#and then the bag itself is a satchel from the leather satchel company

[gaytobymeres]

My essentials for a solo day out

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Andrew | In-Laws To Be | Romantic

Your sweet and shy nature keeps you from wearing your heart on your sleeve. Your older sister Eden decides to help you out a little.

Requested by Louisa

There is a certain nip in the winter air that doesn’t often occur in the usually warm lands of Judea, so you make sure to dig out the woollen cloak from your wardrobe before heading out to the market in order to prepare for Shabbat. Armed with a large bag that fits around your shoulder as well as Eden’s lengthy shopping list, you make your way to the business of Capernaum, where dozens of people are traversing the wares on display, merchants yelling their prices and discounts alike. 

You hug your cloak a little tighter around your shoulders as you walk past the stalls, making sure to only purchase the items Eden had requested no matter how tempting some of the sweeter goods seem to be, even if they are practically calling out your name. You eye a specific box of honey buns as you browse the baker’s wares, and it must have been so obvious that you were eyeing them that the merchant oddly frowns at you when you only ask for some yeast and flour. 

Up next are the wine skins — three of them this time, due to the size of the company — which proves less difficult to resist. The leather containers of wine still prove quite the weight inside your bag. Perhaps you should have waited to get these for last, but the woman behind the stall has already pocketed your money.

Afterwards, you find the stand selling fish. Ever since Simon and Andrew left the fishing industry to pursue the Messiah instead, you have been actually having to buy it from other merchants instead of getting a few of them for free, fresh from the Sea of Galilee after a good night on the water. Not that you mind it. You’d gladly buy all the fish in the world with your own money now that they are followers of Jesus Himself. 

Your mind lingers on Andrew for a bit and you can’t help a smile from forming over your lips. He’s going to attend the celebration as well and frankly, you can hardly wait to see him. Whereas you’d often see the younger sibling of your brother-in-law every other day when they were still fishermen, you now consider yourself lucky if you get to briefly pass by him about four, five times a month. To your relief, you still have your sister Eden to keep your mind occupied with your other duties. Keeping yourself busy by helping her out around the house and making a living out of sewing clothes, you remain as productive as you can be.

It feels almost inappropriate to want to doll up a little for tonight. You are positively thrilled to get to speak to Andrew again, your tummy already swirling with butterflies at the notion. For a moment, you picture yourself more confident than you are, wearing something nicer than usual, making Andrew do a double take… Not that you expect him to. Whereas Eden is more easy-going, you’re usually the more quiet type, hanging around in the background. It is a miracle if you even dare to say a few words to the curly-haired man in question. And honestly, perhaps that Shabbat itself is not the best moment to try and impress someone. 

“—Did you hear what I said, miss?” 

The merchant behind the fish stall pulls you from your own mind by giving you a strange look. You rapidly blink and clear your throat. “Uh, I’m sorry, I was lost in thought for a moment.” 

The woman huffs. “I asked if I could help you with something. You’ve been staring at my fish for a good minute now.”  

You flush a little. “Ah. Yes, I… Uh, I’d like some… Some tilapia.” 

“How much?” 

You count in your head and on your fingers for a moment. “Seven… Seven will work.” 

The merchant packs up your order whilst you get the right amount of money from your satchel. It concludes your shopping trip as you tuck the fish into your bag. “Shabbat shalom.” you tell her, and she nods, forcing a smile on her lips. “Shabbat shalom.” 

Knowing Capernaum like the back of your hand — you’ve grown up in the village after all — you head back to the house of Simon and Eden, where your older sister is waiting for you to arrive with all the fresh produce she had asked you to bring. You step over the threshold to find Eden laying the table, the vegetables already cut and drizzled with lemon to keep them fresh. She smiles and brushes over quickly to help you out with the heavy bag. 

“Ah, (Y/n), you’re the best!” You hand her the satchel of money you had received from her and she puts it aside. You instantly start rummaging around your recently acquired groceries to take out the fish lest they start leaking liquid — you’ve learnt that the hard way — as well as the wine for your sister to put into a cool room. 

“Let me prepare the fish,” Eden suggests, knowing that you aren’t necessarily fond of the slippery task of cleaning them and removing the bones. Being a fisherman’s wife, your older sister has become quite skilled at turning them into tasty fillets, so you don’t complain when you are thus presented with the job to prepare the bread dough instead. 

Your challah is often favoured whenever you’re around at Shabbat dinners. Eden says you’ve got magic hands which causes the dough to proof to perfection, but you are personally more convinced it’s the little dash of cinnamon you sneak into there for a hint of sweetness; the spice itself is far from sweet but it still works, somehow. You know the recipe by heart, adding the right amounts of water and flour to the countertop to knead together into a stretchy mass between your hands. With a little oil, a pinch of salt as well as a bit of yeast, the dough is done for its first rising process by the time Eden has cleaned the third fish.

Upon cleaning your hands and covering the bread dough, you assist Eden by grilling the fish for her over the fire in her kitchen. Under the pleasant smell of fresh food, you have a moment to yourselves before the business of the evening begins.

“So, who will be joining us again?” you ask your sister, who looks at you for a second before turning back to her fourth fish to prepare. 

“Simon, of course, and Jesus, Mary, Thaddeus and Andrew.” On the last name, you barely manage to keep your face under control, feeling your face heat up. Still, you manage to not let Eden catch you blushing. You flip the fish being heated on the stone one last time before checking on your bread, finding that it needs a little more time to rise.

“You know,” Eden pipes up all of a sudden, as if it is written all over your face, “You are still unmarried.” 

Your eyes widen as you clear your throat. “That’s correct, thank you for the reminder.” 

Eden breathes something akin to amusement. “That’s not what I tried to say. What I mean is that I’m curious to see if there is anyone of Jesus’ followers whom you’d like as a potential future husband.”

Had she seen you flush anyways? Your heart rears inside your chest as you feel like a child caught doing something they weren’t allowed to. The expression on your face is so mortified that your sister gives you a reassuring look and exhales.

“There’s no rush, really. But I mean, we’ve met a lot of nice bachelors whom I wouldn’t mind as my brother-in-law. Take Thaddeus, for example, he’s really sweet. I think Little James would also be a good match for you, since you both have a soft and gentle nature.” 

Your throat runs dry — she hasn’t realised that you’d rather be with someone who is already her brother in law — and you take moment to collect your thoughts. “Thad or Little James?” you squeak, thrown off-guard by her sudden suggestions. Eden nods, smiling softly at your shy response. “I… I don’t know, Eden. Sure, they’re sweet and all, but I’m not sure if they’d be meant for me.” 

“Well, then I’m not really sure who would be a good fit for you.” 

You avert your gaze, feeling a little embarrassed that the thought hasn’t even crossed her mind. Is she right? Would Andrew not be a good match? 

“Maybe Philip?” she then recommends, “Yeah, he’s a Godly man, too. Someone who would be really gentle for you. He is the kind of man you’d like to come home to, I’m sure.” 

“Look, Eden, I…” You let out a slightly antsy sound, “I just don’t think that… That Philip would like me in that way, and honestly I wouldn’t really care, because as kind and wise as he may be, I just see him as a very dear friend.” 

Eden hums and gives you a curious look. “There is something on your mind.” she states. “I can see it in your eyes. Do you have a suggestion for any eligible bachelors around, (Y/n)? Do you have your eye on someone? Oh no, don’t think I don’t see that blush!” You gasp and quickly pad your cheeks to feel them hot to the touch, “You’ve got a crush, don’t you?” 

Letting out a shaky breath of defeat, you give the fish one last flip before they are all ready to go. 

“Come on, who is it? You’re my sister, you can tell me!” 

She almost girlishly grabs your arm, urging you on to reveal your secret. 

You laugh lightly, a little shyly, tucking some loose hair back under your veil. “I don’t think I should, I know he wouldn’t feel the same, and—” 

“Please, (Y/n), maybe I can help! And I’m sure Simon and Andrew can put in a good word for you.” 

Your face twists into uncertainty. “Well, look… That might be kind of the issue.” 

Eden frowns a bit. “What do you mean?” 

“Ah… The person I would potentially really like as my husband is… Hm…” you hardly dare to let the name cross your lips, knowing that she’d be the first one to ever know about your longtime crush on the curly-haired fisherman in question, “…Andrew.” 

Her mouth falls open as she gawks at you, nearly dropping her knife to the ground. Eden puts it on the counter quickly and steps closer to you. “Really? Andrew? Are you serious, (Y/n)?” You nod and she lets out a breath of disbelief. “For how long? I never knew that you—” 

“—Ever since our early teens.” 

The revelation hits her hard as she puts a hand on her chest, letting out a small laugh of slight shock. “How did I never… Never find out that you… For so long? And you never even considered telling me? Or asking me about it? I could have gotten Simon to urge him in your direction, you know, I could have helped out and—” 

“—Its’ fine, Eden.” you whisper, “It’s alright. I… I’ve been in love with him for quite some time, and if he felt the same I feel like he would have asked by now.” 

“(Y/n)…” Eden reassures, “You shouldn’t doubt yourself so much. You see, I bet that Andrew would be thrilled to know that a woman as sweet and kind as you is into him. I think you and him would be a very good match, I just… I didn’t necessarily expect it to happen, you know? I never would have guessed that you were sweet on him, so I never suggested it. After all, we’ve all practically grown up together, have been friends for so long. It’s the same reason I didn’t suggest John, by the way. It just didn’t cross my mind in the first place.”

“Well, you were acquainted with Simon too long before you liked him in that way, no? And yet, you married him.” 

Eden thinks for a moment. “I… Guess there is no arguing that.” she muses. “But would you like a word of advice, (Y/n)?” 

You perk up your head in question. “Yes?” 

“They will be here in a few hours. And… Once they are here, go talk to him. Trust me. Just be yourself, show him you are still that same sweet, kind girl from back in the day and interested to converse with him. If he doesn’t see you for what you are worth, he isn’t deserving of you, anyways.” 

“Talk to him? But I can’t— What could I talk about, then? I’m just going to make a fool of myself, be a stuttering mess, stumble over my words—” 

“—(Y/n). Don’t be so hard on yourself. You are a beautiful, wonderful woman who loves God. You are one of the most honest, genuine people I know. He’d be lucky to have you by his side, and who knows, you might be pleasantly surprised on what he feels for you.” 

You purse your lips, fiddling with your sleeve for a moment as you contemplate her words. 

“Give it some thought, okay? I’m sure that Andrew would love to speak to you more often, and perhaps something beautiful will bloom from it.” 

As you walk over to the counter again to continue on the challah, you ponder the words of your sister. 

“I’ll think about it.” you tell her. 

Eden smiles.  

“Good. You’ve got until tonight.” 

—

The home of Simon and Eden is a little cramped by the time all the invitees have showed up, but it doesn’t deter you nor your sister from serving the guests. You’ve been nervous ever since Andrew has crossed the threshold. In the end, you had decided to just wear what you were already wearing, not fond on drawing attention to yourself to begin with. 

You place a cup of wine in front of Jesus, Who kindly smiles at you. “Thank you, (Y/n). Are you alright? You look a little flushed.” 

Since you don’t want to lie to Jesus, you leave the answer in the middle. “I’ll be fine.” you mutter, which isn’t entirely untrue. Regardless of how the evening goes, you will be just that— fine. Your gaze flickers to the curly-haired former fisherman currently in conversation with Thaddeus. Jesus hums as He follows your eyes, smiling a little. 

“You know, I didn’t take that other seat next to Andrew for a reason. Eden was very adamant about it.” 

You gulp — look back at Eden, who is speaking to Simon at the kitchen counter — then back at Jesus.

“Do you know what she means by that?” You are fully aware that Jesus knows exactly what this is about.

“I… Have an inkling.” 

“An inkling?” Jesus smirks and nods towards the empty seat. “Go. Eden will take over the hosting duties for a moment, and if she needs an extra pair of hands, she knows where to find Me.” 

Who are you to say no to Jesus’ instructions? Eden likely told Him on purpose. You find her gaze across the table whilst you take off your apron, and she winks. As you sit down next to Andrew with bucking knees, he looks up with a kind, almost surprised smile.

“Oh, shalom (Y/n)! How nice to see you again. I have to compliment you on your challah once again. I know I keep saying it, but wow, you never cease to amaze me.” Andrew’s eyes widen as he sees the blush on your face, then realises how he worded his praise, “I—I mean with your bread— Of—Of course you are a great person, too. I— I think— I think you’re great.” 

You smile softly at him, butterflies raging around in your stomach as you gaze upon his genuine expression. “Thank you for your sweet words, Andrew.” 

He gives you an almost giddy look before he snaps out of it, clearing his throat.

“Would you like a drink? Bread? Grapes?” 

“Please.” you softly murmur. He gives you a sweet look.

As he reaches for said items of food scattered around the table, Simon leans towards his wife, crossing his arms over his chest. “What’s up with them, huh?” 

“They’re totally into each other.” Eden whispers back. 

Simon nearly chokes on his own saliva. “What? (Y/n) is into Andrew? How is it, that I only find this out now? Did you know about this? For how long has this been going on?” 

“I found out this afternoon while we were preparing Shabbat dinner. It turns out that she has managed to keep her feelings hidden for over a decade.” 

“Over a decade? Are you telling me that I could have been saved from Andrew talking my ear off by pining over her constantly for a whole decade? (Y/n) this, (Y/n) that… I mean, I wouldn’t mind her as my sister-in-law, she’s a very nice person and I think they’d be a good match. But he could have been with her all this time and still he decided to constantly speak to me about it.” 

Eden hums and raises an eyebrow at him, turning to the counter to get the guests a refill of wine. 

“She’s already you sister-in-law, Simon.” she reminds him.

Simon frowns at that, thinking for a moment before his face falls into realisation. “Oh, yeah, that’s true… Anyways, let’s hope and pray that they will finally set things in motion now. It’s been ten long years overdue.” 

“I hope so, too.” Eden replies.

She smiles, pivots to the dinner table with a certain flair, and momentarily meets Jesus’ gaze. He nods towards you and Andrew, then winks at her. She returns it before tending to her guests again.

[dugrosleatherindia]

The Growing Market of Leather Goods: A Glimpse into India’s Leading Manufacturers

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[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Palliate.

Pairing: Yandere!Witch/Reader.

Word Count: 3.7k.

TW: Emotional Manipulation, Amnesia, Obsessive Mindsets, Mentions of Violence, Blood and Bruising, Mentions of Death.

Mint, to settle your nerves.

That was the first thing he’d taught you, before you were strong enough to do anything more than sit on the edge of your bed and listen. Three leaves if you were desperate, two if you weren’t, and one if you just needed something to focus on, to take your mind off your own hazy thoughts and the places they tended to lead, when you let them wander freely. He said that was normal, that it should be expected. You’d spent so long incapacitated, it was only natural you’d be a little unsteady, once you finally got back on your feet. He said that it’d get better, over time, but you’d have to fight through it. You’d have to give yourself time to let it get better, even if there were little things you both could do to help.

The mint helped. Most of the time, at least. More than most little things did.

You tried to concentrate on the flavor, now, letting it distract you from the sun beating down on the back of your neck, from small bruises forming on your knees as you kneeled between rows of rue and sage and rosemary just far enough apart to let you tug at the weeds invading his otherwise pristine garden. It was a little odd to be outside the small cottage you’d become so closely acquainted with, even if you were only a few paces away, still hesitant to venture beyond the clearing you’d spent so much time observing while you were bedridden. You were still injured, technically, and you’d been told time and time again not to test your own limits. He said you should… You were sure you should be doing something, but—

“Didn't I ask you to rest?”

Right. That made sense.

You weren't supposed to get out of bed, just yet.

A hand came to settle on your shoulder, and reflexively, you glanced towards the man now lingering behind you. You really didn’t need to, though. His voice would’ve been enough, a calm drawl strung out into something playful, fondness coming easily and anger still a long ways off. He’d never gotten mad at you before, but the threat persisted. You didn’t want to be more of a nuisance than absolutely necessary, especially after he’d been so kind to you.

“There’s only so much sleep I can take,” You replied. You didn’t want to be a nuisance, but you didn’t want to spend the rest of your life in bed, either. “I’m starting to think that’s your only trick, uh...”

“Eden, love. Just Eden.” There was a pause, his sly smile turning sympathetic. “Is your memory acting up again?”

“It’s not as bad as it used to be.” You were telling the truth. For weeks, you’d barely been able to hold onto your own name, let alone anything about your eternally patient host. But, Eden (you tried to remind yourself of that, to make a note of it, Eden) was kind enough to give you time. You needed time. You needed patience. “I found the door, didn’t I?”

“And it’s nearly been a week since the last time you wandered into the forest,” He noted as he crouched at your side, earning a small, offended noise and an elbow to his bicep, just forceful enough to warrant a hum, a slight pout, something between a whine and a chuckle. You didn’t want to stare, but you let yourself watch as his expression softened, as his gazed flickered towards the sprout of basil at your feet and a shock of white hair fell over his eyes. He looked like he was going to reach towards you, like he was going to touch you, but he stopped himself, letting his hand slip down to the satchel at his waist, instead, calloused fingers running over the well-worn leather.

You wondered what he kept in it, sometimes. You’d never seen him without it, not willingly, and he spent so long in the forest every day, he kept himself so busy with so many traps and snares and spots of ink littered across hand-drawn maps, it would’ve been impossibly to guess what he thought was worth keeping by his side. He brought enough of it back, bundles of assorted feathers and glass jars full of golden pollen and other things, stranger things, things you could barely catch a glimpse of before they were shoved to the backs of cabinets and forgotten about, on your end, at least. Eden didn’t forget about such important things as quickly as you did.

“It’ll get better,” He went on, finally, just when you thought he’d stopped talking altogether. “And, if it doesn’t, we’ll find a way to make it better.”

He sounded so sure of himself. You wanted to believe him, when he sounded like that. You did believe him.

You couldn’t remember a time when you hadn’t.

~

Ginger, to alleviate migraines.

It wasn’t for you, luckily. Of all the ailments you suffered from, you’d been left mercifully exempt from headaches and vertigo and all those minor, awful things that would make your life just a little harder than it had to be. If anything, your head was always a little too light, a little too empty, especially after so many hours of following the same unpaved road with nothing to think about but the passing scenery and Eden’s vague instructions, little more than a list of names and goods. Little to go off of, despite his insistence that you be the one to go.

You’d asked why he didn’t just go himself the first time he sent you on your way with a basket of herbs and roots, but Eden had only frowned, shaking his head. He said he wasn’t welcome, not in the marketplace, not in a village that’d already come to know him by name. He said that, if you cared for him at all, you wouldn’t subject him to a full day of haggling in hushed tones with women who refuse to sell mediocre incense for anything less than a small fortune.

And since you did (foolishly) care for him, you went. Not that you were anymore wanted in the marketplace than he was.

You hated it, compared to the cozy isolation of Eden’s home. You hated how crowded it was, how alien it felt to have to navigate the cramped stalls, how the merchant in front of you scowled as he weighed small bags of the exotic, colorful spices Eden was so fond of, the ones that you could never seem to taste the way you were supposed to, judgingly by how liberally Eden used them. He didn’t try to hide the disdain in his voice as he spoke, aged weariness mixed with a self-righteous reluctant. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t used to it, that constant trepidation from people who didn't understand you, from people who didn't care for Eden. At least he was kind enough not to hide it. “Running errands for the witch hermit, again?”

“Eden’s not a hermit.” You tried to smile, to brush it off as if was just another misconception. He wasn’t. You weren’t sure what he was, but he liked people, he liked having someone else around. Or, he liked having you around, at least. He didn’t seem to care much about company, beyond that. “He just enjoys his privacy. We both do.”

“Only a witch, then.” There was a pause, a gruff laugh that didn’t match his grim disposition. Something in the back of your throat tightened, and silently, you wished he’d be a bit more wary of you. Just enough to keep him from speaking so openly. “I’d take what you can and go, if I were you. He takes after his father, and that man spent his whole life makin’ a monster of himself, playing with things no one should. His son ain’t much different.”

It was your turn to laugh, now. “He cries whenever he finds fawns separated from their mothers. He takes in tadpoles he finds puddles. I don’t think Eden is capable of cruelty.” He was a kind man. You’d never seen him be anything but kind. If he had an ulterior motive, if he had a single sadistic bone in his body, you had yet to find it. “He took me in, too, when I was injured. He might be the only reason I have a roof over my head, now. That’s not a kindness I can say very many people have showed me.”

His lips pursed, the barest hints of confusion crossing his expression. It was gone in an instant, and you tried not to linger on it. He thought poorly of Eden, but the mere fact that you were alive – walking and breathing and alive – was enough to earn him your gratitude. Regardless of what a merchant and a marketplace worth of gossip thought. You knew what you believed, you knew what was true, and you wouldn’t let a few rumors convince you otherwise.

Although, you’d be lying if you said that belief didn’t waver, as he went on. “Cruelty isn’t all you have to worry about.”

You opened your mouth. Then, you closed it again, keeping your eyes on the basket still hanging limply on your arm. He wasn’t done yet, not with the spices, not with his poorly veiled warnings, but you didn’t want to listen. You could listen, you would listen, but you didn’t want to. You didn’t want to believe anything you heard in such a crowded place, in such an awful place.

You just wanted to get back to Eden.

~

Willow bark, to take the pain away.

It’s more of a comfort than a necessity, by now. You used to need it, rely on it, and you still liked to keep a bundle nearby, just in case, for days where the soreness was worse than it should be and you needed something to take the edge off, to suppress that overwhelming ache back into a steady throb. But, you never needed it, not like you used to. Not like you had when your injury was a defining feature rather than an afterthought and Eden’s medical expertise was more of a experimental artform than a practiced skill.

His hands didn’t shake, anymore, as his fingers skirted over your bare skin, following along the outline of your wound, the trail of stitches that stretched from the bottom of your shoulder bone to the center of your rib cage and repeated itself, carrying over again and again and again, forming neat rows of tender flesh and scar tissue that refused to stop any higher than your hip bone. He wasn’t hesitant, not with the needle, not as he pushed it through the long-suffering spots where he’d first messily laid your stitches months ago, and he didn’t have to look at you to recognize the way you shifted, the soft string of expletives you let out, to notice your little attempts to turn your head at just the right angle, flinch at just the right time to—

“Eyes on the ceiling,” He demanded. With a small huff, you obeyed, turning back towards the furthest wall. “It’ll only get worse, if you look.”

You knew that. He’d said as much as thousand times before, once for every day he'd tended to your lasting wounds. You were tempted to try, to insist it was only fair that you got to know what was going on with your own body, but you trusted Eden, and it was easier to tilt your head back than to argue, to search the cluttered room for something more interesting than the boy sitting at your side and your own, nagging discomfort.

You were in his workshop, now, an area separated from the rest of the cottage and filled to the brim with the tools of Eden’s trade – blooming flowers permanently encased in blocks of amber, the shells of insects hollowed out and ground into a fine powder, pots, everywhere, some empty and some not, the largest placed over a smoldering hearth that never seemed to grow dimmer, despite how often Eden forgot to tend to it. There was something inside, a substance you didn’t recognize, bubbling and black as a starless sky. It was already solidifying around the edges of its cauldron, crystallizing into rows of jagged, silvery edges slowly creeping along the coaction's surface like an infection. Like a parasite. Like something that shouldn’t have existed but continued to, regardless.

Eden must’ve caught you staring. The needle stilled, and instead, he took to dabbing something cool and smooth around the edges of your scars. A rag, or a balm, or a dozen other possible remedies. You didn't try to look. “It’s for you,” He explained, as if that made it any better. “One of my father’s incomplete recipes. He never figured out how to stop it from hardening once it’s exposed to open air.” Eden clicked his tongue, pulling the thread he was working with taut, and you cringed, tying to ignore the slight pinch. It didn’t hurt, not really, not like it used to. It didn’t hurt at all, if you were being honest, but it felt like it should’ve. “The color isn’t right, either. And I’ve already fed enough dye into the damn thing to poison a small village.”

You should’ve laughed. You wanted to, you knew it was the reaction he was looking for, but it was all you could do to avert your stare, to let your fingers curl around the edge of the table he’d perched you on. "They really don’t like you.”

“I’ve noticed.” A blunt response, not abrasive, but not encouraging, either. Not as dismissive as you would’ve preferred. “And yet, they manage to stomach my cures regardless. It’s funny how quickly pain softens the heart, isn’t it?”

“They say it’s unnatural.” You were pushing, now. You should know better than to push. You never found out anything good, when you tried to push. “They say your father used to dabble in things that shouldn’t be.”

Eden sighed, pushing himself to his feet. There was a short silence, interrupted only by the sound of glass knocking against glass before he dropped what he was holding, stepping in front of you and cupping your face with both hands, instead, forcing you to face him, to meet his dark eyes. Black eyes. Lightless eyes. A contradiction when compared his tanned skin and warm smile. A contradiction you tried to overlook as he bent down, kissing the top of your head so gently, you could almost bring yourself to ignore it altogether.

“My father was a toymaker and a healer. My mother died in childbirth. He did what he could to take care of me, and there is nothing unnatural about that.” He took a moment to laugh, to hold you, and you couldn’t be help but be thankful for it. Only weeks ago, he’d been afraid to touch you, afraid to watch you break all over again. Now, it was all he could do to let you go long enough for his arms to fall to your waist, for your face to find his chest, his tunic, a place to hide yourself away from the rest of the world. You didn’t want to go back, not to the village, not to the marketplace, not to the lonely, hurtful, desolate world outside his cottage. You didn’t want to go back to a place filled with so many people so determined to separate you from Eden. You didn’t want to return to a life you couldn’t remember, one where you wouldn’t have the man who’d saved you by your side. “He loved his family, just as I love you.”

For once, you didn’t have to convince yourself to believe him.

~

Witch hazel, to stop the bleeding.

You’d need it. You’d need a lot of it, more than you should for such a small cut, a jagged line drawn from the corner of your eye to your opposite check, thin but deep and bleeding, pouring out, washing over your hands as you tried to clutch at your face and rub away the damage, like a child trying to blink away a bad dream. Your legs might’ve been bleeding, too, the sides of your ankles, the backs of your thighs, your skin scraped raw in all the places you’d hit the ground as you tripped, falling over your own feet at your stumbled backward, but you didn’t check, you didn’t want to check, you didn’t want to see how bad it was. You didn’t want to take your eyes off the man in front of you, his towering stature, his grim expression.

His sword, silver and unsheathed and pointed at your heart, as it had been from the moment he first caught sight of you.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. No one was supposed to be here, in Eden’s forest, only minutes away from the cottage you’d come to think of as your safe haven. He hadn’t asked for your name, he hadn’t mentioned Eden, he hadn’t said a word to you, not before there was a dagger flashing across your line of sight, a weapon quickly discarded for something more intimidating, something that’d let him stay at arm’s length while he approached you, his stare holding yours, his lips pulled into a thin frown. “I—” You tried, but your voice gave out quickly. You couldn’t remember the last time someone had threatened your life. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been so scared. “Please, I didn’t mean to get in your—”

“Stop talking.” His tone was flat, apathetic, the barest hints of rage seeping through a weathered veil of neutrality. Immediately, you fell silent. “Who said you had the right to use that voice?”

You opened your mouth, but you thought better of it, biting down on the inside of your cheek as you bowed your head. You wanted to get back to Eden, back to his cottage. You wanted to be anywhere but here. You wanted to run, but you wanted to get out of this with your head on your shoulders, too. “Are you going to kill me?”

“It will not be a true death.” There was a pause, a reluctant hesitation. You pulled your knees into your chest, your hand still pressed to your wound, but the gesture didn’t seem to earn you any pity. “But, I am going to make this—”

He stopped, abruptly, his head attention towards something behind you. You heard it a moment later – measured footsteps, barely making a sound against the dead leaves and branches that littered the forest floor. You didn’t turn around. You didn’t have to.

Not when there was only one person who’d ever bother to save you.

“Adam,” Eden called, already positioning himself at your side. His hand was already on his satchel, toying with the buckle. Like he’d done this, before. Like he already knew it wouldn’t resolve itself peacefully. “There are easier ways to introduce yourself. If you put that sword away, I’m sure (Y/n) could still find a way to forgive—”

“Do not call it by that name.” He was focused on Eden, now, leaving you to fade into the background, to observe as his hands began to shake and he glared, baring his teeth, as Eden had done more than try to play peacekeeper. “That is not (Y/n). It doesn’t deserve to pretend it is, none of your abominations do. It won't bring— It can't—” He trailed off, his sword falling back to his side, his eyes clenching shut. You almost felt bad for him, your would-be murderer, but Eden’s expression remained cold, unbothered. Slowly, almost idly, he reached down, taking you by the arm and helping you to your feet, letting you tuck yourself against him as Adam finally found his voice.

“(Y/n) is dead. Nothing you do can change that.”

A moment passed in silence, still, deathly, frigid silence.

Then, Eden spoke.

“I can handle this on my own.” He didn’t deny it. He wasn’t denying it. Why wasn’t he denying it? “I need you to brew tea, Chamomile. Gather as much lavender as you can on your way home, until your pockets are full and you can’t carry anymore. Can you do that for me, love?”

You nodded, but you were still shaking, still unsure, still so, so confused. You weren’t dead. You could breathe, and you could think, and you ate and you slept and you weren’t dead. “I’m not.” You didn’t know who you were talking to – Adam, still clutching his sword, still ready to behead whoever his blade could reach or Eden, your Eden, the gentle protector who hadn’t looked at you once since his arrival. You just wanted someone to say it wasn’t true. You just needed someone to say it wasn’t true. “I’m not. I’m alive. I’m not de—”

“I’m in love,” Eden said, his voice soft. As if he hadn’t heard you at all. “Why does everyone act as if that’s so monstrous?”

You didn’t want to hear Adam’s response. You didn’t want to hear anything, not from him, not from Eden, and certainly not from your own frenzied thoughts, racing and only growing louder as you ran, sprinting, stumbling through the forest in any direction your legs would carry you. A crooked sob racked over your chest, and reflexively, you moved to brush away the tears blurring your vision, but you couldn’t feel yourself when you should’ve, it wasn’t flesh that met your cheek. Your eyes darted to your hand, a sneer already playing at your lips for whatever mud or decaying foliage had plastered itself against your skin, but…

But, you found a small trail of crystals, instead, silvery-glass that coated your palm, rows of jagged edges that hadn’t been there before, that shouldn’t have been there, where your blood had stained your skin only minutes ago. Or, where you thought your blood should’ve stained your skin. You hadn’t looked.

You hadn’t looked.

You froze dead in your tracks.

Slowly, our raised a hand to your face, to the cut carved into it, to what should’ve been a bloody, bloody wound. Something jagged met your fingertips, but you ignored the slight sting. It didn’t hurt. Not as much as it should’ve. Not as much as you wanted it to.

By the time you pulled away, your hand was covered with it. Thick, cool, forming webs between your fingers as you spread them apart. Dark. A kind of dark you’d only seen once.

As black as a starless sky.

[jojo-fantasy-aus]

Fantasy au!

Josuke x F! Reader- ch 3

It takes two.

This is going to be a loooong series. I hope you all are up for it!

Tw for creepy, handsy old men, but this chapter is mostly just fanservice. Enjoy!

----

You were sleeping rather pleasantly when you were suddenly shaken awake. A hazy fear flooded you, Immediately panicked in your half-asleep state. You sat up hurriedly to the sound of Josuke calling your name.

"We need to go. That bastard from the alley exposed our location." A hazy shock panged in your chest as the rest of the sleepiness wore off. Things could never be easy, could they? There was always something shitty around the corner. It was frustrating, but couldn't say it was unexpected.

Josuke set some dress on the bed. It certainly wasn't yours, it was a plain dress that looked as if it was travel clothes made for minor noble women. The pockets sewn into the thin brown fabric and long sleeves told you that. How did he get this? Surely he didn't buy it?!

"Tonio wanted me to give this to you, said that some traveling party left it here. I know leaving so soon is a shock but try and hurry, yeah?" Josuke said as he left the room, attempting at a reassuring look before closing the door with a quiet click.

A knight's undershirt, a night gown, and a dress? How many items did Tonio have from forgetful travelers?

You could hear Josuke and Okuyasu's muffled voices just outside the door as you changed, struggling to get into the dress as quickly as you could. You stopped for just a moment and looked around the room. Were you missing anything? Your gaze shifting to the basket of medical supplies.

You felt bad for Tonio, but continued to shove a small bottle of the disinfectant and some gauze in the pockets of the dress. The voices outside had gone quiet, and you started to anxiously fiddle with the necklace again. Mapping out the grooves of the flower. It was worrying, this entire situation. Josuke briefly knocked on the door and let himself in, he called your name softly.

"We gotta go, now." You nodded, already speed walking out the door. It reminded you a little too much of the festival when Josuke slipped his hand into your own. His grip was different this time as the two of you hurried down the hallways. Gentle, reassuring. Maybe you were just overthinking it, but you couldn't deny that it felt nice to have his hand in your own. That fluttery feeling in your chest returned, but you ignored it.

Josuke kept peeking over his shoulder to make sure you were keeping up ok, hand only letting go of yours so that you could run down the stairs. The heat of his hand lingered, and you found yourself missing it as you rushed.

"Josuke, over here!" Tonio's light whisper came from the back corner of his tavern, coaxing the two of you over and out the back door this time.

Your thin dress was no match for the cold night air, and the feeling of the incoming winter was prominent. Everything seemed so surreal in this cold weather. Lights blurred together, figures were fuzzy, and it became hard to focus as you exited the Tavern.

Okuyasu waved at you and Josuke from an old farm cart, reins in hand, horses ready and waiting to take off. Josuke's face lit up, and yours did too. Maybe this rescue plan was going to be little less tiring than you thought. Thanks to the man from yesterday, you had a general direction to follow, and now you had a way of travel. Yet, a small, uncomfortable feeling remained in the pit of your stomach. There was no way the path ahead would be easy.

"Try not to damage it while you're gone, this is the only produce cart I have." Tonio chuckled as he and Josuke shared a handshake. Josuke was in the middle of thanking him when Tonio suddenly pulled his hand away with a shocked face.

"I almost forgot!" Tonio turned around and quickly opened the door, grabbing an item from the coat rack. He held it out as he returned and you realized that it was a sword. The sheath was beautiful, a dark leather with a single bright stone right below the base of the hilt. It reminded you of Josuke, and you smiled a bit at the realization. Josuke's eyes glittered as Tonio handed it to him.

"Tonio, thank you! I had forgotten that I left it here!" Tonio nodded with a smile, turning to you.

"And you, young lady, try to stay safe long enough to mention my food to the King, yes?" The words rolled off his tongue, accent thick as ever, and he kissed your hand politely. Josuke stiffened next to you for just a split second.

"I'll try my best, Tonio, but I can't promise anything." You couldn't help but smile, Tonio had given you so much already, it was easy to tell that Koichi had kept good company.

Yelling could be heard from the front of the tavern, and Tonio said one last goodbye to Okuyasu before heading back through his tavern to buy some time. Josuke easily helped you into the cart and Okuyasu took off as soon as Josuke was seated in the back with you. All three of you preparing for the adventure ahead.

You hoped that Yukako would hold on for just a bit longer. You were determined to find her soon.

 

Okuyasu snored loudly in the back of the cart as the sun started to haul itself into the morning sky. You couldn't help but snicker a bit as he talked in his sleep, for a guy that looked like a mercenary punk, he wasn't quite the cookie-cutter mold you first thought him to be. Josuke had taken the reins when Okuyasu started to get sleepy, and now the both of you were sitting up front.

The sunlight was comforting and pleasantly warm against the cold breeze of fall. You held Josuke's satchel and sword in your lap, inadvertently holding it tighter when another cold gust of wind rushed by. Still, your eyes were closed as you happily basked in the sun. This was the first time in a while where you could be so calm and comfortable, you tried your best not to focus on the "what if's" for now, lest the anxiety return too soon. When you opened up your eyes Josuke was looking at you, face soft with a slight smile. He turned his head back to the road when he realized you noticed.

"I haven't seen you this calm in a while." Josuke mused. "Then again, I haven't seen you calm ever." You scoffed, a playful pout on your face as you pretended to be annoyed. Beginning to retort something back when a snore interrupted you.

"I wish that I was calm enough to sleep that well," Josuke laughed, adjusting the reins in his grip and relaxing a bit, letting the horses slow so that they didn't overwork themselves after the rushed escape this morning.

"He's always been a deep sleeper. I'm still surprised that Tonio and I were able to wake him up this morning," You adjusted your grip on his bag, smile faltering just a bit from the mention of this morning, and slid your cold hands underneath the sleeves of your dress to warm them up a bit. You didn't notice when Josuke scooted closer to you, but you did subconsciously enjoy the warmth this human heater seemed to give off.

"I thought he was working for Tonio?"

"He was. But Tonio let him off the contract so he could help us find Koichi." Josuke didn't mention Princess Yukako at all, leaving you a bit frustrated, but you understood. Not everyone liked the princess, and that was ok. But it always hurt when they didn't bother trying to know her before making assumptions.

"...I think that's really why Okuyasu and I are here. He's our friend, even if we don't like Yukako, Koichi is still with her." Josuke let out a pitiful chuckle, "- I really don't know what he sees in her. But his whole demeanor changed when we found them the other day. I don't know what she could've said to him."

You smiled so wide that your cheeks started to hurt. Koichi was starting to like Yukako? Maybe he was just as forgiving as you hoped. So that's what Yukako might've been blushing about when you saw her. Even if he was definitely right to be wary of her after the incident, you still were so happy for your friend. It was a morbid thought, but Koichi was a good man, and Yukako certainly Loves him, so at least they were together right now. If they were together. You hoped they were.

"Love is fickle like that, sometimes," You murmured, almost without thinking. Josuke's slight smile went unnoticed by you as your thoughts were still on your friends.

The reins landing in your lap startled you out of your haze, hands grabbing them firmly out of instinct. When you turned back to Josuke to ask him what that was all about, he was much closer. Right hand settled next to your left thigh as he leaned over you. His face was so close to yours you could feel his breath. Your stomach just about flipped and your face started to burn. His left hand reaching around near your other arm as he winked.

"Is it?" And just like that, he grabbed his Canteen out of the satchel and took the reins back. sitting back down where he was before, only inches away and yet so terribly far. Your face still felt like it was in fire as he popped open the cap to take a swig. What was that?!

He had to be teasing you at this point, right? After all that you'd seen of him, and the many women attempting at courting Josuke, you found it hard to believe an action like that to be anything other than a tease. It was almost infuriating how much of a flirt he was. You tried to brush it off, but every little thing he did made you mad, or at least, you thought you were mad?

What ever happened to, "I'd never fawn over someone so easily," ?

You didn't notice that you were frowning, but Josuke did.

Josuke's eyes stayed dead set on the path ahead, but the sun was angled just so that you couldn't see his face. You wouldn't even know what to say if you could speak, but your jaw was clamped shut, leaving you desperately regaining your composure for the next few minutes as you traveled over the rolling hills.

 

The sun was high in the sky now, but Okuyasu remained asleep despite the oranges in the back that were rattling around him all day. The wind had returned full force as a dark sheet of clouds blocked out the sky, and you were all but curled up into yourself to keep warm. You started to fall asleep in your uncomfortably slouched position when a small, annoyed noise from Josuke woke you up. Sitting up straight and rubbing the sleep out of your eyes was harder than it should've been.

"Is everything ok?" When you opened your eyes to look at Josuke, he pointed you to the path ahead. The uncomfortable feeling from this morning returned full force.

Some meters ahead of you was a roadblock, figures in dark clothes standing guard by a makeshift gate. A huge city of dark tents just off the left of the road. Anxiety and fear returned as the scene from the alley played in your head over and over again. Josuke held your hand lightly, and you looked up at him in a panic.

"Go with everything I say ok? -Okuyasu!" Josuke turned around, hand not lingering on yours as he shook the mercenary awake, ordering him to act sick in a steely, commanding voice you had never heard before.

Before you knew it you were rolling up to the gate. Josuke slung an arm around you protectively, glancing at your eyes in a way that you knew meant that this was part of his plan. He gave you a reassuring squeeze as the cart came to a stop.

"Can this wait? My wife and I need to get back home." Josuke complained. Oh. That's why he was being so protective. Your face flushed and you tried to act natural, curling into his side as the men blocked both sides of the cart, a third coming out of nowhere and walking around the back to poke at Okuyasu.

"State your name." The man on Josuke's side of the cart grumbled, hand on his dagger, eyes squarely on the sword still in your arms.

"Nakamura," The fake name rolled off his tongue. Josuke snapped his head around as Okuyasu groaned, the other guard reaching for the mercenary's bag.

"Cut that out! He's sick. We're taking him home to be treated." Two of the men chuckled darkly, the one in the back retracting his hand immediately and wiping his hand on his shirt with a scowl.

You didn't mean to. You weren't even thinking when you made accidental eye contact with the man on your side. His disgusting gritty smile and beady eyes almost forcing a repulsive action out of you.

"You know, I've never heard of a knight in the Nakamura family before, And I thought I knew them so well." The guard caught onto the flash of fear and shock in your face as he spoke. Shit, it was a trick. The slimy man moved quickly as he grabbed your arm suddenly, reaching for the sword.

His wrist snapped in half just before he could get ahold of the sword, he let out a cry and his grip on your arm tightened painfully.

All this took place in mere seconds. You flinched hard in Josuke's arms, calling for him, but you already had his attention. He wrapped both his arms around you instinctively, ripping you away from the bastard's hands.

The greasy guard backed away in utter fear and pain as Josuke stared at him with the most terrifying look you had ever seen. Josuke looked like he could kill the man right then and there as one of his hands wrapped around the hilt of the sword in your arms. The guard on the left drew his dagger while the one around the back walked over to the slimy guy as he screamed.

"She broke my wrist! She-" Josuke glanced back at you for a moment, gentle eyes seemingly asking are you ok? And you nodded in response. It was terrifying, but you didn't doubt it had to do with, what you believed to be, his mage abilities.

"Neither of them touched you dumbass! How would a woman-" The guards bickered and Josuke's gazed flickered over to the one with the dagger. He had to say something to get out of this situation quickly.

His hand that had remained on you slipped down your side and landed on your stomach. His eyes stayed on you while she spoke to the guards.

"All this stress is bad for the baby. I don't know what you men want, but I'm sure we can come up with a compromise." What?! You were pregnant now? Your face was so red at this point that you could be entered as a beet in a 'largest crop' contest, and win. Josuke looked over to the man with the dagger, grip tightening on his sword.

Okuyasu slowly sat up in the back, it looked like he was getting restless too. You yourself still had no idea what you had gotten yourself into. You just wanted to disappear, to have this awful moment over already and never see these stupid guards again.

You flinched again at the feeling of another hand on your bruised arm, a chest pressed to your back. But when you snapped your head around there was no one there. You glanced at your arm and your jaw dropped when you saw that the bruise and nail marks had started to heal. You looked back at Josuke but he wasn't paying any mind to you at all, still staring at the other guard. How does he do these things?

The man with the dagger didn't speak, and Josuke stiffened. Josuke unsheathed his sword in a flash and the guard readied himself to attack when-

 

"Enough!" A low voice commanded. All three men stiffened as a figure stepped out of a tent and waltzed over to the cart.

"Jotaro?" Josuke called, shocked. He lowered his sword, and the feeling of a chest pressed to your back dissipated.

"Josuke Higashikata. We need to talk."

[grandmother-goblin]

Hangman’s Mercy

Chapter 1

Summary: After the war, Levi remembers how he fell in love with the executioner.

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: Canon-typical Violence, Decapitation, Suggestive Themes, Language, Period-typical Sexism.

On a summer morning, outside an oceanfront cafe, Levi longed for the executioner's embrace. Seagulls cawed on the distant beach and the gentle ocean breeze blew salty air over his steaming cup of tea. Chamomile; the executioner's favorite. Especially with a little honey after a stressful day. They spent countless nights together, sitting across a candlelit table when neither of them could sleep or in each other’s arms, with a hot pot of chamomile tea between them. God, he missed those days. 

The chamomile tea at the Marelean cafe did not taste as sweet, even with honey. Maybe that was just because of the company. Not that Levi minded the overzealous journalist scribbling in his journal across from him. After all, he paid well, and it wasn’t like Levi had much to do after the war. Despite the massive loss of life, humanity trudged towards a new sense of normalcy only weeks later. Businesses had to continue, people needed a new sense of purpose or just a moment of peace, and society was never one to stay still. Levi still had to make a living in a world without titans, so when a fast-talking kid with a fire in his eyes offered to pay him for interviews he took the opportunity.

The young man, Marty Chase, tapped his pen against a pile of notes with a nervous energy. Levi took a few days to get to know Marty’s work before he agreed to a biography, and the kid checked out. Marty co-authored three bestsellers before the age of thirty, all biographies of Marelean warriors. Levi did not know any of the subjects, but he felt like he did after a few chapters into his works. How he wove together someone’s life with just interviews and notes, Levi did not know. Some sort of creative witchcraft he would never understand. 

Marty flipped to a fresh page in his notebook and clicked his pen. “When I was listening back to our last session, you mentioned an executioner a couple of times. Tell me about that.”

“What about her?”

“Her?” Marty made a note and underlined the fact the executioner was a woman several times. He flipped back through his notes, finding some highlighted passages in the ink. “How did you know her?”

Steam rose from his teacup, and Levi watched as it disappeared into the wind. He hadn’t realized he mentioned the executioner enough during his interviews for Marty to take notice. In fact, he tried to leave the executioner out of it as much as he could. Those who read his biography wouldn’t give a damn about that. Why would they? They wanted to know about his military experience, his title of Humanity’s Strongest, about Eren Jaeger, the military coup, what he saw, and what he experienced. They wanted to know what his comrades could no longer share. Without bringing her into it, they could know all of that. Would she even want them to know? 

Levi tasted the chamomile on his tongue and closed his eyes, wishing it was as sweet as he remembered on her lips. He could not ask her permission to share her part of the story. It was impossible. Levi turned the warm teacup in his hands and sighed.

“I almost asked her to marry me.”

The incessant pen clicking stopped. Marty stared at him, eyes wide and mouth agape like a fish out of water. Marty dove into the fat briefcase he lugged around and retrieved that stupid little recording device. It was slightly bigger than a deck of cards with black casing and a roll of tape inside. “And you thought you could just leave out that teensy-weensy, tiny, detail?”

Levi shrugged. “Didn’t think you’d care about that.”

Marty rolled his eyes, as if Levi said something ridiculous, like cats could be herded or the moon didn’t exist. “This stuff is the heart of a good story, no pun intended,” he said. “You’re pretty extraordinary, Mr. Ackerman, no two ways about that. But, people like you seem so far out of reach to an average guy like me. What we need is something to reel you back in. Something to tell our audience, ‘hey, this guy is as human as he is amazing’, and what’s more human than romantic love?”

“Taking a shit?” 

Marty set his pen on the table and eyed him like a disappointed teacher looking at the class clown. “If you really don’t think she’s important, you don’t have to tell me about her.”

“Don’t give me the guilt trip shit, Marty.” Levi finished his tea and set the empty cup at the edge of the iron bistro table. “You have plans today?”

“Not if you have a story to tell me.”

“Then get me another cup of tea. Lavender and bergamot, no sweetener.”

Marty beamed like Levi had offered a pot of gold instead of a day's worth of work. Though to Marty, those two were likely one and the same. His book about Reiner’s time in Paradis sold out in some of the biggest shops Marley offered. Well, Levi hoped the paycheck would be worth both of their time. 

After Marty returned with the tea and a heart-attack inducing amount of coffee, he pressed the little red button on the side of his recording device. He leaned in close to the speaker and rattled off his typical prelude to the recording. “Levi Ackerman. Tape thirty-two. Who is the executioner?”

Levi sipped his fresh cup of tea, thankful for the bit of caffeine because he knew he’d be needing it. “Don’t turn my biography into a romance novel.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Ackerman,” Marty answered without missing a beat. He clicked his pen and tapped it against the first line in his notebook. “Now, tell me how you first met the executioner.”

Levi held his cup of tea just above the table, not sure if he was going to set it down or take another sip. He guessed he had nothing to lose by sharing their story. “Twenty-five years ago, I saw my first beheading. I was still just a kid scraping by in the Underground…”

Levi, a tiny, twelve-year-old piece of garbage, had only been on his own for a few weeks. Kenny taught him just enough to take care of himself and drop-kicked him from the relative safety of the nest to the dogs. With Kenny, awful as he was, Levi at least felt a sense of safety with an adult around. Once that was ripped from under him, it took him a while to regain his bearings. 

The Sunday market was the perfect place to pick pockets and swipe valuables, whether they were from a vendor or a customer. The place was so crowded, a small kid like him could disappear in an instant. He just needed to find the right target. Ideally, someone who looked like they didn’t belong Underground. Someone who would be unused to the dim lighting, the stale air thick with the smell of smoke, and the echoing chatter of thousands of people crammed into one place. Few people from above ground went to the Sunday market, but there were enough to make them easy pickings. 

On the outskirts of the market, right outside a general store where Kenny used to buy his liquor, sat a young girl atop some supply crates. One look at her, and Levi knew she was the perfect target. Clean clothes? Check. Shiny hair? Check. Dirt-free face? Check? Alone? Also check. The pretty, sun-kissed face was also a dead giveaway. The brown leather satchel on her lap, scratch-free with shiny copper buckles, would be a great steal. He just had to get a hold of it.

Levi smoothed his ratty, moth-bitten coat and checked his hair in a dusty shop window. Well, he did not look so bad that the girl would run away from him screaming. At least he hoped he didn’t. Not that he cared. Normally, he would go for a more covert approach, one where his target would never know he was there, but there was no way he could take the bag right off of her lap. He’d have to get her to put it down. 

With his heart beating faster than a bat's wings, he approached the girl. When she smiled at him, his breath caught in his throat. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea. He focused on the bag. Even if there was nothing good in there, the bag itself would be worth something, whether it be money or for his own use. 

Unable to keep eye contact, he swallowed and looked at his shoes, restless fingers pulling at a loose thread in his pocket. “Hey,” he said, his voice breaking in a way that it hadn’t before. He cleared his throat and willed the heat from his face. What was wrong with him?

The girl leaned on her bag. “Hi,” she said with a pretty, white smile. “I like your haircut.”

His eyes widened at the unexpected compliment and the blush he swallowed before heat rushed right back to his face. Thank the walls the Underground was dark, because he was certain she would have laughed if she saw the color on his face. “Thanks, uhh—” he toyed with the thread in his pocket. “I, uh, like your face.” Stupid. Idiot. Maybe if he ran away right now, she would forget about the whole thing.

She covered her mouth when she giggled. It was the cutest thing he had ever heard. What the hell? Was this what Kenny meant when told Levi that girls would stop being gross one day? What a joke. A terrible, awful joke.

He needed to act fast. Plan A: get the girl to stand. Maybe she would put the bag down for a second, long enough for him to grab it and run. He scratched the back of his neck and eyed the crate she was sitting on. “I need to get to that box.��� 

“Oh.” The girl straightened, one hand still on her bag. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get in the way,” she said and pushed herself off the crates, her long green skirt billowing behind her. Unfortunately, she looped the handle around her forearm, keeping it close.

Well, that did not work. Time for Plan B. Levi looked over the crate and found a serial number. He pretended to examine it for a second before he turned back to the girl. “Can you help me move this?” he asked. “I think I need the one below it.”

Still smiling, the girl set her bag down and dusted her hands off on her skirt. “Sure. What should I do?”

Perfect. “Grab that side.” He pointed to the side of the crate furthest away from her bag. Without question, she tucked her fingers under one side of the crate while Levi lifted the other. Sure, he could have just snatched the bag while she had her back turned, but that was too risky. He wanted a little more of a head start before she followed him. 

Levi lifted the top crate well off of the bottom one, and the little girl followed, shuffling her feet against the cobblestone. Her skinny arms strained and her cheeks colored with exertion. There was his chance. 

His fingers released, and Levi’s end of the crate crashed into the ground. The girl faltered and Levi acted before the girl could even let go of her half of the crate. His deft hands swiped the bag as he darted past. Too easy. Way too easy. Levi couldn’t help but smile to himself as he swung the bag over his shoulder and the girl shouted after him. Levi circled around the edge of the market to put some distance between him and the girl before he ducked into the thick of the crowd. 

In the bustling marketplace, Levi swung the bag onto his shoulder and blended in among the other patrons. No one gave him a second look, like he was just there for a bit of shopping, like everyone else. Easy, he thought to himself. Even if the bag had little in it, the bag itself was nice. Sturdy, with lots of pockets and a comfortable strap. Maybe he’d even keep it for himself instead of pawning it off. 

When Levi ducked through a small crowd near a pastry stand, he felt a sudden tug at the back of his jacket. His collar caught his throat as he was yanked back, and a hand the size of his head gripped his shoulder like a vice. 

“Say, my daughter has a bag just like that,” said a deep, gravelly voice as the grip on his shoulder tightened. 

Levi felt like his heart had stopped. No. What were the fucking chances. The surrounding people started to take notice of the altercation and backed away. People in the Underground knew Levi through reputation alone, and he had taken on men twice his size more times than he could count. Too late not to cause a scene. 

Levi grasped his knife and struck behind him, the blade making contact with the man’s flesh. The man groaned and Levi felt another hand on him as he was spun around. Levi’s heart jumped to his throat. This man wasn’t twice his size, he was even bigger. If he hadn’t known better, he might have thought a titan had made it Underground. 

Under a bushy red beard that surrounded his face like a lion’s mane, he smiled, a gold tooth front and center of his grin. Levi briefly wondered how much the tooth was worth before he felt his knife plucked from his hand. 

“Get him, Ivor!” yelled someone in the crowd. 

Another man shouted. “Teach that shit a lesson, hangman!”

The hangman. The fucking hangman. Levi felt his blood run cold as he stared up at the monstrous man. So he was the man Kenny would talk about when he got drunk. The one man that Kenny actually seemed to fear. Not because he thought Ivor would hunt him down, but because Ivor would be the one to carry out his sentence if he was ever tried for his crimes. Remembering the way Kenny described how the hangman would torture his victims before the execution made Levi’s stomach turn.

“I’m not going to fight a child,” Ivor called back to the crowd. “Piss off. You’re not getting a damn show, you buzzards.”

The crowd did not disperse as more insults and jeers were thrown the hangman’s way. 

Ivor ignored the taunts. Instead, the hangman focused his pale blue eyes into Levi’s gray ones. “I made that bag for my daughter,” he said. “All it has in it is tea and bad handwritten poetry. I’d tell you to see for yourself, but she’d kill me if I let a stranger read her poems,” he added with a light chuckle. 

“Let go of me.”

One hand tightened its grip while the other let go, giving Levi what was supposed to be a friendly pat. “Aye, can’t do that until I get that bag back, son.” 

Levi tossed the bag on the ground. Whatever. He knew when to cut his losses. “Take it.” 

Still not letting go of him, Ivor placed a boot on the bag strap, keeping it secure. “Thank you, my boy,” he boomed and ruffled Levi’s hair. Ivor knelt as close to Levi’s level as he could, his trench coat made of thick hide bunching up at his feet. He smelled of bergamot and lemon, like he had doused himself in perfumes. Something about Ivor contradicted all of Levi’s expectations: respected and ridiculed, fearsome and jovial, a killer with kind eyes. Despite the iron grip on his shoulder, the hangman seemed… almost nice? Much more tolerant than most of the folks Levi came across, and definitely more so than the ones who felt they were wronged. Blood soaked through Ivor’s pant leg where Levi had slashed his knife, but Ivor did not acknowledge it.

“Take this, boy,” he said in a rough voice barely above a whisper. Ivor reached into his pocket and pressed a small, yet heavy, bag of coins into Levi’s hands, doing his best to shield the transaction from the crowd. “Stay out of trouble. If you don’t, you’ll be seeing me again, boy. And next time, I won’t be so nice.” 

Ivor picked up his daughter’s bag and finally released his hold on Levi, patting him on his certainly bruised shoulder. Levi stumbled back, reaching for the knife that was no longer there. Right. The hangman had tossed it aside. Levi pocketed the coins and stood his ground, waiting for an opening to grab his knife again. 

Around them, the crowd booed. They hurled words not even Kenny would have used the hangman’s way, and he stood tall and proud, stoic as a statue. When a piece of rotten vegetable pelted Ivor’s coat, he brushed off with a laugh as people in the crowd continued to taunt and jeer. The hangman turned to look at Levi once more, before giving a subtle nod towards a break in the crowd. Levi swore he saw the man mouth the word ‘go’ from behind his massive beard.

“Thought you were going to give us a show, hangman!” a shrill woman shouted.

Ivor tossed the bag over his shoulder. “You’ll be getting a show tomorrow.” He spread his arms with all the showmanship of a magician. “Now stop gawking and do something with your miserable lives, you scabs!”

With a slight limp, Ivor turned into the crowd. Not really thinking, Levi picked his knife off the ground and ran the opposite direction. He did not know where he was going, just that he needed to get out of the marketplace and away from anyone who saw Ivor give him money. Maybe that was the man’s true intention: to put a target on Levi’s back with the cash rather than true altruism. Why else would he give a kid who just stabbed him a satchel full of coins?

The woman’s voice rang in his head. Give us a show, hangman! He was the fucking hangman, and Levi had robbed the hangman’s kid. Levi never felt so stupid in his life. The human embodiment of Death had Levi in his grip, at his mercy, and let him live. 

With that gift, Levi ran and did not stop until he reached his lodgings. Levi locked the door behind him and slid to the floor to catch his breath. 

When his breathing settled, he pulled the bag of coins out and counted them. More than he expected. A lot more. Enough to get him food for an entire month, or even longer if he planned right. Levi closed his eyes and let his head rest against the wooden door behind him. What the hell kind of person gave a piece of shit like him such a gift? Maybe Ivor had something wrong with him.

Despite how Levi never wanted to see the executioner again, Levi found himself drawn to the town square the following afternoon. He never watched an execution before, but he knew where they took place. The crowd made for good pickings, as those who came to watch were distracted by the morbid spectacle and alcohol. Levi always took his pickings and left before the cart with the condemned even made it to the podium.

There were no gallows for hanging, just a raised platform with a block of wood at the center. People gathered a healthy distance away from the platform. Out of the splash zone, as one man said. Levi did not want to think about how that distance was determined, and stood behind two larger men as a human shield. He could see the podium well enough between them, so long as they stood relatively still. It would have been so easy to swipe something right out of their pockets, but he resisted. It was a day for observation, and observation only. He didn’t know why, but he needed to see the executioner in action. He needed to know it was, in fact, the same man he met the day before. 

Nothing he knew of the man, the little he did know, made any sense. Obviously respected, yet despised. A brute who didn’t flinch at a knife slicing his thigh and laughed off a jeering crowd. A man who made bags for his daughter, gave coins to a kid who stabbed him, and went off to kill a person the next day.

One man in front of him, with a stocky build and a mustache that looked like a push broom, puffed at his cigarette. “Any idea what this one did?”

His friend, a taller man with a ponytail, replied, “I heard she killed a few of her customers from the whore house. Poor bastards. Thought they were paying for a good time, then they’d get home and drop dead. Took them ages to find out why.”

“How many did she get?” 

“At least twelve, from what I’ve heard.”

“Shit.” The mustached man tossed his cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his boots. “Executioner will let us know.” 

The man with a ponytail cocked his chin towards the main road. “Speak of the devil and he will come,” he said. 

Far down the end of the main road, a draft horse pulled a rickety wagon fixed with a rusty iron cage. The giant, red-haired hangman sat at the front of the cart, his boxy gloved hands gripping the reins as he shouted at people to get out of the way. Beside him was the little girl from yesterday, hugging her precious bag.

“Can’t believe he’s training her,” Mustache Man muttered.

Ponytail shrugged. “Not like she has many other prospects,” he said. “Being the hangman’s kid, it’s not like men will be lining up for her. Hell, I don’t know if a whore house would take her.”

Mustache Man hummed thoughtfully and lit up another cigarette. “Poor kid.” 

The wagon reached the podium and Ivor hauled himself down from the rider seat, the wagon creaking with the sudden loss of weight. Levi would not have been surprised if the ground shook when those massive boots hit the pavement like a fallen powder keg. Ivor turned back to the cart and gingerly lifted his daughter and set her down beside him. Without a word, the girl dug into her bag and passed a vial to her father before she went to the edge of the podium.

A man in a Military Police uniform lingered nearby. Probably acting as some sort of bailiff, Levi figured, judging by the official-looking documents clutched between his fingers. He ascended to the podium and shouted something to Ivor, who went to the back of the wagon. 

A desperate wail echoed over the crowd when Ivor swung open the metal bars. A frail woman with her hands tied behind her back scrambled to the back of the wagon, sobbing and pleading. Her hair had been cut short, but Levi recognized her from the brothel as a woman his mother would sometimes talk to. Her name was Ada, if he remembered correctly, and she was almost unrecognizable between the haphazardly chopped hair and tear-stained face. Kicking at his meaty hands, squirming away from his vice-like grip, Ivor pulled her from the cart despite her best efforts. 

Turning her away from the crowd, Ivor pinched her jaw and dumped the vial down her throat. He held her mouth shut until she swallowed as he whispered something in her ear. Sobbing, tears leaving salty streaks on her face and snot dripping from her nose, she stopped fighting him. Her shoulders slumped and her head hung like a rag doll, as if she had finally accepted what was coming to her. Guiding her by the back of the neck, Ivor led Ada up four wooden steps to the chopping block, his blocky hand grasping her arm when she tripped. 

The crowd booed and jeered as Ivor pushed Ada to her knees in front of the block. She stared ahead, her eyes already dead and her body slumping to the side. Ivor righted her long enough to tie a blindfold over her eyes before she slumped over again. The man from the Military Police rang a bell to quiet the crowd. When the chatter and yelling subsided, he read the charges brought before Ada. Like the gentlemen in front of him had said, she had confessed to poisoning at least a dozen men, all of whom were prior customers of the brothel. 

Once the charges had been read, Ivor pushed the woman down. With one massive hand on the back of her skull, he guided her neck, so it rested across the chopping block. The moment he let go, her head lolled to the side.

Releasing Ada to pick up the ax, Ivor watched as she slipped off the block completely. Her body curled up into itself like a frightened child, wetness seeping through her blindfold. He set the ax down on its head, holding it upright with one hand and motioning for his daughter with the other. The crowd grew quiet as the little girl joined him on the podium.

“Shit,” Ponytail drawled with more pity than Levi ever thought could fit into a curse word. 

“Yeah,” Mustache Man agreed, forgetting the cigarette that burned between his finger tips.

Levi could not hear what Ivor said, but the girl nodded and knelt in front of Ada. Her small hands lifted Ada from beneath her jaw and pulled her back onto the chopping block. With Ada’s neck in place, the girl walked back on her knees as far away from the block as she could manage without letting go of Ada’s hair.

Ivor wrapped his bulking hands around the long handle of the ax and poised himself beside the block, waiting.

When the man from the Military Police gave the signal, Ivor hoisted the ax into the air and brought it down. Once, then once again, each strike accompanied by the thud of metal against flesh, wet plops of blood, and gasps of horror and cheers from the crowd. At least two people vomited at the sight and one man in the front row fainted. 

Pale in the face and speckled with blood, the little girl detangled her fingers from Ada’s hair. Ada’s head rolled a few inches from where the girl had dropped it, blood staining the wooden podium in its path. The girl did not move until Ivor yanked her to her feet. Deaf to the audience, the little girl walked back to the cart as though she were drawn by a string and not of her own accord. 

The man from the Military Police pronounced Ada dead as Ivor held up the still dripping head to the crowd. Levi’s stomach turned. For a moment, he thought he might join the people who lost their lunch at the sight, but he swallowed thickly and turned away. If he never saw either of them again, it would be too soon. 

Twenty-five years later, and he still remembered that afternoon more clearly than he would have liked. It was not the most brutal death Levi had witnessed. Titans were plenty worse. Something else stood out about that one in particular, but Levi did not really know what. Even as he recounted the story to Marty, he could not say why the memory stuck with him so strongly. 

Marty poured creamer into his coffee and paused the recording device. Quietly, he wrote a few notes while Levi finished his cup of tea. Even though Marty had listened to the very worst of Levi’s stories, it seemed the story about a little girl holding a severed head and struck him differently. The change in disposition only lasted long enough for Marty to finish writing his notes, the gears in his brain seemed to turn as he did so. Marty checked his recording device and looked up at Levi, intrigue written across his face.

Levi picked up one of the cranberry scones Marty ordered almost twenty minutes ago. “You’ve got questions.”

Marty tapped his pen. “I do,” he said. “But first, I want to hear what happened next.”

[seokiloquy]

I’m Your Baby, Right? - Bokuto Koutarou

AU: Magic

Requested

Tags/Warnings: GN Reader, Witches/Wizards (and so on) are not gendered terms they are descriptors of specific magic practice, also the reader gets called ‘mama’ but it really doesn’t have anything to do with their gender.

Word Count: 5.5+

Your hands worked gently into the shoulders of the older woman as she slowly knocked back a steaming cup of tea. The dainty container was painted with intricate yellow patterns along the edge but was hidden by the woman’s swollen fingers. Similarly, her feet were lifted on a footrest as she waited for the swelling to go down.

A fluttery breath escaped her as you lifted your hands off the warm skin of her exposed shoulders. “You’re an angel, (L/N). This tea is lovely.” Taking a hand off the cup, the older woman rubbed her swollen belly with gentle strokes, shifting the silk fabric with every swipe.

“I’m not an angel, Mrs. Hooper. But thank you.” You reach for your supplies, placing the dried herbs and flower petals back into their respective jars before dropping them into your satchel.

“Oh pshh, you are nothing short of magic.”

Swinging the leather bag onto your shoulder, you smiled at the pregnant woman. “I wouldn’t be a witch without magic, now would I?” You padded your matching leather shoes toward the house’s main entrance, eager to get out of the pristine home filled with golden antiques that you could never dream of having in your little cottage. “Tell your husband to walk over with the money when he gets home, you need to stay sitting or you’ll pop!”

Mrs. Hooper let out a light laugh while waving you out from her reclined seat in the middle of the main room. The beautifully carved door closed behind you gently behind you as you walked down the concrete stairs to the main road. People rushed past you quickly, eager to get onto the train cart before it rolled it’s way to another part of town, apologizing as they knocked you into the fancy home’s metal stair rail.

Heading in the opposite direction of the pedestrian traffic, you took calm steady steps toward the town’s south edge where the houses gradually became smaller before hitting a grassy field followed by a wall of tall pine trees. The town was filled with ringing bells and stomping feet as people ran to their jobs. 

At the edge of the town’s centre, the concrete roads turned to stone paths and houses became sparse. Looking across the grassy field, past the scurrying children that dirtied their clothes with pesky grass stains and dirt, you saw your little house peeking out behind the first row of trees, surrounded by wild flora.

The kids and their parents waved to you as you walked past.

The wooden door creaked in agony as you pushed it open, croaking again as it swung shut. You kicked off your shoes, leaving them by the door as you stepped toward your kitchen table. A raspy purr emitted from the previously empty flower basket on the table, vibrating like an old man puffing out his last breath of cigar smoke. You peaked your head over the woven basket rim.

“Hi there, Mika. Are you tired?” Small coos bubbled out of your chest as you scooped the scruffy black cat into your arms. She twisted lazily, clawing at your cotton sleeves in an attempt to escape back into the basket. “No you don’t, you old geezer. It’s time for your medicine.”

The elderly familiar yowled as you cradled her in your arms, still trying to claw her way out as you reached for a needless syringe to place in the crook of her maw. “Don’t fight me now, you runt. You know I���ll win, you’re old, and a cat!”

Medicine safely down the short-haired cat’s throat, you set her free to wander around with hunched shoulders. You slumped into the chair that sat at the desk of all your jarred herbs and candles, watching the cat slowly crawl her way back to her favourite pillow and blanket. She struggled to jump up onto the couch. The sight made your stomach hurt.

As you climbed up the ornate astronomy tower attached to a large home near the center of town, you could hear voices echo into the stairwell. You took careful steps, listening to the stairs creak and keeping your hand gripped tightly to the railing.

“Akaashi, please. You got to tell me! This is important life info I need to hear.”

You pushed the wooden door at the top of the stairs open, leading you to a large circular room with shelves lining the walls filled with books, star maps, and questionable ingredients. Colourful silk scarves hung from the ceiling along with a spherical chair that suspended itself above the opening to the balcony, on the desk in the center of the room was a large black pot with a bubbling purple liquid over a heat source.

“Mr. Hoops, though I do specialize in magic of many forms, including fortunes, predicting the colour of your child’s hair does not require magic. They will be brunette, just like you and your wife.” Next to the bubbling pot was the town’s magic masterer, holding the titles of magic expertise as a warlock, enchanter, alchemist, and wizard, giving him the responsibility to respond to most of the towns inexplicable problems and often getting involved with predicting someone’s most likely future.

Flicking his hand over the top of the pot, the fire beneath it stopped and began to settle down, turning into a deep blue colour. He brushed the side of his blue and gold robes out of his way as he came to stand beside you, nodding in thanks as he took a small pastry from your hand.

“Now, Mr. Hoops, I have to work with (L/N) here, magic stuff, so if you could be so kind to escort yourself out and give your wife some company back home?”

The balding man nodded with a huff, wobbling past you to the door as he adjusted the black vest on his shoulders. He gave you a nod of acknowledgment as he adjusted the ribbon that was pinned over the heart of his chest, reading ‘Mayor’. Brushing a few thin hairs on his head, the door shut behind him with a gentle click.

“Akaashi, I hope I wasn’t interrupting.”

“Don’t worry, little witch, that man has been coming here every day for the past week hoping I could give him a fortune about his unborn child.”

You followed the enchanter to his center table, taking a seat on the round wooden stool he magicked out from under the table for you to recline on. You watched his flicking hand with an exasperated laugh before settling onto the seat. A little pygmy owl flew onto his shoulder, ruffling its feathers when it landed.

“So, what can I help you out with?”

You played with the baggy sleeves of your shirt, following Akaashi with your eyes as he pulled an empty glass container off his shelf and scooped a large amount of the blue liquid with a metal ladle. Slowly, he poured the smooth liquid into the glass jar. You gulped, suddenly feeling the need to drink some water. “I was wondering if you had any reverse ageing potions? Or something along those lines. Mika is getting old and you know a witch is nothing without their familiars. She even had trouble getting to her bed yesterday.”

Akaashi closed the jar with a pop of its lid. “That poor thing,” he said. “I have a few things that might work. But you should talk to Bokuto about familiars, it’s his area of primary study.”

Feeling heat crawl up your neck you shook your head rapidly, to the point of making the stool wobble beneath you. Thin wooden legs slamming into the floor. “Ah, no-no. That’s alright. I wouldn’t want to interrupt his studies.”

Akaashi scoffed as he reached for one of his many leather-bound books on his shelf as well as a few odd ingredients. “That man, for a want-to-be wizard, doesn’t put much effort into his more magic-based studies. But he is good with animals.”

A small whisper of ‘I know’ came meekly out of you, as Akaashi placed all the items on the table before you.

“This is probably all you need, read the instructions carefully. And just so you know, the potion probably won’t work for the long term.”

You nodded thankfully, standing from your seat. “While I’m here, do you want me to check on that wrist of yours?”

Akaashi gave you a small grin before waving his dominant hand in rapid flicking motions. “Thank you, but your tea and spell did just the trick.”

As you gathered your gifted supplies into your satchel Akaashi slowly made his way to the room’s exit, kindly gesturing you out. A snort escaped him as you suspiciously looked at a vial of red liquid before dropping it into the leather bag as well.

“Would you like me to escort you out, I can call Bokuto if you’d like.” A cunning grin cut into his cheek.

“No no, it’s okay. I can manage.” You walked through the doorway, looking up at the circular curve of the frame, before rushing down the steps. Akaashi’s laughter bubbled through the cold stairway.

Reaching the ground floor, where the main living space was, you sneezed as a bit of fluff tickled your nose.

“Sorry, little witch. Molly was shedding a bit more than normal.”

Even with your eyes squinted shut from your sudden sneeze, you could recognize the other person in the room. Your shoulders scrunched up to your eyes, fighting the heat that tried to crawl up your neck at the sound of the familiar loving wizard’s rough voice. An embarrassed laugh and cheeky grin nearly escaped you before you managed to school your expression into one of mild interest.

“A bit more?”

On the other side of your closed lids was a sight that desperately made you want to fall to your knees in a fit of adoring giggles.

Bokuto, from the tips of his raised hair to the bottom of leather boots, was covered in horsehair. The white stuck to him like glue, flying back as he brushed them away. He gave you a lopsided grin while picking fluff off of his shoulders. Your eyes followed the flexing of his upper torso underneath his white stable boy shirt. Across the width of his chest and along the length of his shoulder before trailing down his bicep, they grew in size as he reached for the opposite shoulder.

You gulped.

“So what’re you doing here anyway? Ooh, I like your outfit! It looks good.”

His eyes were very golden when you actually chose to look at them instead of the floor, they were sparkling. You adjusted the armholes of your ribbed vest, letting you large sleeves puff out a bit.

“Just grabbing a potion from Akaashi.”

“Oh Really?” his neck extended as stretched up in excitement. “I’m working on my curses and potions. Can I show you when I perfect them?!”

You responded with a happy grin. “You can show me at any time.”

“Yes!” In the corner of the pair’s kitchen, a squeak was heard. Bokuto gasped suddenly before shuffling through the cupboards with wild hands, knocking spices, jars and small bags out in haste. The muscles in his back seemed to threaten to rip through the seams of his shirt. “Peanut, no! You rat, get out of there!” He spun his head around to give you a big shiny smile, hand still tucked in the shelving. A small bird flew through the kitchen window, landing on his head with a satisfied chirp. “I’ll see you (L/N)!”

You left the warlock’s and his apprentice wizard’s home grabbing the strap of your old bag. Keeping the mental picture of bird nest Bokuto fresh in your mind

“Virgin blood.” Your brow furrowed as you looked from the leather spellbook that was laid out on your wooden table to the small vial that sat delicately between your fingers. “Where does he get this stuff?”

On the same table, between your cast iron pot and a large bouquet of dying flowers, Mika lazily played with a young mouse that was none-the-wiser about the harm that could come it’s way. Her claws never stretched out to hurt the small rodent though.

“One drop of virgin blood,” you read the line aloud as you followed. “Pinch of salt. Stir for 5 and settle for 24 hours.”

You twisted your body as you read the last line on the sheet, blindly reaching out for a wooden spoon. A hum built in your throat as you finished the line and began stirring. The puke green colour quickly turned into a delectable fruity pink. The smell even shifted into something nostalgic and sweet. 

For five minutes you stood there staring into the enticing liquid.

The mouse on the table squeaked.

“(Y/N)!”

The spoon you were just pulling out of the black pot, fell back in with a small splash.

“Bo— what happened to your ears?”

The tall muscle made man stood in the centre of your doorway, shoulders slumped in as he tried to collapse in on himself and hide in his colourfully stained work clothes. An unflattering frown pulled at the corner of his lips. He looked down toward your socked feet before staring at the pot in question. His eyes met yours quickly.

“One of my curses went wrong.” One of his large ears twitched at the sound of the mouse squeaking. He looked at the small rodent with wide eyes and twitching fingers.

“You’re on your way to being a donkey.”

He whined, spiked white and black hair drooping at the ends. “Do you have a curse reverser or something? I really want my ears back to normal. Everything’s really loud.”

The tension between your brows was painful. “I have a few things. Stay here.”

As you ran toward your spell cupboard, Bokuto made his way to your kitchen counter, where your pot was left forgotten, tempting him with the smell of freshly cooked meat off of a grill. His tongue poked out, wetting the seam of his lip as he took a silent step toward the liquid-filled pot. As he reached the table’s side, Mika and her friendly mouse scattered, knocking into the vase as they jumped off. It wobbled slightly, but enticed by the pink stew in the small black pot, Bokuto didn’t notice.

He reached for the forgotten wooden spoon, scooping up the soup in the scooped head before lifting it to his mouth. The smell alone, wafting up into his nose from its position under his upper lip, made him salivate. He took an eager gulp, throwing his head back to swallow it all in one go.

“Bo?”

Dropping the wooden spoon back into the pink liquid, Bokuto looked over his shoulder to give you a wide-eyed look, lips pursed together in a surprised pout. The donkey ears on his head twitched slightly before morphing back to normal.

“Bo, did you drink my potion?” You rushed, setting down a collection of small jars on your couch’s side table. 

His golden eyes followed your hurried movements as you came to stand before him, peeking into the content of the pot before gripping his cheeks tightly in the palm of your hands. He could feel the heat build-up in his cheeks underneath your hands and his stomach stir happily. You stared straight into his eyes, desperately trying to keep your attention on the situation at hand and not drown in the golden colour of his irises.

“Did you?”

Completely distracted by having your warm breath warm over his face, Bokuto grinned between his smushed cheeks. With a delighted hum, he slumped, melting into your hands. Just as he began to lift his hands to cover yours, you were blinded away from the flustering view.

Within a fraction of a second, a puff of glittering pink smoke appeared, making you hold back a cough as you shut your eyes tightly. The smoke felt warm and soft as it flew gently across your skin. The weight in your hands increased slightly.

Sighing, you turned your head back straight, hoping to be given the sight of Bokuto gently cradling your hands against his cheek with a dopey smile and relaxed eyelids. 

“Dumbass,” you spat.

In your hands, balancing in the open space between your thumb and index fingers, was a child. A chubby child with plump round cheeks that set his lips into a permanent pout with a bit of drool dripping out and eyebrows that were absolutely too large for his face. Short two-toned hair sprouted out of his scalp like new feathers.

You let out a loud groan, bringing the naked toddler into your arms as you run to your bedroom to fish out a small blanket to snuggly wrap him in. Bokuto’s tiny hands gripped the edge of the small quilt that you messily warped around his shoulders, lifting it to his mouth to slobber against it. With gentle fingers, you pulled the cotton cloth away from his wet mouth and tucked him as close to you as possible so he couldn’t squirm.

Your socked feet padded loudly as you ran back to the kitchen. With your left hand free from carrying baby Bokuto’s weight, you dragged your finger over the worn page of akaashi’s book, searching. The toddler gargled behind you, spouting out gibberish words.

Taking your finger off the page, you carded them through his soft hair. The words that were neatly printed on the page in liquid ink gave you no answers, making thoughts run madly through your head, nearly blocking out the sound of a knock coming from your front door.

Cursing lightly under your breath, you bounced the baby in your arms and ran to the door.

“(L/N), Mr. Hooper sent me to pick up a— is that a baby?” The woman, who you recognized to be the mayor’s assistant, pointed to the young boy that giggled in your arms. “Is that a child of Bokuto? How—?”

You were quick to cut her off, flinging your left arm in the air and shaking your open farm furiously. “No-no-no. I don’t have a baby.”

“Mama.”

The professionally dressed woman gave you a confused look, almost disbelieving, as her thin eyebrow raised.

“Ignore that.” You gestured for her to enter your abode, closing the door as she stood quietly. “Inflammation and pain I presume?” You asked.

The woman nodded, following you into the kitchen where your pot still sat. Bouncing Bokuto in your arm, you opened a cupboard where all your medicinal tea mixtures and salves sat patiently.

“Is that dyed potato soup?” she asked curiously.

Spinning on your heel you reached out to hand her the medicine before gilding her shoulder towards the door.

“Nope, and you don’t want to drink it either. Mrs. Hoops knows the rules but please remind her; 3 times a day, breakfast, lunch and dinner.”

The old wooden door shut with a creek behind her.

You smacked the air blindly with a clawed hand as the extra weight of the baby wizard rested in your other arm. Bokuto giggled happily, trying to reach for the small birds that flew frantically around. You bounced, adjusting his place on your hip bone as a sparrow landed on your shoulder.

“What do you mean there’s no reverse spell?” 

Akaashi groaned, arms darting out from his side as he tried to grab hold of a tiny rat that sprinted across his kitchen counter. Sprinting around the island and head down, the Warlock fair to notice a loyal steed poke head through the kitchen window.

“Molly!” He stumbled back, letting the rat run free and becoming a tree for birds. A chickadee chirped from the top of his head as he dug his fingers into his eyelids. “There’s no reverse spell because it’s meant to permanently give you a better life, letting you be youthful while continuing to age until death.”

Bokuto’s grubby fingers played with the feathers of the sparrow on your shoulder, massaging into the pleased bird’s head. You let out a long sigh, tapping your toe into the wood floor. “So Bokuto is going to be stuck like this until he dies?”

Swatting away the birds, Akaashi made his way around the kitchen’s island table to lift himself onto in front of you. Molly, seeing a golden opportunity, stuck her head in a little further to nibble on the black hair at the back of Akaashi’s head. A tired sigh escaped him.

“Was the potion finished when he decided to drink it?”

The baby of your hip gurgled, suddenly finding the collar of your shirt to be an interesting snack. “No, I had just finished mixing it.”

Leaning back against the horse's muzzle, Akaashi let his shoulder slump in relief. “Thank the gods. This should only be temporary then, maybe last a day.”

One of your brows raised as you watched the wizard get jostled around by Molly nodded her head. Akaashi leaned forward again, grabbing the edges of his gold-trimmed robe and wrapping them around his torso a bit tighter. His eyes shut for a moment as the rat scurried into his lap and curled into a ball.

“Tired?”

“Very, I can’t handle all these familiars. That’s Bokuto’s Job. I have my own work to do but now I have to deal with his two?” He glared at the mini Bokuto on your hip, who only giggled in response and made grabby hands at his mentor. “You just had to turn into a kid didn’t you, didn't even clean up after your curses, just ran off to go see (L/N) with those ridiculous ears on your head.” He paused for a moment. “Those are gone at least.”

You chuckled lightly as Bokuto whined on your hip, clenching his tiny first around the fabric of your shirt, occasionally hitting your side in anger. “So just a day? I can handle that.”

You peeked into your pot, looking at the slightly more purple liquid that waited inside of it as you cut up a few dried herbs. They split easily under your knife, crinkling loudly as you cut them down the smaller, more easily crunched.

Bokuto sat on your couch, tiny hands squeezing and playing with the paws of your old cat Mika as her tiny mouse friend curled into the fur on her back. He giggled, swaying on his bottom with his legs kicked spread out on Mika's sides.

Dropped the last few herbs into their respected jars, you wiped your hands with a beige cloth and made your way into the living room.

Bokuto immediately caught sight of you, drooping the feline's arms and raising his own towards you, hoping to be picked up. As you were about to comply, the two-toned haired baby cheered, “Mama!”

You grimaced, pausing your torso’s descent to pick him up for a moment. Eyes narrowed, you stared into his wide happy eyes and grinning mouth. “Why did you have to turn into a baby? Don’t call me ‘mama’.”

Scooping him into your arms, you brought the transformed Bokuto into your chest, rubbing his back as he gave you pleased gurgles in response. He smushed his mouth into your clothed collarbone, slobbering as he nuzzled into the spot, making his spit soak into your shirt.

“You’re lucky you're cute.”

As you were about to relax into the couch next to your beloved cat there was a knock at your door. 

You sat Bokuto back down on the couch, ignoring his hands that tucked desperately at your shirt. He pouted, whining as he hit the cushions.

“Ah, hello. What can I help you with?”

On the other side of the door’s threshold was a young boy. His hands held onto the top of his satchel and swayed from side to side, a nervous smile pulling at his cheeks.

“Hi, witch (L/N). My grandpa’s got a cold.”

You furrowed your brow momentarily, looking over your shoulder at the sound of shuffling, you faced the young boy again. “Sweats, cough, runny nose?”

“All of the above.”

 Something crashed behind you. You snapped your torso around to see your once beautiful vase spread across your floor in pieces. Bokuto sat in the center of the watery mess, a large pout pulling at his chubby cheeks as he glared at you, open palms smacking into the clear liquid.

“Damn it, Bokuto.”

He smacked his hands into the floor again, nearly hitting a shard of porcelain. Giving the boy in the doorway an exasperated look. “Let me get you what you need.”

You walked by the toddler, stepping over the mess, mentality promising to deal with it as soon as you gave the boy his medicine. 

Bokuto smacked the floor again, whining.

“Bo, stop it please,” you begged, shuffling through your cabinets before pulling out a couple of jars. Carrying them in your hand to give them to the young boy that stood patiently outside.

With a loud whine, Bokuto continued to smack the wet floor repeatedly.

Handing off the jars, the boy gave you a quiet thanks and dropped a collection of coins in your palm before scurrying off toward town. Bokuto, wrapped in what now was a damp towel continued to tantrum. “Bo, please stop.”

Instead, he rolled onto his back and began to kick and punch the water. 

You waited for his cries to stop while you picked up all of the vase’s pieces, putting them on your couch's side table for later. Bokuto’s cries slowed.

“Okay. Bo—”

He wailed for a second. You got up from your knees and searched for a towel. Once one was in your hand, you started to pat your floor dry.

“Bo.”

Another cry.

“Bo.”

And again.

“Koutarou please stop.”

Bokuto’s chubby arms and legs fell limp at his side. The light of the setting sun glowed through your window, painting the last few drops he laid in with a golden glow and making the white hairs on his head appear more akin to the colour of the yellow wildflowers outside your window.

He gave you an expecting look, arms held out towards you with wide eyes and a jutted out lip. Complying, you picked the man-child up and cradled him in your arm as you wiped the last bit of water up.

“Really. ‘Kou’. That’s all it took.”

He giggled into your chest, nuzzling his nose against your sternum.

The rest of the evening was spent with a happy child burrowing his way into your stomach as you lazed back across the length of your couch, rubbing his back as Mika snoozed off on your window sill, trying to soak in the last bit of heat the sun gave off. You gently trailed your nails along the center of Bokuto’s spine before brushing your fingers through his soft, spiky hair. He shivered a bit.

Mika, now cold from the outdoor breeze, jumped onto the couch by your feet, nudging them as a sign to go to bed.

Picking your legs up, you carried Bokuto toward the blanket filled basket that Mika had made a home in only a day prior. Carefully, you lowered Bokuto’s child form into the warm cocoon, ignoring his fussy cries as you swaddled him in the sheets.

“Mama! Papa!”

“Stop that, I’m not your parent.” You stared at his pout for a moment, before letting out a frustrated groan. “Why do you have to be a cute baby too? Wasn’t having you around as an adult enough?”

Bokuto huffed, thick eyebrows pulling upwards in the center.

“I give up, time for bed.”

You set the basket down on the couch next to Mika before heading into your room empty-handed, ready to crack the window open and sleep.

It must have been around 2 am when the cries started, startling you awake. You yawned as you made your way into the main room of your house, hobbling with each step until you were looking over the armrest of your couch.

Bokuto, with his eyes shut tightly, swung his arms wildly as he scratched into the darkness of your home. You sighed, suddenly thankful for the distance between your home and the edge of town. Any neighbours would have come knocking at your door because of the noise.

Tucking your hands underneath the boy’s arms, you lifted him into your chest, bouncing him as he cried into your shoulder. His small fingers dug into your shoulder, trying his best to hold you back as snot began to stain the loose fabric of your shirt. You let out quiet shushing noises and trailed your knuckles across his back as you tiredly carried him back to your room.

Sitting down on the soft mattress, you dug your feet underneath your blankets, still warm from your forgotten body heat. A yawn tore it’s way out of you as you pulled the blankets up to your shoulder, sure to cover Bokuto’s tiny body in the process.

“All right you big baby, time to sleep.”

He was quick to get comfortable, taking slow breathes through his nose as he sucked in all the warmth you had to offer.

“Night, Kou.”

Typically, the sound of birds chirping outside your window at the break of dawn was something you enjoyed. Waking up to the fluttery tunes they sang in the trees that surrounded your little cottage. Today though, today they were loud. Screeching like sharp whistles into your ear at the earliest hour of the morning.

Groaning, you pulled your hand out from the warm cave that your blankets created around you, shivering as soon as you felt the drastically colder air on the outside. You rubbed your eye and turned your head toward the window. A small flock sat along your window sill, including one that perched itself on your bedside lamp, chirping about something you didn’t understand.

You huffed through your nose, closing your eyes and tucking your hand back under the blanket as you turned back to your original position. Your cold nose hit something incredibly warm.

“Get back here or you’ll get cold little witch.”

Feeling a large hand followed by familiar well-built muscles that radiated extreme heat wrap around your back before thick, calloused fingers dug into the fleshy crook of your shoulder. Warm built up at the top of your head with every exhale he let out. Your own breath hit his chest, spreading throughout the tight space and making your cheeks feel even hotter. You scrunched your nose against the defined centerline between Bokuto’s pecks, desperately trying to avert your gaze despite the limited view.

Even with the protective layer of your loose sleep shirt, nothing was left to the imagination as he held you tightly against his best. 

You lifted your head, nose bumping against his. Within your peripherals, you could see his naturally spiky two-toned hair bend against your pillows, his cheek squish slightly as his head sunk into the fluffy object, and his thick grey eyebrows rise in surprise at your quick movement. The rising sun, though dim, made his golden eyes glow brightly in the shadowed room. Despite not being able to see it, you could tell his mouth parted as his lips brushed against yours ever so slightly before breathing out hot air like a dragon guarding a rare treasure.

You breathed slowly, eyelids fluttering. “If you want me to stay, get rid of those birds of yours. Or I will, I could use a few feathers for some spells.”

His following chuckle sent deep vibrations down your spine. You could feel his lips pull apart along your hairline, grinning widely. “You wouldn’t do that.”

“Don’t make me feed you my cat’s potion again. You were much cuter as a baby.”

Another laugh made you want to sink into your mattress and hide. You dug your face into his chest, feeling his muscles flex against your skin.

“I recall you thinking I was cute already.”

“Just shut your birds up, please. I don’t need to be embarrassed anymore.”

He complied, slowly pulling away to roll off the other side of the bed and walk around to the window where the birds continued to sing happily. The blanket fell from his waist and you covered your head with the blanket.

“Put some clothes on!”

“I don’t know where you put them!”

You cried into the blankets dramatically, self-deprecating laughs escaping you as you tried to choke on the tick sheets. Following the sound of your window shutting, a weight slowly began to press you deeper into the mattress, increasing the heat all around your body by melting into the sheets. You could feel his hands rub at your back and stomach through the blanket as his knees dug into the mattress on either side of you. His voice, sharp and ruff from sleep, cut its way through your blanket before meeting your ear on the other side and you tried no to melt on the spot.

“Come on little witch, there’s no need to be embarrassed. I’m your baby, right?” 

...I may have gone just a little bit far at the ending there….. Well, uh… happy early Halloween. - Bacon

Posted: 25/10/2020

[johnslamson]

Galen Leather Goods

review by John Slamson

One often neglects the maintenance of everyday objects, even pricy ones. But pens require some care—a luxury fountain-pen with lacquer and gold obviously needs attention, but an entry-level pen needs protection as well if you want it to last.

The pen case is the starting point of basic maintenance. It enables to avoid scratches on the pen, but also protects your clothes and assorted things from possible ink accidents. And, of course, it becomes a valuable object in itself with its own aesthetic value.

Galen Leather is a Turkey-based company specialising in pen paraphernalia, especially leather items such as pen cases, desk pads and a variety of small leather goods, some of them very creative such as the writer’s medic bag with its intricate folding system. They also offer pipe pouches, tool bags and wallets, etc.

As I am trying to stop causing stress to the fabric of my jackets by adding weight to the inside pocket—three pens is probably a bit too much—I am relying more and more on pen cases, which I carry in my bag. So I ordered one from Galen to test their craft.

Sturdy. That’s the word that leaps to mind when you touch the beautiful leather pen case. Intriguing could be the second one as you admire the rough dye of the leather. I chose the ‘crazy horse’ variety in blue. It’s a full-grain, vegetable-tanned leather (meaning natural tannins from the barks, leaves and branches were used to process the hides).

Don’t go looking for smooth textures—in textural equivalence for fabrics, this is more denim than silk. Th leather will probably soften, but my guess is that we’re starting with some very stiff material here and I don’t see it mellowing too much—a good thing as far as I’m concerned. The burnished edges are very strong and create a protruding lip that protects the case. The case is hand-made and you can’t see it falling apart for the next few decades. The leather is obviously patina-friendly and already gives the impression of a well-travelled piece.

The packaging is very thoughtful, with care instructions, a postcard with a nice writing sample, a piece of evil-eye jewellery and even a bag of tea and coffee. More importantly, it contains a pen-slot extender, ie a stick of wood, which came in quite handy to work out the stiffness of the leather and make some extra room for my bigger pens. This is not for large models— my Montegrappa Extra 1930 and Montblanc 149 could not fit their ample shapes inside. After leaving the wooden extender overnight, my Montblanc 149 still couldn’t fit but my Montegrappa could, as well as a hefty S.T. Dupont. Bear that in mind if you’re want to use it for mammoth-sized pens.

Next step for me will be the brown and the green leathers. Possibly the desk pads, certainly the notebooks, which have garnered international praise for their quality — they lay flat for better writing, have rounded edges to avoid damaging them and feature Tomoe River paper, a legendary fountain pen-friendly Japanese paper.

Galen Leather is obviously great value but they are above all a creative company with plenty of ideas and a quality level to shame some luxury brands. Its designs have the user in mind and present actual practicality, each object taking its functional purpose seriously. Aesthetically, they have a rough edge that is in line with a satchel-carrying, denim-loving, texture-wearing, patina-prone, workwear style. Or simply for those who love leather and a pen case.

John Slamson

[sinemoras09]

crash pad/solatium excerpt

@innovativestruggles How Rin gets resurrected. Excerpts from “Crash Pad” and “Solatium.” 

(Warnings for self-harm, suicidal ideation, and non-explicit sexual content.)

Background - female Hashirama and Madara are married and have a daughter who has the Rinnegan; Hashi resurrected Madara’s little brother Izuna using a modified Mokuton; Madara’s just convinced everyone to name Obito Hokage and Obito lives alone in a shitty apartment.

Things written in past tense are flashbacks.

------

1.

He had lost another match. This time, Kakashi was the one to deal the finishing blows, the sharp end of a tanto blade slicing against the meat of his arm. After the match, Obito slunk behind the bleachers at the training grounds, nursing the cut on his arm when Rin came up to sit beside him. "Let me see," Rin said, and Obito lowered the ice pack to show her: the whole lower part of his face was bruised, the tender swell of his lower lip throbbing painfully. Rin frowned and dug through her medical pack, pulling out antiseptic and gauze and reaching up to gently daub at his wounds. Obito didn't say anything. He didn't know why she was still sitting with him, even though he was pretty sure he was the laughing stock of the entire shinobi class. He hated it. Heat rose to his cheeks and he was intensely aware of how close Rin was sitting, how her small fingers curled around the tender bones of his wrist. "It wasn't that bad," Rin said, because she was a girl and girls could read minds, and even though he liked that she was spending time with him, he didn't like that it was because she felt sorry for him. "Do you want me to stitch that up?" She took his arm again, and dumbly Obito sat beside her. She opened her pack and pulled out a straight suture, holding his arm against her lap. "It's because you need someone to practice on, right?" Obito said, because he was sulking and upset and he was sick of everybody feeling sorry for him. "Yeah," Rin said. "It is." And Obito sulked even more, before Rin giggled and nudged at his shoulder. "You make me a really good medic," Rin said, and Obito blushed, because at least he was good for something, for once. She smiled at him and he wanted nothing more than to reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, because maybe then she would look at him. Maybe then she would actually see him. But he didn't do anything. Instead, he stared at his hands. There was dirt under his fingernails and his knuckles were scratched and bruised. "Hey," Rin said. "What is it? I can't read your mind, you need to tell me what's wrong." At the time, he couldn't say anything. Couldn't tell her that all he wanted to do was sink into her chest, that just sitting next to her made everything go away.

*****

She was his best friend. He liked to think the feeling was mutual, and he was pretty sure it was, because she smiled and laughed and gripped his hand, and she was grinning wide when she told him he was like a brother to her, closer than family. She didn't mind spending time with him. Even when he felt stupid and lonely, she cheered him up and he made her laugh, and they enjoyed each other's company, even if half the time she was gushing about other boys who were better than him.

He wondered what it would be like to kiss her. Her lips looked soft. Once, she had dropped a stick of cherry chapstick on the training grounds, which Obito had furtively picked up and snuck into his pocket. Experimentally he rubbed a little on his hand and decided that it felt goopy and a little sticky. But he still glanced behind him and dropped a quick kiss on his wrist, to see what it would feel like. He decided it felt nice. He pressed his lips together, relishing the feel.

There were a lot of things Obito wondered about. In the darkness of Madara's cave, Obito stared up at the ceiling and wondered what it would feel like. What it would feel like to hold her, to have her lie against his chest and bury his nose into her hair.

He found out, several months later: her body, limp and unmoving. Her hair, sticky and matted with warm old blood.

****** Deidara was drunk. It was the first time Obito had seen his supposed partner this way: face red, slightly slurring his words, Deidara laughing and throwing marble-sized bombs that burst like firecrackers in the small tavern. If Deidara were even the least bit sober, Obito would shake his head and implore Deidara-sempai to please watch where he's throwing things, they could hurt someone! But Deidara was drunk and Obito dropped the act, watching his partner with hooded eyes. Around him, people were laughing. Civilians were carousing and rough-housing, and the sounds of laughter gathered and rose like waves. Deidara had disappeared and Obito was alone now, watching with a predatory stillness as the men in the tavern laughed, loudly. There were women standing outside the tavern, leaning suggestively and soliciting the patrons of the bar. Their faces were painted garish, bright colors, layers of heavy make-up caked in the small lines of leather skin. He has never touched a woman. In the early years after Rin's death, he had been angry and disgusted with his younger self, who openly fantasized about her as if she were something disposable. A hole for his perverted pleasure. At the time, it had made him angry and ashamed. But that was then, and the years that pass have all but numbed him completely to the goings-on of normal men. Pain. Love. Hurt. Fear. It was all inconsequential to him. Even Rin's death was a strangely divorced from the rest of himself, that wounded, worried part of himself an unnecessary distraction. "What's with the mask?" someone said, and Obito looked up, saw the woman leaning against his table. He glanced at the clock. It was well past midnight, and Obito didn't need to sleep. It was one of the few advantages of having Hashirama's cells implanted in his body, which let him move without eating or sleeping for days on end. He was grateful for this: the rare times his human half needed rest, he was plagued with nightmares, broken bodies and dead gray eyes. The woman was leaning forward, jutting the tops of her breasts in full view of his gaze. Normally he would not even entertain the thought of doing something so pointless. Sex didn't interest him. Though he would use his body as a tool if the situation so called for it, sex in and of itself was useless to him. But the hour was late, and there was nothing for him to do but wait for Deidara and stew in his thoughts. He had a few hours to kill, and he would be lying to himself to say he wasn't at least a little bit curious. He came to a decision. He reached for a satchel of coins. The clock ticked. In the darkness, he stood motionless; she knelt in front of him on her knees. He was limp but she was doing her best, bobbing her head and swallowing, obscenely. He felt nothing. Not even as he felt her massaging his flaccid cock, running her thumb under the wilted underside of his glans before gamely sucking him again. What was he doing? Around him, moonlight puddled like spilled milk, and Obito pushed her back, tucking himself back in. "What?" The prostitute looked up at him, frustrated. "That is enough," Obito said, and he zipped up his clothes. "Your money is on the dresser. I do not require anything further." "But you didn't get off." His jaw tightened. He strode across the room, pulling open his bag. "Look," the prostitute said, standing. "I can't read your mind. You need to tell me what's wrong." Obito stopped. "What did you say to me?" Obito said. The prostitute blinked, uncertainly. "I said, you need to tell me what you like. If I'm doing something wrong--" "Get out," Obito said. "Wait, what?" "Leave," Obito said. "Now." And the prostitute stared at him one long moment, then snatched up the satchel of coins, pulling on her clothes.

*****

The day Kakashi beat him, he was humiliated. It wasn't enough that he lost the match. They jeered at him, and Obito knew, as he always did, that he was an outsider, that he didn't belong.

He was sitting at the edge of the river when Rin came out from nowhere. Wordlessly, she sat beside him, not saying anything and waiting for him to speak.

"I'm a failure," Obito said, finally. He looked at his hands; bruised knuckles, the scrap of bandage tied around his arm. "They're all right. I shouldn't even be here."

Across from them, the setting sun was a blaze of colors. Burnt out reds and bright orange streaks turning in every direction. "That's not true," Rin said, and the streak of golden light caught her face. The wind rose, and she moved a hand to push back her hair. "For what it's worth, I'm glad that you're here."

He looked up at her. She was looking out into the horizon, hair stirring in the soft breeze.

Nohara Rin. The only person who was kind to him. The only one who cared if he was there or gone.

Eyes filled with a warmth he couldn't explain, and Obito hunched into himself, pulling his goggles down and pulling his knees to his chest. Wordlessly, Rin rubbed soothing circles against his back until he leaned against her, squeezing his eyes.

Now, years later, he sat alone in the dark, hands clenching into fists. There was a tightness to his neck and shoulders and a burning behind his good eye.

There was a scar on his left arm from when Rin had stitched him, years ago. The scar was raised and jagged, and quietly he ran his fingers over the pearly bump, remembering. Gentle fingers curling around his wrist, a soft halo of blue chakra, healing him. A soothing warmth easing the pain.

In the next room, Deidara was snoring. Quietly, Obito adjusted his mask and looked out the window, at the bones of naked trees, and at the darkness that was streaked with the light of a solitary moon.

*****

2.

The tavern was crowded and noisy, and Rin followed Obito uncomfortably as he and Deidara sat at a table in middle of the room. Deidara was drunk and laughing and Obito was sitting next to him, clearly irritated. Rin watched as he cast a thin genjutsu over his errant partner that made him want to go to bed.

Rin sat next to him. She always felt uneasy sitting close to him when he was with others, preferring to watch him from a higher vantage point - the top corner of a room, on the ledge of a windowsill. Now she sat next to him and waited while Obito stared silently at the table, his Sharingan glittering from the eyelet of his mask.

"What's with the mask," someone said, and Rin looked up to see a prostitute leaning in front of him.

Rin stood up from the bench, backing away slowly as the prostitute sidled up next to Obito and started negotiating with him. 60 ryo for a blowjob. 100 for sex. Rin watched as Obito contemplated a minute, then reached to the side for his bag.

Rin knitted her fingers together, following them. She couldn't leave - something was drawing her here and she had to stay and watch him. Apprehensively, she floated behind the two of them as they walked heavily up the dark wooden staircase, tried to stay out of the way when the prostitute stepped inside and Obito shut the door with an authoritative click. The prostitute stepped forward to unzip his pants and Rin averted her eyes.

The room was dark. Against the wall, Rin could see the movement of shadows. Could hear soft wet sounds and the rustling of cloth. Her cheeks burned and if she were alive she would run out from the room as fast as she could. And then,

"That is enough," Obito said, and Rin turned to see him zipping up his clothes. "Your money is on the dresser. I do not require anything further." The prostitute straightened.

"But you didn't get off."

Rin watched as Obito strode across the room, pulling open his bag.

"Look," the prostitute said, standing. "I can't read your mind. You need to tell me what's wrong."

Rin sucked in her breath. Obito stopped.

"What did you say to me?" Obito said, and Rin could feel the potential for violence coiling beneath the surface. The prostitute blinked, uncertainly.

"I said, you need to tell me what you like. If I'm doing something wrong--"

"Get out," Obito said.

"Wait, what?"

"Leave," Obito said. "Now."

And the prostitute stared at him one long moment, then snatched up the satchel of coins, pulling on her clothes.

The door closed. Obito stood in the center of the room, shaking.

He was breathing hard, and it wasn't until he pulled off his mask that Rin could see the rims of his eyes were dark and shining. She sat on the bed and watched as he strode in front of her, then sat down heavily beside her.

Silence. Obito pressed the heel of his hand to his good eye, sniffing and dry-swallowing as he gritted his teeth and furiously tried to calm himself. He never let himself cry outright. Tears slipped down the sides of his face and he swiped at them angrily.

Rin rested her cheek against his back, leaning against him and wrapping her arms around his waist. She felt him relax. He took a shuddery breath then straightened, putting back on his mask.

Her eyes were filled with compassion as she watched him stand.

He stepped toward the window. Rin stepped behind him, sliding an open palm across his back, and he bowed his head as if he could feel her.

*****

3.

She perches on top of the refrigerator, watching as Obito gets ready. His movements are precise, exact, and Rin watches as he does the same thing he did every morning.

He wakes up. Takes his medications. Gets dressed, black turtleneck beneath the green flak jacket. Goes to the kitchen to grab a piece of fruit or bread before bounding down the metal stairs.

Sometimes there are slight variations - sometimes Obito would skip breakfast altogether - but Rin follows him anyway. Time moves differently as a ghost, and Rin experiences Obito's days in flashes. Flash, and he completes another mission. Flash, and now he’s back home.

Time slows when Obito doesn't have missions.

Rin sits in the corner of Obito's bedroom, watching him as he sleeps. It’s 5 AM, but he has an alarm set for 6 even though he has no missions. Rin's chakra builds. It’s just enough to flick the alarm switch off. Other guardian spirits could directly intervene in their charges, shape their fates and mold their destiny. Rin’s satisfied if she can help Obito with his alarm.

Obito stirs. Slowly his eyes blink open, only to see the clock blinking with a cheerful "8:02 AM" on the digital display. Rin watches as he starts to panic, but then remembers he has nothing to do today. She giggles to herself. If she were alive, she'd roll over in the bed next to him and hug him.

Bathroom. Brush teeth. Medications. He pads barefoot to the kitchen and opens the refrigerator, which is empty except for a random energy drink and a bag of gummy bears Kakashi had given him. He had absently tossed them in there, which Rin found cutely endearing. Obito looks at the bears and berates himself for being stupid, though, and he plucks the candy from the shelf and tosses it in the trash.

He stands in the middle of the kitchen, and Rin can hear the entire monologue to himself: should he go out and get food? Could he wait? He doesn't want to leave the apartment today. His eyes still hurt from the last mission, so he can't kamui there. This is annoying.

Rin glances around the kitchen. Floating upwards, she slips through the closed cupboards and drifts through the cabinets, until she finds the old box of granola bars he had shoved in with the dishes when he wasn't paying attention. Like a cat whose whiskers could tell the faintest change in the vibrations in the air, Obito turns, sees the spot in the cabinet, and remembers the granola bars.

Rin preens. She’s a good guardian spirit. Obito flips over the box and sees the expiration date had passed two months ago.

Her consciousness fades, and she experiences the rest of Obito's day in flashes: cleaning the bathroom, scrubbing the shower and the sink. He has a pile of laundry and no other clean clothes, and Rin follows him as he pours laundry detergent directly into the washer without measuring it. She blinks and two hours pass, he’s sitting on the floor going through a stack of mail and unpaid bills; blinks again and it’s nighttime, he’s standing in his kitchen. She watches as Obito sighs annoyed at his empty refrigerator.

He’s in the convenience store again, looking at various cups of ramen. "Get fruit," Rin says, and her voice is the barest whisper. Obito looks up, her voice subconsciously reaching him. He walks over and palms a couple bananas, setting them in his basket, before grabbing a few cans of beer.

Rin frowns. Obito pays, and she watches as the cashier bags Obito's breakfast and dinner - a few bags of snacks, two bananas, and the beer, and Rin kicks herself for not telling him to pick up a bento or at the very least a few riceballs. Obito pays, bowing politely at the cashier and picks up his bags.

She isn't experiencing time like flashes now, she’s fully inhabiting the space beside him. Rin follows him as he walks down the block, as he turns the corner to the darkened street and then the rusty metal stairs to his apartment.

Shower. Change of clothes. Peel the banana. Rin watches as Obito goes through all of this, before lying sideways on the couch.

This is strange. Rin's consciousness usually would ebb around this time, when Obito didn't think about anything, just stared listlessly at the TV. Rin hovers. Obito stays still a moment, then gets up with purpose. He walks up to the little shrine he has in the corner of the kitchen, then sets down a banana as an offering to her.

She can hear his thoughts perfectly: I should probably cut this for her, and he picks it back up again. She watches as he meticulously peels the banana and cuts up a few slices, setting them on a little dish to put in front of the shrine.

Rin smiles. He’s always leaving little offerings for her: a wildflower, plucked furtively while he was pretending to be Tobi in the Akatsuki; a small book of matches that the tavern had decorated with curly hearts. Even as he’d set down those offerings, he'd silently berate himself because they were stupid and random, but Rin could sense the earnest side to him too, because he was sure Rin would like them.

She watches him get ready for bed. Turning off the light, he curls on his side and pulls up the covers, staring out at the darkness of the room. Wordlessly Rin joins him in the bed and curls up around him.

There are a few surefire times she knows Obito can feel her: at the moment before he drifts off to sleep, and then again when he starts to wake. Not fully conscious, he could take in the subtle sensations of Rin's spirit lying next to him, the weight of her arm draped around him. She'd curl her body up against his back, pressing her face to his shoulderblades, and she'd feel him shift and exhale in response. Sometimes, he'd hug a pillow, as if unconsciously wanting to hug her in his sleep. She’s been doing this for years, she’d long ago stopped feeling self-conscious. He'd start to drift to sleep and she'd squeeze him, hear him quietly sigh and cuddle him.

You work so hard, Obito, Rin thinks, and she nestles against him.

I wish I could do more to protect you.

*****

4.

"Ne," Hashi says. "Do you think it's possible to bring back a spirit of someone who died as a child, but have them come back grown?"

Madara scoffs. "Of course it is," Madara says. "You need only clone a grown body for them inhabit."

"But mentally, would they still be a child, though?"

Madara looks at her. "What are you thinking," Madara asks.

Hashi claps her hands. "I want to resurrect Nohara Rin so Obito can have a girlfriend!"

Madara starts coughing. "Woman, what--"

"I brought back Izuna, didn't I? And that was without a body, we could just exhume her remains here--"

"Woman, first of all, there is no way to know if she would actually 'date' my idiot protégé, more than likely if she were to see him, wallowing in his pathetic apartment and subsisting on convenience-store cup ramen, she wouldn't at all be attracted to him--"

"Huh."

"--And secondly, she was just a girl when she died. So even if you brought her back, that whole point is moot."

"Eh...." Hashi leans back. "It's true, her body died when she was just a teenager, but her spirit lives on, right? Obito even said he spoke to her on the other side, she said she was always watching him. She's been his guardian spirit--"

"Tch."

"Look at Izuna!" Hashi says. "Izuna hates me because he remembers all the things you told him when you used to pray for him. He was your guardian spirit - he was watching over you all this time."

"And?"

"And it's the same with Obito and Rin. Her body may have died when she was young, but her spirit is the same age as him." Hashi sits back.

"He just seems so lonely," Hashi says. "I just want him to have the same happiness we do. I just want to help him."

Madara frowns. "I don't think that's possible for him."

"Well it's your fault he's like this. You kind of owe him."

"And who else are you going to bring back? The mother of the Uzumaki brat? The hapless Hyuuga Obito killed? Izuna was able to restore himself because he has the Sharingan, that won't be the case for anyone else."

"Hm. I guess you're right," Hashi says. She frowns.

"I guess I should go replace the body, then--"

"What?" Madara says.

******

There is a spot of dried ash on the table from where Hashi had placed Rin's femur. She didn't dig up the whole body - just enough to tether her spirit before summoning her. Madara rolls his eyes and helps her toss the bone back into the grave.

"I cannot believe you disinterred her body," Madara says. He shovels with purpose, throwing dirt onto the hole in the grave. "Feckless! Irresponsible! Impulsive! You of all people should know better than to engage in this sort of lunacy."

"Well I mean," Hashi shovels another mound of dirt, "I am two for two currently."

"So you modified the jutsu to bring her back to life fully?"

"Mm." Hashi shovels more dirt. "Instead of an undead zombie, she'd come back as flesh and blood. I could do that by modifying my Mokuton."

"Creating life out of chakra, I see." Another shovelful of dirt. "It would have been an interesting experiment."

"Well I wrote out the hand seals and the summoning formation, if you want to see it."

Madara nods. "I've always taken you for someone who relied on raw power alone. I'd be curious to see how you apply actual theory with it."

They pat the ground flat and head back home.

****

"Izuna." Madara and Hashi slip off their sandals. "We are home."

"Daddy!" Their daughter runs to the door. "I brought that lady back to life, Daddy!"

Hashi and Madara whirl around.

"Um." Nohara Rin clutches a towel around her body. "Hello."

In the kitchen, Izuna scowls.

*****

"Rin-chan, let me show you something!"

"What is it?" Rin says. Hashi motions for her to follow.

"Do you know what this is?" Hashi says. She steps proudly to the fridge. "This is a refrigerator! It keeps things cold through something called 'electricity' - it's like chakra generated through wires!"

"Moron. Nohara Rin was alive in this era, she knows what a refrigerator is," Madara says. Hashi looks around.

"Do you know what a computing machine is?"

Rin blinks. "Computing....machine?"

"It connects to something called the 'internet' where you can look things up and post 'cat memes.' Do you know how to type?"

"Um." Rin looks down, timidly. "I could type a little."

"Ooh! Well in this era everybody types, so. That's probably something you'll have to work on."

Rin looks at herself in the mirror. Her reflection doesn't surprise her so much - she supposes her concept of self had aged along with Obito - but the flesh and bone of an actual body is jarring to her. She used to be like air, and now she has heft and takes up physical space. Hashi steps around behind her.

"My hair is long," Rin says. She touches the brown locks, which fall below her shoulders. "Can we cut it?"

"Of course, Rin-chan! Want me to cut it for you?"

"If you don't mind." Rin frowns at herself in the mirror.

Her memories are still jumbled. She remembers Obito joining her, and for a brief moment, she was happy. They could finally ascend to a higher plane of existence, but suddenly his soul was ripped away from her. "I, uh, resurrected him," Hashi explained. She rubbed the back of her neck. "It was kind of a happy accident."

Now Rin pulls on her shirt, tugging it down while Hashi steps around her with a kunai. "Okay, Rin-chan! Let's cut your hair."

"Moron. Use scissors," Madara says. Hashi furrows her brow.

"What are 'scissors'?"

Madara holds up a pair of child safety scissors, the kind his daughter used in school.

"So you've been watching over him all this time?" Hashi's voice floats as she snips Rin's hair. Snip snip snip. Rin nods.

"I died. I remember seeing a flash of white, but Obito was crying. And in the confusion I wanted to make sure he was alright."

Snip. "Was he?" Hashi snips quickly. She pauses as Rin shakes her head.

"He was crying." Rin frowns as she remembers it: Obito covered in blood and clutching her body, the plant-like white vines jutting out through the darkness like trees. "He cries easily when he's upset. Kakashi used to make fun of him for that." On her lap, her hands close into fists. "The only way he could keep going was to pretend he was Madara and that he had no weakness." Rin pauses. She looks at her reflection in the mirror. "He suffered all these years with no one to comfort him."

"You really love him, huh Rin-chan?"

Rin blushes. "Oh...well..."

Hashi grins. "I'll bet he'll be really happy to see you!"

"Mm." Rin smiles, looking down and blushing. Hashi laughs, shaking Rin's shoulder.

*****

5.

"The cursed seal tag I placed on your heart has disappeared," Madara said. He raised Obito's body upwards, sneering at him. "A cursed seal tag meant to turn you into a puppet, one that would restrict your movements should you try to the remove it. Naturally, you couldn't kill yourself either. It seems you knew about it, Obito."

Rin's hands clenched into fists as she watched. She knew the reason why Obito knew.

*****

Obito knew about the cursed tag in his heart because he tried to kill himself after Nagato's defection. Rin watched as the Black Zetsu rose out from the wall to tell Obito what happened: that Nagato wasted the Rinne Tensei on Konoha and gave up his life. There was no one left to awaken Madara. "What will you do now, Obito?" Black Zetsu said. He started to meld into the wall. "Once again, it seems that you have failed."

Obito was silent. From behind the mask, he radiated an eerie calm, standing straight and saying nothing. The Black Zetsu disappeared and Rin watched as he sat heavily on the bed, appearing as if he were mulling over his options.

He picked up a kunai and pressed an experimental cut across his wrist; as expected, his healing ability was too great, the skin knitted shut completely before he finished cutting into it. He was still wearing his mask; Rin couldn't see his face. As always his actions had purpose; his movements did not show a hint of despair.

He crossed the room. Rin followed him, watching as he methodically opened a few drawers, before drawing out a rope. The length was so long, the width was so wide, and he tied it into a noose expertly.

"Obito," Rin said, but he crossed the room again, unable to hear her. Rin followed, watching him. "Obito, don't."

He threw the noose over the rafter.

Rin knit her fingers together, starting to cry as Obito pulled the noose over his neck and stepped onto the chair.

There was a pop, then a sickening thud as his neck broke, and Rin could feel the elusive shimmer of his body trying to put itself back together, when the noose tightened and snapped through bone.

Rin sucked in her breath. Tears filled her eyes and she fell on her knees, weeping. She couldn't feel him. There wasn’t anything she could do to help him.

There was a noise, a gargled wheeze, and Rin's head snapped up to see Obito struggling. His heart had stopped but was inexplicably beating again, and after a few futile attempts to loosen the noose he used his kamui to phase through it, dropping suddenly and landing on the floor with a thud.

Obito coughed. The ligature marks on his neck started to heal.

*****

He came up with a new plan.

He brutally dispatched with Konan, no longer willing to stand by in the shadows. He threw himself at the forefront, threatening to wage war unless the kages capitulated. In the darkness, Obito stood in front of the mirror, pushing back a lock of tangled hair and looking into the maw of an exposed socket. Slowly he lifted his hand, and placed the Rinnegan back in.

She could hear his thoughts perfectly, like she could all his prayers.

With these eyes, I can bring you back. He looked up, a thin trickle of blood dripping down the side of his newly implanted Rinnegan. I will get the Eight and Nine Tails and become the jinchuuriki in place of Madara.  And once I activate the Moon's Eye and create the new world, I will give up my life and bring you back.

Rin sat in the corner, holding her arms, watching him.

*****

In the days following the Fourth Shinobi War, Obito contemplated killing himself.

There was a trial. Rin watched as Obito stood in front of the five kage, head bowed and eyes downcast, as they discussed his fate. Should they blind him? Seal his powers? Should they execute him? The handcuffs around his wrists served no purpose except to make everyone feel safe; he could escape from them at any moment.

The Mizukage wanted him dead. Tsunade argued to let Konoha keep him. Onoki was concerned about Madara but Gaara and A agreed with Tsunade.

The verdict came - he would be released to Konoha, where they would dispatch of him as they saw fit. Obito shuffled, head bowed and a shadow over his eyes, as the villagers around him jeered at him.

Rin watched. Heart in her throat, she watched as Obito sat in the dark of his room, slowly handling a kunai and pressing the blade flat against his wrist. He didn't bother trying to cut himself; his healing ability was too great, any cut would heal instantly.

He sat alone in his empty apartment, staring out the unadorned window and watching the sunset. Rin sat beside him and could see how the streaks of orange light slowly gave way to the darkening shadows, the sulfur glow of streetlamps lighting the streets below. Obito no longer had the cursed seal, he could kill himself in any way he wanted to. He would just need to get around his healing ability.

One swig of liquor for courage, and Rin watched as Obito stood restlessly and grabbed a short sword, moving with purpose. He pressed the blade into his abdomen, taking a breath. His hands shook as he slowly pressed in.

And then he threw it to the side. The sword clattered. Obito sank onto his knees, huddling into himself. Watching, Rin knelt beside him, pressing her hands onto his shoulders, trying her best to comfort him. There were times where she knew he could almost feel her presence, and he blinked and leaned against her as if he could.

*****

Years passed. Rin followed him as Obito slowly got used to a routine.

The medications helped. If he kept his mind off the past, he could function semi-decently. Rin watched, heartened, as Obito helped an old lady cross the street, chatting pleasantly with her as he helped her with her walker. Rin smiled to herself. He looked happy for once, and the old woman thanked him, telling him she had a granddaughter, if he was interested, she would love to introduce her to him.

A flicker of pain, and then Obito's face darkened.

She followed him back to the apartment, where he lit a candle for her. Sitting on the bed, the yellow candlelight flickered over his face, making a soft haze of shadows in the empty bedroom.

"They want to make me Hokage, Rin."

Rin slowly sat next to him, listening. Obito hung his head. "It was my dream. When I was younger, I always imagined this. How they'd finally acknowledge me. I'd be so happy...."

His eyes closed. A tear dripped. "I miss you," he said. He hugged himself, taking a shuddery breath. "I know you're watching, Rin, but I still miss you."

"Obito," Rin said, and she pressed her hand flat against the muscle of his back. Slowly she leaned against him, hugging him.

She loved him. All the years she had followed him, seen his suffering and loneliness, she hated that she couldn't comfort him. All she wanted to do was wrap her arms around him, to kiss him and tell him how proud she was of him. That he was doing the best he could, she knew how hard he was working. That even if he hated himself, she still loved him.

The candle flickered. Rin looked up, her consciousness suddenly getting pulled elsewhere.

Was Kakashi saying a prayer for her? No, it didn't feel like that. The candle flickered again and Rin rose, looking up around her--

A sudden gust of wind, a sharp, disorienting vortex, and Rin lurched into consciousness, suddenly aware of cold metal beneath her body, and the dark, purple eyes of a young girl's Rinnegan.

"Oh, shit," Izuna said, and Rin threw a bewildered glance at Madara's panicked younger brother, while the little girl beamed happily at her.

*****

6.

"I cannot accept this," the Mizukage says.

Terumi Mei and her advisors sit at the edge of the table, the other kage watching as Obito sits flanked by Tsunade and the village elders. Obito lowers his head while the Mizukage points accusingly.

"He has committed war crimes against our village," the Mizukage says. "He committed any number of atrocities as the leader of the Akatsuki. He was the one who drove Yagura-sama mad."

"He was already mad to begin with," Tsunade says.

"That may be," the Mizukage says, crossing her arms. "But we cannot have diplomatic relations with Konoha if Uchiha Obito is made its figurehead."

The other kages glance at each other uncomfortably.

"Idiots," Tsunade says. She strides down the hallway, her haori flapping, while Obito follows after her. "In all my time gambling, I know when someone is bluffing. They depend on Konoha for our wealth and our aide. No one will be severing diplomatic relations."

"Tsunade-sama, I don't think this is right. I think you should give the title of Hokage to Kakashi," Obito says.

Tsunade stops. "Are you questioning my judgment?"

"No, of course not, however--"

"Then I want you to stop talking about Kakashi." Tsunade starts walking again. "He is too lackadaisical for this post, anyway."

Obito collapses in his room. This whole thing is terrible. He wishes he could just curl up and die, or at the very least just stay in his apartment.

He flops onto his bed, then rolls over, hugging a pillow. If Rin were here, he'd put his head in her lap and wail about how stupid he is. Why the hell did he think he could be Hokage in the first place?

He knows why. He reaches over to the nightstand and plucks the school picture of Madara's daughter. She had given it to him at their last training session. In the picture, the little girl is beaming wide, the background black with gaudy colored lasers crisscrossing behind her. A typical kindergarten picture.

There is a subtle shift in the air.

"Why is it you're always here when I'm at my lowest?" Obito says without looking, and Madara frowns behind him in distaste.

"I do not understand," Madara says. "You once held the world in the palm of your hand, and yet you lie there whimpering while lesser nin trample on your legacy."

"I have no legacy. Just a trail of bodies and people who rightfully hate me."

"And you are bothered by this?" Madara says. Obito pulls the pillow over his head.

"Go away."

Madara sighs. "As much as I'd like to correct you for your mistakes, that isn't the reason why I'm here."

Madara walks around the bedroom. He stops at the dresser, looking at Obito's photos.

"Nohara Rin is currently living in our basement," Madara says. He picks up a picture frame, studying it. Obito lifts his head.

"Rin?"

Madara sets the picture frame down. "Apparently my idiot wife worked out a modification to the resurrection jutsu, and my little girl used her Rinnegan to activate it."

Obito sits up. "Rin is alive?"

"She is indeed, and she's asking for you."

Obito takes a breath. He shakes his head. "I don't want her to see me like this," Obito says.

"Oh? What's this? Are you really that cowardly now? I have to say I'm disappointed," Madara says, frowning at him. "Well. No matter. The message is delivered. I can understand why you wouldn't want to show yourself. If I were as pathetic as you, I would want to hide as well."

Obito doesn't look at him as Madara crosses the threshold. The air settles and he's alone again, sitting in the dark of his bedroom.

*****

7.

"Sensei!" Rin says, and Minato beams at her.

"Rin!" Minato says, and he hugs her. Rin breaks away, smiling wide, and looks over at Kakashi.

"Kakashi!"

"Rin."

They hug. Rin gives Kakashi an extra hard squeeze, and Kakashi smiles happily beneath his mask.

At the periphery, Obito hovers. Rin laughs, chatting happily with her old teammates. He watches her brush her hair back as she tells them how she was resurrected. It's only then that she turns and sees him.

"Obito," Rin says.

Obito takes a breath. "Rin."

Rin beams at him.

She approaches him gingerly, the way she would a stray cat. She smiles kindly at him. "Is it okay if I hug you?"

Obito's throat is dry. He nods.

Rin smiles shyly at him, then wraps her arms around him. She feels soft and warm and it surprises him. Timidly, Obito rests his arms around her waist, and Rin pulls him close, squeezing his chest and resting her cheek against his ribs. "You're a lot taller than I remember," Rin says. She beams at him. "When I saw you at the void, you were a lot shorter."

Obito smiles shyly at her. Rin smiles back at him.

Kakashi clears his throat. "Sensei and I are gonna head back," Kakashi says. "You two should catch up. I'll talk with you later."

*****

He looks different than she remembers. Broad-shouldered and lean, he moves with a quiet grace that is surprising to her. As a ghost, she didn't quite appreciate how much he had physically changed. "So," Rin says, smiling. "Is that tight black shirt you're wearing so you can show off your body? Did you pick that outfit on purpose?"

"What?" Obito's eyes widen. "It- no. It's just what I had that was clean..." Obito fumbles. Rin clasps his hand and laughs.

"I'm kidding. Relax." She shakes him playfully by the elbow. "I'm here. You wanted to talk to me, right?"

He gives her a small smile. "Yeah," he says. They each fall quiet. Their footsteps echo in the street as they walk, a few couples chatting and laughing as they walk past them.

"Obito, I--"

"Rin, I--"

They stop, then laugh awkwardly. "You go first," Rin says. Obito shakes his head.

"No, you," Obito says, smiling. Rin smiles and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Behold. My idiot apprentice," Madara says. He is watching them from the eyes of a Sharingan'd bird, using a genjutsu to share the image with Hashi. "That woman has been watching over him for the last few decades, she is ripe for the taking. But my idiot protégé has no game."

"Ooh, look at you with the colloquialisms," Hashi says. Madara motions for her to be quiet. They listen as Rin starts speaking.

"It's so strange being here. Having a physical body. I feel like I've been watching you for years. Maybe because I have been," Rin says. Her eyes flick upward, meeting his.

Obito hesitates. "Rin, I--"

"Yes?"

Obito lowers his eyes. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Rin."

His face is drawn, and he seems to steel himself, as if Rin could reject him at any moment. Gently, Rin touches her hands to his chest, stepping forward.

"Try me," Rin says, smiling.

*****

She laughs and lands clumsily on her back on his mattress, throwing her arms around him as he clings to her, breathing hard and thrusting roughly. The nightstand rocks and the little picture frame of their genin team shakes, and Rin laughs, smiling and kissing him.

He gasps and pulses hard inside her, before collapsing exhausted on top of her body. Rin smiles and kisses him. He beams ruefully as she grins and fluffs his hair.

"So," she says, smiling at him. "That was your first kiss, right?"

Obito laughs, embarrassed, and drops his head against her shoulder.

*****

8.

This is what happened earlier.

The night was quiet. They walked down the street, side-by-side. She was standing close enough to him that she could brush her knuckles against his hand.

"Rin, I--"

"Yes?"

Obito lowered his eyes. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Rin."

They stopped walking. Rin stepped in front of him, lightly touching the front of his chest. "Try me," she said, smiling. Obito lifted his eyes.

"I've killed people."

"I know," Rin said, softly. "I was there when you killed them."

Obito blinked. Rin rubbed his arm. "I think I was haunting you," she said. "It's hard to piece everything together, but I know you talked to me, and I know I saw the same things you did."

Obito furrowed his brow. "How is that possible?"

"I don't know. I just remember you crying, how upset you were when you held my body. And...I think I stayed to make sure you were okay." Rin looked up at him. "I'd been watching ever since."

They started walking again. Rin looked up at the shops, at the street lights above them and their reflection in the store windows as she spoke. "Sometimes, I think I'd lose consciousness. I think I'd go where everybody else goes, but then you'd light a candle for me and I'd come back. So whatever you have to tell me, it won't surprise me."

Obito didn't look at her. "I'm sorry I made you watch that."

Rin smiled at him. "Can I ask you a question?"

"What is it?"

"What was with that weird Tobi act, when you were in the Akatsuki? You looked ridiculous," Rin said, and Obito laughed, embarrassed.

"I...I think I was just blowing off some steam," Obito said. He blushed, rubbing his neck. "Madara is such an imposing figure, I just wanted to do something stupid." And then a thought occurred to him. His eyes widened. "Rin, did you see me when--"

"When what?"

"When I--" A flush. He didn't look at her.

"Oh," Rin said, realizing. "When you did things in private?"

Obito covered his face in his hands. "Oh god...."

"No, it's alright, I-- I mean, Obito, you called my name sometimes..."

"Oh god, don't say anything, I'm so embarrassed."

Rin laughed and kissed his shoulder, looping her arm around his elbow and pulling him close.

Obito jerked back, surprised, and Rin realized what she did. "Oh," Rin said. "I'm sorry--"

"No, no, I was just surprised--"

"I won't do it again," Rin said. "I'm sorry, I've been following you for so long, I forget I'm pretty much a stranger now, there's no reason you should be comfortable with me."

"I am comfortable with you. It's like you never left." He blushed, not looking at her. "I just thought you had feelings for Kakashi?"

"That was twenty years ago. Everyone in our class had a crush on Kakashi." Rin smiled. "I watched you for twenty years. You're pretty much my family."

"Rin?"

"Yeah?"

"May I kiss you?" Obito asked. She saw him steel himself, nervously.

Rin beamed at him. "Yeah," she said. She pushed up on her tiptoes and pressed a chaste kiss on his lips. Obito blushed. Rin giggled and wrapped her arm around him.

"That was your first kiss, right?"

Obito nodded, not looking at her. "I'd...I'd never been with anyone...."

Rin rubbed his back. "Well what about that prostitute in Iwagakure?"

Obito's eyes widened. "You saw that?!"

"I, uh. I pretty much was in the same room...."

"Oh god." Obito covered his face again. "I'm so embarrassed." Rin laughed, hugging him.

"Your apartment is close by, right?"

"It is." Obito hesitated. "But Rin--"

"I'd like to, if you want to." Rin smiled softly, not looking at him. She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "I've been wanting to touch you for so long."

Obito took in a breath. "Rin." Rin spun on her heel to face him.

"Come on," she said, smiling. She grabbed his hand, pulling him forward.

*****

He can't stop kissing her.

Years of pent-up want, of crippling loneliness and a desperate need for comfort, spill over, and Obito clings to Rin the rest of the night. They kiss and she cuddles aggressively against his chest, because she knows how lonely he's been.

"Rin?"

"Yeah?"

Obito searches her eyes, faltering. "I love you," he says, softly. Rin smiles and snuggles against him.

"I love you too."

[fatcatsarecats]

Xavierine witcher ficlet! Inspiried by my screaming at @gerec‘s askbox and @traumschwinge’s xavierine ficlet. i hope you guys don’t mind me tagging you guys in as well!!!

Many thanks to @irelise and @jackyjango who helped bunscheme this into shape!!!

—

If Charles knew Logan well, and he very much did, then the reason Logan hasn't answered any of his summoning Ravens is because he's been mucking around in some dingy cavern on either a treasure hunt or a Witcher Contract. Indeed, a quick location spell and a portal later, and Charles finds himself sinking his boots into a pile of hairy, but thankfully dead, arachnomorph legs. His nerves almost jumps out of his skin, but he doesn’t let himself cringe until he’s carefully climbed his way down the pile.

Times like these he’s grateful for his leather gloves and his study of magic. An enchantment sharpens his eyes to the darkness, and he finds Logan crouching by the mutilated body of an arachnomorph, holding a knife as he palms through its spilled innards.

"Watch your left."

Charles ducks fast enough to miss a small section of an arachnomorph leg sailing through the air. A thin silver, line of its blood splashes on his arm. He stifles a shudder, and with a burst of magic, waves his clothes clean again.

Lord, the sodden smell of algae is nothing compared to dead, squished spiders.  

Logan doesn’t pay him any mind. He’s probably already smelt Charles coming the moment he stepped out of the portal. Even though he’s tied his hair, strands have plastered itself to his forehead, drenched he is from the cave waters and… other things  

Which simply won’t do. A burst of magic thickens the air, and Logan grunts when he finds himself clean again.

“You could’ve washed away some precious extract, you know,” Logan grumbles.

Charles stifles a chuckle. “If they were as precious as you claim it to be, then it wouldn’t be splattered all over your clothes.” He walks to get a better look at dead the spider. "Charming," Charles says, scrunching his nose. "A contract, is it?"

“Ealdorman’s son went missing. Tracked his body down outside the cavern.”

“That poor boy,” Charles mutters. “So they sent you out here.”

“Nah, just thought I’d clean place up and maybe stock up on supplies while I’m at it.” Logan bags a couple of sticky, bright blue mutagens, before getting to work on it’s heart. "Can't let good ingredients rot to waste."

"Joy."

"Scuttly little bastards they are," Logan says. "Could've used your help when they were ganging up on me."

Charles raises one eyebrow. "If you had answered my calls, then I would have been happy to help. But, of course, you had to make it hard and camp inside a cavern."

Logan huffs in amusement .“All my fault, huh.”

“Always,” Charles says, his lip twitching. “Although, consider yourself forgiven if you save some of that saliva for me.”

Logan thinks on it, then he dips his finger into a pool of saliva. He scoops out a thick glob and offers it to Charles.

“In a vial, Logan.”

Logan barks out a laugh. "I forgot how sticky and pungent their webbing is. Wouldn’t be surprised if wads of the shit has slithered under my chainmail."

Charles shudders, batting at Logan’s hands, and Logan laughs even louder. As he always does when he purposely grosses Charles out.

"As... engrossing as it is," Charles says. “Aren't you going to ask why I've called on you?"

"Can't it be for my pleasant company?"

“Ah, yes. Because you are quite the conversationalist, my friend,” Charles says. “Well?”

Logan folds his own arms and stares at Charles. When it doesn't look like Charles is going to offer his reason—because really, he can be just as stubborn as a mule if he puts his mind to it—Logan sighs.

"Alright, I'll bite.” Logan tosses a pair of arachnomorph fangs in his palms. “What brings you here, Charles?"

Charles rolls his eyes. "I've detected residues of magic in Skellige. Ones that came from a big spike of power. There's a high chance that it could be Laura and her friends… but my report is quite dated. They could be long gone by now, so there’s no rush. I’d like to investigate the site, nonetheless.”

Logan's eyebrows dipped on his head. "I'm surprised you haven't checked it out yourself?"

Charles hears the unspoken, ‘With Erik,’ in his comment, and gives Logan the grace of ignoring such thing. “I was heading in that direction and I was wondering if you'd want to come with me."

“Why?”

“I thought it’d be nice to bring her father along if we do come across her.”

Logan doesn't say anything for a minute. He just scrutinises Charles with his unnerving stare. His cat eyes are infamous—known to discompose even Mages and Sorceresses—but Charles is used to them; he used to the myriad of expressions which crosses those cat eyes—both Logan and Erik’s.

"You could've just gone," Logan mutters. "You know how I hate portals."  

Charles waves his hand. "Nonsense. I'm due for some quality time with my horse, anyway."  

“You could have gone with Erik.”

Charles forces himself not to stiffen. “I didn’t think to ask. We’ve gone our separate ways.”

"Hmm," Logan says. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Darling,” Charles sighs, “when normal people skirt over a subject, it usually indicates and unwillingness to talk about it."

"But we're not normal, yeah?" Logan says. "You look upset."

Charles purses his lips. "You are as tact as ever, my friend."

“I’m one hell of a wordsmith in my own right,” Logan says. “But I don’t give that much of a fuck for Lehnsherr. He lands on his feet more fucking times than I can count. It’s you I’m worried about. Not to mention, the last time you and Erik tried to do anything with a Djinn, half of Rinde almost felt its wrath.”

Charles looks away. On instinct, he rubs his face (‘It’s better than crying.’) and exhaustion settles in, as it usually does whenever he thinks about the situation with Erik.

Logan’s face softens. There’s only silence between them as Logan rummages through his satchel.

“Here.”

Charles looks down. In Logan’s hand is a vial of monster saliva. He touches the vial almost gingerly.

He must think Charles to be so pathetic. Things didn't work out with Erik, so he runs to Logan crying about it. Isn’t that what he’s doing anyway? But then, Logan is much kinder than to call him out on it. Much kinder than what Charles deserves, probably.  

"Things with the Djinn didn't stick?" Logan asks gently.

"No." Charles sighs. "It did. That's the problem."

Erik wasn't supposed to be his, Charles knows. Erik was his by a lethal combination of pure stubbornness and a disastrous accident. He was Magda's first, and Charles fooled with a Djinn when he wasn't ready and they ended up bonded. The next few decades were spent bouncing between passion, love, and resentment—the kind that’s thick enough to choke on.  

Charles was ready for the latter. He took away Erik's choice in his love for Charles It was his fault for releasing the Djinn and putting them in a position where Erik’s life was compromised. When he used his last wish to save their lives, he invoked the Djinn’s mischief, and the Djinn tied their destinies together.

They spent all those years fighting, and Charles spent all those years hating himself for ruining one of the only good thing he's found in decades… Charles wondered why he spent so long waiting to find another Djinn to break their bond. Maybe he could have spared himself the current heartbreak.

Because to find out that their feelings were their own. To find out the Djinn had nothing to do with their hearts—and certainly nothing to do with their proximity from all the times either of them have stormed halfway across the world in their anger...

That… Charles was not ready for.

All the pain, the resentment, the hurt.

All for nothing.  

They ended things there, so they could start fresh. It was more so Charles's decisions than Erik's, but Erik has other business to sort out himself. Magda is a fellow sorceress. It could be as if no time had passed at al.

It was—is—better this way.

"I'll tell you about it one day," Charles says, tucking his vial into his rucksack. "Are you done here?"

Logan stares him again. This time, Charles blinks back at him, tilting his head in question. Logan brushes some blood off his shoulder plates as he stands up. He offers a hand and pulls Charles up with him.

Charles chants a quick cleaning spell on Logan’s gloves. He’ll thank Charles for this, he’s sure of it.

"Still got one or two nests to go," Logan says. "Want to come with?"  

“Why is it whenever I visit you, we always end up in some dark, smelly cave?”

“Should’ve kept better company then.”

That pulls a laugh out of Charles. “At least it was treasure last time,” Charles says. "But why not? Two heads are better than one, I suppose."

Charles gathers a ball of light in his hands. He holds it out, and the ball floats near his head, illuminating a soft blue on their surroundings.

“Speaking of...” Logan says. "Aren’t you going to..."

Charles tips his head in question.

Logan taps the side of his forehead.

Surprised, the ball of light beside his head blinks out momentarily. He could count the handful of times Erik has invited him into his head. Logan has long surpassed both fingers of his hands. It’s how Charles got the inkling that too had a past with a fellow mind reader. He’s simply too comfortable having someone in his head.

He forgot how nice it could be when someone else takes the initiative.

Logan’s head feels like it always does. A glass of whisky warming his systems in a lowly lit pub. He’s thinking about Laura, mostly. Worrying about her. Wondering what forms of trouble has she and her friends been up to.

“Comfortable?” Logan asks.

If you don't mind, Charles says. Remember that it goes both ways. I’ve fine tuned the spell as such. And if you need space...

“I'll tell you, bub,” Logan says. “Just don't go looking into places you're not supposed to be. Unless you want to see a bunch of alghouls fucking around the place.”

As far as he knows, alghouls do not mate or reproduce with each other, but he doesn’t doubt the imaginative powers of Logan’s mind.

Charles shudders. You have an odd and macabre sense of humour, my friend. Shall we get going?

[killervibe]

Written in Your Heart

A Killervibe & Frost/Ronnie Princess and the Pauper AU!

Summary: Once upon a time, in a village high on the mountaintop, two identical baby girls were born. One, into royalty and was named Princess Caitlin. The other, to a poor family working under a harsh dressmaker. They named her Frosteline. With lives so different, it wasn’t surprising that the Princess and the Pauper never met. But fate decreed they would.

Chapter One

~.~ 

Long ago, and far away, in a central village high on a mountaintop, something amazing happened. At the very same moment, two identical baby girls were born. One, a baby Princess. The King and Queen were overjoyed, for they had been longing for a child all their lives. Princess Caitlin would have only the finest. The second baby girl was named Frosteline. Her parents loved her every bit as much as the King and Queen loved Princess Caitlin. But they worried, fighting to make ends meet under the employment of a compassionless dressmaker.

 Many years passed and the Princess learned her royal duties, while Frosteline worked long and hard as a seamstress for the spiteful Miss Amunet. Frosteline's parents were long gone, resting in the cemetery under the grass. They had died in the same accident that took the life of King Thomas when Princess Caitlin and Frosteline were only twelve.

 With lives so different, it wasn’t surprising that the Princess and the Pauper never met. But fate decreed they would.

It all started at the Royal Mine, when the miners informed the Queen the gold had run out. The widowed Queen was shocked. The Kingdom would now surely go bankrupt. People would starve, find no work and will perish under these conditions. How was she going to take care of them with no more resources? If only she could call on her trusted advisor Hunter Zolomon, but he was away on a long journey to Star Kingdom. She needed to do something quickly to save the kingdom before they’d turn against the monarchy, or worse, each other.

 But what?

 And then it struck her. Nearby lived a rich young King who was seeking a wife.

 ~.~

 “Damn it,” Frosteline groaned, nursing her bleeding thumb at her hundredth prick of the day. “I just want a day to myself!”

 “I hear you, sister,” Ralph, her only friend chimed in from his own stitching across the room. After hours upon hours of labour in the dreary basement of Miss Amunet’s Dress Emporium, it often felt as though Ralph were the only other person on the planet. “You think the woman would hire more help.”

 “Hire more help?” Frosteline repeated incredulously. “We’re only here because we’re indentured servants, Ralph. Nobody in their right minds would willingly work here.”

 “Yeah, well. Nobody but our dear old dead parents, right?” Ralph stood up, cracking his back from lack of exercise. He walked across the room to inspect Frosteline’s injury. “Let me look at it. You’re bleeding.”

 Frosteline waved him off. “I’ll be fine.” She closed her eyes and hummed her mother’s old nursery rhyme as the cut stitched itself back together.

 Ralph didn’t like how her eyes glowed when she used her power. He made a noise of consternation, returning to his pile of fabric. “You’re lucky that Miss Amunet hasn’t yet accused you of witchcraft.”

 Frosteline froze over the wedding gown she had just crocheted. “Don’t call it that. I told you—I was born like this.”

 “It’s where you got your name, right, yes, I heard the story before. I just worry about your safety, Frost. Don’t think I don’t know you do magic shows in the village at noon.”

 “I make some snow for extra change. So what? The people like it.”

 Footsteps went thundering down the stairs. The two ran back to their workstations.

 “It’s not the people I’m scared of,” Ralph muttered under his breath.

 “I’m hearing whispers. What is this? A gossip club?”

 “I would’ve said a debtor’s prison,” Frosteline replied automatically. Ralph gaped at her from across the room. She too realized her mistake. She tended to talk before she used her brain. It was something she needed to work on.

 “Keep laughing, my lovely!” Amunet surveyed their work. She beamed, at the finished gown on Frosteline’s desk, showing all her teeth. “You’ll be working for me for another thirty-seven years!”

 “But I already paid off more than half!”

 Amunet hummed, undisturbed. “Oh, but haven’t you heard? The kingdom is going into a recession. So I’ve decided to remember....What was it again?" She drummed her fingertips against her face, pretending to ponder, then clapped her hands suddenly. " oh yes! There’s an interest, isn’t there? Your parents should’ve thought of that before they borrowed so much.”

 “They did it to feed her!” Ralph snapped. Amunet glared as he shrunk back in his wooden seat.  

  “Their mistake.”  She took the finished wedding gown and stuffed it in a box without so much of another word.

 Ralph mimed sticking a finger down his throat. Frosteline’s mouth twisted in disgust. She hated her too.

 ~.~

 Cisco turned the page of his leather-bound book. “That concludes your lesson in chemistry. Not that you needed it.”  

 The princess gave a reluctant sigh, looking up at him through her long eyelashes. “Already?”

 “Afraid so, Your Highness. Any questions?”

 All too well he knew Princess Caitlin mastered the subject. Still, the question posed became his favourite part of their scheduled time together, when the role of tutor and student bled into two best friends enjoying each other’s company.

 “Yes,” she said, poking at his tunic. “Do you believe it possible to discover more elements that would expand the periodic table?”

 ”Absolutely!” He nodded enthusiastically. “But not more likely than reaching the heavens, Caitlin.”

 The princess scooted her chair closer, leaning into her best friend’s side. Her cat, Bart, scratched his head against her leg. “You mean...” she lowered her voice before glancing aside, wary of her maidservants’ eavesdropping. “Extrapolating from the theories of Galileo and travelling to space?”

 Cisco grinned at her. “Precisely.” He laughed at her scandalized gasp. “Calm down, I’m jesting—”

  “Cisco! That’s not funny!”   

 Ah, his heart stuttered in his chest. He’d never tire of hearing his name from her lips. She placed her hand over his arm and urged him to share his latest study.

 A knock on the door interrupted their moment, and Caitlin immediately removed her touch, leaning away.

 Harrison Wells, or Harry, as the royal family has grown accustomed to calling him, marched in with a long list and adjusted his spectacles. “We’re late! Late, late, late!”

 “Good morning Harry,” Caitlin greeted, hiding her dismay. Cisco rolled his eyes. It wasn’t that they disliked him. He was always to the point with his messages, and delivered them rather gruffly, but not unkind. Their annoyance had more to do with the fact every time Harry came to interrupt Caitlin’s lesson with Cisco, it meant the tutor had to go.  

 “Yes, yes. Good day, Your Highness,” he nodded at Cisco. “Greetings Ramon. Enough with the pleasantries. It is now time for your royal fitting, Princess. The gown just arrived this morning.”

 Princess Caitlin’s joy soured immediately, but she did not let her emotions show. “Yes, of course.”  

 “—It must last twenty, maximum twenty-two minutes, and then you have to rush, and I mean rush to your horticultural society tea. Then—”

 Caitlin tuned Harry out as Cisco shot her an apologetic smile.

 He packed his books hastily, “I best be on my leave.”

 “Oh no, Cisco. Please stay.”

 He hesitated, fiddling with the strap of his worn satchel, but could not ever deny the Princess anything. He nodded, watching as two maidservants ushered Caitlin behind the dresser to make alterations for her gown. “Maybe a few minutes more.”

 When she stepped out in silks and white tulle, his eyes lingered only on her face.

 She turned around on the step stool where the seamstresses fussed over the ribbons and bows when he called her name.

 “Yes?”

 “You’ll make a lovely bride.” His fingers twisted deep in the leather of the strap across his chest. Caitlin felt tears well up in her eyes, so many complicated words stuck in her throat. She could only manage to nod as Cisco suddenly left.

 She couldn’t blame him for not wanting to stay, she thought, as she watched him through her window. He was smelling the roses to record in his field journal in her palace gardens. As if he could sense her, he lifted his eyes from the flower he had to his nose up to her wing of the palace. The corners of his mouth tugged into a gentle smile as his hair blew in the breeze. Cisco waved at Caitlin. Her fingertips pressed against the glass as her heart sighed.

 Harry came back with a large box, clearing his throat. Her mother, the Queen, strolled behind. “Look, another engagement gift!”

 The Princess didn’t reply. The Queen bit her lip as she caught her daughter watch the tutor make his way out the royal gates and into the village. “You know it is vital you marry King Ronald. It’s the only way to take care of the kingdom.”

 Caitlin didn’t reply for some time, drawing strength from within and distanced herself from the window. She shot Harry and her mother a shaky grin and exhaled. “I know, and I will. It’s my duty.”

 ~.~

 In the deep dark caves of the Royal Mine, Hunter Zolomon celebrated his homecoming. 

 “It’s great to see you back boss,” Eddie Slick told him, wiping the grime off his forehead. “But you’re...early.” His accomplice, Sterling Brooks, popped out of their cart holding up a small black nugget. 

 Hunter snatched it out of Sterling’s hand. “What idiot put this here!?” 

 Sterling grinned as Eddie smacked his forehead from second-hand embarrassment. “Uh. Me?” 

 “We’re stealing gold. This is coal.” He knocked the worthless rock against Sterling’s skull as if in an attempt to knock some wit into it. He turned to Eddie. “Where’s the rest?” 

 Eddie pointed to a bag in the dirt. “That’s the last of ‘em.” He watched eagerly as his boss inspected the bag of gold. “So, what’s our cut?” 

 Hunter laughed. “You think you’re getting any of this?” 

 Eddie frowned. “While you were off frolicking in Star Kingdom, we were here doing all your dirty work. You told us we’d get paid.” 

 Hunter glared. It was not frolicking. For over ten years Hunter had to play lapdog to the King and Queen as the royal advisor. Forced to do this, demanded to do that. It was hard, tedious work that never went appreciated. Nor should it be. The work given to him was insulting. Hunter Zolomon was not born to serve people or follow orders like cattle. No. Every minute spent under the directives of the Queen made his blood curdle ever since his plan ten years ago went awry and he only managed to kill a third of the Royal Family he needed out of his way to ascend the throne.

 “And you will.” He leaned against the cart and rattled it along the tracks, urging Sterling to climb out and pay attention. “When I become King.” 

 “Right, right,” said Sterling, but he was clearly lost. “And how exactly is that related to us getting all this gold again?” 

  “Because,” Hunter said through gritted teeth, regretting his hasty choice of picking two desperate miners to do work for him. He’d fire Sterling if he could, but he knew too much now and was simply not worth the effort to kill. “Now I have all the wealth in the kingdom and the Queen will have no choice but to wed her only daughter to me. How could she refuse?”  

 “Easily! Princess Caitlin treats you so coldly!” Sterling blurted. “She’d never agree to that.” 

 “Who said the nitwit had any agency to make that decision?” he shot back. “She has to follow her mother’s orders. And who’s her mother’s advisor? Me.” 

 Eddie and Sterling shared a look. 

 Hunter narrowed his eyes. “What?” 

 Eddie looked anywhere but his boss’ steely gaze. “It’s just that….The Queen had decided to marry off Princess Caitlin to the King of Dulcinea.” 

 In a fit of rage, Hunter knocked the cart over with Sterling in it. “She what?!” 

 “Yeah…” Eddie said, wringing his hands. “You were gone a long time. She didn’t know what to do.” 

 “I guess the gig’s up, huh boss?” said Sterling, crawling from the rocks.

 “Hardly.” Hunter yanked the bag of gold from Eddie’s arms. He needed to visit the Queen immediately to fix this. “And if you ruin this for me neither of you will be making it out of this mine alive.” 

 ~.~

 “Cisco!” Caitlin lit up as her favourite person walked into her bedroom. “Perfect timing." She lifted up her latest discovery from her walk behind the palace kitchens. "I classified this as iron pyrite. Pretty, but not considered valuable. Commonly known as ‘fool’s gold, as you taught me last Spring, isn’t that correct?”

 Cisco smiled. “Very good, Your Highness.”

 Caitlin frowned, brushing her hair back behind her ear. “Your Highness?  Why the sudden formality.” He only ever called her that in the presence of other palace workers. She looked around to see if they had company, but they were all alone. “It’s just me.”

 “Your mother sent me. Apparently, the Ambassador has arrived with a gift for you.”

 Caitlin felt lightheaded. The iron pyrite fell to the floor. “The Ambassador? He’s here already?”

 Cisco nodded and went to grab her tiara from the pillow next to her bed. He placed it carefully upon her head, smoothing down the stray curls around it. “There,” he said. “No fool’s gold here.”

 “No,” the Princess agreed faintly, distracted by the warmth of her tutor’s brown eyes. He looped her hand around his arm and escorted her to the throne room.

 ~.~

 The Ambassador was a lot younger than the Queen, Harry or The Advisor thought. Tall, dark and handsome, with a dashing smile, he bent low at the waist upon the royals’ arrival and introduced himself with his gift. His travelling companion was an old fellow with crow’s feet and stood several steps away.

 “On behalf of King Ronald, I present to you this engagement gift.”

 The Queen took it graciously, promising the Princess would love it. She glanced at the grandfather clock mounted by the wall. Surely the tutor would’ve brought the Princess in already. 

 "Harry," she said. "Didn't I send the tutor to go tell the Princess about the Ambassador?"

 "You did, Your Highness," Harry confirmed. He adjusted his spectacles and looked down at his parchments. "I don't see them taking much more time, but the schedule of the Princess is already packed enough, we better not delay." 

 "No," said the Advisor, agreeing with the Messenger even though he couldn't stand him either. "We better not." 

 The travelling companion cleared his throat. “May I enquire, your Excellency, if you’ve set a date for the wedding?”

 The Queen paused to mull it over. “Will two weeks from today do?”

 Hunter nearly fell out of his chair but recovered quickly. “Two weeks! Fast and diligent, what a wonderful decision, Your Majesty.”

 “Excellent!” said the companion, sharing a glance with the Ambassador. He nudged his shoulder when the Ambassador didn't say anything. “Excellent, isn't it, Ambassador Stein?”

 The Ambassador’s eyes widened as if he had just remembered his position. “I will…uh. I’ll send for King Ronald right away so that he may meet his new bride.” His gaze drifted to the portrait of Caitlin mounted next to the windowpane.

 "I apologize for my daughter's absence," The Queen said. "If you stay for tea, I'm sure she'll be here shortly."

 The Queen gestured at Harry to escort them to the tea rooms. "Come, Hunter. There's much we have to discuss." 

  ~.~

 Like clockwork, Frosteline slipped out the front door at noon. It was when Miss Amunet took her lunch break in the tea shop across the village, which meant she had a whole hour to herself to sneak out. Ralph followed closely behind. 

 “What Ralph?” 

 “You forgot your cape,” he said, waving the old blue thing in the doorway. It was the nicest piece of clothing she owned. Probably because she barely ever got to leave the Dress Emporium, so it never had the chance to soil. 

 “Thank you, mother,” she grumbled under her breath but accepted it as Ralph put it over her shoulders. She snapped her fingers at Iridescence to get her to come, the cat Ralph had found in the street a few months ago. They’ve been hiding her from Miss Amunet for a while. 

 “Be safe out there,” he called out. “And don’t do that scary voice thing in front of any children!” 

 Frosteline rolled her eyes. 

~.~

“Cisco.” Caitlin's hand tightened on his elbow. “I can’t go in.” Her eyes darted down the long corridor and her heart pounded up in her ears. “I’m not ready,” she panicked. “I can’t go in.”

 Cisco was about to reassure the princess that it’ll be alright, but one look at her was all he needed to realize how Caitlin was spiralling. 

 “Okay,” he soothed, running his hands up and down the sleeves of her gown. “It’s okay, my sweet. You’re here. I’m with you. You’re— shaking?”

 “This is all too fast! Five days ago I was being told I’d get married and now the Ambassador is here? Cisco, I can’t—”

 ”Then we won’t. We won’t go.” Her breath hitched, and he could tell her tight corset could not possibly be helping. Three halls down was the old library with a balcony window. It used to belong to the King. They’d sometimes study there when they needed a peaceful moment alone. Perhaps, she needed some fresh air. 

 Cisco brought her to the balcony, sitting against the ledge as the Princess paced, pressing her palms over her eyes. 

 “I do everything!” she wailed. “Everything for my mother and the memory of my father. Everything for Hunter and Harry but this…” she let out a weak huff, sliding her hands into her hair and digging her fingers into the combs of her tiara. 

  “I know.”

  Cisco, I’m scared, she almost said. But somehow she felt he already knew. Instead, she sucked in a deep breath and wiped the stray tear from her flushed cheek. She kicked off her shoes, padding barefoot until she sank to the floor in her pink dress, looking out the balcony. She turned to Cisco, who had been watching her with careful concern. 

 “What do you think King Ronald will be like?” 

 It took a while for him to say anything. “I’m sure he’ll be…suitable.”

 “I know I have to marry him, but sometimes I wish…Well.” Caitlin clasped her hands together behind her back and sighed.

 She thought about her panic in the palace hall. My sweet, he’d called her. Did Cisco really mean that? Caitlin’s heart picked up speed. It wasn’t the first time he’d slipped and given her an affectionate name either. She’d always chalked it up to his joyous personality, or that maybe he considered her as a sister, but what with the way he’d been talking to her lately, she wondered if there was something...more. 

 Cisco’s brown riding boots swung leisurely as he waited for her to say something. When she didn’t, he continued to awkwardly carry on the conversation. “I heard he’s a lover of flatbread and cheese!”

 Caitlin wrinkled her nose. “What’s that?”

 “A type of food, I’m sure.” Cisco looked out, following Caitlin’s wistful gaze out at the kids playing in the garden. 

 Reality settled back into Caitlin’s bones. The little treasure chest in her heart full of her love for Cisco would have to lock away. There was no use, wondering. Cisco’s pay for her tutoring barely covered his own expenses. The Princess had to look out for the entire kingdom. 

 “I know it’s selfish, but it feels like the beginning of the end of my life,” she admitted in a whisper.

 “Caitlin….” Cisco slid down from his seat on the ledge, kneeling in front of her. 

 “Hmm?” 

 He offered her his hand. She took it without hesitation. 

 “You’re going to need your cape.”

[caesarsme]

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Anchors to Windward Chapter 1

Henry Jennings, Captain and Master in Ballast of the Sloop, Diamond out of Jamaica, entered the Bristol Man, a tavern or ordinary on Queen street directly opposite the blue expanse of Kingston Harbor.  He was joined by Lawrence Prince, a merchant captain with a controlling interest in the Diamond.  They had barely sat down at their usual table when Alice, the owner and proprietor of the ordinary, stepped out of the kitchen and brought over a rum punch and a glass of Madeira.  Henry and Lawrence had conducted enough business in the Bristol Man during the last few months for her to accurately predict their taste.

Henry thanked her with a smile before she disappeared back into the kitchen.

“Now, would you tell me who we’re meeting?  And why the rush?  I barely had time to set anchor before you accosted me,” Henry asked.

 “I’m not sure.  John never said his name.  He did mention something about the governor’s interest.”

Henry sighed.  He’d managed to keep from running afoul of Governor Hamilton’s goons since he arrived in Jamaica three months ago.  Apparently his luck had finally run out.  

“To be honest I don’t think they’re interested in you, per se.”  Lawrence motioned out the window to the Salisbury Prize, a forth rate ship-of-the-line riding low in the water across the way.  Henry had sailed into Kingston under the safety of her flag that very morning, returning from a three month cruise to the Bay of Campeche to cut dyewood. “What happened on that cruise?”

Henry shrugged his shoulders.  “Nothing of note.  I know the Salisbury Prize seized the Sina somewhere off the coast of Cuba a few days before we joined the convoy.”

“What did she do?”

“Tortured some Spaniards from what I gathered.”

Lawrence shook his head.  “That’s not good.”  

“The Sina was one of the Governor’s commissions.”

Lawrence had barely finished his sentence when two men entered the room.  Henry immediately recognized Doctor John Stewart, a swarthy, long faced man who commonly sported a long curly brown periwig which framed his face like a sheepish lion.  The doctor was one of Lawrence’s business partners and a man who could honestly claim to be one of Governor Hamilton’s oldest and dearest friends.

Lawrence and the doctor shook hands.  “How’s the trade treating you these days?”

“Well enough,” Lawrence replied.  “And who might this be.”

“Broderick.  William Broderick.”

Henry knew the name.  He was standing not two feet away from the Attorney General, one of the most feared officers in Governor Hamilton’s court for any smuggler, past or present.

“And you are the captain of the Diamond.”

“That’s correct.  Henry Jennings, Master in Ballast.”

“Shall we have a seat?  I just have a few questions.”

“Would you care for anything to drink?” Lawrence asked.

“Water.”

“The owner serves a fine Madeira,” Lawrence continued.

“Water will be fine,” the attorney general insisted. Lawrence offered no further argument. He called out for Alice to bring water and a mug of beer for the doctor who saw fit to place one of his cold clammy hands upon the widow’s rear when she set his drink upon the table.  She quickly maneuvered her way around the table and away from the doctor’s uninvited advances while serving the Attorney General his drink before returning to the kitchen.  Henry had also taken a liking to the Mistress of the Ordinary.  She was well complimented in features that Henry found pleasant.  Large breasts.  Round hips. Red hair.  Good teeth.  She spoke French with an Irish accent.  A prize to be had in any colony due to the disparity between men and women, a ratio that had remained two to one for most of Kingston’s history.  She had come over from Bristol, England three years before with her husband, Edward Thatch who had disappeared into the blue vastness of the ocean shortly after their arrival.  Lawrence had helped facilitate her status of widowhood through another friend, Richard Rigby, the provost marshal.

William waited until they were alone before setting his satchel upon the table.  Henry hadn’t noticed the black leather bag when he entered the room.  “This,” he said, “Is the Sina Galley.”  He handed Henry a large, official looking document.

“It’s a copy of Governor Hamilton’s Commission,” Henry said.

“That’s right.  You would recognize a Royal Commission from the Governor of Jamaica,” William removed a second document from his bag and held it up for Henry to see.

“It that mine?”

William nodded.  “Have you ever read it?”

“Not the whole thing,” Henry replied after a brief pause.  

William held it up to the sunlight streaming through the window.  “It says ‘You are according to your Commission to commit, do and execute all manner of Acts of Hostility against Pirates, according to the Law of Arms. It says you are a loyal servant of the crown and the Royal Governor of Jamaica, a place where only the word of the Queen herself is superior to that of Governor Hamilton.”

Henry nodded.  “Yes, I believe that is what it says.  In plainer words, that is.”

“Do my words seem plain to you?”

The attorney general was a tall, dark haired man with a generous crop of grey hair spread throughout.  He kept his thick, black mustache and eyebrows neatly trimmed, his fingernails sparkling white.  There were no wasted movements in his efforts, no wasted words.  Henry knew the attorney general’s reputation as a brutal taskmaster and a tireless conspirator in Governor Hamilton’s triumvirate, a club exclusive to himself, the Provost Marshall Richard Rigby, and the Dr. John Stewart.  Henry was no stranger to confrontation and seldom flinched when engaging a ship at sea whether they flew a French or Spanish flag as long as the odds proved reasonable.  Engaging the Attorney General, however, was akin to fighting deaf, blind, and precipitously outnumbered.

“Shall we speak plainly?  You recently arrived from a cruise with one of Admiral Walker’s ships, the Salisbury Prize, which saw fit to seize the Sina Galley which was itself cruising along the southern coast of Cuba yet you had accompanied one of Commodore Littleton’s ships when you set out from port three months ago.  How came that to be?”

“We set out for the Bay of Campeche to cut dyewood under the protection of the Captain Lestock but became separated from them after passing through the Straights of Yucatan during the return journey. We noticed a sail on the horizon the morning of August forth.  She took us for Spanish guarda-costas and tracked us for the better part of a day before our identities were made clear to each other, and since our destination was the same Captain Clifton offered to escort us back to Jamaica.”

“So you are not one of Walker’s men?”

Henry considered the question for a moment. “No.  

“What do you know of the Sina Galley?”

“Not much I’m afraid.  The Salisbury Prize had seized her some days before our arrival.  The captain and crew of the Sina were secured below-deck the entire time.”

“How do you know that?”

“Clifton invited me for supper one evening.  He never mentioned the Sina but the slave woman still bore the scars from her tormentors.”

William’s interest was piqued and he leaned forward in his seat.  “What slave woman?”

“The one taken by the Sina during her raid along the Cuban coast.  She was the sum-total of their plunder.”

“And she was inside the captain’s quarters with you?”

“She prepared the meal.  From the looks of it she was either sleeping on the captain’s floor on in his bed.”

“You don’t say,” William said while flashing the smallest of smiles.  “And what made you think that?”

“They seemed rather familiar with each other throughout dinner.”

“Could you elaborate?”

“Well, the rest of the officers gave the slave woman a wide berth when she went about the room serving us, a sure sign that someone of significance had claimed her.  I never saw them exchange pleasantries if that’s what you’re asking, but I got the clear impression that they were familiar with each other.  Men and women just carry themselves differently when they begin sleeping with each other.  Oh yes, I nearly forgot.  I heard mention of a box of lace, the only other bit of plunder recovered from the Sina.”

“Was that in the quarters as well?”

“I didn’t see it.”

“That’s fine.  The slave woman will be proof enough.”

“Proof enough for what?” Henry asked.

“Never you mind.  Did you ever set foot aboard the Sina?”

“No.”

“Tell me more about this Captain Clifton.”

           “A gentleman of about fifty years.  Quiet I suppose.  He offered only a few unsolicited thoughts throughout dinner.  A company man as best I could tell.  I think he said he was one of Admiral Walker’s men.”

“That would figure,” William said.  “And he kept his ship in good repair?”

“I would say as much.  We faced a stiff breeze during our return from Cuba and the Salisbury Prize kept pace with us.  I suppose she could use a fresh set of canvas before too long, but who can’t these days.”    

“Can you remember anything else?’

“I’m not sure what you want to know.”

“That’s all right,” William said.  “I think I have enough to work with for now.  Can I send word here if I have any more questions?”

Henry looked around the tavern and then up at the rooms on the balcony above.  “That would be fine.”

“Very good.”  The Attorney General stood up in his chair and offered Henry his hand.  He said goodbye to the doctor and Lawrence in turn before taking up his satchel and heading out in the humid summer heat.

Henry waited a few seconds before turning to the doctor.  “What was that all about?”

“The governor and Admiral Walker have been having at each other ever since Walker arrived from London.”

“Is Hamilton still angry about the affair with Creagh?”  Captain David Creagh had been another of Governor Hamilton’s commissioned privateers. He’d been caught smuggling indigo from a plantation off the coast of French Hispaniola back in May by another of Sir Hovenden Walker’s naval officers.

“Mr. Brodrick’s current investigation makes it seem more than likely.”

Henry certainly didn’t want to become part and parcel to a running squabble between the two most powerful men in the British Caribbean.  “He brought my commission,” Henry said.

“He most likely knows everything about you that there is to be known,” John said.

“He’s that thorough?” Lawrence asked.

“A tireless dog when he has a scent.”

Henry could feel the tension building up in his neck. His business practices had been all aboveboard during his tenure as Captain and Master in Ballast of the Diamond since he’d come aboard back in May. Henry had hoped that some of the more unsavory details from his past dealings would remain unobserved by Governor Hamilton’s new administration thanks to the notorious reputation the Colonial Records Office had acquired over the years.  However, someone with significant influence and a vested interest, like the Attorney General could certainly comb his way through the maze of documents pertaining to his time aboard the Amirricide.

“Why did he bring my commission?”

“I’m sure you have nothing to worry about, Henry,” John said.  “You aren’t on Walker’s side, are you?”

“I’m not even sure what that means?  Aren’t we all pledged to the same side?”

“Things have changed in the months since you left Kingston.  There is peace brewing in Ryswych.”

Henry chuckled.

“Is that funny?”

“Peace between France and England?  I’ve been listening to that tired joke since I was four years old.”

“Are you so jaded that you believe this war to be endless?”

 “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Doctor Stewart removed a bit of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and set it on the table.  “It says it here in the Boston Newsletter plain as day.”

“Bits of paper do not make for peace.  Men do that.”

“Kings and Queens do that.  And if Queen Anne strikes a peace with France, then the hostilities will end.  And whenever a particularly important bit of paper is signed, it is always best to find oneself on the right side of history.”

“And you think the governor is on the right side of history?”

Doctor Stewart stood up and took his leave from the two men.  He raised his glass in salute.  “God save the King,” and drank it down before turning and heading out the door, calling out a hearty goodbye to the mistress of the ordinary as he went.

“What’s that about?” Henry said.

“What, you mean ‘God save the King.’”

“You don’t have to repeat it.”

Lawrence shrugged his shoulders.  “He’s a Jacobite, as if you couldn’t guess.  Him, William Brodrick, the Governor.  Half the government of Jamaica is peopled with Jacobites.  Why do you think they kept asking you about loyalty?”

“That explains why he and Admiral Walker are at odds. He’s Rear Admiral of the White in the Queen’s Navy.”

“And Hamilton is the Royal Governor of Jamaica. Don’t try and understand politics. It’s far more devious and complicated than who’s a ‘Jacobite’ and who’s not.”

“I’m no Jacobite,” Henry said.

“Neither am I.  I’m a businessman.  And like all businessmen I like to keep things simple.  Secure.  Lending ear to the politics of a royal governor is a small price to pay for security.” “Even if he’s aligned with a traitor?”

“Some would argue that James has as much claim to the crown as Queen Anne. More so even, what with James being a man.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I believe in Parliament.  Whoever takes the throne when Anne dies, whether it be James of the House Stuart, or George of the House of Hanover, I will still be an Englishman.  There’s no need complicate things.  We’ll be protected as long as his interests and ours remain the same.  When Doctor Stewart or anyone else goes on about the Pretender, just listen and nod.  You can be sure that Walker’s tenure in Jamaica will expire long before Governor Hamilton retires to London.  People in his position usually encounter a merciful judgment when the wheels of power turn against them.”

“What exactly does Hamilton want?”

“He wants peace between France and England.”

“That again,” Henry said.

“John was right.  Peace is coming.  You were young when the wars first started.  The world is changing.  It feels different this time.  The fight has gone out of most people.  We’ll be at peace with France soon.  And when that happens you’ll want to know who your friends are.”

“But a Jacobite?”

“Even a Jacobite.  What you don’t know is that the governor is quietly assembling a fleet designed to be the Power in these waters.  The Queen is not well.  He will strike if and when she succumbs and deliver the West Indies to James.  And if she dies without establishing a peace with France, they may be able to seize the throne.”

“You don’t really care about any of this, do you?”

“Of course not.  I doubt John does either.  He understands that there’s money to be made.  If the governor wants arms shipped or treaties brokered, then we’ll be there to deliver them.”

“For a fee, of course.”

Lawrence smiled.  “Like you already said, I don’t really care about any of this.  And neither should you.  The governor has sent out a call for supporters.  You should be ready to answer that call.”

“You mean that’s why he sent Brodrick to speak with me.”

“The Attorney General doesn’t normally conduct such inquiries.”

The widow stepped out of the kitchen and headed over to their table.  It was so early in the morning that they were still her only customers.  “Another round?”

“No thank you.  I should be going anyway,” Lawrence replied.  “Although I believe he’ll be taking a room.”

“I am?” Henry said.

“You told Brodrick he could find you here.”

“He knows I came in on the Diamond.  He held my commission in his hand for Christ’s sake. I just assumed I’d check in from time to time.”

“If you want to take that chance…” Lawrence said.

“You really think I need to stay?”

“What’s wrong with this place?” Lawrence turned to Alice.  “They way he talks you’d think this was some kind of row house.”

“What?  I never said that.”

“He certainly doesn’t think highly of it,” Alice agreed.  “I’ll have you know my rooms are always kept in fine repair.”

“I’m sure they are.  I just don’t sleep well on land.”

Lawrence stood up to take his leave and tapped Henry affectionately on the shoulder.  “Well, friend, you’re about to lose some sleep cause you ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Henry took his time finishing his drink before he quit his table.  Alice tried her best to suppress a smile when he approached the counter.  “May I help you sir?  Would you care for a room?”

“Very funny.”

“You don’t have to look so disappointed.  I only have one room available at the moment thanks to the curfew.”

“What curfew?”

“The governor’s curfew,” she said.  “No one is allowed out after sundown.  

“I know what a curfew is,” Henry said. “When did this happen?”

“Hamilton declared it back when we learned of the attack on Montserrat.”

“When was that?”

“One of Littleton’s men brought a French ship into port about a week ago.  We learned of the attack then.”

 *

             Henry returned to his ship following his rather rushed conversation with Alice. The Diamond was a forty ton sloop capable of mounting four six pound guns. Lawrence Prince’s ship, the Anne Galley, was anchored nearby.  The Anne could carry a hundred and twenty tons in her hold and could mount thirty cannon and could throw up to three hundred pounds of metal in a single broadside. They were merchant ships first and foremost and typically stored their guns belowdecks to make room for cargo and supplies.  

Joseph, Henry’s first mate, had the ship’s manifest ready and handed it to Henry when the captain climbed up onto the helm. Henry despised the paperwork that went along with a captaincy.  He normally pawned the thankless job off on Joseph or one of the other officers during a cruise, but he always double checked the final inventory while unlading a ship.  He spent hours double checking the Diamond’s manifest and matching it to Josephs final inventory.

Dyewood, or hardwood as it was known, was famous for its reddish pulp which was used to make the red dye used to outfit British soldiers, the demand for which had only increased over the years.  The Diamond had amassed forty tons of dyewood during their cruise to the Bay of Campeche.  The market for dyewood normally paid three pounds a ton but Governor Hamilton, who had underwritten the cruise along with Commodore Littleton, had assured them a market of four pounds per ton.  If everything went according to plan, Henry and his crew stood to make a fine profit for three months work.

When he was finally finished, Henry signaled Joseph to follow him into his quarters.  Joseph was a tall, lean, dark skinned African originally from the Cape Verde islands.  He was also a freed black, having purchased his freedom from Henry’s uncle five years before.

“I assume you know about the embargo already,” Henry asked after they stepped into his quarters.

“I do.”

“Did you also hear about Montserrat?”

“What happened?”

“The French assaulted it two months back. That’s why Hamilton declared this martial law.  We’re trapped.  We might be stuck with our whole cargo if the dyewood market is frozen.”

“What about the guarantee given by the governor?”

Henry shook his head.  “Who knows where he stands right now.  I just had a private meeting with William Brodrick.  He was rather interested with the goings on aboard the Sina.”

“I imagine he would him being the Attorney General and all.”    

“He was more interested in Captain Clifton and the Salisbury Prize than anything else.”

“I can think of another word for it,” Henry mused. “Get yourself into town once the cargo is offloaded and keep your ears open.  Leave Matthew, Phillip, and Thomas and send the rest of the crew ashore. We’re not going anywhere until the governor lifts this embargo and I’m not going to pay half wages for men to lounge about the ship.”  Henry looked through his porthole out at the forests of masts occupying the harbor. An embargo was perhaps the only effective tool a governor had at his disposal when faced with a pending invasion. It bolstered the town’s defenses by keeping friendly ships in port while preventing vital intelligence, like troop numbers and the state of a colony’s fortifications, from foreign agents.  

“Cassard again?” Joseph said with a look of distaste.

“That’s the rumor.  Apparently, Captain Lestock captured a French ship on the way back from the Bay of Campeche.  Find out if Lestock kept the prisoners aboard the August or moved them to aboard the Defiance.”  The Defiance, a third rate ship-of-the-line, was the flagship of Commodore Littleton, who had been the ranking officer in Jamaica before Hovenden Walker’s recent arrival.

“Begging your pardon sir, but you seemed to have developed a certain report with Captain Lestock during our cruise.  Wouldn’t you be better suited for such reconnaissance?”

“I will if there’s time.  I must return to Kingston before nightfall.”

Joseph looked at his askance.  “What’s going on?”

“The governor placed a curfew and an embargo upon Jamaica in case of further French hostility.”  Henry wiped the sweat from his forehead and shook his head in disgust. “Had I known we were sailing into an embargo I never would have returned to this stinking, sweaty place.”  

“I heard about the embargo from one of the harbormaster’s men.  But why must you return to town?

“The admiral picked a fight with the governor, or is it the other way around.  Anyway, I don’t want to waste time talking about it.  The short of it is, I have to stay in the sweaty armpit of Kingston until further notice.  

“Are you staying with that Irish woman?” Joseph asked.

“That’s none of your concern.”  Henry quickly changed the subject, “How’s the cargo?”

“The hold will be empty by tomorrow morning. I think we can get by without you for just this once,” Joseph said with a grin.  

Henry’s first mate, an able bodied seaman of the first order, had been sailing ships and unlading cargo since before Henry was born. They had been sailing together ever since Henry began his apprenticeship aboard his uncle’s ship nearly twenty years ago.

“Of course you’re capable of unlading the ship yourself,” Henry said.  “We’ll keep the hold empty for the time being.  We don’t want be take possession of anything until we’re able to leave port.” He looked over at Fort Charles and a dozen or so warships of Her Majesties Navy scattered throughout the harbor. “We’re not going anywhere until the governor lifts this embargo.”

Henry opened his sea chest and packed his account book, ledger, and journal into a large black leather satchel along with a change of clothes and a dog eared copy of Don Quixote.  He also took up his spyglass and sextant, wrapped them both in a second spare shirt, and packed it with his books.

“Do you really think you be taking many sun sights while on land,” Joseph joked.

“They were gifts,” Henry said.

 *

 It was about an hour before sundown when Henry returned to the Bristol Man.  He recognized some familiar faces amongst the crowd of seamen and laborers that frequented the alleys and byways of Kingston.  He went up to the bar where Alice and an old black slave named Jezebel were waiting on customers.

“You’re back,” Alice said.

“Yes.  

She motioned to his satchel.  “Is that all your baggage?”

“For now.”

She turned to Jezebel.  “I’m going to show him to his room.  Just holler if you need anything.”  Then she grabbed a ring of keys from behind the bar and led him through the crush of bodies and up the stairs to the L shaped balcony above the main room.

“As you can see it has reasonable bed, a table and chair for writing.  A rocking chair.  A looking glass.  It also has a balcony overlooking the harbor.  The door at the far end leads to my room.”  She opened the door and Henry stepped out to see for himself.  “You can count on a steady breeze off the harbor most nights if the heat bothers you.”

“How much,” he said when he came back inside.

“I let this room at a crown per week.”

Henry took a seat in the rocking chair and sighed. He did appreciate a good rocker, but at a crown per week he hoped his sojourn would be brief.  He allowed himself a few extra seconds to relax when he noticed a hook screwed into the far wall.  “What is that for?”

“A hammock,” Alice answered.  “There’s another hook behind you.”

“You have a hammock?”

“We do for those who want it.”

“I definitely want it,” he said.  

“Not a problem.”  Alice called downstairs for the hammock and a few minutes later Alice’s slave, an old black woman named Jezebel, carried it up to the room.

Henry had always found it difficult to sleep in what he thought of as and “English bed,” preferring the coolness and comfort of a hammock.  Alice and Jezebel hung the hammock on the hooks.  Henry climbed inside and was put instantly at ease by the familiar sway.

“You’re lucky.  This is the only room equipped for it.”

“Lucky at a crown per week,” Henry muttered mostly to himself.  “It’s perfect.”

“Would you care for anything else?”

“I haven’t eaten anything since this morning.”

“I’ll have Jezebel make something up for you. How do you fare with turtle meat?”

“Turtle would be just fine.”

The two women went back downstairs and closed the door behind them.  Henry took a moment to unpack his belongings before stepping out onto the balcony.  He settled into one of the wicker chairs, opened his book, and waited for his supper to arrive.  A few minutes later someone came knocking.

“I’m out on the landing,” he yelled.  A second later Alice stepped onto the patio with his food and a glass of Madeira.   She set his supper down on the small table beside him.  “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Depends on the question.”

“Who was the other man with you today?  He didn’t seem like the sort you normally associate with.”

“Are you sure you want to know.”

“I make it a point to know a little something about the people who do business in my establishment.”

“And what is it you think you know about me?”

“Enough to know that you’d much rather be aboard your ship right now.”

“Fair enough.  His name is William Brodrick.”

“The Attorney General.  Are you in any kind of trouble?”

“I hope not.”

“Do you think he’ll be coming back?”

“I’m not sure,” Henry said honestly.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone else.  It would certainly prove bad for business if it got out that he’d been here.”

“I’m certainly not about to tell anyone.”  Neither of them would benefit from a public association with Jamaica’s top prosecutor.  

She nodded.

“Well, if you don’t need anything else, I’ll excuse myself.”

“I should be fine,” Henry said.

“You can leave the dishes here.  I’ll come back for them later.”

Henry spent the rest of the evening watching the sunset and the hundreds of people mill about the wharf from the porch above the Bristol Man.  Everyone added some quickness to their step as they rushed to complete their business before sunset.  The rural portions of Jamaica were probably barely affected by the curfew since most turned in before sunset anyway whereas towns like Kingston never slept, at least not down at the wharf, where deals were made and merchandise exchanged day or night.  There were eight or nine blacks or tawny skinned natives to every Englishman or Scot, all of them glistening in the heat.

The Caribbean was known for it’s a notoriously torrid climate.  Sugar flourished there.  Lemons, limes, grapefruit, tomatoes and countless of other tropical fruits thrived in the endless heat.  A heat Henry despised.  The sweat was constant during the long summer months, August being the worst of the lot. Most of the original colonists whether they were French, Spanish, Dutch or Dane, had done their best to found their settlements to windward of the cooling Atlantic breezes.  The settlers of Port Royal, and later Kingston, had unfortunately chosen one of the most desperately humid bowls in the Caribbean.

Kingston Harbor Bay, an enormous bay five miles long and as many wide, was protected by a five mile stretch of sand commonly known as the Palisadoes.  The Caribbean fed into Kingston Harbor through Port Royal Harbor, a wide inlet between the town of Port Royal, which was perched on the western extremity of the Palisados, and St. Jago de la Vega, the official Capitol of Jamaica.  

In 1692 an earthquake struck the island of Jamaica which sent the northern half of Port Royal beneath the waves.  Years later, in 1707 a great fire finished off the rest and now only Fort Charles and a small collection of houses was all that remained of what once had been home to Captain Morgan and the most nefarious piratical force in the Caribbean.  Most of the citizens had relocated to Kingston following the earthquake, a natural inclination since the harbor was still one of the finest to be found in the Caribbean.  Yet despite the safety of its harbor, which was impeccable thanks to the Palisodoes, and the depth of its draft, which was second to none, the towns of Kingston/Port Royal were regrettably a day’s sail from the Atlantic breezes that buffeted the windward side of the island.  The constant heat combined with the fever swamps to the north and the east of Kingston always put Henry at a very ill humor.

Henry read from his copy of Don Quixote while he ate his supper of turtle and potatoes. A bank of storm clouds, painted brilliant shades of orange and pink by the setting sun, began gathering on the southern horizon.  Henry read until the sunlight failed him and the wisdom of Cervantes became little more than blots of ink upon the page.  He brought the book inside and returned to the patio to wait for the rain.

A half hour later Alice stepped outside.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t think you’d still be here.”

Henry motioned to the other chair.  “I like it out here.  Being so close to the water reminds me of my ship.”

“I just came to get your plate.”

“Have a seat.  Let the rain wash it clean.”  Henry held up his hand and felt scattered raindrops falling from the sky.

“I normally don’t.  Most guests insist upon exclusive use of the patio.”

“Well, that’s not me,” Henry said while offering her the seat again.  

Alice graciously accepted and sidled down into the chair beside him.  “I’ve had a lot more time to sit out here the last couple of weeks.  We’re a bit busier around suppertime as everyone rushes to get drunk before they retire for the evening.”

Henry leaned forward and inspected the street below. “It is eerily quiet down there.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do if the curfew doesn’t end soon.  Having full rooms is nice but I make most of my money selling rum.”

“I imagine most of the tavern keepers are getting impatient.”

“Hamilton’s lucky he’s appointed by the Queen.  He’d never win an election with the shit he’s shoveling.  Enough about my troubles.  How’s your ship?  I didn’t have a chance to ask about it earlier.”

“My first mate will see to everything.  I’ve been wondering why would an Irishwoman name her ordinary the Bristol Man?” Henry asked, changing the subject.

“It’s short for the Bristol Man-of-war my husband served aboard before he disappeared three years ago.”

“Three years ago,” Henry repeated.

“I still don’t know what happened to him. There was a rumor that he went down with another ship captured by the Bristol which subsequently went down during a storm coming up the coast of Brazil. Another man told me he’d been captured by the Spanish while trying to take Cartagena.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.  He was a worse man than your doctor friend.”

“John isn’t that bad,” Henry said.

“Unless you’re a woman,” Alice added.

Henry considered her words.  “He does tend to get a bit familiar from time to time.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“How would you put it?”

“He’s a jackass.”

“Perhaps, but he’s a lot easier to work for than my uncle.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“How would you know?”

“I’ve heard of your uncle,” she said.  “From what I understand he’s a very generous man.”

“Generous,” Henry scoffed.  “If you knew my uncle you’d never use that word to describe him. I sailed aboard his ship for nearly twenty years and he was only ever generous with his disappointment.”  

“Family can be harsh sometimes,” Alice offered.

“My own father was never that harsh, and he’s spent most of his life wondering if he could afford our next meal.  My father wanted a better life for me and secured an apprenticeship aboard my uncle’s flagship.”  

“What does your father do?”

“He’s a rope-maker.  My parents own about forty acres of hardscrabble in the mountain passes of St. Christopher’s near Brimstone Hill.”

“Do you wish you’d stayed there?”

This gave Henry pause.  “I suppose not.  But I wouldn’t choose my uncle again if that’s what you’re asking.  His expectations are too high, the margin for disappointment too great.  It took me twenty years to realize that and I’ll never go back.  Not as long as I have the Diamond.”

Henry had met Lawrence Prince and Doctor John Stewart in Barbados about six months before.  They had come from Africa aboard the Diamond and Prince’s flagship, the Anne.  About a quarter of the crew had succumbed to the pox on the transatlantic voyage and practically limped into Carlisle Bay in Barbados.  Henry had been living with his sister and her husband who owned a sugar plantation on the windward side of the island when the call went out for a pilot to guide the Diamond the rest of the way to Jamaica.

“What happened to the previous captain?”

“Our mutual friend, Doctor Stewart, was captain of the Diamond before my tenure.  He was a majority owner in the ship and fancied himself a sailor until he realized that seafaring upset his humors.  He unceremoniously relinquished command soon after we arrived in Kingston, I was made captain in his stead.”

The wind picked up and the scattered raindrops became a steady drizzle.  Henry held up his hand to catch some of the raindrops and dabbed them on his forehead. “I don’t know how you live here. The heat is just brutal.”  

“We have a shower downstairs.”

“Why didn’t you mention that sooner?”

“I suppose it’s a moot point at the moment,” she said.  “But if you have a mind to use it tomorrow I’ll have Jezebel carry some water up from the stream.”

[dunmerofskyrim]

32

It was only this year, I think. This year and yet a world ago. I was a boy then. A mercenary contracted to the company of the Red Vahn, in the pay of Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak.

There had been a battle. I had no hand in it. Held neither shield nor spear but went among the bodies with the throat-slitters, the scavengers, beside my quartermaster to take what we could from the wreckage. Pulling gold teeth from out the jaws of death; cutting arrowheads from the fallen.

It was the first I’d seen. Death I’d seen before. I’d killed — not clean, not often, yet all the same and even so. But a battle’s something else entire. Like a thing that shouldn’t be: a great ripeness of carnage, corpses. Springtime in the Rift and the reek and the flies and the hunger of wasps made the whole spectacle more than could fit in my head. Waste, as far as the eye could see. Ground boggy underfoot despite weeks without rain. And then there were the wounded. And they were almost worse.

No hand in the killing, and perhaps that thickened my guilt. Fight in the throng and you protect those around you. Your violence is also an aegis for the fighters ahead and behind, to left and to right. I’d saved no-one that way. I begged our company’s healer, at least let me help with the wounded. He was an Altmer, tall, lines round his eyes like the cracks in pottery too small and tight to let even water seep through. Clovis, an Altmer with a West Nordic name. Healer to our company, barber and surgeon, plier and puller of real teeth when they rotted.

He’d let me help him before. My mother had taught me plants good for poultices: ravelbyne, willowbark, the white from the eggs of the Skyrim rock-warbler. I’d been useful to him then. Keen eye and listening ear, I’d learnt from him. I helped him cut cloth for dressings and he cut my hair. (And I still wear the outgrown aftermath of that cut now, mussed from the sack thrown over my head, slicked to my brow with sweat.) But when the wounded came in from that battle on the plain, I begged him.

“Let me help you again.”

“You don’t know how.”

“So teach me.”

In the back of a wagon he taught me words. A mantra in Altmeris so old no-one speaks it, save when they don’t want to be understood. Words to distance myself from pain and quicken the mending of my own body.

“What use will that be when more wounded come in?”

“If you’re among them? Plenty.”

“And if I don’t plan to be?”

“A healer heals what he knows. As far as bodies go, I assume you know your own best. If not, you’ve – ah – had a youth more interesting than mine. But the fact remains: to learn healing, start with yourself.”

“But where does the magic come in? It’s just words.”

“There’s nothing for magic to work on, is there? Are you hurt, Simra?”

And now I collapse, and I think: Yes, I’m hurt, yes. I collapse on the floor of the towerhouse and the buckle of my knees, the pain in my hands as I catch myself, tell me I ought never have got up. My vision is dark. A feeling like strong drink starts in my skull. And I roll onto my back, then onto my side. The flank where I’m wounded is upright. My shirts stick to the skin and beneath it my torso feels caved in, bruised, beginning to throb.

The mantra Clovis taught me. The Rift. It was only this year, and I was only a boy, and I’ve not yet stopped being that. I’m not yet nineteen. That’s a truth I’ve tried of late to put from my mind, but bleeding and starting to whimper I feel every part a child again. Lost and afraid and not knowing how to save myself. It’s that childish feeling that starts me crying. A wrenching hopelessness, as I realise my only hope is myself. No-one is coming to help.

The mantra can be begun at any point along its length. It’s a circle. Only touch to a point in its circumference and trace around. I grope and grovel towards the place it has in my mind now. I touch, and begin to trace, begin to talk it through. Unfamiliar sounds in a language I don’t know. But they chant the rhythms of the body, the cycles of waste and renewal. And their rhythms force my breath to slow where it had grown tight with panic. That’s the mantra’s first mercy.

Still there’s dark seeping into my eyes. A threat on the edges of my mind, made of memories that beckon, beg me to drown as I dream them. Anything but live in the now, where the pain pounds like a drumbeat, overshouting the stamp of my heart.

Awake. I need to stay. I need to stay awake. The sleep that wants me will swallow me whole.

Simra’s pen hovered. His hand paused til the nib went dry.

Chronicle, account, book-to-be — whatever it was, it was growing messy. Like a once-groomed garden left unchecked. It had started out as neat squares of prose on the folds of parchment he’d bought in Bodram. Now it was a roll of papers, extraneities, scraps scribbled here and there and tied all together with a strip of someone’s torn shirtcloth. Good parchment at its heart and oddments furling round and outwards. Only Simra could order them now, and that bothered him…

The leaf he was working on rested on the back of his satchel. Stiff leather, stiff paper or parchment laid over it. It had served him fine as a writing desk for years when nothing finer could be found.

The little Telvanni-made notebook sat next to him, beside his inkstone in its carved bone box. It was open to his calculations, scribbled down from memory after that morning in Othrenis. Just to check he’d not cheated himself, or let himself be cheated. Just to keep track rather than count out all his coin again. Just so that if someone in Senie asked – a merchant, a traveller – at what price rice for retail down the southwestern road, he’d be able to tell them. Information’s a saleable luxury too, and lighter by far than coin.

He’d bartered away what he couldn’t use. The helmet with its bonemould peak and mail coif; the shell earring and painted luckstone. He’d walked into town with five pairs of boots slung across the saddle of the guar that he led for a pack-beast.

Some of it went in trade. A toothless pantryman in the fuggy warmth and shade of his shop, amongst the shelves of jars and baskets of potsherds. He’d smiled too often as Simra traded him the earring, the luckstone, for their worth in wares. A refilled flask of the local sujamma; worse by far than Tamsora Minu had served him, but not too bad to drink if you weren’t too proud to drink it. A leaf-wrapped parcel of black-flecked white scuttle. A small jar of preshta-jan to season days of nothing but rice, and a paper-bagged handful of black dried hunter’s mushrooms.

The helmet went to a smith. But she was the tools-and-nails backcountry kind, and Othrenis is a small town, and Simra knew better than to ask for all its worth in coin.

“You have rice? Millet?”

“My winter stores.”

“Any you can sell?”

She put up two pounds from her pantry, brown hulled grains, black now and then with wild rice, errant from off the plains. A skillet too, of dark-hammered iron, and two-dozen fowling arrows: a gift to keep Noor in temper about a morning wasted on trade.

“D’you sharp blades too?”

“Two shil a knife. Three for a longer blade.”

“A yera and four then.” Simra unsheathed his four knives, his heavy-bladed sword, laying them down. At once he felt half-helpless without them. Even with a looted hatchet through his belt and magic at his fingertips. “Be back for them and the remaining – what? – call it two yera and four?”

“Two.”

“Just two?”

“Just two. Buying it’s no sure thing. Who’d I sell helmets to herebouts?”

“Only people like me.”

“Only people like you,” she nodded.

Simra didn’t argue. Only carried on through Othrenis to its narrow corner of a marketplace.

No rain today but the ground was still churned to mud from the traffic of traipsing feet. A streetfood seller roasted groundnuts and grilled skewers over rocks he kept hot with flames from his fingers. Cone-hatted farmers wrapped up against the cold in all the clothes they owned grouped together round cauldrons of trama-root and brown rice tea to sell their surplus.

Scant harvest this year, Simra reckoned over their baskets, their urns, their bundles. They had little to sell and prices were dear. Winter rewards the miser, he thought. But he bought three more pounds of saltrice, five starchy white winter dirtyams like hairy crooked fingers, and a bunch of long onions with skins like paper. Paid in coin. Would have felt almost charitable if not for his own slimming funds. Winter rewards the miser but the hearts of the hungry belong to the generous; the maxim finished itself, bitter in his thoughts. Where had he read that? Heard that? It wasn’t Temple creed, that was certain. Eight or Nine? It would come to him, but wouldn’t come now…

Returning to the smithy, Simra bought a skewer of three plump grilled dumplings. Wasn’t that what he’d wanted, after all? They were hot, comforting, filled with fermented rice-bran paste and shards of crushed numb-pepper. He forced himself to eat them slow, staving off guilt with each chaste small half-mouthful.

When Simra left had left Othrenis that morning, he left with a feedbag of rice and yams and onions slung over the guar’s neck. A string of dead men’s boots still hung there with it. Not even the farmers would buy them.

Four shils worse off. That’s where the page said he stood now, in blot and bleeding ink. No matter the pay he’d had from House Minu; he’d lose that soon enough as well. He had the arrows, the sharpened steel. The skillet where a simmer of scuttle and yams and preshta-jan was steaming down now, starting to smell good as it fried. But the page of calculations still briared at him.

He closed it. Stowed it in his bookbag where it wouldn’t look at him and he needn’t look back.

“Who taught you?”

Tammunei asked it from across their camp before Simra could go back to writing. They half-rose to hunker a stride or two closer, around the small fire, the seething skillet and its contents. Red oil, sliced black scuttle, chunks of yam gone the colour of rust as they softened and sizzled.

“Taught me what?” Simra asked, leaning over the satchel and parchment in his lap to put the words into his torso’s shadow.

Tammunei’s eye went to the skillet, the steam.

“My ammu, mostly.”

“No,” Tammunei frowned. “You weren’t very good before. You haven’t seen her since.”

Something tightened in Simra’s throat and he told himself it was only the insult. “You mean when I met you? I thought I was alright…”

“You’re better now,” Tammunei offered. “So I wondered who taught you, between here and then?”

“Morrowind,” Simra lied, short-tongued, a little sharp. “Didn’t know the ingredients when I came here. That’s all. Scuttle, scrib — where’d I learn to cook that in Skyrim, hm?”

Now they’ve got you remembering, Simra thought. Tammu and Ebonheart and all that came after. Every word he wrote now drew him closer to writing that out.

“I’m sorry,” said Tammunei. “I’m interrupting.”

“No. No, I’m done writing.” Simra began to fold his parchments, his papers, clean his pen while his inkstone went dry. “Food’ll be ready soon. Best get to it.”

“Noor’ll be back soon. I should look useful. Or thoughtful at least.”

“And so the witch sweeps in from off the plains to scowl at my cooking…”

“Shul! It smells good! She’s grateful. Only she shows it badly.”

“I got her arrows. Hunting ones. Another reason for her to pretend she doesn’t know the words for ‘thank you’.”

“She’ll like those.”

“And I’d like if she caught us some racer with them. Deer, goat, nix. Thinks any of that’s likely?”

“Not deer. Not for five days now.”

“Not even gonna ask how you know that.”

“Less goat too with every eastward step.”

“Hm. I’m sure we’ll manage.”

[shortiegardengnome]

I Need a Hug - Dan and Phil

This is something i wrote when i was feeling extremely down and could seriously use a hug from my favourite YouTubers.

Genre: fluff.

Warnings: None.

Pairings: None.

Today was a truly shit day. From start to finish I had run into nothing but misfortune. It all started with a mistake that I will readily admit; I didn’t get enough sleep last night, and today I had to get up at 5:30am. Why on Earth did I think that I would be able to function on 4 hours of sleep when I had a huge day today I couldn’t tell you. All I can tell you is that It was entirely due to my lack of self-restraint. Last night I was up in the wee hours of the morning, surprisingly not on Tumblr but on skype chatting to my two favourite people on the planet, Dan and Phil. Now, they would’ve completely understood if I had to cut the conversation short because I needed sleep; hell if they knew what god forsaken hour I had to get up today they’d probably tell me to go the fuck to sleep then promptly hang up on me. But alas, I didn’t tell them and I couldn’t cut the conversation short because frankly, I’m a glutton for their company and a masochist when it comes to my sleeping schedule so we were up seriously late. Well, late for me.

 So of course when the demonic sound of my alarm clock ripped through my sleep and quite happy dreams like a chainsaw through curtains I was not happy. I blearily opened my eyes, squinting in the darkness and hating myself a little for the decisions I made last night. Deciding that the only way I was going to get out of bed was the painful way I reached over with a shaking hand and turned on my bedside lamp. Resisting the urge to hiss and hide beneath the blankets I stared at that evil light and my hand still gripping it until my eyes no longer hurt. Now that my retinas were burned to a crisp I had to face my next challenge, stepping out of my warm cocoon and into the blizzard of my house. I sighed dramatically, this was going to take a while. I reached for my phone as a method of procrastination as turned off my alarm, reading the numbers spelling out the time I whimpered a little at my fate.

 I sat up a little with a groan; throwing my arms above my head I arched my back and stretched as far as I could. I loved the feel of my non-existent muscles stretching and relaxing after a sleep. The chill of the air nibbled at my arms and hands and I dropped them back in my lap before cracking my neck. Okay, here’s what I will do. My inner-voice took on a motivational tone. You will figure out what you’re going to wear while your still in bed, then it will be a race to launch myself out of bed collect my clothes and sprint into a hot shower. Let’s hope I can do this.  I went through a mental catalogue of my wardrobe vs. what’s in the laundry and tried to figure out what the hell I would be wearing today. I decided on my favourite pair of high waisted denim jeans, a button up red and black check top with three quarter sleeves and a cream scarf which I would wear with knee high brown boots and my brown leather satchel. Of course I would grab my black leather jacket as well for the cold. Taking stock of what I would need I made to fling myself out of bed and land gracefully on my feet and make a run for my clothes; so of course It didn’t work like that. Instead of landing on my feet, my foot got stuck in the sheets and I tumbled down to the ground, m face being squished quite thoroughly into the carpet. My muffled swearing sounded garbled in the carpets soft fabric. Since that was a massive flop I pushed myself off the floor and yanked my foot out of the sheets. It came free easier than I expected and I was sent careening back into the floor. At least I landed on my back this time. I got up for the third time and managed to only stub my toes on my bed when collecting my clothes. My shower went without incident. I imagine the mischief fairies who made their lives in my apartment realised that any accident I could have in the shower would be deadly so they left me alone. They however decided that as soon as I was out of the shower I was fair game as thrice I burnt myself on my hair straightener; and don’t even get me started with how many times I accidently poked myself in the eye while doing my make-up.

 I left the bathroom trying to resist rubbing my eyes. I knew they were sore as all hell but if I did give in temptation then I would smudge everything and have to start all over again and I sure as hell wasn’t going to risk poking myself in the eye again. I walked into the kitchen determined that today would get better from now on. Especially once I got a mug of tea into my system. While I completely understood why some people lived off coffee, hey I can’t blame them for needing the caffeine… I for one wish I liked coffee but I juts didn’t, so of a morning I settled for a good cup of tea. Pulling out my massive mug with the words “grumpy old man” written on it (something Phil brought me for my birthday, and to this day he still finds it hilarious) I turned the kettle on and searched the cupboards for something edible for breakfast. I managed to scrounge around long enough to find some yoghurt and fruit that was edible, which I consider a win; especially when you consider how long I have procrastinated going grocery shopping, I would do it online but I have a deep mistrust of buying online sometimes. Besides, it makes me leave the house.

 I pour the boiling water into the mug and add the milk to the already added tea bag and sugar and stirred. I put some yoghurt in a bowl and added strawberries and blueberries to the mix. Picking up my mug and bowl I went to the lounge room to watch some TV. Managing not to trip on the way had quickly become the first positive of my day. It was quickly ruined by spilling hot tea all over my fingers. I swore loudly and ran to the sink drenching my fingers in cold water. “Dammit.” I hissed through my teeth my fingers going slightly numb from the cold water, the heat from the burns being sucked out of my skin. When I felt the heat was all taken out of my fingers I pulled them away from the sink, grabbed a tea-towel and icepack and wrapped them up before returning to my breakfast.

 The rest of the day went much the same way. I was in a constant state of atrocious clumsiness, constantly tripping over the smallest of objects; dropping almost everything that came into my hands and accidently running into people. I was an absolute mess today and the day was just too long and filled with too many opportunities to make a complete idiot of myself. I also spent the day apologizing to everyone I harmed in my frenzy of flailing limbs and unsteady hands. So much so that I had the entire apology memorized. Now it was finally the end of the work day and the mean comments muttered about me as I made my way out of the building each created a chink in my armour of self-control. I was on the brink of teas as I exited onto the street and made my way to the taxi bay. Usually I didn’t listen to those comments but rather made an effort to block out my surroundings until I got home; but today I was just too bone tired and I couldn’t find the energy in my reserves to block out everything. I bit my lip to hold and the tears and prayed that my voice wouldn’t wobble when I asked the driver to take me to my home address. I received a funny look in the rear-view mirror but he didn’t ask any questions… for that I was thankful.

I leaned back into the chair and tried to think about nothing, I focused on the feel on the seat beneath my head and the scratchy material pressing itself against my palms. I let my breaths become long a deep and visualised the path the oxygen took. My calming methods were working perfectly, I could feel the tears receding and the stress working its way out of my shoulders. I let out a deep sigh and tried to keep going. The shrill noise of my phone ringing jolted me out of my state abruptly. I jolted in my seat and made a mad scramble to find my phone in my seemingly bottomless bag. I pawed my way through the contents pushing objects from side to side but of course at the very bottom beneath so tissues sat my phone still going off and vibrating like mad. I lunged for the phone seeing that it was a call from Dan. The phone fell out of my hands a couple more times before I got a good grip on it and I hurriedly answered the phone.

 “Hello?” my voice sounded unsteady even to me, he was definitely going to be able to tell something was up.

 “Hey Y/N.” his greeting came softly through the phone as if he were trying to make his voice sound as gentle and as caring as possible. It wasn’t exactly helping my ‘don’t cry until you get home’ situation. My lip wobbled and I bit it to stop myself from crying further.  “What’s wrong?” he knew without words that I was on the brink of crying.

 “N-nothing.” The first tear fell and I started shaking in my seat, little sniffles escaping from my nose.

 Silence reined on the other side as I cried as quietly as I could. I didn’t feel like I could talk to Dan properly without giving away what was actually happening. Without warning there was a scuffle on the other side of the phone it sounded like people playing tug of war with something before a voice interrupted the noise.

 “Y/N where are you?” Phil obviously stole Dan’s phone to talk to me.

 “In a taxi on my way home,” I mumbled trying desperately to keep my tears out of my voice, I didn’t want to bring them down into my depressing mood with me. They didn’t need that in their lives, they were already so busy as it was. Their lives on the internet and as radio show hosts was very demanding on their lives. I didn’t want to add my bad day into the mix, they needed to focus on keeping their lives in order so they both could have some time to themselves without going crazy.

 “Tell the driver to bring you to our address.” Phil’s tone brooked no argument, didn’t mean I wasn’t still going to argue.

 I took a moment to control myself before saying “You really don’t have to do that Phil… I’m fine.” I was proud that my voice wobbled only a little. Another scuffle happened on the other side of the phone, this time I could tell it meant that they were switching who had the phone.

 “Either you come over here or we break into your house. No matter what you’re seeing us tonight, so I suggest you pick the easier option.” Dan threatened into the phone and I knew without a doubt those knuckle heads would at least attempt to follow through with their threat. I couldn’t really see them being able to break down my door but I could definitely see them showing up and attempting to, and when they inevitably failed at breaking down my door they would hammer their hands on it until I got annoyed and let them in so they would knock it off. Believe it or not it had happened before. At a completely unreasonable hour too. I sighed and then told the driver the change in location. He smiled at me and let me know that it wasn’t a problem and that we would be there in a couple of minutes.

 Dan and Phil must’ve heard what the driver said because all I got in reply was a “Good girl!” before they hung up. I sighed for the umpteenth time today. I seriously was a sucker when it came to those two, lord only knew that I certainly couldn’t say no to them. Though there was a time when I could say no, but that was back when I hardly knew them, and we had only just met; plus, I never actually said the word ‘no.’ just some persuasion of it. But I can openly admit I was a completely marshmallow for the two gentle giants from the beginning. Something about Phil’s happy and kind demeanour and Dan’s constant state of sarcasm and dimples that just made my heart melt around those two. If they knew what effect, they had on e I doubt they’d take advantage of it… at least not anymore so than they do now.

 Before I knew it, the car rolled to a stop at the curb and I blinked out of my reverie. I leant forward and paid the driver and made sure to thank him for changing course without any complaining. He smiled and wished me a good night. I gathered my things in my hands and just as I was reaching for the door handle, to door of the taxi was yanked open and I was pulled out with a swiftness that rivalled ninjas. The thump of the car door closing and the Taxi taking off was the last things I saw before I was enveloped in a hug. Both Dan and Phil wrapped their arms around me and squeezed me close until we resembled a human sandwich. I clenched my hands in their jumpers and pulled them close into me as I felt the tears I had managed to get under control pouring out of my eyes once again. “Dammit” I muttered into the black jumper –which I assumed belonged to Dan for obvious reasons- I had my faced smushed into.

 The boys pulled back and took a look at my miserable face. “Come on,” Dan said kindly and Phil draped his arm across my shoulders. “Let’s go inside.” I managed a smile at the two as they led me into their apartment.

 That night we all stayed up late talking, playing video games and doing whatever else came to mind. When I tried to go home, the boys just about tackled me to the ground insisting I stay over. I ended up borrowing a hoodie and a way too big jumper and we all fell asleep curled up on the couch. Today started off truly shit, but it ended in one of the most peaceful and content ways that I’ve ever known. That is why I am so glad I’m friends with Dan and Phil.

[kindlecomparedinfo]

Bag Week 2018: The Bitcoin Genesis Block backpack will centralize your belongings

Welcome to Bag Week 2018. Every year your faithful friends at TechCrunch spend an entire week looking at bags. Why? Because bags — often ignored but full of our important electronics — are the outward representations of our techie styles, and we put far too little thought into where we keep our most prized possessions.

It’s difficult to show people that you love blockchain. There are no cool hats, no rad t-shirts, and no outward signs – except a libertarian bent and a poster of a scantily-clad Vitalik Buterin on your bedroom wall – to tell the world you are into decentralized monetary systems. Until, of course, the Bitcoin Genesis Block Backpack.

Unlike the blockchain, this backpack will centralize your stuff in a fairly large, fairly standard backpack. There is little unique about the backpack itself – it’s a solid piece made of 100% polyester and includes ergonomically designed straps and a secret pocket – but it is printed with the Bitcoin Genesis Block including a headline about UK bank bailouts. In short, it’s Merkle tree-riffic.

The green and orange text looks a little Matrix-y but the entire thing is very fun and definitely a conversation starter. Again, I doubt this will last more than a few trips to Malta or the Luxembourg but it’s a great way to let Bitcoin whales know your ICO means business.

The bag comes to us from BitcoinShirt, a company that makes and sells bitcoin-related products and accepts multiple cryptocurrencies. While this backpack won’t stand up to 51% attacks on its structural integrity, it is a fun and cheap way to show the world you’re pro-Nakamoto.

So as we barrel headlong into a crypto future fear not, fashion-conscious smart contract lover: the Bitcoin Genesis Block backpack is here to show the world you’re well and truly HODLing. To the moon!

Read other Bag Week reviews here.

Bag Week 2018: Pad & Quill Heritage Satchel is a modern leather classic

Bag Week 2018: WP Standard built the leather messenger bag you want

from RSSMix.com Mix ID 8176395 https://techcrunch.com/2018/06/19/bag-week-2018-the-bitcoin-genesis-block-backpack-will-centralize-your-belongings/ via http://www.kindlecompared.com/kindle-comparison/