#but in a private and cozy setting where he is otherwise safe

[ficandkaboodle]

Does Eddie Munson have experience? I don’t know. Probably but I personally don’t think he does, at least not nearly to the extent I often see people theorizing. But then again, maybe that’s just to appease my absolute adoration for touch-starved boyos who can potentially cum in their pants from a good make out session with the person they’re head-over-heels for.

[workofheart]

promise

levi never thought he could have a peaceful night’s rest until he found himself in your arms

requested by: @thecaptainsbride​ 

pairing: levi ackerman x reader

wc: 2.5k

genre: fluff, canonverse, establishing domesticity

a/n: we had levi comforting reader, and now we have reader comforting levi :’) in terms of the request, i altered the timeline a bit but i think it still captures what you were going for! enjoy u guys <3

Levi isn’t used to letting people into his space.

In this line of work, he’s learned to be careful of the people he trusts to see his life from the inside. Not only to retain the secrecy and plans of the Scouts, but to protect his well being when he is so surrounded by death and destruction. A heart can only break so many times before it fails to beat at all.

That’s why, when the night comes when he finally decides to let you stay over, he’s tense. He observes your every step, unsure if he’s nervous or embarrassed or scared. It’s not skepticism, he knows, because he does trust you. You’re the only person he could possibly imagine him letting get so close to him with all that he’s experienced. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have let you enter in the first place; so for once, he’s going to have faith his own judgment.

You slowly pace around his room, peeking at the knick knacks Levi has accumulated over the span of his life so far. He has quite the array of stationary arranged neatly on his desk, and a curated assortment of pens and ink to choose from. Worn, loved books line the shelves of the wooden case, small pieces of paper poking out from the top. A nimble finger traces over the cracked spine of one with a faded green cover.

“Can I?” you ask, turning over your shoulder to see him. Levi is sitting on the edge of his bed, palms pressed tightly to his thighs. He takes a deep breath and nods gently in response, dark strands of hair falling in front of his eyes.

You carefully tilt the spine towards you and pluck it from its spot. Flipping through the pages, you can see how Levi has diligently underlined, highlighted, and starred the passages. Small notes in his delicate handwriting decorate the margins with definitions and insightful observations. This book has been well read, and you’re sure the others are just the same.

His room is fairly bare for how long it’s been his home, but how much of a home is it really if he’s always on the move with the scouts? Constantly between hotels, barracks, abandoned homes, or whatever else the world throws at them next, he hasn’t had time to make the space livable. They’re never in one place too long - this is more like a headquarters to come back to after the day is done. And for Levi, the day is rarely done, even when the sun has set and the sky turns dark.

It’s strange, but he almost likes having you here. To him, it’s always been just a room. A simple, stupid box in a line of other simple, stupid boxes to house people just like him. Now that you’re occupying the space, though, it’s much different. It’s no longer just a room, but a sort of home. 

Your presence here gives it much more meaning than any trinket he might have placed on the shelf. Things in this room he’s never given a second thought suddenly burst to life with your interest in them, pulling memories from the depths of his brain as he recalls where he got them, when he got them, just because you asked. 

It’s much too easy for him, too, the way he imagines coming home from a long day to greet you at the front door. He pictures you perfectly, hair twisted into a loose braid, a soft nightgown hanging off your shoulders, feet sporting cozy slippers that make muted thuds as you walk over to give him a warm welcome back. He imagines quiet mornings sitting at the table for two, sipping tea and working through crosswords together. He sees himself reading aloud to you at the bay window, dozing off against his shoulder under the light. 

The thought of such uncomplicated, reliable domesticity with you is a thought he lets himself dream about. It seems natural, a routine he wouldn’t mind slipping into in the slightest, and you haven’t even stayed the night yet. 

He wouldn’t mind living here forever as long as you did too

When your curiosity has been, for the most part, sated, you return back and join him on the bed. You plop down, expecting to sink right in - why exactly, you’re not sure, because it’s incredibly characteristic for Levi’s bed to be as hard as a rock.

Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but the firmness is still shocking beneath your fingertips.

“Have you ever even slept in this bed?” You ask with wide eyes, hands pressing down into the austere cushion, trying to fluff it like it was a pillow. The incredulous smile adorning your face makes his stomach flip. He crosses his arms across his front as if to mask his heart beating out of his rib cage. He's never been in such close, private quarters with you before. 

Levi shrugs. “I don’t really sleep anywhere.” Internally, he shakes off his nerves, not wanting to embarrass himself by leaning into them. The thought of showing how bashful he feels alone is mortifying, but he doesn’t know yet that you’d only love him more for it. 

You can’t help but to tease, muttering, “I mean, I know of a way to break it in.” Your face is utterly serious, but your eyes, swimming with a mirth Levi is far too fond of, give it away. 

Levi diverts his eyes with a small roll to the side, the hint of a smile crawling up his face. He’s the last person you’d think to be flustered by such a thing, but it’s only because it’s you. “Go to bed, brat.”

You pout. “Only if you lay down with me.”

“I told you, I don’t sleep.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t lay down.”

You know your way around Levi too well, he thinks, or maybe he just loves you. The way you can get his resolve to crumble with a mere pleading expression must be some sort of crime. You read him like a book and know him like the back of your hand to a point where it would be dangerous if it were anyone else. Usually the thought of such a person would intimidate him, but he doesn’t mind being seen by you - not that he has a choice. Against your will, he doesn’t stand a chance; not now and not ever.

He sighs a long sigh and gestures for you to get in with a small wave of his hand. While he stands to close to blinds and light the lamp by his bedside, you scramble under the covers. The initial feeling of warmth covers your skin and makes you shiver as you adjust, crawling hastily under and pulling the blankets up close to your chest. They’re soft and clean and smell just like Levi.

He lets out a yawn that oddly reminds you of a lion pup, but you don’t mention it, instead locking it away for you to think of later on. If you said anything, he’d probably never do it again. Gently, he pulls up the covers on his side and slides under to join you, the bed sinking with his added weight.

“Goodnight, Levi.”

“Goodnight, dear.”

After laying for a while, staring up at the ceiling, Levi feels himself become drowsy. He lets his muscles relax, lets his jaw unclench, lets his eyes fall shut. Though he’s a bit puzzled as to why, sleeping now seems so inviting, and who is he to deny it?

From his side, you watch his breathing slow. It settles into a steady rise and fall of his chest, and his lips part slightly.

The progression is slow. At first, you work up the courage to slip your arm over his middle. You spend minute after minute contemplating, picturing him pushing you away, but you’re getting tired and enough is enough. You slip your arm over his middle and stay completely still; then, nothing happens.

Until moments later, when he rolls onto his side to face your direction. His eyes are still closed, rhythmically relaxed breaths leaving his nose. Then, you move onto your back and scoot up a bit further onto the pillows. He unconsciously curls into your warmth, shifting further into your body, and it makes you melt immediately, swelling with a giddy feeling. You’re almost worried the joyous thumping you feel inside your chest will wake him up.

Eventually, Levi’s head rests perfectly atop your shoulder, small puffs of air falling lightly on your skin. Your hands rub calm circles into the skin on his back where his t-shirt has ridden up, careful not to rouse him from his slumber.

It’s like that for a long time. You keep yourself awake, content with just holding him for now. You take the time to think, watching the flickering glow of the lamp, listening to his quiet breaths, feeling the muted beat of his heart on your hip.

It’s hours later when Levi sucks in a big breath, blinking awake in alarm. His head picks up off your chest and he looks around, finally settling on you who blinks right back. His lids squeeze shut and he mentally grounds himself as he realizes he’s safe.

“You okay?” you ask quietly, voice low as to not interrupt the calm of the night. Your hold around him tightens to let him know you’re there.

He shakes his head slightly and sighs. “Bad dream.” 

“‘S all right,” you say, hand moving from his back to his nape, “you can go back to sleep.”

He rubs his eyes, yawning. In an instant, he freezes, realizing the position he’s in. He’s practically clinging to you like a child would a toy, and he feels a familiar heat flush his skin as his head hangs. “Sorry.” He swallows. “I should probably start work.” 

He starts to push himself off of you to get up, but your hold on his shoulders is firm, pulling him right back down.

“You’re tired,” you say. “Stay. I’ll be right here.”

He sighs, looking around, before resigning and dipping his head back down to lay on top of you. He doesn’t feel like arguing something he knows he wants deep down anyway. He nuzzles his face into your front, shaking his head slightly as if to clear his mind of what was plaguing it in his rest.

“Promise you won’t leave,” he mumbles softly into your shirt, barely audible. He’s too tired to put up a mask for show, and he’s relieved to see that you don’t need one from him come rain or shine.

Your fingers card through his silky locks and brush them back from his face as his body finally sinks into yours, his weight a warming comfort. It’s slight, but you feel his head tilt just a bit further into your palm.

You place a chaste kiss to his crown. “Promise.”

☆☆☆

When the morning sun finally wakes and rises above the horizon line, Levi finds himself turning away from the beams filtering through the curtains. He feels the golden light on his lids, and he flips onto his opposite side, clinging to the cozy feel of his bed. The only thing that pulls him from his slumber is when his hand stretches out to find emptiness all around, your presence absent from his space where he so desperately wants you.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” you say, watching him shift slowly and gain his surroundings. You’re standing at the small counter across the room, boiling a pot of water on the stove - Levi can tell from the faint rumbling of bursting bubbles inside the steel kettle. He slowly peels his eyes open to get a glimpse of you, features seeming to glow with the light pouring in from the windows. He feels his heart skip a beat that he’s not ready for.

 Levi is surprised that he has slept in so late, let alone slept through the entire night at all. It’s rare that this happens - he almost wants to say it’s the first time it has occurred for him, waking up in secure comfort rather than burning fear. The only thing that could make it better were if you were right beside him.

Of course, Levi can’t bring himself to say something so forward this early in the morning. Instead, he mumbles a small, “Come back,” a hint of a whine to his voice that only you could identify.

There’s a muted clinking sound as you stir a spoon around in the porcelain cups you’ve prepared, knocking against each other as you try your best to pick them up. It feels like a juggling act, trying to bring them over safely. You don’t know how Levi makes it look so easy every time he brings you a cup when they are so awfully hot to the touch. He must have gotten used to it, or bears the sting for the sake of his collected appearance.

“I was planning on it,” you reassure him, “just had to stretch a bit.” 

Your feet pad lightly across the wood floors until you reach him, offering the tea which he graciously accepts. You set your own on the nightstand to cool while Levi takes his first sip immediately. It tastes just like how he makes it for himself. Considering he’s never explicitly shown you exactly what he does, he’s both surprised and deeply touched.

His eyes follow you as you clamor in next to him. He asks the question that’s been playing on his mind since he stirred awake hours ago. 

“Were you awake all night?”

He sees your expression falter slightly and knows right from then. Regardless, you brush it off without hesitation, nestling up to his side.

“No, no,” you lie casually, “I woke up a little before you did and went to sleep after.”

With a gentle hand, you straighten out the part in his hair, laying down the slight frizz from where his head was pressed into the pillow.

Levi looks at you for a long time, observing your tender gestures. He sees right through your words, and also sees the slight droop of your eyes, a hint of darkness beneath them. He thinks of you awake all night, petting his hair as he rests while you don’t, and brings a twinge of guilt to his heart. At the same time, his soul is utterly warmed and thankful. He’s not sure what to make of someone who’d do that for him.

He disregards your previous statement and instead addresses the obvious truth. “Don’t do that for me. You need sleep too.”

It draws a laugh from you. The way your eyes crease has his heart faltering. “I sleep more than enough, trust me.”

He peeks at you over the top of his tea cup, wishing he could freeze this moment in time, capturing how you look perfectly down to the miniscule curve of your lips so that he’ll never forget it. Maybe, he won’t have to.

He doesn’t need to ask because the answer is clear, but he does anyway.

“...Would you mind staying again tonight?”

[a-shakespearean-in-paris]

Enchanter Come to Me

When Cullen comes to the Tavern one night, Lydia dances and enchants, hoping he will come to her even if she knows he won’t. She hopes to tell him something, something important, though the night may offer more than she initially thought. 

Cullen x Lydia Trevelyan, about 4,000 words. Smut. NSFW. There is some serious lemonade making in this. The piece also talks about his past in Kirkwall, with some first times, oral sex, and sexually confident, lightly dominant Cullen. (With more in the next chapter.) This is part one of two :)

READ ON A03

He’s here.

The Commander doesn’t often habit the Herald’s Rest, so his presence draws attention from many men and women alike. When Lydia first sees him enter she also sees the rush of soldiers rising from the tables with their mead. So sorry Commander, reporting for duty at once sir, yes sir! Cullen, mildly amused, assures them that they are off duty and it’s alright. He’s off duty himself.

He’s never off-duty, Lydia thinks to herself, but indeed he doesn’t wear his armor or mantle—thank the Maker—but a simple red tunic with breeches. He takes a seat by Captain Rylen, one of the only people who can crack his professional façade and make him laugh. Except, of course, for her. Once. Mildly embroiled with a thing often called jealousy, she watches Cullen laugh at something Rylen says.

Once, he laughed at her ridiculous quips that she always used to offer to Josephine when it came to the visiting Orlesian nobles, and when they played chess not too long ago in the garden, she saw him smiling from the corner of her eye at her concentrated face before eventually giving up and giggling. He was patient with her novice chess skills, and she’s certain he let her win. He may be obstinate, but he is kind. He always used to ask if she’s alright, if she’s holding up. We asked so much of you, he said once. And when never wondered if you were alright. From Haven, he found her in the snow and carried her home.

She knows. He’ll never talk to her again.

She knows that, so she doesn’t bother. So, unbothered, when the band begins to play, she’s nudges Sera next to her for a dance, making sure she’s in his line of sight. To the gentle beat of the drum and lute, their hands linked, they make time to the music. She’s thankful for her choice in outfit, as she wears a blue gathered skirt that dances with her, and as she quickens her pace her sleeves drop from her shoulders and her brown hair falls from it’s bun. She’s painted her lips red as well—a favorite shade of blue-toned red that matches both her vibrant blue eyes and light brown skin. When Sera lets go, tired, she finds herself next to Dorian, and he laughs and they dance together. From one companion to the next—Bull, Krem, Cassandra even with some goading after a noise of disgust—Lydia dances. They clap for her, her people who have given their lives for her cause without truly knowing her, but at least on this night, they know she loves to dance. Indeed, she dances with one after the other learning their names—Bevel, Ophelia, Connor, Falia, all until she’s in the arms of a scout named Jim. He can’t move, he’s blocky and his starstruck attitude prevent the concentration he needs in his footwork, but Lydia laughs it off and promises he’s doing well.

“Your ladyship,” he says, far too excited as Lydia is forced to take the lead, “your hair smells like jasmine.”

“My perfume,” she says, the two of them heading into a corner next to the bar. “Oh…please don’t, you’re going to step on my foot…oh I think you should practice more…”

“Pardon. Allow me.”

Jim says it before Lydia can, “oh, Commander, of course,” and wordlessly Lydia take’s Cullen’s hand—his ungloved hand—and he pulls her into his frame just as Maryden begins to sing “Enchanter.” Before she can think this isn’t happening, as she was convinced he wouldn’t speak to her again, she smells the elderflower and oakmoss from his shirt, (a trick his mother taught him to keep clothes fresh, he confided once.) she knows it’s real. It’s him. He has her in his arms.

“I’m afraid I can’t dance,” he says, self-deprecatingly so, and she lets him pull her closer, to where she can feel his beating heart. He’s somewhat right—he’s unsure of his footwork and where he should take them on the floor, but he holds onto her hand, the other on the small of her back, and he keeps his eyes on her, even as the music changes to a softer, melodic lute.

“You’re not bad,” she compliments, a small offering of peace after his own offering. Of course they’ve been pleasant to one another in the War Room or when she comes to his office to discuss the Red Templars, but not since she spoke to him in the garden have they spoken as acquaintances, friends, more.

He thanks her with the slightest of blushes, and they sway together, his heartbeat never truly easing as Maryden sings, enchanter come to me. She apologized in the war room hours after their confrontation, Leliana of all people inspiring her. (“I know you are frustrated. I am too. But…he has been through so much he’d rather forget. Sometimes I think he looks at me and remembers. He cares for his soldiers, and the Inquisition. I believe now is what matters.”) After her apology, he said it was “forgotten,” if not forgiven before he moved on to the Red Templars. He was too business-like after, too cold, and he must have seen how her heart ached.

But she did it all herself. He had such warmth before when he spoke to her. Smiled at her, rare for him, and he wasn’t beyond light teasing when they played chess together. After she confronted him, he erected an icy wall that only cracked after her apology. Even now as they dance, even as his eyes remain fixated on her lips and her eyes, she knows. He doesn’t want to be hurt again.

But why is he dancing with her? Why did he take her into his arms?

The questions ignite a fire, and she can’t take it anymore. “Cullen,” she says, “May we speak elsewhere?”

She plans on speaking outside the tavern, but it’s crowded with soldiers watching a friendly sparring match and she knows she can’t do it there. Before when she confronted him it was in the garden, and she was fully aware that a crowd gathered to watch the Inquisitor’s tongue lashing at the Commander. Inside the hall, she thinks, , but there are people there as well, visiting nobles from Orlais and Ferelden both that she will not let into her world. With no other option, she suggests, “My room?”

There’s apprehension. “is it proper?” he asks, but she assures she wants private, and when Josephine hired only the master masons for Skyhold’s repairs, she asked the Inquisitor’s chamber be just that, a private oasis.

“It’s practically the size of my old quarters that I used to share in the Circle,” Lydia says. “And there’s a fire going. It’ll be warm.”

Still apprehensive, he none the less agrees and follows her up the stairs and into her room. Once inside, she remembers the decanter of sweet wine she swiped from the kitchens with permission from the cook Emmaline (“You need a treat,” she said, one of the few who ever said such thing to her_ and pours both herself and Cullen a glass in a silver goblet. As she heads over and hands him the wine, she decides to crack the unease by way of light jokes, prattling on about actually seeing him out of his armor and mantle. Not only that, but he isn’t working. Surely now griffons will fly across Skyhold. He smirks. “I saw Cole before coming to the Tavern” he says. “He told me he didn’t know the armor came off.”

“Wasn’t sure if I did either.”

He grins. “Well. As you can see….”

Certainly, she sees. His burgundy shirt is open at the collar, the briefest bit of golden hair peeking through. The mantle and heavy plates have hidden his physic, she sees. His arms, forearms and shoulders are broad, typical of many Ferelden men she has met. However, it is his bare hands that she is drawn to. She’s so used to his brown gloves that his bare hands seem too intimate. They too are broad, and his fingers long. There are scratches here and there, but they only make them look more lived.

She offers him to sit on the throw rug near the fire, and he does as Lydia readjusts her gathered blue skirt, setting her wine down on the stone floor next to the furred rug. “Cozy,” he comments, and she agrees. She tells him there is always a fire in her room when she comes home, curtesy of too many kind people who take care of her in that way.

But as she talks more of her room, the blue curtains and blue bed sheets, the four poster from the Marches, and the majestic view outside the open window, she realizes she’s stalling. She has to say what she wants to say. He deserves it.

“Cullen,” she begins, thinking of that life, what he has done and what he will continue to do, not before, because he’s given her no reason to think otherwise. “I wanted to tell you again.”

She observes his face. His amber eyes are trailed to her, kind, but they don’t forget.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters, words meaningless, but offering them anyway. “When Hawke told me about Kirkwall and the things that happened, I shouldn’t have asked you like I did.”

He sighs. “Inquisitor—”

“I know I already apologized. But things haven’t been the same between us. I thought we were friends. And...” Her cheeks turn hot. “I ruined it didn’t I?”

“No.”

She feels as though he has inched closer to her, his fingers mere centimeters away from hers. “I wanted to tell you. I planned on it—first thing I was going to do when you came back from Crestwood,” he said. “Truly, I wanted to tell you for so long. But I was worried you’d…think less of me.”

She thought about it for a long time after Hawke told her the truth about him in Crestwood, that it took him ten years to see through Meredith, and he thought less of mages during those ten years. But she never saw that when he was with her, when they talked and laugh. She saw a man who worked too hard to keep his men safe, who poured over reports and missives for hours, and who respected her, a mage. He defended her to Roderick in Haven, after he called her mage, infidel. He respected her. Talking with him, she felt her titles strip away until she was only a woman, only Lydia. In turn, he was her Commander, he was Cullen.

The past mattered, but the present mattered the most.

“Inquisitor—”

“Please, call me Lydia,” she says. “You called me Lydia after you found me in the snow and you carried me home, but you haven’t since. Please.”

He looks into her eyes, the fire crackling. So she pleads once more, “forgive me please.” Then, she adds, “I was wrong before in the garden. You’re not a coward. I should have never called you that.”

“But I was once,” he says with a long, defeated sigh. “I couldn’t see. I was blinded by rage. But I should have seen through Meredith sooner, known I was complicit. Lydia…” He looks away from her eyes, toward the fire. “I…I understand if don’t want anything more than friendship, or even if you don’t want that. I shouldn’t have come to the tavern, but I thought…”

“I liked your hands on me Cullen.”

He meets her eyes, though she is the one that inches closer. “Forgive me,” she beseeches again.

She can’t help but notice how he looks at her painted lips. “Forgiven,” he mutters. “But, forgive me. Not for my past. I know you can’t, no one can. But forgive me for not telling you sooner. I was too afraid you wouldn’t…” He takes a deep breath. “I didn’t think you would want me.”

That was something that hurt, she realized moments after she called him a coward and saw his face. She did still want, because she knew who he was then. Her commander, Cullen. It took nearly loosing him to find out, and that hurt most of all.

“From now on, tell me everything,” she whispers. “And I’ll do the same.”

“I can’t stop thinking of you.”

She stares, her heart beating quickly. She has a river of thoughts but she cannot speak, and when he mistakes her silence, he rises from the rug, hurt again.

And Maker she doesn’t want him hurt again.

“I should go,” he says. “I’ve taken too much of your time. I—”

“No.”

She rises and grabs his shoulder. He stops. She knows, she tells him. She has known. She senses it every time before when they were together, knew it when he saw his face fall after she called him a coward in the garden. And she keeps her vow, by telling him the same. She can’t stop thinking of him.

“You knew I’d be there tonight,” she says. “You wanted me in your arms. You came for me.”

The enchanter she was, she came to him too.

He nods. Her hand finding his, he pulls it into his. It is her marked hand he holds. She feels as though she should pull away, and yet his amber eyes speak a different tale. He will not harm her, he will not turn away. And then he presses his lips to her palm, against her mark. One, and then another. Desperate kisses, anguished kisses, kisses that say I need you.

They’re in each other’s arms, and fingers twist through his hair, his hands splayed against her back. He kisses with his whole being, pours every ounce of his soul as he captures her bottom lip and she answers in turn. They pull away, but not completely, their foreheads pressed together.

“Don’t go,” she pleads.

“If I stay longer, people will talk.”

“You care about that?”

She feels his smile against her. “No.”

“Then stay.”

“It’s too soon to stay,” he mutters, though she can see that veneer of a blushing gentleman is disappearing with each gentle rock of her hip against his. He’s hard, already.

It’s thrilling.

“Too soon,” he says again. “Lydia…?”

“Why?”

The question flummoxes him. His bare hand caresses her cheek, warm and gentle.

She reminds him of their recent promise.

“I’ve thought of you since I saw you,” he answers, needy, hungrily. “I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you since I saw you by the rift. But…you’re the Inquisitor. We’re at war, and you haven’t always seen me in the best light.”

“I don’t care. I want us to be together.”

She speaks it with such desperation, but she knows it’s true for him. She can feel his want pressed against her.

“Lydia…”

“We don’t have to. I understand. Maybe it’s too fast or it’s not proper, but—”

Words she means to say fly away. She loses herself in the tangle of arms and lips, and when he says, “fuck what’s proper,” she soars, she dances, she is, and she exists as a nothing but wanted and hungry woman in the arms of her lover until they are standing at the edge of her bed. She’s not the Inquisitor, she’s Cullen’s lover. The word ignites her, lover. Has she thought of herself, what she had needed during this time? Has he? Fuck the world at war. In her room, they can be each other’s.

Indeed, they dance like they did earlier, but with entirely different steps as they touch, kiss, feel as she leads them backwards to her bed. “Fuck what’s proper,” she says, mirroring his words. “Be rough.”

The words alight him, and yet even though he holds her, she can feel a wall between them erecting.

“Are you sure? Now?” he asks.

“Maker, yes,” she replies.

“We don’t have to. We can be slow.”

“We’ve talked as friends, we’ve argued, we’re back again, here. Cullen, Knight-Captain, Commander, when you were in Kirkwall, did you think of what you wanted? Were you selfish?”

He shakes his head. “Be rough,” she says, “be greedy. Tell me what to do and what you want. I have everything to give.”

“Let me give it back.”

Her fingers twist in his shirt. “Do you know what it’s like, to be the Inquisitor? I’m not a woman to these people…I’m not Lydia. I’m a symbol. I don’t want that with you. I want to be wanted, desired, tasted.” She holds him, and whispers in his ear, “I want it from you.”

“I…I’m scarred,” he tells her, as if he’s ashamed. “You’ll see and—"

She holds his face in her hands, kisses his forehead before he can finish. “I don’t care. I want to see.”

“Lydia—”

She unbuttons her shirt, assuring him it’s alright when he asks what she’s doing. It flutters to the floor, and she gulps before she reaches behind her and tugs down at her breast band. With her breasts free, she lets him see. It’s a jagged scar across her chest, pink from where it healed, and barely touching her left breast. He stares with awe, he stares with something else in his eyes.

“A templar.” she says. “When the Circles fell, I tried to go back home. Ironically, I got this when I was trying to go back to the Circle.”

His fingers lightly ghost over the pinkish mark, against the valley between her breasts, but carefully avoiding them, for now. He traces lightly before he places his hands over her bare hips, and he kisses the mark, grazing his lips over her skin. Her hand wraps around his hair, mussing the waves into curls, keeping him there until he rises to kiss her. They fall against the bed, his body pressed flush against hers. He only pauses his ministrations to kick off his boots, and Lydia does the same, tossing off her flat shoes with a dull thud to the floor. She tosses off her skirt, Cullen helping her until the only thing covering her body is her undergarment. He though, is still covered. When her hands reach to remedy that, he helps her.

She wants to see. She rises when his shirt is gone, skimming his hands over his shoulders and the blonde hair on his chest, kissing the reddish burns from fire, the marks from swords, and then finally, the scar across his lip, rough yet smooth underneath her darting tongue. Their lips meet again, and she settles against the pillows, his body acting as her blanket. He mutters words of how sweet her kisses are, how beautiful she is, and then he grows lewder. He never imagined he’d get to feel her, never thought he’d bury himself inside her.

“More,” she urges, enflamed. “Tell me what you want.”

“Put your hands over your head.”

She obeys with ardor, and his hands skim against her arms, lips following where he touched. He nips her chin and then his warm mouth is over her neck, and even in places where she never thought there should be kisses—underneath her arms, underneath her breasts. He kisses again that scar before he palms her breasts, pinches her nipples lightly and makes her cry out.

“Be loud,” he instructs, husky and low, and slipping her undergarments down. “I have everything to give you.”

He does. He peeks from between her thighs as his tongue darts against her inner thighs. He licks her clit once, and then again before using the pad of his thumb. She could never pleasure herself the way he pleasures her—her hands are too delicate, too unlived. His are strong, and she grabs the other as he slips a finger inside, moves in and out until her thighs quake around him. She shudders with the bliss that his tongue brought, and Maker, he laps her arousal, he kisses her with his arousal still on his lips and tongue.

She could spend the night kissing him, and kissing him only, her hands wrapped around his cheeks, the way he poured his whole being into each press. And yet he rocks against her, and she instinctively allows her hand to travel. He gasps when she caresses his clothed cock, allows her to help him take the off his breeches. He’s warm against the juncture of her thigh, straining as he moves against her thigh to abate himself somewhat.

He looks at her in the eye, breathing heavily and pupils blown wide. She nods. She thinks he meant to be slow, but she’s warm and welcoming from the art of his hands and mouth, and she did tell him, rough. He obeys, as he’s inside all at once, filling her to the brim.

She meant not to cry out, and she succeeded, but her face betrayed her.

“Lydia,” he breathes, exasperated, cradling her face head in his hands, “you’re a virgin.”

A man…Cullen is inside her. That alone thrills. “Not anymore,” she assures.

“I should have known. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she says with a smile, moved by his concern. “I wanted you.”

“Does it hurt?”

He’s remained inside her during their dialogue, and though it never truly hurt—it was more an adjustment to the feel of him inside, a slight burn at the stretch. She shakes her head, and she gasps as he moves, holding onto his arms, squeezing the sinews. She throws her head against the pillow and he rewards her with reverent kisses against her neck and collar, and then again to her lips, catching her sighs of delight.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks as he moves, grounds her to the bed, centers her world from the Inquisition to only the two of them.

“I didn’t want you gentle.”

“I’d prefer to make love to you, not fuck. There’s a difference.”

She plants her feet against the bed. “Oh. Have you fucked before then?”

He smirks, a silent, now Lydia, truly? And she knows the answer. It doesn’t matter, she absolves, as they belong to the moment.

The moment continues, her Commander wrapped in a bliss she’s never seen from him before. “Wrap your legs around me,” he asks, and when she does, she angles her hips just so, to where his feel is deeper, more intense. He asks her to touch herself, he won’t last much longer, and she obeys, sticking her hand between them and rubbing her clit before he decides he’d rather his hand there. He stimulates inside and outside, an intoxicating duet, and her second orgasm comes again with fervor and heat, a rush. She falls when he pulls out, mourns the loss of his cock, but the feelings are brief. His earlier action inspires her to slap his hand away, bring him his end with her hand. Flushed, illuminated by the fire, hair in disarray, golden, and at her mercy, his moan as like music, and he spills onto her belly. A moment and a lifetime together, both ended too soon.

And yet she feels deliciously satisfied, and wanted. Loved.

Her heart still races as his hand rummages through the bedside table, finding a cloth. He lays by her side to clean his spent, and she can’t help but blush—though she obviously knows why he pulled out, she never thought of a man’s seed on her skin before. Romance novels often didn’t touch on that, or the sweat, or the moments between when they re-adjusted positions and spoke. Lydia finds she prefers it their way to the novels.

Eventually, their eyes find each other, and his smile is radiant. He leans by her side and that kiss is the sweetest.

“Don’t you dare talk of going now,” she says to him. “Stay.”

Enchanted, spellbound, he says he will. And she asks again, because she finds she must, do you forgive me?

“You ask me after I’ve been inside you?” he asks, holding back a chuckle. “Lydia, dear. Yes.”

She tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear, and she tells him that the man she is with now, she likes what she sees in more ways than one. He boyishly admits he’s glad of it, also in more ways than one.

“Golden lion,” she mutters. “Beautiful, radiant man.”

“Lion?” he repeats, amused. “Maker…”

She doesn’t ask if that makes her a lioness. Rather, she calls herself an enchanter, and she casts a spell on him, so the night can stretch longer than the hours it usually lasts.

“It’s not over yet,” he tells her.

“No. But I want you to sleep. I have you now not working, so please sleep while you’re here with me. You deserve it. Darling.”

Darling. She likes calling him that, and indeed he has the softest of smiles on his lips as she wraps a blanket around them, kissing his forehead after. Truly, it doesn’t take long for him to fall asleep, and he falls asleep. When he’s asleep, she promises him what she’ll promise come morning: she’ll never hurt him again.

She knows, without a doubt, that the same is true for him.

A/N thanks for reading! If you are familiar with my long fic in Waking Dreams things operate differently there, but I was inspired to explore a different way to write their coming together. thank you for reading!

[seasonofthegeek]

Not All Prisons Have Bars: Witch

Written for @marichatmay 2020

Just something that came to me with all the virus stuff going around. Decided to try to work out some of my frustrations by writing a story in a different flavor of the same idea. This will be one of those where the details unfold more as the story goes on. :)

Part 1:

Marinette wasn’t sure why she’d been expecting a completely white room that screamed sterilization but the cozy suite she’d been led to looked more like it’d fit into any mid-level hotel and that surprised her. 

The bed was large and covered in a soft flower-patterned quilt. Lamps glowed around the room instead of a harsh overhead light, and she spied a a small private bathroom beside an empty closet. There was a decent television and a computer which was a nice bonus. The large heart monitor in the corner by an overstuffed armchair seemed a bit out of place, but otherwise, the room was nothing like she’d imagined. 

“Feel free to unpack and get comfortable. A nurse will be by to do a vitals check in an hour or so and then it will be time for dinner.” The orderly gave her a smile that seemed a little too professional to be genuine and then closed the door.

Marinette counted to ten in her head and then tried to turn the doorknob. The latch gave and the door opened slightly as she pulled. She let out a sigh of relief as it closed again and turned to give her new home a more thorough inspection. 

Her mind wandered as she made her way around the room. She wasn’t sure what she would’ve done if she’d been locked in. Nothing, she supposed. She’d come here of her own free will, after all.

When she found out she was one of only three people discovered whose blood carried antibodies that could be used to fight the current virus ravaging the world, what choice did she really have but to agree to help? She’d never consider herself a hero, but she was a decent person, at least. She wanted to do what she could even if coming here had turned her life on its head. 

She squinted at the buttons on the heart monitor but besides the obvious ones, she was at a loss. She wondered if she’d have to wear something constantly since the big machine was in her room. 

There were times like this when Marinette thought she might wake up from a weird dream at any moment. It felt like one day, everything was as normal as it’d always been and then the next...

She shook her head. She didn’t like thinking about the virus but there would be no avoiding it now. She’d packed a bag and moved in right at the epicenter. She may as well try to accept her new normal.

___

Marinette tried her hardest not to fiddle with the heart monitor around her wrist as she sat at the dinner table in the mostly empty dining room. A woman sat on her left down a few chairs and a young boy sat directly across from her, studying her with curious eyes magnified by large glasses. 

“Are you here to beat the witch too?” he finally asked. The way he drawled out his words even in his rushed question had her wondering where in the world he was from. Somewhere in the United States, she would guess from the English. They were both far from home then. She was glad she at least understood him.

“The witch?”

He nodded seriously. “My best friend, Peter, well, his mom says there is the real mean witch out somewhere and she made all these black cats out of bad magic that ran all over the world to get people sick. And there are only a few people in the world who have magic blood that can make the cats better and beat the witch and I have magic blood so I’m going to beat the witch.” He warily glanced down the table at the other woman and lowered his voice. “So do you have magic blood too?”

Marinette wasn’t sure if it was cute or disturbing that someone had explained the pandemic to the child in such a way but he seemed happy about it and she  didn’t want to scare him.

“I think I might,” she said, dropping her volume to a conspiratorial whisper to match his. “It’s pretty cool, right?”

“Yeah! My room has the new PlayStation. I don’t even have one of those at home. My brother is going to be so jealous.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms smugly. He opened his mouth again but he was interrupted by an orderly dressed in crisp blue scrubs placing a plate in front of him. 

“Please make sure to eat everything on your plate. A clean plate is a happy plate and we like to see happy plates,” the woman said as she put the next plate in front of Marinette. 

The young boy scrunched his nose and poked at the steamed broccoli with his fork. “I’m not eating this.”

“Even if it makes your magic stronger?” Marinette asked, spearing a floret.

He frowned and followed her lead. “Being a hero is hard work.”

___

On the other side of the facility and three floors below what was thought to be the basement, Chat Noir paced the small cell he was in. His stomach was growling and his head ached so he knew dinner had to be coming soon. That was how he’d been trying to keep track of time. He was fed breakfast and dinner. Lunch was always a fun combination of being mostly drained of blood and filled with some new mixture of chemicals that usually left him jittery or sleepy or both. 

His black ears perked at the sound of the hallway door being opened and he obediently went to sit on his bed with his hands spread out in front of him as he’d done ever since he realized it was expected. His fluffy black tail lashed back and forth against the blanket but he rarely could control what the thing did anyway. 

The vision bar slid open and Chat Noir saw a familiar set of kind gray eyes look in on him through the protective glass. “Hungry?” a voice asked through an intercom. 

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

There was a grunting chuckle and a few digital beeps and then the door was opening. The hulking man on the other side moved into the door frame with a tray in one of his massive hands and a cattle prod in the other. He sheepishly dropped the arm with the prod with a shrug and slid the tray onto the table. 

“It’s okay,” Chat Noir said with half a smile. “I get it.”

“Not worried,” the man replied, voice muffled by his mask. “You’re a good kid.”

“Not really a kid.”

“Still good.” The big man shrugged again and half-glanced behind him. “Extra protein bar.” He winked and then began to back up.

Chat Noir could see two other orderlies behind him, electric prods raised tensely. He ignored them. “Thanks,I  appreciate it, Pierce.”

Pierce gave him another grunt and then the door was closing again. 

He waited until he couldn’t make out any other sounds and then he went to the table and forced himself to eat the meal slowly. He found he stayed full faster when he did, but it was a hard lesson to learn. 

He hid the extra protein bar between two of the books on his table for later. He never noticed his books moved when he slept so they always seemed like a safe enough place to keep things.  

After he finished his meal, he went to the opposite wall and used his pointed claw to scratch another notch into the blindingly white painted surface. He looked up the long line of scratch marks but didn’t bother trying to tally them. 

It didn’t really matter how long he’d been kept in this room. 

He never planned on ever leaving. 

Buy me a cherry coke?

[unforgetabelle]

Shift update!

Adrien started running across the city before he realized he had no idea where his father’s compound was. He’d spent the entirety of his time there shadowing the man and passing his various ability tests, but it had all been in an attempt to win his trust. Adrien had never actually made it to the inquisitive phase.

Changing course, he decided to head for a location he knew all too well. There had to be some clue in his house as to where the headquarters were, and if not, the worse he could do is get himself captured again. It might put Wayzz in a tight spot, but if what Tikki said was right, then it would all be over tonight anyway.

He arrived in the backyard, looking both ways before shifting and slipping easily between the wrought iron gate and through the hedge. Shifting back and brushing stray leaves from his arms, he hopped onto the stone porch and opened the door to the sunroom. Though it may be his favorite room in the otherwise cold house, the sizable backyard and extraneous rooms were still a ridiculous symbol of wealth in the overcrowded city. Adrien had always been envious of the cozy row homes and apartment complexes. Desperate as he was for some human interaction, even the neighborly feuds he’d hear about or see on TV seemed dreamy in comparison to his isolated existence. Now Adrien could see that it was all born out of necessity. It was all to protect his father’s past from catching up with him and then, after his mother’s death, it had all been to put on the perfect show. Play at the perfect life and land that crucial promotion. Take over the MRA and take over the city.

Adrien walked through the opulent doors to the main house and hated himself for being so blind for so long. He was so desperate to find some redeeming qualities in his father, find the part of him that made his mother fall in love all those years ago, that he’d stuck his head in the sand and refused to see Gabriel Agreste for who he truly was. He may not be all bad, but he certainly wasn’t good either and too many people had already been hurt because of it. Too many more still could be. One of them was Marinette, and he refused to let that version of reality come to pass.

Adrien made a bee-line for his father’s study, hurrying towards the safe behind his mother’s portrait. He’d been acting before, but he had a purpose. If there was any hint as to where headquarters were, it was here.

He swung the painting open, careful to have it completely out of the way before touching his hand to the cool metal of the vault. Not bothering to shift, he sent a burst of destruction through his fingertips and watching in satisfaction as the metal crumbled, but didn’t disintegrate. Instead, he swung it open, pleased to see the contents unaffected. He was slowly getting better at this.

Rummaging through paper after paper, he came up with nothing and was at the verge of losing hope when he saw a locket. He recognized it instantly, remembering how it never left his mother’s neck. Adrien picked it up, rubbing it between his fingers gingerly. Feeling the indentation of an inscription in the back, he flipped it over and was shocked to see his parent’s initials followed by a set of coordinates.

“It can’t be that easy,” he murmured to himself, pulling out his phone and plugging in the numbers. To his surprise, it was just that easy. The coordinates marked the center point of a park on the edge of the city. A bit more searching and Adrien discovered that it had been bought by a private company about a decade ago and completely refurbished, fitting the timeline of his mother’s death perfectly. Scrolling through satellite images, he found three small buildings on the edge of the park, fitting with the few rooms where he’d noticed natural light during his time there.

That’s where he was headed.

Read More

[clementine-lominsan]

The Age of Trump

2016-02-27

ELIOT A. COHEN http://www.the-american-interest.com/2016/02/26/the-age-of-trump/ How on earth did this happen?  Some, like Robert Kagan, think it is solely the result of a prolonged self-poisoning of the Republican Party. A number of shrewd writers—David Frum, Tucker Carlson, Ben Domenech, Charles Murray, and Joel Kotkin being among the best—have probed deeper. Not surprisingly, they are all some flavor of conservative. On the liberal (or, as they say now, progressive) end of the spectrum the reaction has been chiefly one of smugness (“well, that’s what the Republicans are, we knew it all along”), schadenfreude (“pass the popcorn”), and chicken-counting (“now we can get a head start on Hillary’s first Inaugural”). Their insouciance will be stripped away if Trump becomes the nominee and turns his cunning, ferocity, and charm on an inept, boring politician trailing scandals as old as dubious investments with a 1,000 percent return and as fresh as a homebrew email server. He might lose. He might, however, very well tear her to pieces. Clearly, he relishes the prospect, because he despises the politicians he has bought over the years. The conservative analysts offer a number of arguments—a shifting class structure, liberal overreach in social policy, existential anxiety about the advent of a robot-driven economy, the stagnation since the Great Recession, and more. They note (as most liberal commentators have yet to do) Trump’s formidable political skills, including a visceral instinct for detecting and exploiting vulnerability that has been the hallmark of many an authoritarian ruler. These insights are all to the point, but they do not capture one key element. Moral rot. Politicians have, since ancient Greece, lied, pandered, and whored. They have taken bribes, connived, and perjured themselves. But in recent times—in the United States, at any rate—there has never been any politician quite as openly debased and debauched as Donald Trump. Truman and Nixon could be vulgar, but they kept the cuss words for private use. Presidents have chewed out journalists, but which of them would have suggested that an elegant and intelligent woman asking a reasonable question was dripping menstrual blood? LBJ, Kennedy, and Clinton could all treat women as commodities to be used for their pleasure, but none went on the radio with the likes of Howard Stern to discuss the women they had bedded and the finer points of their anatomies. All politicians like the sound of their own names, but Roosevelt named the greatest dam in the United States after his defeated predecessor, Herbert Hoover. Can one doubt what Trump would have christened it? That otherwise sober people do not find Trump’s insults and insane demands outrageous (Mexico will have to pay for a wall! Japan will have to pay for protection!) says something about a larger moral and cultural collapse. His language is the language of the comments sections of once-great newspapers. Their editors know that the online versions of their publications attract the vicious, the bigoted, and the foulmouthed. But they keep those comments sections going in the hope of getting eyeballs on the page. Winston Churchill recalls in his memoir how as a young man he came to terms with hypocrisy, discovering the “enormous and unquestionably helpful part that humbug plays in the social life of a great people.” Inconsistency between public virtue and private vice is not altogether a bad thing. No matter how nasty the realities are, maintaining respectable appearances, minding the civilities, and adhering to the conventions is part of what keeps civilization going. The current problem goes beyond excruciatingly bad manners. What we increasingly lack, and have lacked for some time, is a sense of the moral underpinning of republican (small r) government. Manners and morals maintain a free state as much as laws do, as Tocqueville observed long ago, and when a certain culture of virtue dies, so too does something of what makes democracy work. Old-fashioned words like integrity, selflessness, frugality, gravitas, and modesty rarely rate a mention in modern descriptions of the good life—is it surprising that they don’t come up in politics, either? William James, a pacifist who understood this point, argued in “The Moral Equivalent War” that “intrepidity, contempt of softness, surrender of private interest, obedience to command must still remain the rock upon which states are built—unless, indeed, we wish for dangerous reactions against commonwealths fit only for contempt.” Just so. Trump might have become a less upsetting figure if he had not wriggled through the clutches of the draft in the 1960s. Trump’s rise is only one among many signs that something has gone profoundly amiss in our popular culture. It is related to the hysteria that has swept through many campuses, as students call for the suppression of various forms of free speech and the provision of “safe spaces” where they will not be challenged by ideas with which they disagree. The rise of Trump and the fall of free speech in academia are equal signs that we are losing the intellectual sturdiness and honesty without which a republic cannot thrive. There are other traces of rot. They can be seen in the excuses that political leaders and experts have begun to make as they cozy up to Trump. Like French bureaucrats in the age of Vichy, or Italian aristocrats in the age of Mussolini, they are already saying things like: “I can make it less bad,” “He’s different in private,” “He has his good points,” “He is evolving,” and “Someone has to do the work of government.” Of course, some politicians—Chris Christie, that would be you—simply skip the pretense and indulge in spite or opportunism as the mood takes them. This is not the first age in which politicians have taken morally disgraceful positions, even by the standards of their time. In the 1950s and 1960s there were flagrant bigots in Congress. But many of them were in other ways public spirited—think Senator Richard Russell of Georgia, for example, who presided with dignity over the Senate Armed Services Committee for nearly two decades. Lyndon Johnson may not have opposed the evils of his time forthrightly, but he used the full extent of his wiliness to break through the institutionalized discrimination of the South. The villainy of today takes softer forms, but it is pervasive—politicians swallow their principles (such as they are) and endorse a candidate they despise, turn on a judge they once praised, denounce the opposition for behavior identical to their own, or press their branch’s prerogatives and rules to the Constitutional limit, and beyond. The rot is cultural. It is no coincidence that Trump was the star of a “reality” show. He is the beneficiary of an amoral celebrity culture devoid of all content save an omnipresent lubriciousness. He is a kind of male Kim Kardashian, and about as politically serious. In the context of culture, if not (yet) politics, he is unremarkable; the daily entertainments of today are both tawdry and self-consciously, corrosively ironic. Ours is an age when young people have become used to getting news, of a sort, from Jon Stewart and Steven Colbert, when an earlier generation watched Walter Cronkite and David Brinkley. It is the difference between giggling with young, sneering hipsters and listening to serious adults. Go to YouTube and look at old episodes of Profiles in Courage, if you can find them—a wildly successful television series based on the book nominally authored by John F. Kennedy, which celebrated an individual’s, often a politician’s, courage in standing alone against a crowd, even a crowd with whose politics the audience agreed. The show of comparable popularity today is House of Cards. Bill Clinton has said that he loves it. American culture is, in short, nastier, more nihilistic, and far less inhibited than ever before. It breeds alternating bouts of cynicism and hysteria, and now it has given us Trump. The Republican Party as we know it may die of Trump. If it does, it will have succumbed in part because many of its leaders chose not to fight for the Party of Lincoln, which is a set of ideas about how to govern a country, rather than an organization clawing for political and personal advantage. What is at stake, however, is something much more precious than even a great political party. To an extent unimaginable for a very long time, the moral keel of free government is showing cracks. It is not easy to discern how we shall mend them.

[winterbaby89]

Dark Hook Comes to Storybrooke - Chapter One

A Captain Swan, Season 1 Canon Divergence Collaboration by: @hollyethecurious, and @winterbaby89 

Beta’d by: @ilovemesomekillianjones

Amazing Artwork by: @xhookswenchx

Rated M for language and dark themes (and maybe (probably) some sexy times… later ;o)

Summary: Moments before the Evil Queen’s Dark Curse whisks our beloved fairytale characters to Storybrooke, Captain Hook finally gets his revenge on the Crocodile. Twenty-eight years later, Killian Jones awakes in Storybrooke expecting just another ordinary day, that is until a number of abnormal occurrences disrupts his otherwise scheduled life. The greatest of which is a new face in town. A young woman by the name of Emma. Emma. What a lovely name…

Disclaimer: Canon dialogue and scenes from various episodes will appear within this fic. To Adam, Eddie, and the OUAT writers goes all the credit.

Line breaks indicate change in POV or Scene.

Also available on ao3, my fic page, and Hollye′s fic page And if you want to catch up on the last chapter, here is the Prologue

Chapter One

Twenty-Eight years later…

The incessant beep of the alarm was finally quieted by his outstretched hand. He wasn’t even sure why he bothered to set the infernal thing. He’d risen with the sun for… well, for as long as he could remember; a habit he’s never understood, nor been able to break.

Killian Jones crawled out of his overly large king sized bed and started his morning routine. The same routine he’d done every morning since… well, nevermind.

While showering he mentally ran through his daily itinerary; who to visit for rent money, who to visit to threaten about past due rent, which threats to make good on, and what supplies he would need to collect to continue work on his one true love, his ship the Jewel.

As one of the largest landowners in town, with approximately half of Storybrooke’s deeds in his name, just about everyone in town had dealings with Mr. Jones. Some more amicable than others. But being the town landlord, amongst other, less savory, occupations took its toll, so in an effort to balance the stress of day-to-day life, Killian made time for one gratifying outlet, as well as one vice.

Restoring the old mid-century brig in the harbor was Killian’s one true passion, while his free supply of top shelf rum from The Rabbit Hole’s proprietor was his solace.

Drying off after his shower, Killian subconsciously rubbed his right forearm with the niggling feeling that something was missing. Putting the strange thought from his mind, what could possibly be missing, he dressed and vacated his expansive home. Some in town referred to it as the Jones Manor, as it exceeded even Mayor Mills’ mansion in style and grandeur.

It was a fine day. The late October weather had just begun to turn a bit too crisp, but still offered that pleasant cozy autumn feel, so he opted to make his way on foot to his first stop of the day - Granny’s. Always Granny’s. Everyday, without fail, Killian found himself on that familiar path to the local diner. Sometimes for business, but mostly for coffee, and to make his presence known to the townsfolk that he’d started his daily rounds. This morning was no different than any other.

In fact, most mornings were no different, he mused briefly. The same house, the same ocean, the same walk from the private bluff his home, and one other house, which currently stood vacant occupied, the same people, the same activities. Everything was much the same from one day to the next, which was probably what made the sight of the Mills lad peddling like mad down Main Street stick out in such sharp contrast to everything else occurring around Killian.

The lad must have missed the bus, Killian reasoned. Strange. It’s not like Henry to be running late for school. I’ll have to remember to ask him about it later when we meet at the Jewel.

Henry Mills.

The one bright spot in Killian’s otherwise dark and lonely existence. A good lad, despite his insufferable mother’s upbringing, and one that Killian had taken quite a shine to the moment he’d caught him on the Jewel all those years ago. The lad had been what, seven, eight at the time? Hard to remember…

Henry was quite possibly the only person who ever sought out Killian’s company, and didn’t seem the least bit put off by the salty, old, sea dog’s moods or reputation. To be fair, Killian wasn’t sure just how much the lad was privy to when it came to his dealings around town. Nevertheless, something about Henry Mills had immediately endeared itself to Killian and he now found himself with a ten-year-old sized shadow following him about each day as he imparted all manner of sailing and other knowledge to the lad.

The hours spent with Henry were the best of Killian’s day, but they always came with a price. For inevitably it would be time for the lad to say his good-byes, and once again Killian would find himself alone, with only his demons to keep him company. This was usually about the time he’d make his way to The Rabbit Hole and attempt to drown said demons with a bottle of rum - the aforementioned vice.

Everyday. Always the same.

Except today it seemed. For not only had Henry apparently missed the bus to school, but he didn’t join Killian on the Jewel afterward.

If it didn’t mean that he’d have to actually engage with the boy’s mother, Mayor Regina Mills, Killian would have called to check up on the lad. However, he was rather certain that Regina had no idea where her son spent his afternoons, outside of the odd therapy session with Dr. Hopper, and Killian did not want to expose their meetings; both to protect Henry, and, more selfishly, prevent the loss of the boy’s camaraderie.

Though he was anxious something dire might have happened to prevent the boy from seeking their standing afternoon engagement, Killian was more tormented by the thought that Henry had opted not to come of his own accord. Killian would be lying if he said the thought hadn’t occurred to him that one day Henry would learn the truth of just who Killian Jones was - unsavory and corrupt landowner, emotionally bankrupt shell of a man, ruthless scoundrel, and would wish nothing more to do with him.

Henry had once jokingly called Killian a pirate, fixating on the more romanticized and white-washed aspects of such characters, but Killian knew he’d done his fair share of pillaging and plundering in this god-forsaken town to earn him just such a moniker - or worse.

It was with that trepidation - Henry’s absence that day might be because the lad had finally come to his senses about the company he keeps - that Killian found himself once again in the corner booth of The Rabbit Hole, nursing his bottle of rum with a new demon added to the haunting. As Killian contemplated this new demon added to the fold, he realized there were a number of new and strange occurrences that day, other than just the additional specter. Henry missing the bus and peddling down Main Street. Henry missing their afternoon lesson. And that flash of yellow he’d caught out of the corner of his eye as he’d turned towards The Hole, a flash of yellow that had disappeared when he’d looked back to see whose car it was. He can’t remember ever seeing a vehicle of that shade before.

These notions were still plaguing him the next morning as he made his way to Granny’s once again, with new thoughts to add to his musings.

Parking his motorcycle out front, Killian made his way into the diner for a quick breakfast. The Sheriff had contacted him first thing that morning about the damage to the town sign, a ‘gift’ he’d donated to the town long ago. After his meal, he planned to meet Marco, Storybrooke’s handyman, out there, to discuss the repair costs. It seemed, however, that fortune would save him that trek out to the town line, as the man in question was currently conversing with the town shrink in one of the diner’s booths.

Killian approached the pair, but then hesitated as he heard Henry’s name mentioned.

“I saw him late last night. He said he’d been on a field trip and forgot to tell me, but I know that isn’t true… then there was that strange woman with him. Henry said she was-”

“Can we help you, Mr. Jones?” Marco interrupted, cutting off his friend’s concern about the boy.

No matter, though. The lad was safe, and that was all that mattered to Killian. Whether he’d been honest about the field trip or not, Killian was bolstered by the fact that it hadn’t just been him that Henry had avoided yesterday. Whatever was going on with the lad didn’t seem to have anything to do with Killian personally, and he was sure he’d get the full story from Henry later that day, now that he knew the lad wasn’t avoiding him.

“Aye, Marco,” Killian answered as he pulled up a seat to join the men - much to their dismay. “The Sheriff phoned me this morning about the accident at the town sign. Have you been out to survey the damage yet this morning?”

“Not yet, Mr. Jones,” the old man answered nervously. “I was heading out there just after breakfast. You’ll be joining me, I assume?”

“I’m a busy man, Marco. I’ve no time for these trivial matters, so let’s you and I come to an agreement here and now, shall we?” He posed the question, though he did not wait for the man’s agreement before he continued. “I will pay cost for all the supplies and materials, and my usual flat rate for the labor. I expect the work to be done by week’s end or a twenty percent discount will be applied to the final bill. Do we have a deal?” For some reason that last word made Killian cringe internally. It always had.

“W-week’s end?” Marco stammered incredulously. “Mr. Jones, sir, I cannot possibly have the sign fixed by-”

“Oh, I have faith in you Marco,” Killian offered in mocked support. “It’s either that, or I amend the lease agreement that’s about to come due on your shop. What do you say? Ten, fifteen percent increase in rent?”

“Now, Mr. Jones, be reasonable,” Dr. Hopper interjected.

“I don’t think this concerns you, mate,” Killian countered darkly. “But if you’d like to talk about the terms of your particular lease agreement, I’m only too happy to oblige.”

The men sat silent before him, bested and helpless against such power and authority.

Killian offered them an empty smile as he stood and took his leave. “Pleasure as always, mates,” he called out over his shoulder exiting the diner. The thought of breakfast was long forgotten as he started his motorcycle and headed towards the docks.

Just as he rounded the corner from Main Street to the road leading to the marina, that flash of yellow caught his periphery once more. A yellow Volkswagen was parked in the city impound lot. A yellow Volkswagen that Killian was sure did not belong to anyone residing within Storybrooke. Curious.

Hours later Killian still couldn’t shake off the unease and… something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on, regarding all the strange occurrences that had happened the past two days. Henry had once again failed to join him on the Jewel, and Killian had resolved to seek out the lad to try and ascertain just what the blazes was going on.

A man could only take so many disruptions to his otherwise orderly existence, after all.

Killian had just crested the berm that overlooked Henry’s castle when he saw the lad heading off in the opposite direction with someone. A blonde someone. A female, blonde someone, as a matter of fact.

His brow twitched toward his hairline as he wondered who the woman might be. Even as he mentally thumbed through his mind’s rolodex of every blonde lass in town, he knew none quite matched the figure retreating in the distance.

An unexpected conflict rose within Killian. If he didn’t know himself better he’d almost call it jealousy. He supposed he ought to be glad the boy had another person in this world that cared for him - if the stranger’s arm draped over the lad’s shoulders held any indication of such a regard. Though he couldn’t help but feel a bit slighted that whatever Henry was facing, he hadn’t chosen to confide in him. Unwilling to examine those feelings any further than he already had, or at all, he decided it was the perfect time to call it a day and find his booth in the dark corner of The Rabbit Hole, with a bottle or two to keep him company, and the demons at bay.

Emma watched as Henry ran past Regina, going inside and disappearing upstairs.

“He seems to have taken quite a shine to you,” Regina said, with a vapid smile and an insincere air of civility.

“You know what’s kind of crazy?” Emma began, overwhelmed by the events of the last twenty-four hours, and trying to make sense of this curve ball life had thrown her way. “Yesterday was my birthday, and when I blew out the candle on this cupcake I bought myself, I actually made a wish. I wished I didn’t have to be alone on my birthday. And then, Henry showed up.” Emma stuck her hands in her back pockets and settled back onto her heels, as she continued to ponder the coincidence of Henry’s timing.

“I hope there’s no misunderstanding here,” Regina commented, pulling Emma from her thoughts.

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t mistake all this as an invitation back into his life.”

“Oh…”

“Miss Swan, you made a decision ten years ago. And in the last decade, while you’ve been… well, who knows what you’ve been doing.”

Regina’s thinly veiled speculation and disapproval caused Emma’s brows to shoot up in offense.

“I’ve changed every diaper. Soothed every fever. Endured every tantrum. You may have given birth to him, but he is my son.”

“I wasn’t…”

“No!” Regina interrupted harshly. “You don’t get to speak. You don’t get to do anything. You gave up that right when you tossed him away. Do you know what a closed adoption is? It’s what you asked for. You have no legal right to Henry and you’re going to be held to that. So, I suggest you get in your car, and you leave this town. Because if you don’t, I will destroy you if it is the last thing I do. Goodbye, Miss Swan.” Turning on her stilettoed heel, Regina headed back to the house, but Emma called after her before she managed to shut the door.

“Do you love him?”

“Excuse me?” Regina looked up with a sneer on her perfectly painted face.

“Henry. Do you love him?”

“Of course I love him.”

Emma Swan hadn’t been given much in her life, but one thing she’d come to rely on was her gift of sensing when someone was lying to her. She called it her superpower and although it wasn’t pinging per se, something about this entire interaction, hell, this entire town, just wasn’t sitting right with her. With Regina all but shutting the door in her face, effectively ending their conversation, Emma got back in the bug and pulled away from the curb.

Oh great, a headache, I’m too sober for this shit, she thought sardonically as she tried to remember the way back to the one bar she’d seen in town.

As Emma was driving down Main Street, she took in the names of a few of the businesses she passed on her way to the bar. “Game of Thorns, Dark Star Pharmacy, Any Given Sundae, where in hell have I landed myself?” she muttered. Finally, reaching her destination, she looked up at the decrepit sign attached to the side of the building, “The Rabbit Hole, seriously? Well, this town does seem to be on drugs, why not shrooms, too?” Parking her bug in the lot out back Emma decided to go in and see about that drink.

Upon first glance the place was dark and kind of dank. With a rowdy group near the pool tables, she made a beeline for the far end of the bar, to a corner slightly more shadowed than the rest. Thankfully she wasn’t even completely situated on her barstool before the bartender was asking her, “What’s your poison sweetheart?”

“Rum, straight up, make it a double.”

“Oooh, the lady knows what she likes… I like it.”

“Not interested Romeo, just pour the drink, or I’ll get it myself.”

“Feisty. Well, if I can do you for anything else sweetheart, just yell for me. Name’s Will.”

Seated in the far corner of the bar, Killian nursed his nightly rum. He sat in the same booth as always, the one with the burnt out bulb that never seemed to get replaced, but Killian didn’t mind, he found solace in the rum and darkness.

He’d been brooding in his seat for the better part of an hour when the door swung open admitting what could only be an angel; at least, that’s what the more fanciful part of his brain perceived as the setting sun illuminated an almost ethereal glow around her golden tresses and continued the aura down the length of her lithe body. Curiosity piqued, he watched as the beautiful blonde walked in and situated herself on the barstool closest to his booth.

Killian was certain he had never seen her before, certain he could never forget a woman that beautiful. But, nobody comes to Storybrooke, ever. Who is this woman and what has brought her here to me? To me? What the bloody hell has gotten into me? Killian continued to study her over the rim of his glass as she sat and ordered a rum, not taking any of Will’s shite, and giving it right back as good as she got. Smirking to himself, Killian decided he just might like this tough lass.

Emma nursed her rum while thinking about everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, from Henry finding her in Boston, to the car ride back to Storybrooke, Maine. I mean Storybrooke, come on… When her mind landed on Regina and her threats, the subtle, and not so subtle, Emma slammed back the rest of her drink and signaled Will, the smart-ass bartender, for another. When he brought her the next round he had the decency to keep the innuendo to himself.

So absorbed in her mental back and forth about what would be best for Henry - should she stay, should she go - Emma didn’t realize someone had slid onto the barstool next to her, until they cleared their throat. Startled, she looked up and was overcome by the man before her, in a word, Emma was fuckstruck. Who knew that was an actual thing? she mused, this man is gorgeous.

“Didn’t mean to intrude love, but did I happen to see you with the Mill’s lad on the beach earlier?”

Fuck me, an accent too? Wait… what’s he want with Henry? “Possibly. Why would it be any concern of yours?” As she asked, she sized up the stranger next to her, who seemed a touch too interested in Henry for her comfort. He was the gorgeous, dark, and brooding type, all leather clad with charms on a chain around his neck. Is that an anchor, and a compass? A couple of rings adorned the fingers of both hands, with a notably vacant left ring finger... How is this man single? Guyliner? He really is going for the bad boy persona isn’t he, and… it works for him… get it together, Emma. As she finished her assessment of her tall, dark, and accented bar fellow her eyes made their way back to his face, noting the lifted eyebrow, and unrestrained smirk.

“I’m sorry. What?”

“Something pique your interest there, lass?”

Emma rolled her eyes at his attempted flirting.

“As I said. Henry’s a good lad, and he’s been having a rough go of it lately. I’ve been concerned about him.”

“And how does someone like…” Emma waved the hand unoccupied by her current drink up and down to encompass his person, “you, know Henry?”

“Small town lass, everyone knows everyone, yet, I don’t know you,” the man stated with a teasing quirk of his brow.

Emma smirked at his response, and the ploy to get her name. “That’s because I’m not from around here. Actually, I’m Henry’s birth mom.” Slightly uncomfortable at her unexpected admission to this handsome stranger, Emma decided it was a good idea to gulp down about half of her still mostly full drink.  Why did I tell him that?

“Ah. I see. I take it the boy found you, and persuaded you to come here?” Killian pressed, even as he tried to hide his astonishment that the boy had actually taken his advice on the matter.

Knowing how miserable Henry had been recently, working himself up into believing that his entire life was the result of some sort of curse, Killian had suggested learning more about his beginnings, as it might offer him some solace. Good advice it seemed, if the evidence of such a lovely creature before him was any indication.

“Something like that. I just brought him back, it’s not like I’m staying.”

“Now that is a shame…”

“Really? You’ve known me all of two minutes, how do you know that Henry isn’t better off with me gone?”

“Because love, I’ve seen his upbringing thus far, and it leaves much to be desired.”

The lass’s face crumpled at that revelation. “I had hoped when I gave him up he’d have a great life,” she confessed in a despondent tone.

“Well, you’re here now, what say you? A toast? To Henry, and giving the lad his best chance?”

Emma was taken aback by his choice of words. Hearing her justification parroted back to her by a stranger, had her reeling as she heard him continue, “I’m happy the lad has another person in town in his corner.”

“Who says I’m staying?” Emma bit out somewhat harshly.

He just gave her a knowing smirk, “If you weren’t you’d have left by now.”

Emma crossed her arms defensively over her chest as she retorted, “Oh, really? You think you know me so well?”

“Well, love. You are something of an open book.”

“Ugh. If I never hear another word about books it’ll be too soon.”

“Oh? Would you be referring to the lad’s story book then… and the curse?”

Emma looked back at him with a critical eye and wondered who Henry believed this cursed man really was.

Wait, no, there isn’t a curse. “You really don’t seem cursed to me.”

“Well love, you’ve only known me a few minutes, give it some time, and you’ll probably change your mind.”

“I can tell you what cursed is,” she muttered with a hint of self-depreciation and loneliness in her voice.

“Not having someone.” She heard him say.

Emma’s eyes snapped to his and she saw a spark of recognition at the loneliness she had been attempting to tamp down ever since she blew out that stupid birthday candle.

“That’s the worst curse of all, isn’t it?” he finished, and the look that broke across her face must have cemented to him that he’d hit his mark with his words as he offered her an empathetic smile.

She gaped at him realizing just how painfully accurate that statement truly was. That realization made her think that this could be her chance to finally have someone want her, Henry came looking for her after all. They both sat there for a moment, introspectively, before Emma finally spoke, “Can I get you another drink Mr.?”

“Where are my manners? We haven’t been formally introduced. Jones. Killian Jones,” he offered, hand extended before him, which she accepted as she replied.

“Swan. Emma Swan.”

Killian felt his grip tighten slightly around her hand as something inside him shifted, and without coherent thought as to why, he heard himself declare, “Emma. What a lovely name,” even as visions overtook him. Visions that told of another life - his life - and brought forth a surge of panic that he quickly tried to squelch as Emma looked for Will to order them another round.

“Actually, love, I’m afraid I must decline,” he said, hastily leaving his seat.

“Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” he assured quickly, not wishing to appear as if anything was amiss. “I’ve just remembered… something, and I want to see to it before I forget again.”

“Alright, well… see you around, Jones.” She flashed him a smile that confirmed her decision to stick around for a while.

“Aye. Welcome to Storybrooke, love.” Killian managed to offer the sentiment with a reasonable amount of genuineness before he exited the bar, but as he met the brisk night air panic enveloped him once more. Attempting to calm his racing pulse and labored breathing, Killian looked up into the night sky and noticed an astonishing sight.

It now read 8:16 on the clock tower.  

Chapter 2

Tagging some lovelies that have asked to be tagged, as well as some we believe might enjoy. Please let us know if you do, or don’t wish to be tagged.

@abeylin1982 @captain-k-jones @captain-swan-coffee @downeystarkjr @florenzu @freakassbuthunter @gingerchangeling @ilovemesomekillianjones @jennjenn615 @kmomof4 @laschatzi @leiaswanjoneskid @rookiehookie @seriouslyhooked @teamhook @ultraluckycatnd @xhookswenchx @yayimallamaagain

[filthy-reckless-rp]

Congratulations Katherine! Your beautiful character Mia Salazar has been accepted. I honestly cannot wait to see this princess-turned-pauper in action (how much is a banana? Like $15?). I love how her soft and sensitive kindness contrasts with the fact she keeps everyone at a distance although I’m sure many will try to #breakdownthosewalls. With hugs. And puppies. Also, whenever we see ‘private’ Gossip Girl stirs maniacally in the background. Your para sample also had us on the edge of our seats!! Someone give this gal her own Grey’s Anatomy spin-off, I’m just sayin’. *How To Save A Life plays in the background* Okay...enough from me.

Please send your account in ASAP! Remember to open your ask and submit. We also have a Whatsapp group for members; if you would like to be added just let us know!

---Admin P

OOC:

Name: Katherine

Age: 21

Gender / Preferred pronouns: She/Her

Where are you from? / Timezone: UTC+08:00

How active are you? (please describe in words): I have one (1) maybe two free days a week and I will for sure dedicate at least a couple hours of those two days in flooding the dash

How did you found out about us?: A little bird (Maya. It was Maya) told me about this safe haven.

Mia Salazar • 22 years old • Advanced Emergency Medical Technician • FC: Shay Mitchell • OC • TAKEN

Biography:

“I am the one thing in life I can control, I am inimitable, I am an original.”

Filipinos are required two talents: singing and dancing. And those who do not have those talents become doctors. This was the course that Mia Salazar’s life was set on. And considering that her parents owned just about half of all the pharmacies in the Philippines, it was one that was not only expected but demanded. Which is why she did exactly that – she focused in high school, got the grades, and when the opportunity came she even volunteered as a junior EMT for medical experience during summer of junior year. Which is where our story, and Mia’s life, derails. See, she didn’t expect to love the field. But she did. She didn’t expect to get entangled in the thrill of being a first responder, of being the one person that had to essentially bring a person back from the brink before they even set foot in the hospital. But she did.

You can imagine her parents’ chagrin when she, their only child, announced that she wanted to attend Cuny Borough of Manhattan after graduation to pursue a career in being a paramedic. ‘A community college?!’ you could practically hear her mother screech from atop their Upper East Side penthouse. Needless to say, they were not happy. In fact, they flat out refused to pay the tuition (regardless of the fact it cost less than the things you could find in their bathroom cupboard) and told her that they would not offer any support until she got her act straight and decided to be ‘a real physician’. This did not deter Mia. In fact, it was practically the taste of freedom that she’d been yearning for handed to her on a silver platter.

Fast forward four years after high school graduation, and you’ll find that Mia’s come a long way from being another one of Constance Billard’s privileged princesses. With the first half having been spent accumulating training hours and barely-above-minimum wage funds at the back of an ambulance, she’s now in her second year of an Associate’s Applied Science degree. The experience, as well as the recent years of Broke Life independence, has put a bit of a stern edge on her otherwise ‘nice girl’ reputation. The fact that it was her own determination and grit that got her to this point – not her parents’ money or influence – has given her a confidence that she never thought she could have. What does it even matter that to this day she honestly doesn’t know how much a banana is supposed to cost? It’s as exciting as it is terrifying, but Mia’s instilled a sort of attitude in herself that says she’s not done discovering her potential quite yet. Does she have what it takes to keep going with her ambitions and dreams? Or will she end up crashing and burning, just like every cliche former trust fund baby that finds both their funds and rebellious streaks running dry?

You know you love me,

xoxo –Gossip Girl

Wanted Connections:

(I’m gonna put some wanted connections that you guys can jump on if you want :) (pls))

- a high school friend(s) that lost contact and they’re v v bitter about it??

- best friend(s) that unconditionally supported her and she them??

- college friend(s) trying to show her the ropes of life as A Normal Person Who Has To Work To Live

- previous patient

- roommate(s) that live in a cozy but also cramped apartment

Character’s Bday: 22 November

3 Virtues and 3 flaws, explaining each:

Virtues:

Heroic: The first time Mia saw a burning car, she had no idea that her first instinct would be to run towards it. But it was and it turns out it wasn’t just a one time thing. There’s never any conscious decision to put herself into a situation to help others – she just does it. It’s not just physical dangers either; whether it be a fire, someone being rude to a customer service worker, or a classmate forgetting a #2 pencil on exam day. If she can help, even in the tiniest way, she doesn’t hesitate.

Adaptive: Mia lives for life’s curveballs. Not only is she good at thinking on her feet, but she enjoys it as well. New settings don’t intimidate her, nor does meeting new people or trying new things. She’s a firm believer in trial and error and knows full well that complaining or feeling sorry for yourself never helped anyone accomplish anything.

Soft: Outside of the ambulance, the rigid persona (dubbed her ‘saving lives’ personality) is quickly shed to reveal the sensitive creature that Mia Salazar truly is. She listens to RainyMood around the apartment. She sold practically ¾ths of her wardrobe to pay for rent and textbooks, leaving her with only a closet-full of comfy sweaters and durable jeans. And cuddles? Forget about it – there is nobody else in the entire universe that loves comforting human (or fur baby) contact than Mia does. It’s therapeutic, really; if giving free smiles and warm hugs makes even one person she likes smile, then she will be the person to offer them.

Flaws:

Private: Being nice isn’t the same thing as being open, and Mia exemplifies that clearly. Because of the nature of her work, she’s left with basically no social life. But then again that’s also something she almost prefers. Small talk is an unusual skill that she’s actually mastered (because sometimes keeping a person talking is the only way to distract them from the fact that they’re bleeding out in the middle of Lexington Ave.), but when it comes to revealing anything personal she’s quick to deflect. It just seems like a waste of time and energy opening up to someone, if all it takes is a busy work schedule and a few disappointments to make them move on.  

Impulsive: In hindsight, it probably would have been wiser for her to actually have a plan before abruptly taking her parents’ ultimatum, packing everything she could into a large Mulberry suitcase, and running off into the night. But she didn’t, and this trait is one that she unfortunately did not manage to grow out of. Because of her upbringing, consequences were never actually something she’s ever had to think more than two seconds about. And because of the literal life-and-death nature of her job, trusting her instincts is something that she’s been accustomed to do. So if Mia thinks it’s going to turn out okay (whether it be sprinting into a burning car or splurging on a new dress) she’ll do the thing now and regret the repercussions later.  

Work-a-holic: Having become one of the people that actually had to work for a living just put gasoline into the inferno that was already Mia’s determination. But more than that, she genuinely loves her job. It’s the first real thing that she’s accomplished, that she’s pushed herself to be good at, and it’s good work (no matter what her parents think). So she drops everything for it. Anniversaries, dinner plans, a baby (once, when a friend asked her to hold it but then her phone beeped with a call from the hospital and she rushed to get away). Nothing is more important to her.

Para Sample (A couple of paragraphs, in third person, as the character you’re applying for):

“BPM dropping to 50.”

Mia had to stop herself from snapping back, because, yeah, she already knew that. Her eyes had been glued to the damn monitor as soon as they’d hooked it up to the patient. 20BPM and it’ll be too late, 20BPM and it’ll be too late – she chanted the words to herself again and again as she quickly and expertly maneuvered around the gurney to grab all the supplies she needed. E 80th St. sped past the windows and the first rule she ever learned in the ambulance came racing back to her.

No matter what, never yell for the driver to go faster. It never helped anyone, and those 0.5 seconds could’ve been spent doing something useful.

“Move,” she said, not unkindly but firmly, to the EMR next to her. She recognized the look on his face – the way he hovered too close to the patient, how his eyes seemed to be processing both too many things and nothing at all. Mia could sympathize, but didn’t. She already knew that he wasn’t going to be of any help and right now was not the time to deal with that. “I need you to get the atropine for me. Hey. Can you do that?”

It took a moment, but his gaze eventually ripped away from the patient and their quickly collapsing lungs to focus on her. Slowly, he nodded and finally got out of her way.

It didn’t look good, but then again nothing ever did in here. Mia’s jaw tightened as she watched the way the young man struggled to breathe, how only one part of his chest rose and the other was covered by a blotchy shade of deep blue. “Broken ribs,” she muttered to herself, reaching for a mask. Eyes flicking down, she noticed the nametag taped over his breast pocket. “Hey, Andre. It’s okay, it’s going to be okay. I need to put this on you, alright? We’ll get you breathing better, just stay with me.”

Andre’s eyes, half open but clearly dazed, barely seemed to register her presence. “O2, now.” she demanded, placing the mask over his mouth and nose.

They hit a speedbump, the one she knew was on right on 3rd Avenue, and Mia blew out a breath. “We’re almost there, sweetie. Hang on.”

But then a beep sounded, rapidly followed by more, and her heart sank as the monitor showed 30BPM. On the gurney, Andre’s body gave an abrupt hitch. “Atropine!” Mia yelled, scooting aside as the EMR sunk a needle into the IV lined into Andre’s arm.

“He’s not getting any oxygen,” he said, hands now shaking as they both watched helplessly as the convulsions got worse. He lunged forward, getting into position for CPR, but she intercepted him.

“His ribs are broken, you could puncture a lung,” she snapped.

“Then how is he going to breathe?!”

And this, this was the hardest part of the job. There was always somebody asking that question, and in all her five years of experience she never knew how to answer it. She didn’t know how to tell them that the hardest part wasn’t after her shift, when all she could think about was everything she could’ve done. It wasn’t even having to tell their family waiting at the hospital that they didn’t make it.

The hardest part had always been right before she lost a patient. In those minutes and seconds where she had to watch as all her options vanished in thin air. When they were still alive, but she knew that she couldn’t save them.

They got to Lenox Hill ten minutes later. Which was more than enough time for her to compose herself and give the awaiting medical staff a full report.

Because the second hardest part of the job was the one nobody ever wanted  to talk about. The part where, right after you lose a patient, you’re not allowed to lose yourself. You have to shake it off, brush it away, because it was only halfway into the day and they just got another call about a fire up in East 95th. And Mia, with her five years of experience, was only now getting good at that.

[rudra-writes]

Pellurin: Ambush (Part 8)

Part of a roleplay story with Telurin’s player. During a journey with other draenei, Pallas and Telurin become separated when orcs attack.

Motaanos’s expression changes as he gleans from both Telurin’s words and closer examination that both of the priests are, in fact, alive. He regains control of his emotions, and becomes steadfast, nodding as he crouches next to the two unconscious draenei inside the cage. “I have enough energy left to provide some healing; they’ll be stabilized at the very least.”

The Vindicator gingerly places a hand on Pallas’s shoulder, and his opposite hand on Grigore’s. He begins to channel the Light. It’s a faint, quiet presence in this fel place, turning the cage floor around the three draenei a soft, calming gold. Mot looks back at Telurin with trust in his eyes for the first time.

Telurin sees it and nods, relieved Motaanos can be trusted to stay strong and do what was needed. He mounts quickly and drives Sugarfoot back to the main encampment, wasting no time hooking the horse up to the cart. The saddle wasn’t designed to be used in this way, but with the wide breast strap, a quick tightening of the girth, and some adjustments, Telurin thought it would hold enough for their purposes. Neither Anchorite weighed much. Sugarfoot kept twisting his head to look at what Telurin was doing, but otherwise stood still at Telurin’s command, and pulled the cart without incident back to the row of cages.

Telurin is greeted by a welcome sight upon his return. Although he appeared to be in the worse physical condition, Grigore has regained consciousness with the help of Motaanos's healing. He lays with his head supported in Mot's right hand, still holding Pallas in his arms gently. The Vindicator's other hand is on Pallas's chest, summoning the Light.

Grigore raises his eyes when he feels the death knight approach. The soul priest's mental speech appears in Telurin's mind.

'The Anchorite's vital signs are stabilized. However, he has yet to awaken. I fear that something is wrong.'

Grigore's eyes move towards an opened waterskin set next to them, apparently Motaanos's own.

Telurin picks up on the undercurrent of the soul priest’s words and slides off his mount to pick up the waterskin and move next to Motaanos on the other side of Pallas. The heat from the Light the vindicator is channeling is strong, Telurin realizes; he’s giving it everything he has. Without disturbing Motaanos’s work, Telurin gently catches Pallas’s chin and turns his head toward him. Not wanting to make things worse, at first he only wets Pallas’s lips and tongue with the water, waiting for a reaction before giving the Anchorite more and potentially choking him.

“Pallas.” Telurin says, soft and equally as gentle. “Wake up, Pallas. We need to leave this place.”

The face of the young Anchorite in the early morning light makes for a pitiful sight. His white skin is marred with angry dark indigo bruises, his previously pristine silvery hair matted with mud and blood. From the markings, it looks as if he was beaten or thrown roughly into the ground. Even unconscious, the expression upon his features is one of suffering and grief.

Pallas's dry mouth and tongue twitch at the cool water. Alongside Telurin, Grigore and Motaanos watch the young draenei intently.

'Pallas,' Grigore's mental voice wafts through their minds like incense smoke. 'Pallas, come back to us.'

The Anchorite manages to swallow a little water. The other draenei wait with baited breath.

'I can not reach him.' Grigore weakly admits after a while. 'His treatment was very cruel. He may be in a state of shock... Or perhaps, despair. He believed you to be destroyed in a landslide, Telurin.' The soul priest closes his eyes, then opens them again when Motaanos wavers. The Vindicator seems to be reaching the end of his physical and mental endurance, the Light from his gauntlet sputtering like a faulty gnomish bulb.

'My dear, if you push yourself any harder, you're going to wind up in the cart with the rest of us.'

"So be it," Motaanos stubbornly grumps out in a mumble, even as his eyes become unfocused. "I refuse to lose any more people under my protection..."

“Sugarfoot can’t take the extra weight.” Telurin says, voice tight, and to Grigore’s mental senses the death knight is locked down tight, keeping his emotions tightly reined. Underneath that calm is a black anger, terrible in scope, that reaches out across the distance of time and space to the frostwyrm that is forever tied to him. Come to me...

“Is he stable enough to move?” At the feeling of assurance from Grigore, and Motaanos’s nod, Telurin continues. “Then getting away from this place is our priority.” He transfers Pallas to the cart himself, the red of the blood from the orcs that he’s killed getting on Pallas’s blue-stained robes, muddying both colors. The Anchorite is limp in his arms, completely unresistant. He agrees privately with Grigore’s assessment, there’s only so much pain and mental anguish that someone can take before they retreat into themselves. Telurin knows this, has an intimate knowledge of this kind of shock, because he used to tread this line with his victims. Only his faith that Belaar would be able to reach Pallas’s mind when they were safe kept him going, kept him thinking instead of giving into the murderous rage that threatened to overspill the bonds he’d placed on it and leave a path of decimation in his wake.

But he’d felt the dragon answer, and he could be content with letting the beast wreak havoc in his stead until he could return. Pallas settled in the cart and cushioned with the pelts that were piled in the bottom of the cart, he leaves Motaanos to help Grigore and goes back to the altar of the warlock. He had seen smaller bones among the piles, and with a bit of luck he found what he needed, a freshly sacrificed crow. Surrounded by death, having freshly gorged on the deaths of the orcs from earlier, it was the work of a moment to create his messenger.

He returns to the group, passing the cart in favor of going to Sugarfoot’s saddlebags to find an empty memory crystal, the newly reanimated crow held in one hand.

Pallas’s grief-stricken expression doesn’t change as he’s carried to the cart in Telurin’s arms. The very person he thought had been slain has come to his rescue, but tragically, the priest is unaware of his presence.

When the death knight returns a short time later, Motaanos has helped Grigore into the cart as well, the older priest keeping an eye on the younger. In spite of his wounds, Grigore’s melancholy eyes are alert and clear, suggesting he is not new to this type of experience.

Motaanos swings himself onto the back of his elekk. He sees the animated crow skeleton, but decides not to press for information; he can glean that it’s a messenger, surely someone to help Pallas, even if he doesn’t know who Telurin intends to summon.

In all, it’s a solemn scene, even as the sunrise breaks upon the horizon. Motaanos’s and Telurin’s quest to rescue their companions is successful, but Pallas’s well-being remains in question.

Telurin lets the bird go, instructions pressed into its mind and memory crystal held firmly in its beak. It will fly straight to Karabor, straight to Belaar’s office or fall apart trying, using the directions taken from Telurin’s mind.

Telurin steps back into Sugarfoot’s saddle, and they start the slow journey back to Alliance-controlled lands, picking their way along to give the Anchorites in the cart the smoothest ride possible until they reach a road.

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

They got to a settlement late in the afternoon, where Telurin all but demanded rooms at the inn and in his grim-faced and gore-covered state, no one disagreed with him. Motaanos had healed Pallas enough to be stable, enough that though his injuries were grievous, Telurin felt confident in waiting for the more experienced Belaar rather than trust him to an unknown healer. The death knight hovered, paced in the room Pallas had been laid in, his shod hooves leaving marks in the hardwood floors as he paced.  

The little group had settled in a cozy draenic inn in a border village on the easternmost edge of Talador. Motaanos and Grigore occupy one room, and Telurin and Pallas the room next door. The death knight is indeed terrifying in his grimness and the inn workers were sent scrambling to accommodate him and his companions.

After Calamity had been stabled and watered, Motaanos strips himself of his armor and passes out on his half of the bed within minutes, having not slept for the better part of two days. Although Grigore is in no small amount of pain, he rests quietly, contemplating the heavy hoof-falls of the death knight pacing in the next room.

Tucked into the bed by Telurin, Pallas sleeps. He looks bruised and small.

After a time, there’s a knock at Telurin’s door. An inn worker has brought water and the offer of dinner. She notices the battered Anchorite laying in the bed behind his armored form, and although the death knight is plenty scary right now, she’s able to hesitantly ask Telurin if he would like the services of a local healer.

Telurin takes the water and refuses both dinner and healer, curt and to the point. He nearly shuts the door in the poor inn worker’s face. The next few hours are spent with Telurin alternating carefully dripping water into Pallas’s mouth and pacing, wearing his worry into the floor. Did the crow make it before it decomposed? He had to believe it did, and that Belaar would see the gravity of the situation and make haste to join them.

It was late, well into the small hours of the morning when there was a knock at the door, and the presence was strong enough that Telurin knew who it was before he even opened the door.

“How long has it been?” Belaar asked, pushing past him and into the room, headed straight for Pallas. Before he even touched the other Anchorite he turned to ask, “Who else has healed him?”

[captusmomentum]

Excessively detailed asks: 1-19 odds only for Inan, 20-38 evens only for Tace plz :D

fuck me running this is a lot OKAY HERE WE GOOOOOO

INANALLAS

(heads up the pronouns are gonna jump around here bc inan uses they//them and she/her so hopefully doesn’t get too confusing rip)

1. What does their bedroom look like?

Surprisingly Clean. They’re exactly the type you’d expect to be super messy but thanks to living in such small spaces like aravals all their life they’re very good about keeping things in come kind of order. This stands even for modern verses, they’re very good about it. In verses they’re inquisitor they actually rearrange the room a lot, putting their bed on the balcony and making the main floor more of an office/living room as well as creating panels to help block out some of that sun bc HOLY SHIT WINDOWS, they also have a panel set to block the view of the bed which is really just wedged between it and the railing. The little bed alcove is very cozy and the main floor is much more functional and better for have friends up :D In modern aus, like say amd, they’re one of those people who’re like ‘ live in an apartment that’s only 90ft big :D’ and when they show you how it’s like part science miracle and part acrobatics bonanza. Like look at any tiny home or tiny apartment type show/place/thing and thats’ how they Roll. Mainly bc they’re fucking Broke AF, creative/innovative and well trained by dalish life for it. So bedrooms are usually like, lofts and shit like that which can mean it’s not much more than the essentials of Snoozing. 

3. Do they exercise, and if so, what do they do? How often?They do! Inan works out pm everyday in pm every verse. Their style of magic is very, very very physical so it requires a lot of working out and training even in verses where they’re not constantly murdering ppl like canon ones they gotta get diesel for magic. In most verses they primarily do a variety of martial arts (or just one elf/dalish one? depends on how deep into worldbuilding you wanna get here honestly) and then things like running, weight lifting general kinda fitness exercise things. I imagine in modern verses and such (maybe more canon ones too tf do i know) that places like Arlathvhen’s there’s like, a sort of pow wow/olympics type event that goes on and clans have people representing them and Lath was disqualified for cheating bc she’s Weak in the temptation of Victory so Inan is the Obligatory Contender in at least some of the mage events, usually like, dueling bc it’s ironically her specialty. So she really does have to stay sharp when in verses where there’s no fighting bc she’s gotta bring home gold for clan Lavellan. 

(if u wanna get a sense of how inan fights it’s a LOT like pm anyone from avatar the last airbender/Legend of Korra especially Korra and Katara(atla) )(apologies about the katara vid and that shit music there’s So Little out there sobs)5. Cleanliness habits (personal, workspace, etc.)

Inan isn’t the most organized or together person which is combined w/ their dalish upbringing is why they’re Hyper Organized. Things have places and they go there ALWAYS otherwise they’ll never be found again ever. Also lots of labels. Their own living spaces are more organized than their work spaces, generally bc other ppl touch things or put things on their desk. Every time someone touches their things they have a small heart attack bc it means that something CRITICAL might have been moved and will never be found again. Seriously they are held together only by the power of their aesthetically pleasing organization and labeling. So school is Really Fun in modern aus (read: i’ve considered having them be a high school dropout for Various Reasons).7. Favorite way to waste time and feelings surrounding wasting time

They Dream of wasting time. They Long to waste time. Everyday they pray they can waste time. Usually a lot of her time goes into things like Clan Stuff, Magic Stuff and Work Stuff so any chance they get to dick off they do. They fave method in modern verses is tv or youtube but in canon-y verses its Tavern w/ Bull or Tavern w/ Sera, the 2 people most likely 2 not call her out for Ditching Shit. Drinking w/ Dorian and/or Varric is very high on the list in all verses.9.Makeup?

Naaaahhhhhhhhhh. Generally too lazy for it and doesn’t like feeling of it on her face. Also it’s a real Bitch bc she’s always got tats on like 70-90% of her face and freckles (which she actually likes) so like foundation’s a Nah but you can’t do things like cover her dark circles w/o foundation otherwise the difference is Too Obvious like it’s just a Disaster. She can be convinced to wear it at special events and things but someone else has gotta do it. 

11. Intellectual pursuits?Some and very disorganized. Generally answering any Burning Mystical Questions they have regardless of worth or importance, debating (fighting) about topics involving analysis in books and things, Fade Stuff, Learning Elvhen. They don’t really actively pursue a lot of things bc they’re doing so much shit normally, they really only pursue it when the interest strikes. Also, proving that the occult is Real and Valid.13.Sexual Orientation? And, regardless of own orientation, thoughts on sexual orientation in general?hoooooooooo boy dksjlgjfdsgfk, pansexual demisexual/grey-asexual is probably the best description. they don’t know they just like people and they don’t think about it they don’t think about Sex Stuff or ppls orientations it’s all W/E IDK and while they’re not prudish or squeamish about it they will run screaming for the hills things get too raunchy. Sex –especially sex involving them– has them looking for the nearest exit, not necessarily bc they’re sex repulsed but they are Extremely Anxious and Scared of interpersonal interaction so kissing is yiKESSSSSSSSSSSSS15.Biggest and smallest short term goal?Hmmmmm that’s really hard. Biggest is usually like: Not Die. Smallest is something like: whatever is next on to do list. They live a life of unnecessary extremes. 17.Preferred mode of dress and rituals surrounding dressGoth mori/strega fashion vibes. Lots of skirts and layers and looking very much like a peasant wizard. Usually they just dress for the weather and put on as many layers as they can to feel safe and protected (and snuggly). There’s a lot of similarities in their logic about it with Uthvir but with miles of soft fabrics instead of spikes. Usually darker colors with an emphasis on blues. There’s not too much in the way of ritual around it since they’ve tailored their wardrobe so they can grab things put them on, and look good w/o any real effort.

 here’s the for inan fashion stuff 

19.What do they think about before falling asleep at night?

Usually they go through a very specific ritual when going to sleep since they’re a dreamer to help keep that shit on lock which involves a lot of emptying of the mind and relaxing and preparing to deal with Fade Shit. If they don’t it’s just existential dread, anxiety and depression shit and panic. So they don’t not do the thing…….

TACE

20.Childhood illnesses? Any interesting stories behind them?Tace wasn’t really sick much more than the normal amount and kinds as a kid and was the kind who conks out the whole time and doesn’t say, try to get up and play. As he got older and his dreamer abilities started to kick in he reacted to it like someone who was very sick, fevers, hot and cold, sweating. slept too much or not enough. He began to have trouble keeping food down and lacking an appetite which he still has problems with to this day along with sleep trouble and exhaustion. 22.Given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen?either doodles of dicks and such or a rude, raunchy or somehow unacceptable letter to someone whether he knew them or not he wrote for a laugh with no intention of sending. He’s very mature24.Is there one subject of study that they excel at? Or do they even care about intellectual pursuits at all?He actually excels in a lot of things, he’s a pretty gifted mage. He just Hates the Circle and all that academia type shit so regardless of his skill in them he doesn’t want to do them. He thinks intellectual pursuits are on a whole a waste of time because they’re mainly just there to make people feel more important and fancy.26.Do they have any plans for the future? Any contingency plans if things don’t workout?NOPE. NONE. past maybe ‘consult with that statue of Eleni Zinovia back in Ferelden about what to do w/ my life’ and ‘get a boyfriend’. 28.Who do they see as their best friend? Their worst enemy?hoooooo that’s Rough. Probably Banal though he’s more a father figure. He wasn’t very close to his other mages and hated the templars. Later when he meets Keshet and Shalev I guess they become his best friends which is...... very gay and lame.

Worst Enemy is Cullen and Meredith but Meredith is dead so fuck youuuuuuuu Culllleeennnnnnnn.30.Reaction to sudden intrapersonal disaster (eg close family member suddenly dies)Boy This Sucks [Drinks like a monster even more than usual] 

he’s pretty desensitized to tragedy but also a shambling mess so it’s really just his usual self but like 1000000000000000% worse for a while

32.Thoughts on material possessions in general?

MORE PLEASE. he loves shit give him all the stuff he wants to lounge in a gaudy parlor on a opulent chaise. He never got to have much in the way of possessions in the circle so he lots shit now. also he’s just a material little shit.

34.Thoughts on privacy? (Are they a private person, or are they prone to ‘TMI’?)He doesn’t care about other people’s privacy pretty much at all and loves getting into people’s shit but he’s VERY intense about his own privacy. He’s deeply protective of himself and his things and privacy. So he’s a wildly hypocritical guy.36.What makes them feel guilty?Not fucking much. He occasionally feels bad about how he’s treated someone but it’s not often and he’d never say it out loud. just kinda adds it to the pile of fuel for self-loathing.38.Would they consider themselves a Type A or Type B personality?

He’d be a Type A if it weren’t how his life has gone so I guess he’s like, a burnout Type A. 

[donaldresslerfanfic]

Settling in.

Rating: M 

Warnings: Strong Language (little bit) 

Word Count: 2136 

Donald Ressler X OC Maggie Waters. 

Chapter: Two

Chapter Index

Story on Wattpad

Maggie.

I didn’t know apartments downtown could be this cheap. Gina said it was because of the area, the bus stop was right across the street and they made quite a fuss when they rolled around, but I didn’t mind that at all. 

The owner said the contracts were always open indefinitely, and that gave me a leg up at actually settle here if I wanted to continue in her next year. It was half furnished, the only thing missing was the bed and a sofa for the living-kitchen-dinning room area. 

Yes, maybe it was small, but it was very well organized and besides… It’s only me. 

Gina and Sam had helped me with the boxes, and while the job offers came right away, I still had to let the knick knacks out of the boxes. All the while I was letting portraits and college degrees out of the bubble wrap, the door knocked maybe three times. Neighbors came to meet me and to welcome me to the building, leaving me Tupperwares of food. Kelly from 2B makes a mean lasagna. 

The bed was going to take a while to reach home, and for now it was just me and the mattress on the floor, but it made me feel adventurous. The phone took me out of my thoughts, looking at the screen I answered 

“Hey Gina” I said looking at the plain white wall in front of me 

“Hey, I wanted to see how you’re holding up" 

“I think I’m gonna paint the walls” I commented 

“I know a guy that gives me discounts, I’ll give you his number. And by the way, Friday we have a late start, don’t show up at 8" 

Arrive early for work once, shame on me… 

"I got the lesson last time, you’re welcome to join me for a coffee before we start with the Swanson’s shelter." 

"I’ll pass, Marcus and I have our little routine" 

Isn’t that lovely though? That’s what I wanted. "I’ll see you at work then” I said and hung up, still looking at the wall. Maybe teal, or turquoise, if the light hits right, it’ll end up perfect.

Ressler.

“Migrations gave us this” he slid me a copy of a passport “he entered the US with an alias, Kenneth Rathers. After that he took a cab but we lost it in the sea of yellow that is downtown, maybe he switched on the way" 

"Where are we on safe houses or contacts he might have here in DC?” I asked to Bobby. We’ve been chasing Reddington for almost five years now, getting close but never quite there, he always had a route, a contingency plan, a contact, someone who bailed him out. 

“I’ll dig up past reports and the likes, in the meantime you can have your friend at the post office start running facial recognition in the city. We’ll catch him Donnie.” He patted my shoulder and I was left alone, holding the copy of Reddington’s passport. I knew he had this alias, but why didn’t it flag up when it came through the airport? Must’ve been a private flight. 

The post office was a building the bureau acquired, in which I worked along with some other agents and organisms of intelligence with one purpose, find Raymond Reddington. 4th in the FBI’s most wanted list, avoiding the justice for 20 years and counting. I’ve become obsessed with him, and with the idea of catching him, to be the leader of the team who took him down. But for now, I was stuck in square one, like I’ve been every time I miss him. But now there’s no more trips, he’s in DC, my playing field. 

I was walking downtown, and I don’t know why but I figured I could return that girls favor and but her a coffee today, just to get out there more, to stop my head revolving in everything Reddington related. I found her sitting outside, it was a sunny morning but the shadow of a nearby tree casted down on the table, I figures that is the reason why she sits there. 

I bought two coffees and walked to her table, stopping at the same time her fingers stopped pressing the buttons on her laptop. 

“Yeah?” She asked looking at me, probably not recognizing me 

“Figured I return the favor” I said placing the coffee back at the table, she widened her eyes 

“Oh yeah, you’re the guy I bought a coffee the other day, you didn’t have to” she said closing the computer and moving it away “please have a seat” I gave her a little smile and sat down in the chair adjacent to hers 

“I’m Donald” I extended my hand to her, she smiled and took it, shaking it strongly “Ressler" 

"Margaret Water, but please, Maggie” she said rolling her eyes “I’m saving Margaret until I’m the adequate age" 

"So in forty years then” she gave me a smirk 

“Smooth Donald” she took the coffee I gave her and sipped it “I’ll he seventy in forty years, and even then I don’t think I’ll be old enough” she sipped again as I kept a polite smile 

“I heard you’re new in town?” I asked leaning back on the chair, she nodded as she pressed her lips together

“Yeah, I moved three weeks ago, got a job a week ago, I wasn’t going to move in case I didn’t got hired" 

"What kind of job?" 

"I’m an architect” I lifted my eyebrows at her, she didn’t pass for one. 

And you?“ 

"I work at a post office” She stopped the movement of her arm midway and glanced at me, my suit and tie, I hope she doesn’t notice the gun holster, otherwise it might get awkward. 

“I didn’t know public employees dressed so sharply to go to work… At a post office” she mocked, taking her coffee to her lips and taking a sip. Touché. 

“And I didn’t know architects spent so many hours on their hair to have it under a hard-hat filled with cast dust and splinters. I think you’re lying and you’re not the architect but the assistant of one” She clutched her chest and hung her head low 

“My pride” she whispered, then let out a laugh. I like her already. I laughed with her for a bit until she took back her breath. “I’m not that kind of architect" 

"There’s other kinds?" 

"Yeah, the kind I am, catastrophe architects, we are the ones who make the biggest bucks, mainly because there’s not much competition and a lot of demand, specially in DC." 

"Catastrophe architect?" 

"Shelters, panic rooms, safes, hidden passages, bomb shelters or bank vaults…" 

"I see” I said nodding, I knew it was a job that someone did, but I would’ve never figured an architect would do it. 

“It’s a team” she clarified, maybe she noticed the hesitation in my face “I mainly tell people where to put the thing, redirect services and show the final product, then we have security and internal design." 

"Sounds like an interesting enough job, and it sounds like you know a lot" 

 "I have to, yeah” she took another sip “why go dressed like that?” She motioned at me, and my suit. She wasn’t buying it for one second “it’s not like you get much visits now, with the internet and all" 

"There’s still some romantics out there” She knitted her eyebrows in tenderness and looked down at her watch 

“That’s so sweet, if an old man came to me and handed me a written letter to make travel around the world I would die of cuteness overload” She took her laptop and slid it into her backpack. “Unfortunately I have to run now, but it’s been a pleasure Donald” she said taking her now empty cup to throw it away. 

My name slid down her tongue so effortlessly, so genuine, almost as if she liked to say it. Or maybe she had a problem remembering names and had to repeat them often to not forget. 

“Don” I said as I stood up with her “and it’s also been a pleasure”. She gave me a smile 

“I hang out usually at this hour, if you ever want to catch another coffee. Maybe you’ll talk to me about your job next time” I gave her a short nod and a smile as she waved at me goodbye and walked down the walkway, crossing the street to her car. 

My job was almost impossible to talk about, everything I did everyday was classified, so either I keep up with the Post Office charade or tell her my real job, and that is not an option. The only times in which I identify myself and special agent of the FBI is when I’m busting down doors and taking down criminals, or following a lead. Which brings me right back to Reddington, and the leads I don’t have. Not yet at least.

Maggie.

“So I take it you want the whole basement adequated for the shelter” I asked Mr Swanson as I walked around the basement, it was filled the various boxes, groceries, a few forgotten exercise machines. 

“Yes, the whole basement with bedrooms for the kids, just in case we have to spend several days here. Especially comms jammers, I don’t want those pigs to hear me.” he whispered the last part. 

 Yeah, maybe he was a little conspiranoic. But why did I care? What he did with the shelter was not my business. I gave a look to the initial floor plans of the house and agreed to take a look at the files, to ensure something could indeed be done. 

 After that, it was just me and my still insipid and empty apartment. I was sitting in the floor, with a carton of Chinese food in hand, looking at the plain white walls. Sam had some computer programs he installed in my computer to take pictures of the space and paint the walls to see how would it look in the end. Of course it came with other tools to fix the objects and decorate ir, but one step at a time. 

And the first step was the paint. It took me another 2 weeks to decide, and I decided for the teal, especially after Sam showed me how it would end with some splashes of green, new white couches, a new dinning room set. But everytime he changed something I decided for the new thing, and that wasn’t getting me anywhere. If anything I could repaint it but teal it is. It all looked homey, cozy. 

 "Morning” I heard Don salute me as he settled my coffee in front of me and sat down. We had made it a habit to share Friday mornings, and occasionally if we crossed paths in the week, we alternated the payments of our coffee. 

“What do you think about this?” I said turning the computer for him to look. 

“Looks like something out of a magazine" 

“That’s how my place is going to end up looking, hopefully in the not too distant future” I took the coffee and sipped it. “I have to pick up the paint tomorrow and paint the apartment over the weekend, otherwise I won’t have time in the week and I’ll have to stare at the stupid white wall for another 5 days" 

"What time tomorrow?” He asked, I closed the laptop and sighed 

“Early, first thing in the morning" 

"I might be able to help you with that” he said, I closed the backpack and folded my hands in the table giving him a smile 

 "You don’t have to Don. Who’s going to deliver the letters?“ He snorted and shook his head, to which I smiled. 

"It’s closed on the weekends, and I don’t deliver the letters that’s what the postman is for” I nodded and took another sip of my coffee when he took his. 

“That would be very kind of you, all things considered" 

"All things considered?”

“You don’t know me and are willing to spend you weekend carrying heavy cans of paint" 

 "I’ll help with the painting itself" 

"Absolutely not” I completely refuse to have him spend his day inhaling paint fumes. 

“That’s not up to you, I’ll pick you at 8:30” He was ending the conversation, knowing that I had to head to the office. I hung my backpack on my shoulder and extended my hand to touch his forearm. I don’t think he was expecting that gesture, maybe I was being too forward. 

“Thanks Don” I said with a smile 

“No problem Maggie” he gave me his short characteristic nod and I smiled more. Lifting myself up from the chair I waved him goodbye and headed back to my car.

[beochanpaiseanagustaifeala]

💖”Star🌠Gazing”💖 Part 1 (FEAT. Lalasa Patel-Slithers, The Cartoon Network and many more!)

Happy Valentine’s Day!

🌠

Lalasa’s POV

How I love to stroll in the woods during nights like this~ the sun is setting, the moon is rising and for some reason I’m really hungry; good thing I got myself some perfectly healthy trail mix...let’s see: marshmallow, potato chip, cheddar cracker, pizza roll, sugary cereal, loads and loads of chocolate, ect. so much to choose from, my freaking God! X’DDD But suddenly, I spotted Harvey and lil’ Buhdeuce (SwaySway’s baby bro) getting chased by none other than those Greaser Dogs~ better save those boy’s lives; I jumped into action and punched the top dog, Cliff, square in the face.

“Don’t you know it’s impolite for a little lady like you to fight dirty?” He laughed, with Shriek giving him a dark look in response.

“At least I’m not a clown dressed in leather desperately trying to relive my glory days, I thought you dinosaurs where dead.” I replied in a deadpan tone.

“Gee, I don’t look like a dinosaur...” said a confused-as-usual Lube, itching his head. 

“In that case, these dinosaurs are gonna stomp you in the mud!” said Shriek, shaking her fist at me.

“Good idea, cookie, let’s get her!”

Cliff roared as the three where about to lynch me until I activated my powers and flamed both of them IRL and literally, making the three geezers (I think) screaming and running into the lake to cool off. 

“Thanks, Lolly!” Harvey and Buhdeuce cheered as they hugged my legs since they’re pretty short.

“It was nothing, really, I do enjoy kicking me some butt.” I chuckled, petting their heads; “Stay outta danger, ‘k?”

They saluted: “Yes, m’am!” and left to go do their own business.

After that little scrap, I took a break from walking and lied down on the soft, green grass to stair up above at the sky and listened to the sound of a happy mother bird and her hatching chicks; speaking of which, I started to wonder about a missing detail in my life: “How was I born?” maybe I can look for some answers.....

🌠

Plucky’s POV

Another glorious day of trolling some poor, pitiful Nicktoon Authority and their lackey dogs, too; this time we hid woopie cushions with missile buttons under their seats in the meeting council~ looks like it’s gonna be weeks and weeks of repairing the dome for those saps so why not celebrate with a BBQ and a pageant?

The “pageant” was sweet-little Bubbles singing a ballad of how my aunt Melissa defeated the cruel ruler of the Nicktoon’s old country and started our grand organization...and would you believe, after all these years, they've still been trying to make us disband and have the last of the Looney Tunes come crawling back to ‘em? those dinks! too bad for them, because no matter what kind of blackmail and butchery they threaten us with, we’ll always bite back! aye, if only ol’ Jack (the III?) was gonna see this but I think he transferred to our sister rebellion group, which is cool since there’s a robot and a crazy scientist in that group.

“It’s showtime, big guy!” Amethyst, my trusty second-in-command, called out while holding a huge hot dog right off from the grill.

“I’ll be there in a second, bonnie-love!” I called out, grinning like a chump while putting on my best robes and hat in which made me feel like a pirate.

But a tragedy struck upon dear Bubbles 5 minutes into her performance: an arrow from nowhere was flung her to the back of her head with an orange flag with a white “N” waving in the air; “Did they kill her!?” we all shrieked in agony as we saw what might have been her final moment; a weeping Blossom replied “W-we’ll see what’s up...” as she and a frightened Buttercup crept up to her, but luckly, Bubbles was safe, sound and just got spooked because a plunger got stuck in her hair~ said-plunger got pulled off by Buttercup rather roughly as if a lock of Bubbles’ hair was ripped out of her, making her yelp; she turned around the flag and saw a note: “🎵”

“Yeah but turn it over, there’s a letter!” Blossom replied.

“You’re right~ and there’s a message from the Nicktoon Authority!”

Reading it out loud, it turned out that, in order to afford the pay for damages to the dome, they’ll steal our most prized possession, the Golden Anvil, so they could trade it for loads of cold hard cash and as you could see, none of us where pleased about losing our prized possession to those slime-drinkin’ chumps....unless....“Gather around, I got something to tell you all in private.” and with that, everyone huddled over as I whispered them my latest grand plan.

🌠

Lalasa’s POV

I came across the library, being taken care of by none other than an older resident hailing all the way from the mother country, Tommy Pickles; he ruled over the Nickelodeon area of In-Between and was with the other older Nicktoons since Day 1, maybe he had answers.

“Hey Lolly, how are you and the girls been doing lately?” he said with a warm, brotherly smile.

“Barb and Tricia have been doing good, as for me, I’ve been puzzled about something for a while....”

“And that is?”

“....Who brought me into this world?”

At first, he looked a bit shocked, his face seemed a bit more solemn and serious than usual, but he also at least trying to smile; “Oh, Lalasa....” he walked up to me, patting me on the back, following with: “You see, it’s.....complicated and.....and.....let me tell you a little story, get cozy just in case, because it’s pretty long.” We sat down together on a nice bench by some books, propped ourselves up and so he began to tell me the tale of my origins.....

💖

Tommy’s POV/Story (Although the one he tells Lalasa is much less overly-detailed)

It all started when me, Helga Pataki (or as I liked to call her, Brawn Helga) and two really hyper orphans, Fabian and ChiChi where running one of the ships that carried out Beo’s and young Beochan who where waiting to be knighted as official Nicktoons and to be honest, I was enjoying it the most: the salty sea-air, the wind in my face, the gentle blue waves crashing against the bottom of the ship and the seagulls pecking at Helga’s head made my day, why I felt like I was king of the world.

“Hey, Pickles! the two monkey boys are at it again, get after them you lazy bones!” Angel-I mean, Helga bellowed at me in all her grouchy glory.

“What did the scamps do this time?” I said, hoping to God they didn’t get into my baby photos again.

“They’re annoying with one of the passengers, now get out there and find the masked brats before I do and handle them by myself with a belt, kapeesh?”

“G-got it, Captain!”

I scurried for the whereabouts of the two troublesome boys and finally found them jumping around in one of the Beochan’s chamber and messing around with his things.

“Please give that back to me, it’s private!” Said the taller, older-looking boy, trying to retrieve a box from ChiChi in grabby hands mode as Fabian was running wild just like Sheen back in the day.

“Alright, kids, time to leave the guy alone now come with me.” I said in a calm tone, picking the boys up by the backs of their shirts.

“Yes, Tommy-sama.”

“That’s my boys, now stay outta trouble, otherwise Helga’s gonna put all three of us in the soup.”

“Okay.” the two glumly replied as ChiChi gave the box to me just before both of them scampered off, leaving me and the preteen boy alone in the room.

“I believe this belongs to you, kid?”

“Gee, t-thank you...”

“You’re one of the new kids sailing to In-Between or maybe the Mother Land?” I asked the shy, sensitive-looking boy.

“Y-yes, I don’t know where the ceremony will be taking place this year though...”

“Me neither, join the club~ anywho, the name is Tommy Pickles, I’m one of the original Nicktoons, my cousin rules the Mother Land....and you are?”

“Sanjay Patel, I’ve always been a fan of old Nicktoon history...I’m very happy to be meeting one of the people who started it all today.”

“Thanks.”

Just then, Brawn Helga came into the room, having a discussion with a slightly older-looking beochan with hair similar to Sanjay’s, but also with green skin too; “Alright boy, this is where you’ll be sharing a room with one of the other beochan here, got it?” she sternly said, looking the boy in the eyes before putting him into the room before mumbling: “And no monkey business, got it?”

He replied, “Yeah yeah, I got you.”

“I just met your roommate Sanjay and he really is a sweet kid.” I said warmly, introducing him to Sanjay, who waved gracefully to him.

“Last name’s Slithers, first name’s Crai-” he tripped and fell on a toy-thing that fell out of either Fabian or ChiChi’s pockets and crashed on to Sanjay, leading both of them squished like pancakes.

“Heheh....I’ll get both of you off the floor.” I said, picking Craig up from the floor as he looked dazed and confused~ on the flip side, Sanjay was grinning like a fool, had swirly cheeks and blank eyes (Hachune face).

Later that night, when we dined the night before we reached...wherever the Nicktoons where going to be crowned, we had a banquet as a pre-welcome party and everyone and their mother was pigging out....okay I was stretching it a bit, only two Nicktoon mothers where on that ship at the time but we all had fun, heck, even Helga was having a good time! I even spotted the two bunk mates, Sanjay and Craig, dishing out some food.

“Aw man, there’s only one hot wing left, bummer...” Craig muttered.

Sanjay, looking down at the (boneless) buffalo wing, suggested: “I’ll let you have it.”

“Don’t you want it? I’d hate to be selfish.” asked the green skinned boy.

“...We can split it then.” The shorter one replied with a sweet smile.

“Deal!”

“You stole the last hot wing, eh?” asked a thuggish Nicktoon, who happened to be a big, buff, punkish-looking robot I hear was known as “Crikey”.

“Aw buzz off, I thought you liked bacon in your homeland!” Craig hissed at the stranger.

“Bring it on, kid.”

Craig grew fangs, had his eyes glow bright red and slowly morphed into a snake that lunged at Crikey, trying to strangle him as the latter was punching him; this lead to the other passengers (myself included) getting hyped up and rowdy on the ship and cheering for a fight, unfortunately, most of us got rowdy and joined in by fighting each other, albeit in a more friendly way but as we got louder and more dangerous, Helga’s good mood faded away and she marched out of the control panel and started scolding virtually everyone for the mess they made~ later on, a fraction of the passengers where put in security as I, along with ChiChi and Fabian where punished by having to clean up the whole ship, plus the mess hall, the ballroom and the security room.

“Make sure the floor is clean enough so I can eat off of it, punks!” she nagged.

“I rather would have gotten fired” I muttered in my head; luckly, my whole night wasn’t ruined, as I did see a really sweet moment when Sanjay came inside to visit Craig, who was punished along with the mischievous passengers who helped out in the chaos.

“Hey Craig, I’m sorry you got locked up in here for the night....maybe I can stay with you until you’re freed.” said Sanjay with a large amount of understandable sympathy since the cell looked like a serious drag.

“Sure, kid.” Craig nodded with a weak smile.

Sanjay sat down and showed him a comic book to cheer him up, it was none other than my absolute favorite one.....

“Aw sweet, I haven’t read KaBlam! in years.” said Craig.

 “W-where did you get it!?” I couldn’t help but ask Sanjay as I was geeking out of nostalgia.

“I bought it at a thrift store.” Sanjay smiled; “I always wanted to meet another fan of the KaBlam! comics.”

“Cooooool.”

So we spend the rest of the night laughing away at all the funny stories of aliens, sentient action figures, a little girl who was a total weirdness magnet and of course, the antics of June and Henry, it was like I was a little kid again; who knew a pair of millennials where into that stuff? after that, Sanjay couldn’t help but sneak into the cell and sleep by Craig’s side, with a sleeping bag, he nestled himself up near Craig’s steel bed, after all, they where roommates~ Finally, when me and the little ones were finished with the work, we finally went to our rooms and slept like rocks, thank God too because all that mopping was seriously killing me.

What a day that was, new Nicktoons where ready to join our community, I got to get whisked away along with everyone else to a paradise on the sea, ate all the food I could stuff in my face, joined in on a crazy fight and it seemed that for two of the newbies, it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

🌠To be continued....💖

[buzzdixonwriter]

"The Cop and the Anthem" by O. Henry

On his bench in Madison Square Soapy moved uneasily. When wild geese honk high of nights, and when women without sealskin coats grow kind to their husbands, and when Soapy moves uneasily on his bench in the park, you may know that winter is near at hand.

A dead leaf fell in Soapy's lap. That was Jack Frost's card. Jack is kind to the regular denizens of Madison Square, and gives fair warning of his annual call. At the corners of four streets he hands his pasteboard to the North Wind, footman of the mansion of All Outdoors, so that the inhabitants thereof may make ready.

Soapy's mind became cognisant of the fact that the time had come for him to resolve himself into a singular Committee of Ways and Means to provide against the coming rigour. And therefore he moved uneasily on his bench.

The hibernatorial ambitions of Soapy were not of the highest. In them there were no considerations of Mediterranean cruises, of soporific Southern skies drifting in the Vesuvian Bay. Three months on the Island was what his soul craved. Three months of assured board and bed and congenial company, safe from Boreas and bluecoats, seemed to Soapy the essence of things desirable.

For years the hospitable Blackwell's had been his winter quarters. Just as his more fortunate fellow New Yorkers had bought their tickets to Palm Beach and the Riviera each winter, so Soapy had made his humble arrangements for his annual hegira to the Island. And now the time was come. On the previous night three Sabbath newspapers, distributed beneath his coat, about his ankles and over his lap, had failed to repulse the cold as he slept on his bench near the spurting fountain in the ancient square. So the Island loomed big and timely in Soapy's mind. He scorned the provisions made in the name of charity for the city's dependents. In Soapy's opinion the Law was more benign than Philanthropy. There was an endless round of institutions, municipal and eleemosynary, on which he might set out and receive lodging and food accordant with the simple life. But to one of Soapy's proud spirit the gifts of charity are encumbered. If not in coin you must pay in humiliation of spirit for every benefit received at the hands of philanthropy. As Caesar had his Brutus, every bed of charity must have its toll of a bath, every loaf of bread its compensation of a private and personal inquisition. Wherefore it is better to be a guest of the law, which though conducted by rules, does not meddle unduly with a gentleman's private affairs.

Soapy, having decided to go to the Island, at once set about accomplishing his desire. There were many easy ways of doing this. The pleasantest was to dine luxuriously at some expensive restaurant; and then, after declaring insolvency, be handed over quietly and without uproar to a policeman. An accommodating magistrate would do the rest.

Soapy left his bench and strolled out of the square and across the level sea of asphalt, where Broadway and Fifth Avenue flow together. Up Broadway he turned, and halted at a glittering café, where are gathered together nightly the choicest products of the grape, the silkworm and the protoplasm.

Soapy had confidence in himself from the lowest button of his vest upward. He was shaven, and his coat was decent and his neat black, ready-tied four-in-hand had been presented to him by a lady missionary on Thanksgiving Day. If he could reach a table in the restaurant unsuspected success would be his. The portion of him that would show above the table would raise no doubt in the waiter's mind. A roasted mallard duck, thought Soapy, would be about the thing—with a bottle of Chablis, and then Camembert, a demi-tasse and a cigar. One dollar for the cigar would be enough. The total would not be so high as to call forth any supreme manifestation of revenge from the café management; and yet the meat would leave him filled and happy for the journey to his winter refuge.

But as Soapy set foot inside the restaurant door the head waiter's eye fell upon his frayed trousers and decadent shoes. Strong and ready hands turned him about and conveyed him in silence and haste to the sidewalk and averted the ignoble fate of the menaced mallard.

Soapy turned off Broadway. It seemed that his route to the coveted island was not to be an epicurean one. Some other way of entering limbo must be thought of.

At a corner of Sixth Avenue electric lights and cunningly displayed wares behind plate-glass made a shop window conspicuous. Soapy took a cobblestone and dashed it through the glass. People came running around the corner, a policeman in the lead. Soapy stood still, with his hands in his pockets, and smiled at the sight of brass buttons.

"Where's the man that done that?" inquired the officer excitedly.

"Don't you figure out that I might have had something to do with it?" said Soapy, not without sarcasm, but friendly, as one greets good fortune.

The policeman's mind refused to accept Soapy even as a clue. Men who smash windows do not remain to parley with the law's minions. They take to their heels. The policeman saw a man half way down the block running to catch a car. With drawn club he joined in the pursuit. Soapy, with disgust in his heart, loafed along, twice unsuccessful.

On the opposite side of the street was a restaurant of no great pretensions. It catered to large appetites and modest purses. Its crockery and atmosphere were thick; its soup and napery thin. Into this place Soapy took his accusive shoes and telltale trousers without challenge. At a table he sat and consumed beefsteak, flapjacks, doughnuts and pie. And then to the waiter be betrayed the fact that the minutest coin and himself were strangers.

"Now, get busy and call a cop," said Soapy. "And don't keep a gentleman waiting."

"No cop for youse," said the waiter, with a voice like butter cakes and an eye like the cherry in a Manhattan cocktail. "Hey, Con!"

Neatly upon his left ear on the callous pavement two waiters pitched Soapy. He arose, joint by joint, as a carpenter's rule opens, and beat the dust from his clothes. Arrest seemed but a rosy dream. The Island seemed very far away. A policeman who stood before a drug store two doors away laughed and walked down the street.

Five blocks Soapy travelled before his courage permitted him to woo capture again. This time the opportunity presented what he fatuously termed to himself a "cinch." A young woman of a modest and pleasing guise was standing before a show window gazing with sprightly interest at its display of shaving mugs and inkstands, and two yards from the window a large policeman of severe demeanour leaned against a water plug.

It was Soapy's design to assume the role of the despicable and execrated "masher." The refined and elegant appearance of his victim and the contiguity of the conscientious cop encouraged him to believe that he would soon feel the pleasant official clutch upon his arm that would insure his winter quarters on the right little, tight little isle.

Soapy straightened the lady missionary's ready-made tie, dragged his shrinking cuffs into the open, set his hat at a killing cant and sidled toward the young woman. He made eyes at her, was taken with sudden coughs and "hems," smiled, smirked and went brazenly through the impudent and contemptible litany of the "masher." With half an eye Soapy saw that the policeman was watching him fixedly. The young woman moved away a few steps, and again bestowed her absorbed attention upon the shaving mugs. Soapy followed, boldly stepping to her side, raised his hat and said:

"Ah there, Bedelia! Don't you want to come and play in my yard?"

The policeman was still looking. The persecuted young woman had but to beckon a finger and Soapy would be practically en route for his insular haven. Already he imagined he could feel the cozy warmth of the station-house. The young woman faced him and, stretching out a hand, caught Soapy's coat sleeve.

"Sure, Mike," she said joyfully, "if you'll blow me to a pail of suds. I'd have spoke to you sooner, but the cop was watching."

With the young woman playing the clinging ivy to his oak Soapy walked past the policeman overcome with gloom. He seemed doomed to liberty.

At the next corner he shook off his companion and ran. He halted in the district where by night are found the lightest streets, hearts, vows and librettos. Women in furs and men in greatcoats moved gaily in the wintry air. A sudden fear seized Soapy that some dreadful enchantment had rendered him immune to arrest. The thought brought a little of panic upon it, and when he came upon another policeman lounging grandly in front of a transplendent theatre he caught at the immediate straw of "disorderly conduct."

On the sidewalk Soapy began to yell drunken gibberish at the top of his harsh voice. He danced, howled, raved and otherwise disturbed the welkin.

The policeman twirled his club, turned his back to Soapy and remarked to a citizen.

"'Tis one of them Yale lads celebratin' the goose egg they give to the Hartford College. Noisy; but no harm. We've instructions to lave them be."

Disconsolate, Soapy ceased his unavailing racket. Would never a policeman lay hands on him? In his fancy the Island seemed an unattainable Arcadia. He buttoned his thin coat against the chilling wind.

In a cigar store he saw a well-dressed man lighting a cigar at a swinging light. His silk umbrella he had set by the door on entering. Soapy stepped inside, secured the umbrella and sauntered off with it slowly. The man at the cigar light followed hastily.

"My umbrella," he said, sternly.

"Oh, is it?" sneered Soapy, adding insult to petit larceny. "Well, why don't you call a policeman? I took it. Your umbrella! Why don't you call a cop? There stands one on the corner."

The umbrella owner slowed his steps. Soapy did likewise, with a presentiment that luck would again run against him. The policeman looked at the two curiously.

"Of course," said the umbrella man—"that is—well, you know how these mistakes occur—I—if it's your umbrella I hope you'll excuse me—I picked it up this morning in a restaurant—If you recognise it as yours, why—I hope you'll—"

"Of course it's mine," said Soapy, viciously.

The ex-umbrella man retreated. The policeman hurried to assist a tall blonde in an opera cloak across the street in front of a street car that was approaching two blocks away.

Soapy walked eastward through a street damaged by improvements. He hurled the umbrella wrathfully into an excavation. He muttered against the men who wear helmets and carry clubs. Because he wanted to fall into their clutches, they seemed to regard him as a king who could do no wrong.

At length Soapy reached one of the avenues to the east where the glitter and turmoil was but faint. He set his face down this toward Madison Square, for the homing instinct survives even when the home is a park bench.

But on an unusually quiet corner Soapy came to a standstill. Here was an old church, quaint and rambling and gabled. Through one violet-stained window a soft light glowed, where, no doubt, the organist loitered over the keys, making sure of his mastery of the coming Sabbath anthem. For there drifted out to Soapy's ears sweet music that caught and held him transfixed against the convolutions of the iron fence.

The moon was above, lustrous and serene; vehicles and pedestrians were few; sparrows twittered sleepily in the eaves—for a little while the scene might have been a country churchyard. And the anthem that the organist played cemented Soapy to the iron fence, for he had known it well in the days when his life contained such things as mothers and roses and ambitions and friends and immaculate thoughts and collars.

The conjunction of Soapy's receptive state of mind and the influences about the old church wrought a sudden and wonderful change in his soul. He viewed with swift horror the pit into which he had tumbled, the degraded days, unworthy desires, dead hopes, wrecked faculties and base motives that made up his existence.

And also in a moment his heart responded thrillingly to this novel mood. An instantaneous and strong impulse moved him to battle with his desperate fate. He would pull himself out of the mire; he would make a man of himself again; he would conquer the evil that had taken possession of him. There was time; he was comparatively young yet; he would resurrect his old eager ambitions and pursue them without faltering. Those solemn but sweet organ notes had set up a revolution in him. To-morrow he would go into the roaring downtown district and find work. A fur importer had once offered him a place as driver. He would find him to-morrow and ask for the position. He would be somebody in the world. He would—

Soapy felt a hand laid on his arm. He looked quickly around into the broad face of a policeman.

"What are you doin' here?" asked the officer.

"Nothin'," said Soapy.

"Then come along," said the policeman.

"Three months on the Island," said the Magistrate in the Police Court the next morning.

[thedarcydichotomy]

✩

The Ultimate Relationship Tag

Send ‘✩’ for the following: 

Disagreements:

Who is more likely to raise their voice?

Darcy - she can get into shouting mode pretty quickly. Thankfully Bucky gives it back, otherwise she’d feel horrifically guilty about yelling at him.

Who threatens to leave but never actually does?

Neither - Darcy wouldn’t threaten to leave, she’s a stay or go person, not one to make threats like that’s somehow going to fix a problem. And Bucky, if he threatened to leave, would go through with it. Of course he’d be back before too long, but he’s not the kind to make an idle threat.

Who actually keeps their word and leaves?

Bucky, but again, he doesn’t stay gone long. Just enough for Darcy to freak out and him to feel mopey.

Who trashes the house?

Bucky is the most likely to, if he has an episode of any sort. Otherwise...Darcy leaves stuff around pretty often, but not enough you’d call it trashing a place. Although if she accidentally shifts inside… That can lead to some property damage.

Do either of them get physical?

Both are very physical people, but neither wants to hurt the other. Darcy is all about poking, prodding, maybe a little bit of a kick to the shin if he’s being particularly antagonising. Bucky might grab her, but that’s more to pin her arms down to keep her from poking and prodding.

How often do they argue/disagree?

Not as often as people outside their relationship would believe. In public, they’re more likely to pick at each other, a terrible form of flirting laid over from their pre-relationship days. In private though, they’re all about the cuddling and the smooching and the being lovingly at peace.

Who is the first to apologise?

Bucky is more likely to crack and apologise, unless he really feels he’s in the right. Then Darcy will. Eventually. You know that song One Week by The Barenaked Ladies? Yeah.

Sex:

Who is on top?

Well, it depends what the mood is like, doesn’t it? They’re hardly going to be using the same positions all the time. Sometimes Darcy is on top, sometimes Bucky is, sometimes the positions don’t exactly lend to a top or a bottom. But they feel damn good.

Who is on the bottom?

See answer above.

Who has the strangest desires?

Neither of them has desires that are particularly on the strange side. Kinks, sure, but even then they’re not breaking anybodies brain with what they’re into. Plus they’re both pretty accepting of what the other is into, whether or not they’re into it themselves, so it’s a pretty judgement free zone.

Any kinks?

Oh ho ho, between the two of them? So many! Do you have an hour for me to sit here and list them? Probably not. Safe to say they’ve both got their things, and sometimes those things come together beautifully.

Like the toy collection. Beautiful.

Who’s dominant in bed?

Darcy is, not necessarily because she wants to be the dominant partner, but because Bucky has a strong preference for taking on the more submissive role in that kind of scenario. And Darcy is happy to oblige him - she just lets her wild side take a bit more control and suddenly that boy is all kinds of pinned down and marked up.

Is head ever in the equation?

Um, abso-frickin-lutely. Making Bucky whine and moan is up there as one of Darcy’s favourite hobbies, and head is a great way to get there pretty damn quick.

If so, who is better at performing it?

Debatable. Not that Bucky can perform ‘head’ on Darcy (though he is so very good with the oral - that man has one talented tongue), but the fact is he CAN and is very good at it.

They’re both in favour of Steve having to be the judge of that particular competition. Even if it’s more likely to end with both of them going to town on him at the same time.

Ever had sex in public?

There have been a few closet quickies, but nothing more public than that.

Who moans the most?

Bucky. And it’s a wonderful sound.

Who leaves the most marks?

Darcy. She loves leaving Bucky with bite marks and bruises and scratches, little bits of her possessiveness let out to play. Of course Bucky isn’t above giving back in that regard. Unfortunately, they both heal so fast… It really just means they have to go again to freshen them up.

Who screams the loudest?

When Bucky decides he wants to wreck her, Darcy can scream loud. There are definitely times when EVERYONE in the building knows what’s going down.

There have also been times when a bunch of Avengers have crashed into their room thinking she’s being attacked, which is all kinds of fun and awkward.

Who is the more experienced of the two?

They’re probably on par, really. Much as Bucky’s reputation was as a lout in his younger days, he didn’t go around just sleeping with any and everyone willing. They’ve each really only had a handful of partners in their respective lives.

Do they ‘fuck’ or ‘make love’?

Porque no las dos?

Rough or soft?

Pourquoi pas les deux?

How long do they usually last?

Um, well, Bucky is a supersoldier and Darcy’s stamina is far higher than a regular human. You use your imagination and come up with what that can mean.

Is protection used?

Some form of protection, yes, but not usually condoms.

Does it ever get boring?

Nope - they both know how to press the others buttons and are willing enough to play along with their partner to keep things new and interesting. And even when it’s not like that, they’re in tune and care about each other, and sex is an extension of that - in some ways that’s the most intense cases.

Where is the strangest place they’d have sex?

A maintenance closet.

Family: ( I cut out most of this section as it wasn’t relevant following the first answer)

Do your muses plan on having children/or have children?

Nope - Bucky isn’t in a place where he thinks he’d be the best kind of father, and Darcy isn’t interested. Bucky is very keen for Steve or Sam or any of the other Avengers to get some popping out though so he can be the best uncle.

Affection:

Who likes to cuddle?

BOTH! So much both. They are a pair of cuddle beasts. They can’t be sat on the same sofa without getting all curled up in each other.

Who is the little spoon?

They take it in turns.

Who gets naughty in the most inappropriate of places?

Darcy is more likely to try a little something something to rile him up. He has been distracted in the middle of a conversation by her shaking her ass or her boobs at him.

Who struggles to keep their hands to themself?  

Bucky, but he’s needy.

How long can they cuddle until one becomes uncomfortable?

Depends on a lot of things - injuries, what’s on their minds, time of day, surface, position. In bed they can easily cuddle the whole night through.

Who gives the most kisses?

Darcy. She’s very fond of kissing him at any and every given opportunity, even if it’s just a peck on the top of his head as she walks past him sat on the sofa, or one to his hand as they say goodbye.

What is their favourite non-sexual activity?

Cuddling and watching movies together.

Where is their favourite place to cuddle?

Sofa or bed.

Who is more likely to playfully grope the other?

Darcy! Bucky is a gentleman and wouldn’t just go around groping her. Darcy has no such compunctions and will grab two handfuls of that ass anytime.

How often do they get time to themselves?

Pretty regularly - it’s easy enough once they have their own place without Steve in the same home.

Sleeping:

Who snores?

Neither.

If both do, who snores the loudest?

Do they share a bed or sleep separately?

Share, of course. It’s hard to cuddle when you’re in different beds. Plus they have to spend enough nights apart when one of them is on mission, they’re not about to do it when they’re both in the same place.

If they sleep together, do they cozy up together or lay far apart?

Cozy cozy cuddling.

Who talks in their sleep?

Bucky. He’s prone to nightmares, of course, but Darcy has come to to find him murmuring some incredibly silly and funny things at times too.

Her favourite was him telling off Steve for eating the spaghetti wig.

What do they wear to bed?

Both run hot naturally, and Bucky isn’t fond of getting a chill, but usually it’s boxers and a t-shirt/tank top for both.

Are either of your muses insomniacs?

Both can have their moments - Bucky when his mind is being particularly cruel, and Darcy when Bucky is away and she spends her nights worrying.

Can sleeping pills be found by the bedside?

Nope. Simple sleeping pills would metabolise out of both of them too quickly to be of any value. Bucky leaves some particularly potent tranquilisers with Steve, so it’s only in the most dire of cases that he’ll try and take them.

Do they wrap their limbs around each other or just lay side by side?

Cozy cozy cuddling.

Who wakes up with bed hair?

Both. Bucky might be a superhuman and Darcy might be a werewolf, but neither of their follicles can fight the ruffling of bed head.

Who wakes up first?

Bucky. Not through a want to, but simply through training and conditioning.

Who prepares breakfast in bed for the other?

Darcy is more likely to, but Bucky has on occasion. Usually not all breakfast can be eaten in bed though, because they both eat A LOT, so migration to the kitchen is almost always necessary.

What is their favourite sleeping position?

Spooning, or Bucky curled into Darcy’s side using her chest as a pillow and her heartbeat as a steadying rhythm to sleep to.

Who hogs the sheets?

Well, Bucky would, but Darcy isn’t shy about yanking to get her share.

Do they set an alarm each night?

Nope. Bucky’s internal clock is spot on. Darcy probably should set one but meh, sleep is better than punctuality.

Can a television be found in their bedroom?

No - Darcy insists there not be, as she’d never sleep if there was.

Who has nightmares?

Both of them do, but Bucky’s are far more frequent and destructive on him.

Who has ridiculous dreams?

If Bucky has nonsensical dreams, he doesn’t remember them, or doesn’t own up to it at least. Darcy will happily regale him with the strange happenings in her dreams though.

Who sprawls out and takes up most of the bed?

It would be Darcy, except she’s just not that big...

Who makes the bed?

Bucky - that damn ingrained training is still there.

What time is bed time?

Whatever time one of them wants to bed. If neither is particularly keen to hit the hay, they’ll usually head to bed around midnight and sit up reading together, or watching something on a tablet until they do nod off.

Any routines/rituals before bed?

They always say ‘I love you’ before falling asleep. Bucky checks the guns around the bedroom before getting into bed. Darcy always has a fresh glass of water on her bedside table. They both always brush their teeth last thing before getting ready for bed.

Who’s the grumpiest when they wake up?

Ha, Darcy. She could give grumpy cat a run for her money with the faces she makes when woken up in the morning. Much better to let her wake up naturally - it’s not so bad then.

Work:

Who is the busiest?

Actually, probably Darcy - Coulson has her running around more these days. Bucky keeps busy, but he could just as easily hang around binge watching TV and eating chocolate for days on end if he really wanted to.

Who rakes in the highest income?

Er...Steve? Bucky has a very large amount of backpay from the military tied up in court cases, the military trying to get out of paying out, but basically Steve pays for him. So technically, Darcy currently has the higher income, but payments from SHIELD aren’t huge and come through sporadically, given how much trouble the agency still has just keeping running.

Are any of your muses unemployed?

Technically neither of them is unemployed, but their jobs aren’t exactly on paper, so legally they would both probably be deemed unemployed.

Who takes the most sick days?

Since neither of them can really get sick, and that is well known, neither of them can get away with taking sick days.

Who is more likely to turn up late to work?

Darcy, definitely. She cares more about sleep or grabbing that cup of coffee than being punctual most of the time.

Who sucks up to their boss?

Like either of them ever would. They’re both too strong and sassy to ever suck up to someone just because they’re ‘in a position of power’.

What are their jobs?

Bucky is an Avenger, as required, and Darcy is a SHIELD agent.

Who stresses the most?

Obviously, Darcy - everyone around knows when she’s stressed. But really, Bucky is the worst about stressing out over things. He’s just the best at keeping it under wraps.

Do your muses enjoy or despise their careers/occupations?

Honestly, both of them would be happy to turn their backs on spies and violence and war. They don’t despise what they do, because they see the importance of it, but neither really loves their line of work.

Are your muses financially stable?

Frankly, no, but Steve makes sure they’re never wanting.

Home:

Who does the washing?

Darcy does, but it’s part of the bargain - they each have chores they hate and chores they can stand. The agreement is that one will do something hated by the other, and luckily that evens out with most things.

Who takes out the trash?

Bucky. He is a trash panda after all.

Who does the ironing?

Ironing? What is that?

Who does the cooking?

Darcy, mostly. Bucky is learning though, and often helps out with the prep work - Darcy calls him her sous chef, and it works out pretty well for them.

Who is more likely to burn the house down just trying?

Neither - they are both competent individuals around a stove.

Who is messier?

Darcy, on a daily basis. Bucky has bouts of rebellion against his training and impulses sometimes though, and leaves a mess in his wake. He does clean up after himself too though, when he realises being messy doesn’t make him feel any freer.

Who leaves the toilet roll empty?

Bucky has a couple of times. He doesn’t anymore. The repercussions aren’t worth it.

Who leaves their dirty clothes on the floor?

Darcy takes things off and they just go where they drop or in the vague direction of the hamper. Bucky takes pride in lobbing his dirty clothes right into the hamper.

Who forgets to flush the toilet?

Gross, neither.

Who is the prankster around the house?

There is a mutual agreement following one too many prank wars that got out of control - if they prank, they prank together and they prank others only.

Who loses the car keys when it comes time to go somewhere?

Bucky is very good at hiding the keys when it’s time to go somewhere and he doesn’t want to.

Who mows the lawn?

They have an apartment, not a house, so there is no lawn to be seen.

Who answers the telephone?

They don’t actually have a house phone - that line provides internet and nothing more.

Who does the vacuuming?

Bucky, and only when Darcy isn’t home. The frequency of the vacuums suction hurts Darcy’s ears.

Who does the groceries?

Darcy actually enjoys going grocery shopping, so she takes responsibility for doing the main shops. Bucky is really good about grabbing the smaller things in between though.

Who takes the longest to shower?

Darcy always thought she took the longest showers of anyone, until she met Bucky Barnes. Bucky enjoys the warmth and comfort of a hot shower so much, he just stays put.

Who spends the most time in the bathroom?

Darcy does, but only because she’s expected to have a face full of makeup most days, and slathering that many layers on her face takes time.

Miscellaneous:

Is money a problem?

Because of Steve, no. However they’re both aware the money isn’t earned by them, so they’re not splurge spenders by any means.

How many cars do they own?

One. They live in New York, it doesn’t exactly get driven too much though.

Do they own their home or do they rent?

Neither - the building is owned by Steve, so they don’t own it but they don’t pay rent either.

Do they live near the coast or deep in the countryside?

Coastal. It’s New York.

Do they live in the city or in the country?

It. Is. New. York.

Do they enjoy their surroundings?

Bucky does. It’s a familiarity he finds comforting. Darcy both loves and loathes it - she’s a city girl, but with her enhanced hearing and sense of smell, the city isn’t so kind.

What’s their song?

Give It Up - KC & the Sunshine Band. Look, it’s not romantic, but it’s still theirs.

What do they do when they’re away from each other?

Usually when they’re away from each other they’re on some kind of mission. It’s a necessity that they push their regular lives into a box in their mind so as not to distract. They’re thinking of home though, and it’s that need to make it back that keeps them in one piece more often than not.

Where did they first meet?

In the Tower, in the kitchen.

How did they first meet?

At two in the morning. She made cookies and then threw one at him after he sassed her. He caught it in his mouth though, which delighted her almost as much as his wit.

Who spends the most money when out shopping?

Darcy, if only because Bucky still has internal wincing at the price of things a lot of the time.

Who’s more likely to flash their assets?

Darcy doesn’t flash anybody, but she has assets and they are there and present. Bucky is the one more likely to wear some good fitting jeans for the purpose of showing off that ass though.

Who finds it amusing when the other trips over?

Darcy, if only because she knows Bucky can’t be really hurt from a simple trip, and it happens so rarely - he’s usually conscious enough and graceful enough not to do so, so when it happens he’s usually adorably baffled and bewildered by this turn of events.

Any mental issues?

Bucky has a bucketload.

Darcy has her fair share.

They support each other to make sure each knows they’re not a monster, no matter what anyone or anything else claims.

Who’s terrified of bugs?

Darcy doesn’t like bugs. Not terrified, but she doesn’t want to see them around.

Who kills the spiders around the house?

Steve.

Their favourite place?

Their home, their bed, their world.

Who pays the bills?

...Steve. Bucky swears, if he gets that backpay he’s gonna pay him back. And if he doesn’t he’s gonna get a real job and earn his own way, somehow.

Do they have any fears for their future?

Bucky is petrified of being dragged back into HYDRA and switched back to Soldier mode. Darcy is scared one day she’s going to turn and do something so atrocious she’ll never be able to even bring herself to turn back. They both just live day to day as much as they can, because the future is unknown and overwhelming.

Who’s more likely to surprise the other with a fancy dinner?

Bucky. Since Darcy usually does the cooking, he’ll surprise her with a meal he’s cooked himself sometimes. His repertoire isn’t huge, but what he does make, he makes well.

Who uses up all of the hot water?

Bucky is guilty of it more often than not.

Who’s the tallest?

Pfft, Bucky is SO much taller than Darcy, it’s comical.

Who’s more likely to just randomly hop into the shower with the other?

Darcy. For a couple of reasons; sometimes she just needs a shower and Buck has been in there for thirty minutes already, other times… Well, he looks good all naked and wet with suds rolling down his body. Who could blame her for wanting to get a look every once in a while.

Who wanders around in their underwear?

Bucky. Darcy really doesn’t mind.

Who sings the loudest when singing along to the radio?

Darcy, even though she’s not a great singer.

What do they tease each other about?

LIT-ER-ALL-Y EVERYTHING. If there’s a teasing opportunity, it is taken.

Who is more likely to cringe at the other’s fashion sense at times?

Bucky is far more fashionable than Darcy - she has some weird combinations of clothes that Bucky really wishes she wouldn’t leave the house in.

Do they have mutual friends?

Basically all of their friends are mutuals.

Who crushed first?

To this day Darcy believes it was her. Bucky hasn’t fessed up and told her he was loving on her basically from the minute she started making him fresh cookies.

Any alcohol or substance related problems?

Nope.

Who is more likely to stumble home, drunk, at 3am?

Neither of them can get drunk, at least not without a lot of intergalactic boozy help, so that is not a situation that has ever happened. Bucky has been dragged home loopy on the really potently good pain killers a couple of times though - luckily loopy Bucky just wants to snuggle and doesn’t last too long.

Who swears the most?

It’s probably Darcy, but there’d have to be some scientific monitoring and measuring to be sure. They could try personal swear jars… But both would cheat and not put money in when they’re supposed to.

[santanuborgohain]

Unlocked Outdoor—episode II

 In the river island Majuli

 Majuli— the pristine land of peace and serenity ©Getty image

It was an impromptu trip to Majuli, the river island of Assam, where me and my three cronies went on exploring. Majuli is probably the largest river island in the world in the Brahmaputra river, Assam, and also the first island district of the country.The island had a total area of 1,250 square kilometers (483 sq m) at the beginning of the 20th century,but having lost significantly to erosion it had an area of only 352 square kilometers (136 sq mi) in 2014. Majuli has shrunk as the river surrounding it has grown. However it is recognized by Guinness Book of World Records as World's Largest river island.

Having grown up like hippies who roam, wander and travel around the nook and corners Abhi and I share some common interests. Dhrub and Neel are also no less travel-freaks. They will accompany you even if you ask them for company to visit hell.

DAY  1

On January 31st, Dhruba, Abhi, Neel and I set out without any planning and made our voyage to Majuli. It took an hour to reach there, by ferry, . The weather was sunny, yet the breeze picked up and the voyage had become a pleasant one floating over the ocean-like water surface. While reaching Kamalabari, we had had our breakfast at a roadside hotel and started fiddling out with the road map and then decided about tracking. 

Yes! tracking on Majuli and visiting the Satras at the vicinity. The Satra(s), a sort of monastery, is central in the socio-religious life of Assam. The Satras, upto some degree, resemble to those Buddhist monasteries. Yet, the religious practice vary in both cases. Many satras or monasteries constructed by the saint still survive and represent the colourful Assamese culture. At first, we went to The Kamalabari Satra, which was founded by Bedulapadma Ata (a saint), The Kamalabari Satra is a centre of art, cultural, literature and classical studies on the island. Its branch the Uttar Kamalabari Satra has performed cultural programmes of the Satria Art all around the country and abroad. Then we stepped towards the Auniati Satra.

We walked. Halted for a while. Met people and shared smiles with them and then continued.

The sun was bearing down under the skin. Though it was the month of January, we were sweating like the month of July while walking at a fanatic pace.

The trees nearby the roads subsided the sunlight cooperated us in walking. We did not know we were so good in tracking. We became thirsty and there was not even a single shop beside the road. We looked around and opted for hand pumps near the roads to quench the thirst.

Still about one and half kilometers to do to reach the destination.

We reached the definite satra after about an hour of walking. Auniati Satra was founded by Niranjan Pathakdeva, the satra is famous for the "Paalnaam" and Apsara Dances and also its extensive assortment of ancient Assamese artefacts, utensils, jewellery and handicrafts. It also has a hundred and twenty five disciples and over seven hundred thousand followers worldwide. Abhi was one amongst them. He is a kind of devoted guy. He bowed down his head and prayed for a while inside.

The sun made its way down towards the horizon. The dusk has fallen and we went back to the place from where we had started. We came back to Kamalabari chariali by foot. It was near about 10km of up & down walking distance. Now the muscles of the legs were getting strained. A crippling pain subsided the hamstrings. Getting tired, sweaty, yet happy we had had our lunch(?) at 6PM in the evening in a roadside hotel. Then we started searching for a guest house. 

A taxi driver, merely of late 30s’, came to us and willingly wanted to help us to find a guest house at a reasonable price. We were like it’s okay. How kind of him! We said we were thinking of staying at Gormur Satra’s guest house that night in search of some eternal peace and serenity. In return he almost shrieked in terror. He said “There is no use of going there guys, I have just came from there and it’s totally booked out there. Better you do one thing, I have a number of a lodge, you guys can stay for tonight at a reasonable price.” He gave the number. Abhi called and talked to the owner of the lodge.

“What about the guest house in Uttar Kamalabai satra?” I asked the man if there was any vacancy in other Satra. We had never been in the Satra’s guest house and we desperately wanted to experience it. “No use, guys. Same case in that Satra, too. You guys just book the lodge I’m referring you otherwise tonight you won’t get any.“ he said as if the answer was already in his mouth. Now I doubted a little. The man added “In case you want to have dinner in the lodge, there is a hotel near the bridge next to the Uttar kamalabari Satra. You need to order for food and pay in advanced.“ We thanked him and made our way to the lodge. It was near about one and half kilometer of walking distance. “Daal mein kuch kaala hai“ I whispered to Abhi. he also felt that something was not right. There was a hanky panky afoot. The man was more worried about us where as we were tottttaly not!

We kept walking and made our way to the Uttar Kamalabari Satra. It was 7PM. “Majuli aahi private lodgot nu thake ne? No matter what, aami Satra guest housote thakim!” Neel snarled with a tough determined voice. “Well then let’s see.” We said

That worked actually! We walked to the Uttar Kamalabari Satra. This satra has performed cultural programmes of the ‘Satria Art’ all around the country and abroad.We entered the Satra and a priest welcomed us. Upon asking about the satra and the guest house as well he let us know that there was enough guest houses there. But at this time he was not sure about the vacancy. He took us to the Satradhikaar (The supreme authority of the Satra) and he asked about us, where did we come from. We talked to him and answered everything with some necessary politeness, even though politeness doesn’t suit us. No. Never.

The satradhikaar made a phone call and arranged a guest house for four of us. The taxi driver was a thug who wanted to misguide us but did not succeed. We thanked the humble Satradhikaar and moved out. A dark and tall man named Krishna took us to the guest house and showed us our room. It was quite okay with four single beds that we could spend our nights. Don’t know what do you guys think but for us, at that particular moment, we found heaven. It was more comfortable than a five-star hotel room. We were hell tired. But at the same time we were profusely happy!

Neel Jumped into the bed and started stretching his arms. Dhruba and I were feeling tired and we needed some rest. On the contrary, Abhi was still as energetic as he was before; before the tracking. It was proved that he was the humanized version of mitochondria. The power house! And, for that the award of Stamina of the year went to... none other than Abhijit Mech! Yay!

“Huh!! Boring!” Neel snarled in his nightmare at the stroke midnight. I woke up and slept again.

“Sleep, sugar, let your dreams flood in Like waves of sweet fire, you're safe within Sleep, let your floods come rushing in And carry you over to a new morning.”

..........................................

Next day we woke up at 5. It was February 1st. Abhi dared to bath so early and made me do the same after him though I was reluctant to do so. The birds started chirruping. The sun was up and lots of devotee arrived by bus by the morning from various places of the lower Assam. Abhi and I came out of our room while the rest two of us were sleeping, feeling the warmth of the cozy blankets. Abhi bought some earthen lamps and went for praying inside the satra. I am not a religious person. Still, there was something in the air. The amenities of the peaceful vibe and serenity lingering the campus of the satra gave a different level of amusement. In satras, you find a state of ease. Probably,that is why people cherish devotion, go for praying and practice devotional music. 

The satra was the metaphor of pristine beauty, hygiene and peace. The contentment had filled our heart to the brim. We moved out of the Satras and moved back to our room to check whether if the two cronies had even woken up or not?

DAY 2

“and miles to go before I sleep...”

Today was our last day. We had exactly six hours in our hand. We had to move back to the ghat nearly at 2 O’ clock in the afternoon. Doing something is fun exiting when you have a limited time in your hand. I’m not talking about the time that governs us, the time that we are always curious about. I am talking about the ordinary, every day time that the swinging needles of a clock determines for us: Tick-tock-tick!

We packed our bags, and made our early-morning tour to the Garmur Satra. The weather was calm and pleasant. We kept on walking. It was near about 8Km of walking distance. “Hurry up boys! We have only six hours in hand.” Abhi commanded. We followed.

“Yeah, I’ll be getting bored in case of a long term stay, right here.” Neel said

“You were already getting bored last night in your dreams.” I said

“Oh yeah! He was blabbering in his dream last night ” Abhi said mimicking Neel’s voice.

“It’s quite okay to be here in Majuli unless you’re not in a long holiday.” Dhruba said while we were walking. “and I will start taking ‘drugs’...” Dhruba said and I laughed in between.

 “...Again” he added, emphasizing on this word and we all laughed aloud. 

“Yeah, it was found while doing a research upon some mice that when they were provided a dumb, boring place to live, usually they started depending on drugs. They set two different environment for two colonies of mice. In first the provided sufficient facility of light,  space to run, play, swim and to reproduce where as in other it was darker and stingy. In both cases two different tubes were provided each filled with water and cocaine each. In first case, the mice intook only the provided food and water where as in the second one, which was a dark and dingy cell, the mice started taking cocaine. Which proved the the environment you live in causes the affinity to the drugs.” Dhruba gave us a walking lesson.

“Oh!” We said

They say, sometimes journey is way more beautiful than the destination. Very well said!!

We crossed the Bamboo Cottage as given in the map and now our destination was not so far. There was a tractor going to the same direction as we were. We asked for lift and the driver did not refuge us. We four climbed up next to the driver’s seat and enjoyed the ride. “Roller coaster ride baby!” I yelled. “Yeah! It is.” they laughed. The tractor did not carry us to the Satra though, we got down and thanked the driver for lift.

Meanwhile we reached Garmur and then we made our way to the Satra which was near about half kilometer from Garmur.

I took out my notebook, and scribbled down some note regarding the Satra. We went into the Naamghar and asked the priest about the history of the same. One thing is common in every Satra you visit: they ask you from where are you coming? and then give you every single info you want. We moved around the satra like we always did in each cases and went to the museum. Photography or Videography was strictly prohibited inside the museum. The supervisor showed us many precious and unique stuff inside the museum. Wooops! No photographs.  

  There were two hog deers, which were being tamed by the authority of the Satra. Both of them were too coy and precautions and sensitive to camera.

______________________

We  came out of Garmur satra and had had our breakfast at a roadside dhaba. Now it was time for visiting the last Satra of our list—Shamaguri satra. We hired an Alto and made our way to the Satra. The satra is famous for the mask making in India. We went to know more about the masks were being made of the natural stuff like clay, bamboo and cotton cloths. No inorganic component is used in making the masks. The masks are used in Vaonas to portray the definite character in the play. Art enthusiasts and travelers come from different places of the world to see this unique art which the only Shamaguri Satra pursues. People especially from England and Germany visits to see their art. A book named ‘Krishna in the garden of Assam‘ of a foreign author depicts the nook and corner of this art. The masks are also available in the British museum which they borrowed and brought there. 

Amidst of the good time, we had to leave. We talked for so long to the  Satradhikaar about the history and origin of the satra, the art that the craved and about the politics and diplomacy that now a days runs inside the Satras. He revealed almost everything to us without slight sign of hesitation and we listened to him with our mouthsall opened. He bid us adieu and we moved back.

In our way back we entered the Bengenaati Satra. It is a reliquary of antiques of cultural importance and an advance centre of performing art. Muraridev, the grandson of Sankaradeva's stepmother was the founder of the Satra. The royal raiment belongs to the Ahom king Swargadeo Godadhar Singha, is made of gold. Also preserved is the royal umbrella made in gold.

It was 1 O’ clock in the afternoon. We went to the fruits and vegetable market to have some household shopping and then returned to the ghat. At half past one, we had our ferry to Nimati ghat—the another voyage, a return journey. The engine started drifting back the waters of the river Brahmaputra.  the sun was up and the breeze picked up again. The ferry sailed through the tides of the Brahmaputra. The breeze started blowing across my ruffle hair. I closed my notebook and join with the gossip Abhi, Dhruba and Neel were making siting on the top of the ferry. “So, successful trip, yes?” Neel asked. We nodded ‘yes’ inter exchanging smiles.

___________________________