#and she's been getting drunk and dancing on tables since before any of the rogues were born

[aerialsquid]

This has been in my hard drive since 2012

Title: Auntipathy Fandom: Batman ‘66 Characters: Aunt Hilda, Marsha Queen of Diamonds, Chief O'Hara, Jonathan Crane (mentioned)

“Hilda Keeny. K-e-e-n-y.”

This wasn’t her first trip to the police station for aiding and abetting but the boys in blue were so polite here that it was hard to be angry about it. 

“We appreciate you testifying against your niece Marsha, Miss Hilda,” Chief O'Hara said. She’d finally talked him out of using her last name but refused to drop the title. “Not many people are willing to testify against family members.”

“It’s nothing she won’t be proud of, dearie. I’m sure she won’t mind.” Hilda adjusted the brim of her pointed black hat and smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress.

O'Hara shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Such a shame that she dragged you into the awful mess. You remind me a bit of my mother, God rest her.”

“Was she a nice woman?” asked Hilda, leaning forward with a carefully formed grandmotherly smile.

“An utter saint. Why, I remember the day I became a patrolman, and my mother said…”

The chief of police’s accent reminded Hilda of a young man she’d met on a boat to Great Britain, when she’d been willing to cross an entire ocean to get away from her own sainted mother, God rest her as far underground as possible.

O'Hara looked about fifty. Ezra was twenty-eight with hair as red as a sunset and a body beaten down until nothing but muscle was left. He’d played the fiddle and a few other things besides, and made the slow, stinking trip far more enjoyable for her. She’d almost taken the train to Ireland with him after they’d landed.Now she was in the most archcriminal-infested city in the country serving as accomplice to her rhinestoned niece Marsha, and while she couldn’t say she regretted anything it was fun to dwell on what might have been.

“A woman like you should be enjoying her golden years,” O'Hara was saying when she came back from her mental detour. “Playing with your grandchildren, maybe a little knitting. Not working for some greedy criminal–no offense to your niece.”

“No grandchildren, I’m afraid, Marsha’s all of I’ve got. But I do enjoy a bit of knitting.” And who said she wasn’t enjoying herself?

Yet again, Hilda was let out on probation. The kindly old lady misled by circumstances act worked every time, and Hilda was quite all right letting Marsha take the fall for her own actions. Besides, they were never careful enough to take Marsha’s makeup away and Marsha always laced her perfume with some of some of Hilda’s carefully prepared love potion. The dear girl was rarely in a cell longer than a day or two.

Besides, probation meant community service and community service meant cooking classes at Gotham State University. They’d never let Hilda be a chemistry professor again after her little 'experimenting on the student body’ incident but cooking was just chemistry one could eat.

She was busy cleaning up after a lecture on stir-fried vegetables (which could always be augmented with a bit of properly prepared crickets, dears) when a thin silhouette flickered by her office. Hilda put her spoons down and ducked her head out the door to watch him as he passed. She’d only caught his face for a moment but it had been a very familiar moment.

Skinny like a rail, pointed features like a bird, and an expression of mild loathing for the people around him. Hilda carefully tailed the young man until he entered his office in the psychology department and shut the door behind him. As she passed by she could hear the thud of him locking it tightly.

“Marsha, do we know a Jonathan Crane?” she asked her niece a few days later. “Only there’s a young man at the university who’s the spitting image of your grandfather.” Whose name had also been Jonathan.

The beast in the cauldron before her let out a loud burble. Hilda cooed and threw in another handful of dead mice, praising him every time he swallowed one without making a dreadful mess.

Mortimer was the accidental result of leaving a potion in the cauldron overnight. His skin was a slimy green with a mouth of needle teeth at one end and a spiney tail at the other. In between there was a set of thin legs that stayed folded up against his body, giving him the appearance of a paper mache snake walking around on pipecleaner limbs.

Also he made the most adorable purring noises when you petted his nose. He was Hilda’s little darling.

Marsha shrugged. She was dressed in that mod style that women found fashionable these days, with a grey Swarovski-studded shawl and a diamond hair comb holding back her hair. For herself, Hilda felt that black never went out of style and a pointed witch’s hat conveyed a certian sense of confidence and mystery. “The name doesn’t sound familiar.”

“Would you mind shaking your phone tree and seeing if you can find out who he is? That friend of yours with the umbrella seems to know half the city and I’m sure your host of admirers know the other half.”

“I’ll look into it.”

A few days later Marsha descended into her basement with a stern look on her face. Hilda squeezed a few more droplets of fluid into her newest potion and set her work aside.

“You were right about the professor,” Marsha said.

“Oh?”

“He’s covered up most of his past and his accent is pure Gotham, but they have his school records on file at the Gotham State University office and Bookworm has blackmail on the dean.” Marsha’s smile was tight, a mixture of victory and mild disgust. “Mr Crane went to high school in Georgia. That part of Georgia.”

Hilda winced. Poor child. “Right place, right timeline. But whose is he, I wonder.” She went digging in the mess of her worktable to find a spare piece of paper. Marsha came to huddle over beside her while she sketched out a diagram of a family tree.

Hilda’s mother Mary rested like the matriarchal tyrant she was at the top of the page. Below them were Marion, Sandra, and Hilda–though of course, Hilda was most likely scratched out of any family trees in the Keeny household. Sandra had only produced Marsha before throwing a rope over a water pipe and dancing on the end of it, and it spoke to Sandra’s character that Marsha didn’t feel herself greatly affected by it. Marion bore Karen and then went off to be some lady of high society, while Karen had cut and run from Mary’s decrepit steel clutches before she was old enough to drink.

There was a reason Marsha had no interest in having children, and that Hilda occasionally provided herbal assistance in this endeavor. The Keeny tree didn’t deserve to grow any further.

“Karen would be young but it would fit,” Marsha said, tracing the tree all the way to the bottom with her finger.

“And I do recall hearing that Mary had taken in some wretched child, gods and spirits protect his poor soul.”

“Karen got herself into a state, came home, dropped the baby on Grandma Mary, ran off again? The timeline fits. 'Crane’ could be the father’s name.”

Hilda gave a curt nod.  

“What are you going to do?” asked Marsha. “The rest of the family’s not even speaking to you and you’re not speaking to them.”

“Talk to him. The least he can do is not talk back.” Hilda reached for her pen again and drew in a few neat lines connecting Karen to “Unknown”, and a final one below to connect her to “Jonathan Crane”. “Besides, you’re a golddigger with a penchant for diamonds and chemically-aided seduction and I dress up as a witch while I concoct potions in your basement.”

Marsha grinned. “True. He might have turned out all right too.”

[ladymercysletters]

You’ll Do Nicely

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Prequal 1 of the If You’ll Have Me Series

Word Count : 1952

Warnings: some trigger warnings including: Alcohol abuse, Gambling addiction, child abuse, spousal abuse. It’s not overly heavy but if you’re triggered by any of these, proceed with caution

A/N: This is the first prequal chapter of the If You’ll Have Me series. It doesn’t actually have any Y/N x Benedict content because it takes place before they meet. This is the chapter on how Y/N became a Duchess.

The summer season of 1809 was, it seemed, to be yet another uneventful one, with no suitors… yet again. At your coming out last year you had received the attentions of a fair few of the younger gentlemen of the ton, in fact your dance card had been almost full until they realised who your father was. Since they had realised that you were one of those Buxton’s your dance card had remained almost empty in its stead.

It had always been a burden to you and your family; your father was a gambler and a cad, he owed almost everyone money, and the ones he didn’t owe still knew about it. You were sure he had not paid one bill at his club, but you could have placed a fair bet yourself that he had drunk more than his share of whatever they stocked.

For as long as you and your siblings could remember he had come home drunk and empty of pocket most nights; taking his anger out on any one of you he could lay his hands one. When you were very small your mother used to get in between you and your father, covering you all and taking his rage for you. As you grew older your mother lost her will, instead slumping against the wall in defeat as he took your brother over his knee and lashed him. His excuse was always that it will teach him not to do as his father does, and after the first few times you all relented; your brother would stand in front of his two little sisters, and you would quietly usher your little sister away and out of his reach as your brother took the punishment.

The sober fact of your family’s reputation was enough to pull you back into the present. Dinner with your family was never a joyous occasion; though you all ate together talking was never allowed between you and your siblings and your parents never much mingled beyond greetings and farewells. Your mother sat at one end of the table, taking the tiniest of mouthfuls of soup with an unreadable expression; whilst your father sat at the other end, slurping each full spoonful with his napkin tucked into his collar. With a cough to clear his throat, all eyes flitted up too look at him.

“The Duke of Pembrokeshire was at the Devillier’s ball the other evening.” He said into another spoonful. “He asked after Y/N.” at the mention of your name, eyes turned to you.

“The Duke of Pembrokeshire?” your mothers asked “Portland? Isn’t he…”?

“WHAT?” your father snapped, dropping his spoon into the soup with a clank. “He is a Duke. He has shown an interest in our otherwise plain daughter. Am I to refuse him?” he spat. The silence of the evening returned and your mother receded back into herself. You were sure you remembered the name Portland from somewhere, but for the life of you, you just couldn’t place it.

Later that evening it dawned on you, you sat bolt upright in bed at the memory of you and your brother: looking through a crack in the door at your father and his friends, all sat around a moss green table playing cards. The stench of alcohol in the air and the sound of snuff sniffing constant. That’s when it hit you; Portland was your fathers friend, a large rotund and red man that you and your brother had nicknamed Porty because his face always seemed to be the colour of port. He couldn’t be who your father expected you to marry, he must have died and left his title to a son or a nephew. With that lingering thought you dropped back onto your bed and tried your best to get some sleep.

The next evening you and your family arrived in Hampstead, somewhere. Yet another ball that you had only just managed to find a dress for. Your brother always managed to escape these events, being twenty-two and fresh from university, he often made his excuses and escaped off into the night. Preparing yourself for another evening as a social pariah you steeled yourself as you entered the grand ballroom. No sooner had you exchanged pleasantries with your host and a few surrounding families than the dragging of feet drew your attention.

“BUXTON MY OLD MAN” cried the almost fully spherical man; the bulging buttons of his overstuffed waistcoat straining with effort. This must be Portland. Your father seemed almost afraid of him and you rather suspected he was. Once he had finished greeting your parents his attentions turned to you. His lecherous eyes crawled over your skin, and an even worse laugh - somehow wet and dry at the same time as he coughed into his fist made your little supper appear in your throat whilst he inspected you like some prized heifer.

“Yes. You’ll do nicely” he leered, circling you and clearly leaning over your cleavage. You felt sick to the stomach at even being looked at by him. You smiled politely, trying to pull your lips so tight no-one could see them trembling, and made your excuses to find sanctuary on the other side of the room. You swiped a glass of punch from a footman’s tray and stole behind a large bouquet in one corner of the room, content to become part of the foliage for as long as possible.

“You’re doing an awful job of hiding you know.” A deep voice rang from the other side of the arrangement. “For starters you’re not even the same shade as the wall.” You peaked out from behind a rogue frond to see Henry Granville, one of your only friends in the room: he was, as usual, immaculately dressed in a darkly patterned waistcoat and burgundy jacket that matched his new wife’s elegant chiffon trimmed gown. They truly were a balm to your horrible evening.

“I was trying to blend in with the foliage if you must know, though in a blue gown I do suppose that is difficult.” You muttered, stepping out from behind the column. “In truth I am hiding from one of my father’s friends.” You gestured to your parents across the room, your father hunched over with the old duke as your mother stood abortively aside.

“I’m sure whatever they’re discussing has nothing to do with you.” Henry said, trying to cheer you up.

“He was inspecting me like cattle. There is no doubt in my mind that my father is selling me off.” You sighed, taking a strong swig of your decidedly non-alcoholic punch.

“You are only twenty years old, surely your mother will want you to at least stay for another few years yet?” Lucy asked comfortingly. You sighed dejectedly as you looked back over at your mother, taking absolutely no interest in anything and looking rather far off.

“I doubt my mother would care whether I stay in society or not, just as long as she doesn’t have to deal with my father any more. Please Henry.” You turned to face him and his new wife. “Tell me about your latest commission or something, before I slip into further despair.” Granville continued to relay you with the latest he had heard whilst behind his easel. The wonderful thing about being an artist by royal appointment, was that one was always within earshot of some rather salacious gossip.

By the time you returned home from the ball you were exhausted. You went straight to bed, furious with your father and not able to look anyone in the eye as you sat on what could be your future.

An hour later and you still weren’t able to settle, even going over your conversation with Henry and Lucy, trying to fool your mind into thinking all was well, before deciding on some warm milk to quell your thoughts… and possibly a snack. Sneaking down the staircase and down the hall, you spotted the light in your father’s study still on and you could hear your mother’s voice. You moved closer to peak through the crack in the door.

“He is Two and Forty years her senior! What on earth were you thinking?”

“Do not question me you bitch, he is a Duke, I thought you would be happy for our daughter.” He said, taking a swig of his drink. “Or would you rather me make him wait until Barbara is out in Society, perhaps he would like her better?”

“Don’t you dare!” she gasped. “He is older than you, how do you expect her to … AAhh. Gabriel, stop! No! Please!” you stepped away from the door at the sound of cracking skin; tears in your eyes as you ran to the scullery before your father realised you had heard.

***

A tradition that you and your brother had started a few years ago, and eventually brought your younger sister Barbara into, was the midnight drinking of claret in the little used small parlour. You would sit around the small room, only the candles you brought down from your bedrooms to light it, as you poured yourselves a glass and talked.

“You cannot sister, I will not allow father to marry you off like this.” Your brother stated, after you recalled the argument between your parents several days earlier.

“Sebastian is right sister. Portland is ancient and this is only your second season!” Barbara said hopefully, her innocently hopeful voice breaking your heart further.

“If he does not marry me off, he will wait for Barbara! And I will not allow that!” you said, cutting her off before she could say anymore. Your siblings shouted their surprise and horror as you tried to shush them. “I heard him and mother arguing the other night, father threatened to marry you off to him as soon as you are out.” You concluded. The silence in the room was deafening as you all mulled over your fate. Hardening yourself to what was about to happen you continued. “I will marry Portland: however old and drunken he may be. I will not allow you to come to any harm because of father’s gambling.” You said, stroking Barbara’s cheek. “There is no chance of me marrying anyone else, fathers’ debts have seen to that, and perhaps now that I am to be a duchess your fortunes may be brighter than my own.” Your brother shook his head in disbelief; your tone remained calm, through out your decision, as though you had already closed yourself off from any other emotions.

“Well.” He sighed. “Let us hope the scabby old goat cocks his toes soon after.” He raised his glass in cheers to his little speech, smiling when both of his younger sisters berated him for his candour before joining the toast anyway.

***

Not six months later, in late January you found yourself walking down the aisle of the small chapel on the Pembrokeshire estate. Like everything else on the estate, the décor was ostentatious and overly gilded. You felt much like any other object the duke owned in that moment; your dress was overly laced and flounced, and the train was far too heavy for you to pull with your head down the aisle. Speaking of your hair; it was piled high on top of your head, thick forced curls in layers making you look like a profiterole tower, as your father’s arm tightened around your shaking hand dragging you up the aisle quicker than your feet managed to move. A half an hour later you were no longer Miss Y/N Buxton, daughter of the 3rd Earl of Upshire – but her grace, Lady Y/N Portland, Duchess of Pembrokeshire.

[waywardnerd67]

Be Mine

Title: Be Mine Summary: All of (Y/N)’s friends were getting married while she was traveling the country killing monsters. As all the invitations flood her P.O. Box, she decides to ask her hunting partner for a huge favor. Paring: Dean x Reader Word Count: 2607 Rating: E - Everyone Warnings: Fluff/Slight Angst Square Filled: Fake Dating Bingo Card: @spndeanbingo​ A/N: None

Check Out: SPN Dean Bingo Masterlist

You are cordially invited to…

Lauren and Michael, Renee and Michelle, Allie and Caleb, Theo and James

“Fuck. My. Life.” (Y/N) whispered opened the fourth wedding invitation for the year.

She was at the point in her life that all of her friends were settling down with significant others while she was fighting the things nightmares were made of. Taking out the R.S.V.P. card, she stared down at the million dollar question she had been thinking about for weeks.

____ Yes I will be attending with a guest. Guest’s Name: ____________________

She could not remember the last date she had been on since most of the men she met she left sleeping in their beds in the morning. The life of a hunter was not one where you could have real attachments to anyone. Which is why being partners with the Winchesters worked perfectly for her. They had the same beliefs about hunting, except for Sam who had found a hunter to fall in love with. Most times, (Y/N) was happy with how her life was but right now is when she missed having someone to be with.

“Hey, you ready?” Dean called into the Mailbox Store.

(Y/N) gathered the rest of her mail sighing, “Yeah.”

They were driving back to the Bunker after another dead end of finding Chuck. They had dropped Sam off halfway on their trip home for him to meet up with Eileen. (Y/N) sat in the passenger seat, re-reading the latest invitation.

She heard Dean chuckle, “Another invite? Jeez, how many is that now?”

“Four. Four weddings to go to all within a month of one another. That is four different dresses. Four lousy dinners. Four different tables in which I know nobody and can’t talk about what I really do for a living.”

“Four open bars.” Dean smiled, finding the only positive in the whole thing.

“True and hopefully four chances to find a hot guy to get laid.” She smirked, glancing over to see Dean’s hands grip the steering wheel until his knuckles were white.

She shrugged it off deciding to go through the rest of her mail. Once they were back in the Bunker, Dean walked off towards his Dean Cave while (Y/N) decided to do some much needed laundry. Sitting in the library, she pulled her phone sending a text to her friend.

“Got your invite! Can’t wait to celebrate with you!”

The response was immediate as her phone rang, “Girl, it will be the party of the year! Please tell me you’re bringing a date.”

(Y/N) rolled her eyes, “I thought weddings were the place to get drunk and find your true love?” Her phone started to ring.

“(Y/N), you haven’t RSVP with a date to any of the weddings. You. Need. A. Date.”

“Theo, you know me and dating have been on the outs for a long time. I’m a love ‘em and leave ‘em before they wake up kind of girl.”

He laughed, “Where that has its benefits, aren’t you lonely? Traveling around all by yourself and no one to come home too.”

“I love my life babe and I wouldn’t change it for anything. Now, tell me all about the suit you chose because I know it has to be to die for.”

She knew exactly how to get Theo off topic and spent the next thirty minutes listening about all his wedding plans. As she was changing out her laundry, she found one of Dean’s flannels in her bag. It was by far her favorite one he wore with the red and black buffalo pattern. Bringing it up to her nose, it smelled just like the leather of the Impala and fading scent of Dean’s natural musk. The mixture made her head spin slightly as she walked off with it to her room.

(Y/N) had been with the Winchester for nearly five years after a werewolf had killed her husband and she was on a revenge path. They had helped her kill off the pact of female werewolves killing men in her hometown. After learning about monsters being real, she knew that hunting them was where she was meant to be. Sam had been more accepting than Dean at first, but once she saved him from being a Djinn’s juice box. She proved how serious she was about being a hunter.

Of course, she was not immune to the Winchester charm and feelings for the elder brother developed quickly. (Y/N) pushed all feelings deep down and only when she drank alone did they sprout up momentarily. She was surprised that she found her mind wandering to thoughts of what Dean would be like at weddings. She imagined him in one one of his nice FBI suits charming all the bridesmaids and drinking whiskey all night long. The thought of him being her plus one made her stomach buzz and heart race. Quickly, she pushed those thoughts aside reminding herself that he did not have attachments and nor did she.

Over the next three months, (Y/N) attended three out of the four weddings. She came walking in fairly early from wedding reception number three. Dean and Sam were sitting at the map table with a few lore books opened.

Dean let out a cat call, “Hey sexy, you’re home early.”

“Yeah, just didn’t feel like staying plus the bar was only free until a certain time and no single men to take advantage of.” (Y/N) hopped up on the table crossing her legs in between the two men.

From the corner of her eye, she watched as Dean’s piercing forest eyes traveled the length of her body and then sucked his bottom lip between his teeth. An all too familiar ache hit her hard as he averted his eyes from her.

Sam cleared his throat as he stood up, “I think I’m going to get a few more books. You do look beautiful, (Y/N).” he leaned down kissing her cheek.

“Thanks Sam.”

She hopped down kicking off her shoes, “Well I’m going to wash off all the girly crap and relax in my room.”

“O-Okay, if you… uh feel like watching a movie later I’ll be in the Dean Cave.” He stammered watching her every move.

She nodded walking off to her room. After a shower and putting on comfy clothes, she decided that a movie with Dean would be nice. She did not want to be alone after watching all the happy couples at the wedding. Sure enough, Dean was in one of the recliners watching her favorite horror movie. One thing she loved about Dean was no words were needed with him. There was never an uncomfortable silence between them.

Even though it was her favorite movie, her eyes kept going over to him. His long body stretched out covered in gray sweatpants and a black hoodie. She found her body urging her to go over and snuggle with him. Her heart beat encouraging the same thing to go be with him. Her mind screaming to stay far away and protect herself from heartache.

Then her mouth opened asking a question burning on the tip of her tongue, “Hey Dean, do you think next weekend you would come with me to my friend’s wedding?”

He looked stunned for a moment then smiled, “Absolutely.”

Her heart leaped and she hid her face with her hair as it burned hot with happiness. The wide smile he had on his face was mirrored by her own spreading across hers. Over the next week, she tried to distract herself from the upcoming evening she would be spending with Dean. Saturday, she had hardly seen him at all as she spent most of the day getting herself ready. She tried hard to push away any expectations or hopes as to what could happen, but something felt incredibly right about going with Dean.

Slipping on her one shoulder white dress and the last touches of make-up, she walked out to the library. A small gasp escaped her lips as she walked in to see Dean standing by the stairs talking with Sam and Eileen. His lean body was dressed in a fitted black tux. The jacket fitted snug over his broad shoulders and biceps. His hair was over to one side and as he turned his bright olive eyes connected with hers.

There was a tense moment of silence before Sam elbowed him, “You look gorgeous (Y/N). Right Dean?”

He nodded as his eyes trailed down her body, “You’re beautiful.”

The words were barely above a whisper floating into her ears making them burn, “Thank you.”

She continued her path towards Dean as Sam stepped away saying goodbye. He swallowed hard, gently brushing a rogue strand of hair came loose.

“Come on sweetheart, let’s go get drunk and dance the night away.”

The wedding was beautiful as Theo and his husband recited their vows and sealed the ceremony with a kiss. The reception kicked off as waiters came around handing out champagne. She watched in amazement as Dean charmed and dazzled every person he spoke to. Theo caught up to her at the bar as she was watching him talk to a group of Theo’s co-workers.

“Girl, where have you been hiding Mr. Hottie? Good god!”

She started laughing, “I didn’t want you stealing him away from me.”

He rolled his eyes at her, “As if I could, he hasn’t taken those dreamy emeralds off of you all night. Now, tell me the truth… how is he in the sack?”

She averted her eyes to the floor as her silence answered his question.

“Hold on, back it up a moment,” He placed both hands on her shoulders as she took a sip of her whiskey, “You’re telling me that you have not fallen to your knees and climbed that man like the mighty, thick, hard tree he is?”

(Y/N) nearly spatted her drink out, “Theo! No, believe it or not I have some self-control and I really don’t know what this is. We work together and I don’t want it to get weird if this dating thing doesn’t work. He may not be into me that way.”

His eyes looked over to Dean and she followed his gaze finding his piercing eyes staring right at them, “Oh honey you blind as a bat. That man wants to ravage your body and tonight is as good a night as any for him to take you to church”

“You’re terrible. Get your damn drink and find your husband. Leave my love life alone.” She rolled her eyes as he held his hand up to the bartender.

“Baby, someone has to invest in your love life since you won’t,” He grabbed his drink then kissed her cheek, “You look gorgeous and I love you. Now, go over there, drag tall and handsome into a closet and suck him up like a vacuum.”

Theo walked away as her jaw hit the floor. Dean walked over with his eyebrow perfectly arched in curiosity, “Everything okay?”

“Y-Yeah… yeah, just my dear friend…” she downed her drink, “spitting truth at me as usual.”

He chuckled then held out his hand to her, “Care to dance?”

The slow, sensual love song began to fill the room as Dean led her onto the dance floor. Slipping his hand over her hip pulling her against him and clutching her other hand within his. His cheek rested against her temple as they began to sway back on and forth. For the first time since losing her husband, she found herself completely relaxed. His body was firm and strong caging her in with a sense of security. The few days stubble tickling her skin as he lowered his head slightly. Then his beautiful, husky voice flowed into her ears.

Darling, so it goes Some things are meant to be Take my hand Take my whole life too For I can't help falling in love with you

The lyrics were like an arrow piercing her heart. He looked down at her searching her wide eyes before they drifted to her lips. His tongue darted out over his lips as they slowly descended towards hers. Suddenly, the song switched to heavy bass and quick pace as bodies began dancing around them.

“I have to go.”

She stepped out of his arms threading through groups of people until she found the doors leading outside. The cool night air hit her burning face as she ran out into it. Her chest heaving as she desperately tried to catch her breath. Small gasps of hot air turning into puffs of mists as her chest ached from gulps of air filling her lungs.

“(Y/N)?”

She flinched hearing Dean behind her, “I-I’m fine. I just needed some fresh air.”

A blanket of warmth covered her shoulders as he placed his jacket over them, “What did I do wrong?”

She turned around hearing the defeat in his voice. His eyes downcast and shoulders slumped forward with his hands stuffed in his pockets. He looked like a child who was just scolded for breaking something.

“Dean, you did nothing wrong. You’ve been perfect this whole night. Everyone, including Theo, thinks we’re this happy couple madly in love,” she paused as he looked up smirking, “but we’re not. We’re partners who hunt monsters together and kind of friends.”

Dean took a few steps closer to her, “Kind of friends? Other than Sam and Cas, you’re the only other person I trust completely in this world. Said that is a bit more than kind of friends.”

Rather it was the whiskey and champagne flowing through her or pure desperation she found the feelings she had long buried bursting from her lips.

“That’s all we’ll ever be. Just friends. Just partners. Forever stuck watching you sleep with woman after woman and me being sickeningly jealous of them for catching your eye. I know you don’t see me that way and I get it if it’s weird knowing that I have feelings for you. Feelings that I have bottled up and buried deep that I’m just word vomiting all over you. Oh god…”

(Y/N) turned away from him as tears slipped down her cheeks. Her heart splitting in two as the truth slipped out into the world for all to know. Hanging her head in shame from even allowing the hope from this evening to breach her defensive wall. Agony and guilt and shame weighing her shoulders down and making it hard to breath once again.

His large hands gently grasped her shoulders, turning her around slowly. His hands gliding up to her face just as his lips firmly pressed against hers. They were warm and surprisingly soft and all too tempting to keep falling down the rabbit hole he was creating.

Pulling away, “Dean…”

“Shut up and be mine.”

“W-What?” She stammered not believing what she was hearing, “What did you just say?”

Dean flashed his famous charming smile that she had seen many women and men fall for right at her. Her heart pounding against her chest and knees trembling.

“I said, shut up and be mine. Haven’t you noticed that I haven’t been with anyone in almost a year. Ever since that damn haunting in Iowa City when you almost died. The thought of losing you tore me apart. If Cas hadn’t been there to save you then I don’t know…”

She pulled his lips to hers silencing him before whispering against them, “Shut up and be mine.”

“I’m all yours beautiful, I’m all yours.”

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[sometimesiwritebadly]

No Thoughts (Spencer Reid x BAU!Reader)

Summary: After you run into your ex on a case, Spencer’s jealousy causes him to cut you out from his mind. (Soulmate AU)

Warnings: Language. Mentions kidnapping. Also a stupid ex-boyfriend.

Notes: Y’know, i really wish i hadn’t hitched my wagon to the whole “ ____ Thoughts” title scheme. if i had known this was gonna be my most successful series on this website i would’ve done something better. but it’s too late now so. anyways this takes place after Overwhelming and before Life-Saving. It’s angsty but don’t worry there’s some fluff at the end. Also i kinda wanted to yell at spencer for how annoying he’s being in this one but then i remembered that i made him act that way so don’t be too mad at me 

Word Count: 1.7k

Soulmate Series Masterlist

Masterlist

You’re 3 months into a relationship with Spencer Reid, your soulmate, and you couldn’t be happier. It hasn't been the easiest getting used to having another person in your head, but both you and Spencer have gotten a pretty good handle on controlling your rogue thoughts. It definitely wasn’t perfect, but even the worst days with Spencer were still miles ahead of any day you’d had without him.

You and Spencer were at his apartment, enjoying a rare day off. You were rewatching Doctor Who and cuddling on his couch, arguing over the best and worst companions.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love Martha! I just think her being in love with the Doctor was stupid!” You said, laughing at Spencer’s shocked face.

“Stupid? That was brilliant! It showed how the Doctor isn’t this perfect guy like the show made him out to be with Rose!”

“No, it just made it seem like the Doctor was irresistible! It made him seem even more perfect, which is why Donna-” Spencer, scoffed, knowing where your argument was heading, “Is the best companion! She’s the only one who doesn’t want to fuck him!”

Spencer opened his mouth to protest, but was interrupted by his phone ringing. He grabbed it, and once he saw who was on the other side, put it on speaker. “Hey JJ, what’s up?”

“We have a case. Hotch wants everyone here in 30 so we can brief on the plane. Is Y/N with you?”

“Always. We’ll see you soon, JJ.” You responded. Spence hung up the phone and stoof from the couch, before turning back to you and holding out a hand to help you off the couch. “I guess I’ll have to prove you wrong later.”

~~~

After a 6 hour flight, the BAU landed in Seattle. On the plane, Hotch had explained that there had been 3 children taken, all within an hour of each other, from 3 different homes in the area. It’s their job to determine if it’s one unsub, a group, or isolated incidents. After dropping off all their things at the hotel, they made their way to the police station. When they walked in, however, they were greeted by the last person Y/N wanted to see. “Oh fuck me.” She thought.

“What’s wrong?” Spencer had heard her, and was immediately concerned. So much for having control over her thoughts. Before she could answer, the reason for her worry began speaking.

“Nice to meet you all, I’m Detective Rothschild. If you guys need anything, I’ll be the one to help-” He cut himself off when his eyes landed on you. “Y/N? I didn’t know you were in the BAU now, How’ve you been?” The whole team had their gaze turned to you now. You could hear Spencer’s questions about the detective flying through your head, but you ignored them all. 

“I’m good James. We can catch up after we find the kids.” And just like that, the topic was dropped. Finding those kids within the first 24 hours was the most important thing right now, but that didn’t stop Spencer’s thoughts. No matter what was going on, Spencer was in your mind, asking you about James. 

“C’mon just tell me how you know each other! I promise I’ll focus on the case.” His question entered your mind as the two got ready to head to one of the crime scenes.

“Spence, I told you earlier, we went to college together.”

“Ok, but that’s not all. Why won’t you tell me?”

“I just don’t like talking about it! Please, can we discuss this some other time?” You answered him out loud this time, just to get your point across. You knew you’d have to tell him about your relationship with James, but you would much rather do it when the two of you are alone and not in a police precinct in the middle of a case. Before you could walk out the door and head to the crime scene, you heard someone calling your name. When you turned around, you found James walking towards you. “Great,” You thought.

“Hey, I’ll come with you guys to the crime scene, I haven’t been to this one yet. Plus, I’ll finally get the chance to catch up with Y/N here!” As he spoke, James’ arm found its way over your shoulder. You could practically feel Spencer’s anger. 

“Right, well, uh, let’s get going then. I’ll drive.” You subtly pushed James’ hand off your shoulder before speed-walking over to the car.

~~~

The drive to the crime scene was tense, to say the least. James had no problem filling the silence with anecdotes from your college days, which all suggested that the two of you were slightly more than friends. Sure, you and Spencer had talked about your respective previous relationships before, but it was a whole different ball game to be sitting next to your ex-boyfriend and your soulmate.

“Babydoll, you remember when we went to that frat party? We played strip beer pong, and let’s just say she was not very good at the game…” James went on and on, not stopping to let anyone else speak. All you could do was reassure Spencer with your thoughts, but he wasn’t responding. In fact, Spencer hadn’t let a single thought slip throughout the whole ride, and you were more than a little worried. A couple months ago you and Spencer had promised to not shut each other out, and this was the longest you’d gone without hearing any of his thoughts since then. Sure, it was only a 20 minutes drive, but you missed him. By the time you were pulling up to the crime scene, it was clear he’d had enough. The second the car stopped, Spencer practically jumped out and made his way to the crime scene, not waiting for you and James to follow. James took no notice, and continued telling his version of the story.

“And then you just jumped on the table and started dancing! I’ve never seen someone that drunk even be able to stand on a table without falling, let alone dance!” He laughed as the two of you made your way towards the police tape. “I could barely get you home that night!”

His last sentence made you stop walking. Unlike with Spencer, he noticed your movements, and stopped as well. “What?”

“That’s not what happened.”

“Of course that’s what happened, Y/N. You were drunk, you’re probably just-”

“No, that’s not what happened James. Yes, I danced on the table, but you didn’t take me home that night, remember? You met Joslyn at that party, and you broke up with me. I walked home alone.” The crime scene was the furthest thing from your mind at this point. How could he forget the night he met his own soulmate?

“Oh. Right. Joslyn.” It didn’t take a profiler to see how uncomfortable he was. He was acting like he didn’t even remember her. “About that…” He scratched the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact. He didn’t even need to finish the sentence for you to put the pieces together.

“Oh my god, she wasn’t your soulmate, was she?” The guilty look in his eyes was all you needed as an answer. “You just pretended she was so you had an easy out with me, right?”

“Look, Y/N-”

“James, it’s been a long time, I don’t need an apology from you. Let’s just solve this damn case and never see each other again.” And with that, you walked away.

~~~

13 hours of non-stop work and 3 kids safely home with their families later, you were back on the jet and headed towards DC. Everyone, even Hotch, was asleep, except for you and Spencer. You hadn’t had time to discuss everything that had happened with James, and he still wasn’t sending you any thoughts. So instead of going to sleep like you both desperately wanted, you pulled him to the back of the jet and away from the rest of the sleeping team.

“Seriously, Spence, I miss you. Will you please let me explain now?” You thought, hoping he’d respond similarly. Unfortunately, he just nodded, still refusing to let you into his thoughts.

“Yes, James and I dated back in college, but it was a long time ago, Spencer. He was an asshole. We were never even official, he’d just call me, fuck me, and then not talk to me until he felt like hooking up again.” Spencer was fiddling with his hands as your thoughts made his way to his brain. “Everything about that relationship was a mistake, ok? You know how he dumped me? He pretended to find his soulmate at some party just to get rid of me. I didn’t love him.” When Spencer still didn’t respond, you couldn’t help but feel a little angry. Was he really going to let some random ex get in the way of your relationship? 

“I can’t help it, Y/N.” When you finally heard his thoughts, you sighed in relief. That was the longest you’d ever gone without feeling his presence, and even though this wasn’t over yet, you knew you’d get through it. “I know you didn’t love him, but hearing the way he spoke about you, hearing about how you were with him…”

“I know, Spence. I’d be the same way if you had an ex pop out of nowhere during one of our cases. But please, we gotta be able to deal with this. We both had relationships outside of us, this could happen again.”

“Y/N…” He paused for a moment, then continued out loud, “I promise I won’t cut you out like that again. I know you didn’t love him, and I made a big deal out of nothing, but I love you.” Your eyes immediately found his when he spoke. He’d never said that before. He had a light smile on his face when you looked at him. “I love you, and I’m never going to stop.”

“I love you too.” You whispered, before pulling him into a kiss.

“I love you more.” He thought as your lips touched his.

“Not possible.”

~~~

Tags: @dr-reid-ismyspiritanimal @la-vie-en-amour1 @random-thoughts-003 @peculiarinsomniac @hereforbeebo @someone-you-dontknow

(I went through all the replies/asks that asked about being tagged for this series but if I missed you lmk!!)

[seasonsofeverlark]

Hope Lies In Tomorrow

Author: @mega-aulover​

Prompt: Katniss is caught crossing the fence by peacekeepers. Serves time. Conditions of parole: employment nearby (busy bakery?) and reporting weekly to the parole officer (Haymitch?) Will she find anything to be thankful for this thanksgiving [submitted by @567inpanem​]

Rating:��M (Because, well, it will get to that status. There will be violence and mentions of abuse, and some characters are off canon.)

Author’s Notes: This story took me for a loop. I couldn’t resist it. I tried to make it light and fun, but it just wanted to be a freight train to the gut. The words “serves time.” I kept on getting back to that, and my imagination just took flight so much that the first two chapters are about 9.5K words. I promise chapter 3 will be a painful doozy. Special thanks to @norbertsmom​.

     Chapter One

The spotlight made Katniss wince as she distinctly heard Darius say, “Pluck a duck,” into the cold dark night.

“We caught a Poacher!” The young Peacekeeper said out loud. He jumped and clapped his hands like a preschool girl with pigtails who just won a prized sticker. He was one of the new cadets brought in for training. 

Daruis was the new Head Peacekeeper. He earned the promotion when Cray retired. Darius also inherited the group of new Peacekeepers. They were eager rule-following Cadets. 

“Everdeen!” Darius groused.

Katniss sighed. She kept her hands in the air. It was the perfect ending to the worst day. It started with the evil spawn of Buttercup peeing inside her drawer. Things got worse when Gale announced he wasn’t going to be able to join her tonight, and he wouldn’t tell her why either. Then this afternoon she discovered her baby sister, well technically, Prim was seventeen and taller than Katniss, but that’s neither here nor there, she was rolling in the hay with Vick Hawthorne. 

Prim wasn’t supposed to be…. well…sex crazed.  Katniss saw red, took a bucket of ice-cold water, and dumped it on top of the two idiots. Vick was fifteen and, like Gale, looked older than Prim’s baby-faced self. Needless to say, Prim was livid. Vick went home with blue balls. And the arguing match that ensued gave Katniss a massive headache. 

However, finding her sister doing the equivalent of two goats breeding in Lady’s pen was nothing compared to their mothers’ reactions to Prim’s escapade. Euadora Everdeen backed Prim and said, “Prim was doing what came natural.” It was what came next that flabbergasted Katniss. “At least I have one normal daughter.” 

It was the last straw, until this moment.

This day was supposed to go so differently. She’d woken up with so much hope  then things fell apart. But she’d kept thinking, tomorrow, tomorrow would be a brighter day. Just get through today and tomorrow would be a better day.

“Katniss,” Darius growled.

Katniss shrugged. There was nothing Darius could do. If he had been alone, he would have looked the other way.

“I’m sorry, but I have to take you in.” 

She held out her hands; she knew the drill. This wasn’t going to be her first time in the District Twelve lock up. In fact, as Darius pulled her toward the transport, and she quietly climbed into the back, this was all familiar. The last time was at that darned Harvest Fair five years ago.

“This would have been easier had you gone to the Fair,” Darius said.

 Her scowl was instantaneous.

“What,” Darius said, jumping inside of the wagon while the young Peacekeeper closed the door. 

“I’m sorry, Darius. 

“I know, Katniss,” Darius was sympathetic. His communicator crackled with a voice that communicated a code. “Roger that.”

In the semi-darkness Katniss could see Darius teeth as he grinned. 

“Old man Haymitch is going to throw the book at you.” Haymitch and she had a long-standing history. She stayed out of trouble and he wouldn’t bring trouble to her. 

Haymitch Abernathy was the former Victor of the 50th Hunger Games and town drunk. The transition from a government run by one man, President Snow, to one run by a council with a true elected leader were the scariest months in Panem. No one knew what would happen. Fears of retaliation from the former government ran high. The word came down from the Capitol for each district to send a District Liaison.

Haymitch volunteered.  

Turns out the drunken Victor was smart, wilier than anyone could perceive. Haymitch helped form the transition team to create the new charter between the Capitol and the Districts. When he came back, Haymitch could have been elected to become the mayor. He could have taken over the position of Head Peacekeeper, since Cray was from the old regime. Instead, Haymitch made up a position, the town Magistrate. Every district would have a way to fairly dispense justice, with the Peacekeepers relegated to do just what their name described keeping the peace. From town drunk to judge, this was the world of the new Panem. 

Though Katniss would rather face Haymitch than her mother.

“Has your mother calmed down?”   

Katniss grimaced. It all started with the initiative. Ever since the President  went crazy and abolished the Games, calling it the Lucy Grey Baird initiative, and then promptly dying before anyone could change the law, her mother’s focus changed from reliving the past to finding Katniss a husband.   

Her mother began railing against her plan to stay single. Mind you Katniss was only sixteen at the time and she could only focus on the fact that her baby sister would never again experience a Reaping.

Nope, not her mother, Eudora Everdeen, somewhere between her melancholy that ensued after pa’s death and the cancellation of the 74th Hunger Games, decided to become a holy nightmare, worse than any horror Katniss’s imagination could conjure up. Her mother tried to fix her up with various men throughout the district. Her mother’s sting about her single status was the last straw tonight.

“She’s stopped,” Katniss flinched; it wasn’t the entire truth.

Eudora hadn’t really stopped, there were introductions all of the time. There was Waylon, Adam, Zachary, Jackson, Hank, Lee, Hunter, Davis, Ashley, Samuel, Vernon, Beau, Elijah, not to mention Humperdinck, who was also known as the Goat Man. It was always the same pattern. A subtle introduction, followed by an invitation to tea or supper or both, a run in in the Seam or the Hob, before the guy in question lost interest and her mother went back to the drawing board. Eudora didn’t push, but she didn’t relent either. However, recently, her mother had been quiet. Katniss hoped after 5 years, her mother finally gave up.    

“But?” Darius asked.

The transport shook as it began to move. 

“Nothing.”

“You know, you’re a bad liar.”

“She doesn’t like me being alone.”

“That’s preposterous. I know plenty of women Peacekeepers.”

“You know we are talking about Eudora Everdeen?”

Darius grinned. “You mother did tell one of my new recruits she should leave her hair down because it would make her look pretty. She even asked me when my time was up and if I was interested in courting you.”

“Yup,” Katniss breathed, “that’s my mother.”

“So is it true she tried to pair you with Gale and even Gale got scared.”

“How do you know?” Katniss’ mother first picked Gale, who conversely, after seeing her mother try to manipulate them as a couple, was shocked. One good thing came off Eudora’s meddling. Gale laid off the entire, we-make-sense offer to toast angle, and suddenly became a perfect angel around her and the rogue doubled his efforts around other women to prove that he wasn’t interested in Katniss.  

“You forget how small District Twelve is,“ Darius said looking tired as he rubbed his face.

He’s right. Twelve is the smallest of all the Districts. And nothing stayed buried, just like a piece of coal, it would be eventually unearthed.

"Gale said my mother was loonier than the Goat man when he got drunk on Ripper’s special liquor.” Ripper called her special liquor, the ‘shine.’ There were rumors the shine caused people to do strange things. Katniss wasn’t interested in drinking anything that wasn’t life sustaining. Her only thought was to keep food on the table and maintain the roof over her family’s heads. Just last summer she had to fix the roof all by herself. Drinking or marriage were out of the picture.

When Gale politely said he wasn’t interested in Katniss, her mother was upset, but said she understood that Gale only saw Katniss as a sister. Five years ago, Katniss hoped with her mother’s attempts thwarted, Eudora would give up getting her hitched. Little did she know it wasn’t over by a long shot. 

Darius snorted. “Your name comes up every year." 

"Ugh. I avoid that damned dance every year.” There were three main social events in District Twelve, where parents shoved their young for possible partnerships and couples did coupley things, The Spring Formal, The Harvest Fair, and the Winter Festival. The last of these major social events had been the Harvest Fair.

“Waylon still asks about you every time.”

Katniss groaned hearing that name again. He was Leevy’s brother, who was in Gale’s class. Waylon was the next on her mother’s list. Waylon’s obsession began slowly. He failed his last year of school and became a quasi-associate. He would show up at her locker and want to walk with her to class. At first it was nice. He was Gale’s friend and as long as he didn’t talk, she didn’t mind. When they graduated, he went to work in the mines.  Katniss set up a booth in the Hob selling her jerky.

And for a time, everything was calm. Then he started coming to supper. He tried to become friends with Prim. Her sister thought him weird. Then one day, Waylon tried to kiss her. When she pushed him away, he chased her straight into the forest. Thankfully, he didn’t dare go into the woods. 

The woods became her refuge. As soon as she knew Waylon was let loose of his shift at the mines, he would head straight to the Hob.  Katniss would pack up her booth and run off into the woods. She began hunting at night to get away from him. Also, she sort of used Gale as an unofficial bodyguard to keep Waylon at a distance. Waylon was a sore spot in her relatively short life span. 

“He does?” The words slipped out before they could be stopped. 

“He’s got a thing for you Katniss,” Darius’ voice sounded full of mirth, “He’s one of many in the district.”

“If I weren’t in handcuffs, I’d deck you.”

Darius grinned. “He still shoots Peeta the evil eye.”

At the mention of Peeta’s name, her brain misfires.

Peeta.  

Sigh, strong, capable, dependable, sweet, kind, lovely, delicious…always lurking in her dreams, Peeta. 

That night at the Harvest Fair, every time she saw Waylon come her way she hid. Thankfully Peeta came to her rescue. He asked her to dance and afterwards he escorted her the entire time.

Oh, Peeta tried to keep her out of trouble. He was so nice, and she had no way to pay him for his kindness in rescuing her that night. Even four years later she could still recall every detail. He did admirably despite her lack of social graces, and inability to dance. 

Katniss groaned in the transport, her head leaning up against the metal wall. Dancing with Peeta was heavenly, being with Peeta was indescribable, but Katniss shoved that feeling deep, deep, way deep inside of her, locked it up and only took out that memory in the dead of night. When she was alone in her bed, her fingers drifted to her lady parts and she sought relief from the thoughts of what it would be like to kiss him over and over.  

She had a secret bond with Peeta, a bond she couldn’t shake. “Peeta,” her heart whispered with longing. Katnis hoped Darius couldn’t see how deeply she was affected by her baker. Peeta was the one soul in the district who knew her better than anyone else. 

“So, it’s Peeta you have a thing for. Waylon’s not wrong in giving him the evil eye.” 

Katniss scowled at Darius, causing him to laugh.

“I’d have to be drunk on the shine,” Katniss grumbled. She hoped to redirect Darius, he was so near the truth.

“Katniss,” Darius rubs his face. “Please don’t tell me you’ve drunk the shine.”

“No. Gale swears he has. He said it’s so strong it has the power to peel paint off the walls. Is it true…about you and the shine?” Katniss asked.

Darius became serious.

"So, it isn’t true. I knew Gale was lying."  

Darius cleared his throat. "It made me hallucinate. There are things, Everdeen, you shouldn’t ever try.”  

"Duly noted.”

The transport rolled, and another command came through the radio. Darius “What?”

“Star 451,” the voice answered back.

“Pluck a duck,” Darius whispered angrily. “Are you sure?” 

His angry voice sounded out of control as if he wanted to hit something or someone. The atmosphere changed suddenly. It crackled with foreboding darkness. Katniss tried to ignore it, she knew she was in trouble.

For the rest of the journey Katniss wondered what was going on, what did that Star 451 mean? Katniss noted Darius became quiet, and sullen; all the traces of humor left his face. Darius stopped looking at her as if he couldn’t face her. Finally, the transport came to a halt.

“We’re here.”

Katniss winced, thinking of Haymitch Abernathy, and the uncertainty that faced her outside of the transport.

“Wait for me to get down before you get up,” Darius bit out as the door opened and the cold wind caused Katniss to shiver. 

Katniss wrinkled her nose. Haymitch was going to be a pain in the neck. The last time she’d been before him things were not pleasant.  When she got down, her eyes widened. They weren’t at the Justice building. They were at the Victors Village.

It was one thing to stand in the Justice building, a cold sterile edifice made of white stone. It was another to stand inside of a home. “Darius?”

The transport moved on and there was another waiting, one that did not have any insignia on the side. It was black and it reminded Katniss of the one they used to transport the corpses of the deceased.

“Come on,” Darius said gently, once more avoiding looking at her.

Katniss nodded. She wasn’t someone who let things affect her. She didn’t scare easily, this however, put pure fear in her heart.

Darius escorted her inside of the massive house and guided her into a room by the side. There was a roaring fire in the fireplace. The warmth stung her cold skin. There was a dark wooden desk, two comfortable chairs, and another pair facing the fireplace. “Sit.”

Katniss sat in one of the chairs facing the desk.   

“Give me your hands, Katniss,” Darius said.

Katniss lifted her trembling hands.

“What did I tell you ‘bout keeping your nose out of trouble, Sweetheart?” Haymitch grumbled from the door.

Katniss masked her fear.

Four years ago Gale was sick and couldn’t attend that darned Harvest Fair. Katniss needed a way out, thankfully Peeta rescued her.

Everything was splendid and at one point while staring into his gorgeous blue eyes Katniss was breathless. It was toward the end of the night when his mother, the witch, pulled him away and that’s where all hell broke loose. Accidentally, in her haste to get away from Waylon, a small fire started when one of the glass lamps fell, and broke. Several bales of hay caught fire. It somehow escalated and concluded with a goat stampede down the center of town. 

Her mother blamed Katniss for embarrassing Waylon and his family, and basically setting the fair on fire. Haymitch told her mother that her unfettered meddling would one day cause the destruction of all she held dear. Eudora Everdeen was not amused, nor was she happy with the outcome. Haymitch let Katniss go with a slap on the wrist because her only criminal act was trying to flee the unwanted attention of a man. Plus, thanks to Peeta’s quick thinking, it was only the stage that burned. He and his brothers managed to get the fire out and they built another stage, how they did it in one day, Katniss didn’t know. 

She kept away for the rest of the Harvest Fair, thinking it was better not to remind the community of her stupidity. She’d been lulled under Peeta’s spell. She’d done more than dance and start a fire at that fair. Heat rose from the pit of her belly and flowed to her core and spilled on to her cheeks.

The sound of a chair being scraped on the wood floor caused her bubble to break. Katniss shook her head. Her eyes came back into focus to the present.

“Darius, you can wait outside. Katniss isn’t going to do anything stupid,” Haymitch turned his grey eyes toward her, “are you?” 

Katniss shook her head no. 

Darius nodded and walked outside, closing the door.

Katniss didn’t even bother rubbing her wrists. She balled her hands and rested them at her side.

“You’re probably wondering why you got caught?”

She hadn’t really. Katniss thought it was just a routine inspection. There were bears in the woods and just one week ago the electric fence had been damaged.

“Your mother.”

“What?” Katniss growled. Her lips thinned her anger skyrocketing. Then she thought for a second it couldn’t be. “She wouldn’t…”

“She did, and there wasn’t anything Darius or I could do. We had to arrest you?”

A combination of bitterness and sadness swept into her soul like the bitter winds that brought the frigid winter air. It was one thing to try to get her to marry; it showed that her mother cared. However, handing her over to the authority showed Katniss that her mother had fallen out of love for her. Can a mother un-love a child? It could happen, she supposed, thinking of Peeta’s mother, the witch. That woman only cared for one person, herself.

“Sorry Sweetheart, Darius tried to dissuade her. She said it was time for you to learn what the real world was all about. But instead of leaving it with me and Darius, she went to the Justice building and filed a complaint with Panem’s Bureau of Justice. She got Seneca Crane’s underwear in a twist. He’s demanding you pay for your crimes.”  

Katniss gasped. Seneca Crane was from the old regime. He was the Head Gamemaker of the 74th Hunger Games. His arena was never used. The man was so twisted and evil that he was merciless with those who came under his thumb, and she was one of them. Katniss wondered how someone like him still had power in this new Panem. 

There was no doubt in her mind she was going to serve time. Those who served time were often sent away to another District. She could be sentenced to District Eleven to work in the fields, District Two to work in the mines, or work in District Four in the fish processing plants doing the lowest of menial jobs. “How much time will I be sentenced?

“A year Sweetheart, you can get out early for good behavior, come back here and work the rest of your sentence as a parole.”

Tears gathered in her eyes. She’d never been away from home, never was tempted to escape into the wilds of the forest. Now she was going to be carted out in the middle of the night. She was a blemish to society, unwanted, a problem for her mother. A solitary tear rolled down her face.

Katniss didn’t need handcuffs any more; she was about to be branded as undesirable.

Darius quietly walked in with the machine. They slid her hand in the machine and she cried as the skin of her wrist was seared with an imprint. Cradling her hand she read *451. Now she understood.

“I’m sorry Katniss,” Darius whispered.

Two heavy set men dressed in black came in and pushed her inside of the waiting black transport.

Chapter Two 

Peeta whistled.

“You’re in a good mood,” Norma Jean, his brother Graham’s wife said.  

Norma Jean was his favorite sister in law. Graham had fallen head-over-heels for her. It was funny because before Norma Jean, Graham’s type were tall statuesque thin blondes. Norma Jean was short, and as she put it, rounder than an apple. She was also sweeter than the candy she and Graham sold at the confectioners’ shop.

“I am.” He couldn’t help himself.

Today was Saturday, his favorite day of the week, one because the bakery closed early, and two because Katniss always came by on Saturday to trade with him. No one else. Peeta knew for certain Katniss didn’t trade with anyone else but him.

“Well it’s my favorite day.”

Norma Jean grinned. “Is it because of a certain huntress?”

“Maybe,” he said.

“Hmmm,” Norma Jean said, rubbing her belly, she was heavily pregnant. She was sniffing the air. When pregnant, Norma Jean had the ability to identify different herbs by smell. Her nose was that good.

Peeta kept quiet and wondered how long it would be before she sniffed the cheese buns he had hidden in the back.

“Have you heard from Rye?”

Peeta grinned. “He’s back in District Two.”

Rye was the reason Peeta had inherited the family bakery. With Graham married to Norma Jean, their mother thought Rye would take over the bakery, leaving Peeta out of the inheritance. Then, one-and-a-half years ago Rye announced he wanted to be a Peacekeeper. Nothing their mother said or threatened dissuaded Rye from becoming a Peacekeeper.

“He’s great actually, talked to him last night.”

“Graham’s still upset with him. He didn’t want Rye to sign up to a twenty year commitment to be celibate to serve home and country.”

Peeta recalled. “You know how Rye gets when he wants something.”

“Yeah.” Norma Jean nodded.     

“His training is over, and he’s waiting for his assignment. When we were talking at least ten guys came by to say hello.” Peeta had gotten to know the guys in Rye’s squad. They were from all over Panem.

“Good, I am glad.”

“Won’t Graham miss you?”

“Nope, my sister Virginia is helping him set up; the boys were fast asleep.”

“You do realize today is Saturday and they’re up early on Saturday.” Peeta said.

“Exactly, no one bothers the sweet shop at six in the morning, nine maybe, but six…only those who are craving stuff like me…now, hot buns, give me one of those treat’s you’re saving for your huntress,” Norma Jean demanded.

Peeta shook his head. “I would never deny you anything.”

He walked into the back whistling and grabbed two of the cheese buns he’d saved for himself to share with Katniss.

“For you,” Peeta said, bowing slightly.  

“I haven’t seen you like this since that Harvest Fair?” Norma Jean raised an eyebrow.

“Oh,” Peeta said.

“You can’t lie to me, Peeta,” Norma Jean said, narrowing her eyes, one fist curled around the cheese bun.

“You’re right,” Peeta said.

“So, it is Katniss,” Norma Jean said.

Peeta could feel the heat raising up to his cheeks. He looked at his reflection in the smooth surface of the metal case; he looked ruddy.

After they graduated, Katniss set up her shop in the Hob. Her jerky was a favorite amongst the residents. Katniss had enough coins to buy everything she needed. She could buy bread, but she didn’t. Their friendship began slowly. At first it was a slight nod, with her cheeks so rosy she couldn’t look him in the eyes.

The Harvest Fair changed everything. They’d been a little tipsy as a result of the hard apple cider Greasy Sae offered them. She’d pulled him into Mr. Plover’s blacksmith and horse barn and kissed him. The kiss got out of hand and one thing led to another. Soon they were in one of the empty horse stalls and tearing their clothing off. Katniss had given him her virginity and he had given her his. When they walked out hand in hand Peeta couldn’t help the goofy grin on his face. He would never forget how soft her eyes looked.

Then his mother came looking for him, and everything became a nightmare. Peeta advocated for Katniss, got his brothers and his friends to clean up and rebuild the stage. Katniss was arrested, and the community shunned her. They took Waylon’s side, no thanks to Mrs. Everdeen. Katniss had never attended another social event after that.

“Yes.”

“Oh,” Norma said excitedly.

“Well.” His eyes went to the store front. Mrs. Bernelle came into the store. With Thanksgiving tomorrow Peeta expected a brisk business today.

“Hello Mrs. Bernelle,” Peeta greeted.

“Hello Peeta, Norma Jean.”

“Hello,” Norma Jean said, rubbing her stomach.

 “You’re due any day now?” Mrs. Burnelle said warmly to Norma Jean.

“ Just about.” Norma Jean smiled warmly.

“How can I help you, Mrs. Burnelle,” Peeta said, wanting Mrs. Burnelle out of the store so that he could speak to Norma Jean.

“May I have a dozen of your dinner rolls, but only the freshest.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Peeta said, grabbing a brown paper bag. He quickly dispensed the rolls.”

Mrs. Burnelle smelled the bread, “These smell delicious,” she leaned over and with a mischievous lilt in her voice. “Don’t tell you father, but you are the better baker.”

“I won’t,” Peeta laughed. “Is that all for today?”

“Yes.” She had the exact amount. She put it on the counter. “Thank you Peeta and Happy Thanksgiving.”

Thanksgiving became a national Holiday after the treaty between the Capitol and the Districts was ratified as law. A day for both sides to come together and celebrate everlasting peace and tranquility and celebrated with a big meal. Normally the Capitol sent all of the Districts a parcel with some sort of treat. Each year a District was selected to make a parcel to send to the Capitol. District Twelve had yet to be selected.   

“Thank you, you too,” Peeta said. He waited until the door was closed before he turned his attention back to Norma Jean.

“Whatever you have to tell me has got to be really good for you to be acting like you did four years ago?”  

Peeta sighed happily.

“Did something happen between you two?”

Norma Jean knew all. Peeta confided in her. When Katniss didn’t show up that Saturday after the Fair, she encouraged him to seek out Katniss. Peeta gathered his courage and found her at the Hob. She looked like hell and she wouldn’t even look at him in the eyes. Peeta found out from Greasy Sae, no one was buying her jerky.

Peeta brazenly bought her jerky and told her he’d run out of squirrels. Then he sent Norma Jean, and Norma sent Rye, and Rye sent Delly to buy her jerky. Delly sent someone else and so forth. There was no way he was going to allow the people of District Twelve to turn their backs on Katniss.

The following Saturday he found a package at his doorstep. Norma Jean packed up some bread and told him to pay her for her game meat. He’d gone down to the Hob and put the bread on her table and told her she’d forgotten her payment before he walked away.

This went on for weeks until she came by and shyly waited to make the exchange. Every Saturday he’d do his best to tamp down his own yearnings because Katniss needed a friend. He made it his mission to befriend her. Like a flower blossoming she opened up to him.  

Peeta remained tight lipped.

Mrs. Evangeline walked into the shop.

“Good Morning Mrs. Evangeline,” Peeta greeted, but he could see Norma Jean wanted to shove the nosy woman out of the bakery.

“Hello Peeta,” Mrs. Evangeline said with her list in hand. She nodded at Norma Jean. This morning Mrs. Evangeline was in battle mode. “I am in a rush this morning. I have to get to the butchers before the best cut of meat is taken,” she muttered. 

“What can I help you with today?”

“My daughter is coming home with her new husband and I need her favorite bread, a baguette.”

“Oh yes, I remember Rosalee loves the sourdough with Mrs. Caries strawberry preserves.”

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Evangeline said. “May I also have a loaf of the sourdough?”

“Absolutely,” Peeta said.

“Thank you Peeta, you always remember everything,” Mrs. Evangeline gushed.

“It’s no problem,” Peeta smiled but he saw Norma Jean’s impatience.

“So, when you are due?” Mrs. Evangeline asked Norma Jean.

“Any day now,” Norma Jean answered.

Peeta bagged the baguettes and the loaf of Sourdough. “Here you go.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Evangeline. “How much?”

“Ten credits,” Peeta said.

Mrs. Evangeline took out her credits and paid Peeta. “Thank you and happy Thanksgiving to you and yours.”

“Thank you, you too.” Peeta waved as Mrs. Evangeline left.

“Finally,” Norma Jean exclaimed.

Peeta shrugged not wanting to give anything away.

“I thought she’d never leave,” Norma Jean huffed.   

He feigned innocence.

“Okay hot stuff, what happened? And don’t spare any details. I know Katniss has been coming here every Saturday for the past three years.”

Norma Jean wasn’t wrong. Katniss had been coming to the bakery every Saturday.  She’d knock on his door precisely at nine in the morning. They would talk and sometimes she’d linger to drink tea. Recently he began showing her some new recipe he’d been working on.

Peeta grabbed a cleanser and a squeegee and wiped down the counter.

“Uh-uh…none of those diversionary tactics!”

Peeta put his hands in the air.

“Go on, what happened?” Norma Jean fixed with him the mommy glare.

“We kissed,” Peeta whispered.

“What,” she screeched. “When?”

“Last week.”

“Okay, more!”

“Katniss came to the door, we traded, we drank tea. I introduced her to my newest creation. These cheese buns. And I saw that same sparkle in her eyes, as the night of the Fair. I do not exactly know how it happened. But we kissed.” How precisely their lips met Peeta was still fuzzy on that, but he did recall the desire and longing that shot through him like the fireworks that lit the sky at Thanksgiving. Her lips were soft and warm, and he marveled once more at the taste of wild berries, sweet and tart, crisp and delicious.   

“Good for you,” Norma Jean said. “Are you guys going to talk today, going to, you know, talk about getting together?”

“I hope so. I’ve waited so long for her to see me, and not just as a friend.”

“I’m so happy for you,” Norma Jean said. Her eyes looked past him above him at the clock, and she groaned, picking up her packages. “I’m late, I have to drop this off at your mother’s house.”

“Good luck,” Peeta grinned.

“Nothing to it,” she rubbed her expanded belly. “Your mother is always rainbows and hearts when I’m pregnant. She keeps on expecting a girl. Sadly, I keep on producing strong Mellark men, much to your father’s delight. He loves his grandchildren. But not as much as your brother loves to keep me fat and round.”

“Norma Jean, you’re not fat,” Peeta replied.

“And that’s why my wife prefers you over me.” Graham came into the shop with his twin boys, one in each arm. Their other child was wrapped around his ankle.

Norma Jean patted Peeta’s hand. “Graham is the grouchy one and Rye is the wild one and you, Peeta are the good Mellark. You’re the hot goods every girl in District Twelve wants to get her grubby hands on, but only one can have.”

“Please don’t call my baby brother hot in front of me,” Graham whined.

Norma Jean grinned wickedly. “Sorry Graham we both know that even Rye with all of his wild ways isn’t as hot as Peeta.”

“Evil woman,” Graham said, handing one of his boys to Peeta.

“Hey buddy!” Peeta grabbed Malcom and tossed him in the air. 

“Uncle Peeta,” his twin brother Marvin shouted. “Me, I’m next.”

Martin who was wrapped around Graham’s ankle popped up, “Me too, me too.”

Peeta loved his nephews.

“Boys,” Norma Jean said with that firm mommy voice they listened to.

“Yes mama?” All boys said with rapt attention.

“Your uncle is working. He will wrestle with you tomorrow,” Norma Jean said.  

All three boys nodded their pale blue eyes wide with excitement.

“Here’s a cookie for each of you,” Peeta said, taking three plain cookies out. Norma and Graham were careful about the sugar the kids ate. “Why don’t you guys sit at the table and eat the cookies?”

All three of them scampered to the table and sat, eating.

“So if uncle Peeta comes over then maybe mommy and me can…”

“Nope,” Norma Jean said. “Peeta and mommy have serious girl stuff going on.”

“Seriously,” Graham settled his eyes on Peeta. “What the heck? What kind of pull do you have over the ladies?”

“I told you Peeta’s the hot one,” Norma Jean winked. But then placed a playful kiss on Graham’s lips.

Graham stared lovingly into Norma Jean’s eyes then turned to Peeta and playfully growled, “She’s mine, all mine.”

“I know,” Peeta shrugged. “Besides, she’s not my type.”

“I’m not,” Norma Jean said. Then she stood on tiptoe to place a small kiss on Graham’s chin. “If we leave the kids today at grampa’s, maybe we can have a private chat about my candy shop, after we close at noon?”

“Oh,” Graham said, his voice brightening.  

Peeta was grossed out by the innuendo.

“Okay, Mellark Clan, march out,” Graham said. “We’re going to grandpa’s.”

The store emptied of his brother’s family, but then the customers came in filling the store for two solid hours. As the time neared 9 o’clock, Peeta started whistling.

Nothing could get him down.  

He had the tea prepared, he had cream, and plenty of sugar. Peeta grimaced. How Katniss could drink her tea that way, he didn’t know, but Katniss loved her tea with loads of cream and sugar. He whistled as he wiped down the display cases.

He looked at the clock, 9 o’clock. His gut twisted, anticipating her soft knock. But it didn’t come. He put his cloth away and walked to the back door.

He opened the door looking to see if he could spot her trademark bag or braided hair. He worried something was wrong. Katniss wouldn’t have stayed away. He knew kissing her could have been a mistake and maybe she was regretting the kiss. Peeta shook his head. This was different. Something felt off and he didn’t know what it was. He couldn’t put his finger on it either.

Peeta looked at the clock, she was fifteen minutes late. Katniss was never late; she was alway punctual. He was truly worried, maybe she’d gotten into another argument with her mother over her single status. Mrs. Everdeen was dogged in her search for a husband for Katniss. All of the men Mrs. Everdeen picked for Katniss were strong minded individuals. Men who liked to be in charge. Peeta chuckled, Katniss didn’t need a domineering guy. Anyone with her same fire would cause them both to combust. 

These four years Peeta had gotten to know Katniss, and from what he gleaned she  needed someone who treated her as equal or someone to balance her fire. Someone who understood the value of partnership. Peeta hoped he was that man for her. 

He once more looked at the clock and another five minutes went by. Foreboding crept inside of his being, causing the hairs of his neck to stand on end. The last time he felt that was right before the fire. Something was wrong. 

“Where are you, Kat?” Peeta asked. He had half a mind to close the shop and walk to her home in the Seam. 

The bell to the front door rang. He sighed then went to the front. Though his mind was made up, he was going to close up shop and head to the Seam as soon as he finished with the patron waiting for him.  

“Dad?”

“Son,” his father glanced at him and there was concern in his eyes.

His father hardly came to the bakery now that he had retired. His parents moved to a house just outside the central market. His father enjoyed gardening and canning. He enjoyed his little group of other gardeners. His mother didn’t like the sedate life but she didn’t really have much of a say.

“What’s going on dad?”

“I came to check on you,” his father searched his eyes.

“Dad, you’re acting weird,” Peeta said, frowning. 

His father was uneasy, his feet shifted, his hands were buried deep in his pocket, and there was something about the way that his dad looked at him reminded Peeta of the day that his dad sat him down and talked about what it meant to be the third son of a baker. It was one of the hardest conversations they’d ever had. Peeta loved the bakery, loved the smell of yeast, and yes even though he didn’t like the heat, he loved the smell of the hot ovens. There was something immensely enjoyable about seeing the awe and wonder in a customer’s face when he delivered a cake for a special occasion. 

He hoped one day to see that same awe and wonder in Katniss’ face, if he could only find her talk to her.

His father cleared his throat.

“What is it dad?” Peeta said, walking to the shop door and flipping the sign from open to close. He closed the door. Peeta squared his shoulders waiting for whatever news his father had for him.

“Son,” his father drifted off. He closed his eyes then said, “…it’s about Katniss…”

“What about Katniss,” Peeta couldn’t believe how calm his voice was. He should have been freaking out. His father knew how important Katniss was to him, though he didn’t know the extent of their friendship.

“She’s been arrested.”

That feeling in his gut that told him Katniss wasn’t okay, caused Peeta’s senses to sharpen. He needed to help her get out of trouble. He stalked to the cash register as if it was his mortal enemy, opening the drawer he took out all of the credits and emptied it into a bag. “I’m going to Darius; what’s her bail?”

 “She was caught last night in the middle of the night, with squirrels, poaching.”

Peeta’s heart stopped beating. She’d been hunting for him. At least now he knew Katniss wasn’t running from him. His mind quickly formulated a plan. He walked to the back and put his coat on. As he walked, he talked, “Fine I can talk to Haymitch, tell him why.”

“Son,” his father’s grave voice let Peeta know there was more. His father put his hands on his shoulder. Peeta was still. He didn’t want to know more but he knew he needed to listen. “Her mother.”

“What has she done now?” Peeta didn’t wait; he shook his head. “No, I need to see Haymitch.” Peeta ran out of the back door and speedily ran to the Justice Building. He tore up the stairs taking them two at a time. She’d spent the night in jail.

He didn’t even bother talking to Haymitch’s assistant Anna.

“Mr. Mellark, you can’t go in there,” Anna stood.

Peeta had never been uncourteous to anyone. He was always kind, always aware of other’s feelings. It’s why his mother thought him soft, but he wasn’t really. Not when it came to Katniss. He loved her, and for Katniss he would give up his life.

“Anna,” Peeta growled, and her eyes opened wide as if she’d encountered a feral beast in the meadow.

She stepped to the side.

Peeta barged right through into Haymitch’s office. The last time he’d been here he was eighteen. Desperate to help Katniss. He wasn’t a kid anymore; he was a man, a man who was willing to move heaven and earth for the woman he loved.

Haymitch had a drink on his desk, and an opened bottle. Another was tossed into the waste paper basket. His office smelled of malt whisky and white liquor. Peeta hadn’t seen Haymitch drunk in years. Not since he was fifteen.  His eyes swept the room and he noted Haymitch was not alone.

Mrs. Everdeen and her sister Primrose stood in a corner. Mrs. Everdeen looked surprised to see him. Her pale blue eyes were like stones in a river, hard and cold. Her sister Primrose stood away from her mother. Her arms clamped around her middle. Her eyes were red rimmed and her nose was bright red. The rest of her, her face, hands, and legs looked pale, ashen really.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to get here,” Haymitch rasped gruffly.

“Where’s Katniss?” he demanded.

“Boy, sit, have a drink,” Haymitch said, pointing to the two chairs in front of his desk.

“No, where’s Katniss and how much to bail her out?”

Haymitch rubbed his face. “When I took this job on I did it because I knew that the people didn’t trust Cray or any Head Peacekeepers to make the laws just. I set up this position for each district so that they could have one of their own to make decisions on their cases. I specifically set it up with loopholes so that no party could have the ultimate power over the other.”

Haymitch gave Mrs. Everdeen a scathing look.

Mrs. Everdeen lifted her nose. “I only did what was right. She was poaching.” Her voice was filled with indignation, as if she couldn’t understand why she was being reprimanded.   

“Eudora, what you did was send an innocent girl into hell because of your stupid pride. You’re no better than the folks that tossed you out into the street when you chose to marry Jack,” Haymitch barked.

Peeta noted how Eudora blinked and her eyes flickered with momentary pain before they went back to that cool indifference. Katniss had a similar look, but unlike Mrs. Everdeen’s which held no personality depth, Katniss’ look always showed a small bit of vulnerability, compassion, fiery resistance and some trace of emotion. Peeta could spend a lifetime examining Katniss’ smallest gestures.

“What happened, Haymitch, where’s Katniss?”

“I don’t see why he should be here,” Eudora said coolly.

“He has every right to be here,” Haymitch said, standing up. “That boy is the one fella your daughter loves.”  

Eudora’s eyes widened with shock and she looked at Peeta, really looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. She shook her head, “No, not him, she doesn’t love him. She doesn’t even know him.”

“She does, mama,” Primrose said.

“Katniss was caught poaching for me,” Peeta said quietly. “Every Saturday she comes to my shop and we trade, and talk…” Peeta looked at Haymitch, “Where is she? I need to see her?”

Her mother suddenly looked pale.

“Eudora tipped Darius about Katniss poaching on Fridays late in the evening. I guess she thought Darius wasn’t going to do anything and filed a complaint to Panem’s Bureau of Justice. It got to Crane; that bastard ordered me to hand her over for justice.”

“No,” Peeta roared. He stood up, his eyes landing on Mrs. Everdeen. Prim stood at his side.

“No,” Prim said quietly.

His hands were stretched out resting on Mrs. Everdeen’s neck.

“Boy,” Haymitch ordered.

Mrs. Everdeen’s eyes were wider than saucers. Her body trembled underneath his fingers. There were horror stories about landing in the clutches of Seneca Crane. “Do you realize Katniss can be killed because she was bringing me squirrels.” His voice cracked. Tears stung his eyes. He let go of Mrs. Everdeen and sat in the chair.

“Momma, you’d done wrong.”

“Primrose, I wasn’t going to let her stop you from marrying. I wasn’t going to let her…”

“MOMMA!” Primrose squeaked.

Mrs. Everdeen became quiet.

“If you bothered to get to know Katniss, you would know that she would never stop me from getting married if that’s what I wanted. You would know that all Katniss wants is for me to be happy. Yes, I got mad at her for walking in on me and Vick.” Prim stopped, wiping the tears from her face. “But I know she did it because she loves me and she did not want me to foolishly get pregnant.” Prim squared her shoulders.

Peeta raised an eyebrow; he’d never seen this side to Katniss’ sister. Prim was a sweet girl, innocent, loving and caring. The girl before him had grit and integrity, something she learned from Katniss. Prim leveled a look at her mother before turning to look at Peeta.

“Yesterday she said she knew what it was like to get carried away in the arms of a man that loved you so much it hurt. She knew what it was like to give into pleasure so deep without thought of the future. She told me she didn’t want me to go through the worry of a pregnancy scare.”

Peeta’s hands gripped the arm of the chair he sat in. Katniss thought she was pregnant. He could just imagine her terror. He thought she’d been avoiding him because of the fire; he didn’t know it was because she didn’t know if they’d made a baby together. Katniss was right to be scared. They weren’t ready back then. He had no future and she still had her sister to rear. He looked up to Prim and nodded acknowledging her words.

“You and Katniss,” her mother sounded brittle.

“No Momma, don’t redirect; look at me,” Prim ordered.

Mrs. Everdeen looked at her youngest daughter.

“If you would have taken the time to get to know your eldest daughter, you’d know she sacrificed herself for me.  I made her promise me that after I graduated that she would follow her dreams. Katniss promised me,” Prim looked at Peeta. “She’d promised me she’d talk to you, Peeta.”

“I,” Mrs. Everdeen said.

“Katniss helped me, after I graduate, I was going to go to District 3. Dr. Jensen helped me get into an accelerated course in medicine. Everything is set up.” Prim’s voice sounded watery, she had tears running down her face. “Now I can’t go knowing my sister is in the hands of that butcher.”

Mrs. Everdeen flinched.  

Peeta stood and gently held Prim in his arms as she cried. “I don’t understand how you could do this to Katniss. I don’t understand how you could betray her when all she’s ever done is to put food on your table and keep a roof over your head. She is the most selfless person. The most loyal. All Katniss has ever done is tried to protect her family, yet you betrayed her.”

“I did it for her own good. I didn’t betray her.” Mrs. Everdeen stood straighter. “This new regime, it may not last forever. There are men like Seneca Crane out there who are vying for power. What if one of them becomes president and then we end up worse? Katniss is a foolish child. I had to do what I thought was best for Katniss, and taking away her ability to hunt was the only way I could think of to get her to think…to see how dangerous this world was.”

“What you did was feed her to the wolves,” Peeta spat. “They called my mother the witch, but you lady, you are a cold hearted bitch.”

Mrs. Everdeen’s eyes became colder. “Primrose we are leaving.”

“No momma,” Prim said, shaking her head. “I’m not going back to that house. I’m gonna to do everything in my power for my sister.” 

“How long?” Peeta asked Haymich.

“A year,” Haymitch sighed. He looked tired and drained as he spoke, “Maybe less for good behavior.”  

“Where?” Peeta asked.

“District Two.”

Hope bloomed in Peeta’s chest. “My brother is in District 2, maybe he can watch out for Katniss, keep an eye on her, and make sure nothing happens to her.”

“You think Rye would do that?”

“Yeah, he would,” Peeta said. Then he turned to Haymitch and  asked, “What happens when… if she gets out for good behavior?”

“If Crane’s people let her go for good behavior, and I doubt it’ll happen, Katniss will be paroled and required to work the rest of her sentence.”

“I want her assigned to me. She can work off the rest of her parole in my bakery. She can live under my roof and I can take care of her.”

“Okay I can do that.” Haymitch sat down at his desk. He pushed the bottle and the glass into the waste paper basket. He took out a form.

“Wait, what’s going on,” Mrs. Everdeen said.

“There’s no way I’m going to give up on Katniss. When she gets out of there she’s going to need a home, a place where she can be safe, and know that she’s wanted and loved.”

“What will your mother say?”

“My mother has no decision in the bakery or how it’s run. The bakery became mine last year when my father and Rye signed it over to me. Believe me, I’m going to make a Katniss campaign and when she comes back everyone in town will welcome her with open arms.”

“Haymitch,” Prim said, stepping out of Peeta’s arms. She sat in the chair facing his desk. “You said Seneca might not let her be released for good behavior. Does that mean he will make sure that she serves out her full sentence?’

“Yes, that rat bastard makes all of his victims pay.” Haymitch set the paperwork aside. His eyes though, were churning as if he was working on a puzzle.

“Then how can we make sure, or what can we do to make certain Crane has to shorten my sister’s sentence?” Prim asked on the edge of her chair. 

“What are you thinking about?” Peeta asked, sitting down in the empty chair. 

Haymitch opened his drawer and pulled out a slim electronic device. Because District 12 was the outlying district, and it was the poorest one, it dealt mostly with papers. However, there were things that needed to be done with the fancy electronics that the Capitol favored. 

Peeta had a computer at the bakery, it was one of the first things he splurged on. It helped him maintain his accounting and supplies. It also was a way for him to get incontact with his brother in District Two.

“This is a computer, and it contains all of the bylaws of Panem. When we set up the justice system, I wanted to make sure there was a catch. Our newly appointed President Paylor helped come up with this. I had forgotten about it until this moment, Prim.”

“What is it?” Prim asked, voicing what Peeta was asking himself.

“Ha!” Haymitch said triumphantly. “There is a clause in the law that stipulates that family members can step in and volunteer for family in case they unjustly fall into the hands of Panem’s Bureau of Justice. Your sister was caught with two squirrels at the time she was caught poaching. Now poaching is a serious offense. But squirrel hunting is completely legal. In fact it just happens to be hunting season for the little critters.”

“So in reality all Katniss did was get caught crossing the fence,” Peeta said.

“And that is a lesser offence than poaching.” Haymitch turned to Primrose. “Which means that her conviction is unjust and a family member can volunteer to work some of her time off here in the district. If someone volunteers, Katniss’ hard labor sentence will be cut in half, but she’ll still have to be paroled.”

“Six months of labor?” Prim whispered, before looking to Haymitch and asking. “Will I be able to finish school?”

“I don’t see why not, we just need someone to take you in for six months for you to work for them for free.”

“No,” Mrs. Everdeen said.

“I’m seventeen Momma, well past the age of consent in Panem,” Prim said.

“I forbade you,” Mrs. Everdeen said, stomping her foot.

“Haymitch, I volunteer for my sister. I volunteer to work off of her debt.”

“YOU CAN’T!” 

Prim turned to her mother. “This is all your doing Momma, if you’d let Katniss alone, she’d be with Peeta now talking about the future. Talking to the man she loved about a toasting, children, everything she denied herself for a long time. But you wanted to punish her. You wanted to punish her for looking like Papa, for being his daughter. For always doing the right thing even if it meant going against your archaic wishes. Now you will take the punishment the way I am sure Katniss took hers, with dignity.” Turning to Haymitch Prim said, “Where do I sign?”

Mrs. Everdeen cried, and ran out of the room.

Peeta turned to Prim. “Will she be alright?”

“No,” Prim said. “But Katniss was right; our mother is selfish. I didn’t see it until now. She thinks what she did is justified, that she did the right thing. But she didn’t and now it’s up to us to save Katniss.”

“You’re a lot like her,” Peeta said.

“Thank you, that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” Prim said.

“I think we need to get my sister-in-law,” Peeta said to Haymitch.

“Norma Jean,” Haymitch said.

My sister-in-law is pregnant with her fourth child. She said she is ready to give birth any time. Anyways, her sister Virginia’s getting married in a month to Jason Swanson, the railroad engineer’s son. Once she gets married, she’s going to work full time there, which means my brother will be alone in the store. They’re going to need help, and I know Norma Jean would never treat you poorly. She’s the only one I trust to help out. My brother Graham will pretty much do anything Norma Jean says.”

“Anne,” Haymitch barked.

Anne walked in, “Yes, Mr. Abernathy?”

“Go have one of Darius’ do-gooders get Peeta’s brother and sister-in-law here,” Haymitch grabbed another piece of paper. “We’re going to save Sweetheart’s butt.”

Peeta sat back, but he knew the battle was far from over. That night he called his brother. His brother was like him, but his features weren’t as soft. His face was angular, and his blonde hair was darker and it was curlier, though you couldn’t tell since he was sporting a buzz cut.

“Hey Peeta,”

“Rye I need…”

“Don’t I know. I heard about Katniss. It’s all everyone is talking about. The girl whose mother betrayed her for you. I’m kind of a celebrity now.”  

“You saw her?”

“No, she’s been put deep in the tunnels. The star squad is so deep they don’t surface for months at a time. Communication down there is only done when necessary.”

“Will you keep me apprised if you do see her, take care of her for me?” Peeta asked.

Rye nodded then he said, “Did Graham really say yes to Primrose staying with him?”

“Yeah,” Peeta smiled ruefully. He was tired and he wished he could have done more.

“Huh, was it Norma Jean?”

“No, he volunteered when he heard what happened to Katniss, before I could even ask.”

“Really, I guess he’s not like mom.”

“Nope, if he were like mom he would have married Esme Smith.”

Rye laughed. “I forgot about Esme; man you know she popped my cherry.”

“Rye, really, I don’t need to know your escapades,” Peeta joked but it didn’t reach his eyes. Rye was trying to make him feel better, but it wasn’t working.

“Look Peeta, I know Katniss is your girl, and I promise, in fact all of the guys in my squad, in all of the squads know how special she is, they told me if they’ll take care of her.”

“Except for the guys working under Crane,” Peeta muttered. He closed his eyes. He wanted to punch the wall, wanted to scream.

“Just hang in there, Katniss is strong, she’s tough. For any girl of twelve to brave the forest and hunt animals with the threat of predatory beasts to put food on the table, that takes bigger balls than I have.”

“Thanks Rye,” Peeta whispered.

“I’ve got to go, but maybe the next time tell Graham that what he did for Prim was great.”

“I will.”

The communication went off. Peeta sighed and leaned back. He looked up at the darkened sky just beyond his bedroom window. “Hang in there Katniss. Please hang in there,” he whispered brokenly.

A lot of things could happen in six months. Katniss could be beaten mercilessly. She could be raped by one of the prisoners or even by a sadistic guard. She could catch a disease and die. The fear he’d been fighting threaded through him and for the first time in all of his life he was unsure of the future. Sleep was not an option for him tonight and he couldn’t celebrate Thanksgiving tomorrow. Not with the love of his life in some hellhole beneath the earth.

Getting up, he began to clean and sometime around midnight he decided to make bread for the children tomorrow; that would keep his mind occupied. The next six months were going to be the hardest of his life.

[mrsalwayswrite]

Anchor in the Waves- Epilogue

Here it is, lovelies! The final part! 

A huge thank you to everyone who has read/commented/liked. Y’all are the best! 

No real warnings, fluff mostly and a little bit of *cough* sexy times *cough*

As always, translations are via google. 

Tag List: @happyveday @evelynshelby

Anchor in the Waves Masterlist

"WOMEN OF COCCHAM! WE ARE BACK!!"

 Aine smiled, shaking her head as she heard Finan's voice. Immediately, she followed the small parade of people making their way towards the dock to greet the Lord of Coccham and his warriors. She noticed her friend up ahead and headed over to stand next to Gisela, baby Stiorra in her arms. 

 The Lady of Coccham (even if Aine only called her in good humor) smirked, bouncing her young daughter. "There goes our peace and quiet."

 Aine laughed, watching the boat being tied to the dock and men jumping off. "I suppose it is a good thing we like them."

 "Mmm...most days." Gisela commented dryly, before moving closer to both greet her husband and wrangle her toddler. 

 The Irishwoman stayed back, observing the greetings and the breath of life that came with the men's return. They had been gone over a month this time, fighting rogue Danes on Wessex's border. However much she and Gisela teased one another about the men being gone, thanking the gods for a respite from them...Coccham did not feel like home until they returned. 

 She nodded at the warriors who passed her, making their way into the village. Some were attacked by children leaping into their arms or family members looking them over for injuries. It warmed her heart to witness the scene before her. How this small village had become a home for the many who lived here, filled with laughter, love and hope. It was a place for both Dane and Saxon...something Wessex desperately needed...with a couple Irish thrown in to make it interesting.  

 The first to approach her was Osferth, his boyish grin making her smile. "Welcome back."

 "It's good to be back." He accepted her hug, only blushing slightly at the show of affection. It had taken a few months before he would not turn red as a tomato when she hugged him. He was a younger brother to her. Even though he would deny it with all the breath in his lungs, she knew he enjoyed the special treatment she gave him, always making sure he had extra food and taking care of his sewing. 

 "Food is on the table in the Main Hall." She released him, looking over him quickly and relieved when she saw no injuries or dried blood. "Better hurry up before the others get there."

 He did not need to be told twice.   

 Sihtric found her next. Before she could stop him, he wrapped his arms around her waist and spun her around, making her squeal. "Aine!" He cried out. 

 "Put me down, you crazy Dane!" She gripped his shoulders, terrified he was going to drop her. He set her down, a mischievous grin plastered on his face. Soon as she was on her feet and stable, she punched his shoulder. “What was that for?”

 “Can I not be excited to see you?”

 Smoothing down her red dress, she rolled her eyes but the fond smile gave away her true feelings. "Go on, food is on the table."

 "You are a gift from the gods themselves!" He busted a loud kiss on her cheek, completely surprising her.  

 "Oi! Sihtric! Hands off my woman!!" Finan yelled. He stood on the dock, arms crossed, having been talking to one of the village men who managed the small boats in Coccham. 

 "She has chosen a new path and will be my woman now!" Sihtric wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. "She said you smell like a pig more often than a man and cannot stand your stench any longer!"

 She swatted at Sihtric's chest, unable to suppress her laughter both due to the Dane's complete shit-eating grin and Finan's aghast look. Part of her wondered if Sihtric was drunk since he was usually so reserved in front of the others. All she could figure was there some teasing going on that she did not know the full story of. Although she had no problems playing along. In all the times Finan was pulled away to help Uhtred with whatever King Alfred needed him for, Sihtric and Aine had no problems creating their own amusement with the mischief they caused. Of course, they never got caught since no one would expect it from the two of them. 

 "Sihtric!" Uhtred called over, his arm around his own wife. "You have my approval, though that whore in Wintanceaster you are so fond of will be most upset to no longer receive your silver."

 "Go on." Aine pressed a quick kiss to Sihtric's cheek, hearing Finan's shout in the background. "Osferth is already eating, I am sure."

 As Uhtred and his little family walked towards her, she bowed her head slightly. "Welcome back, my lord."

 He stepped over to give her a hug. His hugs were always so warm and all-encompassing. Just like everything Uhtred did, he did with his whole heart, including his hugs. "Thank you, Aine. It brings me joy to know you are here to watch over my family while I am gone."

 "I consider Gisela a sister and your children as my own family."

 Blue eyes flashing as he beamed at her. "That pleases me greatly."

 She watched the little family head back towards the main hall for a lingering moment, happiness filling her at the sight of the love and family Uhtred now had. He was such a different man from when they first met. So much had changed over the years but most for the better. What had once been a broken man, now stood tall and strong. It brought her joy to witness. 

 A pair of strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her back against a broad chest. "And what of me?"

 She opened her mouth to reply then almost gagged as her nostrils were assaulted. Pushing out of his embrace, she turned to examine Finan keeping him at arm's length. "Ya smell."

 "Oh? No affection for me? Your beloved husband."

 "I will once ya don't smell like shit…" She paused, eyeing him warily. "Why do ya smell like shit and no one else?"

 He sighed, sending a glare towards the main hall. "Let's just say Sihtric's a right bastard, aye?"

 She bit her bottom lip, trying to keep a neutral face. He looked so forlorn, she wanted to wrap him in an embrace but not with the foul stench radiating off him. “Ya need to wash before eatin'."

 "But I'm hungry and tired." He whined, taking a step closer to her, hands reaching out to grab hold of her.  

 She jumped back as he tried to move closer, batting his grabbing hands away. "Too bad. Go wash or Osferth will eat it all. Lord knows where that child packs all the food away. He eats like a horse."

 "Mmm…" He placed his hands on her hips, a gleam in his eyes. "Not even a kiss for ya husband to welcome him home? To give me the strength to continue? Tis such a long walk back to the river, but with a kiss..."

 She rolled her eyes at his dramatics. With a huff, she conceded, knowing he would be relentless if she did not give him some kind of affection. Rising onto her toes, she pressed a quick kiss to his lips. "Now, go ba...ah!" Before she could settle back on her feet, he easily lifted her up and threw her over his shoulder. "Finan!" 

 "Ya husband requires help, and it’s ya duty as a lovin', loyal wife to help in whatever I need."

 “Is é sin do bharúil. Is féidir leat folctha a dhéanamh duit féin.” She pounded with her fist on his back, but he only laughed. (That is what you think. You can bath yourself.)

 "Fíor. Náire áfach. Anois, is cosúil go mbraitheann tú boladh agus go dteastaíonn folctha uait freisin." He swatted her arse cheerfully, making her yelp. (True. Shame though. Now, it seems you smell and require a bath also.)

 She tried to wriggle away, only causing him to laugh and swat her arse again. Grumbling, she eventually gave up as he walked towards the secluded spot in the river reserved for bathing. She had no intentions of getting in the water. No matter what he said or did. 

 *****

 At the riverside, he gently set her down, grabbing her upper arms as she wobbled slightly. 

 "I've no need a bath. Ya get in there. I'll stay with ya since I'm such a lovin' and loyal wife." She stepped away to plop down on grass nearby, smoothing her red dress down. Unconsciously, she ran her fingers through her long, brown hair that hung loosely down her back, staring at the river. 

 Unable to remove his gaze from her, he watched, a contentment filling his soul at the simplicity of the moment. His woman… his beautiful wife waiting for him as he bathed so they could return to their home together. Though he would much prefer for her to join him. It had been years since they first met in Islond, yet he found her only becoming more beautiful with each passing year. 

 Over that time, he had also fallen more in love with her as different facets of her appeared, now free of slavery. She had a quick wit and sarcastic streak he loved to witness. She was always going out of her way to help others, particularly the mothers and children in Coccham. In the quiet moments, there was usually some kind of knitting or sewing in her hands, saying it helped calm her mind. He knew she loved giving gifts though, seeing people's faces light up when she gave them something for no reason other than she wanted to. Behind the closed door of their home though, she was a temptress that he wholeheartedly would sell his soul to. With just a look or wink, she could drive him wild. Many a time he threatened to lock them in their cottage and not come out for three days if she continued to tease him so. 

 The time he was forced to spend away from her side, fighting for Uhtred and King Alfred, killed him but it gave him another reason to fight better and harder. She waited in their home for his return...and there was nothing he would not do to keep her safe. He would move mountains for her. Even years later, the promise he gave still held as true now as then. He wanted her safe and happy.

 "Are ya goin' get in the water or just stare at me?" She leaned back on her elbows, hair dancing around her as she watched him. 

 A lazy smirk grew on his face as he slowly and carefully began removing his armor. He dropped each piece into a small pile next to his feet, keeping his eyes on her the whole time. She just watched, a small, coy smile on her lips. Next, he took his time taking his clothes off, unable to suppress his bodily response as he noticed her eyes roaming over his body greedily. There was no shame in his nakedness before her. Even the scars he loathed from his time as a slave, the whip marks and scars on his hands from the oar, he hardly noticed when alone with her. On more than one occasion, she kissed those hateful scars away, reminding him he survived and they only showed the strength within him.   

 "Ya sure ya don't want to join me?" He teased once more, purposefully placing his hands on his hips. Where her eyes seemed to linger did not go unnoticed by him. If anything, it made him ache for her more. 

 "Mmm...if we both get in that water, it'll be next year before we leave."

 "I do not see a problem with that."

 She laughed while giving him a shooing motion. 

 Naked as the day he was born, he finally stepped into the water. The chill shot through his body but it felt pleasant, refreshing. Finally stopping at his waist, he submerged himself. Weeks’ worth of filth seeped into the water around him. He scrubbed his hands through his hair, cleaning the grime from it. For a long moment, he lingered there, allowing the absolute silence of the river around him to drown out the thoughts and noise from the past month of hard fighting. He returned home, everyone he cared for was safe. The worry and fear glided off his shoulders, dissipating into the water. He was home.

 Rising, he shook his head like a dog, the water spraying around him. When he opened his eyes, he expected to see Aine still on the grass laughing at his antics and prepared to tease him. 

 Instead she stood just out of arm's reach in the water. 

 Naked. 

 He smugly grinned, reaching his hands out towards her. "Could not resist me, huh?"

 Rolling her eyes, she stepped closer, placing a hand over his heart. His hands automatically moved to her hips, pulling her closer. He opened his mouth to further tease her but caught the words on his tongue. Her eyes seemed distant as she stared at her hand on his chest, biting her bottom lip. 

 "Cad é, mo grá?” He trailed a hand up and down her bare back, waiting for her to speak. He knew from experience it did no good to pressure her, so he continued to gaze at her, touch her and find happiness in her presence. (What is it, my love?)

 After several tense moments she finally whispered, not meeting his eyes. "An bhfuil tú sásta anseo?" (Are you happy here?)

 "Cad?" (What?)

 "An bhfuil tú sásta anseo ... i Coccham? Le mise? An bhfuil tú sásta?" (Are you happy here...in Coccham? With me? Are you happy?)

 "Cad a thug air seo?" He tipped her chin up to look into her face, looking into those bronze eyes he adored. (What brought this on?)

 "Bhí mé ag smaoineamh ar Éirinn agus tú imithe." (I was thinking about Irland while you were gone.)

 Ah. He waited for her, mixed feelings swirling within him. They had shared their pasts with one another about their lives in Irland before slavery. He had been so terrified to tell her of who he was there, what he had done. Yet instead of holding his past actions against him, she just kissed the tip of his nose and told him she would not be cleaning up his messes around their home, even if he was a prince. At that moment, he was unsure if he could ever love her more.

 "Ar mhaith leat riamh dul ar ais?" She asked, looking across the river. Something she had never asked before, after hearing his story. (Do you ever want to go back?)

 He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck for a second. This was not an easy question to answer and he appreciated her silence, letting him find his answer. Cupping her cheek, he tilted her face back up to meet her eyes. "Tá áiteanna ann a chailleann mé ansin, aye. Beidh Éirinn i mo chuid fola i gcónaí ... ach ní hé mo theach é a thuilleadh. Tá m’áit anseo. Le Uhtred ... agus Sihtric ... agus an manach leanbh. Agus tusa. Níor mhaith liom riamh a bheith gan tú. " (There are places I miss there, aye. Irland will always be in my blood...but it's no longer my home. My place is here. With Uhtred...and Sihtric...and the baby monk. And you. I never wish to be without you.)

 They pressed their foreheads together, eyes closed as they allowed the waves of memories from their past to crash over them for the briefest of minutes. The water from the river lapped against their bodies. The sunshine warmed their exposed skin. He ran a hand through her long hair, knowing she loved the sensation. They stayed that way for several minutes, just being with one another, no words needing to be spoken, born from familiarity and contentment. 

 "Ar mhaith leat filleadh ar Éirinn?" He ventured. (Do you want to return to Irland?)

 "Is tú mo bhaile. Sílim go raibh a fhios agam ar bhealach éigin nuair a chonaic mé tú i ndáiríre den chéad uair. Tháinig tú i mo dhóchas, i mo ancaire ... agus tá tú fós." (You are my home. I think I somehow knew that when I first truly saw you. You became my hope, my anchor...and you still are.)

 When she smiled at him, he pressed his lips to hers, overwhelmed by her statement. Soon what meant to be a reassuring, tender kiss became more. Hands roamed. Tongues clashed. Bodies pressed so close, water could not even find a way between them. He scooped her up, making her giggle as her legs wrapped around his waist and his hands on her arse. A fire built within him, her touch scorching him but he did not care. If anything, he wanted more. Finally, their lips broke apart, both of them breathing heavy. He wasted no time as his mouth trailed kisses along her jawline and down her throat. 

 "Finan…" She moaned, hands tangled in his hair. She tipped her head to the side so he had better access to her neck. "You are not humping me out here."

 "Why?" He asked between kisses. "This seems like a perfect spot."

 "Anyone could come by."

 "No one will come by, now shhh...let me worship you." Dropping his head to her chest, he traced her collarbones with his tongue. The whine it elicited from her made him rock hard just at the sound. 

 "No, oh Christ! Finan…"

 He chuckled, his tongue trailing downward. Shifting her slightly so she was at the perfect height, he kissed the valley between her breasts. He groaned when she tugged on his hair. A soft mantra of his name spilled from her lips, one of his favorite sounds. He tucked his head down, ready to lavish affections onto her breasts until she begged him to fill her. He squeezed her arse, making her rise slightly at the sensation, timing it so he opened his mouth and just about….

 "FINAN! AINE! Lord Uhtred needs you both at...AAAHHHH!!" 

 "DAMN IT, BABY MONK!!"

 Aine laughed loudly as she pressed a quick kiss to Finan's cheek. Then slippery as an eel, she slid out of his arms and swatted away his hands, desperate to pull her back. "We are coming, Osferth, thank you." She called out, taking a step towards the bank. 

 "No, we are not!" Finan yelled, knowing that Osferth was most likely racing back, red-faced and stuttering. "Tell Uhtred we are busy and…"

 She interrupted his outburst by splashing him as he tried to snake an arm around her waist. "Finan, your lord needs you. You cannot say no."

 "I am certain he would understand why." He grumbled, pulling her against his body. He began peppering her shoulder with kisses as his hands went to where his lips should have been right now. 

 "Níos déanaí, mo ghrá ..." She batted his hands away, slipping from him once more. (Later, my love…)

 His eyes narrowed as he stalked closer, matching her retreating steps. That same hot blood still coursed through her veins as his own if her rosy cheeks and pupils that resembled full moons said anything. Though, as they moved closer to the bank, the water's height lessened around their bodies. The view it gave him was something he certainly did not mind. She was glorious in her nakedness, completely unashamed before him. He wondered if she would allow a quick romp in the grass...to help them dry off, of course.  

 Somehow reading his mind, she stopped and pressed a single finger to his lips as they almost reached the bank. "If you behave, we can play a game."

 "A game? Like what?"

 Her finger trailed down his lips, down his chest and stomach to his manhood, giving it a quick pump that caused him to groan aloud. "Guess you will have to be good to find out." She released him with a flirtatious wink and stepped out of the water. 

 "Woman! You cannot tease me like this!"

 She blew him a kiss, wringing out her brown locks and giggling. 

 He just stood there admiring her. Through all the shite he had lived through and pain he endured, she was the treasure at the end of the rainbow. He thanked God daily for bringing her into his life. Even after meeting her in Islond, she continued to save him, be his peace, his support and his joy. He loved her. There was no question about that. There was no one else he wanted by his side, in his bed or holding his heart. She meant everything to him. But the part that still astounded him daily; he knew she reciprocated those same feelings and sentiments. 

 Who would have guessed that the worst time in his life, he would also find his salvation...the love of his life.

[lifeofkaze]

An Art of Balance #7

Orion Amari x MC

 Warning: mild swearing

 Word Count: ~ 2.800

______________________________________________________________ 

Chapter 7: Amortentia

“… which is why, to the unbeknownst, this potion is particularly hard to detect.”

Lizzie found it hard to follow Professor Snape’s lecture. Today’s class was about potions most commonly used for drugging unsuspecting people. Under normal circumstances, Lizzie enjoyed lessons like these, where they were getting to know some real-world applications of the things they were learning at school. She had been looking forward to this class for days.

Snape was currently explaining the effects of the contents of the golden cauldron in front of him. As if the class huddled around it wasn’t acutely aware of what this potion was meant to do. The bubbling, mother-of-pearl coloured liquid illuminated the stuffy classroom with a soft light, emitting the loveliest fragrances imaginable. Lizzie constantly had to reign her wandering mind in.

While Snape was droning on about the ingredients of Amortentia, all she could do was to dream about the distinct smell of a summer evening after a thunderstorm and the wax she used for grooming her broomstick. Another scent was hinted at in the bouquet, something fresh but also spicy and woody at the same time, a bit like incense. It reminded her of Quidditch matches, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

She nudged Rowan, who was standing next to her. “What does it smell like to you?”

Rowan tore herself away from her notes, staring dreamily into the distance. “Parchment and the library. Such a lovely smell…” Her voice trailed off, too enamoured with her daydreams to even ask about the scents Lizzie apparently loved the most.

Lizzie turned to Skye, standing on her other side. “What about you?”

But Skye wasn’t listening to her. She was staring at the cauldron intensely. Snape was explaining something about the procedure of sourcing the ingredients and Penny, attentive as always, was hanging onto his every word, diligently scribbling down the information given to her.

A soft, giddy laugh escaped Lizzie. The fumes emanating from the cauldron mixed with the heat of the many fires burning in the classroom were starting to get to her head.

“Earth calling Skye? You still with us?” She poked her into her ribcage.

“What is it, Jameson, I’m trying to concentrate here!” Annoyed with Lizzies constant prodding, she had raised her voice a little bit too much. Professor Snape fell silent, giving the two girls the most chiding stare, as the heads of their classmates spun around to face them.

“I take it, Jameson and Parkin object? Do you have anything to add?” His voice was freezing.

“No, Professor,” Lizzie and Skye replied in unison, both looking utterly embarrassed.

“Excellent.” He brusquely jerked his head to where Penny stood next to him. “Parkin, get over here and take a leaf out of Haywood’s book on how to be attentive. Jameson, one more word from you and it will cost you house points.”

He abruptly turned around and continued his monologue while Skye shuffled through the crowd towards the front of the class.

Rowan tapped Lizzie’s shoulder. “What was that about? Was she actually paying attention for once?”

Lizzie shrugged. All of her friends seemed to be out of their mind lately. “I don’t know. She has been in kind of a strange mood for some time now.”

Rowan opened her mouth to reply but Snape’s sharp voice cut her off, brimming with ice cold rage.

“Khanna, Jameson! Your memory seems rather short-lived. Five points from Hufflepuff each. Next time, it’ll be five points per word. Now, everyone pair up and examine the consistency of Amortentia one couple at a time. No shoving, no mindless chattering.” He directed his last words explicitly at Lizzie and Rowan. Rowan pushed her glasses up her nose, looking mortified for losing House points, as a prefect, nonetheless.

Lizzie apologetically shrugged at her flustered friend, not daring to utter another word as long a Snape was in such a foul mood.

Rowan and she were just lining up behind Merula and Barnaby when one hand fell on her and Rowan’s shoulder each. Tonks’s head appeared between the two of them, gently holding them back.

“If I were you, I would wait with lining up.” A mischievous smirk spread on her face. She snickered as Rowan grabbed her arm, obviously alarmed.

“Oh no, Tonks, what did you do? This might cost us even more points!”

“Relax, it’s nothing major,” she chuckled again. “I bewitched Snape’s scales while you were all gawking at the Amortentia. Watch!”

They turned their attention back to the front of the classroom. The silver scales they all used to weigh in their ingredients, were suddenly coming to life. Rattling its plates, it jumped off the table, hobbled over to one of the shelves and started swinging itself up on it.

Snape dived in to catch the rogue instrument, but it just hopped onto his head and from there onwards towards another shelve just above the guffawing mass of students. It started spinning on the spot as if it was dancing, before losing its footing on the wood, that had become slippery from the condensed fumes. It flailed about with its plates, but it was too late. It lost its balance and came crashing down on them, right into the bubbling cauldron full of Amortentia.

Penny, whose turn it had been to take a closer look, dived out of the way with a shriek. The splash sent up by the falling scales hit Skye, who had been standing right behind her, full in the face.

The scales were slowly clambering out of the cauldron, dripping with the mother-of-pearl-coloured liquid and shaking themselves like a wet dog. Snape seized his chance. He pointed his wand at the instrument, barking “Finite incantatum!” With a soft jingling, the once again lifeless scales fell back into the cauldron, sinking to the ground.

He spun around to his class, whose laughter had all but ceased. His face was storm and thunder.

“If I ever find out, who did this, I will have the miscreant clean all the cauldrons in this castle every day until after Christmas,” he snarled from behind his gritted teeth. He searched the faces of his intimidated students for any clue on the identity of the prankster. His murderous gaze rested particularly long on Tonks, who tried to look as inconspicuous as possible. His eyes narrowed on her for a moment, as if deciding whether to accuse her or not.

He turned his attention to Skye, who still stood in front of the cauldron, looking oddly pale. “Did you swallow any of it, Parkin?”

It took her a moment to answer him. “Yes, I think so,” she whispered, a vacant expression on her face.

“Well, Amortentia is not toxic. I know this might prove impossible for you, but try not to do anything stupid. If you start feeling faint, come see me at once.”

Then he barked an indignant “Class dismissed.”

Everyone hurriedly gathered up their things and shuffled out of the classroom.

 Skye had taken a detour to the dormitory to get changed before their next class. When she didn’t show up for Defence Against the Dark Arts though, Penny offered to go check on her. When it was time for lunch, she hadn’t returned either.

Rowan, Tonks and Lizzie were headed towards the Great Hall. Tonks was still basking in the success of her prank in Potions earlier, while Rowan was torn between amusement and sense of duty.

“That will show Tulip who is the one and only master prankster in this school. I set the bar high for her.” Satisfaction was dripping from her voice.

“But imagine if Snape finds out, he will deduct so many House points from Hufflepuff!” Rowan groaned.

“Come on, even you laughed at Skye’s face when the potion hit her,” Tonks teased. Rowan couldn’t help but chuckle at that.

“Speaking of Skye, I wonder where she and Penny have gone to. It’s been ages since Penny went to check on her,” Lizzie wondered.  

“Maybe Skye didn’t feel well and Penny brought her to the Hospital Wing,” Rowan suggested.

A dirty grin had spread on Tonks’s face. “Or maybe they have a bit too much love potion between them and got all distracted.”

They had reached the end of the Hufflepuff table, where Orion and McNully sat in their usual places. McNully’s eyebrows perked up at Tonks’s last sentence as the girls sat down beside them.

“What did I miss? Who has drunk a love potion?”  

Lizzie waved her hand in dismissal. “Not like you think, McNully. Sorry to disappoint. Skye got hit by a wave of Amortentia this morning. Don’t ask,” she cut his questions off preliminary.

Orion looked puzzled. “Love comes to us in the strangest forms; time and place can never be predicted.”

He seemed to be completely oblivious to Rowan’s deeply blushing face. Lizzie noticed, however, trying not to let her grin gain the upper hand.

“Is Skye alright, tough?” Orion sounded concerned.

The girls exchanged glances, before shrugging simultaneously.

“We don’t know, really. She went off to get changed after Potions and we haven’t seen her since. Penny went to check on her, but she didn’t come back either,” Rowan explained.

Murphy spotted Penny approaching them. “Chances are at 98,4 % we’re going to find out in the next five minutes.”

Lizzie shuffled closer to Orion to make room for Penny to sit down beside her. Her face was pale and looked like something had seriously rattled her.

“Penny, are you alright? Is everything okay with Skye?” Lizzie asked tentatively.

She didn’t answer at once, busying herself with filling her plate. “Yes, I think so. I mean, she will be, I guess. Enjoy your meal.”

She avoided Lizzie’s questioning gaze. When Lizzie opened her mouth to question her further, she shook her head.

“Give it a rest, Lizzie. Let’s just eat in peace, alright?”

They sat in silence for a while, every one preoccupied with their food. Lizzie couldn’t fully enjoy it, though. Her mind was still circling around Skye’s absence and Penny’s odd behaviour. Something had happened between the two of them, and she very much intended to find out.

 When Skye neither showed up to any of their afternoon classes, nor the strategy meeting Orion had set for the evening, Lizzie’s resolve turned into actual worry. It was unlike Skye to miss a meeting or endanger her position on the team in such a way as skipping multiple classes in a row.

After conferring with Orion about what to do, Lizzie bundled herself up against the cold October winds and set out towards the Quidditch pitch. The light was fading fast and the clouds racing across the skies made her long for the cosy fire back at the Common Room.

She found Skye where she had expected her to be, huddled up on the Hufflepuff stands. She sat on one of the benches, hugging her knees and looking thoroughly miserable. The only time Lizzie could remember seeing her this downcast was in Lizzie’s first Quidditch season, when a stray bludger from Rath had prevented her from playing in the final match for the Cup.

Lizzie hesitated for a moment, hidden in the shadows of the wooden stairs leading down to the pitch. She wondered how to best approach her friend. Skye and she had been friends for a long time now, but not without their ups and downs. Skye was prone to shutting people out when dealing with her emotions and Lizzie wanted to take no chances.

Eventually she approached the wretched looking girl and silently sat down beside her. Were it not for the quick side glance Skye gave her, Lizzie couldn’t have even been there for all that Skye acknowledged her presence. For a few moments, neither of them spoke until Lizzie chose to break the silence.

“You missed the team meeting earlier.”

Skye shuffled uncomfortably next to her. “I know.”

“And class as well. We covered for you. Told the professors you were at the Hospital Wing because of adverse reactions to the Amortentia.”

Skye swallowed audibly. “Thanks.” She was still staring down at the pitch. The light was fading fast and the commentary box opposite to where they were sitting was almost indiscernible. The cold was creeping up from the damp wood they were sitting on. Lizzie shuddered.

“No need to thank me. You know what happens when we bunk off class. Can’t have you kicked off the team when the Ravenclaw match is so close.”

“I guess so.”

Again, they sat in silence. Lizzie was still trying to figure out how to go about this when Skye spoke up on her own accord.

“I really botched it this time, Lizzie,” she muttered. Her voice was agitated.

Lizzie pulled the sleeves of her Hufflepuff sweater over her increasingly freezing hands and turned slightly so as to better face her.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Skye buried her face in her hands. “I asked Penny on a date.”

Lizzie’s eyes went wide at that. “You did what?”    

Skye ran her hand through her dark hair in a distraught manner, her signature plait almost coming undone. Lizzie had never seen her so upset before.

“All this because of that bloody love potion! I swallowed quite a bit when those damn scales fell into the cauldron. Got me all funny in my head. When Penny came to check on me after I missed class, I was lying upside down on my bed, giggling like a little girl,” she snorted in contempt. “She was so sweet to me – she always is – and I just couldn’t hold my tongue. So I asked her out.”

With a groan at the memory, she buried her face into her hands once again.

Tentatively, Lizzie placed her hand on Skye’s arm. “What did she say?”

Skye’s head shot up again, an incredulous look on her face. “Why do you think I’ve been hiding up here? Of course she said no!” She started imitating the sorrowful tone Penny used when one of her friends was troubled. “’I’m so sorry Skye, I like you so much, but I’m not attracted to you in that way’.” She let her head drop onto her knees with a dull thump.

Lizzie didn’t know how to respond. She’d had no idea Skye had a thing for the blonde, bubbly girl. Thinking of Rowan for a second, Lizzie began severely doubting her attentiveness towards her friends’ emotions. It also explained the increasingly strange behaviour Skye had shown lately whenever Penny had been around.

“I’m so sorry, Skye,” Lizzy said softly. “I wish you had told me before. I knew Penny isn’t into girls.”

Anger flared up on Skye’s freckled face. “You’re telling me now? Thanks for keeping this small detail from me.”

Lizzie flinched. It was exactly as she had feared. When hurt, Skye had a tendency to lash out at the next best person she could deflect her anger upon, no matter if warranted or not. It was not the first time Lizzie had become the target of her emotions.

“Skye, calm down, I didn’t know you had any feelings for her.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down! I just made myself a complete idiot in front of her. And it’s not like I can just avoid her or anything as we happen to share the same bloody dorm!”

Her mortification seemed to have completely turned into a burning rage she now directed at her helpless friend.

“Yes, I know, but this is not my fault. So please stop yelling at me.” Lizzie ran her hand over her hair, brushing away the rogue strands the wind had pulled out of her ponytail. This was not going the way she had imagined.

She sighed. “Who could have known Tonks pulling a prank could end in such drama?”

Skye shot up off the bench. “Tonks hexed the scales? And you knew and never thought to warn me? All this fuss needn’t have happened had you just opened you goddamn mouth!”

Lizzie’s felt her exasperation beginning to turn into anger as well. “There was nothing I could have done! Tonks only told us seconds before it happened, so get a grip,” she snapped impatiently.

“Whatever. I’m done with this.” Skye pushed past her and made for the exit. Without another word she hopped down the stairs and vanished into the darkness.

Her anger fading as quickly as it had come up, Lizzie let herself fall back onto the bench and pinched the bridge of her nose, suddenly feeling very exhausted.

This was going to be a problem.

[hawkeish]

Those prompts are so hard to choose from! But how about "We were dancing but all of a sudden it’s a slow song and we’re standing here awkwardly staring at each other" for whoever you feel like writing?

I am SO sorry it's taken me an entire month to finish this (writer’s block is the worst am I right ladies!). But I love this prompt - although I took a few liberties - and it screamed Carver/Merrill, so here you go...

Rated T, CWs for implied character death, death mention

1.9k (I have no restraint)

Read on AO3 // Read my other Carver/Merrill fic (it’s referenced a couple of times)

Carver’s perfectly happy where he is.

Leaning against the rough stone wall with a drink in hand, that is. Watching Ri make a tit out of herself, as usual.

The Hanged Man’s packed, warm as a funeral pyre and smelling almost as ripe. Word obviously got round that it was the night before the big expedition: half of Lowtown must be squeezed in here. They’re all eager to toast with Kirkwall’s most eminent storyteller and his new, stabby, impulse-control-free muse, before they set off on their quest for riches and honour and whatever other noble shite lies abandoned beneath the surface.

At least, that’s how Varric’s telling it. Carver’s not sure exactly what’s noble about plundering some dead dwarves’ abandoned thaig. But if it makes his mother happy and his sister finally proud—and if it means his longbar blade can taste the innards of as many darkspawn as he could dream of, for Beth—he’s not going to argue.

Strange to think this is his last night on the surface for a while. And that he’s spending it here, of all places. Something in him flutters with worry at the thought as he tries to tune out the musicians from over in the corner, who’ve kindly decided to abuse some lutes and fiddles. Could this be his last ale? The last full moon he’ll ever see? The last chance he’ll get to be with all these irritating people in one room, together?

But worry’s for bairns and people who can’t hit hard enough to knock teeth out. So Carver buries his nerves with another swig of his drink, then settles back against the wall and does what he likes to do best: observes.

Like some silver-tongued dragon lazed upon a wordhord, Varric’s planted himself on the tallest stool at the bar, surrounded by the usual mob of ruddy cheeked patrons eating up his every word. Half of which will be lies, but that’s good for business; the Hawkes wouldn’t be in on this trip if Varric had a predilection for honesty, after all. Beside him, Isabela’s flashing a grin sharper than her knives and adding flowery embellishment any time Varric pauses for effect. Across from her, Aveline’s desperately trying to counter whatever salacious gossip the pirate’s spreading. Judging by the look on the warrior’s face, it doesn’t seem to be working.

Meanwhile, Ri’s by the fire with Anders, unsurprisingly. She’s tipsy, attempting to flirt by playing demon’s advocate; he’s taking her bait and gesticulating wildly, like usual. They’ve been spending a strange amount of time together recently. Debating—mage this, mage that, freedom, whatever. Carver wouldn’t normally care, only these arguments leave them both blushing and breathless and grinning like fools, and the whole thing’s slightly sickening. Of course Marian would be interested in the possessed apostate. Reckless infatuation is a Hawke family trait.

Whatever they’re banging on about now, it’s drowned out by the music, thank the Maker. If Fenris could hear, the mood wouldn’t be half as merry. But, Carver realises, as his eyes dart around the bustling room in search of that familiar flash of white hair, Fenris is occupied.

In the middle of the tavern, they’ve haphazardly shoved the tables and benches to the side, to make a little space. And in the centre of that dusty, empty floor, as the music gets much faster and much worse, Fenris is dancing.

With Merrill. Who’s got hold of the other elf by the wrists and is whirling him around in a mad circle, looking delighted—maybe more delighted than Carver thinks he’s ever seen her. Eyes wide as moons, smile wild and even wider. And Maker, she looks lovely, too. Cast in a hazy golden glow by the torch-flame, she moves so easily that all Carver can think of is sunlight…

Andraste’s flaming ass. Carver pulls his gaze away, forces himself to gulp some beer, tries to ignore the weird feeling wriggling around his ribcage. Don’t do this, he thinks. Since the moment by the vhenadahl, he told himself he wouldn’t think about Merrill this way. Merrill, his sister’s friend. Merrill, the blood mage. She’s not sunlight. She’s—

“Merrill!” Fenris squawks. The sound knocks Carver from his fluster; he’s not sure he’s ever heard Fenris squawk before. But the warrior looks almost panicked, and very much as though he wishes that he could melt into the floor. “Can you please let me—”

“Not like that!” She’s saying excitedly, pulling at Fenris’ arm, nudging him with her knee and the pointed tips of her toes as he tries, desperately, to wriggle out of her grip. As if egged on, the musicians suddenly strike up a different—but in no way better— jig. “Left foot first, remember, then you hop back a bit, then clap! Oh, you’re like a toddler! Or a little halla foal…”

Fenris makes a strangled noise of protest. “I am not! And I do not wish to hop, Merrill—”

Merrill laughs: the sound’s like chimes, floating over the new reel, and it makes Carver’s skin prickle and flush in that weird, horrible, lovely way. “You have the rhythm, Fenris! Just follow what I do!”

Fenris does have the rhythm. The exact moves, no—although whatever the exact moves are, Carver can’t work out: there’s a lot of spinning and and whirling and jumping and, on Fenris’ part, flailing in many directions. But at least Fenris is doing all the wrong actions at all the right times. There’s something almost hypnotic about it, almost graceful. Between the two elves, Carver doesn’t know where to look.

Knowing where he wants to look is a different matter. Even with Fenris as distraction, Carver’s gaze can’t help but drift past him, to Merrill. She has her eyes half-closed and her head tilted to the sky, a perfect smile on her face—

“Carver!”

And then her head’s whipped around, her eyes are open and locked right on him, and her smile’s so bright and so caught-off-guard that it’s making Carver feel slightly lightheaded. Because Fenris has finally managed to slip out of her hold, has called Carver’s name loud enough to wake the dead—or the very drunk—and is charging towards him like a man possessed.

“Oh no,” Fenris declares drily, as he bridges the gap and pulls Carver’s near full-to-the-brim mug of ale from the warrior’s hands in one, smooth movement. “Just as I thought! It looks like Carver needs another drink.”

He does? Carver blinks down at his empty hands, then up at the elf. “I do?”

Looking him dead in the eye, Fenris smiles wickedly and proceeds to tip most of Carver’s beer onto the straw-covered floor.

“How clumsy of me!” Fenris declares drily. “It appears I owe you some of…” He wrinkles his nose at the damp straw. “Whatever that was.” Then, he claps Carver on the shoulder, the grin returning. “Well, what a shame I can’t return to Merrill. Enjoy your dance!”

Fenris’ friendly shove is hard enough to almost throw a man to the floor: Carver stumbles forward, almost toppling over, knocking into sweaty bodies. A mess of people has started to pack the dance-floor, merry and boisterous; they jostle Carver as he steadies himself, red-cheeked and mumbling apologies. Embarrassment fizzes in his stomach—pressed so close to strangers, he’s suddenly even more aware of his height and...well, brawn. Where Fenris was graceful and lithe, Carver’s a lump, taking up too much space. Although he can dance, kind of. He used to dance for Bethy, didn’t he? To make her laugh when she was upset. Carver’s special jig, she called it.

He hasn’t danced in a long time. Even when he’s been rat-arsed, or when Ri’s needed cheering up. Since Beth died, really. He’s not done a lot of things since she died. Perhaps, he thinks, a part of him went with her. Perhaps, he thinks, if he meets his own end in the Deep Roads, it wouldn’t be so bad—

“Carver!” comes a voice, cutting past the singing and the music and the thud of dozens of feet moving as one. “Carver, are you all right?”

And then Carver realises that he’s stood stock-still in the middle of a whirling mass, thinking of a dead girl, staring at nothing.

No. Not staring at nothing. Staring, he realises, as his vision focuses, directly at Merrill. Who’s stopped dancing, a frown clouding her features: she weaves past revellers, slipping through a gap in the crowd in front of him, until there’s barely a whisper of space between them.

A knot of nerves coils in Carver’s gut. The air’s warm as sin, but there’s gooseflesh prickling across his arms, and a weird chill running down his spine. The last time they were this close was beneath the sprawling branches of the vhenadahl. And look how that went.

“Me?” he answers, not sure where to look again. She’s all red-cheeked and breathless from dancing, and her eyes are sparkling, and Maker, he needs to stop. “Fine. I’m fine! I’m just…”

“Stood completely still,” Merrill notes. “In the middle of a… what was it?” Dodging a rogue elbow, she edges closer to him; somehow, even the smallest of her movements flow in time with the music swelling around them. “A ceilidh? We have a different name for dances like this. I’m not sure one of the moves we have is standing still, though. But you do it well. Very pensive. You’d make a fine statue.”

Is she taking the piss? Is she flirting? Carver’s muscles tighten as he becomes even more horribly aware of her presence. Slowly, palms clammy, he nods. “A ceilidh, yeah.”

“And you’re meant to have a partner for this kind of thing, no?” Merrill asks. “At least, that’s what I thought, although Fenris seemed a bit less…enthusiastic.”

Partners. Two people, dancing. Could he ask...

No. She wouldn’t want to. Not with him. The kid brother. The layabout. Why would she agree? Probably just to be polite, right? She’s always polite. And kind, and warm, and clever—

“Partner? I—yeah,” Carver mumbles again, trying to compose himself. Maker, why does she make him feel so muddled? So much for being less of a wet blanket. “I think.”

“Well.” She gestures to the other revellers, who’ve now started actively dancing around them, shooting them glares vicious enough to wilt flowers. “We look slightly silly, don’t we? Did you maybe…want to dance? With me, I mean. Although of course I meant that. Creators, listen to me.”

Dance. Does Carver want to dance, with Merrill?

No, he tells himself. Not at all. Not in front of everyone. Not front of his sister, who’ll never fucking shut up about it for the rest of her days.

Yes, everything else in him hollers. For they must look a bit ridiculous. And it is his last night up here. And, most of all, because Merrill’s looking at him in a way that makes him feel dizzy. The music’s suddenly slowing, softening, and for some reason, everything feels right.

A heartbeat passes.

Carver nods.

Merril doesn’t say anything, just smiles—a bright and blinding smile, one that makes everything around them fade to grey. Then, gently, she reaches out to take his hands, turns them over, and rests her palms on top of his.

“Follow what I do,” she murmurs, drawing her gaze up from their hands to him.

As the music slips away, and he can feel Merrill’s soft fingertips balanced light as air on his upturned wrists, Carver is perfectly happy where he is.

[stevesnailbat]

listen before i go, i love you, goodbye. | steve harrington

warnings: mainly just angst, (implied) weed smoking 

summary: Unrequited love sucks, for everyone involved. 

word count: 3.9K 

a/n: This fic isn’t really based off of the three Billie Eilish songs in the title. I saw on Genius that she said the titles of the last three songs on WWAFAWDWG? were supposed to be a sentence and it inspired me to write something about it. I also wrote a part 2. Enjoy! 

Silence.

The only thing to be heard in Steve’s car was the soft hum of whatever mixtape he had going, and pure silence between him and his girlfriend. Usually, silence was okay. They would typically enjoy each other’s company without saying a word, but it was different now. Sometimes Y/N’s excited voice would fill the car as she told stories about her day while Steve would glance over at her with genuine interest in his eyes, but it was different now. There was no interest left in Steve’s gaze when he would look at Y/N, only a glimmer of what used to be love. Y/N’s voice was rarely ever heard anymore, and there was no excitement left in it when it was. They were broken. 

Tonight was no different than any other Saturday night to Steve and Y/N. They were going to some party near Loch Nora but neither of them actually wanted to go. Still, they would go, they would dance together, they would hold each other, they would act like everything was okay, they would drink to forget that they didn’t want to be with each other. Steve didn’t really know why he still pretended to be in love when he wasn’t, but he never questioned it either. 

He didn’t know when he fell out of love, but it hit him like a ton of bricks when he realized it. He could feel himself getting annoyed by the things she would say to him and he could feel himself losing the desire to kiss her and hold her like he always would. He told himself that he was just going through a rough patch and that he would get over it soon, but soon never came. Things got worse when he knew that she was catching on. She became more distant, less affectionate, less happy. He didn’t want to string her along, but he didn’t want to hurt the girl he once loved so dearly. 

 Steve parks his car in front of Carol’s house and stuffs his keys into his pocket as he looks over to Y/N, who’s staring out the window at the already drunk teens on the front lawn. She hated being drunk until Steve stopped loving her, then she began looking forward to the weekend so she could forget the pain she was in. He watched her eagerly step out of the car, waiting by her door for him to follow. As he got out, he gave her a knowing look when he saw to all-too-familiar fake smile growing on her face. 

 The couple is greeted by many of their so-called friends as they walk through the doors, Carol shoving drinks into their hands immediately. Y/N starts to drink as soon as she gets her hands on something, earning a glare in her direction from Steve. She ignored his looks and held onto his hand tight as she made her way through the crowd, searching for her best friend. Nancy’s face twists into an equally fake smile when she sees Y/N and Steve together, trying to hide her disapproval of what’s going on between the couple. 

“Can I talk to you for a second, Y/N?” Nancy asks her, grabbing her wrist to pull her away from Steve. She didn’t really get a chance to tell Steve, but she knew he didn’t really care. The girls rushed off to a bedroom in the back of the house while Steve was left alone with Jonathan in the crowded living room. 

Nancy closes the bedroom door behind her and turns to face Y/N. She was going to question her about why she was doing what she was still, but those plans changed. Before either of them can say anything, the sound of Y/N’s choked sob fills the air. She can’t bring herself to look at Nancy, so she sits on the bed behind her while burying her head in her hands. Nancy couldn’t look at her either, so she sits next to her and stares at the wall as she rubs Y/N’s back soothingly. 

 In any case, it would hurt to see your best friend crying. But for Nancy? It was even worse. She knew the situation all too well because she did the same thing to Steve. She strung him along and shattered his heart when he was still in love with her. Now the tables were turned and it hurt Nancy to see it; she thinks about how the hurt she put Steve through could have caused this. Y/N knew about their breakup last year, but didn’t believe that it would affect the way Steve saw her, his own girlfriend. 

“Why the fuck am I doing this to myself, Nance?” she chokes out, throwing her arms up defeatedly. 

“Because you love him, Y/N. You think you can change his mind, but deep down, you know you can’t.” Nancy says in a low voice, pulling her into a hug. “And you and Steve both care too much about your pride and reputations to break up.” 

Y/N laughs softly as she blinks out some tears, slightly smudging mascara onto Nancy’s gray sweater. Nancy knew her and the situation all too well. It felt nice to be around someone who understood what was happening and was there to comfort, instead of just ignore. She pulls away after a few moments and tries to gather herself, wiping away her tears while taking a deep breath. 

“We should probably get out of here before someone tries to start saying we’re cheating on our boyfriends with each other or something.” she jokes, trying to pull herself back to her fake-happy party-self. 

An hour later Y/N finds herself clinging onto her so-called boyfriend relentlessly and clinging onto the moments of drunken affection that she deemed as damn near sacred. Usually the two of them would match each other with their drinks, not letting the other get too trashed. But Y/N snuck shots when Steve wasn’t looking, trying to bring herself back to the person she loved being. Steve caught on to what she was doing after her third extra shot, when it was too late. He had seen the hurt disappear from her eyes and replace with all the love and happiness she had once had with him. He could tell that she so desperately wanted to be happy again, and that she wanted to be happy with him. 

“Stevie, you need to catch up! You’re not drinking enough.” she slurs as she shoves a drink into his face. 

“I think I’ve had plenty to drink and that you have too.” Steve replies, his arm snaking around her waist hesitantly, mainly trying to stop her from falling or spilling her drink. 

Her smile turns into a frown for a moment, but quickly disappears when she unexpectedly reaches up to his cheek, pulling him down into a kiss. The kiss was gentle yet filled with passion, something neither of them had felt in months. “I guess you’re right. You’ve had plenty to drink. Sober Stevie won’t let me kiss him like that anymore.” she whispered to him, her voice cracking as she spoke. 

Her words seemed to be filled with remorse and sadness, Steve knew that he was the cause. For the first time since he had fallen out of love, he felt the same hurt that she did. He dropped his hand from her waist in shock and within a flash, she was gone. She waltzed over to Nancy with her fake smile, chugging away at her drink once more. He watched the broken girl fade away, if only for a moment, as she danced the night away with people that actually made her happy. Good, bad, and in-between memories that had been engrained in her memory forever were gone, if only for a moment, as she sang her heart out with her best friend. The pain she felt had gone away, if only for a moment, as Steve finally understood what she had been going through. 

Hours passed and the party died down soon enough, around 2 am. Steve stopped drinking at midnight, but Y/N never stopped. Y/N told Steve she ‘wanted to party hard’ when he asked her to go the first time, the second time, and the third time. He finally convinced her that it was time to go when Nancy and Jonathan left, pulling the pouting girl to the car. She plopped down in the passenger seat and giggled drunkly at the noise Steve’s leather seat made when she did so. Without a word, Steve started the car and drove towards his house. He occasionally glanced over to her, seeing her face begin to twist into a sickly expression. 

“If you’re gonna be sick, please do it in that McDonald’s bag on the floor or let me know so I can stop.” Steve laughs, resting his hand on her thigh in a comforting way, out of habit. 

She says nothing in return, staring out the window intently. She was focusing on something, but Steve couldn’t put a finger on what it was. The short trip down the road takes all but five minutes and soon enough, he’s helping her into his house from the garage. She nearly falls at least three times on the stairs, giggling as she clung onto Steve. He has to undress and dress her again when they get to his room, which shows to be quite a challenge with a resistant, drunk girl. Steve rummages through a dresser drawer until he finds something, turning to hand her a shirt. When he does so, he sees her blotchy, red cheeks and tear-brimmed eyes. 

“Hey, hey. What’s wrong?” he asks, although he’s sure he knows the answer. His hand brushes her hair behind her ear as his thumb wipes away a rogue tear. 

“Why don’t you love me anymore?” she chokes out, her voice almost inaudible. Steve freezes in his tracks when she speak, not expecting that to be her answer. 

Obviously it was going to come up at some point. But he didn’t want to tell his girlfriend why he didn’t love her anymore while she was plastered. So, he decided to play it off. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, baby. I think you’re too drunk for your own good right now. Let’s go to bed, yeah?” 

“No, Steve. I wanna know now! Why don’t you love me the way I love you?” she says, her voice growing louder as she continues to slur her words together. 

“I’m not getting into this with you right now, Y/N. You’re plastered and I love you. You’re crazy.” Steve scoffs, attempting to pull her onto his bed. 

At this point, she can’t tell if she’s too drunk, too tired, or too hurt to argue, but she says nothing in return. She changes into the shirt he handed her and gets into the bed, laying down where she usually does, the bed feeling like a second home to her. The bed she thought was a second home was where they had their first kiss, their first time, where they listened to every mixtape she would make him, where she realized she was in love with him, and now where they would spend their last night together. Steve wraps his arm around her waist as they lay in bed, because he knew it was going to be the last time he would. Y/N became engulfed in his arms, pressing a small drunken kiss against his arm, because she knew it was going to be the last time she would. 

Y/N sleeps the whole night through, the alcohol taking over when she laid down. Steve, on the other hand, spent the night staring at the ceiling while contemplating his next move. He knew she wouldn’t remember everything but that some things would stick out. Over and over again he replayed what he was going to say to her when she woke up. It wasn’t until after the sun rose that Steve fell asleep, heart still racing from the thought of the morning. 

When Steve woke up, he found the spot next to him in the bed to be empty, his shirt folded on top of his dresser, and her clothes that were once piled in the corner of his room to be gone. His first instinct was to panic, he didn’t get to talk to her and God only knew what she even remembered from the night before. The panic growing in the pit of his stomach ceased when he heard the bathroom door open. She came out of the bathroom, quietly chuckling at his panicked expression. She looked as perfect as usual; she had removed the remnants of last night’s makeup from her face, smoothed out the knots in her hair, and put her clothes from the night before back on. Perfect, like everything else about her. How could he stop loving her? Maybe he never did. Maybe he just stopped loving who he thought she was and started loving the real her, who hadn’t been around for months. 

Her expression was calm, she seemed more at ease. She picks up her backpack from the floor and slings it over her shoulders, standing near the bedroom door. Steve opens his mouth to speak but she holds up a finger, signaling for him to stay quiet for a moment. “Listen, before I go.” Y/N started, chewing on her lip momentarily. “I love you, Steve. But you don’t love me. And I can’t handle it anymore. I don’t need an explanation, I’m hard to love. I understand. So I just wanted to say that.” she breathes out, steadying herself against his dresser as she speaks so she doesn’t break down. “Goodbye.” 

And with that she was gone. Gone from his house, gone from his life. Or so he thought. 

The goodbye was enough closure for Y/N, it was all she needed. She seemed happier now, like a weight was lifted off her shoulders. The sparkle was back in her eye, the excitement was back in her voice. The bags underneath her eyes had disappeared, she kept herself looking put together every day, her life began to flourish. She had grown and changed in such a short amount of time and everybody saw it, she was untouchable. Everyone knew that she was independent and didn’t need anybody but herself to make her happy. 

The goodbye was obviously not enough closure for Steve, though. Although she had seemingly left him behind, he still felt Y/N everywhere he went. She was in his bed at night, holding his hand as he walked down the hall, kissing his cheek when he would get out of his car in the morning; it felt so real, but in reality, he was left in the cold. She was still around him more than he expected. They would sit at opposite ends of a long table at lunch with their mutual friends, Steve making periodical glances her way. She would notice, but never thought into it. 

He loved seeing her happy again and never wanted that to change for her. Soon after she left that day, he realized that she was all he could have ever wanted. And he threw it away because of his twisted perceptions of a perfect girl. He saw her as someone who got in his way, blocked him from being who he really wanted to be. In reality, she was only helping him to be the best person he could be. But he pushed her away, breaking her heart more and more every day. Steve knew that if he tried to come back into her life, she wouldn’t be the same. There was no coming back from what he did to her. 

Every once in a while Y/N would have the itching desire to go back to him. She missed their late nights together doing nothing but getting high and laughing their asses off, their early morning impromptu road trips, their every memory made. Every time it happened, she would try to push the thoughts out of her mind, but they would still stick to the back of her brain only to be brought up again weeks later. The only thing getting her through was the thought of how he broke her, shattered her heart into a million pieces. There was no coming back from what he did to her. 

She thought she had finally fallen out of love with him when graduation neared. With that in mind, she decided to go out of state for school, all the way to New York City. Steve heard the news of her moving from Jonathan and his heart broke. He remembered that she always had told him that she ‘wanted to get the fuck out of this hellhole’, but he always thought he’d be doing it with her. Instead, he was staying in the dead end town with nothing but heartbreak and a minimum wage job. 

Graduation came and went without either of them speaking to the other. Both wanted the other but were too scared to say it. Y/N planned on moving halfway through the summer. She started packing in June and packed for days on end. One of those days, she found a box in the back of her closet and an all-too-familiar smell of cologne hit her nose when she pulled it out. Inside were sweatshirts, old t-shirts, polaroids of a once happy couple, notes passed in class, a gold bracelet, a cheesy teddy bear from Valentine’s Day, even a pair of boxers; all from Steve, all from what they once were. 

Packing abruptly stopped for the day when she found those, her heart aching when she saw the pictures of the happiest days of her life in the box. She thought she was over him, but this brought her right back to square one. She cried for hours, about not wanting to move anymore, about wanting to stay in Hawkins, about wanting to stay with him. 

It was a Saturday in June when Steve saw her for the first time since graduation. She looked as beautiful as ever when she came into Scoops Ahoy, but something was off. He had only seen her cry a few times, but he recognized the slightly blotchy, red cheeks and bloodshot eyes from a mile away. All she wanted to do was get some ice cream for comfort, but she was met with Steve. She froze for a moment when she saw him at the counter, not knowing that he worked there. She pulled herself together before she got to the counter, trying to act like she hadn’t been thinking about him the whole week. 

“Ahoy! What can get for you today?” Steve said in his best customer service voice, even though he already knew what she wanted; ice cream runs were something they did together too many times. 

“Just a small chocolate cone please.” she says, a weak smile growing on her lips in response to his cheesy voice and uniform. Her smile that she gave him was genuine, but she was dying on the inside. He could tell that she was regressing back to the person she was before their relationship ended. The sparkle in her eyes was a mere glimmer now, her voice didn’t have much excitement left. She hands him two dollars and tells him to keep whatever the change is, her voice tired and weak. 

“When do you leave?” he blurts out as he scoops her ice cream, regretting it almost immediately, but he was curious. 

“My flight leaves early Tuesday morning.” she says in return as she chews on her lip, a bad habit of hers. 

Steve nods quietly, wishing he could find the words to say, but says nothing at first. He loads up her cone like he knew she would want, his mind brought back to times that she would complain about not having enough ice cream when they would go out. 

“One small chocolate cone for ya. But good luck, Y/N. I’m sure you’ll do great things out there.” Steve says with a somber smile. 

”Thank you, it means a lot, Steve.” she said before making her way out of the ice cream shop. 

That night was no different than any other one in the last week. She couldn’t stop thinking about him and it wasn’t going to stop. Tears flowed freely for hours and she even called Nancy, telling her how she felt about everything. 

“So you’re telling me that you’re still in love with the same guy who broke your heart by stringing you along for months?” Nancy’s voice came through the phone as Y/N sniffled lightly. “And you’re also saying that you’re just now realizing this? Three days before you go halfway across the country? You’re crazy, Y/N.” 

“I know, I just can’t help it. He was my everything, Nance.” she choked out. It felt weird telling this to the girl who broke Steve’s heart, but she knew Nancy was sympathetic. 

“If you really think you’re going to get something out of talking to him, then do it. You’ve both had time to think about everything, so do what you think will be right, Y/N.” 

“Thanks Nance, I love you. But I’m gonna go finish packing for the night and go to bed.” Y/N lies, Nancy says goodbye in return. “Bye.” 

When she hangs up the phone, Y/N rushes to her closet, rummaging around in a bag that was shoved in the back. She remembered a small bag of weed that she had in an old backpack and that she needed to use it up before leaving. If she was going to talk to Steve, she might as well have a conversation starter. She changed from her pajamas into some running shorts and a sweatshirt, shoving the small baggie into her sweatshirt pocket as she walked down the stairs. Sneaking past her dad sleeping on the couch, she took her keys off the counter and made her way outside to her car. 

She made it to Steve’s house in record time, feeling like she had tunnel vision. She knew that his parents wouldn’t be home, they usually weren’t on the weekends. Her breathing hitched when she made it to his door, knocking on it hesitantly. Not even a minute later, she heard Steve unlocking the door and her heart feels like it’s going to beat out of her chest. Steve opens the door, looking groggy; his hair was tousled around and his clothes in a disarray against his body. When he sees who it is, his eyes widen slightly. 

“Hey, Steve.” 

“Hi, Y/N?” Steve replies, his voice groggy from the sleep that she interrupted

She smiles nervously up at him when she sees his confused expression. Digging in her pocket, she pulls out the baggie that was very familiar to Steve. “One last time before I go?” she questions, swinging the bag slightly as she tries to hold back the bittersweet, stinging tears in her eyes. 

“Uh — Yeah! Yeah, sure. One last time.” Steve stammers out with a reassuring smile playing on his lips as he lets her into the house. 

One last good memory. One more night with the girl he would love forever. One more time making memories that would last a lifetime. For one last time.

[splendidlyimperfect]

Social distancing sucks, and Natsu's ADHD is going into overdrive being stuck in the apartment for a month with the other three.

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Fairy Tail Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Rogue Cheney/Natsu Dragneel/Sting Eucliffe/Gray Fullbuster Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Polyamory, Crack, Fluff and Crack, Dancing and Singing, Taxes, Drinking, Tequila, Tequila-drunk Rogue likes country music, they're all gay and bad at math, they listen to Kesha, Kissing, Cuddling & Snuggling, they're in quarantine, Natsu has ADHD and is bored, Sting's a sweetheart, gay dorks in love, they drink tequila and do origami together

-----

“Can you turn down your music?”

Natsu turned from where he was washing dishes to look at Gray, who was sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands as he stared at a stack of paper.

“I just turned it on,” Natsu argued.

“I know that,” Gray said, exhaling sharply through his nose. “Everyone in the apartment complex knows that. Can you turn it down? I’m trying to focus.”

“I thought you were done work at four,” Natsu said as he reluctantly lowered the volume. The clock on the oven read 5:23 p.m.

“Yes, well, I’m theoretically done at four,” Gray said. “But I also thought it was Saturday, so…” He shrugged.

“Isn’t it Thursday?”

“Tuesday.” Gray yawned. “And this isn’t work.”

Continue reading on AO3

Natsu raised an eyebrow at the stack of papers sitting under a calculator. “Looks like work to me.”

“It’s our taxes,” Gray said. He leaned back in the chair and rubbed his face. “It’s ridiculous, I don’t understand why it’s fifty-three pages long. It’s way too hard.”

“That’s what she said.” Natsu grinned but Gray just glared at him. “Oh, c’mon, babe.”

“Don’t ‘c’mon, babe,’ me,” Gray grumbled. “Look, because Rogue is self-employed, I have to calculate the depreciation of—”

“Babe.” Natsu stepped forward, grabbing both of Gray’s hands and pulling him up from the chair. “I love you more than anything except possibly Sting’s cookies, but right now, you need to shut all the way up about taxes and let me listen to Kesha.”

“But—”

Natsu shook his head, interrupting Gray’s protests with a quick kiss and pulling him close. “Fifty-three pages is way too many taxes. The apartment’s gonna explode; I’m doing us all a favor.”

“That’s…” Gray huffed. “I wanna be mad but honestly I’m sick of all the math.”

“Then come dance with me,” Natsu said, letting go of Gray’s hands and settling them on his hips instead. “Or you could help me with the dishes.”

Gray hummed, then frowned as he looked over Natsu’s shoulder. “What is that?”

“A salad spinner.”

“I didn’t even know we owned a salad spinner.”

“Me neither,” Natsu said, slipping his hands under Gray’s shirt and running them up his back. “It was in the cupboard under the microwave.”

“Which you aren’t supposed to touch.”

“I didn’t! Just the cupboard.”

Gray raised an eyebrow. “So, why are you washing the salad spinner from under the microwave cupboard where none of us have looked since we moved in here?”

“Because I’m fucking bored. Sting’s not here, you’re working, and Rogue threatened to tie me up – and not in the good way – if I kept bugging him. I can’t sit still long enough to read, it’s raining so I can’t go for a walk, we’ve watched all the Star Wars movies, I can’t bake any more cookies ‘cause the pantry is full, and I’ve unlocked literally every character in Smash Bros.” He sighed, leaning forward and pressing his forehead to Gray’s shoulder. “’m sorry for bugging you.”

The frustrated tension in Gray’s neck melted away and he wrapped his arms around Natsu, kissing the top of his head. “No, I’m sorry,” he said. “I know this is harder for you than the rest of us.”

Natsu shook his head. “It sucks for everyone,” he insisted. “I just feel like it’s been eighty-seven years since I’ve seen anyone other than you guys.”

“I know. I’m honestly even starting to miss Chad.”

Gray stared at the calendar over Natsu’s shoulder. What was normally a rainbow of color-coded appointments was now mostly blank, with the occasional “call maman” or “garbage day” penciled in. None of them – except Sting, who was their designated grocery and errands person – had left the apartment for anything other than short walks in nearly five weeks.

“All right,” Gray said, pulling back and squeezing Natsu’s hands.

“All right what?”

“Turn your music back on,” Gray said. “I’ll dance with you.”  

~

Sting could hear country music playing before he even opened the door to the apartment. He frowned as he shifted the grocery bags and tray of coffee cups into one hand and unlocked the door, then pushed it open and was welcomed by four purring cats.

“Hello, darlings,” Sting said, nudging them all out of the way and closing the door behind him. Soleil meowed loudly at him, rubbing herself against his leg. “Poor babies, has nobody fed you?”

“They’re dirty liars,” Natsu said from the kitchen, turning around and giving the cats an unimpressed look as he turned down the music. “We fed them an hour ago.” He wiped his hands on the dish towel and moved toward the door, then sighed and backed up at the last second.

“Gimme a sec,” Sting said apologetically, stepping past Natsu into the kitchen and setting down the bags and the coffee. “And yes, before you ask, I found pizza pops and Oreos.”

“Yesss.” Natsu hopped up on one of the stools on the other side of the counter and peered eagerly into the bags. “You’re the best.”  

“I try.” Sting started wiping down the containers as he pulled them out of the grocery bags. “Where are the other two?”

“Gray’s on the balcony,” Natsu said. “He’s not smoking, I checked. I heard him yell ‘fuck’ at one point but I’m pretty sure he’s fine. I mean, as fine as he can be.”

“Mm.”

“And Rogue is—”

“Right here.” Sting frowned and it took him a second to realize that Rogue was sitting at the kitchen table, head in his arms, hidden behind a pile of paperwork.

“Ah.” Sting raised an eyebrow at Natsu. “Who gave him tequila and why?”

“That’s profiling,” Rogue said absently without looking up. “You can’t say that.”

Sting rolled his eyes, tossing the bags in the garbage and closing the fridge. “You’re listening to Shania Twain, babe. How much have you had?”

“Four shots,” Natsu replied helpfully as Sting washed his hands.

“Slander,” Rogue said absently. “It’s…” He frowned and finally looked up at Sting, gaze slightly unfocused. “Hm. Maybe you’re right.”

Sting shrugged. “That’s four less than the first time you filed our taxes,” he said, then turned and reached out to Natsu. “Somehow he actually manages to do math better when he’s drunk.”

“Am I allowed to hug you now?” Natsu asked, pulling Sting close and sighing happily as he pressed his cheek to Sting’s neck. “What’s the outside world like?”

“Dystopic,” Sting replied. He kissed Natsu’s temple. “Zombies everywhere. Without toilet paper, order has been lost.”

“Hm.” Natsu nuzzled Sting’s cheek. “Luckily they left Starbucks intact.”

“It’s a known fact that caffeine repels zombies,” Sting said, nodding.

“In that case I think I’m safe.” Gray appeared behind the two of them and wrapped his arms around Sting from behind. “Thanks for the coffee, love.” Sting tipped his head back and kissed Gray’s cheek, then squeaked as Gray slipped cold hands under his shirt.

“How much tequila have you had?” Sting asked, leaning back against Gray.

“None,” Gray insisted. Sting raised an eyebrow and Gray added, “Well, no tequila. I had a couple beers, though. Taxes are stressful.” He pressed his face into the crook of Sting’s neck.

“That’s why I hired an accountant,” Sting said, reaching out to pull Rogue into the group hug. “Because you’re all ridiculous.”

“’m not,” Rogue argued, letting Sting kiss his cheek. “We did all the maths.”

“All of them, huh?”

“Yep.” Rogue giggled as Natsu and Gray both wrapped an arm around him. “Don’t need help. Throw the whole accountant away.” He snorted with laughter and leaned against Sting’s shoulder.

“You,” Sting said, laughing, “are very drunk.”

“Look,” Rogue said. “I was dealing just fine until Gray stopped getting mad about Kesha and started singing along instead. It was a… like a different dimension. The tequila made it less real.”

“Oh my god,” Gray grumbled, at the same time that Sting asked Natsu, “You got him to sing Kesha?”  

“He knows all the words to ‘Your Love is My Drug,’” Natsu said proudly as he grabbed Gray’s hand around Sting’s waist.

Sting hummed happily in the embrace, then gently nudged all three of them away and moved over to look at the paperwork on the table. “I love you all dearly,” he said, grabbing the stack, “but I’m taking this away before Natsu sets it on fire.”

“Hey!” Natsu protested. “I was gonna fold you a beautiful paper crane!”

Sting frowned. “I… think that’s illegal? Can you do that with tax forms? Also this is like… fifty-seven pages.”

“Fifty-three,” Natsu corrected eyes, reaching out for the stack. “We’re stuck in the apartment, we have fuck all to do, and I’m pretty sure there are at least fifty-three animals for me to make out of paper.”

Sting was about to argue when he noticed the way Natsu’s nails were bitten down until they were almost bleeding. “All right,” he said, handing the paper to Natsu and gesturing to the couch. “I’ll make drinks because I am not drinking tequila.”

“Good,” Rogue said, grinning as he cuddled closer to Gray, “’cause I drank it all.”

“Go help your boyfriend make origami,” Sting said, rolling his eyes as he headed back into the kitchen.

When he got back to the couch, Rogue and Gray were curled up against each other, nearly asleep with Frosche and Soleil cuddled between them. Happy sat at Natsu’s feet, batting at the balled-up paper Natsu tossed for him, while Lector lounged on the coffee table with his eyes closed.

“Here,” Sting said, sliding down next to Natsu and handing him a beer. Then he grabbed a sheet of paper and nudged Natsu’s arm. “Now show me how to make a crane.”  

[fraysbanes]

the price

Characters: Clary Fray, Luke Garroway, Jace Wayland, Simon Lewis, Isabelle Lightwood, others cameo/mentioned

Rating: G

Summary: They all want to take care of her, in their own little ways.

Warnings: mentioned past character death (which did not actually happen!)

She must have been drinking.

That’s the only explanation Clary can come up with for why she’s walking in a daze down an unfamiliar part of town. For why she can’t remember what she was doing right before, why she’s been crying, where she left her jacket. She must have been out with Simon, drank too much, lost sight of him, decided in a moment of intoxicated confidence to walk home alone, and ended up here.

And clearly, drunk Clary is an idiot, because it’s cold out and sober Clary has no fucking idea where she’s going.

She ducks into the first store she sees - a vintage little cafe that’s just about to close up - and asks the irritated-looking barista to use the phone, since drunk Clary has apparently lost that , too. The barista begrudgingly agrees and turns the landline over to her.

Clary’s first instinct is to call Simon, check in with him, see if he can give her a ride home. But he doesn’t answer, and she doubts a voicemail would do much good if he’s in a similar state to her, so she hangs up and dials Luke instead. He’s bound to go easier on her over the drinking and the losing-her-phone and the walking-home-alone than her mom is. Besides, she’s starting to recognize some of the streets she’s been walking in as being way closer to the station than her house, so if Luke’s still at work, she’s in luck.

But, of course, he doesn’t answer either. “Luke, I need a ride,” Clary says after the voicemail tone, growing antsy now. “Please, it’s urgent, can you call this number back right away?”

She hangs up and stares at the phone for a few minutes. The barista throws her a dirty look. Clary sighs and picks up the phone again, calling her mom’s number this time.

Her heart is pounding as the phone rings. She’s really not in the mood to be yelled at. But when Jocelyn, too, lets her go to voicemail, Clary realizes she would prefer yelling to the silence she’s faced with now.

A silence which she decides to fill: “Hi, mom,” she starts awkwardly. “So, uh, I’m okay and all, but I can’t find my phone, so if I’ve missed any of your calls…that’s why. It’s been kind of a weird night. And I know you’re gonna yell at me about it later, but honestly I’m a little lost and I can’t really remember how I got here and I probably just need sleep so…do you think the scolding can wait ‘til tomorrow? Anyways, I was just calling to let you know I’m safe and I should be home soon. I think the police station is nearby, so I’m gonna go fetch a ride with Luke or Vargas. So don’t be worried or anything. I’ll see you soon.”

She hangs up. The barista very deliberately flips the sign at the door from “OPEN” to “CLOSED”.

*

Maryse runs her fingers gently through her son’s hair as he clings to her and sobs so violently that she thinks he’s going to fall apart, break beyond repair, right there in her arms.

“It’s alright,” she says, again and again, hoping against all hope that it’s true. “It’s alright, my love, I’m here. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Shakily, he holds up a crumpled piece of paper to her.

*

“Oh, Clary…” Izzy whispers, voice shaking, a feeling somewhere between love and anger and regret making her chest feel tight. “What did you do ?”

*

Clary really only starts to feel nervous when she realizes she can’t find any familiar faces at the station. Luke isn’t there. Alaric isn’t there. Captain Vargas isn’t there. There are very few people there that she even vaguely recognizes.

“Are you lost?” a middle-aged woman in uniform asks her when she finds her way to the bench in the cafeteria that she always meets Luke at when he’s supposed to drop her off.

“Uh, no,” Clary says with a polite smile. “I’m waiting for someone.”

She knows she looks a mess and probably more than a little suspicious and out of place, but she also knows that Luke always checks his messages. That he won’t ignore a missed call or a voicemail from her. That, if nothing else, her mom will tell him where Clary said she would be and he’ll come looking for her. And everything is going to be okay.

The officer nods and leaves. A few minutes later, she comes back with a chocolate bar from the vending machine that she wordlessly places in front of Clary. Apart from that, everyone leaves Clary alone.

Until, eventually, she dozes off with her head in her arms on the table in front of her.

*

“So much has changed recently. I know it’s a lot to keep track of. That’s okay. I’m here to help you remember. Just look at me and listen to me, okay, Clary?

“Your mother is dead. There was a fire, your apartment burned down, and she…didn’t make it out in time. There was a funeral and you…you were crying too hard to speak. But that’s okay. Because she knew how much you loved her, and everybody knew how great she was and how proud she was of you, so it’s okay. You didn’t have to say anything at all. And Luke was there, right next to you, the whole time.

“And your best friend, Simon, he was there, too. He’s not here anymore, but that’s okay too, because what matters is that he loved you when he was here. He loved you so much , Clary. And if you believe in another life after this one, just know that wherever he is, he misses you more than you’ll ever know, and not a day goes by that he doesn’t think of you.

“Hey, please don’t cry, okay? It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. You have a new life now. And you’re gonna be so happy. That’s what your mom and Simon want - for you to be happy. That’s all they ask. And that’s all you should focus on.

“Don’t dwell on the past. You deserve a good life, Clary Fray. Get out there and live it.”

*

When Clary comes to in her bed in the apartment she’s not quite done moving into yet, she’s crying.

She was dreaming of Simon.

*

“Ew, you shaved ?” Clary laughs as she throws her arms around Luke for quick hug when he finally makes it to the theater. She can’t remember ever seeing him without a beard before.

“Well, you moved out,” Luke says. “I wanted to make some changes, too.”

“Hell of a change.”

He looks like he’s about to say something, but stops, shakes his head. “How’s school?” he asks instead.

“Great,” she says as they make their way over to the ticket booth. “I was actually gonna tell you…I got offered a scholarship!”

“That’s amazing, kiddo! What kind of scholarship?”

“Full-ride.” They move forward with the line. “Apparently it’s a new offer from a new anonymous donors. And three months into the year? I am scarily lucky.”

“ I’m the lucky one,” Luke scoffs. “Don’t forget who was supposed to be paying your tuition, missy. Two tickets for Rogue One at 8:30 please.” He says the last part to the box office cashier, who hands them their tickets a moment later and tells them to enjoy the show.

Clary’s not sure she can, because she’s starting to remember how excited Simon had been about this movie when he watched the trailer. “Hey, now that I don’t need the tuition money, let’s go crazy on the movie snacks,” she says to Luke in an attempt to distract herself. “Or did you already blow it all on your new turtleneck collection?”She gestures at his shirt - a grey, long-sleeved turtleneck that doesn’t leave any skin exposed.

Luke’s hand flies up to his neck, almost like he’s just remembered he needs to hide something, but he quickly drops it and gives her an adoring smile.

“Like I said: I wanted to make some changes.”

*

Izzy’s not looking at him, but Luke knows she’s struggling to hold back tears, to keep her hands from shaking as she polishes her sword. She made this one herself when Cleophas said she could keep some of the tools.

“How is she?” Izzy asks, struggling to keep her voice steady.

“She’s good,” Luke says. “She’s happy.”

“And she really doesn’t remember m- she doesn’t remember us?”

Luke feels a sudden surge of guilt at being the only one in a position where he can be the bearer of this awful news in the first place. “No,” he tells her truthfully. “She doesn’t remember anything.”

Izzy nods. She hangs her head, and for a moment her shoulders and bottom lip begin to quiver. But then, through sheer force of will, she shakes herself and straightens up, taking in a deep breath. “It’s better this way,” she says. “It’s… she’s safe. That’s all that matters. That’s…”

“Isabelle,” Luke says softly, taking a step closer to her. She shakes her head, face turned completely away from him, trying to make them both believe that she’s okay - that any of this is okay.

When he touches her shoulder, she crumbles. A strangled noise escapes her and she turns to him, tears running free.

“It’s not fair !” she cries, and falls sobbing into his arms.

*

Clary hasn’t been on many dates. By extension, she hasn’t been on many bad dates. But she’s fairly sure being stood up counts as one.

She rests her chin on her hand and pouts, watching other couples and families wine and dine and dance to live music at the restaurant while she sits alone in the corner, checking her phone every 10 seconds and feeling humiliated and sorry for herself. Fuck dating apps. Fuck dating in general. She wasn’t that excited about the date anyway.

The waitress approaches her and Clary braces herself, waiting for the inevitable pitiful “will someone else be joining you, or are you ready to order?” But the waitress just sets a shirley temple and a folded napkin on the table in front of her and smiles.

“Oh, I didn’t order anything yet,” Clary says.

“I know,” the waitress winks. “It’s a gift. For ‘the lady in red’.”

Clary frowns and looks up at the waitress, even more confused than before. “From who?”

“Secret admirer.”

The waitress gestures with her head at a table across the bustling room before walking away. Clary looks in the direction she indicated, but she sees nothing. For a moment she thinks she catches a glimpse of a woman with big curly hair done up and a high-waisted black skirt, but then the woman steps through the exit and Clary loses sight of her. Most likely forever.

Some admirer, Clary thinks, but she drinks the shirley temple anyway.

*

Clary has her hair in a side braid and a pencil in her hand and she’s talking excitedly to one of her classmates about the piece she’s working on. Apparently she’s not focusing on realistic sketches anymore: her unfinished painting has hues of blue in short, sure brush strokes that probably convey a lot more meaning to her than they do to non-artists. But if Jace looks closely, and stops trying to make sense of it, the darker colours almost remind him of something. The Institute’s halls, the lights at Pandemonium, the water in Lake Lyn.

Clary looks up at him. Her smile widens. Jace's heart stops.

“There you are!” she cries excitedly, hopping off her stool and making her way over to where he’s standing by the door, glamoured, just so he can watch her for a moment. “I can’t believe you kept me waiting this long!”

She walks past him like he was never there, and Jace turns to watch her pull a stranger into a hug.

[ahouseoflies]

The Best Films of 2019, Part VI

Yes, I know that it’s almost March. Thanks for taking the ride. GREAT MOVIES

22. Apollo 11 (Todd Douglas Miller)- To disrespect this movie is to disrespect the moon landing itself so... I do like listening to the Walter Cronkite snippets about "the burdens and dreams of all mankind" and smirking at the idiots who talk about "back when people just read the news without editorializing." 21. Waves (Trey Edward Shults)- I could have done with five fewer shots of people holding each other, and the foreshadowing could be more subtle, but, man, Shults takes some huge swings here, for a more powerful effect than either of his previous films had. It isn't often that a colorist gets a single card in the opening credits, but it makes sense for a film that stands out as much as this loud, woozy piece does. I don't think there's anything as present-tense this year as a character drunk-driving to Kanye West's "I Am a God." 20. Jojo Rabbit (Taika Waititi)- The dissenters of Jojo Rabbit have been pretty uniform in their negativity, and I think their stance has to do with not wanting to be told what to think or feel. (Putting "an anti-hate satire" on the poster has to fire up those haters.) This movie is not subtle or ambiguous, but you know what? Casablanca is a pretty didactic movie too. Let me back up from the C-word. For me, the film's emotional scenes are better than its comedic scenes, but in either form, Waititi directly engages with a ten-year-old in a way that neither romanticizes him nor condescends to him. That's such an imperfect, transformative age in a boy, and not enough movies are willing to wrestle with how ugly it can be. Roman Griffin Davis is pretty good, but he's spotted by sincere, compassionate performances by Thomasin McKenzie and Scarlett Johansson. It's possible that Johansson has never been better. I totally understand why someone with her sex symbol baggage would resist playing mothers; if I've done my homework, this is the first time she has done it, even though she's a parent in real life. But her maternal scenes here are heartbreaking in their patience, particularly in a scene for which her character "plays" herself and her absent husband. Besides uncorking a more vulnerable part of herself, Johansson nails the performative aspect of being a parent, resisting the urge to make everything a lesson but wanting so desperately to be a positive example for a kid who needs one. 19. Honeyland (Ljubomir Stefanov and Tamara Kotevska)- I greatly prefer the term "non-professional actor" or "first-time actor" to "non-actor" because it's only human nature to act differently when being filmed. The second even a camera filming a birthday party captures you, you start to perform. But in handmade stone houses in rural Macedonia, the subjects are true non-actors. They have no affect because, in all likelihood, they have not seen a movie before. So the way that Hatidze lived over the course of the three years of this project--with purpose, focus, and wisdom--seemed new to me. Honeyland is the gift that I always hope for from documentary and (especially) foreign documentary: a slice of life that I never knew I needed. 18. Under the Silver Lake (David Robert Mitchell)- Andrew Garfield's Sam spends a lot of time on his balcony surveying his apartment complex, staring at a topless woman in a way that recalls Marlowe in The Long Goodbye, one reference point among hundreds. Sometimes he watches through binoculars, sometimes he watches through blinds--blind imagery that shows up over and over again in a movie about voyeurism. Anyway, this neighbor keeps parrots, who we're told as kids can "talk." Not that the animals have any conscious intention with their mimicking, but they replicate what they hear or are taught. The words are signified without any signifiers, so it's hard to even classify the noises as speech. Maybe those noises are everything--a tie to our species that reveals impressive intelligence--but maybe they're nothing--a silly hope of a world that seems less alone. And that subjective interpretation of code is the clearest metaphor in an otherwise elliptical, bizarre, sprawling, sui generis film. It's messy alright. Some of the threads lead nowhere, but in a movie about order and chaos, that's obviously the point. The scene with The Songwriter--barely any of the characters have names--is over ten minutes and might not have any narrative consequence. But in the moment it's earth-shattering and urgent. And maybe I'm the obvious audience, but I'm not going to complain about anyone taking a dance break for "What's the Frequency, Kenneth?" 17. 1917 (Sam Mendes)- Weirdly enough, a Lauryn Hill line kept bouncing around in my head as I was nervously tapping my foot: "It could all be so simple, / But you had to make it hard." This is a direct story told with impossible technical aptitude. 1917 isn't saying anything new, but have you ever seen a plane crash ten feet away from the camera forty-five minutes into an unbroken take? No offense, but do you remember when we were all impressed that Creed had a five-minute fight in one take? Blimey. 16. American Factory (Steven Bognar and Julia Reichert)- It's a rare documentary that makes its case so gracefully and so forcefully at the same time. The film ends so conclusively that it could be considered labor activism, but it's so fair that the union-busting schmucks are willing to joke around with the filmmakers without obfuscating at all. The obvious forebearer for this sort of boots-on-the-ground snapshot of American labor is Harlan County U.S.A., but American Factory is more staid and less concerned with setting because, you know, this could be anywhere.The Chairman is the best villain since Thanos, and as he looked back on his life while walking around his empty cabana, I had to squint a bit to make sure he wasn't purple.

15. Ad Astra (James Gray)- Ad Astra declares so that it can suggest. The opening crawl says that the near future is a "time of hope and conflict," but all we see is the conflict: the pirates on a borderless moon that we've ruined with Applebee'ses, the neglected wife leaving her ring on a table, the voiceover that declares, "I always wanted to be an astronaut...for all mankind and all." This film will take place in four parts--Earth, Moon, Mars, Neptune--and each part will offer unique obstacles to challenge our phlegmatic but confused hero. But all of that table-setting allows James Gray to explore. There's a scene in which the Roy character uses a belt to pull himself, one tug at a time, deeper into the unknown, and we see the action through the reflection in his helmet as we're watching his face. We're seeing through his eyes but at a remove, and in this moment we're watching him heave himself into emptiness, thinking that the more distant and lonely and absent he gets, the more of a man he becomes. We know that's not true, but we kind of think it is from the movies, and Ad Astra has a happy ending if only because it wants to disprove that notion. Lots of artistes talk about how they could, without compromise, make grand, big-budget entertainments if they only wanted to. James Gray did. 14. Ash Is Purest White (Jia Zhangke)- In a train on the way to her hometown, the protagonist Xiao casually tells a fellow passenger that she has seen a UFO. Although it comes up later in a sort of magic realism flourish, her statement seemed like a character moment for me. People who see UFOs are either guileless rubes or attention-seeking hucksters, and that's the dance of Tao Zhao's performance. Even after seeing the movie, I can't tell which one Xiao is. Often it changes in the course of a scene. The time when she shows the most agency, firing off her boyfriend's illegal gun to ward off his attackers, results in the time when she is the most helpless, being ordered around in jail. She might confess her ex-con status in a moment of vulnerability, then flake out at the next train stop in an attempt to seize her power back. (It's worth mentioning that there are lots of movies about flaky drifters who don't pay the tab, but few of them are about women.) Even the way that she holds her backpack--frontways--is street-smart and child-like at the same time. This is the second film that Jia has made with a triptych setting, (Mountains May Depart is slightly superior.) and he doesn't make the flash forwards obvious. He invites the performance's same sort of healthy confusion upon the viewer with the formal elements. I, for one, am willing to get probed by these foreign objects. 13. Toy Story 4 (Josh Cooley)- I questioned a late moment in the film, one of the plottier ones in which Woody goes back to save another toy one more laborious time. When I sighed, my wife reminded me, "He never leaves a toy behind." Toy Story 4 is a dazzling upgrade in the series from a visual standpoint, (I gasped again at Woody lying in a damp, sunny patch of concrete.) but it's more of a reminder of the consistent character development and weight that have been blanketing us for twenty-three years. Pixar isn't reinventing the wheel because it is the wheel. Sure, the characters are too numerous and separate now. I miss the OG's Rex and Hamm. But for one thing, that rogue's gallery makes it funnier when, say, Buttercup pops up with a joke out of nowhere. And the new characters, particularly Forky the Nihilist, are so lovable that I wouldn't know who to trade. Toy Story 4 is probably the worst of the franchise, but that franchise--especially when its subtext seems to be questioning people who want to stop intellectual property from evolving--might be the best we have. 12. Clemency (Chinonye Chukwu)- In discussing the aftermath of an execution, Alfre Woodard's warden character Bernadine mentions the mother who will claim a prisoner's body, who will follow through with plans for burial. And I realized, to be honest, that I had never thought about how executed bodies are claimed and laid to rest, though obviously those sad practicalities persist. This whole film is a reminder of the numerous costs that arise from a system that is out of time and out of reason. To that end, every character is fully drawn with empathy. For example, the assistant warden, which could have been a nothing part, has ambitions and fears that give him an arc that shades the protagonist. The Richard Schiff and Wendell Pierce characters make the film about the compromised promises of retirement, but the assistant warden is there to tug us back into law enforcement. Neon ended up putting this movie on the awards circuit back burner, but Aldis Hodge deserves the world. Although the film piles on one indignity too many for my taste, drifting into miserableism, Hodge's performance has a rare possessive quality. Catatonic in his most crestfallen moments and antic when he clings to hope, Hodge drags the audience along with him. The character is quiet, but every word counts. 11. The Farewell (Lulu Wang)- I was not been more thoroughly charmed all year, especially by Awkwafina, who is a revelation in a tricky role. There are a few scenes that get comedic effect through repetition, and it's telling that the subtitles stop by the third or fourth run-through of a line. The movie assumes you're smart, which goes even further than its piercing emotion. Shout-out to Mr. Li, who made me crack up every time I saw him. The elderly sort-of-boyfriend is such a common figure in real life, but I'm not sure I've ever seen that character type on screen. I'm not sure I've seen any of this on-screen, and that's the reason the film exists.

10. Avengers: End Game (Joe Russo and Anthony Russo)- For a guy who grew up in the '30s, Captain America is pretty cool with gay people. 9. Gloria (Sebastian Lelio)- I saw Lelio's original Gloria, the one that he's remaking here, and it didn't do much for me, even though it hit some of the same beats as this one. I wonder what the difference could be...do you think the total commitment of one of the greatest actresses in the world matters? Lelio documents who this woman is to her children, to her mother, to her ex-husband, to her lover, to her co-workers, and it's by tracking the tiny compromises of those relationships that the viewer gets to see the fully realized her. The cyclical editing of those pieces--sing a disco song to herself in the car, rinse, repeat--ends up lulling the viewer into his role of seeing the complete Gloria. It ends up being a fun, absorbing process. I yelled out loud at Turturro for disrespecting my girl. Moore, who is in every scene, sells us on these different versions of the character through complete control of her instrument. She lets headphones slump along her body at work. She kneels down toward a street performer in a more maternal way than she ever presents with her actual daughter. She sits cross-legged with her best friend, as if they're little girls. I won't spoil what she does at the end, when she is at her most empowered. 8. Midsommar (Ari Aster)- I love this movie, but, boy, is it a friendship killer if you recommend it to the wrong person. Whether you liked Hereditary or not is a good predictor for your taste, but I think Ari Aster's follow-up is much better: Whereas the unpredictability of Hereditary makes the mysticism of its final fourth seem like a leap that you either accept or don't, Midsommar is driving so hard in one direction that its dread is even more pronounced. (The prologue is so masterfully deliberate and gloomy that it takes a long time for the film to get back to those depths.) For comparison's sake again, Aster was painting in the colors of hysteria and fractured relationships before, but the new film seems much more biting and vital in the way it depicts modern men and women. I'm thinking of the way Dani excuses herself at the risk of compromising her safety or rationalizes her boyfriend's forgetting her birthday with "Well, I didn't remind him." All of the characters become victims of a misinformed, selfish brand of multicultural tolerance that makes them rationalize evil instead of speaking up, and that acceptance serves the plot way better than the average horror movie's running up the stairs instead of out the door. For his part, Christian, who seems sympathetic at first, takes ideas, drugs, and even women for himself with impunity. (It's important that he's an anthropology student, and it's more important that his name is Christian.) When he colonizes his Black friend's thesis topic, it might seem like a tipping point, but he was one step ahead in using rules and approval for his purposes. None of the Americans bother to stop him, but that doesn't mean that no one stops him. 7. A Hidden Life (Terrence Malick)- "The sun shines on good and evil the same." In the baggy second hour of what might be Terrence Malick's most direct and linear film, martyr Franz Jagerstatter tosses off that line with grace and aplomb, at a time when most of us would have neither to spare. His captors are confused when he denies that his conscientious objection will make any difference in the war or when he doubts that he is more morally evolved than his countrymen. His refusal to pledge an oath to Hitler is a state with no outcome in mind, which the results-obsessed Nazis cannot understand. In that way he is the perfect Malickian hero, which means he is the perfect Heideggerian hero: a man who sees all planes of existence as equal--or at least equally unknowable to him. As a farmer, Franz observes and acts upon cycles, but he is smaller than Nature and the communion he finds with God there. So when he's torn from his family and daily life to be stuck in a prison, he is separated from that concord further and further. The key, however, is that he is no more or less powerful than before, and that knowledge is what gives him transcendental perspective. He is indifferent in the way that only a saint can be. Of course, what I'm describing also makes for a passive protagonist, which is why the cross-cutting to his wife Fani is so effective. She is the one who has to shoulder the burden of his ideals, and Valerie Pachner's stolid performance sells that sacrifice. The overall balance comes from the jagged but precise editing, and the production is all the more impressive for retaining the Malick style despite the absence of most of his regular collaborators. (This is the first time since The Thin Red Line that he hasn't worked with Jack Fisk, but there the production design is, crafting a 1940 Austrian town out of nothing and building a network of water symbolism that I don't understand yet.) In fact, the whirling steadicam and the avoidance of artificial light have more of a thematic purpose than ever if "the sun shines on good and evil all the same." Perhaps the greatest achievement of this film about unjust war is that it made me pray for Donald Trump today. Because if I want to be like Franz Jagerstatter, then I have to believe the light of God shines on him too. 6. Knives Out (Rian Johnson)- A third of the way into this imaginative, absorbing whodunit, I started to talk myself into the surface pleasures of cinema. "So what if it doesn't have much to say; look at these stars going for it with this spicy dialogue and these gleeful twists." Then the subtext asserts itself through a radiant Ana de Armas, and the subtext becomes the text in the final shot. Knives Out is the best of all worlds. Rian Johnson might be the first filmmaker for whom a Star Wars movie ends up being a footnote. 5. Everybody Knows (Asghar Farhadi)- There's a photograph hanging in the library (yes, the stately library) of the patrician family of my childhood best friend, and I'm in that picture. There I am, dressed a bit sloppier than everyone else, near the edge of the frame. Because I was there, as usual, and because they are kind. Everybody Knows is about one of those family friend outsiders, perhaps in a way that no other movie has been. When it's at its best, it's about what those marginal figures can and can't say, can and can't do. The film dips into soap opera territory, but only to sell its message of how secrets beget other secrets. For me, it's another Farhadi hit of approachable, modest conflict that bakes itself into an experience. 4. Marriage Story (Noah Baumbach)- The best divorce movie ever made--by the guy who wrote and directed the former belt holder of the best divorce movie ever made. These luminous lead performances aren't just about saying cutting, hurtful things or reacting to their child's preference for the other parent (or at least the other parent's toys). They're about the internal devastation of realizing you can never take back something you've said. Driver and Johansson each get a chance to sink into one of those moments, and they're joined by a head-tilting, blustery Laura Dern, who gets a Virgin Mary speech that won her an Oscar. And there are jokes! Underrated aspect of the movie: The son is kind of a dipshit. I like that he just hates math and wants to eat candy, as opposed to the cute prodigies we've seen before in this type of movie. They're fighting over a kid only a parent could love. INSTANT CLASSICS

3. Uncut Gems (Josh Safdie and Benny Safdie)- Howard the jeweler lives somewhere in upstate New York, but he has an apartment in the city. It's an apartment that is close enough for him to cab over to his mistress who lives there, but it's far enough away that his family wouldn't bother popping in for a visit. That sort of gap is present throughout Uncut Gems: Family members act differently in the Diamond District than they do at seder, and we first see Howard from the literally vulnerable inside of a colonoscopy, not the animated brio of his tightrope-walking exterior. Of course, the gem of the title is the ultimate division: something pure that the characters are searching for, untouched by the process that Howard, by definition, does. And the film is about how little he can abide by purity. Until now, The Gambler (1974) was probably the best film of this type, a snapshot of a cursed man who seems to be gambling with forces way beyond the game in question. But Uncut Gems is more pathological, more authentic, more intense, and more decisively realized. By focusing more on character than the Safdie Brothers' other work, it offers a unique depiction of compulsive behavior and implicates the audience in rooting for Howard's (technically unrealistic) parlay. By doubling down on his bets or re-uniting with his girlfriend, Howard thinks that he can reinvent himself and start anew. But like the legacy of the Chosen People the film depicts, like the lines on all of these great New York faces, some things are permanent.

2. The Irishman (Martin Scorsese)- "It's what it is." You wouldn't blame someone if he saw the logline and lineup of The Irishman and expected GoodFellas. In fact, this one quotes Scorsese's signature film continually. Instead of slicing onions with a razorblade, old convicts pitch bocce balls. Instead of tracking sumptuously through the Copa, Scorsese's camera wanders through a nursing home. Instead of pistol-whipping Karen's neighbor for getting handsy, our protagonist curb-stomps a grocery owner for shoving his daughter. But there's a GoodFellas staple that is missing. The first fourth of that crime saga closes as Young Henry, played by Christopher Serrone, gets rewarded for staying mum in court. All of his partners in crime cheer him, and he is told that he learned a valuable lesson (in protecting the family and subverting the law). Then we cut to Adult Henry, played by Ray Liotta now, because Young Henry has learned everything he has to know. The Irishman has no such moment of elevation or revelation. Frank is, crucially, played by Robert De Niro over the course of decades because his fall from grace--if there ever was grace--is too imperceptible for any before-and-after divide. The lessons that he learns are just as corrupting as what Henry discovers: Power comes from insularity. Having power means you don't have to prove it. Organized crime, organized labor, and the political process are all the same thing. A code is all a man has, but all codes have limits. However, Frank's corruption, the selling of his soul, doesn't even bring an Asian-inspired chiffonier or a Janice Rossi sidepiece. Frank doesn't get rich; he jams his hands into a plastic ice bucket at the bar next to his couch. He doesn't get powerful; he has to kill because Russell is too prominent to be in the same town as a hit. He doesn't get glory; even a celebration held in his honor is just an excuse for more influential men to do business. Frank is a tool, and he is trapped in a fruitless silence, at best an accessory at meetings. (De Niro is doing quoting of his own. There's a lot of Jackie Brown's Louis in his shrugs and smirks.) As boisterous as Scorsese's films can be, he also knows how to use silence. Robbie Robertson's score is weak, but luckily the film goes without for long stretches, including a suspenseful car ride that begins with a treacherous hug and ends with a malignant secret. The best performance comes from Joe Pesci, probably because his stolid stillness matches the overall atmosphere. Of course, the quietest moments correlate to the loneliest moments: Frank touring a cemetery or sitting with a door half-cracked to a complicit viewer. It's the silence of deliberate toil. Like the mobster ripping up carpet in the lake house, Scorsese is on his hands and knees destroying his own myths.

1. Parasite (Bong Joon-ho)- Parasite is Bong Joon-Ho's masterpiece because it distills the worldview and passions that he previously flirted with into a condensed but elaborate statement. In the same way that Mean Streets is perfectly good but feels like a rehearsal for the slow boil of encircling gangster life in GoodFellas. In the same way that Hitchcock played with the impotent everyman voyeur in a confined setting but didn't perfect it until Rear Window. Like the examples above, Parasite, a true ensemble, is a case of the subtext becoming text. Back in his native country and language, working more or less with realism, Bong is free to take aim at class in a more direct but still wacky way. In all of its crowd provocation--there's so much pleasure in just a suspenseful winding down stairs--the film is destined to be a foreign film gateway drug. But really it just makes we want to take a half-star off my Snowpiercer review since I know Bong can do better now.

[xathia-89]

“Help, my ex just invited me to his wedding”

This @notsafefortum-blr‘s request for winning my 500 followers celebration! (And this is why I didn’t want you proofing it!). No warnings just fun. 

“Help!” Naiya collapsed over the table in a dramatic manner, her bushy hair covering her arms and head. A chuckle rumbled from her best friend as the air was filled with the scents and sounds of cooking. “My ex just invited me to his wedding, and I need you to be my date so it doesn’t look like I spent the last few years getting over him.”

“The one that none of us liked but you insisted was the best man for you?” Nobunaga had a far too smug grin on his face as a plate of fried eggs, meats and bread were placed in front of her.

“Well, you all say that about anyone I date,” Naiya huffed, refusing to lift her head until the dark haired male began to pull on the rogue red curls that were flying everywhere. She glared as she looked up, not that her expression made any difference to the man who merely sat down with his own plate of food and began eating without ceremony.

“Because we know what’s best for you, and it’s not your taste in men,” his laugh was a deep baritone and sent a shiver up the woman’s spine. She paused in picking at the plate of food and tried to intimidate the man in front of her. “But to the request, since I want to go and agitate the man, I will accompany you,” he smirked.

“I am suddenly regretting ever opening my mouth,” the woman sighed, dropping her eyes back to the plate and away from her friend.

“Too late to rescind the offer,” Nobunaga shrugged, playing with the invitation in his hand.

“Hey, where did you get that from?” Naiya scowled, patting down her pockets and coat.

“You left yourself open to attack, and you gave me the offer so I need to know the required details. It would be difficult to attend to anything if I don’t know the location and date,” he countered, leaving Naiya with a pout and a half-hearted glare to the logic provided. “Besides, I get to see you in a dress for once,” his grin was almost lecherous before he boomed with laughter at the expression on her face.

***

“Stop fidgeting,” Nobunaga muttered out of the corner of his mouth, his arm was pinned around Naiya’s waist, stopping her from leaving the room as she watched the dutiful exchange of vows. “Or I will make good on my promise.”

The redhead froze at the mention of the promise and bit on the inside of her lip whilst she linked her fingers together to try and keep them still. It was weird seeing him kiss someone else with such a passion that had been absent in their relationship, and it made Naiya miss him all the more as she tried to keep her expression pleasant to anyone glancing her way.

Nobunaga lifted his head a little as the couple glanced about the room, basking in their moment as he felt Naiya digging her nails into his arm at the scene before them. Her invite wasn’t an innocent extension of friendship, it had been a low blow as the couple lead the room out towards the photo area. Not that they were the only ones allowed to play that game as his vow to his friend floated through his mind before ambling through at the rear of the crowd with her.  

***

“Nobunaga?” Naiya was a little drunk. Still, it was nothing that he hadn’t seen before. She was twirling a lock of hair around a finger as her elbow was propped up on a table, the empty glasses in front of them telling of a long afternoon’s drinking.

He was smooth, pulling her flush against him in time to make things appear worse than it truly was as the happy couple had another dance in the spotlight. He didn’t give her a chance to object as his lips covered hers the moment the married couple was in view, cradling her body against his as though she was the most precious thing in the universe. A sly look out of the corner of his eye told him everything.

The ex was looking pissed, but it wasn’t as if he could tell his wife anything about the reason why. His ex had moved on and from the displays, he was witnessing thanks to Nobunaga’s scheming antics she appeared to be over him. Happy with the result Nobunaga turned his back on the dancing newlyweds.  

“What was that for?!” Naiya hissed, trying to not attract any attention as she didn’t pull back.

“You asked for me to make it look like you hadn’t spent years pining over him, so I just did,” Nobunaga scoffed, keeping the mirage up that they were lovers dancing. “He’s pissed that you aren’t alone and dared to get another boyfriend.”

“Well-” the woman began.

“Appearances are everything. Now, we are going because you’ll give the game away if we stay long enough for them to come and ask us questions,” the man instructed, making sure that they stopped to pick up her purse and things in view of the same man that was now glaring daggers at Nobunaga. “I told you he wasn’t good enough for you,” he chuckled, pausing only momentarily to brush a kiss against Naiya’s forehead. “And you’re going to be thankful I didn’t let you drink more tomorrow morning. I’ve already booked Masamune to come over for lunch.”

“You guys are the best,” she laughed, hooking her arm through his to steady herself on the way out.

[thewriterandthestoryteller]

Fantasy Collaboration Chapter 1

Hey guys! This is the first chapter of the story I am working on with @creativityflows (they are amazing by the way). We are writing a fantasy story from the perspective of two characters: Sylvia the Rogue, and Princess Alexia. @creativityflows has already posted the first chapter from her account from Sylvia’s perspective, so go to her account if you want to read it from her point of view. I am writing from Alexia’s point of view, so stick around if you want to read it from her perspective. If you have any questions about this story, feel free to ask us!

As requested, @willowandsnow will be tagged in all of the chapters in the story. If you want to be tagged in them as well, let us know and you will be added to the list.

Enjoy! (@thewriterandthestoryteller with @creativityflows) 

The trees swayed in the wind as Alexa gazed out of the window. It was a beautiful spring morning, and the sun was tentatively peering over the city, giving it an eerie glow. She sighed and gazed longingly at the beautiful place just out of her reach. Father would never let her go outside of the palace walls, and she knew it would do her no good to long for something that she could never have. Her freedom.

‘Tea miss?’ came a voice from behind her. She turned to see her best friend and maid holding a small mug of inky black liquid.

‘Yes please Sophia’ Alexia replied, distracted by the view outside. Sophia noticed her looking out the window.

‘’Tis a lovely view isn’t it miss?’ she commented but was greeted with silence as she continued to stare out of the window. Sophia wasn’t at all surprised by this, in fact, this has happened every morning since she started working at the palace, so she knew exactly what she had to say to her.

‘We’d best go and get ready for breakfast’ she walked to a chest of draws on the other side of the desk and pulled out a small comb. Handing it to Alexia, she was surprised when she heard her say,

‘Please, do call me Lexi’

She began combing the knots out of her hair, pulling the brush quickly to try and make the act less painful. While she was brushing, Sophia began putting out an outfit for her to wear. Today, like most days, it was simple black clothes with her cloak with red velvet in the hood. She knew that Lexi had never been a fan of overly fancy clothes and much preferred simple outfits that were well made and lasted a long time. She opened the bottom of the wardrobe to see a row of shoes neatly lined up, but hesitated to pick a pair. Knowing due to her halfling blood, Lexi often prefers to walk around barefoot when possible, she turned and asked her if she wanted them.

‘I suppose I ought to wear them’ she sighed, put down the brush and walked over to the mirror. She glanced at her reflection, showing her neat brown hair and beautiful green eyes, but also her unnaturally short height from her heritage. She looked enviously at Sophia, who was tall and slender, with blonde wavy hair. She was exactly how an elf was expected to look, and exactly how she wanted to be. Sophia saw the way in which she looked at her, the jealousy in her dark green eyes.

‘Please don’t be like that Lexi, you are different; it is a whole new kind of beauty’

‘Easy for you to say, you are from one of the oldest families in the land, and are a pure blooded elven’ she hissed ‘you don’t understand what it is like to stand out’

‘Please don’t be like this!’ she cried desperately ‘Not on your birthday!’

Alexia’s eyes widened in shock and shone in excitement, the argument now forgotten.

‘Of course! I must go and see what my father has planned for me’

‘What did you request this year Lexi?’ Sophie inquired, picking up the abandoned mug of tea from the table.

‘A entertainer that uses magic!’ she squealed

Grabbing a pair of shoes out of the open draw, Lexi ran into the corridor to the banquet.

‘Have a wonderful day my friend’ Sophie called after her.  

Alexia forcefully shoved open the door, and ran across the banquet hall, loud from the hearty laughs of the drunk men inside. She took a seat next to her father at the head of the table. She was concerned; the usual ghost of a smile was replaced by a stoic look of concern and fear. Sliding on her shoes, she opened her mouth to ask what was wrong but was interrupted by the doors being opened and a human shouting dramatically

‘Your entertainment has arrived!’

She bounced across the hall with a flute floating behind her and began to sing:

This is the tale of Elegaard ,

Who went on adventures both easy and hard,

With her lute and viola she sang,

On adventures across the land.

Alexia turned to her father and whispered,

‘Who is this Elegaard she sings of?’

‘A legend. She is said to be one of the best bards of the land.’ he replied, his voice barely heard over the now clapping and cheering crowd.

She turned back to look at the bard, now dancing on top of a table, the flute playing at an immense speed in time with the cheering crowd. The chorus was short and easy to remember, and everyone began chanting with her:

This is the tale of Elegaard ,

Who went on adventures both easy and hard,

With her lute and viola she sang,

On adventures across the land.

This is the tale of Elegaard ,

Who went on adventures both easy and hard,

With her lute and viola she sang,

On adventures across the land.

‘Cos this is the tale of Elegaard

Elegaard the brilliant bard

Elegaard the brilliant bard

Elegaard Elegaard Elegaard Elegaard!

The crowd erupted into cheers and laughter, and the bard began bowing to her audience. She then bounced over to the throne and turned to face Alexia with a big grin on her face. She then clicked her fingers and her flute disappeared into thin air. Alexia pretended not to notice the sad look on her face when she saw the frown plastered on the King’s face, but it was well hidden and quickly replaced with a smile as she began to tell a story. It was magical; she spoke of dragons in faraway lands, and lairs of goblins and raiders wreaking havoc upon the innocent. Alexia began to study the entertainer before her. Long black hair tied messily into a braid draped over her back. Green travelling clothes with thick long boots that came up to her knees and a black cloak fastened together with a feather breach. These clothes were typically worn by travellers as well as entertainers. There was nothing unusual about them. She was also wearing a mask engraved to look like the face of a fox. It was beautifully crafted; the metal fit her face perfectly. However, this gave Alexia the idea that she may have a reason to hide her face. She quickly put this thought to the back of her mind and continued to listen. As she was retelling the story, for a brief moment, she thought one eye looked a slightly different colour to the other.

‘Huh’ she thought ‘I wonder what that could be’

Before she could say ‘bard’, the story was finished, and once again the crowd erupted into cheers. Alexia, for the second time that day, was longing for the outside world that was out of her reach. She gently placed a hand on the entertainer's shoulder, and she turned around, a mischievous grin on her face

‘It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Alexia’

For the second time, Alexia noticed the difference in colour in her eyes. This bard was definitely not what she seemed, and is only putting on some sort of disguise. She began to get distracted, wondering what else those eyes may be hiding...

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Game 348: Realms of Arkania: Blade of Destiny

              Realms of Arkania: Blade of Destiny

Germany

Released in Germany as Das Schwarze Auge: Die Schicksalsklinge

attic Entertainment Software (developer); Fantasy Productions (German publisher); Sir-Tech (U.S. Publisher)

Released 1992 for DOS, 1993 for Amiga

Date Started: 13 November 2019

               Where Britain and France mostly created their own styles of RPGs, and largely failed at it, German developers found more success analyzing and modifying the mechanics of the most popular U.S. releases. In the few years after Germany’s RPG industry really got started in 1988, we saw games inspired by Ultima (Nippon, Die Dunkle Dimension), The Bard’s Tale (Legend of Faerghail, Antares, Spirit of Adventure), Alternate Reality (Fate: Gates of Dawn), Dungeon Master (Dungeons of Avalon), and Demon’s Winter (Sandor). Each of these games introduced its own innovations, to be sure; there are plenty of times, as in Fate and any of the Bard’s Tale-inspired games, when the German adaptation exceeded the original.            

Starting out in Arkania. The screen is nearly identical to Might and Magic III, although none of the gameplay is.

            Realms of Arkania strikes me as the apex of this process of adaptation, drawing not from just one source (like most of the German titles) or two sources (as Faerghail did with both The Bard’s Tale and Phantasie) but rather at least four. Building on the engine previously used in Spirit of Adventure (1991), attic has combined the basic exploration of The Bard’s Tale with the main screen arrangement of Might and Magic III, the inventory interface of Dungeon Master (or perhaps, more directly, Eye of the Beholder), and a combat system inspired by the Gold Box while looking more graphically advanced.          

The inventory interface recalls SSI’s Eye of the Beholder.

          Arkania is a licensed adaptation of the best-selling German tabletop RPG Das Schwarze Auge (“The Dark Eye,” although I always have to remind myself that it’s not “The Dark Age”). It started as a relatively obvious adaptation of Dungeons and Dragons (the developer, Schmidt Spiel & Freizeit, had first tried to get a license to publish D&D in German), but it got more innovative as the editions moved forward. In particular, I find that the inclusion of “negative traits” (introduced in the third edition) creates more memorable characters.

Arkania followed the by-now common 1990s tradition of telling one backstory in the game manual and another one–complementary but usually not identical–in the animated opening scenes. The opening is set in Thorwal, an ancient free settlement “populated with indomitable warriors and seafarers, rich in treasures from innumerable forays.” Thorwal is surrounded by plains in which orc tribes roam freely and occasionally semi-organize into a threatening confederacy. This is currently the case, with a “great chief” gathering orcs on the steppes, planning “the utter conquest of Thorwal.”           

Evocative graphics introduce the setting.

         Somehow this threat is going to involve a certain captain named Hetman Hyggelik who lived a couple centuries ago. He made a fortune pillaging the “hated slave trader towns of the south.” After a particularly successful expedition, he had a magic sword forged in the Cyclops Islands, then took it with him into the orcish lands, where he and his band were slaughtered. I suspect that his sword is the titular Blade of Destiny, and that it will be needed to fend off the invasion.            

If it was just left sticking out of a dirt mound, someone’s probably taken it by now.

          Either way, very little background is given regarding the party. Your group of six simply arrives in Thorwal seeking fortune and glory.              

Character creation offers some good graphics for each of the classes.

          Character creation is complex enough to tie in knots even an experienced CRPG player. There are 12 classes, which the system calls “archetypes”: jester, hunter, warrior, rogue, Thorwalian, dwarf, warlock, druid, magician, green elf, ice elf, and sylvan elf. (Female versions have slightly different names in the manual, even when spectacularly unnecessary, as in “she-jester,” “she-rogue,” “dwarvess,” and “magicienne.”) Among them are five different magic systems. There are seven positive attributes (courage, wisdom, charisma, dexterity, agility, intuition) rolled on a scale of 8 to 13, seven negative attributes (superstition, acrophobia, claustrophobia, avarice, necrophobia, curiosity, and violent temper) rolled on a scale of 2 to 7.            

Allocating numbers to attributes as they’re rolled.

           There are 52 skills, arranged into seven categories: combat, body, social, lore, craftsmanship, nature, and intuition. I have been jaded by a long string of Paragon games into suspecting that a lot of them will turn out to be useless. My money is on “Dance” and “Carouse,” but I’m also suspicious of “Self Control,” “Streetwise,” “Human Nature,” and “Tactics.” “Ancient Tongues” sounds like a skill that will come in handy exactly once, but on that one occasion it will be pivotal.             

Selecting skills to increase during character creation.

             When creating a character, you can choose the class you want, but if you do, you only get the minimum attributes necessary for that class. The other method, which generally results in higher attributes, is to let the game roll the numbers and you allocate them to the attributes as they arrive. You could get unlucky and end up with worse than minimum statistics, but you can always start over. One positive of the character creation process is that you can take its steps in any order. You can wait until you see what kind of character you have before assigning name and sex, or you can start with those answers and then take whatever you roll.        After spending far too long studying the materials, I went with:              

Female Thorwalian

Male dwarf

Male druid

Female green elf

Female magicienne

Male ice elf

              My analysis was that if Realms is like similar fantasy games, spells will be more important than physical skills, and this configuration gives me the most spell options. I lack only the warlock/witch. I thought they had the smallest selection of spells, many of them sounding more like solutions to puzzles than typical RPG magic (“Witch’s Eye,” “Heal Animal,” “Camouflage,” “Fire’s Bane”). It may turn out that I’ll miss the position for just this reason.               

Choosing my green elf’s starting spell skills.

            My primary angst is over the first two characters. I felt that for role-playing reasons, I ought to have a Thorwalian given the setting. I felt that the second character would need to be more of a rogue, but I didn’t want to leave the party too weak in physical combat, as a rogue would be, and dwarves seem a bit like warrior/rogues. I’m happy to take recommendations, though, since I haven’t gone very far into the game.           

The city of Thorwal.

         Gameplay begins at the Temple of Travia in Thorwal. In Arkania, it is at temples rather than inns where you can manage your party members. Thorwal is a 16 x 32 map with ocean to the south and west and rivers and ponds taking up some of the inner space. The buildings create irregular patterns in a way that goes back to the original Bard’s Tale. Also adapted from that game is a tradition by which nearly every square of building can be entered, although many are houses occupied by offended Thorwalians who immediately tell you to leave. Sometimes, the residents give you a hint. Sometimes, the houses are locked and you have the option to break in.            

This manual conditioned me to expect something else when I encountered a “Thorwalian.”

          There are numerous taverns, inns, inn/tavern combinations, armories, banks, supply shops, temples, and healers. (I bought some standard items like torches and rope at the supply shop.) These seem redundant, but each has its own unique name, and I suspect there will later be quests that require me to visit a particular location. I enjoy some of the location names, including the taverns “Drunken Emperor,” “Boisterous Welsher,” and “Red Morrow.” There’s also a temple called the “Temple of Tsa,” which in the game’s all-caps font makes it sound like it was founded by the one person who respects American airport security. The temples are all named after the names of their gods, which also seem to be the names of the setting’s months.         

I don’t know how well I’m going to sleep tonight.

               The taverns are quite odd. When you enter, you have options to order drinks or talk, but whatever you choose, events have a way of unfolding on their own. For instance, if you order drinks, you’ll probably end up with a clue anyway, but if you choose to just start talking, some bartender will say, “Aren’t you going to order anything?” Anyway, the “leave tavern” option seems to disappear a lot, so you get trapped in a loop of ordering round after round until your party members get drunk. (I guess this is governed by the “Carouse” statistic.) Also, if you have any talent in music, dancing, or acrobatics, you have options to engage in those activities for the amusement of the patrons, and thus have a little money thrown your way.            

I don’t want to know what kind of dancing Bramble was doing.

          There are no combats on the game map, which distinguishes Arkania from most of its predecessors, including Spirit of Adventure. There are occasional random encounters in the street, such as traveling merchants, beggars who ask for a ducat, and a weird repeating encounter where a “small fellow” dances around a “table containing a mass of floral arrangements” and then falls down dead.             

A random event. No, that is totally not “OK.”

             There are a number of unique buildings and oddities among the doorways on the map. These include:             

Three estates with multiple entrances, all blocked by guards who refuse entry. Two are called “otttaskins” and are owned by groups named the Stormriders and the Windrunners. I don’t know what “ottaskin” means; a Google search suggests the game may have invented it.

            Can you just tell me what it is?

            A large monolith at the end of the street that seems to have no entrance.

A post office called the “Beilunk Riders.” It was closed.

Two “embassies,” one from the “Central Empire,” one from the “New Empire,” both closed.

A couple of closed towers.

            Maybe this will become important later.

          A shipbuilder’s where you can have your own ship made for way more money than I have.

An academy of magic where you can purchase potions and get artifacts identified.

                  I thought this harbor scene was particularly well-drawn.

           There are four exits from the city, oddly placed. Only one is at an obvious point at the end of a road at the edge of the map. Two others are found in the harbor and a fourth in a random building in the northwest. Each exit seems to take you to a different option for moving forward on the overland map.               

Each exit takes you to the outdoor map, but to different destinations on it.

            As I mentioned, some of the random denizens offer a bit of intelligence when you open their doors. Everyone seems to be talking about the gathering orcs, and it’s rumored that they’ve sacked a city called Phexcaer, but we also heard a little about other people and locations in the town.

Unfortunately, Arkania seems to have dropped Spirit of Adventure‘s keyword-based dialogue for more traditional dialogue options, some of which are either poorly translated or deliberately nonsensical.            

Dialogue options allow us to insult the innkeeper for no reason.

             During one visit to a tavern, a guard entered to announce that Hetman Tronde Torbensson, ruler of the city, is looking for heroes to take on a dangerous quest. We found our way to the Hetman’s house at the west edge of town. There, Torbensson reiterated the danger posed by the orcs, united under a single chief, amassing in the Upper Bodir Valley.             

The party learns of the main quest.

             Noting that orcs are a superstitious lot, Torbensson suggested that their federation might collapse if a hero showed up wielding Hetman Hygellik’s lost sword, called Grimring. “It is said that the sword put the fear of the gods into the orcs and their shamans or whatever they call their religious leaders,” the Hetman recounted.

The sword is probably buried in Hygellik’s tomb, and the Hetman suggested we start by visiting Hygellik’s last surviving descendant, Isleif Olgardsson, in the city of Felsteyn. He gave us a writ allowing us to take a certain number of weapons from the city’s armory. I always like it when a game has an answer to the common and obvious objection of forcing characters to fund their own adventures when the fate of the world is at stake.             

The Hetman lays on the main quest. I love how my characters can say they have “just one question” when I have no idea what the question is.

            There is one dungeon–the lower levels of an old fortress–accessible from Thorwal. The captain of the guard (or something like that) asked us to investigate the lower levels because someone keeps stealing supplies stored on the upper levels.

              It took me a while to figure out how to light a torch. You can’t just “use” the torch, nor can you use the tinder box. You have to pick up the torch, then right click on the tinder box and “use” it. This is annoyingly undocumented. 

             Coming across a chest.

          Anyway, the first dungeon level had a couple of combats and one chest. I’ll write more about combats in the future, but for now suffice to say that it blends several systems. The screen uses the axonometric 45-degree rotation that feature heavily in British adventure games (Knightlore, Cadaver) and RPGs (HeroQuest, Legend) of the period. Characters move on discrete floor tiles, and action is turn-based, with the player selecting both movement and attack options from a menu. There’s an auto-combat option called “Computer Fight” that puts your players under computer control, with or without magic. Overall, it plays a lot like the Gold Box games, and a “Guard” command (the player stands still until an enemy comes in range, then gets a free attack) particularly points to a Gold Box origin.

           The combat interface.

          I would finally note that the game has a decent automap, with walls, corridors, and doors clearly annotated by color. This helps make up for the fact that it’s hard to see some doors when they’re to the party’s side rather than directly in front of you.

          The automap alerts me to a couple of doors that I missed on my first loop.

          Realms of Arkania is a thick game, meaning it has a lot of little elements that I may forget to talk about if they don’t play a big role in my experience. When starting, it offers basic and advanced modes of gameplay; the primary difference seems to be that the computer controls your skill and spell leveling (and character creation) in basic mode. I’ve been playing on “advanced.” Money is in gold ducats, silver crowns, and copper bits at a 1:10:10 ratio. At temples, you can donate and pray for miracles. There’s a food and drink system by which you “feed” characters by picking up items and clicking on their mouths. You can split the team into two or more groups. An adventurer’s log keeps track of major plot points. When camping, you assign various characters to guard duty for the hours of the day. Wounds, sickness, and poison can be treated with skills as well as spells. Armor and weapons degrade and must occasionally be repaired. You can pocket-pick shopkeepers. If I never mention any of these elements again, it means they weren’t really important.

I thought Spirit of Adventure had a lot of promise, so I’m going to remain optimistic about Realms even though the first few hours have covered a lot of well-trod ground.

Time so far: 5 hours

source http://reposts.ciathyza.com/game-348-realms-of-arkania-blade-of-destiny-2/

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Portrait of an American Smoker (unfinished story, draft 1)

It was a monument, perhaps, at one time. But to look at it now is to see the shell of what once was. Though the house doesn’t look as it once had (though it has been an elegant decline, I must say), every square of sandpaper tiling that falls from its roof has dutifully served for its country and has been paid with the same patriotic dedication which it provided. It is certainly not a dead thing. While it may be softly, it breathes. While it may be slowly, it moves.

The lights are on, the table is set, and Leila is making dinner. Its inverted eyes spy on these scenes.

Examining the house today, you’d be struck by how natural it looked. Kentucky blue grass surrounds its perimeter, running right up to where the green-grey siding meets the ground, wrapping it like a wool coat. The tulips out front trace lazy o’s in the sky, sweeping along the breeze. Outside one can hear the house’s long speech, the deep croaks of plywood emanating up through its center. An elegant picture of domesticity sketched onto a window.

Today’s guest, though, was more clandestine in its arrival than to announce itself with a knuckled rapped against the dark cedar. It preferred to think of itself as more of an invisible wanderer, favoring travel by settlement of the breeze, shaking the walnuts from their branches to tap dance on the driveway.

It ambled down the stump and across the pavement, its many tiny legs brushing across the ground, like a wave, like a centipede.

Finally, wafting in through an open window and sneaking along the high ceilings, it reached the hairs of perception to announce itself, the scent of coming rain.

Before any drops shattered onto the ground, the whole house wreaked of the smell. The odor of wood and dirt seeped through the walls, chipped the paint, sauntered over the ledge, and rushed a pile of dust across the hardwood.

At the first whiff that the house caught of it, it perked up, readied itself, and inhaled. It took in all the air for miles, it seemed like. It puffed out its chest, stretching its rooms to twice their original size, all of that air pushing its walls out. The foundation grew wider, the cement pushing clumps of grass along with it. Wooden beams stretched themselves out, creaking like bones awaking from slumber, the music of something dormant becoming alive once again. What was in the gloss of day a one-story cottage was made a monolith by the torrent. Any given morning compressed the home to a postage stamp. But in the rain, oh in the rain, the thing was a castle. The sitting room became a grand ballroom and the kitchen a hall fit with great stocky men and hymns buried in tradition.

And the home was intent on holding its breath until the end of the storm.

Just outside, Leila was walking along the garden when a new perfume tickled her nose. It wasn’t the same litter carried in from the street that slithered through the cracks of the aged wall. It did not crawl, it didn’t slink clumsily to attention, blundering and drunk, falling over a stool to reach the nose. It but kissed the walls and caressed the air, complimented the cat, sang to the birds perched on their ledge, intimating an unapologetic treatise of youth.

As though it was searching for him in the labyrinth, the smell of lilacs reached Peter’s nose in the manor’s lower quarters at the same moment it reached Leila, on the other end of the estate.

“Virginia!” Peter cried out, dropping his tools onto his left foot.

Limping from side to side, his erratic distribution of weight in mounting the stairs sent a defunct rhythm echoing through the unseen hollow spaces below his feet. A heavy, basal wallop from the unscathed appendage, and a fragile ding off of the poor toes that suffered the blow of the wrench.

He uncovered ecstasy and torment in mere steps.

Had it swollen already? Had his toes always occupied that shade of red? For how long had his left foot’s second attendant existed at such an… angle?

Nevertheless, he strolled with the clip of the profoundly unencumbered. Striding three floor tiles in one bound, he traversed the lower echelons of the property up to its main floor. In fact, he performed this with meteoric velocity, even for someone of his stature. He reckoned that the house could no longer hold in the wind it stuffed into its corners and was in the process of shriveling in exhale, flustered by a glance of the absolute peach at the front gate.

Peter rushed around the house to gather the rogue’s gallery. Across oriental rugs, through the foyer, and up the spiraling iron-sculpted belfry, belting “SHE’S HERE” all the while. He raced along the corridor pouncing upon each door with fists and feet. Penelope in her armchair with an old copy of Hamlet, just as he’d expected, and Isaac laboring over a canvas, both of them disturbed from their spirals of industry by Peter’s mad yelling.

The intensity of their concentration was only matched by the height at which they sprang from their nests, launching out towards the lawn to open the gates.

With the others distracted, Peter made for Sylvia’s door.

The end of the hall was caked in shadow, interrupted by a thin blade of light escaping from the cracked opening. The door squeaked as Peter widened its mouth, attempting one final deterrent before he entered.

When Sylvia left for the park that morning, as it happened whenever she left the house, her face was hard and withdrawn, as though she had woken up and put a clamp on the back of her neck, squeezed it tight, and hidden it behind her hair. Wrinkles flattened on the surface, tattooing her cheeks with faded, pale tiger stripes where the skin came up, exposing the lines that are otherwise covered by hanging old flesh. Once she gets home, the clamp must slink off to the table or inside the bathroom cabinet (but as of yet he still has not been able to find where it goes), because her eyes sink so far that they create black caves on her cracked porcelain face.

She sat slumped on the ground with her face to the window. Though her large nightgown removed any semblance of figure, he could make out the small of her back as it crept up from the floor, thin and sharp with vertebrate, slowly widening towards her shoulders, cresting at the blades.

The skin was so taught on her back that when she twisted back in response to the creaking floorboards, her spine formed a long cork screw. She was turned to Peter, but she could have been looking anywhere, with eyes hidden in tunnels so deep he thought he heard an echo after she blinked.

Bombs exploded above the cloud line, diffused into flashes of blue and white through the curtains. And then the rain. The house attempted to inhale once again, to take in the smell, but the now damp air only afforded it the stifle of water hitting the lungs, leaking through its body, as the kitchen ceiling started to drip. Leila rushed inside, covering her primped hair with a dinner plate speckled with the remnants of a damp pastry.

“Come, Sylvia, please.” Peter’s left hand was extended, beckoning to his sister, with the opposite half of his body already out the door “Virginia’s just arrived, and she is eager to see how you are doing.”

She heard him from far away.

“Come, Sylvia, please. For me.” He stared, not at her, but in her direction. Whenever he tried, he looked at her the same way someone reads their own writing or catches a reverberation of their voice on the telephone. They all did. Their faces screamed that kind of nausea, all of that horror, that swift, agitated denial that accompanies the realization that one is not terse and foreboding, but lanky and small, inconsequential, infinitesimal. The mind and body reject placidity, embarrassment overwhelming the legs to march, a rebellion against stillness, the haphazard scuttling of insects.

The floorboards are sunken where he’s standing, he must’ve paced two hundred miles at her doorframe since she was born.

She turned back to the window, took a long, slow breath, and begin to rise from the floor. Peter steeled himself, keeping from taking a step back. It was just, how she looked when she moved around, it was as though she wasn’t a whole form, but each of her bones and organs were a different sentient being working together to move something larger. It was unorganized and haunting. The right arm flew out in front of the left, followed by the thud of the right leg, each joint uncoupling and recoupling, hobbling across the floor.

Peter walked over to her side to support her. Collapsing into him, his broad shoulder filled the space under her outstretched arm as he brought her into the bathroom.

“Peter! Peter?” His name sang tenderly from the bottom of the stairs.

“I’ll be right down my love,” he shouted in response. “Sylvia, do you not want to see Virginia?” He whispered, turning back to his sister in a lump on his arm. “She’s come all the way from California to be here. Let’s get you washed up.”

Peter paced along the bathroom, turning on the shower and making sure there was ample soap and a towel for Sylvia to use once she was done.

A high-pitched crash sounded from the kitchen.

“Ah damn!” Leila squealed.

A light smile formed on Peter’ face as he tured toward the door. Stopping for a moment, he took another look at Sylvia, told her to remember to wash her toes, then turned towards the stairs, leaving her with the door closed.