#I think this is the most muscular cow I ever saw

[handy-dandy-monster-candy]

Louis

Rating: SFW Length: 1412 Pairing: Male Vampire Lover x Male Vampire Reader

For my sweet anon, who wanted domestic vampires.

xxx

“They’ll be gathering the pitchforks soon,” I say, chuckling as I peek through behind the curtains to the town at the bottom of our hill.

“Hm?” hums my lover, Louis—a statuesque man with hair and eyes as gold as a king’s crown. “Who, my love?”

“The townsfolk,” I impishly reply, coming away from the window to cross the room to where Louis sits, reading. I flounce my way onto his lap and he huffs his amusement, tossing his book onto the small table beside his winged chair and gathering me into his muscular arms.

“Do they whisper about us still?” he asks, smiling with his fangs on display.

“Always,” I say, tucking his hair away from his face and leaning in to press a chaste kiss to his lips.

Louis hums his content, squeezing me gently. “Let them talk,” he whispers, nuzzling his nose down against mine in a bunny kiss. “What fault is it of mine that I didn’t know the old baker had died years ago?”

“It’s my fault for craving his fruit tarts after so many years,” I grumble, pouting; I was an excellent chef and baker in my own right, but some cooks kept their secrets guarded jealously, and I could never recreate that particular baker’s tarts to my satisfaction. “Do you think they’ll let me copy his recipe book now that he’s gone?”

“I’d gladly steal it for you,” says Louis, smiling softly and slowly in that way that lets me know he’s all about mischief.

“Louis! I’d never want to leave them without their tarts.”

My lover makes an irritable noise in the back of his throat. “Much more charitable than I,” he mutters, pressing kiss after sweet kiss to my lips. “I would deny them everything if it gave you what you wanted.”

“I know,” I giggle, squirming happily under his onslaught. “Because you love me.”

“Because I adore you,” he corrects, standing up and setting me daintily on my feet. “Because I worship you, the only man I consider my equal, my minx, my muse, my inspiration.”

“Flatterer,” I laugh, feeling myself flush with pleasure; he always knew how to make my heart flutter as gaily as a boy’s after all these years.

Louis takes my hands and kisses them, nipping at my knuckles with his sharp incisors. “It is all true,” he says, drawing me close just to spin me away from himself, but never too far away to reel me back in so that we dance chest to chest. “You are my recovery.”

This stirs my heart more than I can express. I remember a time when Louis was a tormented soul, feeding upon humans and starving himself in the times between, weak and trembling and pale. Now, we feed upon our healthy cattle and never to excess, and my lover is graceful and flushed beneath his golden skin. He moves with confidence instead of shame, and his magic comes to him quietly and steadily instead of being a wild and intemperate thing.

“Come downstairs and brush the girls with me,” I wheedle, trying to distract him from his amorous thoughts.

“In a moment,” he says, humming an old and beautiful tune as he takes me around the room. He’s watching me intently, and at my questioning look, he says, “Your eyes are the most beautiful colour I have ever seen, my sylph.”

I flush all the way down to my neck, biting my lower lip with my own fang. “They’re only brown,” I mumble, dismissive.

“They are like the finest red wine in the sunlight,” he insists, voice quiet and tone earnest. “Like burnt sugar and rich clay and all of what our flowers grow in.”

“Louis!” I say around my laughter, spluttering and shying away from him. “How silly you sound, you gilded god!”

Louis grins and kisses the inside of my wrist, up along my arm. “And you are my caramel dryad, whose very touch brings life.”

“Stop it, you goose egg!” I’m all a-titter, laughing like a vapid coquette. “Come downstairs and spend time with me outside of this stuffy library.”

“You decorated this library,” he reminds me, taking my arm and sweeping me out of the offending room.

“And I think it looks appropriately stuffy, like a library should,” I reasonably reply, feeling mischief making my old bones light and my steps airy. “Shall we tend to the garden together? The magnolias are in full bloom.”

“I know it,” he says, leading me down the stairs and through the old kitchens to the back yard. “I saw Matilda dozing beneath one earlier, with flowers on her horns.”

“Oh, I hope she births soon,” I murmur, anxiety fluttering in my chest.

Louis brings my hand up to kiss, nipping my knuckles sharply this time, to get my attention and turn my thoughts away from my fretting. “She’ll be fine. She’s done this once before.”

“Oh, I know,” I tut, mostly at myself, “but you know she’s my favourite.”

“Is she?”

“Don’t give me that look. Second to you, as always.”

“Hm.”

“Pouty baby.”

“I’m not pouting.”

“You’re pouting on the inside.”

“You can see inside of me? How exposing.”

“Only sometimes,” I say, linking my fingers between his as we walk down to where our cows are still grazing on pasture as the sun goes down. “Sometimes you’re like a wall, but the wall still has writing on it.”

“I should hope that you can read it, after 250 years.”

“Two-hundred fifty-three,” I smugly rectify, smiling up at my lover even as he rolls his eyes.

“Precisely,” says Louis, flashing a fang and squeezing my hand. He takes me to the shed where we pick up our tools, from brushes to hedge trimmers. Usually his magic would keep the grounds manicured, but I still love getting dirt under my nails and tending to my flowers. I’m lucky to have found a vampire so accommodating to my whims.

We share dinner together and I tell him about my day running around the estate, finding things that need doing and getting them done. There are still parts of the castle that are filled with dust and cobwebs after we moved in a decade ago, and I’m determined to bring them to light. Louis listens to me with interest and tells me of his business dealings with far-off merchants, which he’s been trying to include me in for a few generations. I’m finally coming around to the idea, despite being spiritually averse to mathematics and the thought of dealing with finances making me break out in hives.

“You’ll do marvellously,” Louis tells me, smiling at me from across our meal; it’s a human meal and it won’t sustain us, but the mushrooms are divine, if I do say so, myself.

I scoff, picking at the food in front of me. “You say that…”

“I mean it.”

“You need a head for finances if you’re to be a businessman.”

“Only if you deal with finances. I’ve long thought you would be a good businessman by charm and guile alone, regardless of your skill with maths.”

I cough around my wine, snorting softly. “That’s a very lovely way to say that I’d get by on looks alone.”

“You would not,” Louis snaps, tiring of my self-deprecation. “You are beautiful, yes, but clever besides, with an eye for business and a resourcefulness that kept you alive around me when I was at my worst. I will tolerate many things, my love, but down talk of yourself is something I will not.”

I avert my gaze, shamed and humbled all at once. “Even after all this time, I wonder why you—”

“Do not,” Louis firmly replies, pushing aside his plate and rising, “doubt my love for you. I would destroy this world and everything in it if it meant a better place for you to thrive.”

“Louis,” I sigh, allowing him to pull me up against his chest and nuzzling in at his broad chest. “I know it. I know it, my love. I’m sorry.”

“No,” murmurs Louis, kissing the top of my head and tucking me closer still. “Don’t apologise to me. Do better by yourself. That’s all that I ask.”

“I will,” I promise, looking up into his golden eyes and his fine, enigmatic features.

Louis smiles in the way that he only smiles for me, stroking along my back. “That is all that I ask,” he says again, and kisses me soundly.

[itsybiggy]

you’re my midnight moon

Part 3/3: does time heal all wounds?

word count: 2323

Thinking about doing a bonus chapter with smut, let me know! Hope you like the fluffy angst!

You starred down at the note. It had been brought here the other day and had it done nothing but haunt you ever since it arrived. It was an invitation to the festival that was taking place in two months. Each district had one in each of the walls and anyone was free to go between them. It would take a while to prepare and all of humanity was helping. But this invitation was from Armin. More of a letter than a formal invitation, but he wanted you to go to the festival with him.

To reconnect, my old friend.

Old friend.

Suppose that was less awkward than old lover. But even then you and Armin had not even been lovers then. Both not having time and being too shy to go that far in your relationship.

Still, this was an opportunity to make amends for your past. For abandoning him. So you wrote back.

Dear old friend...

______

Despite the fact that you lived in the same district as Armin, you had managed to barely see in in the months leading up to the festival. You didn’t exactly do this on purpose, it seemed that your mind was attempting to protect yourself. When you would see him in the market, a bar, just out in town, you conveniently remembered what you had to do at home, go somewhere else. You ignored when you felt his gaze on you. You never engaged with him. You felt like a mole, hiding from the sun itself.

Sasha had come one day, filled with questions. She spared no time opening you up, though if anyone could it would be her. You cried together for your fallen comrades, for the awful memories, and your once lost connection. Your connection that was quickly rekindled after that day. Her kind, but at times brash words had given you the confidence to have this closure with all of your old friends, most of all Armin of course.

Which brings us to the festival

The town square in wall Cana was alive with all spurts of sights and sounds. Hoards of drunk soldiers and civilians alike sung their new bar songs; written about humanity’s victory.

“On the ground were their heads

As our mighty scouts caught them dead

Swinging their swords they cut those bastards down

Some say there were no blades just Levi’s frown

Our mighty scouts they slayed the beasts

So now we feast!

For the Titans are gone let's have some fun!

And humanity has WON!!”

The thick smell of well missed meat filled the whole district. Families had opened their doors with warm, home cooked meals inside. Food stalls were set up, with no charge. It truly felt as if humanity was at peace.

In the midst a group of soldiers in particular, more jovial than most, some say they saw hell more that Levi himself.

“SASHA SLOW THE HELL DOWN!” Connie smacked the back of her neck, effectively shooting the peace of meat she was choking on, out of her throat.

“Ah!” Jean leaped out of the way of the projectile meat “you didn’t even chew it you monster!”

Sasha looked like she was about to cry as Mikasa held on to her, keeping her from picking up the steak from the ground. “I couldn’t help it, I haven’t had cow in so long.”

“So savor it you idiot.” Eren rolled his eyes, Armin chuckled.

You were a few steps away from the group, your slow body separated yourself from the happy group. You didn’t want to rain on their parade. Though, you honestly wanted to join it. You had made up as much as you could with all of them...except Armin. Sasha was the only one who took it well enough. The rest of the group said they would need time to fix your friendships. Which was understandable. So, you just let them be content tonight without having to worry about you.

Armin didn’t seem to get the “Ignore me” memo. Shooting glances at you when he thought you couldn’t see him. It made you uneasy.

It made you scared that old feelings started to bubble up.

Armin Arlert had the uncanny ability to make you feel like a giggling school girl with what seemed to be only a look. Not that you audibly or visibly made any indication that he did so. But it was impossible for you to think of anything else but: <em>if your simple dress looked ok, was your hair a mess in the humidity or was your face just a tomato at that point?</em>

You tried to keep your head on the cobblestone road, as you tried not to meet any of his gazes. But also because you had stupidly discarded your cane. You didn’t need it most of the time, but if you were going to be walking for long periods of time you definitely did. One small miss step would leave you face planted on the ground unable to get up.

“Hey (y/n), come-“ With your eyes glued to the group you didn’t notice Eren being the first one who noticed you trailed behind. And so when he had went to playfully slap your back, ushering you forward it had taken you by compete surprise. So of course your back and legs give way, and you face planted on the stone road.

“(Y/N)!!” They all shouted, they had already turned around when Eren began talking. They rushed to your side, and helped you as you attempted to get up.

Eren looked quiet panicked as Mikasa begun swatting at him to be careful with my weak form. He swore he didn’t know the strength of his hit.

“I’ve got it, I’m fine. It’s ok.” You batted their hands away and attempted to ease Eren. You could feel warm blood as it was trickling from your chin and knees. But you couldn’t get up, only on all fours. Humiliatingly unable to move past this point, tears threaten to leave your eyes. Once again, you stared at the cobblestone in compete defeat. “I....I can’t move anymore...help.”

Strong arms lifted your body from the road. You were unable to even look at who they belonged to but the soft, familiar smell flooded your nostrils.

“I’ve got you.” Armin said, one arm under your bleeding knees, the other held your back and shoulders. “I’ll go get her cleaned up, we’ll meet you guys later.” He said and before You could even protest he walked from them.

Silence....awful, deafening, horrible silence.

It was almost impossible to tell what he was thinking. His face was blank, you could only detect the blush creeping from his neck to the tips of his ears. Quickly after seeing that, your face matched his.

<em>Did you want to talk to me or should I start?</em>

As if he heard your thoughts “Let’s get you clean and then.. we can talk.” His voice was soft and wavering. You could feel his nervousness, it was clearly heard in his voice.

So per his request you both were silent as he set you down at a table, a distance away from anyone. Families and soldiers were still clearly visible, but their singing and celebration muffled in the distance. He left me for only a second to the well nearby. He took a knife to his shirt and tore the bottom. You were glad it wasn’t more than a normal day shirt. But it still had made you feel guilty. Flowey and light blue, it was still a nice shirt despite its simplicity. He dipped a part of the shirt into the bucket which he had drawn and returned to you. The wind whipping his shortened shirt revealing his very muscular torso. You quickly averted your eyes.

He knelt down and lightly wiped the dried blood from your legs before dabbing the wound. Subconsciously your leg twitched, causing him to come down a bit to hard. A sting shot through the wound which caused you to wince.

“Sorry!” He quickly lifted his hand, panic in his eyes “I was trying to be gentle.”

“You were! Don’t be sorry...maybe if you held my leg in place it would help.” looking into his blue eyes, you desperately tried to imprint them once again into your mind. He looked away soon after the offer, embarrassed.

Still, red in the face he nodded. He placed his left hand on your calf, his finders gripping softly onto your soft skin. His right hand resumed cleaning the bloody scrape. “Does that feel better?” He asked, eyes fixed on your leg.

“I uh, still think they are shaking.” You took his hand and placed it in the back of your thigh. He lifted your dress so he had better access to your knee. “There I’m still.”

Except now it was Armins hands who were shaking. He finished one side before moving to the next. You easily noted how his hand was significantly higher on this leg than the other.

“All clean, you should wrap them when you get home though. here let me help you down.” He held out his hand, but you were not ready to let this tender interaction end.

You pointed to your chin, which still had some blood on it. “Uh could you get this too.”

He gulped and nodded. You scooted forward on the table and spread your legs so he could come close enough to reach your face. He stepped in between them and lifted his hand to cup your face steady, like your leg, to softly clean your face. Your eyes stared at the table, but his seemed to be going from your cut to your eyes. You could feel with certainty when his blue eyes looked into yours. You continued to stare down, but now because you could not meet his with yours so filled with tears.

Here he was, perfect and soft. Caring for you so tenderly, as if you hadn’t completely broken his heart. Left without an trace, an explanation. You didn’t deserve his kindness.

“All..um done.” He stepped away from you, held out his hand to support you.

“Thank you Armin. You took it and stepped down carefully. When your feet hit the cold stone you continued to look at it while you stood there. Finally , unable to contain your self, you looked up fully sobbing now.

“Armin I’m..” your face went in your hands as your trembled “I’m so sorry. I should have ne-“

He interrupted you before you could continue.

“There is one thing I’ve always regretted. Not telling you how the world can be so beautiful, but I was so lucky to have something, someone beside me who was more beautiful than a sunset creeping over the mountains, or a meadow wildflowers, the star filled night sky or even the ocean. And that was you, is you.” You looked up to meet his love filled gaze, completely star struck at the words that came out of his mouth. The world seemed to slow as he continued.

“I’m so sorry that I didn’t fight harder to keep you by my side. I just, I wanted to ask why you stopped loving me, and plead for you to stay but I just let you go.” He looked to the ground, seemingly ashamed for what you thought as innocence, it was you who was to blame.

You stepped into his arms, clinging to him for support. Your legs were weak now, but you also needed him to hold you. His arms had the gift to make all your worries disappeared. “Armin, I-. It’s not your fault. It was me. After we became scouts and then we were separated, my entire force was wiped out. My friends all gone. I was struck with the realization that life for us so fleeting. And it hurt so bad to see them go, I couldn’t and didn’t even want to imagine seeing you die. And I didn’t want you to hurt if I ever did.” He held your shaking, sobbing body as you struggled to continue.

“I pushed everyone away including you, only to save myself from having to lose you. And I still did. It hurt me so much and every day I regret it. I’m so sorry Armin. But seeing you again, I- I can’t leave you again. I still love you I never stopped. It was too late when I realized that life is fleeting so it is important to find something you live and hold onto it rather than push it away.”

“Armin Arlert I love you”

Calloused hands lifted your face to his, strong arms lifted you from the ground, soft lips kissed yours. You could taste his salty tears, they mixed with your own. You could feel his love, his hurt, and his relief.

You grabbed onto his silky hair, arms wrapped around his neck. He held your body close to his. You wanted to feel him, closer, connected. Your tongue slid across his lips. He eagerly tilted his head and opened his mouth to yours, now you could taste him. His lips were so soft, so tender parted from you to look at your face. A smile spread across his.

“(Y/n) (l/n) dance with me, we don’t need any music, just you and me. Come on.” Tears rolled down your faces as he recited the words you had so many years ago.

And as if on que your little world opened up as you begun to hear the tune of the festival music. He carried you closer to the music, but just far enough away where you both could stay in your own world.

He set you down, placing your feet on top of his as you both swayed with the music. You stayed like this, dancing, lips parted for a millisecond only to connect again. This tender moment you shared will not easily if not ever be forgotten.

Yaaay all done! Repost, like, send some love if you enjoyed! We need more Armin content!!!

[chocolatemin]

word count: 7k

contains: fluff, angst, mentions of death, fantasy, historical au

note: i took so long in this one as the story line kind of changed over time, let’s just say that the change was for the better and that i stopped listening to cardigan halfway… anyway, enjoy! 

Whenever someone dies, a new star is born and that’s because their souls vanish off to the galaxy. 

“Long ago, there weren’t as many stars as we have to the present day. The human population is still small, therefore there are only a few stars up in the sky, until the Great War came, many soldiers died during the day and when the night fell upon it was the first time people saw the skies filled with stars.”

That’s what your grandmother told you.

You reminisce about your moments with your grandmother as you gaze upon the night sky, searching for the stars. It is a cloudy night so you are having quite a hard time finding your grandmother’s star. You inhale the earthly scent of the grass you are currently sitting on; finding solace amidst the darkness isn’t new for you as it has been your routine every night– except for rainy days, you really won’t find any star during those days.

“I told you not to stay too long outside alone at night.” You whipped your head towards the direction of the voice and saw your brother with his arms crossed over his chest standing near the fence. 

“Oh, sorry, the sky is not that clear tonight so I took longer than usual.” You say as you stand up from your seat, dusting off your clothes before walking up to him. He shakes his head at you before offering his hand to help you cross over the fence.

“Let’s go home. It’s getting late.” You nod and follow along with him to your way home.

“Thank you, Chan.” You feel thankful having him as your brother, he never gets mad at you and he always tries his best to understand and support you. 

“For what?” He turns to you confused.

“For being the best brother.” You said grinning at him widely and he just laughs at you. 

The sun is shining brightly and you decided that it is a good time to trim the plants in front of your house. You are trimming the leaves of your flowers when you are interrupted by a cough followed by a sweet voice of a young man.

“A pleasant day to you, Mademoiselle, may I ask if Sir Chris lives in this area?” You spun your heels around and met with the prettiest eyes you’ve ever seen. And to be honest, you do not trust the man in front of you despite his calm aura. Who knows the evil behind that mask?

“Yes, Sir…” You trailed off.

“Seungmin Kim, please call me Seungmin.” 

“Yes, Sir Seungmin, do you have any business with him?” You asked, you can’t let that charming smile fool you; you’ve met enough of those people.

“Please drop the formality, I am not that old yet. And yes, I’ve heard that he plays instruments during occasions, my parents would like to invite him to play at my brother’s wedding.” He handed you a rolled up letter and tied using a light blue ribbon. The moment your fingers brushed against his, your vision turned white and a scene flashes in front of your eyes, sending chills and goosebumps all over your body. You immediately pull your hand back, grabbing the letter carefully and your vision returns.

“Thank you, Seungmin. I’ll give this to him as soon as he returns.” You gave him a faint smile, trying to hide the fear and shock whilst he looks confused by your actions. 

“Alright, see you. Have a nice day.” With that, he quickly leaves, heading west, leaving you dumbfounded, still shocked.

You sighed. You’ve seen it again, that is why you absolutely loathed interactions with strangers. 

Seungmin, on the other side regrets not asking your name nor your relation with Chan. He shook his head, knowing fully that his parents will scold him later, they’ll think that he gave it to the wrong person. However, he immediately shut his longing for your name with the thought that it wouldn’t matter if he knows your name or not because he won’t be able to see you again anyway.

The moment Chan arrives at your home, he is welcomed by a suspicious glare from you, with your arms crossed over your chest, sitting on the couch. Chan was surprised by you.

“Thank goodness you’re home, Chris.” You see him flinch at the name you called him, “I didn’t know I have a brother named Chris who plays instruments during special occasions.”

You are not mad, you just thought of this wonderful confrontation with your brother so that you can tease him. To be honest, you are proud of him. If he isn’t that good at playing instruments, no one will try to invite him to play, especially at a wedding, where everything about it would be the talk of the town for a long time. You enjoyed seeing his flustered reaction, as if he got caught picking your flowers. You almost laughed but you bit your lip to prevent the laugher slip out.

“Let me explain,” Chan sighed, “where did you get that information– no, it doesn’t matter, I, uh… Why are you doing this to me?” Chan fake cries, having his other hand on his chest while the other wipes off his invisible tears. You erupted in a fit of laughter, your brother looks really amusing.

“But, why didn’t you tell me about this?” You stand up from your seat, heading to the kitchen. 

“You see… I don’t really have a stable job, I do what I think I can to earn a living for the us.” Chan sat on one of the chairs on the dining table, his hands placed together on the top of the table. You went over to him and placed your hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to overwork yourself, I am here to help you earn for the both of us. You know I work part time at Changbin’s bakehouse and at times I work at the palace whenever they need extra laundress. Is that not enough?” Your eyes soften as you feel your heart ache from the newfound information. 

“Wait, I remembered something,” you straighten up your body and head to the living room, picking up the letter on the table across the fireplace, “Here’s an invitation for you.” You handed him the letter.

“A wedding?” Chan asks as his eyes skimmed through the content of the letter.

“They want you to sing for them.” You replied shortly.

“Lee Minho? The businessman?” Chan looks at you, confused.

“Aren’t they.. kind of.. wealthy?” You ask, you don’t really know them, but they are known for having fields and cows, having a large stall at the market. Chan nodded to your question and you brought up another question out of curiosity, “What does the letter say?”

“I will be playing two songs and woah- xx pounds?” Chan’s eyes widen and so do your eyes, “Wow, that’s a lot.” 

“So, when is the wedding taking place?” You ask, pursing your lips. 

“Tomorrow.” Chan looks at you, “Are you gonna come?”

“I don’t think I’m invited, besides, Changbin asked for assistance, we have to deliver a bunch of pastries tomorrow.” You turn your back to get two plates and utensils, placing them on the table while Chan placed the dinner on the middle of the table.

“Oh, alright.”

“Shall we eat now?” You ask as you take a seat across your brother, you look up to him and see him flash a smile.

“Of course.”

“Chan, I’m leaving!” You shout from the doorstep, slipping on your boots, ready to leave for your work.

“This early?” Chan shouted from his room.

“I’m helping Changbin bake!” You turned the knob and opened the door, “See you later!”

You arrived at Chanbin’s bakehouse slightly earlier than you agreed to so upon knocking on the door, you were greeted by him with his bedhead, “Morning, Changbin.”

“It’s literally 6 am, I thought 7 am was clear?” Changbin glares at you before stepping aside so you can get inside.

“Oops, I forgot~” You pull the sleeves of your working clothes up and fix your hair before stepping into the kitchen, trailing behind Changbin’s back, “Hey, I think you should get your sleep back and I will start preparing all the things we need for baking today. If I finish that early, I will start right away.” You turn to face him.

“Nah, it’s better to start early so that we can deliver the pastries early too. And after, I’ll drop you off to your home and you may take the day off.” Changbin waves his hand before carrying the sack of flour near the table, “I’ll take charge of the bread and kneading, you can  make the mini pies and the cake batter.”

“Are you sure you don’t need help?” You ask as you carefully take the baking equipment from the cupboard, placing it on the working area.

“Then what are these muscles for?” Changbin raises his brow, patting his toned and muscular biceps.

“Ego boost, I must say.” You deadpanned as soon as you dropped the ingredients you took from the shelves on the table, earning another glare from Changbin.

“Sure, whatever. Just make the pastries and the rest are on me.” Changbin shook his head in defeat causing you to chuckle. 

The both of you are too focused on your tasks that you didn’t notice the time passing, you exchanged short conversations to avoid the atmosphere turning dull as you both work. While preparing another set of mini fruit pie, you realize that you don’t really know what occasion you are making these pastries for. 

“Changbin,” you muttered softly in which Changbin hummed in response, “I realized that you’ve never told me what these pastries are for.”

“Oh, yeah, these are for the wedding later.” He says as he takes out another set of bread from the oven. 

“Who was it again? Min- Minho’s wedding?” You ask, quite unsure.

“Yeah, it is a bit odd that the wedding will take place in the late afternoon,” Changbin pauses, “I mean, most wedding ceremonies take place around mid afternoon and celebration in the evening.” 

“So, how much time do we have left?” You ask, not sparing a glance to him, concentrating on the cake frosting. 

“We’ve still got plenty of that.”

The moment you arrive at the hall, you are welcomed by the scent of fresh flowers but it is immediately replaced by the smell of pastries and bread you and Changbin baked. Getting off the carriage first, you carefully helped Changbin carry every serving cart that contains the pastries you baked and took out the four-layered cake last. A familiar face walked towards your direction with long strides, causing you to be flustered. He looks heavenly despite the formed sweat on his forehead and his wrinkled brows.

“You just arrived exactly at the time, let me help you bring these inside.” The young lad grabbed on one of the serving carts, accommodating you and Changbin inside the hall, each pushing a serving cart.

“You are Seungmin, right?” You try to strike a conversation, disliking the awkwardness surrounding the three of you.

“I’m surprised you remembered my name.” Seungmin glanced towards you but still kept his straight face.

“Well, you are quite the straightforward.” But that’s not the truth, of course, you remember him, after seeing that vision of yours, how can you forget him?

“I was in a hurry.” Seungmin timidly replies and you did not bother to ask anymore questions sensing that he must be already exhausted and stressed about the wedding.

Seungmin helped you take all the pastries inside the hall but you and Changbin told him that he can rest for a bit or work on something else since the two of you will be arranging the pastries according to a design. You saw that a three tier, large circular ceramic pastry stand is prepared on the table. Without further ado, you and Changbin started placing the mini fruit pies carefully in an assorted manner but in an enticing pattern. Another pastry stand is prepared for the bread and a white elegant cake stand with dangling crystals. You carefully placed the cake, not wanting to destroy it and which you successfully did, and the two of you high fived each other, giving a thumbs up for accomplishing the work.

“Oh! What a lovely cake!” You hear a high-pitched voice of an old woman, you immediately shoot your head towards her, you are guessing she is already in her late forties but her beauty is truly undeniable.

“Thank you, Madame.” You bow courtly as a sign of respect and accepting her compliment, “we just finished and we are on our way to leave.”

“I think I forgot to tell you two that you are invited to the wedding.” Mrs. Lee spoke in a soft tone, “Why don’t you wait at the chambers?”

Changbin spoke, “Thank you for the offer, Madame, but we still have to bring back the equipment, we will just return later, and make ourselves presentable too,” flashing a smile.

“Oh, alright. I’ll be waiting for you two.” Mrs. Lee smiles in return before leaving you and Changbin.

“You know what? We should hurry.”

By the time you make it to the wedding, the hall is already filled with guests and their relatives. It is a bit crowded but not to the point that it is suffocating.

“Fancy seeing you here, huh.” You turn to see Chan dressed in semi-formal clothes and you are not used to seeing Chan looking all good. He has his hair fixed, not a single strand is sticking out and he has the first button of his shirt open. Wow, is this really my brother?

“I thought you won’t come?” Chan asks.

“Mrs. Lee invited us last minute.” Changbin replies to Chan as they do their “friendship” greeting gesture.

“Do you have seats?” Chan raised his brow, causing you and Changbin to throw a glance to each other, basing off to the empty response, Chan spoke, “There are still available seats on my table, come.”

You follow Chan pass through the crowd, heading to a table quite near the orchestra.

The wedding is very simple but heartwarming and it is the time for everyone to dance while Chan is playing the piano, Changbin went over to a lady across your table to ask her to dance with him, leaving you alone at the table so you signalled Chan that you will be heading to the garden for a bit.

“Aren’t you afraid of being alone at night?” Your ears perk up at the familiar voice but you don’t move. Instead you heave a sigh and look up to the night sky.

“I think it ’s better than sitting alone at the table.” You hear the footsteps stop beside you, and you finally glance at him, “What are you doing here?”

“I really should be the one asking you that but fine,” Seungmin shakes his head, “I was just thinking of something.”

“Do you want to share what’s bothering you?” You don’t know why you are concerned and you hope that your question will not make him uncomfortable.

“Maybe telling a complete stranger wouldn’t be so bad, eh?” Seungmin turns his head to look at you, chuckling, and you find his question quite funny but not offensive.

“That’s not true.” You shake your head, “You probably know my name by now, and I already know yours.”

“Alright.” Seungmin chuckles to himself but it is cut short by a scoff, “You see, my brother just got wedded to his long-time lover, but…” He takes a pause, making you look at him, “they will soon marry me off to someone.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t like the sound of it, I’m still young and I want to be free. I want to explore the world.” You can’t help but feel bad for him, he must not want to get married and tied up to someone he barely knows. Seungmin diverts his eyes from the sky to you and catches you staring at him but you nod, telling him that you understand his feelings.

“It’s just unfair…” Seungmin looks down, sliding his hands to his pocket as he kicks a stone.

“Can I ask you something? Promise me you won’t get offended.” You moved closer to him.

“Go ahead.”

“Are you perhaps from a different family?” You try not to sound very rude.

“What do you mean by different family?”

“Aren’t you a legitimate child of them?” You catch Seungmin hitch a breath from your peripheral vision.

“How did you know about that?” Seungmin steps in front of you, a stern look on his face gave you chills. You didn’t mean to offend him.

“I-I’m sorry, it’s just that, y-you introduced yourself as a Kim instead of Lee…” You try to look away so you just stare at your feet.

“You are really different from everyone.” You cannot read his expression from the tone of his voice.

“I-I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, but you have to tell me who you really are.” Seungmin places his arms in front of his chest.

“I don’t think this is the right time.” You try to reason out, “it will just give you a headache, I swear.”

Before he could speak, a voice interrupted the two of you, “I was looking for you!” You look over and see Chan waving his hand, the moon illuminating him so you can see his hand waving to you. “What are you doing outside?”

“I think, I should leave now,” You dusted off your clothes, “but I promise to tell you the next time we see each other.” Without sparing a glance to the young lad, you head to Chan, giving your brother an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, I was getting bored seeing people dance, but I didn’t know you could play something cool like that!” You smack his arms while you walk back inside the hall.

Since that encounter, your words haven’t left Seungmin’s mind. He is frustrated. He needs an answer, he can feel that you are hiding a lot of things you know about him, from him. How come it is possible for you to know a lot despite meeting only twice? He can still remember the surprised look on your face on your first meeting. As if you had seen a ghost.

“The Feys do exist, they are scattered all around the world, but there are only a few of them.” Seungmin’s grandmother spoke softly, sitting comfortably on her rocking chair, holding Seungmin’s hand.

“Do you know someone, Nana?” Seungmin asked, his eyes sparkled with curiosity, his grandmother couldn’t blame him though, he was only ten– full of youth, energy, and curiosity.

“Your grandfather was.” Seungmin’s grandmother stared at the sun setting oh so slowly, “They do not harm anyone, but people are afraid of them,”

“But why are you not afraid of Grandpa?”

“He was the sweetest man I’ve ever met. He was gentle and he has a pure heart. I wasn’t scared the time he told me,” Seungmin’s grandmother paused, “but I was scared for him, I know it hurt him seeing his loved ones’ deaths.”

“But how do they do it?” Seungmin seemed like he would never run out of questions sooner. He was very eager to know more about his grandfather.

“The first time we met, we bumped into each other and I remember him passing out right there at the town square, so I brought him home, and the moment he woke up, he had a shocked look on his face and his hands were shaking. I asked him what was wrong but he said he has to go somewhere else and quickly left.”

“That is embarrassing…” Seungmin chuckled imagining the look on his grandfather’s face, he must have looked really weird in front of his grandmother.

“The visions happen in a matter of seconds, but to them, it’s like the time stopped for a moment.” Seungmin’s grandmother gently ruffled Seungmin’s dark locks.

“And oh, my dear, they can only see visions upon having physical contact with that person.”

Seungmin wondered why his memory with her grandmother suddenly replayed in his head. However his mind was too preoccupied by the thoughts and questions for you. It has been exactly a bothersome three months since he last saw you that night, during his step-brother’s wedding. His mind was filled with the thought of you during that three months, he was always reminded at night, how breathtaking you were as the moon shone brightly on the two of you, it felt like that moment was made only for him to see. But he shook the thought every time.

His mind was an utter mess.

As Seungmin wandered around the town plaza, his sight caught a glimpse of a silhouette sitting on the grass field, it was already dark so he couldn’t see properly. He didn’t know why, but his heart started to beat faster as he neared the fence.

“Sorry to interrupt you, but why are you alone here?” Seungmin’s voice resonates loudly in the midst of the quiet night but gained no response. Before he could think, his body was moving on its own– he jumped over the fence and walked towards the silhouette.

“Aren’t you afraid of being alone? Besides it’s already dark.” Seungmin asks calmly.

The moment you heard Seungmin’s loud voice from behind, you immediately freeze in your spot. To be honest, you were avoiding him. You never left your house except going to the bakehouse, skipped the stargazing, you didn’t go to the market, even deliver pastries when Changbin asked you to, and you admit, it was stubborn, but you really couldn’t risk seeing him again. You are too afraid of what might happen next. It is the first time you left your house for a long time since the wedding, and here you are, caught red-handed.

You hear his footsteps stop but you can’t look up to him, instead you lower your head down, “I don’t mind.”

“I-It’s you–”

Yes. And you promised to tell him the next time you meet.

“Would you like to keep me a company then?” You turn around to look at him, he is still as handsome as ever, but you notice that he has his hair styled up, and you thought he couldn’t get anymore gorgeous but you are wrong. You hope that he wouldn’t be able to see the blush creeping up your cheeks so you quickly turned your head away from him.

“What are you doing here alone?” Seungmin plopped himself about a ruler beside you, his legs in front of his chest while he placed his hand beside him to support his body

“I am finding my grandmother.” You faintly smile as you look up to the vast night sky causing Seungmin to find whatever you are talking about.

“What do you mean?” He tried squinting at the night sky but he still couldn’t understand you.

“Didn’t you know that whenever a person dies, a star is born?” You glance at him and you swear he gets more gorgeous every time you look at him.

“Where did that come from?” It is Seungmin’s turn to look at you and gaze with you for a while before you break it as you pointed at a bright star.

“See that star on the right side of the moon?”

“But there are so many stars.”

You quickly get up and sit closer to him, you feel him flinch as your arm brushes against his but you didn’t even budge and pointed again at the same star.

“That star, is my grandmother.” He could see the light smile forming on your face, “do you see it now?”

“Yes, but how did you know?” You return to your spot.

“I am not normal.” You are shocked that the words slip out from your mouth but you cannot lie, “it’s okay if you don’t believe me- I don’t expect but please never call me lunatic.”

“Can you tell me where my father is then?” You did not expect his answer but you see his serious face from your peripheral vision so you know you had to.

“Can you give me his name and date of passing?”

“Jiyoon, February twenty-sixth.” You can hear him sigh. “Should I tell you the year?”

“You don’t have to, I just need the month and day.” You close your eyes and you feel the night breeze blow against your bare skin, giving you light chills as you inhale deeply. You hear a ‘ding’ and you finally open your eyes.

Seungmin is shocked to see your eyes glowing amber and blinked a few times to see if it is just his mind playing tricks but your eyes are still glowing amber while you glance at the night sky in which he just assumes you’re locating his father.

Your eyes hastily searched for the star of Seungmin’s father until the familiar name caught your eye.

S-02J26Y

“I found him.” You turn your head to face him and Seungmin feels the goosebumps rise from his skin the way you looked at him, he finds it creepy yet you still look breathtaking despite your glowing eyes that soon returned to their normal color.

“Where?”

You point at the star beneath Regulus, “that’s him.”

What shocked Seungmin the most is that the moment he saw the star you are pointing at, he saw his favorite memory with his father flash before his eyes, his hands twitch beside him causing his back to collide with the ground.

“Oh my stars, are you okay?” You sat up from your spot and crouched beside him.

“Is it really like that?” Seungmin covered his eyes using the back of his hand.

“I’m sorry, I forgot to warn you.”

“That makes sense why you seem different from others, because you really are.” Seungmin removed his hand from his face and stared at you. There is a long silence as you look deeply into each other’s eyes and you feel more drawn to him.

“I think that’s enough for today. You should rest now. I’ll walk you home.” You stand up, offering your hand to him but he gets up on his own instead.

“No, I’ll walk you home.”

You hear a cough not too far from where the two of you stood and you immediately knew who it was.

“Chan.” you mutter under your breath.

The both of you turned your head at the same time.

“I don’t see the need to walk you home now.” Seungmin looks back to you.

“I have to go, but what about you?”

“Minho is waiting for me at the shop.”

“Alright, take care and head home safely.” You waved at him and he watched you jog up to the good-looking man standing behind the fence. Seungmin felt slight envy towards the man but he shook off the thought.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re meeting up with that guy?” Chan opens the door and steps aside, letting you in first.

“No, it just so happened that he saw me there.” You hear the doorknob softly click.

“But you were avoiding him, right?”

“Yeah…”

“I understand if you still don’t want to tell me why, just tell me whenever you are comfortable, a'ight?” Chan gives you a pat on the shoulder before walking past you.

The next day, as you are busy mixing all the ingredients, you hear the bell ring, a signal that someone entered the bakehouse so you quickly fixed your hair before heading to the counter.

“Seungmin?” Your mouth slightly falls agape as soon as you see the man.

“What are you doing here?” Seungmin tilts his head.

“I work here, have you forgotten?” You walk over to the counter, taking the list, ready to jot down his order, “What will you have?”

“Oh right, I almost forgot.” He looks like he was not really himself, “Mother asked me to get these.” Seungmin handed you a piece of paper containing a list of bread.

“Alright, give me a moment.” You held your hand up before turning your back to him. He watches you swiftly place all the bread on the list, and he would be lying if he says that his heart didn’t make tiny jumps. Even with your hair looking a bit messy, your apron and elbow smudged with flour and the tiny sweat that formed on your forehead, Seungmin cannot hide the fact that you still look pretty, even more captivating. You look different from that night, and he can’t help but imagine seeing you like that again this time as his spouse. Seungmin blushes at the thought, he never saw himself going this far over a girl he just met twice.

“All for a shilling.” You drop the basket on the top of the counter causing Seungmin to snap back to reality.

“How much is it again?” Seunin grabs ahold of his pouch.

“Twenty pence in total.” Seungmin clumsily grabs the coins from his pouch and hands you the coins.

“Are you perhaps free on Saturday?” You are taken aback by the sudden question but decided to play it cool.

“Why? Are you going to take me on a date?” You wink at him.

“Don’t let confidence get in your head, that’s not good for you.” Seungmin shakes his head but you laugh at his comment.

“Where are we meeting up then?” You are not afraid anymore, there is no point in hiding when he literally knows your house and where you work.

“The place where you stargaze.”

“See you.” He nods and you just smile in return as you watch him leave the bakehouse. Thank goodness. You sigh in relief.

Days after days, you keep seeing each other but he never visits your house. He always asks you to meet at the usual spot you’ve always sat on during the second time he met you. You definitely have gotten closer and a lot comfortable with each other but you are aware that if you keep meeting him, you’re going to catch feelings anytime soon which is not the best thing. You two would end up getting hurt, not because you are assuming things, but because it is bound to happen if you fail to control your feelings.

The future is up to you.

You are walking side by side with Seungmin as he walks you home but instead of enjoying the silence of the night, the both of you keep talking about the mystique of the world. It isn’t really the mystique you want to talk about but it is a way for you to keep talking. You craved to hear more of his voice and so does Seungmin. To him, your voice is like a sweet melody to his ears that lulls him to the hypnotic trance of your neverending symphony. You stop on your tracks as soon as you reach your house. However, you didn’t really feel like going inside, you fiddle on your fingers as you look down. There is something you want to say but you feel something caught up in your throat.

“Seungmin-”

“Y/N-”

You turn your heels to face Seungmin but instead you meet with his lips, capturing your own in a short moment of bliss. Your eyes widened and you quickly pulled away, flustered.

“Holy stars, I-I’m sorry.” You tilt your head and look over to the street. You prayed to the stars that Seungmin won’t notice the change of color of your face, “I should head inside now.”

“I was going to tell you that I wouldn’t be able to continue our nightly meet-ups til Saturday.” Seungmin says as if nothing happened. You feel your chest tighten.

“Important m-matters?” You trip on your own words and you mentally smack your forehead.

“We are going on a trip starting tomorrow.”

Great. You have all the time to recover from that.

“Uh, sure. Have a safe trip.” You try not to sound like you want him away from you.

“It won’t be for too long.” You place your hand over his shoulder, “It’s just a week and days pass by quickly, you won’t even notice that you’re about to go home.”

“I’ll miss you.” Seungmin whispers and your heart skips a beat. You got this. Just speak casually as if your lips didn’t accidentally ‘collide’ minutes ago.

“Yeah, you’re right.” Seungmin tries his best for the words not to slip out from his mouth, “I’ll get going now.”

You nod your head and smile.

“See you soon.”

Your days were spent feeling empty without Seungmin’s presence, but that didn’t help you at all to forget the kiss the night before he went on the trip. You didn’t have any contact at all. You spent your nights alone at the spot you usually sat on whenever you gaze at your grandmother’s beautiful star until one night. 

You are peacefully enjoying the quiet night, lying down on the grass when you feel your hands burning, a shiver ran down your spine along with the cold sweat slowly forming on your forehead. You feel your body unable to move. It’s happening. Someone is dying at this moment. You thought to yourself. Your heart started beating erratically, you feel the inside of your stomach twist and it’s getting hard for you to breathe. You gathered your strength, pushing yourself to stand up. Your knees are trembling and you feel like you were hit by a train. It took you minutes to take a step, followed by another until you are only about a meter away from the fence. You feel the veins on your head pulsating and you remember the latest vision you had.

Seungmin. 

You have to go to him. 

With all your strength you try to walk faster, not minding the feverish feeling of your body, burning hands and jiggling legs. It’s either you have to save him or you have to find Chan, but there’s no way Chan will be fetching you tonight. You see a silhouette of a man running towards you, you squint your eyes trying to figure out who it is. You hear the man shout but all you can hear is the pulsating of your head and erratic heartbeat. You are nearing the fence and the man’s figure is becoming more visible to you, but before you make it to the fence, the last thing you see is pitch black void and the yelling of your name.

Seungmin, on the other hand, just got back. On the way to his room, carrying his luggage, he stops on his tracks when his vision suddenly swirls. He feels his heart slowly picking up its pace and his mind suddenly flooded with memories of you. He feels dizzy and unstable but God knows all he cares for. He has to see you. And so he dropped his luggage, frantically sprinted outside despite his legs feeling clammy. Minho and his spouse are left dumbfounded at the living room. Seungmin didn’t know your location but he has one thing in his mind– the field. He ran all the way to the field as if his life depended upon it. He was already halfway through the field when he tripped, causing him to stumble on the ground. He groaned in pain but that didn’t stop him from making his way. As he neared the location, he saw a silhouette not so far from the fence. He yells your name despite the burning of his throat and throbbing pain in his body, but as soon as he reaches the fence his body collapses on the ground.

Seungmin jolts up from his position and observes his surroundings. 

“Oh, you’re awake.” He whips his head towards the voice and sees Minho seated not-so-comfortably on the couch.

“Where is Y/N? I have to see them.” Seungmin asks nervously.

“Huh? Y/N? Who is Y/N?” Minho furrows his brows and stands up from his seat, “Do you want to drink water first or are you going to eat?”

“The field, Y/N is there.” Seungmin doesn’t feel weak at all but his body isn’t just cooperating with him.

“I didn’t see anyone there. And why the hell are you running outside in the middle of the night?” Minho comes back carrying a tray in his hands, placing it on the top of the table near Seungmin’s bed, “Do you know how long have you been sleeping there? Five days.” 

“What?” Seungmin is surprised, “You must be joking.”

“Just eat your food. You must have hit your head really hard.” Minho shakes his head at the younger’s response.

“Yeah, thanks.” Seungmin is hurt, he tried his best to find you but what if it was just him hallucinating that night? What if you really weren’t there just like Minho said.

That night, Seungmin couldn’t sleep so he got up from his bed and slipped on a nice pair of clothes topped with a coat. He quietly heads out from his room and sneakily goes over to the front door, slipping on his boots. He steps outside and closes the door behind him without making any sound, making sure to lock it, he has the spare key in his pocket after all. He took his time walking and his feet brought him to your special place. His heart swells as soon as he crosses over the fence. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the stars but the moment he did, he saw a new star, near your grandmother’s and he couldn’t believe his sight. Flashes before his eyes is the night you kissed, which is his favorite memory with you and he felt a pang in his chest. His hands are shaking and tears are forming in his pretty eyes. He closes his eyes as the tears start making its way to his cheeks. It is a moment of silence and melancholy, his heart is swelling with regret and despair. The cold wind blew and he couldn’t feel anymore lonely. 

“There you are.” Seungmin wipes his tears before turning to the origin of the voice, and he sees you there, holding out a star in your hand. 

“I am just imagining things, right?” Seungmin rubs his eyes, blinking a few times before looking again at your direction, “Am I dreaming?”

You take a few steps, stopping right in front of him with quite a distance. You lovingly gaze at his orbs as you let go of the star you are holding, “No, it’s me.” 

The star floats to the sky and changes color as it goes higher, it stops just below the crescent moon before glowing amber, a line connecting forming a large constellation of stars, but the star only connects to the stars of other Feys. The fated to see deaths, the fated to die disgusted and avoided by people. It was the most beautiful night sky you’ve ever seen. 

“I’m alive,” you smile at Seungmin, “I’m here.” You step closer to him and your hand reaches for the side of his face, wiping away the stray tears. 

“Thank goodness, you are fine.” A tear escaped from your eye. 

“What do you mean?” Seungmin places his hand on top of yours.

“I saw it, I was supposed to die that night.” You choked on your own words, this time you are telling him, “the day we first met, I saw myself dying beside you, and that was the first time I saw my death.”

“What does that mean?” Seungmin intertwined his fingers with yours.

“Your memories with me will fade and you will forget me as if I didn’t exist in the first place.” You mumbles lightly, hating the thought of him forgetting you.

“But you didn’t, right?”

“My lifespan is short and the universe should’ve taken my soul that night .” You cried, “But we weren’t together that night, and I completely forgot about it, by the time I remember it, I was so afraid that I won’t be able to say goodbye.”

Seungmin pulls you in a warm embrace, you can feel his body trembling as you nuzzle your head further on his chest, “but I saw you that night- I felt something strange and so I ran to the first place that came into my mind, but I collapsed before I can go to you. Minho said he didn’t see anyone.”

“That is the reason why I am still alive, because we were supposed to be together, but we weren’t.” You lace your arms around his slim waist, reciprocating the hug, “And I’ve never been thankful in my life. You prevented me from fading.”

“But why did I see your star?” You look up to him and see him staring at the star beside your grandmother’s.

“Consider this my second life, and that star has all my memories before I was about to die.” He lowers down his face to meet yours, gazing lovingly at your orbs. He doesn’t know what to say, his emotions are all messed up, despair, regret, anger, joy, bliss- all those in one night.

“But what about the star you are holding earlier?”

“That… I am not a Fey anymore… because I survived my own death.” You gently smile at him.

“Promise me to never leave my side.” Seungmin’s eyes are red and raw from crying so much, “we’ll forever gaze at the night skies, for as long as you want, just please stay with me.”

You nod at him and he presses his soft lips for a chaste kiss on your forehead.

“But Seungmin,” He hums and you removed your other arm from his waist, reaching to cup the left side of his face, your thumb gently grazing on his cheek, “You already have the galaxies in your eyes.”

And all he needed to know were answered with that.

[d-noona]

BARTERED BRIDE - Chapter 4

Ch 04 - Lunch Meeting

Kim Namjoon is a ruthless financier used to buying and selling stocks, shares and priceless artifacts. But now Namjoon has his eye on a very different acquisition - Park Han Byeol. Left destitute by her father's recent death, Han Byeol walks into Namjoon's bank looking to extend her overdraft. As Han Byeol needs money and Namjoon needs a wife, he proposes the perfect deal: he'll rescue her financially if she agrees to marry him. But in this marriage of convenience can Han Byeol ever be anything more than just a bartered bride?

Masterlist

"I nearly kept you waiting," said Namjoon. "I came back from the bank at eleven to go run in the park. As I was coming home I saw an old man on a bench who was obviously in need of medical attention. That held me up."

"Do you run everyday?" Han Byeol asks.

"I try to. Are you a runner?"

Han Byeol shook her head. "I play tennis and ski. I don't do work-outs."

He slanted an appraising glance at her figure. Today, in place of a black suit, she was wearing a designer outfit bought on a holiday in Italy. It consisted f a fine jersey-knit top in lilac, a waistcoat in violet, and swirling chevron-striped skirt combining those colors with pink and pale pistachio-green. The audacious color combination was perfect with Han Byeol's dark hair and brown eyes. "You look in great shape," he remarked. "But people in desk jobs like mine need some kind of fitness regime to stave off the bad effects of a sedentary lifestyle. Come and sit down. What would you like to drink before lunch?"

She remembered his remark about the wine she had been drinking when he forced his way in the previous evening. Was he one of those people who drank only mineral water and made everyone who didn't feel on a lower plane? Han Byeol had no intention of allowing him to intimidate her. "A Campari and soda, please," she said firmly.

Namjoon said to the butler, who had been following them at a discreet distance, "A Campari for Miss Park and my usual, please, Curtis." With a silent inclination of the head, the butler withdrew.

"Let's sit over here, shall we?" Namjoon steered her towards a group of comfortable chairs near one of the windows. "Have you finished your packing?"

"Almost"

Knowing that she wouldn't be able to sleep, she had worked on it till long past midnight. At half past nine this morning a dealer whom she had ought a lot of furnishings had come round to buy them back. Luckily Han Byeol had paid for them out of her bank account. Although the money in it had come from her father, technically they were her property, not his. As soon as his business had been forced into receivership, everything her father had owned, including the family home belonged to his business creditors. But the cash the dealer had handed her could go in her pocket. It wasn't much but it was better than nothing if, when Namjoon spelt out the terms of his trade off marriage, she found that she couldn't accept them. Looking up at the elegant cornice around the ceiling and the two crystal chandeliers, their chains swathed with coral tassels at the tops of the heavy cream curtains.

"Are you interested in architecture?" He sounded faintly surprised.

"Sometimes."

The butler came back with their drinks, hers a slight more vivid red than the coral linen slipcovers on some of the sofas, Namjoon's colorless except for a twist of lemon floating among the ice cubes. It could be in or vodka, or it could straight mineral water. Namjoon said, "This was my grandparents' house. My paternal grandmother still lives here when she's not staying with her daughters". I moved here when my father died. We had been living in Ilsan. I have an apartment near Gangnam but I thought you would feel more comfortable being entertained in the main house," he added with a gleam of amusement. After a slight pause, he added "I shall move out when I marry. The province is better for children, if their parents can choose where to live. Most people can't of course."

"Where are you thinking of moving to?" Han Byeol asked.

"I haven't decided." His expression was enigmatic. "Where would you choose to live, given a free choice?"

Han Byeol considered the question. Once the answer would have been "Wherever Yoongi wants to live." She said, "Ideally I'd like more sun than we get in this city. I wouldn't mind living by the sea, getting some fresh air...or a lake would do as long as it has mountains round it. I'd like to look out on mountains...big ones with snow on top."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Sounds as if New Zealand would suit you."

She shook her head. "I'm sure it's a beautiful country but it's too far away from Korea. Have you been there?"

Namjoon nodded. "The scenery's magnificent...when it's not raining. Unreliable weather. I went with old friends, you might know them since they run in the same circles you do. Where have your travels taken you?"

"Mostly to holiday places...the Caribbean in winter...resorts round the Med in summer. My mother's a passionate gardener. She doesn't like travelling alone, even in a group. I've been on some garden tours with her...the south of France, Ireland, California. Where do you for holidays?" Han Byeol takes a sip of her Campari.

"I used to go with my father who also liked someone with him. We went to Japan together and other Pacific Rim countries. I travel a lot for the bank. For pleasure I usually go to France, Greece or Spain. Where would you like to go for our honeymoon?"

The question, tacked on to innocuous small talk, took her by surprise. "I haven't agreed to marry you," she said coldly.

"If you found the idea unthinkable, you wouldn't be here," he said dryly. "Let's be straight with each other Han Byeol. I need you...you need me. It's a sensible, practical arrangement."

She knew that at least the first part of what he said was true, but she wasn't about to admit it. Was it pride that made her reluctant to fall in with his plan too readily? She said, "I'm not clear why you've selected me."

"You're very attractive...as I am sure you're aware." he smiles at her gently.

"Is that all you want from a woman? An acceptable face and figure? Don't you care what I'm like inside?" Han Byeol scoffed.

'I can make some intelligent guesses. People can't hide their characters," he told her casually. "Even in repose a face gives a lot of clues to its owner's temperament. Apart from yesterday's evidence that you have a short fuse, I haven't detected any characteristics I wouldn't like to live with."

His arrogance took her breath away. In that moment of shock, she was struck by the thought it would be both a challenge and public service to bring this man down from his lofty pinnacle and convert him into an acceptably unassuming person. But perhaps it was already too late . One of gran's favorite sayings was, "What's bred in the bone must come out in flesh." Namjoon with his long-boned thoroughbred physique and his handsome features, looked a descendant of generations of men who had felt themselves to be superior beings and never experienced the doubts felt by ordinary people.

In a different, more rough-hewn way, her father had been the same. Probably somewhere far back in Namjoon's ancestry, there had been a man like her father: a rough-diamond unscrupulous go-getter who had founded the Park Fortune. Perhaps if Mr. Park had married someone better equipped to handle him than her quiet and easily cowed mother, her father might have been saved from becoming an overbearing braggart. Whether, at thirty four, Namjoon's essential nature could be modified was problematical. But it could be interesting to try.

She said, "I don't find you as transparent as you seem to find me. It takes me longer to make up my mind about people;"

"You haven't had as much experience of summing up people as I have."

The butler reappeared. "Luncheon is ready when you are, sir."

They ate in a smaller room with a view of a large garden, an oasis of well kept greenery in the heart of the city. The surface of the round Regency breakfast table had a gleaming patina resulting from years of regular polishing' It reflected the colors and shapes of the red-streaked white tulips arranged in a what Han Byeol recognized as an antique tulip pot, its many spouts designed to support the stems of flowers which had once been costly status symbols. The meal began with potted shrimps served with crisp Melba toast, tiny green gherkins and white wine, which they continued to drink with the main course, chicken with minty yogurt dressing.

While they ate Namjoon talked about plays and art shows he had been to recently. It was the kind of conversation made by strangers at formal lunch parties and although his comments were interesting Han Byeol thought his choice of subject was irrelevant to this particular situation. When the butler had withdrawn, leaving them to help themselves to a fruit salad with fromage frais, or to selection of more substantial cheeses, she said, "Why do you want a wife when you could go on having girlfriends and a change them when you get bored?"

Offering her elegant Waterford compote, its apparent fragility emphasizing the powerful but equally elegant form of the hands in which it was cradled, he looked at her with unexpected sternness. "I have a responsibility to my line. I need sons to carry on the traditions established by my predecessors."

She found this solemnly irritating. "Are you expecting me to provide proof of my fertility?" Before she could add that, if he was, he could forget it, Namjoon said, "No, I'm prepared to chance that."

"Big deal!" Han Byeol said sarcastically.

She had a feeling that Namjoon wouldn't hesitate to divorce her if she failed to live up to his expectations in some way. But although he struck her as a monster of cold-hearted self-centeredness, she couldn't deny that he was extraordinarily attractive. Every movement he had made since they sat down had heightened her awareness of the lean and muscular physique inside the well-cut suit and the long legs under the table. His hair was dry now but still had a sheen of health. There was nothing about him suggestive of stress or tension. He seemed entirely relaxed. Yet why did he need to arrange a businesslike marriage instead of falling in love the way people usually did?

Wondering, suddenly, if he might be in the same situation as herself, heartbroken, although it didn't seem likely, she said, "When did you dream up this scheme?"

"It's an idea I've had for some time...probably since my contemporaries started divorcing. I have about a dozen god-children, most whom now have step parents, some official, some not. I don't want that for my children."

"Did you parents stay married?" she asked.

It seemed to her that his face underwent a change. His lips didn't tighten. His eyebrows didn't draw together. But there was a subtle hardening and chilling, reminding her of the impression she had received that morning when they sat on opposite sides of his imposing desk/ Now they were at a table designed for a more intimate and relaxed conversation. But she sensed a change in the atmosphere and knew she had trespassed in an area of his where she was an unwelcome intruder.

"They separated. They were never divorced," he answered.

Han Byeol wanted to ask hold he had been when the separation happened, but something made her hold her tongue. Later, going back to the flat in the taxi he had laid on for her, she regretted her curiousity.

When-in-two people were going to marry, there shouldn't be any "No go" areas between them...or at least none of that nature. His past girlfriends were not her business, but his family life certainly was. She shouldn't have allowed herself to be put off. From now on she wouldn't be, she told herself firmly.

[psychopersonified]

Interrupted

Q’s video conference gets interrupted by a half naked man wielding a cat... 

Inspired by the multitude of wonderful fanart featuring Q and Bond in front of a computer, some clothed, some not quite 😉. And also by stories of zoom call accidents.

Tags: Freshly established relationship. Breaking the news. 

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

“…How much progress are we making in regards to the drag coefficient?” is the next question on Q’s mind as he reviews the R&D stage-gate checklist. Q has his attention on the tablet in front of him, marking up the design drawing with a stylus. The image is shared onscreen with the other three participants of the call. 

“Wind tunnel test results are back, the best we’ve achieved so far is using V308 design, but as expected it does come with some compromise to practicality—”

At R’s sudden pause, Q looks up and turns towards the screen displaying the participants’ video feed. 

“Sorry R I didn’t catch that, you might have cut out for a moment.” He adjusts the wireless earbuds in case they’ve come loose. 

Jenny’s image smiles widely and the others follow suit. “Sir, did you adopt a new kitty?” 

The unexpected question prompts him to look around his desk. He spies Spot lounging out of view of the webcam, by his favourite window perch having just had breakfast. Q assumes the other black and white cat, Jellicles must be somewhere under Spot’s large orange lump. 

“Uh, no?” he is a little discomfited, not knowing what brought on the bizarre tangent in the discussion. 

“Boss, you sure about this? He’s a big one. Might eat you out of house and home,” Nish joins in the ribbing. 

“Granted he’s a silent killer. Any unwanted gifts dropped off on your carpet yet?” Jamila this time. 

“What on earth are you all talking about—,“ in his own video feed minimised out of the way on the bottom right corner, Q finally catches sight of movement in the background. 

The problem with open plan living Q notices for the first time, is the lack of privacy. Not an issue if you’re living alone, but when you have house guests, it makes it trickier. Q’s webcam faces the dining area where Agent 007 is currently making a spectacle of himself. His shirtless muscular back is half turned to them. The light grey sweatpants he is wearing slung dangerously low on his hips - the tops of his well sculpted glutes artfully exposed.

Bond had wandered absently into the dining area, one arm cradling a restless black and white cat to his chest like a baby, but his attention is focused on the tablet held in his other hand. Jellicles is not happy at being ignored - headbutting Bond under the chin and attempting repeatedly to bop the human on the nose to get his attention. 

When the agent is sufficiently annoyed, he locks eyes with the cat for a moment before tipping his head to smush his nose against cat’s forehead - which causes Jellicles to meow loudly in reply. 

Q turns back to look at his monitor, all three participants on the call are staring in open-mouthed shock. He searches his desk for something to throw; a squishy stress toy in the shape of a cow would suffice. Q aims for the torso, but the toy bounces comically off Bond’s rock hard arse instead.

That catches Bond’s attention and he turns around - Q regrets not thinking this one through. He and his little audience are now treated to the frontal view, which is arguably even more distracting. The agent’s golden tan glows in the morning light - accentuating the definition of his well developed pectorals all the way to the rippling planes of the chiseled abdominals and the blonde trail of hair peeking out of the waistband. Further below, the soft cotton blend material of the sweatpants does little to hide the endowments underneath. 

Bond raises a quizzical eyebrow at him. He’d put the tablet down and caught one of the cat’s paws in his hand  in the interim - to stop it from trying to touch his nose and was kissing each little toe-bean before the interruption. Bond is in a fantastic mood this morning and Jellicles must adore him enough to allow such manhandling. 

Q scowls at him and mouths ‘I’m on a call’ while using a hand to gesture at his monitor and the webcam. Bond’s expression turns apologetically wide-eyed for a second in acknowledgment of his little gaffe. But in the next moment, he appears to brush it off -hanged for a sheep as a lamb-.

Instead of ducking out of view, he takes four purposeful strides towards Q’s desk, the cat still in his arms. Q can’t decide if disabling his video would cause more suspicion or if they should just cease with the charade - somehow ‘he’s just a friend who sleeps over and cuddles my cats’ defence doesn’t quite stack up at this point.

Behind him now and without a trace of shame, Bond bends over a shoulder to wink at the three familiar faces in the monitor. Q resists the urge to slap the man away, opting instead to glower at him. The agent senses a rebuke forthcoming, so preemptively uses the cat as a shield. He holds the black and white cat up to the webcam, then pushes the cat in front of Q’s face - Jellicles doesn’t disappoint, immediately latching on and playfully chewing on Q’s nose. 

“Ah! James!” Q tries to flinch away. The assault is over in seconds when Bond pulls the cat away but then unexpectedly returns to peck Q on the corner of his mouth before he can even protest. When Bond straightens again, the expansive view of naked chest and abs fills up most of the right side of Q’s video feed. 

Q has to half turn and physically nudge the agent away with a splayed hand against warm hard muscle. The touch a searing reminder of their activities the night before. Bond is immovable when he doesn’t want to be moved, but he relents after a second or two. His parting gift, was to dip down and nuzzle Q in the hair, using the misdirection to hook a finger around the collar of Q’s jumper, exposing the top of a well bruised collarbone. The hand then slips to caress a long line down his chest to his stomach. 

“James! Will you stop it!” Q hisses. His next reaction is to stab the bastard in the side with the blunt tip of the tablet stylus to salvage his ruined modesty. The man is a menace! 

The bloody peacock doesn’t even have the decency to retreat out of camera view after that, instead he claims a seat in the dinning area, beaming with a satisfied smile. The cat now balanced on his stomach and chest, he moves another chair around so he can prop his legs on it and stretch out, putting himself on blatant display. An artist would beg to paint such a perfect tableau. Q wants to taser the smile off his face. 

Q clears his throat, not daring to look directly at his colleagues - too flustered to offer an explanation as to why 007 was molesting him in his home. So he tries ineffectively for the pretend-it-didnt-happen route, “Um… Right. Where were we? Jenny, the wind tunnel results?....” 

Jamila blinks furiously. Nish makes a hoarse croaking, “Whaaaa…..” like air escaping his lungs. 

And R… well R just says, “Sir, I think I speak for everyone here that we’re traumatised by what we just saw, bloody traumatised. We don’t think we can continue with today’s discussion until a satisfactory explanation has been provided...” R forces Q into a corner. Two other heads nod their support for Jenny’s statement. None of them appear disapproving - but it is guaranteed they are going to take the mickey out of him. 

There is no way he is going to spill tea with Bond still within earshot. The agent’s ego is unmanageable as it is. “If I promise to reveal all on Monday, can we please get on with this?” Q tries to make his whisper sound imperious to no avail - a half naked man lounging in the background tends to undermine one’s authority. 

“Health & Safety would disagree. It’s an occupational hazard you know, to be distracted around dangerous lab equipment,” Jamila points out. The others agree. Mutiny from his top three.

“How is my personal life -your- distraction?” 

“When there is a not inconsiderable pot waiting to be distributed. Come on boss, there’s still time for me to collect my winnings if things go my way,” Nish begs while consulting his phone for the records. 

“So… he’s -James- now is he? Is this a one time slumber party or an extended sleepover?” R powers through heedless. 

Q considers his answer, he is marginally aware of the betting pool around the stupid game ‘Fluster the Quartermaster’ and its various derivative odds regarding which agent, the timeline, where, method of burn etc. - but he doesn’t want to know the specifics as he wants to maintain plausible deniability should it implode in everyone’s faces. 

Bond is still playing with he cat in the background, trying to teach it commands. Q doesn’t want to say it out loud, so he types it into the group chat on the side of the screen:

::We’re moving his things over later today.::

“Called it!” Jenny slams a hand on the table and punches the air in victory. Oh she knew it! Q taking the Friday off (or any day off for that matter) that had nothing to do with his cats was enough cause for intrigue. 

But after the suspiciously expensive gift in the form of the red Hyundai a few months ago, it was just a matter of time. It was not the cost that was the issue, Bond’s wardrobe of bespoke suits probably cost more than the car several times over - it was the sentiment behind it that gave Jenny the courage to place a sizeable bet on them taking the next step towards cohabitation. The car, she read correctly in Bond’s weird wooing language was tantamount to an engagement ring. 

Nish and the others weren’t as good as reading signs, so majority of the odds were still focused around the early stages “NO! What? Wait… When did this happen? What about first date? First snog? First shag?” Nish scrolls furiously through his phone. 

The bets have taken a far more intrusive route than Q had ever expected. “Well I’m sorry my personal life does not follow the path of standard operating procedure… now can we -please- move on?” He’s acutely aware that he is blushing bright pink from head to toe. 

Jenny shakes her head, the only person that would dare to override him, “Q, you took the day off - so take the day off. The prototype can wait. No emergencies at the moment, the castle is still standing. We’ll call if something pops up. Now bugger off and enjoy your day with -James-!” 

*Sigh* Q rubs his temples and gives in reluctantly, “Fine! Yes, alright…” . He knows when something is a lost cause and the news is likely to cause a buzz in Q-Branch that would last the whole weekend - there goes department productivity. He’d hoped to come up with a less sensational way of disseminating the news. He expects massive ribbing on Monday. 

“Oh! Permission to inform Ms Moneypenny about the change in status?” Jenny asks. The girls are having drinks tonight and it would be hell trying to conceal anything from Eve. 

“No no! I’ll… inform her myself... and please try to keep this within Q-Branch, for now?” Eve would find seven ways of killing him if she had to find out from someone else. She’d already ripped into him, calling him a bloody clueless twit when she’d found out about the car Bond bought him as a ‘birthday gift’. As cars go, it was a cheap one - but Bond’s logic to get him to accept it was the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to him. 

When they’ve all signed off, Q shuts down the computer and lets himself be drawn back into the life inside his flat.  Balanced on Bond’s stomach, Jellicles has miraculously learned how to give high-fives on command. 

“Get dressed please. I’d like breakfast before we head over to your place.” Q tell him as he passes behind the agent. He places a hand on James’ shoulder, causing the agent to tip his head back. Q drops a kiss on his forehead.

“By the way, have you told Eve about… this?” Q asks as he combs his fingernails across Bond’s scalp. 

“Mmm… Not yet. Was thinking of letting her know on Monday.” Bond mutters, eyes closed. The relaxed blissed out look on his face was worth enduring a million papercuts. 

“Well, that’ll be too late. Since you’ve gone and announced it with as much discretion as you conduct your missions…,” Q tugs firmly at Bond’s ears as reprimand, ”…the whole of Q-Branch will know before morning tea. Which means Eve will find out by lunch.”

Just then Q’s phone on the dinning table buzzes with an incoming call. They both pause to stare at the screen. Caller ID displays ::Moneypenny:: ominously. 

“I’ll get dressed. You tell her… She called me a dithering halfwit just last week.” Bond straightens before bolting for the bedroom. 

“Coward!” Q yells at him. He steels himself to answer the phone. When he does, he all but squeaks, “Hello Eve?—“ 

——— FIN————

Notes: The mention about the car gift is from another fic of mine and can be found here - Car troubles and Not Quite Dates.

If you liked this fic, there’s more like it on the blog. Enjoy!

[rudemaidenswrite]

Damn

Fandom: House of a 1,000 Corpses

Rufus Jr 'RJ' Firefly x Reader

By: @pusantheamazonian​                      not beta’d

I've always liked RJ. Of course there's like nuthin’ for him. So viola!

“Howdy Y/N. Hidin’ from your daddy again?” With the ring if the doorbell. Spaulding greets you with a smile already knowing why you're here.

“You know it.” Slowly making your way to the counter. Sad to say you're a little ashamed of this predicament.

“Darlin you need to leave his ass or find a boyfriend. You hidin’ out here ain't good for you. People are going to say you're strange.”

“I'm already strange. I willingly walk five miles to get here because I prefer hanging out with you and the museum than my daddy when he's home.” Reaching the counter you kick at the floor. He goes through this speech every time.

“Five miles? You're saying you walk five miles just to be here?” A hand on his hip. He looks at you like you have two heads or something.

“Yes, I walk everywhere I don't have a car. I'm saving my money so I can leave this town.”

“You need to leave his ass.”

“I know I know. It's just hard. I moved in to make sure he was alright after momma died but he started drinking again and it just got worse.” With your best doe eyes you plead for him to stop his scolding.

“The usual?” Spaulding says after giving you a disapproving look.

“Yup.”

He places a chocolate bar and a bag of chicken on the counter. Thanking him, you hand over the money. Placing the bag of chicken in your bag. You begin eating the chocolate as you wander over to Aqualina.

Hearing the ding of the doorbell you're used to the slow trickle of regulars and random travelers. But ever vigilant to make sure it's not your father. You always peek a look at whoever enters.

Today is no other day. Turning to see who it is, you're stunned. To say that you weren't staring is a lie. You've never seen him before and you're here at least twice a week.  His tall muscular stature, dark brown hair with a button up shirt that looks a little tight has you weak in the knees. Biting your lip is the only thing that keeps you from drooling. You watch him closely as he walks to the counter and talks with Spaulding. The way he's talking to him, Spaulding must know him. You briefly catch Spaulding call him RJ. Not very suttle in staring, Spaulding is looking at you. Before you can compose yourself, Spaulding's given you a wink and smirk. Embarrassed you spin back around trying to ignore them. But you keep glancing at their reflection in the glass. Spaulding fucking knows what you're doing. Cause every time you look at the glass Spaulding still has that smirk. Flustered you breeze past them and out the door. Berating yourself all the way home.

Spaulding knows.

~

This strange encounter goes on for three weeks. Every time RJ showed up you were only able to stay for a few minutes because you found yourself staring. Staring so much that your throat goes dry. Always ignoring him and Captain Spaulding before either one could say anything. This week you'll be damned if you have to leave in an embarrassment.

“What the hell are you doing?” Spotting Spaulding you make a b-line to him, leaning over the counter.

“Well I'm about to eat this tasty donut but you're interrupting me.”

“Not the donut. You know what I'm talking about. You disappear and then RJ shows up a few minutes later.” Glaring you lean in .

Suddenly he’s grabbed you by the shirt and hoisted you over the counter. Shocked your feet are dangling off the ground. Shit what have you done? Panic sets in.

“Darlin you best be minding me. I saw the two of you eye fucking. You both need to stop being pussies and get on with it.” He is wearing a mean scowl, meaner than you've ever seen.

“He.. likes me?” Now you're confused, you never noticed RJ looking at you. Hell you didn't even think he noticed you. well noticed you as a girl and not the random person who always suddenly leaves.

“Damn girl pay attention! Why the hell do you think I'm even botherin’ with this?" Aggravated he releases you.

"I don't know, to be annoying?"

"Y/N. That's the stupidest thing you've said yet. You're grounded to your corner." Deadpaning he points to your usual spot in the corner.

"Fine." Grumbling you straighten out your shirt and go to your corner. Damn it, you hate when he treats you like a child.

Like always Spaulding disappears for a few minutes, returning with a shit eating grin. Exactly fifteen minutes later in walks RJ. In the glass you see Spaulding point at you, clearly done with your shit. RJ looks at you and you quickly glance away, hoping he didn't see you staring.

A thick silence fills the room, nervous you try not to panic. You're not going to make a good impression if you're flustered. God you hope he's not a dick. The last couple guys have been assholes.

RJ quietly makes it to your side and waits. Apparently waiting for you to make the first move. Well now or never.

“Uh hi. Captain Spaulding says you go by RJ is that right?”

“Yes…failed to mention yours."

“Y/N.” Giving a small smile. His voice is better up close, it has a deep country tone to it.  

“You draw?" He eyes the sketch book in your hand.

“It's just a hobby that I get to work on here. I'm surprised Spaulding hasn't banned me yet.”

"You visit often?"

"About twice a week. I go for a walk and end up here."

"Lair. You hide out here about every other day." Spaulding chimes. Immediately turning to glare at him. He returns the look with a meaner scowl, forcing you to turn back around. Now you're just embarrassed.

"Interesting place of choice."

"Better than some places."

"Better? That's low expectations."

"Keep your expectations low and you will never be disappointed." Excited, you're able to get a chuckle out of him. He looks adorable when he smiles.

“Can I see?”

“Sure.” Tucking the pencil behind your ear you hand it to him. He flips through all of your decent and shitty drawings. Mostly shitty.

"Interesting one." Handing it back, he left it open to a particular page. It's a skull that has a glass eyeball in the forehead.

"Oh I was inspired by the whole third eye philosophy." He gives you a confused look. "The third eye or inner eye that's a mystical and esoteric concept.  Referring to an invisible eye in the middle of the forehead. That provides perception beyond ordinary sight." Staring at each other there's a moment of silence. Obviously, he did not just understand a word you said.

"That is a lot of words I don't know."

"Sorry. Sometimes I just word vomit." Motioning with your hand you pretend to vomit.

"Cute and smart."

Abort! Abort!

"Uh thanks. Never been those before." Blushing you don't know what to say. Expect that you are freaking out. He thinks you're cute and smart.

“Well I should be going. I have work in the morning. I'll see you later." You slowly walk to the door. "GOODBYE SPAULDING!”

"Bye Y/N." A muffled shout comes from the back.

"Bye RJ." You give a wave before disappearing out the door.

"Bye."

At home you find your father passed out in the recliner. You quickly clean up the empty beer bottles and trash before heading upstairs. Making sure to lock your door.

It's another two days before you make it back to Spaulding's. Like clockwork, RJ sneaks up beside you. Waiting for you to notice but you always notice. The man is a walking wall of muscle. Giving him a smile you tuck the notebook away.

“Here, I made chocolate chip cookies.”

“Thanks.” He peeks under the lid before tucking the container under his arm.

“How ungrateful. You didn't bring me none?” Spaulding shouts from the counter.

“Did you look in the container on the fridge?” Rolling your eyes you can't believe he missed it.

“What fuckin’ container?”

“Red square tin.” You point at the most identifiable item on top of the fridge.

“I'll be damned, paint my ass blue and call me a baboon. You didn't forget me after all.” Munching on the cookies he disappears into the back.

“No hope for him.” Chuckling you turn back to RJ.

“You bake?”

“Every now and then. Mainly when I have a reason to.”

"What's your favorite thing to bake?"

"Mmm. I would have to say cookies because I can eat the cookie dough while the cookies are baking."

"Doesn't that give you food poisoning?"

"They say it does but I'm willing to take the chance."

He chuckles, amused by your oddness. Maybe you’re weird for this reason.

“Do you want a ride home?”  

Surprised that he asked, you hope that this doesn't end badly if you follow him. Besides, it's still a little early to go home. Though it would be nice to spend some alone time with him. Well out of sight of Spaulding.

"Sure."

Outside you finally see what his ride is. His truck is one of those old ones. The kind where you have to slam the door shut to make sure it shuts and you have no idea how it's still operational.

Buckling your seatbelt there is a faint smell of liquor and car grease.

“You want to see something that's not at the museum?” Climbing into his seat he's got this look in his eyes.  Like he wants to test the limits of your sanity.

“Yeah, what is it?”

Smiling he puts the truck into gear. RJ drives a few miles outside of town, farther out than Spaulding's shop. He pulls onto a dirt road that leads to a farm. Surrounded by a big wooden fence with several outlying buildings and one big farmhouse. The location and isolation of the farm makes you uneasy.

"Follow me." RJ instructs exiting the truck. Nodding nervously you follow. He walks to a wood shed. “Here.” He opens the shed door.

“Wow!” Stunned you slowly walk around it. Someone has created a female Minotaur. The brown hair is styled on the cow's head sitting cross legged in shorts and t-shirt. You're unable to see the lines where the two have been attached. “Who made this?”

“Otis.”

“Otis?”

“Adoptive… Uncle? The family adopted him years ago.” He shrugs not really sure how to explain it.

“Well you can give him my regards. This is amazing.” You cautiously poke the snout.

"I'll pass it along."

The door creaks and you turn to look. Just to make sure that RJ didn't leave you, nope it's a new person entering. You knew RJ was tall but this guy is even taller! Really looking at him you see some deformities. From what you can tell they must be due to his stature.

“My brother Tiny.” RJ explains seeing your confused face.

“Hi Tiny. I'm Y/N.” It's oddly funny that his name is Tiny but he's so tall. You keep that to yourself. Tiny waves. “Nice shirt.” You point at his shirt. It says I got your back bro. One stick figure is holding the other stick figure’s back.

He seems to chuckle before grabbing a hammer and shuffling away.

"How many siblings do you have?" You make your way back to RJ’s side.

"Just Baby and Tiny."

"Baby?"

"Sister."

"Must be fun. I never had any siblings."

"You're not missing anything."

"Really?"

"Really." RJ leads you back to the truck before you can question anything else.

~

Pulling up to your house the moment is bittersweet. You don't want to go inside but you know you have to.

"Thanks for the ride. I'll see you later." Smiling, you place a hand on the door handle. You struggle a moment to open it. The door is unlocked but you have to sort of shove it for it to open.

Cracking the door, you turn to look back at RJ. Surprised. RJ has leaned over and is a few inches away. You swear he can hear your heart pounding. There's only a pause before he captures your lips. His lips are surprisingly soft and so are his movements. Without a thought you press into the kiss. Only to have him part a few moments later.

"Bye." Smirking he doesn't move as he waits for you to catch up.

"Bye." Dazed you fumble with the door trying to get out. You know you must be red as a tomato. Once out of the truck you keep peeking over your shoulder to look at him. Did he just lure you out on a date?

RJ chuckles. So refreshing. Soft and reserved, nothing like his family who are loud, opinionated and chaotic.

Since that night RJ takes you home every night you visit Spaulding. Always taking the long way around. The flirty smiles and mischievous looks on the drive home. Stealing kisses before you open the passenger door. Sometimes leading to wandering hands. Leaving you always wanting more. Making you braver every week.

That all came to a screeching stop when you came home from work to find your father already home, drunk and awake.

Making it to Spalding’s, you manage to sneak in and leave money on the counter after swiping a chocolate bar. You plan on hiding outside tonight to avoid any lectures from Spaulding.

“Howdy Y/N.”

shit.

“Hey Spaulding. Just stopped in for a candy bar, I put the money on the counter.” Almost to the door you pause.

“Y/N.”

“Yes?”

“Turn around.”

Fuck!

There's no way of escaping. In defeat you slowly turn around.

“What in the fucking hell is that?” He’s immediately around the counter and pointing at your face.

“He got back early today.”

“Did you at least hit the bastard before you left?”

“Yeah… how bad is it?”

“You haven't looked?”

“No.”

“It ain't pretty darlin.” Shaking his head you know he’s disappointed with you. You're disappointed in yourself.

“Damn.”

“Come back here. Best to hide for the moment.” He pulls you along and behind the curtain into his break room. The walls are a weird off white color. There's a recliner, a table with two chairs, a microwave and a small refrigerator on the counter. "Sit."

Not arguing you sit at the table. You're embarrassed that he caught you like this. Now he's definitely going to think you're stupid.

"Put this on it." He hands you an ice pack wrapped in a towel.

"Thanks."

He disappears back behind the curtain. Probably to turn the open sign around. With a defeated sigh you hold the ice pack just barely close enough to your face. The bruise is still tender and you haven't decided yet if the cold is making it better or worse.

Spaulding returns grumpy as ever.

"Let me see." You move your hand away slowly. "Got you good. Whole side of your face is bruised. You want to explain what happened?" Pulling the chair closer he sits in front of you.

"He found out about RJ somehow. Was waiting for me at the door. Going on about him being trash and that I'm too young for boys."

"How old are you?"

"I'm twenty seven."

"I'm only kidding but you're still a baby compared to me." Teasing he pats your knee.

"Ha ha." Huffing you put the ice pack back. "Son of a bitch!" You weren't watching and put it on your skin too quickly.

"Ah! You do have a potty mouth. I was startin' to wonder if you knew how to curse." Chuckling he leans back into the chair. Giving him the stink eye only makes him laugh harder.

The ding of the doorbell makes him stop. “That should be RJ.”

“RJ? You called RJ?” Panicking this night is just getting worse.

"You have a few pages stuck together if you think I didn't."

"Fuck." Groaning as you stand, the walk to the curtain is too short. You part the curtain not ready to explain to RJ.

“Y/N!” The drunken voice is fueled by anger.

“Daddy?”

“I should have known you would be here. Let's go!” Before you can react he's at the counter. He’s got a death grip on your arm and pulling you to the door.

“No let go.” Kicking him in the groin. His grip loosens and you push him to the floor. "Spaulding!"

Screaming you run back to the break room but a hand grips your ankle. Pulling you down with a hard thud.

"Y/N!" Yelling, a possessed look takes over.

Rolling over you use your other leg and start kicking.

"Get off me!" Screaming at him. You don't notice the figure barrelling through the door.

In a millisecond he stops. Eyes never stop staring at you. Blood trickles down his face. That's when you notice blood is everywhere and you see a giant metal hook lodged in the back of his head.

You can't process this, everything has gone numb. He's dead. The man who's tormented you these past few years. Making you regret everything you've done to help. Is dead.

"Y/N."

"RJ?" Snapping your attention upwards. It's RJ. This man must be heaven sent.

“What the fuck is this?” Spaulding yells whipping a pistol around and glancing at the body. You point at RJ. Who bends over and picks you up like you were a rag doll. Proceeding to put you over his shoulder.

"Whoa!"

“What do you think this is? A fuckin’ clean up service? RJ!” Spaulding's pissed and RJ clearly doesn't care because he walks back outside. You are confused beyond all get out.

"Damn it. I just mopped the floor." Grumbling Spaulding gets the mop.

Squealing of the truck door indicates where he has taken you. In one solid motion he moves you the passenger seat. His frame blocks any view you could have.

To your surprise he gingerly takes your chin and tilts your head. Obviously to get a better look at the damage. This flip in focus makes you feel very inadequate. Second guessing if you deserve him.

"Y/N." He noticed your avoidance with eye contact.

Finally looking at him you officially break down. "RJ I'm sorry!" Tears are pouring, body threatening to hiccup.

"Why are you sorry? I should be. I didn't get here sooner."

"He was waiting for me today. I know I should have just turned around when I saw him but I didn't. I'm so stupid! I know better not to be there when he's drunk and awake."

"Don't worry about it. He got what was coming."

"Really? But he's-"

"A dead bastard." RJ affirms. He wont have you mourning over that man.

Letting it sink in for a moment you begin to nod in agreement.

"Let's get you home. It'll be alright." He kisses your forehead giving you a tight hug.

"Okay."

[thehopefuldandelion]

Not Him

part 3

part 1 and 2 and 3 on ao3. part 1 and 2 and 3 on ff.net.

thanks to all who have supported me on this journey!

*sends kisses and hugs*

also I'm sorry this has taken me weeks. life has been hectic.

***

Peeta

My god. Holy frickin cow. Katniss kissed me. Well, my cheek but still! The burning sensation from her soft kiss is still present. She may have run from me but at least I have a chance with her, the most beautiful goddess there is. I sound like a fuckin’ love sick teenager. 

That fateful day that the stars aligned and she interviewed, I knew the universe was sending me a message. I’ve known Katniss since forever. Those putrid yellow swings’ memory still burns a hole in the back of my mind. The little girl with the red checkered dress and two braids moving with the wind, she was absolutely breathtaking, and, well, she still is. I may have been 5, but hey, the heart wants what it wants.

Graduation, class of 2009. It was sunset, the most vivid sunset I think I’ve ever seen. The sky was painted with indigo, orange, and rose colored pink. Katniss Everdeen, the star of my wet dreams, became more than I ever thought a person could. She not only stole my heart but gained a new title, the girl on fire. The subtle reds and vibrant oranges mixed behind her while she gave her eloquent valedictorian speech. My heart only had room for her and I could barely breath she was just that alluringly, gorgeous. I thought of her as my Katniss even though every interaction with her ended with insults. She loathed me and I wasn't sure why. I’m still confused as to what changed.

I watch her long, wavy raven hair flutter behind her as she runs to her car. I bring my fingers up to touch my cheek, savoring the memory of her soft lips. 

Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all.

***

Katniss

As I drive home, I begin to question my barely there sanity. I-why did I kiss him? Not only is he my boss but I hated him. No, hate not hated. What’s wrong with me? I feel as if everything in my life is changing so fast I can’t see the path in front of me like a car on a foggy morning. My lungs fill with air that can’t seem to release and before I know it, I’m hyperventilating. Blindly, I shove the key in my apartment door, unlock, lock, and sink to my knees with my back against the door. 

I can’t explain these rampant feelings that are blindsiding me. Do I actually like Peeta Mellark? He does cause butterflies to erupt in my stomach and warmth to flow throughout my body when he walks in a room. Our past 2 “dates” awakened my soul more than it has been in years. He was flustered and shy after I kissed his cheek. What could that mean. Does he like me? Wait, he hated it didn't he. God, I’m such a dickhead and I don’t even have one.

As the days pass into weeks and weeks into months, I do my best to avoid Peeta at all costs. He seems to be doing the same which is fine with me. I still have erotic thoughts and memories of that fateful night at the movies but as times moves on, it pushes to the back of my mind. He and I aren’t a thing. Right?

It was Christmas time in Panem. Rosy cheeks and runny noses with melodious laughter fill every coffee shop, street, and home in this little town. Snow banks pile up on the edges of roads. I decided to come home for my Christmas vacation, not that there is really a home to come back for. While the neighbors would hang boughs of holly and red ribboned wreaths with colorful lights, my house was bland. It wasn’t always like this. When my father was alive, there never was a dreary day. Of course that all changed when he passed and my mom became a recluse. She moved away shortly after, but I couldn’t bring myself to sell the house. Memories of sweet hot cocoa and Eskimo kisses flood into my mind. A slice of my heart died with my father.

Shaking those troubled thoughts away, I climb the steps of the rickety wood porch and open the front door. Because I never visit, it has fallen apart, literally. Oh, father I’m so sorry. Roughly all the window panes are broken and rat droppings are scattered around. The kitchen faucet is loose and dust clouds.= every surface. I have my work cut out for me.

I spot some firewood outside and lay it in the hearth, lighting a match and setting the wood ablaze. Warmth. Love. Home. I missed this. The smell of wilderness and smoke waft into nose. I curl up and fall into a deep sleep, rat droppings and all.

Tap. Tap. Tap. I awake to a sharp knock at the door. Peeta? What is he doing here all handsome and muscular. My god, his arms. I want to lick the sweat that glistens on his forehead. 

“Peeta? What are you doing here?” I ask confused and slightly drowsy from sleep.

“Katniss,” Peeta says breathlessly. “I-I can’t keep doing this. Why did you stop speaking to me?”

Taken back by his words, I hesitate before saying, “I thought you hated the kiss, I mean, me.” 

“Hate you, no, never Katniss. I love you, completely and incandescently,” he says while stepping into the house and brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.

He...loves me? Me? How was I so stupid. Without thinking, I gently press my lips against his. He is hesitant at first but adds pressure to my lips, lightly kissing back. He then wraps his arms around my waist, as I bite his lip, sucking it to relieve pain. He tentatively tangles his tongue with mine causing a moan to bubble up in my throat. We break for air, the tension sizzling between us. His baby blue eyes are darker and filled with lust.

I forcefully latch my lips on his and he pushes me against the now closed door. Through our bruising, loving, tender kisses, I feel an underlying urge for more. To initiate this, I jump into his arms with my legs wrapping around his waist. I hear a “Fuck Katniss” and I groan loudly. 

‘Do’. Kiss. ‘You’. Kiss. ‘Know’. Kiss. ‘How’. Kiss. ‘Long’. Kiss. ‘I’ve’. Kiss. ‘Wanted this,’ Peeta says shakily. He makes his way to the stairs and I point him in the direction of my bedroom. He grins and gently lowers me to the bed. He gently unbuttons my shirt while I push down his jeans.

“Peeta,” I moan excited for what’s about to happen. I can’t believe-

Bang. I sit up looking around me. My hair sticks to my forehead as my whole body is drenched in sweat. Shit. The handle of the sink in the kitchen fell off. The fire is nothing but embers and ashes at this point with the sun streaming though a crack in the curtains. Disorientedly, I walk to my bag and pull out a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. I am in definite need of a shower. 

I decide to go into town once I’ve showered and changed. A quick glance outside of the kitchen window shows evidence of powdery snow dusting every surface. It’s a winter wonderland, literally. I wonder what Peeta would think of this. He always had an eye for beauty. Thoughts of him brings me back to my dream. It was so realistic and I-I wish it could be real. What am I thinking? Even though it's not exactly right, I don’t regret any of these thoughts. 

***

As I walk around the narrow brick streets, stopping briefly in each store, my stomach lightly grumbles. In the distance, a bakery can be seen. Warm light spills out the clear windows, illuminating the snow in gold. My fingers itch to open the heavy, wood door and feel the heat tingle my cheeks and toes. The aroma of freshly baked pastries and bread waft into my nose, leading me to the door. 

The wooden floor is worn but homely and the countertops have just been cleaned. Surprisingly, the cozy bakery is empty, not a soul can be seen. Eh, their loss. More pastries for me.

I bend down to look at all the mouth watering cookies, mini cakes, and breads. and spot something that I remember from my childhood. When I was younger, my dad would take me to the bakery every Sunday after hunting. He would buy a cheese bun and spilt half of it with me. The curly haired baker’s son would walk from the back with a fresh bun and hand it to me with a shy grin on his face. That all stopped when my father passed and I never saw the baker or his kind son ever again.

A man’s voice shakes me out of that memory.

“Would you like to buy something, miss?”

I stand up slowly and look the man on the eye and say, “Yes, definitely.”

The man is an older gentleman with crinkles around his bright blue eyes when he smiles. His hair is golden with gray mixed in. He is also tall with broad shoulders, he seems like an older version of Peeta almost.

“Can I get 1 cheese bun please?” I ask politely to the man.

“Yes of course, Katniss,”he responds.

“What-wh-how do you know my name?” I reply in a shocked tone.

“Why Katniss, it's me. Peeta’s father.”

“Oh my gosh. Mr. Mellark? It’s been years.”

“Yes indeed it has. I sold this bakery about a decade ago and moved closer to the city to be near Peeta. He helped me open a bakery there, which he owns now, and it is very successful,” he says with pride in his voice. “I moved back to Panem about a year ago and bought this bakery back and it has been my love ever since.”

I nod at this and realize that Peeta works for a huge corporation he started up and owns a bakery. What else can he do?

Mr. Mellark walks to the back, I’m guessing to pick up a fresh cheese bun, and discusses something with someone. I’m slightly craning my ears to hear what is being said when the last person I expected to be here walks out.

Peeta.

Fucking.

Mellark.

“K-Katniss. What are you doing here,” he says, slightly flustered.

My cheeks blush as I remember my erotic dream of last night. Peeta’s hair is unruly as if it has been brushed through by his hands one too many times. He is wearing a tight fitting white shirt with a similarly colored apron around his muscular waist. A bit of flour lines his upper cheek and icing trails down his shirt. He is hot.

“Uh, I decided to come home for Christmas. What about you?”

How ironic is it that the girl who always had something rude to spat out at Peeta, can barely make a comprehensible sentence. 

“Same. So, um, here is your cheese bun,” Peeta replies while handing me the gooey and delicious pastry with a crooked grin.

Oh my God.

Peeta is that boy. The boy with the bread. My boy with the bread.

“Th-tha-thank you,” I stutter out.

I quickly turn on my heel and find a table to eat at. The daisies and flickering candles create a sweet ambiance that distracts me from the weather outside. Speaking of which, the snow is heavily falling, to the point where you can’t see your own hand in front of your face. On top of that, it's dark, the sunset having already set, and I realize that getting home will not be easy.

Shit.

The cheese bun, which was delicious, is gone in a flash and I start towards the door. I push with all my might but realize it won’t open because of the packed snow in front of it. Dang it.

“Katniss, do you need help?” Peeta asks, watching my struggle.

“No, I don’t need help,” I grumble. I then turn back around, back facing Peeta, and push some more.

After a couple more attempts and badly held in giggles from Peeta, I give up and resignedly walk back to the table I had preciously occupied. Damn him.

I come to the conclusion that I will not be leaving this bakery until at least morning. Might as well get prepared for a long night.

Peeta comes towards the table and says, “Seeing as the snow won’t let up any time soon, I guess we are stuck here.” No duh.

I shrug my shoulders nonchalantly at this and lay my head on my arms.

“Well, the table can’t be comfortable, Katniss.”

“It’s fine, Peeta. Perfectly okay,” I mumble to him in my sweater. 

“I-I have a loft above the bakery with a bed and bathroom if you want to use it. I don’t mind, honestly,” he rubs the back of his neck while blushing causing me to fluster. Why am I so weird around this man?

“Uh-well, if y-you don’t mind,” I respond while standing up and gathering my stuff.

“Follow me.”

Peeta leads me through what seems a maze of a kitchen in the back and farther into the building until we reach a flight of stairs. 

“Ladies first,” he tells me.

I blush, again, and walk quickly up the stairs. At the top, is a large oak door which I can only guess was from a large tree that soars into the air. Peeta steps around me and unlocks the door, cracking it open. I cautiously peer at him and he nods his head in a manner of telling me to enter.

Whoa. That is my first reaction to the professional kitchen with metal countertops and floor to ceiling window on the south wall. In one corner is a mini office, complete with a desk and chair with stacks of paper, bills I'm guessing, laid on top. The opposite side of the loft holds a worn, blue couch and small tv. Outdoor lights brighten the place and can be found hanging from almost every high surface. The bathroom is directly across from the front door and the spacious bedroom is next to it. Who new a loft could have this much character with its brick walls and worn orange wood floors.

“My father has a house about a mile from here and we rent this place out when I’m not home. It helps during slow times at the bakery and I don’t get down here much so its rented almost all year round. This is home for me, I guess.” Peeta says timidly.

“I’m speechless. This loft is beautiful,” I say in awe.

I drop my belongings and follow Peeta as he gives me a quick tour. 

“Thank you for this, truly,” I address him.

“Of course, Katniss. I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he smiles back at me.

“Could I use a toothbrush and tooth paste by chance?”

“Yes, I will go get them for you,” Peeta says as he walks to a small hall closet. “I also have some sweats and a t-shirt you can borrow if you would be more comfortable.”

“U-uh yes. Thank you,” I say quickly, stumbling on my words. To be honest, I hadn’t even thought about changing but Peeta offered so I couldn't refuse.

He returns with clothes and basic toiletries for me to use tonight and I take them and smile shyly.

“I’ll be back.”

He nods his head and walks over to the kitchen, I presume to bake. 

Closing the bathroom door softly, I realize the awkward predicament I am currently stuck in. What does it mean that I’m wearing my boss’ clothes? I wore his shirt before. This isn't that different. What about sleeping arrangements? Surely, he will want to sleep in his bed and I’ll take the couch. Yes, right, that’s perfect.

The shirt’s scent was, well, Peeta. Dill and cinnamon with a hint of detergent wafting to my nose. It was a couple sizes too big and hung off my shoulders. The sweatpants were a different matter altogether. They too, slipped off my body, causing me to tighten the strings. It will have to do. I kinda loved being in his clothes, Peeta’s scent radiating around me and his warmth enveloping me.

Tonight is going to be a long night.

***

Peeta

As soon as I saw Katniss sitting quietly at the wooden table, munching on a cheese bun that I made, I knew I had to talk to her. Through her struggles to open the door and my giggling which wasn't hidden well, I couldn't be more in love with her. I never thought for a second that she would say yes to my proposal of coming upstairs and spending the night. The tinted blush on her cheeks is so adorable causing me to think of things I shouldn't.

I offered her my clothes and didn't even think of how irresistible she might look with them on. Well, shit.

I decided to cook Chicken Alfredo, seeing as she only ate a meager cheese bun and must be starving.

“Thank you again, Peeta,” I turn as I hear her say this, “for the clothes and letting me stay tonight and uh everything else,” she smiles.

God, I love that smile. It’s directed at me too. Can this day get any better?

That’s when I notice my oversized clothes on her slender body. The sight will never fade from my memory. She is sexy and breathtaking. I feel a sense of ownership because she is wearing my clothes. My Katniss. I feel a playful growl wander its way up into my throat and I quickly swallow it down. No need to scare her off, Peeta. Don’t be stupid.

“Y-yeah of course. I don’t mind one bit.”

She hops on the counter next to the stove as if it is an everyday occurrence. “Whatcha cooking? It smells divine,” she asks while her stomach rumbles.

I let out a snort, “Hungry are we?”

“Duh, I may be small but I will never pass up food.”

“Chicken Alfredo. I hope you enjoy it,” I respond. Then, I reach for the wooden spoon and dip it into the soft noodles wrapping them around it. I swerve it towards her mouth, a risky move, I know, and see a look of surprise spread across her elegant face. She opens her mouth slowly and sucks off every noodle playfully causing a twitch in my pants and a hunger in my stomach to form.

Katniss leans her head back and moans in delight from its taste.

“Peeta, this is delicious. Can you cook for me everyday?” she remarks with a glint in her eye.

“You wish,” laughter erupts from deep in my belly. I meant it, though. I would, Katniss, I would cook for you forever if I could. If only she knew.

Later, after dinner has been devoured and dishes are being washed, I hear a slight humming noise. It sounds like a distant memory embedded in my mind. That song, I know it. Katniss is washing dishes and I bump my shoulder against hers.

“That song. I’ve heard it before. What is it?”

“The Valley Song,” she turns the water off and gazes at me softly. Before I can respond she asks a follow up question. “Why did you push me off those yellow swings when we were younger?”

I racked my brain for the situation she was indicating. Oh, that day.

“Long story short, I have-had a slight crush on you and may have been trying to show off with my super strength.” At this, I lift my arms in a front double bicep position, showing off my “strength”. I kiss each bicep and hear a giggle slip out of Katniss. I turn my head and give her an inquisitive look. Neither of us can hold a straight face causing laughter to erupt between us like a volcano.

When she finally can breathe after laughing so terribly much, she responds, “I guess that makes sense, body builder.”

“Yeah right, if only.”

Instead of laughing, she peers at me silently, with an unreadable look on her face.

Later into the night on the couch with almost one season of Ozark under our belts and the popcorn bucket empty, I realize Katniss has dozed off on my shoulder. Her forehead isn't creased like it usually is during the day and that scowl that I have come to love has seamlessly disappeared. A tiny flicker of hope floods my senses. Many nights of Katniss curled up against me, me tucking her in our bed with a peck to her forehead, little feet pattering on the hardwood, maybe even the click of a dog's paws. If only this could come true, I sigh internally.

Resolute to enjoy this moment, I fulfill one of my imaginations. Carefully, wrapping my arms under her knees and her back I walk to the bedroom. She is laid down gently on the bed and I notice her plump red limps. Tiny puffs of hair escape her mouth causing tendrils and wisps of her long locks to float. I couldn’t imagine not loving this woman. She has turned my life upside down, for good.

What would it be like to memorize every facial expression she forms or to hug her large round belly filled with my kin, an Everdeen-Mellark. As I tuck her in, pondering these unrealistic thoughts, she stirs.

“Peeta?” the goddess faintly asks.

“Yes, my lov-Katniss,” I respond, almost slipping up, still overwhelmed by those dreamy thoughts.

She reached for my wrist and wraps her slender hand around it.

“Stay?”she murmurs, drowsily.

There is one, singular answer that can fulfill this question.

“Always,” I tell her.

Wrapping my arms around her in bed and kissing the top of her head lightly I realize something I could never let slip from my memory.

Even if Katniss and I are never what I wish, as long as she is in my life, a part of my heart and soul, I shall not want again. My love, my beauty, my Katniss flower.

***

Katniss

A kiss on the forehead and a warm man next to me. Who knew that would make me feel like I’m home. No, not just any man, Peeta. I couldn’t comprehend loving another man. Oh. My. God. I love him. I don’t know when, I certainly don’t know how, but I just do. A sleepy grin crosses my face as I slip into a soft sleep with the man I love by my side. Home isn't always a place but sometimes a person. People may enter your life unexpectedly and flip it upside down. You may even hate the person but one thing is for sure, forever and always, I’m glad it's him.

***

So that’s it? I can do an epilogue if you want it just let me know. It probably seems rushed but I don’t really care. This has been such a joy to write and I’m so so thankful to each and everyone of you for sticking around to the end. Also, did you enjoy Peeta’s perspective?

-xoxo Clara

[twitchesandstitches]

Polypa’s Victory Growth Comm

Commission of Polypa growing hyper-sized anime-esque proportions; I was given leeway for the actual circumstances, so I went with a more fantastical setting this round.

-----

It began with a hunt; victorious, mighty, and Polypa standing high over her prey.

Polypa roared in triumph, as only a troll could, and the other hunters (humans, trolls, carapacians, and other beings) saluted her, shaking weapons and claws and their own fierce mutations. Fangs gnashed, tusks were clanged together, and several of the more excitable trolls headbutted humans who had thought to wear helmets.

Polypa bowed her head, taller than some but shorter than others, her figure well-built and beefy; an ideal weapon to aim at the enemies of clan and oath-kin. Slowly she slid off the massive torso of the devil beast, her head still tilted backwards in a gesture of docility.

And she gazed upwards and kept craning her head back as the enormously muscular and motherly body of Nepeta Leijon, the progenitor of all olivebloods and Huntmaster of the creators, raised her massive paws up.

Leijon was massive; her hips wider than a doorway, her shoulders individually broader across than Polypa’s whole body, her armor distorted by the huge swells of her curvy frame, her large belly suggesting a hint of divine pregnancy. Her hands, as big as Polypa’s whole chest, raised up, claws extending out over the metal hand-blades she wore. Polypa tensed, dreading a frown or criticism from her, the first of their kind…

And Nepeta applauded her, a warm smile on her atavistic snout. Several antannae sprouting from her face like whiskers tweaked as her smile grew. “Good job, everyone! This is going to go in the records!”

They cheered at this. Someone Polypa couldn’t see declared, “All the other reenactment clubs will be so jealous!”

Nepeta, goddess and incidentally president of the Peeled Bones Rennactment Society, smiled indulgently. She took another look at the corpse, and said something that made Polypa stop: “Oh, good job, Polypa! You struck the killing blow!”

The others gathered around, saying things along the lines of ‘good on you!’.

Konyyl Okimaw, Polypa’s childhood friend, rival, occasional mate and professional pain in the neck, gave her a level look Polypa found hard to parse. Was it indignation? Jealousy? Genuine pride?

Konyyl then grinned, and applauded as well. “Congrats, burny girl. You fried that bastard good!”

Polypa glanced down at the beast, the flames from her special claw weapons still blazing upon it, and she preened. “Well, I don’t wanna brag…!”

“You should,” rumbled Li’l Hal, an ironically named war construct from ancient days, towering over the rest with a truly fearsome arsenal still dripping in bloody ichor. Just to be super-extra, he still kept that look even outside the hunts. “Or I’ll take credit for it.”

Nepeta gave him a look. “Don’t tease her!”

Hal winced, in the sense of his many articulated face plates wiggled contritely. “Yeah, ma’am. Sure.” Polypa smirked at him. He made a rude gesture at her, which Nepeta pretended not to have seen. Instead, Nepeta stood forward, extending the godforged green claws (said to have been crafted with some pieces of the green sun used in shaping the new universe they knew), and she sang the song of gratitude to the spirit of the prey. It had been an old song when she made this universe; it sounded older even now, these many eons later.

Then her massive arm blurred, and blood sprayed onto the ground. Her cut avoided getting any on herself, but it did land on the grass. It began to grow faster, swelling upwards with sudden blooms, but in that moment, they were too focused on the ritual of slaughter to notice this.

Nepeta wrenched out the heart of the beast, still dripping blood, and she carefully handled it so that she did not get much on her. The blood of these beasts could have strange effects even on gods, but her magic contained it, aimed those transformation effects on those honored by her. And she offered the heart to Polypa.

“Take it,” the goddess of the hunt said, her expression keen, glowing faintly with her divine olive light as her powers blessed Polypa, priming her for the benefits of her benediction. “You’ve earned it.”

Polypa did not waste time with refusal or meek protests. You didn’t argue with the lion goddess, and anyway she had a habit of just rolling through arguments without ever raising her voice or changing her tone from a sweet, gentle tone. Polypa accepted the heart, bowing her head with awkward grace. Briefly, she wished she could have a quick discussion with her moirail Tegiri on the proper protocol of divine gift receiving; he knew all about that kind of thing and she most absolutely did not!

Nepeta just kept half smiling in a pleasant, amiable way that nicely defused her tension. Polypa awkwardly smiled back. Nepeta patted her shoulder, leaving a bloody clawprint on the furs she wore, and bowed her head low, standing up high until she towered even over Polypa’s amazonian figure. “You may eat.”

Polypa looked down at the heart, which was no longer beating. That possibly would have made it a bit stranger. The black blood still poured, so much of it that it was frankly implausible, maybe it was actually the natural magic of the beast, Polypa mused, still being processed into an organic stuff not so different from blood. Certainly it tingled on her skin, in a surprisingly pleasant way. That was a bit odd; it felt warm, tingling pleasurably. Part of her felt the hints of bloodlust her people were blessed with, the joy of the hunt and the ecstasy of feeling the blood FLOW-

She got a handle on it. Tamping down bloodlust was one of the first things done in the club’s hunt training. She opened her mouth, her jaws working strangely as her mouth fully unhinged, membranes connecting them as they gaped impossibly wide, her lower jaw expanding wide like some kind of anglerfish, and she scooped the heart up into her maw and swallowed it. Her throat squeezed around it, squashing it into a pulpy mass sliding down so sweetly into her belly.

“Is it supposed to tingle like that?” She said, patting her enormously detailed muscle belly with some concern. Her claws scraped against a bulge of gut that wasn’t quite as thick as her abdominal muscles.

The general feeling from the others was along the lines of ‘I dunno’.

And that was then.

----

And this was now.

Months after the hunt, Polypa stretched through her morning exercises, enjoying the weight at her front, and the wonderful flex of all those new splendidly aligned muscles all going up her back.

She was stronger, now. She was… famous, in ways that the hunting reenactment clubs didn’t really think to cater to. And most of all, she was bigger.

She paced through her room, adopting a stride naturally for hips that were much wider now. She didn’t so much walk as sashay, a rolling stride that tended to draw gazes downwards with sheer motion power alone.

At her front, her breasts bounced in all their massive glory, almost bigger than she was, and to feel them moving with each sway, every little bump against her muscular belly… it was a pleasure.

In many ways, she looked every inch like the heroines of the shows she and Tegiri loved so much, that had inspired her to join the hunting club to fight mighty beasts. Wait… no. She was so much bigger than even they were usually drawn!

The thought put a smug grin on her face.

Polypa was a large troll. Larger now, in fact; her doorway had been remodeled several times over the past few months, scaling increasingly upwards just so she could fit through it. Fortunately it hadn’t (yet) gotten to the point that she was in danger of going past the ceiling of her hive; they were built to be as tall as possible, given considerations like the size of some lusii. Even so, she had to walk with her head low, her body lowered so much she felt like she was constantly about to drop into a quadruped stance. And, well. Given the size of her assets now, that would probably be a poor move.

And she was still scraping her ceiling up with her horns. The weight of them, arcing up through her scalp-quills, had almost doubled; they had to be as long as her forearm now, their jagged edges so much more pronounced that not even the armor of worthy prey or warriors would pose a threat.

Distantly, she heard a murmuring, the distinctive sound of many people gathering about as a respectable distance, and she smirked to herself. It was a faint, confident smile, as much self-adoration as anything else. Her public was arriving.

Yes; she didn’t much like hanging out in her hive all day, even before all this, and now that her hive was too cramped for her new stature, and the impact of her body, she had taken to spending a lot of it outside.

And being… admired.

She finished her meal, jaws unhinging as she swallowed her food and edible dish whole, and it made a brief bulge in her throat as she swallowed. She did a few exercises before she went to go on her daily jog, mostly to accommodate her body.

The back muscles were important. They formed a new support structure for her back, flexible and rigid in turns as required by the bouncing hulks at her front, but she felt better working them out first before doing anything intensive. And it felt good working them out, making them stronger. She could FEEL them growing bigger; perhaps it was just her imagination.

Polypa finished her stretches and strode to her doorway, opening it; moonlight poured in, and as she saw the crowd doing its best to huddle around secretively, she tilted her head up, preening. “Hello there,” she said amiably to them. They flushed, almost every one of them a hardened berserker or carapacian brute, and they were still reduced to squirming lumps of shyness in her presence.

It was so cute.

Polypa exited the doorway, and cut a dramatic figure as she left. But it was her breasts that exited first.

And they were gigantic; perhaps there had been some cow-beast in the genetics of the monster that had empowered her, or it was some latent mutation in her olive blood set loose, to make her so mighty. Though Polypa was a juggernaut weighing over fifteen hundred pounds of muscle mass, far more of it was in her breasts; each one was eight hundred pounds heavy, dipping from her throat to almost her knees, the teardrop-shaped masses almost as long as she was tall, and so wide that only their amorphous squishiness let her force them through the doorway. They sloshed heavily, a payload of nearly three thousand gallons of milk making them even heavier, swelling to even bigger sizes.

They bounced hypnotically, the crowd awestruck by her size as she strode out, towering over them even at range. It was hard to appreciate her figure behind her bustline, but Polypa was a curious blend of amazonian and extreme hourglass; her waist impossibly tiny, her hips shockingly enormous. Her butt stuck out like a gelatinous platform, and her shoulders were broad enough that most trolls (most only coming up to her waist, admittedly) could ride comfortably on one. Her muscles stood out, as defined as carved stone, and wearing only small shorts and a tiny beach-top to cup her breasts, it was impossible to not be aware of this.

Polypa strode out, the outer swell of her muscular gut smacking into her breasts and making them bounce up with every step. Her shoulders flexed ,her hips swayed, her butt moved so perfectly; every motion was a delightful frisson, and Polypa restrained herself from a soft moan only with the hunter’s focus that had earned her these benefits in the first place.

She kept going; step after step, moving in just such a way as to make sure everyone’s eyes were on her. She had EARNED this look, earned every magnificent inch she’d piled on. She would make quite sure they saw it all, just as surely as she had always carried her hunting trophies on high whenever it came to call.

She glanced and saw Tegiri sitting atop a hermit’s pole, apparently to catch some brisk morning air before his own run. He glanced at her, with an expression that was somehow totally deadpan. He nodded, just once, as if to say ‘good morning’. There was no real indication or commentary from him over her transformation, besides some vague comments on his part that he could help remodel her home.

She appreciated it. He knew her worth; she didn’t have to blare it with him like she did with others. And that pleased her.

Polypa did some more stretches, and noticed a few people imitating her specific stretches. As she hefted up her own breasts, their immense weight making excellent exercise for her arms, and stirred up her milk stores, she thought it was nice to be… inspiring people like that.

She whistled, and they all looked at her. “Right, then!” she said brightly. “Everyone, after me! It’s a training montage!” She pointed at a few random people in the crowd. “We got a tournament coming up, and if you want to hang out with me, you gotta compete!”

“We what now?” Someone (Joey, she thought vaguely) said in a small voice.

“Ah,” Tegiri said. “First the training montage, in preperation for the tournament arc?”

Polypa smirked. “See. You get it!” The others looked dumbfounded, but now helplessly caught in her wake.

And so off they went when she started to run, the quaking of her breasts causing shockwaves around her, and into the night they went.

[justjensenanddean]

CW Star Jensen Ackles Invites AD Inside His Family Home in Austin

Jensen and his wife, Danneel, worked with a local Austin team to devise a lakeside home with tongue-in-cheek touches and a musical through line

 Kathryn Romeyn

NOVEMBER 27, 2018 10:30 AM

There’s a lot going on inside the Lake Austin home of actors Jensen and Danneel Ackles—a lot of color, a lot of texture, endless elements begging their stories to be told. If you need a quick snapshot: The living room is scattered with guitars and, on the shag rug, Technicolor floor pillows; antique Venetian dioramas of Lilliputian-sized rooms are embedded into the white-oak walls, while a hanging cage traps gilded Barbie dolls by Micky Hoogendijk; on top of a shelf housing a record player, a photograph of Tom Waits sits next to a chicken skeleton; a regal white peacock perches on the side of the mercantile-style bar. There’s the master bedroom swaddled in Trove wall covering bearing vintage photography of 1920s opera boxes. And the two-story screened-in porch holds a table crafted from a 2,000-year-old cypress sinker log, a storied Boyd Elder cow skull, and four-foot glass lanterns from Tony Duquette’s estate.Indeed, Danneel and Duquette share a similar philosophy. “More is more is more!” Danneel says emphatically. “More is the most.” Still, the Ackleses' five-bedroom, 7,500-square-foot residence isn’t actually an ode to opulence but rather an evocative tribute to key passions at the core of their personalities: the music and aesthetics of the late ’60s, Austin’s art scene, and imaginative oddities and occultist ephemera, perhaps appropriate considering Jensen’s longtime role on the CW’s Supernatural.After deciding to leave Brentwood, California, and coming this close to putting in an offer on a Lake Austin fixer-upper, the couple set their gaze on a house three doors down, sans “for sale” sign. “As we drove by, Danneel and I both looked at our real estate agent and were like, ‘See, that is the kind of house we’re looking for,’” recalls Jensen. Adds Danneel, “we wanted something less ostentatious.” Fortunately, the owner was willing to sell, but the property was far from turnkey and required an overhaul to go from what Danneel calls the “Texas Tuscan look"—generic stuccoed track mansion—to a wood-clad ranch-style stunner.

Danneel, a Tony Duquette superfan, was over the moon when Santini brought the stained glass pendants she’d bought from his estate. Photo: Douglas Friedman 

The slightly sunken living room with the deep blue banquette couch, white shag rug, macrame chair, and muscular oak beams is Jensen’s favorite space.Photo: Jeff Wilson

Jensen and Danneel enlisted Austin architect Paul Lamb and Abode principal interior designer Fern Santini to kickstart what ended up being a very collaborative renovation—even the Ackleses' eldest child, five-year-old JJ, got into the fun, choosing everything in her Pinterest-worthy bedroom. At their initial meeting with Santini, the potential for partnership was evident when she pulled up in an auspicious 1967 E-Type Jaguar. “I mean, it’s just like the coolest thing ever,” says Jensen of the car, which was made in the same year Danneel had said she wanted to recreate in the Austin home so as to pay tribute to the Laurel Canyon bungalow where the couple once lived. “People like Carly Simon had played guitar there,” Danneel says. “It was a magical little place. So when Fern pulls up in that car ... We just bonded over music and a love of that time period and had our vision right off the bat.” 

Executing that vision involved blowing out the majority of the house’s interior, taking it down to the studs, and reconfiguring it. “It was very closed and very ‘90s,” says Santini. Extensive structural work was devised by Lamb, one of Santini's frequent creative conspirator. “Paul is from New Orleans and I’m from Louisiana, and we have the same odd sense of humor and style,” says Danneel, who saw a residential elevator he’d done entirely in red velvet and said, “That’s the guy for me!” The foursome worked beautifully together—that is, after Jensen learned early on to keep his mouth shut if and when he doubted any stylistic choices. When shown the idea for a rich, royal blue sofa, “I was like, ’Y’all are crazy!’” says Jensen. “But then I just thought, I’m not going to get in their way.”

Smart man, considering a highly personalized space began to unspool under Santini and Lamb's direction. “It was imperative that the house express the Ackleses—young, bold, and irreverent,” Lamb says. “It had to be full of humorous and endearing eccentricities and it needed to radiate a comforting yet exotic familiarity.” He simplified and opened spaces, flipped the feel from a masonry house to a wood-framed home—thanks to exposed beams, larger expanses of windows, and rich wooden ceilings—and, perhaps most transformational, added a breezy two-story screened porch that altered the entire profile. “The former house was straight-laced and vaguely Mediterranean,” Lamb says. “Now it is an eclectic, free-spirited, Austin-style lake house.” Santini calls it “a cross between Joni Mitchell and the Serge Gainsbourg–Jane Birkin thing that was going on in Paris at the same time. It’s very hip but it’s low-key.”

Musically, the home is rich with sound, thanks to Jensen’s collection of guitars and the McIntosh turntable Santini says she “has real fetish for, after spending my entire career trying to hide stereo equipment.” There’s also a surfeit of historical and meaningful music-related artwork—think photographs of Yasgur’s Farm in Woodstock and a house where Bob Dylan recorded. “The hand-scraped wood floors undulate quite heavily, and we’ve got these giant beams and wood all around that feel like you’re in the hull of a giant ship,” Jensesn says. “What that does is it creates an amazing acoustic sound. We’ve always had music in our lives, and we wanted to pass on that tradition.”

The parents of three also are active supporters of local art. “We’re not the type who need it to all be the same. That’s criminal to me, almost,” says Danneel of their home full of diverse pieces from Austin and Marfa, including female artists from galleries like Women and Their Work. Santini describes the pair as risk-takers who both led the charge on outside-the-box thinking and let her push the limits. In their third home together, the Ackleses hit their stride, nailing a personally reflective infusion of edge, humor, and spirit.

“It goes to that having a history, having a story,” says Jensen, who, with his wife, selects works based on a gut feeling as opposed to popularity or perceived value. It’s the same way Danneel approached design. “We have so many friends who come into the house and are like, ‘Oh my gosh, I love this—it’s so crazy and unexpected. But man, I would have never picked out all these things, and I wouldn’t have been brave enough to do it!’” she says. “I’ve heard this over and over, and I wish more people would just be brave and go with what makes them happy.” 

The home’s entry was designed to feel like an outdoor living space according to Santini, who sourced an 1850s English table and unusual Swedish lantern from the 1820s to anchor the room. The woven stools are from Tidelli, and the headless deer with ferns are by Italy’s Imperfetto Lab.  

Architect Paul Lamb’s significant removal of walls led to a feel-good expansiveness where there are no boundaries. “It all kind of flows,” says Jensen. “You never feel like you’re in just one room.” In the media room, they did the least amount of work, painting the dark ceiling trusses to lighten the space and putting a German smear on the orange-y fireplace to tone it down. 

The most Texas room in the house is the Marfa-imbued dining space, where the couple’s cherished Boyd Elder bull skull hangs. It’s part of a 10-piece series from the ’70s, the most famous of which was on the cover of the Eagles’ Their Greatest Hits album. “Back in the ‘60s and ‘70s bands on tour wanted to have an artist with them, and Boyd was like the muse for the Eagles,” says Danneel, adding of the late artist, “I believe he dated Joni Mitchell, and she has one of the pieces.” 

The slightly sunken living room with the deep-blue banquette couch, white shag rug, macrame chair, and muscular oak beams is Jensen’s favorite space. “There are just so many textures in that living room and vibrant colors, and it’s all surrounded by this amazing wood. I can just sit there and pick away at a guitar or play records all day long,” he says. 

Behind the sofa is a gold birdcage artwork by Austin artist Micky Hoogendijk. It’s an observation on “women who seem to be trapped by money and possessions and they’re OK with it; they like living in that gilded cage,” says Danneel. “It looks intense but when you get close to it they’re all smiling and happy and unaware that they’re in this cage because they’re gold and perfect. For me that’s just somewhere I never want to be, so I was really attracted to that.” 

Danneel spends a lot of time in the babies’ room (22-month-old twins Zeppelin and Arrow) and the kitchen, where the kids’ favorite toy is a rolling acrylic table from the ‘50s. (“Fern would have a heart attack,” she laughs.) They tore the space down to nothing and built it back from scratch. “It was a totally different feel, and very kind of country looking, which didn’t blend well with the rest of the house,” Jensen says. Now, to Lamb, “the kitchen’s glossy painted wood boards look like pinstripes, crisp and good-natured, like a happy kitchen in the Hamptons.”

“There’s not a space they don’t use,” says Santini of the house she worked on with Jensen and Danneel. The reimagined pool room taps into their proclivity for spooky oddities with framed tarot cards and a game table that could work for board games or even séances, says Lamb, who added a secondary kitchen for big gatherings with access to a barbecue area on the lawn, and a wine room. 

A native Southerner, Danneel fought hard for the addition of a screened-in porch, which Lamb had the vision—inspired by Greenwood Plantation in St. Francisville—to make two stories tall. “I wanted more than anything to be able to sit out there, not get eaten alive by mosquitos, and look at the lake and watch the boats go by,” says the actress. Jensen’s favorite piece in the house is the long table, custom made using a 2,000-year-old cypress log that had sunk and was buried on the West Bank of New Orleans. 

The bar—black walnut with black and white veined marble—is on one end of the large living room and is the site of frequent small parties involving music, either live or from the McIntosh turntable. The cabinets were specially made to light prized bourbons, and on the side is a white taxidermy peacock Santini tracked down over months. Flooring throughout the house is hand-scraped Texas post oak with character to spare. 

The master bedroom and the adjacent sitting room are clad in reclaimed barn wood, juxtaposing the whimsical wallpaper covered in sections by Japanese-inspired barn door panels that allow for flexible boundaries. Jensen said of the scheme, “You guys are losing me, but it sounds awesome, so knock it out!” Danneel already owned the two petrified wood and resin log tables that sit in front of the vintage ‘50s daybed with Mongolian lamb, though the majority of what’s in the home was selected or made specifically for it. 

Inspiration for their master bathroom shower came from an Architectural Digest story featuring a steel and glass shower in the home of Neil Patrick Harris and David Burtka. Lit by Apparatus fixtures, Lamb conceived a simple vaulted space with a white oak board ceiling and fumed and cerused walnut cabinets with a slight Tansu feel. A Kyle Bunting cowhide rug is centered on the room, and Holly Hunt ombre-dyed handkerchief linen window treatments frame the lake view.  

The pair’s five-year-old daughter, JJ, helped pick out all her own bedroom decor. “The more color the better,” says Danneel. Santini calls it “hippie in training.” Like in the rest of the home, her walls are plaster. 

The ultra-private home looks out at a nature preserve across the water. Durable throw pillows around the house were made of old quilts purchased online. “We bought a lot of them and mixed them all up,” says Santini. “There’s nowhere in the house where you feel like you have to tip toe around or can’t sit. That was definitely intentional.”

Inside and out, Lamb and Santini ensured that the Ackleses’ Austin home “expresses them—young, bold, and irreverent. It had to be full of humorous and endearing eccentricities and it needed to radiate a comforting yet exotic familiarity.” 

architecturaldigest

[fuwafuwamedb]

Interrogating Siduri (For Help) (Siduri, Gudako, Gilgamesh, Enkidu)

“Tell me your damn secrets!”

Siduri stared at the woman, almost wanting to laugh again.

Secrets?

Did she truly think there were secrets? The king and his clay friend were not animals that needed trained. They were grown men, men who had faced down evils that the world could never hope to compete again. They were great and immense heroes and deserved all the happiness in the world.

“Siduri.” Gudako moved the overhead light closer to them, pressing a foot onto the seat of the chair she was in. “Look, I love ya like a sister.”

She didn’t have a sister.

“But the two are renegades, die hard tormentors of the weak and borderline insane. If it’s not a prank that’s nearly killing someone, it’s a chase or wrestling match that escalates in to full on riots. If it’s not inappropriate gambling rings, it’s being behind another event because they’re bored. There’s no stopping the two. It’s a damn fire over and over again. You’re telling me that there’s nothing that they’ve ever done wrong in your presence? They’ve never misbehaved around you before?”

Misbehaved and done wrong?

“SIDURI!”

She had to duck, screaming at the monkey that had entered the room. The two were running around in the room, wrestling against one another as the animals attempted to escape. The men that had been in here earlier had come out screaming.

“You think you’re strong enough!” Gilgamesh was trying to pin the clay being down, struggling against the slowly forming muscles that the clay being was creating just to fight back against him. “You think you can simply prank me with a monkey temple maiden?!”

“Was she too hairy?” Enkidu was laughing, waving one foot in Siduri’s direction as those clay colored eyes gleamed. “It’s funny, Gil. She said the same thing about you. So hairy, especially down there.”

“My king!”

But the man was throwing the clay being towards the wall, earning one clay being bouncing off the walls and running for the doors.

“Don’t think you can escape revenge!”

“Oh? Are you gonna do something, Gil? I’m looking forward to this! I saw that weighted king last week and thought, ‘wow, my king is gonna look like this soon!’ Those women in your bed aren’t doing a good job.”

Siduri chased after them, trying to yell to get them to listen. The more she yelled, the more the chaos seemed to increase.

Enkidu was made of cow shit.

That was a compliment, considering his mother was the one who looked after the cows. Did that make them brothers?

Enkidu was too free spirited!

Enkidu laughed, wrapping their muscular legs around the man and holding on tight.

“Feeling jealous again, Gil? It’s fine if you are. Just tell your Enkidu of the trouble and we’ll find a way to help you escape the work.”

No!

“MY KING! ENKIDU! PLEASE!”

The two glanced at her before Gilgamesh was murmuring to the being.

Enkidu nodded, moving forward and holding their arms open.

“Siduri! Precious advisor! Come talk to Enkidu a moment.”

At least someone was taking this seriously, she thought, moving over to the being’s side and sighing in relief. The moment she made it to their side, she found them opening the gates and dumping a handful of tablets into her arms.

“The people we were with earlier have debts to pay. Can you send out the messengers for us? We aren’t going to handle the work until it’s done. Thanks, Siduri.”

Gilgamesh was already gone, she realized. He’d left the moment that she had paid attention to Enkidu.

How many times had they done that?

How many times had she needed to repair temples and beg the gods for forgiveness for her king?

How many people had fallen ill because Gilgamesh or Enkidu had put inappropriate things into goblets and onto platters?

And that woman who fainted at a party because Gilgamesh had stuck a snake into one of the ferns for Enkidu to find.

“Siduri?” Gudako sounded worried.

“My king and his friend are heroes,” Siduri told her simply. “I can’t help you with whatever problem you think you have.”

Gods forgive her.

She didn’t know how she could help this poor woman, now saddled with the most outrageous and ill-behaved heroes in all of history.  

[fandom-fluff-writer]

Ben Armstrong

Way Down in Egypt Land

“Give me twenty,” Ewell said as the carriage shook rapidly over dead trees and rocks. “Twenty niggers is all I need.”

Houston shook his head and said the same thing he had been saying the past thirty minutes. “I can’t, Federal troops are moving through this here forest, too close for comfort,” he sighed. “I already lost half of my slaves in this damned woods, I can’t lose more. So I’m moving them all to my main plantation south from here. It’s safer there.”

“Please Houston, I don’t have enough niggers to help move all of my belongings and my famly,” Ewell begged one last time, “I can’t just stay here after what just happened to Atlanta. Do it for a friend, please.”

“I just can’t,” Houston said with a sorrowful frown. “I’m sorry Ewell. I have a horse, Bessie, for you to ride back, she’s a fast bugger. Send my regards to Shawna for me.”

“Abraham!” Houston shouted. “Go saddle up Bessie for Mr. Conwell.”

“Y’a sir,” Abeham shouted back, soon arriving with a muscular black mare.

“Be safe,” Houston said as Ewell mounted the horse. “The Feds are less than three miles away. Best of luck Ewell, again I’m sorry.”

Ewell did his best to smile, nod, then trot his horse away.

He had been going no more than a mile when he heard something running. It can’t be more than a fox, he told himself. But there were six, six continuous footsteps crashing the ground beneath them crushing already broken twigs. Ewell’s eyes shot to the sound as three panting and sweating men in blue appeared before him. Ewell’s rapidly beating heart leaped to his throat.

“Ello’ boys,” Ewell said as beads of sweat raced down his wide forehead. “I aint armed, and I don’t fight with the Confederate, I’m just a…”

Before Ewell could finish his sentence a shot rang out as one of the three soldiers pointed his rifle and fired. Ewell’s mare screamed and kicked as it began to choke on its fresh blood. In an entanglement of horse and man Ewell fell to the ground.

Before Ewlell could spit the dirt from his mouth the three men were on him. The first threw a punch to Ewell’s face, the second began to loot the dying horse. The third one though was odd, he hit Ewell in the side of his gut, the most painful punch Ewell had ever felt. It wasn't a punch though, Ewell’s eyes widened as the man pulled the dripping red dagger from Ewell’s stomach. He tried to scream but no word left his trembling mouth as he fell to the dirt.

“Come on Sam,” the man with the knife shouted to the one searching the dead horse. “Help me get coins from this man. Quickly, after this we’ll be home in no more than a month.”

“They will brand us though,” the first man said as the third dropped the knife and began to search Ewell’s pockets. “I saw them once. George was his name remember him? Put a big old D on his head, like he was a cow.”

“Now that was for running in the heat of battle,” the man coming back from the horse said. “They would most likely kill us.”

“Either way we can’t go back now,” the third one said as he found Ewell’s golden pocket watch. “Now here's a pretty thing.”

All the while Ewell laid on the ground trying to breath. He was going to throw a punch but decided not to. IfI do, they'll find out I’m alive and kill me, he thought.

“Why’d you do that, Jess?” The third one said checking the time on his new watch. “Kill the horse and all? We could have used it.”

“He would have rode off with it,” Jess said.

“That's why you shoot him, you bloody retared,” the man who must have been Sam said, giving Jess a light slap to the back of the head.

“Oh, I never thought of that,” Jess said staring at the dead mare. “I’m sorry Lance.”

Lance put the pocket watch in his pocket and grabbed a few coins out of Ewell’s other pocket, “Enough bickering,” he said in a stern voice. “It’s getting dark and they will be on our asses in no time.” Lance took the three rings off Ewell’s fingers as Sam took Ewell’s shoes and jacket from him. When all three of them left, Ewell let out a long and painful groan.

As he tried to stand he fell back to the ground, new dirt sneaking its way into his wound. Ewell looked at his leg which was all twisted,”O lord!” he cried, it must have broken when his horse fell. More groans left his body as he laid there, groan after groan till he finally fell asleep.

Ewell did not know if he was asleep for minutes or days, all the same when he woke, it was to the sound of hoofbeats. When his eyes opened he saw four men in blue on horseback.

“Help me!” Ewell’s voice cracked as he screamed. They began to ride towards him.

“Look at that John,” one pointed faced man said, looking down on Ewell through eyes of pity. “He’s hurt.”

“Poor lad, there's nothing we can do for him,” a man with a fine-trimend beard said in a deep voice. “He is a dead man now, not a thing we can do.” Ewell tried to croak words but none left his quivering lips.

“He’s probably a plantation owner anyways, the ones with all them poor slaves,” another man said with a squeaky young tone. “I bet he’s killed countless negros. I say this is a lesson for him.”

“We can’t just leave him here to die,” the pointed faced man said. “Besides, that would make us as bad as him.”

“This is war Jim,” the deep voice man said slowly lifting his gaze from Ewell to the pointed face man. “There are many casualties we all must live with.”

“I have myself a cousin down south,” the fourth man finally spoke up. “And I’d hate to see him like this. All gutted and bloodied up.”

“Then lets just put the bastard out of his misery,” the young one said drawing his lever action rifle.

“We aren't going to kill civilians,” the deep voiced one said. “Leave him here he probably wouldn't make it back with us in time anyways. We gotta get going; those cowards can’t be far gone by now.” They all began to turn their horses and leave.

“We can’t just let him die, John,” the pointed faced man turned to look upon ewell once more.

“The hell we can’t,” the deep voice man shouted over hoof beats. “If you're so worried just give him your damn canteen or something.”

The pointed faced man looked on Ewell with more eyes of pity, tossed Ewell the container, then left. Ewell wept.

He was half done with the water and cradling it like a child's stuffed toy when he heard the gun moving towards him. Ewell rolled to his left side and saw a large artillery piece moving down the wood pulled by two large horses. There were five soldiers moving along with the gun while three other soldiers carried rifles. They did not notice Ewell nor did they speak to one another. Ewell tried to speak but couldn't. The silence was broken when when there was a crash of the cart

“God damn it,” a man shouted.

“Hush up Ed,” another man said. “They’ll hear us.”

“Well it won’t bloody matter if we're stuck here all damn day,” Ed shot back. Ewell looked at the cart and saw that one wheel was stuck in a small ditch.

“Don’t cuss in front of the horses Ed,” another man pleaded. “They don’t like it.”

“Cuss in front of the horses?” Ed cried in a shrill voice. “This is why we're losing this war, cause of flapdoodle shats of your sort. And don’t complain about my cussing.”

Ewell heard a crash of a whip on skin and cries from man and horse.

“Don’t whip ‘em you imbecile,” Ed explained. “They'll tear the cart in half.”

“Well they need to go faster to get out of the ditch,” a man said.

“No, no, no,” Ed replied. “We need to get out and lift the wheel up ourselves.

They all got out from the front of the cart and began to lift the wheel. Ed sent one of the men with a rifle to guard their rear. As the man unknowingly walked towards the dying body, Ewell noticed that this was not a Union soldier at all, this man was Confederate. They have to help me, Ewell thought. The man paused a few yards away from Ewell and his face turned to horror as he saw the body, then he quickly looked back into the distance as if he saw nothing. As he stood over Ewell he began to visually cough into a green stained handkerchief. Ewell tried to cry out but all that came from him was not words nor a sob, more shrill ache from his lunges. The man jumped at that perhaps thinking that Ewell had been dead. The man looked upon Ewell with his pitiful brown eyes.

“I...” Ewell forced out. “Robbed.”

He didn't finish his sentence for it felt like ten daggers piercing him every word he spoke. Ewell didn't speak nor did the man who just stood there, his eyes fixed to Ewell. No more than a minute passed when they heard the shout of Ed.

“Jay,” he shouted as if there wasn't a Union regiment a heartbeat away from them. “Let's get a move on. We have to get this gun up there before dark.”

The man gave Ewell one last sad glance with a frown then laid a Confederate five dollar bill on Ewell’s bloodied chest then walked off. While Ewell’s blood, dried fresh blood and tears appeared painting the bill’s state capitol red.

I will surely die, Ewell thought. He had to have run out of all his blood by now. It was silent out, only birds chirping to one another in their own beautiful language while Ewell laid here to rot. The silence was broken by a voice, a deep voice. Too deep in tone to be a white man Ewell noticed. This was a Negro. As the man got closer Ewell could make out the words, the man was singing a hymn, a song Ewell had heard his slaves sing from time to time.

“So Moses went to Egypt land

Let my people go

He made old Pharaoh understand

Let my people go…” The man sang on in a smooth deep rhythm. When Ewell could make out the singer he could see a tall Negro man that looked as if he were in his forties with no hair on his head but a few patches on his large chin. He was pulling a wagon behind him loaded with some sort of supplies and sheets. The man looked startled when he came upon Ewell.

“What do we have here?” The man said in a deep voice breaking from the song. The man squatted down to get a closer look; he could hear Ewell’s soft breaths. “Well I’ll be damned,” the man bellowed. “You're still alive. Let me help you up, I don't presume you can walk .” He hefted Ewell up and lightly laid him in the cart.

“That's a nasty cut you got there,” the man said as he grabbed an unopened bottle from the cart. “Now this will sting but it’ll help with the infection.” The man poured the clear liquid from the bottle onto Ewell's injury. Ewell began to pound his fist on the wooden cart from the pain.

The man pulled out a large handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to Ewell, “I want you to hold that tight to your wound,” the man chuckled. “Don’t worry I ain’t used it since it’s been washed. Do you need some water?” Ewell rapidly nodded his head yes, he had long finished the water the Union man had given him. The Negro man held the back of Ewells head up and began to slowly tip the canteen up, cool refreshing water began to fill Ewell’s parched mouth. The man lifted the wagon up by a handle and was off again as Ewell laid in the back of it sipping water and soaking up blood with the handkerchief.

“Why did you do that?” Ewell asked the man when he finally got the strength to speak. “ Help me and all, you're a slave right?”

“Yes sir,” the man said, not looking back at his passenger.

“I own slaves just east from here,” Ewell admitted.

“I assumed that,” the man replied. “You looked mighty fine other than all the blood and all.”

“Then why’d you do it?” Ewell asked again. “You're a slave and I own slaves, black men as yourself.”

“Well here's the difference from what you're saying right now,” the man stopped the cart. “When I saw you I didn't see no white man nor black man, I saw a dying man. And it was the Lord's will for me to help you. I don’t care if you were a Mexicain or an Indian, once we make it to Heaven there are no blacks or white we are all spirits, we are all humans. So when I saw you sir all I saw as a human in need of my help, so I helped you.” The cart began to move again.

“Oh,” was Ewell’s only reply.

Through the silence of the crushing branches and dead leaves Ewell heard the man hum, he hummed the familiar tune of Go Down Moses. When Ewell finally drifted asleep he dreamt of Egypt and a man named Moses.

When he finally woke up Ewell was in a warm bed with fresh sheets and pillows. As he tried to get up he could feel a stinging pain in his side. When he looked at it he saw fresh white bandages on this old wound. A white man walked into the room, “Ah, you're awake,” the man exclaimed. “Martin picked you up along the way here.”

Ewell noticed the man, he had met him once or twice before. He sold and cut lumber in the northern parts of the woods. The man gave Ewell some crutches. Ewell thanked the man and asked him where he could find the slave who had saved him. The man led Ewell to the slave who was just about to leave again with the cart.

“You're all better,” the man said gleefully to Ewell. “I better be off, I have to get more supplies.” The man smiled and began to walk away.

“One more thing,” Ewell called out, the man stopped and looked back. “Thank you.”

The man smiled and tipped his hat, “Sure thing,” then he was off and broke into another song.

“Go down, Moses,” he sang, “way down in Egypt…”

[faveficarchive]

Mayonnaise and Its Discontents

(The tres exciting third part of a "White Trash" trilogy)

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: Zina and Gabrielle head out on a road trip, and trip up on Zina’s exes along the way.

1. Precious and Few are the Moments We Two Can Share

The firefighter filled out the broken-down plaid couch with her long body. A walkman lay against her muscular stomach, and a wire traipsed seductively over a swelling breast, galloped down into the valley of muscle, skin, and tendons around the neck and shoulder, blended into dark tresses, and climbed over the crevices of the ears, where it was attached to an earpiece blaring out beautiful musical dissonance: Black hole sun, woncha come, and wash away the raaaaaaaain….

Her eyes were closed tightly against the world. It had been a long, horrible day. Three fires in one day. Flames, dirt, near-death. She came right home after the third one, exhausted, took a bath, and flung herself on the couch. She craved the oblivion of loud music, so she put on her walkman, since she knew Gabrielle was upstairs studying.

And she calls me insensitive, Zina thought grumpily. I can be kinda sorta sensitive when I want to be. She had drifted off into a light sleep when she felt a familiar weight straddle her lap. The weight wriggled around suggestively. She smiled and opened her eyes.

"Hey stud," Gabrielle said. Her beautiful girlfriend wore a t-shirt that said FIREFIGHTERS DO IT WITH RUBBER HOSES (better than the last such shirt she saw, which said FIREFIGHTERS DO IT WITH DALMATIANS) and a pair of Daisy Dukes—the shortest of blue jean shorts. It's like she's takin' fashion tips from Callie or somethin', thought Zina. (Not that she minded that much.) Gabrielle held a dirty slip of paper in one hand. "I found this attached to the bottom of your work boot."

Zina peered at it. "Uh…looks like my pay stub."

"Thought so. You want it?"

Zina gave her a Look. Then she shoved the earphones back in her ears.

Gabrielle wriggled again. Zina opened her eyes again, and plucked the 'phones out of her ears…again. "What?" A thin line of patience was threatening to snap.

"Zina, do you ever look at these things?"

"Why should I? I know how much I get paid. Plus I really don't want to know how much money the goddamn government is stealing from me." Maybe I should join the Militia…her eyes darkened at the thought. Sure, they were all a bunch of fat wads who could barely pull a trigger, but give her two weeks, she'd whip those pussies into shape, and soon, they'd be chanting her name as they took over the county courthouse…

A slap stung her thigh. "Zina! Stop having daydreams about the Militia!" Gabrielle barked.

The firefighter sulked. Of course, I'm kinda whipped myself.

"Now listen to me. There's this column on your pay stub, says 'Vacation'…"

"Uh huh."

"And under it is a number: 1,055."

"Yeah."

Gabrielle blinked in astonishment. "So…you have over a thousand days of vacation coming to you?"

"No."

"Oh." The little poet hid her disappointment.

"It means I have over a thousand hours of vacation." With this, Zina placed the phones back in her ears, and her head started thrashing in a very Beavis-and-Butthead-like fashion to "Spoonman."

"Holy shit! Over a thousand hours of vacation???" shrieked Gabrielle. Alas, her beloved could not hear her joy. She wriggled again, but got no response from Zina. Then she yanked the earphones out of the lovely ears all by her own self.

She was rewarded with a glare worthy of the most disturbed serial killer.

"Sorry, baby, but I'm trying to talk to you. " Gabrielle replied patiently. Love means never having to expect social skills above a third-grade level, the poet realized.

Zina's black bangs flew as she released an air of exasperation. "All right," she growled.

"Since you have so much time coming to you, why don't we have a vacation?"

The blue eyes blinked at her in utter incomprehension.

"Oh, wow," Gabrielle breathed with awe. "You've never had a vacation. Have you?"

"Vacations are for wimps, Gabrielle," muttered Zina.

"Bull. Every summer, my parents took us on a vacation. Sure, it was usually camping, or Graceland, or something like that…but we always went, every year." And every year it was hell. Her parents always argued, they always got lost, and Lila always won every back-seat slugfest they had. But Zina doesn't need to know that.

"I guess that sounds nice. But my mother's idea of a vacation was following around the Grateful Dead." Zina winced, trying to quash the memories that flooded back: greasy smelly hippie guys pawing at her, portable toilets that—mystifyingly enough—smelled better than the guys did, spilled beer going rancid in the harsh sun, pot, acid tabs, and more pot, and those goddamned fifteen-minute drum solos.

Hmmm, Gabrielle thought. It sounds like we've both had sucky vacation experiences. "Hey, I've been thinking. Like, as a vacation, maybe we could go visit Effie and those guys. Whaddya say?"

"I've been to Memphis, though."

"And so has Lyle Lovett, baby doll. Well, they aren't in Memphis right now. They're out in the country, recording their second album, at some studio in Tennessee. It’s real pretty, Effie says."

"That sounds cool."

"Yeah, it would be fun, baby. I'm dying to see Effie. I miss her so much. And you—well, Hank would be there…"

"And we could go fishing!" Zina perked up.

"Yeah!" Gabrielle loved to see her happy.

"And then we could play horseshoes! And golf! And basketball! And football! And I'll beat him every goddamned time!!!!" shouted the firefighter triumphantly.

"Honey, I love you, but you are a fuckin' maniac."

Zina beamed at what she perceived to be a great compliment.

***

"Hey, what the hell you doin' on my Harley?"

—Serge Gainsbourg, "Harley David Son of a Bitch"

They simply could not agree on what vehicle to take. Gabrielle thought it too dangerous to ride a cycle all the way there, and Zina said that it would only be over her dead body that they would take the Escort.

"I can't be seen in an Escort. 'Sides, we'd be lucky to make it to the county line in that thing."

"Well, I'm not riding a Harley all the way there. We won't have room to take anything. And my ass will be numb and fall off by the time we reach the county line." Gabrielle rubbed her perfect posterior for emphasis.

The firefighter scowled, deep in thought. "I have an idea." She stood up. "Come on, we're going to Ed's."

***

Ed stood in his bedroom, thoughtfully examining the two bras that he held, one in each hand. He loved the black one, but the material was so scratchy, on the other hand, the red one was a little too red, but it felt so silky…

A banging on his door caused the entire house to shake. Only two people he knew were capable of that: Hank, who was not in town…and Zina.

A squeak of distress came from his lips. Frantically, he stuffed the bras under his mattress and ran downstairs.

Indeed, the sullen beauty stood at his door, wearing her trademark outfit: black shitkickers, a black t-shirt, and faded Levis. This time the t-shirt showed a mutilated cartoon figure and the caption I KILLED KENNY. Well, I wouldn't put it past her, Ed thought. But he sighed with relief when he saw Gabrielle peeking out mischievously from behind the tall firefighter; the thought of a tete-a-tete with Zina was simply too much.

"Hi Ed!" Gabrielle chirped.

"Hey, Gabrielle…hey, Z."

Zina raised an eyebrow. Her knew her well enough to know that this was her way of requesting entry into his home.

"Sure, come on in, guys." The happy couple sauntered in. Zina flopped down in his recliner. She raised another eyebrow. "Beer?" he stammered. She nodded. "Gabrielle?"

"No thanks," replied the poet. "Got anything to eat?"

He ran into the kitchen, grabbed a can of Bud and a bag of pretzels.

Gabrielle tore open the bag. "Got any mustard?" she asked.

He ran into the kitchen and came back with a jar of French's.

"No Grey Poupon?"

"What the hell's that?" Ed said, face pulled into distaste. Why anyone would want to put something gray on a perfectly innocent pretzel was beyond him.

"Never mind." Gabrielle cast a look at her soulmate, who was chugging Bud. "Shall I?" she asked. Zina nodded. She began. "Okay, Ed, it's like this. Remember when you hit the cow?"

He winced. "Oh…yeah."

"Well, you know, Farmer Draco came by the other day…"

"Shit!" Ed blurted.

"Yeah, and he was asking us if we knew who killed his little Bessie Sue…" Gabrielle shook her head sadly. "It just about broke my heart, to see a big ol' grown man like that cry." And it did, although on Zina’s part, the firefighter had giggled at the way the huge, dramatic feathers in Draco's cowboy hat bobbed up and down as he sobbed. "Right, Zina?" The big firefighter nodded dutifully. "And he cursed, and he cried, and he said, 'If I ever found out who killed Bessie Sue, I'll de-ball the fucker with my own teeth!' "

Ed blanched. His vision dimmed and he felt woozy. I won’t faint! I won’t!

"And do you know what we told him?"

Ed bit his lip in fear and agony.

"We said we didn't know. And you know why we said that, don't you, Ed?"

Ed nodded.

"Because you're our friend, and we don't want to see you de-balled. Right, Zina?"

Zina burped in the affirmative. She did concede to herself, however, that she wouldn't mind seeing Ed de-balled...it might be kinda fun, actually.

"And that's what friends do for each other. They take care of each other. They support each other—"

"They cover each other's stupid hairy asses after drinking half the county," Zina interjected.

"That's right," Gabrielle said soothingly. "So! That brings us to why we're here…"

"Whatever you want, take it!" he cried.

Zina bared her teeth in a feral grin. "We want the Impala."

Agony. He knew, someday, that she would ask. Years ago, he, Hank, and Zina had pooled their paltry financial resources and bought a decrepit 1968 Impala. Together they had rebuilt it into a gleaming icon of big, American simplicity. By the sheer good luck of having a garage, he was Keeper of the Impala. Hank was far too reverent of the vehicle to actually drive it, and would only come over and gaze wistfully at it every once in a while. Zina, however, had been "shut off" from the Impala after a particularly strenuous "test drive" that resulted in the tragic death of several chickens (property of the unlucky Framer Draco). But that was two years ago, and Hank had since declared his best friend fit to drive the beloved vehicle, if she chose to do so. And Ed knew that, one day, she would come around and ask to use the car that both he and Hank were too chickenshit to even drive to the Uni-Mart. She was that kind of woman. Fearless. Confident. Powerful. Perhaps a bit of a sociopath.

He sighed, and headed for the garage. The women followed him silently. When Ed flung up the garage door, he whispered reverently, "There she is."

The 1968 Impala, a dark, royal blue, glinted as afternoon sunlight hit its hood. It sat regally, patiently awaiting their ecstatic worship.

"Isn't she...magnificent?" Ed prompted, using one of the biggest words he knew. His eyes misted over.

"Oh…yes!" Zina gasped, delirious with joy.

Gabrielle shrugged. "It's cute," she said flatly, jealous that something other than she could make Zina gasp with delight. It was another annoyance; she already had to battle the Harley for superiority in the firefighter's affections: "Look, missy, what would rather have between your legs—that cycle or me?" she had demanded of her lover one fine afternoon.

The firefighter had frowned and contemplated the question for a long time.

"Let me put it another way," Gabrielle had interrupted the laborious mental process, "can that Harley give you an orgasm?"

Zina nodded vigorously. "It depends on how fast I'm going, and how bumpy the road is."

And now, she frowned at the harmless Impala. This thing probably does her so good she smokes a pack of Lucky Strikes afterwards, Gabrielle thought in a most discouraging way, while two pairs of horrified blue eyes stared at her.

"Cute?" roared the firefighter. "Gabrielle, this is, like, the Super Bowl of cars!"

"Yeah!" Ed cried. "I rebuilt this thing three times—"

Zina turned on him. "My ass! The second time Hank helped you, and the third time I practically did it myself!"

"No, you didn't!"

"Yes, I did!"

The poet rolled her eyes. She leaned against the car.

"Get off the car!" shouted the firefighters in unison.

2. The Ex Files

After procuring the Impala for their impending trip, they went to the grocery store.

It was not Zina's favorite place to be. The fluorescent lights gave her a headache, as did the canned music (currently warbling "I'd Really Love to See You Tonight" by England Dan and John Ford Coley), and Gabrielle wouldn't let her pop wheelies with the cart. So she leaned against the shopping cart while Gabrielle tossed box after box of Pop Tarts into the metal receptacle. "Blueberry, brown sugar, fudge, cherry…" she rattled off each flavor as they landed in the cart.

The firefighter sighed, and looked to the end of the aisle. What she saw there caused her blue eyes to narrow into such hardened blocks of ice that not even Sharon Stone in her Basic Instinct incarnation—armed with her trusty little icepick—could have cracked them.

Gabrielle was not totally oblivious, in her Pop Tart delirium, to notice her girlfriend's change of mood. "Zina…what's wrong?" she asked as Zina stormed past her, toward a display in the frozen food section. Pulling the cart behind her, she followed Zina to the end of the aisle.

Many plastic containers of a strangely colored liquid formed a small pyramid, which paid homage to an arrogant-looking young woman featured in the cardboard poster that loomed over the plastic cups. The poster read thus: "Julie Caesar, Olympus County's very own Martha Stewart and host of WAR-TV's 'Conquering with Cooking,' presents the latest delicacy from her kitchen: Barbecue-Salsa Mayonnaise!"

"Ya want some, Zina?" the poet asked.

The firefighter regarded her with eyes of rage and incomprehension. "Do I want some?" she hissed violently at her small companion. "Do I want some!!" she repeated incredulously.

"Baby, chill out, okay? If you don't want to try it, don't sweat it."

"Gabrielle, you don't understand," growled Zina, waving at the display, knuckles pounding the cardboard image of the smirking yuppie goddess, "this BITCH stole my recipe!!!"

The little poet blinked in disbelief. The only culinary effort she had witnessed her girlfriend perform had been to mix Rolling Rock, Heineken, and tabasco sauce together and declare it a "cocktail."

"She stole my idea! She betrayed me!" wailed Zina.

"Oh no…" Gabrielle moaned. "Don't tell me…another ex-lover, right?" How many were there? On top of Artie (loser!), Hank (can’t fault Zina here, the man is flawless), Ed (doesn't really count)…there was Callie (bitch!), Midge from the gas station (who kept calling Gabrielle "little lady," whenever she got gas—bitch!), Nancy, who managed the automotive section at the Wal-Mart and still gave Zina "discounts" not to mention lingering, lovestruck glances (bitch!)….

And then there was Lao Ma.

Lao Ma, the beautiful woman who ran the Green Dragon, the Chinese take-out restaurant, whose Hong Kong movie career did not take ("Don't even say the name Michelle Yeoh to me," she once murmured in her calm, menacing way to a customer who dared to ask), who always gave Zina vaguely obscene fortune cookies ("Lick a pearl every night to refine your oral skills") and who offered Gabrielle cryptic commentary whenever she would pick up their order ("Noodles are soft, but who could withstand the raging lo mein?").

Gabrielle sighed and seethed, hands on hips. "Well?"

I'm not talkin' about movin’ in...

Zina rubbed the back of her neck in that way she did when she was uncomfortable.

...and I don't want to change your life...

"Look, Zina, just tell me. Did ya lay her or not?"

...but there's a warm wind blowing and...

"Aw, shit, Gabrielle." Translation: Yes.

...blah blah blah blah...

"Jesus H. CHRIST in a frigging HAYSTACK, ZINA!!! How many are there? Will the REST OF MY LIFE be plagued by the PERIODIC UNCOVERING OF SOME PIECE OF ASS YOU SCREWED WHILE YOU WERE THE BIGGEST HO IN THE COUNTY?"

...and I'd really love to see you tonight...

"Uh, yeah, quite possibly," mumbled Zina.

***

"Oh, man," Cyrene moaned, burying her graying head in her hands. "Zina said I'd tell you everything about her and Julie Caesar?"

"Yeah, Cyrene, she's way too pissed to talk about it. We kinda fought about it." Gabrielle was in the farmhouse kitchen with Cyrene, Zina's mother, who sat at the kitchen table while Gabrielle put away groceries.

"'Kinda?'" Cyrene echoed sarcastically. When she had arrived on the scene Zina was tearing off on the Harley while Gabrielle was screaming after her, "You suck! And I don't mean in a good way either!" from the porch.

"Okay, you saw it. We fought. But just before she left she said you could explain everything." She tried to mask the nervousness in her voice. What would the raging Zina do? Would she get thrown out of "Hooters" again? Would more of Farmer Draco's errant livestock suffer at her murderous wheels? She needed the full story, so that she could help her lover rein in those sociopath tendencies. Not to mention her own jealousy.

"I need my bong," the older woman muttered, digging through her purse. With expert hands, she loaded the bong with pot contained in a little black plastic film canister. She lit up, and offered it to Gabrielle.

"No thanks, I only smoke when I study now." Gabrielle had decided to cut back on the pot-smoking for a while, ever since making the declaration in her Film Aesthetics course that Baseketball was "A Citizen Kane for the 90s."

"Okay," Cyrene sighed, "here we go. It all happened, oh, about 10 years ago. Or maybe it was 8. Or 5…."

Gabrielle rolled her eyes.

"Anyway, it was when Zina was still Bad." The way Cyrene said it, one automatically knew that "bad" began with a capital B.

"Oh…" replied the poet. While her voice retained a forced tone of neutrality, she squirmed in delight. Ooooh…bad = sexy. Sexy sexy sexy. Hello, my name is Gabrielle and I'm addicted to Bad Girls. I realize I am powerless over my addiction to sullen brunettes…

"Yeah, honey, she was Bad. What I'm about to tell you won't be pretty. But we Amphipolittis—like most Italians—have always been a honest, proud family, unashamed of our mistakes."

Gabrielle frowned. "I thought you guys were Greek."

"Whatever." Cyrene waved a bejeweled hand.

3. The Obligatory Flashback

As the Harley tore down the street, Zina was comforted by the cool .45 nestled against her trim waist. Ever since the last time she got out of jail, she had stopped carrying the gun all the time, just in case she got busted again, but whenever she saw her parole officer she brought it along. It was very effective to let the sweaty bastard catch a glimpse of the steel. It kept him off her back.

She pulled into the parking lot of the municipal building, where the his office was. She parked the bike and started to swagger toward the main entrance when an altercation near a white Volvo caught her attention. A grungy young man was trying to divest a yuppie-ish young woman of her ownership of said Scandinavian vehicle of marvel.

"C'mon, lady, hand over the goddamn keys. I got a gun." The dude had his back to Zina, who crept over to them, unnoticed.

The woman had a stylishly messy, Beatlesque haircut, and wore a blue rain slicker, chinos, and those very preppy LL Bean kinda shoes. Hey, is she a dyke or what? Zina thought, as she watched the woman arch an imperious eyebrow at her would-be assailant.

"I'm sorry," she replied in oily, unctuous tones, "but I'm unable to comply with your...rude request. You see, I just had my car cleaned, and I don't allow vermin inside."

"Vermin? What the hell are you talkin' about, lady? I ain't a deer!"

"Let me amend that. Stupid vermin."

The man gave a growl of rage, and as he reared back an arm to hit her, he found his limb ensnared in Zina's powerful grip.

"Hey, ya need this?" growled Zina, squeezing and twisting the arm painfully. With her other hand she pulled out the .45 and grazed it against his sweaty cheek. "I dunno if you have a gun, but I sure do, so I think you should get your sorry ass outta here right now."

Perhaps she only imagined it, perhaps it was wishful thinking, but Zina later thought that, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a rather fascinated—and pleased—look on the woman's face. Almost like she was turned on.

"Okay! Okay! Lemme go!!" he cried.

"No, no, wait a minute. First, you gotta squeal, like a pig."

"What? You outta your damn mind?"

She pressed the barrel into his cheek.

"Weeeee! Weeee! Soooo-EEEEEEE!!!"

Zina unleashed a demonic laugh. She released the sad man, this victim of her recent screening of Deliverance, and gave him a boot in the ass as he stumbled, then ran away. She was still laughing as she turned her attention to the woman who, despite the fact she wasn't blonde, was still kinda cute.

The woman examined her from head to toe, with no discernible emotion on her face except a detached yet intent curiosity. "Hmmm, I suppose I must thank you for your assistance," she murmured regretfully, as if she hated the thought of being indebted to anyone.

Zina transformed her smirk into a dazzling grin, as she decided to do the "aw shucks" routine, which usually charmed the pants off these suburban mom-potential-lesbo types. "Weren't nothin', ma'am. Glad to help."

The woman was not instantly charmed. She continued to look at Zina in that same dour, supercilious manner. "You're...interesting, for someone of your class."

"Class? I'm not in high school anymore, ma'am. But when I was, I would usually cut 'em."

"What's your name?"

"Zina."

"How intriguing. Like that strange alcoholic drink they market nowadays."

"Don't start with that." Zina dropped the cute act. She'd had enough Zima/Zina jokes to last a lifetime.

"I won't," the woman responded coolly.

Zina skulked a little. This wasn't going her way at all. "So, uh, what's your name?" she mumbled, striving for politeness.

The woman looked shocked. She smirked. "You mean you don't know who I am?" she asked, tone dripping with condescension.

Zina frowned. "No. Should I?"

"You should. For someday, the world of TV will be mine."

Zina wanted to roll her eyes. She'd heard this on a regular basis from Artie since his religion kick started.

"Tell me," the woman continued, "do you like steak au poivre?"

"Huh?"

The woman sighed. "Steak. Do you like steak?"

"Shit, lady, who doesn't?"

A business card was pulled from silver holder within the jacket. The card was handed to Zina. "Come to dinner this evening. We'll become aquainted." she nodded. "Until then." Then she was in the Volvo and driving away. Zina looked at the card. JULIE CAESAR. CHEF. CATERING. INTERIOR DECORATING. LIFE CHANGES.

The sexy felon gave a confident roll of her shoulders. "Damn, I still got the touch," she drawled to herself.

***

Usually she was reluctant to drive through the more affluent towns because she got hassled a lot by the local gendarmes. But she felt secure as she drove down a winding road in the scarily perfect village of Port Rome; she had a feeling that the business card nestled in her leather jacket would make any pig back off. This suspicion was confirmed when she pulled into the driveway of Julie Caesar's large, mock-Tudor home. She stopped the bike in front of the garage door, next to the Volvo parked there, and no sooner had she hopped off than she heard the furious barking of dogs.

Two large Dobermans rounded the corner of the house. The dogs paused and regarded her in the same supercilious manner that their owner had earlier in the day. Then, as if a light bulb went off over their collective little canine heads, they charged toward her.

Zina barely had a moment to jump, with unerring grace, on top of the Volvo. The dogs were deterred by this; they seemed reluctant to jump on the car, probably because she trained them not to, guessed the worried con. But they jumped and bounced around the vehicle unceasingly, barking, their jaws snapping. A vicious line of dog drool splattered angrily against one of her boots. Shit, I wish I brought my gun!

"Pompey! Crassus!" A woman's voice boomed from the walkway along the side of the house. Julie appeared, wearing a denim apron, frowning with disapproval at the beasts. "Heel!" she commanded.

Immediately the dogs were transformed into meek, whining creatures. They both sat down obediently, awaiting their mistress's next order.

Julie pointed toward the backyard. "Go!"

Tails between legs, the dogs galloped away.

Zina took a deep breath to calm her pounding heart. "Jesus, that's a real suburban kinda greeting."

"I'm sorry about that. They're angry that the steak I'm making is for you, not them." Julie smiled. Zina blinked. No, wait, she really smiled.

"Yeah, I guess they were just doing their job."

"They were. They don't get much excitement out here. They haven't attacked anyone in long time, poor dears." Julie sighed, and stroked her chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps I should go back to catching live rabbits for them...."

Zina's baby blues went wide with horror. "Rabbits?" Bunnies? Little fluffy bunnies? And people think I'm some bad-ass psycho?

"Yes," drawled Julie. "And once they kill them, I can make a lovely rabbit stew. Now do come inside."

"Okay." The con did not budge.

"Zina."

"Huh?"

"That means you have to get off my car. Please."

Once inside, Zina was sitting on the immaculate counter in the well-equipped kitchen, the kind she had only seen in magazines, where copper pots and pans hung from ceilings, where little chopping machines were neatly lined up like sentries, where there was a dishwasher...where everything gleamed. She fully expected her new friend to yell at her to get off the counter, but Julie merely smiled indulgently and handed her a cold bottle of beer. "Want a glass?" the hostess asked.

Zina's eyebrows furrowed. "For what?"

"Never mind."

Shrugging, Zina tried to read the label of the bottle she'd been handed. Except it was in French or something. "What the hell's this?"

"It's a pilsner."

"A what?" I thought she said it was beer.

"It's a kind of beer, my dear Zina. Try some. It's actually quite good."

"I will." She looked at Julie. "So, uh, you cook for a living?"

"Not exactly. I do many things. I cook. I entertain. I show people how to make their miserable lives worth living. I think it's useful."

Zina snorted. "Sounds like you got all the bases covered."

Julie raised a triumphant eyebrow. "I do. It's all one big marketplace when you look at it, but if you break it down, it's quite easy to conquer. Just remember, Zina: divide and conquer."

"Whatever." Zina sniffed the bottle suspiciously, and took a tiny sip. "Mmmm...not bad," she said with grudging surprise.

"I'm glad you like it. Now come into the living room."

Does she talk to everybody the way she talks to her dogs? wondered Zina as she followed Julie into the huge, rustic-looking living room. A fire blazed. The con stood and surveyed the living room with the same awe she did the kitchen. "Wow. Nice."

Julie indicated the couch next to the fireplace with a wave of her arm. "Sit."

"Uh, I'm okay standing."

"Really?" Another arching of the eyebrow.

I gotta learn to start doing that, it's kinda cool. "Yeah."

She wasn't prepared for the playful shove from the domestic dominatrix. "I said...sit." Zina landed on the couch with an oomph. Through much skill and experience, she managed not to spill the beer.

But Julie had a skill all her own. Before Zina knew it, her belt was unbuckled, then her jeans were unbuttoned, unzipped, and flying at half mast, around her knees.

Her body contracted in delight at her hostess's firm ministrations. I'm drinking beer and getting head all at once. I think I'm in heaven. If only the TV were on....Her eyes flickered to the remote sitting on the coffee table, just out of reach. She stretched out an arm in vain.

***

Gabrielle nearly choked on her fourth Pop Tart. "Ugh, Cyrene, she really told you...about the sex stuff?"

Cyrene had propped her weary head in one hand. "Yeah, honey, she did. Like, during that whole time period we both gave dysfunctional a bad name, you know? And she was so taken with Julie, so...she just couldn't help herself. I think she really dug the power trip Julie was on. She always liked chicks—and guys—like that: Powerful. So it's kinda surprising she fell for you."

Gabrielle scowled.

"No offense, honey. You know I think you're the best thing that's ever happened to her."

The poet was assuaged for the time being. "Thanks, Cyrene. But, uh, I was wondering—"

"What, Gabrielle?"

"Um. Well, Zina doesn't, you know, still tell you, uh, intimate details, does she? You know, like about her and me?"

Cyrene laughed and waved a hand. "Oh, no way, honey. We don't do that anymore."

"Heh." Gabrielle chuckled with relief. "That's good."

"I mean, she doesn't have to."

"What?" Gabrielle asked uneasily.

The older woman snorted. "Hell, honey, the fact that you have her limping and bowlegged about every week speaks volumes, doesn't it?"

Gabrielle buried her face in hands. Shit, I bet no one buys that "I hit a really bad pothole on my cycle" story....

There was a knock at the kitchen door. From the window both women could see red flashing lights. "Uh-oh," Cyrene mumbled, shoving her marijuana and all its accouterments in her purse, and making a mad dash for the upstairs. Gabrielle waited patiently for the older woman to make her getaway, then answered the door.

Zina stood scowling, arms folded, with a tall female police officer behind her, who was grinning under the penumbra of her big state trooper hat.

Gabrielle sighed. "Hi, Officer Minya."

"Hi, Gabby!" responded the cop enthusiastically. "I believe this big bundle of joy is yours." She tapped Zina’s arm with a nightstick. The firefighter snarled at her.

"Yeah," Gabrielle groaned, "it sure is. What was it this time?"

"Not drunk. Just disorderly conduct. Punched out some dude at the Saddle who said Sammy Sosa sucked."

"I’m tellin’ ya, McGwire is nothing but steroids!" roared Zina.

"Yeah, yeah, put a lid on it, smart ass. So whaddya wanna exchange for her this time, Gabby?" Two months ago, after a similar incident when Zina was accompanied home by Officer Minya, the policewoman delicately suggested that she would be willing not to let Zina sit in jail for a night if she could have something in exchange. Gabrielle had given her a chicken salad sandwich. Then another time it was left-over pizza. The poet frowned. This could not go on, she decided. Zina needed to be taught a lesson. "Okay, Minya. How about a whip?"

The cop’s eyes lit up. "Awesome!" she gurgled.

"No!" Zina wailed. "Not my whip!"

"Yes, missy, your whip!" Gabrielle cried triumphantly. "And if that don’t teach you to behave yourself and stop getting into fights, I’ll give Officer Minya your Harley next goddamned time!" With that, the poet stomped up to the bedroom, got the whip, and delivered it to Minya, who thanked her profusely and left.

Zina sulked at the kitchen table. "You just gave away my, my…pride and joy. My womanhood. My, uh…"

It always amused Gabrielle when her companion tried to get deep. "Lay off it, baby. You can always get another whip. Look, I know you’re pissed about this Julie chick, but let’s just try to think about this thing. Maybe we can get her to come around to our way of thinking." She grinned.

4. The Bimbo Bard

"I decided to be what crime made of me."—Jean Genet

"Consequences, schmonsequences. As long as I’m rich."—Daffy Duck

The usual suspects swarmed outside the studio where "Conquering with Cooking" was filmed every week. Julie eyed them with disdain: women, housewives old and young, mindlessly following her every dictate. She sighed with the burden of it all. When, she thought, will I see a fresh face, someone interesting, someone...

Her eyes fixed on someone near the end of the line. Like that. A young beauty. Strawberry blonde. Sucking a bottle of Nestle Quik through a straw. Young. Coquettish. Ah, my Lolita! thought Julie, as she surveyed the young woman, who was dressed like white trash, no doubt about it: green halter top, scandalously short shorts, little hiking boots from which gray and red tube socks peeked out mischievously. But her beauty easily defeated all those shortcomings. As her crimson lips wrapped around the straw yet again, her lovely gray-green eyes met Julie's.

With studied nonchalance Julie sauntered past the crowd, past the calls for her attention and the hands that tried to grab at her, to this nubile little goddess. "Hello," she greeted smoothly. "thank you for coming to the taping."

The girl nodded. "You're welcome."

"I don't think I've ever seen you here before."

"No, this is my first time," she replied with a charming giggle.

"Really?" Julie grew inquisitive. "Tell me why." Gently, she linked arms with the young woman and guided her away from the crowd. They turned the corner of the studio hallway, headed toward Julie's dressing room.

As soon as they cleared the crowd the woman had extracted her arm from Julie's. "I've become interested in you," she said to Julie, eyelashes fluttering like shadows of leaves against a sun-dappled window. Then she slowed to a halt and leaned against the wall, and resumed sipping her chocolate milk.

"I'm glad you've become interested in me, whatever the reason." Julie leaned with predatory possessiveness over the girl. She dragged a finger over the girl's taut abdomen, which rippled like a pond.

"You don't want to know why?" the girl asked, pouting slightly.

This should be interesting. She probably did my horoscope, and determined we were fated to meet. "Tell me."

"We have a mutual friend."

Julie raised her eyebrows: one in amusement, one in disbelief. Who could this waif possibly know among her acquaintances?

"You remember Zina, don't you?" The girl slurped at the drink again.

Julie's eyes narrowed and her spleen made a grinding noise, as if her intestines were mashing coffee beans. "Yes, I remember her very well. An exquisite lay, as I recall."

Gabrielle smirked. "Yes she is, isn't she?"

Julie sighed and straightened. "Now it all makes sense. All right, o concubine of Zina, what do you want?"

"I have a message from Zina: she wants half the profits from the mayonnaise deal, or she reveals your real name to the press."

Julie's nostrils flared. "She wouldn't dare," she rumbled.

Gabrielle smiled the smile of the triumphant. "Oh, wouldn't she, Hermoine Kaputnik?"

***

Zina's efforts at napping were futile. She lay stretched out in bed, staring at the ceiling, possessed by worrying. I never shoulda let Gabrielle go to Julie by herself. That crazy bitch probably cut her up and served her to those damn dogs…complete with a sprig of mint. Or would Gabrielle taste better with parsley? What the hell am I thinking?

She sat up expectantly when she heard the familiar death rattle of the Escort. A car door slammed. Silence. Then the front door opened, and Gabrielle's beloved bellow: "ZINA!"

"Up here," she called down to the poet. Then she heard Gabrielle galloping up the steps. And then she was there, in the doorway, grinning at her.

She melted. She always did, at that smile. Always would. Ever since I saw her across a crowded, smelly bar…and she smiled at me, without even knowing me. How the hell could I not love…that?

"I got good news and bad news," Gabrielle was saying.

"Bad first," the firefighter quickly replied.

"Okay. The bad news is that Barbecue-Salsa Mayonnaise is going under. They're discontinuing it 'cause of poor sales."

"Well, I ain't surprised," Zina snorted. "She probably didn't make it right!" Damn Julie. She musta put in too much salsa….

Gabrielle decided it was best not to go there. She continued: "But the good news is this."

She pulled a wad of cash out of the pocket of her Levi’s jacket. "Payoff. Your half of what she already made."

"How much?"

"Nine hundred." She walked over to the bed, and tossed the money, all 10s and 20s (Julie had gotten the cash from an ATM), into the air. As the bills fell and scattered like leaves, Gabrielle jumped onto her lover. They fell back on the bed in an embrace.

"Blackmailing is fun, baby. No wonder you love being bad," Gabrielle said, after a long and breathless kiss.

"Don't enjoy it too much, Gabrielle. I don't want you ending up in jail."

"I won't. I'm just kidding." The poet indulged in nibbling the firefighter's firm neck. "So can we go on vacation now?"

"Sure…with money like this, hell, we could afford a Holiday Inn."

"Hey, " she said, surveying the money-covered bed, "this is just like that movie…Indecent Proposal." She regarded Zina with lust-glazed eyes. "Which is pretty cool, stud…'cause I got a very indecent proposal for you…."

"Gabrielle, the way you walk down the street is an indecent proposal all by itself…."

"You always say the sweetest things to me!"

***

"Mom, get the fuck off the car." Zina tossed a duffelbag into the open trunk of the Impala. Cyrene was lying on the hood of the car, taking in the early morning sun and meditating…or falling asleep, depending on one's religious beliefs or lack thereof.

"Oh come on, man," the older woman grumbled, not moving.

"Let her go, Zina. She's not doing anything." Gabrielle said from the car’s interior, where she had been sitting for an hour: She was that excited. The passenger door was opened and her legs were stretched out. A curled, worn paperback copy of On the Roadlay in her lap. "Are we ready yet?" she asked her beloved for the millionth time.

Zina slammed shut the trunk. "Yeah, I think so." She walked over to the hood, where Cyrene, sun warming her face, had drifted off into half-sleep, half-sixties flashback: heeeeere comes…the Suuuuun Kiiiiiiing….But her daughter's gruff voice cut into her paisley and psychedelic subconscious: "Okay you, listen up," grunted Zina. She dropped a set of house keys on Cyrene's stomach. "Water Gabrielle's plants everyday."

"And don't forget the plant food," added the poet.

Incense and peppermint…da da da da…

"Right," continued Zina. "And make sure there's food on the back porch for the cats. And give them fresh water every day. Oh, and call the gas company about checking the meter. Cancel my fly-fishing trip with Ed. And cancel my dentist appointment too. Call Tommy Ray at the fire department and tell him that if anyone uses my ax while I'm gone, they're dead. And make sure you call Lila and tell her that Gabrielle can't babysit for her on Thursday."

Cyrene smiled beatifically.

"You got all that, Mom?"

Cyrene opened her eyes, blinking. Whether blinded by the sun or a hashish brownie, she realized that she was talking to Grace Slick, and it was 1967. But why was Grace calling her "Mom"? Oh, it was all so confusing sometimes…poor Grace, fucked up again. Just humor her, Cyrene. So she crossed her fingers for good luck. "Consider it done."

Zina stared at her dazed and confused mother. "Gabrielle, your plants are gonna die."

Cyrene sat up, and slid off the Impala. "Okay, time to get ready for the Filmore."

"Oh boy," Zina sighed, and quickly hugged her mother. "See you in a week, Mom."

Gabrielle stood up and did likewise, in addition planting a kiss on Cyrene's cheek. "Yeah, Cyrene, see ya."

Cyrene stared at Gabrielle. "And Julie Christie too?" she muttered, wandering back to the farmhouse.

"You think she'll be okay?" wondered the poet.

"Yeah, she'll sleep it off." Zina slid an arm around her lover's shoulders. "Ready?"

Gabrielle turned to face her. "Yeah. This is so awesome, baby. A road trip. Just like Kerouac and those guys." She looked at her book. "A trip into the heart of darkness. The heart of America. A voyage into self-discovery." She stuffed the book down her jeans, then took Zina's face in her hands. "I am Kerouac, and you are my Neal Cassady," she intoned solemnly. "Dig?"

The beautiful blue eyes were a tabula rasa. "Yeah."

"You don't know what the hell I'm talking about, do you?"

"No."

Gabrielle kissed her. "I love you anyway." Reluctantly she let her hands slide from Zina's face, and the firefighter walked over to the driver's side of the car.

"But you know," Gabrielle continued, "Kerouac, writing in his diary, called himself 'the buckeye bard.' I'd like to have a title like that, someday."

Zina eyed Gabrielle's tight halter top and skimpy shorts. "How about 'the bimbo bard'?"

As she sprinted away from the car, with Gabrielle close at her heels and threatening serious tickling, she thought, once again, damn, I am so whipped.

5. The Heart of Darkness

"American black hole…

Life’s too sweet to eat like candy"

—Girls Against Boys, "Black Hole"

It was like being in the Twilight Zone: Every rest stop was the same, except perhaps that this one had a Burger King, and that one had a Hardee's, and yet another one had a Sbarro's…Gabrielle fought her disgusted way out of the all-too-moist bathroom (everything seemed wet: floors, counters, toilet seats…) and into the parking lot.

Zina was leaning against the Impala, mirrored sunglasses firmly in place, growling at anyone who got too close to the car.

"Okay, let's go." Gabrielle tossed her purse in through the open window.

They both climbed into the car. The firefighter sat in front of the wheel, unmoving.

"Baby, you okay?" Gabrielle asked, touching her beloved's leg.

"Gabrielle, I want you to know…we're entering dangerous territory here."

The poet frowned. "Dangerous how?"

Zina took a deep breath. "We're in Tennessee now."

"Well, yeah, so what?"

Zina turned in her seat, and took Gabrielle's hand. "You've noticed the radio signals are getting weaker."

"Yeah…so?"

"Gabrielle, very soon…" The taciturn firefighter simply didn't know how else to put it. "Very soon we may be stuck with nothing but country music stations."

Her fair-haired companion, however, set her jaw in determination. "I thought so, Zina. I know it'll be tough, but…I think we can handle it."

6. Postcards from America: An Excerpt from Gabrielle's On-the-Road Journal

At first it was even kinda fun. We just kept making fun of the songs they played. Like on two-shot Tuesday they were playing Bonnie Tyler, and I made up lyrics to her songs: "I Need a Hero" became "I Need a Homo" and "Total Eclipse of the Heart" became "Total Eclipse of the Brain." Zina laughed and that was good. But as the day dragged on it got harder and harder.

And today was the second day without real music. If I hear another Clint Black song I'll kill someone. I hate country music for making me want to listen to Hanson again.

I'm writing this at a diner. Zina and I aren't really speaking right now, 'cause she did something really horrible. Earlier she had to make an "emergency stop" so she pulled over along some road and ran into the woods like a jackrabbit. While I sat there I decided to read a little of On the Road again and started looking for it. but I couldn't find it. It wasn't on the floor, wasn't in the back, or in the glove compartment. I was totally confused until Zina came back. By this time I was standing outside the car. As she walked toward me I noticed something sticking out of her back pocket: It was my book!

I'm not so naive as to think she really wanted something to read while doing number 2. So I said, "Why do you have my book?"

She looked nervous and just shrugged. "I dunno," she said. She is the worse liar ever.

I snatched it out of her pocket, and immediately noticed that a big chunk of the book was gone...then it dawned on me.

She didn't even have the decency to look embarrassed.

7. If You're Feeling Sinister

"So if you're feeling sinister

Go off and see a minister

He'll try in vain to take away the pain of being a hopeless unbeliever..."

—Belle and Sebastian, "If You're Feeling Sinister"

Zina parked in the furthest recesses of the lot. "I don't wanna risk the car getting scratched," she said to her sulky companion.

They were at a mall. A mall that had a Barnes & Noble. Zina knew that this was the only way she could get her girlfriend to start talking to her again: If she took Gabrielle to a bookstore and bought her a brand-spanking-new copy of On the Road.

But Gabrielle sat, arms crossed, unmoving.

"Come on, baby," Zina cajoled gently. "It'll be a nice new copy...I know the old one had your notes in it..."

Gabrielle glared at her.

"...And a love sonnet addressed to me..." the firefighter admitted guiltily.

The poet sighed melodramatically.

"Yeah, I know, I'm totally unworthy of you, but I am sorry, and I'll buy you whatever you want."

Gabrielle was out of the car and jogging toward the bookstore.

Feeling relieved, Zina locked up the Impala and sauntered toward the entrance. However, her satisfaction did not last long. A Barnes & Noble minion handed her a flyer as she entered the superstore, and normally she would not have even read it except for the photo of a certain grinning blonde psychopath: "Reverend Callie de Ash reads from her first book, I Didn't Find God But He Sure Did Find Me, today, at 3 pm."

A clock on the wall indicated that it was twenty till 3.

Zina cursed softly. Although not so softly that the underpaid lackey did not hear her say, "Son of a goddamn fucking bitch."

Quickly she paced through the maze of the monolithic store, looking for Gabrielle. She had wandered in the huge but desolate Art section when she felt a hand snag her arm and, with surprising force, pull her down. She flopped into an overstuffed chair. Why is this whole place like someone's goddamn living room, she thought irritably, as she looked up...into Callie's face. The blonde, wearing a dark brown skirt and matching suit jacket, grinned down at her. "Will wonders ever cease," she sighed. "Thank you, Lord!" she cried with a heavenward glance.

"Callie."

"Hello, precious!" Callie crooned, once again settling her eyes on her prey. The mad minister straddled Zina's lap. "It's so nice to see you again...even though the last time we met you tried to crush my foot." She caressed Zina's chiseled cheek with a finger.

"Stop it, Callie. It was an accident," replied the firefighter through gritted teeth.

"Yeah, yeah, just like burning down my house was an accident. But my time with the Lord has shown me forgiveness, and I do forgive you, Zina. Verrry much," she purred, grinding against a taut thigh.

"That's great...Callie," Zina whispered. Oh boy, if Gabrielle sees this I am in big trouble...not even all the books in the world would get me out of this jam. "Please...let me go."

"What? You're not gonna stay for my reading?"

"I, uh, Gabrielle and I are on vacation..."

Callie stopped lap dancing for a moment. "You mean...oh, of course the little tart would be along. Honestly, Zina, I don't know what you see in her. But I bet I could show you something much better..."

Even through her industrial strength Levi's, Zina could feel the heat of her desire, so much so that..."Callie?"

"Yes, my raven-haired wonder?"

"Are…you…wearing underwear?"

Callie giggled. "Panties are the devil's diapers, my pretty."

I just had to ask.

Suddenly, from the next aisle, they heard a man's voice: "Callie?"

"Oh great, it's my agent," Callie whispered. "He's coming this way." She looked at Zina. "Don't say anything, just play along." She clamped her hands to Zina's face much like one of those little monster spawn from the Alien movies. The firefighter’s head was immobile, thus, she could not turn to see his approach. "The power of Christ compels you!" Callie shouted as he rounded the corner.

"Callie, what are you doing?" demanded a male voice.

"Sweet baby Jesus, Bob, can't you see I'm in the middle of a healing?" she snapped, glaring at him. Then she turned her eyes to Zina once again. "Sister, let the Lord take away your torment and pain—I cast thee out, demons! Beelzebub! Mephistopheles! You are no match for me!"

"So, like, what's wrong with her?" Bob interrupted again.

"Brain tumor."

"Oh." Bob sounded disappointed, perhaps expecting something more exciting, like paralysis or leprosy.

Zina grew desperate. Callie's sweaty palms were suctioned to her head, and she had to find Gabrielle and get the hell out of this crazy place. "I feel it, I feel it!" she shouted.

"You do?" cried Callie, wrapped up in make-believe.

"Yes, I do, Callie! Praise God! I AM HEALED!" By sheer force of will, she catapulted herself out of the chair and Callie tumbled to the floor, legs up in the air, skirt revealing her valley of heaven.

"Oh wow..." Bob murmured appreciatively, as Zina galloped away.

She sprinted down to the first floor of the store, and spotted Gabrielle sitting, with a bag of books, slurping some fine overpriced coffee drink from the espresso bar. She smiled at Zina's rapid approach. "Hi, I just got done, and you know, these flappacinos aren't half bad..."

Zina snatched the large bag of books, grabbed Gabrielle's hand, and pulled her toward the door.

"Baby, I know you hate shopping, but don't you think this is kinda extreme?"

"Not now, Gabrielle, I tell you once we get to the car."

"Zina, what's that wet stain on your leg?"

8. Chuck Connors, Here We Come

The highway was endless. The driver was edgy.

"Zina, relax. We only got two more exits to go."

The firefighter sighed heavily. They were already doing 70, but it felt like 40. With the tiniest contraction of her foot, the speedometer approached 75. It made her feel better. Until she looked in the rear-view mirror, and saw the flashing red lights. "Shit!" she yelled.

Gabrielle looked up from her copy of The Dharma Bums. "Huh?" She turned around. "Uh-oh. Well what do you expect, Zina? You're speeding."

"Goddamnit, if they find out I have a record, I'll get hassled to no end..."

"Don't worry, honey, they won't," Gabrielle assured her as they pulled over.

Zina pounded her head against the steering wheel. "How do you know?" she wailed uncharacteristically, as the large patrolman lumbered toward the Impala. I swore I would never go back to jail….This would be just like one of those old Chuck Connors movies, Escape from Macon County or whatever. They'll lock her up on trumped-up charges, she'll get raped by the inbred deputy, Gabrielle will get sent to the mental institution and they’ll give her a lobotomy and/or electro-shock therapy, and…and…they’ll trash the Impala!

The state trooper's pink face was framed in the driver's side window. "Y'all speeding," he mumbled, eyes unseen behind the mirrored sunglasses.

Zina's own sunglasses mirrored his own mirrored visage. Her jaw clenched.

"Can ah see your license?"

She dug through her Levi's and produced her license.

"Huh," he snorted softly.

Gabrielle scooted closer to her lover. A little too close, Zina thought. Oh shit...what is she up to?

"Where you going in such a hurry, ma'am?" the officer asked.

"Just visiting friends," muttered Zina.

"And whut friends would those be, ma'am?"

"Is there a problem, officer?" Gabrielle drawled. She leaned forward a little, so that he could hear her clearly and see her cleavage. She wiggled provocatively.

"Not yet, miss." Hey, how come I get called ma'am and she gets called miss? wondered the perpetually pissed-off firefighter. "I'm just tryin’ to ascertain here, what the situation is," he said in ominous doublespeak.

"Aw, officer, we ain't doing nothing wrong, we didn't mean to speed," Gabrielle pouted. Oh, I get it. She’s just flirting with him, so he’ll go easy on us. Lessen the fine. "We can't help it. We're just excited."

"Excited by what, may I ask?"

Suddenly Gabrielle flung her arms around Zina's neck, and pressed her curvaceous form close to her beloved. "Why officer, me and sweet pea are gettin' married in Memphis!"

The closeness of her sunglasses prevented Zina's eyes from totally bugging out of her head. Okay, now I have no idea what she’s doing. Chuck Connors, here we come.

The patrolman sputtered. "Whut in Sam Hill you talkin' about? You're both girls! You—you—can’t get married!"

Gabrielle gave her best wide-eyed innocent look. "But officer, didn't you know? Tennessee now allows same-sex marriages!" she nuzzled Zina's hair. "Isn't that right, sugar booger?"

"Uh...huh," Zina mumbled the reply, wondering if there was some quick way she could simply kill the patrolman and be done with it.

"Aw, come on now, lady!"

"No, it’s true! Don’t you read your newspaper?" Gabrielle chastised.

He frowned. No, just the sports page, he admitted.

"See?"

"I'll be damned! This whole country's goin' to hell in a handbasket, I swear!" the trooper spat.

I know...whip off his glasses and stab him in the neck, just like the one guy did to the other in the Godfather Part III. Zina allowed her hand to stray out the window…

"Now, sir, that's no way to speak to a lady on her weddin' day!" Gabrielle pouted anew.

The power of the pout was one of the poet's greatest weapons. Duly chastised, the trooper apologized. "Look miss, no offense, but...I just don't get it."

"Don't get what?" Gabrielle asked.

He threw his arms up in frustration. "Y'all are both girls!"

Finally, Zina spoke. "Look, buddy," she said to him, arms around the flawless midriff of Gabrielle, "let me put it this way. If you were me, wouldn't you want to marry her too?"

"I...I..." he stammered, hypnotized by the green eyes of the beautiful poet. "Never mind. Just fergit it. Just fergit the whole damn thing. Have a nice honeymoon."

"Thanks, officer!" Gabrielle chirped happily. She lurched into the back seat, and brought forth a bag of Krispy Kremes. "Wanna doughnut?"

Well, he thought, warily accepting a powdered jelly doughnut, maybe homos aren’t so bad after all.

9. The Twinkie Defense

Several hours later, the Impala was creeping along a dirt road in scenic, rural Tennessee, in search of the elusive recording studio where Effie and the Amazons were holed up, recording their second CD.

The radio had been abandoned. Zina was so desperate for half-decent music that she permitted Gabrielle to sing every song she knew from Meatloaf’s "Bat Out of Hell" album. The musically challenged poet was currently winding her way through "Paradise By the Dashboard Light": "I gotta know right now, do you love me, will you love me forever—hey, Zina, doesn’t that guy up there look like Elvis?" Off in the distance was a figure standing on the left side of the road.

"Told you not to eat all those doughnuts, Gabrielle."

"No, look!"

Sure enough, standing innocently at the side of the isolated, back-country road, as if he were nothing more exotic than a sparrow, was an Elvis. He resembled 1970s Elvis: chubby, with the spingle-spangle-shiny white suit, lots of jewelry, an unnaturally jet-black pompadour, and big fat shades.

The Impala rolled to a halt beside him.

"Howyoudoin’, ladies," he murmured, index finger and thumb cocked, like a gun.

"Fine, Elvis, how are you?" Gabrielle responded politely.

Zina gave her a Look. Then she addressed Elvis. "Hey, uh, you wouldn’t happen to know where Jimmy Joe Bob Hightower’s studio is?" Jimmy Joe Bob was the Amazons’ producer.

"Youbetcha, ladies. Down this here road just another mile. First turn on the right. Can’t miss it."

"Thanks," Zina said with a nod.

"No, thankyou. Thankyouverymuch." With one fluid motion he flung the white scarf around his neck through the car window, where it landed on Zina’s lap. The firefighter bit the inside of her cheek in an effort not to scream in pure disgust. She let it slide off her legs, onto the floor.

"Bye, Elvis!" Gabrielle waved.

Zina put the car back into drive and they continued down the road. They were quiet for at least a minute.

"Maybe we’ve both had too much sugar," Zina conceded.

"Yeah. Maybe we should lay off the sweet stuff for awhile and just eat potato chips."

***

The sight of Effie waving frantically from the balcony of the large wood house almost sent both women into tears of relief. Zina allowed herself to collapse over the wheel—after the car was stopped and parked, of course.

Then the squealing began. Effie had sprinted down the stairs and ran outside to greet Gabrielle, who jumped out of the passenger side. Soon they were jumping up and down like rabbits on crack, shrieking with joy at the sight of one another. Pony and Sally had wandered outside as well, and contributed to the cacophony of camaraderie.

Zina, eyes closed, head pressed against the steering wheel, weary from driving 8 hours straight, moaned. And this is a goddamn vacation? She tried to block out the jabber of voices and relax for a moment.

She had almost succeeded, when a voice a scant three inches from her eardrum shouted: "HEY YOU DAMN OLD GOOFY-ASSED MOTHER!"

Her head snapped back and her eyes popped open.

Hank was leaning in the window, grinning at her. "Heh, got ya," he chuckled. He pulled away just in time to avoid the furious swipe of her hand. "Hey now, Z, take it easy." She was out of the Impala in a nanosecond. "Car looks great. How’d it drive?" he asked, trying to change the subject. But he knew, seeing the wicked grin on her face, that it was too late.

"Start running, you sonofabitch," she growled pleasantly.

And, with a whoop of joy, he did.

10. The Best Freaky Trip Ever

Sally placed a hamburger in front of Zina, who sat at the picnic table in the backyard. The friends were having a barbecue. Pony and Hank were at the grill, and Sally was serving while Effie made potato salad in the kitchen. "So, did ya see my uncle Pete out there?"

"Huh?" Zina was sufficiently distracted by the question that it afforded Gabrielle the opportunity to swipe the burger from under her lover’s nose. "Hey, you pig!"

"Is that any way to talk to the love of your life?" Gabrielle sniffled with mock tears.

"Yeah, when she eats all my food."

Gabrielle grinned. "So what’s this about Uncle Pete?"

"Did you happen to see Elvis on your way here?"

"Holy shit! Yes!" cried Gabrielle.

Sally smiled proudly. "Well, that was my Uncle Pete. Best Elvis impersonator this side a’ this Mississippi. I sent him out earlier to look for you guys, in case you got lost."

"Wow, it’s nice to know I wasn’t hallucinating," Zina said, who had earlier wondered if, due to her mother’s drug proclivities, she was genetically predisposed to spontaneous freaky trips.

"No, you weren’t," Sally laughed. "I just had to keep him occupied. He’s been driving us crazy, keeps doing his lounge act for us every night, wants to marry us all—"

"Marry?" blurted Gabrielle.

"Yeah, he’s a minister too. He wanted to get Hank and Effie hitched, then he even said he marry me and Pony." Sally rolled her eyes.

"Crazy dude," affirmed Zina, with a swig of beer; bored, she wandered over to the grill to hassle Hank and Pony. It was then that Sally noticed that Gabrielle looked as if she had been hit by a lightning bolt.

***

Zina was firmly pinned to the bed by Gabrielle’s weight. Her wrists were ensnared by the poet’s hands and pressed into the mattress. Gold hair tumbled in her face, and Gabrielle’s scent was sweet, intoxicating…

"Come on, Zina," purred the poet.

"Hmmm?"

"Make an honest woman out of me."

"You’re already an honest woman, Gabrielle."

"Don’t avoid the question."

"Who’s avoiding?"

"You are, bitch."

"It don’t prove anything. It’s not legal."

"I know, I know. But it’s symbolic, ya know? Like showing your love…"

"I love you."

"Prove it."

"Why do I have to?" A challenging arch of a black eyebrow. "Don’t ya believe me?"

Gabrielle paused. Well, that’s a good point. She touched her lover’s face. Oh, I do believe you. And I don’t need to hear a Celine Dion song to know it either. She smiled. Then she nodded slowly. She relaxed her predatory crouch and stretched along the length of Zina’s body, resting her head against a strong shoulder. So, it doesn’t really matter. But…what the hell? It might be fun.

***

Hank wrapped an empty can of Bud in one of Elvis’s disposable white scarves, placed it on the ground, and jumped on it. Up and down. Several times. "Mazeltov!" he roared.

Effie laughed. "You’re not Jewish, you!"

Hank smiled. "Come on, honey, you gotta get in the spirit of the thing."

She grabbed his arm and squeezed it. "I think…there’s been way too much spirit—or spirits—already, Hank," she commented wryly, surveying the twilight backyard.

The tape deck blared as Sally and Pony danced around, and Elvis—a.k.a. Uncle Pete—approached the newlyweds: Gabrielle sat in Zina’s lap, while the firefighter’s head lolled back on the lounge chair, as the two six-packs she drank before the ceremony were really kicking in and seriously impairing her ability to move.

"Congratulations," said Uncle Pete. "I’m sure y’all will be very happy."

"Thank you, Elvis," replied Gabrielle solemnly. "It was a beautiful ceremony."

"Yes ma’am, it was. The weather was perfect, and, you know, I don’t perform that special love medley for just any couple."

"Oh, I know, I know. It was just…great. I’m sorry Zina fell down during it."

"That’s all right, little lady. Y’all take care, now." And he went back into the house.

A pithy one-liner fought its way through twelve Rolling Rocks to Zina’s conscious mind. "Ladies and gentleman, Elvis has left the backyard!" she slurred. She peered at Gabrielle. Who had flowers in her hair. "Did I tell you how pretty you are?"

"About a million times. But keep telling me."

"And I said ‘I love you’ and ‘I do’ and all that stuff?"

"Yeah, Zina."

"So I got it all right?"

"You sure did, baby. Now I’d like you to sober up a bit so our wedding night is not a total bust."

"So we’re…married?" Zina gazed at Gabrielle in pure wonder.

"Yeah. Kinda."

"But not…really." Trying to wrap her drunken mind along the elusive concept was too much.

"Right."

"So we’re both married and not married."

"Gotta love this country, huh?"

"Yeah, but…Gabrielle?"

"Huh?"

"It’s not so bad, is it?"

Gabrielle looked around her. Her friends were happy, and their laughter rang out through the yard. The setting sun slanted and tinged the fading blue sky with gold.

Blue skies, blue eyes. "No," she replied softly. "It’s not bad at all."

In fact, it was pretty damn good.

THE END

[songsofbloodandfire]

Fettered

(Story from my alt, Kasen D’sol. Some general warnings about adult content, triggers and the like.)

Insults still rung in her ears even after she’d silenced the voice that had actually spoken them. A mimicry of them danced in her mind, parroting those cruel words over and over until the voice was no long the mans, but some monstrosity of her own voice and his. Kasen hated that in the end it was her own mind that betrayed her the worst. It should have ended with him. The torment, the names...the violation. Instead it just played over and over again, pulling a sob from her as she struggled against those inner demons.

For all his physical beauty, Casidus had been an ugly soul on the inside. Kasen had been thrilled when he’d started paying attention to her at first. She was uncertain in her femininity, still exploring what it meant to be a woman, how to dress herself so that she, at least outwardly, looked like the woman she longed to be. At least, that was until he decided to turn against her, to use her uncertainty and fear of being discovered against her.

She’d been born male, though it hadn’t taken long for her as a child to figure out that wasn’t right. That what she felt on the inside wasn’t what her body was and it had caused strife with her parents, more so her mother. She’d fled to Ul’dah to be someone new, to try and find some way to change herself enough that looking in the mirror wasn’t almost painful at times with her mind rebelling against the idea. She’d heard rumors and tales of alchemists who could work wonders, but that required money and as a novice within the Gladiators guild, even putting herself down in the ring to fight, there wasn’t much money to be had.

The Twelve at least had been kind to her in that even with maturity she had still been rather androgynous or even pretty for a roegadyn man and on the slender side despite being tall. Of course, slender for one of her kin still meant a mountain of muscle and indeed she was a bit muscular for a woman, not that she minded. Once she’d started to dress as a woman and had begun to learn how to use subtle makeup to soften her features along with how she wore her hair, it had begun to be easier and easier to pass at the very least.

That hadn’t changed, however, what was under her clothes. Her body, no matter how she dressed it, was male and that had been so painfully evident when Casidus had, in a night of drunken fervor, gotten her disrobed. They had been flirting for some time before that. Nothing overt, but the interest had been mutual, but she’d been afraid to act beyond just flirting, afraid to let him get to close and risk the condemnation she knew would be coming. In truth, she didn’t even remember drinking all that much but she assumed she had since her memory of the night was spotty as best, what she did remember distorted and terrifying to the point that she avoided trying to think too hard on it.

She had protested but eventually she’d just let him do what he wanted. It wasn’t out of want to, though her body had definitely been interested but she had wanted to make sure that Casidus would be okay with what she was before they’d gotten to this point. Intoxication, from what she remembered, had made words slow to come and her body feel heavy and leaden, more so that she’d ever felt while drunk.

A freak. Those two words had been a slap to the face, pulling her attention to him in sheer terror even as her body refused to fight back properly and her mind struggled to comprehend everything. Even the pain of his hand coming across her cheek hard enough to bruise it hadn’t been enough to let her sober enough to fight as he continued to push, continued to take advantage and take what he wanted. She’d ended that broken hearted, bruised and terrified that he held leverage over her.

And it was leverage he’d used against her. Months of being held captive by the constant threat that he would expose her to her peers. That he would sabotage any work she tried to take. He’d used to it use her body, to force her to let him win when they were matched against each other in the pit. She had lost other fights, ones he had bet on, so that he could collect the money against her. Constantly humiliated and tormented by him, she’d been trapped.

She knew he’d been pulling strings to keep them out of the pit together as much as possible. Despite her letting him take wins, she was better than him. Maybe not as a fast, but stronger and able to take more abuse before she started to waver. Calculated and ruthless, she knew most were afraid to face her and were boggled when she lost the fights that she clearly shouldn’t have. Most assumed it was the nerves of performing for a crowd and simply suggested a different arena for her skills.

It had surprised her when she’d found herself face to face with Casidus in the ring. It’d been a particularly harsh day between them, her body bearing sickly purple bruises from the abuse he had rained on her the night before. She’d been able to blame them off on a spar, but it didn’t make it any easier when she was asked about from anyone who saw them with concern. Each time she was asked was like a slap in the face, a constant reminder of the pain she faced each time he’d deemed it needed to torment her.

“You will lose or I will make tonight worse than last night.” He’d growled when they’d come close to each other in an exchange of parrys. “I own you. Remember that.” Her mind had balked at that as it always did. Even if she was cowed into doing what he wanted, she still saw herself as well above being anyone's property, let alone his. She did what he wanted because he forced her to with leverage, not because she wanted. If she was going to submit, she wanted it to be her choice, not the will of anyone else.

The clash of sword and shield filled her ears. A few times he got sloppy, leaving openings that could have proven fatal and she didn’t go after them. Was afraid to. He could ruin everything, destroy everything that she had worked so far for. At the same time, she was furious at him for what he’d done. For breaking her down, stealing so much from her and leaving her broken in the end, or at the very least trying to keep the fractured pieces of herself together enough to ensure that she wouldn’t shatter sudden.

An opening came up. A sloppy choice that left his neck open instead of hidden behind his shield. The minimal armor they wore did nothing to protect that vital part of the body. A well timed strike with even force and she might be able to do enough damage to ensure he would die before the he could be rescued by the healers on staff. A gladiator dying in the ring wasn’t unheard of.

A feint pulled his attention, kept him further open to her before she struck at that opening without another thought. Anger had made her strike much stronger that what she’d intended, feeling her blade strike against bone and then between as they gave way to the amount of strength she’d poured into the strike. She had never bothered to use her full strength for most of her strikes, knowing she had to pull most in her pit matches to keep it focused more on the show than attempting to actually kill her opponents but with Casidus, she had wanted him dead.

He dropped instantly the moment her blade was free of his body, dead before he even hit the dirt. Silence had hung over the arena, those watching in the stands having not expected such a strike from her. Even the handlers, guards and healers off to the sides were silent with disbelief. And then a roar rang out through the crowd, the spectators cheering over the rush of watching bloodsport.

She hadn’t even stayed in the pit for the announcement of her win. She’d move on to the next days fights with the other victors of the day. Right then, she needed out. Need air. Needed to be alone.

Revenge had been taken, but not intentionally and while Casidus had been silenced, his words his her mind hadn’t. She’d defeated the source of her demons, but the demons themselves and the wounds that came with them still very much existed within her. She’d never let another bring her to heel like that, she’d never allow herself to be forced to submit, to give up what was hers and she’d never let anyone get that close to her. Easier to stay her distance. To not get emotionally involved so that she couldn’t be manipulated in the way that Casidus had.

Even as she made those promises to herself, she knew they weren’t the way to deal with what she’d been through. What she’d freed herself from, but it was easier that way. Easier imagine herself ignoring and just muscling through the pain of the trauma she’d been through rather than accepting it. By avoiding everything and focusing on making herself better and stronger, harder to take down, she couldn’t be hurt again. She was a fool and that sick mixture of her voice and Casidus’ told her that, but she ignored it. It was just better that way.

[empressofrizalia]

Mahou Sensei MSPA-tan! Chapter 2: The Kids of Class 413

[Cross posted on AO3.  Also, an important note:  Alterra Academy standard uniforms are in the popular preppy style most private schools on Earth have. Tops consist of a long sleeve white button-down shirt and a black blazer with the school logo on the left chest side. Troll students have their signs parallel to the logo on the other side. Ties come in candy red for human students while troll students have theirs in whatever blood color they have. Bottoms are either deep grey skirts for girls, or trousers for boys. Socks must be either white or black with tasteful leather shoes. Dress code rules may not be as strict as they are in other academies, but there will be consequences if the uniform gets so modified that it stops being recognizable.]

You twist the knob and push the door open.  The sounds of babbling and activity die out in an instant at the sounds of squeaking door hinges take over.  You make a careful step past the threshold, unaware of the forty pairs of eyes staring at you or the mischievous giggles directed at you.

As you open the door a little wider to allow the rest of your body to go further, you hear a faint clatter from above that jolts you on alert.  The giggles stop and the kids’ amused expressions turn into surprise.  You look up to see a chalkboard eraser hovering just a couple of inches away from your head.  Ah, the classic chalk duster trap—the ever popular age-old school prank that no one seems to tire of.  You fondly regard it as you remember your SUIT days until you realize that the eraser was still suspended in the air above you.  You tilt your head slightly just enough to see the bewildered faces of your students staring.  Crapbaskets! You must have used majyyk to keep it from landing on you without realizing it.  This doesn’t look good.  The most fundamental rule of majyyk was that it was forbidden to reveal it in the presence of anyone who isn’t another mage.

You pull the majyyk back and let the eraser fall.  However, you were so concentrated on it that you made a momentary oversight of keeping your gaze up on it.  As a result, the dusty board writing correction implement lands square on your face and bouncing off to the floor, chalk dust landing delicately on the surface of your wide open eyeballs.

Holy shit! It stings!!

Your hear a loud chorus of laughter as your hands went to your face on reflex to try and get rid of the dust.  “My goodness!” You hear Ms. Maryam’s voice through the din.

You manage to wipe most of the chalk dust from your face and make a tentative step forward and trip over an invisible wire.  The next thing you know, something falls onto your head with a loud clang and you’re sent tumbling across the floor.  Stopping only after hitting the teacher’s desk at the center of the class front.  The laughter grows louder.  This must be what Ms. Maryam meant when she told you to be careful.  You haven’t even done anything, yet here you are on the floor with some metallic object obscuring your head and face filthy with chalk dust.  You must be quite a sight right now.  How utterly humiliating.  You try your best to blink away your tears; you can’t afford to show any kind of weakness, not in front of your students.

A moment later, the metallic object gets lifted off your head.  You look up expecting to see Ms. Maryam, but it was someone else instead.

“Are you alright?” A troll girl with a jade colored streak in her long silky black hair asks you with a genuine concern on her face.  She kind of reminds you of a mom.  “Oh, you’re just a wriggler.”

You hear more laughing, though this time the rest of the class didn’t join.  Strange enough, one of the jokers’ laughter sounded a lot like a series of LOLs—like the internet slang.

Your savior turns to the source of the laughter with righteous anger burning in her eyes on your behalf.  “Seriously, Kuprum? Folykl? Of all the pranks you two could come up with—a bucket? In class? Really?!”

“Lololol!” A troll boy with four jagged horns and a pair of fuschia goggles strapped over his strange yellow and purple eyes laughs.  “Like how were we supposed to know it ain’t some other shitty adult coming in?” His wide smile shows off a set of saw-like teeth.

“Yeah…” says a troll girl with long greasy terribly unkempt hair and two pairs of horns like Kuprum, only hers jag outward instead of inward like his.  She’s sitting awfully close to him.  “What’s done. . . is done. . .”  Her voice sounds ragged.  Not the tired kind of ragged, but rather the weak and sick kind of ragged.  “Don’t… get your. . . undies. . . in a twist, Bronya. . .  That was. . . funny… as hell. . .”

Your savior, now known as Bronya, started to full on berate the prankster duo.  While she got busy, another troll kid, a boy wearing a pair of sunglasses and horns like deer antlers, goes to help you get back on your feet.

“Sorry about that,” he says in a cool rather aloof manner.  “A lot of these asshats don’t really have anything better to do with their time.”

“Shut up, Dammek! You were in on it a lot of the time!” says a heavyset troll girl sitting next to a long-haired boy with three pointy horns and a mustard yellow coat in lieu of the school blazer.  Her figure is impressively muscular, so much that the sleeves that were supposed to conceal her big buff arms were nonexistent; most likely torn off.  “This whole schoolfeeder pranking was your idea to begin with!”

“Anyway…”  Dammek ignores her.  “Think of it as a rite of passage. Of course, none of the schoolfeeders last very long once we’re done with them.  Not even the troll adults could handle us.”  He says it like it’s some kind of proud accomplishment.

“The trolls here are a bunch of weaklings, including the highbloods,” a girl with curvy notched horns and three eyes agrees while inspecting her nails.  “It’s shameful, really.  They wouldn’t last one second if this was Alternia.”

“They’d be taken to the culling fields for a little R and R, lol,” says Kuprum.  Rest and relaxation? That doesn’t sound so bad.

“Rampage and rending,” he clarifies.  You stand corrected.

“Especially that weirdo with the nubby horns and his lame ass talk about equality and shit.”  A few other trolls in the class turn to give him the stink eye.  “Lololol! So fucking longwinded about it, too.  Like, he never shuts up once he got going.  He’s as bad as Galekh, but preachier.”  A boy with short curly hair, glasses, and Christmas tree-shaped horns scowled and opened his mouth to object, only to be held back by a tired-looking girl with a mug.  “Lol! He’s so full of bullshit, I can’t even—Hrk!”

Kuprum gets cut off abruptly and you see Dammek had taken a tight hold of his uniform necktie and began to choke him with it. You stand around in shock.  Dammek had gone from your side to choking his classmate in a blink of an eye.

“Take that back, you asshole,” he says, voice dangerously low.  But Kuprum was too busy trying not to die to make a proper reply.  Next to him, Folykl is trying to separate the two boys as she cussed out at Dammek, but failing due to her measly strength.  Another troll with a pair of simple curved horns grabs hold of Dammek from behind to pull him away.  No one else tries to get between them.  Some seem content, amused even, at watching them try to go for each other’s throat.  Others just preferred not to get involved.  Bronya has long since retreated to the side.  The look on her face tells you that she wants to stop them, but unsure at how to approach.

This is definitely not how you imagined your first class was going to go.  You have to stop them.  As the teacher, it’s one of your duties to stop your students from killing each other.  You take a step and reach out to try and mediate between the two aggressive young trolls.

“Wrigglers, please! This is not the time for fighting!” Ms. Maryam’s cry beats you to the punch.  The class grows silent and still at the sight of the adult jadeblood standing in front of the class.  She sighed and rubs her temples, trying to soothe away a growing headache.  “Please return to your seats at once.  Honestly, this is not the way to greet your new schoolfeeder.”

The class lets out a collective “Huh?” then started looking back and forth between her and you.

“So, um…” A girl with wide horns reaching horns that looked like a cow’s and a twig in her mouth raises a hand.  “Ms. Maryam, does this mean ya’ll be schoolfeedin’ us from now on?”

“Oh, no,” Ms. Maryam replies.  “I’m only here as an escort.  Your real schoolfeeder is right here.”

All eyes follow as the only adult in the room gestures to the only human.  When you realize all the attention has shifted towards you, you bat away the remaining chalk dust that clung to your hair and clothes before flashing them a friendly smile and wave.  Some of the kids grimace at the sight of your filthy face.

Ms. Maryam smiles at you.  “Please introduce yourself to the class.”  You nod and take your place at the front and center.  You tell them your full name and that from today onwards, you’ll be teaching at this school.  You’ll be only here for three terms, but it’s nice to meet everyone.

There was a pregnant pause as they all just stared at you after you finished your introductions.  All the while you notice that the classroom had a tier-style seating similar to that of an auditorium or a lecture hall where the seats start off from the ground and go higher like a set of stairs.  You silently counted five tier rows, split at the middle by a narrow set of actual stairs with two more additional sets at either side for ease of access.  Each row comfortably accommodates four troll kids each.

Oh, man.  Just look at all those obvious dress code violations.  They’re not even trying to be subtle about it.  Or maybe they just don’t care.

You consider maybe handing out demerits or detention slips for violating the school standard dress code, but scrap that plan quickly.  Doing so wouldn’t endear you much to your students especially since your botched first impression.  Ms. Maryam stands a little bit behind you, ready to intervene in case things start going south.

“Hmm hmm…”  You hear a faint titter.  “Hmhmhmhmhmhmmhmmhwahahahahaah!!” The tittering grew louder until it turned into a full blown laugh.

“Oh how funny this is.  How very droll,” said a three-eyed girl in mirthful mockery.  “That human is going to be schoolfeeding us?”

“The other human schoolfeeders barely lasted longer than the adult troll schoolfeeders did,” says the boy with the flashlight horns, one arm on the desk, the other supporting his chin in a daydreaming pose.  “It’s kinda sad, really.  I would have loved to get to know them a little better.  Humans are so fascinating and exotic.”  He gives you another flirty wink while he gets weird looks from all adjacent classmates.  You nearly blanch.

“Hey! How old are you? You don’t look as old as the other schoolfeeders,” asks a shorter troll boy whose fluffy hair obscured his eyes and seems to be holding a hotdog sandwich.  Doesn’t this little guy know that eating in class is a no-no?

You answer his question anyway, being mindful to give your age both in years and sweeps.  And to make up for your lousy entrance, you also mentioned your university level knowledge in your subject.  Nothing like a little bragging ought to nurse your bruised ego, and maybe to make you look a little less lame than usual.

“So you’re in a similar age as us and are officially qualified to professionally teach a class,” a boy with product-infused hair swooping over one side of his face says as he examined you with a scrutinizing gaze from his seat.  “I must say, that’s rather impressive, even on Alternia.  Though it’s also pretty obvious that the higher-ups of this schoolfeeding facility are getting desperate and running out of ideas.”

“Kinda makes you wonder if this is all for real,” says a girl with hooked horns and dyed blue hair with an undercut, leaning back on her seat with her boot-clad feet on the desk.

“I assure you that Mx. Reader’s credentials are all valid,” says Ms. Maryam.  “Remember, they may be the same age as you, but you must treat them with proper respect as an authority figure, understand?” The class answered her with a chorus of varying but unenthusiastic agreement.

“Alright, now that you’re acquainted, I believe it’s time for class.”  The adult jade troll turned to you.  “You can take it from here, Mx. Reader.”  Oh, okay…  She turns and exits the room.  Great, now you’re all alone and at the mercy of forty unpredictable alien kids.

You nervously make your way behind the teacher’s desk and set and open textbook upon it. You put on your best professional face.  You will not be laughed at again; you’ve got to take this seriously.  You tell the class to turn to a specific page of their textbooks and go up to the chalkboard to write something.  However, it seems that there has been a bit of an oversight on your part.

You’re too short to reach the top of the board.

Your blush as you hear giggles from behind.  You don’t blame them—standing on your tiptoes and stretching your arm up in a useless effort must look really funny.  But then, out of nowhere, you feel your stomach clench and your feet leave the ground.  You go up and up until you make it to the appropriate height you had been aiming for.  This isn’t your doing at all.  You’d know if you used majyyk to float, but in the few seconds of that moment, it felt like you just stepped into a strong breeze.

You turn your head slightly and take a glance back at the class.  You notice flashes of cyan and blue coming from the troll boy with the coat, which turned out to be coming from his eyes.  He’s holding up one hand and you could see his fingertips emit similar colored sparks.  You realize that this must be the work of psionics.  You’ve learned that some trolls, particularly the ones in the burgundy and gold caste, have powerful psychic powers.  Now that you think about it, maybe you’re not the only peculiar one in this school after all.

He notices you looking at him and he gives you a thumbs up with his other hand while smiling.  You thank him silently and move on with the lesson.  Your heart feels lighter at how easy things are going.  The troll kids are nice to you so far.  Maybe it has something to do with your age like Ms. Maryam said.

However, as with all good things, your revelry comes to an end when pain strikes the back of your head and you start to fall.  You cry out, but quickly catch yourself with a quick floatation spell and make a soft landing back on the floor.  You look around and back to the class and at the goldblood kid who catches your gaze and shakes his head in adamant denial.  By the looks of it, he is just as surprised as you are and it broke his concentration on you which caused your fall.  You turn back around to the board, deciding it was for the best to just keep going like nothing happened. . . until it happens again… twice.

You’re hit with such force that your forehead slams on the chalkboard.  The giggles resumed.  You step away, rubbing your aching forehead.

“Is there something wrong, teacher?” You hear Bronya ask.  You tell her that there are things that keep flying at you.  She immediately casts an admonishing look at Kuprum and Folykl, who quickly catch on.

“Don’t… look at us…” says Folykl.

“We already did our share of pranks,” Kuprum follows.

Bronya turns away, begrudgingly deeming them honest.  She then leans forward on her seat to look at someone at the far end of her row.  “Cirava, did you use your psionics against the schoolfeeder?”

Yet another goldblood troll looks her way with a half-lidded neon green eye at the mention of her name.  They had short messy hair that stuck out at different directions.  Like the other goldbloods, they had four horns—two of which go straight up and curve a little outward near the top and ended in two pointy prongs.  A triangular eyepatch hides and injury in their other eye if the prominent gold veins on that side of their face are to be referenced.

They speak in a relaxed almost sleepy tone.  “Nah, my dude.  My psionics haven’t worked right since I took out my eye.”  You look at them, utterly mortified.  How and why would anyone mutilate themselves like that was beyond you.

“I see,” Bronya says in understanding.  She then turns around to ask the last remaining psionic kid.  The short stocky one sitting next to her wasn’t one despite being also goldblooded, guess not all of them can have super cool powers.  “Well, Azdaja?”

Azdaja began shaking his head once more.  “I didn’t do it.  I was helping, remember?”

Bronya furrowed her brow.  “Then who did?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Hey! Leave him alone,” the buff-bodied girl next to him shouted.  “Daja didn’t do shit wrong! Calm your rumble spheres, fussyfangs!” Bronya turned away with a huff.

“It’s probably Dammek,” said the girl with the dyed hair.  “He’s sorta paranoid so he tends to go around testing people.”  Dammek glared her way, upset at being downright outed.  “He’s was mostly the reason we had gone through several schoolfeeders befo—Ack!” An unknown projectile hits the side of her head and makes her flinch.  She glares back at him, baring her sharp teeth.

“You wanna go, Elwurd?” he asks.

You start to get nervous.  You’re really not keen on having another fight in your class.  And Ms. Maryam isn’t around this time to help you out.

Ding… dong… dong… ding…

Whew! Saved by the bell.  Thank gog.  You’re not sure how you would have done should things got out of hand.

You check your watch for the time.  It’s high noon, which means it’s lunchtime! The kids get up from their seats and start heading for the door as you gather your things from the teacher’s desk.

You notice something on the floor next to your foot.  You bend down and pick it up out of curiosity and look at it closely.  It was white with brushes of gray and felt rubbery to the touch. It’s an eraser, or a chunk of an eraser broken off from a larger whole.  You think back to several minutes ago, put two and two together and grimace.  This tiny thing almost gave you a concussion.

“Hello there~” You hear a suave voice coming from nearby.  You turn and see one the flashlight-horned troll boy standing in front of you.  You wonder if he needs something.

“I can’t help but realize that you might be all alone during this midday meal hour,” he said, sidling up to you and getting a little too close for comfort.  “Have you been given a tour of our fine schoolfeeding facility yet? If not, then I’m more than happy to volunteer.  I’ve been around for a while and I know every hidden cranny.  I can show them to you if you want, and perhaps get to know each other while we’re at it?” Oh gog, this is just like your Japanese animes—except it’s real and not as romantically exciting as you thought it would be!

“Move aside, Troll Romeo!” Flirtyboy let out a grunt when he was shoved away from you.  Thank goodness for that.

“Hey teach, you wanna have lunch with us?” Elwurd presence replaces Romeo’s (is that even his real name?) albeit at a more acceptable distance.  “I bet you still got no clue where the nutrition block is in this place.  Why don’t you come with me and Cirava and we’ll show you?” Cirava waves at you from their spot a foot away.

You take a moment to ponder on her offer.  There wasn’t much time for a grand tour when you and Mr. Vantas stepped out of the airport and quickly got marched to your class.  You nod.  It would be nice to have company.  Fortunately, you needn’t worry about any kind of stigma associated with anything beyond the acceptable student-teacher relationship.  You may be the teacher, but it doesn’t take away the fact that you and your students are all about the same age.

Elwurd beams.  “Cool! Let’s go.”  The two troll girls walk with you on both your sides like a pair of bodyguards.  Boy, this day just keeps getting better.  The day wasn't over yet and you're already making friends with your students.  Was it because your'e a teacher? Ah, who cares? You're happy!

You go ahead and take the first to step out of the classroom.

“Ah, Reader! There you are.”  You hear Mr. Vantas’ voice call out to you, and sure enough, there he is coming at you down the hall.  And he isn’t alone—there’s another adult troll behind him.  She was a lady like Ms. Maryam, though younger and a has a little wild look on her.  Her hair was long and a little messy, though you could clearly make out her horns that look like cat ears.  Her casual business attire has mostly olive colors.

“Welp, it looks like there some important schoolfeeder biz about to go down,” says Elwurd.  “Looks like we’re gonna have to cancel our lunch date.  Maybe next time.”  She gives you finger-guns and a wink before leaving.

“Later!” Cirava bids, following behind Elwurd.  You wave them goodbye.

“Reader, would you care to join us for lunch?” Mr. Vantas asks as he and his friend stop to talk to you.  “I know you’re young, but we’re still colleagues.  Also, Dolorosa insisted that we invite you along in case you have any questions.”

Dolo—who?”

“Oh, sorry. I meant Ms. Maryam.”  Isn’t her name ‘Porrim’?

“It’s more of a title. Like mine is ‘Signless’.  It’s… a weird troll thing…”  Right.

“Wow, is this the wriggler teacher mew told me about?” asks the lady troll, gaping at you with wide eyes.

“Yes, they are,” Mr. Vantas replies.  “Also, maybe if you—”

“Eeeeeeeeeeeee! Mew’re so cute!” The lady troll cried while hugging the life out you with your face pressing on to her chest.  Did she just use cat puns?

Mr. Vantas gives her a dry look that goes unnoticed.  “I can’t believe a tiny kitten like you is a teacher in our school! Oh-em-gee!” Several students lingering the hall watch with amusement as she goes on to pinching and squishing your cheeks in her alien hands like a lump of toy slime.

Uhh…

“Meulin, please stop.  You’re embarrassing them,” Mr. Vantas admonishes her.  She pouts a little, but does as he says.  “Sorry about that,” he apologizes to you on her behalf.  You tell him you’re fine.  Hopefully the slight swelling of your abused cheeks would go down in time for your next class.  And yes, joining them for lunch sounds like a swell idea.  You could ask for pointers in teaching.

“That great! Shall we go then?” You nod and take your place between the two adults like you had with Elwurd and Cirava.

Being the big school Alterra Academy is, there’s no doubt that their facilities like the cafeteria would also be big.  Though to you, it isn’t such a big deal.  The dining hall at SUIT was just as big.  The difference between that and the academy cafteria is the contemporary design versus the old ancient castle look.  There are kitchen installations lined along two ends of the facility and some stalls that serve all kinds of food, including Alternian fare.  You and your colleagues go and order some food and head to the Staff Lounge where all the other teachers and some other members of the school staff congregate on their breaks to escape from the kids and relax for at least an hour everyday.

“It looks like you’re getting along with Class 413,” Mr. Vantas says after sitting down on a cushy chair.  Meulin, or Ms. Leijon the Literary Arts teacher as she introduced herself, sat on another next to him.  “How was your first class? Was there any trouble?” You have half a mind to tell him all that happened, but you also didn’t want to come off as whining.  So you tell him that it was a success and everyone was so well behaved and nice.

“Whoa, really?” he asks.  “That’s new.  All the other teachers who tried to handle that class usually ran out crying or furious around the first quarter of class time.  I even tried, but…”

Ms. Leijon beside him giggles.  “He ended up unleashing a vast expletive at the class after half an hour.  It was so loud, some teachers poked their heads out of their classrooms to see what was going on--myself included.  After that, he walked out and lamented to Dolorosa what he did.”

“Don’t tell him that, Meulin.  The last thing I want is to have Reader get a bad impression of me.”  S he stuck her tongue out at him in a playful manner.  “I still can’t believe I lost my patience so easily.  Perhaps my time at the flogging jut has changed me.”  His expression turns somber. Ms. Leijon takes one of his hands in hers and give it a gentle reassuring squeeze.  Flogging? Was he involved with shady characters who he got on the bad side of?

“No, nothing like that,” Mr. Vantas says.  “Though to the Alternian ruling class, I might as well have. Not that it mattered much since I shouldn’t have lived in the first place.”

How come?

Mr. Vantas looks at you square in the eye.  “As you may or may not know, the planet Alternia is ruled by the hemospectrum.  Those in the warm end scrounge whatever they can to live by while being under the cruel thumb of the blueblood nobility.  Though in every generation of trolls laid by the Mother Grub, there’d be outliers—mutants—who don’t belong anywhere in the hemospectrum.  I was one such mutant.”

You raise an eyebrow and your eyes dart back and forth between him and Ms. Leijon.  Other than the obvious differences between them due to their genders, you don’t really see anything different about Mr. Vantas… unless, he’s got some weird appendage hiding under his clothes.

“I can tell you’re skeptical, and I don’t blame you,” he continues.  “Most mutations are often visible like an extra pair of eyes, or limbs, or whatever else that’s atypical of a certain caste.  Any troll grub who hatch with such mutations are often culled to keep the gene pool pure. Though there are cases, such as in goldbloods, where mutations are given a free pass as they are deemed useful by the regime.  In my case, however, the mutation is in my blood.”

Why? What’s wrong with his blood? Does he have a disease?

Mr. Vantas gave a low chuckle at your assumptions.  “No, it has more to do with the color.  You see, rather than a deep rust as dictated by the hemospectrum, my blood is a bright crimson like you humans have.  Since it was outside the hemospectrum, it marked me as a mutant and therefore have to be culled.  It was only through the kindness of the Dolorosa, my jadeblood mother, that my life was spared.  However, in doing so, she had to leave the brooding caverns in order to properly care for me.  From then on, we lived as nomads—never staying in any place for too long to avoid the risk getting my blood discovered and culled for it by the highbloods.  But as I grew older, I became more aware of the cruel and unjust way of life for lowbloods.  I thought to myself, there has to be a better way to live—where all would care for one another regardless of blood.  Soon, I began having vision of such a life, and started to spread the word. Before long, I gained followers.”

You nodd in understanding as you listen to him relay his life story to you.  So it turns out that the Dolorosa, who is Ms. Maryam, adopted and raised Mr. Vantas who grew up to become some kind of activist.

Though his story was compelling, you have a feeling that it wouldn’t have a happy ending.

“And of course, as with all good things in Alternia, it never meant to last or make a difference.  To make an already long story short, word got to the highbloods about my ‘radical’ ideals and deemed it a threat to the system, thus I got captured.  I was sentenced to death both as a mutant and a rebel, then tied me up on the flogging jut with burning shackles.  I was continuously beaten until my so-called heretical blood was let for all to see.  As I faded into unconsciousness, my final thought was that it was finally the end for me; I’d die without having realized my dream.  However, after what felt like eons, I found myself waking surrounded by friends and family.  I thought I had truly died, but the stinging pain of my wounds told me otherwise.  Later, I found out that one of my distant followers started a riot that allowed for our escape from the empire in a stolen battleship.”

At that point, a familiar motherly voice decided to chime in to add her bit.  “Finding your planet was something that happened by chance,” she says.  “We didn’t know where we were going.  All that mattered was to get away from the reaches of the Empire as quickly as possible.  There were a few hundred of us cramped in a battleship flying through space.  By the time we found Earth, we have exhausted most of our rations.”  You look up to see Ms. Maryam standing behind your chair.  “Once we realized that the blue and green planet ahead of us was capable of sustaining life, we immediately went full speed ahead and soon crashed.  Many of us perished, but thanks to the helpful efforts of a certain human, many were also saved.  And the rest, as you humans say, is history.”

Okay, the story did have a happy ending after all.  Though you were so preoccupied by the story that you didn’t realize when Ms. Maryam arrived.  How long has she been there?

“Just enough to hear Kankri tell you about the aftermath of his failed execution,” she replies, moving to take a seat next to you.

“What took mew so long, Dolorosa? Lunch period is halfway over,” asks Ms. Leijon.

Ms. Maryam gave a little sigh.  “Well, I went to invite a certain someone to join us while we get properly acquainted with our new teacher,” she looks at you, “but he seemed to be too absorbed in his work to move.  He didn’t seem to be interested on meeting them either, so I let him be.  It’s quite a shame.”

Welp, that can’t be helped.  You know better than to assume that everyone would be excited or curious enough to see a kid teacher.  All that’s left to do is enjoy your now cold lunch with your new colleagues.

“Oh, right. I almost forgot,” Mr. Vantas says while he and Ms. Leijon open up theirs.  “Say, while we’re at it, how about you tell us more about how your first class went.”

And so you spent the rest of the hour relishing the company of your fellow educators.

EXTRA

ALTERRA ACADEMY CLASS 413 ROSTER

(SPEAKING ROLES ONLY/NO PARTICULAR ORDER)

Student numbers are in accordance to Troll Call order of introduction + Dammek and Xefros

Name: Bronya Ursama

Student #: 32

Blood Color: Jade

Sign: Virus

Extra-curricular/s: Grubsitters Club, Class President (?)

Uniform Discrepancy/ies: None

~oOo~

Name: Folykl Darane

Student #: 13

Blood Color: Gold

Sign: Gemittarius

Extra-curricular/s: Pranksters’ Gambit Club

Uniform Discrepancy/ies: Unbuttoned blazer, nonexistent tie, pants rather than skirt, lacking presence of appropriate footwear

Note: Never separate from Kuprum

~oOo~

Name: Kuprum Maxlol

Student #: 14

Blood Color: Gold

Sign: Gemnius

Extra-curricular/s: Prankster’s Gambit Club

Uniform Discrepancy/ies: Unbuttoned blazer, Loose tie, messy untucked shirt

Note: Never separate from Folykl

~oOo~

Name: Dammek ??????

Student #: 1

Blood Color: Bronze

Sign: Taurcer

Extra-curricular/s: Alterra Middle School Rock Band (Grubbles)

Uniform Discrepancy/ies: Inappropriate eyewear

~oOo~

Name: Konyyle Okimaw

Student #: 36

Blood Color: Olive

Sign: Lepia

Extra-curricular/s: Alterra MMA Club

Uniform Discrepancy/ies: Torn off sleeves on both blazer and shirt

~oOo~

Name: Ardata Carmia

Student #: 27

Blood Color: Cerulean

Sign: [Blocked by smudge on page]

Extra-curricular/s: Audio Visual Club, Social Media Streamers Club

Uniform Discrepancy/ies: Cape over uniform

~oOo~

Name: Skylla Koriga

Student #: 12

Blood Color: Bronze

Sign: Taurist

Extra-curricular/s: Agriculture Research Society

Uniform Discrepancy/ies: Cowboy boots

~oOo~

Name: Zebruh Codakk

Student #: 34

Blood Color: Indigo

Sign: Sagimino

Extra-curricular/s: Strolling Club

Uniform Discrepancy/ies: Bow tie in place of standard tie, blazer tied around waist, shirt sleeves rolled to elbows

Note: In case of emergency, call the Academy Security Hotline.

~oOo~

Name: Tagora Gorjek

Student #: 26

Blood Color: Teal

Sign: Liga

Extra-curricular/s: Alterra Future Business Leaders, Class Treasurer

Uniform Discrepancy/ies: Pinstripe pants

Note: If he tries to offer something, politely decline even if in dire need.

~oOo~

Name: ?????? Elwurd

Student #: 21

Blood Color: Cerulean

Sign: Scornius

Extra-curricular/s: Strolling Club

Uniform Discrepancy/ies: Skinny jeans and combat boots under skirt

~oOo~

Name: Cirava Hermod

Student #: 25

Blood Color: Gold

Sign: Gemrius

Extra-curricular/s: Vaporwave Appreciation Society

Uniform Discrepancy/ies: Disheveled ‘not even trying’ look, gray leggings, inappropriate footwear

~oOo~

Name: Azdaja Knelax

Student #: 35

Blood Color: Gold

Sign: Gemra

Extra-curricular/s: Alterra Anime Afficionados Association (A4)

Uniform Discrepancy/ies: Mustard yellow overcoat in lieu of school blazer

~oOo~

Name: Diemen Xicali

Student #: 11

Blood Color: Burgundy

Sign: Arrius

Extra-curricular/s: Alterra Gastronauts

Uniform Discrepancy/ies: None

ALTERRA ACADEMY FACULTY & STAFF DOSSIER

Name: Meulin “The Disciple” Leijon

Age: 15 solar sweeps/33 years

Blood Color: Olive

Occupation: Signless’ most devoted follower/girlfriend, Academy Literature Teacher

Notes:

-Gratuitous cat puns

-Likes to ship even as an adult

-Furiously studies and compares human and troll literature

[authormitchel-blog]

Slytherin Harry and The Goblet of Fire Part 2

The Weasley’s home was just as alive and full of magic as it had been, though two new faces greeted him.

            “How are you doing?” said a red head Harry hadn’t met before. The man grinned and held out a rough, large hand. Ah, thought Harry, this had to be Charlie, Ron’s brother from Romania. He had a broad, good natured face which was weather beaten and so freckly he almost looked tan, but it was the large burn on his muscular arm that tipped Harry off the most.

            Next, Bill, the other brother, got to his feet smiling. Harry knew from Ron that Bill worked for the Wizarding Bank Gringotts, and that Bill had been Head Boy at Hogwarts, but where Harry had always thought Bill would be just an older version of Ron’s other brother Percy, fussy and law abiding, Bill Weasley looked down right illegal.

            He was tall, like Ron, with long hair that he had tied back in a ponytail. He was wearing an ear ring with what looked like a fang dangling from it. He looked like he had just come from a rock concert, with leather, no, dragon hide boots, too.

            Just then, a flurry of sparks burst into the room.

“What was that?” Harry asked.

            “Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes,” said Ron, clapping Harry firmly on the shoulder. The twins came into the room next. “Our newest invention,” they said together.

            “Yeah,” said Ginny Weasley. “Who knew all those noises and explosions coming from their room were actually leading up to something.”

            “And not just fireworks,” said Fred.

“But all sorts,” said George. “Prank wands, trick sweets.”

            “Brilliant,” Harry said amazed. Percy came over then and shook Harry’s hand before skiving off to finish some very important work.

            “He’s enjoying the new job then?”

“Enjoying it,” said Ron darkly. “I don’t reckon he’d come home if Dad didn’t make him. He’s obsessed. Just don’t get him talking about Crouch.”

            “Yeah,” said George. “They’ll be announcing the engagement any day now.”

“A Minister’s husband, we couldn’t be more proud,” said Fred, making cow eyes in the direction Percy had gone.

            Mrs. Weasley moved into the kitchen after greeting Harry and offering him some food. “Have a bite dear, I just need to finish the rest then we’ll be ready to eat.”

            “Are you staying for dinner, Remus?” she asked.

“Can’t, Molly, but thank you, you know how Sirius gets.”

            “How is he?” Harry asked. “He sounded good in his last letter.”     

Remus smiled, the one he seemed to only have when he thought of Sirius.

            “He’s becoming a barrister apparently. He’s been studying the law and writing letters to send to everyone he can find to see if he can expedite his case. He wants to have you with him as soon as possible.”

            “I want that too,” said Harry. “But you guys will be home soon, and I can come see you.”

“Of course,” said Remus. “We’ve already received partial free hours with Arthur’s help so that we can come here some days to see you. And of course, you can always come over ours. We may have to employ some non-magical means as to stay off the radar. But Sirius can’t wait to see you.”

            “Tell him that I feel the same,” Harry said as he walked Remus out of the house.

“And thanks for coming and getting me today.”      

            “I wish I could have come sooner,” said Remus, looking regretful. “Your cousin will be alright by the way. It’s a simple charm. He should be back to normal by now, in case you were wondering.”  

            And before Harry could tell him that he hadn’t been wondering.

“It’s okay, Harry, wanting the best for family doesn’t stop just because they don’t want the same for you. It’s engrained in us to want good things for family and to want them to love us back.”

            Harry nodded, but he didn’t want to think about it.

Then, Remus touched his shoulder.

            “But family comes in many different boxes, and I want you to know that you have a family, families actually, and that we all love you and want the best for you and we want you to know that we care.”

            Harry smiled.

“Even if that means blowing up someone’s fireplace?”

            Remus laughed, looking younger in his joy.

“Yes,” said Remus, chuckling. “Even if it means blowing up someone’s cousin.”    

  NEXT CHAPTER

            After explaining the concept of a portkey they began their climb up Stoatshead Hill. Harry couldn’t ever say that he was in shape, but after a summer of being ignored and locked away in his room, this time his choice, he was more out of it than normal and the climb was taking its toll on him. When Harry made it up the hill he saw Mr. Weasley shaking hands with a ruddy looking wizard with a scrubby brown beard who was holding a moldy looking old boot in his hand.

            “This is Amos Diggory everyone,” Mr. Weasley introduced. “He works for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. And I think you know his son Cedric?”

            Cedric Diggory was an extremely handsome boy of around seventeen. He was also Hufflepuff’s seeker and Captain. After everyone said, “Hi,” Amos Diggory asked good naturedly, “All these yours then, Arthur?”

            “Oh no, only the redheads,” said Mr. Weasley. “This is Hermione, friend of Ron’s and Harry, another friend.”

            “Merlin’s beard,” Amos Diggory said, his eyes widening. “Harry? Harry Potter?”

“Er…yeah,” said Harry, feeling a little uncomfortable with all the attention. “Ced’s talked about you of course,” said Amos Diggory.

            Really, thought Harry.

“Yeah, he told us all about playing against you.”

            “Yeah,” said Harry, breaking into the other man’s litany. “Well your son’s a great flier sir.”

            Amos Diggory looked pleased and Harry thanked Pansy for that little piece of advice. People always like to talk about themselves and a change of subject was only as far away as you could bring up their child or ex. And Amos Diggory did just that until they were surrounding the boot and the portkey activated.

            The campsite was amazing. Harry had rarely seen so much magic or so many wizards in one place with the exception of Hogwarts. Mr. Weasley sent Ron, Hermione, and Harry off on an errand. On their way back they ran into Seamus Finnigan. They had wandered into a patch of tents that were all covered with a thick growth of shamrocks, so that it looked as though small, oddly shaped hillocks had sprouted out of the earth.

            “Like the decorations?” said Seamus grinning. “The Ministry’s not happy.”

“Just showing some pride,” said Dean Thomas, their classmate and Seamus’s best friend. Seamus clasped Dean on the back and Dean smiled at him good naturedly. Seamus gave Dean a bright smile in return, looking at his best friend like he was a member of Ireland’s team.

            “Right-o, Thomas,” he said.  

 The trio after giving vows of loyalty to Ireland set off to investigate the other team’s side:           Bulgaria.

            There, each and every tent was adorned with the image of Viktor Krum.

“He looks really grumpy,” said Harry, looking at the boy’s surly face and heavy black brows.        “Really grumpy?” Ron raised his eyes to the Heavens. “Who cares what he looks like? He’s unbelievable. He’s really young, too. He’s a genius, you’ll see.”

            After getting the water, they met up with a few more familiar faces. Oliver Wood spotted Ron’s red head, and mistaking him briefly for one of the twins stopped and pulled him into a quick conversation. He had made the Puddlemere Untied Quidditch team and Harry felt happy for him. Wood was a good player. He knew from last year that Flint had made Bulgaria, he doubted that he would be playing tonight but he was still happy for his former Captain.

            “There you are,” said an all too familiar voice.

Harry turned around to see his old Captain coming up behind the trio, eyes only for Oliver Wood.

            “I said to meet me by the gate three minutes ago, Wood.” The man looked like he had last year. Large, burly, with a no nonsense air about him, and that tone in his voice that said that Harry…no Wood, this time, would be running extra laps.

            Flint reached Wood then finally noticed the three people Wood had just been talking to.

“Potter? What are you doing here?”

            “I’ve just come to see the match,” Harry said. “With the Weasleys. We were just getting water when…”

            “Great news,” said Flint, cutting him off. “Now, can we get going Wood, or do you wanna keep chatting with the third years instead of meeting the Bulgarian team?”

            Wood looked at Ron like Flint had somehow just announced that Wood was about to give Flint top secret Quidditch secrets, but then he said, “It’s just to gather intel, Flint, you do remember that right?”

            “Right, right,” said Flint unflinching. Then under his breath, “Intel on how thick Krum’s broomstick is.”

            Harry nearly choked. Flint patted him on the back, said cheerily, “Nice to see you, Potter, mess up my team while I’m gone and I will find you.” Then walked away with Wood following quickly at his footsteps, keeping up their argument about intel verses waxing brooms.

            They passed Ernie Macmillian who still flinched slightly when he saw Harry, heir of Slytherin or not, but always made an effort to wave regardless. Ernie was normally okay after the first bout of boasting passed his mouth. Still, they didn’t stay long.

            They also passed Cho Chang, a very pretty girl who played seeker for Ravenclaw. She waved and smiled at Harry and as Harry raised his hand to wave back, water splashed all over his front as Millicent clapped him hard on the back.

            “Oi, Potter, try not to dribble, yeah?”

“Millicent!” he said, throwing himself at her, and nearly dropping the water all together.

            Millicent hugged him back just as hard as he hugged her, but then pulled away like it was all Harry’s idea. She looked the same as ever, perhaps a little bit taller, but still broad around the shoulders. Millicent would never be a small girl, but to Harry she was the most wonderful bit of magic he had seen all day. She looked healthy, her skin tanner than normal because of the summer. Her hair had grown back, and she was now wearing it in a longer, slightly tousled way that framed her round face nicely.  

            “Granger,” she greeted and pulled Hermione into a tight hug. “Got your letter, nice of you to tell me that you were staying with the Weasleys. I recognized it for the cry of help that it was and have come to rescue you.”

            “Ha, Ha, Bulstrode,” said Ron.  

“Oh Weasley, sorry I didn’t see you there,” said Millicent. “Though perhaps I thought you were one of those floating Muggle contraptions that they use to attract the attention of feeble minds at automobile parks. It’s the red, is all.”

            Ron rolled his eyes, but Harry could see that he was holding back a small laugh.

“What are you doing here? I didn’t think you liked Quidditch,” Harry asked.

            “I don’t,” said Millicent. “But events like this are equally about the connections and esteem as they are about the actual game.”

            Ron looked at her blankly.

“Meeting people,” elaborated Millicent. “Haven’t you noticed all of the different wizards here, from all over the country? My father knows a good investment opportunity when he sees one. He might be a barrister by title, but his heart runs gold.”

            Harry nodded. He had seen the influx of different wizards. He had heard a group of kids their age speaking French not a few moments ago.

            After agreeing that Millicent would come back to the camp ground with them, Harry and the group started to make their way back.

            Mr. Weasley was having quite the time lighting a fire, so Hermione quickly stepped in and showed him the correct way to not scald himself.

            Millicent shoved her way into the tent past a surprised looking Fred singing Ginny’s name. Fred quickly followed her back into the tent though he was just saying something about taking a walk around with George.

Then Harry noticed that someone else was standing by the fire.

“Everyone, this is Ludo Bagman, you know who he is. He’s the one we’ve to thank for getting us such good tickets….”

            Ludo Bagman was easily the most noticeable person Harry had seen so far. He was wearing long Quidditch robes in thick horizontal stripes of bright yellow and black. An enormous picture of a wasp was splashed across his chest. He had the look of a powerfully built man gone slightly to seed; the robes he was wearing stretched taut around his belly that he surely had not had when he had played for England.

            Bagman waved his hand as if to say the tickets had been nothing.

“Fancy a flutter on the match, Arthur?” he said eagerly, jingling what seemed to be large amounts of gold in his pockets.

            Mr. Weasley bowed out, not eager to get on Mrs. Weasley’s bad side. Harry couldn’t blame him. Then the twins stepped up.

            “We’ll take your bet,” they said in unison as they came back outside. “We have 20……… that Ireland will win, but that Krum will catch the snitch.”

            “Now, boys!” chided Mr. Weasley, still looking as if Mrs. Weasley was going to pop out and catch him at any moment. “You’ve worked hard for that money. You shouldn’t risk it.”

            “Now, come on Arthur, it’s their money, let the boys do as they please.”

“And girl,” said Millicent, walking up and handing some money to Bagman.

            “Ms. Bulstrode,” he greeted happily. “And what would you like to bet.”

Millicent smiled, looking as if she was going Bagman a favor by having her cater to his bet. “What they said,” she gestured to the twins.

            Bagman looked like he wanted to warn her off such a bet, but she said, “I’m sure,” then disappeared back into the tent.

“Yeah, dad,” said Fred. “If Bulstrode can handle it then I think we’ve got this.”

“ Yeah, don’t worry, Dad,” said George.

            “Absolutely not. If your mother finds out she’ll…”

“Okay,” said Bagman, but added a conspiratorial wink in the twin’s direction when Mr. Weasley wasn’t looking.

            “Have you seen Crouch?” Bagman then asked.

“Mr. Crouch?” said Percy, suddenly abandoning his look of poker-stiff disapproval and exchanging it for a look that was positively writhing with excitement.

            “Yes,” said Bagman. “The man knows over two hundred languages, and I really need him to help me with a troll delegate right about now, but I seem to have lost him.”

            Bagman looked around, and shrugged.

“Any news of Bertha Jorkins yet, Ludo?” Mr. Weasley asked.

            “No, though being as forgetful as she is she’ll probably wonder back in October sometime thinking it’s still July.”

            “Someone should be sent to look for her,” said Mr. Weasley. “She’s been gone quite a….”

            With a snap, like a quick change in subject, Barty Crouch apparated in. Looking rather stiff and uptight, the elderly man was dressed impeccably in a crisp suit and tie. His hair and mustache neat and trimmed perfectly. He shoes were polished to shine. Harry could see why Percy idolized him.

            “Some tea, sir?” Percy offered.

“Oh,” said Mr. Crouch, looking over at Percy in mild surprise. “Yes….thank you, Weatherby.”

            Fred and George choked into their cups. Percy went very pink around the ears, but busied himself with the kettle as Crouch bid a curt farewell to Mr. Weasley then left with Bagman to meet with the delegate.

&&&

            Mr. Weasley was right, they did have good seats. They were close to the Minister himself, and Millicent and her family. Harry waved at her, and noticed the rather similar looking but older girl sitting beside Millicent looking bored even with all the excitement in the air.

            Harry sat and looked in front of him.

“Dobby?” said Harry, incredulously. The house elf turned slightly, and Harry realized his mistake.

            “Sorry, I just through that you were someone I knew.”

“But I know Dobby too, sir,” squeaked the elf. “My name is Winky, sir, and you, sir. You is surely Harry Potter.”

            “Yeah, I am,” said Harry.

“Dobby is a always talking about you Harry Potter, sir, he says that you are the greatest wizard to ever live, sir. And that you are brave and good, sir. But Dobby isn’t here, sir, and he wouldn’t be up this high either unless maybe you asked him, sir. Dobby would do it for you. Dobby is quite fond of you, though he is getting wilder and wilder. Out there with no family to serve and doing whatever he likes…being downright bawdy.”

            “He’s just having a little bit of fun,” said Harry. “House elves is not supposed to have fun Harry Potter,” said Winky. “House elves does what they is told. I is not liking heights at all, Harry Potter,” she glanced towards the edge of the box and gulped---“, but my master sends me to the Top Box and I comes, sir, to save his seat. Winky is a good house elf, Harry Potter, sir.”

            “So you found someone to consort with even lower than the Weasleys did you, Potter?” drawled the voice that haunts Harry’s dreams.

            “Only when I have to share a room with you, Malfoy.”

Harry could hear Draco roll his eyes.

            “Enough Draco, your mother is waiting,” said another familiar holier than thou voice: Lucius Malfoy.

            Harry watched as the blonde and his father walked away, looking up for the first time to see that like he had, Malfoy had shot up quite a few inches over the summer. Whatever, Harry thought, his face is probably still as pointy as ever. He was still a git, just maybe a taller git.

            Then the show began, and Ireland rained gold from the skies as Harry and Ron watched from Omnioculars.

            Harry looked down at the field as dancers made their way to the center of the pitch. Music started and they started to dance. “Veela,” Harry heard someone say in an awed tone. Harry didn’t know what the big deal was, until he started to watch them. Ron nearly bumped him out his seat in an attempt to get closer to the creatures on the field.

 Harry’s own mind started to go blank. The Veelas skin was moon white, their hair white gold. The nagging suspicion that the Veelas white blonde hair reminded him of someone kept Harry mostly sane while George looked like he was about to follow Ron over the edge. And before Harry could remember who they reminded him of or follow the others, they stopped.

            Ron looked like he had been abruptly woken from a vivid dream while Fred like Harry, merely looked a little dazed. Malfoy further down the aisle looked as if he hadn’t been affected at all. Harry wondered at that before he saw Draco remove something from his ears.  

            Millicent eyed Harry wearily as if to make sure that he was alright, and motioned to Fred and George, George of who was nearly passed out on the ground. Harry laughed as George’s more together brother tapped him on the cheeks lightly to spur him from the stupor the Veelas’ dance had put him in.

&&&

            The game was amazing. Ireland had won. Bagman announced the ending of the match. “Krum may have caught the snitch, but team Ireland are the winners!!!” Then after removing the sonorous from this voice. He said a little hoarsely, “They’ll be talking about this one for years.”

            “A really unexpected twist that… shame it couldn’t have lasted longer….Ah, yes… yes, I owe you.. how much?” he asked, as Fred and George had just scrambled over the back of their seats and were standing in front of Ludo Bagman with broad grins on their faces, their hands outstretched.

&&&

“The Ireland supporters are really going at it, huh?” asked Fred as the group plus Millicent walked back to the camp. Ginny and Millicent were singing Irish folk songs with George as accompaniment. Ron was still going on about the beauty that is Krum in motion when they entered the tent and Harry heard a particularly loud explosion of fireworks before Mr. Weasley rushed into the tent.

            “Kids, now!” he says in a tone Harry had never heard from the older man before.

The group rushes outside. “Dad, it’s just the Irish,” said Fred.

            “It’s not the Irish!” said Mr. Weasley panicked. Then the sight before Harry’s eyes changed. No longer were the screams he was hearing those of triumphant joy, or the shouting that of congratulations, but of terror. The fireworks that Harry thought were going off in the distance were no longer bright lights in the sky, but light from wands that were exploding tents in the distance.

They were under attack.

            “Fred, George, take Ginny and go that way, we need to meet at the portkey. We need to help the Ministry.”

            People were running everywhere as Bill, Charlie, and Percy took off with Mr. Weasley in the direction the ministry officials were gathering against the threat. Millicent gave Ginny Weasley a panicked once over before joining in beside her, Fred had one of Ginny’s hands and Millicent the other as George held his wand out, cast Lumos, and started to lead them back to the hill.

            Harry, Hermione, and Ron followed in behind them, but as people rushed past, the two groups got further and further separated from one another. As the group got further away from the explosions and the subsequent fires, the woods started to grow darker, and quickly the two groups lost one another.

            Harry was about to demand that they all link hands so that he didn’t lose either of them when he heard Ron yelp in pain.

            “What happened?” said Hermione anxiously, stopping so abruptly that Harry walked into her. She illuminated her wand.

            “Tripped over a tree root,” Ron said, sounding slightly embarrassed.

“Well, with feet that size it’d be hard not to,” said a drawling voice from behind them.

            Draco Malfoy was standing alone nearby, leaning against a tree looking utterly relaxed. Ron uttered a particularly nasty word in the English language, but Malfoy only laughed.

            “Oh, Weasley, hadn’t you better be hurrying along now,” said Malfoy, as he refused to address Harry directly since Harry had snubbed him in the booth. “You wouldn’t like her spotted, would you?”

            “What’s that supposed to mean?” said Hermione.

“Granger, they’re after Muggles,” said Malfoy. “D’you want to be showing off your knickers in midair? Because if you do, hang around…they’re moving this way, and it would give us all a laugh.”

            “Hermione’s a witch,” Harry snarled.

“Have it your own way, Potter,” said Malfoy, grinning maliciously. “If you think they can’t spot a Mudblood, stay were you are.”

            “You watch your mouth!” shouted Ron.

“Don’t mind him, Ron,” said Hermione, seizing Ron’s arm to restrain him as he took a step toward Draco.

            There came a bang from the other side of the trees that was louder than anything they had heard that night. Several people screamed nearby. Malfoy chuckled softly, but Harry heard the shaky quality it held.

            “Scare easily, don’t they?” he said loudly. “I suppose your daddy told you all to hide? What’s he up to----trying to rescue the Muggles?”

            “And where are your parents?” said Harry, his temper rising. “Out there wearing masks, like real heroes?”

            “If they were I wouldn’t likely tell you, would I? But there’s no need to ask where your parents are?”

            Harry just rolled his eyes. He knew now what his parents died for. And now that he had Sirius and Remus, Harry would never forget what his parents had done for their world.

            “Let’s go,” said Hermione, “We need to find the others.”

“Keep that big, bushy head down Granger,” Malfoy sneered, but Hermione looked as over Malfoy and his taunts as Harry was.

            The trio set out on the path again to find the others.

“I’ll bet you anything his dad is one of that masked lot!” said Ron.

            “Well, with any luck, the Ministry will catch them,” said Hermione fervently.

Hermione scanned the forest, but Fred, George, Millicent, and Ginny were nowhere to be found. The forest was packed with other people, just not the people that they were looking for. They encountered a group of teenagers arguing in what Harry thought was French. Hermione mentioned that they must be students from Beauxbatons, another wizarding school.

            “Oh…yeah…..right,” said Harry.

“Fred and George can’t have gone that far,” said Ron, pulling out his wand, lighting it like Hermione’s, and squinting up the path. Harry dug in the pockets of his jacket for his own wand….but it wasn’t here. Only his Omnioculars.

            “Ah, no,” Millicent was never going to let him live this down. “I’ve lost my wand!”

“You’re kidding!” Hermione and Ron scolded in unison, like two very upset parents who were very disappointed in their child.

            “Maybe its back in the tent?” offered Ron, after they had searched the immediate area.

“Or it fell out of your pocket when we were running.”

            “Yeah,” said Harry. “Maybe…”

Then a rustling in the woods drew their attention, and Winky the house elf made her way into their field of vision.

            “There is bad wizards about!” she squeaked distractedly as she leaned forward and labored to keep running. It looked as if she had just escaped some invisible force instead of a thorny bush. “People high…high in the air! Winky is getting out of the way!”

            And she disappeared into the trees on the other side of the path, panting and squeaking as she fought the force that seemed to be restraining her.

            “What’s up with her?” said Ron, looking curiously after Winky. “Why can’t she run properly?”

            “Bet she didn’t ask permission to hide,” said Harry. He was thinking of Dobby and the way that he would have to beat himself up anytime he did something that he knew the Malfoy’s wouldn’t like. And before an argument could break out between Hermione and Ron that Harry would be forced to join, they set off once again.

            They followed the path deeper into the woods, passing Goblins and wizards who were spouting nonsense. Harry saw Stan Shunpike, from the Knight Bus, before he, Hermione, and Ron ducked into a clearing. Hermione was just saying something when she broke off abruptly. Harry and Ron turned around and looked too. It sounded like someone was staggering toward their clearing. They waited, listening to the sounds of the uneven steps behind the dark trees. But the footsteps came to a sudden halt.

            “Hello?” called Harry tentatively.

There was silence.

            Harry got to his feet and peered around a tree. He was about to ask, “Who’s there?” when without warning, the silence was rent by a voice unlike any they had heard in the wood; and it uttered, not a panicked shout, but what sounded like a spell and a battle cry.

            “MORSMORDRE!”

And something vast, green, and glittering erupted from the patch of darkness Harry’s eyes had been struggling to penetrate; it flew up over the treetops and into the sky.

            “What the…?” gasped Ron as he sprang to his feet again, staring up at the thing that had appeared.

            For a split second, Harry thought it was another leprechaun formation. Then he realized that it was a colossal skull, comprised of what looked like emerald stars, with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue. As they watched, it rose higher and higher blazing in a haze of greenish smoke, etched against the black sky like a new constellation.

            Suddenly the world erupted into screams, but when Harry looked back to see the person who had conjured the skull, he was gone.

            “Who’s there?” he called.

“Harry, come on, move!” Hermione had seized the collar of his jacket and was tugging him backward.

            “What’s the matter?” Harry said, startled to see her face so white and terrified.

“It’s the Dark Mark, Harry!” Hermione moaned, pulling him as hard as she could. “You-Know-Who’s sign!”

            “Voldemort’s……”

“Harry, come on!”

            Harry turned before a series of popping noises filled his ears. Harry whirled around, and in an instant, he registered one fact: They were surrounded, and each of the twenty or so wizards that had appeared out of thin air had their wands pointed right at them.

            Without pausing to think, he yelled, “DUCK!”

He grabbed the other two and pulled them to the ground.

            “STUPEFY!” roared twenty voices….there was a blinding series of flashes and Harry felt the hair on his head ripple as though a powerful wind had swept the clearing. “STOP!” yelled a voice he recognized. “STOP! That’s my son!”

            Harry’s hair stopped blowing about. He raised his head a little higher. The wizard in front of him had lowered his wand. He rolled over and saw Mr. Weasley striding toward them, looking terrified.

            “Ron…Harry…” his voice was shaky….”Hermione…are you all right?”

“Out of the way, Arthur,” said a cold, curt voice.

            It was Mr. Crouch. He and the other Ministry wizards were closing in on them. Harry got to his feet to face them. Mr. Crouch’s face was taut with rage.

            “Which of you did it?” he snapped, his sharp eyes darting between them. “Which of you conjured the Dark Mark?”

            “We didn’t do that!” said Harry.

“We didn’t do anything!” said Ron, who was rubbing his elbow. “What did you want to attack us for?”

            “Do not lie, sir!” shouted Mr. Crouch. His wand was still pointing directly at Ron, and his eyes were popping….he looked slightly mad. “You have been discovered at the scene of the crime!”

            “Barty,” whispered a witch in a long woolen dressing gown, “they’re kids, Barty, they’d never have been able to….”

            “Where did the Mark come from, you three?” said Mr. Weasley quickly, jumping on the pause in Crouch’s allegations.

            “Over there,” said Hermione shakily, pointing at the place where they had heard the voice. “There was someone behind the trees….they shouted words…an incantation…” Crouch seemed to doubt Hermione’s words, but none of the other Ministry wizards apart from him seemed to think it remotely likely that Harry, Ron, or Hermione had conjured the skull; on the contrary, at Hermione’s words, they had all raised their wands again and were pointing in the direction she had indicated, squinting through the dark trees.

            “We’re too late,” said the witch in the woolen dressing gown, shaking her head. “They’ll have Disapparated.”

            “I don’t think so,” said a wizard with a scrubby brown beard. It was Amos Diggory, Cedric’s father. “Our Stunners went right through those trees….There’s a good chance we got them….”

            “Amos, be careful!” said a few of the wizards warningly as Mr. Diggory squared his shoulders, raised his wand, marched across the clearing, and disappeared into the darkness. When he appeared once again, he was dragging something or someone along with him.

            It was Winky. For a few seconds Crouch remained transfixed, his eyes blazing in his white face as he stared down at Winky. Then he appeared to come to life again.

            “This….cannot…be,” he said jerkily. “No…..”

He moved quickly around Mr. Diggory and strode off toward the place where he had found Winky.

            “No point, Mr. Crouch,” Mr. Diggory called after him. “There’s no one else there.”

But Mr. Crouch did not seem prepared to take his word for it. They could hear him moving around.

            “Bit embarrassing,” Mr. Diggory said grimly, looking down at Winky’s unconscious form. “Barty Crouch’s house elf…. I mean to say….”

            “Come off it, Amos,” said Mr. Weasley quietly. “you don’t seriously think it was the elf? The Dark Mark’s a wizard sign. It requires a wand.”

            “Yeah,” said Mr. Diggory. “and she had a wand.”

Ludo Bagman showed up to make matters even more colorful.

            “But she couldn’t have done that, she would have needed a wand.”

“She did, and I think we should hear what she has to say for herself.” Crouch gave no sign that he had heard Mr. Diggory, but Mr. Diggory seemed to take his silence for assent. He raised his own wand, pointed it at Winky, and said, “Rennervate!”

            Winky stirred freely. Her great brown eyes opened and she blinked several times in a bemused sort of way.

            “Elf!” said Mr. Diggory sternly. “Do you know who I am? I’m a member of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures!”

            Winky began to sob, rocking herself backward and forward on the ground in what Harry recognized as a self-soothing gesture. He was reminded forcefully of his own past.

            “As you see, elf, the Dark Mark was conjured here a short while ago,” said Mr. Diggory. “And you were discovered moments later, right beneath it! An explanation, if you please!”

            “I….I….I is not doing it, sir!” Winky gasped. “I is not knowing how, sir!”

            “You were found with a wand in your hand!” barked Mr. Diggory, brandishing it in front of her. And as he did, Harry knew where his wand had went.

            “That’s mine!” he said.

Everyone in the clearing looked at him.

            “Excuse me?” said Mr. Diggory, incredulously.

“That’s my wand!” said Harry. “I dropped it!”

            “You dropped it?” repeated Mr. Diggory in disbelief. “Is that a confession? You threw it aside after you conjured the Dark Mark?”

            “Amos, think who you’re talking to?” said Mr. Weasley, very angrily. “Is Harry Potter likely to conjure the Dark Mark?”

            “Of course not,” the zealous man seemed to concede. “Sorry…carried away….”

“I didn’t drop it there, anyway,” said Harry, jerking his thumb toward the trees beneath the skull. “I missed it right after we got into the woods.”

            “So,” said Mr. Diggory, his eyes hardening as he turned to look at Winky again, cowering at his feet. “You found this wand, eh, elf? And you picked it up and thought you’d have some fun with it, did you?”

            “I is not doing magic with it, sir!” squealed Winky, tears streaming down the sides of her squashed and bulbous nose. “I is…I is…I is just picking it up, sir! I is not making the Dark Mark, sir, I is not knowing how!”

            “It wasn’t her!” said Hermione. She looked very nervous, speaking up in front of all these Ministry wizards, yet determined all the same. “Winky’s got a squeaky voice, and the voice we heard doing the incantation was much deeper! It didn’t sound anything like Winky did it?”

            “No,” said Harry, shaking his head. “It definitely didn’t sound like an elf.”

“Yeah, it was a human voice,” said Ron.

            “Well, we’ll soon see,” growled Mr. Diggory, looking unimpressed. “There’s a simple way of discovering the last spell a wand performed, elf, did you know that?”

            Winky trembled and shook her head frantically, her ears flapping, as Mr. Diggory placed his wand against the tip of Harrys.

            “Prior Incantato!” roared Mr. Diggory.

It was the Dark Mark.

            “I is not doing it!” Winky squealed, her eyes rolling in terror. “I is not, I is not, I is not knowing how! I is a good elf, I isn’t using wands, I is not knowing how!”

            “You’ve been caught red handed elf!” Mr. Diggory roared, though Harry knew that he knew her name. “Caught with the guilty wand in your hand!”

            “Amos,” said Mr. Weasley loudly, “think about it…precious few wizards know how to do that spell…Where would she have learned it?”

            “Perhaps Amos is suggesting,” said Mr. Crouch, cold anger in every syllable. “that I routinely teach my servants to conjure the Dark Mark?”

            There was a deeply unpleasant silence. Amos Diggory looked horrified. “Mr. Crouch…not….not at all…..”

            “You have now come very close to accusing two people in this clearing who are the least likely to conjure that Mark!” barked Mr. Crouch. “Harry Potter….and myself! I suppose you are familiar with the boy’s story, Amos?”

            “Of course…everyone knows….,” muttered Mr. Diggory, looking highly discomforted.

“And you are aware of my own history, and that I detest anything tied to the Dark Arts.”

            “Yes….b….”

“And I am fully aware that, in the ordinary course of events, you would want to take Winky into your department for questioning. I ask you, however, to allow me to deal with her.”

            Mr. Diggory looked as though he didn’t think much of that suggestion at all, but it was clear even to Harry that Mr. Diggory fell lower in the hierarchy at the Ministry than Mr. Crouch did.

            “You may rest assured that she will be punished,” Mr. Crouch added coldly.

“M-m-master…”Winky stammered, looking up at Mr. Crouch, her eyes brimming with tears. “Mmmmaster, please.”

            Mr. Crouch stared back, his face somehow sharpened, each line upon it more deeply etched. There was no pity in his gaze.

            “Winky has behaved tonight in a manner I would not have believed possible,” he said slowly. “I told her to remain in the tent. I told her to stay there while I went to sort out the trouble. And I find that she disobeyed me. This means clothes.”

            “No!” shrieked Winky, prostrating herself at Mr. Crouch’s feet. “No, master! Not clothes, not clothes!”

            Harry knew that the only way to turn a house-elf free was to present it with proper garments. It was pitiful to see the way Winky clutched at her tea towel as she sobbed over Mr. Crouch’s feet.

            “But she was frightened!” Hermione burst out angrily, glaring at Mr. Crouch. “Your elf’s scared of heights, and those wizards in masks were levitating people! You can’t blame her for wanting to get out of their way!”

            Mr. Crouch took a step backward, freeing himself from contact with the elf, whom he was surveying as though she were something filthy and rotten that was contaminating his over-shined shoes.

            “I have no use for a house-elf who disobeys me,” he said coldly.

Mr. Weasley got Harry’s wand back and excused them.

            “What’s going to happen to Winky?” said Hermione, the moment they had left the clearing.

            “I don’t know,” said Mr. Weasley.

“The way they were treating her!” said Hermione furiously. “Mr. Diggory, calling her ‘elf’ all the time…and Mr. Crouch! He knows she didn’t do it and he’s still going to sack her! He didn’t care how frightened she’d been, or how upset she was…it was like she wasn’t even human!”

            “Well, she’s not,” said Ron.

Hermione rounded on him.

            “That doesn’t mean she hasn’t got feelings, Ron. It’s disgusting the way…”

“Hermione, I agree with you,” said Mr. Weasley quickly, beckoning her on, “and you’ll find that many others do as well. But now we need to get back to the tent and see if we can find the others.

            “We lost them in the dark,” said Ron. “Dad, why was everyone so uptight about that skull thing?”

            “I’ll explain everything back at the tent,” said Mr. Weasley tensely.

But when they reached the edge of the wood, they were stopped by a large group of anxious looking people.

            “What’s going on in there?” they asked Mr. Weasley.

“Who conjured it?”

“Arthur…it’s not…Him?”

            “Of course it’s not Him,” said Mr. Weasley impatiently. “We don’t know who it was; it looks like they Disapparated. Now excuse me, I want to get to bed.”

            He led Harry, Ron, and Hermione through the crowd and back into the campsite. All was quiet now; there was no sign of the masked wizards, though several ruined tents were still smoking.

            Charlie’s head was poking out of the boy’s tent. “Where are….”

“I’ve got them here,” said Mr. Weasley, bending down and entering the tent to see Fred, George, Millicent, and Ginny waiting for them.

            Bill was sitting at the small kitchen table, holding a bedsheet to his arm, which was bleeding profusely. Charlie had a large rip in his shirt, and Percy was sporting a bloody nose. Fred and George looked unhurt though shaken. Ginny was sitting near Millicent and the two looked shocked by what they had gone through.

            “Did you get them, Dad?” said Bill sharply. “The person who conjured the Mark?”

“No,” said Mr. Weasley. “We found Barty Crouch’s elf holding Harry’s wand, but we’re none the wiser about who actually conjured the Mark.”

            “What?” said Bill, Charlie, and Percy together. “Harry’s wand?” said Millicent.

            “Mr. Crouch’s elf?” said Percy, sounding thunderstruck.

With some assistance form Harry, Ron, and Hermione, Mr. Weasley explained what had happened in the woods. When they had finished their story, Percy swelled indignantly.

            “Well, Mr. Crouch is quite right to get rid of an elf like that!” he said. “Running away when he’d expressly told her not to…embarrassing him in front of the whole Ministry…how would that have looked, if she’d been brought up in front of the Department for the Regulation and Control….”

            “She didn’t do anything…she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time!” Hermione snapped at Percy, who looked very taken aback. Hermione had always got on fairly well with Percy better, indeed, than any of the others.

            “Hermione, a wizard in Mr. Crouch’s position can’t afford a house-elf who’s going to run amok with a wand!” said Percy pompously, recovering himself.

            “She didn’t run amok!” shouted Hermione. “She just picked it up off the ground!”

“Look, can someone just explain what that skull thing was?” said Ron impatiently. “It wasn’t hurting anyone…Why’s it such a big deal?”

            “I told you, it’s You-Know-Who’s symbol, Ron,” said Hermione, before anyone else could answer. “I read about it in The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts.”

            “And it hasn’t been seen for thirteen years,” said Mr. Weasley quietly. “Of course people panicked…it was almost like seeing You-Know-Who back again.”

            “I still don’t…”

“Ron, You-Know-Who and his followers sent the Dark Mark into the air whenever they killed,” said Mr. Weasley. “The terror it inspired…you have no idea, you’re too young. Just picture coming home and finding the Dark Mark hovering over your house and knowing what you’re about to find inside….” Mr. Weasley winced. “Everyone’s worst fear….the very worst….”

            There was silence for a moment. Then Bill, removing the sheet from his arm to check on his cut said, “Well, it didn’t help us tonight, whoever conjured it. It scared the Death Eaters away the moment they saw it. They all Disapparated before we’d got near enough to unmask any of them. We caught the Roberts’ before they hit the ground, though. They’re having their memories modified right now.”

            “Death Eaters?” said Harry. “What are Death Eaters?”

“It’s what You-Know-Who’s supporters called themselves,” said Bill. “I think we saw what’s left of them tonight…the ones who managed to keep themselves out of Azkaban anyway.”

            “We can’t prove it was them, Bill. Though you’re probably right.”

“Yeah, I bet it was,” said Ron suddenly. “Dad, we met Draco Malfoy in the woods, and he as good as told us his dad was one of those nutters in masks. And we all know the Malfoys were right in with You-Know-Who!”

            “But what’s the point?” asked Harry. “Levitating Muggles… I mean?”

“That’s their idea of fun,” said Mr. Weasley. “Half the Muggle killings back when You-Know-Who was in power were done for fun. I suppose they had a few drinks tonight and couldn’t resist reminding us all that lots of them are still at large. A nice little reunion for them,” he finished disgustedly.

            “But why did they disapparate then?” asked Ron.

“Use your brains, Ron,” said Bill. “If they really were Death Eaters, they worked very hard to keep out of Azkaban when You-Know-Who lost power, and told all sorts of lies about him forcing them to kill and torture people. I bet they’d be even more frightened than the rest of us to see him come back. They denied that they’d ever been involved with him when he lost his powers, and went back to their daily lives….I don’t reckon he’d be over-pleased with them, do you?”

            No, Harry thought. He didn’t think Voldemort would be pleased at all.

***

            The rest of the summer went by in a calmer manner. They got their books, played Quidditch, and Harry ate more food than he thought he could hold. The only majorly exciting thing had something to do with a wizard named Mad-Eye Moody. Mr. Weasley and Amos Diggory had rushed to take care of that matter. Then before Harry knew it, it was time to board the Hogwarts Express.

            Bill and Charlie decided to come and see everyone off at King’s Cross station, but Percy, apologizing most profusely, said that he really needed to get to work.

            “Don’t worry about it,” Fred told Percy. Then to George he said, “I think their having a lover’s tiff?”

            “I agree,” said George. “If my lover forgot my name I’d be quite miffed myself.”

“Oh, poor boy,” Fred said, gazing after Percy’s retreating form as he hurried to get ready for work.

            Millicent met them at the station. She was waiting for them as they went through the barrier.

            “Wow!” she said when she saw them. “Ginny, I never would have guessed you were hiding that in your family tree,” Millicent said as she eyed Charlie as he lifted Ginny’s trunk onto the train.

            Ginny laughed at her.

“Charlie’s not that great. He volunteered to help me pack my trunk…it took two hours, Millicent, TWO hours!” Ginny bewailed.

            “That’s fine, Ginny, I like a thorough man.”

“Ugggh,” Fred gagged as he had caught wind of their conversation. Millicent merely blew him a kiss. And though George got on the train to save their seats, Fred had quite the time trying to get his trunk on the train until it was time for everyone to say goodbye.

            “Goodbye, Charlie,” said Millicent in an over dramatized fashion.

“See you, Bulstrode, I’ll send you that book we talked about soon.”          

            “Great,” she said, flashing the dragon tamer a bright smile.

“Yeah,” said Fred, clasping Charlie hard on the shoulder. “Send her that book on dragon grooming, she really needs to get those scales under control,” he said before boarding the train. Millicent scowling at his back.

            “Bye, Charlie, I’ll miss you,” said Ginny.

“Ah, don’t worry, Gin,” Charlie said. “I might be seeing you sooner than you think.”

            After quite a few more intriguing and frustrating hints about what was in store for them this year, they boarded the train. Millicent, Ron, Harry, and Hermione ducked into a compartment and Hermione held her hand to her mouth, “Shh,” she whispered suddenly.

            They listened, and heard a familiar drawling voice drifting in through the open door.

“Father actually considered sending me to Durmstrang rather than Hogwarts, you know. He knows the headmaster, you see. Well, you know his opinion of Dumbledore…the man’s such a mudblood lover…and Durmstrang doesn’t admit that sort of riffraff. But mother didn’t like the idea of me going to school so far away. Father says they actually learn the Dark Arts there, not just the defense rubbish that we do…”

            Hermione got up and shut the compartment door before Malfoy and his gang could walk by.

            “So he thinks Durmstrang would have suited him, does he?” she said angrily. “I wish he had gone, then we wouldn’t have to put up with him.”

            “Durmstrang’s another Wizarding school?” said Harry.

“Yes, and it’s got a horrible reputation,” said Hermione. “It puts a lot of emphasis on the Dark Arts.”

            “Or they used too, you would never know now,” said Millicent. “As the school and their secrets are kept well-hidden.”

            Harry looked at her blankly.

Hermione assisted.

            “Other wizarding schools like to conceal their whereabouts so nobody can steal their secrets. Hogwarts itself is concealed from Muggles,” she said. Then added, “But I think Durmstrang must be somewhere in the far north. Somewhere very cold because they’ve got fur capes as part of their uniforms.”

            “Ah,” said Ron. “Think of the possibilities. It would’ve been so easy to push Malfoy off a glacier and make it look like an accident…Shame his mother likes him…”

            Several of their friends looked in on them as the afternoon progressed, including Seamus, Dean, and Neville. Seamus was still wearing his Ireland rosette, the tiny voices squeaking the names of Ireland’s members. Dean reached to try and reenchant it but the normally relaxed Seamus pulled away from him in an odd gesture.

            Dean shook it off though, and Harry knocked it down to the superstition of it all.

Neville listened jealously to the others’ conversation as they relived the Cup match.

            “Gran didn’t want to go,” he said miserably. “Wouldn’t buy tickets. It sounded amazing though.”

            “It was,” said Ron. “Look at this, Neville…”

He rummaged in his trunk up in the luggage rack and pulled put the miniature figure of Viktor Krum.

            “Oh, wow,” said Neville enviously as Ron handed him the figurine.

&&&

            They were all positively soaked as they made their way into the castle. Peeves was launching water balloons at unsuspecting fifth years soaking them even further until Professor McGonagall threatened to get Dumbledore.

            Harry sat at the Slytherin table beside a very decidedly not wet Blaise.

“How did you manage this?” Harry asked the dark skinned boy and his dry clothes.

            “What?” asked Blaise. “My mother taught me grooming charms before she was concerned with teaching me how to walk. It’s not my fault your magical education has failed you.”

            Harry laughed.

“Could you at least shoot a drying charm at my underwear then, it’s turning into a swamp down there.”

            Blaise laughed at him but took pity just as the sorting was about to start.

After the sorting hats song, Professor McGonagall called the first name.

            “Ackerley, Stewart!”

“RAVENCLAW!”

            “Baddock, Malcolm!”

“SLYTHERIN!”

            It was normal for the houses to cheer loud for their new classmates, but Slytherin seemed to be trying to outdo even that standard today. They cheered loudly for Baddock, and though the rest of the houses would seem to have every reason to not clap for the newest snake after news of what happened at the Cup had spread, a few gave a polite clap. Even the people at the Gryffindor table who Harry knew had been distressed from the attack didn’t react any different than normal.

            “Creevey, Dennis!”

Tiny, Dennis Creevey, Colin’s brother edged forward, tripping over Hagrid’s moleskin, just as Hagrid himself sidled into the Hall through a door behind the teacher’s table.

            The hat was placed on his head, and the announcement was made:

“GRYFFINDOR!”

            After the sorting and the feast, Professor Dumbledore got to his feet.  

“Now that we are all fed and watered. I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices.”

            Most of the notices were the same, until Dumbledore said, “It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year.”

            “What?” Harry gasped. And Malfoy who hadn’t been paying attention to Dumbledore in the slightest was now shushing everyone in his immediate vicinity so he could hear what the man had to say next.

            “This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teacher’s time and energy, but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts….”

            But at that moment, there was a deafening rumble of thunder and the doors of the Great Hall banged open.

            “Aw,” said Dumbledore as the odd looking man, clunked his way into the Great Hall. “May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher? Everyone, Professor Moody.”

            It was usual for new staff members to be greeted with applause, but none of the staff or students clapped except for Dumbledore and Hagrid. Everyone else seemed too transfixed by Moody’s bizarre appearance to do more than stare at him.

            It was the man’s eyes that did it. One of them was small, dark, and beady. The other was large, round as a coin, and a vivid, electric blue. The blue eye was moving ceaselessly, without blinking, and was rolling up, down, and from side to side, quite independently of the normal eye, and then it rolled right over, pointing at the back of the man’s head so that all they could see was whiteness.

            “As I was saying,” proceeded Dumbledore as Moody took his seat at the staff table. “We are to have the honor of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year.”

            Dumbledore explained the rules, and that it was a competition. One person, a champion, from each of the three major wizarding schools in Europe would compete. Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, and Hogwarts.

            Then and Harry wasn’t sure whether it had to do with the fact that the competition hadn’t been held in a hundred years or the death toll, Dumbledore announced that there would be an age limit.

            Harry could hear all the hopefuls in the Great Hall bust out in outrage. Precautions would be put in place and no one under the age of seventeen would be able to enter. Malfoy looked downright disappointed while a rather large looking Slytherin seventh year merely nodded to himself.

            “The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October and remaining with us for the greater part of this year. I know that you will extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us, and will give your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!”

            They had been dismissed.

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The Best Bacon

This is my submission for the first round of the 2021 NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge. Enjoy!

The Best Bacon

by RL Wilson

Fairy Tale/Impenetrable/a coward

It is a common misconception that farm animals are unaware of their destinies. In fact, they are more aware of their fates than most humans are of theirs. Most farm animals are okay with knowing and sometimes even proud of their purpose. A dairy cow will give milk until its dying day. A sheep, its wool. Horse and oxen provide labor and transport. And what about a pig?

“Mama,” the little piglet squeaked, “How do I become the best bacon?”

Mama snorted from her wallow as the piglet’s siblings suckled greedily at her teats, “You eat, silly piggy.”

And so, the piglet dove in to join his brothers and sisters. The piglet ate and ate until he was near to bursting with milk but could not catch up to his brothers and sisters. One by one they outgrew him. And one by one the farmer came and led them away until the little piglet was the only one left.

“Mama,” said the little pig, “When will the farmer come for me? I want to be good bacon!”

Mama snorted, “Soon, silly piggy.”

But that day did not come, and little pig grew sad. He would never become big enough to be good bacon for the farmer and his family.

One day, when the farmer arrived, he did not come alone. He led a fiery, brown pony with his daughter astride. The pony tossed his head and the girl broke into peals of laughter as the little pig looked on in curiosity.

“You have to groom and feed him every day, my daughter,” the farmer said. “Clean his pen too!”

The girl jumped off the pony and hugged her father, “Thank you, Papa!”

And she came every day, just as her father asked, and the pig found a welcome distraction from his melancholy. She groomed the pony until his coat glistened and the pony would prance proudly as she rode him the field. She mucked the stall and added fresh straw every day. The pony grew rounder and prouder with the feed she gave him. The farmer came everyday too, but not to take the little pig to the butcher’s block. He fed Mama and the little pig with a frown.

“Mama pig, what am I to do with your runt?” He asked Mama one day with a shake of his head. “He is too small to make a proper meal!”  

 The girl, finished with her chores, came over and climbed the fence to look in on the pig, who sat in the muck staring forlornly at his hooves.

“Papa, he looks so sad! Does he have to become sausage? He could be a friend for my pony! He probably wouldn’t be very good sausage.”

The little pig’s ears drooped even more. He was sad to hear the words of the farmer and his daughter. He had a dream of being the fattest pig and the best bacon, but it seemed he was not even good enough for that. He wouldn’t even make good sausage!  

The farmer frowned, “Pigs are not pets, my daughter.”

“Please, Papa!” She begged, hugging her father around the neck.    

The farmer grinned, unable to resist, “Okay, my sweet, but you will be responsible for him and the pony.”

“Yes, Papa!”

And so, the little pig finally said goodbye to his mama and went to live with the pony on the other side of the barnyard. His excitement at possibly being more than bad sausage was interrupted by the cruelty of the pony. The pony chased and nipped at the little pig in good fun, laughing as the pig tried to escape on its short, stumpy legs. The pig ran and ran until was wishing to become sausage again.

The little pig’s only respite was when the little girl came to care for him and the pony. The pony would leave him be and the little girl would bring him baskets filled with leftovers from the farmhouse and the bakery in town. The farmer had only given slop to the little pig and his mouth watered at the sight of fresh vegetables and stale baked goods the girl brought. Potatoes and cabbage and carrots! Stale loaves of sourdough and rye! Sometimes she even brought pie! Sweet pies, savory pies. They became his favorite treat. She would give him a good scratch under his bristly chin and then feed him the delectable goodies.

To both the surprise of the pig and the farmer, the little pig grew to not be so little. With all the food, care, and even all the running he did to avoid the pony’s harassment, he grew fatter and more muscular than any of his siblings had been. However, he found himself not wanting to become bacon anymore. He loved the little girl and how he loved pies! The farmer’s longing glances began to fill the pig with a sense of dread instead of pride.

One day, the little girl came out with a basket containing an apple pie, still steaming from the oven. The pig immediately began to drool at the sight. The girl smiled, but it was a sad smile. She carefully laid the pie in front of the pig and he dove snout first through the warm crust. As he ate, she leaned against him and scratched his favorite spot behind his ears.

“Papa says you are ready to be good bacon,” She sniffed, and the and the pig understood her sadness. However, this was his destiny! To become the best bacon!

“I love you little pig!” She said before breaking into tears and running towards the pony.

Crying, the girl rode the pony out the gate and onto the forest trail. The pig wondered if you could be both sad and happy at the same time. He was sad to leave the girl, but he was happy to final serve his purpose as a pig!

The pig was lying happily in a wallow, bathing in the warmth of the sun to enjoy his final day, when the pony came racing out of the woods.

“Pig! Pig!” The pony wailed. “There is a monster in the wood!”

The pig rose, blinking in his warm stupor to see the pony was disturbingly riderless.

“Pig! The girl fell! I spooked and she fell! Oh, the monster has her! She’s doomed!”

“You left her behind?!” The pig cried, sticking its snout through the fence as the pony shook in his hooves. The pony only lowered his head in shame.

The pig had always believed he was destined to be bacon. He had been proud to become good bacon and to provide to farmer’s family. If he faced a monster, it could kill him and then how would he become good bacon? Besides, what could a little pig like him do? He wasn’t a strong pony or even a boar, but the little girl was in trouble. His little girl! He could stay and wait for the farmer to help her or… He stamped a hoof as he made up his mind.

He backed up to the far corner of the pen and ran as fast as he could toward the fence. The board’s shook with the impact of the pig’s head but did not budge. He did it again. And again. And again.

His snout was filled with splinters, but he didn’t stop. Blood welled from a cut across it as he stepped back one last time. With a squeal, he reared up and leapt forward. He slammed into the boards, the two lowest snapping in a flurry of splinters. The pig tumbled through. Dazed, he shook his head and sniffed at the air. Catching the girl’s scent, he took off running in the wood.

The sound of the boards snapping in twain snapped the pony out of his fright and he followed the pig into the forest. The pig traced the girl’s scent to a glen in the middle of the wood. The pony whinnied in fright as he slid to a stop.

“Oh, there it is! The monster!” He cried.

The pig stared in disbelief. The “monster” was the shadow of a gnarled albeit ugly dead tree on the face of a large rock. The pig ignored the pony’s cries and snuffled at the earth in search of the girl’s scent. He followed the smell around the tree. The little girl sat up against the trunk, hugging her skinned knees to her chest as tears ran down her cheeks. When she saw the pig, she cried out with relief and flung her arms around his thick, pink neck.

“Oh pig!” She cried, “I was so frightened! My leg is hurt, and I thought no one would ever find me, but you came for me!”

The pig told the pony to fetch the farmer and the pony eagerly galloped back out of the wood and away from the “monster”. The girl hopped over to the pig on one leg. She clambered on his back and he carried her carefully out of the wood. The farmer was waiting for them with the pony’s reins in his hands and his face pale with fright for his daughter. He scooped the girl from the pig’s back and into his arms. She sobbed into his broad shoulder as he carried her home.

The farmer came back later to find the pig sitting among the broken fence rails. He called the pig and the pig walked through the hole to stand in front of the farmer. He looked up at the farmer and the farmer looked back with a puzzled smile. The farmer knelt in front of the pig and laid a warm hand on the pig’s head.

“You would have been mighty fine bacon, little pig” the farmer laughed.

The pig never saw the butcher’s block. He lived out his days loved by both the farmer and his daughter. The girl grew older, but she still cared for him every single day, often sneaking him fresh pie from her mother’s kitchen and inviting him on her rides with the pony. The pig died of old age in a meadow of wildflowers under the warmth of the spring sun with the farmer, his daughter, and the old brown pony at his side. Not once in the rest of his lifetime did he think about becoming bacon ever again.

Many believe farm animals are unaware of their fate as food. In fact, they are more aware of their destiny than most humans and find comfort, even pride, in the knowing. They give into the fact that their destiny is unyielding and unchangeable. However, there are some that take matters into their own hooves and force their fate to change.

The End.

Thank you for reading! Feel free to leave critique. This is the first piece of writing I have made public personally and not really reflective of my usual style, but it was fun to write all the same! 

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash