#already thinking about how to catch and tame a crow....... you get me...

[elaine19day]

what is it with me always falling for these chinese fandoms where spicy shit isnt officially allowed and then the authors have to get all creative to tiptoe around the government and find weird and unique ways to give us thirsty hoes the juice we so crave but then the ppl in fandom always deliver the filthiest, most raunchy fanfics and I'm all here for it. first 19 days, then tian guan ci fu and now love and deepspace... someone send a rescue team before i lose even more of my money and dignity

[valgreaves]

thank you all for looking at my horrible, maladjusted children. for every reblog, a random fact about one of them:

Oscar's mom didn't let him have pets as a kid, but he would sneak food to the crows that hang around the house because he read once on an animal fact card that crows remember faces and thought it was super cool. His sparrow skull pendant is repurposed from one of their gifts.

Rory spent so many hours learning how to do cool knife tricks as a teen it circled back around to being uncool.

Rory is a huge klutz idiot with the proportions of a Muppet whose dancing abilities can only be described as "straight-up hazardous". Please don't ask them how many injuries they took while trying to master their cool knife tricks.

Oscar has no idea how to act around a camera, to an almost comical degree. He physically cannot smile on command; the only reason the homecoming selfie turned out well was because he had already been smiling uncontrollably. Most pictures taken of him have him with the stiffest deer-in-the-headlights expression ever. If you put a blur filter over them and add eyeshine, they could be submitted as cryptid sightings.

Morgan is a big fan of professional wrestling. Elliot calls her “the Undertaker” as a joke sometimes because Morgan sounds like morgue, and because he likes to make fun of her being a wrestling fan in the same way she ribs him for liking NIN. To be clear, though, the Undertaker is not her favorite; she's much more invested in women's wrestling, thank you very much.

Morgan went to Hartford and is friends with Hannah, the MC from The Haunting of Braidwood Manor. I need her to have one other friend who has had her own encounters with the supernatural but just NEVER talked about them. Like, Morgan has MET Eleanor. She just thinks Eleanor is Hannah’s posh British girlfriend who went to boarding school and not, like, purgatory. On that note, she's also a fan of Kaitlyn's band. Everyone At Hartford Knows Each Other

Oscar and Noah are, at heart, a hater4hater relationship of Statler&Waldorf proportions. After Oscar gets brought back to life and they start dating, they develop a truly awful habit of hanging out in the corner of any fancy event that their friends dragged them to and spending the whole time quietly bitching with each other and snickering at their own jokes. Britney overhears them once and immediately turns to Lily with the saddest most pathetic wet cat eyes ever like OH SO THEY HAVE LICENSE TO BE CUNTS BUT I DON’T??? and Lily just pats her hand indulgently and tells her to put a dollar in the slur jar.

Once everything settles down, Ro has a field day catching Oscar up on all the memes and pop culture stuff that he missed during the four years he spent as a shadow monster. He’s a good sport about it, even if he still doesn’t really understand Tiktok. Rory, on the other hand, knows exactly what a Skibidi toilet is and would be happy to explain it to anyone who asks. Which, unfortunately, no one ever does.

Judith loves shitty romance novels. She says she only buys them for purposes of critique, but they're very transparently a guilty pleasure for her. She loves that trope where the romantic interest sees the protagonist injured and starts getting aggressively overprotective and the protagonist has to stand in front of them and hold their face and scream "NO JAKEY LOOK AT ME. LOOK AT ME. THIS ISN'T YOUR HEART" until Jakey stops foaming at the mouth. It's that private fantasy of being important enough to someone to tame the beast within them, you know? To wield that kind of power over another person. And then she coughs, blushes, and annotates that paragraph on her Kindle with the note "I hope Jakey dies". It's complicated.

In an AU where Jane never died and she got to have a wedding of her own, she'd ask Oscar to be her best man and Noah to walk her down the aisle. Both of them cry like babies about this.

You know that one psych study where experimenters told participants to wait and entertain themselves for a while in a room with an electroshock machine and found that most men would shock themselves at least once during a 15-minute period because the negative stimulation was preferable to having to sit still doing absolutely nothing? Rory is not a man, but they are that one freak who shocked themselves 190 times because they just got that bored.

Don't ask me what happens to Oscar in the timeline where he lets Noah take Jane's place unless you want a 30 minute presentation on all the new and exciting disorders he will develop if left alone with his unfulfilled savior complex. And also the Cocomelon shit he's doing to Connor's heart, not even on purpose. On the bright side, however, he does get to watch Into the Spider-verse in theatres.

happy almost-september. in honor of fall please look at my it lives mcs

[sabraeal]

Get Up Eight, Chapter 8

[Read on AO3]

Obiyukiweek 2021, Day 1: The Fool Upright: Beginnings, Innocence, Fearlessness Reversed: Recklessness, Folly, Risk 

Pine presses around the road to Oiso, jostling with the hackberry like meddling neighbors, eager to see misfortune. Their branches chatter in the breeze, gossiping behind needled hands, and oh, what misfortune Obi has for them to gnaw their toothy mouths upon, traveling with this sorry lot.

This stretch of road is meant to be the shortest; less than the length between bells, but each minute sweats to an hour, the natural flow of time no longer a given but a whim. Maybe they met with some accident, doomed to wander the same stretch of barren road over and over until some monk came to exorcise them-- or else all the priests are wrong, and the road to Meido is no mountainous path, but a road that winds around one barely deserving of the name. And with them but a day into their journey--

No. Not even he can believe such a story. For no matter how red his hands or black his spirit, he could not have earned such miserable oni on his chuuin as the monkey and his merry band. Besides, there is too much light here. Even the virtuous must navigate the dark with but a candle’s light to guide them, lit by the ones they left in life, and he, well--

He wouldn’t even have that.

Ojou-san hobbles in front of him, pretending her mincing steps have to do with the wrap of her kimono rather than the bindings on her feet. A creditable trick, in the right hands-- too bad his mistress was no actress. A man would have to be worse than a fool to believe it.

With every limping step, she jingles; her pack clanking against the swell of her hip. A wounded deer, gingerly testing each spindly leg to see if it would bear her yet another breath further. The monkey’s men circle her like crows waiting for carrion, though the scent they follow is not death but gold.

Idiots, every last one of them. They are too busy salivating over the meal in her pack to notice she does not tremble as she walks, that even if each step is a labor, she does not shy from taking it. Lame deer she may be, but Obi is not fooled-- more than once he has stopped at the shine at Nara, and found his netsuke noticeably lighter. His mistress is like that; so tame and docile at first glance that no one watches where those small hands go, nor notices the lies that tip from her lips.

Because they do; not with the ease of a practiced liar, but the earnest determination of a survivor. Cousin there may be in Kyoto, but Obi would bet what remains of his ryo that he didn’t know about the books in her pack. A good little ojou-san might know some remedies-- a salve to stave off infection or a powder to quell a fever, the kind a mother would use to treat her child-- but they certainly didn’t read about rampo in the original Dutch.

No, if Obi had his guess, this cousin-dono knew nothing about the sweet visitor that traveled toward him. They’d arrive at his doorstep in Kyoto, and he’d have the same view he has now, standing three respectful steps behind her as she faces the future with a strong back, and standing on two--

Ojou-san stumbles. One moment she is upright, and the next he’s surged forward, hand clasped around an elbow to steady her. It’s just like her wrist; narrow and delicate, like it might break under his grasp. His breath catches, his eyes meeting her wide ones--

“Careful, ‘Nee-san.”

Obi blinks, and there it is-- the monkey’s mocking grin, one paw wrapped around her other arm. “It’d be easy to turn an ankle on these old roads.”

Every word cants with careful concern, but the glint in his eye is three hairs away from anything more than hunger. This ronin can pretend to be samurai all he likes, but desperation drips from him like water in a kappa’s dish, and it’s Obi’s job to see his ojou-san does not get soaked.

With a firm tug, Obi settles her on her feet-- and out of the monkey’s reach. “Don’t worry, we’ll reach Oiso-juku soon, Ojou-san.”

She sends one of her thoughtful looks down the road, brow furrowed and lip jutting in a pout. “They really aren’t all that far apart at all, are they? If we hadn’t been slowed by--” my blistered feet, she doesn’t say, jaw taking an even more determined set-- “circumstance, we would be there by now.”

Obi nods, watching as she takes a single, mincing step. “Shortest leg of the journey.”

“I wonder why that is.” In any other mouth, those words would be idle, a way to fill the air. But not in his ojou-san’s; oh no, her gaze has already sharpened, scouring the shrubbery as if it might hold answers.

“Hard to say.” Keeping pace with her is a trial; he’s used to long strides, using every last inch of his leg to put ri between him and what he left behind, but between her blisters and her curiosity, Ojou-san moves as slow as a snail’s crawl. “If I had a guess, it would be the mountain?”

“Mountain?” Ojou-san should be hiding those eye of hers with a convincing demure, but instead she turns them to him, wide and wondrous. Not that he’d be caught complaining, not when all her attention is bent on him, as if he’s her next puzzle to solve.

The monkey scoffs, insinuating himself a branch too close for comfort. “Mount Koma? It’s barely more than a hill, and we’re walking around it, not up.”

Obi’s lips peel back from his teeth, a wolf’s grin. “I never said we were. But if you look down the road from Hiratsuka, what would you see?”

“A mountain,” Ojou-san murmurs, sending a speculative glance toward where Koma rose beside them. “And if you do not often travel the road, it would be easy to mistake this for running through it.”

“Well said, Ojou-san. Hakone is nearby, too.” Obi lets his lips soften from animal to man. “And its reputation marks it as the hardest climb. Even a thinking man might take this stretch as much the same.”

“Absurd.” The monkey scowls, hands hooking over his hips. “That might explain the shukuba at Oiso, but on the other side they would know the road’s ease.”

“That’s the funny thing about roads.” He casts the monkey a cagey smile, enjoying the way his fur stands on end. “They run both ways.”

The pines thin as they walk, the air taking on its first taste of salt, so thick and stinging that a man doesn’t even need to be Ojou-san’s kind of polite to think so. Oiso is close then; its bay must be the scent of the sea on the breeze. Good. He’ll be glad of the chance to shuck himself of their escort and his easy manners.

A bridge crests ahead of them, little more than some boards patched over the sluggish stream that runs beneath. Nothing like the great wooden arcs in Edo, made for palanquins to pass, great processions crawling over both sides like ships passing in the night. So it’s no surprise Ojou-san falters at its edge, blinking down at the lazy waters below. A deer again, hesitant and shy.

A warmth kindles where his kimono gaps too much to cover, a tightness that he cannot swallow away. Obi raises a hand to scratch, coughs to clear it, but stubbornly it stays, lodged right in his breast. An inconvenience, one that should be smothered as a seed rather than allowed to grow like kudzu on the shore. Ojou-san paid for his skill and what loyalty gold could buy, not...this. She is his duty, not a pleasure.

Even if he sees that bead dripping down her back when he closes his eyes still. Obi grips at his shoulder and stifles a groan. Twenty days. Three weeks until he is six ryo richer, and this girl is in the hands of her cousin instead of dancing out of the grip of his.

He steps up, hand outstretched. It’s his job to see her over, safe and sound, and it would be just like her to bend over a hair too far and let herself be swept away by the current, small as it is. But his hand clasps around air instead of elbow, and when he looks--

The monkey has her, guiding her along at a leisurely stroll. She stumbles to keep up even still, only getting her feet beneath her when he stops, staring up at the maples swaying overhead.

“Known to me who had denied joy and sorrow of this world,” he intones, every syllable rolling with the cultured tones of Edo. “Is the autumn scene of the rivulet where sandpipers walk at dusk.”

Obi lifts a brow, peering down at the water’s edge. Salt might be on the air, but there’s not a sandpiper to be seen this far from the shore.

Ojou-san is too kind, as always, nearly turning those wide doe eyes to him before remembering herself. They skitter downwards instead, to where leaves skim the stream’s surface. “What is that?”

The monkey’s heavenly gaze drops to her, smiling within unearned satisfaction. “I’m surprised you don’t know, onee-san. I thought you well read.”

Ojou-san stiffens, hands curling over the rough-hewn rail. “Well enough. Though I must admit, I never spent much time on poets.”

His eyes blink wide. “Not even Saigyo?”

“No.” She ducks her chin, the very picture of a demure young lady, but Obi knows-- her rosy cheeks are not from a docile temper. “But he was...a monk, was he not?”

His mouth curls wide, the self-satisfied smile of a master with a well-taught pupil. Obi’s hands itch watching it unfurl, tempted to give monkey-sensei a lesson he won’t soon forget.

“Yes,” he hums, chin lifted with a lord’s poise. “Of the Heian era. The story goes that he used to be one of the Emperor’s personal guards, but one day he shed himself of his worldly desires to dedicate himself to the temple.”

Obi stifles a snort. He’s had clients that made him feel the same more than once.

“He lived here, after, in a little hut just upstream, hidden away from the world, writing waka, meditating on the loneliness of change.” The monkey stares down the length of the stream. “A haikai dojo stands there now, built hundred of years later in his honor. Even Basho was inspired by his writings...”

Obi peers over the bridge’s edge, letting the monkey’s babble roll over him like a ceaseless river. The stream does much the same below, curving gently into the distance, disappearing into a cloud of summer green maple. Even with his sharp eyes, he cannot see this dojo, nor any hut where a monk might sit and spend his life thinking in verse.

Probably because Shigitatsu-an sits on another rivulet entirely, further toward the sea. Something this monkey might know, if he traveled this road; the stone in the middle of town proclaims it, bright as day. Still, Obi holds his tongue. A dagger to the chest might miss, but given enough rope, an idiot always hangs himself.

“For all his shedding of worldly trappings,” Obi hums, sauntering up to where the pair of them stand, “looks like this Saigyo was fond of them.”

Sweet as his words were, the monkey’s mouth turns sour fast enough. “He lived his life in quiet contemplation of nature, dwelling upon the sadness of seasons passing--”

Obi lifts an infuriating eyebrow. “Which he couldn’t do at a temple?”

The monkey’s mouth opens, then closes. “Some people,” he sniff haughtily, “do not understand the artistic process.”

Thatched roofs peek above the shukuba’s gates as they round the bend, hazy in the distance, like close-clinging clouds above Sagami Bay. Salt coats Obi’s mouth as they tread closer, stinging his nose, but today the taste savors of relief-- only mere moments now until Ojou-san can take her rest, and he can shuck these unwanted pests.

The monkey strolls beside Ojou-san, his voice smugly pitched for all to hear: “It’s too bad it isn’t raining.”

Oh, the hour cannot come soon enough. “Really?” Obi slides an easy grin onto his face. “I didn’t think monkeys liked to get their feet wet.”

“M-monkey?!” If looks could smell, the one this Mihaya levels at him would reek; growing even more rank with every giggle Ojou-san stifles. “Funny words coming from a stray cat!”

Obi shrugs, a production of shoulder and head worthy of the stage. “It was not my lips that begged the kami for rains.”

“Not mine either!” The monkey turns to Ojou-san with his mild, scholar stare. “I only meant it would be fitting. Hiroshige drew rains when he made his print of Oiso, falling on the travelers as they entered the shukuba. A light drizzle, of course, nothing to get--” he cuts a pointed glare over his shoulder-- “any paws wet.”

“Ah!” Ojou-san brightens, fingers fluttering joyfully before her. “I have seen that. Ojii-san...”

It’s as if the name were a spell; invoked, it steals the words from her lips, leaving only air to part them. They round again, forming the shape of ojii-san, before pressing tight once more. Obi has only known her mere days, but her grandfather’s legacy seems only to be the knuckles that blanch around her bag’s strap at the barest mention of his name.

A subtlety lost on the monkey prancing next to her. “He called it Tora’s Rain, after the lover of Soga no Juro. Do you know that story, onee-san?”

Obi restrains a roll of his eyes; it’s more of an effort than any of the monkey’s men bother to make. There’s not a child alive who isn’t raised upon the Soga Monogatari, even if the details blend in the telling, each domain vying to put their stamp upon a piece of history.

“Ah...” Ojou-san blinks, her spell disappearing in the bat of an eye. “Oiso no Tora, you mean? The courtesan?”

Again, the monkey-sensei puffs with a teacher’s pride. “The very same. She was raised here, it’s said, after her father prayed to Benzaiten for a child, and she gave to him a stone--”

“He asked for a child and she gave him a stone?” Obi smothers a smile to a twitch. “Seems he got the better end of the bargain.”

“--And she gave to him a stone as a sign the child would be born,” the monkey continues, voice pitched above his. “As O-Tora grew, so did the stone. When the Soga brothers sheltered at her home, it shielded them from--”

“Is this before or after they ambushed a man in his sleep?” Obi asks, deadpan.

That is, it seems, the final straw. The idiot rounds on him, voice dropping into a growl as common as the gutter he grew up in. “A tyrant, for revenge. Kuto-sama murdered their father and took his lands. No honorable man-- no, no bushi-- could let such an insult stand.” Something dark moves beneath the eyes of monkey-dono when he adds, “even if it took years.”

With only a breath, his face smooths back into the scholar’s, the samurai’s learned son. “That rock is still here, should you want to see it.”

Ojou-san smiles, eyes soft with understanding. “You must like this story quite a bit, Mihaya-dono, if you want to see O-Tora’s stone.”

“Me?” His brows raise, two neat little arches. They’re meant to be surprised, but it’s almost as if the angle of them is wrong, a degree off from being sincere. “I meant for you, onee-san. It’s a talisman for fertility.”

Her eyes round. “Oh--!”

“After all, you are now on the way to your husband.” There is a razor’s edge to his smile when he says, “Surely he is looking forward to being so blessed.”

Not unless her cousin has plans for her that he hasn’t seen fit to inform her of. Not an unlikely, knowing the way men think of their women-- though the idea has never occurred to Ojou-san, by the way she gapes.

“Ah!” She glances back at him, helpless. “N-no. That definitely won’t be...necessary.”

Another shadow passes over the monkey’s face, leaving behind a grin that glints as cold as coin. “You don’t say, onee-san...”

Ojou-san tucks into his side as they pass through the sekisho, her head and heart bowed demurely while the doshin glance at her papers. It’s cursory; this is no Hakone to demand papers so spotless they gleam. Still, she shivers when Kino’s permissions leave his hands, and doesn’t stop until they’re tucked back into his sleeves.

The monkey casts her a speculative look when he strolls through, the kind he’s been giving her more and more of as the day wears on. That’s fine enough; he can ponder Ojou-san’s mystery while he and his men wander down the rest of the route, alone.

That brings a smile to Obi’s lips. “Well, we’ll be leaving first.”

The wide eyes monkey-dono turn to him are only rivaled by the ones his ojou-san does. “Obi-dono, what do you mean?”

“We’re stopping here for the night.” He jerks his chin toward a particularly clean looking hatago. “How about that one, Ojou-san? Does it meet your expectations?”

“Yes, b-but...” Her mouth works, searching for the shape of the words that rattle between her teeth. “But why?”

“Ojou-san...” His gaze drops to where her tabi peek out from beneath her kimono’s hem, pink with her blood even through the bandages. “You’re in no condition to continue. Our best course is to rest. But I’m sure--” he can’t help the smug sneer he turns the monkey’s way-- “these men are eager to make good time. It’s a long journey to the capital, and time is money.”

The monkey’s mouth purses, trapped. Unless he wants to admit that he has no business besides following Ojou-san and her purse, making a lie of his casual coincidence-- well, there is no way to graciously decline.

Lucky for him, Ojou-san spares him the footwork. “We’ve barely walked an hour since Hiratsuka.” Her shoulders set like a shogun bent on battle. “You said you wanted to reach Odawara tonight.”

He inhales sharply, annoyed. “That was before--” we collected men better left in the gutter.

True as it is, it will not please his ojou-san. Not when she is so determined to see samurai in every ronin she meets. A different tack is needed if he wants to convince her.

“Ojou-san,” he soothes. “There is no shame in stopping. You should take care of yourself, or else we will have to spend more time waiting for you to recover later.”

The set of her jaw informed him this is not it.

“I can make it,” she insists, because of course she would, this young woman of quality who carried her heaviest pack on her back. “I won’t be the one to slow us down.”

“Plenty of travelers stop at every station.” He gestures to the crowd around them, to their leisurely pace. “Perhaps we should consider it, if--”

“And spend fifty-three days to get to Kyoto?” She arches a brow, a reflection of his own. “I’m not paying you near enough for that, Obi-dono.”

His jaw clenches. He only needs to convince her of one night extra, enough to be rid of these knives at their throat, but... “Ojou-san...”

“I don’t mean to pry,” the monkey says, insinuating himself between them. “But there is plenty of daylight left. If jou-chan wants to move on we should. There are better places to rest, if she needs it.” His teeth flash as he suggests, “Hakone, for one. It’s said that their hot springs are healing indeed.”

“Ah, see?” Ojou-san brightens, a quelling hand laid on his sleeve. “Hot springs! That seems like a fine place to take an extra day.”

Obi glares as the monkey hops around behind her, too elated for him to trust. “I don’t think--”

“And it’s better to travel in groups,” the monkey offers, pressing his advantage. “Six people is certainly safer than two.”

Obi frowns. “That depends on who the other four are.”

“It’s decided then,” Ojou-san says brightly, hands clapping together. “We’ll push on to Odawara. And when we reach Hakone, we can rest as long as you like.”

Obi takes in a deep breath, boiling as the monkey grins at him, triumphant. “If that’s what you want, Ojou-san.”

“You heard jou-chan,” the monkey mutters as he prances past, victorious. “It is.”

[away-from-anthills]

chapter five-

He recalled what Tatteredstar had said at the last Gathering as Whitetooth’s words echoed throughout his heart.

Rosefire. He had done little wrong- in his eyes, the only hope for a future was the Clans united. In his eyes, Tatteredstar and Eelwhisker were enemies that had to be vanquished. And yet his attempt at rebellion was gone as soon as it began, like a hare plucking and eating a sprout from the ground. He was killed, or at least that was what Tatteredstar’s dark tone implied, and as far as Antstar knew those who worked with him were likely either on close watch or driven out entirely. He presented a weakness and a challenge to her leadership, and so she handily dispatched him.

But could he say the same of Sparkthistle?

There was no indication she was to actually plan something. There was no indication she had the willpower to truly try to stop Antstar. But every so often, there was this inescapable look in her eye of hatred, and every time Antstar caught it he felt sick.

Would the Clan be better off without her?

Antstar had been just made a warrior when Sparkthistle and Cherrycloud had been born. Their mother was one of the most respected warriors in her Clan at the time, and she had great expectations thrust upon her two daughters. Initially, she adored Sparkkit the most, as Sparkkit had ambitions that Cherrykit did not. She made her favoritism shockingly clear, despite the warnings of Crowflower. But as time went on, when the two mollies were apprenticed, Cherrypaw emerged the more naturally gifted one while Sparkpaw struggled. Their mother’s opinions on them flipped dramatically. Now it was Cherrycloud that could do no wrong, Cherrycloud that deserved all the love in the world; Sparkthistle was a candy wrapper, read once and then discarded. Sparkthistle had been deeply embittered ever since- part of it from cynicism, and part of it because she wanted to emulate her mother to some extent.

It wouldn’t be fair to deny Sparkthistle the rest of her life, to cut her off short. But she had been this way ever since she was an apprentice, and there was no sign she would ever change. But it was as if Whitetooth’s words had bored a hole in his skull. And Sparkthistle is never going to get better, either.

“You’re thinking about what warrior name you want to give me, aren’t you,” said a cheeky voice as Antstar left his thoughts and sunk back to earth. It was Spiderpaw, looking back at him as she sprang into the grasses.

“You haven’t passed your assessment yet,” he reminded her.

“I know I will.” Spiderpaw had all the confidence of a wren challenging a bull. She smirked and trotted away to complete her assessment- then, suddenly, stopped in her tracks and looked back to see if Antstar was watching.

“I have to watch you in secret.” Antstar nodded his head upward, as if he were pushing her away. “Go on.”

She slunk into the grasses, which were turning the deep golden color that late greenleaf always brought upon itself. The sun peeked out from the pitch-black clouds above them, giving everything a surreal yellow glow. Away Spiderpaw went to get herself into the swing of hunting- and as she did, Antstar started to pace in circles, thinking about the Sparkthistle predicament.

Mentor and apprentice were on the far end of WindClan territory, away from the Clan, away from the other Clans, away from the world. Besides the slight rustle of grasses that followed Spiderpaw as she stalked a rabbit and the distant creaks and sighs of the windmills on the horizon, Antstar found the air deathly still, except for his thoughts which buzzed within him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a figure. It was Twoleg-like in shape and size, and after cowering from it instinctively, Antstar realized it was a familiar figure. Shalestar told him back when he was apprenticed that the object was called “Scare Crow”, and that the loners who lived in the barn thought of it as a friend. Scare Crow was moved around by the farmers to keep birds off the nearby crops, but yet it always remained perfectly still, as its skin was burlap and its veins were hay straw.

“Did it always sit like that?” he had asked.

“Perhaps.” Shalestar had looked off into the horizon, the warmth of being about to tell a good story curling up the corners of his lips. “Legend has it that, many moons ago, StarClan took pity upon Scare Crow, and reanimated him to come alive and live among the Clans. His humanoid, flawed figure was made feline. His burlap became handsome tawny tabby fur, his straw became flesh and blood, and his buttons became two beautiful eyes the color of harvested wheat. Scare Crow was sent to live among the Clans, and so he did- but, having once not been a cat, he never truly fit in, despite the beautiful appearance StarClan gifted him. When he was trying to woo a molly to take as his mate, they strolled together through Sunningrocks. In the reflection of the Sunningrocks’s water lay Scare Crow’s true self- ragged, ugly, weather-beaten and lopsided. He ran away, sobbing at the discovery of who he truly was, and StarClan realized then that it was more humane, more gentle, more right to strip him of his mortal coil and turn him back into his true self as the being of straw and burlap. He has remained here ever since.”

More humane. More gentle. More right. More right to stop them. More right to end them.

More right to kill them.

Sparkthistle had barely any friends. Her bitter, dour nature led her to be quite an outcast in the Clan’s community, save for Stoatslink, and even then he didn’t seem entirely approving of her. She had to be miserable. And the Clan was miserable any time they interacted with her. Furthermore, if she was turning on Antstar, she could turn on all the community. If a rival Clan asked her for intel, she could flip. She had little attachment to anyone in the Clan, so it was excruciatingly imaginable that her hatred for Antstar would outweigh her loyalty to WindClan…

His train of thought was halted by a squeak as Spiderpaw bit through the throat of a juvenile rabbit. He watched as the dark gray tabby carefully lined up her kill by a fallen log- leaving plenty of space for the next prey she was to catch.

He knew he was going to pass her. How couldn’t he? She had already proven herself. But having her hunt alone and complete the traditional assessment gave Antstar the space he needed to process the decision he already felt doomed to make.

Sparkthistle could find peace in the afterlife. She had never done anything deserving of Hell, no matter how many times Antstar had probably muttered that under his breath when dealing with her. Perhaps she could calm herself in the heavens in a way that she could never truly do in her mortal life. StarClan would be a kinder land than the rough earth and harsh sky of WindClan.

Maybe he was trying to rationalize himself here.

But then again- what could be gained from her continued flesh-and-blood existence? At best she was an annoyance. At worst… at worst she was an outright security risk.

There was the thumping of paws. Spiderpaw was in full chase, a shrew just before her. It ducked one way and another, around the bend and back again, into and through a log. Faster and faster they went, despite the shrew being so small, so unnecessary, so unimpactful in the grand scheme of the world at large and its moon. And as Antstar made his decision- as Antstar looked to the sky, looked to the unblinking amber sun, hoping that StarClan was with him and approved, hoping that StarClan knew he was doing this for WindClan’s sake- she leapt, and the shrew went out with a final cry, so unimportant and yet defiant to the last in spite of the very jaws that would always defeat it.

 As they went home, Spiderpaw holding her catches and lost in the daydreams of what her warrior ceremony might be like, Antstar could only think of what he was about to do. Spiderpaw’s warrior name- something that once seemed so momentous, so important only a scant few days ago- already felt dwarfed by the matter of Sparkthistle’s fate. Antstar paused by the edge of the medicine den. The air he was about to speak with felt like it was caught in his throat. Whitethroat slunk out, always alert, almost as if they already knew he was there.

“About what you said a few days ago.”

Whitetooth nodded attentively.

“…Can we go through with it tonight? As fast as possible, I- I don’t want to think about it too hard.”

Whitetooth took a moment to respond, already visibly figuring out how they would do it. They looked towards the den, where Marblepaw was chewing up a poultice, and then into the general direction of the gorge. Ears pricked, eyes intense, looking almost more like a ferret surveying the land than a cat.

And then, they nodded. A transaction was about to begin.

“The weather is ripe for it… As you wish, Antstar. I am your dearest servant.”

 That night, the sky was dark. Thick black clouds had continued to roll in, and there was the distant rumble of storms beyond the horizons. Brief, misty scatters of rain speckled the dusty earth.

Antstar watched the Clan go to sleep, one by one. While some still decided to sleep out in the open hollow, others that were worried about the chance of storm hid away in burrows scattered throughout the camp area, and slowly, the Clan came to rest. He had asked there be no guards or vigils held on this night- while the threat of impending rain acted as justification, he needed there to be no eyes, nothing that could possibly spot him when he and Whitetooth figured out what to do with the body.

“I tell you,” snarled a certain ginger tabby from afar, “I am not sick. I don’t know why you think I am.”

Whitetooth, however, wasn’t fettered. They circled her like an adder, their brown tail gently stroking her flank as if they were attempting to tame a wild horse. “I am aware you may think that. But I can already recognize symptoms of kittencough in you, and the sickness takes a few days to set in. If we treat you now, you won’t be sick later.”

Sparkthistle snarled in defiance, but after a moment of contemplation, she followed Whitetooth into the abandoned rabbit burrow that made up the medicine den. “Fine. So long as you make this quick, pal.”

As she did so, Whitetooth scurried over to Antstar, in that silent, almost eel-like way they were so skilled at. They leaned in slightly and began to whisper. “When I give you the signal-“ -they twitched their left ear- “I want you to come in. We must do this tonight, Antstar- else they may catch onto us.”

From there, Antstar carefully watched, pacing around camp to get a good look into the medicine den. Marblepaw seemed fast asleep at the entrance, her head resting upon a clump of mosses she had fetched earlier that day. In fact, just about everyone was asleep now save for the leader, his medicine cat, and their target. Sparkthistle caught the amber glow of Antstar’s eyes and stared at him as Whitetooth took something small and dark and stuffed it into a dead shrew.

“Kittencough,” they began, speaking in the voice of a lecturing mentor, “is usually much like a mild case of whitecough. The issue, however, is that it is very contagious and can be deadly for kits and elders. Usually, we treat it with whitecough medicines and drowsiness-inducing herbs, so that way the cat involved does not spread it and risk hurting the most vulnerable.”

But Sparkthistle’s yellowish-amber eyes indicated she had paid little attention to their monologue. “Why is Antstar there?” she asked, her eyebrows furrowed.

“He and I are having a conversation once you fall asleep. Mostly about the next Moonstone meeting, StarClan, those types of affairs. That, and figuring out what we’ll do about herbs come leaf-fall.”

“In the night? With this weather?”

“The night lends impulse to new ideas, my Clanmate.”

And then- slowly, slyly, they brought the shrew towards her. The very same shrew Spiderpaw had caught in her apprentice exam. For a brief moment that felt like nine lives and a day, Whitetooth made eye contact with Antstar.

This was it. The last chance to stop now. The last chance to keep Sparkthistle alive.

Every joint in Antstar’s limbs wanted to move, to give a last-minute refusal. And yet, he stood perfectly still.

Whitetooth turned back to Sparkthistle. For a moment it felt in Antstar’s mind as though she had already died. Perhaps, in a sense, she had.

“Here. I want you to take this. Medicine can trouble an empty belly if one is not careful.”

Sparkthistle sniffed it carefully, her pink speckled nose twitching with apprehension. Finally, she gave in, slowly taking a mouthful, ripping away at the skin.

“Now, I’ve put some medicines into this shrew of yours, as to clear out the kittencough. You shall feel drowsy. But- and this is important- do not be alarmed.”

There was a crunch as she bit into the black seeds that Whitetooth had enclosed within the shrew’s flesh.

“Everything is going to be perfectly fine.”

For a moment, Sparkthistle remained perfectly unaffected, continuing to nose around the shrew to pick out its best meat. Suddenly, however, her paw began to twitch. She looked around uneasily, as if her vision was beginning to spot out. She looked at Whitetooth, but Whitetooth gave her the same soothing stare they always had.

“Is it supposed to feel-“

“Like that? Yes.”

She got up to her paws, swaying back and forth like a tree about to topple in a storm. Saliva began to bubble from her jaw.

“I’ve had drowsiness herbs before, and they’ve-“ She struggled to speak. The deathberries had already coursed through her tongue, gradually paralyzing it. Her slurred words devolved into mumbled, slobbery vocalizations. Then, suddenly, Whitetooth knocked her to the ground and pinned her there.

They twitched their right ear as they stared at Antstar. That was the signal.

Antstar rushed in, silently, holding the ginger molly down as spasms shook her. She looked up at him, and he pushed her head into the ground to keep her still as she writhed and tried best she could to fight back. Her stare back at him bore into his very heart, gripping and shaking his very being. She had figured out what was going on, now. This was no look of anger, or of annoyance, or even of betrayal. No, this was a look Antstar had only seen before a scant few times. The look of a cat freezing as a monster runs out before them. The look of a young hare as a patrol leader strikes the killing blow. It was a look of pure, unadulterated horror.

Antstar stepped back instinctively. For a second, a further worry flashed through his head- had he let her go?

But the ginger body simply sank to the earth like a rug wet from saliva and rustled with struggle, sinking inward like a balloon that had slowly deflated from a puncture.

Sparkthistle was gone.

Antstar felt worry creep in as he scouted the clearing, over and over again to make sure the glint of no eye caught him. Behind him, he could hear Whitetooth clean up the blood-tinged cluster of foamy saliva that had pooled around Sparkthistle’s head. For a moment, he checked to ensure that Marblepaw was still asleep, and he felt slight relief when he saw the apprentice still lay in her nest, seemingly deep within a dream.

“Now,” Whitetooth whispered, stepping back as if they were admiring their own handiwork of having cleaned up the den. “What we’ll do is drag this over to the gorge. You would like to hide the body, correct?”

Antstar nodded fervently.

“Right. I know exactly what we shall do.” They picked up Sparkthistle by the scruff of her neck. Her shoulders hung limply. The white medicine cat indicated the other half of her body, and Antstar picked it up by the lower spine. Carefully, the two cats dragged her out and away without making a sound, through the gorse tunnel and out of camp. Dust gathered on her paws as they were dragged across the earth. Whitetooth’s grip was confident, certain; Antstar’s was far shakier and he had to fight to keep his jaw clamped. He had never realized how small Sparkthistle was. How small any cat was, really. It felt as though he were asleep in the leader’s den, and this was all some mad dream that he was watching from the distance of the mind.

Suddenly, Whitetooth came to a stop, and Antstar had to stop himself from falling forward onto the body. They looked down into the river, which looked as black and endless as the clouded sky that loomed above them, and then across to ensure no RiverClan cat had caught sight of them.

“…Why stop here?” Antstar started to ask, but his question was answered by the precise stare that Whitetooth was sending into the depths of the waters below.

“Check to make sure there’s no blood on her or sign of injury,” they instructed. Antstar carefully looked over the body, which had gradually grown a tad stiff. There was still a line of froth around her lip, but besides this, nothing had remained of the desperate struggle from earlier.

“…Nothing of the sort.”

“Good.”

“… We’re going to throw her into the river, right?”

“I knew you had figured it out already. You’re a smart cat. Any scent of deathberry- or us- will be soaked away by the water. If she is dragged away by the current, we shall say she clearly ran off because of her distaste towards your leadership.”

“And if she is found, she…?”

“She stumbled over the edge. Lots of cats have fallen to their deaths here. It wouldn’t look a moment out of place.”

Antstar pushed the body over. It rolled lopsidedly, like a chipped pebble; and soon slipped off the edge. Turning over itself, flank over flank, it fell into the black river and was swallowed up by the hungry waves. There was a hint of orange, and then it was gone.

Antstar looked to Whitetooth. “Can we…” His throat choked upon itself. “Can we never speak of this again?”

Whitetooth nodded. A talon of lightning darted out of one of the clouds nearby, and there was a corresponding grunt of thunder.

They walked back to camp, side by side, master and servant. Antstar looked at the ground, not daring to look ahead; Whitetooth, unflinching as ever, looked right ahead, squinting slightly to keep the dapples of raindrops from hitting their eyes. They slipped into the medicine den, doing one last check to make sure any indication of a struggle had vanished.

Everything was silent, there. Clumps of moss, diligently organized by type and age, lined the den. The nests, clean as ever, were empty. Except for one, which held Marblepaw.

Antstar paid close attention to Marblepaw’s figure. She was shuddering a bit, her breath shaky. Was she having a nightmare? Or- or had she-

Antstar felt his nerves coil in terror as he realized her amber eyes were wide open.

“Whitetooth!” he whispered, a sudden sharpness to the syllables as panic clutched him. “Whitetooth, your apprentice-“

But Whitetooth was unfettered as ever. “Do not fear, Antstar.” They laid a paw on Marblepaw’s shoulder, and she recoiled slightly, gasping with fright. But she stayed in position, letting the medicine cat’s pale, cold pawpads touch her warm dark tabby pelt.

“She can keep a secret very well,” they said, a sudden darkness in their words. “And if not- I can make her keep it.”

This was wrong. This was very, very wrong, and Antstar felt a pang of sympathy for the little apprentice. It was only now he realized he had never seen her befriend anyone else in the Clan.

But it had to be done. For WindClan.

And so, Antstar walked off to the leaders’ den. Just as he got in, rain fell in great, big curtains, obscuring his view of camp. He checked for a moment if he could see any glitters of light from his Clanmates’ eyes, in case they had awoken and seen at least something, but he was reassured by the uniformly dark rainy landscape before him. Slowly, his trembling breaths began to ease into sleep once more.

He thought of Whitetooth, of Marblepaw, even Sparkthistle. How much had changed in the past few hours alone. He had gone from leader, to murderer-

No! He was no murderer, he told himself. He had simply -disposed- of her. She was leading a rotten life and all he had done was let her leave it. And if he truly had murdered her, it was for the best of WindClan, for their safety. If warriors could kill in the midst of battle, if medicine cats could end the suffering of the burdened, nothing he had done was out of line. It was the best for everybody.

But when he looked back to the sky, to be reassured by starlight, all he found was the thick rain battering the earth.

[fernsplaysthings]

Is this going to be ongoing?

Looks like it. Whoops.

Fireteam Mayhem discuss ‘important’ things.

Somehow Artemis, the most grounded, sensible and responsible of the trio was the only one to raise a metallic brow in amusement, impressed with the new snippets of information being provided by the fireteam’s Hunter and leader. Salome was either in deep consideration or possibly comatose when Kestral glanced up at her. 

Even the Ghosts had decided to get in on the gossip.

Well, of course Roost had. He’d been the little shit that’d ‘accidentally’ let slip why his Guardian had been unusually light and cheery. Conveniently just after Zavala’s peaceful meeting with Caiatl had taken a sharp swerve into assassination territory and and blown a certain Hunter’s cover.

“Handsome, dark haired Awoken Guardian with a hint of ‘shifty’? Who could have possibly seen that coming?”

Artemis’ hand flew to cover her Ghost’s face in a futile attempt at hushing her before she finished that thought, a hissed ‘Diana, no’ behind her own barely tamed smug smirk. Her hand passed by her little light who’d already turned to look at the non-responsive Warlock, look back at Kestral and flicker her shell in a close approximation of a suggestive eyebrow wiggle.

Although the Hunter really wanted to object they simply relaxed their features and gave a reluctant nod of acceptance.

The details of Crow’s former life had stopped being a point of concern for Kestral since...what felt a lot like forever ago. Of course it’d only been since the Dawning. They’d come to terms with a lot of stuff and had optimistically thought that it’d be just as easy for everyone else. What they hadn’t expected was for Artemis to be the one to quickly accept that the circumstances of his rebirth should’ve really been foreseen and that all Guardians deserved a second chance if that was what the Traveler had planned.

That was meant to be Salome’s job. She was supposed to have had a tiny existential crisis, a sharp quip and then go back to ribbing the Hunter about their stupid feelings.

She hadn’t actually said anything yet and her Ghost was buzzing around her head in the uncomfortable silence.

“Is...she alright, Lazarus?” asked the Exo softly.

The little light in the dark shell abruptly stopped the figure-eight loops above his Guardian and turned, clearly ruffled, “I think so? I think the uh...the ‘Reefborn’ in her is having a moment.”

Kestral had forgotten that their resident Awoken might have something to say about the complications of getting romantically involved with the resurrected, amnesiac brother of the Awoken Queen.

After what felt like an eternity of silence Salome let out a sharp breath and, hands in a prayer-like position, palm to palm, pointed her fingers out towards where Kestral was sitting.

“I get it. I do,” she said with an uncomfortable amount of certainty that almost had the Hunter believing they were in for an enormous telling off, “He’s hot. And I assume he remains as such despite having been dead a while.”

Kestral unconsciously nodded and immediately stopped themself at Artemis’ and Diana’s combined chuckle.

“And like, I don’t doubt that you spent a good while convincing yourself that catching feelings for the former Prince of the fucking Reef who, I should add, you hunted across the system to put a bullet in, was a horrible fucking idea…”

“Oh boy did they,” Roost quickly added with a sly side eye to his Hunter.

“...But what in the fuck are you going to do when the Queen inevitably pulls back up in the Dreaming City and realises you’re canoodling with her now not-brother?”

There was a pause that lasted a little too long for Salome and, in Lola fashion, she broke the tension with an incorrect assumption of what was causing the inability to answer.

“I mean, I assume you two have…” she raised one hand, pointer finger and thumb touching in a loop, her other hand raising to complete the gesture with her pointer finger extended.

Artemis swatted her hands down hurriedly, noting the rising colour in Kestral’s face, “Don’t be crude.”

“Hey, am I not allowed to take a healthy interest in one of my best friend’s lovelife? It’s been a while since they’ve gifted me some of that juicy gossip about who’s been banging the Young Wolf recently.”

Roost’s shell shivered in frustration, “They sure haven’t, and if they could get it over with so Glint and I can get some peace and…”

“Roost, have you considered not?”

The Ghost turned to his Guardian who had by now turned a remarkable shade of red that coated not just their face but both ears and a good potion of their exposed collars and chest.

“Anyway…” Artemis desperately pulled the conversation back to where she needed it to be which was making sure her leader and friend was alright, “...You actually like him? It’s not some kind of weird way of grieving or expressing guilt or…”

“No! No I do. And I think he likes me too,” they stuttered only a breath away from hiding their face behind their hands, “He was the one that kissed me so...yeah. I’m not just the Young Wolf to him I think, he had no idea that I’ve killed Gods and saved humanity more times than anyone cares to remember. We just worked together and bonded over stuff and by the time Osiris spilled the beans on the ‘Hero of the Red War, etcetera, etcetera’ stuff I think it was kinda too late.”

“Is it not a bit fucking weird making out with Uldren Sov’s face?”

Kestral visibly wanted to curl up into a ball tight enough that they’d eventually just vanish from existence and Salome knew asking that question would do it, “It was a weird thought to start off with but then...it’s Crow. And I couldn’t help it. Sure, in the beginning it’d remind me of the times Sov would stare at me in a way that was definitely him fantasising about how he’d like to watch me die which...now that I think about it was also kinda hot and I really don’t want to unpack that but…”

“I’d like to unpack that.”

“Lola, shush.”

“...But, it doesn’t matter. They’re not the same person. Besides, it’s not like I can control who I, you know, like.”

“‘Like’, huh?” Rooster floated a few inches from his Hunter’s face, “I think you’re probably in it a bit deeper than that.”

Kestral, with an expression a mix of surprise and some kind of hurt, reached up and gently grasped their Ghost in both hands, drawing him in a little suddenly and pressing him to their forehead, then cheek. Somewhere off to the side Diana uttered a long, sympathetic ‘ooh’ and nestled against Artemis’ arm, sharing a knowing look with her Titan.

“I...Maybe? But I shouldn’t. I don’t want to hurt him. There’s so much happening at the moment with the aftermath of Caiatl’s visit and these new Vex reports. Zavala’s still got to come to terms with seeing Crow around the tower and...and he’ll definitely ask me to do something dangerous again soon, and…”

Salome let out a dramatic sigh, startling her Ghost, “Surely if things are going to shit and everything is uncertain and stupid, this is the ideal time to confess all your feelings or see if you both want in each others pants or whatever. 

“When did you become a romantic,” teased Artemis, turning away from the once again reddening Hunter, “Something happen with you and-”

“Don’t…”

“No no, I’m just taking a healthy interest in my favourite Warlock’s lovelife.”

“I know exactly what you’re doing, Arti, you judgmental tin of beans.”

Tuned out from the bickering, Kestral stealthily snuck out of the gathering with Roost quickly realising they’d left and transmatting after them.

“What’s the matter?”

The Hunter pulled their hood up to cover enough of their blush covered face as they left the apartment, “I’m gunna go see Crow.”

“After that emotionally charged conversation?!”

“I’m full of terrible ideas.”

[redevenir]

rigil kentaurus (pt. i)

The brightest star of the Alpha Centauri solar system – our closest neighour. Its name is the latinisation of the arabic رِجْل القِنْطورُس‎ Rijl al-Qinṭūrus, meaning the Foot of the Centaur. It is slightly larger and more luminous than the Sun. W

seungkwan x reader

wc : ~ 4000

summary : you are only a spectator of your life until they take your hand and let you live it.

a/n : started it as a seungkwan piece, then turned it into a johnny one then coming back to seungkwan bc this is how i wan to keep writing it. it's like i can't keep writing it if it's not seungkwan i don't know.

« It’s the fourth one. » Chan’s voice is only a hushed whisper but you hear how bothered he is. You don’t answer.

I know…

No, It’s already the fourth one tonight, and it’s only eleven!

I know…

It’s like they’re not even trying! Seungkwan barely avoids the tea towel as Chan raises his arms out of exasperation. If they don’t what a cappuccino is, why do they order it anyway? It’s a coffee shop, just buy a coffee! You know you don’t need to answer that. You’ve been working here for months and complaining about customers seems to be a universal way of breaking the ice. You’ve heard this speech from your first week at the counter, and with time you’ve come to agree with whatever colleague you were with, on every single point. Not once have you considered quitting to find something else instead. It is, indeed, not the best place. At the entrance of the city, the beginning of the highway. It is neither cozy nor warm. The air conditioning is too strong half of the year, the radiator too hot during the six months of winter. You are either sweating or shivering. The playlist is sickening, and never in tune with the season. You ignore Maria Carey’s christmas’s vocals as you give a customer a refill. Night workers and truck drivers are your only customers during the night shifts. You have stopped judging them long ago.

For months on end, the only thing Chan could tell about his coworker was that you were not a model employee. It was hard to blame you for anything specific. But you felt off. You felt nothing. When Seungkwan asked him how his shifts went, he would just shrug. It felt like he spent many of his nights on his own rather than with you. Like you were not there with him. Every evening he would arrive, greet you and feel like it was the first time ever. And he would grumble about it.

Can you believe I know nothing about her ?

Well, she’s surely a very private person.

Yes, and that’s rude.

You make little to no effort to appeal to the customers. In fact, you barely engage at all with them. Although, and this is your secret, you do have your favorites. From the three maintenance workers of the power plant to the security guard who comes four times a week, before the end of your shift, after the end of his own, Chan has found out that, if he listens to you close enough he’ll learn their names. Because you know them. You often seem to be elsewhere, but when you wish them a nice evening, or good luck, you do say their name, quietly, without any fuss. A sign to him you weren’t completely indifferent but thoughtful in a different way from his. There is nothing likeable to the Dreamy Drivin Chan works at. First of all, it is not a drive-in, nor a drive-through, it is a mere coffee shop. Not a fancy one, not a chain one. The counter’s light green is ugly, the temperature’s always off, and the pay is honestly not much. This is how life is at the border of the city. You catch what you can get and you try to make it work. He assumes the reason you’ve landed there is the same as his and Seungkwan’s : dropped from school, without any proper qualification for a living. He assumes you are his age, that your face must look younger when you are not tired. Chan is nice. Well, Chan likes to tease his friends, but Chan is nice. He tries to reach you, one sentence at a time.

White noises. The purring of the coffee machine you’ve never seen off. They come in, white shirt, stained jeans, black coats. They order the same thing, the largest, darkest coffee you got. You serve them with a « good night », « good luck » if you feel in a kinder mood. Since Seungkwan’s smile is bright and big and loud, you’ve decided you didn’t need to fake one of your own. They pay for their order and leave for never ending roads you cannot quite picture in your mind. When you work long shifts, it seems to you the world is shrinking, that if you open the front door you will fall into a bottomless pit. That the joke of a coffee shop you work at is some sort of asteroid gas station where rocket drivers stop by on their way to the Andromeda galaxy. You tell yourself Earth is also a little rocking drifting among the stars. You welcome a new customer. You dream of outer space. It is known people turn to alcohol and other substances to forget their troubles, but you don’t need that. Numbness greets you every time the pointing machine does its trick, and you even lose sight of your daily life. Surely you have one, plants to grow, books to read, hiking to walk and messes to clean. People to see and a sun to meet. But here, behind your pale green counter, you consign it all to oblivion. Here, there is only the world in your head and the star who takes orders by your side that exist. Your hear Chan’s annoyed sigh. You serve another coffee. It feels like taming the crow that lives in the tree in front of his building. Like he could give you bread and even croissant crumbs every single night and you would still be distant. And one day, you initiate the conversation, and he knows he’s done well. He remembers it just fine now. It was probably a boring wednesday, late in the afternoon. It had been a cloud few hours since he had woken up. A dim midday sun dissolving into the thick gray air. He was already behind the counter, checking the clock, when you had busted in the room, panting. There was some pathetic charm about the whole scene. You don’t hide your surprise when you see Chan already there, and a smile had made its way – oh so joyful and unsettled. The smile on your face had remained unchanged when he had asked you. And why are you late ?

I am not ? You had answered. What the manager doesn’t know can’t hurt him.

Ooh, so that’s how it is. Chan relates to that. He never complains about you again. Next time he talks about you, he tells Seungkwan you are his friend now. His quiet, merry friend who never works day shifts. Chan does. As it happens, Chan hates working the night shifts and only does it when Seungkwan can’t. Seungkwan is kind. Seungkwan is the most loveable being Chan has known in years. Seungkwan is grounded and warm, and steady. Moving in with him was like having finally his roots planted into rich, reliable earth, instead of the slippery mud he had been walking on for most of his life. Chan is heard, is seen. Chan sleeps well, and goes out of his way whenever Seungkwan asks him a favor, because it is easy to satisfy him. Easy, and right. He tells Seungkwan you’ve asked after him, and watches as the other chokes on his coffee.

Can’t believe you’d think I wouldn’t notice.

When Seungkwan comes back to the night shifts, you don’t mention him ever leaving, but he notices the change in you immediately. When you greet him, he looks at your face and wonders what was so bad that your better rested face still looks worn out. You’re not as lively as he is, you’re not as lively as Chan is, hell, you’re not even as lively as Chan said you were with him – which wasn’t that much to begin with. But you are here. There is a relief in your presence. Seungkwan said nothing about his absence, and diligently drinks the cup of coffee you offer him around three. Seungkwan regrets the day shift but still. It could be worse. As he tries his best to maintain his customer service to its level – it is hard and how, how did he manage to do it before ? Is this the reason why you don’t ? Don’t set any standard, at all, so no one can be disappointed – and especially not you – when you don’t live up to them. Seungkwan wonders how hard you really are on yourself, and if he isn’t being dramatic. Maybe you’re all right. Maybe you look terrible because that’s how you look. Maybe you were born tired and he has no need to worry about you. Maybe you don’t need him to meddle in your privacy. Surely, if you wanted him to know about your life you’d tell him yourself.

The softest clunk ever heard by a human ear snaps him out of his thoughts. He meets your concerned look and the large cup of latte you’re handing to him.

Seungkwan, you should go home. Take it easy. Night shifts are hard.

He looks at you with wide eyes, opens his mouth, close it, opens it again and stutters.

But- no ! I mean- I can’t- I- I- you- I can’t let you do this alone- It- It- no, it’s not right! You shrug and gesture vaguely toward the empty diner hall.

It’s whatever, really. You try to elaborate as he doesn’t answer. No one’s here, you’re clearly not here, there’s only two hours left, just, you know. Go to sleep. I really don’t mind. You don’t have to fight me on this, by the way, it’s not like I’d tell anyone.

Seungkwan does as you say, doesn’t fight you on this. He can’t manage a proper thought, a proper thank you. He goes in the locker room, picks up his stuff, only to hesitate before the front door, until you repeat yourself, a sweet promise of rest. He spends the journey back home away from his body, replaying the scene over and over. He knows he’s screwed when he opens the door to his and Chan’s apartment. It’s ridiculous, and he would feel ashamed if he wasn’t so tired. How easy it is to let you take care of him. He crashes on his bed still in his work clothes and forgets his last thoughts.

Your shift passes without a fuss. It doesn’t feel like you’re there either.

You close your book when you realize you’re not reading anything. There is a light buzz in your brain, but it is quiet. Unthreatening. You close your eyes and your reaches for the cup of hot cocoa on your desk. It’s all nice and quiet here, and you wonder how you’ve managed to make your apartment such a peaceful nest when your mind is so often washed out by fierce tempests. You let your mind drift away, floating on a safe shore. Breaks from work are nice. Your sleep schedule is well set by now, and you can properly enjoy those forty-eight hours for yourself. You don’t spend every week night longing for them, because you never project yourself into the future, but you would if you did. Dawns are definitely your favorite moment of the day. Either they mean you can go home, or that you have an entire day to relish in the warmth of your place. It is a nest indeed. A kitchen and a bedroom, all stuffed into the maze of a much bigger building. The wooden floor is quite creaky and you do hear when the neighbor upstairs wears their heels. The walls are a very faded shade of orange, which you love – sun-like colors are for good luck. The furniture is definitely older than you are – older than your parents, probably – but it is nice. And the day you’ll leave it will remain exactly the same. More used but untouched. In a way, the atmosphere is not unlike the Dreamy. Homey and decay. Anonymous, but in a belonging way. Chan would hate it. His apartment – well, their apartment – is probably… You can’t picture it. You don’t know enough about home interiors to picture someone else’s home. Comfortable. Maybe furs as bed-covers? You have never touched one before, but sometimes you catch a glimpse of them on the passenger seat of a car. Your gaze never lingers though : you are not to look at a car owner in the eyes.

Seungkwan feels like he’d sleep nested in a bed of wool and furs. He’d probably like the soft but rough feeling of it against his skin. There’s something comforting about raw fabrics, isn’t there? A bubble of heat slowly builds in your chest and you close your eyes shut to chase the thoughts of Seungkwan’s bare skin in his bed.

Seungkwan is quiet, but not discreet. He is clumsy and always in his own world, parallel to yours, but you wonder how many light years are between you, and it is all to his credit. There is something you find commendable to his behavior. A reliable honesty. Not unlike a dog, you can tell from the look on his face whether he is content or anxious or annoyed. You do not have to imagine his hidden agenda – you are positive he has none. The easiness with which Seungkwan expresses himself still amazes you, even after a year or so of observing him a few nights a week. It seems to you his feelings have no hindrance to them : pure joy, pure irritation, pure panic whenever one of you breaks a cup – it happens more than you like to admit. When his voice rushes to tell you a quick joke between two customers, the joyful spontaneity of his tone carries you miles away from the counter, to bright afternoons on windy shores. He is quick-witted and never misses a chance to tell you whenever he notices something amusing. Simplicity is Seungkwan’s most beautiful quality, you have decided. When you are not drifting around other solar systems, when you come back home to your place, when you are lying in bed a few minutes more before getting dressed up, you try to imagine what he is doing at the same time. What does his apartment look like, what does he like to cook, does he have a dog and why is his smile so charming. Sometimes under the shower you wonder what he would think about you if he were to see you naked. You try to leave these thoughts in the shower where they belong but you cannot always control your mind and you find yourself embarrassed in front of him more often than you care to admit.

You collect information about him like a gold digger their gold nuggets. Every word he addresses you, you replay in your head again and again until you can hear him breathe them against your ear in the darkness of your bedroom. So when Seungkwan comes back, all quiet and cautious, pondering on his words and his welcoming attitude almost erased, you act on it as best as you can. You are not brave enough to properly ask him about it, so you do what you do best. You observe. How quieter he has become, and the slow but unstoppable growth of the bags under his eyes. Not that he seemed well-rested at all, which is also worrying. What did he go through that was even more tiring than working night shifts? Of course, it is none of your business. If Chan were there, maybe he’d spill the tea, but Chan made it very clear he didn’t want to work a night shift ever again. Will you ever talk to him again? The little one you’re so found of. Chan said Seungkwan was a neat roommate to have, and for him to give up the sunlight for months, you assumes he means it. The understatement is lovely. Chan would never spill Seungkwan’s secrets.

You light up the gas, put the little orange pan on it, pour the milk in it. With that you empty the milk carton, and throw it in the trash. Who knows when you’ll be able to afford milk again? You haven’t seen any in the store for weeks – and you restrain yourself from stealing the Drivin. It isn’t worth it. As you wait for the milk to heat up, you hear a gentle knock on your door. You lower the fire, apprehension growing in your chest. You’re not expecting anybody, so this can’t be good. On your tiptoes, breathing deep, you reach the front door and slowly open it. Wary, you let yourself look at whoever is standing outside.

Oh, miss, hello! Sorry to bother you! Someone just called after you, so I thought I’d let you know ! She lived here too. You don’t know her name, but she’s definitely older than you are. She lives upstairs, you’re not sure of the floor. She looks like a teacher, and her enunciation sounds like that too. She has a little polite smile on, aware of your discomfort, the stiffness of your body being obvious. As she sees your absence of reaction, she hands you a piece of paper, covered in smooth carbon writing. Definitely a teacher. One of your coworker, he said he was. I forgot yo ask for his number, but if he calls back, do you want me to tell him something specific ?

Huh, no! I mean- No, no, no, you don’t need- you don’t- you don’t need to do anything, miss. I’m- I’m sorry he took the liberty to call you, I don’t wish to bother you ! You mouth is so dry. Thank you! Thank you! Sorry again! I’ll leave you be then! Have a nice day! You shut the door without noticing the smile she has on again.

The ringing in your head takes over everything else. You try to reach for something to keep your balance and crumble against the wall, choking for air. You crumple the piece of paper in your fist, nails digging in the soft flesh of your palms, tearing little moon crescent that taint the words you haven’t even read. She knows now. What kind of person doesn’t have a telephone at home? Who, if not someone who is trying to remain unreachable? Untraceable. Your head is about to implode from the pain. Now she’ll know. Now, she knows you have something to hide. You lie on the floor, chasing after your breathe. Who will she tell? Does she live alone ? Is she a public teacher ? How long do you have until she tells on you? You cannot dare to think you might have to go now, tears burning your eyes as you hiccup desperately. The hawk claws on your chest only dig deeper and deeper until your forehead is against the floor, searching for cold, for a relief from the blades in your brain.

The crisis lasts for hours.

The room is dark when you emerge, and a faint, panicked thought about being late comes to you but you’re quick to remember you don’t have to work tonight. Smoke and the smell of burnt is all around you. Shit, the milk. Mouth dry, head numb, you slowly sit up, body hoarse. Feeling a light pain in your hands, you let your fingertips brush over the scab already formed. The piece of paper is still in your left hand, torn and bloody. Finally, you smooth it and read the few words on it. Coworker wants to know when next free day is. also have a good day. You stare at it without making any sense out of it. What coworker? Which one? Your planning is with everyone else’s at work. You feel nauseous. Muscles sore, you stand up and go to the kitchenette to turn the fire down. Without second thought you throw the now empty pan in the trash. Fuck all of this. Mindlessly, you reach the bathroom, undressing yourself as in a dream. After you’re done you let yourself fall on the bed. Quiet, in the back of your head, you start to make a list. Tomorrow, tomorrow you will pack. Just in case.

When you arrive at work the next night, you put an obviously packed bag under the counter. You don’t greet Seungkwan. You don’t look at him. The shift goes by without a word addressed to him. At dawn, a few minutes before you’re both free to go, Seungkwan clears his throat next to you.

I-… Hum. I, well, it’s obvious you don’t want to talk about it, but- Well, just- Just so you know. Chan says he’s sorry. He would never hav- You cut him off, stern, as you wipe the cloth over the counter to make it shine. So it was Chan.

I don’t know what you’re talking about. You hear him open and close his mouth. He seems to understand his place.

O- Ok. Have a good day rest then.You don’t bother to answer him before leaving, bag on your shoulder.

Time passes slowly.

You haven’t looked at Seungkwan in the eyes for so long now, Chan wonders if you still know what he looks like. Every afternoon when Seungkwan eats his breakfast and Chan comes back home to a most welcome snack, the night worker sighs heavy, burdened by your silence. It’s unbearable.  It’s unbearable for him to go to work every night with someone who was once friendly and has turned into a wall, a wall for which he longs to love. It’s unbearable for Chan to see his roommate on the verge of tears because of the guilt. It’s unbearable to know their action has you ready to run away every minute of every day.

The thing with Seungkwan is that he is quite good at reading people. Even though he does enjoy some unnecessary drama as much - and maybe more - as others - he usually manages to get through his life without ruffling any feather. It makes it a lot harder to comfort him with empty words when he knows you’re avoiding him, because he has been looking at you. This is how one should talk to people, he has learned. Not everyone is comfortable doing so, he also learned. Sometimes, Seungkwan says nothing, for he is afraid to annoy you away. There is no pleasure whatsoever in taking the night shift. The place is already dull by day, but by night it reaches a new dimension of boredom. Sure, it pays a bit better, but it is not worth it. Since he is not asked anyway, and he does not get to choose his shifts, Seungkwan tries to prize the strays of light in this fog of ennui. First, the night regulars seem to like him better than the day ones. He likes to think they enjoy his enthusiasm and maybe it is one of the reasons they keep coming and ordering there. The other one is you. Although now you are not at all like a light ray and more of a far away storm, high at sea.

Seungkwan would’ve liked it better if had you unleashed hell upon him. Before you used to not talk to him, but it felt more like you were shy, or reserved. Or merely didn’t know what to say, which is a very understandable feeling when you’re still at work at two in the morning five days a week. It didn’t feel awkward. Well, it sometimes felt a bit awkward, but not in the bad way. Now… Now you’re very obviously pretending he is not there, and Seungkwan wants to cry. All of it is his fault. Chan only called to you because of his rambling. I would have called her anyway. I like her. She’s my weird work friend. It’s unbearable. He jumps when Chan drops his fork on his plate with a loud clunk.

I’ll make it up. I can fix this. The eldest doesn’t look up from his meal. Chan wants to rip his own eyes and scream. With her. Inquisitive and tired eyes shoot up. I’m gonna do something about it.

Wha- Wha- Chan, there’s no fixing it, what are you talking about ? She comes to work every day with a bag which I’m sure is full of necessary stuff. You know what that means. I know what that means. She obviously know what that means. There is no fiwing this.

I know, I know. I don’t mean- Deep breathe. I know I can’t fix everything, obviously. But I’m going to apologize to her, and she’ll talk to you. And, well. It’s going to work. Seungkwan shrugs. He says nothing more until he leaves for work.

Chan slumps into the sofa. He’s fucked up big this time. It sucks. He really is a fool. Living one day at a time, he’s lost perspective. He has even forgotten why his life is like that in the first place. How could he be so careless? He’s a fly. Well, all of you are flies. Clearly, you’ve managed to get out the web and he has brought you back into it. Chan’s a fool. He stands up in a sigh, put on his shoes and goes back to the Dreamy Drivin’.

[cxmetery-gates]

OBSESSIVE TEACHINGS - DARK!TOM HIDDLESTON

CHAPTER TWO: FOR THE FIRST TIME

SUMMARY: Lynn meets the attractive English teacher, Mr. Tom Hiddleston. WORD COUNT: 3.1k NOTE: it’s 3:00 am but I don’t have a sleep schedule. Enjoy! WARNINGS: dark!tom hiddleston, teacher!tom hiddleston

OBSESSIVE TEACHINGS MASTERLIST

INSIDE IS HAVOC.

For some idiotic reason, most students somehow forget what classes they signed up for three months ago or lost their schedules (I still wonder how that happens) and thus, the front office is a mess of students asking for theirs, the lines bleeding out into the hall. Given this, getting around to head to the commons will be a mission in and of itself. I'm not hating on all of them. As a freshman I was in the same place, my shaky hands and nervously stuttering voice mirroring the kids that smell brand new. Hopefully, to avoid this debacle again, they'll write the classes down. I guarantee the already exhausted looking receptionists would agree.

I almost want to tell the small, thin girl who wrings her hands 'good luck' but I guarantee she'd faint by the time I open my mouth. Instead, Ellie and I keep walking past the crowd. Poor souls.

It takes a minute or so to reach the commons, the booming echoes of chatting teenagers on their first day back is a sound like no other. The voices create a paved path any newcomer could easily follow. It dawns on me now that this will be the last time I'll hear this sound. I solemnly smile.

"I'm telling you, Dunmer is the better race."

"Only an idiot would spew such ignorant bullshit! Everyone knows Khajiit are the superior race!"

"Says the guy who could pass as a furry."

My eyebrows raise once the familiar voices are heard. Of course, they sit alone and look as normal as ever. My heart dips into my stomach when one of the two glances up and bashfully raises a hand to wave. In his awkward state, his hand barely moves.

Ellie is the first to speak. "What are you guys fighting about now?"

The boy with the long black hair speaks first. "Dumbass over here thinks Dark Elves are the best characters in Skyrim." Gabriel Ahoka is one of the oldest friends I have and if there's anything I've learned from him, it's that he's right the majority of the time. Oh, and he has beautiful hair.

"Because I'm right!" I take a seat next to the self-proclaimed judge. His name is River Adams, and I think I've been in love with him since he told me I reminded him of Hermione Granger back in the fourth grade. I smile in his direction then tuck some hair behind my ear. A nervous twitch that doesn't get past Ellie's ever watchful eyes. I refuse to acknowledge her small smirk. Instead, we both join in on the two dorks' conversation.

Ellie rolls her big brown eyes at them. "I don't see what the fuss is about. You guys take your games too seriously."

Both River and Gabriel audibly gasp at her comment.

"Fine," Gabriel huffs looking in my direction. "What about you, Lynn-ykinz?"

I don't visibly react to his nickname. It's something I've been called for years now. Though I'd like to agree with River, it's something I can't do. "Dunmers—"

"Ha!"

"— are for pussies."

"Ha!" This laugh comes from the boy sitting across from me. Beside me, River makes a small "oh" and lowers his raised fists, his hooray coming to a short and final end. I chuckle at his reaction as I pass Gabriel a solid high five.

"What are your guys' schedules?" River asks a tiny bit of gloom and annoyance coating his words.

Fortunately, most of us are in similar classes and only have to be here for a little over half the day. Due to all of us sticking to the scheduling plan, we all were able to get almost all our required course and electives done. Instead of having seven classes in one day, we all have five. By the time lunch rolls around, we're free the rest of the afternoon, meaning much longer DND matches with the nerds and more gossip and jam times with the only other female in our group.

"So meet up at the library for lunch?" I confirm once more as the morning bell rings, signally to all the student and staff that the first day is about to begin. The three people around me reply in agreement, and we head out. For the first hour of the day as well as the last, we're in different places. I'm not sure where the others are going, but I begin my journey to the library, one of my all-time favorite places.

I walk through the doors and slide over the counter, careful not to be seen but not careful enough. I plop in my seat at the front desk as someone walks up behind me.

"I don't know how many times I have to tell you to go through the gate. It's literally five feet away, Lynn!" I send a humored smile to the woman walking behind me, a rather large stack of books in her arms.

I stand up and begin taking ones off the top. "Five feet of unnecessary effort, in my opinion."

"And playing parkour in the library is?" Mrs. Gibbons says, deadpanning.

"To each their own."

She sighs but then laughs. "How was your summer, kid?"

"Pretty decent." I now have half the stack in my arms, and I follow behind her. "My mom and I went to Arizona for a few days and then Seattle for a week. We didn't have much time, but we drove through somewhere in Canada on the way back just because."

Mrs. Gibbons sets the books down on a cart where there are a couple of rows on the bottom already filled. Taking her lead, I lower my stack to the opposite side and begin placing them side by side. I presume these are outdated and to be sold or given away. "What's in Arizona and Seattle?"

A smile hits my face immediately. "There's a college in Flagstaff with a great writing program. I went on a day trip around the campus. And Seattle is just someplace we wanted to visit."

"That's so good to hear, hon! Are you considering?"

I lean back against the counter right behind me as my mentor continues to shelve books. "It's a little far."

Turning to face me, Mrs. Gibbons send me a confused stare. "I thought you wanted to get away from this god-forsaken state?"

She's right. All I've wanted since my father left was to get out of Missouri (or Misery, if anyone's asking). My mom and I left Maine a long time ago go escape unimaginable horrors, but I wasn't expecting those nightmares to follow me here. The move was negligent in getting us away from memories a selfish prick poisoned and to start new somewhere far away, where no one knows me as the girl with a deadbeat dad. In this small town, everyone knows everything. I'd like to escape, to be a complete stranger to everyone.

But Arizona is a couple of thousand miles away from the place I grew up in, my home. I feel incredibly guilty about considering a college so far away from the woman who has taken care of me on her own since I entered elementary school, who has taught me that voicing my opinion and being honest is valued more than timidity and who told me that no man should ever keep a thumb on me. The other influencers in my life are also staying around here. Ellie has been accepted in a very pretentious private school for the Fine Arts a couple of cities over while River and Gabe are thinking about community college before making the jump into university. While solitude and adventures are what I crave, everyone who keeps my sanity in control is here.

I sigh, crossing my arms. "I do, but... I'm just not sure what I really want. Like, I would kill to get out of here, but what if everywhere is worse?"

"Trust me; there's nowhere worse than southwest Missouri, hon."

Again, she has a point.

I hum in response. There a brief moment of silence as we shelve old, dusty books. "So how was your summer?"

Mrs. Gibbons smile kindly, fawning over memories I doubt. "Richie took two weeks off, and we went Fiji. It was so beautiful. The water is clear, the people are wonderful, and the food– oh my God, the food." I secretly have a small thing for Richard Gibbons, or, as his wife calls him, Richie. This "thing" isn't a crush or infatuation by any means, but when he walks into the library on random occasions, he has a natural gift to swoon anyone he encounters. I've unfortunately fallen victim to his charisma a few times. He's an image of the wealthy 1930's businessman with modern values and beliefs weaved in his fine suits. Mr. Gibbons might be my mother's age, or possibly older, but I have to say, Mrs. Gibbons is quite the lucky woman.

I chuckle at her. "I'm sometimes surprised you haven't filed for early retirement."

"Richie makes quite the cash, but how and I supposed to entertain myself when he's gone ten hours a day and then for weeks on end?" Mrs. Gibbons pauses and looks around her library, then back to me. The growing crows feet wrinkle into a smile. "And besides, I can't leave my favorite kids behind, now can I?"

"I guess you can't," I reply.

Ten minutes later, I'm back at my desk. Well, technically mine, Mrs. Gibbons, and the other kid who helps out during school hours. I've never met them, so I'm not sure who exactly they are. Anyway, the "desk" is a long bar that has a foot-high wall that stretches all the way down to the ends, creating a divider between my computer and a student or faculty member. The top of this divider is flat, forming a plane in which books or arms can be set on. Most of the time, books scatter the top, but since it's the first day, the library is not only spotlessly clean but deadly empty.

That is until someone catches my attention. Sitting at the far side of the desk, I'm able to see who is coming a mile before he steps through the open library doors. This time was no different.

With long, lean legs and a towering height walks in none other than Mr. Tom Hiddleston.

Easily being the hottest teacher of all time, I feel a blush beginning to creep up my cheeks just at the mere sight of him. Apart from his 6'2 figure, he sports tame yet still curly reddish-brown hair, divine enough for the gods, if he isn't one already. Mr. Hiddleston's cheekbones and jawline remind me of razors, which I would feel honored to be cut by. However, his eyes are a color I can't pick out. Because I've never been in close proximity, my guess, from my distance, is green, or maybe blue. The ambiguity makes him all the more interesting. I wonder if he has some long-distance vibe because as soon as I look up to see him, Mrs. Gibbons is right out front— and missing her cardigan. I raise my brows at her from the swivel chair, but her eyes are focused down and away from me. Elbowing her slightly, I nod once, doing a run over of her exposed arms and a little cleavage. Jokingly, she swats my arms and blushes scarlet. I begin to laugh, somehow holding most in when Mr. Hiddleston walks in.

"Hello, Ruby," he smiles softly. As if he wasn't attractive enough, the man has a damn British accent. It's almost as if he's trying to stick out among the hicks. "It's good to see you. How was your summer, darling?"

If her fingers weren't wrapped around the edge of the desk, I guarantee she would have fallen over. Honestly, I would have done the same. "Absolutely marvelous! Fiji is a beautiful place. I imagine you would like it there."

I make the snarky note that she left her husband out of the conversation. Thinking about it, I try to glance over at her left hand to check if anything is missing.

Zoning out the best I could, I file through the library's emails and begin writing down books teachers are requesting. Like usual, the freshmen English teachers ask for The Great Gatsby, and the sophomore teachers need 1984. Due to being taught-in-class books, I scoot back in my chair to make a beeline to the back room and take the note with me, the sticky top staying attached to my fingertips.

"Oh, Lynn?" I hear Mrs. Gibbons call out.

I just entered the back room, so I comically poked my head out. "You called?"

I seem to humor both parties, a smile etched on their face. "Could you get the copies of Of Mice and Men?" My vision glances over to the teacher behind the desk for a short moment. His tall frame leans on the counter, arms crossed on the platform, apparently indicating familiarity and comfort in the room. I catch his stare. I realize now his eyes are in fact blue.

Nodding, I duck back into the room, setting my sticky note to the side. During the time I have to gather the fifteen or so books, I allow my reddening cheeks to cool off by taking long breaths. "Don't be weird, Lynn," I whisper to myself, extending my arms out towards the collection of novels. "He's just a hot teacher. Calm yourself."

Finishing the stack, I wrap my arms around the tower, huffing as I do. I carefully whisk myself towards the open door, making a mental note to go back to my list.

Mrs. Gibbons and Mr. Hiddleston chat among themselves not too far from where I left. Now sitting in her swivel chair, typing away feverishly on her computer, and keeping a conversation going, the librarian doesn't notice my return, though the man across does. He nods in my direction. The simplest gesture is somehow insanely attractive. Mrs. Gibbons looks over her shoulder, sending me a smirk. "Oh, there you are! Thought I lost you."

I fake a small laugh. "I'm surprised I didn't; it's quite the mess back there," I tease, waddling over to the counter. "Where would you like 'em, boss?" I'm not sure who I would refer to, glancing once at Mr. Hiddleston, to Mrs. Gibbons, then back to the stack in my arms.

"Would you mind escorting me to my classroom? I tend to be clumsy at times." With a warm smile, Mr. Hiddleston glances down to Mrs. Gibbons, awaiting her approval.

At that moment, I'm not sure if I would love or hate to go. On the one hand, I get to spend time with Mr. Hiddleston, every horny teenager's dream. On the other, I'm alone with Mr. Hiddleston, someone I've never had a conversation with let alone a 'hello' until minutes ago. Knowing my luck, I will somehow embarrass myself in front of him. It wouldn't be the end of the world since I don't have any of his classes nor do I have classes near his, but God I would feel like a fool for the rest of my life.

But, hey, he's something pretty to look at.

"Yeah, I don't mind. Is that okay, Mrs. Gibbons? I promise I won't bail on you," I say.

The librarian nods her head, fixing her glasses. "Of course, go right ahead! There isn't much to do now anyway. Just make sure you're back before the bell rings."

"Don't worry, Ruby. I won't keep her long," Mr. Hiddleston reassures.

I wouldn't be opposed if you did, I think to myself. The comment makes me blush, even going to my ears. Some reasons how I could be kept late quickly flash by and I find myself wishing I had not taken Mr. Hiddleston's offer. With my skin still burning, I make my way around the front desk as he follows me on the other side. The gate is shut, and due to my arms being preoccupied, I realized I might have to swing it using my hip, nothing too abnormal. I helped out Mrs. Gibbons last year and would do the same thing when my arms were full. However, Mr. Hiddleston was not accustomed to my way of opening the gate. Just as I go to butt it, Mr. Hiddleston reaches out. In an awkward exchange, Mr. Hiddleston's hand, which was aiming to wrap around the gate, collides on my hip instead.

It's nothing terribly exciting but enough to get a gasp and a jealous exchange from Ellie, and damn right I'll take that.

He pauses barely a second before quickly retracting his arm to his side. A blush of the same shade of scarlet cover our cheeks, an awkward laugh bubbling out.

"I'm sorry," I shyly push out.

Shaking his head, now making sure his hand is on the gate, Mr. Hiddleston bashfully looks down and opens up the exit for me. "Don't be, love. It was my fault."

"If you want to be the culprit, be my guest," I reply sassily. I don't want to see if my comment amused him or caused a cringe, so I don't look up. Instead, I look around for something to make our trip easier. "Did you want me to get a cart instead of carrying them up? It's up to you."

Shrugging, Mr. Hiddleston begins taking books from the stack, leaving me with less than half. "I don't mind walking if you don't mind. I missed my morning jog, so I'm trying to compromise the best I can."

I nod and kindly smile, even though my insides and my weak muscles are upset I took on the mission. "Walking it is then. Lead the way!"

Mr. Hiddleston turns on his heel, passing a smile to Mrs. Gibbons. "Thank you for letting me steal your little helper."

"Just return her the way she's leaving," Mrs. Gibbons retorts.

"We'll see," he replies, sending me a smirk and a wink. If the man wanted to turn my knees into jelly, he already succeeded from the first introduction. Now he's just teasing my flustered heart. "Just this way, love," Mr. Hiddleston tells me. I'm too afraid to speak, so I nod, smile, and follow beside him up the staircase.

[chaneajoyyy]

Hey girl! How are you. Would you please be able to provide a list of M’Baku fics? Or maybe link to one you’ve already done? Thank you so much!

M’BAKU FICS (UPDATED)

- all fics and headcanons- @plussizeappreciationfics (search m’baku x reader)

- just for tonight series, crown royal on ice, two left feet-  @ghostfacekill-monger

- warm colors series- @mermaidchansons (search m’baku x reader)

- just the way you are series (included), making changes, they don’t know (you’re one in a million) series-  @iliketowrite1996

- crop series, boxer!baku series, long live the chief series, bluff, in full bloom series, into the grey series, snow day, blood in the snow series, cities on the horizon series (continuation of blood in the snow), all things better with time series, peaches in a plastic cup series, echos and wind series, the arriva series, the smoke series, it just reminded me of you that’s all, defending her honor, i need your shirt for reasons, i love you you know?, math was never my strongsuit, love in the time of neo-soul, come away with me, at the end of the day, heart eyes under pictures, ember, sweet georgia brown, under a starlit sky, reflection, jabari engagement, ships in the night, pickles and peanut butter, just like honey, fear of falling, what i wanted for christmas, careless whisper, rope, snow day, countdown, thigh ride, house hunters: jabari edition, drunk m/baku, halloween, jicho and the glasses, the three hundred, poem series-  @muse-of-mbaku

-healing gardens series, it’s complicated series, extra credit series, just business series, coming home series (with what’s for dessert?), warrior spirit, diplomatic affairs, fading away, gemini rising: birthday edition,  @jellybean531

- untitled series, close to heaven (starbound) series, love is a losing game, loving you is poison, this house we live in series (with yours and yours alone), it’s cold- @katasstrophey

- baby stay, beautiful form series, are you cold?- @avenging-fics

- some weeks are better than others series, play though? series, moronic jealousy, risky dreams, world’s best baba, santa cant bring me what i need (included), wakanda got yall (included), fictober 24 series (you know this, you this to be true), people like you have no imagination, but i will never forget, try harder next time, i know how you love to play games, you know this you know this to be true-, i’ve waited so long for this-  @eerythingisshaka

- fever series, work for me series, m’baku smitten by your presence-  @mbakusthrone 

- shopping series- @mbakusprincess

- where i belong series-  @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan

- all fics- @supersizemeplz

- black panther trinity parent drabbles (included), her first steps, m’baku’s reaction to sick!reader being clingy, m’baku headcanons, hc: m’baku falling for a girl who is almost too busy with books to really notice his flirting attempts, tiny warrior, how do you think m’baku would feel towards his s/o visiting other countries, to provide, m’baku wants another child, how m’bkau and his s/o would roast each other, hc: giving birth to multiple sets of boys (is twins, triplets, quadruplets) for m’baku, m’baku’s reaction to being called thick daddy in front of him, hc: having a baby girl with m’baku, shea butter, m’baku x tall chubby reader, hc: what it’s like to be married to m’baku- @black-mcu-imagines (scroll for m’baku x reader)

- bali, indonesia; not gon cry series, yearning for m’baku, metting m’baku, bruised and breathless, baby it’s yours, teasing m’baku- @babygirlofwakanda / @brwnsugababe

-big chop, still in love- @theficplug (still in love) - (scroll down for m’baku)/ @maleficentcheekbones

- her mountain of bliss series-  @aloevverified

- brown skin, oh angel, forever mine, best baba ever, the heat of trinidad series- @artisticestheticreads

- blood demon-@hearteyes-for-killmonger

- give it to me, mr. stamina, tradition series, truth or dare series, the garden, princess, 2 hours, would you rather?, i’m right here- @sonofnjobu

- all imagines- @mcusocialimagines

- he spills (included)- @captainsaveasmut

- all moodboards- @babybluepeaches

- no, you can’t take a break; scraped m’baku headcanon, m’baku titty worship headcanon, the prince series, wakandan boys foot fetish (included), is this love? series (included), v.i.p., you owe her an apology-  @madamslayyy

-crawl into your sleep series (m’baku x muse), angel in disguise series (included), umdlalo series- @terrablaze514

- all fics, drabbles and hc’s- @laketaj24

-  ikiumkani wam, river goddess, young god, ngelosi, sugar & spice series, chokola- @pocmarvelworks

- prove it series (included-stupid cupid)- @wawakanda-btch

- best mistake, hennessey series, m’baku’s wife: countdown, m’baku’s wife: flowers in the hallway, m’baku’s father daughter dance-hc, m’baku’s wife’s big chop, m’baku: best mistake, m’baku’s wife: gold- @imagine-mbaku

- m’baku nsfw headcanons, make you feel my love, daddy m’baku & your daughter vs you, m’baku gets to know you- @loganzhowletts (search m’baku x reader)

-to be lost- @marvellovegalore

- turtleneck, a punishing tease series- @hidden-treasures21

-all fics, blurbs, headcanons @brownsugarcocoabutterwildflowers (scrooll for m’baku x reader)

- first time, birthday request, thank you next, truth or dare (included), karaoke night series, party time, issa fake plant, i missed you- @iwannalearnhowtoship

- pancakes, heart of ice, visiting hours (included), pancakes-  @bakarilennox

-chanllenge day: the aftermath- @taterjoseph (scroll for blackpantherimagine)

- missed you, lucky i love you, clumsy series, when you listen- @i-jus-wanna-writehappy

- gaining favor- @littlemessyjessi

- made in sunshine series, t’challa brings m’baku on a diplomatic whatever, caramels- @lesqui

-snowfall series, the chosen one series, a new way, the beginning, say yes series, a seat on the throne- @devnicolee

- welcome to the jabari series, the chose bride series, polygamy series- @snowbaku

- hair day- @sisterwifeudaku

- bookworm imagines (included), you are beautiful series (included), hair folicles series (included), beads of temptation series (included), for the good of the jabari people series, without your approval series, the weight of series, wakandan boys as a kpop group (included), wakandan supernatural aus/imagines (inlcuded), wakanda as warewolves imagines (included), your best nightmare series (inlcuded), moodboards (wakanda as 80′s movie the lost boys, wakanda as 90′s movie the crow (included), willing heart- @youreallyshouldtalkmore (check masterlist)

- imagine being nakia’s sister and catching m’baku’s interest series-  @thekrazykeke

- 4 series- @tgigoldie

- cabin in the snow series, fated instinct series, price, whipped cream a la m’baku- @greennightspider

-ife wa gbona- @blackmarvelfics

- the princess and i series- @thirst4fictionalmen

- jabari illness- @thatonefanficalien

- newcomer in te tribe, please stop making me fall in love with you!- @thepaperpanda

- all m’baku fics- @wakandanblogger (scroll for black panther x reader, m’baku x reader, black panther series, black pantherm’baku, black panther one shot, masterlist)

- our love in color series and its one shot no interruptions, what would you have me do? series, another heir, forget his name, full body, satisfied, a well deserved rest, have it your way series-  @wakandan-flowerz

- having children with m’baku, m’baku in a relationship- @haechvn (search black panther x reader)

- hot springs series (with stay and family)- @brvcebanter (on masterlist and search m’baku x reader for family)

- formalities, m’baku as your husband headcanons- @gaytonystark 

- m’baku drabble/imagine #1- @lady-olive-oil (under winston duke baelist)

- imagine: m’baku, your new boyfriend, promising t’challa, you best friend, that he’l treat you right; imagine: m’baku trying to be casual about inviting you to stay with his people for a while, imagine: being an ambassador between the royals and the jabari tribe and everyone knows you and m’baku have a thing for each other, with bets on how long it will take for one of you to say something; dating m’baku would include- @obscure-imagines (search m’baku imagine or scroll for obscure-imagines and hit m’baku imagine for more mbaku imagines)

- dating m’baku headcanons- @starryeyedmillennial (hit the first m’baku tag in search bar)

- being an outsider and falling for m’baku would include- @black-panther-imagines (scroll for m’baku)

- persuasion- @angelofmusic36

- the line- @im5ftbutmythroat66

- untitled m’baku drabble-  @itsjustyazz (scroll for black panther fanfiction)

- hennessey homies (included), soft series- @hoopshoney (scroll for black panther fanfiction)

- still beautiful- @blackreaderstation (scroll for my writing)

- again- @persephones24

- golden series- @the-stories-in-my-head-95

- pretty brown eyes, american!reader meeting m’baku would be like… series (with american!reader meeting m’baku would be like… part2 and date night)- @icycheri (click on mbaku x reader)

- moodboard imagines: m’baku marries a western woman, m’baku’s wife is from the river tribe; m’baku and your daughter, the princess- @wakandascrystal

- m’baku teasing you on how shy and clumsy you actually are inlcude, m’baku and t’challa fighting over you would include, having a child with m’baku would include, losing your virginity to m’baku would include, m’baku finding out about your size king would inlcude- @underratedcharactersimagines (search mbaku)

- the argument- @pantherxrogers

- to tame the wild, black panther greek life (included) @sweettea-and-honeybutter (scroll for masterlist)

-never enough)- @hogwarts–imagines

- beneath your beautiful- @ashanti-notthesinger

- sweet thang series-, the best part, bow to me- @wakandamama

- even as a shadow (even as a dream)- @sugardaddytonystark

- thick reader losing her virgininty to m’baku, a beautiful family- @wonderthor

- just my imagination- @kittenwritesstuff (search mbaku x reader)

- m’baku fluff alphabet- @ourhappylies

- the gorilla and his children- @non-stop-imagines

-show me who you are series- @fanficsj​ (scroll for m’baku x reader)

- those left behind- @thepokyone

- the dark, the night, the dawn’s light, the deep fall,and the cold-  @master-sass-blast

- m’baku x reader, i like the original- @master-of-junk

- punishment series- @ljb-novels

- will you stay- @justsomewritingsandshit

- my ocean and your mountains series- @mo-anz

- proud- @akamaiden​

- protector of her heart series- @fictioninmyblood​

- laughter series (with: joy)- @imagines-plus​

- a cause for celebration- @melonshino-writes​

- and i you, my love; hands, his girl, untitled, you are mine- @marvelmaree

***IF I FORGOT ANYONE/YOU WANT ME TO ADD YOU, HIT ME UP!!!***

[the-fae-folk]

*Quoth* every bit of writing advice ive read talks about having a really good hook. but nothing actually explains what that means or how to do it.

(transcribed and translated from Quoth the Raven) Of course they don’t tell you how. Most people who tell you to do that have no idea how to write a good hook. They’re just parroting advice that they’ve heard. Lets start with what a hook is. A Narrative Hook is just a literary technique that “Hooks” the reader’s attention and keeps them interested enough in your writing to actually want to keep going. So many bits of advice emphasize that your hook has to be the very first sentence. In many cases they are correct. But not always. A hook can also be several paragraphs, or even the first few pages of a novel. Only academic writing needs to place so heavy an emphasis on your first sentence and paragraph because you have to make your point immediately and move on. There’s no time for dallying or dillying in Academia. But even though you have a bit more leeway in other types of writing you’ve still got to be careful. This isn’t just something you can scribble out and move on. A good narrative hook takes some planning. You have to think about WHO your audience is and WHY this particular bit of writing will hook them. What about it will intrigue or interest them enough that they’ll resist other plays for their attention in order to follow those thoughts. And of course not only does your hook need to be for your audience (or audiences if you insist on writing for more than one at a time), but it also needs to be relevant to your story or characters somehow. It should give us a reason to keep reading so that we can see more where that came from, to see how it connects and keeps giving. Even something that touches upon the themes of your book would be good if the writing is clever enough. Dialogue will give insight on the characters, setting, or even signs of the conflict. Let me give you an example. “The skies are always dark when I stop at the McDonald's on my way to work in the morning. Just a breakfast sandwich and a sprite is enough to keep me going. I always see the strangest people when I come out this early. But the strangest of all was when I saw Death herself feeding the starlings with french fries.” In this paragraph I’ve done several things. I purposefully did not put the hook at the beginning of the paragraph. Instead I’ve given you both a general setting for your story (Set in a contemporary world where such things as a McDonald’s exists and people actually want to eat there) and some insight into your character and their life (someone who is unfortunate enough to have to get up for an early morning shift and doesn’t have time for breakfast at home). It tells you about the sorts of things they’ll eat and what the general expectation for this part of their life is like (they see lots of weird people around this time of day because that’s just what happens at McDonald’s around 6am).

Then I drop the bombshell. Disguised as a casual statement that is merely continuing the previous thought I happen to mention that I saw Death doing something as ordinary as feeding starlings her french fries. This sentence, though seemingly tame is quite extraordinary for a number of reasons. It introduces the metaphysical concept of Death as a character who can move about and do person things like eat (or not eat) french fries. It tells us that Death is not just a person...but a HER! How many depictions of Death are female in our contemporary media? A few...but not that many. Even something as mundane seeming as Starlings might have significance. Besides being initially odd (Because usually one might say crows or pigeons when someone is feeding birds), you might have starlings have some greater significance later on, perhaps some kind of symbolism you hint at. Or you might just really like starlings and think that they themselves are odd enough to mention that it might help, either one works just as well. Even though Death is just feeding a bunch of birds some fries we already have so many questions that NEED answering. Why is Death there? What’s her story? Why starlings? And why McDonald’s french fries of all things? We’ve hooked the reader into wanting more. But did you know that you don’t have to begin things with a scene? A question could be a startling and interesting way to start out a piece of writing. Drop straight to the heart of the matter and question the reader themselves. “What is your third favorite reptile?” Is a fun one I’ve heard, especially since you can immediately elaborate on that with your own favorite reptile and why any of this is relevant to whatever your writing is supposed to be about. Really there are lots of ways you can start a story. A declaration that something is so! A significant quote that pulls your reader straight into the middle of a heated conversation. Perhaps an interesting fact or statistic might help you (it can even be entirely made up if your story is set in a fictional world. I once read a book that interspersed the entire story with encyclopedia style clips about places, people, things, and creatures that didn’t exist outside of the story’s world). Even just describing something in great detail is acceptable, whether an enchanted forest, a cold and empty moon, or an apartment filled with half filled cups that your protagonist keeps forgetting to finish and put in the dishwasher. You can even begin with a particularly unique or really well chosen metaphor (or simile) that will set a certain tone or idea for everything that comes after it. (I read a short story where they used a popular spiritual cliche as their first sentence and then spent the entire piece undermining the sentiment.) So many ways to make a hook, and even better, make a good hook. However... You don’t HAVE to use a hook. It’s a literary technique that has become rather popular, but it’s not set down in the rules that you must absolutely use one or your entire piece of writing will burst into flames and die. There are a lot of good stories, essays, and other pieces of writing that don’t use hooks. It does get a lot more difficult if you don’t  use one though. The point of a hook is that initial attention grab. If you decide not to use one you will run the risk of many people not reading past your first few pages. It’s not the end of the world, but its a dangerous game to play. The rest of your work will have to be truly worth the read for you to get away with that sort of thing in this day and age. Well, I hope that answers your question and gives you a good place to start writing hooks for your stories! (or essays). In thanks I request that you go feed some birds (not starlings because they’re so annoying. Always like “look at me! I’m so mateable and majestic even though I’m flying in a swarm of a thousand others who look exactly like me and none of us will shut up for five minutes about who can get it on the best or who can find the best fruit and insects.” Ugh. Stupid little things. They think they’re so pretty. I agree, they’re pretty irritating.) (Notes from the Author of the Blog: One unmentioned form of Narrative Hook is called “In Media Res”. It literally means “in the middle of things” which is fairly on point because the technique is about beginning your story in the middle of the action instead of slogging through all the boring exposition. It’s a little hard to pull off well because it demands that the writer find fluid and subtle ways to introduce all that worldbuilding and essential info to the reader without giving a pages long infodump later on when the reader needs to understand something for plot reasons. Also, a Hook can be found in other types of media besides writing. In music it is a musical phrase or idea that is used to catch the listener’s attention and make the music seem appealing. In film they have something similar that is used to try and grab the viewer’s attention in the first 5-10 minutes. It is a very good tool to know how to use and use well, though it may take a bit of practice to get right. Finally, the Author of the Blog does not share Quoth’s views on Starlings; though maybe still don’t feed them (or any bird) french fries.)

[festivecuriosity]

[October 13, 2020]

♡ Mercury retrograde in Scorpio is happening tonight. I can already feel/see it's influence. It also doesn't help matters that my current household is primarily made up of Scorpios or Plutonian individuals (most of my roommates are "essential workers" like EMTs or caretakers). Brad (the most Scorpio of the house) has called for a rare consideration; that there be silence in the living room (communal space) when he comes home. He's never asked for that before. This feels very symbolic of Mercury Retrograde in Scorpio. A moment of silence in our otherwise very talkative household. Besides that, he's coming home right around the time MRX/Scorpio would be officially beginning.

♤ Identifying omens is part of my practice. It's one of my oldest, foundational, cornerstones of how I communicate with the Universe and my guides. When you notice something (really notice it) to the point that it stands out in your mind and you end up thinking on it all day, it is an "omen". A symbolic representation of the message the Universe is sending you. I was given an omen by the Universe yesterday as to the immediate future/Mercury RX in Scorpio. I was outside (smoking) when I saw a hawk soaring in the air, being pursued by two black crows, and navigating around their assaults. The hawk (personally) represents my spiritual vision/focus/accuracy. The two crows, I believe, represented thoughts that attack my focus. I.e. Huginn and Muninn, thought and memory. Although, Huginn and Muninn are technically ravens. Not crows. I still think the message from the Universe is to tame my PTSD/where my mind goes/stay focused on my goals instead of letting my negative thoughts pick at me.

Also kind of reminds me of the qliphothic sphere/inverted sphere of Netzach. Where the "crows" pick at the beauty of Source. Another reminder to keep my inner criticism from attacking my spiritual focus/my ability to see the beauty in my life and self.

Two other people in the household got omens on the same day as me. One person got a vulture eating roadkill on the side of the road, the other got a brown cricket. Since the vulture means rebirth and ressurection through shadow work, I think the household is going through a transitional phase (what affects one person in the house typically touches all of us). I am not certain on the brown cricket, however. Good luck? What struck me the most about it was that my roommate was trying to catch it...and it always knew when to hop away just in the nick of time.

♧ I've been rearranging/unpacking my boxes from Seattle finally. For a long time now, I've just been living out of boxes, and refusing to do much magic. I didn't even set up my altar when I got all my stuff back from [Redacted abuser]. It's taken awhile to even get myself back to directly communicating with my guides...much less the Universe/Source. Anyways, I'm finally going through my boxes, and setting up an official altar area. When I was getting into my old rock and crystal collection (I was into that stuff way back before I realized how harmful the crystal/gemstone trend is for Earth's environment), I found an old piece of Mookaite that I friend gave me. And I shit you not, the thing physically vibrated in my hand when I touched it.

I've been holding it ever since. Have totally and honestly forgotten all the exact properties of the stones I own. It's been such a long time. I was also practicing "crystal/crystal energy psychicism" when I was homeless as a means to survive the streets so...I'm pretty sure my PTSD is blocking a lot of that information out.

I guess it's time to rediscover crystals again? Not buying any new ones. Just utilizing the ones I already have to the best of my ability. I feel like it was wrong that so many of them were taken from the ground to be pretty baubles for people. I might as well make it worth something by using them to help myself/others/incorporate them into my active life so they hold meaning.

Mookaite feels very grounding and soothing already. It feels like a very receptive stone, inviting energy into it much like organic pearls do. I also notice that it has almost a dream/trance-like affect to it's grounding energy. I think maybe I'll take time to meditate with it tomorrow.

◇ Brad pretty much runs the household that I live in. Further details; I live in a BDSM polycule, Brad is one of the doms. One of Brad's relationships was very close to being homeless recently. While normally, being homeless is... [redacted PTSD disassociating moment] being non-binary and homeless during COVID-19 is even worse. So we took them in. Inevitably, we had to make some major adjustments (about space, because technically we're fitting 9 people in a 2 bedroom house). It's been a test of adaptability through chaos for everyone. One of the major areas of contention is that everything inside the house is getting moved, rearranged, or tossed. And some people (mainly [redacted name]) is absolutely 100% terrible at adapting to change, unless someone is literally dying. Also, while I get that none of this can really be helped, I'm also a bit annoyed by the sudden introduction of someone new.

But even if I'm annoyed by it, I wasn't about to say "no" when Brad told us what was going on. I'm not a monster. I was homeless too and Brad helped me get off the streets. This person, while I don't know them well enough to make a judgement, deserves the same chance that I did to get stable in an era where stability is a pipe dream.

I'm actually not the one having the hardest problem. Surprising, it's the spirit of the house that's having the hardest problem. Our house is an old 1950's model built at the corner of a crossroads. Technically the house kinda exists as a liminal space. And there's so much stuffed inside of it that theoretically anything *could exist* in the house. Sometimes weird shit pops up and then disappears. It's very similar to the Seattle house I lived in when I was with [KILL BILL SIRENS] but has less of a metaphorical underworld cave vibe and more of a Howl's Moving Castle vibe. Anyways, the house itself is having a bad time adjusting to all the change/cleaning that the new roommate is doing...because it keeps hiding and moving (specifically) all the stuff that the new roommate has. They're not a stoner. They have a decently good memory. And I know that nobody in the house would do something like that. Plus, they apparently heard disembodied laughter right after discovering something was missing. The genuis locci (house spirit) is fucking with 'em hard.

I've never seen the genius locci do this before. The worst it ever did to me was hide a really expensive Egyptian cotton pillow case once. It eventually spat it back out after cuddling with it, I imagine. Seriously; Egyptian cotton sheets. Get you some.

So after the 100× time today that the new roommate was swearing about their missing things, I suggested that maybe they need to butter up the genius locci with gifts. Kinda romance the house a bit. Give it something so that it builds a relationship with the spirits that live here. They're a (self-professed) baby witch whose background is Jewish. They mostly excel at kitchen witchery (for now) and incorporating the works and wisdom of the Torah into their life. So they weren't too certain on ritualistic offerings to a house spirit. But with some suggestions from me and listening to their own intuition, they were able to put something quick together. It's nice to see people using magic around the house and learning new skills. And to their benefit, I felt the house chill out a bit after the ritual/gift giving was done.

I have been giving the house/my guides a portion of my nightly tea every now and then. It's honestly nothing fancy but I figure small gifts count for something right?

[xoruffitup]

Flip Ficlets (Part III?)

Since the first time I saw BlacKkKlansman, I wondered what was going on in Flip’s head when Ron asks why he’s not taking the investigation more personally, and Flip answers “Rookie, that’s my fuckin’ business.” My brain supplied...

What if Flip had a girlfriend of color during the investigation?

Pt ii: This wouldn’t leave me alone

All it took was some nice Flip gifsets on my dash, and suddenly I wrote more of this. Here we’ve got the flashback scene to when Sarah first found out Flip was a cop, Flip getting dragged (somewhat) against his will to a disco, and Sarah’s feelings a few years in on being with a white guy.

Not beta’d or anything, just had fun. 

Flip has no idea how he got talked into this.

“Hell no. No way,” had been his gruff reply when Sarah leaned away from the telephone to excitedly call, “Patrice and Ron are going to a disco tonight!”

It was a Friday evening after a long day and an even longer week. Apparently Ron had other ways he liked to recover, but Flip’s ideal Friday night usually involved reclining in a horizontal position. Definitely not dancing.

“You’re such a drag,” Sarah drawled, clicking her tongue disapprovingly. “Well, I’m going. You can either come along, or accept that I’ll spend all night dancing with other guys. And you never know, some of them might be hotter than you.”

Well, that was how right there.

Flip had just stared for a long second, then blinked slowly when Sarah twirled out of the bedroom in a spangly dress that flashed plenty of shoulders and thighs. His mouth suddenly very dry around the urge to march her straight back into the bedroom, he managed, “Sarah, I have nothing to wear.”

She’d just grinned, the glitter on her dark eyelids shimmering phosphorescent.  

“Just wear my favorite shirt. The red one. I’ll be satisfied.”

Flip made a passing attempt to tame his hair before pulling his boots on. (Boots to a disco. There was no hope for him at all.) Before Sarah could pull her coat on at the front door, he’d drawn her close enough to kiss her mostly-bare shoulder appreciatively. She breathed out fast and gave his hair a brief, playful tug.

“No time for that, babe. Let’s go, let’s go!”

Flip released something between a sigh and a grumble of acceptance as he grabbed his own coat and followed her out the door. The sooner they left, the sooner they’d be home when there would be time for that.

“Brother!” Ron crowed as Flip and Sarah approached him and Patrice outside the club entrance. Flip dutifully extended his hand for his and Ron’s customary handshake-slide.

“Your glitter! You look dynamite,” Patrice greeted Sarah, immediately enveloping her in a hug.

Ron’s grin – beneath an afro boasting fresh volume – could only be described as shit-eating.

“I didn’t think there was a chance in hell she’d get you to come out.”

Flip sighed, his gaze sliding indulgently towards his girlfriend. “Looks like hell hasn’t frozen over yet.”

The moment they passed inside, Ron noticed Flip’s demeanor shift and stiffen a bit. He seemed to hunch his shoulders a bit, in a mostly futile bid to make his towering frame less conspicuous.

Not that he needed height to draw looks.

Sarah, while making it look perfectly natural and effortless, made sure to always be touching Flip. Whether linking her hand with his or staying pressed to his side, she made it clear he’s with me – he’s no trouble.

Ron navigated them to the bar and secured the first round of drinks. Just before Patrice dragged her off to the neon-light dance floor, Sarah tucked a kiss against Flip’s cheek and made the vaguely threatening promise, “Don’t get too cozy at the bar here, I’m coming back for you.”

Once the girls slid off into the dancing crowd, Ron raised his glass for Flip to toast.

“I always did want to see your moves, soul brother,” Flip joked, even as his gaze compulsively jumped from each set of potentially hostile eyes to the next. Without Sarah right there pressed against him, he couldn’t quite suppress the instinct.

“I’ll only show you mine if you show me yours.”

“Hate to break it to you, but even after all your tutelage I still don’t have a funky bone in my body. Probably a lost cause.”

Flip took a long sip and spotted Sarah over the rim of the glass, dancing at the center of the floor. Immediately, he found himself soothed.

Ron nudged his elbow into Flip’s side. “It’s all about the woman, partner.”

With some difficulty, Flip tore his gaze from Sarah to peer at Ron.

“What now?”

“All you gotta do is let your woman lead. The rest comes naturally, trust me.”

“I don’t know. Trusting you has landed me in some pretty deep shit once or twice.”

“Flip. It pains me that you don’t trust me as a reliable authority on disco.”

“Well. More of an authority than me, I’ll give you that. Though that ain’t saying much.”

“Sure as hell isn’t. Nice boots, by the way.”

“Fuck off.”

Ron just grins, looking to be having an absolute delight of a time.

When the girls rejoin them, and Sarah – all laughter and heaving heartbeat and smudged glitter around her eyes – shimmies in against his side again, Flip feels like a whole new kind of interloper.

She glows, the most enticing star that’s ever burned in the night sky, and no matter whether in a club frequented by whites or blacks, he’d still look utterly out of place with her.

Sarah loops her arms up around his neck and pulls playfully. “Time to face your fate.”

Flip tries to shoot a beseeching appeal to Ron, but only catches his back as Patrice tows him towards the flashing lights of the dance floor.

There’s no hope for him now.

“Honey – I’m gonna make you look a fool.”

He already looked the fool the second he stepped in here in his boots and worn flannel – even if it is Sarah’s favorite. But Sarah – her sashaying hips, hair flips, and light feet could put this whole place in the palm of her hand.

“Not with me, you won’t,” she promises brightly, seeming to have full confidence in the same power of the leading lady espoused by Ron.

Flip hates it, he really does. Never in his life has he been a dancer. Especially not in places where he’s a magnet for attention.

This is her night. It’s for her.

So he says nothing, and lets her slight, small hands pull him deep into the crowd of people on the dance floor.

In desperation, he recalls what Ron meant as advice: Let your woman lead. The rest comes naturally.

And somehow – his miraculous goddess of a woman makes it so easy. Her back to his front, Sarah holds his hands against either side of her hips, letting him feel the sway and dip of her movements. She presses back against him just enough to nudge him into the rhythm. Over her shoulder, Flip can see her smile as he gradually matches her pace. And it… isn’t so bad, moving where she moves, savoring the weaving of her body against his and just letting himself sink into equilibrium with her.

After almost three years together, the familiar yet no less spectacular shape of her small body pressed to his carries all the sure-footed reassurance of a bright blue, sunny sky.

She lets her head tip back against his shoulder, grinning between songs.

“Like I keep telling you, you’re not so bad, babe. Even for a white boy.”

Apparently not everyone agrees. Before Flip can make a joke in return, a young man detaches from the crowd with an impeccably styled afro almost to compete with Ron, armed with a charming smile all for Sarah.

Smoothly managing to avoid even a glance at Flip, the guy offers, “I couldn’t help but notice this gorgeous sister dancing near me, who looked like she might be in need of a proper partner. Might I be of service?”

Flip almost admires the guy’s nerve. He knows Sarah well enough to stay quiet and let her handle this herself.

Sarah just tucks herself closer to Flip, smiling sweetly at the guy. “Nice of you to offer, but I’m perfectly fine with my boyfriend here.”

The guy’s mouth opens in abrupt surprise. He finally looks at Flip now, reassessing.

Flip stays silent, but can’t help himself resting a possessive hand at Sarah’s shoulder. He looks somewhere other than the guy’s face, and makes every effort to temper his glare. While Flip concertedly doesn’t watch, the guy finally gets lost.

“What a presumptuous jerk, right?” Sarah looks up at Flip through her lashes, indulging him.

Flip keeps looking out into the crowd, a slight frown clinging to his lips despite his full knowledge that the guy was no threat.

Sarah is just about to poke him into dancing again when he mumbles only just audibly over the music, “If you want to have a few dances with a partner who knows what he’s doing… I won’t mind.”

Sarah just stares up at him for a long moment, before cracking an amused smile.

“How much did that hurt to choke out?”

“Nearly stuck in my throat.”

Smiling to herself and the happiest she’s been all night, Sarah draws herself closer against him and hooks her arms up around his neck, making Flip meet her eyes.

“You came out with me tonight. You’re the only one I want to dance with.”

The music slows into a gentle, easy beat and this – this Flip can handle just fine. He rests his hands at her waist, before sliding his arms around her and drawing her all the way in. Her breath is warm and soothing against his neck, as she hums in approval near his ear and settles into a slow, pleasant sway to the music.

This, Flip doesn’t mind one bit.

“Then I’m the luckiest son of a bitch here tonight.”

He wonders if the glitter on her face is rubbing off against his neck and shirt right now. He finds he really doesn’t care.

Sarah twirls her fingers in the hair along the back of his neck. She always loves when he lets his hair get long. She nestles in closer as Flip keeps them rocking back and forth. It’s her favorite place – wrapped in his arms and nearly enveloped in the breadth of his body.

Times like right now, Flip still can’t believe that, somehow, he’s to her taste. She’s the most beautiful woman in the place, and she’s spent the last three years with a lug like him. There are a hundred good reasons why she might never have given him the time of day – not the least being his job and the fact that her clubs, discos, and bars aren’t meant for him.

And yet – way back when, she was the one to kiss him first. She’s the one who keeps a hard line with her parents, who keep prodding her to “dump the pig already.” Three years and she’s still immovable.

Flip will never quite understand; he’ll just keep doing his best to treat her right and not tempt his good fortune.

The sweeping droplets reflecting off the disco ball dapple across her dark skin. Her long weave of braided hair is a bit mussed, and she’s warm and sweaty in his arms.

He dips his head, resting his lips near her ear.

“I can’t wait to get home and make love with you.”

She goes onto her toes, stretching up towards him in a way that’s simply sacred.

“You’ve been working late this week. I think you owe me an all-nighter.”

“’till dawn, at least.”

“Maybe straight through breakfast. We’ve got no plans tomorrow.”

And Flip wouldn’t even be surprised if she means it. She’s the tiniest woman he’s ever shared a bed with, but by far the most voracious. Keeping her satisfied is his supreme joy.

They only last another two songs. They find Ron and Patrice to say their goodbyes, before Sarah leads their way out with Flip’s hand gripped tight in hers.

He doesn’t plan on letting her go for the rest of the night.

Maybe not ever.

~~~~~

Flip had wondered when to broach it. Dreaded it.

On their third date, he thought it improper to put it off any longer.

“You haven’t asked me what I do for a living.”

Sarah had sat back in her seat across the diner booth. She knew that it had perhaps been intentional. She liked him so much so far. Perhaps she was scared of thinking of him separate from this – out doing things other than holding doors for her, waiting for her to initiate reaching for his hand before he so much as kissed her goodnight, smiling his crinkly smile and laughing his deep laugh at her jokes.

“I suppose I haven’t.”

Flip pushed fries around his plate, simultaneously relieved and deeply regretting steering the conversation this way.

Still. He knew putting it off any longer would only make it worse.

“I’m a detective. I… work down at the station.”

Her body stiffened. Her hands, which had been laid on the table as if in consideration of touching him, withdrew to her lap. Her jaw went rigid, mouth drawn tight.

“So you’re a cop.”

He only barely had the heart to look at her. Still, he nodded.

“You could say that.”

She crossed her arms, shifted on the seat. He wondered if she was weighing the option to walk out right then and there.

Instead, she asked in a voice deceptively light and difficult to parse, “You do fancy undercover work?”

“Sometimes. It’s not so fancy though, usually just listening to wire taps all day.”

She stared at him – gaze assessing and harder than usual, but not entirely closed off. Not yet, at least.

“You ever arrested people?”

“It’s in the line of work.”

“People like me? Who never done anything wrong but live in a world where others don’t want us to?”

Flip took a deep breath. He was already jonesing for a cigarette.

“I have arrested two black men, yes. But two who’d done quite a bit wrong and only after we had reliable evidence against them.”

Her eyes took on a fierce glint now.

“You ever been the type to flash your lights and pull over a black driver just to rough them up a bit?”

Flip’s mouth twitches into a frown, his tone turning a shade less gentle. “Do I seem the type?”

Sarah doesn’t give an inch of ground. “No, you’ve gotta tell me. Because you could be a very different person when you walk out that door than the one sitting here with me. For all I know, you may be the type who thinks it’s fine to bag a black woman, but wouldn’t blink an eye if you saw one of my brothers beaten on the streets.”

Flip sat back, all thought of food gone along with any trace of resistance. He kept fitting together then discarding answers – each more deficient than the last. Whatever he says, he knows it can’t entirely quell her misgivings. Only his actions and time can do that.

He doesn’t say that the barber who cuts his hair is black. He doesn’t say that he mows the lawn for the elderly woman across the street from him, who happens to be black. He understands that just like his presence here across the table from her, that doesn’t prove anything.

“I can tell you that no, I’ve never pulled over anyone of any color if they weren’t speeding. But I know that’s not enough. All I can do is ask for the chance to take you out again and start proving it.”

She took him in for a long time, simply assessing the sincerity in his expression – weighing the future burden of inevitably navigating the chasms between their experiences and views of the world. Would he understand that some of those chasms could never be crossed; but it was his responsibility to see them anyway?

“I should just warn you - I’m difficult to please,” she said, the hint of a smile returning in just the corners of her lips. “But I’ll give you that chance. From what I know of you so far, I think you’ll make it count.”

She rested her hands up on the table again, leaning in again over her seat.

On the other side of the booth, Flip relaxed. She was still there. He realized part of him hadn’t expected anything after this conversation. He’d thought it wasn’t even worth hoping for – that she’d still be comfortable spending time with him once she knew everything.

But she’d given him a chance, and Flip intended to earn and treasure her trust.

He slid his hand across the table, just so his fingertips could brush across the back of her hand. He waited, but she didn’t pull away. She just gave him a small, budding smile.

“Let’s go get a drink.”

~~~~~~~~

Since the day she first met him in the bar where she used to mix drinks, Sarah has always felt completely and utterly safe with Flip. He’d come over and interposed himself between her and three guys who’d been harassing her as she tried to leave from a shift. He’d walked her out to the parking lot, offered to drive her home, and she’d never wanted to be parted from him since. It was more than simply trusting him – more than knowing with absolute certainty that he was a good, honorable man who respected and provided for her.

It was his size, when they were out together and a pair of hostile eyes fled in the opposite direction when they caught sight of him at her side. It was his carrying license and shoulder holsters – the only weapons she’d ever known with certainty would never turn against her, but would only ever be used in her protection. It was the way his presence beside her at the grocery store made the checkout person smile at her with a brightness she’d never known before. It was the way no white man sneered or smirked at her across a crowded room anymore, ever since Flip became a permanent fixture.

For a long time, she never told him these things – afraid he would feel she was using him. Sarah never troubled herself with such qualms. She knew she loved Flip for the right reasons. All the advantages to being with him had only made themselves known after she chose his company, after all.

Of course, not all her friends and family would call them “advantages.”

“How could you?” her now ex-friend had hissed. “Racist cops are out there running us down like dogs, and you’re fucking one.”

Sarah had just fixed her hair, unperturbed. This was nothing she hadn’t already considered.

“If you respect me as a woman and friend, you’d trust me to never betray my people like that.”

“But that’s what it sure sounds like.”

“Know what I think? I think it sounds like you’re doing the same thing as those racist cops. Which – I’d care to note – Flip isn’t.”

“How could you even compare-“

“It sounds like you’re trying to tell me they’re all the same, but I thought we were more evolved than that.”

Sarah doesn’t shrink from her black pride. For a while, she wondered if it was a type of passing – enjoying the freedom from harassment thanks to her intimacy with a white man. Wondered if she had crossed some invisible line without realizing, and was now separated from her brothers and sisters.

But then she’d get groceries or go to the butcher on her own, and nothing had changed. Not really. Except she’d go home and be even more grateful for the warmth of Flip’s arms and the soft scrape of his beard when she kissed him.

Home was safe. Home was where he was. And so she stopped worrying about any of it.

Then he finally asked.

She’d been out late with some friends – a little tipsy when she rung him at the station to come pick her up from the club.

It wasn’t one of the clubs they usually frequented – one that was a bit more mixed. She and her two friends had only been outside for all of a few minutes before two burly white men started jeering from across the street. They crossed the street, but were only just approaching the girls when Flip pulled up. But they’d been close enough, and Flip was trained to read violence in body language.

He’d swung a sloppy park job, jumped from the truck, and blocked their approach. He’d flashed his badge in case the contempt in his glare wasn’t loud enough. Maybe it’d be enough to scare them off such behavior for good.

He’d had Sarah’s friends squeeze into the truck and dropped them off before bringing Sarah home. She remained silent – mostly because she wasn’t a talkative drunk, but Flip perceived different reasons entirely.

They were in the kitchen – Sarah chugging water, Flip hovering in the doorway, unsure if the comfort he wanted to give would be welcome – when he asked.

“Is it ever… too hard?”

Sarah needed a moment to focus on him. The kitchen lights were so bright. The concern and anxiety in his expression was a lot to take in.

“Is what?”

He huffed a slow sigh, lifting a hand to rub across his mouth for a moment as if feeling the shape of each word as he considers them.

“Being with someone who looks like me. Who looks like…. That.”

“Oh.”

Oh.

Sarah had filled and downed a second glass of water, willing herself sober.

When she looked at him again, she knew he hadn’t asked for any reassurance for his own sake. He wasn’t asking for her validation or forgiveness, nor was he trying to indirectly make some ‘we’re not all like that’ statement. The question had been solely for her sake – the rest of the world be damned.

And that… that makes her answer for him; with an answer no less true.

She comes to stand near him in the entryway to the kitchen, watching him look between her face and scanning her body, as if still reassuring himself nothing happened. She waits until he relaxes slightly, until she has his attention completely in the present moment.

“Flip. Baby. You don’t look like them. Not to me.”

She reached up to touch his cheek, to trace she shape of his mouth as he pressed a small, hesitant smile against her fingers. His hand on her hip was gentle and warm.

They got ready for bed in silence. Flip helped with undoing the back of her dress and sliding her head and arms into her pajama shirt – her coordination not quite at peak performance.

In bed, the lights out, Flip pulled her close and wrapped her up more tightly than usual. He kissed her ear until she’d gone utterly relaxed and content. At first, she burrowed her face in close against his chest, breathing in all the comfort he offered. She luxuriated in the strength she could feel at rest in his arms – alongside the tender circling of his fingertips along her back.

Suddenly, she had more to say. She lifted up just enough to find his eyes in the dim bedroom. She stroked his hair back from his face, leaning close.

“You look like the guy I don’t bitch about cooking dinner for. Who picks me up without a single complaint when it’s the middle of the night and I’m drunk. Who can fuck real good but love even better. The guy who doesn’t think he’s noble for treating me well – it’s just what anyone should do. You look like the guy who doesn’t ask if it’s a place for whites or colors, when we go out. The guy who says my hair’s beautiful, even though you’ll never understand why it takes so long to get it done.”

She leans a little closer now, her hands coming up cup his jaw, fingers gently stroking over his beard.

“You look like the guy I trust to keep me safe. The only guy I’ve ever known where it actually makes me feel better, knowing you keep a handgun in the closet. That’s what I see, Flip - the guy who gave me what means the most. A home where I know I’ll always be safe.”

As much as it enrages him, tonight had hardly been an isolated incident. Sarah had plenty of stories of experiencing such threats – some of which Flip had witnessed firsthand. But he has no power over people’s cruelty or small-mindedness. Neither of them do. All he can do is look out for her. And the whole time, part of him had just waited until it became too much for her. Until all his skin color represents became too burdensome to keep in her life any longer.

So this – it means something to him. She doesn’t see him as a turncoat or defector from enemy lines; still hovering in her line of vision. To her, he has always been behind her own line – on her own side, in private from the rest of the world.

“Sarah, I swear I’ll always protect you. Until the day when this world is less fucked up and you don’t need it anymore.”

“Mm…. but what if I still need you?”

Flip nuzzles the top of her head, draws her in a little tighter.

“Then I’ll still be there.”

She’s half asleep, head pillowed against his chest and his arms still twined around her, when she murmurs, “Flip?”

He rumbles out, “Hm?”

“Tell me you love me.”

Truth be told, he’d been thinking it. Just nervous to say the words – as he perpetually was, no matter that it wasn’t anything near the first time.  

Flip opened his eyes to press a kiss to her forehead, then three more down the side of her half-asleep face. Warmth bloomed in him at her contented sigh.

“I love you. More than I know the words for.”

She rumbled a sigh, her head nodding sleepily against his chest as her lips curled in a smile.

“Good.”

[just-some-random-blogger]

Angel Bride

SHINee Pirate!Lee Taemin x Reader Characters: Lee Taemin, mentions of Choi Minho Summary: Unwanting to get married, you stow away in a ship called Shinee, unbeknowst that it held the sea's worse pirates and the most viscous captain, called Sea Serpent. Word Count: 2k+ Warnings: Old-ye misogyny,  kinda graphic, fluff, smut if you squint, TYPOS cause they always escape me, etc.

A/N: once again i dunno how to write smut so ??? ALSO I'M SO SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO DO THIS @skylions-den ASHDJEKSKNDMSOSOKSMSM and if pirate!taemin took you off guard bwahahHAHAHAHHA

The man gripped my wrist tightly, even through how weak he was in his fever. The man was thin, and surely if he was not so sick, he would twice more as handsome as he was now. “Are you a dream, angel? Am I dying?”

I knit my brows at the urgent, somehow demanding sound of his voice that contrasted to the expression he held. For a moment, I was confused as to how he wondered I could be such a creature, up until I saw his heavy gaze on my body. I found myself chuckling dryly at the white wedding dress clung around me.

How could I forget?

I shook my head, “No, I am stowaway on your ship, pirate. I did not want to get married.”

“Married,” his voice hardened, “To whom?”

I rolled my eyes at the memory and huffed, “Lord Minho of the Chois.” I think of the said man’s handsome face, broad shoulders and unmissable cruelty and discrimination, then scoff. “He wishes to tame me into becoming a perfect wife, or so unkindly put, a diligent maid.”

It was then that I found the sense to try and pull my wrist away from the man’s hand. I turned to him with knit brows and tried to soothe his anxiety over me, “I am only trying to help you?”

“Help me?” he chuckled and found a small cough in the end, “You are bad luck, angel of death.”

My face fell and I released a breath. “I already told you, I am no angel.” I tried to pull away again but with much more persistence. “I cannot believe with how high your temperature is, your head still has enough fight in it to blabber on about such senseless hullabaloo.”

It was then I finally got out of his grip.

I rubbed the captured area.

  Though he looked at me with such stark eyes, I continued on my initial actions of wiping his face with a towel and warm water. Now, how I got this towel, this warm bucket of water, and how I wound up in this sick pirate’s quarters are stories for another day for it is so unbelievably long and complicated.

I dabbed the man’s face with a lot more force than I had originally, just to put across the message I was not pleased with him. However, when he pulled a pained reaction, I found myself falling guilty and my motions becoming once again kind and gentle.

  I frowned at him and decided to speak, “You can throw me overboard, if you like, honestly. I have nothing to come home to nor to live for anyway at this point. Tell your captain I fear not death.”

The man found it in himself to scoff though I knew from how he sounded, his throat was not in good conditions. “You think the captain would pity you? Pah! He is the famed Sea Serpent, whose blades have slit the throat of his enemies.”

As he spoke, the man swatted my hand away from his face. I growled lowly and gave up on him wiping his face at this point.

I knew he meant every word he spoke about his captain. I had heard the terrible stories of this man who allegedly had only one eye left and one foot. However, I was only annoyed with his reaction.

Perhaps it was his soft and feminine features that made his words seem lighter, but I could not find it in myself to cower over them.

“Why do you treat my words as if I spoke in riddles, boy?” I raised my voice and threw the towel into the bucket.

“Boy?!”  he let out yet another painful scoff, “Women are bad luck at sea! You are probably the reason why I am sick in the first place.”

I let out a hearty laugh, “Ahhh, and I suppose your filthy kitchen and dirty handed cooks have nothing to do with it. Oh, and the fact your soup is made with spoiled ingredients doesn’t mean a thing, does it?”

“Ha! The food is rancid for you have cursed us, hag!”

“I cursed you? I suppose all thinking women are a curse to dim-witted men. Tell me, you leave your vegetables out to get wet by the water of the storm and rot, and yet you eat them! You should set them aside somewhere safe and dry.”

“The storm is your fault! The skies frown upon your face.”

“Alright, if that is true then explain how it has only rained two days ago and not on the start of our journey? If what you say truly is true, then the skies should’ve frowned on me since the beginning.”

“It is because you were hidden!”

“Hidden?” I laugh, “Hidden from what? I have not hidden that I am a woman once! And it was not as if a member grew between my thighs and fell suddenly, and now the sky is angry.”

  It was here the man fell at a loss for words. I find my insides smiling at his silence.

“What difference does it make a woman on land and on sea?”

“I get it, angel. Pardon me for not being learned.”

I pull my head back, “I am not learned! Women are not allowed to learn, shamefully. All I know is from experience. Everyone expects a woman to a good mother and yet no one will allow us to learn about the things our children might ask about.”

The quiet man looked at me for a long while, up until his eyelids grew heavy.

  “Why then, angel, do you help a sick, unlearned pirate?”

His eyes close in exhaustion and my lips part at his degrading statement. “You may be a pirate, but I am sure you have a family.”

He laughs, and suddenly his chest racks out a violent cough. My brows and hands rise in concern.

Once his barking subdued, he lets out a long breath, “I am an orphan. It is why I am a pirate.”

“… well your pirate ship will be one less pirate if you are gone. I’m sure they cannot like that idea.”

The man says nothing.

“I have always wanted to help the sick. My heart always bled for others and when my own mother was taken by a fever, I was determined to help those that I can and save their families from the heartache this illness brings.”

The man, I think, did not hear my explanation, as he had already drifted off to sleep.

It was then I stood from this stool I sat on and went to the other side of the dim, candle lit cabin. However, a hot hand on my wrist yet again held me back. “No, do not leave me angel.”

I turn to the man laid on his small bed and find myself smiling a small smile. “I will not. I am only sleeping over there on your pile of clothes.”

His eyes open and turn to me, “You have been sleeping in my pile of clothes? You must not have had a pleasant sleep at all.”

“Actually, compared to the nets behind your crates in the kitchen, it is far more pleasant.”

“Well,” he then shifts to sit, “sleep here. I have slept—“ “No! You’re still sick! And if I were to sleep there now, I would be sick too.”

He crumbles back on his back. I place my hand on top of his. “Sleep pirate, and gain strength to scare the storm away.”

“As you say, angel.”

As cold, harsh waves crashed against me, the memory as to how I wound up bound in the middle of this ship’s deck left me.

“A WOMAN!”

“A WITCH!”

“SHE IS THE REASON WHY THE SEA SPITS US OUT!”

  “How have you come here, witch!” a tall, bearded man spat in front of my face. The sea spat on both of ours. I felt my heart pounding in my chest. Though I wanted to answer him, the water gushing to me choked the words back down my belly.

  “SHE IS WHY WE’RE SUFFERING!”

“SHE IS WHY OUR CAPTAIN IS SICK!”

There was a loud and angry roar amongst them, and there was a defining statement that got everyone into a riot. “THROW HER OVERBOARD!”

It was then they started cheering and grabbed either of my arms roughly. It felt that my shoulders were going to give in as they ungracefully but efficiently brought me to the side of the side.

However the loud and piercing shriek from the crow’s nest above made the men all around me turn to each other in fear.

“ROCKS! ROCKS! ROCKS EVERYWHERE!”

They started to panic amongst themselves, whether to throw me out quickly or do something else entirely.

  Then, the sky cracked into lightning and thunder and a man emerges into the storm, instantly getting drenched in rain and sea water.

“UNHAND HER AND GET TO YOUR STATIONS, CREW!” he commanded just as sternly as the sky poured its fury.

The men dropped me and I cried in pain as my knees collided with the floor. I shook out of my binds and then a man went in front of me. “I forbid a hair be hurt on my angel’s head,” he spoke, grabbing my hands and standing me up. “Go inside and dry yourself up.”

I placed my hands on his face and felt his unusual heat, “But you are still sick, being out here is—“

“I command you!” he shouts, grabbing me by my shoulder and leading me off anyway. “I am not to see your face until we steer away from this danger.

  I was shoved back into the room I met the man who had some questionable authority. I heard screams and shouts from outside along with the sloshing of water and patter of rain.

I jolted at the sound of thunder and found myself shivering in cold and fear. I whine and try to dry myself, but only find annoyance in the heavy, damp dress around me. And so I pull it off and wear a long shirt I found in the same pile I slept in. The room was dark for the candle had already died out.

I moved around and looked for a match box, once finding one, lit the only candle capable of being lit.

  Moments melted away in tension and even more screams were heard from outside.

Suddenly, the door to his place opened, catching me off guard. The figure stalked to me, and when the fire revealed his face, I realized who the drenched man was.

“We have steered…” he starts, however his eyes drift down from my face. It was then I realized his shirt did not do much in covering my chest. I placed my hand on my heart and pull back.

“Angel…” he speaks stepping forward, “you look… holy in my attire.”

I open my mouth but find nothing to protest back.

His eyes turn back to me, but they looked at me in a different way.

“There are no more rocks that endanger us, angel,” he says, stepping closer, removing the boots on his feet with the other. My own bare feet mimic his, only instead of moving forward, they move back.

He then lifts his shirt and throws it away, revealing his lean and defined torso that made my face heat.

“What are you doing?” I barely ask.

“I am trying to dry quickly,” he says, still slowly walking towards me, “may you aid me, angel?”

“I—“ my back hits the wall, “I have no clothes or towel to give you.”

  The man places his palms on the wall behind me by either side of my head and I feel my pulse quicken drastically. “I am indebted to you, angel. By your hand health has found its way back to me. I, Lee Taemin, captain of this ship, the terrible Sea Serpent thank you.”

My brows raise, “You—you’re the sea serpent?”

He chuckles darkly, “Why do you think they listened to me then?”

“But you are no older than I.”

“It is my youth and wit that makes me so terrible,” he answers, lips curving, eyes turning to my own lips. “Never have I seen such fairness and kindness in one being, my lady. I understand wholly why such horrible men are drawn to your light.”

At this point, his face was a matter of inches away from mine.

“I wish to kiss you,” he says, “make love to you, and make you my own bride.”

  My chest heaves heavily at his words.

His hand travels down to my side, just above my right him and my body feels electrified. “Angel, you are deathly cold,” Taemin says in concern. “I can warm you easily, if you let me.”

My breath hitches, “How many women have you seduced before, snake?”

He throws his head back slightly at my words and once he turned back to me, he moved in even closer. Now his breath was against my neck. “I have never had to seduce a woman before in my life.”

“Then-“ I say, forcing the shakiness of my voice down, “-you should start trying.”

  Taemin laughs, “How then should I begin angel?” he speaks lowly and then plants a hot kiss on my neck, making a shiver run down my spine. He chuckles and peppers kisses down my shoulder, pulling his shirt on my out of the way. His hands travel to my back and push me against him.

“You taste like the sea, angel,” he hums. His fingers press against my skin and run down from below my shoulder blades to the bottom of my derriere. And from my neck, Taemin pulls away and places his lips on mine. In between his breathing, he moans out soft words, “I take your lack of retaliation as permission, angel.”

He then pulls away, just enough so his hands could then travel upward from behind me, to the side of my hips, to my rips, to my breasts and to my neck. The pad of his thumbs caress my skin and attempts to sooth the juncture by my jaw. His fingers that rest behind on my nap entangle themselves in my hair. “You are now mine to claim.”

  Swiftly, I was brought to his bed and laid before him like dinner. A cold gust of wind tickles my stomach as he pulls the cloth around me off.

He proceeds to scold me when hide, “Nuh-uh-uh, no treasure to be hidden from my eyes, angel.”

He slowly creeps up to me and plants another kiss on my lips His hands secure my thighs around him. I gasp when I feel him against me, and he let out a laugh against my lips. “My precious angel, I shall treat you with as much goodness as you have shown me.” 

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[toho-literature]

Bohemian Archive in Japanese Red: Pages 44-45 - Chen Article and Interview

Season 119, Kannazuki Issue #2

The Village of Cats

The paradise for cats where they run free

It is said that deep in the mountains, far from the Human Village, there is a small village populated only by cats. They have created a self-sustained society that they control themselves, not obliged to anyone. Until now, its existence has been an unverified rumor, so I decided to go find this village for myself.

It did not quite fit the rumors, but there was indeed a group of cats living in a settlement abandoned by humans. However, it was hardly a well-regulated society. Each cat did whatever it wanted. It was a chaotic place where the cats constantly fought among themselves and hardly seemed to notice when a stranger such as myself appeared, and there were fierce contests for even the smallest scraps of food.

The individual in charge of trying to create some order in this chaos was Chen (shikigami). I asked her why and how she had brought all the cats here.

"No, no, don't go that way. Hm? You want to know why I brought all these cats here? Hehehe, I wanted a servant who would listen to my orders, so I figured I'd pick out the strongest and most obedient one of the bunch. Getting them here was easy. With some food and a little bit of catnip, they were more than happy to follow me. They can take shelter from the weather in the old, abandoned houses, and I'll catch food for them, so it's like a cat paradise."

As she was speaking, the cats were causing trouble every which way. It seemed to be because the catnip was too strong, but according to Chen, if they couldn't run around like this they wouldn't obey her orders.

Certainly, a great number of youkai use animals as their servants. Even I keep a crow. However, I've never heard of a bakeneko keeping other cats. That is probably because cats are very independent and proud creatures. Perhaps this is because it would take a stronger youkai than a bakeneko to successfully keep other cats as servants.

(Aya Shameimaru)

Other Articles

From page:

4 - Is the Use of Bottles to Repel Cats Superstition?

16 - Great Number of Bronze Bells Excavated Near the Barrier

24 - Breakthrough in Fast Food: A Red Bean Rice Ball Shop for the Temperate

Interview

Aya: It looks like you’ve been scratched up quite a bit since then. Are you okay?

Chen: It's because they just won't listen to me. As soon as I tell them to do something they don't want to do, this happens. Why won't they listen to me?

Aya: You should understand that fairly well, shouldn’t you? After all, you’re a cat yourself.

Chen: What do you mean? Maybe I don’t have enough catnip...

Aya: What you’re really missing is authority. You’re sorely lacking in that.

Chen: Maybe I don’t have enough food...

Aya: You need more wisdom, instead. Since you're a cat, the best you can hope for in a servant is probably a mouse.

Chen: Having a mouse servant wouldn’t be cool at all.

Aya: If you want to effortlessly control cats, I think relying on catnip is a mistake. If some youkai gave you catnip, would you listen to their orders?

Chen: No way!

Aya: You’re a shikigami too, right? Perhaps you should think about why you listen to your master.

Chen: Hmmm... It’s because Miss Ran is so strong, and... oh, so you mean I have to get stronger, or they won’t listen?

Aya: Perhaps you should consider finding a servant that is easier to control. Like a mouse.

Chen: Or maybe something else edible, like a bird.

Aya: No, don’t use birds.

Chen: Maybe I could try a sparrow...

Aya: Oh, but even if you do that, you can't just abandon all the cats here. Something terrible would happen to them.

Chen: I’m not giving up on cats. I’ve already tamed them this well.

Aya: That’s not saying that much... It doesn’t look like they’re that fond of you.

Chen: Of course they are! They come running to see me when I put out food, and even if I'm not putting out food. That's where most of the scratches come from.

Aya: Maybe they just see you as food now, too. They’re eat you.

Chen: Well, my fingers are pretty chewed up.

Aya: You can’t really win over animals by raising them like that.

Chen: Say, did you tame that crow? It looks like it really likes you.

Aya: When you're as strong as I am, all you have to do is hold out your hand to it when you first meet one. You can't really expect to have servants without that sort of absolute difference in power. Besides, this crow is more like my tool than my servant.

Chen: But even I’m way stronger than these regular cats.

Aya: I don’t think you’d be so scratched up if that were true.

Chen: I think that’s because I don’t have enough catnip...

Aya: Look, your master is much, much stronger than you, right?

Chen: Yeah.

Aya: Your master doesn’t have to use catnip on you to control you, right?

Chen: She does it sometimes.

Aya: ...In any case, you have to have that sort of difference in power to order someone around.

Profile

Chen

She is a shikigami who possesses a bakeneko living in the mountain, and can use black arts. Ran Yakumo, who controls Chen, is a shikigami, too.

Appearances: Perfect Cherry Blossom, Imperishable Night

[endlessflame]

Family Reunion (Connor x MC, Logan x MC)

Summary: Maribel (RoD MC) and her family, including her cousin Vanessa (ILITW MC), get together in Lake Tahoe, California for a family reunion.

Rating: M

Author’s note: This is for @cora-nova‘s Choices August Challenge, bonus prompt Family Reunion.

Tags: @choices-august-challenge @cora-nova @brightpinkpeppercorn @mfackenthal @desiree-0816

Maribel closed the door to her hotel room and began walking towards the elevator. She was looking forward to seeing her mother's side of the family again. It had been too long since they were all together. They were spread out along the West Coast; she and her father were in Los Angeles, her maternal grandparents were in San Diego, Uncle Tony was in San Francisco, and Aunt Sara, Uncle Fernando, and her cousin Vanessa were in Westchester, Oregon. They had chosen Lake Tahoe as the site of their family reunion because it was a central location. As she walked down the hall of her floor, she heard a door open.

"Maribel!"

She turned around, rushed over to Vanessa, and gave her a hug. "It's so good to see you!"

"You too!" Vanessa motioned to the young blond man beside her. "This is Connor. Connor, this is my cousin Maribel."

Maribel smiled at him warmly. "It's nice to meet you, Connor. Vanessa's told me a lot about you."

"Oh, has she?  Connor grinned. "It's nice to meet you too."

Vanessa looked to Maribel. "Don't tell Grandma and Grandpa that Connor and I are sharing a room, OK?"

"Of course! They'd probably want to drag you off to confession immediately."

They took the elevator downstairs and headed to the hotel restaurant, where the family was meeting for dinner. Her father, grandparents, Sara, and Fernando were already seated at a large table. They sat down and began talking.

Not long afterward, Connor turned to Maribel. "You weren't kidding about confession, were you?"

"No, why?" Her question was answered as a priest approached the table. "Oh! That's our great-uncle Pedro."

Vanessa looked from Connor to Pedro. "Uncle Pedro, this is my boyfriend Connor."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Father," said Connor.

A few minutes later, Tony walked in with another man, younger than him, with blond hair that had been partially dyed green. "Hi, everyone. This is Greg."

Maribel's grandparents looked at each other, and then her grandmother turned to face Greg. "I'm Tony's mother, Silvia, and this is my husband Manuel." She then turned to Tony. "I didn't know you were bringing a friend."

"Greg moved in with me recently," said Tony.

"Oh, you brought your roommate!" Silvia glanced at Pedro, then looked at Tony pointedly.

Tony glared at his mother. Before he could say anything, the waiter arrived. After everyone had ordered, he brought a bottle of wine for the table.

"None for you," Maribel's father said to her.

"Fine, I'll have a Diet Coke." After everything she had been through with Logan, she was no innocent, but apparently a glass of wine with dinner was still too much to ask for, even though everyone else was having some.

Once they all had their drinks, Manuel raised his glass. "To our family. Salud!"

The others raised their glasses as well. "Salud!"

"Nice tattoo, Maribel!" said Tony.

Maribel smiled. "Thanks."

"Don't encourage her," her father said.

Like she couldn't make up her own mind! "I was thinking of getting another one, actually."

"You should come visit me. I'll take you to a great tattoo parlor. Rahim's work is magical." Tony grinned. "And he's easy on the eyes, too."

When their food arrived, Pedro led them in prayer. "Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen."

They began eating, and continued to catch up with each other. Maribel filled in her family on her first year at Langston.

Silvia directed her attention towards Vanessa and Connor. "You two have been together for a while now. Are you engaged yet?"

"Not officially," said Vanessa. "We want to get married eventually, but not yet. I want to go to grad school first. Then my friend Dan and I want to open up a practice together. He's going to be a counselor, and I want to do animal-assisted therapy."

"Vanessa is so good with animals," said Sara. "When we came back from Portugal a few years ago, she had adopted a kitten, tamed a crow, and was petsitting our neighbor's dog. It was like coming home to a zoo!"

"And what about you, Maribel? There must be lots of nice young men at Langston. Have you met anyone special?" Silvia asked.

Maribel reached up and touched the sparkplug that hung around her neck. She never took it off; she always wanted a piece of Logan close to her heart. She still wasn't over him, and she wondered if she ever would be. "No, I'm focusing more on my studies." Maybe she'd better change the subject. Logan was still a sore subject with her father, and she didn't want to risk him coming up. "So, what are we doing tomorrow?"

"It's going to be a nice sunny day," said Fernando. "How about we go to the lake? We could swim, or go boating."

"Good thing Uncle Pedro's here, in case we need an exorcism," said Vanessa.

Silvia's eyes widened. "What?"

"You never know what might be out there," Vanessa pointed out. "And I heard things from my friend Milla. What if the lake is haunted?"

"You have such a vivid imagination," Sara said. "I'm sure it will be fine."

"Anyone want to check out the casino tonight?" asked Greg.

"I do!" replied Tony.

Manuel shook his head. "You're throwing your money away."

"Greedy people try to get rich quick but don’t realize they’re headed for poverty. Proverbs 28:22," said Pedro.

Tony looked to Maribel, Vanessa, and Connor. "You guys want to come?"

Maribel thought about the last time that she had been in a casino. She still had nightmares about being trapped in the vault after seeing Jason stab a member of his task force to death. When the gas grenade had gone off, she thought she was going to die. "No, I had a really bad experience in a casino. I'm afraid it might bring back memories."

"You lost big, huh?" Tony asked.

"I almost lost everything." If Logan hadn't opened the vault and rescued her, she would have lost her life.

Vanessa looked at Maribel sympathetically, then turned back to Tony. "We'll pass too. Connor and I will keep Maribel company."

Later than night, Maribel went to Vanessa and Connor's room, and the three of them spent time talking. Without the older generations, they could speak more freely.

"You're an artist, right?" Maribel asked Connor.

Connor nodded. "I mostly do sculpture."

"Are you any good at drawing?"

"It's not what I usually do, but I can draw, yeah."

Maribel looked at Vanessa. "Did you tell him what I went through last summer?"

"Of course not. That's between us."

Maribel turned to Connor. "You know how I said I wanted to get another tattoo? I was hoping maybe you could design it for me."

"Sure, what did you have in mind?"

She took a deep breath. "Last summer I found out that I was pregnant. I know it wouldn't have been easy, but I wanted to keep the baby." Tears welled up in her eyes. "But...I lost it."

"Oh God, I'm so sorry." Connor leaned in and gave her a hug.

"Thanks. Anyway, I thought it would be nice to get a tattoo in memory of my baby. I was thinking of an angel with a ribbon wrapped around its robe, half blue and half pink, since I don't know if the baby was a boy or a girl. That's the miscarriage ribbon. And maybe you could make the angel look like a combination of me and Logan. The father." Maribel reached for her phone and opened up the photo app. She scrolled through her pictures and found one of Logan, then showed it to Connor. "That's him."

"I would be honored." Connor walked over to the desk and found a pad of paper. He sketched the design, then showed it to Maribel and Vanessa. "Here's a rough idea of what it would look like. You'll have to imagine how it would look with the colors."

Maribel was overwhelmed with emotions as she looked at the drawing. "It's so beautiful. Thank you so much."

"You're welcome. I hope I did it justice."

"You did." Maribel touched her shoulder. "Think it would look good here? I like the idea of an angel on my shoulder."

"Definitely," Connor told her.

"That's perfect," said Vanessa.

"I bet Logan would love it too," said Maribel.

"Are you in touch with him at all?" Vanessa asked.

"Not as often as I would like. But at least I know how to reach him." Maribel picked up her phone and took a picture of the sketch, then sent a text to Logan. This is the tattoo I want to get in memory of our baby. Do you like it?

A little later, Logan replied. I love it. It's beautiful, and so are you. I miss you.

Maribel smiled as she read the text. "He loves it," she told Connor and Vanessa. "I hope you can meet him someday."

"I hope we can too. I know you miss him." Vanessa hugged Maribel tightly. "Remember, I'm always here for you. We're family."

[aquilaofarkham]

fic prompt: trevorcard but when trevor is an old man and alucard loves him regardless

Alucard notices everything; every change, every shift, every motion that alters its course. His perception has only grown more attuned over the decades. The dhampir sees how age can truly affect a human being as he points out the crow’s feet around Trevor’s blue eyes, still bright after all these years. He watches as the hunter’s walks become slower, weaker, and offers his hand every time.

The dhampir tries distracting himself with optimistic thoughts. Anything that will put his mind off the worst. He’s just tired, he’s always been tired. The same words come out of Trevor’s own mouth, along with the assurance that all he needs is some rest. Alucard agrees and puts him to bed. He joins Trevor, pressing his chest against his back as they spoon together. Just so he can feel him still breathing.

“You’re worrying too much,” says Trevor. “Stop being so dramatic.” A tall order to ask of someone like Alucard. He can’t help it; he knows how much Trevor and Sypha have changed. Then on occasion, he catches his reflection in a mirror and stops. There’s the same long golden hair, the same soft unblemished skin - nothing has changed. Only the look in his eyes.

Immortality has always weighed itself on Alucard’s conscious, though admittedly less so in the past. He recalls the many awkward yet necessary sit-downs a certain young dhampir had with his mother and father. Discussions that revolved around everything from drinking human blood to controlling one’s own transfiguration. Among these questions, immortality has brought up infrequently. A problem to be dealt with in the future - the far, far off future. A bridge to cross when Alucard eventually reaches it. Now that bridge is closer than ever before, a noose tightening itself around his neck. How naive of him to believe that immortality wouldn’t cause any pain, not to himself nor to his loved ones.

Alucard peeks into the study room where Trevor spends most of his days. He sits in a large cushioned chair beside a window overlooking the woods that surround their home. The last few rays of sunlight shine onto his body and across the floorboards. His eyes are closed but not for long as Alucard’s steps sound off a chorus of creaks. Trevor blinks slowly before turning to the dhampir, giving him a weary smile.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Don’t worry, I wasn’t asleep. Just shutting my eyes for a bit.”

“Anything of interest out there?”

“Not really. Same view as always even if it is a nice sunset… it’d be more interesting with company, though.”

“Good thing I’m here then.” He carefully lowers himself into the same chair but soon notices how much of a tight squeeze it is. “Is this too crowded for you?”

Trevor hushes him by wrapping an arm around his waist, holding him close. “It’s fine. You’re fine.”

Alucard finally relaxes as his arm drapes around Trevor’s shoulders. Resting his head near his neck, the two of them stare out at hues of gold and orange filling the sky. A minute passes and Alucard almost gets lost in this quiet, intimate moment. There was a time when he forgot how it felt to be held in such a tender manner. Now he’s smothered by such affection, yet there are no complaints from him.

It’s not long before Alucard realizes he’s the only one watching the sunset. Trevor in the meantime has shifted his attention to someone else. “It’s rude to stare without saying anything.”

“Sorry, I just… still can’t believe it.”

“What?”

“How you’re still such a pretty bastard.”

Alucard laughs. “As are you, especially with the beard.” He reaches over and runs a hand across Trevor’s chin, his fingernails scratching at the mass of short hairs. It may have been a bittersweet thing to witness over the years, but silver only made him and Sypha look better than they already did.

“You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not.”

“Sure you aren’t. You know, there’s not a lot you can hide from an old man.”

Alucard nuzzles his cheek against Trevor’s shoulder. “Technically speaking, we’re both old men.”

“You’re right about that.”

They both snicker as though the passage of time means nothing and they’re back where they started; joking and pushing each other’s buttons just for a laugh. Yet Alucard’s jovial attitude doesn’t last. He realizes that what he said isn’t right - he’s not an old man. Perhaps only in the mind. He grew up far too quickly, against his own wishes with nothing he could do to stop it, and now age has left him completely. Another reminder of the harsh yet undeniable truth. He is not human and never has been.

“I’ve been thinking…”

“That’s always a bad sign.”

Wishing he would take this seriously, Alucard’s grip on Trevor’s tunic tightens. “As I was saying, I’ve been thinking about you, Sypha, and myself. How-”

“How much we’ve aged compared to you.”

“… it isn’t fair.” The words taste bitter and miserable. They make Alucard feel like a child again.

“Every human being has to grow old eventually.”

“Then why can’t I? Why do I feel more vampire than human?”

Trevor kisses the top of his head. “I wish I could tell you, but I’m not an expert on dhampirs. I wouldn’t worry, though. It’ll still be a while before I shuffle off this mortal coil.”

“What if you’re wrong?”

“And what if I’m right? What if the world goes up in fire and brimstone tomorrow?” Looking into the dhampir’s sad eyes, Trevor holds his chin between his thumb and index finger. “Just promise me you’ll be strong when the time does come. And at least try to be happy.”

A difficult promise to make and even more difficult to keep, but Alucard will try. He then decides to change the topic before the air between them becomes unbearably melancholic. For Trevor’s sake and for his own.

“What was that nickname you had for me?” He asks, settling back into the hunter’s arms.

“Sorry?”

“Just now you called me a pretty bastard. It reminded me of something else you used to call me, something similar. What was it?”

“Oh, um…” Trevor searches his memories, hoping time and oldness haven’t taken too much of a toll on them. “I think it might have been shayna punim.”

“Right. Which means… pretty face.”

“Yes, exactly that.”

“I was so confused the first time you said it. Then you started calling me shayna punim all the time.”

“I’m surprised you remember that far back.”

“There are a lot of things I remember.”

“It’s also surprising how you still like me after all those years.”

Alucard brushes some strands of hair out of Trevor’s tired eyes, hair he can never seem to tame or keep in place, and kisses him. Long, deep, and gentle. He pulls back before leaving a smaller one on his lips. “I’ll always love you, you stupid bastard.”

Trevor smiles, cocky and assured, which is just like him. “I thought I was the only one allowed to call you that.” 

–

Alucard keeps his promise to remain strong and happy when the time eventually comes. But it doesn’t last. He lets the grief wash over him, hating his stagnant existence while being unable to face Sypha, knowing he’ll lose her as well. She manages to carefully break down his walls bit by bit. Alucard lets her, yet as a wolf he buries his head into her lap, whimpering. Only because he doesn’t want her to see him cry.

Stroking his fur with wrinkled yet soft hands, Sypha offers some words of respite. Whether it’s in vain or not, she will have to wait and see. She’s already shed her own tears and knows how deep Alucard’s sadness runs. “There’s an old Speaker tradition…” She begins, feeling his body tremble with every whine. “When one of us dies, we never hold funeral pyres or processions. We allow ourselves to grieve, then we host a celebration of that person’s time in this world as well as their journey into the next. We pray for happiness and peace in their new life while we live out what’s left of our own, knowing that they haven’t left us.’

‘It’s not easy, but there is some comfort in that knowledge.”

Alucard stares up at her, having calmed down but doesn’t want to leave her side. Sypha rubs the top of his head and pats his neck. “You won’t be alone, my friend. You’ll never be alone.”

[searchingwardrobes]

Captain Swan is My Favorite Rom Com: Twister, Chapter 4

Hurricane Florence has made me more sensitive about this particular AU. I would probably have delayed posting the next chapter if it wasn’t a tame one. This chapter is all about emotional conflict, not forces of nature. However, if you are just discovering this story and decide to catch up, please know that the rest of the story involves peril in violent storms. The prologue in particular portrays loss of life and property (though not graphically). So if you have personal experience with that kind of trauma or have anxiety over the possibility, this may be triggering for you. Please be safe and take care of yourselves! I am praying for all in the path of Florence. My own state has even declared a state of emergency, even though we are not supposed to be directly hit. So my posting this in no way implies that I am making light of the situation.

Rating: T (for triggers, see above)

Words in this chapter: 2,000 + (cut is there, but ya’ll know tumblr . . . )

You can catch up on Ao3

Tagging @shipsxahoy @tiganasummertree @artistic-writer @kmomof4 @hollyethecurious @thejacketandthehook @shady-swan-jones @bethacaciakay @teamhook @cat-sophia @coliferoncer @dassala @branlovesouat @allofdafandoms-blog @flslp87 @pocket-anon @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @kday426 @snidgetsafan @jennjenn615 @delirious-latenight-laughs​​

Emma collapsed on the edge of the musty motel bed as she rubbed a towel vigorously over the ends of her hair. She had honestly expected to be halfway back to Atlanta by now, in a decent hotel with a hair dryer. She sighed as she took in the tacky “art” hanging over the bed, the faded avocado bedspread and the ancient television with the slightly fuzzy reception. At least there was cable. A re-run of The Office flickered on the screen, the sound muted. Emma had it on more for comfort than entertainment.

It hurt to think Killian implied this was the reason she left – the lack of material comforts on the road. Did he really think she could be that shallow? Such thoughts took her mind to her little boy – that precious child who had become her whole world in a way she never could have imagined.

She turned on her phone, smiling at her lock screen photo. Henry had found her phone and managed to take a selfie. The inquisitive look in his bright blue eyes, and the little adorable “o” of his mouth had been so beautiful to her, she had saved the picture. She swiped her finger to unlock her phone and smiled again at her wallpaper photo – her blowing raspberries on Henry’s cheek while he giggled. No pictures of Graham, just her and Henry. Shouldn’t that have been a clue?

She hit the icon for her Skype app and pressed Elsa’s number. Soon her blonde roommate was smiling back at her.

“Emma, hey! Someone here wants to see you!”

Elsa reached down and pulled a confused Henry onto her lap. Emma chuckled. Yeah, her son really wanted to Skype. But when he saw Emma’s face, he gasped, and his eyes widened. He cocked his head curiously, and it suddenly occurred to Emma that Killian had the exact same mannerism when he was trying to figure something out.

“Mama?”

“Yes, kiddo, it’s me! Are you having fun with Aunt Elsa?”

“Yeah,” Henry answered, leaning back against Elsa’s chest, “we ‘ad ice cweam!”

“Ice cream,” Emma laughed with a shake of her head, “I’m shocked.”

“Hey now,” Elsa retorted with mock offense, “he had vegetables at dinner, and when he asked for dessert, I told him no, you already had ice cream today.”

“But Kwistoff ga’ me wowwy pops!” Henry crowed, throwing his pudgy hands up in the air.

Emma gave Elsa a smug look. “Lollypops?”

She shrugged, “Ok, so Kristoff showed up with those when he picked Anna up for their date. That wasn’t my fault!”

Henry started to fuss and wiggle, so Elsa put him down after he blew Emma a kiss. Emma pretended to catch it, then made gobbling sounds as she put her hand to her mouth.

“Yum, yum, yum, ate it!” Then she blew one back to Henry, and he caught his too.

“Um, um, um, ate it!” he cheered, then ran off.

Emma sighed, her heart full. “Thank you for watching him,” she told Elsa.

Her friend waved her off. “Nonsense, he’s so sweet!”

“Well,” Emma said hesitantly, “that’s good, because . . .”

“You’re not coming back tomorrow.”

Emma’s jaw dropped. “How did you know?”

Elsa leaned closer to the screen and lowered her voice. “Is Graham around?”

Emma cut her glance away for a moment. “About that . . . “ She wasn’t sure how to explain, so she just held her empty left hand up to her cell phone screen.

“I knew it!” Elsa exclaimed.

“You don’t have to sound so smug about it! I feel awful for Graham.”

“That man won’t stay single for long, believe me,” Elsa assured her, “and it really is for the best.”

There was a pause that Emma wasn’t sure how to fill. Thankfully, her friend knew her well enough to change the subject.

“So how long are you staying out there?”

Emma rubbed her forehead wearily. “I don’t know. I’ll have to get a flight out of Oklahoma City probably, but we’re out in the middle of nowhere right now. Another storm hit and ruined the camper’s windshield, so we’re stuck here in this cheap motel until the mechanic scrounges up a new one.”

“We, huh?” Elsa asked, arching one elegant brow.

Emma scowled at her friend. “Don’t go there.”

Elsa was her first friend in Atlanta, though she had met Anna first. Anna was a co-worker at The Weather Channel, one of those “weather girls” Killian had spoken so condescendingly about. Though Anna had just as much educational credentials as Emma; she was just more perky on camera than prickly Emma. When she found out where Emma was living, she had flipped out.

“Are you insane?” the red head had shrieked. “Grove Park? I’m surprised you’re still alive!”

Emma knew her apartment was in a shady area, but she hadn’t known the city at all when she moved, and her realtor had sucked. Not to mention that the cost of living in Atlanta was much more expensive than rural Oklahoma.

“My sister and I are looking at a place in Atlantic Station,” Anna had told her.

Emma had rolled her eyes. Atlantic Station was one of those planned neighborhoods where everything you could want was in walking distance; sort of like living in an outdoor mall.

“No way can I afford that.”

Anna had grinned slyly. “Splitting rent three ways with sisters who don’t mind sharing a room you could.”

If the baby hadn’t been on the way, Emma may have kept the Arendelle sisters at arm’s length, but she worried about bringing a baby home to that dump in Grove Park. So she had moved in with Anna and Elsa. The latter clicked with Emma immediately. The two of them were so much alike, it was uncanny. Emma had honestly been relieved to find Elsa to be reserved and even a bit distant at times. She couldn’t have handled two bubbly, chatty Annas. And it had been Elsa who had walked into the apartment to find Emma sobbing over the ultrasound photos the day she found out she was having a boy. And only Elsa heard the whole story about where Henry got his blue eyes, dark hair, and inquisitive nature. Only Elsa knew why she had been so resistant at first when Kristoff introduced Graham to Emma. And only Elsa knew her well enough to be concerned when they announced their engagement.

“How did Killian take the news?” Elsa asked now, voice gentle.

“Pretty much the way I expected.”

Elsa frowned. “I’m sorry.”

Emma shrugged, though her chin wobbled. “I can’t blame him.”

“Well, take all the time you need,” Elsa told her sincerely. If they had been across the kitchen island in their apartment, Emma knew her friend would be grasping her hand.

“Thanks.”

“Love ya, sis,” Elsa told her with a wink.

A genuine smile tilted Emma’s lips. “Back at ya.”

She ended the call and fell backwards onto the bed, tossing her phone aside. She felt restless and lonely in a way she hadn’t since she was pregnant and living alone in Grove Park. She hadn’t realized how much Anna, Elsa, Henry, and Graham had kept the pain at bay. Even Kristoff with his corny jokes and ridiculous sweaters. He was probably the only male in the state of Georgia who owned sweaters. She had been blessed to find another quirky pseudo-family in Atlanta, though it didn’t have the history of this one in Oklahoma. The only missing piece had been Killian. He had left a huge, gaping hole that she should have known Graham could never fill.

Emma heard raucous laughter coming from outside her window. She pulled the curtains aside to see light spilling out of a dive bar across the street. She pressed her lips together in thought, then making a decision, grabbed her phone off the bed, stuffed the hotel key in her pocket, and headed out the door.

The crowd in the bar was sparse. Smee and Ruby were on bar stools, laughing and doing shots. They saw Emma and waved. Smee was already so drunk, he almost lost his balance and fell to the floor. She shook her head and laughed. One more thing that still hadn’t changed.

She looked around, equal parts relieved and disappointed not to see Killian there. Ariel sat alone at a table in the corner. Emma made her way in that direction.

“Can I get you something?” the bartender called out.

“Rum,” she told him, and he nodded.

“Killian Jones has got us both hooked I see,” Ariel quipped as Emma sat across from her.

Emma didn’t answer until her drink arrived. She took a sip, watching the redhead over the rim of her glass. “You’re not talking about the rum.”

Ariel caught her eye, more sad than embarrassed. She didn’t attempt an explanation.

“Are you still together?” Emma finally asked, her stomach clenching as she awaited the answer.

Ariel sighed. “No. And I don’t know that it was ever real anyway.”

Emma hated the hurt that radiated off the other woman. “I always knew you had a thing for him.”

Ariel’s bright green eyes widened. “I would never have betrayed your friendship, Emma. I hope you know that. You’d been gone a year before we . . . ,” she trailed off and took another sip of rum. “I was his rebound, I know that now. He was hurting so badly, and my heart just broke for him. And you’re right, I’d pined for so long, I guess I Iet myself believe it was real.”

“What happened?” Emma asked gently.

“Ariel gave her a sad smile. “Isn’t it obvious? I wasn’t you.”

***************************************************

The bar filled up as the night wore on. Ariel had excused herself early though Emma tried to get her to stay. Now she was playing a round of darts with Ruby and Smee. Or attempting to, anyway, considering her two companions were three sheets to the wind.

“Now that’s just bad form, Swan, playing against such inebriated opponents.”

Emma was so startled by the sound of Killian’s voice behind her that her aim went wide and the dart went pinging off the edge of the board. When she turned around, he was standing there with his hands in his pockets. He still wasn’t smiling at her like he used to, but at least anger was no longer in the set of his jaw. He inclined his head to the table in the corner that Ariel had just vacated. Emma excused herself from the game, though her old friends were too drunk to notice.

As she tentatively took a seat, the bartender asked Killian if he wanted anything.

“Just a beer,” he replied.

Emma’s eyes widened in surprise. “That’s all?”

Killian inclined his head to the pair stumbling toward the dart board. “We can’t all have hangovers in the morning.”

The beer arrived, and he took a sip. Her mind flipped backwards to nights like this in the past. Then she was right next to him, as close as she could get, his arm flung over her shoulder, his posture easy and relaxed.

“You don’t seem pissed at me anymore,” Emma said hesitantly.

“No,” he said softly, “just hurt. Honestly, I wish I was still angry.”

Emma nodded. He had never been anything but honest with her, even when they were kids. She pulled out her phone and unlocked it. She opened up her Instagram account and selected the album titled “Henry.” She then slid it across the table to Killian.

“Do you want to see pictures of him?”

Killian blinked, his hand trembling slightly as he took the phone. As he scrolled through, he swallowed and clenched his jaw. Emma knew the pictures would go from most recent to the day Henry was born. The longer Killian scrolled, the more emotional he became. He alternated between small smiles and unshed tears glistening in his eyes. When he finished, he set the phone down and covered his face with a shaking hand.

“He looks like you,” Emma whispered

Killian’s hand slid down his face. “He has your smile, though. And your chin.”

Emma silently closed her phone, not knowing what to say.

“You have an Instagram account?” he asked her in a choked voice.

Emma bit her lower lip. “I only have five followers. It was really just a place to store my photos. As back up, you know?”

Killian just nodded. Emma fiddled with a napkin, first crumpling it into a ball, then twisting it. He closed his eyes for a moment before speaking.

“Listen, Emma, about your fiancé leaving . . . I never wanted to see you hurt. No matter what’s happened between us, I could never take pleasure in seeing your heart broken.”

Emma managed a smile as his eyes met hers. “It isn’t broken.” She shrugged. “And that was the whole problem.”

“Why were you with him then?” he asked softly, the hurt filling his eyes again.

“Why were you with Ariel?” She couldn’t keep the harshness out of her voice.

His eyes widened. “How did you know?”

“Ariel told me, though she didn’t have to. I’m not stupid, Killian.”

Anger flashed in his eyes, and he opened his mouth to speak, but then seemed to think better of it. He rubbed his eyes wearily instead.

Emma deflated. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for. I didn’t expect you to turn into a monk when I left.”

“I was never engaged to Ariel.”

Emma swallowed hard, her gaze lowering to the table. “Fair enough. I guess I let things go too far with Graham because he was safe.”

“You mean because he doesn’t chase storms for a living?”

Emma blinked to keep the tears that welled in her eyes from spilling over. “No. Safer for my heart.”