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brightly-painted-canvas · 3 years

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How does it feel? (drabble, The Old Guard - Andy & Nicky)

I had this vignette sitting in my heart for a few days and I figured out I should write it down before I ended up losing its warmth. I am a sucker for fics about Andy’s and Nicky’s relationship and this is somehow a small attempt at describing how they communicate, even over a difficult topic like mortality.

It’s morning. Early and quiet.

Andy is sneaking inside the safehouse from the back door, sure she’d be the only one up at this hour until she rounds the corner and sees Nicky at the kitchen table, kneading bread with swift but vigorous movements.

She quickly considers her options: Nicky has for sure noticed her already, so heading toward her room without saying ‘hello’ doesn’t sit right. She also had wanted a cup of coffee to wash down the stale taste of alcohol sitting under her tongue after a long night of cheap drinks, so the kitchen had to be a brief stop before hitting the bed.

She quietly steps inside, scanning the situation: flour stains are all around the main surfaces, the oven is already turned on and a fragrant smell of sweet baking cookies is filling the air of the small room.

Nicky doesn’t even lift his head, he just fixes his big, pale eyes on her and smiles that minute smile of his.

“Coffee?” he asks, his deep soothing voice still rough with sleep.

Andy nods once and Nicky is already moving, briefly wiping his hands on a clean dishrag before reaching the cupboard for a mug. The family-size moka he insists on keeping in almost all the safehouses they use more frequently is already filled with blessedly warm, bitter coffee.

She sits on one of the kitchen table’s chairs, near the momentarily abandoned bread dough.

Once he has placed the mug in front of her, she grins and says: “You’re a saint.”

He snorts.

It’s an inside joke between them: she doesn’t believe in anything holy. He doesn’t anymore (maybe).

But if there ever was anything worth calling sainted in Andy’s long life, it would always somehow be related to her Nicolò.

He wouldn’t agree, of course.

Nicky gets back to his task of kneading bread to perfection, quiet and precise, like all of his movements.

Andy sips her coffee and enjoys the silence, the brief interruptions dictated by the oven’s ticking and the bread’s slamming over and over on the table’s board.

She observes Nicky’s profile like she has done so many times before, noticing his somehow always disheveled hair having grown a bit too long, the dark circles under his eyes having deepened in the last months, enhancing the tiny white scar under his left eye, the one connected to the cut on his mesophrium and over his right brow.

He was never specific about his life before his first death, but Andy somehow knows the story behind that long scar. She remembers the feelings she had in reaction to that lighthearted confession he uttered: disbelief and outrage.

After all her years wandering the Earth, that tiny information still had her despair about humanity, its obstinacy in bringing suffering to its own, repressing and oppressing what is pure and good and beautiful.

What she hates the most has always been feeling powerless in the face of injustice.

But if Nicolò may once have been a scared, vulnerable boy, he wasn’t anymore.

Andy’s gaze lingers on his strong arms, his wide shoulders, the set of his angular jaw, the muscles moving under his pale skin: he is a remarkably powerful man now, her brother. A forever 30 years old warrior who died in his prime, never to be seen aging and wilted if not for many, many years to this day. And not by her, it seems.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks, breaking their prolonged silence.

Nicky hums, a singular small sound, affirmative.

“What’s on your mind?” she follows, knowing all too well it’s pointless: Nicky never answers these questions if he can avoid it, if it’s someone else other than Joe asking, if Joe somehow doesn’t know already.

This time as well, he shifts his gaze to meet hers and smiles, tiredly but reassuringly.

Andy prides herself to be able to read all her brother’s tiny reactions, unsaid truths, hidden emotions: Nicolò may be the hardest one to read, but she has always managed.

She doesn’t know it as deeply as Yusuf, but she understands his core in her own way.

She uncurls her hand from around the mug’s handle and places it upon Nicky’s dusted with flour’s one, which immediately stills over soft bread dough.

Their eyes are still locked and Andy thinks back at all the times she had read deep into these pools of grey mist and green waters, threading out his emotions like a Moira spinning a seafoam yarn.

When he’s this particular type of quiet, unguarded and open, she can read him like a well-known piece of poetry, an ancient song.

“How does it feel?” he asks, and Andy feels like flinching, but he already has his warm hand turned, cupping her smaller one, resting the tips of his fingers on her wrist like it’s a casual position, not a subtle way to feel her life pulsing.

Oh, she thinks. Oh, my sweet one.

They hadn’t had time yet to talk about any of it.

They had to run and hide and let the dust settle, had to decide over the consequence of Booker’s actions, had to figure out Copley, had to wait for her to heal for the first time in forever, had to care about Nile.

Nicky had only had time to exhale a tiny sigh while still strapped on a medical bed, give his wise speech over immortality (wasted on the obtuse mind of an already dead man), ask her if she felt like facing yet another tiring battle.

He had accepted everything that came after with his usual grace, his absolute faith: trusted her leadership without faltering once over almost one thousand years, shielded her with his body like it was meant to be used that way, sacrificed yet some more pain, another death, to survival.

They had yet to talk about it, like they always do somehow in some way at some point, the two of them.

In their long, silent moments shared, just like this one, they always end up talking about what matters the most.

“I feel finite.” she replies, smiling privately at her beloved little brother.

He smiles back and Andy knows he has tricked her once again: he has let her in only to be able to see her in return, to gaze into her soul. Her clever, smart little brother.

She truly envies how effortlessly he manages to do that.

“It’s good.” she adds. She lifts her hand from his soft grip, caressing up his arm to his shoulder, the side of his face, the tip of his too long ash brown hair.

He lets her touch him gently, strokes the skin under his eye with her thumb, and holds the side of his head in her palm.

You are mine: my kin, my family, she tells him, through her silence. I will leave you, but you’ll always have me. I am right here.

“Finally.” she sighs, contentedly, conveying her calmness with her touch, the long awaited peace to her eternal inner turmoil now right there, close to the surface: she has a time now.

She doesn’t have to long for an end that never comes, anymore.

His smile is a blessed thing, once again: a brief glance at unfiltered grace, the purity of a cherished soul she saw growing, learning, mending, finding its purpose and balance.

She is old and tired, but her love for this one will always bring her back to her primitive emotions, her loyalty, her animal instinct of offering and receiving protection.

She often recalls with amusement having been worshipped as a god, in the past: she had with Nile, right after meeting her. She sometimes thinks about what those ancient, forgotten people would had said and done for her Quỳnh, her Yusuf, her Nicolò. Her Sébastien and her Nile.

She’s sure they would have fallen for this remarkable man’s eyes like they did with hers, with his secret smiles and gentle voice. Worshipped his proud profile and handsome body in a manner that would have made Yusuf bristle with jealousy, exactly like he did back in the Renaissance, when a bit too many artists had their greedy eyes on the classical features of the other half of his soul.

She chuckles low, lost in her silly thoughts. Nicky doesn’t ask, but looks glad to see mirth on her face.

The oven rings and Andy lets her baby brother go with a last stroke of his soft hair. He moves his head just enough to place a small, grateful kiss on the skin of her fingers.

“Let me get you those biscotti, they should be perfect with coffee.” he says, turning around to open the oven: warmth engulfs the tiny kitchen and Andy is sure it won’t take long for Joe and Nile to wake up now, following the sweet scent of food with rumbling stomachs, like the puppies they not-so-secretly are.

It means her quiet time shared with Nicky is coming to an end.

She accepts a plate of still hot cookies with a satisfied hum that turns into a shameless moan once she tastes the first one: “You’re my favourite!” she exclaims, like she often does in these cases.

“You don’t have favourites, remember?” he smirks, getting back to his softened bread dough.

“That doesn’t sound like me at all.” she smiles with mischief, gulping down some more coffee, as heavy steps start resounding from the floor above them, down the stairs, and Joe’s voice calling for his husband heralds his appearance at the kitchen’s door.

Hope you enjoyed! Sorry for any mistake, English is not my first language.

I’m on Ko-fi!

#fanfiction #drabble #the old guard #andromache of scythia #nicolò di genova #andy & nicky #sibling feels #I made myself emotional (just a bit) because FOUND FAMILY #I love them so much

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heavenseed76 · 3 years

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The Sweater

Ezra/Prospect & Female OC (can be read as reader)

Summary: I made something for Ezra’s birthday - he deserves a gift

Just a fluffy thought I had.

Rating: T (mentions of heterosexual intercourse, nothing explicit)

It was difficult to hide, having only so much space and so much privacy, but I managed. I gave up a whole set of blacks to fit it on our next job on the Green Moon. This time it would just be Ezra and I, and I was thankful. We’d been on so many jobs together since we’d met, working with other prospectors, sometimes parties as big as six. We never had any time or privacy until this job.

We had thirty cycles before we were meant to catch the slingback. Thirty cycles to pull as many gems as possible from the belly of the Green before we took to the black again. Ezra’s name day fell in those thirty cycles, and I had already started on his gift. I swore to Kevva I would finish it. When Ezra told me he’d never been given a gift, I knew I had to rectify such a travesty.

“There is no greater gift than that of your heart, sweet thing.” He’d said with a smile. He was so humble.

But when my name day came, he woke me with his warm lips against my temple, stubble tickling my ear, a hot cup of real coffee in hand. “Happy name day, sweet thing.” He held a little origami box made of real paper in his other hand and he was blushing. “In all my years in the Green I have never found so rare a gem as you. It’s not much, but I fashioned it with my own hands. It is a trinket made from the pod where we first met.”

The tiny bulb from the dashboard of that pod still sits at the hollow of my throat, a constant reminder of Ezra’s eyes watching me pull apart the origami to find the trinket inside, sparkling with mischief and mirth, and not a small amount of trepidation. The thin leather cord holding it about my neck echoes his large, deft fingers tying it so it lay just right, admiring it where it rests on my skin. It wasn’t until later that I realized it’s placement was intentional as I caught his stare, half-lidded in desire as I keened above him, my gift dangling, and my coffee grown cold.

I’ve worked on it when he’s out of the pod. I’ve been able to get a few rows in when he’s entirely spent, rolling away from his hold and pulling it out from beneath our shared cot. I watch him sleep while my hands work. Years of prospecting, muscle memory kicks in and I can watch his broad chest rise and fall, never dropping a stitch. I wait until he’s showering to compare my work to his compression shirts to determine how long it needs to be, nearly ruining the surprise in the process.

He deserves this and more. This gift of time, my devotion to detail, just for him. No one has ever taken the time to give that to to Ezra. When he cares for something he shines it, cares for it like a precious gem. He holds me, loves me with reverence, delicate and fragile. I have never felt as precious and wanted as I do under his honeyed gaze. And the prose he whispers into my skin when he’s inside me… perhaps a tale for another day.

Being lovers and partners isn’t always easy. We argue. As verbose as he is, Ezra goes quiet when we’re at odds. We walk amongst the trees and vegetation in humid silence, stewing in our anger, hauling our tools back to camp. I want to talk.

“Ez. I’m sorry. I should have let you take the lead on this one. But I need you to trust my judgement. That’s all I want.” I say, leaving it be and starting to strip down to my base layers. I’ve said my piece.

Ezra just stands inside the tent, hands on his hips. He watches me. I can see the fight leave his body as he sees that I’ve moved on. I’m taking apart my air filter, taking off my boots, digging through the ration packs. He finally relents. When we both have hot food in front of us, he breaks.

“I’m sorry too, sweet thing.” He doesn’t meet my eye. “It was not like me to have raised my voice and I apologize. You deserve better from me. I vow to give you the courtesy of my time and attention if you’ll do the same. Our partnership can only work if our communication is clear. Agreed?” He looks up. He looks scared.

My smile always seems to soften him, to give him strength. “Yes, Ez. Agreed.” I reach for him and he reaches back. We hold on. He’s all I have on this Kevva forsaken moon.

Three days before his name day, he catches me marking off the days in my notebook. The sneaky bastard wraps those big arms around me and tucks his face into my neck from behind. He loves making me laugh. He can envelop me completely, I’m so much shorter and smaller than him. It makes harvesting in small spaces that much easier for me. “What in Kevva’s name are you doin’ with that, woman?”

“Just keepin track of the cycles.” I try to be nonchalant. It doesn’t work.

He spins me, face stern and worried. “What for?”

All manner of panicked thoughts go through my mind. And his.

“Please tell me your implant’s still creamy. I have no designs on parenthood, Sweet Thing. And, no offense, but I thought we were on the same page on this.” He’s dead serious, thinking I’m tracking my menstrual cycle, worried I’m pregnant.

I laugh until I cry, until my knees give out and Ezra has to bear my weight while I cough out the real reason. “Kevva, no! I’m counting down until your name day, Ez!”

“Thank fuck!” Ezra laughs. Then he thanked me right there on the floor of the tent for good measure.

I work on his gift until the night before his name day.

On his name day, I let him sleep in and wake him up by pressing my entire body against his from behind. He’s my safe, warm place and I can feel his heartbeat against my palm where I try to press him closer to me, wrapping an arm around his broad chest. I know he’s awake when he reaches back and grabs my thigh, knowing that what I want is friction and warmth. I place a soft kiss at his hairline, the top of his spine and watch the shiver as it moves down his body.

“To what do I owe this delectable wake-up call?” He asks, turning to me. I love when he pulls me closer and tangles our legs, like aurelac veins in the soil. His voice is raspy and low, still full of sleep. I can’t help but nibble that little patch of skin on his chin where his stubble never grows in. It makes him purr like an over fed cat.

“It’s your name day.”

He sighs dramatically. “Another day older, another day wiser.” He smiles tiredly and lets me play with that curious patch of blonde hair.

“I made you something.” I can’t hide my nervous pride. He pulls away to really look at me properly.

“A gift? What’s a more precious gift than having you at my side? I want for nothing now that I have you, sweet thing.” He’s deflecting; he’s nervous too. He’s blushing.

I bring my gift from under the cot, wrapped in a foil heat blanket and tied with a length of the brown yarn I used, the last few yards left, in fact.

“I didn’t have a box.”

Ezra sits up on the cot and regards the package with a raised eyebrow. He slowly opens it, the lump of brown falling unceremoniously into his lap. He holds it up between us. I can’t see his reaction.

“You made this with your own two hands?” His voice is reverent, a near whisper.

“I hope it fits. I had to guess the size and compare it -”

He jumps off the cot and tugs it on, his broad chest disappearing behind the intricate cables and stitches, the sleeves wrapping his biceps in wool and time and patience. He looks down at himself, wearing only the sweater and his boxer briefs, then up at me, his eyes sparkling, smiling like a goon. “I think it fits perfect.” He says.

And it does.

#pedro pascal #ezra fanfiction #ezra prospect #ezra x reader #prospect movie fanfiction #Prospect movie #ezra deserves move soft!ezra

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mystical-flute · 3 years

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We Were Both Young When I First Saw You (SF Week Day 1)

Partners In Crime or Enchanted Forest AU

AO3 || FFN

“Papa, are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine, Baelfire. We’ve only got a bit further to go.”

Baelfire couldn’t help but frown at the castle looming in the distance. He wasn’t entirely sure what his Papa’s version of “bit” was, but he knew they wouldn’t even reach the castle by sundown if they tried.

They had been journeying for weeks now, having only barely scraped enough money together for food or the occasional night at the inns on the route from Senaela. There was to be a spinning contest in Misthaven, hosted by the Queen and Prince Regent. The prize money would be everything to them - and Baelfire knew his Papa was the best spinner in all the realms.

But that didn’t mean Baelfire wasn’t tired of traveling.

Still, he pushed on. For his Papa. For a better life.

Despite the burning in his lungs and his legs, he pushed on, the cart moving slowly through the forest.

They stumbled upon a small village, and were settling down to eat the rations they’d found when the sound of horses cut through the serenity.

The lead horse had a banner with a crest of the royal family on it, and Baelfire sighed in relief. It wasn’t their Duke’s men who came to take him away to fight against the ogres. They had escaped. They were safe.

“Clear the area! Make way for Princess Emma and Prince Neal!” the man on the lead horse called.

The residents buzzed with excitement as they cleared the main street of the town, gathered on either side. Children stood on tiptoes, peeking out from behind their mother’s skirts or seated upon their father’s shoulders.

Baelfire and Rumplestiltskin stood off to the side in surprise.

“Princess Emma and Prince Neal seem quite popular…” he said softly.

“Oh, they are!” the woman standing next to him remarked. “The whole royal family is, actually. They say the prince was a poor farm boy before Queen Snow married him. They always hear out the woes of the farmers that live on the edge of the kingdom.”

More horses galloped through, carrying banners of the royal family.

“Emma and Neal seem to be following in Queen Snow and Prince David’s footsteps too. They’re always out talking to the people. It really makes me feel like I’m being heard, y’know? My mother used to tell me we’d be lucky to see King Leopold once a year.”

“We don’t even know what our king looks like,” Papa said. “Only the duke of our area.”

The woman smiled kindly. “Have you considered staying here after the tournament?”

“Well… the people here have been quite friendly,” Papa hummed in consideration.

They couldn’t very well return to their village they’d come from, given they had managed to escape from the Duke and his awful reign of terror. The truth was, Baelfire wasn’t sure if Papa had thought it all the way through after their escape.

Finally, three horses arrived. One white, carrying a girl with blonde hair, one chestnut brown, carrying a younger boy, and the third was a majestic black stallion, carrying a woman with dark hair and sharp features.

The horses came to a halt, and the riders dismounted, leading their horses to the troughs of water available.

Baelfire felt his heart stop as the girl met his gaze, fingers moving of their own accord in a shy wave.

“Princess Emma!” the woman next to them called. “It’s so lovely to see you and Neal out and about.”

Emma laughed a little, hopping over a small mud puddle to meet them. “It’s nice to see you too, Miss Diana. Neal and I figured we’d get a bit of freedom before the contest starts and Mama and Daddy have us stuck being stuffy royals all day.” Her face, which had screwed up into a scowl, softened as she looked at Baelfire and Rumplestiltskin. “I don’t think I’ve seen the two of you before.”

Papa bowed immediately, holding on to his walking stick carefully. “No - no your highness. We’re new here… we’ve come from Senaela for the contest, you see.”

“It’s okay - you don’t have to bow. I’m surprised that news of the contest reached there after mother and father had a falling out with King Thomas and Princess Ella…” Emma trailed off, then shrugged. “Welcome to Misthaven regardless. It’s nice to see some new faces here.”

“Thank you, your highness.”

“Emma,” she said. “I’m Emma.”

Baelfire still felt awestruck, reaching to scratch the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’m Baelfire. This is my Papa, Rumplestiltskin.”

Emma curtseyed just a little. “It’s so nice to meet you both. What’s - ”

“Emma! We need to get back to the palace!” the older woman called.

A scowl appeared on Emma’s face as she turned away from them briefly. “Coming, Regina!” She turned back, smiling at Diana. “You’ll help them get to the palace grounds tomorrow, won’t you, Diana?”

“Of course, Princess Emma.”

Emma gave them a small wave before retreating back to her horse, and within moments, the royal caravan had gone, and Baelfire’s heart was still stuttering.

The next morning, Baelfire was in awe as he took in the castle grounds. It looked more like a festival than a normal contest. Tents of food and other vendors lined the edges of the main path, and games were scattered along the immaculate lawn.

Papa was up on the stage, spinning up a storm with the other contestants, but he could see the piles of wool next to Papa growing larger than the others.

Baelfire sat on an empty patch of grass, listening to a small group of musicians playing. This place was a dream. No evil duke, no ogres… were they finally safe here?

“Hello Baelfire.”

He jumped to his feet and twisted around, bowing. “Hello Princess Emma.”

“How are you enjoying the festivities?”

Baelfire smiled. “It’s very fun. Why did you guys throw a festival like this? I thought it was just a contest for spinners.”

An early spring breeze brushed against them, and Emma pulled her cape tighter around her. “It’s a spring celebration. We’ll hand out the yarn to those that need it, so people can make blankets and warm clothing for next winter,” she explained.

“Wow… that’s so kind. I didn’t think royalty could be like that.”

Emma giggled, holding out her arm to guide him through the festivities. “Well, Daddy knows how hard it is to survive winters. He didn’t want to see the people suffer when he married mother.”

Baelfire smiled. He couldn’t imagine being worthy of living in a place like this. But then, anything would be better than the village they’d come from, with the ogres and the dukes drunk on power.

“What are you and your Papa going to do after the contest is over? Will you return home?”

Baelfire bit his lip. “We don’t really have a home anymore. We fled from the Ogre Wars. The duke wanted to take me away to be a soldier on the front lines.”

“You can’t be much older than I.”

“Fifteen.”

“We’re the same age, then. And they expect you to fight in a war?”

“It used to be thirteen.”

Emma’s eyes widened. “That’s terrible! I mean, Mama taught me how to fight, but she would never tell people our age to go fight in a war! You must stay in Misthaven. You’ll be safe here.”

“Thank you, Princess Emma.”

“Emma! There you are!” an older woman called.

Baelfire glanced over his shoulder, then stiffened when he realized the queen and prince regent were coming toward them. His manners kicked in when he saw the sword on the prince’s hip, dropping into a low bow.

“Mama, Daddy, I was just showing Baelfire around,” Emma explained. “His Papa’s in the contest today. Rumplestiltskin.”

“Ah, the favorite to win,” David said. “Your father is quite the talent.”

“Thank you, your majesty,” he managed to squeak out. “We’re very honored to be here.”

Snow glanced up at the sky, gauging the direction of the sun. “We should be announcing the winner in about an hour, if you would like to wait with your father, Baelfire.”

He nodded slowly as Snow and David walked off. He and Emma wandered around the square for a bit longer before he stood on the stage alongside his father, who was a bundle of nervous energy, his good leg bouncing.

“And the winner of this year’s contest is… Rumplestiltskin!” Queen Snow announced.

Despite the thunderous applause and cheers from the people fathered, all Baelfire could focus on was the wide smile on Emma’s face, and the light dusting of pink in her cheeks.

Perhaps they would stay in Misthaven after all.

#sfweek2021 #swanfire #emma swan #neal cassidy #ouat

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woodelf68 · 3 years

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Lessons Learned And Praise Well Earned

@lokijiro prompted: "Frigga regularly reads books to her tiny sons. One day, she realises that Loki can read, even though she hasn’t really started teaching him yet." Loki is around the equivalent of 3 years old here, and let's say Thor is somewhere between 5 and 6. Word count: 5918

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Odin eyed his eldest son. Thor was not usually one to dawdle over meals, but he was quite clearly dawdling now. Since he wasn't putting any more food on his plate, Odin assumed Thor was done with his breakfast, but instead of saying anything he was just sitting there quietly, fiddling with his spoon, as if he didn't want to call attention to himself.

"If you're finished eating, Thor," Odin said, not ungently, but very much aware of the time, "I will walk you down to your tutor." It was not far; they had set up an unused room at the opposite end of the family wing as Thor's new classroom, but Odin wished to personally introduce Thor to Master Egilson and see his son settled in before descending to the lower levels of the palace and beginning his own day's work.

Thor sighed and put his spoon down with a clank and pushed his chair back. He wasn't sure how he felt about starting formal lessons with a tutor. On the one hand, it meant he was growing up and was one step closer to being able to train as a warrior, on the other hand, he wanted to go outside and play as he usually did every morning instead of going to sit in a stuffy old room learning...well, whatever it was that he was going to be learning. He had been trying to take a cautious wait and see attitude towards it all, except every time he looked at his little brother, Loki looked so forlorn at being forced to stay behind in the nursery that Thor felt horribly like he was deserting his brother.

"I'm ready," he said resignedly, standing up without any enthusiasm whatsoever.

Odin got to his feet as well and clasped a reassuring hand on Thor's shoulder. "It's all right to be nervous on your first day," he said. "But I'm sure you'll do well."

"It's not that," said Thor. "It's just that Loki -- "

As if one cue, Loki jumped up from his place at the table, his own breakfast nearly untouched in his unhappiness. "Are you sure I can't come too?" he pleaded, looking at his father. "I'll be good; I wouldn't cause any trouble."

"Oh no, sweetheart." Frigga rose and stepped up behind him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "You're too young. But we'll have fun while Thor's gone, I promise, and it's only for a half day. He'll be back for lunchtime and then you can have the rest of the afternoon to play before dinner."

"But it's not only a half day," protested Loki. "It's a half day every day." He could feel the tears starting to gather on his eyes and his lower lip trembled. "For... forever ."

Odin's lip twitched. "Not quite." He didn't mention that Thor's half days would at some point become full days of lessons, because he could see that Loki was quite distressed enough already. "Yes, your schooling will go on until you grow up, for there are a great many things that you will need to learn as princes of this realm. But you will be able to join Thor in his studies long before that, and then it won't seem so bad, eh? But for now you have your own very important job to do, right here."

"I do?"

"Mm-hm." A few steps took him from Thor's side to Loki, and he bent and reached down, Loki immediately lifting his arms in response. Odin picked him up and settled him on his hip, looking Loki in the eyes. "I know you're going to miss Thor, but your mother was telling me just this morning how glad she was that she would still have you to keep her company while Thor went off to his lessons. And I was glad too, for I don't like to think of your mother being sad and lonely any more than I want you to be."

"Oh." Loki twisted around and looked back at his mother.

"It's true," Frigga confirmed. "I've been looking forward to the chance to spend some time alone with just you, the way I did with Thor before you were born."

"Oh," said Loki again, his brow furrowing. He hadn't thought that his mother might miss Thor, too. "So my job is to keep Mama company? So she's not lonely?"

"It is. Can I rely on you to do that?"

Loki nodded. He didn't want to think of his mother being sad, either. "Yes, Papa."

"That's my good boy," Odin said approvingly, and kissed him before handing him off into Frigga's waiting arms. "Now, Thor." He held out his hand, and Thor slipped his own smaller one into it without hesitation. "Let's not keep your tutor waiting."

Thor took a deep breath, but he did feel a little better about leaving Loki now. He squared his shoulders. "All right. I’ll see you later, Loki.”

"’Bye." Loki gave a tiny wave.

"Have a good day, my son." Frigga went over and pressed a kiss to the top of Thor's head. "Loki and I will come and get you at lunchtime; stay with your tutor until then."

“I can walk back to the nursery on my own.”

“But we might not be in the nursery. And besides, I wish to speak to your tutor this first day and I think Loki might enjoy seeing your classroom.”

“Oh. Very well.”

Frigga waited until Thor had followed his father out of the room before turning and surveying the remains of Loki's breakfast with a frown. "Hey." She jiggled him gently. "Do you think you can eat a little more of your breakfast now? And then when you're finished, we can go down to the garden."

And Loki, his throat feeling less tight than it had earlier, found that he could.

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Outside, without Thor to pull him away into whatever game he wanted to play, Loki stayed close by Frigga's side, following her around as she tended to the plants, a subdued and quiet little shadow. She didn't bother trying to draw him out, figuring that would come naturally after Thor returned from his lessons in the afternoon; instead she filled the silence by telling him the names of all the herbs and flowers, and what they were good for -- cooking and medicines and scenting things, teas and potions and dyes. When he roused enough to express interest in the last, she gathered enough material to make up a small dye pot, bundling it with a length of twine and placing it in her basket, figuring she would let him help dye some raw wool and then spin it into yarn for him to play with, a special project just for the two of them while Thor was at his lessons. After that, her clever little son proved he had been paying attention to what she was doing when he began pointing out spent blossoms for her to snip off with her pruning shears, his lower vantage point making it easy for him to spot all those that were closer to the ground.

“Thank you, my darling,” Frigga praised as she bent to snip another dead flower head off, tracing back its stem to where a new bud was forming and making the cut above that. Loki beamed and circled around the shrub, easily navigating the tight space that would have caught at her skirts.

“Here!”

There were three crumbly brown flower heads grouped closely together, half-hidden at the back of the shrub. As soon as Frigga had snipped them off, Loki moved to the next bush, his sharp eyes seeking out browned or drooping flowers, and Frigga had to hasten on, what was usually a leisurely stroll for her turning into an attempt to keep up with Loki’s pointing finger and expectant face as he embraced the hunt like a new game.

“Where next, Mama?” Loki asked as they reached the end of the next row, ready to scamper on ahead.

“Hold, wait a minute,” Frigga said, straightening up and stretching, her back beginning to ache from repeatedly bending over. She thought how much simpler it would be to simply let him snip the dead heads off himself. He was a careful child, far more so than Thor had been at his age, and she thought he might be able to handle a pair of pruning shears safely without hurting himself, at least on the easier to trim plants -- nothing thorny, or that had thicker, woody branches. “Loki, if I could find or have made a smaller pair of shears that would fit your hand, would you like your own pair so you can trim off the flower heads yourself?”

Loki’s face lit up. “Yes!”

“I’ll see if I can find some, then. You’ve been a very good helper to me this morning. What say we do that area under the trees and then go back inside and you can pick out some books for me to read to you?”

Loki turned and skipped backwards in front of her. “When will I get my shears?”

Frigga laughed and dropped her own into the pocket of the apron she wore to protect her clothes. “I’m not sure; I’ll ask the head gardener if they can know where I could get any small enough for you, but I really think the smith might need to make them special. Perhaps in two or three days; it depends on how busy they are. Here, turn around and watch where you’re going; I don’t want you to trip.”

It was cool and pleasant in the shade of the trees after being in the warm, bright sun, but by the time they got back to the nursery, Frigga was ready to pour herself and Loki glasses of the cold lemonade that she had sent for, and then settle herself in the comfortably cushioned window seat, a light breeze blowing in fresh around them. Loki scrambled up to sit beside her with the selection of books he had chosen and leaned into her side, looking at the pages of the picture books as she began to read. When she noticed it was time to go pick up Thor, Loki jumped down and made for the beautifully carved wooden door leading into the corridor, bouncing impatiently on his heels as she put away the books.

“Come on, Mama,” he said impatiently, and Frigga smiled as she pushed the door open and took his hand in her own.

“There, it was not so bad spending the morning with just me, was it?” She swung their arms together as they walked towards Thor’s classroom.

“No,” Loki admitted. “It was nice. Did I keep you from being sad?”

“You did indeed, my darling. Thank you.” She saw the door at the end of the hall had been propped open and released Loki’s hand, pointing. “Go on.”

Loki ran ahead and into the room, his eyes quickly finding his brother already standing next to a small desk and talking to a pleasant-looking young man. “Thor!” He threw himself at his brother.

A wide grin split Thor’s face as he caught his brother up and lifted him briefly from his feet in an exuberant hug. “Loki! I missed you!” Lowering him back down, Thor put his hands on Loki’s shoulders and turned him towards his teacher, beaming with delight. “Master Egilson, this is my brother Loki.”

“Hello, Prince Loki,” the tutor said with a smile. “Your brother has been telling me a lot about you.”

“Really?”

“Mm-hm. According to Thor, you’re the best little brother in the entire kingdom.”

Loki flushed with pleasure.

“What about me?” asked Frigga from the doorway, smiling. “Did I rate a mention?”

Master Egilson turned and bowed respectfully to her. “You did indeed, your Majesty.” He picked up a paper covered in Thor’s blocky writing from his own, larger desk and read from it. “ My mother is the queen and she is very beautiful and very kind. Everybody loves her .”

Frigga felt her own cheeks pinken. “Oh. Well, what else have you been doing all morning besides saying flattering things about your family, Thor?”

“We did reading and writing and numbers and Master Egilson told me the story about how Asgard was created.”

“I can write,” Loki informed the tutor.

“Can you?” Master Egilson smiled and fetched a clean slate, laying it on Thor’s desk along with a piece of chalk. “Do you want to show me?”

“You don’t have to -- “ Frigga began.

The tutor shook his head. “Nonsense, I would be pleased to see the skills of a future student.”

Loki climbed up onto the chair, kneeling on the seat, and picked up the chalk. The tutor wasn’t surprised to see him begin to write his name -- it was the first thing most children learned -- but instead of scrawling “Loki” in large runes over the whole of the slate, they were unexpectedly small, and neat. He saw why as Loki started a second tidy row underneath them, hesitating briefly over the cross stroke of the nauthiz rune before angling it in the correct direction and finishing up. Loki Odinson , the slate read. The youngest prince glanced up at the tutor expectantly.

“Very good,” Master Egilson said warmly, and meant it. “Your parents must be proud of you.”

“We are,” Frigga assured him, and held out her hand towards Loki. He scrambled down from the chair, looking pleased with himself, and took her hand.

“Can we go now?” asked Thor. “I’m hungry.”

“We may, and lunch should be waiting for us as soon as you wash up. Master Egilson, may I have Thor’s paper to keep?”

“Of course.” The tutor handed her Thor’s writing practice sheet, smiling and tousling Thor’s hair as he took his place at his mother’s other side. “You have good boys; Norns willing, I look forward to many years of teaching them.”

“They say mothers are prejudiced, but I quite agree with you. I couldn't wish for any better.” Frigga smiled down at her sons. “Good day, Master Egilson. Come on, boys.”

Thor chattered animatedly all through lunch, telling them all about his lessons and what he had learned of his tutor. Master Egilson had an older sister, and a young nephew and a niece on the way. His parents were bakers. He, Thor, liked him very much. After they were done eating, Frigga took up a basket of needlework and led her sons outside to the wide lawn, where Thor immediately took off running, calling to Loki to chase him. Loki shot off after him, and Frigga simply sat watching them for a while as they ran about yelling, Loki’s screams of delight just as loud as his brother’s every time that Thor turned and chased after him, Thor deliberately keeping just behind his brother for a while before speeding up and swooping Loki up in a hug that tumbled them both to the ground. When Thor had burnt off the worst of his pent-up energy from the morning, he began practicing his latest accomplishment, setting his hands to the ground and kicking his legs up into the air in a handstand, managing a few wobbly steps forwards before toppling back to the ground. Loki, of course, tried to imitate him, and Thor ceased his own efforts to help, holding Loki’s legs straight up while Loki walked forwards on his hands. Frigga heard him cheer Loki on and felt as if her heart would burst with love for both boys.

“I see the princes are in high spirits today,” a voice said from behind her.

Frigga turned and saw the Lady Gná, and smiled, gesturing to the place on the bench beside her. Lady Gná sat down gracefully.

“They are; they were kept apart from each other for the entirety of three hours this morning while Thor had his first lessons with a tutor and are still rejoicing in their reunion.”

Lady Gná laughed. “How did the lessons go?”

“Quite well, I think. Both the tutor and Thor seemed cheerful enough when I collected Thor. And I think Loki will benefit from having some time where my attention isn’t split between the two of them every day.”

“Mm.” Gná took out her own needlework from a bag hanging at her waist. “I dare say you might enjoy the break, too, or am I wrong? Meaning no disrespect, but your Thor is a boisterous one.”

Frigga laughed and finally took out her own project, although her eyes rarely left the boys for long. “You’re not wrong. Loki was such a blessing in more ways than one; I can’t imagine the handful Thor would be if he didn’t have a brother to play with. It at least gives me a chance to sit down occasionally and just keep an eye on them.” She took a few stitches in her embroidery and smiled in reminiscence. “No one was happier than Thor when Loki started walking -- and I’m sure Loki learned as early as he did because he wanted to keep up with his big brother.” She glanced up again and grinned. “And now look at them.” Both boys were, briefly, upside down at the same time, legs waving in the air.

Lady Gná laughed. “Truly we have a pair of ambitious and talented princes. Who amongst us can say we sought to learn to walk on our hands once we had mastered doing so on our feet?”

Frigga chuckled, and then gave a small exclamation as Loki overbalanced and thumped down hard onto his butt, knocking Thor over as he did so. Nonplussed, the boys righted themselves and looked towards her.

Loki ran over. “Mama, Mama, did you see me? I was standing upside down on my own!”

“I did indeed; we were both very impressed.” She ruffled his black hair. “You remember Lady Gná, don’t you? Sif’s mother?”

Thor made his best bow. “My lady.”

Loki looked around, as if to make sure the aforementioned girl wasn’t here. “Sif bit me,” he said accusingly.

Lady Gná sighed. The last time she had brought her little hellion over to play with the princes had not ended well. “I haven’t forgotten, Loki, and I am sorry. We are trying to teach her better manners, I promise you.”

“See that you do,” he said sternly, and it was so obviously a phrase that he had picked up from his father that both adults had to smother a laugh. Loki leaned against his mother’s legs, suddenly tired now that he had stopped moving.

Frigga smoothed a hand over his curls. “Ready for your nap, sweetheart?” With the disruption in their usual schedule, she’d been waiting to see when and if he looked like he needed one.

Loki frowned. He usually had a nap after lunch, but he also had usually had the whole morning to play with Thor.

“Here,” said Lady Gná briskly, rising and putting her needlework away. “Why don’t you just lie down on the bench and lay your head in your mother’s lap? Close your eyes for a few minutes and if you don’t feel sleepy, then you can get up and start playing again. I shall take a bit more of a walk while Sif is down for her own nap.”

Frigga looked up at her friend gratefully. “Thank you, Gná, and tell Sif hello from me. Come on, Loki, that sounds like a fair suggestion, doesn’t it?” She patted the space beside her, and after a moment, he climbed up and settled himself as suggested.

“Just for a few minutes,” he said.

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” Thor promised, and went in search of a stick with which to practise sword moves. Frigga began to sing softly, and her youngest was asleep in her lap before she’d finished the last verse of the song.

The days fell into a routine. In the mornings, Frigga enjoyed her time spent alone with Loki, working in the gardens or reading to him or pursuing any other paths his interests went down. He had his own specially-made gardening shears now, sized to fit his small hands, and was careful never to put them away dirty. And she’d shown him how to dye wool, and how to make a simple braid from the yarn she’d spun from it, and he had yet to grow tired of wearing the yellowy-green bracelet he’d made from it. In the afternoons the boys played together, and Loki would take a short nap, and then after dinner, they would usually spend some time at the child-sized table in the nursery where the drawing paper and other art supplies were kept, although Thor was now also using it to do small assignments for his tutor on occasion. Frigga often saw their fair and dark heads bent close together, but one night when she came over to see what they were doing, Loki quickly pulled a blank piece of paper over whatever it was he had been working on, and Thor straightened back up in his chair, a list of vocabulary words in front of him.

“Are you making a surprise picture for me?” she guessed.

“Yes,” said Loki, and looked at her expectantly until she took the hint and left them to it. She did get a picture later that night, but she couldn't see why he would have been hiding it; it was fairly similar to his usual offerings, though no less cherished and saved for that. But since whatever was absorbing her boys' interest was giving her an hour or so of peace and quiet every evening, she was perfectly willing to leave them to it.

----------

"Always be polite to a bilgesnipe, there’s really no call to be rude; Always be polite to a bilgesnipe, and he might not decide that you’re food!"

Frigga gave a little "rawr!" in Loki's ear as she read to him from one of his favourite picture books -- the words and pictures silly enough to delight a small child while still conveying the importance of good manners -- and he giggled from his position in her lap, where he was curled up quite happily. A few weeks into Thor’s new schedule of morning lessons, Loki now sent him off quite cheerfully in the mornings, seeming to enjoy the time alone with Frigga as much as she did, seeing her little boy open up about all the things he was interested in now that he didn’t have to wait for a chance to be heard amidst Thor’s chatter. And he obviously relished being able to choose more than one book everyday for storytime, more than content to sit still and listen long after Thor would have gotten restless and begun interrupting with commentary or jumping up to enact out exciting portions of the stories that he’d chosen.

Frigga turned the page and kept reading until she got to her favourite set of pages in the entire book, the illustrations showing a larger boy boosting a smaller one up so that he could reach the plums hanging from a low tree branch. What made the pictures especially endearing to her was the fact that Thor, years ago, had very carefully coloured in the smaller boy's hair -- originally fair like his own -- so that it matched the black of his new little brother's.

"Always be nice to your brother, remember to say 'thank you' and 'please', and if you are nice to your brother, he'll help you pluck fruit from the trees!"

"'Might help'" corrected Loki, pointing at the page. "You left out a word."

Frigga looked at him in surprise. His finger had hovered directly above the word "might".

"You're right," she said. "So I did." Thoughtfully, she turned the page. "Can you read this one?" she asked.

He could, not perfectly, hesitating on some of the bigger words, but he was undoubtedly reading. Frigga hugged him tightly when he had finished reading the rest of the book, Frigga helping out whenever he stumbled on a word. "I am so proud of you! When did you -- " Yes, he had been pointing at and asking about some of the words in the books lately, but -- “Oh! You and Thor, in the evenings! Has he been helping you with reading?”

Loki nodded. “The more I learn now, the less I’ll have to catch up on when I start lessons. So Thor and I can study together.” His chin jutted out with determination, and Frigga’s heart melted as she hugged him again, already planning to do the same to Thor as soon as she saw him next. It was the walking all over again, Loki not wanting to be left behind, and Thor doing everything that he could to make sure that didn’t happen.

“Well, you have made a very good start of it, and now that I know you’re ready to learn to read, I’ll help you with it every day, too.” Her eyes sparkled. "Shall we practice a bit, and surprise your father tonight?"

Loki's face lit up with pleasure at the thought. "Yes, please."

----------

“Papa!”

Two small bodies ran at Odin as he entered the family quarters and collided with his legs. He leaned down to hug his sons, the cares of the day slipping from his shoulders in the face of the boys’ happiness in seeing him. It was always one of the best parts of his day.

“Hello, boys. Did you have a good day?” He straightened up and ran a smoothing hand over each boy’s hair.

“Yes, Papa,” they chorused.

Odin looked at them closely, Their smiles seemed even brighter than usual, a certain simmering of excitement under the surface suggesting that they had something to tell him. “Well, let me freshen up and you can tell me all about it at dinner.”

However, once they were all gathered around the table in their private dining room and tucking into a delicious meal, Odin began to wonder if he’d been mistaken when nothing unusual was mentioned when they shared what they’d been doing during the day. That is, until the boys finished eating ahead of everyone else and didn’t ask to be excused, merely sitting and waiting and watching him. Odin took his time enjoying his dessert, once more sure that something was going on as Loki began to fidget in his chair. But it wasn’t until he leaned back in his chair with a contented sigh that Loki looked at his mother hopefully.

“Now, Mama?”

Frigga smiled. "Yes, now."

Loki jumped down from his chair. "Would you like me to read you a story, Papa?" he asked, nearly bouncing with excitement.

"Don't you mean you want me to read you one?" Odin asked.

“No, I’m going to read it to you,” Loki said firmly.

“Ah, very well, then,” Odin said indulgently, thinking that Loki was simply going to recite it as best as he could from memory; Norns knew he was pretty sure he had the entirety of some of the boys’ most favoured books stuck in his own head. “Shall we adjourn to the nursery, then?” He got up and Thor immediately jumped up as well, Frigga rising more gracefully with one of her cryptic smiles on her face and taking his arm when he offered it.

“Papa, does “adjourn” simply mean “to go”?” Thor asked. He knew its general meaning from what Master Egilson called the context of a sentence, but he was learning to pay more attention to the specific meanings of words.

“It means, in this case, that we are moving from one place to another. It can also be used to indicate the stopping of a meeting to be resumed later, for instance “the meeting is adjourned until after lunch”.”

“That’s how Master Egilson used it the other day,” said Thor thoughtfully. “He said classes were adjourned till the morrow.” He liked the sound of the word; it sounded grown-up and important.

Odin nodded, Loki ducking under his arm as he pushed open the heavy door into the hallway and dashing ahead to wait impatiently by the nursery door. “That is a correct usage. Go see if you can help your brother.” He watched as Thor and Loki both put their hands to the nursery door and leaned in, managing to push it open between the two of them. Loki ran to get his book and Odin went to sit down in his usual chair facing the hearth, Frigga taking the other. Thor plopped down on the rug in between them and picked up one of the three dimensional puzzles from the basket on the hearth, fiddling with it.

Loki came back with his book and Odin took it, setting it down next to him before leaning over to help lift Loki up onto his lap. Loki squirmed around for a moment until he was tucked comfortably in the crook of Odin’s arm and held out his hands.

“Ready.”

Odin gave the book to him and Loki opened it and began to read. And Odin’s eye widened as he realised that Loki was indeed reading it, no doubt helped by the familiarity of the verses, but not missing a single word on any of the pages. Occasionally he paused, but never for long, and Odin looked from the book to the expression of concentration on Loki’s face to Frigga, whose cryptic smile had given way to one beaming with pride. Even Thor, sitting at his feet and listening, grinned up at Odin when Loki finished the book in triumph.

"Loki can read!" Thor announced needlessly. "Did he surprise you?"

"He did indeed." He looked back down at Loki, who was gazing up at him expectantly. "That was very well done, Loki; I am most impressed. I didn't even know that your mother had started teaching you to read yet."

"I hadn't," said Frigga dryly. "He partly picked it up all by himself, just following along when I read and asking the occasional question -- and partly because Thor has been helping him ever since he started his own lessons, because Loki doesn’t want to waste any time catching up once he’s allowed to join him.”

Odin looked from one son to another in amazement. Mine, he thought with a fierce surge of pride. My boys. He spared a second to think scornfully of Laufey, and what a fool he had been to so casually throw away the great gift he had been given in Loki. His now, though, and he would make sure that Loki’s intellect and talents were nurtured instead of wasted.

“I am so proud of both of you,” he said warmly. “You, Thor, for helping your brother, and you, Loki, for learning to read so early! My clever, clever boy." Giving him an extra tight squeeze, Odin kissed the top of Loki's head and saw the tips of Loki’s ears redden in shy pleasure at the praise, but he was grinning as he gave a little wriggle of delight in Odin’s lap. Odin decided to tease him a little. "Does this mean that you won't need me to read you any more stories now, though?"

"No! I like it when you read them to me too," Loki hastily assured him.

Odin’s eye twinkled. "Very well then. Why don't you pick out another one and I'll read it to you and Thor this time."

"I'll get one!" Thor jumped up and raced over to the low bookshelves that held their books. "Is this one all right, Brother?" He pulled one out and held it up for Loki to see.

Loki nodded, too content with his position in his father's lap to get down and pick out another. He drew his legs up and turned so he could lay his head against his father’s chest, Odin’s arm tightening around him and holding him secure. Thor came back and offered the book he’d chosen to his father and leaned comfortably against the side of his chair, folding his arms atop the chair’s leather-padded arm and resting his chin atop them.

“I Want To Be A Warrior,” Odin read. The book’s cover showed a young boy looking up at a man clad in the armour of the Einherjar. The book spoke of what it meant to be a warrior, to swear oneself to the defense of the kingdom, and went on to describe all the things a boy training to be a warrior would learn as they grew to manhood. Thor had already memorised what all the different pieces of armour and the different types of weapons were called with all of the single-minded focus that a young child could turn on something that they were deeply interested in.

“I want to be a warrior,” Odin read. “I want to serve my realm, and my king. I will fight to protect my home, and my people.”

“I must be strong ,” recited Thor. “I must be brave." His eyes were bright with fervour.

Glancing at him, Odin had no trouble imagining his son grown tall, clad in bright armour and with a sword sheathed at his side. Thor listened with rapt attention and an occasional interjection, and Odin had reached the unlabeled illustrations near the end of the book which allowed a boy to test his memory before he wondered if he should have been involving Loki more in the reading of this book. He glanced down at his son, but Loki looked contented enough snuggled against him, his head resting right over Odin’s heart and a sleepy half smile on his face. A soft smile touched Odin’s face in return as he remembered learning that trick, that an unhappy baby could be soothed by the sound of their parent’s heart, recalling all the times he had half-dozed off himself in the nursery with a sleeping babe sprawled atop his chest, afraid to move lest he wake them before he could return them to their cradle or cot. Loki especially had seemed to crave that close contact even more than Thor had, and Odin had often wondered darkly in those early days how long Loki had lain there alone in that temple before he had found him, before Loki had learned the sound of his father's heartbeat and that it meant comfort and safety and no longer being alone, even before he had learned the sound of his mother's. It still filled Odin with satisfaction that even now, with Loki happy and flush with accomplishment and the success of his surprise, that his son obviously found comfort in the sound, in his presence. He rubbed Loki’s back gently; he would miss it when his boys were no longer small enough to hold entirely within the safety of his own arms.

“Papa, turn,” Thor prompted, when he realised his father had become distracted.

“Hm? Oh, sorry.” Odin turned the page and Thor touched the illustration of a sword, moving his finger along it as he named the parts of it.

“Pommel, hilt, crossguard, tang, blade,” Thor rattled off, no doubt dreaming of the day when he would have a real sword of his own.

“Very good,” said Odin, and briefly ran his hand over Thor's silky hair as Thor moved on to enthusiastically list all the various types of polearms shown on the facing page. Glancing up, he saw Frigga watching them with the same deep contentment in her eyes that he could feel in his heart. No doubt one day both their sons would be fine, strong warriors. But for now, he liked them exactly the way they were.

#loki #thor #odin #frigga #ficwoodelf #lokijiro #marvel fic #lessons learned and praise well earned #tumblr prompt fics

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blackswaneuroparedux · 3 years

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Anonymous asked: Have you watched Lupin? What did you think? (And are you a fan of the books or other adaptations of the character?)

The short answer is yes, I have seen Lupin on Netflix. Overall I enjoyed it so long as I suspended my disbelief at certain things.

Unfortunately it took being struck down by Covid and being bedridden for me to actually to binge watch the whole series. So I was behind the curve when my friends, French and those outside of France, started to talk about it around me. I had to beg them not to give away spoilers until I had seen it all.

It did surprise me that it won rave widespread reviews outside France because usually French drama series don’t travel very well outside of France. I’m sure even Netflix had no idea how successful it would be for them. I’m sure being in Covid lockdown had something to do with it. In any case I don’t begrudge its success as it’s well earned.

However I wasn’t too surprised that within France itself the French reviews were decidely mixed and divisive. The critic at Le Point painfully hit the nail on the head when he wrote, “Le plus gros défaut de l'ensemble reste la pauvreté des personnages, tous unidimensionnels, caricaturaux et aussi épais que du papier à cigarette.“ - loosely translated as, ‘the biggest flaw of the whole thing remains the poverty of the characters, all one-dimensional, cartoonish and as thick as cigarette paper’.

There’s a growing amount of good French stuff on TV and streaming services but a non-French audience will not have had the chance to have seen all of it yet. I can think of any number of French television drama/dramedy/cmedy series that are much better than Lupin with better plots, characters, and even a truer perspective of French society and even modern day France (Dix pour cent (Call My Agent!), Le Bureau des Légendes, Engrenages, Baron Noir, and Paris Police 1900). But you would be hard pressed to find anything that comes close to Lupin just for the sake of something fun to watch during the Covid lockdown.

What makes the current generation of home made French television series so interesting is how much of it is a reflection of France’s own anxieities about itself and its role in a increasingly English speaking dominating world. In a funny way it sees itself as defiant plucky Asterix fighting off the Roman American cultural hordes from totally invading their Francophone culture.

For sure, it has societal and racial issues stemming from its colonial legacy and issues of immigration and integration (France has the largest Muslim population in Europe). However it seems to want to ‘resolve’ these issues through the almost sacramental adherence to French secularist ideals rather than American inspired ideas of social justice and equity. There’s always been something very admirable about the French - from the time of General de Gaulle and perhaps before - always swinging from snooty ambivalence to outright antipathy towards the influence of American culture ‘americanising’ French culture (no to Walmarts or fast food chains for example).

Is it any wonder then that Netflix’s ill-conceived American series ‘Emily in Paris’ was widely hated and mocked within France for just perpetuating those lazy American tropes of Paris and French culture?

Personally I know Francophile Americans, long resident in Paris, who were frankly embarrassed and spent a lot of time apologising to their French friends. I have one American friend who has told me that she was so mad that she would have blind folded Emily and shoved her hard in the car boot and drive her all the way to the poorest of the banlieues in the grimey crime saturated suburbs of Paris - Seine-Saint-Denis came to mind - and dump her preening arse there. She would slap her and tell the spoilt entitied brat to make her own way back home - you know, to her spacious apartment in one of the most expensive arrondissements of Paris that of course(!) any American intern working for French marketing firms can afford.

I digress. My apologies. Watching this God awful show gives me PTSD.

Onto Lupin.

Thankfully Lupin doesn’t try to play to non-French tropes of what Paris is or isn’t. It does skim the surface of current discontents within French culture and society (race, class, power, and money) but ever so lightly so as to not get in the way of just spinning a good crowd pleasing yarn. It invites you to have fun and not to think too much. I have to be honest and say I enjoyed it as long as I suspended my disbelief here and there.

Lupin refers of course to the character Arsène Lupin, the French gentleman thief who stole jewellery from Parisian haute bourgeois and aristocracy at the turn of the century. Lupin, as written in the novels and short stories by Maurice Leblanc between 1905 and his death in 1941, was the archetypical anti-hero, a Robin Hood who stole from those who deserved it but kept the loot himself. He was often portrayed often a force for good, while operating on the wrong side of the law.

Lupin never really made much of an impact outside of France as he had within France where is revered with many French film and television adaptations. In England, we already had a Lupin type character in the form of A.J. Raffles, a cricket playing gentleman thief with his aristocratic side kick, Bunny. E.W. Horning’s stories of Raffles’ daring heists proved to be quite popular with the British public when Raffles first appeared on the scene in 1898. And even later Leslie Charteris’ The Saint took over the mantle from Raffles as the gentleman thief/adventuring Robin Hood.

I think Hollywood tried to introduce him to an English speaking audience (legendary actor John Barrymore even played him) but he didn’t really take off and eventually they found their gentleman thief archetype in Sir Charles Lytton aka The Phantom (played by David Niven and Christopher Plummer) in the Pink Panther movies. So Lupin never got the English audience he deserved.

I first got wind of who Arsène Lupin was when I was growing up in Japan as a child. As strange as it sounds Lupin was big in Japan especially after World War Two. The Japanese did their own take on the Lupin character using Japanese actors and plot lines but it was Lupin.

I don’t know how exactly but I remember watching these scratchy DVDs of these Lupin inspired films. I think it was one of my parents’ Japanese friends who was mad for all things Lupin and he had studied French literature in France. Jogging my memory I now recall these black & white films were done in the 1950s. One starred Keiji Sada and the other version I remember was with Eija Okada (he was in Resnais’ classic film, Hiroshima Mon Amour) as Arsene Lupin called (I think) Kao-no Nai Otoko. I didn’t understand most of it at the time because it was all in Japanese and my Japanese (at the time) was pitiful, but it looked fun.

There was even a Japanese manga version of Lupin which was called Lupin III, - so named because he was the grandson of the real Arsène Lupin.

The 1960s manga series spawned generations of TV series which I do remember watching and finding it terribly exciting if somewhat confusing.

It was French expatriate friends whom my family knew that introduced me to the real Arsène Lupin. They had a few of the books authored by Maurice Leblanc. It was in French so I read them to improve my French but enjoyed the story along the way.

I also remember them showing me scratchy episodes of the 1970s Franco-German TV series ‘Arsène Lupin’ with the monocle wearing Georges Descrières in the lead role. It was a classical re-telling of the adventures of the aristocratic gentleman-burglar and very family friendly viewing. I don’t really remember much of it to be honest.

It was some years before I actually started to read more of the Maurice Leblanc’s novels and short stories collection. I have them all now. I was a teen and I remember being stuck in a snowed in a Swiss Alpine chalet and with nothing else to do but pull out a few dog eared books from the bookshelves belonging to our French host and read to pass the time.

I read Les Dents du tigre, Arsène Lupin vs Herlock Sholmes, and Les Huit Coups de l'horloge and thoroughly enjoyed them in the original French. I was already reading classic detective and mystery novels (Sherlock Holmes, Poirot etc) so it was natural to read the adventures of Arsène Lupin.

I haven’t got around to reading all the novels and short stories but I have read most of them and I enjoyed them all immensely. In the same way Conan Doyle, through Holmes and Watson, manages to conjure a convincing picture of late Victorian and early Edwardian England, so Leblanc manages to give us a taste of Belle Epoque France through the eyes of his suave gentleman-thief, Arsène Lupin.

Indeed it's a lot like reading Sherlock Holmes in that you're always trying to figure out how he did it, but the difference is that you are rooting for the bad guy. You can’t help but be drawn to this gentleman thief who is charming, comic, playful, and romantic and generous. Lupin is not an intellectual puzzle-solver but first a master criminal, later a detective helper, who maintains his curious ethics throughout his adventures. In this regard he is very much the anti-Sherlock Holmes; and I wasn’t disappointed when I actually read the story where Lupin faces off with Holmes himself. Brilliant!

I’ve also seen the 2004 French movie with Romain Duris in the Lupin lead role and it also starred the majestic Kristin Scott Thomas and the sexy Eva Green.

It was a decent adventure flick and it was a clear confluence of different Lupin novels (The Queen's Necklace (introducing Lupin's childhood), The Hollow Needle (where the treasure is the macguffin of the story), The Arrest of Arsène Lupin (the gala on the ship as a backdrop) and Josephine Balsamo, (one of Lupin’s most memorable opponents in the The Countess Of Cagliostro).

Romaine Duris, a fine classical actor, was I felt miscast because he didn’t have Lupin’s levity of wit and be at ease within himself. I love Duris in his other films but in Arsène Lupin and even in his other film, Moliere, he seemed ill at ease with the role. Perhaps that’s just me.

The latest Netflix adaptation (or reimagining to be more precise) is a welcome addition to the world of Arsène Lupin.If you don’t over-think it, it’s bags of fun.

Omar Sy is immensely likeable. Sy is a deservedly a big star in France - he won the best actor César for “The Intouchables,” an international hit - and has played forgettable secondary characters in big-budget American special effects movies (he was Chris Pratt’s assistant in “Jurassic World” and a minor mutant in “X-Men: Days of Future Past”). It was reportedly his desire to play Arsène Lupin, whom he’s compared to James Bond (“fun, funny, elegant”), that led to the series, created by British writer George Kay. And it is on his charm that the series largely, though not entirely, rests.

So the basic story revolves around a jewellery heist. Sy plays Assane Diop, a first-generation French-Senegalese man in contemporary Paris. A collection of Lupin stories, a gift from his father - whose undeserved fate Assane set himself to avenge in long-delayed, Count of Monte Cristo style upon a criminal tycoon - has made the actual Lupin books a foundation of his life and profitably illicit career. This fan-ship goes as far as borrowing practical ideas from the stories and constructing aliases out of anagrams of “Arsene Lupin,” a habit that will attract the interest of a low-level police detective (Soufiane Guerrab as Youssef Guedira) who shares Assane’s love of the books. (That the detective also shares an initial with Lupin’s own adversary, Inspector Ganimard, is possibly not a coincidence.)

Among the many comic delights of Lupin, is an unspoken one. Time and again, the show’s hero, master thief Assane Diop is able to slip into a place unnoticed, or by assuming a minor disguise that prevents witnesses from providing an accurate description of him to law enforcement.

Why is this funny?

Because Omar Sy is six feet three (and, since most actors are short, seems even taller), is roughly as wide as soccer pitch, and is memorable even before he flashes his infectious million-Euro smile. This is not a man for whom anonymity should be possible - even allowing for racial bias in a majority-white country, Assane would be memorable and distinctive - and Lupin seems cheekily aware of this. Like the various incredible sleights of hand Assane deploys to pull off his thefts and escapes, his ability to be anyone, anywhere, is treated more as a superpower than as something even the world’s greatest criminal would be able to pull off.

At one point, when he’s slated for a cable news appearance as a much older man, we learn that Assane is also a master of disguise. The revelation of this skill arrives with a wink in the show, and it feels pointless to ask where he learned it, or how he affords movie-quality latex and makeup. Or rather, asking the question feels wrong.

We know this is impossible, the show seems to be asking its viewers again and again, but isn’t it so much fun?

The performances and the production - it has that particularly European filmic quality of feeling natural even when it gets stylish - keep the series warm even as the plot is made up of incredulous contraptions that require everything to go right at just the right time and for human psychology to be 100% predictable. Its physics are classical rather than quantum, one might say, and like the world itself, which becomes more curious the deeper you peer into things, it is best handled along the surface. You do not want to take too much time working out the likelihood of any of this happening. Just go along for the ride.

Somehow, though, it all works because Sy is so magnetic and charming that questioning plot logic feels wildly besides the point. Though he never looks appreciably different in his various aliases (including one ill-conceived live-TV appearance done under old-man makeup and a thick beard), he changes his posture and voice ( if you watch it in French that is) enough to allow for the willing suspension of disbelief, in the same way that any lead actor as Superman has to do when playing Clark Kent. But Sy and the show are at their strongest when Assane is just being his own Superman self, utterly relaxed and confident in his own skin, and so captivating that his ex-partner, Claire, can’t really resist him despite ample reason to.

If Assane seems practically perfect in every way, he is not perfectly perfect. His most obvious failing is that his criminal shenanigans and revenging make him less than reliable in his daily life, affecting his relationships with ex-partner Claire (Ludivine Sagnier, whom non-French audiences might recognise from “The Young Pope” and “The New Pope”), who despairs of his inability to show up on time to see his son Raoul (Etan Simon). Like Sy, Sagnier brings a lot of soul to her part - though onscreen far less, she’s as important as Sy to the series’ success - and the two actors have great chemistry. Also impressive and key to creating sympathy are the actors who play their flashback teenage selves, Mamadou Haidara and Ludmilla Makowski. Really, you could do away with action elements and build a series around them.

This is a pity because Lupin often fumbles its emotional reveals in other parts - the story of Diop being torn between his job and his family feels like wheel-spinning, rather than genuine emotional intrigue.

Soufiane Guerrab is wasted in the Young Detective Consumed by the Case role and spends most of this season pinning colour printouts of book covers to cork boards and getting waved off by his colleagues, who are all blinded or otherwise hampered by careerism.

But to my mind the weakest link is the villain himself and his daughter. Veteran actor Hervé Pierre hams it up as Hubert Pellegrini, a business tycoon who is the patriarch of the Pellegrini family. He just comes across as animated cartoon villain with no character depth (think moustache twirling Russian villain, Boris Badenov, in the Rocky & Bullwinkle cartoon shows). He just emotes anger a lot without any nuance or hint of complexity.

Even Clotilde Hesme who plays the daughter who is unaware of her father’s criminal tendencies is miscast. For the record I adore Clotilde Hesme as she one of France’s most talented classical actresses (that non-French outsiders will not have heard of). She is a classically theatre trained actress and is one of the best stage actresses of her generation that I have ever seen. I’ve seen her in plays where she is just mesmerising. She has said before that she’s more comfortable on the stage than she is on the screen. And when she has been on screen she still has been a powerful presence. She’s actually won a César too. Here in Lupin, she seems to have no agency and looks bored with nothing really to do.I really hope they give her more scenes in the next part of Lupin.

The series is at its best when following Diop enacting his plans, and when revealing each one from a different vantage, making us privy to every moving part like a magician revealing his secrets. The show captures the momentum of a clockwork heist, the tension of sudden obstacles and the ingenuity of improvised responses, with thrilling precision (especially in “Chapter 1 - Le Collier de la reine,” directed by Now You See Me’s Louis Leterrier).

Lupin is also politically incisive when it wants to be; it brings to mind Ladj Ly’s Oscar-nominated 2019 film Les Misérables, which adapted the broad strokes of Victor Hugo’s novel about the 1832 Paris Rebellion, and modernised the story by focusing on the police brutality faced by non-white Parisians.

Lupin opens with Diop disguised as cleaning staff and entering the Louvre after-hours, alongside dozens of forgotten, anonymous non-white workers as they pass by “La Liberté guidant le people,” Eugène Delacroix’s famous painting of the July Revolution of 1830 which replaced France’s hereditary rule with popular sovereignty.

Before any semblance of plot or character, Lupin centres broken ideals and promises unkept (without giving too much away, the show’s primary villain has much more nationalistic view of French culture and history which merely adds to a cartoonish caricature than a complex character). The rest of the episode is about valuable jewels once owned by Marie Antionette - one of the most recognisable symbols of wealth and extravagance in times of extreme poverty - which are put up for auction by the Pelligrini family, and bid on by other wealthy collectors with bottomless purses and no sense of irony.

Granted, beyond this auction subplot, explorations of race and class are largely limited to individual interactions, but the show continues to refer back to (and implicitly comment on) its source material in ways that wink at the audience. An elderly, unassuming target of Diop’s schemes seems like an unlikely victim at first - Diop, though he acts in his own self-interest, usually displays a moral compass - until this victim reveals the colonial origins of her wealth, immediately re-contextualising the ethics of the situation, in a manner that Leblanc’s stories did not. (The show is yet to apply this lens to Arsène Lupin himself, who Diop treats with reverence, but that’s a secondary concern since Lupin is entirely fictional in-world).

Barring some nagging structural problems - like cutting to flashbacks when things are getting exciting, or epilogues that feel ten minutes too long - Lupin mostly works. It plants a few personal seeds early on, which it keeps hinting at without fully addressing, but by the time its scattered elements come into focus, the show finally figures out how to weave them together, and delivers a mid-season cliffhanger that renders many of these flaws irrelevant.

Lupin manages to have fun even with an antiquated premise - the story of a suave con-man who charms his way through high-profile robberies - while adding just enough new spin on the concept to feel refreshing. Omar Sy may not have much to work with, but his alluring presence makes Assane Diop feel like a worthy successor to Arsène Lupin.

Lupin isn’t going to win César, BAFTA, or Emmy awards, or even turn heads for its ability to develop tertiary or even secondary plots or characters - that doesn’t really matter. You’re there to see a difficult hero be difficult and heroic - everyone else is there to be charmed, vexed, or eluded by them. Sy’s performance bounds off the screen, and is almost musical. He floats through scenes like he glides over the roofs and through the back alleys of Paris; he outmanoeuvres his foes with superior literary references and sheer athleticism. He is irresistible and also good at everything he tries, even kidnapping.

I would encourage anyone to watch Lupin for a fun care free ride. But the only caveat I would make is watch it in the original French.

If you don’t know French then put on the subtitles to understand (that’s what they are there for). The real crime is to watch this (or any film or television series) dubbed in a foreign language. It’s disrespectful to the actors and film makers and it’s silly because it’s comical to watch something dubbed over.

Please watch it in the original French.

Then go and read the books. You won’t regret it.

Thanks for your question.

#question #ask #lupin #omar sy #netflix #tv show #culture #personal #arsene lupin #japan #maurice leblanc #france #french #society #arts

48 notes · View notes

gureishi · 3 years

Note

prompt 2 with v tysm take care of you ^^

Thank you for this wonderful request, and apologies for taking my time writing it!

I thought a whole lot about this prompt and Jihyun and my mind said PINING and I wrote this long, sprawling thing. It’s a slightly different format from my other requests—I hope you don’t mind! Writing this made me feel all kinds of things. ♡♡

two: fall into yours arms again

JihyunxReader, G, words: 3620

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97 days

It’s windy today.

You wake up late and throw open the window that you can reach from your bed. The sun’s already high in the sky and beating down through the thin, gauzy curtains. You need to buy new curtains.

The window sticks; you push; it opens. The cool breeze whips through your hair, in stark contrast to the sun—nauseatingly hot and dry. The wind cools your neck, wipes away the last remnants of what you suspect was a nightmare.

Though it’s June, the air still smells of spring. The azaleas in the community garden down the street have wilted, but some of their fragrance is in the air today, and it startles you, spins your head around.

He left in March and the chaos of April and May have been locked away in your memory, behind a wall that says think about this later. Now it’s undeniably summer, the days lengthening, your tendency to sleep through the morning worsening. Time has slowed: the afternoons feel languid and the nights unbearably long. You stretch, letting your shirt—his shirt—fall off your shoulder. It’s long lost its scent by now, grown softer as you’ve slept in it, worn it while cleaning up the little loft you once lived in by yourself. You lived here what feels like forever ago, before you made the misguided decision that led to your life turning upside down and now, somehow, righting itself in ways you still don’t understand.

“I miss you,” you mouth into the wind.

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191 days

When you get home you’re shivering, underdressed and underprepared for the turn in the weather. You turn the key in the lock, shoulders hunched against the cruel chill that has abruptly permeated your quiet little neighborhood.

You slip inside and shut the door, the wind chimes jangling harshly. You toss your things haphazardly to the side—keys, bag, sunglasses, coffee cup. Everything you needed for the day except a stupid jacket.

The house is cool, too—the wood floors retain some of the warmth of summer but you haven’t turned the heat on yet out of some convoluted mixture of stubbornness and frugality. You shrug on your thickest, floppiest sweater and move through the house, closing the windows one at a time. You shouldn’t have left them open to begin with.

You survey the mess you’ve made: bag spilling out onto your multicolored shag rug, sunglasses hanging over the hand-painted lamp on the side table. You decide to leave them there.

As you so often do lately, you slip into the well-worn chair at your small desk in the corner, under the little window that faces north. You rub your hands together, gaze at the growing pile of paper, stacked precariously high. You know there’s work to be done, emails to be answered—instead, you pull a new sheet of paper toward you, begin a letter than can never be sent.

“How are you?” you write. “It’s getting cold here. I hope it’s warm where you are.” You pause, well-chewed pen cap in your mouth. Scrawl the words you know he won’t read on the paper you have no way to send to him. “I think about you,” you write. “Every single day.”

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277 days

You laugh and wave and laugh again as you see the grey cloud your warm breath makes in the air.

You call out a last goodbye toward your friends’ receding backs and then wrap your scarf more tightly around your neck, feeling the cold more strongly now that you’re alone. You make your way back through your neighborhood, stopping only to pet the head of the tabby cat that your down-the-street neighbor lets roam free. The sun is setting—the midday chill is turning to a biting evening cold.

You approach your little loft: open the gate, half-run down the path. When, you think, will this feel like a home again? How long, you wonder, till this feels more real that those two weeks that are still illuminated in your memory, brighter even than the events of yesterday or last month or last summer?

Automatically, you check your mailbox. Automatically, you riffle through the bills you can just barely pay and the magazines subscribed to by the apartment’s former occupants. At the very bottom, there’s an envelope, one side covered completely in stamps. You climb the steps, peering at it curiously. You recognize the writing.

You trip.

You should get back up and go in the house and turn on the lights—open the letter where it’s warm and bright. But instead you stay right where you are, on the bottom step, jacket twisted up under you. You tear off one mitten, your hands shaking a little, and open the envelope.

“Dearest,” he’s written. “I don’t know if I’ve sent this the right way or how long it will take to reach you.”

There are already frozen tears on your eyelashes, blurring your vision. You wipe them away frantically with your other hand, still engulfed in your warm, chunky mitten.

“There’s no regular post office where I am so I had to improvise,” he goes on. His thin, messy scrawl is the same as you remember it. You can feet your heartbeat in your fingertips. “Still, that’s no excuse. I’ve written so many letters to you and thrown so many away. I never knew where to begin. I hope you can forgive me.”

The tears are falling hard and fast now, and you give up on wiping them, squinting to read the minuscule letters he’s crammed onto one single sheet of paper.

He describes where he’s staying in detail. It’s beautiful and evocative and you can tell that he’s stalling.

He asks after you—how your work has been going, how you’ve settled back into your own home, if you’ve been eating well. He asks after the RFA too, one at a time, by name. This answers a question that’s been lingering in the back of your mind—so it’s true, you think. He’s written to no one else.

The final paragraph is neater that the rest, as if he’s written and re-written it, practiced and copied it over.

“I am trying to live in the present moment and not worry over the future,” he says. “But every night I can’t help but imagine the life we could have together, when we are both ready. Do you imagine it too?” Your eyes are blurry with tears. “I miss you,” he writes, and you mouth the words as you read them, almost able to hear them in his sweet, gentle voice.

“If you don’t feel like writing me, I’ll understand,” he says. “But I’ll be at this address for some time, so please do write, if you like.” You think of all the letters, the ever-growing pile on and under your desk. You giggle through your tears, imagining how much it would cost to send them all.

He signs the letter “Yours.” At the bottom he’s added cramped letters, so small you have to bend over, nose almost touching the paper, to read them. “By the way,” he writes. “Please call me Jihyun.”

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352 days

To you, March will always be him: the sudden rain showers in the midst of sunny days are his eyes and the scent of plum blossoms in the air is the indescribable warmth of his arms.

There’s a string of pictures now above your bed—you’ve hung each one that he’s sent, strung them up on a piece of bright green yarn. When you told him you’d started doing this, he began sending them with a hole already punched in the top—delicate, perfectly round, just the right size.

You sit on the floor, bare legs extended in front of you, a book propped on your lap.

“All the snow has melted except for the one, long icicle outside my window,” you write. “I think I’ve grown attached to it, and I’ll be sad when it’s gone.”

Your letters have grown longer over the months—his last was five whole pages, front and back. He sends photographs he’s taken of the beautiful landscape where he’s living and sketches he’s made, mostly of nature—and a few of you.

He includes vague references to his companion, and though he’s never mentioned him by name, it’s become clear to you who he’s with. It’s brought you immense comfort to know—if not in much detail—that he is alive and well.

“Tomorrow I’ll be seeing everyone,” you write. “I know you both still need more time, but not being able to give them any news is killing me. Not everyone is doing so well, you know.” You bite your lip, consider crossing off the last few lines. You don’t. He’s healing—and you’d give anything in the world to ensure that he has the space and time he needs. That they both do. But the time you spend with the other members has been dwindling and the evidence of their suffering—some of them more than others—is becoming abundantly clear.

“I think I want to have a party,” you write. “Not for months, maybe longer, but I want to start thinking about it. I think it might help.”

You sip from the glass of water you’ve set on the floor next to you, swirl it around a little to listen to the sound of the ice clinking.

“I miss you desperately,” you write. “And I love you, Jihyun.”

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478 days

The song that plays through your headphones is soft and pretty, not nearly loud enough to drown out the shouting of the street vendors and the overall atmosphere of chaos. It’s Sunday, and you’ve ventured into the city to shop. You don’t love the crowds or the fast pace, but you do relish the savory scents drifting from food stalls and the feeling of your thin pants swooshing against your legs.

You hoist the two large fabric grocery bags up; they’re nearly slipping out of your sweat-slick hands again. The mid-afternoon July sun beats down on you. You slow your pace.

It’s been a few weeks since you’ve gotten a letter. This isn’t shocking—he’s staying somewhere new now, and it’s even more remote than before. He has to travel into town to mail his letters, so the gaps between them have grown longer. You’re used to it, but you still can’t help feeling like a cold hand is clenching around your heart whenever you check the mailbox and find it empty.

You reach the train station, grip both bags with one hand so you can tap your card. You go through the motions: standing in the station, boarding the train. As you have so many times, you repeat the words of his last letter in your mind. You know it by heart.

“I bought plane tickets last week,” he wrote. “He hasn’t been feeling well the last few days and we decided together to cancel them.”

This isn’t a first either—the tickets bought, the tickets cancelled. And you know that it isn’t just Jihyun’s “companion” who needs more time. They are both still healing—physically, mentally, emotionally.

“Please tell me when you decide on a date for the party,” he wrote. “I’m sorry to hear the plans aren’t going smoothly. And I’m sorrier that I can’t offer the other members some solace—particularly where it concerns him. I must respect his wish for privacy.”

The train is packed; you set your bags at your feet so you can hold on. The gentle rocking motion is familiar; the air conditioning is a relief.

“I saw a flower yesterday that I couldn’t identify. It was raining here, but the flower’s petals were open. I was afraid it would wilt from the force of the rain, but it didn’t. I watched it for a long time, and saw the raindrops collect inside it. I thought of you.”

The train rumbles to a stop. More people get on. You adjust. A new song plays in your headphones—it’s slow and a little melancholy.

“Every morning I imagine the things I will do with you in our bright and beautiful future,” he wrote.

The train picks up speed again. Sweaty people read newspapers and speak quietly to one another, underscored by the gentle music in your ears. You close your eyes.

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555 days

You run to catch the bus, the leaves crunching delightfully under your feet. It’s pulling into your stop as you’re crossing the street and—why does this always happen?—you bow your head and sprint, waving frantically at the driver.

The driver sees you. Smiles. Waits.

“Thank you,” you pant, jumping the steps two at a time.

“It’s okay. I remember you.”

Ouch.

You stumble to a seat and collapse into it. If you’re late for the bus often enough that the driver remembers you, you’ve really got to try and pull yourself together.

You comb a hand through your sweaty hair. It’s hard, as it turns out, planning an RFA party while keeping up with your old life—you’ve got one foot in the world of working and cleaning and paying bills and the other in the world of CEOs and mysterious guests and anonymous donors.

As you’re catching your breath, you pull the newest letter from your bag. It arrived just this morning—perhaps that was why you almost missed the bus again—and you’ve only read it once so far. You scan the page with eager eyes, searching as you so often do for clues and hints and promises hidden between the lopsided words.

“I made a painting today,” he tells you. “I won’t describe it to you, because I want to show it to you in person.”

But when? you want to ask. You can’t help the frustration that’s creeping under your skin. The bus rocks; you lean your head against the window.

“I’ve realized something,” he writes. “I wonder what you think about it. I feel closer to you than I’ve felt to anyone before. And yet every day I find things I still don’t know about you, because of our circumstances. What are your favorite things to eat? What smells make you reminisce about the past? What music makes you sleepy?”

You sigh, fold up the letter. It’s true, you think. You love him with a warmth that encompasses your whole being—a feeling you’d never even dared to imagine. But how does his face look in the morning when he sleeps through his alarm? Which groceries does he always forget to buy?

You don’t write these questions down. Instead you turn over the letter, scribble on the back.

“The party will be March 24th.”

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641 days

It hardly snows this winter, but it rains. The sound of the rain fills your dreams: it pounds on the roof of your little apartment, and you wake up and run to the kitchen to check that the window is closed. It fills your waking hours, thrumming on your giant umbrella as you navigate the narrow streets of the city. When it lets up, you still hear it, humming in your eardrums, reverberating inside your chest.

You sit at your desk again. No longer is it covered in stacks of paper, records of yearning—those letters have been long sent or put away in pretty boxes with colored lids. Your laptop buzzes, hopelessly trying to cool itself down. You press send and cut the frightening number of messages in your inbox down by just one more.

You lean back in your chair. The rain goes tap tap tap on the roof and you rub your sore neck. It’s a Friday night and even in this weather, you can hear the distant sounds of people gathering at the bar on the corner. You open another email.

“I’m working hard,” you wrote in your last letter to him. “Sometimes I feel that I can barely keep up with it all. Other times I’m sure I’m burying myself in all of this work on purpose, making myself busy so I don’t have to feel lonely.”

You scan the email with expert eyes, dash off a quick reply. Both are true, you suppose—planning a proper party, not one hastily thrown together in a few weeks under extreme circumstances, is a full-time job all on its own. But you are lonely, you think, taking a break to stretch your arms over your head. There are people around you all the time, but your chest feels hollow. “I’m taking good care of myself,” you wrote to him last week. “I do feel fulfilled. But…”

But you can no longer re-create in your mind the exact way that he smells, the sweet freshness of nuzzling your face into his shoulder. You can’t always hear his voice clearly in your mind when you read the sweet, beautiful words he writes to you. “I love you like the way the ocean crashes into the rocks and then spills peacefully over the sand,” he writes. “Does that make sense?”

It does.

You shake your head to clear it, type a few brief, carefully-worded lines.

“I’m ready,” you say out loud, and the words echo in your apartment: warm and cluttered and bright and full to the brim with thoughts of him. “I’m ready when you are.”

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702 days

For the first time, you wait to read his letter.

You find it in the mailbox as you’re leaving in the morning and you whisper “patience” to yourself as you walk to the bus. You wait at the light, you cross the street. You sit at the bus stop for two whole minutes before the bus arrives and the driver raises his eyebrows at you in surprise.

“Patience,” you whisper to yourself again as you exit the bus, breathing in the fresh, early-spring air. And “patience,” you think, as you greet the venue manager and listen to her running through the event checklist for what feels like the eight hundredth time.

“Almost,” you tell yourself as you leave, taking a picture on your phone of the orange and purple sky. You board the bus again, watch the sunset fade into star-speckled navy through the smudged window.

“Now,” you say out loud as you unlock the door to your flat, hanging your light jacket and keys on the hooks you’ve recently mounted by the door. “Now.”

You tear into the letter as you make your way to the bedroom, turning on lamps as you go, bathing the room in amber light.

You pull out the paper and your hands, steady all day, start to shake. You hold it up to the light. It’s shorter than usual. He’s written your name at the top and he’s answered your questions, described a walk he took on the waterfront yesterday, offered updates on the plants growing beside the house where he’s staying.

And at the bottom, he’s sketched a picture in light blue ink. His lines are soft and wavy, but the details are clear: it’s two plane tickets. They’re dated.

You inhale sharply.

Thirty-two more days.

。。。。��。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。

734 days

It’s warm, but not too warm. The lights are dim, but not too dim. The air is lightly scented like spring flowers and rain, but it’s not overwhelming, and the chatter of the crowd is enthusiastic and warm.

In other words, you’ve done a very good job.

You step onto the balcony for a moment, patting your red cheeks with both hands. You’ve been receiving compliments all night and it’s made you feel like you’re floating several centimeters off the ground. You’re proud of yourself—you worked hard for this.

But as the night’s worn on, your anticipation has built to a fever pitch, and you have to keep reminding yourself to breathe. If he were arriving on any other day, you’d be meeting him in private— and would you feel more or less nervous, then? You can’t decide.

But of course it’s today, because the most important events of your life always seem to coalesce around each other. There’s a beautiful garden surrounding the party venue and you take comfort in the ivy wrapped around the wrought-iron trellis; it reaches almost as high as your eye level and its balance of sturdiness and delicacy gives you strength.

You slip back inside, take in the groups of expensively-dressed people clustered around tall, elegant tables. There’s a string quartet in one corner and a mouth-watering array of hors d’oeuvres arranged toward the back wall.You straighten out your clothes surreptitiously, sneak a peak at the clock, flash a bright smile at the nearest group of guests .

And then, for a reason you’ll never be able to explain, you know what’s about to happen. Your eyes fly to the door. You gravitate toward it like a moth to a lamp and you know no one else has noticed but somehow you feel that the room has quieted for you.

The door opens. Your hands fly to your mouth.

“Hi,” he says.

He’s always been spring to you but it’s as if he’s brought summer with him. He’s taller than you remember and his collared shirt is open and he’s got the warmest smile you’ve seen in your whole life. Your thrill and worry and hope are reflected in his bright eyes.

He holds out a hand—cautiously, as if afraid you’ll float away. You take it and his fingers are soft and cool, like the petals of a flower.

“Welcome home,” you say. “Jihyun.”

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in my future mysme writings <3

@currentlyprocrastinating @thesirenwashere @ultrasupernini @cro0kedme @otomefoxystar @dawn-skies06 @nad-zeta

#mystic messenger #mysticmessenger #mysme #request #gureishi writes requests #jihyun kim #v #jihyun x reader #v x reader #hunterelys

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thewidowsghost · 3 years

Text

Daughter of the Sea - Chapter 3

Percy's POV

Confession time: I ditch Grover as soon as we get to the bus terminal.

I know, I know. It was rude. But Grover is kinda freaking me out, looking at me like I am a dead man, muttering, "Why does this always happen?" and "Why does it always have to be the sixth grade?"

Whenever he gets upset, Grover's bladder acts up, so I'm not surprised when, as soon as we get off the bus, he makes me promise to wait for him, then makes a beeline for the restroom. Instead of waiting, I get my suitcase, slip outside, and catch the first taxi uptown.

"East One-hundred-and-forth and First," I tell the driver.

A word about my mother, before you meet her.

Her name is Sally Jackson and she's the best person in the world, which just proves my theory that the best people have the rottenest luck. Her own parents died in a plane crash when she was five, and she was raised by an uncle who didn't care much about her. She wanted to be a novelist, so she spent high school working to save enough money for a college with a good creative-writing program. Then her uncle got cancer, and she had to quit school her senior year to take care of him. After he died, she was left with no money, no family, and no diploma.

The only good break she ever got was meeting mine and (Y/n)'s dad.

We didn't have any memories of him, just this warm sort of glow, maybe the barest trace of his smile. Our mom doesn't like to talk about him because it makes her sad; she has no pictures.

See, they weren't married. She told us he was rich and important, and their relationship was a secret. Then one day, he set sail across the Atlantic on some important journey, and he never came back.

Lost at sea, my mom had told us. Not dead. Lost at sea.

She worked odd jobs, took night classes to get her high school diploma, and raised me and my twin on her own. She never complained or got mad. Not even once. But I knew I wasn't an easy kid.

Finally, she married Gabe Ugliano, who was nice the first thirty seconds we knew him, then showed his true colors as a world-class jerk. When I was young, I nicknamed him Smelly Gabe. I'm sorry, but it's the truth. The guy reeked like moldy garlic pizza wrapped in gym shorts.

Between the two of us, we made my mom's life pretty hard. The way Smelly Gabe treated her, the way he and I got along...well, when I came home is a good example.

I walk into our little apartment, hoping my mom would be home from work. Instead, Smelly Gabe is in the living room, playing poker with his buddies. The television blares ESPN. Chips and beer cans are strewn all over the carpet.

Hardly looking, he says around his cigar, "So, you're home."

"Where's Mom and (Y/n)?" I wonder aloud.

"Your mom's working," he says. "You got any cash?"

That was it. No Welcome back. Good to see you. How has your life been the last six months?

"I don't have any cash," I toll him.

"Here," comes a voice, holding out a ten to the man.

Instantly, a smile sneaks its way onto my face.

"Hey, Perc," my twin sister says with a smile.

(Y/n)'s POV

I grab my brother's suitcase and carry it into his room; I set it down on the bed.

"You wanna come sit in my room?" I ask and Percy nods, a smile still on his face.

I lead the way to my room and when I open the door, Percy sinks into my desk chair.

"Percy?" comes our mom's voice.

She opens my bedroom door.

Our mother can make me feel good just by walking into the room. Her eyes sparkle and change color in the light. Her smile is as warm as a quilt. She's got a few gray streaks mixed in with her long brown hair, but I never think of her as old. When she looks at me, it's like she's seeing all the good things about me, none of the bad. I've never heard her raise her voice or say an unkind word to anyone, not even me or Percy or Gabe.

"Oh, Percy," she hugs her son tightly. "I can't believe it. You've grown since Christmas.

Percy's POV

Her red-white-and-blue Sweet on America uniform smelled like the best things in the world: chocolate, licorice, and all the other stuff she sold at the candy shop in Grand Central. She'd brought me a huge bag of "free samples," the way she always did when I came home.

We sit together on the edge of (Y/n)'s bed. While I attack the blueberry sour strings, (Y/n) stealing a few pieces of candy from the bag, Mom runs her hand through my hair and demands to know everything I hadn't put in my letters. She doesn't mention anything about my getting expelled. She doesn't seem to care about that. But was I okay? Was her little boy doing all right? The whole time, (Y/n)'s eyes were sparkling with amusement.

I tell Mom she is smothering me, and to lay off and all that, but secretly, I was really, really glad to see her and (Y/n).

From the other room, Gabe yells, "Hey, Sally—how about some bean dip, huh?"

I grit my teeth.

My mom is the nicest lady in the world. She should've been married to a millionaire, not to some jerk like Gabe.

For her sake, I try to sound upbeat about my last days at Yancy Academy. I tell her I'm not too down about the expulsion. I'd lasted almost the whole year this time. I'd made some new friends. I'd done pretty well in Latin. And honestly, the fights hadn't been as bad as the headmaster said. I liked Yancy Academy. I really did. I put such a good spin on the year, I almost convince myself. I start choking up, thinking about Grover and Mr. Brunner. Even Nancy Bobofit suddenly doesn't seem so bad.

Until that trip to the museum...

"What?" my mom asks. Her and my sister's eyes tug at my conscience, trying to pull out the secrets. "Did something scare you?"

"No, Mom."

I feel back for lying. I want to tell her about Mrs. Dodds and the three old ladies with the yarn, but I think it'd sound stupid.

Mom purses her lips. Both she and (Y/n) could tell I was holding back, but neither push me.

(Y/n)'s POV

"I have a surprise for both of you," Mom says. "We're going to the beach."

Percy's eyes widen. "Montauk?"

"Three nights - same cabin."

"When?" I ask excitedly.

Mom smiles. "As soon as I get changed."

I can't believe it. Mom, Percy, and I hadn't been to Montauk the last two summers, because Gabe said there wasn't enough money.

Gabe appears in my doorway and growls, "Bean dip, Sally? Didn't you hear me?"

"I've got it," I offer, rising from the bed and walking out into the kitchen to make the dip for Mom.

An hour later, we are ready to leave.

Gabe takes a break from his poker game long enough to watch me and Percy lug Mom's bags to the car. He keeps griping and groaning about losing her cooking - and most importantly, his '78 Camaro - for the whole weekend.

"Not a scratch on this car, you two," he warns us as I load the last bag. "Not one little scratch."

Like we'd be the ones driving. We're twelve. But that didn't matter to Gabe. If a seagull so much as pooped on his paint job, he'd find a way to blame us.

We get into the Camero, me in the passenger's seat, and Percy in the back.

Our rental cabin is on the south shore, way out at the tip of the Long Island. It is a little pastel box with faded curtains, half-sunken into the dunes. There is always sand in the sheets and spiders in the cabinets, and most of the time the sea is too cold to swim in.

Percy and I love the place.

We'd been going there since Percy and I were babies. Our mom had been going even longer. She never exactly said, but I knew why the beach was special to her. It was the place she'd met mine and Percy's dad.

As we get closer to Montauk, Mom seems to grow younger, years of worry and work disappearing from her face. Her eyes turning the color of the sea.

We arrive at the cabin, open all the cabin windows, and go through our usual cleaning routine. We walk on the beach, feed blue corn chips to the seagulls, and much on jelly beans, blue saltwater taffy, and all the other free samples my mom had brought from work.

I guess I should explain the blue food.

See, Gabe had once told Mom there was no such thing. They had this fight, which seemed like a small thing at the time. But ever since, Mom had gone out of her way to eat blue. She baked blue birthday cakes. She mixed blueberry smoothies. She bought blue-corn tortilla chips and brought home blue candy from the shop. This - alone with keeping her maiden name, Jackson, rather than calling herself Mrs. Ugliano - was proof that she wasn't totally suckered by Gabe. She did have a rebellious streak, like Percy.

When it gets dark, we make a fire. We roast hot dogs and marshmallows. Mom tells us stories about when she was a kid, back before her parents died in the plane crash. She tells us about the books she wanted to write when she gets enough money to quit the candy shop.

Finally, it seems that Percy gets the nerve to ask about what was always on our minds when we come to Montauk - our father. Mom's eyes go all misty. I figure that she was going to tell us the same things she always said, but neither Percy and I ever got tired of hearing them.

"He was kind, Percy," Mom says. "Tall, handsome, and powerful. But gentle, two. You have his black hair, you know, Percy, and you both have his green eyes."

Mom fishes a blue jelly bean out of her candy bag. "I wish he could see you, Percy, (Y/n). He would be so proud."

Percy's POV

I wondered how she could say that. What's so great about me? A dyslexic, hyperactive boy with a D+ report card, kicked out of the school for the sixth time in six years.

"How old were we?" I ask. "I mean . . . when he left?"

Mom watches the flames. "He was only with me for one summer, Percy. Right here at this beach. This cabin."

"But...he knew us as a baby."

"No, honey. He knew I was expecting twins, but he never saw you two. He had to leave before you were born."

I try to square that with the fact I seem to remember . . . something about my father. A warm glow. A smile.

(Y/n) and I had always assumed that he had known us as babies. Mom had never said it outright, but still, we'd always felt it must be true. Now, to be told that he'd never even seen us . . .

I realize I feel angry at my father. Maybe it was stupid, but I resent him for going on that ocean voyage, for not having the guts to marry Mom. He'd left us, and now we are stuck with Smelly Gable.

"Are you sending me away again?" I ask her. "To another boarding school."

She pulls a marshmallow from the fire.

"I don't know, honey." Mom's voice is heavy. "I think . . . I think we'll have to do something."

"Because you don't want me around?" I regret the words as soon as they come out of my mouth. (Y/n) bows her head, looking at the ground and Mom's eyes well with tears.

Mom takes my hand and squeezes it tight. "Oh, Percy, no. I - I have to, honey. For your own good. I have to send you away."

Her words remind me of what Mr. Brunner had said - that it was best for me to leave Yancy.

"Because I'm not normal," I say.

"You say that as if it's a bad thing, Percy. But you don't realize how important you are. I thought Yancy Academy would be far enough away. I thought you'd finally be safe.

"Safe from what?"

She meets my eyes, and a flood of memories comes back to me - all the weird, scary things that had ever happened to me and (Y/n), some of which we'd tried to forget.

During third grade, a man in a black trench coat had stalked us on the playground. When the teachers threatened to call the police, he went away growling, but no one believed (Y/n) when she'd told them that under his broad-brimmed hat, the man only had one eye, right in the middle of his head.

Before that—a really early memory. I was in preschool, and a teacher accidentally put me down for a nap in a cot that a snake had slithered into. My mom screamed when she came to pick me up and found me playing with a limp, scaly rope I'd somehow managed to strangle to death with my meaty toddler hands.

In every single school, something creepy had happened, something unsafe, and I was forced to move.

I know I should tell my mom about the old ladies at the fruit stand, and Mrs. Dodds at the art museum, about my weird hallucination that I had sliced my math teacher into dust with a sword. But I can't make myself tell her. I have a strange feeling the news would end our trip to Montauk, and I don't want that.

"I've tried to keep you as close to me as I could," my mom says. "They told me that was a mistake. But there's only one other option, Percy—the place your father wanted to send you two. And I just...I just can't stand to do it."

(Y/n)'s POV

"Our father wanted us to go to a special school?" I ask, a little confused.

"Not a school," she says softly. "A summer camp."

My head starts spinning. Why would my dad - who hadn't even stayed around long enough to see me and Percy be born - talk about a summer camp?

"I'm sorry, (Y/n)," she said, seeing the look in my eyes. "But I can't talk about it. I—I couldn't send you two to that place. It might mean saying good-bye to you for good."

"For good?" Percy asks. "But if it's only a summer camp.

Mom turns towards the fire, and I know from her expression that if either of us ask her any more questions, she would start to cry.

I have a weird, vivid dream. It is storming on the beach, and two beautiful animals, a white horse, and a golden eagle are trying to kill each other at the edge of the surf. The eagle swoops down and slashes the horse's muzzle with its huge talons. The horse rears up and kicks at the eagle's wings. As they fight, the ground rumbles and a monstrous voice chuckles somewhere and beneath the earth, goading the animals to fight harder.

I run towards them, knowing I have to stop them from killing each other, but I am running in slow motion. I know I am too late. I see the eagle dive down, its beak aimed at the horse's wide eyes, and I scream, No!

I wake with a start.

Outside, it really is storming, the kind of storm that cracks trees and blows down houses. There is no horse or eagle on the beach, just lightning making false daylight, and twenty-foot waves pounding the dunes like artillery.

With the next thunderclap, my mom and Percy wake. Mom sits up, eyes wide, and says, "Hurricane."

I know that's crazy. Long Island never sees hurricanes this early in the summer. But the ocean seems to have forgotten. Over the roar of the wind, I hear a distant bellow, an angry, tortured sound that makes my hair stand on end.

Percy's POV

Then a much closer noise, like mallets in the sand. A desperate voice - someone yelling, pounding on our cabin door.

My mother springs out of bed in her nightgown and throws open the lock.

Grover stands framed in the doorway against a backdrop of pouring rain. But he isn't . . . he isn't exactly Grover.

"Searching all night," he gasps. "What were you thinking?"

My mother looks at me in terror - not scared of Grover, but of why he'd come.

"Percy," she says, having to shout to be heard over the rain. "What happened at school? What didn't you tell me?"

I am frozen, looking at Grover. I can't understand what I'm seeing, and I see (Y/n) looking at my friend.

"O Zeu kai alloi theoi!" he yells. "It's right behind me! Didn't you tell her?"

I am too shocked to register that he'd just cursed in Ancient Greek, and I'd understood him perfectly. I am too shocked to wonder how Grover had gotten here by himself in the middle of the night. Because Grover doesn't have pants on - and where his legs should be . . . where his legs should be . . .

Mom looks at me sternly and talks in a tone she'd never used before, and (Y/n) flinches: "Percy. Tell me now!"

I stammer something about the old ladies at the fruit stand and Mrs. Dodds, and my mom stares at me, her face deathly pale in the flashes of lightning.

She grabs her purse, tosses me and (Y/n) our rain jackets, and says, "Get the car. All three of you. Go!"

Grover runs for the Camero - but he isn't running, exactly. He is trotting, shaking his shaggy hindquarters, and suddenly his story about a muscular disorder in his legs makes sense to me. I understand how he can run so fast and still limp when he walks.

Because where his feet should be, there are no feet. There are cloven hooves.

Word Count: 3041 words

#percy jackson x sister reader #percy jackson and the olympians reader insert #female reader #fem reader #reader insert

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peralta-guaranteed · 3 years

Note

Family day playing hooky hc

(this turned into another fic. Apparently I don't make the rules anymore)

Read on AO3

It's the beginning of a long summer. Both kids are home - well, not really, since Amy has signed them up for several activities all around the city. Today is arts & crafts time at the children's library wing, Jake notes as he checks their shared calendar before the morning meeting. But they are home, insofar as Mac's school is closed for the summer holidays, and so's Maya's kindergarten. They drop them off at their daily activity in the morning, and the rest of the time they're at his mom's, who's been happily overfeeding them and entertaining them as the proud grandma she is. Or they drop them off at Gramma Peralta’s first, and she drives them to whatever place they were signed up at. It's a pretty good routine, and he's proud of Amy having found so many things for them to do that seem right up their alley, judging from their excited stories during dinner and the ever growing collection of handmade gifts on their living room shelves.

But they're home for the summer, and Jake and Amy have to sit at the sweltering precinct, slogging through paperwork and a dull week of almost no new cases. It's really not fair, Jake thinks. He remembers his summer days with Gina, when Nana would hand them both a couple of dollars and tell them not to be home until sunset at least. They can’t do that, obviously - Mac and Maya are still too young, and Brooklyn has definitely not gotten any safer since his early teens, when it was already questionably sketchy for him and Gina to stalk around the neighbourhoods and buy cheap ice cream and soda at random bodegas. He also remembers those few rare days when his mom would get a day off that did not need to be spent on catching up on housework, or when his dad would finally show up for more than one day and they could plan a little trip (which would actually take place at least 50% of the time). He remembers the aquarium and the zoo and the natural history museum and Central Park and Coney Island.

And they could absolutely do that, he realises, so the decision is pretty much made before he’s even set his bag down at his desk. But he’s patient enough to wait through the morning meeting - blessedly short, because nothing new has come up anyway, and they’re all told to finish up the paperwork and start on re-organising the evidence room. Jake supposes it’s a generally good thing that crime seems to slow down in the summer heat a little, but that’s not really why he’s so happy right now hearing the captain tell them to ‘find something to do anywhere’. He certainly knows what he wants to do already.

Amy’s morning meeting must’ve been just as short, because she’s already at her desk when he jumps down the last steps of the stairwell to her floor. Her uniformed officers mostly give him a quick nod or smile as he passes - it’s not a rare thing to see Detective Peralta come by to visit his wife outside of break times.

“Good morning, Lieutenant.” He smiles at her, and she rolls her eyes with fondness. The title is still pretty new, and he loves to remind her of it any chance he gets.

“Hey babe. We’re not due for lunch for another 4 hours, you know that, right?”

“Yeah there’s no way I’m waiting that long.” He’s still smiling wide, and when she looks up from whatever paper she’s been filling out, she instantly recognises that mischievous glint in his eye.

“What are you planning?”

“Let’s bail the kids out of the library and go somewhere fun. Coney Island? It’s all open since last saturday I think.”

“We have to work, Jake.” Amy levels him with one of those ‘please be a grown-up’ looks, but she knows they seldom get results.

“Do we, Ames? Do we really? Because Holt has us organising the evidence room. I have literally zero open cases on my desk. And how far ahead are you with all your paperwork and organisation?”

She looks sheepishly at the very small stack of papers on her desk.

“About two weeks, I’d say.”

“And you’re saying we can’t take one day off? Just one day of family time? Getting cotton candy and taking Mac on an actual roller coaster now that he’s tall enough and winning a new teddy for Maya because you’re an ace at the fake shooting range?” He wiggles his eyebrows for emphasis, and Amy stifles a snicker. It’s too bad her husband knows exactly how to win her over for most of his childish endeavours.

“I guess it wouldn’t be so bad to take some personal time right now. We’d still have to convince Holt-”

“On it.” Jake slaps her desk in excitement as he gets up, ready to race upstairs and sweet-talk Holt into giving them the day off (or rather, annoy him into it). Only Amy Santiago would request permission from her boss to play hooky, of course, but there’s no way he’s not going to indulge her.

It’s not even fifteen minutes later that he’s back downstairs, his bag already on his shoulder, almost pulling her out of her chair.

“Got the go-ahead, so let’s go!”

“Give me five minutes at least to brief Gary, and change out of my uniform before I leave.”

He sighs and thrums his fingers across his thigh, but obediently watches her talk to her ‘own Amy’, eagerly taking notes about the few things they actually have to remember to do. He refrains from pushing her forwards by the shoulders as she heads to the locker room, deciding to pack up her purse instead (he knows the layout perfectly by now - the calendar and pen goes next to the baby wipes, and the glasses case has to be by the little box of healthy, kid-friendly snacks). But the moment she returns in one of her signature flowery blouses, he grabs her hand and drags her out of the precinct so fast she can barely protest.

-+-

The drive to the library is equally as quick. Amy only manages to slow him down once they step into the actual building, reminding him of the library rules of being quiet and calm.

“Lieutenant Santiago!” The librarian behind the desk greets her - she’s well-known around these parts, obviously. “Back so early? Isn’t your mother-in-law picking up the kids later?”

He should probably call her to tell her about the change of plans, Jake thinks as Amy explains and asks if it’s possible to get Mac and Maya packed up and ready to leave already.

It’s absolutely possible, of course, and Maya proudly shows them the pipe cleaner and yarn figurine she’d just finished making as the kids librarian leads them out to the main floor. Mac, a few feet behind her, seems wary as he hugs them hello.

“Did something happen?” He asks into the hug, quietly, and Jake remembers with a twinge in his heart that the last time someone picked him up unexpectedly early from football practice, it was aunt Rosa, taking him and Maya to the precinct until Amy brought Jake back from hospital after getting knifed by a perp.

“No, buddy, this is a good surprise.” He hugs him back extra tight, ruffling his hair for good measure, and silently cursing his line of work being so shit sometimes.

Mac smiles back at him, luckily, but there is still a bit of hesitation in his eyes, and Jake’s excitement about his own idea of playing hooky falters for the first time. Maybe they should’ve just let the kids enjoy their crafts and grandma-time, and planned a proper day out for the weekend-

“Grandpa Holt gave us today off.” Amy explains as she steps up to the two of them with Maya by her side, and that title still sounds a little weird even years later. “So we thought we could all go out for a fun day at Coney Island!”

The squeal Maya lets out certainly changes Mac’s smile for the better, even as it is quickly shushed down (they’re still in the library after all!), and they’re soon dragged outside to the car by their kids the same way Jake had dragged Amy out of the precinct.

“C’n we get hotdogs?” Maya asks as she clicks her seatbelt closed and Amy smiles at her through the rearview mirror.

“We sure can!”

“Can we go on all the rides?” Mac joins in, and Jake is glad to see there’s absolutely no hesitation on his face anymore.

“All the ones you’re old enough for, sure.”

The questions and cheers and excited chatter keep up during the whole drive, even as Amy calls Karen and barely gets a word in, between the happy interruptions shouted from the backseat, and it takes a lot more to actually keep them together as they step on the boardwalk, Maya already running left to some game parlour while Mac races on ahead to the first ride he sees.

-+-

The rest of the day does not slow down in their whirlwind. Mac decides after three roller coasters that maybe he’s had enough (and Jake is glad they didn’t go through the food stalls before it), but he spins Maya around in the teacups ride like only an older brother could. The ice cream after is well deserved, seeing how sweaty and exhausted they are already, and gives them more than enough energy to hit literally every game they can see. Jake can watch Amy calculating the vast amount of money they’re spending in tokens, but she’s also the first one in line once they reach the toy-shooting range, winning Maya a unicorn plushie and Mac a knock-off superb-man figurine (his wife is a goddamn sharpshooter and he’d be lying if that wasn’t a turn-on). The third shot earns him a wacky pair of sunglasses that make both Amy and Maya giggle in that way he loves the most, and he refuses to take them off for any of the silly pictures they take in front of cutouts, wall art and weird statues.

He’s pushed them up into his hair by the time they get hotdogs (3 for him, 2 for Mac, one each for Amy and Maya), because the sun is already starting to set and he can barely see. Maya begins to shiver as they stroll down the quieter parts of the boardwalk, so he buys her one of those kitschy animal-hoodies all the stalls are touting (they know their clientele too well), and of course Mac immediately needs one too, so now there’s a tiny tiger and a slightly larger dragon running in front of them with cotton candy sticking all over their hands and faces.

Amy slides her arm around his waist as they slow their steps a little to let the kids go ahead, and he lays his across her shoulder as she leans into him.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had more fun playing hooky.” She mumbles, and Jake laughs for a second.

“Amy Santiago, are you telling me you’ve played hooky before? I am shocked. Here I thought I’d married an upstanding girl.”

He gets a soft punch to his side for that before she leans back and whispers.

“Actually, you’ve made me play hooky before, remember? But we didn’t exactly go to an ‘amusement park’…”

“And yet you’re saying this has been more fun. I see where I stand.” He pouts before grinning again, and leans down for a soft kiss. (He definitely remembers the last time they played hooky now.)

“Sorry, babe.” Amy smiles as she looks at Mac and Maya again, currently busy chasing each other and dueling with the sticks left over from their cotton candy. “But this has been such a great day.”

“Yeah, it’s gonna make for one hell of a memory, I hope.” He follows her eyes forward, thinking about that short moment with Mac at the library earlier today. Amy hadn’t heard it, he’s sure, but the look on her face as she pulls him to look at her with a hand on his cheek tells him she knows his thoughts well enough.

“Hey. No sad thinking allowed on such a fun day, okay? We had a great time today and we’re gonna have so many more great days in the future.” She’s still smiling, swiping her thumb across his bottom lip, where he’s sure some cotton candy is still left clinging. “We could take them to the zoo next week.”

“Santiago!” He gasps again. “Are you insinuating-”

“On the weekend.” She leans up to kiss away the last bit of sugar on his mouth. “Like the upstanding girl you married would do, obviously.”

He laughs into the kiss even as he pulls her closer, and it’s only Mac and Maya, running back to them with news of another stand they’ve discovered selling funnel cakes, that makes them break apart again.

-+-

Later, after Jake’s carried a sleepy Maya up to their apartment, and she and Mac have barely had enough energy left in them to brush their teeth and wash their faces free from all the grime and sugar that’s covering it, he falls down on the couch as Amy checks on them one more time to see both fast asleep before the lights are even out.

“Do you feel as tired as the kids?” She says in her deep, sing-song voice that sends goosebumps up his spine, just as much as her hand raking through his hair does as she stands behind the couch.

“Well, it’s been a pretty long day. But I do have more sugar in my system to keep me running, I guess.” He tries to sound nonchalant, but then she leans down to nip on his ear and ‘nonchalance’ is the last thing he’s thinking of.

“Then how about we save time between now and bed by showering together?” She whispers, and he lets his head drop back to actually look at her.

“We have never saved time in the shower together, babe.”

She only smiles at him while humming an M-hm before heading for the bathroom, and he definitely doesn’t waste any time following her.

#b99 #brooklyn 99 #peraltiago #amy santiago #jake peralta #mac peralta #maya peralta #fic #my writing

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twistedapple · 3 years

Text

Neve Bosconero - Snow White didn’t leave her home (part I)

Aaand here it is! The backstory I’ve been teasing for some months while secretly struggling to find the most suitable tone for it! I recommend you to check Neve’s playlist for the full reading experience - especially if you enjoy listening to background music while reading (check the #neve bosconero tag, I haven’t added to the masterlist yet but it’s been published two days ago so it should be easy to find)! This backstory is rather long so I divided it in two parts, this is the first one, the second one will be released at a later date (I’ll be taking a small break to reply to asks and handle my To Do list). And of course, feedback is more than welcome! This isn’t just a hobby, it’s actual training for me and readers’ opinions are needed to improve and experiment (especially since English isn’t my native language)! So feel free to comment either by reply or reblog so I can see what’s up and even chat up a bit (I also react to tags)!

Because of the heavy topics mentioned in it, I also recommend you to be careful while reading it.

Without further ado...

Neve was preparing the yarns of colourful wool she had carefully picked for her new haute-lisse project. The model had been placed behind the loom, and the shuttle was ready to be used.

She had a little story to tell.

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The story had two versions, yet both had the same beginning. A long time ago, back when the Valley of Thorns had yet to become, the border between men and fairies wasn’t as clearly defined as it was now. This lack of clarity caused the existence of a liminal space in which both men and fairies could interact, where magic itself seemed to gather and take curious shapes. The very first of those shapes was a set of twin apple trees, silver and gold, growing intertwined and bearing fruits said to have powerful magical properties. These trees were the central piece of a larger grove hidden in a large clearing hidden deep in the forest and overlooking an even deeper valley atop a tall cliff. They quickly fell under the protection of a group of fairies that could bind themselves to various trees. The second shape came from two drops, one for each of the twin trees, falling on old bones resting at their feet. As it came to life, it chose to take the form of an antlered, amber-eyed fairy with foliate hair, and started living among the trees and the shadows of the deep, dark woods.

Keeper of the forest, he would don crowns of oak and holly according to seasons and wear a mantle of greens that’d hide him from prying eyes. On the last day of the year, humans would pour a glass of milk to honour him who was known as the Green Man, for he had blessed the land and taught them how to grow and tend to plants from mere seeds. An agreement had been passed between him and the humans as well: the dark forest was his domain, and they weren’t allowed in without his consent. However, a human life is but a fleeting moment to a creature such as the Green Man, whose own life had been meant to be much longer. Thus, as time passed, the agreement became a story, then a legend before fading from memory – for a time. One unfortunate day, humans breeched the then forgotten agreement and started roaming the forest, appreciating the quality of its wood and the amount of land they could use to expand their fields. This angered the Green Man, it angered him so much he cursed the humans and their lands. For wanting to uncover the secrets of the dark woods, he sent shadows to stalk and route them out, for wanting to expand their fields, The Green Man ruined their crops, again and again, until there was no food left for the cattle, and then for the humans themselves - until they begged for forgiveness. They obtained it and order was restored – however the Green Man made sure that the agreement wouldn’t be forgotten this time...

At least, that is what humans tell. From the point of view of a fairy, about half of the story remains forgotten, and it all starts with the guardian of the orchard. See, the twin apple trees and their surroundings were tended by a fairy with ink black hair covered in apple blossoms. That fairy had taken the heart of the Green Man, and under the stars and the silver-gold light of the twin apple trees they had pledged their life to each other. By the time the agreement between Men and the Green Man fell into oblivion, humans had learnt how to wield magic themselves, and they started coveting the forest and its treasures again, though they were regularly pushed back by the Green Man’s beastly shadows, haunters of the woods that would assist him in its defence.

However, one fateful day a human child lost his way in the woods and happened to be found by the Green Man and the fairies. Tired and confused as he was, it was agreed to allow him entry so he could rest a bit, before being guided back out of the forest. The kind-hearted fairies took the little boy to the grove, where he discovered all the magical plants, chief among them the twin trees of gold and silver. Once the child felt better, the Green Man had him swear he would keep the existence of the precious grove secret before guiding him back to human lands. When the child came back, it was said that what felt like two days by the fairies seemed like two months for humans. His reappearance was deemed a miracle, and if he seemed to do his best to keep the secret, as promised to the Green Man, it still ended up being uncovered. The secret orchard had been found, and with it the especially precious apples from the twin apple trees. Confrontations between the fairy and groups of humans became more and more frequent, to the point even her found herself at a loss. The violation of the old agreement wasn’t the only thing that outraged the Green Man that fateful day when he cursed humans. Similarly, the newfound humility demonstrated by the humans wasn’t the only thing that had put an end to the curse. While commonly forgotten, the intercession of dragon fairies, fierce but wise, had contributed to the end of the deadly feud and a return of the balance between the worlds of Men and Fairies. This point in particular was the reason why, when the Draconia household started ruling what became known as the Valley of Thorns, a family of woodland fairies with a foliate face representing the Green Man as coat-of-arms was prompt to bend the knee and serve both as vassals and old friends.

That was the weight behind the name Bosconero.

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The shuttle was going through the threads at a quick pace, colour after colour, as Neve started humming in rhythm with her hands.

This story was only the beginning.

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Over centuries, the Bosconero Estate had grown. Born as an ancient place of worship, it became a place of habitation as well for the noble House, all nestled that it was between dense dark woods and steep cliffs. As time passed, walls were built – first to add further protection to the clearing, then for actual buildings. Lobed arches decorated with ceramics and delicately twisted columns, aging walls covered in ferns, ivy, jasmine and wisteria, an ornate wishing well in the middle of a cloister-like space, an open crypt and a large belvedere dominating the valley – and then there were the gardens and the greenhouse. A wonder in themselves, they held all sorts of plants, both native and exotic, both magical and purely decorative, a complete botanical garden organised like an ornamental garden, with plays on twists and turns, lights and shadows, organic from the plants and mineral from the various statues scattered everywhere. And in the middle of it all stood its crown jewel, the precious orchard with, at its centre, the twin apple trees of gold and silver, a nearby healing pool reflecting their light as if it was challenging the often gloomy skies of the entire Valley.

Neve knew all of its nooks and crannies, ornate tile floors, arched painted ceilings without a single sharp angle, white walls decorated with plants, tapestries and paintings... The main corridor was remarkable for its numerous family portraits, and Neve had taken the habit of observing each of them every time she passed through the corridor. The family had a peculiar tradition of accepting people in, rather than marrying outside, and of having an inclination towards a matrilineal order. Ink black hair would produce ink black hair, no matter the appearance of the one who gained the name Bosconero. Cat-like eyes would mostly be moss green and liquid blue as well. Mostly. This was when a break could be seen, with the occasional golden amber erratically cutting through time, a constant reminder of the founder of the family. It made itself known with her generation as well – the recent family portrait in the entrance showing a tall, masculine figure with rich auburn hair and bright blue eyes, a smaller feminine one with black hair and forest eyes, and then two even smaller figures that could have been a mirror of each other had it not been for these golden amber eyes. For the Old Blood running stronger in one of them.

A thought would often occur to her, the idea that maybe these ghosts from the past would leave their portraits at night to haunt the estate. It wouldn’t have surprised her, considering she never failed to feel their eyes burning her back when she walked down the corridor.

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In the Valley, spinning the wool was an affair for women, no matter their station. It was even how Crimilde had wished for a child and ended up with twins – a rare event among fairies, which lived longer than men and didn’t need to worry as much about the number of children they would and could have.

Neve kept passing the shuttle through the threads, with a skill honed through habit, and still humming.

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The Bosconero family valued its traditions, most of them either remnants of ancient rituals, or rites still alive. With all the customary events that would dot the life of a fairy to the rhythm of the seasons, they added up to scream what made the family what it was. The very first ritual had been made under the light of the ever glowing twin apple trees, a custom to bind the newborns to their respective tree. In a bowl filled with water from the pond at the feet of the trees, always glowing with their reflection, engraved twigs and thorns of various trees and shrubs were mixed, secret words were spoken, and the newborn would have one of its fingers pricked with the plant decided to manifest itself. Then, an oath in blood would be made with more secret words – a life binding oath. This rite was important, as it was also an act of divination – the bound tree informing about the path of the fairy. The ritual was conducted by the head of the family, and the Lady of the Yew, Crimilde Bosconero, made no exception.

That was how Bianca and Neve had been respectively chosen by the blackthorn and the hawthorn, how they had been set on their respective path in life – one for strife, one for protection. The secret words always spoke true – or so the family said.

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With a quick turn of the wrist, Neve would switch threads at great speed. It wouldn’t be her most colourful piece, but she still wished for some dimension in the composition. She’d dreamt of it, and for once it wasn’t as chilling as what she’d usually see – though the topic remained rather ominous.

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After the first ritual of their life, they had been presented to the Draconia family – another custom to show deference to the dragon overlords, and yet the only time the twins and the barely older Young Master really ever met. After that, years of preparations started for them, with three specific purposes in mind: to reflect their peerage, to be prepared for their future life both as Ladies and Magic wielders, and to develop their mind and creativity in a manner that’d promote a suitable Unique Magic.

In practice, Neve would show a consistent dedication to her work and progress, something the hired tutors never failed to report – and something Crimilde never failed to point out in comparison to her sister’s own devotion to irregularity. Yet, it was that very sister who would push Neve to always give so much of herself in everything she set her mind to. Bianca of the Blackthorn, Bianca and her golden eyes. Neve had many memories of the little things her sister would keep doing, her general distate for order and propriety always forgiven because of seemingly bottomless well of raw magic she would wield. Alone, these memories amounted to nothing – but there laid the trick, as added to each other, they’d slowly start looming, the tall shadow of a motherly figure who oversaw everything with an iron hand, and a prodigious sister raising like a wall next to her.

As time passed, Neve started feeling the weight of the situation in the way she pushed herself only to see her dear sister somehow manage to overtake her, despite always starting one step behind. These ever loud leaps and bounds felt like an unspoken formula to push Neve in a forgotten corner. When her singing was technically flawless, Bianca’s improvisations would end up attracting more interest. When Neve was capable of identifying heraldry and persons on the spot, Bianca remained the one who would quietly decline the identity of their mother’s interlocutors during events at the Estate. When their personal maid would brush their hair, Neve’s ink black curls would be compared to Bianca’s, yet the reverse never happened. No matter how much she would give, it always seemed to Neve that she was bound to fall short as long as her oh-so-perfect sister remained by her side.

Her mind slowly became her shelter, an untouched place that belonged solely to her, where she could push the bitter poison back when she started feeling overwhelmed; a place where she felt free from her mother’s and her sister’s shadows. There, she could spend hours absorbing what she’d been learning, what she’d been experiencing, to understand how to use it to her advantage. It was around that time she picked up sewing and weaving – a simple occupation at first, that quickly turned into a mean for her to express herself and to let the building poison out, stitch after stitch.

If her more public needle work was appreciated for its refined elegance and precision, a part of it was kept secret still - the part done at night, when she was too anxious to sleep, afraid of tomorrow and even more fearful of what her own dreams would offer. During that quiet time, it felt easier for her to explore and understand her own thoughts and feelings, let them out lest she’d either take it out on her family... Or even herself – that thought always left her with a sinking feeling in her gut, the dark impression that if she fell on that path, coming back from it would be even harder, if possible at all.

And then came the teaching of magic.

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Neve kept weaving, letting her thoughts wander and reach times past as the haute-lisse was slowly taking shape.

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A part of their life as young fairies was focused on their magical training as well, and this is where things would turn especially sore for Neve.

Their general education, especially its artistic components, served to promote focus and creativity, both elements necessary to produce and control magic, as well as develop a Unique Magic fitting their character. Everybody had their eyes on Bianca and her golden eyes – as expected. Yet, there was already few things in which Neve felt competent, next to her sister. Sewing was one of them, though mostly because Bianca showed little interest in the exercise – she seemed to favour books, potion ingredients and music. For that reason, sewing had become Neve’s thing, a reassuring shelter when her sister took too much place. A space where she wouldn’t have to hear her whisper first all the correct information to their mother’s ear at a party, where she wouldn’t have to feel the smooth inflexions of her singing, where she wouldn’t witness her elegant spells. She was her own ruler there, and would let her inventive mind overflow to become drawings and embroideries. If Neve couldn’t get her life with the support of her family, she’d weave it herself. Yet, that protective isolation also proved a double-edged sword that prevented her from seeing the cracks forming, early onset of a larger catastrophe.

The second most important ritual among woodland fairies was tied to the discovery of their Unique Magic. Once the young fairies had been sufficiently prepared through lessons and various activities meant to help them form their own magical quality, a ceremony was to be held by their family or caretaker in order for them to fully take hold of their magical abilities. When that day arrived for Bianca and Neve, it was yet again conducted by their mother, with the help of her newly hired assistant, Erico of the Elm – their father, Sigfrido of the Willow, would be absent for work, as always. The twins had been prepared for this moment, each step of the way carefully explained to them, since they’d be the ones conducting the ritual for themselves. Crimilde and her assistant would be there as witnesses and helpers in case of trouble, although the sisters had been certified that trouble never happened, since it was all about discovering one’s Unique Magic without pushing it, only defence was allowed to deescalate the situation and protect oneself if necessary – thus Crimilde had framed the ritual as an extension of their usual defensive magic classes. Bianca and Neve both had a set of alchemy tools, as well as the ingredients required. Led in a small building on the Estate, apart from the others and strangely windowless, the only way for the young fairies to see in the individual rooms they were respectively set in was with the help of faerie fires, dim gloomy lights meant solely to allow them to make their preparation, just like they had been taught.

Focusing on her task, Neve made sure to carefully prepare the potion, which looked like some sort of thick, dark liquid – so dark it felt like it was even swallowing whatever light was coming out of the floating faerie fires. Once the preparation was ready, Neve took the large brush they had both been provided with, and started drawing the symbols she had been taught on the floor, in the correct order and with decisive strokes. Then, she placed the set of candles – a profound black just like the preparation she had painted the floor with – all around to form a circle in the middle of which she knelt. Taking a deep breath, she lit the candles with a simple gesture, and the faerie lights went off automatically as the candles and symbols on the floor started shining in a manner that made them look like liquid glass veined with pulsating blood – her blood, she thought, as she gently clutched her bandaged hand. It was her last consideration before she found herself enveloped in a thick, numbing murk she hadn’t noticed. Reflexively closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, as if she was about to dive, and lost all notion of time and space in the process.

The noise of a door slamming made her come back to her senses. Realising she was laying down, Neve sat up, and took a look around. She was in a long corridor, with a series of seven doors peppering both sides – she had never seen such a place before. Getting back on her feet, she decided to see what that corridor had to offer – it wasn’t as if she had another way to go anyway. As she walked, she inspected the seven doors from a safe distance first – they were all different in design, and all closed. Stepping forward, the young fairy felt an uncontrollable, ice-cold shiver run down her spine. The corridor stretched and stretched, yet the doors always seemed to remain at their place, as if the whole, well, place was forcing her hand. As she stopped in her track, she started considering each door more carefully, trying to pick what seemed like the safest one. However, she promptly realised that it wasn’t about seeming, but feeling right. This realisation came to her as she approached a pitch-black, perfectly smooth door, save for the ornate handle. As her fingers were about to touch it, the impression of a dreadful pull started overtaking her every thoughts, while at the same time something deep down screamed at her to get away, as far as possible from that door. However, it was only thanks to a creak coming from the opposite side, at the furthest door, that Neve managed to shake away both the pull and the dread. Her attention shifted to the noise, and it seemed to her that a shadow had just passed through the now slightly ajar rustic wooden door.

As she went through the door, she found herself in a bright clearing, covered in thick, fresh grass. Further away, she could see the clearly defined shape of a cottage-like house, and a movement at the window left from the door caught her attention. Considering her surroundings for a few seconds, she didn’t feel any sense of danger, nor any sort of inner bell ringing the alert so far. Not wanting to be a sitting duck, she quickly moved along the small path drawn amidst the thick grass and went straight for the small cottage which seemed, oddly enough, her only way out. The heavy door let out a rusty creaking noise as she pushed on it. Inside, there was only the silence of a house that felt recently abandoned. Crossing the main room quickly, Neve decided to count the number of steps required to reach the staircase –even and she’d go left on the upper floor, odd and she’d go right. Neve often practiced these little games, it had been particularly useful to overcome her worry-fueled indecision and helped strengthen her resolve. Left she went, not sure of what she’d find, yet choosing to not chase after that elusive shadow she’d seen twice already. As long as she didn’t feel threatened or enticed in any way, Neve judged it simpler to let the shadow come to her first.

The young lady didn’t expect the corridor that served as her starting point to appear again, the same doors in the same order, though adapted to fit in the cottage – fit in as much as a corridor clearly too long for the house could. This peculiar setting led her to realise a now jarring detail that she had somehow missed the first time: the corridor had no defined end. As she moved, she noticed that the doors seemed to follow her, as if they’d always trail behind, the endless extremities of the corridor extending appropriately. The door she’d first picked was now closed, and rather than checking it again, she chose to pass it and its facing door on the right hand of the corridor, to open the next one. As she walked and passed in front of the right-hand door, she could hear a faint, regular clicking noise in it. However, her decision had been made, left, always left. With resolute steps, the fairy reached the next door and went through it.

She found herself on a scene, in a large room that looked like the emptied remnants of a theatre. Strange mists and fake trees surrounded her, and as she made a move to step away, a pitch-black, elongated silhouette suddenly slid right in front of her, making her jump in fear yet reaching out to silence her scream with a hand just as dark. For some reason, that touch was enough to help Neve settle down, which allowed her to take a look at the... The thing in front of her. It looked like it had tried to take a vaguely familiar humanoid shape, yet was there without really being there. As it took a quiet step towards her – it was more sliding than walking, really -, its body and arms became disproportionately elongated, its neck following the same path as it leaned towards her. When it spoke, the words didn’t came from its faceless head, but seemed to resonate gently through her whole body, an echoing whisper that felt like smoke.

- To find the way out, never look back. Beware of the Stagman, don’t trust the Black Hands.

- Wha – What are you?

- Help.

The strange shadow wasn’t there anymore, and Neve felt dread pile up in her belly as she observed the whole room. As she was about to take a step back, unwilling to take another step forward, the words the shadow had spoken rang in her mind. Realising she had no choice but go forth, she took a large gulp of air and swallowed her apprehension before going down the scene. To help gain some focus back, she reminded herself of the rule she had established – always left. And always up as well, she realised as she was off the scene. For some reason, the simple action of going down made her skin crawl. She hurriedly crossed the vast space meant to hold seats, towards the only way out.

From that point, it felt like a winding maze of strange corridors devoid of doors and windows and yet dimly lit. Neve kept walking, always forward, always left, always up. Nothing special ever happened, and her initial wariness insidiously turned to a disquieting boredom from the repetitiveness and gradual loss of her ability to guess space and time. That is, until she found herself in a new room, just as bleak as everything she’d previously seen.

There stood a masculine silhouette, all strength and bare feet and torso, with a hart for a head and dark blood slowly dripping from his shoulders – right where the stained, mated fur would be replaced by humanoid skin. The drops ran to his hips, where a long knife and a full quiver assorted to his hunting bow rested. Neve knew then what the strange shadow meant by Stagman. Both of them stayed still, held breath making the tension raise in the windowless room. There was no way out aside from the corridors on each side of the Stagman. Neve risked a small step forward, and he slowly reached to his quiver in return, taking a silent gliding step as well. Startled by the unexpected move, Neve stepped back and made the mistake to check behind her by reflex. No way out. The corridor by which she’d come had simply disappeared, replaced by a bit of wall similar to the rest of the room. Her attention came back to the Stagman, just in time to see him pull an arrow and nock it. The cold impression of a smile she couldn’t see yet knew was there, the smile of a creature ready to eat her up alive, pushed her out of her shock. Urgency of survival kicked in and she went for the closest corridor, using her small size and light weight to move as fast as she could. An arrow flew right past her, making her pick even more pace – as much as she could to escape. Behind her, heavy steps could be heard as the Stagman went after her.

Neve ran, her vision narrowing only to see forward, her train of thought locked in a loop as she fled across the windowless rooms and corridors. All she wanted was a door – and a door kept appearing, but not the one she wished for. It was the black door she’d passed from the start, the locked one that had left her with a bad feeling. Now, every time she passed it, it seemed slightly more ajar and she ignored it to save herself – until it wasn’t possible anymore. There it was, fully open and in a dead end. With nowhere left to run and the only option being forward, Neve gritted her teeth and jumped in the room. The door shut behind her and loud bangs resonated through the large room as the Stagman was slamming against it.

The new room was completely silent, a wide empty space with a ceiling so high it would be lost in the dark, and balconies that indicated the presence of floors yet had no stairs to access them. In fact, the room was distinctly devoid of exits. Feeling trapped, Neve decided to do the only thing left and explore the area. As she moved towards the center of the room, she started hearing faint noises, whispers. She couldn’t tell where it was coming from, and had the impression of being surrounded. As she made her approach and reached a more central position in the room, she started feeling the floor become unequal under her feet. Looking around her, she noticed irregularities in the walls and floor – they weren’t there before. The room was breathing, thousands of breaths coming from everywhere. That is when her mind, already on edge since the encounter with the Stagman, who could still be heard banging on the door, left room solely for panic.

The room seemed to feed on her fright, as the walls and floor started taking shape, humanoid forms pushing against a skin-like texture, making it look thinner. To Neve’s horror, the misshaped hands she could almost see through had an awfully dark tint to them. Beware the Stagman, don’t trust the Black Hands. The shadow’s warning came back to her, yet she had no way out and the cold realisation that she’d been trapped on purpose only resulted in dread weighting in her stomach. She tried to move away from the centre of the room, away from the evermore grasping hands, pushing on the surface like it was nothing. Something clasped around her ankle and started pulling with a strength her small body couldn’t fight against. Her voice, held tight by fear until then, sprung in action only to allow her a wail of terror as more hands started grabbing her.

Suddenly, a loud noise like a crack, different from the banging of the Stagman on the door, resonated throughout the room – no, the entire space, as if something from the outside was forcing its way in. The walls started crumbling and a vault made of stars fell over her, as she started feeling something warm all around her. A gentle embrace, holding her and rocking her as she heard the echo of her own scream in the room she’d been using for the ritual. Despite her desperate attempt to flee, Erico kept her close, using his own Unique Magic, Heart to Heart, to soothe her. Slowly, she calmed down and settled for loud sobs as the assistant’s magic left her mildly sedated. Once she was deemed safe to handle, he took her in his arms and brought her out, all the while apologising with a quivering voice.

- I’m sorry, Neve. So sorry. We should have suspected something like that would happen... No, don’t look there, look at me, it’s alright now.

Neve only caught a glimpse of it before Erico put her head back against him and took her away, but what little she saw was a partially destroyed building, her sister pale as death in a shining cage of glass and blood, blood everywhere.

The event of the ritual meant to help them produce a first shaped Unique Magic had ended terribly for both sisters. Bianca spent three hundred days in a deep slumber forcefully pushed on her by Crimilde, at first to stop the rampage she’d been causing, then to allow her to heal. Lady Bosconero did her best to focus on healing her wounds in a manner that would leave as little scars as possible – thankfully, Bianca seemed to have protected her face during the event, and thus it remained untouched. Meanwhile, Neve developed a fear of being touched, as well as darkness. Dismay regarding her sister also started being noticed once she’d been explained what had unfolded that day. It seemed that the Old Blood, The Gift, had made itself known at the same time as Bianca’s Unique Magic, mixing with it to turn the creatures she’d seemingly summoned into destructive abominations. Even worst, it had started sipping everywhere – even reaching out for Neve while she was exploring her own Unique Magic, poisoning the experience well enough to turn it into a living nightmare for the young fairy.

Once Bianca woke up in complete confusion from her magic-induced sleep, however, the family dynamics started shifting for a new balance.

#twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland oc #twst oc #oc #neve bosconero #fairy tale #fairy tale rewriting #rewriting #snow white #sleeping beauty

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solsticexolos · 3 years

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My Farm

I spend most of my time thinking about my farm. Right now I run a very small scale poultry breeding operation- I have two breeding groups of Orloffs and one group of turkeys- but I have much greater plans than that. I think about it constantly, because it is everything to me. So many plans I’ve had have become impossible due to finances, mental health, and disability. This, though, this is my goal and dream, the result of learning what I can and cannot do, what I do and do not enjoy doing. It will provide me the opportunity to learn hands-on, something I wanted to do via university but my health and finances won’t allow me to do.

I have many loose plans right now, but I haven’t written much of it down. I’m feeling blue at the moment, so I figured typing it out might help me.

My farm, currently named Equinox Giants farm (but my mom is arguing about registering our cattle under that name so it may change lmao,) will be a heritage livestock and poultry operation. We will specialize in dual purpose animals, predominantly in breeding in order to provide other people with stock.

Grain for the livestock will mostly come from spent brewery grains. These grains come from brewing various types of alcohol (especially beer!) Brewing companies cannot use these grains and must often pay for them to be hauled to a landfill. However they are nutrient-dense for ruminants. While not nutritionally complete on their own, when paired with good pasture (and/or hay), they make up a large portion of the diet and cut out the (very high) cost of livestock grain. Not all livestock can use them, but cattle, sheep, and poultry can. There are many breweries in New York, so finding one close will be easy enough. This also cuts down on waste in landfills!

All land in the USA is stolen land, and I cannot help that I was born and live here, but I can acknowledge that when I own my farm, that will be on land that once belonged to Indigenous peoples. So, where ever we end up, I plan to reach out to the tribe whose land we’re farming on and basically finding out what I can do about it. I don’t know what the options are, but I am sure there’s something.

Waste products will be collected and composted, the resulting fertilizer then will hopefully be sold to local greenhouses/gardeners (and used for my own tiny garden, I like to grow tomatoes!)

Now the animals themselves! Pasture land is the biggest factor currently on deciding where we move and establish the farm. We need enough to be able to rotate pasture, as that will seriously limit how much grain we have to feed and hay we have to buy (if we have the extra pasture for it then we’ll probably rent out the field to someone who hays in exchange for a portion of the hay.) All of the livestock breeds I’ll be breeding are heritage animals that are capable of thriving on very little. Dexter cattle and shetland sheep are excellent at using whatever forage is available. Rotating the Dexter herd and the Shetland (and Alpaca) flock on different pastures will allow the grass to continue growing through the growing season, providing the animals with food. Livestock guardian dogs will be kept with the herd and flock to help limit conflict with native predators (and keep stray/roaming dogs away, which can seriously destroy a herd.)

We will start small, and build slowly. One of the main reasons that new farms fail shortly after startup is starting too big and growing too fast, before the owner learns how to actually manage it.

The Dexter herd will ideally start as 2-3 bred heifers. Their offspring will be raised by the cows, and then once weaned the steers will be sold to feeders (where they go to mature more until butcher), and cow calves will likely be sold (unless any art particularly nice, which we’ll keep then to add to the herd.) We will acquire a polled dexter bull from a different source, so he can be used for breeding in the future. Temperament, health, and quality are of the upmost importance in all of my breeding programs. We’ll work with all three Dexter colors- red, black, and dun. This small herd will be grown slowly, over time as we adjust to rearing cattle and figure out what we can handle. I would like to milk the cows on a very small scale so that I can make my own cheeses and butter. The bull will be named Papa Moofasa.

The Shetland sheep herd will also start off small. Shetlands themselves are teeny tiny, so you can keep a large number in small pastures. I’d like to start with 3-5 ewes and one ram. Specifically selecting for a medium crimp and length in fiber. I’ll be part of the Shave ‘Em to Save ‘Em program, which works to connect fiber produces directly to fiber artists. I would like to get decent equipment to card and spin the wool and fiber myself so that I can sell yarn. I may also keep some Friesian sheep as dairy animals to make my own sheep cheeses.

Due to the different texture and quality of Alpaca fiber to sheep fiber, I’d also like to keep a small herd of Huacaya Alpacas. Mostly because when I’ve worked with Alpacas in the past I really enjoyed their company and noises. Pleasant little fellows. I need to do a lot more research into them, though.

Chickens are one of my biggest joys, and will likely be my largest flock as far as quantity of individuals goes. I specialize in Russian Orloffs, but will also keep and breed Wyandottes, Chanteclers, Modern Game, and Sanjak Longcrowers. I will sell eggs for hatching, chicks, grow-outs, and mature breeding birds to people interested in showing, breeding, or simply having pets. I will also process to sell whole carcasses, and will sell eggs for eating as well.

Turkey varieties will be black and chocolate, and I will sell poults, grow-outs, and meat. I’m greedy and turkeys are seasonal layers so eggs I’ll keep for myself for hatching. (May sell some for eating on rare occasion.)

As far as selling goods, it’ll be done mostly via direct to buyers. During warm months I’ll sell at local farmer’s markets. Eggs, chicks, and grow-outs will be sold to anyone in the lower 48 USA via shipping. Mature birds (and grow outs) will be sold at poultry shows. The big goal for the goods is to find the right markets. Specializing in humanely raised, heritage livestock and poultry already gets me into a nice niche with that. Advertising small-farm, pasture-raised, heritage livestock and poultry looks good (as it should! It’s more sustainable!) and helps with marketing, haha.

As with most start-up businesses, especially farms, it’ll be a while before we’re breaking even, and longer still until we’re turning a profit. This is something I recognize going into it. I ain’t in it to make money, if I wanted to make money I would not get into livestock, haha, but to preserve these breeds, provide people with a source of ethically raised products and well-bred animals, and hopefully give back to the community in meaningful ways.

Anyways, just felt like rambling for a little bit to help my frazzled brain relax. Happy New Year, y’all.

#farm #argiculture #text #personal #farming #sustainable agriculture

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pansyfemme · 3 years

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I don't see why u couldn't be vegan and still use some animal products as long as they're ethical like say, local wool from a small farm or something?

ok ok food ethicality is a fun topic so ur gonna get a bit of a rant ok!!

so, yes. youre absolutly right. but for background, i was raised vegetarian in a low waste household that priorotized health food and local food over nearly any other foods, so i’ve had a passion for eating ethically since i was little. I hated the idea that animals were killed, and i wanted to keep them from dying. When i was around 14ish i realized that things arent that simple. That i was siding with the factually incorrect propoganda of peta instead of the facts, and i educated myself. See, radical vegans would like you to believe that there is only one way to eat ethically, and that is to eat a strict vegan diet. No beeswax, no white sugar, nothing with certain food dyes, nothing. Some people go even further than this, committing to paleo, zero waste, or even hunting and growing all of their own food. The problem with the above diets is this: They are expensive, hard to access materials for in certain areas, can be unsustainable for disabled people, and in the end, end up having a lot of money spent on equipment and food that is in the end, created unethically. For me, my vegetarianism is radical in another way. I choose to not eat meat to boycott the harmful meat industry and to not allow corportations to profit off of me. But, in all fairness, i could do this the exact same way by consuming only local meat, and there would be around the same enviromental impact. So, the idea of veganism is similar, except there are more restrictions. Now, radical vegans will tell you that honey and wool are both very unethical. But they’re not, at least not always. Supporting the bees is so much better for the enviroment than not. Buying local honey and beeswax and supporting local beekeepers is such an awesome way of supporting the enviroment. With wool, sheep benifit heavily from being shorn, and dont risk overheating or having itchy or irritated skin! Shearing doesnt hurt the sheep, and in fact benefits them! Its another thing that buying it locally is a great way of supporting local farmers. If you’re crafty, you can even spin your own yarn from wool, and its a great way of creating ethical clothes! The issue is these are still animal products, so it is a bit of a debate in the vegan community. Personally, if i do decide to go vegan, i will probably still use honey and wool. As for leather, i will always repeat the buying seconhand leather is the best way, seeing as most fake leathers leech microplastics and dont last as long. and as i end any of my ethical eating rants, theres no one way to eat ethically, there are ways to consume meat ethically, indiginous tribes consume meat more ethically than vegans consume tofu, eating ethically is a luxury and not sustainable for most people, dont try and convert ppl to diets, what ppl eat is not your concern, fuck capitalism, eat invasive species, and only you can decide if you want to try eating ethically. Have a nice day!

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crossdreamers · 4 years

Text

Transgender Hasidic Jew and former rabbi reveals the heartbreaking prayer she wrote about becoming a girl

Pink News reports:

[Abby] Stein is a direct descendant of Hasidic Judaism‘s founder, The Baal Shem Tov, and was considered by her family to be a future rabbi. But ever since she can remember, she told the BBC, she knew she was a girl...

Having never seen anyone else naked, she said she had no idea that people had different genitals. Still, she said: “When I was four years old I had this intense feeling of anger towards my own private parts. They didn’t feel like part of me. It was an extremely strong feeling that I cannot explain to this day...”

At age nine she wrote a prayer that she said every night: “Holy creator, I’m going to sleep now and I look like a boy. I am begging you, when I wake up in the morning I want to be a girl. I know that you can do anything and nothing is too hard for you…

“If you do that, I promise that I will be a good girl. I will dress in the most modest clothes. I will keep all the commandments girls have to keep.

“When I get older, I will be the best wife. I will help my husband study the Torah all day and all night. I will cook the best foods for him and my kids. Oh God, help me.”

Stein has written a book about her transgender journey: Becoming Eve: My Journey from Ultra-Orthodox Rabbi to Transgender Woman.

Over at Reddit @ThrowSoyMilkshakes reminds us of the 14 century poem “Even Boḥan” by Rabbi Ḳalonymus ben Ḳalonymus ben Meir, who clearly was transgender. You can read the whole poem here, but here is one relevant verse:

Oh, but had the artisan who made me created me instead – a worthy woman. Today I would be wise and insightful. We would weave, my friends and I and in the moonlight spin our yarn and tell our stories to one another from dusk till midnight we’d tell of the events of our day, silly things matters of no consequence. But also I would grow very wise from the spinning and I would say, “How lucky am I” to know how to make linen, how to comb [wool], and weave lace; [to design] cup-like buds, open flowers, cherubim, palm trees, and all sorts of other fine things, colorful embroideries and furrow-like stitches.

There has always been transgender people around.

#transgender #judaism #rabbi #trans #lgbtqa #mtf #trans woman

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jenoptimist · 4 years

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he had the personality, looks and kids loved him? the universe was really testing you, huh?

The day you were having was fantastic; the barista gave you three stamps on your loyalty card, the test that you took for your module went smoother than you thought it would, the group project that you had for another module went surprisingly well, and you even found some change on the ground. However as you sat in the diner with your cousin, you had a creeping suspicion that the day you had was to lull you into a false sense of security.

“I think there’s something wrong with my hearing,” you said in disbelief, slowly dropping your cutlery, “because it sounded like you just said that you want me to babysit.”

Yangyang did nothing but smile sweetly at you. “Nope! You heard right!”

You couldn’t believe it. You and kids? Yeah, you guys did not mix. It was as if you and children were the same opposites of a magnet which was a shame because you actually adored kids. You weren’t ready to have your own at the moment so you became a plant parent instead–your succulents were your pride and joy. You had six in total and as sappy as it was, you named each of them after your friends. Although admittedly, you were missing a plant for Kunhang. Not that he knew, of course. Or, well, at least you didn’t think he knew?

You hummed. “Whose kids are they?” Yangyang gave the name of your aunt, the one with triplets and you swore your cousin was trying to get back at you for something. “No. You know how I feel about those kids, Yang! They’re the frickin’ spawns of the Devil!”

Even though the triplets were only four years old, they have caused nothing but trouble for you. Before, you were swayed by their cute little faces but as time went on, you figured that they had some sort of vendetta against you. Other children usually stared blankly at you when you tried to play with them, clearly unamused by your attempts, but those three? They lived to make your life difficult. But to everyone else? They were absolute angels! It was infuriating. What had you done to warrant that behavior from them?

Yangyang winced. “Well,” you arched a brow at him which had him sagging his shoulders, “yeah.” You nodded triumphantly. “But”–you groaned–“please, y/n?” You declined with a shake of your head. Yangyang pouted at you and clasped his hands together, “oh come on, y/n! Please!”

“Nope! There’s nothing you can do to change my mind.” There was absolutely no way you were going to expose yourself to their beady little eyes. “It’s your own fault you said yes.”

The pouting didn’t stop for the next few minutes. When it did, however, there was a mischievous gleam in his eyes that you could idenitfy. It was the look he had when he used drag you in whatever shenanigans he was planning which, more often than not, resulted the two of you getting into trouble.

“I’ll tell Kunhang that you were the one who knitted him that horrible scarf!” Yangyang wasn’t wrong. The scarf was horrible because when you gave it to him, you had only knitted one or two items during a few weeks at that point. The stitches weren’t anywhere near perfect and there was a slight difference in color because the yarn that you originally used was sold out. But even with your awful craftsmanship, Kunhang never said anything bad about it. Instead he said that he was thankful that someone took the time to make it for him. Those words, paired with his angelic smile, was enough to make your heart flutter.

“You wouldn’t.” You said back, narrowing your eyes. All you got was a smirk in return. “Fine,” you sighed, “I’ll do it.” It was hard to fight your smile at his nonstop cheering.

You stood at the driveway of your aunt’s house, gathering the willpower to walk inside and make your presence known. You had spent the whole night mentally preparing yourself but now that you were there, you wanted to book it. You could do this. It was only six hours. What could they possibly do to you in that timespan that they haven’t already?

“Thanks for doing this on such a short notice.” Your aunt said as she moved in a flurry, wrapping her scarf around her neck before shrugging on her coat. The triplets were watching her and you were glad that their attention wasn’t on you yet. That was short lived because as she was hugging her children goodbye, they were watching you like a hawk. You internally cursed at your cousin, typing him a quick text.

from: y/n

to: yang2

you so owe me for this >:(

from: yang2

to: y/n

don’t worry, i already got it covered~

from: y/n

to: yang2

what’s that supposed to mean?????

from: yang2

to: y/n

(>ω^)

You took a moment to pull at face at his response before stuffing your phone back into your pocket. What was he up to now?

“I left some money on the shelf in case you want to order some food,” your aunt informed you as she pulled you into a quick hug. “Thanks again, see you later!”

The sound of the door slamming shut behind you officially sealed your fate. It left you and the triplets staring at each other and you shifted from foot to foot as you thought of something to do to pass the time. When you managed to smile at them awkwardly, your hand going up for a wave, one of them started screaming and ran off. It had a domino effect on the other two and so you were stuck in a house with three screaming children.

You scrambled after them, trying to capture them in your arms and maybe hoist them into the air–kids normally liked that, didn’t they? Unfortunately, they would somehow escape your grasp and blew raspberries at you before running off again. By the time you got them all to sit on the couch to watch a Disney movie, you were extremely exhausted.

When the doorbell rang you groaned, unsure if you could even walk to the door. Your legs felt like jelly and you were sure that if you were to look at yourself in the mirror, your appearance would be haggard. Another ring had you up, eyeing the triplets just in case they made any sudden moves, and made your way to the door.

“Um,” were your eyes deceiving you right now? “Kunhang! Hi!” He was wearing the scarf you knitted which just about covered his entire neck.

“Hey,” he smiled brightly, “sorry I’m late. I had to pick up a few things.”

“Late?”

“Yeah. Yangyang said you wanted my help with the kids?” So this is what that brat meant when he texted you. You didn’t know whether you wanted to yell at him or hug him. Maybe both, in that order.

“Oh, yep! I did. That’s what I said.” You replied with an awkward laugh at the end, stepping aside to let him in. The beautiful smile he was wearing still hadn’t disappeared. In fact, it seemed to grow larger as you led him into the living room where the triplets were, by some miracle, still watching Ice Age.

When the movie ended, Kunhang took the opportunity to introduce himself to them. You watched with a fond smile as they immediately took to him, your thoughts going haywire. Of course the kids liked him. How could they not? The three of them clung onto him and you didn’t know how he managed, but he stood up and started spinning them slowly. They erupted in giggles, excitedly calling out his name.

From there every little thing that Kunhang did with them made your heart melt. The way he paid attention to every single one of them, the way he praised them and his exaggerated reactions that had the kids stumbling in laughter. In turn, the triplets imitated him to get him to laugh and fought for his attention. Kunhang even took to helping them feed themselves, encouraging them enthusiastically and motivating them to finish the entire plate with the promise of ice cream.

The ice cream was a mistake. The children were practically bouncing from wall to wall, leaving havoc in their wake; cushions were thrown in different directions along with their toys. You and Kunhang sent each other twin expressions of horror as they started disappearing up the stairs. By the time they were tucked into bed, Kunhang was looking worse for wear than you were with his hair spewn in different directions and his hoodie had a couple of stains on them.

“We should probably get cleaning.” You suggested, already dreading the mess you were going to face when you stepped downstairs.

Cleaning the house was quicker than you expected. It was probably because you were actually having fun since Kunhang kept making you laugh. By the end of it, the two of you were talking about random things as you collapsed on the sofa. There was a brief period of silence that took over as he leaned his head back to rest on the back of the counch, closing his eyes.

With a soft smile, he murmured, “I hope our kids are as cute as they are.” That had your heart racing as you stared at him incredulously. That had to mean that he had some feelings for you too, right? But as soon as you were about to reply, he seemed to come back to himself. Kunhang shot up from the couch with an awkward laugh. “I mean–! That–! Um.” He groaned loudly, hand rubbing his face.

Again, you couldn’t even begin to respond because your aunt’s voice came from somewhere, announcing her arrival, as she shut the front door. She barely batted an eyelash at Kunhang’s presence, instead thanking the two of you and handed over some cash. She kept talking to the two of you until you exited her house and then a heavy silence blanketed the atmosphere. From the way Kunhang was gripping onto the straps of his backpack, you could tell that he was feeling just as nervous as you were.

“I’ll drive you home.” You nodded mutely at his offer.

How were you going to approach the situation? Clearly he was embarrassed, what with the way he was avoiding your eyes. But he didn’t even give you any time to answer. Knowing him, he was probably thinking that you would reject him or something. Which was entirely false. You have had a crush on him for as long as you could remember and to find out that he was possibly feeling the same? You fought the smile that threatened to creep up on your face. Was him mentioning your imaginary future kids a red flag? Maybe, if you didn’t know him.

After he parked somewhere near your apartment, neither of you made a move to say your goodbyes. Sunflower by Post Malone and Swae Lee was playing loudly until he drastically lowered the volume.

“So,” he started, after clearing his throat. “about, um, what I said earlier.” He trailed off after that, as if he was unsure of what he wanted to say.

“Well,” you said as you felt a surge of courage, powered by the thoughts of Kunhang–about how cute he was, how you have had a crush on him for the longest time and how you had dreamed about telling him how you felt. “You could at least take me on a date first.”

If it were any other circumastance you would have laughed at how his eyes practically popped out of their sockets, his mouth agape. But as it was, you were practically shaking with nerves. All you could hear was the pounding of your heart and your hands were starting to get clammy.

“Date?” The word came out like he was testing it out. “You and me? On a date?” There was a beat of silence and then, “seriously?” You nodded. “Oh wow. That’s– I can’t believe this.”

You gave him a winning smile. “Are you free tomorrow?” Then you frowned slightly. What if he thought that you were too eager? “You know what, how about next week?”

“No! Tomorrow is great! I’m totally free!”

“Great!” The two of you erupted in laughter after a moment of silence. “Well. I guess I better get going.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, sounding dazed. “I guess you should.” You went for a hug and shot him a quick smile after you shut the door of his car.

Just as you were about to walk up the stairs to your apartment, you heard him calling out your name. When you spun around, you found him running up to you with something in his hand that you couldn’t make out.

Kunhang heaved. “Got this for you.” He told you as he bent over to catch his breath, his right arm extending towards you. It was a succulent. A very pretty one at that. “I was gonna give it to you after we left ‘cause I was gonna ask you on a date. But then I said that.”

“I love it.” You took it from his hand gently, staring it at adoringly. “Thank you so much, Kunhang!” Now you had one to name after him. You would put it next to the one you named after Dejun, on the small table next to your bed.

“Now you can have one named after me.”

In your shock, you almost dropped your new plant. “What? How do you know about that?” You didn’t give him time to respond, already knowing the answer. “Yangyang.” You grumbled. When you got your hands on that kid, he was going to get it.

“Yangyang.” Kunhang confirmed, eyes twinkling with amusement. With a quick peck on your cheek, he quickly spun around and sped off to his car. As soon as he drove away, you took out your phone.

from: y/n

to: yang2

you are SO dead

from: yang2

to: y/n

snagged a date though didn’t you? now you can stop telling me about how much you like him ۹⌤_⌤۹

from: y/n

to: yang2

yeah i did but it doesn’t mean that you’ll get away with telling him i didn’t have a plant named after him >:(

from: yang2

to: y/n

ღゝ◡╹)ノ♡

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