#& hunger cues & buying food & being alive …..

[perillaleafs]

the nausea cycle :(

[hannya-writes]

When they saved you from a brothel (Luffy Edition)

Title: We can satiate your Hunger

Fandom: One Piece

Pairing: Luffy x prostitute!Reader

Other characters: None really

Category: adventure? Romance maybe? It's just Luffy being Luffy (?)

Warnings: Mention of slavery, violence, sex, I think... I'm not sure, but nothing explicit I guess. There's no smut in here, walk away, horny people!! (No wait come back!!)

Author's note: This is situated 6 years in the future because Idk, I wanted an older Luffy, at least when I wrote it I had that in mind but you can imagine this however you want! Also, this story was wrote with a female reader in mind.

You didn't started working there because you wanted.

When you were 15 your Mother/Father were sick and you wanted to help them.

You started cleaning the floors, washing dishes, serving the woman who needed help with make up or hairstyles.

The owner of the place tried to make you work for them as a prostitute, but you didn't wanted to.

So they started to pay less, at first just some berries. But those berries lost made you unable to pay for your parent medicine.

After a month without the medicine your parent started to feel worst and worst.

And like a balm, the brothel owner offered you a loan, just the right amount for the medicine.

And you thought the owner was a good person, that you would be able to pay back.

But one day some one robbed you and the owner give you more money.

In another occasion someone stole your clothes as it was drying in the sun, the owner gave you money to buy yourself some clothes.

You couldn't pay the owner back and somehow the loan got bigger and bigger until it became an impossible amount.

Then the owner offered a deal: You could pay working for them as a prostitute or he could turn you to the police for stealing.

That time there was no room for you to say no.

Since then they gave you a room, nice clothes and even a maiden to help you with everything you needed.

Close to no clothes, very tight clothes or the worst: Lingerie and a silk robe.

And you do what you are forced to do.

There are clients that are gentle but there are those who get violent, who creep you out, who enjoy when you say no.

It's a nightmare so you try to escape. At first you sneak out but get caught.

Then you jump from the window of your room, but the guards save you from a sure death.

When they realize that you are trying to kill yourself they start to drug you.

And that's the worst because then you can't leave, you need the drug if you don't have your dosage you start to feel ill. You feel like dying but without dying.

And then you just… give up.

Luffy

Luffy was not supposed to be there, he wasn't looking to get laid. However in the facade said "Pleasure house, we satiate your hunger"

So he entered, because he was hungry.

He just needed food since he got lost after a couple of hours after getting on the island.

They were there only to supply the ship with food and some other things needed. 

Luffy being Luffy decided to explore and eventually got lost.

He saw the sign in the facade and entered. He sat there, asked for food and they served him some snacks and pineapple. Why were they giving him that? He didn't ask, it was food.

He saw you and… and nothing happened, because Luffy can't fall in love just from seeing a pretty face, he had seen the most beautiful woman alive naked and that didn't phase him.

However when the women of the house saw him, they started to throw themselves over him, they smiled and rubbed themselves on him but he didn't mind.

Since Luffy didn't pay attention to them, the women slowly, very slowly left him alone.

As you were serving wine to a client one of your friends let you know you could take a break. So you did.

Luffy can look like and act stupid, but he's good with social cues.

He notices the difference between the looks of the other woman and the way you looked at him at that moment.

Your eyes shine, there's a little smile in your painted lips… and your intentions, your intentions feel different. You didn't have lust in your eyes.

You were smiling because you found him cute and it was funny how he was eating all the snacks possible.

"Enjoying your food?" You ask him sitting by his side in the bar.

"Yeah, it's good," he answered while chomping on some meat.

"That's Lamb, it's very tender and juicy. You can try it with this" you handed him some sauce and he looked at you, directly to your eyes as if looking into your soul.

And he does, he actually sees through you and chooses to take your advice.

He hums in delight as he tries the meat with the sauce. He loves it. 

That makes you giggle. You like how expressive he is.

"I'll leave you to your food" you told him and he nodded as you walked away.

Luffy followed you with his gaze for a moment before going back to his food.

Moments later the bartender started berating him about eating as if it was a restaurant.

Which only made Luffy ask "is this not a restaurant?"

"Of course not, this is a pleasure house!"

"But it says you can satisfy my hunger"

You giggled because there was no failure in his logic.

"Listen, if you are not taking one of our girls, we can't keep giving you food"

Luffy's hunger was so big he pointed at you like a toddler and say "I'll take her"

Suddenly you were in a room with a man who hadn't presented himself, who hadn't tried to get your attention and chose you out of the blue. Not only that he had taken away your break.

"You are rude, mister," you told him, seeing how he steadily ate everything.

"I'm no mister" he let you know with a mouthful of meat. "I'm Luffy"

You looked at him, having a feeling you had heard that name before. Thinking about it gave you a headache, but it also gave you the idea you had seen his face before.

But then again, you saw many men every day, hovering over you, calling your name. The faces blurred over time. Maybe you had served him before.

"I'm Y/n" you presented yourself looking at him ate. It made you think that maybe he had a weird fetiche with eating in front of women. 

But he wasn't actually paying attention to you.

"Can I do something for you?" You asked, noticing that he had gotten fatter than before. Was that even possible?

You had seen him before, he had a lean body with nice muscles, six pack, and an attractive chest. He was a total hotty.

"What are you?" You asked surprised by what you were seeing.

"A gum gum man!" He said 

"A what now?"

"I ate a devil fruit"

You looked at him mouth agape.

"I can stretch like gum!" He said and stretched one of his arms to put it over your head, ruffling your hair.

"What is a devil fruit? How do you do that? We're did you find that?" You were so surprised and saw him with such wonder that made Luffy look at you as if you were a weird bug.

"How do you not know that?" He asked "everyone knows about devil fruits" 

You looked down embarrassed. You couldn't tell him the truth: You were being drugged and had lost parts of your memories, that faces blurred and the drug helped you forget the worst parts of your job.

"I just don't" you admitted but Luffy noticed your change in demeanor, so he solved your questions as he ate.

And when he got satisfied, he stood up, went to bed and fell asleep.

Now if he didn't want to have sex it was up to him, he was paying for your time anyway.

You laid in bed by his side and pinched his cheek and stretched it a little. It was funny. Looking after him you fell asleep.

2 hours later you woke up by the side of him but he wasn't fat anymore, he had the same toned body from when he entered the pleasure house.

You could touch it if you wanted, not everyday you had the luxury of having such a pleasure.

But instead of touching his very appealing body, your hand went through his hair, combing his soft black hair back.

His face was as attractive as the rest of his body but you enjoyed combing his hair, it gave you a warm sensation in your chest, a warmness that had nothing to do with sex.

"You're cute" he suddenly said and you noticed he was awake.

"Am I?" You teased caressing his face, slowly moving to his lips.

"But you know that" he added and you made a pout.

"I have to look good if I want clients" you said without thinking.

"Nee, why you do this?" Luffy said furrowing his eyebrows.

"What do you mean?" You stopped combing his hair and it was his turn to pout like a child.

"Keep playing with my hair" he said, taking your hand to put on his head. 

"Please" he added when you giggled at his order.

"Fine, but answer the question"

"You don't seem happy here, why do you stay?" Luffy asked as you combed his hair. You doubted for a moment

"I can't leave, I'm a slave" you stated with seriousness.

"a slave? But you are not in shackles" he frowned and you saw him for the first time as the man he was.

"Some people don't need shackles to be slaves" his face showed annoyance and you didn't like it, you liked him more when he smiled so you straddled him and bent down to kiss him.

His lips were soft and tasted like the pineapple he had eaten. Your tongue explored his mouth and he let you, barely moving his own tongue.

You separated to take a breath, thinking he had forgotten the topic.

"Are you comfortable being a slave?" He asked and you saw him surprised by how ineffective that kiss had been.

"I don't remember freedom," you confessed.

"What?" He was so perplexed it made you smile 

"They make me take a drug that makes me forget things, I've forgotten my past"

He placed a hand on your cheek and his thumb made the motion of cleaning a tear, even if you weren't crying.

"You need help" he said and you laughed

"I have asked for help, I can remember it but I can feel it" 

"Ask for my help"

"Can you help me?" You asked with apprehension 

"I'm a pirate, I can do whatever I want!" He stated so confidently that made you giggle, it was like hearing a child but the man in front of you seemed to be in his early 20's

"Then take me away" you asked softly, playing along with him, voicing your real dreams out loud "I want to be a pirate and collect a handful of earth from every island in the world!" You stated confidently knowing you would probably forget about all of this.

"Why do you want a handful of earth? that's weird!" he said and you laid back by his side with your head in his chest only to extend a hand towards the ceiling, making a fist.

"Because then I'll have proof of every place I've been! There will be proof that I lived! Even if I forget, there will be proof of my actions!"

"It's weird tho!" He said and you laughed.

"You make me want to be free" you added.

"Then we should go!" He said standing suddenly like a spring.

His arm suddenly grew longer and wrapped around your waist before putting you over his shoulder.

"What the…?" Before you ended the sentence Luffy started running.

You panicked as he punched his way out of the pleasure house.

Luffy on the other side was laughing.

From the perspective of your friends, coworkers and clients, you were being kidnapped.

Only that when you were out of the pleasure house he ran back in.

Seconds later people started running away. Your friend, the staff, the bodyguards half beaten to death. In a couple of minutes everyone has left and a gigantic fist pierced the building making it crumble.

"Y/n! Let's go!" Luffy said as he came out of the clouds of dust.

"Luffy, that was awesome" you said, impressed by what you had just witnessed.

"Yeah, they deserve it, now where are the docks?"

"Oi Luffy! I told you not to go too far away!!" An angry woman yelled from the deck of a pirate ship when you got closer.

"We got just in time" Luffy announced as he jumped aboard carrying you bridal style and the red head looked at you with a questioning eyebrow.

'oh shit, is this the girlfriend?' you thought to yourself.

"Nee, Captain, who is this?" She asked as Luffy put you down.

"She's our new nakama, her name is Y/n" He said, putting you down.

"Nice to meet you, " you said, bowing to her.

 "Oi, Luffy, why did you destroy that building?" A man with a long nose asked, making you jump at his sudden apparition.

"I'll tell you later, where is Chopper? I need him to check on Y/n" Luffy and the reindeer came out of his office leaving you speechless.

"Chopper we got a patient!" Someone guided you to the reindeer.

"Oh! Right… Y/n should I get a handful or earth!?" Asked Luffy with a shout making you turn towards him. He was smiling so widely that it was contagious.

"Yes, Luffy, Thank you!"

• • •

Coming soon: Zoro Edition

[meta-squash]

Brick Club 1.5.9 “Madame Victurnien’s Victory”

This is simply a translation thing, since Hapgood translates it as “success,” but I think the title containing the word “victory” is interesting because it really implies that Mme Victurnien got something out of what she did to Fantine, that she “won” against Fantine. What she got was a sense of sated curiosity, a curiosity whose satisfaction ruined another human being.

Hugo starts the chapter off saying that Victurnien’s actions did some good, only he then reveals that Valjean never entered the workshop and explains that the overseer was only charitable from a certain angle. How is this good? Valjean, who is described as “even the best men,” is trusting that this woman’s morals are in line with his own simply from word of mouth, rather than checking in. He never sets foot in the workshop and has given her full power. Again, no wonder people are turning to sex work as a side hustle. How many other women has this happened to? And the overseer thinks she’s doing some good!

The overseer is “full of the charity that consists of giving, though to some extent lacking in the charity that consists of understanding and pardoning.” But isn’t this the entirety of Madeleine’s system and philosophy? He helps people by giving them money. He tosses money at them but doesn’t want to see the aftermath and doesn’t want to be the one doing the face-to-face benevolence. He can’t handle being responsible for problems that a little bit of money can’t fix. The only time he seems to do things face-to-face with others is when they specifically come to him (like as a judge or a settler of conflict); he doesn’t ever go to them. The overseer is full of the “charity that consists of giving” because that’s what Valjean’s rules teach. They don’t have space for sitting down and trying to understand. The morality of these rules don’t allow for that. If the only rule to work in this factory is to be an “honest woman,” how do you confront a structure that creates this desire to seek out and banish immorality rather than examine itself and its components for prejudices and then find ways to assist these women who clearly have little to no support?

I’m wondering too if Valjean’s rule fostered this rumor mill. Having a strict code of morality is a great way to foster ill will if people are more nosey or malicious or less mutual aid-minded than others. Especially in a factory where people are paid by their output. If someone is better than you at the job you share, it makes sense to start a rumor about them to get them kicked out so you become the one who gets their pay. This isn’t quite what happens to Fantine, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it happened to other women. In terms of Fantine and Victurnien, again this strict moral code is a breeding ground for the gossips and rubberneckers that Hugo described last chapter.

Valjean’s system just frustrates me so much. Again, putting so much power in the hands of a person without checking if they’re trustworthy or not, without having a system of “is this person treating my workers right” is just so....careless? That’s not exactly the word I’m looking for but it’s just like Valjean puts this morally strict system in place and expects it to just solve all problems. He’s busy helping other people solve conflicts and things and doesn’t seem to realize that these rules he’s put in place are going to create problems as well. Not to mention that everyone’s ideas of ethics or morals are going to be different. Would Valjean have condemned Fantine if he’d heard her story? We don’t know. But this overseer’s idea of the right thing to do and the right action to take may well be very different from Valjean’s intention upon setting these rules. Which creates circumstances like this.

Am I reading something wrong, or did the overseer not take record that she had given Fantine the 50 francs? I read “of which she rendered no account” as the overseer not bothering to write down the fact that she gave Fantine 50 francs from the money for donation and aid to workers. Is that right? If this is true than it would also give even more reason for Valjean to have no idea: if he doesn’t set foot in the women’s workshop but does look at the expenses, this wouldn’t have shown up either.

The landlord telling Fantine “you’re young and pretty” is a foreshadowing of the next couple chapters, but I also think it’s interesting that the landlord seems to insinuate that she could be a sex worker. Again, this is a garrisoned town. Sex work must be an open secret here, something Valjean maybe refuses to see.

I love Marguerite so much. I think this might be the first and only time Fantine has a friend who actually cares about her. It makes sense that Fantine would have a much older woman as her friend. Hugo says she’s wise, and I think that her sort of quiet wisdom would resonate more with someone much older than with grisettes her own age. Plus an older person might be much more patient with her when teaching her these new ways of living and maybe guiding her through actually noticing these social cues for the first time. Marguerite is kind of like Fantine’s Myriel; she is a pious and religious old woman who takes Fantine under her wing to learn how to live and survive. Only, rather than taking Fantine’s soul for god or anything, she’s giving Fantine a friend, which seems to be something she’s never had before. This is the first time we see Fantine talking to someone else as an equal.

Hugo mentions that Marguerite taught Fantine how to give up an expensive bird. It’s odd to me that this bird is never mentioned. When did she get a bird? If it was with her in Paris why did she not sell it to move to M-sur-M? However, I 100% understand owning a pet even when you barely make any money to buy yourself food. Pets make you feel better about yourself because you’re caring for and getting love from another creature. Fantine has now had to give up Cosette and her bird, both two small things she’s able to give her love to.

Fantine’s backstory is so odd. How did she not know how to “live poor” already? She was an orphan, and as we see later, orphans in the Brick (taken in or otherwise) are generally treated poorly and are exceedingly impoverished. How had she never lived in enough poverty to learn how to reuse things and give things up? This is clearly the most poor she’s ever been, and even Feuilly makes a good deal more than her later on, but it seems strange that even as a young child or teenager she didn’t live in similar poverty, if she was an orphan with no other monetary support besides her own work.

Fantine mentions that she only sleeps five hours a night. We don’t get a lot of mention of characters sleeping. A little here and there, but the Thenardiers don’t seem to sleep, like, at all when they’re in Paris. This is a kind of subtle aspect of it, but being this poor is crazy hard to get out of because it requires so much work. Fantine makes like 9 sous (I think?) making shirts. She’s taking up just under 19 hours of her day sewing, which I would imagine might produce maybe 3 shirts? Depending on whether she’s doing the entire thing from scratch or using patterns or taking someone else’s already fitted and cut out pieces and stitching them together. Either way, sewing takes quite a while, and if she’s taking 19 hours of her day doing that, she has no time to do things like look for a better job. And she’s also still in debt, so she can’t move somewhere with more opportunities, either. The Thenardiers barely sleep because they’re constantly trying to come up with ways to get money as well. Marius seems to barely sleep; he spends his time translating. Sleep is so rare in this book, it’s kind of a surprise when it’s mentioned.

“When one is sad, one eats less. Sufferings, troubles, a little bread on the one hand, a little anxiety on the other--all that will keep me alive.” More of Hugo’s weird thing about suffering. Even more than an ableism kink, he’s got this whole suffering = good thing going on. This is from 3.5.1, about Marius, but I think it summarizes Hugo’s opinion well: “Firm and rare natures are thus created; misery, almost always a step-mother, is sometimes a mother; destitution gives birth to might of soul and spirit; distress is the nurse of pride; unhappiness is a good milk for the magnanimous.” (Hapgood translation as I’m too lazy to transcribe from FMA.) Reaction to suffering is Hugo’s gauge for a character’s goodness.

Also, this line about bread reminds me of Eponine’s line about not eating for three days, only Eponine admits to the misery of not eating, while Fantine tries to keep things light and optimistic. Again, we have Fantine seeing things through a sort of rose-colored lens. This time I don’t think it helps much, but it’s also not concealing danger from her either. It’s just that Eponine has lived so long in poverty that hunger is just an aspect of her life, and misery is something she seems to have simply accepted, while this is still vaguely new to Fantine and she’s trying to figure out how to deal with it.

“In this distress, to have had her little daughter with her would have been a strange happiness.” Mostly I just want to hang on to this quote because it parallels the later line talking about Baron Pontmercy wishing to have young Marius with him. I made a post before about the parallels between Fantine and Pontmercy, and somehow I didn’t catch this one, but here it is.

Everything in this book is about money, about how to pay. Everything in life is about money. It puts Valjean in an expressly unique position as someone who has a frankly ridiculous amount of money compared to pretty much every other character. But everyone except Valjean and Cosette are so highly aware of money, of how much everything costs, and what it takes to pay for something. And really the thing about poverty is that “cost” isn’t just francs, it’s also time and labor and emotion. If Fantine had just the tiniest bit more money, she could send for Cosette, but would Cosette then end up like the child of Valjean’s sister, sitting out in the cold in the early morning after Fantine went to work but before the schools had opened? Sewing shirts takes time; that’s either less time to be with Cosette and nurture Cosette or less time making shirts which is less money. Making enough money to live means sacrificing so much.

Only now does Fantine seem to be aware of social cues, which now have turned into paranoia (though she’s probably at least a little right). Since the beginning, she hasn’t noticed when people are laughing at her or whispering about her or making fun of her to her face. Even when Tholomyes left, I doubt she noticed because all of the grisettes were abandoned at the same time; I don’t think she would have realized that for everyone else it was a little bit different. But now all those whispers and mocking and social cues have been thrown in her face, and now she’s seeing them everywhere. It sounds like paranoia, but I think she’s right, and Hugo basically says so about a sentence later.

“She came and went, head high and with a bitter smile, and felt that she was becoming shameless.” This is another reason why I Dreamed A Dream in English frustrates me so much. The French version at least touches on Fantine’s anger, on the ways she has begun to harden. The English version really does not do that at all. It is interesting that she longs for the anonymity of Paris, and in the end seems to decide to treat M-sur-M as though it was Paris, and go out brazenly anyway.

Mme Victurnien and Tholomyes are at opposite ends of the self-centered individual. Tholomyes fucked Fantine over but didn’t care or think much of it, because once he’d satisfied the amusement he got out of his affair with Fantine, he simply dropped her and probably never thought of her or Cosette ever again. Victurnien, on the other hand, turns Fantine into a weird sort of obsession. Instead of not caring about ruining Fantine’s life, that becomes a kind of pleasure for her. A “dark happiness,” as Hugo calls it. It’s a sort of sadistic schadenfreude. Tholomyes didn’t spend anything to abandon Fantine, he simply left to go back to the country. Victurnien spent money to destroy Fantine’s life. Both are so terrible because one is so deliberately careless and the other is so heartlessly deliberate.

A last thought which is just kind of a throwaway thing, but since gaining the “Fantine as autistic” headcanon from whoever it was that came up with it, I’ve been imagining Fantine’s love of brushing and braiding her hair as a form of self-soothing. I haven’t had long hair in over 15 years but I remember when I did, brushing it or having someone else brush it always felt really nice. Fantine’s hair is so beautiful (later on Hugo says it falls to her knees which is !!!!) and I wonder if part of that is because of how often she uses brushing it to self-sooth when things are terrible.

[cake-writes]

In Your Atmosphere (Part Three)

Pairings: Steve x Reader & platonic Bucky x Reader (mostly)

Warnings: PTSD / Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Anxiety Disorder, Panic Attacks, Mental Health Issues, Survivor Guilt, Eventual Smut 18+

Summary: The first time you met Steve Rogers, he kissed the hell out of you. It wasn’t the first time he met you.

Part Two / Master List

—

As the sun disappeared under the horizon, the compound became busier, almost bustling with activity as more and more people returned from their missions. Not that you noticed. After your brutal training session with Steve, you'd left him behind to finish his training and took another long, hot shower and then a nap, having been thoroughly and completely wiped out by the exercise. At first, you’d changed back into your casual clothes with the intention of exploring more of the compound, but once you went to rest your eyes for a minute you were out like a light.

The sounds of a heated argument followed by the slamming of a door were what woke you from your slumber. You couldn’t hear a lick of what had been said, but you ventured out into the hallway to investigate, yawning loudly. Your muscles were already singing from overuse – not even the hot shower had helped – and you’d feel it even worse tomorrow for sure.

The long hallway was dimly-lit, giving you the impression that it was much later than it actually was; a quick check of your phone indicated that it was a little after eight o’clock at night.

During your tour earlier in the day, you'd learned that this entire side of the building was residential, including the three floors above and the two below yours. It was evident that other people lived on your floor, the third floor, but you hadn’t yet figured out who your neighbours were. Your bedroom was in the corner, furthest from the stairs, and as you made your way toward them, you assumed that you probably wouldn't be finding out tonight. The other doors were closed, and it was far too quiet for your liking.

Your stomach growled and you gave up on your investigation to make your way to the kitchen. Considering everyone who lived here were all basically roommates, there were bound to be arguments. You knew from experience that it was hard to live with other people sometimes, and the Avengers were people, too.

The kitchen was deserted, and the dishwasher was running. It looked like everyone may have already eaten dinner. How did that even work, anyway? Did they share meals at the kitchen table, or did they eat separately? Who bought the groceries? Were they for communal use? At the very least you hoped that the answer to the last question was ‘yes,’ because you were starving.

Not wanting to accidentally steal someone else’s food, you took a mandarin orange from the fruit bowl on the table, in hopes that it would stave off your hunger while you tried to figure out what else you could eat without imposing. You took a seat at the counter and peeled the fruit as you scrolled through your Insta feed, liking a couple of Wanda’s posts. She was really excited about an upcoming high-end makeup release based on the female Avengers, herself included. She even had her own eyeshadow palette which you made a mental note to buy.

Just as you started to research the other palettes, a female voice piped up from the other side of the kitchen island. “Hey, you’re up.”

You jumped, slamming your knee on the counter in the process.

“God damn it, Nat,” you hissed, rubbing your bruising knee. “I hate it when you do that shit.”

She just grinned at you and took a seat at the counter beside you, peering at your phone. “Oh yeah, those are coming out next week. You’d better buy mine.”

“You know I will,” you told her, popping a piece of fruit into your mouth. Not that you knew how to use it properly, the makeup, but you liked to try anyway.

Natasha took a piece of your orange for herself without asking, but that was only because you’d shared plenty of meals before, namely when the two of you went drinking. It didn’t bother you in the least. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine.” You knew what she was asking, about how you were coping with what had happened earlier. At her skeptical look, you rolled your eyes. “We did some burpees and talked it out.”

Natasha snorted.

You frowned at her. “What? Exercise calms me down. You know that.”

You purposely didn’t mention the fact that you and Steve had trained together for over an hour, or that the sexual tension between the two of you had been so thick you could’ve cut it with a knife. It was unfortunate that your face heated at the memory, because Natasha didn’t fail to notice if the sly look on her face was any indication. “Is that what it does, now?”

“Yes,” you said exasperatedly, shoving the rest of the orange into your mouth.

She laughed again. “Burpees. Christ. You’re perfect for each other.”

You finished chewing and swallowed the fruit. “Can you not?"

She shot you another teasing look, but as per your request she changed the subject. “Have you had dinner?”

“No, I was going to ask. Is everything shared, or…?”

“Yeah,” she affirmed. “Pretty much. If you buy something for yourself, though, just write your name on it before you put it in the fridge. Otherwise someone will get into it.”

As if on cue, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier, walked in for a post-workout snack – at least that’s what you assumed from the gym towel slung over his shoulders. There were two large refrigerators in the room, one by the entryway and one near you, behind the kitchen island. He went for the former, from which he pulled out a random blue container and cracked the lid to peer inside.

“Like I said,” Natasha said, eyeing him warily, “Someone.”

You tried and failed to stifle a laugh. From what you understood, Sergeant Barnes had been through hell and back, so you couldn't really blame him. He was probably still adjusting to not being a human science experiment. That was probably a little more important than remembering to check a container for names.

“I only take Nat’s food,” he commented dryly, not even bothering to look over at the two of you as he popped the container into the microwave. “She likes to eat healthy. So do I. Your body’s a temple ‘n all that.”

You raised an eyebrow and glanced over at her for confirmation. She just shrugged. Well, you couldn't really blame him for that, either.

After the microwave started up, he leaned on the counter and finally spared a glance at you. Then he greeted you casually, “Oh, hey, Tang. Been awhile.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion. “What?”

That was when his eyes widened for a split second, and you could almost see the gears turning in his head as he realized what he’d said - not that you had any idea what that was, exactly.

“Sorry,” he covered quickly, “You, uh, look like someone I used to know.” As if that was a good enough explanation, he came over and held out his right hand, the flesh one, for a handshake. “Call me Bucky.”

“Nice to meet you,” you said politely, shaking his hand as you offered him your name.

Then he brought your hand to his lips, and pressed a kiss to the back of it with a crooked smile.  “Good to meet you, too, gorgeous.”

Maybe it was because your brain was already fried from the day’s earlier events, but you just gaped at him. That made twice in one day you’d been hit on, and by two Avengers, no less. Bucky was plenty handsome, of course: he had that sort of ‘bad boy’ appeal, with a bit of scruff on his face and a head of unruly brown hair. It suited him, but you couldn’t help but wonder how often it got in the way during fights. You liked to have yours pulled back out of the way, or cut short, depending on the mission.

The microwave beeped, then, signalling that his food was ready, and he released your hand to go retrieve it.

“I think you broke her,” Nat remarked.

“Nat,” you huffed, “You need to stop.”

You definitely weren’t used to this kind of attention. While in the past you’d been on missions where your role was that of a seductress, you’d never actually had that sort of appeal in your regular life. Today was a freak occurrence.

Bucky just laughed and, with his container and a fork in hand, he made his exit. He called over his shoulder on his way out, “See you around, sweetheart.”

---

What was meant to be a quick meal turned into a spontaneous girls’ night, with wine and cheese and stupid, terrible spy movies. That had always been a favourite for you and Natasha, because they were so hilariously inaccurate and the two of you loved to rip them apart. This one in particular was worse than most, but then again, you’d already polished off a bottle of wine each and were well into a third.

It felt so, so good to catch up with her. You hadn’t had a chance to over the last few months, considering how busy she’d been with the Avengers and how hard you’d been working to dig into SHIELD’s corruption. Every now and then, you did a welfare check on her to ensure that she was still alive, and of course she was. You had no doubt that she checked up on you every now and again, too.

Your peals of laughter spilled out of the living room as Natasha did a particularly awful impression of the female lead, who seemed to have no common sense whatsoever.

Sadly, your fun was rudely interrupted.

“It’s three in the morning, ladies. I can hear you all the way…”

Steve’s reprimand trailed off as he caught sight of you, and it was like his irritation seemed to just melt away. You were sitting cross-legged on the sofa, looking pretty as a picture with a blanket thrown over your lap, face flushed from the alcohol. He’d been able to hear all the excitement from his room upstairs, but he didn’t really put two and two together until he saw you. It wasn’t that he didn’t recognize your voice; it just caught him off-guard. It had been a long, long time since he'd seen you smile, and even longer since he'd heard you laugh.

You glanced over at Natasha, brows raised. “Uh oh,” you managed to say in between giggles, “We’re in trouble, now.”

“Busted,” she agreed with a grin, before she let out a sigh. “I guess it is getting late, though. Got an early mission.”

As Natasha got to her feet, Steve eyed the coffee table and spotted three bottles of wine, two of which were empty and the third, nearly so. Beside them were two wine glasses, a small platter of cheese, crackers, and grapes, as well as a half-eaten block of chocolate. Judging by the haphazard way the chocolate bar had been opened, with the foil ripped and crumpled in such a strange way, he guessed that it was yours.

“Aw, but the movie isn’t over,” you protested, reaching over to break off a piece of chocolate.

He was right.

“Sorry,” she told you apologetically, taking one last cube of cheese for the road. “Night, guys.”  

With one final pout, you said, “Bye, Nat.”

Steve didn’t miss the sly look Natasha shot him as she left the room, and his jaw tensed. He wasn’t going to live down the day's earlier events for a while.

“There’s still plenty of cheese left,” you called out to him, not wanting it to go to waste. “And wine, if you like that sort of thing.”

“What are you watching?” he asked you, slowly coming to stand beside the sofa.

“It’s called Hitler’s Mistress.” At Steve’s unimpressed look, you added, “His girlfriend is an American spy, except she’s really bad at it. Like, in real life he probably would have figured it out in the first two minutes of meeting her, bad.”

“That sounds…” he paused, wrinkling his nose as he tried to think of a nice way to word it, “not that great.”

“Oh, it’s hilarious,” you told him matter-of-factly. “It was supposed to be a love story, but it’s terrible. Watch with me?”

Considering his history, he didn’t particularly want to watch a movie about Hitler, but you really seemed to be enjoying it and he was awake, now. So, taking your word for it, he settled into the nearby armchair. “Sure.”

You were a bit disappointed that he didn’t next to you on the sofa like Natasha had, but that was fine. It was probably better that you didn’t sit together, considering, well, everything.

What you didn't know was that Steve had purposely not sat there for exactly that reason. He wanted to respect your boundaries, for one, and for two, he honestly didn’t trust himself around you, not after the stunt he'd pulled. In the end, though, he was glad that he stayed. The movie was absolutely terrible, and he got a kick out of it just as much as you did. Hitler was portrayed in a negative light, which was great, and it was even better that his ‘girlfriend,’ the spy, was so bad at her job and he still couldn’t figure it out. While Steve appreciated that, what he liked more was spending time with you.

Unfortunately, you were sauced. You put on pretty good front so as not to appear drunk, but tonight it wasn’t intentional; it had just become second nature to you now due to your job. And, quite the opposite, not once did Steve touch the alcohol. You got the impression that he preferred beer or spirits.

As the full extent of your inebriation started to set in, you found yourself staring less at the movie and more at him. God, he was flawless and so, so sexy even when he wasn’t trying to be. He was literally just sitting there, but all you wanted to do was get up, go over, and mount him like a stallion. Every now and then, Steve leaned over to take a piece of cheese or a grape - a simple movement, really - and when he licked his fingers, it lit a fire within you that just wouldn’t quit.

It didn’t take long for you to polish off the rest of the wine. There wasn’t much of it left, anyway, and you didn’t want it to go down the drain. At least, that’s what you told yourself. The real reason was because your nerves were shot.

That was a mistake.

The credits started to roll sooner than you would have liked. It was about four o’clock, now, per the clock on your phone. Even though you knew how late it was, there was just something about him that made you want to stay with him, spend time with him… maybe even sleep with him. No, that was definitely just the alcohol. With a heavy sigh, you unsteadily got to your feet and stretched, doing your best to ignore the growing heat between your legs, the lingering soreness in your muscles, and the fact that you’d had far too much to drink.

“You alright?”

When you turned your head to look at Steve, you swayed a little. “Peachy keen.”

You weren’t. You’d drank quite a bit, and he knew it, judging by the amused expression on his face as he pulled himself up out of the armchair. God, with even that simple action you could see his muscles flex and strain under his shirt. He wasn’t even doing it on purpose, which made it about ten times worse.

“Here." He held out his hand to you. “I’ll help you up to your room.”

How chivalrous. You wanted to swoon.

“But the mess—?”

Steve shook his head. “I’ll take care of it, doll. Come on.”

Your face heated at the casual address, and even more so when you took his hand, your skin tingling at the warmth of his touch. Still, you felt guilty letting him clean up after you, but you were in no state to try and collect the leftover plates and glasses without dropping them. Your words slurred just a little as you apologized, “I'm sorry for the trouble. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen Nat, and…”

“Don’t worry about it,” he reassured you as he eased you down the hallway. “Everyone needs to let loose once in a while.”

“Do you?” you asked him.

He pondered that question for a moment, before he answered, “Not as much as I should.”

“Well, that’s no good,” you said with a frown. “Have a drink with me next time.”

Next time. The phrase warmed his heart, but he got the feeling that it was just the alcohol talking. “Next time?”

You didn’t notice what you said until he mentioned it, and then you found yourself flustered, drunkenly babbling, “I shouldn’t have assumed– I mean, I’m a mess so I totally understand if you don’t want to—”

Steve said your name and stopped walking, giving your hand a gentle tug to stop you, too. "Hey," he said as you spun around to face him, swaying slightly. “I’m kidding. That sounds great.”

The halls, unlike the living room, were still dimly lit, and with the television switched off, it was quiet - almost unnervingly so. The only thing you could hear was the sound of your racing heartbeat in your ears as you looked up into his kind blue eyes, feeling absolutely minuscule in front of him. He was so tall, a fact you’d never fully realized until now. You loved it.

Despite your inebriated state, you didn’t miss the way Steve’s eyes flickered down to your lips. 

You needed to say something, anything, to break this tension, otherwise you’d do something you would absolutely regret in the morning. You’d always prided yourself in your professionalism: you weren’t the type to sleep with a coworker, and you didn’t plan to start today despite how incredibly tempting the prospect was. 

That thought sobered you up a little.

“Do you—” you began, throat dry, “Do you have a mission in the morning, too?”

Your sudden question brought him back to reality. “Oh, yeah. With Romanoff.”

You grimaced and gently released his hand, not wanting to take up any more of his time. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you up so late.”

“I think I’m old enough to make my own decisions,” he teased, “being 96 and all.”

Right. Of course. You knew his backstory, but having him come right out and tell you something like that came as a bit of a shock. Here you were, in your mid-twenties, being attracted to someone who'd been born nearly a full century prior. How stupid of you to assume that you'd be able to relate to him, someone who had grown up during the Great Depression. There was literally nothing in common between the two of you, no foundation upon which to even build a friendship, let alone a relationship. You felt like a moron.  

Well, you certainly swooned, but it wasn’t because of his chivalry.

“Whoa, hey.” Steve caught you easily as you fell, with one arm around your lower back. “Do you want to sit down?”

Your fingers embedded themselves loosely in his shirt as a flush of shame crawled up your neck. God, you were an idiot. Even now, you loved how strong his chest felt under your fingertips, the way he held you so securely, his warmth—

Your eyes fluttered shut, then, and your head lulled back as your consciousness began to fade. You could vaguely feel him pull you closer, and when he said your nickname again, you thought that his voice sounded so far away. It barely registered when he hooked his other arm under your knees to lift you up; instead, for a brief moment, it felt like you were floating.

That was the last thing you remembered.

---

Tags: @jennmurawski13, @patzammit

Part Four

[thecloserkin]

book review: Helen Oyeyemi, White is For Witching (2010)

Genre: haute literature masquerading as gothic magical realism

Is it the main pairing: no

Is it canon: no

Is it explicit: no

Is it endgame: no

Is it shippable: not really

Bottom line: if they’re not in love what even is the point? i feel like this story is a collection of twincest tropes someone slapped together without bothering to inject any chemistry

Twins Miranda and Eliot Silver inherit a haunted house from their lately deceased mother. Their father converts the house into a bed-and-breakfast, except the staff keep quitting because GHOSTS, and then Miranda goes missing. That’s the mystery at the center of the book. Where did Miranda go? What happened to her? Well to begin with Miranda was a very troubled girl:

My sister turned seventeen in a mental health clinic; I brought our birthday cake to her there.

Miranda has an eating disorder that has rendered her an ethereal sack of bones. Her father refuses to buy her new clothes; he insists she must fill out enough to fit into her old ones. She’s not interested in food but she’s got an insatiable hunger for materials like plastic and rubber and her go-to, chalk:

She took some chalk out of the pocket of her dress. When she offered Eliot a stick of it he looked surprised, but took it and stuck it in his mouth, pretended to smoke it like a cigar while she ate.

That’s beautiful, isn’t it? Sad but beautiful. The two of them sitting in companionable silence, Miranda chewing on a piece of chalk and Eliot not judging her at all.

when we were ten I always knew the meaning of the sounds she made, even when they were unsuccessful

The implicit contrast between when we were ten and now (late adolescence/early adulthood) is the yawning gap that has opened up between the twins—they no longer share every waking thought. This is them moving to Dover from London in the wake of their mother’s loss:

Miri and I conferred and decided we liked the tallness of the house … We liked that the passageways on each floor were wide enough for the two of us to stand beside each other with our arms and legs spread, touching but not touching.

I’m not even sure when he says they conferred that they were using words, you know? It’s entirely possible that telepathic communication came as naturally as breathing to these two. You have to remember the two of them were experiencing seven different kinds of upheaval and displacement—uprooted from their neighborhood, their classmates and friends and routines; motherless; plunked down in the middle of a new town; inhabiting a restless house that’s trying to inhabit them.

Miri is good at making friends, and I am good at tagging along on expeditions and acting as if the whole thing was my idea in the first place … Actually, when we were sixteen Miri gave me the task of telling Martin that he didn’t stand a chance with her.

Of course she delegates the task of rejecting a suitor to her brother lol. In addition, what this passage tells us is that they ran in more or less the same circles. They had the same friends. They were inseparable and they probably thought they would remain so from womb to tomb. Such sweet summer children they were.

She said, “You’re applying to Cambridge?” Uncertainty worked his mouth. She thought she had wobbled in her seat, then realized she hadn’t moved at all; the thought don’t go had flashed through her like a swarm of pins. Eliot was one of those boys that made girls go quiet. He was so beautiful that it seemed certain he was arrogant or insensitive or stupid … His bone structure was scary and unnatural and flawless. Besides that he was her knight.

Cue Miranda flashing back to when they were kids role-playing King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Of course she applies to Cambridge too, not in the expectation that she’ll actually get in but because she can’t cope with the idea of being apart from Eliot. She’s never been apart from Eliot. In one of those ironic quirks of fate she gets in and he doesn’t, and he watches her and all their friends go off to university while he takes a gap year in South Africa, during which his radio silence causes Miranda no end of anxiety. She thinks he is punishing her. They go from this:

Eliot lay under Miranda’s elbows, reading Moby-Dick while she used his back to prop up her collected works of Poe.

and this

Miranda was so cold in her bed that she knew she couldn’t survive it and knocked on the wall between her and Eliot’s rooms. With minimal grumbling, he came and climbed into bed with her and let her lie with her head on his breastbone, his arms around her

to this:

She thought of Eliot. He anchored her mind, a troublesome weight, reassuring.

She’s never learned how to be without him.

In addition to the Miranda POV there are three first-person narrators of varying degrees of unreliability: Eliot, the house itself, and a girl Miranda falls in love with at Cambridge. All three of them want different things from Miranda, and it’s impossible to discern who the “real” Miranda is or what she wants because she’s constantly being pulled in different directions.

SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS

So the house. It is perhaps not correct to characterize the house as the antagonist of the story, but the thing certainly lies at the root of Miranda’s mental health struggles. The house is sentient. The house is the repository of the souls of Miranda’s ancestors in the maternal line: her mother and grandmother and great-grandma, all of their personalities absorbed into a kind of mind-meld …. and you better believe that the Borg is coming for Miranda too. The house taking over Miranda’s body actually explains many of the gaps in her memory, and the fact that she looks like a completely different person from pictures taken only a few years ago. Eliot and Miranda’s father has a recurring dream where he’s trying to get into the house but the doors and windows are all boarded up, he’s hollering for the twins’ mother and there is no one to let him in. Eliot is afflicted by the same dream, only it’s Miranda he’s calling for, Miranda who won’t let him in. I bring up this parallel in order to observe that Miranda stands in the same relation to Eliot as their mother does to their father, and isn’t that interesting. It isn’t that the twins don’t have love interests, but these never seem to last: Eliot gets himself a girlfriend and it doesn’t work out; Miranda gets herself a girlfriend, brings the chick home for the holidays, and the poor girl is driven out of her wits by the toxicity of the house and its possessiveness of Miranda.

When their mother was alive she was really big on drawing BOUNDARIES between the twins. She tried to make Eliot understand that:

my pressing my lips to Miri’s nine-year-old heartbeat was not the same as feeling the blood move in myself.

But once they lost their mother they grew closer. This is the money quote:

everyone thinks that twin brothers and sisters grow up magnetized towards each other, the prince at the foot of Rapunzel’s tower before the tower is even built, the lover you can get at all the fucking time, the one who is you but a girl, or you but a boy, whose bed you know as well as your own. How could you endure that without falling in love? The question is, were they born in love with each other, these twins, or did it blossom? At any rate it’s already happened, the onlookers agree. It must have. Ask them when they fell. The brother and sister say no, no, it’s nothing like that, but what they mean is they can’t remember when.

!!!! Excuse me while I commission someone to engrave these words on a 24-karat gold plaque and hang it up in my living room. The book was worth reading for this quote alone. The Rapunzel reference!!!!!! Why the hell did Helen Oyeyemi not write a novel about incest in fairy tales:

A pair of hands slipped over her eyes and rested there, heavy and warm. The screwdriver fell. “Hello Gretel,” her brother said in her ear. She heard the screwdriver roll across the floor and knew he had kicked it … “Hello Hansel.” She laid her own hands on his wrists; he kissed the tip of her ear. “So we’re in a fairy tale … I knew it,” she said, as he led her out of the laundry room.

….instead of the book she actually wrote which obviously fell short of my expectations lol.

[askcarlyle]

[A contribution (in conjunction with @askbarnum) to FanFicFeb on @theothersidediscord for Prompts #6-8 & 27, “Are you sure?”, “Crossover/AU”, “Ice” and “Hunger”. Edited from the live version, which is continuing on server in a following installment.]

Barnum 

I’m telling you, it’s a shortcut. We will get to the Gala faster this way, it’s just a little bumpier that’s all. I let you drive, at least let me give the directions. No point us being late just because the light is getting low.

Nearly falls out of his seat in the small Spider phaeton as the horses pull them over a log as they precariously travel through the forest, now miles off the road. Grabs his hat to keep it on his head and steadies himself back to his seat with the other hand.

As long as we keep heading North we’ll come out on the other side of the forest right onto the back road leading out to the Chadwicks’ estate. Shouldn’t take more than a couple hours rather than the initial six. Watch out for that boulder over there. What’s with that look? Hey! Eyes on the road….lack of road.

Carlyle 

directs focus back forwards but continues frowning in disbelief

Are you sure? I think we've passed that pond before. There isn't even a path here, PT. The wheels aren't meant for this.

as if on cue, the carriage bounces violently over another indentation in the forest floor. A dark shape runs across their path, causing the horses to rear back and in turn sending the vehicle veering sideways

Aaaccckk....!

Barnum 

Gets knocked violently to one side, crashing into Phillip and throwing his arms protectively around him by instinct as the carriage crashes into the ground, two wheels cracking and skidding across the ground like skimmed stones on a lake, one disappearing into the undergrowth and the other breaking against a large tree trunk.

After the movement stops, takes a breath he didn't realise he was holding and carefully releases the other man from his grip, looking him up and down for injury

Are you okay? Are you hurt? Can you move?

Starts carefully pulling himself up, then becoming distracted when a distressed sound cries from the horses. Looking over just in time to see the two spooked white mares break free of their harnesses and gallop off into the woods. He scrambles up and out of the carriage as fast as he can and chases one for a few feet before realising it's hopeless. Watching them vanish with a breathless distressed stare.

Carlyle 

rubs forehead and clambers out of carriage gingerly, surveying the splintered remains in dismay

We just purchased this 2 weeks ago.

turns to see Barnum traipsing back through a stand of ferns after unsuccessfully chasing a horse

...and those would have been our alternate mode of transport out of here.

unhooks the one unscathed lantern from the side of the carriage and holds it up to get bearings

I don't suppose we know where "here" is, do we?

Barnum 

I'll buy you a new one, calm down.

Lets out a deep breath and wanders slowly back over to Phillip

We keep going North. We'll make it eventually by foot. You got comfortable shoes on?

Rummages in his pocket for his compass. Then rummages in the other pocket. then, looking distressed, takes his jacket off and shakes it to make sure the compass hasn't fallen into the lining

Must have fallen out while I was chasing them...

Wanders back in the dim light, squinting at the ground to try to find the compass. Deciding quickly that in the thick undergrowth it was a near impossible find.

Alright let's just....go that way.

Points in the direction one of the horses escaped

Carlyle

squints in the direction of broken branches and trampled ferns, holding up lantern. looks upward to gauge by the stars but finds the trees cover too much of the sky

I suppose that's roughly the direction we were headed?

hands the lantern to Barnum and reaches into carriage to pull out a thick blanket before motioning for them to continue onwards

Barnum

Takes the lantern gratefully and leads them onwards. Trying to keep to as straight a line as possible

They walk for hours, the light filtering through the trees fading to nothing and leaving their path lit by nothing but lamplight. He only slows to a stop when the oil in the lamp begins to run low. Feet aching and stomach growling from hunger, he rests the lamp down on an old tree stump and turns to Phillip, barely making out the shape of the other man in the darkness.

I'm not going to lie to you, I think we're lost. Don't think we are going to have much luck finding just about anything without any light either. Have you ever read that book, Robinson Crusoe? I read it to the girls once. I think we need to find shelter and wait it out until morning.

Carlyle

huddles next to Barnum, throwing half of the blanket over his shoulders

It's getting cold. If we stop moving it'll be worse. Didn't we pass some boulders a bit back? Maybe we could make some sort of structure using those as a wall?

starts testing some of the smaller saplings, looking for one that might be suitable to serve as a frame

Back in school, we had botany expeditions every term. We would go into forested areas like this and our instructor, Mr. Bartholomew, would also teach us a bit about survival craft.

pauses, looking off in the distance with a faint smile

He was a very knowledgeable and capable man. We'd call him Bear in the privacy of our dorms. Both because of his prowess in the woods and because he just seemed...

coughs and snaps off a sapling at the base

This should do!

Barnum 

Cups his hands in front of his mouth, blowing on them to warm them from the icy air. Giving Phil a appreciative glance for the half blanket

You've been camping before? That's useful. You know how to make a fire? I've made ones with old scraps of paper and trash before but never out in the wilderness like this. Not sure what kinds of wood burns best, or how you locate dry wood. It's only recently been raining.

Starts back in the direction of the boulders the recently passed, squinting in the dim light.

Some kind of shelter, then a fire.

Puts a hand against his stomach as they walk, feeling it grumble

Then food. Figure that out when we come to it. So...

Grins and nudges Phillip with his elbow

You want to tell me more about your school boy crush there?

Carlyle 

shrugs and sets the sapling against the boulder as they reach it, mounding soil and rocks around the base to anchor it

It wasn't a crush. We just appreciated how rugged and competent...

grabs several large fern fronds and works them around the wood to provide some shelter from the rain

...and inspiring and a robust and... Hey, maybe you can look for rocks for a fire pit?

Barnum

Inspiring and robust, huh?

Chuckles to himself as he places the lantern down again, reluctantly removing himself from the warmth of the blanket before wandering around the dimly lit area in search of rocks and stones.

I can't believe we are going to miss the Gala. First time we've been invited to anything in the upper class community since...at least since Jenny, I'm pretty sure.

Finishes making a rough circular mound of rocks, then moves on to finding wood, straying out a little beyond the light as he fishes his pen knife from his jacket pocket. Using it to saw off small branches of a nearby sheltered tree.

You know, this gives me an excellent idea for an act. Picture this; I tie eight of Deng Yan's sharpest knives to my fists, then two of the stage performers throw chairs and tables at me from around the ring and I cut them to pieces before they have the chance to hit me. The audience would love it, the sheer danger involved. Especially with their beloved ringmaster.

Dumps an armful of twigs and branches into the centre of the rock mound, wandering out to collect more but getting distracted by a bush covered in little red berries. Pausing to pluck a few and push them in his mouth, grimacing at the taste

Ugh, bitter.

Carlyle

finishes with the shelter and walks over to inspect firepit, just happening to glance over and see Barnum with the berries

PT, SPIT THOSE OUT NOW!

rushes over to brush them out of Barnum's hand with a look of horror

Don't you know those are poisonous?! You don't need knives to experience sheer danger out here. You can't just go around putting things in your mouth indiscriminately like that.

shakes head and stalks back to the shelter

There will be other galas, I'm sure. If we make it out of here alive.

plucks some dried leaves from a crevice in the boulder and carefully lights one from the lamp, then using it to start a small pile of wood shavings smoldering

Galas are rarely worth the fuss. I can count the number of decent ones I've been to on one hand. Admittedly, the Duke of Albany did throw a particularly memorable party...

Barnum 

Grumbles and spits the chewed up berries into his hand, dumping them in the bushes.

Thought they were just unripe blackcurrants. Relax, I only had a couple, I have a stomach of steel anyway.

Moves over to warm his hands over the gently smouldering firewood, watching in delight as it grows. Then sits down close to it, admiring the rather impressive little shelter

You made all that with twigs and rocks? Not bad. It looks almost waterproof. Wouldn't want to test that though.

Squints at the tree tops, looking for gaps in which he can see the sky. Silently praying for a dry night

Sorry. Admittedly I did get us into this mess. You were right, just this once. We should have stayed on the road.

Tugs the blanket back over his shoulders and holds one edge open to entice Phillip over

Duke, right? Another school friend of yours? You certainly were social. 

Carlyle 

tends to campfire for a bit longer, adding larger twigs to the steadily flickering pile as they dry out

The Duke of Albany. Very charming with an unexpected scholarly side that made for excellent conversation. Always ready with a comeback at the tip of his tongue.

gives the fire one last branch and scoots under blanket with Barnum, giving him a small nudge

Reminds me of you, actually. You rather look similar as well, now that I think of it. Any relation?

Barnum 

Barks out a chuckle at the suggestion

Albany, huh? I have to say I don't think I have any family roots in England. At least not for a few generations back. I do have an uncle from Australia, I think he might have married an English woman but I don't know the details on that one. Haven't seen him since he visited when I was a boy, strange man. Removed his shirt a lot and spoke non stop about horses and cattle. I should think your Duke situation is merely a coincidence.

Throws an arm around Phillips shoulder to pull him closer for warmth

Charming, hm? Well at least you resisted the urge to run off to England. You'd have been bored with a Duke. You'll never find someone else as creative and exciting as me.

Carlyle 

ducks head to hide a grin as Barnum's comment spurs a memory

You're the absolute opposite of boring, true, but he was actually quite creative in his own right. An inventor of odd devices, even. Sound familiar?

grabs another stick and draws a rough diagram in the dirt with several levers, a grandfather clock and a pair of tongs placed next to a fireplace

In the early hours at this particular party, he became so enamored of the idea of creating a machine for automatically browning slices of bread that he built it right in front of us. It worked perfectly, too, though it was rather unwieldy.

sets down stick and huddles back under Barnum's arm

Hmm. Toast sounds really good right about now.

Barnum 

Watches the diagram in amusement

That's actually rather good. I hope he made plans to develop that into something one could use in the day to day home.

Puts a hand on his stomach as it rumbles again

It does. Hot and buttery. With thick helpings of jam.

Leans his head against Phillip's head

Tell me, are you bothered by the sight of blood?

Carlyle 

turns sharply to eye Barnum with equal parts dread and concern

That's not ever a question one likes to hear. Did you accidentally stab yourself with that knife again?

Barnum 

Cocks an eyebrow at him disapprovingly

I told you before, that wasn't an accident it was a failed experiment. There is a difference, I knew the risks. No, It is just that desperate times call for desperate measures and I don't feel like spending the night hungry. I am going to get us some food, just a warning that it is not going to be the five star meal you're used to at home.

Carlyle 

grimaces as the point is understood

Ah. Erm...

stomach grumbles loudly

I suppose we can pretend it's chicken, right?

Barnum 

Gives him a reassuring pat on the shoulder as he stands up, wrapping the entirety of the blanket around his partner

Sure, whatever makes you comfortable.

Pulls his pen knife out of his jacket and loosens the buttons on his shirt, taking the fading lantern and stalking off into the trees.

If I am not back within the hour, I insist that my funeral be the biggest event of the year and am trusting you to see that nothing can top it.

Carlyle 

watches Barnum make his way further into the woods with growing doubt

Maybe we could roast some tree roots or something...?

Barnum 

Returns a good half an hour later, casually strolling back and putting the now extinguished lantern on a rock before moving over to Phillip, a rather large dead rat hanging by it's tail from one hand and his top hat under the other arm, he kneels down and unpacks a nest full of eggs from it.

You don't grow up how I did and not learn a few things. Think you can find a flat piece of slate or something we can use for cooking? You can do the eggs and I'll do this guy.

Holds up the rat almost proudly

It's not a lot but I don't know just how much walking we are going to need to do tomorrow, so keeping our energy up seems like a good idea.

Carlyle 

hides queasy look with great effort

It's a most admirable specimen. I've never seen such plump vermin before.

hurries off to fetch a suitable rock from the pile at the foot of the boulder and makes sure to avert eyes as he starts preparing the eggs

Impressive foraging skills, indeed. I'm not going to ask how you chased that thing down in the dark like that. Perhaps that's the real reason Ellie's so good at catching them back home.

Barnum 

Put the rock into the fire, just at the edge there. Wait for it to get too hot to touch, then you can start cooking.

Turns his back on Phillip to hide the gore in his own preparing, casually taking the skin from the beast and removing the bones with his small knife

Lot harder to catch than city rats. Not much chasing involved though, it's more sitting and waiting. Knowing where to find things.

Picks up a sharp stick to impale his work onto, gesturing for Phillip to look away as he moves it over the fire

Would have been easier in the light. Less intimidating too, I saw a boulder that looked remarkably like a bear and it frightened the living daylights out of me. The mind likes to play tricks in the dark.

Sighs as he sits back, shuffling tiredly while not taking his eyes off of the rat

I hope someone remembered to feed Ellie. She will be missing us, she howls when I leave her for too long. She is still only a pup.

Carlyle 

a couple hours later, with the remains of dinner cleared away, settles back under the shelter

You know, it actually was rather like chicken. To think, I was about to suggest digging up worms.

Barnum 

I've eaten those and trust me, you don't want to go there if you can help it. Glad you were satisfied though.

Half crawls around the fire to slump next to Phillip in the shelter, tugging part of the blanket over his lap as he sits facing the entrance with an exhausted look

You should get some rest, it's been a long day. I'll keep watch.

Carlyle 

shakes head vehemently

Don't be ridiculous. You're just as exhausted, if not more so. C'mere.

tugs Barnum over until his upper half is lying on lap, wrapping blanket closer around him

Dawn's not so long from now. The fire will last until then.

starts humming a low soft melody and stroking Barnum's hair sleepily

Barnum 

Hums tiredly, murmuring a half-hearted argument but giving up once feeling the comforting warmth of the other

Mmm. Could be bears though, or wolves. We might get disemboweled in our sleep. Not to mention that rat's friends might come back for revenge and eat our eyes out. Rat bites are not something you want, they get infected and you spend three weeks with a fever as well as a sore foot.

Rubs his eye with his palm, then lays into Phillip and closes them

Guess I'm a light sleeper anyway.

Sighs and subconsciously plays with the hem of Phillip's jacket under the blanket

S'cold out. Gonna be icy in the morning. Stay close, don't need you getting hypothermia.

Carlyle 

pats the lightly snoring lump on his lap with a contented mumble

Can't freeze. S'impossible when I've got my very own star right here.

yawns and snuggles in close, eyes drifting shut within seconds

Act I fade to black

[zarinthelwrites]

Blooming from the Mud Pt. 12 (Bleach/DGM)

He doesn’t come out of his rooms until evening, when hunger drives him from where he’d slipped from meditation into true dreaming.

The 11th Division mess hall is a war zone, full of loud shouts and always one broken bowl away from a food fight. Kanda snatches a clean, unattended bowl and chopsticks from an empty table and heads over to where the food is being dispensed from.

“Kanda!” calls Yumichika from his spot in the hall. “I saved you a seat!” He waves his hand over their table. Aside from Ikkaku snoring next to him, it is completely empty.

“Okay,” says Kanda, eyes going back to the food being offered. Tempura, soba noodles, ramen noodles...

Trapped in that house, cooking soba for lunch, for dinner, for Allen....

He gets the tempura. It’s not as good as when Jerry made it, or old man Zuu Mei before him. It’s the first thing he’s eaten in over a month that doesn’t taste like dust.

“You going to be taking another of the longer missions?” Yumichika asks, eyes fixed on the bright red nail polish that he is carefully checking for chips.

“Probably,” says Kanda. He has... a few more things to get in order before he leaves again.

“Heard you went with the Kuchiki Lieutenant. Want me to set up a duel?”

“With Sojun? No.” says Kanda. Ignoring the fact that the minute Sojun used his Shikai he’d be working on an at best five minute countdown to death, Yumichika was just checking that Sojun hadn’t said anything about Kanda being from the Rukongai.

“He’s annoyingly polite,” Kanda says. “And he thanked me,” he adds, offended.

“Terrible,” says Yumichika, eyes shining. “Oh, by the way...”

He looks like Lavi when he smiles like that.

“A squeaky someone left something for you!” Yumichika snatches another stack of papers from where Ikkaku had been using them as a pillow and waves them at Kanda. “Pretty brave of a 4th Division member to come here,” says Yumichika. “Or maybe not. For me to remember such an unforgivably bland face-- I think he might be the 4th Division member I press ganged into cleaning our bathroom a couple years ago.”

“Who cleans the other bathrooms,” Kanda half asks, half states. At best, ‘our’ bathroom means his, Ikkaku’s, Kenpachi’s, and possibly Yachiru’s. At worst.... Well.

Yumichika’s nose wrinkles.

“Some of the others use cleaning duty as the punishment for sparring losses,” he says. “What a hideous concept. If they want punishment for losing, then they should just die.”

“Sure,” says Kanda, taking the papers from Yumichika and looking over at them. These ones are dated for this week, unlike the previous piles of backlog that Ikkaku had dumped on Kanda. He rifles through them.

Mission Requests, Joint Mission Requests, some completed Mission Reports written in illegible handwriting, Noise Complaint, Notice for the weekly Captain’s Meeting, Notice for the weekly Lieutenant’s Meeting with candy! scrawled in bright red in the corner, Repair Expense Report, Repair Expense Report (Yachiru), Makeup Shop Expense Report...

“Are we allowed to just list anything we buy as an expense?”

“Why not?” says Yumichika. “All the Divisions get the same budget.”

“How big of a budget?”

“The 12th Division sponsors a subordinate research division with theirs.”

“Does Kenpachi need to sign off on these?”

“Ah.” Yumichika reaches towards Ikkaku and rummages around in his robes until he finds something and offers it to Kanda, who takes it gingerly. It’s a pale red jade stamp of two crossed bones beneath a five petaled flower.

“This is Yachiru’s signature,” says Yumichika. “Captain Unohana had it made for her when she joined her Calligraphy Club. Captain Kenpachi just gives any paperwork given to him to Yachiru, who folds it into paper airplanes. Don’t worry about losing the stamp, Yachiru’s got a bunch of them.”

Kanda tucks it into his now empty ration pouch.

“He also got a pen?”

“No idea,” says Yumichika indifferently.

Kanda stares at the paperwork in front of him. Is it giving in if he makes himself a desk? Does the Seireitei have quality wood imports? Well, all of the buildings are made of wood so they should have at least... some sturdy hardwoods that he can use. The Kuchiki’s probably know where to get cherry wood, if all else fails.

“If the pipsqueak comes back with more paperwork, just tell him to dump it in my room,” Kanda says, resigned. Fuck it, he’ll deal with that tomorrow.

Just then, Yumichika shunpoes on top of the table, a full bowl of slightly churning noodles now in his hands.

“Who dared through this thing at me!” He screams at a pitch not unlike a peacock’s early morning screech. He sights his target and throws, drenching most of a table with the hot liquid and sending the broken bowl shards flying everywhere. One of them brings the table down as they throw themselves at their unlucky neighbors, using the unprepared as human shields.

Kanda takes this as his cue to leave, making sure to step up and over Ikkaku’s head on his way out.

It’s remarkably quiet outside of the 11th Division’s compound. Kenpachi’s aura still bathes the roads in his enduring bloodthirst, but the noise and clangour are replaced with the wind whistling off of the white walls and rustle of trees in hidden pathways and courtyards.

It’s almost enough to make him relax.... If someone hadn’t been following him ever since he left the compound.

“What are you waiting for?” Kanda asks impatiently. “It’s late, and I’m alone. What better opportunity could you have?”

“I’m collecting data,” says the shinigami girl. She’s barely an inch taller than Kanda, with short black hair framing a round face and dark green eyes. She offers Kanda a clipboard. “Do you have a moment to fill out a quick survey?”

Kanda takes the clipboard and scans the questions.

You are a shinigami with a child’s body [Y | N]

Are you the product of an experiment?  [Y | N]

Do you have a mother? [Y | N]

--If so, have you met her? [Y | N]

      If no, do you want to? [Y | N]

      If yes, would you recommend it? [Y | N]

Do you have a father?  [Y | N]

--If so, have you met him? [Y | N]

       If no, do you want to? [Y | N]

       If yes, would you recommend it? [Y | N]

Do you have any parental figure?  [Y | N]

--If so, have you met them? [Y | N]

      If no, do you want to? [Y | N]

      If yes, would you recommend it? [Y | N]

“Yes, to the first two,” says Kanda. “No to the rest. How many child shinigami are there?”

“Only me, you and Lieutenant Kusajishi Yachiru, currently,” says the girl. “It’s an unfortunately limited sample. I am Number 7 Nemuri, but I will be inducted as a Lieutenant tomorrow, and then I will be Kurotsuchi Nemu, having proved the worth of my existence to my father.”  

“Your creator considers himself your father?” Kanda asks, confused. Director Touyi had been very clear on her relation to him being non familial.

“His blood runs through me,” says Nemuri. “Though I do not know if he considers himself as my father or is is merely indifferent to my delusions. I am a flawed product, after all. It is to be expected.”

“Have you already given this survey to Yachiru?” Kanda asks.

“Yes, Lieutenant Kusajishi Yachiru has answered the survey,” says Nemuri. “She responded with yes to questions number one and answered number five with ‘I have Ken-chan! He’s the best... he promised that he was the strongest and we’d stay together forever~’” Her take on Yachiru’s chirpy tone of voice was uncanny. “From that data point I have established a positive correlation between happiness with ‘parental figures’ and ‘long term oaths of loyalty’.”

Kanda’s vision flashes to a beautiful smile in a room full of corpses.

“I’m happy to see you, Yuu.. .But I’ve got to kill you now.” He’d been crying, Kanda could still remember. Smiling and crying and covered in blood. Thanks to the Noah, he could recall all of it as if it were yesterday, Alma’s face never fading.  

“My generation failed,” says Kanda. “Loyalty to the people who chained my soul to that body and gave me such a cursed existence.... I served them for ten years, but I can’t imagine feeling anything but hatred.”

He had hoped for their destruction so much that he had turned away from Allen’s own quiet screams in the hope that he might bring the Order down with him.

“You must hate me, then,” says Nemuri. “I hope to become a scientist some day, like my father,” she explains. “I’m to be his assistant in all of his experiments. Father and I... we are much alike.”

“As long as we’re alive...the humans won’t admit they're wrong.”

“I’ve never hated someone... for being any type of scientist,” says Kanda. Johnny, Reever...Komui. “Even human experimentation... I was never the one who cared about that.”

“Yuu... I’m so sorry for what happened.”

“How dare they! I’ll bring this up with Headquarters!”

“I hate people... who see each other as tools,” Kanda admits.

“Your data contradicts with Lieutenant Kusajishi Yachiru?” Nemuri clarifies. Her voice is shaking a bit, and sharp as she tries to ground herself with the survey. “Is her loyalty...

“Her loyalty is returned,” Kanda’s voice cracks and he hates this body. “That’s why... that’s why she and Kenpachi are so happy, I think. Because they made an oath to each other. To stay together....” Kanda searches for a way of conveying this that doesn’t include bringing up his own past. He doesn’t owe Nemuri anything. He didn’t even owe Allen his past, though the stupid beansprout had learned about it anyway.

Better or worse, that he had known what he was doing when he stabbed through Allen to attack Alma?

“Like your zanpaktou,” he says, nodding towards the green hilted katana at her hip.

“It is false,” says Nemuri. “I cannot imprint an asuchi, for I am not human-- I have no true soul.” Nemuri smiles sadly, and gestures at herself. “Even my father would not dare to thwart the law that prohibits the trapping of human souls. Instead, he settled for second best and made me, an artificial soul in an artificial body.

She spreads her arms, the expression on her face fading back into the placid neutrality she had first greeted him with.

“What a piece of bullshit,” snarls Kanda, mood twisting into something ugly. “You’re real enough. Being human--,” he stops, tongue growing heavy. Did he know enough about that to question her choices?

“Are you cold, Yuu?”

“Do you have something that you want?” Kanda demands, keeping his hands still at his side even as he wants to look down, to check that his guts aren’t pouring out in dripping coils as he speaks to this stranger.

“I... what?”

“A wish, a dream... a story that you would tell yourself when everything hurt and all you could see was the dark. Something stupid, something impossible. When your blood spills over the floor and it hurts so bad you can’t move, can’t even open your mouth to beg for it to stop. What do you think of, then?”

“I want to make father proud....”

“No. beyond that.”

Nemuri covers her eyes, shrinking away.

“I would think,” she mumbles into her hands. “Of the fact that I was built without tear ducts, so I could not cry, even though it hurt. I think I would like... to dig a grave for my sisters, and weep in front of that grave. I would like to be able to cry for people. Kanda... is it too much? Can I do that?”

“How would I know,” says Kanda, roughly. “When you want something so badly that you’d shed blood and tears and give your life to hold it for only a moment... isn’t that human enough?”

Nemuri stares at him, arms clutched around herself and eyes wide. Then she reaches out, and takes back her clipboard.

“Thank you for taking my survey,” she says, quietly. “You have given me much to think about.”

“...Yes,” says Kanda. “If you need another shovel when you start digging...” It was as much as he could bear to offer even now, with Kurayami’s promise still fresh in his mind. It felt like meeting Mugen all over again, constantly bleeding on the inside even as he got up to try again, and again.

“I will have to change my survey based on new data,” Nemuri says. He tilts her head to Kanda in a silent acknowledgement, and disappears back towards where she came.

[anxious-snake-blog]

A Pirate’s Life For Me: Chapter One

England, April 1756

The day was a typical hell for Grubbs. The sky was foggy and gray as it always was. It was almost six in the evening and since six in the morning, he had been out at sea fishing. Grubbs loved the sea for it was the only place he could be alone and free; however, he never went out far enough to enjoy it. He always dreamed of being a pirate. Just to be free from rules and routine. Every day, he would go to the same spot, at the buoys that were never to be passed and sit there for twelve hours just to fish. Some days were better than others but even good days ended with Grubbs’ bitch of a boss, Joanne. She was the only reason Grubbs had ever contemplated suicide, but his love for the sea kept him alive.

         Grubbs made his way to the dock on his boat and held up the two buckets of fish he caught today with his foot as the waves of the shallow waters rocked the boat. In the distance, he saw the seafood shop in which he worked. His dread during his approach to shore mounted as he saw Joanne step out of the door and wait for him with a scowl on her face. Her face seemed stuck like that because that was the only facial expression Grubbs had ever seen on her.

          Upon his arrival to the dock, he tied up the boat and removed the two buckets of fish and set them on the floor next to him. It wasn’t long until he heard Joanne’s familiarly aggy voice.

          “Morrison! Hurry up with those damned fish,” yelled Joanne from the shop, “you good for nothing bastard!”

          As usual, Grubbs rolled his eyes and wished Joanne would die so he wouldn’t have to put up with her anymore. With a sigh of desperation, he picked up the buckets full of fish and hauled it to the shop. “Where do you want them?” he asked Joanne as calmly as he possibly could, careful not to show in his face how heavy the two buckets were.

          “You know damn well where I want them!” Joanne spat. “Take them to the barrels in the back! And go around. I don’t want this place smelling like fish.”

          ‘It’s a seafood shop, you old hag!’ Grubbs thought. ‘The place smells like fish every damn day!’ Yet Grubbs bit his tongue as he did not want to get in trouble…again. He held his breath and hastily made his way into the alley, around the building, to the back. It reeked of fish and last night’s rainstorm. Not a pleasant combination. It took all of Grubbs’ willpower not to gag and drop the buckets of fish. Once he approached the barrels on either side of the back door, he quickly dumped the two buckets inside and made his way to the front.

          As he exited the ally, the bell from the clock in the middle of the town tolled and marked it the hour of six in the evening—and the end of Grubbs’ shift. A small smile appeared on his lips as he sighed in relief. He set the buckets down by the front entrance of the shop and started to head home.

          “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Joanne called to him.

          “Home!” Grubbs replied. “My shift’s over.”

“You good for nothing bastard!”

          As per usual, Grubbs ignored the insults from his boss as he made his way home.

The walk home was long, but worth every mile if it meant he was farther away from Joanne. All he had to dread now was the sight of her tomorrow morning.

           Every evening, Grubbs thought about his father and how he died when Grubbs was twelve years old. From what Grubbs can recall, his father was a pirate and died at sea, supposedly after he came into contact with the Flying Dutchman. It was then that Grubbs vouched to become a pirate and avenge his father. However, that was only a rumor. No one believed that the Flying Dutchman really existed, for it was only a ghost ship in nautical tales. But Grubbs believed it. He had not let it go. When out at sea every day, it took all his willpower to not go farther and live his dream. Multiple times, he’d gone out a little farther just feel free.

           Whenever he thought of his father, he wondered how he died. Was it quick and painless? Or was he mercilessly tortured? These are questions Grubbs asked daily. Was it honorable or was it cowardly?

His thoughts were cut off by a low rumbling noise and a few seconds later, he felt an uncomfortable movement in my abdomen. He was hungry. Twelve hours without eating every day took a toll on him at the end of his shifts. Every day, however, he would stop by the local bakery to buy some bread and pastries. It was all he could really afford with the little money that Joanne paid him.

As he approached the bakery, he began to reach into his pocket for the money. He knew exactly what he wanted to buy and how much it cost. He bought the same things every day. He walked into the bakery and breathed in the familiar scent of baked goods and bread. “Mr. Morrison!” a female’s voice yelled from the behind the counter as Grubbs walked through the door. The baker’s seventeen-year-old daughter ran the front of the shop while her father and older brother stood in the back all day baking. “You’re just in time! Father’s just finishing up your bread and mini cakes.”

“Good evening, Katherine,” Grubbs responded with a smile as he made his way to the counter.

“Is that Grubbs Morrison I hear?” a deep voice boomed from behind the door that Katherine stood in front of. Not two seconds later, the baker himself burst through the door. The baker was a large man, with a personality to match. He was friendly with everyone, but he was especially to Grubbs for the sole fact that he was great friends with Grubbs’ father. He looked after Grubbs when his father disappeared and he was the only one who believed Grubbs when he said his father was somehow still alive. While years later, the baker doubted William Morrison was still alive, he did not have the heart to tell Grubbs the reality. “How’s my boy doing today?” he asked.

“I’m doing fine today, George,” Grubbs answered. “Much better these days.”

“I hear you. How’s that old hag, Janice?”

“Joanne,” he corrected. “Still alive, unfortunately.” Grubbs’ boss was well known around the port as the ‘old hag who hasn’t croaked.’ The baker never respected her enough to remember her name. Whenever he asked Grubbs about her, the name changed each time to any female name beginning with the letter J.

“She’ll die soon. I can feel it.” It made Grubbs happy that many people shared the same resent towards his boss as he did. “Your bread is finished. Fresh out the oven. As are your mini seed cake and mini spice cake.”

“Amazing.” Grubbs was intensely famished from the day he spent out on that boat. He had not eaten before he went to work that day, a mistake he commonly made. He was just grateful that he survived long enough to make it to the bakery.

“Katherine, get Mr. Morrison’s bread and cakes from the cooling rack.” Katherine did as she was told and retrieved the baked goods from the back. When she came back, she placed everything on the counter and began to place them in a bag for him to carry. Grubbs put the money on the counter and grabbed the bag. “Do you need anything else?”

“No, this is all. Thank you so much. I greatly appreciate everything.”

“Wait, before you leave, I want you to take this.” As if that was a cue, George’s son came out from the back with a small cup. “I made this for you to try. Come back tomorrow to tell me how you like it.”

Grubbs took the cup and looked at the white pastry inside. He had absolutely no idea what it was. “What is it?” he asked.

“Syllabub.” With that said, the baker retreated into the back area where he emerged from before.

“You’ll like it. Trust me,” Katherine smiled.

“I don’t doubt I will. Have a nice night.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Morrison. See you tomorrow.”

With that said, Grubbs continued home.

Grubbs never immediately went home after the bakery. He never liked to eat at home. There was nothing to look at while he enjoyed his bread and cakes. He always wanted a view while he ate, something beautiful that would only allow him to think happy thoughts and amplify the taste of his food. He always opted for the docks. At this time of day, they were usually empty. Not many ships made port in the evening so Grubbs had them all to himself while he ate. He made his way to the outermost dock and sat down on the edge. He stared out into the horizon. He imagined a sunset in the distance because he could not actually see one since England never saw the sun. The sound of the waves was relaxing to him. He pulled out the mini spice cake from the bag and began to eat it. In his hunger, he ate it in almost four bites. Then he did the same to the seed cake. The two cakes did nothing to his hunger and he began to devour the loaf of bread, piece by piece.

When he was down to the last piece of bread, he took in the scenery of the ocean in front of him. It was definitely something worth admiring. Ships on the horizon, either sailing away or coming to the port. Almost all of the ships were recognizable—almost. There was one ship in particular that Grubbs did not recall ever seeing before. It was a frigate, from what Grubbs could tell and no battleships belonged to this port. It was also approaching the port. ‘Odd,’ Grubbs thought as he stared at the mystery ship and ate the last piece of bread. ‘Oh! The syllabub!’ He remembered the new pastry he was given and picked it up, examining it closely. ‘It looks really good. But I think I need a spoon.’ As he did not have a spoon, Grubbs decided to eat it nonchalantly out of the cup. It was not a solid consistency and he could almost drink it. It tasted of cream and cider. The blend was sweet and addicting. ‘This is delicious!’ He ate it quickly and immediately wanted more. ‘I’m going to add this to my list of things to get every day.’ He already began to plan to order it for the next day so he could enjoy it after his shift.

With all of his food gone, Grubbs took one last look at the horizon and the mysterious approaching ship and decided to get up and go home. As he walked, he began to think of his father again. Something that bothered Grubbs every day was the feeling in his gut that told him he was alive, yet no one actually believed he was.

           “How was your day, Mr. Morrison?” a voice asked. The suddenness of it completely derailed Grubbs’ train of thought. It was the elderly man who lived on the floor below Grubbs’. Grubbs didn’t know his name and never bothered to ask. Nevertheless every evening, the man sat outside the building, smoking his pipe and watched as people went by. He never seemed to look at Grubbs, but always looked ahead.

           “Same as every other day, sir,” Grubbs answered politely. The man didn’t seem to realize that Grubbs didn’t know his name--or he just didn’t mind.

           “That ol’ bitch Joanne still alive?” A small smile appeared on his lips, still not making eye contact with the younger man.

           “Unfortunately,” Grubbs replied with a small polite laugh.

           “It’ll happen soon. I can feel it.”

           “I look forward to it.” As Grubbs was about to walk inside, the man spoke again.

           “Grubbs...” his voice was ominous and caused Grubbs to pause.

           “Y-yes...sir?” He was baffled. In almost ten years, the man always addressed him as ‘Mr. Morrison.’ Grubbs only ever mentioned once to the man that his name is Grubitsch but he never mentioned that he goes by Grubbs. It was odd to hear the old man call him something other than ‘Mr. Morrison’, and with such a dark and unsettling tone.

           “Dead men tell no tales...”

           “I-I’m sorry?” he responded.

           “Beware the undead man of the sea.”

           ‘What does that even mean?’

           “He who captains the Flying Dutchman.”

           Grubbs’ eyes widened at the mention of the ghost ship. “The Flying Dutchman?” Grubbs rushed. “What about it? What about its captain?” He was eager for an explanation. Why was the old man mentioning this out of the blue? Did he know something about Grubbs’ father?

           “You will experience deceit and the highest degree of grief. Trust no one.”

           “What do you mean?”

           A few seconds passed, with the feel of eternity to Grubbs. The man looked at Grubbs with wide innocent eyes; the first time he ever made eye-contact with the young man. “What?” the old man asked as if he just joined in on the conversation.

           “The Flying Dutchman,” Grubbs said. “And its captain. You mentioned them, telling me to be cautious. And you said I would experience deceit and grief and not to trust anyone.”

           “I’m sorry, I do not recall.”

           Grubbs felt his heart sink as a wave of disappointment washed over him. “Right...okay. Never mind, then. Have a nice night.” With that said, Grubbs started to walk inside.

           “You too, Mr. Morrison.”

           Grubbs paused for a second before he shook his head and continued on into his home.

           Grubb’s home was a three-story building, or rather a two-story building with an attic, in which Grubbs resided. It had been converted into an apartment of sorts. In the attic, Grubbs had his own toilet and sink, but he did not have a kitchen. He had lived there since his father’s disappearance. A newlywed couple who was expecting their first child in the coming months occupied the first floor. Grubbs never really associated with them other than the occasional greetings upon passing them by the front door. The old man outside occupied the second floor. He owned the building and took Grubbs in when his father disappeared. He never made Grubbs pay any sort of rent and for that, Grubbs was grateful. However, it was unknown to Grubbs whether the old man made the couple downstairs pay rent.

           Grubbs made his way up the stairs to his attic and went straight to his window where he had a view of the harbor. He opened his window and took a long stare at the strange ship on the horizon. It wasn’t flying any colors that he could see. ‘Hopefully, they’ll bring business to this dead port,’ he thought with a yawn. He left his window open and began to take off his shirt as he made his way to his bed. He was exhausted from the day. He fell onto his bed and listened to the familiarly calming sounds of the harbor and civilization outside his window. As he slowly drifted off to sleep, he could only dread having to wake up for work the next day.