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sarahjkl82-blog · 3 years

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Artistic Instinct Chapter Nine

Header thanks to the lovely @yespolkadotkitty

Summary: Marcus Pike and OC Anushka Pierce have been selected to work on a 5 eyes (Australia, Canada, NZ, the UK and US) intelligence team to track down art forgeries as a part of taking down an international white terrorism cell. Marcus is trying to escape his broken heart, Anushka is just trying to escape what the world expects of her.

Word count: 6500

Warnings: Language as always, warning of racist language (Nush talking about her mother's experiences), yearning, fluff to second base (yes, my darlings- IT IS ON!), alcohol is mentioned, food, anxiety attacks.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x reader (OC)

This comes with a MASSIVE THANK YOU to the lovely @yespolkadotkitty , who read, re-read, pointed out the constant flipping between tenses and gave me the confidence to try to write something. This is the first thing I have written since angsty poetry as a teenager. Apologies if it is shit!

People often think artists

Create with their hands

But really they create

with their hearts

So please be gentle

For we wear our vulnerability

On our sleeves

And freely give all we have

Hoping someone will fall

In love with the parts we offer

R. Evelyn

Chapter Nine

The sharp buzz of the door startles you out of your daydream. Laden with roughly the entire contents of your spice cupboard, vegetables, meat and prawns, your hands are crisscrossed with creases from where the weight of the totes has gouged at your skin. A smart-looking kindly gentleman greets you, “You must be Ms Pierce. Mr Pike has asked for you to wait here for him.”

Wow! Marcus’ place has a concierge - who did he have to blow to get a place like this?!

Throwing the bags onto one of the hotel lounge-like chairs, you slump into another as you rub soreness from your hands. A small ping tells you that the lift has arrived - you look over in the direction of the noise, a tremor of excitement rippling through you. An adorably scruffy Marcus, wearing old jeans and a t-shirt, steps out - his face utterly beaming on seeing you. “Hey! How are you doing?” he leans in to kiss your cheek twice - hang on, when did this start being a thing?

“Why didn’t you let me pick you up? You’ve carried so much over- lemme see your hands,” his brow knits on seeing the rapidly reddening welts as he takes your hands in his, brushing his thumbs gently across your palms.

“You live four roads away from me - they’re not that bad! And anyway, you can help me now- which floor do you live on?” You outwardly roll your eyes at the sweetness Marcus shows you, secretly enjoying the stroke of his fingers and the ghostly press of his lips still burning a hole in your cheek.

Marcus takes all of the bags from the chair, refusing point blank to entertain you helping him to take them upstairs - you watch as his arms twitch under the weight, enjoying the mixture of confusion and shock at your strength across his face, “you carried all of this?”

Nodding at him, you try to take a bag again, but he dangles it just out of reach, “Watch it - you do realise that I have two other brothers apart from Ads? I will think nothing of rugby tackling you to the floor and pinning you down,” you warn, enjoying the flush brought to his cheeks.

“You’ll be the death of me,” Marcus flusters as he calls the lift, handing you the smallest, lightest bag.

✪✪✪✪✪

Exiting at the top floor, you’re taken aback by the amount of light and quiet that washes throughout the building. Feeling so removed from the shadows cast from the tower blocks and the hustle and bustle of the streets below, the broad daylight offers a sense of serenity, a peace that invites itself into the soul and makes itself at home. As Marcus unlocks the door to his flat, you kick off your shoes at the entrance, “You don’t have to do that,” he offers through the keys in his mouth, holding the door open with his elbow, still refusing any help from you.

“Oh believe me, if I didn’t, my mum’s radar would go off and I would be cruising for a bruising,” you giggle, taking in the glorious spaciousness of his apartment, “I promise my feet aren’t too stinky and that I put on clean socks.”

“Whatever makes you comfortable,” Marcus’ eyes crinkle at you, “Can I get you something to drink or eat?”

“A coffee would be ace - strong and black please,” you reply, your gaze drinking in the details of his home. Books line the shelves along one wall - such a mixture of titles ranging from airport bestsellers to obscure art catalogues - the relief to see actual paper and hardbacks adorning the shelves rather than trinkets and plants when so many keep their books electronically in their pockets.

A couple of large canvases lie propped against another - long hours preventing them from being hung - their bright colours sure to bring joyful hues to quite a stark room. There are a few photo frames dotted around - mostly pictures of a moment in time rather than poses - of people you assume are friends and family from back in the States. Handing you a steaming mug, Marcus looks over your shoulder as you look at a photo of an older couple dancing and laughing at a wedding, “That’s my mamá and papá at my oldest sister’s wedding. It was such a magical day - just so much love in the air.”

“You can feel the joy radiating from them,” you offer, lowering your gaze from him to grab the frame next to the picture of his parents, “Are these your sisters or cousins? You all look very alike.”

“Yeah, my little sisters,” he grins proudly. “This one is Beth - she’s two years younger and is a paediatrician in Texas. Has two kids with her wife, Sophie. And this one is Cat - she’s doing her own thing out on the West Coast as a musician. They definitely inherited all the clever and cool genes.”

“Hah! You’re kinder to your sisters than I am to my brothers,” you grin, “They’re all total idiots but due to some weird genetic and biological insistence, I still love them.”

Taking a gulp of your coffee, you turn back towards him, “Come on you, we’d better get to work if you want a curry this evening.”

He pouts, looking more like a sulky little boy than a middle aged man. You can’t help but laugh at the sad puppy dog eyes he is conjuring at the thought of work, “Oh poppet, what’s wrong?” you teasingly mock.

“I kinda hoped you were a magician who could just magic a curry outta nowhere so we could watch films til the others arrive,” Marcus grumps shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Well, there is UberEats for that but you horrible lot put me up to this so you’re going to help,” you wag your finger at him, “But as you’re the only one here, you get the honour of being the chief taster,” you add, tapping him playfully on the nose.

With a soft huff and a furrow of the brow, Marcus guides you into the kitchen where, whilst he was making your coffee, he has helpfully already put all the fresh produce in his fridge as the sides are delightfully blank apart from the bags of spices.

“What are we making today, Chef?”

“Ok, meat dishes are a spiced yoghurt leg of lamb, a keema - don’t you give me that look, a cardamom butter chicken, and, a prawn and courgette curry,” you turn to Marcus’ fridge to find the lamb, “Needs to come to room temperature before we cook it.”

“My tummy is rumbling already,” Marcus adds, his eyes glinting excitedly as he licks along his lower lip, the skin glistening damply. You have never quite figured out whether your love of his lips is due to their fullness or the association with the kindness of his words.

“Hah- you’re not getting away without having some veggies, too, mister,” you cluck as you hand him a bag of onions and several bulbs of garlic to skin, chop and crush for the various dishes.

“Ok, Moooom,” Marcus dramatically rolls his eyes at your dictate, “I admit, I’d rather eat sugary or salty things over green stuff but I can make an exception for curried veg.”

The arch of your eyebrow virtually reaches your hairline at him teasingly calling you mom, so you reach for the towel, twist it and flick him hard on what you’d hoped would be his hip but catch him square on his arse instead.

A yelp of pain and wide eyes greet your action, “Did you just…? Oh, it is on.! You might think you’re tough from your brothers but my sisters taught me sneaky tactics.”

“Come at me, bro!” you taunt from the other side of the kitchen, putting up a boxing stance.

Brandishing the hand without the paring knife in your general direction, he answers, “Nope, gonna use the element of surprise and attack when you least expect it!”

Tutting your tongue at Marcus’ weak ass response, you grab the spices you need to prepare under the power of your pestle and mortar. With the waft of roasting cumin soaring through the air and your battle with your boss at a supposedly declared ceasefire, everything starts to feel comfortable and easy again. You could be six years old and standing on the chair next to your mum, watching like a hawk as she lovingly prepared meals for your family with an ever burgeoning belly. It was then, during those hours shared in the galley kitchen that became your time with her when normally it felt pretty split between her work as a GP and your brothers.

What the fuck… You jump out of your skin when a warm, solid wall presses you out of your nostalgic reverie, “Hah! Pinned ya! Sneaky tactics- told ya they worked,” a deep, soft voice whispers in your ear.

Your heart flutters like a bird trying to escape its rib cage with the closeness of Marcus, the heat rising through your body from your proximity to him - a visceral response to the glorious cocktail of masculine smell from his aftershave and body wash.

What do I do next?

Why can’t I bloody think straight?

Wiggling yourself around so that you face him, his face now so close that you can feel his warm breath upon your cheeks. Your eyes playfully catch the steady gaze of Marcus’ deep soulful pools. It would only take the smallest of movements to reach forwards and kiss him right on that stupidly gorgeous, plush Cupid’s bow and crease. But… what if he doesn’t want that? He’s my fucking boss - that would be a stellar move to make…

Instead of the tiny incline forwards to press your lips against his as every inch of you screams to do so, you drop to the floor and crawl out from between his legs, “Not pinned well enough it seems,” you tease haltingly as your tongue sticks in your dry throat.

As you check the browning of the cumin seeds, out of the corner of your eye you see Marcus’ head drop sadly, hearing a small sigh - his hands still upon the work surface and feet not having moved from the position he had pinned you in moments earlier.

Did he want to...? No, surely not.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, Nush,” Marcus humbly apologises, pushing himself off the side, “I hope that I haven’t made things awkward.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” you softly say, pouring the roasted cumin into the mortar, ready to be ground, “I was the one who flicked you on your arse - I am the one who should be apologising.”

You beckon gently to Marcus, who has now taken refuge in the furthest corner of the kitchen from you - wringing his hands instead of chopping the onions, “Come over here - I want you to experience one of my most favourite smells of childhood. These are roasted cumin seeds and when you grind them, they release the most heavenly scent.”

After a few grinds, you offer the bowl towards Marcus’ face as he closes the gap between you, “I… Wow! I wouldn’t have thought it would make such a difference but it’s almost like you’ve entirely transformed it. See,” the dimple deepens in that right cheek of his, “you are a magician.”

“I love how spices - a bit like paint - can take on completely different characters depending on how you treat them. Leave the spice whole and you have this mild and fragrant taste. If you crush them, then their attitude comes back tenfold with a vengeance. Toast them, and they may as well be Clark Kent in a phone booth.”

Looking up you see Marcus gazing at you with a sweet half smile on his face - could he like me… like that?

“Sorry, you don’t need to hear me blathering on,” you fluster, waving your hand in a dismissive gesture as the heat rises through your face.

Shaking his head gently without dropping your regard, “No. No, please don’t ever stop. Your passion for things is beautiful.”

“Growing up, I didn’t realise that other people didn’t have whole cupboards filled to the brim with herbs, spices and seasonings. I mean, for all the damage the British Empire reeked, you’d have hoped that the spices would have entered more of their culture, but no! Apparently, my family was the weird one for having food with a flavour,” you shrug your shoulders at some of the ridiculous things you’d heard as a child - accusations of differences you’d never thought to be of note.

Marcus chuckles at your indignance, “It’s funny you should say that. I didn’t realise that my mamá had an accent until it was pointed out to me when I was a kid.”

Noting your slightly confused expression, Marcus explains, “She’s Argentinian- came to the States as a political refugee as she was a journalist following the disappearances during the Dirty War. Met my dad, and I came along very soon after, and the rest is history..”

You can’t help but laugh at the flush on Marcus’ cheeks as he recounts his personal history to you, “Love can’t be held back when it hits and it’s obvious that they’re still crazy about each other now from that photo.”

“Exactly, no point in wasting time when you know what you want,” Marcus grins, looking at his feet.

“My parents have a similar story. My dad is as English as they come - I mean we’re on a freaking island so there’s no true thing as being completely English. My mum is from Pakistan - Karachi - it’s in the South.”

“She came over due to the fighting between East and West Pakistan - the two countries that are now Pakistan and Bangladesh. It kept interrupting her studies to become a doctor so she came to England and restarted her degree here.”

Marcus’ brow creases in thought, “Why did she restart her degree? Could the credits not just be transferred to the college she moved to in the UK?”

“Hah- yeah. It was the seventies, during a time where all Southern Asians were P*kis - no matter where they were from on the Indian subcontinent- and thought of as dirty, lesser beings. There were constant race riots for anyone who wasn’t ethnically white or English. She would never have been taken seriously with her mediocre medical training from some Adobe hut in the middle of a jungle,” you fume, pounding the seeds into fragments. The mortar being threatened with the same fate too.

Marcus’ fingers wrap around your wrist to try and prevent your rage at the ignorance of others from causing you an injury, “I am so sorry,” he pulls you into a warm, tender hug, tucking your head under his chin, “How long before food can take care of itself so we can put a film on? I think we both need a rest.”

“Hmmm, ten minutes and then most things can simmer or be switched off ready for a reheat or proper cook this evening,” you say, leaning reluctantly out of his comforting arms to go check on the bubbling saucepans of food.

“‘K. I’ll go get things set up so you can flop for a bit,” Marcus touches you gently on your shoulder as he goes to set up the front room. You go to squeeze his hand but it’s removed from your shoulder too quickly for your response.

✪✪✪✪✪

“You ready?” Marcus calls through the wall as you turn off the heat from the final pans.

“Mhm,” you mumble in response to his question - double, triple checking that everything is off. Too many fire alarms ruining perfectly lovely meals or moments.

“What did you pick?” You ask, curling up on the other end of the sofa to Marcus, “Do you have no cushions?”

“Shit, no -I’m a guy, what can I say? - lemme grab the pillows from the bed,” Marcus jumps up, calling through from his bedroom, “Bet you have loads on your couch.”

“A fuckload, but, mainly to hide the fact the springs have gone. It’s like a precarious balancing act of comfort on there,” you surreptitiously sniff the pillow, inhaling the smell of Marcus’ shampoo, “Did you give me your pillow?”

A confused look is shot at you from the other end of the sofa, “Whaddya mean?”

“Smells of your hair,” you say as you squish it into the perfect comfy shape, “Like a mixture of lemon and eucalyptus.”

“That’s a sharp nose you’ve got. I gave you the other side though,” Marcus huffs through a chuckles he shakes his head at your somewhat strange comment, “Guess I’ve been sleeping across both sides then.”

“Best thing about sleeping alone- getting to starfish across the bed. Unless of course…”

Marcus can’t help but laugh at your awkward dig to find out whether he’d brought home the goddess from Friday’s antics, “So you wanna know if I brought home Kemi?”

“She was very beautiful. You’d have been mad not to,” you try to school your expression as best you can, keeping your eyes glued to Bing Crosby and Grace Kelly singing about true love, desperate to hide the jealousy coursing through your veins.

“Must be mad then. Didn’t even kiss her,” Marcus honestly answers whilst copying your tactic of staring at the tv, “She could see that there was someone else I liked so it would have been cruel to have done anything.”

You mull this over in silence, trying not to speak, to ask a million questions.

“Nush.”

“Mhm?”

“Can I talk to y…”

You both jump as an alarm goes off on your phone to remind you to turn the lamb down in the oven.

“Oh shit. Hold that thought,” you jump up from the sofa, heading in the direction of the kitchen with zero thought of what the man at the end of the sofa is desperately trying to tell you. Fiddling with Marcus’ ridiculously swanky oven until it looks like it is doing what you want it to do, you walk back in with two ice cold beers from his fridge.

“Raided your fridge,” you cheekily grin, holding one out to Marcus, the condensation running, down your fingers, “Hope you don’t mind!”

“Good thinking, Batman,” Marcus nods in appreciation, “Any more alarms set to scare us both?”

“Only due to go off when the film is done, so…” you yawn widely, “We’ve got a while yet.”

Marcus’ hand that was slung over the back of the sofa, lifts to stroke your shoulder, “You sleepy? C'mere, you.” With a soft tug of your t-shirt sleeve, he pulls you into his side - your willingness to sink into his broad chest very apparent. Your ear is pressed against him, his heartbeat singing a lullaby to you as his fingers stroke and caress the silken waves of your hair. You wonder at how this man - a total stranger a week ago - has seemingly knitted himself into becoming a cocoon of safety for you, his gentleness and calm offering a haven of tranquility in your otherwise cacophonous world, as the light in the room slowly fades to black.

✪✪✪✪✪

“Uh oh.”

“Hey, welcome back, sunshine!” a gentle pair of fingers stroke back the hair that had drifted into your face as you dozed.

“Sorry for falling asleep. Again,” trying to finesse your way through the heat flaming your cheeks, you offer an awkward grin towards your chuckling pillow, “Guess we’d better start getting things finished as we’ve only got a couple of hours until everyone arrives.

“Oh, don’t give me that look, Marcus! I don’t want to move either but this curry won’t finish cooking itself.”

“Spit spot, there’s work to be done,” Marcus trills as he adopts his best attempt at a British accent.

“What the fuck was that? Did you just turn into Dick Van Dyke or something?” You tease mercilessly at the appalling sound coming from those lips, choking back laughter at his mock offended face.

“C’mon, you’re right. We’d better get moving,” Marcus stands with a stretch and a creak before reaching back to tug you to your feet.

Back under the glowing lights of Marcus’ kitchen, his presence is now constantly close to yours as you glide together around the space - stirring, chopping and checking. Every time he passes, above the general aroma of cumin and coriander, the onions and garlic, you can smell the cedar and amber upon his skin- a deliciously masculine scent that only seeks to entangle your senses further.

“Here, try this,” you hold out a heaped teaspoon of mince curry to Marcus, “This is the keema - I promise that I only put in the two chillies you chopped for me, this time.”

“Mmm, that’s so good,” he says thickly between chews, stealing the spoon from you as he dives in for a second, third, fourth spoonful.

“Hahaha! Leave some for the others- and you need to try it with some raita and fried onions too,” you check through your dog-eared, yellowed and slightly sticky recipe book that your mum had handed you the day you’d left home at eighteen - a memo of all the times you had cooked them together.

“Shit, I’d better start the chicken,” going through the spices in front of you, you search for the cardamoms that would make the butter chicken sing, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Marcus’ head snaps up from the green beans he was preparing towards you, “What’s up, sweetheart?”

“I can’t find the cardamoms for the butter chicken - gah I knew I’d fuck this up!” you cry, scraping your trembling hands through your hair, eyes flashing around the room wildly as your cortisol rises, making you want to run and scream at your failure to feed your friends.

“Whoa - where’s this coming from? C’mon, look at me. Look at me, Nush,” Marcus has his hands on either side of your shoulders, squeezing them gently, “There’s enough here to feed our whole office for the week with the daals you prepared yesterday, the vegetables we’re about to make and the meats that we’ve cooked up already here. Andy is bringing all the rice and naan, Kiri is bringing beers and Dian is on gin and tonic duty. You have done more than enough and I will not allow you to get this upset over one missing ingredient especially when there is a small store downstairs that I’m sure will have it, if we cannot find it after we look for it together.”

After seeing your numb nod as an agreement, Marcus moves his hands to the side of your head to focus your gaze on him rather than the panic seeping through you. As he strokes his thumbs across your cheeks, you allow your eyes to close and your breathing to regain a normal pattern.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologising?” Marcus searches your now open eyes.

“My reactions are ridiculous. Most people tell me to stop being so stupid and that just whips the storm inside my head even more,” you whisper, “But you. You know how to slow everything down and stop the spinning.”

The corner of Marcus’ mouth twitches, “D’ya wanna know a secret?” You nod at him, “As you know, I was married before. When it ended, I totally spiralled. The world kept spinning too fast and I experienced constant anxiety, very nearly burning out of my role.

“I was lucky. My boss was understanding but made me promise to get some support. He knew of someone mental health trained within the FBI who was there for mainly hostage negotiations - not part of the true psych team but someone who could help without it turning up on your record.

“Kwame worked with me for almost a year - pretty much to the point my decree absolute came through. Our sessions were done on a track - by running with me, he was teaching me the skills I needed to control my fears. By my feet hitting the tarmac, he was grounding me. By going over running techniques, he was teaching me how to control my breathing- taking longer and deeper breaths. And running is just repetition. A mindful repetition that allows your brain to have a bit of a break.

“So when I see you start to spiral, I try to give you the same steps he taught me. Get you grounded, opposite me so you copy my breathing and hope that gets you on the right track.”

“Thank you,” you drop your head forwards, relaxing onto his chest. He feels so - safe.

“You don’t need to thank me. Well, okay maybe you do as look what I’ve just spotted,” Marcus holds the offending spice aloft.

“Oh my god, I could fucking kiss you. You have just saved the curry,” you dramatically declare, clutching the cardamom jar to your heart before placing it next to the other ingredients on the counter.

“Go on then.”

What?

His comment makes you snap your head over to catch Marcus’ tremulous gaze, his eyes darting between the floor and your lips. He takes a small step, closing the small distance between the two of you, threading his fingers between yours. Each slow movement offers an unspoken opportunity for you to step away. To tease him and move on with the day.

But why on Earth would you?

With your heart racing faster and faster, you lure him ever closer with your eyes, soft but absolute in their conviction of what was about to pass between you. A small part of you understands that when you kiss him, something will change forever. That within his lips you may find the place to call home - the aching in your stomach may cease and life could start to make sense again. The anxieties of the week washing away, the pain of your collective pasts and the hint of a brighter, happier future before you.

When he doesn’t move again, you seize the moment. Pushing up onto your socked tiptoes, you tilt your chin, inclining your face until your lips come to rest upon his in the sweetest, chastest kiss. Drawing back slightly to check that Marcus is okay with a raise of your eyebrows and widened eyes, he holds your gaze steadily, similarly stunned - a mirror of each other with racing hearts and slightly parted lips. It’s like in that moment everything around you ceases to exist as anything other than extraneous nonsense - all the noise inside your head silenced by that one touch.

A small dumbstruck smile creeps across Marcus’ lips before he lowers his head to press another gentle kiss upon you. Then another. Then another. Each press of your lips a little longer. A little deeper. Your lips part to allow his tongue entry as every single thought is quietened by the taste of him. Dropping hands for his to cradle your face and yours to thread through his hair as your bodies press together tightly.

Oh the taste of him is utterly exquisite! From where you’ve been using him as chief curry taster, there’s an element of spices with the tiniest hint of mint. And how you have missed having that beautifully solid warmth of his body next to yours. Inhaling his breaths that fall upon you, your hearts match each other’s rhythms as your lips explore each other, every sensation drawing together to create a humming ball of energy, like you are standing at the point where lightning strikes the Earth.

✪✪✪✪✪

Hands fisted tightly in each other’s clothing - both stuck in the quandary of wanting to tear the fabric from your bodies but also frightened of pushing the other too far. Finally pulling apart, you gaze upon Marcus - all lust blown pupils and dopey smiles. Your foreheads come back to rest against each other, unable to quite let go just yet, not wanting to break the spell and return to reality.

“I have wanted to kiss you since perhaps the first time I met you,” Marcus murmurs as his lips gently ghost over your cheeks, “Maybe even from seeing the photo in your file when Andy drove me here from the airport.”

“Was the person, me?” You quietly ask, finally with the confidence to finish that conversation, “The reason you didn’t kiss or sleep with the goddess?”

He drops his eyes as he gives you a small nod, “Normally, I’d have just asked you out but I was scared of fucking up. It’s been a long time since I felt a spark with anyone.

“You’ve entered my life in this whirlwind of intelligence, beauty and tenderness - I didn’t want to frighten you or make you feel uncomfortable if you didn’t reciprocate.”

A thousand thoughts flood your mind as Marcus says those words. All at once, you want to tell him how safe he makes you feel. How much now that you’ve started kissing him, you never want to stop. How the cruel critics of slumber, silence themselves when you feel his heartbeat against your cheek.

Instead you stand there, silent.

Trying to stroke out the creases you’ve created in his t-shirt as you attempt to find words to put into a logical order, you notice his face twitching when the material under your fingers makes contact with his sides, “Oh Marcus, are you ticklish?”

“Um, no,” Marcus tries to deny breezily as he takes a small, hesitant step back from you, pretending to steady himself.

Making a small movement towards him, your hands at the same level as the point of the bunched fabric - you ask, “Are you sure about that?”

“Yeah,” Marcus is now eyeing you suspiciously - desperate to kiss you again but also a little worried as to what havoc your fingers might reek.

“Then, why are you moving away from me?”

“No reason…” his usually deep voice now a little tighter and higher, “Nush… What are you about to ARGH!”

His knees crumble beneath him as you attack his sensitive sides, “Gah! Quit it, woman,” he weakly commands between wheezes and hoots of laughter.

Taking full advantage of Marcus’ prone and vulnerable position, you take the opportunity to straddle him - effectively pinning him to the floor, “This is how you pin someone.”

“I let you pin me,” Marcus corrects you with a wink.

“Oh really?” you contest, entirely unconvinced by his bravado.

“Yeah,” he says with a small wiggle, bringing his hands to the back of your head, “Cos y’see, I can flip our positions quite easily.”

Suddenly, you find yourself flat on your back in Marcus’ kitchen with zero air in your lungs to form any sensible thought other than to kiss him hard. His large hands cradle your head as he props himself gently above you on his elbows. You feel his entire body covering yours. Deliciously pressing against every single inch of you and oh how it takes every bit of the minutismal amount of self control you have to not beg him to fuck you senseless into that floor.

✪✪✪✪✪

“Shit, is that your door?”

“Fuck,” Marcus pushes himself up to kneeling between your legs, “Can we pretend we’re not in?”

The harsh realisation of an evening with your colleagues, albeit lovely people, sinks in to you both.

“Nope,” you groan, popping the p with a deflated gusto, “Hang on, don’t buzz them up until I’ve tucked my boobs back into my bra.”

“I dunno, makes for easier access,” Marcus lopsidedly grins with a wink as he heads for the door.

“You certainly didn’t seem to make hard work of it earlier,” you mumble at him, before you affix a smile to your face, “Hey! How are you all doing?”

A sea of never ending hugs envelopes and separates you from Marcus as everyone piles into his apartment. The stupid grin still firmly in place on your face since you’d first kissed, you find that every time you look over at him, he’s gazing right back, mirroring that lovestruck smile.

“Oh my god, it all smells so amazing,” Dian waxes lyrical, squeezing you tightly as she inhales a lungful of exotically scented air, “What’ve we got?”

You take her by the hand into the kitchen to show all the different things you had bubbling away. Andy ducks into the kitchen behind you, laden with bags filled with pilau rice, naan and chapatis, and a beautiful small bunch of spring flowers in his other hand - tiny tête-à-tête daffodils with multiple heads along each stalk, brilliant yellow and red tulips standing like soldiers and the otherworldly looking stems of hyacinth, wickedly scenting the air under your nose as he thrusts them under there.

“Hey pretty girl, here’s all the bits you asked for. You deserve a much bigger bunch for what I’ve roped you into but I know you love the early blooms,” he offers by way of apology, sticking a kiss to the side of your forehead, “Smells fucking good though as ever. Hope you don’t mind but I’ve brought a box to take some home for Greg - he was a jealous arse this evening so I suppose I should share.”

“You know the way I cook, enough for several small armies,” you wonkily grin at him, truly thankful for the part he’d had to play, “‘Fraid there’s no easy way to say this and you will have to be the one to break it to Greg, but there’s no butter chicken tonight.”

“You’d better have a damn good excuse for this slatternly behaviour, madam,” Andy gives you a serious side eye for this infraction.

“Well…”

“Initially Nush couldn’t find the cardamoms but then we ran out of time. Plenty of food here, though,” Marcus answers for you, his hand gently holding your hip as he reaches around you to grab a couple of beers from the fridge.

You see Andy catch Marcus’ hand lightly stroking your side as he walks back to Kiritopa, but are entirely grateful when his expression and mouth say nothing. The light chatter in the kitchen, whilst Dian dips a teaspoon into all the pots, is interrupted by a small knock at the door. Sticking your head around the kitchen door, you spot Marcus opening the door to a nervous-looking Harper. Andy sidles past you, to pull her into the main room, rather than her previous position of standing on the doorstep, utterly awkward and obviously feeling quite out of place.

“Hi, I hope you don’t mind me coming. I know I wasn’t there Friday but I don’t really do large crowds and drinking.”

You walk over to her amidst the chorus of “not to worry”s and “lovely to see you”s, “Fancy something to drink now? Got plenty of soft options and I think I’ll stick alongside you as I’ve got to make sure I don’t burn stuff.”

“Including yourself, this time,” Harper retorts quickly with a small smile and a raise of her eyebrows.

“Hah, chance’d be a fine thing,” Andy laughs, slapping your shoulder before turning back to clink bottles and talk with Kiri and Marcus.

✪✪✪✪✪

Through the full length doors of Marcus’ balcony, evening spring sunshine streams through, bathing the group of your co-workers in a gentle, diffused light that flows around the room coating you in a golden glow. You all eat your fill and then some, with full tummies and tired eyes - the kitchen still full of half eaten dishes.

“Can we make this a weekly thing?” Kiritopa asks through a mouthful of food, hopefully.

“Not unless we take it in turns or get a take away - I don’t have the physical or emotional energy to make this level of curry every weekend,” you pointedly remark, looking up from your coke to meet Marcus’ eyes.

You’ve spent the evening barely speaking to each other for fear of alerting the others but surreptitiously brushing past so that you can sneak touches. Tender hidden strokes that feel like the kindest stitches on hidden, gaping wounds.

Marcus stands up to help usher the evening to an end and get you to himself again, “I have some boxes for y’all to take food home as otherwise, I’ll be eating this for weeks - delicious as it is.”

Everyone thankfully takes their boss’ hint and head into the kitchen to grab platefuls to reheat after long days. Slowly saying their goodbyes, your friends drift off in the direction of their homes as you throw yourself in an exhausted heap of bones on his sofa. Two strong hands grip you under your arms, to drape your torso across his lap.

“Hey tired girl,” you slightly open your eyes to spy a smiling Marcus gazing down at you. His fingers draw lazy patterns over the sensitive skin of your neck.

“I’d like to take you on a proper date this week. Wanna do this properly. Make a bit of a fuss.”

“Yeah? Not just pin me down and ravish me on the kitchen floor?” you grin widely at him.

“Well, I’d hardly call that a ravishing…” your eyes widen, eyebrows raising at Marcus’ comment, excitement pooling in your tummy, “Yeah, I saw there’s an Argentinian restaurant in Blackheath so how about steak, Malbec and homemade ice cream before I bring you back to either yours, or mine, for another, even better ravishing?”

“That sounds amazing, although with the amount of food in my belly, I may never have to eat again,” you give your stomach a rub, “But the ravishing…”

Hauling you up to sitting across his lap, you protest loudly, “I am going to crush your legs.”

“Stop making ridiculous comments and c’mere,” Marcus demands as he gently turns your head towards him, stealing a delicate kiss from you.

“I...should… - argh! Stop kissing me for a second,” you beg halfheartedly, “I should go home.”

“Stay.”

“Please stay,” Marcus desperately entreats you, “I’m not expecting anything but I’d love it if you stayed. I know you’ve got nothing here but give me two minutes and I can have a spare toothbrush for you. I’ll drop you home early tomorrow morning so you can grab some clothes and then we can go into work together?”

It feels as though the wind is knocked out of your lungs with the depth of Marcus’ need to be around you.

How does he do it?

“There’s no games with you, are there?” you twist in Marcus’ lap so that you now straddle his thighs, placing your hands on either side of his ridiculously handsome face.

“No,” he shakes head slowly, all the while holding eye contact with you, “I’m too old and I know what I want.”

“What’s that?”

Stroking his hands up and down your sides as he nuzzles your neck, he clearly and confidently declares,

“You.”

Tag list of glory (as ever, please ask to be put on or dropped from the list): @astroboots @silverwolf319@sirowsky @leonieb @disgruntledspacedad @bison-writes @the-ginger-hedge-witch @danniburgh @sugarontherims @green-socks @tardisfangurl @absurdthirst @pedropascalito-deactivated20210 @mouthymandalorian @mrsparknuts @zukoyonce @agirllovespancakes @yespolkadotkitty @lunaserenade @theravenreads @lv7867 @songsformonkeys

#pedro pascal #josé pedro balmaceda pascal #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal#ppascaledit #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal x reader #marcus pike #marcus pike x reader #the mentalist #the mentalist fanfic #marcus pike x oc #marcus pike x oc reader

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greencbdgummiesprice · 3 years

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aethuviel · 4 years

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Real life Na’vi tribe, the Blue Moon Tribe, and realistic goals of going off-grid

In late 2009, James Cameron’s “Avatar” film came, and with it, the Avatar-related forums. There were Avatar forums, Tree of Souls, and Learn Na’vi.

While the film made an impression on me in terms of its world-building and aesthetic beauty, it did not challenge my view on lifestyle or give me ideas on how to live in the future.

But for some, it did. It was in August of 2010 that I (then nineteen years old) was reading around on the aforementioned Avatar boards, where there was a very(!) lengthy (I believe 50+ pages by the time I found it?) thread regarding the idea of making your own “Na’vi-style” tribe, as a lifestyle.

I read the first few pages and thought “Ha! Fun idea, but I could NEVER-” I kept reading. It took me two whole days to read the entire thing. I went from “maybe I could do it during the summers during the seasonal idea they are discussing, but I couldn’t live forever without my books-” to “I WANT TO DO THIS”.

At nineteen, I was at a standstill in life and had no idea where to go from there. All I knew before this was that I wanted to live in the countryside, but I had no idea and no help on how to make this a reality.

This was something completely new to me, that seemed extremely appealing. I had actually watched Into the Wild just a few months prior, but had no inspiration from it (maybe because it was Alaska, then completely unappealing to me, and the poor guy did starve to death).

By the time I found them, the thread had been broken off into its completely separate, non-Avatar-related forum. They were very clear that while Avatar forums is where they met and were inspired, the project was a serious thing and had nothing to do with “larping” or trying to live literally like Na’vi. The forum was called “the Revolutionists”, better name pending.

The oldest member, who also had the server to the new forum and was one of the most active members, was 37 at the time. The youngest was only 15, and I’d say the average age was around 21. We numbered around 15-20 committed members.

The knowledge was great among some of the members, talking about permaculture, water and waste systems, et cetera. A chat room was set up, and while we had some structured meet-ups in there, there was almost always someone there.

I was extremely inspired, but knew nothing, so I mostly stayed silent, read and listened. Over the next year, I consumed everything I could find regarding “tribal living” or “going back to the wild”. Even then, in 2011, the internet was a much smaller place than today, and it was very hard to find decent resources.

Eventually, in a live chat, the name “Blue Moon Tribe” was decided on for the group. “BMT” had a lot of ideas, some of which I’ll list to give an easy overview...

Permaculture, not pure hunter-gatherer, as it is not feasible today

Hunting for meat, as raising meat animals was never considered

Animals like dogs and horses would be allowed

Funding/permission for the project by allowing researchers to study us as a “social experiment”, as surely this has not been attempted before?

Firearms vs just archery were lightly debated, but as far as I remember, never settled on

Hanggliders and other means of flying were discussed quite a bit, inspired by the Na’vi “Ikran”, but put into reality by perhaps being used to survey forest for the government (essentially as another means of being permitted “stewardship” of a piece of land rather than buying it)

Permanent life, including children and birth control were discussed at some length

We would live in a firm spot, with some sort of permanent structures

An enormous piece of land would be required, due to having to live largely off of hunting - we actually never calculated this very well (how much meat/person/year, how many animals per acre, etc.), but estimated it at 1000+ acres for a reasonable size tribe of ~20 people. This was one of the two ultimate death blows of the project.

Where in the world would it be? Members lived everywhere from the US and UK to Sweden, Germany, Chile, the Philippines, and more countries. Visa requirements for anyone moving would be daunting. I really tried researching this, but it never went anywhere, and it was the second death blow to the project. Never a set location. (In hindsight, it would be best to just aim on the US and be done with it. Or two locations, one American and one European.)

I went from being a very quiet student in the beginning, to becoming one of the leaders in “keeping it going”, when things seemed difficult, by keeping writing new threads, and trying to solve our most pressing problems - money (for buying land) and where to move.

I researched almost every country imaginable, made in-depth charts of my research, and felt most like some of the more well-off Latin American countries would fit us best, like Panama, Argentina or Mexico. A problem with tropical countries is that they often ban hunting. Spain could also be a good fit.

Note that while I researched most of the world (including southern Africa and all of southeast Asia), I excluded most of Europe, as after growing up in northern Sweden with winters easily going below -20C, I thought I loved the heat. :D (Oh I learned after visiting Tbilisi in July...)

My focus wasn’t all selfish, of course, and growing seasons were much better in warmer climates. Mostly, we(!) focused on the subtropics.

But the years passed, and nothing happened. Not even the real life meeting we had discussed.

There was another group, meanwhile, that had been inspired from the same Avatar source, but had remained on its forum, Learn Na’vi - we called this the “real life Na’vi tribe”, with no official name. I was active on this forum as well, mostly to help, as I saw myself joining this project in real life unlikely, but if they succeeded first, maybe I would.

Overall, this other project was far less organized, with more “casuals” coming for a week and then leaving (both projects had this problem early on, in 2010), less structure and dare I say, less maturity. Some mature voices pitched in, but they mostly had no personal interest at all, they simply wanted help people keep their feet on the ground.

In the beginning, some really outlandish ideas were suggested, and it had a far greater focus on NA’VI RE-ENACTMENT, even though this faded in favor of... reality. Obviously no one is going to spend their entire life living like fictional aliens from a movie.

Reducing the project to a simple summer camp was discussed, as well as the idea of separating it - not in locations, but having two parallel projects in the same location. One would be the “true” tribal life, and then an ecovillage nearby for a “softer” approach. I urged them to go for the ecovillage, period, but it was ditched altogether instead.

This group seemed less happy with having animals, even horses (though I joked to myself, “Hey, even the Na’vi have horses?”), but the focus was still on a huge plot of land for hunting.

After a few years of doing even more poorly than BMT, the entire forum category on the Learn Na’vi forum was locked, due to inactivity. The project had officially failed.

For BMT meanwhile, members kept falling away. Someone realized he didn’t want to leave his country and have to speak English for the rest of his life. Someone else found a career they wanted to focus on. Someone else joined the army. Life happened, we were mostly 18-24 year olds, and did not have as much foundation in our idea as we thought.

When I “left” in early 2015, there were maybe 3-4 of us left in a different chatroom, as our entire forum had been taken down by hackers, and it was never reinstated. (Oh how I grieve this, as while the project is dead, there were droves of great information on it. The original thread on Avatar forums that birthed the project is also gone, as the entire forum is down.)

I was clear that I didn’t leave the plans to have an off-grid lifestyle, only Blue Moon Tribe, as it was obviously dead, despite my best efforts to keep it going. (Not to give myself too much credit, I was never a “leader” of the project or by any means the most knowledgeable, but I did take upon myself the role of inspiration and keeping people’s spirits focused.)

I met some of the other members on Tree of Souls later, where there was a thread with people asking what happened with these projects. It all basically ran off in the sand, as we say in my language.

It’s been almost six years since I left, why talk about it now? Because I keep thinking about it. What happened, why it died, and what we could have done instead.

First off, I would not join this project today.

This project taught me that off-grid life was a thing, and not just a dream, but a feasible lifestyle. I had never heard of it before finding the then still unnamed Blue Moon Tribe.

I am still very actively working on my off-grid future, but it is a very different lifestyle from the one these groups planned.

During 2015, when I went complete lone wolf and planned it only for myself, I downsized and downsized until I (reluctantly) realized a few acres is all you need. Most hunters (and I still do plan on hunting) don’t own their own acreage. You can hunt for food without owning the hunting land.

While I was completely fine with hunting, I felt extremely squeamish with killing animals I raised myself. After watching enough YouTube videos, I got rid of this fear and decided to have chickens and rabbits as well. I was focusing on Spain, or perhaps Ireland or Croatia, as my off-grid destination.

Later that same year, I met my husband, a man who had dreamed of living in Alaska or the Russian far east since early childhood, and we made our plans for the future together. Our first few weeks meeting in real life were spent staying up late at night, talking for hours and hours, mainly about off-grid life.

During the years before it failed, in 2013 specifically, I found the then phenomenal (it has really gone downhill in recent seasons) TV series “Ben Fogle’s New Lives in the Wild”. So many different people who have found their “wild life”, in so many different locations and ways, from so many different backgrounds and outlooks. It is a gold mine, and I would have drooled over it even more if it existed back in 2011. It would have helped our project tremendously.

During 2011-2012, I also looked up ecovillages. Mostly just for research, to see what they were doing, but also, possibly, to join. (The existence of hundreds upon hundreds of ecovillages made our project members realize BMT’s idea was not that unique and that the “let researchers study us”-idea may not be so feasible...)

I found that, out of ~200 ecovillages I looked up around the Americas and southern Europe, at least half were vegetarian or vegan in their rules, and while the other half permitted meat-eating, not one hunted or raised meat. I found one project in Hawaii (only a single family, no one else yet) that had chickens for eggs and cows for milk, but that’s it. Lots of woo-ey spiritual retreats and that kind of thing, not a lot of long-term living.

Something I learned from New Lives in the Wild, is that while many do this alone or with their family, only a handful of these projects were “communes”, and they were mainly made up of hippie-like, transient young people coming and going. Same with my ecovillage research, I did not find a single true village with families creating a permanent existence.

So, on to my criticism of projects like these, and why they are doomed to fail without much better foundations and goals:

Unstructured/unrealistic goals, as it was the death blow of both projects. We had no real calculations on how much land we would need, for what, and how much money would be needed.

No set location from the get-go. Again, we should have just said “US”, picked a state (as there are tons of resources on this), and let that be that. At least half of the members were American.

Creating a community meant to last is hard. One kind piece of advice I saw on the Real-life Na’vi tribe was that “you won’t be able to make it work without a common spirituality”, and I, as the then diehard atheist, dismissed it straight away, but she was right. Without common cultural/racial/spiritual roots, or a spiritual common goal (”converts”, not as easy as people who have been raised in it, but better than nothing), communities like this will break up. It is just human nature. Without strong foundations in culture and spirituality, there is no “social glue” to keep you together through the decades.

As a side to the same point, most people simply can’t live in these artificial communities long-term. I know now I couldn’t, and I realized that in 2015. I am much too introverted and non-conformist to live in a “group”. We could be neighbors, but anything more than that would feel too “suffocating” for me, and conflicts would be inevitable. I’m also sure some of these members would today be on polar opposites of the political conflict, and so would be unlikely to even get along.

I believe the Blue Moon Tribe could have survived with better resources and better planning, but the major pitfall for its long-term survival (people living together for decades to come) would be its lack of “social glue”.

One of the unofficial “leaders” and the oldest member of the project, left because, as she said, she felt more attached to her homeland the older she got, and could not imagine leaving. She was ten years older then than I am today, and I feel the same way, now in my late twenties.

In my early twenties, I longed for “exotic” and “far away”. I wanted tropics or subtropics in a far away land. Cob houses.

In my late twenties, I long for rustic log cabins in the boreal habitat, as close to home as possible. I have seriously considered Chile, but aside from immigration problems, being so far away on the southern hemisphere with no boreal fauna bothered me as well. I think this is a natural progression through early adulthood.

Years ago, I thought rural Scandinavia was so boring.

Now, I watch videos of those who live this lifestyle in their ancestral village in Sweden, and weep with envy. I can never do that, not just because of the harsh winters, but because I can’t stay in Sweden for legal reasons. (A very important law that has no chance of change in the coming decades, and which makes it impossible for me to stay.)

I now live in Norway, and will probably stay here. My husband and I are currently gathering money - about halfway to our goal so far (we have only been able to actively save money for a year, so this will only take another year or two) - to buy a plot of land, perhaps inland, near the Swedish border - and live our lives there, in the woods, the way we want.

All our dreams won’t be realized, as some dreams are simply meant to stay that way, and the world is no longer free - but it will be as close to paradise as we can make it.

#off grid #homesteading #permaculture #going tribal #new lives in the wild #avatar #na'vi #living in the wild

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healthypetsnacks · 6 months

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Chicken Feet are cooked then air-dried, thus retaining their natural flavour. They offer a quick, crunchy snack whilst providing a natural source of glucosamine and chondroitin, key in promoting healthy joints.

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anotherhawk · 5 years

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Family by Association - Good Omens fanfiction

Left to his own devices there was no particular reason for Warlock Dowling to be in any way supernaturally remarkable. Genetically he came from the Youngs, a perfectly innocuous lineage, and he had been raised as the only child of the US ambassador and his philanthropic wife, which might have predisposed him to be an entitled little shit, but still didn’t convey any inherent magical power. The problem was that Warlock had very much not been left to his own devices. No, Warlock had been primarily raised by two supernaturally remarkable beings who had expected him to possess the power to bend reality to his every whim, and, as has been amply demonstrated elsewhere, the expectations of such beings has a power of its own.

Read it on AO3 here or below the cut

Left to his own devices there was no particular reason for Warlock Dowling to be in any way supernaturally remarkable. Genetically he came from the Youngs, a perfectly innocuous lineage, and he had been raised as the only child of the US ambassador and his philanthropic wife, which might have predisposed him to be an entitled little shit, but still didn’t convey any inherent magical power.1 The problem was that Warlock had very much not been left to his own devices. No, Warlock had been primarily raised by two supernaturally remarkable beings who had expected him to possess the power to bend reality to his every whim, and, as has been amply demonstrated elsewhere, the expectations of such beings has a power of its own.

Warlock Dowling was not the antichrist. But he had grown up soaked in angelic and demonic power and to put it plainly, some of it had stuck. And that was how at the age of eleven years old Warlock was fully capable of walking straight past the two secret service agents who were supposedly guarding him, his bickering parents who were supposed to notice him, and the new au pair that was supposed to be taking care of him, hailing a cab to Dulles International airport, flashing the black Amex card he’d borrowed from his father2 getting on a flight to London Heathrow, and spending the next eight hours sitting in first class, playing Fortnite and being brought glasses of Coke by flight attendants who kept forgetting to ask if he was an unaccompanied minor.

Having established the ‘how’ of this situation, let’s take a step back and consider the ‘why’. Warlock had been having a very weird couple of months, even by his own admittedly broad standards. Having been born in the UK and lived all his life there he had, shortly after his birthday party, been dragged by his parents first to some boring ruins where a man with weird eyes (properly weird-weird, not just cool-weird like his Nanny’s) had taken an uncomfortable interest in him and the dog he didn’t have, and then to Washington DC, because his father didn’t have a job anymore…or maybe did, but no-one knew what it was? It was all very confusing. None of the adults seemed to know what was going on anymore than he did, and Mom and Dad were shouting at each other a lot, and these were the sort of times when Nanny Ash would take him outside to the orchard and let him yell at the trees, and make him that hot chocolate that had little glowing stars bubbled through it, and just listen to him, but he didn’t have a nanny anymore. When he’d asked Mom what had happened to her she’d just looked at him blankly and then a couple of days later he’d had an au pair named Sherry. And Sherry was nice enough, but she didn’t know how to make hot chocolate properly, and she’d screamed when he tried to introduce her to the garden snails.

He wanted to go home. Back where his friends were. Back where Nanny Ash was and Brother Francis the gardener. They’d always been there, as long as he could remember. His first memory was of Nanny Ash giving him an ice lolly on a hot day. He’d eaten it too slowly, trying to save it, and the last little bit had fallen off the stick and onto the ground, and he’d been about to cry when suddenly the lolly had been whole again, like he’d never even given it a lick, and he’d looked up into Nanny Ash’s warm golden eyes and she’d given him a slow wink.3 Nanny had been the one to take him to and from his first day of school, and she’d been the one who’d calmed everything down after he’d thrown a tantrum at his kindergarten teacher for labelling the picture he’d drawn of himself holding hands with a tall, thin dark blob and a smaller, rounder white blob as ‘Mummy and Daddy’. She and Brother Francis had been the ones to teach him how to ride a bike, she’d been the one who’d nursed him through the chicken pox while Brother Francis fretted and brought horrible soup. When he’d been playing at Spiderman and he’d fallen off the roof of the house it had been Nanny Ash who had caught him, despite having been at the other end of the garden at the time. That had also been one of the only times she’d raised her voice at him. It had certainly been the only time he’d seen her shaking like that.

He knew what being home felt like, and he was quite happy to follow that feeling all the way across the Atlantic and onto a bus driven by a man who had previously been going to Oxford but who was now following a satnav that was confused to find itself giving directions to a vague and mobile point in a stern Scottish voice.

In that way Warlock found his way to Tadfield, only a couple of miles from the place he’d been born.

This was also the point where he first started considering what he was doing. So far this had all been an excellent adventure but now, fourteen hours and around forty unanswered calls later, he had to admit to himself he wasn’t quite sure how this was going to end. He’d wanted to Get Away and to Go Home, but now he was in a place he’d never been before, he was tired and fed up, he had no idea where he was going to sleep tonight, and Mom was going to be furious when he finally got around to answering his phone.

He stared at the tiny house across the street. Jasmine Cottage, it said. It looked like the sort of place his nanny wouldn’t be caught dead in. But the Feeling he was following was all he had to go on, so he walked through the gate and stopped as he heard voices and shrieks coming from around the back. Not sure what to expect, he sneaked around the side of the house – he was good at sneaking, he could get past the secret service, after all – and peeked around the corner into the back yard.

There was a whole group of people there. There were four kids, three boys and a girl, all running around with ice cream cones and water balloons while a small dog barked madly, jumping around at their ankles. And then there were six adults, sitting in deckchairs with wine glasses, talking quietly. He looked them over – there were only two women and neither of them were his nanny, one being too old, and the other too young. But that Feeling was still there…he Looked closer, his brow creased and there were four men, two of whom he ignored immediately, but the other two…one was shiny and soft like Brother Francis was, and the other one….oh, the other one…

As he watched one of the kids stumbled and dropped his ice cream, and in an instant it was in the man-who-was-his-nanny’s hand, and he was handing it back with a smirk and – even though Warlock couldn’t hope to see his eyes behind those sunglasses he was sure – a wink.

Angry tears sprung to his eyes and he pressed his hands over his mouth. Nanny Ash was a man, well, he’d seen Mrs Doubtfire, he could cope with that. But Nanny Ash had abandoned him and found other kids to take care of without even giving him a second thought…he ran.

If Warlock had waited for even a moment longer he would have seen her head snap up and round to look directly at him, before jumping to her feet and snapping her fingers. A moment after that a water balloon burst exactly where her head had just been.

From Warlock's point of view though what happened was that when he ran around the corner Nanny Ash was standing by the front gate. Sort of, anyway. Her hair was long again, pulled up into a severe bun, and she was wearing red lipstick, but she was still wearing the tight trousers and suit jacket she had been before, and she was leaning against the wall in a way that he’d thought she never would.

He stopped and stared. She stared right back.

“Warlock,” she said at last, abandoning her nonchalance to lead down in front of him, her hand gripping his shoulder. “What the blessed hell are you doing here? Where are your parents?”

“Like you care,” he muttered sulkily, pulling away and marching straight past her. His eyes were burning and he had no idea where he was going, he just wanted to get away.

“What…?” He could hear her footsteps clacking just behind him. “Of course I care, what’s wrong?”

He didn’t want to talk about it anymore. He didn’t want her to see him anymore, and he tried to make himself unnoticed the way he had before, tried to wrap himself in the way his parents' eyes glazed over whenever they were forced to spend some time with him, but Nanny Ash was in front of him again, kneeling down on the pavement, holding her hand out towards him.

“Hey. No. None of that,” she said fiercely. “That’s not going to work, I will always see you.”

“Then why did you leave?” he demanded, his voice cracked. “You weren’t even at my birthday. You just let them take me away, and it sucks and I hate it.”

He was pulled into a familiar, bony hug. “Oh, Warlock,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. Things got very odd after the last time I saw you, and by the time they were sorted you were safe in America with your parents. I thought you’d be better off without me mucking you about.”

“But you didn’t ask,” he said furiously, even as he leaned in against her shoulder. “No one ever asks.”

There was a long pause. She held him tighter. “You’re right. That was stupid of me.”

“And I saw you with those other kids,” he went on, through the lump in his throat. “You were being nice to them. You fixed the ice cream.”

“Oh, Warlock.” She sighed, produced a handkerchief out of nowhere, and dabbed the tears away from his eyes. “I've cared for a lot of children in my life, and none of that changes the way I feel about you.”

He swallowed hard. “Do you….do you not want to be my nanny anymore?”

“Do you even want a nanny anymore?” she asked, pulling back a little to look at him. “You’re getting older, darling child.”

He was. None of his friends had nannies anymore, and he’d taken to calling her ‘Old Ash’ and laughing about it when he was talking to them, but that didn’t mean he wanted her gone. It wasn’t good when she was gone. “You don’t need to be my nanny! You could just be like…a friend. A friend who takes care of me.”

There was another moment of silence and she looked at him , her lips pursed. “Alright then.” She reached up to her glasses and, frightened, he held his hand out to stop her. She froze. “Sorry.”

“There are people around,” he hissed, looking around the street. No-one was looking at them right at that moment, but he knew Nanny didn’t like anyone knowing about her eyes. “They’ll see.”

“Oh.” She smiled at him. “They can’t see us right now. It’s like what you did, only broader.” She reached up again and this time he let her take the glasses off and looked straight into the yellow eyes he’d only ever seen a few times in his life. “Now. Warlock Dowling, I swear to you on my own name that I will always be your friend, and I will always care for you as long as you live and as long as you want me in your life.”

He felt something. A sort of hissing or sizzling in the back of his brain, not unpleasant, but like something was settling in there. “Oh,” he said, echoing her. “Should I swear too?”

“You can say ‘fuck’ if you like,” she told him comfortably. “But no, I don’t need any vow from you and it’s not legally binding on kids anyway.”

“Fuck,” he said, just to see her smile. “You said you swore on your name…is Ashtoreth your name?”

“No…well, sort of, but my real name, the name I chose is Anthony J. Crowley. You can still call me Ash if you like though. Or Nanny. Both are fine.”

“Anthony is a boys name,” he told her, which was sort of close to the question he wanted to ask but couldn’t quite pluck up the nerve.

“No, it’s my name,” she said patiently, and before he could say anything else went on,” Sometimes I’m a man, sometimes I’m a woman, sometimes I’m both, sometimes I’m neither. Sometimes I’m a snake.”

That…was a lot. He wasn’t quite sure what to feel about it. “I always thought you had to be one thing and stick to it.”

She shrugged. “A lot of people think that. It’s not true though. You can always change who you are if you really want to, and if you’re ready to really work at it. It’s part of being alive. Brother Francis would say it’s ineffable.” Her eyes narrowed to slits. “And then I’d have to throw something at him.”

He laughed a little. “I saw him in the garden. Does he have another name too?”

“Aziraphale,” she told him, smiling.

“Aziraphale,” he repeated slowly, giving it a couple of tries before he was sure of the pronunciation. “When you’re a snake are you a boy snake or a girl snake?”

She opened her mouth and then frowned. “Do you know, I’m not that sure? I’ve never thought about it before. I’m just sort of a snake. Snakes don’t spend a lot of time thinking about their identities.”

“Can you teach me how to be a snake?” he asked, suppressing a yawn.

“Maybe. We’ll see,” she said, which was as good as a promise, really. “Now, you’ve had a very long day, haven’t you, so why don’t we go back to see Aziraphale and his friends and we’ll get you a snack and something to drink and I’ll phone your mother while you have a nap.”

He pulled a face. “So you’re still going to be a bit my nanny then?”

“You asked me to take care of you,” she said serenely, standing up, putting her sunglasses back on and brushing a hand through his hair. Immediately he felt relaxed and refreshed and he swayed, leaning into her as they walked back towards the house he’d run from. “Oh, you are tired,” she murmured.

He didn’t bother replying and before he knew it they were back in the garden, and the kids were staring at him curiously, and the two men he didn’t know were making confused noises at Nanny…Crowley…Ash.

“Crowley!” Francis – Aziraphale – said, sounding cross. “You can’t just stop time whenever you want to change your hair – although it does look lovely, dear – “

“ – Angel,” Crowley interrupted, her hand firmly on Warlock’s shoulder. “You remember Warlock. He’s just popped over from America to see us. And we’re very pleased to see him, aren’t we?”

Aziraphale blinked at Crowley for a bit and then made that face that grown-ups made when they wanted private time4 and turned his attention to Warlock. “Well,” he beamed. “It is lovely to see you again. Are you, erm, staying long?”

“Dunno,” he said with a shrug.

“I’m going to call his mother and figure some things out,” she said, running a soothing finger across the back of Warlock’s collar. “Could you get Warlock a drink and something to eat?”

“Of course.” Aziraphale held out a hand towards him in the way that Brother Francis always had when he was young. “There’s some lovely strawberry cake left, I think. You don’t mind, do you, Anathema?”

The younger woman spread her hands helplessly. “No, go ahead. I guess I need to get used to surprises. Crowley, has anyone ever told you you’re too tall for those heels?”

Crowley glanced back. “No.”

She nodded. “Good.”

There was indeed strawberry cake. It was indeed lovely. As he was eating it the four kids and the dog came marching up, staring at him like he was a particularly interesting looking snail.

“I’m Adam Young,” the blond curly one said, his head cocked to one side. “I reckon we’ve met before, a long time ago.”

He hesitated for a second, listening to his Feelings. “I’m Warlock Dowling,” he said, holding out his hand. “And yeah, I think we did.”

1Riches and magic are functionally very different although to the disinterested observer the effects appear identical insofar as that their possessor doesn’t appear to be beholden to the same rules as the rest of us.

2He had indeed borrowed the card, rather than stealing it, in that he’d waited until his father was on a call with the president before saying “Dad, can I have this?” and taking the dismissive hand wave and slammed door as a ‘yes’. He had been raised by an angel, so he knew that Stealing Is Wrong. He had also been raised by a demon, so he knew that if people who should be paying attention aren’t paying attention then it’s really their own look out.

3Warlock had read plenty of improving children’s literature recommended by Brother Francis. He was well aware that nanny’s were supposed to be magical. Since that fit in perfectly with his own experience he had never bothered giving it a second thought. There were many things that young Warlock hadn’t bothered giving a second thought. He wasn’t stupid, simply self-involved.

4Warlock thought this meant arguing. The reader may make up their own mind.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #warlock dowling #ineffable husbands #genderfluid crowley #nanny crowley #my writing

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lokiondisneyplus · 4 years

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Today I left the house wearing a face mask for the first time.

I had woken up to the sound of heavy rain, which is always surreal in Los Angeles, and when I look out of the window to the hauntingly dehumanising sight of bandana-clad dog walkers, an eerie weight settles as I remember: this is our reality now.

I’m standing in the supermarket queue, a line dotted by crosses taped on the floor of the underground car park to signify our designated 6ft distance. Easily 50 people long and snaking around the perimeter of the building, I make my way to the last available X-marks-the-spot and join the other masked Bandits. I haven’t food shopped for over a week and am in need of supplies.

There is an obnoxiously loud man two crosses ahead of me ranting into his phone with such a high energy, the surrounding Bandits have allowed an extended social distance of a cross on either side of him. I sigh, remembering I’ve left my headphones at home, so am unable to tune him out, I wait and exhale, wondering how I am going to get used to the claustrophobic sensation of hot air and fabric condensing on my face.

Loud Phone Man is not wearing a mask and it's clear we’ve passed the tipping point of mild judgement, at least here in LA, where Bandits exchange a raised eyebrow, (about the only non-verbal Bandit communication available) which somehow magnifies the annoyance of this shopper - not only loud, but breathing indiscriminately all over us in this confined space… what does he think this is? Last week??

It’s Monday on #Week4 of Covid-19 lockdown in La La Land and as I shuffle to the next X I reflect on the journey so far.

After a whirlwind press tour to promote the release of Misbehaviour in UK cinemas (sadly cinemas were shuttered just days after the film's theatrical release – but it's available to watch online at home from April 15th!) I returned to work in Atlanta for Loki, the Marvel limited series for Disney Plus I’ve been working on, so am on set when I get the news that we are going on hiatus as a precaution due to the accelerating coronavirus, initially for one week. Thinking it would be longer, but still unsure at that point, I book a flight to LA to sit things out there for the time being. The next day Trump imposes a travel ban on travelling in or out of the US for 30 days, and with my visa situation and the pace at which everything is moving, it feels risky to fly to the UK in case I cannot get back into the country when filming recommences, whenever that will be.

So, with my housemate and her dog for company, we embark on social distancing, self-isolation and Lady Macbeth-level hand-washing.

Managing a constant low-level anxiety about my parents and loved ones, and friends in New York, London, Johannesburg and all over the world, I become consumed by the news, glued to the BBC website and KCRW talk radio for the latest figures. Like families gathered around “the wireless” in wartime, everything is unfolding so rapidly and the news, never this dramatic in my lifetime, takes on disaster-movie proportions.

FaceTime and WhatsApp become my lifelines as the reality of the pandemic is tinged with a weird detachment… a numbness I later realise was a form of shock that lasts for nearly two weeks and puts me into a hyper-focused state as I race to keep up, stay informed and learn how to adapt to this new rhythm.

I am of course aware that I am so privileged to be safe and personally unaffected thus far, but grasping the truth from what is overblown, and fact from politics and propaganda, give everything an out-of-body zero gravity quality; a new normal we are all united in.

Things are kicking off in the food line as my attention is caught by an exasperated Valley Girl three Xs ahead who finally explodes at Loud Phone Man, “ OH MY GAAAAD, USE YOUR INSIDE VOICE, CANT YOU SEEEEE EVERYONE IS LOOKING AT YOU CAUSE YOU’RE TALKING SO LOUD… WE ALL HAVE TO STAND HERE, OHMYGAAAD!” As she stomps her Ugged feet to the next X the security guard and smiling store employee (no mask) approach and I can feel a repressed inside-voice-cheer emanate from the rest of the line in applause.

The Bandit Couple ahead of me raise another eyebrow in solidarity and Female Bandit begins to capture a video of Loud Phone Man on her iPhone. The air gets thin, the energy tightens, “Hey Man,” Smiling Store Employee intercepts, Security guard flanking, “You wanna keep it down a bit, people are stressed, y’know? Thanks Man.” Valley Girl scowls, Bandit couple exchange glances, while still filming, Loud Phone Man defends, “I WASN’T EVEN TALKING THAT LOUUUUUD!!!” (Collective Bandit eyeroll) “YESSSSS YOU WERE!!!” Hisses Valley Girl, “Yeah Man, sorry you were,” Store Employee placates. taking the referee stance. I notice Loud Phone Man is wearing flip-flops, on a rainy day. He continues his conversation into his device, phone held to his lips, like a dictaphone, barely any quieter. “We have to be prepared…”

I sigh and feel warm breath on my cheeks. Mouth drying I look at my phone for escape and see that Boris Johnson has been admitted into intensive care for persistent and worsening Covid-19 symptoms. I suddenly feel very far from home and very sad.

I remember the things I’ve been doing to keep grounded and my spirits up. One of the benefits of turning out old cupboards was rediscovering my long dormant art materials. Painting, such an absorbing and transporting activity for me in childhood, was once something I considered doing instead of acting, but found it a little socially isolating - so acting won because it felt more collaborative. Now, of course, painting in isolation is perfect and becomes the most comforting of pastimes and a creative channel as I make images of my family and feel like I am spending time with them.

Understanding how superfluous actors are in a crisis such as this, I come to terms with the fact that staying at home, as passive as it may seem, is my contribution for now. Having the luxury of not having to home-school any children and knowing my work is pretty much on pause until social distancing recedes, I try to reframe this time as a chance to rest and refill the creative well. I read novels for pleasure, something I rarely find time for beyond work-related reads. I take my first Zoom yoga class (alexdawsonyoga.com), I join a 21-day online meditation experience (chopracentermediation.com), I take local hikes for fresh air and make first ever batches of banana bread and chicken soup. I even buy a mini trampoline online which, after a mildly challenging self-assembly, I’ve been sweating it out on to streamed classes online (lekfit.com) with a friend in Toronto, followed by accountability FaceTime coffee dates to virtually high five!

By the end of week two, the adrenalin crash truly hits and I’m exhausted from the constant rhythm shifting, news consumption and uncertainty. I’m an eternal optimist and good at self-motivating, but even when you’re Keeping Calm and Carrying on, you need to crash at some point. I nearly cry when I get my mum an Ocado food delivery slot - nothing has been available for weeks - and the “what ifs” that I have been keeping at bay with all my other activities release with relief and gratitude.

That’s when I discover Brené Brown’s new podcast Unlocking Us and find such solace in her calm and thoroughly researched words and conversations. Since her TED talk fame as a charismatic shame and vulnerability researcher, I’ve read all of her books and there is always something practical and nourishing in her work, told with humour and in a deeply relatable way - which I’ve found comfort in while in the midst of folding laundry, cleaning the bath or chopping vegetables.

Back in the food line and things are moving; the tension of the Loud Phone Man Vs Valley Girl dispute still simmers but everyone relaxes as they get closer to the front-door finish line. Smiling Store Employee does his speech on the new system: no reusable bags allowed, sanitised trollies and a one-way system in the aisles inside marked by arrows on the floor, to minimise contact with other customers. It all feels so surreal and regimented, but the Bandits, already drained from the 30-minute wait, constant Loud Phone Man soundtrack, near car park fight and everything else they’re all adjusting to, nod wearily behind their moist makeshift masks. It’s a bizarre sight.

Still chatting, Loud Phone Man makes it in and there’s a collective “phew” eye-contact exchanged between Smiling Store Employee and the remaining Bandits. Then his smile drops and crinkles for a second. “Yeah, he’s been in every day this week. It’s kinda sad. There’s no one on the phone.” The Bandits' brows knot quizzically. “Yeah, I think he has mental health issues, he just talks but the phone’s not on and he has no ear pieces, he just talks into it… 'They’re coming, we have to be prepared.'… I don’t know what to do.”

The reality breaks my heart. It seems to highlight the collective insanity we’ve all been processing and in that moment I just feel so frustrated at the state of the world and how this pandemic has exposed so many cracks in our society - from mental health to healthcare to privilege and poverty, everything just feels so raw.

I try to look for the silver linings and, among all the fear and anxiety and loss, I’ve been so inspired by human resilience, adaptability and creativity. I’m hopeful this great pandemic leveller will bring a new era of authenticity. An opportunity to shift mentality from Me to We.

Week three in self-isolation felt almost normal, which feels weird to admit. I’m getting lots of sleep and take regular meditative baths, which I’ve renamed Home Spa. I’ve found ways to safely contribute in my local community. When the shelves were bare from panic buying, I chatted with the manager of our local grocery store, who seemed so overwhelmed, so my housemate and I volunteered to stack shelves after hours. Although not exactly the front lines, we have fun and it feels good to give something back in our small way.

We of course negotiated to be paid in baked beans and toilet paper.

#Gugu Mbatha-Raw #Loki #Disney+#coronavirus #Covid-19 #lockdown

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inmyownlittlecorner5 · 4 years

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libera nos a malo Chapter 3: Holly Wreathes and Humbug

A fanfic Novel by la-topolina

Rated for Mature Audiences

Warnings: Language, Violence, Sexual Content

Chapter 3/20

libera nos a malo Masterpost+

Unstoppable Force/Immovable Object Masterpost+

<< Chapter Two+

Chapter Four+ >>

Miranda landed in Mr Clarke’s General Store in the little hamlet of Edgewood at one o’clock in the morning, Kansas time. She held onto the ruby slipper long after the portkey had stopped glowing, letting her stomach settle from the trip. The store hadn’t changed much in the two years since she’d last seen it, when she’d been making ready for her expedition to the United Kingdom and beyond. The wooden floors were laid in a herringbone pattern, and they gleamed from their weekly polishing. The smell of cinnamon brooms and the warmth from the radiators wrapped around her, and she smiled to see the barrels of Christmas candy amid the more practical necessities of life that were piled neatly on every surface.

“My Lord, Miranda, but it’s been a long time,” said the sturdy man behind the counter. He was dressed in faded denim and a plaid flannel shirt, unchanging as his store.

“Mr Clarke, it’s good to see you,” she replied. "Thanks for staying up to meet me, I know it’s after hours.”

“Not a problem at all, I’m happy to do it. Gave me a chance to polish the floor before the Christmas rush.”

She brought him the slipper and he headed into the back to lock it in the iron safe—one of MACUSA’s stipulations to his being allowed to have it in the first place—and she perused the shelves while she waited for Finn to arrive. Although she could easily have Apparated the few miles to Gortpúca, her parents' farm, it was tradition for her to wait to be collected in the No-Maj fashion. She fingered the bright-colored linens, and selected sugarplums and marzipan for her nieces and nephews, recalling other Christmases when she’d waited here for the sound of the old pick-up truck ready to bear her home.

“How’s business?” she asked when Mr Clarke returned from the back.

“Can’t complain,” he replied, perching on his stool and watching her fondly. “England treating you well?”

“It’s been fine.” Much as she liked the kindly shopkeep, she didn’t want to unload her problems on him tonight. She started flipping through the record bin standing between the paperback novels and the latest films on tape, feeling like she’d left her mind back in the UK. “Has Seamus already been through this box?”

“He has, but I kept one hidden for you to give him.”

“Perfect. I’ll take the candy and the record then.”

He added up her purchases and she paid him in galleons instead of greenbacks. While he was wrapping everything in crisp brown paper, a flash of yellow light reflected off the gold painted letters in the frosty window. Soon the old pick-up truck was idling outside, and a tall figure emerged from it, sending the bell jingling as he ambled indoors.

The new-comer was careful to stomp the snow off his work boots before venturing from the welcome rug, and his sharp blue eyes were shining as he shook his dark brown hair out of his face. He wore it just long enough to bother their sister-in-law, and he hadn’t troubled himself to slick it back with the hair pomade he favored tonight. He had acquiesced to the demands of the weather and put on his leather jacket; but he steadfastly refused the tyranny of a hat. He’d hacked off the jacket’s right sleeve at the elbow the winter that he’d lost the majority of that same arm in a job gone sour, and he liked to see who blanched at the jagged edge, and who pretended not to notice.

“You look a mess, Mira,” he pronounced after giving her a once-over.

“So do you, Finn,” she replied, leaving her packages on the counter in order to fling herself into his embrace.

He smelled of tobacco and hay, and her heart felt so warm that it hurt. When he let go of her, she could tell that he was blinking back tears, and he brushed past her, gathering her packages like he didn’t want her to see.

“Let’s get you home. It’s late and Mama’s not going to go to bed before she sees you.”

“Fine by me. Goodnight, Mr Clarke.”

“G’night Miranda. G’night Finn,” the shopkeeper called after them.

The air was cold and heavy, and the clouds were hanging low over the quiet downtown, reflecting the lights from the street lamps and promising snow. Miranda climbed up into the passenger seat, slinging her bag into the back and buckling in out of long habit. The inside of the truck was warm enough that she cranked down her window, lighting a cigarette and letting her arm dangle as Finn pulled out onto the empty road. The Christmas lights in the store windows and winding along the lampposts thrilled her now just as much as they had when she’d been a little girl, and she watched them flash by until they were out on the country roads, looping away from town.

“I missed you, Finn,” she said, glancing over at his lanky form lit by the glow of the dashboard.

“Yeah, I know,” he replied.

There were many words hanging between them; and they knew them all by rote. Miranda reached over and turned on the radio, letting the music fill the cab as they flew through the night.

“That old fashioned Christmas is a sweet memory, except for all the Christmas that you weren't there with me…”

*****

Gortpúca clung to the one group of hills interrupting the miles upon miles of flat Kansas farmland. She was bounded by a forest to the north and a river to the south. Her cattle pastures and horse runs were scattered over the lowlands, while the house and the outbuildings claimed the high. By the time Finn parked the truck in the carport near the brick farmhouse, the snow was falling lightly; adding to the piles already covering the frozen earth. Miranda was barely out the door when a pair of golden retrievers rushed her; jumping and barking wildly as she attempted to pet both of them at once.

“Down Failinis! Down Banshee!” she ordered, but she was laughing too hard for either beast to take her seriously. Defeated, she knelt down between them; scratching behind their ears and accepting kisses from their eager tongues.

Finn whistled sharply, and the dogs sat long enough for Miranda to regain her feet and start towards the house. After a few steps, the delighted animals came bounding behind, their nails clicking on the hardwood floors of the entryway as they came into the kitchen by the backdoor. The lights were dimmed to a soft glow, and the breakfast table was set with hot cocoa, clementines, and cheese. Walls were hung with garlands of fresh holly, there was chicken stock bubbling away on the back burner of the range, and Mama was putting the last touches on the marinade for the roast they’d eat later in the day.

“Everything looks just right, Mama,” Miranda breathed, wrapping her arms around the shorter woman and savoring the smell and the warmth of home.

“It does now,” Monica replied, hugging her daughter fiercely. “How was your trip?”

“Fine. Fast. It’s going to be a long day. As far as my body’s concerned it’s eight in the morning.”

The three of them sat down at the table together, helping themselves to plates of food and mugs of cocoa. Miranda swore she could feel the house enfolding her in its protective circle as though she’d never left.

“Please sleep whenever you need to,” Monica said.

“I will. I’m good at catnaps, remember?”

“I do. You take after your father that way. I’ve never been able to nap myself.”

Miranda patiently worked at the peel of a clementine, trying to bring it off in one spiraling strip. “Is Papa working tonight?”

“He is. But he shouldn’t have to do much for the rest of the time you’re here. Patrick’s with him, too.”

“That’s good. Which Mass are we going to?”

“The late one. And then Patrick and the girls will come over for the afternoon. And everyone will be here on Christmas Day.”

“That sounds perfect.”

Monica stifled a yawn and ruffled Miranda’s hair. “I’m going to head to bed now that you’re here. Do you need anything before I do?”

“No, I’m good. See you in the morning.”

She kissed both of her children goodnight and the stairs creaked softly as she went up to bed. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed the hour, and Finn and Miranda sat quietly together, soaking up each other’s presence.

“You should get some sleep too, Finn,” Miranda said at last.

“I will when I want to,” he replied. “Besides, I hear you’ve got a lot to tell me.”

“I guess I do. What do you want me to start with? The vampires or the wizards?”

“The wizards. Mama’s been going on and on about some professor you’ve been seeing on the sly. Says he’s saved your sorry hide more than once.”

Miranda’s heart sank. “Oh, him.”

“Yeah, him.” Finn took a drink from his mug, and his shrewd eyes glinted at her over the rim. “Why didn’t he come with you?”

Leave it to Finn to go for the jugular. “He’s busy.”

“So busy he can’t be bothered to meet your people for a day or two?”

She shifted in her chair and kept her hands occupied peeling another clementine. “I didn’t really ask him to come. I didn’t think he needed to be subjected to a family Christmas at this point in the proceedings.”

Finn let her excuses hang in the air until they sounded like the paper tigers that they were.

“What’s he like?”

Her cheeks were starting to get hot. “He’s an ass.”

“Figures. What’s his name again?”

“Severus Snape.”

He snorted. “Wizards have some ridiculous names.”

“I like it. It suits him.” She wished she didn’t sound so defensive, and she let out her breath in relief when Finn took mercy on her and turned the topic.

“How long are you staying?”

“I have to go back early on St Stephen’s Day. I’ve got an appointment at St. Mungo’s and a job later that night.”

“You never stop, do you?”

“Nope. It’s the Rose way.”

He plucked a clementine off the platter, working it until the peel snaked off in a neater spiral with his one hand than Miranda could manage with two; and he flipped half of the segments to Miranda with a flick of his thumb. She caught them easily, and reflected that clementines always tasted better this way.

“I was thinking I’d come back with you,” he said, his casual expression daring her to contradict him.

“You were?” She raised her eyebrows; this brother wasn’t one to travel.

“Yeah. I’ve never been to England. And if you’re thinking of setting up shop there, it’s probably worth a look.”

Her defenses snapped back into place. “I wouldn’t say I’m setting up shop.”

“No? You been there almost two years,” he said pointedly. What would you call it?”

“I’d call it a good business decision. There’s a lot of work there.”

“And Severus Snape.” Finn adopted a foppish posture as he lisped through the name. Miranda kicked him under the table for his trouble.

“Fine. Come if you’re coming. It’ll be fun.”

“Glad you agree, cause you didn’t have a choice.”

“Whatever. But you aren’t tagging along on any of the jobs. Things are hot over there right now.”

“Why am I not surprised?” He stretched like a cat and rolled out of his chair, kissing her on the top of her head with a gentleness that was at odds with his sharp exterior. “I’m gonna hit the hay. See you when the sun’s up.”

“Night Finn. Sleep well.”

She lingered in the kitchen for a long time, petting the dogs and resting in the quiet. The clock struck the next hour before she got up to do the dishes. Too restless for sleep, she wandered into the parlor, admiring the naked fir tree that awaited the frenzy of decorating that the next days would bring. The fire was nearly burnt out, but she coaxed it back to life with another log and a quick charm before curling up in her father’s favorite chair. Banshee laid down at her feet and promptly went to sleep, and Miranda stared into the fire, putting her decisions on trial in a way that she rarely bothered to do.

She knew that, if she had asked him earlier, or if she’d pressed the matter, Severus would have come with her. Much as he liked to snipe at her, she had a sneaking suspicion that he would do almost anything to please her, and that knowledge chilled her to the bone. She hadn’t asked for his heart—and she was trying not to break it—but she knew the prognosis was grim at best.

She could bluff with a pair of deuces as well as any Rose—but when you’re up against a Royal Flush, you’ve got to know when to fold.

*****

Narcissa Malfoy’s ability to maintain a stiff upper lip never ceased to amaze Severus. She was the embodiment of the unruffled hostess tonight, blond hair tidy, dress robes pressed, an expression of gracious solicitude for her guests' comfort on her face. When he saw her this way, it was sometimes hard to remember that day when she’d thrown herself at his feet in anguish for her son.

That same son was sitting at the foot of the table, sullenly refusing to contribute anything to the conversation beyond a sneer or a monosyllable. The fish was superb though, and Narcissa had apparently troubled herself to read the latest issue of The Potions Journal. She was feigning an interest in the retrospective on Nadia Angouleme so well that Severus almost believed her sincere.

“Of course, Nadia took umbrage with the Journal for implying that she was living in complete retirement,” he concluded.

“I quite understand,” Narcissa replied. “I would certainly have wished for the Journal to refrain from painting me as being firmly in my dotage if I were in her place.”

Bellatrix scoffed loudly. “Really, Cissy, don’t you think the four of us should be discussing something more important than magazine articles?”

“I would never presume to dictate the dinner conversation; however I had thought that we all might desire this evening to be filled with recreation rather than business. Draco only returned home from school on Saturday, after all, and the Holidays are short this year.”

Before Bellatrix could offer an opinion on the state of the Holidays, Severus stole the conversation away from her.

“However short they may be, a reprieve from the students is always welcome,” he said wryly. “Although Horace has seized the opportunity to conscript me into inventorying the potions supplies.”

“One would think you have enough to do teaching the DADA classes,” Narcissa observed sympathetically.

“I would agree with you, however Horace had other plans.” Severus paused long enough for the house elves to scurry through the room, changing the fish course for the Beef Wellington before he continued. “Horace was concerned that someone was pinching hemlock from the store cabinet, but he did not wish to make any accusations without being reasonably sure of the offense.”

He let his eyes fall on Draco, and the boy shifted uncomfortably in his chair. If Narcissa understood the implications of the moment - and he did not think her so dense that she would fail to grasp them - she did not show it.

“How disturbing,” she said. “What did you conclude?”

“There was a mistake in the ledger, nothing more,” he replied. “I will say that I am pleased to have the privilege of confining my potions work to my own office and my private stores at last.”

“It must be a relief for you to experiment without being bothered by the students, sir,” Draco said, breaking his silence with a pointed barb.

Severus raised an eyebrow at the boy. “Indeed it is. And I, unlike Horace, am sure to protect my store cabinet with the Slytherin password.”

It was heavy-handed, and Severus covered his grimace at his own bluntness by indulging in the excellent dinner. But he did catch the glimmer of a smirk that crossed Draco’s face, and he doubted that he would have to concern himself further with covering the boy’s tracks, at least as far as Horace Slughorn was concerned. Merlin, he hated it when Miranda was right. It made her insufferable.

Bellatrix would be denied no longer, and she launched into a diatribe against the current Ministry and Wizard culture at large. She was as dull as she was passionate, and Severus allowed his mind to drift from the conversation to Miranda in the bosom of her family. As he imagined the bustle his lover was no doubt surrounded by, he was once again surprised by the strength of his urge to join her there. Had he gone, he would surely be suffering from a migraine by now; but even that would be preferable to this evening’s strained play-acting. It was not so much that he disliked Narcissa’s company; he simply wanted to be wherever Miranda was with a desire that shamed him with its strength.

When the crêpes Suzette had taken the place of the empty dinner plates, Severus pulled his mind back to the room and attempted to divine a subject that would derail Bellatrix’s harping. He was debating the idea of inquiring after her husband, when one of the cut-glass doors to the dining room flew open with a violence that caused it to crash into the wall behind it. The four of them shot to their feet immediately, and Severus’s wand was in his hand before he registered the Dark Lord, gliding over the marble floor like Death come to collect his due. Nagini slithered in after him, her scales rippling and twisting to hypnotic effect. Severus, Draco, and Bellatrix immediately fell to their knees where they stood, bowing their heads, and allowing Narcissa, as acting head of house, to speak first.

“My Lord,” Narcissa said, dipping into a deep curtsy before him, “you honor my house with your presence.”

“Do I?” Voldemort’s high voice dripped with irony, and Severus could not stop himself from tensing in response.

Narcissa did not waver in voice or body. “Would you care to eat? It would be the work of a moment to bring dinner for you.”

Without releasing any of them from their obeisance, the Dark Lord circled the group, letting the hem of his robes brush against them as he passed. Nagini lagged behind, swaying drunkenly from side to side, her black tongue testing the air. Suddenly she darted under the table, snatching the blue-furred Russian cat hiding underneath, and swallowing her whole. Severus heard Narcissa cough softly, and he remembered how Lucius had gone on and on for months about that feline and how he was going to surprise his wife with it for her birthday.

“How good of you to offer, Narcissa. Nagini, as you can see, is happy to take you at your word,” Voldemort commented, completing his circuit to stand before Lucius’s disgraced wife. He put the tip of his wand under her chin, guiding her to stand. “I think I will join you, after all.”

“Thank you,” she replied.

He kept his wand beneath her chin for another moment, and then withdrew, allowing her to see to the mundane business of conjuring another chair, and summoning a house elf for a repeat of dinner. When all was ready, they gathered again at the table; with Voldemort accepting Narcissa’s place at the head of it, and Draco sequestering himself between his mother and aunt, that Narcissa might take his place at the foot. Voldemort ate with surprising gusto and paltry manners while Bellatrix gazed at him adoringly, and the other three kept their expressions as neutral as possible. Even Draco, new to this game of hiding his thoughts, presented as blank a mask as could be expected of one so young, and with so much to lose.

“What a comfortable party this is,” Voldemort said, picking his teeth with his dinner knife. “To think I might have missed it.”

Narcissa could not ignore this prompt. “I beg your pardon, my Lord. I had not thought…”

“I realize that you did not think, dear Narcissa. Such a gathering of my faithful friends—how could I wish to miss it?” His red eyes flickered in the candlelight. “Or, perhaps you intended to discuss matters without my knowledge.”

“We would never do such a thing, my Lord,” Bellatrix insisted fiercely.

“No? That remains to be seen.”

Voldemort held Narcissa’s gaze for a painfully long time, and she gasped softly, sinking back in her chair when he turned his eyes to Draco. The boy put on a brave face, but soon he was trembling and clinging to the edge of the table.

“Tut, tut, my child,” Voldemort chided. “Aunty Bella said you were her best student. How disappointing. But what is this—you’re angry—with Severus. What has he done? Don’t bother hiding; that meager defense will not shield you, and it will hurt more if you resist.”

“Let him in, Draco,” Bellatrix ordered. “I didn’t teach you Occlumency so that you could hide things from him.”

The boy put his chin up, and Severus could see him bracing himself for another assault, but the Dark Lord broke eye contact, leaving Draco to collapse like a marionette with its strings cut.

“I do not wish it to be said that I never consider the needs of my followers,” Voldemort said solicitously, but Severus knew better than to trust the sudden change of demeanor. “Of course you would want the company of the Potions Master to while away your lonely hours when your loving husbands are languishing in prison.”

Bellatrix made a sound of disgust, and Narcissa kept her eyes on her hands in her lap. Severus was hard at work shuffling his mind into an order fit for the Dark Lord to see, but he was having difficulty bringing it under control. Voldemort’s eyes drifted over to his, and he tensed for the invasion. Miranda was being especially stubborn tonight; flashes of her scent and her smile kept breaking across the fore of his mind like lighting across a summer sky. But the time he spent cloaking them in memories of Lily left him vulnerable to Albus’s secrets springing up like mushrooms after a storm. Given a choice between the two, he would have to leave Miranda to fend for herself and focus on keeping his allegiance to the Dark Lord crystal clear. Perhaps he would not care to waste time upon the women of Severus’s fantasy world. Perhaps he would not notice how desperately Severus wished he were ensconced in a Muggle farm half a world away.

“Leave us Severus. I have nothing to say to you tonight,” Voldemort said at last, dismissing the professor like an unwanted servant without bothering to enter the younger man’s mind at all.

“As you wish, my Lord,” Severus replied, rising from his chair and bowing low to the ground before taking his leave of the company, his hands shaking as his relief crashed through him.

Voldemort started talking again as though Severus were no longer present. “Narcissa, I trust that you will be pleased to know that I have decided to make Malfoy Manor my new residence.”

“We are honored beyond our deserving, my Lord,” Narcissa replied.

“And now, Draco, I think it is time we discuss your lack of progress, and how we might encourage you to do better.”

Even Narcissa’s practiced calm could not withstand the Crucio the Dark Lord cast upon her next. Her screams followed Severus out of the Manor, and he kept his pace unhurried, that they might lacerate his spirit. There was nothing he could do to help her now; interfering would only inspire the Dark Lord to dole out the punishment with a heavier hand.

But he cursed himself for a coward all the same.

*****

By afternoon on Christmas Eve, Rachel had given up trying to put Maggie down for her nap. The busy seven-month-old was far too excited, somehow sensing that it was not a day for trivial things like schedules. She was sitting on the shag rug in the living room, playing with a brightly painted peg doll Nativity set while Rachel hurried to put the last ornaments on the tree; guiding them into place with careful wand flicks. The Nativity set had been meant to be a present for Christmas Day, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

The arms of the tree were too full to hold anything more, and Rachel stepped back to admire her handiwork. Maggie was still engrossed in her project, and Rachel was weighing out the likelihood that the new toy would occupy her little one long enough for her to make some afternoon tea, when a knock at the front door interrupted her musings. She scooped up Maggie, who protested briefly, clinging to the gray donkey and the shepherd girl in in the pink pinafore as they made for the door.

“Narcissa! It’s been so long. How are you?” Rachel said, balancing Maggie on her hip while she opened the door.

The pale witch gave her a polite smile, but her eyes seemed miles away as she drifted into the kitchen, murmuring, “I’m sorry to disturb you. Is it nap time? I should have sent an owl before I came.”

“You’re not disturbing me at all,” Rachel insisted. “Maggie’s refusing a nap today, so as long as you don’t mind if she starts to fuss, we’d love to have some company.”

Narcissa absently stroked one of Maggie’s plump arms and the child dropped the shepherdess doll in order to catch hold of an elegant finger. “She’s grown so much since I saw her in May.”

“Would you mind holding her while I make tea?” Rachel asked, studying the other witch’s pinched forehead.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Narcissa replied, taking the child eagerly. Maggie started to babble and soon exchanged Narcissa’s finger for a lock of her shining blond hair.

Rachel sent the the shepherdess back into the living room with a flick of her wand, and set the water boiling for tea with a second flick. A quick rummage in the icebox produced a collection of sushi, and there was an extra tin of ginger snaps that she thought she could sacrifice to the afternoon. Narcissa was fully absorbed in a game of peek-a-boo with Maggie, and it wasn’t until the tea things were placed in the living room, and Maggie set up in her high chair with some biscuits to gum, that Rachel was able to converse properly with her unexpected guest.

“I’m so glad you came by today,” Rachel said when she and Narcissa were settled on the sofa. “I’ve missed our teas.”

“So have I,” Narcissa replied. “I didn’t want to be bothersome. I remember being so tired when Draco was a baby.”

“I am tired, but it’s getting better.”

“I’m happy to hear that.”

Silence fell, and Rachel was debating the best way to bring up the topic that must be pressing heavily on Narcissa’s heart. She didn’t want to pry, but she didn’t want to seem indifferent either.

“Is Draco home for the Holidays?”

“He is. He’s at his friend Vincent’s for the day, so I thought I’d finish some shopping in Diagon Alley.”

“It must have been so crowded.”

“It was. I’m happy to have some quiet here.”

Maggie dropped one of her biscuits and started wailing loudly, and Rachel’s cheeks pinked as she hurried to send it back to the tray with a wave of her wand. This did not please the little one, who refused to be consoled until she was released from the prison of her highchair to nurse at her mother’s breast.

“What was that you were saying about quiet?” Rachel asked, embarrassed.

“She’s perfect,” Narcissa reassured her. “Every day felt endless when Draco was Maggie’s age. He started crawling and walking so early, and he wanted to explore everything. I spent most of my days trying to keep him from hurting himself, and I would be so exhausted at the end of them. Then I blinked, and suddenly he was nearly grown and thinking he doesn’t need protecting any longer.”

“Maybe he does think he needs protecting, and he’s afraid to show it,” Rachel said carefully. When she saw how bright Narcissa’s eyes became, she decided to take the plunge. “I’m so sorry about Lucius.”

“Are you?”

“Of course! It must be terrible for you and Draco to have him in Azkaban. I wouldn’t wish that place on my worst enemy, let alone my friend’s husband.”

Maggie had fallen asleep at the breast, and Rachel gently unlatched the child and adjusted her clothing. Narcissa was watching her with a closed, calculating expression, and Rachel wondered if the English witch were in more trouble than she was letting on.

“Thank you for that. I have been somewhat wanting for friends of late.”

“Then please don’t forget to count the Lees among their number. If you need anything, you only have to ask.”

“That means more to me than you realize.”

They sat together for a few moments in a silence that was heavy with questions that Rachel was too circumspect to ask. It seemed that Narcissa was weighing out the risks of saying more, but she set down her teacup and saucer on the coffee table without venturing any further into what might have been an enlightening conversation.

“I should be going,” she said. “Thank you for the tea.”

“Anytime, and I mean it,” Rachel replied. She carefully laid Maggie on the sofa and cast a Shield Charm to keep her from rolling onto the floor while she slept. “Let me see you to the door.”

They passed through the kitchen in silence, and Narcissa hovered on the threshold, seeming uncertain.

“Would you and Draco like to come over for dinner on Christmas Day? We’d love to have you,” Rachel offered.

“Thank you, no. I’m afraid we are otherwise engaged,” Narcissa replied distractedly.

“I understand. I hope you’ll come back for tea sooner next time.”

“I’m afraid I can’t make any promises about that.”

There was something ominous to that answer, and Rachel put a hand on Narcissa’s shoulder, wishing there were more she could do.

“Narcissa,” she asked carefully, “are you safe? Because I meant what I said. If you ever needed help, Aaron and I would do everything in our power to give it to you.”

Narcissa’s eyes widened and her lips parted, and Rachel held her breath as she waited for the other woman’s answer.

“I appreciate your concern. Please be assured that Draco and I are quite safe,” she replied calmly. "Good afternoon, Rachel.”

“Good afternoon, Narcissa.”

Rachel had a difficult time tidying the flat from the last-minute decorating and the impromptu tea after her guest had departed. Her mind was working furiously, turning over their conversation, searching it for clues. She had a strong suspicion that Narcissa was lying, or at least not telling her the whole truth. After the third time she’d washed the same teacup, she abandoned the sink to curl up on the sofa next to her sleeping baby. The worries of a new mother suddenly seemed trivial when compared to the worries that the mother of a grown child faced. Now it was easy to keep her daughter safe; but one day she would be grown, and Rachel would not be able to protect her from harm with a kiss and a Shield Charm.

It was a humbling thought, to say the least.

*****

“Nowell, Nowell, Nowell, Nowell sing we loud! God today hath poor folks raised and cast a-down the proud!”

The spacious parlor in the farmhouse at Gortpúca was ablaze with life late in the evening on Christmas Day. The space was decked with holly and evergreen, and candles burned in the window, lighting travelers home. The fresh-cut fir tree presided over the whole, bearing all of the ornaments that Monica had collected through the years. It was a charming mishmash of boughten trinkets, blown glass, multicolored lights, and handmade treasures that ran the gamut from the whimsical efforts from childhood, to the smoothly executed carvings of Conor and Seamus.

The turkey had been eaten, the plum pudding flamed, the presents all opened and admired. A merry tumult of song, lead by Conor with his trusty fiddle and Seamus with his custom-made guitar, reigned over the din of conversation and laughter. Finn was in an armchair, cradling Anna and Patrick’s youngest girl, who was somehow managing to sleep through the chaos, and the dogs were panting at his feet, worn out from the madness. Miranda and Anna, her favorite sister-in-law, were dancing with the children, spinning round and round like tops over the kilim rug. There was a collision at the end of the carol, and Miranda went down under a pile of her older nieces and nephews, sending the company into shrieks of laughter.

“Levicorpus!” she shouted gamely, lifting Chiara, the second eldest of Anna and Patrick’s brood, up by her ankle and dropping her on the sofa with the counter spell.

This only increased the riot, with children crying out for their turns and Anna spotting them as they rolled off the sofa and out of the way for another go. Miranda could feel her shoulder start to pinch as she fought to keep up with the demands of her kinfolk, but Severus wasn’t there to chastise her, so she forced her magic a little and let the laughter wash over her in a warm, silvery wave.

“Who wants cookies?” called Monica, braving the storm with an enormous tray.

“Me!” was the unanimous response, and the children dashed towards the coffee table, descending on the cookies like a swarm of locusts.

“I’m sorry that Patrick had to run off,” said Anna as she helped her daughter Veronica manage the mug of cocoa and the peanut blossom cookie the child was clutching. Veronica was a beautiful girl of five, with her mother’s dark eyes and hair.

“I know how it goes. Work doesn’t stop just because it’s Christmas,” Miranda replied, taking little John on her knee, and holding his mug for him while he gnawed on a jam-filled pastry that was so big it required two of his tiny hands to hold. “Did he say when he’d be back?”

“He’s going to try to be home by midnight. That’ll give you a little time before you have to go back to England.”

Miranda let her eyes drift around the room, drinking in the sight of the family she’d missed. “I wish I could stay longer. But the Healers at St. Mungo’s are drill sergeants.”

“Good. You need a firm hand.”

“Don’t all the Roses need a firm hand?”

“Patrick certainly does!”

“Thank you for the chess set Aunt Miranda,” said Brendan, the second oldest of Seamus and Susan’s progeny. Tall for a nine-year-old, and studious, he had been one of the most excited to see his aunt come home at last.

“You’re welcome. I’m glad you liked it,” Miranda replied.

“Do you think we could play before you go back?”

“Of course! Why don’t we set it up in the kitchen, it’ll be easier to think in there.”

“Great! I’ll go get my set.”

He trotted off to his father’s old bedroom, where the coats and sundries were being stored, to gather his present, and Miranda waded through the mass of children with John on her hip and Chiara trailing behind. Soon John was perched on a chair before a fresh plate of cookies with Chiara close at hand to prevent his curious fingers from upsetting his older brother’s game, and Brendan was setting up the polished wood figures that Miranda had labored over during her convalescence. Susan, a woman so beautiful it hurt your teeth to look at her, was at the sink, avoiding the madhouse in the next room by burying herself in the dirty dishes.

“You’re going back tonight?” she asked without looking up from her work.

“I am. I’m sorry I’ll miss your dinner tomorrow,” Miranda replied.

Susan shrugged. “I’m impressed you managed to tear yourself away even for this long. I was starting to wonder if you were ever coming back at all.”

Chiara made a face at her aunt’s sharp words, and Brendan’s freckled cheeks pinked at their tone.

“I’ll always come back, no need to worry about that,” Miranda said evenly. “You can leave the dishes too, if you like. I’d be happy to finish them off when the party’s wound down a little more.”

“I don’t mind doing them. We get along fine all by our No-Maj selves, you know.”

“I do know.” She turned her full attention to the children at her elbows, and left Susan to stew alone. “Alright Brendan, your move.”

*****

As the clock drew near to midnight, the children were finally tucked into their sleeping bags in the upstairs parlor for a Christmas sleepover, and Susan had gone home to prepare for the next day’s festivities. Anna, Monica, and Conor had said their goodbyes to Miranda and headed to bed as well; and Miranda was sitting with Seamus and Finn before a dying fire, waiting for Patrick’s return. Seamus’s fingers drifted over the strings of his guitar, strumming idly while the three of them watched the embers glow. None of them spoke; and none of them needed to.

When they heard the sound of a truck pulling up next to the house, the siblings gathered their boots and outerwear, meeting Patrick, the eldest of their number, as he came into the kitchen. The spitting image of their father, he stamped snow from his boots, but didn’t venture beyond the welcome mat in the doorway.

“How cold is it?” asked Miranda, coming to meet him.

“Not too bad,” Patrick replied, chucking her chin lightly with his fist. “The wind’s let up, and you can see every star in the sky tonight.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Come on, you lazy bums, gimmie a hand with these,” said Seamus as he attempted to balance mugs, a whiskey bottle, and a tin of cookies.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Finn replied, swooping in to snatch the whiskey bottle while Miranda took the mismatched mugs.

“What time do you have to be at Clarke’s?” Patrick asked as they headed out into the starlit night.

“Not ’til three. I hate getting him up, though. MACUSA is so obnoxious about scheduling,” Miranda replied.

“You know he don’t mind.”

“How was our little friend tonight?” Seamus asked.

“Same,” Patrick shrugged. “I think we can wait until the morning. Let the fella have one more Christmas at home before we haul him in.”

The waning moon soared through the sky, flanked by her celestial cohort, and the snow crunched under their feet as they tromped over the length of Gortpúca. The other inhabitants were all abed, animal and human alike; although they could hear the lonely yipping of a coyote in the distance from time to time. The cemetery was bright when they reached it, nestled in a grove of naked apple trees. The gravestones huddled together in meandering rows, and each one was decorated with snow-dusted holly. They stepped lightly over the path that their parents had tread earlier that day, until they reached a bench facing the lone marker in an open patch of snow. Here Miranda drew her wand, conjuring blankets and casting warming charms as she and her brothers settled down on the bench and wrapped up tight. She charmed the cookie tin to hover before them, in arms reach of everyone, and Finn poured measures of whiskey into the mugs as she passed them around.

“In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan. Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone.”

Seamus intoned their fallen brother Columba’s favorite carol, and the others joined him by the end of the verse. They had spent far too many Christmases without Columba, and this graveyard visit was but a shadow of the joy they had experienced when their family had been whole. But in this vale of tears, sometimes a shadow is the best you can do.

A heavy silence fell for a time after the carol was over, and the whiskey burned through the tightness in Miranda’s throat. Her eyes were fixed on the Celtic cross and the Fiat Voluntas Tua carved into Columba’s headstone; for she knew that if she looked at her earthly brothers, she would find their eyes wet with tears.

“I think Brendan might be like you,” Seamus said ruefully, as though hesitating to disturb the quiet.

“Really? What has he done?” Miranda replied, unsurprised.

“Little things. His lost books and toys always seem to show up in a place you know you’ve already looked for them. And last week Susan got rid of this ratty t-shirt he loved to wear. I saw her put it in the trash right before the garbage truck came to take it away. Come Monday, Brendan pulled it out of his drawer, like it’d never been gone.”

“That’s auspicious. Susan won’t be happy about it though.”

“You leave Susan to me. She’ll be fine once she gets used to the idea.”

If anyone could handle Susan, it was Seamus. “I’m sure she will. What do you think about it?”

Seamus shrugged. “It’ll be an adventure, that’s for sure.”

Miranda finished her whiskey and balanced the mug on her thigh while she pulled her cigarette case out of her pocket. Finn immediately snatched it out of her hand, his eyes glinting deviously.

“Hey, I was going to share. No need to be grabby,” she grumbled good-naturedly.

“Never mind that, what have we here?” Finn mocked.

The sphinx mosaic was rearranging itself into a coded message, and Miranda groaned inwardly, even as her cheeks grew hot.

“Give that back!” She made a grab at the case, but Finn easily held it out of her reach, craning his neck to make out the message.

“What is it?” Seamus asked eagerly, while Patrick looked on, obviously entertained by the shenanigans.

“Don’t look now, boys, it’s from Severus Snape.” Finn lisped the professor’s name in a high-pitched sing-song, drawing snorts of amusement from his brothers.

“Oooo,” Seamus said, “What does he say? Does he miss is widdle wove bird?”

“Ahem.” Finn cleared his throat dramatically, and Miranda crossed her arms, indignant but resigned. “Miranda, Miranda, wherefore art thou, Miranda?”

“It does not say that!” Miranda snapped, lunging for the case again.

Finn swung over the back of the bench, dancing out of her reach, but Patrick intercepted him and plucked the case out of his brother’s hand.

“Give it back, Patrick,” Miranda demanded, but Patrick ignored her, studying the message.

“He wants to know what time you want him to come over, and to wish you Happy Christmas. And he misses you. And damn, but he writes like he’s got a stick up his ass,” Patrick reported.

“Just because he has a decent vocabulary and doesn’t have to cuss every other word doesn’t mean he has a stick up his ass,” Miranda countered defensively.

Patrick flipped open the case, distributing cigarettes which Seamus lit with a rose-embossed Zippo lighter. He surrendered the case when he came to Miranda, and she confirmed the message before quickly returning her property to the safety of her pocket.

“Aren’t you gonna answer him, Sis?” teased Seamus.

“He can wait a few minutes,” she replied, her face still hot.

“Cold.”

“Can’t wait to meet him,” Finn said devilishly.

“You’re going to hate him,” she observed tartly.

“Yep, reckon I will.”

“Look, it’s not serious.”

“Whatever you say, Sis,” Seamus said, ending the debate. “Finn, while you’re over there, there’s a record I need you to pick up for me.”

The conversation mercifully abandoned the topic of Miranda’s thorny love-life in favor of the much more important one of music. From there it was a short skip to discussing the children, and from there the only place left to go was business. By the end of their second round of cigarettes, the cookie tin was empty and the warming charms were beginning to fade.

Miranda vanished the blankets and Seamus refilled the mugs. The four of them gathered close around Columba’s headstone, and Patrick led the toast.

“Merry met, and merry part, I drink thee with all my heart,” he said.

“Sláinte,” his siblings replied, clinking their mugs and sipping deeply, before pouring out a libation over their sleeping brother’s grave.

Without her having to ask, Seamus emptied the whiskey bottle into Miranda’s waiting mug. She cradled it close to her heart as she broke away from her brothers, padding over the snow to a pair of matched headstones in the row beyond. These two were also decorated with holly and evergreen, and she crouched down before them.

David Nathaniel Clearwater b. April 25, 1965 d. May 1, 1985 More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world

Isaac David August 21, 1985 His eye is on the sparrow

She pulled a little wooden bird from her pocket, the last of the toys that she’d whittled during those dark November days, and placed it carefully on the raised edge of Isaac’s marker. As she murmured a sticking charm to prevent it from falling over, or being snatched away by a curious creature, her heart turned to lead in her breast.

“I miss you,” she said to David’s stone, unable to bear the sight of their son’s name heartlessly inscribed in granite for the weather to beat into dust.

The snow melted in spirals as she poured out a libation for her dead. Her limbs were stiff when she pushed herself up from the ground, and the snow stung her hands where she’d touched it. Finn was at her shoulder, wrapping his arm around her and bringing her back to the here and now.

“It’s time, Mira,” he said gently.

Her throat was so tight that it hurt to talk. “Let’s go then.”

The temperature had dropped as they made their way back over the empty fields. Miranda’s cheeks grew raw, and her breath floated before her in white puffs. She didn’t bother to look back, knowing that she would find neither David’s nor Isaac’s spirits waiting to comfort her.

They had crossed over long ago, and taken her heart thither, with them.

*****

End Notes:

Gortpúca: Pooka field. Pookas are spirits from Irish folklore that bring luck, both good and bad.

The song quoted playing on the radio is “Christmas With You” by Johnny Cash.

St Stephen’s Day is December 26th.

The carol that the Roses are singing in the parlor is “Masters in this Hall” by William Morris.

The carol that Miranda and her brothers sing in the graveyard is “In the Bleak Midwinter” by Christina Rossetti.

Fiat Voluntas Tua: Thy will be done (from the Our Father prayer)

The toasts are both traditional Irish ones. Sláinte literally means health or safe.

The epitaph on David’s grave is from the poem “Dirge without Music” by Edna St Vincent Millay:

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground. So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind: Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned. Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you. Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust. A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew, A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost. The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,— They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve. More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world. Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind; Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave. I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

The epitaph on Isaac’s grave is from the hymn of the same name; the full line runs:

His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

*****

libera nos a malo Masterpost+

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cajedec285 · 4 years

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Largest Pets in the World

Go up, Garfield. Move too! It turns out that there are more than one large pet in the world. We are in this information age, we are always looking for exaggeration. For those who believe that big is good, here are some big animals that often serve as pets: https://dogfemalenames.wordpress.com/2020/07/03/cute-unique-food-dog-names/

1. Ralph (Rabbit)

The Guinness Book of Records prohibits owners from including pets in their world record list to protect them from overwriting. But in all likelihood, "Ralph", a pet rabbit in the UK, earned the title. In addition to its massive 42-pound weight, this Continental Giant Rabbit is also two feet tall and grows! To maintain his weight, Ralph eats about four pounds a day.

2. Snowball (Cat)

Roger Dagen found two stray kittens at his company's research facility 15 years ago. One of the cats later had children, including a snowball. Amazingly, Snowball has transformed into a giant cat. He weighs 87 pounds; And measures 69 inches in length from nose to tail. Snowball eats about three pounds of cat food a day, with chicken being his favorite food. DeGagne is grateful for the size of the snowball that his parents ate from a nearby river he found there.

3. Hercules (dog)

Flynn, a three-year-old English Mastiff, was listed in the Guinness Book of Records in 2001. Hercules is the pet of Flynn and Wendy who live in Massachusetts, USA. The dog earned its puppy name due to its abundant size. Interestingly, Flynn notes that Hercules, while huge, is quite friendly. Also, the owners claim that they have not taken any action to explain the sheer size of the dog - except to feed him a normal diet. Ironically, even today the largest dog in the world was an English master. Hercules weighs 282 pounds and has a neck length of 38 inches.

4. Longest Goldfish

The world's longest goldfish is located in Heppert, Netherlands. According to the Guinness Book of Records, the length of the fish from the muzzle to the tail fin was 47.4 cm. It does not fit in a medium sized golden bowl!

5. Kakapo (Parrot)

The largest parrot species in the world is Kakapo, originally from New Zealand. Scientists are working to save Kakapo from extinction. The population has recently exceeded 100 birds - for the first time in many decades. The existence of the cockpo is threatened by the M mai ori prey and various animals that European researchers brought to New Zealand. Birds are re-emerging on two New Zealand islands with a shortage of potential predators. These parrots cannot fly and can weigh up to nine pounds. Kakapo is a friendly bird and "freezes" when afraid.

These are some of the largest potential pets in the world. While animals come in all shapes and sizes, size is not how much we value our favorite pets.

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hollandroos · 5 years

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How Could I Not? | Seven

Playlist | Wattpad | Series masterlist

Summary: You and Tom are only supposed to be friends... friends who sometimes take things a step further and friends who can’t seem to spend longer then a few days apart. But that can all change with a positive pregnancy test and Suddenly you have to work together more then ever to prepare for the new life you created. But is it really that easy?

Words: 3361

Warnings: Lots of talk of adoption. Please don't read if that is a sensitive topic for you and hold back any nasty comments until you read future chapters, thank you!!

Please remember to reblog/comment/send an ask if you enjoyed this!!

Read the previous chapter here!

It wasn’t really anyone's fault that you forgot there was food in the oven – what, with the gentle tune of the Beatles playing overtop of a chorus of everlasting laughter between the two of you, not to mention the snoring dog in the corner of the room. Something was bound to happen – it was you and Tom, for crying out loud.

“Dance with me,”

Tom says it as a statement, not a question. He wants – no, he needs you to dance with him. He needs to feel his arms wrapped securely around your waist, to feel your feet move in time with his. It was so cliche, really, but Tom lived for cliche.

He was the type of go out of his way to surprise his love with roses on his way home from work, one for every time he’d wanted to send a quick ‘I love you’ text that day but hadn’t been able to. The type to spend hours perfecting the best meal he could muster up and additionally, plate it with a glass of the best wine he could afford. The type to kiss in the rain, if he had the chance.

You open your mouth in protest, the smell of the cheesy pasta dish wafting around the kitchen. “The dinner–”

“Dance with me.” Tom all but smiles, words slipping from his mouth with such ease and suddenly you’re putty in the palm of his hand. And you don’t hesitate to mould into his body, allowing yourself to fall into him.

“Why did you want to dance with me?” You chuckle, leaning your head against him. You give in, allowing Tom to take you wherever he wants to go. That seemed to be nowhere and you find yourself swaying gently in the comfort of the area between the kitchen and the living room.

Tom shrugs his shoulders. “Jus’ felt like it.”

You hum, breathing in the scent of his cologne. You’d learnt that it was some kind of axe spray that he had cans of hidden around the apartment – such as in the kitchen cupboards and tucked away in his car. The song finishes and a new one begins, one Tom wasn’t aware of but the last thing he wants to do is complain about the pre-nineties tune when he has you right there, humming gently along with the lyrics.

Your eyes are closed and you look at peace as he rocks you two back and forth, feet both stuck to the floor as you sway.

His heart beats prominently in his chest and it’s nearly impossible not to count every beat. Every beat tells you that he’s there with you, reminding you of the fact that you’re beyond lucky to have him. And funny enough, Tom was thinking the same about you.

Your peace is short-lived, however, as mere minutes later there’s a horrid – god awful smell and you can’t even hide your disgust with your face in his chest.

“What’s that smell?” Tom mumbles, screwing his nose up.

And you want to ask the same question – before you gasp, eyes widening and you push yourself away from Tom making him stumble back slightly. For a few moments, the brunette stands in confusion before he himself is hit with the realisation.

“The food, Tom, we burnt it!” You exclaim, rushing to the oven. You hardly have time to slip the oven mitt over your hands but that doesn’t matter – because the second you open the oven door black smoke drifts out, flooding the kitchen. “Fuck, I told you we were going to burn it.” You curse under your breath, resisting the urge to cough as you turn the oven off.

“Sorry, love,” Tom says half-heartedly, resisting the urge to laugh at the sight of you looking so frantic. If it weren’t for the clouds of smoke painting your kitchen darker hues of grey then he would’ve laughed. Surely. “Got too distracted, maybe next time I’ll listen.”

He was distracted by your humming, and thoughts he couldn't simply shove away such as the thought that you fit against him so easily. Like two pieces of a wazzgij puzzle.

“Maybe,” You taunt, bringing the meal out of the oven. It didn't take a second opinion to tell that it belonged in the bin, right ontop of the expired cat food. “Should we just order pizza?” You speak between coughs.

You continue to wave the towel around the living room, praying the smoke detectors won’t go off again. Toms antics had already set the alarms off once, nearly three months ago now and he seemed to be the only one in the entire evacuated building that found it amusing. He had stifled his chuckles in the rain, cheeks tinted red and hair flat against his forehead.

But now, the room stunk. The smell makes you screw your face up in disgust. That was definitely going to be the last time you were going to attempt to make a fancy meal.

“Pizza sounds good.” Tom agrees, feeling his stomach begin to rumble. And to think, the smell of the charcoal lasagna stole his appetite for a solid minute. “I’ll see to it, can I use your laptop?”

“Yeah, it’s sitting on the couch, I think.” You speak, raising your voice so he can hear from the living room. “Get me the cheesy one with the stuffed crust! That’s my favourite.”

“I already knew that,” Tom calls back, typing in the six letter password. “Dominos or pizza hut?” He asks, looking up briefly.

You’re humming a song in the kitchen, competing with the buzzing fridge but Tom can make out the lyrics to Hey Jude by the Beatles. The smell of the burnt lasagne barely bothers you anymore as you sway your hips to the song playing through the speakers and your lips. He smiles to himself, watching you prance carelessly around the kitchen with a flannel shirt pulled over you, tucked into a pair of denim shorts. Laptop and rumbling stomach forgotten, his eyes sparkle with joy at the sight.

He makes a small note to let you play your music more often, even if it wasn’t his favourite – because the light that adorns your eyes is simply captivating. He’s stuck in the best kind of trance.

Hey Jude, don't be afraid You were made to go out and get her

“Dominos. Pizza hut is nowhere near as good.” You tell him, testing the water with your fingertips. You wince when it’s too hot, pulling your hand to your chest and decide that the awaiting dishes can simmer a little longer. Tom grimaces and looks back at the screen. There’s a picture of you and Laura taken last summer, wearing matching dresses and oversized sunglasses hugging your noses. He can’t remember if he took that photo – it may have been Harrison.

That was the same holiday that the set of you took a road trip and found yourselves renting a caravan and setting it up next to the beach. Mornings were spent sleeping in – or for you and Tom, hiding beneath the sheets with childish grins on your faces while your friends slept and nights were spent sitting by the ocean, threatening to push one another in and sharing chicken and vegetable kebabs.

The minute you let her under your skin Then you begin to make it better

You were getting under his skin, making your way into his heart and you were yet to realise it. That had happened long before your holiday trip. But he liked it. He liked the way your mere presence could make him feel like he was on top of the world and somehow – somehow, the glint in your eyes reminded him of the stars that he could and would stare at endlessly every night before bed.

And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain Don't carry the world upon your shoulders

“So cheese with a stuffed crust and Hawaiian for me?” He finds himself asking, cursor hovering over the ‘add to cart’ button. He was thankful for twenty-four seven delivery – a new addition that he often found himself succumbing too at one am. Maybe it was becoming a bad habit but he couldn’t say no. His self-control was discarded in the am.

“Garlic bread too.” You remind him, dipping your hand into the soapy water. Suds end where your wrist begins.

Tom directs the mouse over to the tabs, squinting his eyes at the bright light and nothing can stop him from pressing the extra tab, his pure curiosity overriding the fact that the two of you had an unspoken rule about invading the other's privacy. But he couldn’t stop himself when the eight letter word caught his eyes.

It started with an A and ended in N. The second letter was D, third O.

Tom bites his lip, switching tabs and silently deciding that the pizza can wait another moment.

‘Looking at adoption. Things you must know.’ ‘Adoption agencies UK.’

You know when people say that they felt their breathing stop? well, Tom did then – for sure. There’s also the feeling of his heart dropping out of his chest, plummeting into his chest.

One second it’s there, beating, pumping blood throughout his body and the next he’s stuck staring. Unmoving. There are not enough words in the human language to describe the confusion Tom experiences as he tries to read the page with hazy eyes.

There’s a feeling of disbelief because Tom swore you wanted this as badly as he did – maybe not at first, but maybe the excitement hit after the first ultrasound. Or maybe it was when he dreamt about taking his little girl to the beach for the first time or coming home to a chorus of soft, baby giggles.

Toms had photos of outfit ideas for his little one already. He had a Pinterest board of parenting tips and had even started listing a couple of names. He liked Emilia for a girl and Sutton for a boy. Marlowe was on the list too, and Starlette. Harrison had suggested Luna and his mother had suggested Max. Maybe he’d fallen too deep into his own world and forgotten that you had your own.

The song finishes, the soothing voice of the Beatles fading out slowly. Just slow enough for your humming to fade out with it, and you look over to see your best friend unmoving in his spot and while you can only see him from the side on, you notice his hand, stiff over the cursor. Suddenly the burnt lasagna and boiling sink seems unimportant.

“Tom?” You prompt, stepping around the kitchen table. Bubbles drip off of your hand and land on the floorboards, a safety risk you’d remember to look at later.

He blinks once before scrolling, seeing a series of previously opened articles and his heart succumbs to nothing but broken, confused pieces.

“What’s this?”

He picks up the laptop and shows you what’s on the screen and you tense. Be it from frustration because he invaded your privacy or the fact that you’d been caught – the bench suddenly seems so cold beneath tense fingers.

“Why are you looking through my stuff–” You snap, biting into your gum to keep you from going off at him.

He grits his teeth, placing the computer down on the table and stands up. He’s tense, clearly, and knuckles are clenched at his side with so much might. Tom rarely got angry, in fact, he hardly ever found himself fuming but here he was. And here you were a mere few meters away.

“Were you going to tell me?”

“Tom,” You sigh, letting out a breathe as tears glisten in his eyes. Tom looked a good concoction of angry and deflated. Shocked too. “Of course I was going to tell you but I just needed… I needed more time to wrap my mind about this entire thing.”

“Were you going to tell me?” He asks again, only this time the words are more muffled and less coherent then before.

A sigh leaves your lips. One that said more then words could. On one hand, you want to run into his arms and mutter apologies – admittedly Tom looked really cosy right now. You’d much rather be bundled up in his arms, a warm blanket thrown over your shoulders then argue with him. But you also know that you need to stand up for yourself and what you were doing.

“You were so excited. I didn’t want to ruin that for you.”

“You can’t just… you can’t just consider other options and not tell me, not when you were so ready to go through with this.” He struggles to form words, finding that everything he wanted to say he probably shouldn’t.

The pets seemed to be completely unaware of what was happening. Both lay still, the cat purring softly against Tessa as if using her as a pillow. Much like Tom did when he was sleeping, Tess snores lightly. You and Tom both secretly wish that you could be as chilled as your pets, but don’t voice your thoughts.

It’s crazy that – how everything can fall apart so suddenly. One second you’re laughing over burnt lasagna, praying that the smoke detector won’t blare at any moment and arguing over what takeouts you’ll get instead because neither are you are decent cooks and the next you’re admitting that you probably tested your trust. And that now there may not be much to rebuild.

Swallowing back your nerves, you clench your fists at your side. “Don’t tell me not to consider other options. You don’t get to tell me not to do that.”

“But that baby is mine too,” Tom was seething with anger and you were about to collapse from feeling all too many things at once. You’d gone from a giggling mess to outright fearful of losing everything you’d built. “We’re in this together, remember that? We both agreed on that.” Tom lets out a shaky breath.

“We are in this together but we need to look at the fact that we do have other options too–”

Tom interrupts you abruptly. “You moved in here so that we could look after our baby together! I asked you to move in here to make things easier, that’s what we agreed on, was it not?”

“You asked me to move in because you wanted me closer in case anything happened to me or the baby while he or she is still inside me.” You correct, practically seething with frustration as he speaks. Every word made you feel smaller then the last. “This doesn’t mean that I don’t love the baby, Tom, of course not. How could I not love him? I’ve been tracking the growth, watching for signs that something could be wrong. Shit, I’ve been doing what I can, when I can.”

For a few moments, your words simmer in silence – at least what silence was possible overtop of the radio which played another one of your songs, only quieter this time and you weren’t in the mood to hum.

Tom was too busy trying to come up with the best thing to say but all he could come up with was eight words.

“I won’t let you give up our baby up,” Tom says, quietly but harshly. Bitterness laces every word, dripping from his lips like venom and you’re more then aware of it – as well as the fact that Tom had never spoken to you in that tone before and you were more then sure that you didn’t like it.

Our baby.

“We need to talk about this properly.” You try, far from fed up over arguing like children.

Tom agrees, but he can’t see much beyond the feeling of betrayal. If he could even call it that.

“I thought you wanted this, you know? You led me to believe that you wanted this and you were going behind my back–”

“You think I want to give the baby up? You think it doesn’t break my heart to consider other options?” You speak up, the urge to breakdown growing stronger. But you wouldn’t in front of him. “Jesus, Tom, we told your parents about the baby and they embraced us with open arms and promised to do what they could. We told mine and they walked out. I’ve texted my mum every day but I’ve heard nothing. I want my family back.”

“I think that you’re being selfish.”

You scoff.

“Did you really just go there?” He doesn’t respond, swimming in his own guilt. “I’m not selfish for considering other options when I’ve given up so much already and if you can’t support me then so be it… but don’t tell me that I don’t have other choices here.”

Tom doesn’t know what else to say. He feels frozen in his spot, trying to take in and accept every word that falls from your lips but he can’t find it in him to respond. The sickly smell of burnt lasagna was long forgotten by either of you, as was his hunger that had since subside and was replaced by an overwhelming amount of frustration.

You, on the other hand, want to yell at him for not answering you. You want to demand an answer because the silence was deafening and you just needed an apology or at least the knowledge that you can talk about this with him instead of yelling and having to defend your side.

Gritting your teeth, you pick up the nearest coat which happened to be strewn over the chair and wrap it around you, then going back to the kitchen counter where you hastily grab your phone and car keys. The gentle jingling of the keys snaps Tom out of whatever haze he was in.

“I’m leaving, Tom, call me when you actually want to talk like adults – like two adults who are supposed to be bringing a baby into the world.” You spit, missing the remorse that crosses his face at lightning speed.

“Don’t go, we need to talk about this.” He extends an arm and tries to grab yours and for a second, he succeeds, right before you tug yourself from his grasp and glare.

“Why? So we can continue to argue?” You stop, waiting for Tom to answer but he doesn’t. He knows you’re right. “I don’t want to have this conversation like this and I won’t be made to feel like the bad guy when you refuse to even hear me out without losing your temper.”

A large part of you wants him to tell you not to leave, to say that you can sort this out in the morning when you’re both not angry about the invasion of privacy and about him getting mad at you for considering other options and additionally, for calling you selfish. And then maybe you’d apologise for not telling him.

Admittedly, you could admit your mistakes.

And if Tom told you again not to leave, then maybe you wouldn’t have stormed out of the apartment but instead to your bedroom where you’d stay until dusk. Then, you’d creep into his room and you’d discuss this when you were both calm and steam – highlighting your anger, wasn’t making its way out of your ears.

Tom is left in the apartment. He couldn’t necessarily say that he was by himself because he had Oscar and he had Tessa. And it’s Oscar that crawls onto his lap when he throws himself down onto the couch, head in his hands as he runs over every word thrown across the living room to the kitchen.

The cat brushes himself up against Tom, begging the man for a head rub and Tom does so without complaint – hand falling to the cats head. Usually, he would’ve grumbled about the cat... shoved him off and groaned but this time Tom gives in.

Maybe it’s the guilt that suddenly turns him into a temporary cat person.

“She’ll come back, Osc,” Tom says, more or less trying to reassure himself then the cat. “She’s just going to Laura's for a bit.”

He chews on his bottom lip, fingers running through ginger fur.

You were going to come back. And until then, Tom would grovel.

Hey Jude, don't make it bad Take a sad song and make it better

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#tom holland #Tom Holland fanfic #Tom Holland fanfiction #Tom Holland series #Tom Holland au #Tom Holland angst #Tom Holland x reader #Tom Holland x reader insert #Tom Holland imagines #Tom Holland imagine #fwb!tom holland #fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #Tom Holland fluff

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healthypetsnacks · 6 months

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Chicken Feet - Grade B, slightly smaller and darker than our higher grade selections, are cooked then air-dried, thus retaining their natural flavour. They offer a quick, crunchy snack whilst providing a natural source of glucosamine and chondroitin, key in promoting healthy joints.

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newstfionline · 4 years

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Headlines

Protests, police and the use of force (NYT) Demonstrations continued across the United States on Sunday amid growing concern that aggressive law enforcement tactics intended to impose order were instead inflaming tensions. Videos showed police officers in recent nights using batons, tear gas, pepper spray and rubber bullets on protesters, bystanders and journalists, often without warning or seemingly unprovoked. The footage, which has been shared widely online, highlighted the very complaints over police behavior that have drawn protests in at least 75 cities across the United States. In Salt Lake City, officers in riot gear shoved a man with a cane to the ground. In Brooklyn, two police S.U.V.s plowed into a crowd of protesters. In Atlanta, police officers enforcing a curfew stopped two college students in a car, fired Tasers on them and dragged them out of the vehicle. And in Minneapolis, where there have been six consecutive nights of protests and clashes, a video appeared to show officers yelling at people on their porches to get inside and then firing paint canisters at them. “Light them up,” one officer said.

Deadly police raid fuels call to end ‘no knock’ warrants (AP) It’s the stuff of nightmares: Breonna Taylor and her boyfriend were in bed when a trio of armed men smashed through the front door. Gunfire erupted, killing the 26-year-old black woman. The three men turned out to be plainclothes police detectives, one of whom was wounded in the chaos and violence that March night. Taylor’s death led to protests and a review of how Louisville police use “no knock” search warrants, which allow officers to enter a home without announcing their presence, often in drug cases to prevent suspects from getting rid of a stash. Taylor’s name is one of those being chanted during nationwide protests decrying police killings of black people.

SpaceX capsule docks at ISS carrying US astronauts (WSJ) Elon Musk’s SpaceX on Sunday successfully docked a company-owned capsule carrying a pair of NASA astronauts with the International Space Station, capping a weekend of notable accomplishments that opened a new chapter in commercial space endeavors. Nineteen hours after a Falcon 9 rocket lifted off Saturday from Florida on a historic voyage featuring the first-ever private spacecraft to attain orbit with people on board, astronauts Doug Hurley and Bob Behnken made more history. They monitored the stately, automated rendezvous of their Crew Dragon capsule with the orbiting international laboratory 250 miles above earth, linking up at 10:16 a.m. ET to mark a new industry-government partnership aimed at revitalizing U.S. space ambitions.

Ambassadorships to the highest bidder (Foreign Policy) The United States is quite unique among major democracies in its custom of giving coveted ambassadorships to the highest bidder. Although it’s a bipartisan practice, the Trump administration has set a new record in the proportion of ambassadorial roles going to donors over career diplomats. Roughly 44 percent of Trump administration ambassadors have come from political appointments, versus the historical average of 30 percent, according to the American Foreign Service Association. Under U.S. law, career diplomats must outnumber political appointees in ambassadorial roles. That balance is under threat, with 57 percent of ambassador nominations this year going to political appointees.

The pandemic is making people reconsider city living, trading traffic for chickens (Washington Post) For 49 years, Jinky Demarest de Rivera has lived and thrived in dense, vibrant cities. The nonprofit finance director grew up in Manhattan and for the past 16 years has made a home in Oakland, where they live with their wife, Sara Demarest de Rivera, and dog, Onyx. Now the family is packing everything up for a large house in New York’s rural Hudson River Valley with enough room for chickens. Two months of sheltering in place in their rented two-bedroom apartment gave the pair some unexpected clarity about what was important to them. And new policies letting them work remotely indefinitely at their respective jobs gave them an opportunity to do something about it. They wanted to be closer to their aging parents on the East Coast, and saw no hope of ever owning in one of the most expensive real estate markets in the country. They aren’t the only ones making a big move. After months of forced stillness, unable to make many major decisions or follow through on some already planned, people are jumping into one of the biggest life changes there is and moving out of cities. For some, it’s a chance to be closer to family, which feels more urgent in the midst of a global health scare. For a large swath of people in the country’s most expensive cities, it’s a way to get more living space and be closer to nature, something increasingly made possible by the growing trend of remote work. And for many others it’s not really a decision at all, but a necessity in the face of growing job losses and still sky-high rents.

US declares a vaccine war on the world (Asia Times) “The United States and the UK were the only two holdouts in the World Health Assembly from the declaration that vaccines and medicines for Covid-19 should be available as public goods, and not under exclusive patent rights. The United States explicitly dissociated itself from the call for a patent pool, talking instead of ‘the critical role that intellectual property plays”—in other words, patents for vaccines and medicines.

Tropical storm kills 17 in El Salvador and Guatemala (AP) Rains from Tropical Storm Amanda left at least 17 dead and seven missing while causing extensive damage across El Salvador and Guatemala that pushed thousands of people into shelters amid the coronavirus pandemic. EL Salvador Interior Minister Mario Durán said Monday some 7,000 people were scattered across 154 shelters. He said a quarter of the rain that the country normally receives in a year fell in 70 hours. That set off landslides and flooding, especially in the western part of the country. Amanda pounded El Salvador with rain for days before moving ashore as a tropical storm on Sunday and pushing across Guatemala.

Nicaragua Becomes a Place of Midnight Burials (NYT) Just hours after Yamil Acevedo died in a hospital, funeral home workers in hazardous materials suits strapped his coffin to the back of a pickup truck, drove it to a cemetery and buried him in the dark of night. Across Nicaragua, families are being forced to hold these “express burials,” rushed funerals at all hours of the night, without time to call a priest or to buy flowers. The services are happening so fast, and in such a haphazard fashion, that relatives worry terrible mistakes are being made. “The doctor said, ‘If you can bury him as soon as possible, do it,’” said Amani Acevedo, Mr. Acevedo’s daughter. “I don’t know that the person in that coffin was even him.” The signs are everywhere that the coronavirus is raging across Nicaragua. But the Nicaraguan government insists it has the virus firmly under control, with the lowest Covid-19 death toll in Central America.

Grand Bazaar, cafes open and flights resume as Turkey eases up (Reuters) Flights and car travel resumed between Turkey’s big cities on Monday while cafes, restaurants and Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar reopened in the country’s biggest step to ease restrictions taken to contain the coronavirus pandemic. Traffic levels jumped in the commercial hub of Istanbul, with many Turks returning to work as the government sought to revive an economy hit hard by the pandemic. Employees of government offices and public facilities joined the many factory workers who restarted last month.

China and India Brawl at 14,000 Feet Along the Border (NYT) High in the Himalayas, an enormous fistfight erupted in early May between the soldiers of China and India. Brawls at 14,000 feet along their inhospitable and disputed frontier are not terribly unusual, but what happened next was. A few days later, Chinese troops confronted Indian soldiers again, this time at several other remote border points in the Himalayas, some more than 1,000 miles apart. Since then both armies have rushed in thousands of reinforcements. Indian analysts say that China has beefed up its forces with dump trucks, excavators, troop carriers, artillery and armored vehicles and that China is now occupying Indian territory. No shots have been fired, as the de facto border code dictates, but the soldiers have fought fiercely with rocks, wooden clubs and their hands in a handful of clashes. In one melee at the glacial lake Pangong Tso, several Indian troops were hurt badly enough that they had to be evacuated by helicopter, and Indian analysts said Chinese troops were injured as well. Nobody thinks China and India are about to go to war. But the escalating buildup has turned into their most serious confrontation since 2017 and may be a sign of more trouble to come as the world’s two most populous countries increasingly bump up against each other in one of the bleakest and most remote borderlands on earth.

In China, U.S. protests a hot topic on state, social media (Reuters) Chinese state media is giving extensive coverage to violent protests roiling cities across the United States, while the unrest has also featured widely in Chinese social media. CCTV featured reports from one of its reporters running with protesters in Minnesota, as well as short videos shot by Americans depicting police violence against protesters. On China’s social media platform Weibo, at least five news items on the protests were among the top 20 trending topics by midday, led by reports Trump had been temporarily taken to a bunker as protesters surrounded the White House. “The number one thing they want to show is that the Communist Party is doing a better job in terms of fighting the coronavirus and managing society,” said Alfred Wu, associate professor at the Lee Kuan Yew School of Public Policy at the National University of Singapore. “That’s the main message: the U.S. is not doing good.”

Gantz apologizes for the killing of Palestinian man (Foreign Policy) Israeli Defense Minister Benny Gantz has apologized after Israeli security forces shot and killed Iyad Halak, a Palestinian who was autistic, in Jerusalem’s Old City on Saturday. “We are really sorry about the incident in which Iyad Halak was shot to death and we share in the family’s grief,” Gantz said. Israeli police said they opened fire after they saw a suspect with a “suspicious object” who didn’t stop when ordered to. Police later confirmed that they found no weapon. Palestinian officials denounced the killing as a “war crime” and an “execution.” The killing led to demonstrations over the weekend in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, with some participants holding signs tying the killing to that of George Floyd in the United States.

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