#but the black ferns are also near and dear to my heart

[natreidess]

[pikapeppa]

Cullen/Lavellan & FenHawke pirate AU: Kindness

YAY @schoute AND I ARE BACK with another chapter of Where The Winds Of Fortune Take Me!!

In which Piper, Cullen, and a handful of friends go on a rescue mission.😱 The full chapter is >10k words; only a small excerpt here. Read the whole thing on AO3. 

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

- PIPER -

The moment they stepped back into the Arlathan Forest, Piper heard it. 

Garas amahn. Come here.

It was the voice again, and it was clearer – and louder – than before. She rubbed her forehead uncomfortably, and Cullen grasped her arm. “Piper, what is it? Are you all right?”

Cole answered for her. “He calls to her, calls through her, louder through the link. He misses her, but it’s not her that he’s missing.” 

Merrill’s eyes widened. “Does Fen’Harel really think that Piper is his lost love, then? Is that why he’s calling to her?”

“Confused, clouded with rage and revenge,” Cole said sadly. “He doesn’t understand.”

“That makes two of us,” Piper muttered. She patted Cole’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s move. The faster we get to the temple, the sooner we can figure out how to stop this curse.”

They set off through the forest at an even jog, and Cullen spoke to Cole. “Do you really think it’s possible to make this… this Fen’Harel monster understand that Piper is not his missing love?”

Cole shot him a worried look. “He didn’t want this. Justice, not revenge, but–”

Dorian interrupted. “The faces were close, yes yes, you’ve said this already. But Cole, if you tried to explain to him that we were here to help and it didn’t work, then why do you think persuading him will work a second time around?”

“We have to try,” Merrill said. “We have to try every option to get Hawke and Sutherland the others back from the Well.”

“But what if persuasion doesn’t work?” Dorian said.

Cullen scowled. “Then we destroy the temple if we must.”

Dorian grimaced. “Won’t that just make Fen’Harel more angry?”

“Angry, yes,” Cole said anxiously. “He’s angry already, and that will make it worse.”

Dorian awkwardly rubbed his chin. “So if persuasion doesn’t work, and destroying the temple won’t work–”

“We kill him,” Piper said.

They all looked at her, and Dorian raised his eyebrows. “What’s that now?”

“You heard me,” Piper said in a hard tone. “We’ll kill Fen’Harel. If he doesn’t give Rynne back, I’m going to kill him.”

Merrill wilted slightly. “But Piper–”

Piper cut her off. “I’m sorry, Merrill, but I mean it. I know you’ve been looking for evidence of the elven gods for years, but he took my fucking crew. He gives them back, or he dies.”

“No,” Cole protested. “No no, that’s not helping. Protecting and caring, yes, but not kindness.”

Piper shot him a chiding look. “Listen, Cole, you’re a sweet kid, but if you brought us here because you thought I could be kind to this magical fucking fog that stole my crew’s souls and is keeping them trapped in a nasty black pool underground, then you picked the wrong girl for the job.”

“Wait,” Cullen said suddenly. “This just occurred to me.” He slowed to a stop and folded his arms. “Cole, did you make Piper crash the ship on the shore of Arlathan Forest?”

Merrill’s eyes went wide, and Piper looked at Cole in alarm. Had Cole been the reason for their near-shipwreck on the shores of the Arlathan Forest? He had been oddly calm during that insane storm, after all. And now that Piper was thinking of it, he had told her to listen to the mysterious voice… 

“No,” Cole said.

Cullen’s frown deepened. “The way you spoke of Piper made it sound like you led us here on purpose,” he said accusingly. 

“Not led,” Cole said. “Being led. It was always her choice. I waited, wandering, watching for someone who felt like her.” He looked at Piper with his vacant blue eyes. “You feel like her: helping, protecting, save the small and heal the hurts. That’s why I came. That’s why I joined.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So… so you purposely joined my crew because you thought I could help Fen’Harel?”

He shook his head again. “Because you helped them. All of them. ‘Crew, lazy load of layabouts, beautiful bilgerats’: different words when they leave your lips, but they sound the same in your heart. Family.”

Her stomach jolted. She stared at him, stunned into silence by how personal he was being. And also how correct he was.

A tiny smile lifted the corners of his lips. “Save the small, heal the hurts, join the Lady Luck if they want to. Part of the ship, part of the crew.” He nodded approvingly. “You helped them. You can help him, too.”

His words hung softly in the warm forest air, and Piper looked away from him to hide the sudden and inopportune burn of tears in her eyes. All these things Cole had said, nice things about her helping people and the crew being her family and his weird and likely-incorrect belief that she could help Fen’Harel… She couldn’t quite decide if she wanted to hug Cole, or smack him for exposing her so thoroughly in front of the others. 

Cullen took her hand. She darted a quick look at him, and the tenderness in his eyes made her heart swell even more. 

She squeezed his hand and rubbed her nose, and Dorian jauntily clapped his hands. “Well, I’m certainly won over by that speech. Captain, any thoughts?”

She cleared her throat before speaking. “Let’s just, um, get to the temple and see what we can find. The plan still stands: we’re looking for a way to break this curse, not to put it back into the orb.”

Cullen nodded. “All right, Captain. We will follow your lead.” 

She looked up at him. His tone was businesslike, but his chestnut eyes were soft and warm. 

Piper smiled at him, then playfully patted his bum before leading their little group through the forest at a brisk jog.  

Min vir. This way.

She gritted her teeth and reluctantly followed the voice as it led her deeper into the fern-laden forest. A minute later, Merrill sidled up to her. 

“Piper,” she panted. “I just wanted to say I – you – do you think this is my fault?”

Piper glanced at her in surprise. “Huh?”

Merrill winced. “I just… Fenris thinks this was all my fault, but he’s so grumpy and always looking for a reason to fight. But do you...” She broke off, then gave Piper a pleading look. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t think anyone would get hurt!” 

On Piper’s other side, Cullen spoke up. “There were clear signs of danger, Merrill.” 

“But I thought that being with us elves would protect you!” Merrill protested.

“It’s okay,” Piper said firmly. “It’s… nobody could have known. Everything here is weird. And…” She sighed. “I’m the captain. I could have ordered us to go back to the Lady Luck at any time. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine.”

Merrill’s face fell with dismay. “Piper...”

“It’s fine, really,” she said quickly. “I’m going – no, we’re going to fix this. All of us together. We’ll make it fine.”

Merrill blew out a breath. “Yes, exactly. We’re going to find a solution at the temple, no matter if we have to look all night long! Though I hope we find a solution before it gets dark, it’ll be much harder to see in the darkness, although that’s what lanterns are for–”

Cullen cleared his throat, and Merrill broke off with a giggle. “Oh dear, I’m babbling again. I’ll just, um, pop over to Cole and see what else he can tell us about the Dread Wolf’s lost lady. If she was anything like you, Piper, she must have been lovely!”

Piper snorted and elbowed her. “Suck-up. Get out of here.”

Merrill giggled and fell back to join Dorian and Cole. A moment later, Cullen took her hand. 

She shot him a sidelong glance. His eyes were on the forest ahead, but his expression was quite relaxed, and Piper tilted her head quizzically. Given the seriousness of the situation, she was frankly surprised that he wasn’t wearing his usual worried frown.

He glanced at her, then tilted his head. “Is something wrong?”

“No, actually,” she said. “You just… you don’t look worried. Don’t get me wrong, I prefer you looking not worried, but I’m surprised.”

He hummed a rueful acknowledgement. “Truth be told, I am worried. But not in the same way as before.”

“Why aren’t you as worried?” she asked. “Things are just as bad as they were yesterday.”

He gave her a fond look. “Because you told Merrill we will fix this together as a group. You’re willing to accept our help.”

She wilted a bit. “Was I really scaring you that much yesterday?”

“It scared me that you wouldn’t talk to me,” he said gently. “You wouldn’t let me be privy to your thoughts. But we are working as a team now, as it was in Kirkwall during Meredith’s attack on the docks.”

She grunted. “Probably not a great sign that you’re pleased about things being like they were during Meredith’s attack on the docks.”

He squeezed her hand. “I gave you a hard time last night, and I am truly sorry for that,” he said. “But now, this feels… I have more hope now.”

“Okay,” she said softly. “If you’re less worried, then I’m glad.” But in truth, her stomach was churning with guilt. She’d been so preoccupied trying to make up for the disastrous consequences of the storm that she hadn’t realized just how much of an impact her attitude was having on Cullen’s state of mind. 

They spent the majority of the day running, albeit at a more measured pace than their frantic race back to the Lady Luck the day before. By the time they reached the ancient elven temple, evening was falling and the forest was growing dark.

Piper and her companions paused at the mouth of the temple to catch their breath and light their lanterns. Merrill looked at them all with wide and worried eyes. “Should we start by searching the outside the temple for engravings? We know there was only the one obelisk inside, so maybe there’s something more on the walls out here.”

Dorian shrugged as he lifted up a lantern. “It’s as good an idea as any. Piper, what do you think?”

“Huh?” Piper said distractedly. “Uh, yeah. Search outside.”

Cullen placed a gentle hand at the small of her back. “Is everything all right?” 

“Yes, I’m… it’s just loud,” she said. “And annoying.” She rubbed her forehead and looked at Merrill. “It’s not bothering you? The… Fen’Harel’s voice?”

To Piper’s dismay, Merrill made an apologetic face. “I… I don’t hear it anymore, Piper. I think maybe only you can hear it now because of the cur– er, the light in your hand.”

Piper frowned to hide her growing distress. She was annoyed and scared and further annoyed by how scared she was. It was just a stupid voice, after all, and she was going to get rid of it, so there was no point in being scared.

“Do you understand it?” Merrill said softly. “The voice?”

“Yes, actually,” Piper said slowly. “Which is weird, because I didn’t really before.”

“What is it saying?” Cullen asked.

Piper licked her dry lips. “It’s…” She took a deep breath, then closed her eyes to let the voice enter her mind. 

You found me, at last. Come, vhenan. This way.

She blew out a breath and opened her eyes. “He thinks I’m her,” she said. “The old Lavellan. He called me ‘vhenan’. He wants us to go back inside the stupid temple.” To ward off her growing fear, she elbowed Merrill playfully. “You think this Fen’harel fog thing is going to try and, uh, commune with me?”

Cullen eyes widened, and Merrill let out a little giggle, albeit a nervous one. “I doubt it. Why don’t we–”

“You doubt it?” Piper interrupted in surprise. “What does that mean? You think there’s a possibility?”

“Yes, what does that mean?” Dorian piped in. “I’m torn between being horrified and intrigued.”

“That is not going to happen,” Cullen said loudly. 

Despite her nerves, Piper gave him a roguish smile. “Feeling a little possessive, Golden Boy?”

He scowled and folded his arms. “I can hardly be blamed for wanting to keep a confused and lustful, er, god-entity away from my future wife.”

Piper snickered and elbowed Dorian. “He really knows how to woo a girl, wouldn’t you say?”

Dorian chuckled, and Merrill shook her head in despair. “Oh Piper, you’re so silly. We should stay on track. I think we should follow the voice.”

Cullen wilted in exasperation. “Merrill, following the voice is what led us into this trouble in the first place. Perhaps we should consider doing the opposite of what the voice tells us.”

“But that means just standing here and doing nothing!” Merrill complained. 

“Or,” Cullen said pointedly, “it means following your original plan of searching the outside of the temple for clues.”

Merrill frowned at him, then sighed and turned to Piper. “Captain, it’s your call. What do you want to do?”

Piper hesitated. She was genuinely torn about what to do next. On the one hand, searching the outside of the temple was the more logical plan for the reasons that both Merrill and Cullen had outlined; they had come back in the hopes of finding information that might help them to break the curse, and the last time they’d followed the voice, only harm had come of it. 

But Piper couldn’t stop worrying about time. The faster they fixed this problem, the faster Rynne and Sutherland and Shayle and Marie would be back to themselves.

She nibbled the inside of her cheek for a moment. Follow your instincts, Fenris had said. It was advice she’d never needed before; she’d always followed her instincts before, unless both Varric and Fenris had expressed very clear and vocal concerns about her course of action. But now that this series of disasters had occurred, Piper was full of doubt about her own instincts. 

She toyed with her braids while she tried to think. Then her gaze fell on Cole. 

He was standing near Dorian and looking around at the forest in his usual dreamlike manner, and Piper eyed him speculatively for a moment. She’d honestly never paid that much attention to Cole, even on the Lady Luck; she’d sort of gotten into the bad habit of seeing him as an extension of Dorian, given how closely they worked together in their navigating roles. 

But Cole wasn’t anything like Piper had thought. He wasn’t just a strange young man she’d recruited during one of their shore leaves. He was some sort of… spirit-god-boy who was friends with the trickster god of elven legend, and was somehow able to pick his way right down to the most sensitive parts of everyone’s souls. 

If Piper was honest, it made her scalp crawl a little bit to think that Cole might know everything that was going through her mind. But at the same time, Cole saw her intentions. He saw that she meant to take care of her crew – her family. He saw what she was trying to do, and he seemed to think she was on the right track, even if she’d fucked it up along the way. 

On instinct, she made her decision: to leave the decision to him. “Cole, what do you think we should do?”

“Inside is where he hurts the most,” Cole said. “Hurt and hurting, howling, deep and drowning in the well.”

Merrill raised her eyebrows. “Do you think we’ll find more information on how to break the curse if we go inside?”

Cole blinked at her. “I tried before, but I tried alone. If we try, we aren’t alone, and he might see.”

“See what?” Piper said.

“That he’s not alone, either,” Cole replied.

Piper frowned. This didn’t really make sense, but it seemed clear enough that Cole thought they should go inside.

She shrugged. “All right. Let’s go on into the temple, then.” She swallowed hard, then squared her shoulders with a confidence she didn’t feel and led the way.

Read the rest on AO3!

[trashboatprince]

This one is written mostly for the sake of playing up on the book canon that Aziraphale and Crowley hired Francis and Ashtoreth to watch over and influence Warlock. But at the same time, the book also leaves it sort of open that it’s still these two idiots, but for the sake of this one-shot, they’re all different characters.

And I really wanted to write something sappy about a gardener having a crush of a satanic nanny that had nothing to do with them being Aziraphale and Crowley. Their appearances are based on my headcanons for the book/radio versions of the boys, just slightly tweaked so they don’t look one-hundred percent like their bosses.

Summery: Mr. Aziraphale hired Brother Francis and had warned him that the other side would have a wily counterpart to him to leave an influence on the Antichrist. He wished that the angel had warned him that she was a lovely dear…

--

Chapter Two: A Flower for Ashtoreth

--

Brother Francis was a good man, one that Mr. Aziraphale had put a large amount of trust into. A former clergyman who tended to church gardens, he had gotten involved in Mr. Fell’s ‘business’ a while back. He didn’t mind helping out, though this seemed like a rather big mission and he wasn’t sure why it had to be him.

Still, he couldn’t complain, it was nice to be helpful, even if he’s just tending to the massive grounds of the Dowling estate.

He had started work earlier this week, and so far, he had yet to encounter to the Antichrist, but that’s due to him being inside all day with his nanny. Francis had also taken note that he had yet to see the person who he was supposed to be the opposite for.

Mr. Aziraphale had warned him that Hell was going to send a human agent to influence the Antichrist to the wiles of evil, and that it was Francis’ job to thwart the influences with his own of good and kindness, for Heaven’s sake. He had told Francis that the person would work for a man named Mr. Crowley and that he had to keep an eye on this agent of evil.

Too bad he had no clue who this person was.

He sighed to himself as he looked at the flowerbed in front of him, oh dear, he wasn’t sure if he planted this right. Fruits and vegetation were where his gardening skills were best, along with certain trees, flowers and greenery were where he was weakest. He had wished he had more time to study up on this.

“I hope these grow right…” He mumbled as he removed a fern from a plastic planter and put it into a hole he had made in the ground.

“You’re doing that wrong.” Came a soft, Scottish voice, causing Francis to pause.

He turned and looked towards the source of the voice, blinking. There, not even two yards away, was a woman with a pram that was a dark maroon in color. She was tall, much taller than him, dressed to the nines in black clothing with hints of grays and red throughout it. Francis was reminded of Mary Poppins by her outfit choice, if not also by the influences of private businesses with gentlemen that could contact a certain type of woman through newspaper ads and phone numbers.

Her hair was pinned back, dark red in color, with a streak of gray on one side, her face held a few beauty marks, her eyes hidden behind dark glasses.

He felt his heart skip a beat as he looked at her, she was a beautiful flower in his garden, such a dark contrast to the blooming yellows and whites she stood near.

Then he noticed the necklace she wore, a snake eating its own tail, with a pentagram within the snake circle. The agent! This had to be Mr. Crowley’s agent to be a terrible influence on the child! The nanny? Perfect choice for Hell to make! She’d be right there to teach the child the worst of the worst!

Francis gulped, looking at the plant he had just put down. “W-what makes ye think ‘m doin’ this wrong, ma’am?”

“For plants like that,” She spoke as she stepped closer with the pram, “you break up the roots. They need to spread out, allows for them to grow better. What sort of gardener does not know this?”

“One whose spent more time with planting vegetation, I’m afraid.” Francis removed the plant, breaking up the clumped roots before replanting it. He dusted his hands off on his smock and gave a bow. “Brother Francis, at yer service, ma’am.”

She watched him behind dark glasses. “Nanny Ashtoreth, charmed.” She replied with a hint of a smirk on her painted lips.

He smiled a little at her before hearing a coo, letting his curiosity get the best of him as he peeked into the pram, seeing a baby body, bundled up in a blue blanket, gently chewing on the eat of a stuffed, black cat toy. “Ah! You must be Master Warlock, well aren’t cha just the cutest thing.” He grinned, wiggling his fingers at the baby.

“He’s only cute when he’s not raising hell.” Ashtoreth spoke. “Just a wee thing and already he is causing so much trouble.” There was pride in her voice.

“Ah, but ma’am, babies are always up to trouble, they’re not familiar with how the world works.” Francis spoke up, still smiling. “But in due time, he’ll learn to good and the bad.”

“Oh, he will.” She replied, her smirk showing her teeth. “He will learn.”

--

Francis was a good man, but he was also that, a man. And sometimes men had thoughts. Not that his mind ever strayed into the more adult-like thoughts that many men have had, but his were more focused on thoughts of a beautiful woman that he would love nothing more than to kiss the hand of.

It’s been months, nearly a year, since Francis arrived to the Dowling estate and had met the nanny. He had been keeping up with his work, tending to the garden, and to the house plants when the weather got too cold for most yard work. He had been reporting to Mr. Aziraphale on his days off, hard to track the man down sometimes with his bookstore hours being what they were, but he always found the man.

Francis let him know about the child, how he’s been rather good, though he does have a mean streak when he wants something and wants it now, even for someone who isn’t a year old yet. He also let Mr. Aziraphale know that he’s been doing his best to neutralize the influences of Ashtoreth.

However, he’s left out that the more time he spent around the estate, the more he’s been watching her. He’s seen how she acts around people, how she can be quiet and prim, proper even, when dealing with adults, but with a child? She’s as sweet as fresh honey. However, to those who tend to give her a hard time or even dare to touch her, she brings out a fury that would even have a demon blushing.

He couldn’t help but to observe how beautiful she was, with fiery hair always styled perfectly, clothing that was modest but still a bit devilish in its own right, and how she would sometimes smile at him when she caught him looking.

He bit his lip, looking at the flowers in front of him. They were a recent addition to the garden, black flowers, hard to find, but he still was able to get some for the garden. He had spent the time and effort to research dark flowers, to add a bit more to the garden rather than just the bright ones. For aesthetics, he told himself!

But these ones were special, a patch he had hidden away from the eyes of the household, growing near his cottage on the grounds. Bat orchids, though technically a deep brown, still looked black. And with a bit of help, these ones were black. He carefully picked one, standing up with a smile on his face as he crossed the yard to find Ashtoreth.

He knew she was outside, he could hear Warlock’s excited babbling and the like clear as day. He spotted them near a small ledge and steps to the upper portion of the garden and Francis blushed as he made eye contact with her, even with the shades on. “Brother Francis.” She greeted with a nod.

“M-Mornin’ Miss Ashtoreth!” He smiled as he stepped closer.

“Did you need something?” Ashtoreth asked, watching him carefully. She seemed to have noticed that he had a hand behind his back, raising an eyebrow at this. “Do you have something?” She corrected herself.

Well, it was now or never.

He approached her, bowing slightly as he held out the flower to her. She stared at it, tilting her head slightly. “This is fer you, my dear! It’s a Bat orchid, beautiful flower, also known as Devil Flower! It, uh, it reminded me of you, with all its bells and whistles. A pretty flower fer a pretty lady…” He mumbled, looking away.

Ashtoreth stared at the flower, reaching out to take it, but Warlock grabbed it instead. “Oh, well, this is rather nice of you, Bro-” She looked up from taking the flower away from the child, only to find that Francis was gone.

She looked at the orchid before smiling ever so, slipping it behind her ear. “Did you see that, my little hellspawn, the gardener gave me a gift. Now, I told you that people are terrible and should be crushed under your heels, but I think you can make an exception for him. He’s too kind for his own good, and maybe that’s a good thing.”

An hour later, when Warlock was down for his morning nap, Ashtoreth found Francis hunched over a patch of tulips, humming to himself. He didn’t seem to notice her as he stood up straight and she went in for the kill.

He didn’t see it coming as she planted a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for the lovely gift, Francis.” She whispered at his ear.

His cheeks burned red as he looked at her, seeing her lower her shades to wink. She gestured at the flower, still tucked behind her ear, before she turned around. “I’ll see you later, Francis.”

“R-Right, yes, uh, see you later, Ashtoreth…!” He touched his cheek, feeling the faint touch of lipstick there, and smiled brightly. Oh, this mission was going to be a lot more interesting now.

--

This was fun, I might do more with these two as they are.

I really want to do one where Crowley and Aziraphale meet up with them years later, only to find out they’re married

[clarencejc]

Choices to Make (Part 1)

Summary: April Hudson, a biologist studying animals and neighbor of the Cullen's, notices something wrong one day on her wilderness cameras which leads to her life being changed forever. Curiosity killed the cat.

(No pairing) Please like and comment, but remember to give me credit for my story!

Fall 2008

            It was another rainy day in Forks as I drove back to my house after work, my red Ford hatchback quietly sloshing down the wet roads with the windshield wipers set at a quick pace. My name is April Hudson, twenty-one-year-old garden business associate and wildlife watcher with a completed degree in biology and still living with my parents. Was, at least. 

           My parents had to move further south for their twin jobs leaving me alone upstate after graduation with their small house in the middle of freaking nowhere. I loved the rain of Washington until I had to leave and come back and get reacclimated to the weather.

            I was fine with the arrangement where they would periodically check in on me but most of their time is dedicated to their work. The only real neighbors I have are the Cullen’s but they’re nearly five miles away from, now my, little cottage, so there is almost no way to really call them neighbors. 

           The most I’ve ever seen of them is passing by them in their cars and even that was too short. They were all introduced once when my family moved in but that was only once and since then I only see them when they need to stop in for flowers or ferns for their home.

           As I pull up to the cottage, the light from the bathroom is still on from the morning. “Damnit,” I sigh heavily. ‘Always forgetting to turn that one off’ I berate myself silently in the confines of my warm car. 

           I grab my beat-up leather work bag in one hand and jog inside to avoid being more wet and cold than usual. ‘It’s the last thing I need.’

           “Hello, my little Mitten,” I greet my sweet little tabby cat with a smile. I’m greeted back with a small ‘mew’ before chuckling to myself and feeling the soft fur under my fingertips. Stripping off my clothes and getting rid of my bra, I finally feel free and alone in the quiet house.

            I don't feel like I'm the prettiest girl in the world with my large hips and thick thighs along with this dry skin in such a moist environment, but it’s my house to do what I please in it. I run my fingers through my shoulder-length hair as I let it out of its ponytail when a sound catches my attention.

          ‘Chirp! chirp! chirp! chirp!’ “What could that be my love?” I whisper lovingly partially to myself but mainly to Mittens as I walk to my computer where the noise is originating from. 

           I took up my parent's love of nature a while ago and hung up trail cameras to capture animals big or small traveling across the property, but there hasn’t been a ping in a while. Until now.

           The computer’s white light fills the room as it wakes up whirring and as I click my way through the files, petting Mittens rhythmically, while the start of the video plays like usual with the wildlife until there’s something that’s not so normal. The big buck walks through the woods, like usual, and then there, right after the third second, the deer is gone. There and then gone just like that. A whole deer gone without a trace.

           “What the hell?” I ask myself and I play it back nearly ten times before not being able to find anything wrong with the tape to indicate a glitch. “I guess I’ll look at the next one,” I say warily. My internal radar for weird stuff is slowly beginning to rise like a pressure gauge from the green zone to the yellow and the hairs stand up on the back of my neck as I start to feel not so alone.

           The next camera I pull up is deeper in the woods near the middle of where the property is. A few seconds in there is a man beginning to dig a hole without any sort of digging equipment until there is a hole with the dimensions of a shallow grave, the deer is thrown in as though it weighs no more than a small sack of flour, and then the weirdest part occurs: The guy takes off his shirt, tosses it in with the deer, and then fills the grave back up again.

           ‘I know that shirt, I know that shirt’ I repeat before it clicks; ‘It’s the hair.’ The mop of blonde hair in the video is the same as the mop I drive by every so often; Jasper Cullen. It all comes together as I remember him coming in with Alice to get flowers wearing a light colored button up dress shirt.

           “No fuckin’ way.” I rewind it and hit play again only to watch the same thing happen without fault. “Oh my god.” I don't know whether to watch the video again or to throw up my dinner from earlier. “Oh shit!” I cry out, startling Mittens off of my lap, and standing up abruptly enough to knock my chair back onto the ground. ‘I have to tell someone—wait, I can’t tell anyone’ I realize with a start. “The Cullen’s.” My blood turns to ice and my fingers become cold.

           ‘I have to get the shirt’ I tell myself and if I want to get back before dark then I’d better get out there and start digging now. I give a kiss to Mittens, feed her, and put on all of my gear like mud boots, insulated rain jacket and finally grab a shovel from the shed. I don’t bother putting my bra back on because I’ve already taken it off so it’s too much of a trouble to put back on and there’s no need since, hopefully, I’m the only person in these woods tonight.

          Grabbing my headlamp in case, I start my walk out. It’s fairly short but the dig is difficult and plain annoying. The mud slips and sloshes around my boots as I try to dig the hole back out but after over an hour of straight digging, I finally get to it just around the four-foot mark. It doesn’t even look like he tried to hide the shirt separately as I tug it out of the narrow hole I’ve dug. I turn my headlamp on and turn around when something catches my eye.

          There’s another area of raised soil about ten feet away and another ten feet in the opposite direction. ‘This is a dumping ground’ I realize and that feeling of terror turns my blood to ice once again. I fill the hole in as quickly as I can and immediately head home, not daring to look in the other mounds for fear of what I might find if I do.

           I slam my door as I come in, not caring that I’m dripping wet as I tromp through my house. I sit on the bed and put the muddy and blood covered shirt on my coffee table and simply stare at it. ‘I have to tell them and then just forget about all of this’ I tell myself.

           I find a drawstring bag to put the battered dress shirt in, slipping it under my bed, and try to sleep. Try being the key word. There is so much adrenaline running through my body that every time I close my eyes I see Jasper throwing that deer in, bloodied and dirt covered, before simply running off. ‘You can’t stay quiet.’

           The next day is giving me a bad case of the nerves as I dresses in my nice black slacks and olive green blouse to meet the Cullen’s, well mainly either Carlisle or Esme seeing as all of their kids freak me out with how they stare, but I’m uninvited anyway, so there’s that problem. I decide to go at noon so that the rest of the family might not be there, especially Jasper.

           With the CD with the copied video and the bag with the shirt in hand, I set out on the drive. As I get closer, more nerves collect in my chest making me breathe heavy and tremble at what they might say. I mean who knows, their son could be the beginnings of a serial killer and they could very well know about it and let me get killed too. The thought makes me slow down for a second before getting back up to normal speed.

           My heart is beating out of my chest as I turn down their rock driveway and, after another thirty-second delay, I’m finally sitting there in front of their monumental house. “You can do this. It’s really easy, you’ve got this,” I whisper to myself as I grip the steering wheel tight enough to turn my knuckles white.

          ‘Stay calm and just be cool’ I think slowly as I try to slow my breathing. I walk up the clean steps and my hand trembles fiercely as I lightly knock on the frame of the door to avoid potentially damaging or even smudging the glass.

            I see Esme walk toward the door, seeing as the whole house is nearly made of glass, and try to make my face look less like I’m going to throw up all over her. 

           “Hello April,” she greets and her voice sounds like music to my ears. I try not to get distracted by her looks but dear god she is beautiful. Literally, everything is perfect about her. “What brings you here?” 

            I find my heart rate rising even more at her being polite but if she knows why I’m here then she’s doing a damn good job at covering it up.

           “I’m sorry to bother you today,” I start and she smiles warmly but it doesn’t help my nerves. “Well, um, I wanted t-t-to, uh, tell you something but I didn’t want to freak you out,” I stammer. ‘Get it together’ I yell mentally. “I have something to show you if you’ll let me, Mrs. Cullen,” I tell her politely back and hold up the CD.

           “And what is in the bag?” she wonders with a pinched brow and tilted head. When it releases its tension there’s not even a crease in her skin, but I blink away the errant thought.

           “That also goes with the video,” I tell her slowly. “If I may. . .?” I ask with a small gesture to enter their house and she lets me into the entryway. “Do you have a CD player or a computer I could play this on for you?” She nods her head and leads me into their house where we end up in a room with a computer and shelves and shelves of books.

            With shaky hands, I start to take the CD out of the case and I think I should tell her a little before I spring on her that her son could be a serial killer or a poacher at best. “So I don’t know if you know this but my parents got me wilderness cameras while I was studying for my degree and that I have them in the trees around my property, um, and I got a ‘ping’ last night. Uh,” I pause as I try to get my tremors under control, “so I looked at it and I thought you should be the first to know what I found,” I end in a whisper so quiet I don’t know if she heard me. I glance at her to find her looking back at me with worried eyes.

            I stand from the seat and offer it to her in case she needs to sit after watching something so unbelievable. I pull up the file and click the play button. The video of the disappearing deer and then Jasper digging the hole plays on a loop and I watch her expression change from surprise, to worry, back to a stony one that gives nothing away. 

             She knows exactly why I’m here. She brings her perfect hand to the mouse, clicks the stop button, and then looks at the bag I’m still holding in a death grip from my nerves. She goes to say something but I stop her before she can start with a slight hand motion and a look.

           “And I don’t know if it was the best idea to do but I dug up the shirt because I want nothing to do with this and I don’t want it anywhere near my home,” I whisper and widen my eyes slightly to see if my point gets across, but I decide it’s better to say it anyway. 

           “I found two more mounds of dirt near this one, so I don’t care, and I won’t even ask what he is doing, or what you’re doing, but stop burying dead animals in my backyard,” I tell her severely.

            She looks me in the eyes and then nods her head once. I let out a nervous breath. ‘Thank god.’ “I’m going to head home then. Here,” I hand her the bag with the shirt and then start to walk toward the door, resisting the urge to sprint. Everything inside of me is screaming for me to get the hell out of here.

            She opens the front door for me and I leave without another word and don’t glance back as I walk to my car. The entire time I feel as though I’m holding my breath and once I’m finally in my car I let it out. I start the car and leave as fast as I can while trying to not seem like I’m running away.

            The adrenaline is running rampant through me at this point and I’m shaking all over worse than a leaf in a storm. I let out one sob at the feeling as I finally reach my house. I hear a cacophony of meows and little cat screams surround me as I sit on the couch closest to the door and wrap a nearby blanket around me as tightly as I can. ‘What the fuck have I done?’ I ask myself softly.

[burliforti]

Rose of England

My entry for the Good Omens fanwork exchange arranged by @transarmageddon. I created this based off a prompt from @vecieminde. The prompt that I was most heavily inspired by was “Aziraphale and Crowley exploring an abandoned place which glory days they might have witnessed”. Full disclosure: I am a bit of a history nerd and so one abandoned place turned into many which turned into a road trip across rural England with a pit stop in Wales. At certain times I veered a bit further from the main prompt than I was hoping but I hope you still enjoy! (About 9.5K and no warnings apply. I’m having a beta review it and then I’ll probably post to AO3) Heavily inspired by the Vera Lynn album “Rose of England” (I am bad at titles and simply borrowed that.) Definitely recommend a listen, it’s a wonderful album. Fic under the cut.

Prologue: London

It had been three weeks since the very last day of the rest of their lives. Not surprisingly, in the aftermath of perhaps the most chaotic week in all of creation Aziraphale and Crowley had been having some difficulty slipping back into their old routines. The sudden lack of oversight was a relief but left them both with a degree of freedom that they weren’t quite sure what to do with. Crowley no longer had to plan elaborate schemes to generate widespread low-grade evil and Aziraphale found himself without his usual laundry list of miscellaneous miracles and holy interventions, leaving both with a sudden and dramatic increase of spare time. Heaven and Hell had, apparently, taken their warnings to heart and had left them alone. 

They managed to slip into parts of their old routines. Aziraphale would go out to lunch in small french bistros and read Virginia Woolf in the plush reading chair in his study. Crowley had continued to scheme for a time out of habit but eventually tapered off to random pranks and messing with people who drive below the speed limit on highways and members of parliament. His house plant hobby had flourished into a full horticulture obsession. The apartment whose predominant palette had been black and grey for several decades now found itself green, green, and green. He wasn’t really one for flowers, preferring varieties such as ferns, ivy, and more recently, mosses. Crowley had acquired an impressive and wide array of mosses, spanning continents and centuries, quite literally finding himself with the only remaining iteration of certain ancient mosses (Crowley’s imagination did not know that these had gone extinct. He simply remembered soft, curling greenery on teak trees and there they had appeared). 

Aziraphale had also picked up a few hobbies. He had a tendency to do so. Dancing, magic, prophecies. They weren’t exactly phases (for he did still truly enjoy all of these things), but Aziraphale had a meandering mind that was always eager for new knowledge. Recently, he had come across an antique store looking for any interesting books. Instead, he had left the premises with a vintage camera that stood on a wooden tripod, that by all accounts should not have been able to work anymore, but miraculously, did indeed take photos. This began a new collection of vintage cameras and various other photographic contraptions. He particularly enjoyed taking pictures of nature (trees were much better at sitting still than wily serpents who would fidget and blur the images). Eventually, Crowley bought him a polaroid camera. He was annoyed of being forced to sit still for the negatives and dealing with Aziraphale hauling his many apparatuses on their walks. The polaroid was a bit newfangled for Aziraphale’s taste, but he enjoyed not having to develop negatives and being able to immediately see the images. Crowley did not mind this hobby as much as he had others (nothing could be worse than the magic. As long as taking photos of birds and elms prevented Aziraphale getting into card tricks or whatever nonsense than he would limit his complaints.) Yet even as they settled into old routines and found new ones, both beings found themselves on edge despite the apparent resolution to most of their problems. You see, Aziraphale and Crowley were bored. And Aziraphale had just the idea. 

“A vacation?” Crowley replied as they sat in St James Park, sitting on a bench watching the ducks bob in and out of the water. 

“It’s been so long since we left the city. Not since all that nonsense, and even that was barely two hours outside London. Before you mostly got around for work, and since our, well, retirement, I don’t believe either of us has really traveled much. Thought it might be a nice change of pace.” 

“And where exactly were you thinking?”

“Oh, nowhere in particular. Although there are a few sites that I’d like to revisit. It’s been so long since I properly traveled. Human beings have created some truly marvelous places.”

“Destroyed just as many too.” 

“And then rebuilt. I’m sure even you have an old spot or two you wouldn’t mind revisiting.”

Crowley paused, considering this with a great amount of reluctance. “I suppose it’s been a while since I’ve been ‘round the countryside.” He replied, begrudgingly. 

Aziraphale’s face lit up in a bright smile. “Splendid! I suppose there is no point in waiting around. I’m already packed, I will see you at the shop tomorrow, bright and early!” 

Crowley looked at him in disbelief. “Tomorrow?!” 

Rochester Castle

Crowley did arrive early, although it wasn’t a particularly bright October morning. He pulled up in his Bently and had hardly gotten out of the car when Aziraphale burst through the shop door, hauling a large two-piece antique luggage set and two vintage cameras.

Aziraphale flashed a brilliant smile “Good morning, dear boy!” Crowley walked over to Aziraphale and grabbed the luggage out of his hands. “Let me take that.” Aziraphale let him take the bags and took the cameras in both arms. “Why, thank you.” Crowley dragged the luggage toward the Bentley. “What on earth do you have in here? You’ve been wearing the same outfit for over a century.”

“Books, mostly. Some light reading I’ve been meaning to do.”

“Hardly light,” Crowley complained, lifting the luggage into the trunk with great difficulty. Aziraphale carefully laid out the camera equipment in the backseat, with the exception of the polaroid which he kept in a small camera bag over his shoulder. Crowley slammed the\trunk and sauntered over to the drivers side.

“So where are we off to, angel?”   

“Well I didn’t want anything too adventurous, and I know you’re hard-pressed to leave your vehicle. Perhaps a week or two, just in the countryside. Breath of fresh air, maybe even revisit some old favorites?” 

“Fine by me.”

“And I thought it best to start south and work our way up. What do you think?”

“Any destination in mind?” 

“Oh, not really. It’s been so long since I’ve been that farther south than London.”

“Ever been to Rochester Castle? Less than half an hour from here.”

“Rochester? Off the Medway? Shouldn’t that be at least an hour– Crowley slow down!”

They arrived 40 minutes later. Aziraphale was not incorrect in that it should have taken an hour and Crowley had also not been mistaken in that it could have been merely half an hour, but at Aziraphale’s continued pleas of “Slow down Crowley!” they had met somewhat in the middle. Luckily tourist season tended to slow down this time of year. The employees of the estate had kindly left them to their own affairs. Aziraphale had picked up a brochure and was reading it as the two of them explored the keep. 

“They say it had originally been given to Bishop Odo, probably by William the Conqueror.” 

“Never met him.” 

“Oh you weren’t missing much, I didn’t find him to be particularly charming. Although it is possible that I insulted him upon our first meeting. Never could wrap my mind around french. All that gender and tense. Feminine chairs and male houses, utter nonsense.”

“I believe houses are also feminine.”

“My point! Completely arbitrary. And the tenses, what language needs nine different types of past tense? They live such short lives I don’t see the point.” 

Crowley let Aziraphale rant as they continued to stroll along corridors and in and out of almost accurate historical reimaginings of bedrooms and parlors. Crowley hadn’t been to Rochester Castle since the Peasants’ Revolt in 1381. He really had absolutely hated the 14th century. He had gotten so fed up, in fact, that he had whispered in a handful of ears of ‘injustice’ and ‘revolution’. He hadn’t had much of an end goal in mind, just anything to shake up that dreadful century. It hadn’t really gone anywhere, unfortunately. He didn’t see much of Aziraphale that century, not with the war and the plague. Such a bore and with awful fashion. It had been such a relief when the Renaissance properly took off. 

“You’ve been awfully silent, Crowley.” 

He quirked an eyebrow over his glasses. “Let’s go to the gardens.”  

They made their way into the Castle’s exterior and into the gardens that encircled the estate. English roses, bright Dahlias, twisting ivys, and sweetly scented Begonias dominated the courtyard. Aziraphale was enjoying the vibrant colors and heavenly floral perfumes while Crowley glared critically at pests and withering leaves. 

“I think this is going to be a marvelous holiday.” 

Crowley wandered over to one of the bushes and picked one of halfway decent begonias, sauntering back over to Aziraphale. He walked directly in front of him and stopped just shy of the other man. 

“If you say so.” He replied, pinning the flower to a blushing Aziraphale’s lapel. 

“Oh, no need for all of that.” He said waving his hand toward the plucked stem. An even more vibrant flower bloomed in its place.  

“So,” Crowley asked, returning to his place by Aziraphale’s side, “where to next?” 

Bodiam Castle 

Aziraphale had asked one of the local historical guides, who suggested Bodiam Castle, which was an hour south of Rochester Castle near Robertsbridge in East Sussex. She had also suggested a local family run pub for lunch. Aziraphale had given Crowley a wide-eyed look to which Crowley could only roll his eyes and say “Yes, yes alright. It’s your holiday, angel.” Aziraphale had taken note at some point of the increase of Crowley’s use of ‘angel’ to describe him. He had subsequently filed away the observation to ‘thoughts that need no further introspection or deliberation’. They ate (or Aziraphale ate) a slow and peaceful lunch. He seemed to enjoy his fish and chips and was particularly impressed by the tartar sauce (homemade apparently, an old family recipe). The batter was also very pleasant but he didn’t much care for the chips. Crowley picked a few off of his plate absentmindedly. They ate mostly in silence, Aziraphale enjoying the fish and Crowley enjoying Aziraphale. 

They continued on their journey, arriving in Robertsbridge in significantly less than an hour (much to Aziraphale’s terror). Aziraphale had in fact once visited Bodiam Castle, many years ago during the war of the roses. It had been abandoned in picturesque ruins for decades but had been restored in the early 20th century. Crowley and Aziraphale explored the property. While the exterior had been well preserved, the interior was now in ruins. 

“It had been quite nice when I had visited. I was presenting as a clergyman on the road back in those days, you know. Made seeking shelter much easier and people would listen to me, which was quite helpful on certain occasions.”

“I imagine it explained all those Bibles you carried with you.”

“Well yes, I suppose that’s true.” 

“There is still a beauty to it now, albeit a different sort of beauty.”

“Seems like regular old ruins to me.” 

“You don’t feel any sort of, oh I don’t know, whimsy or appreciation?” 

“I don’t really go in for whimsy, angel.”

They continued to explore for quite some time, Aziraphale taking full advantage of their solitude and the picturesque ruins by taking many photographs, both with the antique camera on a tripod and the polaroid. Aziraphale had started off carrying the larger camera but Crowley had soon taken over after a passing mention of discomfort by Aziraphale. They made their way outside, strolling along the edge of the moat as the sunset. 

“Oh, what a beautiful sky it is tonight. Crowley, do you mind putting down the camera? I’d like to get some photos, lighting is simply marvelous.”

“Not like we’ve seen the sunset a million times already. The same sky and the same sun for 6,000 years.”  

Aziraphale ignored him, setting up the camera into the correct position. The tripod was close to the water's edge, overlooking the horizon. Aziraphale watched the sky change from red, orange, and yellow to deep purple and pitch black from behind a camera lens. Crowley watched Aziraphale burn brilliant in a fiery sky to softly glowing in the moonlit night.   

Tintagel Castle

Crowley suggested the next location: Tintagel Castle. It was quite a ways away on the southwestern coast but he insisted that the view was worth it, and besides it had been ages since either of them had been to the Celtic sea. It was by far the longest drive they had undertaken so far. A direct route would have taken five hours (perhaps three with Crowley behind the wheel), but Aziraphale had asked if they could drive past the channel on the way there and Crowley wasn’t exactly in the habit of denying any request or desire the angel had. With the scenic detour, the drive should have been close to 7 hours but ended up closer to five anyways, accounting for a lunch break.

Aziraphale was able to manage (tolerate, more accurately) Crowley’s breakneck speeds on the lonely country roads. Rolling hills with the occasional grazing livestock and farmhouses turned into rocky cliffs and blue-grey waters. Aziraphale enjoyed the picturesque landscapes and lack of the usual urban chaos, while Crowley enjoyed the lack of other vehicles and an open road where the speed limit was hardly a thought. They hadn’t talked much, Aziraphale occasionally putting on a CD (he didn’t quite grasp the concept at first but he was getting the hang of it.) Most of the disks had been left in the car and forgotten for more than a fortnight, and Crowley could only tolerate ‘We Will Rock You’ by Benjamin Britten or ‘We Are The Champions’ by Handle so many times. Thankfully, he had remembered to bring in some CDs from the apartment that had yet to become a compilation of Queen’s Greatest Hits. Aziraphale preferred classical, so they listened to Bach, Vaughn Williams, Holst, and various other (although predominantly British) composers. They were listening to Simple Symphony (actually by Benjamin Britten) when Crowley finally slowed and pulled into a half-full parking lot. Luckily the castle and surrounding expanse were quite large and the two could easily keep away from any crowds.

They explored the ruins of a castle for a time, Crowley relaying stories of his time in Richard of Cornwall (both from his time in the castle and during the Barons’ Crusade. Aziraphale had been preoccupied at the time by some work further west in Southampton.) Eventually, the crowds started to bother both of them and they naturally wandered away from the ruins and over the large bridge. 

“You know I rarely made it out to this part of the country, but it’s quite lovely.  The view is spectacular.”

Crowley squinted and peered upwards towards the gathering clouds. “Looks like it might rain.”

“Oh, I’m sure it would only take a slight miracle to ensure clear skies until the end of our visit. I was thinking for after– oh!” Aziraphale’s eyes went wide as the unfortunate combination of a strong gust of wind off the sea and a damp patch on the footbridge made him stumble and lose his footing. Before he could find purchase on the guard rails he felt two hands reach out and grab his arms, helping him upright. Aziraphale looked up at Crowley who in turn looked down at him in concern. 

“You alright?” 

Aziraphale laughed nervously, brushing himself off. “Oh yes, I’m quite alright, just taken a little off guard I suppose…” He trailed off. There hadn’t been any danger really, the footbridge had quite a high railing and Aziraphale had wings for heaven’s sake but peering down at the cold water crashing up against the stony cliffs made his head spin for a moment. “Thank you.” He finally said. 

Crowley made a noise of displeasure in return, “Can’t have you being discorporated middle of your vacation abandoning me in Cornwall of all places.”

“Our vacation. Besides, you suggested Tintagel.” 

“Ngk.” 

Neither of them made the first move, remaining stationary on the footbridge for another beat. 

“You can let go of me now, Crowley.”

He looked down at his hands which were indeed still wrapped around the other's arms. His cheeks turned slightly pink as he let go, refusing to look at the other as they continued on.  

Glastonbury Abbey 

Aziraphale insisted they stop by Glastonbury Abbey the next day, tentatively starting northward. 

“I’m shocked you never made it out there yourself back in the day, dear boy. Frightfully important, I can recall quite the drama and importance for quite a long stretch of time. Second only to Westminster.” 

“I avoided abbeys as a general rule. Parishes, monasteries, cathedrals, whole lot of them. Not exactly my scene.”

“Shame really, some truly exquisite architecture. The food wasn’t exactly top-notch, but some of the better dining from that era at any rate. I’d imagine you’d be quite fine now, been in ruins for centuries.” 

The sky was clear and blue, the grass a vibrant green. There were a few tourists who were wandering about the grounds but left the two beings be. They wandered through the decrepit cathedral, ceiling completely gone and missing good portions of the walls. While Aziraphale doubted that any previous blessings were still in place, Crowley was wary and remained outside of the ruined Holy buildings. 

“It really was quite a marvel. I had the occasion to visit on a number of occasions throughout the centuries, sent here quite often for holy interventions, miracles, enlightenment, heavenly visions, the whole nine yards as they say. You’re sure you never made it over here during, well, the Arrangement?”

Aziraphale quieted at the last two words. He had always been much more prudish, more embarrassed regarding their previous understanding. Perhaps it was because Crowley had much more experience rebelling and bending rules, but if they were being honest with themselves (although they rarely were), Aziraphale also had a fair bit of experience bending rules, he was just more adept at making excuses for it and felt much more guilty about it afterward.  

“Nope. Besides, I believe the heyday of the great Abbeys predated our agreement.”

“I suppose that’s true. Those old Catholics enjoyed their drama. I tried to stay out of it mostly, politics was never really my forte. I recall having to give a vision to one of the old Abbotts back in the 12th century. Something about inspiring a new sermon, I can’t quite recall.”

Crowley made some noise to indicate that he was still listening (which he was in fact doing. He liked to put up an air of indifference but he always listened, and Aziraphale knew this.) 

“You know I was able to get a first edition of “On the Antiquity of the Glastonese Church”? Signed by William of Malmesbury. Wonderful historian, and splendid company. He had a terrific collection at the Malmesbury Abbey and was kind enough to give me a number of his books, all with signed inscriptions. Later in his life, he was kind enough to gift me some of the notable works in his personal collection. His second edition of Gesta Regum Anglorum is a classic.”

Aziraphale continued to ramble on as they explored the Abbey grounds. Crowley listened quietly but intently. Their conversations usually involved both of their active participation but Crowley had never minded whenever Aziraphale would stumble into his ramblings. They occasionally reminisced, exchanging amusing stories and recounting shared adventures, but on that rare but treasured occasions a topic would arise and Aziraphale could literally talk for days on end, one story spilling into the next. Crowley’s original thought to describe it had been cute, but that couldn’t possibly be it.     

“It’s impressive how long these have stayed standing, even if they have fallen into a bit of disrepair.” Aziraphale finally quieted, inviting a response from Crowley. 

“‘Spose. They always did like to show off. Always obsessed with posterity.”

“And these are hardly the oldest, even just in England. And we’ve been there for all of it.” Aziraphale spoke softly, his eyes unfocused as he gazed far beyond the old Abbey. Crowley glanced at him. He had a tendency to be sentimental after these long trips down memory lane. Crowley himself had never quite at the proclivity for the sentimental. 

“And they’ll keep building places of worship and keep writing history books. Come on, I saw a sign for a nearby for an italian restaurant, we’ll grab you some lunch.” 

Bath 

After lunch, they drove a bit farther north to the city of Bath. This had been the largest city they had visited so far. They stopped by bed and breakfast on the outskirts of the town, preferring the larger space, quiet countryside, and easy parking it provided. They took the day to explore the city, visiting various historical sites. They walked by the Abbey (although they did not venture inside as a courtesy to Crowley), Pulteney Bridge, strolled down Royal Crescent, popped briefly into Holburne museum but quickly left when Aziraphale got fed up with the minor inconsistencies and incorrect speculation. They continued their walk and eventually came across a beautifully restored Georgian home with a bronze plaque that reads: 

Here lived William Herschel 

A.D. 1781 

and a sign above that that read ‘Herschel Museum of Astronomy’. It looked to be mostly vacant, which made sense seeing as it was about 2 o’clock in the afternoon on a Wednesday during the school year, with the peak of the tourist season being a few months behind them.

“Oh, I remember that fellow. Quite the eclectic man; astronomer, biologist, musician, and composer, though if memory serves his scientific career fared better than his artistic one. I saw the premiere of his eighth symphony and you know, I really did enjoy it. I’m not sure why he’s been relegated to the background of classical composers. I suppose now it’s so strongly dominated by Mozart, Haydn, Shubert, and a few other fellows that it didn’t leave much room for others. Truth be told I think Haydn might be slightly overrated. You write 107 symphonies but only a handful are noteworthy in any way. You knew him, didn’t you? I recall you hanging around with the Royal Astronomical Society for a time before sleeping through most of the next century.” 

Crowley hummed in acknowledgment. “Yeah, hung around with that lot periodically end of the 18th century. He and his sister, Caroline, pushed the field miles forward. Shall we head inside?” 

Crowley held open the door for Aziraphale and they headed inside the quiet Georgian household. They handed over a few pounds to the receptionist who put a little stamp of a planet with stars on each of their right hands.  They quickly passed through exhibits pertaining to more recent events, preferring to linger in the sections that focused on Herschel and his discoveries. 

“I liked him. Quite sharp. Corrected a few older discoveries, which I appreciated. It was annoying having to sit through some of those Royal Society lectures calling some of the star clusters nebulae. He and Caroline discovered and cataloged a boatload of nebulae, clusters, comets, the like. Nice to finally have your work properly appreciated after nearly 6000 years. We used to gossip about the bores over at the Royal Society and I helped get Caroline get a paid position at the government. I mean why would they be paying him but not her?”

“That was very kind of you, Crowley.” 

He made a face of displeasure in return, “Hardly. If she hadn’t been employed who else would have discovered my comets and cataloged my nebulae? Quite proud of those, you know, and no one there to appreciate all my hard work. ‘Oh look at the beautiful waterfalls, the beautiful forests’, please. Hardly any craftsmanship in a waterfall. Some rocks and a river. But a planetary nebula? A red dwarf? Combustion, gravity, electromagnetism, a delicate balance of helium, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, and however many other elements. When old Will finally got that telescope of his up and running, the look on his face when he saw them all, it was like finally, someone can appreciate some true artistry. I will say the nerve of those two constantly referring to it as ‘the heavens’. Heaven wished it looked like that.”

Aziraphale looked wistfully at a newer photo of the butterfly nebula. “You know, during all that time it took humans to properly observe the cosmos, I appreciated it. All the stars and nebulae, pulsars and supernovae. I wasn’t able to get out much personally, but I was lucky enough on a few occasions. It was breathtaking. And on earth, we can see much farther than they can, even with some of their telescopes. I’ll spare a glance here and there when I get the chance, and it really is unparalleled.” Aziraphale stopped, still looking firmly at the nebula in front of him. He spoke softer this time. “Dare I say it, maybe even more beautiful than anything here on earth.” A pause. His head turned slightly towards Crowley and met his eyes beneath the shades. “Or rather, almost anything.” 

Crowley’s head snapped violently back towards the image, not daring to look back at Aziraphale. Earth had been almost entirely God’s pet project, the vast majority anyways. Some details had been relegated to other angels. But the earth had always truly been Hers. Aziraphale’s proclamation of the superior beauty of the cosmos was… a lot to process. Not to mention the meaning of the angel’s pointed glance at him. It was a bit too much for Crowley. He coughed, still not meeting the other’s eyes. 

“Off to the Baths then?” 

Kenilworth Castle 

“Kenilworth, now this is a real castle,” Crowley said, picking away at the grapes on the fruit platter. They had driven north from Bath that morning, exiting the South West and entering into the West Midlands. Crowley accompanied Aziraphale to a hearty breakfast before their departure. They continued to avoid the main roads, Crowley speeding through old dirt roads in the countryside. Aziraphale would point out every herd of sheep, every single baby calf, every mangy looking old goat while a look of utter delight and whimsy. He had become completely enamored with the countryside and Crowley was beginning to worry about how he would ever get him back to the city. 

“Oh look at those horses! There’s a small black foal, isn’t it just darling? Shall we stop by to say hello?” 

Crowley glowered at the animals that were grazing the field they were driving past and pushed down even harder on the gas in response.

“You’re no fun, my dear.” 

“Awful creatures. They smell, they buck, they attract flies, painful as all hell to ride, and generally terrible. Not even properly evil, just badly designed and poorly executed. The automobile is definitely among the greatest human inventions along with alcohol and sunglasses. Shame when they stopped making glue out of the bastards.” 

Aziraphale smacked him (not so lightly) on his arm, “Crowley! What an awful thing to say!” 

“What? They deserve it.” 

“My goodness, what on earth did horses ever do to you.”

“What didn’t they do? Centuries of sore buttocks, horse flies, and manure. The smell, Aziraphale, do you remember it? The streets were absolutely disgusting, it’s no wonder I stayed inside for most of the 18th century.”

“I think you’re being too harsh on them. I find them quite majestic.”

“Nothing majestic about your teeth taking up more room in your skull than your brain.” 

“Well, I quite like them.” 

He rolled his eyes, “Suit yourself, angel.”

They continued north for another hour or so, eventually stopping in Stratford-Upon-Avon to pick up some food for a picnic (actually Crowley’s suggestion) and to pay respects to an old friend. They continued on, taking many detours, arriving at the castle just in time for lunch. Crowley pulled out a picnic blanket from the trunk (whether it had been there the whole time or if he had just miracled it then, Aziraphale didn’t know. Regardless, he was touched by the gesture.) He laid it out under the shade of a nearby Ash tree that grew just a bit outside the central keep. 

“Yes, it had its fair share of excitement back in the day.” Aziraphale agreed. 

“Came to see King John here once. What a prick. That whole family was a mess. Richard and Henry weren’t that awful in the grand scheme of British royalty, although that’s quite a low bar. Oh, but John, totally insufferable. I was supposed to tempt him into rebelling but the bastard was already scheming before I got there, and not very well mind you. Didn’t bother helping out when it failed, I didn’t really feel like getting involved.” 

“I accompanied Elizabeth here a few times. Very intelligent woman, difficult life though. Popped in every-so-often to lend her a helping hand. I remember tutoring her briefly when she was a child. Incredibly bright and kind for a child of her age. The crown hardened her considerably, but who could blame her.” 

“Oh yes, she was a feisty one. One of the few British royals I had any respect for at all, although she still had her fair share of flaws, but who am I to judge?” 

They continued to eat, somehow always remaining in the shade despite the passing of hours. Aziraphale was usually quite silent when he ate, his mouth constantly full with the next delight Crowley had packed away into the wicker basket, so Crowley took it upon himself to fill the silence by recounting his many tales of Kenilworth and the events surrounding it, sprawled out on his side, one arm supporting his head. 

“You know the tennis balls had been my idea. I had meant it as an insult but I think Henry overreacted a little bit.”

Aziraphale paused his enjoyment of some shortcake, “At least we got a good play out of it.” 

“Fair enough. The old Bard never really bothered with historical accuracy but I didn’t mind with him. Made it better usually.” 

“I’d be inclined to agree.” 

Eventually Aziraphale had had his full and pulled out a book, leaning up against the Ash. Crowley moved closer, laying down beside him. 

“What are you reading?” 

“The Anabasis of Alexander.”

“He was a drama queen.” 

“This is a classic.” 

“I’m sure.” 

Aziraphale ignored him and pulled out his reading glasses. Crowley had never said this out loud, but he loved Aziraphale’s reading glasses. The glasses were practically ancient, picked up sometime during Crowley’s respite in the 19th century. He didn’t need them, and Crowley didn’t know why he wore them. A fashion he had picked up? Perhaps he simply enjoyed the completion of his ‘old bookkeeper’ look? At any rate, Crowley never complained when Aziraphale opened a large tome and took out the spectacles. He looked up at Aziraphale; ‘Cute’ he thought. There that word was again. The glasses made Aziraphale look intelligent, sophisticated, extremely out of date, and certainly not cute. Or at least, that’s what Crowley thought (or did he?) 

“Read a bit for me. I’m sure it’ll put me right to sleep.”

The angel huffed at the minor insult but settled in closer to Crowley anyways. The demons head was up against his thigh, arms at his side and legs bent upwards. There was a gentle warm breeze and songbirds that flew in and out of the ash. The sun was bright and hot but they were cool and comfortable in the shade, both subconsciously leaning into the warmth of the other. 

“In Ecbatana, Alexander offered sacrifice according to his custom, for good fortune; and he celebrated a gymnastic and musical contest…”

Plas Newydd

They stayed the night in Kenilworth after allowing themselves the luxury of a lazy afternoon followed by a warm meal at a local pub (in this part of the country, most options for dining out were pubs). The next morning they took the Bentley further northwest, crossing the border into Wales. The signs changed into a jumble of consonants and seemingly misplaced vowels. 

“I haven’t been to Wales in so long. I adore the people here, very charming folks. I do hope my Welsh hasn’t fallen out of shape, it has been quite a while.” 

They drove down the old country roads, Crowley for once not doing nearly double the speed limit, perhaps as a courtesy to Aziraphale or maybe because even he couldn’t bring himself to disturb the sleepy atmosphere of the small villages they passed through (although the most likely cause was simply extending their time on the road. He enjoyed the peace and solitude he shared with Aziraphale while they rode in the Bentley.) 

Aziraphale looked quizzically down at the map they had picked up in Shrewsbury. “I believe you take a right up here, dear boy.”

“Hope you aren’t getting us lost in the Welsh countryside, angel. All these villages look the same to me.” 

He looked up from the map and up to the signs with arrows on the side of the road, “No, we’re still in the correct direction. My navigation skills were unparalleled back in the day, I’ll have you know. Served on a privateer ship for a number of months and guarded over an exhibition or two back in the age of explorers.”   

Crowley looked up at the signs, recognizing one of the names, “Off to Llangollen then, are we?” 

Aziraphale looked over to him surprised, “You’ve heard of it?” 

“Visited it to, a couple of centuries ago.” 

Aziraphale looked delighted, “So you must have met the ladies then! Can’t imagine what else would bring you to the north-eastern Welsh countryside. I never realized you made it out to see them.” 

“Yeah, I visited them a handful of times while traveling between London and Dublin. Eleanor and Sarah. Haven’t thought about them in quite a while. Kept hearing about them and got curious.” 

“They were a delightful pair, wonderful hosts too. Elenor and I would sit in the parlor and discuss the recent literature. Poets, in particular, seemed to be drawn to Plas Newydd and most had left behind a copy or two of their work. I recall walking around the estate with Sarah and exchanging thoughts on current events. They were both surprisingly insightful despite their isolation.” 

“Bit too fond of horses for my taste, but I could respect how they rebelled against the system. Caused quite a stir for a while, and I enjoy good gossip. The scandal, the outrage, pretty funny if you ask me. Had a few interesting chats with them over tea.”

 What Crowley and Aziraphale didn’t realize is that on multiple occasions, they had both shared details of each other to the ladies of Llangollen. Crowley and Aziraphale were both singular personalities in their own way and it had not taken much for the two ladies to connect the dots between both ‘men’ (or what both had assumed to be men) stories. Aziraphale had visited them first, introducing himself as a friend of William Wordsworth. He had indeed discussed literature and current events, but sometimes over dinner one evening he had begun disclosing certain details about a dark fellow (certainly not a friend) that Aziraphale was doing business with whom he had some conflicting emotions. Within a year, a dark fellow with bright red hair had strolled up to Plas Newydd and introduced himself as a friend of the Shelley's. They had welcomed him in, but he was much more reserved than some of their previous visitors. However, after a bottle of gin, the stranger was much more open and willing to share some strange stories of his travels. He was well journeyed and quite connected, having stories from famous scientists, authors, criminals, and even royals. After a bottle of brandy had been opened, he started talking about a friend of his, or perhaps more of a coworker. They had known each other for quite some time but in recent years it seemed as if their relationship had developed a few more layers. As he continued to describe the acquaintance, Eleanor and Sarah had both glanced sidelong at each other with the same realization. 

As the two beings came and went, bringing new stories and sharing new details of their other half, the glances between the two women while the otherworldly being relayed their most recent thoughts on the other become more frustrated and knowing. It had been difficult not to intervene but they had both known it was for the best. One day, Aziraphale (or simply “Mr. Fell”) had come to visit. He discussed literature and current events like usual but never seemed to bring up his mysterious coworker. When they asked him about it, his face contorted like he had eaten something sour. They had had a falling out and were not talking to each other at the moment. The two women looked at each other in concern but didn’t attempt to press the issue. 

They had never seen Crowley again. 

Crowley and Aziraphale pulled up to Plas Newydd a short time later. Both Aziraphale’s navigation skills and Welsh had thankfully remained intact despite the disuse. The house had been well maintained throughout the centuries. Crowley purchased admission for them both. It had been turned into a museum a number of years ago, but both of them weren’t focused on the exhibits, sparing only a pacing glance at the displaces and descriptive plaques. Instead, they took in the house itself and the memories that returned to them with each room that they passed through. As they strolled within the many rooms: bedrooms, parlour, kitchen, library, and outside of the estate in the vast gardens and green rolling fields, the two cast sidelong glances at each other, not unlike two Irish ladies from centuries ago. 

Hadrian’s Wall 

They continued north on the same day, stopping for lunch in the village before they resumed their journey. After lunch, before they set off onto country roads, Crowley thought they should pick up some more CD’s. They had burned through most of the ones he had brought in from the apartment, and he was starting to get sick of not only “Killer Queen” but also “Fantasia on Greensleeves”. There was a little music shop in the quaint downtown that sold a handful of instruments, some sheet music, a bin of records, and yes, an assortment of CDs. It was a shame Aziraphale never slept since he had been mostly unable to listen to some of his personal favorites as the other being would be awake for the duration of their car rides. Aziraphale had fallen behind the times recently. Back before the advent of recorded audio, Aziraphale had needed to go out into the world to enjoy music, which kept him fairly up to date with the trends. However, after the advent of recording, Aziraphale had been able to enjoy the pleasures of the symphony from his own home, able to read or eat while he enjoyed the sweet melodies. And so he stopped attending the opera, symphony, or any sort of concert almost entirely. He still got out occasionally, when they were playing Beethoven series or one of his favorite Italian operas, but after the 19th century he was pleased to simply keep returning to old favorites (certain notable examples exist. Aziraphale was a fan of Kafka, Vaughn Williams, Rachmaninoff, Ravel, Bartók, and a handful of others.) He had listened to some ragtime and bebop, but he hadn’t been a fan and had simply abandoned all popular music afterward. Crowley drifted through the aisles but was mostly with content to let Aziraphale pick out the music. He was mostly hovering through the classical section, already with half a dozen new CDs. He wandered through a few other sections before walking back over to Crowley. 

“Nothing for yourself?”

“You seem to have enough already.”

They walked over to the cashier, Aziraphale setting about all of the CDs and Crowley pulled out his wallet. The old woman behind the cash rung up their purchase and Crowley pulled out the exact change out of his wallet. She accepted it graciously. 

“And where are you two from? Don’t get many visitors this time of year.” She spoke with a thick Welsh accent but must have overheard them speaking in english. 

Aziraphale smiled warmly, “London. Just taking a bit of a holiday, driving around the countryside.” 

“Oh that’s lovely. I prefer the weather this time of year anyway. I like the heat, but in the summer, a bit too hot in recent years. My husband and I drove up to Edinburgh back in July to visit our Lizzie for her wedding. We used to travel all over Europe in the summer months. A bit more difficult after the kids but we were able to bring them along when they were a bit older.”

“Oh yes, Edinburgh has become quite lovely in recent years. It’s been quite a while since I’ve visited myself.” 

“Well if you and your husband are continuing north, I would definitely suggest you stop by.” 

Aziraphale went red at her assumption. He sputtered in response. “Oh, um, well yes, thank you for the suggestion.”

She gave him a wide smile, “No need to be embarrassed, dear. Our Lizzie was marrying her girlfriend, Mackenzie, up in Edinburgh. Most people in these parts are quite accepting.” 

Aziraphale could only redden and nod his head. She handed Crowley a receipt. 

“Diolch.” He replied coolly, face unreadable behind the tinted glasses. 

“Cael diwrnod braf!” She replied as they walked out of the shop. 

They were finally back off onto the road. Aziraphale pulled out one of the new CDs. 

“Look what I found, Crowley. I thought you might like it.”

It was a collection of William Herschel recorded by the London Mozart Players. Crowley returned with a neutral grunt of acknowledgment that didn’t convey any particularly positive or negative sentiments regarding the recording. Aziraphale ejected the previous CD and put in the new one. 

“So where are we off to next, angel?” 

“You know, I’m not quite sure. I thought we could just… drive for a bit, and see where we end up?”  

Crowley grinned, “Not your usual style, ‘going with the flow’, ‘seeing where the road takes you.’”

He shrugged in response, “I’ve been trying many new things these last few months.”

And so North they went, out of Wales, up through the West Midlands and into the North West. They continued to bypass the highways in favor of country roads. They drove along the Irish sea, passing by Liverpool, Southport, and Blackpool. At Lancaster, they continued due North towards Kendal instead of continuing along the shoreline. Crowley made most navigational decisions, simply following his intuition. Every so often he would ask Aziraphale for input, but mostly they drove in silence. The angel mostly watched out the window, every so often cracking open the book he had with him. 

After another hour or so, Aziraphale finally perked up.

“Ah.”

Crowley looked over to him, “What?”

He pointed to one of the signs. It read “Hadrian’s Wall” and had an arrow pointing right. 

“We should go there.” 

And so Crowley make a sharp turn to the right, and off they went. 

After only another 10 minutes (Crowley’s maniacal driving had returned in full force), the two found themselves at the base of about a 5ft 2000-year-old wall. 

“Sort of a dumb plan if you ask me.” 

“Hm?”

“Not sure what Hadrian was thinking with this one. Bloody long wall on the fringe of the empire, middle of nowhere? Always seemed like nonsense to me.”

“Perhaps.”

“Next guy pretty much completely abandoned it. Did it ever serve any useful role at any point? Not like it was ever that high in the first place, not sure what he thought he could stop with it. Humanity has found its way across rivers, mountains, and deserts, but oho, not a five-foot wall, that’ll stop ‘em.” 

Aziraphale was setting up his camera. The wall was surrounded by kilometers of green fields speckled with trees that were changing color in the autumn season. There was a small lake about a kilometer down from the stretch of the wall that the two had found themselves at. 

“Sit still, won’t you? You’ll blur the image.” 

Crowley pulled his crossed arms slightly closer in. “Don’t see why you wanted a picture in the first place. Can’t you just get a couple of snaps of the herons over there and be done with it?”

“I have so few photos of you, dear. I’d like a few from this vacation. I’ve had such a lovely time so far. Maybe I’ll make a scrapbook when we’re back in London. Have you heard of those? Came across the idea a few weeks ago and I’ve been meaning to try my hand at it.”

“Don’t see why I need to be in them. Why do you need a photo when I’ll be around anyway? I’ll just ruin your landscapes.”

Aziraphale looked up from the camera and directly at Crowley with a twinkle in his eyes. “You know I think you look positively lovely, dear boy. Now shut up, I want at least one good one.”

And shut up he did. 

Tynemouth Priory and Castle (Edward II and Piers Gaveston + Duel?) 

They found a little country inn in one of the nearby villages. Crowley slept soundly in his single bed while Aziraphale stayed up reading. They ate the continental breakfast that was provided, Aziraphale putting a fair portion of homemade strawberry jam that the owner’s son had apparently made onto his rolls while Crowley enjoyed his cup of Lady Grey. 

“I feel like going to the coast today,” Aziraphale said in between mouthfuls of toast. 

“Which one?” Crowley replied, leaning back in his chair on the outdoor patio. 

“How about the North Sea? We did the Irish Sea, the Celtic Sea seems like the next logical step.” 

“Anywhere in particular?”

“Have you ever been to Tynemouth? There’s an old Priory and Castle. I was there all the way back in the 7th century. Nice little spot on the coast.” 

“Yeah, I’ve been, later though. Briefly in the 14th century, with Edward II.” 

“Well?”

“Fine with me.” 

They left a bit later that morning, going towards the morning sun due East. It was starting to get a bit chillier as they stretched further into autumn and the closer they got to the sea. It wasn’t a long drive by, even without Crowley behind the wheel. Soft piano music that Crowley didn't recognize was coming out of the stereo. It was pleasant, music that sounded like it came right out of a 19th-century parlor. Aziraphale was humming along while he read (a new book, yet again. He seemed to burn through a new one each day.) 

They drove up a hill right beside the coast to the ruins. They were the only ones there when Crowley pulled the Bentley off to the side of the dirt road. They got out in tandem and walked toward the abandoned castle. 

“Long time since I've been around here. I wouldn't mind making a habit of these little excursions.”

“I guess it's not half bad when you avoid tourist season.” 

“You said you'd been here before?”

“Yup, I was briefly a part of Edward II entourage trying to rile up some tensions within the court. You ever meet him?” 

“Unfortunately, no.” 

“Eh, weren't missing much. He and Piers Gaveston had been inseparable. Bit annoying but mostly harmless. Tragic end, but that was pretty common for that lot back in the day.”

“Nobles?” 

Crowley laughed, “Not quite, angel.”

They walked through the main archway. It had obviously changed significantly throughout the centuries, the brick and mortar now exposed to the elements, large chunks were missing and covered in moss, and yet in some ways, it hadn't changed at all. All of the roofs had crumbled away centuries ago, leaving the bright blue sky above them, with clouds blowing in from over the sea and the sun creeping higher into the sky. Birds nested throughout the ruins in little nooks and crannies, perched atop old towers and in between the remnants of windows. 

“I had my fair share of adventures here as well,” Aziraphale remarked. 

“Oh really?” Crowley said playfully, grin on his face. Aziraphale enjoyed the frequency with which Crowley had smiled during the trip. 

“I did return once after the 7th century, mid 16ty century after it was taken over by Henry VIII. Got into a bit of a tiff with a few visiting Italians.”

“‘Bit of a tiff’? What'd you do, get into a heated argument about the marinara sauce?” 

“Don't mock me, old boy. No, we handled the affair like men.” He replied primly. 

Crowley turned to look at him, “You didn't duel them, did you?” 

Aziraphale blushed a little, “It's not my usual style but the situation quickly escalated.” 

Crowley laughed, and it echoed around them. “Did you win?” 

Aziraphale looked insulted, “Of course I won! I wasn't given a flaming sword for no reason.” 

“What was the argument?”

“I can't quite recall where it started but I believe it ended when he called me a son of a bitch and I replied with something along the lines of 'You dare refer to the Lord that way!?' and drew my sword.” 

Crowley gave him a wicked grin, “Would have liked to see that.”

“We should spar sometime. I may be a bit out of shape but I'm sure I could show you a thing or two.”

“Definitely not. I was always rubbish with weaponry. Never really bothered with it. Prefer using my wits, and when a sword was necessary I just got someone else to do it.”

“Maybe I could teach you?” 

The offer was left unanswered, the two naturally returning to a comfortable silence as they continued their exploration of the old castle and priory. It was an old place, humans had been occupying the land for 2000 years, and yet they were still much older. This castle had been in ruins for centuries, and they had been there before, during, and after. They did not feel old within the new metropolises that had popped up in the last century but in the ruins of the civilizations that they outlived by millennia. They were old, but they were old together, and now nothing was there to stop them from being so. 

“Shall we go home?” 

Home. Crowley liked the sound of that when Aziraphale said it. 

“Yeah, let's go.” 

Epilogue: Dover Castle 

They drove south along the coast. Aziraphale had gone through nearly all of the CDs he had acquired in Wales, except one.  

“Vera Lynn? Didn’t realize you were a fan.”

“She had such a lovely voice. They broadcast one her performances on BBC during the war and I bought a record the next day." 

“How modern of you.”

“This one apparently came out this year. I like the cover art. Technology is unbelievable nowadays, over 30 tracks on a single side of this tiny disc.” 

It was later in the afternoon now, Vera Lynn serenading the duo as rolling hills passed them on one side and choppy grey waves on the other. It had been a well-needed disruption in their daily routines, a literal and figurative breath of fresh air. If Crowley was being honest (which he rarely was with himself) he enjoyed spending all this time with Aziraphale. The angel had allowed himself to enjoy their vacation much more openly, but Crowley had enjoyed it too, in his own way. He was old, which he did not care to admit. Humanity had aged him. 6000 years in the pits of hell was nothing, but 6000 years amongst billions of the busiest and most diverse animals on the planet had a way of reminding your how ancient you truly are. Most humans believed that the earth was billions of years old, and that was a length of time that Crowley did not care to imagine. Revisiting all of these old castles and villages reminded him just how much he had experienced already, so much more than any person could imagine, longer than any given human civilization. Up until now, the future had been finite, but now, thinking about all that he could still experience here on earth with seemingly no expiration date was equal parts exciting and terrifying. He looked over at the angel. He kept doing that throughout the trip. Glancing over at Aziraphale in the passenger seat, either reading a book or looking out at the scenery and on one extremely treasured stretch of the drive when he closed his eyes and ‘slept’ (Crowley doubted he had been completely successful in his attempt but it was a marvel to behold regardless.) How many more vacations would they have? How far would they go? The anxiety that had hovered over their previous encounters still loomed slightly, but it was quickly fading with each passing month. Where would they be in a year? He was nervous, terrified even. But looking over at the angel, the knot in his stomach seemed to disentangle itself slowly but surely. 

Aziraphale’s thoughts were significantly less deep. He was extremely happy with how the vacation had shaped up and was excited to plan out the next. He was still ready to be back home in his bookshop, he could only handle so much excitement and travel, but it had been energizing and thrilling in its own way. This trip had reminded him why he had settled in England. For all its flaws (notably the weather. Crowley would have also said the politics but Aziraphale didn’t make a habit of keeping up with current affairs), it was a beautiful country filled with kind and well-intentioned people. And had produced its fair share of good music. He had not listened to Vera Lynn in a while but somehow all those old tunes were still in his head as he hummed along watching the sun descend closer to the horizon. He saw a sign that said ‘London’ and when Crowley did not turn onto it, he looked over at the demon curiously. 

“Thought we’d make one more stop before heading back home. Just a bit further south.” 

Aziraphale was in no rush, so he made no objection. He slid back into his spot up against the window, head perched on his hand. They view slowly grew more and more populated, quaint villages into small towns and then again into cities. Aziraphale closed his eyes, just enjoying the music, enjoying the peace, enjoying Crowley. Even though he was not saying anything the demon's presence was so easily felt. He let himself soak up that feeling and they carried on. They crossed over the Thames and slowly returned to those quaint villages and green fields. The drive wasn’t very long (almost certainly to do with the incredibly dangerous speeds the Bentley had been driving at). They got out of the car and Aziraphale gazed upwards towards the imposing structure in front of them. It was well preserved, in a much better condition than the other castles they had visited. The main keep was surrounded by enormous walls on all sides. The castle itself stood upon a hill overlooking the English Channel. The sun was setting over the water far in the distance. Crowley hadn’t driven them up to the main castle, instead of off to the side closer to the rocky cliffs. 

“Dover Castle, the Key of England.”

Crowley got out off the car without turning it off so the music continued to pour out of the Bentley. Aziraphale followed, meeting Crowley who had walked around the car to his side. “Red Sails in the Sunset” faded out and familiar flute and string orchestra began to play. 

“They’ll be bluebirds over, the white cliffs of Dover.” 

Aziraphale began to blush, “Oh my dear, you didn't.” Except, when Aziraphale said ‘my dear’ the accent was not on the my and full of disbelief or frustration, but on the dear, and was not so much of an exclamation than a term of endearment, gentle and full of care. Crowley would never say it aloud, but he adored the way it sounded out of Aziraphale’s mouth, and especially since it was directed at him. He didn’t respond, instead, leaning against the angel watching the sunset over the castle, which he hoped was in of itself enough of an answer. 

Now it should be noted that ‘White Cliffs of Dover’ was that in fact included in the recording Aziraphale had purchased, but Crowley did not know that and imagined that it must be, and so there it was, just in time. The song (miraculously) matched up perfectly with the setting sun. Crowley (or maybe it had been Aziraphale. Both had slowly drifted into each other as night fell, hands brushing up against the others) slowly slipped his hand into that of his best friend. A quiet display of affection that meant so much as the stars began to emerge from the darkening the sky. 

“Tomorrow, just you wait and see.”    

[kinfriday]

Wandering Hops: Black Holes and Blast Zones

Cliches, I feel, are annoying because they are a reminder of simple, near universal truths. No matter how clever, or accurate the wisdom they hold may be, just hearing them reminds me of something I should have never forgotten, and thus, I cringe.  

All of this is, of course, natural. None of us are perfect, we all make mistakes, get ahead of ourselves, mislay our car keys, all of that; thus life is full of cliches to remind us that anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.

Shit, there’s another one.

Saturday, that very cliche presented itself and slapped me in the face.

Now, I should have been prepared for it. I woke up, eager, excited and early, ready to take on Black Hole Falls. My hiking checklist was beside my pack and trekking poles, the husband woke up early, and my directions were all loaded in. We even left almost on time.

All of this proved to be ominous portent of the day ahead.

With breakfast done and everything in the car, we left about 930am. Waggs was looking forward to an exciting day in Vancouver, Washington and I was eagerly awaiting my trip to Black Hole Falls. The site is billed as one of the best hidden waterfalls in the Pacific Northwest, perched on the edge of the Gifford Pinchot forest. It had all the makings of a wonderful day.

Heading out towards Amboy, Washington, we followed our directions dutifully. Eventually the two lane highway gave way to a simple paved forest service road that had certainly seen better days. As always in the Pacific Northwest, there were other campers and hikers camped beside conspicuous openings in the forest, portending trail and adventures just beyond.

This is where I start getting excited. The idea of other people on fun adventures reminds me that I’ll soon be on my own as well.  

“Keep left at the fork.” Sounded over the speaker, drawing both of our attentions, because the road that awaited us was a steep and graveled dirt road taking us up into the mountains. This was not unexpected. Before I go to any trail, I take a look at things via satellite and try to get the lay of the land. The trail head I was looking for showed to be set off a similar road, and so, all seemed groovy.

Up we went, gaining elevation as the road began to switchback aggressively and an unsettling feeling began to arise that the GPS was leading us on a boondoggle.

Finally, after almost half an hour on gravel roads, covering almost ten miles, it announced we had arrived, there were just a few problems…

No pull out, no trail head, no indication whatsoever of where the trail should be.

Son of a bitch.  

Undaunted, I fell back to my InReach navigator, knowing I had synced the maps from my computer the night before. While not designed for vehicle navigation, it should have been able to tell me if I was close, or off in the great beyond relative to the trail location.

That was when the second big surprise of the day hit me. Though I had synced it on my computer, I later found out that only works for software updates, it requires being synced through my phone to push the routes back to the device.

Deep in the pit of my stomach a worried feeling blossomed as  I looked up and down the road, it finally coming into clear focus that we were lost, over half an hour from town, one hour out from signal, and no idea where the trail was.

All of my Saturday plans were firmly obliterated at that point.  Some careful backtracking followed, as we made our way back to the main road, and off for a day of fun in Portland.

It was actually a pretty good time, save that I didn’t feel I had earned my post hike eat out treat. After all, I hadn’t hiked anywhere.

At the end of the day though, a Bulgogi Bowl from Veggie Grill is a Bulgogi Bowl from Veggie Grill, and as I sat there, talking with my husband I resolved that this weekend would not be shot for Wandering Hops. While he browsed a bookstore, I hung out outside, using my all trails map and then hit upon The Coldwater Lake Loop.

The Coldwater Lake Loop is best described as a franken-trail, a mix of the south coldwater trail and the lake trail, with the last section incorporating elements of the main forest service road to take you back to the trail head. All told, it’s about 11.5 miles, and rated as a Hard/Difficult hike.

This time, dear reader, I wasn’t about to be caught unaware. I synced and resynced my maps, verified in full that the route was on the device, checked permits, passes and hours, as well as my directions.

0630 Sunday rolled around, and as Maya likes to say, it was time to “get this bread.”

This was my first difficult rated hike since the Hamilton Loop of last year, and as I drove, alone along Highway 504 (letting the husband sleep) I was filled with a degree of trepidation. My chosen route had me going counter clockwise from South Coldwater, which gains a half mile in elevation over the first two or so miles, and then you have to go right back down again.

The challenge though, is part of the fun, you never know what you can do until you do it, after all.

The Coldwater Lake Loop proved amazing from its first moments. For one, Mount St Helens loomed large just behind me. Back in 1980, the region I was hiking was at the very heart of the blast zone, dramatically reshaping the landscape in a moment, wiping away thousands of years of patient erosion and gentle world building. What surprised me was that there was still evidence of the volcanic cataclysm everywhere I looked, from petrified, stony trees to soil mixed with ash.  

For two, the caterpillars were out by the thousands, massing on the trail, trees and plants in numbers I had never seen before. They made their migrations back and forth, largely oblivious to my movements as I attempted to side step as many as I could. All the while I took in sweeping vistas full of dramatic mountain ranges and colorful wildflowers, until about a mile and a half in, I found some curious bits of metal sculpture.

Back when the volcano blew, the area I was hiking in was being logged. Still buried bulldozers, twisted by the titanic forces of Mother Nature in a full on rage still dotted the trail in two locations, accompanied by an observation tower that was shaped into loops and bends. All of this was found in the first two miles after a punishing round of ever upward arching trail, until it dumped me out on a wide and sandy plain,  grey white from volcanic ash, and full of scrubby, stubborn plants and flowers clinging to life.

From there, I continued to go up, and up, and… well… up.  There were moments when I could hear my heart pounding in my chest as my legs burned from exertion. For my day hikes, I normally move with about 15lbs on my back. It’s good training for backpacking, and besides, I’m not carrying weights. Things like flashlights, extra water, and power bricks can come in useful if anything goes wrong, so up I went, lugging my necessary gear, until I found myself just inches from a ledge, with a heavy drop to my left, and a steep incline to my right as I traced my way up a mountain.

Finally summiting a little over three and a half miles into my trek, a cool breeze began to blow off Coldwater Lake, which was quite refreshing after the hike I had just completed. Originally I had planned to eat lunch there, but I was feeling peppy. Deciding to press on to the halfway point, I began my descent, entering a thick and verdant forest, with the canopy so thick above me, it blocked out much of the sun.

The transition was as quick as what you might see in a movie script. Suddenly, the world goes from open, to close in, the air cools and becomes humid, sticking to your skin, and the heavy scents of earth percolates all around as the world falls to hushed silence, broken only here and there by the chirping of a bird or the rustling of a fern.

It’s peaceful, but also leaves you with a feeling of anticipation. The size and completeness of the silence makes it feel like the world has found a pause, but there’s an expectation at its edge. At any moment it feels like the world around you may lurch forward again, bursting out upon the stage in an unexpected way.

Does that sound like foreshadowing?

As the descent began to level out a roar began to build progressively, until soon, it was deafening. Still, the thick canopy of forest surrounding me offered nothing in terms of view, but I was certain I was coming to a rapids crossing or a waterfall.

Turns out I was right on both accounts; emerging from the wood a sturdy looking bridge revealed itself, spanning the gap over a raging torrent of river and a stair step waterfall, working its way back up into the mountain. The entire scene was breathtaking, and marked about a mile past the halfway mark for the day. It was a perfect time to stop for lunch.

After a few minutes rest and a Probar, my energy surged back, and I hit the trail again. This is where it began to feel long. Especially in the moments where I began to climb. Now, initially, upon my setting out, it was my belief that all the climbing would be done in the beginning, giving me a nice and level trail beside a lake shore to complete my day upon.

No such luck. Examining my map more closely, I noticed the topographic detail that my trail route vacillated on this second stint a few hundred feet at a time in elevation. This was by no means the same level of challenge as I had started my day with, but it still proved daunting as the hours rolled on. However, the scenery was beautiful, alternating between verdant forests and vast meadows filled with both butterflies and wildflowers, until the sound of people enjoying Father’s Day began to carry on the wind.

That could mean only one thing. I was nearing the boat docks, which marked my return to the highway and trailhead. Roughly 1.5 miles later, and the day was done.

After 11 miles, the sudden stop of forward motion felt strange. My brain had dialed into the idea of me moving forward at a constant steady pace, and as I unloaded my gear into the wagon, I felt a bit  lost.

Glorious air conditioning awaited me. Sitting there with the engine idling, preparing to leave after finishing my post trail snack, I began to reflect upon the last few days and  realized there was a type of lesson in all of it for me.

To put it in one word, I’d have to call it persistence. I could have quit when my hike was thwarted by bad directions and haywire planning for Black Hole Falls, but I didn’t. I fell back, reassessed and found something that would work.

Still, it wasn’t that easy. Finding the trail is one thing, but hiking it is another entirely. I covered almost 12 miles, up mountains, along ledges, and across bridges. There were times when I was tired, there were times when I even got bored, but the one thing I didn’t do was stop. My perseverance rewarded me with a day full of beautiful memories and moments that I feel I will carry for a long time.

Persistence pays, dear reader. One last cliche to finish the day.

[still-finding-our-way]

R5, R6

(SX 540672) 12/12/ 2020

Serendipity, rhizomes and lines. 

On my studio desk I have a number of rocks, stones and pebbles. None are particularly rare or precious, most have been collected locally yet every one is an object of beauty. One such stone is a sharp piece of flint. Small enough to hold in my palm, it has become my go to de-stress stone. I like to let its razor sharp edges bite, just a bit, into soft skin. My teasing wake up call. It has volume and weight, four planes—a tetra. One side runs smooth, curving to meet a granular knobbly surface, bone-like and skeletal, like the indenture of a clavicle or ankle bone. The underside of the stone is cut sheer, sliced through its core, creating a flat expanse onto which it is able to stand upright, before rising into a terraced plane, each step the size of a thumb print, a patternation that reveals the cryptocrystalline formation of flint (‘crypto’ meaning ‘secret’ or ‘hidden’). I found it on a beach in Cornwall. A dark grey stone with a white thread running through its centre. Its shape and size tickles my imagination, and as I turn the flint over in my hand I play with the idea that it was used as a Neolithic arrowhead, chipped away, stone on stone some 5000 years ago. The structure of flint requires a level of skill and expertise to shape; one wrong strike will send fracture lines through the stone rendering it useless as a tool. Our early ancestors were artisans and makers. Over and over, I have drawn this stone, feeling it’s texture, the sharp edges and definite weight in my palm. It does not take up much space and yet every time I draw it, a different angle or plane opens up. It is never the same. A small rock, inert and fixed, offering infinite possibilities.

You think you know something, someone, some place. A line on the horizon, a spit away from the sea and moor. Clambering over rocks, swimming in icy rivers and streams, climbing trees and making dens. 'Whence cam'st thou, mighty thane', pronounces Duncan in Act 1 of Macbeth. The utterance of such a question now comes with a cautionary red flag, one that implies exclusion and ‘you are not from here’. Too bad, coming from a white working class background, where histories and lives are lost, undocumented and unrecorded, I have no idea where my roots are tangled. I cometh from nowhere, no fixed abode, shallow rooted, spun together by frail relatives that can’t, or don’t want to, remember. To remedy this unknown, I was gifted by my eldest daughter a DNA test for my 50th birthday. The results from my spit reveal a blueprint that aligns with peoples who cluster around the North East of England, with a smattering of Swedish, Norwegian, Icelandic, Scottish and Irish. Farmers and seafarers I suspect, a web of people who somehow managed to survive hunger and disease, violence and brutality, the lustful fumble in the hay and the traumatic birth. The odds were not good—about one in 400 trillion chance of being born according to the boffins. In staking a claim on the improbability of existence we got lucky, very lucky.

Where we come from and who we are. Layers of paint, fresh applications, still wet bleeding into others, making new colours and new pictures. Blending and binding. Some work and some don’t. It seems so arbitrary how we come to be. I should make time to salute the stream of past people, winding all the way back to the bones of dear Lucy, 3.2 million years ago, and her mother and grand-mother, all coming and going, doing their time. But, I won’t, it's enough to breathe in the noise of now. One heart beat, a blink of the eye and we are gone. Serendipity, luck, random, the throw of the dice. The cells didn’t bind in the correct sequence and the possibility of life just slipped down the toilet. Is it any wonder we seek out patterns to create order and structure, finding comfort in numbers and story; assigning value in the unexpected, and agreeableness in what wasn’t sought. Ones and zero’s, lines and dots, giving shape to all things. Artists do this all the time. Seeking opportunity in the accidental and unintended. Any stick, stone, door, book, conversation opening up new creative possibilities. The rhizomes seeking out a good place to settle, a place to nourish. The patterns, whether real or not, helping to make sense of the intensity of the here and now. 

Jennie’s story is fascinating. Her blue eyes, flaxen hair and Bridget Bardot pout might have you thinking she is of Swedish heritage, whilst my dark skin, hair and black eyes has in the past suggested Mediterranean roots. Not so, the paint palette is muddied. I will let Jennie tell her story. One thing to note here though, Jennie is an adventurer, she has travelled all over the world: on her own, through work, with friends and lovers. Occasionally I have joined her but mostly I skirt the edges of Western art history, moseying around European capital cities, museums and galleries. Both of us are wanderers in different ways. Parallel lines. The same but different. I am amused to read that women of ‘a certain age’ partake in what Jennie and I are doing—walking and exploring local history. I also note the term ‘a certain age’ is often used to describe middle-aged women, usually accompanied by a roll of the eyes and a double-fingered quotation sign. It is basically code for women no longer of a fertile age—post 40 and therefore deemed unattractive, and given age tends to gift experience (though not always) they carry a certain confidence i.e., speak their mind and know what they want.  

A simple stone. We are breathing, blinking and unstill. 

We ask ourselves how did we not know about this walk? It is literally a stones throw from Jennie’s parents village, just over the hill yonder, where Jennie spent her teenage years and part of her adulthood, and where I lived for awhile whilst homeless and lovelorn. Of all the places on Dartmoor this is an area that I would confidently say we know well, and yet here we are discovering new trails, hidden valleys, different perspectives and layers and layers of history, a thread of which connects with Jennie’s recent travel’s with her son to the other side of the world. The walk begins in the small Devon village of Meavy on the southwest of Dartmoor, a place I have cycled and walked through many times, enjoying a sup or two at the Royal Oak on the way. The route follows the river Meavy upstream to Burrator dam not far from Down Tor, where Jennie first set this adventure in motion as we glugged champagne and watched the setting of a glorious October sun. From Burrator, the road winds through Sheepstor village and into the woods where earlier in the year, at the height of bluebell season, I waited with my children for the badger's to come out. Hunkered down amongst bramble and fern at dusk, quiet as mice, hearing the birds hush and darkness settle. The children were not scared but reverent and awed by being in the woods at night, a time and place synonymous with the darker side of fairytales: of wolves, witches and being lost, and where the unknown and the unformed lurk. We whispered and signed to each other in the darkening gloom, until we no longer needed words and laid back in a bed of fern, faces turned upwards, watching the patchwork of sky between the canopy high above turn from indigo to midnight blue and then merge dark into the tall trees, the cool air lulling us to sleep. 

The ax strikes and life reclaims as swift as the blade can cut. My hand brushes the damp surface of a lopped off tree stump in the woods down from the reservoir, and I stop to observe a platter of squirming, burrowing, scuttling, squirrelling, decaying life; three empty acorn shells evidence a previous luncheon. I have set the objective to notice more when I am on these walks, to seek out habitat changes and to learn and know the names of things. But always I surrender to just being, breathing in the light and air, the atmosphere. I feel happy on these walks, a sense of euphoria and lightness washing over. It feels good to leave aside the cerebral and to let the physical, the motion of walking awaken a realm of sensing and scanning. She doesn’t say but I know Jennie has arranged this walk pre-Christmas because she is aware I am struggling with sadness—a sadness caused by my natural melancholia and tendency to ruminate, and a much bigger life crisis. Battle hardened to general romantic crisis’ I am not so experienced with career rifts, and so I have withdrawn and pulled down the blinds. But it won’t do and I know, as Jennie does, that the moor will help to alleviate the mental muddle I am in, and even if the effects are only temporary, it will store up the memory bank, to plunder and remember during the times when I get locked in. 

Ten minutes into the walk Jennie spots a Heron standing stock still in the woods by the river Meavy. Camouflaged against the bare trees, charcoal grey and ochre, we watch it rise and drift across the valley. Great grey wings, near 6ft in span, pulse slowly, its head and neck arrow-like thrust forward piercing space. It has a primordial presence. In mythology it is linked to the sacred Ibis, a bird revered by the Egyptians as representing Thoth—their god of wisdom, writing and magic. I take it as a good omen. The wood is dazzling, ice cold water tumbling down from Burrator reservoir. Wood, rock and foliage glisten from the early morning downfall, the ground water-logged from weeks of incessant rain. The element of water is strong here, 4210 mega litres—enough to quench the thirst of a city and the surrounding hinterland—held in check by towering granite slabs that form a 23.5 metre high gorge. Completed in 1898 and extended in 1923, the reservoir pools run-off from the surrounding moor and water from the river Meavy. Standing downstream from the dam in the wooded valley I hope the granite wall holds strong. The sun breaks through and turns up the volume on colour. Saturated greens: acid, moss, lichen, pine and fern. We watch a man on the other side of the steep valley, oblivious to our presence, pissing freely, a spray of urine forming a perfect arc; glinting golden droplets catching the sunlight.

Having learned nothing from our previous walks we decided not to take the obvious path and instead followed the course of the river upstream. This meant having to clamber over rocks and fallen trees, until we reach the imposing dam wall and are forced to scrabble up the steep bank, thick with mud, to get back on the road. Jennie leads the way, an experienced hash runner not deterred by the muddy terrain, she turns into a sure-footed mountain goat, while I, slip-sliding, defy gravity and somehow fall up the slope. Walking over Burrator bridge we pass the man we saw pissing earlier and beam broadly, making sure we hold eye contact for a bit longer than comfortable for him. We then follow the road up to Sheepstor village, and—given we are women of ‘a certain age’—we are keen to nosey round St Leonards, the C15th village church. But sadly, the door is locked so instead we admire the Lych gate, a covered over a double gate with a lychstone to rest the coffin before entering (‘Lych’ or ‘lich’ meaning corpse in Old English). At the time I did not notice the foliate skull carving above the main door, only a little while later when we sat for lunch under a massive oak tree, which we reckoned to be near on 500 years old given the size of its girth, do I undertake a little online searching and read to Jen a short history of the church and its whereabouts.

So intrigued by what I find that I go back a couple days later, this time with my dog and younger children in tow. In particular I wanted to see the foliate skull above the porch. In recent years there has been a growing interest in Pagan symbology such as the ‘Green Man’ and the ‘Three Hares’, several examples of which can be found in churches across Dartmoor. The ‘Green Man’ is usually represented as a carved face with foliage growing from the head, mouth, nose, ears and eyes. It is presumed to be a pre-christian Pagan symbol representing renewal and life—from death comes life—that has been absorbed into Christian ideas of resurrection and life after death. Often found in churches and cathedrals across Europe, its more macabre cousin, the foliate skull, is said to have appeared after the Black Death in the 14th century. The skull at St Leonards church is carved with ears of wheat sprouting from the eye sockets above an hourglass. The suggested date of its making is given as 1640 and it is suspected to have originally been part of a sundial. Now it sits behind glass in a small recess above the porch, and on this particular day was partially obscured by condensation so I could not see the inscription incorporated into the sculpture: ‘UT HORA SIC VITA’ (As the hour so life passes), ’MORS JANUA VITA’ - (Death is the door of life) and ‘ANIMA REVERTET’ (the soul will return).

As a motif representing vegetation, rebirth and resurrection, the ‘Green Man’ archetype is found in many cultures across the world, including the ancient Egyptian God Osiris, the god of fertility, agriculture, death and resurrection, who is often depicted as green skinned, alongside several green figures found in Nepal, India, Iraq and Lebanon, the latter dated to the 2nd century. I wonder how far the Green Man story goes back? As a cross cultural archetype it suggests a commonality of belief about the life cycle that is interconnected with the land. Whilst its incorporation into ecclesiastical architecture alongside other apparent Pagan motifs, points to the fluidity and evolution of belief systems, which subsume and build on pre-existing ideas, even when the incoming authority seems most rigid and contained. Most of the what we know about the ‘Green Man’ is based on speculation and supposition, as we have no historical evidence as to why and for what reason they were made. Instead the ‘Green Man’ motif has been reclaimed and remoulded at various points in history from Romanticism to Neo-Paganism and most recently as a symbol for the environmental movement.

A little village church under the shadow of the looming granite tor on the southern edge of Dartmoor, connected through culture and shared beliefs with a much wider world and history. If the Green Man does not provide enough evidence of these interconnections, then the large sarcophagus, protected by iron railings in the churchyard, and housing the remains of James Brooke, First Rajah of Sarawak (29 April 1803 – 11 June 1868) alongside two other White Rajahs should affirm the connections without doubt. It was whilst peeling the shell off hard-boiled eggs, freshly laid by my chickens that morning, at the foot of the big oak tree that Jennie realised that she had previously encountered the story of James Brooke whilst travelling through Borneo with her son. A sultry jungle, 7,000 miles away on the other side of the world tied by empire and colonialism, violence, power and trade to this peaceable village. I find out a little more about James, the questions concerning his sexuality and love for men stick with me more than the dates, titles, skirmishes and conquests. I go back again to the church on new years day and with fresh snow on the ground, sipping steaming hot chocolate on the bench overlooking Brooke’s slab of a tombstone, I retell the story of what I know to my children. They hang off the iron railings and argue over the remains of the Christmas chocolate, I don’t think they were listening.

SC

Reading: Lyon, N., (2016) Uprooted: On the trail of the green man (London, Faber & Faber).

https://www.legendarydartmoor.co.uk/sheepstor_church

[onlylovekpop]

Fly | Park Ji Min | One-Shot

jimin (bts) + you (reader) word count: 12,842 warnings: there’s no violence in here but if survival scenarios make you uncomfortable there is a mild dose of that of course there is some smut but it’s nothing too rough it’s vanilla plus there is quite a bit of cussing hey he’s a pirate it is to be expected a/n: the long awaited pirate!jimin fic is finally here good grief i feel like i have been working on this for years but it’s only been a couple months lol anyway hope you all enjoy i really like how it turned out but i will go ahead and add there will be no sequel or extra installments

I remember the taste of salt water in my mouth. Filling my lungs. Burning my eyes.

Hands pushed firmly to my chest. The distant sun warmed my skin.

I imagined myself floating far into the depths of the seas, to the core of the world. Spirals of darkness wrapped themselves around me and tugged my body further into its womb. The remnants of a ship fell in pieces alongside me, ever to be forgotten.

My lips parted and air was forced against my tongue. Cold fingers clutched my heart and squeezed, pumping back to life.

With a gasp, water burst from my throat, escaping my airways. My eyes opened to a sun that seemed to be careening toward me. I could feel a pillow of sand beneath my back.

And I came face-to-face with the reason I was both alive and so very close to death.

“Thought I lost you,” exclaimed Jimin, droplets streaming from his drenched hair.

I coughed up the rest of the water in my chest and realized I had grabbed his arms as they propped him over me. And I was also quick to realize how close his lips were to mine.

My imagination danced with a vision of him breathing air into my mouth and for a moment, I remembered the feel of his soft lips against mine as I drowned inside myself.

Without hesitation, I pushed him away and sat up rather petulantly.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I asked, glancing around as I found myself on a small shore, waves lapping at my bare toes.

“Saving your life, I suppose,” he replied calmly, crouched at my side.

“Ironic, since this morning you were destroying it,” I snapped, gathering my dress in my hands and proceeding to my feet.

Jimin scoffed and rose with me, reminding, “I had every intention of returning you to your father once he paid our price. How was I to know he would send the entire navy to rescue you?”

“Perhaps because a pirate had stolen me away and pirates are not known for keeping people alive,” I hissed, sloshing from the beach and toward the grass.

The tropical world I found myself in at the moment was beautiful, to say the least. Everything was the most vibrant shade of green. The sky gleamed a clear blue. Birds sang their symphonies to the breeze. But I loathed it all, under the circumstances.

Jimin trudged after me and said, “I already explained myself. I’ve never lifted my hand to a woman. Except under her skirt, of course.”

I rounded on him mid-stride, glaring fiercely before continuing on my way.

“Where are you going, princess?” Jimin asked a moment later.

“Far from you,” I hissed, nearly tripping over a fern bush. “And to find shelter.”

“Look here, missy,” Jimin called, sprinting to circle in front of me and stopping me in my tracks. “I don’t imagine you know much about surviving on an island…”

“An island?” I exclaimed, eyes wide. “You mean - there is no fort or outpost here?”

Jimin grinned with amusement at my reaction. “No, my dear,” he crooned. “There is nothing here. I know these islands as if I owned them. Which I may as well.”

Skeptical, I pressed, “How do you mean?”

“My crew and I have items stashed here,” he boasted, folding his arms across his chest and blatantly flexing his muscles as a distraction.

“Water, I would hope,” I insisted, ignoring the display. “And maybe some provisions.”

“Loot, mostly,” Jimin told me with a smirk. “But there is fresh game and plenty of fruits to be found. We will survive until someone comes looking.”

What he was proposing absolutely terrified me and I was agitated with the way he spoke so nonchalantly about the whole ordeal. I immediately turned on my heels and raced back to the shore, stopping knee-deep in the waves to survey the horizon.

And finding it empty.

“Hello!” I screamed to the winds, cupping my hands around my mouth to hope it would amplify the sound of my breaking voice. “Can anyone hear me?”

Jimin marched through the water and came to stand behind me, ever patient.

“That won’t help, darling. You are only wasting time,” he coaxed.

I whipped around, trudging through the sea to approach him. “Why should I expect you would help me survive? It’s clear you won’t be getting your ransom. There’s no reason for you to save me.”

“But I did, didn’t I?” he countered, finally showing impatience with me. “You would still be drowning in your own lungs if not for me. Not to mention - you think you just happened to land on this shore?”

My brow furrowed in surprise. “You pulled me ashore?”

“Damn right, I did. The moment I took you, you became my responsibility. Nothing changes that until you are back in your father’s care.”

His voice was firm. It altered my assumptions about him - that he was a free spirit who never took a day in his life seriously. By his tone and the look in his dark eyes, I realized the safest place for me on this island was at his side.

“Fine,” I relented with head held high. “Lead on.”

Jimin flashed a grin at my surrender and bowed rather extravagantly before me. “Yes, m’lady,” he said, winking as he passed by me and toward the shore.

For a moment, I glared at his back, inevitably tracing my eyes over the black tattoos across his muscly shoulders. Tears in his loose, white shirt left very little to be hidden from my eyes. Shaking my head in reproach at myself, I gathered my skirt and followed him.

“We should make camp near the coast,” I called out in his wake. “If any boats near, we want to be able to see them.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Jimin replied. “I like that spot up there for our camp. It’s a bluff with shading from the trees.”

An inevitable thought crossed my mind which prompted me to add, “And we can spot any foes below.”

Jimin faced me briefly, chuckling. “Are you expecting foes on an uninhabited island, princess?”

“Aren’t there wild animals?”

“Perhaps a wildcat here or there,” Jimin answered blithely. “Maybe a few boars.”

I smacked my lips together. “Mm, I do like pork ribs.”

“Boars are no picnic, missy,” he chided. “They will skewer you the moment they set eyes on you.”

Folding my arms, I smarted, “I’m no fool. I see your weapons.”

Jimin glanced down, referring to the pair of pistols on his hips. “Guns run out of ammo.”

“Then make your shots count,” I continued to fuss, then pointed at his blades. “You should give me one of your swords.”

The pirate scoffed, “I don’t think so.”

I scowled with annoyance and whined, “What if I need to defend myself?”

“You have me,” Jimin gleamed, patting his chest extravagantly. “I will defend you.”

“Of course, pirate,” I droned with a roll of my eyes.

We continued our trek across the beach, pilfering through remnants of the wreck for anything we could potentially use. The sun seemed to only grow hotter. Sweat gathered across the back of my neck. With the layers of my dress, I felt I was carrying an extra person. For nearly an hour, I grappled with the decision to remove it. Finally, with the heat and weight, I gave in.

Jimin lifted from where he had been crouched, watching me with interest, and asked, “What are you doing?”

Tugging at my dress, I replied, “I need to be able to move.”

“I like the way you move,” the pirate flirted; ever shameless.

“Stop that,” I barked. “Turn around.”

Jimin raked his eyes up and down my form, running his tongue across his teeth lewdly before pivoting around to put his back to me.

With a grumble, I tore at the fabric of my skirt until it gave way. Once I had disposed of all but one layer of my dress, I ripped a slit to my thigh and breathed in relief that my legs would finally have some ventilation.

“Are you done yet?” Jimin huffed impatiently.

“I am,” I answered a moment later, tying off a sash around my waist to still look vaguely appropriate.

Jimin turned, glancing at my changes and not uttering a word. I was shocked, having expected a bombardment of lewd comments laced with profanity.

He skipped forward, snapping off twigs with sparse leaves, and said, “We need to gather these to kindle a fire.”

I immediately reached for a shard of what had been my dress and spun it until I could use it as a pouch. “Here, I’ll hold it.”

Jimin handed me what he foraged and I tucked it away. He warned that despite the raging heat, the nights would be cold. He then teased we would have to use my former skirts as a blanket.

“How much time do we have before nightfall?” I asked worriedly. “Do we have time to make shelter?”

The pirate waved me away and crooned, “Nothing to worry about, princess.”

“I’m not a princess,” I corrected.

He shrugged. “You may as well be.”

I tilted my head, finding his comment a bit curious.

Once we had gathered enough kindling for a fire, Jimin motioned me toward the nearby slope which would lead to the bluff overhead; our chosen site for a camp. By the time I had reached the place, I was panting for breath. My corset restricted my lungs, but I had no intention of removing it. I didn’t want to give Jimin any ideas.

Glancing up to the bluff, I gaped in surprise. There rested a small hut made from trees and brush.

“There’s already a…”

“Yes, yes,” Jimin interjected. “I told you, me and my boys keep a lot of loot here. Sometimes we spend the night.”

I exclaimed, “You had me worried we would be sleeping out in the open!”

“I told you there was nothing to worry about,” he reminded, gesturing forward again.

Glaring spitefully at him, I stepped into the open hut and was pleased to find the inside covered with furs. It was a tiny abode and the entire floor seemed dedicated to the animal pelts. Jimin took the pouch from me and began adding the twigs to the center of a rock-formed circle, one that had hosted many fires. It lay just beyond the opening to the hut.

Watching him carefully, I pressed a hand to my stomach, still trying to catch my breath for what felt like hours. I arched my back and wobbled, attempting to loosen the garment just enough to let me take a full inhale.

“You can lay down and rest, darling,” Jimin called as he prepared the fire. “I’ve got it handled.”

“I can’t… breathe,” I murmured, feeling lightheaded as my lungs set to a panic. The hike up the slope had been too much.

Jimin dropped everything in his hands and raced inside, facing me squarely and asking, “What? What happened? Is it from the water?”

“It’s the damned corset,” I snapped, flushing when I realized I had sworn aloud.

Jimin noted my reaction and smirked with amusement. “Take the damned thing off,” he quipped.

“I can’t. It would be inappropriate,” I murmured timidly.

Jimin furrowed his brow and teased, “Forgive me for the assumption, but isn’t breathing a priority for women?”

I wanted to roll my eyes and glare at him, but I didn’t have the energy or concentration as I devoted my time to clawing at the garment strangling my lungs. “You ask me to choose between my well-mannered upbringing and breathing?” I panted.

“Yes.”

My vision pulsed with the threat of fainting, the last warning my body would give me. I nodded rapidly and tore my nails at the corset, shouting, “Get it off. Get it off of me!”

Jimin tenderly grabbed my shoulders and held me in place to move behind me. I heard him pull a dagger from his boot and felt the slightest pressure as he ran the blade down the ties across my spine. The moment it was free I ripped the corset away and gaped for air, plopping down to the furs and pressing a hand to my racing heart.

“Better?” Jimin asked coyly with a tilt of his head.

I nodded.

“I suppose by nightfall I will have helped you out of all your clothing,” he smarted, lifting the mood.

“You are uncouth,” I huffed with a scowl.

Jimin grinned with delight and asked innocently, “Is that dirty slang I’ve not yet come across?”

Waving him away, I barked, “I will take you up on the offer of resting. If you abandon me in my sleep, I suppose I won’t hold it against you.”

Jimin snickered. “You’re a stubborn woman… I love stubborn women.”

I grumbled before rolling to my side, curling in the furs and settling comfortably.

When I awoke, I grumbled at the heat. My body was slick with sweat and I grimaced at the feeling of my hair clinging to my neck. As I came to, I realized a pair of arms was wrapped around my waist.

“What are you doing?” I shouted, pushing Jimin away. He had been nestled against my back, smothering me with his body against mine.

Jimin lurched out of sleep and exclaimed, “What? What is it?”

“You!” I yelled, pulling the furs up to cover myself, though I was in the same undergarments Jimin had seen me sport the day before.

Jimin sat up, facing me squarely and rubbing his swollen eyes with a tight fist. “What did I do?” he asked, as if he genuinely had no clue.

“You were holding me,” I explained, suddenly awkward.

Jimin shrugged and tiredly whined, “You were shivering. I was trying to keep you warm.”

“I was?”

“Mm,” he replied, flopping back down into the furs and sprawling on his stomach. In a matter of seconds, he drifted back to sleep.

“Unbelievable,” I huffed, eyes narrowing with annoyance.

All the commotion had me wide awake at the moment. There was no possible way for me to fall back to sleep. Wobbling to my feet, I trudged out of the hut, greeting the crisp morning air with a deep inhale. I stretched out my arms and my back, humming with pleasure at the way my muscles relaxed.

Glancing down, I noticed the heap of canteens, assuming Jimin must have phished them from his loot pile while I slept. Opening the first, I took a whiff and coughed. It was strong alcohol. The fourth canteen I checked turned out to be water and I drank some with relief.

Turning back to the hut, I sighed as Jimin snored. He must have made a number of treks between his stash and the abode while I rested. He deserved as much sleep as he could get. Determined not to disturb him, I slung the canteen over my shoulder and strode my way down the slope toward the shore.

For a little while, I sat in the sand, staring longingly at the horizon as I expected a fleet of ships to come to me. My father would never allow his reputation to take such a blow. His daughter - his only child - captured by pirates. He would move heaven and earth to have me returned. Not necessarily because he loved me, but because he would look weak and incompetent otherwise.

At that thought, I glared at the ocean and lifted to my feet. As I turned and made my way toward the trees, I took twisted pleasure in the newly found freedom I had and realized how happy I was to be out of my father’s chains. Sure, this wasn’t the ideal scenario I had in mind, but it still brought a smile to my face that here I was - out of a corset and doing as I pleased. It was a fantasy I thought would never come true.

There was a little skip to my step as I perused the bushes and trees for their fruits. Wherever I was, the land was unimaginably fertile. I packed many fruits in the section of my skirt, careful not to bruise them, and wondered which was Jimin’s favorite. Then, I silently chastised myself for caring about his preferences.

Approaching a tree, I grinned with joy when I realized it was littered with mangoes. Setting down my spoils, I pulled my skirt out of the way and began the short climb. After collecting a few, I sank my teeth into one of the fruits and giggled like a kid as its juice ran through the corners of my mouth. Hell, I had no one to impress. I didn’t bother dabbing the droplets where they gathered under my chin.

Scooping up my pouch of fruits, I decided I had gathered enough and should return to the hut when a twig snapped behind me. I whirled around, hair standing on end at the back of my neck. I was about to call out for Jimin, hoping that maybe he had followed and was using this opportunity to get a little scare out of me.

Then, a boar stepped out from the brush.

The only boars I had ever come across in my lifetime were on spikes over roaring fires, turned rotisserie style and seasoned with salt and pepper. This creature was very much alive and probably weighed three times more than I did.

“Oh, god,” I muttered, freezing in place, hoping beyond hope that the beast didn’t see me.

That hope vanished when the thing locked eyes with me. It stared me down and began to approach, one hoof in front of the other as it picked up speed. Survival responses kicked in and since freezing didn’t work, I turned and ran.

The boar thundered behind me. I could hear its hooves tearing through the ground. As I glanced over my shoulder, I didn’t see the root of a tree and fell hard to the ground. As fast as I could, I rolled to my back, holding up my hands to protect myself. The animal charged in my direction and I screamed at the top of my lungs.

A shot rang out. The boar fell at my feet, sliding through the dirt from its own momentum.

Slowly, I lowered my hands, panting for breath and searching in the direction of the gunfire to find Jimin stomping toward me, sliding a pistol back into its holster on his hip.

“You sure have a big pair on you,” Jimin quipped, though I wasn’t sure to what he could be referring. He reached out his hand and after glancing at his sun-kissed fingers, I took the offered help and let him pull me to my feet with ease.

Gulping as I glanced over the boar, Jimin stepped into my line of sight and reprimanded, “Why didn’t you sleep in? It’s not like we have anywhere to be.”

“I was awake,” I replied timidly. “And I didn’t want to disturb you.”

Jimin smiled and crooned, “Awe, you’re sweet.”

I recoiled and scanned the ground, sighing at the fruit I had collected being strewn about. Jimin followed my eyes and snatched a mango from the pile, taking a big bite out of it and much like me, not giving a damn as the juices raced down his jaw.

“Went fruit picking, did ya?”

“Mm,” I hummed, salvaging the fruits that weren’t ruined and returning them to my pouch.

“Well, looks like you’ll get those pork ribs you wanted.”

“You’re an amazing shot,” I commented, realizing the bullet had gone straight through the boar’s forehead.

“Anything less than a kill shot wouldn’t have slowed him down, sweetie,” Jimin told me smugly. “You stepped into his territory. He was gonna maul you.”

“Thank you for that,” I groaned, turning on my heels and heading for the hut.

Jimin watched me go and took another bite of his fruit.

The two of us worked together to make a contraption that would haul the boar. Using one of my skirt layers, Jimin was able to load the beast on it and dragged the thing behind him toward the shore. I made a fire as best I could while Jimin prepared the meat.

We talked a lot that day. As we ate what I had gathered and waited for dinner to cook, Jimin tried to get my attention with his stories of piracy. At first, I would have nothing of it, but he kept feeding me little bits of his adventures and eventually, my curiosity couldn’t take any more prodding. By the time evening began, I was curled alongside the fire, laughing until my stomach ached.

“Okay, how about this one time I walked into a tavern in Tortuga with a white rabbit, a head of cabbage, and a stick of dynamite,” Jimin started.

“Jimin, the pig!” I exclaimed, noticing our spoils had caught fire.

“Shit,” Jimin shouted, quickly hauling the meat off of the flames. “I think dinner is ready!”

The following morning, I awoke with a full stomach to birds singing. Jimin had moved at my side and I opened my eyes to see him standing with a long stretch.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, running a hand through my hair.

Jimin shook his head and answered, “I’m just gonna make another run to the loot. If memory serves, there a few more useful things in there.”

Sitting up, I nodded and said, “I will stay here until you get back. Though, I really want to take a bath.”

“There’s no tub on this island, honey. Take a dip in the salt water and you’ll be fine.”

“Alright. I can settle for that,” I told him, lifting to my feet and following the pirate outside.

“I’ll be back soon,” Jimin said.

“Be careful,” I replied, stopping abruptly.

Jimin turned to me a smiled, bowing slightly and quipping, “As you wish, my lady.”

I rolled my eyes and watched him saunter away.

Following his suggestion, I approached the shore and took long, wary glances in every direction. When I felt the coast was clear, I stripped off my garments and dove stark naked into the warm waters. For a few luxurious minutes, I paddled around the shallow pools, occasionally stepping on the reefs and scaring small clusters of fish.

“Sorry,” I apologized, then giggled as before I could finish uttering the word, the fish had quickly returned and began investigating my toes. They didn’t seem too afraid of people. I imagined Jimin spent many hours in these streams and probably played with them on more than one occasion, given they weren’t big enough to eat.

“Are you apologizing to fish?”

The blood drained from my face and on instinct, I dropped lower into the water until only my head was above the surf. Though I failed to remember the water was crystal clear.

“Maybe,” I replied to Jimin, rolling my eyes as he stood at the shoreline and dropped his two large bags of loot.

“Well, if your bath is over, I brought you some fresh clothes,” said Jimin, perusing one of the pouches. “There’s a bunch of dresses in some of the trunks.”

“Anything that doesn’t have a corset is fine by me,” I told him, swimming toward shore.

Jimin rose with a white, skimpy outfit in hand and I snorted my distaste.

“That’s something a tavern girl would wear,” I exclaimed.

“It’s white and the material is thin,” replied Jimin calmly. “Which means it will keep you from overheating. Plus, there’s another petticoat thingy in here.”

“Fine. Thank you,” I whined. “Now, turn around.”

Jimin smiled and did as told, putting his back to me and holding the new dress draped over his arm. For a moment, I merely watched him, expecting he would laugh and dart around to see me in all my naked glory.

When he didn’t move, I clambered out of the water and snatched the garment, racing to scramble into it. Though I would never admit it, the dress fit me well and the gossamer feel of the material against my skin was a sweet relief.

“You can look now,” I told Jimin, fastening a red sash around my waist that had been peeking out of the top of his bag.

“A tavern dress never looked so good,” Jimin flirted after taking a quick glance at me.

Before I could reply, Jimin returned his attention to the loot and to my surprise, pulled out a beautifully encrusted bow. I was even more shocked when he handed the weapon to me.

“Where did you get this?” I asked with wide eyes. “It’s stunning.”

“Found it in a schooner of the Royal Na…” he suddenly stopped himself and waved his hand. “You don’t need to know that. Forgot I stashed it with the rest of the loot. Thought it would make a nice decoration on the wall of my cabin.”

My brow furrowed and I droned, “Why do you assume I know how to use a bow?”

“I know rich daughters of powerful men are taught aesthetically pleasing skills to attract future wealthy husbands,” Jimin taunted. “Am I close?”

I had discreetly readied a shot and fired it immediately. The arrow whizzed past his head and struck a narrow tree behind him.

“Yes, you know everything there is to know about me,” I retorted. “Spoiled, rich girl who has no say in the man she must share a bed with for the rest of her life.”

Jimin shifted his weight in surprise.

I had said too much and lowered my face, hiding my flushing cheeks and murmuring, “I don’t assume what life you have, Jimin. I acknowledge you are a pirate, but I have not insulted you. Afford me the same courtesy, please.”

“I’m sorry,” Jimin replied quickly.

“Don’t apologize,” I interjected, brushing past him and returning to the hut to hide.

There was an awkward tension between us for the rest of the day. Part of me wanted to find a way to break it. Jimin did, too. He constantly glanced at me and mulled over what to say. I could read the furrowed lines on his face. Wrinkles creased his forehead when he grew pensive. I found it adorable and endearing.

Without our usual banter to keep the mood light, my thoughts turned dark. I imagined dying on this godforsaken island, curled in the fetal position until my bones turned to dust, taken away by the winds.

Anxiety set in and hopelessness with it. I looked to Jimin and he seemed at ease, shuffling in and out of the hut as he prepared kindling for fire as the evening grew closer.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I bent my knees and wrapped my arms around them, hiding my face as moisture threatened my eyes. I felt apologetic. What if my father had given up the hunt? I could imagine him returning home and telling his friends and associates that I had been lost to the sea forever.

Rising to my feet, I sprinted out of the hut, nearly knocking Jimin over in my haste. As I barreled down the embankment, I could hear him shouting my name, giving chase as I made for the water.

Splashing into the shallows, I stopped knee-depth and screamed, “Please, save us! Someone save us, I beg you!”

Water sloshed behind me as Jimin came to stand a few feet back. He said nothing as I shouted at the top of my lungs, pleading with anyone that could possibly hear me.

Jimin spoke my name gently a moment later. He sounded sympathetic and raw.

Turning to face him, I trudged in his direction, gathering my skirt in both hands as it weighed me down. “It’s been days,” I whimpered, tears streaming down my face.

“There, there, little lady,” Jimin coaxed, patting my back once I was within reach.

I wiped my wet cheeks roughly with the back of my hand. “Are we gonna die out here?” I asked, voice trembling.

Jimin was within arm’s reach of me and he stepped closer. For the first time, I didn’t back away. Part of me wanted him to embrace me, hold me. Something.

Instead, he told me, “My boys, those that survived, will come here eventually. Our loot is here.”

“You’re sure?” I questioned, sniffing back more tears.

“Yeah, I think… I’m sure they looked for me. Maybe they’ve given up hope by now. But at some point, they’ll get back to our way of life. They’ll sack something and they’ll come here for storage. That’s what we do,” Jimin explained softly.

I nodded my understanding and focused on getting some of my composure back. It wasn’t like me to be emotional in this way. I had been taught to never show my feelings. I was a woman and frankly, how I felt was of no one’s concern.

But Jimin was concerned. I could see with the way he looked at me. He asked me what I was thinking and what I was feeling rather frequently. I wasn’t used to this and I didn’t know how to answer.

Then, I realized how I must look - crying like some naive little child. I quickly moved to hide my face and began, “I’m sorry. I won’t make you watch me do something like this again. Please, forgive me.”

“Are you apologizing for crying?” Jimin asked and I was surprised at the sternness in his voice.

I glanced up and replied, “Yes, I…”

“Don’t ever do that again,” he whispered, reaching forward and dabbing at my cheeks with a handkerchief he had pulled from his pocket.

At first, I bristled at the contact. It was foreign to me. Someone touching me so gently. For a moment, I stuttered. I had no idea what to say.

“Tears are nothing to be ashamed of,” Jimin said softly, handing me the little cloth to keep. “It’s good to cry and let it all out every now and then. I know I do.”

“But you’re a man,” I spoke, curious.

Jimin chortled. “Men cry. We cry like babies. Don’t ever let a bastard try to convince you otherwise.”

I laughed and Jimin grinned from ear to ear.

“Hey, there she is!” he exclaimed, sliding his fingers under my chin and tipping my head up a little higher in one swift motion. “You’re gonna be okay, princess.”

With a sigh, I felt his smile and his words warm a part of my heart that had never known anything other than bitter cold. Stepping forward, I wrapped my arms around Jimin’s waist in a hug and rested my cheek against his chest. He stiffened at first but immediately brought his muscly arms around me, locking them behind my back.

“What’s this for?” he asked bashfully.

“For treating me like this,” I replied quietly. “For being kind.”

“Oh.”

Suddenly, I felt his hands in my hair before he grasped my cheeks, pulling me back and allowing himself to look at my face. I met his penchant gaze and something came over me. No one had ever stared at me the way he did and I could see the reflection of the world in his eyes.

“Will you ever have the desire to kiss me?” I asked softly.

Jimin blinked rapidly in surprise before whispering, “I am all desire, but not enough courage.”

“I have enough for both of us,” I replied hurriedly.

Lifting to my tiptoes, I pressed my lips to his and moved my hands to cup his jaw much like he had held mine. Jimin wobbled on his feet, as if he had temporarily lost his balance, before grasping my waist and kissing me back.

Heat flushed from the crown of my head to my very toes and I pulled away, taking a shaky step back and searching for words. “I, um, sorry,” I rambled.

“No, it’s okay. I…” Jimin started.

I interrupted, “That canteen with the strong smelling stuff. What was that?”

Jimin smirked and answered curiously, “Rum.”

“I need that,” I exclaimed, turning on my heels.

Jimin watched me sprint for the hut and laughed before giving chase.

We sat on the array of furs and passed the canteen back and forth, watching the sun set until the stars arrived. The moon was full and it illuminated the waters that surrounded us.

“Have you ever drank before?” Jimin asked as he handed me back the rum.

I took another gulp and hiccuped before replying, “Wine. Once. I got in so much trouble.”

“Okay, lightweight,” he teased, taking the canteen from me. “Might be time for you to move on to water.”

“That’s not fair,” I whined.

“You’re drunk,” Jimin informed, stashing the alcohol behind him.

“I am not,” I replied, indignant.

“Are we gonna talk about that kiss?”

Blinking through confusion, I asked innocently, “What kiss?”

Jimin tapped my nose, snaring my attention, and sang, “You kissed me on the beach.”

Gazing up at the empty ceiling, I wobbled back and forth. Then, I shamelessly slurred, “I don’t remember that.”

Jimin wrinkled his nose as he practically giggled and pressed, “Yes, you do.”

I was suddenly very aware of his body next to mine and I angled to face him, our crossed legs touching. “I should have asked your permission to kiss you,” I told him flatly.

Jimin snickered and said, “While I appreciate your adorable manners, you can kiss me whenever the hell you want.”

I wiggled my eyebrows. “Like now?”

To my surprise, he sternly said, “Except now.”

“What?” I exclaimed with disappointment. “Why?”

“Woman, you’re drunk. Your decision making privileges have been suspended until morning.”

I bit my lip and raked my eyes up and down his body, whispering, “I had never kissed anyone before. Don’t want to kiss me again, Jimin?”

“Of course, I do,” Jimin replied in an instant. “I’ve wanted to kiss you every minute of every day since we landed on this place.”

Smiling, I shuffled a little closer and crawled into his arms, straddling his lap and holding his face in my hands. Hiccuping unceremoniously, I wriggled from my drunkenness, but I was comforted by his steady grip around my waist.

“I feel things for you,” I stuttered, narrowing my eyes as I searched his face for an answer.

Jimin blushed sheepishly and fought a smile; one of those broad, blinding smiles that makes his eyes scrunch. I didn’t realize how much I liked when he did that until then.

“What kind of things?” Jimin asked, after I hadn’t spoken again.

I blinked rapidly, the room spinning in wild, untamed circles around me. “You make me feel safe. And you let me…”

Trailing off again, Jimin shook me gently, hinged on every word I had to say. “Let you what?” he pressed.

I brushed my fingertips over his brow, pushing away some of his black hair out of his eyes. “You let me live,” I whispered at last. “You let me be… me. And you’re the first person to look at me and actually see me.”

The expression on Jimin’s face changed. He stared at me in wonder and whispered my name tenderly.

That was all it took for me to crash my lips on his and I smirked while listening to him try to whine my name against my mouth. I giggled and outright laughed when he spun me to my back on the furs. To my surprise, he didn’t join me. Jimin plopped back at my side and rested his head on his hand.

“You stole a kiss,” he chastised playfully.

“It was the rum. Makes me brave,” was my excuse.

Jimin shook his head and replied, “I think you’re brave anyway. You just finally get the chance to be.”

“I like that,” I murmured, gazing up at the ceiling of our hut as the room spiraled further out of control.

Jimin watched how my eyes grew tired and he pulled a fur over me like a blanket.

“Are we moving?” I asked innocently, slurring through my words.

Jimin chuckled and said, “No, that’s just you. But it will stop in a minute.”

My eyes fluttered rapidly as I questioned, “It will?”

“Yeah, when you pass out.”

“Oh.”

The next morning, I awoke to the less than glamorous sensation of drool rolling down my chin. My mouth had been gaping open as a I snored like an insufferable drunk. Snorting to my senses, I propped myself up on my elbows and dabbed at my face, ashamedly wiping away the saliva and frantically trying to do so before Jimin caught a glimpse.

Wobbling to my feet, I managed my way to the opening of the hut and peered outside. With no sight of Jimin, I inched to the edge of the bluff and finally spotted him in the water. With his pants rolled up over his knees and his shirt discarded to the rocks on the sand, he held a spear over his shoulder before thrusting it into the depths and returning with a large fish. My heart leapt as I thought about the small, colorful fish that often danced around my toes when I bathed over the reefs, but the creature Jimin caught looked the type to eat my little companions. Suddenly, I was in the mood for seafood.

Returning to the interior of the hut, I proceeded to braid my hair to make it more manageable. After smoothing out the pelts and my dress, I waited for Jimin to arrive with breakfast while I did my best to grapple with the thumping in my skull. No more alcohol for me for a while, I decided.

“Good morning, good looking,” Jimin sang as he approached the hut. Given his words, I could safely assume he hadn’t seen the way I’d been snoring.

“Morning,” I greeted, stepping outside and offering to hold his two spears for him to prepare the fire.

“These big boys are gathering near the reef, no doubt trying to feast on those pretty little things you like swimming with,” Jimin told me nonchalantly.

My cheeks flushed that we had shared the same thought. “Are these fish tasty?” I asked curiously, eyeing the gigantic things.

Jimin shrugged. “Yeah, throw some salt on ‘em, roast ‘em over the fire. They’ll do.”

I handed the first spear to his outstretched hand and watched him prepare to spic it over the fire. When he had finished, Jimin rose and flashed me a smile. “I assume you’re sober now,” he teased, approaching me.

“Mm, I think so,” I replied with embarrassment.

Jimin wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me close, brushing his nose against mine. “Then, can I have a kiss?” he asked in the cutest voice I had ever heard him make.

“Of course,” I whispered shyly, giggling at the affection as he chastely kissed my lips and then proceeded to peck my nose and forehead afterward.

“I like kissing you,” he growled against my ear, pressing a lightning fast, open mouthed kiss on my neck.

A shiver rushed down my back at the feel of his wet lips and the soft catch of his breath on my neck and I suddenly ached for him to do that again at least a thousand times more. But before I could pose the request, he grinned at me with a scrunch of his nose and returned to preparing our breakfast.

The day was different for us. The banter was flirtatious. I accepted his advances at every turn. Unsuspecting kisses were shared between us at each possible opportunity.

As the sun set, Jimin and I sat at the waters’ edge, our legs in the surf. He spoke of the places he’d seen, the exotic wonders of the world he had experienced. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. The way he detailed his appreciation and respect for the earth was something I had never seen in another person.

The men I was accustomed to talked of the world as if it were their personal property. Not Jimin. He acted as if it was an honor and a privilege to see the secrets our planet had to offer.

For a pirate, he was incredibly gentle. I then realized that was the word to always come to mind when I thought of Jimin. Gentle.

With the moon holding sway, we retreated to the hut for warmth. The mood changed when Jimin asked, “Why do you never share any stories of your life?”

“Hm?” I questioned.

“I tell you of my experiences. You share nothing.”

“Oh, silly pirate,” I teased. “You don’t want to know the luxuries I’ve had to endure in my lifetime.”

Of course, I spoke with disdain and hatred, but Jimin failed to read my tone. He must have thought I was patronizing him, treating him as if he were beneath me.

“I’m not like you,” Jimin suddenly snapped. “I wasn’t born to wealth and opportunity. I was handed a certain set of cards and I did what I had to do. I never asked anyone for anything. And I never gave a damn what anyone thought of me. Until you. I hate when you sometimes look at me the way they all do. Like I’m worthless. Like I’m less than human.”

My eyes widened in surprise and I stammered, “I never…”

Jimin lowered his head in shame and whispered, “When you look at me like that, it breaks what little heart I have.”

“I have never looked at you in disgust, Jimin. I stare at you with envy,” I rasped.

He glanced up quickly. “What?”

“I am young. I’ve barely lived. My father is fielding potential suitors and they are all the same; older and wealthy. I would be mere decoration on their arm, a young piece of meat with a prominent name to parade in front of other wealthy, powerful men. They would bed other women when tired of me. I would be expected to wed them, carry and birth their children, and raise them on my own. And my children would suffer my same fate.”

Jimin grimaced with anger and hissed, “If that is the life he wants for you, then he doesn’t deserve to call you his daughter.”

With a smile, I sighed, “When I was falling into the ocean depths, before you saved me, I was relieved. I had been given a taste of freedom and would have died a free woman.”

Jimin sobered and turned to face me, reaching for my hands and holding them affectionately in his own. “What is the life you want? Tell me everything,” he said with excitement. “I want to know.”

Relieved he wasn’t angry or hurt, I gazed aloft and began, “I want to travel. I want to see the world. I want to dance freely whenever I hear music. I want to bring babies into this life born from love and passion.”

When I paused, Jimin squeezed my fingers and insisted, “Tell me more.”

“I want to discover the world’s secrets,” I admitted with a shrug. “Maybe one. Perhaps, this island - your island - is my one secret I will be allowed.”

Jimin interrupted, “Your island.”

“What?”

“This is your island. I’m giving it to you.”

I snorted and reprimanded him, “How can you give me an island?”

“It’s mine,” he sang, pointing at himself and then gesturing toward me. “And I gave it to you.”

Smiling with joy, I whispered dreamily, “Maybe I can live here forever.”

“Can I live here with you?” he asked, coy.

I smiled, reaching forward to pull him closer to me for warmth. “Please do,” I whispered, our foreheads touching as he wrapped his arms around my waist.

Being this close, staring into his eyes, I couldn’t resist anymore. Colliding my lips into his, I cradled his face and kissed him like tomorrow would never come. And the heat of the night melted and blended into one memory.

For what felt like hours, I straddled his lap and and sucked on his tongue in my mouth. His arms flexed around my waist, hugging me tightly to his body. His skin burned against mine, but his every gentle touch made me shiver. Soon kisses weren’t enough. Our hands wandered. Though I had been cradling his face or raking my nails through his hair, eventually I moved lower, tangling my arms through his and massaging the muscles of his back and shoulders.

“Can I touch you?” Jimin asked, voice raspy.

I stared at him with a sheepish grin, delighted with how swollen his plump lips were. Sweat had begun to bead around his brow.

“Only if you promise never to stop,” I whispered, offering a kiss and settling deeper into his lap.

Jimin groaned in the back of his throat and squeezed my waist with his broad hands. His touch was firm, but always tender. He proceeded to knead at my hips, inadvertently causing my skirt to tug higher up my thighs.

Drunk off of how he made me feel, I hummed impatiently against his mouth, wanting him to touch me everywhere at once. Reaching to grab his wrists, I broke from his lips to stare into his eyes as I moved his hands to the soft, exposed skin above my knees. Jimin fixated his gaze on me, mouth agape as he panted for breath. He watched me with such concentration, I wondered if this was painful for him.

Slowly but surely, I made his palms caress up my thighs, pushing them under my skirt until he found my bare hips.

“Touch me,” I sighed, breathless.

Jimin swallowed the lump in his throat and continued moving his hands after I released his wrists. He found my waist beneath the dress and in a swift movement, pulled me to my back beneath him. I giggled in surprise, feeling the layer of sweat across my skin when I sank into the pleasant furs underneath me.

“At any time, tell me to stop and I will,” Jimin told me sweetly, kissing my nose as he awaited my answer.

“I won’t,” I retorted, holding his biceps as he began kissing the side of my neck.

His licks and nips were loud from the gathering moisture we shared from the heat inside our retreat. My head pounded with adrenaline and warmth. I could sense how red my cheeks must have been.

“I’m sweating,” I snickered bashfully, biting my lip.

Jimin took my lip between his own before huffing, “I love it. I love how wet you feel against me.”

A shiver of pleasure raced through me at his words and I tipped my head back into the furs, closing my eyes and mewling as he sucked at the base of my shoulder.

Then, he moved south.

My hands gripped the pelts until my knuckles ached. Jimin kissed his way across my collarbones before tonguing the swell of my breasts. While I thought he would tear at my dress to reveal more of me, instead he continued on his path until his swollen lips stopped where my thighs met my hips.

The skirt had gathered high; barely covering my womanhood from his eyes. Gulping through my sudden onslaught of nerves, I focused on my fists tightly coiled in the furs while Jimin gingerly gripped my dress and pushed it just high enough to fully expose me to him.

“Jimin,” I whimpered, wondering what he must be thinking at the moment, but before I could ask, I could feel his hot breath on my mound.

“If I was you first kiss, m’lady,” Jimin murmured quietly. “Does that mean I’m the first one to see you like this?”

“Yes,” I answered immediately, borderline frantic for contact.

“And the first to ever touch you like this?”

My voice broke this time when I replied, “Yes.”

Jimin chuckled darkly and in a heartbeat, his mouth was on my lower lips.

A choked off gasp rolled down my tongue. He used his lips to find where I was most sensitive, first lapping at my folds before sucking on each side. When he moved upward, finding the hidden bundle of nerves and proceeding to press the flat of his tongue against it, I howled his name and shuddered beneath him.

Jimin grabbed my hips and I could feel him smiling against my heat, licking my entrance before returning to my bundle to swirl his tongue around it. Small, hopeless noises fell one after the other out of my mouth while he relentlessly sucked and lapped at the apex of my thighs.

“Jimin, I-I,” was all I could manage, bidding my legs to stop shaking under his ministrations.

His lips parted from my core with a lewd smack. My chest heaved as I tried to catch my breath, winching my eyes closed while Jimin traveled back up my body and pecked a few kisses on my neck.

“I’ll tell you now,” Jimin growled as he leered over me, clutching the strap of my dress and pulling it down. “I’ve been inside a number of women.”

“I don’t care,” I exhaled, half-sincere.

Jimin bit his lip as he slowly tugged the rest of the material down, revealing one of my perky breasts to him. “But I’ve never kissed a woman down there before,” he finally added.

“Oh,” I choked, keening loudly as he took my nipple in his mouth, sucking it briefly before pulling away with a pop.

“How was it?” he asked, grinning playfully as his hands settled over my breast, squeezing and kneading.

I trembled and said, “Good. Really good.”

Jimin proceeded to suck my hard nipple into his mouth again, running his tongue around it before breaking away to look at me for a reaction. My eyes were still closed and my head was tipped back. I was in some otherworldly place of trying to process how everything he did to me could feel this good.

“You wanna keep going, your majesty?” he teased.

I lifted my head, meeting his gaze, and snorted at the pet name. Then, my attention shifted downward to the obvious bulge in his pants. Propping myself up on my elbows, I brought my bare thighs around his hips and purred, “What comes next, Jimin?”

He rose to his knees, tearing off his shirt in one quick swoop. I mirrored his movements, kneeling to face him and yanking the dress up and over my head. The moment it was clear, Jimin smashed his lips on mine, sliding his tongue between my teeth.

Naked in his arms, I had never felt this way before. My heart was pounding uncontrollably. Every inch of my skin was doused with sweat. And between my legs, my core was pulsing with desire.

Jimin released me just long enough to unbutton his trousers, pushing them down his thighs. I glanced down and caught sight of his cock, so hard it curved toward his defined abdominal muscles.

“Can I touch it?” I asked curiously.

Jimin snickered. “You can touch it all you want,” he sang. “It belongs to you now.”

“Mm, an island and a cock,” I crooned, licking my lips. “This must be my lucky day.”

“Don’t tell me there’s a naughty, dirty girl down in there,” Jimin teased, pecking my lips swiftly.

“I think you made her,” I replied, smug. “Now why don’t you take her?”

Jimin pulled me to his chest, coiling his arms around me in an iron hold. I lost my fingers in his hair and tried my best to keep pace with his hot, hungry kisses. Gently, he lowered me back to the fur covered floor.

The older women back home, the caretakers responsible for looking after me, had told me many times what to expect on my wedding night. That I would lay on my back and try not to think of the pain as my husband would claim me as his property and fill me with his seed. The thought came to mind as Jimin propped himself over me, settling between my legs. But I felt no fear and certainly no remorse.

I wanted to cry with joy that I had been given the chance to choose my own fate. That I chose the man who would know how it felt to be inside me. Jimin had saved my life on more than one occasion. He genuinely cared for the thoughts racing through my mind. He made me feel safe and wanted. No matter what happened after this night, I was blissfully happy and I would never regret it.

The pain of him was of no consequence to me. I welcomed it. Jimin sheathed himself to the hilt in my core and let out the most beautiful moan he could possibly make. I sighed his name and held him close to me, kissing his neck while he shivered in my arms.

His hips moved tentatively, coaxing his length back and forth ever so slightly until I had stretched enough around him for a long, full thrust. I hissed his name, surprised at the way his hips had smacked into mine. Instinctively, I pulled my thighs higher, draping them round his waist and locking my ankles over his ass.

I whimpered incoherently as his cock sat deep within my walls, stroking firmly while he groaned lowly. The moment Jimin found a steady pace, he had no intention of letting it go. I held his shoulders while he buried his face against my neck, smacking his pelvis into mine each time he pulled back and drove back in.

My nails sank into his flesh, branding him as mine, and I clamped my teeth on his shoulder while he rutted his length into me. Soaked with sweat, the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the air followed by our own little noises of grunts and moans.

Then, that feeling returned. The same way I had felt when his lips were on my bundle of nerves. Shudders passed through me. My legs began to shake beyond my control. I clawed at the furs, lilting my head back as I bounced my hips to meet his.

“Oh, god,” I yelled, tipping away from him until my back started to curve.

Jimin snuck a hand into my hair, coiling the locks around his fist to keep me from escaping. “Almost there,” he snarled in my ear.

“No, Ji… min, I can’t,” I panted, sliding my legs from around his waist until I could interlock them with his own. My ankles tucked to the inside of his calves and I flexed with all my might, trying to sate the pulsing in my core.

Jimin lifted his face from my neck and his lips bumped into mine. “Baby, I’m about to come,” he stuttered. “Relax and let go.”

This was new to me. I didn’t know what was happening. But I was comforted by the way he was trembling, too.

The pressure was building and building. I thought I would burst and I fought it. Jimin felt my tensing and tugged at my hair before grabbing my jaw, forcing me to meet his eyes.

“Come for me, beautiful,” he demanded roughly. “Come all over this cock.”

And something ignited within me. The pulsating spilled over and radiated through my body. My mouth gaped open and my head rolled back as light burst behind my eyes. Every surface of my skin burned with warmth that spread to my very bones. For a moment, the shaking stopped as I went impossibly tight, like for a few seconds my body overloaded with sensation.

At the tightening of my velvet walls, Jimin moaned at the top of his lungs and seized my hips, driving his length as far inside me as it could go and emptying his load. I finally blinked through tears and came to my senses. The heat of his release coated my core and I was surprised how much I enjoyed the foreign feeling.

Jimin huffed my name shakily before resting his forehead against mine, shuddering in waves as I held him between my arms and legs.

As the high began to fade, the realization consumed my mind in an instant. I was on my back. Jimin was between my legs. My arms were hooked through his and my hands had settled on his muscly shoulders. His eyes were fixated on mine. Our mouths, open and panting desperately for breath, hovered together.

Finally, Jimin swallowed and his voice rasped when he asked, “Was that as good for you as it was for me?”

“Mm,” I replied, annoyed he even had to ask. He was trembling above me and sweat rolled down the sides of his face. I brought a hand to his forehead, brushing his hair out of the way tenderly. “You’re beautiful,” I whispered, clinging to him for dear life.

Jimin flashed his teeth with a bashful smile, chuckling briefly and teasing, “No one has ever called me that.”

“No one has ever seen you like this either,” I smarted, grinning victoriously.

He nodded, acknowledging that even though he had touched other women, none of them had made him feel what I did. “That is true,” he murmured, suddenly shifting in my arms.

“What are you doing?” I asked with annoyance.

Jimin met my eyes once more and explained, “If I stay inside you, I’ll get hard again.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I replied, tightening my thighs on his hips even harder.

“I don’t wanna hurt you, baby.”

I shook my head and kissed his brow. “You can’t hurt me.”

Jimin exhaled in defeat and after a pensive pause, whispered, “I was made for you.”

“I know,” I replied with a wink. “So stay.”

Jimin wasn’t lying when he said he would get hard again. The second round was harder and faster than the first. Despite my soreness from giving him my virginity, I couldn’t get enough of him. Pushing at his shoulders, I wasn’t satisfied until Jimin grasped my waist and gave me what I wanted, rolling to his back and allowing me to straddle his hips. Planting my hands on his firm chest, I rode him and rode him until I tilted my head back and moaned his name at the top of my lungs.

My thighs burned and my hips ached, but I couldn’t care less. My chest was tight as I could never quite catch my breath. Jimin kept his hands shifting from my breasts to my waist. At times I became too restless and erratic, he gripped my sides and steered me back into place.

It was like I had lost my mind and Jimin was the sole cure to my insanity. I wanted his touch at all times. I needed him to reach my high over and over. On top of him, I felt in control of the world. Especially with the way he gazed up at me as if he were at worship.

“God fucking damn it,” he swore and I realized that at any other time, I would have reprimanded him for his language. Not this time. This time, I glanced down at him and grinned with pleasure and pride.

As the arousal gathered to a boiling point between my legs, I leaned forward and braced my hands at opposite sides of his head, bouncing my ass up and down to keep his length sliding in and out of me. With the way it curved, his member was stroking something inside me I didn’t know I had.

“Jimin,” I whimpered, pressing my eyes closed and chasing my end as hard as I could.

Jimin seized my ass and urged me to ride him even rougher, letting out a groan before growling, “You are riding the fuck out of my cock, sweetheart.”

“Give it to me,” I whispered, voice breaking as I felt him bucking upward to meet my pace. “I need it, Jimin.”

He snaked a hand between my arms and grasped my jaw, pushing me upward until I curved my back. My eyes snapped open, widening further as the orgasm began and I flexed my thighs on Jimin with a vengeance, squeezing his length as it pushed deep inside me.

“Hngh, fu…” I started, but couldn’t finish as I climaxed above him.

For a few minutes afterward, we stared at the ceiling of our hut, waiting for our hearts to settle. Jimin played with my fingers, kissing each of my knuckles, which did little to soothe my desire for him.

With a groan, I whined, “We could have been doing that all along.”

“It was worth the wait,” Jimin replied blithely.

“I don’t care if no one ever finds us,” I joked, but briefly I felt at peace with the possibility.

Jimin chuckled and rolled to his hands and knees, hovering over me and stroking my hair out of my face. Then he said, “Love and passion.”

“Hm?”

He tilted his head and explained, “If you want children born from love and passion, that’s how it will feel.”

“Wow,” was all I could say.

The moments of boredom I had experienced before were long gone now. When Jimin and I weren’t sleeping or eating, we were tangled in each other. I soon grew accustomed to having an ever present ache between my thighs. The high was too good; we were addicted.

We lost all sense of time and space. For me, existence ended and began with the two of us. He became my world; the one person I could always count on to be there when I needed him.

Then, one morning not long after, Jimin raced into the hut and stirred me from my sleep. At first, I fussed, then I saw the light in his eyes.

“You and I, we’ve been here a while,” he told me, shaking his head with despair.

“Jimin, what is it?”

He paused, etching every detail of my face in his memory. Stealing a quick, chaste kiss, Jimin pulled back and whispered, “I love you.”

My eyes widened.

“I don’t expect you to say it back and no matter what you decide, this will always be your island,” Jimin said sweetly, tears gathering in his eyes.

“What do you mean, Jimin?” I questioned, growing scared.

Jimin opened his mouth to reply, but I grabbed his head and pulled him down for a kiss.

“Of course, I love you, too,” I murmured after releasing him.

Jimin grinned, turning to kiss my arm as I held his face.

“There’s a boat,” he finally revealed.

The two of us took our time striding hand-in-hand to the shore. Sure enough, a massive galleon lay in wait beyond the reef. And to my delight, the flag waving in the wind was black as night, stitched with a stark white skull and crossbones.

“Yours?” I asked with a smile.

“Mine,” Jimin answered, patting my butt.

A small boat approached us, two men raking the oars through the waters with haste. Once they had docked on the surf, both pirates embraced Jimin like they had feared the worst.

“Jesus, Captain,” exclaimed the boy named Taehyung. “We looked everywhere for you. After a couple of days, we started to think maybe the sea had finally beaten you.”

“Never,” Jimin retorted, motioning for me.

I stepped to his side and felt comforted by the way his arm wrapped around my waist.

“May I introduce you to the love of my life,” Jimin announced to his friends.

The two removed their hats politely and bowed with respect. My cheeks flushed at the gestures.

While the men loaded a few things into the boat, I gathered my skirt and stepped into the water, striding to the part of the reef where the colorful fish gathered. It took only a few seconds for the adorable things to investigate my toes, swimming wildly around me.

“I’ll come back and visit,” I told the tiny things kindly. “Stay away from the big fish with the big teeth.”

“Time to go, darling,” called Jimin, waving me toward him.

Bidding my farewells to the fish, I splashed through the water and let Jimin help me into the boat. I sat across from him as he worked the oars, arms and chest flexing with the effort. We said nothing as the two other pirates prattled on and on about the mischief Jimin had missed during his weeks on the island, but I doubt the captain was listening. He was too busy smiling at me.

The galleon daunted the ship that had sank into the ocean’s depths. This vessel was at least five times the size of its lesser and a horde of white sails stood at the ready. At the hull, a golden encrusted siren donned the wood, her hair trailing across the expanse of the ship’s chest.

“It’s beautiful,” I gleamed as Jimin helped me up from the ladder. On the deck, the group of pirates stopped in their tracks and gave me undivided attention, removing their hats and bowing deeply as the other two had done.

“Pirates worship women,” Jimin teased for my ears only, winking smugly.

Taehyung proceeded to apprise Jimin of the state of his ship and my lover bit his lip with pride.

“Good thing we were riding Guppy when all the mayhem went down. Big Girl was safe in the inlet,” Jimin shouted, earning loud yells from his men.

“Big Girl?” I questioned with amusement.

“You, my lady,” explained Taehyung. “Are riding the flag ship of a fleet.”

“A fleet?” I exclaimed, pinning my gaze to Jimin.

He shrugged, buoyant as ever. “I may have more than one ship, sweetheart.”

“Captain of a naval fleet of pirates,” I mulled, pacing toward him and failing to hide how impressed I was at the moment. “Why am I not surprised?”

Watching as the men bustled about the ship, each taking turns greeting their leader as if they had found their long lost brother, I felt warmth at the sight. This felt like a family. Sure, a slightly dysfunctional family that commits crimes on the high seas, but a family nonetheless.

Taehyung returned from below deck and approached me with a garment, one crafted of fine materials and laced with jewels. It was clearly a robe meant for a woman and I assumed it had been gathering dust somewhere.

“For you, my lady,” he offered sweetly. “The winds can be cold.”

I smiled and bowed my head in gratitude, turning my back to him and allowing Taehyung to slide the robe on to my back. I pulled my arms through and tied it around my waist, instantly comfortable in the heavy, royal material.

“It’s beautiful,” I commented, glancing down at the patterns of ebony thread through the cream colored silk.

“It suits you,” Jimin called out, returning to my side after inspecting the foremast with one of his men. He eyed my new ensemble and smiled with glee.

I thanked him and asked, “When do we set sail?”

“As soon as you give us a destination,” Jimin replied, pleased with my reaction that followed.

“Me?”I questioned in surprise.

“This ship will take you wherever you want to go. If you want to return home, I will give the order.”

The thought set a sour taste in my mouth and my nose wrinkled. “Or?” I prompted.

Jimin chuckled. “Or we can see where the wind takes us.”

Tapping my lip, I gazed up at the sky, imagining the places we could see together. For a moment, I felt small, like a speck of dust in the scheme of such a wide world. After a moment, I asked, “Where is your favorite place of all places, Jimin?”

Jimin met my penchant stare and the mischievous smile that took over his face was a sight scorched into my mind forever. Lewdly running his tongue across his teeth, he whispered, “Inside you.”

My hand collided lightly with his chest, but the hit did little to dissuade him from moving forward to gather me in his arms. Nose to nose, we were lost in each other. The universe could have melted around us and we never would have noticed or given a damn.

“Where do you want to go?” Jimin asked softly.

“Mm,” I hummed, glancing up at the ice blue sky. When I brought my attention back to him, I could see a childlike excitement dancing in his eyes.

After stealing a quick kiss, I replied, “Surprise me.”

Jimin flexed his grasp around my waist and announced, “You heard the lady. Haul the anchor!”

The men around us howled in perfect sync, signaling to their leader to prepare for movement.

Jimin took my hand and pulled me excitedly at his side, soaring up the short stairs until we were behind the bronze-encrusted helm. Jimin guided my fingers to rest on the wood, allowing me to hold it steady while the ship beneath our feet roared to life.

“Alright, princess,” Jimin spoke from his place behind me, locking me forever in his arms.

I snickered with delight at the pet name that had once annoyed me. Not anymore. For the first time, I actually felt like royalty.

Jimin brushed his lips over my neck and whispered, “You’re a free woman. Are you ready to fly?”

Gripping the posts of the wheel, I held tightly but with affection, caressing my fingertips along the engravings. I felt powerful and emboldened, and it was a feeling Jimin had gifted to me.

I would love him for eternity in return.

As I finally nodded my answer, Jimin moved his head above mine, kindly avoiding a loud shout next to my ear as he ordered, “Let her go!”

The main sail unfurled in all of its splendor and caught the air with a vengeance, coaxing the ship to the open, endless horizon.

And from that moment until my last, I was lost to the winds, an entity of the oceans, and according to my captain, a siren of the seven seas.

For more oneshots, click here for the masterlist.

Author’s Note: This fiction is written and owned by me. I monitor my work diligently and will take measures to protect my writing if it is stolen or plagiarized.

[thorne93]

Past VS Present (Part 8)

Prompt: Imagine being best friends with Loki, but this wasn’t always the case, since you’d grown up with Anakin Skywalker. And when Anakin needs your help one day,it starts a wave of events.

Word Count: 3084

Warnings: language (later in series), drama,

Notes: This takes place like right before Thor 1 and after-ish Reveng of the Sith (without Anakin turning) Thanks a million to my beta @like-a-bag-of-potatoes I couldn’t have finished this without you. and @queendivaofthedark you were amazing, thank you so much!

Crossover of Thor (Loki) and Star Wars

Tags (let me know if you want added or removed): @phantomgirl2298​  @munlis​ @cocosierra94​ @ultrarebelheart

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The following morning, you awoke blissfully. You’d never felt so refreshed. You stretched and grinned, recalling the feelings of last night. The sensation of Anakin’s warm skin on yours under the water, the feeling of his lips and mouth exploring yours, the thrill of jumping from the waterfall, the butterflies that had been hammering in your stomach all night long. Every second of it was perfect though, down to the last detail.

 But what did any of that matter? Anakin was still a Jedi, and he was forbidden to love, have attachments, be romantic.

 The realization of this tore at your heart more than you cared to admit. How could you let yourself do this? How could you fall for your best friend? How could you fall for two men? How could you be so naive and stupid?

The answer was simple though: Anakin was simply off limits. You just had to ignore your feelings. That would probably prove easier said than done though.

 You weren’t able to dwell long on your thoughts before a knock came to your door. Your heart skipped a beat and you half-wondered if it was Anakin coming to talk about last night.

 “One minute!” you called as you jumped up from bed and threw off your nightgown to grab some pants and a lightweight shirt to combat the heat of the day. You pulled your hair back with a ribbon and skipped to the door.

 “Good morning!” you sing-songed. “Oh, Loki,” you noted, seeing the tall prince before you.

 “Expecting someone else? Sorry to disappoint, Y/N,” he quipped.

 “No, Loki, I’m sorry. I just...You don’t usually come to my room. Is everything alright?”

 “Everything’s perfectly fine,” he noted as he walked in, leisurely strolling through your room, his hands behind his back, his eyes trailing on the high tresses of the ceiling, over to your wardrobe.

 “Oh, good. Would you like to go get breakfast?” you offered, ignoring your physiological response to him. He was in relaxed attire. Usually you saw him in his battle gear or his more formal attire, but he was in black pants and a green overjacket and lean boots.

 “Actually, I was wondering if you’d care to join me for a ride through the forest.”

 You thought a moment, biting your lip before asking, “Shouldn’t we be nearby in case the phantom army comes?”

 “We won’t be gone long. Besides, it’s only the two of us. Father still has the Jedi Knights, Thor, and the others.”

 You weighed the option. Technically he was right, it was just you two.

 “Alright! Let me get my cloak,” you said, knowing that the forest can become very chilly with wind and lack of sunlight. You grabbed a shimmering gray cloak and threw it over your arm as he offered you his. You happily took it, the butterflies slamming into your ribcage. He escorted you to the stables, and there he helped you mount your steed and then he mounted his.

 “So what’s the special trip to the forest for?” you questioned as you trotted along the cobblestones out of the palace’s protective zone, under the gate, and into the open area between the palace’s borders and the villages and cities. There wasn’t much nearby except for a few small homes and huts, but they were few and far between as each one of them were farms and had many acres.

 “I just wanted to show you some of the places I love to go. Heimdall can get you in and out of almost every realm, but the bifrost isn’t the only entrance in and out of here.”

 You shot him a coy smile. “What in Force’s name are you talking about?”

 “You’ll see. Patience.”

 His voice always had this air of seductiveness to it. There was this undercurrent of...mischievousness to every single word he spoke. You supposed that’s why he was the God of Mischief.

 “You know, I want to thank you for accepting me,” you suddenly said.

 Loki turned slightly in his saddle to you. “Accepting you? Y/N, why wouldn’t I accept you?”

 You shrugged. “I’m a peculiar person. I abandoned the society that took me in and made me who I am. I’m a female fighter, and we’re not exactly a common thing. I read more than most women.”

 “And did it ever occur to you that I like those things?” he challenged with a small smile.

 Your mouth screwed to the side. “Well, no.”

 “Y/N, have you not noticed I don’t exactly share the same sort of...hobbies as my brother and his friends.”

 “Well, yes, but--”

 “I ‘accept’ you because you are different. See, it’s one thing to be a fighter, but more often than not, people place their strength in one basket. Take Thor, he’s stronger than anyone on our little team, but he isn’t exactly cunning. Volstagg? He can chop down a tree with one swing, but he knows little about stealth. Hogun? He can sneak up on people sure, he’s very agile, but he struggles with more than one opponent. Sif? Don’t get me wrong, a lady warrior is superb. I’m proud of Sif--and you--for defying the odds set against you two. But Sif lacks knowledge of history and science. Whereas you, my dear, sweet Y/N, you possess knowledge, several languages, and I’ve first hand seen you bring giants to their knees.”

 His words stunned you. You knew you and Loki both favored books a bit more to fighting but you had no idea he saw you this way. Your heart began racing at the thought of Loki returning your feelings and you wanted to kick yourself.

 “You’re a great fighter too though, not all of your strength is in on area.”

 “I should hope not, I strive to excel in all fields,” he answered. “My point is, sometimes the world is a little too divided. There’s also too many people who only put their faith in books, science, magic, or whatever else. There needs to be a balance.”

 “That’s the way the Jedi believe…” you said, a bit of nostalgia wrangling into your voice.

 “That so?” he questioned.

 Suddenly, you realized you were deep in the forest. You threw your head around to see how far you were in but you couldn’t even see the opening any more. A wind picked up and blew all around you, making your hair, the horses’ hair, and Loki’s hair all fly and swirl as you caught a chill. Immediately, you picked up your cloak and wrapped it around you.

 “Yes. They believe in balance in the Force,” you finally answered.

 “Right. And your Anakin friend, he’s supposed to bring balance to it, right?”

 “Yes, that’s the legend.”

 “He’s over twenty though, shouldn’t it have happened by now?” he inquired, incredulous.

 “I’m not sure,” you answered. “I don’t think he has a deadline to reach. Prophecies aren’t exactly detailed,” you noted with a bit of a laugh.

 Loki returned the chuckle, the sound harmonious to you. “No, I suppose not.”

 “Are we headed anywhere in particular, Loki?” you wondered, noting that you’d traveled so deep it had started to get dark. The forest wasn’t a scary place. The trees were lean and tall, enormously tall, with little, low shrubs, ferns, and plants on the ground. It was relatively “open” for a forest, but once you got rather deep in it, the canopy from the leaves could start shutting out light.

 “Just a little farther, I promise. I have something I’d like you to see.”

 You rode in a peaceful silence for a few more minutes before he finally slowed his horse, which didn’t take much as you’d been going at a leisurely slow pace before. He got off his horse and put a finger to his lips. He tiptoed over to an innocent looking tree. He thrust his head toward the tree, gesturing for you to join him. You hopped off your steed, making sure to keep your cloak tucked tightly around you. Approaching, Loki put his finger back to his lips, making you tiptoe over.

 You whispered, “What are we doing here at a tree?”

 “Shh. Give me your hand,” he instructed in a quiet voice. You raised your hand and placed it against the trunk of the tree. “Now, focus your energy right here.” He put his hand near yours and you both remained quiet and still, concentrating on transferring energy from yourselves to the tree. After a moment, you heard a creaking noise. You opened your eyes and saw that a very clear outline was now on the trunk of the tree.

 “Oh my--What’s that?” you asked.

 “Let me show you.” He took your hand in his, his slender fingers lacing through yours. He gently pushed on the piece that had been outlined in the trunk and it revealed an enormous, opened mouth cave. “Come on,” Loki coaxed and he stepped into the tree trunk and you followed behind him, the door made from the tree shut behind you.

 “Loki!” you exclaimed, putting your hands where the door had been, but now it was black, gray, and dark blue cave wall.

 “It’s alright,” he said gently, grabbing your hands.

 “But it closed! How will we get back?” You were panicking, thinking you’d never get back to your horses, get back home.

 Loki sighed a bit, took some chalk from his pocket, and marked the wall.

 “It’s fine, I come here all the time. This is where we will come back through.”

 You exhaled and relaxed a little.

 “I’m sorry about that.”

 “Not a problem at all. Now, come.” He offered his hand once more and you carefully made your way down the side of the cave. You had stepped over to this other area on a pile of small stones and pebbles. Once you eased your way down the small pile, you were on a rocky shore to a small pool of water, where a stream or small river fed into the cave. The cave was so open you could see open fields for a long time, until a forest of unusual trees interrupted the landscape of rolling hills. Outside the cave looked bright, inviting. Inside, it was darker, more secluded. In the middle of the open mouth was a long spindle of rock, separating the cave mouth. But the most wondrous part was all of the plants and animals inside. There were deer-like animals, small rodents, all nibbling on some neon, glowing plant or drinking from the water.

 “I want to show you the countryside,” Loki informed as you walked along the bank of the stream, humidity thick in the air as a breeze swept up through the land, rustling the tall grass.

 “Where are we?”

 “I’m not too sure of the name of this place,” he confessed.

 “How did you find it?”

 He smirked, making your heart skip a beat at the sight and sound. “I came out to the forest some time ago with a powerful spell. I had the forest show me all of its secret passages. The trees that held portals to another world would glow until I came and unlocked them, so to speak.”

 “How many are there?” you wondered with amazement.

 “Ah, ah, that’s for me to know, and for me to show you.”

 “Fine,” you conceded with a head nod. “Is this where you escape to for hours at a time?”

 He nodded. “Most of the time. I come here when I want to think, be alone, escape my father…”

 “Why haven’t you ever taken me here before?” you wondered. You were best friends, sharing almost everything, and until you went back to the Jedi temple, you two were almost inseparable.

 “I thought about it,” he admitted as he walked along, starting to go away from the stream and up into the open meadow. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to accompany me. It’s also a special place to me, a place to call my own.”

 You nodded, understanding what that was like. He was afraid to give up something that was his. In his world, he owned very little. He had his tricks, his daggers, but other than that, King Odin owned everything Loki had access to. This was something that could be his and his alone.

 “Then are you sure you wanted to share it with me? I wouldn’t want to take away one of your secrets or personal spaces,” you said, feeling guilty for being here.

 “No, I’m more than happy to share anything I have with you,” he said as he looked at you. His eyes always held such strength, conviction, and emotion in them. Just looking into his eyes, you could tell right away the sort of man he was, the turmoil he feels constantly.

 “Well thank you.”

 “If we’re lucky,” he started, “a pack of wild horses will run through here.”

 “Oh that’d be amazing. How did you know I’d never seen the countryside?” you questioned.

 He shrugged. “Lucky guess. I know as a warrior of my father’s, we travel to metropolises, cities. You often told me of cities you visited as a Jedi, I thought maybe some country air would be nice.”

 “You were right,” you admitted, taking in the beautiful scenic scene. “This is amazing. I haven’t had the chance to see anything quite so open.”

 “It really is beautiful, isn’t it?” Loki seemed to dig his toe in the dirt, his hands behind his back before stating, “You know...having you around has been really wonderful.”

 “Yeah?” you asked. “I’m glad you think so. I’ve really enjoyed all of my time here.”

 “Enjoyed it enough to...stay?”

 You laughed lightly as you nudged him with your shoulder. “Of course, your royal highness,” you noted with dripping sarcasm. Whenever he was acting a bit irrational or obtuse, you whipped out his formal titles to tease him. “Why wouldn’t I stay? I’ve been here three years already. Wild horses would have to drag me away,” you noted.

 “They just might,” Loki noted.

 “What?” you asked with a laugh. “Don’t be ridicul--”

 Loki grabbed you and pointed forward, showing that in front of you was a whole stampede of horses. He grabbed you and ghosted his hand down your shoulder and arm, making goosebumps raise on you. The sensation was lost as soon as the horses were upon you though. You thought you’d be trampled.

 You screamed out, “Loki!”

 But it was useless because you were fine. He casted a spell that they would go around you, see you as a tree or some other immovable object.

 “Loki,” you breathed. He gave you a gentle, delighted smile. His long slender hand came up to your cheek as he tenderly touched it.

 “Did you’d honestly think I’d let them harm you?”

 “I--uh---I don’t know,” you said, your brow furrowing, the horses still running full force around you.

 “Care for a race?” he asked suddenly.

 “On these horses? Are you mad?”

 “Possibly,” he remarked. But then he grabbed the mane of a white horse running by and launched his leg over the back. “You’re going to lose back there!” he called.

 “Loki!” you shouted, laughing as you huffed out. A brown and white splotched horse was next to you so you took a fist of his hair and jumped on top of the horse and began running. You took off running after him, willing the horse to go faster, thankful that bareback riding was almost second nature to you now. Before long, the wild stallion had caught up to him.

 “I thought you wanted a race!” you teased as you pressed the horse to go faster and he pushed ahead of Loki.

 “Oh, is it a challenge you want?” Loki called up to you. With that, the race was on as you continually tried to beat each other, pressing your horses to their limits as they galloped full speed through the wide open field. The wind was lashing at your face, making tears spring to your eyes, a chill bursting across your face, but you didn’t care. The rush, the thrill, was fulfilling your every need at the moment, so you didn’t care.

 Suddenly, Loki’s horse started to behave wildly, bucking and rearing. He was trying to hold on, because if he didn’t, he faced being trampled by the steeds behind you two.

 In an instant, you shot your hand out and used the Force to knock him off his horse and land far away from the speeding horses. Leading your horse over to him, once you got close enough, you hopped off the horse. The stampede finally got away from the both of you. The horse you rode over on turned and began to run with his brothers and sisters.

 “Loki! Loki! Are you okay?” You were running to him and dropped to your knees next to him, looking him over for wounds.

 “I’m fine, Y/N, I’m fine,” he assured as he started to get up, wincing.

 “No, you’re hurt. What is it?”

 “I think I bruised a rib,” he answered, grabbing his left side and wincing.

 “I’m so sorry, I had to get you away from them.”

 “No, you did the right thing. That’s, uh, very impressive,” Loki noted. “I’ve only ever seen you use it on foes. That's a powerful tool you have there.”

 “Thank you,” you said shyly. “Now let’s get you back, so we can look at your wound.”

 “Or,” he countered. “We could always stay here.” His face moved slightly closer and he tilted his head, his eyes piercing through you. His slender hand thread its fingers through your hair, the sensation making you want to shiver. In the blink of an eye, he’d some how managed to whip you over his body then put it underneath him. He was now hovering over you in the cool grass, as an overcast blanketed the sky.

 By the time you registered what was happening, his lips were already on yours. They were much thinner than Anakin’s, but more deft. Anakin’s kisses were rather soft, supple, his plumpness doing most of the work. Loki’s was more firm, nipping your lips as he went.

 You had no idea what you were doing. This felt wrong...and right...and wrong. He was the prince! He was your friend! You loved Anakin!

 But...being in Loki’s arm felt just as right as being in Anakin’s.

 What were you going to do?

[xmhs]

Jigyu, 83 (I think I got it right this time) ((ily lots))

happy (almost) birthday, cat!!

jigyu + “stay there. i’m coming to get you.”

For probably the eighth time within a span of fifteen minutes, Jihoon slams the small drawer to his bedside table shut, muttering a string of curses under his breath.  He’s searched every inch of the apartment five times over by now and his wristwatch was nowhere to be found.  He’d checked all the usual places: his bedside table drawer, the bathroom counter, the top of the dresser; as well as the unusual places: the kitchen pantry, under the couch, in Mingyu’s sock drawer; and everywhere in between. Nothing.

He starts to lift his wrist to check the time before remembering, with a scowl, that was his exact problem in the first place and stalks out of the bedroom.  He picks up his phone lying on the armrest of the couch and flips it over, pressing a button on its side to bring the screen to life.  His stomach jumps nervously as he reads out the time displayed on the small screen.  There was just under an hour until the scheduled time for his interview.  You still have plenty of time, he thinks, taking a deep breath to calm himself.  He does.  He’s spent the past few days polishing his interview skills and has his resume and portfolio neatly sitting in the passenger seat of his car already so there was no way he would forget them.  He’s already dressed - an impeccably white button up tucked into a pair of pressed slacks and black oxfords that shined brighter than the tiles on the floor of their apartment’s kitchen - all except for the silver watch that belonged on his right wrist.

Jihoon isn’t a superstitious person, but rather one of consistency, of familiarity.  And during all his preparation for his interview, he had not been planning on walking into that interview with the weight of his watch secured to his wrist.

“I’m going to kill that giant bastard,” Jihoon says lowly as he dials a familiar number into his phone.  At this point, any watch would do, Jihoon supposed, but the fact was that he didn’t own any other watches thanks to Mingyu.

It didn’t matter how many watches Jihoon bought Mingyu, the tall idiot would end up misplacing or breaking them at one point or another which lead to him ‘borrowing’ Jihoon’s.  Around half the time they would return safely back to Jihoon’s possession and the other half of the time they didn’t return safely or at all.  In the past year and a half, Jihoon’s watch collection had dwindled down to his favorite - the sterling silver with round clock face that attached to a deep brown, well-worn leather band.  It wasn’t particularly fancy or expensive, he didn’t inherit it from some dead relative or a dear friend, but he had a certain attachment to it nonetheless.  It was one that Jihoon had always avoided letting Mingyu borrow, but now it looks like the idiot had gone and taken it without even asking, and Jihoon feels this skin prickle with annoyance.

Mingyu answers after two rings, thankfully not giving Jihoon’s blood much time to rise to a boil.  “Jihoon?”

“Did you take my watch, asshole?”  It’s not so much a question, but an accusation, spit out between clenched teeth.  There’s a long silence on the other end and when Mingyu eventually responds, his voice is unnaturally quiet.

“Y-yeah, I did… I’m s-”

“If you’re really sorry you wouldn’t have took it in the first place,” Jihoon says, harsh and unable to keep his words from biting.  “I told you, Mingyu, how many times did I tell you?  Not. That. Watch.  My interview is in less than an hour and I’ve spent the past fifteen searching the whole damn apartment for that watch, what if I hadn’t started to get ready until later?  What if I was late because I was looking high and low for a fucking watch that you took without even asking me?”

Jihoon cuts himself off.  His grip on his phone dangerously tight and his breath is coming out of his nose in short, harsh bursts.  There’s another long silence from Mingyu’s end and Jihoon is five milliseconds from opening his mouth and going at it again when Mingyu’s voice drifts into his ear, impossibly more quiet than before.

“I’m-” he chokes out, pained and thick, voice cracking.  “I’m s-sorry, Jihoon.”

He feels like someone just dumped a bucket of ice water over his head; the fight washes out of him immediately.  “Mingyu, what’s wrong?”

There’s another choked sob from the other end and Jihoon sags his weight into the side of the couch when he feels his knees start to give.  He raises up his other hand to the phone, his grip increasing past what he thought he was capable of, as if him nearly crushing the device in his hand somehow equated to him holding Mingyu himself.

“What happened, Mingyu?” he asks, trying to sound calmer than he felt but his voice sounds pathetically shaky even to his own ears.  “Mingyu!”

“I’m o-okay,” he finally responds, voice thick and breaths choppy.  “I’m not hurt, but…  Um, I g-got into a car crash and they - the other person - th-they… there w-was so much blood…”

It’s odd, the way that Jihoon can feel the blood draining out of his body.  There’s a burn from the sudden dryness in his throat and he wants to say something, but his Adam’s apple bobs uselessly as he listens to the heartbreaking sound of Mingyu trying to keep himself together on the other side of the line.

“It wasn’t my f-fault, Jihoon, they just, they just came out of nowhere and I couldn’t do anything, I couldn’t, I-”

“Mingyu,” Jihoon finally manages, his tongue heavy and awkward in his own mouth.

“They were drunk, Jihoon, it wasn’t my fault!  I, I swear I couldn’t-”

“Mingyu!” he shouts, scaring both of them.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” he says, then repeats it.  For Mingyu or for himself, he isn’t sure.  He pushes himself off of the couch, swaying under his own weight before getting his bearings.  Robotically, he moves across the room to grab his jacket where it hung in the hallway closet.  “Where are you?”

“Um, the h-hospital by the airport.  They said I should come in j-just to make sure I didn’t have a concussion or any, any other injuries.”

“Okay,” Jihoon says, picking up his keys and wallet from the small table near the apartment door.  He tries not to notice how badly his hands are shaking.  “Stay there.  I’m coming to get you.”

“But your interv-”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Mingyu’s line goes silent for a moment, then, softly, “Be careful driving.”

His hand pauses on the knob of the door, eyes staring, unseeing, at the peeling orange paint that covers it.  “I will, I love you.  I’ll see you soon.”

“I love you, too.”

The drive is loud and quiet, somehow, at the same time.  Loud because Jihoon hears everything - every hum of every car engine that passes him, every honk of every horn, and every squeak of his brakes when he presses into them.  He’s hyperaware of every car surrounding him and he signals years in advance, properly twists in his seat to check his blind spot, twice, before switching lanes, something he hasn’t done in years.  It’s also scarily quiet in his head.  Somewhere deep at the back of his skull, he supposes he’s thinking about his interview and the opportunity is gone out the window, how much the repairs on the car will cost (if it can be salvaged at all) as well as price check on the hospital bill.  But those thoughts are so far buried that he can’t hear them.  All he hears is a hum of white noise and the sound of Mingyu, sobbing.

He arrives at the hospital in twenty-one minutes.  The lobby quiet and mostly empty, save for maybe a dozen or so people sitting in the quaint waiting area to his left.  There’s an information desk in front of him and he hesitates before stepping towards it.  He hadn’t thought to ask Mingyu where to meet him.  He doesn’t even know if the woman at the front desk would be able to tell him where Mingyu was, since it didn’t sound like from the phone that he was being officially admitted.  He takes another step towards the desk before stopping in his tracks, turning at the sound of his name being called.

From a seat near the door, halfway hidden by a tell and gaudy plastic fern, Mingyu slowly stands up, a small smile on his face.  It doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Jihoon walks towards him, each step stiff and robotic, soaking up the sight of him, here, standing, breathing.  He looks like a complete mess.  His hair is sticking up every which way and his clothes are filthy, skin covered in too many scrapes and bruises to count.  There’s a tiredness that clings to every inch of him, tugging on the lids of his eyes and weighing down his shoulders.  Jihoon lets his own tiredness lead him to Mingyu, lets it lean himself into the body in front of him, arms wrapping around the middle and nose burrowing into the front.  He feels a pair of arms surround him, pressing him further into Mingyu’s warm chest, and a pair of lips press into the crown of his head.

Jihoon can feel the dozen pairs of eyes indiscreetly watching them, mouths moving behind hands and bodies shifting curiously.  Under his cheek, Mingyu’s heart beats, loud and strong, loud and strong, loud and strong and filling up the space inside Jihoon’s head.  He lets his eyes slide shut, concentrating on the sound, a soothing, consistent rhythm, like the ticking hands of a wristwatch, yet warm and real in a way a wristwatch could never be.

“I’ll buy you a thousand watches, idiot,” Jihoon says, quiet and small and so so afraid, into Mingyu’s chest.  “Just don’t ever scare me like that again.”

Mingyu doesn’t say anything back, but the pounding sound of his heartbeat underneath Jihoon’s ear is the only answer he needs.

[unconventional-hero]

Chapter 9-- The Delmonico Ball

Written by “Slug 5″

(In which Jack proves to be a handsome dancer.)

* * * * *

It came off at last, turning the head of New-York’s most fashionable and aristocrats’ society with its brilliancy.

With Mabel Reynolds, especially, it had been the absorbing topic of interest for days. It would be the second ball since her “coming out” party and she was wild with excitement over the affair.

“Only to think!” she had said to her confidential friend, Ethel, as she sat in her room deep in the mysteries of lace and tulle, “That handsome Westerner, Mr. Morningstar, will be there! O, I intend to throw out my most enticing shafts to him. I mean to lure him away from all the other girls if I can.” And she glanced admiringly in the direction of the French mirror as she tossed her queenly head coquettishly.

“O, for shame Mabel!” exclaimed Clyde McClure, who had also dropped in for a friendly chat, “What would the gentlemen say if they knew you were playing at that game!”

“They do know it, you goosie, and expect it too. O, he’s not the first man I’ve gathered into my net!”

“I would blush, Mable, even to think of such a thing. No gentleman of honor, I am sure, could admire a girl for it!��

“O, yes, you are all innocence now, my dear, but first wait until you have entered society and you’ll be as bad as the rest of us.”

To this Clyde made no remonstrance. She felt hurt and shocked; and mentally resolved that she never would cheat her own heart that way.

“O, Mabel,” chimed in Ethel, who had hitherto remained silent, “You ought to try your charms on Mr. Ashton! O, he is the most comical person on earth, the other day when I met him at McClure’s I disgraced myself by laughing the whole time. I never met any one who is so original, did you Clyde?” and Ethel laughed merrily at the remembrance.

“No, I never did, but Ethel, do you know that for all his outlandish ways, papa likes him for he is so frank and good.” Thus the three girls chatted on until a late hour in the afternoon when Ethel and Clyde together took their departure.

But to return to the ball. The doors of the great parlors swung invitingly open, displaying their wealth of colored lights and delicately arranged flowers. The smart looking ushers, radiant in white gloves and splendid livery stand, at their posts and the company, in full dress, has begun to assemble. Mrs. Landhurst in black velvet and diamonds is blooming and bows genially to right and left.

Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt, and son are among the first arrivals; then come the Stewarts, Goulds, and Astors. But every head is turned as down the long corridors, with head erect and eye flashing, marches the “lion” of the evening “Mr. Morningstar,” followed by his friend “Mr. Ashton.”

“Oh! yes,” whispers matronly ladies with marriageable daughters, “A millionaire, and handsome. It is rumored that he is the son of an earle!”

“No, no, you mistake, a lord I think!”

“Ah! You ladies rave over the handsome Westerner,” spoke up Mr. Reynolds, who had been hovering near and overheard the remark, “but his-- you cannot deny that his unpolished friend ‘Ashton’ has by far the finest physique!”

“O, and the finest eyes, too; as clear as a girl’s, but then, he is so-- a regular bore-- and uncouth--” and the speaker tosses her head distainfully.

Mr. Reynolds’, be it said, had been enstalled again in Jack’s favor ever since a curt invitation came to him one morning, shortly after the theater party, saying, that “Jack Morningstar would be pleased to see Mr. Reynolds at his room at 10 o’clock, as the writer wished to explain his most extraordinary conduct on the night of the theater.”

Mr. Reynolds had gone. What passed between them no one knew, but since then he had always addressed him as “Ashton” and grasped his hand more cordially at meeting. Mrs. Reynolds, too, it would seem had been taken into the secret; for she now looked at him admiringly as he was about to pass her, on his way to a partially unoccupied corner; graceful, and dignified as a king, but inwardly ill at ease.

“Ah! Mr. Ashton,” she says cordially, and he bows his kingly head very differentially and is about to pass on. But she detains him. “Quite a pleasure to see you among us tonight. Where are you going so fast? One would take you for some noted recluse, you seem to take so little notice of the crowd!”

“In fact, Mrs. Reynolds, I take too much notice of everything. I don’t feel like I or’ter be here. I am sure I never could say any thing to those fine young ladies over there with all them bows and fixins, and those bare arms and necks with the green lights shining all over ‘em! Poor things! do you really suppose Mrs. Reynolds that they hadn’t time to make sleeves in their dresses?”

He spoke so earnestly and his deep, lustrous eyes looked so pityingly at the young ladies in question, that Mrs. Reynolds could not repress a smile. Jack, however, grew confused, embarrassed at having said so much.

“You forget, Mr. Ashton, that this is one of the most fashionable affairs of the season and the young ladies’ dresses are quite becoming of the occasion,” explains Mrs. Reynolds cooly.

“Oh! I beg your pardon. Good evening!” and Jack takes rapid strides across the room and seats himself near an archway of sago palms, conscious that he has said something quite irrelevant, but secretly disapproving of the “bare arms.”

“I know Clyde would never go out among men like that,” he secretly tells himself, while a slight blush suffuses his face. But soon his thoughts are carried onward to other scenes; and he finds himself listening to the magical enthrallments of the orchestra as the rapturous strains vibrate and quiver through parlors and corridors and hall.

He looks up. The company is forming for the waltz. He sees Jim at the other end of the hall with Mrs. Landhurst on his arm. A wild desire seizes him. He is passionately fond of waltzing. In Bozeman he had no superiors; not even Jim could rival him. He is carried beyond himself. He forgets where he is. His feet seem to slip from the floor and he is wending his way across the room and bowing before Mabel Reynolds.

She is startled-- surprised-- she tells herself that he is handsomer by far than Mr. Morningstar with whom she has been flirting all evening-- and hopes that he will not appear so very awkward on the floor-- at least she will not refuse-- she rises gracefully-- coquettishly-- and he leads her to the other end of the hall.

Well for him that she does not allow his interest to flag; but keeps chattering to him in her pretty, clever way until the waltz has begun and they are whirling away down the long corridor in the brightest haze of ecstatic gayety.

Faster and faster he whirls her-- their feet hardly seeming to touch the polished floor-- Mabel almost holds her breath in wonder and bewilderment. How graceful he is-- how lithe-- never in all his life has he appeared to such an advantage: his dark, liquid eyes are alight with pleasure; his broad brow, from which he has thrown the shining curls carelessly backward, crowns his head like a star; and he upholds gently, but firmly the slender though queenly form of the fair girl. He forgets himself; he dreams that he is now in Bozeman again; waltzing in the public hall with Betty, and he gives himself up to the moment’s enjoyment.

All eyes are turned upon them now. The other parties have ceased waltzing; but still Jack and Mabel glide on. Jack quite oblivious of the admiring glances but Mabel noting them with pleasure and is radiant.

Jim is standing among a group of ladies; they are all watching the figure on the floor; Jim, with an oath under his breath. “Curse him!-- what business has he making himself so conspicuous!” he mutters with a frown; “I must stop it-- but-- he is handsome-- I wish ten thousand times that the fellow was back at Bozeman.”

“What were you saying Mr. Morningstar? I was lost in admirations and did not catch your words.” Ethel Landhurst looked up at him inquiringly, and as she did so, she caught the deep look of hatred-- envy-- wickedness-- in his eyes and on his brow; and she involuntarily moved a step backward. Was he jealous of Mr. Ashton she wondered-- Oh! he-- he loved Mabel! The thought went like a dart to her heart.

“Mr. Morningstar” turns. “It was nothing-- nothing, Miss Landhurst. I only remarked that Ashton’s step is rather too high.”

“Do you really think so? Why I have never seen such grace-- such perfectly lovely waltzing in all my life! At least, Mabel Reynolds enjoys it. I do hope he will engage me for the next set!”

Jim mentally vows that he shall not, and grinds his teeth behind firmly set lips. He is mortified; he is angered; and he turns pale as death.

Meantime Mabel, exhausted, begs her companion to conduct her into the open air. Jack leads her to a sociable before an open window where they are partially screened by drooping fern leaves and semi-tropical plants.

“You have given me quite a surprise Mr. Ashton; where did you learn to waltz so beautifully? I had not the slightest idea that you knew any thing about it!”

“Didn’t, eh? Well now that’s strange! It does seem sor’ter awkward to me, bein’s I haven’t tried my hand at it for several months.”

Now that the excitement attending the pleasure is passed he feels embarrassed and “out of place” again; and the hot blood rushes to the very top of his forehead as he finds himself seated by the side of this daughter of Fashion with arms and neck gleaming all rose from the colored shades of the chandelabra.

“Why Mr. Ashton you have made yourself quite the “lion” of the evening! Didn’t you notice that every body was looking at you?”

“A lion! well now, I’m sorry for that! What is it that makes me look fierce? Is it my hair, Miss Reynolds? I’ll have it cut off tomorrow if it is!”

Mabel’s eyes are running over with merriment but she answers quite seriously.

“O, no, pray don’t! It is so becoming. I meant that you were--” a hand is laid on “Mr. Ashton’s” shoulder and a voice at his ear says, “Henry, I am ill. Will you go home with me?” They both turn and see “Mr. Morningstar” standing between the parted fern leaves; his face pale as death. 

[mysteryfanfictheatre3000]

Back to the Frollo, Chapter 15

Warning: extreme OOC-ness. Yeah, even more than previously. 

I tried not to shiver from the cool, damp morning air; nonetheless, I snuggled closer to Claude in effort to stay warm. Claude sensed my discomfort and covered me with a spare cloak he always kept in the carriage. "That feels better", I said at last, stroking the deep, plush velvet. Claude chuckled as he held me close; the sound of the carriage wheels and clip-clop of hooves helped put me at ease.

Past again? Or present-day America? The way this is written makes it really difficult to tell, seeing as the frequent time-skips happen sometimes multiple times every chapter and we are given no indication when.

I peered out the window and could see the chateau in the distance. It was unlike its more expansive, impressive cousins, but quietly stately and elegant. It had a warm, inviting presence, more like a home than a castle. "Do you remember the first time I brought you out here?", Claude asked. I looked at him with wide eyes. "How can I forget? So many surprises," I began as I laughed at the memory, "and I haven't forgotten how surprised YOU were, Claude Frollo!" The interior of the carriage reverberated with my laughter. Claude joined in my good-humor. "Yes...the entire day was full of revelations...and good times", he said as he kissed my cheek.

This entire thing with them in the present having an “oh-so-romantic” weekend starting with Frollo’s clothes getting stolen and turning into the flashback that takes up the majority of this story is just unnecessary. It’s dull to read, and it adds nothing to the overall plot.

I then focused on why we were making this trip. After a brief silence, I asked, "Claude, who was he, and what happened to him?" Claude knew I was referring to the soldier. With a sigh he replied, "A troubled young man...I thought I was doing him a favor, gave him a job, but..." His voice trailed off as we turned up the long drive leading to the chateau. Then, "He infuriated me with his ineptness; I had no choice but to let him go. He was totally unsuitable as a soldier."

Who, the guy who stole his clothes? Why is a stupid but ultimately harmless prank treated like a greater sin than burning down a city because of an obsession with an innocent woman?! The soldier annoyed his boss. Frollo tried to commit genocide, drown a baby, and rape and burn a woman.

I finally understood why Claude discharged his lieutenant, then Claude explained how the young man ended up on the estate. "All I know is what was reported to me: The man was injured, found by someone not yet known, and brought to the caretaker's cottage." I kissed his lips and stroked his face, my hand following the sharp profile. "Well, he won't run, that's for sure."

Why do a have a feeling this poor man is going to face some cruel consequences for this prank, and the author’s going to act like it’s justified?

Claude chuckled as he returned my kiss. Then I added, "I want to see this fool who caused you so much grief!" We broke up in laughter as we neared the chateau. Once again, my mind was engulfed in memories...more revelations...then, just as Claude said...good times...

Stop…misusing…ellipses.

****** "That was great! You tell the funniest stories", said Quasi between laughs. It started as any other Sunday; I went to morning Mass, then visited Quasimodo in the belltower. Although most of my days and nights were spent with Claude, I never forgot my special little buddy.

He’s 20-something. Referring to him as your “special buddy” is just odd.

I had just told him my famous joke about the Hoosier and the Kentuckian; I had to slightly alter the reference to 'flashlight' - Lord knows I wasn't ABOUT to explain that!

He understands the complexity of the Civil War, a conflict between two sides of a country that won’t exist for centuries. He can carve technology from said war out of wood for an elaborate present to Danisha. She reads him “New World” history on the regular; he’s probably come across the phrase “lightbulb.” It shouldn’t be that hard to explain a flashlight, even in simple terms.

We were still laughing when we heard a deep, familar voice behind us. "Such merriment up here!" Claude Frollo strode through the door; he was smiling pleasantly and carrying a basket. Hmm...he must be in a real good mood.... I warmly greeted him as Quasi set the little table. "I had a feeling you'd be here, glad I brought enough for three", said Claude smilingly. Then, while Quasi had his back to us, Claude quickly kissed my lips. Why so secretive, honey? I think he knows...

Poor, poor Quasimodo.

We enjoyed a pleasant mid-morning meal, all three of us. Quasi nudged me, trying hard not to laugh. "Go on! Tell my master that story." Claude Frollo raised an eyebrow as he sipped his wine. "A story? Ah...so that explains the recent levity", he said, then looking at me with smiling eyes, added, "Apparently Quasimodo found your tale amusing." He softly chuckled as he reached under the table and grasped my hand. Then he cooed, "I would love to hear it", while giving me a slightly smoldering nlook.

Nlook? Also, ew. Flirting in front of Quasi is just weird.

Ooh, if he doesn't quit doing that!...No wonder I give in to him!...He knows it works! I tried to worm out of it, but it was no use. "Claude, I really don't tell this a second time, but...anything to please you."

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

DUE TO SPACE LIMITATIONS, "THE HOOSIER AND THE KENTUCKIAN" CAN BE FOUND HERE. READ IT, LAUGH, THEN COME BACK TO THE STORY. (Don't worry -- It's clean!)

As if I care enough about this idiotic story to waste more of my time reading your “hilarious” joke?

Well, I’m an MSTer, so I had to. It was not a funny joke. It was stupid, and someone from the 1400s would not understand it. Also, she said she got it from her “crazy” sister. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say the author is probably the “crazier” one, because, you know, the Frollo fetish- either that or her sister is into something worse. What that is, I don’t want to know.

************************* Claude Frollo's mouth immediately twitched into a broad smile. He began to chuckle, then, overcome with mirth, filled the belltower with his deep, throaty, uproarious laughter. Even Quasi and I couldn't resist breaking up a second time; Claude's laughter was that infectious. "That was a riot!", Quasi laughingly said. "It's even better the second time."

Breaking up? This is why you proofread before you post, kids.

I kept looking at Claude, who clearly enjoyed my little tale. "Liked that, didn't you, honey?", I said, my sides hurting from so much laughter. Claude, still amused, took my hand into his and said, "My dear, that was one of the funniest tales I've ever heard. It's one of your best."

It’s not hers, she stole it from her sister. And it wasn’t funny, it just dragged on forever. I can summarize it right now: Man A is not catching fish, but Man B is. Man B says “come to my side of the river and you’ll catch fish. I’ll hold up this lantern and you can walk on the beam of light.” A says “that’s stupid, because you’d turn the light off and I’d fall.” Except it was dragged out for a full page.

He continued to chuckle as he turned to Quasimodo. "My boy", he said to his young charge, "I believe we shall miss this young lady; she's been like breath of fresh air."

He’s at least 20. That is not young for a child. He is an adult man.

I felt a twinge of sadness, for I knew my Parisian summer was quickly coming to an end. Fern was due back from Texas Friday; we would be leaving Paris the following week. At once, I pushed those thoughts from my mind, as I didn't want to spoil this light-hearted moment. Quasi just smiled at me, finished clearing the table, and left to perform his chores downstairs.

It just sounds like they’re using Quasi for labor while emotionally abusing him. That’s messed up.

All alone in the belltower, Claude and I looked at each other. I could sense that he too, was reluctant to acknowledge the fact that, in less than fourteen days, I'll be on my way home. We said nothing of our eventual parting; instead, Claude, upon espying a book nearby, suggested a quiet Sunday excursion.

Does this woman really need to go home? She can stay in the 1400s. I’d prefer she didn’t, but it’s up to her. She can just not go back. No one would miss her.

"I see you're interested in architecture", he said as he began leafing through the book on Indiana architecture. "Oh that", I responded. "I bought that book years ago. It's very fascinating, lots of history." I walked up next to him and pointed out the photograph of a stately mansion."That's the old Governor's Mansion, on Meridian Street; the present Mansion is just four blocks north. It's a very lovely house, inside and out." Claude studied the photo. "Very impressive", he said, then he suggested that we take a brief trip to see several fine, old chateaux not too far from the city. "I think you'll be impressed; some of these structures date back to the latter days of the Empire."

We don’t need these random scenes, and they make we wonder what this story is trying to accomplish. Normal people are bored by these random, dull conversations about topics no one cares about. Even people that just came to read about Frollo, which I’m sure there are a few of (yuck), do not care about French architecture.

Hmmm...a tour of fine French chateaux..in the country...with Claude... I've never seen much of the French countryside during my entire stay in Paris; but, I had no idea that Claude had another surprise in store for me.As we prepared to leave, Claude propped his foot upon a stool, and dusted his boots. He was wearing a short, black tunic, hose, and boots; I admired the way the purple hose clung to his long, shapely legs.Oooh, Claude...the finest legs I've ever seen on a man...

Every time I see an overly hypersexualized depiction of this man, I die a little inside.

I couldn't help myself; Claude immediately picked up on this and playfully said, "Danisha! Don't tell me you are staring at MY legs!""Just returning the compliment, baby! If I'm correct, you were staring at MY legs..." Claude Frollo laughed and took me into his arms. "Well, I've always admired feminine beauty", he said kissing my lips. "Especially yours." Claude always commented favorably on my physical beauty, and I always returned the compliment.

She puts way too much focus on her own attributes and attractiveness. No one cares about her clothes, or hair, or sexy traits.

"Well", I began as we descended the belltower steps, "you've got a nice package, Claude Frollo." My mouth curved into a wicked grin as I thought of Claude Frollo's fine physique. Hmmm...he sure has a fine body...girl, look at those legs!...hmm...wonder what he'd look like in tight blue jeans...or...Lord, have mercy!...black leather....

Honestly, I may as well be six feet under with how dead inside I feel.

Once outside Notre Dame, Claude helped me into his carriage. He looked at me intently as he settled next to me; a wide smile lit up his face. "Whatever you were thinking, Nisha," he began while he kissed my cheek and shoulder, "just be careful; you may get what you wish for." I just looked at Claude and giggled, my mind still filled with images of Claude Frollo dressed in...With much effort, I pushed the sexy visions out of my mind as we rode beyond the city walls.

I’m still just so confused about what is so sexy here! He’s a middle-aged guy, and a rapist murderer to boot. No one likes him. No one wants to have sex with him. The only person I’ve ever seen who wanted to have sex with Claude Frollo was Floricka in the musical, because she was a prostitute who was being paid to do so by Jehan as a birthday “gift” to Claude (and she did not, in fact, have sex with him. Mostly because he shoved her onto the ground and yelled at her.)

Now, I paid no attention to where we were going; I was too rapt in conversation with Claude. Then, unexpectedly, he began to ask about Jacki and her family. "What was her family name?", he asked. I thought nothing of discussing this with Claude; I thought he was just curious."Darcey", I replied, pronouncing the name in its Anglo form.Claude looked puzzled. "You mean 'd'Arcy'", he quickly corrected, pronouncing the name in its French form.He then said, with disdained expression, "Isn't English the language of your country?" I nodded yes.Claude then rolled his eyes in exasperation and sighed, "No wonder! Typical of the English to take a good French name and butcher it!"

Out of all the odd things about the 20th century, the gradual evolution of last names is what makes him angry. Not the music, food or general pop culture. Just D’Arcy to Darcey.

I managed to smooth things over by kissing his hands, complimenting his taste in jewelry, and telling him over and over how much I loved him. Claude chuckled as he returned my caress, then said, "I do believe we're here. You'll find this place extremely interesting; I've known the family for years. I'm sure they won't mind a brief visit."

Popping in unannounced is just rude.

My eyes took in the natural beauty of the French countryside; it's so much different from town. In a way, the trees and hills reminded my of home. I began having a twinge of deja vu; the main drive looked awfully familiar. I could feel my heart beating faster; my eyes widened in astonishment. Oh no! That's the chateau! Fern keeps the car on the estate! Why is Claude doing this?

Oh, boy. Another unnecessary “plot twist” is coming up, I can tell. Also, she says Jacki Darcey is named after her student. Seeing as she’s released the name and location of the town the modern-day part takes place in, which is a real place, and presumably where she teaches/lives, this is messed up. She’s telling a bunch of internet strangers an underage girl’s full name and school. That’s wrong on so many levels.

Claude Frollo sensed my reaction and immediately put me at ease. "Please don't be too upset, my love. I thought it was high time you should go inside this magnificent home." He then kissed me as he helped me from the carriage.I was still too bewildered for words; I squeezed Claude's hand as we approached the main entrance. Just then, a young man approached us from the side. He was about twenty, very tall, and with an athlete's build. Sandy haired, freckled complexion, I knew this young man right away."Kyle?", I tentatively asked; I knew this was Fern's son, but I wanted to be sure.

I thought you knew him right away, though. And you and Fern have been friends for years; how have you never met her son?

Kyle ran up and quickly embraced me; although, I was glad to see him, I was still confused. Claude greeted Kyle warmly as we went inside the chateau; I asked him why he was in medieval France."Oh, didn't Ma tell you? She wanted to get back earlier. She's inside." I turned my eyes to Claude, smiling this time instead of swooning.

The amount of unnecessary nonsense is starting to get to me. Why does Kyle exist? What does he bring to the table? Nothing. The answer is nothing. He’s just another random character thrown in there to mirror the author’s life and stretch out the insanity to way longer than it should be.

"You knew this would happen, even after you'd promise me there were no more surprises, you spring this on me." Claude laughed and put his arm around my waist."My dearest, I wanted the remainder of your holiday to be as memorable as possible", he whispered in my ear, "You are pleased, aren't you?"All I could do was kiss his lips and whisper back, "Thanks, honey." Kyle caught up with us; he began telling us of his experiences in Texas."Man, Texas was a blast! I got to shake Sam Houston's hand!" I looked at Claude in amusement, saying, "Boy, when Fern said a trip to Texas, I had no idea she meant 1840's Texas!"

The fact that this woman is using her student’s priceless inventions to take her family on vacation astounds me. Also, what sort of relationship to Jacki and Fern have? We never actually see Jacki anyway. Is she just making genius inventions for Fern and only Fern, and if so, why? Does Fern have her in some sort of slavery thing?

Claude picked up on my good-humor just as Fern approached us in the main hall."Well", she began cheerfully, "it's about time you folks got here. Minister Frollo, good to see you again."Claude extended his hand to her, saying warmly, "And what a pleasure it is to see you as well." Fern hugged me and said, "You all come on into the drawing-room. Jacki's here and there are some other good folks I want you to meet."Jacki's here? Why? And just who were these 'good folks' I was about to meet?

Jacki might be testing out her own technology that she made, after all. She’s never tried it herself, just let these jerks take it for a joyride.

[mysteryfanfictheatre3000]

Back to the Frollo, Chapter 7

Warning: sappiness. 

It was well after seven. I had already showered and dressed, taking great care not to awaken Claude. Poor baby!

HE IS NOT A POOR BABY. HE IS A SOCIOPATH AND A MONSTER.

He usually doesn't sleep long past sun-up; he really needed the rest. There was no need to prepare breakfast until he got up. So I tip-toed downstairs and put on a pot of coffee. Hmmm...Maybe I should start some of the morning meal. I thought again, as I rifled through the fridge. That's it! I'll fix him one of those down-home Saturday morning breakfasts. Country ham, grits, fried apples, hot biscuits...Yummy!

Feeding someone from such a different time such a massive array of modern foods would undoubtedly give them issues. Most of the stuff she’s been mentioning could never be found in the 1400s, and introducing all that to someone who’s never eaten it or even seen it before would probably screw them up. Then again, there’s a time-traveling Chevy here, so maybe I shouldn’t be this nitpicky.

************** The first time I fixed Claude such a breakfast was after that first night...I still reel from the memory. Well...I DID promise him I'd cook for him and when he sat down to that feast he said, "My dear, I usually don't eat this much in the morning. It all looks wonderfully delicious, but...oh well, since you went to all this trouble, I simply CAN'T refuse." "You better not refuse, Claude Frollo. I got up extra early to cook all this food. Besides, you'll need re-fueling after last night...," I playfully scolded him.

Please don’t remind me of “last night.” I don’t want to know.

He just smiled and replied teasingly, "...last night's 'activities'? Yes, all that...er...poetry-reading and...umm...singing so many love songs can be somewhat...draining." With that, Claude and I burst into laughter and shared a hearty meal. It was to be the beginning of a very special relationship.

I know they’re insinuating they had sex, but Im just going to pretend they sang corny songs like My Heart Will Go On for hours on end instead.

***************** My mind was jarred back to the present when I heard Claude come downstairs. Our breakfast was nearly ready as I poured coffee when he entered the kitchen.

I don’t even want to know what introducing large amounts of caffeine to his diet would do.

He was fully dressed, not in his casual medieval attire, but a modern ensemble of tight black jeans, a black and purple silk shirt, and black boots. He looked fantastic!

Draco in Leather Pants, anyone?

Oh yes, I thought, black is definitely his color, really highlights his coloring and form, so tall and slender, graceful and elegant. Claude took me in his arms and kissed me tenderly. "Good Morning, my darling Nisha." "Morning, baby. I thought you'd sleep later. Glad I fixed breakfast early." I returned the kiss and finished preparing our meal. Claude sat at the table, sipped his coffee, and gazed at me. "Actually, I hadn't intended to sleep this late. But if my body needed the extra rest..." He stopped himself as he continued to stare at me. "Oh Danisha...my dear, you look exceedingly becoming this morning. I like the outfit, the way it fits, the colors." He was commenting on my casual attire of purple jeans, black and purple sweater, and black suede shoes. My hair was loosely tied back with a purple ribbon and my ears sported over-sized silver hoops. I hadn't planned on us being near-twins today, but how was I to know we were going to wear the same colors? Pure coincidence...

This is like that song from Frozen where Anna and Hans are like “Wow, we’re soooo in sync!” Except, y’know, Hans turned out to be a murderer.

Claude smiled at me as I set his breakfast before him. "Your hair was longer, full of waves and curls. Not that I don't find your current straight style more attractive. You were wearing a long dress", he began, "a riotous mix of colors. It followed your curves and I do believe there was a slit...mmm...you looked utterly delicious." He began eating as I responded, grinning, "Slit on the side clean past the knee. I saw you trying to get a better look. Too bad we didn't click right away."

Something tells me wearing that in medieval Paris, where I’m assuming this meeting took place, would raise some eyebrows.

Smiling broadly as he buttered a biscuit, Claude said, "Oh Danisha, I fell for you the moment I saw you. Your beauty charmed my eye, my sweetness, but the beast within was a bit hard to take." Immersed in memories, Claude Frollo and I enjoyed our breakfast, and engaged in a lively conversation of how it all began.

************** My initial arrival in Paris was a blast. Literally. My old friend and mentor, Fern, had asked me to accompany her on a 'special' summer trip. I had nothing special planned that summer, and since Fern had hit the lottery and won all that lovely money, I felt, hey, maybe she's taking me some place really classy AND expensive. My bubble almost burst when I found myself riding in a 1959 Chevy Impala, jet black, all fully restored and equipped with a curious device that Fern said was a 'surprise'. So, we're driving down this deserted country road. I thought we were lost, but Fern said she needed the room and, besides, "I don't need no audience." Room? No audience? "What in the...you talking about, Fern?" My questions were soon answered as Fern floored the accelerator and shouted, "Hold on and shield your peepers!" The last thing I remember was a bright, white light and a weird, whirring sound. When I opened my eyes, we were traveling down a narrow dirt road. "Where are we?" I asked, now confused and bewildered. "Welcome to Paris, er, make that medieval Paris", Fern announced proudly, adding, "I'll explain later."

I can explain it right now: you badly ripped off Back to the Future just so you could go seduce a 50-year-old guy you adore for some reason.

***************** I finished clearing away the remains of breakfast as Claude refilled our coffee cups. I continued to reminisce as we moved to the backyard deck. Claude admired my backyard garden with its fall flowers and leaves just beginning to peak. It was a beautiful fall morning, not too warm, but not cold. "You know, Claude", I began, "I really thought I was dreaming. I thought it was all just another crazy heat-induced fantasy. Boy, was I wrong. It was all so REAL!" Claude reached out and held my hand. "My darling, I'm so glad you accepted Fern's invitation. I'm also glad you decided to stay in Paris after that unfortunate incident. Otherwise, I would not be here reveling in your breath-taking beauty." I was so moved by what he said, that I felt like crying. Claude sensed my mood and put his arm around me.

Because he’s just so gentle and caring.

"Help, a demon! Please, help, anyone!" -Esmeralda in the musical, trying to get away from Frollo while he attacks her in a cell

"Fern left just before that episode. Honestly, baby, if I wasn't for Quasi and the kids, I would've been long gone. When that ball went sailing through your window..."

It consistently makes me laugh how the author treats mundane events like they’re the apocalypse or the second coming of Christ, and ignores every important thing that ever happened in the book/movie/show. Old guy gets clothes stolen and idiot breaks a window? Incredibly vital, earth-shattering events! Man murders a mother and tries to drown a baby (depending on the version), becomes obsessed with a young woman, stalks and captures her, attempts to rape her, then attempts to murder her? Unimportant.

Claude Frollo kissed my lips, a nice, long kiss, "I'll never forget your apologies, my love. Nor will I forget...what happened...afterwards." I definitely remembered what happened afterwards. And Claude was right; I almost left Paris for good after the 'incident', as we now call it. ...And come to think of it, it was so petty, so stupid...

Why is breaking a church window more important to you than genocide, rape and murder? Why are your priorities so… messed up?

We sat on a bench beneath a tall old oak. Claude held me close, whispered "I love you" in my ear, and kissed me so tenderly. He's always so patient and sweet with me, well, most of the time. But it sure didn't start out that way.

Really, this disturbing, perverted elderly guy wasn’t perfect at the start? I'm beginning to think Danisha actually is a witch because she obviously has some sort of spell on this guy.