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rom-e-o · 5 months

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Forever and Ever. (Constance DoGoode lore)

@quill-pen proposed an amazing idea, and I ran with it into the first, concrete store of exactly how little Connie's life began.

Full story beneath cut. For all ages, though this story does describe fictional child abandonment.

"We have to go. Leave her."

"I can't."

He shuddered at the reluctance oozing from his wife’s weepy voice, and detested how it threatened to make sobs rise in his own throat.

The man, mid-thirties in age, watched in agony as his wife, a copper-haired woman of similar age, hugged their daughter tightly. He saw her staring up at him over the bony edge of the woman's shoulder, and it hurt too much to stare.

Wide eyes, bright as twin stars, stared up at him as if he was her whole world. And she had no clue that he was casting her away.

“S-She’ll be in better hands here,” the man added feebly. “They have money in this part of town! She’ll have a better life than we could ever give her. You know that. We owe her that.”

The woman fired a glare at the man at the mention of the word ‘owe’. As if an infant owed anyone anything.

"I still can't, Emeryk,” she hissed through tears. “It’s not fair!"

He paused, hand settling on his hips. His head hung suspended in a slight swing between his shoulders, his brow furrowed.

“We … can’t support three children,” he finally reminded her. “The boys are home. Crying. Waiting for us.”

“I…I could…”

“We have tried, Myrna. Let her go. Someone here can give her the life we can’t.”

Her sob was strident enough to send a nearby rat scampering from its post as the garbage pile. The man checked around them frantically to make sure the sound hadn't drawn the attention of any humans. It was the dead of night, but New Yorkers had a pesky tendency to be light sleepers, even after long hours of toiling.

"Myrna, please," Emeryk beseeched, his agitation causing his words to slur into a hiss, accentuated by his Polish accent.

She swallowed another cry. "S-She doesn’t deserve this. She doesn’t deserve to not have a mama.”

"These people will give her a new one,” he replied, gesturing up to a large engraving above the doorwaythat read, Albany Center for Children.

“It’s not the same!”

“It must be, kochanie. We have no options left.”

Myrna was still; a silent admission that her husband was horribly correct. With another steadying breath, she placed a tender kiss on the little girl’s head. “Oh, my angel…please. Whether you forget this day or hate us forever…please know that we love you.”

The word ‘love’ made the girl smile. She nodded, and Myrna’s heart nearly shattered.

“Myrna.”

“We loved you so much, słońce.. As hard as we could and knew how to.”

After a final squeeze, hugging the girl as tight as she could without pressing her into her heart, the woman gently nudged the girl out of her arms. “Be happy in your new life, my love.”

In a shaky voice, she then pointed to the stoop of the orphanage. The wide step was cradled by iron fencing and littered with leaves from a swaying English elm. "S-Sit."

The redhead girl stared at the space for a moment before obeying. She waddled to the step, and after a moment of struggle to pull herself on the second step, rolled over on her bum and sat up as primly as she could on the steps of the orphanage. All the while, she stared at her mom with wide, cornflower blue eyes. She was barely a toddler, but old enough to see the distress on her mother's face and feel it through her frantic movements.

The little soul could sense and see something was terribly wrong, but was powerless to ask what was amiss, let alone do anything. “M-Mama? Sit. I sit.”

"Good job, angel," Myrna said, scrubbing her red eyes with the frayed hem of her shawl. The threads were so worn and caked in grime that they felt like straw on the sensitive skin.

Upon feeling the chilled cement on the backs of her legs, the little girl let out a whine of discomfort. She rocked in place, her brow furrowing.

"Cold, mama."

"I know. I’m sorry."

"C-Cold..." the girl repeated, shivering as a strong wind tugged at her threadbare onesie, which was taut and ripped at the elbows and knees. She pulled her chubby legs close, rubbing her bare feet together like a cricket in an instinctual gesture to try and warm up.

As the breeze passed, the child reached her arms out, seeking comfort and warmth from her mother. He fingers splayed frantically as she rocked in place, as if trying to will them closer to her.

Myrna’s expression crumbled as she turned away. “No.”

Checking over his shoulder again, Emeryk squeezed his wife's shoulder before looking down upon his daughter. “We have to go, little one. Goodbye.”

She kicked her feet in excitement, ready to get out of the cold. "D-Da..."

"No," he repeated with a heavy sway of his shaved head.

"No?" The girl didn't understand, her expression only growing more confused with each moment. She flicked her head to her mother, only to see her cowering against the form of the other adult.

The little girl started to push herself off the step to go to her guardians, the only two people in the world she knew. When she’d barely teetered forward, the man pointed a finger at her.

“Stay.” His tone was hard as granite, and unlike before, he did not stutter.

The girl waddled forward another inch, not understanding the word. Moonlight caught the fury in the man’s eyes at the perfect moment, his gaze startling her like sparks from a spitting fire.

“Sit down, and don’t move!”

His voice rose to a dangerous growl, and the young girl bristled in fear. Reassuming her stop on the stoop, she lowered her head and blinked back tears.

So, without any other order or hope, the little girl sat back down on the stoop.

After one last check to make sure nobody was watching the couple and waiting to confront them, they joined hands and started to run. They bolted down the road together, their fingers twined and eyes ahead, even as tears clouded their vision to near uselessness. The two adults were spry, and in a blink of an eye, they had vanished like nymphs in a shadowy glade.

All that was left in their wake was the silence of the city.

After waiting a few moments, the child peeked down the road. A sense of alarm from not seeing her parents took over, and despite her orders, she clumsily slipped off the stoop and tried to run after them. However, her small legs stood no chance of carrying her within hope’s reach of her parents. Almost instantly, she tripped and crumpled on the pavement, skinning her knees. She whimpered, laying in the road for a moment before pushing herself upright.

In the cold and dark, she returned to the steps of the orphanage, waiting for parents that would never come back to get her.

She waited.

And waited.

Even when she heard voices up the street or saw a light flicker on in a nearby window, she didn’t call for help, for none of the voices or shadows belonged to her parents. The girl was too terrified to try, fearing that something would distract her at the exact precious moment that her parents would come back to get her.

She kept waiting, all through the cold night.

That following morning, when one of the center’s groundskeepers emerged from his basement-level apartment to start the day, he saw the red-headed girl curled up like a kitten on the doorstep.

Fearing the worst, he threw his jacket over her and furiously knocked on the main door.

When the live-in staff did answer and saw the girl balled in his arms, they were shocked. Nobody had heard a sound or a cry all night, and the realization that she’d survived an entire night alone on the streets of New York sent them reeling with shock.

“Do you think she’s lost?” one staff member asked. The others swung their heads, skulls heavy like solemn, weighted pendulums. Children that arrived on their doorstep were never there by accident, after all.

“They couldn’t even bother to ring the bell?” one social worker asked another as they mounted the stairs to the W.C. “They have to know people live here!”

“Probably terrified of getting tossed in the bin if they got caught.”

“Cowards.”

“Hush! We don’t pass judgement. We can only hope they made this … decision with a heavy heart.”

“Hope. I suppose so.”

The redhead was immediately brought inside and doted upon in every way possible. The girl was changed, bathed, and given clean clothes. They then gave her porridge, which she ate in silence while a doctor gave her a physical. Upon seeing her knees, he took care to clean the wounds and patch them up. The girl remained catatonic despite the kind and insistent prodding, even when bribed with stuffed animals or candy for any information. The entire time, she didn’t so much as mutter a word.

Meanwhile, staff spent their early morning hours sending correspondence to every member of their board to alert them of the emergency take-in. After all, the center wasn’t exactly swimming in funds. They couldn’t turn away a child, but in the same breath, they had to be transparent with their sponsors and fundraisers about the use of their funds. Lots of care would need to be paid for, and the center was already bursting with children in need of foster homes, or permanent homes.

However, one particular member of the board told them to tally the charges, then charge them to her name.

“I’ll bring my bank book,” the woman wired in return. Then, the line went dead.

Fifteen minutes later, Theresea DoGoode strutted into the children’s center.

Entering in a flurry of fur and floral perfume, the woman removed her pillbox hand and stole. After smoothing her belted dress, she entered the foyer of the building that she and her husband had contributed a small fortune to build and support.

As a result, she was greeted with enthusiastic salutations and many thankful praises and comments from the staff. While obviously thankful, she brushed them off with poise and grace. After all, today was not a day that she had made a trip from Manhattan to speak to the center’s crew.

“Here,” she said, handing the lead social worker a small piece of paper. “A blank check, already signed and authorized. Write the amount I need to pay on it, and feel free to cash it now.”

She then made a beeline to the in-house physician’s office, her heels clicking with the rhythm of a heartbeat.

When she rounded the corner, she saw her.

A small, redheaded two-year-old, sitting opposite a doctor. The doctor looked stressed and forlorn at his lack of progress with the mute child, but Theresea absorbed none of it. Instead, she walked forward and beamed a gentle smile.

She kneeled down softly, careful to make no sudden movements.

“Hello.”

The little girl said nothing. She kept her blue eyes averted, staring at the wall.

Theresea, ever patient, lowered her body further. Sitting cross-legged allowed the child to have a slight advantage in height over her, which was mostly attributed to the chair. It wasn’t made for a child so small.

“What’s your name, love?”

“She won’t talk, this one.” The little girl had looked up, but the strident baritone of the doctor had startled her back into silence. “If she had a name, she may not remember it.”

Holding back a groan, Theresea kept her tone airy and easy. “Well, every little girl deserves a name. Do you know yours, angel?”

‘Angel,’ The girl’s eyes welled up at the familiar word. A word she knew was for her, but spoken by the lips of a stranger. “M-Ma…”

Tears had barely begun to fall before Theresea leaned in and hugged the child. The little girl crumbled into Theresea’s embrace, crying audibly as her fists gently pounded the woman’s shoulders. It wasn’t a gesture of aggravation, but rather, the only way the girl could think of siphoning out the horrible dread that she didn’t have a name for yet.

Theresea lifted her off the chair and into her lap, cooing as the little girl clung to her like an infant cloth.

The doctor was stunned at the sight, and even more stunned when Theresea turned and regarded him with an unyielding stare.

“I’ll stay with her while you finish the check-up,” she said, “Once she has a clean bill of health, I’d like to submit a form.”

“A…payment form?”

“An adoption form.”

Arthur DoGoode was a truly, truly happy man.

Despite hardships in life that had made him frail and delicate than most other adults, he had surpassed them all and amassed quantifiable success that could be measured by both his bank balance, and his social standing. He'd had the privilege of being able to work hard and cultivate a career as a prestigious property owner and investor in New York. Through those ventures, he'd met an aspiring philanthropist traveling from Morocco to New York, looking to make a difference. They shared a passion to help others and change the city for the better. Their shared passion culminated into a blissful marriage.

To him, it felt almost lucrative to have such a wonderful life. What had he done to deserve such grace?

Then, one day, an unfortunate situation turned into yet another blessing.

An abandoned two-year-old left was overnight on the doorstep of a New York orphanage. Staff had sent for his wife, and she'd made the trip while Arthur stayed back to tend to the real estate business affairs and make the meetings he'd scheduled. The entire time, the minutes ticked by more slowly than sap from a tapper.

Two hours later, Theresea came back through the door of their Manhattan abode with a swaddled, red-headed babe in her arms.

That day, a tepid April 30 in New York, at just before 9 a.m., Arthur DoGoode became a father to a voiceless daughter.

An entire year had passed since that fateful day.

"Papa!"

At that moment, on a cue uncannily parallel with his wandering imagination, said daughter manifested in the doorway. A copper-haired girl with bouncy pigtails bounded into the Manhattan breakfast nook. Her dress was trimmed in pounds of lace, and the layers shook like the pelt of a dog shaking itself off after coming in from a deluge.

Seeing her father seated at the table, she used all her strength to jump up onto the wooden chair next to her father's seat.

She jumped, then faltered, and her polished Mary Janes lick-clacked against the tiled floor.

"I-I can do it," she said, tiny fingers holding onto the wooden arm with all her might. "I can do it!"

He nodded.

"K-Keep watching, I can do it!"

He nodded again, further encouraging her while simultaneously restraining himself from reaching over to help her, even when she struggled.

When the three-year-old did pull herself upright finally, she raised her arms in victory, and he clapped as if he'd just watched a running cross the first-place marker at a marathon.

‘Well done!’ he mouthed out, beaming ear to ear.

Arthur never spoke much. Or, more accurately, he couldn't. He was a frail man; a delicate soul since birth. It hurt his lungs and throat to speak, and the pain was only heightened by a lurking dysphonia that made breathing some days difficult as trying to manually fill a hot air balloon with just his lungs. So, he conveyed his emotions with expressions and hand gestures.

To Constance, her father's lack of speech wasn't an absence of any communication, for there was never a statement between them that went misunderstood.

The same could be said for Arthur and his wife, Theresea. The love of his life, and the one who had brought their daughter home. For that, and many other things, he’d be forever thankful.

"Well, well, look at this!"

Dressed in a navy jumper and white skirt, Theresea entered their kitchenette with a wide grin, hands balanced upon her hips.

Unbeknownst to both Arthur and Constance, Theresea had watched the toddler's monumental feat from behind the arched doorway leading into the spacious kitchen.

"I say,” she started with a cheeky lilt, “Did you pull yourself up all by yourself, my girl?"

The girl nodded proudly.

"Well, you are a clever young girl, aren't you?" the mother inquired with a teasing tilt of the head. She reached down and tousled her bangs playfully, then placed a painted kiss atop her crown. Theresea always wore dark plum or deep, mahogany-tinted lip paints. Yet, by magic Arthur couldn't fathom, Constance never had so much as a trace of a lipstick mark on her forehead after kisses.

“Well, well, what are you two schemers up to so early?” she asked while pulling out a chair to join them. “It’s Saturday, and the sun is barely up! Last I saw you before my bath, you were like a rock.”

Arthur pointed subtlety to the oven. which was on and baking … something. Theresea closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in a sweet aroma that she noticed building in the kitchenette. The smell was one she knew. Vanilla.

“Ah, baking a cake?” she asked, and he nodded.

Arthur then pointed to Connie’s festive dress and done-up hair, his fingers starting at his forehead and spiraling down in loops to convey the shape of her pigtails.

“Yes, she roused me a little earlier than normal,” she said, “So, I brought her into my powder room for a little girl’s pampering session. Hair, clothes, nails, the works!”

She reached over and tickled the young girl through the lacy layers of her dress. The toddler screamed in mirth, her strawberry-seed teeth bared in a full grin. Not for the further time that day, Arthur’s heart sang with joy. “After all, today is a very special day!”

Constance paused her laughter to stare at her parents in intrigue. Her cornflower eyes bounced between them as they took turns humming and making dramatic ‘pondering’ gestures. Even a audience member in the back seats the Globe Theatre – if it still stood today – would have rolled their eyes at the over-dramatic display, but Constance was enthralled.

“What?” she asked, bouncing up and down on her chair. “What? What day? Spe-thial?”

Then, in unison, both parents gasped in mock-shock.

“Why, it’s your birthday!” the parents expressed in tandem.

Theresea cheered while Arthur went to check the delicious cake in the oven, hearing the timer ping just moments before.

“Birf-day?” the girl repeated as Theresea kissed her chubby cheeks.

“That’s right. It’s the very special day when you came into our lives and made us very happy.”

Connie’s mouth formed an ‘o’ shape, which quickly shifted into a sheepish grin. Her fingers steepled in front of her face and she rocked from foot to foot. In her large dress, she looked like a tipsy snowball. “I did? I made mama and papa happy? For real life?”

“You did.” She reached out and folded her tiny hands into her own. “You do, my love. Every day.”

Arthur lightly spread a layer of premade glaze over the surface of the round cake. Then, he sifted a blanket of powdered sugar and cinnamon on top of the perfect, circular surface. After sticking on a paper topper, which was cut into a kaleidoscope of swirls and flourishes, he scooped it up proudly.

With a skillful pirouette, he turned and placed it before the young girl. Upon seeing the vanilla cake, her face lit up. It was her favorite kind, even down to the dusting of cinnamon. How had her father known? She loved everything he baked, after all.

Arthur smiled as he gently placed a candle in the middle of the topper. Then, with a hand as steady as a surgeon, he struck a match and lit it.

“Now,” the woman said, nudging her forward, holding onto her side to prevent her from drifting too close to the frame. “Blow out the candle and make a wish.”

She thought hard. What was her wish? There wasn’t much she wanted, she supposed. He lived in a very pretty house, had a really nice bedroom with a real mattress, warm clothes (although they were sometimes itchy) and she had the best parents in the whole wide world. Her beautiful mama and handsome father; the two people she loved more than anyone.

That, she realized, was the part she loved most.

With a mighty inhale, she blew as hard as she could, dashing the flame out swiftly. As her parents clapped, she settled between them contently. She held the wish in her heart, content with the warm buzz it generated there.

Please … stay my mama and papa forever and ever.

#oc constance dogoode #lore

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sleepyfan-blog · 5 months

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Capture

Author’s note: The first part of Sirass’ story. Next

Tagged: @egrets-not-regrets @the-pure-angel

Warnings: child kidnapping

Summary: Sirass as a child, helping his mom with her work before going out to play with his friends at a local park.

"Siri, how are you doing with the hole in Ms. Hespirax's dress?" Amama sked, a warm smile on her face as she looked over at where Sirass was carefully stitching a small patch of cloth to the hole that had torn open in one of their clients' favorite dresses.

"I'm about half-way done! I'm keeping the stitches small and even, just like you taught me!" He chirped in response, grinning proudly as he shows his mama his work. He'd been learning how to make and repair clothing as long as he could remember. His mother ran a small tailor's shop in Lochos.

Mama paused her work on the very fancy dress that she'd been working on for weeks as she looked over his work. The smile on her face brightened and she ruffled his hair, messing up his curls "Good job, Sirass! Be sure to keep your stitches as small and even as you can, and to not snag extra cloth while repairing the damage."

Sirass nodded "Yes mama!" While his stitches weren't as neat and even as his mother's, the ten year old child was determined to help his mother as best as he could, and his repair of the dress was of good quality. He checked periodically to make sure he didn't accidentally sew one part of the dress to another, keeping one hand between the layers of fabric, which also helped to keep the patch in place as he sewed it into place.

Once he finished the last stitch and carefully tied off the extra thread with a knot and trimmed the trailing thread he walked over to where his mother was finishing up her own project and proudly showed it to her. "What do you think, mama? I've finished putting the patch in!"

Mama took the dress he'd been working on and carefully stressed the patch, running her fingers over the stitches. She gifted Sirass with another smile and a hair-ruffle "You did really well! Thank you for helping me patch up Ms. Hespirax's dress. You should go out and play with your friends - I can see them walking down the street to the nearby park. Please be sure to come home by sunset, alright?"

"Thanks mama! I will, mama!" Sirass promised with an eager grin as he ran out to go play with his friends. While there was something soothing about fixing up torn clothes, or helping his mama make new clothes, he very much liked running around and playing games with his friends a lot more.

"Wait for me, Vasili, Sophia, Alfina, and Castian!" Sirass called out as he ran out the back door of his home, darting over to where the others were walking, waving at them excitedly.

His four very best friends slowed down, waving back energetically. Sophia spoke up first "Hi Siri! How are you today? I thought you were going to be doing stuff with your mama all day?"

"I finished the task that mama asked me to do early, so I'm able to play!" Sirass answered with a grin, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet.

"That's great!" Vasili responds, a bright grin appearing on his face "My dad's been teaching me how to whittle! He says it's the first step on learning how to properly carve things into shape. I'm still not allowed near aby of the saws and bigger stuff he uses to make chairs and other stuff with. Says it's too dangerous."

" Considering your dad has lost three fingers, he probably knows what he's talking about." Alfina points out, poking Vasili in the side "My auntie's been showing me how to clean and bandage different kinds of wounds. I've been learning about burns for weeks. Fire can be really scary if you don't treat it with respect."

"Why would anyone mess around with fire, anyways?" Castian asks, his face scrunching up in confusion "I've only just started to be allowed nearby dad's forge, and none of my little siblings are allowed anywhere close. Dad says that you shouldn't be afraid of fire, but to respect it, like you would a guard dog. Don't taunt fire - or a guard dog - or you'll get burned or bitten."

"My aunt says it's because some people don't use the brains that they were born with. Or they drank too much wine." Alfina answered with a shrug. "Ooh, look! The flowers are blooming at the park! Last one there is a rotten egg!" with that playful taunt she broke out into a sprint, having given herself a head-start.

"HEY, THAT'S CHEATING!" Sirass shouted as he broke out into a run, the rest of his friends following suit. Usually when they played running games like this, the person starting did a brief count down, but ALfina really did enjoy winning however she could.

Not that she did win the sprint to the park, despite her head start, as Sirass was the tallest of the five of them. Sure his feet were a little too big and he could be a little clumsy at times, but his long legs did give him an edge in running games like this.

He skidded to a halt as he reached the huge field of flowers - there were so many bright and vivid colors, and they smelled really nice! There were a few bumblebees sitting on a couple of the flowers, enjoying them too "Haha! I win!" Sirass called out, a victorious grin on his face.

Alfina pouted at him as she slowed down a little, having come in second place "Yeah yeah, you win again. It's not fair that you're so tall!"

"You gave yourself a head-start. You're just grumpy that I'm faster than you are." Sirass teased, sticking his tongue out at her a little.

Sophia didn't slow down enough before reaching the two of them and accidentally crashed into Alfina, her feet having slipped on the muddy ground "Watch out! Augh!" She flailed her arms, trying to regain her balance as she fell backwards.

Vasili wailed "Wait, hang on, don't fall on me!" As he had been running right behind her and tried to dodge around her, only to slip on the muddy ground and started to fall as well.

Sirass lunged to try and help keep his friends from falling to the ground when he abruptly found himself dangling several feet off of the ground, with a huge, metal-covered h and having scruffed the back of his neck. He squirmed a little in confusion and looked up over his shoulder, freezing in fear as the red-eyed visor of one of The Tyrants' Enhanced Soldiers seemed to glare down at him.

The soldier demanded "How old are you, boy?" When Sirass didn't respond initially, the huge mountain of a man shook him a little "Answer me, boy. You'll get into trouble if you don't."

"I... I'm ten, sir. Th-thank you for catching me? Please put me and my friend down, sir. We... We haven't done anything wrong." There were more of the massive, metal-clad soldiers, and each of his friends were being held by one of them.

"We've been ordered to acquire new recruits by our primarch. You and the other two boys are being given the honor of becoming Aspirants for the Iron legion. If you survive the trials, you will be given the honor of becoming an Astartes. Resistance is futile. Put down the girls, they will tell whoever your guardians are of your glorious purpose." The giant soldier holding Vasili ordered. Alfina and Sophia were put down, "You may leave now, children."

Both Sophia and Alfina ran off without so much as a backward glance.

Sirass squirmed a little in the Astartes' grip "I... Please sir. It's just me and my mama... I don't... I don't want to be taken away from her."

"You dare defy the will of the Tyrant of Olympia? Bold, boy, but such defiance will cost you dearly. If you're so concerned about your mother's fate, perhaps we should pay her a visit?" The Astartes holding Sirass threatened.

His heart shot up into his mouth and he shook his head. He didn't know what might happen if his mother met with these terrifying soldiers, but they were so big and scary and he didn't want her to get hurt because of him "N-No...I... I don't... I'll be good."

"Good." The Astartes rumbled.

With that, Sirass' life as he knew it was over.

#my writing #oc: sirass #oc: Vasili #oc: alfina #oc: sophia #oc: castian #warhammer 30k #iron warriors #iron warrior ocs

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smolvenger · 1 year

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Miss Narracott and The Captain, Part Two (Captain James Nicholls x fem! Reader Miniseries)

Summary: It is 1912. You are Y/N Narracott, the older sister of Albert Narracott. You must do what you can so your family can keep their farm. And so your brother can keep his beloved horse. Under financial struggles, you never expect romance to come into your life...until you have a chance encounter with James Nicholls- a Captain with a knack for drawing. But the threat of war lingers in the air...

Link to Part One

Fandom: War Horse

Chapter Word Count: 6K

Chapter Warnings: Some angst and some fluff. Light Slow Burn. Mrs. Narracott being badass. I turn Lyons from Neutral Jerk to Mustache twirling villain. Because it's my fic and I can do what I want. References to lines and scenes from the movie. Nicholls is an angel. Some references to violence.

A03//My Ko-Fi//My Etsy Shop//Masterlist//Wattpad

A/N: Comments, Reblogs, DMs, and Asks about my work are always appreciated! Thank you!

Taglist: @evelyn-kingsley @jennyggggrrr @five-miles-over @fictive-sl0th @ladycamillewrites @villainousshakespeare @holdmytesseract @eleniblue @twhxhck @lokisgoodgirl @lovelysizzlingbluebird @raqnarokr @holymultiplefandomsbatman @michelleleewise @wolfsmom1 @cheekyscamp

Spring, 1912

This whole past week you did not see Captain Nicholls back at the shop. He likely had business. You wished to enquire what soldiers were doing here…but it was peacetime. And that was being quite nosy.

A farm never really had a weekend. But Saturday was the only day you could sleep in just a little. Dad insisted that for you.

“Come on, Y/N! I need help with the laundry!” mum called out from the yard.

“Coming in a bit!” you called back from the chair.

You had been repairing clothes that had tears. So far, it looked like Dad’s working pants were decent. Setting down your needle and thread in the basket by your feet, you walked out. As you entered the laundry area, you heard Joey mimicking an owl’s hoot. Both of you jumped and looked around.

“Oh, for goodness' sake!” Mum yelped as she checked around her.

Albert had trained Joey to trot up to him at the sound of it and the horse would bolt from wherever he was. Heaven help whoever was walking about at the same time Joey pranced in the yards! Everyone had to jump out of the way as Joey would hurry to Albert’s call.

But no, you did not worry about getting run over by a horse this time. Both Albert and Joey were standing in the field. They were in the circled off ground before the stable.

Mum lifted a white shirt from the basket of washed clothes. She put it on the line. You found another and did the same.

“Y/N, I want to have a little chat with you…it’s easier to chat when you’re doing laundry, …” Mum announced.

Nervousness soured your bowels. She glanced out at your brother. He went to the stable and retrieved the plow. Then she turned to you.

“You do know I love both of you,” she said.

“Of course, we do!”

“Your father and I tried our best to teach you some good lessons. And there’s one lesson I see Albert applying all the time, but I’ve yet to see it from you…”

You tilted your head as you found a wet apron that needed to dry.

“What do you mean?” you asked as you pinned it up.

Mum went over and cupped your cheek, looking into your eyes.

“Y/N, you cannot keep sacrificin’ yourself for others. Getting a job for all of us is very noble, and yes it has helped…but you cannot keep silencin’ yourself or what you think…I don’t think you really wanted to give all your wages to us…”

“I don’t mind the work, mama, I don’t! And that’s why I got it- to support everyone!” you replied.

She glanced at a dry bedsheet that was pinned up.

“Of course, you don’t. But, let me tell you something…”

She gestured for you to get to the other end. Freeing it from pins, both of you walked forward to fold it up.

“If there’s one thing, I teach you and Albert, it’s this! Everyone all your life will try to tell you what you should think, what you should do!” she guided.

“Why aren’t you telling both of us, then?” you questioned.

“As I said- I see Albert doing it and you not! I know why- I know you’re a woman in this world! I know what they teach us. I’ve been through it when I was your age too, don’t think I did not!” she explained.

She folded the bedsheet sideways and up, placing it in an empty basket.

“But what if it’s a situation where it's not polite to?” you asked.

“I love that you’re a polite girl, Y/N. No shame in good manners or treatin’ others good. There are plenty of times for politeness. Then there are the other times… if someone’s threatenin' or hurtin' you-politeness ain’t always gonna work! You got to fight back!” she said.

“Fight back…” you repeated as you hung up one of your blouses to dry.

“You cannot let others tell you what should or shouldn’t make you happy. And you shouldn’t sacrifice your own self for others all the time. Soon there won’t be anything of you left to sacrifice! You must stand up for yourself, Y/N! Speak your own mind! And tell others what it is you want, especially if they don’t agree with you!”

She got down another dry shirt and pinned it up.

“They tell us to do this or that. I’m sure even the King of England has to do what he’s told sometimes! But as a woman, they’ll try and pressure you to do what pleases them and not yourself! All the time! Y/N…you got to insist on what you want, what you think!”

Albert put the reins on Joey and led him out to the bottom field, vanishing from vision.

“They always tell us women to cut ourselves into bits to make others happy. And I’m telling you, Y/N- don’t! Don’t let them!” mum ordered.

The chickens clucked in the next yard over. The goose crawled under the fence and explored the horse-free circle of grass. You took down a dry sock to fold it.

“Their opinion, what if it…”

“You don’t have an opinion too? Why should anyone else’s matter but theirs? Unless you realize yours is downright stupid!” mum cried.

You chuckled.

“I guess you’re right…”

She put an arm on your shoulder.

“Whatever you think will make you happy…we’ll support you. Albie, Dad, and I…” she promised.

You pressed the sock into your chest. Letting out a deep sigh, you confided to her.

“I haven’t figured out what, I guess…haven’t found my place. I wondered if I could work at the shop for the rest of my life. I...I confess I even wondered about marrying rich! It would help everyone. But that won’t happen, not in Devon. I think I might spend my spinster days here…”

“You don’t have to marry if you don’t want to. I’d rather see you a happy spinster than a miserable wife, Y/N!”

The goose wandered in to nibble at your mother’s petticoat. Mum shooed him away.

“I think I’d like to fall in love. Fall in genuine, real love, have it work out, and marry someday…” you confessed.

“You always were the romantic, girl! If you do marry, it better be for love. I’d want a good man who’ll love you over a rich man any day!” mum responded.

“But I…I don’t know if I want to leave…not yet…” you continued.

The goose went over to the basket and sniffed at it with his orange beak. She opened her arms and let you hug her.

“Then stay here, my dear girl, and figure it out…but don’t let some people order you about just ‘cause you’re a woman! Ain’t nothin’ that makes foolish men quiver like seeing a woman happy on her own terms!”

You smiled as you looked up at her. She pressed a kiss to your forehead before you continued your laundry. You noticed the goose walking under the fence. He began waddling about the yard. He found dad going about his chores and nipped at the ends of his pants. · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · · That Sunday, you did see Captain Nicholls at church. Many of the new soldiers had come in, filling up the pews with young men. He was not in uniform but in his three-piece suit and tie. And beside him was another gentleman with a mustache. You wished to speak to him, but your family scuttled in when the service began. As everyone gathered hymnals and sang, you eyed him. He let out a smile and a nod of acknowledgment. You did so back. Once the service ended with the final amen, the crowd broke. As you went up to chat with your friends, you noticed Nicholls went up to you between the pews.

“Oh! Y/N…there you are!” he greeted.

“You remember my name?” you asked.

“Oh, of course!” Nicholls said.

“Is this your first church service here? Do you like it?” you asked.

“Yes, indeed! It’s excellent! The choir sounded lovely- never heard one like it! I’ve shaken two dozen hands already. Complete with tea invitations. I’m sure my colleagues can say the same,” he said.

Yes, dozens of families and couples were welcoming the new soldiers in town. The young men were nodding next to the bright eyes and wide smiles of old people who were thrilled at newcomers.

“Nothing like a first church visit to make you feel famous!” you commented.

“Though I confess I would like it more if they had a picnic. I’m quite hungry,” Nicholls said.

“Oh, we have our share of picnics!” you assured him.

“Mrs. Collins promised me a welcome basket next week with her own famous bread, even!” he said, pointing her out.

The very old lady, next to her equally old husband, was shaking the hand of the mustachioed soldier.

“We could spare a few of the crops and eggs. It’s not much of a welcoming basket, but it’s something,” you offered.

“Crops? Are you from a farming family?” he asked.

Mouth frowning a little, you nodded.

“I’m a farmer’s daughter,” you confirmed.

You knew Nicholls was several stations above you. He had a genteel occupation versus the lowly farming Narracotts. Some of the upper-class people you met in the past were polite, but arrogant in their knowledge of who held the upper hand.

Nicholls was neither. His face remained soft and smiling. If he had any bad opinions about you, it was hidden.

“I think any welcoming basket is better than none! Especially with some grown, natural produce fresh from the ground! I would enjoy it…and the horse. If I recall correctly, there are horses with your family?”

“On our-our farm? The horse-oh-we call him Joey! I barely mentioned him!” you remembered.

“You said your brother had a horse, Miss Narracott! I am dearly fond of the creatures myself if you haven’t guessed from the sketchbook,” he added.

“I should hate to be repetitive, but perhaps you should come over for tea and see Joey- a beautiful, beautiful horse! He’s gentle for the most part unless he hears a commotion, or the mood fancies him!”

“Then I shall be glad to, Miss,” he replied.

He then said his goodbyes and left. But where on earth was your family? It was far too crowded today. You already made your rounds to greet your friends who went here. You began to head outside the doors.

Though as you left for the entrance, who did you run into, but the Landlord. His red, walrus mustache looked combed today. Overdressed in his black and white plaid coat and waistcoat, not a surprising fashion choice for him. He held his bowler hat in one hand. You saw attached to his waistcoat an ornate, golden pocket watch dangling. He picked it up and examined the time and then turned his head to you. Steps skidding out of bumping into where he stood.

“Oh- I’m sorry, Mr. Lyons!” you excused.

Feet shuffling backward, you bowed your head. He turned to see you.

“None taken! Only glad the service ended on time for once! But you did nothing at all wrong,” he said. He spoke with warmth. Not like when he discussed matters of rent with your father.

“Mr. Lyons how are you today?” you asked.

“I am well. And may I say, you do look radiant today, Miss Narracott. Is that a new dress you have on today?” he asked.

Something about the way he was smiling at you felt wrong. It was too wide. Too friendly. Too...nice. You glanced down at your dress. Attempting some form of modesty though you were entirely covered with hat, dress, and gloves.

“Just a hand-me-down from mum’s family,” you responded.

“Lovely on you all the same.”

It struck you that though he did have a wife, she died long ago. And the mourning period was long since over, which meant…

Slight panic gripped your turning stomach. Dear Sweet Jesus- the man was actually flirting with you! You held your gloved hands. But, considering that he had money and a higher station…was he using his position to do what he wanted? How crude! What would your family think?

For now, you only smiled, gripping your hands tighter.

“Mr. Lyons, I thank you for your generous compliment. And I hope your son is well too. Though I am afraid I must leave- there are still chores to finish back home,” you excused.

“Ah, so Sunday is no day of rest?”

“No, it is not,” you confirmed.

You wished you could have added “thanks to your prices!” at the end of that. But you bit your tongue instead.

You dipped your head and left. Despite the familiar faces you passed, your mind spiraled elsewhere. Questioning if this was reality or some odd dream you had. You caught mum gossiping with some friends. Dad and Albert were behind her. Dad turned to you.

“Hey- there you were! Was bout wonderin’ if you vanished, Y/N! Ah- let’s head home, girl,” he greeted.

As the four of you began walking, you kept your head down. Replaying the moment with Mr. Lyons a dozen times.

“You got a troubled look about you. What is it?” Albert asked in your ear. He slowed his pace to meet yours.

“I’ll tell you when we’re alone…” you said. · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · · “Flirting!” cried Albert.

After some chores, you two would go for a walk outside. Especially on a sunny day like today. It was the hour you and Albert could discuss anything. Especially without snooping, overhearing parents.

It was a day that had gentle sunlight as it glided across the sky. The breeze was cool, but slight. The green grass swept through eternity like a green ocean. Tall blue mountains rose from the ground a distance away, kissing the blue sky above you. In the distance from the hill, the town looked so small. One could crush the church bell tower with their thumb and forefinger. You could even see the blue line of the river stretch out from your view. The forest skittered away, keeping the town and hills snug like it was a wall. They went on forever until they vanished to the horizon. Across the green fields, hundreds of white sheep grazed about for their Sunday lunch of fresh spring grass. Ignoring the whistles of their shepherds to feast and bleat about each other. The church bells pealed the hour from far away, but it echoed up here.

This time your company had a third party. Albert held Joey by the reigns as he walked. But the horse’s ears did perk towards you as if this interested him as well.

“I could have sworn it, yes…” you answered.

“Well, what do you think of him?” Albert asked.

“Mr. Lyons is…prosperous. He…you see how he runs things. It’s not fair dad doesn’t pay his rent. It’s not fair he wants to take our Joey too. But it’s what Lyons has to live on. That’s how his occupation works," you replied. It could be worse.

Joey brushed his lips as if in dismissal of his potential owner.

“But, Y/N, do you like him?” Albert asked.

You paused.

“Not really.”

You looked down at the town below. Birds sang their carefree songs over your head. You noted a few blue wildflowers.

“Lyons has a son, doesn’t he?” you asked.

“Yes- David’s his name!” Albert responded.

You bent down and began picking a few. You put them in your apron pocket and then went up and looked at Albert.

“Every meeting that boy stands there. Doesn’t even do anything! He just sneers at everyone all the time!” you commented.

“Andrew calls him air-nose! Cause his nose is always in the air, the big snob!” Albert teased.

He mimicked the gesture with a perfect sneer. You smiled. But then your original idea caught you. You put a hand in your pocket to touch the flowers as your smile faded with your words.

“How old’s David?”

“Fifteen-Same as me,” Albert replied.

So that meant Lyons was old enough to be your father. You let out a sigh.

“Maybe it was just flirting and he'll move on and forget it. Maybe it’s my imagination…” you dismissed.

Joey flicked his tail behind him. Albert kept one hand to pat his long snout.

“If it ain’t, don’t worry, Y/N. If he or any old goat ever tries something funny with you, tell me. I don’t care if he owns the place or not. I’ll box his ear off!”

“Thank you!” you wished.

You stopped to pet Joey, gently touching his long, copper neck. Grateful the horse was now used to you and softened at your touch.

“And please train Joey to kick him. Hard,” you added.

“You bet!” Albert laughed.

Your brother stopped petting his horse to give you a half-hug. Then you both continued walking your path. Your skirt grazed past some long grass and floated in the breeze with it. Noticing another bunch of pretty wildflowers, you both paused to gather some up and put them in your apron pocket.

“So, Y/N I finally got a name for Goose- Harold! What do you think? Fits him, doesn’t it!” Albert announced.

“He definitely looks like a Harold to me!” you agreed.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · · Summer, 1912.

It was a hot July day. Still hot as your shift ended and you left. Grateful for the breeze as you left town and walked up the hill to home. Much to your surprise, you saw two horses before the stone fence you did not recognize. One was a speckled one that chewed on dandelions. The other was an intimidating black stallion that shook its mane and kicked the grass.

As you opened the gate, Albert came running up.

“Y/N! Y/N! We have guests! Guests for tea!” he cried.

“Who?”

“These fellows- soldiers! They were watchin' the lands on duty! Then they found our farm and stopped by! One says he knows you!”

“What!?” you cried.

You immediately walked inside. There was your mother just putting the kettle on.

But there he was, Captain Nicholls, still in uniform. Sitting right at your table! And next to him was the gentleman with a mustache. As you walked closer, you saw the mustachioed man take off his hat. He was only barely shorter than Captain Nicholls. You took note more of his appearance- he had dark hair, as opposed to Nicholl’s auburn hair. But both had high cheekbones.

“Oh- more company!” replied the mustachioed man.

But Nicholls himself stood up, as did his companion.

“Miss Narracott! We’re glad you’re here in time!” Nicholls greeted.

“We’re glad to have you- both of you!” you replied.

Your head turned to the gentleman.

“And may I have an introduction, please?” the gentleman asked.

He smiled and then reached for a handshake.

“Stewart. Major Jaimie Stewart,” he introduced himself.

“Miss Y/N Narracott, pleased to meet you.”

The kettle boiled, the leaves brewed, and tea was served. Father even came in to talk. Everyone sipped as everyone began to question the two soldiers. They didn’t brag about their triumphs in battle. They spoke of their daily lives.

“Fell off him! Then the horse only galloped away! I fell right on my bum in front of our general- there!” Steward finished.

Even Dad laughed. He got out a pipe and lit it.

“So, tell us, where do you fellows both come from? Your families?” he asked.

“Parents both fell ill and died when I was a child,” Stewart explained.

You set down your white and blue porcelain cup.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” you commented.

“I was raised by my aunt and uncle in London. I had a small family. But that’s not the case for Jim, here!” Stewart said.

He patted Nicholl’s back. He smiled, his eyes bright as he explained.

“I was born in Somerset. My mother was once a pianist and would still give lessons in the town and play at church. Father is a lawyer, but he had a soft spot for books and plays. They met at a little theatre club- she would play piano, and he would act. I’m the oldest of five brothers and sisters.”

“Five!” you cried. It was a lot to have just one, headstrong brother!

“You get quite used to it! We still write to each other all the time!” he replied with a small laugh.

You then smiled.

“I bet it was quite busy!” Mum said. She went to the kitchen and pulled out biscuits on a plate.

“Yes, indeed it was!” He replied.

Nicholls then accepted a biscuit and put it on his saucer. It was the plainer kind. The cheaper kind. He bit into it but showed no grimace. Stewart helped himself to two.

“Sorry it’s not much, we weren’t expecting company…” mum apologized.

“Oh, not at all! These are very good!” said Nicholls.

“You do make an excellent tea as well, Mrs. Narracott,” Major Stewart complimented.

She beamed at them as she finished her drink. Then mum began to return everyone’s cups to the kitchen.

“Now that we’ve had tea, may I see the horse, please?” Nicholls asked.

The soldiers, your brother, and you all walked out to the field. Albert opened the stable door and out trotted the horse.

“Joeys got a brushin’ today! Shiny as a smile on a weddin’, he is!” Albert bragged.

“Leave him to Jim, here. He’s the expert!” Stewart said.

“Yes, I’d love to look at him!” Nicholls added.

Out to the small field, guarded by the stone fence. There Joey stood, eating grass and brushing his tail.

“Ah-here he is!” Albert pointed out.

He put his hands to his mouth and let out the owl call.

“Gentlemen-watch out!” you warned the soldiers. You put out an arm to keep them back.

Joey’s ears picked up. Thankfully he didn’t break into an overexcited gallop. Only a cheerful prance. Nicholls walked forward to the horse. He offered out a hand. You wondered if Joey’s head would buck or make a sudden reaction. He did none. He allowed Nicholls to pet his muzzle. He smiled as he studied the horse- his eyes and his shape.

“He’s an excellent fellow. Very fine!” Nicholls praised.

“Nowhere near Topthorn,” muttered Stewart.

He looked down at the horses’ feet and then the teeth. How touching to see such an excitable being would be calm in the presence of this man. Allowing for gentle pats without resistance.

“Does he ride?” Nicholls asked.

“Not yet- almost there. Got to teach him to plow, is all!” Albert explained.

Not is all. He had to. All bets were on this animal. If he failed, there would be no more of the home you knew for so long. You and your family would have to beg relatives to squeeze you in. Or beg on the streets…

“He’s going to make a fine plow horse we…we hope…” you finished.

The two men turned to you.

“Hope?” repeated Stewart.

You nodded. Tears welled in your eyelids.

“The Landlord says he’ll take the farm and horse too if Joey’s unable to plow the crops for our rent…excuse me…” you said, feeling the sadness overwhelm you.

You turned around, taking three steps away. You began wiping tears with your hand and sleeve. Then you looked up and saw Nicholls offering a handkerchief from his pocket.

“Here, Miss Narracott,” he said.

You accepted it and began to wipe it off. You turned back around. Albert let go of the reins to let Joey trot around.

“My sister was always the worrier-but she’ll be grinnin' and laughin' in no time! Why? Because Joey is perfectly able to! He’s almost there!” Albert declared.

Stewart folded his arms and looked up and down the horse.

“He definitely has the strength to. how is he doing?” he asked.

“Just won’t move, sir- just trots around the bottom field. Or stands. He doesn’t like the plow on ‘im, sir. But I noticed somethin’- he likes it when I imitate things! He ate oats after I’d pretend to eat ‘em!” Albert explained.

Both Nicholls and Stewart returned to the horse. Joey stopped to snack on some grass.

“If he won’t move, try a bit of the horsewhip. Just a light touch. It will keep him moving,” Nicholls advised Albert.

Stewart looked around.

“Where does he have to plow?” he asked.

“The bottom field,” you replied, pointing that way.

The four of you walked there. It was a long, large field with dead grass and filled with rocks. How pitiful and impossible it seemed to you. Stewart leaned down to the ground, inspecting the dirt.

“Don’t you think if there’s water, it’ll be better? Make mud, make the blade move!” Stewart suggested.

“Well-did you hear that, Albie! Those are good ideas!” you said.

Albert nodded.

“Will keep them in, sir!” he vowed.

“Well, we’ve overstayed our time! Should we start going back, Jim?” Stewart asked.

“Of course, we should!” Nicholls replied.

Stewart went back inside with Albert to say his goodbyes. But still outside, gazing at the rocky field, Nicholls turned to you.

“Don’t fret about it, Miss Narracott,” he said.

You returned his handkerchief, which he placed in his breast pocket.

“I’m so sorry for crying in front of you officers,” you mumbled.

“There is no need for shame, Miss. You’re in a frightening position,” he comforted.

“I’m afraid…we’ll lose our home, our life…” you added on.

“Joey is more than capable of plowing. He has the ability- Albert just has to train him in the right way. He must figure out what works.”

“I just think sometimes my life’s slipping away from me and I can’t do anything about it,” you confessed.

The chickens passed the front yard, clucking away. The wind whistled in your ears, cooling you from the sun.

“Do you know of any way you can help Albert?” Nicholls asked.

You blinked.

“I could…I could pick up on some of the chores Albie does. I can feed the chickens more and check on Joey’s stable for water and food. To buy him time to train. It isn’t much…” you sighed.

Nicholls smiled at you.

“It will make a difference. That will make you feel better. And in control.”

“Thank you, Captain…for the handkerchief, your words, everything,” you said.

Both of you began to walk back inside. The gentlemen put their caps back on their heads.

“When are Albert and Joey going to continue to try plowing?” Stewart asked.

“Tomorrow morning. Starting at dawn,” you answered.

“Then…by all means, if we can be there to help, we shall!” Nicholls promised. · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · · You hurried from work back home. You had to see how plowing was going- you had to. But to your great surprise when there was a crowd of people already at your property. And normally you weren’t used to massive company on your lands! Men and women, rich and poor and between, old people and little children, all gathered to see the field. They leaned against the fence that protected the bottom field. They were watching the attempted plowing like a circus!

Albert was right there with Joey. He put on a mock plow like the one around his horse. Albert’s shirt was drenched with sweat. If they began at dawn, they must have been at it for hours by now. Joey was not motivated to run. The horse stopped. The crowd all began to gossip, stare, jeer, and cheer. Some were even taking bets among them, swapping prices for if the field got plowed or not.

“Come on…come on- the whip!” you urged.

Albert used a whip and that made Joey move. He trotted forward. The blade moved across the field. But it only dug a few inches. Not deep.

Then Joey stopped.

In the back, you saw dad and Lyons sitting on a rock, watching. Lyons turned to your father.

“I’ll give you a day to gather everything even, make the arrangements…” the landlord reasoned.

You scowled, but only gripped the fence tighter than say anything. Then you ran forward to the shed and retrieved a water can, still heavy with water.

Walking out to the field, you watered the ground before the blade. Then you turned to Albert and Joey.

“Here…it should help…Albie, cup your hand, you need it!” You offered.

You already smelt the stench of labor from your brother. He cupped his hand and drank. Cupping your own palm, you offered the water to Joey. You noticed the sweat on the horse’s coat too. He lapped his large tongue on your mouth. You couldn’t help but smile at the tickling sensation.

“I can keep pumping from the spout- just holler!” you offered.

You dumped the rest of the water in a path before the plow blade.

Looking around the crowd. You heard that most were cheering the two of them on.

“Go on, Albert! You can do it! Come on- you can do it!” they shouted.

When you looked in the group, sure enough, you saw Stewart. Nicholls was right beside him. Still in uniform from being on duty. Nicholls then turned to you.

“Miss! How are you- how was work?” he asked.

“Very boring compared to this! But look!” You pointed.

The blade sunk better into the ground you managed to water. It was a little, but better than nothing. You heard a couple of claps and whistles.

“Your ideas- they’re working!” you thanked Stewart.

As Albert brought on the whip. He cracked it a little harder. It made Joey trot forward for a minute. But he was still struggling- it was difficult, rocky land. You noticed this time the horse was struggling- he was using his strength to the weight of the plow. Perhaps it was too heavy for him in the first place!

“Oh, dear god, I cannot stand it!” you cried.

Your house, your future, everything was on this! Nicholls then looked at you.

“Then you know what to do- keep watering the ground, Miss Narracott!” he reasoned.

“But…”

“Consider this an order from a captain,” he added.

You nodded.

“Then yes, Captain Nicholls, I will…”

You then ran to the pump in the front yard. You put the can under the spout and began to pump out water. Your movements were quick and desperate. Your family’s life depended on it. Nearby was a bucket empty of chicken feed. You added it below and pumped water into it for good measure. You were grunting from the effort. You were sweating and the bottom of your work skirt was dirty- but did that matter at that moment? Dirt could wash off later.

“It’s heavy- here- would you like help?” Nicholls offered, walking up.

“Yes…I would- carry it out to the field and back, that’s all!” you pleaded.

“It’s my pleasure, Miss Narracott!"

He followed you out and both of you watered the ground near the blade of the plow. As you backed off, sure enough, Joey moved under Albert’s whip and the blade dug. Some dark clouds gathered above you. Many stopped squinting from the shade.

Then once it got to dryer ground, it was harder to go through. Joey struggled to move the plow, neighing with the effort. The crowd was beginning to disperse. There was a smirk on Lyons's face. How you wished you could strike him and wipe it off! You grabbed your skirts and frowned.

But as a few people walked away- some stayed. There was Si Easton and his son, Andrew- your closest neighbor and Albert’s oldest friend. A few optimistic locals. Lyons, David, their servant, and the motorcar. Stewart and Nicholls remained, their faces both white. Your feet screamed for you to sit after work, but you were frozen in place. Dad slumped as he sat on his rock. Mum ran out, her knitting still gripped in her hand. It felt as if your fate was sealed when…

There was a boom of thunder. You looked up. The dark clouds covered the sky. There was a first putter of drops. Lyons and his son fled to their motorcar for shelter. You looked at the two soldiers.

“I’ll fetch some umbrellas- we have two!” you suggested.

You ran and got them out, already your legs were tired from all the dashing about. You handed the umbrellas to them.

“Here, stand with us- where it’s dry,” Nicholls offered.

“Thank you,” you replied.

He held the umbrella and opened it. You were grateful for the shelter. Rain pelted from above against the umbrellas. You stood next to Nicholls as Stewart began to cup his hands to cheer.

It then hit you how close you both were to Nicholls. Too close for just a brushing of clothes. He could touch you with his bare hands. You felt warm and shaky and nervous. Your stomach burst into a hundred butterflies dallying about in your guts. You glanced at him as he looked at the field. How handsome his profile was- a triangular nose, thick lashes, pink lips. You could smell the sun from his uniform. Then you forced your eyes forward. You remained standing.

Stewart then shouted.

“COME ON, ALBERT! JOEY! NOW! Now while it’s wet! Look!”

Albert looked around. The ground was moistened by the rain. And movable.

With a determined shout, Albert gave the whip another crack. Joey broke into a gallop. You gasped-the blade cut through the ground like a knife cutting chocolate cake.

It was getting plowed properly. Joey kept running. Some shouted at him to avoid the bigger rocks. But they shouted in vain. The blade cut clean through the biggest rocks on the field!

The leaving crowd then returned. They whistled and broke into applause that rivaled the thunder. Men tossed their caps into the air and caught them. Joey kept running, Albert behind, cheering along. Dad was smiling- the biggest smile you had seen in ages. No one seemed to care about the rainstorm drenching them. Lyons pursed his lips beneath his red mustache. His servant held his umbrella once he left his motorcar, jaw hung low. Mum clutched her knitting to her heart and grinned.

You broke from the umbrella and ran to give her a hug. She hugged you back.

‘He…he did it…the bottom fields going to have crops! It’s getting plowed!” you cried.

“Oh, you helped them- that’s my girl and my boy- that’s both of you!”

“I’m so relieved, mum!”

“So am I!”

You ran to the rock, taking dad’s hands.

“It’s plowed! It’s plowed!” you cheered.

“It’s plowed! And I’ll need help seedin’ it! Might as well start after the storm!” he said, blinking as rain pelted him.

With a laugh, you hugged your father and kissed his cheek.

“I’ll help you dad- be glad to!”

Glancing back, you saw the soldiers smiling. They walked forward, offering shelter from the umbrellas.

“As I said- he’s a fine, strong horse,” Nicholls said.

“You were right Captain, thank you.” You replied.

“Then we’ll see you about. Give Albert our congrats,” Stewart said.

They returned the umbrellas, which you held with both hands. Nicholls smiled at you as he tipped his cap and left with the Major. Your mother returned to the fence to watch, clutching her knitting in one hand. She did not care for the wet strands of hair blowing in her face.

Lyons, his servant holding his umbrellas at his heels, approached her.

“I’d not let a child of mine slip in the mud alongside a plow blade. He could lose a foot!”

Mum turned to him. With the fury of an ancient goddess, she aimed the sharp knitting needles at Lyons. Both Lyons and the servant backed off. You couldn’t help but keep smiling.

“You’ll likelier lose an eye, Mr. Lyons, if you carry on prating at me how to manage my son! Or my family Or my plow or my horse or my field or my farm!”

She ran back to the gate. You opened one umbrella for both of you. But she kept, running out of the way of the shelter. Cheering on boy and horse.

“Come on Albie! Push on through!” she yelled.

You glanced back at Lyons from beneath the umbrellas.

“You will listen to her. She’ll do it.” You added on.

“I’ll say this- the Narracott men are stubborn fools, but at least the women have some sense in them- both of them,” Lyons replied.

He tipped his hat and smiled, still watching from his window as the motorcar drove off. You tried to keep your eyes on the field finally getting plowed at last. Though to how much he was looking at the field or looking at you, you’d rather not think about.

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theheadlessgroom · 2 months

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@beatingheart-bride

"I'm sensing a pattern here," Colin smiled from behind his glass, he and Callahan having gained a newfound respect for their brother's mother-in-law as they listened to her account of her youth; Randall, once he'd come down from his shock, was sensing something of a pattern as well-August's choice in words, calling his wife an "angel" when she came to his aid, reminded him of how he looked upon Emily as such when they met that first day at the haberdashery.

Randall smiled as he glanced back at his wife, taking her hand in return as he looked back to his grandmother, asking, "Ho-How long did you stay in burlesque? A-After you met Grandpa, I-I mean."

"Not very long," she admitted. "We had a good turnout to our performances, but there was also a lot of pressure to shut us down, and eventually, we had to give in. The protests were getting much more...brazen, you could say, got pretty rowdy. August started walking me to and from work, just to make sure I was safe-I appreciated it, though I think I would've been just fine had anyone been bold enough to get physical." She used to keep a small knife in the bodice of her outfit, and she knew perfectly well how to use it.

"So, as they say, all good things must come to an end, and so, our little troupe parted ways," she shrugged. "Some went up to New York in the hopes of striking it big onstage up there, some stayed in town, settled down like I did. Some actually turned and join the protesters, a way of cleaning up their image, which broke my heart-they were such nice girls, and they enjoyed their work! It was a shame to see them be so embarrassed about their past."

"So...what did you do afterwards, then?" Wilhelm asked.

"Mmm, a number of odd jobs," Josephine answered as she forked herself another bite of pancakes. "I worked as a librarian for quite a while, before I eventually got into working at the fabric shop: I carried rolls of fabric, stocked the shelves with balls of yarn and spools of thread, that sort of thing. I knew my way around a needle and thread, I used to mend mine and the other girls' outfits, but working at the shop inspired me to get into more than just stitching and darning. It's how I got interested in making quilts and afghans-by the time June was born, I'd gotten pretty good at it. I'm glad to hear my grandson's followed in my footsteps, so to speak-I look forward to seeing more of your handiwork, Randall."

At this, Randall brightened with a shy smile, rather touched to hear this-maybe there was some hope for being accepted by his family after all!

"I still don't know what burlesque means," Lon pouted from his chair, having still gotten no explanation-all he picked up was that his grandmother had been a dancer, a bit like his mama. Trying to hide her amused smile, June chuckled, "We'll...tell you later, dearest."

#((little did you know i'm actually wile e. coyote behind the keyboard; setting up my silly traps))#((and lying in wait for someone to come along so i can lovingly drop a ton of bricks on them with my writing! XD))#((it's my continued love for the odd couple shining through; as i said before; i like the idea of august being pretty proper))#((he's very quiet; very introspective; something of an introvert like randall))#((while josephine is a former wild child who loves to dance and enjoys having a good time!))#((it just makes such a fun dynamic; her and her husband; who doesn't mind her previous career choice))#((and neither does june! in some ways; it perhaps accounts for june's own open mind when it comes to others))#((her mother was the lead in a troupe of burlesque dancers who probably caught a lot of heat for their performances))#((and likely faced her own form of discrimination as such-even after she left the business and settled down))#((it could very well be that she still faced some harshness from people afterwards!))#outofhatboxes #beatingheart-bride #V:Two Worlds; One Family

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maidstew · 3 months

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Looks like it's up to me to share my headcanons to cheer up those who are having a bad day, for real though I am sorry I hope your day gets better

- even though coral is not a huge fan of accessories if it's a gift from someone she loves she would wear it especially if mizzen made her one from the shells he collects as he sometimes likes doing crafts with shells and giving them as gifts

- facet has younger sisters who he spoils rotten and can't say no too, he can't resist their puppy eyes and immediately melts if they are upset

- sabyn like dragging her little brothers with her to explore abounded buildings but if they get into trouble she takes responsibility and the blame

- Marcus is the youngest in his family and his siblings tease him about it by using his childhood Nickname Which is little Marci they call him that In public to tease him , also he's an uncle

- Bobbin's mother is the type of parent that goes: did you hit them good? ) when her children get into trouble she and his grandmother are the ones who taught him how to kill someone using a sewing needle and they know multiple ways with how to kill someone with scissors and threads although they won't say where do they know that

- (okay this one is a little sad) Lucy gray and wovey bonded over the fact that they are both orphans and wovey told Lucy gray that her brother told her that their parents became beautiful angels and are watching over her to Wich Lucy gray told her: I am sure they are , and I am sure they must be dancing in the clouds with my mama and papa

- reaper does his siblings hair , and he tells them bed time stories and comforts them when they have nightmares resuring them that no monsters will hurt them while his here

oh, thank you so much for taking the time to send this!!

coral wearing anything mizzen gives her is so real!! it reminds me of this scene from bobs burgers. like that’s how that interaction went.

facet and sabyn being good older siblings 🥹

marcus being the youngest is a hc i hadn’t heard before but i like it!! him being the baby of them family

bobbins family being ready to fight is so real. that’s where he gets it from is his mama

lucy gray and wovey bonding 🥹

reaper absolutely would do their hair and read them stories and tuck them into bed. i hc that his father is dead and he’s kind of the man of the house

#thank you so much for sending these #sorry i don’t have any coherent thoughts to give back #asks #the fact that 30 minutes ago i was in my office crying to my boss and now im here rambling on about my silly little guys

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kindagirl · 11 months

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niki's baking blog ... （๑´ﻌ｀๑） ( ctrlverse. ct!nihachu. art. )

❝ type of girl you wanna take her home right up to mama.. ❞

canon div nihachu blog! part of ctrlverse -> kindagirl is a roleplay in character blog for ct!nihachu. in ctrl canon, this is her baking blog & personal diary of sorts. currently ct/cl!niki is set in the manburg era. asks, anons & interactions are 100% okay and encouraged! blog is penned / run by theta! [ 18+ & they/(s)he ]

about ctrlverse...

ctrlverse (stylized as CTRLverse, CTRLverse, or ctrlverse) is a verse based heavily off DSMP. it focuses on the untold stories of some of the characters (such as niki & quackity), as private entrys based on events they experienced. ctrlverse is not a play by play match to the dsmp. anything goes in ctrlverse. (almost anything, at least.)

about ctrl!niki...

ct!niki is close to her canon counterpart. she is a baker in manburg, and a loud part of the resistence to ct!schlatt's reign of terror.

ct!niki is doing what she can to survive, but it is diffcult when she is in-dept and outnumbered. she is not weak- not in the slightest, but she tries to play smart. she puts up with the emperor for now, and works under the table to help pogtopia where she can. when she isn't helping her friends or working, she spends her free time baking, with her animals or knitting.

she comes from a far away place, and joined the esempi at nineteen to help wilbur. at current, she is around twenty, though ages are difficult to keep track of when you've been through so much in such little time.

ct!niki uses she/her , they/them pronouns (currently). this may change as their character progresses. she identifies as bisexual, and considers herself cis, though she is questioning her comfort with the label. ct!niki has bpd, diagonised and treated. she has depression as well, and with the state of manburg, she is very often anxious and jumpy, though good at hiding it.

ct!niki is a hybrid, most visibly so as a rabbit. she reveals this to very few- but she also is part angel, which plays into how she ever even met wilbur & was invited into the esempi in the first place. she has long rabbit ears, that she often dyes to match her hair color. she doesn't seem to have any visible angelic features, though there is a sort of glow to her.

niki has all three of her lives. she does not disclose this to anyone.

❝ the kind of girl, I know your fellas, they'd be proud of.. ❞

tag guide...

out of character:

lore related ooc tag : #ctrlverse ooc tag : #ooc + #icing cakes! roleplay threads : #made with love! heavy topic roleplay : #still hot! ( + [content] tw ) [ ex: blood tw ] end of threads : #out of the oven! sillies / joke / memeposting : #pie splat! submissions / etc : #supply delivery! angst : #wish i was ( a normal girl )

in character:

lore esc reblogs : #be proud of aesthetic reblogs : #piece of cake! in character asks : #to the bakery! in character posts : #what baking can do! recipe posts : #easy as pie! /r & yearn tag : #how do i be your baby?

tags for others:

@amongfeathers : #birds of a feather @raccoondiscs : #the bakers apprentice @mistforest : #some bunny loves you @lackhumanity : #slime time @citrusdoctor : #I need a doctor @radioactivezon : #sweet little bumblebee @divisiveexplosions : #a familiar place

#pinned

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lcnelyday · 1 year

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some things about my writing that i never talk about:

• i like writing connected shit. if you want to connect our shit, let me know. i used to write a lot of mumu rp when i was younger. shit is like crack to me. for ease, i have the james family, the band volcano girl, the barton legacy, my group of criminals, the golden ranch, and the religious disasters, lucien, louis, maeve and tate. • i attach music to most starter and memes. this isn't a plot or anything, more so a vibe attached to my muse or just the general vibe of the threads kick off dialogue. i used to use emotionsbaggagecheck which often came with a song to help brighten your day. • i am going to put more effort into my muse page than i need to and i apologize. i try to make it easy to navigate so you can access the exact information you are looking for but there's also a lot of little goodies in there for if you want to learn more about a character. • i don't like writing smut, however with partners i am comfortable with, i am happy to write what i have dubbed 'smut adjacent'. this is a narratively satisfactory skip, without a fade to black per se. this describes emotions and thoughts with a few saucy lines sprinkled in. i am also more than happy to discuss my muses sex preferences, kinks and whatever outside of the thread if that helps those who like to write smut. • some of my muses have interesting dynamics that piss of those who are strict about representation. some characters that have been brought to me claiming white washing or racism or bad rep include: angel wilson (last name, this is because her step father adopted her when she was little), graceland kaya (first name, who kept her turkish last name, however her parents were obsessed with elvis), dodie and cleo prince (they are sisters, but they are step sisters actually). romeo moretti burton (last name?who was adopted by the burton's when he was four because his mother was mama burton's best friend and she passed away. this one confuses me because he still has his mother's last name?). • i have a lot of cowboys. twelve to be exact. and i imagine i will add more in the future. i make no apologies. i watched yellowstone and it changed me as a person. the cool thing about the cowboys is that they can also be massively connected. i have two writing partners who write with multiple characters from this group and one of which even has multicharacter threads with my cowboys. • i post a lot of ooc posts. especially talking about what tv shows and films i am watching (keats watches), what music i am listening to (keats listens), what video games i am playing (keats plays) and even what threads i am reading that i did not write (keats writes)! they are all tagged with ooc, so i you don't want to see them, it's easy as pie to block that tag.

#about keats #ooc

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cdyssey · 1 year

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Simpler Times

Summary: After Kelvin falls asleep in the middle of their movie, Jesse asks if Judy misses the simpler times. Set during 1x09.

AO3 Link | T Rating

—

“Don’t you ever miss the simpler times?” Jesse asks when the end credits of The NeverEnding Story finally start to roll, and Judy is nearly asleep on Kelvin’s couch, idly thinking about how much she’d like to dream about BJ. BJ and his straw-colored hair. BJ and that slender, little nerd body. BJ and those big, wet eyes that look at her and not through her, that acknowledge her and really see her, fuck ups and all.

She’s damaged goods, she told him in that Outback Steakhouse, and for the first time in her life, actually meant it.

She doesn’t deserve him.

She’d still like to dream about him anyway.

BJ and his liberal politics. BJ and his stupid electric car. BJ and that shiny, new earring that he’s got. (It’s gaudy as hell. Her daddy wouldn’t approve. It’s fucking sexy anyway.)

BJ and his genuinely kind smile.

(She doesn’t meet too many people with one of those nowadays, vaguely aware that her own smile is carefully manufactured in the coffers of the Gemstone Vault, that her father and brothers’ are too—perfectly calibrated to appease a broader audience, a steady demographic of adults ages thirty to eighty-five. When the Gemstones smile, they smile with precisely the right shape and none of the proper dimension. When BJ smiles, it warms his entire face like lightning bugs in the night.)

Really, there are a lot of good and lovely things to dream about when it comes to Benjamin Jason Barnes—his passion, his goodness, the way his ass looks in her jeans, his slinging, slappin', hanging and hung cock ‘n juicy ass bal—

—but unfortunately, before any of these fantasies are realized, she jerks fully awake at the unexpected question, startling Kelvin who had conked out nearly thirty minutes ago with his head resting on her lap.

“Shhh,” she instinctively soothes, running her hand through his shock of dark hair. It’s not an easy feat with the metric shit ton of product he uses.

But nevertheless, she persists because Mama used to do the same when they were all younger, threading her slender pianist fingers through their curls, filling the delicately shaped pews of their ears with soft hymns. Judy hardly remembers the lyrics of any of them, but it was always something old and Jesus-y, like it came straight from a Carter Family cassette.

Mama had a beautiful voice—all angelic and holy.

Listening to it was probably the closest she’s ever come to actually hearing God.

“Go back t’sleep, baby bro.”

And to her surprise, Kelvin actually does, burrowing slightly against her stomach, mumbling something that she doesn’t quite catch. Of course, he absolutely needs the sleep. He’d been talking pretty cray cray all night, blabbering on at one point about how he might actually be Jesus Christ incarnate.

Dumbass.

She loves the little bastard all the same.

“Nice goin’,” Jesse teases. He’s looks pretty darn comfortable where he's at with one of his beefy arms thrown over the head of the velvet couch, the other cradling a half-empty beer—his fourth that Judy knows of. “Wakin’ the baby.”

“Shut up,” she immediately bristles, more than reluctant to be chastised, especially by her sanctimonious donkey dingus of an older brother. He can be such a dick sometimes—always messing with her ass. “I wouldn’t have woken him had you not said anything.”

“Had to get your attention somehow, Judes. Didn’t have any bright lights on me.”

“I ain’t a fucking cat, Jesse.”

“Oh, yeah? Then why d’ya keep talkin’ about your pussy, huh?”

She flips him a bird with her free hand, and Jesse flips one right back, but then, per their usual vicious tango, in accordance with all the childish games they're accustomed to playing, he smiles crookedly at her, apology in his eyes, and she relents with a long and melodramatic sigh.

Truce.

Kelvin begins to snore again, his mouth stupidly wrenched open, a gaping hole, and Judy resists the frustrated urge to pinch his nose.

“The simpler times,” Jesse repeats after another beat, his smile suddenly disappearing, an older man’s sadness just as quickly taking its place. There are lines beneath his bright eyes, sagging shadows. Scruff that hasn’t been shaved. All of that overgrown schoolboy juvenescence chewed up, choked upon, and painfully swallowed, and suddenly her eldest sibling resembles their rapidly aging father more than ever before.

Solemnity isn’t a good look on him; he can’t wear its gravitas as comfortably as a cocky smile or big, bellowing laugh.

“Do you miss ‘em?”

Judy scrutinizes him in the faint light wash of the TV, trying to glean the answer from his pensive stare without having to pry. Jesse’s dumber than a squirrel on crack most of the time, but he can be thoughtful when he wants to—a little philosophical even—very much like their father who’s prone to monologuing about existential crap when he gets in the mood. She hates when her brother does it, though, ‘cuz then it means she’s gotta do some meaningful reflecting herself to actually have a conversation with him.

And if there’s only one thing she hates more than having a serious conversation with her brother, it’s having a serious conversation with herself—looking inwards and finding something that she doesn’t instinctively flinch at seeing.

“Simpler times? Like before you went and snorted coke off hookers’ tits in Atlanta?” She finally asks, intending for it to sting, half-hoping that it’ll really fucking hurt. Maybe he’ll pull away and they won’t have to have this shitty feelings talk; maybe they’ll get into a fight, and that’ll be mutually beneficial distraction for them both.

But Jesse is either oblivious or undeterred.

Probably both knowing him.

“Wasn’t their tits,” he shakes his head gravely. “And nah, before that even, little sis. Like, before Mama passed on and things were, y’know… they were actually, uh—"

But he stumbles pathetically at the end, groping around for the right words, and Judy feels herself something inside her unclench and relent as it always does when Mama is brought up nowadays. She’s not exactly Daddy, a pillar of salt slowly eroding in front of Mama’s polished bust like it’s her own personal idol, but she’s not necessarily Judy anymore either, a ball of excessive nerves and live wires and unbridled sexual energy. She’s just a little girl again, scared of the dark in her sepulcher of a room, waiting for Mama to swoop in and save her with a gentle kiss goodnight.

Growing up, she was always needing to be saved in some way or another.

She had hated that about herself.

She’d always had an inkling that everyone else around her hated it too.

“Happy?” She suggests quietly, glancing down at Kelvin because she can’t look Jesse in the eye. None of the Gemstones are intensely vulnerable people. Any visible weakness is typically pounced upon and made into a vicious joke at church lunch. She and her siblings especially have made a bit of a game outta one-upping their cruelty towards each other.

(Implicitly understood but never said aloud—whoever Daddy smirks at from behind his hand wins.)

But to Judy’s relief, Jesse doesn’t seem to be in a mocking sort of mood and hasn’t particularly been all night. Earlier, he even told her that she’d have ten to fifteen boyfriends, and that they’d all go down on her butthole.

That’s nearly the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to her, and that’s counting the time that BJ said that she was talented with a whip.

“Yeah, for sure,” Jesse agrees, though he sounds more-than-uncertain, scratching his head, that thick mass of curls. “But I guess I was just thinkin’ that life was so much clearer then too. We knew right from wrong ‘cause Mama showed us the way.”

“Daddy’d say that Jesus is the one who’s supposed to show us that,” she says automatically. She’s not sure that she believes it—only knows that it’s what she should say, what Christianity and its thousands of stuffy edicts demands of her.

“Shoot,” her brother laughs. “I think Daddy agrees with me deep down, though. He’s all lost without her too.”

“Don’t say that, Jess,” she protests immediately, pressing two fingers over her brow. She can feel a headache beginning to form, its nucleus pulsing right behind her eyes.

“What? That Daddy’s lost? Newsflash, Sis—that ain’t exactly news.”

“No,” she pouts, the syllable dredged up from her chest like muck after a summer rain. “That we all are. I don’t wanna think about that.”

Can’t, really.

It’s like throwing a brick through her own glass house. Once it’s shattered, she’s afraid of what she’s gonna cut herself on in all the rubble.

(Maybe she is as untalented as Uncle Baby Billy says. Maybe she’s got nothin’ to show for her nearly four-decade long life except for a fine ass body and a knack at stealing money from the church. Maybe Daddy will never love her in the way that she desperately wants him to. Maybe she hurt BJ in a way she can never, ever take back. And maybe that’s the true token by which she can be damn sure that she’s condemned—her astonishing ability to keep pushing away the folks who love her unconditionally. They’re few and far between—those people, those endlessly patient souls—and they scare the living shit outta her because of that very fact. Reckless, damn near always, she tries to terrify them as a fucked up form of thank you.)

(You love me; how noble of you; here, have at me; I'm a goddamn train wreck in motion.)

“Like, shit, Jesse,” she continues, violently swiping at her eyes. They’re leaking, and she hates that—despises that her older brother can plainly see. “I’m too fucking sober to be talkin’ about this.”

The quarter-bottle of wine she brought over was hardly sufficient. Didn’t touch a thing except for her lips.

“And I’m too drunk to stop, so I think we’re at an in past here.”

“Impasse,” Judy corrects him, sniffing profusely.

“Whatever,” he rolls his eyes but plucks a tissue from a nearby end table and hands it to her anyway. She dabs at her eyes first, then blows her nose rather loudly.

To Jesse’s rare credit, he doesn’t say a thing.

“‘Least grab a gal somethin’ to drink before you start makin’ her cry over her dead mommy issues,” she grouses, not willing to let silence fill the space between them. Not talking about her emotions is somehow even more unbearable than talking about them; at least if she starts spouting stuff, it doesn’t necessarily have to be the truth.

“I’d offer you somethin’, girl, but I think all Kelvin has in his fridge are White Claws ‘n those weird ass home-brewed beers the Satan kid makes. Frat boy shit.”

“Ugh.” She flicks their youngest sibling on the center of his head. He doesn’t stir. “Shithead.”

“Yeah,” Jesse snorts, patting Kelvin’s leg. “Fucker.”

They share the fond and self-righteous chuckle of the two older siblings then, the pair who grew up together, who then protected and tormented their baby brother in turns, and it’s kind of happy, and it’s somehow terribly sad all at once. Jesse looks away at the end of it, rubbing the side of his reddened nose, and Judy takes another pass at her eyes with the crumpled-up tissue.

Her mascara is already smudged.

She guesses there's no use trying to hide the damage anymore—the pain and the incalculable toll.

Fuck it.

She’s all soft 'n gooey tonight, apparently.

“Okay,” she starts slowly. “You asked a question. Simpler times.”

Jesse nods affirmatively, still not quite meeting her in the eye. It’s better like this. Judy can breathe easier without the weight of his gaze sitting on her chest.

He’s gotta Mama’s eyes—vivid and piercing.

She’s always loathed that about him.

Envied.

“Uh… let’s see… I-I dunno if I miss the simpler days ‘cuz we didn’t have as much then, and Mama and Daddy still didn’t have a lotta time to hang with us anyway… but I just miss Mama, y’know? There’s a difference between those two things in my head.”

It’s hard to explain, but Judy’s never been one to get all sentimental over memories. She’s spent a lifetime habitually rocketing from one moment to another with ungodly abandon, never looking back, just springing forward with whatever passion is currently percolating in her gut.

She might whine, but she hardly ever mopes; there isn’t enough time in the world to do that; she’s got so many things to do, so many invented and reinvented iterations of herself that she wants to be if someone would just up and give her the chance.

(Plus, if she’s fast enough, if she’s just as goddamn clever, then maybe—just maybe—she’ll be the first in the family to do it in the end—to ever successfully outrun the pain and the awful hurt.)

“If I could have Mama here and BJ back and a job singin’ to thousands ‘n thousands of people on Sunday, I’d sure be happy,” she finishes, ticking this impossible to-do list off on her fingers, her smile diminishing with each addition.

She’s zero-for-zero as of now, and even if she does miraculously get Beej to come around and begs and scrapes and claws her way back into Daddy’s good graces again, that still isn’t bringing Mama back.

Which means that happiness isn’t an objectively achievable goal.

For her.

For any of the Gemstones, in fact.

“But, Judes," her brother sighs dramatically, "my point is that because Mama ain’t here, you, me, and baby Jesus”—he hooks his thumb at Kelvin—”have done the shitty things that’ve got us here, without the folks we love—Amber ‘n my kids. That little Keebler Elf of yours. Kelvin’s boy toy. We pushed ‘em all away.”

Judy can’t help it. She laughs incredulously at this simply ridiculous proclamation—perpetually inappropriate because it’s damn easier than being sincere—holding Kelvin’s head so as not to jostle him with the movement.

“You sayin’ that Mama would’ve stopped you from snortin’ blow with the Four Stooges and me from gettin’ arrested at Piggly Wiggly?” She looks at her sleeping brother again. “And Kelv from breakin’ up with his emo ass boyfriend?”

“No,” Jesse pouts, hurt flashing in his eyes. He crosses his arms over his burly chest and less resembles a person than he does a log with golden chains. “I’m just sayin’ that Mama would have made sure we all remembered how to love people right—the way she loved us… but I suppose that’s kinda the same thing as being stopped from doing bad things if you really think about it.”

“I suppose…” Judy echoes, but even to herself, she sounds unsure. She can’t help but think that that’s a lot of weight to place on one woman’s soul, even one as pure and angelic as their mama’s.

She knows precious little about accountability and doesn't want to know one iota more about its burdensome toll either, but she's got some inkling that Jesse's logic is all wrong, that the weight of an entire family’s sin isn't something that one person alone can bear unless they're, like, Jesus Fucking Christ or something.

But if not their saint of a scapegoat of their long dead mother, who else then? For all of the family’s extensive talk about the Lord, not a single one of them have ever made a good and willing martyr.

Jesse's expression softens, his entire demeanor. He's always been a sentimental kind of drunk, and hell, even when he’s sober, he's secretly a big, ‘ole teddy bear behind the douchebag, Elvis wannabe schtick he’s got going on.

Maybe he reads something complicated in her expression.

Maybe he correctly identifies it as hurt.

Whatever it is, he unbends his arms again and reaches over to gently tug one of Judy’s ringlets just like he did when they were kids.

“You look so much like her, y’know,” he says, “with them tight curls. Somethin’ in your eyes too, like the playfulness in ‘em, Judes. Jesus, I can see Mama when you laugh.”

Judy swallows thickly, unprepared for this sudden tenderness, unsure of how to meet it as an equal. She shifts uncomfortably where she sits and calculates that it’s only right that she reciprocates the favor.

“Uh, well, okay… but how about you, dude? I can see Mama when you’re with your boys sometimes, huggin’ on ‘em and stuff.” She clears her throat like something is stuck down there. This saccharine shit is hard work. It doesn’t come easily to her. She has to actually put an effort into it; she strives and endlessly, horribly strives. “You’re a good daddy—even if you did kinda send your eldest son packin’ to Haiti.”

“You think?” Jesse sounds unconvinced, looking to her with pleading eyes. It’s kind of childish in fact, and she doesn’t know what to do with that either except to lean into being the adult he apparently requires her to be in the moment. The eldest siblings, sometimes they’ve had to be parents, both Kelvin’s and one another’s.

“Fuck yeah,” she nods vigorously and tries to sound like she believes it. It’s superlatively easy for all of them to just sound like they’re saying things and never actually going deeper than the tip. Surface-level theatrics. Performative care. This moment is asking for better than lip service.

It necessitates that she’s actually a good sister.

“Like, one of the best,” she stresses, waving her hand around vaguely. “Third place behind God ‘n Daddy.”

“Bronze,” Jesse hums thoughtfully, rubbing his stubbled jaw. “Huh, I guess I can kinda live with that for now. Ain’t no beatin’ the Father or our father.”

“For realsies,” she nods solemnly, simply relieved that she agrees.

“Thanks, Judy. That’s actually pretty nice of you.” He sounds surprised.

Judy can’t say that she blames him—she wasn’t aware that she was capable of such unprovoked kindness either.

“‘Course, bro.” She slugs him awkwardly on the shoulder. It’s like knuckling a boulder if a boulder had Conway Twitty sideburns and an ego bigger than God. “I’ve always got you.”

They both awkwardly smile at each other then and just as quickly look away, mutually uncomfortable about this excess affection and still soaking it up, prolonging it, stewing in it anyway.

Their heart-to-heart or whatever-the-fuck-this-is has even lasted long enough for the credits to entirely roll and the next movie to boot up. A late night showing of Titanic apparently. Judy wrinkles her nose. She hates that it takes hours ‘n hours to get to the good parts (Kate Winslet’s perky tits and the steamy boat sex).

Maybe she’ll complain and get Jesse to change the channel; maybe she’ll tough it out so long as he does, slapping her big brother if he tries to fall asleep on her. She doesn’t feel like sleeping yet, afraid of what horrors might await her in the stillness and the dark in the off chance that she doesn't dream about BJ. She sure as hell won’t be going back to her horribly big and empty mansion tonight, to all those hollow halls and that exceedingly desolate king-sized bed. It ain’t a home without him anymore. It’s just a waste of space—so many thousands of square feet—that all the money in the goddamn world can neither fill nor satisfactorily buy.

“You think a good daddy would go to Haiti?” Jesse suddenly asks. It’s yet another needy question, requiring an equally mature and measured response. Judy would like to think she’s much more mature than either of her brothers, that being the only girl between them has taught her something about how to be measured, but she doesn’t know what to fucking say to that. Doesn’t want to advise him from her own wealth (or, well, astonishing paucity) of experience.

Can’t bear to tell him the wrong damn thing.

“...I mean, I think Mama’d go if it meant keepin’ her family together,” she eventually hedges. It’s always the safest option. Thinking through what Mama might have done and proffering that as the Word of God.

But she’s selfish—perhaps habitually so. She wants to favor reciprocated, needs it to be.

“You think BJ might come around?” She impulsively adds—not giving Jesse time to react to her advice—every word a jumble and an embarrassing rush. Her cheeks redden; the blush plummets through her entire body. Judy forces herself not to look away from her older brother all the same, disciplining herself even when his expression openly shifts, self-pity becoming—to her horror and unspeakable chagrin—tender, unmistakable, and lovingly involved concern.

“Damn, baby sis,” he whistles softly. “You really like that dorky lil Ken doll, don’t ya? You wanna marry his lily white ass.”

“Fuck you, Jesse,” she hisses, defensive about the subject, the gaping wound of BJ, even though she’s lost every goddamn right to be. She hurt him too. Maybe if that Denim asshole was right, she’s been hurting him for the entire time they’ve been boyfriends and girlfriends. “He’s really good to me, and h-he’s, like, a gentleman, dude. He always lets me go down on him first.”

“Jesus, Judy,” Jesse groans, dragging his hand across his face.

“It’s romantic,” she snaps and suddenly realizes what she’s doing, the tense she’s employing, the long-ingrained habit. The epiphany lashes through her like a bullet; she could double-over where she sits; she might actually bleed and perpetually bleed.

“Was,” she corrects in a small voice, the indignation leaving her, any fight. It slumps to the floor like a broken body. “Shit.”

Tears rise again—unbidden, unwelcome, uncontrolled and uncontrollable—to her eyes. She curls her long fingers over the balled-up tissue still in her hand as her vision blurs over.

“Fuck,” she adds inelegantly. She doesn’t know what else to say; there's nothing else to say. She and BJ are over. That's all there is to it; that's the truth she's gotta live with, the horror that's gonna take up permanent residence in her ribcage, squeezing all the precious air out of her lungs. She's a shitty person, a shithead. She did such a terrible thing, and he took it like Jesus Christ, dragging that heavy cross up a steep and lonely hill.

When Jesse’s warm hand suddenly lands on her shoulder, squeezing it, the kindness of the action almost does her in on the spot.

She can’t handle it—her brother’s love—wants to run five thousand miles and some spare change away and never speak of its profound effect upon her again.

She sits and accepts it anyway, habitually a dog who doesn’t know how to discriminate between scraps.

“Well, maybe he’ll come back,” Jesse offers gently. “And if he doesn’t, Judes, you got me and you got Kelv. We’re in the same sinkin’ boat as you, y’know.”

He briefly smirks at the television, clearly under the impression that he’s made a clever pun.

(It's good, she has to admit; she'll never fucking admit that to him, though.)

“I can’t fuck my brothers raw,” she grunts, her voice constricted. It’s petulant—she knows. She just doesn’t exactly care.

“Nah,” he grins. “But you can rely on us, Sis. And that’s, well, it's gotta count for somethin’, right?”

It’s not a rhetorical question, she can somehow easily tell. He’s actually fucking asking, unsure still that she values them, needing to know, to be coddled, handheld, and patronizingly reassured. Judy almost wants to laugh because everyone and their backwards cousins tells her that she’s the needy one, the endless chasm seeking emotional validation as her tribute, and yet, here her older brother is, pretty much asking if she trusts him, if she buys into the image he has for all of ‘em—three siblings who fucking love each other to pieces.

Simpler times.

Does she miss 'em too?

“Yeah,” she finally croaks, sighing and reaching up to place her free hand on top of Jesse’s where it’s still resting on her shoulder, the other finding its way back to Kelvin’s hair.

“‘Course it does, you dipshit.”

“Bitch,” he laughs, shaking his head in a long suffering manner, but there's earnest relief in the entirety of his face, a gratefulness that he'll never properly express. “Now why couldn’t you just let us have a nice family moment there?”

Judy just rolls her eyes.

“Eat my ass, Jesse.”

“Stop bein’ so gross, girl!”

“I ain’t gross—you’re gross!”

“Nuh-uh.”

"Uh-huh!"

And on and on they go, trading insults like they’re I love yous. They insult each other throughout the entire three hour runtime of Titanic. They say I love you again and again and again. Their little brother sleeps between them, safe, and just for a little while, for however long this night lasts, Judy tells herself that it doesn't matter that not a single one of them are entirely sound.

They're together—that's all that matters.

That's almost the same thing as being whole.

#judy gemstone #jesse gemstone #the righteous gemstones #s: the righteous gemstones #reginianwrites #listen I'm so fucking obsessed with Judy Gemstone #she's everything 2 me personally

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intoxfolklorex · 2 months

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Archibald Boyle

Full Name: Archibald Boyle

Date of Birth: June 3, 1993

Sexuality: Bisexual

Occupation: Firefighter

Family: Nathaniel Boyle (older brother- deceased), Patrick Boyle (older brother), Davina Boyle (older sister), Zara Boyle (cousin)

FC: Oliver Stark

Death TW

You must have an active thread with one of my female muses to do a M/F ship with this muse.

The youngest child of four, Archibald has never been under any impression that he was going to go far in what he calls the family business. He was born and raised in Scotland like the rest of his siblings but Archibald was always the one who wanted more.

He was raised properly, the good little prince. The baby. The mama’s boy– well as much as anyone could be when they thought about his mother. The Queen of Scotland always wanting what was best for her children even if it came across as pushy.

The worst Archibald ever did to get himself in trouble was get caught climbing trees, or being a little bit too loud. The boy had a hunger for adventure and a thirst for knowledge. Enough that he knew sitting on a throne wasn’t for him.

He was nineteen when tragedy struck his family and Archibald went from being fourth in line for the throne to the third, his eldest brother killed in an assassination attempt on their father. He stuck around with his family long enough to do the public grieving process but then it was time for him to go.

Archibald moved to Los Angeles and it was there that Archibald became Archie, never telling people his real name and past. He hides his Scottish accent under a well practiced American one and after a few years trying to find himself he found his dream job and became a firefighter.

His family at work are his favourite people in the world. He still speaks to his sister and yet he doesn’t tell her where he is, he’s not prepared to be a royal anymore. He has so much love to give that he doesn’t want to live publicly again.

Archie is only interested in muses aged 25 and older.

Like for a starter from this muse.

Check the link in the source for the rest of my muse bio starter calls.

#about archie #indie rp #starter call #permanent starter call #muse bios

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blackevermore · 6 months

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x Wade In The Water (Also on A03)

{ Chapter 12: He Blesses Me with a Light from Above}

Summary: Ester Scott was once in love. She thought the days of her shortcomings were over and that the man she found was her one and only. But all that was taken away when the demons she had become too accustomed to finally took the one thing she had left. Louisiana was her home but the devil down below was calling her name. She only has herself to blame when it comes to the hands dragging her under.

Notes: It’s Hazbin Hotel, be ready for everything. Also I apologize for all my mistakes in advance!

Word Count: 5.2k

Patience is ambiguous. Answers are not solutions, salvation is not redemption, and love is just in the hands of a creator and its creation. Now that we’ve strayed from our creator, when do we begin to make cognitive consciousness?

- Ester R. Scott

People are going missing again. Not in this neighbourhood though, I noticed that when I stepped off the bus and began walking into town to Alastor’s the board by the police station was fairly empty with a few scattered pictures of beautiful white women with ‘found’ stamped over their faces. These pictures smile harder than the ones back home, they’ve been found. Likely weren't even lost, likely ran off with some man after daddy said no and when said man broke their heart they came home. Likely just ran away for a dream like Chemintine and mamas cried hard enough to get daddies to put up a big enough reward for their daughter to come home. Maybe they really were missing and they really were found. Nonetheless, they were found quicker-dead or alive, than any black girl or woman I’ve seen. In this life we were disposable and always forgotten and it was scary how little this life chose to acknowledge it.

We were so disposable that in my current state staring out the second floor window of Alastor’s apartment I felt like I would never be found. Even with the world looking me right in the face I was invisible. Not even an angel would come looking for me. The teacup in my hand threaded on the line of possible shattering from the grip I held on it. I was spaced out and mindlessly watching the world move on while my thoughts ran through a storm. I was finding myself like this more and more since the swamps, it was comforting in a way I could be in my own world for a short while until someone snapped me out of it. It was in a sense peaceful even when my thoughts weren’t the most wholesome thing.

Alastor gently took the cup from my hand, “My dear you’re lost somewhere even I can’t find you.” He smiled. I side eyed him unbothered by his attempts to be friendly. Or attempts to be casual, either way, I didn’t care for it. I took my hand that held the cup into my other hand and squeezed it for a moment to bring me back to reality, it worked and I let out a heavy sigh.

“Whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout.” Alastor leaned in and looked out the window in the direction I was facing. He attempted to see what held me so stiff in place then gave up when all he saw were people doing nothing.

“Us,” I answered without thinking. Alastor’s brow rose, and I quickly threw up a hand to stop him to correct myself. “Our people.” Alastor’s smile lowered but never broke and he hummed in agreement.

“What is there to think about?” Alastor asked.

Over the past two weeks, I’ve made myself somewhat comfortable while having to work here. Every Wednesday and Thursday I would check in with Mrs Birdy and let her know what I was doing then hurry along to catch the bus. She would always mention how important this whole thing seems. ‘This will be your breakthrough, mon cher!’ she would say as I hurried out the door. I didn’t need a big break from a questionable person and the actual devil himself. I needed the money and that was all that mattered. But even so, I couldn't do this work in utter silence. Even Monique and Clover gave me background noise to work with. Silence was not a pit anyone wanted to fall into. Silence came with ‘what if’s and ‘why not’s and even worse ‘why me’s. At first, the silence was filled with Lucifer here but once I was done with his daughter’s suit he said his farewell and was on his way.

“He doesn’t stay long for anything,” Alastor commented, reading the newspaper one afternoon and I huffed in agreement.

So, Alastor’s casual conversation was very much welcomed even when our conversations tilted south. It also gave me more of an insight to just who the man was. If he truly had a story then I wasn’t too ignorant to listen. At times I found myself even laughing at the witty things he said. He was refreshing and it was evident that it translated well into what businesses he held up north. He was indeed an old fella but he was entertaining nonetheless and it drew you in like a creek to the ocean. It was just enough to make you wanna ask him things.

“Life.” I finally thought of a response and he let out a low chuckle. I raised a brow and turned my head towards him. “Is life so funny?” Alastor took a moment to calm himself then brought a finger up to his chin to tap it then answered quickly.

“Utterly hilarious,” He began and I knew he was going to give me food for thought. “It’s bewildering the things we humans decided to do on the premises of things we like ‘and don't like.” His accent was stronger today as if he hadn’t gone anywhere that required him to switch back and forth. When I arrived he had even greeted me in Creole till he remembered I didn’t speak it. I could never understand how easily he could pretend to be a different person every day. He was passing and living in a world that didn’t belong to him and he was okay with that. Maybe I was slightly jealous? Maybe I was slightly annoyed by it. I wasn’t too sure but I did know I liked him more when he let down his mask.

“Are they justified?” I asked. I knew he understood where I was pointing with that question. I wanted to know was human ignorance truly the basis of where we are now.

“Justified is a watery word. What is justice when everyone is affected?” Alastor was wise, I knew that, but he always walked this weird line between neutrality that rubbed me the wrong way. Even down to his preference for the creams he used in his food. The few times he offered something he had brewing in a pot had been the most entertaining.

“Why do you choose to pass?” I knew asking him something like that could end with a hard stop. I was asking him about his livelihood. But I had to know, I wanted to know what it meant to live like the others, even if I was simply an outsider looking in. I wasn’t bitter or angry with the black folk who crossed the line, purely curious. Alastor took a moment to think, his face stayed forward and I saw his eyes dart back and forth along the skyline as if the answer was out there. His jaw clenched but his smile never dropped, I saw his hands rub in circles behind his back. This question was a heavy one it seemed. He seemed to get more antsy as he stayed quiet and I felt bad for crossing that line.

“I apologize, I didn’t mean to upset you.” I quickly turned back towards the work table and rolled my sleeves up to begin on Alastor’s suit. I much rather we forgot about this conversation and I was not on his bad side.

Alastor tsked, “ Forced .” He didn’t turn around, I saw him lower his head slightly then slowly straighten up. The way he said ‘forced’ was harsh and aggressive. I gulped hoping I wouldn’t be on the receiving end of that. “Ya don’t have a choice when the person who kept ya balanced leaves ya with a man who had an image to keep up. It’s easier to sell in the north than the south with blood like mine.”

“I apologize.” I didn’t know what I was saying sorry for but I knew I had to say something. Alastor slowly turned his head to look over his shoulder at me.

“She wasn’t always the loveliest woman to be around, too free spirited to ever be held down. Mama did things that would make you second guess if you could keep your back to her and I loved it.” Alastor took off his glasses and cleaned them, slowly. “My pa was a decent man but had an itching for things that seemed out of his reach. Mama was always out of his reach up until she wasn’t. Their love was questionable at best.”

I felt uncomfortable as I listened to him talk about his parents. It wasn’t any of my business to know what his parents did and why they did it. Maybe he had a point but it felt like he was answering me out of spite. Alastor could read my face as he slipped his glasses back on and walked towards me. The browns in his eyes were dull and drowned out the green. His typical light in his eyes wasn’t there. He was a few inches away from my side and he promptly stood there and tilted his head.

“When she died he told me I could either figure it out by myself or I could follow along with whatever he had planned. I tell ya Miss Ester, children know no better than to believe their parents. They're our God before we know there was ever a person upstairs.” Alastor wouldn’t allow me to escape his eye contact no matter how hard I wanted to look away. I felt trapped and it seemed to amuse him enough for him to back away and walk around me to the kitchen. The air around me felt cold despite his smile, his eyes told me to never trot that line of curiosity again. I hadn’t even noticed how heavy my shoulders felt until I rolled them back and straightened up. My hands were trembling and I curled my fingers into my palm to calm down.

“Tell me about your family, were they good people?” Alastor called out from the kitchen. The confusion whipped me mentally. How could he be so evident to not ask him something but then to ask me about myself? He sounded so chipper too, this man sure knew how to keep me on my toes.

“Mama raised me alone with the help of my grandmother. I live in the same house I was raised in.” There was no point in trying to ignore him so I played along. “Live in the same house I was raised in since I ain’t going nowhere anytime soon.”

“Not even the north?”

“There’s nothing up there for me,” that was a lie. I had family up there waiting for me to finally give up Louisiana and move. But I couldn’t, I really couldn’t, this was my home and the only thing I knew. This was my world and anything else sounded like a nightmare.

“If there was something, would you go?” Alastor sounded oddly curious.

“That something better be worth me packing up and leaving. Louisiana is my home.” I said proudly and even stuck out my chest a bit. There really wasn’t anything worth leaving for.

“That’s why I come back every chance I get. This is home.” Alastor’s voice was low and I was sure I wasn’t meant to hear that last part. Once again we did what we were doing in silence and I managed to get half of the pattern for Alastor’s second suit done.

“Jambalaya is almost done! Ya ain’t getting away this time when I try to feed you.” Alastor laughed and I rolled my eyes at the thought of him keeping me hostage to feed me. I’d managed to deny his offerings this long while I was there and I was sure I could get out of it once again. However, when the smell hit my nose I felt my stomach give way and my mouth water. I placed my hand on my stomach and prayed he didn’t hear it too. When was the last time I ate a home cooked meal? Chemintine and I cooked but it was never anything hearty and full, just enough to put us to bed and get us up in the morning. It became worse when he brought out a bowl for me and placed it right in front of me. I looked at him and he only smiled and pulled up a chair next to the table to join me.

“I ain’t getting out of this?” I smirked and placed down my scissors and picked up the spoon.

“Not even if you tried.” He replied then took a spoonful into his mouth. I followed suit and my eyes blew wide from how good it tasted. I had to throw a hand over my mouth from the shock and Alastor let out a roar of joy.

“Boy! You cooked this?” I took another bite and melted onto the table. I didn’t have a chair so I jumped onto the table and crossed my leg over to steady myself. This was fucking delicious, I could taste every ounce of Louisiana pride poured into the sauce and the meat. Everything was done just right and it almost made me want to cry. I hadn’t tasted this much love in something since…my mother’s passing. I smiled and looked down into the bowl, I missed when my mama cooked for me after a long day. I missed how much love she put into her food. I missed her.

“Who taught you to cook like this?” I took another slow bite and hummed in delight. Alastor snickered and took a bite before swallowing and cleaning his mouth with a napkin.

“My mama. She was unmatched when it came to cooking. I don’t have much time for it when I’m travelling.” He answered honestly and I nodded.

“You should do it more often, it suits you.”

“Ha! Charming, I heard that one before.” Alastor winked at me and once again I felt a part of me become bashful. Despite what happened earlier I felt my curse bubbling inside me with more questions.

“Ya ain’t married?” Quickly looked away when Alastor’s eyes widened and he snapped his neck towards me. Stupid fucking question.

“Marriage?” Alastor sounded like he was on the verge of choking or laughing or worse, both. He put down his spoon and quickly cleaned his face then crossed his arms. “I don’t have the time for that.” His lips twitched at the ends as he fought back a fit of laughter that dared to get out. “You think a man like me can be wedded off?”

“To a white girl, yes, maybe even another fair skinned colored girl.” I shot back and instead of him being offended or even confused he just laughed. It was a loud and obnoxious laughter that filled the apartment and I could bet filled the halls. It took him a solid minute to finally calm himself down and wipe the tears away. It wasn’t actually a stupid question. Hell, even the worst of people could find someone to put up with them. But I guess Alastor found even that notion of thinking beyond him.

“Oh,” Alastor finally caught his breath and shot me a look. “You serious, ain’tcha.” I annoyingly shook my head and he opened his mouth to let in air then snapped it shut. He looked around us like I was asking him if he saw angels and just had to make sure we really were alone. “Marriage is beyond me, I have no use for it.”

“Okay so no marriage, you just sleep around then?” I felt my cheeks get hotter and my throat clench as the words left me. I was relieved when he started laughing again and for some reason that was a lot better than him saying yes.

“You sure are funny Miss Scott. I haven’t laughed that hard since my army days in the tower.” Military? Hmm.

“No, there is no one in my bed other than myself. I prefer to keep it like that even in my final days. That is all too much a hassle and I’ve never seen a marriage that ended well or even started well. Ha! My golly you make my sides hurt.” Alastor placed a hand on his side and I swatted at his dramatics. He playfully threw up a hand and shrugged.

“Maybe you ain’t seen real love before.” I said matter of factly. Maybe he hadn’t seen a real love to base anything off of. Not to say I had but I believed in it. Maybe not for myself or for any future that would come my way but I knew people fell in love. I knew that people got married because they loved each other, I also knew that sometimes love was a house full of children and a lot of mouths to feed. That was my neighbourhood, the people there had love, real genuine love, and Mama always told me that no matter how bad it got, that love would come first. The oldest couple in my block had twelve children that all left for New York and Chicago and they were proud of them.

“What is real love, hmm?” Alastor pushed his bowl to the side and brought his elbows to the table to rest his chin on top of both his hands. He looked like a child being told a story and he made me smile at his silliness.

“Real love is death,” I said then shoved my spoon back in my mouth. Alastor raised a brow then used one of his hands to gesture for me to go on. I knew I held his curiosity and it was perfect.

“Go on, girl. Don’t keep a poor man waiting.” Alasor said cheekily.

I swallowed, “Death of yourself and the birth of someone or something new. Love is a blessing and a curse, a sweet feeling or a headache, makes you feel like you’re floating above the clouds or drowning in the swamps. Love is something only the strongest of people can handle. That’s worse than living, that’s why it’s a form of death.”

“You make it sound so beautiful yet like the worst thing we as people have chosen to do.”

“Mister Hazbin,” I finished my bowl and sat it down next to me. “It is the worst thing we’ve chosen to do.”

“Would you do it?”

“What?”

“Love, would you do it?” He leaned in closer and I pondered on it before looking back at him.

“Yes, if I had the time.” I smiled sweetly, more for myself then for him.

Alastor hummed and pulled back to slouch slightly in his chair, “Then you are a fool.” It didn’t sound like an insult but rather a tease and I took it well. I smiled and shrugged my shoulders in defeat.

“I rather be a fool than a man who’ll never know, no matter how handsome he may be.” I wanted to slap myself for flirting so openly. I waited for him to laugh but he didn’t. I waited for that smile that gave it away he wasn’t taking me seriously but it never came. Instead, Alastor rose to his feet and took the bowls away to the sink. I didn’t know what to say so I just kept my mouth shut and got off the table. I looked out the window and dread quickly washed out whatever I was feeling before. It was dark out which meant I’d missed my bus and there was no way in hell I was staying here. Where the hell did the day go?

“Shit.” I grumbled and tried to think of what to do. I could walk, just start walking as fast as I could but I knew that was a very stupid idea. I didn’t know how far away my home was from here but I knew it was longer than I would like. Plus I couldn’t go walking at night all by myself, if the people didn’t get me, god knew something lurking on the road would. Worst of all I could make the wrong turn and be lost. A slight fear began to creep into me as I tried to think of something. I had no one to call to get me either.

“My, my, a mighty fine night isn’t Miss Ester?” Alastor scared the hell out of me when I heard how close his voice was. Either he knew how to stalk at such a tall height or I was too caught up in my head to hear him.

“I missed the bus.” I told him and he placed a hand on my shoulder. I stiffened then relaxed and he only smiled and patted me a few times before letting go.

“I’ll drive you, it’s scary in the dark, trust me.” Alastor sounded all too familiar with the idea of lurking in the dark and I didn’t want to take my chances. When I turned back to the table to gather my things he had beat me to it. I wanted to stop him but he looked so content with packing me up and getting me ready.

When we got to the car he held open my door and I thanked him. Once he got in on the other side it didn’t take us long to hit the dirt road out of this neighborhood. The ride was peaceful and Alastor even turned on the radio and music filled the silence.

“Nothing beats the radio!” Was all he said as he jammed along to the big band that was playing. I couldn’t help but enjoy it when he turned to me to sing along with the music. This was far more casual than I expected and I liked it.

That peace was cut short when I got a glimpse of a sizable animal jotting out in front of the car. I gasped and threw my hands up to cover my face. Alastor slammed on the brakes and threw an arm out in front of me. The car swerved and then came to a violent halt sideways in the street. Alastor grumbled a few curses and got out of the car to look around. Once it was all clear and the car seemed to be alright he got back in and gripped the wheel tightly.

“You alright?” He asked and I shakenly nodded my head and lowered my hands to my lap. That was enough for him to cut the radio off (which seemed to piss him off more) and we rode the rest of the way in silence.

“Damn deer,” Alastor grumbled and I couldn’t agree more.

}~~{

“I work in radio and broadcasting,” Alastor randomly began, “I have to leave for Harlem for a conference and that’s why I need the suits.” I looked up from my stitching, I couldn’t tell why he felt the need to tell me what he was doing but I welcomed it.

“How long have you worked in radio?”

Alastor quickly counted on his fingers and then hummed in surprise.

“Wowza, nearly a decade now.” My face dropped. How old was this man?! I tried to put it together myself but clearly, I was wrong. When I first saw him I could tell he was older than me but not nearly enough to work in a corporation for ten years.

“How old are you?” It came out quicker than I could catch what I said and Alastor smirked devilishly.

“I’m turning thirty this year.”

“Thirty?!” I blurted out and then threw a hand over my mouth and apologized with my eyes. He was five years older than me and despite that wasn’t much. It was still enough to clearly see he had a better head on his shoulder than I thought-or believed.

“You sound so shocked, do I not look my age?” Alastor fixed his glasses pompously then fitted with his bowtie, popping it and sitting up straight.

“You had me fooled, I thought you were pushing fifty.” I cracked.

“Ouch.” Alastor scrunched up his nose and stuck out his tongue at me.

“In all honesty, I thought you were closer in age to me.” I said as I began stitching again.

“Oh my dear, I am not a child, I haven’t been eighteen in years. But thanks for the flattery, though it will get you nowhere.” I knew Alastor was joking but I quickly threw down my work and placed my hands on my hip. He chuckled at my reaction and I almost had the nerve to ring him up by his ear.

“I ain’t no child, you know that.”

“I do.”

Alastor’s eyes looked me up and down slowly and when he met my eyes I felt myself shiver. He smirked and his eyes lowered like he was looking at a fine meal rather than a person.

“I know a newly found woman when I see one. You may not be quick on your toes yet but I see potential for something great. Especially with that craft of yours, tell me, do you plan to do anything important with your work?” Alastor turned fully in his chair and crossed his leg.

“I’m not sure. I know I could but I don’t know where to start.” I looked down at his suit and ran my hand over the fabric then looked over to the tools before me. I loved making clothes, I loved the love I put into everything I made and I loved it when other people noticed my hard work. That’s why I jumped quickly at the chance of working in Mrs Birdy’s shop when she offered. I wanted people to be amazed when they had their alterations or new articles of clothes. I never thought of what next or where I would go. I was content with working under Mrs Birdy for as long as she would have me. That was one of the reasons some of my family up north wanted me to move. They said they knew people but I was just too scared. I didn’t want to throw away my life here for a false hope. What if I got up there and I was broke and homeless? What if I was stuck doing something else? I knew my family wouldn’t mind me staying until I got on my feet but then I would be doing nothing in a strange land. I’d get homesick and would run quickly back down to Louisiana with my tail tucked between my legs.

“Do you have a book of designs?” Alastor stood from his chair and waltzed over to stand in front of me.

“Yes.” I gulped.

“Do you have any samples of clothes you’ve made?” I didn’t, never had time to make any of my ideas, but I knew someone who did and I knew she wouldn’t mind. I thought about the trunk by my bed back home that had all of mama's designs in them. She always wanted to make clothes but never had anyone cared enough to make an offer outside of work.

“Yes,” I hated lying. But if mama wasn’t here to use the clothes then it was fair use.

“Give me your book and two samples of your clothes and I will take them with me. I promise you I will get you on the path you wish for the most.” Alastor said, he stuck out his hand for me to shake and I looked down hesitantly.

“How can I trust you?” At this point, I was filled with repeating questions that would easily be solved with shutting the hell up or going with the flow. Alastor, however, seemed to appreciate how I always questioned everything around me. Maybe he saw that as me not being naive and never quick to throw everything on the line.

“Give me something precious of yours and I’ll give you something precious of mine.”

“Why?”

“So then you’ll know I’ll come back for mine and will have yours.” Alastor ushered his hand again and I slowly took it. He shook it firmly then placed his other hand on top of ours. “If a woman with potential needs a start, anyone would be a fool not to help them. I learned that from the finest.”

He made it sound so easy to be so courageous in this twisted world. I was jealous and yet so taken in by how he spoke of whatever power and connections he had. After I agreed to his deal he began telling me how close contact he was to people I’ve never heard of. He even told me things about the people that were not meant to be heard by the public. But we laughed and we sipped wine and by the time the sun went down he was driving me home once again.

When I got through the door Chemintine was standing in my bedroom door frame with a hand on her hip and a very motherly look.

“Ester Rosa Scott, are you out there kissing boys?” Chemintine wiggled her finger at me and I quickly smiled and shook my head.

“ No mama , I’m making deals to get my work up north.” I took Chemintine by the hands and led her back to my bed and sat down. I told her everything and she was just as amazed and even excited for me. It wasn’t long until we were both in our pajamas going through my mama’s truck trying to find dresses I could send off with Alastor.

“Ester, these are good but they are dated. You’ll have to fix them.” Chemintine held up a green dress that mama had made when I was a lot younger and I nodded worriedly.

“I don’t know if I’ll have enough time, I’m finishing his last suit and he leaves in a week.” I felt myself starting to get in over my head and it crushed me. Maybe this was foolish and Alastor wasn’t going to be my ticket out of here. The fear I held for failure began to bubble but Chemintine quickly scooted closer to me and grabbed my hand.

“I’ll cover for you while at Birdy’s, as long as you get these done it won't be a waste, and I know you’ll get your foot in the door of fashion in no time.” Chemintine smiled greatly and I nearly wanted to cry at how wonderful a friend she was. She really was a breath of fresh air.

“Thank you, Daisy.” I whispered and pulled her in for a hug. Chemintine gasped at the name and then wrapped her arms around me tightly.

#🔻red thread🔻#hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #oc x canon #a03 #reupload

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aerequets · 2 years

Text

Operation DNKYUAC (Do Not Kiss Yor Under Any Circumstances)

a/n: i wrote this in one sitting, it is 1 AM, i did not reread this even once, i am posting anyways with no thought of any consequences, and i am ready to fight a bear

anyways this is kind of a follow up to 'absence makes the heart grow fonder', but like it can also be read as a standalone, just a few things are mentioned throughout. also the tone of this fic is decidedly different so they really arent connected by more than a few threads LMAO

read on ao3

Rating: T

He wants to kiss Yor.

It’s a realization that is as sudden as it is horrifying. And, like all important moments in his life, it happens by chance and hits him out of nowhere.

This time, she’s blowing bubbles with Anya as they sit under the shade of a tree at the park. Bond is snapping at the bubbles and Anya is trying to cup one in her hands to no avail. He watches—no, he wasn’t watching, he just happened to be looking in the same direction—as Yor puckers her lips to blow another bubble. A breeze sends the soap backwards instead, though, popping straight onto her mouth. She sputters and wipes her mouth and smacks her lips, grimacing in a way that scrunches her whole face up.

Suddenly he’s very curious about the flavor of soap. Which is a big problem.

Loid is so glad nobody can look into his head, because he would actually die from secondhand embarrassment. Was it secondhand if he was embarrassing himself in his own head? It didn’t matter. He quickly looks away and pulls his hat over his face, surreptitiously hunching his shoulders around his ears. Not a moment later, though, the hat is pulled off his face, and before he can protest he’s squinting up into the devious smirk of a certain first grader.

“You wanna do smoochin’,” Anya says. The sudden influx of sunlight in his face from Anya lifting his hat off his face actually has the side effect of piercing his throat, which is the only reason why he’s suddenly choking on his own spit. He would know—he’s a doctor. “Kissy kissies with Mama.”

“I don’t—what are you saying, ” he hisses, shooting up and snatching his hat back. Sitting up that fast actually assailed his sinuses, which is the only reason why he’s holding his hat up to his face right now and trying to use it as a poor approximation of a ventilator as he wheezes. He glances over to Yor, who is too blessedly distracted with Bond to have heard Anya’s totally unfounded accusations. He ought to get a treat for that dog. When he turns back, Anya looks totally unimpressed and—disappointed? The nerve of this girl!

“You shouldn’t say things like that out of nowhere,” he says after he’s caught his breath. “It could make Yor uncomfortable. Not to mention that it’s false. ”

It’s one thing to admit that he’s maybe more fond of this family than he ought to be, to admit that he’s perhaps a little preoccupied with Yor and thinks about her more than is needed in a way that isn’t purely methodical in nature like it ought to be. It’s another beast entirely to recognize that he wants ‘kissy kissies’ with Yor. He’d rather let that beast eat him alive, if he’s being perfectly honest for once.

If it’s possible at all, Anya’s expression further flattens. She angles her head as if listening to something before suddenly dashing off without another word. He watches her for a second before shrugging. Far be it from him to understand what goes on in her head. He’s just about to recline back again when Bond, in all his fluffy white maelstrom glory, barrels into his chest and knocks him flat onto his back.

“W-whoa! Down, boy!” Bond only barks and licks his face. His tongue gets nearly half of Loid’s face in one go. “Stop that! What’s gotten into you?” Maybe that treat would have to be put on hold.

“Bond, no!” Suddenly the dog’s whole mass is lifted off of him in one go. Yor stands above him like some sort of guardian angel with a giant dog in one hand and bubbles in the other, something which should not be as awe-inducing as it is. She puts Bond down off to the side and crouches down next to him fretfully.

Okay, now he can die of embarrassment. Nothing like your (fake) wife witnessing you lying in the grass with dog slobber on your face to put you six feet under.

“I’m so sorry! I blew a bubble right as the wind picked up and it went your way and Bond went after it and he didn’t stop,” she explains in one breath. “Oh, he really got you. I’ll get a napkin, hold on.” He shuts his eyes when she pulls away, wondering about the logistics of sinking into the ground.

He sits up when he senses her approaching and takes the proffered napkin. “Thank you, Yor.” He wipes down his face, getting his hair for good measure. It ruins the pomade and plasters some hair to his forehead, but he figures he can’t sink much lower than he already has and decides to run a hand through his hair, mussing it out of its meticulous styling. After a moment he notices that Yor has been watching him the whole time with an unusually indecipherable expression on her face. “Is something wrong?”

“Hm?” Her eyes slide down to his mouth when he speaks. He feels a twinge in his belly, but has to remind himself that she’s looking at the copious amounts of slobber on his face and not at, well, him. He scrubs his mouth with vigor, snapping Yor out of her trance. “Oh! Uh—um, there was a little… oh, you got it! Good!” She laughs shrilly before jumping up and running after Anya, who has started to giggle like a cherub from hell.

He sighs and lets the napkin drop by his side. This was ridiculous. How many out of the blue, humiliating realizations did he have to contend with? He couldn’t go on like this, much less put the proper focus required into running Operation Strix. This was completely inefficient and a hindrance to the mission, which was why—

“—I’m requesting another business trip!” He finishes, slightly out of breath. He looks back from his comprehensive 52 slide presentation to Handler, whose expression and body language are both giving off ‘wholly unimpressed’. He still has hope. “Well?”

She takes a long, loud sip of coffee, during which he patiently waits without batting an eye. She finally sighs and sets her cup down. “What are you running from this time, Twilight?”

“Running? What do you mean?”

“I can see the sweat on your face,” Handler snaps. He swipes one sleeve across his forehead. “Goodness, you used to be a much better liar. Couldn’t fool me, but still.”

“Exactly my point,” he stresses. “You see what’s happening to me? I just need a couple weeks to fix myself up and everything will be back on track again.”

“That’s what you said last time. If I remember correctly, you came back from your two week trip more besotted with your family than ever.”

“ Beso— you know what, fine. But that time was different. Now that I know what to expect, it’ll definitely work.”

“I wonder what spurred this,” she muses in response to his pleas. “It must be Yor, am I right?” She watches with thinly veiled amusement as Loid’s ears begin glowing. “Ooh. Don’t tell me your head has come out of your ass since the last time we spoke.”

He throws his hands up. “I’m literally offering to have more work piled onto me. Why are you against this?”

“Have you considered that maybe running away isn’t the way to go?” She asks. “How is feeling things for your family a hindrance to the mission? Spending many weeks away from them seems like more of a hindrance to me.”

“How? How? ” He repeats, flabbergasted. “We can’t afford to feel things for people. We have to leave them all behind eventually. You’re the one that taught me that!”

“Yes, I am. And it’s one of the things I regret most.” She turns to a framed photo on her desk. He’s never looked and doesn’t think it’s his place to ask, not with the wistful smile playing on her lips. “I used to think that feeling things was what sowed pain, and thus weakness. But isn't that why we do this job at all? To make sure others can feel the happiness and safety we weren’t granted?”

“That’s… different,” he protests weakly. Yes, he was fighting to make the world a better place, to let children be children. No, kissing Yor was not going to accomplish that. But there’s no way in hell he can tell Handler that.

The softness melts from her face, leaving the true Fullmetal Lady that all WISE agents fear. “Oh, get over yourself. Go snog your wife or something.”

He knocks over all 52 slides, which he thinks should be further evidence to support his business trip plea, but Handler is unmoved.

…

Since Handler refuses to help him, he has to take things into his own hands. Fine. He’s manned a whole fleet of submarines by himself before—harder than it sounds, if you can believe it—so keeping himself in check around his fake wife should really be nothing. Thus, he enables Operation DNKYUAC (Do Not Kiss Yor Under Any Circumstances, pronounced ‘donkey wack’). The rules are simple: don’t kiss her. Ever. And don’t be tempted to kiss her either. Don’t want to kiss her, under any circumstances.

Unless she brings home sunflowers. Apparently that’s some type of limit.

“I saw these at the florist and I couldn’t help myself,” she beams. The flowers are exceptionally well-maintained, but Loid can’t help but think they aren’t really as bright as sunflowers usually are.

Yor’s smile widens and the flowers dull further. Oh.

“We should have a vase somewhere,” he says in order to turn away from her and busy himself in the cabinets. Anya skips up to the doorway and jumps upon seeing the flowers.

“Ooh! What’re those?”

Yor hefts Anya up effortlessly into one arm, angling the sunflowers toward her. “Sunflowers! They’re the happiest flowers.”

“Really?” Anya asks dubiously. At Yor’s nod, she grins and plucks one out of the bouquet. Loid returns at that moment with a vase, which is when Anya takes the opportunity to stick the flower behind his ear.

“What the—?”

“Happiness flower,” Anya says matter-of-factly. “Now you’re happy.”

Loid blinks a couple times before huffing out a laugh. “What are you saying? I was happy before.”

“Happier,” Anya concedes. She turns back to Yor, who is staring at Loid with a wide-eyed look. Anya does the same thing and sticks a flower behind her headband while she’s distracted. “There!” She wriggles until Yor puts her down and pats both of her parents’ legs. “Now you’re happy together. ”

She skips off, singing ‘mission accomplished’ as she goes.

Loid gapes after her, trying not to let his embarrassment show. He’d told her to stop saying those weird things! He quickly slides the flower out of his hair and places it in the vase. “Sorry, I don’t know what’s gotten into her.”

“Huh? Oh. It’s alright.” Yor follows suit and puts the rest of the flowers in the vase before plucking out the one in her hair. She twiddles it for a few moments before blurting, “It looked nice in your hair.” Then she drops it into the vase and hurries into the living room.

He vaguely remembers telling her that couples complimented each other, and she’d promised to try doing that more in public. She must have been practicing just then. There was no way it was anything else—he’d gotten a tennis-ball sized lump on his chin one time for daring to think otherwise.

He looks down at the vase in his hands. Happiness flower? Well, there certainly was something swelling up in his chest right now. He didn’t appreciate its presence one bit.

…

Okay, so he’d failed to think about the fact that Operation DNKYUAC wasn’t the best in theory, in that he should be able to kiss Yor under some circumstances. Like for their cover. Something that was undoubtedly important and a terribly gross oversight to have.

(If only he’d been given permission for that business trip.)

For heaven’s sake, he was a spy! He’d done far more than kissing before. Kissing is basically child’s play. Knowing all this, however, does not stop his legs from feeling like jelly when his hospital co workers reveal the mistletoe hanging above his and Yor’s heads at the decently large Christmas party they have just arrived at. Yor is wearing the hair pin he’d gotten her in Municht paired with a red wrap dress, which he’s been contending with by pinpointing all of his focus onto her left eyebrow whenever he has to speak to her. That won’t be able to fly now, though. He can feel the nerves taking shape into something vicious under his red dress shirt, suspiciously ulcer-shaped. How had he not thought to prepare for this? He was losing it.

(Again, if only Handler had approved his trip!)

However, his nerves all but evaporate when he turns and sees Yor’s pale face and pursed lips. She’s stiff, hand locked in the crook of his elbow, as she looks out at the sea of unfamiliar faces staring back at them, expectant. She’s uncomfortable.

“Mistletoe?” He says, looking up at the sprig. He lets out a good-natured laugh. “Oh my. Looks like that’s actually holly. The rules don’t apply now, do they?”

“Oh, come on!” The director speaks up. He’s clearly had one drink too many, made evident by his swaying and pointing. “Just kiss your beautiful wife. Or one of us will do it instead!” A chorus of chortles pop up, igniting a rage in Loid’s chest that he isn’t sure he’s keeping off his face. He feels Yor shift beside him and is about to ask her if she wants to leave when he sees something whiz past.

Was that a button?

The button (?) sinks right into the soft part of the director’s throat, causing him to wheeze and hack. His glass slips from his hand and shatters on the floor, splattering wine amidst the gasps and screams of the crowd.

“He’s having an emergency! Get a doctor!”

“That’s any person here, genius! Just hurry!”

Loid watches on, befuddled but not entirely unhappy with the turn of events. Technically, he can alleviate the director’s current breathing issues in no more than four seconds if he really tries, but he doesn’t find himself in any hurry to do so. To his relief, Yor also looks pleased with the fact that the attention is off of them.

“Shall we?” He gestures over to the abandoned refreshments. “I hear they have splendid hors d'oeuvres at these things.”

She bows her head, smiling serenely along with his play. The hairpiece twinkles in the lights overhead and he has to dig his nails into his palm to stop his hand from moving on its own. “I would love to.”

And thus, Operation DNKYUAC lives another day. Barely.

(Later, he notices a missing button from his cuff. How odd.)

…

“I’m going to stay up tonight!” Anya announces at 6 PM. “I’m going to watch the whole world change and you can’t stop me!”

“Sure,” Loid nods.

“Of course,” Yor chirps.

Anya narrows her eyes suspiciously, but their minds reveal no scheming plans.

“For real?”

“If you think you can handle it,” Loid replies. He recognizes the flare of competition in Anya’s eyes as she clenches her fists.

“I can! I will! For world peace!” (Whatever that meant.)

“I’m staying up,” Anya asserts again at 7 PM. Yor sets a cup of cocoa in front of her while Loid flips his newspaper.

“Of course you are.”

“‘M stayin’ up,” Anya maintains, yawning slightly at 8 PM. Bond curls up in the corner and she eyes his fluffy white coat. “Stay up, Bond.”

“Dogs have different perceptions of time. They don’t care about human New Years,” Loid explains as Anya nervously watches Bond yawn and stretch. “So Bond is going to sleep in his fluffy, warm bed now.”

“You can’t fool me,” Anya grumbles, rubbing her eyes. “I’m watching the New-Ears on TV!”

“New Year’s. And I wasn’t trying to fool you,” Loid shrugs.

Yor comes and sits next to a struggling Anya on the floor at 9 PM, resting her head on a knee.

“It’s too bad no programs are on at this time,” she sighs. “That means there’s nothing to watch for three whole hours until the New Year's program.”

Anya is out cold ten minutes later.

Loid lets out a low whistle as he waves a hand in front of Anya’s face. She’s truly out. “How did you do that?”

“I did this at least five times with Yuri,” she giggles. “It’s all about emphasizing the time that’s left.”

They put Anya to bed and clean up, eventually settling on the couch.

“Do you and Yuri usually stay up to welcome the new year?” Loid asks.

“Hmm. For the years in between him falling asleep before midnight and him getting a job, we did do that,” she says, a small smile on her face. “We made resolutions. It was mostly for the sake of having some type of tradition, I guess. What about you?”

At least three of the last ten New Years in his life had been spent dismantling bombs, but he wasn’t about to say that. “I haven’t done this in a while. Most days I’m up past midnight anyways, so it’s not all that different.” The only difference this year was that he didn’t have any late night missions. As if to rub salt in his wound, Handler had told him to take it easy tonight, ‘at home, with the daughter and especially with the wife’. She was a sadist.

“We could make resolutions,” Yor replies offhandedly. At Loid’s silence she goes ramrod straight. “Wait—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to assume you wanted that kind of tradition, or that you didn’t—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he interrupts, laughing. “I was just surprised. We should definitely do that. What kind of resolutions did you make with Yuri?”

“Mostly small things. Like, um… I resolve to make a new friend.”

Loid smiles before he can help it. How very like Yor. “That’s a good one. Hm, let’s see… I resolve to take at least one more break per day.”

Yor nods resolutely. “That’s good for your health. Let’s see…”

They go back and forth like that with resolutions, getting caught up in conversation and unaware of how much time has passed until the clock chimes half past eleven.

“Oh my goodness,” Yor says, startled as she blinks up at the clock. “I had no idea this much time had passed!”

“Time flies,” Loid agrees. “Maybe we should have written our resolutions down. We said too many.” He expects Yor to laugh, but instead a pensive look crosses her face. “Yor?”

“Actually… I have one that’s been weighing on my mind a bit,” she admits, shifting to face him on the couch. She fiddles with the hem of her sweater. “Uh, do you remember that Christmas party last week?”

He’s immediately on alert. “Is that still bothering you? I had a strict word with the director the next day about what he said. If you want, you can come to the hospital yourself and—”

“N-no!” Yor interrupts, rushed. “I mean, that’s—well, thank you. That was a little uncomfortable, but more than that…” She hangs her head. “I wish I wasn’t so… bad at the physical affection thing.”

He blinks. “What?”

“I mean…” Her face is heating up. “The mistletoe is common at a Christmas party. And couples are expected to kiss. If I wasn’t so bad at k-kissing, I wouldn’t have had to throw that button and cause such a mess.”

“Yor, it isn’t—wait, that button was you?”

��My point is, I resolve to…” She squeezes her hands together, face impossibly red. “To get better at the whole physical affection thing. In public, for our cover,” she adds on. “I don’t want to be a burden on our arrangement just because I get so flustered.”

“Yor…” His heart isn’t his anymore, instead threatening to burst out of his chest. Remember Operation DNKYUAC, he scolds himself, although he can’t really take it seriously when it sounds like he’s just repeating ‘donkey wack’ over and over again. She’s only doing this for their cover; out of a need to fit in with societal standards of what a couple should do. No other reason. That thought is the one that sobers him. “You are never a burden just because you have limits. You don’t have to force yourself to do something you don’t want to. We can always do other things to show people we are a loving couple.”

“But—” Her eyes dart between his. He feels both out of his depth and like he is in incredible danger, so he tries the left eyebrow thing again. It backfires when she leans in and looks at him imploringly. “What if I do want to?”

The air leaves him. “Want to what?” He croaks.

The countdown starts on the TV, startling them both. As the seconds tick down, Yor seems to mull something over before abruptly leaning in and pecking his lips. Tinny cheers sound from the TV speakers along with choruses of ‘Happy New Years’ and the blast of fireworks outside.

The kiss, like the peck on his cheek from when she’d seen him off on the train, is short and over before he can blink. But there’s no being normal about this. His brain is fried.

From a peck. He should be more devastated about the fact that there exists a person that can undo him with a peck, but the only thing he feels right now is the sense that he’s a balloon cut free. Something is floating in his mind, pinging at the corners, and he’s silent as he struggles to hold it down and give it a name.

Yor stares at him for a few seconds before her hands slowly come up to cover her mouth. “Oh my gosh. Oh my—oh no. Oh nonono.” She leans back on her haunches. “I—I thought the courage would last into the new year too,” she whispers to herself. Loid vaguely registers it over the din of his own brain buzzing. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Just ignore that—”

“Yor,” he says. He leans forward, the couch dipping, and brings both of his hands to the sides of her face, threading his fingers through her hair. Her pupils blow wide. “Open your mouth a little bit.”

“Huh?” Her lips part and his gaze is drawn to her mouth. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you with your resolution,” he says, “to get better at the physical affection thing.” Then he tilts his head and closes the gap.

So, Operation DNKYUAC fails miserably. And fails again. And again. He ends up breaking the rules of that operation at least fifteen consecutive times, but whatever. It was a failing operation from the start, with a stupid sounding name to boot.

But still—maybe he should start another Operation. Operation DNKYMTINBTYWHLOHTYCH (Do Not Kiss Yor More Than Is Necessary Because Then You Will Have Lots Of Hickeys That You Can’t Hide).

Another failing Operation. But a guy could try.

#spy x family #sxf #sxf fic #sxf fanfic #loid forger #agent twilight #sxf loid #yor forger #thorn princess #sxf yor #twiyor #loidyor #my fic #spy x family fic

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