#Air Cannons Market

[gojo-mochi]

OMG- ur frat boy au 😩

But I def head cannon that law even though he is more reclusive than the other frat boys he does occasionally participate in group tutoring and has you sit next to him and when you start to tease him during the tutoring he would start to tease you back but actually like finger fuck you or play with your clit as a punishment for making him distracted while he's supposed to be getting his service hours in.

I also hc that for Ace ( my love 😍) would absolutely 100 fucking percent would tutor you or your tutoring him in the library in the middle of the night when no one is around and is having you read out loud for him and he's absolutely going ham in your pussy with his fingers and he makes you squirt on the textbooks making them get all wet and dirty with your juices so he makes you go up to the librarian and report that you accidentally got a book wet.

Jdbfwhebwhh- I fucking love ur frat boy au tho like 😩 I would actually do anything for men who are frat boys like-

Sorry for the late response! I wanted to write something for this and things kept piling up BUT i'm here now and thank you so much for liking my frat boys! Heeh ٭(•﹏•)٭

Law is so mean!! So, so mean god… But he likes it (secretly) when you tease him by wearing those short miniskirts, and wearing no panties during your tutoring session!?! You were def asking for him so don’t cry to him when he’s keeping you on edge the whole time and you better answer his question correctly to show that he’s a good tutor or else…..(ﾉ´ з `)ノ

THAT SO DIRTY ACEEE RAHHHHH, god.. He such like a fuckboy (in my story at least) JUST THAT puppydog sweet boy look with a fuckboy personality just hit so gooooooddd ughhhhh thank you for giving me these prompts! Hope you enjoy the fic! (◕ㅅ◕✿)

CW: Toxic! Law and Ace (My version of them as fratboys! Not canon-adjecent! I love these sweet boys), mention of cheating, manipulation, P/V, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, squirting, voyeurism.

Word Count: 7k

A/N:THank you so much to @kazieai for being my beta reader!!!  ( ˘ ³˘)♥ Little surprise at the end of Ace eheh <3

Tutoring Session with Law: 

Group study session means less time he has to waste actually tutoring since he can just cross off a lot of extra hours by helping everyone at once. He would never admit it out right to you or anyone for that matter, but you were his favorite student by far. Not necessarily because you were a good student or anything like that. It was because in every session he had with you, you always wore the shortest skirt paired with something low-cut so when you lean over the table to ask a stupid question, his eyes would get a nice view of your chest. By the third session you had with him, you forego wearing a bra and just let your nipples get all perky from the nice cool library’s air conditioning. 

He really punished you the first time you did that, pulling and tweaking at your little nubs until you were crying from oversensitivity. Only to soothe away your cries with his skillful tongue and fingers digging deep in your pussy. You loved it though, teasing Law to the point where he lets go of his restraints and just bends you over the table and starts punishing you. It’s a good stress reliever for both you and him, of course.

Law almost denied your request to join him and other students in group studying, knowing that you’ll try to pull some kind of dirty trick while he’s trying to finish his service hours. Though once you gave him your sweetest puppy dog eyes, he caved in pretty quickly. And to his surprise, you showed up wearing something that actually covers your skin and wasn’t just some torn cloth marketed as “clothes”. A simple turtleneck sweater with a matching skirt and silk stockings to top it off. 

Law eyes you warily when you plop down on the seat next to him, but says nothing to you and focuses on the other students instead. You pouted at him and pretended to write down some notes or read the textbook you were assigned. Absent-mindedly flipping thru the pages, barely paying any attention to the words. You hear Law sigh a lot during the session, pencil tapping against the wooden table when he sees one of the other students typing away at his phone under the table. 

His other student doodling in his notebook, not paying attention to anything Law was trying to teach them. It was you, Law, and two other male students all huddled together in a corner of the library. While he could just pretend to teach them and get this session over with, he wasn’t sure if his hours for this would count if half of his students were gonna fail or get worse grades after his tutoring. At the very least, he knew you would retain some of his teachings, you knew you would be punished if you didn’t after all. 

And it wasn’t the fun kind of punishment either, the one where you were left wobbling with red cheeks afterwards. No, if you end up failing a quiz or your grades drop even a little, Law would either ignore your attempts to reach out to him or worse. He would openly flirt with someone in front of you, most likely one of the girls from the sororities his fraternity would often host parties with. He would prance around with one of those girls strapped to his arm, nodding and using his fake smile on them. Knowing how much your blood boils when those girls start pressing their boobs on his bicep, that was your job, goddamn it!

You took your anger out on your studying, furiously writing down notes, huffing and puffing through your textbook, and staring holes in your teacher's skull during lecture. All so you could get one of the top grades during the test next week and so you could flip off the sororitie’s girls when Law publicly praised you and you pulled him in for a steamy kiss. No one was really sure if the two of you were actually dating or fucking around. Whatever kind of sick game the two of you were tangled in, the other frat members knew not to fuck around with you. Law has special access to the chemical lab at the university and he made vague threats about poisoning his brothers if they tried anything with you. 

You rolled your eyes when you found out about it, but secretly it made your heart skip a beat, seeing how possessive he would get over you. You could see now by the way his brows were furrowed in that Law was getting more than annoyed. You decided to fuck with him even further, by inching your leg over to his side. Slipping out of your shoes and going over to Law’s side and nudging his ankle softly. Law glanced at you from his side vision but you pretended to be writing down something in your notebook instead, not paying him any mind. 

He pinched the bridge of his nose and took in a deep breath, deciding to focus on the other students first. Law grabbed one of the heaviest books on the table and slammed it down hard on the wooden table. The thump made everyone else jump a little, all eyes were on Law now who just glared back unamused. 

“Now that I got everyone’s attention, I’ll be honest and say that I don’t give a fuck about any of you.” He takes a quick glance your way as he said that but focuses back on the boys. One of them tried to open their mouth to speak back but Law cut him off. “That being said, we all are here for a reason, and my reason is that I’m forced to get service hours or my lab privileges are revoked.”

He grabbed a pen in his hand and point it at the male students, “And trust me, if my lab privileges on campus get revoked, I will find a way to set up a new one, and I think the first test subjects I’ll use, are the dumb-fuck students who fucked me over.” He said in a casual tone, twirling his pen around his fingers, the students gulped nervously just now noticing the tattoos on his hands. You suppressed giggling at this tense moment, feeling your heart flutter whenever Law gets like this. 

You quietly scoot closer to him, rubbing your foot up higher on his calves and resting a hand on his thigh. Law continued on like nothing was happening, “So, I suggest for the sake of all our sanities, that you two actually get to studying.” He leans back in his chair and spreads his legs apart wide, knocking your leg back a bit. You pout at this but it didn’t deter you, moving your hand further down and squeezing his bulge a little bit. Already hard and poking through his jeans, you bit your lips at the realization. 

Scooting your chair even closer until it was right next to Law’s chair, the other two boys were too scared to pay attention to you or your antics. Law’s lip twitched but he pressed on forward, instructing the boys to open their own textbook and start listening to his lecture. While you do love his voice, hearing him drone on about molecules and compounds didn’t really help make you wetter. 

You decide to get bolder and unzip Law’s jeans very slowly. Your head turns to face him as you do, pretending that you’re really listening to his lecture but in reality you just want to see if he could maintain a straight face while you slip your hands inside his pants. His eyes were pointed at the two other students, glaring harshly making sure that they were taking down the right notes. With his legs spread wide, you had easy access to fiddle around with his bulge. 

“Wrong, redraw the structure of that compound again, you missed an oxygen in there.” Law drones out, flicking some eraser shavings over to the student’s paper. All the while your hands dips down lower and lower, cupping his balls in your warm hands and playing around with them in the way you know he loves. Law grunts softly in response but does not take your hand away, you bump shoulders with him and pout. 

“Law, can you look at my notes too? I’m not sure I did it right…” You whined, squeezing his balls a little harder to make sure he turns his attention to you. This time Law grabs your wrist firmly and yanks your hands out of his pants. His eyes turned to you, and you flinched back a bit at the heavy glare. 

Perhaps you went a bit too far this time with your antics, he turns his body towards you and looks over your notes, all the while his hand still holds on to your wrist. He points over some areas you should’ve written down more information and silently moves his hands off your wrist and down onto your thigh. You looked down at his hand but he snapped his other hand in front of your face; “Oy, pay attention, ya?” 

You flinch back a bit as his hand inches further down your thigh, his long fingers tracing around the edge of your skirt. His golden eyes piercing down your soul right to your pussy as he makes you rewrite some notes down before turning his attention back on the other students. You fidget under his cold hand, causing him to pinch your skin lightly. A silent order to keep you still and the others unassuming. 

The grip you had on your pen was shaking a little by now, his hand getting bolder with each passing second and he wasn’t even looking at you when his fingers finally reached out and poked at your panties. Well, he would have poked at your panties, if you were actually wearing any today…

You fought back a yelp as his finger pushed past your walls a bit, his nails scraping against your softness. Meanwhile, Law had to maintain a straight face once he realized that you weren’t wearing anything down there today. Oh, now you were in for it…

Law wasted no more time as his skillful fingers plunged right back in, pointer and middle finger sliding down your slick walls, as his thumb gets placed right on top of your clit. Gently rubbing it in small circular motions. With just enough pressure for you to feel it but not enough for you to fully enjoy it. You tried to buck up your hips to get more friction but Law just pinch your clit in response, making you hiccup out loud, having everyone's attention on you. 

You shy away from their gazes, your face heating up especially from Law’s eyes on you. You cough awkwardly and point to your water bottle; “Heh, just a dry throat.. I’m alright.” Your shaky hands grabbed the bottle and you chugged down the rest of the liquid inside as the other students went back to their notes and Law’s fingers went back inside your cunt. 

Only his middle finger this time, Law slowly sinks his long digit in and out of your pussy, covering his finger in your sweet slick. All the while, he maintained a bored expression on his face and actually started tutoring the other students. They were whipped into gear now, asking questions and asking for help on parts they weren’t sure on. This session might turn out great at this rate, but you couldn’t really give a shit. 

You wanted Law to give you more attention, more friction, you wanted his cock inside of you now. Or at least more of his fingers, he was hitting the right spot but it wasn’t enough for you, barely enough for you to feel that spark of pleasure each time he curled his finger in. You bit in the inside your cheek as you dared to bring one hand down under your skirt and start playing with your clit yourself. Of course, Law did see you doing this, but he did nothing to punish you for it at the moment. Instead, he actually plunged in another finger inside your tight walls, scissoring them outward as your own fingers start to play with your clit. 

You knew that a punishment was gonna come sooner or later, but the pleasure felt so good to care at this point. Your own fingers started to speed up along with Law, and just when you were finally reaching that point of pure ecstasy, he pulled his fingers out, causing a needy whine to slip past your lips.

Everyone’s head snapped towards you, Law calls out to you with a faint smirk painted across his face, “Oy? Everything alright there?” He leans into your space, smearing his slick-covered on your forehead as he pretends to check for a fever. Your face heats up even more at the contact, wanting to slap his hand away but not wanting to cause any more suspicion. You meekly nod your head while glaring sideways at Law, he pulls his hand away with a sigh and motions for everyone to start working again. 

“Alright, the library closes in 30 minutes so everyone listen up. I’m gonna go over the most important parts you need to know for the upcoming exam.” Law snaps his fingers and holds out his notebook for everyone to see. “Let’s make the most of our time now, so we never have to see each other again, yeah?”

His eyes gaze over everyone, gauging their reaction and seeing if they were actually paying attention to him. You were still glaring at him but at least your eyes were on him as well. He nods and leans back in his chair, holding up his notebook in one hand as he casually flips it easily by maneuvering his fingers around the pages.

His other hand went right back to its rightful spot, in between your legs, not that you were complaining. You may grumble or whine about it later to him in private but as of now, the need to be fucked overrides all your other senses. With a few taps on your thighs, you readily spread your legs apart for him. 

“...the most important thing is to remember the oxygen count…” Law rambled on and on, his voice drowning out the small wet plapping noises he was making underneath the table. He made sure to keep eye contact with you on occasion as well, not letting your eyes close or wander away from his lecture. 

Your own hands balled up into tight fists on your lap as you desperately try to keep calm and still while Law finger-fucked you under the table. His thumb sporadically swipes at your swollen clit, just to keep you tethering on that sweet euphoric edge. 

“..you can skip remembering all the structures if you’re better at remembering the formula for them, just bullshit it enough and the professor will go easy on you…” 

You dug your nails into the palm of your hands, your thighs shaking around Law’s hand as he added another finger inside. His thumb picked up the pace and you slowly felt your self-control slipping away. 

“Well, that’s about covers most of it, does anyone have any questions?” Law draws out, looking around the table and stopping at you. His eyes glinting at your nervous face and carefully watching for your reaction. “Y/N? You seem like you have a question you want to ask, no need to be all shy now~” He teased a little at the end, and now everyone’s eyes were on you. Your mouth flounders around a bit, as you try to find your voice. 

“I-um don’t really hav-ahhiee!” 

Law being the prick that he is, made sure to pinch on your clit right in the middle of your sentence. Making you scream out loud, your scream echoing in the quiet library air. Your whole face burns with embarrassment as you hear Law quietly snicker to himself at your side. The other two students look at you with a mixture of confusion and redness on their faces. 

Before you could try to explain yourself, the librarian pops out of nowhere with an angry tick marked on her face. She points to her watch and clears her throat loudly in annoyance; “While it is nice to see students finally studying for once in here, I must warn you that the library closed around 10 mins ago. So please kindly pack your stuff and head out.”

She clicks her heels together and gives the group one last glare before huffing and leaving. 

“Uh.. thanks for the session, dude. I’ll just head out now.”

“Yeah… me too.”

The two male students quickly gathered up their stuff, ready to bounce from the tutoring session. Law waves them off after giving them one last order, “Don’t forget to sign the paper to let the school know that I tutored you, cause if you don’t, I’ll come find you..” 

They both nod in unison and scuttle off, while you smack your face in your hands. Letting out an embarrassed groan over the events that all occurred. Ready to get up and go scream about it later in the comfort of your bed. However, Law had other ideas as he grabbed your wrist and pulled you into his chest. 

A hand on your cheek as he hooks his thumb inside your mouth, forcing you to look directly in his golden eyes. 

“Hold up, you’re not thinking about leaving this place while you’re still this messy… were you?” To emphasize his point, his other hand comes down under your skirt to swipe up on your wet cunt. Collecting some of your warm cream on his fingertips and stuffing them in your open mouth forcefully. Mixing your own cream with your spit on his fingers for a while, wiping the excess on your lips and cheeks as he pulls out his fingers. 

He gathers up all the items left on the table and unceremoniously dumped them into his backpack. Slapping you on the ass and leading you to the bathroom for some extra tutoring.

“Guess, I’ll have to teach you to clean up after yourself too. Be grateful, ya? I don’t just do this for anyone.”

Tutoring Session with Ace:

“Ac-Acee-hnggg We ca-can’t keep doing this.” 

You attempted to keep your voice as low as you can, while being pounded from behind that is. Ace’s large and warm hands gripping tightly on your waist, his thumbs digging into your sides, leaving marks for the future. Your incessant whining only fueled Ace to bury his cock deeper inside you, his hips slamming against your ass with each pounding. 

The chair you were gripping on for balance starts to wobble under the increasing intensity, your nails dig into the wood for any semblance of purchase. Leaving scratch marks that will surely get you in trouble if the librarian ever finds them. Ace bends down, breath tickling the back of your neck, his hot tongue licking up a stripe of sweat beading down your skin.

You bite back a moan, eyes darting around to see if anyone was passing by to catch you in this sinful act. Though with the pleasure building up inside of you at a rapid pace, you find it harder and harder to keep your eyes open. And just as you were about to cum, Ace bit down on your shoulder, hard.

The stinging pain went straight down to your core as you cum almost violently, your pussy clenching down on Ace’s cock which was still buried deep inside your womb. He insisted on not wearing a condom since, “It doesn’t feel good, and none of the sizes fit him anyway.” 

So, all of his cum spilled inside, filling you up to the brim as your legs shake underneath. Your head falls down on the seat’s cushion, while the rest of your body is being held up by Ace. He licks at the wound on your shoulder, lapping up some blood droplets that were seeping out. You groan when his licks start to get more and more sloppy, much akin to that of a dog. Specks of spit start hitting your cheek as he starts to shake his head side to side with his tongue still hanging out. 

You hiss at him and turn your head to look over your shoulder as you try to push him away. He laughs at you with a wide smile, leaning back and pulling his cock out and watching his seed begin to spill out as he does so. He grabs you by the waist and tugs you back into his chest. Spinning around so that he could sit on the chair with you snug on his lap. He spreads your legs open with his own, turning his head around as he searches for something on the ground. 

“Ah! There you are!” 

He smiles as he bends down to pick an article of clothing off the floor. He shows off your own cute pair of panties right front of your face, leaving you dumbfounded for a second. His smile grows mischievous like a cat that just got into something they shouldn't have. 

Ace hums to himself as he spreads your legs wider and reaches down with one hand and parts open your pussy with two fingers. Some of the cum starts to spill out, coating his fingers in the process but Ace happily purrs at the sight, bringing the panties down as well to wipe up his mess. 

“Ace!”

You whispered-yelled in both embarrassment and a bit of anger, you wiggle on his lap, hands pushing on his biceps to try to get away from him. Your efforts were useless as Ace just continued on cleaning up his cum dripping out of your sensitive cunt without a care in the world. Even humming a little as he does so; 

“...and the girls say, Save a horse, ride a cowboy..”

You sort of regret showing him that song, he loves to sing it especially when you’re riding on top of him. With a few more swipes up and down your pussy and a few bites from you on his biceps, the task was finally done. Your now cum-soaked panties were once again brought right up to your face as Ace showed off his work. 

“Ace, what the fu-mmph!”

Just as you were about to start to scold Ace, he unceremoniously shoves your ruined panties into your open mouth, gagging you in the process. Your slick and Ace’s cream started coating your tongue, letting you fully taste the sinful mixture of your actions. You had enough and ripped your panties out of your mouth and smacked it on Ace’s face, which he didn’t really seem to mind. 

“Ow, ow, Ok, I’m so-OW!”

Ace yelped and jumped up in pain, pushing you down to the ground in the process. Holding his crotch with both hands as he looked at you with teary puppy eyes. 

“Sweetheart! How could you hurt me in my most precious area like that?”

He rubs his crotch a little and looks down at it with a heavy sadness in his eyes, while you roll yours in return.You go over to slap him hard on the back as you begin looking for other pieces of your clothing scattered across the floor. Not your first time being fully naked in the back of the library but you were already caught once and you weren’t looking forward to being caught a second time.

Thankfully, it was just another member from his fraternity who caught you two. A sort of mean-looking guy, you think his name was “Lawrence”? or something close to that. He’s a fellow tutor but you really haven’t crossed paths with him often, he usually keeps to himself. You remember at that time you had your back against the wall while Ace held you up, fucking you against the wall. 

So you were the first one to notice “Lawrence” come around the corner, the only look of surprise on his face was his eyes widening a little before he gave you a little smirk. Leaning on the bookshelf, with a smug little smile on his face as Ace kept pounding inside of you. You tried to tell Ace that someone was here but your moans kept cutting you off and Ace was too pussydrunk to care at that point. 

You hid your face in Ace’s shoulder, embarrassed to be found in such a position. You peek over at your fellow tutor, finding “Lawrence” rolling his eyes at your shyness and getting off the bookshelf and taking a book out. He waves goodbye to you, and leaves soon after. You told Ace what happened afterwards, but he just said, “Oh yeah, us frat boys do that all the time. We like to share sometimes, ya know?”

You didn’t know and you weren’t sure if you wanted to know more. You shook your head free of these memories, patting your skirt down and making sure that your shirt was buttoned correctly. Now that you were fully dressed, just without your panties, you were ready to continue on with this “tutoring session”. You hear the sound of shuffling behind you and then a heavy weight on your shoulder as Ace sets his head down and begins to whine in your ear.

His arms snaking around your waist and pulling you back into his naked chest, at least he put his shorts back on this time.

“Come on, puppy-boy, time for us to actually study.”

Ace whines ever harder at your statement, wrapping his arms around you tighter. “But,  Baby girl!” You shake your head and start to move with him still wrapped around you, step by step as Ace drags his feet behind you.

“Firecracker, please let’s just talk this out. We can study even more once my balls get emptied again!”

You ignored him, walking over to a bookshelf and browsing the lines of books for an easy studying one. 

“My love, my goddess, my only one, the one that holds my heart, my soul, and my cock and balls.”

Ace gets closer to your ear with each nickname, you felt your cheeks heat up at the sweeter names, until he said that last one and you showed him that you really did hold his balls in your hands. Squeezing lightly as a warning, which only causes him to moan and start grinding on you instead. 

You squeezed harder and harder until he got the hint and backed off, with that weight off your shoulder, you grabbed the book and turned to Ace. Pointing to the book with an exasperated look on your face, “Listen, I need your grades to at least go up a few percent. I am literally about to get fired from this job, if they don’t.”

Ace opens his mouth to retort with something lewd again but quickly shuts it once he sees how serious you are. He nods softly, and sits down on the ground, tilting his hat back and looking up at you with a beaming smile.

Ace held his hand up like an honor scout and looked clearly into your eyes as he said, “I promise, I’ll try to learn something this time and pass the next exam with flying colors.”

You were still doubting him a little but decided this was the best you were gonna get, so you plopped down in front of Ace. Opening the book and telling Ace to read the passage out loud and tell you what the theme and underlying tone of that passage was. Ace scoots around you and places you on his lap, which causes your eyebrows to furrow but he holds his hands up again this time in mock defense.

He starts reading the passage out slowly, his smooth voice lulling you to a sense of calm in his lap. You settled in rather quickly, leaning back on his chest, your eyes following along as he spoke. After he was done and you asked your questions, you were surprised to find his answers free of any innuendos and contained actual full-fledged thoughts. 

He always acted like a dumb frat boy or a horny puppy so this side of him was new to you. The two of you kept on reading passage after passage, with your questions getting harder with each passage to test Ace’s knowledge and to see if he was still paying attention or not. He passed every question with flying colors, remembering every small detail and characters that appeared, and your heart fluttered with each answer he gave. This new side of Ace was somehow more attractive than his fuckboy persona. But you knew that Ace wasn’t the type of guy to date for long, you heard stories of broken-hearted girls with his name tattooed across their chest. 

A new pair of voices jolted you from these thoughts, as you strained your ears to try to make out the words. 

“Why are these books so far back?”

“I think it’s because no one really borrows them, even most of the professors don’t even know what half of these books mean.”

“Geez, and some of these are ancient too, almost as ancient as Professor Rayleigh, don’t you think?”

“Heh… yeah, let’s just find the damn book and go, it's kinda creepy back here…”

The sound of footsteps gets closer and closer to you, and you start to panic a little. While you both were clothed, it was still pretty obvious that you and Ace fucked, with the dishelved hair, the dried drool on your chin, and numerous lipstick stains and bite marks that litter across each of your bodies. 

You made a move to get up quietly, only to be pulled back down with an “Oof” escaping your lips. You turned your head back to glare at Ace who made a shushing motion with his finger, with his arm securely holding you down on his lap. 

“Wh-?”

Ace holds a hand over your mouth as you attempt to question him, holding you down even tighter as you try to wiggle out of his hold. He leans in to whisper in your ear, as your feeble attempts to escape proving no match to his strength. 

“Hold on, baby girl, take a listen. I think they’re really close to us now.”

You glared at him harder but stopped your struggle and listened closely. Hearing the sound of sneakers sliding along carpet and books being picked up and flipped thru, the two newcomers were browsing the aisle right next to yours. 

“If we try to move now, they’ll definitely catch us. So, let’s stay put alright, love?”

You hate to admit it, but he was right, there was no way you both could sneak over to get your stuff and sneak past them quietly at this point. You could only hope that they find the book they’re looking for in that aisle and leave quickly. You sigh and settle back in Ace’s lap, his hand leaves your mouth and rests on your stomach. 

The two of you fall quiet, listening to the shuffling of books and small murmurs from the two other students. The heat radiating from Ace’s body was pleasant against the chilly library’s air. Making you snuggle even closer to Ace, wanting to soak up every last bit of warmth he has to offer. 

Ace chuckles and wraps his arms around you, flexing his biceps as he does so. Swaying you from side to side softly, resting his chin on your shoulder, his hair tickling your face. He turns to give you a chaste kiss on the cheek, and it is with moments like these, that really make your heart flutter. Then, you start wondering what it would be like, if you and Ace made it official.

No more sneaking around, no more pretending not to be jealous when you see him with another girl at a party, no more keeping your friends up at night wondering if he really likes you or just your body. If you just bit the bullet finally and asked him what he really thought of you and this ‘relationship’. Does he hold the same feelings you do? Or is this really all just a game to him and you're just another side piece in his lineup.

While all these thoughts swirl inside your head, you didn’t notice how one of Ace’s hands started slipping lower and lower on your body, lingering on top of your thigh for a few moments. Ace carefully watched for a reaction but seeing as you were still lost in your head, he took this as a sign to keep going. Gently picking up the edge of your skirt and moving it upwards, inch by inch until more of your thighs are exposed and he could just barely see some of your pussy if he angled his head correctly.

You suddenly felt more chilly than before, snuggling backwards to find that warmth again, your mind still stuck in the clouds only to be shot awake by a finger swiping up your cunt. A hand was already on your mouth before you could scream, “What the fuck?!”

Ace shushes you, his grip tight on your face but not to the point of actually hurting you. 

“It’s just me, little flame, it’s just me…”

Ace nuzzles your cheek as an attempt to calm you down, while his finger still inside your cunt starts to wiggle around a little. You breath in roughly thru your nose, trying to express your anger at this ordeal. Ace only chuckles in return, softly calling you “Cute..” and continuing on. Swiping his thumb up and down on your still sensitive clit, making your legs jolt out a bit. You muffle out curses and squeeze your eyes shut, not wanting Ace to win this battle. But damn, he really knows how to use his fingers…

“I just want to thank you for today, my flame…”

“You seem so stressed out lately and this is my way of showing just how much I love you..”

Bullshit.. You knew what he was spewing out was just lies.. But you can’t deny how his voice affects you when it gets like this. All soft and smooth, filled with so much affection you could drown in it. A sickeningly sweet pool of lies, with you in the middle, slowly sinking down and down with each interaction you have together with him. And the worst part is, that you know you could easily just leave, get out of the pool and go find someone better… someone who might actually love you for you. 

But you don’t, you let Ace pull you in with his charms and stupid smile. You embrace the lies and pretend that in the end when it is all over and you’re alone in bed at night, that it doesn’t matter and you’re not crying. So, you pretend to struggle a bit more, pretend not to enjoy his cute little nicknames that he only reserves for you and none of his other fuck toys. 

Your hips begin to move up and down as Ace’s thumb starts rubbing small and quick circles on your clit, moving his fingers in and out in that rhythm that drives you wild. Muttering filthy praises in your ear as his movement gets faster and rougher, you moans subdued in his palm. Your legs jerking and twitching as you get close to that blinding pleasure that Ace always brings you to. 

With a final curl of his fingers he pushes you over the edge, taking his hand away from your mouth as you scream out, only to push his fingers down your throat as your body spasm and squirt all over yourself. Drool spills down your chin as you gag on Ace’s fingers, panting heavily as your body calms back down. You grabbed Ace’s wrist and pulled it away from you, so you can finally breathe normally again.

“What? You’re not gonna help me clean up?”

He brings up his slick-covered hands to your face, which you promptly slaps away and shush him for being too loud. 

Ace gets up and laughs, pulling you up with him. 

“Hey, hey, don’t worry! Those two left a while ago while you were zoning out about something in that pretty little head of yours.” 

He dusts off his pants and stretches his arm over his head, you turn to look away from him with an embarrassed blush flushing your face. You check the time on your phone and sigh, noting that it was almost library closing hours. 

“Come on, it’s time to go, the library is about to close.” You signal to Ace to get going, as you look around for anything you may have dropped. 

“We have to be fast about it, I also want you to check out the book to read later, alright?”

“Because, I really really need you to ace this test.” 

Ace snorts at that, “Hah, ace this test, good one, little flame.” He slaps you on the shoulder hard enough to make you stumble forward a little. 

“I mean it, Ace! Seriously, please just-”

“I got it, really I do! But, I might need some motivation during the late night, you know? Like a cheeky little photo to cheer me up?” 

You glare at him through your sideview, turning on your heel and stomping over to get your items, readjust your clothes, and fix your makeup if need be. You do some breathing exercises to calm yourself down, while you pack everything up in your bag and Ace’s bag, using some wet wipes you have on hand to clean yourself up as well. 

Ace comes sauntering by, soon after you were done with everything, holding the book up high in his hands proudly. You sigh and cross your arms at him, ready to get the night over with, your legs barely managing to keep you upright and walking after everything you've been through. 

You throw his bag his way, and walk forward first. Leading the way to the front of the library. Zipping up your jacket all the way up while walking so you could hide marks Ace may have left on you that you didn’t catch earlier. As you were reaching the front, you were surprised to see a student working the front desk instead of the usual cranky old lady. 

You’ve seen this student before, I mean she was gorgeous after all, you think she was in architecture or something to do with history. She usually hangs out with another beautiful girl with orange hair. Her blue eyes catch yours and you gulp  nervously, feeling like your entire being was being stripped down by her gaze. 

You steel yourself and walk right up to the desk with Ace coming up right behind you. Before you could say a word, Ace drops the book down on the desk and starts jogging off. 

“Hey! Sorry, I just got a text from my bros, they need me for something, so I gotta go! Just give me the book tomorrow or whatever, catch you later!” 

He leaves out the door before you could say anything or catch him, leaving you alone with the hot librarian lady. Somehow you couldn’t bring yourself to lock eyes with her so you just awkwardly cough, keeping your eyes on the book as you spoke. 

“Ah..um, I would like to check out this book please. Just for a week should be fine ... .thank you.”

You watch as her perfectly manicured hands take the book away and flip it open to scan the barcode inside the cover. You fiddle with the hem of your sleeves, too shy to watch her work. You hear her flip a few more pages and hum; “Interesting…”

You felt a small tap on your own hand and looked up to find her showing the book to you, opened to a random page, a random page with very suspicious wet spots on it…

Oh..

Oh no…

Oh my fucking god, you were gonna kill Ace then yourself. That if you don’t burn in shame and embarrassment right now. You sputter and flop around to come up with a believable excuse for those stains. 

“O-oh! Um gosh! Really sorry I think I might have dropped my water bottle on the table while we were reading, heh. I-I mean, yeah! I definitely knocked over a bottle of water when reading that book…” 

You trail off, realizing how high pitched your voice was, how Ace didn’t even bother to hide his kiss marks or love bites before he left, and how stupid you probably sound to her right now. Your shoulder slump down as your voice fades off to a quiet apology. She chuckles at this, a light and airy sound that makes your heart start racing hearing it. She catches your eyes again and this time you can’t look away. 

“Don’t worry darling, I know how to keep a secret.” She winks at you, and goes to flip the page back to the cover. Her finger swipes at a wet corner, which she then brings that same finger up to her mouth and licks it. All the while keeping eye contact with you. Your mouth drops wide at the sight, inciting another chuckle out of her. 

The next few moments go by in a flash as your brain tries to process what just happened. You're brought back to reality as she hands you back the book with a little card sticking out the top. 

“As much as I would love to keep playing with you, the library has pretty strict closing times, so I must ask you to leave.” 

You nod dumbly, shoving the book under your arm and stumbling your way towards the exit. She waves you off with such a pretty smile on her face. You walk outside in the crisp cold nighttime air and breathe in heavily. 

This was one hell of a night, you decided that all your brain cells were spent today so you would sleep on today’s event and think about it tomorrow. 

As you were walking back home, the little card that was in the book fell out. You bend down to grab it again and as you do, you read what’s on the card. 

“XXX-XXXX If you want to have a even better time <3 ~ Robin”

[fractalkiss]

very short pierre/esteban, beginnings of a pacific rim au that i don't intend to continue so it's up here.

--------

Before Yuki got stationed off to Nagasaki, Pierre said that Yuki used to notice when there was a shift of flavor in the food served at the mess hall, and the added diligence with which the floors here got mopped and cleaned.

"I used to think it meant worse," Pierre explains.

"Not quite," Esteban says and lets the word linger on the pause, stale in the air, holding off on correcting Pierre; Kevin's already on it, his eyes crinkling next to Pierre at their lunch table , the scar near his brow twisting slightly.

"It does mean worse. It's not cleansing after ghosts--hasn't Guanyu told you that joke?" Kevin says.

"Ghosts?" Pierre says, like he's about to laugh, but still unsure despite his bracing smile. Kevin's motioning for Pierre to push over his glass so Kevin can nudge Nico sitting on his other side hard in the ribs. Nico rolls his eyes but drags over the water pitcher to help refill. It's unfalteringly kind; Pierre's the new guy. He misses Yuki, for sure. He would have wanted Yuki in place of Esteban, had Pierre not been re-assigned here in Hong Kong.

Spring cleaning happens every now and then: mechanics' schedules went into a new rotation. A chipped sparring stick or two was replaced with a shiny new one, when Fernando made his rounds before tending to the cadets and their training. When the food got better here, that meant the cooks were anxious as hell. Every number that ticked off a new Kaiju appearance signaled them cooking for their own lives as well, dishing out the best last meals.

~~

When Vahis shows up as a little circle on the radar, moving like a snail across the map and biding its time--hideous thing according to sightings, angrier than the last winged type that wrecked Tokyo--Pierre eats the wanton noodles on the menu slowly today. Even tries to add a drop of chilli oil when Esteban passes the bottle to him across the metal table. Pierre's adjusting well.

The fruits they served came in fresh from the market in season, much to Lance's approval.

"You gotta notice shit like this, man," Lance said the other day, around a mouthful of crisp apple. "I think it's mercy in every which way."

"Mercy, like what, fattening us up for slaughter?" Esteban said, and Lance had lowered down the apple with all due respect of a test pilot who knew the hulls of all five of their standing Jaeger models and their cannon specs down to the tee and was carefully optimistic about their winning probability in battles. The irony was that Lance won't ever be allowed to actually cut through the hard-skinned acidic belly of a Kaiju.

Pierre looked skeptical about this, while he'd been wrapping his hands and wrist with boxing tape, obviously listening in on Lance and Esteban in conversation in one of the communal break rooms. Esteban could almost hear him: your friend right here is one of the guinea pigs whose family name helped fund and perfect our weapons?

"Our fathers would have begged us to stay in school," Esteban said, in some sort of defense.

"Of course they would," Pierre agreed. His face looked openly distressed for a split second in a way that didn't appease Esteban, but didn't anger him either. Pierre already knew that the technically correct phrase would have been 'if our fathers were still alive, they would have begged us to stay in school.' The one time they tested their neural link, was all it took for Pierre to know things about Esteban--things that hadn't been in secondhand passing courtesy of Charles and Esteban's mother being the pigeon carrier. Of course their mothers are still in touch. Pierre knows now, that when a Kaiju had struck the coastline of Panama where Esteban and his family had been stationed six years ago, Esteban had watched with his eyes wide open when it ripped apart the bridge his father had been on.

But even before then, together with Charles, the three of them had long been familiar with grief. The audacious thing about the state of the world is that it should make drifting all the more easier with Pierre.

The doctor assigned to do all their psych evals is patient. She listens to Esteban recounting their progress about strengthening their link. She doesn't blink either when Pierre keeps fucking breaking it, the sensation like a taut rubber band being snapped at the end so Esteban feels it smarting down to his molars.

"Does he talk about his old partner?" She asks, her brow furrowed only slightly.

Esteban pushes his thumbs against each other in his lap. "No. Charles is not--"

"Not dead, yes. And we count our blessings every single day. But you say that Charles is not fit to fight anymore," she goes on. "Have you told Pierre that this base is not always where demoted cadets go?"

"Of course."

Her small smile is gentle. "Then it will take time, like all things. I think you know this."

[forcemeanakin]

Adding onto ur hockey head cannons with starlet reader, imagine them going ice skating together <3 I love ice skating sm

Link to original post <3

Hiii, sorry for the late reply! I've been meaning to come back to Victoria's Secret angel!reader so bad 😭 But I've been busy with my dilf!Anakin series! If you enjoy age gap, I highly recommend my new fic (I am my own marketing team, so please forgive my shameless recommendation lmao).

But yes!!! Skating together is a must! I love it as well, so I'm very bias, but I think those two would have so much fun together. I like to think that reader is already a good skater, so it's not so much a dynamic where he teaches her. On the contrary, I like to think that she would help him out more, dragging him up after he fell on his ass because he was chasing you. But the man is Canadian, so I mean, he was built for the ice.

If you are into his real-dad persona, I think it would be something reader and his daughter bond over. Throwing snow at him, racing, making snow angels. The whole deal. He would be in total bliss at seeing his girls connect so well.

But if it's just the two of them:

Snow on their beanies, thick jacket protecting you from the chilly air, nose pink. He finds that especially adorable.

"Love your nose like this. You look so cute." He gently bites it, ripping a laugh from you.

"Did you just bite my nose, mister?" You tease him, gripping the lapels from his jacket and skating backwards.

"I could bite something else." He mocks, taking control of you by your hips. You get closer, as if you were to kiss him, and just when he closes his eyes, you sprint away from him towards the snow. "Hey!"

"Come get me!"

He gets you. He gets you good.

Totally different deal if he tries to teach you how to play hockey. Gloves are out.

[freetheshit-outofyou]

The Paris Gun

The Krupp arms-making dynasty was founded in Essen upon the fortune amassed by Arndt Krupp, who settled in that city in 1587. His son Anton expanded the family’s endeavors into making firearms during the Thirty Years’ War of 1618-1648, and the family progressively expanded its operations over the ensuing decades. In 1811, Friedrich Krupp (1787-1826) established a steel casting facility, and, although he successfully began casting steel in 1816, he expended considerable funds in the process. His son, Alfried (1812- 1887), continued his father’s work and eventually re-established the family fortune. By its nature steel was very difficult to cast, and internal faults were often impossible to detect through existing testing procedures. Defective cast steel pieces were also much more dangerous to crews than iron cannons, as the softer iron tended to split or burst with less energy than the harder steel, which more often ruptured with deadly violence. The Krupp firm’s success in casting steel was considered one of the major metallurgical achievements of its day.

Beginning in 1844, Alfried Krupp began experimenting in machining guns from solid cast steel blanks and in 1847 produced his first steel cannon. That same year he presented a steel gun to the King of Prussia, Frederick Wilhelm IV (1795-1861)-an act of entrepreneurial generosity that later won an order for 300 field guns. He went on to display a 6-pounder muzzleloading gun at the Great Exhibition of 1851 and began experiments in developing breechloading weapons. In 1856, Krupp introduced a 90mm field gun fitted with a transverse sliding breechblock that fit through a corresponding slot in the rear of the barrel.

Germany subsequently made the transition to rifled breechloaders during the 1860s, a move that gave it a distinct artillery advantage during the 1870-1871 Franco-Prussian War. Shortly after the war it adopted 78.5mm guns for its horse artillery and 88mm pieces for field use. The logistical difficulties associated with supplying two sizes of ammunition in the field and recent advances in metallurgy and gun design then led to the Model 73/88 system, which used the 88mm caliber for both horse artillery and field use and the later Model 73/91 system, utilizing nickel steel barrels. The Model 73/91 was finally superseded by Germany’s answer to the French 75-the Model 96 or Feldkanone 96 neur Art.

The development of specialized antiaircraft artillery also intensified during the war. The first documented use of antiaircraft artillery occurred as early as the siege of Paris during the Franco-Prussian War in 1870. At Paris, the Prussian commander von Moltke ordered weapons from Krupp in order to shoot down balloons in which the French were trying to sail over the Prussian lines. Krupp eventually delivered a number of single-shot, caliber 1-inch rifles that were mounted on pedestals bolted to the beds of two-horse wagons; they theoretically could follow the balloons on the ground while maintaining a steady firing rate. The Krupp pieces were relatively ineffective, yet at least one French balloon was apparently downed by their fire.

The rapid proliferation of powered military aircraft at the turn of the century, however, spurred an equally dedicated effort to neutralize the threat of air attacks. During the 1909 Frankfurt International Exhibition, Krupp unveiled three antiaircraft guns in a bid to monopolize the emerging market. These included a caliber 65mm 9-pounder and a 75mm 12-pounder. Krupp claimed that the largest, a pedestal-mounted 105mm gun intended for shipboard use, achieved a maximum ceiling of 37,730 feet. The caliber 65mm gun had an 18,700-foot range, could elevate 75 degrees, and its carriage had unique hinged axles that allowed the wheels to be pivoted to a position perpendicular to their traveling position. With the trail spade acting as its axis, this arrangement enabled the crew to traverse the piece 360 degrees to track enemy aircraft. With a claimed maximum ceiling of 21,326 feet, the caliber 75mm gun was mounted on a truck bed, thus giving it a high degree of mobility. Not to be outdone, Erhardt, Krupp’s closest domestic competitor, also exhibited a 50mm quick-firing antiaircraft gun mounted in an armored car’s turret.

The period also witnessed considerable experimentation in antiaircraft shells and fuses. Krupp introduced a high-explosive shell for its 3-pounder equipped with a “smoke-trail” fuse, an early tracer round that both aided the crews in sighting and was an effective incendiary against the hydrogen-filled airships of the period.

During World War I the Germans continued to experiment in antiaircraft weaponry, beginning in 1914 with the 77mm Ballonen-AK. The Ballonen-AK was then, in turn, followed in 1915 by the 77mm Luftkanone, a basic 77mm field cannon barrel mounted on a rotating scaffolding. The more effective Krupp 88mm FlaK entered service in 1918 and eventually became the inspiration for the famous World War II German “Eighty-Eight.”

Popularly named after Alfred Krupp’s daughter, the 41.3-ton, 420mm “Big Bertha” had a horizontal sliding block and fired a 1,719-pound shell up to 10,253 yards. Big Bertha required five tractors to transport its components, and it had to be assembled on site. In conjunction with a number of Austrian Skoda 305mm howitzers, the L/14 was first used with devastating effect against Liege in August 1914; it saw other action on both the Western and Eastern fronts. Owing to its relatively short range and vulnerability to Allied fire, Big Bertha was obsolete by 1917. Another heavy piece, the 211mm Mörser was adopted in 1916. It weighed 14,727 pounds and fired a 250-pound shell up to 12,139 yards.

Designed by Krupp engineers and adopted in 1918, the Paris Gun used the basic 380mm Max railroad gun barrel fitted with a barrel liner and lengthened 20 feet. The 210mm Paris Gun weighed 1,653,470 pounds and mounted a 2,550-inch barrel with a horizontal sliding block. It fired a 264-pound shell up to 82 miles. Crewed by naval personnel, the Paris Gun was so powerful that it fired its shells into the stratosphere, where the thinner atmosphere exerted less resistance, allowing such long ranges. The stress on the bore, however, wore the barrel significantly, and each succeeding projectile had to have progressively larger driving bands and heavier powder charges to compensate for the increasing windage. Although hugely inefficient in the final analysis, the Paris Gun’s greatest value lay in its use as a propaganda tool rather than an artillery piece. Source

[deepperplexity]

Prompt: 10. Snow Prints

Pairing: Colonel Brandon x Fem!OC

POV: First, OC

Setting: Christmas Market in Town -> The Lake -> Dashwood Home (Not exactly following cannon, moving the time to winter and the manner Brandon visits the Dashwoods for the first time.)

A/N: I thought we’d take a little tiny break from the serial fics - I do feel I need a breath as it takes way more to write several serials at the same time than one shots (for me) 😂 Also, Brandon seems to be very loved this year, so thought I’d give him some more screen time so to say 🥰

I have perhaps spent too much time on this fic but it ended up flowing and turning into this 5k piece - anyway, I really hope you’ll have a splendid time reading this! We are nearing the middle of Rickmas2023 and I feel good about having been able to post at a decent time every day so far 😍👏 (Let’s hope I can keep it up all the way through 👀😂)

Tags/TW’s: Instant Infatuation, Forehead Kisses, Hand Holding, Accidental Meeting, Unintentional Invasion Of Emotional Privacy, Self Derogatory Thoughts, Classicism, Nicknames, Mutual Pining, Confessions Of Adoration/Love, Implied Future Marriage, Slighty Sassy OC, Chivalry, Poverty Hints,

Word Count: 5k+

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

Mrs Jennings laughed by a market stand down the busy street, Margaret squeezed my hand and I could not quite keep a smile from spreading across my lips as she giggled up at me. “She never stops, does she?” Margaret asked with that childlike twinkle in her eye. “I’m afraid not, Maggie,” I chuckled. “She means well, but I do think Miss Markle is quite over her matchmaking attempts, as most of us are.” “Well, you are free of it,” Margaret said with happiness, not knowing the knife it twisted within me. “Indeed, lucky me,” I said as happily as I could. Knowing full well she held little interest of pairing lowly me with anyone at all.

I was an orphan, a mere child-tender for the Dashwoods before Mr Dashwood passed and left the family in ruin - in every manner. Now I was a burden on the kind family, allowed to live with them and dine after them in exchange for not only taking care of Margaret but cleaning and tending to every manner of household chore whenever needed, teaching the child to read and write, to interpret texts as well. No pay given, but a roof over my head and food in my stomach. It was more than I could ask for given the circumstances.

“Mellie,” Mrs Dashwood called, “go buy us some mistletoes and meet us at home!” “Right away, ma’am!” I called back, squeezing Margaret’s hand before ushering her toward one of her older sisters. I trodded off, heading down the market street with vendors filling the space and air with shouts of prices and smells of Christmas. I weaved through the crowd, well-versed in not being in the way.

I found the right vendor and purchased the holly for the Dashwoods, laying them atop the bread and carrots in my basket before turning about. My eyes caught sight of a brilliantly red coat with black and golden details. It stood out in the throng of greys, browns, whites and beige clothes, none as brightly coloured — not even the greens and blues, all in muted saturation. A man of the military? My eyes slid upward only for my breath to catch. He was stunning in profile. Older, with slightly peculiar features — like his hooked nose and thin lips — but more handsome than any other man I had ever laid eyes upon. His grave features and remote manner of looking only made his features shine brighter in the afternoon sun which made the snow glisten on the rooftops.

I stood stock still in the middle of the street, a messenger boy ran right into me, knocking my basket out of my hand — breaking the spell I had been under by the man. I hurried to pick up the greenery, the cloth-wrapped bread, and frost-bit carrots, before scurrying away, throwing one final glance back before entering one of many narrow alleys. His eyes appeared to see me for a second before I turned and hurried away from the market. No matter how handsome the man was, or how my heart had stuttered at his appearance, he was no man for me. I was all too aware of it.

I held on tightly to the basket, the day was beautiful and with the bright sun and lack of wind I managed to keep warm. I sped up my steps as I cleared the town’s border, crossing over a field to take a shortcut through the woods beyond; then it would only be a matter of two more fields to cross, a small hill to hike up, and I would be home once more. I didn’t mind walking through the snow, the boots Mrs Jennings had given me upon winters arrival were far too big but allowed for three pairs of socks which kept me plenty warm as long as I moved about. I was thankful for her gift, even if it were only for them being too small for her but too big for anyone else to wear, and with their shafts reaching nearly to my knees no snow slunk within them even if I pulsed through it at the moment.

I reached the woods, feeling a need to look back toward the town where I had seen the handsome man I was sure to never see again. Even if no man ever finds me to his liking I can at the very least allow the oddity of daydreaming of it to keep me happy, should I not have at least that? I squinted against the direct sunlight as it sank, bathing the sky in orange and pink only making the glittering snow look further magical with the twinkling light of lanterns and candles coming from the town. “A military man, perhaps that would be a grand life.” Not that I shall ever know it for real.

I half giggled to myself, enjoying my little daydream where the man in red would smile sweetly at me and marvelled at the quietly spectacular view. It was interrupted when something came barrelling across the field, someone atop a horse riding at the utmost speed with snow spraying about them yet I could not see any details with the last bit of sun glaring me in the eye and turning them into nothing but a shadow.

I thought little of it, many cut across the field to return home, so I turned and kept walking while wondering what voice would belong to the man in red — a commanding one, an assured one, a powerful one. I could not imagine a man who looked like he had to speak in any meek or bright fashion. No, no a most strong voice ought to belong to such a gentleman.

“Miss!” I spun around in haste at the dark rumble of a call that was somehow heard so clearly. “Miss!” the man called again and I raised a hand to cover my eyes from the sun. My heart stuttered as the man in red came barrelling towards me, his giant black steed’s hooves made the snow spray in magical waves of sparkles all around him.

He halted the horse with great skill, going from a gallop to a near-complete halt in a mere two steps. “Miss,” he said again, his voice a rumble which seemed to shake my insides. “Y-yes?” I asked, bowing my head while curtsying deeply. The thud of feet hitting the snow-covered ground rang out and I looked up. He was a head taller than me, his shoulders stiffly held and his back utterly straight. He looked every bit a stoic gentleman as he inclined his head before reaching out his hand, holding a mistletoe.

“Sir, I— What is this?” I asked while looking between the man who made my heart run rampant and the greenery in his glove-clad hand. “You left this behind, miss.” “Oh… oh!” I rummaged around my basket and indeed, there were only seven when there ought to have been eight of them. “Thank you, sir. I apologize for the trouble you went through for such a small thing.” My cheeks nearly seemed to burn as he handed it over while I spoke and then secured the mistletoe under the towel covering the basket.

The man looked at me, his eyes sweet but his features stoic. “It was no bother, miss. I merely followed the snow prints.” But, I left none behind until I reached the field? “I’m grateful for your kindness and effort, sir.” “Colonel Brandon, miss. At your service,” he said and placed his closed fist atop his chest before bowing slightly. “Melinda Merryweather,” I replied, endeavouring to keep my cheeks from burning up under his stare. “Beautiful Honeybee,” he said in a quiet drone and my eyes widened. “Excuse me, sir?” “Oh, no, miss, your name. Melinda, of Latin origin, meaning sweet. Constructed of mel, meaning honeybee, and Linda, meaning beautiful.”

I was not proud of it, but I gawked at the man. He knew more about my name than me myself. I had been aware of the Latin origin but the meaning of it had never been told to me. “My mother did have a fondness for the buzzing creatures, they fill an important role after all.” “Indeed,” the man said, “there would be little in terms of flowers without them.” “Oh, I was referring to food, Colonel Brandon. Flowers are pretty though.” “Their honey?” “No, they pollinate far more than flowers,” I continued, the education I had been given as a child tender to the Dashwoods far beyond any I would have had in another situation. “You are a woman of education.” “Oh, no, sir. I have merely been most lucky as a tender of children for the lovely Dashwood family.”

I did my utmost to speak calmly, but my entire body seemed caught on fire, the flames growing stronger with each second in his company. Talking is not my issue, remaining silent is. I’m certain he sees me as a know-it-all by now. “Luck plays a grand part in life. I admit, it has not been so graceful to me until now.” “Oh? You appear a most lucky man, sir.” “I shall not ruin said image of me for you, Miss Melinda Merryweather.” What to say to such a statement?

I had no need to think of it though, the man bowed and mounted his steed once more. My heart skipped a beat as he turned the horse about. “Thank you again, Colonel Brandon,” I said and he smiled at me, my skin burned and my breath caught as the last sunlight left the world but it seemed all the brighter when he smiled. “I wish you the best, beautiful honeybee,” he said with a sudden softness to his features and put his horse into motion, setting off in a rushed gallop without looking back once while my heart seemed to race at the same pace as the black horse.

Never had I met a man such as him. He was different, in the most sweet and good manner. I ended up watching him gallop back to town, I simply couldn’t make myself leave before he was gone. Strange sensations filled my chest and the heavy basket in my hand suddenly felt light in comparison to the weight of the newness, or, perhaps it was the knowledge a man such as him were not meant for me. For someone like me. A colonel had little business with a child tender turned into some form of a maid and teacher of reading and writing out of the goodness of my employer of many years. As much as warmth for the man bloomed within me, a sense of hopeless longing grew as well.

***

“I’ll only be an hour!” I called toward the little sitting room where Marianne and Elinor sat, one embroidering and one playing on the forte, while I slipped my boots over the many layers of socks I had adorned. I loved Marianne’s music, and voice, not blessed with either skill myself. Books, poetry, and stories lay me far closer to the heart though.

Reading, writing, and weaving stories of my own were my pleasures. My loves. And the past week my poetry had turned longing and somewhat sappy, to be truthful. I needed a moment with nature, to take a breath and rid my heart and mind of the grand colonel who called me a beautiful honeybee before riding off in a swirl of snow.

I wrapped a second scarf over my shoulders and headed out, the weather was splendid but cold. The midday sun had the world in a sparkle, a winter wonderland to adore and enjoy. I took a deep breath of fresh air and set off down the hidden road few carriages traversed. I followed it down the hill and then began my trodding across the field to reach the ice-covered lake where I was sure the most wonderful view where to be seen.

I had no idea how right I was…

As I came over the little hill, a wonderful view indeed sprawled out before me. But nothing could compare to the man standing right by the edge of the snow-covered beach, holding the reins of his large steed in a loose grip. With the sun shining high I could see him most perfectly, even if he wore no red coat I would have known his posture anywhere. The air about him was that of a single kind. I had spent so many words on the man, writing poetry to expel the feelings I had endeavoured to suppress ever since I had managed to tear myself away from the edge of the forest where I had last seen him galloping away in haste.

I stood still, once more stuck looking at the man from a distance without him being aware, and I felt as if all the feelings I had sought to tamper down and rid myself of through poetry took over completely. Let loose by his appearance where I least expected him. Oh, this is not proper! This is lunacy of the acutest kind. The man is a colonel, for goodness sake. I was about to turn around, play the coward, and run away while my heart ran rampant. “Honeybee!” came the loud rumble of the colonel, stopping me in my tracks (not that I’d begun to actually move).

The sound of boots and hooves walking through snow filled the air as he neared. My mind blanked when his soft gaze landed on me and a small smile spread his lips most sweetly. “Colonel Brandon,” I said and curtsied while hiding my bare hands behind my back. A bit embarrassed I had no gloves to speak of when he wore such fine ones of leather. “What a wonderful surprise,” he said. “What brings you to the lake, miss?” “Oh, umh, well, I was merely out for a walk to— To clear my head a bit, colonel.” “Perhaps a coincidence, I am here for that exact reason. What troubles you, if I may enquire?” You . Not that I could ever admit to such a thing.

“My troubles could not possibly be of any importance to a colonel, sir Brandon.” “I would take great pride in absolving you of any trouble, honeybee.” His voice was honest, his gaze a bit harsher and his voice once more a line rather than a smile, and that nickname set my stomach into an absolute flutter. “Do not tease me, sir.” “Never,” he said while taking a step closer. “I am not a man who would trifle with a beautiful woman,” he continued, taking another step. He was almost too close, yet not close enough.

My fingers fidgeted behind my back, the ends of my scarf swaying lightly in the soft breeze. A gust of wind blew by and my scarf flew off, tumbling along the snow in soft waves. He was off after it before I had a chance to even react. “Colonel!” I called, feeling like a nuisance to the man. “Colonel! Stop! It’s my—” He bent and snagged the thin fabric, holding it up with the sweetest of triumphant smiles before he jogged back. My icy fingers covered my mouth to hide the giggle, or perhaps to cool the heat flushing my face.

“My lady,” he said with a slight bow while holding out my scarf for me. I suffocated the laughter bubbling within me at his theatrics and reached for it. He jolted and grabbed my hand before I could pull away. “No gloves? In this chill?” he asked, concern written all over his handsome face while mine contorted with shame and embarrassment. “Thank you,” I said and wrung my hand free. “For catching it, sir.” I draped it over my shoulders once more but he only tilted his head to study me closer.

“I ought to return,” I said after a moment of silence, a silence far too intense. “They are expecting me at home,” I continued and curtsied swiftly before turning on my heel. “Miss Melinda,” he called, “stay safe!” “I shall, Colonel. I’m quite capable!” I called over my shoulder before waving at him, picking up my pace while leaving deep prints behind which I knew he would not follow this time.

***

It was the tenth of December, another week had passed since I saw the colonel and my little notebook was by now full of poems all revolving around him, around what he made me feel and wished to expel. My silly little heart had no wits about her, my mind just as snagged on his handsomeness — his kindness a lingering torment when there was no world in which I could be anything to such a fine gentleman.

“Mellie,” Margaret whined, “you’ve been writing for hours!” “Huh? Oh, have I really?” “Yes!” she said with a certain oomph to her voice. I merely smiled at her, mustering up the courage to not show her anything at all. “Is there a reason I ought to stop for the moment?” I asked as she leaned on the desk where I had, indeed, been sitting for several hours as lunchtime had arrived. “Mama asked you to fetch a bird for dinner, it’ll be dark if you don’t go soon.” “Oh, oh right! Yes, of course,” I said while shutting my little notebook and standing. “I’ll head out right away.” “But it’s lunchtime, silly goose.” “Well, there will be no goose of any kind, or other bird, if I don’t get a move on, will there?” “I’ll make a sandwich for you,” she said and scurried off with the usual happy spring to her steps. “With cheese and peppers, how you like it!” she called over her shoulder and I smiled at her sweetness.

I was out of the house a few moments later, hurrying towards town once again to get a bird for the family for the evening. Given how cold it was, one could have bought several and just had them in a box outside - they’d keep for weeks if the weather remained. But, again, I was not one to complain about some walking. I was rather fond of being out like that, truth be told. Truth be told, huh? More like give me something to take my mind of the man in a red coat, with a sweet smile, and soft eyes, and— Stop. Just, do not think of him. Simple as that. It was not , however, simple as that.

All the way to town, then through it, and back home again, I thought of the man. When I went down the hill to the house he was really the only thing I thought of at all. The fact I managed to keep my wits about me enough to see snow prints of male shoes unlike any other prints was a miracle. As the Dashwoods had company, obviously of the male kind, I walked around back and took the small servant entrance almost straight into the kitchen.

“Cook, here, I found a fantastic goose for dinner. It’s missing half a wing but the butcher gave me a great price for it.” “My, my, my, that is a good bird,” Cook replied as I held the naked goose up. Plucked and ready for cooking. She grabbed it and my cold fingers flexed with an ache to them. The thing was heavy and with the evening chill I struggled to get my blood flowing again for a moment while undressing my outside clothes only to put on a new scarf over my shoulders and thicker slippers on my feet rather than the boots and tripple socks.

“Here,” Cook said and handed me a tray of tee with some biscuits on a plate. Four cups on it, but it was the pretty china so the fourth one certainly wasn’t for me and Margaret didn’t drink tea. “Who’s visiting?” I asked. “Oh, some upstanding man, the boring type if you ask me. Tense looking. Too old for any of the Dashwoods too, no idea why the lady entertains him for so long.” “Long?” “He’s been ‘ere since one, came right after lunchtime.” “Well, perhaps he fancies one of them, or one of them fancies him. Is he rich?” “Very much so, Mellie.” “Well, there you have it then, Mrs Dashwood couldn’t send a rich man away — no matter his looks or age when she has two daughters she needs to wed.” “Indeed, but we both know the lady cares too much about what her daughters want to ever force a marriage.” “True, maybe she can force a marriage with a rich man upon me?” I laughed, both cook and I perfectly aware I wished for no such thing and nor would it ever happen either. No, love would be my biggest reason for marriage — riches were good, but love far outweighed it in every way.

As I came closer to the parlour I heard Marianne speak, asking whoever was visiting to read another. I didn’t know what she referred to but I gently pushed open the door, not making a sound as I backed in to not wobble the tray. “Snow prints—” My heart stopped in my chest. “—were followed, a path—” My fingers trembled. “—he ought not have taken. She was below—” The tray clattered to the floor, the china breaking and shards scattering all over the floor as I heard Colonel Brandon read my poetry, about him !

“Mellie, goodness me, are you alright?” said Mrs Dashwood with a shriek. I slowly turned, seeing the man who I had written those words for staring at me with wide eyes and slightly parted lips, Marianne sat far too close to him. He was a captivating reader, I could not fault her for her investment, yet my heart ached at the sight of the two.

“I— That’s—” “I gave it to him,” Margaret said with a beaming smile. “You write so well, Mellie!” she kept going and Colonel Brandon looked between me and the notebook containing my most inner thoughts in his hands. His eyes turned wider, his face paled and I felt my insides twist as he stared at me again.

Tears stung my eyes, the shame and embarrassment, the hurt and fear, the ache in my chest at the betrayal of the child I thought so highly of. “Excuse me,” I blurted out before bolting out the door, not staying to clean up the mess. “Mellie!” called Mrs Dashwood. “Mellie, what—” called Marianne with confusion in her tone but I was out of earshot for her sweet, clear voice. Such a contrast to the Colonel’s, so perfectly matched.

I ran out through the kitchen entrance, past Cook who prepared the infernal bird, and out into the snow lit up by the climbing moon as early evening had arrived. “Honeybee!” came the voice I dreaded to hear. “Stop, please!” he called and I stopped, my hand on the gate at the end of the backyard and my slipper-clad feet deeply buried in the white coldness below.

His running steps reached me, and the crunching of snow and slightly panted breaths filled my ears. Warmth wrapped around my shoulders as he hung his coat over me and I spun around in shock at the action. He was stood in only his vest and shirt, the biting wind tossed about his beautiful hair but all I really saw were the sweet, kind eyes staring at me.

“I never knew,” he said quietly while taking a step back. “Knew what?” I asked, attempting to not inhale deeply as his scent wafted up my nose. The perfect scent, the warmest and most comforting of scents. “That is was your beautiful poetry I was reading, the child gave it to me, asked for me to read something out of it. I thought it belonged to one of the ladies present in the room — and they did not object,” he said while looking most forlorn, nearly distressed. “I was not even aware you resided with the Dashwood household.” “I have for many years,” I said. “Marianne will be a perfect match for you,” I continued while thinking of their voices, the way she sat right beside him on the sofa.

Colonel Brandon stepped closer. “I have already found my match,” he said. “I asked you not to tease me, sir. And you said not to be a gentlemen who trifled with women.” “And I have not,” he said, his eyes hardening while coming far too close, forcing me to look up at him. It was all in my head… Only in my heart, not his. Perhaps, perhaps he is merely a most kind man? I have little experience with those.

“Honeybee,” he said, snagging my attention anew. “I have not, and will not, trifle with you, tease you. I am too old for games and life far too dark as is for me to make it any worse.” “Sir!” “I speak true,” he declared. “A gentleman such as you ought to be more aware of your own handsomeness.” He blanched at that, blinking at me before a timid smile stretched his lips in a manner that looked as if he were unable to control it.

“You find me handsome?” “What woman in their right mind would not?” “Oh, I do believe you may be a woman of singular taste, honeybee.” I gasped, gaping at him. “I beg your pardon? Are you accusing me of something?” “I am not a favourable option for most beautiful women, such as yourself. I am well aware of it. My riches perhaps an aid in seeing past it, or my standing in society.” I gasped anew, a mixture of an exhale and a laugh of disbelief.

“You are terrible, sir. You may wish to know I had no idea who you were until you introduced yourself, even then, I am new to this part of the county and have had little to do with the upstanding citize n so I am not aware of your riches. I do recognize the bravery and skill you possess to climb up the ranks, but any silly nilly knows such things,” I said with both hurt and irritation at the man who twisted my insides with warmth and want. “I apologize, miss,” he said, his face held in some sort of shame at the assumption he’d held of me perhaps. “No need, I am but a servant of no importance or value.” “What a foul thing to say…” “Truth is sometimes.”

Time stretched on while we stood in silence, simply looking at each other. “Miss Melinda, your poetry,” he began while looking at me with something I could only describe as respect, perhaps even admiration, “it is most beautiful, passionate, deep .” The change of subject threw me for a loop, a man such as him ought to hold no admiration of any kind for a woman such as I. “Like your voice,” I whispered before I could stop myself. I had thought of hearing my words in his voice, there was no way not to when his voice was such perfection. He chuckled. “My voice is to your liking?” “Everything about you is to my liking, as far as I’m aware. Sir .” I couldn’t help the sass, or the way my face had hardened while my insides were in an uproar over the man. I had to protect myself from the rejection that was sure to come despite his sweet words. It was only a matter of time, surely.

Yet, it did not.

His hands cupped my face, the gesture most intimate and highly improper. “If you are ever made aware of a trait of mine that is not to your liking, I will be very much obliged to correct it, to your liking, honeybee.” “W-What do you mean?” I asked, my breath tumbling out in a shuttering way. “Would you object to me?” My eyes widened while his finger stroked my cheek. “Object to you? Sir?” “I am beyond happy I caught a glimpse of you, heard the vendor call for you about the holly, and found your prints at the edge of town. I rode around quite manically to find you, you know. Following those snow prints, it was the best decision I have ever made.” “Colonel… Stop, we cannot, it’s not proper.” “Propriety can take flight and be on its merry way, honeybee. I have my heart set on you, my beautiful honeybee who writes the most captivating of poetry and smiles with nothing but honesty in her eyes. I have my heart set on you, Melinda Merryweather.” “It was about you…” I whispered while my skin burned under his touch. “Me?” “Yes… For weeks now, I’ve tried all I can to rid myself of these feelings and thoughts…”

Brandon viewed me with a mixture of torment and joy, I chuckled nervously while he released my face and grasped my hands. His coat slid off my shoulders as he tugged me closer — gently — and the cold December air wrapped itself around me. “Would you allow said feelings to grow? Fester? Become an irrevocable part of you?” “Colonel…” “I am already lost to you, honeybee. Allow me the chance to make you happy,” he asked kindly, his hummingly dark voice nothing but an endless promise of said happiness. “Yes. Yes, please,” I whispered as tears of relief and joy wetted my cheeks. “Honeybee… Beautiful Melinda… My Melinda,” he said before he leaned in and kissed my forehead with force, his thin lips perfectly warm against my chilled skin. “You shall not regret this, I promise you my all.”

We leaned back, my heart was aflutter and my stomach a warm ball of knots, and I could not help but smile at the sweet gentleman who had captivated my heart so easily. “I fear any regret I may have will be only a reflection of your own, Colonel.” “Christopher,” he corrected. “My name, is Christopher, honeybee.” “Christopher.” “How sweet a sound you make it. I shall wish to hear it every day for the rest of my life.” I only nodded at that, too stunned to speak when he so brazenly declared I was to be his for all time to come. I held no objections to that as his hands squeezed mine with warmth, his kind eyes a balm to my soul and his smile a thing of beauty far beyond the sparkling snow all around us…

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

A/N: Oh how I hope you enjoyed this One Shot with our dear Brandon 🥰 I had so much fun writing this, and it did indeed turn out to be far longer than I had planned but I enjoyed each word I wrote of this 😍👏

IMPORTANT: Tomorrow I’ll be picking up a story from Rickmas2022! You do not have to read it before reading this years parts, but I do recommend it to get the full story. I will do a small recap before diving into the new parts too. The fics I will be continuing is 14. Icy Roads & 15. Frosty Glass (yes, it’s Hans and Anna-Louisa who are making a comback by super popular demand 😂👏). I've yet to start writing it but, well, guess it'll be a late night today 👀👍

Q: You can only choose one hot drink to consume during December: Coffee, Tea, or Hot chocolate? A: COFFEEEEEEEE all the way for me 😂☕

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[Dec:2023]

[weasleywinchester]

Save Yourself - Ch. 19

Dean Winchester x Female Reader

Oh For One So Pure

Series Summary: “I promise.” Those two words would trap you in a life you never wanted. You are an artist, a hunter, a Winchester. And yet the pain in Dean’s eyes as demanded you live the life he wants you live, you couldn’t say no. You met the Winchesters by chance, found out they were real people. And you figured it was a once in a life time thing, but then Dean called you, and so did a new job. Both leading to the life you wanted, a family that didn’t begin or end in blood and a once in a life time love. And he said leave it and him behind, forget. But you can’t. Chapter Summary Jack is gone. Well, you know exactly where he is; with Mary in what you’ve all agreed is the Apocalypse world. Do any of you know how to get there? No. But what are Winchesters really good at? Distracting themselves with hunting. When Donna calls in a favor for hunting down a possible not-so-supernatural creep, the three of you practically leap through the phone. But this case, and the multiverse problem none of you know how to untangle, bring up some dormant feelings about what it means to be a hunter… and even more about what it means to be a Winchester.

Warnings: Cannon typical violence, some fluff, some sad feels

You’ve been a Winchester long enough to have seen some crazy shit. And you’ve been a Supernatural fan long enough to know all the crazy shit. And when Donna called in a favor to find her niece, you kinda hoped it would be the most black and white monster case you could find. And as expected it was not. Finding a black market ebay for body parts wasn’t something you thought could exist. But if there’s a market, someone will always be there to fill it.

“I can’t believe you’ve been through this.” You grimace as Doug’s temporary fangs disappear.

“At least everyone here has souls.” Dean looks over at Sam, who purses his lips together as if he wishes he could forget that whole incident. Your phone buzzes in your pocket and you quickly silence it.

“That’s the fourth time it’s rung.” Dean comments, raising a brow at you.

“Becky. I missed the last two meetings.” You confess. You were normally pretty good about warning her when you’d be busy with a hunt; but everything with Jack being so unpredictable…

“Call her back, we should be back at the bunker tomorrow.” Dean gives your hand a squeeze. You nod and walk out into the brisk night air.

“Hey, sorry about the last couple of weeks-”

“THANK GOD YOU’RE ALIVE!” She shouts into the phone. “I thought the worst when your phone kept going to voicemail.” She lets out a long sigh, taking a few deep breaths.

“I could see that.” You chuckle.

“Don’t give me a heart attack like that!”

“I’ll do better in the future.” You hold up your hand in surrender. “But what’s up?”

“I have a few design projects I thought you could brainstorm on… And Sera’s been asking about the possibility of continuing the Supernatural books?” Her voice goes an octave higher at the mention of the books.

“Send me the ideas for the stuff to design-”

“Doug, wait!” You hear Donna yell.

“I’ll get back to you about the books-” You reach for the door to go back inside when it swings open and Doug runs into you.

“Doug?” You frown as he gathers himself. “Becky, I gotta go.” You abruptly hang up, lightly grabbing Doug’s shoulder. “Hey, what’s the rush?”

He stops, looking at you over his shoulder.

“Why do you stay?” He whispers, the defeat clear in his voice.

“Well, I sure as hell wasn’t going to leave Donna high and dry-“

“Why do you stay with Dean? Knowing about the– the monsters?” He corrects. The panic rolls off of him like a fog, tendrils curling and whispering for you to get lost in it. 

“What do ya mean?”

“Your husband fights vampires, werewolves… monsters! Things that aren’t supposed to exist! How can you stay?” He harshly whispers, as if saying it too loud makes it any more true. You stare blankly at him; sure you’ve seen plenty of people shaken after their first encounter with the supernatural; but Doug? He’s had to have seen gruesome stuff in his time on the force.

“It’s his job,” you frown, “It would be the same if he were in the military or law enforcement.” You watch as he recedes into his whatever panic storm is happening in his mind. “Are you ok? Did you talk with Donna?” You place a hand on his shoulder, his whole body deflating at your touch.

“I wanted to be a cop to help folks. I didn’t sign on for monsters.” He looks off into the distance, the recent horrors he just witnessed clearly dancing in front of his eyes.

“That’s all Dean and Sam do, save people.” You smile, leaning forward until you catch his gaze. “They unfortunately didn’t have a no monster option. It’s also why Dean gets three hours of sleep a week, can drink a liquor store dry and has enough trauma that any regular person would go insane.”

“And you’re ok with that?” He scoffs, shaking his head at all the terrifying possibilities about what your words mean.

“I didn’t marry him because I think I can fix him. I love him, as he is.” You shrug, watching the thoughts churn in his head as he tries to figure out the next move. “You’re really going to give up Donna because she fights monsters?” You haven’t spent nearly as much time with Donna as you like, but the one thing you know for sure if you both will hang onto your husbands no matter the price.

“I don’t think I’m strong enough.” He whispers. You sigh, pulling him into a hug.

“She thinks you are. And so do I.” You squeeze him tight. “Can I tell you something?” You ask as you let him go. He gives you a small nod, wiping a tear away. “Leaving Donna won’t make the fear go away. It won’t stop you from looking at every person differently. It won’t change the fact that you know what lurks in the dark. But trust me when I say that having her by your side is better than any future without her.” He studies you for a moment, brain calculating all the scenarios.

“Does Dean feel that about you?” He whispers. 

The question punches you right in the gut. It should have been a simple answer. A yes of course he does, that’s why we're married. But your mouth feels like it’s full of sand. Every moment where Dean has pushed you away, told you to leave, to forget, comes rushing to the forefront. And here you stand. Telling Doug he should stay; that he should want to stay. But you have no evidence that it would be good for him; that he could continue on with his life as normal. The one thing you learned being with Dean is that you were involved with the family business whether you wanted it or not. It’s just how it went being close to a hunter.

The motel door creaks open, Sam and Donna making their way to the car.

“Ready sweetheart?” Dean asks, taking your hand.

“Ya.” You smile at him, giving his hand a squeeze as you turn back to Doug. “Talk with Donna, she deserves that. You both deserve to make a decision together.” You give Doug a small smile, letting Dean guide you to the car.

_______

One thing nice about driving with the boys is you could boot Sammy to the front and sprawl out in the back. Dean even keeps a little blanket in the trunk for you. Leather seats are three things: cold, hot or sticky. Can’t have baby makin you uncomfortable sweetheart. You smile at the memory as you stare at the back of Dean’s head. The rain gently thumps at the windows, Sammy’s fingers clacking against the keys of his laptop.

“You were a little tough on Donna back there.” Dean states, keeping his voice low to not disturb you.

“What?” Sam frowns, the clacking coming to an abrupt stop.

“Just sayin’.” Dean shrugs, taking in a deep breath. He couldn’t believe he told Donna to let Doug go; Sam, telling her to let the love of her life go. 

“Was I wrong? I mean, when has knowing us ever worked out for anyone?” His eyes flick to you as you roll to face the back of the seat.

“(Y/N)?” Dean shrugs.

“What?”

“It’s worked out for (Y/N), according to her.” Dean clarifies.

“Oh ya, I bet she always dreamed of falling in love with a guy who constantly tells her she can’t be a hunter because she could die. And who constantly makes life altering decisions for her.” Sam deadpans.

“We save people, Sam.” He points out. Save tons of people, every day, every year. That has to count for something.

“Yeah, we also get people killed, Dean. Kaia, for instance. She helped us and she died for it. And the list of (Y/N) getting hurt or almost dead isn’t exactly short.”

“Hey, look, I know you’re in some sort of a—” 

“No, no, no, don’t – don’t… You keep saying I’m in a dark place, but I’m not, Dean. Everything I’m saying is the truth. It’s our lives. And I tried to pretend it didn’t have to be. I tried to pretend (Y/N) would be safe, that we could have Mom back and Cas and – and help Jack. But we can’t. This ends one way for us, Dean. It ends bloody.”

The three of you sit in silence. Dean always told you he would go down fighting; it always seemed to be the hand he was dealt. He just never actually died, so you both had agreed that maybe that’s not the true end designed for him. But Sam giving up on the happily ever after? That was just as bad as you giving up…

“You’re the reason she holds on so tight.” He whispers, seeing Sam turn toward him out of the corner of his eye. “You told her to always keep fighting; to fight for the life she wants, to fight for me. I was prepared to let her go years ago. Prepared for my soul to ache for the rest of my life.” He accuses. “But you’re the one who said to not give her up. To fight for her. Why –”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have.” Sam interrupts. You shift in your seat, moving your blanket to muffle the sound of your heart breaking.

_______

One would think spending their whole life fighting everything that lurks in the dark would make it uncomfortable. But as Sam lays in the pitch black of his room, he feels calm. He’s embraced the fact that he lives in the dark, like some creature waiting for whatever fight is next. No searching for something to hold on to, for hope about the future.

God was no better than any other supernatural being, Mom and Jack are as good as dead… After tossing and turning he gets up, easily making his way down the hall in the dark. He stops at your studio door and listens; he can hear the faint clicking of your keyboard accompanied by a faint static noise he can only assume is music. He gently pushes the door, you’re bopping your head along to whatever’s coming through your headphones as you mess with a project on your computer.

He lets his eyes wander around the room; it’s filled with fabric, blank canvases, half painted paintings, partially done costumes and a large wall of books. This room is very much you; warm, inviting and filled with things that make you happy. It was often a safe space for him, both when you were in it and when you weren’t. You both had many late night conversations about anything that came to mind, talked through a lot of the darkness he carried with him.

“Geezus Sammy!” You jump out of your chair, nearly knocking over your water bottle. “Scared the tarts out of me!” You move it out of arms reach and slide off your headphones.

“Right, sorry.” He frowns. You tilt your head to the side, walking over to him and gently taking his hands in yours.

“You ok?” you ask. He gives you a curt nod, eyes looking anywhere but at you.

“Whatever happened to that painting, the one with the two hands holding onto each other?”

“It’s here, haven’t got around to hanging it up.” You pull it out from a stack that’s leaned against the wall, putting it up on your easel and sliding the fabric sheet off to reveal it.

“Always keep fighting.” Sam mumbles, his fingers gently tracing the words. It’s written dozens of times in the background, your perfect sloppy writing making it feel like you’re telling him to do just that.

“Sammy!” You yell over your shoulder in the general direction of his room.

“Ya?” He yells back.

“Come here!”

He pads down the hall, standing in your doorway.

“Need you to hand model with me.” You wave him over. You take one hand, having  him wrap his fingers around your wrist while you do the same. “Now pull.”

He pulls, a little too hard, and you ram into his chest.

“Not that hard Sammy!” you giggle. 

“Ok, ok… not that hard. Got it.”

He huffs in amusement at the memory. It seemed silly at the time but it’s moving to see your hand holding him up, keeping him from slipping away.

“Why is one side written upside down?”

“Because love flows both ways.” You rotate the picture so now his hand is holding yours. You slot your hand into his, leaning your head on his arm as the two of you study it.

“What if holding on was the mistake?” He asks.

“It wasn’t.” You can feel him shift against you. “I didn’t walk into this life blind Sam.” You bite down on your tongue, praying the tears not to slip down your face. “I-”

He pulls you into his arms, squeezing you tight. He has always pulled you closer; pulled you into the hunting life, into his brother’s life, into his own life. Selfish. It was the only word that came to his mind. He always thought that karma would follow through. That every single monster he and Dean put in the ground would let them have just a sliver of something good. And he was hoping it would be you. But maybe Dean was right this whole time, you’ll only end up hurt or dead.

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[the-wisteria-house]

The Arrangement (Rengoku x Reader)- Chapter 6

Kyojuro takes you and Senjuro into town and makes good on his promise to repay you for your help despite your refusing at first. Along the way, you and the boys learn a little about the Rengoku Patriarchs past, which raises some questions.

Warnings: Mentions of death, cannon typical violence, insecurities from (y/n), and arranged marriages

You felt a sense of apprehension fall over you almost like a dark and looming storm cloud. What on Earth had Kyojuro meant when he said, "Somethings are meant to change." And more importantly that look in his golden orbs as he glaced at you, no one had ever looked at you like that before...What did it mean?

"Kyojuro, (Y/n), have you gotten all of the things one you list?" A soft voice asked, cutting off your thoughts, and you found yourself unable to respond, not because the boy asked a particularly hard question but because you were still reeling from the words the oldest Rengoku son said.

"Ah, Senjuro, it's good to see you dear! How has your day been fairing so far?" Toshi'-San asked before her chocolate eyes then lit up, and she let out an excited cheer, before she was reaching inside her full and momentously large purse, rummaging through it eagerly, as the youngest Rengoku watched for a moment seemingly confused, but choosing not to verbalize the silent question in the air. You let out a sigh of relief and silently thanked the old woman for unknowingly giving you time to catch your baring's. 

"My day has been going well so far, Toshi-San. How have you been, has business been well?" Senjuro asked politely, with a soft and to him an unknowingly charming smile, as he watched her pull a flask of liquor out of her purse and- wait was that a moddle ship??? 

"Business has been picking up lately! Everyone is buying up all the yarn and crochet needles." she remarked before her wrinkled hands rummaging came to a sudden halt, "Here we go!" She pulled out an object you weren't expecting: a rolled-up scroll? Was that was caused the woman so much excitement?

"That makes sense with the chill in the air." 

As the two continued to animatedly convers about misalliance things Kyojuro felt his attention begin to drift and eventually his gaze landed on your lilith features. It seemed you had also stopped paying attention to the conversation being held, and instead were looking at the items that lined the shelves of the stand. Maybe there was something that you wanted to purchase? That was the main goal of him bringing you to the market after all!

"Has anything caught your eye (Y/n)?" Kyojuro asked softly, pulling your gaze to his piercing, but kind eyes.

"Oh, no. I'm ready whenever you are." You waved your hand in a dismissive manner, which had his forked brows raising slightly in surprise. He thought you looked quite interested in the supplies, so surly there was something you wanted right? 

"If you want anything, please don't hesitate to ask. Nothing is too expensive!" Despite his booming voice the large hand he placed on your shoulder couldn't have been gentler.

"It's alright, Kyojuro, I don't see anything." Your warm and slightly callused hand settled over his own and while you weren't smiling your eyes had softened a fraction as he gazed met your own. Kyojuro found himself fighting the frown that was trying to pull at his 

 "If you're absolutely sure, (Y/n)."

"Anuie, (Y/n), are you both ready? We have to get a few more things." both your and Kyojuro's attention turned to Senjuro who was seemingly patiently waiting for the both of you, before a gaspe drew all your attention to the woman standing behind the stand.

"Oh, Rengoku-San! Hold on, there's something I wanted to give you! I figured with the upcoming occasion; it'd be appropriate!" The older woman giddily handed Kyojuro the scroll she'd pulled out earlier. The man responded with a laugh and happily accepted the scroll, which he promptly opened.

You and Senjuro watched with anticipation as you waited for Kyojuro to tell you what it was she had given him, but after a few moments of stretched silence, he shut the scroll, shock painted on his face, "Where did you get this, Toshi-San?" The way Kyojuro looked at the older woman with confusion and uncertainty had you and Senjuro looking at each other in silent question: what was on that scroll?

 "There were multiple copies made. I didn't know if you had one. She would have wanted you to have one." The older womans kind eyes looked up at the younger man with affection, and her wrinkled hand gently patted his broad shoulders in a comforting manner, "You remind me so much of her, dear...Especially our eye's." Kyojuro looked down at the closed scroll, then back up at the older woman.

"Toshi-San, how did you know my mother and father? To have this...I don't understand?" The boy beside you restlessness was clear when hand began fidgeting with his sleeve, seemingly unsettled by not being in the loop about this all. 

The older woman smiled fondly, "I knew your mother since she was young, she would take care of my boy, and as for your father. I was originally Seijuro's matchmaker, but after he passed, it became my job to find Shinjuro a match instead." Kyojuro's eyes widen for a fraction of a second at the new information. It was in that moment of that Kyojuro stood there in shocked silence that the youngest Rengoku found himself finally able to interject, causing all eyes to turn to him, "Who's Seijuro, and why did our father have to marry after he died?"

Toshi-San slowly looked from the preteen to his older brother, with a surprised expression when she realized neither of them knew who she was talking about, "He was your uncle, I- you never knew? I'm surprised Shinjuro never told you..."

The boys both shook their heads in confirmation. They'd never heard of the man before this point. "No, father hasn't talked about his childhood all that much... you said his brother died, do you know how?" Kyojuro cautiously asked before glancing at Senjuro for a moment, with a slightly worried expression, as did you. You hoped the woman wouldn't be too graphic given his presences, he might be mature for his age, but he's still a child.

The woman frowned, and the solemn look that crossed her face told you all you wouldn't like what you were going to hear, "I probably shouldn't say this, while I don't know all the details, I still remember the day Shinjuro returned alone after his brother took him with him on that business trip... the poor boy was only fourteen and had to explain to his mother and father why his brother didn't make it home... not even a year later, Lady Rengoku hired me to find him a suitable girl to marry..." You had an inkling that the 'business trip' she was refurling to was unknowingly to her, a mission that had gone wrong and that their uncle had most likely been killed by a demon on that mission... Most likely in front of their father as well.

You looked over to Senjuro, who looked nauseous once he'd seemed to have made the same connection you had. You placed a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder and pulled him into your side, trying to offer any semblance of comfort you could.

"Br-brother, the records- did father never-" the boy's stuttering was cut off by Kyojuro, who's brows were pulled taught in consecration.

"My father didn't marry my mother until he was my age, if not older."

"It was hard to find him a match... His mother and father were never able to agree on a match, and at his age, he was more interested in working... Well, that is until your mother came into the picture, but I suppose you both are evidence of that." The woman let out a mischievous giggle as Kyojuro's plain stare turned into one of horror at her implications.  If it were any other situation, you wouldn't have been able to hold back your laugher at his expression. When Senjuro looked as if he wanted to ask Kyojuro what the woman had meant but decided to ask something else "So you ended up pairing Mother and Father in the end?" The youngest Rengoku cocked his head to the side, Kyojuro's flush much to his relief dissipated as the conversation continued.

"Ah, well, in a way, yes, but also no." The woman looked up in thought, seemingly trying to find a way to explain the situation, "It'd take too long to explain the whole story, but your father was sixteen when he met your mother. Your grandparents were still having me try to find him a suitable match when he met Ruka, who he'd ended up marring a few years later, when they came of age." You raised a brow at that last part, they were trying to find a match early on, why would they have them wait till they came of age to wed...unless?

"Ah, I see... that's quite interesting!" Kyojuro looked at the woman with an unreadable, almost owl-like stare before continuing, "Well, thank you for the information, Toshi-San. I'd like to hear more stories about my parents next time we meet. That is, of course, if you have the time." This seemed to make the older woman quite happy as she began to clap her wrinkled hands gleefully, "I would love to Rengoku-San! Swing by any time."

"Thank you again. It's time for us to head off. We'll stop by next time we're in the market!" Kyojuro says with his usual exuberance. Which has you breathing a slight breath of relief. You and the two brothers said your fair wells to the mother-son duo before making your way through the market and collected the rest of the things on the list.

"Well, that's everything on the list. Can you boys think of anything else we may need?" You looked at the two males who shook their heads.

"No, I think we got everything! How about we look around for something to eat? It's about lunch time." Kyojuro suggests with impressive gusto. You and Senjuro shared a humored, knowing look.

"Alright, lead the way, Mr. Flame Hashira." You say in a playful and humored manner and said male seemed to have shared your humor as he let out a hardy laugh that had his broad shoulders shaking with each chuckle.

"As you wish (N/n)." He cheerfully agreed before turning and leading your small group through the market in search of a suitable food vendor, and thankfully, missing the blush that had spread across your otherwise expressionless features. 'He's never called me that before.' You felt a sense of bewilderment fall over you at the realization that you didn't mind the friendly way he'd shortened your name... You honestly felt sort of fond of the informal way he spoke to you moments ago.

You couldn't meditate on that fact for long, as you soon collided with something solid. You took a quick step backward and put your hands up in apologies as you realized it wasn't an object that you'd bumped into, but Kyojuro's solid frame. "It's alright, let's stop here and look around!" The oldest of the group said earnestly with a kind smile before he grabbed your hand and practically dragged you towards what appeared to be an accessory and clothing stand. Surly they'd find something there you'd like, and he could purchase for you.

Senjuro couldn't help the small snickers that escaped him as he closely followed behind the two of you. He was glad to see you and his brother bonding. He may have been young, but Senjuro understood that for any type of relationship to succeed, you needed to put effort into it, and gladly, it seemed that despite the less than stellar circumstances you and Kyojuro were doing just that.

"Oh, Senjuro, this would look handsome on you." Your distinct voice pulled the young boy's attention to where you were standing holding a Yukata. You swiftly held the piece of fabric up to his person mentally gagging how it would fit. The Yukata it was a soft Orange-yellow color, which seemed to be on brand with the warm color scheme of the Rengoku household.

"Good eye (Y/n)! The color compliments his hair nicely." Kyojuro nodded his head before he looked up in thought seemingly picturing his younger brother in the garment, his forefinger tapping his chin lightly.

You look back at the older male and add on, "Not to mention the vibrant reds and oranges on the coy fish would go nicely with his eyes." Senjuro looked down at the yukata a little more closely and realized there were indeed vibrantly colored Coyfish dotting along the bottom, "What do you think, Sen?"

He looked up at you with a small smile before nodding, seemingly pleased with your choice, "I like it. The Coyfish design looks very meticulously made. Is it alright if we get it, Anuie?" Senjuro looked over at his elder brother, with the same smile.

"Yes, of course. I can hold into if you'd like, while you look around at other things." The younger boy nodded and handed the vibrant garment off to his older brother, before scurrying to the clothing racks. You both watched for the next few minutes as the young boy looked through the different garments, seemingly looking for something in particular.

It would be a lie to say you weren't impressed by the different arias of fabric the store held, along with the complex patterns of some of the garments. It was nothing like the small clothing store in your hometown, but you supposed with how much closer this town was to Tokyo, it was bound to have better stock.

"Hey (y/n), look at this!" The surprising enthusiastic voice belonging to Senjuro called from behind one of the many racks. You were curious to see what the boy had found to invoke such unrestrained enthusiasm given his usually reserved demeanor. Once, you had rounded the corner and joined the young blonde you watched curiously as he animatedly pulled out what appeared to be a high-quality silk kimono from the rack.

"Wow, that is beautiful, Senjuro." You approach the boy who holds the kimono out for you to inspect. You carefully take one of the long sleeves into your callused hands. It was the smoothest thing you'd think you'd ever felt, you slightly bunched up the fabric, you heard a slight crunch. "Impressive, I've never seen silk of such quality." You said in amazement. The kimono was something you would think to see on the wife of a high standing aristocrat, or an Orain. The top was a dark, almost navy blue that faded perfectly into a beautiful shade of lilac towards the bottom, which also held small gold embellishments that were reminiscent of flowing water and falling Sakara blooms. The sleeves also shared this elegant coloration and design. A small part of you deep inside wished you could own such an elegant kimono instead of the few old hand-me-downs and low-quality garments you had occupying your wardrobe, but then again you were only a simple tea house worker. Really, what use would you have for such an extravagant garment? You didn't come from money like the people who frequented this shop probably did... You were an outsider, what right did you have to wear such a garment? You didn't, was the realization you came to... so why did you still want to try the kimono on so badly?

"You have a great eye, little brother! I think that kimono will suit (Y/n) very well!" The voice of Kyojuro suddenly came from behind you, his attention then turned to you, "Would you like to get that one, or if you don't like that one, we can search for another more to your likings. We can also get you a couple of kimonos while we're here. I know you had to pack light on your journey here." His burning gaze almost made it feel like he was peering into the deepest depths of your soul, as he awaited your response with an unwavering smile. 

"I- oh no, I wouldn't be able to accept such a gift! It's far too nice for me to wear and surely far too expensive." You quickly dismissed the man, trying to ignore the disappointed expression on his younger brothers face and the slight guilt you felt for disappointing him, "It's a beautiful Kimono Senjuro. You did a wonderful job picking it out, but I'm sure it'll look far better on some noble woman than me. I don't even have anything to accessorize with anyway. It'd be a waste of such a beautiful garment." You attempt to reassure the young boy. Who still looked disappointed but thankfully didn't press the issue. Kyojuro went on to ask you if you wanted anything else, to which you politely declined. His multicolored hues were unreadable as he nodded, thankfully not putting up a fight before you all made your way to the clerk to purchase Senjuro's new yukata.

Soon after leaving the apparel stand, you came across a suitable food vendor, who sold delightfully smelling ramen at a fair price, "I'll order, while you two can go find us a suitable spot. I'll join you shortly!" Kyojuro suggested, and you and Senjuro happily complied, and quickly found a table situated underneath a sturdy old weeping willow tree. The spot was close enough to the stand that you figured Kyojuro would have had little difficulty spotting the two of you once he rounded the cart, but as the minutes wore on, you started to believe you may have been wrong. "Do you think Kyojuro is alright? He's been gone for quite a bit." You voiced your thoughts to Senjuro, who only shrugged and tilted his head in thought.

"My brother has quite the appetite he could have bought extra servings, which is taking so long."

The uncomfortable chuckle that escaped him had you narrowing your eyes, but before you had time to question the boy, a familiar laugh sounded as a shadow fell over you.

"Speak of the devil." You said as the flame Hashira who was expertly balancing the wooden tray which held three bowls of ramen in one hand and holding a large paper gift bag in the other. He sat the tray on the table first before taking a seat across from you and Senjuro.

"Thank you, Kyojuro." You bowed your head in appreciation as he passed you your bowl, the heat radiating from the ceramic warming your chilled fingers. 

"Of course! I hope you don't mind (y/n), but I went and got you this, which is why I wasn't back here as quickly as I made it seem I would be." The man extended the gift bag to you, which had you looking up at him in hesitantly, "Kyojuro, you didn't have to get me anything, thank you." You say in surprise as you accepted the bag. And as you took out some of the colorful tissue paper out of the bag, a small rectangular box revealed itself. The box seemed to be a little over twelve inches in length and probably under three in width. You opened the box to reveal a simple but elegant hair stick. The accessories base was made out of a sleek dark wood, and connected was what appeared to be three genuine gold sakara flowers, with a purple gem proudly shining in each blossoms' center, as well as singular, dark strand of thread that held complimentary gold and purple beading on the end. It honestly was the most beautiful pin you had ever seen.

"I- Kyo- thank you. This is beautiful." You carefully trace the edges of the flowers before looking up at him, trying to find the right words to say.

"I'm glad you like it, but that's not all!"

Kyojuro waived for you on to continue looking in the bag. You hesitated as you pulled out a lilac obi, along with a dark blue obi-shime with a complimentary golden sakara as the obi dom. You felt your chest begin to tighten as you realized even after pulling out those items, there was one more thing in the bag... "Kyojuro... is that what i think it is." You looked to the older male for confirmation, not missing how his brother was practically bursting with excitement as he looked between the two of you.

"Yes, my apologies if I've made you uncomfortable, but I couldn't resist... I didn't want you not having something to pair with it to be the reason you didn't wear it. Despite what you said, I could tell the clear liking you took to the garment, so that's why i got the other things as well." The young man hesitated for a moment as he seemed to grow flustered, "And for what it's worth (N/n) I think you would suit that kimono more than anyone else could. I don't think there's anything that was in that shop that wouldn't look great on you." The Hashira's ears were glowing a vibrant red as he said that last part, and as you looked into his flame like orbs, you saw honesty and kindness.

"You're too kind to me, Kyojuro... I don't think you know how much this means to me, truly." You looked down at the kimono and then back up to him, giving him the most beautiful and genuine smile, he'd ever seen. It was at that moment that Kyojuro felt as if his whole world had suddenly halted, and a pleasant warmth fell over him. He couldn't help but note how your eyes creased ever so slightly, and how vibrantly your eyes seemed to shine. He felt a spark ignite within his soul...in his heart, and he knew for certain he had to make you smile like that again... Once you'd three of you finished off your meals, you all agreed it was about time to head back to the Flame Estate.

The walk back was a rather peaceful one, the sound of wind chimes carried in the gentle winds, along with the sounds of birds singing heartfelt ballets, creating a harmonious melody, that paired quite wonderfully with the falling autumn leaves. As you entered the gates of the estate, the youngest Rengoku suddenly stopped dead in his tracks and grabbed your arm, alarming you slightly, "What is it, Senjuro?"

"Look up there." The boy pointed to the one of the many trees that surrounded the home, he was trying to get you to see something but what you couldn't tell what.

"Look at that, I've never seen them so close to the house before!" Kyojuro exclaimed from beside you, though he was quitter that usual, seeming to not want to disturb the peace. You watched as a content smile spread across his sun kissed face, and he guided the two of you to get closer, until you could make out what it was that had the boys so excited. It was two sparrows', who seemed to be expertly building a nest on one of the higher branches of the maple.

"Brother, (y/n), what is the omen that comes with sparrows?" Senjuro looked to both you and Kyojuro curiosity, then back to the birds, "I know there's one, but I can't think of what it could be?"

"Prosperity, marriage, and other good tidings, I believe?" The older blond tapped his chin in thought. You couldn't help but muse that that seemed to be a habit of his.

"I thought they were a warning?" You looked to Kyojuro, who only shrugged in response.

"Could be, I'm not much of a bird expert, to be honest!" He let out a hearty laugh before setting one of his large hands comfortably on your shoulder as his face seemed to brighten slightly, "Why don't we all head in? I think I remember Senjuro saying something about sweet potatoes!" Said male's face screwed in disbelief at his brother's words, "We just ate lunch, Anuie! When I said I'd make sweet potatoes, I meant for dinner!" The exasperated voice of Senjuro cried as his brother lets out another laugh, seemingly amused at the boy's reaction. You could only shake your head as the boys continued to playfully debate why, and why not Kyojuro should be allowed to eat sweet potatoes before dinner. In the end, Kyojuro lost the argument against his younger brother and had to wait till dinner to consume his beloved sweet potatoes.

Dinner itself was not an extraordinary affair. You and Senjuro chose to make a simple, but enjoyable meal, you made sure to include the tea Shinjuro enjoyed. The man ended up joining you and his sons that evening but made no effort to contribute to the conversation. The boys and you quietly conversed about trivial, miscellaneous things that ranged from recipes you and Senjuro wanted a try, to the interesting things that could be found in Tokyo. As the boys bantering faded into the background, you couldn't help your gaze from falling apone the Rengoku patriarch. He was clearly a complicated man, one with many secrets. If the conversation with Toshi-San was anything to go by and that he hid the fact he had a brother from his sons, going so far as to remove him from the family records. What other skeletons did he have in his closet? You couldn't begin to wonder. His eyes met your own for a few moments before he looked back to tea, expression unreadable. You didn't attempt to catch his eye again after that, instead choosing to go back to listening to Kyojuro and Senjuro's upbeat conversation.

It wasn't until shortly after dinner that anything of notability occurred. You were finishing up washing the dishes when the sound of footsteps had you looking to the doorway of the kitchen expectingly at the young man who offered a smiled as he entered.

"(Y/N) would you like to join me for a walk along the lake? I find it to be quite tranquil in the evening." Kyojuro nodded towards the doors that led out to the garden. You realized that in the week you had been here you hadn't had the chance to observe the garden, which only made his offer all the more appealing. 

"Sure, thank you for the invitation." You quickly wiped your hands on a nearby dish cloth before following the young man out of the house and towards small the lake that sat on the land of the estate. He offered you his arm when the ground got particularly uneven, and sighted his mother would be ashamed if he wasn't a gentleman in this situation when you initially said you didn't want to bother him, and you could manage. 

As you walked along the edge of the lake, your hand resting comfortably on his arm, you understood what Kyojuro meant when he had said the lake offered a tranquility. You chose that moment to look over to the man next to you, ready to thank him for showing you this peaceful scene, but you found yourself faltering before any words could escape you. The soft glow of the moon reflected in his striking orbs, which were looking deeply into your own, almost in an owlish manner. 

Why was he looking at you so intensely? Needing to find a way to break the tension, you decided to ask what had been on your mind, "Kyojuro... you seemed distracted during dinner, despite keeping up the cheerful conversation. I'm guessing it has something to do with why you wanted to bring me out here?" Your voice softly cut through the silence of the night, as you searched his eyes for an answer. The young man continued to hold your gaze for a few moments before turning his attention to a nearby bench.

"Let's sit down over there." You nodded wordlessly and followed Kyojuro's lead, settling on the bench beside him with your hands neatly folded on your lap, patiently waiting for him to gather his thoughts. 

Once he seemed to have figured out what he wanted to say he looked over to you, "(Y/n), do you know why our parents arranged for us to be wed?" Kyojuro chose to ask simply after a moment of silence, not wanting to dance around the subject any longer.

You shook your head before thankfully finding the will to speak, "All I know is that your father paid my mother very handsomely. Why he would pay for you to marry a lower-class tea maker is beyond me." You looked at your hand and wished you could have been more useful and given him the answers he wanted, but alias you were just as lost as he was. 

Kyojuro seemed to perk up when he heard your apologetic tone, "Dear (Y/N), you misunderstand. It's not your class that has me confused about the arrangement!" He imminently reassured, and much to your surprise he gently took both your hands in his own much larger battle worn ones with a comforting squeeze, "The thing that confuses me is this all of this was quite sudden on my father's part. He'd never brought up the topic of me marrying before, and then suddenly, he's arranged an engagement. It just doesn't add up."

Your brows furrowed at this information, and you looked down at your intertwined hands, "But you come from centuries' worth of Hashira? It surprises me he'd never bring it up before this point. Wouldn't he want you to continue the legacy?"

Your blond companion only sighed. His usual light-hearted smile was replaced with a one that looks more solemn and mournful than anything else, "You would think that would be the case... but the truth is my father never wanted me to be a slayer. Ever since my mother passed away, he lost his drive and has since grown resentful at the idea of slaying demons... He sees it as I'm doing nothing more than wasting my time and has told me to quit on multiple occasions." You glanced at the male next to you, then back to the lake, and its rippling water.

"Your father and I had a similar conversation not long after you left for your mission." Kyojuro seemed surprised and quickly asked you what his father had said. You explained the disagreement that occurred between the both of you, trying to leave out the cause as much as you could.

"I'm sorry you had to experience that side of him so soon, I was hoping it wouldn't reveal itself for a little while longer, or that he was really becoming better." Kyojuro's apologetic gaze had you shaking your head in disagreement.

"It's not your fault, and while I don't agree with how he went about things in that moment, I can't help but think his anger, and his hostility was really just meant to hide his fear... When he watched you leave, his eyes seemed almost haunted... Now, this isn't me excusing his drinking or how he goes about expressing that fear, but I can tell that he loves you... Even if he's not all that good at showing it." You could only hope in that moment you hadn't overstepped, but another part of you knew that if you hadn't said this, you might have ended up regretting it later on. 

Kyojuro's expression stayed the same as he responded, "I tell Senjuro that he does love us despite not being able to show it... but I wonder at times if he would really care if I were to perish in battle. I mean, I'm at peace with him not changing, but that doesn't make it less upsetting at times."

This didn't stop you from finding your lips turning downwards at this truth, and before you could think to stop yourself, you'd pulled Kyojuro into a firm embrace, surprising both him and yourself. Much to your relief, he returned your embrace and wrapped you in his sturdy muscular arms.

"Fear makes people do foolish things... I promise we'll figure things out, okay?" You felt his grip tighten slightly in response before he's releasing you, with his fingers finding a loose strand of your hair.

"I've never met someone like you..." He pushed the lock behind your ear with a look you didn't recognize, but for a reason unbeknownst to you, this didn't scare you. You grabbed his hand, which was about to retract in a soft hold.

"I could say the same about you, Kyojuro..." It was as if something had shifted in that moment as you took in his ruby and golden eyes, which gazed into your own (E/c) orbs. You didn't want that moment to cease, but alas, the sound of footsteps coming from inside had your sights imminently shifting from his to the door.

"What is it (y/n)?" Kyojuro asked, looking into the same direction you were confused, seemingly not hearing what you had.

"You didn't hear that?" You looked back to Kyojuro, who was shaking his head uncertainty.

"No, I did not, but I am particularly deaf!" Kyojuro's usual enthusiasm seemed to have returned as he stood with your hands still intertwined, "It's starting to get late. Why don't we head back inside? We'll talk more about things tomorrow! Does that sound alright with you?" He respectfully helps you up from where you were sitting.

You nodded, and you made your way inside the quite manor, saying your goodbyes before retiring to your respective rooms, both sporting slight blushes for an unknown reason.

Once you'd shut your door and took a step forward, you'd felt pain shoot through your foot as it collided with something solid with a hard thump. You bit back the colorful curse that wanted to spew from your lips, not wanting to risk Senjuro over hearing if he were still awake. You hobbled over to the desk in the corner of the room and quickly lit the lantern that sat apone the desk. Your initial frustration was replaced with confusion, as you found yourself met with a wooden box.

"Now, what are you doing here?" You asked aloud, as if the hunk of wood would provide an answer before you bent down to take a closer look.

The box was truly beautiful, seemingly made entirely out of sturdy oak, and while the wood and its beautiful grain pattern was something to marvel at, the intricate engraving the lid held were even more striking. A bundle of three carnations occupied the center of the lid framed by a perfect oval. All details were seemingly burned into the fine wood.

You unclasped the lid carefully, and what you had unveiled had your breath hitching. Laid before you were set of calligraphy brushes along with other related items ranging from a variety of ink sticks to a stone and paper weight. The quality of all the supplies was impressive, even with the labels on the ink blocks yellowing with age.

You felt your eyebrows, crease. Why would Kyojuro or Senjuro leave this for you? While it was evident the supplies had been used before, why would they think to give you such a thing? Despite the supplies being aged and used, they still would have cost a pretty penny for the average person, then you included the box and its intricate details? It didn't make sense why they would waste such a valuable thing on you...Did Kyojuro go back to Toshi-San and get this as well? 

With your thoughts whirling like a raging windstorm, you shut the box and place it on the desk in the corner of your room, with a sigh.

That night, you struggled to fall asleep trying to wrap your mind around the Rengoku family. Then, in extension, your thoughts began to drift to other things you'd rather have not had to think about or remember.

Once you were able to eventually drift off, you found no peaceful dreams awaiting you.

Okay, that was a lot, but I think I'm okay with how it turned out! I tweaked this chapter a few times and rewrote a few parts after doing some quick researching. (Sorry if some parts are period inaccurate.)

I put a fair bit of symbolism throughout this chapter and past chapters, so if you've been paying attention, you might know some things that are otherwise not explicitly stated. (Ex: The meaning behind the Crains painted on the shogi from the earlier chapters) I'd like to hear your theories about things, so please comment your thoughts!

I'm going to do a Q&A before i release the next chapter so you can either comment questions or go to my request box and ask. (If you want to ask anonymously, that's fine.)

Questions can be about things that seem unclear, how I came up with some of the chapter/ character ideas, and future plans for this story, and anything else! Ask me anything. (Though I'm not going to spoil any future events)

(Edited: 8/11/23)

Taisho Era Secret

Author: Come on, you're the only member of the Rengoku family, not to have done this yet!

Shinjuro: I don't want to be a part of your damn gossip shtick, you damned woman!

Author: Stop being difficult! Just tell us something interesting, and you'll be out of here quicker! And don't 'damn woman' me you old hag!

Shinjuro: Like, what? *glares at author* and who is "we" are you crazy or something? *grumbles* Also I'm not that old I'm only 40.

Author: I don't know, how about something about your family, or how you became a Hashira? Is it true you had originally rejected the position?

Shinjuro: (Glares and sighs) Yes, that is true. I had long since killed over 50 demons by age 16 and reached the rank Kinoe, but I rejected the position when it was first offered...

Author: Then what changed your mind? You became a Hashira almost two years later.

Shinjuro: An old friend knocked some sense into me when I was going to reject the offer a second time after killing another moon; broke my nose in the processes.

Author: Uhhhh, I'm sorry- what?

Shinjuro: Where you not listening!?

Author: That's just...I don't even know what to say. *Pauses for a moment*

Shinjuro: Are we done here?

Author: Yea... I hope you all enjoyed today's Tisho era secret today!

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[chocoblep]

#16: Tempering Expectations

Prompt: Third-rate

Lydjana had been toiling over these new sleeping capsules for days, and she couldn’t understand why they weren’t working. The ballistics force that was being applied to them was the same as it had been before, as she’d been using her hand cannon both then and now to test. They weren’t as aerodynamic, which was to be expected considering they were half-filled with liquid, but the worst part was that half of them were breaking open when they came out of the barrel. That was a far cry from breaking on impact, which was the intended result.

At first, she thought the compound might have been too heavy, so she launched a dummy capsule with a lesser amount of water in it. This, too, broke when she shot it, so she recalibrated the hand cannon for a lighter shot and tried again. When she still met with no success and a very wet mud puddle, she decided to use the last of her previous batch of mix to make a few more capsules. There wasn’t enough for more than a couple, so she only molded two, and went to grab something to eat as she waited for them to set.

When she came back, she tried the same experiment, and the capsule soared through the air and hit her target with a loud thunk, breaking open and splashing it with the water she’d filled it with. Initially, excitement filled her and she whooped–she was getting somewhere! It was short-lived, though, because almost as soon as she’d cheered her success she realized why she’d been struggling so much. So she gathered up three capsules–the last old one, and two of the new ones she’d made–and tucked them gently into her satchel, leaving her testing grounds behind.

The Sapphire Avenue Exchange was packed this time of day, and as Lydi approached the alchemist’s market stall she usually brought her mix from, she was so tired, hot, and frustrated that she barely had a filter left. She dropped all three capsules onto the counter and then slammed her palms on either side of them, causing the Lalafell behind it to jump in surprise and the capsules to hop an ilm in the air before settling again on the wooden surface.

“Ah, Lydjana! Wh-what can I do for you?”

“Do you want to explain to me why, Hihimori, when using the exact same process, add-ins, equipment, environment, and gun  to make and fire these capsules, two of these will break apart on the shot and only one will break apart when it hits its target?” she asked, leaning forward. To crowd over the counter. A nearby merchant glanced at them, but quickly looked away.

“Probably a molding issue,” the lalafell replied, though he sounded less sure of that than he likely intended. “That kind of stuff is finicky–”

“How many batches of this mix have I bought from you?” she asked, cutting him off.

“A-A dozen, at least!” he replied.

“And I pay you well?”

“You do, lass!” he replied.

“And you’ve been putting filler in it recently?” She asked quickly, in the same tone as her last question.

“Yes–I mean, no! Shite…”  The man brought a small hand to drag down his face, sighing. “Yes, but it’s not what you think. The powder I put in this batch I had to substitute because my regular shipment never arrived, and it’s just as strong as the other–”

“No!” Lydjana slammed one hand against the counter, silencing him, and then picked up two of the capsules. She opened them both, showing him their construction. “Exact same shape, exact same thickness,” she growled, and then pulled a heavy book from her satchel and settled it on top of both of them. They held it perfectly straight, without bending. “Looks great, right? They’re both pretty strong. But watch this shit. Give it thirty seconds.”

Pulling the book away, she opened both capsules again and then pulled out her water skin, pouring a small amount of liquid into each one. Then she closed them and settled the book on them again. After about ten seconds, the new mixture’s capsule began to lose its integrity, the book listing atop it. After twenty, the book had moved enough that the other capsule came loose and rolled the length of the counter until Lydi stopped it with her hand, and as the book settled again, the capsule broke entirely beneath it, water splattering the counter and dripping down between the wood planks.

“Bugger me!” the alchemist said, quickly moving to pull whatever was under the counter from the dripping.

“I told you when I first ordered this that there would be liquid in these capsules. Did you think to test the mixture’s viability with liquid in them? It looks like your new powder is dissolving into it, and not only does that destroy the integrity of the capsule, but also ruins the potency of whatever’s inside it! You are either going to replace this batch with a legitimate one, or return my payment and I will do business elsewhere.”

The Lalafell raised his chin, fixing her with a glare. “I’ll replace half of the batch, if you bring back the faulty mixture,” he countered.

Lydi leaned forward just a touch more, her green eyes full of fire. “The entire batch, and here is the rest of your faulty mixture.” She shoved the only capsule remaining on the counter at him.

“Already used! I have no use for this!”

“Yes, well neither do I!” Lydi snapped, and then her voice rose. “And if I hadn’t been testing with this, I could have been killed because of it! Do you want that on your hands? Killing your customers because you didn’t test your damned substitute!?”

The lalafellan man widened his eyes, and at that moment a  hyuran man approached the counter with his hand resting on the pommel of the short sword at his hip and bearing the insignia of the Brass Blades on his coat, and Lydi straightened when she saw him.

“What’s the ruckus? You’re attractin’ attention.”

“This man sold me a mixture meant to form capsules for projectile-based delivery of substances, and substituted with inferior, ineffective ingredients without informing me of that change. He also charged me the same price he would have if he’d used the actual mixture we agreed upon. I was very specific with my request. You don’t mess around like this when it comes to guns and safety!”

The merchant looked between Lydi and the Brass Blade, and then sighed. “Here,” he said, moving to one of his ledgers and drawing a finger down the list. Then he counted out the exact amount that she’d paid him, and handed it over. 

“For the trouble. And I’ll replace the full batch, but I’m still waiting on the main ingredient. Apparently the original caravan they sent got attacked by a pack of jackals and lost it, but some mercenary took out the pack leader and they dispersed. Heard it was a bunch of shenanigans involved with that. They’re sending a replacement, but it won’t be here for a few more days.” He hesitated when she shook her head, his hand dropping with the gold still in his fingers. “Well then, do you want the recipe so you can take it somewhere else?”

“No! No,” Lydi said, taking a deep breath. “I paid for it, so keep the money if you’re replacing it. It’s the product I want. And trust me when I say you’re the only one I’ve found so far who’s managed to get it right and is able to produce it regularly, so I’d like to continue buying it from you. But hear me when I say this: When I order this in the future, no substitutes unless you discuss it with me first. I will find out eventually, and I don’t want to find out by getting injured or worse.”

“Yeah. You’ve always been level-headed, you just… surprised me roaring up like a Behemoth and I got defensive.”

The hyur looked between the two of them and raised his brows. “Everything’s good, then? No need to intervene?”

“No, sir,” both of them said in unison, and then Lydi leaned against the counter again, this time a touch more relaxed. The man nodded and returned to his post.

“Look, Mori, I like you, but I thought you were trying to pull a fast one on me, and when it comes to my guns, I can’t afford to mess around like that.” She gave him an apologetic look. “So I’m sorry I started in on you like that jackal that delayed your shipment, I just spent the whole day trying to figure out why these things were breaking left and right and I was really angry.”

The man took another deep breath and then let out a little laugh. “I like you too, Lydi, you’re a generous gal, and you’re right, I should have told you. Time’s money, and truth be told, I was busy and forgot about the liquids thing. My solemn promise that I’ll talk to you about it in the future.” 

“Well, you know what they say, mother is the necessity of invention. Maybe we can put our heads together when this happens and come up with something even better, yeah?”

“Aye.” He paused, and then looked up to her. “What were you gonna put in those capsules, anyway?”

“A sleeping draught that vaporizes when it comes into contact with outside air, and acts quickly on inhale.”

“Shite, you weren’t lying when you said that could be dangerous!” he exclaimed, just as another customer walked up to the counter. 

“Yeah. Someone shoots it, it explodes in their face, they fall asleep. Whatever they’re shooting at would either run off or shoot back.” Lydi collected the book and wiped it off, sticking it back in her satchel along with her last good capsule.

“Let me keep this faulty capsule. Maybe we can find a use for this mixture, eh? I’ve got a couple ideas. I’ll let you know when the original stuff comes back in and we can get you a good batch. And remind me not to make you mad!” He turned to acknowledge his new customer. “Hey, May! I’ve got your potions here, give me just a second to grab ‘em!” Then he looked to Lydi once more as he began fishing through the crate he’d pulled out from beneath the counter. “Do you need anything else before you go? I’ve got a few energy additives I’ve been working on if you want a sample or two on the house for the trouble.”

“Energy additives?” Lydi asked, wrinkling her nose in confusion.

“Aye! Add it to your water skin and it’ll keep ya goin’ like coffee. It’s derived from a nopalitender blossom extract from Tural, and I’ve been working on flavoring it. It’s been working pretty good! I’ve managed to almost replicate La Noscean Orange, and the grape one’s pretty much settled.” He spoke fast as he packaged up the potions, and then made the exchange with his customer and put the gold in his till.

“Oh… Sure! I’ll try it!”

As he bagged up a couple little powder packets and handed them over, he gave instructions on how much to use for a full skin of water, and Lydi had to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, finally.

“Well here I am, trying to put monsters to sleep, and you’re trying to wake me up!”

[duhragonball]

Who do you prefer? Megatron or Galvatron?

Maybe this is one of those "You had to be there" things, but the meta-narrative behind G1 Galvatron was one of those things that fascinated me when the cartoon was on the air. You can buy the movie, and watch the cartoon on Hasbro's YouTube channel, and maybe even track down the original toy, but I'm not sure that captures the experience of seeing this dude introduced in 1986.

So they were running ads for the new toys in the months leading up to the movie's release, and it was clear that there were a lot of new faces who would be introduced there. Curiously, this ad sets up a pair of new (?) leaders, which is weird because you hear the original leaders in the voice over. Optimus Prime talks up Ultra Magnus, and it's not really clear if he thinks of Magnus like a second-in-command, or his successor, or his replacement. You might watch the ad and think that Ultra Magnus is Optimus Prime's boss from the old days, and he's finally arrived to take over.

And that makes the other guy, Galvatron, even more bizarre, because Megatron wouldn't stand for any of that crap. He already has a second-in-command who's constantly trying to steal his job, so why would he want a guy like Galvatron on his team in any role? It's just another shark in the tank. And yet he's talking up Galvatron like he's a valuable player on his squad.

Just looking at the characters, it seemed clear that these two were the "next" Prime and Megatron. Galvatron's got a big cannon on his arm, and in the commercial he's voiced by Frank Welker, who does the voice of Megatron. Hell, Ultra Magnus' toy literally includes an Optimus Prime with a white paint job. They could have marketed it as "Super Optimus Prime" if they had chosen to do so. In some later continuities, they were established as brothers to explain their resemblance.

Then the movie came out and all was made clear. Magnus was a trusted second-in-command, then he had to take over Optimus Prime's position, and then he ended up back in the second banana role when Rodimus Prime was established. The commercial couldn't explain all of that, of course, because it would spoil the movie.

As for Galvatron, he simply was Megatron, after Unicron restored his body. I still remember watching that scene in the theater, seeing Megatron getting molded into a new form, and thinking "Wait, is that? Oh, so that's what's going on!" And for the rest of the movie, it's basically the same character with a new look, except he's playing under different rules. He kills Starscream first thing, something he seemed almost reluctant to do in the past. Maybe he just finally had enough of Screamer's bullshit, or maybe he had a new outlook on things.

Then Season 3 of the cartoon started up, and one of the big questions was "What happened to Galvatron after the end of the movie?" And Cyclonus and Scourge tracked him down and discovered he was now insane. I think I knew Leonard Nimoy wasn't going to do the voice in Season 3, but I kind of expected Frank Welker to just do the same voice he did in the commercial, but instead he does this nasally high-pitched thing, and Galvatron chews scenery for the entire rest of the series. Sometimes he's a little more lucid, but usually he's just a deranged maniac, and the Decepticons just sort of put up with him because they can't get anything done without a leader, and no one else wants the job.

It's fascinating stuff, because when you get down to it, most bad guy leaders in cartoons are probably suffering from some kind of mental illness. I mean, look at Cobra Commander or Skeletor and tell me those guys aren't struggling with something. Hell, when you look back at Megatron in Seasons 1 and 2, you realize a lot of his plans are just completely absurd, and he carried himself with just the bare minimum amount of composure to seem like a stable commander. But Galvatron's madness was made into a plot point. They even did an episode where Cyclonus checked him into an asylum. The elephant in the room could not be ignored, partly because Galvatron wouldn't stop screaming at it.

But like I said, it's the meta-narrative that makes it even more fascinating. Galvatron is just a new incarnation of Megatron, and they probably made him insane just to distinguish him from his original self, but there's still that unused concept of a "new leader", a separate character who serves under Megatron, or maybe replaces Megatron in the future. I sometimes wonder how that version would have played out. Sometimes I think about what would have happened if the Leonard Nimoy version of the character had continued on into Season 3.

Also, it bugs me how the final scene of the cartoon teases this rivalry between Galvatron and Lord Zarak, the leader of the evil Nebulon characters. It's clear that if the cartoon had continued, it would have featured the two of them in some sort of power struggle. Zarak's a shrewd operator, and he sees Galvatron's instability as a weakness he can exploit. It would have been very cool to see them butt heads in another season of the cartoon, but I guess that Tommy kid needed to talk to Optimus Prime about his homework or whatever.

Oh, one other thing: We had a Megatron toy when I was a kid, but his chest broke off, so he looked pretty pathetic when you had to kind of stuff it into place to play with him. But the Galvatron toy was a lot sturdier, and more poseable. So that probably affects my judgement.

[girlactionfigure]

🔅Sun morning - ISRAEL REALTIME - Connecting to Israel in Realtime

❗️BLOOD NEEDED!  MDA's blood services are warning of a significant need for blood for the wounded.  Give blood!  Visit the MDA website at http://www.mdais.org/dam  or call 03-5300400.

🔻AIR ATTACKS..

Inbound suicide drone from Syria, shot down by jet.  Possible source: Iranian Militias of Iraq, they claimed responsibility for launching a drone attack at “the Golan”.

▪️TERRORIST - CAPTURED.. The terrorist who attacked in the Jordan valley turned himself in, to avoid being killed.

▪️TERROR - BE’ER SHEVA.. Stabbing attack reported at Beer Sheva's central bus station.  MDA reports a man in his 20s hurt. Terrorist reportedly shot, the man injured in the attack was the one who neutralized the terrorist.  The terrorist apparently a resident of the Bedouin town of Rahat.

▪️DISTRAUGHT HOSTAGE FAMILIES SAY.. A dramatic statement at the Tel Aviv abductee rally: "We've reached the end, we're going to burn the country down”.  

Mother of hostage: "Citizens of Israel, I am asking you now with a loud cry - go out with us to the streets to bring our children home”.

Father of hostage: "I call on the chairman of the Histadrut to shut down the economy tomorrow. We will not let them go back to normal"

The headquarters of the families for the return of the abductees: "The families of the abductees and the citizens of Israel are taking to the streets. Next week we will move ourselves to Jerusalem, in front of the Knesset, where the struggle for the release of the abductees will take place.”

Protestors blocked the Ayalon (Tel Aviv highway), eventually being cleared by police water cannon.  16 protestors were arrested.

(( OPINION - We feel so much for these families, but their actions are misplaced and hurting their family members. The struggle for the hostages is NOT in Tel Aviv or Jerusalem but in GAZA. They should be protesting the delay in attacking Rafah while their loved ones stay trapped.  And by making Israel seem weakened they EMPOWER Hamas to stick to impossible terms. ))

▪️CONVERSELY… "Forum Tikva" of families of abductees: a significant number of families of abductees shocked by the political activity that some of the families of abductees chose to start.

▪️LEBANESE SAY.. The Lebanese politician Fars Said (a Maronite Christian) from the Lebanese "March 14 Coalition" attacks Hezbollah: “The residents of southern Lebanon are terrified of terror and fear. Hezbollah is a paper tiger and its end will come.”

▪️BEWARE THESE “FRIENDS”.. Part of the two-state solution: Arab countries proposed deploying forces - not only in Gaza, but also in Judea and Samaria. 

▪️ECONOMY.. French grocery chain CarreFour has extended their contracts until at least 2040, making a long term commitment to Israel after entering the market about a year ago.

[continuous-spec]

ME Fic: Bait (5/5)

Summary: Garrus and Shepard finally have a heart-to-heart.

Link: Ao3

Length: 3k

Shepard normally made her rounds after the Normandy took flight—not that Garrus timed it. But he could guess she'd be at his bay if someone hadn’t held her longer within an hour. It’s been over four hours since they took flight. 

Garrus showered to rid himself of the smell of smoke and alcohol. The dust that used to clog his plates and lungs washed off. He stashed his civilian clothes away, and now wore his usual light armor for sleep. He should have been sleeping. Instead, he paced the main battery and reorganized his tools. He found himself forearm-deep in the Thanix cannon when a notification blinked on his omni-tool. 

OS: Okay let’s talk, preferably not about krogran piss.

GV: Well there just went my opener

GV: Be up in a few minutes 

His heart raced, so Shepard was still awake and toiling over the night's events. Her last words hung in his mind if things would be okay between them. 

We will be.

Will be. They could be okay, and she could still want to end things. They could be okay as just friends. 

The pit in his stomach still weighed him down. Of all the attention Shepard got tonight from Morinth, the human bartender–Both were closer to home for her. 

Garrus moved slowly to the elevator, trying to figure out what to say while walking into the unknown. The cabin door entrance glowed, and waited for him to activate the panel. Garrus clutched his mandible to his jaw. With a light tap, Garrus hit the panel. It spun for only seconds but felt like an eternity of waiting. 

The doorway slid open, revealing Shepard with her baggy N7 sweats and hair-tied taut. Red and black eye makeup washed away, the tight dress gone. The bite marks on her neck had healed and dissipated. Back to her usual self, physically anyway. She crossed her arms and leaned against her desk, waiting for him. 

“Hey,” Garrus spoke first, unsure how to follow up. 

“Hey.” Her voice came out quiet, but her eyes watched him intently. Silence hung in the air between them. Ten feet away, and they felt like strangers. 

“So…” Shepard started. “That asari girl was cute.” Her tone was trying to come off light but had a sharp edge.

“Oh, really. Which one?” Garrus played along, hoping to ease the tension.

“Asshole,” Shepard let out a snort of a laugh. “The bubbly one, not the murderous one.” 

“Right, right, that one.” 

“Is she okay? You took a while to get back to Normandy .” She must have kept track of him. He had spent an hour or so talking with Vlyrica. 

“Vlyrica wanted to thank me. She wanted to paint me,” Garrus cringed at what he said. That did not sound great. A loud laugh broke through his panic. 

“Oh my god, ‘paint you.’ You fell for that line? So you just went to her apartment, and then what?” 

”I know, I know. But she really is an amazing artist.” Shepard’s face soured, but he continued. “Her place was cramped with hundreds of paintings of just people on Omega. And—” Garrus paused, unsure about how to breach the conversation.

“And?” An interrogative tone left Shepard’s lips, but she stood aloofly. Her eyes slighted at him.  This must be what jealousy looks like in a human. 

“She had a painting of Sensat, one of my men.”

“Holy shit.” Her arms dropped to her side.  Any edge she had when he had entered was gone. 

“Apparently, she used to see him all the time at the markets. There he was, just staring right back at me, I, um.” 

Shepard bridged the distance between them, her hand wrapped around his forearm. Her warmth pressed through the thin fabric of his undersuit. She nodded to the couch for them to sit. 

A bottle of wine and half a glass sat on the table with datapads littered around them. They sat only inches away, her hand still on his forearm, and her mint green eyes watched him. 

“We’re there other paintings of your men?” 

“Omega is almost 8 million. The fact she had one is unthinkable. I just—I’ve been dreading going back there. Seeing Sensat, how he actually was, helped.”

“I’m glad you were able to get that out of all this,” Shepard said with a soft smile. 

“Yeah, um, and then we began talking about the rest of my men.” Garrus fidgeted in his seat. This had been the most he shared about them with Shepard. 

“She didn’t get far with my painting, but she will paint them.  Just so I can have something of them. A good memory for once.” 

“Wow, that's amazing. I’d like to hear about them sometime,” she paused, watching him shift uncomfortably. “Only if you want to.”

“I’d like that, just tonight–.” The words failed to come out of his mouth. He didn’t know what to make of tonight. 

She squeezed his arm in reassurance. “It’s been a lot. Whenever you want to.” There was a long moment of silence between them. He felt unsure of where to take the conversation next. Confess his feeling of jealousy? Look for reassurance that she was still interested?  None of it seemed right. 

Shepard broke the silence. “Do you think she’d put two and two together about Archangel? Is that safe that you told her about your men?” 

Garrus sighed. This would be an easier conversation, at least. 

“I doubt it, but I have no intentions of returning, and besides, to her, I’m some guard named Caeus.”

“Caeus? You don’t look like a Caeus,” Shepard squinted her eyes as she looked at him. “Too formal.” 

Garrus laughed. “Well, you don’t look much like an Alison either. The Gunn part is easier to believe. 

“Thank Kasumi for that. But this Caeus, just some kind of guard?”

“I told her some crap about being a guard for Aria, doing a sting operation. People don’t tend to go poking around in Aria’s business.” 

“Number one rule of Omega,” Shepard said with a roll of her eyes. 

“And so this Alison is just some merc looking for guns to hire?”

Shepard shrugged. “I mean, it’s kind of true. I didn’t lie per se. You have this poor girl believing she has a crush on some guard.” 

“Well, you have a bartender thinking he’s about to get a date and —.” Shepard stiffened as if she was worried he’d bring up Morinth. Garrus stopped himself, trying to think his following words carefully. 

“Look, tonight could have gotten a lot smoother. I wasn’t thinking clearly, watching others hang off you, and being back on Omega. It clouded my judgment.” 

Shepard pressed her lips together before speaking, looking as she contemplated her words. 

“I know. I didn’t like seeing someone hang off you, either. I know I had to do things I’m not proud of.” She paused, now fidgeting in her seat, eyes cast down. “I guess I wasn’t expecting to see that happen to you, and it ate at me.” 

“I tried to push her off me multiple times.”

“It’s the scars. They make you irresistible,” Shepard teased. 

“And here I thought it would just be krogran women I had to fight off.” Garrus retorted back. 

“Krogran, asari, human.” Shepard corrected. Her hand trailed up to the scarred side of his face. A knowing smile crept up on her lips as she watched him. 

“Look Garrus, I care about you a lot, but I can’t just do this–” Garrus' heart sunk into his stomach at her pause. “just hooking up as friends thing.” 

She took his free hand, entangling themselves together. Three with five. 

“I don’t want anyone or anything in the way of us. You’re important to me.” Her chest and neck bloomed out in a red hue as she spoke. 

The visor readings of her heart rate rose, and her breath rate increased. She was as worried as he was for them. A calm washed over him as he leaned into her touch. 

“Shepard, you obviously are to me too. I would have much rather have met you at that bar.” The words left his mouth so easily. 

Shepard’s eyes lit up as he spoke. She almost bounced out of her seat at the answer.  “Oh, okay, how would you introduce yourself? I’m interested.” Her grin flashed out devilishly. 

“Shepard–” His dual tones came off as pleading, unsure if she picked that up. He didn’t know how to do this. The flirting, the banter, he was starting to lose steam. 

“Come on, have fun with me about this. I want to know.”  

“Well, first, I-um, I’d ask to buy you a drink.” Garrus’ mind raced as he panicked, trying to find something.

“Okay, and? I want to hear what you would actually say. Use that voice of yours,”  Shepard's same grin was plastered on her face. She was not going to let this go. 

“Well, for starters, you looked amazing in that dress.” Garrus’ hand wandered to her waist, her well-formed muscles shifting under her jacket. Shepard sucked in a long breath, her hooded eyes watching him keenly. 

“How so?” Her voice pitched high as she played along. 

“Showing off your figure, your—,” Garrus paused, unsure what was and wasn’t a compliment to humans. “Supportive waist–”

“Supportive waist?” Her hands shot up to her mouth to stifle a laugh. 

“Crap! Is that offensive in human cultures?”

“No, just an odd way of phrasing it.” She giggled. 

“Honestly, an odd way of saying it to turians too.”

“Then why say it!” Shepard’s held-back laugh turned into a snort. 

“Don't laugh! I’m panicking. Throw me a line here, Shepard!” 

“You didn’t seem to have a problem with Vlyrica,” she said with jest.  

“Well, I’m not interested in her. You make me nervous.” 

“Oh, tell me. How do I make you nervous?” Her voice drawled out. 

Without thought, Garrus trailed his hand up her leg to her thigh and squeezed. He leaned into her, almost pushing her into the couch. 

“You're smart, sexy, and a wicked shot. What isn’t there to be nervous about?” His voice mirrored hers. Drawled out with dual tones humming together–all signaling want. 

Her hands shot up to his carapace, pulling him into her. Shepard's lips pressed to his mouthplates hard. The taste of her wine slipped in with her tongue. Her fingers tightly holding on to him. Floral scents wrapped around him. He wanted to just stay in that moment. Just taking her in, as things were finally going just right. 

But she pulled him further into her on the couch, almost having him on top of her. Garrus fumbled a bit, unsure where to grab her, trying to fit themselves together. But soon, they found their rhythm. Her smile pressed into his. His three fingers intertwined into her five. 

Shepard pulled back first to catch air, her skin flushed. 

“Garrus, I want this. I want this with just you,” she said with a hushed voice. 

Her words sent his heart racing and his hands a slight tremble. But his mandible flared out into a wide grin. Garrus was exactly where he wanted to be. 

“I want that too.”  

He dipped his head back down to her, tracing his mouth plates from her lips to her jaw until he met her neck. He thanked himself for reading the erogenous zone packet as Shepard let out a small gasp. 

Her gasp turned to moan as his tongue trailed up her neck and gave a careful tug of her ear. A thrumming hum escaped from him as his hips sunk into hers. His groin plates parted, releasing and throbbing himself against her. The same devilish smile crept up on her face as she grinded against him, and her moans grew louder. 

“Shepard—” his voice low and rumbled, full of lust. “You know what you're doing to me.” 

Her legs hooked around his waist, pushing herself more into him. “Take me to bed then,” she pleaded.

Garrus hoisted her, palming her ass with a squeeze.  Her hands hooked around his neck for support. Within a moment, he had her pinned gently on the bed. His carapace slightly dug into her chest. Long dark strains of hair came loose from her bun, sprawling around her. 

He held her by the waist, slowly thrusting and teasing her. Her lips pressed back to him, and once again, he explored her, tasting her, drinking her in. She bucked her hips frantically into his. Her moans spilled into his mouth. Spirits did he feel drunk on her moans.

His claws ran through her hair as he pulled her face closer to him. The twist of strains felt odd as they curled around his hand. They snared in his claws as he tried to shake them loose. Her head jerked back slightly with an accidental tug. 

Her body tensed underneath his weight. Garrus swiftly got off her, tightly holding his mandibles to his jaw. Shepard’s eyes locked on the sky window, watching the passing stars. Lost to him again.

“Shepard—.” Garrus’ tone tinged with worry.  She snapped back to him. 

“I’m fine, please,” she pleaded, pulling him closer and trying to go for another kiss. He pressed his brow plate to her brow instead. 

“Shepard, we don’t have to do this now. It’s okay.”

“But I want to, with you,” she pleaded, pulling his carapace closer. “I just…”

“There will be other nights.” 

“Fuck! All I could do was look out her window. I was just stuck.” A sob erupted from her throat.  “I don’t want to be alone right now.”

“I’m not going anywhere. To hell and back, remember? I want to stay.”  He pulled her closer, her head dipping into his cowl. He massaged circles up and down her back. Waiting for her to be ready to talk. This was all still too fresh. 

For minutes, silence hung between them. Her arms slowly curled onto his neck, his mouthplates pressed into her head. 

“If you want, we can watch the elcor Hamlet production you’ve gone on and on about,” Garrus said softly. 

Shepard’s head lifted, her eyes pleading at him. “You’d suffer through that for me?” 

“For you? Anything.”

“If we can last the 14 hours, let’s see the krogran Macbeth production showing on Illium.”

Garrus sighed jokingly. “You’re pushing your luck.”

Shepard cuddled into his side, fluffing pillows around them for more comfort as he displayed his omni tool for the vid. 

An hour in, Shepard shooed away the vid screen out of boredom. “Why don’t we try for a date night instead? Illium has an aquarium and piano bar I’ve wanted to check out.”

“A date sounds nice. Really anything to get me out of sitting through a play.” 

Shepard rolled her eyes at him. “Listen, I appreciate the arts, but I’d like to see how the asari take on the piano. Get enough drinks in me, and I’ll probably start playing something myself.” 

“I didn’t know you could play.”

“Well, I am good with my hands,” Shepard’s eyebrows wiggled at him. “But yeah, I used to play as a way to distract myself when I was with the Reds. Like an escape.”

Garrus pulled her in closer, cherishing every moment of learning something new about her. She always found a way to surprise him. She was so much more than the legends people ascribed to her name.  

“You know, I’ve actually always wanted to learn how to paint when I was a kid,” Garrus said, trying to share something of himself with her too. 

“Why didn’t you?” Shepard looked surprised at that information. 

“I told my dad I wanted to take classes, and the next day he was teaching me how to shoot a gun.”

Shepard’s face soured as he spoke, but Garrus shrugged and continued, “It’s the turian way. I’m painting blood on walls now with my rifle.”

“Your rifle, your paintbrush, the battlefield, your canvas.” 

“To put it mildly.” 

“So can’t be a spectre or an artist according to your dad,” Shepard chipped in. 

“Not that he stopped me, but I saw his reason. C-Sec is something down the middle, something ‘safe’.”

“Safe? C-sec?”

“Financially speaking, look where that leads us.” 

“Well, I’m pretty happy to have you here with me.”

“The only good thing of my time with C-sec was it led me to you,” Garrus conversed nervously. Shepard smiled and brought a gentle kiss to him. The aquarium's blue lights reflected on her skin's pink hues. Bags grew under her eyes from exhaustion; her sharp orange scars glowed, but she was so beautiful to him. 

“What’s your favorite piece to play?” Garrus asked, trying to pull and learn more about her. 

White teeth flashed out in a grin as Shepard pulled out her omni-tool. A holo keyboard in neon orange appeared between them. She cracked her fingers, readying to take on the challenge. 

“Okay, it’s been a while, so give me some grace.”

The tune started simple with repeating notes but built into a soaring melody. Her fingers danced across the board as it became more complex.  His heart swelled watching her. But something about the tune became more and more familiar to him. Her eyes remained focused. Determination shone as she tried to get it just right. The last key hung in the air as she finished. 

“Amazing! But that sounded so familiar. Where is it from?

“Fleet and the Flotilla. I Was Lost Without You is a classic! I bet you can sing along, Vakarian.” Shepard nudged him with a wink. 

“You’re not getting that out of me.” 

“Oh, you’re no fun.”

“I try to be.” He leaned forward and kissed her at her temple and continued. “Why don’t we watch that instead.”

“You got yourself a deal.” 

They collapsed together in the comfort of her bed. Garrus pulled up the vid, while she nuzzled into his side. He was happy for things to go right, just this once. 

[sanctuary1988]

~Silver Innocence |4| Gwi

French: /the petals of love/

Pairing: Gwi x fem! noble! Reader

Summary: A heartless vampire falls in love for the first time in centuries of loneliness. Passion, secrets, betrayal and love drown the royal palace. Will your love for Gwi prevail through time or will it wither away like a fallen rose petal? Maybe love was his punishment, maybe love was your salvation. Or wasn't it a curse to you both? Because, who can beat a race against time? Who can love in the dark? Who can love without truth? After all, even the most beautiful flower will wither away and end in ashes of time, remembered only by the one who cherished her the most.

Warnings: strangers to lovers? fluff, light angst, TENSION, this is another light chapter tbh. age gap (huge), poetic writing, historical! AU, royal! AU?, cannon copilant, (let me know if I missed anything!)

Word Count: 2.5k words

A/N: Welcome to the fourth chapter, darlings! Thank you all who commented, reblogged and liked the last parts as you loves, really motivated me to write this next part in nearly one sitting O.o

Please enjoy the chapter and let me know what you think, dear! I'd love to hear from you all, beautiful darlings 🫶🫶🫶

The air outside was colder than before. That was the first thing you noticed as you stepped outside of the underground palace since Gwi took you with him. The moon was high in the sky, the air bit your skin as you left your new home and walked through the beautiful gardens of the royal palace before you were leaving behind the golden cage and stepped into the busy streets of the marvellous city you rarely got to see. 

Gwi had allowed you to go out of his magnificent underground palace, a privilege you weren’t going to waste as you walked into the busy market place. Your beautiful soft pink silk skirt brushed against the ground as you moved around slowly while you admired the beauty of the city. 

You walked the night with soft steps, completely unaware of the looming figure who watched over you. Gwi had granted you permission to leave the safety of his palace with the only condition for you to go at night. This was so that he could silently follow you. He needed to make sure you were safe. That you would return to his side. That you would obey him forever. He hid behind his gat as he stood in front of a stand selling jewellery, losing himself in the crowd while his eyes that sparkled with his crimson desire never lost sight of you. 

He watched you smile as you purchased a beautiful black fan with painted red flowers on it. Gwi couldn’t help the smirk that grew on his lips. What a perfect gift for his perfect rose. You walked around and he followed, his domineering gaze hidden behind his gat, his beating dead heart racing at the sight of your happy self. 

Your beautiful dress made it easy for him to spot you around. With your soft pink skirt and white top made of silky fabric his hands itched to touch, he always had his eyes on you. With a stiff movement, he paid one of the shopkeepers to wrap a gift for his eccentric flower. A small object he thought would suit you to perfection. But when he turned around as his eyes searched for your parading figure, he saw nothing. You were nowhere to be found and something Gwi wasn’t able to describe the feeling that gripped his heart so forcefully it was nearly difficult to breathe. 

He walked with haste among the people in the market, eyes roaming all around him. Wishing, needing, having to see you before his instincts overtook his mind. Your sweet scent was lost in the crowd, he could not see you, he could not trace you. He did not have you at his reach anymore.

His eyes, as dark as the night, painted crimson. The colour of his tainted hands. Gwi made his way through the night, his pace commanded power and the passersby cleared his path at the imposing image of his dead gaze. 

“Where are you, petal?”

The muttered words escaped his lips as he searched around. That was until the smell of fresh roses hit his senses. Gwi remembered the first time he ever saw you. Crouching down on the palace gardens at night as you picked out roses you never took with yourself back to your room. He remembered the way he had walked to find the source of the electing scent that had instantly captivated him. As if he had been hypnotised, moved by instinct or by fate. He walked to where you were and got a glimpse of your silver innocence behind the golden palace walls. 

And so, just like the first time, Gwi followed the scent that made his heart beat slightly faster. He almost felt lost, allowing his impulses to win when he was a master of control. He walked through the darkness and away from the market just as the lovely scent got stronger and stronger until he saw you at the distance walking through a flower field in the outskirts of the city. 

He was firstly tempted to go out there and reprime you for walking away from his line of sight yet he knew you were not aware he was following you. Gwi watched you from where he stood, hidden in the shadows of the moon as you walked around in peaceful silence as  you carried a heavy looking bag and he presumed it was the things you bought for yourself. You did not seem to want to leave the place and for that, he was utterly relieved. Not that he’d admit it but the sight of you, peacefully walking around, soothed something 

Since you left the underground palace that night, you felt as if someone was watching you. But it was a gentle gaze that dressed you in. It was not intended to harm. An innocent gaze that followed you around. A safe look that bathed you in silver. 

You turned around and made direct eye contact with the vampire. You smiled, a knowing smile that only revealed your pure soul to the heartless monster that had you to himself in his dark palace. 

The sight of your smiling face melted a part of his frozen heart. What a beautiful sight it was to see you smile under the moonlight surrounded by your sisters in nature and beauty. While dancing in a flower field, you showed him something more beautiful than whatever painting he had ever seen. Something more delicious than whatever blood he had drank in his long life. You showed him a spark of hope. A glimpse of happiness. A thread of innocence he did not want to break. 

In the moonlight, you shine.

Like a diamond of a rose. 

Flower of mine. 

A heartbeat that comes and goes.

You broke eye contact, lowering your gaze as you continued to parade around. Yet now a soft smile danced over your lips. Knowing that he followed you did not creep you out, it could only mean one thing. For he had already claimed you as his, it could only mean that he cared.

You were walking back into the underground palace knowing Gwi was behind you. At some point, he stopped hiding it and you were actually able to see him following you. Your feet carried you back to the royal grounds and into the dark palace, already by memory you walked to your room. The steps of the vampire could be heard behind you yet you only smiled to yourself as you  continued to walk ahead, never turning back not knowing your false ignorance was driving his twisted mind crazy. 

“Since when did you know?”

His voice, though soothing, still surprised you as you turned to look at him after it felt like years of your gaze hiding from his own. You smiled, a small gesture that was gentle over your beautiful features. 

“Since I left your underground palace, My Lord.”

Gwi narrowed his eyes at you just as you turned around once more and began taking your new items from the bag you carried all the way back. Once more, ignoring his presence and choosing to pretend to be alone yet again. 

He watched you bring out different books as well as some jewellery and a wooden box. With calculating eyes he watched you move around the room he had claimed as yours. Your movements were always precise and elegant. Soft on their nature. Like a true lady of his court. Your words, though cunning sometimes, were always respectful and voiced out with gentle tones. But your eyes, he loved those expressive eyes of yours. Those eyes told him a very different story. Gwi still had to figure out what hidden secrets swam in your beautiful (e/c) eyes and he didn’t mind if he were to drown in the sea of unsaid words and fleeting thoughts that carried your soul. For everything that you had touched or owned was now precious for him. Just as you became his precious flower in a bittersweet exchange of power and ambition mixed with desire and untitled emotions. 

“When you are done with that, make me some tea. I’ll be in the main room.”

But just as you turned around, he was already gone. His absence felt heavy within your heart and you let out a loud sigh. Feeling a coldness seeping into the cracks of your heart. 

A dead heart beats for you. 

Like a thousand arrows that pierce your soul. 

Owner of a broken core.

Mystery of mine, oh my sweet scented rose.

You walked up the steps to his magnificent throne while cradling a cup of tea in your hands. Gwi watched your every move with his dark eye that only now did they look onyx to you before you lowered your gaze once more. 

You handed him the cup and he took it in his larger hand, tingles ran up your arms when his fingers brushed yours and a faint blush dusted your cheeks and you were forced to tangle your hands in front of you to stop them from doing something awkward. Gwi took a sip from the tea before he set it aside on the nearby table that rested next to his throne. 

“You have a question.”

He spoke and that voice of his made you tingle all over. Deep as the ocean and strong as thunder, that voice awoke a part of you you did not know existed within your core. The acknowledgment of your state made you swallow but you did not dare look up. Not when you felt how the tension began invading the room and threatened to drown you as it pulled you down with its poisonous claws. And even so now that you stood so close to him. Your previous carefree self was gone, melted down like a candle during the night. 

“I do, My Lord.”

You confirmed with a subtle nod of your head. He leaned his forearm on the armrest of his throne as his eyes danced over your features that had him enchanted. If he could, Gwi would look at you for hours in utter admiration of your beauty. It almost felt that to him, you were painted by the angels before being sent to this mortal earth. 

“Speak, then.”

His words, though harsh in their nature, were surprisingly soft. They brought back to life that sweet and innocent side of you that the vampire had witnessed on the flower field earlier during the night. That side of your soul that was the complete opposite from him. That side of your heart that was still pure. That side from humanity that had not yet been corrupted by the evilness of this fallen world. 

He was one of those evil things that paraded the land of the living. But you, having you so close, having your heart to his reach, having your life in his hands, only made him want to protect that innocent side of your mind where you lived in ignorance when it came to his true nature. But would he be able to keep such a promise to himself? Would he be able to keep you from getting tainted when he was the very dark ink that stained society? Would he be able to control himself when you smelled oh so tantalisingly delicious?

The sight of your smile, your sparkling eyes and your beautiful skin bathed in the moonlight came back to his mind as he watched you with nearly crimson eyes as they changed colour upon the turmoil in his mind.

 Into the night you walk, 

Ever so beautiful, dressed in delicate petals of love.

Your laugh, like music, fills my ears. 

Your tears, like pearls, I want to keep. 

You were perfect for him like a perfect rhyme to one of his secret poems. Perfect to his heart like white complements black. Perfect to his soul as death meets immortality. And so, as you looked up and your eyes met his once more, the skip of a heartbeat was now more notorious in his frozen heart. But he did not suppress it either. 

“I would like to know if, in the future, I’d be allowed to go out from time to time.”

He lifted an eyebrow at you and as you took a deep breath, you spoke with the most elegance and care he had ever seen on a high-class lady. So he became sure that you were worthy of standing by his side in his own palace of the night. 

“When you don’t ask anything from me, My Lord, it gets quite lonely here.”

“And why would leaving make you happy? You have everything you could ever want here with me.”

You nodded, a fierceness taking control of your eyes yet your words remained gentle. Polite. You were aware of your place and you respected that. 

“I want to educate myself, I need to be worthy of standing next to you. I bought some books to read in my free time.”

“So you want permission to buy more books when you finish the ones you brought today?”

He subtly smirked at your use of words. You were indeed, very intelligent. And while he had you with him, why not entertain himself with your thirst for knowledge. 

“Yes, that is if you deem it appropriate, My Lord.”

Gwi let out a soft chuckle. A sound that travelled up your spine and that you found to be rather pleasing to hear. 

“Of course. However, I’ll be coming with you next time.”

You were grateful that he agreed, yet the question as to why you were not allowed to go on your own was reflected in your eyes as clear as glancing at your reflection in a mirror. 

“Remember that you are mine, little petal. I don’t want you going around on your own.”

Butterflies swarm in your stomach at the nickname. At the softness in his words despite the deep voice that spoke them. You bit your lip to suppress the smile that threatened to grow in your lips. 

“Go back to your room. You’ll join me tomorrow for breakfast.”

With that, you bowed with elegance. Walking down the steps that led to his throne. 

“Thank you, My Lord.”

That was the last thing you said as before you retreated back to your bedroom of the cherry blossom, finally allowing the smile to spread over your face as you walked through the hallway that took you away from Gwi’s presence. 

He picked up the cup of tea you had prepared for him, taking another sip from the beverage he found was made to perfection. The taste that was left was sweet, just as you scent, just as your heart. Innocent on its own. 

“Sweet petal.”

Gwi said against the cup before he was downing the beverage. Savouring it as if it were the elixir to his eternal life.

In an eternal winter, you are my spring. 

A fallen petal from a dead tree. 

With a silk voice that lulls me to sleep. 

In an eternal winter, I found a reason to live.

March/28/2024

~ Masterpost

[ariel-seagull-wings]

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW

@themousefromfantasyland @tamisdava2 @the-blue-fairie @grimoireoffolkloreandfairytales @thealmightyemprex @minimumheadroom @professorlehnsherr-almashy @amalthea9

(WASHINGTON IRVING)

FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was,  Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,  Forever flushing round a summer sky.                     CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small market town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley or rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noontime, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley.

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of SLEEPY HOLLOW, and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a High German doctor, during the early days of the settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there before the country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs, are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other part of the country, and the nightmare, with her whole ninefold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols.

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback, without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during the Revolutionary War, and who is ever and anon seen by the country folk hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating the floating facts concerning this spectre, allege that the body of the trooper having been buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head, and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard before daybreak.

Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows; and the spectre is known at all the country firesides, by the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by every one who resides there for a time. However wide awake they may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative, to dream dreams, and see apparitions.

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud, for it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there embosomed in the great State of New York, that population, manners, and customs remain fixed, while the great torrent of migration and improvement, which is making such incessant changes in other parts of this restless country, sweeps by them unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still water, which border a rapid stream, where we may see the straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. Though many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should not still find the same trees and the same families vegetating in its sheltered bosom.

In this by-place of nature there abode, in a remote period of American history, that is to say, some thirty years since, a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, “tarried,” in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a native of Connecticut, a State which supplies the Union with pioneers for the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of frontier woodmen and country schoolmasters. The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weather-cock perched upon his spindle neck to tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield.

His schoolhouse was a low building of one large room, rudely constructed of logs; the windows partly glazed, and partly patched with leaves of old copybooks. It was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by a withe twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes set against the window shutters; so that though a thief might get in with perfect ease, he would find some embarrassment in getting out,—an idea most probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an eelpot. The schoolhouse stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by, and a formidable birch-tree growing at one end of it. From hence the low murmur of his pupils’ voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard in a drowsy summer’s day, like the hum of a beehive; interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice of the master, in the tone of menace or command, or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in mind the golden maxim, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” Ichabod Crane’s scholars certainly were not spoiled.

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of those cruel potentates of the school who joy in the smart of their subjects; on the contrary, he administered justice with discrimination rather than severity; taking the burden off the backs of the weak, and laying it on those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed by with indulgence; but the claims of justice were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on some little tough wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this he called “doing his duty by their parents;” and he never inflicted a chastisement without following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the smarting urchin, that “he would remember it and thank him for it the longest day he had to live.”

When school hours were over, he was even the companion and playmate of the larger boys; and on holiday afternoons would convoy some of the smaller ones home, who happened to have pretty sisters, or good housewives for mothers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed, it behooved him to keep on good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising from his school was small, and would have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and, though lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda; but to help out his maintenance, he was, according to country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers whose children he instructed. With these he lived successively a week at a time, thus going the rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief.

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of schooling a grievous burden, and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had various ways of rendering himself both useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter labors of their farms, helped to make hay, mended the fences, took the horses to water, drove the cows from pasture, and cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute sway with which he lorded it in his little empire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He found favor in the eyes of the mothers by petting the children, particularly the youngest; and like the lion bold, which whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours together.

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was a matter of no little vanity to him on Sundays, to take his station in front of the church gallery, with a band of chosen singers; where, in his own mind, he completely carried away the palm from the parson. Certain it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of the congregation; and there are peculiar quavers still to be heard in that church, and which may even be heard half a mile off, quite to the opposite side of the millpond, on a still Sunday morning, which are said to be legitimately descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers little makeshifts, in that ingenious way which is commonly denominated “by hook and by crook,” the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was thought, by all who understood nothing of the labor of headwork, to have a wonderfully easy life of it.

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the female circle of a rural neighborhood; being considered a kind of idle, gentlemanlike personage, of vastly superior taste and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to the parson. His appearance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea-table of a farmhouse, and the addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver teapot. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. How he would figure among them in the churchyard, between services on Sundays; gathering grapes for them from the wild vines that overran the surrounding trees; reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones; or sauntering, with a whole bevy of them, along the banks of the adjacent millpond; while the more bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and address.

From his half-itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travelling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house to house, so that his appearance was always greeted with satisfaction. He was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a man of great erudition, for he had read several books quite through, and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather’s “History of New England Witchcraft,” in which, by the way, he most firmly and potently believed.

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and simple credulity. His appetite for the marvellous, and his powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary; and both had been increased by his residence in this spell-bound region. No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. It was often his delight, after his school was dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover bordering the little brook that whimpered by his schoolhouse, and there con over old Mather’s direful tales, until the gathering dusk of evening made the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way by swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened to be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited imagination,—the moan of the whip-poor-will from the hillside, the boding cry of the tree toad, that harbinger of storm, the dreary hooting of the screech owl, or the sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost. The fireflies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of uncommon brightness would stream across his path; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch’s token. His only resource on such occasions, either to drown thought or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled with awe at hearing his nasal melody, “in linked sweetness long drawn out,” floating from the distant hill, or along the dusky road.

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and spluttering along the hearth, and listen to their marvellous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, or Galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they sometimes called him. He would delight them equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and portentous sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut; and would frighten them woefully with speculations upon comets and shooting stars; and with the alarming fact that the world did absolutely turn round, and that they were half the time topsy-turvy!

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cuddling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, of course, no spectre dared to show its face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk homewards. What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path, amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night! With what wistful look did he eye every trembling ray of light streaming across the waste fields from some distant window! How often was he appalled by some shrub covered with snow, which, like a sheeted spectre, beset his very path! How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet; and dread to look over his shoulder, lest he should behold some uncouth being tramping close behind him! And how often was he thrown into complete dismay by some rushing blast, howling among the trees, in the idea that it was the Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings!

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness; and though he had seen many spectres in his time, and been more than once beset by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely perambulations, yet daylight put an end to all these evils; and he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the Devil and all his works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together, and that was—a woman.

Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening in each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a substantial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen; plump as a partridge; ripe and melting and rosy-cheeked as one of her father’s peaches, and universally famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal a little of a coquette, as might be perceived even in her dress, which was a mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set off her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, which her great-great-grandmother had brought over from Saardam; the tempting stomacher of the olden time, and withal a provokingly short petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and ankle in the country round.

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the sex; and it is not to be wondered at that so tempting a morsel soon found favor in his eyes, more especially after he had visited her in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm; but within those everything was snug, happy and well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of it; and piqued himself upon the hearty abundance, rather than the style in which he lived. His stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great elm tree spread its broad branches over it, at the foot of which bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest water, in a little well formed of a barrel; and then stole sparkling away through the grass, to a neighboring brook, that babbled along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhouse was a vast barn, that might have served for a church; every window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm; the flail was busily resounding within it from morning to night; swallows and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves; and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some with their heads under their wings or buried in their bosoms, and others swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and abundance of their pens, from whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through the farmyard, and Guinea fowls fretting about it, like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, discontented cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a warrior and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings and crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart,—sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and then generously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered.

The pedagogue’s mouth watered as he looked upon this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his devouring mind’s eye, he pictured to himself every roasting-pig running about with a pudding in his belly, and an apple in his mouth; the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of crust; the geese were swimming in their own gravy; and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy relishing ham; not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savory sausages; and even bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which his chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living.

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the orchards burdened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel who was to inherit these domains, and his imagination expanded with the idea, how they might be readily turned into cash, and the money invested in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes, and presented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family of children, mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with household trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling beneath; and he beheld himself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee,—or the Lord knows where!

When he entered the house, the conquest of his heart was complete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses, with high-ridged but lowly sloping roofs, built in the style handed down from the first Dutch settlers; the low projecting eaves forming a piazza along the front, capable of being closed up in bad weather. Under this were hung flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing in the neighboring river. Benches were built along the sides for summer use; and a great spinning-wheel at one end, and a churn at the other, showed the various uses to which this important porch might be devoted. From this piazza the wondering Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the centre of the mansion, and the place of usual residence. Here rows of resplendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner stood a huge bag of wool, ready to be spun; in another, a quantity of linsey-woolsey just from the loom; ears of Indian corn, and strings of dried apples and peaches, hung in gay festoons along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers; and a door left ajar gave him a peep into the best parlor, where the claw-footed chairs and dark mahogany tables shone like mirrors; andirons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus tops; mock-oranges and conch-shells decorated the mantelpiece; strings of various-colored birds eggs were suspended above it; a great ostrich egg was hung from the centre of the room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed immense treasures of old silver and well-mended china.

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, and his only study was how to gain the affections of the peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he had more real difficulties than generally fell to the lot of a knight-errant of yore, who seldom had anything but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and such like easily conquered adversaries, to contend with and had to make his way merely through gates of iron and brass, and walls of adamant to the castle keep, where the lady of his heart was confined; all which he achieved as easily as a man would carve his way to the centre of a Christmas pie; and then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way to the heart of a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims and caprices, which were forever presenting new difficulties and impediments; and he had to encounter a host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous rustic admirers, who beset every portal to her heart, keeping a watchful and angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly out in the common cause against any new competitor.

Among these, the most formidable was a burly, roaring, roystering blade, of the name of Abraham, or, according to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the country round, which rang with his feats of strength and hardihood. He was broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with short curly black hair, and a bluff but not unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air of fun and arrogance. From his Herculean frame and great powers of limb he had received the nickname of BROM BONES, by which he was universally known. He was famed for great knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous on horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost at all races and cock fights; and, with the ascendancy which bodily strength always acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on one side, and giving his decisions with an air and tone that admitted of no gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for either a fight or a frolic; but had more mischief than ill-will in his composition; and with all his overbearing roughness, there was a strong dash of waggish good humor at bottom. He had three or four boon companions, who regarded him as their model, and at the head of whom he scoured the country, attending every scene of feud or merriment for miles round. In cold weather he was distinguished by a fur cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox’s tail; and when the folks at a country gathering descried this well-known crest at a distance, whisking about among a squad of hard riders, they always stood by for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along past the farmhouses at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks; and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim, “Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his gang!” The neighbors looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration, and good-will; and, when any madcap prank or rustic brawl occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it.

This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the blooming Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, and though his amorous toyings were something like the gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that she did not altogether discourage his hopes. Certain it is, his advances were signals for rival candidates to retire, who felt no inclination to cross a lion in his amours; insomuch, that when his horse was seen tied to Van Tassel’s paling, on a Sunday night, a sure sign that his master was courting, or, as it is termed, “sparking,” within, all other suitors passed by in despair, and carried the war into other quarters.

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane had to contend, and, considering all things, a stouter man than he would have shrunk from the competition, and a wiser man would have despaired. He had, however, a happy mixture of pliability and perseverance in his nature; he was in form and spirit like a supple-jack—yielding, but tough; though he bent, he never broke; and though he bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it was away—jerk!—he was as erect, and carried his head as high as ever.

To have taken the field openly against his rival would have been madness; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently insinuating manner. Under cover of his character of singing-master, he made frequent visits at the farmhouse; not that he had anything to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of parents, which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Balt Van Tassel was an easy indulgent soul; he loved his daughter better even than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an excellent father, let her have her way in everything. His notable little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her housekeeping and manage her poultry; for, as she sagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and must be looked after, but girls can take care of themselves. Thus, while the busy dame bustled about the house, or plied her spinning-wheel at one end of the piazza, honest Balt would sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, watching the achievements of a little wooden warrior, who, armed with a sword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the mean time, Ichabod would carry on his suit with the daughter by the side of the spring under the great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so favorable to the lover’s eloquence.

I profess not to know how women’s hearts are wooed and won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and admiration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, or door of access; while others have a thousand avenues, and may be captured in a thousand different ways. It is a great triumph of skill to gain the former, but a still greater proof of generalship to maintain possession of the latter, for man must battle for his fortress at every door and window. He who wins a thousand common hearts is therefore entitled to some renown; but he who keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones; and from the moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, the interests of the former evidently declined: his horse was no longer seen tied to the palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose between him and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow.

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, would fain have carried matters to open warfare and have settled their pretensions to the lady, according to the mode of those most concise and simple reasoners, the knights-errant of yore,—by single combat; but Ichabod was too conscious of the superior might of his adversary to enter the lists against him; he had overheard a boast of Bones, that he would “double the schoolmaster up, and lay him on a shelf of his own schoolhouse;” and he was too wary to give him an opportunity. There was something extremely provoking in this obstinately pacific system; it left Brom no alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in his disposition, and to play off boorish practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the object of whimsical persecution to Bones and his gang of rough riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful domains; smoked out his singing school by stopping up the chimney; broke into the schoolhouse at night, in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe and window stakes, and turned everything topsy-turvy, so that the poor schoolmaster began to think all the witches in the country held their meetings there. But what was still more annoying, Brom took all opportunities of turning him into ridicule in presence of his mistress, and had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to whine in the most ludicrous manner, and introduced as a rival of Ichabod’s, to instruct her in psalmody.

In this way matters went on for some time, without producing any material effect on the relative situations of the contending powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool from whence he usually watched all the concerns of his little literary realm. In his hand he swayed a ferule, that sceptre of despotic power; the birch of justice reposed on three nails behind the throne, a constant terror to evil doers, while on the desk before him might be seen sundry contraband articles and prohibited weapons, detected upon the persons of idle urchins, such as half-munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole legions of rampant little paper gamecocks. Apparently there had been some appalling act of justice recently inflicted, for his scholars were all busily intent upon their books, or slyly whispering behind them with one eye kept upon the master; and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the schoolroom. It was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro in tow-cloth jacket and trowsers, a round-crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he managed with a rope by way of halter. He came clattering up to the school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry-making or “quilting frolic,” to be held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel’s; and having delivered his message with that air of importance, and effort at fine language, which a negro is apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering away up the hollow, full of the importance and hurry of his mission.

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet schoolroom. The scholars were hurried through their lessons without stopping at trifles; those who were nimble skipped over half with impunity, and those who were tardy had a smart application now and then in the rear, to quicken their speed or help them over a tall word. Books were flung aside without being put away on the shelves, inkstands were overturned, benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual time, bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping and racketing about the green in joy at their early emancipation.

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed only suit of rusty black, and arranging his locks by a bit of broken looking-glass that hung up in the schoolhouse. That he might make his appearance before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman of the name of Hans Van Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it is meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give some account of the looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plow-horse, that had outlived almost everything but its viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck, and a head like a hammer; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burs; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral, but the other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge from the name he bore of Gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a favorite steed of his master’s, the choleric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, very probably, some of his own spirit into the animal; for, old and broken-down as he looked, there was more of the lurking devil in him than in any young filly in the country.

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle; his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers’; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a sceptre, and as his horse jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be called, and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the horses tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed as they shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight.

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day; the sky was clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air; the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory-nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble field.

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the fullness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolicking from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious from the very profusion and variety around them. There was the honest cock robin, the favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud querulous note; and the twittering blackbirds flying in sable clouds; and the golden-winged woodpecker with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid plumage; and the cedar bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail and its little monteiro cap of feathers; and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay light blue coat and white underclothes, screaming and chattering, nodding and bobbing and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with every songster of the grove.

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store of apples; some hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees; some gathered into baskets and barrels for the market; others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty-pudding; and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies; and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields breathing the odor of the beehive, and as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel.

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and “sugared suppositions,” he journeyed along the sides of a range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down in the west. The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here and there a gentle undulation waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing gradually into a pure apple green, and from that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody crests of the precipices that overhung some parts of the river, giving greater depth to the dark gray and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the mast; and as the reflection of the sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in the air.

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of the Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers, a spare leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. Their brisk, withered little dames, in close-crimped caps, long-waisted short gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of city innovation. The sons, in short square-skirted coats, with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the fashion of the times, especially if they could procure an eel-skin for the purpose, it being esteemed throughout the country as a potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair.

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having come to the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, a creature, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, and which no one but himself could manage. He was, in fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, for he held a tractable, well-broken horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit.

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered the state parlor of Van Tassel’s mansion. Not those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of red and white; but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped up platters of cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, known only to experienced Dutch housewives! There was the doughty doughnut, the tender oly koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then there were apple pies, and peach pies, and pumpkin pies; besides slices of ham and smoked beef; and moreover delectable dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces; not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens; together with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly teapot sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst—Heaven bless the mark! I want breath and time to discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty.

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer, and whose spirits rose with eating, as some men’s do with drink. He could not help, too, rolling his large eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with the possibility that he might one day be lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and splendor. Then, he thought, how soon he’d turn his back upon the old schoolhouse; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van Ripper, and every other niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call him comrade!

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with a face dilated with content and good humor, round and jolly as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were brief, but expressive, being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to “fall to, and help themselves.”

And now the sound of the music from the common room, or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician was an old gray-headed negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half a century. His instrument was as old and battered as himself. The greater part of the time he scraped on two or three strings, accompanying every movement of the bow with a motion of the head; bowing almost to the ground, and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple were to start.

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him was idle; and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion, and clattering about the room, you would have thought St. Vitus himself, that blessed patron of the dance, was figuring before you in person. He was the admiration of all the negroes; who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, rolling their white eyeballs, and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous? The lady of his heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in reply to all his amorous oglings; while Brom Bones, sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one corner.

When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a knot of the sager folks, who, with Old Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the piazza, gossiping over former times, and drawing out long stories about the war.

This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was one of those highly favored places which abound with chronicle and great men. The British and American line had run near it during the war; it had, therefore, been the scene of marauding and infested with refugees, cowboys, and all kinds of border chivalry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each storyteller to dress up his tale with a little becoming fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his recollection, to make himself the hero of every exploit.

There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue-bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there was an old gentleman who shall be nameless, being too rich a mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle of White Plains, being an excellent master of defence, parried a musket-ball with a small sword, insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade, and glance off at the hilt; in proof of which he was ready at any time to show the sword, with the hilt a little bent. There were several more that had been equally great in the field, not one of whom but was persuaded that he had a considerable hand in bringing the war to a happy termination.

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered, long-settled retreats; but are trampled under foot by the shifting throng that forms the population of most of our country places. Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our villages, for they have scarcely had time to finish their first nap and turn themselves in their graves, before their surviving friends have travelled away from the neighborhood; so that when they turn out at night to walk their rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts except in our long-established Dutch communities.

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of supernatural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the very air that blew from that haunted region; it breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people were present at Van Tassel’s, and, as usual, were doling out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales were told about funeral trains, and mourning cries and wailings heard and seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major André was taken, and which stood in the neighborhood. Some mention was made also of the woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter nights before a storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the Headless Horseman, who had been heard several times of late, patrolling the country; and, it was said, tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the churchyard.

The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent, whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian purity beaming through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees, between which, peeps may be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at least the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church extends a wide woody dell, along which raves a large brook among broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of the stream, not far from the church, was formerly thrown a wooden bridge; the road that led to it, and the bridge itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the daytime; but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. Such was one of the favorite haunts of the Headless Horseman, and the place where he was most frequently encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the Horseman returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind him; how they galloped over bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge; when the Horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder.

This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvellous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the Galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed that on returning one night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing, he had been overtaken by this midnight trooper; that he had offered to race with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it too, for Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but just as they came to the church bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished in a flash of fire.

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which men talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only now and then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, sank deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with large extracts from his invaluable author, Cotton Mather, and added many marvellous events that had taken place in his native State of Connecticut, and fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow.

The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered together their families in their wagons, and were heard for some time rattling along the hollow roads, and over the distant hills. Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind their favorite swains, and their light-hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter, until they gradually died away,—and the late scene of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod only lingered behind, according to the custom of country lovers, to have a tête-à-tête with the heiress; fully convinced that he was now on the high road to success. What passed at this interview I will not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. Something, however, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, after no very great interval, with an air quite desolate and chapfallen. Oh, these women! these women! Could that girl have been playing off any of her coquettish tricks? Was her encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his rival? Heaven only knows, not I! Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of one who had been sacking a henroost, rather than a fair lady’s heart. Without looking to the right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth, on which he had so often gloated, he went straight to the stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks roused his steed most uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and oats, and whole valleys of timothy and clover.

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy-hearted and crestfallen, pursued his travels homewards, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far below him the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the barking of the watchdog from the opposite shore of the Hudson; but it was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from this faithful companion of man. Now and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound far, far off, from some farmhouse away among the hills—but it was like a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bullfrog from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably and turning suddenly in his bed.

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the afternoon now came crowding upon his recollection. The night grew darker and darker; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, approaching the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the centre of the road stood an enormous tulip-tree, which towered like a giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and rising again into the air. It was connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate André, who had been taken prisoner hard by; and was universally known by the name of Major André’s tree. The common people regarded it with a mixture of respect and superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred namesake, and partly from the tales of strange sights, and doleful lamentations, told concerning it.

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle; he thought his whistle was answered; it was but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. As he approached a little nearer, he thought he saw something white, hanging in the midst of the tree: he paused and ceased whistling but, on looking more narrowly, perceived that it was a place where the tree had been scathed by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan—his teeth chattered, and his knees smote against the saddle: it was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before him.

About two hundred yards from the tree, a small brook crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly-wooded glen, known by the name of Wiley’s Swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape-vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate André was captured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark.

As he approached the stream, his heart began to thump; he summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across the bridge; but instead of starting forward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary foot: it was all in vain; his steed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveller.

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with terror. What was to be done? To turn and fly was now too late; and besides, what chance was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of the wind? Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he demanded in stammering accents, “Who are you?” He received no reply. He repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once more he cudgelled the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and with a scramble and a bound stood at once in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and waywardness.

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight companion, and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind,—the other did the same. His heart began to sink within him; he endeavored to resume his psalm tune, but his parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could not utter a stave. There was something in the moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious companion that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck on perceiving that he was headless!—but his horror was still more increased on observing that the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of his saddle! His terror rose to desperation; he rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping by a sudden movement to give his companion the slip; but the spectre started full jump with him. Away, then, they dashed through thick and thin; stones flying and sparks flashing at every bound. Ichabod’s flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he stretched his long lank body away over his horse’s head, in the eagerness of his flight.

They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged headlong downhill to the left. This road leads through a sandy hollow shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story; and just beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed church.

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful rider an apparent advantage in the chase, but just as he had got half way through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, and he felt it slipping from under him. He seized it by the pommel, and endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain; and had just time to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper’s wrath passed across his mind,—for it was his Sunday saddle; but this was no time for petty fears; the goblin was hard on his haunches; and (unskilful rider that he was!) he had much ado to maintain his seat; sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse’s backbone, with a violence that he verily feared would cleave him asunder.

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He recollected the place where Brom Bones’s ghostly competitor had disappeared. “If I can but reach that bridge,” thought Ichabod, “I am safe.” Just then he heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind him; he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; he thundered over the resounding planks; he gained the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash,—he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a whirlwind.

The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master’s gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at breakfast; dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of the brook; but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent investigation they came upon his traces. In one part of the road leading to the church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt; the tracks of horses’ hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin.

The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper as executor of his estate, examined the bundle which contained all his worldly effects. They consisted of two shirts and a half; two stocks for the neck; a pair or two of worsted stockings; an old pair of corduroy small-clothes; a rusty razor; a book of psalm tunes full of dog’s-ears; and a broken pitch-pipe. As to the books and furniture of the schoolhouse, they belonged to the community, excepting Cotton Mather’s “History of Witchcraft,” a “New England Almanac,” and a book of dreams and fortune-telling; in which last was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled and blotted in several fruitless attempts to make a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. These magic books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans Van Ripper; who, from that time forward, determined to send his children no more to school, observing that he never knew any good come of this same reading and writing. Whatever money the schoolmaster possessed, and he had received his quarter’s pay but a day or two before, he must have had about his person at the time of his disappearance.

The mysterious event caused much speculation at the church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips were collected in the churchyard, at the bridge, and at the spot where the hat and pumpkin had been found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole budget of others were called to mind; and when they had diligently considered them all, and compared them with the symptoms of the present case, they shook their heads, and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried off by the Galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in nobody’s debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him; the school was removed to a different quarter of the hollow, and another pedagogue reigned in his stead.

It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New York on a visit several years after, and from whom this account of the ghostly adventure was received, brought home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive; that he had left the neighborhood partly through fear of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortification at having been suddenly dismissed by the heiress; that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of the country; had kept school and studied law at the same time; had been admitted to the bar; turned politician; electioneered; written for the newspapers; and finally had been made a justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones, too, who, shortly after his rival’s disappearance conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin; which led some to suspect that he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell.

The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of these matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was spirited away by supernatural means; and it is a favorite story often told about the neighborhood round the winter evening fire. The bridge became more than ever an object of superstitious awe; and that may be the reason why the road has been altered of late years, so as to approach the church by the border of the millpond. The schoolhouse being deserted soon fell to decay, and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue and the plowboy, loitering homeward of a still summer evening, has often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow.

POSTSCRIPT.

FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER.

The preceding tale is given almost in the precise words in which I heard it related at a Corporation meeting at the ancient city of Manhattoes, at which were present many of its sagest and most illustrious burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly humourous face, and one whom I strongly suspected of being poor—he made such efforts to be entertaining. When his story was concluded, there was much laughter and approbation, particularly from two or three deputy aldermen, who had been asleep the greater part of the time. There was, however, one tall, dry-looking old gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, who maintained a grave and rather severe face throughout, now and then folding his arms, inclining his head, and looking down upon the floor, as if turning a doubt over in his mind. He was one of your wary men, who never laugh but upon good grounds—when they have reason and law on their side. When the mirth of the rest of the company had subsided, and silence was restored, he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, and sticking the other akimbo, demanded, with a slight, but exceedingly sage motion of the head, and contraction of the brow, what was the moral of the story, and what it went to prove?

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his lips, as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked at his inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and, lowering the glass slowly to the table, observed that the story was intended most logically to prove—

“That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and pleasures—provided we will but take a joke as we find it:

“That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers is likely to have rough riding of it.

“Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a Dutch heiress is a certain step to high preferment in the state.”

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the syllogism, while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him with something of a triumphant leer. At length he observed that all this was very well, but still he thought the story a little on the extravagant—there were one or two points on which he had his doubts.

“Faith, sir,” replied the story-teller, “as to that matter, I don’t believe one-half of it myself.” D. K.

THE END.

[screamingeyepress]

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving

Looking for a chilling Halloween read? Try on The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. Dive into an eerie journey through classic storytelling.

Washington Irving weaves the spellbinding tale of Ichabod Crane, a lanky and superstitious schoolteacher, who becomes entangled in a web of supernatural terror. As the chill of autumn descends upon this quiet Dutch settlement, the village's most feared specter awakens.

FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, For ever flushing round a summer sky.

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail, and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small market-town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail, or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noon time, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around, and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat, whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley.

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of SLEEPY HOLLOW, and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a high German doctor, during the early days of the settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his pow-wows there before the country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs; are subject to trances and visions; and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other part of the country, and the nightmare, with her whole nine fold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols.

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during the revolutionary war; and who is ever and anon seen by the country folk hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating the floating facts concerning this spectre, allege that the body of the trooper, having been buried in the church-yard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head; and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the church-yard before daybreak.

Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows; and the spectre is known, at all the country firesides, by the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by every one who resides there for a time. However wide awake they may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative—to dream dreams, and see apparitions.

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud; for it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there embosomed in the great State of New-York, that population, manners, and customs, remain fixed; while the great torrent of migration and improvement, which is making such incessant changes in other parts of this restless country, sweeps by them unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still water which border a rapid stream; where we may see the straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. Though many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should not still find the same trees and the same families vegetating in its sheltered bosom.

In this by-place of nature, there abode, in a remote period of American history, that is to say, some thirty years since, a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane; who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, “tarried,” in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a native of Connecticut; a State which supplies the Union with pioneers for the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of frontier woodsmen and country schoolmasters. The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weather-cock, perched upon his spindle neck, to tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about him one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield.

His school-house was a low building of one large room, rudely constructed of logs; the windows partly glazed, and partly patched with leaves of old copy-books. It was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by a withe twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes set against the window shutters; so that, though a thief might get in with perfect ease, he would find some embarrassment in getting out; an idea most probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houton, from the mystery of an eel-pot. The school-house stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close by, and a formidable birch tree growing at one end of it. From hence the low murmur of his pupils’ voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard in a drowsy summer���s day, like the hum of a bee-hive; interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice of the master, in the tone of menace or command; or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in mind the golden maxim, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.”—Ichabod Crane’s scholars certainly were not spoiled.

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of those cruel potentates of the school, who joy in the smart of their subjects; on the contrary, he administered justice with discrimination rather than severity; taking the burthen off the backs of the weak, and laying it on those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed by with indulgence; but the claims of justice were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on some little, tough, wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this he called “doing his duty by their parents;” and he never inflicted a chastisement without following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the smarting urchin, that “he would remember it, and thank him for it the longest day he had to live.”

When school hours were over, he was even the companion and playmate of the larger boys; and on holiday afternoons would convoy some of the smaller ones home, who happened to have pretty sisters, or good housewives for mothers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed it behooved him to keep on good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising from his school was small, and would have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and though lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda; but to help out his maintenance, he was, according to country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers, whose children he instructed. With these he lived successively a week at a time; thus going the rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief.

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of schooling a grievous burden, and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had various ways of rendering himself both useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter labors of their farms; helped to make hay; mended the fences; took the horses to water; drove the cows from pasture; and cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute sway with which he lorded it in his little empire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He found favor in the eyes of the mothers, by petting the children, particularly the youngest; and like the lion bold, which whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours together.

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was a matter of no little vanity to him, on Sundays, to take his station in front of the church gallery, with a band of chosen singers; where, in his own mind, he completely carried away the palm from the parson. Certain it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of the congregation; and there are peculiar quavers still to be heard in that church, and which may even be heard half a mile off, quite to the opposite side of the mill-pond, on a still Sunday morning, which are said to be legitimately descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers little make-shifts in that ingenious way which is commonly denominated “by hook and by crook,” the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was thought, by all who understood nothing of the labor of headwork, to have a wonderfully easy life of it.

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the female circle of a rural neighborhood; being considered a kind of idle gentlemanlike personage, of vastly superior taste and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to the parson. His appearance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea-table of a farmhouse, and the addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver tea-pot. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. How he would figure among them in the churchyard, between services on Sundays! gathering grapes for them from the wild vines that overrun the surrounding trees; reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones; or sauntering, with a whole bevy of them, along the banks of the adjacent mill-pond; while the more bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and address.

From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travelling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house to house; so that his appearance was always greeted with satisfaction. He was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a man of great erudition, for he had read several books quite through, and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather’s history of New England Witchcraft, in which, by the way, he most firmly and potently believed.

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and simple credulity. His appetite for the marvellous, and his powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary; and both had been increased by his residence in this spellbound region. No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. It was often his delight, after his school was dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover, bordering the little brook that whimpered by his school-house, and there con over old Mather’s direful tales, until the gathering dusk of the evening made the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way, by swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened to be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited imagination: the moan of the whip-poor-will from the hill-side; the boding cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger of storm; the dreary hooting of the screech-owl, or the sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost. The fire-flies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of uncommon brightness would stream across his path; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch’s token. His only resource on such occasions, either to drown thought, or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes;—and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled with awe, at hearing his nasal melody, “in linked sweetness long drawn out,” floating from the distant hill, or along the dusky road.

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was, to pass long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and spluttering along the hearth, and listen to their marvellous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, or galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they sometimes called him. He would delight them equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and portentous sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut; and would frighten them wofully with speculations upon comets and shooting stars; and with the alarming fact that the world did absolutely turn round, and that they were half the time topsy-turvy!

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cuddling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, of course, no spectre dared to show his face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk homewards. What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night!—With what wistful look did he eye every trembling ray of light streaming across the waste fields from some distant window!—How often was he appalled by some shrub covered with snow, which, like a sheeted spectre, beset his very path!—How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet; and dread to look over his shoulder, lest he should behold some uncouth being tramping close behind him!—and how often was he thrown into complete dismay by some rushing blast, howling among the trees, in the idea that it was the Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings!

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness; and though he had seen many spectres in his time, and been more than once beset by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely perambulations, yet daylight put an end to all these evils; and he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the devil and all his works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together, and that was—a woman.

Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening in each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a substantial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen; plump as a partridge; ripe and melting and rosy cheeked as one of her father’s peaches, and universally famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal a little of a coquette, as might be perceived even in her dress, which was a mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set off her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, which her great-great-grandmother had brought over from Saardam, the tempting stomacher of the olden time; and withal a provokingly short petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and ankle in the country round.

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the sex; and it is not to be wondered at, that so tempting a morsel soon found favor in his eyes; more especially after he had visited her in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm; but within those every thing was snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of it; and piqued himself upon the hearty abundance, rather than the style in which he lived. His stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks, in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great elm-tree spread its broad branches over it; at the foot of which bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest water, in a little well, formed of a barrel; and then stole sparkling away through the grass, to a neighboring brook, that bubbled along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhouse was a vast barn, that might have served for a church; every window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm; the flail was busily resounding within it from morning to night; swallows and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves; and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some with their heads under their wings, or buried in their bosoms, and others swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and abundance of their pens; whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through the farmyard, and guinea fowls fretting about it, like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish discontented cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a warrior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings, and crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart—sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and then generously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered.

The pedagogue’s mouth watered, as he looked upon this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his devouring mind’s eye, he pictured to himself every roasting-pig running about with a pudding in his belly, and an apple in his mouth; the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of crust; the geese were swimming in their own gravy; and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy relishing ham; not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savory sausages; and even bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side-dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which his chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living.

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow-lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the orchards burthened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel who was to inherit these domains, and his imagination expanded with the idea, how they might be readily turned into cash, and the money invested in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes, and presented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family of children, mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with household trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling beneath; and he beheld himself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or the Lord knows where.

When he entered the house the conquest of his heart was complete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses, with high-ridged, but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the style handed down from the first Dutch settlers; the low projecting eaves forming a piazza along the front, capable of being closed up in bad weather. Under this were hung flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing in the neighboring river. Benches were built along the sides for summer use; and a great spinning-wheel at one end, and a churn at the other, showed the various uses to which this important porch might be devoted. From this piazza the wondering Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the centre of the mansion and the place of usual residence. Here, rows of resplendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner stood a huge bag of wool ready to be spun; in another a quantity of linsey-woolsey just from the loom; ears of Indian corn, and strings of dried apples and peaches, hung in gay festoons along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers; and a door left ajar gave him a peep into the best parlor, where the claw-footed chairs, and dark mahogany tables, shone like mirrors; and irons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus tops; mock-oranges and conch-shells decorated the mantelpiece; strings of various colored birds’ eggs were suspended above it: a great ostrich egg was hung from the centre of the room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed immense treasures of old silver and well-mended china.

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, and his only study was how to gain the affections of the peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he had more real difficulties than generally fell to the lot of a knight-errant of yore, who seldom had any thing but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and such like easily-conquered adversaries, to contend with; and had to make his way merely through gates of iron and brass, and walls of adamant, to the castle keep, where the lady of his heart was confined; all which he achieved as easily as a man would carve his way to the centre of a Christmas pie; and then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way to the heart of a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims and caprices, which were for ever presenting new difficulties and impediments; and he had to encounter a host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous rustic admirers, who beset every portal to her heart; keeping a watchful and angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly out in the common cause against any new competitor.

Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring, roystering blade, of the name of Abraham, or, according to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the country round, which rang with his feats of strength and hardihood. He was broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with short curly black hair, and a bluff, but not unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air of fun and arrogance. From his Herculean frame and great powers of limb, he had received the nickname of BROM BONES, by which he was universally known. He was famed for great knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous on horseback as a Tartar.

He was foremost at all races and cock-fights; and, with the ascendency which bodily strength acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on one side, and giving his decisions with an air and tone admitting of no gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for either a fight or a frolic; but had more mischief than ill-will in his composition; and, with all his overbearing roughness, there was a strong dash of waggish good humor at bottom. He had three or four boon companions, who regarded him as their model, and at the head of whom he scoured the country, attending every scene of feud or merriment for miles round. In cold weather he was distinguished by a fur cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox’s tail; and when the folks at a country gathering descried this well-known crest at a distance, whisking about among a squad of hard riders, they always stood by for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along past the farmhouses at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks; and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim, “Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his gang!” The neighbors looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration, and good will; and when any madcap prank, or rustic brawl, occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it.

This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the blooming Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, and though his amorous toyings were something like the gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that she did not altogether discourage his hopes. Certain it is, his advances were signals for rival candidates to retire, who felt no inclination to cross a lion in his amours; insomuch, that when his horse was seen tied to Van Tassel’s paling, on a Sunday night, a sure sign that his master was courting, or, as it is termed “sparking,” within, all other suitors passed by in despair, and carried the war into other quarters.

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane had to contend, and, considering all things, a stouter man than he would have shrunk from the competition, and a wiser man would have despaired. He had, however, a happy mixture of pliability and perseverance in his nature; he was in form and spirit like a supple-jack—yielding, but tough; though he bent, he never broke; and though he bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it was away—jerk! he was as erect, and carried his head as high as ever.

To have taken the field openly against his rival would have been madness; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently-insinuating manner. Under cover of his character of singing-master, he made frequent visits at the farmhouse; not that he had any thing to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of parents, which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Balt Van Tassel was an easy indulgent soul; he loved his daughter better even than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an excellent father, let her have her way in every thing. His notable little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her housekeeping and manage her poultry; for, as she sagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and must be looked after, but girls can take care of themselves. Thus while the busy dame bustled about the house, or plied her spinning-wheel at one end of the piazza, honest Balt would sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, watching the achievements of a little wooden warrior, who, armed with a sword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the mean time, Ichabod would carry on his suit with the daughter by the side of the spring under the great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so favorable to the lover’s eloquence.

I profess not to know how women’s hearts are wooed and won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and admiration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, or door of access; while others have a thousand avenues, and may be captured in a thousand different ways. It is a great triumph of skill to gain the former, but a still greater proof of generalship to maintain possession of the latter, for the man must battle for his fortress at every door and window. He who wins a thousand common hearts is therefore entitled to some renown; but he who keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette, is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones; and from the moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, the interests of the former evidently declined; his horse was no longer seen tied at the palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose between him and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow.

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, would fain have carried matters to open warfare, and have settled their pretensions to the lady, according to the mode of those most concise and simple reasoners, the knights-errant of yore—by single combat; but Ichabod was too conscious of the superior might of his adversary to enter the lists against him: he had overheard a boast of Bones, that he would “double the schoolmaster up, and lay him on a shelf of his own school-house;” and he was too wary to give him an opportunity. There was something extremely provoking in this obstinately pacific system; it left Brom no alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in his disposition, and to play off boorish practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the object of whimsical persecution to Bones, and his gang of rough riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful domains; smoked out his singing school, by stopping up the chimney; broke into the school-house at night, in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe and window stakes, and turned every thing topsy-turvy: so that the poor schoolmaster began to think all the witches in the country held their meetings there. But what was still more annoying, Brom took all opportunities of turning him into ridicule in presence of his mistress, and had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to whine in the most ludicrous manner, and introduced as a rival of Ichabod’s to instruct her in psalmody.

In this way matters went on for some time, without producing any material effect on the relative situation of the contending powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool whence he usually watched all the concerns of his little literary realm. In his hand he swayed a ferule, that sceptre of despotic power; the birch of justice reposed on three nails, behind the throne, a constant terror to evil doers; while on the desk before him might be seen sundry contraband articles and prohibited weapons, detected upon the persons of idle urchins; such as half-munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole legions of rampant little paper gamecocks. Apparently there had been some appalling act of justice recently inflicted, for his scholars were all busily intent upon their books, or slyly whispering behind them with one eye kept upon the master; and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the school-room. It was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro, in tow-cloth jacket and trowsers, a round-crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he managed with a rope by way of halter. He came clattering up to the school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry-making or “quilting frolic,” to be held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel’s; and having delivered his message with that air of importance, and effort at fine language, which a negro is apt to display on petty embassies of that kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering away up the hollow, full of the importance and hurry of his mission.

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet schoolroom. The scholars were hurried through their lessons, without stopping at trifles; those who were nimble skipped over half with impunity, and those who were tardy, had a smart application now and then in the rear, to quicken their speed, or help them over a tall word. Books were flung aside without being put away on the shelves, inkstands were overturned, benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual time, bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping and racketing about the green, in joy at their early emancipation.

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed only suit of rusty black, and arranging his looks by a bit of broken looking-glass, that hung up in the schoolhouse. That he might make his appearance before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman, of the name of Hans Van Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth, like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it is meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give some account of the looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plough-horse, that had outlived almost every thing but his viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a hammer; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burrs; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral; but the other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge from the name he bore of Gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a favorite steed of his master’s, the choleric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, very probably, some of his own spirit into the animal; for, old and broken-down as he looked, there was more of the lurking devil in him than in any young filly in the country.

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle; his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers’; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a sceptre, and, as his horse jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be called; and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the horse’s tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed, as they shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight.

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the sky was clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air; the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble-field.

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the fulness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolicking, from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious from the very profusion and variety around them. There was the honest cock-robin, the favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud querulous note; and the twittering blackbirds flying in sable clouds; and the golden-winged woodpecker, with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid plumage; and the cedar bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail, and its little monteiro cap of feathers; and the blue-jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay light-blue coat and white under-clothes; screaming and chattering, nodding and bobbing and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with every songster of the grove.

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store of apples; some hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees; some gathered into baskets and barrels for the market; others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty pudding; and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies; and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, breathing the odor of the beehive, and as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel.

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and “sugared suppositions,” he journeyed along the sides of a range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down into the west. The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here and there a gentle undulation waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing gradually into a pure apple green, and from that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody crests of the precipices that overhung some parts of the river, giving greater depth to the dark-gray and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the mast; and as the reflection of the sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in the air.

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of the Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers, a spare leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. Their brisk withered little dames, in close crimped caps, long-waisted short-gowns, home-spun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of city innovation. The sons, in short square-skirted coats with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the fashion of the times, especially if they could procure an eel-skin for the purpose, it being esteemed, throughout the country, as a potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair.

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having come to the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, a creature, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, and which no one but himself could manage. He was, in fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks, which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, for he held a tractable well-broken horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit.

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered the state parlor of Van Tassel’s mansion. Not those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of red and white; but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped-up platters of cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, known only to experienced Dutch housewives! There was the doughty dough-nut, the tenderer oly koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then there were apple pies and peach pies and pumpkin pies; besides slices of ham and smoked beef; and moreover delectable dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces; not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens; together with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledly, pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly tea-pot sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst—Heaven bless the mark! I want breath and time to discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty.

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer; and whose spirits rose with eating as some men’s do with drink. He could not help, too, rolling his large eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with the possibility that he might one day be lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and splendor. Then, he thought, how soon he’d turn his back upon the old school-house; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van Ripper, and every other niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call him comrade!

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with a face dilated with content and good humor, round and jolly as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were brief, but expressive, being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to “fall to, and help themselves.”

And now the sound of the music from the common room, or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician was an old grayheaded negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half a century. His instrument was as old and battered as himself. The greater part of the time he scraped on two or three strings, accompanying every movement of the bow with a motion of the head; bowing almost to the ground, and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple were to start.

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him was idle; and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion, and clattering about the room, you would have thought Saint Vitus himself, that blessed patron of the dance, was figuring before you in person. He was the admiration of all the negroes; who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, rolling their white eye-balls, and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous? the lady of his heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in reply to all his amorous oglings; while Brom Bones, sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one corner.

When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a knot of the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the piazza, gossiping over former times, and drawing out long stories about the war.

This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was one of those highly-favored places which abound with chronicle and great men. The British and American line had run near it during the war; it had, therefore, been the scene of marauding, and infested with refugees, cow-boys, and all kinds of border chivalry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each story-teller to dress up his tale with a little becoming fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his recollection, to make himself the hero of every exploit.

There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue-bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there was an old gentleman who shall be nameless, being too rich a mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle of White-plains, being an excellent master of defence, parried a musket ball with a small sword, insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade, and glance off at the hilt: in proof of which, he was ready at any time to show the sword, with the hilt a little bent. There were several more that had been equally great in the field, not one of whom but was persuaded that he had a considerable hand in bringing the war to a happy termination.

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered long-settled retreats; but are trampled under foot by the shifting throng that forms the populations of most of our country places. Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our villages, for, they have scarcely had time to finish their first nap, and turn themselves in their graves, before their surviving friends have travelled away from the neighborhood; so that when they turn out at night to walk their rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts except in our long-established Dutch communities.

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of supernatural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the very air that blew from that haunted region; it breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people were present at Van Tassel’s, and, as usual, were doling out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales were told about funeral trains, and mourning cries and wailing heard and seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major André was taken, and which stood in the neighborhood. Some mention was made also of the woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter nights before a storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, who had been heard several times of late, patrolling the country; and, it was said, tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the church-yard.

The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian purity beaming through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees, between which, peeps may be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at least the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church extends a wide woody dell, along which raves a large brook among broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of the stream, not far from the church, was formerly thrown a wooden bridge; the road that led to it, and the bridge itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the daytime; but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. This was one of the favorite haunts of the headless horseman; and the place where he was most frequently encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the horseman returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind him; how they galloped over bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge; when the horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder.

This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvellous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed that, on returning one night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing, he had been overtaken by this midnight trooper; that he had offered to race with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it too, for Dare-devil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but, just as they came to the church bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished in a flash of fire.

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which men talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only now and then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, sank deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with large extracts from his invaluable author, Cotton Mather, and added many marvellous events that had taken place in his native State of Connecticut, and fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow.

The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered together their families in their wagons, and were heard for some time rattling along the hollow roads, and over the distant hills. Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind their favorite swains, and their light-hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter until they gradually died away—and the late scene of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod only lingered behind, according to the custom of country lovers, to have a tête-à-tête with the heiress, fully convinced that he was now on the high road to success. What passed at this interview I will not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. Something, however, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, after no very great interval, with an air quite desolate and chop-fallen.—Oh these women! these women! Could that girl have been playing off any of her coquettish tricks?—Was her encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his rival?—Heaven only knows, not I!—Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of one who had been sacking a hen-roost, rather than a fair lady’s heart. Without looking to the right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth, on which he had so often gloated, he went straight to the stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks, roused his steed most uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and oats, and whole valleys of timothy and clover.

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy-hearted and crest-fallen, pursued his travel homewards, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was dismal as himself. Far below him, the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the barking of the watch dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson; but it was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from this faithful companion of man. Now and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound far, far off from some farmhouse away among the hills—but it was like a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bull-frog, from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably, and turning suddenly in his bed.

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollection. The night grew darker and darker; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, approaching the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the centre of the road stood an enormous tulip-tree, which towered like a giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled, and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and rising again into the air.

It was connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate André, who had been taken prisoner hard by; and was universally known by the name of Major André’s tree. The common people regarded it with a mixture of respect and superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred namesake, and partly from the tales of strange sights and doleful lamentations told concerning it.

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle: he thought his whistle was answered—it was but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. As he approached a little nearer, he thought he saw something white, hanging in the midst of the tree—he paused and ceased whistling; but on looking more narrowly, perceived that it was a place where the tree had been scathed by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan—his teeth chattered and his knees smote against the saddle: it was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before him.

About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly-wooded glen, known by the name of Wiley’s swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grapevines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate André was captured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark.

As he approached the stream his heart began to thump; he summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across the bridge; but instead of starting forward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary foot: it was all in vain; his steed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen, black and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveller.

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with terror. What was to be done? To turn and fly was now too late; and besides, what chance was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of the wind? Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he demanded in stammering accents—“Who are you?” He received no reply. He repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once more he cudgelled the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and, with a scramble and a bound, stood at once in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and waywardness.

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight companion, and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed, in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind—the other did the same. His heart began to sink within him; he endeavored to resume his psalm tune, but his parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could not utter a stave. There was something in the moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious companion, that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck, on perceiving that he was headless!—but his horror was still more increased, on observing that the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of the saddle; his terror rose to desperation; he rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder; hoping, by a sudden movement, to give his companion the slip—but the spectre started full jump with him. Away then they dashed, through thick and thin; stones flying, and sparks flashing at every bound. Ichabod’s flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he stretched his long lanky body away over his horse’s head, in the eagerness of his flight.

They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged headlong down hill to the left. This road leads through a sandy hollow, shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story, and just beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed church.

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful rider an apparent advantage in the chase; but just as he had got half way through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, and he felt it slipping from under him. He seized it by the pommel, and endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain; and had just time to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper’s wrath passed across his mind—for it was his Sunday saddle; but this was no time for petty fears; the goblin was hard on his haunches; and (unskilful rider that he was!) he had much ado to maintain his seat; sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse’s backbone, with a violence that he verily feared would cleave him asunder.

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He recollected the place where Brom Bones’s ghostly competitor had disappeared. “If I can but reach that bridge,” thought Ichabod, “I am safe.” Just then he heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind him; he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; he thundered over the resounding planks; he gained the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash—he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a whirlwind.

The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master’s gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at breakfast—dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of the brook; but no school-master. Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent investigation they came upon his traces. In one part of the road leading to the church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt; the tracks of horses’ hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin.

The brook was searched, but the body of the school-master was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as executor of his estate, examined the bundle which contained all his worldly effects. They consisted of two shirts and a half; two stocks for the neck; a pair or two of worsted stockings; an old pair of corduroy small-clothes; a rusty razor; a book of psalm tunes, full of dogs’ ears; and a broken pitchpipe. As to the books and furniture of the school-house, they belonged to the community, excepting Cotton Mather’s History of Witchcraft, a New England Almanac, and a book of dreams and fortune-telling; in which last was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled and blotted in several fruitless attempts to make a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. These magic books and the poetic scrawls were forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans Van Ripper; who from that time forward determined to send his children no more to school; observing, that he never knew any good come of this same reading and writing. Whatever money the schoolmaster possessed, and he had received his quarter’s pay but a day or two before, he must have had about his person at the time of his disappearance.

The mysterious event caused much speculation at the church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips were collected in the churchyard, at the bridge, and at the spot where the hat and pumpkin had been found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole budget of others, were called to mind; and when they had diligently considered them all, and compared them with the symptoms of the present case, they shook their heads, and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried off by the galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in nobody’s debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him. The school was removed to a different quarter of the hollow, and another pedagogue reigned in his stead.

It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New York on a visit several years after, and from whom this account of the ghostly adventure was received, brought home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive; that he had left the neighborhood, partly through fear of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortification at having been suddenly dismissed by the heiress; that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of the country; had kept school and studied law at the same time, had been admitted to the bar, turned politician, electioneered, written for the newspapers, and finally had been made a justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones too, who shortly after his rival’s disappearance conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin; which led some to suspect that he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell.

The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of these matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was spirited away by supernatural means; and it is a favorite story often told about the neighborhood round the winter evening fire. The bridge became more than ever an object of superstitious awe, and that may be the reason why the road has been altered of late years, so as to approach the church by the border of the mill-pond. The school-house being deserted, soon fell to decay, and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue; and the ploughboy, loitering homeward of a still summer evening, has often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow.

POSTSCRIPT.

FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER.

The preceding tale is given almost in the precise words in which I heard it related at a Corporation meeting at the ancient city of Manhattoes, at which were present many of its sagest and most illustrious burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly humourous face, and one whom I strongly suspected of being poor—he made such efforts to be entertaining. When his story was concluded, there was much laughter and approbation, particularly from two or three deputy aldermen, who had been asleep the greater part of the time. There was, however, one tall, dry-looking old gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, who maintained a grave and rather severe face throughout, now and then folding his arms, inclining his head, and looking down upon the floor, as if turning a doubt over in his mind. He was one of your wary men, who never laugh but upon good grounds—when they have reason and law on their side. When the mirth of the rest of the company had subsided, and silence was restored, he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, and sticking the other akimbo, demanded, with a slight, but exceedingly sage motion of the head, and contraction of the brow, what was the moral of the story, and what it went to prove?

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his lips, as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked at his inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and, lowering the glass slowly to the table, observed that the story was intended most logically to prove—

“That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and pleasures—provided we will but take a joke as we find it:

“That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers is likely to have rough riding of it.

“Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a Dutch heiress is a certain step to high preferment in the state.”

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the syllogism, while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him with something of a triumphant leer. At length he observed that all this was very well, but still he thought the story a little on the extravagant—there were one or two points on which he had his doubts.

“Faith, sir,” replied the story-teller, “as to that matter, I don’t believe one-half of it myself.” D. K.

[spann-stann]

If my setting's factions were in an RTS...

The Corporate Empire: The powerhouse faction. Heavy armor supplemented by mechanized infantry and air cavalry. Their gimmicks are orbital motherships that drop off pre-fab buildings (and unlock certain techs), and orbital bombardment. Sub-Factions are Land Force (armor spec), Space Force (infantry and air spec) and Support Service Force (fortifications and buffs). United Markets: The balanced faction. Survivalist militias that can switch what type of weapons they use, and Megacorp PMCs for the more specialized (and expensive) materiel. Their gimmick is mercenary contracts (you get tech and units in exchange for a constant stream of money) and recreational WMDs. Sub-Factions are the Hoppean Covenant (militia spec), Libertania (space pirates), and the Free and Voluntary Mercantile Enterprises (mercenary spec). World Congress of Freedom: The subversive faction. Early units are fast, cheap, and weak until late game mutually exclusive techs are researched (starting units get Civ BE style upgrades instead of unlocking newer units). Their gimmick is revolutionary ideologies (that unlock mutually exclusive technologies) and memetic subversion. Sub-Factions are the Titan Cybersynplex (post-cyberpunk), the Inner Soviets (solarpunk), and the Plutonian Congress (frostpunk?).

Green Consensus: Subversive 2.0. They progress technologically by getting a better lay of the land they're fighting on. As their tech "progresses", their hippie-cum-guerilla gimmick will be replaced with something more along the lines of the Yautja. They speak for the trees, and the trees want you dead. Sub-Factions are the Integrationists (emphasis on human-derived units), the Deep Green (animal-derived units), and the Blue Subconsensus (sea creatures, and Kaiju). Common Prosperity Coalition: The cannon faction. Since they're descendants of organized criminal organizations, their schtick is that they swindle tech from their enemies. They also have no qualms with using WMDs (if they can get away with it). Sub-Factions are the Commission (traditional gangsters, bribery focused), Liberation Army (terrorists, like chemical weapons), and the Datademons (hacktivists, tech-stealing spec).

The Cordons Sanitaire: Balanced 2.0. But why would you play them? They're Liberals! All the other factions mock you endlessly. You exist solely to be defeated in the Imperial campaign.

The Crystalline Aliens: The cannon/horde faction. Swarm units bog down the enemy to allow the more powerful (op attack but low hp) units move in for the kill. Their gimmick is that they don't construct units normally, everything is free and gets teleported automatically(the player can change the speed and quality of the reinforcements). Sub-Factions are Brilliant Cut (focus on elite units) Step Cut (focus on swarm units), and Mixed Cut (generalist). The Fay: The pure horde faction. Extra-dimensional aliens (created by Boltzman brains) that zerg rush anything and everything that enters their territory. Their gimmick is that like the Crystalline Aliens, they teleport units automatically, but the quality and quantity corresponds to the strength of their strongest opponent. Sub-Factions are Feral Mind (bestial units), Adaptable Mind (human influenced units), and Esoteric Mind (weirder units, even a few cultists thrown in).

[motherphoebe]

The Parting Glass

Annie Cresta's time as a career tribute in the 70th Hunger Games. Canon compliant, as of right now this fic will be mostly head cannon as we know so little until the original trilogy. I wanted to add so much more to this, but I dont think I would've ever posted if I kept editing it lmao. I also posted this on my ao3 account, same username as here! enjoy and please leave feedback ngl i need to be hyped up!

Chapter 1:

next chapter

The first thing I do is throw the quilt off of my legs.

The open window does little to aid in cooling down the room, the relentless summer heat did not cool throughout the night and now the opened curtains also let in the blinding morning sun. It takes a moment to get past my drowsiness, but eventually I reluctantly move my sweaty body from the small bed, hanging my legs off the side and holding my head in my hands.

I wish the sweltering heat were the reason for my restless night. Today is reaping day, and the salty air somehow doesn’t feel as peaceful as usual and does little to calm my nerves. My chest tightens and I quickly try to calm myself. I reach for my tying rope and think about last night, my time at the beach, swimming with a large group of friends, the peaceful waves, the moon, and surprisingly I find my breathing subtly calm. I wish today weren't reaping day, I wish they’d cancel the games all together, I wish a lot of things. I tie and untie my rope, and slowly accept that wishing won’t change the events of today and what is expected of me as an eighteen year old living in Panem.

Every year, the Capitol hosts a Hunger Games, and the first step is a reaping ceremony in which each of the 12 districts have to produce a male and female tribute. It’s to keep us scared and unwilling of rebellion, the fate of children 12 to 18, in the hands of the Capitol to be escorted into an arena to fight to the death. My thoughts are interrupted when I hear my older siblings greeting my parents in the other room, and suddenly my sisters bursting into the bedroom we used to share.

“Annie!” I take in her ecstatic demeanor and can't help but smile. I gasp and make a teasingly shocked face, while examining the gifts she came bearing: A new dress, and cherries.

“Muriel, you’re planning on sharing those right?”

My mouth waters at the sight of the cherries, and I wonder how she was able to afford them, along with the dress. It’s not like we have a surplus of money, and cherries are usually outrageously expensive when sold at the market. Her and I, and our older brother, Skipper, picked up jobs as soon as we could to help our parents, but now that she’s married, maybe she can afford such luxuries. Muriel makes beautiful tapestries using the flowers and plants that line the shores, and they've always seemed to sell quite well at the market, along with her handmade jewelry. My brother, Skipper, started repairing boats with my father once they were back from their shifts out at sea. The pair's services are relatively cheap and extremely effective, the people of 4 with boats need them functioning to be able to live so there’s always business.

Muriel exaggerates the shaking of her head, acting like she’s keeping the gifts to herself, then instantly breaks character, smiling and handing the fruit to me, carefully hanging the light blue dress off the chair. I can see the worry she’s trying to hide in her eyes.

“And is this dress new? Muriel these gifts are so nice they must have cost you a fortune, please let me pay you back-”

“I got them for you.” She cuts me off, putting my head in her hands “Plus, you wouldn’t be able to pay me back anyway.”

She’s joking but she’s not wrong; while she and Skipper found real jobs, I found peacefulness, and a very small income compared to the two of them. I started helping our neighbor, Mrs. Ahearn, by teaching some of her swimming lessons. It doesn’t pay well and I probably couldn’t save enough to buy even some grain at the market after a month of work, but there’s something about teaching the younger children of my district that makes it worth it. Still so innocent, too young to be put into the training academy, their parents still shielding their eyes when the games are playing, the worst things that could happen to them so far away. Plus, it’s a great way to meet the people in town, most of the kids are the younger siblings of friends i’ve known for years, and honestly, it’s better than being at home. The house feels empty now that both my siblings have left.

Muriel moves her hands and pulls me into a hug, our heads resting on each other's shoulders. “You still being in the reaping makes me feel worse than when I was. I know you’ll be fine Annie, but the sooner we’re all done with this the better. Better for mom and dad too, you know it scares them to death. Can I help you get ready?”

I nod my head in agreement, and soon my mouth is full of cherry pits. The reaping scares all of us, my father says that’s the point and it’s been obvious to me that our parents have had enough stress from the reapings in their lives. The second Skipper was ten, he was the first of us to enter the training academy after school, and once we were all old enough to be reaped, it seemed everything tied back to being a lesson on how we could win the Hunger Games, fishing, strength, knowledge. After surviving his own childhood possibility of being reaped, putting us in the training academy was my fathers small way of finding comfort in the uncontrollable, it gave him the peace of mind many other parents found refuge in; that if the odds hadn’t been in their families favor, their child could at least have a chance.

Muriel starts with my hair, stating something about my ‘messy cherry hands’ staining the pastel blue of the linen dress, and to keep them far away. Her hands are calloused, reflecting those of someone who’s worked a majority of their life, weaving and unweaving nets, creating her tapestries and intricate jewelry. She’s so precise in the way she does my hair, something I'm so grateful for. Choosing specific strands, tying them under or over, I’ve never been able to replicate these styles for her though, no matter how hard I try.

The thought of being reaped is horrifying, but there’s no comfort in the children I’ve known forever being reaped instead, it sends a shudder down my spine, and I feel the panic slowly seeping into my chest. The most recent victor we’ve had in District 4 is Finnick Odair. Although he’s a year older than me and a grade above, I remember him fondly from our short time together in the academy, but even more strongly I remember my fear when he was reaped at fourteen. His capability of winning so young makes me feel weak, and honestly dumb for being so horrified at age eighteen. It seemed all everyone was obsessing over during his games were his looks, but all I could think about was how kind he’d been to me, and how quickly he’d turned into a killer to survive. Somehow I found comfort in that thought. If he’d gone through only four years of the training I’ve had and won, I should be confident in my skills after eight.

I hadn’t realized my foot was tapping aggressively until Muriel placed her hand on my knee and I immediately stopped while she leaned her head down to my face.

“It’s okay to be nervous, Annie, I’m nervous too, probably safe to say all the Cresta’s are nervous. But, we will all be fine tonight, for our celebratory dinner and beach swim, right?” She has tears building in her eyes, “You’ll have to be fine Annie, this is your last year! Only one more and we will all be okay.”

The tears begin to roll down her cheeks in small lines that rush over her blushed face, while she tries to convince both of us.

Muriel has always been free to be overtly emotional, her strength is not relied on to keep others strong. If I ever cried or showed my weakness like this to any of my family, i’m afraid it would shatter them into a million little pieces— Annie Cresta, the baby of the family, so scared and so weak and completely unsaveable by any of them— so I put on a strong face, and push back the tears.

“You know i’ll be just fine Muriel, my name is only in there seven times. The odds have been in our favor the past ten years since Skippers first reaping, I have no doubt of our family's luck.”

I can’t help but wipe my cherry stained hands on my old sleeping shirt I’m sure was hers before reaching up and wiping her tears, just before pulling her into a tight hug. I take whatever doubt I have in my own statement and shove it deep within me, refusing to let my worries get to me, especially now.

My words slightly comfort Muriel, but when my mother walks in, a whole new feeling of serenity washes over us, whether it's forced or not.

“Hello, oh! My sweet Poppy!” she enters the room with a weary face, and once seeing her two daughters in a sorrowful hug, she rushes over to press a gentle kiss to my cheek. My mother and Muriel are so similar, not just in their looks, with beautiful big brown eyes and dark blonde hair, but in attitude as well. Of course, my mother and sister are strong, our whole family is strong, but they are not afraid to let their softer sides show. Whether it’s Muriel’s tears or my mother’s tender affection, it works for them, it makes them stronger to be so emotionally available, but it doesn’t seem to come as easily to the rest of us. While Skipper seems to be a somewhat perfect mix of my mother and father in looks and personality, I look into the mirror now and see my father in every way. Dark brown some what curly hair, sea foam green eyes and tan skin, the need to be strong for the people around us.

“You look beautiful, as always.” She says simply, bringing her palm to her own face to stub her tears. She walks around to the back of my head where Muriel’s progress with my hair had come to a brief pause. She turns me towards the dirty mirror, and I can see the beautiful intricate half braid my sister has done on the top layers of my hair, leaving the rest long and freely curling naturally. Muriel adds a starfish and pearl necklace she made for me years ago on my 12th birthday, and my mother adds a beautiful poppy orange bow that stands out beautifully in my dark brown hair. “It reminded me of you, Ula’s mother was selling them yesterday. It’s almost time to leave, make sure you’re dressed soon.”

She places another soft kiss on the top of my head and then leaves the room. She has called me her Poppy for as long as I can remember, saying I'm just as bright as the beautiful orange flower that grows all over District 4. Muriel follows her out, adjusting the necklace around my neck, “It gets worse each year, but I believe in you, Annie.” I want to comfort her, tell her I’ll be fine, but I can’t trust the stability in voice to make it convincing. Instead I acknowledge her sentiment by simply nodding.

As we walk to the ceremony, I try to stay present in my family's conversation, but my mind keeps drifting away. Every child I see my age has a target on their back, even myself, and none of us know who will be hit. I don’t let this show in my face, keeping a steady smile and waving to my fellow peers, who I've grown so close to. The reaping ceremony is already awful, but when you’re so acquainted in such a tightly knit community, there is no getting out unscathed, It’s always someone I know.

Once we arrive at the square in front of the justice building, my chest tightens and I’m forced now to strictly focus on my breathing. Being the only one in the family eligible to be reaped, I’m forced to part from as they continue towards the viewing area. Our separation is short and sweet, just a simple discussion of where we will meet once the ceremony concludes. I search almost desperately for someone to stand with while waiting to check in. Of course there’s a surplus of children my age, most I know quite well, but I’m not sure who to start a conversation with. I see Ula and decide her normally timid personality would be perfect.

We shuffle into the eighteen year old group, and quickly get pushed through the line to the standing area right before the stage. I thank her for the bow even though her mother made it, and that’s about all we say to each other. Even though I’m surrounded by friends from school or the training academy, I refrain from saying much more. There's not much to say, in a perfect world it would be none of us, maybe the games would be canceled, but the worlds not perfect and “hope it's you not me” isn't really the most comforting sentiment.

The mayor takes the stage, starting with his usual speech and directing us to watch the screens positioned above us, and I prepare myself to doze off. I know nothing important happens until the escort, Prisca Luminara, takes the stage, then I’ll be forced to pay attention, but for now I can stare at the screens and pretend to watch. The usual video plays about the Dark Days, a time of war and rebellion, and why we must participate in the Hunger Games. It’s not until I see Prisca walk up to the microphone, her silver tied up hair immediately catching my attention, that I tune in. First she introduces District 4’s previous victors , we actually have quite a few, but there’s been no one new since Finnick Odair won 5 years ago.

I find myself looking at Finnick, the way the sun reflects off his bronze hair, and realize the girls at school aren’t wrong, he’s beautiful. Honestly I’d never realized, the last conversations we had were so friendly. Both of us were so young, joking about mermaids and seaweed, I’ve preferred thinking of him that way since, not as the man he’s supposedly become.

I accidentally think about him for far too long, and don't fully tune in until Prisca announces that it’s time to pick the tributes.

“As always, ladies first! Remember, volunteering must wait until both tributes have been reaped!”

Her posh accent ringing through my ears while she steps towards the glass ball holding the female tribute's names. Six of those slips hold the name ‘Annie Cresta’, carefully folded and thrown in with the rest. Prisca pulls the tributes name and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I follow the actions of my peers as they slowly make a circle, it must have been someone from my age group.

“Annie Cresta! Don’t be shy, dear come up!”

Suddenly I realize what’s going on, I gather myself the best I can and somehow begin walking down the main aisle towards the stage. It takes all my strength to keep my head up, a kind smile holding my face together to hide my absolute shock. Eventually I reach the stage, smiling to Prisca as she takes my hand to lead me to my place, I even tell her thanks. The humid heat is even more unbearable up here, and I do everything in my power to avoid the faces of my peers below me, knowing how easily it could break this smile and fall into a puddle of tears.

“Perfect! Now for the boys!” Her heels are louder now that I'm onstage, and I can see her jewel encrusted nails searching in the bowl for the next tribute.

“Bodie Cormoran”

Now it seriously takes everything in me to not collapse to the floor. When I hear his name, avoiding eye contact with the crowd is not my biggest worry; I know him, I know him far too well. I immediately see the eighteen year old boy's fluffy auburn hair, making his way to the stage. His usual tall and stocky build seems only half as sturdy as it normally is, although the small defeat in his shoulders is probably only noticeable to those who know him closely. Soon, he’s being led by Prisca to the spot next to me as she chatters about her excitement. As soon as I make eye contact with him, I give him a reassuring look. I receive one in return, a small smile and nod, but his eyes show me how horrified he is. It’s because we will be going in together, if one of us lives, it ensures the other one’s death.

“Now do we have any volunteers? Remember folks, you cannot volunteer for someone who has already volunteered!”

She seems to be expecting a lot more action, but the time to volunteer comes and goes, and the only sound that fills the square is the waves from the far off sea. I hide my disappointment behind my small smile while staring forward towards the cameras. I need to play this exactly the way I’ve been trained, and for now I have to seem relentlessly strong, a true career tribute from District 4.

But when they ask for the tributes to shake hands, I can’t help but hug Bodie instead.