#Paddy bundles

[reveluving]

anything and everything ; paddy feld x reader x max

summary: it’s them and their girl against the fucking world.

warnings: s~mut obv (minors DNI!), Max & Paddy in general (if you've seen the movies, you know how they are. but! they're pretty tame here), minor character death (deserved; horrible ex + cheating but it's okay, you win in the end) including minor mentions of blood & breaking bones type of violence, Paddy & Max would do anything for you.

a/n: ta-da!! you don't know how excited I was to write this. had to rewrite a few things but I was too into the idea, I didn't mind kdlsajk and mind you, it's EXTRA nasty in this one, so, keep that in mind! please enjoy, take care & don’t forget to leave some sugar! ᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟ

» wanna know what I have in store this fall? come & check out this year's 'reve's quirky reverie' m.list! 🕷️'!

» smut includes: mildly DARK fic! mm4f, size kink, lovestruck & possessive (slightly mean) doms!paddy & max, shy-esque mc, ‘baby’ & ‘pretty girl’ as petnames, dirty talking, facesitting/oral s~ex (both f & m receiving, clothed(?) too), spit & tit play, marking, spanking, brief mentions of blood play (doesn’t happen), brief mentions of age gap (legal & consenting!!), teasing & mentions of punishment, did I mention possessive paddy & max yet?

'And it all came down to that very moment, in the middle of nowhere past two in the morning.' ;

Paddy’s fingers thrummed along the shape of the steering wheel, subtly displaying his excitement even at such an hour. The music coming from the radio was partially his saving grace from the fairly long drive but the anticipation of what was to come expelled any form of restlessness in his body.

The road he took practically didn’t exist on the map, but he had no problem navigating his destination the deeper he went into the woods, not when he had taken the route many times for the past couple of months for this very moment.

Slowly yet surely, he spotted a familiar car, the headlights remaining on were enough for Paddy to see a man overlooking something before him. He knew his landlord long enough to recognize the large, taller frame in the distance. He spotted the bundle of clothes by his feet, along with the rocks of different sizes next to it, and Paddy knew he had begun.

Good thing, too, for it was mere hours before your alarm would go off, and they wanted to be by your side as soon as you opened your pretty eyes.

Without wasting any time, Paddy turned the engine of his car off before exiting the vehicle, sauntering over to his good friend—your other partner—and standing next to him.

“Took you long enough.” Max scoffed, though largely jesting to get under Paddy’s skin.

“She slept later than usual.” Paddy explained, one corner of his lips quirking at the memory of mere hours ago, of him snuggling you against him, lulling you to sleep with kisses and pats before quietly leaving the unit once he was confident you were truly out like a light.

“She couldn’t sleep?” Max glanced at his friend, a hint of worry in his rich voice, to which Paddy shook his head.

“She’s just excited for tomorrow.” Ah, Halloween.

Max hummed in understanding, then cut the conversation, or at least, the subject short. As much as he’d love to ask how you were doing, he and Paddy had business to take care of, and the ‘business’ in question stood right in the trench before them.

Chad, or really, they’d just prefer to call him ‘your ex’, stood naked in the ditch, shivering and battered from Max’s need to pour his frustration out on him an hour prior—remembering all the stories you’d tell them of how he had the gall to swoop in and take you from them, even if you weren’t theirs yet. 

It was one thing to steal you from them, but it was another to treat you like you were worth less than cheap dirt. Manipulating you into thinking his mistreatments were just you ‘being a big baby’ or accusing you of how ‘possessive’ you were when he would ‘just casually talk’ to other women when you found the bravery to break up with him a year ago.

But were they really surprised by a pompous man, no, boy, with dodgy secrets? Spending his old money on pointless luxuries and meeting up with low lives behind his old girlfriends’ backs, including yours. It was a good thing you were out of the relationship earlier than his previous exes, but fuck, if Paddy and Max didn’t want to gouge his eyes out for even mistreating you in the first place. 

They could never forget the tears in your eyes and on your cheek when you stopped by, reassuring them with a wobbly smile that you had ended the relationship, but not without seeing the man’s true colours by berating you for leaving him.

But that was in the past. The months that came after were nothing but bliss, for you and them. You didn’t think Paddy nor Max were open to the idea—the three of you—but you were proven wrong. You should’ve expected it, though, with how Paddy and Max were more or less alike, including but not limited to their ‘innocent’ flirting with you before it all went down.

But it wasn’t just the relationship that had them in high spirits.

It wasn’t hard to find his information online—the sucker was as terrible as an ‘influencer’ nowadays, and it was even easier to air his secrets out, destroying relationships including with his own family and even transferring most of his savings to shelters because why the hell not. 

At one point, Max couldn’t resist taking a video of the poor guy borderline begging the lady he cheated with when you were still together at their usual meeting spot at a bar.

He and Paddy had the time of their lives watching the embarrassing scene, even anonymously sharing it on his hacked account before days later, Paddy tampered with the same woman’s drink enough for her to overdose and successfully framed your ex ‘as revenge for public humiliation’. 

Yes, the past few months were priceless, to say the least.

But they never spent the whole time ruining the man’s life all the time, no, they had a beloved to take care of. The time to ruin lives could come whenever they pleased, but not precious moments with you.

Besides, wasn’t it more entertaining to drag out one’s victim’s despair just a little longer? The reactions to their downfall mattered, after all.

And it all came down to that very moment, in the middle of nowhere past two in the morning.

“Doesn't look like he's got a lot of fight in ‘em.” Paddy snorted.

“Good.” Max replied, short but well-pleased.

“Hey, man…” Chad croaked, and Max and Paddy immediately grimaced, “I didn't think she meant that much to you…. Honest…”

The two rolled their eyes in annoyance.

“At least think of a better lie, kid,” Max sighed, “‘s'not like we'd let you go if you did.”

Paddy huffed, amused at the truth in his words. If anything, they'd be doing the world a favour, removing a little parasite—yours, theirs, his ‘friends’ and exes, and hell, even his family—all while getting to call you theirs.

But, it was satisfying to see the pathetic sod being, well, pathetic. A way better look on him than the infuriatingly cocky façade he'd put up around others for whatever the hell he was leering for then.

“I’m not..! I–C'mon, I didn't even lay a hand on her–” Chad reasoned weakly, only to further set them off.

“You better pray you fucking didn't.” Paddy snarled. He and Max knew he didn't, but it didn't ease their anger any less because, at the end of the day, he still manipulated you in some way, using a few tricks to make you seem like you were the ‘overthinking’ one even if it didn't entirely work. 

At the end of the day, he did you harm.

“Alright, y'got anything else to say, kid?” Max leaned his weight on one leg, adjusting the black gloves he had been wearing since he dragged the guy in the middle of nowhere. Paddy, too, put on his gloves as he turned around, all while eyeing the rocks.

“Wait, wait, wait—” Chad spoke in urgency, his teeth chattering from the chilly air, “I can pay up! I won’t tell anybody shit about this–”

“No, you won’t,” Max agreed as he interjected, honestly not wanting to listen to him anymore, “Not especially her name out of your mouth.”

Against his better judgement, Chad had the gall to shout at the mere mention of you.

“Her?” He yelled, his annoyance picking back when Max brought your name up multiple times during this whole thing, “Why the fuck does she matter to you that much anywa–” 

Crunch.

Chad's head whipped to the side as the sizable rock Paddy threw landed at his temple, the sound horrific but satisfying to the two.

“Easy,” Max drawled, swiftly picking up a rock and inspecting it, “No fun in killing him already.” 

“You wanna listen to him talk ‘bout her like that?” Paddy grunted, chest rising and falling at the audacity of a man who was on the brink of death.

“Oh, don't get me wrong. I'm pissed,” Max replied coolly, hiding his temper behind nonchalance. He felt the weight of the rock he held before eyeing Chad with a dangerous look, “But the head? Pat, come on, we made it this far. Play around with him a little.” 

Paddy didn't have the time to reply as Max held the rock above him before throwing it, aiming right at Chad's leg with almost the same, if not, a nastier sound of impact than when Paddy threw it. 

Chad yowled, falling to the ground before groaning in sheer pain. He could only sob on the ground, specks of dirt already in his eyes and mouth.

“See?” Max smiled cruelly, “Make him feel it, just like she had to.”

Just speaking of it riled him up just as it did to Paddy. They wanted to finally, finally get it rid of him, sure, but there was no harm in having fun with it just a little longer. They'd clean up the mess anyway, might as well say their final goodbyes to the son of a bitch for good.

“Yeah… Yeah, alright.” Paddy mirrored his friend's cold-blooded contentment, picking up another rock, this time, hoping to break any parts of his bones without instantly killing him just yet.

And just like that, Chad wished for his ultimate death as they prolonged his torture.

You, back in Paddy’s unit, were none the wiser, slowly from your deep sleep. You turned, anticipating Paddy upon opening your bleary eyes, only to blink at the sight of Max, watching you with a warm smile as he lay on his side.

“Good morning, beautiful.” He greeted, bringing his hand to your face and caressing your cheek.

“G'morning…” You murmured with a shy smile, hiding one side of your face in the pillow.

“Oh, no, don't do that now,” Max chuckled, “Don't hide that pretty face from me.”

Even half asleep, he could make you giggle first thing in the morning.

“How'd you sleep?” He asked, his voice almost enough to lull you back to sleep.

“Good,” You responded, unaware of their little escapade hours ago. You yawned, “You?”

“Like a baby,” He grinned, causing your heart to flutter. In reality, he hadn't had a wink of sleep since he and Paddy drove back home, but the adrenaline of putting the bastard down gave him more than enough energy to see you, “Come here.”

Max gently led you to his lap, encouraging you to straddle his hips while resting your head on his chest, “Atta girl.”

You couldn't resist relaxing in his arms, not when he was so warm and comfortable, and he didn't want you to do so either, kissing the crown of your head while his hands slid up and down your sides.

But you knew Max long enough to know his touches didn't always stay innocent as his hands roamed lower and lower and lower before reaching the hem of your nightdress.

You eyed him suspiciously, “Max…”

He just hummed, leaning in to kiss your temple and cheek, “That's me.” 

You huffed at his wits, only for your eyes to flutter shut as his hands roamed under the fabric, “Max, c'mon, I just woke up…”

You were a little worried about your morning breath and how you looked from just waking up, but he was having none of it.

“Can't hear you.” He drawled lowly against your skin, pulling you closer so he could latch his lips onto your neck. You jolted at the feeling of Max's palms gripping and kneading your ass, your body only growing tauter when a third hand slid up the curve of your back.

 trick-or-treaters“Starting without me, pretty girl?” Paddy cooed, leaning in to kiss your cheek, the other side that Max hadn't touched yet.

“Paddy…” You whimpered, and as soon as you turned your head to look at him, briefly noticing he was shirtless, he slotted his lips against yours, the fingers of his other hand brushing along your neck before descending to your clothed breasts.

The haziness in your mind grew more than when you woke up, feeling pairs of lips and hands mark your body with vigour.

Max sat up, forcing you and Paddy to break the kiss as he slid the straps of your dress down your shoulders.

Paddy took a seat on the edge of the mattress, kissing your shoulder from behind, feeling his spine-chilling groans reverberating against your back. 

And with two sick minds thinking alike, images of you covered in your ex’s blood in between them fueled their uncontrollable desires. Too bad every last drop of it had to be drained for obvious reasons. But it wouldn't hurt to imagine what could've been every once in a while. 

So long the deed was done. 

Good riddance, bitch.

Paddy pulled at your tits between his fingers, the same time Max nipped at the space between your neck and shoulder, leaving the barest hint of mark that begged to be darker. 

More long-lasting, prominent for the world to see.

“How ‘bout it, baby? Think you can for a quick round before we let you go?” Max asked. They could've convinced you to stay in bed longer if not for the candies you had promised to buy before the last minute in the afternoon for trick-or-treaters tonight.

“We'll take good care of you.” Paddy added, as they always did.

You pleaded with the two with a look that was to die for and it wouldn't take long for them to act upon your request, leaving you in your pretty undies, almost tearing off your sleepwear when they removed the pesky article.

Max was eager to lay on his back, encouraging you to move back a little and position your ass just above his face, making you face Paddy, whose pants were off, teasing you by fondling his prominent tent with a smug smile.

You weren't sure whether to focus on him or Max’s cock standing tall each time you looked down, awaiting your soft lips and its careful licks.

You jumped at Max’s playful slaps and massages of your ass, prompting Paddy to coo as he neared until his shins touched the bed.

“Playin’ a lil’ rough, isn’t he, baby?” He cradled your jaw, almost condescendingly mimicking your parted lips as Max licked you through the flimsy panties. He gently led your head by the chin to his bulge and sighed in contentment, “Yeah, that’s my good girl.”

“My good girl.” Max grunted, biting his lips upon moving your panties to the side before licking a big stripe along your pussylips like a man starved, even more so when he couldn’t help but spank you three more consecutive times, downright suffocating himself when trapped your thighs around his head.

“Max…” You cried into Paddy’s tented pants, nuzzling him like it would calm Max down, but they couldn’t blame you, knowing your mind was already mush. 

You could already imagine the familiar beard burns decorating your inner thighs.

Paddy pouted, “Baby, ‘m’feeling a lil’ lonely,” Brushing your bottom lip with his thumb, he stared at your through lidded eyes, “You know what t’do, yeah?”

You did, you always did.

Keeping your eyes on him, you mouthed along the girth of him, leaving little trails of drool because ‘there is nothing sexier than our sweet girl making a mess out of them’. Their words, not yours.

Giving a low growl, he slid his sweatpants down for you, “That’s it.”

He didn’t bother putting on boxers, already anticipating such ‘morning routine’ if he and Max were going to make it until the evening before they could get their hands on you again.

Of course, that didn’t mean they’d play nice behind closed doors when the trick-or-treaters weren’t around.

His pants dropped to the floor with a soft thud, his hard cock ached for you if the subtle twitches were anything to go by.

But Max, still eating you out and practically leaving marks on your behind, shoved his tongue into you just a tad deeper, reminding you that he, too, needed you.

You could only let a little glob of drool drip onto Max’s cock, then slowly wrapped your fingers around it before sliding your hand down to the base. Paddy clenched his jaw, greedy for the same treatment when Max bucked into your hand. He loosened just a tad bit when you finally leaned in, taking a small, cautious lick at the tip of him.

Somehow, somehow, Max knew your teasing behaviour and brought his palm down on your already sensitive rear. You weren’t sure how he wasn’t begging for air at this point the more your thighs tightened around him—if only you knew how much he wouldn’t mind dying that way.

Paddy tutted in disapproval, gently tapping his cock on your cheek, “Not very nice of you.”

“Think she deserves a little punishment?” Max spoke against your cunt, spreading your cheeks and downright spitting at your hole.

“I’m sure she can handle a few,” Paddy responded, eyes rolling back when you moaned around him the more he pushed himself into your mouth. He continued through gritted teeth, “And then, we’ll give her everything. Just like she deserves.”

˚ · . f i n . · ˚

» a/n: this was initially a standalone fic for Max but then I was like mmm OMG what about with Max and Negan but then... I also wanted to write for Paddy, so... yeah ;; gorgeous divider by @firefly-graphics ♡

[pandora-writes-one-piece]

The Ghost From The Barrow

Source for pic

Word Count: 6049

Tags: Fem!Reader, NSFW - Oral - you giving and creampie, alternate universe - Scotland, 13th century - cursing, angst, angst without happy ending, gore, blood, death, MDNI!!! 🔞

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Summary: You are the daughter of a clan chief in the Highlands, though you are more trouble than you are worth. Some thugs capture you and attempt to demand a ransom, but things don't exactly go their way when their leader, Kid, discovers what you are truly made of.

Notes: This was heavily inspired by the song “The Ghost From The Barrow” by Paddy and the Rats. It was going to go in a very different direction, much similar to the lyrics of the song, but the story took its own turn and I liked it like this! I hope you do too. Also, the research I did was very shallow, so if you're from Scotland and I got something wrong, I'm so sorry! Also, I had to go with Kilt wearing Kid. 🥴🤤 Have fun! 

Tag List: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 (if you don't want to be tagged for other stories other than the meet-cute, please tell me!)

Sidenote: I used a real sigil for the reader’s clan: Clan MacKenzie. 

Terms: 

Barrow - An ancient burial mound;

Tartan - A woolen cloth with a specific design associated to a specific clan;

Laird - A lord, someone who owns a large estate;

The early morning mist left a familiar dampness upon your hair. Rolling hills of verdant expanse stretched lazily before you. Ancient stone markings of softly defined borders marked one pasture from another, the neighbours, practically family, not caring if the cattle meandered from one side to the other. Heavy tendrils of fog still permeated the mountains and mounds above and you had to cut your morning walk short. You knew those barrows like the back of your hand, but the legends of ancient restless souls still lurked freshly in your mind. 

Turning back around, you gathered the skirts of your woollen dress, which hung loosely over your chemise, so you wouldn’t wet the hem of the dress this early in the day. You wore the clan’s tartan over your shoulders to protect you from the earlier chill. The blues and greens of the plaid fabric contrasted heavily with the simple brown you chose to wear. Your mother would be sick to her stomach upon your sight, once more. You were the unruly daughter, the one that could not be tamed and you knew your parents cursed the day you were born. 

As wild as the Highlands, as stubborn as a mare. Your father used to jest that no man would ever want you for a wife because you were not docile enough to be domesticated. Respect came with a heavy price in your household and you held your tongue back from lashing at him. But the sting his words left upon you was enough to completely destroy the bundle of hay you used to practise your archery shots. 

Your father was a laird of the most prominent households of the Highlands, and the current head of the clan. You were the daughter of the chief. You were supposed to act with the status that your lineage carried. Except you very rarely did. And you had the nagging feeling your father wished to have killed you at birth, as they do with unwanted kittens. 

This was a day like any other. You fled your castle without the consent of your family, escaping through one of the many passages you knew by heart, so you could absorb the peace that the morning brought you. The eerie quietness of the barrows, the rustles of the leaves from the forest and, here and there, the lonesome call of the ravens. 

Your father had warned you a million times not to leave without guards.

Your mother had forbidden you a million and one times from walking out the door at all. 

Your older brother had always counselled you to take your bow anywhere you went.

You heeded none of them.

Yet, it was still with some surprise and with a heavy pounding of your heart, that you realised you were being surrounded. Four mighty horses as black as the night approached fast, their nostrils flaring and smoking. You didn’t even try to outrun them for it would have been an impossible task. The men mounting them surrounded you quickly, using the horses to keep pacing a tight circle around you. There were grins on their faces, each taller than the last, each scarier.

Scars and untreated wounds, long unkempt hair, one even had a rudimentary mask over his face. They were terrifying. You searched for a tartan but the plaids they wore belonged to no clan. You had never seen the yellow and black in any of your father’s gatherings and the sigil they wore was clearly one of outcasts and thieves: a burning skull with the same yellow and black plaid tied to the head.

“What do we have here?” The one in the mask asked, his voice thick with delight, a hint of a mischievous smile you were not privy to. 

“A little lass, eh?” The tallest one replied. He was the only one without a smile on his face, his voice thundering around you.

“She seems sweet.” The one with hollow eyes and scars on his mouth spoke softly.

Your hands shook and the shiver that coursed through you had nothing to do with the biting wind of the Highlands. The red-headed man pursed his lips as he looked you over. If they found out you were the chief’s daughter, you would surely be used as ransom bait.

Or worse. 

Inhaling deeply, you fought to find your voice. “I am a mere villager, good sirs. I was going to collect some herbs for healing, nothing more. Some lavender and calendula. Chamomile to soothe aches. Please let me return to my home. I have young children to care for.” You tried your best to lace your voice with humility and sweetness, fighting against all of your instincts to spit at their feet and demand their heads for this outrage. 

The one who spoke with a soft voice smiled at you. “Poor thing, she looks scared, Captain.” He was looking at the redhead. He was the leader then. So he was the one you had to reason with.

“Yes, Captain, I am so very frightened. Please, I just want to return home.” Trying your best to look terrified - which wasn’t that hard since you were frightened - you warmed your features and fell to your knees, adding dramatics to your reaction. 

“Maybe we should let her go.” The one with the mask replied, tilting his head to one side. “She does look like a commoner.”

The captain dismounted his horse and you gulped as he approached you. He was tall and bulky, with an impressive figure. His lips were tinted red and he wore a piece of cloth on his head to keep the hair out of his eyes with the same yellow and black plaid of their sigil. His kilt was of dark brown plaid, resembling dried blood, and his legs were as thick as logs. 

“Sir…” You whimpered and tried to appear small. His face kept drawing near and you held your breath as his cloak slipped and you realised he was missing an arm. “Please…” Another whimper.

His lips pursed further as he raised an eyebrow and he sniffed you.

A gasp left your lips at the outrage and your cheeks flushed crimson. How dared he? His hand darted forward and he pulled the tartan off your chest, revealing the brooch you had on your dress, the one with your father’s sigil: a mountain in flames with the words ‘I shine, not burn’ engraved.

His lips pulled back to reveal a frightening set of sharp canines and he finally spoke. It was akin to a roar and it managed to bristle all the hairs on your body. “Take her, ya fools. She smells clean. She’s highborn, for sure.”

You made sure the whole of the Highlands heard you screaming and you wouldn’t go down without a proper fight. You bit and sank your nails into flesh, you kicked and punched all while sputtering curses upon curses over the group. Vile words, not fit for a lady of your status, filled with hate, brimming with rage.

And they all laughed at you.

Your efforts were for naught. You were easily captured.

-*-

You were held like a sack of potatoes, hanging limply over the masked man’s shoulder. They had subdued you easily and tied your hands behind your back. You were still kicking, so with more rumbling laughs, they tied your feet for good measure. 

They rode with you on their horses for the entire day, placing a blindfold over your eyes to disorient you to where their hideout was. You were passed around from mount to mount - never to the leader’s horse, though - as if you were a plaything and a new toy for them to play with. 

You should be trembling with fear, yet all the trembling came from pure rage. You wanted to punch something, claw, bite, anything! This feeling of helplessness was overwhelming and intensified by the second.

The masked man set you down ungracefully by a fire and removed the blindfold, making you blink to adjust your vision. 

“Here we are, lass. Make yourself at home.” He chuckled low and you gritted your teeth. They hadn’t roughed you up, but you were still sore from the daylong horse ride. Your throat was dry and your lips were cracked. 

“Can…” You cleared your throat to find your voice again, but it was raw from screaming. “Can I get some water?”

He tsked and turned his back on you, leaving you slumped and looking defeated. Your wrists and ankles were sore from the tightness of the rope and you were pretty sure there was blood as well. 

They left you alone in that position for a while, until the man with the scars on his mouth approached you slowly. Using a knife, he cut the ropes from your ankles and then the ones on your wrists.

Whimpering you brought your hands close to your chest and rubbed your wrists softly. You were right, they were bloodied and bruised. 

“Here.” He extended a wooden bowl filled with water, which you immediately downed with a heavy sigh.

“Thank you.” You mumbled noticing your voice was less coarse now. 

He smiled softly and took out some mashed herbs from a leather pouch, applying the mixture to your wrists. You could smell lavender, calendula and yarrow in the mixture. Someone knew what they were doing, for they were healing herbs. 

“You did this?” You asked softly. Clearly this man was the one you could easily approach since all the others were too closed off. He nodded proudly and you patted his hand. “Thank you. What’s your name?” You gave him your name as well so he felt more confident in sharing his.

“I’m Heat.”

���That is a lovely name. Thanks for helping me, Heat.” Another smile. Maybe you could work him well enough to flee.

“Get away from her.” The leader’s orders made Heat stiffen up and he got up with a slight jump, leaving your side without looking back.

“I know what yer doing, lil’ lass.” His thick accent became more enunciated because he was angry, you noticed. So you decided to make him angrier and see where that would get you. Crossing your arms over your chest, you offered him your best annoyed look.

“I’m afraid I do not know what you mean. Thug.” You finished with a smirk.

Grunting, his lips curled upwards, drawing that dangerous smile that made your heart pound.

“Ya want to domesticate my men, lil’ lass, ya can’t! They obey my command.” His figure towered over yours and he was intimidating you. Wincing in pain and discomfort, you got up, still nowhere near his face, fists clenched into tiny little balls of fury as your eyes sparkled with rage.

“What do you want from me? A ransom? Well, send the letter! I’m sure my father will be more than happy to pay you scoundrels to get me back! Or do you not know how to write?” You stomped your foot right in the middle of his parted legs and stood almost flush to his frame, a snide crossing your lips, taunting him. “I’m not afraid of you!”

Yet, you were. Pretty scared, actually. Even more so because you doubted your father would care enough about you to pay a ransom. 

You could feel rage seething from his body in short waves. His orange eyes flaming like burning fire, the same fire you felt coursing through your veins in defiance. He gave no warning as his hand wrapped around your throat, tight enough to prevent almost all of the air from coursing freely, enough to leave a bruise, but not enough to truly hurt and cut your air supply.

He lifted you up to his eye level easily, as your nails scratched and clawed at his forearm, leaving red angry trails on his skin, yet he showed no signs of being hurt by your flailing.

“Ya should be. Ya should be pissin’ yer pants.” His jaw kept clenching and unclenching as his eyes raked over your body. He took out his long, wet tongue and licked a stripe from your neck to your ear, making your insides burn and your legs clench together with want. “Tasty.” He grumbled as your eyes bore into his.

“Taste this, then.” You grunted between gasps and, clenching your own jaw, you bent your knee and hit him right in his balls, making him grunt and bend forward, letting go of your neck at the same time as he curled, his hand holding his dick tight.

You coughed and wheezed for air, falling on your knees and taking deep gasps to try and steady your breathing. Your hands pressed and soothed the burn in your throat. 

“You lil’ whore!” He grumbled as he strode towards you again.

“I’ve been called worse!” You grinned with bravado you didn’t have, waiting for the blow to come, for his hand to strike, or his feet. Whatever he wanted to use, and you knew it would hurt. Your eyes shut in anticipation as your heart created its own insane rhythm in your chest.

Yet the blow didn’t come.

All you heard was the leader’s rumbling laugh echoing in the forest as he paced away from you.

-*-

Days passed and you remained a prisoner. They left you unbound because there was no way you could ever escape their watch. Heat brought you food and water and sometimes talked with you, when the leader wasn't around to scold him. 

You learned that the letter had been sent to your father, yet he still hadn't responded. So they sent another one. 

There was a feeling of dread coiling around your stomach. What if your father didn’t want to pay your ransom? You had more brothers and sisters. What good would a bratty child who obeyed no orders do in his household? Perhaps it was better for him to say that you lost your life to the whims of thieves.

It might even grant him more support. 

You spent a restless night worrying about this and you cried your heart out. Heat noticed your forlorn expression and defeated demeanour in the morning and returned to you with clean clothes. A plain dress and a worn out man’s shirt. You looked at him warily until he grabbed your hand and led you to the forest.

For a moment you thought he might be setting you free. A rush of happiness spread its tendrils across your heart and you grinned. Until you realised he was only taking you to a lake.

He seemed so happy, though, that you still smiled softly at him. “You can bathe.” He whispered your name softly. “I’ll keep watch.”

His offer was tempting. There was grime under your fingernails, caked blood on your wrists, knees and ankles and your hair… you didn’t even want to get started on your hair.

So you thanked him politely and he turned to give you some privacy, leaving a bundle of soapwort in your hands. A plant that, if wet, creates a lather that can cleanse grime and leave a nice herbal scent behind. You were sure he would turn around as soon as you took off your clothes, but he was still the sweetest of the thugs and you had warmed up to him. You doubted he would try something with you. 

Leaving your stained clothes in a pile so you could wash them later, you dipped your toes in the water. It was ice cold, despite the warm weather outside. Still, you really needed to bathe. So, closing your eyes, you dove gracefully, emerging only once the burn settled against your lungs from lack of air. 

Letting out an unbridled laugh, you splashed a bit of water before using the soapwort plant to cleanse yourself properly. You used it on your hair as well and, after a little bit, you started to make your way back so you could wash your clothes. You didn’t want to take too long in the lake because you didn’t want to cause any trouble for Heat. 

However, the sight that greeted you when you turned around made you freeze as your eyes widened and your breath caught in your throat. The leader, the captain. He was staring at you, his back leaning against the trunk of a tree and his lips pursed. Heat was nowhere to be found. He must have discovered both of you here and sent Heat away. 

You swallowed a lump in your throat but made no motion to cover yourself. Your breasts were out of the water, nipples erect from the cold and goosebumps all over your skin. He was close enough to see the way you were shivering and the way your chest rose with each gasping breath. 

He pulled away from the tree and with nimble fingers began to untie his kilt. First the knot over his shoulder, then he started untucking the sides until it finally fell down in a heap. The shivers that shook your body now had definitely nothing to do with the chilliness of the lake. He took a long stride forward and with one swift movement of his arm, the shirt came off. 

Biting your lower lip you took in his muscular form. He was bulky and heavy, built like a strong bull. His chest was made of ripped muscles and heavy scars. Lowering your eyes, you couldn't stop your thighs from clenching together, seeking some friction. His cock was big, girthy and already half hard. It would be monstrous at full length. 

He took off the cloth holding his hair back and finally entered the water with a hiss. His eyes never left you nor did yours leave him. 

You were no stranger to desire and intercourse. You were the chief's daughter, but you were no maiden. And what you felt for your captor now was true, unbridled desire. And you could see that he felt the same toward you. 

Would either of you act upon it? 

Shaking your head and gulping, you strode forward, aiming to leave the lake, perhaps? Yet he blocked your path easily. The water hit him around the knees and a quick look down told you he was now standing at full attention. 

Screw it. 

You were wound as tight as a rope and release would probably do you some good. Besides, he seemed like a good lay. 

You approached him, slowly climbing out to the shallow part of the lake, the water lowering until he could see your mound. His lips curled up and he licked them at a leisurely pace. 

“Kneel, lil’ lass.” He grunted and, for once, you obeyed him willingly. 

Falling forward on your knees, you wasted no time. Using your hands to pump his cock a few times, you gathered the precum at the top and then used your tongue to lather it around his girth. He hummed low when you brought your other hand to cup his balls and squeeze. 

“Fuck. That's good.” 

His praise made you mewl into him as you hollowed your cheeks and fought against the gag reflex to take all of him inside your mouth. It was a stretch, but you could do it. 

Hissing, he tangled his fingers in your wet hair, holding your head in place as he took over and fucked your mouth with relentless thrusts. Tears gathered at the corners of your eyes when his tip bullied the back of your throat. Heat began pooling in your abdomen, its tendrils spreading slowly and steadily, burning at your core, demanding attention. 

You used one hand to grab his thick, hairy thighs for purchase, and another to friction against your throbbing clit, moaning into him, the vibrato of your mewls making him fasten his pace with sloppier thrusts. “Fuck, fuck. Open wide lass.” And that was all the warning you got before his thick, salty cum dripped down your throat as you swallowed and he pulled out, a small string of saliva connecting him to you still. 

He stared at your face, swollen lips, teary eyes and jaw standing open as your hand continued to press and circle against your clit, small moans leaving your parted lips. 

“Fuck. C’mere.” Resting his large hand on your chin, he motioned for you to stand up, and you obeyed. He pried your fingers away from yourself and pressed your hand so you could spread them open. A string of your own slick connected your index and middle fingers and you blushed. The Captain chuckled and swirled his tongue around them, collecting any remaining drops of your juices as you gasped and stifled a moan. “Hmm, none of that lil’ lass. Yer going to scream my name. Don't ye dare hold back.”

“I don't know your name.” You said, your eyes sparkling with mischievousness. 

Curling his lips back, he grasped your wet hair again, pulling you for an open mouthed kiss, combining your juices with the lingering taste of his cum until your head was spinning and begging for air. “It's Kid.” He panted as he pulled apart from you. 

“Fuck me, Kid.” Your hand found his cock already hard again and you had no doubt that this man had the stamina of a horse. 

“Will do, lass.” His fingers dug into your mound and you moaned as they descended to your swollen clit. “Let's see how ready ye are for me.” His fingers were long and thick and as he inserted one inside you to collect some slick, you arched your back and rolled your hips against his touch. “Hmm, needy, are ye?”

He rolled his wet finger against the bundle of nerves and then inserted two digits, stretching them and then letting them go further, deeper. Your nails dug into his chest as your head fell back in abandonment. “Kid!” You panted, his fingers filling you up deliciously. A gasp left you breathless as he inserted a third finger, using his thumb to press against your clit as he stretched you further. “Gods! Kid!”

“I know, lass, I know.” He grunted near your ear and the deep rumbling that came from his voice made you snap as you came in his hand. Arching your back and clawing his chest you moaned loud, repeating his name in a crescendo as you reached your high. “That was a good one, lass.” He sucked at your neck and bit hard to bring you back but you mewled again as you leaned into him, too dazed out to do anything else. 

But he was not done. Using his arm, he lifted you up and with a swift motion, impaled his cock inside your slick hole, making you scream as you clenched your legs around his waist. 

“Hold on, lass, this will be a rough ride.” His digits dug into your flesh as his arm circled your hips holding you in place as he pounded relentlessly, his pace brutal, and you didn't know how he could stay standing up because you could barely open your eyes, let alone stand. 

The pleasure built in waves that kept crashing and chasing away your sanity. You had never been fucked like this before. Captain Kid was fucking you senseless. Your pants increased in fervour as you felt yourself getting closer and closer to coming again. His dick filled you perfectly and hit spots inside you that made you see white. 

“Kid, fuck, gods!”

“Scream louder!” He growled and thrust faster, making your toes curl as you crushed him in a hug, thighs clenching tight against him and nails drawing blood from his back. You did scream. Loud as a banshee and you were positive his entire camp heard you scream his name like a whore.

His release was not far behind, and you knew that because there were beads of sweat on his temples, his thrusts were sloppier and he was grunting heavily. But you were so close again. “Harder.” You begged against his ear, your fingers circling your burning and overstimulated clit, trying to chase that last high. 

“Lil’ whore.” He growled and gave you what you wanted. Three fast thrusts that made you shake and come with a flash of white as he followed suit. You felt his release inside you, filling you up and dripping down your legs into the lake in soundly, heavy plops. 

You were still clinging to him like he was your lifeline, both panting and sweating, chests heaving and legs trembling. 

“I'm putting ya down, now.” He said between pants and you whined when he pulled out of you, leaving you empty. You were not steady on your legs so he still held your waist. 

“Fuck.” You muttered, still catching your breath, a wave of dizziness overcoming your senses. 

“I thought maidens didn't curse.” He chuckled. 

“Yeah? Well, maidens don't suck cocks either. So why do you think I'm one?” His genuine laughter made your heart tingle and constrict against your chest and you were not quite sure what this foreign feeling was. What you did know was that you wanted to hear it again. 

-*-

Days passed, yet you didn't really think you were a prisoner anymore. You slept with Kid every night and he took you whenever he felt like it, making good on the claim that you were his good little whore. You couldn't care less. You felt free. 

One night, after screaming his name until your throat was raw - you've come to realise he loves it when you scream his name - you asked him bluntly. 

“My father refused to pay the ransom, did he not?” The scoff that left your throat was meant to be dismissive and aloof, yet there was also the bitter taste of tart tears in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. 

“Aye.” He grunted as he pulled your naked body closer to his. “I'm sorry.”

You didn't want his compassion, it wasn't what you were looking for. Yet, it felt nice. As if you meant something more to him than just his prisoner whore. 

“I was never good for anything but to cause trouble for him, anyway. Like this he doesn't need to find me a husband.” You snorted. “You know what I did to the last one he tried to set me up with? The one who said I couldn't be ‘domesticated’?” Kid's gaze fell on yours, an amused expression wrinkling the corners of his eyes. “I bit off his balls when he tried to fuck me into submission.” Shrugging, you threw out your tongue as Kid burst into a fit of laughter. 

“Aren't ya a feisty lil’ lass?” His chest heaved until his laughter died down. You felt droopy and your eyes started to close, drifting closer and closer to sleep. “Maybe ya can be my wife. We'll see if I can domesticate ya.”

You didn't quite know if he was kidding or not, but sleep claimed you with a smile on your lips at the thought of being Kid's wife. 

-*-

You were woken up in the middle of the night by loud screams and the clangs of swords and axes. Kid wasn't by your side when you rolled over and got up, hastily dressing in your chemise and dress. It sounded like a battle, so you grabbed the bow you kept by your side of the bed. Kid made you that bow once he realised you were very good with it. 

You had been by his side for over a year now. He made you his wife, as he said he would, and there were more nights when you actually made love instead of just fucking. 

You had come to love him. Deeply. And you were positive he loved you back, even though he wouldn't admit it to a soul. He would say love made you weaker or something like that. Times had been kind for your new clan and you had all found peace. 

Yet that thought was quickly swept away once you stepped outside of your hut and were greeted with the sight of burning buildings, slaughtered people and Kid and his men fighting. 

Gripping your bow harder and tighter, you found a secluded perch by climbing onto the roof of the hut and started to take out man after man. They didn't even realise what happened until they were left bleeding on the floor, meeting their final demise at the hands of one of Kid's men or Kid himself, who saw you immediately when an arrow whizzed past his ear. 

It wasn't until the tenth body hit the floor that you realised that these men belonged to your father's clan. Their tartan was clearly the pattern you were so familiar with. That realisation gave away your location and in a heartbeat you were being dragged by your hair, your body hitting the ground with a loud oof, as the air was sucked out of your lungs. As the assailant grabbed his sword, ready to pierce you with the blade, you kicked him hard in the shin and you heard the sickening crunch of bone breaking before he screamed. 

Getting up with a pained grunt, you realise that you must also have broken a few ribs as you were pulled down from the roof, because it hurt to breathe. Still clutching your bow to your chest, you made your way forward, shooting arrows as you went, aiding people in their escape. All the while your eyes were searching for Kid as your heart hammered against your chest. He was nowhere to be seen and that left you anxious. 

And distracted. 

A sharp pain travelled from your thigh to your groin and shot everywhere in short stabbing bursts of pain. There was a blade protruding from your leg and hot droplets of tears threatened to escape your eyes. “Fuck.” You grunted as you turned around, searching for whoever was responsible for this, bow stretched and arrow already in place. 

“It's true, then.” The familiar voice of your brother left you breathless for a moment, making you lose your focus. “You really have become that scoundrel’s whore. I couldn't believe it until I saw it.”

Your jaw clenched as you inhaled short breaths, trying to focus on something other than the throbbing pain in your thigh. He was standing too close for a proper arrow shot and your vision was getting blurry. You would never make the shot even if you wanted to. 

“I'm not his whore. I'm his wife.” You spat at him, rage making your voice tremble. 

Your brother's cackles were like another knife piercing your heart. 

“That's precious. You're still dying. You're no longer family.”

And he lunged forward, sword raised in the air in a stance you'd known your whole life as you'd watched your brothers learn how to fight in the shadows. You knew when to duck, when to move away, and when to jump. He was predictable and his moves were still the same after all these years. You could win this. 

If you weren't bleeding and your movements weren't impaired. 

He struck forward and you knew you had to move left. It was all you had to do, really. But your leg gave out, and he stabbed his sword into your sternum. 

You had never felt pain like this before. It started slowly, in the middle of your chest, but then, as if in waves, it began to spread, leaving you numb and cold. As you fell to your knees, you could see the snicker spreading on your brother's lips. Until it turned into a grimace and blood started to sputter from his mouth as he grunted. 

There was a heavy blade sticking out of his chest, followed by a pained grunt as the sword climbed up his torso, ripping him in two right before your eyes. 

You saw the panting figure of Kid behind him, his breaths coming out in shaken gasps as his face contorted into a pained frown when he laid eyes on you. “No! No, no, no!”

He rushed forward, letting his blade fall to the ground, and his arm circled you desperately. 

You were dying. You knew that. 

A smile found its way to your blood-stained lips as your eyes locked with bright orange ones. Caressing his cheek left a red streak of blood on his skin, but it was quickly washed away by a stream of tears from his eyes. 

“Hey, no crying.” You whispered slowly. The pain was drifting away. “Thank you.”

“No, no. Ye can't leave lil’ lass! I didn't give ya permission!”

Your chuckle turned into a coughing fit, blood spurting everywhere as Kid cradled you in his big arm. Around you shouts were heard, soldiers sounding the retreat. The threat had been thwarted for now. 

“Kid.” Your voice could barely be heard, but you needed to get his attention. “Kid, please. Don't hold a grudge. Please.” You whined and closed your eyes as the numbness relented and gave way to the pain. 

He pulled you against him, trying to hold you carefully but, at the same time, holding you firmly as if it were the last time - it was the last time - his kilt was now completely soaked in your blood. 

“Promise me.” You said firmly, your hand trying to find his cheek again, but failing miserably as you could barely find the strength. “Grudges create lost souls. I can't have you away from me in the afterlife. Promise.” You admonished him. 

He nodded against your face, taking your lips with his, trying to stifle a sob as his shoulders heaved and rocked with the effort. 

“I love you…” Your whisper got lost somewhere in the limbo of eternity as the sparkle of life burned away in your eyes. There was a moment of stillness, Heat, Killer and Wire gathered behind Kid, still as logs. The forest ceased its rustling, and even the animals stopped their sounds. The world stopped spinning when you left it, and Kid lost a piece of himself. 

It was his piercing agonising scream that brought the world back, crashing into rotation, but never the same. 

-*-

Kid didn't really promise you not to hold a grudge. He just nodded. And even if he had made a promise, he was a thief and a scoundrel. Lying was a part of him. 

He did hold a grudge. 

A huge one. He hunted down every single member of your family and slaughtered them all. No one associated with your clan was left alive to tell the tale. Be they elderly or children, Kid was merciless. 

He would not rest until his vengeance was fulfilled. He had never felt love the way he did for you. He had never felt affection the way he did for you. 

And he had never grieved harder. 

If he was suffering, those that caused that suffering should be put to the same misery. 

And he fulfilled that vow. Until he was caught and sentenced to hang in the gallows. 

Yet, he would hang with a smile upon his tainted lips. He had avenged you. None of your clan was left alive to tell the tale, he had made sure of it. And he was hopeful that once his body turned cold and lifeless, he would meet you, in the afterlife. 

So you could spend eternity together, as it should have been. 

The clock struck the hour and Kid was hanged. Killer, Wire and Heat stood watching, heads low and hidden behind cloaks, as their captain paid the price of vengeance. 

Killer was proud of his fearless friend. 

Wire was saddened that it ended this way. 

Heat was worried, because he knew vengeful spirits could not find rest in eternity. 

Heat was right. 

The spirit of Eustass Captain Kid roamed the Highlands. A ghoulish spectre haunting the barrow, searching for his lost wife, forever aiming to find her in the eternity of the afterlife. 

Yet she had warned him. 

Grudges create lost souls. 

So if you find yourself roaming any barrow in the Highlands, whether at night or during the day, know that the wailing you hear is that of the captain, grieving his lost love and the life he was denied. 

Though he avenged her in the end. 

But at what cost? 

[veryveryverytemporarily]

So I wrote this ficlet for Christmas then didn't post it because I wanted to add to it, but then the converstaion with Aaron about ghosts made me realize I'd written the same idea haha. So here it is anyway...

‘Oh, Aaron, I was hoping I’d see you. Can I have a word? Not here, outside?’

There was something about her eyes, so he’d put back the mince pies he’d been going to buy and followed her into the night.

She’d kept walking until she was out of earshot of customers choosing vegetables, and then she’d turned and looked up at him, face lit by sparkling angels high above them on Main Street.

‘It’s about Christmas.’

‘Did my Mum put you up to this? I’m not joining her for the Dingle dinner this year, I’ve told her that.’

‘No, not your Mum. This is about my Christmas, well, mine, and yours, too.’

She was searching his face, and something about her expression made him suddenly breathless. He took a step backwards, buried his hands in his pockets.

‘So, wh…what then…is it that you want me to babysit Harry? Is it that? ‘Cos you know I will...,’ he could hear a tremor in his voice.

‘No, Aaron, not that.’

Her eyes were like saucers looking back at him and he felt his strength seeping into the night.

‘There’s no easy way of telling you this…,’ she said.

‘Telling me what?’

She reached up and held his sleeve, he could feel his heart blundering around in his chest even before she spoke. Hadn’t he had enough knocks?

But he knew what she was going to say, and when she did speak, her words were just an echo, as if time had splintered and sent him ahead so he opened his mouth…

‘It’s Robert,’ they both spoke in unison.

‘…isn’t it?’ he added weakly, looking down at the glistening black surface of the road where he could see stars reflected.

‘Yes,’ Vic was still holding his sleeve, anchoring him. ‘Robert’s coming home. He’s been released.’

He stood at the top of the drive going down to the Mill. Watching.

He saw his Mum outside wearing dark glasses against the afternoon winter sunshine and a warmer round her wrists. Paddy, calling out to her, wrapped in a red scarf, held Evie’s hand as they made their way over towards the entrance of the Woolpack.

Bundled up in a kid’s fur coat, Evie saw him from the distance, smiled, and waved.

He waved back, then when Chas turned in his direction, he looked away. He had no space in his head for the aggro. Not today.

So, instead he returned to watching the turning at the top of the street. Watching for a taxi.

‘I’ve got a return flight booked to Southampton to bring him back. He said he’d manage on his own, but he’ll be disorientated in the big wide world and I want to make sure he gets here alright,’ Vic had said. ‘I don’t even know how much cash they give them, the discharge grant or something, I read about it on the families forum.’

‘Seventy-six pounds,’ Aaron had stated.

‘And then what? Left to fend for yourself on the street if you haven’t got family?’ Vic observed darkly.

‘Well luckily he’s got you,’ Aaron had answered, swallowing. What he’d wanted to hear her say was ‘And you.’ But he wasn’t Robert’s family anymore, was he? What would Robert want him to be?

His stomach felt hollow. What if Robert didn’t want him around at all?

‘Wendy’s going to have Harry until I’m back,’ Vic went on.

‘Does she know?’

Victoria shook her head with a frown as she focused on extracting a blue shirt from its wrapping, and changed the subject.

‘I got him this, and those boxers, and socks,’ she gestured with her chin, ‘and that sweater and these jeans, do you think they’ll be alright?’

She held the jeans up.

Aaron blinked and nodded.

The wool sweater Vic had got for him was midnight blue. He’d reached out when her back was turned and touched the cuff of it.

Darkness dropped swiftly. In his head, the street was haunted.

Like an ancient battle ground, wraiths, and phantoms: In the haze beneath the fur tree with its fairy lights, Aaron could see them.

Finn for one, hair combed and neatly dressed with his cupid’s bow pout, popping over to the Wooly for a pint of Christmas sherry.

Jackson waiting by the bus stop, raising a can of beer to his mouth, still asking the eternal question - Did you love me?

And there was Gerry; goofing about, trailing along behind him as he went out running - but no, he mustn’t think of Gerry because that would make him think of Liv. And thinking of Liv was impossible.

He straightened his back.

A way behind him a door opened and lit the drive so he could see his shadow on the sparkly tarmac appear and disappear again. He heard footsteps and boyish voices, and then Suni and Nicky passed him with a courteous but cautious evening, and close behind them Ethan, who stopped, eyelashes fluttering over shining cheeks.

He had to admit that he’d been flirting. Now he felt incredulous. One day he’d apologize, but not tonight.

Ethan was talking but he’d had to say pardon because he hadn’t been listening.

‘It’s Suni’s first venture out since, well, you know. We’re taking him for a pint; do you want to join us?’

‘No,’ Aaron answered abruptly, and then added, ‘Thanks but, no, anyway.’

‘Oh, well, have a good night then,’ Ethan replied.

Aaron hardly registered his confused frown as he walked on. None of it mattered, he was deleting his recent past, like scrubbing out lines in a badly written text.

He was looking to his real past; all the memories; a heady treasure trove full to overflowing, lost but maybe if wishes could come true, he might hunt it out and unlock it all over again - and x marking the spot was a small cottage on Main Street.

As if on cue the full beam of headlights rounded the corner and a taxi crawled into the street and slowed to a stop, engine turning.

He reeled forward, his heart erratic.

But then Suni, Nicky and Ethan appeared again and he realized his mistake.

He stroked a hand down his face and tried to calm his breathing as the taxi reversed accompanied by the sound of receding laughter, and left him to the silence and the ghosts.

And then in his pocket his phone buzzed. Vic leaving a text.

I thought you’d be here. We’ve been back ages.

He’d been trying on the clothes and his long pale fingers were pulling down the hem of the sweater over his midriff, when Aaron stepped in over the threshold.

His skin was ghostly white, his cheeks hallow. His hair was long and he’d got some sort of beard going on. For a moment it was hard to reconcile this man with the image he’d been carrying round in his head of the husband he’d lost.

But his eyes; grey -green like the sea at Filey on a blustery spring day, staring back at him like he would sweep away all his defenses, his eyes were all Robert.

And it took all his strength not to reach out and hold him, like a possession: His possession. His man; his only man, finally here in front of him.

[kawaii-angelanne]

TW/CW: suggestive implications, timeskip spoilers for kita

KEY TAGS: third pov/kita pov, gender-neutral reader, established relationship, fluff, lowercase

WORD COUNT: 455

CROSS POST: ao3

OPENING NOTE: thanks for clicking on this! please do not repost, copy, modify, or overall plagiarize this work anywhere else please. plagiarism is never acceptable, both in mla 8 format and in fanfiction! for translations, message me, and we can talk about it! reblogs, comments, and likes are super appreciated :>

SUMMARY: where kita shinsuke takes note of your apple-eating habits.

it is by no means apple-picking season. if anything, apple-picking season passed just a few months ago.

however, for some reason, lately you’ve been having an appetite for sweet, red-green honeycrisp apples, bringing a bundle of them every time you come back from the farmer’s market.

when kita shinsuke comes home right as the sun sets after tending to his rice fields, he finds you in the same spot you’ve been in for the past week: curled up in the corner of the couch, watching something on the tv, snacking on another one of those apples.

now, shinsuke doesn’t mind your latest apple obsession; he has no reason to. however, there’s just one thing: you’re too lazy to cut them into slices.

it’s not that you only take a few bites and then toss it in the trash. you actually finish until the core is as thin as a pencil!

no, the issue here is that, as shinsuke now notices while sitting next to you, after you take your first bite, a stream of juice drips down from the apple, down your hand, and down your arm. and, instead of wiping it off on your shirt, you curse quietly, and raise your arm to your lips, your tongue jutting out to drag across.

you finish doing all of that in less than a second, but, for shinsuke, time slowed to make the moment last like an eternity. his brain fails to move past what his eyes just laid witness to. your voice calling out to him is unintelligible, your siren-like voice demoted to muffled sounds in the background.

shinsuke immediately excuses himself to the bathroom and, as he stands right in front of the mirror while staring at his flushed complexion, tries to at least calm the sudden beating of his heart before going back to you.

the two of you have been dating for the past two years. shinsuke doesn’t have to hide from you every time you’ve managed to fluster him; in fact, he often doesn’t hide himself whenever that happens. but, still, he doesn’t feel comfortable with his mind turning something so innocent, so innocuous, into something so licentious and perverse.

after splashing his face with cold water and patting it dry, he comes back and sees that you’re all done with the apple, now hugging a pillow against your chest.

and now all is at peace as he climbs into the sofa close to your side.

so, now, before shinsuke leaves to take care of the rice paddies, he chops up one of your apples and leaves the perfectly-cut slices in a ziploc bag for you to enjoy later. and, as he tends to his rice farm, he begins to heavily consider appending an apple orchard to the never-ending acres of growing rice.

ENDING NOTE: so this is me experimenting with a different type of formatting (its rlly j me taking out the pics and long summary); i wanna see what effect this has on the tumblr community :>

and this lil drabble was birthed by me eating an apple and having some juice drip down my arm and wondering the silly lil suggestiveness behind me licking it LOL

i hope everyone stays safe and healthy! till next time!

[capricorn-0mnikorn]

We tend to think of Rap as a thoroughly modern genre of music. But you cannot convince me that this song, written in the middle of the 1800s, for a music hall performer, isn't close, if not identical to it.

Eye Contact. Auto-generated captions.

Lyrics:

Rocky Road to Dublin

In the merry month of June from my home I started Left the girls of Tuam so sad and broken hearted Saluted Father dear, kissed me darling mother Drank a pint of beer, me grief and tears to smother Then off to reap the corn, leave where I was born Cut a stout blackthorn to banish ghosts and goblins; Bought a new pair of brogues, rattlin' o'er the bogs Frightenin' all the dogs on the rocky road to Dublin One two three four five

{Chorus} Hunt the hare and turn her down the rocky road And all the way to Dublin, whack fol lol de rah!

In Mullingar that night I rested limbs so weary Started by daylight my spirits bright and cheery Took a drop of the pure to keep me heart from sinking; That's the Paddy's cure whenever he's on for drinking To see the lassies smile, laughing all the while At me curious style, 'twould set your heart a bubblin' Asked if I was hired, wages I required 'Til I was almost tired on the rocky road to Dublin One two three four five

{Chorus}

In Dublin next arrived, I thought it such a pity To be so soon deprived a view of that fine city Then I took a stroll, down among the quality Bundle it was stole, there in a neat locality Something crossed my mind, then I looked behind No bundle could I find upon my stick a wobblin' Enquiring for the rogue, said my Connaught brogue Wasn't much in vogue on the rocky road to Dublin One two three four five

{Chorus}

From there I got away, me spirits never failing Landed on the quay, just as the ship was sailing Captain at me roared, said that no room had he Then I jumped aboard, a cabin found for Paddy Was down among the pigs, played some hearty rigs Danced some hearty jigs, the water round me bubbling; Off Holyhead wished meself was dead Or better far instead, on the rocky road to Dublin One two three four five

{Chorus}

The boys of Liverpool, when we safely landed Called meself a fool, I could no longer stand it Blood began to boil, temper I was losing Poor old Erin's isle they began abusing "Hurrah me soul!" says I, shillelagh I let fly Some Galway boys were by and saw I was a-hobblin' With a loud "Hurray!" joined in the affray We quickly cleared the way for the rocky road to Dublin One two three four five

{Chorus 2x}

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"In straggling, disorderly ranks we would march to the shops: the shoe shop, the print shop, the plate shop: whatever shop it might happen to be...

Some of us might wonder about the values involved. What about trades? Who the hell wants to be a shoemaker when he gets out? Where can you find a job making automobile plates in the free world, when they're all made in prison? This business of classification and segregation; they make us sleep in separate cell blocks, according to the provisions of some scheme they have in mind; but during the day, we're all thrown together in the shop. Classification versus profit-making! In a country whose predominant codes are personal aggrandizement and private enrichment what would the answer be?

I sit down at my machine in the tailor shop. I have never done any of this work before. I am naturally inept, having no mechanical skill whatever. "Paddy" comes along. He is the instructor. An Irishman. "Ah," he said, "ye're wan of me own kind." And throws a pile of work in front of me. Pants, overalls, shirts, whatnot. He tries to tell me a funny and obscene story. I don't feel like listening to it. I do not like him, knowing him to be a convict-hater at heart. My mind is on other things: grave things: the implications of imprisonment.

"Listen," I say, "you get to hell out of here, Paddy. If you have anything to say to me about the work, all right, say it. But the judge didn't say that I had to sit here and listen to your bum jokes. That wasn't in the sentence at all." Paddy very naturally resents my attitude, as I resent his. He feels, too, that in some way I am his superior. I have a certain intellectual dominance over him. He hates that, as I hate his brute power over me (if I do not complete my daily task, Paddy can have me sent to solitary confinement as a malingerer). It is a Mexican stand-off. He would like to punish me not because he cares very much about the work itself, but because he hates a certain overt and unconcealed superiority which I have taken great delight in making him aware of.

That is my revenge. But since I've actually kept myself apparently busy all day, although I have not completed the task, Paddy is powerless to punish me. That is, he cannot send me to the "block." He can, however, and does punish me in more effective ways. Whether or not I complete my task for the day, Paddy each morning throws a fresh bundle of work on my bench. This means that I shall never be caught up; that I shall never have a moment of leisure. Other men can complete their task during the morning and loaf the rest of the day. I simply have not the mechanical skill to cope with the daily task. Paddy, therefore, wins. In spite of what I feel is my superiority, I cannot score off Paddy. He is brute stupidity rampant and successful. He is prison work.

It is noontime. The hateful shop morning is ended. We march to our cells for the noon meal and an hour of rest. Rest!

How rest the tired, rebellious, imprisoned mind? One cannot rest. One can merely escape from the existing drabness. One can merely lie down on the bed and drift off into the dream world; into memories of the past, visions of the future; neither of which is satisfactory except in retrospect or anticipation. One lies in a stupor, shutting out the undignified, unappetizing dullness; deliberately or unconsciously running away from life. This is a bad habit to get into, this flying from reality; but it is a habit into which practically all of us get, mildly or terribly, depending entirely on the length of our sentences, our ages, our intensities of awareness.

One o'clock. Back to work again. The same stuffy shops, the same tiresome work. It is absolute industrial masturbation! Merely working men in order to keep them busy, with no pride in the finished product, no care about inculcating habits of craftsmanship, no thought except to make us do something we don't like to do. The guards on their elevated benches become lazy-minded, unpremeditated sadists, and take a senseless delight in giving each man the job he most heartily hates to do. This comes from natural stupidity, prejudices racial and religious, and the fierce desire of the average man to savor power when he gets a chance to use it. Lo, the poor guard! In his mind's eye he can see us as we were in the free world; with money, ravishing women, all the sensual delights which must be forever unattainable to him. We have had this. He has never had it, never will have it. Therefore, enviously, gloatingly, he exacts vengeance upon us for the unalterable deficiencies in his own life.

Work, work, work; day in and day out; hateful, stupefying work, to which we bring nothing but resentment and from which we take nothing but hatred. Thus we spend eight hours each day one third of our lives. We read the prison books: Tully, Lowry, Maynard, Booth, John Boyle O'Reilly, Jack London, Ed Morrell, Al Jennings; but especially Jim Tully. One finds in them nothing but excitement, glamour, danger, brilliance. (Tasker's "Grimhaven," however, is a fine piece of work.) Well, not nothing but excitement; but at any rate chiefly excitement. We know that nothing could be further from the truth. Day after day we find that proneness, inertia, stolidity, weariness and dejection are the prevailing qualities of our lives. The escapes and murders - the exciting things are so infrequent as to be practically nonexistent. Every minute of the day, all the year round, the most dominant tone is one of monotony.

Four o'clock. Yard time. Recreation. We go from the stuffy shop to the colorless yard. In it is no blade of grass, no tree, no bit of freshness or brilliance. Gray walls, dusty gravel, dirt and asphalt hardness.

We walk about, or during our first few months or years manage to throw a ball back and forth and in some degree exercise our bodies. The longer we stay here, the less we do. At last we merely walk at a funeral pace, or lean against a wall and talk.

We always talk. During the working hours, but even more so during the cell hours, we store up facts, reflections, broodings, so that our minds are overflowing. And every chance we get to unburden them, we avail ourselves of it. We talk at each other. We do not converse; we deliver monologues in which we get rid of the stored-up bubblings. We try to live through words and self-dramatization. Our essential need is for actual tangible living, which we cannot have; so we try to live by pretending to live in tall stories based on how we'd like to live, how we long to live.

Four-thirty. Yard time is over. We march to our cells, taking with us the evening meal. The shop has been so enervating, so weakening, so downright devitalizing, that we are glad to go to our cells. We think, "Well, here's another day done. Another day nearer home. God, but it's good to get back to the cell!" In our hearts, however, we know that the cell is even worse than the shop; and that in the morning we'll be saying, "God, but it's good to get out of that damned cell!"" - Victor F. Nelson, Prison Days and Nights. Second edition. With an introduction by Abraham Myerson, M.D. Garden City: Garden City Publishing Co., 1936. p. 12-16

[dukesoakedoats]

He’s (not) made of sugar-2

Info: Part 1 : https://at.tumblr.com/dukesoakedoats/hes-not-made-of-sugar-1/19m17jybff0c . The urge to drop this fic and just leave it to rot is really winning right now mates.

Eoin had wasted no time to running to the patrol group and the others, potentially tripping into the sand on his way there. On his arrival he felt his beating heart get ripped out from his chest and crushed into oblivion. All the shouts and clamouring from his fellow comrades had dwindled down to a background white noise. How could he focus on anything else when Paddy was on Jocks back being carried like a small child. Body limp as a rag doll and paler than the moon. The most noticeable feature of Paddy was how his head lolled  and his eyes rolled back, as if he was possessed by the devil himself.

Eoin was not afraid of war, of death, of loss but one thing he was scared of was losing Paddy and only being able to watch and standby, now that, that drove a stake thorough Eoins heart.

“Give.him.to.me” Eoin mumbled at Jock , advancing towards the blonde much to the dismay of Stirling or the rest of the crew.

“Eoin, he’s hurt , I should carry him” Shame, all Jock wanted to do was help his comrades,and yet all he did was cause a prickling feeling under the Belfast boys skin. People always made decisions for Paddy, treating him like scum, disregarding him , that’s why Paddy was the way he was , a hurt and wild animal who’s only goal was to be back at home. And god , Eoin needed that animal home. He needed Paddy, he knew him best, better then Jock, it should be him protecting Paddy, it will only be him.

Eoin advances further to Jock

“GIVE HIM TO ME!” He bellows, and the whole camp went silent. Eoin was the camps writer, the young boy, the kind and sweet boy, violent outbursts were for Paddy not Eoin. Not Eoin.

Jock knew it was pointless trying to fight and so with gritted teeth managed to cough up a begrudging “fine” before removing Paddy from his shoulders and transferring him onto Eoins arms who was insistent on carrying him bridal style. Upon being placed into Eoins arms Paddy let out a high whimpered squeal with his facial expressions mirroring his emotions. Eoin felt guilty , of course he did, but he knew what was best, no one else did. 

He started to walk back to his and his loves tent, leaving behind a mob of people gawking behind him as he walked wondering what had just occurred in a matter of a few mere minutes. 

Eoin entered his tent knowing full well soon  Stirling would come in demanding an explanation but now wasn’t the time for that, now was the time to direct all his focus and care onto the weak bundle of joy nestled into his chest.

“Paddy.” Eoin whispered quietly to his lovebird “imma have to put ya down okay?”

No response. 

The only way Eoin could know that his love was alive was due to the faint wheezes he would make occasionally, no doubt for air and while Paddy would claim it to be an annoyin god forsaken sound, Eoin for once was relived he was met with the sound of wheezes rather than the sounds of nothing. Eoin gingerly placed Paddy down on the bed earning him the pleasure of hearing those whimpers once again, Paddy’s lip scrunched up to a trembling line and his eyes that were now wide open were brimming with tears. Whatever was wrong with Paddy it had made him mute, even when Eoin was adorning him with kisses and praise while Paddy was silent , was it due to an injury or just pure exhaustion. Eoin did not know but prayed for it to be the latter , that can be fixed , injuries here, cannot.

“Paddy…please love come on now help me get ya on the bed..please” the last begging that could be wrangled out of Eoins throat miraculously stirred Paddy’s consciousness as the man let out a whine before moving his body up to the top of the bed so he had some support. Eoin let go off his prize and carefully placed the poor excuse of a blanket over the madman’s body. Paddy looked so fragile, his veins were visible under his stretched skin , his eyes had sunken in on himself and his hair was wild, but not in the wild that Eoin could always seek comfort in, no this was not that.The body in front of Eoin was not one that belonged to his lover , it was just a vessel, a cocoon of Paddy’s vibrant soul , his laughter , his mind. Now all that say in front was empty. It was still his Paddy, His to look after and only his. Eoins fingers twitched they yearned to brush and cradle Paddy’s cheek. Soon enough that’s what they did with the sicker man subconsciously leaning into the touch. It went on for around 10 minutes before Eoin decided he also needed some rest. His eyes made a beeline for the chair Paddy had nicked from a hotel they were staying at a couple of moons ago, god paddy was a romantic wasnt  he? So that’s where Eoin slept , close to paddy to know he was there and yet distant to allow  the Protestant to breath. 

The world became dark 

Darkness had started to creep into the corners of Eoins eyes.

Sleep was a cruel mistress , beckoning him into her domain and Eoin obliged.

He fucking wish he hadn’t.

He’s back home.

In Ireland.

He’s back home , is the war over?

No it can’t be? Or can it?

Where’s Paddy? 

Where is Paddy Mayne, the pair had both sworn an oath to each other how after the war they’ll buy a cottage just for the two of them, them against the world forever. So where was his other part 

And why was he wearing black and crutching a rosemary?!

Oh

Why was he clutching a rosemary, why was he reciting prayers that he had made to remember off by heart by the priest when he was a wee little lad.Black.

You only wear that to a funeral , who’s fucking funeral was this?

Where’s Paddy?!

He hears the church bells ringing but he pays no mind to then.

Where is Paddy Mayne?

Where is Paddy?!

WHERE WAS HE!!!!

-Gasp- Eoin was awake , it was all a bad dream , he really did look pathetic gasping for air as if he hadn’t had lungs for all his life.

It was just a bad dream , a work of fiction.

Through Eoins state of panic it could be forgiven that he had failed to notice Paddy’s eyes fixated on the lanky man and interested on his irregular shaky breaths.

[breitzbachbea]

❤️ for Gabriella and Charlie and 🧠 for Paddy and Tahir!

Thank you my beloved!!!! You're like. One of my bedrocks of serotonin <3

OC Emoji Ask Game

❤️ - What is one of your OC’s best memories?

Gabriella: Sometimes, when she is vulnerable and feels the demons knocking softly at the walls, she wants to tell you that one of her fondest memories are the first times she recalls Dolcetto calling her "Rella". The first time she and her brother bundled up and went on a walk in their neighbourhood to get groceries and both of them felt so important. Those memories that justify her giving up her life to join the world of her brother. But those aren't her best. This is the grief and loss and a displacement of love speaking that will never ever find room in Dolcetto again. She loves her brother; he loves his sister; but they are very different people. Therefore, her best memories are probably of nights out in gay clubs and kisses shared with young women her age after she left home to find Dolcetto and herself. Memories of her, drunk, telling another girl under tears how much in love she was with her childhood best friend. Feeling free and herself. And she does love the memories she makes with Fabio, a kindred soul in this depressing world. The nights they spent alone as friends and as lovers.

Charlie: Much like Gabriella, part of his best memories are an expression of grief and love lost. He does miss his father dearly; maybe not exactly the man that died and could never accept him, but the younger Connor Higgins. The Connor who skipped his piano lessons with him to play football. The Connor who was so cool and put together, but no buzzkill. The one who so clearly loved and knew his son. He sometimes gets take away and will stand in a dingy, warm and small shop and be hit with the feeling of this being the highlight of his entire month, because it was secret time spent with dad. But these memories are accompanied with rage and sadness and a deep, all-consuming longing. What he truly remembers most fondly is racing cars on his model track with Harry and other friends. He remembers fondly the trouble he caused at school, the defiance of standing up for himself that kept him alive throughout these awful years. He remembers the first roadtrips he took alone, no matter the terrible state of his dad's old Mercedes. Charlie's best memories are both of freedom and community, of figuring out who he is and indulging in what thrills him.

🧠 - What do you like most about the OC?

Paddy: I like the most how old Paddy is. He's by no means 'old', he's middle aged in 2013, but compared with the rest of their characters who are usually in their twenties, he's got a lot more experience under his belt. Moreover, he lived such separate lives. Magdy is 20 years older and Magdy has SEEN SOME SHIT, but Magdy spent most of his life in one place, working with the same family for three generations. Paddy grew up in Derry and lived there until he was in his midtwenties. He could have never imagined to leave Derry until part of his house was destroyed by an explosion. Then he left; over the border into the Free State, through the country until he made it to Dublin. Characters, like the reality of people they are modelled on, can change rapidly in very little time, especially in younger years, but when you have a character like Paddy, you really get to see the layers that make up the tree. I love to figure out the core of his character and how it manifests. I love to see what an older Paddy regrets, what part of the younger self are transformed. And the ghosts, fucking hell do I love the ghosts. And I love how Paddy runs. He could never have imagined leaving Derry; now he's deadly afraid to return. He goes quiet in the first chapter of the IP rewrite when he begins to talk of Ben's death. He runs from himself, he will push a cart for others until the end, but faced with having to do anything for himself, he will run off the next cliff. For a character that's such a bedrock to others, he is very, very empty inside.

Tahir: Oh baby boy. I again like his relative age gap with a lot of the other characters, being in his 30s in 2013. But what I like the most about him is how selfishly selfless he is. All he ever did was to meet expectations and to afford the promise of a better life for him and his family. He may not be a sentimental man, but his love for his sister is immense. He very much believes he owes his parents, who worked their asses off, that he works hard for them. A sense of duty and responsibility is at the core of his being and it shows in all of his interactions. And yet, yet he's not a machine. Yet he wants freedom - as much as he still adheres to expectations (his own) in his freetime and exploration of himself and keeps appearances, he does want something divorced from the expectations of his family. Yes, the courtship dance with Arielle still runs along known rules, but it's an expression of desire and love, somewhere along the axis of platonic and romantic, a self-expression of himself as a man with a beating heart. As much as he might seethe over that his relationship with Robert is functionally no different than the arranged marriage of his parents, it was his own choice. It was an acknowledgement of his needs and that he is indeed not an island - that he'd like to come home to someone at the end of the day. I really like the soft, vulnerable and so, so loving boy that hides under the steely husk of a man. Play Oh No! by Marina and the Diamonds.

[butternuggets-blog]

Man Flu

Paddy gets sick, and Reg makes him feel better.

Fluff/Comfort, Body Horror (Common Cold)

Winters in Jalo were cold. The desert was always cool at night, but during winter the temperature could be as low as eight degrees.

The SAS had scrounged, begged and stolen winter gear before Dudley had supplied them with uniform equipment. Now, each man spent the winter months bundled in tan jackets and trousers, with handknitted gloves and scarves from home.

This behaviour had been drilled into them from the start, so much so that catching flu during winter was almost unheard of.

Almost.

'Has anyone seen Paddy?'

Reg looked up at the question. Stirling was about to start a debriefing in the mess hall but everyone was still settling in.

Stirling sighed at the sea of shaking heads. 'He's still in his tent? Someone go check on him please, make sure that he hasn't gone and died in his sleep.'

Reg got to his feet and made his way through the crowd. Paddy had headed off to take a nap, but that was hours ago. He felt a knot forming in his stomach.

'Paddy' Reg called softly, waiting outside the tent flap for any signs of life. 'We're getting worried, you alright?'

He heard the creak of a camp bed and something tried unsuccessfully to push aside the canvas. Reg moved it himself and looked in to see a bleary-eyed Paddy squinting up at him, a large handkerchief in one hand and a large bottle clutched in the other.

'Oh.'

Reg let the flap swing shut behind him as he stepped into the tent. He pressed a palm to Paddy's forehead, and it was a mark of just how unwell the man was that he leant into it rather than slapping him away.

'What's in the bottle?'

Paddy looked down at it as if seeing it for the first time.

'...Sherbert powder, cordite, chilli flakes and rum.'

'Jesus Christ Paddy!'

Paddy shrugged.

'Have some water' Reg offered him his canteen; when Paddy stared at it but didn't take it, he held it to his mouth and forced Paddy to take a few sips.

He helped Paddy lie on the floor, then he stripped and re-made his bed. He fetched an empty bucket from outside in case Paddy felt nauseous, refilled Paddy's canteen, and threw the bottle of makeshift "medicine" away before sponging Paddy down, and putting him to bed in clean clothes.

________________________________________________________________ 

After a thorough examination, Dr Gamal pronounced that, with proper medicine and rest, Paddy would be back on his feet in no time.

Since Eoin was away, Reg took it upon himself to be Paddy's nurse.

God help him.

'Fucking swallow it!' Reg had Paddy pinned like a recalcitrant cat, legs around his and a hand forcing his jaw open. Paddy had been an excellent patient when he had been too sick to fight back, but now that he was strong enough to refuse the bottle of cough syrup he had been prescribed, he had opinions.

Reg risked being bitten and pried two fingers in to add leverage. Paddy's mouth opened just wide enough for the lip of the medicine bottle to slip in, and Reg clamped his mouth shut so he had no choice but to scull the last dose in the bottle or choke.

'Every fucking time-'

'Trasna ort féin!'

Reg leant across the tent to fetch the kettle he had set on to boil. Paddy grimaced and swallowed the first cup of herbal tea Reg offered him without tasting it, and sipped the second cup slowly.

________________________________________________________________ 

Reg was not a squeamish man, but even he had limits.

Paddy had woken him up in the middle of the night, spluttering and wheezing into his handkerchief. His nose had been streaming all morning, and showed no sign of stopping.

'And that's the last one' Reg gagged as he picked up the crumpled up handkerchief Paddy had dropped on the floor. He had refused to touch any with his bare hands; instead, Reg had "aquired" a set of tongs from the kitchen.

Reg dropped the handkerchief into a steaming bucket of soapy water and pushed it under the surface. He put down the tongs and picked up the handle of the bucket.

'I'm going to go hang this lot up to dry.'

'Eeeeeuuurrrffgghhh' Paddy wheezed, looking miserable.

________________________________________________________________ 

'Your patient is escaping' said Sterling, mildly.

Reg sighed deeply and kept stirring the pot of soup.

Paddy, ever restless, had been frothing at the mouth to go wandering around. But doctor's orders were that he rest, so Reg had been forced to bribe, cajol, threaten and finally, cuff him to the bed.

'He's heading for the trucks.'

There was a rustle as Sterling put down his newspaper to observe.

'Never mind, he's changed direction. It's too windy that way; he ate sand.'

'Fan-fucking-tactic' Reg muttered. He added a pinch of salt to the soup, tasted it, and nodded. Perfect.

'He's veering off towards the wall. It appears that he's trying to cross the border into No Man's Land.'

Reg ladled the last bit of soup into the clean canteen he was holding, twisted the cap on, and walked out to feed his wandering Irishman.

Paddy's legs had given out just as he reached the camp wall; he was face down in the sand, muttering expletives. Reg rolled him over and dragged him onto a flat rock, propping him up in the shade.

'Here's your lunch'

Paddy tried to lift his arm to grab the canteen, but his muscles wobbled and refused to cooperate. He growled in frustration and begrudgingly allowed Rev to help him drink.

'What's all this now?'

'Eoin! Thank fucking Christ!' Paddy clawed his way past Reg and half jumped, half fell into Eoin's arms.

'Cheers Paddy' Reg spat, sarcastically. Paddy ignored him.

Author's Notes

Paddy got better quickly, but then he pushed himself too much and he went backwards a little.

Apparently "Trasna ort féin" means "Go across yourself/go fuck yourself".

I despise cold medicine.

The herbal tea was a gift from Jock.

Paddy bought Reg a bottle of alcohol next time he was in Cairo as a thank you.

[yszarin]

winternelson with: “Call me when you get home.”

[read on AO3] [send a prompt, get a fic in 1-5 business days]

Barnaby had hoped that his desk might be better. It isn’t worse, at least. He doubts anything could be worse than lurking around in that cold-lit hospital corridor like a premature haunting, nodding in splintered understanding as the doctors use words like critical and catastrophic, Sarah’s hand in his, gripping so tightly that he should have felt his knuckles crack.

It’s the same, in a different way, at the station. He’d needed to be useful, but there’s nothing left to do. Every officer available had descended on this investigation like locusts, stripping the possible tasks until every scrap of evidence had been collected and examined and compiled into a neat little report that tells him that they’re still no closer to determining who had left Winter for dead, bleeding and broken in the gathering frost.

Ground too cold for tyre tracks, no cameras for miles, any potential witnesses bundled up indoors the way anyone sensible should be on a freezing January night. Nothing from forensics at the scene, though they’re testing for fingerprints on all the nearby gates, and they’re still waiting on full analysis of Winter’s personal effects.

No wonder that no one in the incident room seems to want to come anywhere near him.

Maybe he should just go back to the hospital. He’d be just as much use there. It’s not as if Fleur would welcome his presence in the lab.

A chime from his email heralds the arrival of Winter’s phone records, and Barnaby pounces on it with the speed and desperation of a starving crow at carrion. The data spools out across his screen, lists of calls and numbers, reams of texts, enough to make his computer wheeze for a moment as it adjusts.

Barnaby had sent him two messages, that night. He hadn’t really noticed that Winter never answered either of them. Maybe, if he had, they might have–

He swallows against the sting in his throat, and clicks into the file of voicemails, before leaning down to excavate his headphones from the depths of his drawer, yanking at the wire as it tangles, again and again, no relief in the dull force of it. Once they’re finally free, he plugs himself in, and hits play on the first one.

“Hi, Jamie, it’s Charlie.” The voice at the other end is so familiar that it takes Barnaby a moment to register the actual words being spoken, his jaw slackening. “Sorry to ring in work hours. Turns out I’ve got some leave coming up, and I thought maybe I could come down. Or we could go somewhere together, if you like. Call me when you get home.”

Nelson. Barnaby blinks against the hang-up tone, and for a long minute his body feels simply too heavy to move. He doesn’t know what he’d wanted. A confession, perhaps, a name for Winter’s assailant. A clear, plain-English explanation for what had happened, what he’d even been doing out there in the first place.

Not this. Not something personal. Not something so personal that he’d had no idea about it himself.

He’d been aware, he supposes, that Nelson and Winter know one another. They’d met at Sarah’s last birthday do, and a couple of times since, on the odd occasion that Nelson had come visiting. If pressed, he might have said that they’d got on, but he’d spent the lion’s share of that party either doing the rounds or hiding in the kitchen with Paddy, and he couldn’t say how much of that belief was just a vague awareness of shared interests. He remembers them sitting together, Winter sprawled in a garden chair like it’s an art form, gesturing with a champagne glass, Nelson straight-backed, smile slow but sincere.

Winter had never mentioned him. Yet here they are. First name terms, making plans.

Barnaby shifts the mouse to select the next message, and can’t help his focus drifting past the monitor, to Winter’s empty desk. It watches him back, a hollow monument, and he clamps his teeth together at the sudden impulse to make excuses to it. There still might be something in here that could help. He has to check.

“Hello, me again. Working late? I did try texting, and messaging, but I suppose you’re out in the sticks somewhere, and the second you get back to Causton I’ll have drowned you in notifications.” Nelson pauses for a moment, and Barnaby grimaces. The sticks isn’t inaccurate. They’d found him miles from anywhere, a pale gash amongst the bramble and hedgerow of a field boundary. Barnaby hadn’t seen him there, though he’d passed the ambulance on his way out. There had been enough of a picture left, in crushed grass stems and bloodstains, the skeletal branches of a handful of trees jagged overhead like the roof of a shattered cathedral. “I swear, Midsomer won’t get proper phone coverage until it’s obsolete everywhere else. Anyway, they did all go out at normal intervals. Look, this holiday thing, it’s not urgent, they just want me to book it as soon as I can. Hope whatever’s going on isn’t too grim. Call me when you can.”

There’s an unease, gathering in the low points of Nelson’s voice, papered over and rationalised, but still clear enough to Barnaby. A fear that he couldn’t quite stifle.

One that Barnaby will have to confirm. Someone else he loves, who this will punch a hole in. At least he hadn’t had to tell Fleur – she’d already been at the scene when he’d got there, tearing into some poor uniform for something, as if she could make up for the blotching on her face with the sharpness of her teeth. Sarah had been there when he’d taken the call, and they’d felt it together.

He can’t even be sure that Nelson will be an end to it, not when Winter’s personal life is apparently more immaculately compartmented than Barnaby’s sock drawer. Nothing hidden, just neatly never spoken of.

“Jamie,” Nelson says, in the next voicemail, a shade more urgent, control wavering. “Call me. Don’t make me try Barnaby.”

That certainly would have been an interesting conversation. Though, from the timestamp, not one that would have made any difference. They’d had the call by then. Dog-walker. She’d thought he was dead already. Barnaby had taken her statement, the odd-eyed collie that might have saved his sergeant’s life sitting patiently, obliviously by her side. He’ll have to tell Nelson that, too, make sure he understands that there was nothing he could have done.

Barnaby clicks through again, despite the flat, heavy certainty in his bones that there’ll be nothing here, nothing that’s his to hear.

“You’re not getting these, are you? I don’t know why I keep sending them.” Nelson drags in a breath, raw over the faint static of the line. “I checked the local news. I need you to call me, text me, I don’t care, send me a carrier pigeon, I’m sure someone still has those down there, just tell me that wasn’t you.”

Barnaby hasn’t seen the reports. Someone else – the chief superintendent, probably – had spoken to the press. He’d been sitting on one of those hospital chairs, listening to Sarah’s breathing hitching beside him, waiting to hear Winter’s odds on lasting the night.

Last one.

“So, I’m on my way down. Nearly called Sarah about eight times. Not sure what I’ll do if you’re okay – surprise visit, I suppose. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?” There’s a thud of a car door from somewhere, a distant muttering of other voices, Nelson’s cracking quieter in response. “I started picking up Radio Midsomer in the car. They’ve still not given a name, so–” He cuts himself off, half-sigh and half-sob. “I love you. I’ll see you soon.”

Barnaby wrenches the headphones off like a noose from round his neck, and then presses his face into his hands, hard enough that false light sparks across the backs of his eyelids. Something about the way that Nelson had said I love you had felt like it was the first time. Evidence, he thinks, and hates it.

He pulls his phone out, so numb that it doesn’t even really feel like an action that he takes, then scrolls down to his lesser-used contacts, and makes the call.

Nelson picks up within a second of the first ring.

“Sir?” His voice is taut, aching. He knows what’s coming, would have taken it as confirmation that Winter was the police officer he’d heard about on the news the second he’d seen Barnaby’s name on the phone screen.

“Are you driving?”

“Pulled over.”

He hadn’t meant it as a traffic safety admonishment, and hopes Nelson hadn’t taken it that way.

“We had to access Winter’s phone,” he says, and then stops. Gives that a moment to settle in, for Nelson to grasp what it means, for the turning of guilt in his stomach to subside. “I’m sorry, Nelson.”

“Is he…?”

“They’re doing their best.” It might not be enough. “You shouldn’t have found out like that.”

“Causton Hospital?”     

“Yes. How close are you?”

“About an hour. Give or take.”

“Sarah and I will meet you there.” And he’ll grant Nelson the dignity of telling Sarah about the relationship himself, he decides. He’ll check over the rest of Winter’s phone records, excepting his message history with Nelson, and then make his way back to the hospital. “We’ll you soon.”

“Yes, sir.” Nelson pauses, the silence thick with everything that he’s stifled back into his throat. “Thank you, sir.”

Nelson rings off, before Barnaby can tell him he doesn’t deserve that, and then he’s left alone in the incident room, at the centre of a wasteland of hush that no one here would cross. He swallows, strikes the damp from around his eyes, and makes himself focus in on the screen again. This, and then he’ll make sure that Nelson doesn’t spend another second of this alone.

It’s not as if there’s anything more he can do, for either of them.

[homeahoy]

Old Wives tales

"Achoo" "bless you"  "use a handkerchief for God's sake" "achoo, what did you just say"    

Only Paddy Mayne could get a cold in the middle of the baking heat of the desert. It was his own arrogance that had caused the problem. If only he hadn't insisted that he could do the night watch without having to bundle up against the biting cold of the desert night. 

The desert was a strange land. One of opposites and ever changing surroundings. They said if you stood still long enough it would swallow you whole. Hiding you away from the world for hundreds of years and maybe revealing you one day. Sun bleached and no longer of this world. 

You would have thought with the time they had spent there he would be well aware that even though the days were blistering the nights were just as deadly but a cold that could cost you a couple of toes.  But no he had thought it wouldn't be that bad and had stubbornly done his watch with nothing more than his long trousers, shirt and fisherman's sweater for warmth. Idiotic really. Stirling had muttered something about wanting to strangle him but couldn’t afford to lose such a good soldier. They had all tried to tell him but it fell on deaf ears and now he was here, sneezing and sniffling up a storm. 

What wasn’t helping in any shape of form was Reg Seekings and his version of help. “Wrap a warm cloth around your neck”, “It’s always warm”.  “Wrap up warm” “Were in the fucking desert am always warm”. “Drink tea with honey in it”, “We’re in the middle of the desert you great big oaf where am I going to get honey”.  If these old wives tales weren’t enough, he kept fussing about like he was a small child and he was his Mother.  Paddy was pretty sure his own Mother wouldn’t have been this bloody annoying. If he didn’t stop soon, Paddy was going to kill him. It would be a shame to have to do that Reg had grown on him. 

Paddy lay in his tent, irritated. It didn’t matter how he lay or how many times he blew his nose it was still stuffy and blocked.  He kept sneezing every now and then. The book he had been trying to read was now resting open on his stomach.  There was no point in trying to read it when every other second he was distracted by his own sneezes.  They were the kind that bent you in half and almost sounded like a shotgun going off.  He was pretty sure the other men were glad his tent was so far away. 

As he sneezed again the flap of his tent opened and Reg appeared.  Paddy groaned, what now he thought to himself. He didn’t think he could take another one of Reg’s remedies to get him better. He was slowly losing patience with the man, well slower than with most people.  It may have been in part to the fact that Reg was one of the few people who could put him on his backside. Clenching his teeth he asked “Can I help you?”  it would have been clear to anyone that Paddy was in no mood for this. “Just one last remedy mate, think you’ll like this one”  Reg replied.  Paddy was sceptical, he highly doubted he would enjoy this.  Sitting up and placing his book on his cot he said “Well then?”  Taking his cue from Paddy, Reg held up two mugs, tea and a bottle of scotch.  “Hot toddy, Fraser told me about it, Stole the scotch from Stirling '' Well then, maybe he had been wrong about Reg’s remedies, that was one he certainly could get behind. 

[spockvarietyhour]

A police officer uses a mirror on a stick to check the interior of a van while another covers him after a suspect who was sleeping in the van is bundled into a paddy wagon. 1991. [TPL Archives]

[furmity]

First Harvest

I walked through the humidity to the field. I didn't know how far it was on foot, what was growing, or if it would still be there for the Sabbath. Bush tomatoes are flowering out there, some kind of ice plant too, paddy melons along the fence lines. Dark clouds on the horizon.

In view of a combine harvester parked beside a silo, I said my prayers. Ravens cawed and flies crawled over my bare legs, cars went by.

Three ears of two- row barley cut with my ancestor's knife. Offerings. A striking striped quartz for the hörgr. As I walked home I gathered other unknown grass seedheads, magically everything survived my tote bag.

At home I realised I didn't have an appropriate little vase or jar or anything to place the bundle in. To the Traincase of Ritual Paraphernalia to see if there was anything in there. Oh oh oh. A small model of the Westray Wife, used in Disir veneration, who was once a keyring and has a loop on the back of her head. Red thread to bind and wind and she's a pretty little Maiden indeed (when you accidentally do something right).

Then the dough, made from supermarket plain flour with a silly impromptu Ode to Yeast. Placed on the warm snake house roof to rise. Not only the symbolic first bread of the harvest, but the first loaf baked in our new house.

Last minute scrubbing of the new rusty shed scythe. It was supposed to have been step one, it will look better next time I promise. (I am struck by the cursing potential of vinegary scythe rust- water.)

Baked the bread and took it in procession with the Maiden to the hörgr to be cut. The first slice given back to the land (whose heralds in this instance are surely the sparrows). Even Lilydog had a piece for luck.

Much to be thankful for this harvest, our labours have reaped so many rewards. I will try and find some local wheat to go with my barley, and when the farmers plant for next season, so shall I.

It was the night after Wolfenoot and the first I'd heard of it, but Sirius is high in the sky.

[itsawhumpsideblog]

To America Sailed O'er, Book 1

Content notes: Character death and subsequent funeral, character illness, immigration, seasickness and vomiting First song! Micheál's character was inspired by the song "Paddy's Lamentation", which you can listen to here: https://youtu.be/_VCX-Zdz5qA. (the video is clips from movies about the Civil War, so note there's some graphic violence in that if you watch as well as listen.) This isn't the first version I learned, just one that I like. There are many recordings of this one with variations in lyrics.

"Well meself and a hundred more

To America sailed o'er

Our fortunes to be makin' we were thinkin'"

~Paddy's Lamentation

            When I think back on the year 1859, all I remember of it is constant hard work. The crop that year was poor, the fish weren't biting, and it was a cold winter. If Patrick were here, I thought to myself often, it wouldn't be like this. It's probably warm in America, and Patrick is stuffing himself with food. I received a letter from him once, with a piece of blank paper enclosed so that I could write back, which I did. I thought sadly that that was it- that we would never hear from him again and that we would lose contact entirely.

            I was wrong.

            In January of 1860, when I was sixteen, there was an accident out on the water. It was a stormy winter day and Da and I were thoroughly bundled up when we left the house that morning.

            "It's going to be a hard day, lad," Da said, very simply stating the obvious as he scanned the water, but we put our boats out anyway. The waves were high, and it took all of my strength to steer my boat out through them, upright and fairly straight. It was a long morning and hauling in the nets was even harder than usual with the waves buffeting the boat this way and that. I kept sight of Da's boat most of the day and didn't worry when it was out of sight. He knew what he was about, and I was confident in my ability to get back to shore.

            I guessed at what midday might be- the cloud cover was too thick to see the sun properly and of course nobody in my village owned a watch, finding it simple to look to the clock on the church steeple. When at last I made it to shore, my arms aching and my boat lighter than it usually was, the catch not having been very good, Da was standing on the shore peering out into the ocean.

            "Over here," I called and he looked relieved.

            "I expected you long since," he explained as he helped me pull the boat well past the waterline. "I wasn't looking forward to telling your mother you'd drowned." He laughed, but shortly. This close to the sea, drowning deaths were hardly funny.

            We walked back to the cottage for the mid-day potatoes and allowed ourselves longer than usual for a rest. When we went back to the boats, it was sleeting, but there would be no staying in. That would mean giving up a little more of the money that was so hard to come by, or a few more fish to feed my Mother and sisters. We wrapped up in an extra coat apiece and took an extra old scarf and I pulled my cap low over my eyes as we went back to the beach.

            "Try to stay in sight of me, lad," Da said seriously as we pushed the boats into the water. "It's going to be a bad afternoon." He clasped my shoulder for a moment before we parted. I thought this was odd of him.

            As Da had predicted, the water was even rougher than it had been that morning. We kept well in sight of each other, but it was a fight and I spent as much time rowing against the current as I did tending the nets. It was beginning to darken and the waves were, unbelievably, higher than that morning. I was about to call to Da to see if he was ready to row back to shore when I realized I couldn't see his boat.

            I rowed in the direction that I had last seen him and, making slow progress, was just close enough to watch when a huge wave picked his boat up and flung it. I thought for a moment that it would land upright, but as it flew down the other side of the wave, the boat tipped, swamped and began to sink. Da kicked out, waves crashing over him, and I began to row furiously towards him.

            It seemed like an eternity when I got to where he was. He wasn't kicking any more, and when I reached out of the boat to catch hold of his coat, a wave swept me away. Rain was pouring down now, so hard I could barely see. I wiped a rough, wet sleeve over my eyes and tried again. A wave broke over me, into my boat, but it had shoved Da closer to me. I caught his arm and pulled, terrified of tipping my own boat in the process.

            I was leaning right over the water, my oars thankfully still floating in my half swamped boat as thunder began to echo. In the dark, it was a burst of lightening that allowed me to pull Da into the boat, bringing the sea with him. I had only time to make sure he was face up before I desperately took up the oars and begin pulling towards what I hoped was land.

            It seemed like hours that I fought against the water, wind and waves. The rain fell in sheets, the depth of the water in the bottom of the boat increased and it was a long, tiring time before the boat ran aground on the beach.

            By this time I was sobbing in fear and exhaustion, but I was so panicked that it was nothing at all to jump out of the boat and pull it up past the high, lapping tide line.

            Suddenly, two dark shapes appeared out of the dark.

            "Micheál O'Suilleabhain?" called a voice, "is that you?"

            "Aye," I whispered, dropping to the beach. I could feel the ground underneath my cheek and I lay still in the rain, too exhausted to move. A moment later, strong arms were turning me over and a man was peering into my face. I recognized him after a moment- Seamus Lynch, who worked a farm close to the coast.

            "He's alive," Seamus announced and his brother Aiden's voice said grimly,

            "I'm afraid his Da's drowned."

            "No," I gasped. "It can't be. I pulled him out. He's not drowned. He's alive! He's alive, look!" I tried to get up. I stumbled to the boat and collapsed again against the side of it. Da hadn't moved and I started to cry, tears mixing with the rain that still beat against my face.

            "Better get the poor laddie home," Seamus sighed. "Can you stand?" he asked me gruffly, but I was too exhausted and shocked, and after a moment he picked me up. "You'll stay here?" he asked Aiden, who nodded. "I'll send a few men back from town for the boat."

            Seamus carried me home, and I was so tired that I nearly fell asleep on the way there. He kicked at the door, his arms being full, and when Mother opened it she screamed.

            "What happened?" she gasped.

            "Looks to me like there was an accident," Seamus said in his deep voice, sounding vastly uncomfortable.

            "My husband-" Mother began, but the way Seamus shook his head, she knew right away what he meant. Burying her face in her apron she collapsed onto the stool by the fire. Seamus carried me into the house as my sisters hurried in from the bedroom. They saw me and saw Mother crying and began to cry as well. Little Bridget, who was only 13, clung to our older sister.

            "Maura, can I put him down someplace?" Seamus asked and Maura tearfully nodded. "Mother?" she said and Mother rose and went with Maura to the bedroom. They came back with a cot and as many blankets as they could find and set up a makeshift bed for me by the fire. I was shivering with cold, though I had been inside for a few minutes already, and was still sweating from all my efforts to row to shore.

            Seamus lay me down on the cot and left to go back to the seaside to help Aiden bring my Da to the churchyard.

            Meanwhile, Mother and Maura stripped all my wet clothes off me and lay them out around the room to dry. Maura toweled my wet, hair while Mother put a dry nightshirt on me. I was too weak to sit up and too much in shock to help them. Maura put more peat on the fire while Mother tucked the blankets around me. She pulled the chair up next to the cot and sank down on it, tears welling up again. For the first time since I was very small, I cried myself to sleep.

            Sometime during the night, I sickened with a fever. When Mother woke in the morning, her first sunrise as a widow, I was delirious. I had thrown my blankets off in the night and was babbling in my native Irish. The rain continued to pour.

            Da's funeral was that day, in the wind and rain and mud. Most of the town came anyway, and Mother went with Bridget, but Maura stayed home to watch over me. I don't remember much of the day, except that I was unaccountably frightened of the water Maura tried to force past my lips. I thought I was swimming in the ocean, and I could see Da reaching towards me. I saw Patrick in a boat far away on the horizon, and then in the water, drowning in front of my eyes as the waves pulled him away. I called and called for him until I was hoarse and Maura was frightened. She tried piling on more blankets, and then she tried taking them off, but nothing worked. I sobbed for Da, reached out for Patrick's hand which I could see so clearly, and terrified my sister.

            I was ill for several days, and during that time our neighbors came by in a steady stream, bringing food they couldn’t spare and spending time they didn't have to do the chores Da and I would have done and some of Mother's and Maura's, too. Mother worked in a numb, clockwork fashion and Maura ducked outdoors to cry when she thought nobody would notice.

            For my part, when my fever finally broke and I was awake to think coherently again, I was still in complete disbelief that Da was gone- and that I had been unable to save him. For many nights I lay awake, picturing the towering waves, feeling the rain again on my face, seeing Da lying in the boat. I couldn’t sleep until it was light again and Maura or Mother came over to help me drink some water and eat a little bit. With them awake, without the night to make my feverish dreams come alive, I could rest at last.

            More than at any other time since he had left, I wished that Patrick were there. I had always believed that in some small way his good luck rubbed off on me. He would have come around to try to cheer me up and even if it didn't work, I would have felt less alone. Patrick would have known how I felt, as he always did.

            Da had been gone for only a little more than two weeks, and I was only just up and about again when, one night at supper, Mother looked around at us and sighed. The three of us watched her expectantly- she had the expression on her face that preceded a great announcement. We knew that look.

            "Since your Da died," she began, "It's only going to get harder for us here." There was a long pause. Maura and I traded curious glances. "I think it's time we left," Mother continued. My heart skipped a beat. In the days I had laid in bed, my dream of going to America had intensified. I no longer wanted to fish the ocean, and, if I was being honest with myself, feared going out alone in my boat again. In America, I thought, things would be better for us. There were real opportunities there, they said, and the waiting was near driving me mad.

            "I'm going to buy us tickets on a ship to New York," Mother announced, and in her tone of voice we could hear that it was a final decision. "I've written to Finbar and Kathleen already. We'll try to find them and find a home in their neighborhood."

            We were going to America. It was more than I could believe and I leaned on the table, overcome. I still wasn't strong, but at that moment I felt as if I wanted to dance.

            Then, of course, I felt guilty. If Da was alive, we would be staying in Ireland. He hadn't wanted to emigrate and I knew it. It was as if I was choosing between my Da and my dream. Suddenly, I wasn't so excited any more. But I would be going to New York, in America. We were really leaving.      

            As Mother had promised, she worked diligently on buying tickets for our passage. We had little to take with us- what we could sell was sold to raise money for the voyage and the Priest organized a donation of a little money from the parish when he saw how hard we were working to raise the funds to leave, and then, one day, a letter arrived for us from America.

"Dear Fiona," I read it aloud to Mother, who didn't read well,

"We are so sorry to hear about what happened to poor Cormac and we have been keeping you in our prayers since we left, but particularly since we got your letter. We are also sorry to hear that poor, dear Micheál is ill, and we hope he will soon be well. If you have time to write to us, perhaps a week or maybe two before you board the ship, write when you will be arriving and we will all meet you at the docks. If you don't have the chance to write to us, come to our home. (Here they included their address, in a building in New York) We will be glad to see friends from our home whenever you arrive and will be glad to have you with us until you find a home of your own. Life here is good, though hard for us Irish. Still, we have all found work and Patrick feels confidant that he can find work for Micheál with him at the docks.

Until we meet again, in New York,

Finbar and Kathleen Murphy, Patrick, Declan and Colleen

Underneath his parents' letter, Patrick had written to me personally.

Micheál, lad, (he wrote)

So you're coming to America at last! It'll be good to have you around again. The other fellows here are all right, and the girls are a sight for sore eyes, to be sure, though now I've said it I'll have to be sure to be the one to post the letter or Ma'll have me scratching that bit out, and the work isn't bad at all. It's not out on the sea, not for most of us, but it's good hard work all the same. You'll be right at home working on the docks where I do. It'll be good to see your family, good luck finding a ship that comes soon.

Pity you're feeling ill. Here's hoping you're better by the time this letter reaches Ireland.

~Pat

I grinned as I finished reading Patrick's letter to myself. "It was for me," I explained to Mother who was looking at me curiously. She would be no happier than Mrs. Murphy to read Patrick's observations. I smiled for the first time since Da died. I was going to America. I would walk the streets of New York and work on land and for once my sisters might have enough to eat. It was going to be a dream come true.

Dream come true or not, it was far from immediate. Mother dictated a response to the Murphys at once, leaving a blank space for the date on which we would arrive in New York. We would find a ship, send the letter, and then leave a few weeks later.

The day came at last when we were ready to leave the village where my family had owned a cottage for far longer than my lifetime. My grandparents, all four of them gone now, had been born in the village as had my parents, my sisters and I. Now we were leaving; only Da would stay forever.

The day before we were to leave, Mother spent the entire day at Da's grave, now covered with fresh spring grass.

"Do you want me to go get Mother?" I asked Maura, who was making supper.

She stood up from the fire, her face red and loose strands of her hair, dark as mine, curling around her face. She wiped her forehead with the back of one hand and shook her head.

"Better leave her," she said. "She'll never get this chance again."

"But she'll be hungry," Bridget objected from across the room, where she was darning her stockings. "Maura, let me take her a potato."

"If you like, darling," Maura smiled. Bridget was six years younger than Maura, and our pet. "Is your stocking finished?'

"Almost," our sister said, and after a few more minutes of intense concentration, put her knitting aside and walked over to take some food and a jar of water for Mother. She left, walking off with the last of the sun on her back, humming a sad song.

Bridget was gone for a long time and when she and Mother came back, long after dark, their eyes were red. Without a word, Mother kissed all three of us and went to sleep in her usual place for the last time.

I was still sleeping in front of the fire and I lay awake that night until the fire was almost out, trying to memorize everything about that room. I must have fallen asleep, though, because before I knew it, the sun was coming in the window to wake me up for what I thought of as the beginning of my great adventure.

We ate cold potatoes for breakfast that morning, left over from the supper Maura had prepared the night before, and then packed the few things we had left to take with us. Then there was the long journey to the port city from which we would leave, and the problem of finding lodgings for the next few weeks and some work to do while we waited for tickets and a ship to America.

The first thing we did was buy our passage on a ship that would leave in August, and then we posted our letter to the Murphys. A mail ship would be leaving soon- that was good. It would be nice to have somebody meet us in New York. I couldn’t imagine what people did who had nobody waiting in New York for them, and felt fortunate.

After we had gotten our tickets, Mother took us to a boardinghouse we had passed and knocked on the door.

"Yes?" asked the lady who answered. She was wiping her hands on an apron and smiled at Bridget, who looked nervous.

"We're looking for a place to stay for a few weeks," Mother told her.

"Leaving for America, are you?" the lady wanted to know, and we all nodded. "I've had many such staying here. You're lucky- a ship just left this week and there are plenty of rooms. How many will you be needing?"

Mother looked a bit startled. "Just one, I should think."

"All right, then, come in," the lady said, waving us into the front hall of her home.

"Now," she said, showing us to a room on the second floor, "You'll have a nice window out to the street. There will be no gentleman callers, no drying your wash out the window and no drunkenness, not that you look the type for any of that foolishness. Still, you never know."

Mother still looked a bit in shock. "Thank you," she managed and we crowded into the little room we had been assigned. There was a bed, large enough for Mother and Bridget to share, and we had enough blankets for Maura and me to sleep on the floor.

"Micheál, are you sure you won't take the bed?" Mother pressed. She was afraid I would get sick again.

"I'm fine," I insisted. "I'll sleep here." I dumped my bundle in a corner that didn’t look too drafty.

"Not if you leave your things in a heap like that, you won't," Mother said, exasperated, shaking her finger at me. "If you'd like, you can put your things there and sleep under the bed, but I doubt you'll fit."

I grinned and took the hint, stowing my bundle under the bed with Maura's and Bridget's.

The next day, we were off to look for work. We were lucky- when we all arrived back at home that night, Mother and Maura were engaged as laundresses and Bridget had somehow sweet-talked Mrs. O'Toole, the owner of our boardinghouse, into giving her a few pennies to darn socks and run errands. It played to her strengths.

Desperate, I had taken work on a fishing boat, stuffing down the nerves and frightened shaking that had overtaken me when I had set foot in the boat. It had gone well, considering, and I was relieved to learn that fishermen here used larger boats and didn't go alone as Da and I had been forced to do.

So, until the first week in August, we worked hard all day and slept like rocks at night. I saw little of my mother and sisters, except at supper, and we saved up every little bit we could earn. Passage was paid for, but there was food to buy and a few supplies for the voyage, as well as the rent to pay.

I was exhausted in body and spirit when finally I collected the last of my wages and had my last short night's sleep before we reported, early on August 6th, to the ship we would board to New York.

I was thoroughly excited. This was a moment I had dreamed of for years and my breath caught in my throat as I stepped from the gangplank to the deck of the ship. I wanted to stand at the rail and look out over the water, and then wave goodbye to Ireland, but Mother took me by the arm and led me down into the lower deck, to steerage class where we would be spending the voyage.

It was cramped down there, and didn't smell too nice, but I'd been sleeping in a corner for weeks now and was accustomed to discomfort. We arranged our few belongings as neatly as we could on a bunk in as private a corner as we could find, and only then was I allowed to go up on deck and have a look around. Bridget followed me and when we got up into the open air, with all those sailors shouting and hauling on ropes and hurrying everywhere, she took my hand and clung close to me. I walked over to a fairly quiet spot and we stood there silently looking back at the land.

"I'm afraid," Bridget said in a small voice.

"Of what?" I asked her.

"I don't know. But I don't think I want to leave Ireland. Da's there."

"Da's not there," I said firmly. "Da's in heaven now."

Bridget nodded after a minute. "Micheál?" she said, "what are we going to do when we get to New York?"

"Well, the Murphys are coming to get us," I said. "Mr. and Mrs. Murphy will be waiting for us, and Patrick will be with them and so will Colleen and Declan." I poked her under the ribs. "Are you excited to see Declan again? He's probably a big boy by now, you know that?"

Bridget blushed red and forgot to be sad in her indignation. "I don't care," she huffed. "But I want to see Colleen."

I grinned. "Well, then, you'll be in luck." I hugged her around the shoulders and she wrapped an arm around my waist.

"You're not leaving us like Da, are you Micheál?" she asked, her face buried in my coat.

"Of course not, lass," I grinned. "All four of us will end up in America in a few weeks, and stay there together forever, until we're all old and grey."

"Maura will never want to be old and grey," Bridget laughed. "Think of her without her pretty hair."

I admitted that I couldn't, and when Maura suddenly walked up behind us and tapped our shoulders, my little sister and I burst out laughing. Mother had followed her and she smiled at us, sadly as she did now that Da was gone.

"I'm glad you're all so happy," she commented, and we stood there, just our family, arms around each other, and watched as Ireland faded in the distance.

Having been around ships all my life, I had no trouble on the water and, to all of our relief, neither did my Mother and sisters.

We were the lucky ones, though. Plenty of the people around us were seasick, and anyone who wasn't quickly got in the habit of staying on deck in all but the worst weather to escape the stench of sick that got into everything on the lower decks. My least favorite time was at night, when there was no going on deck and no escaping the smell and noise of the other passengers being sick.

The next bunk was full of a group of young men who seemed to each be traveling alone and most of whom seemed to be sick the entire voyage. One of them was about my age and one day, when we happened to be sitting next to each other, the weather being too bad for me to go up on deck, we started talking.

"Too bad about the rain," I commented to nobody in particular and he wiped his hand across his green face and nodded. "You should go on deck more often," I told him, not really thinking and certainly well used to dealing with seasick passengers in my boat. Patrick, for example, didn't sail well. "The air's good for seasickness."

He nodded listlessly. "I've heard."

"Suit yourself," I shrugged. "You must not be from the coast."

He shook his head and after swallowing determinedly he said, "We lived on a farm. I've never been in a boat in my life."

"I fished," I told him. "It's not so bad really. By the way, my name's Micheál O'Suilleabhain."

"Jack Lynch," he grinned and we shook hands.

"I'll be glad when we get to America," he groaned. "I don't see how you could stand working in one of these floating coffins."

I laughed. "It's not so bad, I tell you. You get used to it."

He shot me a weary look. "You've obviously never been seasick."

"Sure, I have. In heavier waves than this, though." I frowned, thinking of the day Da had drowned. I didn't remember being seasick then. I'd been too frightened and working too hard to think of my stomach.

            Jack made a face and seemed about to say something when all of a sudden he turned and began retching into the bucket that never seemed to be far from his side. I turned my head. I don't have a particularly weak stomach, but who wants to watch that? When he finished, Jack lay down instead of starting another conversation and I turned back to where my sisters were playing a game.

            The next day was much clearer and when I saw that Jack was awake and, temporarily, not vomiting I talked him into going on deck with me. We talked for hours, having nothing else to do, and it would become a daily routine for him to complain that he wanted to stay in his bunk and for me to drag him topside anyway. He was thinner than I, what Mother called rail-thin, and a year younger. He had light brown hair and a habit of running a hand through it when he was thinking.

            On that first morning, because we were still getting to know each other, the conversation turned to what we had left behind and I told him the story of my Da's death. I talked about Patrick, too, and all the trouble we had gotten into as children. Jack grinned as I told him about the time Patrick and I had tried to climb one of the cliffs down to the sea, until our neighbors had caught us and threatened us with the hiding of a lifetime if we didn't get away from the water.

Jack buried his fingers in his hair and stared out to sea for a long time. "My best friend was a lass named Sinead," he said quietly. "I'll miss her, sure. See, I was only 12 when my parents passed away, and when I moved in with my aunt she introduced us. Sinead's family lives- lived- down the street, and Aunt Betty wanted me to know somebody my own age. She didn't know what she was getting us into. I don't know when I last went a day without seeing Sinead, and it was that hard leaving her behind when Aunt Betty died and I decided to leave."

            "I'm sorry," I offered awkwardly and he shrugged, looking preoccupied and sad, different from any expression I'd seen on his face. I realized with a bit of a shock that he looked more lovesick than anything else and I quickly cast around for something to say.

            "So you're sailing alone, then?  And you'll be on your own in New York?"

            Jack perked up. "That's it," he said. "I have a friend who left for the city a while back and I'm going to try to find him. I'll find a boarding house and sell newspapers or run errands or something. Aunt Betty left me just enough to pay for a room until I start work. It'll be a fine life, living on my own, a free man." He laughed, and we stayed there on the deck building castles in the air until the sun began to set and we went back down below decks.

The day we finally arrived in New York, after a lifetime's anticipation on my part, I was so excited I could barely contain myself. I spent the morning at the railing, waiting for my first glimpse of America. I saw it at the same moment the sailors did and nearly toppled over the railing in my excitement. I leaned out so far over the water that I began to lose my balance and Mother had to pull me back on board. My sisters laughed at me and Jack, who had come on deck willingly for once, grinned and clapped me on the shoulder.

"Don't get too excited there, Micheál," he teased me. "You might never make it." I blushed a little and laughed, but I leaned out over the rail regardless, stretching towards my new home. I watched the land draw nearer and nearer and I was shocked at the sheer immensity of everything, so different from our little village where the only things of any size were the sky and the sea.

When we drew closer, the ship docked and we were sent to an island to speak to the immigration officers.

A big, sour looking man sat behind a desk with a huge book open and a pen poised over the page.

"Name?" he barked.

I thought quickly. This was my chance.

"Michael O'Sullivan," I told him and he was about to write it down when Mother gave me a funny look and said loudly,

"No, it's not."

"Of course it is," I tried, but she shook her head.

"His name's Micheál O'Suilleabhain," she insisted and then, to my deep embarrassment, she spelled it for him. I couldn’t tell whether the immigration man was paying any attention to her or not, and I leaned forward, trying to see how he had spelled my name, but his hand was over my name as he added Bridget, Maura and Mother to his ledger.

We were passed on to a doctor, then, in the next room. He looked in our eyes and ears, asked us about our recent health, and stamped our papers. We were free to enter America.

I was in awe and breathless with anticipation when we finally left the immigration processing building and walked to the ferry that was to take us to New York City. My palms were sweating, my heart was racing and I couldn't look around at everything fast enough. I realized somewhere on the water that I had lost track of where Jack had gone and was sorry for a moment. I hoped we'd see each other again.

When my family and I finally disembarked for good, right there in New York City, we all stopped in our tracks. We weren't sure where to go next, whether the Murphys had gotten our letter and where we would find them in any case. We looked around at each other, all of us at a loss. Maura was clutching her bag close to her, Bridget was staring around at everything in unabashed awe, and suddenly from behind me I heard a whoop.

"Micheál!" a voice yelled and I whirled around in time for Patrick to practically leap on me.  He tousled my hair and wrung my hand and hugged me, all at once, and suddenly I was grinning from ear to ear.

"Mother! Da! I found them!" he yelled, his arm still around my shoulders, and suddenly his family emerged from the throng, huge smiles on their faces. Mrs. Murphy hugged Mother and Colleen and Bridget ran to each other, squealing. Mr. Murphy came over to shake my hand saying,

"I'm sorry about your Da, Micheál, he'd have loved to be with you for this."

I nodded solemnly and felt a little uncomfortable, but Patrick didn't let that stay for long.

"Da, don't pester him," he said. "He's just gotten here, can't you let him be happy about it?" I half expected his Da to wallop him right there on the dock for his smart mouth, but instead Mr. Murphy laughed.

"Right you are," he said and wrung my hand. "It's good to have you and your family around again," he told me.

Declan was standing behind him and when his eyes caught Bridget's I nudged Patrick and pointed.

"Hmmm," Patrick murmured. "I've been waiting for this show for weeks."

Declan followed Colleen over to talk to Bridget and he shook her hand formally and blushed a little. It had always been a running joke with Patrick, Maura and I and even, at times, our parents, that the young ones would marry one day, a tradition not unusual in our village, and the whole family was now watching them closely.

"Glad you're here," Declan told my sister, seeming shy. I was right- he had grown up a lot in the almost two years since we'd seen them, and as I was observing this it occurred to me that Patrick and I, too must have changed. Patrick was taller than I remembered him, and his shoulders were broader. He was stronger, a fact I attributed to his work at the docks, and I had no doubt that he probably had none of the nerves that I would experience when he was around the pretty girls who had rated a mention in his letter. I shook my head. I didn't think I'd changed that much at all, but Patrick's mother, having hugged my mother and Maura, came over to me.

"Oh, Micheál, look how tall you've gotten!" she exclaimed. "I can't believe it's been so long." I submitted to the fussing and after exclaiming over how thin I was and similar remarks, Mrs. Murphy said,

"You must be hungry. Why don't we go home and we'll eat something?" We nodded, and I realized all of a sudden that it was evening and the sun was sinking low behind the buildings of (my heart skipped a beat) New York City.

No sooner had it sunk in that we were really here than I was exhausted. I followed Patrick home in a stupor and was barely even hungry for my bread and soup. Once I had eaten to Mother's satisfaction, Patrick showed me to the cot where I would sleep until we found rooms of our own. There wasn't much space, but I would have it to myself. Patrick and his brother would share a cot, Bridget and Colleen wanted to share, and Mother and Maura would share a third. Lucky for me, I thought sleepily as I drifted off.

Next

Masterpost

[holethoa2010]

Two Siste - Harvesting Bok Choy go to market to sell | Thảo Duyên

In the picturesque countryside of Vietnam, where the sun rises gently over lush green fields, two sisters, Thao and Duyên, are hard at work. They have been up since dawn, preparing to harvest their carefully nurtured crop of bok choy. This is not just any ordinary day; today, they will take their fresh produce to the bustling local market.

The Harvest

With their straw hats shielding them from the morning sun, Thao and Duyen move gracefully through their vegetable garden. Each row of bok choy is a testament to their hard work and dedication. They use small, sharp knives to cut the base of each plant, ensuring they don't damage the tender leaves. As they work, they chat and laugh, enjoying the peacefulness of the early morning.

Preparing for Market

Once the bok choy is harvested, the sisters gather the fresh greens into large wicker baskets. They wash each plant thoroughly, removing any dirt and debris. After washing, they carefully arrange the bok choy into bundles, tying them with twine to keep them neat and presentable. The vibrant green leaves glisten with water droplets, looking as fresh as they did in the field.

Journey to the Market

With their baskets loaded onto a small cart, Thao and Duyên begin their journey to the local market. The path is familiar, winding through rice paddies and along the edges of a serene river. Along the way, they greet neighbors and friends, exchanging smiles and words of encouragement.

At the Market

Arriving at the market, the sisters set up their stall, displaying the bok choy prominently. The market is alive with activity—vendors calling out their wares, customers bargaining for the best prices, and the aroma of street food filling the air. Thao and Duyen's bok choy stands out with its freshness and quality, attracting a steady stream of customers.

Selling and Connecting

As they sell their bok choy, Thao and Duyen engage with their customers, sharing tips on cooking and the benefits of their fresh produce. Their friendly demeanor and the evident care they put into their work earn them many loyal customers. By midday, most of their bok choy is sold, and the sisters feel a sense of accomplishment.

The End of a Successful Day

With the sun setting and the market winding down, Thao and Duyen pack up their remaining goods and head home. The day has been long, but their spirits are high. They have not only made a profit but also strengthened their bond with the community and each other. As they walk back home, they talk about their plans for the next harvest and the improvements they can make.

Conclusion

The story of Thao and Duyen is a beautiful example of the hard work and dedication that goes into farming. Their journey from the fields to the market is filled with moments of joy, perseverance, and community. It is a reminder of the simple yet profound satisfaction that comes from working the land and providing fresh, healthy food to others.

[twowk]

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