#I am so not transcribing another tomorrow though

[dessertgeek]

The Twitter Mari Lwyd saga (2019 - part two)

Since people seem to be happy that I'm copying over the Mari Lwyd sagas, have another transcription! This is for the second round of 2019, between @seananmcguire and @kbspangler. Part one is here, the source to this round starts here.

(Seriously, these aren't mine, they're the property of @seananmcguire, @tkingfisher, + @kbspangler, I'm just transcribing so extra records exist. Support their works!)

That being said, if anyone can find the 2020 Twitter thread, can you send me a link so I can transcribe it (or transcribe it and link me)? It has been found! Thanks to @dor-min for finding the thread, it's going to take me a bit to transcribe.

CWs for food, alcohol, and caps.

K.B.: SO YOU SAY YOU WANT A BATTLE? YOU'RE BRINGING NAUGHT BUT PRATTLE TO THIS FESTIVE DAY WE DESIGNATE WITH LIGHTS AND FOOD TO CELEBRATE THE SOLSTICE, DEAR, WITH ME AND MINE AND YOU AND YOURS AND HIS AND HERS AND THEIRS AND OURS A BREAKING DAY A FRESH NEW YEAR WE CALL SPRING UP AGAIN

Seanan: WE'RE PAST THE LONGEST NIGHT AND I'M ITCHING FOR A FIGHT IF YOU'RE COLD, WE'RE COLD, SO LET US IN. WE HEARD YOUR LARDER'S STOCKED, SO GET READY TO GET ROCKED THIS TALE'S OFTEN TOLD WE ALWAYS WIN.

K.B.: YOU SAY YOU'LL FIGHT THIS GARDNER'S MIGHT?! THE GROUND IS COLD MY PLANTS ASLEEP I'VE GOT ENOUGH STRESS TO PUNCH A SHEEP I AM WIGGING TO GO DIGGING AND HERE YOU COME TO STEAL MY PLUMS?

Seanan: I DON'T WANT YOUR PLUMS THE MARI LWYD COMES TO SAMPLE YOUR CHEESE AND YOUR BOOZE. YOUR GARDEN IS SLEEPING SO WHY ARE YOU KEEPING A SENTRY POST YOU DIDN'T CHOOSE? COME WASSAIL WITH US. THERE'S NO NEED TO FUSS. THERE'S NO SHAME IN CHOOSING TO LOSE.

K.B.: I'M NOT YET CONVINCED A DEAD HORSE HAS ENVINCED THE SPIRIT OF THIS WINTER'S PAST CAN YOU SWEETEN THE DEAL WITH A CAROLING PEAL? THEN MY GARDEN WILL HAVE TO HOLD FAST

Seanan: WE ARE NOT RETREATIN' THIS HORSE WON'T BE BEATEN, IT A BATTLE OF HOOVES VERSUS HANDS. THE JINGLE OF BELLS IS A SOUND THAT FORETELLS OUR CONQUEST OF ALL OF THESE LANDS.

K.B.: THEN I GOTTA SAY NO SORRY, CAN'T GO YOU SEEM LIKE A NICE HORSE AND ALL BUT MY HOUSE IS QUITE HAUNTED AND I AM UNDAUNTED BY YET ONE MORE SPECTRAL ODDBALL

Seanan: IT'S NOT REALLY RESPECTFUL TO SAY THAT I'M SPECTRAL. I'M CORPOREAL AS A GIRL COMES. YOU CAN PURCHASE MORE CHEESE SO JUST GIVE ME THESE. DON'T FORCE ME TO BREAK OUT THE DRUMS.

K.B.: (My parents are about to arrive so)

FINE, I DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE BIRD, DOG, OR MARE ON THIS DAY WE'RE SUPPOSED TO EMPLOY THE LOVE OF THE SEASON SO HERE, HAVE SOME CHEESE IN PRECUT SIXTY-FOUR SLICES OF JOY

Seanan: DESPITE THIS GRAVE LOSS, YOU'RE A SHEPHERD TO MOSS, AND I AM A CHILD OF THE GRAVE. SO I'LL GO NOW IN PEACE, AND I WON'T BREAK YOUR LEASE, THOUGH YOU DIDN'T ASK ME TO BEHAVE.

K.B.:

[Alt ID: A small Black child in a crowd. The child takes off his black baseball cap as if to say "I tip my hat to you dear sir," which has RE2PECT embroidered on it in white thread.]

[hapalopus]

Excerpts from the journal of Quinn Langston Whitmore (aka "1700s scientist gets isekaied into tf kink anime world and meets this guy:

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

5th of November, 1792 (Year 436 Post-Tower)

608th day in this world

I have encountered a most peculiar young man. At a glance, he is not dissimilar from the other races of this world; he could pass for a strange human, if not for his saucer-sized gem-color eyes and his leaf-shaped ears. He is of short stature and slight build, with chestnut hair and a similarly warm and deep skintone. I do not know how to describe the color of his eyes, for they seem to glow in every shade of azure, turquoise, and emerald at once. His face is rather long and narrow and, fittingly, "horse-like."

His name is Moussa and he speaks this land's common tongue, albeit thickly accented. He told me (in much different terms) that he is, in his society, of a rank akin to a prince or lord-apparent. He travels with a tall and rather mannish human woman named Zélie. His companion does not speak the common tongue, and they converse with each other in a shrill and vowel-heavy language that I have never heard before.

But by what peculiarity could this man have captivated me so?

Moussa's anthropoid appearance is only one half of his "true self." In our first encounter, he had, from the waist down, the body of a horse, not unlike the centaurs of our ancient Greece and Rome. In a moment, his equine body disappeared before my eyes, replaced with two perfectly unassuming (and fully clad, might I add) human legs.

Astounded, I inquired about the nature of his transformation, and he explained that it is an ability all individuals of his race are born with. He referred to his race with a shrill and guttural sound that may best be transcribed as "hrihriwa" - the name puts one in mind of a horse's whinnying.

Tomorrow I shall ask him to model for me in his preferred centaurine form.

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

6th of November, 1792 (Year 436 Post-Tower)

609th day in this world

Moussa graciously posed for me long enough to sketch his portrait. When I inquired about his braids, he explained that they are a devotional in nature; that his society forbids haircuts and employ protective braids to minimize damage to the hair. I felt it impolite to ask about his cropped forelock.

Moussa and Zélie appear pious. At sunset and sunrise I could not help but observe them engaged in an hour-long ritual, though I averted my gaze to grant them privacy as best I could.

Both travelers are friendly, but incurious. So far, they have only asked me my name, where I come from, and my destination. I explained to the best of my ability, but their expressions told me that they take me for a lunatic, like every other person in this world. I know I am not mad. Everyone's ignorance of the mechanism of my arrival to this world will not convince me that I am mad, nor will I give up my quest to return to England.

Seated by the evening fire, I could not stay my curiosity any longer and requested that Moussa demonstrate his transformational skills. He seemed amused by my curiosity, but transformed his hand into a strange mixture of horse and man, which I gratefully sketched. Having never met another shapeshifter like him, and his apparent opinion that bodily transformation is mundane, I must assume that his people's rarity is caused by isolation, rather than simple scarcity. He confirmed that this is his first time away from his homeland in his 25 years of life, though, when pressed, he staunchly refused to explain the location of said homeland.

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

9th of November, 1792 (Year 436 Post-Tower)

612th day in this world

Today's travel was particularly strenuous as we were forced to cross over a rocky ridge. Moussa seemingly prefers to be fully equine for exercises of this nature, and I was delighted to see that his mane is identical in style and color to his human hair - perhaps this is a clue to his people's religiosity.

Halfway up the ridge, we held a quick rest. Moussa asked Zélie for a waterskin (for of course he can talk in his equine shape) and, rather than change to a more anthropoid form, he simply willed two arms to extend from his neck. I had to sketch it from memory, as my journal was tucked away at the time. Take note of the shirt sleeve seemingly growing out of his horsehide. I admit that scientific curiosity gave way to revulsion for a brief moment. I should very much like to vivisect him, but alas, I enjoy his company too much.

But oh, I am a fool! Let this be a lesson not to sketch life from memory: Moussa's braids were tied by their fibulae rings at the time of the transformation. However, as of sketching this, they are untied - something he does every evening.

Another evening habit of his is to exchange his human legs for horse legs and meticulously clean the hooves. Whether this is a part of his ritual, or simple practicality, I do not know.

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

10th of November, 1792 (Year 436 Post-Tower)

613th day in this world

I asked Moussa to show me the queerest form he could muster, and he produced the following shape, which I must admit I was too taken aback to sketch in the moment. It was nauseating. Curiously, when one head spoke, the other joined in, and they produced two voices in perfect unison. This appeared to be an involuntary effect.

Perhaps with time I will get used to these unnatural therianthropic permutations and gain the fortitude to create live sketches.

[histoires-en-bouteille]

I can't sleep.

I think something is about to happen. Something really wrong. I can't explain it to myself, but I just know it. Deep in my guts, I know it.

I feel like every step we take brings us closer to the end, somehow.

We're about a day away from Alcura. We've mostly met passive creatures, the kind that run away when they see you. Sometimes they stare, long enough to give you the creeps.

There's always one that stares for too long. One that makes you feel like you're their prey, their object of curiosity. You never know how they think, you just know they stare. You see their eyes, so big, so dead, and you could swear there's something behind those fucking eyes.

Ava doesn't say anything. Me neither. We haven't talked in...I think we haven't talked in a week, at least. Sometimes shit go wild between us.

It's back. Staring again. Fuck, that thing is seriously creeping the fuck out of me. Ava is sleeping. Usually she would stare back until it would leave.

I can't do that. I'm not superstitious, I know Ava always says I am, I'm not, but you know what they say about those who stare back? They always get snapped from the sides. So busy looking straight into the dead eyes in front of them, they get too caught up in the moment and forget to watch their sides. That's how Big Grum got torn to shred.

I'll keep a side-eye on that thing. I feel like it's been following us, but I'm not sure. But it's been days and I can't sleep. I can't fucking sleep because whenever I close my eyes I feel my heart...I fucking feel that... that presence.

Mami used to tell us that if we feel a presence, we must keep our eyes open, because if we close our eyes, they'll be right there when we open them again.

Right here, in front of us, staring and grinning.

I should really shut up. Writing these things only makes me feel worse. There's no way I'll be sleeping tonight. No fucking way.

I just hope we can reach Alcura tomorrow. I don't feel like being outside with Dead Eyes any longer.

_

Extract from Todd's Journal. - Dead Eyes.

_

Notes from transcriber:

The extract was entitled "Dead Eyes" as a reference to the nickname given to the creature observed by Todd and Ava on their first trip to Alcura. The emphasis on the eyes of the creature became the focus of scholars curiosity, as well as an object of controversies. Dead Eyes has indeed been suspected of being █ █████████ ███████████ ████ ████ ██ ████████ █████ ██ █████████ ████ ███ ███'█ ██████████. (What's Behind The Eyes?, 150-163) ███████████ ████ ██████ ████ ██████ ██████ ██ ██████ ███ ██████, ███ ███ ██ ███ ████ ████ ██ ███ ████████ ██████████. (Archives of Security Register)

Dead Eyes became a recurring image in Todd's journal, and could be found from page 25 to 53, a section of the journal which corresponded to their second trip to Alcura. It also marked the disappearance of Dead Eyes's physical presence - though one can argue that Dead Eyes remained omnipresent in Todd's retelling of their travels, as defended by Elina Baker in Dead Eyes: The Haunting of A Presence (Baker, 23)

Todd often wrote about local beliefs and superstitions, as well as myths and stories he (and Ava) grew up with. The story of Big Grum - accessible on the online version of ARKives (ARKives, Formative Tales) - is what scholars commonly define as a "formative tale" for children, providing them with "life lessons and warnings related to the real life conditions and habits of [their] natal village[s]". (Dictiocon Online)

Todd briefly mentioned an altercation between Ava and himself. He gave no details whatsoever on the matter, but did say that "Sometimes shit go wild between [them]," proving the reccuring arguments they would have while travelling. In another extract entitled Home, Todd wrote about a violent altercation which led both parties to not talk to each other for more than three weeks. He also confided in his journal of this fight being "the worst [they] ever had" and explained how "miserable" it made him feel. (Home, 84)

_

@chaoticvampirejedi @m-o-o-n-s-g-o-o-n-s

[mahikamihan]

Hello!

Firstly, although I watch basically every crunchcraft stream, sometimes I miss details especially if multiple people are streaming at once, but I'll try my best and maybe have a look at the VODs tomorrow (which I am very happy to do btw)(and I haven't been able to watch any of Miyoungs solo stuff really because she streams too late for me TT ^ TT )

Ok so, I think we're on the same page with the pets- I don't think she ever gave them names- especially the llamas and her parrots- but i'll double check. I didn't watch when she got the cats so idk about that either.

Foolish has visited the deep dark (in the mine near his boat) a couple of times, and came across another portion of it when adventuring with Miyoung and Karl more recently.) But the first time he came across it was when mining for resources with Tina a couple of days after Karl joined- so significantly after his first death. I would agree that he is definitely more careful while in caves now, especially because he knows very little about the deep dark. However, he is very steadfast and curious by nature so he has been taking more risks. Besides just being curious and a bit stubborn, I think his persistance to mine and explore unsafe areas comes from him identifying his role (at least until sam started the iron farm) as the provider for the server- being the most competent minecrafter- risking his life in the pursuit of vital resources to ensure the future safety of his friends, e.g Iron armour for Tina.

The boys are really dedicated to the One Piece bit LMAO, so I predicted with Sykkuno being a marine it would create new tensions. In One Piece, even though there is competition and often battles between pirate crews to claim the title of king of the pirates etc., there is a common enemy in and unspoken alliance against the Marines (who are basically the government/ military) who want to take down all pirates. Therefore, in that way there could still be a significant and central rivalry between pirates like Karl and Foolish, while they acknowledge a wider issue in the common enemy of the marines aiming to stop them both.

Also yes, transcribing Karls book was a lot, but top tip, I figured out that (if you are on laptop/pc at least) you can screenshot/ clip the image of the page from the stream and then input it into a browser image to text converter, that made it a lot quicker.

Hope this helped!

I love talking Crunchcraft and I think sort of unintentional lore is so much more fun to make headcanons and interpret stuff from

I'll check in on ur blog so feel free to ask anything else- or if u just make a post about something I might send an ask with my take/ adding stuff if you'd like

-🦀

omg you don't have to look thru the vods if you're too busy! I'm just naturally curious about the little details 😅 (and yeah, miyoung streams late, it was a pretty dry of streams this morning, so I thankfully got a chance to catch up on some of Miyoung's and Tina's vods while at work)

i go on a pretty looooonnnngg discussion below the line, be warned! (hope you don't mind, I am just in such an inspired mood)

glad to know im not the only one having a hard time with the pet names :') I only knew of muffin bc Tina mentions her when she was talking to miyoung in one of her late night streams, and she got the cats from karl/foolish's streams when they were coming back from adventuring i think? idk if she ever picked names for the parrots/llamas, and she usually mentions them offhandedly in her streams so they're a blink or you'll miss it kind of thing compared to foolish and karl

it's actually SOOOO interesting that they found the deep dark after Foolish's first death, like, especially pretty early on when the revival system was placed! I kinda had a lore-y headcanon similarly that he was pretty level-headed leader and explorer, only much more rebellious and stubborn headed when he first joined the server. Through his first death, he has had this little anxiety that he carries with him about caves and unforeseen dangers now. He get very protective and afraid for his friends when they go in the dark, mining and such (I like a little angst sprinkled here and there). And he make judgements and analyses of other's first deaths as well in order to better himself (the vod reviews). I think crunchcraft!Foosh really understood the weight of his death bc through his hubris (love for treasure and recklessness), he left tina in a dangerous cave alone without a way to safely navigate back home that basically sparked this whole death tax and revival fees. Like imagine having a friend so so integral to your survival and well-being you bend the rules of the universe/server to just have them back. That's some fucking poetry like,,,, what in the accidental characterization that's just ... 🤌*chef's kiss*🤌

:O aaah! i'm so relieved you know one piece bc I would have never gotten that reference! ever! I hope they go through with it in their RP-ing, even a little bit, I would love love love to see it happen and the chaos that would ensue. esp if sykkuno is the opposing force sldklsdk *side eyes his first time meeting rae on mc he blowed her up accidentally*

omg the book thing is genius, im stealing that method now hehehe XD i was typing as i watch the entire time! ;-; i was about to quit thank god he only went up to 18 pages in mc

feel free to check in here every now and then, i think i might engage with more crunchcraft lore knowing that people are getting interested and looking forward to them now and again. I have like, one drabble for miyoung's first day on my queue ready to post and working on foolish's and maybe karl's first days as well. it's suuuuuper fun thinking about how they would be interpreted story/plot-wise!

[gardensandtaverns]

Dev Journal: Day 2

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised to see some attention already on my post yesterday, and it makes me happy to see some people who are already interested. So I’ll start by saying thanks for the support!

Before I go over the developments of today, I guess it’s worth saying exactly how much time is going into this daily. My routine is getting to my desk at 9am, teaching myself Unity and C# through to about 1:30pm, taking about 40 minutes for lunch, and then Creation Kit from the end of my lunch to about 5pm, maybe 6pm on days that I don’t have anything going on in the evenings. Once I’m done with the Creation kit work for the day, I write, so that I can take screencaps without needing to restart my work environment from earlier that day.

So with about 3 hours of work today, what got done? The full structure is built! There’s no glaring holes into the void, though I did notice that a couple of my tiles are placed a few pixels into another, causing some graphical twitching, but that’s okay, and it’ll get fixed tomorrow while I go about furnishing. I also took the time to place a couple of detail items around, but honestly my brain is fried at this point so I’ll probably go back and do it again later. The only negative result from today is that the two-tier library isn’t going to work with the existing textures, but that’s alright.

So what am I going to show you today? Well... everything. All of the rooms in their minimal state, and maybe I’ll write a brief blurb on the context of each of them and changes I noted to make for myself as I was walking around in demo mode. If you ride it out to the end, there’s a little bit of Skyrim trivia for you too!

The scriptorium will be the main vestibule of this construction. In its finished product, the center of the room will be filled with bookshelves in a classic record-stack format, while desks will line the walls for scribes and researchers alike to study, transcribe, and dispute the works contained in the Vault’s extensive library. While this place has long fallen into disrepair, more magical works like spell tomes, scrolls, or books of particularly important and interesting lore may still litter the desks and shelves of this room. I need to reorient a handful of tiles in this room to remove a couple overlaps, but otherwise it just needs to be detailed.

The laboratory may be a small space, but it was designed that way so the use of the space for long-term experiments was discouraged. The vault was not built to accommodate travelers for weeks on end, but to house them for a few days while they performed their research to take home to their own labs. Of course, some of the librarians held private experiments and studies that were more involved and time-consuming.

Opposite the lab are a handful of quiet cells, used by guests for sleeping accommodations or personal study. The northwestern cell is a communal bedchamber for the librarians, as well as a small section of the room used for the repair of degrading or damaged tomes. During my walkthrough I felt as though the guest cells, and perhaps even the resident cell, were a bit too large, so I may use different closing tiles for the far walls tomorrow before I start furnishing, or make the decision after I’ve furnished one. Also all of these cells still need doors.

This shot is taken from the opposite side of the Special Collections door, where few individuals were permitted. The entrance is off down the left fork of the hall, and to our back will be a reading area for these reserved or restricted titles. Down the corridor lies one more chamber where the head scribe was conducting some interesting research into... well, now, I can’t give everything away, can I?

I suppose that covers everything for today! Tomorrow likely won’t be as long-winded, nor have so many pictures, but I hope you’ll continue to enjoy it regardless. Now, I made a promise of trivia. It’s something I learned today while testing.

Did you know that the standard character in Skyrim, if you were to travel to another map location via the coc command from the main menu instead of loading/beginning a save, is a Nord with iron armor, an iron shield, the iron one-handed weapons, a longbow, and iron arrows - much like the promotional character from the trailers all those years ago? It also means those pesky Imperials took the armor off your back when you got caught up in that ambush. Just another reason to side with the Stormcloaks, I guess.

[microsuedemouse]

it turns out that I actually kinda remember how to draw?? (please kindly ignore the janky proportions in the bottom image… I am. out of practice lmao. I love how their faces turned out, but his neck and their hands are weird, and her head might be too small? oogh.) I might try to mess around with my scanner and get a decent scan of this tomorrow, but in the meantime here's a hastily-edited photo.

back in uhhh, August? I started toying around with these new OCs, just kind of… for fun. I realised that I hadn’t created characters Just Because in literal years. every character had been for a Project. and I wanted someone just to play around with!

so, these two are Paz and Winnet. more rambles about them beneath the cut:

I’m starting to get Paz’s appearance down; Winnet’s still a little bit of a work in progress but I know more or less what I’m aiming for, at least. might end up darkening her hair colour... idk.

my starting point with these two was that I wanted to make a pair of super-squishy soft romantic characters - and specifically, I thought it'd be fun to design a couple with two very different aesthetics. annnd that eventually led me to Paz the (dorky) punk and Winnet the cottagecore/sort of mori girl-ish wheelchair user.

Paz is of Ashkenazi Jewish heritage, and pretty heavily into the punk/diy scene, as well as being really dedicated as an activist. he spends a lot of time volunteering, going to protests/demonstrations, or going to shows. he's also super protective of his trans little sister, and ever since she came out, he's made a point of learning a lot more about trans issues in particular. (he also makes sure to have a prominent pronouns patch on every one of his vests and jackets!) he's a severe hemophiliac, and as a result doesn't have any piercings (or tattoos), but he enjoys wearing other jewellery like the ear cuff you see above.

Winnet is very sweet and feminine in her style, and values her independence and a simple, happy lifestyle. she can walk, but mostly sticks with her wheelchair, as a variety of health problems make her unsteady on her feet and also inclined to fainting spells. she works remotely as a transcriber, and is close with Alfio, her elderly Italian neighbour (who also owns the laundromat downstairs from their apartments). he calls her paperotta, a term of endearment something like 'little duck' <3 she's an avid crocheter in her free time, and a slightly less avid knitter. she also has a service dog, but I haven't decided on any further details on that front haha

they're both in their early twenties, and absolutely, ass-over-teakettle in love with each other. both are easily flustered, though probably Paz moreso; they get embarrassed by one another pretty often. their fashion senses converge at 'plaid.' they're both really interested in learning more about one another's hobbies and interests and overall worlds - he loves learning about all her houseplants, and wearing things she crochets or knits for him, whether they go with his look or not. by the same token she starts learning to be more politically active with him (and he's very good at helping her make sure that her accessibility needs are taken care of at, say, protests, or other events), and absolutely adores the battle vest he makes for her, and eventually even starts going to shows with him. their music tastes are as different as their fashion choices, but they learn to love one another's favourites :)

[kinetic-elaboration]

June 13: Another Illness Update

I decided upon some reflection (taking a possibly-anxiety-related downturn last night and going to bed with a fever) to stay home from work another day. This was probably the objectively correct decision but also miserable. I am so bored. I don't feel so bad that I can just mindlessly watch tv and distract myself but I don't feel so well that I can just... be normal. I'm afraid of pushing myself. I'm afraid of thinking the wrong things. I'm afraid of eating the wrong things. My relationship to food is still really bad. Almost all food feels inherently wrong to me and I don't want to touch it but like I do still need to eat. I can't really tell the difference between hunger and aversion to food.

I woke up at 7, was up for a couple hours, then ended up going back to sleep for most of the day, didn't wake up until about 4. I've mostly just been watching TV, though I did a bit of transcribing work, which was a good distraction, and proved to me that I can probably handle going into the library tomorrow okay as long as I get there all right and no one bothers me too much. The fever won't quite leave me though.

I need to find good things to eat. It's always tough in the summer but this is like... there is a part of me that wonders if this is my body just yelling at me for eating badly in general. But I'm not sure what to course correct to. I need to go shopping and I'm trying to think of good things to put on the list. Like, what can I survive on that doesn't seem Wrong or Bad? I guess the good part is I do want stuff like apple sauce, fruit, berries--my cravings aren't for things that are inherently unhealthy it's just that I'm afraid I won't be eating enough if I never eat meat, fish, or carbs lol.

I wish I liked salads. Too bad lettuce is boring af. And all the berries I got at the store last time were suspicious and/or went bad really fast. I have some blueberries that might not be technically bad, maybe I can cook them and they could be like my main dish tomorrow... We'll see. I am so impatient. It's only been a few days and I'm like, just assuming I'll never feel better and this is just how I live now.

[chris-riviers]

Financial Independence

Today, we live in an age where you can get terminated/fired/let go/laid off, at any given time for any reason whatsoever, without a moment’s notice. To many of us count on that single source of income, and yes, I am included in that. We like to think our work-ethic makes us more appealing and therefore less likely to have this happen; but at the end of the day, we are just a number (don’t believe me, view your employee file, you will find an employee number). Everyone is always replaceable when it comes to work. I have, finally, started down the path to take back MY financial independence and have more security for myself and my family. I would like to help you find your way as well, you would be amazed at how much better you feel when you do.

          To take control of your financial independence, you NEED to have realization that tomorrow you can go to work, and your office has been cleared out, or you walk through the door and are escorted directly to your manager’s office for a letter of termination, if you’re lucky, and a box with your belongings in it and HOPE that they didn’t leave anything behind. If this is the case, I encourage you to go through the box thoroughly, this happened to me and I lost photos that I will NEVER be able to get back or replace… Thanks, ATOS! Once you realize that this COULD happen you, I implore you, during down time, after you get off, or before you go in, sit down and thing about what you enjoy doing and try to find ways to use that among other things to make some extra money!

          For example, I LOVE to write. Preferably, the actual, physical action of writing, but as I am typing more, it is getting better for me. Still, nothing replaces the feeling, the sounds and action of writing. However, I have found that while I love to write, it is challenging to find something to write about. What I tend to do is write reviews on Amazon, Ebay, Cheaper Than Dirt (where I get all my ammo needs now!), and other websites I typically make purchases and review products. This gets my opinion out there and helps others make a more informed decision. I especially like to write reviews for items that have none, this can be risky though, as there are a few reasons why the product may not have any. What I have come to find though, is bad products are MORE LIKELY to have reviews that the good products.

          Writing is a way to get a message out, to get a point across, to start a conversation about a topic you feel strongly about and what more recognition towards, and so much more. I have also found that these blogs about information and trying to help others is a lot easier for me to write than the ones where I am including an affiliate link, trying to earn a commission from them. I will continue to do both, but I prefer these so much more. If you haven’t guessed it already, writing is a decent way to earn extra income. Although, in today’s world, people would much rather watch a video. You can blog, ghost write, content create, copywrite, transcribe, and so much more! I would suggest starting some type of passive writing though, you can monetize this and as long as you are paying your bill (if you have a website) it will always be there! Then, every once in a while, pick up some type of writing gig, where you find someone wanting something written for them (that they are going to monetize) and save that money.

          Another way to earn a little passive income, is by designing things like shirts, caps, pants, mugs. You can pretty much find a way to design almost anything and sell it, some will be virtually free and just cost time, while some you may have to invest in yourself with first. My suggestion, start free! See if you have the desire to actually do this. Teespring, is actually a pretty cool like site that allows you to create your designs and put them on their items (clothing, accessories, purses, etc.) and while they get most of the money, you do get a bit. If you think about it, it is a great deal, you don’t have to manage ANY inventory, no billing or shipping, nothing. So, while you may at first think it’s a rip off, remember they are supplying the overhead. There is also Merch by Amazon, but if you are like me, you don’t trust them and all their legal bs, but it is another way.

          Finally, for this post, there is Youtube. I was one of those who thought I didn’t really have anything to offer. While that is still partially true… I have noticed that there are gaps in certain genres about certain things that I have searched specifically and was not able to really find, so I made some videos and posted about it. It’s a little awkward, talking to yourself essentially, but once you get over that it really isn’t that awful. I’m not one of those looking to get rich quick from it and posting nonsense, and I implore you to do the same. I mean seriously, I can’t be the only one who is tired or seeing tik-toks and reels of hookers shaking their boobs and butts. But that’s a topic for another time.

          There are so many different opportunities out there for you to start making some extra income. It will seem daunting at first, kind of like writing for me. I love doing it, but now that I am doing it “professionally” it kind of lost it’s luster with me. It’s more of a chore now instead of a pleasure. I will get back in a better habit of writing and posting though. I have 8 posts for DIY matters, and there could be more related to Financial Security; allow me to rephrase, there are definitely more, I just don’t know if I will be writing about them. If you’d like some more options/ideas to build YOUR financial security, please reach out to me and I would be more than happy to give you some more, as well as be a “soundboard” for you to bounce your ideas off.

[extasiswings]

you make my heart beat

I played myself...anyway, if you’re interested in the post that inspired this, it’s here, asking how I would write a forgotten first meeting + hospital AU.  Also on ao3 here.  Have about 2k of Buck and nurse!Eddie set between seasons 2 and 3. 

Eddie is at the reception desk reading a chart when a cup of coffee slides over the counter and settles by his forearm. He glances up—

“Usually it’s the doctors bringing me bribes, not the patients,” he says, a small smile curving his lips. “Last I checked, you didn’t have charts for me to transcribe for you—what’s this for then?”

Buck shrugs and leans forward, elbows on the counter.

“Who says it’s a bribe? I can’t just do something nice for my favorite nurse?”

Eddie closes the chart and picks up the cup—his eyes slip closed as espresso and cinnamon bursts across his tongue, and he barely holds back a groan—fuck, but it’s been a long shift.

“Thank you,” he replies. “Did I know you were coming in today?”

Buck shakes his head. “Last minute check-up. Got new scans on Monday—if everything looks good, Dr. Graves should clear me to take my recertification test.”

There’s a hopeful note in his tone even as Eddie catches the flicker of nervousness that passes through his eyes, and Eddie thinks about running into him a few months earlier, about I don’t know who I am without the uniform, and reaches out. His hand curves around Buck’s elbow where it rests on the counter—it makes his breathing go a little unsteady, touching Buck without the justification and distance provided by clinical professionalism, but the touch elicits a soft smile that does funny things to his heart, so Eddie can’t quite regret it either.

“That’s really great, Buck,” he says quietly. “I’m happy for you.”

One of the new residents comes around the corner and Eddie clears his throat as he pulls back his hand.

“I guess I know what the bribe was for then,” he teases, trying to push them back to their prior, lighthearted zone. “You just wanted me to do your work-up instead of Shirley.”

Buck laughs. “Can you blame me?” He asks. “She’s mean and her hands are always cold.”

“You complain that I’m mean all the time,” Eddie shoots back as he logs into the computer to check Buck in.

“Yeah, well, maybe I—” Buck cuts himself off and Eddie glances up in time to catch the flush darkening his cheeks. There are a lot of ways that sentence could end and all of them make his own face heat.

Maybe it’s silly—he’s an adult, he’s single, he gets flirted with all the time, even, or maybe especially by Buck, he shouldn’t get flustered. But it’s because it is Buck and not just any random patient or family member that he does. Because Eddie doesn’t know what he’s doing but he wants—

He busies himself grabbing a clipboard and a check-in form and clears his throat again before looking up.

“Come on, I’ll take you back.”

“Thanks, Eddie,” Buck replies, and his smile is back, the soft one. It’s only because Eddie’s distracted by it that he notices the way it twists into a grimace when Buck takes a step.

Eddie’s brow furrows. “You okay?”

Buck waves him off. “Fine, just—I’ve been training a lot so I can take my test as soon as I’m cleared. Must have pulled a muscle or something. Twinged a little is all.”

Eddie makes a note on the clipboard and Buck groans.

“No, come on—I pulled a muscle, I’m fine, you don’t have to write that down.”

“Maybe you pulled a muscle, maybe it’s nothing—regardless, Dr. Graves should know that you’re having leg pain just in case,” Eddie says. He pauses and narrows his eyes. “You weren’t going to tell him.”

“Because it’s nothing,” Buck insists. “Come on, Nurse Diaz, isn’t there some saying about hearing hoofbeats and thinking horses, not zebras?”

Eddie steers Buck down the hall to an exam room.

“Yeah, sure. I’ve heard it,” he replies.

“So?”

“So…” They step through the door and Eddie nods at the exam table before reaching for a blood pressure cuff. “There are a lot of very common things that could be causing pain in a limb that you’ve had multiple surgeries on, only one of which is that you pulled a muscle, and some of which could be serious. No zebras required. I’m not taking the note off the chart and you’re not going to lie when you get asked about it, okay?”

He fastens the cuff around Buck’s arm and presses a button to start the reading—he can’t help the way his lips twitch at Buck’s exasperated look.

“Little pressure,” he adds, and Buck rolls his eyes.

“I should have taken my chances with Shirley,” Buck grumbles.

“Yeah, well, if there’s a next time you can bring her coffee instead—I hear she likes hazelnut lattes.”

The cuff loosens, the monitor beeps. Eddie scribbles down the number. It’s a little high—Eddie glances over, takes in the tension in Buck’s shoulders, and bites his cheek.

“It’ll be okay,” he says, even though he usually tries to avoid promising patients anything. “Best case, they run a few more scans and waste a couple hours of your afternoon to find out that you’re right and perfectly fine. Worst case, something’s wrong and they catch it now and fix it and you’re still on track to get back to work, just maybe a couple weeks later than you planned.”

“It’s already been five months,” Buck sighs, his fingers raking through his hair.

“I know it’s frustrating—”

“How’s Christopher?” Buck interrupts, and Eddie levels him with a sharp look for the obvious deflection, but allows the subject change as he logs into the exam room computer.

“He’s good,” he replies. “Great, actually. Keeps asking about you—he, uh, he had a really great time the other day, even if it was just hanging around here. I can’t thank you enough for watching him.”

It’s not something Eddie normally would have done at all, but his abuela had a fall, Pepa had to go back to work, he couldn’t take off because they were already short-staffed with three other nurses out with the flu—

And Buck had just…been there. Finished with his physical therapy and offering to stick around so Eddie could finish his shift, all smiles and no judgment, and after five months…well, they’re something like friends, right? They're...something, anyway.

“He’s an amazing kid, and it was the best day I’ve had in…awhile, actually,” Buck admits. “You really don’t have to keep thanking me. I would do it again any time.”

I do, though, Eddie thinks, but he bites it back. He bites back, I’d like that, too.

He finishes filling in the intake information and steps back.

“You should be all set. The doctor will be in any minute.” He pauses before he reaches the door. Swallows.

“Find me after?” He asks. “Let me know how it goes? I’m on until four.”

“I’ll find you,” Buck promises. “Have to say I told you so when it turns out I just pulled a muscle.”

“I’ll be glad to hear it,” Eddie replies. He gets one more smile to sustain him before he walks out, leaving Buck behind.

He’ll see Buck later.

Except…he doesn’t. The rest of his shift passes without another sign of the other man and the gnawing worry in his gut worsens. The exam room is empty when he checks, he doesn’t have any new pages or texts—it would be easy to pull Buck’s chart and find out if something happened, but that feels like it would cross a line when it’s not strictly necessary—

He shoots off a text of his own, but there’s still no reply by the time he’s showered and changed out of his scrubs.

It’s happenstance that he runs into Dr. Graves’ favorite resident outside the locker room.

“Hey, Cassie—Graves had a patient today, Evan Buckley? I did the intake, and I was wondering—”

“Oh, he was admitted,” she says. “Room 312, I think.”

Eddie’s stomach drops. Sometimes he hates being right.

“Thanks,” he says faintly. She gives him a distracted hum, preoccupied by responding to a text, and Eddie heads to the elevators.

“Hey,” he greets a few minutes later, leaning against the doorway in Buck’s room. His hands are shoved in his pockets and he’s not entirely sure whether to cross the threshold.

Buck looks…tired. Frustrated. Upset. Raw. He tries to cover it when he sees Eddie, but it doesn’t fully work.

Eddie’s heart aches.

“Blood clots,” Buck sighs with a rueful shrug. “On the screws in my leg. They said it was lucky they caught it before one broke off and traveled anywhere, or it could have killed me. Guess you saved my life, Nurse Diaz.”

“Well…” Eddie weighs his hesitation against his desire to be closer and ultimately pushes off the doorframe to step inside. “You are my favorite patient. Who else is going to bring me coffee if you died?”

“Oh, I’m sure a lot of people would be more than happy to do that,” Buck replies. “I’m picturing a line around the block here.”

Eddie settles into the chair next to the bed.

“I think you’re vastly overestimating there, but—” Eddie wets his lips as he meets Buck’s gaze. Fuck, he’s not good at this, but he would do just about anything to bring Buck’s smile back. “—but, for whatever it’s worth, I wouldn’t want anyone else to.”

“Because I’m your favorite patient?” The look in Buck’s eyes is hopeful but wary, the kind of look that says despite his easy flirtations, he’s been burned before and expects to be again. And maybe it’s that honest vulnerability that finally unsticks Eddie’s tongue because when he opens his mouth to respond, what comes out is—

“You’re not just a patient, Buck. Not to me. You have to know that.”

“Do I?”

The skepticism feels like a challenge and Eddie rises to it by leaning in—he slides his fingers into Buck’s hair and closes the gap, kissing him once, twice, as Buck makes a startled sound against his lips and curls his own fingers into Eddie’s shirt to kiss him back.

“I don’t do that with just anyone,” Eddie breathes when he pulls back. “And I definitely don’t let them meet my son. Clear enough?”

Buck clears his throat, and nods, flushed and a little dazed in a way that makes Eddie bite back a grin.

“Speaking of, I have to go pick him up, but…” Eddie steals another kiss. “I’ll come see you tomorrow? And maybe we can…talk about this a little more?”

“I’d like that,” Buck admits. “And—Eddie—I—” His throat works as he swallows.

“Thank you,” he says finally. “For not letting me brush it off.”

Eddie’s thumb rubs against the edge of Buck’s jaw before he finally drops his hand.

“I care about you. Part of that means wanting to see you care about yourself,” he replies. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

Buck looks like he might argue with that, but ultimately just tugs Eddie in for one final kiss before releasing him.

“Tell Christopher I said hi.”

“I will.”

[toomanyrobins]

October

Summary: Clint Barton, college football star, has a new interest: Y/N Y/L/N. But with her father gone all of the time, a younger brother, and going to college, Y/N has no time for dating. Will Clint get the yes, or will life get in the way?

Pairing: Clint Barton x Reader

Content warning: nothing really yet, occasional cursing, mentions of drinking and sex later

Word Count: 1.9k

Y/N Y/L/N was sitting outside in the quad with her best friend and roommate, Nat, between classes when her phone rang. She dug it out of her bag and answered. Her brother’s school was calling to tell her that Asher was sick. Y/N cursed, she knew the stomach bug was going around and it was going to be a crappy next few days. She asked Nat to send her the notes for the lectures before rushing to her car. In the parking lot, she was digging around trying to find her keys in her purse. She heard her name called and saw Clint Barton and his friends standing around by their cars. He jogged up to her and she could see over his shoulder that they were all watching them. “Where you going?”

Y/N was confused why Clint was talking to her. She rolled her eyes internally at the invasive question. The football team was notorious at their college and she didn’t have time to be one of their flavors of the month. “Places.”

He leaned against the car door, “Are purposefully secretive or does it come naturally?”

“Oh, I’m all natural, Barton,” Y/N jerked on the door handle, knocking him off balance. “Now I have to go. My brother is sick and I have to pick her up.”

“But it’s the middle of the day. Don’t you have class?”

She took a deep breath to keep herself calm. It wasn’t Clint’s fault she felt this way, she was just stressed about Asher, “Look I’m sorry. I wish I had the time to make idle conversation while you decide whether I'm worth sleeping with. But, I don’t. I have a sick kid to get to.” Y/N threw her stuff in the car and peeled out of the school.

Clint walked back over to his friends who had watched the exchange take place. “She looks like your number one fan,” Sam said, laughing at him.

“Oh fuck off. She’s just busy.”

“Looked like she couldn’t wait to get away from you.

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

In the three days since she’d got the call, Y/N’s life had been sniffles, cuddles, and soup. Just as she had predicted, a sickly five year old was exhausting for any parent, but for a 20-year-old it was beyond overwhelming. Y/N had just planted him in front of the TV when she heard a knock at the door. She swung it open and was greeted by a familiar face, “Mrs. Barnes! What are you doing here?”

“I’ve told you before, call me Winnie!” She held up a dish, “Anyway, I heard about Asher and thought I’d bring dinner by. This stomach bug has been going around and Rebecca had it last week.”

“Oh, that’s so nice of you. It’s been a hectic three days.”

“Have you called your father, dear?”

Y/N nodded, “I left a message with his assistant, but by the time he got back here they’d be on the mend. I’m almost certain I’ll send them back to school tomorrow.”

“Well, I have to get going anyway and pick up Becca. I’ll see you at the Halloween parade next week?” Y/N nodded and closed the door.

Winnie Barnes was her savior. A single mother who had taken pity on Y/N over a year ago. Three years ago, after another nanny had quit, Y/N had started taking care of her two younger siblings. Her father was rarely home and the women he had impregnated had no interest in raising children. This combination led to a 17-year-old raising a three and four year old all on her own. Last year, Winnie had befriended Y/N and since then she tried her best to offer support. Y/N refused to talk about her father’s absence, but they both knew her father was rarely home. Thankfully, Winnie’s magic had worked again and the next day, both kids were feeling much better and life could return to normal.

Y/N was sitting outside of a coffee shop on campus, the autumn sun warming her. She was transcribing all of the notes she had missed last week, when the chair opposite her became occupied by Clint Barton. He smiled at her, “There’s a party tonight. You should come.”

Y/N barely spared him a glance, keeping her eyes on the paper, “Thanks, but I can’t. I have plans.”

“Plans? What kind of plans?”

She weighed her options and decided that there was only one way to get him to leave her alone, “A date.”

“You have a date?”

Y/N sighed and shut her notebook. “Don’t sound so surprised, Barton, or I’ll think I should be insulted.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. You just don’t seem like the type to casually date is all.” Y/N sighed and closed her notebook. She crossed her arms and just stared at him. “Is there something on my face.”

“No, I’m just trying to figure out what it is about you. You’re so annoying and yet, I don’t have the urge to throw my coffee in your lap.”

“Let’s call that my charm,” the boyish grin that he gave her made her laugh. “Now, why did you reject me last week? I'm obviously not repulsive to you.”

“Reject you? What was there to reject? I don’t remember anything being asked.”

Clint glared playfully at her, “Don’t play stupid, it doesn’t work for you. You know what I was trying to do.”

“Look, Clint, you’re right. I did know what you were trying to do. You’re cute, but I have two young siblings and I’m the only parent they know of.”

“You think I’m cute?”

Y/N laughed, “Of course, that’s what you get out of it.”

Clint smiled at her again, “I hear you, though. I’ll back off, but just know I’m not giving up.” He pushed his chair back and started to walk away, but turned back around, “By the way, you didn’t actually say no.”

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

Clint was in the kitchen with Bucky talking about the party that night. Becca, Bucky’s younger sister, came running into the room, “You can’t go to a party! My Halloween Parade is tonight! You guys promised you would come!”

He crouched down, “How about we go to your show and then the party after. Deal?” He held out his pinky. Becca surveyed him for a second and then held out her finger in agreement. That night, when they got to the school, Winnie was immediately pulled in by friends. Parents chatted away, occasionally asking him and Bucky how their second year of college was going and how working at Stark Industries was. He noticed the woman next to him kept looking around and leaned over, “What are you looking for Mama Win?”

“This lovely girl, Y/N.” Clint perked up at the name, “She’s around your age and usually is at these things. I saw her younger brother, but not her. Oh wait, there she is!” Winnie waved over to the teenager.

Y/N smiled and greeted her, “Sorry, I’m late. The joys of costume emergencies and five-year-olds. It’s a lethal combination.”

Winnie waved away her apologies, “Is your father here?” Y/N was quick to make excuses for her father. She had been doing it for years. The older woman nodded sympathetically, “Oh, well that’s too bad.”

“Yes, he was very disappointed to miss this.” Clint could tell that she was hiding something, but before anything also could be said, they were interrupted by a young boy running up.

“Y/N! Y/N! Carter spilled juice on my dress!”

His classmate plastered a smile on her face, even though Winnie and Clint knew that she was overwhelmed by the chaos, “It’ll be okay. I’ve got a change of clothes for you in my car.”

“Why don’t I take him to the bathroom and get him cleaned up while you run and grab the clothes,” Winnie offered.

Y/N looked relieved, “That would be great. Thank you,” she quickly started to leave the gym.

Clint jogged after her, “I thought you said you had a date tonight.”

“I do. At Pizza Charlie’s. It’s a tradition to take the kids after school events. Plus with trick-or-treating tomorrow, I just don’t have time for frat parties or hangovers.” They stopped in front of the car and Clint looked into the trunk. He saw that her car was made for kids. She had changes of clothes, toys, and snacks.

“This is your car?”

“Yeah,” Y/N was confused, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, it just looks like Winnie’s. You weren’t kidding when you told me that stuff earlier.”

“My dad’s pretty busy. So I spend a lot of time with my brother. You learn to be prepared. On another note, what are you doing at a kindergarten spring concert?”

Clint rubbed his neck and blushed, “Winnie’s like a mom to me and Becca is like a little sister. A very persuasive sister who has made it clear to Bucky and I that we are needed at every school event.”

Y/N laughed, “Oh yes, I am very familiar with the persuasiveness of five-year-olds. There is a reason we keep going to Pizza Charlie’s and it is not because I think the food is good.” The duo headed back inside and Y/N headed off to the bathroom, while Clint went back to Bucky.

“Dude, I can not wait to get out of here. People are sending videos of the party set-up and it looks awesome.”

“Yeah, I’m actually thinking of bailing tonight. Practice killed me.”

Bucky stared at the blonde. His blue eyes were like lazors, searching for the truth, “You’re going to Pizza Charlie’s with that Y/N girl aren’t you.”

Clint was so confused, “What the hell, man?”

“I’m psychic,” Bucky laughed at his friend’s face, “No, I’m messing with you. Mom told me she and Becca are going with them after. Figured you had hopped on in hopes of more time with Y/N.”

“You are a truly terrifying person sometimes.”

Winnie and Y/N came back with her sister and sat down with Bucky and Clint. After the concert had ended, Asher sat down on Y/N’s lap while everyone spoke. He looked up at Clint, “Are you Y/N’s boyfriend?”

Y/N choked on the candy she was eating as Bucky roared in laughter, “Ash, what the fuck?”

The little boy pointed at his sister, “That’s a dollar in the jar. And what, he kept staring at you!”

“You can’t just ask people that without some warning.”

“Okay, how do I warn them?”

Y/N was stammering for an answer and Clint decided to help her, “I’m not your sister’s boyfriend. I go to school with her.”

“Do you want to be her boyfriend?”

“Asher Y/L/N, what has gotten into you? Enough.”

The boy was pouting, “I heard Aunt Nat telling you that you needed a boyfriend and that you need to lie down or something. I don't know what laying down has to do with the boyfriend thing, but I thought I’d ask.

The situation was like something out of Y/N’s nightmares. Bucky was in tears from laughing, Clint was trying his best not to laugh, Winnie was trying to get Bucky under control and Y/N just stared at the ceiling, willing the universe to give her strength. Finally, she turned to Asher, “I will give you $5 to end this conversation and never bring it up again.”

“Deal!” Y/N slapped the bill into her brother’s hand and rubbed her temples.

[hobicomeholla29]

Cuff me if you can - Part 1 - KTH

Pairing: Dad! Street Racer! Taehyung x Judge! Reader

Genre: Fluff/ Slight angst/ Crack

Word Count:5k

Warnings: Mentions of domestic violence/ Cursing/ Mentions of bribing/ Probably incorrect use of legal terminology/ Incorrect legal procedure/ That’s all for this chapter. Oh! unedited!

Rating: PG13

A/N: Well hello again beautiful people! Thank you for taking the time to read this! This sieres are part of BTSghostie writer event for the month of september. Dynamite Dads!

Summary: Kim Taehyung and yourself, live your lives on the opposite side of each other. Yet that doesn’t mean that you can’t meet in the middle.

Masterlist

Getting out of your car, the cool morning breeze caressed what it could of your exposed skin. The walk from the parking lot to the courthouse wasn’t long, but the chills that ran through your body made it feel like it took a little over the usual 5 minutes.

The sun shined like every morning, yet today it felt different somehow.

Maybe it was wishful thinking, but it felt as if today would be the beginning of something new or different, and that was a lot to say for someone like you.

“Morning judge y/n!”

“Morning”

Your job placed you in a position where you were always in the eyes of criminals and felons that were either angry, moody, violent, sad or careless  ­—and any other word you can come up with, when thinking about wrongdoers who are finally facing the law­­— forcing you to try seeking for positivity in other aspects of your life.

 Since you were a child, you always had an itch that annoyed you every time you had to be in the presence of an unfair or unethical situation and couldn’t do anything about it.

 It is positive to say that you got it from your mother's strong moral views on righteousness, honesty, and integrity.

 And so a dream came up to you, a dream you had expressed to your parents at the tender age of 5 while watching cartoons one cold morning, your parents discussing the latest incident on that morning's newspaper on the other side of the room.

 "I want to put all those kwiminals in jail"

 There was something fulfilling about being able to help people get justice for the wrongs that were done to them, something about making the corrupt, nefarious, and unlawful pay. Your dream never wavered, the sole thought of what the future would hold made you buzz with excitement during your teenage years and still did now in your adulthood.

 It was present during your entire life, you weren't afraid of speaking up when a witness was needed in an unfair situation in school, whether you were putting yourself in a position against a classmate or a teacher, all that mattered was that the problem was solved in a fair manner.

 Yet, even though you kept steadfast loyalty towards your beliefs, it sometimes got you in trouble, as not everyone sees good in someone openly voicing their wrongdoings. Leading you to sometimes being labeled as a snitch —and no one wants to befriend a snitch—.

 Nevertheless, you pushed through, finally meeting people that shared your views in college.

 It was nice to be able to have a conversation with people with the same mentality and strong feelings towards justice as yourself —not saying that you didn't encounter people who were walking this path just for the money.

 And finally, after graduating from law school with two of your closest friends by your side, you decided it had been way too long of a peaceful ride for the evildoers and it was time to get with it.

 "Good morning Y/n!" A voice spoke loudly from behind you.

 "Morning Guk! How was your weekend?" It was always nice to see Jungkook 1st thing in the morning. For some reason, his cute bunny teeth always gave you life.

 Jungkook was one of your friends from college AKA best friend #1. He had the face of a baby with the wisdom of a 70-year-old man –who would have thought.

 His words towards you were always of encouragement or offerings of helping you with anything you needed –just like in college.

 He was methodical with his work, always studying his cases with a careful eye and with discipline. Some hated it, stating he took way too long to make final judgments, however, there wasn't a ruling that Jungkook had ever issued where the victim had been left to suffer the mischief without the guilty paying the price.

 "Pretty calm actually, taking into consideration that I had the Kang case on Sunday" The younger of your friends exhaled "That man has got to get a grip on his life, this is his 3rd showing" He made a pause as if bringing up some memories from the case, however, he quickly returned to the present "How was yours?"

 "It was quiet; abnormally so, thus my wild guess is that this week I'm going to be assigned as many cases as possible."

 "I know that feeling. The impending doom crawling towards you in the shape of Jimin dropping them on your desk."

 “Yep…” You sighed bracing yourself for the upcoming day.

 Briefly talking about other uninteresting subjects and your mundane lives –like, when was Seokjin going to invite both of you out for lunch— you both eventually parted ways to your own chambers.

 "Good morning Judge Y/n"

"Morning Jimin, you look refreshed!"

 Jimin —your perky judicial secretary— was the earthly version of an angel mixed with a dutiful fairy, you sometimes wondered how he even managed to hold up that 1,000-watt smile all day while dealing with you.

 You had been working together for 3 years now and every year they decided to rotate the secretaries, you prayed they wouldn't change him for someone else.

 "I am! Thanks for the days off, they really helped!"

"Don't mention it bubs. What do you have for me today?" You asked as your heels clicked on the tile making your way behind your large rectangular Victorian style oak desk, Jimin quickly trailing behind you with a stack of folders in his arms.

 "These four are for today and these four are for tomorrow" he said as he divided them into two groups in front of you. "I'll have the ones for Wednesday and Thursday ready by tomorrow" he concluded with a small nod and a smile of accomplishment on his plump lips.

 "Thanks, Jimin. What would I do without you?" you smiled up at the younger man, who smiled wider and turned to leave to his own desk a couple of feet away from yours.

 Finally, mentally prepared to start your day —after mindlessly scrolling through your phone for 20 minutes— you unlocked your computer and began reading through the files that Jimin had left on your desk labeled ‘Monday’.

 "Another asshole, who thought he could get away with a hit and run..." you muttered to yourself, as you reviewed the first case.

 The following trials were for a domestic violence case and 2 robberies.

After reviewing the files, you began transcribing some of the information on your computer, adding personal notes based on the evidence that had been collected for each case and saved it all for its intended use in the next 2 hours.

"Since no one likes a slacker, I might as well go through the ones for tomorrow as well."

As expected, there was another case of robbery, one for theft, a case for assault and last but not least a misdemeanor for street racing. 

After an hour of transcribing that called for a well-deserved break, you stretched your arms above your head, sighing softly as the tension was released.

 "Judge... would you like some tea? I'm on my way to the Cafe"

"Ugh Jimin, I love you, why are you so sweet, I'll come with." As you both picked up your belongings and were about to head out to the small cafe across the street, an unforeseen visitor arrived abruptly, startling both you and your secretary.

"Oh, so you're both slacking off now. I thought that was a Y/n thing?"

"I- No judge- we-" Poor Jimin couldn’t even complete a sentence, his mind still in a jumble as a result of the sudden barge into your chamber.

"Seokjin, shut up.” You cut your eyes at his comment. “We are going to the café. You either come with or move out of the way." You laughed a bit while pushing past your best friend #2, making your way out.

Oh, how lucky were you to be able to have them working near you.

 Back from the cafe and ready to face all cases for the day, you walk to your chamber accompanied by Jimin who helped you wear your black robe, both quickly headed to the courtroom for your first trial right after.

Monday had gone by smoothly; all cases being addressed as they should and all sentences set in place.

Tuesday was a better day, the morning had been less chilly than the day prior and you could read a bit before your hearings of the day, since you had proactively  reviewed the cases of today, yesterday.

After the third time hearing it today, a fourth was just unnecessary, however entering the courtroom for the fourth time on that day, you heard the bailiff announcing your arrival.

 “All rise. This court is now in session.” Shuffling could be heard, a sign of everyone in the room getting on their feet. “Honorable judge Y/n L/n Presiding.”

You took your seat and announced to everyone that they could do so too. You took the files that the bailiff handed you and began reading the case.

 “Good morning everyone. Today's hearing is for case 3476, the city vs Lee Simon, Kim Taehyung and Jean Reynolds” you announced.

 “Lee Simon, Kim Taehyung and Jean Reynolds, all three of them, age 26, accused of trespassing private property, injury of a third party and driving over the speed limit, while being timed against each other. All of it initiating from 25th avenue to Map of the Soul street.” You concluded.

“How do you plead?”

“Innocent” “Guilty” “Innocent”

 Internally, you wanted to laugh, but you knew your position required for you to remain serious and focused. It wasn’t the first time a group of friends split due to being involved in a situation they weren’t expected to be in, and it wouldn’t be the last.

 “Seeing that you have different views, let us review the information presented.”

Videos and pictures from street cameras were shown, as well as footed from a dash camera in a hidden police vehicle.

 “Evidence shown so far, seems to portray all three of you as guilty, and the witnesses are yet to come in, excluding the owner of the vehicle you crashed into while running against each other as well as the owner of the private property you drove through.”

 You watched all three of them carefully as you gave them a run through of how this case was going on for them. Two off them looked indifferent, like someone who has done it before, did it this time and will probably do so again.

A chance was soon to be given to all three of them to express why they believed they were innocent, however another piece of evidence was brought in.

“According to this report sent in about your record, you are all repeat offenders, meaning that your options are limited; paying for the legal fees and community service, paying for the legal fees and 1 year jail time or paying for the legal fees, suspension of your driver’s license, a fee of $10,000 and a possibility of impoundment of the motor vehicle used in the crime.”

 "I am going to admit I was there, but I did it for a specific reason, your honor."

"And what reason could that be?"

“Can I approach the bench?”

“Permission granted." The man in question slowly approached you, eyes never wavering from yours.

"I needed the money your honor. I have a daughter..."

"Says here, that you have been detained before and gave out the same reason, so why should we let you off easy Mr. Kim?"

 “So… there is no way we aren’t paying the legal fees -I take it?” the one with the tiger-like eyes spoke up, a small smile playing on his lips as he did so.

“No” the frown on your face was so pronounced, that no area was left for more of his attempt to banter.

“Do I get the easier outcomes if I plead guilty.”

“That’s a possibility...” Now you know why he pleaded guilty. He’s not new to this.

“I have a daughter your honor… I can’t go to jail” He said before you were able to add to your previous sentence.

“That’s for me to decide, however, can’t she stay with a family member?”

“She only has me…” his eyes turned gloomy as he directed his gaze to the floor Infront of you. Should you even trust that action. It could be staged for all you know.

It annoyed you the way how the immediate mention of a child felt like a tool he was using to soften the blow of your possible verdict. However, it still got under your skin and you felt your hard-exterior crumble, allowing your feelings to take over and think about the poor child that would have to deal with an uncomfortable situation.

“How old is your daughter Mr. Kim?”

“four” His demeanor changed entirely the moment he found more time to speak about the hypothetical child he had.

“Who is she with at the moment?”

“A friend”

“Everyone back to their seats…”

You were so predictable. Jungkook would have never softened for something like that.

He would have given him 2 years in jail, taken his car, taken his driver’s license and custody of the child as well, for not being a suitable parent. But no, you had to be like Seokjin, soft hearted and taking people’s feelings into consideration. Bleh.

 “Based on the evidence collected. I am ready to provide a verdict for this case. Lee Simon and Jean Reynolds you are sentenced to serve 6 months of county jail time, pay a fine of $5,000 plus all legal fees and your license will be suspended for 6 months. Kim Taehyung, you are sentenced to a fine of $3,000, suspension of your driver’s license for 6 months, paying the legal fees and community service for 6 months.” You stated re arranging the documentation on your desk and setting them aside.

“Please take them. Mr. Kim shall be escorted to the officer’s department in order to have his rules set in place.”

“Thank you.” A voice said to you right after. You didn’t have to turn to know it was Kim Taehyung, however you did so. He was flashing you a large square smile. It wasn't 1,000 watts like Jimin’s but it was still warm and different, even a bit playful if you looked at it for long.

“That daughter of yours better be real.” You muttered before collecting the final documentation and exiting the room.

But not before hearing.

“Didn’t know they had such pretty judges in here, I should get arrested more often.”

You should have put him in jail. Or maybe not.

It’s funny how you haven’t been able to get your mind to stop remembering his cheeky squared smile and that aura of a playful child in a large man. It's been 2 weeks now.

Yet you can’t forget him walking up into your courtroom with all that confidence, as if he owned the place.

“Ugh”

“Everything ok?”

You gasped loudly, not having heard Jimin enter the chamber as you mindlessly rolled your mouse around and thought about the man who you sentenced to community service a couple of weeks ago.

“You nearly killed me Jimin!” you voiced a little louder than you should have, the fright still showing in your tone.

“I'm sorry" poor kid, all he did was be nice all day.

“You're fine, I just didn’t hear you come in” you answered, returning to aimlessly move your mouse and stare at the open word document on your computer screen.

“Oh! I see. Well in your favor, I was trying to be quiet. Anyways, what are you doing here so early judge y/n?” leave it to Jimin to always worry about others.

“I thought I could… focus on something else by working a little, but the chambers triggered my distractions even more…” You tried internally to not bring it up, but you knew you had to tell someone about it.

About the fact that maybe you might have an itty-bitty tiny crush on a man you barely saw for a span of 40 minutes and convicted for a crime. You are so lame.

Jimin moved around his desk -you assumed- arranging all of his documents for the day and bring his computer to life.

“and what is it?” he asked you after a couple of minutes of comfortable silence.

“What is what?”

“The distraction that's caught your attention, what is it?” his eyes stared at you widely, they looked so earnest and kind. Just wanting to help you with whatever inconvenience you were having.

“Um… well… you’ll probably think it's dumb"

“I promise I won't” he answered so fast, it felt like he was expecting you to decline opening up to him.

“Well…. I… kinda-have-a-small-crush-on-a-man-I-barely-know-and-could-be-a-scofflaw.”

Your sentence had come out abruptly and in such a rapid fire, that you could see the cogs turning in Jimin’s head as he connected all the things you had said and laced them together.

“Did you just say scofflaw?”

“Is that all you caught from my sentence?” flabbergasted, that's what you were with his reaction.

“No, but… really? scofflaw? Not even judge Harry who's 78 uses that term anymore.”

“Not the point Jimin…" frustrated at the weird turn the conversation had taken, you pinched your nose bridge, trying to figure out the young man's train of thought .

“Ok, ok. But is it one of the guys from a couple of weeks ago. The street racer ones?”

“How do you-"

“Eva from the reception said that, Joyce from finance told her that, Hyerin from chamber 5, saw them being called in on their hearing day and that they were all —her words, not mine— as hot as a super-sized bag of flamin hot Cheetos.”

 Now that’s stuck in your mind. Jimin was definitely not helping.

 “Curse you, procrastination!”

 Grocery shopping should have been done weeks ago. But you were tired, and sleepy and distracted and everything in between that could keep you from doing the boring task that  buying your own food was.

 Walking through the aisles in the grocery store, you could hear a little girl talking her —probably parent's— ear off.

 Not paying too much attention to her, you were barely able to catch a couple of words here and there as you walked around picking up what you needed.

 "Fishies would be a good pet because I can't hu't it if I hug it awound his house"

"Why can't I see my own eyes?"

"Can we get vanilla this time, stwabewies we'e yuck!"

"How do clouds float? Why don't they fall?"

"Look! Look! A toy!"

 She sounded so excited and the little lisp with her R's was the cutest, you thought.

 You were almost done with your list, only missing some meat or poultry and a pound of potatoes, —'cause you've been craving gratin potatoes for a while and you were done living a life without them.

 Making your way to the missing items, you could once again hear a conversation going on between the little girl and the other person, but this time the adult with her spoke. It was a grave voice, very deep and somewhat familiar, yet not enough to put a face to it.

 "You are not having a pet, until you understand the responsibilities that come with taking care of an animal" The voice answered the little girl sternly. You could imagine the man's face voided of any emotion and trying to maintain a serious visage. Probably trying to teach his daughter a lesson.

Again, the voice sounded familiar, giving you a tingling sensation in the back of your mind. However, in your distraction, the links that attempted to connect in your mind remained ignored.

 You continued rolling your cart, hastily turning around each corner; ready to pick up what you were missing and bolt home to make the delicious meal you have been craving for.

 However, you were suddenly stopped by another cart that crashed right into yours as they rushed towards you from around the corner.

 "Oof, My bad" - "Oh no! I'm so sorry!"

 You both said in unison.

 “Oh...” Came the immediate reaction from both of you, as you noticed who the person you had bumped into was.

 "So, the whole you having a daughter wasn’t a lie after all"

 "You offend me your honor." Was his reply as he chuckled a bit to himself "But I guess I am not a good example of what a decent human or father should be like..."

 "Oh Hush! We all make mistakes. Even some that land us in Jury or court" You giggled a little trying to soften whatever thought had him thinking he was the worst human ever to walk on this earth.

 Of course, he had made a mistake —a couple of them at that—   but it wasn’t murder, and he was attempting to make an income for his family.

 "What's her name?" You asked him as you both watched her eyeing the fish tank you assumed she saw the fish at before.

 "Yoonah. But she prefers to be called Nah-Nah" His voice mellowed. You looked at him with a smirk on your face, but all you got was the sight of a man watching his daughter with the fondest of gazes. So much love could be found in his eyes, he was proud and filled with warmth. The small smiled that decorated his features said it all.

 “Is she your only daughter?”

 Your question brought him back to the present.

 “Oh, yeah – she is” Was his curt answer. The tone he used made you feel a bit guilty, as if you were way too into his business, so you decided to cut it short.

 “Well it was nice meeting you outside of court Mr. Kim –and little miss Yoonah as well.” Were your final words as you waved your hand swiftly and left to finish your shopping, missing entirely the smile that graced his lips when he heard you address his little girl.

 For some reason, you hoped to see them one more time before you left the store, just to make sure they were ok —even though there was nothing dangerous at a grocery store.

 --

After so much fussing and so many tantrums, Kim Taehyung was finally tired out.

It could be seen from a mile away, just by watching his shoulders slightly slump and Yoonah grinning up at him with a content expression.

 Naturally, the best view of your day was Kim Taehyung walking out of the grocery store with four bags on one shoulder and a small plastic bag in his right hand, filled with water and two gold fish swimming peacefully.

So much for the sterned voice he had back there.

 You lingered a little more on your way to your own car, head turning slightly to your left, just to watch him interact with his daughter. You are sure you look like a creep, but it was so endearing, you couldn’t help yourself.

He kept her close by while he loaded the trunk with groceries and tickled her sides while placing her in her car seat. N sight of a father that didn’t care for his daughter or an irresponsible parent. Yeah, that was going to be your excuse for staring longer than needed.

 Yet what was a little more time for you, was enough to give him a full view of you watching them both with something in your expression that he couldn’t read, but whatever it was, had his heart racing a little more than it should for somewhat of a stranger that could put him in jail.

You’re not sure if it’s one of those times where once you meet someone one time, you end up seeing them everywhere.

How is it possible that on a chill evening in the park, while you were enjoying a slow-paced stroll and a hot chocolate in your hands, you see him again. You are about to start thinking that maybe he is following you and in addition to committing his past crime, he is also a stalker.

But he couldn’t be. He’s not even looking at you. From your short distance from him, you can see his eyes trained on something else. A fond smile decorated his lips as if whatever held his attention was above everything in this world.

From this angle you could appreciate his profile. A very handsome man you should say.

His eyes slowly crinkle into smaller half-moons in favor of his now growing smile taking more space. His teeth now baring and the apple of his cheeks flexing.

Oh! what a sight.

What would it feel like to poke them? you thought to yourself.

Yet, your legs had other plans and were already in action. Your brain had already sent signals to your arms and fingers to poke all soft parts that it came into contact with.

You are a judge, for goodness’s sake, touching someone without their authorization is battery. What are you doing?

 Yet right before you were able to do so you heard her.

“Daddy!” The soft giggles that followed filled the air that surrounded you. You turned your head to the direction of the sound and just in time you caught the sight of a little girl running from the playground into Taehyung’s arms.

Before you even turned to him, he was already catching her, squeezing her tightly in his embrace.

“Did you see that daddy? I did it!”

“Yes, you did princess! And you were amazing! Best cartwheel I have ever seen!”

The little girl giggled and squealed as Taehyung blew raspberries everywhere around her.

 When she finally calmed down, her eyes met yours and her head tilted in questions.

“It’s the groceries lady daddy!”

Turning to look at who his daughter was pointing at, he met you, only 3 steps away from him.

“Jud- Judge Y/n?”

“Hi again Mr. Kim, seems like we keep bumping into each other.”

“So it seems.” Today his smile was a careless one or was it a content one. Either way they were still that remarkable boxy smile.

“Nice to see you again miss Nah-Nah.” You greeted the little girl that had noticed you first and a hearty giggle left her body in return.

“What brings you here?” Asked the man that you had somehow forgotten was by your side or maybe you were just trying to ignore the strong tiger eyes that bore into you by entertaining a conversation with his cute daughter.

“Daddy, can I go to the big slide?”

“Not, without supervision Nah-Nah.” He answered so seriously, it reminded you of the voice in the grocery store.

“But daddy, I am a big gu’l now”

“Nah-Nah…”

“Daddy…” he sighed so loudly; you couldn’t help but laugh at his odyssey.

It was Deja vu from the grocery store and fish all over again. All that big father talk for nothing. He was so whipped for his daughter.

“Ok, let’s make a deal…”

“Yes!”

“You can go to the big slide, but if you get an ‘owie’, I want you to get up and dust off just like big girls do. Ok?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Ok, princess. Go on”

Not a second went by after his sentence and little Yoonah was already off to an adventure with the rest of the kids in the park.

“She is so precious”

“Thank you”

You both stayed in a comfortable silence, staring into the distance in the direction Yoonah had left of. However, that peace was cut by the man standing near you.

“So, are you following us now your honor?” That playful smirk of his was back, alerting you quickly that he was just attempting at a friendly banter with you.

“Hmm, maybe I am, but I’ll never let you know.” You said winking at him.

He laughed so loud at the action, that you could not hold back a laughter of your own.

“So you do have a sense of humor” He stated after calming down.

“I do, when I am outside of my line of work.”

“Understandable…”

Once again, a comfortable silence fell between you both as you watched his daughter running around filled with glee, playing with other children.

“So, who were the ugly judges you encountered before me?” Now it was your turn to start the conversation and again he laughed. Who would have thought you were this funny.

“So, you did hear that.”

You definitely did and deep within you hoped he meant it. Even though it wasn’t the time or place for his flirting.

“Maybe…”

“I meant it… just in case you were wondering.”

Yes, you were!!!

“Oh! I- umm… Thank you.” You could feel your face heating up, however you refused to end the eye contact you were keeping up since your conversation began.

“Anytime… Like honestly. Any. Time. And every time. I’ll repeat it every time I find it necessary.” He said his smile growing with each word that he sent your way. And you, well you weren’t one to back down on a flirting challenge.

“And how is that possible, if we don’t see each other all the time?” you asked, acting coyly.

“I might have a solution for that, your honor.” Welp. Now you got yourself into something.

Two weeks had gone by since that day.

Two weeks after Mr. Kim had asked for your number and invited you for ice cream with Yoonah, under the excuse of a thank you for not sending him to jail. Needless to say, you quickly corrected his statement to not have him think this was a favor you had done for him, but a decision you had made based on evidence and circumstances surrounding the case.

It had also been a week since Mr. Kim changed from that name to Taehyung.

The mocking that came with you saying his given name for the first time was endless.

“Awww, so no more Mr. Kim?”

“Shut it Taehyung!”

[mrsalwayswrite]

The Benefits of Paperwork (Richard Winters x Reader)

As always, can be read as reader or OFC since its written as she/her. 

Warnings: None 

Words:1900ish

Tag list: @evelynshelby​

Dick Winters hated paperwork. 

Absolutely loathed it. 

Give him a platoon of men and orders to take a town or secure a crossing, and he would execute a plan to garner the best possible outcome. Give him a rifle and men from Easy Company and he knew what to do. Give him Sobel and Currahee again and he would run those three miles up, three miles back happily. 

He stared at the typewriter sitting on the desk before him, taunting him like a bad memory, reminding him of his failings.

Nix called paperwork a necessary evil. Dick could not agree more. 

He sat with a pencil between his lips, staring at the paper that so far had only his name, Easy Company and the date on it. That was all he had typed in the past twenty minutes for a report that was a week overdue. Words failed him. He was not sure if it was due to recalling and putting words to the mission or using the typewriter. 

Most likely the typewriter. 

His speed was abysmal and he hated to waste paper and ink. He knew it was not a big deal, he was a major for goodness sake, he did not need to feel like a schoolboy preparing for punishment with asking for more supplies. 

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. 

"Enter," he called out, assuming it was Nix coming for more Vat 69. Why he still put up with his friend's antics, he was not sure. Maybe it was a way for him to keep an eye on Nix's drinking or for Nix to self-regulate. 

"Major Winters."

The soft voice caused him to almost drop the pencil still sitting in-between his lips. Quickly he snatched it out and looked up to see the woman who had entered. She wore a WAC uniform, so she was not completely out of place being in the company's HQ. She seemed vaguely familiar but he could not put his finger on why. 

"Yes?" He rose out of his seat. "Something I can help you with, ma'am?"

"Sir, I was sent to tell you Coronel Sink is waiting for you."

He checked his watch. It was later than he thought. "Thank you." Looking down at the unfinished report, he sighed. Sink would be upset. There was no way he could delay this anymore. Other reports needed his attention. He could not help but wonder for the hundredth time if his acceptance of being a major was a mistake. He missed the men. He hated the paperwork. Was it worth it?

"Excuse me."

He glanced up, having forgotten she was still there. 

"I don't mean to intrude, but is that the report for Operation Hades?"

"Yes."

She smiled at his hesitation, taking another step into the room. "I know Coronel Sink has been breathing down your neck about that. If it would help, you can hand write it and I'll type it up for you or I'll transcribe what you say."

That was when he realized how he knew her. Or at least heard of her. Coronel Sink's secretary. He had heard some of the other officers, mainly Nix, talk about her but he had yet to run into her. She was prettier than he expected with bright eyes and a pleasant smile. He could understand why some of the men made excuses to need her assistance. Not that he was thinking about doing that, for the same reason. No, he simply could use her help...if she was offering. 

"Yeah, yeah...that would be helpful. If you're sure."

"Of course. I'll be free after the Coronel's last meeting at eighteen hundred, do you want me to come then?"

"Sure, sure. I'm fairly certain I'll still not have anything written."

A peal of laughter rang out and all he could compare it to was sunshine. It was light and lovely. He smiled in response, unable to help himself. It was pleasant to talk to someone about something other than orders and war...or even Nix's drinking. 

"I have faith in you sir. The Coronel is waiting for you in his office. I will see you later."

"Yes, right. Thank you."

She gave him another smile then slipped out his open door. Staring at that spot for a few extra moments, he finally had to shake himself and wipe the smile off his face. He grabbed his helmet and walked out, closing the door behind him. 

It would be nice to get help with those reports. It had nothing to do with staring at her...or hearing her voice...or basking in the joyful warmth she seemed to carry within her. 

No, he just needed help typing those reports before he threw the typewriter out the window. 

That was it. 

He was positive. 

*****

Evening came and so did the receptionist. For a brief moment, he worried she would not show then chastised himself. It should not matter if she came or not. Yet a piece of him hoped to see her again, to hear her laugh and be around someone who was not bogged down by war yet. It was selfish. It was pointless. They were in the middle of a war for goodness sake, there were more important things to worry about. 

With a knock on the door, she entered after he called and immediately sat behind his desk, making herself comfortable. 

"This is the report?"

He nodded, as he watched her from where he stood at the window. Picking up the piece of paper, she scanned it methodically. He had just barely had time to hand write the darn thing before she arrived. 

"This won't take long." Then she slipped a blank piece of paper into the typewriter, moved her chair just slightly closer and began typing. 

He had never seen someone type so fast, her fingers flew over the keys, never hesitating, completely confident. He could not help but be in awe for several minutes, then realized how disturbing his actions could be taken. Grabbing a pencil and paper, he began writing another report that was overdue. 

Over the next ten minutes he found himself sneaking glances at her, the typing of the keys and the ding of the margin bell a background noise. Her hair was short and perfectly curled, as seemed to be the fashion. Red lipstick made her lips look voluptuous. As she typed, she bit the corner of her bottom lip as she concentrated. He found the action oddly endearing. 

"I'm done, Major Winters." She looked over at him, hands in her lap. 

"Dick."

"Excuse me?"

He coughed and rubbed the back of his neck. "My name. You can...you can call me Dick."

"Oh." Standing up, she moved to stand in front of him with her hand out as she said her name. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Dick."

He shook her hand, taking note of how soft her hands were except for the calluses on the ends of her fingers. "Pleasure is mine, and thank you for typing that." 

"Not a problem. You might want to look it over before I leave, just in case I missed something.  Otherwise, is there anything else I can help with?"

"No, no. I'm sure its great."

She waited, staring at him. Slowly the corners of her lips turned down just the slightest and she took a step back. "If you're sure. Well, have a good night, sir."

"Wait." He called out as she reached the door. He did not want her to leave, truthfully. Even though they barely talked, he had enjoyed her company. It felt selfish to ask her to stay...but her slight frown. It was impossible she wanted to stay too, right? That was just his imagination. 

"If it's not too much…" he hesitantly said, running a hand through his red hair, "...there's a few more reports I could use some help with."

A smile blossomed on her face that could rival the sun in its intensity. Immediately she walked back over and sat in the chair behind the desk. She looked at him expectantly, eyes bright, hands in her lap again. 

"Right." He was surprised by her assertion, and a little shocked she wanted to stay. His brain had not planned ahead to her sitting in his chair waiting, it had expected her to walk out the door. "Um, can you dictate?"

A smirk on her face, she cracked her knuckles then placed her fingers on the keys. "Try me."

*****

For the next week, when Winters was not otherwise engaged, evenings found both him and the secretary in his small office. Quickly they made progress on all the reports that were overdue but found themselves spending more time conversing about themselves than actually working as each evening passed.

"You've actually been to New York City?!" She exclaimed, eyes wide as she stared at him. 

He chuckled, leaning against the desk watching her. "Not for very long. Soon as the train arrived we were loaded onto the USS Samaria."

"Still, you must have been able to see some of the sights! Either way, you can say you were there. One day, I'm going to go."

"And what would you do there?" 

"Oh, see everything I can!" She waved her hands around exuberantly with a dreamy smile on her face. "Broadway, the Empire State Building, Coney Island. Just...anything."

"I'm sure you'll get there one day. You seem quite the determined sort."

A knock interrupted her laughter, both looking at one another in surprise. 

"Enter." Winters called. 

Lewis Nixon stepped in, ready to say something but when he noticed her sitting at the desk with Winters leaning against it, his mouth snapped shut and a smug smile appeared. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No, Nix." He stood up, suddenly realizing how close they had been. When had that even happened? No wonder Nix got the wrong impression. 

"Are you sure? I can come back later once you've both...finished."

"Its fine. I should probably get going anyway. Coronel Sink is heading out tomorrow and needs me to join his entourage." She rose, smoothing out her dress before moving around the desk. 

Winters softly said her name, causing her to look over at him. "When you come back, if I'm still here…"

"I'll find you. I'm sure by then you'll have more reports for me." She stepped closer and pecked a kiss to his cheek. "Stay safe, Dick." 

He watched her walk away, shocked. During their evenings together he had certainty grown...fond...of her. He had not realized she might possibly feel the same way. After the door shut behind her, he realized his mouth was still hanging open. Slowly he closed it and turned his head to look at his friend. 

"You have lipstick on your cheek."  A shit-eating grin was plastered on Nix's face as he handed over a handkerchief. "So that's what has been distracting you during meetings, huh?"

"No…." Winters tried to wipe the lipstick off but worried he only smeared it. "...a little."

Nixon laughed. "I see that look. Mark my words, you're going to marry her….and you'll have to name your first born after me since I called it."

"I barely know her."

"First born had better be either Lewis or Nixon. I'll take either."

Winters shook his head, moving to sit behind his desk. He could hear Nixon digging around in his footlocker but his mind kept repeating the feel of her lips on his skin..and the idea of her as his wife. 

[tarlos-spain]

Tropetember Day  9 - Historical

Fandom: Vikings (TV)

Relationship: Athelstan/Ragnar Lothbrok

Characters: Ragnar Lothbrok Athelstan (Vikings)

The begining

Ragnar was a rough man or rather a man of his time, little carried away by his feelings, able to hide them always and only let them show with a few people and only one who had been born in Kattegat, a person disliked by most for being an outsider, for processing another religion, for having been captured and because he was, almost, Ragnar's own most trusted person above anyone else. Athelstan had believed that those northerners, those barbarians who had laid waste to the monastery that had been his life for so long, would kill him as well. He was not to be taken to another country, with another language, other customs, another way of life. But what he least thought was that he, the Christian monk who transcribed texts would end up finding a world so different from his own fascinating.

For the Athelstan who lived in the monastery, Ragnar would be an enemy, the man who would probably kill him. To the Athelstan who spoke a foreign tongue and was learning about gods that differed greatly from the lord to whom he had always professed his faith.

They were opposite human beings, but somehow they had learned to get along, talk about everything a little, and spend a good deal of time together. But, despite this, Athelstan was afraid that sooner or later, the men loyal to Ragnar, would convince him to get rid of him.

So when that night Ragnar returned home after the last council with his people, Athelstan gave a start, put down the spoon with which he was preparing the food in the pot, and turned away.

"I still frighten you." "You don't scare me, it's more like, wariness. I'm not sure if you trust me or if you will tomorrow."

Ragnar closed the door to his house and took off his belt with the weapons. Athelstan stared at them and the tension he always had when one of those men approached him with a weapon went away a little.

"And you? Athelstan, do you trust me?" "I'm beginning to think I'm useful to you and that you don't want to kill me."

Ragnar smiled, with that gesture that made Athelstan more nervous than anyone else around him and it took no weapon to make him tremble. He approached the monk, though he didn't like to call him that.

"I told you I would not kill you, otherwise I would not have taken you into my house." "You took me as your slave."

Ragnar burst out laughing grabbed him by the back of the neck and rested his forehead on him.

"You are an equal to me, Athelstan."

The Christian pulled away as fast as he could.

"Not everyone thinks so. I've seen how they look at me and I know Ladgerda herself wants to let me out of her sight."

Ragnar dipped a finger into the pot and tasted the broth.

"Hmmm, if you keep cooking like this, I assure you Ladgerda has no reason to want to get rid of you." It wasn't much, to say that Athelstan could be sure because he had a good hand with cooking. "I was joking, don't look at me like that, monk. You're useful in this house, the children appreciate you a lot and as far as I'm concerned. "Ragnar moved closer to him again and Athelstan realized he had nowhere to go to escape. "I like having you around very much, you are teaching me much of your world. You must not be afraid of me." "I am not afraid..." "Your eyes don't say the same. Although we don't know each other very well, I see that you always look with fear."

Athelstan did not know how to lie, he had never really tried. The monks at the monastery had taught him that above all he should always tell the truth and expect the truth from everyone in front of him.

Strange as it seemed to him, he could put his hand in the fire and say that Ragnar was always truthful, at least with him. If he told him that he meant him no harm, something inside him always told him that Ragnar would never betray him.

But still, she shuddered as she watched him reach into the pouch around his waist, though she almost had a fit of giggles as she saw him pull out a couple of apples and he handed her one while biting into the other.

"It's not poisoned, don't worry."

Athelstan popped him into his mouth and as soon as he took a bite, he felt like he was going straight to paradise. He had never eaten anything like this in his entire life and couldn't think of anything else until he finished eating the whole thing.

"Would you like another?" "Where do you take them? It's amazing, delicious." "I knew you'd like it. If you want, tomorrow I can take you with me to pick some more. It's where we plant some things for the whole village. I think you said at the monastery you used to take care of the crops." "That's right." "Would you want to keep doing it here? That will make the people in the village see you as useful." "That doesn't sound like a bad idea." "See?" Ragnar cupped her chin with two fingers and again flashed that damned smile. "Nothing's going to happen to you, I promise." He tugged at him and Athelstan couldn't resist.

He didn't know why he didn't say anything at that moment, why he didn't resist, why he didn't tell that man to stop because she knew what was going to happen. He just didn't, he moved a little closer to Ragnar and let him kiss him.

It would take him a while to react, to know what he had felt. It was nothing more than a touch of their lips and when they parted, Ragnar was still smiling. For him it must have been something normal, it wasn't something they usually talked about, certainly, sex wasn't a subject that Athelstan cared about and suddenly another man was kissing him.

He had always been told it was the wrong thing to do. A man didn't kiss another man, hell was the only thing reserved for them or at least for him because Ragnar, not being a Christian man, wasn't something he cared about, really.

Athelstan ran out, literally, he ran out, out of the kitchen, out of the house, he wished he had run out of Ragnar's lands. But he barely had time to take a few steps that Ragnar grabbed his hand and pulled him.

"What's the matter, haven't you ever been kissed, have you always been stuck in that monastery?"

Athelstan turned away and looked at the landscape in which he lived, it had little to do with the small island on which the monastery had been. He hadn't realized it until that moment, but that place made him feel at peace, made him feel calm, and suddenly his main concern was that another man had kissed him.

"Don't tell me you're a virgin." "That's none of your business." Said the monk in a trembling voice. "What business is it of yours am I or am I not." "Nothing really, but the truth is that it makes your presence here even more interesting." "Interesting?" "Very much so, Athelstan. You are a very interesting person."

[finnofamerica]

The Black & White - Kili x Reader

Summary: Everything is black and white until you meet your soulmate. Additionally, when your soulmate dies, everything goes back to black and white. Featuring Balin and Ori!

Word Count: 2,480

Date Posted: 05.21.2020

Note: Two more to go guys!! Thorin and Tranduil will be posted in a few days. Also so far Kili’s has been the longest. 

|| Masterlist || 

You made the journey from the Iron Hills to Erebor with minimal complaints. Your father was one of Dain’s generals and, in turn, a trusted friend to the Lord of the Iron Hills. It was painful for your father to tell you to go, but he knew it would be good for the sake of Erebor and the future of the Dwarven kingdoms. An Assistant to the King’s advisor. 

When you arrived you read your letter of instruction once again. You were to make your way to the Erebor library and find Balin. You frowned as you looked around the great kingdom, there were so many halls and steps - you had no idea where to start. 

“Excuse me,” A soft voice startled you out of your thoughts, “You look a little lost.” 

You smiled at the bowl-cut haired dwarf. “Yeah, I think I am. I’m supposed to be looking for Balin, my father sent me to assist him.” 

Bowl-cut raised his brows in surprise, “You’re Y/n?” 

“Yeah?” 

“I’m Ori!” He beamed, “I’m a scribe of sorts, I suppose. I also work with Balin. You’ll love him, he’s very wise, and the mountain has a lot to do. It’s so very busy all the time, never a dull moment here - I’m talking too much.” 

The boy flushed, he wasn’t much older than you, only about 68. You being only 64 yourself. 

“I don’t mind,” You shrugged, “It’d be nice to have a friend around.” 

Ori ginned at you again, leading you through the halls of Erebor to the library. As you followed, he told you all about the reclamation of Erebor and how he nearly got burned to death by the Dragon. 

“I can’t believe they let you go on that journey! My father would never let me do something as dangerous as that.” 

“Mother didn’t want me to go,” He admitted, “But my brother’s promised to look after me. Here.” 

He swung the door to the library open. Books were stacked on shelves high to the ceiling, brilliant ladders on sliders extending all the way up. 

“Balin!” Ori called into the empty library. 

“What is it, my boy?” He called back from somewhere deep in the depths. 

“He’s in the office.” 

Ori led you through the maze of the library, arriving in front of a desk, where Balin - you assumed - was cataloging a stack of books next to him. 

“Balin, this is Y/n,” Ori introduced you. Balin smiled at you, grasping your hand in both of his in a firm handshake. 

“It is so wonderful to meet you, my girl, tell me, how was your journey?” 

You told him of all the things you saw and the two days ride was fine, though you missed the comfort of your home in the Iron Hills and that it was the first time out and about without your father. 

Balin provided you some assurance, leading you to your prepared quarters. He told you to get some rest, for tomorrow you would join him in a meeting of the leaders, to take notes. 

Your quarters were nice and comfortable, but you still found it hard to sleep without your father’s snores coming from the other room. You wrapped yourself up in the furs that made your blankets, curled up into a ball, and tried to fall asleep in the candlelight. 

. . . 

You dressed in one of your nicer dresses the next morning, hoping you would look professional for your first meeting. Balin met you outside your quarters, Ori at his side holding a huge book. 

“Good morning, Y/n, have you eaten?” Balin asked, holding what might’ve been a biscuit in his hand. You shook your head. “I thought as much, after the meeting I will help you get some food for your quarters.” 

“Thank you, Balin, that is very kind.” You bowed your head to him with respect. 

“None of that, girl,” He handed you the biscuit, “Eat up, you’re meeting the King this morning.” 

You ate while you followed them through the halls, wishing you had something to drink to wash the biscuit down. Too soon you were standing in front of a regal, powerful-looking king. His stony face, looking down at you. 

“Thorin,” Balin greeted him, “This is Y/n, she’ll be assisting me.” 

Thorin looked over you, figuring out what to make of you. His steely grey eyes not giving away his thoughts. 

“Very well, we shall see how she manages to keep up.” His voice was so deep it almost startled you, though you’d heard from your father the magnificence of the King under the Mountain. 

You frowned, eyebrows furrowed. 

“Don’t worry,” Ori whispered, “He’s always like that.” 

You gave your friend a smile and swallowed your nerves. You sat between Ori and Balin, notepad on the table and pen in your hand. Around the table sat the many leaders in Erebor, and you quickly began to note who was who, Ori’s whispered information heling you along in your notes. 

At the King’s sides sat the Princes, both of them listening to their Uncle. The moment you saw the younger prince, your world exploded into color, but the longer you listened to the meeting the more you realized how out of your depth you really were. You had no time to tell the young Prince that he was the reason you were seeing colors. 

As promised, when the meeting was over, Balin brought you to the Erebor market, helping you pick out some food for your quarters. 

“Do you know how to cook?” He asked. 

You nodded, “My father taught me. He was busy on watch most nights, so he taught me how to cook so I wouldn’t have to wait for him to come home.” 

“And your mother?” 

“She was never around, and my father never speaks of her.” You shrugged, your arm hooked with Balin’s as he guided you around. 

“That’s too bad, she missed out on raising a brilliant and talented daughter.” He patted your hand. You gave Balin a smile, grateful for the kindness he showed you. You spent the evening making your dinner and preparing your breakfast for the morning. There would be another meeting tomorrow and you wanted to be prepared. 

You grabbed another notepad, transcribing your shorthand into comprehensible sentences. Finally, with the lingering smell of your dinner in the air, you curled up in your bed and fell asleep. 

. . . 

“The markets have done great these past few months, trade between Erebor, the Iron Hills, and Dale have boosted the amount of product available in each city and so far boosted the economy of all three states.” The man read from his notes. You took your notes in shorthand, learning as much more from the meeting than you thought possible. 

Kili’s eyes turned to you, partially hidden behind Balin. He’d never seen you before but now that he had he couldn’t take his eyes off of you. The soft green of your dress complimented everything about you, and the soft scratching of your pen was oddly soothing. It was then that he realized that his whole world was in vivid color. The thought kind of scared him. His whole world used to be monochrome, he was used to monochrome. Why was he seeing color? Was he dying? He was much too young to die. 

Later that evening Kili found himself seeking the guidance of one of the wisest men he knew, After his Uncle of course - but if his uncle knew about this surely he would’ve told him and Fili by now. Kili made his way to the Library, knowing Balin would be there, it wasn’t often that he wasn’t in the great library. 

“Balin? You here hiding somewhere?” He asked, arriving at the desk where Balin usually was. Hearing his name, the old man left his office and leaned over the desk to talk to Kili. 

“Kili,” Balin’s voice lilted with humor, “It must be a pretty big problem if you’ve come to the library.” 

“Balin, you’re smart-” 

“Well, I should certainly hope so.” Balin laughed. 

“What does it mean when you start seeing colors?” He twiddled his thumbs nervously, now it wasn’t like the young prince to be nervous. “Am - am I dying?” 

“No, my boy, you are not dying.” 

“Then what is happening to me?” 

Balin let out a sigh at the fear and confusion in Kili’s voice. 

“Come inside and sit. I guess Thorin and Dis never talked to you about this.” 

You were sitting at a table around the corner, studying one of the Mountain’s history books, when you heard Balin’s soft voice explaining how soulmates worked to the young prince. Your heart sank in your chest, soulmate? 

“How could I have met my soulmate and missed them?!” Kili exclaimed loudly. You could hear the sound of his head thudding against the table. You decided that it was time to go, this was very personal to Kili and you had no part in it. Part of you wanted to listen, but in your heart, you knew you couldn’t, so you packed up your books and made your way out of the library. The door thudded softly behind you. 

. . . 

The next morning Kili was asking everyone if they had soulmates and if they could see in color. That fact that he’d somehow missed his one was tearing him up inside. How could he see them and not know? Balin said he’d know. Frustrated with himself, he stomped off to the library, seeking the company of himself on one of the high balconies. 

A balcony where you just so happened to be putting away the books that Balin had cataloged. 

“Stupid, stupid stupid,” Kili hissed to himself, running his hands through his hair as he paced. 

“Prince Kili,” You approached cautiously with the stack of books in your hands, you bowed your head to him, not sure if you could bow without losing your books, “Are you okay?” 

Kili met your eyes, his brows furrowing. 

Finally, he sighed, slouching against the bookshelf, “I’ve met my one somewhere, somehow, and I missed them! I have no idea who or where they are!” 

You knelt beside him, setting your books aside. 

“I think, if I may, once you find them you’ll know.” You rose from your spot, collecting your books to continue your work. 

“Wait,” Kili gently grabbed your arm, “I’ve seen you with Balin, are you related somehow?” 

“No,” You smiled, “My father is an old friend, he sent me to assist Balin, and learn his ways. Balin is getting on in years, and with no kids of his own, he wanted someone to take over for him.” 

“So you’re going to take over the library?” Kili frowned, brows furrowed. 

“Balin is an advisor to the king. Thorin is keeping his eyes on me, and if I do well under Balin’s guidance, then I will also be an advisor.” 

“Oh, I suppose that makes sense. What’s your name?” 

“Y/n.” 

“Y/n, have you found your soulmate yet?” Kili asked. You grimaced. 

“Uh, no, not yet,” You lied. 

“Oh.” He looked defeated, disheartened. “Well, see you at the next meeting.” 

You watched him leave, his movements sluggish, and saddened. Long after he left you headed down to Balin’s office, knocking on the door frame. 

“Balin?” You chewed your lip. 

“Yes?” 

“I think Kili might be my one,” You admitted nervously, heat rising on your cheeks in your embarrassment, “I don’t know what to do.” 

Balin gave you an understanding smile, putting his work aside. 

“He’s so distraught over not knowing who his soulmate is, and I feel bad, but,” You started frantically explaining, “He’s a prince and you’re training me to become a leader and I don’t know if I can be a great leader if-” 

“Y/n, dear,” Balin took a hold of your hands, forcing you to stop your frantic movements, “take a breath.” 

You took a deep breath and nodded. 

“Great leaders are great because of their heads and hearts. The people they love are their guidance.” He patted your hands, “If you are truly Kili’s one, you should tell him.” 

“How? If he doesn’t believe me-” 

“He will.” 

You waited for a free day before you went to talk to Kili. You heard about him and Fili trying to figure out who Kili’s soulmate is. To say Kili was distraught was an understatement. Kili was near heartbroken. 

You’d practiced your speech in your head a million times, and you found him sitting alone at the gate, twisting a stone in his hand. 

“Prince Kili,” You bowed to him, before approaching cautiously. 

“Hi, Y/n,” Though the carefree prince’s voice showed no excitement. He played with the stone in his hand again, “You know, I carried this with me the entire journey to the mountain, through everything, and I never knew it was green.” 

“Kili,” Your voice softened as you turned your gaze away from him, “I’ve been hiding something from you and I can only hope you’ll forgive me.” 

“What is it?” Kili asked, his face serious, and maybe a little suspicious. 

“I have met my soulmate, though I didn’t tell him because I was scared,” You finally brought your gaze to his chocolate eyes. “Kili, I lied to you, and for that, I’m so truly sorry. I see now how much this has hurt you and -” 

He embraced you tightly, startling you out of your train of thought. You cautiously wrapped your arms around him. You thought he’d be angry with you for lying to him.  

“I thought I’d never find you, and here you were under my nose the entire time.” He pulled away beaming at you. “Why did you hide this from me?” 

“I thought it’d get in the way of being a good leader. I need to be a good leader.” 

“Leaders are guided-” 

“By the people they love, I know. Balin told me. That’s why I came to tell you the truth.” 

“Y/n,” Kili said softly, holding your hands, “If you want to wait, I’ll wait for you.” 

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close to you. You knew you didn’t want to wait. 

“I’ve had enough of waiting.” You whispered, burying your head into his shoulder. Kili held you tight to him. He was glad that you didn’t want to wait, but to him, it would be worth it, no matter how long. 

In meetings, though you took your job seriously, shared secret glances with Kili. Though when problems arose, Balin would ask you what your plan was. Soon he knew that you would be an excellent advisor to Thorin, and later Fili, if Thorin wanted to keep you on his service. 

When you had free time, you would go on little dates with Kili, getting to know each other and officially establishing your courtship. 

Tags: @littlepurplewarrior​  @smolcinnabon @fizzyxcustard​ @aspiring-ginger​ @saviorsong​

[spacebatisluvd]

Three Bad Days

This one got long, so I’m going to post the first part here, with a link to the AO3 page for the rest. Link is available above or at the end of this segment.

Summary: Chronic pain ebbs and flows. Some days are better than others. Some are worse. These are three ‘bad’ days from three very different times in Hordak’s life.

Angst, followed by fluff and hurt/comfort. You have to follow the AO3 link for the fluff and comfort.

Content warning: chronic illness with no easy fixes, chronic pain.

-

Same days were good. The pain in his withered, traitorous body was manageable and he was able to do what needed to be done. He had the patience to tackle the problems his Force Captains brought to him, and he wasn’t too distracted to make progress on the portal.

Some days were not. And from the moment he woke up, he knew today would be one of the latter.

It took effort to drag himself to the applicator. Imp followed him there, gliding overhead—not touching him, not making a sound, just eyeing him with concern. He wished he could sleep with his armor on, but over-dependence on it would speed the muscle atrophy. Really, he should do his exercises before putting the armor on at all, but the pain was like a heavy drum beat—constant, insistent, and overwhelming. He couldn’t think, couldn’t focus on more than one task at a time, and right now, “put on his fucking armor so he could function” was overwhelming everything else. He gripped the edge of the console, his breathing heavy as he activated the applicator’s arms.

The machine was not gentle. He inhaled sharply and bowed forward. The dull drum beat of pain sharpened briefly as the armor plugged into his cybernetic ports. Thankfully, the ordeal was brief. He stood at the console for a little while, catching his breath. The pain was still there. A constant, insistent hum. It was no longer so overwhelming that he couldn’t focus on anything else, but he was definitely aware of it.

A bad day, indeed.

He straightened and walked into his sanctum, picking up a tablet so he could review his notes from the previous day. With the constant, low-grade hum of pain haunting him, it was harder to focus, harder to troubleshoot. He could see that it wasn’t working, but he couldn’t piece together why! He clenched his hand, trying to remember that breaking the tablet would be unproductive—

“Oh, are those your notes from yesterday?” A strand of hair plucked the tablet from his hand. He blinked, then turned to face the princess that had invaded his sanctum so recently, his eyes narrowed and mouth turned down in a snarl. “Fascinating,” she said, drawing out the word as she scanned the tablet. She didn’t seem to notice that he was glaring at her. “Here.” She held out a different tablet. Still sneering, he snatched it from the rope of hair.

“And what am I supposed to do with this?”

She glanced back at him, smiling. “Well,” again, she drew out the word, “I noticed that you prefer electronic copies of your notes, but I’ve always made verbal recordings. So I made a program for Emily! I just plug my recorder in at the end of the night and she transcribes all my notes.”

He blinked, then looked down at the tablet. “That was...considerate.”

She wasn’t listening. Already, she was poking at the machine, consulting his notes and making a few of her own. He expected the princess’s chatter to grate on him, but the cadence and pitch of her voice was soothing rather than annoying. He stood behind her for a while, simply watching her work and listening to her voice. Her rambling narrative plainly laid out the problems with the machine, somehow making it seem so much simpler than his pain-addled mind had been able to parse. He began looking over her notes, pulling up another window and using a stylus to sketch.

She was more than capable of doing the bulk of the intellectual labor, and though he was frustrated with his present limitations, they were making progress. Frankly, it was nice to shut off and just follow her directions for a bit.

Eventually, though, even that was becoming too much. “That’s enough for today.”

“But we have so much we can—“

“Not. Today,” he said through grit teeth. The robot, possessing a good deal more sense than the princess, started to drag her out of his sanctum.

“Oh. Okay, then. Bye!” She waved her hair at him as the robot took her away. “I’ll just work on the weapons upgrades, then. Should I download those notes for you as well?”

“No.” He just wanted her gone.

“See you tomorrow!”

The door slammed shut behind her, and he sagged against the consul, his muscles aching. He wouldn’t be able to get anything else done today. “Useless,” he muttered, hating this body, hating that he couldn’t make himself a new one. Nothing else to be done for it now, though. He fully intended to take a sedative and go to sleep—if he didn’t faint while taking off his armor.

He eyed the applicator with trepidation. Swallowing, he shut his eyes and steeled himself, though he would have thought he was all out of steel for the day. One task left. One. He could do this.

He dragged himself to the applicator, activating it with the press of a button.

(Long ago, he’d soundproofed the walls of his sanctum. On the bad days, he was grateful for that.)

-

Follow the link for fluff!

[kay-chronister]

“The Women Who Sing for Sklep” nominated for a World Fantasy Award: read free here.

A hugely unexpected honor: “The Women Who Sing for Sklep,” a story original to Thin Places and beloved to my heart, is a finalist for a World Fantasy Award. “Sklep” is my playful troubling of Wicker Man-style folk horror, inspired by the folk music gathering project of the composer Béla Bartók and the ambivalent fascination with the “primitive” that fueled early-twentieth-century anthropology more broadly. Also, Slavic mermaids. In light of the story’s nomination, I’ve decided to make it available -- free online for the first time -- to read here. Hope you enjoy!

--

The Women Who Sing for Sklep

The composer stopped when he came to the hillside overlooking the village of Sklep. He asked his assistant to photograph the squat little houses of wattle-and-daub, sipped from his canteen, and looked upon the landscape with approval.

He rode into the village posting to his horse’s trot, stiff in the saddle after many hours of riding. His assistant was fortunate; his assistant got to walk. His assistant’s name was Triglav, after the old Slavic god, which the composer appreciated.

Sklep had no Sunday market, so the main road into town was empty, besides a woman who sold goat’s milk in glass bottles on one side of the road. The composer did not ask her where to find the town magistrate. He already knew. The house at the end of the road was taller and narrower than any of its neighbors. Already he had seen a dozen villages arranged just the same way.

In front of the tall, narrow house, the composer dismounted, put his horse’s reins in Triglav’s hands, then walked to the door and knocked. The horse nibbled hopefully at the dust in front of the house. Triglav arranged and rearranged their luggage. The composer waited, his arms crossed like two intersecting bars in front of his ribcage.

Inside the tall and narrow house, the town magistrate served coffee from an Arabic carafe. The composer’s eyebrows lifted at this display of worldliness. They were on the Hungarian plain. Last year the composer had lived with a tribe who spoke their own language and played instruments made from freshly sanded pine.

“I want to study the music of your people,” the composer said to the magistrate. “I want to live beside you and understand what inspires you.”

The magistrate did not say why, not aloud, but his brow furrowed deeply.

“Go see Magdalena,” he said.

“Magdalena,” repeated the composer.

“Come to the Cemuk festival tomorrow. I will introduce you.” The magistrate was still frowning. “What is that thing?”

He was gesturing to the camera, a cloth-covered lump in Triglav’s lap. The composer nodded to Triglav, who obediently removed the cover and peered down the telescopic lens at the squat, wind-whipped man sitting across from him.

“Please, not me,” said the magistrate, and rose to his feet. “I don’t have any.”

The composer was an expert in his field, so he could not ask for clarification.

***

The composer and his assistant showed up to the festival before anyone else did. They spent two hours photographing and recording and transcribing the gathering of wood by the young men of Sklep, who timidly darted back and forth from a thicket of birches to the field where they laid their kindling. At dusk, the boys lit a cluster of bonfires.

As the sky darkened, the people began to emerge from their houses. The girls wore white robes and had fern fronds braided into their hair; the children were barefoot. Everyone was shivering.

The composer made a note of the festival’s taxonomy: Christian alteration of a pagan summer fertility ritual. He stood at the front of the crowd, beside a birch tree covered in ribbons and beads, and watched the girls shuffle into formation. In a few minutes they would sing, opening the sky, and rain would come to the village of Sklep. The last tribe had told the composer about this miracle so many times that he believed their stories must have some basis in truth.

No one asked the composer who he was or why he had come. No one spoke. After a while the composer saw the girls open their mouths in unison like they were singing, but no sound came out. He shut off his wire recorder. He watched their lips form words he couldn’t recognize, their throats rippling with effort, their chests rising and falling.

Meanwhile Triglav winked into the camera and shot photo after photo. Triglav must either be hearing sound or had expected not to hear sound. No one acted surprised by the silence. The composer felt deeply and profoundly uncomfortable.

The girls shut their mouths in unison. The one on the end exhaled heavily as though all of the not-singing had tired her. Without speaking, they formed a line and walked into the birches. The young men followed at a respectful distance, heads lowered. A boy of eleven or twelve tried to go with them, but his father restrained him. The boy made a little choking sound of frustration. When he saw the look on his father’s face, he fell silent.

As the last of the boys disappeared into the trees, the composer tucked his trousers into his socks and set out after them. The procession had split the woods like a part, pressing down the undergrowth. The path left behind was easy to follow, and no one stopped the composer or his assistant from following. Beside the composer, Triglav shouldered the camera and photographed the backs of the girls’ heads and the boys’ shoulders from between the birches.

They walked for close to an hour. A few of the boys played scuffed brass instruments. Chromatic scales in irregular minor keys. Melancholy, dirge-like music. The music had no discernible tempo, but the boys all walked as stiff and regular as soldiers. The composer made a note to ask whether they practiced the ritual beforehand.

The boys glanced nervously into the trees sometimes; the girls too, though with less fear on their faces. Things with rope-like arms and legs shifted in the branches but never came down. Slick sounds came from the canopy. Presently the procession came to the side of a thin black river. The boys put their instruments down, and the girls laid candle-topped wreaths of pine and yew branches on the surface of the water.

The composer put his notes away and watched the wreaths drift downstream. He could feel that something was going to happen. Beside him, Triglav made a small shuddering sound and laid the camera into the composer’s arms. The composer was surprised, but shifted to shoulder the burden. He watched his assistant join the village youth. For reasons that he would not be able to remember later, he did not call Triglav back to him.

The girls and boys paired off, Triglav beside a girl with a narrow, pointed face that reminded the composer of a fox. The composer watched as they opened their mouths in another soundless song. Triglav sang too.

When they finished singing, Triglav waded waist-deep into the river with the other boys. Ripples formed circles around them. They shivered with the cold. The composer wondered what he would name the concerto he wrote in honor of this ritual. He knew the villagers would drown the little decorated birch tree at the end of the festival. He wondered if they would drown anything else.

Snake-like things came from the middle of the river, the same wet spitting predators that had been in the trees. Legs twined around necks, obscuring faces. The composer already knew his assistant was gone before Triglav sank into the water.

***

The woman Magdalena was old and built like a boulder. She crossed herself when the composer came to the door, saying, “You can never be too careful during green week.”

In her little cottage, she served the composer a fist-sized hunk of black bread with soft curdish cheese. While he ate, she covered the windows and locked the doors. Twice she said a charm. He didn’t know the words but he felt their rhythm and knew they were holy.

When he finished eating, the composer took out a leather-bound notebook and a pencil. He had not asked Magdalena if she would share the village music with him; he had not yet spoken to her. He thought something wordless must have passed between them. Already she had made overtures to protect him from whatever spirits the rustics believed in. He was comforted, a little flattered. He was hoping he would not end up like Triglav, dead on the floor of the river.

“Do your people use modern notation?” he said first.

She blinked at him.

“The treble and bass clefs?”

“No,” she said. “We don’t learn our music, not the music you mean.”

“And which music is that?” He made a note: ritual music distinguished from other genres. Possible religious component to this.

“The music that killed your friend.”

“The music made no sounds. I thought it must be some kind of pageant, or spell, not—not music. And it was vocals only, no instrumentation. Is there a reason for that?”

“You couldn’t hear it?” She looked suspicious.

“No,” the composer said. “Should I have been able to hear it?”

“Hmmm,” said Magdalena.

“Do you make music like that?”

“I can,” she said. “But I don’t think I shall.”

“I’ll pay,” the composer said. For months his artistic failures had been haunting him; he had drifted in a sort of waking nightmare between concert halls and conservatories. He had been longing to make music as the rustics did in his homeland. Now he was wandering the earth like Cain, a mark of wonder on his forehead, trying to find what secrets were contained within the little villages long forgotten by the Poles and the Russians whose operettas were so popular. Civilization had no beauty any longer, he had told someone in a Viennese coffeehouse. He wanted to compose the wilderness.

Magdalena blinked sleepily. “But we are, as you say, soundless.”

 “How can I train myself to hear you?”

“You cannot. Outsiders cannot.”

“And if I am not an outsider?”

The woman laughed from deep inside her throat. She took the notebook from the composer’s hands and laid it on the floor. The wire recorder, she regarded with suspicion but allowed to stay. “You do not want to become one of us.”

“Why not?”

She licked her dry lips. Her eyes kept darting from his face to the covered windows. Shadows were playing on the blankets she had used as makeshift curtains. “When you hear the music, you will not be able to live anywhere else. You will have to stay here.”

The other tribe used to say the same things when they taught him how to play their fiddles and pipes. The composer admired how romantic the people of the plains were. He took up his notebook and made a note: music of central ritualistic and cultural significance.

“While you live among us,” said the old woman, “always remember to listen for rain.”

The composer said he would. Satisfied with his first day of work, he returned to the stranger house in the middle of Sklep. The snake-like things moved in the trees above his head but he did not hear them, or pretended he didn’t. That night, he composed a mazurka on his fiddle. He lay in his bed with the burlap-scented pillow and listened for rain.

The bodies on the floor of the river shifted, and rain fell.

***

The villagers of Sklep rarely left their homes. Even the food-sellers were reluctant to set up shop. While they sold goose eggs and rye flour to the composer, their eyes roved the landscape nervously. Green week, he kept hearing. It was green week so everyone was afraid.

They were not an expressive people. They did not mourn the boys and girls whom they had lost in the ritual. The composer made a note: ritualistic sacrifices occur with regularity? No one spoke of the lost youth, or of the snake-like arms that had reached for them. Magdalena would not acknowledge that anything had been lost, when the composer asked her.

“They will come home. They have to sow their oats,” she said.

The composer sent for a pianoforte. He taught modern notation and scales to anyone who would listen. He composed nocturnes and sketches on his fiddle. He filled numerous notebooks with his observations on the popular music of Sklep, which was mostly ballads full of cruel women and their hapless lovers. Only boys sang the songs. The girls never sang. They sat knitting with their long white fingers. Their feet drummed rhythms on the floor. The composer sat with them and felt impotent.

Many nights the people retreated to the banyas, little wood bathhouses where strangers were not welcome. Boys hauled piles of hot stones from the hearth to the banya door, where their mothers and sisters stood waiting in goatskin robes. At last, the doors shut and flumes of steam rose from the banya roofs. The composer played lonely chromatic melodies on his fiddle and caught rain in a barrel. Twenty-two inches fell in the first week alone.

***

After green week ended, Magdalena washed the blankets that had covered her windows. She was hanging them to dry when the composer reached her house. While she fixed the blankets to her line with clothespins, the composer sat on a tree stump with his fiddle tucked underneath his arm. By now he had grown comfortable watching idly while she worked in the kitchen or the yard. He knew she would not want his help. He wasn’t made for that sort of work.

“You survived,” she said, and beckoned for him to follow her inside.

“Yes,” said the composer. He had been trained not to belittle the superstitions of the rustics. Their mouths and doors would shut as soon as he did. “I thought today we might work on some more transposition of the ballads.”

“No,” said Magdalena. “Today I will sing for you.”

The composer reached for his wire recorder, trying not to look as eager as he felt. He had seen how Sklep opened up when the threat of green week ended. Sellers called out to passersby without taking care to keep their voices low. Children went to and from school in noisy, gleeful throngs. Men walked tree-shaded roads without looking nervously above them. But Magdalena, the composer had feared, would stay closed.

The woman took a long sip of water and grunted to clear her throat. Her arms hung at her sides and her chin pointed to the ceiling. When she sang, she made no sound. The composer sat and listened, his wire recorder humming uselessly in his lap. Triglav would have photographed the woman’s open mouth, her squinted-shut eyes, her flared nostrils. Triglav was dead on the floor of the river. The composer remembered hearing the story of some German hack who wrote a piece made entirely of rests: four pages of silence.

Then, after a few minutes, sound began to come from the woman’s throat. She sang in an undertone as thin as eggshell. The pitch of her voice wavered like an instrument being tuned. The composer could not have imitated the sound on his fiddle or pipe or piano. He could not have described it with modern notation. He could only listen, holding the wire recorder to Magdalena’s open mouth and wondering if the device would even catch the sounds she made.

“Did you hear me this time?” she said, when she was finished.

“A little,” he said. “Are you trained to produce such sounds?”

“I am too tired for questions,” said the woman. “Please, go before the rain comes.”

The composer packed up his belongings. As he reached the door, the sky opened and rain poured down.

***

After green week, Triglav returned. He came out of the river with a wife and a lush, dark beard on his face. When he shaved, his skin was smooth as a child’s underneath. He would say nothing of what happened on the floor of the river. He moved like a sleepwalker.

Ewers of water rested on every flat surface in the small house that Triglav shared with his new bride. The table, the bookcase, the stove top, the porch steps were all covered. Triglav’s wife did not offer the composer anything to drink when he came. The composer was accustomed by now to the inhospitality of the people of Sklep, and took the liberty of filling his canteen from one of the kitchen table pitchers. He found the contents murky and sour, as if taken from still water.

“It’s not to drink,” said the wife.

The composer sat down and waited for Triglav to come home. His assistant’s wife sat down across from him. Occasionally she dipped a dishrag in one of the pitchers and patted herself down with the swamp water, wetting her face and neck and hair. The composer lifted the camera from his lap and took photographs; the way the girl craned her neck, he could see that she wanted to be admired. After a while he asked if she liked to sing. She told him she’d always thought songs were better left to people who didn’t have any in them.

“Any songs?”

“Any blood,” she said.

Triglav came in the door humming. He asked the composer if they could go fishing soon. He said, “Alida tells me we won’t have rain tomorrow.”

From beneath the wet rag draped across her face, Alida said, “There will be no rain until the stranger house is empty.”

Triglav said, “Does she think she can do that? Put us men under siege that way?”

“She’s unmarried,” said Alida. “Of course she can.”

***

At the side of the river, Triglav spoke in a low tone of what happened during green week. He said he remembered those days as a dream. He watched while his existence swam above him. He had no power to stop things from happening on the floor of the river.

The girls could breathe, could swim. The girls’ limbs got longer, their incisors jutted out from their mouths; when they kissed the boys who partnered them on the shore, it stung like salt rubbed in a wound.

He said the girls sang sometimes at night, the same ritual songs they’d sung at Cemuk.

“You can only hear those sorts of songs properly underwater,” Triglav said to the composer. “They make so little sound above the surface.”

The composer took out his notebook and made a note: damage to the inner ear necessary for ritual music to resonate as intended?

“I only wonder,” the composer said. “Why did you marry her?”

“What do you mean?”

“She almost killed you. She might still kill you.”

“Oh, that’s how things are in this town,” said Triglav. “Every woman sees her husband drowned before she marries him. All the girls are made like that. They have to be, or they couldn’t make the rain come.”

His assistant believed in the power of the ritual now; the composer made a note.

“This power she has over you, you don’t mind it?” he said.

“Of course,” said Triglav. “They have us underneath for one week, just one week, and then we have them for the rest of their lives.”

“Or they have you,” the composer said.

The air was hot, for the sixth month had come and the summer solstice was close, yet still Triglav shivered. He said, “You shouldn’t stay here any longer.”

“Why not?”

Triglav wouldn’t say. “We ought to get away from the river,” he said. “A bachelor is worth the same as a grave here.”

“What’s that?” The composer had never heard the proverb before.

“Nothing,” Triglav said. “Nothing. That’s just what we said underneath the surface.”

***

Magdalena was not inside her house when the composer next came to her door. Steam rose from the roof of her banya, so he determined that he would return in an hour; an hour passed and still she sat inside the bathhouse. Long into the night she remained. Every half hour, boys brought hot stones and fresh water to her banya door.

The composer did not question them, though he wanted to. No one in Sklep would speak to him since he listened to Magdalena sing. His music students stopped attending their lessons and his interview subjects made implausible excuses that the composer recognized for what they were: rejections, closed doors. At night he played Chopin’s Raindrop Prelude on the pianoforte. He remembered a story about how Chopin had written the piece after he saw a vision of himself drowned on the floor of a river, raindrops falling over him in a steady patter. The composer thought perhaps he could call the rain to Sklep if he played that prelude enough times. The sun could not shine while someone played Chopin well.

The villagers of Sklep were too reserved to openly blame him for their drought, but the magistrate did come once to the stranger house. The composer admitted him and then returned to the piano bench, continuing where he’d left off in the Raindrop Prelude. “You can leave this town,” the magistrate said, when the composer came to a rest, “whenever you want—perhaps you did not know?”

“Do you fear to be seen with me?” the composer said, dropping to the bottom of the piano as he came to the slow, solemn portion of the piece marked sotto voce. He could hear the rainfall especially well in this bit, the drops coming steadily down. “Will they cast you out too?”

“I fear starving more than I fear the wrath of any woman. The only thing she can do is what she’s already doing: not singing.”

The composer stopped playing and made a note: music a mechanism of social control.

“You believe there will be no rain if the girls won’t sing?” he said, returning to the piano.

“The girls? No. They are—needed. For what they are. For the blood their children inherit. But for now, Magdalena is the only woman who makes the rain come.”

“And when she dies?”

“Another woman will sing for Sklep.”

The composer had reached the prelude’s closing motif, a bright tentative passage like the morning after a storm. He played the last chords. He held them down for longer than the score prescribed. Without turning his head, he said, “That might be for the best, don’t you think?”

***

Magdalena was still inside her banya when the composer came to her house. Steam rose from the bathhouse in white shuddering waves, but still the air felt dry. For weeks there had been no rain. The composer knocked on the door twice, then waited. When she told him to come inside, he did.

Magdalena was wrapped in wet willow leaves, a rustling gray garment that covered her from chin to ankles. Her bare feet, pale and shriveled with water, sat propped on one of the wooden benches affixed to the walls. Her wet hair was bound with fern fronds and hung down her back in heavy bundles.

“I want you to bring the rain,” said the composer.

“No,” said Magdalena, and rose from the bench. The willow leaves crackled softly when she moved. Outside, the wind picked up.

“You won’t?”

“No,” she said. “Not while an outsider stays in the stranger house, banging on foreign instruments and writing songs that sound like bad copies of the ones we sing at Cemuk-time.”

“You refuse?”

“Leave Sklep.”

The composer understood. The crops were wilting in the fields. The river had gone down so far that the Sklep river-girls swimming along the floor were visible from the bank. The trees were as bare as they were in wintertime. Even bathhouse wood couldn’t retain its moisture. Even the wettest things had become perilously dry.

***

Everyone knew who burnt down the banya with Magdalena inside. They also knew when the banya burnt, because the first rain in weeks fell in time to put out the last of the flames.

Sometime later, when he had left the stranger house and taken a wife of his own among the village people, the composer asked Triglav’s wife, the new rain-bringer, to sing for him. She did, in a cool, sonorous undertone that made each note sound like a secret dropping from her lips. The composer could hear her perfectly.