#the whole thing where i’ve inherited his habit of sitting in the corner with a book and a cup of tea and not resurfacing is fine

[ourplaceinthecosmosphff]

Chapter 16. Fight or Flight

‘I am healing by mistake. Rome is also built on ruins.' Eliza Griswold

“It’s a private street,” Harry explained as he walked me on quickstep towards the big black gates in red brick ahead. “Technically owned by the Crown Estate. Most of the houses are embassies or former embassies now owned by billionaires.” “Was someone supposed to have stopped me from just walking in?” I asked, already guessing the answer.

“A little weird to have a central London address mostly habited by dignitaries and rich people and forbid people from entering it, isn’t it?” He grinned. “So it’s open for pedestrians and cyclists twenty-four-seven. Cars only authorized. And, of course, they are free to kick you out if they think you’re behaving strangely.”

“Understandable.” I smiled.

“...So…” He started, shifting on his feet as he walked, adjusting my bag on his shoulder, “Where’s Christopher?”

“...Right now? Halfway to Canada, probably. On business.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “And… your security?”

I looked around at the street lights, avoiding his eyes. “It’s just me.”

“Right… but, should it be? Isn’t it a bit--?” Before he could finish -- ‘dangerous’ was probably going to be his last word -- I stopped, and looked at his, heaving a sigh. “This is weird. Isn’t it? I’m sorry, I can get a hotel.”

Under the moon and lamp post lights, I thought I saw his cheeks redden. “No, that’s not--! I don’t-- You’re welcome here, of course! I was just… worried. You shouldn’t be walking around on your own.”

At this charming revelation, said in an even more charming tone, I smiled, sheepishly. “Well, I am.”

“So, no… major changes after the…  new succession?”

I sighed, remembering Joyce, my protection officer that had been replaced, and Cadie. “Some. Not tonight, though.”

We were quietly ushered through a pedestrian steel door a few steps after the big gates, which magically opened when Harry approached. His protection officer followed after us.

“Uh, sir?” He called when we kept walking.

Looking back, Harry startled slightly. “Oh, that’s right. Do you mind?” He looked at me, “They need to sign you in.”

“Oh, of course.” We walked to the security cabin near the bigger gate, where another guard, this one in uniform, smiled at us.

“ID, ma’am?”

I handed him my passport from my coat’s pocket, which I had kept handy for the train.

“I’m sorry about this,” Harry said, worried, “It’s… bloody protocol.”

“It’s alright.” I smiled. “You do remember I live in a palace, too? If there’s one thing I understand in life is protocol.”

He smiled back. “She’ll already be registered.” Harry told the guard. “She was here last October.”

I remembered, distantly, filling up my passport in security forms before the tour, and we had come to Kensington for tea once. A lifetime ago.

The guard returned my passport and wished us a goodnight, so Harry walked me towards the palace, now unaccompanied by any officers.

We didn’t go into the main building, however, like when I visited William and Catherine’s house, we went around it.

“So…” Harry started. “I don’t live in the main palace. I don’t got an apartment. It’s… small, my place. Really small. Two bedrooms! So, should be fine, but–”

“Is this--?” I stopped walking, my mind finally catching up to where I was and what I’d done. “Should I not have come? This is weird, right? I didn’t mean to barge in and--”

“No!”

“I’m sorry, I can get a hotel–”

“No, really– It’s fine!” He assured me. “I just wanted you to be prepared, because it’s not a… big, fancy place like my brother’s house, or my father’s house. It’s just… a cottage, really. It’s tiny. I live alone, so it’s quite good just for me–”

I sighed, feeling relieved. Now almost amused. “Agani, fellow royal. I live in a palace? I know how it works. It’s not all a palace.”

He smiled. “Yes… It’s just that people always seem to think it’s all very glamorous.”

The house was nice, it was, as he had mentioned, smaller than most, but it made up for it with that warm, comfortable look of a real home. The front door led into what seemed like one room, with sliding doors separating the smaller half – a kitchen with faded yellow cabinets that needed upgrading, but looked nice. The other half had a blue three-seat sofa and a matching armchair in front of a wooden chest of drawers in which was propped up a flat-screen TV – the only thing in the room that looked like he had actually purchased and not inherited, or maybe borrowed from the Royal Collection.

“It’s nice.” I told him in the silence. He was still watching me from the front door, which he’d just closed, my bag still hanging from his shoulder. “I like it.”

“Are you hungry?” He asked, with a smile, moving quickly into the kitchen. “We could order takeout. I like thai food, there’s a nice place not far from here. Or, I have stuff to make sandwiches, if you’d prefer– what?”

I was smiling at the way my bag would sway around as he moved quickly around his small table to reach the fridge, looking slightly frazzled. “Nothing.”

He smiled, too. “Or!” Excitedly, he walked over to the microwave and opened it, removing a small plate. “Ta-da!”

I approached, realizing he was holding a plate of the entrées from the wedding. “You stole the entrées?!” I laughed.

“I asked! Politely asked if I could have some of the leftovers. You were right, they were delicious.”

We laughed. “Scandalous!” I said, grabbing one and moving to the sofas. “I’m not that hungry, actually, but thanks.”

I sat on the larger sofa, realizing the room also had a small, marble-top coffee table on top of a Persian rug and a corner bookcase with picture frames. I got up to look at his books, realizing it was a mixture of books, CDs and DVDs, even some vinyls. My eyes were first caught by Jurassic Park, by Michael Crichton, 1984, by George Orwell and Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley. He also had Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury, Catch 22, by Joseph Heller, and The Complete Calvin and Hobbes collection, which made me smile. I pulled out an orange spine -- The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck, Mark Manson -- and he moved behind me, the only time I heard him since walking over.

"That was a gift." He explained, in a justification tone.

I smiled back at him, returning the book to its place and noticing a white one with large black letters next to it, Why I'm No Longer Talking to White People About Race, by Reni Eddo-Lodge, which had a summary that regarded it as 'the essential handbook for anyone who wants to understand race relations in Britain today.' I returned it to its place, smiling.

“So you like fantasy.” I concluded, when I found The Hobbit and at least two Harry Potters.

“More like sci-fi.” He replied. “I like The Hobbit, and I made an exception for Harry Potter, which is iconic.”

“I liked the movies.”

“You haven’t read the books?”

“Could never really get into it.” I shrugged.

He closed the distance between us, my bag still on his shoulders, and stared at me from up close, seriously.

“You didn’t like Harry Potter?!”

“What I said was I couldn’t get into it.” I repeated, fighting a grin.

“That’s what people say when they tried something and didn’t like it.”

“Well–” I reflected on the option. “You don’t have any evidence that’s an universal truth. Surely not that that’s how I meant it.”

“Okay, counselor,” he sighed, impatiently. A grin made its way into my lips. “Did you or did you not like reading Harry Potter?!”

“I believe I have a right against self-incrimination in Britain, I certainly do as a Savoy citizen, so I will be evoking that right at this moment.”

He took in a long breath, running a hand through his hair, “Wow.” He sighed, making me laugh. “Just… wow. I am… outraged. As a British man, as a human being–”

“Okay, calm down.” I laughed.

“Harry Potter is incredible!”

“It was just… really childish for me.”

“The first book was written for children! The tone changes as the books go along!”

“Yes, there’s like ten of them. It’s a lot.”

“Seven, and you went to Harvard! You can handle seven children’s books!” My bag fell off his shoulder at his exasperated arm movements, but he was quick to grab it by the handle before it hit the floor.

“And why are you still carrying that?”

“I just…” He shrugged, walking over to the armchair to put my bag there. “I imagine you’ll need it.”

He looked back at me, pulling his long sleeves up past his elbows.

“I--I imagine your protection detail will be ‘round shortly to collect you.”

I chuckled, nervously. “What–? Why? I told you, it’s just me tonight.”

“Yes, and you’re the next in line to the throne of a country. I can’t go anywhere without security, and I know my brother has at least two at all times, so I’m assuming you have at least one person looking for you out there by now.”

There was an awkward silence as I shifted on my feet, hands still in my coat pockets, mouth agape, searching for what to say. He didn’t look upset, and it wasn’t like I’d just committed a crime by omitting what happened, but it still felt as if I had done something incredibly wrong, and the more I looked at him, the more uncomfortable the thought of continuing to lie was.

“It’s–It’s… It’s not like they’ll rush in here screaming that you kidnapped me or something.” I said, nervously forcing a giggle at the thought. “I don’t even know if they’ve noticed I’ve gone yet.”

“Ah.” He nodded, slowly, sitting down on the larger sofa. “So you ran away when they weren’t looking.”

“They were asleep.” I corrected, feeling my whole body warm in embarrassment. “And I would object to the word ‘ran’, I very calmly walked off the train when it stopped in London. It’s not my fault they didn’t notice.”

“They were asleep?!” He asked, his voice going higher than I’d heard before.

“It’s a long journey… Especially from Northern England.”

“Well, it’s their job! That’s… that’s so unbelievably unsafe!”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” I raised my hands, in a placating gesture. “No harm done.”

“Well, you couldn’t have known that, could you?!” He asked, eyes widened. “But they sure should have, it’s their job! What if someone walked into the train and pointed a gun at you and forced you to leave?”

“What– I’m– I don’t even–” I sighed, frustrated. “Harry, I’m sorry, okay? Do you–? Would you like me to leave? I can get a hotel–”

“No!” He got to his feet. “I just–” He sighed. “I know how important security is, and… you… you’re a bigger target now, aren’t you? Your security profile must have changed since… you know.”

“I don’t.” I admitted. “They don’t really tell me much these days.”

I walked over, took off my coat, and sat down on the sofa. “Really, Harry, if this is a lot, I can get a place to stay, it’s no trouble.”

He walked over and sat next to me, laying his head back to rest atop the back of the sofa. “I don’t want you to leave.”

Relieved beyond understanding, I started to relax. So I sat back and laid my head next to his.

“So you didn’t miss the train.” He said, and seeing as it wasn't a question, I thought it would be best not to incriminate myself again.

“Marie? Did you?”

I looked at the ceiling. “Technically, I did. But I missed it because I got off.”

He let out a quiet, nasalized chuckle. “Why?”

I heaved a long sigh, and turned to look at him. “I don’t know… I just… I was in the train. And I couldn’t stop thinking about things. And I wanted to. And then we stopped in London. And I grabbed my bag and went to the bathroom, just to walk a little, to distract myself. But then I saw the doors opened. And my protection officers were asleep, so they didn’t even see me get up, so one second I was just fantasizing about how I could just… walk off, and the next I just… did.”

“I still think your security is incredibly irresponsible in this scenario.” He said, on a low tone, in which a hint of anger was only just noticeable.

“They have a right to sleep if we’re on a moving train.” I protested.

“What were you thinking about?” He asked.

“I just… I don’t know, okay? I just… The door was open and there was this colder breeze coming in, and I just… I just wanted to feel more of it. I don’t really understand it, either.”

“I actually mean… What were you thinking during the journey? That you said you didn’t want to think of anymore?”

“…Oh.” I looked back at the ceiling, biting my lower lip. “Everything, I guess. I just…”

I thought back to the train ride, the sound of the tracks, the dimmed lights as everyone seemed to either be asleep or blissfully entertained by their phones. To my heart, full of questions and… anger. I couldn’t tell him half of it.

“I just… I can’t–” I felt my voice break slightly as a knot found its way into my throat. “I can’t be in Savoy right now. I just… I don’t even– Sometimes it just feels like… Like–” I sat up, clearing my throat and turning to look at him, folding one leg to sit on top of it, facing him. 

He’d opened his house to me out of nowhere. I knew how chaotic this must look. He deserved some explanation. 

“It’s like they’re all playing a game and I’m the only one who wasn’t told the rules, but I’m still… part of it, you know? I’m the… I’m the game.” I said. “And I’m just… so tired of it.”

He was quiet, brows furrowed. He sighed… and then nodded.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll… I’ll go give security a call, and tell them if someone comes asking for you to say they haven’t seen you.”

My mouth opened, in astonishment, but I didn’t know what to say.

“And you… what do you want to do? Shower? Movie? Pizza? Sleep?”

I was still astonished, but I started to smile now. “A shower would be nice, I guess.”

“Great, let me show you to the bathroom and I’ll get you a towel.”

He got up, quickly grabbed my bag and smiled when he asked me to follow him. The guest bathroom was just around the corner from the living room, beyond the narrow, carpeted staircase up.

“This is the guest bath. You can use the one in my room, though, it’s better water pressure and you’ll be closer to the guest room.”

Upstairs, there was just a small hallway with three doors, one of which was a closet where he got me two towels. The one at the other end was his room.

The bed was made, but looked like it had been slept in recently. Another flat screen TV was mounted on the wall in front of it, with a paused Netflix movie displayed.

“Do you have pajamas, or–?.” He asked as he left my bag on the bathroom floor. “I can find you some of my clothes?”

I had a clean set of pajamas I’d brought to stay in the hotel overnight, but for some reason I smiled, sheepishly, and said, “That’d be great, thanks.”

“Sweatpants good? I’ll leave them in the bed. You can change here, I’ll wait downstairs.”

“Okay.” I smiled.

Inside, I got out of my travel clothes, brushed my hair down slowly, taking deep breaths, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. When I was done, I put my hair up in a tight bun, and finally looked at myself, but I couldn’t help but smile.

“You’re ridiculous.” I told mirror-Maggie.

As I showered, I tried to better answer the questions he had asked. I’d been thinking of Christopher, of his family ring, of why he would have decided to propose so soon after we got back together. I thought of why my father would say yes without consulting me. Of why my father would continually make decisions about my life without consulting me.

When I turned off the shower, I knew a couple of things for sure: I didn’t plan to run away. I just wanted to go to the bathroom on the train, to distract myself from my own thoughts. When I saw the door and realized that I could leave without my security seeing, all I wanted was to run. To feel… free. To be somewhere I wasn’t expected to give people the nice and polite answers they expected. For some reason, my heart decided this was that place. But this freedom also brought me guilt. What did that say for my relationship?

I wrapped myself in the towel and opened the bathroom door to find a pile of clothes in his bed. I brought them inside and got changed into a much too large for me black sweatpants and dark green shirt. Luckily – or maybe Harry had predicted this – the pants had drawstrings, so I could adjust them to my waist. I folded the bottom as best as I could.

When I did, my eyes fell on a bottle on the lower shelf of his cabinet. It was L’Occitane Cedrat Spray Deodorant. The name was familiar. I got up and realized there was another bottle on the shower caddie with the name – this one a shower gel. So I reached for the deodorant and sprayed a little of it in the air.

The smell almost knocked me to my feet. It was the smell Harry always had, the smell I remembered from London. The smell that brought me right back to an otherwise boring State Dinner, on a red dress, dancing barefoot in a room in Buckingham Palace where we weren’t supposed to be, his face leaning ever so much closer to mine, chills going down my spine, warming up my skin, getting on my tiptoes hoping to close the distance… before we were interrupted by my protection officer Joyce telling us it was time to go.

The smell took me back to flirty, happy texts planning a date. Running after Lourdes after she stole my phone. Waiting for a reply when Auguste and Montennon walked by with death on their faces… before everything changed.

I shook my head. I couldn’t add more things to the archive of stuff I had to think about.

Down the stairs, I found him in the kitchen. He bit down a grin when he saw me in his clothes. “Well, you look…”

“Ridiculous.” I smiled. “It’s a bit big.”

“No! You look cute.” He said, making me blush. “Security has been informed, by the way.”

“Right.” I sighed. “Thank you so much, Harry. I don’t think I said that yet.” He avoided my eyes, shrugging. “It’s not a problem. You’re always welcome here.”

“I know it’s... Weird… and I didn’t mean to interrupt your night.” I added. “I saw the TV on in your room.”

“Oh, I was just watching a movie. The new Transformers.” He told me. “It’s… not great. But in a good way? Does that make sense?” I smiled. “Kind of, yeah.” “Wanna watch it with me?” He asked. “I’d practically just started it. And it’s early-ish, still.”

“Sure.”

“Awesome.” He clapped his hands together and found a packet of popcorn in the kitchen cabinet.

A little while later, he handed me a bowl and a salt shaker. “Madame.”

I salted the popcorn as he walked around, grabbing napkins and a bag of M&M’s from a cabinet. “Chocolate or peanuts?” He asked. “And bear in mind, there is a right answer.”

“Dealer’s choice.” I returned.

“Coward.” He half-coughed, half-muttered, making me chuckle. “I have coke, orange juice, and beer.”

“Coke.”

“Right answer.” He nodded, approvingly, before turning to me with a slightly more serious expression. “I have… further questions.”

I pulled a chair and sat down, pushing the popcorn away. “Okay.”

“So… who knows– Did you tell Christop–” He sighed. “How many people know you’re here?”

I did the math in my head. “Five, or six, maybe?”

“Plus me and the security officers we walked by?”

“No, I– I mean you and the security officers.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“And the cab driver, but I don’t think he knew who I was.” He was quiet for a while, biting his lower lip. “Any other questions?”

He sighed. “Shouldn’t you tell someone?” At the way my face responded, he continued, quickly pulling up a chair and sitting next to me. “I mean, just that you’re okay, at least. They’ll think you were kidnapped!”

“If I turn on my phone they can track me.” I confessed. “All our phones are tracked by security headquarters.”

“Don’t you have a chip?” He asked, seeming genuinely surprised.

“Those tracking chips that go into your skin?” I asked, “No. The idea gets floated around every couple of years, but my siblings and I always hated it. And my mother thinks it’s too weird.” He nodded. “Do you have one?”

He smiled widely, teeth closed, and pointed at the right side of his jaw. “Just under this tooth here… But don’t tell anyone.”

I laughed. “Right, lesson one of anti-terrorism training. Your teachers would be very disappointed in you.”

He groaned, grinning. “Don’t remind me. Those guys are impressive, but they’re terrifying.”

“Do you ever get refresher training?”

“I think my last one was after my brother’s wedding, due to ‘increased media attention’.” He quoted, annoyed.

“Yeah, they made us take a refresher when Lourdes was born. It was awful.”

“Weren’t you, like, ten?!”

“Yes!” I confirmed, nodding enthusiastically. “That’s what made it awful!”

We chuckled, together.

He scratched his beard, looking at the ceiling. “God, we live weird lives.”

The TV in his room was bigger, so we took the popcorn, the cokes and the chocolate M&M’s – his favorite – upstairs where he started the movie from the beginning.

Admittedly, I didn’t pay as much attention as I should have, but I understood enough of it to know he was right: it wasn’t great. Great was the popcorn, the ice cold coke, and the chocolate M&M’s.

Eventually, though, my back started to hurt, so I slid down to lay on his pillows instead of sitting against the headboard, and my eyelids grew heavy, and the sound of explosions grew dimmer as I fell asleep. I shook myself awake a few minutes later, apologizing, but he only smiled and said, “It’s okay”, as he hesitated slightly, before reaching over and resting his hand by my head, brushing my hair so lightly I was asleep again in seconds.

When I woke up, the room was darker than before, the movie was over and the TV now displayed the long list of credits on a dark screen to a slow instrumental track. Harry nowhere to be found.

I heard steps from the hallway, and closed my eyes instinctively, just as I heard him come in. Slowly, I felt a warm blanket cover me, just at this moment realizing how chilly I had been a second before. I breathed in deeply, realizing how much his pillow smelled like him, and settled in to place to sleep again before I heard him step away. Opening my eyes, I realized he was leaving.

“Harry?”

He stopped at the door, and looked back. “Hey.” He whispered. “It’s okay, you go back to sleep. I’ll take the other room.”

“You should sleep in your own bed.” I said, forcing myself to sit up.

“It’s fine, Marie.” He smiled, approaching to gently tuck me back in, pulling the blanket up to my chest. “I promise, just go back to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He was almost leaving again, but my heart couldn’t take it.

“Harry?” I called, whispery, holding on tightly to two fistfulls of the blanket to stop from reaching out to hold his hand.

“Yes?”

I thought of his girlfriend, of my boyfriend, of the imaginary crown looming over my head, and yet, I couldn’t stop my lips from uttering, “Stay.”

He stared at me for one, two, three seconds before getting up. He walked around the bed and laid down, fluffing his pillows slightly as I stretched the blanket out to him.

We laid in silence, his warmth reaching over to me under the covers – or maybe my skin was just warmer than usual. I flipped over to lay on my stomach, hugging the pillow under me. When I did, my fingers hit something that felt like a needle. Carefully feeling it out, I realized it was a bobby pin. ‘This must be the side his girlfriend sleeps in when she’s over’, I thought, feeling suddenly sick to my stomach.

Turning to look at him, I breathed:

“Truth or dare?”

I heard his body move in the dark, and felt his knee brush against my leg as he turned to lay on his side, facing me.

“Truth.”

“Okay…” I held out the bobbi pin from under his pillow, pointing it at him. “Now, be honest… Do you curl your hair to sleep?”

His head raised from the pillow to look at what I was showing him, confused. “What–? Oh.” He smiled as I chuckled. “That’s–ha-ha, hilarious.”

He picked the bobby pin, and turned around to place it carefully in the bedside table next to him.

“Or does that belong to a lady-friend?”

He laughed. “A lady-friend?!”

“You never explained if you and Cressida broke up or not, so I wouldn’t want to speculate.”

“No, of course.” His tone was a mixture of sarcastic and teasing. “You’re just being respectful.”

There was a nice, quiet silence before I whispered, “You never answered the question.”

We laughed again. “No, Marie-Margueritte, I do not curl my hair before bed.”

“So how, pray tell, do you explain the evidence?”

“Objection, your honor,” he said, and I could still hear the giggle in his voice, “No follow-up questions, remember?”

I sighed, “Oh, right, that bullshit rule.”

“Enough stalling. Truth or dare?”

I smiled, sighing. “Truth.”

“…Do you think Clara could have done better than John? Be honest.”

I laughed. “You’re terrible.”

“Come on, we’re all thinking it.”

“Who’s ‘we’ in this scenario?”

“Every guest at their wedding.”

“You’re a terrible friend.” I giggled.

“Hey, I didn’t say that to him! I’m saying it to you, in confidence.” He justified, “And I can’t help but notice you’re avoiding the question.”

“Alright, fine. Admittedly, yes, she has dated guys I think were objectively better looking in a traditional way. But that’s not everything!”

“No!” He said, in an exaggerated way. “Of course not… that’s why your boyfriend looks like that.”

“What do you mean with ‘like that’?” I laughed.

“Oh, you know… the big, moussed up hair, the fancy suit, be honest, does he wear makeup?”

“Oh, my god!” I laughed. “You’re the worst. And you already asked your question. So, truth or dare?”

He sighed. “Truth.”

I considered for a long time what to ask. Long enough that he called out, “Marie?”

“I’m thinking.”

“Oh.”

Gulping, I tried to make the question sound as casual and playful as possible. “Who’s the mysterious owner of the bobby pin?”

“…oh.”

He was silent.

“Go on.” I laughed, nervously. “You must answer truthfully.”

“I–” He sighed. “It’s… It’s you.”

“I–” I startled. “What?”

He sighed, again, deeper now. “That day, my last day in Savoy. On the stairs. You were trying to remove your hat… I helped. I tried to give them back to you, but you– were distracted, I guess.”

“Oh…”

“Sorry.”

“No, don’t.” I turned around, laying in my side, facing him. “Harry, I’m the one who’s sorry… that day I was–I was acting completely insane.”

“Don’t apologize.” He asked. “You were going through so much–”

“Yes, but that doesn’t excuse hurting someone–”

“You didn’t hurt me.” He reached out, holding my hand in the space between us.

“I mean–”

“I know what you mean.” He assured me.

Breathless, I closed my fingers on his hold. I couldn’t know what he was thinking of, but I was thinking of the kiss. Or, more accurately, the almost-kiss. I could still feel his neck on my lips, his smell, right there on his pillow, had lived in my mind for the past five months. That‘s what I was apologizing for, but couldn’t say. I couldn’t speak of it. Speaking of it could lead to questions I had also been avoiding for five months like my life depended on it.

“Truth or dare?” He asked, without letting go of my hand.

Breathing in, deeply, and knowing I still wanted to talk about it, but it may not be the right time, I said, “Truth.”

Quietly, I felt his fingers brush mine, slowly.

“Why did you ask about my ex?” He asked, whispery, barely audible.

“…I…” I gulped. “I was curious… I guess– I guess it feels… sad? That we lost touch. I wanted to know what– you know, what you’ve been up to.”

He was quiet. I ventured a look past our hands, to his face, where I could almost see a smile on his lips.

His finger slowly traced mine. His next question came even lower than the first, as if scared to make it even a little bit more real than it had to be. “Were you jealous?”

I felt my heart jump on my chest. His soft touch on my hand, the guilty knot of anxiety in my stomach to be laying in bed with him, as platonically as it was… it all made it impossible to lie.

But I was a lawyer.

“No follow up questions, remember?”

A silent second. And then I heard his nasalized chuckle. “Wow…”

“Your rules.” I shrugged, painfully pulling my hand from his while I still could, and turning to the other side. “Goodnight, Harry.”

He let out another low, appreciative chuckle. “Goodnight, Mary.”

I fell asleep smiling as the name echoed in my thoughts: ‘Mary’.

--- ---- ---

[A/N: heeeeeeeeeeey. how ya’ll doin? I really wanna write something cute and funny here about the chapter or about how much I appreciate you reading but its 4 am on a monday and i spent all sunday working on overtime and i am exhausted so... just know I appreciate you A LOT seriously thank you so much for reading!!! let me know what you think???????? the end of this chapter made me smile when i wrote it and the next chapter made me cry so you have that to look forward to. THANKS BYEEE]

#Princeharryff #prince harry fanfic #prince harry fanfiction #princeharryfanfiction #Princeharryfanfic #prince harry #brf #modern royalty au #modern royalty fanfic #fanfiction #OPITCphff #chapters

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The Spirit(s) of Christmas - Part 1

Summary: It was your first Christmas at the Seaside Manor since you had inherited it. Whilst you were ready for some Christmas spirit, the ghosts haunting it weren’t as willing to celebrate.

Pairing: reader x Day6 (ft. previous OCs)

World: Spiritual Connection (masterlist HERE)

Genre: ghost au / romance / fluff / minor angst

Warnings: none

A/N: Welcome back to the Seaside Manor! I knew we couldn’t just leave the ghosts to celebrate by themselves - which apparently, they aren’t so keen to do anyway! So we had to return and see if we could bring in some festive cheer!

This story is part of a previously written world. It may make some sense, but to understand all the characters, I highly recommend reading all the previous parts and spinoffs in the masterlist first before reading this series! They can be found in the link above.

The Spirit(s) of Christmas will be shared daily at 10am from 2 December NZST.

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Christmas was right around the corner and yet you had never seen so many downcast expressions.

Okay, so both Jae and Becky were kind of cheery from being reunited after all this time. Still, there was no Christmas spirit in the Seaside Manor and you wished to change that immediately. Especially since you were surrounded by so many.

Spirits, that is.

“You do realise just how many years have passed by where we haven’t celebrated Christmas, right?” Sungjin told you, pulling a face that made you aware he was not going to be the cheerful type. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that it would be his first festive season without Pearl, your grandmother.

So you looked towards the one person you knew you could count on to be optimistic. Wonpil let out a heavy sigh. “I bet even if I stood under mistletoe with Sarah she wouldn’t know I was there.”

“Stop trying to kiss the help, she’s not like Y/N who can see us all,” Dowoon told the sulking man sitting beside the fire.

You groaned, wondering if it was really worth being able to see them all. You had a business to run and over the Christmas period, the manor was fully booked with guests staying right up until Christmas week itself. You knew you would have filled the days leading up to Christmas with guests had you been open to. But admittedly, you wanted to make it special for those who called the manor home – dead or alive.

However, it seemed like you were the only one looking forward to it.

“It’s not that we can’t see why you want to get the place all done up for the festive period, Y/N,” Brian stated, forever the diplomat. You looked at him warily, already slumping in your posture. You knew there was going to be a but.

And you didn’t want there to be one.

You wanted them to join you. Decorating the large manor would be a whole lot easier with their help, much like it had been when you had renovated it. And apart from the tree you wanted to put up in the living room, there wouldn’t be anything nearly as heavy to worry about like when you were fixing the broken down parts of your Grandmother’s home you had inherited.

Brian smiled at you, rubbing the upper parts of your arms encouragingly before continuing. “But just like with our birthdays, we long stopped celebrating Christmas.”

“Well maybe we need to change that too, birthdays are important.”

“I don’t even remember my birthday, do you?” Dowoon admitted sheepishly, looking around at the five men he had spent over one hundred and forty years in this manor house with. Wonpil shrugged as Sungjin laughed, shaking his head.

“Do you remember my birthday?” Becky asked Jae as she looked up from where she had snuggled into him on the couch, and the man loosely holding her nodded.

“Of course, how could I forget that?”

“Oh, so you remember my birthday but not what I looked like after all these years apart, huh?”

Jae chuckled awkwardly. “You didn’t even know your own name until I told you so you’re not one to talk.”

“Maybe that’s not my name, maybe you just gave me that!”

Dropping your shoulders away from Brian’s hands, you slipped out of his grip and headed for the attic in hopes the decorations would be up there. You knew he had followed you, and when he stepped in front to stop your departure, you shook your head firmly. “It’s fine, I’ll just decorate by myself.”

“You know I’ll help you.”

“But you have no interest in Christmas,” you pointed out glumly, and he let out a groan as you stepped around him. “I just wanted us to celebrate like a family this year, that’s all.”

“Family?” he repeated as you pulled on the lever to bring the stairs down to the attic. “How does a family celebrate for Christmas?”

“Surely you would have seen how my Grandmother and her family spent this time of the year when she was younger.”

Brian chuckled. “That was a very long time ago. Besides, she never bothered once you were born since she would travel to your house each year for that. The manor looked just as it does now.”

You frowned, surprised to know that. Brian was right; you had never experienced a single Christmas here. Whilst you spent all your summers playing hide and seek with your five friends, when it was the colder months, you had always anticipated the middle of December when your grandmother would arrive, presents in tow. You hadn’t thought about what she would leave behind or how the men haunting her family home would spend the end of the year either.

It made you further determined to show them the best Christmas ever.

You found a pitiful amount of winter décor in the attic, and it was much too musty to seem appropriate to place around your bed and breakfast. So when Sarah, your only employee, turned up the following morning, you smiled brightly at the woman. “How do you feel about Christmas decorations?”

“I was wondering when we’d be putting them up. Is today the day?!”

Grinning at her shared enthusiasm, you nodded, collecting your car keys and bag from the foyer. “Actually, we have none. Turns out my Grandmother never decorated for Christmas.”

“Well then, clean slate?”

“City trip?” you shot back and you both grinned at one another. It wasn’t just Sarah who came on the trip. It didn’t matter if you were going to the post office in the small township below or onto the closest city; Brian in the very least would accompany you. However, today Jae and Becky had decided to come on the outing, mostly because the newcomer to the manor had spent a lot of her time in the city until she wound up following a guest for a weekend escape to your manor. Despite being all too happy to have finally found where she lived years before her death, you could tell she was eager to see more bustle than the seaside township offered.

Sarah stopped you before heading into the Christmas store you had arrived at. “Can I catch up? I just realised there’s a shop just around the corner that I need to go to whilst we’re here. Is that okay?”

“Of course, I’ve got enough help with me,” you mused and then realised what you had said, cringing slightly. “I’ll see you when you’re ready to help me. Until then, I’ll just see what I can get done alone.”

“Nice one,” Jae commented as you started to push your shopping cart towards the entrance. You shot him a subtle smile, trying not to bring much attention to yourself. You had learned early on into your outings with any ghost that if you had headphones in and your phone out, any passer-by would think you were talking to someone on the phone. It was a well-formed habit of yours now and when you were set up, you glanced at the couple beside you.

“Where should we start? Tinsel? Wreaths? A tree?”

“You’re the one wanting all this, Y/N,” Jae replied with a shrug, rearranging his glasses on his nose before looking down at Becky.

She seemed lost in thought, her brows slowly weaving together.

“Should have brought Dowoon, at least he would choose colours for me,” you lamented, turning to push the cart down the first aisle. You might as well just see everything the store had to offer.

Twenty minutes later, Sarah had returned and you were actually getting things you needed. You had found a tree whilst she had been gone, in which she was still marvelling at how you had lifted it in by yourself. You didn’t have the heart to tell your friend that Jae had attempted to bring a smile to Becky’s face whilst flexing his non-existent muscles helping you.

Still, his ghostly babe, as he so affectionately referred to her as, was not even present any more, her steps slowing down, trailing through the winter wonderland section in a daze. It concerned you, but you had to keep up with the conversation with Sarah, who was none the wiser. Jae was either just as affected by her change in mood, or afflicted by his thoughts, growing increasingly quiet. Just as you were about to ask them what was wrong when Sarah went off to ask a store clerk for help, Becky stilled, looking up at Jae, tears welling in her eyes.

“I remember.”

“What?”

“Why we don’t like Christmas. Or least, why I don’t like it.” You watched the couple carefully, Becky’s attention turning to you as the first tear fell from her eyes. “We were supposed to get married then.”

When you arrived back at the manor, you feigned having a headache to Sarah and then grabbed Becky’s hand, leading her into your bedroom and shut the door quickly. The whole drive back had been sombre, even Sarah picking up on the mood in the car. And while there was not a lot of conversation happening, your mind had been processing faster than the car was moving.

The brunette looked at you curiously. “What is it, Y/N? I’m sorry I ruined your outing-”

“No, don’t be. But can I ask you something?” you cut in, waving your hands about dismissively. Becky eyed your quick movements, giving you a small yet cautious nod. “I know you and Jae were lovers when you were alive. And when the fire happened…”

Becky’s head fell and you sighed, changing your approach immediately.

“You spent the rest of your life working away from here, and were displaced upon death.”

“I stayed in the house I died in until accompanying the descendant who brought me here, yes. I don’t know why I couldn’t leave her, though I did try. All I know is when I woke up in the afterlife; I could talk freely, despite not talking ever again after losing Jae. Then again, I had only accomplished saying five words by that time.”

“Both you and Jae now believe you were meant to stay with that family line until you ended up here. You were meant to be together.”

She nodded with a small smile. “Even when were alive. He was the only person who didn’t see me as different or broken. And what was shattered had been slowly healing.”

“And you were going to get married that Christmas,” you added on, Becky chewing on her lip as she nodded again. You smiled warmly at her, throwing your hands up in the air. “Why not get married?!”

“Don’t be foolish, Y/N, how can a ghost get married?”

You reached for her hand and shook it eagerly. “Why can’t you? You love him, don’t you?”

“With every fibre of my existence.”

“And you were going to get married at Christmas when you were together. Which you are now!”

Becky was slowly warming to your idea, her eyes flashing with a sense of hope. “Do you think I could even be a bride?”

“The most beautiful bride this manor has ever seen!” you replied, now bouncing with joy. Becky started to smile.

“You know, it would be lovely to go ahead with what we had planned to do before I lost him.”

“And now that you have an afterlife together, you can be forever his bride.”

“Y/N, do you think maybe this Christmas we could hold a ceremony here?” she asked earnestly and you nodded immediately.

Seeing the woman before you begin to smile with excitement, you knew that there would be a swift change in the Christmas spirit around here.

_________________

Part 2

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[classysassy9791]

Ch. 1 l Ch. 2

Chapter 3 Word Count: 6,130 Can also be found here

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“How can I think of myself and what I want, when there’s so much more at stake?”

The thundering roar of the falls blocked out almost all senses as Miroku slowly regained consciousness. Water battered against his skin as he sat cross-legged beneath it in his white yukata, hands folded before him as he awakened from meditation. He could tell that he had been deep in the recesses of his mind, as it took far longer than usual to return to reality.

I wonder how late it’s gotten, he mused, sighing deeply.

Climbing to his feet, he carefully stepped over the slick stones and exited the falls. Violet eyes drew to the sun hanging at midday, causing him to question how long exactly he had spent meditating that morning. He honestly couldn’t recall when he had begun, time having been lost to him.

“Master Miroku!”

Turning, he found his old friend waving at him from the river bank. “Hachi! Good to see you!” he greeted the racoon demon as he waded through the river.

“As you,” he replied, bowing at the waist. “Mushin sent me to fetch for you.”

“Oh?” he raised his brows. “What could he want?”

“Beats me.” The pair began heading back toward the temple. “He was too busy drinking to explain.”

“Why does that not surprise me?”

After he had changed into his normal attire and had gathered his staff, Miroku sought out the old drunkard. The falls were not far from the temple, so the trek back didn’t take long. He climbed the stairs and, as expected, found his guardian lounging in the main doorway, a bottle of half-empty sake beside him.

“Miroku, my boy,” he greeted, a red flush to his cheeks. “Welcome back.”

“Hachi said you wanted to see me,” he replied, ignoring the pleasantries.

Mushin nodded with a smile. “Hm… yes, I did. There is someone here who wishes to speak with you.”

Puzzled, Miroku turned his gaze toward the other end of the room, noticing a person he’d failed to upon entering.

The man sat quietly, his jingasa pulled low to shield his eyes. Miroku was sure he had met the man before, but couldn’t quite put his finger on when or where, or even who he was, so he stepped closer to the silent visitor.

“Who are you?” he asked, perplexed, curling his hand tighter around his golden staff.

The man grinned, tilting his jingasa back. His eyes, which used to be deep violet had now faded to jaded mauve, studied Miroku closely. “What? You don’t recognize your own father?”

Miroku’s lips parted slightly with an expression of surprise. He hadn’t seen his father since he was a boy, as the elder monk traveled the countryside slaying demons and helping those who were less fortunate - or so the old man proclaimed. It wasn’t much of a shock that Miroku wouldn’t immediately recognize him after all these years. “Father,” he murmured, his shoulders relaxing at the familiarity. “It’s been a long time.”

He hummed his agreement. “Agreed. Far too long. I apologize for leaving you with my dear friend, but seeking out demons is no life for a young boy.”

Although he had never admitted it aloud, Miroku has felt a deep sense of betrayal all those years ago when his father had left. His mother had passed only a few moon cycles prior to his departure, leaving Miroku feeling abandoned. It had not been the smoothest childhood.

“Why have you returned?” He had attempted to keep his voice calm, but there was a biting tone to it, one that did not go undetected by the elder monk.

His father frowned, and then gestured for Miroku to sit before him, which he obliged. “Please,” he said. “I know I have made many mistakes as a father, and I promise to spend the rest of my days making it up to you, but I fear there are other matters to attend to.”

Miroku’s interest piqued, taking a mental note of the way his father rubbed his chest, almost as if by second nature - once a strange tic that had now become a habit. “And what matters are those?”

Turning to pour himself some sake, the elder monk sat quietly for a few minutes before diving into the reason behind his visit. “During my many travels, I fought a great many of demons. Unfortunately, this old body can no longer keep up with them. My knees have become weak, and my heart aches beneath my chest. Going into battle now would surely spell my death.”

His hand tightened into a fist. Although Miroku did not appreciate his father’s absence all those years, he didn’t want his father to die. “So…” he mused, studying his father’s posture. “Why not stand aside and let others fight in your place?”

He smiled. “Well, I’m glad you have become perceptive during my absence, as that is exactly what I intend to do.” Miroku suddenly had a sinking feeling why his father had come back. “I would like you to take my place, son.”

“I see.” Miroku pinched his brows together. “In all your travels, did you not find a more suitable apprentice?”

With a hoarse chuckle, his father shook his head. “My son is the only man I trust to fulfill this request. And someday, when you have children of your own, they too will step into the family business. After all, there will be no shortage of demons to vanquish.”

Traveling the countryside to slay demons had always been a goal of Miroku’s, more so on the happenstance he would someday run into his father, but Mushin was beginning to age, and he had feared the old drunk would die alone. It had been the only thing that kept him rooted to the temple and surrounding grounds. But now that his father had returned, those fears could be repressed for the time being. He had yet to forgive his father for abandoning him all those years ago, but he understood his father’s mission, and would like to honor the role his father wished him to inherit.

“I shall leave first thing in the morning,” he promised.

“Good.” His father took off his jingasa, revealing a head full of dark hair sprinkled with grey. “But for this evening, I wish us to drink and be merry. There is so much we need to catch up on.”

And as the afternoon was taken over by the darkening skies of twilight, Miroku made peace with the man who was practically a stranger to him. There was still so much he wished to understand, and questions he wanted answers to, but after a few rounds of sake, Miroku knew it would still be a long while before he received them. For now, he would mentally prepare himself for an indeterminate adventure.

…

It had been a full moon cycle since Miroku had begun traveling the countryside, slaying each demon he came across. All of his training he had received from Mushin paid off, and the other traveling monks he encountered were eager to assist his spiritual abilities to grow. For the first time in his life, Miroku felt strong, useful - much of which he had lacked during his childhood. He supposed a dead mother and an absentee father had partial blame with that.

However, there were still some tasks he couldn’t quite yet will himself to complete. Like killing a small demon child who was no threat to anyone. He supposed fox demons, with their trickery and joking behavior, couldn’t really hold up to the savage demon race he had sworn to destroy.

But even stranger still… the small fox demon he had allowed to live was following him. Miroku had known his presence only a few steps down the road after he had met the kit, but he was almost sure the fox demon thought he was being stealthy. After several days of this, Miroku finally stopped and turned to face the tree the fox demon was cowering on.

“How long do you plan to keep this up?” he inquired with an amused smile. “Surely you have family you need to return to.”

The fox demon slowly stepped out of his hiding spot, green eyes flashing with anger. “How’d you know I was here?”

“I could sense your demonic aura the moment you followed after me.” He folded his hands into the sleeves of his robes. “Perhaps instead of stalking me you could at least tell me your name.”

He puffed out his cheeks in annoyance. “Why should I tell a lowly human such as you what my name is?”

Miroku shrugged. “Suit yourself. You are free to accompany me, as long as you stay out of my way.” With a final glance, he turned back toward the path he had been traveling down.

“How come no one’s coming to rescue ME? I’ve still got my whole life ahead of me!”

As if by muscle memory and instinct, Miroku swung out his staff in the fox demon’s direction. The fox kit looked perplexed upon the branch of a tree, green eyes wide as he stared at the curious nature of the monk. They stood still for several moments, before Miroku finally returned his staff to his side. He had no idea what had provoked him to move in such a way, almost as if he was attempting to save the fox from falling out of the tree. His mind began to tick, his ears ringing with a voice he had long forgotten, and yet still felt so familiar.

He studied the young demon a moment longer, and then, “My name is Miroku.”

The fox demon swallowed thickly, a look of apprehension on his face. “Sh-Shippou,” he squeaked out, and Miroku could tell that what had just transpired did not go unnoticed by the kit. It had left them both baffled, but he was quick to hide how baffling it had been.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Miroku murmured, before once more turning forward and continuing to the next village.

The episode had left him wary, and he tried to ignore the fear and worry that had left him paralyzed. Miroku tried to recall the brief vision that had caused him to react in such a way, but it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared. He shook his head. Perhaps it was time to find a village in which to rest.

…

There were only a few times in his life in which Miroku felt himself cornered. He had slain many demons, even as a young protege under Mushin’s careful guidance. Each time, he had left with his life, his body only injured by superficial wounds that would heal within days. He had never really known the fear of death, as he had never encountered such an alarming emotion before. But now, as his wounds bled profusely beneath him, he had come to be terrified of the idea of no longer existing. Murmured prayers to Buddha fell from his lips, bargaining to keep his life as long as he continued to follow the faith.

“Come on, Miroku,” he heard Shippou say from beside them as they walked toward the towering wooden walls in the distance. Shippou’s voice sounded so far away, and the trail in front of them had a dizzying appearance.

Miroku grunted, holding his hand over his shoulder, deep red blood a stark contrast to his pale skin, as he leaned heavily into his staff. “I do believe… my time is near,” he murmured to the fox kit.

Shippou’s eyes filled with uncertainty and a touch of fear. Although he had no obligation to the monk before him, he had grown rather attached. Not for the first time in his life did Shippou wish he was stronger. Perhaps then he could carry Miroku to the village in the distance rather than helplessly encouraging him on.

“Don’t say that,” the fox kit begged, pulling on Miroku’s cloth in urgency. “We’re almost there.”

He gave a grim smile, knowing the chances of his survival - even if he made it to the village - were very slim. He had lost far too much blood and the wound was deep. Not to mention, he was sure one of the demons he had slain had been poisonous. With his body already fighting off the toxin, how could it fight off the blood loss, as well?

And yet, he didn’t have the heart to be truthful to the small fox kit, who had already lost his mother; Miroku had learned this during their time together. He couldn’t take away that inkling of optimism that he was going to be just fine.

“Okay,” he agreed with a small nod, sweat dripping down his temple.

Satisfied, although wary of his response, Shippou urged him ahead.

The sun had nearly set by the time Miroku and Shippou had reached the village with the large wooden walls. They didn’t even have a chance to announce themselves before guards posted along the top of the wall shouted out to them. Miroku didn’t even hear Shippou’s response before he lost consciousness.

When Miroku finally began to stir, his violet eyes fell on the inside of a house. He sat up slowly, wincing at the movement, and instinctively reaching for his wounded left shoulder. He miraculously found it bandaged and felt no trace of the nausea or dizziness his injuries had gifted him. Besides a few aches and pains, he felt relatively well.

The bamboo door swung open, and Shippou greeted him with a toothy grin. “Oh, you’re awake!”

“Shippou,” he murmured, attempting to recall where they were and how they had gotten there.

Noticing the monk’s perplexed expression, Shippou sat down beside him with a fresh cup of water. Miroku drank greedily, his thirst nearly unbearable. Once he had finished, Shippou began to explain what had happened after Miroku had succumbed to his injuries.

“We’re in the demon slayer village,” he started, an unease to his tone that was easily detected.

“I’ve only heard of them in legends,” Miroku mused. Considering he and Shippou were still alive meant that the village inhabitants must be kind. After all, Shippou was a demon who, by species alone, should be slain, and Miroku had come as a companion - a sympathizer was what most would label him as.

Shippou crossed his arms. “After I had explained the situation with all those demons we fought, they decided to help. They brought you into this house and gave you medical attention.”

“I see. They must have advanced healing properties to do this.” He gestured to his wound and mentioned the poison he was sure to have ingested.

Shrugging, the fox kit explained. “From what I gather, the demon slayers are masters of poison, so I’m not surprised they had some antidotes on hand.”

He couldn’t argue that logic. Even still… “Who is it that treated me?”

“One of the women of the village.”

Miroku raised a brow. So… a woman had taken time to dress his wounds and care for him. She must be a beauty. He attempted to hide his lecherous smile. “I’d like to meet this fair maiden and thank her properly for saving my life.”

Shippou narrowed his eyes, already picking up on his flirtatious tone. “Yeah, right,” he grumbled, before scampering out of the house and doing just as he was asked.

Once he was gone, Miroku winced at the pain still throbbing. He was not one to show weakness in the face of others, not even to Mushin or Hachi. Pain always made him feel crippled and he despised the fact that he had been so easily beaten. Yes, there had been a great number of demons that he had been up against, and he did manage to kill quite a few of them. However, he hated to admit the fact that if Shippou hadn’t used his illusionary magic so they could make their escape, Miroku would have been long dead.

He glanced down at the rosary beads wound around his right hand, a gift passed down from his grandfather to his father, and then to him. It was supposed to be infused with the ability to protect, and he silently thanked the heavens above for their unwavering guidance.

The bamboo cover was pushed aside once more, revealing a young woman no older than he. Her dark hair brushed against her lower back, and kind eyes studied him closely. “How are you feeling?” she asked, kneeling beside him and placing a cool hand to his forehead. “No fever. Seems as if the antidote worked.”

“So, you’re the one who dressed my wounds,” Miroku said as she pulled her hand away. “Tell me, did you beg to be the one, as my body is irresistible?”

A hot blush came to her cheeks. “E-Excuse me? Are you sure you’re a monk and not some imposter?”

He held up a hand in surrender. “Please, forgive me. It’s not often I am graced with the presence of such a beautiful woman.”

She narrowed her eyes, her expression filled with doubt. “You can save the compliments. As soon as you’re able, you will be leaving, and never speak of this village to anyone.”

All playful banter dissipated as he honed in on her last words. “Is this village a secret or something?”

A wealth of distrust in her eyes, she murmured, “Or something.”

He smiled. “You have my word.”

She moved to stand. “Stay put, you still need your rest. I’ll send Shippou to bring you some stew. By sunrise, you should be fit to travel.”

He nodded, not daring to disagree at the fire in her eyes. Although he had been terrified of death, he had a feeling her wrath may be worse. “As you wish. Although, I would love to know the name of the woman who saved my life.”

The woman paused, and then glanced over her shoulder. “Sango. My name is Sango.”

“Sango.” He loved the sound of her name as it rolled off his tongue. “I am in your debt.”

“You owe me nothing,” she replied, before disappearing into the light of day.

…

Sure enough, once the dawn crested over the horizon, Sango had come to fetch for Miroku. “How are you feeling?” she asked, more-so out of obligation rather than actual concern, he was sure.

“Much better. You did a wonderful job.” Her blush did not go unnoticed. “However, before we take our leave, I would appreciate speaking to the village headman, if I may.”

Sango studied him, before agreeing. “My father has been eager to speak to you, as well.”

Father? Miroku swallowed nervously, not having the best track record when it came to fathers of beautiful women. He was thankful his intentions this time were pure. “Lead the way.”

After dressing and collecting his staff, Miroku followed the demon slayer to the large house at the edge of the village. He ignored the strange looks he received from other villagers and the whispered gossip spoken behind covered hands. Shippou had taken his now-normal place upon his good shoulder, and Miroku could feel the slight shiver of the kit’s anxiety. He murmured a quick word of assurance, which seemed to calm Shippou slightly.

“I see you’re doing very well,” the headman greeted as he met them in front of his home. “I’m glad our healing abilities have not gone to waste.”

“Yes, all thanks to your daughter, I’m feeling much better.” He bowed politely at the waist, before the headman ushered him inside, Sango following close behind.

He held up a jar of sake, which Miroku politely obliged. “So, monk, may I ask what business you have near our village.”

The monk took a sip, feeling the burn down his throat, before calculating his response. “The injuries I sustained…”

“Were from demons,” the headman finished. “The young fox demon accompanying you explained.”

Miroku nodded. “I see. Well, then you are aware that I was unable to finish them off. I’m sure they’ve moved on to slaughter other villages.”

“Indeed. It was a concern for us as well. Our scouts have been trailing the demons for some time now. Unfortunately, it’s been many moons since we last heard from them, and I fear our comrades’ deaths.”

Next to her father, Sango clenched her hands into fists on her lap. Her gaze was hard, worry creasing her brows, and Miroku could tell the concern for her allies greatly bothered her. He turned his focus back to the headman. “Sir, I know it is a great task to ask of you, but perhaps you would allow a few of your people to accompany me? I plan to pursue these demons, as more lives could be lost if they are not slain.”

The headman pulled his lips into a hard line. “I appreciate your resolve, but I don’t believe sparing some of my best fighters-”

“I’ll go.”

Both men turned to stare at Sango, who had spoken up and glared at them intensely.

“Sango-” her father began.

“Let me go and investigate. At the very least, we offer our comrades the dignity of bringing them home.”

“I don’t mean to interject, but a woman can’t possibly assist in battle,” Miroku said, concerned. “A battlefield is no place for a beautiful woman such as you.”

Before he could say anymore, Sango had lunged to her feet and crossed the short distance between them, a blade settled against his throat in a threatening manner. “Do you question a woman’s abilities, believing them to be far inferior to a man’s?”

The headman smiled at the exchange, ignoring Miroku’s perplexed expression. “My daughter is one of the best fighters in the village,” he explained. “That’s quite enough, Sango.”

She waited another moment before removing the blade from Miroku’s neck. He rubbed it, attempting to ignore the panic that had risen in his chest. “Well, then…” he said, clearing his throat. “I apologize for my assumptions. I meant no offense.”

And quite frankly, I’m not yet ready to die…

Sango’s father turned to her, a silent exchange passing between them before he finally relented with a sigh. “I wish you wouldn’t go, but I suppose there is no stopping you. At least take Hirakotsu and Kirara. They will prove to be very useful should you come across these demons the monk speaks of.”

“Thank you, Father.” She bowed low at the waist. “I will not disappoint you.”

As she left to gather her supplies, Miroku finished pleasantries with the headman before exiting the main house. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Shippou finally spoke. Miroku didn’t blame him, as the exchange was rather… intense.

“No, I’m not,” he said honestly. “But it doesn’t appear as if we have a choice in the matter.”

They strolled through the village, Shippou’s gaze fixated on the groups of children playing in the street, while Miroku took special interest in the community itself. He hadn’t had the privilege earlier - between healing from his injuries and then meeting with the headman - and found that although the village didn’t appear different from others he had encountered along his travels, it still had components that set it aside from any other regular village. The roles of men and women remained (hard labor left to the men, while women cared for the homes and children), but demon-slaying weapons and training grounds spoke of a disciplined people.

When he came across Sango, she was speaking to a young boy. His dark hair and kind eyes were too familiar for him to be anything but related to her. She was whispering words of reassurance, even as the boy pleaded with her not to leave.

“Don’t worry,” Miroku said to the boy as he approached. “I’ll be there to protect her.”

The young boy gave a wavering smile. “I think she’ll be the one doing the protecting.”

Sango smiled down at him before turning her attention to Miroku. “This is my younger brother, Kohaku. He’s a bit of a worry wart sometimes.”

“Am not,” he grumbled in return.

Miroku chuckled at the siblings’ exchange. Although they shared looks, they had vastly different personalities. While Sango was headstrong and apparently refused to back down from a challenge, Kohaku seemed more reserved and timid.

“Be good for father,” she chastised gently as she ruffled Kohaku’s hair affectionately. “I’m sure I will be home in no time at all.”

His wary gaze spoke of doubt, but he smiled all the same. “Be careful, Sister.”

As they finished their farewells, Sango collected her things, including a large weapon strapped on her back which resembled a boomerang, and a small feline who perched upon her shoulder. Miroku had only heard legends of the demon slayer village, but as far as he knew, no one had ever stepped foot inside. Their fortified walls and guarded gate proved that entrance to the village was near impossible.

Which made him question: why all the secrecy, and what had they to gain from saving his life?

…

A deep sigh passed Miroku’s lips as he took refuge on a river bank, the last of the sunlight slipping behind the water’s horizon. He folded his legs beneath him as his fingers toyed with the blades of grass beside him. Miroku took pleasure in the cool air filling his lungs. It had been a long while since he had been gifted a moment of peace and he relished it. Their travels had taken them much farther than they had anticipated, and as the distance grew between Sango and her village, so did the strain on their group.

The demon slayer had not been an easy comrade to spend his days with. No matter how Miroku attempted to make pleasantries with the woman, Sango had always shut him down with a snide remark or a cool glare. He couldn’t fathom what he had done to incite her animosity toward his character, but he did what he could to keep her anger pacified. Even Shippou seemed to keep his distance from the slayer, instead befriending her feline, Kirara, and challenging Miroku’s abilities during their long treks between battles.

Miroku supposed Sango’s cold demeanor may have something to do with her upbringing, but since leaving her village, he hadn’t even seen her crack a smile. She was constantly on edge, her shoulders tense, her jaw tight. He wondered if she had ever allowed herself to savor the artistry of life outside of those wooden walls.

So lost in his thoughts, he didn’t hear the slayer approach until she was already sitting beside him. Miroku raised his brows in surprise. Although there remained still a great distance between them, she had made it clear very early on that she had no desire for his company. To her, their comradeship was a simple means to an end.

He peered over his shoulder, noting the kit and feline were sound asleep, curled up near the fire, and then turned his gaze back to her. Sango still wore a stony expression - brows drawn tight, dark eyes fixated on the soft ripples of the water caused by the gentle breeze in the air - and her arms encased her knees like a sheath of protection. He had become used to her standoffish behavior, but his inability to give up made him a glutton for punishment.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he inquired carefully, already preparing for her sharp retort.

Instead, he received a surprisingly pleasant response of, “No.”

It had been one simple word, but her tone of voice divulged a far deeper response. Sango’s voice didn’t carry her usual tenor of contempt. Instead it was soft and delightful to the ears. So… against his better judgement, Miroku braved the tense air between them. “Is something on your mind?”

Dark eyes slid toward him, a rare hint of curiosity glimmering just beneath her guarded gaze. Sango stared at him for a few moments before her attention slid to the beads wrapped around his wrist. “Is there a reason why you wear those?”

Her question caught Miroku off-guard. She had never spoken a kind word to him before, let alone shown interest in him, so his delayed response was awkward. “My grandfather.” He cleared his throat as he pulled his sleeve to allow the beads to glint in the moonlight. “They were passed down through my family, blessed to protect the person who wears them.”

Sango pursed her lips and nodded curtly before averting her gaze again. After their short exchange, however, her demeanor shifted. Her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly and the air around her became more comfortable and friendly.

Feeling bold, Miroku pressed on. “Your weapon… Hiraikotsu? What is it made of?”

The slayer clenched and unclenched her jaw before slowly replying with, “Purified demon bones.”

“I see. No wonder it’s so strong.”

Sango cocked her head, lips upturning ever so slightly in a smirk. “Perhaps it is not the weapon but the wielder who is strong.”

Miroku smiled easily, the tension he had felt in her presence beginning to melt away. He wasn’t sure what had transpired that made Sango so open that evening, or why she had bothered to seek his company, but he was grateful for it. Although they had journeyed together for a long time, it had been very lonely, and he was appreciative of the simple conversation.

“That indeed,” he replied with admiration in his tone.

Even with the darkening sky of twilight, her blush did not go unnoticed. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “You said those beads were passed down through your family. Does that mean your father is a monk as well?”

“Yes, he is. I saw him briefly before I began my travels. He had finally returned for the first time since I was a boy.”

“A boy?” she echoed, her brows shooting up in surprise, the first shameless emotion he had seen cross her features. “Why was he gone for so long?”

Miroku shrugged and explained to her how his grandfather had died purifying demons, and his father had vowed to do the same. It was only by luck his father had been able to return home alive, and thus Miroku had shouldered the mantle his family had carried.

Sango watched him carefully as he spoke, and as his story unfolded, he watched her relax. The tense wrinkle of her forehead became smooth, her arms unwound themselves from her knees, and gone was the guarded expression she wore like a shield.

“I see,” she murmured. “So you’ve never really known either of your parents.”

“No, but I like to believe Mushin raised me well - even if he is an old drunk.”

Sango laughed then - a completely unadulterated laugh - and Miroku thought he would fall over from sheer amazement. This woman who had only earlier that day been surly and quick-tempered now resembled a completely different person. Her laughter lit up her eyes and her entire body glowed with a giddiness he couldn’t remember enjoying.

“She laughs,” he said, not bothering to hide his enjoyment.

Her mirth quickly soured and she sent a cool glare his way, which he had become quite accustomed to. “Is that a problem?”

Miroku shook his head, not bothering to even watch his tongue. “Not at all. I’ve simply never seen you so carefree before. It’s a delightful change.”

Sango scrunched up her nose as she blushed. “I suppose it’s a learned behavior. I haven’t ever been away from the village for this long before,” she acknowledged quietly. “Forgive me. I mustn’t be very good company.”

Suddenly, Miroku felt a throbbing ache in his hand where the beads intertwined and he glanced down, clenching and unclenching his fist. An image then crossed his mind - of a woman crumpled over in pain, blood pooling beneath her, a vengeful cry - and he found his breath knocked from his chest.

“Miroku?” Sango’s voice broke through the fog in his mind and suddenly the pain was gone. Breathing quickly, he looked up at her concerned expression, not sure exactly what had transpired just a moment ago. Her brown eyes watched him carefully, her body turned toward him with apprehension, as she spoke again. “Are you all right?”

“I'm… I’m fine.” He smiled. “I’m glad you’re here.”

…

A final battle cry erupted across the clearing as blood splattered on the early morning grass. The demonic energy that had practically suffocated them dissipated, and Miroku finally fell to the ground with a heavy thud. He liked to think he had above average speed and stamina, but compared to Sango’s capabilities, he had much to improve.

She limped over to him on the other side of the battlefield, her slayer outfit splattered with demon guts as Kirara transformed back into her smaller state. The first time Miroku had witnessed the cat transformed, he nearly had a heart attack. It had taken them almost two moon cycles to track down the demons, crossing a vast array of lands, and he had learned very quickly just how capable Sango was when it came to fighting.

“You all right?” she asked as she kneeled beside him, eyes quickly glancing over him for any potential injuries.

He nodded, granting her a smile. “Thanks to you.”

She blushed under his praise while averting her gaze. “It was a team effort.”

Miroku had to admit, it had been hard for her to open up at first, but as their journey continued on, she had begun to give him some semblance of trust. He even learned why their village had been kept such a secret for so long - to avoid hoards of demons coming to take revenge for those that had been slaughtered by the slayers - and had given his word to keep its location safe. And as their trust grew, so did their fighting ability side-by-side. They battled in such perfect succession, it was like they were creating a beautiful dance together.

Shippou wandered out from the edge of the treeline. His abilities had not yet grown enough to assist them much, but he had managed to take out three of the demons by himself. “Is it over?”

“Yes, it’s over,” Sango assured. “For now, anyways. There will always be other demons to slay, but at least today we were victorious.”

“I do believe it is time to rest for a while,” Miroku said as he stood, holding out a hand to assist Sango to a standing, as well. She obliged and rose beside him, their hands lingering just a brief moment before she pulled away. “Why don’t we head to the nearest village and see if they have a room available for the night.”

Sango pursed her lips and surveyed their surroundings, attempting to pinpoint their location. “I believe there’s a village not far from here, but it’s not exactly… traditional.”

“What do you mean?” Shippou asked from his place upon Miroku’s shoulder.

The slayer folded her arms across her chest. “It’s been a rumor among my people that there is a village that is considered a sanctuary for half-demons.”

Miroku furrowed his brows. “Why would there be a sanctuary?”

“No idea. But we may as well see if the rumors are true.” She stepped behind the tree line to change out of her slayer’s outfit.

Shippou and Miroku exchanged a glance. Half-demons were very rare, considering the hatred between humans and demons. Miroku couldn’t say he had ever heard of one actually existing outside of hearsay, let alone seen one for himself, but he couldn’t deny that he was intrigued.

Once Sango had finished changing, they began their trek toward the mysterious village, even as the demonic aura grew stronger as they neared.

#inuyasha #inukag #mirsan #fanfiction #inuyasha fanfiction #kagome #miroku #sango #shippou #kirara #my fanfiction #sassy stays classy #tomorrow's destiny

[yandere-wishes]

Demon Tomura Shigaraki

When (Y/N) had first heard that she would be inheriting her great aunt's house she was overjoyed. Sure it was in a secluded woods outside of a small town, but to the young girl, it just seemed like a new adventure. (Y/N) had never personally known her great aunt outside of the occasion stories her grandmother would let slip. From what little (y/n) had heard, the old women had seemed rather... anomalous. Always running off to some abandoned church or spooky old woods in the dead of night. Mumbling what her grandmother had described as spells in an unknown tongue. And sometimes even rambling on about monsters and demons and the macabre in all its glory. (Y/N) was easily able to shrug off the women's odd habits as an adolescent phase. It was more so her death that seemed to intrigue the young women. About a two weeks ago in the early hours of dawn, her mother and she had been awoken by a call from (Y/N)'s grandmother, informing them that her sister had died under what doctor we're calling "mysterious" circumstances. She’d been discovered by the mailman, who had smelled something burning when he’d come to deliver the mail and had thought it best to investigate. Bizarrely the front door was open, yet inside showed no signs of a break in. When the young man had reached the elderly women’s room he was nauseated by the sight that awaited him. One half of her body had been burned so severely that it was unrecognizable. Parts of her nightgown had melted and dissolved into her now crispy blackened flesh. Her eye on the right side of her face was closed, the eyes lids covered in black ash. Her left side, on the other hand, was scratched so vigorously that blooded had leaked from the wounds and dripped onto the bed. her left eye was missing or at least it was until the mailmen took two steps in only to feel something squish beneath his shoes. When he’d look at the bottom of his shoe he noticed small red droplets. Upon looking at the ground he noticed a white, black and blue mush with red and blue veins lying about. More blood pooled around the compressed optic. The mailman had run out and informed the police immediately, they found him tucked in on himself crying and shaking. Four hours later (Y/N)’s grandmother had been notified and she had called her daughter and granddaughter seconds later. The police could not find any clues leading to a murderer and had thus dubbed it an open investigation. This all happened two weeks ago, and now (Y/N) found herself face to face with the alleged house of horrors. For a place that had withstood a horrific murder, it looked rather nice. It had a forest brown color, camouflaging it in with its scenery. The roof was pointed and a darker shade of brown than the rest of the house. The windows were large, yet covered by curtains preventing the new owner from getting a glimpse inside. Steedly (Y/N) made her way for the giant oak doors, slipping her silver key into the hole and turning it with a click the door unlocked and the (H/C) turned the doorknob opening the barrier between the forest and whatever lurked inside. Once inside (Y/N) looked around the house it was dusty and somewhat missed matched yet intact. In front of her, a wooden staircase leads up to the second floor, where (Y/N) guessed the rooms where located. A quick glimpse around and she found a hallway to her left that led to a spacious living room. To her right was yet another hall, this one thinner in width and shorter in length. It led to a dining area with a connected kitchen. (Y/N) made a quick mental note to empty out the fridge when she finished unpacking. Trudging her way up the old staircase suitcase in hand the young lady’s mind wandered back to what her grandmother had said about her great aunt. She desperately wanted to look around for evidence, maybe she could find out what had really happened that fateful night. Making a sharp turn the girl was greeted by four rooms huddled in a corner. She blinked then slowly opened to door closest to her, the wood creaked as she stepped inside. There was a large bed in the middle of the room, an old dresser with a mirror, a wooden closet, and a tiny nightstand. Opening the closet (Y/N) quickly deduced that this must have been her great aunt's bedroom. The clothes inside were all dark and dreary looking, noting you would expect an old woman to have. In the next room there where book selves all placed next to each other covering the three walls. “The library, Nana never said that her sister liked to read..” (Y/N) mumbled. Leaving the door open as a reminder to return later, she quickly headed for the next room. This one was large and didn’t seem to have had a previous occupant. “Perfect” she cheered. (Y/N) quickly started to unpack. Throwing her pajamas on the bed and grabbing some hangers from the closet, halve heartedly putting each clothing item on one and moving onto the next. She plugged her charger by the nightstand, deciding to give her mother a call tomorrow. Figuring it best to sleep now and commence with cleaning the house in the morning. By the time that (Y/N) had finished her chores the next day, it was already late in the afternoon. Putting off shopping for food and new modern furniture until the weekend just planning to outside at whatever fast food joint was closest. For now though (Y/N) decided to go and explore the library, maybe by some miracle it would reveal a clue or two about the old owner's death. Once inside the book filled room (Y/N) ran her fingers over the spines of each book. Shock and confusion overtaking her as she read each one. “Curses of the forest”, “The book of the dammed”, “Rites of hell” man Nana wasn’t kidding, her sister really was unhinged.” One book however made (Y/N)’s finger stop in place, she turned to the book that seemed much older than the rest. Gentilly plucking it from the shelf, she ran her hand over the cover removing the thick coat of dust that lay on it. “Decay” was the only word written on the title, the black ink almost seemed to slither about, each letter twisting and looping around the other. As the young girl flipped to the first-page eyes scanning the first word. She was suddenly pulled back, a strong hand grasping around her neck, slender fingers digging into her neck. “Hey, little girl that’s my book!” the voice was definitely masculine and seemed to have a childlike edge to it. Automatically (Y/N)’s hands flew up to the one assaulting her neck, scratching it and choking out pleas to be set free. Yet the man kept squeezing, tiny black circles danced in (Y/N)’s vision, multiplying by the minuted, one last choked out, unintelligible pleas and she went limp. When the (H/C) came to she gasped for air, greedily taking in as much as she could, inflating her lungs with more oxygen then they truly needed. Her fingers traced her neck searching for some reminder of the assault, for a moment she thought she must have hit her head and imagined the whole thing. But then her fingers reached a certain spot that was tender and hurt to be touched. Were these bruises? She quickly ran to her great aunt’s room looking into the dresser mirror, sure enough, there were four bruises on her neck where the fingers had grasped. there however seemed to be a missing one separating the second and fourth finger. Panicked the girl turned around to run out the door, only to be hit something solid the force pushed her back and she quickly elevated her gaze to stare at two blazing red eyes. Petrified the girl screamed, a loud piercing noise, that she hoped would carry out into the town. The intruder flinched and took a step back. And just like that, he disappeared. (Y/N) didn’t stop screaming until her throat was raw. What the hell had she just seen? The next few days where queer and unsettling, things in the house would mysteriously turn to dust, doors and windows would randomly open and shut, to top it all off a blood-curdling laugh seemed to ever be present. (Y/N) had tried to leave the house on multiple occasions only to end up pinned to a wall or be faced with a door that just wouldn’t open. A handful of days had passed and the limited amount of food that the girl had found in the basement was running dangerously short. Opening one of the remaining cans of beans (Y/N) made her way into the living room. Upon entry, her gaze automatically flickered to a man with light blue hair and grey horns sitting on the couch. Her grip on the can went limp and it fell to the ground with a “CLUNK” noise, spilling its contents on the floor. The man merely laughed the same blood-curdling laugh that had been circling the house. He slowly pushed himself from his resting place, trudging to where (Y/N)  was. Without hesitation (Y/N) fisted her hand and leaned in to punch the pale man. Faster then she could have thought he cough her punch with four fingers, straining his thumb out at an odd angle to avoid touching her fingers. “Who the hell are you!!” (Y/N) demanded. The pale thin man simply tilted his head. “Tomura Shigaraki” came his simple reply. “Thank you that was helpful but I was kind of hoping you’d explain why you're in my house!” (Y/N) yelled furiously. “Who said this was your house sweetheart? I’ve been haunting this place since my old plaything summed me here decades ago” Tomura explained annoyance evident in his tone. Plaything what did he mean by that and summon who would want this chapped psycho living with them. Reading the confusion on her face, Tomura began to explain “I’m a demon you idiot surprised you haven’t figured it out yet, man brains do not run in your family! The old hag summoned me some time ago when she was still young and fun to mess with. But well she grew old and I grew bored.” (Y/N)'s eyes widened “You killed her! You freak she was tortured how the hell can you be so cruel?!” Tomura’s shoulders slumped “You really are stupid aren’t you! Demon, women, I literally crawled out of hell. And hey the women’s been boarding me for years it was time I got something new to play with!” (Y/N)’s eye twitched ever so slightly “ Listen freak she wasn’t a plaything and I’m not a toy!! Also what kind of stupid demon is named Tomura?” The pale creature glared at the audacious girl. “Where you expecting something like Azazel or Malacoda!” He yelled. “Kind of” she replied. The demon began to shake in rage, within a split second he pinned (Y/N) to the ground. his knees jabbing into her thighs. His fingers wrapped around her wrists, middle finger hovering right above. “Toys aren't supposed to talk back you're supposed to do as I say!” (Y/N) struggled under the demon’s hold. Yet all he did in return was title his head and smile a nerve-wracking smile showing off his sharp fangs. “oppos don't struggle now I don’t want to denigrate my new dolly so soon”. (Y/N)’s eyes widen as tears pooled at the sides. She didn’t want to remain in this haunted house a second longer with this cruel, murderous demon. At that moment though her thoughts weren’t on how much she regretted coming here, how much she despised her great aunt or even how much time she had before he killed her. No all she was thinking about was the blazing red eyes that stared into her own eyes and how much terror they felt her with

#yandere #yandere bnha #yandere tomura shigaraki #yandere my hero academia #yandere boku no hero academia #shigaraki tomura #demon au #demon tomura shigaraki #dabi #toga himiko #yandere x reader #tomura x reader #shigaraki x reader #yandere shigaraki #yandere shigaraki x reader #yandere tomura x reader #demon tomura x reader #demon shigaraki x reader #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #bnha

[b-kitsune]

Many ways to say I love you: Day two.

Kidge-a-palooza 2019 Prompt: Diligence.  Pairing: Kidge (VLD) Universe: Canon (Season 4) Status: Part 2/7

It had been a long night for Keith in the training room, his legs weighed as he walked to the showers to get rid of somehow, the bad taste in his mouth that he had been having several months ago.

They hadn't heard from Lotor for a long time, which left him a little anxious that he was planning somewhere in the galaxy. Fighting against Zarcon had been simple in part, everyone knew what their targets were and knew where to attack at their weak points to defeat him. With Lotor, it was a mystery.

He grunted defeated as he let his knife, watching it for a moment and rest it on the table to undress. He hadn't heard from Kolivan in the last week either. Not that it would really bother him, Kolivan recognized his strengths and had been really interested in Keith helping him in the last missions with the blades, so he just needed a little patience to feel useful again in this war.

Before removing his jacket, he could see a basket full of clothes where the green color predominated, noticing at the end that one of the showers was heard activated in the interior area. Keith frowned in bewilderment, it was too late for someone to be awake in the castle, even for Pidge.

Had she been having some complications with the latest ship updates?

''Pidge, do you have much to finish?'' He shouted from the other side to alert his partner that he was there, without receiving any response. Maybe the water didn't allow her to hear him from outside the room. ''Pidge!''

Again nothing. Surely, she had gone to the showers in the far corner, Keith knew well that it was very difficult to hear something from outside in that place. So, the tactic changed to a word that would surely make her react.

''Hey, Shorty! Get out now!''

Keith smiled playfully as soon as he said it out loud. He knew that Pidge wasn't really happy when he bothered her with his height, but it was the easiest thing for him to get an immediate response, he was completely dirty with the perspiration of the training and didn't want to wait forever her thirty-minute showers.

Keith huffed tiredly when he realized she wasn't going to answer.

''Pidge, I need to bathe, could you hurry, please? Or at least answer that you hear me?''

The silence began to worry him, only the water of the shower could be heard to run without any indication that someone was inside. Maybe she had left leaving her clothes in the basket? He dismissed that possibility immediately, she wasn't a very open person to her personal space, even with Shiro and he used to have a pretty clear boundary and seeing between the pants part of her underwear gave him to understand that she was still inside.

Shame went around Keith's face when he thought about going in to see if everything was fine. Part of him was worried that she wouldn't answer his calls, but if it had only been an oversight on his part, it wasn't uncommon in Pidge, and Keith wouldn't leave the room without some bruising and the hatred of his current left arm for several days before his decision to interrupt her midnight bath.

While the minutes passed waiting for the door to open at some point, the restlessness increased inside. He could earn her hatred for the whole month if it was what she wanted, but he needed to know if she was okay. It wasn't normal for Pidge to be silent for long.

He entered with his arm over his eyes, in case he turned around and everything was in order and it had only been an oversight of his partner, Pidge wouldn't think that he was spying on her in the first instance. Of none of his teammates, even if Lance was sometimes a bit daring with his games. When the steam from the shower came out through the doors, Keith insisted.

''Pidge, I've been calling you for many minutes, are you okay?'' He waited for some negative reaction on his part before the intrusion of his privacy, but again there was only silence. ''Pidge?''

When he lowered his arm at the thought that the girl wasn't in the shower, the anguish hit him hard when he saw a body often unconscious on the tiles of the shower, and a trail of blood near her head slipped over the drain.

Keith ran to her leaving aside any trace of shame, replaced by worry and fright.

''Oh quiznak!''

   ''It's just a fever.'' Lance had placed a wet cloth on her forehead once he had discovered the cause of her fainting, causing a sigh of relief from all the members of the room. Keith, however, was still worried.

''Are you sure? And what if the blow to the head caused some trauma? You have to take it to the medical bay chamber as a precaution.''

''Keith, calm down.'' Shiro supported his arm on his shoulder to stop him.  ''Coran and I already reviewed the blow on her head, it was only a shallow cut surely when she fell unconscious. No need to worry.''

He turned his gaze to his mate, who made it difficult to breathe notoriously while being caressed by Lance to calm her discomfort, probably being a habit inherited by the care of his nephews. He nodded after a few seconds; it wasn't the first time someone got sick in the castle anyway.

But to see her so frail and weak, moaning in an unconscious state didn't give him heart any peace.

''I don't understand, what is it that makes this human fever? Pidge looks too agitated to be something so simple.'' Allura approached to touch the contour of her cheek, worried about her condition. Lance got up from the bed to give her space, smiling kindly.

''It is a defense mechanism of the human body, it increases its temperature to attack a possible virus, but that generates a lot of discomfort. Pidge has been somewhat agitated since she has had more information about her brother, she probably tried harder and ended up sick.''

''Oh, I understand, it's like klamüirl in a state of hibernation.'' Everyone nodded when they heard Coran, not understanding much what he was trying to say.

''Well, we'd better let her rest if we want her to recover soon, everyone goes back to their rooms.'' Shiro directed them to the exit with his hand so that they left quickly, being stopped by Lance.

''Wouldn't it be better if someone stayed with her? She still has too much fever and may suffer some nosebleed while sleeping.''

''Don't worry, I'll stay with her.''

Lance nodded, somewhat unsure of Pidge's condition, but Shiro was the best choice for her care, so made his way to his room as soon as Shiro closed the door. He stopped on the road when he saw that Keith wasn't moving, staring at Pidge's door, as if he could see through it.

He approached carefully, trying not to scare him.

''Hey mullet, it's everything all right?''

''Can she suffer a nosebleed?'' The fear in Keith's voice didn't go unnoticed. Lance just smiled sympathetically.

''Only if the fever keeps rising, but if Shiro is taking care of her, she'll probably be better tomorrow before breakfast.'' Keith folded his arms doubtfully at his words.

''When I found her ... I had already had a good time outside the showers waiting for her to respond. Maybe if I had been faster in realizing that something was wrong ...''

''Hey, hey. Where does that worry come from suddenly? Come on my man, it's Pidge! What could happen to her?'' Lance tried to cheer him up as soon as he saw where Keith's thoughts were going. He was trying to blame himself for not helping her before she lost consciousness. ''Maybe seeing her faint on the floor surprised you a little, I would have been in shock considering that she wasn't wearing anything when you took her out of the showers ...''

Lance looked at him out of the corner of his eye, seeing how Keith's face reddened slightly, Lance laughed internally to relax him, at least he had been considerate enough to put a towel on her before running to the control room with the poor girl in his arms.

Besides, he understood in part that Keith's concern wasn't just about having his sick partner. It was the castle's worst kept secret that both Keith and Pidge had been having a secret relationship in the first few months they had known each other, but that for some reason, they broke up when Shiro disappeared and Keith took over the black lion.

Now, seeing him with so much diligence about her condition made Lance feel that part of those feelings had only been buried by responsibilities. He could understand that.

''Nothing is going happen to her Keith; you only have to take care of her for a couple of days and see that she doesn't go back to overstressing herself. Sometimes she is usually excessively stubborn. Like you.''

''I think she has already beaten me.'' Both smiled more calmly than minutes ago. They were worried about their younger partner, and they could understand that it affected them. Lance circled his shoulders with his arm to guide him to their rooms. ''You're right, she'll be fine in the morning.''

''That's my buddy.'' While the environment went to one more relieved. Lance asked. ''Do you think when she knows you saw her naked, she could see you in the face?''

''Lance!''

   Her chest burned painfully when she tried to breathe great puffs of air through her mouth, her nose was constipated, which generated an extra discomfort in her entire trembling body. Slowly, the light made its way through her eyes, blinding her momentarily. The last thing she remembered, was the water running on her body, to remove the discomfort she was suffering for many days ago, but before turning off the tap everything darkened around her, and she felt a strong blow to her head that had made her lose consciousness almost immediately.

Now, Pidge was in her room, with the green pajamas and a cloth around her forehead surely to lower the temperature of her body. It felt good about her skin, although it had already warmed slightly.

With difficulty, she tried to stand up and reach the glass of water half empty in the table, to realize that by her side of the bed, Keith was sitting, sleeping soundly.

Pidge was in shock for a few moments before taking the glass in need, her throat felt dry. After a swallow, she left it in the place and looked back at her sleepy leader.

It was so unusual to see him sitting next to her what for a moment she thought that the fever was making her delirious.

It isn't as if she had a bad relationship with Keith, much of the time could be coordinated with him almost without verbal language, and cause of certain intimate encounters between them before the disappearance of Shiro had formed a strange relationship of dancing around the other without anything formal.

When Keith took command of the black lion, all that they got ended at a moment and they did prefer don’t talk about it. Thanks to that Pidge could bet that her closest relationship on the ship was with Shiro, or Hunk at least. Even Lance sometimes came to show some kindness to her when he wasn't busy acting like a jerk.

Keith was simply distant since he became the leader of Voltron and subsequently performed missions with BOM. They almost didn't talk while they had free time in the castle. She didn't take it personally, basically, it was the same as the entire crew. Except with Shiro ...

Now she could understand his care a little.

She watched when Keith jumped on the chair to awaken reluctantly, Pidge waited a few seconds with a smile on her lips when he stretched lazily. In moments like this, the Galra nature in his veins came to light, acting like a real domestic cat.

Keith smiled when he saw her straight on her bed, without excessive sweating and nightly fears. Pidge finally looks healthier.

''Good morning, Kitty rose.''

''Hey ...'' Keith made a face at the nickname she had given him since they found the red lion, taking the cloth he found on her lap to wet it again. ''Do you feel better?''

''Much better, thanks to you.''

''That is great. Hungry?''

''Not really, I'm just kind thirsty. My mouth feels dry yet.''

''Okay, I'll go get you some water.''

''You?'' Pidge commented funny. ''You don't have to do. How much time are you taking care of me?''

''Since ... That you fainted? Why?'' She looked surprised, didn't expect Keith was really confused by his words. ''Is it so strange that I worry about my partners?'' His voice had sounded more defensive than Pidge would have liked, had pissed him off a bit without meaning to.

''I didn't mean it, it’s just strange that you worry about me now. You know?'' Pidge said honestly, avoiding generating a misunderstanding, the last thing she needed after waking up was an unnecessary discussion.  ''You can tell Hunk or Lance to help me a little, you don't need to follow the orders from Shiro. I'm awake now.''

''Shiro didn't give me the order to take care of you, Pidge. I've done it voluntarily since I found you in the shower.''

The words were stuck in Pidge's mouth after that statement, which surely Keith didn't want to say aloud either since the red color on his cheeks could easily rival her own, at least Pidge could excuse herself that she still had some fever.

Keith had found her, naked, in the showers.

Keith had seen her.

A sharp pang came to her head as thoughts began to overwhelm her, worrying Keith and slightly pulling them out of the embarrassing situation. She still felt sick, so, with a wave of Keith's hand, she lay back on her bed again.

''You better keep resting, I'll tell Lance to come to take care of you so you feel more comfortable.''

She was silent for a few seconds, trying to resist growing pain in her body. Although she felt better, she was still sick. She looked at Keith again when he placed the cloth on her forehead, much colder before removing it.

''Thank you ... '' She whispered, with a weak smile on her lips, Keith mimicked the gesture. ''You know, for everything.''

''You don't need to thank me. And for your information, I really care for you Pidge, you're part of my family.''

Pidge snuggled sweetly into Keith's palm as a gesture of thanks, his touch felt good on her warm skin. And his words had touched her inside, for a long time she hadn't seen Keith's tender side. After a few seconds in comfortable silence, he spoke.

''Don't ever demand in that way again, I know you're worried about your brother, but you worried all of us when I found you unconscious.''

''How much time has passed?''

''About two days.'' Pidge moaned loudly, had lost two days of research. Keith perhaps guessed his thoughts when he laughed at her reaction. ''I'll go find you something to eat.'' She nodded softly, but before Keith closed the door, she caught his attention.

''Come back with more water, I'm still not fine, you know? I might need you to keep watching me.''

Pidge didn't know if seeing him laughing while he closed the door or the slight flush in his ears had made her feel, strangely, much better health.

Or maybe, it had been the thought that he would take care of her again.

#kidge #keithkogane #keith (voltron) #pidge #pidge gunderson #katieholt #voltron #voltronfanfic #kidgeapalooza2019 #monthofkidge #peith #takashi shirogane #lance mcclain

[marcythewerewolf]

Haline: Aarne-Thompson 870

A new project I’ve been working on is the Rare Fairytales. (I’m a sucker for mythical archetypes but the ones in the lovely CJ art are just a little too standard for my inner medievalist.) They’ll be labeled by either Aarne-Thompson number, or ballad categorization, so see if you can guess the story before you look it up! 

Once there was a princess, condemned to a terrible fate….

There are eyes everywhere, and every eye is on her.

The worst eyes are Not-Sebastian’s, dark and cold. She wants to fly at him, strike him, try to throttle him. But that didn’t work last time, so she restrains herself and flees back to her room with the books from the library.

Preparations are going more quickly now. Her imprisonment will be a gilded cage. The librarians allowed her to take five whole books, each a masterpiece of fine calligraphy and scribework.

There is a knock on her door, and then her mother’s voice. “Ah-Lien? May we come in?”

“Yes,” she replies, because she is a princess and it is wrong to refuse your queen (and presumably king). Besides, she doesn’t resent them, truly. They did the best with the situation she gave them.

The law would have allowed them to put her to death. Attempted murder of a relative is not a light matter. Her house arrest, in a perfectly nice border tower with plenty of food and apparently one whole servant, is a kindness.

Her mother and father enter. There is a maid with them, head covered in a dowdy cap, hands pale against a grey apron.

“Aline,” her father says, his voice soft with worry, “I am sorry.”

“It was not your fault,” she protests. “Just promise me you won’t be alone with him.”

Her mother’s lips thin. “Aline, he’s your cousin.”

It’s a fell magic he’s cast on the palace, this demon who wears her cousins skin. Even her sensible family cannot see the truth.

“Besides,” he father says, coming to sit with her on her bed, “We brought someone her to see you. This maidservant has volunteered to help you through your exile.”

The bowed head raises, and under the dull kerchief Aline sees familiar glimmering eyes, a face full of upturned swoops and sharp planes. Suddenly, all thought of the demon in the palace is gone. Her parents can manage, surely. After all, they have managed to bring her an angel.

Helen, her Helen, looks so different out of her woodland garb that she’s almost unrecognizable. Almost, but not quite.

“We’ll leave you two alone to get acquainted.” Jia says, reminding Aline that there are ears everywhere and eyes always watching.

Helen, fair as a winter’s dawn, curtseys. She does not quite have the hang of it, fey creature that she is.

“Princess,” the laughter in her voice is barely disguised.

Aline thinks that seven years may not be so torturous after all.

In the tower they are alone.

It is horrible and yet freeing. Aline was raised in a great court, surrounded by attendants and petitioners. Privacy is a luxury she is unused to and loneliness takes some adjustment.

Helen is her solace and her comfort. Helen’s is the only voice she hears.

“I would have come for you no matter what,” Helen whispers one night, a few weeks after they are locked away. “If your parents turned me away I would have fought my way to your window. I would have scaled the walls. I would have turned myself into a mouse and slipped through cracks in the masonry, I would have become a wisp of smoke and come down the chimney.”

“Does that mean you could get us out?” Aline half-jokes, and Helen considers it with some seriousness.

“No. I would have needed my mother’s help for all of those things, and she is not here. We’ll have to wait.”

“Seven years is a long time.”

Helen shrugs. “To a mortal, perhaps.”

There is a garden on the high rooftop. They are just far enough above the ground that it would be foolish to jump, but close enough that the climbing ivy vines still stretch to their window. Helen sings to them every night, trying to coax them to grow strong enough to bear the weight of a fully grown woman.

“I’ve never been much good at anything but warding magic,” she admits sheepishly as the ivy withers that first winter. “Useless to us now, isn’t it?”

“If we ever want to barricade ourselves in this fortress, you’ll be our first line of defense,” Aline jokes, and slings her arm through hers.

As the days grow cold and long, they huddle in the basement, where natural springs heat the foundations. Aline kisses Helen’s face, memorizes every freckle, and breathes hot air into her perfect mouth. Helen’s hands are always cold, but somehow she doesn’t mind when they burrow under her clothes.

The system is perfectly set up for complete isolation. Supplies come every three months- two in the cold half of the year. Aside from that they are alone. This is where her kingdom sends inconvenient heirs to die.

“They mean me to go mad,” Aline mutters. “Well, they think I’m already mad, but they want me to go madder. Then he’ll have won, the monster.”

“Stay sane, darling,” Helen whispers, mouth close to her ear, “Stay with me. Inherit, banish him to the furthest corners of the earth.”

It would have been so much better if she didn’t try to strangle the monster wearing her cousin’s face, but it’s useless to refight old battles when the new one is not yet won.

Two years pass. They learn their books by heart, and then make up their own. Helen tells every story of Faerie she can remember (they are a culture of songs) and then more, stories where beautiful princesses and daughters of the forest triumph over evil and save the day. They sleep for weeks, tangled in each others arms, until Aline is almost certain their dreams are one. 

It sounds mad, but then again she is dating an elf-child.

It takes them a month to realize the supplies are late, and then another month to decide that help truly isn’t coming. By then it is late autumn and the last of their garden is running out. They have some late beans, dry bread, salted meat, and little else.

“What did you say,” Aline whispers, “About becoming a mouse?”

It’s not magic that gets them out in the end, it’s a bedsheet and hope. They clamber down, one after the other, on fine linen that threatens to rip at any minute.

Helen carries their supplies in a makeshift satchel on her back. In her hand is a dull dinner knife. Aline makes sure to grab the books. Such things are valuable. The librarian back home will want them back.

They walk home on back roads only elfkind know. It’s quiet. Aline sees her first new trees in two and a half years.

“We should see your city when we exit the woods here,” Helen tells her, after hours of adoring silence. But as they leave the treeline, the only thing on the horizon is ruin.

Her home is gone, her father and mother’s hall razed. The librarian monk is slaughtered in his library, the ashes of precious books all around him.

The monster, Aline thinks, and then, I should have torn his throat out when I had a chance.

“My mother is strange,” Helen warns as they come closer to the land of her people. “She does not necessarily approve of you either.”

Aline does not answer.

“I think we’ll have to go about this in a clever way,” Helen continues. “They all respect guile. There is an artistry to being a trickster-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Aline hisses, and pulls away. “My family is dead.”

Helen kneels and clasps her hands. “My love, I know. You are grieving. Let me take the weight off your shoulders. Let me be your family, let me wrap you in safety.”

Again, Aline pulls away. “No. Go back to your woods and your magic. Without you, I would have fought for my parents. I would have gone back eventually. I could have faced that demon and at the very least I could have died with them.”

“Darling, my light, my shining star,” Helen’s lovely face is torn with sorrow, fragile as gold leaf, able to be broken with a touch.

“Go home,” Aline insists, the third time, because three is enough to compel anyone of faerie blood. “You took two years and my parents from me, isn’t that enough?”

Sobbing, Helen leaves.

It isn’t until that night, as Aline sits on the empty plain in front of her burnt out home, alone for the first time in years, that she realizes what a mistake she’s made. By then she can’t find Helen anywhere.

It takes her three months to track down the entrance to Fairyland. But she is canny and unafraid, no longer a princess but an adventurer with only one goal in mind.

The fair folk do not often admit mortals into their court, but Aline begs and pleads and shows off all the wonderful things she learned how to cook for Helen during their imprisonment (faerie palates being quite delicate and hard to cater to) and she’s eventually given a job as a mid-ranking chef in the court of the Faerie Queene.

The work is hard, but gratifying. She is surrounded by people, both of the normal, person kind, and of other inclinations entirely. There are spirits of air and fire, shapeshifters, lovely gentry, and lowly brownies. It’s overwhelming to hear voices other than Helen’s and to know that someone might tap her on the shoulder when she’s already in the middle of a conversation but she adjusts. Besides, others in the Queen’s company have far stranger habits than a bit of jumpiness.

It takes time to hear word of Helen. A young half-faerie girl, even the daughter of a fairly high ranking lady, is not often the subject of gossip when there are gods and monsters to talk about.

When she does hear word it is heartbreaking.

“They say Nerissa’s daughter is to marry,” a woodland nymph stage whispers, as she stands too close to the great hearth. The flowers in her tail start to blacken and sizzle. Aline absentmindedly instructs someone to start preparing the fire protocol. “Some princess from far away.”

Aline slices root vegetables with the fury of a vengeful god.

“Who?”

“No one knows. She comes from far away, and they say no one even knows her face. You know the Wild Fae. Belphoebe, they call her. She is a huntress of great skill.”

The turnips go into the pot and Aline begins to come up with a plan so reckless it can only be defined as self-destructive.

The Lords and Ladies take engagements seriously. But if Helen is to be believed, they also have a soft spot for tricksters in their hearts.

“I am the Lady Belphoebe, come to your court of pomp and plenty,” Aline growls from behind her mask. The alliteration is a good touch. The fair folk loved alliteration. “Come to fetch my bride.”

Much to her surprise, she is let in.

It is two weeks before the wedding is set to take place, but Aline blusters her way through with excuses about the flow of time in the wilds of Fairyland, and that seems to satisfy the courtiers.

“We can speed up preparations,” one says, “I’ll speak to Lady Nerissa at once. In the meantime, Your Swiftness, may I take you to your room?”

It’s a well appointed space, far better than a cook’s room. It does not remind Aline of her room at home, which was full of soft brocade and heavy embroidered tapestries. This is more airy, more bright, the colors more saturated.

Everything screams with life in this land, even things that should not be living. Sometimes it seems even the walls move.

She waits for hours, not daring to change a thing about her disguise.

Eventually a servant comes to take her to Lady Nerissa, Helen’s mysterious mother who Aline has only heard stories of. She is a sorceress of great power, apparently, and she mourns a love lost long ago.

The receiving room looks like the inside of a clam shell, pearlescent and rounded. In a driftwood chair sits a fair woman who can only be Nerissa. On pillows next to her are three young people, one a boy who looks so much like Helen that Aline nearly stops in her tracks, the other two a faerie boy and human girl.

“Belphoebe,” Nerissa sighs, “At last, someone to fix my daughter’s broken heart. She is much in need of love, and you are known for your devotion. Come, the wedding is set up in the great hall.”

“Already?” Aline blurts. Her mind is still recovering from the comment about Helen’s broken heart (how dare she hurt such a wonderful person so).

Nerissa looks puzzled. “But of course.”

There is nothing to do but follow her through the winding halls. Suddenly Aline’s heavy velvet cloak feels cheap. She has not brought engagement gifts or tokens of faith. She is not a princess anymore, what can she possibly give Helen?

When they reach the great hall all is quiet. Unfortunately it is the hush of many people being reverentially still. The place is packed.

At the very end of the long room stands Helen, resplendent in gold and ivory. She’s biting her lip nervously. The gnawing only increases when she sees Aline.

Oh, my love, I’m sorry, Aline thinks, but Nerissa’s hand is on the small of her back, guiding her forward.

The ceremony is quick. They both stumble over the words as they exchange rings wrought of gold.

There is a feast afterwards. They don’t look at each other.

Then they are pushed together into their new room and told to get to know one another and Aline’s nerve breaks. She knows this part of the castle, has delivered meals here once or twice. She knows how to escape.

“I’m- I’m sorry,” she says. “I just wanted to see you again. I didn’t mean for it to end up like this.”

Helen’s eyes widen. “What do you mean? Who-”

Aline makes a run for the servants door.

In the twisting back hallways, she escapes. She sheds her cape and mask and hunting boots, the accoutrements of a fine lady. She makes for the kitchens, but can’t bring herself to face anyone quite yet. Instead she finds a little alcove- one of many in this mazelike place- and sobs.

The ring is heavy and gold on her finger. Part of her wants to take it off and throw it at the wall but the other part can’t help but remember the warmth of Helen’s hands as she slid it on.

There are footsteps nearby.

“My love?” comes Helen’s voice, and then she’s bearing down on Aline and Aline can’t help but fling herself into her arms. “You came back for me,” Helen whispers. “You wanted me back?”

“Always.”

For a while they rock back and forth in each other’s arms.

“How are we going to deal with your real fiance?”

“We’ll figure it out. Then we’ll kill whatever monster hurt your parents and win your kingdom back and live happily ever after.”

Aline hums. “You make a good argument. How did you even find me? It’s a labyrinth back here.”

The known weight of Helen’s chin settles on her shoulder. “I saw a glow,” she says as if that explains it. The Land Under Hill truly is strange.

“I don’t want to go back to the tower, but I want you back.” Aline mumbles, feeling compelled to speak.

Helen pulls away but doesn’t let go of her hands. “Let’s go back to our room. It’s not the tower, but it’ll do.”

Once there was a princess, condemned to a terrible fate, rescued by a princess of the elves. In her pride and anger she rejected this help, but quickly regretted her swift judgement. She devised a plan to win the elven princess back. In time they lived happily ever after.

(“You know, mother, you could have just told them about one another,” Mark commented, turning a letter opener in his hands. “The fake engagement was a bit excessive. And I think it traumatized Helen a little.”

Nerissa smiled, “It’s much more romantic this way, dear one. Besides, Belphoebe owed me a favor and I wanted to cash in before the next century.”)

#heline #haline #helen blackthorn #aline penhallow #the shadowhunters chronicles #Nerissa #m writes #fanfiction #maid maleen is gay and shannon hale was too cowardly to go all the way

[vesperlionheart]

The Barn 8

[part1][part2][part3][part4][Part5][Part6] [Part7] 

Their original outfits were almost too perfect for blending in with all the eccentric personalities that insisted on attending in period dress, and Madara was only too happy to return to his earlier things. Konan offered to as well, but Sakura said she had something set aside for the pair of them.

Gaara’s clothing was a bit torn and in messy tatters, but he said he would be find in the clothes she had bought for him earlier; loose jeans and a tucked in red and blue flannel long sleeve. Sakura insisted on running her fingers through his hair and messing it up just enough to make him look the right sort of disheveled.

“And you, come here for a sec,” Sakura said, turning to Konan.

She led the older woman to her corner of the bedroom where a pair of wardrobes helped separate the sleeping place from the library nook in the closest corner. Inside one of the older wardrobes Sakura pulled out a long dress.

“I of course found these in the Barn when I was looking for something else. I thought they were originals at first, but they’re just imitations. All the same, I think they’re perfect for the situation. Which one would you like to try on?”

Konan reached forward and peeled the two masses of fabric apart to see their designs more clearly. They were both dresses in the same style with slightly different colors. The skirts were long and full, one maroon and the other green.

Konan fingered the maroon one and smiled up at Sakura. “These look a little nicer than the ones in the photos.”

“Of course,” Sakura sighed. “Mito was an Uzumaki after all. Most cosplayers will dress up as dowdy pilgrims but the Uzumaki always made a point to dress up the ‘wealthy settlers’ that could afford pretty colors.”

“No aprons and bonnets?” Konan teased.

“And no coifs, those are the inside bonnets the working ladies wore. No, Uzumaki would rather be caught dead than caught in an apron or coifs, and in that I think we have some common ground.”  

Sakura pulled at the green dress and held up one of the sleeves. At the elbow it started to flare out and dissolve into spider like eggshell colored lace that matched the collar. Once upon a time the lace had been white, but there was too much time in the designs to be a color so young.

“You don’t hate your family.”

Sakura blinked and looked up at Konan, seeing that the older woman had already pulled up the dress and pressed it to her body to admire the cut. When Konan looked up Sakura was already watching her.

Sakura didn’t know how to respond other than with an awkward, “Oh, really?”

Konan smiled knowingly.

“You’re more afraid than hateful. You were exceedingly kind with Karin, and that’s not because of pity. Naruto and his twin are the same, I bet. You don’t want to fight them less because you think you will lose, and more because fighting isn’t something you want between blood.”

“Is there a person alive that came into the world wanting to hate their family?” Sakura asked, voice low with hesitation.

Konan shrugged and stepped away to unfold the rice paper screen and close both Sakura and her in so that the boys outside wouldn’t be able to see. Konan shed the nightshirt and stepped into the dress with her back to Sakura, so Sakura did the same.

Konan asked for help tying the dress closed first, but after Sakura helped Konan turned around to tug Sakura’s waistcoat closed. Konan’s fingers were soft, pushing the hair aside and out of the way before lacing the last few places and tugging the parts of the dress closed.

“Turn around, let me see,” Konan said, tugging Sakura back to be looked over.

Konan nodded in satisfaction after a quick check  before fussing with the lace around Sakura’s neck. It was crumbled until Konan took the care to make it smooth. She then moved back to fold up the rice screen, huffing at how she had to kicked at the folds of her dress to move freely.

“It’s cumbersome, isn’t it?” Sakura asked.

“It’s probably the only reason men were able to catch wives back then, because they were too encumbered to run away and look for something better,” Konan joked. She looked back over her shoulder at Sakura and winked.

Sakura felt her cheeks warm and ducked her face in time to miss the way Madara was glaring across the room at Konan while Gaara read what was left of the newspaper articles.

“The rest of us were done ten minutes ago,” huffed Madara.

“And we’re still not done unless you think this hair is ready for the outside world,” Sakura easily answered, blush gone.

“You look fine to me,” Gaara said, looking up from the newspaper.

Konan laughed, chuckling at the way Sakura flustered anew. Madara glared at the redhead and then back at Konan. He stood and crossed the room to Sakura, tugging on her hands and leading her back to the couch where he sat her down and turned her head away.

“What are you going to do?” Sakura asked, leaning into his hands like it was a habit.

“A milkmaid braid, don’t worry, it’s something simple. Konan, get me that comb from the bathroom. I need some help sorting out these parts.”  

Madara clicked his tongue at a messy tangle before massaging her scalp. She felt the cold of the plastic comb and moments later Madara was weaving her hair up and over and up and over until it started to take on a new shape.

“I don’t have enough hair for him to braid, incase you were wondering,” Konan said when she caught Sakura staring. “My hair will be fine.”

“I wouldn’t help you with your hair even if you asked me,” Madara grumbled. There was a pair of bobby pins trapped between his teeth that muffled some of his words. “Don’t distract my artwork.”

Konan rolled her eyes dramatically.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been pampered this much,” Sakura sighed, melting under Madara’s fingers. She had grown to love his hair braiding and how it always relaxed her in addition to dressing her up. “I’m glad I didn’t cut my hair again.”

“It’s nice to have long hair,” Madara agreed. He shot Konan a pointed look over the crown of Sakura’s head before going back to his work. “It’s one of the reasons I keep mine as long as it is, conventions be damned.”

“Trust an Uchiha to be so vain.” Konan shook her head with a look close to pity in her eyes.

“Jealous?” Madara talented.

Konan didn’t respond, but moved to sit alongside Gaara and whisper to him about the pictures in the paper he was still looking at.

Madara chuckled to himself and then doubled his deadications to his handiwork. He twisted the last bit of Sakura’s hair in on itself before spearing it with another couple of bobby pins. With gentle fingers, he turned her face to the side and shifted to perch on the couch in front of her. He reached for the comb once more to tease the hair around her face out and then sweep it away from her eyes.

“Pretty enough to paint,” he breathed in appreciation.

Sakura’s eyes flickered to the empty easel where her ruined painting had hung before the whole mess with witches and magic ever stirred up. It was still empty and no sign of the long lost sea landscape remained.

“I wouldn't know. I only painted landscapes,” she finally said, meeting his eyes before the silence could stretch too long. “And I don’t paint anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Why would I?” She countered with a careless roll of her shoulders. “No one has the time for it.”

He reached for her ruined hand, or maybe it was just the closest one to him, and held it softly. He didn’t say anything, just watched her. A moment later she felt the force of his magic probing, seeping into her hand to draw out her own.

Sakura jerked her hand away suddenly and stood. “We’re all set here, so we should get going before we miss too much,” she said. She couldn’t help the odd pitch in her voice that made her words seem rushed.

Gaara looked up from the newspaper and held aloft her chain of keys, shaking it once to get her attention before tossing them her way.

Sakura caught them out of the air and turned, skirts swirling with her as she headed towards the door. Behind her, the others picked themselves out to follow her to the car.

Gaara was the first one there and had slid into the front passenger’s seat before any of the others could realize what that meant, but Sakura never said anything more than, ‘get in’ to them once. So, Konan and Madara spared each other a nasty smile and climbed into the back seats.

“Will there be those star drinks there?” Gaara asked in an eager whisper once the car engine came on at the turn of her keys.

His excitement made Sakura’s smile soft. “There will be plenty of sweets and treats for you all to try and enjoy, not just Starbucks. And it’s not good for you to be drinking that every day, it’s okay to take a break in between.”

Madara reached up from behind and flicked Gaara on the back of his ear. “We will be fine on our own without draining your resources any more than we already have. I, at least, now have a social security card and some other papers that Karin said I could use to apply towards a job. I don’t like that Kakuzu fellow, but I might use him to find employment if we are to remain within your good graces.”

There were words in her throat that sounded like, ‘don’t worry about it,’ but came out sounding more like, ‘ah.’ Sakura wanted to not have to talk to Kakuzu again and experience the agitation his presence incurred, but she also wanted to be able to pay the utility bills and her student loans.

She made a comfortable salary, but only just barely. It was comfortable for her and maybe one dependent, not three.And then if they liberated Kisame and the other one, Zabuza, it would become five dependents that ate like horses. Even with the house inherited, it would be painful having to take on more dependents.

She wasn’t born into wealth like the main family. She was only imitating it with knock off handbags and discount lipstick. Naruto and Menma would never have to worry about where their bread came from, but Sakura remembered a time not too long ago when bread was a luxury. It was one of the reasons she enjoyed fancy specialty drinks so much, because things like those had been far beyond her reach for years, while being on the corner of every street. Something so small and insignificant was the grain of rice that would tip the scale into financial red.

“We can discuss matters like that later,” Konan said, staring out the window. “For now let’s take responsibility for our friends and at least make sure they’re safe.”

Sakura made a note of agreement and switched on her blinker before merging into the far right lane and following it off the Main Street towards where she knew overflow parking would be. The downtown area was bustling and busy and she wasn’t in the mood to be stuck in a car searching for a parking spot closer to the bulk of the festivities, so she found one safely at the edges and told the others it would be a short walk.

It clashed with the outfit, but Sakura slipped on a pair of aviator shades to keep her from wincing at the sun. Madara was the only other one that accepted her offer for shades, sporting a near identical pair that, arguably, looked much better on his face than hers. He was already getting stares and they weren't even out of the parking lot.

Sakura thought that Konan and Gaara were both beautiful and attractive in their own unique ways, but Madara was something people would gawk at. He was just a little bit too extra to be normal, and that made people stare. And it didn’t hurt that he smiled rakishly at anyone he caught looking his way, meeting their eyes until they blushed and broke eye contact to skitter away; both men and women.

Konan reached for Sakura’s arm and folded it over hers, following close to her side. Gaara was quick to tag along in Sakura’s shadow, but his hands were stuffed into the pockets of his jeans and his shoulders slouched along with the rest of his body.

The closer they got to the park where the nexus of the celebration pulsated, more and more men and women in traditional costume were spotted. Sakura could pick out the locals as well as the tourists. There were some people in period dress, but it was the completely wrong period or it followed the fashions of a different country. Some knew this and didn’t care, some didn’t and were just happy to be out any enjoying their time.

“I can smell pie,” Sakura finally said, inhaling deeply and almost tasting the apple and pumpkin and cherry. It made her salivate and have to swallow. “I’m sure there are carnal apples around here too.”

“I don’t know what those are exactly, but I want some,” Gaara admitted. He stepped up to draw even with Sakura as they stepped under the shade of a curved tree mostly gold colored. The sunlight made some of the leaves seem to glow.

Someone nearby was playing on banjo and someone was getting upset at him for that. A family with children in blue jeans and homemade bonnets ran through the park laughing. A couple of friends cried out, having spotted each other finally. The crows begged for food in caws and cries.

Sakura had to stop and feel the world around her to believe it. How many years had it been since she last went to a celebration like this. It had been five or six years, she wanted to say. College classes and then her job teaching those same college classes all seemed so much smaller in her memory. She couldn’t remember why she hadn’t come back to this, even thought the logic left in her brain reminded her about the money and the exhaustion and that half dozen other jobs she had needed to work to survive as well as she had.

What a shame. It was lovely under the red and gold leaves watching the world step back into another time and place to celebrate like a community. She felt something prick her heart when she saw children begging their parents for the funny bubble drink that made other adults laugh Over their own home brews. Vendors were selling local honey and wears straight from their gardens.

“Sakura?”

Konan called out to her and Sakura blinked before staring up at the much taller woman. They were still hand in hand but Gaara was closer than before, reaching for the long detail of lace trailing out from Sakura’s flared sleeves. Sakura glanced to both and saw they were both looking at her with the same expression.

“You looked like you were going to float away,” Gaara murmured, touching the skin of her elbow once before his hand dropped back to the lace. It had felt almost like he had been checking to see she was still truly there.

“I’m fine, it’s just been a while since I’ve been to this sort of thing and I was trying to remember why I stopped coming. It’s so nice here, like from childhood. I used to come here when I was much younger with my mom and dad and beg for all the different games and treats.”

Sakura rolled her shoulders in something close to a shrug and felt herself fill up once again. She fit back in her body once more. Things were right in her bones.

“Are there games where you think we’ll find those boys?” Konan asked, looking up over the heads of those close by. Out of the three of them she was the tallest.

“We can walk around a little more and see. Speaking of finding people, where did Madara go?” Sakura asked.

Gaara and Konan turned around to look behind them and both made sounds of disappointment or displeasure when no sign of Madara presented itself.

“Good riddance, I say,” muttered Konan. “We can do without him. Lead us around, Sakura.”

So Sakura did.

And she didn’t know if it was because she was lucky or because she was unlucky, but it wasn’t long before she saw someone from the family, and it wasn’t much longer after that she heard the boyish laugh that never seemed to grow up drifting over the heads of others from booths on the other side of the park.

Sakura turned and saw across a crowd of thinly populated people to where Naruto stood, cowing another boy that looked just like him into trying the booth. A safari style shoot out with a play shotgun set up in pairs for four different sets of competitors.

She was crossing the lawn, stepping off the path and into the grass, before she knew what she was doing. Konan and Gaara followed faithfully, noticing the change in her posture.   

Twenty yards away and she could feel the casual magic clouding around Naruto’s self as he turned his attention back to the game. It had begun again and he was using a dead eye to take down what he could of the pop up tin animals. Every shot sounded off like the animal’s deathcry.

Menma wasn’t as fast but every shot hit, all the same.

Sakura was behind them as the game ended with a shrill bell ring and their totals came up in digital red numbers. Player 1: 185 points. Player 2:250 points.

“How did I lose to you?” Naruto whined. I hit so many more than you did!”

Menma grinned at his twin over the side of his shotgun. “You didn’t chose your targets well enough. Monkeys are worth more than elephants.”

“But both stink when they’re dead.”

Both boys turned when they heard the sound of her voice. Recognition was clear for the both of them and Sakura could see the reflection of her face in both set of cruel ocean blue eyes. The effect was like being pinned on a cork board among a dozen other butterflies, insects, and oddities.

Then Naruto smiled and Sakura knew she really was trapped.

#the barn #barn #Naruto #Menma #Konan #Madara #Gaara #Sakura #witch Sakura #Sakura is a witch #WitchSakura

[takemeawaytocamelot]

Red Jamie and the White Lady AU - Part 1

Well, this is the random plot bunny I had earlier today. I really have NO idea where this is going. I’m really intrigued by it though, so we’ll all have to wait and see I suppose. Tell me if you think I should continue on with this or just let it die. Not sure how many parts it should/will have. 

I don’t think I’ve ever written anything with Geillis in it before, so I’m not sure how well it works. Let me know what y’all think!!

Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp was a practical woman - belief in fairy tales, knights in shining armor, and love everlasting just didn’t have a place in her life. Geillis Duncan, her best friend and roommate, was the complete opposite. Claire often wondered to herself how they’d become friends, with so little in common.

“I don’t believe you,” Geillis said one night, tossing her thick, blonde hair over one shoulder.

“It doesn’t matter if you believe me. That has no bearing on the truth.”

Geillis’ green eyes rolled hard and she finished her glass of whiskey.

“How can you not believe in true love?”

“Because it doesn’t exist! Love is just a chemical reaction between two people who find each other visually appealing. Nothing more.”

“You mean to tell me,” Geillis said, sitting forward in her seat. “That you don’t believe your parents didn’t love each other?”

The blood drained from Claire’s naturally pale face.

“That was low and you know it.”

“Just because it still hurts doesn’t mean you should avoid it. They loved each other, didn’t they?”

“I wouldn’t know. I was too young when they both died. You know that, Geillis. Why would you bring it up?”

Her best friend, and often best source of irritation, stared at her curiously.

“There’s something about you, Claire. Always has been. Like you belong somewhere else.”

Claire grabbed Geillis’ bottle of her favorite whiskey and looked at it dramatically.

“Exactly how much was in this when you started drinking?”

“I’m not drunk! But I believe you are the product of true love, and that’s a rare thing. EVEN IF,” she said loudly to interrupt Claire’s protest. “You don’t believe in it, I do. And true love is the most powerful magic in the universe.”

With a sigh, she put the cap back on the whiskey and took her empty glass to the kitchen. They’d had this discussion before, at least a hundred times. But Claire was a practical woman. True love wasn’t practical or useful.

A small part of her, and she’d never admit this to Geillis, also believed no man had yet been worthy of her love - had she any to give. Even the one she was currently seeing was a calculated choice, not an infatuation. Frank was smart, had a successful career as a university professor, and had a good future. Herself newly finished with her medical training, she saw a comfortable future with Frank. Perhaps a child or two, once they got married. He was the practical choice, a good match of intellect and physical attraction. What else was there to look for in a man?

“You talk like you’ve felt this elusive true love before.”

“And what if I have?” Geillis asked from the depths of her room. “Would that change anything for you?”

“I can count on one fist the number of men you’ve loved, Geillis Duncan. We’ve been friends far too long for you to get away with that.”

Geillis returned to the front room dressed in her favorite baggy shirt and trousers, ready for their weekly film date.

“You cannot!”

Claire held up a fist and tried to count her fingers.

“That’s… None. Geillis, you’ve never been in love with anyone.”

“That is not true! I fall in love all the time! I LOVE love!”

“Nooo,” Claire said slowly, walking down to her own room. “You fall in lust. You bring him home, shag the hell out of him, and send him packing before the sheets have cooled.”

As she, too, dressed in her sleeping outfit, she heard Geillis snort.

“Just because I fall in love all the time doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.”

“I long for the day,” Claire said, emerging as Geillis put a DVD into the player. “When you finally meet the man you’re just meant to be with. We’ll see what you say then.”

Those too-green eyes lit and glinted at her.

“You said when. Not if. When. As if you believe it could happen…”

“It could happen to you, perhaps. Not to me. I don’t have any use for those sorts of things.”

Geillis hit play on the DVD remote, but turned to face Claire on their small couch.

“What if I could prove it.”

“Hush, Geillis. The film is starting.”

After making a sound of irritation, she paused the movie and waited for Claire to look at her.

“So? What if I could prove it?”

“You can’t.”

“But if I could?”

Claire shrugged, at a loss. She had no idea what it was Geillis was getting at.

“What if you could? What do you want?”

“I want you to fall in love. That reckless, all-consuming passion. You can’t expect me to believe that beanpole you’re seeing is a good lover.”

Claire’s face, always too easy to read and too pale, flushed deep red. Geillis smiled, smelling victory.

“I’ll have you know Frank is an excellent lover. NOT that it’s any of your business.”

“Would you leave Frank if you knew there was something better out there, waiting for you? If I could prove to you that true love does exist?”

With a sigh, Claire knew they’d never get this movie properly started while Geillis was fixated on something.

“If, and that’s a very BIG if, you could prove to me, without a doubt, that true love exists and I have some bloody soul mate waiting for me out there, yes. I’d leave Frank.”

A triumphant smile came to Geillis’ lips and she settled back in her seat, smug. There was no way in hell Claire would leave Frank, though. But she knew Geillis well enough by now to know that the only way to get her to stop was to give her what she wanted.

“Good. Because we’ve an appointment with a powerful psychic tomorrow.”

Claire barely contained her moan of irritation. This wouldn’t be the first time, or the last, that Geillis had dragged her to some psychic’s shop to have her palms read. The only benefit from those trips came in the form of Geillis paying for both their sessions and taking her out to lunch after.

“Besides,” Geillis said, hitting ‘play’ on the remote again. “It’s not as if Frank’s even proposed yet.”

***

Grudgingly, Claire followed her crazy best friend into a very ordinary looking shop. There were no signs or posters anywhere advertizing it as a psychic’s place of business. It didn’t really look like a shop at all, really. Claire was beginning to wonder if Geillis had set her up on a blind date. Again.

“Geillis, if you’ve-”

She stopped suddenly when she saw a large figure looming in a doorway.

“Morning, ladies. I take it you’re my first appointments?”

“Yes,” Geillis said, popping up from nowhere. “We are. I’m-”

“Please,” his deep, strong voice came. “Don’t tell me anything. It taints the reading.”

He stepped out from the shadows and Claire looked up to meet his eyes. They were a curious shade of blue, seemingly shifting in hue as she looked at them. The hair on his head was short and bright red, with a hint of a curl at the very tips. His eyes narrowed as he looked her over.

“I’ll see you first,” he announced abruptly.

Claire was about to protest and insist that Geillis had the first appointment, but he didn’t wait for her to agree. Instead, he turned and strode off into a back room, clearly expecting Claire to follow.

“Geillis you owe me,” she hissed as she rushed after him.

“Tell me everything!” Geillis called back.

The room was nothing like she expected. No crystal balls on a red velvet tablecloth, no candles or incense burning, no dim lighting or macabre art on the walls. It was quite simply, a plain sitting room. A small table had a teapot and settings for two, biscuits, and two large, comfortable looking chairs.

“Would you like some tea, Miss Beauchamp?”

Her mouth fell open, staring up at him.

“Did-”

“No,” he interrupted. “Geillis didn’t tell me anything about you. I’m not even the one that makes appointments.”

“So what are-”

She cut herself off when he offered her a cup of tea.

“You think I’m a fraud.”

Hiding her face behind the elegant cup, she tried to come up with an answer.

“That wasn’t a question, Miss Beauchamp, but a statement of fact.”

“Oh.”

“Not your first time visiting a psychic then?”

Claire’s eyes rolled.

“No.”

She was in the habit of giving out as little information as possible. That was how the others had worked, sucking information out of you until they could lie enough to convince you to believe it.

“I’m Jamie Fraser. When you’ve finished with your tea, I’ll read the leaves.”

“No crystal balls or seance?”

He shot her a wicked grin and shook his head.

“Well we’re not here to call up the dead, are we? I was given to understand you’re looking for your soulmate.”

Yet again, her mouth fell open.

“I… How did-”

“I’m very good at reading people, Miss Beauchamp. And you are quite an easy read, more so than most.”

“How in the hell do you always know what I’m about to say?!”

“Everything you think is written across your face, plain as day. As for the other things, well… Let’s just call it a family trait. My sister also has the Sight, though not as strong as mine. Her children will likely not inherit the gift, though it could still happen. How about we take a look at those leaves, hm?”

Handing the cup over, Claire fell silent and waited. Jamie got up and pulled an old book from a table in one corner, flipping through it for reference. His brows drew down in puzzlement.

“So tell me, oh seer. Am I to meet a tall, dark stranger and go on an adventure?”

“I’ve never seen leaves like this before,” he said absently, still staring at the table. “No’ in my whole life.”

She blinked in shock at the slip of an accent. Was he not an Englishman?

“I’d like to read your palm, if you don’t mind,” he said, sitting up suddenly. “It’ll be a part of your appointment. Won’t charge extra.”

“Oh, um… Alright?”

Holding her hands out, palm up, she offered them to him. He leaned over them, tracing the lines in her skin.

“This is quite unusual indeed.”

“What is?”

“I’ve never seen a lifeline forked like this. As if you’ve a big choice to make. Neither will lead to destruction, but one is clearly the better of the other.”

“Which one? What sort of choice?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer those. But I can see you’ve a strong will. Always a good thing in a woman.”

His large fingers still traced her hand, warm against hers.

“Miss Beauchamp, would you mind returning later in the week for another reading? I’ve a few things I’d like to research and ask some experts about. You’re quite a mystery and I’d like to get to the bottom of it.”

“I don’t think-”

“Please?”

Meeting those unusually blue eyes, she watched them shift and change.

“Al-alright.”

“Thank you. I’m afraid I’ve taken up yours and Geillis’ appointments and my next client will be here soon.”

Claire sighed.

“Something tells me Geillis won’t mind.”

“Have a lovely day, Miss Beauchamp.”

***

As soon as the women had left the house, Jamie slipped to the back and went up the stairs. He lived on the floor above where he met clients. Most were what anyone would expect, people seeking to remove the veil of mystery from the future. Few came looking for real answers and fewer still came and didn’t believe any of it.

But this Claire Beauchamp… He was sure they’d never met before, and yet he knew her. Knew her face, the way her tawny eyes evaluated the words he spoke. Somewhere in his mind, he knew the taste of her full lips, knew the feel of her body beneath his. He knew the sounds she made in the throes of passion, or her grunt of irritation when something didn’t work the way she hoped.

There was no other appointment after Geillis and Claire, that had been a lie. But he needed to check something, just to be sure. Throwing open the door to his library, he went straight for a shelf he’d scarcely looked at in five years.

Each leatherbound book had a date on the side. They were his dream journals, or the dreams he was sure had been visions. He hadn’t had a dream like that in some time, not since his father’s passing, but he had a niggling feeling.

Closing his eyes, he opened the book and began turning the pages without looking. He suddenly stopped, feeling that he’d reached the right place. When he looked down, his heart began to beat erratically.

Sketched on one entire page was the woman he’d just met with. Her gaze was piercing, even in a sketch, and he felt as if she was looking right at him. The dark, curling hair was wild around her, not fully contained on the page. Her lips curved with the hint of a smile, like she knew something he didn’t.

Hastily, he turned the page. Only a short passage was written on the back.

I must find her. I have dreamt of her every night for a month, in flashes. I do not know her, but I know she is my very soul. She is the only person I might love. For the White Lady born of True Love could be the only match for Red Jamie. I. Must. Find. Her.

Continue to Part Two

#red jamie and the white lady au #outlander #outlander fanfic #takemeawaytocamelot #jamie x claire #also featuring: geillis duncan #part one

[grieg]

The Artist, The Pessimist, And The Peach.

(it’s gay, read for the gay)

Mo really hadn’t been listening. She was tired of Hamilton. So, so tired “No, see, cause if Burr -” “Ok, Charlie, as much as I respect your views and your music taste, I couldn’t give an actual living shit about Hamilton, I just really don’t care that much.” Charlie pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed in mock aggravation. “Well, if you can’t try to understand me,” She turned away from her friend and dramatically covered her eyes with the back of her hand. I'll have to elope with my giant Hamilton book, leaving my family to drown in their miserable Hamilton-less lives .” “Fine by me, just tell your dad I’m not paying for a divorce.” Mo aimed her voice louder to the back of the school bus at Tim, the resident ‘father’. “Um, sweaty, check your privileges. You’re not the one who’s having to debt his way through high school. I can’t fucking pay for a Friends boxed set, let alone a lawyer,” called the response. Charlie broke into giggles at that and Mo joined her shortly. “Ugh, why can’t you just try to like it,” Charlie pouted and ran her hand through her short blonde hair. “Charl, I’ve tried so many times. Like, you won’t let me spend a second not trying.” Mo turned to face the window, watching the buckets of rain speed down the glass. “Alrighty then,” Charlie rolled her eyes “just trying to save your Hamilton deprived, fall out boy infested soul."  and Mo flipped her off and grinned. "I’m next stop, anything you want to tell me before I depart?” Charlie stood as the bus approached her street. “Only that I despise you, I hope you get really wet in the rain and get the plague and die, and I inherit all your snapbacks,” Mo replied. Charlie jostled her way to the doors and jumped off the bus before the stairs had even began to lower. “Love you too mom! Also you can’t get plague from hypothermia!” She heard the shout before the doors closed and the bus shuddered back into motion. Tim staggered up to the now emptied seat next to her and plopped himself down, arm snaking around her shoulders. “How are you Mojoba my moba joba?” Mo gently lifted his arm over her head and placed it back in his lap. “You know me, terrific as usual. Also please don’t call me that ” “Hah. Yes, of course you are,” He batted back her sarcasm. “How are you Timothy Pearl? How is your day going? What did you do to survive today?” “Oh I’m just gay thank you. I’ve had two power bars, a can of Harvey’s extra spicy root beer, an orange, and three five-foot-long fruit roll ups so I’ve had a fabulous dining experience to boost my spirits.” “Ok, chill.” Mo turned back to stare at the rain again and a comfortable silence settled between them. The bus bumped along mid pace and a quiet trickle of conversation flowed around them from the few passengers left. “You shouldn’t be so hard on her all the time you know.” She jumped slightly at the sudden start of conversation and could feel him looking at her but she didn’t turn. “It’s easy. I hate her.” She shrugged. “No you don’t.” Tim pat her leg affectionately and Mo felt him trying to accentuate the feeling in the statement. “Yes, obviously I don’t. Why the hell would I hang out with her if I did?” “I don’t know, Mo, maybe cause she’s literally your only friend besides the freak sitting next to you. Or maybe cause she just so happens to be the hottest girl in school and simultaneously the biggest lesbian known to mankind. Maybe because you, my darling, have a whopping crush on her?” “No, stop it Tim- she’s my best friend, give me a break.” “Fine, fine, Just don’t come running to me when you suddenly realize I’m always right about everything.” Mo wrinkled her nose and flipped him off, going back to stare out the window. … It hadn’t even been two months and Mo and Charlie were probably the closest friends in school. Freshman year, neither of the girls had been very socially active, spending most of their time stressing and working. Now that they had fallen into the groove of high school and vaguely knew what the hell they were doing, they had both had the opportunity to actually speak to those around them. Tim had known Charlie vaguely from history and Mo from English, but none of them had been especially close. Coincidently, all their lockers were in the same hall and one day after class on the fifth day, Tim had plucked up the courage to approach the both of them and ask whether they wanted to go long-boarding with him on the weekend. After some hesitation, they both answered yes. Now, six months and near hundreds of trips to the skate park later, they couldn’t get enough of each other. Turning right and walking down the six blocks to the skate park after school was now as much of a habit for the three of them as hitting shuffle on the complete Panic! At The Disco Album was to Mo.

…

“Mo, would you be a dear and tell me how this looks?” Mo felt Charlie tap her shoulder and she stepped over to Charlie’s canvas, examining the historic scene taking place on its surface. Mo squinted and stepped back, striking a pose of exaggerated consideration. “well, I mean, like Shit.” She stepped back to her canvas. “Ugh, I need a real answer, please be serious with me here.” Charlie slouched. “Fine. It’s really good and I hate how good it is and it hurts. Satisfied?” Mo said quietly, focusing on painting. Charlie grinned at her devilishly and walked over to Mo’s canvas, watching her movements intently from behind her back. Mo suddenly became very aware how close they were standing and stepped forward, increasing the distance. (Physical contact was something she found should be avoided at most costs) But Charlie stepped forward again and took the brush out of her hand. “No, no. Try it, um…here. Can I?” Mo nodded and stepped away. Charlie mixed some fresh paint and the began deftly working her way over the area that Mo had been painting, moulding what had been messy blobs into somewhat recognizable forms.

There was sample photograph of the Waterloo battle painting they were copying in corner of the room, and the students were circled around it, all struggling to paint the tiny detailed forms of soldiers. Except Charlie. Her’s was the best. Obviously. Mo thought that maybe somehow she had lied about her age and was actually a thirty-year old successful artist who had studied in some famous art school in Tuscany.

“Better?” Charlie asked. “Um, maybe just paint this bit for me real quick? Also this bit right here and this one also the whole thing?” Mo gesticulated at the canvas, trying to display her despair to receive some form of pity from her friend. “Charlie, stop doing Mo’s painting for her please,” the teacher called from her desk at the front. “Yes ma'am. Ok, look at the light source, try and focus on where the reflections are-” Mo lost track of what Charlie was trying to say and instead began watching her hands as they flapped about, weaving around in her wild way. She seemed to be doing that an awful lot lately, watching Charlie’s hands. It was hard not to. She seemed to communicate more from her hands then she did her mouth. Her physical displays of enthusiasm were contagious and every once and awhile Mo would catch herself moving her hands in an unmistakably Charlie kind of way. She still couldn’t decide if it was a good or a bad thing and was very conscious about not doing it around Charlie. 

“See? Wait, Mo are you even listening?” Mo felt a gentle hand on her shoulder and was shaken out of her daydreaming. “Yeah, Yeah. Remember light source, keep shadow balance even. Got it.” Mo took back her paintbrush. “Okay…” Charlie have her a dubious look but went back to her canvas.

…

Mo had never considered herself an optimist. if anything she was the world’s most enthusiastically pessimistic pessimist. She hated watching people achieve their dreams because, as she constantly told her friends, she had none. She told them she would probably continue working in the record store two blocks from her house until her mid fifties when she would retire early to sell beaded curtains on Etsy to vegans in Utah with five kids a dog and a dark green Subaru. She would never marry because she would never feel the capacity for love. And anyways, her partner would probably amount to much more than she could ever be and she didn’t feel like coming home to someone who would talk about how much they had achieved in a day while she endlessly threaded endless amounts of wooden beads on endlessly long flimsy wires. She had never heard of the term realist until Tim had explained the concept and told her he labeled himself as one. He cared and examined every detail of life and although Mo did not like to admit it, she enjoyed listening to him talk about situations and things and people. But she still hated the beach and romcoms and music that wasn’t rock or punk or R&B. She didn’t like expressing her feelings no matter if they were expressed physically or verbally. She was, in short, the pessimist.

Charlie, one could say, was the optimist

…

How Charlie and Tim had thought that studying in the park on a hot Saturday during a festival was a good idea, Mo had no idea. Then again, she had agreed to do it and here they were.

“DUDE, That man literally looks like a pineapple!” Charlie was pointing and giggling hysterically at a man far across from them in the park with bright green spiky hair and a pale yellow suit. “Well, I’m not one to judge but he really does.” Tim tilted his head in mock sympathy. “Also, what is that couple doing? Are those grapes on their head?” He pointed over at another two people across the park with very curly purple hair. He and Charlie were both sprawled on their backs, Mo’s legs acting as a pillow for both their heads. “Guys, we’ve been here almost an hour and all we’ve done is comment on the fruit-like aspects of these people’s clothes. Also Tim, I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, but you’re literally wearing a giant strawberry sweater.” Mo cast a down judgmental stare. “Sad, but so, so true.” Tim stood and brushed himself off, ruffling Charlie’s hair and then slinging his rucksack over his shoulder. “You know, I think I’m gonna head home. If you need me I’ll be bathing in a pile of unfinished homework, popcorn and the light from the television of a Friends season three rerun.” Tim gave them a wave and jumped into a skip towards the exit to the park. “Bye, you egg!” Charlie called. “Bye, Tim. Don’t forget the Native American project is due Tuesday.”

“SHIT.” a distant call came from somewhere outside the park

Mo sighed and shut the textbook in front of her hopelessly. “Did you know he gave fifty dollars to Micheal McKinnon last year to do all of his projects?” “Explains a lot. Are you sure it was just for school projects?” She continued packing up her stuff. “MO! Jesus Christ.” Charlie sat up and frowned at her and Mo laughed maniacally.

“You’re really mean sometimes, you know that?” Charlie stood and began to pack as well. “Well, no one else is going to be. You and Tim are like walking Tumblr positivity blogs. sometimes I feel like I’m the only one with sense around here.” Mo picked up her bag and placed her longboard under her arm, turning around to head towards the exit. About to call back a goodbye, she was immediately arrested by a soft hand on her wrist. She turned to see Charlie stood just behind her looking at her with a mournful expression that made Mo’s heart skipped a beat. She may have been imagining it but she swore she saw the glassy sheen of tears over Charlie’s eyes. “Are you…do you, care? About us? Your friends? Do we…mean anything to you?” Charlie’s voice cracked slightly and Mo stood in shock by the sudden scene playing before her. “I… Charlie what are you doing, what’s wrong with you? ” “Mo, just answer the goddamn question.” Mo stepped back a bit “I, Yeah. You’re my friends. What do you want me to say Charlie? Yes. I do in fact have a capability to hold emotions. I do feel things.” “Well you never goddamn show it, Mo. I just…I can’t help but think you hang out with me and Tim out of necessity or, I don’t know, pity or some shit. I…just needed to get some kind of emotion out of you for once…something. I’m sorry.” She sighed shakily and dropped her hand to her waist, the soft warmth and comfort of her palm leaving a cold imprint in the shape of her hand on Mo’s arm. “I wish you showed us sometimes, you know? You do things for us, like invite us over and let us eat your food and copy your homework, but you never let us know what you’re thinking or what what you’re thinking about us. I’ve never felt anything but distance from you Maura. And I hate it. I hate never knowing if you’re okay. If we’re…okay.” Charlie stood there in silence for a what seemed like ten minutes but was probably a couple milliseconds, while Mo tried desperately tried to think of what to say, mind bouncing back and forth; up and down like a ping-pong ball hurled 80 miles an hour into the wall of a very small box. How do you respond to these situations? What do people ever want to hear? What can she possibly say to convince the beautiful girl standing inches away from her, tears pouring silently and willingly down her freckled cheeks, who just used her real first name (which Mo despised anyone using) and would probably be the only best friend she would ever have, that she had total and utter admiration and respect for her and was head over goddamn heels in love with her? What do you fucking say?

Well, for starters, she could just not say anything. Just leap into the sickening, swirling pool of utmost dread and fear and no-fucking-clue and lost friendships and soiled memories and-

 Fuck it.

Mo dove. Hard. Her lips crashed fast and dead straight onto Charlies’, forcing Charlie to stagger back to avoid tripping and maybe breaking a few bones in the process. Mo grabbed Charlie’s shoulders and kissed her as if she had come to school to hear that they were taking the entire next semester dissecting the musical Hamilton, and her life would come to a grinding and shuddering stop. She kissed her as if Tim had told them that he had bought every single boxed set of Friends manufactured on earth and chained them to the couch to sequentially watch every single episode in every single boxed set until they died. Mo McCloud kissed Charlie Goodman as if every single second, every moment, every single memory that the two friends had shared, were the only things that had ever and would ever matter to Mo. Like she wanted to spend the rest of her life in her arms, listening to her voice, watching her hands, holding her face. Kissing her. As she kissed her and mused so deeply, she slowly became conscious that Charlie was kissing her back. It took Mo a moment to really remember that kissing way a two way street, and the other street was a raging block party.

it was gay. they were both thrilled. they got married n it was also gay. they got 3 dogs, all 10/10 good boys, and named them all tim, after their good friend who had died in the war of 2025. they bought a cabin by a lake and went fishing every other day. mo made fish pies that charlie ate out of pity and politeness. mo thought she would never have the capacity for love, what fool. most of the pies went to tim tim and tim. after many years of quiet, peaceful domesticity, charlie got mystery cancer. mo was shattered. after 4 years of fighting the mystery cancer, it spread to charlies lungs and killed her. she was buried next to the cabin, and was buried with one of the tims, who died of grief. mo wept at her grave every morning, and left a fish pie there every sunday. quite a few years later, mo died peacefully in her sleep, with the remaining tims by her side. she was buried next to charlie. the tims were taken in by a nice couple down the road. while their heirs searched their home, they found love letters from the two of them, sent while charlie was a medic in the war. they cried at their sincere adoration of each other, and the horrible pain mo must have felt during her final years without the love of her life. they placed violets on their graves. even in death, they were gay and together.

#lol #writing #gay #fiction #my writing :) #poetry #gay writing #story #book blog #book #books

[poetzproblem]

Kissed By the Sun Each Morning

I get kissed by the sun each morning Put my feet on a hardwood floor I get to hear my children laughing Down the hall through the bedroom door ~Blessed, Martina McBride

Consciousness creeps into her dreams with a hazy sort of urgency, poking at her brain like a forgotten chore. The first thing that registers is the warm body of her wife curled into her and the faint scent of citrus clinging to dark hair as it tickles her nose. The second thing that registers is the awareness that it’s Sunday. Quinn sighs in happiness, snuggling closer to Rachel with the intention of allowing her body to drift back to sleep for another hour or two—at least until the unmistakable sound of a door closing interrupts her lazy semi-slumber.

Her eyes instantly pop open as awareness races through her blood, waking her fully. The sun is just barely peeking through the closed blinds, but there is unmistakably someone (much bigger than Oliver) up and moving around the apartment, so she reluctantly turns her head away from its comfortable position on the pillow to blurrily stare at the clock.

7:13.

“Seriously?” she whispers, barely stifling her groan.

Callie really needs to lose this early-rising habit she’s gotten into on the weekends. She’s almost as bad as Rachel used to be. Quinn’s sigh this time is one of resignation as she attempts to extricate herself from Rachel as carefully and quietly as possible so she can go check on their daughter. She’s actually surprised Callie hasn’t already come barging in here to bounce on the bed and wake them up the way she has so many times, but she’s certainly grateful for the reprieve. Rachel really needs the extra sleep.

An irrepressible grin blooms on Quinn’s lips when she thinks about why, and she has to resist the urge to curl back into Rachel, slip a hand beneath her t-shirt, and just lie here and hold her all day because she knows their daughter isn’t about to let that happen. The audible scraping of furniture across their hardwood floors is proof of that, and Quinn’s smile fades as the question of what Callie is up to takes precedence in her mind. She drags her still-sleepy ass out of bed, grabs her glasses, and spares one fond glance at her softly snoring wife before she pads out of the bedroom on the way to check on Callie.

The second she steps into the hallway, she can hear Ollie mewling his demands to be fed, and Quinn hurries her pace in the hope of preventing Callie from dumping the whole container of cat food into his bowl (and all over the kitchen floor) like she tends to do.

When she’s in view of the kitchen, she freezes for moment, feeling her heart lurch in fear when she spots her four year-old daughter standing precariously on a chair as she opens the overhead cabinet. She’s just about to race the rest of the way over and find out what Callie thinks she’s doing when her daughter’s soft words to Oliver begin to register.

“You have to be quiet, Ollie. Mama and Mommy are sleeping and I wanna surprise them with breakfast. It’s Mommies Day today. I’ll feed you after.”

Quinn presses a hand to her smiling lips, suddenly torn between the need to stand watch over Callie and the desire to tip-toe back into the bedroom and let their daughter surprise them for Mother’s Day. So she stays where she is, stepping back just enough to stay mostly hidden around the corner while she peeks out to watch Callie successfully (though a bit loudly) maneuver two bowls down from the cabinet. Callie carefully climbs down from the chair, noisily pushing it across the floor a little until it’s under the cabinet with the cereal, and Quinn cringes at the thought of the possible scratches to her flooring, but she decides to worry about that later.

She’s still watching over Callie, grinning at the little pink tongue poking out from between her lips in concentration while she kneels on the chair and pours the cereal—thank God she’d picked the corn flakes over her Lucky Charms—when Quinn hears the bedroom door open again, and she quickly whips around and races back down the hall in time to catch Rachel shuffling out of the room.

Rachel’s eyes widen when she sees Quinn jogging towards her, and her mouth opens to speak, but Quinn slides to a stop in front of her and presses a hand to her lips with an urgent, “Shhh.”

Rachel’s eyebrows furrow as her eyes narrow. “Winn,” she mumbles from beneath Quinn’s fingertips.

“Callie is trying to surprise us with breakfast,” Quinn whispers, dropping her hand. “It’s the cutest thing.”

Rachel’s eyes widen under arched eyebrows. “Is that what all the noise is?” she whispers back.

Quinn nods. “Sorry,” she practically mouths.

Rachel grins, shrugging. She silently points down the hall, indicating that she wants to see, and Quinn nods, smiling back. But before Rachel even takes a step, Quinn stops her with a hand on her arm, pointing down to her midsection with a questioning look.

Rachel rolls her eyes. “We’re fine,” she promises quietly, reaching up to stroke Quinn’s cheek tenderly. “Just a little queasy.”

“Lucky,” Quinn murmurs, a little jealous that Rachel seems to be dodging the persistent morning sickness that Quinn had experienced with her pregnancies. She’d been racing for the bathroom to puke her guts out by this time with both Callie and Beth, but at nine weeks, Rachel has only actually thrown up once, though she’s felt mildly nauseous on and off just about every day. But Quin supposes she’s due for a break since she’d had an even rougher IVF cycle this time than she’d had when they were getting Quinn pregnant with Callie, and then—well, Quinn is just so grateful that things seem to be going really well now and that Rachel is starting to feel more confident about her pregnancy.  

“Don’t jinx me,” Rachel warns lowly, playfully poking Quinn in the side before she steps around her to go see what their firstborn is up to. Quinn follows behind her, hoping that they haven’t alerted Callie to their presence just yet.

Rachel comes to a stop in the same spot that Quinn had been standing earlier, poking her head around the corner to spy on their daughter, and Quinn presses into her back, wrapping one arm around Rachel’s waist and anchoring the other against the wall as she stretches up onto her toes to peer over the top of Rachel’s head.

The milk carton is still sitting out on the counter, and Callie is currently making a mess with the orange juice being messily poured into two glasses, but she’s absolutely adorable doing it. Quinn can’t even care that she’s going to have such a mess to clean up later.

Rachel lifts a hand to her mouth, and Quinn worries for a second that maybe she is going to be sick this morning after all, but then Rachel is turning around with tears glistening in her eyes and a look of absolute adoration on her face, and Quinn understands. That’s their kid in there—making them their Mother’s Day present with her own two hands. Or trying to anyway.

Quinn is feeling a bit tearful herself as she smiles affectionately at Rachel.

Rachel manages to compose herself, wiping away the moisture beneath her eyes. “We should go back to bed,” she whispers, giving Quinn’s hip a little pat.

“Go ahead. I’m just gonna,” Quinn gestures to the corner, intending to keep watch in case Callie ends up dropping something.

Rachel gives her an exasperated look, shaking her head. “Don’t let her see you,” she warns lowly.

Quinn arches a brow, a little insulted that Rachel would doubt her stealth. “I’ve got this,” she mouths, winking at her wife before she leans in to brush a soft kiss over her lips.

Once Rachel retreats to their bedroom, Quinn creeps back to the corner and takes note of Callie’s progress. Two bowls of cereal, two spoons, two glasses of orange juice (that Quinn knows Rachel probably can’t quite stomach just yet), and she apparently found the container of strawberries that Quinn had cut yesterday.  

Quinn almost breaks her promise not to let their daughter see her when Callie practically crawls into the cabinet under the sink after finally feeding Ollie because she’s coming out with the folding lap tray, and all Quinn can picture is a giant mess of broken bowls and glasses on the floor if Callie actually attempts to serve them breakfast in bed. But she bites into her lip and stubbornly holds her position as she watches Callie set up the tray on the floor before carefully moving both bowls, one at a time, down onto the tray and then placing the glasses and strawberries there too. Then she pulls something else off the counter to place on the tray—Quinn thinks maybe it’s a napkin—and Quinn holds her breath as Callie picks up the tray, making sure she has it balanced with a determined expression, before she starts to turn.

And then Quinn is racing down the hallway again, careful to leave the bedroom door ajar just enough for their daughter to be able to push it open, before she practically leaps into bed next to Rachel, throwing her glasses on the nightstand.

“Quinn?”

“Pretend you’re sleeping,” Quinn hisses out, tugging the sheet up over them.

Rachel giggles a little, and Quinn shushes her again, closing her eyes and willing her body to relax. Thankfully, Rachel proves that she actually deserves every single one of her acting awards by immediately going still and quiet next to her. Quinn’s heart continues to race, however, and she half expects to hear a crash before Callie will start sobbing, but to her relief, there’s nothing but the sound of shuffling feet and the slight rattling of glassware before Callie is standing next to the mattress.

“Mommy. Mama. I made breakfast,” she announces at a volume that she absolutely inherited from Rachel.

Quinn takes a deep breath, making a show of stretching as she opens her eyes and turns her head toward Callie. Rachel shifts on the mattress next to her, pulling off a very convincing (or quite possibly real) yawn. Quinn locks her eyes on her daughter, taking note of the fact that the tray has actually survived the journey relatively unscathed. There are a few drops of milk on it and a tiny puddle of orange juice, but it’s otherwise intact. She has to admit—she’s pretty impressed.

Quinn pushes herself up on the mattress, eyes wide as she reaches for her glasses. “Oh wow. You made breakfast?” she repeats, acting surprised.

“Uh huh,” Callie answers proudly, nodding her head.  

“Oh, how sweet,” Rachel coos as she sits up next to Quinn, smiling tearfully at their daughter.

“Happy Mommies Day, Mommy. Happy Mommies Day, Mama.”

Quinn feels her own eyes grow damp, and there’s absolutely no acting involved. “Thank you so much, sunshine. Here,” she holds out her hands as she leans toward her daughter. “Let me take that tray.” Callie ever-so-carefully lifts it higher and moves it into Quinn’s waiting hands with the widest, proudest smile, and Quinn nearly loses her breath at how much she looks like Rachel in that moment. She manages to transfer the tray onto her lap without incident, looking down at the already soggy cereal with a lump in her throat. “This looks so amazing,” she gushes with a wide smile.

Next to her, Rachel echoes, “It does,” despite the fact that she’d probably much rather have a piece of toast. She holds her own arms open for their daughter.  “Get up here so I can hug you, little star,” she urges, and Callie doesn’t need any further invitation. She skips over to the end of the bed, knowing better than crawl over Quinn with the tray there, and scampers up onto the mattress between her mothers. Rachel instantly pulls Callie into her arms with happy tears streaming down over her cheeks. “I love you so much,” she murmurs, kissing the top of Callie’s head.

Callie giggles happily. “I love you, Mama,” she echoes, giving Rachel a sloppy kiss on her cheek before turning to Quinn. “And I love you, Mommy,” she says, squirming away from Rachel to give Quinn a sloppy kiss of her own that makes Quinn’s heart soar with joy. “You’re the bestest mommies ever,” Callie declares, reaching over to pick up the piece of paper that’s tucked onto the corner of the tray. “I even made a card that says so,” she announces, holding it out for Quinn to take.

“You did?” Quinn asks in delight, taking the homemade card with an elated smile.

“I did,” Callie confirms very seriously. “Read it, Mommy.”

The card is made out of pink construction paper with a red, bedazzled heart right in the middle and glitter covered letters spelling out Happy Mommies Day, and Quinn chuckles as she holds it up for Rachel to see. Rachel’s eyes sparkle with happy tears as she presses her fingers to her grinning lips, looking as tickled by it as Quinn feels. “Happy Mommies Day,” Quinn recites, choosing not to mention the misspelling or the missing apostrophe. Even so, she knows Callie had probably needed some help with this and wonders which one of their friends or family members had manned the glue and the glitter.

“Open it,” Callie demands, practically bouncing on the mattress between them.

Still smiling, Quinn opens the card obediently, and when her brain registers what she’s reading in her daughter’s shaky, crayon scripted handwriting, her words come out more than a little choked up.  “I am so lucky I get to have two. I love you forever, mommy and mama. Love Callie.”  

Quinn sniffles, wiping away a stray tear as she hands the card to Rachel to read for herself. “We love you forever, too, honey,” she promises, snaking an arm around Callie’s shoulders to hug her close and brush a kiss to her sweet cheek—careful not to topple the tray she’d worked so hard to prepare.

Rachel sniffles too. “You’re the best daughter in the world,” she says through her tears, somehow managing to hug them both as she reverently holds onto the card.

Quinn feels so incredibly blessed in this moment, wrapped up in the warmth of her family with the certainty that by next year her blessings will have doubled. Between them, Callie giggles happily, and it’s best Mother’s Day gift of all.

#don't blink #faberry #ficlet #happy mother's day #kissed by the sun each morning

[letsimagineitall]

choose your battles iii

a/n: ooooo steve. also reader is mother hen af and i love it.  word count: 2.6k warnings: none

pairing: do u SEE IT

pt 1 here

pt 2 here

tag list: @bobbdylan, @tomorraw @marvel-music-books @deeper-in-my-mind

—

When you woke up, Becca was still asleep. You knew it would be a weird day for her as part of the team was going out on a mission today so you decided to let her sleep a little longer as you went down to the kitchen.

“You look a bit worse for wear.” you said as you encountered Tony, sitting on the counter with his head in his hands. “Wanna talk about it?” you offered, pulling two bottles of water from the fridge, setting one on the counter next to Tony and pulling yourself up onto the counter across from him.

“My girlfriend is mad at me, as evidenced by the fact that I slept on the couch here, and I can’t seem to win anymore.” he said quietly.

“Have you considered that it might not be about winning but about making her feel appreciated and loved?” you asked, fidgeting with your water bottle. “You do kind of lead frightening life, I’m sure any woman would fight harder for someone’s attention if they didn’t know if the person they loved would be coming home again.”

“It feels like it’s about winning, not so much about the appreciation and love. At least not right now.” he mumbled.

“Well, it might not be the best idea to ask the divorced woman for relationship advice but I do make some kickass pancakes if that would please you.” you offered, sliding off the counter.

“I’m not going to make a pregnant woman cook for me.” he stated, sounding like he was trying to make a joke but seeming a little too downtrodden for it not to fall flat.

“It’s not forcing me to cook for you if I offer. Besides, pancakes are the best food to eat when you’re trying to work through problems.” you bargained. The idea of pancakes seemed to pique his interest a little.

Walking into the pantry, you pulled out the dry ingredients that you’d need and set them on the counter. It took you a minute and you must’ve opened every cabinet door in the kitchen to find a mixing bowl but you were successful and you began to combine your ingredients, only stepping away briefly to pull the other ingredients from the fridge.

He didn’t move from his perch on the counter as you moved around the kitchen, gathering what you needed.

“Tony, can I ask you a question?”

“Mm?” he mumbled in response.

“What’s the frightening voice that comes from the ceiling when you guys need something?” you asked, not sure how else to phrase it and this obviously tickled him as he just looked at you and smiled as you mixed the pancake batter.

“That’s F.R.I.D.A.Y. It’s an artificial intelligence system that I integrated into the facility to help with day to day tasks and communication.” he explained.

“It scared me when I first heard it. It sounded like my mom and I was pretty sure she had come down from heaven to strike me down for divorcing my ex.” you told him, partly joking, as you started pouring batter on to the skillet.

“Get a plate if you want pancakes.” the first sentence you had spoken all morning that motivated him to leave his counter top. He seemed to perk up as you pushed 3 pancakes on to his plate but he also seemed like he was still contemplating his earlier dilemma.

“Do I smell pancakes? Because I think I smell pancakes.“Sam asked, walking in the living room.

“I made pancakes to try to get Tony to stop moping. Do you want a pancake?” you asked him, not really waiting for a response as you put pancakes on a plate and slid it across the breakfast bar to him.

“You really are a Godsend, aren’t you?” he asked as he shoved a bite of pancake in his mouth. Dr. Cho had told you yesterday that part of the team would be on a mission today so the only people in the building now were Tony, Sam, and Steve, who wasn’t likely to rear his head.

The three of you sat in the kitchen in relative silence as you all ate your pancakes. You even made sure to put a pancake aside in a bowl to take back to Becca.

“Do either of you happen to know what I may have done to piss Steve off?” you asked as you turned on the sink to wash off the dishes you had used to make breakfast.

“I think you would have to go to great lengths to piss Stars n Stripes off. He already respects you more than I think he respects everyone else in the facility combined.” Tony said as you looked to Sam, hoping for something a little more helpful.

“He hasn’t said anything to me about being mad at you. Why do you think he’s mad at you?”

“He-uh. He had some less than kind things to say to me in the parking lot, night before last, when I went to lock my car.” you divulged, earning a surprised look from both men at the counter.

“First I’ve heard of it.” Sam assured you and Tony nodded.

“Well, thank you for the help no less."you said as you moved to start heading back to your room.

"You made us breakfast and then thanked us for being absolutely useless. You’re just a delight, aren’t you? And speaking of help, the movers just got here with your things.” Tony informed you.

He walked away to talk to the movers and you told Sam that you were going to go get Becca and that you’d be back. The trip down the hall was luckily short as you walked into your room and found Becca still asleep.

Not knowing what else to do and not wanting to leave her in the room where movers would soon be depositing boxes, you wrapped her up in a blanket that had been draped over the back of a chair and scooped her into your arms, managing to not wake her as you headed back to the common room.

The movers were being directed by Tony like worker bees and you had been strictly instructed by him that you were not to lift any heavy boxes so you were exiled to an overstuffed chair in the corner to act as a bed for Becca until she woke up.

The movers didn’t take all that long to put all of your boxes in your room and were soon back on their way but not before one of them awkwardly requested to take a picture with Tony that Sam was less than enthusiastic to take.

“How do you have so little stuff? It takes longer to have a team of movers pack up my home office than it did for them to pack up your entire apartment.” Tony joked. You explained to him that before the divorce, you lived in a house but when the divorce was finalized, you packed up everything that was important to you and moved out, taking Becca with you before he tried his play at custody.

By this point, Becca was slowly waking up and was now sitting in your lap, yawning and rubbing her eyes as you spoke.

It was determined that Tony and Sam wanted you to have some time to unpack some of your things and try to make your room a little more habitable and offered to keep track of Becca for a few hours which you didn’t try to dispute. It would be nice to get a little more settled in.

As soon as you got back to your room, your first priority was to unpack your clothing. It was an easier task than you’d expected as the movers hadn’t taken anything off its hanger, they just pulled everything off the rack and folded it into a box which allowed you to just pick up the hangers in bulk and put them all up simultaneously. You dumped the loose items, like underwear and bras and socks, that had been put in the bottom of the box, into the drawers in the dresser that was in the room.

Next was to start unpacking your books. When you’d left the house you shared with you ex, you’d left a lot of books behind that you ended up having to force a friend to go back and get when you’d settled in your apartment.

Your friend wasn’t happy, but you were to be reunited with things you’d left behind, including a quilt you had inherited. That quilt had been through thick and thin with you and had been on every bed in every house you’d lived in. This was no exception. As soon as the quilt was spread over your bed, things started to feel like home.

Next was to unpack your books. Tony had thought ahead when he designed the facility and there was a wall of built in bookshelves in your room that you began to put to work.

You fell into a rhythm after you changed into a tank top and shorts and cracked a window. Book by book you were putting your home back together. Book by book by children’s-toy-turned-bookend. You were about halfway through unpacking your books when you heard someone come in the door.

“You really are pregnant.” You heard the man say. You weren’t sure if it was supposed to be spoken out loud but it was anyway.

“You callin me fat, Rogers?"you retorted, as you continued to unpack.

"What? I- Uh. Wait. No. No no not at all- I just- You weren’t-.” he sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“Okay.” you said, stacking some of Becca’s blocks on another shelf. You weren’t sure what he wanted to hear from you.

“I’m really sorry.” he repeated, quieter this time. “I can’t believe what an ass I was. I just- it scares me to bring new people into this facility. Into this life.”

“We have people here who have families that they don’t get to see but a few times a year because it’s too dangerous for their families to even be associated with them and here you are, bringing your family here.”

“You’re really bad at this whole apologizing thing, Rogers.” you said as you put a book down and turned to face him.

“No one gets a second chance after they’ve worked with the Avengers. After they’ve worked with me. Any time someone works with us they get put on someone else’s kill list. I don’t know if I could deal with that happening to you.” his eyes were brimming with tears at this point. You couldn’t really think of anything to say, so you just walked up to him and wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into a hug.

Something that you thought every woman inherited when they became a mother was the ability to hug people in such a way that safety felt insured. Steve didn’t question what you were doing, he just wrapped his arms around your waist and buried his face in the crook of your neck.

You didn’t say anything as he sniffled quietly and left your should marginally more wet than it had been before, but when the two of you separated, you seemed to make a silent agreement that you were good. That all was forgiven and that you now understood his motives.

“You’re not going to leave us, though, right?” he asked, sounding a little hopeful.

“Yknow you’re a very confusing man. One minute you’re afraid that we’re gonna get hurt and the next you’re making sure we aren’t leaving.” you said, tugging at your shirt a little. “But no, I don’t think so. I made pancakes for Sam and Tony this morning and I don’t think they’ll let me go anytime soon. Plus I don’t have any confirmation that Natasha wouldn’t let me leave and then kidnap my child.” you joked, happy to see a trace of a smile return to Steve’s face as he chuckled slightly.

“I can’t assure you that Tony will ever let you go after those cupcakes the other day and Natasha would definitely orchestrate something like that. So it’s probably just the safest bet to stay here.” he bargained, a smirk resting on his face.

“If I’m going to be kept here, I do have one request of you.”

He seemed intrigued by your statement.

“Do you know how to build a toddler bed?” you asked, causing a full laugh to burst from Steve’s lips. “It’s not funny, man. That kid sleeps like an octopus. She’s gotta spread her limbs out everywhere and there’s not enough bed for that and all the kicking she does.” you smile as he nods and moves to start unpacking the dissembled toddler bed that you had fretted about assembling since Tony told you that movers were bringing all of your belongings.

The rest of the afternoon was spent unpacking and listening to Steve tell you all about weird things that had happened in the facility and about all the pop culture tidbits that the team had suggested he learn about over the years.

You ended up finishing unpacking majority of your belongings, storing away your linens in a cabinet in the bathroom, finding places for all of your hair products and bathroom essentials, finding places to stow little things that you didn’t want Becca to be able to reach, putting all of her clothing away in the dresser, and her toys that weren’t converted to bookends in a basket on the floor.

After Steve finished building Becca’s bed and trying his hardest to make it, the two of you agreed that there wasn’t anything else to work on today and you sat down with him on the floor next to your bed, your backs against the mattress.

“Thank you for helping me today.” you said, your voice quiet.

“Thank you for forgiving me.” he responded.

You didn’t hesitate as you reached over and put your hand on his thigh to comfort him. “Really Steve, I doubt I’d ever be able to stay mad at you.” you smiled at him as he took your hand in his.

Just then, you heard running in the hallway. Then giggling. Then Tony shouting something unintelligible. Then Sam laughing. It wasn’t long before Becca ran through the door and ran into your arms, quickly making her self comfy, sitting on your lap and using Steve as a backrest. Soon after, Tony and Sam found their way to the doorway, Tony seeming a little winded.

“Tony, why is my child wearing what seems to be a cut up black sabbath shirt as a dress?” you ask, tugging on the little ties dangling off the back where it was obviously cut and a makeshift seam was attempted.

“Well, uh, you know. Mud fights happen.” he said guiltily as you looked closer to see that Tony was caked in mud and Sam was suspiciously clean.

“Gross. Both of you, keep your bad mud habits away from my impressionable offspring.” you said, causing Sam to chuckle again.

After they had both stood around for a few minutes, trying to explain the appeal of a mud fight to you, they managed to bribe you into making dinner later and with that they left you and Steve and Becca hopefully to rid themselves of any mud on them.

Becca eventually scrambled to mess with her bed and to investigate her new basket full of toys. After a while of just watching Becca get excited about small things around the room, you realized that Steve still had your hand in both of his. Becca continued to run around and touch everything in the room and babble as you shifted and put your head down on Steve’s shoulder and simply admired her.

#marvel imagine #tony stark imagine #sam wilson imagine #natasha romanova imagine #wanda maximoff imagine #thor imagine #bucky barnes imagine #steve rogers imagine #clint barton imagine #scott lang imagine #james rhodes imagine #pietro maximoff imagine #bruce banner imagine

[docayin-blog]

Advanced Trail-Cam Tactics

My introduction to trail cameras came quite differently than it did for most hunters. Back in the 1990s, while studying wildlife science at Mississippi State University, I was "awarded" an unpaid position by my advisor.

My goal, as a freshman student, was to gain experience working in my field. One of the graduate students was working on groundbreaking research for his master's degree employing "camera traps" to survey and monitor deer populations, and I was in charge of keeping cameras going in the field.

Although these early and crude 35mm film versions of what we now commonly call "game cameras" were not as technologically advanced as they are today, I immediately became excited about potential non-scientific uses of "camera traps." I regularly found myself imagining exactly what these cameras would reveal on the trails I grew up bowhunting back home in Pennsylvania.

Needless to say, the idea of having photographic evidence of the giant bucks I imagined was exciting. However, as I began to get involved with making my own "homebrew" versions of game cameras for personal use, I quickly realized that although my hunting spots had plenty of does, fawns, turkeys, raccoons, skunks, feral cats, coyotes, foxes, squirrels, bears, trespassers and young bucks, mature bucks were simply not there!

I suppose this is where my obsession with trail cameras and my passion for deer management met at the crossroads: it was time to grow more mature bucks to photograph and hunt!

After 15 years of intensively managing hundreds of hunting properties, I've learned that patterning

mature bucks — once they are present — is a whole new ball game. The advanced trail-camera strategies that follow have given me a competitive advantage, and they can do the same for you.

Home on the Range

Fact: when hunting a mature buck, you must get intimate with its home range, core area and how each fluctuates with the seasons. And unless you have access to GPS tracking collars, trail cameras are the tool for the job. There are many factors that affect a buck's home range and core area, and you need to develop a monitoring program to determine the behaviors of the big bucks you hunt.

Since these behaviors can change daily, weekly, monthly, seasonally and annually, your camera program should be in operation during those times. That's right, I never have camera down time on the properties I manage. If a buck is alive and establishing his routine of eating, resting and breeding, I want to know everything about it.

Most hunters pull their cameras out of the field in the "off-season," but the most successful hunters I know — the ones who consistently kill mature bucks — would look at me funny if I mentioned pulling cameras after the season's finale. When camera tracking mature bucks, there is no off-season!

There was a time when deer biologists generally agreed the home range of mature bucks was somewhere around one square mile, or 640 acres. However, dozens of popular studies have revealed bucks with home ranges even smaller and bucks with home ranges as big as 13,000 acres!

So, we now know the home-range size of a mature buck varies based on individual personality, age, habitat quality, population characteristics and more. That's where creative trail-camera deployment can provide insight on the bucks you are targeting.

About a decade ago, while working with my own property, I realized I needed to forget about the

research papers and do some things differently. So, I decided to take my own personal farm: a well-

managed 95-acre tract, formerly farmed and heavily hunted, and attempt to piece together the puzzle of individual, older age-class bucks.

I committed to five years of intelligence gathering, and no killing. Since my farm is located in Pennsylvania, I knew high hunter densities, trespassing, poaching, deer-vehicle collisions, a poor buck age structure and mortality from hunting on neighboring properties would all be sure-bet limiting factors to my ability to grow and hold mature bucks. Still, this is real-world stuff, and I had questions to answer.

When it comes to home range and core area, I find that although mature bucks are consistently inconsistent, seasonal shifts in core areas tend to be very predictable from year to year (provided the bucks survive!).

In other words, once you determine how a buck uses different portions of his home range during various seasons, you can begin to nail down his behaviors (rutting, summering, feeding, bedding) and ultimately his whereabouts during hunting season.

A buck's core area represents a much smaller area within his home range where a he spends a significant amount of time. The survival advantage is that he gets to know it very well and, in a sense, has home-field advantage when it comes to evading you! We know that when a buck is born, the likelihood of dispersing to a different habitat (neighbor's property) is likely.

Research on the percentage of yearling buck dispersal shows some variation in both the proportion of the buck population that naturally disperses and exactly how far they will go. Once a young buck establishes his "home-field advantage" he tends to stay, barring any major habitat disturbances. This doesn't mean, however, that he won't exhibit seasonal shifts within this home range.

In fact, I've found many mature bucks exhibit two totally different core areas within their home range: one for summering and one for the breeding season. Bedding and water sources also change as they make the shift.

Camera Locations

When I start "camera trapping" a property, I like to cast a wide net and then methodically narrow my focus. For example, when I purchased the 95-acre Pennsylvania farm where I live, I started with 10 camera stations.

I placed my first camera 15 yards from the edge of an inside corner with great results. Not only are inside corner food plots great killing zones, they are tremendous areas for cameras to survey a high percentage of the bucks in an area.

My second camera placement may surprise you. This camera, and the two that followed, changed the way I manage deer today and greatly enhanced my value as a deer consultant. Cameras two, three and four  didn't even land within my property borders.

Instead, I strategically placed them on land owned by friendly neighbors. Think outside the box, literally! During my five-year project, I identified at least nine mature bucks that summered several miles from my farm. Even though I had a food-plot research facility within my 95 acres, these mature bucks took advantage of the large agricultural buffet several property boundaries away.

When rumors of a giant buck got back to me one summer, I decided to ask a neighbor if I could teach him how to use his trail cameras. It was a win-win situation, as the first time I pulled his SD card I realized the rumor of a big, mature buck was true. My neighbor got excited about the big buck he was sure to kill in bow season (of course, he immediately placed two stands in the area).

Meanwhile, I knew better; the buck would later die in my food plots! The more interesting part was that this buck was one I had been "camera tracking," and the missing piece of puzzle was where he summered. This buck always traveled with a much larger, older buck that disappeared from my radar.

Like clockwork, these bucks disappeared from my feeders just prior to spring greenup only to return late August/early September! Even after the older buck disappeared (I suspected poaching), the younger buck continued to exhibit the same seasonal pattern. It was evident they had figured out the best core areas within their home range to feed, rest and breed.

As a result, several law-abiding hunters in the neighborhood failed to kill either of them. The younger (7'‰½ years old) of the two was finally killed by one of my friends in one of my food plots. I'm satisfied batting .500 on a small property that represents a fraction of a buck's home range. In Pennsylvania, a 7'‰½-year-old buck is a "Powerball" buck, and I understood his habits better than he did, simply because of my trail-camera strategies.

When to Move Cameras

When using trail cameras, a particular buck of interest is found in one of two ways. First, a "known" immature buck is photographed from year to year until he reaches maturity; second, a mature buck shows up due to a shift in his home range or core area.

When a known mature buck is on the hit list, you will have enough intelligence to know which stands represent your greatest odds of success. The second situation — when a "new" buck shows up out of the blue — is worth a more detailed look. Inheriting big, mature bucks someone else raised tends to get me bonus points with my clients (and my kids).

This scenario is why I keep a few trail cameras sitting in my office as supplements to what I'm already running. I like to attract these bucks from the neighborhood when we can legally kill them! With the development of high-quality, year-round food plot programs, this technique is surprisingly easy. Well established food-plot programs, with the right forage products for the situation, make this possible by "keeping" these rut roamers around for a few more days.

As a client once commented, "Does in food plots ultimately equate to bucks on walls." Quality food plots, coupled with a savvy trail-camera monitoring program, make consistently killing mature bucks exponentially easier.

After owning and/or hunting a property for a few years, you will begin to establish known camera stations that are consistent mature buck producing sites.  As a result, I don't move many of my cameras after mid-summer. I know which cameras are likely to blow up with mature buck photos when day lengths shorten, and I know which camera locations will reveal primarily does, fawns and young bucks.

The presence of heavy scraping activity does change the game. In fact, I will move a camera to a new spot when heavy scraping activity begins. A scrape is frequented and utilized by all ages and both sexes of deer from pre-rut through post-rut.

There simply is not a better place to monitor which bucks utilize your hunting property during the fall and winter breeding season. If you know your area well enough, you're already aware of specific scrapes that appear in the same location year after year. These traditional scrapes are, by far, the best locations for establishing which bucks include your "deer dirt" in their rutting travels.

Many times I hear hunters argue that a handful of photos of a particular buck at a scrape don't mean much, since he may have merely been on a journey that particular day/night. As a hunter, biologist and fan of old bucks (regardless of headgear), I can't relate to that thinking.

In fact, when I hear someone talk like that I immediately know they do not have much experience hunting mature bucks. The fact is mature bucks don't act like the photogenic Hollywood yearlings and middle-

aged bucks that flood your SD cards. They couldn't be any more different in every activity and behavior, and that includes how often they stop at your smelly, noisy box attached to a tree!

Developing fresh intel on mature bucks is guaranteed to become easier as trail-camera technology advances.  New features such as wireless trail cameras and 360-degree fields of view will allow big buck hunters to uncover the habits and whereabouts of savvy, mature bucks.

As a fan of trail-camera history and technology, I'm really looking forward to having more high-tech tools to minimize my presence in areas where mature bucks lounge, feed and breed. That is, until adequate knowledge has been gleaned to suggest I should sneak into one of my well-chosen ambush sites and cash in on years of surveillance.

[solotheloso]

A Rash Decision - Ch. 2

This one feels a little short. Might fold more into it or continue into a new chapter. Depends on how it flows. Additionally, pasting text into Tumblr’s text editor screws it up to high hell and I have to make fixes manually. If you spot what looks like a formatting error, feel free to let me know.

Roruvi’s day began like most others, save for the fact that he rose well past noon. The sky was cloudless and the sun hung high to the west, sending a blazing pane of light through his window to illuminate the whole room in a soft glow. He trudged sleepily through his study– past shelves stacked high with documents and books and practically groaning under the weight of it– and into what served as his bathroom, a small space with a rudimentary toilet and a copper basin full of water for washing. Folly’s plumbing system was primitive but it was heads and shoulders above what most smaller villages had to work with. He had taken pains to maintain his washroom, as he was a stickler for hygiene when possible. He made it a point to thoroughly scrub himself every rising, a habit that some of his peers found quite amusing.

The first sight he was greeted with on descending the stairs from his living quarters was the haggard face of his niece, Tovana. The girl had handled the bar admirably in his absence, but he still ended up having to tend the fungus in the greenhouse before collapsing into bed, a task she rarely seemed to remember. He had applied the usual punishment, having her rise at dawn to open the tavern and serve the morning crowd. Consequently, she seemed about ready to collapse into the nearest chair– or perhaps the floor. The place was empty now, but he imagined he would be able to hear the clumping of departing boots if he listened hard enough. He chuckled quietly to himself as he watched her sweep the last of the dirty mugs and plates onto a bussing tray. “Such a beautiful morning, is it not?”

Tovana glared fire at him for a brief moment before remembering herself, tamping it down to a dull simmer. “Uncle. It’s well past mid-day.”

“Ah, that it is!” He sauntered around the back of the bar and filled two small wooden mugs with a light wine. “Then I suppose I should begin my day. How did you fare last night?”

She snatched the second mug with a huff and knocked it back before he had even taken his first sip. “Last night wasn’t the problem. I don’t know what happened between then and this morning, but I must have served a battalion of humans in the last six hours, all wanting a full plate breakfast.” 

“Then you should have remembered to tend the shrooms! I swear, it’s as if you try to forget your duties.” He sipped delicately at the wine, savoring its mild sweetness. “And they were here because it’s the first day of spring. Any sailor or longshoreman worth his salt knows that now’s the best time to find honest work down at the docks, since the weather’s at its kindest. I’d considered lending a hand, but you need to be able to handle these crowds yourself.”

She blinked at him deliberately, in a way that implied deep boredom. He knew that her sour mood would make her deny her interest, but she often professed that she hoped to own a tavern herself some day. She would soak this fact up like a sponge, just like every other bit of wisdom he spouted. “Your ranger friend is unconscious at the corner table.”

Ruvi barked out a short laugh. “Of course she is!” He left his niece to her work and walked over to the corner of the main floor, where Lika was passed out with her upper body sprawled over the table surface. Golden sunlight poured through an adjacent window, spilling over her and making her short shock of black hair glow at the fringes like a wreath of flame. He stopped for a moment, absorbing the sight. In his younger days, during training with their master, he had entered a brief fit of infatuation with his partner. He had pined for weeks in uncomfortable silence before propositioning her for a relationship, only to be utterly shot down. She had little interest in romance so far– either physically or emotionally– but it had pained her to reject him like that. Their friendship eventually recovered, but some small part of Ruvi had never healed and he occasionally found himself confronted with momentary pangs.

“Lika,” he said, gently. He didn’t touch her in his attempts to wake her. It would be foolish to do such a thing with any ranger. “Lika!” She only groaned in response, mashing her face into her arm. “Wake up. We’re out of cheeses and I could use your company in the market.”

She shot up suddenly, blinking rapidly with bleary eyes. “Huh? Oh, yes! Cheese.” Ruvi smirked at that. He had his ways after all these years. “How’s Tovana doing?” she asked, stifling an enormous yawn. “I offered to lend a hand when I came in, but she was weirdly insistent on doing everything by herself.”

“Uh, she’s fine,” he replied. “Nothing she couldn’t handle.” Despite Lika’s skill as a ranger, when it came to more domestic activities she was utterly hopeless, somewhat resembling a natural disaster. Tovana was wise to refuse her “assistance”.

“Alright, then. Shall we go? You’ve gotten me hungry, and you know I don’t like being hungry.” They left the tavern together in high spirits.

–

Folly’s market was arguably its biggest draw. Its position as a hub for shipping and importing goods ensured that a vast medley of artisans and merchants passed through every year while seeking their fortune, whether from sea or further inland. With them they brought a higher variety of goods than most people could ever claim to see, let alone indulge in.

Luckily for Lika, this afforded her the opportunity to satiate her seemingly bottomless appetite with something new almost every day. She and Ruvi walked through the market at a leisurely pace, passing fishmongers, jewelers, spice dealers and every other sort of stall or booth one could think of. The crowds parted around burro-drawn carts hauling goods by the ton. Merchants crowed and crooned at passersby, each of them assuring that their prices were the best and only a fool would pass them up. The odors of smoke, fish, cooking food, spices, musty textiles and animal dung mixed together in a chaotic storm that felt almost intoxicating with every breath. Lika found that she often missed the sensation when she was away, as it had come to represent the comforts of civilization that she so enjoyed– and, in no small part, her friendship with Ruvi.

The dwarf stared at her in fascination as she munched on a wax paper-wrapped ball of brined cheese with a steady pace he could barely muster for his favorite foods. She didn’t seem to notice, her eyes already busy scanning the stalls for her next prey. ���Are you even enjoying that?” he asked, slowly.

“Huh? Affaloofly!” She swallowed and cocked an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?” He shook his head in exasperation and changed the subject.

“So… I went through the archive last night.” Some years ago, Ruvi had come to inherit their master’s small collection of books. Composed of various tomes and documents detailing encounters with beasts, monsters and unidentifiable creatures, the collection had come to be his most prized possession, and he had taken care to expand it as much as possible while still maintaining what credibility its contents had. 

“And?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” He took care to step around a group of silk-robed merchants locked in a shouting match. “Or rather, no complete matches. There’s no creature I’ve heard or read of that has the strength to inflict that kind of damage and can move unhindered in this terrain.”

She shook her head, exasperated. “Nothing. It’s not often you’re stumped, Ruvi.” He waved a hand dismissively, grumbling to himself. 

“I’m thinking we might need to pay a visit to Eland after our errands,” he said. Lika groaned in response, an almost instinctive reaction on her part. 

“Please, no. I know she means well, but I just– I can’t.” 

“I still have no idea why you have such a visceral reaction to her.”

She shrugged and sighed. “Neither do I. She just… something about her rubs me the wrong way. She’s so positive!”

Ruvi laughed. “One might think you were allergic to positivity!” he exclaimed. She merely scowled at him in response. Lika had never thought of herself as a particularly dour person, but she had to admit that excessive cheeriness left a bad taste in her mouth. A dark thought occurred to her: was this her inheritance, as the books were Roruvi’s? She couldn’t help but let a wry smile creep onto her face.

They reached their destination, a large set of stalls set into the wall of a seaside warehouse. The row was sheltered from the sun by half a dozen massive tarpaulins, their corners elevated on narrow wooden beams anchored crudely to the boardwalk posts beneath by heavy iron nails. Cheese of every shape and size was stacked and packed on the stall counters in large quantities, shielded from the elements and errant insects by thin layers of wax paper. The aggressive stench of the market proper was well behind them at this point, leaving only the soft pungency of herbs and dairy to mix with the fresh salt breeze of the ocean. In a strange way, it was calming. This was only complemented by the presence of the rotund man sitting placidly on a stool at the end of the row. He was known to the pair only as Severo. An experienced and charismatic man with a thriving career, he was well-liked by the locals and most sailors alike. Officially speaking his business was cheese and dairy, but the rangers had an inkling that he dealt in something else besides. Every so often, rumors reached them of Severo’s involvement in less-than-legal affairs such as smuggling and forging, but they never reached any solid conclusions and thus decided to do little but keep a close eye on him. The city wasn’t within their jurisdiction, anyway.

Severo looked up as they approached, his face immediately adopting a beaming smile. “Lika! Roruvi! How good it is to see you today!” He stood with a grace that belied his size, his flowing white and gray robe rustling gently in the breeze. His body still bore the remnants of what may have been an athletic build, his forearms especially; lined with pale scars and corded muscle, they betrayed a past of either heavy labor or consistent violence.

“Ho, Severus,” Ruvi replied. Lika nodded politely and approached the booths, her eyes roving over the selection. Her companion was the one who had business with Severo. She was just here for the view. “How’s the cheese trade?”

The man barked out a short laugh, as if Ruvi had just told a passably funny joke. “Just this morning I wrote a sales note for sixty-five pounds of mountain rock bleu, so I suppose I can say I’m doing quite well! What brings you here today?”

The two haggled over prices for the next twenty minutes while Lika browsed and made mental notes of things to try in the future. When the deal was done, Severo was a pouch of silver richer and Ruvi gained ownership of an entire barrow of cheeses, to be delivered to the tavern later that evening. 

Just before they were about to leave, Ruvi turned back to the merchant, one finger in the air as if he had just remembered something. “Oh, Severo… “ he said in an offhanded manner. “Have you heard tell of any land-bound shipments being disrupted recently? Animal attacks, perhaps?”

Severo shrugged. “None that I can think of. Aside from that silk trader two days past, but I imagine you already know about that. Ranger business, as always.” Lika frowned and turned away, gazing out over the water. Was Severo having her followed? Or did he have sources in the Guild? The possibilities troubled her.

“Yes, it is,” said Ruvi. The ranger huffed out through his nose, slowly rubbing his scalp.“But we still don’t know what did it, which makes us quite uncomfortable. Considering the target, the possibility of a repeat occurrence should make you uncomfortable as well.” 

Severo grimaced for a moment, then tilted his head in a small nod. “I suppose that’s true enough. But I’m not sure how you expect me to help.”

“We’re not looking for financing, Severo. Just information. Keep your ear to the ground.” Ruvi stared at him pointedly. “I know you have your ways.” Lika forced herself to suppress a chuckle. A part of her enjoyed needling the merchant now and then, making him sweat a little. From all indications he wasn’t a bad man, but she found his less legitimate business to be distasteful, and reminding him that they could investigate at any time kept him honest… or at least honest enough for their purposes. She wasn’t worried about ruining their professional relationship. Severo was a businessman first and foremost, and much of their dialogue in the past had been respectful sparring, little games of cat and mouse.

The merchant feigned an innocent expression, raising his eyebrows and stroking at the scruff of his goatee. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. But I’ll keep you in mind if I hear anything.”

“That’s all we can ask,” Lika replied. The pair left the merchant to his own devices and headed deeper into the city. As little as she liked it, they had a scholar to see.

#writing