

“No, I mean.” Vax swallowed. “It's fine. He's not, ah, he's not really mine, either. I was just . . . surprised, is all. He's never come into the city before.” 

“No?” Keyleth raised a brow as she tentatively reached out to scratch Trinket's nose again. “We only found you because there was a lot of noise and everyone talking about this scary bear watching over some unconscious half-elf. He's not scary at all though! He told me he was worried about you.” She leaned closer, nuzzling her face against Trinket's. “He's a sweet baby, said he loves you.”

Vax's eyes narrowed. “He's a bear. He doesn't talk.”

“Of course not! I talked to him,” she said, like that made any more sense. “Like this!” 

Something happened that Vax couldn't quite detect, but there was a shift as the woman brought a hand to her throat. Her back hunched a few degrees, her eyes were a little less focused, and when she looked at Trinket again she started making bear noises. And not just a person trying to mimic a bear, she sounded like an actual bear.

Vax took a step back at the same time the front door of the small building opened again and the human man stepped out with his gnome friend.

“Ah, she's talking to him again,�� he said, as casual as mentioning the weather. “I wonder what they're saying now.”

“She likes him a lot!” The gnome woman– Pike?– stepped up beside Vax, smiling up at him. “She talked to him the whole time we were carrying you here.” 

“Where is 'here',” Vax asked weakly, still watching the woman chat with Trinket.

“Near the edge of the city, north side,” the human said. “We'll be going soon, though, so we'll be out of your hair.”

“Who's house . . .?”

“An abandoned one. We just wanted a place to look at you, with that nasty curse business.”

Vax fluffed up. “I'm not cursed.”

“Mmmhmm.”

Any rebuttal he could give the white haired prick was cut off as the woman looked up, her brow furrowed as whatever spell she'd used faded away and she straightened up. “Why are you still here?!” she asked Vax, her shoulders tensing. 

The swift change in attitude hit Vax like a brick, and he gaped. “Um, I . . .”

“I mean I know you're hurt and all but after what Trinket said I'm surprised you didn't just grab him and run! We've gotta go, now.”

“What the fuck did the bear tell you?” Vax snapped.

The half-elf woman looked close to tears. “That your sister is dying!”

#critfic #critical role #vex'ahlia #vax'ildan #saundor #writing #fanfiction #feywild #fae #changeling

[yuri-cocaine]

thief.

The twilight markets were her favorite place to haunt, and she blended into the throngs of the rush hour crowd. Ul’dah was bloated with misers who clung tightly to their wealth, and Aisling was no different. She snatched fruits, vegetables, loaves of bread, cuts of dodo and aldgoat sirloins, boxes of rice and sugar with practiced ease, and stored them away in locked crates as if she was hiding a family fortune.

What she couldn’t carry away in her arms, she stashed in her gut. Aisling remembered having a picnic at a rooftop garden with all the other students of Widargelt’s makeshift monkhood during her brief time at Revenant’s Toll, and how she blushed with embarrassment when they laughed with good humor and asked if she wanted yet another honey muffin. The answer was always yes. She ate sugar until she was sick.

Her mother would be working late in the kitchens again. Mistress Mimila, manager of the restaurant, was kind woman and let Aisling sell horoscopes lauded as Yanxia mysticism tucked into dry ginger biscuits and keep the pennies earned. Mimila paid Aisling’s mother a good wage, and it was better than breaking her back in mythril mines, but it was never enough. She put her gil into an embroidered drawstring purse, and promised Aisling that once Othard is freed they will sail back and start anew by the terraced rice fields along the banks of the One River. Kinako never made empty promises to her daughter. She believed wholeheartedly in her dreams.

Aisling lit an oil lamp in their darkening apartment and crushed as many cockroaches as she could before they fled into cracks in the wall. The apartment was actually just a single room so cramped it was more like a closet. On the folding table was another letter from Frondsdale’s Phrontistery. The bill had increased by another ten thousand to cover the costs of her father’s lung operation. With shaking fingers, Aisling jotted down the new total on a sheaf of paper tacked to the wall, and she counted the money saved up again. It was never enough.

Sometimes Aisling dreamed that she was a Sharlayan scholar, studying aether and pondering the mysteries of Hydaelyn. She was never hungry and she had time to pore over old tomes and visit strange and wonderful places to conduct research. Other times Aisling dreamed she was a Scion of the Seventh Dawn, unflinchingly facing down primals and imperials, bravely defending the realm. She was a great adventurer and traveled the world with her friends.

Then she’d wake up in the rosy morning, lightheaded, listening to the hum of Ul’dah building in the distance.

Her employers paid her about a five hundred gil a day. The job was simple: Aisling was to find the people who owed money to the consortium, and if they refused to pay, she’d beat them until they either paid or died. Aisling was good at fighting. She was swift and agile, she hit forcefully, and she recovered fast. Her unassuming appearance also threw marks off guard, giving her a special advantage a hulking brute might not have.

Today she waited for a Lalafellin man atop a stairwell stinking of piss and garbage. Aisling stood by a hip-high bundle of old newsletters and trash bags, and not a single person who passed her paid her any attention. Just another loitering lout. The city was brimming with them.

The Lalafell, who even carried a poisoned knife in case loan sharks showed up with thugs in tow, did not expect to see a young woman greet him a the top of the stairs. Her mask compounded her emotionlessness, and she walked over to him.

“Three strikes,” said Aisling, and she pushed him down the stairs. She waited until she heard the crunch, and then she let herself into the apartment with his keys. Later that day, her employers would applaud her for a job well done, then shoo her away with her meager wage. It was coin bought by blood, a kind of thievery under different colors.

Aisling visited her father at his hospital room that evening with a bag of stolen apples. She sliced them up and cut each slice into the shape of a leaping dolphin just as he used to do so.

“Who’s there?” asked Odinel Lee’s hoarse voice.

“Just me, Da,” said Aisling. “Look! I got you some apples!”

He just looked at the plate of apple slices as if trying to identify an alien species. Aisling sat with her father in silence until a nurse came in and announced visiting hours were over. She couldn’t stand to leave the apples untouched, so Aisling ate them on the way back to the apartment, choking them down like bile.

When she was small, they lived in a basement flat with a door that opened out onto one the canals running through Ala Mhigo, and they had a ready escape route through the sewers that they could reach by diving into the canal and squeezing through a hatch on the side. At night, the water became an oily black glistening with city lights, and Odinel told her stories of when he was a sailor aboard a great trading vessel. Sitting there by the open door with hot milk in a chipped mug, watching the swaying lights and listening to stories, Aisling felt safe and cozy and blind to the dangers massing outside the city walls. There would be no more stories now.

Kinako buried her husband at the lichyard of the Church of Saint Adama Landama. His grave stood on a hill overlooking Drybone and was shared with five other strangers. Kinako had sent letters to Odinel’s former crewmates, L’malha Tia, L’konnala, and their daughter L’lakshai, but she didn’t expect them to make the long journey from Aleport to Thanalan. Sure enough, only Kinako and Aisling attended the funeral. “Anko, listen,” said Kinako, calling Aisling by her Doman name. “Though it pains me to leave Odinel behind here, as long as we carry his memory, he will never be truly left behind. Let’s go together, back to Yanxia. Oh, you would love it there Anko, you would love the One River and the rice fields on the hills and the crystal caves.”

“But Da’s hospital bills,” Aisling pointed out. Kinako answered her with a mischievous wink.

Aisling laughed. “Well, we’ll need money first. But I’ll go with you Ma, of course I will.”

But a storm brewed in Aisling’s heart. The next day, she followed her employer, a Dunesfolk loaner in a rich purple tunic and a pair of silver pince-nez resting on his nose, and tried to focus on her boots crunching on the cobblestones. They passed under the shadow of the Ossuary, and Aisling throbbed with anger and envy at the student thaumaturges standing around on the steps with their shining scepters and leather-bound tomes.

A mousy woman screamed and fled as Aisling kicked open the locked door of a shanty house. The roof was just a few sheaves of tin plating nailed together, and a naked bulb swung on a cord, attracting flies. Three big burly men laughed at the thought of her coming to threaten money out of them, but their laughter stopped at once when Aisling sprang, tackled one of them over the table, and broke his teeth and nose in a single vicious punch. Another tried to grab her, but she dodged aside and kicked upwards, breaking his jaw.

The man clutched a rusted dagger and spat a torrent of obscenities. Aisling took a deep breath, tasting cigarette smoke and the sweet acrid tang of rotting food, and leaped forward. She thought of the pile of hospital bills and the little embroidered drawstring purse. She settled into her rage, one hand gripping the dagger, the other ripping at eyes and throat.

“H-hey! Hey stop!” The Lalafell loaner was panicking. “Stop, you stupid cunt! He gets it already! Drop him!”

Someone was shrieking curses and sobbing and shaking. It couldn’t be Aisling. She’d never do that. She had a good head on her shoulders. Nothing upset her. The dagger slicing into her palm didn’t hurt her.

“Consider our contract revoked!” someone shouted, and Aisling snapped back to her senses. She dropped the dead man to the floor and turned to see her former employer racing away, calling for guards. Aisling adjusted her mask and sighed. Nothing was too unpleasant, too big of a mess to clean up. She told herself this again and again like a mantra as she dropped out of a window and ran through the winding alleys.

She would find her way back to a main thoroughfare and melt into the rush hour crowd. The restaurants would be busy soon, and there would be plates of leftovers to lick clean and deliveries of vegetables and meat to snatch away.  Her panic subsided at last. She was hungry.

It was time to go thieving again.

#aisling #1 gil dreadfuls #my writing

[wemustbearwitness-blog]

Day Five: The World Is Small

So today’s entry is going to begin with last night. Some of the girls on my trip wanted to go out to get a better idea of what the Berlin night life is like. We went to a neighborhood recommended by the concierge at our hotel which had a bunch of pubs. The pubs here are much grungier than what we’re used to in the states. Everything has graffiti on it. After the fall of the Berlin wall, East Berlin went from being horribly gray to colorful. People used graffiti as a means to express their freedom. At this random pub, we met a group of people who were on an organized pub crawl in their hostel. I noticed that there were some Americans in the group and we began talking. One person said he was from Boston so I mentioned that I was too. It turns out, this person that I met goes to Brandeis with the two group leaders on our trip and just finished studying two weeks in Israel at a yeshiva with Meor. Evidently, he’s been following our trip on Facebook through CJP’s website. He was also very involved in Conservative Jewish life growing up and turns out we attended the same International Convention in 2013 in Boston. It’s incredible how small the world is. Out of all the places to run into someone you know-- a random pub in a random city in Europe. Another cool thing about Berlin as a city is that many of the people that I’ve met so far are not of German origin. Similar to New York City, this is a city with many immigrants who are from all over the world. I met people from Uganda, Australia, Brazil, England, and more all in one night. People who don’t speak English have a likelihood of speaking German, Spanish, or French. Luckily, each of us on the trip speaks at least one of those languages so we had our bases covered for the night. I very much enjoyed interacting with the locals. 

Today we attended the Friedrichshain-Kreuzberg Museum. It is all about the immigration in the city of Berlin and how the area known as Kreuzberg became a hub for immigrants and developed its diverse culture. The museum itself was a little odd and most of the information available was in German. On the first floor was a bunch of printing press machines which were used to make newspapers back in the day. The lack of labels on the machines made it difficult to determine where they came from or what their significance was. On the top floor we had opportunities to listen to stories of immigrants who moved to Kreuzberg and their experiences. Much of the lives of people in Berlin were and still are heavily affected by the divide of Berlin which ended in 1989. Other floors contained historical information about what the neighborhood used to look like as well as other cultural information. On one floor there were segments about Kreuzberg through the ages including before, after, and during WWII as well as before and after Soviet rule in East Berlin. I found the segment on the Jewish doctors and hospitals most interesting-- obviously.  In the 1800s, Germany was very advanced in its medical and health care practices. Overall, I didn’t find the museum to be a true highlight of the trip because it was not all that engaging, but it was cool to listen about something new. On the way to the next activity, I passed by a place selling Philly Cheesesteaks. I guess you truly are never so far from home. 

For lunch me and a few girls went to the Restaurant 1840 for lunch. I had a stew potato soup that is traditional in Germany. It was delicious and warm. Berlin today was rainy and cold with snow later on in the day. Not ideal weather for touring around so it was nice to get inside and eat something warm. 

After lunch, we met up with a tour guide nearby to journey through the old Jewish neighborhood of the city on the Stolpersteine Tour or Stumbling Stone Tour. A Stolpersteine is a cobblestone-size concrete cube bearing a brass plate inscribed with the name and life dates of victims of Nazi extermination or persecution. These stones are placed by the last voluntary living place of the victims in Berlin before they fell victim to Nazi terror, euthanasia, eugenics, was deported to a concentration or extermination camp, or escaped persecution by emigration or suicide. A tour guide took us through to tell us a little about the stumbling stones as well as about the old Jewish neighborhood and who lived where. There were a few memorials along the way and she was not afraid to criticize them which I liked. Not all memorial cites in Berlin are done well. Often times, they will take a statue and recycle it in a Holocaust commemoration site which does not fit. For example, in a location where the Nazis housed Jewish people and made them log their possessions before deporting them out of the city, lies a statute originally created for Ravensbrück Concentration Camp. The statue has emaciated Jewish women huddling together in camp garb. Clearly the people who were put in this holding site did not have camp garb and were not get emaciated. At that point, they still had all of their belongings with them. They were though, without a doubt, petrified of their unknown future. The Jews of Germany had an idea of what was going to happen to them. People were disappearing and not coming back. Giving up all of their possessions was a strong indication as well that they would not be returning. Our group is going to be sponsoring a stolpersteine for Berlin after this trip to symbolize the meaning of this trip, restoring their names. During the Stolpersteine Tour it was snowing fat, wet flakes of snow that was just treacherous. By the end, we couldn’t feel our feet. Most of us chose to go back to the hotel to get warm during our free time before Shabbat services. I took a little nap and then went to a local tourist attraction. Before, I talk about my adventure I want to mention the picture shown above. What is shown is two apartment buildings with an empty space in between. In that empty space, used to lie an apartment building where Jewish people lived before the Holocaust. During the bombings in Berlin, the apartment was destroyed and never rebuilt. One day a person was walking by and noticed that there must have been something there. A literal and figurative void if you will. This person did some research and discovered that this indeed used to be an apartment building and so he had plaques made which can be seen on the left and right. These plaques hold the name of the family that used to live in that unit on the proper floor where their apartment was. The site serves as a reminder that people used to fill that empty space at one point. 

My adventure during our break time was to the most famous, and oldest chocolate shop in Berlin, the Rausch Schokoladenhaus. Above you can see giant chocolate replicas of the Titanic, the Reichstag, and the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church. They smelled so strongly of chocolate. I bought souvenirs there for the family. Something I’ve noticed is that Berlin is similar to New York in that there aren’t really traditional things to bring back as souvenirs. No beer steins or cultural garb. Really just “I Love Berlin” merchandise which I don’t find too appealing. 

After the chocolate shop we went to services at the New Synagogue. I didn’t really know what to expect other than knowing we were not going to an orthodox shul. A little on the New Synagogue’s history. The Synagogue was built 1859–1866 as the main synagogue of the Berlin Jewish community, on Oranienburger Straße. This synagogue was of the few synagogues to survive Kristallnacht, but it was badly damaged prior to and during World War II and subsequently much was demolished. The reason this synagogue was able to mostly survive Kristallnacht was because, as the Nazis were looting it, destroying the Torah scrolls and catching it on fire, the German police ran in and made them stop. They claimed that the synagogue was a protected historical landmark and could not be destroyed. They also might have been concerned that the fire would spread to the neighboring German homes. As a result, the New Synagogue avoided this initial catastrophe. Today, much of this synagogue is reconstructed and the services are located upstairs. The old sanctuary no longer exists. This Synagogue contains high level security. There are multiple guards in the main entrance and you have to go through a metal detector and security similar to the airport in order to enter. I asked some congregants if this is ever a problem for other Jews who do not wish to use technology on Shabbat, but they said that they don’t know of anyone having an issue. Now comes the most exciting part about this synagogue. It is conservative. Upon arrival, I saw the familiar Siddur Sim Shalom created by the USCJ and the Etz Hayyim texts which are used for Torah readings on Saturday morning. Being at the New Synagogue felt exactly like being at Synagogue back home. The tunes were the same, the book was the same, and I felt completely connected to the community despite the many differences we share. Because the Shabbat services is in Hebrew, not knowing German was not an issue. The Rabbi of the egalitarian shul, a female, and the cantor were extremely welcoming. Both spoke English and the Rabbi even have us a short English summary of the d’var Torah after she shared it with the congregation in German. The service wasn’t large, about 20 people, but the ruach was palpable. Having the incredible opportunity to daven Kabbalat Shabbat and Maariv in the exact Shul that the Nazis attempted to destroy in November 1938 brought tears to my eyes. To pray over 70 years later at the same synagogue who’s congregants were stripped from their homes and and sent to the death camps was one of the most spiritual experiences in my life. I had the opportunity to pray today in Berlin because the Nazis were not successful in their final solution. They could not silence the congregation of the New Synagogue and still today they stand and worship. Having the service be in my native style made the experience all the more meaningful. Halfway across the world, and the German Jews sing the same prayers with the same tunes as we do in West Chester, Pennsylvania. Tonight, after a week of feeling confused, frustrated, and disheartened, I felt the full presence of community and warmth through prayer. I had heard on my way in that a woman in the synagogue tonight was from Philadelphia. After services, I said hello to her and asked her where she was from. Turns out, she is from Lower Merion, PA and went to the Paoli synagogue. Again, this world is small. She now lives in Israel and is through Berlin with her friend who lives in New York City. Her friend’s grandmother belonged to the New Synagogue back before WWII. She survived the Holocaust. We gave her tips on where to go in Berlin while she was in town.

After reluctantly leaving the Synagogue, we went back to the Hotel for a wonderful Shabbat dinner. Tomorrow we leave Berlin for a layover in Dublin and then back to Boston. This trip was truly remarkable and I feel so lucky to have been a part of it. My perspective has grown and my only hope is that I can harness it into something productive. I’m going to try to speak up more, get involved in issues that I am passionate about, try to make a difference in the present. While studying the Holocaust is a hugely important aspect of my life, this trip helped me remember that I need to apply it to the present in order to make a difference. Remaining an activists for human rights is what we learn. I have to look to the past for guidance on how to approach the future. I will still continue to study the past because we have a duty to remember and document, but I wish to also focus on the present. The only question is how. That’s the next project. 

[personasfincas-blog]

Day 1, in a new pair of God's Hands

We arrived into Alajuela at the international airport tired and aching and hoping that we didn’t need the pair of socks and underwear stowed in our carry-on. A red eye from Minneapolis at 12:55am on Wednesday, December 6, 2017 brought us here the same day, in the same time zone. Only that we had to have a tired four hours in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida first. The only thing I liked about that was the carpets and floors of that hub, sparkling and zebra printed like a sophisticated middle school pattern palette. We considered going to “Grandpa’s Bakery & Diner” not far from the airport just to get out for a minute and get a preview of the kind of warmth and humidity we feel so guilty for plunging ourselves into, but we had no real energy to figure that out AND put ourselves back through the human scanning system at airport security. Ben got a super duper thorough pat-down/groin grazing because of the amazing hardware on his new explorer pants in MPLS. Instead we slept, awkward as bent bean poles, over armrests and on the floor for a couple outta hours. It’s amazing how intensely you can sleep through anything when you’re that tired. I lost my sleeping mask in that first trip in the gauzey scramble through space.

The Costa Rican man I sat next to in the plan was almost not someone I could refer to as a “Tico”, the familiar name for Costa Rican born folk, because he spent most of the time talking about how Costa Rica was backwards and over-hyped after I asked him why he was journying there. He lives in Miami as an engineer for luxury apartment staircases and was visiting his mother here, and if it weren’t for her it sounds like he wouldn’t be coming back home much. Inflation of simple things like groceries and other basic costs of living are one reason, he said laregly influenced by political coprtuptuion; it’s the same story all over. Politicians and populus both demanding pensions and bonuses and salaries that the economy can’t keep up with. That, and he seemed to not like how much more things like McDonald’s is in Costa Rica, that it’s more of a symbol of prosperity to eat there than it is a value of convenience like in the good ol USA. He thinks “equal opportunity” and such outweigh the downsides of American living and politics. I decided to change the subject. He reccommeneded buying big bottles of liquor at the airport (him opting for Johnny Walker Black Label). We bought a bottle of Prosecco for our first night and the beginning of our adventure, knowing it would likely be our last lunxury of the sort for a long, long time.

Customs was breezy and it smelled like fumes inside the warm airport. I realized too late we needed an offical taxi guy to avoid the gamble of getting swindled by an unofficial curbside one. But this totally awesome and friendly looking guy with a very official orange van cab magnetized us right before we hit the swarming mob of folks trying to grab tourists and put them in their cars for “flat rates”. He was super sweet and let me try my rusty but functional Spanish on him, saying I sounded like I was from Mexico City. He gave us his card with his number and a picture of a red racecar after we told him we’d be in the country for a while, in case we had any questions. Freaking Hospitality with a capital H.

Ben and I seem to attract the sweet dad types, because the owner of Hotel Santo Tomas sat down with us to eat his breakfast at the end of the service to give us advice and talk about things like disco and what brought him to Costa Rica from Santa Barbara, California so many years ago. When asked why he moved from North Carolina to California before that he said simply, “The bong.” LOL Now, don’t be misled; this guy is a hard-working design genuis raised by racist KKK heritage in Alabama, and has evolved to being more at home in Costa Rica than he ever was tangled in those deep and unsavory roots. A lot happens to a person in forty years or so. He was a machinist, designer and builder, crafting much of this lovely hotel’s updates, including the pool with a slide that drops down from the hot tub on the hill (one of the selling points online when I sleepily booked our one “splurge” hotel room around 5am in Ft. Launderdale). He said he did it all without plans or blueprints. He gave us some sagely wisdoms like “wear sunscreen” (pointing at Ben) and to seek shade always. Hitchiking he said could be done, but make sure we don’t get bounced outta the truck if we’re in the back. The roads here can really tear things up, and he warned us also about how long bussing everywhere can take. Bueno! But in all seriousness, a sweet ankle-socked dude who was super down to help us out, even going as far to offer us a storage place for our stuff if we ever needed it. And we have a boat-load of camping gear, so who knows, we might take him up on it sometime.

David, on of the receptionists at the hotel, offered to meet up with us for drinks after his shift and was super kind and helpful to us upon arrival. He threw our bottle in the ice freezer and marked up our map with all sorts of clues. We rambled all over town that arrival evening after taking a moment to ourselves horizontally basking in a real bed. San Jose is bustling and I reckon this is the fastest people move in the country. Universities, Hospitals, parks and businesses everywhere. We found a live band blasting out amazing original cha cha and samba in the main square and watched an older couple moving their feet faster than I’ve ever seen old folks move in my life. Lush plants and huge warm weather trees looming over the parks, and streets where they’ve managed to survive the concrete and cobblestones. Throngs of birds and people flocking across streets and into trees. Fruterias hanging heavy with bananas, grapes, mangoes, starfruits, plantains, papayas, pineapples and other unimaginable mysteries in the middle of the more modern markets. We bought three starfruit and carrying them around in the little bag made me feel just a little bit like I belonged in the place.

We called both our parents when we got into the hotel room. Ben’s dad was happy to hear from us and helped him figure out some technological stuff so Ben could back up all the photos on his phone properly. When I called my mom she sounded so surpised and happy to hear from me so soon, and even though we only chatted for a few minutes her joy and compersion for our adventure and escape was so uplifting it brought me to tears after we hung up. It was her happiness for us that made it all real to me, arriving here after months of wondering and thinking and planning. I’d wanted to go for so long, for so many reasons, and the gratefulness I felt in that moment looking out our hotel window to the orange-lit clouds rolling up and around the sides of the mountains in the near distance bubbled up a spring of reality-acceptance and gleeful believing.