#Baker's Blisters

[caffeinewitchcraft]

The Hero and Hope

Based off a world where everyone gets a Destiny they must fulfill. Bakers and Demon Kings (x) and Villagers (X). You? You are a Hero.

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

You are a Hero.

Nobody at the orphanage knows. The mark sets during the worst winter in three decades, when the windows have to be barred to prevent snow spirits from ripping them to shreds and the Director takes half the reserves and runs in the middle of the night.

Sarah, the only caregiver left in the rickety building, holds as many of the kids as she can while the snow spirits scream outside. You’d love to be in the circle of her arms, but you’re holding the door shut with as much strength as your eight-year-old arms allow.

She doesn’t tell you to get away from the door.

“It’s alright,” she says, voice trembling. Her brown hair, matted from the months indoors, hides her eyes. She croons to the younger kids like a bird, so softly and gently that you have to strain to hear it over the howling demons and roaring winds. “We’ll be okay. Our land’s Lord will send a Hero, you’ll see. We’ll be okay then.”

Your arms burn as intensely as your eyes. A Hero. Your stomach aches from hunger and your fingers sting from the cold. You aren’t sure how much good you’re doing keeping the door closed, but there’s something deep inside of you that tells you you must do something. The blows from the snow spirits outside vibrate up your arms, nearly throwing you back.

Heroes, you think, only matter if they show up.

Hope is traumatic. Eight-years-old and you’ve been returned from potential families twice. Three days ago, you found the beginnings of greenery in the woods behind the orphanage. When you excitedly raced back to tell the others that winter was ending, it was only to find the Director and most of the caregivers gone with a significant portion of the rations.

Then the storm clouds rolled in.

So that long, dangerous night, you don’t hope. You shut your ears to Sarah’s gentle comforts and the snow spirits’ shrieks. You focus on the burning in your arms, the blisters forming on your heels, the cold nipping at your fingers.

Hope is traumatic but trying is something you can do. You put your small body between all of the horrors outside the door and the other kids. You try to stand firm.

You don’t notice when the burning in your arms hides the arrival of a telling mark on your left bicep.

---------------------.

You are fourteen years old, one year shy of coming into your power, when a couple visits the orphanage intending to adopt.

Sarah is now the Director of the orphanage, awarded the position by the land’s Lord after that terrible winter six years ago. She’s different than she was then. You lost three kids to hunger before spring finally came and she held each one in their last moments.

You and Sarah never develop the close relationship she has with the other kids. But she always makes sure you have more meat in your meals than most and, when you hunt in the woods, you always let her decide how the food will be divided between dinner and winter stores.

“We’re Knights,” the potential adopters tell the Director. They’re a couple, a man and a woman with dark hair and muscular bodies. “Retired. We’re settling just north of here for good and are looking for a suitable child who can follow in our footsteps.”

Director Sarah looks at them coldly, leaning back in her chair and folding her hands over her stomach. If she notices you and two of the younger kids peeking through the crack in the door, she doesn’t say anything. “I apologize, Mr. and Mrs. Bahr, but it seems there’s a misunderstanding. We do not pair children with families based on their Destiny.”

“We’re not saying you do,” Mrs. Bahr says. Her gaze is cutting though her shoulders are relaxed. “Our Lord explained before we came. However, there is no rule against asking the children their Destiny, is there?”

Loophole. You pull away from the crack in the door, letting Hera and Josiah take your spot. You lean against the wall with your eyes closed. Orphanages aren’t allowed to disclose Destinies, but that’s where the protection ends. If someone sees a child’s Destiny or learns of it through some other means, that’s alright.

These people aren’t here to adopt because they want a child. They’re here to adopt for a guarantee. A guarantee of what remains to be seen. An heir like they claim? A prodigy for status? Or a weapon for them to control?

You listen for any other clues behind their motives, but the Bahrs don’t push the issue of Destiny again. They accept Director Sarah’s schedule for meeting the kids, even offering to host a picnic day at their estate as a treat. The couple wants to gain trust, you can tell, and by the end of the meeting it’s working.

Director Sarah sees them off to the door herself.

“We’ll wait for the invitation,” she says. She’s older now, her thin brown hair showing the beginning signs of going grey. But her handshake looks strong when she shakes Mrs. Bahr’s in farewell. “I’m sure the children will be thrilled.”

“I hope so,” Mrs. Bahr says. Her husband nods to the Director gravely, but Mrs. Bahr lingers. “I’m sorry if we came off a little…forward when we mentioned Destinies. Please believe me when I say that my husband and I aren’t so shallow. We are looking for a child – one we can call our own.”

“I see,” Director Sarah says. There’s a hint of warmth in her voice. “As I said, we look forward to your invitation.”

Mrs. Bahr nods and joins her husband in their carriage. They set off down the road without once having asked to meet one of the children on the first day of their introduction.

You can tell Sarah likes them.

“What do you think?” Sarah asks. She doesn’t turn from the road, even though the Bahr’s carriage is out of sight. “Isla?”

You don’t ask how she knows it’s you lurking in the shadows of the orphanage. Director Sarah is a Guardian. Her senses are elevated when it comes to those under her charge.

“I don’t think anything,” you say. You step out from around the corner with a sigh. No use hiding now. “They’re influential people if they were recommended here by the Lord himself. We’re fortunate.”

“You’re the right age for a Knight’s apprenticeship,” Sarah says.

“Hera hasn’t shown me her Destiny, but it’s probably something suitable,” you say. Hera is ten, one of the older kids at the orphanage. Last summer she lifted Josiah, only a year younger than her and already a head taller, out of the well before he could drown. “You should talk to her about what being part of a Knight family could mean.”

Sarah looks at you over her shoulder. The setting sun catches in her eyes, turning the warm brown into an unearthly amber. “I hope you can accept the possibility they might choose you.”

They won’t. “Aren’t I needed here?” you ask.

Sarah’s expression softens. “You are, Isla,” she says. She weighs her next words carefully. “But I am the one who’s responsible for all of you. I can take care of everyone. If the Bahr family is a good fit…”

“Sure,” you say flippantly. You shove your hands in your pockets and slink back into the orphanage. You don’t dare hope. “I’m going to help Josiah.” He’s on dinner duty tonight. He always cuts the onions too roughly. “See you later.”

You feel Sarah’s eyes on your back like a physical warmth.

-----------.

Being a Hero doesn’t change anything about you. You expected it to when you first noticed the mark but, even six years later, nothing’s different.

You aren’t kinder. When Josiah asks for your dessert, you steal a bit of his as punishment for even asking. When Hera asks for a bedtime story, you tell her one so scary that she has to sleep with one of the other girls. When Sarah asks you to fix the fence around the chickens, you whine and complain that you’re the only one who does anything around the orphanage.

“The curse of being the oldest,” Sarah says dryly. She hands you a hammer and a bucketful of nails. “Some posts were dropped off at the end of the lane. Make sure you’re back by sunset.”

Maybe you’re a little stronger than others. You can drag three posts at once and could probably drag more if you wanted. But another curse of being a Hero is that you’re very aware.

It’s not until you’re nailing a third rail to the fence that Mr. Bahr makes his presence known. You don’t turn even when he makes his steps purposefully heavy to avoid scaring you.

“You’re very strong,” Mr. Bahr says.

His shadow is long and thin, just like him. You observe it from your peripherals, unable to speak with the two nails you’re holding between your lips. You take your time pounding them into the wood. He’s arms, a sword at his hip, but his hands are loose at his sides.

“Good thing I am,” you say at last. You stand and turn in the same motion. He waited for you to finish without chastising you for not speaking right away. You perch the hammer on your shoulder. “Otherwise, the chickens would take over.”

Mr. Bahr laughs. Unlike when he was meeting Director Sarah, his face is relaxed and open. His blue eyes sparkle. “We couldn’t have that now, could we? I suppose we all owe you our thanks for preventing the coop’s coup.”

You want to laugh. You don’t. “Director Sarah won’t like you being here uninvited.”

“I just came to drop off an invitation,” Mr. Bahr says. He studies you for a moment and then smiles. “I hope you’ll accept, Isla.”

A chill races down your spine. How does he know your name? You wipe the sweat from your brow with a scowl. “Maybe I don’t want to be adopted.”

To your surprise, Mr. Bahr nods. “I can understand that,” he says. He looks up at the sky. The light is sliding from the sky, catching on the clouds and turning them a brilliant orange. When he looks back at you, he almost looks…sad. “Think of our invitation as a party, hm? No strings attached.”

For some reason your tongue feels heavy. It takes two tries before you can say, “I need to fix this part of the fence before dark.”

“Want some help?” Mr. Bahr asks.

“I couldn’t ask—”

“You didn’t ask, I offered,” Mr. Bahr says. He rolls up his sleeves and nimbly plucks the hammer from your grip. “I may be a Knight, but I’ve done my fair share of carpentry. Let me show you a few tricks.”

You listen quietly as Mr. Bahr shows you how to twist the nails to avoid splitting the wood. What would have taken you an hour to finish, he accomplishes in a quarter of one, talking to you the entire time.

It’s…odd to have an adult’s attention on you for such a long time. He’s careful not to get too close, always offering you the hammer to practice by setting it on the grass between you rather than handing it to you directly. When you manage to replicate his technique on your second try, Mr. Bahr is more excited than you are.

“Wonderful,” he compliments. He glances up at the sky. The first stars are twinkling. “I’ll be going now and you should too. Have a good night, Isla.”

Unlike the first time he said your name, it feels pleasant now. You mutter a goodbye and leave before he does, scurrying towards the orphanage with your bucket of nails clutched to your chest.

He’s gone when you think to check the road for his carriage. Did he walk here? Ride a horse?

You close and lock the orphanage’s doors behind you.

----------------.

The picnic isn’t scheduled until the middle of summer and it’s spring now. Still, it’s all anyone can talk about.

“We have plenty of time to get ready,” Director Sarah tells them. “The Bahrs will be dropping in from time to time until then. I expect everyone to be on their best behavior when they’re here.”

Josiah raises his hand. “I hear they live in a castle!”

“A manor,” Sarah corrects. “Given to them by our Lord for their years of service.”

“The Guard in town says they worked for the King once!” Hera says, wiggling in her seat. “Is that true?”

“You can ask them yourself,” Sarah says. She claps her hands together and starts urging the kids up. “It’s time for chores. Your assignment is posted by the kitchen…”

You stay seated at the breakfast table. You haven’t eaten your third egg or your last slice of toast. Your stomach feels queasy. You keep thinking about Mr. Bahr saying wonderful when you worked on the fence together.

You aren’t supposed to want to be adopted. You’ve had your chance and you ruined it both times. It’s not fair of you to imagine what it would be like learning swordsmanship from Mr. Bahr and what it’d be like to hear him praise you when you got the next move right. One of the other kids deserve that chance.

You can only do what you can do.

---------------.

Mrs. Bahr is alone the next visit.

No one recognizes her at first. She’s wearing a gown like a noble and her hair is gently flowing down her back rather than tightly pinned behind her head.

“I’ve received the Director’s permission to hold a lesson on writing,” she tells the children. She gestures to the bag she’s set on the table. “Come get a slate and a piece of chalk. We will work all together.”

The kids have never had slate and chalk before, not the real ones anyway. Sometimes you find a nice, flat rock they can draw on with charcoal, but it’s not as entertaining as what Mrs. Bahr brings. She watches everyone in amusement as they immediately start drawing instead of starting the lesson, flower and trees and swords.

“Look, Isla,” Hera says, tugging at your sleeve. You’re seated on the spare chair by the wall, away from the table. She twists from her spot to show you she’s drawn a shaky stick figure. “It’s you!”

Your eyes flick up to Mrs. Bahr. She’s not irritated by the distractions yet. You point with your bit of chalk at the drawing. “Which part of it is me?”

Hera points at a blob in the stick figure’s hand. “That’s the horned rabbit you brought home yesterday!”

You snort. The horned rabbit you’d killed yesterday wasn’t half the size of your body. “Are you sure that’s a horned rabbit? Looks like a turtle to me.”

Hera points to the stick figure’s face. “You can also tell it’s you ‘cause you’re frowning.”

“Hey!”

Mrs. Bahr claps her hands together. Instantly, she has the room’s attention. “I’m glad you all like my present. However, it’s time to get started.”

“Present?” Josiah asks.

“If you work hard today, you will be allowed to keep the slate and chalk as a present,” Mrs. Bahr says. She takes care to make eye contact with every kid. “Only those who work hard.”

It’s generous. You watch Mrs. Bahr from under your lashes as she talks everyone through writing the alphabet. It’s too generous not to be genuine. Try as you might, you can’t figure out any ulterior motive to spending so much on the kids. To look good? For who? For Director Sarah?

Director Sarah won’t be swayed by gifts like this even if the kids could be.

Mrs. Bahr stops well away from you, observing your slate from afar. “Very good, Isla. Do you know how to write?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Read?”

“Only a little.”

Mrs. Bahr hums. She doesn’t look disgusted by your stupidity or put off by your clipped tone. Your first family returned you when you told them. Mrs. Bahr’s lips curve. “Your letters are wonderfully steady. I can tell you will be a very good student.”

She turns before she can see you flush.

---------.

Over the next few months, there isn’t a week that goes by without at least one of the Bahrs visiting. They become a regularity around the orphanage to the point that even Director Sarah stops worrying about the state of their rooms with every visit.

“Kids will be kids,” Mrs. Bahr says when you ask her to wait while you tidy the toys in the parlor. “It’s alright, Isla.”

Your head spins. Sometimes, when one of them says something particularly bizarre, you feel like you’re outside your body. There was a time when they didn’t have toys to leave out in the visiting area. Thanks to the Bahrs, every child has a doll, a slate, a new set of shoes, and an abacus. You are still waiting for the strings that come with these presents.

There haven’t been any yet.

The kids love the Bahrs. Hera insists on baking fresh strawberry tarts for them after a day of gathering. Josiah carefully sounds out passages from their new books to show them that he’s still practicing his letters. Annie and a group of the younger kids spend all day weaving a flower crown for Mrs. Bahr that you have to confiscate before they can put it on her head.

“Go wash your hands,” you scold. Despite your tone, your hands are gentle as you push Annie to the schoolhouse. “Don’t touch your eyes.”

Annie blinks rapidly, trying to hold back tears. “I didn’t know it was poison, lady, I swear.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Bahr says, hand fluttering over her heart. She steps towards Annie. “Dear one—”

You give full body flinch when Mrs. Bahr stoops to hug Annie, but you don’t get between them. The Bahrs have won your trust in this. They won’t hurt the kids.

You sigh to hide your flinch when Mrs. Bahr stands. “Now Mrs. Bahr needs to wash. Poison ivy is no joke.”

“It is not,” Mrs. Bahr agrees. She ruffles Annie’s hair. “Go on, do as Isla says. Wash up.”

“We can go together,” Annie says with her big, blue eyes. She reaches for Mrs. Bahr’s hand and then thinks better of it. She tucks her hands behind her back and kicks at the ground. “If you want.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” Mrs. Bahr says, smiling.

Annie nods and races to follow her friends.

“I’m sorry,” you say as soon as Annie is out of ear shot. You busy yourself picking up the fallen flower crown and the various trimmings of poison ivy they’d used for foliage throughout it. You feel flustered. “They really didn’t know any better—”

“I know,” Mrs. Bahr says so gently that you have to look up at her. She’s frowning at your hands. “I’m more concerned about you. Should you be holding onto it like that?’

“I’m immune,” you say. You’re not worried that she’ll guess your Destiny from that. Lots of Villagers are immune to poison ivy, particularly the ones in this region who rely on gathering and hunting. “Since I’m in the woods so much.”

“Knights are immune too,” Mrs. Bahr says. She follows you away from the orphanage and to the tree line. “You’re quite the hunter, aren’t you? I remember Hera saying you slayed a horned rabbit.”

Heat comes to your face. You stomp ahead of her to deposit the flower crown in some denser foliage where the kids won’t be able to get it. “I get lucky.”

“I’d consider it unlucky to run across a horned rabbit,” Mrs. Bahr says. She examines the forest with interest. “A demon is a demon. Even adults have difficulty with horned rabbits.”

It hadn’t been difficult. You’d been armed with a sharpened branch and, when the rabbit leapt for you, you knew right when to stab. You clear your throat. “It was difficult.” Then when Mrs. Bahr doesn’t say anything, you add, “It was frightening.”

She believes you. She lays a gentle hand on your shoulder to get you to look her in the face. “The orphanage budget is enough that you don’t need to hunt, Isla,” Mrs. Bahr says. “I know I don’t like the idea of a fourteen-year-old out here alone and unarmed.”

“Almost fifteen,” you say, “and I had a sharp stick.”

“A sharp sti—” Mrs. Bahr cuts herself off with a deep breath. “Regardless of your…aptitude, Isla, it’s dangerous. I’ve spoken to the Director and she agrees with me. You aren’t to go hunting anymore.”

The forest suddenly feels too hot. The leaves overhead rustle, but you can barely hear it over the roaring of your blood. “Excuse me?”

Mrs. Bahr steps closer. “You’re a very strong girl, Isla, but it’s dangerous. If you want to go out with me or Mr. Bahr—”

You shake off her hand. “The Director agreed with you? She said I’m not allowed to go hunting anymore?”

“Out of concern for your safety.” Mrs. Bahr looks like she regrets saying anything. “Once Mr. Bahr and I explained to her what a risk a horned rabbit poses—”

You run away. Mrs. Bahr calls out after you, but you don’t stop. Beyond the sting of Mr. and Mrs. Bahr not thinking you strong enough to hunt, there’s a deeper hurt. The Director agrees. Really? Really?

“Isla? What’s wrong? I thought you were with Mrs. Bahr,” Director Sarah says when you burst into her office. She sets the papers she’d been reading down and frowns. “You look—”

“I’m not supposed to go hunting anymore?” you ask.

Sarah’s face blooms in understanding. “After what Mr. and Mrs. Bahr said about the increase in demons in the area, I agreed—”

“It’s summer,” you interrupt. You stalk up to her desk, your fists balled at your side. “It’s time to hunt.”

“The Bahrs have agreed to accompany you—”

“They only come once a week,” you say. You’re being so incredibly rude to the Director, but you don’t care. “I need to hunt three times that at least. The game has been moving deeper into the forest—”

“Where you are not allowed to go,” Director Sarah says, this time interrupting you. She steeples her hands in front of her. “I should have curtailed this activity long before this point, but I thought you needed it.”

“We need it,” you say. You can’t believe what you are hearing. “We need to store up rations, you know that.”

“Our budget allows us to purchase rations in town.”

“But what if that’s not enough? It’s better to have our own supply—”

“It will be enough.”

“It still doesn’t hurt to have some extra jerky—”

“The store we have will be enough.”

“But what if it’s not?!” You’ve raised your voice without realizing it, fists shaking at your sides. “The other kids are too young to remember o-or too new, but you and I do. That winter, we didn’t have enough. Why are you trying to stop me?” To your horror, your voice cracks. “I thought you understood.”

There’s silence in the room except for your panting breath.

“I’m sorry,” Sarah finally says. The sudden apology is enough to close your mouth against what you might have said. She meets your eyes. “You’ve always been so strong that I…Isla, you were a child. I will always be grateful for what you did that winter and for every winter since. I relied on you, a child, because I didn’t have any other option. We didn’t have another option. But now we do. We’re okay now, Isla. You don’t have to work so hard to protect us.”

“Yes, I do, I’m—” the Hero “—I can do it.” There is something inside of you telling you that that is what you must do. You think that it’s part of being a Hero.

((You’re worried that it’s because you’re scared.))

“My decision is final,” Sarah says. She picks up her documents and straightens them. “You are only to go hunting with an adult from now on. If I find out you went to the woods without one, there will be consequences.”

She’s using the same tone she uses on the other kids when they’re misbehaving. I mean business. You stare at her for a long, breathless moment. You jerkily turn to go.

Mrs. Bahr is hovering in the doorway. She looks guiltily between you and Director Sarah. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop…”

You shove past her and run to your room.

-------------.

Somewhat counterintuitively, as an orphan you’re never alone. You throw yourself face down on your bed.

A shocked silence swallows the occupants on the other bed.

“Is she okay?” Josiah asks Hera.

“It’s Isla,” Hera answers. There’s the rustling of bedsheets as Hera climbs out of bed and then the soft sound of socks on hardwood as she comes over. “You okay?”

You are not okay. There’s an intense war of emotions in your chest. Anger that none of the adults seem to think you’re capable. Betrayal that Sarah isn’t on your side. A sick fear at the thought of being unprepared for winter. And, now that you’ve run away so spectacularly, shame. They probably think you’re overreacting, but they’re wrong. They’re the ones who are being naïve. They’re the ones who—

A gentle hand on the back of your head freezes the thought. Hera pets your short, black hairs in an attempt at comfort. “It’s okay, Isla. You can just sleep. Sleep makes everything better.”

That’s what you tell the younger kids. The difference between you and Hera saying it? When Hera falls asleep, you work to fix the problem. If you fall asleep, no one is going to fix the problem for you.

You flip over, dislodging Hera’s hand. You look up at her as if seeing her for the first time. She’s ten, two years older than you were when the winter happened. She was four then. You want to ask her if she remembers, but instead you ask, “Do you think Sarah hates me?”

“What?” Hera’s eyes are wide. “No! What makes you think that?”

“Nothing,” you say. “It’s stupid. Forget I asked.” You turn on your side, your back to them.

“I know she’s worried about you,” Josiah says. He offers the information tentatively. “I overheard her and the Bahrs talking. Did they ban you from the woods?”

You don’t move. “What else did they say?” You’re afraid that he’s going to say they called you weak. Or, worse, a nuisance. “Did they say anything else about me?”

“Not really.”

Nobody hears anything useful around here. You close your eyes. “I just want to be alone for a little while. I—”

There’s a knock on the door. “Isla? It’s me, Marie. Can I come in?”

Marie? Too late you remember that that’s Mrs. Bahr’s name. She’s been trying to get the kids to call her be her first name. So far no one’s taken her up on it and she hasn’t pushed.

Hera opens the door. “Hi, Mrs. Bahr. Isla is being moody.”

You sit up with a squawk. “I am not!”

“If it’s alright, I’d like to talk to Isla for a moment,” Mrs. Bahr says to Josiah and Hera. “Alone.”

“Don’t let her yell at you,” Hera says as she passes Mrs. Bahr. “She never means it.”

You are going to strangle her. “I don’t yell!”

“That’s not an inside voice,” Josiah says. He dodges the pillow you throw at him, pulling the door closed behind him and Hera.

You are suddenly alone in the room with Mrs. Bahr.

You sit up further, pressing your back against the headboard. Mrs. Bahr doesn’t look mad. Her hands are clasped in front of her and she’s looking down at the floor. It almost looks like she’s the nervous one. You hug your pillow to your chest. “You can sit down if you’d like.”

Mrs. Bahr looks up at you. Her lips twitch. “Thank you, Isla.” She sits down on Hera’s bed gingerly as if afraid it wouldn’t be able to take her wait. When she’s settled, she says, “I wanted to apologize to you.”

Your arms tighten around your pillow. “Why?”

“Not for saying you shouldn’t hunt alone,” Mrs. Bahr says. She’s not a mind reader but sometimes it seems like she is. “For not understanding what hunting means to you. I would have approached things differently if I’d known.”

“Known what?”

“About what you’ve been through.”

The winter. That’s the only thing Mrs. Bahr could be talking about. She must have heard more of your conversation (argument) with the Director than you thought. “It was a long time ago,” you say. You really don’t want to talk about this with Mrs. Bahr. Not when you can still feel that winter’s desperation in your molars like a memory. “I’m fine.”

Mrs. Bahr is quiet for a moment. She studies you much like Mr. Bahr did all those weeks ago mending the fence. “I was a knight for 30 years, you know. I supposed it’s not weird that a Knight worked as a knight for so long. As soon as I came into my power at 15, I was compelled to hold a sword. To seek out evils and defeat them. To follow my Lord into battle no matter the cause.” She looks up at the ceiling. “I’ve had a lot of adventures and helped many, many people. But there was a time when I wanted to quit.”

You start. “You did?”

“I wanted to work in a flower shop,” Mrs. Bahr says. She leans back on her hands. “What a life it could have been! Waking up before the sun and hiking to the flower fields…I had my new house all picked out. It’d have a koi pond and a row of red rocks from the Harrow River. That’s where I met Ivan.”

Mr. Bahr. He’s been trying to get you to call him by his first name too. Unlike Mrs. Bahr, he’s much pushier about it. “What made you want to quit?”

“Exhaustion,” Mrs. Bahr says. She closes her eyes. “It seemed that there was a new threat to my Lord every day. An assassination attempt from a branch family. A territorial dispute. A new influx of demon beasts. It got to the point that I hardly left my Lord’s side for fear of returning to find him dead. He was the first Lord I swore my loyalty to. I always felt like I was failing those days. So I wanted to quit.”

You’ve felt like that before. Sometimes it seems like you never catch enough while hunting, that you’re never kind enough, that you’re never strong enough. You’ve never thought about working in a flower shop though. “Why didn’t you?”

“I did.” Mrs. Bahr laughs at your shocked expression. “I was in my twenties. They tell you things calm down after your teen years, but that’s not true. I handed in my resignation and fled for the nearest town.” Her smile softens. “Ivan followed me.”

“He was there?”

Mrs. Bahr nods. “We were sworn to the same Lord. He came galloping up with my resignation clutched in his hand. His face was so red!” She laughs. “’What does this mean, Marie? He was crying! You can’t quit! I haven’t beaten you yet!’”

“And that’s what convinced you to stay a knight?” you ask. That doesn’t help you. You don’t have a significant other to come racing after you.

“No,” Mrs. Bahr said. “Ivan didn’t know why I wanted to quit. I can’t do it, I said. I can’t keep the Lord safe. I’m not enough. You know what he said?”

You shake your head.

“He said, Of course, you’re not enough,” Mrs. Bahr says. She’s lowering her voice in imitation of Ivan’s. “You were never going to be enough.” You’re gaping at his harsh words, but Mrs. Bahr looks amused. “That’s why we have a squadron. The job is too big for one person. All you need to do is your part.”

You stare at her, not understanding.

“The world isn’t carried by one person,” Mrs. Bahr says. “I was so convinced that everything was up to me – the Lord’s safety, the next campaign’s success, or defense from monsters – that I buckled under the pressure. What I didn’t see that it wasn’t all my responsibility. I was part of a team. All I had to do was one part.”

You think of the winter night and holding the door shut. There hadn’t been anyone to help you then. Someone needed to comfort the younger kids. Someone needed to try and protect them. “What if there isn’t anyone else?”

“Then we do our best,” Mrs. Bahr says immediately. She meets your eyes. “But are you by yourself now, Isla?”

Yes. You open your mouth to tell her that, but the word won’t come out. Are you? Director Sarah looked so defeated when you accused her of not understanding. But didn’t she understand better than anyone else. You swallow. “No. There’s Director Sarah.”

“What does she do?”

“She takes care of us,” you say. “She makes sure the money we get goes to the right things.”

Mrs. Bahr smiles warmly. “That’s right. Who else?”

“…Hera,” you say. You remember she pulled Josiah from the well before Annie even had the chance to tell you what had happened. “She watches the younger kids.”

“She’s very good with them,” Mrs. Bahr says. “Who else?”

Your mind blanks. Who else? “Josiah. He helps us study.”

“And?”

And? “T-the Lord. He makes sure we have the funds for what we need.”

“Including winter provisions,” Mrs. Bahr agrees.

You frown. You suddenly see where this is going. “The amount of winter provisions he thinks we need.”

Mrs. Bahr hums. “What happens if he’s wrong?”

“That’s why I hunt,” you say. Maybe now she’ll understand. “So that we’ll be okay if he’s wrong.”

“What if you don’t hunt enough?” Mrs. Bahr asks.

Your chest is tight. You rub at your sternum and try to breathe deeply. “We starve,” you say. You wheeze and then clear your throat. “We’d starve, but that’s not going to happen. Because I always hunt enough.” I have to.

“This year,” Mrs. Bahr says, voice gentle and soothing, “say you don’t hunt anymore. The winter is harsher than expected and the orphanage’s stores are depleted. What do you think will happen?”

You laugh and gasp at the same time. “They’d all starve,” you say again. What doesn’t she get about that? “First the little ones then—”

Mrs. Bahr is shaking her head. “No, Isla, that’s not what would happen.”

Your temper flares. “That’s what always—”

“What would happen,” Mrs. Bahr says in her even tone, “is that Mr. Bahr and I would come deliver extra provisions to you.”

All the air is chased from your lungs. You feel eight again, small and vulnerable and cold. You’re shivering as you stare at her. “You would?”

“We would.” Gently, as if afraid she might scare you, Mrs. Bahr moves from Hera’s bed to yours. She puts a warm hand on your knee. “We’re a fortress. The Lord gives us part of the emergency fund in order to keep our stores and grounds ready for refugees. Mr. Bahr keeps fifteen percent more than the most generous estimate out of an abundance of caution. We would come and make sure nobody starved.”

For some reason, that makes you want to cry. You blink against the sudden heat behind your eyes. “Oh.”

“That’s why we don’t want you to go hunting,” Mrs. Bahr says. Her thumb rubs over your knee. “It was worth the risk before. You worked hard to keep everyone here alive. You are incredible, for that, Isla. I can’t tell you how much I admire your strength and your bravery. But things are different now. You don’t need to do as much as you did before. There are other people on your squad.”

But I’m the Hero, you want to say. Heroes are supposed to save the day, aren’t they?

Knights help save the day too.

You let Mrs. Bahr pat your knee for a long time. She seems content to let you think, her energy a pleasant hum next to you. A knot is untying in your chest. If you don’t hunt, it’s not the end of everyone. There will still be the funds from the Lord. Sarah’s always been excellent at stretching those as far as they need to go. And, if they aren’t enough, there’s something different this year. The Bahrs are here.

“You’d help us even if you’re only going to adopt one of us?” you ask.

Mrs. Bahr’s lips thin. She looks sad, but hides it quickly. “We’re Knights,” she says. “Even if we are retired. We’ll be here the moment you need us.”

You don’t hope. Hope is traumatic. But…

You believe her.

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(Part 2) (part 3)

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Thanks for reading! There will be a new part of Hope and the Hero every Friday!

If you'd like to read the whole story now, please consider supporting me on Patreon (X)!

There's also a new story up there, a sequel to my Dandelion villain story (X)

Summary: You are free of mind control for the first time in a year. The only things standing between you and your revenge are the heroes.

[bayjaruchel]

Strawberry Blond

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Pairing: Peeta Mellark/AFAB Reader

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Late one night, you get a call. (4.7k | originally posted on ao3 | Masterlist )

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You know that your relationship can never be normal. 

Even now, when you technically should have peace of mind— and you're out of the arena, out of the Games— there's still the ugly truth that lies beneath it all. The Victor's Village is beautiful in comparison to the rest of District Twelve, but because of the reason why you earned a residence here, you're not sure if you'll ever truly enjoy it. Brick houses with plenty of room, and yet yours is still far too empty, even if you have your family to keep you company. 

Peeta lives alone in his. 

There's always smoke coming from the chimney, and he keeps most, if not all of the lights on. The only room that occasionally has its lights off is his, which is on the second floor. You've woken up in the middle of the night many times and glimpsed the shining evidence that he's still awake. It's not like you get perfect sleep yourself— but you worry, sometimes. 

You do visit him, sometimes. But you've never knocked on his door when it's nighttime. You're not entirely sure why that is; maybe it's because you're afraid of what the cool silence will bring. Maybe it's too intimate. Neither of you are strangers to intimacy, and you've definitely maintained a little of that, but … There's still a certain distance. Away from the cameras, you still struggle to discern what's real and what's not. 

The way he looks at you is certainly real. 

You don't know if you'll ever feel exactly the same way towards him. 

Sure, you do like him. A lot. He makes it easy. He's the type of guy that you could bring home to your parents. He's the type of guy that one would want to come home to every day. Of course, he's a little more reserved, and his eyes are duller, but— he's still Peeta. He's still the baker's boy. Deep down, he'll never lose what made you— and all of the Capitol— fall in love with him. 

Is it really love, though? Or is it just admiration? 

It's something that you think about a lot. You've never said those three words to him when not in front of an audience. And he knows that on those specific occasions, it wasn't real. It was just an act. Maybe when he kissed you, he wasn't acting. Maybe when he looked at you and said those lovely things to you, he wasn't acting. 

You can dream. You can hope. 

However, most of your actual dreams nowadays are just nightmares.  

No golden boy is holding you, shielding you from the awful weather. There's no bright, happy future in which everything turned out right. And there's none of those strange, albeit interesting dreams where your house is upside down and your teacher at school is telling you that somehow, you've suddenly graduated and you're being sent off to the Capitol to become one of them. 

Instead, there's just fire. 

Tonight, you dream of fire. 

Burning bodies that fall from the highest trees. You can vaguely make out who they are— there's a sickening feeling in the pit of your stomach, a primal guilt. Everything around you is blazing, and you know you should try and get out, but your feet are frozen, rooted to the spot. You can't move, even as the flames begin to lick around your ankles. Even if you did run, you wouldn't be able to escape. This has been a long time coming, hasn't it? 

Despite the almost blinding brightness emanating from the fire, everything else is foggy and dark. The only thing you can focus on is the corpses, the trees, and everything coming down around you. Someone shouts your name, but it's muffled like you're underwater. You fail to register it fast enough. 

A scream, crystal-clear. 

You whip around, and there it is. The evidence of your failure. You're helpless to do anything— you can only watch— more screaming, more yelling, more pleads for help— 

There is so, so much blood— 

You're awake, and the blistering heat is gone. 

Gasping, you sit up, struggling for breath. It keeps catching in your throat. Your heart's pounding at a pace that makes your head spin. Dizzy, disorienting. But it used to be worse than this. 

At least you don't wake up sobbing anymore. 

This is still awful, though. Trembling, you wrap your arms around yourself, attempting to regain control. In, out. In, out. Your lungs shudder with the effort, but you keep going. Despite the comfortable warmth of the house, there's still goosebumps prickling up and down your bare skin. Your arms. Your neck. The sheets are tangled around your waist and legs; you almost feel trapped. 

There's no point in closing the curtains, since virtually nobody is in the streets, and the other inhabitants of the Village couldn't possibly look through your windows. When you glance out of the one nearest to your bed, it's almost pitch-black outside. There are no street lamps, after all. You try to focus on the cold, empty houses to distract yourself. 

Finally, your breath slows. Your pulse calms. 

You're still shaking, faintly, but your knees don't give out when you detangle yourself from your blankets and slip out of bed. You consider that a minor victory. 

Taking care not to make too much noise, you head downstairs. The polished stone is cold underneath your feet, but it's grounding, in a way. It settles you back down to earth. For a short while, you frequently lost your way due to the sheer size of the house, but now you know the quickest route to the kitchen by heart. Even when half-asleep, you know exactly where to go. 

The light flicks on with a quiet buzz when you gently press the switch. 

Quietly, you wonder if the ultimate prize for winning the Games was running water. It's cold, as it splashes over your fingers and into the basin. There are plenty of pristine, artisan glasses and whatnot in the overhead cabinets— probably made in District One— but you always reach for the mugs you had before. The ones with a couple of cracks and dents littering their bodies— evidence of their long lifespans. 

You lean against the counter as you take a long gulp of water. It's pleasant, the feeling pooling low in your chest. 

The silence used to be unnerving, but now, you welcome it with open arms. 

You take another, smaller sip from your mug. Maybe you'll be able to sleep for another few hours. Until the sun rises, at least. Then, you can take a walk. You can wander around all you like here, provided that you don't stray too far. Regardless, you're sure nobody will be too concerned about that. Haymitch is the sole man responsible for the lax rules concerning the victors. 

You're still not sure if you like him or not. 

Slowly, you finish your drink. But, just as you're ready to set it into the sink and head back upstairs—

—the phone's ringing. 

You can hear it pretty clearly, even if it's muffled. 

Who could be calling at this hour? Furrowing your brow, you put down the mug and start heading down the hallway, towards the study. You're well aware that Haymitch tore his phone out of the wall ages ago, so it couldn't be him. Nobody from your District calls you, either. And if you get any calls from outside the District, they're usually during the daytime. Not at two-ish in the morning. The Capitol may be invasive, but they're not that invasive. They need their beauty rest, you figure.  

So, taking all of that into consideration, that only leaves— 

"Peeta?" You mutter, upon picking up the phone. 

There's a beat of silence. 

"Hello," he replies. 

It's a bit hard to tell over the line, but he sounds nearly as groggy as you. Delicately, you shut the door of the study behind you with a quiet click. Just in case. 

"Is something wrong?" You allow yourself to be a little louder, now that there's a barrier between you and the rest of the house. "Couldn't sleep?" 

"Something like that." There's a slight rustling. "I mean— nothing new, right?" Even though you know he meant it as a joke, the grim truth makes it fall flat. 

Still, you breathe out a quiet laugh. "Nothing's changed." Affixing your gaze on one of the chairs sitting around the mahogany table, you fiddle with the telephone cord. "Did you, uh— did you need something, though?" 

Peeta hesitates again. 

"I just—" He cuts himself off. "I'm sorry for calling you so late." He's entirely earnest in a way that makes you ache. "Did I wake you up?" 

He's also dodging the question, even if he is genuinely worried about your sleep schedule. 

"No, you didn't," you assert, "don't worry about that. It's fine." 

"Okay," he responds, relief palpable despite the crackly quality. 

The telephone cord is somewhat cold where it rests on your knuckles. You continue to twist it around your idle hand. 

"You still haven't answered my question, by the way."  

Peeta audibly exhales. 

"Oh." More rustling. "Yeah. I, um—" he clears his throat, "—yeah, I do need something, actually." 

That could mean a lot of things. Does he just need to talk? You know he does, sometimes. Or maybe he just needs some more flour, and is too embarrassed to admit it. He does seem like the type of guy to stress-bake in the wee hours of the morning. However, you seriously doubt that he wants anything related to that. 

"What is it?" You ask, finally. 

His next words are rushed, as if he's afraid that if he says them slowly, he'll never get them out. 

"Could you come over? I just—" it's only a momentary gap, "—don't wanna be alone right now." 

Ah. 

The thing is, you understand. You know what it's like. And there's only one possible response that you can give right now. Vividly, you can see him— the cave—  his face, shining with a cold sweat, his eyes scrunched tightly in pain— 

"Okay." You're already mentally mapping out where to go. "I'll be there in a few." 

-- 

When he opens the door, Peeta looks exhausted. 

But when he smiles at you, there's still that light in his eyes. That look he gets whenever you're around. It used to make you feel sick to your stomach, but now— now, you're not quite sure how to feel. You've been told that in comparison to him, you're rather good at keeping your feelings hidden underneath the surface. It's been necessary, after all. 

"You're here," he says after a beat, as if he expected anything else. 

"I'm here," you echo. 

Wordlessly, he steps aside to let you pass by. Somehow, although the layout of his house is exactly the same as yours, his still feels different. Warmer. A little cozier. The remnants of something sweet are still floating through the air, and you glance back at him. Maybe you were right about the possibility of him making cookies— or apple turnovers. Or those little cakes. 

"Been baking?" You ask. 

"Earlier," he clarifies, shutting the door behind you. 

"Smells nice." 

Peeta lingers by your side. "Want some?" 

"If that's okay." 

"It's always been okay." He raises his eyebrows. "How many times have I told you that you don't even need to ask?" 

You shoot him a look. "Doesn't hurt to ask." 

Flawlessly, he copies your expression. "How do you know that?" 

"It's called being polite, Peeta." 

"Polite," he repeats. "Polite…" 

You let out a short sigh. 

"Just show me where they are." 

He gives you a shit-eating grin. "And there it is." 

You don't even bother trying to respond; he's already padding past you, anyway. It's a short trip to the kitchen. His is more cluttered than yours— recently-used, more lived-in. There are more dishes in the sink, more stuff on the counter. But your eyes are drawn to the two wire baking racks on the stovetop. On top of them sit around two dozen pastries. They're prettily decorated with pink, blue, and white icing, and you take some time to admire them as you join him in front of the stove. 

"You've outdone yourself," you can't help but murmur. "Wow." 

At your compliment, Peeta instantly turns bashful. 

"Oh, thanks." Of course, he can't let those words sit. "It's— it's not my best work, but I—" 

His volume drops, and he pauses. 

"Well— my hands were shaking, so…"

Abruptly, you turn your attention away from the pastries. 

He notices, interrupting you before you can even open your mouth to speak. 

"I know what you're gonna ask," he says, softly. "And, yeah, I do want to talk about it. Just—" Peeta sucks in a breath. "Just not now, okay? Give it a little while." The corner of his mouth quirks up, and he gestures towards the racks. 

"Eat." 

You consider pressing the question. You consider urging him— did it happen again? Was it worse this time? It had to have been worse, considering that he wanted you over in the first place. Just thinking about it makes your stomach perform an uneasy flip. You can read Peeta. And right now, you can read the bags under his eyes. The tiredness he's trying to fight away. 

However, you don't want to push him. You don't want to break him down. Not again. 

So, you take a pastry. 

It's really, very good. 

Peeta takes one for himself, too, and you eat in silence. You know that despite your frequent approval of his various baked goods, he's still carefully watching your reaction; you make sure to look pleased, and it isn't hard at all. He seems satisfied. You're also satisfied. Once you've finished your pastry, you lick the remnants of the icing off your fingers. 

You pretend not to notice the way he stares— briefly, before forcing his gaze away. 

You pretend to ignore the way your heart skips. 

Mercifully, he breaks the awkward tension. 

 "Do you— would you want to take some home?" He asks, after swallowing. "We both know that I'm not gonna eat 'em all." 

"Oh, yeah, I'll take some," you answer. Thinking for a second, you add, "Were you going to risk bringing some to Haymitch, or—" 

He snorts. "Not this time." 

"More for me, then." 

"And your family, you mean?" 

You smile. There's no way that you're going to give up those pastries without a fight. 

"Sure. And my family."

Peeta doesn't seem entirely convinced, but he returns your smile all the same. 

-- 

He always keeps his bedroom windows open at night. 

You're not exactly sure why, but you suppose it's because he runs warm. Always. 

The duvet's soft on your bare skin, and his hands are gentle. With the way your head is positioned, if you move your ear just so, you can hear his heartbeat thumping through his chest. A steady rhythm. He's calm, and so are you. You're certain that you could fall asleep like this— if it weren't for the fact that you have other, more important priorities right now. 

When you look up at him, shifting an increment closer, he talks. 

"I thought things were getting better." His Adam's apple bobs as you watch. "I thought that— that things were gonna start improving. That I'd— " He trails off, for a second. 

"That I'd start going back to normal, I guess. But I should've known that it's… It's impossible." His gaze is focused on the ceiling. "It was hopeless to try and believe that I could just keep on going like nothing happened at all." 

You find your voice. 

"But you still tried?" 

The chuckle he lets out is completely humorless. 

"Yeah, I tried." 

He's always been optimistic— he's always trying to see the best in people. And seeing him like this makes you feel hopeless. You know what he's going through. It's essentially the same thing that you're going through. However, it's not like you can read minds. He knows the right words to say, but you don't. Even though you wish you could. Words— even though actions can speak louder than them— still mean a lot. You turn that word over in your head a couple of times. Actions. 

"What happened?" You ask, quietly. 

 A beat. 

"I let down my guard," he starts, volume barely a whisper. "I was confident in my stability. I thought that I wouldn't— break down, or anything. Because it had been a few weeks, and—" 

His eyes shut. Tightly. "God, I'm stupid." 

"You're not," you rush to interject, "don't say that." 

Peeta lets out another huff. "But it was stupid. To assume that I'd be okay, I mean. I should've— I should've expected it, at least." He quickly carries on. "Even after everything, I still let myself fall into a routine." 

I still let myself fall back into a routine, you know what he means. The bad dreams pale in comparison to the real monsters that loom over the both of you. Haymitch is a living example of what can happen; what will happen, if you don't hold on to tight control of the hypothetical reins. You ache. 

"Don't blame yourself for any of this," you murmur, "please. It's not your fault. Not in the slightest." You have to speak slowly, pace yourself. Keep yourself from everything you want to say. "Even if you tried to— I don't know, stay hyper-aware of everything— it would still come crashing down eventually." A breath. "It's inevitable, Peeta. It's always going to be here." 

"But I don't want it to be here," he chokes out, "I really, really don't!" 

You push yourself up from your previous position. His eyes are open now, wide and looking up at you. 

When you move backward and open your arms, he's on you in an instant. 

You rock back and forth, gently. You're not sure which one of you is holding onto the other tighter. Clinging would be a better word. His face is pressed firmly into your shoulder. You can feel him shaking. 

Despite everything, he won't let himself make any noise when he cries. 

You don't know how long you stay like this. It could be minutes. Hours, even. All you can feel and register is him. Peeta. He's trembling. The barely-there sensation, combined with the undeniable tightness of his arms. His hands. It's almost like he thinks that if he loosens his hold, even by just the slightest fraction, you'll suddenly disappear. 

That you'll cease to exist. 

That you'll become not real.  

When you finally draw back— slowly, tentatively, and only because he does it first— 

He sniffs, eyes red. They're not brimming with unshed tears, but they're still wet. You can't help but thumb away what little remains on his lower lids, even though you know that you probably look about the same. 

Peeta returns the gesture. 

Unlike you, though, he lingers, hand dropping to cup your cheek. 

There's a moment. 

You've done this before, of course. You've held each other. Comforted each other, brought each other back down. But since the end of the Games— since you've gotten away from the clamoring audiences desperate for a romance despite the sick circumstances— you haven't done anything more than that. 

You haven't kissed him since the end of the Games. 

But right now, you realize that you want to. More than anything. Anyone could see that Peeta wants it, too. Maybe even more than you do. 

So, when he leans in— just barely— closing the distance— 

It's practiced, at first. Familiar. Almost nostalgic. 

But then he melts, and it's suddenly something completely different.  

Peeta lets you softly maneuver him down onto the mattress, up against the pillows that are still too soft for your liking. He kisses you in the way those terrible poets describe— it's all excessively large bouquets, a clear starry night, longing looks across a crowded room, and—  

It's real. 

He gives. You take, and exchange it for everything you have in return. His hand stays on your cheek, the other behind your head, pulling you down. He kisses you like he needs it to breathe. You lose yourself in the feeling. Whenever you part, it's only out of necessity, and you're soon leaning back in. You're making up for lost time— you're making up for every action you didn't mean, every word that was too sugary-sweet. 

Soon, your kisses grow deeper. And neither of you wants to stop. 

It's only when his hands are trailing down your body, down to the hem of your shirt, that you bother addressing it. Even if you want this— so, so desperately— you don't want to force anything in a situation that doesn't require it. Just kissing is nice. It's very nice. Nice enough that it takes a little while for you to regain control of your mouth. 

"Is this—" 

—and he's already speaking. Hushed, like you. 

"Please." 

It's almost embarrassing, what that single word does to you. But you barrel on. 

"It's okay?" You ask, "Just say if it's not, and I'll stop—" 

"—I just," Peeta visibly struggles with what to say for a moment, before settling on: 

"Need you," he says. "Please." 

It's more than enough, and you're in no place to deny him for much longer. You recapture his lips, welcoming his touch. His hands on your back, then your waist, then your hips again. His grip is firm, but not overly so. He would never hurt you, after all. Especially not here. Especially after what he's witnessed. 

His hands are warm and calloused on your bare skin. Strong, with all the work he's done since he was old enough to knead dough. You have to sit up in order to take off your nightshirt, and he takes the opportunity to do the same with his. You've already seen him shirtless, and at close proximity, too— but it wasn't like this. You couldn't trail over every little detail with your lips, back then. 

Peeta shivers, letting out a short giggle when you press a kiss to his stomach. He's sturdy, that's for sure. Impressive biceps, a toned chest. He's beautiful, and you tell him so. You think he blushes, but it's difficult to say for certain from your position. You're too focused on finding all the little freckles you can. 

He likes it when you kiss his neck, breath audibly hitching when you do so. 

But even though he lets you entertain yourself for a decent while, he makes sure to return the favor. He's never liked being in the spotlight for long, after all. And he wants. 

He finds all of your scars, from the arena. From before the arena, too. He maps them out, painstakingly, mimicking the way you'd kissed him all over earlier. Sensitive, he notes, when you make a small noise when his thumbs find your nipples. Soft, he observes, as his fingers slip underneath your waistband, moving lower. 

Soon, you're completely exposed, and he is too. 

Peeta pays more attention to certain parts of you— your thighs, your chest— but he doesn't skip over anything in particular. He wants to know everything; he wants to learn everything. And he's eager to learn. By the time he reaches the spot between your legs, you're already wanting for him. You've grown needy from his kisses, his caresses. You can feel him against your thigh— he's just as needy as you. 

His fingers are clumsy, at first. But they're strong, and you guide him. One, then two. Then another. His breath is loud, and he hums, biting his lower lip at your quiet moan after you tell him how to crook his fingers. You jolt when he finds your clit, paying careful attention to it while he works you open. 

At your whispered insistence, he grips himself by the base— already having put on protection— you don't care enough to ask exactly how he obtained it— and he pushes in. The groan he lets out sounds like it's been punched from his gut. 

He sets a slow, measured pace. Almost awkward at first, but he's a fast learner. He learns what angle makes you spread your legs wider for him. You wouldn't even use fucking to describe what you're doing— somehow, that word's too rough. He kisses you, nose bumping against yours. Most of your noises are muffled against his lips, but he takes them all the same. He absorbs them, and drinks them in. Drinks you in. 

"Peeta," you sigh, and he breathes your name in return, before ducking to kiss your shoulder. Your collarbone. Your neck. 

He comes first, twitching, pulsing deep within you. He stifles his whimper by tucking his face into the divot between your shoulder and your neck— but you can still feel it. You help him ride it out, until his thrusts falter, and his hips still. 

It's a few moments of limbo, in which he catches his breath. He meets your eyes. His are hazy, half-lidded. He kisses you. 

Then, he pulls out— disposes of the garbage, of course— and wastes no time in making his way down your body, to where you need him most. 

You're certain that he's never eaten anybody out before, but he's a natural. He's enthusiastic— much more so than when he was inside you. This is just for your pleasure, now. When you thread a hand through his tousled hair, he moans into you, increasing his efforts tenfold. He doesn't care for the mess— or the noise, as he laps at you. He doesn't even care for his own need to breathe. Peeta just wants to give. 

His brow is furrowed in concentration as he rapidly pulls you closer to orgasm. You can do little but take. And when you finally topple over your peak— 

"—that's so good, ah— Peeta, I'm gonna— ohh—" 

You cry out, heat rolling low in your abdomen— gathering, passing through your entire body. 

You float on blissful waves, and he licks at you through it all. For a single, brief moment, your mind is perfectly calm. 

When you relax, the warmth steadying to a hum, he notices and stops working at you. He wriggles a little, and leans forward to rest his chin on your stomach while you catch your breath. You can feel his, too, and it's hot on your skin. Peeta seems reluctant to take his eyes off you just yet. 

It's quiet, you register. You're reluctant to ruin it, but he looks pretty messy. 

"I should get you a towel or something," you say. 

He cracks a smile, his eyes softening. "Should you?" 

"Yeah." You're powerless not to return it. "But, you know, for me to get the towel, you have to get off me." 

"So demanding." 

You let out a short, offended sound. "Hey, that's just—" 

"I'm getting up." And he does. 

It doesn't take long to clean up, and the obnoxious white fluorescent lights of the bathroom don't blind you for long. Again, Peeta looks on while you wipe off his face— this close, you notice how brilliantly blue his eyes are. You notice the precise angles of his jaw. His cheek. He's probably doing the same to you— tracing the contours of your face. 

To your relief, you're back in his bed a few minutes later. He completely shuts off the lights, flicking off his bedside lamp, and then crawls under the duvet with you. You're not sure if it's creepy or weird to enjoy it, but everything here smells like him. A sort of earthy, warm scent. Even though you're both well aware of the multiple floral shampoos that the Capitol has to offer— he still retains that one thing. 

You're comfortable. You're safe. 

Peeta wraps his arms around you from behind. 

You're not sure if you should say something or not, but he does it first. 

"You'll stay?" Whispered, into the stillness. 

"Of course." Without hesitation. 

His grip tightens, almost imperceptibly. 

"Thank you," he breathes.  

The words are stuck in your throat. 

You can't bring yourself to say them, even though you know you'd mean them. Every single syllable. 

But you have time. You can tell him tomorrow, even. Or the day after that. Tonight, you didn't say it aloud, but you still told him all the same. 

You understand exactly how you feel, just before you drift off. 

You love him. 

[bonesandchalamet]

from the shining lights, to the sandy beaches, I’ll only love you — p.mellark

masterlist | pairing: peeta mellark x fem!reader

summary: bored and facing the capitol, you give the citizens of panem some drama to spice up the games

warnings: slight mentions of 18+ ideas but nothing graphic + mentions of insecurity

hours you think. it had to have been hours layered laying in woven grass blankets with flattened bread in your pockets that’s sure to be moldy soon from the moisture.

“how long have I been out?” a grunt escapes your lips to signal your awakening to them. you attempt to sit upward, but your hands were badly blistered and your arms were weak.

peeta lunged into the makeshift tent, he gently lays you back down shushing you to not worry about taking the next shift. after all, you’d been the one to trip over rocks in the acid rain, if anyone should get sleep it’s Finnick who carried you like it was nothing.

Finnick. sweet, sexy, district four, Finnick odair. the man women are obsessed with, and you could see why. his beautiful blue eyes and cocky smile, if it weren’t for the baker beside you, you’d be all over that fine man.

there was nothing wrong with peeta. his tenderness, the warmth he provides, he was an amazing boyfriend. but the ever thought of another man seemed to spark a load of questions piling up in your brain.

the storm had been out for awhile now, leaving you with some time of peace. you flip onto your left side, facing peeta, a wicked smile lifts your lips that he can’t even read. but it gives him something to laugh at in this place, “what’s your problem?”

“if you could fuck someone in the capitol would you do it? someone dressed like Effie?”

finnick makes a repulsive noise. hes had a fair share of capitol women, and even the sight of Effie was enough for him. having ran into her with zero makeup on, and nothing but a wig, Finnick odair would rather steer clear of any women from the capitol.

“I’d really prefer we think about our game plan—“

“it’s a simple question.” johanna finally wakes, she sits up carefully, her voice draws finnicks attention briefly from looking out.

sweat thickens above his upper lips. peeta knows there’s a correct answer. being in love with you, he’d never thought of another woman, so why would you ask? he can only imagine to lighten the mood, lift the spirits of the citizens watching in boredom, so he thinks it’s not harmful to play along?

“I’ve only ever wanted intimate moments with you.” peeta extends out his hand, the roughness of his palm touching your cheek, “you know I only love you.”

“this is such a yawn.” Johanna counters, she eagerly sits forward breaking the moment, “not a single woman caught your eye on the tour? you’re going to die anyway, might as well admit it.”

peeta let’s out a light laugh, and you know he’s serious. he’s only ever had eyes for you, but to Johanna, Finnick, haymitch, and potential sponsors, he needs to play in. he needs to draw them something, so he does what he’s a natural at; story telling.

“well there was a girl,” he pauses, eyes swiftly glancing at you before back at johanna, “hard to tell how old she was under those capitol lights, but she just kept following me. every room she was there, and I just couldn’t take my eyes off her.” he looks up the makeshift tent, a sadden glow casts across his face, “I wonder if I’ll see her again.”

you can’t quite remember a woman who followed him in every room besides yourself. maybe that’s who he was discussing? but he’d bought Finnick and Johanna’s approval leaving peeta to slip out the tent.

“what about you, y/n? sleep with a capitol or finnick?”

finnicks head snaps his head in the direction of his name, a spark lights in him earning a bright cocky smile, “I don’t bite, babe.”

it’s your turn to make a repulsive noise, but you know everyone at home is inching closer to their screens: would you screw around with Finnick for a night? or would you dare head back to the capitol? Finnick it is.

“just for a night,” you pause taking a long look at peeta. he’s fixated his eyes on something with the sand, probably just to occupy his mind from this conversation that’ll haunt his last memories with you, “I’d do Finnick, on the count that peeta can be there.”

“a threesome?” Finnicks words echo across the sandy beaches practically giving away your hiding spot, “I’m not sure I’ve ever done that.”

“I’d pay to be a fly on the wall of that night.” Johanna grins.

“I’ll pass. I don’t think I’d well with sharing.” Peeta blurts out.

a wide grin takes hold of Johanna’s face, yours is covered in a deep red blush that you’re thankful no one can make out in the darkness.

“peeta, possessive? never would’ve thought of that.”

it’s a shock to everyone, even you. peeta never showed any care that you were close to other guys, like Finnick or even beetee, but maybe it’s because he always knew you’d come back to him. he always knew it was him you’d love and swear you’d never leave. it must be the insecure feeling that if you saw what Finnick had, you’d leave.

to answer his worries, you wrap your arms around peetas neck and press a long kiss to his lips, “I kind of like it.”

“I’d rather sleep with haymitch than either one of you lovebirds.” finnick answers johannas question that was slightly forgotten from you three in the tent.

“come on, it’s my turn to watch.” johanna crawls out the tent, and for a second it’s just you two alone. you slip beside him, resting your head against his bicep, “who was the girl from the capitol?” you whisper.

a smile lifts to his lips, his shoulder slightly budges you to sit up, “who do you think?”

it was you. only you.

[knowiloveyoubabe]

Beautiful Baker Boy

Word Count: 1.7K Warnings: fluffyyyyy Summary: Beautiful baker boy meets lovely florist (gender neutral Y/N)

The summer sun bore down on Y/N’s back as they bent over the outside display, silently cursing the lack of clouds in the sky. They rub the back of their neck, where the blistering beam had strangely focused, gently moving around a few bouquets with their other hand. 

They step back, hands on their hips, slowly scanning the small display in front of the tiny flower shop.

“That’ll do, I guess.” They mutter to themself, using the back of their hand to wipe some sweat that had started to collect on their hairline. 

“Y/N, darling!” Their elderly boss, the shop owner, calls out for them from inside the store. 

“Coming!” Y/N hurries inside, their mind still on the flower display.

“I’m heading out soon, love. I don’t want to be late meeting the missus, I still have to swing by the bakery!” His wrinkles become more prominent as he smiles, wiping his hands on the apron wrapped around his waist. Y/N’s hand found its way over their heart as their own smile grew.

“Will you be okay on your own for the rest of the day?” He asks, removing his apron and reaching for the special bouquet he had arranged for his wife of over four decades. Y/N nods their head, smile beaming.

“Of course! Don’t worry about me, you trained me, remember?” They brush their sweat-dampened hair out of their face, admiring their mentor and the love he had for his wife.

“I know, darlin’. Thank you,” His smile lines deepened along with his crows feet as he pats them on the shoulder, nursing the bouquet with his other arm. He nods his head at them, “See you tomorrow!”

“Alright, have fun!” Y/N calls out after him as the door shuts behind him with a ding of the bell. 

Soon after their boss left, the day fell into a bit of a lull. They got a few things done around the shop, helped a few customers, all in an attempt to avoid the behemoth task of organizing the flowers in the back room. But the minutes ticked away like hours and Y/N felt as though the boredom would soon drive them crazy. They groaned as they got up off of the stool behind the cash register and dipped into the doorless back room where they began sorting out the orders. Y/N had barely made a dent in the work that needed to be done before they peeked at the time, noticing it was almost time to close up shop.

“Hello?” Y/N heard a familiar voice from the front, confused as to how they didn’t hear the bell signaling that someone was entering the shop. They peek their head out of the room to catch a glimpse, their heart jumping to their throat when they see the back of the customer's curly head. 

Oh God. Panic set in when they realized who the sultry voice belonged to.

It was Harry, the beautiful baker boy who worked just across the street. Y/N had developed an almost delusional crush, Harry having made many an appearance in their maladaptive daydreams during the slower days at the flower shop. Since the first day they met, Y/N hadn’t been able to get him out of their head. So one would think that they’d be prepared for his weekly visit to the flower shop. “Coming!” Their voice cracking, deepening the blush already settling on their cheeks. They pray that they look somewhat presentable when they leave the back room, their eyes instantly meeting with his. 

“Hey, Y/N.” He smiles, his lovely green eyes scanning their face. 

“H-Hey, Harry.” Y\N wipes their sweaty palms on their apron, trying not to stare at the tattoos on his tanned arms. “Already time for your weekly bouquet?”

Harry chuckles, nodding and rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah, I just closed the bakery, thought I could also drop off some of these.” He reaches into his large tote bag, pulling out a brown paper bag. The smell of freshly baked bread and parmesan cheese filled the air in the tiny shop as Harry placed the bag on the counter next to the register.

“Cheese buns.” Y/N says breathily, unable to hide the smile spreading on their face.

“Your favorite!” Harry’s dimple deepens as his smile widens. Y/N’s heart raced in their chest.

“You remembered?” 

“Of course, it was one of the first things you said to me.” A slight blush appears on the beautiful man's cheeks as he nudges Y/N’s shoulder. They both laugh lightly as they recall Y/N fumbling over their words as they ordered from the bakery for the first time. The cute boy behind the counter had been wearing a sleeveless shirt with a bandana in his hair, flour on his face and arms, and a dimpled smile. 

Y/N shook the image from their head, worried they’d embarrass themself even more.

“You gonna look around?” They changed the subject quickly, clearing their throat. Harry nods, putting his tote down on the counter next to the bag of cheese buns. 

“Yeah, but please, don’t let me get in your way.” He lays a gentle hand on Y/N’s arm, sending a chill through their body. 

“You’re never in the way.” Y/N spoke softly, biting at the skin on the inside of their cheek. Harry’s lips parted slightly, almost as though he was about to say something before clearing his throat abruptly and smiling, a faint blush appearing on his tanned cheeks. 

“I-I should close up the shop.” Y/N looks away from his gaze, trying not to lean into the warmth radiating from his body.

He gently squeezes their arm before releasing his soft grip, allowing them to maneuver around him, to the front of the shop. 

Y/N brought the display inside, cleaned up, and stored everything where it belonged, all while watching Harry from the corner of their eye. 

“Alright, I think I’ve finished.” Harry announces as Y/N finishes up the last of their tasks. They meet him at the register, catching a glimpse at the beautifully curated bouquet.

“Sunflowers, white spray roses, yellow billy balls, and mini hydrangeas.” He lists off each flower in the bouquet. 

“Woah, look at you! You should be the one working here.” Y/N giggles. Harry follows suit, their giggles filling the small shop. Harry hands Y/N the bouquet as they joke about how funny it would be if they switched places, Y/N at the bakery and Harry at the flower shop, discussing the disasters that would ensue. As Y/N sorted through the bouquet, wrapping it up in the nicest brown paper in the shop, a realization hit them.

“Wait, Harry,” Their eyebrows furrow, turning to face him, “These flowers, they’re my-”

“Your favorites.” He bit his lip, picking at his nails nervously. 

“My favorites.” Y/N repeats breathlessly. Harry rolled his bottom lip between his teeth, both of their bodies unmoving.

“Your partner is really lucky.” Y/N says, smiling thinly and inhaling sharply, turning back to the task at hand. Their hands shook as they attempted to tie the twine around the wrapped bouquet, their brain on overdrive. Their mind was so loud, they barely heard the shuffle of Harry’s feet as he got closer, towering behind them.

“I don’t have a partner.” He whispers, barely loud enough for Y/N’s ears. Their body stills, as does the air surrounding the two. The silence between them thickened, the tension swelled.

“You don’t have a partner.” Y/N cuts through the silence, not daring to turn around. Harry’s hand cupped their elbow, tugging lightly, almost begging them to turn around and face him. Y/N hesitated, terrified that he may hear their heart pounding against their chest. 

“Y/N…” His voice soft and deep, beckoned them to face him. Y/N inhaled deeply, slowly spinning around, Harry’s hand still cradling their elbow. Their eyes meet, the tension becoming heavier as Harry licks his lips, parting them. 

“Can I kiss you?” He rasps, his eyes trailing down to their lips. Y/N wasn’t sure if they couldn’t find the words or if they were just unable to speak, nodding their head, entranced. Harry released a sharp breath before his other hand found its way to Y/N’s jaw, pulling them closer, his lips meeting theirs. Y/N snapped out of their trance, wrapping their arms around Harry’s neck and pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. There was a hunger between them, one they were unaware was present in the other. Soft hands pulled and caressed as they released the pent up tension. It seemed as though they were the only two in existence, Harry held Y/N like they could disappear without a trace any second now. 

Tap Tap Tap

Startled, they release their grip on one another, Y/N’s face whipping in the direction of the person tapping on the glass door of the shop. A middle aged man with brows furrowed and an annoyed look stood beyond the glass, a hand on his hip. 

“Excuse me, are you open?” He yelled through the glass. Harry snickered, used to the irritable side of the service industry. Y/N groaned, signaling no to the man.

“No, we’re closed!” They exclaim, tapping their wrist with their finger, as if they were tapping a watch. The man on the other side of the glass huffs in frustration, rolling his eyes and walking away.

“Cockblocked by the service industry, damn you capitalism.” Harry giggles, wrapping his arms around Y/N’s waist. They laugh, their hands finding their way to his arms as Harry dips his face closer, laying a gentle kiss on the top of their head. 

“Let me take you to dinner,” He mumbles in their hair, “I’ve been dying to take you out.” He pulls back, looking at their face. Y/N bites their lip, nodding, in stark disbelief that this is happening. Harry smiles, grabbing the finished bouquet and placing it in Y/N’s hands, leaning in and laying a sweet kiss on their lips.

“Wow, I’ve got a date with the beautiful baker boy.” Y/N mutters against his lips, causing him to smile and bump their nose with his.

“And I’ve got a date with the lovely florist.”

[khorazir]

FIVE FAVE FICS

Thanks a lot for the tag, @helloliriels This is quite difficult ...

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. spread the self-love ❤

The Summer Boy (94k, T)

About half a year after the fateful events at Appledore, Sherlock and John embark on a private case in Sussex. For Sherlock, it’s a journey into his past, bringing up memories both happy and sad that he has locked away for almost thirty years. For John, it means coming to terms with the present – and a potential future with Sherlock.

Slipstream (290k, M)

It’s going to be the last Tour de France for professional cyclist John Watson. Despite the hardships of cycling more than 3000 kilometres in three weeks, in blistering heat and torrential rain, over dangerous cobblestones in northern France and the mountains of the Alps and the Pyrenees, battling thirst, hunger, injury and exhaustion, not to mention bitchy rivals, doping allegations, and the ever scoop-hungry press, he is going to enjoy the ride, damn it. That’s what John keeps telling himself – until he meets his new teammate, Sherlock Holmes, who adds a whole new list of problems as well as an extra dose of excitement to John’s life

Nightjet (22k, M)

Officially deceased for eighteen months and still looking for the last remainders of Moriarty’s criminal empire, an exhausted Sherlock boards a night train in Germany to bring him to his next hunting ground. Due to a mishap with the sleeper cars, he is forced to share a compartment with a stranger – who turns out to be not quite as strange as Sherlock thought. The universe isn’t lazy, after all …

A Midnight Clear (16k, T)

It’s Christmas Eve, and Sherlock is working. Because that’s what he does. He doesn’t need Christmas, or holiday cheer, or even company. He’s fine on his own, thank you very much – until a series of strange encounters on his way back to Baker Street makes him reconsider.

Over Cloud and Under Cloud (16k, T, Cabin Pressure crossover)

After his Fall, Sherlock travels the world to destroy what remains of James Moriarty's criminal empire. When things don't go according to plan and he finds himself in desperate need of a discreet means of travel, cue MJN Air …

Not sure who’s been tagged already, but I’ll go for @naefelldaurk @jrow @bertytravelsfar @discordantwords and @agrlsname

[baileysbooks]

Six Star Reads

Ever read a book that just goes beyond your wildest imagination? That totally alters the way you feel and think after you close that final page? Me too. Here are my all time top reads, or Six Star Reads!

Alone with You in the Ether by Olivie Blake

So before I tucked into this book, Olivie Blake was already heading towards being my favourite author, or at least one of, but this book cemented her in that position and just blew me away. This book is a romance, but its also a story about time and space and math and bees and humanity and human connection and love and family and loss and mental health and so many things, all while just... being a book about two people meeting and falling in love in Chicago. This book marries incredible prose, beautiful storytelling, and Olivie Blake's masterful character work into something so incredibly special. I read it, re-read it, listened to it, and its the first book I've ever annotated, as someone who does not enjoy writing in my books. I have not been able to stop thinking about it since I read it and probably never will.

The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern

If vibes is your thing, you and I are going to enjoy a lot of the same books I think. This book entranced me. There is plot and there is storytelling, but this book is so wrapped in atmosphere and energy and this beautifully crafted magic that I could not put it down. I read it a few years ago and I think it about it at least once a week, and its the only book where, even though I already own a copy, I have to physically stop myself from buying a copy whenever I see it in a store. I could barely summarize the plot to you but it wouldn't matter if I did. This book just has to be experienced.

The Chosen and the Beautiful by Nghi Vo

Yet another author who is easily one of my favourites of all time. Her prose is extraordinary, especially in this book and in her other book Siren Queen. A Gatsby retelling, told from the point of view of Jordan Baker, Daisy Buchanan's best friend, this book brings magic, and even some decidedly dark magic, into the story, along with exploration of race and gender and sexuality in the 20's, all under the backdrop of the sticky, intoxicating beauty of a sweaty New York City summer, which Nghi Vo manages to capture with an extraordinary deftness. The point of view shift also makes Daisy into a fully formed character, someone with agency and a rich life, instead of leaving her as the object of Gatsby's desire. This book is rich and lush and gorgeous and I recommend it to everyone.

The Last Tale of the Flower Bride by Roshani Chokshi

This gothic tale was a decided shift from other gothic works I had read, in that it is so deeply focused on a friendship between two teenage girls and how a connection that deep and that intoxicating can shape a person forever. The way the story is told is delicious, with stunning prose that slowly but surely weaves the story into being before your eyes. I listened to this book and it quickly became an all time favourite. It's hard to explain what this book is about without spoiling, but go into it blind and just let it take you.

Six of Crows by Leigh Bardugo

This is the duology I credit with getting me back into reading. An expertly written cast of characters, a fast paced plot, a deftly handled heist, stunning world building, and just enough romance and intrigue and twists to keep your on your toes until the last second. I know this book has been talked about a million times, and not much can be said that hasn't been said before, but it really is as good as everyone says. If you haven't yet, give it a try!

The Rage of Dragons by Evan Winter

If you like action and fight scenes, and fantasy, this book is an absolute MUST. Based in African mythology, a revenge story that, honestly? Puts John Wick to shame. The action in this book was INCREDIBLE and once the story starts it does. not. let. up. This book moves at a blistering pace and takes turns and twists I did not see coming that make the stakes feel so much more real. I read this book in two days, bought the sequel immediately, and am now waiting for the perfect moment to crack it open and lose myself in the world again. Definitely dark, much darker and heavier than the other books on this list, but its another one I have not stopped thinking about.

Let me know what you think of these, and if you have any six star reads!

[ten-cent-sleuth]

A Galling Yoke, Part 12

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for the “Where did this come from?” square on my July Break Bingo card

See this post for main info, including a masterlist and synopsis. See this post for warnings.

Word Count: 4.1k

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x f!Reader

Rating: Teen

Baker Street, despite the sun lowering towards the horizon, was awake and moving when you stepped foot on it. A chill breeze blew through you, pricking at your already numbed face. Almost there, you tried to reassure yourself, with as much success as you tried warming up by chafing your frozen hands against your frozen shoulders.

Even when you got to Sherlock’s building, however, reassurance was not at hand. You knocked, and his landlady graciously let you enter and stay by his door—apparently, he had given her a note weeks ago that anyone bearing your name was to be let into the building—but he was not at home. Still. Sitting on the landing outside his flat and folding into yourself was the most rest and comfort you’d experienced in… Well, you didn’t know how long. And it was warm. So very warm…

You were aware of how rudely you’d been awoken before you were aware that you’d dozed off.

“Your ladyship!” shouted a voice as the attached hand jostled you. “You must wake, now!”

You glared up at the blurry face before you. “Must I, ma’am?” You blinked a few times. “That is—sir… Sherlock?”

The crease in his brow collapsed, like dead weight plunging to the floor. “My lady,” he breathed. “You terrorised me. You were shivering, and your skin was ice cold—do you not know that you cannot sleep when you are too cold, lest you never—?” He broke off, but you nodded in understanding.

“I have been walking outside for hours.”

You had meant to comfort him by offering up an explanation for why you were so cold, but he only looked more alarmed. “Hours?” he said. “It has been snowing all—how—why—?”

Your eyes widened as you remembered exactly why. “Oh, Sherlock,” you exclaimed, lurching to your feet. “I have uncovered— That is, I have— Oh dear, I feel rather strange of a sudden…”

Blood rushing to your head, you stumbled a little and would have fallen down the staircase if Sherlock did not catch you and heft you back up.

“Forgive me,” you mumbled. Held close to his body heat, you felt drowsier than ever. “For this, and for the thing…the thing a few days ago…the things I said. Forgive me, Sherlock—Mr Holmes.”

“My lady…”

With a hum, you nuzzled into his chest. This already felt like forgiveness.

But then the soft support you were leaning against stiffened. “Your ladyship. Where did this come from?”

“Hmm? Ow!”

However gently, he had touched your scalp, and you realised suddenly that the area was stinging. Your hands flew up to prod at the tender skin as your memory rewound a bit and recalled your abductor striking you in the head hard enough to knock you out cold.

“Well, sir—”

“And these?” interrupted Sherlock, grabbing your wrists with one hand and turning them over to his sight. “Where did these burns come from? What has happened to you?”

Begrudgingly, you leaned away from him to get a better look at what had him so vexed. “Oh,” you mumbled: your palms were bright red and blistering. When had that happened? “Oh, right.”

“Who did this to you?” he growled.

“Ah, you see, the burns I actually gave myself—”

“What?”

“—but they were necessary! In all likelihood, I turned out much better than he.” You paused as your own words sunk in. You had left that man to die. What if he actually had?

But Sherlock interrupted such thoughts with a waspish, “He?” Shrewd eyes scanned you up and down, darkening with every statement that followed. “Your hair is an utter mess. Your dress is askew—your skirt is torn— Who is ‘he’?”

“I… I know not,” you admitted. “But I believe he is the hitman who was hired by—that is, who killed my husband. He was at Cable Street, summoned, I believe, by Mrs Kinley. And I was at Cable Street because…” Wait, should you explain the familial connection between the nurse and the hitman first? You pressed the back of your hand to your brow; your temples were starting to throb. “Forgive me, Mr Holmes. I am finding it rather difficult to think.”

Sherlock scowled at that but did not hesitate to move both of you to his door and to unlock it. “I shall get a fire going.” His fingers tightened around your arm where they had been heretofore guiding you gently forward, and you understood with a regretful cringe that he was thinking of—as you were—the last time you had been around the hearth in his flat. Still, a fire sounded divine.

He carefully lowered you into the seat nearest to the iron panel, and as you watched him start the fire, you felt your heart melt first. You had missed him. You had missed him terribly, and you couldn’t believe he would still speak to you—welcome you into his home, even. Unfortunately, little beyond your heart did much melting.

The cold had seeped through your clothes, leaving them damp and rigid, and into your skin, sinking down every layer to the bone marrow. You shivered as you watched the flames begin their dance.

And then a fluffy weight fell around your shoulders. You looked up and met Sherlock’s stormy gaze.

“I suspect you have caught a chill, my lady,” he said. “If the fire warms you not within the next few minutes, you shall require a hot bath.”

Your cheeks alone warmed a little at that.

“In any case,” he continued, “you ought to change out of those wet clothes, though it should not hurt to give you those few minutes to regain some strength.” He looked away, ostensibly to grab another blanket for your lap. “You may use that time to tell me what has occurred.”

Eyes lowered, you recounted your sudden realisation about Mrs Kinley, your visit to Miss Algar’s flat, your abduction, and your escape. You skipped over the details of your ordeal, partly because you were depleted of any energy to explain, partly because you didn’t want to voice them at all. Your audience seemed to know much was missing from your narration, but after a long look, he only gave you a nod instead of a barrage of questions.

“It was good of you to check in on them,” he murmured, brushing aside some hair stuck to your clammy forehead—absentmindedly, his gaze far away. “Even if Mrs Kinley is indeed family to the hitman, she may still be exploited—and endangered, along with Miss Algar—should she have been unaware all this time of his intentions. He may have merely told her to keep him apprised, without explaining his involvement, which would explain her chariness.”

You were halfway through a nod when a sneeze ripped through you.

Sherlock frowned. “We best get you out of those wet clothes and into bed. I ought to have some old articles of clothing somewhere for you to use.”

“Oh, that is not necessary, sir,” you stammered. “Simply hail a cab for me—I can pay, of course—and I shall return to Voss House—”

“No.”

“Mr Holmes, I cannot impose—”

“It shall not happen!”

You straightened in your seat, shoulders tensing. Sherlock groaned and dragged a hand down his face.

“I meant not to be…domineering,” he said. “But I would not want you in a hackney right now: it is dark and cold, you are ill and injured. Besides, am I not to assume that you came here…for a reason?”

He and you looked at each other for a long, open moment.

You let your shoulders drop. “You are correct, of course,” you said. “Only, I want not to be a burden while you visit with Mrs Kinley and…”

The shake of his head was so unyielding that you immediately fell silent.

“I shall not see her until Monday—or whenever you are well again.”

Your eyes widened. “But— But the case—”

“I care not for the case,” he said, quietly, intensely. “I have not worked on it for days, my lady, not since—” He pursed his lips for a beat. “Not exactly, at any rate. After my last few deductions, I made up my mind. I think there are certain crimes which the law cannot touch, and which therefore, to some extent, justify private revenge. No, it’s no use arguing. My sympathies are with he who was moved to kill rather than with he who was killed, and I would not handle this case. I shall return to Cable Street to see to Miss Algar’s security, and that is all.”

You stared up at him, caught completely off guard.

He looked down to consider the floorboards. “Of course, we shall have to deal with the hitman somehow. I have very limited sympathy for him.” He looked up, regarding your burns for a second before meeting your eyes. “However, we may worry about that on the morrow. Are you able to stand, my lady?”

“I believe so.”

He helped you to his bedroom, which made your head numb and your extremities cold all over again—you had never been in a gentleman’s chambers before, not even Edmund’s—and as he turned to exit and search for dry clothing to lend, you grabbed his wrist.

He stopped in his tracks.

“I… I apologise.” You let go of him, and while his muscles relaxed, his eyes crinkled in reaction. Not knowing what that meant, you brushed it aside. “Would you please send Voss House a note? My staff should not be made to worry about me.”

“Of course.” He paused. “Of course, that would be necessary. I ought to have thought of that.”

You blinked, and he was gone before you could ask him about his abnormal behaviour.

He came back with the clothes and, permitting you to change in privacy, left to send off the note. Alone, you allowed yourself to bask in the feeling of wearing Sherlock’s sleepwear old, worn, and warm. Long after you had returned these to him, you would carry that feeling, you knew.

After blowing out the candle, you got into bed and pulled the covers close, but when Sherlock came in, he did not hesitate to tuck you in even more snugly.

“I…thank you,” you whispered into the dark. “You do much, sir, and I really do regret the burden I…”

“Shh,” he replied, and you wished you could see where he was. He sounded close, but the dark could distort perception into either nightmare or fantasy.

As he bustled about the room, ensuring the windows were shut firmly and starting another fire in this fireplace, you started to drift off. The last thing you were aware enough to be sure of was his whispering, “You are never a burden, little petal.”

Your slumber was deep and restorative for the first few hours but soon transitioned into fitfulness. Chills wracked your physical frame while fever dreams wreaked havoc on your mental one, and your only relief was the caring touch of Sherlock’s apt fingers. Whether it was wiping your sweat and hair out of uncomfortable nooks or coaxing you to sip some water with prods to your chin, his touch was your anchor. Sometimes, the back of his hand on your forehead was the only snatch of the tangible world that you could get past the blurred outlines of your ailing state.

At a certain point, the mental fog thickened: during the night—at least, you assumed, though that assumption was merely based on the fact you had been sleeping—you had jerked awake with a whimper, grasping at your leg. You had heard Sherlock’s voice, but your brain tuned it out in favour of blaring at you make it stop make it stop make it stop.

“Hurts,” you’d gasped between jabs of pain around, under, and out of your right knee. You were speaking to yourself, and to anyone who’d listen, and to anyone who wouldn’t. “Hurts s’much. Please, please…”

He had said something. You couldn’t make out the words, but the soothing undertones had lulled you into trusting silence long enough for him to creak across the floorboards and vanish out the door. You’d stumbled, dizzy, into half-consciousness by the time he returned.

“Petal. My dear, open those darling eyes for me, I know you can.”

Though you’d swatted at his prodding hands with irked mutters, you’d opened your eyes.

He had tipped his head at you, grinning. “Very good. I thank you, my lady. Now, I have retrieved something for your pain. Open up.”

“What is it? I do not like laudanum—it is vile,” you had tried to say, but your tongue had felt too heavy, your throat too sticky. Instead, you had shaken your head as vehemently as your vertigo would allow.

He had sat on the bed and rubbed your arm up and down. “Please, do not distress yourself, petal. You are in pain, and it may get worse.”

Shuddering, you had recalled the last time you’d had a bad flare-up. It had left you bedridden for over a day, and it hadn’t been as provoked as this one surely had.

“Do you trust me?” he had whispered.

You had trembled with fatigue, depleted by the simple tasks of keeping your eyelids up and keeping your head above the waves of agony crashing over you. You hadn’t had energy to spare for talking, but you had wanted the words out. “Unreservedly,” you’d croaked. “No matter what.”

His smile had been tender then, and you had opened your mouth to accept whatever medicine he had procured, pungently bitter laudanum or not. Arm around your shoulders, he had helped you sit up and swallow it down. But he hadn’t let go even after that. Usually, when your knee acted up and started affecting your whole body, anybody else’s touch—even presence in the room—felt too much, but right then, with the illness and anguish caused by your recent ordeal, you had felt entirely cosy and right curled up against Sherlock’s chest. Just this once.

“It shall take a few minutes to take effect,” he’d said softly, his warm breath skimming over your skin.

“Mhmm.”

“Until it does, I wished to… I needed to…to clarify a fact…”

You’d hummed, prompting.

“Your leg. This injury, this pain of yours… It is Sulyard’s doing? If not for him, you would not be suffering right now?”

You’d hesitated, then opted to at least give him, if not an expounding answer, a small nod. Surely Sherlock could piece—had pieced—together the details: an argument, a raging husband, a smack, a stumble, a trip, a fall down the stairs.

The full force of those details had resounded in Sherlock’s timbre as he’d growled, “It is almost a shame that he is already dead, for I would gladly skin him now—but only almost, as I cannot repine the betterment of the world in his absence.”

You had buried your smile in his chest. As the medicine—or whatever it was—had started to take effect, you had found the strength to tell him, “’M so glad you’ve returned t’me, Sherlock…” You didn’t catch his reply.

That was the only moment you could recall with any clarity. Though there were more instances of almost-consciousness—you might have even heard the murmur of conversation at some point—the next time you were lucid, you could tell from the stiffness in your back and the grime caked on your skin that at least a couple of days had passed. With a groan, you shifted around on the bed to take stock of your poor vessel for this mortal coil.

Craning your neck this way and that on your pillow, you noted your head was still stuffed heavy and throbbing dully, though no longer fuzzy. Tensing and testing the muscles in your feet, your calves, and your thighs, you could tell your legs were sore and likely would be for some time, but they weren’t so irate with you anymore. Lifting your arms to stretch them, you found them unwieldy but that was no surprise—

What was, however, were the cloths wrapped securely around your hands. You held one close to your face, wheezing, “What on Earth…?”

Your mouth snapped shut as a groan—this one not yours—and the creaking of wood sounded throughout the room. Achingly sitting up, you spotted Sherlock sleeping—and fast awakening—in a chair too small for his wide frame.

Gracious. Has he been here the whole time?

He blinked his eyes open, and you blurted out, “Forgive me, sir; I did not mean to disturb you.”

“I do wish you would stop the constant apologies.”

“Forgi—” You bit your lip. “Ah, that is… Good morning?”

Disgruntlement cleared the lingering sleepiness on his face. “I would argue that it is more of a miraculous one.”

It was your turn to blink slowly. You opened your mouth to apologise for whatever you had apparently done to cause his poor mood, but remembered his rebuke in time. He did not wait for you to come up with something else to say.

“Your condition deteriorated abruptly yesterday,” he informed you grimly. “Your fever broke just as abruptly in the night, so I suppose it was a simple matter of getting worse before getting better, but I cannot… I could not…” Heaving a deep exhale, he veered to his feet. “I demand to know, your ladyship, why you went to Cable Street without me.”

Again, you blinked. That’s what his heartfelt speech led to? “I… I had been caught up in the urgency, I suppose, but I also… At the time, that is, I also thought of it as my burden to bear.”

Your voice had shrunk as you went on, and Sherlock’s next words were just as quiet.

“This could have all been avoided if I had been with you.”

You swallowed. “Yes. It had been reckless to go alone. And you, specifically, I should not have kept out of the investigation, even if it would have been difficult to approach you about it after, well…after. It is no excuse.”

He neither agreed nor countered, stalking over to the fire to stoke it halfheartedly.

“Indeed, sir…,” you ventured, fiddling with the blanket, “I am surprised by the lengths to which you would go to care for me after all I have put you through, emotionally and professionally.”

“I am not,” he said, though he spoke more to the fireplace than to you. “I ought to be, surely. Surprise or confusion or censure—any of those would be natural in response to such illogical choices on my part. But no, what is natural to me in this instant—as natural as breathing, as blinking—is to want you to be safe and healthy, and more than that, to ensure that I see to it that you are safe and healthy.”

He still didn’t face you, but you couldn’t begrudge him his having his back to you, as that was the only way you could muster the courage to say—

“You are not angry, then, sir?”

His shoulders went rigid, then dropped. “After we last…parted ways, I realised you had known all along a potential motive for Sulyard’s death and never shared it. Of course, I was angry—furious, really.”

Your bottom lip wobbled. “Oh.”

“But then—” Slowly, he turned around and walked towards the bed. “Then, I realised you had not been actively undermining the case, not until that day. Which meant you had not known all along a potential motive, which meant it had not even occurred to you that the victim’s abusiveness would be a motive, which meant…”

Close enough to touch, now, Sherlock’s clouded gaze was as clear to you as his deductions were to him.

He sat down gingerly beside you. Which meant you hadn’t even thought your pain was that important.

You let out a shaky breath. Which meant you hadn’t even thought anyone would’ve cared enough to do something about it.

He cupped your cheek and caressed it with the pad of his thumb. Which meant you hadn’t even thought—

“I am sorry,” you choked out.

“My lady…”

“I am sorry I did not tell you about Edmund. Even if it were not the motive, it was pertinent to the case and I— I—”

“Do not be,” he said, his voice firm and grave even as he brushed aside your tears with utmost tenderness. “Do not be. You were right, darling. This is your life. Nobody—not even the closest companion, or the cleverest—is entitled to that.”

You leaned forward, dipping your head down. “You were right, too. Behind society’s and others’ expectations, I have hidden what is difficult to show—to share.” Mrs Rogers’s face flashed in your mind, and then Eudoria’s. “But I…I know not how to stop. I know not how to be the girl you knew, who could be free with her heart and let you in. Not anymore, I fear.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You need not. Indeed, in the past few days, I have realised that despite how I have changed and how you have changed—or due to it—you have not shut me out. I may have been wrong for forcing my way into your private information, but I stand by my belief that I know you. I do know things about you that matter; I was only mistaken in what, precisely, that means.”

Your own voice echoed in your head: You know naught what matters! Shame suffused your cheeks to recall the impetuous harshness with which you’d treated your oldest friend, but still… You could no longer blame him for not knowing you beyond his deductions—it was you who struggled with pushing him away, after all—but the fact remained that he didn’t know you beyond his deductions…right?

Using his thumb now to trace your jaw, he said, “To know you completely does not mean seeing what no one else can see. What you have endured is not who you are. To know you completely means seeing what no one else cares to see.

“I see your sweeping compassion in how you care for Pashbroke, Mrs Rogers, Enola, even Miss Algar. I see your quiet intelligence in how you manipulated your kidnapper so that you could escape, just as you controlled the conversation with Lady Brindon and Dr Crawford.

“I know your character, your values, your scent.”

You stopped breathing, his other hand clasping over yours as they trembled in your lap.

“I can envision how your hips and arms move when you walk, as clearly as I can envision how you would react in any given situation, as clearly as—”

“Sherlock.”

“As clearly as I can envision how at home the taste of you makes me feel.” His lips brushed against yours, tantalising your every sense, your very blood.

The contact was feather-light, a whisper of a kiss, yet it knocked your world completely off its axis. You were left spinning, dizzy, as he eased away.

“You are still the girl I knew,” he breathed into your space. “To know you completely is not a matter of deduction, but of devotion.”

Both of his hands moved to frame your face, leaving yours to tremble all the more freely now. As he drew you closer, your thoughts scrambled for justification. Surely now, surely if, surely with—?

But no. Now that you had gotten the hitman involved, there was only one way to end this without any more bloodshed: to close the case.

Clenching one hand into a fist in your lap, you lifted the other to hold Sherlock back. “We should not… I cannot…”

The hurt in his eyes nearly did you in.

“There are aspects of this case that you do not—cannot—understand,” you whispered. “Sherlock…I still plan to turn myself in.”

For some reason, that seemed to assuage some of his pain. “I see.” He paused before clapping his hands together. “Well then, I am in the mood for a walk.”

You gaped. “A w— What?”

“A walk,” he said, rather cheerily for a gentleman whose advances had just been rebuffed yet again, as he climbed to his feet. “Not far, of course, but you mentioned some weeks ago that light exercise is better for your knee than sedentariness.”

He held out his arm, and through your bemusement, you managed to grab onto it and be pulled up. “I did mention that,” you said, dazed. What was going on?

Slowly but steadily, Sherlock led you to the armoire for a robe, out of the bedroom, across the hallway, into the living room—

You froze. “Is that…?” You strained your ears to confirm that the banging and puttering-about noises were coming from this flat’s kitchen. “Is somebody else here, Sherlock?”

Before the detective could answer, an exclamation came from whoever had evidently heard you speak. Then, there were rushing footsteps, and in ran Viscount of Pashbroke, The Right Honourable William Voss.

Sorry for the extended wait with this one, but hey, it’s the longest part so far! Which I did not expect at all from my outline lol. THIS chapter beat the tearoom and the art gallery and the kidnapping scenes? Okay. xD Thank you for reading. Sickfic stuff is not my forté, so feedback is always welcome!

Taglist [comment below if you’d like to be added!]: @theyaremorethanjustfictional @wonderlandfandomkingdom

[thefandomlesbian]

The Canopener

A House MD one-shot for @gaylilsherlock. In which Stacy leaves, and Wilson must help House pick up the pieces.

link to AO3

...

Fat raindrops blistered the windshield of Wilson’s car, the wind threatening to veer his car off the slickened asphalt as he pulled into the parking lot at Baker Street. The nor’easter tearing down the coastline had punctuated the news channels all day, but he had never been more immune to the stinging sideways sheets of water or the lightning splintering the navy-gray dusk of autumn. 

Stacy had called him. “I packed while he was at PT. I’m leaving.” She heard his silence as frigid rather than stunned. “I know you don’t think I should. It’s my only option.”

“It’s not the only option.” Wilson was begging, though it didn’t sound like begging. “He needs you.” 

“He hates me.”

“ And he needs you.” He licked his lips, knowing intrinsically he had lost this battle before he even knew he was fighting. He took one last stab at it. “You owe it to him to see it through. You chose this for him.” 

“I shouldn’t have.”

Wilson shattered like glass. “You saved his life.”

“I know.” Stacy ended the call. Wilson didn’t know if he would ever speak to her again. He didn’t know if he ever wanted to speak to her again. House could be a cantankerous bully. But she loved him, or at least, she was supposed to. How could she leave? How could she regret saving him? Wilson would never leave. (Wilson existed in other people’s lives without ever taking his clothes out of his luggage, always one emotional flight away from permanent severance, but for House, he could make every exception.)

The rain smarted through his blazer like paintballs as he entered the apartment building. Usually, he thought of it as rather tranquil, but today, it was sedated, like the human body in active stages of dying. The stormy winds knocked death rattles from the foundation of the building, throaty moans exhaling from the old stone before he had lifted a hand to knock on the apartment door. 

He didn’t announce himself. He knocked twice, and then he entered the unlocked door.

All of the lights were turned off in the living room, only the dim daylight filtering in through the windows. Wilson went for the lamp. “Don’t.” House spoke from somewhere in the room filled with darker silhouettes on dark backgrounds. So, standing back, he waited for his eyes to adjust. 

Everything was gone. All of their pictures, her trinkets, the quilt throw she kept over the back of the couch. She left the furniture—all of that had been there when she arrived. And she left House. 

Wilson presumed House hadn’t been on the floor when Stacy walked out the door of his life, but in any case, he was there now, curled up on his left side in the fetal position, forearm tucked pathetically under his head, baleful expression on his face. His boxer shorts fell just above the glossy sheen of the wound vac dressing on his leg, tubing disconnected and dangling loosely over the floor. The suction canister was plugged into the wall a few feet away. 

“Okay. You’ve had floor time. Let’s get up.” Picking House up off of the floor wasn’t a new task. Stacy wasn’t strong enough to get him up when he fell, or rather, House loved her too much to put his weight on her shoulders. They sent up flare gun distress signals in the night for Wilson to come help. This was no different.

House slapped his hands hard. “Don’t touch me.” It was so different. 

“You can’t lie on the floor forever.” Wilson withdrew only a few inches to examine the tubing of the wound vac. “We need to plug this back in. It’s meant to be continuous suction for a reason.” 

Snaking the tubing back up to himself protectively, House poised over it like a predator preparing to strike; no, like a cat cowering over its kittens in the face of a forest fire, terrified and desperate. “Stupid thing won’t stop fucking beeping.”

Wilson picked up the suction canister and examined the screen. “The line is clotted off.”

“I know.”

“The dressing needs to be changed.”

“I know! ” House snapped. His mouth twisted into a sneer. 

Again, Wilson squatted to grab him. House withdrew, but Wilson was faster. “Let’s get you up.” He took him under the arms like a child, the way he always did, their faces close together, Wilson keeping his back straight and his knees bent to lift without hurting himself, an insanely vulnerable position. In the darkness of the living room, he didn’t see House pull back his closed fist. 

The impact of knuckles to jaw knocked him backward onto his ass, vision going skewed as he fumbled to right himself in shock. He propped his weight onto his elbows to peer at House, who looked just as shocked as Wilson was. Shocked and frightened, dragging himself backward, a panicked anguished sheen of tears appeared in his quicksilver eyes, left knee bending upward to defend his vital organs. He was prepared to be hurt. 

Stabbing pain pulsed through his face. He probed the area with deft fingers. Then, shakily, he got to his knees—his knees, not his feet, crawling toward House like an infant. His trousers picked up all the silt on the hardwood floor, which seemed to have gone unswept for weeks. House only gave up scooting away from him when his back hit the wall. His chest heaved in a fractured, stifled sob, the breath catching there and lingering, unable to hold it and unable to free it. 

When a sound finally came out of him, it was the high-pitched, pressurized squeak of air being released from a balloon incredibly slowly. 

A hefty clink and loll on the floor caught Wilson’s attention. A can of Beanee Weanees rolled away from House’s hand. He swiped at it, a weak grab, before he conceded defeat and curled back into himself, not meeting Wilson’s gaze, whole body braced for Wilson to attack him. 

Wilson didn’t. He picked up the dented can of Beanee Weanees, the label starting to wear off from being dinged and beaten on the floor. 

“She took the canopener,” House croaked. 

Wilson nodded once. He rocked his weight back onto his haunches, reaching into his trouser pocket for his multitool. It had a dozen extensions, each of which House had mocked on more occasions than either of them could count, but when he flicked out the blade of the manual canopener and popped the tin lid off of the can, House was silent. He still braced for the impact of a punch. 

Wilson didn’t put the open can in House’s hand. He placed it on the floor next to him. Then, he sidled up beside him, back to the wall, shoulders almost touching. They sat with parallel postures like synchronized swimming, left knees bent, right legs extended, hands in their laps, both facing the blank wall where Stacy’s pictures had hung. 

House didn’t have a spoon. He picked up the can. Wilson stilled his wrist. “You’ll cut your mouth.” The touch froze House’s muscles, but the fingers wrapped around his forearm were warm, dry from years of sanitizing obsessively, soft from his favorite strawberry-scented hand lotion. House had often mocked that, too, but now, the sweet scent was the only thing in his apartment that felt like home. 

Holding eye contact with Wilson, he brought the jagged edge of the open tin to his lips, slurping some frank chunks and brothy beans from inside it. The tin was acrid when his tongue incidentally brushed the rim. The edge of the can didn’t cut into his skin, quite a matter of accident rather than skill. After his long sip of beans, he put the can back on the hardwood floor between their hips. 

A long moment of silence passed. Then, Wilson picked up the can and also poured a mouthful into his lips. His hands were shaking, jaw swelling and bruised. The razor-sharp point of torn metal grazed his lower lip. He licked the blood away before House could see. 

“You hate Beanee Weanees,” House said. 

“Yeah,” Wilson said. He took another sip. 

[lonestarbattleship]

The real story behind the lean by Tom Scott

"Like a case of herpes, exaggerated versions of TEXAS 'flooding herself' to 'lean the ship' and extend range of her guns pops up from time to time. It is hard to think of an action that has been more exaggerated or misstated than this one. The following is based upon the ship's war diary, daily deck log entries and study of a flooding effects chart for the ship.

Flooding torpedo blisters to create list wasn't some last minute stroke of genius by TEXAS' captain and crew. The act had not only been performed numerous times on British monitors in the 1920's, it was understood by the U.S. Naval War College and likely taught there. This was documented in a letter written in 1925 from the college's superintendent to the Chief of Naval Operations. It requested information on the ability to flood the blisters being added to TEXAS and how long it would take to flood them. The request specified that it be done with the intent of creating list that would extend the range of her 14" guns.

The fire mission given to TEXAS on June 15 was apparently sent to the ship during the early morning while she was at her overnight anchorage 1.5 miles off of Point du Hoc. The assigned target was a German troop and truck concentration located more than 20,000 yards from the assigned bombardment point. This placed the target at or just beyond the extreme range of the ship's 14" guns While we do not know precisely which sections were flooded, a flooding effects table on a damage control plate, shows that they could obtain the needed list perfectly by flooding a specific 4 of the 18 floodable sections in the starboard blister. This would have given 2.2 degrees of starboard list while maintaining the ship's trim. Maintaining trim was critical since any change would have created trunnion tilt error on the guns that would degrade their accuracy.

TEXAS raised anchor at 05:30 and sailed to the bombardment point 5.8 miles away that was about 2 miles offshore. While underway, she opened flooding valves on some starboard blister compartments to create the 2 degree list. That was complete by the time she dropped anchor and fired her first rounds at 6:30.

An entry in the daily deck log states that 24 rounds were fired in single and two gun salvos over the next hour, and that the target area was covered and eliminated. Nothing was stated in the logs, but it is assumed that the blisters were immediately drained, using the ship's big steam operated bilge pumps, after completing the mission to restore proper list.

All of this is to say that Captain Baker and crew were well read, well educated and fully understood their ship's capabilities. While they didn't invent the technique, they were certainly aware of it and understood it well enough to immediately use to solve a problem that would otherwise result in failure to complete the mission."

Posted on the Battleship Texas Foundation Group Facebook page by Tom Scott: link

[springdandelixn]

Last Minute Encounters

Summary: The owner of the bake shop in your new neighborhood is a little over-friendly.

Warnings: Nothing to worry about but Thor is a warning himself.

Characters: Dark!Baker!Thor x F!Reader

A/N: Thor is one of the men I truly adore. Hence, I made a drabble to honor him especially since today is his day. Thor’s Day lmao. This plot has also been sitting in my drafts for a while and I felt that maybe this is the right time to introduce Baker!Thor into the world. (gif not mine)

As always, even if this is simply a drabble, your feedback is highly appreciated. Reblogs would be amazing as well for it will help my work flourish. May you guys have a great day ahead and of course, I hope you enjoy this! ❤️

A sigh of relief escapes you when you see the open sign of the bakery still glowing into the night. Pulling your puffer tighter around your waist, you look at both sides before crossing the road, the sound of the heels of your boots clacking against the asphalt bouncing off through the empty street. You take slow steps, careful not to slip against the icy floor but once you reach the other side, you see the sign close, your heart beating fast in panic as you race towards the door. 

“Please—” You say as you stand by the entryway, coming face to face with a burly man, golden hair held up in a bun with strands falling from the sides, with a stubble to match his features. He wears an apron over a red plaid shirt and with the way he looks at you, you see his eyes a striking blue.

“Can I help you?” He asks when he opens the door, his voice low yet full like thunder.

“Do you still have any cakes I can purchase?” Your voice shivers as you speak, the cold slowly seeping through your jacket. “Or anything, really. I just need something to bring to a party.”

Heat crawls up your neck and scatters on your cheeks when you see him give you a once over, a smirk slowly playing on his lips. He’s much bigger up close and you can’t help but feel intimidated by his size, making you feel even smaller. He swings the door open and holds out an arm, a gesture for you to come in. 

The warmth of the shop is a welcome aura against the blistering cold outside, yet you feel a slight chill run up your spine with how the man’s eyes linger, keeping them on you as he rounds the counter. 

“I only have cupcakes and cookies left. But if you really want a cake, I have a chocolate one at the back.” 

“I’ll take it.” You say almost in a hurry, blushing at the amused look the man gives you. “I’ll take the rest of your cookies as well.” You add. “The least I can do after allowing me in.”

“Very well.” He hums and taps against the register, giving you your total after. “You can tap your card when you’re ready—I’ll just grab the cake.” 

You nod at his instructions and watch him disappear from the double doors that lead to the back. Taking your credit card from your wallet, you press it against the device, waiting for the beep before stowing it back.

You’ve never really had the chance to go around the neighborhood when you moved in a week ago. The task to find anything to bring for a potluck party of your co-worker proved to be a struggle, being all too new and different from the town you grew up in, the sullen wasteland you escaped from. 

The bakery has always been one of the places you’ve wanted to go to. Hearing your neighbors rave about the pastries and treats they purchase for their morning coffee when they catch you at the mail room and corner you into an unwanted conversation. Though, you wouldn’t say such an exchange is meaningless, for, without the information they gave, you wouldn’t have known about this place. 

You look up when you hear the swoosh of the doors, the man holding a box in his hand, a transparent container with a lone cupcake inside sitting atop it. He places the box on the counter then slides open the display, taking the last 6 cookies on the tray and sliding them into a transparent bag, before tying a gold and red ribbon around it. 

“Will that be all, cupcake?” He asks and you startle at the name he’s called you. 

“Uhh—yes.” You mumble. “Thank you.” Your eyes then dart to the cupcake atop the cake then look up at him with utter curiosity. “I didn’t buy this.” 

“On the house. Salted Caramel Cupcake—my favorite. You should try it.” He grins then places the bag of cookies over the box of the cake, holding a card out to you after. You take it. “I’m having a soft launch for my new item.” He announces out of the blue. “I’d be happy to have you come by and taste it. I know you’re new around here and it would be a nice welcoming event for you.”

You’re curious as to how he knows that, but you don’t pay it much mind. The neighborhood is small and you don’t doubt he knows almost everyone around, and you’re the new face in town. You swallow thickly at his invitation, the grin on his lips looking overly friendly. “When is it?” You ask if only to be polite. 

“Next week. Sunday.”

“I-I’ll check my schedule.” You smile, although it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Thank you again—” You try to look for his name tag but see none.

“Thor. The owner.” He supplies before gesturing at the box. “You need help taking this to your car?”

“No, thank you. Just walking.” You volunteer. “Party isn’t far from here.” 

“Very well.” He rounds the counter when you grab your purchase, walking with you to the door and opening it, shivering as the winter chill blows inside the shop. “It was nice meeting you, cupcake. I hope to see you again.”

You cringe when he says the pet name again, mumbling your thanks as you walk out of the shop. You scurry to the other side of the street, making your way to the apartment of your co-worker. The calm and measured steps you’d usually take when walking during the winter become brisk and hurried as you sense Thor’s burning gaze at the back of your head.

Your suspicions are confirmed when you look back as you round the corner and see him still standing outside his shop, staring at you from the street.

[delightingintragedy]

Mars Correspondences

From Christian Astrology by William Lilly

(It is mostly word for word. I tried to format it to fit into a nice correspondence list, but the information itself is untouched.)

Zodiac: Aries is his Day-house, Scorpio is his Night-house. Exhaulted in Capricorn, Depressed in Cancer, Detriment in Libra and Taurus.

Nature: Masculine, Nocturnal Planet, in nature hot and dry, choleric and fiery, the lesser Infortune, author of Quarrels, Strifes, and Contentions.

Profession: Princes Ruling by Tyranny and Oppression, or Tyrants, Usurpers, new Conquerors. Generals in Armies, Colonels, Captains, or any Soldiers having command in Armies, all manner of Soldiers, Physicians, Apothecaries, Surgeons, Alchemists, Gunners, Butchers, Marshals, Sergeants, Bailiffs, Hangmen, Thieves, Smiths, Bakers, Armourers, Watchmakers, Botchers, Tailors, Cutlers of Swords and Knives, Barbers, Dyers, Cooks, Carpenters, Gamesters, Bear-wards, Tanners, Curriers.

Diseases: The Gall, the left Ear, tertian Fevers, pestilent burning Fevers, Migraines in the Head, Carbuncles, the Plague and all Plague-sores, Burnings, Ringworm, Blisters, Frenzies, mad sudden distempers in the Head, Yellow-jaundice, Bloodyflux, Fistulas, all Wounds and Diseases in men's Genitals, the Stone both in Reins and Bladder, Scars or small Pox in the Face, all hurts by Iron, the Shingles, and such other Diseases as arise by abundance of too much Choler, Anger or Passion.

Colour: Red colour, or Yellow, fiery and shining like Saffron.

Savour: Those which are bitter, sharp and burn the Tongue.

Herbs: The Herbs which we attribute to Mars are such as come near to redness, whose leaves are pointed and sharp, whose taste is caustic and burning, love to grow on dry places, are corrosive, and penetrating the Flesh and Bone with a most subtle heat: They are as follows: The Nettle, all manner of Thistles, Restharrow or Cammock, Devils-milk or Petty spurge, the white and red Brambles, the white called vulgarly by the Herbalists Ramme, Lingwort, Onions, Scammony, Garlic, Mustard-seed, Pepper, Ginger, Leeks, Dittander, Horehound, Hemlock, red Sanders, Tamarinds, all Herbs attracting or drawing choler by Sympathy, Radish, Castoreum, Aresmart, Assarum, Carduus Benedictus, Cantharides.

Trees: All Trees which are prickly, as a Thorn, Chestnut.

Beasts: Panther, Tiger, Mastiff, Vulture, Fox; of living creatures, those that are Warlike, Ravenous and Bold, the Castor, Horse, Mule, Ostrich, the Goat, the Wolf, the Leopard, the wild Ass, the Gnats, Flies, Lapwing, Cockatrice, the Griffin, Bear.

Fishes, etc: The Pike, the Shark, the Barbel, the Fork-fish, all stinking Worms, Scorpions.

Birds, etc: The Hawk, the Vulture, the Kite or Glead, (all ravenous Fowl), the Raven, Cormorant, the Owl, (some say the Eagle), the Crow, the Pye.

Places: Smith's Shops, Furnaces, Slaughterhouses, places where Bricks or Charcoal are burned or have been burned, Chimneys, Forges.

Minerals: Iron, Antimony, Arsenic, Brimstone, Ochre.

Stones: Adamant, Loadstone, Bloodstone, Jasper, the many coloured Amethyst, the Touchstone, red Lead or Vermilion.

Weather: Red Clouds, Thunder, Lightning, Fiery impressions, and pestilent Airs, which usually appear after a long time of dryness and fair Weather, by improper and unwholesome Mists.

Winds: Western Winds

Angel: Samael

Planetary Alliances: His Friends are only Venus; Enemies all the other planets.

Week Day: Tuesday

Correspondence posts for the other planets: [Sun] [Moon] [Mercury] [Venus] [Jupiter] [Saturn]

[burntlikethesun]

TALES OF THE TARDIS: PYRAMIDS OF MARS sees the TARDIS land in 1911. In the grounds of the Old Priory, Egyptian mummies are walking and the Doctor and Sarah find that an ancient and powerful evil is menacing mankind.

And now back on board the Remembered TARDIS, the Doctor and Ruby pause in battle to reflect on their recent adventures – all before they fight to save the universe in this Saturday’s highly anticipated season finale EMPIRE OF DEATH. The finale also sees Gabriel Woolf return as the legendary Sutekh, 48 years after his original role as the villain.

Originally airing in 1975, the four part story PYRAMIDS OF MARS sees the Fourth Doctor (Tom Baker) and Sarah Jane Smith (Elisabeth Sladen) battle the almighty Sutekh. Now, the timeless classic has been remastered into a feature-length omnibus episode that’s had a cosmic makeover, with updated visual effects.

Phil Collinson, Executive Producer, says: “Revisiting the rich history of Doctor Who is endlessly thrilling and this is no exception. It’s so exciting to bring back TALES OF THE TARDIS again, and to revisit a classic enemy of the Doctor. Gabriel Woolf as Sutekh, returning to terrify a whole new generation of children in a blistering season finale is what makes this show so special and appeal to so many across the generations.”

[toomanybandstocare]

hello!!! congratulations on the anniversary of your blog and happy birthday!! <3 may i please request polaroid album + sneaking around for my boy Wolffe? i am thinking a cute fluffy established relationship where reader is a baker!! tysm 💗

.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓.𖥔 ݁ ˖ - Sneaking Around

Drabble for character x reader. @wolffegirlsunite requested a sweet bakery with commander grump. I hope you enjoy, and thank you for celebrating with me! <3

Pairing: Commander Wolffe x Baker, GN! Reader

Genre: Fluff

Length: 1391w

Warnings: Mild suggestive comments, Wolffe gets a lil nervvy talking to reader bc I love seeing character's opposite sides to their personalities hehe, Love struck fools, Petnames (Cyar'ika, Cya're, Sunshine)

Counselor Notes: I have been DYING to write something like this. I think about gumpy Wolffe learning to ease up when ever he chats with barista Reader after night patrols, so I was so excited to write this.

Accompanying Polaroid Album.

-> Celebration Announcement Post <- -> Celebration Masterlist <- -> Camp Resolute Masterlist <-

Blistering heat washes through the pourstone shop as Tatooine’s suns shine down on Mos Espa’s residents. Everyone bustles around the port city’s streets, and speeders whiz by while merchants call out their windows to attract customers. The city is alive and well since the twin sun’s have been blocked by the previous day’s sandstorm haze.

Even with every seller shouting at new arrivals, you merely hum to the radio’s music as you place the morning’s bread loaves in their baskets. Your feet gracefully dance across the tile floor as you finish up prepping for the shop’s opening. From the counter where neatly stacked pastries sit on clay dishware to the shelving system on the side wall, you let yourself enjoy the excitement buzzing through you. Sunbeams stream through the open air windows along the shop’s front, and you spin on your foot to look around the room to make sure you didn’t miss anything. Pride swells in your chest as you take in your accomplishment. You’ve only owned and operated the bakery for a year now, but you’ve made it a must visit for travelers to the spaceport.

Looking at the chronometer by the register, you walk away from the queue area to head back into the kitchen to move the next set of baked goods into the oven. Until a bird’s whistle chimes outside. The melodious tune makes you spin back around and rush to the corner window. A growing smile spreads across your face as you lean over the ledge, but it melts into a confused expression when your eyes scan the crowd. That had to have been him. There are no Convorees on Tatooine. Unless, of course, someone brought them to sell to the wealthy elite. Beginning to lean away from the ledge, you scan the streets one more time. The small rush of hope fizzles inside you, and your previous excitement mellows as your heart yearns for your lover.

Before you can slip back into your routine, a gloved hand reaches from the side street and grasps your hand. Your heart pounds against your chest, and when you go to say something an all too familiar laughter rings in your ear. It sounds like a warm summer’s thunderstorm and brings comfort to you. Wolffe steps out from the side street and leans against the window’s ledge with an amused smirk.

“Careful, cyar’ika,” Wolffe quietly teases, “You never know what’s hiding in the shadows”.

You lightly roll your eyes and reach up to cup his jaw. Guiding him to meet you halfway, you lean out of the window slightly more to softly kiss him. His hand trails down your arm and steadies your waist as he kisses you back. Slowly deepening it, the two of you lose yourselves to each other. He tastes like Corellian whiskey while you taste like jogan fruit. Pulling away with a chuckle, Wolffe looks down at you with a relaxed expression as he balances his helmet on the ledge. 

“Welcome home,” you hum and step back onto the floor. You feel lightheaded as you meet Wolffe’s gentle look of admiration. “How long are you here for?”

“Fourteen rotations,” Wolffe responds with a subtle tone of relief. His shoulders ease as he takes in your shining expression at the news. Even though he is known as the fierce commander of the 104th, who never suffers fools, there’s only one person in the galaxy who could make him a fool in love. “Just a training camp for some of the shinies to get used to extreme terrain,” he explains.

His words trail off as if he was going to continue, and you arch your brow. “Well, this is probably one of the best places to get some experience in that. Where’re you boys staying?” you casually ask. You bite down on the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling as Wolffe suddenly looks away.

“Small base on the outskirts of the city,” he curtly informs you. After a moment, Wolffe looks at you out of the corner of his eye, and his heart skips a beat. Sunlight kisses your face bringing out the freckles and light flush that blooms across your cheeks. His gaze snaps back to the busy market place. “Since it’s only training though, it’s…a less strict routine. We have to wait for the weather to settle, and by the looks of it, it’ll be a few days at least until we can head out”.

One of your hands comes up to lazily trail up his chest plate and across his shoulder. “Oh really? Would I be able to bribe Comet to keep an eye on the boys if you were to…step away for the evenings,” you softly tease. Wolffe stiffens under your touch, and you feel him take deep breaths as your hand runs up his neck to cup his cheek to make him look at you again. Wolffe gazes at you with a knowing look of curiosity, but his eyes betray him. They’re soft and warm just like caramel, and he makes you melt as he holds only adoration in his eyes for you.

“We wouldn’t hear the end of it, if Comet was the only one who received some of your pastries,” Wolffe points out. Amusement eases into his tone as he still holds up his facade of dutiful commanding officer.

“I never said it would just be for him,” you push back.

“That would wipe out almost half your baked goods, cyar’ika. Wouldn’t that be bad for business if you were handing them out to troopers for free?” he challenges. Leaning in close to your face, Wolffe smirks lightly as the blush on your cheeks darkens.

“It would be well worth it, if it meant I could keep you all to myself while I can,” you reply. Your voice light and airy from the spiraling close distance between you and Wolffe. “What do you think, Commander?”

Wolffe looks at you with an amused expression before he places a careful kiss to the corner of your mouth. Pride swells in his chest as he feels your breath hitch. Pulling away, he moves his mouth to the shell of your ear with a small smile. “Those horned melon cakes will probably win him over with little challenge. I won’t be so easy to please, however,” Wolffe shares. His voice drops to a low whisper so none of the nosey merchants or travelers can overhear.

His words cause a shiver to shoot down your spine, and you run your tongue across your lip. “One second,” you breathe out in reply. Rushing away from the window, you leave Wolffe chuckling as he watches you dart across the room for a box then over to the shelf. You place all the cakes neatly, as best you can with shaky hands, into the box and move over to the counter to secure it with twine. In only a few moments, you rush back to Wolffe and excitedly offer him the box of treats and smile triumphantly at him. “Your order is all set, Commander”.

“No wonder you’re the best baker in the city. Amazing customer service and sweets that leave everyone wanting another taste,” Wolffe hums. Carefully balancing the box in one hand, he bends down to pick something up. “Can’t leave you empty handed though,” he grunts and pulls up his GAR duffel. Handing it over the window ledge, his hand lingers until he knows you comfortably can hold it. “Don’t open it until I get back from negotiations,” Wolffe tells you. 

His hands rests under your chin and tilts your head up. Butterflies tickle your stomach as you meet his gaze. “Had this planned didn’t you? Why would I open your duffel?” you breathe out. As Wolffe's lips pull back into a knowing smirk, your heart races.

“Because there’s a gift for you that both of us will enjoy,” he explains and pointedly ignores your teasing question. Rubbing your chin gently, he drops it and grabs his helmet as he turns away. “I'll be home early tonight, cya’re,” he calls over his shoulder. 

Finally feeling like you can breathe again, you drop the duffel to your feet and hang over the window ledge. Resting your chin on your palm, you watch Wolffe disappear into the crows with a love struck expression.

[coffeehighallthetime-blog]

I am kind not complacent Chpt 3

Howdy, here is Chpt 3

{prev} {next}

sorry it's a bit shorter than usual but I promise the next one will be longer. I have been very sleepy all the time. As always, thank you to everyone who liked and reblogged. I truly appreciate you all.

thank you so much to @engardeitsme, @lunaryasha, @nokolla💜💜💜

Chpt 3: 3.8 k words

Heimdall x fem reader

Multi chapter

A/N: im going to take a moment to add chapter summaries and make a master list

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It had been a few weeks now since YN had been brought to Asgard, and though her first day was less than ideal, she had found her place close to Mal and in her teachings with Mimir, while staying far from Heimdall and Thor. Since the instance on the first morning of her arrival, Odin had been especially wary of when the girl interacted with other people, going as far as suggesting Mimir put wax in his ears to be able to hesitate any “suggestions” she may make. Mimir however felt no need, as he had built a strong rapport with YN and the two had started to grow fond of each other. After all, she was eager to learn, excited that Mimir did not shy away from any and all details and facts. The man in return was thankful for someone who was grateful to listen to every part of what he had to say, for once.

 This morning had started like they had for weeks now. YN had now learned to wake before the rest of the lodge. From there, Mal and she went into the kitchen as the sun barely peeked over the horizon while the cooks and bakers were still making breakfast. They would help with prep in return for cakes fresh out of the oven and porridge hot off the stove. Then Mal would bring YN to her balcony to drink tea and eat at their leisure as the sun rose and they got to hear the chaos downstairs they had narrowly dodged. 

YN blew on a spoon of steaming porridge and hummed as she ate, the heat warming her cheeks and the steam escaping her mouth as she shook her head. 

“ Hah- it’s hoth-“ she gasped as she forced herself to swallow, her eyes squinted shut in pain. Mal sat across from her, peering at the girl from the corner of her eye, and smirked into her tea cup.

“ You need to be more patient. You do this every morning.” YN smiled sheepishly before taking another bite.

“ Hah-, I can’t help it, I think it tastes better this way. I don’t want it to get cold.”

“ You’re burning yourself.”

“It’s okay, I like it when it’s hot like this… it feels hot all the way down my stomach and warms me up for the whole day.” Mal chuckled, shaking her head. 

“ You must have blisters in your mouth. Must be nice having godly healing.”

“ Do you not, Mal? Heal like me? 

“ Me? No dear, I'm just a mortal.”

“ Oh,” YN halted slightly at this, her spoon sinking slowly into her porridge as she peaked at Mal through her lashes. Mimir said the mortals didn’t live very long compared to them, and YN remembered thinking it a pity. She didn’t know there were mortals in Asgard, and she never thought to ask the people around her if they were mortal. Mal watched as YN had stopped eating, and fidgeted in her spot, guilty of her ignorance. Mal simply smiled.

“ Honestly, what’s that pout for?” she tutted, setting her cup down and crossing her arms as she leaned back lazily in her chair to look at the horizon. YN looked up at her, watching as the sunlight twinkled in her eyes framed by crow’s feet, how wrinkles curved around her small smile, and the grey hairs peeking through the top of her bandana. YN thought from the moment she saw her, that she wanted to look like Mal when she grew old. But that would be centuries from now, and Mal would be long gone… The thought made YN droop even further.

“Oi!” YN shot her head up at Mal’s exclamation. The woman now glared down at her, leaning across the table, grabbing a piece of bread. “Now, don’t you pity me. There is no shame in the span of my life.” She sighed, grabbing the jam, “Honestly sometimes I don’t know how the gods do it. I’m so tired already.” She took a bite and looked back at YN, just making a pathetic little sound, obviously, still overthinking. Mal reached over and tiled her chin up, her face firm and unwavering. “Don’t you worry, I’m a tough old bird, you won’t be getting rid of me any time soon. My job as your lady-in-waiting is to make sure you’re taken care of. Understood?” Mal smiled, pinching YN’s chin a bit tighter. YN giggled at the extra pressure, shaking her head free. 

“Ok, I understand.”

“Good. Now hurry and eat. You’re lesson in twenty minutes.”

⋆⭒˚｡⋆☾⋆⭒˚｡⋆

“Alright, Lass: pop quiz”

“What’s a quiz?”

“That’s not important: first question: who are the Jotnar?”

“Oh! I know! They’re the most ancient beings thought to be the first to emerge from  Ginnungagap. They um- they’re skilled in physical and mystical powers. Not all jotnar are large in size and can vary from frost and fire giants to different forms of animals. An example of this are Skoll and Hati who reside in Vanaheim!” YN started to ramble excitedly about Jotnar culture and how she had watched them from afar when they walked around Vanaheim. How she saw one move a mountain range once and how she was mesmerized to watch the wolves change night into day. Mimir held a hand up to stop her, chuckling slightly.

“Alright, alright! Maybe that one was a bit too easy.” he grabbed at the scruff of his beard, humming in thought. “Let’s move on to Asgard’s history and politics.” YN’s face dropped and she groaned, dramatically throwing her head back. 

“I’m no good at politics, Mimir.”

“Which is precisely why we need to work on it. You are an honorary Asgardian now, and it’s important you know the roles of the royal family as well as your own role in relation to the nine realms. Now start with the easy ones.” YN sighed but straightened in her seat, starting at the top.

“Asgard is the realm we are in now, it is ruled by Odin and his family. Until fairly recently, Asgard has been at war with the other realms, notably Jotenheim and Vanaheim. You, Mimir, have aided in the creation of peace between these realms by building a rapport with the giants and suggesting the wedding between the All-Father and…” YN sighed, her shoulders drooping, “Freya, the former leader of Vanir, now the queen of the Valkeries.” Mimir nodded, urging her to continue. 

“Odin is the All-Father, ruler of Asgard. He is the god of the sky, of wisdom, healing, um…poetry?” she faltered but nodded in relief as Mimir silently agreed with a nod. She continued, “And the god of divination. He built Vallhalla to reward Asgardians who have gone through a warrior’s death and grant them new life as Einjar. He…He’s a mystery to me, Mimir…”

“What do you mean, Lass?”

“I mean… I feel like I should want to be indebted to him… That I should trust him and want to serve him… but I feel this pit in my stomach…I don’t know, maybe I’m just still anxious about being here…” Mimir wanted to comfort the girl. Tell her what she was feeling was her mystical logic at work, giving her intuition. But that would mean admitting to himself that Odin was not the most trustworthy, and that just wasn’t smart. Mimir cleared his throat, getting the girl’s attention. 

“It’s alright, Lass. you’ve been doing well here. The All-Father will find a place for you here and you will see there’s nothing to be worried about. Now let’s continue.” YN sighed then nodded, giving a short summary of Freya, Odin’s wife who hails from Vanaheim as she does. How the Vanir were a formidable foe and that Freya herself was a powerful warrior. The queen of the Valkeries was of great interest to YN, and she wanted to meet her soon and ask about their home. Maybe she could even ask to learn about Vanir Magix and fighting. She told Mimir she remembered meeting her just once in Vanaheim, and that she had brought her food when she was injured, but they never saw each other again. Despite this, YN saw her as the ruler of the Vanir, and when she left, the realm was heartbroken. 

YN then went on to the sons of Odin. Thor, god of the thunder, and his job as the enforcer of the Asir. He was Odin’s right hand and trained to be a machine on the field. He was physically the strongest and tasked with training his brothers as a result. Since they met, Thor made it clear he was not a fan of the girl, making sure to let her know whether it be by pushing her out of the way in the halls or making fun of her during her sparring with Heimdall and Baldur. Next was Tyr, the god of war in Asgard. He was strong and tall and despite his title, was a gentle soul from what YN could see. He had made YN feel welcome, unlike his siblings. Mimir introduced the two of them, saying that the three of them would be working together after she’s learned more about her role here. The idea of one day being able to travel outside of Asgard with them made her giddy. Tyr would sometimes entertain her and Mal at supper with stories about his travels. 

YN groaned as she spoke on Hiemdall.

“He’s the second youngest. God of foresight, order, foreknowledge, the scion of the Aesir, blessed with enhanced sight and hearing, blah, blah, blah…” YN rolled her eyes as she spoke. Mimir patted the desk she sat on, warning her not to get distracted. 

“Don’t get fresh, Lass. I told you it’s not worth it.” 

“ I Can’t help it!” she groaned in frustration. YN had been trying her damndest to try and get along with the young god, and everything seemed to blow up in her face. She thought maybe bringing him snacks from the great hall or handing him his weapon when they would spar would make it easier for him to stand her, but he would just take what she offered and leave. “He’s so rude! And-and all he does is judge me and take things!”

“Yes, that’s his job. To judge people.”

“I hate it.” she mumbled, folding her arms on the desk and resting her head in them. Mimir sat down across from her, crossing his own arms. 

“Listen, little sister… I know you may not like him, and you don’t have to. But try to put yourself in his shoes for just a moment.

“How do you mean?’ She asked, peaking up from her arms. Mimir simply smiled, knowing by now it didn’t take much for the girl to sympathize with others, and that it may be the best way to encourage some semblance of allyship between the two.

“Well, he’s the god of foresight, but like you, he’s just a child. He can’t control his powers well yet and as the son of the All-Father, you may imagine he carries a great deal of pressure from his family to perform up to their standards. This is the case for all of Odin’s sons.”

 “At least Baldur and Tyr are nice…” YN whispered, just loud enough for Mimir to hear.

“That’s true… but between you and me, I believe the boy may suffer from some form of overstimulation from his powers at times, causing some of his..hm… irritability.”

“What makes you say that?” Mimir simply shrugged, standing back up. 

“Just pay closer attention to him next time you see him. Hm?”

“Ok, I guess…”

“Good, back on topic then. Tell me about Baldur.” Mimir urged. YN sighed but obliged. Baldur was the god of light and a bit younger than her, but they got along fairly well. He was a bit shy but was kind to YN. He was a good fighter and seemed to be a favorite amongst the Aesir. He was definitely the apple of Freya’s eye at the very least.

After more discussion of Asgard and what YN’s role would be in the future, Mimir ended the lesson, suggesting YN enjoy the beautiful day before her sparring session. 

⋆⭒˚｡⋆☾⋆⭒˚｡⋆

The day seemed to crawl at a snail's pace. Since the first time they fought, Odin would sit in and watch to make sure nothing “regretable” would happen, in his words. YN noticed when she was against Heimdall today, he was rather sluggish compared to his usual movements, not carrying as much snark in his voice and seeming to focus on her much harder. 

“Why are you already thinking about dinner? It’s not even sunset.” YN flushed in embarrassment. 

“Stop doing that!” she stomped her foot. Heimdall rolled his eyes and lunged at her, poking her side with the practice sword.

“Hit. reset,” Thor called from the sidelines. The two spaced away from each-other again, waiting for Thor to call out “start” before they continued fighting. It was all so boring, the dodging, the hitting, the resetting to just do the same set of moves over and over. 

“You’re telling me…” Heimdall mumbled, dodging an attack without trying. “At least when we were trying to kill each other you were vaguely entertaining. This is just pathetic.” YN clicked her tongue, dodging a half-assed attempt at a hit. 

“At least you're still getting something from this, practicing to read my mind. Which I hate, by the way,” she stated, blocking a sword swing to her face, “Have I said that already?”

“A thousand times.” Heimdall sighed, pulling away only to come back and swing three times in succession, pushing YN towards the border of the ring with each hit she blocked, “and trust me, I get nothing from hearing your annoying little voice whining about how hungry and bored you are.” YN clicked her tongue at the statement and knocked Heimdall back, lunging in short quick jabs, moving them back to the center of the ring.

“It’s not my fault. Your father is the one watching us like a hawk, making sure we barely touch each other. We might as well be dancing. He’s such a control freak” Heimdall growled, suddenly moving to grab YN by the collar of her shirt. Despite the threat he posed, she was excited at the idea of actually doing some kind of real fighting. Their dreams were dashed however as Odin called out from the distance.

“Heimdall. Put her down.” 

“But father, she insulted you!”

“Now.”

Heimdall growled at the girl before roughly dropping her collar, making her stumble on her feet to not fall into the dirt. She straightened her posture and fixed her shirt as Odin strode up to them. He looked down at the girl, concern on his face.

“You think me controlling, child? I suppose I have been keeping a bit too close an eye. I’m just worried is all.” At the hurt YN seemed to hear at the back of his throat, her stance softened and she offered a small bow.

“No, I apologize All-Father. I thank you for worrying about my well-being. I suppose I’m just getting a bit antsy at this routine I’m still getting used to. After the sun sets, I feel I cannot go outside, so I may be a bit more rambunctious during sparring as a result. And the slow pace is getting to me.” Odin chuckled, shaking his head.

“Is that all? Well, dear, I assure you Asgard is quite safe, if you find you want to wander after the sun sets, you are welcome to go anywhere from the lodge all the way to the wall. You are no prisoner. And you can do whatever you’d like outside your lessons. I encourage you to see how the moonlight changes the scenery tonight.” YN smiled at this, nodding in agreement.

“Thank you, All-Father, I will make sure to do so.” Heimdall seemed to fidget in place, his hands tensing and his mind racing as he listened to the two speak. YN pretended not to notice.

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At supper, YN sat with Mal and Tyr, listening to him talk about his latest journeys and the interesting people he met. YN only half listened as she felt a pair of eyes on her from across the dining hall, turning to meet a magenta gaze and tilted her head in confusion when the boy suddenly looked away. Heimdall seemed to shuffle in his chair, holding his head with one hand as he slowly took small bites of food. His eyes seemed to close tightly every once in a while and his hands tensed in his hair and around his spoon. He turned to Odin, whom he sat next to, and asked something, only to be silenced with a shake of a head. YN could see some form of frustration in Odin’s gaze as he looked down at his younger son trying his best to stay still and ignore whatever it was that was bothering him so much. Heimdall looked up and their eyes met again. She tried to give a smile and wave, but the boy just frowned and looked back down at his food. YN’s hand slowly fell back to her side and with a shrug she turned back to Mal and Tyr, listening to his stories with a smile pulling at her cheeks. 

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It was late in the night and most of the lodge was asleep. YN fidgeted in her bed, unable to sleep as the clock at her bedside ticked along with the soft crackle of the fire in her room. Back when she was alone, she was used to sleeping in shifts throughout the day in order to stay alert at night. This also stopped her from sleeping deeply enough to experience her nightmares to their fullest extent.

 She had been in Asgard for nearly a month now but still wasn’t used to sleeping throughout the whole night. YN would often wake in the middle of the night, humming to herself as she read a book that Mimir had given her, and wait until she was tired again to sleep more until Mal would come get her in the morning.

 She rubbed her eyes with her palms and groaned, sitting up in her bed with a sigh. YN thought of how Odin had said she was able to walk around the grounds at night if she ever wanted to, and hesitated for a second before pulling the covers off of her and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She pulled a wool sweater over her white sleeping gown and slipped on her leather house slippers. The lodge was dark, with only a few candles lit in the halls to give any semblance of where anything was. YN stepped slowly down the main staircase, the wood creaking with each drop of her foot. She winced as the plank at the bottom screeched and waited for a beat as the floor settled underneath her. YN tiptoed passed the kitchen, then stopped and puttered back to it, slipping in to grab a bag of roasted nuts and dried lingenberries. After all, a midnight snack never hurt during a little stroll. 

The cool air fluttered through YN’s hair as she pulled open the exit to to the Great Lodge and she pulled her sweater closer to her chest, sighing at the relieving chill. She opened her little parcel and ate absentmindedly as she walked down the main trail leading from the lodge down to the wall, following the moon as it hung in the center of the sky. YN hummed a soft tune, dragging her fingers along the tall grass and wildflowers that lined the trail, watching as Asgard’s nocturnal creatures scuttled through the prairie. Foxes wandered for prey, and weasels emerged from their burrows. It almost felt like home, the way everything moved and shifted around her, unbothered. 

As YN got closer to the wall, walking up the stairs, she hear what sounded like whimpering. The closer she got, the louder it became. From whimpers to sobs, and finally, she could hear whispers.

“Just go away, go away, go away.” the voice whimpered between sobs. YN stuttered her steps, worried but wondering if this person wanted to be left alone or if would be better to help. 

“Hello?” she called out softly, “a-are you ok?”

The voice didn’t respond, continuing to sob out into the night and beg for silence, despite it being the only noise out there. YN took a breath before peaking up over the ledge of the wall. There, Heimdall sat, curled into his knees, sobbing with his hands over his ears, rocking in place. His voice hiccuped as he trembled, continuing to beg. 

“J-just leave me alone,” he whispered, “I just want it to stop… stop it!” Heimdall paid no attention as YN slowly moved closer, crouching down in front of him and waiting for him to realize she was there. His breath was ragged and his hands shook as his eyes darted from side to side, the picture of fear and paranoia. “It won't go away, it won’t go away, it won’t, it won’t it won’t!” he cried out into the air. YN reached a hand out gently and Heimdall gasped, staring her in the eyes as her fingers brushed over his forehead, covered in a cold sweat. Despite the fact they looked right at each other, Heimdall’s gaze was far off and desperate. He continued to whisper frantically as he shook his head. “Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!” His eyes squeezed tightly shut as he tried to get what he so wanted: silence. YN didn’t know what to do. Fearing that speaking may only make things worse. As Heimdall sobbed, YN pulled herself closer to him, sitting on her knees. She sat in his crying, letting it rake over the both of them as the cool breeze blew. She thought for a moment before slowly, bringing her head to rest against his, their foreheads pressed to each other. 

‘I…I don’t know if you can hear me… but if you are feeling overwhelmed by the voices in your head… just focus on mine, ok?’ she focused on these thoughts, letting them take over her mind so that he could hear them and only them. YN swore she could feel him reaching back out to her as his body trembled against hers. ‘It’s ok… just focus on me… just focus on one voice…” he stopped his trembling slowly, but he cried out still, shallow sobs racking through his body. His hands still clamped tightly to his ears and tears trickled down the swell of his cheeks, dribbling down onto the rock beneath them. She sighed softly and brought her hands to rest on his, beginning to hum softly: the song passing both through her lips, and the melody taking over her mind and streaming into his.

They stayed like this. As the crickets rang in the night. As the wind whistled between them and the hollows of the wall. As critters crawled through the brush. And as their breathing started to match, Heimdall’s heart finally started to settle as his sobbing slowed to sniffles and light gasps, until there truly was nothing in his mind but the girl’s soft humming.

[swissmissficrecs]

My favorite fics of 2022

I didn’t get as much reading in this year, so the list is shorter than in past years but no less sweet. In order of length:

Indefinite Lines by ArwaMachine (298K, E, Johnlock) Sherlock and John find themselves faced with a series of seemingly disparate cases that are growing increasingly connected, increasingly personal. They must unravel the mystery laid before them by a particularly ruthless set of criminals before the danger is upon them, or else run the risk of being cleaved apart forever, lines scattered to the wind.

Slipstream by khorazir (290K, M, Johnlock) It’s going to be the last Tour de France for professional cyclist John Watson. Despite the hardships of cycling more than 3000 kilometres in three weeks, in blistering heat and torrential rain, over dangerous cobblestones in northern France and the mountains of the Alps and the Pyrenees, battling thirst, hunger, injury and exhaustion, not to mention bitchy rivals, doping allegations, and the ever scoop-hungry press, he is going to enjoy the ride, damn it. That’s what John keeps telling himself – until he meets his new teammate, Sherlock Holmes, who adds a whole new list of problems as well as an extra dose of excitement to John’s life.

The Last Envoy by Calais_Reno (127K, M, Johnlock) April 1938. Sherlock is a very human alien who comes to Earth with a mission he doesn't completely understand and quickly falls in love-- with the planet, the people, and a certain army doctor. There will be angst: war begins and he is caught up in events he cannot control, while still trying to fulfill his purpose in being here.

Matchmaking for Solitary Animals by ArwaMachine (71K, E, Johnlock) Upon moving back to Baker Street following Sherlock’s return from the dead, John finds that Sherlock is a bit more keen on entertaining gentlemen callers than he once was, a fact that seems to make John irrationally angry. Intent on proving that he’s not a total dick, John decides to make it his mission to find Sherlock a boyfriend. This, as it turns out, is the worst idea John has ever had.

Lost In A Good Book by khorazir (68K, M, Johnlock) After chasing a criminal into a poky second-hand bookshop, John and Sherlock find themselves not only stuck in the building, but in L-space itself. With things still raw and unsettled between them after the events surrounding the Culverton Smith case, this adds another dimension to their predicament, which not only consists of finding a way out of the shop (while avoiding getting murdered by the criminal), but also to finally address the issues between them.

Whirlwind by DiscordantWords (50K, M, Johnlock, Warstan) New job, new truck, new fiancée... John Watson, former storm chaser, has settled into a comfortable new life. There's only one problem: John's already married. And the the divorce papers he's been sending to his former partner, Sherlock Holmes, keep going missing. So with his fiancée Mary by his side, John reluctantly makes a trip to see him in the hopes of finalizing their divorce once and for all. But John arrives in the midst of a very active storm season, and Sherlock very clearly hasn’t let go of the past. Against his better judgement, John finds himself talked into riding along after one last storm.

Accidental Magic by Calais_Reno (39K, M, Johnlock) Soon after his return (TEH), Sherlock takes the case of a woman seeking stolen books hidden in her late husband’s library. He invites John to come with him. Working together after so much time apart, they begin to discover more than stolen books.This isn’t really a story about magic, except for the ordinary kind of magic that happens when people realise they’re in love and it’s time to do something about it. That kind of magic is the best kind.

Blue Plaques by JRow (36K, M, Johnlock) John’s engagement is off, and he is back at the place he feels most at home — 221B Baker Street. It’s been a bit of an adjustment (he does miss the regular hugs and snuggles) but John is happy, and it seems like Sherlock is too. John certainly loves working on a good case with his mad flatmate, so he’s thrilled when Greg asks for their help in figuring out how Colin Mahon is continuing to run his drugs operation while out on bail and under constant surveillance. It must have something to do with Mahon’s daily travels (on foot) to a slew of seemingly boring London sights. But in the process of solving this little mystery, will John accidentally reveal a secret of his own?

A Scandal at Paladia by disfictional (34K, E, Johnlock) An ill-fated visit to Uncle Rudy's drag bar unlocks a memory of John's past- a memory that wreaks havoc on their sex life. John has a secret, and Sherlock is determined to solve the case.

Jam by JRow (34K, M, Johnlock) John needs some time to recharge after the physically and emotionally draining case in Dartmoor. On a whim, he books a couple of days in Falmouth and (somehow) convinces Sherlock to join him. During the impromptu minibreak, the nature of John and Sherlock’s relationship begins to shift. Things get even better upon their return home to London. But are the two men on the same page about what they’ve become?

What Happens to the Heart by Susan (31K, M, Johnlock) Someone wants John Watson dead and is willing to pay a lot of money to make it happen. Hitmen, old grudges, new grudges and lots of kissing.

Cupid's Venom by SilentAuror (29K, E, Johnlock) Over drinks one night, Mike Stamford reveals to Sherlock that he always wished he could have taken credit for being Sherlock and John's Cupid. Unfamiliar with the reference, Sherlock plunges into studies of toxins and Greek mythology...

The Best Seats in The House by J_Baillier (22K, T, Johnlock) Nature photographer John Watson is trying to do the same as the locals: getting the hell of the way when the killer queen of Indonesian's volcanoes starts a drumbeat towards eruption. Little does he know that soon, he'll be headed straight into the danger zone.

Both Sides Now by Silvergirl (14K, M, Johnlock) Sherlock, undercover on the Norfolk coast, texts that he needs help; John is still seething after Sherlock’s gambit in the train car, and he refuses. When Sherlock goes missing, Mycroft sends John in to pose as Sherlock’s bit on the side.

Plus these bonus fics from 2021 that I read after posting my 2021 list and deserve a spot:

Know You All Over Again by PoppyAlexander (53K, M, Johnlock) After five good years, one difficult one, and six months that were hell, John and Sherlock live apart but still share custody of seven-year-old Rosie. With therapy, supportive friends, and those inevitable dance recitals and open school days forcing them into each other's paths again and again, anger and bitterness fade, leaving space for a new view of each other across the divide.

The Oak Tree and the Cypress by FinAmour (43K, E, Johnlock) Things Sherlock didn't expect to happen at midnight on a Thursday: for John to be kissing him. For John's lips to be so delicious. For his own mouth, stung by the sweetness, to kiss John back—or for his hands to raise to John's cheeks in order to lengthen it. He didn't expect his heart to be bursting with pure joy and relief, or for their night to end with John in a hospital bed. And he certainly did not expect to turn them into fake husbands.

Previous favorites lists: 2010 / 2011 / 2012 / 2013 / 2014 / 2015 / 2016 / 2017 / 2018 / 2019 / 2020 / 2021

[mariacallous]

When Liebman’s Delicatessen opened on 235th Street in 1953, the Bronx was still sometimes called “the Jewish Borough.” More than half a million Jews lived between Mott Haven and Riverdale, and according to the 70-year-old deli’s website, they were served by 100 kosher delis. Today, Liebman’s is the last one standing. 

“I ask myself a lot: ‘why are we the one that survived?’” Yuval Dekel, who has owned the deli for 20 years, told The Nosher. “Certainly because we’re in Riverdale, which is still a Jewish community.” 

He surveys the restaurant, where nearly all 60 blue naugahyde seats are occupied by neighborhood regulars over 60, noshing on pastrami to the strains of ‘50s jukebox hits. “We’re a deli that has regular New York City resident customers. We’re not a tourist destination.”

Dekel, one of the youngest people in the room, took a circuitous route to becoming a deli man. Born in Haifa in 1978, he arrived in the Bronx two years later with his father, who immigrated with hopes of becoming an entrepreneur. A business broker helped the family find Liebman’s, which had foundered under a string of owners after Joseph Liebman sold it in the late ‘50s. 

Though Dekel’s father (also named Joseph) was of Romanian descent, he knew little about the Ashkenazi foodways of New York. “I don’t even think he knew about delis,” Dekel said. “In Israel, there’s no deli culture.” Joseph Dekel added Israeli dishes like falafel and hummus to the menu, but took pains to preserve the deli classics, too. 

For his part, Yuval Dekel was a metalhead. He was the drummer for Irate, a well-loved New York City thrash band, touring up and down the East Coast, throughout Europe and Japan, and playing at iconic downtown clubs like CBGB in the ‘90s. 

“It was pretty hardcore,” Dekel laughs. “Very serious moshing going on. Quite a different environment from this.” 

But during his entire stint as a metal drummer, Dekel also supported himself by working as a baker at Amy’s Bread and the original U.S. location of Le Pain Quotidien, developing a serious commitment to artisanal foods. When his father died in 2002 and Dekel took over Liebman’s, his first priority was the quality. He wanted to make sure that every dish on the menu, from sandwiches to stews, got its due.

“One thing that differentiates us from — let’s say Katz’s — is we pay a lot of attention to not just the pastrami,” Dekel said. “Don’t get me wrong, I spent years figuring out how to make our own. But there’s this whole other side to us, which is basically a full-service kosher diner.”

Liebman’s excels in the kinds of homey dishes that tend to be afterthoughts for the best-known pastrami pushers. Stuffed cabbage, stewed in a sweet-and-sour sauce and piled with melting onions and plump raisins, falls apart at the slightest pressure from a fork. On Fridays, Dekel serves cholent, the slow-cooked Shabbat stew. 

That’s not to say the deli classics can be missed. Dekel began curing his own pastrami several years ago, after the number of high-quality suppliers had dwindled. The deli slices it thin so that slivers of the smoked meat’s dark crust are evenly interspersed on a sandwich. On the Liebman’s Favorite platter, pastrami is piled high on an open-faced slice of rye, accompanied by fries — thick-cut, pleasantly greasy shards of potato — and kishke (stuffed derma) slathered with brown gravy. It’s an unbelievably hefty plate of food that reminds you the object of a Jewish deli is excess. 

Daintier deli classics abound. Liebman’s tender matzah balls float in a rich broth slicked with beads of schmaltz. Hebrew National franks sizzle and blister on a foil-lined griddle in the front window, ready to be garnished with sinus-clearing brown mustard, sauerkraut, coleslaw or — a Liebman’s favorite — a scoop of potato salad. Old timers pick at artfully arranged cold cut platters of sliced tongue, corned beef and kosher salami.

Homemade knishes are of the circular variety, bearing little resemblance to the squared-off “Coney Island” knishes provisioned by wholesalers to hot dog carts across the city. Like all knishes, they are dense starch-delivery systems. But a Liebman’s knish is well-seasoned, and its crust is flaky and pastry-like.

With all of his attention focused on food, Dekel says he struggled with the business side of the operation originally. But a loyal base of customers helped him through his mistakes, and the deli has hit its stride again, getting attention from critics and influencers, and even making an appearance on “Anthony Bourdain: Parts Unknown” in 2014. Dekel is planning to open a Westchester County location this year, marking the first expansion of Liebman’s in its seven-decade history.

It seems only right that Liebman’s should be the last deli in the Bronx. A mid-century time capsule, it was reinvigorated by Israeli cooking and by Dekel’s do-it-yourself spirit. 

“In some cases, being the last one standing doesn’t mean you were the best,” he says. “But I happen to think that we deserve it.”