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writings-of-a-hufflepuff · 4 years ago

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How Longingly I Look Upon You

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Collection/Series: Western AU- Putting Down Roots

Pairing: Sheriff Din Djarin x Female Teacher Reader

Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long

Rating: G

Warnings: N/A

Summary: Valentine’s Day is a holiday you love, for it’s celebration of tenderness and appreciation. It matters very little that you never have a partner to share it with. This Valentine’s Day the Sheriff offers an opportunity, a potential, something you never thought he’d do.

Notes: This took me way too long to finish thanks to work, but I hope it was worth the nearly 2 month wait!

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Mando’a Translations:

Ba’vodu - Aunt/uncle Cyar’ika - darling/sweetheart (with Paz, i’m using this informally in a way you’d call your friends babe or love as a term of endearment but non-romantic) Ne shab’rud’ni - don’t fuck with me Cyare - beloved, loved Mesh’la - beautiful Cabur’ika - Lit. Little Guardian, but Din’s term of endearment for reader after ‘Never Mess With a School Teacher’ because she is a true guardian of her kids. Mandokarla - having the ‘right stuff’ basically being truly mandalorian in spirit.

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Valentine’s day was a holiday you actually quite enjoyed. It was a day to celebrate love, whether Eros, romantic love, Agape, unconditional love, Philia, affectionate love, or even Philautia, self-love. For you it had always been a day to celebrate the people in your life and while certainly you’d never had a suitor or a courtship during Valentine’s day, that hadn’t mattered so much. You filled your life with love for your family, even if they were now gone, love for your friends, and love for your students. It mattered very little in the end, Valentine’s day was a day for love in all its forms and for you, it was a joy. A joy to teach your students about the day, about the significance, to watch them create cards for their families, and see the red faces and giggling laughter when one of your students braved the walk across the classroom to hand a gift to another. Rather than dwell on what was missing, you chose to focus on all the joy that the day brought.

Today was no different, you had gone into your school house the day before. Spent your Sunday afternoon hanging red and pink bunting, crafty paper hearts and cupids. You wanted every holiday for your children to be worthwhile, to feel like a special day and part of that was decoration. The school house looked like a Valentine’s dream and the lessons for the day were to centre around the same theme. You would cover the history of Valentine’s day and St Valentine, work on mathematical problems in a Valentine’s context, create Valentine’s cards and write stories about great romances and read some of the best love poems that great poets had produced.

You had even gone with a colour scheme of red and pink for your outfit that day, despite your mother often saying you shouldn’t mix the two. Your dress was neatly ironed, almost gaudy in its Valentine’s nature, but fun. Your mother would have no doubt said that the lace and frills, the large puff sleeves, were all a bit much. Much too gaudy for you, a simple school teacher to wear. You wore it anyway because that was how you wanted it. Gaudy, happy, joyful, and overly extravagant for a day teaching. It was flattering, following your silhouette and grazing the ground gently. You had placed little delicate pink flower pins in your hair, surrounding your high updo. You had even rouged your cheeks, something which you rarely did anymore, usually much too busy.

You’re at the schoolhouse door smoothing down your skirts when you see the first of your childrens making their way down the main street. Lunch pails are flying behind them, skirts and ribbons whistling in the wind as they run. You greet each of your children with a bright smile and a ‘Happy Valentine’s day!’, like clockwork, as part of their routine they hang their coats, scarves and hats on the coat hooks by the door and settle into their seats, pulling out slates, books, pencils and chalk. They begin to chat amongst themselves as they wait for you and the lesson to begin. You had them well trained and so allowed them the time to chat knowing they’d listen up the moment you called for it.

Little Grogu is the last to arrive, running on little legs beside Din who always walks him to school in the morning before beginning his day as Sheriff. The little boy wraps his arms around your legs in greeting before wandering in with a wave to his father. While he can speak and you’ve witnessed it more and more, he is generally mute, preferring to use other forms of communication. You’ve noticed this little quirk of his, but don’t mind. If he would rather not speak that’s fine, so long as he’s progressing in his school work then you have little to worry about.

“Happy Valentine’s day, Din.” You tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ears, a little nervous to wish him a happy Valentine’s Day, oddly enough. All these months of knowing him and he still makes you nervous, not in a bad way. It had gotten worse since that kiss in the school house, the nerves of wanting him but not being sure if that kiss had truly meant more to him causing you to become shy when near him. You feel completely and utterly safe with Din, yet at the same time feel that bubble of excitement and nerves in your stomach, that roiling sensation you’ve not felt since you were a child with a crush. You wanted him to see you as more than just Grogu’s teacher but as a woman, an unmarried woman, a woman he could potentially see himself with. A future wife. While he’d expressed interest in courting you that day, nothing had happened since whether he’d changed his mind or the busyness of life had taken over, you weren't sure. You had never thought much on the prospect of marriage, despite your mother’s many warnings, you had simply not cared all that much. You had decided to live your life on your terms, as much as possible, but Din...Din was a man you could see yourself marrying.

It had grown over the months of knowing him from an objective enjoyment of his features, an acceptance that he was an incredibly handsome man and kind as well, into what you could only describe as longing. The beginnings of something greater, something akin to love. Din was everything you could ever want in a prospective husband, prospective father of your future children. He was handsome, so much so that you were ashamed of the thoughts that on occasion, usually in the quiet of the night, ran through your mind. He was kind and caring, a surprisingly gentle man despite his broad shoulders, large hands, and more violent profession. Ex-bounty hunters weren’t known for their softness and yet that was the only way to describe how he treated you and the children. He was gentle in voice, never raising it around you, never shouting or yelling, he chose his words carefully. He was soft in the way that he allowed the children to sit in his lap as he told stories or helped them down from trees when they got stuck. He was kind in that he was always caring for you, whether making sure you were given adult company during the school day or ensuring you ate after a long day without stopping. He was protective, but not overbearing. Kind and soft, but not weak. He would make a wonderful husband, that is something you were utterly sure of and you knew that you were not the only unmarried woman in town who’d turned their gaze to him.

So it made you nervous to wish him a happy Valentine’s day because on a day of love, he was someone you wanted to celebrate and yet found yourself too nervous to do so. It wasn’t becoming, it wasn’t ladylike to take that first step, that first plunge into the unknown world that was love. Despite that spontaneous and daring kiss you found yourself thinking of your mother and shying away from making another attempt. Your mother, God rest her soul, had always made it a notable detail, a finer point in the plan of your life. You would be approached by a man, not the other way around, and you would ultimately make the decision as to whether you wished to be courted by him with the intent to marry or whether you did not. Despite breaking tradition in the way you taught your children, this was something you didn’t have the courage for. Not again. While Din had expressed interest in you all those months back, the time between had seen nothing but his usual friendly behaviour. It made you conscious of your behaviour and the risk of getting hurt. If Din had an interest in you as a potential spouse, a riddur as he told you once, then he would have to make the next move.

Now standing before you with one hand behind his back and the other holding his hat by his stomach he looked infinitely more nervous than you expected for simply dropping off Grogu to school. There was a hint of red to his cheeks, the tips of his ears, his deep brown eyes darted around, from the floor to your own, before looking over your shoulder. You hadn’t truly seen him like this, this nervousness was unusual for him and you could have sworn he’d combed his hair with some pomade, an attempt to neaten the unruly dark curls that you thought were quite dashing on him.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Miss Y/N,” You frown at the formality, confused as to why he isn’t calling you cabur’ika like he usually does. The formality of calling you miss had dissolved almost the moment you met him and it was strange coming from his lips after so much familiarity between you. He has only ever called you miss when talking to the children about you.

For Din, he has never felt quite as nervous as in this moment. Perhaps it’s the time that’s elapsed that does it. When he kissed you he meant it, he meant his intent to court you, but his job had become busier over the months after...and in truth, he had doubts about his worth. He was unsure if he was truly enough for you. He felt ungentlemanly, improper, too rough. For months he’d been struggling with whether or not he was good enough for you, he knew you wanted to be courted by him, but was it the right thing for you? After months of soul searching, a healthy dose of want and longing every time he saw you with the children or whenever you smiled at him, he’d decided that it was your choice to make. He wanted to be with you and maybe he wasn’t damn good enough, maybe he wasn’t the man that should get to be with you, but if you wanted him then he wasn’t strong enough or selfless enough to or cold enough to do anything but love you.

“I...I have something for you, it ain’t much but I…well…” The flush to his cheeks grows deeper, a bright beaming red that screams against his bronzed skin. From behind his back he pulls his arm, hand outstretched towards you. He knows there’s a subtle shake to his arm, nerves at bearing his heart open, however, subtly, racing through his blood. More adrenaline than he’s felt anywhere but in a gunfight.

There, clutched tight between the fingers of his left hand is a beautifully bound book, green leather cover and gilded words, tucked between the pages you can see an envelope just peeking out at the top. You gently take it from his hands with your left, the meaning of that burned into your memory from lessons with your mother. To give and receive a gift with the left hand is to recognise and accept an active interest in oneself. The weight of it has your heart pounding in your chest, almost violently so against your ribs. You read the cover, ‘The Complete Poetical Works of Walt Whitman’, the tears gather in your eyes before you have any time or thought to stop them. There’s a blind panic that fills Din’s chest, like the blaring of a ship’s foghorn in his mind, at the sight of tears collecting in your eyes. There’s a moment of genuine fear, that he’s somehow messed up, that he’s caused you to become upset.

Walt Whitman was the poet you used to read with your father every evening after he finished a long day of work, his works are some of your favourite, some of the most important to you, but you’ve never been one to spend money on yourself. You often spend your wage, what little of it you have, on items for the school, books for the children, a globe, an anatomical skeleton. You have a small copy of his works, old and worn, some pages missing. This book means more to you than you think Din knows. Afterall, Walt Whiteman is a well known poet and books are one of the few perfectly acceptable gifts to give to a woman that you are not married or engaged to. It was presumptuous to assume that the gift had any added meaning behind it. Foolish your late mother might have even said in her damning indictment of romance.

“How did you know?” You clutch the book tight to your chest, heart aching with happiness and longing, that this man had given this to you, on Valentine’s of all days. It brings burning heat to your cheeks, a stutter to your heart, a dryness to your mouth. This is a step that you had dreamed, hoped of, that move towards something more. This was confirmation that he meant it all those months back, that he intended to court you and hadn’t had a change of heart.

“You...he’s the poet you mention the most when you’re teaching the little ones, cabur’ika” You realise what this is, what this all means. He isn’t just a kind sheriff or your friend, he’s an unmarried eligible man showing you that he’s paid attention to you, that he’s interested. There’s a shift, a shift from the easy friendship to a new undercurrent of tension at the unspoken understanding between the two of you, at the prospect of courtship that he’s extending towards you. It’s not a marriage proposal, it’s not marriage, but it’s an offer to begin on the road towards that. It is confirmation that the kiss you’d shared hadn’t been a mistake, a whim, something fleeting and insubstantial.

It makes your heart flutter in your chest at the prospect that Din Djarin is putting his foot forward, extending a possibility, an opportunity, a potential future. That out of all the unmarried women in town Din was actively showing interest in you. He could have picked any number of beautiful, intelligent, eligible women to show interest in, to potentially court, but he’d chosen you. The weight is added at the prospect that he’s not just offering you a marriage, but a family, because little Grogu is part of his world, part of his life and you would never want anything less.

“Thank you, Din...I...Thank you.” You feel a little lost for words, they’re stuck in your throat, knowing that there are so many things you wish to say but so many things you can’t say.

“I should leave you to your teaching, Miss Y/N. I…” There’s a pause as he thinks over the words in his mind, and stops himself. Din is a fool for you, that he is certain, but the last thing he wants at that moment is to make a larger fool out of himself. So he places his hat back atop his head and says, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

You watch as he says a sweet goodbye to Grogu, kneeling briefly on the ground to touch his forehead to the boy’s before reminding him to ‘be good’ for you.

The envelope is a temptation, sticking out from the top of the book, it calls for you to open it in that instant. But, you don’t, smiling at Din as he walks down the street towards the sheriff’s office, you turn back to head inside, Grogu walking with you to his seat, ready for you to teach the class. Despite the nagging desire to see what letter, what words lie in that envelope, you place the book atop of your desk and begin your day of teaching. You attempt to put the letter to the back of your mind, to keep the thoughts of being courted by Din at bay so that you can effectively teach, but you know you are distracted.

The children are just as unfocused as you, the day goes both fast and slow with dramatics abound. Jonah receives at least 5 love letters, Grogu catches a frog for little Mary-Beth and your entire class takes time to gift you with a drawing by themselves of you and the entire class.

Despite a whole class to distract you, you find it hard to teach, your eyes drifting back to your desk. That unassuming little envelope poking out from beneath the pages of a little poetry book that means more to your soul than you can possibly put into any sort of words. You find yourself thinking ahead, of the future, of Din. If he did indeed wish to court you, to go down that path of potential and intended marriage, then he was truly to be part of your future, he and Grogu.

There was no doubt in your mind that you’d accept such a proposition, that you wanted him in your future. Din was your friend, something that had taken very little time in truth. From the moment you’d met him and his son, he’d managed easily to worm his way into your affections without even a thought to do so. He was kind, competent, caring. He was good with children. Respected you, your intelligence and your authority in your classroom. While he happily joined you to tell stories to the children he would always defer to you and respect your right to dictate what happened inside your school house. He helped when you needed it, but never jumped so eagerly to help that he took over when you did not need it. While he was certainly quiet, had a temper hidden beneath it all and a danger to him that you’d seen on the few occasions he felt the town or it’s occupants were in danger, he had never made you feel anything but safe and secure. He had proven himself competent the moment he stepped into town, arranging your school house to be built and demanding the respect of every inhabitant. He had done more for you in the months you’d known him than anyone else had done in years.

He, in truth, captured your attention unlike any other person you’d ever met. You had always had an abstract desire for love, marriage, a family. But, no one had ever caught your attention, no man had ever been thought of as a potential father to your children or life companion. Din from the start had you take notice, you couldn’t quite comprehend the idea that he wanted to potentially marry you of all people.

He had his fair share of admirers, in a small town like your own, he was the man that stood out the most and one of the most handsome. He had a lot of eyes on him at all times and you assumed that he knew it, some were less subtle and ladylike than others. You knew he’d received a few propositions, something your mother would have been horrified at, but he’d yet to accept a single offer. To receive one from him, meant that out of all the people lined up outside the sheriff’s office begging for his attention, he’d chosen you. Something which excited you.

It’s on your lunch break, the children running around outside, that you finally have time to pull the envelope from its resting place between pages of inked words and sit with it. When you retrieved it from between pages of poetry, you had found yourself faced with little dried and pressed flowers between the pages of Walt Whitman’s works. A little additional that made a smile crawl across your lips. You’re sitting on the front steps, watching the kids play, one eye on them, the other on the unassuming letter in your hands. Grogu has come to join you, toddling up the steps on little legs before plonking himself down next to you, leaning his chubby cheek into your arm.

“Shall we see what your buir has written, mm?” You ask the little boy, he grins up at you at the mention of his father, he’s missing a couple of his baby teeth right at the front and the gap adds to the sheer adorable nature of the boy. You don’t know how much he knows, but Grogu has always seemed to know more than he let on, to understand the world around him better than most. There was always an intelligence behind those big eyes that made you think he knew more than either you or Din.

The envelope is unassuming, just a cream coloured piece of paper, neat cursive writing along the front spelling out your name. You’ve never seen Din’s handwriting before and it speaks of someone who received a decent education, hours of being drilled on the correct way to hold a dip pen, how to form each letter. There’s a hesitation to the writing that speaks of someone who hasn’t had reason to write in a while, a little judder to the letters. You trace a fingertip over your name, how it looks in his hand, black ink stark against cream paper. It looks pretty when he’s writing it, you think.

You turn over the envelope and slide a finger underneath the lip of it, careful to open it and not tear the paper in your haste. You glance up briefly at the sound of a yell, seeing that Jerome is fine and just laughing with the others, red in the face from receiving a kiss to the cheek, you turn your gaze to the folded letter that you pull from it’s confines.

It takes everything within you to keep your composure as you read the letter. There is a girlish part of you that wishes to giddily squeal, throw the page into the air and run around in circles to express the sudden burst of energy that fills you. Instead, you sit there calmly, fingers and hands shaking as your eyes dart across the page following each line, hungry for the next.

Dearest cabur’ika, Y/N,

In truth I do not know how to write this letter to you, but it felt less forward and presumptuous to put my thoughts onto paper than to speak them to you clearly and in the open where the town gossip would get involved. I do not want you to feel forced to return my affections or embarrassed by them. While we’ve shared a kiss and i’ve expressed my intent towards you in the past, it has always been private, quiet and anything but bold. It has always left room for doubt, uncertainty and movement. You deserve surety.

I have never been nor will I ever be a poet or a writer. I am a former bounty hunter, a sheriff, a mandalorian. I was raised to fight, to defend, not to write poetry or put down my thoughts and feelings into prose. I apologise if this letter is less than you dreamed of. If it fails to live up to lofty expectations or childhood dreams.

I wish to make it plain and clear to you that I find you to be beautiful. Not just in form, or face, but in soul. You are a protector, a guardian, a caregiver and teacher. From the moment I met you you treated myself and my son with a kindness that I doubt I will ever forget. You have enchanted me in body, soul and mind. When I kissed you in the schoolhouse it was not on a whim, nor was it a false promise. I had and have every intent to court you, to one day marry you. I apologise that I have been distant or allowed room for doubt to grow.

I am eager to see but a glimpse of you in the day, to make you smile or offer you some respite. I am eager to hear your voice even as you talk about topics I have no interest in. I am eager to be in your presence, to see the kindness with which you treat each of your children and the sweetness of your smile, the fierceness of your nature when called upon to protect your class. In the words of Walt Whitman, ‘you do not know how longingly I look upon you’.You are mandokarla, built with the soul of a warrior, the kindness of a mother, and the mind of a teacher. Perhaps my words are too strong or forward, perhaps you do not share my feelings, but I wish to lay my intentions at your feet. I do not wish to presume you return these feelings, perhaps that kiss was a moment of weakness, perhaps your feelings have changed. But I cannot in good conscience go on as we have.

I wish to step out with you, I wish to court you for the town to see, to one day marry you. If you ever allowed me such an opportunity I think I might be the luckiest of men, to have you join me in equal partnership as my riddur. To wake each morning to your smile, to raise our children and Grogu with you. To help you at your weakest and stand and watch you at your strongest. I long to build a life with you.

I ask, will you allow me the great honour of courting you?

If you do not feel the same then I shall end my pursuit, I shall respect your feelings or lack thereof and we shall be friends, as we have been. But, please, consider my words. I would be blessed if you ever saw me worthy of you, you would not just be an excellent riddur, but a loving buir to Grogu. If I did not feel seriously about you I would not make this offer. But, the choice is yours and I shall respect it no matter what your decisions may be.

Yours with love and affection,

Din Djarin

The shake to your breath comes from a good dose of shock and giddiness that collide together inside of your chest like two wagons that haven’t been watching where they were going. It’s not a proposal, but it is a proposal at the same time. There is a giddiness that fills you knowing that Din wishes to step out with you, that he wishes to show the town his intention to one day marry you, that he has affection past that of friendship for you. It’s the giddiness that comes from returned affections, shared interest, you no longer feel as if you are the only one gazing at the other, that your feelings are unrequited. It feels as if all that worry, all that doubt had been for naught, simply a foolish girlish thing to do. How had you ever doubted his intentions towards you?

“Miss, it’s time for history…” It’s Annie standing in front of you, hands on her hips to remind you that you need to call the children in, that has you hastily folding the letter and pocketing it, picking Grogu up and resting him on your hip as you rise. You, as most teachers, do not have the time to be giddy or dwell on love confessions during the school day.

The day drags on in its last moments. Your desire to return home, to write a carefully crafted response, to find some sort of gift in addition, has you counting the seconds, minutes, and hours as they slowly tick by. Your children can tell you are unfocused and they become incredibly distracted as a result, but despite this you can’t find it in yourself to be frustrated or irritated, not today of all days when your patience with them has been extended by your supernaturally good mood.

When Din collects Grogu at the end of the day you give him your sweetest smile and thank him earnestly for the letter. He isn’t sure what it means. It’s not an outright rejection or acceptance and despite the burning desire in his chest to receive an answer, he knows how to be patient, tipping his hat at you and offering to walk you home as a gentleman does.

It isn’t unusual for Din to walk you home after the school day ends, even on nights where you stay late at school he often comes back with Grogu to walk you as the dark sets in. He has never been anything but a gentleman when it comes to making sure you get home safe even in a small town where very little happens and you know everyone. Still, you’ve always appreciated the gesture and you do now, even if wrapping your arm through his and walking side by side takes on a new tension, a new feeling.

There’s a little thought in the back of your mind, niggling, that you can’t quite get rid of. The thought that this is what your little family could look like if all goes well. That you, with your arm wrapped through Din’s, hands in the crook of his elbow, and him, with Grogu on his hip, little arms wrapped around his neck, could easily be a future image of a family. Not just the Sheriff, a single father, walking the school teacher home because he’s polite and gentlemanly.

“Thank you again, for the letter and the poetry book. I...you don’t understand how much it all means to me, Din. I...I want to respond properly, take my time….I.” The air is cold, as it always is in early February, but your entire body feels warm as you try to explain that you’re not rejecting his offer. You don’t want him to doubt for a second that you intend to say yes, but it doesn’t feel right to say it. There’s a desire to take your time, to write a heartfelt reply, to ensure that the time he took for you, you take in return.

“You ain’t gotta tell me right away. It’s okay to take your time, mesh’la.” The reassurance has your shoulders dropping, a sense of relief, the removal of pressure. Any fear you had that Din would grow impatient dissipates and you're reminded once more of how safe you feel with him. Both physically and emotionally. He is a calming, solid presence. There is nothing fickle or finicky about Din and that is a relief when so much of your social world is confusing to navigate.

“Thank you.” You tell him earnestly, drawing closer to him as you walk. Your side pressed fully into his, hip to hip, arm to arm. You cannot truly comprehend Din Djarin, the many elements that make him a better man than most, but you don’t think you have to fully comprehend him to enjoy being around him, to find comfort in him. Perhaps it will take years for you to fully understand who he is, but you like to believe you’ll get the time to do so. To learn him just as well as he seems to have learnt you.

Your home isn’t particularly large. When you first came to town the Mayor had informed you that the post of teacher came with a small lodging. It was small; a separate bedroom off of the main living area, a water closet out in the back garden, enough room in the kitchen and living area for your tub to be placed in front of the fire when you need to wash. It was, however, homey, something Din had admired from the first.

You ensured that blankets and pillows, knick knacks and trinkets covered the space. That it felt like a lived space, a place filled with love and warmth.

He’s reluctant to leave you when he reaches the top step to your door. There’s a part of him that rarely wants to part from you, that enjoys your company even if it’s silent. You are comforting and familiar, he feels like he can be himself around you. There’s an implicit trust between the two of you. He trusts you with his son, he trusts you with his safety and protection, he trusts you with himself and even his heart, something he has protected ever since the death of his parents at the hands of bandits and thieves. He would be happy so long as he is in your presence and it is that fact that makes him certain about his decision to propose courtship, there is no one he would rather spend the rest of his days with. Terrifying, overwhelming, massive, but he can sense how entirely worth it it will be.

“Goo-”

“Hav-”

The two of you go to say goodnight at the same time, stopping short and laughing under your breath. You tug at the fabric of your skirt and shift, feeling a wave of embarrassment at talking over each other, an odd feeling when neither have done anything to be embarrassed of.

Grogu shifts on his father’s hip, leaning forward a hand reaching out to wave at you. You begin to smile, waving back at the little boy, your smile only grows wider when the usually mute boy giggles out “Goodnigh’!” at you with a large smile on his face.

The boy manages to break the tension with a simple word and smile, once again you wonder if he knows more than he lets on. That this six year old is, perhaps, wise beyond his years.

“Goodnight, Grogu. Goodnight, Din.”

“Goodnight, cabur’ika” There is a pause from Din as if he wishes to say something, before stopping himself, turning and walking down your stairs. You wait there at your door, watching him leave until your eyes can no longer follow his figure as he disappears around a corner and out of sight.

Your home feels empty, unusually so, with their presence gone, but you decide to put your energy and longing into a response. The first part is your famous spiced cookies. You know that Mandalorians prize spiced foods highly, a cultural aspect that your teacher Atin’a Caivass had shared with you as a child.

The recipe was hers, one thing she gifted you, shared with you, and entrusted to you. So you get to work, mixing together flour, butter, sugar, egg. Adding spices that are one of the little luxuries you deign to spend a little extra on. They’re the sort of cookies that have a lovely mixture of sweetness and kick, they hit you in the back of the throat just enough to make your mouth tingle. The coco powder in them balances out the heat nicely,

Once the cookies are on the side cooling you hunt out your letter writing items. You haven’t had reason to write a letter since the passing of your parents many years ago. But, you know, in your organised way, where your things are. You collect your writing paper, envelopes, dip pen, ink. You find out your sealing wax, the stamps you haven’t used in years. You lay out each item on your kitchen table with care, feel a thrill go through you that you haven’t felt in years. You always enjoyed writing letters, taking your time to put thoughts and feelings into words onto paper.

You take up your pen, dip the metal nib into black ink and bring the tip to cream, clean, fresh paper and begin to write.

Dearest Sheriff Djarin, Din.

There are few words in the expanse of the dictionary that could truly describe how I felt upon reading your letter. Ever since the kiss we shared I had worried, doubted. I was scared that perhaps you had changed your mind, decided that I was not worth your time, that I was not of interest anymore. When to me you had only become further ingrained in my dreams and wants. I was scared that I had made a terrible fool of myself.

To know that those feelings are returned, that you can see a life and a future with me means the world, it means everything. Grogu and you have become an inextricable part of my life, a part I would never wish to do without. You and that sweet boy make my soul sing and as Walt Whitman once aptly put ‘I am to see to it that I do not lose you’.

You enchant me and thrill me to no end and perhaps that is not ladylike to say, perhaps I should write a quick acceptance of your offer and leave it at that, but I feel that such honest and open words should be returned in kind. I adore you.

I adore the crinkle in your brow, the blinding smile when you drop your guard. I adore the kind, gentle nature you have around children, the ease with which you cause them to smile and laugh. I adore the respect you have for me, the respect you have for my authority in the classroom. I adore the curls of your hair, the hook of your nose, the patchy beard that grows on your jaw. I find there is very little I do not adore about you, Din Djarin and that is both a terrifying concept and one that I too adore.

There was a time I thought little on marriage. I was told I should marry, but what of it? Why would I? You have, for the first time, made me truly desire marriage, a husband, children, a life of pure domesticity and family.

To put it plainly, and I hope my feelings are not off putting or too forward, I would be glad, happy, ecstatic to one day call myself your wife and to call you my husband, my riddur.

You asked if I would allow you to court me and my answer is yes, a hundred, a thousand times yes. I would love nothing more than to step out with you, to hang on your arm and begin to take steps towards a life together.

I wish to make it equally as clear that Grogu matters to me. That I understand that he is part of this, part of you, and that I would never wish for you to part from each other. If you one day saw me as worthy of becoming his mother then I would take that responsibility on with pride and with love. He is a little angel, he captured my heart from the very first day I met him, even with his mischief and I would never wish to part with the two of you or come between your aliit, only to join it. I understand that he is as much your son, your child, as any child born of your own blood.

I accept your offer of courtship and I knowingly enter into it, and all that it entails.

All my love and affection,

Y/N Y/L/N

You wait for the ink to dry, in the meantime you take some muslin and begin to wrap the cookies carefully in the fabric. The twine you wrap around you knot into a bow. Redoing it multiple times until you're happy with its shape. There’s no real need for a knot of twine to be perfect, but you want it to look perfect, to be perfect, for him.

The ink of your letter is dry and you’re careful as you go through the motions of folding the pages, slipping them into a crisp envelope and weighing down the lip. You’re selective in your choice of wax and seal, careful as you melt the wax, pour it and stamp it. There’s a quiet calm about it all, sealing your words behind wax and paper. Knowing that the next time they’re revealed the one person they’re meant for will be reading them.

You place the times together on the side with care, ready to be collected in the morning as you leave for the school house. You take a few moments to think about when it would be best to deliver them, deciding that as much as it pains you to wait, the evening, after school, is better than the morning. It would simply distract you more, you have little time to do it, and the evening gives you that time to talk, to enjoy the change in your relationship.

You go to sleep that night with thoughts of Din’s smile, the one he gives whenever he tells a story to your class, soft, gentle, filled with contentment. Thoughts of the way his hair curls over his ears and his neck moves as he swallows. Thoughts of how he had come into your little mining town of Navarro and shaken everything up in the best sort of way, put to right all the wrongs, solved problems and brought forth solutions.

When you wake the next morning you’re extra particular about what you choose to wear, how your pins look in your hair and how much rouge is on your cheeks. You know, deep down, that Din could care less about the way your hair is pinned or how much rouge is on your cheeks, but it’s something to occupy your hands and mind in the morning before you get to the school house. Once you’re teaching you know you’ll have little time to worry or think about the response you intend to pass on to Din at the Sheriff’s office that evening, but in the meantime you busy yourself with your daily routine.

The day seems to drag, your smile and good morning to Din as he drops Grogu off for school is filled with tension and unspoken words. Your lessons seem to take forever to teach and where you’d normally be enthused you find yourself more eager for the day to end than anything else.

Paz is the one to come by and collect Grogu at the end of the day. The large man had settled into town as the deputy not a month into Din’s stint as sheriff. You knew that Paz and Din were close, practically brothers, having grown up together in the covert and that had been the main reason for you warming to him so quickly. Without Din’s presence you would have likely shied away from Paz. He was large, if you’d thought Din was broad shouldered, then he had nothing on Paz, who was a veritable giant. His size and his resting scowl made him intimidating, but his interactions with the children and women of town showed his character instantly. Like another Mandalorian you knew he’d been gentle and sweet, respectful, despite his size and intimidating demeanor. You liked Paz, even if he seemed to enjoy embarrassing you around his brother.

“Hey there, Little One!” You watch Paz crouch down, arms open as the little boy barrels towards him as fast as his little legs can go. Grogu absolutely adored Paz, he was his uncle, his ba’vodu, and the little boy loved being swung about, hefted to and fro by the giant man. It was the tenderness with which Paz always encompassed Grogu in his arms, lifting him gently to his shoulders, that reminded you of the soul inside Paz. The cover of his book was intimidating, scary, tough, the face of a mercenary and bounty hunter, but his inner pages, his soul was just as soft as Din, just as caring. You were happy to call Paz a friend.

“Hello, Paz”, You smile up at the man, Grogu now sat about his shoulders, arms wrapped around the top of his head with a little smile. The man in question smiles down at you, “Good evenin’, cyar’ika”, You smile wider at the familiar endearment, happy to see your friend even if the nerves from your impending visit to Din buzz in your stomach and chest.

“Is Din working late?”

“Yeah, the kid’ll be at mine for the night, Din’s working the graveyard shift so to speak.” You’re, in truth, glad that Paz is watching Grogu for the night, that Din is working late. It gives you the privacy to give your response, without either the watchful eyes of a child or any other sort of audience.

“Well, have a good night, Paz”

“Not as good as yours i’m sure” It’s said with that teasing glint that Paz often gets in his eye and a smirk that twists the shape of his beard. It causes a sort of panic to fill you, at the thought that Paz knows, that he knows what’s going on even if it’s completely believable and acceptable that Din would tell his brother about his intentions towards you. Your body feels warm all of a sudden and you're sure there’s a look of panic in your eyes because Paz’s glint softens down to something kind and gentle as he nods a goodnight to you and walks away.

You force yourself to go about your normal routine, spending a few hours at the school house marking books, organising the next day’s lessons, tidying up and generally making sure you were ready for all your children the following morning. You may spend a little too much time rearranging the items on your desk and sharpening pencils that don’t really need to be sharpened.

It’s as the sun begins to dip low in the February sky, and people begin to light lamps in their houses or, for those with enough money, turn on their electric lights that you finally decide enough is enough and grab the parcel and letter from your desk. You march with a strange sort of determination, that hides the mess of emotions you are inside, across the street and to the Sheriff’s Office. It doesn’t matter that Din had already shared his feelings with you, you were still nervous of his reaction, had you responded well enough? Was it romantic enough? Would something in your letter be off putting for him? Was it too forward? Not clear enough?

He is leaning back in his chair, legs crossed on top of his desk, heels of his boots digging into the wood of the table. The warm light from various gas lamps bounces across Din’s features, accentuates the sharpness of his cheek bones, the curve of his hawkish nose, the shadow from the brim of his hat.

His chair makes a sharp screech across the floorboards as he rushes to stand at the sight of you, feet falling to the floor as he bounces to them. The hat is swept off his head, politely removed to show the curls of his hair as he, dare you say nervously, tugs at his waistcoat and checks his attire. It’s somewhat relaxing, the endearing nerves with which he greets you, the quick attempt to perfect himself, to show you the best of him, even if you would have happily been greeted by him even if he were covered head to toe in mud.

“Cabur’ika…” He’s a little breathless and it causes a flush to reach his cheeks. He’s embarrassed that he sounds like a school aged kid, that he isn’t standing before you behaving like a man, an adult. But, you take the breath out of him. You’re frazzled looking after a long day teaching, the hair of your up-do frizzy and falling out in places, chalk across your cheeks and skirt, wrinkles in your clothes that he was sure weren’t there that morning, but you still looking breathtaking, you still make his heart jump a beat.

“Din…” You’re breathless yourself, it feels like your nerves have a hand around your throat, a tight grip keeping the breath from leaving your lungs. You fumble a little as you step towards him, tripping on a loose floorboard but catching yourself. Your hands nearly drop the precious cargo they’re carrying and you clutch tighter in response.

“I...uh...Here.” You had the parcel and letter to him, as he reaches for the envelope first you panickedly say, “The parcel! Open...open the parcel first?” He can see the nerves in you, the way you twist your fingers and bite at your bottom lip, in an effort to ease them he nods with a smile and puts the envelope on his desk, focusing on the package of muslin and string.

He’s careful as he opens it on his desk, pulling apart the perfect bow you’d tied and unravelling the package with careful hands. His fingers are too delicate in that moment for such large hands, for hands that have choked men unconscious and lassoed bounties, that have held guns. It’s odd for him, how easily he has fitted into the domesticity of town, odd, but not unwelcome.

The wrappings fall away and he’s greeted by the sight of warm brown cookies, irregularly shaped, although somewhat circular. They’re delicious looking, but what gets him the most is the smell, it reminds him of winter nights in the covert, of his adopted parents and warm cookies and milk, spices that he’s almost forgotten about. He should really ask before grabbing one and tucking in, but he can’t resist the urge to find out if the spices are the ones he remembers from his childhood.

The cookie is moist and soft as it crumbles away easily onto his tongue, he can’t resist closing his eyes at the taste. He recognises the spices, the taste taking him back to fond memories and warmth, a familial bond between him and those who had taken him in, protected him, given him a purpose, a life. He finishes the whole thing without really realising it.

You watch on, anxious to see if he likes them. It had been a risk, spicing the cookies, you hoped the significance to his culture was a good thing and not bad. You found yourself second guessing your decision as his brow furrowed, eyes closing, but then he took the next bite, and the next, until the cookie was no more and Din’s chocolate coloured eyes opened and blinked over at you with the lightest sheen of tears.

“How did you know?”

“I...I had a mandalorian teacher, remember? She...she always liked spiced cookies, I…are they okay? Was...should I not have?” You feel the worry bounce through you, at the thought that you’d crossed some invisible line, some sort of boundary not meant to be crossed.

“No, no! They’re lovely, thank you. They...they remind me of home, Mesh’la.” He’s quick to reassure you, a warm hand reaching out to give one of your own a quick squeeze, just long enough to comfort you, but no longer than appropriate.

You watch him turn back to the envelope, picking it up with care before glancing between the seal and you, eyes darting back and forth as if he is unsure if he is allowed to open it, to read it. “Open it.” You force the words from your throat, nervous for him to read your words, your thoughts and feelings put to paper, but knowing that the relief once he has done so will outweigh your current anxiety.

You stand and watch, a lump in your throat, your hands twisting into your skirt as he opens the envelope. A careful finger pulling the seal free and gently easing the pages of your letter from it’s confines. You wait and you watch, eyes intent on his features as his own carefully trace across the curvature of your words.

He can feel his heart pounding in his ears, feel the tears well in his eyes as he reads further throughout your letter. It is not just your open acceptance of his offer that has his emotions rising within his chest, but the clear admiration of him and the openness with which you accept his son. Grogu was his child, you were right, as much as any child of his own blood would be, and he had, in truth, stupidly worried that you might not accept the boy as your own. Your excitement at the prospect of one day being a mother to him causes his heart to ache in the best sort of way.

Din was purposeful as he placed the letter down and strode up to you, the toes of his boots touching the hem of your skirt. He invades your personal space in a way that sets your skin aflame, yet it is not uncomfortable. You welcome his presence as much as it causes your heart to beat rapidly and your throat to swallow.

“May I kiss you?” He asks, his voice soft and gentle, the southern twang just under the surface. He’s so close you can feel the warmth from his skin. You nod, letting out a shaky breath as his hands come up to cup your cheeks. So large they enclose you so well, make you feel secure even as your heart tries to stutter out of your chest. It matters little that you’ve kissed before, that was quick, this was slow, your attention undivided, your thoughts completely encapsulated by him and his entire being. His hands are warm against your cheeks, thumbs brushing back and forth in gentle strokes as he gages your reaction, eyes focused on your own. He’s slow as he moves forward, as if giving you time to back out, to pull away, but you don’t.

He tastes like spices and sugar, the cookie lingering on his tongue long after it had melted away. He is soft, but not so gentle, the gentle, delicate nature of your last kiss is replaced by depth of emotion, passion and fire. His lips firm against yours, a large hand cupping the back of your neck to pull you closer, while the other falls to your waist. His beard scratches against your skin pleasantly and you think you could happily grow used to this. You think little of propriety, of politeness, when you open your lips to his and meld yourselves closer together, think little of it as you clutch at his shoulders and breathe him in, as your fingers come up to tangle in those chocolate curls and tug incessantly, as his tongue tangles with your own. There is no fear of it going too far, of Din pushing you for more, of demanding more because you both know the lines that must not be crossed, because you trust him implicitly and because you know he respects you enough to not risk your reputation or livelihood for something carnal or baser, even if he desires it. Even if you desire it.

The lack of fear is what allows you to get swept up in the kiss, in the feeling of his hands and lips on you, the warmth of his skin, the smell of his soap. It allows you to forget that the world outside exists, that you are not in your own private world, but in the easily accessible space that is the Sheriff’s Office.

The spell is broken by the sound of the door slamming open and heavy, booted footfalls on the floorboards. You pull apart with a gasp and Din is quick to stand in front of you, as if to protect you from view, scowling at his deputy in the doorway. Not even the little boy on Paz’s shoulder can take the frustration from Din, he is frustrated at the interruption, embarrassed for you, that you were caught in a compromising position, and irritated by the smirk that’s heavy on Vizsla’s lips.

Paz hadn’t meant to interrupt, in truth he hadn’t expected to find you there, lips locked to his brother, but Grogu was being fussy. Refusing to eat his dinner and then outright refusing to be put to bed. Paz had decided the kid just needed to see his buir, he hadn’t expected Din to be...in the middle of something.

“Am I interrupting something, Djarin?” He’s teasing and he feels a little sorry when he sees how embarrassed you look, but it’s worth it for the glare he gets from Din. His smirk widens as Din practically growls at him, teeth clenched tight.

“Vizsla, don’t make me shove my boot where the sun don’t shine. Ne shab’rud’ni.” He softens a little at Grogu grinning at the two of you, but he still wishes the interruption had never come. He knows it was inevitable, he has a young son, the chances of romance going uninterrupted are slim, still…

“We’ll be outside, Vod. Don’t take too long” Paz says it, still with that smirk attached to his face. He’s gracious enough to give Din a little more time with you, before demanding the man take his son home and tuck him in bed.

The door closes softly behind him, the moment he’s out of sight Din turns back to you, sighing out an apology, “I’m sorry, cyare…”

He presses his forehead to your own, hands smoothing across your waist and back in gentle motions. As if trying to soothe the embarrassment from you, bring you back to a sense of peace that had since been disrupted.

You push your forehead back into his and nudge his nose with your own, “Don’t be. He’s your son.” You mean it. As embarrassing as being interrupted is, as frustrating as it may be, you understand. His son is massively important, and he’s young, there are bound to be interruptions. It’s okay.

“So, we’re really doin’ this, huh? Haven’t changed your mind yet, Mesh’la?”

“Not at all…” You press forward, a soft, sweet little kiss to lips before pulling back, “You should go...Grogu needs you. Wish him a goodnight for me?” You pull away slowly, untangling yourself from his arms despite your own reluctance. You want to stay there, warm and safe forever, but Grogu needs his father and you do not have the heart to deprive him.

“Always.”

Din doesn’t want to leave you, but you make the decision for him, grabbing his hat and carefully plopping in atop his head before ushering him out the door. You watch as he takes Grogu from Paz, putting the boy onto his shoulders and walking with the man down the street.

He can’t help but look back.

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

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kitkat1003 · 4 years ago

Text

Where the Sea Meets Earth

Ao3 Link

Summary:

Tang's life has fallen into a steady, comfortable routine, one he feels no need to change.

So he doesn’t.

Until he has to.

Note: Hi! Lowkey used an idea from @ninja-knox-ur-sox-off when it came to Pigsy's rival. They make great content, give them a look! As always, shout out to my beta reader, @imnotcameraready, the most kind and patient editor out there. She edited this all in one night, the mad lad. Send love her way!! She goes by UncrownedKing on Ao3, check out her stuff! Anyway, have fun!

Tang’s routine is simple. Get up, watch Pigsy make breakfast. Steal an egg or two that Pigsy definitely didn’t make in preparation for such thievery. Follow Pigsy around as the noodle shop is set up for the morning. Listen to the hiss of oil in a hot wok, water bubbling in a tall pot, knife against the wooden cutting board, each slice precise with practice.

Admire the way Pigsy’s arms bulge with muscle as he lifts heavy boxes of spices, meat and vegetables. Watch the sweat on his brow build up as he tosses the ingredients in the wok, stirs the broth, sticks a pinkie in before pulling it out to taste the concoction, tilting his head to the side in thought every time before reaching for a different spice—

Chuckle when MK scrambles down the stairs, a second before being late. Wave back when MK greets him enthusiastically. Listen to Pigsy bark orders. Watch MK vanish out the store door, listen to the sound of the delivery cart starting up. Wait for the customers to come in.

Sometimes, between the breakfast and lunch rush, he will vanish into the town. He’ll peruse the shelves of a bookstore, maybe get a book or two. Then, he’ll come back to the restaurant and watch Pigsy work until closing, with the occasional interruption from MK or Mei. Pigsy will make dinner, and they’ll eat while watching TV before ending the night, asleep next to each other.

It’s a steady routine, one Tang feels no need to change.

So he doesn’t.

Routines are brought on by repeated motions and consistent action. He finds himself considering them more and more, these days. Tang follows the lines back, through time, to trace where each routine began, as Pigsy yells at MK to get going.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He lives off a trust fund from his late parents, as well as a few checks from his work in historic preservation. His family has passed down the stories of old for years, and he knows them well and by heart, because at 18 his memories had come flooding in, and suddenly he was older than time itself and yet just old enough to have sake enough that creating books and speaking on historical inaccuracies is easy to turn into a living.

A few years ago, he gave it up because it hadn’t seemed important to bother anymore after his parents died. The next year he’d wasted time coasting through town after town, sharing random tales for a meal, trying to forget that he was alone, until….

Two years ago, he watched Pigsy throw a customer out of his shop, threatening the unruly guest within an inch of his life, and thought Well then. Something interesting.

Tang had actually gone to the rival noodle shop first. It seemed a bit more inviting. Pigsy, for all his culinary achievements, is still very closed off, and his shop certainly reflects that. Sometimes, Tang wonders if Pigsy would get more customers if he’d change his attitude, but he never brings it up, because what would Pigsy’s Noodles be without Pigsy?

He watches from afar a few days, until the Pigsy’s rival shop owner not so subtly nudges him over, and the moment he walks in, he’s knocked to the ground by a very exuberant noodle delivery boy.

“Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry—are you alright?” Tang sits himself upright to the sound of frantic apologies, seeing a kid no older than 18 fretting over him as if he’d been stabbed instead of simply knocked over.

“It’s fine,” he starts, a little annoyed but not rude enough to make the boy more panicked than he already looks to be.

“MK, what did you do?!” Comes the familiar gruff voice from the kitchen, and the boy—MK, Tang has gathered—helps him stand as the chef walks out of the kitchen, hands on his hips.

“I didn’t notice him coming in—I just knocked into him—it was an accident!” Tang worries, then, because MK seems scared, but those worries are swept away when the chef takes a deep breath and slowly, his stance relaxes.

“It’s fine, kid, just get those deliveries out, ‘kay?” his voice is so gentle, Tang remembers now he was taken aback. Now it feels so natural for Pigsy’s voice to be gentle. “I’ll take care of this.”

MK nods to that, jittery and anxious, and walks out with a forced slowness that Tang can tell is from worry and guilt. Once he’s left, Tang turns back to Pigsy, who lets out a breath and mutters something about how ‘this kid is gonna be the death of me’ before looking up at Tang with what Tang later learned is his customer service expression.

“Alright, c’mon in. Welcome to Pigsy’s Noodles, home of the longest noodles.”

At that, Tang has to snort. He saunters over to the barstools and sits as Pigsy goes back behind the counter, into the kitchen.

“I don’t know if long is the metric you want to brag about,” he snarks, settling easily.

Pigsy grunts in reply, already back to cooking.

Two minutes later, Tang gets a bowl of noodles placed in front of him.

“On the house,” Pigsy grouches, before Tang even thinks to reach into his coin purse. “For the trouble.”

“That doesn’t seem like a very sound business practice,” Tang laughs, taking a sip of the broth after it cools a little.

It was the best he had ever tasted.

“Don’t get any ideas about it.” Pigsy fidgets with his chef’s hat, face settling into a scowl, and yet Tang can tell it was all bluster with no substance.

He pulls a pair of chopsticks out of the free container, snaps them apart, and eats as customers flit in and out of the shop.

Despite the fact that he never stays in one place for too long, Tang finds himself sticking around more than just a few weeks, trailing through the streets and eventually finding himself back at the noodle shop. The noodles are delicious, cheap, and he finds the company of the chef a comfortable one.

Things get far more interesting when the delivery boy, MK, comes down late and gets an earful for it.

“Sorry—I stayed up late drawing the autobiography of Monkey King and I missed my alarm!” MK bows in apology, frantic, and Pigsy runs a hand over his face, pointing MK to a dirty table to clean.

MK gets to work quickly, but Tang turns to him with a curious expression.

“You like Monkey King?” he asks, and he hears Pigsy groan from the kitchen.

“Here we go,” Pigsy mutters, but he does nothing to stop MK from turning to face Tang with a wide, blinding smile on his face.

“Do I! He’s so cool, and strong, and handsome, and interesting! I’ve watched the animated series like, fifteen times!” he rushes up to Tang, pushing a very worn, bound together book.

Tang flips through it, more out of politeness than anything else, and finds himself pleasantly surprised by the intricacy of the sketches, the love poured into pages, notes on the stories themselves scrawled out next to the drawings.

“This is...surprisingly accurate,” He glances over at MK, who preens at the praise.

“Thanks! I’ve been drawing these, since, like, forever! It’s going to be Monkey King’s autobiography. Uh, unofficially, anyway,” MK rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. Tang pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“It’s always nice to see the younger generation so interested in history,” Tang grins with pride as he adds, “You know, I know essentially every Monkey King story. I even wrote an academic paper on them. Published.”

He watches MK’s excitement grow. “Really?! Oh my gosh, that’s so cool! Can you tell me one? Pretty please?!” He’s bouncing on his toes, and Tang can’t help but chuckle.

“I could tell you a tale or two,” he starts, watching as the shine in MK’s eyes grow. “But I need something in return. A bowl of noodles, perhaps?”

MK’s smile drops, and he fidgets.

“I don’t know if I have the money…” he mumbles, mostly to himself, and then he turns to Pigsy, a question in his eyes.

“No,” Pigsy says, immediately.

Tang has never seen someone use puppy dog eyes like a weapon before, but MK pulls them off like a pro.

MK’s hands are clasped together. “Please?”

“I got bills to pay, kid! I can’t be giving free meals to strangers!”

“Well, I’m hardly a stranger,” Tang teases, smile widening when Pigsy reddens. “We met yesterday, remember~?”

“Shut yer yap,” Pigsy grinds out, but Tang has seen Pigsy far angrier, from his reconnaissance days at the shop across the street, so he isn’t worried.

Pigsy turns back to MK, mouth clearly open to rebuff the kid, but MK’s puppy dog eyes have been turned up past 100%. Tang watches as Pigsy crumbles beneath their gaze.

“Fine,” he grits it out between clenched teeth. “But this is a one time thing! I don’t have time for freeloaders around here. And not now! I got ten orders to make, that you have to take out,” he points to MK, who is nodding his head so quickly his face becomes a blur.

“Okay! So, in like an hour, okay Mr.Tang?” he turns to Tang, who grins, calm as ever.

“I’ll be here,” he responds, voice even, and MK busies himself with cleaning up the tables before Pigsy hands him the orders.

When MK disappears, Pigsy sighs.

“You know, pretty sure it’s rude to use kids to get free food,” he says, and Tang can only chuckle again.

“I’m not sure what you mean. I’ve used my knowledge to score many a meal before, this is no different. You’d be surprised what people will give for an interesting story.”

Pigsy snorts, at that, and rolls his eyes.“You a good storyteller, at least?” he asks, and Tang puffs out his chest proudly.

“The best.” After all, his papers got him a pretty good amount of wealth, so he’d hope he’s good enough to earn that.

Pigsy turns back to his prep work, shaking his head, but Tang sees the barest hint of a smile, before Pigsy turns away.

Despite protests from Pigsy, Tang comes back the next day with another story and receives the same free bowl of noodles. He doesn’t get noodles every day, not stupid enough to think that Pigsy could afford to give him one daily, but he appears at the noodle shop every day regardless, if only to watch the hustle and bustle of the place, watch Pigsy work.

Pigsy works with practiced motions, not a single measuring cup or spoon appearing in his hand. Pinches, handfuls of colorful spices thrown in with fresh vegetables. Tang watches him string out the noodles from fresh made dough, dropping them in the broth, stirring, always test tasting, constantly adding something else, another pinch of spice, until he’s only somewhat satisfied.

It’s a familiar feeling. The need to constantly make better, the chase for perfection. Is it any wonder, then, that Pigsy’s shop thrives? Customers learn that deliveries are often better than eating in, because Pigsy’s attitude is abrasive and he’s loud in the kitchen. Regardless, he runs a big enough business and makes good money, enough to keep MK as an employee despite MK’s many missteps.

Tang learns, through snippets of conversations, that MK lives upstairs. Pigsy gave him the job and the room. MK doesn’t talk of his parents, or any of his family really, but he has a friend, Mei.

Mei is as loud as MK is, and she’s familiar in the same way Pigsy. These people he meets at the noodle shop who come for company just like he does, lives slotting into each other with ease. Talking to them is like picking up a conversation left off a thousand years ago, stumbling only for a second before falling into the familiar groove.

Tang slowly learns the group dynamic, learns that MK’s parents haven’t spoken to him since he was kicked out, that Mei stays as far away from her home as she can for as long as possible, that Pigsy has nothing to his name besides his shop and himself.

Sees the family, the foundation, centered around the little hole in the wall restaurant, and keeps himself rooted, just for a little while.

The shop is closed every third Sunday of the month. That is the only day that it is consistently closed. Pigsy works seven days a week, twelve hours a day, without fail, except for that third Sunday. Tang forgets, one month, and catches Pigsy heading out in the early morning.

“What, forgot you can’t steal food today?” Pigsy greets him with a frown that softens into something like a smile.

“Maybe I don’t come for the food,” is Tang’s snappy reply, and he watches with satisfaction as Pigsy pauses, thinks, and then turns a dusty rose color.

Turns out, Pigsy’s ears blush with his cheeks. “Anyway, going on a walk? I might join you,” he turns.

Pigsy stares at him, as if he can’t tell if Tang is serious or not, before he sticks his hands in his pockets and starts walking. “I’m going shopping. Don’t get in my way,” is the response, and Tang takes it for the acceptance of the company that it is, and catches up to Pigsy with ease, stepping in time with him.

The perks of having long legs.

Tang watches as Pigsy charges his way into the market, eyes sharp for the best ingredients, the ripest vegetables—or, the vegetables soon to be ripe, to save for the later weeks. He gets a practiced amount for every ingredient that goes into his food.

“Have to get the meat weekly, but the produce can last if I make it,” Pigsy explains, and Tang nods.

“That makes sense. I never notice a drop in quality, regardless of the week,” he comments.

Pigsy rolls his eyes. “Pretty sure anything tastes great to a freeloader,” he grumbles.

“I’ll have you know I have a refined palette,” Tang huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

Pigsy laughs then, raucous and loud, a sound Tang has never heard from him before. His heart pitter-patters quickly in his chest, and he thanks everything that his scarf hides his face and that Pigsy is short enough to not be able to spot his blush.

“Okay, wise guy,” Pigsy’s voice draws him back in. “You ever cooked yourself a meal before, then?” He elbows Tang gently, or as gentle as Pigsy is able to be, and Tang stumbles a bit before replying.

“Well…,” his voice alludes to the obvious answer, and Pigsy laughs at him all over again.

Tang decides he likes the sound.

A few months after Tang has cemented his spot at the noodle bar, Pigsy goes to usher him out of the shop one evening as he closes for the night and stops, right before heading up the stairs. He turns to Tang with an unplacable look.

“Where are you even staying?” Pigsy asks. “Not a resident, I think I’d’ve noticed a newcomer that was moving in.”

Tang shrugs at the thought. “Wherever.”

Typically, he’ll head out to a busy bar and ingratiate himself to someone, convince them to let him join their party, and sleep on a random couch. He’s always gone before anyone wakes up, to be sure he misses the questions that would come from the house’s inhabitants. If he can’t manage that, well, he’s not above sleeping on a bench somewhere. It isn’t cold out yet, so he doesn’t worry about it.

Tang very well could get an apartment, with the amount of money he has saved. He could, but then he’d be trapped.

He’d have to say that he’s settling down, that a place is going to become home. And no place has really been home, not since his parents died and he walked through empty hallways and empty rooms that once meant something and now meant nothing to anyone besides himself. He’d sold the house, stored the memories away, burned the rest and ran before the smoke cleared.

How could he stay, when there was nothing left? He’d settled in for the long hall, cemented himself as something soft like the earth, and then it had been ripped away from him like roots, tearing up the soil and leaving a mess in its wake.

So he became stone, and left without a word.

Pigsy stares at him, something almost like concern on his face. Tang watches Pigsy’s eyes glance up towards the stairs, and then back to him. Deliberating. Tang tilts his head to the side, ever curious about the concern. He knows Pigsy cares, and he knows Pigsy, beyond the gruff exterior, is pretty soft, but he’s surprised by this development. He didn’t think that care would be extended to, in Pigsy’s words, a freeloader.

Then, Pigsy sighs.

“I’ve got a couch, if you’re interested,” he says, and Tang

Tang just follows Pigsy up to his apartment. There’s a hallway at the top of the stairs, a door they pass by that Tang can hear pop music playing in.

“MK’s place,” Pigsy says, before Tang can ever ask the question.

They reach Pigsy’s apartment door, at the end of the hall, and head in.

It’s a cluttered space. Well, everything save for the kitchen is cluttered. The kitchen is pristine, so much so that the rest of the apartment pales in comparison. It’s not dirty, there’s no trash or dishes left out, but there are just random items, magazines, cookbooks strewn about the rest of the living space.

“Sorry about the mess.” Pigsy says as he pulls off his chef’s hat and coat, hanging it up by the door. He takes off his dress shoes, and pulls out a pair of slippers from a bin, putting them to walk on the carpet. He glances back at Tang expectantly. Tang pulls off his scarf and hangs it up.

“It’s no problem. I wasn’t an expected guest, I’m guessing?”

Tang takes off his shoes and pulls a pair of slippers from the bin. He isn’t surprised by the kitchen being clean, but he is a bit confused by the clutter. Pigsy takes care to keep his work space pristine, scrubbing it to sparking at the end of each work day. Perhaps this is a product of that, and Pigsy just is too tired to care as much in a space that is more his than it is his profession.

Somehow, that makes Tang concerned. He can’t pinpoint why.

Pigsy pulls off the random items from the couch, throwing them aside but scattering them further. He grunts in response to the rhetorical question.

“I’m gonna get a pillow and blanket. Don’t break anything.” Pigsy trudges off, and Tang looks at the clutter, and then at the perfectly good, half empty bookshelf.

By the time Pigsy gets back, Tang is sliding the last book onto the shelf. There’s still the other items that are less easy to categorize, but Tang would be remiss if he left perfectly good reading material to collect dust on the floor.

Pigsy opens his mouth to say something, and then abruptly closes it. He tosses the pillow and blanket on the couch.

“Uh...bathroom’s down the hall on your left. Night.”

Then, he vanishes into his room.

Tang finishes cleaning, and then goes to bed himself.

It becomes part of the routine. Pigsy never demands he come upstairs, but he never shuts the door on Tang, either, and Tang will never shoot down a free place to stay. Pigsy gets used to him, even. Sees Tang sitting on the couch, makes dinner, hands Tang a plate whatever it is and drops down on the couch to watch TV.

If it isn’t making fun of trash TV, Pigsy screams at cooking shows.

“You can’t just throw onion in it and expect it to work out!” he shouts.

Tang laughs. “Very bold from the guy who only serves one type of dish.”

Pigsy turns red. “I can make other food!” The argument is sound.

“I know,” Tang assures him, taking a bite of the steak salad Pigsy prepared. It’s the best he’s ever tasted. “You just choose not to, which I don’t understand. Why only noodles?”

The question throws Pigsy off guard, and Tang waits patiently for him to collect his thoughts. Finally, Pigsy sighs.

“They’re what I like to eat, I guess. Besides, if I made a full scale restaurant, I’d hafta get more cooks, hire waiters, ugh,” Pigsy looks disgusted just thinking about it. “The kitchen’s my place, I don’t trust any two bit cook to get it. I mean, just look at the ones on TV!”

He gestures to the television, as if Tang hasn’t been watching. Tang nods, glances at the screen anyway. “I like how the shop is. It’s small, but it’s good. Bigger doesn’t mean better.”

At that, Tang has to laugh. “You would think that,” he responds, and at Pigsy’s confused look, he gestures to Pigsy’s stature.

“Shut up,” Pigsy says with a blush. Tang can’t stop laughing, and Pigsy cracks a smile.

Living with Pigsy, Tang finds out, means dealing with all of Pigsy. This includes the moments where Pigsy can no longer keep a lid on his already hair-thin temper.

The clutter of the house suddenly makes sense when he comes up to the apartment to see Pigsy throwing books around the room, raging face red and pained and furious in a way Tang has never seen before.

“Bastards!” Pigsy shouts, voice hoarse.

He’s been clearly shouting for a while. His knuckles are bruised, and Tang spots a few dents in the wall.

“I’ll kill em! I-,” He freezes, upon seeing Tang standing by the door.

Tang watches as Pigsy reigns in his rage, somehow, forcing his shoulders to drop, standing up straight, letting out a breath. It looks painful.

“I see something’s bothering you,” Tang comments, direct and gentle as one can be when trying to talk to someone on the precipice of blind rage, as Pigsy breathes heavily.

“Leave.” Pigsy spits it out with a vitriol that is not aimed at Tang, but at something Tang isn’t a part of.

Tang knows this, and he won’t let Pigsy drown in it. He stands still, as the storm rages in blue eyes.

“No,” he is stone, hands clasped together. Pigsy grits his teeth, clenches his fists. The wave rises and crashes down.

“GET OUT!”

It’s loud enough to make Tang wince, but he doesn’t flinch.

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

At that, Pigsy goes boneless, slumping down on himself. Tang steps forward, carefully, quietly, and directs Pigsy to the untouched couch.

Untouched because it’s Tang’s bed, Tang’s space. Because Pigsy would only destroy himself and his things, would only rage at the things he deems worthy, and Tang wonders, why does Pigsy think himself worthy of this hatred, the anger that sits in Pigsy’s heart?

Pigsy sinks into the cushions. Tang takes his bruised hands and holds them, letting Pigsy breathe.

“MK’s folks,” Pigsy finally spits out. “They found out the kid’s got a good job and an okay place, and now they want a cut of his earnings.”

The tone of Pigsy’s voice is nothing short of derisive, and Tang understands the fury now. It’s funny, that he knows Pigsy enough to tell the difference between rage that’s performative and fury that’s real, but it’s not that hard for him.

Fury like this comes from care, and there is no one Pigsy cares more about than MK. MK, the boy with the sunshine smile who likes Monkey King and drawing and will work himself to death for anyone’s approval.

“I’d have told em to shove it, but MK’s got a soft heart, and they told him it was paying back for all the trouble they had raising him.” Pigsy laughs, and it’s very, very bitter. “Like they raised him. Mei probably was a better parent than they were, and she’s his age. Bastards.”

Tang swallows the information, takes a deep breath. He wouldn’t consider himself easily angered, but this? This makes him furious. He doesn’t express his fury like Pigsy does, isn’t destructive, is cold and quiet and deadly. But he saves that for later, for when he can look up MK’s parents and figure out how to ruin them when it comes to their jobs, their social standings, their lives.

“Technically, that could be charged as harassment,” he suggests.

Pigsy snorts at that, at least.

“Yeah, but MK’s only 17. He’s turning 18 in a few months, but until then they could drag him back, charge me with kidnapping, ruin his whole life just because he isn’t their fucking lap dog,” The rage returns, and Tang watches as Pigsy carefully clenches his fists, as if he were too quick about it he could hurt Tang.

It strikes Tang, then, that he has never been afraid that Pigsy would hit him. It never crossed his mind. Because how could it?

“I’m gonna commit a felony,” Pigsy mutters.

Tang snickers. “I’ll drive,” he responds.

Pigsy looks up at him, and Tang hopes the expression on his face bleeds the sincerity he feels.

“As if I’d let you anywhere near the driver’s seat of my car,” Pigsy smirks as he says it, and he relaxes a bit more, the anger draining out of him like water through a sieve.

Tang wasn’t aware that he was tense himself, but he relaxes a bit, too.

“But you’ll get blood on the steering wheel. And besides, it’s no fun not having a criminal record. I ought to start it sometime, right?”

“You don’t know anything about me, if you think this’ll be the beginning of my record,” Pigsy half laughs.

Tang shrugs. “You’re right. But, I’d like to.”

Pigsy looks up at him, then, the red in his face smoothing to something dusty and rosy and beautiful. Tang looks away first. “But, first, you need some ice and bandages for your hands.” He gets up to grab it.

When he comes back, Pigsy tells him all about the boy who would come in with exact change for the cheapest bowl of noodles, once a week every Friday. How the boy would ramble on and on about everything, and Pigsy would listen out of politeness, and somehow that turned to a fondness he couldn’t shake. How that boy came rushing in, half soaked in the rain, hiding out just for the moment before he was going to keep running. How Pigsy had thrown caution to the wind and moved mountains to get the kid to stay.

Tang listens, disinfecting the areas on Pigsy’s knuckles that are cut instead of just being bruised. He wraps them, gentle, and places ice on both. Even then, he doesn’t let go of the hands, lets them settle in his grip like they’d always belonged there.

“You’re a kind person, you know,” he says, when Pigsy is done. And he means it, too, thinking of MK alone on the streets, thinking of MK turning out like he did but without the funds to support him, a drifter with nothing and no one. It makes his stomach churn.

“Nah,” Pigsy shrugs his shoulders. “Just had a lot of time to get into practice with it.”

He doesn’t elaborate. Tang lets the conversation end, and turns on the TV. He cleans up the room when Pigsy falls asleep.

Pigsy makes him noodles the next day, without comment. Tang smiles and eats.

A lot of people miscategorize Pigsy as fire. Tang would like to propose a different point of view.

When he sees Pigsy, he sees the sea.

The ocean is never calm, but it can fall into a rhythm. Small waves, rippling waters. Crashing against the obstacle that is land, constantly pushing, constantly trying, constantly moving.

Pigsy will rage like a storm, he will shine like water in the sun, and he will fall into a rhythm as he works. He will push back against the rock that is indifference, and, like the ocean, he surrounds anything and everything, connecting every person he comes into contact with, as if they were the continents themselves. He ebbs and flows, forcing himself into the issues that plagues those he cares about, and yet pulls back and gives them space, never demanding anything other than their time, if they could give it.

The ocean is not harsh, nor is it merciful, but it is a force of nature all the same. And, if you weather its storms, it will carry you wherever you need to go.

And Tang sees a man who gives MK a reason to stick around when all MK wanted to do is run, Tang sees a man who never lets Mei skip a meal regardless of her status and wealth, Tang sees a man that makes sure Tang has a warm and safe place to stay, and sees the ocean carrying battered ships to shore.

Learning about MK’s family has opened up certain topics. Tang knows it’s only a matter of time before Pigsy asks about his life. That doesn’t stop him from stiffening, from going stone faced, when Pigsy finally brings it up.

“I don’t hear you talk about your folks,” Pigsy mentions offhandedly.

When he turns around and sees the expression on Tang’s face, he frowns.

“No,” Tang responds.

He says nothing else. Pigsy doesn’t press. Just turns back to making dinner. And Tang stares at his reflection in the teacup. He takes a sip. It burns his tongue, but he doesn’t feel it.

“They died. Nearly two years, now,” he finally says, and it’s like dropping a weight off of his shoulders.

Pigsy grunts in acknowledgment. Doesn’t give him the sad stare, the ‘oh I’m so sorry’, he just glances back with something softer than pity and closer to empathy.

Somehow, it lessens the dull ache in his chest.

“They good ones?” Pigsy asks.

Tang smiles, just a little. “Yes,” he breathes, and it hitches, thinking about how they pushed him forward, how they never demanded but always encouraged. Tang wasn’t good at making friends, not close ones anyway. But that never mattered, because his parents were there.

And now…

“Mine are gone too,” Pigsy says, after some time and mostly as an afterthought. “It ain’t easy, dealing with it.”

Tang huffs a wet laugh, pushing up his glasses to wipe his eyes.“No, it isn’t,” He responds.

Pigsy slides a bowl yanduxian soup, with some some skewers of meat, and sugar coated haws for dessert. Quite the array of a meal. Pigsy sits across from him, and starts in on his own meal.

Tang eats. It’s the best he’s ever tasted, as always.

Looking up at Pigsy, something in his chest warms. He thinks about his parents and it doesn’t hurt as much as it used to.

“I think they’d have liked you, if you’d met them,” he says, softer than he feels, because he’s never said anything about love but this is as close as he can get.

Pigsy looks up, cheeks glowing, and he smiles and Tang melts, just a little.

The apartment becomes lived in. During one of their shopping trips, Pigsy gets Tang a different outfit, muttering something about Tang needing something to wear when his clothes are being washed. Two outfits becomes three, becomes four, all hung up right beside Pigsy’s sleep shirts and chef coats. Tang gets his own toothbrush.

He buys himself books and they fill up the empty space on the bookshelves. He buys alcohol, stores it in Pigsy’s fridge and laughs off the comments about his poor taste in baijiu. He was never one to settle in, he never thought he could again, but slowly Pigsy’s apartment becomes their apartment and the change in his mind as he thinks of it leaves him wide eyed and spiraling.

Pigsy takes it all in stride, greeting Tang in the morning with something on his face that looks...pleased? Tang doesn’t understand it, and yet it makes his face feel warm when he thinks about it.

The winter months roll in, because while they have a weather tower to regulate weather it does not mean that they can ignore the need for seasons, and the apartment becomes colder.

“Do you not have A/C?” he curls up tight, beneath his blanket, and still shivers.

Pigsy rolls his eyes. “Maybe if you didn’t freeload all the time, I could afford to use it!”

Later, Tang will find this all as a facade. He knows Pigsy would never blame him for being without the funds to pay for heating. In fact, the noodle shop does better in the winter months, because of the desire for warm, filling food to combat the chill. He will later find out that Pigsy forgoes the A/C in his apartment to save up money to give MK a yearly Christmas bonus, both as a present and so MK can heat up his room.

In the moment, however, he just turns away with a huff.

Pigsy sighs. “The bed’s warmer,” he says.

Tang stares, blankly, until it finally hits him what Pigsy is suggesting. “Why, you cad! Trying to bed me when we’ve barely courted!” He leans back on the couch dramatically.

“Shut up!” Pigsy looks very flustered, and Tang grins, leading Pigsy to snap some more. “You were the one complaining about being cold!”

Tang sips his tea, and shrugs. Pigsy turns back to dinner to hide his blushing face.

That night, he moves to sleep in Pigsy’s bed. It’s a pretty large one, it isn’t as if there isn’t room for the both of them. The move is purely practical, after all.

Pigsy sleeps in a tank top and boxers. Tang wonders if the tank top is for his sake. They both get in the bed very stiff, neither wanting to acknowledge what’s happening. Tang curls up under covers, back to Pigsy. The bedroom is indeed warmer. Tang imagines the small heater sitting in the corner is likely the reason.

He turns his head. Pigsy is already asleep, trails of light from the outside signs segmenting his face. He’s snoring. He looks calm.

Tang stares for longer than he thinks he should, before he lets his eyes slide shut.

It becomes routine.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As whole, as Tang reminisces on the moments bringing him to his position, he’s quite glad he decided to stick around. It’s a strange place, this city, full of danger and mystery, now that MK is the monkie kid, now that the demons are free, but at the same time little has changed, and that is something Tang can appreciate. Every morning he settles at the noodle shop and lets life continue, predictable, comfortable.

And maybe that’s his mistake. That he thinks he can coast forever. The sea is many things, but predictable is not one of them.

The downfall starts when Mei mentions that one of her aunts has been trying speed dating.

“She made the mistake of signing up for the straight couple’s night. She told me that when she realized, she left faster than the speed date itself!” Mei taps her fingers on the noodle bar, giggling along with MK at the thought.

“Speed dating doesn’t make sense. I mean, how can you figure out if you like someone in a minute?” MK crosses his arms over his chest and ponders.

“Well, I’m pretty sure I knew I liked you in sixty seconds,” Mei boops Mk on the nose, and he laughs, before making a face. There’s a mixture of emotions there—disgust, confusion, fear?

“Yeah, but that’s different. We’re friends,” he stresses that last word, looking at Mei expectantly. “Just friends.”

“Well, duh! I was just saying,” Mei rolls her eyes.

Tang watches the tension roll out of MK like a breeze. He wonders...but will never waste an opportunity to snark, so he sets the thoughts aside for a moment and leans back on the counter.

“I’m sure I could charm anyone in sixty seconds. Where is this happening, exactly?” he asks.

Mei gives him a look. “I’m pretty sure speed dating isn’t for people who are already taken,” she tells him, and Tang blinks, confusion painting his features.

“What do you mean?” he asks.He jumps when Pigsy’s knife slams hard against the wood of the cutting board, harder than normal.

Tang frowns. “Pigsy, you alright?”

“Peachy,” Pigsy growls out, from the kitchen.

Tang stares, before shrugging it off. Pigsy’s moods aren’t entirely predictable, after all, and it isn’t as if anything terrible has happened today. Pigsy’s cooking smells as heavenly as ever.

He turns back to Mei and MK, but they’re disappearing out the door, MK with the next batch of deliveries in hand. Tang tilts his head to the side in confusion, before shrugging.

Oh well.

Pigsy is still stilted, when they head upstairs that night. He’s quiet during dinner, quiet after dinner, and instead of watching TV he goes back to the kitchen to make a dessert. Tang follows, sitting at the kitchen island, watching how Pigsy shuffles about, glancing occasionally at a recipe. Cocoa powder, flour, eggs, different ingredients come out. The oven is preheated.

“Something’s clearly bothering you,” Tang says, finally.

Pigsy stiffens. Runs a hand down his face. Sighs.

He keeps working, throws the dessert in the oven, sets a careful timer.

Tang waits, and waits.

The kitchen is silent, save for the ambience.

“What is this, Tang?” Pigsy’s voice is hard, hands resting on the kitchen counter, shoulders hunched as he finally speaks up. He sounds exhausted, from days and days of work. Tang frowns. “You steal food from my shop, you sleep in my house—you live with me, for pete’s sake, you—what is this that we have?”

And Tang, Tang doesn’t know what to say.

“Is this even something?”

He’s basked in the freedom to be himself, with Pigsy. A label defines, a label makes you inseparable. Tang comes and goes as he pleases, he doesn’t get pinned down, he’s one and alone, with Pigsy by his side.

He has called himself a ‘father figure’ to MK, but that is inherently different. There’s a degree of separation, with that label. He can still leave, and MK will not be too bereft. MK has others, Tang is just one. Pigsy wants more than that, he doesn’t want the separation, and Tang is always unsure.

“I just—” And there’s something quiet and breaking in Pigsy’s voice.

Tang says nothing.

“Whatever you want from me, Tang, you have it. I’ll-I’ll give you everything, just—”

Blue eyes, like the constant tide of the ocean, meet earth in Tang’s brown ones.

Tang is afraid he could erode.

If he stayed.

What would he become, if he shifted his foundation?

“Is there a point to this?” Pigsy asks. “Or am I just something you keep around? To say you have one?”

Tang knows that he is a man of words, of stories, knows he is Triptaka, is Tang Sanzang, and myriad others placed in the body of a single man, knows he has more knowledge in an inch of his brain than most gain in their entire lives, but he has nothing to say now.

His thoughts halt at the wounded expression on Pigsy’s face.

More than just anger and softer than just hurt, settled between an aching heart and a broken one.

“I…,” he starts, and then his mouth clicks shut, because he is, before and now, a coward eventually.

Whether he is captured by demons or putting his foot down against others’ bad behavior, he falters. And he is terrified, because the swell of his heart, the affection that warms him enough to burn, is too much to bear, to articulate.

So instead, he says nothing at all.

And he knows he’s erred, because Pigsy turns his back as the timer dings.

He pulls the set of mini cakes from the oven, sets them down on the counter with forced gentleness. Tang flinches at the harsh bang of the oven closing. Watches Pigsy’s chest rise and fall with harsh breaths that hitch with an emotion Tang can’t place, before Pigsy swallows, steels himself, stills. Clenches his fists as if readying himself for a fight. Tang doesn’t know what the battle is, wonders what side he’s on.

“Forget it.” He hears, finally, and Tang feels his heart jump in his throat.

The words sound like a relent, like something giving way. It strikes him like a spear through the chest, and he suddenly finds it hard to breathe.

The mini cakes cool in a few minutes, but it may as well be hours with how silent and still the kitchen is, and Pigsy sets one on a plate for Tang, placing it in front of him with a fork. Chocolate lava cake, something Tang had mentioned off handedly as an interesting dessert to try. Of course Pigsy remembered. Why wouldn’t he?

Pigsy vanishes into his room. The door slams shut. Tang eats.

It’s the best he’s ever tasted, like always.

He sleeps on the couch. It’s cold.

Pigsy doesn’t open the shop, the next day. Tang leaves early in the morning, before breakfast, to give him some space, and comes back from his leisurely morning walk to a closed sign hanging on the door. Unlike the last time, MK waves at Tang, hopping down the stairs excitedly. Pigsy gave him the day off, because Pigsy isn’t feeling well, apparently.

Tang sees the worried lines in MK’s expression and promises he will make sure Pigsy is okay. MK runs off, to meet Mei at the arcade, and Tang heads up the stairs. He passes MK’s apartment door and stands in front of Pigsy’s door.

He knocks.

“Pigsy?” He calls, loud enough that he can’t be missed. “It’s me. Can I come in?”

Silence.

Tang doesn’t know how to handle rejection, didn’t think it possible, from Pigsy. In the two years they’ve known each other, he has never been rebuffed. Has never been told, in no uncertain terms, to leave. Pigsy has shouted it without heat, before, but it has never rang true.

He stands outside the door for twenty minutes, trying to swallow something akin to fear crawling up his chest, as he slowly realizes the door isn’t going to open. He waits another ten minutes after that, processing the realization, the pain in his chest.

“Alright,” He says, finally, and he prays Pigsy doesn’t hear how his voice shakes. “Get well soon. I’ll see you in the shop.”

He should demand to be let in. He should kick down the door, do something. Be bold, be brave, courageous.

But he never was a fighter, so he turns on his heel, and leaves what is left of their relationship on the welcome mat.

He walks through the city, again, because he has nothing better to do now. There is no comfort from stepping into the noodle shop and feeling like home. There is no barstool with his name on it, no random bowl of noodles appearing at his seat inconspicuously, no begging for a story from MK, no fond looks from blue eyes in the kitchen.

Tang had settled into routines and expectations. The rug has been pulled from beneath his feet as he tries to grasp the idea that the comforts have crashed into dysfunction. He tracks every minute of the two years he’s spent here, tries to trace the beginning of the end like a true crime investigator, and still, he can’t decipher why the equilibrium shattered.

Change is a product of existence, Comes a memory from his days as a monk. You must let life flow like a river, accepting the directions it will take.

But Tang isn’t a monk anymore, and he is not flowing like a river or any such nonsense that sounds far more like what Sandy would say. He is analytical, he is intelligent, he is knowledgeable. Despite all of that, he is stumped by this situation, by what he is to do.

The answer, of course, is the simplest, but Tang is pretending not to be ignoring it, because acknowledging the solution means making a choice he can’t undo. To decide if he wants this to be set in stone. Can he tie himself down like this, can he make that choice to stay, forever if it comes to it?

At the same time, hasn’t he already? Just a day without being able to go into the noodle shop leaves him aimless. A day without Pigsy and he is lost, without much to do or see. He has centered himself about the warm air of noodles and the gruff smile of the chef making them.

And that is so, so terrifying. When you give everything, when someone is your everything, what happens when they leave? He’s dealt with that enough with his parents, and to become a pair, to be a part of something, he doesn’t think he has the strength for it.

But Pigsy gives and gives, and promised Tang everything, if only Tang would stay. And Tang is a coward, but not enough to ruin something so simple, so kind, and so honest.

He makes a decision, and heads to the bank.

The next day, the noodle shop opens. Tang is there when it does, settling into his barstool without fanfare. He follows Pigsy’s movements with sharp eyes, notes the rumpled form of his shirt, how his pants aren’t tucked into his dress shoes, how his feet shuffle against the tile instead of stomping with purpose. Pigsy moves slow, turns to look at Tang and has bags under his eyes—or could they be red from crying? Tang isn’t sure.

His heart aches, as Pigsy regards him with something like heartbreak. Pigsy says nothing, turns back to his work, and Tang watches.

Step one.

He heads to the market between the lunch and dinner rushes, picks out the ingredients from memory. He’s walked with Pigsy enough times to know what it is that he has to get. He comes back to the shop with an armful of grocery bags, heading upstairs to their apartment. Pigsy never locks it during the workday, and Tang uses that fact and knowledge to his advantage.

He has no idea how to do this, but he chops the vegetables and meat and sets the water to boil. Brings forth the memories of two years of watching Pigsy make the same thing over and over, and maybe looks up a recipe or two on his phone for reference.

By the time Pigsy comes upstairs, when the shop closes, it’s ready. Tang pours the servings into two bowls, and nearly jumps and drops everything when the door opens.

“Welcome home,” he says, braver than he feels.

Pigsy stares at him, at the bowl of steaming broth, and sets his chef’s hat on its hook. He pulls off his shoes, puts up his chef’s coat, leaving him in a t-shirt and slacks.

Tang watches Pigsy’s movements instead of thinking about how to approach the situation. He gets a little distracted, until Pigsy hops up onto one of the island chairs, pulling a bowl towards himself. Tang sits across from him, waiting for Pigsy to take a sip.

Pigsy takes the chopsticks offered, as well as the spoon. He takes a sip. His face remains carefully neutral.

Tang takes a sip a few moments after. He promptly sputters into his bowl, and laughs.

“God, this is terrible!” he can’t stop laughing, and he can see a smile peeking at the edges of Pigsy’s mouth. “I tried to make it like yours, but I guess I’m coming up short,” he glances at Pigsy, looks him up and down.

Pigsy’s face is dusted with a pleased blush. “Shaddup. And hey, it ain’t worse than my first attempt at cooking.”

Tang snorts at that one. “I doubt that. But, do tell. I don’t think you’ve ever told me why you decided to become a cook in the first place, anyway.”

This is the start. Tang makes Pigsy a meal, and Pigsy tells him a story.

That night, he sleeps next Pigsy, like usual, and traces the way the moonlight sets upon Pigsy’s face. He needs to do more. He needs to be more, and he’s pretty sure financial support would be somewhat helpful, so he schemes.

Step two.

A few days later, as the air between them settles into something like normal, he appears one afternoon, change in his pocket and bills in his wallet.

“A bowl of noodles, please.” He sets the money on the counter. It’s enough for at least three bowls of noodles, but that’s by design.

“Keep the change.” He evene winks, like it’s a joke

Pigsy eyes the money and then gets the most offended look on his face, as expected. Before he can make a move to either argue or even respond, Tang pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and explains.

“Didn’t you know? This month is my charity month. I go to different establishments and pay to keep them afloat.”

Pigsy rolls his eyes. “Pshh, I don’t need your charity to keep this place runnin’! Pigsy’s Noodles is a thriving establishment,” he rebuffs.

“So you’re refusing my service?” Tang responds, like a challenge.

He raises a brow, and watches as Pigsy gets redder and redder.

“One bowl of noodles, coming right up,” Pigsy manages through gritted teeth.

Tang hides a laugh behind his hand as Pigsy scoops up the money and grumbles, shoving two of the bills into the cash register and one into the tip jar.

Because MK had been bemoaning a lack of sketchbook paper, a lack of money for replacing such, and just like every time MK talks about something he wants, off handed or to complain because that’s how he deals, Pigsy will take some of the money that should go to the shop into the tip jar when MK doesn’t look, smiling to himself when MK excitedly realizes that, thanks to the tip jar, he can get what it was he thought he couldn’t—

Because Pigsy gives and gives and gives, pieces of himself scattered across and holding together the people he’s chosen to keep close, regardless if Pigsy is the one who ends up falling apart in the end, and Tang wants to fill up the spaces that Pigsy has lost from his generosity.

Tang takes his bowl of noodles and smirks, like he’s won. That night, when they’re sitting on the couch and watching TV, Pigsy leans his head on Tang’s shoulder.

“You coulda just said you wanted to start payin’ rent,” he mutters.

Tang snickers. “Where’s the fun in that? You got so red, I thought you were going to become a tomato.”

At that, Pigsy sits up.

“I’ll show you a tomato—c’mere!”

Maybe it’s a bit dangerous to challenge someone who knows all of your ticklish spots. Tang laughs until he cries, and concedes to Pigsy’s victory.

Step three doesn’t really register. He doesn’t think about it, because the first two steps have brought him back into that comfortable routine. Maybe he might have fallen into the same bad habits, if not for his hyperawareness of Pigsy’s moods in the following weeks. He doesn’t want to miss something, like he did before. He wants to be attentive, be kind.

He wants Pigsy to never again think of or ask the questions he did, that night. He wants Pigsy to know, immediately, what they are. Even if Tang is afraid to define it.

It’s a typical day at the shop, but Pigsy is a bit more tired than normal. Some days, this happens. Pigsy would never hire another chef, even though he has enough business to afford it, and being the only cook in a bustling restaurant means little breaks and consistent exhaustion.

Tang still makes them dinner, most nights. He tries a new recipe each day, because why not? Pigsy takes to each one like a food critic, and his descriptions have Tang in stitches every time—

“I never thought you could turn broccoli into soup.”

“Okay, so I cooked it too long!”

“You liquified a vegetable! Without blending! That’s like...did you use magic on this? Tang, did you use magic on this.”

—He’s not a very good cook, yet, but Pigsy eats anything he makes anyway.

Today, Pigsy is already tired, and he clearly doesn’t have the energy to deal with an annoying customer.

He has to anyways.

“This isn’t what I ordered last time! I ordered your original noodle bowl two weeks ago, and it tasted far better than this!” The irate woman slams her empty bowl on the counter.

Tang wonders if she understands the irony of complaining about a meal she finished.

“Ma’am, I make every bowl of noodles the same. I’m the only cook here. You either ordered somethin’ else, or your taste buds changed in two weeks.” Pigsy isn’t polite to customers like these, but Tang has to commend him for holding back, for still calling her ‘Ma’am’. Tang has a few different names he’d call her.

“I know what I ordered, and my tastebuds didn’t change. You clearly made it wrong! I demand a refund immediately!” She shouts in his face.

Pigsy goes from pink to red. “Look, lady, you finished your meal. I ain’t giving you back the money for shit you ate.” He spits, and she leans back, aghast.

“The nerve!” She leans back, aghast. “I don’t know what I expected from a pig—”

She freezes as a pair of chopsticks sticks its way between the two angry faces.

“Excuse me,” Tang starts.

His glasses flash, and he doesn’t bother standing. His arm divides the space, as he leans back in his chair with a bowl in his free hand. He pushes her back, ignores the look of confusion on Pigsy’s face. “I suggest you get over yourself. This behavior certainly isn’t doing anything for your looks.”

The woman leans back, crosses her arms.

“And you are?” She hisses.

“I’m his partner,” Tang says, and surprises himself with how easily the title falls out of his mouth. “And you don’t get to talk to him that way. If anyone is acting in poor taste, it’s you.”

Pigsy’s face is slack, his eyes are wide, and the red of anger on his face has given way to the dusty rose Tang has come to expect as Pigsy’s blush.

The woman opens her mouth, finger raised. Tang raises his eyebrow in waiting. But then she huffs, turns on her heel, and leaves.

Tang doesn’t give her a second thought, turning back to his own bowl of noodles—which have tasted the same in the two years he’s been eating here, so she’s full of it, clearly—before glancing over at Pigsy, who is staring at him with eyes full of something.

He has never seen Pigsy’s eyes shine like that before.

His face warms, and he buries it in his scarf and bowl. Pigsy smiles, and turns back to work.

That night, they’re sitting on the couch after eating another concoction that could barely be called food— “You’re getting better at this.” “You don’t have to lie to me.” “Bold of you to assume I would spare your feelings when it comes to your cooking skills.”—and Pigsy’s hand slides away from his lap and rests on top of Tang’s. Casual.

“My partner, huh?” Pigsy says over the buzz of the television.

Tang flushes. “It seemed an appropriate word to use.”

“Sure.”

Pigsy’s voice holds a laugh, and Tang could leave it here, he could. It would be far too easy to settle, to let it fall complacent.

But Tang has let the ocean lap at his heels, and now all he wants to do is dive.

“Hey,” he turns Pigsy’s face towards his, and—

Pigsy’s lips are warm.

Pigsy’s eyes are blown wide, and Tang closes his quickly, worried about the response, worried about Pigsy’s reaction.

Dimly, in the back of his head, he thinks ‘It’s the best he’s ever tasted’ and he has to squash the laugh that bubbles up his throat, because it isn’t appropriate right now. Pigsy's snout practically crushes his nose, and the sharp hairs on his face prickle Tang's skin.

He breaks away. Pigsy’s smile is blinding, a rare event. His face is flushed, both of them are flushed and Tang fidgets with his glasses. There’s a beat of silence, as they stare at each other, before they both turn back to the TV to avoid the ever so awkward eye contact.

They watch whatever’s on, for a minute of crushing silence.

“Alright,” Pigsy finally sighs, long sufferingly fond, and he leans against Tang as if tang were his rock. The ocean crashes against the sea, and the rock stays steady. “Guess I’m stuck with you.”

Tang inclines his head so it’s resting on top of Pigsy’s. The rock erodes, and becomes something new. Moves with the ocean, given enough time.

“Where else would I get free food?”

Pigsy laughs.

#lego monkie kid #freenoodleshipping #Tang #Pigsy #kitkat1003 #monkie kid tang #monkie kid pigsy

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puttingfingerstokeys · 4 years ago

Text

Hat Trick

in which Johnny Cage is... himself. Featuring the Shaolin Rowdy Boys. Formatting is for losers.

faraday cage implied, shaolin rowdy boys too obviously.

Prevented timeline

“Yeah, yeah, your hat’s cool an’ all, but honestly, Raiden’s got you beat,” declared Johnny Cage, wrapping a towel around broad shoulders, mopping the sweat off his brow. Kung Lao shook his head and clicked his tongue.

“Lord Raiden’s hat is not a weapon,” he said as Liu Kang walked into the SF locker room area. The Shaolin monks had been asked to come and provide special training for the new batch of recruits and they had just finished for the day.

“It does not need to be,” Liu Kang reminded his friend, sidling past Kung Lao to the locker he was borrowing. Sweat glistened upon his muscular back and Johnny made a conscious effort to keep his eyes on the man with whom he was conversing. If Lao noticed, he said nothing. He was not blind. Even well into their fifties, all three men were at the height of their strength, power, and if you asked Johnny—no one did; it was a bad move in general if one did not have time—looks.

Johnny shot Liu Kang a set of finger guns, brow cocked. “See? He’s got it. Dude shoots LIGHTNING!”

“Correction,” supplied the humbler of the two monks, his fist full of clean clothing, “Lord Raiden is lightning.”

Johnny waved this off as if to say “tomato-tomahto”.

“Anyway, what I really wanna know is how he keeps that lid on,” Johnny Cage continued, stripping his clothing off thoughtlessly and tossing it in the “dirty” bag. This, at least, he had learned—long ago, he had learned this, in fact, when Cassie was just a kid and she complained that his dirty things did not belong in the duffle bag with his clean things; something about cross contamination or “just plain gross” or something—and had held to for many years. What was once an unruly jerk, to put it mildly, had become a responsible father… mostly. He still had his idiosyncrasies.

“He is a god,” said Liu Kang, shrugging and moving past Kung Lao once more, opting to strip closer to the showers. Johnny, he knew, liked to strut. Neither of them begrudged him this, however, as it was his home territory.

“That’s a shitty explanation,” said Johnny, shooting Liu a look as the monk disappeared around the tiled corner to the showers. Lao and Johnny thought they heard a low chuckle before the shower started up and steam began to roll from that doorway.

“Do you have a better one?” Kung Lao asked, closing his temporary locker, fist also closed around his clothing. He too intended to disrobe elsewhere. Johnny by now was in compression shorts and nothing else. It was about to be nothing, period, as one thumb hooked over the elastic. The word “CAGE” was embroidered on the waistband and for half a moment, Kung Lao wondered who had put it there for him, like a child who forgets his clothing at a friend’s home. It then occurred to him that Johnny Cage was a very wealthy man and had clothing lines—multiple—with his name stamped all over them. Vanity, Kung Lao thought, making a face of disapproval.

“Yeah, I do—I’ll just ask ‘im.”

Kung Lao had heard and seen much when it came to Johnny Cage and his obvious interest in the god of thunder. He and Liu Kang had agreed to keep it between themselves, though if anyone could not see it, they were blind as Kenshi… though he had seen it as well—something about the man’s heartrate when the god was nearby. This, however, was for some reason right up there with the time he had heard Johnny Cage refer to Lord Raiden as “thunder tits” with no consequences.

“You cannot just—”

“PFFTH not with that attitude,” said Johnny and then shouted—his voice echoed violently in the tiled room and Kung Lao winced, “HEY—Raidude, you on this frequency or whatever? I got a question!”

Kung Lao, fully expecting nothing, jumped again as a muffled clap of thunder once more rent the now-steamy air. Whatever it was had occurred outside, naturally, but was loud enough to pull Liu Kang’s attention and he poked his dripping head around the corner, long hair draped about his shoulders, a quizzical look upon his face. “Was that…?”

It was.

Ducking slightly under the economized entrance of the locker room, the god of thunder entered without pomp, circumstance, or ceremony. “I have an answer, Johnny Cage, and I am grateful that you did not whistle this time. It is… abrasive.”

“Of course it is,” Kung Lao grunted under his breath. Raiden regarded him momentarily and the monk covered himself, though he was not nude. Liu Kang’s head stayed where it was, though he seemed to want to shrink back into the showers. His cheeks were red and it was not necessarily from the heat. In fact, of the three mortals, only Johnny Cage was not blushing.

“Hey, I said I wouldn’t, right? Anyway—whatever, I got a question… Your hat,” he said, gesturing toward it. “How’s it stay up there?”

Raiden touched the brim briefly and looked puzzled, brows knitting, as if he had never considered this. The two monks watched, wide-eyed. Johnny gestured.

“So, can I knock it off?” He figured he would at least ask this one. Sucker punching a god was both dangerous and difficult, even a friendly one.

“You may attempt.”

If Liu Kang’s sharp ears were not full of suds and deceiving him, he would have sworn upon the jinsei itself that Raiden’s voice contained a hint of genuine amusement. They watched as the god of thunder even dipped his head, ever-so-slightly, to make the blow easier. Like lightning, Johnny’s hand shot out and both monks remembered suddenly why he was a valuable ally. The hit was charged with just a little of what he called his shadow energy, to give a little more impact. The hat did not move.

“OW.”

“All right, all right… you’re not fuckin’ with me; I get it.” Johnny waved it off, as he waved much in his life off, until something about the hat caught his eye. “Hang on.”

Raiden straightened; this time, open amusement played across his face. Johnny held his wrist and anticipated a bruise, even with the shielding of his power. He watched as Raiden raised a hand to the ornate jingasa and lifted it effortlessly, bringing it downward for Johnny's inspection. All three sets of mortal eyes were upon it, as if anticipating something mystical to occur. Kung Lao was kicking himself for never considering asking the god about his clothing, but then… when had the occasion arisen for such a conversation? It had not in fact arisen just now, either. Johnny simply did not care. Sometimes, Lao envied him this.

With deliberate slowness, then, knowing how dangerous it was to get close to Raiden. Certain proximities were safe, but those were much more intimate than he was comfortable attempting with two other people in the immediate area—and he did not yet know this secret, anyway. He laid his hand on the hat and felt the buzz of electricity through it, from the god of thunder.

“Is this…?” His voice softened, such that Liu, with the shower on behind him, almost could not hear. He did, however, hear it and the tone in which it was delivered. Kung Lao was already edging toward the door to the showers and ended up buffeting his friend out of the way and back into those showers, to give the other two some space.

“Your gift? Yes.” The answer was simple, might almost have sounded casual or pat, if anything Raiden ever said could sound that way.

“Did you… put that thing on just ��cause I called?”

“It is one of my most precious possessions, Johnny Cage; thus, I wear it frequently.” Raiden replaced the beautiful jingasa and straightened. “If I cannot further satisfy you, I have matters to which I must attend at the Sky Temple.”

Johnny could think of some serious, further satisfaction, but kept it locked away tight, in a deep, dark corner of his mind and heart and shook his head. “Hate t’see you go, big guy,” he said, once more shooting finger guns at something that should not be finger-gunned, “but I love watchin’ you leave.”

“Indeed.”

And with that, the god of thunder, Earthrealm’s protector, departed, first through the doorway of the locker room and then via a bolt of lightning. Johnny stood for several moments, hands on hips, before shucking his shorts and sauntering into the shower area only to see Liu Kang and Kung Lao, huddled close together, clearly whispering. The whispers echoed, but were also stifled by the water. He rolled his eyes and ignored them, wondering when they’d see what everyone else saw. Idiots, he thought, ah, but they’ll get to it eventually.

#cc #cw #mortal kombat #johnny cage #raiden #kung lao #liu kang #faraday cage #shaolin rowdy boys #liulao

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the-fiction-witch · 4 years ago

Text

The Other Harmon P1 - P5

TV SHOW : THE QUEENS GAMBIT COUPLE: BENNY WATTS X READER RATING: Flirty Af

Part 1: Happiness

I laid looking at the ceiling, pondering, thinking, My brain never turned off. It never had as long as I remember, my life had been a strange one and yet I had found my own happiness, I just have hope my sister will find it likewise just I imagine not the way I did, as we had always been two rather different Harmon's.

"Uummmm..." I heard beside me looking to the other half of my bed as he turned over his mop of messy long hair matted and out of place more so than usual, his face a picture of peace and relaxation his facial hair sat as perfect as usual, his strong skinny upper body out from our covers a little the rest of him wrapped up warmly his face stiffened and he grimaced "y/n? What are you doing still awake?" He asks with a yawn

"Nothing Benny, I couldn't sleep"

"Alright, come on, come here honeydew... Let's get some rest, got a plane to catch in the morning" he yawns pulling me to his chest like I was his teddy bear. Not that I minded at all. I kissed his bare skin and nuzzled closer to him trying to lose myself in a dream.

Part 2: Promise Me!

"Girls-"

"Mother? What's going on?" My sister spoke

"Girls we just uhh were just going on an uhh a little trip out for ice cream," my mother said in a hurried tone as she drove "okay baby just close your eyes, close your eyes and you promise me you'll look after your sister"

"Mother-"

"Promise me!"

"I promise"

I remember little else of what happened. I just remember my sister holding my hand as they took us somewhere, I didn't understand where They took me away from my sister for reasons I didn't know.

"Elizabeth Harmon, and Y/n Harmon. Eight and four" a man said as he made notes taking me somewhere else.

I would see my sister often but she never seemed happy all she ever wanted to do was play chess and I didn't understand it. I liked to watch but I couldn't play honestly. I didn't really want to but I knew the more my sister grew to know that board the less she would grow Into my sister. One day people came and we were told to wash up and dress nicely. I showered, brushed my teeth and put on my prettiest dress doing my hair Into braids with small blue ribbons even shinned my little shoes. And I went and waited for what felt like forever until Beth arrived

"Where have you been?" I asked

"Sleeping"

"But this is important"

"It's just another couple who will look at us see us as a package and not bother" she explained "they always want you... they never want me"

"Well... maybe if you tried"

"You think I don't?"

"I'm sure you do beth," I nodded as the door opened and we were ushered inside and there sat a rather nice looking couple. Things were said and disgusted but I barely spoke a word until they left and we were told to pack.

Part 3 : Different

I forced so much of that time away from me watching only as she got better she drifted away from me, I remember wondering around this hotel as Beth chatted with her friends. I saw someone sitting discussing chess to some other men. Something about him seemed so... different.

All these boys were stuck up little nerds in suits with pocket protectors for their pens, hair gelled back and glasses perched but...

He was different. His jeans tight to his body leaving little to imagination a tight belt around his waist a black shirt under a green shirt unbuttoned slightly but all hidden by this long leather coat, his slender pale neck intrigued me his face youthful and yet aged a speckling of facial hair giving him a look of someone more mature his brown eyes seemed to hesitate on the crowd he spoke to his hair pulled back by his hat but it was obvious it was long and unruly. Someone came over and the crowd quickly left him alone. He stopped of course and turned to scan the room until he saw me. His eyes flicked up and down before he seemed confused. I went over out of curiosity sitting on the chair across the table from him

"Hello" I smiled

"Hi, how old are you little girl?" He asks

"Old enough to know better" I smiled making him chuckle a little too "are you playing today?"

"No, I just come to... see old friends and check what's going on" he explained, "do you play?"

"Not really, watched a lot," I said

"Here, I'll give you a game," he says laying out a thick wooden board and laying out all the pieces all the years of watching beth and I knew so little "don't worry, I'll go easy on you" he winked moving a piece I had no plan or much skill of moves or starters or anything like that I just plaid and not five minutes later "Hu... you uhhh your good"

"Thank you" I smiled

"I think I know who you are, '' he smirked "your Beth Harmon? Aren't you? That kid that knocked Harry off his perch in Kentucky?"

"Ohh no" I laughed

"No? Who are you then?"

"Y/n, Beth's my sister" I answered

"Is she now, well it was very nice to play you y/n"

"It was nice to play with you too" I smiled "ooh sorry I uh-"

"Benny, Benny watts" he smiled offering his hand I happily took it and he gave my hand a little kiss before getting up with his stuff to go elsewhere

"Who was that?" Beth asked behind me

"Who?" I asked

"Who was that you were just talking to?" She asked

"Ooh... just a boy" I smiled

"A boy? What were you doing?" She asks sitting with me

"We played a game is all"

"I thought you hated chess?"

"I don't hate it, I don't love it, it's a nice game," I said

"Who was he y/n?"

"He said his name was Benny"

"Benny? Benny watts?" She asked and I nodded "you- you just played a game against Benny watts?"

"Yes, he seemed lovely, A very fine gentlemen" I smiled

"Y/n, you know who that was right?"

"No..."

"He's US champion"

"Ooh, well I beat him, though he was going easy on me" I explain

"This is why I don't take you places" she sighed going off elsewhere.

Part 4 Our Little Secret

Beth barely let me on trips after that she didn't seem to like me around when she was doing chess for whatever reason but I went with her and our new mother to las Vegas I stood around this strange place seeing so many names and so many tables I simply wondered thought in my dress trying not to draw attention to myself, I spotted on a board of people the name of my sister. I also saw not far away on the list a name I remembered from what feels like so long ago Benny watts I remember that name it's funny but since that day I had I suppose you could call me a groupie if chess has groupies, fan I suppose.

I kept an eye on him, magazine articles of him, pictures of little things mostly even if I hid them under my bed not wanting Beth to know, I thought something pleasant about him and the fact I had beaten him so long ago even if no one knew that but him and I. It was like a secret we shared.

And just at that moment, a familiar voice spoke up

"Well, well, little y/n Harmon. What are you doing here?' I heard I turned and saw Benny much as I Last did in fact almost exactly like a picture I clipped from chess review not two weeks ago

"Benny watts" I smiled so excited to see him "ohh well just here for beth and all"

"Of course yeah, hopefully, I should at least get to play your legendary sister" he laughs "you know one of these days you should enter"

"Me? No, no chess is Beth's thing I wouldn't want to impose"

"Y/n if beth can wipe the floor with these boys you can do it with your eyes closed," he says

"Chess isn't my thing, never has been"

"You beat me"

"I haven't forgotten that Mr Watts" I blushed

"Aren't we growing up to be a proper lady?" He laughs "growing up a lot back home? Aren't you?" He asked as I caught his eyes lingering in me I blushed hard seeing such a thing

"Yes, I am"

"I can tell," he says "how about a game?"

"It's alright, you don't want to do too many today"

"Come on, just for fun," he says

"No thank you, how was Austin?"

"Sorry?"

"You were in Austin recently, how was it?"

"How do you know?"

"I keep up with chess review, well once beth is done with it" I smiled

"Do you? Are you keeping an eye on me?"

"I like keeping an eye on you" I smiled "so how was it?"

"It was Lovely"

"I always wanted to go..."

"I'll have to take you with me, next time" he smiled "just answer me something... honestly, I'm sure when Beth has things written about her in all these chess magazines she cuts them out and then lets you have them?"

"Yes" I nodded

"And then if it happened in those said chess magazines happen to have anything about... me in them, do you have a read?"

"Of course I do like I said I keep an eye" I smiled

"And would all those little clippings about me be in a secret box under your bed so beth doesn't find out what you've been doing?" He asked and I froze up completely "I take that as a yes, don't worry our little secret" he winked "I'm sure I'll see you later y/n" he smiled giving my hand a little kiss and he went off somewhere I assume for a game but as I watched him walk away I felt something strange. A horrible pain in my stomach...

Part 5: A Woman

I ran as fast as my feet would carry me up to the room, my mother and beth both gone already I ran to the bathroom pulling up my dress and my many petticoats seeing the trail of thick red blood that had begun to form as my stomach cracked with the horrific pain as badly as it had earlier. I pushed my dress off me and almost saw the blood coming out of me as I cried out in pain, I grabbed as much toiler paper as I could rolling it up and cleaning myself up and going back to watch beth.

"You alright darling?" Our adoptive mother asks

"Uhh yeah" I nodded

"what's wrong?" she asked pulling me to the side a little

"I uh I started"

"Ohh, first time?" she asks and I nodded a little scared almost in tears she handed me something from her handbag and a couple of pills "Go on it'll help," she says

"It hurts"

"they'll help with the pain"

"why does it have to hurt?"

"who knows" she sighed "But you're a woman now" she smiled

"Can... things cause it?"

"Like what darling?"

"Like... sinful things, or people?" I asked

"no of course not darling its a natural part of being a woman" she explained "All though... being excited doesn't help" she winked "why do you ask?"

"No reason" I smiled as I glanced across the hall to a table with benny playing against his opponent.

#THEQUEENSGAMBIT #Bennywatts #Benny watts #Tbs #thomasbrodiesangster

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strongindependentcheesecake · 3 years ago

Text

Movie Night's in the Mindscape

This is my gift for @zheonlybeean for the @sanderssidesgiftxchange ! Sorry it came so late, i had some issues with posting, but i hope you like it!

Word count: 1288

“Roman, I swear if you’re planning to steal my hat again for this movie night, I will be forced to let Remus take drastic measures.” It was movie night in the mind palace tonight, while Thomas was having his own movie night with Nico.

“Wait, you won’t be the one doing it?” Logan piped up from his spot at the end of the couch.

“Of course not, I have people for that. And besides, if I don’t let Remus off the chain every now and then, I end up with him shredding the curtains.” Logan tipped his glass of wine towards Janus in acknowledgment. After all, they’d all had to clean up after an unruly Remus at one point or another.

“Oh come on, your hat is perfect for a suggestion bowl!”

“Now Roman, you know that if he says that he doesn’t want to use his hat, then we need to respect that.” Patton’s voice was soft, placating. Roman huffed, and got a syllable into his rebuttal when Virgil piped up from where he was lounging on the couch.

“Besides, we all know that you’re gonna cheat again. So why don’t we just get on with it?”

“Because Virgil, we haven’t had a movie night in so long. We absolutely need the drama. And besides, I’ve given up on dishonesty. It, well it hasn’t worked out for me in the past. Plus you guys absolutely destroyed me last time over as delightful a movie as Frozen, so how could I stand up to any more bullying?”

“Oh don’t worry, you’ll be getting bullied irregardless,” Remus said while lying next to the couch, eager to pick on his brother.

“Remus, irregardless is not a word, you mean regardless.”

“No Logan, I don’t think he does.”

“Ah, I suppose you are correct, Virgil. However, you are also correct in that we should really be moving on with the evening.” Roman scoffed from his place beside the couch.

“Oh calm down, Calcu-loser. You’re just salty that we voted down Big Hero Six.”

“I assure you, that has nothing to do with my point of view on the matter. I simply think that there are better, more productive ways we could be spending our time.”

“Or, you can sit with us, drink your wine, get cozy in your unicorn onesie, and for once, rest. Besides, Thomas needs to relax and until you do, he can’t,” Janus reasoned. There was a beat of silence. Then it was broken by Roman.

"Wait a second, i thought you said you threw that away? I mean, not that that really makes sense, what with whole being imaginary thing." Logan floundered for a moment.

"I, well, I may have been slightly less than truthful on the matter. That said, I do have my reservations as to whether or not tonight is a-" Whatever Logan was about to say was interrupted by Remus. More specifically, by Remus taking matters into his own hands, and changing Logan from his normal outfit into his onesie. Logan just looked down, and sighed deeply, and Janus refilled his glass before speaking.

"Ok, now that that's been taken care of, can we please return to the topic at hand? Have we even decided what genre we want to watch?"

"I think we chose light hearted comedy. Why don't we watch How to Train Your Dragon?"

"Patton, I know for a fact that you just watched that the other night. Besides, you said light hearted, and the scene where he loses his leg always makes you cry," Virgil said with a slight laugh.

"Oh yeah?" Roman said. "Well dear emo, what do you suggest?"

"We could watch Wall-e." Everyone was quiet while they thought for a moment. Roman was the first to decide.

"I'd be down to watch Wall-e, what about you Popstar?"

"Sounds good to me. Lo?"

"I suppose that it is an acceptable choice.” Logan looked over to Remus, seeking his opinion.

“I like the cockroach,” he said with a shrug.

"Well. To be completely honest, I didn't expect us all to agree on a movie first try." Janus said.

***

Watching the movie itself was unexpectedly calm. Any bickering was light hearted and without any real bite. Patton was the first to speak when it was over.

"Alrighty, so what do we want to watch next?"

"Well Patton, you all are free to continue with your movie night, however if I am to get an optimal amount of rest and stay on schedule for tomorrow, I should have been in bed nearly 15 minutes ago.” Logan made to stand, and Janus decided to voice his opinion.

"Or, you could sit back down and watch the next movie with us, and if you fall asleep, well that works out perfectly."

"I appreciate you trying to include me, however that would not allow me to sleep as well, nit to mention that I would be taking more than my fair share of room." Virgil snorted from where he'd moved to the top of the couch.

"L, before i moved up here I was practically laying on top of you guys. And now, look at the couch. My feet take up barely any room, and Janus is all the way on the other side. Plus, you know for a fact that Patton doesn't mind being a little cramped. The puffball is practically dying for a group hug at all times."

"Yea Logan! We should really all just sleep out here, it'll be fun!" Logan made to argue, but Remus had pushed him down and Roman had summoned a blanket for him before he could get a word out.

"Ok, now that everything is settled, what movie are we watching next?"

***

Funny enough, Logan was not the first to fall asleep. Patton was. They had been halfway through Beauty and the Beast when they started hearing his soft snores. Roman summoned another blanket and draped it over him, while Virgil maneuvered Patton's head to rest againt his leg so he wouldn't get a crick in his neck.

Virgil was the next one out. But he stayed so still and slept so quietly that it took a while for anyone to notice his eyes were even closed. When they did notice, Remus summoned blankets for everyone else. Roman quickly vanished his and Janus's before whatever was moving in them could attack, but not before they realized that they were both sopping wet.

Roman however, recognized it was probably a good idea, and summoned two replacements.

They were most of the way through Mary Poppins when Roman started losing time in longer and longer blinks. So to stay awake he started to talk more and more. Remus, who was also tired, solved this problem with a swift whack with the morningstar. First one for Roman, then one for himself. Janus and Logan, the only two left awake, shared a look.

"You really should have been asleep hours ago Logan. I might not would have stopped you if I had known you'd have such difficulty. "

"It is quite alright. If I'm being completely honest, I rather enjoyed myself. However, as it is rather late, you should probably turn off the television and we should both go to sleep. It wouldn't do to be sluggish when Thomas wakes up in the morning."

"I'll turn it off, sure, but we both know Thomas won't be waking up until the early afternoon."

#secret santa #tss #Sanders sides #fanific #i tried to post this 3 times #>:[

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heywardsarchive · 4 years ago

Text

Red and green

pairing: james sirius potter x fem! reader

summary: james sirius does not like the daughter of theodore nott, infact he despises her, but when she circumstances are such that she has to stay with his family, they have to put up with each other

a/n : this was requsted by @lespaceboi im sooo sorry it took forever! i hope you enjoy:]

word count: 8.6k+

warnings: flangst, not proofread, maybe a few mild swear words here and there.

********

James Potter, son of the legendary Harry Potter was used to having almost everything his way. He wasn't a spoilt child, not really. He knew where to draw a line. He was a lot like his grandfather some would say. He had his eyes and hair and even the same name. Even his personality matched that of his grandfather. He and his favourite cousin and best friend Fred Weasley II would constantly prank their family. His life was good but on the other hand the only child and heiress to the Parkinson- Nott household wasn't so lucky.

Y/n Parkinson Nott's life wasn't as easy as everyone thought it was. Her parents were forced into an arranged marriage in order to preserve the pure bloodline. Even after the war, there were some who believed in the pure blood drama. Her mother, Pansy Parkinson wasn't a nice woman. She hated her daughter and probably her husband too. She loved another, Draco Malfoy. Her husband's best friend. Her father, Theodore nott was alot like Draco Malfoy in many ways. He too changed his ways after the war and raised his daughter (much to his wife's annoyance) to believe everyone was equal.

Theodore and Pansy obviously may have loved each other at some point, because they had a daughter together. Or maybe they didn't and she was a mistake. We'll never know.

******** It was going to be y/n's 11th birthday soon! She was so excited! Her father and her were very close. They loved each other dearly. She excitedly danced around him telling him how excited she was and how she was going to be the best witch in Hogwarts. Her father simply chuckled and told her to sit down and wait for Scorpius Malfoy, one of her best (and only) friends to arrive.

Scorpius was a year younger than her but that didn't matter, they were still super close. The fireplace crackled and Scorpius emerged coughing slightly. "Scorpi!" She cried and hugged him. The two children went up to y/n's room to leave Scorpius' things. He was staying over until her birthday. They returned to the living room where their fathers were laughing together and her mother was looking unhappily at the scene. Oh well. Y/n thought as she and Scorpius walked into the backyard to play some games.

It was finally y/n's birthday! She was so happy. She woke Scorpius and ran down right into her father's arms. "Why so excited darling?" He asked. "You don't remember?" "No." He said trying to hide a smile. "It's my birthday!" She said. "Ofcourse I remember sweetie, look on the dining table." He laughed. She ran pulling Scorpius with her to grab her Hogwarts letter. "It's addressed to me!" She said excitedly. "Look mum! Im going to Hogwarts." Her mother gave her a curt nod and a tight lipped smile. She ignored it knowing how her mother usually was.

She read the letter and squealed! She jumped into her father's arms as he promised to take her to diagon alley that very day. "Can Scorpius come too?" "Ofcourse he can." She high fives her best friend.

That evening the three of them flooed to diagon alley. Draco would pick up Scorpius from there. They first walked into ollivanders wand shop, which had been taken on over by another woman after the old man's death. "Hello dear, come to get your first wand?" Y/n nodded excitedly. "Alright, let me see." She said and went back in the shop. She pulled out a few boxes of wands. I opened the first box and waved it around. Bright red sparks flew out of the tip of the wand and the windows of the shop cracked. "I'm so sorry!" She exclaimed putting the wand back. "Oh no worries dear, happens to all of us." The woman said brightly. Y/n tried a few more wands and none of them seemed to work for her .

Finally the woman opened a deep red box and pulled out a wand. It was intricate with ivy vine carvings on it. Y/n waved the wand and bright green sparks came out of it and illuminated the shop. "this is the one!" The woman clapped. Y/n smiled happily. "Ah it's the perfect wand. It hasn't chosen a wizard since decades. It's a unique wand you see. Made of both unicorn hair and a phoenix feather. You must be a very unique girl!" y/n blushed at the compliment. After paying for the wand and getting other school supplies, Theo took the children for lunch where Draco would be joining them.

Scorpius listened as y/n spoke excitedly about school. He too was eager to join her the next year. He wanted to be a slytherin but also felt he would do well in ravenclaw. y/n never really thought about what house she wanted to be in, her father would love her regardless. Her mother, well she was a different story all together. Deep down she wished to be a slytherin so that maybe,just maybe her mother would love her. Y/n shook her head and came back to reality just as the food arrived. She enjoyed her meal and listened at her dad and scorpius' dad talked about some ministry work which she didn't quite understand.

***************

The days turned into weeks and finally the day y/n would board the Hogwarts Express was here! Her trunk was packed along with her robes and wand. Her father had also surprised her with an owl! The owl was named ebony and she had icy blue eyes and dark brown feathers. The owl was beautiful. Before leaving for the station, y/n bid her mother goodbye, hoping for a hug (which she did not get) but she got a curt nod and y/n was on her way.

She and her father apparated to the station and y/n thought she was going to puke. They walked onto the station and Theo stopped infront of platform 9 and 10. "Where is the station daddy?" Y/n asked excitedly. "It's right there!" He chuckled pointing at the brick wall in front of them. "That's platform 9¾!" "Daddy don't joke!" He laughed and ran through the wall. Y/n gasped and closed her eyes and ran through the wall. She opened her eyes and gasped. "Woah" she whispered. Theo walked up to her and patted her head. "Amazing isn't it?" "Yes!" "Come on now, don't want to miss the train." She hugged her father and he kissed her forehead and watched her as she boarded the train.

Y/n walked through the train looking for an empty compartment. Finally finding one, she settled down with her small carry on backpack next to her. She looked out of the window and observed her surroundings. As the clock nearly touched 11, she took out her favourite book, murder on the orient express. As she flipped through the pages of the book, a blonde girl called out to her. "Hey, can i sit here?" "Sure!" y/n smiled. "Sorry to impose on your privacy but i dont know anybody here. I'm a muggleborn you see." the girl said. "Oh no, you aren't imposing! I dont know anybody here although i am a pureblood." "I'm Holly, Holly Fields." "I'm y/n Nott. Nice to meet you." I smiled at her.

She's so sweet! Y/n thought. The two girls chatted most of the journey before holly dozed off. Y/n re opened her book and started to read until a boy with hazel eyes and unruly black hair fell into their compartment. He smirked at y/n and stood up. "Sorry about that, my cousin pushed me in." Y/n stared at him shock. "Uh no worries." She said. "I'm james, James Potter." He said confidently, sticking out his hand to shake with y/n. "I'm y/n. Y/n Nott." James smiling face dropped and he grimaced. "Is your father, Theodore nott? The death Eater?" "Yes he is and he is NOT a death Eater." "Oh I'm sure he's not." James said sarcastically. "You're probably going to be a no good Slytherin!" "How dare you!" Y/n was about to slap James when holly woke up, rubbing her eyes. "What's going on here?" Y/n withdrew her hand and glared at James. "Uh nothing hol, don't worry about it." She nodded and nodded off again. "Now get out of here Potter before I actually slap you." He scoffed. "I'm sure you will." Before she could actually do anything he left the compartment and slammed the door. Y/n sighed and sat down. It was going to be a long 7 years.

**** Y/n's pov

After the Hogwarts express stopped, we were led to Hogwarts on boats. I looked at the giant castle in awe. Holly looked equally awestruck and we both silently gushed together. James looked at me from his boat."enjoying the view nott?" He asked mockingly. I made a face at him and looked away. He laughed evilly. I ignored him. The boat ride ended and as I was getting off the boat, Potter pushed me into the water. I fell backward and nearly drowned. Luckily I knew how to swim and so I managed to come up to the land. Holly helped me out, and Hagrid dried me with a spell. He went to reprimand Potter and told him he'd be getting detention. He held a sour look and I felt a bit better.

We were welcomed by a tiny professor who said his name was flitwick. He introduced us to the 4 houses and instructed us to wait at the door. A few mins passed and the hall door opened and we were led inside. There were 4 long tables and a stool with a hat on top of it in the centre of the room. We walked to the front. There were many eyes watching us. I started to feel self conscious. The hat suddenly burst into a song. I grabbed Holly's hand when I heard snickering from behind me. Potter. "What is it now?" I hissed. "Oh nothing, just that you're such a scaredy cat." I was about to retaliate when professor flitwick started calling out the names of people to be sorted. I simply looked away.

"Potter, James." Called out professor flitwick. "GRYFFINDOR!" The hat called out. Fits him, I thought, the cocky bastard. "Fields, Holly." "SLYTHERIN!" "Nott, y/n" I walked to the hat nervously. I sat on the stool. I felt a voice in my head. "Hmm, interesting. You have a lot of ambition and cunning. You are also very kind. Hufflepuff? Maybe not. Better be, SLYTHERIN!" I jumped off the stool happily. The Slytherin table cheered as I took my place next to holly. As the sorting ceremony ended, headmistress McGonagall announced the commencement of the feast. The table filled up with the most delicious looking food. I piled up my plate and savoured every bite.

"You look like you haven't seen food in your life!" Said a boy jokingly. I laughed and introduced myself. "I'm ashton. Ashton brown." "Are you a first year too? I asked him. "Yes I am." The rest of the night, holly, ashton and I had a nice conversation. I had made two very good friends but I still missed scorp, he is my best friend after all.

When we went to our dorms, I sent my father a letter telling him about the sorting ceremony. I put my quill and ink away and went to bed.

*****

First year was amazing. I loved everything about Hogwarts. Everything except james Potter. That arse had decided to torment me every chance he got. I obviously retaliated, with holly and ashton by my side I wasn't too badly affected by his words. The three of us had become tight knit friends.

The year was almost over and the exams were very near. I spent almost every hour in the library. "Hey ash, have you completed the transfiguration homework?" " Yeah I have. Do you need help?" "Yes please." Just as he was about to start explaining the work to me, the very devil sauntered up to our table. "Ah two little snakes. What do we have here?" "Just leave James, I'm not in the mood for your crap on a Saturday when I have better things to do." James opened his mouth to retaliate. "No, I don't think I will. I don't take orders from slimy snakes you see." My ears started turning red and I was close to breaking his neck. "Aw, cat got your tongue Nott, or are you too weak to fight back?" "That's it!" I slammed my book shut just as I was about to say anything, madam Pince walked by our table. "what is going on here?" She said sternly. "Nothing." Potter and I muttered. "You git." I whispered to him sharply and sat down at my table.

**** James and I were at each other's necks for all three years that I have been in Hogwarts so far. The whole school knows about our rivalry though no body knows the reason for. I had heard so dumb rumours about it... "I've heard that James killed her cat" "no, I've heard that she cursed his owl " There were even more absurd rumours but I decided not to pay attention to it too much.

Fourth year was one of the best years of Hogwarts so far. I was doing great in school, the teachers liked me, most of the student body liked me too. I had joined the quidditch team last year and according to our captain, Luke Grey, I could take over his spot as captain next year!

Everything was good except for the fact that my father had fallen sick. The doctor's said he may not survive. It was awful. He is my entire world and I doubt that I could live without him. My biggest support system have been my friends especially Scorpius. I don't spend as much time with him because of being in different years and him making friends with my mortal enemy's brother. He was a Slytherin, I often wondered how James felt now that his brother was in the snakes pit.

I wrote letters to my dad telling him all about my life and how annoying James was. He told me to try and he friends with him, like he and his father Harry Potter had made up and were friends now. Ugh as if me and that prat could ever be friends. Never in a million years.

I was just finishing reading my letter when holly barged into the dorm room. "What happened?" I asked her. "You have got to see this." She dragged me by the arm into the common room. It was covered in red and gold silly string and in big bold letters it was written gryffindor rules. There could only be one person who could do such a thing. Potter. I was so going to get him. I silently walked back to the dorm and I heard holly (and ash who had joined us) muttering discretely. James Potter you are going to regret this I thought to myself.

The next morning as I sat at breakfast alone, I thought of a revenge plot. "You were abnormally quiet yesterday." Holly said sitting down infront of me. "Yeah." Said ash. "That's very unlike you, especially when James Potter is involved." "Oh no reason." I said. "I don't like the way you said that. Spill." Holly demanded. "Oh alright. I was silent because no one plots a murder out loud." I smirked. "You're not going to kill him right?" Ash asked me seriously. "Oh no I won't. But he will surely wish he was dead." Holly and ash shared a look.

******

"Ok so here's the plan." I said. Ashton and Holly stood in front of me. "Is this really necessary y/n/n?" "Yes it is. Now hear me out." They sighed and motioned me to go ahead. "We will enchant his hair to become green and silver and across his forehead, we will charm the words 'slytherin rules!' eh?" "How do you plan to 'enchant' him?" Ash asked me. "Oh dear ash, you underestimate me." I smirked. "Hey Scorp, Albus come here." "You convinced potter's brother to help you?" Holly looked at me both exasperated and amused. "Well it was quite easy, the number of times Potter has embarrassed Albus, he was more than willing to help."

"Er, hi." Albus said, shuffling on his feet. "Hey Albus, you know the plan right?" He nodded. "I'm going to pour the potion into his pumpkin juice tomorrow morning." I high fived him and he and scorp left the room. "You are unbelievable." Holly laughed. "But you love me." I grinned. "That we do." Ash pulled me and Holly into a hug.

**** The plan went smoothly the next morning. Albus went and sat beside James and distracted him while Scorpius poured the potion into the drink. They left the table and James took a sip of the drink. The effect wouldn't be instantaneous but in a few minutes james' black locks would turn green and silver. I watched the gryffindor table discretely as I ate my buttered toast. Slowly Potter's hair started to turn green. Showtime. The people he was talking to stared at his hair. He touched his hair and looked frantic. He looked over to the Slytherin table and I averted my gaze. "Nott!" He bellowed. "What have you done?!" "Me?" I said innocently. "I haven't done nothing." I shrugged. He covered his forehead and his hair and ran out of the great hall. "I'm gonna get you I swear!" "No you won't!" I called back after him. I snickered as I ate. Revenge is sweet.

********

That incident triggered a prank war between us. We were constantly pulling pranks on each other. Mostly harmless ofcourse.

I walked into charms with holly and ash and sat beside them. Flitwick stood on his pile of books on the desk. "Alright class, this month we will be working on a partner project." Everyone started whispering with their friends. "I will be picking the pairs." Groans sounded in the class. "Let's hope it's no one bad." I whispered to holly. She nodded in agreement. "Fields and smith." She smiled at the boy who was apparently Smith. "Brown and walker." Ashton walked to one of our fellow Slytherin, Dan walker. Almost the whole class was paired up, except me and "Potter and nott." Great. Just my luck. Partenerd for a whole month with Potter .

I groaned and moved aside as James slid into the seat next to me. "Potter." I curtly greeted him. "Nott." He grumbled. I rolled my eyes and put my head in my hands. "This is going to be a nightmare." I sighed. "Professor! Can we change partners?" Potter called out. "No you cannot Potter. Sit down." I swore under his breath and sat down. "I don't think I'm that terrible." I told him. "I don't think I'm that terrible." He mocked me. "oh go to hell." "Oh go to hell." He mocked again. "Potter is you say one more word I swear to god-" "SILENCE Potter and Nott." I rolled my eyes and kept quiet. This is going to be a long month.

Once class ended I stopped Potter outside class. "Look Potter, we both have to get a good grade so let's put aside our differences and call a truce." "A truce with you? Definitely not." He scoffed. "Alright then what do you propose we do?" "Never see each other's face again?" "Then we'll fail you twat." "Oh alright fine. We'll call a truce. But only for this month and nothing more ok?" "That's all I ask." We shook hands. "Uh we gotta start today itself, it's quite a long project." I said looking at the guidelines. "Ugh ok. Meet me in the library at 6pm." I nodded and walked back to my common room.

**** It is 6:30 where the hell is Potter? I'm so done with this boy I swear to Salazar. I sighed and resumed the project by myself. After a while I heard shuffling of feet and the obnoxious sound of someone pulling out the chair in front of me. "Well well well look who decided to show up?" I said showing him the time. It was 7 one hour after we had to meet up. "Sorry, I got busy doing things." "Save it. I don't really care, just do your part of the project." He mock saluted me and got to work. We stayed in the silence for another one hour before my stomach growled. "Shit." I whispered. "Is it time for dinner already?" James asked me. "Yep it's 8 o clock." "Let's go eat then." We cleared up our mess and headed to the great hall, where we went our separate ways.

The project actually went quite smoothly. I could actually have a civil conversation with Potter without wanting to break his neck. Maybe we were becoming friends. Ugh, that's a stretch. I guess our civility was very visible because ash pointed out that we hadn't had a screaming match in a long time. Huh, he's right.

I walked to the library with all our project work, today was the last day and we had a bit of work left. To my surprise Potter had already reached there and was sitting on the table waiting for me. "you're early." I pointed out. He shrugged. "I was free so I thought I'd come on time for once." I cracked a grin at that. We sat down and worked together. "Crap, we missed dinner." I said once the work was finally completed. "Oh damn, we did. Uh no worries though. Come with me" "where?" "You'll see." We gathered our stuff and dropped it off at the Slytherin common room. Potter grabbed my arm and pulled me with him. He stopped to tickle a pear. "What are you doing?" I asked him. "just wait!" The pear giggled and a door appeared on the wall ahead of us. "Is that- is that kitchens?" "The one and only." He said triumphantly.

We walked in and were instantly surrounded by house elves. "how can we help you sir and miss?" They asked. "Can you give us some leftovers from dinner?" "Certainly miss!" They scurried away. "How did you know how to get in?" I asked. "My cousin fred told me, well his dad told him about how he and his twin brother Fred sr who is now dead used to come to the kitchens when they were in Hogwarts and fred brought me here."

The house elves brought us some meat, salad, pizza, cake and sandwiches. I ate the sandwiches and pizza and cake which was delicious. "This is amazing!" I complemented the tiny elf in front of me. "Thank you miss! Lily is glad you like it!" She said, turning completely red. She was cute. "It's almost curfew, we have to go." Potter said to me. We thanked the elves and left. "You aren't so bad you know." I told him as we walked back to the common rooms."Same goes for you." He punched my shoulder lightly and I smiled. "Um my common rooms that way so u gotta go." I said. He nodded and saluted me goodbye. Maybe he wasn't bad after all.

We didn't talk all that much for the rest of fourth year but we didn't yell at each other at all, I guess things were changing.

**** Summer: 5th year My father's health wasn't getting any better, nor was my mother's attitude towards mem I spent almost all my time with my father at home or going out (which was very less) with him.

School was going to start in 2 weeks and I had yet to buy my school supplies. I had recieved a letter from school that I had been made quidditch captain! I was thrilled. The responsibility would be great because of the owls looming on our shoulders but I would make it work. I quickly wrote to ash and holly and told them about becoming captain and asked if they wanted to go to diagon alley together with me.

I ran out of my room when I heard my parents arguing. My mother was yelling and my father was trying not to scream. This is horrible. He's already so sick and mother isn't helping things at all. I sighed and went back to my room. I would talk to father later.

**** I recieved holly and ash's letters very soon. Turns out they had been made the Slytherin prefects! Holly seemed surprised that it was her and not me but I think that she's very worthy of being a prefect. They said that they would meet me at diagon alley the coming Saturday. I pushed their letters into my drawer and opened my quidditch magazine. There was a knock on the door. "Come in!" My father walked in. "Dad, why didn't you just call out to me?" "It's alright dear, I'm here now." "Is everything alright?" "Not really. Sit beside me." I obeyed and went beside him.

"As you know my health is not very good and it's only getting worse, my time may end soon." "Daddy don't say that " I said somberly. "It's the truth darling, but you have to listen to me very clearly. No matter what happens after my death, I want you to stay stay strong." I started to feel tears pricking my eyes. "Now, you may not want to stay in this house with your mother, I understand why you wouldn't." I chuckled at that."If the circumstances are bad, you have no where else to go, just remember that Harry Potter will always be there to help you. You just need to ask." I looked at my hands. "I love you dad, I don't know what I'd do without you." He pulled me into his arms and I sobbed into his shoulders. "I love you to darling, but life is unpredictable. You are the strongest girl I know and I'm sure that you will grow to be a fine young woman with or without me." I continued to cry and couldn't hold my tears in.

**** It's Saturday and we have to go to diagon alley to get my books. I flooed over to Ashton's house from where we would go to diagon alley together. "Hey ash!" I hugged him. "Hey y/n/n!" "Kids! Ready to leave?" "Yes mom." Ashton replied. We grabbed onto her arm and apparated to diagon alley. "Alright so you both go ahead to flourish and blots while I go and run some errands." She told us. We nodded and walked to flourish and blots. "How is your dad y/n/n?" "Not great." I said sadly. He patted my shoulder and we entered the shop. "Ashton! Y/n!" Came a voice behind us. "Holly!" I hugged her. "How was your break?" "It was great! We went to meet my aunt in Ireland." "That sounds awesome."

We bought our books and waited for mrs Brown and then went to buy our other supplies. We finished and then went to have ice cream at Florence Fortescue. "This is the best ice cream I've had!" Holly cried. We all chuckled.

**** 5th year I was sad to leave my dad but I had to go back to Hogwarts. I gave him the tightest hug possible and left for school. The train ride was uneventful as were the first few months of 5th year.

Quidditch training was on me now and I had to juggle those duties and studies. The first quidditch match of the season was in a month. I had yet to select players and ugh so much work.

I dragged my feet to class and plopped down on the chair and put my head into my arms. I almost fell asleep when someone pulled a strand of my hair. "Sup nott?" "Huh? Oh I'm good Potter how was your summer?" "You know, the usual. Pull pranks on my brother, homework, family meals. That's beside the point, why are you sleeping in the first class of the day?" "Because I stayed up all night thinking of quidditch plays. And drawing up schedules. Why are you asking me all this and why are you sitting here?" "Firstly I'm just curious and secondly were deskmates for the year in this class." "What? Deskmates?" "You didn't read the circular put up the door did ya?" I shook my head, no. "Thought so." He said leaning back in the chair. "You're welcome." He smirked.

******

The first quidditch match of the season was in two hours. I was nervous. How could I not be? I poked at my food and ate barely anything. "Just eat it y/n/n." Holly nudged me with her shoulder. "I can't! I'm so nervous I could puke." "Hey, you'll be great! You're the best chaser Slytherin has had in years! I'm sure you will do great." Ash smiled at me. They really were amazing. "Thanks guys." "No problem. Now eat and then destroy gryffindor in the match." Holly gave me a double thumbs up. ****

I was in the air waiting for the quaffle and watching my team fly about keeping an eye on the balls. Suddenly I noticed a bludger coming my way. "Hey!" I called out to one of the beaters. He immediately flew over to my and the bludger was sent away. I looked away and heard a scream. I noticed that James had been hit on the stomach by a bludger! I flew over to him and tried to catch him but he was falling too fast. I flew downward with all my might, I grabbed hold of hand and slowly went downward. It took alot of my energy to ba able to help James and not fall in the process.

We were close to the ground when my grip on the broom slipped and James, me and our brooms went crashing to the ground. Luckily we were not too high off the ground. But James was already badly hurt and the fall may have knocked him unconscious. "James! Wake up! James!" I shook him but there was no response. The nurse was on her way but I refused to move until I knew James would be ok.

The match went on without me and my team played really well. Gryffindor caught the snitch but we were all way ahead so the match was won by us. I was so proud! All the practice payed off.

I joined my team in the victory celebrations where everyone was invited. Halfway through the party, I decided to go and check on James and see if he was doing ok. It wasn't curfew yet so I had time.

I walked to the infirmary and asked madam Pomfrey where James was. She nodded toward one of the beds. I slowly walked over to the bed and sat down on on the chair beside him. He may have heard the sounds of the moving chair and groaned opening his eyes. He took a few seconds to register it was me but then his confused expression turned slightly angry. "What are you doing here?" He spat. "I'm just checking up on you." I said. "I don't believe you. You are the reason I'm here." "What?" I asked confused. "Don't act all innocent. You know you deliberately sent the bludger my way so that Slytherin would win." "James, I would never stoop so low!"

He scowled. "Don't call me James. Why should I believe you?You're a Slytherin, you cheat and lie." I was hurt. "Is that really what you think of me?" "Yes." "Fine then. I will leave and never come back. And, to think we were becoming friends."

****

It was toward the end of fifth year after our owls when I got a letter. I was at breakfast with Scorpius and Albus, as holly and ash had prefect duties. My family owl, emerald flew to me and dropped a letter in my lap. I fed her some treats while I opened the letter.

The spoon in my hand fell to the table as my eyes read and re read the contents. "what happened y/n/n?" Scorpius asked me. "My father, he's critical now. I have to go home!" I said almost in tears. I left me food and ran to headmistress McGonagall's office. I stood outside the gargoyle wondering how to get in. "Miss nott? What are you doing here?" She asked me. I turned around and told her of the letter. She took in my state and let me send a letter home informing them of my early return. I thanked her and headed to my dorm.

As I was packing my stuff Holly walked in. "What happened y/I (your initial) ?" She asked me, concerned. "I showed her the letter, not wanting to speak. She pulled me into a tight hug and said that she'd walk me out. On the way we met ash, who joined us. We were at the courtyard from where professor flitwick would escort me further. While we waited, the devil himself James Potter came running our way. He banged into my shoulder. "Watch where you stand Nott." He sneered. I didn't reply. I kept my eyes firmly on my feet. "Not the time Potter, now get going before you get into trouble." Ash threatened him. He stomped off to who knows where.

After a few minutes professor flitwick arrived. I hugged holly and ash goodbye. We took the carriage to hogsmeade and then apparated to London, to my house. I burst through the door, straight to my dad's room. He looked pale, thin and weak. He saw me and smiled weakly. "Daddy!" I ran to him and hugged him tight. "Hello my angel." He kissed my forehead. "Don't leave me." I cried holding on to him tighter. "Angel, look at me." He said holding up my chin. I couldn't meet my eyes to his as I felt myself grow weaker as he did. "you are strong. Stronger than me or your mother. I hope, no I know you will be fine with or without me." This only made me sob harder.

"Can we atleast spend time together for as long as we can?" I asked softly. "Whatever you want." He kissed my forehead. I played our favourite movies and we watched them together. We listened to our favourite songs and played our favourite games together. I cherished every last minute I had with my father.

He breathed his last one week later. His last words to me were, "stay strong angel." I kept my tears at bay, not wanting the last thing he sees to be me crying. After he passed I locked myself in my room and cried my heart out. I barely ate and my only company was my pet owl. My friends sent me letters offering condolences but I didn't have the heart to read them.

The day of the funeral arrived. I dressed in a black dress and covered my head with a black net cap. My dad's friends and our family had come to Nott manor. I sat at the front and bowed my head as people gave speeches. It was my turn. I stepped up and started. My voice cracked as I spoke. "My father, he is, was my best friend in the whole world. He was my confidant and my favourite person in the whole world. His last words to me were 'stay strong angel' and I hope to keep my word and make him proud." I smiled and walked down as fast as I could. I sat down and the tears poured down my cheeks.

The will was being read, I was given most of his personal belongings, his favourite chain and a letter. I went to my room and opened the letter.

"To my angel, I'm sorry I had to leave you so soon. But things often don't go as planned. I know it will be hard at first but I know you will pull through. Let all your tears out, cry as much as you want. Tears don't make you weak. You have friends that love you and won't let you be alone. I have left a large chunk of my wealth for you as inheritance. The key to to the vault in this envelope. Remember, no matter where you are, remember I am always watching over you. I love you angel. Lots of love, Dad.

As I finished reading the letter i ran out of my room to where my father was burried. I sat down in front of his tomb and traced his name with my finger tips.

Theodore Nott A beloved father, husband and friend. He will be dearly missed.

Tears started rolling down my cheeks again and no matter how hard I tried, they would not stay in. As I sat on my knees, tears streaming down my face, I felt drops of water fall on my hair. I looked up and saw that it was raining. My magic may have caused it to rain over me. I ignored it, the pain in my heart too much to bear. I had lost the one who loved me most.

*****

The next few months I spent at home were hell. I exchanged letters with my friends but they weren't my dad. His loss had created a gaping hole in my heart and my mother was no help. After his death she started acting worse and behaving horribly. She taunted me about my friends and said horrible things about dad and everyone I loved. One day as she was bad mouthing my father I snapped. "WILL YOU STOP IT?" I cried. "You dare to talk back to me like that?" She screamed at me. "I have had enough of you!" I cried. "Fine then leave! You are no daughter of mine." "So that's it then? You don't want me in your life anymore?" "Obviously. You have two days to get out of my sight." "Fine then! I have no interest being here either." I ran to my bedroom and gathered all my things. I had no where to go. Scorpius, ash and holly were all away. Was I going to sleep on the roads? Then I remembered what my dad had said to me.

Harry Potter is always there to help.

******

I ran out of my house and walked across to the main Street. How was I going to get to the potters house? I had no idea where they lived. I only knew that it was somewhere in central London based on what Albus had told me. I stood on the side of the street thinking of what I'm supposed to do when a huge purple bus came out if no where. "Need a ride miss?" Said a pimply old man. "Who are you?" "Stan shunpike miss." He said "welcome to the knight bus." I boarded the bus. "Where to?" Stan asked. "uh central London." "Alrighty then." The bus took off. The driver drove rashly. How did he have his licence? We finally arrived after me almost getting trampled by the baggage around. I got off.

Ok I'm here now. I thought to myself. Now how do I get to the potters? "Y/n? Is that you?" I turned around to the source of the sound. "Albus?" "Yeah!" He came up to me. "why are you alone and why do you have your suitcase with you?" "Uh long story short, my mother disowned me and I have nowhere to go. I remembered my father had said that if I ever needed help Harry Potter would help me so um I came looking for your dad." I said sheepishly.

By then mrs Potter had come up to us. "Mum, can y/n come home with us?" "Ofcourse! But why?" "Uh, we'll explain at home mum." She shrugged and smiled at me. I shyly smiled back. We followed her back to the Potter house.

I marveled at the sight of the house. It wasn't as big or ancient as Nott manor but it was homely. We walked into the living room where mr Potter was seated too. "Hello ginny, Albus." He smiled at his wife and son. Then his eyes landed on me. "I don't believe we've met before." "Uh we haven't I'm y/n Nott. Albus' friend." I said awkwardly. "Darling, why don't you tell us what the problem is now?" Mrs Potter said to me. "um sure. My father died a few months back, I think you knew that and so I lived with my mother. She isn't the most wonderful woman in the world." Mr Potter cut me off with a chuckle. "That we do know." I continued. "She became worse after my father had died and kept bad mouthing my friends, my father and those I loved. I snapped and yelled at her. She told me to leave if I had such a problem with her and then disowned me completely."

Mr and Mrs Potter looked solemn and Albus patted my hand awkwardly. "my father had once told me that if I ever needed help it was Harry Potter who would give it to me, and so here I am." Mr Potter looked me. "I knew your father. He was a good man once I got to know him. He did mention that you may need me in one day in the future, after he got sick. And I will help you, for the sake of your father." "You will?" I asked happily. "Yes ofcourse! We have alot of space in this house and you and James seem to be the same age, so why don't you stay with us for this summer? We'll worry about next year when it comes. "

I was very grateful for the help that I had got. I never thought I would be lucky enough to have gotten a place to stay that easily. After Albus helped me place my things in the room next to Lily's, I can downstairs to help mr and mrs Potter, it was the least I could do as a thankyou.

As I spoke to mrs Potter while I helped her cook the dinner, James ran down the stairs. "Hey mum, what's for- what's she doing here?" He asked a bit angrily. "James, be polite. She's staying here because of something that happened at her house." "But mum, she's, mum!" He whined. "James." She said sternly. He groaned and went back up the stairs.

James and I avoided each other the best we could. I still hadn't told my friends that I had left Nott manor, they would get stressed and ruin their holiday because of me.

The entire family had gone out one day, I chose to stay back, not wanting to encroach on their family time. What I didn't know was, that James was at home too. So when I walked into the living room, I got the shock of my life. I quickly turned around to go back upstairs, so that I didn't get into a screaming match with James. "No, y/n wait." "What?" "Please." He said, sincerely. I sighed and sat on the sofa opposite him.

"I need to apologize to you." He said, running a hand through his messy hair. "For everything. You didn't deserve to be treated they way I treated you." I nodded at him to go on. "I really think you are amazing and I'm sorry for blaming you for my fall off the broom." "Yeah, why did you do that?" "Well the truth is, I started to develop feelings for you and didn't know how to act. I tried to hate you and push you away so they would go away. But , that obviously failed. Now, I still like you very much." I was at a loss of words. He likes me? After everything? He likes me. "I, uh." I muttered. "You don't have to give me an answer right now. Think about it." He smiled. I looked at him and then immediately ran up to my room. What a day. **** Summer break was almost over, and today we went to get our books from diagon alley. We flooed there and then went to get money from gringotts. I'm glad I had gotten my share of inheritance before hand. I gave the goblin the keys and withdrew enough money to buy books and a bit extra incase I needed some in Hogwarts.

"Alright kids," Mr Potter said, clapping his hands together. "We are going to split up to make this faster. "James and y/n, you both go to flourish and blots and gets your own as well as lily and albus' books. Al and I will go to Madame malkins and buy Albus new robes and ginny and Lily will go and get all of you kids new stationary." We nodded and went out seperate ways.

Walking alone with James was a bit awkward after his confession, but he kept cracking jokes to make the atmosphere light. We bought the books, which were very heavy, and dragged them to a small diner where we would eat supper and then go home. Mr and Mrs Potter were very late. It was only James and me for about half an hour. It wasnt boring, no. We talked about many things and quidditch ofcourse. We in the middle of a heated argument about which quidditch team was best when the rest of the Potter family arrived. "Sorry we're late kids." Mrs Potter said. The food was brilliant! I had to get my friends here one day. When we arrived home I was very tired, so I changed and fell asleep immediately.

Only three days till Hogwarts. We're de- gnomeing the garden today. I knew how to do that ofcourse, I used to de gnome my garder with my father. All four of us kids ran out to the garden and pulled out gnomes from the grass. One bit my finger! I flung it away and it screamed colourful words at me. James snickered at that. I crossed my arms and stuck my tongue out at him. Then a gnome bit him and I got to snicker at him this time.

*****

6th year James and I had become good friends this year. Holly and Ash were really surprised. I don't blame them. When I told them about my summer situation they both felt guilty, although they had no reason to. They said that I could have contacted them but I said that it didn't matter anymore. Everything worked out fine.

James started hanging around the Slytherin table these days. It was an odd sight to many but they got used to it. Luckily, this time we didn't fight and I realised that maybe I had developed a crush on James.

I would stare at him during class, I started noticing small things about him, like how he would scrunch up his nose when he didn't like something or the tiny dimple he had on his chin. I pointed this out to holly and she told me that maybe I was in love with him. Love? Pshh, no. The next time I saw James was when he was wearing his quidditch jersey and was messing up his hair further. I gulped. Maybe I was in love with him.

***** Christmas break was coming soon, holly and ash decided to stay back with me even though I told them to go. I was walking to class when James wrapped an arm around my shoulder. "So what are your Christmas plans?" He asked. "Uh nothing much, just staying back here." "Wrong. You're coming with us. Mum already sent a letter, says she misses tout. I swear she loves you more than she loves me." I smiled. "Um alright." "Great! I'll let her know." I smiled to myself. Things are getting better.

Christmas break Holly and ash had decided to go to their houses for break since I was going to the Potter's. Scorp was mad that I didn't ask to go his house but he finally cooled down after I promised to visit him in the break.

I bid holly, ash and scorp bye at the platform and went home with the potters. Their house looked beautiful. It was lit with colorful lights and there was a gigantic Christmas tree in the backyard. It wasn't decorated yet though. "I was thinking that tomorrow morning we could spend time together and decorate the tree!" Mrs Potter said happily. All of us cheered.

It started snowing the next morning. It made the scenery even more beautiful. We put on our thickest coats and set about decorating the tree. The higher parts were decorated by the adults with magic since none of us could reach it.

In the evening, I made hot cocoa for everyone. We sat in the garden sipping the warm drink. Everybody started getting up one by one and soon it was just James and me. The atmosphere was so calming and I felt so relaxed and happy. "Thankyou for letting me stay with you." I said. "Thankyou for agreeing." James grinned. I rested my head on his shoulder. "I really like it here." I sighed. "We love having you here." He lifted my chin so I faced him. We moved closer and his nose was brushing mine. Our lips were about to touch when mrs Potter came out the balcony. "Hey kids-" We jumped apart. "Oh uh sorry, I'll just um go in." She awkwardly walked back into the house. James rubbed the back of his neck. "I guess that's our cue." He said and we walked inside.

The topic of the almost kiss was avoided. It was Christmas day and the air smelled festive. I had bought gifts for everyone and placed it under the tree. Early in the morning everyone gathered around the tree and opened their presents. Everyone had bought me gifts too! James opened my gift, it was a book on quidditch plays, it was quite rare and I was glad I found it. He literally jumped when he saw it. "Holy moly! Where did you get this?" He asked me. "Near Malfoy manor, you know that tiny bookshop." He hugged me tightly. I gave Albus a muggle video game I thought he would like. I don't understand muggle things, I thought he would though. I got Lily a set of butterfly earrings and a pendant. The gifts I got were lovely too.

Dinner time was a bit hard for me. It was my first Christmas without dad and I missed him greatly. We would cook dinner together every year. This was the first time we didn't. After dinner, I felt like I would burst so I excused myself and went outside. I sat on the bench. I sniffled and closed my eyes. I felt a hand wrap around mine. I opened my eyes and saw James looking at me. "Angel, what happened?" The dam broke. Angel, my father called me that. I wrapped my arms around james' shoulder and cried. He ran his fingers through my hair trying to console me. "It's just that, it's the first Christmas without my dad. I just miss him so much." I said to him. He wiped my tears with his thumbs. "Im always here for you." He said seriously.

I looked into his eyes and saw how much he actually cared for me, I could see the love and concern for me oozing out of his eyes. I leaned forward and captured his lips in a kiss. He pulled me closer to him while deepening the kiss. We pulled away for air and he pressed his forehead against mine. "I think I might be in love with you." I whispered. "I think I might be in love with you too."

taglist: @kashishwrites @sincerlypadfoot @isabellabellac

#james sirius potter x reader #harry potter next gen #Harry Potter #James Sirius Potter #self insert #harry potter x reader

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f0rever15elf · 4 years ago

Text

The Garden

Pairing: Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales x fem!Reader Rating: T Warnings: angst, allusion to drug use (if you squint), death mention, Triple Frontier spoilers, soft!frankie (be still my beating heart) Word count: 1,856

A/n: Ok so I’ve been wanting to write something for the Pedro boys for a long time and I finally had major inspiration strike with this. I don’t have a beta reader, so I apologize if I missed any typos or tense issues!

Summary: Frankie has left to help out Pope on some vague mission, and you wait for his return, spending your days gardening. You weren’t prepared for the news he brings home with him.

Masterlist | Ao3

You had always loved your little garden. Whether it be in pot planters on your apartment’s balcony or the raised bed in the backyard of your first home or the small flowerbed in the front yard of your mother's house, surrounded by plants with your hands in the cool soil is where you felt most at home. No matter the stresses of the day, everything melted away as you dug your fingers into the yielding earth, still damp from the morning's watering.

Some of your most treasured memories happened while you were in the garden; your mother running out excitedly with your acceptance letter to MIT, your best friend phoning you to ask you to be her maid of honor, that same friend later asking you to be the godmother to her first born as you both sat pruning the roses. All of those moments paled in comparison, though, to the two most important moments of your life. The day Francisco Morales asked you out, officially, for the first time, the words tumbling from his lips in a nervous stutter, and the day he knelt down among the blooming hyacinth and iris to ask for the privilege of calling you his forever.

A delicate smile graces your lips as the memories play through your mind's eye as you till the soil around the fall vegetables. Frankie had been the best thing to ever happen to you, you had no doubt of that. Even the most difficult of days, like the day you found out about the little habit he had picked up to keep the nightmares at bay, were still better than the days before he was yours. The gold of the wedding band adorning your finger catches the light of the sun as you finish turning over the soil, and you sit back on your heels to look at it for a moment. The pad of your thumb traces over it lightly as your mind drifts to your husband, currently away on a mission. A favor for Pope, he had called it.

"What is it, baby?" you asked, running your fingers through his soft curls at the nape of his neck, his head resting on his crossed arms on the table. The sigh he had let out was one from the depths of his soul, a sigh you hadn't heard him let out in a very long time. He turned his head, still resting on his arms, to look at you, confliction lighting them that caused an immediate crease in your own brow. "Frankie...?"

"It's Pope." His voice was gruff and tired and the corners of your lips turned town imperceptibly.

"Santi? What does he want? It's been...years...since we've heard anything from him." Your fingers had moved from the nape of his neck when he turned his head, now tracing gently along his stubbly jaw.

"A favor," Frankie said simply. "He wants to get me and the guys back together. Says he needs to talk to us about something big. He's...he's saying it's 17k for a week of work." Your eyebrows lifted at that. Seventeen thousand was a lot of money, and though you two weren't necessarily barely scraping by, 17 thousand dollars would certainly make things easier, especially with the courses Frankie was having to go through for counseling.

"What kind of favor?" You ask after a moment, but Frankie just shrugged.

"Didn't say." He sat up and took your hand from his face, his calloused thumb running over your knuckles.

"...Are you going to go?" You asked quietly, watching your hands and he sighed again.

"We could use the money, cariña." You closed your eyes for a moment before looking back up at him. He was right, and you knew it. No matter how much every fiber of your being was screaming that this was a bad idea.

"I know." You squeezed his hand gently and brought your other up to cup his cheek. He leaned into the touch and his eyes fluttered for a moment before he refocused on you. "...Be careful, amor. Ok?" He nodded in your hand and turned to kiss your palm gently. "And tell Santi if anything happens to you, I will personally murder him and use his body as fertilizer in the garden." Frankie's eyebrows shot up at that one as he looked back to you. After a moment, he chuckled and nodded, reaching up to bring your forehead to his.

"He wouldn't dare to cross you, hermosa, I'm sure of that."

It was only supposed to have been a week, he had said. Yet here you were, sitting alone in your garden nearly a week after he was supposed to have been back safe in your arms. You let out a groan as you stood, your knees protesting from the position you had been in for too long, moving to the next row to pluck some weeds from around your corn stalks. That nervous feeling you had pool in your stomach when Frankie had told you about this 'favor' had never left you, and the longer he was gone, the worse it got. Especially since you haven’t heard from him the entire time he’s been gone. What if something had happened? What if this 'favor' turned south?

You shake your head rapidly, clearing the thoughts from your head as you busy yourself with plucking the weeds. If you get caught up in thoughts like that without Frankie here to pull you out, you wouldn't be sleeping at all until he came home. The cool soil that you usually found so much solace in had been doing less and less over the past two or three days, your anxieties always high, mind always drifting to 'what if's. It was like the connection you had always felt with the earth had been interrupted, and a frown pulls at the corners of your lips.

So lost are you in your own thoughts, you didn't hear the backdoor open, nor did you hear the sounds of heavy footfalls across the yard. It wasn't until the shadow blocked out the sun over you that you jump and whip around, your trowel brandished in your hand. You blink a few times before the trowel hits the ground as you leap to your feet, wrapping your arms around Frankie's neck in a desperate hug. His arms find their way around you, holding you as close to him as he possibly can, his face dropping to hide against your neck and shoulder. You can feel the tension in his muscles relaxing in your hold, the stress of these two weeks melting away under your touch.

"I missed you so much...I was so worried," turning your head to whisper against his unruly hair.

"I'm sorry, estrella...things got out of hand. I'm so sorry." He holds you tighter, his body trembling against yours, and you feel a dampness against your shoulder, soaking through your shirt.

"Oh Frankie..." your voice is barely above a whisper as your fingers play at the back of his neck, rubbing soothing circles against his skin. "It's alright, you're safe now. I'm here, I've got you." Your words illicit from him quiet sobs as he cries in your arms.

"W-We lost Tom, querida." You freeze at his words, your blood running cold in your veins.

"What...?" You rasp, barely a whisper.

"Th-This village. We crashed and...and they got threatening and Tom...Tom shot some of them. I shot some of them. They were going to attack us!" You hold him tighter as his voice raises, shushing softly as your fingers resume their soothing ministrations.

"It's ok, Francisco, it's ok. I'm sure you did what you thought was best at the time." His whimper against your shoulder rends your heart in two and you swear you are going to make good on your promise about Santiago as you hold your trembling husband in your arms. After a moment to regain his thoughts, Frankie lets out a shaky breath.

"A boy from the village followed us. He...He shot Tom, he killed him." Your mind goes immediately to Tom's ex-wife and children, and your heart clenches in mourning for them. Those little girls were too young to have to suffer through this, and the thought brings tears to your own eyes. "We couldn't save him, we let him down..." he chokes out through his tears. Your grip tightens and you lean your head back, cupping Frankie's cheek to lift his face to look at you. His eyes are blood-shot and glassy from crying, and they scream in desperation. You gently wipe away the tears with the pad of your thumb.

"Now you listen to me, Francisco Morales. I know you did all you could. I know you did, because that's who you are. I don't have to know all of the details about whatever this was, to know you did all you could." You rest your forehead against his own, pushing his hat off of his head. "You did all you could, do you understand me? That's all anyone can ever ask of you. You did all you could, and you brought the others home." He clings to you like you’re his last lifeline, the last thing keeping him from spiraling so far down he would never come back up and he nods nearly imperceptibly, his bottom lip trembling.

"I was scared, amor," he whispers, voice thick with tears. "I was scared I would never see you again." You tilt his head gently and press a delicate, chaste kiss to his lips, gentle and reassuring.

"Mi amor, it's ok now, yes? I've got you, you're home, and we're both safe." His grip around your waist loosens as he reaches up to cup your own cheek, eyes flitting across your face before he tilts your head to reconnect his lips with yours, this more desperate than the gentle kiss you had placed on his lips moments before. You close your eyes, returning the kiss as he drinks you in, finding solace in your presence. The kiss is filled with all the things he can't say, the words he can't bring himself to speak just yet.

You break the kiss after a few moments and he draws in a shaky breath, his tears finally slowing, his body limp with exhaustion. You reach and take his hand from your face gently in your own, your ring still glistening in the sunlight. "Vamos...Let's go to bed, ok?" He nods weakly and drops his other hand from your waist, letting you lead him inside, sliding the door closed behind you with a click of the lock. A click he found comfort in. It meant this nightmare was finally over and he was home. Finally, Francisco Morales could rest.

The garden holds so many good memories for you. The garden was where you fell in love. It was where you were asked to join another's family. It was where you gave yourself to the love of your life forever. And it was where you were the day your whole world returned to your arms. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

Tag list is open! Requests are open!

#frankie morales #francisco morales #triple frontier #pedro pascal #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x fem!reader #frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #francisco morales x you

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ktheist · 4 years ago

Text

the ways to call you mine

[7:22]

the man that your father decided to bring home is of an unknown origin. or so he claims. based on his attire when he first stepped into your house, you know he’s at least a noble. though there’s no insignia engraved in on his collar or back, the way taehyung carries himself shows years of refine etiquette and manner.

“then, i’ll be off,” your father sets the teacup on its saucer, breaking your fixed stare on the man across from you and turn to the elder man with a smile sweeter than honey.

“have a good day, papa!” the arm you use to wave at the man shoots down as soon as the carriage is out of sight. and the smile you wear is contorted into a sneer.

clicking your tongue, you shoot a glare at the unwelcomed guest next to you. sure, he may have the perfect shade of tan, matched with unruly hair that easily allows him to hide his expressions with just a tilt of his head downwards. but those eyes - they remind you so much of yourself.

they’re induced with warmth and gentleness in front of your father, but as soon as the man is out of sight, that glare of his rivals your own.

“just wait till i find out which house you belong to and what secrets you hold to trick my poor old merchant father into taking you in.”

the corner of taehyung’s lips lift into an unpleasant scoff as he swats your finger away, “i’d like to see you try, peaches.”

did you say his superficiality rivaled yours? you take that back. even you aren’t as evil as the devil incarnate.

and he dares to call you by the nickname your father and late mother gives you. to insult your late mother’s memory so - he’s the opposite of what he displays himself to be in front of your father and the townspeople.

because you’re from a rising merchant faction, you don’t have maids or butlers. so it’s only just the two of you at home and unfortunately so, allows you to bear witness to this man’s true, wicked nature.

“nobles are the same everywhere,” you huff, swiping the creme colored hat hanging off the hatstand and pulling it over your head, “they’re self-centered, arrogant and lack respect for others.”

he stands with his back on you and the handle of an axe clasped underneath his arm as he puts on the gloves before getting to chopping the woods at the back. when you’re only met with silence instead of one of his witless retorts, you trudge out with a, “don’t forget to lock the front door!”

your days are spent at the orphanage and helping out the old lady by the forest with her garden. though you want to quickly find out what taehyung’s hiding, you haven’t the slightest clue of who and where to look for.

“thinking about that young man again?” esmeralda’s fading green eyes captures yours. she always seems like the secrets of the world hover over her like dark clouds.

the glass ball sitting prettily on the table in front of her is filled with clouds today. when she uses it, the clouds disappear and are replaced by a blur of images that you can’t make out.

“it’s because your magic hasn’t awakened yet, young one,” she once told you when she saw your knitted eyes as you peered at the ever changing images trapped inside the ball.

“come here,” the woman gestures, her wrinkled hands sometimes appear taut and stretched over her bones like that of a young woman but most times, she appears the way you see her now - graying hair, smile lines and fading emerald eyes.

one of these days, you fear you’d walk into an empty forest and the ground where the house is built, filled with blades of grass.

a clueless smile makes its way to your lips as you place a hand on the one she has extended midair.

“i cannot give the answers you seek.” she smooths out your palm, eyes trained on the lines that slants across it, “only you can find them.”

“hm?” you cock your head to the side at the sudden images that appear within the ball after esmeralda guides your hand over it.

at first, it’s a blur of colors from black to brown to something lighter until you can finally make out the man sitting on a throne, his ice cold gaze sending chills down your spine.

“taehyung...” the name comes out as a soft whisper. as though you’re afraid that the image of the man would hear and see you through the glass.

but the images is disappears into the usual clouds as soon as the knock on the door reverberates across the room.

“why don’t you see who’s at the door, child?” she requests. understandably, her bones aren’t as strong and her feet doesn’t carry her as fast as whoever knocking on the door desires.

to your surprise, a familiar figure cringes at the sight of you. but you don’t have the time to let annoyance take over you like it usually does, “taehyung? why are you here?”

only women and male descendants of the royal family can see this house.

“what do you mean why i’m here? it’s almost sunset and you’re still not back yet. your father’s worried you might’ve gotten eaten by-” he grumbles before something past your shoulders catches his eyes.

“is that...”

as soon as he tries to take a step forward, you softly press your hand on his chest, stepping out and closing the door behind you.

“let’s go, it’s almost dark and your noble brain didn’t even think of bringing a lantern.” you point out, neck craning to hold his gaze but the insult is enough to pull his brows together in annoyance.

“if it weren’t for me, you would’ve had to walk back on your own - in. the. dark.” he emphasizes the last part, eyes burning holes inside your head as you blatantly ignore him.

“hey,” he says, clearly ticked off, “are you listening?”

that’s when you stop in your trek and he must notice the change of atmosphere when he falls quiet from next to you.

“taehyung,” you meet his startled gaze, “you’re the missing crown prince, aren’t you?”

those round eyes sharpen into the all-too-familiar glare, “i’m not. and you don’t have any proof.” the latter statement feels forced. as if added as an afterthought.

“so it’s true.” you surmise, clicking your tongue. “i was willing to put up with you even if you’re a noble - but you’re the crown prince... do you know your order to burn anyone suspected of magical use, caused my mother’s death?”

judging from how his eyes soften, he doesn’t seem to know.

“leave our home,” you twirl on your heels, continuing your path back to the estate, “you have no business leeching off a family whose mother and wife you killed.”

when morning comes, the seat across from you is empty and deserted. your father thought taehyung might have overslept and you promise to check up on him after he leaves for work.

but you already know he left in the dead of the night. you saw his lean built step out of the gates but he stopped and looked straight at your window where you’d been standing. as if he knew.

the expression he made was indecipherable but you know the weight of knowledge when you see it. there was something he knew but couldn’t tell you.

the days go on like they would as if the guest bedroom had never been occupied since last year. as if the chopped firewood are miraculously stacked next to the fireplace. as if he never existed.

then, your father proposes moving to the capital because he wants to open a stationary shop for the children and teachers. there are more hard times than good ones. you see your father breakdown on his own in his office every night after three months and with little customers coming in. that’s when you met jimin - the wizard that taught you that a little incantation to draw attention to the store, can’t hurt.

“if the things you sell are as good as you claim them to be-”

“-they are!”

“-then there’s no reason for the customers who got drawn in by magic, not to buy it with their own free will once they see the items themselves.”

ever since then, the business have been doing good and you’ve been attending classes to control your magic - in courtesy of jimin who then left to wander the world. it doesn’t occur to you that you’re not the only one lurking around alleyways and ducking into shadows, on your way to a destination - where your magic classes are held.

“what do we have here?” a burly man steps out of a shadow and blocks your path. “where are you heading to little lady? don’t you know there are wolves that come out to play at night?”

you know your demand for him to leave you alone will fall on deaf ears but you still try. when he advances and even grasps your left hand to tug you into a smaller alley, you’ve no choice but to flick your wand and let the purple light of your magic knock the man unconscious.

what you don’t expect is for a witness to be standing six feet away from where you just mutter an, “why can’t men mind their own business?”

you’re about to whip out your wand again - a memory erasure spell should suffice - when the figure steps into the light and you find yourself staring at a familiar deep brown eyes. they’re still as sharp as the last time you saw them but there’s something different about how he takes the bottom of his lip between his teeth. as if he wants to say something but can’t.

“so you’re learning magic.” he asserts, not ask.

still, you refute, “i’m not.” but you can’t accuse him of having no evidence like he did to you. back in that forest. back when you last talked to him.

“i’m sorry,” the shadow next to you stops and you’re forced to whirl around to face the man whose head is lowered by invisible weight, “th-the emperor was attacked by a wizard - i never thought my careless declaration to capture the wizard would be twisted until innocent people would be dragged out of their homes and burned at the stakes for being suspected of magic use.”

“i forgive you,” you say simply, and he must have been so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he nods right away, muttering, “that’s right, you shouldn’t for-”

those eyes that always directed you with hostility are staring at you with wide eyes. perhaps he’s not a devil incarnate after all.

perhaps, he’s just human.

“i understand how you feel,” casting your gaze over your shadows, you recall the times when something like just now happened. it wasn’t the first and it won’t be the last.

“i thought, why can’t men just disappear? the world would be so much better without them.” but you think of your father and taehyung and the townspeople’s husbands who sent you two away with teary eyed and promises to help in case you ever need it. “but to pass on judgement to an entire race...” you shake your head, “...that’ll make me just like them, if not worse.”

you talk about many other things. like how taehyung is supposed to succeed the throne but he couldn’t - not when his people are still suffering and the streets are unsafe for the women.

“i can’t completely eradicate the crimes,” his eyes are back to their sharp stare as he fixes his gaze on the pavement, elbows on each knee, “i don’t want to pass a law that can get twisted and cause innocent people to die either.”

you know he’s referring to the bill that was hurriedly pushed after the failed assassination of the emperor.

“i never knew you had these thoughts,” you let out a wry sigh, “you always acted like you didn’t want to involve yourself with anything in case it becomes a big unnecessary mess.”

“your mother’s life and the rest of the people that were burned at the stakes weren’t ‘unnecessary mess’.” the voice that always retorted your every sentence now speaks like a responsible and rational man.

“even if she was a witch?” you don’t know how you could smile but you do and it genuinely reflects the weightlessness that fills your chest.

he has no response to that.

“i think it’s because i get to speak to you one more time - i got the closure that i never knew i needed,” your shadow stands up with you, its hands stretched over its head from having sit on the bench for too long.

“i hope you can find it in you to forgive yourself too, taehyung,” you intend to part without leaving any traces behind. of course, he’s the crown prince and he can find out where you live with a flick of his fingers but from the way his head is almost rolling off the ground - your mother would writhe in her grave if she knew her daughter grew up to be the kind of person that would leave a person to their demons and not even try to help.

so you leave him with an incantation. wherever he is, if he so wishes it, he’ll be able to find his way to the shop.

after months pass without a sign of him, you’re almost familiar with the idea that that night was truly your last goodbye. until one fine day, you’re arguing with the kids who demand why you can’t sell two pencils for the price of one but can sell three for the prince of two and a half.

“you little brats...” your facial muscles ache with every passing second you force the smile to stay.

the bell over the door chimes in notice of a new customer. you’re almost glad that you can finally shoo these kids away.

“welcome!”

until you notice the stern gaze that locks with yours and then travels to the little rascals that goes up just above your waist. almost as though they’ve seen a ghost, they hurriedly bid you farewell and march out of the shop.

he comes to stand in front of you. this time, the gold and crimson crest of the royal family is etched on the chest of his jacket.

“peaches, did the kids leave?” your father steps out of the office only to stop dead in his trek, blink once and then another time before a smile breaks across his face, “your highness, welcome back.”

the shock of your father knowing exactly what taehyung’s identity barely wears off before you’re hit with the fresh smell of your favorite cookies being served.

he doesn’t even let you have more than two and he’s serving a whole plate to this freeloader-turned-prince!

“it’s been awhile hasn’t it, your highness? how have you been?” the man hasn’t stopped smiling since - it’s even more irritating that you can see his aura change from teal to pink.

“wait a minute,” you finally say, an accusatory glare fixed on both of them, “i think i deserve an explanation!”

“oh,” your father lowers his head to the younger man sitting across from you, “apologies, your highness. ___’s usually a cheerful and outgoing person, you must know,” he chuckles, “you’ve lived with us for over a year. the shock must have not worn off yet.”

“don’t worry, sir,” taehyung shoots him a composed smile while glancing your way, bringing the tea you brewed to his mouth, murmuring, “i know exactly how ___ is,” before sipping the drink.

it’s a threat. he’s blackmailing you about telling your father of your night classes. you almost rip the hair out of his head in your fury but you make sure to put on your sweetest smile for your father after that.

“i’ll be dropping by some time,” he murmurs under his breath when you escort him out of the shop.

“yeah, well, make sure to buy something next time.” is all you say.

he drops by every week for a whole year. either it’s for a cup of tea, to help your dad with arranging the stationary according to their uses or just to wait for you until the shop closes so you could take a walk around town. nobody recognizes him as the crown prince thanks to your distortion magic.

there hasn’t been a spot where you haven’t visited in the city. and there hasn’t been a spell taehyung hasn’t seen you do.

“you’re going to class every night and waking up at the crack of dawn to run the shop, aren’t you tired?” the knit of his brows tells you he-

“oh, what’s this? are you worried about me?” you don’t bother hiding the snicker that sends your shoulder line jolting.

“whatever,” with that, he shoots to a side glance and throws his gaze to somewhere ahead, “if you get sick, don’t come calling me for help.”

it’s a moment later that you give a proper answer, “i got a late start because mother subdued my magic when she found out the humans are coming for us so i want to learn as many spells as i can quickly and beat jimin - you know that wizard that i told you about that helped us gain attention?”

you’re not sure if taehyung is still in that dark alley with a cloak over his head, hiding in the shadow.

but as you trace the gentle curve of his nose, to his stunning jawline and the shoulders that stand straight as he walks next to you, you think, perhaps, he’s found that closure too.

“what?” his eyebrows knit together as he stares back at you.

“hm,” the corners of your lips tuck upwards, “i don’t like you but my mother would have showered you with all the cara and affection in the world since she knows i’m the one who keeps picking fights, probably.”

instead of questioning your sanity, he comes to a sudden halt. eyes boring into you like a hurt puppy, “d-do you think so?”

“silly,” the laughter that trickles from your lips is one of the many you’ve shared with him and your father back in the shop’s lounge room, “i know so.”

taehyung falls to a squat in the middle of the street - if it weren’t for the sun setting and people retreating into their homes, he would have been cursed out for blocking the way.

“hey, even if you’re tired, you should at least say so we could find a bench to sit at or something.” you’re about to tap his shoulder when his hand wraps around your wrist.

he cranes his neck to meet your eyes. the naturally sharp gaze appears softer in the yellow-brown rays.

“i thought meeting you every week and making sure you’re fine was the least i could do for your late mother,” carefully, he begins to entangle your fingers together, “but i can’t - i- i love you.”

#bts smut #taehyung smut #bts scenarios #taehyung scenarios #taehyung fic #bts fic #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #taehyung fanfic #taehyung fanfiction #taehyung imagines #bts imagines #bts x you #taehyung x you #excerpt from a fic i'll never write

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doctors-star · 4 years ago

Note

13 and/or 17 (... cowboys 🥺 pretty pls?) (but totally fine if u wanna do smthin else)

prompt list

cafune - the act of running your fingers through the hair of someone you love

cruore - it literally means “flowing blood”

It’s a warm day out, dusty and dry under an impossibly large, impossibly blue sky. Now that it’s early afternoon and the worst of the midday heat has burned off and dissipated, the town is bustling out again into the streets, in and out of shops and ducking around riders and carriages. It sure isn’t the ideal time to unleash a room’s worth of unruly children who’ve all been cooped up since lunchtime upon the town in the vague hope they’ll make it home in one piece, but in all honesty there’s no good time to do that and they’ve got to go eventually.

Ainsel will get ‘em reading and writing, but they sure as hell ain’t some kind of charitable institution for bored youths.

Opening the door on such brightness and warmth requires serious blinking and squinting and no small amount of internal sorrow as the wall of heat hits Ainsel square in the chest and invades their cool, shaded front room. Not for the first time, they consider the merits of simply opening one of the rear windows and posting the children out of it one by one; not for the first time, the idea is dismissed. The kids would enjoy it entirely too much. Said children are presently scrambling up off the floor and making a break for the door, slates and tin lunch pans hastily shoved into small satchels, baskets, or simply jammed under one arm, and Ainsel steps neatly to one side to allow them free access to the door. For all that the kids bullied Ainsel into teaching them, they sure are always glad to get out at the end of the day.

“See you on Monday, then,” Ainsel says easily. The elder Diaz boy and Mary Wilder both twist to wave at them over their shoulders, but then they’re back to corralling their littler siblings and trying to get them to hold hands nicely for the walk out of town and up to their family ranches. The other kids pay him no mind at all - just tumble out into the street and turn their faces to the sun like little sunflowers. Little Jesse Rainey turns a little circle in the dust, swirling her skirts carefully so as to show off the new printed calico to best effect; she’s a little too used to being the saloon’s darling, if you ask Ainsel, all dressed up in pink with blonde hot-ironed ringlets, but she’s also one of the brightest kids in the class at only six years old. Ainsel reckons she could be the next schoolteacher in ten years or so, if an established schoolmaster could be prevailed upon to examine her and find Ainsel’s informal schooling up to scratch.

Two of the boys have immediately begun a small scuffle, the way young boys are apparently wont to do; Ainsel sighs, and steps forward to separate them (curse all, if one of them isn’t a loose Wilder at that) - but is beaten to the punch. There’s a sharp whistle and the clink of spurs as boots go from horseback to street, and to Ainsel’s great surprise Max Wilder jumps back and sticks his hands in his pockets, looking up at the sky as his bare feet scuff at the dirty street. Were it not patently absurd, given the quantity of eye witnesses, Ainsel would say the boy was attempting to look entirely uninvolved.

Ainsel, amused, turns to raise an eyebrow at the newcomer. Will Williams catches their eye for a fraction of a second - enough for Will to roll his eyes, barely, in commiseration - and then he turns his unimpressed gaze upon the Wilder boy.

Max feigns surprise and delight well, for a nine-year-old of no particular theatrical bent; he beams at Williams with his hands tucked neatly behind his back. “Hiya, Doc,” he says through a gap-toothed smile. “How d’ya do.”

“All the better,” Will says, all dry and proper, “for knowing that you are safe at home after school and not fighting with the other boys, just like you promised me you would be. After all, we agreed on good behaviour if you were to come out to Plum Creek with me tomorrow. Didn’t we?”

Ainsel presses the knuckles of their fist to their mouth to ward off a smile as Max darts apologetically forward, spouting apologies and promises of better behaviour for ever and ever if only the Doc - that is, Mr Williams - wouldn’t tell his pa and would still take him out to the river to look for tracks. It’s more grovelling than Ainsel’s ever managed to extract from a pupil for bad behaviour, but then, Ainsel only ever promises letters and numbers, and Max seems under the impression that Williams is going to provide frogs and snakes and half a dozen other natural wonders, so.

Will scratches the back of his neck. “Well, alright,” he relents. “I - I am going to tell your pa, mind, but if he doesn’t say otherwise I don’t see why you shouldn’t come.” Max does a little victory dance and then returns to his classmates, bragging all the while about the things he’ll see out by the creek. Will himself tips his hat politely at Ainsel. “Afternoon.”

Ainsel is aware that they make Will Williams nervous. Many things do, but Ainsel reckons they do a better job of it than most folks; this is somewhat ironic, in many ways, as a fair few things make Ainsel anxious too. If they could get the measure of each other, Ainsel thinks they oughta be friends - they’d like a person to commiserate with about being thrust into a job they ain’t really qualified for, and not-a-doctor Will Williams seems like a good choice - but Williams keeps careful distance from Ainsel, even in broad daylight in a street full of children, and Ainsel ain’t hopeful. They offer a smile anyhow. “Afternoon, Williams. What can I do you for?”

Will nods gently at Miss Rainey, his own face turning gentle. “This one’s wanted at home,” he says with a smile and Jesse blushes and beams, pleased with the attention. “She’s to pick out a new ribbon at the store if she can keep tally of how much we spend and write it up neatly in the saloon books. How’s that, Miss Rainey?”

Jesse puffs up her chest with pride. “I shall have a blue ribbon like Mary Wilder’s,” she says with certainty.

Will offers Ainsel a flicker of a grin. “Jayne Rainey figures your schooling ought to be good for something,” he says, and if anyone else in the town had said it Ainsel would have winced - but Will’s got more books than clothes, same as Ainsel, so they offer a quick grin back. If only Ainsel could remember what they were doing before they woke up in Danser some years back: that way, they could say for sure if they went to college like Will, and Ainsel might feel a little less like, maybe, the local nice, nervous naturalist oughta be taking classes instead of the local amnesiac with a scary-clever horse and the books which they may or may not be qualified to own and read. Knowing that kind of thing, actually, might go a long way towards some kind of friendship with Will Williams, too.

“I figure so too,” Ainsel agrees, instead of voicing that, or anything like it. They beat down the impulse to seek answers, confess worries, force a confidence - to say hey, Williams - you wanna take a look at Edelweiss? Nah, nothing’s wrong; only, sometimes I don’t reckon she’s really a horse. You know anything about that? Only Will wouldn’t. Ainsel knows as much as they reckon they’re gonna, honestly - there was a trade, and for whatever they gave up they got Edelweiss in exchange. And maybe something else, too, but they’ll be damned if they know what.

Ainsel tries very hard to unthink that particular thought.

“Ainsel says I could keep a school,” Jesse is telling Will with pride.

“I’m sure you could,” Will replies with a little smile. Ainsel hadn’t figured Will as one for children, but then Jesse Rainey and Max Wilder are small forces of nature; if they take a liking to a person, it’s hard not to be endeared. And Jesse is the saloon proprietor’s daughter, and Will rents a room in the saloon, and Jesse is the saloon’s darling. Will shoots a glance at Ainsel. “You’re - you’re training up a replacement already?”

Ainsel inclines their head at Max Wilder, who is crouching in the dust with a stick and drawing around the hooves of Will’s square, broad-chested stock horse. Ainsel remembers Will defending his choice to Finn - Will’s horse looks more like a small draught horse than a good or fast rider, but she’s quiet and she stays still while he’s out watching animals - and indeed, though the horse is gently nosing at the boy, her hooves are staying obediently planted as he natters away at her about prints. “Should say you were, too.”

Will huffs gently at Max, who entirely fails to notice. “It was an accident. Alright, let’s get going before your parents come after me wondering where you kids are. Max, are - are you going to walk us home?”

Max bounces up, catching up the horse’s reins and bringing her over with the practised ease of anyone born and raised on the Wilder ranch. “Sure! Can I ride?”

Will carefully lifts Jesse up into the saddle. “Ladies have to ride, Max,” he corrects. “When I was little, my brother always-”

And though Will stutters into silence, Ainsel - sort of hears the rest of the story anyway. Their cards have made their way into Ainsel’s hands without them noticing and the odd paintings are switching and shifting before their eyes as they shuffle idly, and then stop. The card is of what might be a tower, and what might be a cart, and what is almost certainly a lady; the colours twist the eye and every line slides into the next until what had started as one thing is something else entirely by the end.

If you were going to play poker with these cards, you’d probably call this one the Queen of Spades.

Do not play poker with these cards.

But Ainsel looks at the cards, and the strange, illusory lines that leave only impressions, and sees with odd and abrupt clarity a young man with Will’s face but without his glasses and with a shadow of unruly stubble. He is perhaps broader than Will, too, but the resemblance is clear. And in the card, the young man grins and sweeps a small child up into a massive bear hug. He kisses the child’s hair - once plaited, Ainsel thinks, but now entirely loose and wild after a day of playing - and places them with great care and reverence on the back of a tall, thin black horse. The child, the little girl, giggles as the boy kisses her hand, says she is a princess, and runs an affectionate hand through her loose, dark hair to tidy it away before placing his hat on her head. The girl’s hands push the brim up out of her eyes - eyes which are doubtless, doubtless, Will Williams’ eyes - and Ainsel closes their own eyes, and wishes they had done so sooner.

When he opens them again, it’s just the Queen of Spades once more. Like nothing ever happened.

“Well, I, I guess you can ride behind and keep Miss Rainey steady,” Will is saying when Ainsel folds his fingers over the painted cards and looks up once more. He doesn’t seem quite so steady as he did before as he hoists Max up onto the horse’s back.

There’s no way to tell him what Ainsel knows. They wouldn’t, anyhow - Will never said, and wouldn’t thank them for disrupting the life Williams has carefully built for himself. But Ainsel would like, somehow, to communicate that Will’s big brother had seemed nice; that Will, as a kid, had seemed happy with him; that Will didn’t have to give up on his childhood and on the nice boy who had run his fingers so gently and fondly through his kid sibling’s hair, just because he’d changed over the years.

Ainsel kinda misses the memory of their own childhood, sometimes. Maybe someone had once been so affectionate with them, too.

Will catches Ainsel staring and tilts his head in query. Ainsel shakes themself and offers a small smile. “Y’all ride safe, now,” they say. “Oh, and Max Wilder - you tell your ma you’ll need shoes for the walk before the next week is out, ‘cause it’ll be getting colder and you can’t have Will Williams carting you home every day.”

“Sure will,” Max calls back, grinning and swinging his bare feet from high up on the horse’s broad, grey-dappled rear. “Bye, Ainsel!”

“Goodbye!” Jesse says, holding firm to the pommel as she shifts to look back. “I’ll show you my ribbon on Monday.”

Will just inclines his head and takes the reins in one hand.

Ainsel fidgets the cards in one hand. “Be seeing you, Williams,” they say carefully. As the party moves away, heading for the general store, the Wilder ranch, and home, Ainsel flips the top card over and over in their fingers, and hopes against hope that they wouldn’t be seeing Will Williams at all.

There are days, Ainsel knows, that they don’t sit fully right with Finn Holden. It’s a different kind of discomfort to wrong-footed Will Williams, but it’s there nonetheless - sometimes they catch Finn trying to look at them without looking at all, out of the corner of his eye or in a mirror or in the eyes of someone else who is looking at Ainsel, and they know that he knows that they know.

Like now: hunched over a little table in the saloon littered with glasses and an incomplete set of dominoes, just the two of them, and Finn’s looking over Ainsel’s shoulder. Ostensibly, eyeing up the liquor behind the bar; in reality, examining the back of Ainsel’s head in the smokey mirror behind the glasses. Ainsel prods the double six morosely and tries not to let it bother them. It does seem unfair, really, that Finn doesn’t bother people the way Ainsel does. That Ainsel bothers Finn, but not vise versa.

They think maybe choice comes into it. But Ainsel doesn’t even know if they made a choice, way back whenever they did whatever it was to land them in Danser Town with a horse and cards and no recollection at all of how this came to be. They might have been totally helpless to their fate, same as Finn had said he was, when Ainsel had cornered him after two weeks and demanded to know what, exactly, the fuck had happened to Finn to make him smell permanently of clay and sawn pine planks and blood.

(If Ainsel is honest with themself, they suspect that they did have a choice. They suspect they made a deal. The knowledge that their fate has been entirely self-wrought is not helpful.)

“Hey,” Finn says, looking at the table rather than Ainsel and tacking a domino on the end of the six. Is that better? Ainsel isn’t sure. “You been...well, lately?”

Ainsel regrets that Finn has cause to have concern for him. Unfortunately, there are only so many times a person can be seen screaming blue bloody murder at a horse for being a demon in passive, judgemental mostly-horse form before people start taking that person aside and asking about how things are going at home, and that number of times is one. “Grand,” Ainsel says levelly. They’re not wholly lying, either; they haven’t found themself lost and memory-less in a forest for nearly three weeks, Edelweiss hasn’t tried to bite them for their many and varied sins today, and Johnny McPherson had offered them a friendly holler across the street that had actually done disproportionate wonders for Ainsel’s mood. But, also, Finn isn’t looking at them straight. He’s looking the way that Will says you oughta, when you’re a little too close to some creature that can kill ya but hasn’t tried yet; with the kind of caution which is always recommended in old wives’ tales about ghosts and devils and the fae.

Finn nods. “Glad.” Then, abruptly, as if bored of being careful (not unlikely) Finn slumps back in his chair and eyeballs Ainsel straight on. It’s - oddly comforting, actually. “I’m sick of dominoes. We don’t even have half the damn pieces.”

They have all bar two. Ainsel sweeps the tiles together into a pile and starts dividing them into two sets of seven and a discard pile, pushing them across the sticky table with long, pale fingertips. “You want to play that Matador game Johnny was trying to teach us?”

Finn huffs. “Tryin’ is the word. If you can remember the rules, then I’m Saint Bridget. I sure as hell can’t.”

Ainsel tips their head, conceding the point. Something about sevens, and it being annoying that their set lacked the five-two; Ainsel had been a bit drunk at the time. “Well? We’ve got to play something. I ain’t gonna just sit here and talk to ya, no-one’s got that patience.”

Finn laughs, loud and inelegant, and Ainsel grins. “Aw, you ass,” he says cheerfully, spinning his glass on the table with careful flicks. “Let’s play cards or something. I’m a demon at rummy.”

“The saloon hasn’t got any cards any more, remember?” Ainsel points out.

Finn frowns. “It don’t? Why not?”

“Jesse Rainey nicked ‘em and gave out the picture cards to the other kids as favours. And, also, as a kind of basic hierarchy system, far as I can figure it.”

“Aw, hell. Why does that kid get away with everything?”

“Y’all reckon she’s cute.”

Finn grins. “She is! It’s like being mad at the kid on the Pear’s soap ads, or a gopher.” Ainsel spreads their hands - well, there you go - and Finn laughs. “Alright. You got cards, though, right?”

Ainsel rides the sudden lurch of horror at the idea of anyone else even seeing the cards, let alone using them. But - they want Finn and Will and everyone else to see them as normal folk, they gotta Be Normal. Have a normal horse, and a normal life, and normal playing cards. Any number of things can cause amnesia - hitting your head real hard because your horse, which maybe hates you, kicked you or bucked you or something. Trauma. Heatstroke. Normal shit, which ain’t magic no matter how much you side-eye it or examine it in mirrors. Finn might’ve just - imagined it, or had a vision like some religious folks do. Ainsel could have dreamed up any number of things and thought them real - what he’d seen of Will could be nothing. Probably says more about Ainsel than it does about Will anyhow.

Be Normal. Ainsel reckons they can do that. Most all other folks seem to.

Ainsel brings out their pack from the inner pocket of their duster, shakes out their wrists with a confident movement, and manages two whole shuffles before dropping most of the pack. The beautiful cards flutter and spin as if caught by some wild, summer wind and scatter over the table and floor in an unstoppable cascade. Finn tips his head back and laughs like a hyena.

“You’re the clumsiest fuckin’ card shark I ever seen,” he says delightedly.

“I am not a card shark,” Ainsel says rather absently as they scrabble to collect up the cards on the table.

Finn snorts. “I believe it! But what else you carryin’ all these damn cards all the damn day for, huh?” He gets off his chair and drops to the saloon floor, hunting down Ainsel’s precious cards before they get trampled or lost between the boards.

“I don’t know,” they bite back rather crossly; one of the cards, the Jack of Hearts, has just jumped away from Ainsel’s grasping fingers and they have to stand and lean over the table to snatch it up from Finn’s chair. Ainsel glances at it habitually as they sit back down and briefly forgets how to breathe.

The card, like every other, is not a standard face card. The young knave depicted always seems to form out of the swirling lines upside-down, no matter how Ainsel looks at the card, with an inverted heart on his chest like a drop of ruby-rich blood. And for a moment, whilst Ainsel watches, the Jack looks out at them with Finn’s eyes that are not Finn’s eyes. The heart pulses, once, and slides away and dissipates; the eyes go dark and glazed; and Ainsel is looking at a dead man in a churchyard. Some shadow oozes into the edges of the card and at the same pace blood leaks thick and dark from the man’s chest. There is no helping him; he is gone. Ainsel knows it. And then, he sits up. Abruptly, like he’s awakening from a nightmare. He inhales hugely, or tries to, as though he had been drowning, but chokes on his own blood. The man spends quite some time on all fours, coughing and retching and hacking up blood, but this slows and he sits back on his haunches to assess the pool of blood. He wipes at his chin with the back of his hand and grimaces - not with pain, more like disgust. And then he looks up - and this time, it is Finn with Finn’s eyes who is looking straight out of the card at Ainsel.

Ainsel’s fist closes around the card, barely managing to avoid crushing it. They look up in time for Finn’s head to appear in triumph over the edge of the table, clonking his temple gently against the underside as he does. Finn brandishes a handful of cards at Ainsel with a grin, and Ainsel sees him bleed out and wake up over and over in their mind.

They take the cards. Slide the pack back together. Tuck them deep down in an inner pocket.

Finn blinks at them for a moment. “So no cards today, then.”

“No,” Ainsel says shortly.

Finn nods solemnly. “You wanna talk about it?”

Absolutely fucking not. Ainsel slides the dominoes back across the table a little too violently, sending ivory tiles skittering against their empty glasses and shoves a couple Finn’s way. Finn, who is alive and well and not all that damn normal either, so damn it all; maybe no-one in this town is normal enough to start shit with Ainsel, and everyone ought to fuckin’ remember it. Ainsel fixes their gaze on the base of a glass, in whose curving reflection they can watch Finn without actually looking at him. “Come on, Saint Bridget,” they say roughly. “Double six starts.”

There is a short pause, and then Finn’s hand closes over the glass which Ainsel is using to look at Finn without looking at him, and they can’t see Finn’s reflection anymore. “Alright,” Finn says quietly. “Matador it is.”

#cowboy content (yeah!)#ainsel's creepy as hell what fun #the supernatural's creeping in chaps #or is it #i'm aiming for ambiguous truth #hope you enjoy! playing with other people's ocs is funa dn also nervewracking #*fun and #this is your captain speaking #a town called danser

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hibiscusangel15 · 4 years ago

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Two Months

Happy @ichirukimonth 2020, everyone! Here’s the first of a series of fics I plan to write!

Summary: He’s only known her for two months. Why does her leaving feel like a betrayal? For Day 5 of Ichiruki Month 2020.

Rating: K+

Day 5 Prompt: Betrayal

Also crossposted to FFN and AO3!

How long does it take to form a habit?

Thirty days. One month.

It took even less than that for Ichigo to grow used to her steady presence in his closet. How odd that spending just another month with her made her absence feel like a loss.

It was ridiculous, of course. Two months was hardly enough time to form a bond, let alone get to really know a person.

And yet, he had come to know Rukia, hadn’t he? She had a strong sense of duty. She loved rabbits. Her drawings sucked ass.

He’d seen her smug. He’d seen her smile.

He made her cry.

All within the span of two months. All because of him. And because of him, she was going to die.

Rukia didn’t deserve such a fate. She’d thrown away everything that night they first met. All on a whim, too. That was what shook him most.

Saving lives to her was as easy as breathing. She saved his family’s lives. Inoue and Tatsuki’s lives. Chad’s life. Even Kon’s.

And his. So many times in a thousand different ways. In ways that put her own at risk.

She was so stupid. She always harped on and on about how reckless he was, but then she went and acted just as foolishly.

Ichigo turned to his now-empty closet. “Hypocrite.”

He wished he could hear what her snarky response would be. At least then it would trigger a petty argument or a wandering conversation. Anything but this awful stillness.

How long does it take to break a habit? Another month? Two?

Nighttime was too quiet without her.

Their late conversations had been sparse, at first. In the early days, Rukia would scold him over improper fighting stances or techniques, and he would ignore her out of pure spite. Ichigo wasn’t sure when exactly this shifted into something more casual. He did remember the topic that sparked it, though.

“What’s it like there?” he asked her one night. “In Soul Society, I mean.”

Rukia seemed startled by the question. Probably because he acted like he didn't care much about their work before. That didn't mean he didn't want to know more about her world.

"It's...peaceful.” She dragged the word out like some unruly dog. Like a practiced courtesy even she didn't believe in. “You never have to worry about hunger unless you have spirit energy. Thankfully, a lot of people don’t.”

“What happens if you do have spirit energy?”

“Then you become a Shinigami.”

“No, I don’t mean that. I mean, if most spirits don’t feel hunger, then they don’t feel the need to eat obviously. But if you even have the slightest bit of spirit energy, what are you supposed to do? I can’t imagine a world where the majority doesn’t need to eat needs farms or food production. Are you just gonna starve? Can you even starve if you’re dead?”

Rukia looked away. “You can. Your soul might even fade because of it.”

“So what’re you supposed to do then?”

“Weren’t you listening to me, idiot? You become a Shinigami.”

Ichigo sat up in his bed. “Yeah, but what if you don’t want to be a Shinigami? I mean, there’s gotta be other ways to help people with spirit energy in the Soul Society.”

“I didn’t think humans could be this naive.” There was a hint of a smile in her voice. “Surely even in the World of the Living, most resources are relegated to merchants and the wealthy.”

“I’m not naive,” he snapped. “You’re the one that acts like Shinigami are doing ghosts a favor by sending them off to Soul Society. That place sounds awful if you have spirit energy.”

“What else can I do? Most humans believe that the life after this one is peaceful. Who am I to take that away from them?” she asked. “Could you honestly tell me you’d say anything different?”

The headlights of a car washed over his ceiling, illuminating his room for just a split second. It was long enough to catch the weary frustration in her eyes, harsh and heavy and cold.

Her gaze became more of a challenge to hold. She was right. It hurt her to be right.

Ichigo’s eyes fell first. “No, I probably wouldn’t. It’s just….”

“Just what?”

“It’s just sad. I don’t know. I haven’t even been a Shinigami that long, but even I know it can be exhausting. Dropping everything to kill Hollows, running the risk of serious injury or death…. Not everybody’s gonna be cut out for the kinda work you guys do.”

“Yes, well. You make do.”

And just like that, she shut the topic down. He still had so many questions he wanted to ask.

“I guess,” he said instead. “Oh, and Rukia?”

“Hm?”

“Sorry.”

“For what?”

“For making you feel bad, I guess. I still have a lot to learn about this Shinigami thing.”

Rukia was quiet for a long time. Then she laughed, a soft, genuine sound that took him completely aback. It was the first time he’d ever heard her laugh that way.

A part of him wanted to hear it again. To see the gentle smile that accompanied it.

It wouldn’t be the last time he cursed the darkness between them.

“Fool,” she whispered. “You don’t need to apologize for something as trivial as that.”

His face grew warm. “Too bad. I just did.”

“Hm.” She shuffled for the closet door handle. “Good night, Ichigo.”

“Yeah, good night.”

The screen sliced through their space and wreathed the room in damnable silence.

* * *

Ichigo regretted not trying to make her laugh more that night. He regretted not doing a lot of things during those months with Rukia.

Once he finally had time to process everything that happened the night Renji and her brother took her away, all Ichigo felt was angry. Mostly at her.

It didn’t make sense for him to feel this way, he knew. She saved his life. His pathetic, worthless life.

She protected him one last time, and he couldn't even scrounge up enough decency to be grateful.

No, he couldn’t think that way. He would rescue her. He would protect her in the same ways that she was always protecting him.

He was right to be ungrateful. He was right to be angry.

Rukia gave up everything for him. She did so without hesitation. But Soul Society simply decided her years of service, her sacrifice, her life meant nothing.

And she had agreed with them. Kicked him away, yelled at him, threatened him, and agreed with the bastards that attacked her that she had no right to her own life.

It was a betrayal he was not willing to stand for.

So he would stand and fight. It didn’t matter who. It didn't matter how many. Anyone who got in his way was an enemy. Anyone who put Rukia through that hell wouldn’t get to decide her fate. Rukia herself could fight him on this if she wanted to. He wouldn't let her be resigned to her own death.

He already decided her opinion about all this didn’t matter. All that did matter was her safety. Her happiness. The chance to hear her laugh that wonderfully soft laugh again.

Ichigo would let that guy with the cane and weird hat train him if it meant a shot at recovering any of that.

Two months. In just two months, Rukia had changed his world.

Now he would do anything to change hers.

#ichirukimonth #ichirukimonth2020 #Ichiruki #OTP: Black Sun and White Moon #Kurosaki Ichigo #Kuchiki Rukia #Bleach #my fanfiction

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shallowgravesrp · 4 years ago

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“And she can’t stop and she won’t stop.”

Alice Fortescue

Age: Twenty-Two

House: Gryffindor

Affiliation: Order

Career: Auror

aesthetics: the golden hour dousing buildings in fire, ivy vines growing on stone walls, a tempest on the verge of chaos, sunflowers, scraped knees hidden by dresses, laughter echoing in the halls, petrichor, stormy days and a cup of tea, alcohol lingering on lips, secrets kisses, brown curls messily tied in ribbons, plant mom, bruised knuckles, silver tongued swears, the ocean breeze, oversized sweaters and stolen shirts, right hook, blistering wind, snow covered mountains, log cabins, waves crashing against the sand, roaring fire, battle cries, ice cream sundays.

what we all know: This girl has been fighting for years to break through the glass ceilings constantly pushing her down. Having always been the one to fight for the underdog, Alice rather obviously left Hogwarts and went straight to the Ministry in order to be an Auror. With a hit first, ask questions later attitude, it begs the question whether she’s actually impressing those around or just pushing them to the point where they don’t even care anymore. One thing is clear, she’s got Frank Longbottom wrapped around her finger, as shown by the shiny ring she has and the impending date of their upcoming nuptials.

A storm raged upon the shores of England the day Alice Fortescue was born and that storm now rages inside her bursting with chaotic and powerful potential. She screamed out a battle cry the moment she took a breath and her parents wondered what she was going to be like when was older. She was an only child who thrived on her parents’ affection, while they rarely scolded her(mostly because they knew she wouldn’t listen), she always wanted to make them proud. An adventurous child she hardly ever sat still, like a storm she rushed about, constantly exploring her family’s estate, unruly brown curls in bows and wearing frilly dresses. She was a sight to behold in the trees, on the roof, wading through mud. Small hands picked up twigs, a wand until she got her own, but until then she copied those around her, her wand would always be an extension of herself. She was curious almost to fault and got herself in a few strange situations more often than not, to which her parents left her to figure her way out of it, instilling independence in her. Her mother was patient in accepting of her daughter, while most pureblood mothers were primping and preening their daughters for marriage Alice’s mother had a different agenda. She tried gave Alice piano lessons, sent to her ballet training, taught her etiquette but when she realized her daughter had a voice as loud as thunder, she gave up and simply encouraged her small daughter to take the world by storm. They spent hours reading books about great adventures, the lesson to fall down and get back up, never let anyone tell her that she had defined role as a lady ingrained into every fiber of her being. Her father agreed with this sentiment filling his daughter’s head with tales of Aurors and their extraordinary feats. Though his family owned Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour his younger brother was the one to actually take care of it. Alice’s father worked in the Magical Law Enforcement Department and used to take Alice into work with him, the. The small girl would run off to where the Aurors trained and curious eyes watch as the men trained knowing day she too would be there. She had to be an Auror. She’d never could be anything else.

Alice knew she’d go to Hogwarts, she had been anticipating the day since she was small and listened to her father’s stories about the castle. She hopped on that train with confidence exuding from her being, a bright smile on her face, she wasn’t nervous. Hogwarts would be the place where she could hone in on her skills to be an auror, where she would make friends, where adventure was waiting and she was ready to take it and run. Her first moments in that castle infamous. She made herself known, her small voice chastising rude words. She swore up a storm, pulled some pigtails, and nearly bit a boys arm, McGongall knew she was going to have her hands full. She was a hatstall, her small legs swung back and forth as the hat deliberated where to put her, she was plenty smart that was true, loyal to fault, but there was an ambition about her, she is not one to give up easily and yet….yet….while ambitious she’d never push others to get what she wanted, determined, slightly reckless and brave the hat finally placed her in Gryffindor, a balancing move, a girl with as ambitious a heart as hers would only thrive in Gryffindor, and push others to thrive along with her. Alice was small but fierce. She would stand up to those twice her size, an avenger, a defender of Hogwarts. It was then she started hearing whispers of another one, a boy calm as the sea after a storm, Frank Longbottom. She was determined they should never meet though, it was the rules of fate she decided. Two ships passing in the night, but never meeting. But they did. He grabbed her hand pulling her away and she protested, profanities leaving her mouth. But when she looked at him a wave of something she’ll never be able to describe washed over her. He was such the opposite of herself, calm, soft, everything she wasn’t. And she resisted at first but he cracked down a wall and it was the two of them from then on.

Alice is a fighter, she’s calculating when she needs to be but she’s more impulsive than anything. She is plenty smart, excelling at Hogwarts. Her best class is Defense Against the Dark Arts with Herbology coming in a close second,(she knows 10 different ways to kill you with plants but also knows how to heal you with said plants). She’s a scrappy fighter, silver tongue insults always falling from her lips, always taunting her opponents. Summers for her were spent in her garden studying her plants, and practicing with her father, reading about different Aurors and wars, learning from the past. She did spend a huge amount of time with her Uncle in his shop helping too. Despite her chaotic nature, and knack for arguing with teachers Alice kept up her grades because it was how she was going to become an Auror will come true. And it did.

Becoming an Auror was the only acceptable choice for Alice. She had no doubts about it. Alice has this need to protect others, so much so she’d rather through herself in harm’s way. But with Frank by her side it is a balancing act that makes them a rising force in the auror department. But just because she’s good at what she does it has never meant that working in the department has come easy. There are those that respect her but there are those that see her as just playing games. It infuriates her and it makes her more chaotic then usual. While Alice is beyond excited to being marrying Frank the comments that circulate about him, the insults that are spoken behind her back, it’s taking a toll on her. The war is always looming in her mind and she could never just sit idly by. Joining the Order was the only thing she could do, if only to protect those she loves most. And Alice has always been willing to do whatever it takes to protect those around, no matter the costs.

FRANK LONGBOTTOM - Alice never thought that love would’ve been something she had, but then Frank came into her life. He took her had and kept her from trouble, and they’ve bee together since then. The idea of getting married terrifies her, but knowing Frank is going to be the one waiting for her makes it all worth it.

CHARITY BURBAGE - She’s known Charity since they were children, and Alice adores the younger girl. She’s sweet, but has a bit of a firey side to her as well. Alice can’t wait to see what the girl will do with her future.

BELLATRIX BLACK - Bellatrix has always been someone Alice has fought with. They never agreed and were polar opposites in every way. There is a small part of Alice that hopes her current status might knock her down a couple notches and maybe she wouldn’t be so terrible.

Alice Fortescue is currently a CLOSED role with the faceclaim of Zendaya. She is played by Cordelia.

#marauders rp #dark rp #lsrp #marauders roleplay #hp rp #alice fortescue #taken #takenf #alicefortescuebio #mention: frank longbottom #mention: charity burbage #mention: bellatrix black

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ephemeral-afterlight · 5 years ago

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Tea at Twilight

(Please ignore the terrible title–I know it’s bad, but my brain is fried and I can’t come up with anything better right now)

Word Count: 1327

Summary: Curiousity has always been a strong trait in Logan. Maybe that’s why he and Remus get along so well.

Warnings: Remus and the disturbing things he says and does: graphic discussion of disembowelment and various mentions of gore (none of it actually happens, it’s only talked about), Remus gets an injury that heals immediately. Logan is sympathetic/amiable toward the dark sides, and feels a disconnect from the other main three, though he isn’t upset with them or unsympathetic towards them. That’s about it, I think!

A/N: Honestly, I didn’t expect something like this to be the first work I’ve posted for this fandom, but @nachosforfree mentioned wanting some intrulogical/dark sides-centric stuff so I got a bit inspired and thought up this little ficlet somewhat based on a conversation I had with @illogical-anxieties a while ago. Sorry this is late, and sorry if it wasn’t what you wanted, Emmit! I sure do hope you’re feeling better!

(Cross-posted to AO3)

(Read Part 2 here)

It’s late afternoon this time, a quiet hush falling over the mindscape as Thomas settles into his favourite spot on the couch for yet another insomnia-fueled Netflix binge. The silence is certainly welcomed, at least in Logan’s opinion; it’s a relieving break in the hectic stream of problems that their host comically gets himself into. There’s a certain tranquility that comes in the twilight hours, lending itself to a litany of praise and an almost inherent respect from the logical side. Settling down in his big library chair with a compelling novel, a soft blanket, and a warm beverage is an especially beloved stress-relieving method of his, and one he unfortunately is unable to participate in often. However, today has been an easy day, restless after the unusually ramped-up amount of moral dilemmas Thomas and the sides have had to talk their way through and overcome in the past week, but they’ve remained mostly reserved. The others had invited Logan to join them for a low-energy movie night, but as much as Logan wishes to be a more normal, acceptable part of their group, he has long surrendered his internal protests to the knowledge that he is displaced among them, and keeping a neutral but removed facade is the only way to keep their social relations on the more amenable side of the scale. So here he is, hardback book in hand and quilted blanket resting upon his legs, losing himself in the near-incoherent, dreary prose of his favourite authour as the faint sound of a Disney movie echoes from the living room.

“Hey, Logan?” The voice comes from the direction of his bed, high and grating with an audible smile permanently ingrained in its tone. Logan has been aware of Remus’ presence, of course, but the other side hasn’t said anything before now, so he’s just left him be.

“What do you think happens when you take out someone’s entrails? Could I make a painting with their blood and guts?” Remus asks, just as inquisitive and sincere and ornery as he always is. Logan almost finds comfort in Remus’ unpredictability, because it’s so predictable. How could it not be, when nearly everything that comes out of his mouth is tainted and disturbed and curious in nature?

Curiousity has always been a strong trait in Logan. Maybe that’s why he and Remus get along so well.

“If the intestines are only resting outside the body, a person would likely fall unconscious due to blood loss within a minute or so, and die sometime during the next few. If they are cut out, however, they will experience a quicker but far more agonizing death,” Logan answers without looking up, turning a stiff page oh-so-deliberately just to hear that satisfying, searing noise. He retrieves the teacup from the saucer on which it sits, carefully bringing the warm porcelain up to his lips. The tea is still hot, but he pays no mind to the discomfort caused by the liquid sliding down his throat; the pain is never permanent, after all. Dry throat now successfully moisturized, soothed even despite the scald, the bespectacled side clears his throat to address the second part of Remus’ question. “And although painting with blood is possible, acrylic or watercolour paints are a much cheaper and more sanitary medium to use to create artwork. I’m sure that, given the necessary supplies, you would find acrylic paint much more enjoyable, especially considering the fact that you would have many more colours to paint with. A monotone piece is a bit… boring, don’t you think?”

Logan finally looks up from his novel, glancing over to where Remus lays upside down off the side of his bed. Said side looks awestruck, as if using a colour other than blood red to create art has never occurred to him, and Logan is left wondering how much of his creativity and potential is overshadowed and forcibly repressed in the face of his intrusive thoughts.

“Woah, you’re right! That does sound fun! I can use the different colours to make a painting of the blood and guts all over the floor after the disembowelment! You’re so smart!” Remus exclaims, childlike wonder acting as a juxtapose to the horrific imagery his words exhibit so proudly. Logan finds himself smiling despite himself, huffing a silent laugh under his breath as he slips a slim finger into the teacup handle once again. The tea has cooled considerably by now, much more tolerable than before, and the logical side finds himself unable to drop his tiny grin even as he sips quietly on the strong beverage.

“Hey, Logan, have you seen-”

Before Logan can reply, his door opens after a few short knocks, and a certain snake-themed side pokes his head through the doorway. He apparently didn’t open the door enough, though, so his bowler hat is dislodged from his head with the force of the frame pushing back on it, and it falls to the floor somewhat anticlimactically. Deceit stops in his tracks and stands there as he stares ruefully at his fallen hat, muttering something under his breath after a moment that sounds suspiciously like a eulogy.

“Dee!” Remus exclaims happily, rolling backwards off the edge of Logan’s bed and hitting the floor with a sickening crack. The logical side has learned not to worry about Remus retaining any of the injuries he (usually purposely) inflicts on himself, but it doesn’t mean that his heart doesn’t jump minutely in his chest or that his fingers don’t twitch in his aborted impulse reaction to reach out and somehow remedy the new laceration or contusion on Remus’ body he knows will disappear within seconds. And sure enough, Remus is already up and bouncing in excitement like a puppy dog bounding to greet its owner after a long, arduous day of chewing up shoes and getting into things it shouldn’t.

Deceit reaches down to pick up his hat, enduring the friendly butt slap from Remus without so much as a flinch, which is likely testament to how often the wayward twin uses the action as a greeting (and probably for goodbyes, too. And any other excuse he can use to touch someone’s butt). After plopping the black bowler right back on his head, Deceit sighs, reaching a gloved hand up to ruffle Remus’ wild, unruly hair. The latter of the two displays a bright, toothy grin, even as the snake-like side gently yanks Remus’ head to the side by his hair, sticking his tongue out in a playfully mocking challenge. Logan’s eyes swim with mirth as he watches the casual interaction, and the amused smirk that finds its way onto his face doesn’t let up when Remus lightheartedly punches Deceit on his upper arm. “Alright, Rem, enough messing around. Time for bed. You know how you get when you stay up past ten.”

Remus pouts, then opens his mouth to start complaining. Deceit is obviously used to this, so he gently but firmly grabs Remus by the arm and steers him around into the hallway. The second twin’s incessant whines fall on deaf ears, though–Deceit simply ignores him and turns back around briefly to send Logan a courteous wave. The bespectacled side returns it congenially, then turns back to his novel. The tea has completely cooled in his grasp, and Logan finishes the rest of it off in a single swallow before delicately placing the ornate cup back onto the saucer. He curls into the blanket again, relaxed and drowsy, and turns the page as he hears Remus’ requests for a bedtime story met with Deceit’s exasperated groans fade out down the hall.

And if Logan walks past Remus’ room the next night and sees him conjuring gleaming palettes and smooth canvasses and an array of colours of bold, bright paint to use to his heart’s content, well, nobody has to know about how much more content he is for it.

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thebibliomancer · 4 years ago

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Essential Avengers: Avengers #218: Born Again (And Again and Again...)

April, 1982

Avengers fill-in issues are so weird. Beast isn’t even here and things are weird as heck.

And geez this is an unsubtle cover. And for once, not a lie.

Although Yellowjacket being in the roster rectangle is one.

I do like that the And Again... And Again... wraps off the edge of the page.

Y’know, I don’t know that this is a fill-in. It says Jim Shooter co-plotted. Then again, there’s a regular creative team box instead of an essay. So co-plotted probably means Shooter offered some adjustments to the plot but mostly let J.M. DeMatteis get on with it.

This feels like a weird time for it, honestly? The fall of Yellowjacket arc is kind of humming along leisurely already. With setup in 212, the fall in 213, fallout in 214, then a pause in 215 and 216 for the Molecule Man plot, and finally picking back up with Hank in 217 to see him fall further. And then there’s going to be a stretch of issues before we pick up again.

But it is what it is and what it is is a weird fill-in.

The issue starts where a young boy just walks right up to the door of Avengers Mansion and rings the doorbell.

Somewhere, Henry Peter Gyrich is shaking his fist. Where are the door tentacles? He fought for those door tentacles!

The young boy is here to see the Avengers and won’t take a “the Avengers are quite busy today” for an answer.

This boy: “This is a matter of life and death!!”

He remains quite insistent that he see the Avengers.

Luckily, Wasp (who I guess is not quite busy today?) shows up and decides to let this boy in for the best reason of all.

Wasp: “Turn away an adorable well-spoken little boy like you? Never! I know you were just doing your job, Jarvis -- but I’m a sucker for a pretty face! I think I’ll give him the grand tour.”

Wasp, pls.

But what Wasp says goes, so Jarvis just shrugs and goes back to the chocolate mousse cake that he was making.

Leaving Wasp to deal with this unruly child.

Wasp: “What’s your name, sweetie?”

This boy: “Sweetie?! Madam -- I am not your ‘sweetie!’ As I explained to your butler, this is a matter of gravest importance! Now take me to Captain America and the others!”

Wasp: “Just one minute, young man! I know you’re excited about being here -- but that is no excuse for rudeness! I think you ought to --”

This boy: “Madam -- SHUT UP!!”

And then he shoves her and runs off.

Pretty sure he shoves her in the boob too. You can’t fool me by changing some letters, SFX that says BOONT.

Anyway, very rude, this boy.

Meanwhile, in the Avenger’s lab we get to see what the Avengers are so quite busy with.

Thor is holding up an incredibly heavy piece of machinery while Iron Man does some welding on the bottom of it.

Thor is also complaining about holding up an incredibly heavy piece of machinery because Iron Man has been at it for about an hour. Do they not have a jack or something that can do the job instead?

Also, the big thing is apparently an “inter-spatial monitor.” I assume it watches the space between spaces.

Cap is also here, being quite busy leaning against the wall and also complaining about how long this is taking.

He’s already worked out for three hours today and he wants to get on with the Avengers meeting.

And then This Boy runs into the room exclaiming “Avengers! I’ve got to talk to you!!” startling Iron Man just when he was finishing up the welding.

Startled Iron Man accidentally blasts Thor’s foot causing the God of Thunder to lose his grip on the inter-spatial monitor out of surprise.

Cap realizes Iron Man could get crushed underneath it and springs into action, tackling Iron Man out from under the monitor. The choreography almost makes sense.

Iron Man: “Thanks, Cap -- but I could have handled that myself, you know!”

Captain America: “I know, old friend -- but I didn’t want to... take any chances!”

And then they shake hands in a display of what good friends they are. Ha ha this is ironic in hindsight. But also: is DeMattias trying to ship them? This feels like a very shippable moment.

Look at Cap’s little smile.

Anyway.

Thor scoops up This Boy and scolds him for scurrying around and distracting thunder gods.

Thor: “Whoe’ver thou art -- Thor hath half a mind to give thee a sound spanking!”

This Boy: “I... don’t think I’d live through it!”

Hah.

Thor: “Worry not, child -- Thor shall not strike thee!”

So then Wasp shows up so the gang is all here for this boy to explain why he wanted to talk to the Avengers so badly.

This Boy: “Listen to me -- all of you! I am not a child! I am a man cursed with eternal life! I am a man who cannot die -- and I need your help!”

Iron Man: “Easy, son -- why don’t you tell us your name so that we can get in touch with your parents. I’m sure they’d like to know where you are...”

This boy: “My parents?! Fool! I was afraid this would be your reaction! But I must make you understand!”

And then he pulls out a gun.

Points it at his own head, like on the cover. And shoots himself.

Good grief.

It all happens way too quickly for the Avengers to react. Or maybe the audacity just stunned them.

HEY I THOUGHT THE AVENGERS’ SECURITY SYSTEM SCANNED FOR WEAPONS.

God, Gyrich would be rolling in his grave, if he were dead.

Anyway, as Wasp is crying into Cap’s star that a child just died, Cap goes hey look something weird is happening with the child corpse.

The child corpse just disintegrates into ash and fades away. Thus clearing the Avengers from having to explain this to anyone.

And more bizarrely, where the ash was-

I... I guess the way to explain it is that a fetus just sort of develops into a baby and then back into this boy right in front of the Avengers’ eyes.

Why is this happening

I do like the “Now do you believe me?” “They do...” caption.

Thor: “Methinks it be time for an explanation!”

YES. EXACTLY RIGHT.

This boy finally introduces himself as Morgan MacNeil Hardy.

So. This guy. Is an established character. He was established first in Spider-Woman #33 where he was Turner D. Century’s foster dad. Turner D. Century is a guy who just super loves the early 1900s because Morgan MacNeil Hardy raised him only in the values of that time period for some reason.

I’m getting off track, really. But this is a rabbit hole.

So. Even though Hardy seemed to die in Spider-Woman #33, he came back in Captain America #264. He invented something called the psi-augmentor to alter reality and make America moral again.

He did this by plugging four people into his machine, two of which I’m decently sure were a racist and a Nazi.

Cap intervened because some of the changes to reality were causing racism and Nazi stuff to happen and then when Hardy tried to wipe Captain America out of existence, he almost wiped out America instead. Because Cap is the symbol of America. Or maybe the machine missed the Captain part. Either or.

But Hardy was too patriotic to allow America to be retgonned so he drew the energy back and then died.

SHIELD came and mopped up the mess Cap left and buried the dead Hardy. But then three days later the man rose from the dead as this boy.

And in fact, the jolt from the reality altering machine freed Hardy’s repressed memories of all the lives he has lived.

Hardy: “I have lived innumerable lives, died innumerable deaths, yet time and again by body has somehow regenerated itself -- grown back to this youthful form! But, until my current incarnations, I’d believed every lifetime to be the first! Each identity to be the only identity! Hear me: since the dawn of time I have seen life as no other man has ever seen it -- as no other man should have to see it! And I am tired... infinitely tired. All I want now -- is the peace of death.”

Shot in the dark but you may be a Time Lord, Hardy.

Anyway, as dark as an infinitely regenerating suicidal child is, it gets worse. The psi-augmentor also dicked up whatever process makes Hardy regenerate. It took him three days to regenerate after the psi-augmentor incident. Now he’s back up in minutes.

Hardy: “I can’t bear much more of this! I can’t! That’s why you’ve got to help me! You’re all so wise -- so strong! You’ve the greatest super-scientific devices in the world at your disposal! Surely you can find out why this is happening to me!”

The Avengers are blown away by this story and Wasp speaks for all of them when she promises that the Avengers will do everything in their power to help him.

So the Avengers spend several days doing assorted science at a child. Or at least Iron Man does while Wasp watches in interest and Thor and Captain America watch in disinterest.

They’ve only got the one smart guy right now.

But after using all those big science machines and gazing at science glassware full of science chemicals, Iron Man finally sciences a science science.

Science.

Iron Man: “It seems our young friend is a true anomaly... a freak of nature... perhaps the first mutant the world ever knew. Simply put: his own lifecycle is somehow tied in with the lifecycle of the Earth itself! It’s as if the man and the planet -- were one soul... as long as the planet exists -- he will exist.”

How... how do you test for that?! What science chemicals told you that this boy’s soul was one with the Earth??

Also, another hat thrown into Actually the First Mutant contest. Get fucked, Namor.

Anyway, a distraught Hardy questions whether this means he’ll have to live forever but Iron Man says that now that he understands the problem, he can start working on a solution.

Which leads to a bit of a disagreement among the Avengers.

Iron Man sees a SCIENCE! problem to be scienced at. But he’s the only one.

Wasp: “Wait a minute! A solution? I know that this... boy has been through a lot -- but who are we to provide him with a means of suicide?”

And Cap agrees with Wasp. But for more different reasons.

Cap: “Captain America has always stood for the preservation of life! With all he’s been through -- all he’s learned -- this... Forever Man could help humanity immeasurably!”

Geez. Are you really standing for the preservation of life if you then follow it up suggesting that Forever Man should be (beneficially) exploited for everyone else?

And Thor just doesn’t see the problem at all. And maybe isn’t even sure what the Avengers have been bothering over for the past couple days.

Thor: “Thor hath yet to see if a problem doth e’en exist! Immortality be not a fate fit for mourning -- ‘tis a blessing that -- till now -- only the gods have known!”

And Hardy. Hardy is pissed at the way the conversation is going and all this not putting him out of his misery.

Hardy: “You sanctimonious morons! You can’t even begin to comprehend what I’ve been through! I haven’t had a god’s life, Thor -- I’ve had the pathetic life of a man! I’ve seen the death, the suffering, the loves lost, the hopes denied! Forget what the movies tell you about the immortals who’ve walked with Methuselah, Moses, Jesus! I’ve known no great me and, with the exception of Hardy, I’ve been no great men!”

Iron Man cuts him off to go why not go to bed kiddo while the adults talk things out.

I mean, not exactly, but the spirit is there.

And maybe not the right tack to take because upon being sent to his room, more or less, Hardy decides well fuck this. Inspired by an article he sees in a newspaper, he runs away from home/Avengers Mansion, hitches a ride on a train, and threatens with a gun some vagrants who I’m pretty sure are Laurel and Hardy.

Morgan MacNeil Hardy rides the rails all the way to Cape Canaveral.

Upon which he lies his way onto the base by pretending to be the lost grandson of the base’s general, sneaks off, and then sneaks into a rocket that is being prepared to launch.

“He stands, dwarfed by the mammoth spacecraft, gazing up at it the way some men would gaze up at the face of God. For this NASA probe -- ‘Star Core Three’ -- is a god of sorts. A god that will carry him to the heart of the Sun; a Sun that, he hopes, will succeed where he has failed... a Sun that will consume him... and grant him the peace of final death.”

Damn, Hardy.

You sure are serious about this death thing if you’re willing to go so far out of your way to throw yourself into the Sun.

Did you even consider just throwing yourself into a volcano? Its less of a trip!

The rocket is Star Core Three and is going to orbit the Sun and get all kinds of SCIENCE data.

It also wasn’t meant to have passengers so Hardy dies and dies and dies again from the lack of oxygen and the cold. Just death and rebirth for the weeks it takes the rocket to travel to the Sun.

This story is pretty messed up, if you think about it.

Anyway, during those “brief, agonized moments of life” Hardy reprograms Star Core Three’s guidance system.

So that when the probe arrives at the sun, it plunges into it instead of orbiting it.

Cool. You just sabotaged a millions dollar space probe to try to kill yourself in the Sun, Hardy. You dick.

After the probe’s destruction, General Nelson calls the Avengers and asks if they know of any cosmic nonsense or anything else that could have caused Star Core Three’s guidance systems to shit the bed.

He’s also asked the Fantastic Four so really he’s just checking the Avengers off a list just in case.

Wasp asks if anything weird happened on the day of the launch and Peter Parker looking General Nelson says that there was a small boy intruder but that’s about it.

Wasp is like gasp! We’ve misplaced a small boy! Is it possible, nay even probable that Hardy launched himself into the fucking sun in a grand suicide attempt??

Iron Man decides that’s far fetched.

“Far-fetched, Iron Man... and true!”

“But, if it is death the ageless child has come to the sun seeking... it is something far more horrible that he has found! For, as he is swallowed by the staggering energies of the sun; as he dies, screaming, ten thousand times in ten thousand seconds... an awful change occurs!”

“Whatever the creature is that rises in the boy’s place, it is not human. It is a thing of plasma and pain; a pain that, the creature senses, has been its lot for centuries.”

“It knows it must end that pain -- at any cost! And so it arcs out towards space, toward home... toward Earth!”

So. Yeah. Yeahhhhh. Yeah.

Hardy dunked himself into the Sun and found a fate worse than the fate worse than death he was suffering.

Pro-tip to all immortals out there? Looking at you, Lestat. Unless you’re absolutely sure that dunking into the Sun really will kill you and not consign you to an even more hellish existence, maybe don’t?

Anyway, an undisclosed amount of time later, Jarvis runs into the Avengers meeting room (which once again has a decently sized table - although the chairs look a little cramped) and tells the Avengers that he was watching the news on his tea break and saw a bulletin about a fire creature on the loose.

I do make fun of it a lot but the Avengers sure do rely on the news to keep on the ball, huh?

Also, is it just me or have the Avengers been fighting a lot of fire monsters? Not in a short time span but still. They fought that Inferno guy in a two-parter. Pyron when Wasp was the cool hero. And now a child who swan dived into the Sun and became a monster.

Anyway, Fire Hardy is menacing Midtown because he vaguely remembers failing to die here once.

The police and even the army are failing to do much to stop Fire Hardy’s rampage. And some are getting discouraged because of it.

A police officer: “Why are we even doing this? The blasted monster’s unstoppable! Why don’t we just give up and let it kill us?”

Iron Man: “Take it easy, officer -- the situation can’t be that bad!”

So the Avengers tell the army and police to armscray because this looks like a job for the AVENGERS.

Fire Hardy sees the Avengers and their gaudy costumes stirs a vague memory, perhaps of them being unhelpful, and he AROOOOs angrily, like Futurama Nixon.

Cap also claims that Fire Hardy is like a living sun, generating heat that is almost unbearable.

But, Cap, c’mon. C’mon. Really? C’mon. Look, you can’t do the Pyron story where the Avengers all had to wear heat resistant suits and Jocasta started melting and expect me to take any fire threat as seriously if you’re confronting it in your red, white, and blues.

Wasp takes initiative. I was wondering whether, since this smacked of filler, it would remember that she’s the leader of the team. But at least she gets to go first.

She shears a lamp-post with one of her sting blasts and has it fall on Fire Hardy.

It doesn’t work. The lamp-post just catches fire and melts on contact. But, hey, blasting a lamp-post in half in one go is a good showing for Wasp’s vaguely powered pew pew.

Wasp goes uh Iron Man, you’re up.

And Iron Man has a good idea.

He borrows the shovel from a steam shovel and uses it to dig a hole.

Then they can trip the monster so it falls into the hole and uhh look its a good first step. They’ll figure it out as they go.

Thor: “If only thy words couldst make it so, Iron Man! But methinks the creature hath other plans!”

And Fire Hardy melts the asphalt ground molten with a touch and allows it to fill in the pit.

The monster is clearly more intelligent than the 8 whole panels before this one have led the Avengers to believe.

Now its Thor’s turn. Because I guess they’re just going one at a time.

Good teamwork, Avengers!

Anyway, Thor’s plan, unsurprisingly, is to do Thor things. Which as you might recall, isn’t limited to just hitting things really hard.

Thor: “Let this lumbering sun-beast brace itself! -- For it is about to face -- THOR, god of thunder! I now call down the living lightning that be mine to command -- the roaring gale -- the full, unfettered fury of the storm! May the floodtides of heaven surround yon walking star -- and drown its fires in life-giving water...”

And Thor brings the storm and the thunder. But. Remember when Cap (laughably) claimed that Fire Hardy was as hot as the Sun?

Do you know what the evaporation point of water is? A lot lower than the heat of the sun, probably??

So Thor’s storm just evaporates from the heat before even touching Fire Hardy.

So another dud.

Cap’s up!

Not sure what he can do that Thor couldn’t do. Lets be honest. They kind of spent their biggest gun already. What’s Cap gonna do?

Did you guess... run up and throw his shield at the problem? Good guess.

Cap: “We’re facing one of the most dangerous menaces we’ve ever faced! Unchecked, it could wipe out every man, woman, and child in this city -- perhaps in the world! But I have no intention of letting that happen!”

I’ll give him credit for stubbornness and a Corellian-esque hatred of knowing the odds.

But throwing his shield actually does do a thing.

It elicits a NOOOOOO from the monster.

The voice sounds familiar to Iron Man but before he can ponder it, he tackles Cap to stop him from burning his hands off.

Iron Man: “Despite the fact that your shield’s made of some strange, powerful alloy, Cap -- it still gets mighty hot when you toss it into a mini-sun!”

Cap: “That’s one I owe you, Shell-Head!”

Sometimes I suspect that Cap may be a beautiful idiot. Who specifically doesn’t know how thermodynamics work.

Although to be fair, the shield was in Fire Hardy for a couple seconds at most. That’s an impressive heat transfer coefficient.

Anyway Fire Hardy has more to say such as FOOLS! AT LAST -- I REMEMBER!

And Cap realizes what Iron Man suspected just a five lines ago. That the fire monster sounds like Hardy.

Cap puts 2 and 2 together and realizes that Wasp was right that Hardy threw himself into the Sun and realizes that obviously because of science, he must have mutated into a fire monster.

Of course. That’s just science.

The Avengers try to reason with Fire Hardy but Fire Hardy claims HARDY IS GONE! ONLY HIS PAIN AND RAGE REMAIN!

So the Avengers shrug and go back to doing what they do best. Fight scenes that resolve in eyebrow raising ways.

Cap figures that hey his shield had seemed to hurt Fire Hardy before so why not do that again but better. And he throws his mighty shield so hard that it lodges in Fire Hardy.

Uh. What is it.... lodged in? Fire Hardy is made of fire. Which is not known for its tangibility.

But with the mighty shield lodged in his gut somehow, Fire Hardy goes NOOOOOOO

Iron Man figures that something in the shield’s unique molecular structure is janking up Fire Hardy and decides ‘hey lets all concentrate on the shield!’

This makes as much sense as anything else.

So Iron Man blasts the shield, Wasp blasts the shield, and Thor throws Mjolnir through Fire Hardy.

Wasp worries that they may be killing Hardy but Thor argues ‘hey he said he wasn’t Hardy! We’re free and clear, morally speaking!’

More seriously:

Thor: “And tell me -- can we truly slay a thing that ne’er hath died?”

Good point, Thor, good point.

Problem is that either Fire Hardy has had enough of these shenanigans or they’ve hit the weak point for massive damage too well.

Because Fire Hardy starts glowing white hot, almost as if he’s going to explode.

And with the heat that he’s allegedly putting out, its an explosion that could destroy the entire western hemisphere!

Or Iron Man says so anyway!

He asks Thor to make a vortex with Mjolnir.

And Thor is like ‘oh right that is a thing I can do’

So he spins Mjolnir around and around and around so fast that it creates a tornado that picks Fire Hardy up and shoots him into space.

Where he explodes.

“At last, a wildly-spinning vortex forms about the brilliantly-glowing sun-thing... sucking it up, up, up -- out of the Earth’s atmosphere... into the dappled heavens... where, with a soundless, scintillant explosion... the threat of the man who lived forever... ends! Or does it?”

Wild.

Even though the blast was all up in space and contained by the vortex, it still shakes the Avengers off their feet. AND CREATES A NOT-WIDE BUT PRETTY DEEP CRATER!

Cap: “If I had any questions about Hardy’s living through that -- they’re gone now.”

Wasp: “Then -- he’s finally found the peace he was looking for.”

Thor: “Aye, Wasp -- but at what cost?”

Iron Man: “Uh... I hate to be the one to put the damper on this impromptu memorial service -- but considering we’re talking about a guy who’s survived since the dawn of time -- don’t you think we ought to check?”

Pfft.

I love that exchange.

So the Avengers jump down into the crater and find two ludicrous things.

Cap is talking about how he lost his shield in this nonsense and would like to look for it.

Thor: “Captain -- art thou daft? Thy shield hadst no more chance of remaining intact in that inferno than--”

-Cap’s shield perfectly intact-

Iron Man: “... you were saying, Thor?”

Thor: “Heimdall’s beard! Surely thy weapon must be as enchanted as mine uru mallet!”

And then Cap just picks his shield up.

Not by the metal, obviously. That’d be silly! It’d be way too hot to hold!

No, he picks it up by the straps! The presumably leather or cloth straps which are perfectly intact after being at the center of an explosion that reached all the way from space!

Good lord, what is that presumably leather from? The legendary tarrasque??

Even if the leather straps were indestructible, wouldn’t they still be very hot?

Anyway, that was just ludicrous thing number one.

Ludicrous thing number two is that Not-Fire Hardy regrows to his child form at the bottom of the crater.

And he has AMNESIA!

-soap opera sting-

Because. Of course.

Thor and Wasp immediately accept that this is a thing which has happened because of course.

But Cap is more doubtful. About that and about this whole misadventure.

Cap: “Despite the fact that he’s managed to resurrect himself -- we killed a living being today!”

Iron Man: “But -- is it really killing when the being you’ve slain... doesn’t stay dead?”

Cap: “That’s something we’ll all have to wonder about -- for the rest of our days.”

And then the Avengers fly out of the crater. With Cap riding on Thor’s back.

God, I love this comic sometimes.

And Hardy being wrapped in Thor’s cape and held in Wasp’s arms while Iron Man holds the both of them.

But Iron Man is wondering a thing himself.

“What if the boy’s amnesia isn’t legitimate: what if it’s an act, meant to lull them into a false sense of security. What then? Indeed... WHAT THEN...?”

And given Hardy’s little smirk at the end, yeah, its implied that he’s faking amnesia to get away with having tried to kill the Avengers as a monster of solar fire.

Does anything come of this?

HECK NO!

Nothing is done with the character after this! You’d think that an alleged First Mutant would be more important but I’m not attached enough to this character concept to want to argue for that.

Especially not for man who builds psychic device to bring back traditional values.

I kind of wonder whether this whole exercise was to sort of take his death in Captain America #264 off Cap’s hands by having him come back to life.

Anyway... yeah. Very fill-in. Reading it feels like a speedbump. We’ve got the Hank Pym thing spinning its wheels in the background and we gotta deal with this for a month.

I don’t mind one-offs but aside from sheer lunacy (solarcy?) this doesn’t have much to recommend it.

Next time, at least, the Shootering continues with our old friend.... workplace acquaintance? Yeah that sounds better. Our old workplace acquaintance, Moondragon.

She’s the worst. Which makes her the best.

You should follow @essential-avengers because I cover the Avengers issues that nobody else will because they have better things to do. I assume. Also, like and reblog so I feel appreciated.

#Avengers #Morgan MacNeil Hardy #the Wasp #Captain America #Iron Man #Thor #essential avengers #essential marvel liveblogging #cw suicide #this issue is memorable if nothing else #what with the on panel child suicide #thanks JM DeMatteis #and also the child stealing a spaceship to fly into the sun #a bunch of child endangerment happens and the avengers are vaguely around it

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