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thegreathuxton · 1 year ago

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Came and Never Left

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem! Reader (No use of Y/N)

Inspired by "The Day That I Met You" by Matilda Mann.

Summary: "You're wasting your potential at Bunchurch, you know... Call me, and I will take care of you. I promise."

Warnings: I'VE READ THE BOOKS SO THERE MIGHT BE SPOILERS. Cannon-typical violence. Reader has parent issues (Father isn't in the picture, and mother just passed). Depictions of death/homicide. Slight mentions of the reader being bullied/put down by coworkers.

A/N: Maybe series incoming? Idk, we'll wait and see. BTW, don't worry about the little numbers. I like separating my work into sections, just in case you accidentally close out and lose your place. Just remember Chapter/Part Whatever, Section 69, or something like that.

(PART 2)

It was pouring outside and just minutes before curfew. You cast a nervous glance at the phone book, sitting on a table by the door. The yellow pages glared with agency ads, especially from Rotwell's and all of their new technology developments, such as iron tape and ghost alarms. The ghost alarm was bogus, you found. It was nothing but a rod, some spiderweb, and a bell attached to the end. It did ring, sure, but incredibly late. Your mother had bought it before she died. It rang an hour after her apparition attacked you in your living room, late one evening. And the iron tape was something you had bought on your own time. It now lined your bedroom walls.

The page the phone book was open to had another agency ad in particular that made you antsy. The silver and black stood out against the vomit-yellow color.

A. J. LOCKWOOD & COMPANY.

Beneath was a phone number, provided for leisure. They were small and they were cheap. And you knew no one from that company, which made you feel better.

There was a sudden knock on the door that broke your attention away from the book. You took a deep breath, fixed your wool cardigan so it covered you (you didn't think about the way this was a very grade-school English teacher moment), and unlocked the door. You expected a team to be at your front door, but no. Just one boy, about your age. Tall, strikingly handsome, and charming without having said a word. He was dressed in a fine-pressed suit, which was only kept dry by the stark black umbrella looming above his head.

"Good evening," he said. His voice emulated milk and honey. "My name is Anthony Lockwood, head of Lockwood & Co. I've been informed of your situation, and I'm here to help. May I come in?"

You brought him to the kitchen and put on the kettle. He sat down at the table and had a few biscuits that you politely offered to him before sitting down across from him, nervously twiddling your thumbs and trying to act natural. You didn't want to make yet another enemy from an agency other than the one you were currently employed at.

He ate while flipping through the week-old newspaper. Once he was done, he sat back and smiled at you. It was like the sun had just come blasting right through your window. You sat up straight, and he fixed his tie.

"So, you're an agent as well?" He asked you so bluntly, but his smile never faded.

"I am..." You murmured back, unable to meet his gaze now.

"I'm sorry to sound so rude. I just noticed the rapier and work belt hanging by the door when I first stepped inside. Which agency are you from? Rotwell? Fittes?"

"Bunchurch," you said. "My mother worked there when she was a kid, as a researcher, and she was one of their biggest donors and contributors into their own research of The Problem before she passed."

"Ah, I'm sorry to hear that. What talent do you possess?" He showed a brief amount of sympathy before moving on.

"I'm an all-rounder, as my supervisor likes to put it. I'm pretty mediocre at everything there is. I do some field work, but..." You trailed off. "They usually stick me on the research end of things."

Lockwood nodded, once again, sympathetic.

"Again, I'm sorry to hear that, but I must ask you something." He then leans forward. His hands come together, and he rests his forearms on the table. "Why did you call on us rather than Bunchurch?"

You stiffened at the question. He was forward and all business. You obliged him, not wanting to be a burden.

"They don't exactly treat me as well as some would want to think," you began, fingers now mindlessly picking at your mother's choice of tablecloth. You stuck your pinky finger through a small burn hole, left by one of her cigarettes. "And if I told them I couldn't deal with one measly ghost on my own, they'd probably laugh and put me out on the street..."

You look back up again, and Lockwood's eyes are glued to you. His eyes are such a pretty brown color. You look away again.

"What makes you say you can't deal with the ghost on your own?" Lockwood was very quiet when asking this.

"It's my mother," you said back, equally as quiet. You both sat in silence for quite some time. He took a patient breath.

"How did it happen?"

"Burgurlary gone wrong," you whispered, still picking at the cigarette burn. "I was out on a job. Mom had horrible hearing. She lost the ability to hear out of her right ear when she was fifteen. Some idiot on her team had horrible aim and hit her with a salt bomb. It went off when it hit her face. Robber came right in the dead of night, and she didn't hear him. She woke up and went downstairs just to get some water. Guy thought she had seen him, and just..." You made a gun with your hand and put it to your forehead. You slowly lowered your hand. "Neighbors called the cops. Cops called DEPRAC, and DEPRAC called me while I was on the job."

"And she attacked you?" He asked. You nodded.

"Three AM, just a few nights ago. I went downstairs to get a glass of water, just like she had, and there she was..." You sighed. "She could be rather cold, personality wise, but I never imagined her coming back as a cold maiden."

"Type two?"

You nodded once more, and Lockwood does as well. The kettle started to scream from the stove. You quickly stood up and tended to it.

"English breakfast or Earl Grey?" You asked.

"Earl Grey, please, with a dollop of honey, if you have it."

You helped him set up in the living room. It was the least you could do in exchange for his kindness and patience.

As you laid out a circle using the iron chains he had packed in his dufflebag, he examined the room, all the pictures that hung on the wall, and the traces death-glow left on the wooden floors. Your mother, unfortunately, had been shot on her favorite white carpet. DEPRAC had rolled it up and took it to the furnaces to be incinerated, along with a few other items that had been spattered with blood. Many other items were packed in cardboard boxes.

"Planning on moving, I assume?" He hummed.

"Just to the quarters within Bunchurch for the time being. I can't afford to keep up with rent on the house on my own," you explained and linked the chains perfectly together, just as you were trained to do. You then went to stand beside him as he admired a piece of artwork, just above the fireplace and resting on the mantle. Your mother would always stare at it when she was home. It was like a piece of resistance in her eyes.

When Lockwood tuned to face you, his scent, unburdened by the rain, washed over you. He smelled strongly of freshly clipped lavender and clean laundry. There was also a faint trace of burnt toast and magnesium. He smiled down at you.

"Do you have a safe place to go while I do my business here? Or would you feel better if you supervised?" He said, still smiling and making your heart beat a little faster.

"My room should be safe," you said to him. "As long as that iron tape from Rotwell's holds up."

He laughed at your answer. "One of my associates has a habit of buying that junk too. He rambles all the time about all of that Rotwell nonsense. Can you believe it?"

You smiled back up at him and blushed.

"You have to give them credit. A lot of the stuff they sell is junk, but it can be useful some of the time."

"Oh, spare me," he openly joked with you. "George will definitely get a laugh at that. He went on this huge rant just the other night about the stupid ghost detector stick he bought with his entire paycheck."

You continued with the small banter and kept him company until the old grandfather clock that sat in the corner struck twelve. Lockwood had been sharing jammy dodgers with you that he had tucked in his coat pocket, when the metallic twang rung and had the two of you in a spellbound trance.

Lockwood looked at the clock, checked his watch for the accuracy, and then unclipped the thermometer from his belt. The black box read 17.2 degrees Celsius. He let out a small laugh, chuffed with himself.

"I suppose you best be heading to your iron tape fortress rather quickly," he said while showing you the reading. "It was twenty-four degrees in here about 10 minutes ago."

With that, you both stood. He went to his iron circle and dug in his bag for a moment. When he stood back up, he turned to you.

"I'm sure you have a million and one of these stashed somewhere, but just in case you can't reach one of yours, take one of mine," he grinned and placed a salt bomb in your hands. "It'll give me some peace of mind when you go upstairs."

You smiled down at the thing in your clutches, then nodded, grinning just as big as he was.

"Don't let her bully you," you teased him, tucking the salt bomb in your pants pocket. "She was always kind of mean to strangers."

Lockwood shrugged and kept smiling. He waved you off and watched you disappear upstairs.

You couldn't sleep. You kept thinking about the boy downstairs, doing God knows what in your living room. He was probably sitting in his little protected circle and eating another biscuit. You smiled at the very prospect.

You sat in bed, one hand resting over the salt bomb still sitting snuggly in your pocket, while the other held open a book, but your eyes didn't bother reading anything. Your ears were too busy listening, which took up most of your brain power.

The grandfather clock would echo up the stairs and to your bedroom. One passed, then two, and before you knew it, it was two forty-five. Fifteen minutes before things began to happen.

Each night, at precisely three in the morning, a horrible scream would rock the house. You gave these details to the company working downstairs over the phone. You never dared to explore more, always too terrified of dying at the hands of your mother's spirit to try. Your thumb twitched over the salt bomb again.

You stared at the pages of your book until the clock struck three, and the seconds seemed to slow. Like clockwork, the scream came rippling through the house. It was louder this time. Loud enough, it made you cover your ears.

Five seconds after came the loud BOOM of a magnesium flare and then the CRACK of a salt bomb. Another terrible shriek tore the house asunder and had you putting your house shoes on. You glanced at the clock.

It read 3:06. Another bomb went off, and you heard furniture start to crash and rumble. You gripped the salt bomb in your pocket and then rushed to your closet. The thought that scared you more than facing your undead mother was the thought of another agent, dealing with a dangerous type two ghost and thinking they could do it alone.

You found your grade three rapier. It was shorter than the one you used now, but that one was downstairs by the door, and you couldn't possibly go for it now.

You threw a robe over yourself and threw open your door. The temperature change was horrendous. Your room was a comfortable and warm temperature, but as soon as you stepped beyond the door, you could see your breath perpetrating in the air. Thin layers of ice grew on the walls and cracked at the crumbling wallpaper. Another terrible shriek pierced the air, but it wasn't feminine. It was Lockwood.

You rushed down the stairs and turned to see the scene before you. The walls were burned from salt, magnesium, and ectoplasm. Lockwood had been knocked on his back, and his coat was steaming from the ectoplasm burns. The iron chain had been snapped in two. His rapier was far across the room, stuck in the wall like a decorative art piece. Above him was your mother. Her apparition was blue and terrifying. You could hardly look at her without wanting to turn away and sob. There was still a bullet hole in the center of her apparition's forehead. Tentacles of ectoplasm lashed out at Lockwood as he laid on the floor, and he was trying his best to dodge each one. He was out of flares and out of time.

That was, until you rushed to his aid.

You unclipped the salt bomb and threw it. It exploded and blinded both you and Lockwood. Your mother screeched and disappeared briefly, but she was quick to start reforming. You ran to Lockwood and helped him stand up by his shoulders. His eyes were wide and wild and he loomed at you with his mouth agape. You stared back, just breathing hard and speechless. Your heart was going a mile a minute. His eyes suddenly flicked away from you. He grabbed you by your waist and pulled you to the side quickly. He slammed his back against the wall and kept you tight to his chest. You realized he had just pulled you out of the way from another lash from an ectoplasm tentacle.

"I thought you wanted to stay with your iron tape fortress!" He panted, smiling at you as he let you go.

"I couldn't let you deal with her alone," you said back, then turned to face the bigger problem in the room. Your mother had reformed herself, right in front of the chimney. She screamed again, and it rattled your brain inside your head. You screamed back and threw your rapier.

The point of the blade struck her blue chest. Her apparition disappeared as the blade went entirely through her and landed in her favorite painting on the mantle, like a dart in a board. You watched the blade shake and then still. Steam bellowed from it.

"The fireplace," Lockwood muttered and he came to stand beside you. "The source has got to be in the fireplace."

You nodded in agreement.

Lockwood approached his dufflebag quickly and retrieved a silver net. He pulled his rapier from the wall and looked to you.

"You go up there, and I'll watch for her. Okay?"

He gave the silver net to you. It wasn't an option anymore. You both cautiously approached the fireplace, and another screech rang from the house and shook the ice-chipped, ectoplasm stained walls.

"Not getting any younger here, Bunchurch," he said cooly, keeping his rapier steadily pointed while his eyes flickered all over the room, carefully watching.

You wasted no more time, climbing into the fireplace with no light. You relied on your hands, feeling the bricks and only finding thick grime and soot.

"Lockwood!" You called. "I'm not getting anything! I don't think it's here!"

"I think it is," Lockwood said, now sounding tense. "Because your mom's back, and if you thought getting a spanking with a wooden spoon was bad, you're definitely going to hate what she's about to do here in about ten seconds or so."

You searched all the more frantically, and you stretched up on your tippy-toes. Your fingers dived into a mesh of spiderwebs suddenly, and it took all of your willpower not to pull your hands away and wretch with disgust. You dug deeper, wincing as you heard the visitor scream again. Your hands then felt something wooden lodged between a couple of bricks. With no hesitation left, you grabbed it and yanked it down. You wrapped it in the silver net, and as soon as you did, all was silent. You could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and Lockwood's loud panting.

You crawled out of the fireplace, and the first thing you saw was Lockwood's smiling face. He put both of his hands on your shoulders and beamed so brightly at you.

"Well done, Bunchurch!"

You began to beam, too.

He took the silver net from you and set it somewhere safe, where it wouldn't be disturbed.

"Did you see what it was?" He asked you and took a seat on the floor. The couches were still thawing from the bitter cold and the walls now dripped from melting ice.

"No," you sighed. "A box, I think."

He hummed. You sat on the floor with him, next to him. He produced a bar of chocolate from his now near-empty duffle bag. He split it with you, and you made a new kettle of tea in the kitchen, where you both soon moved to sit more comfortably.

"Hang on a second," he suddenly mumbled to you. "You've got soot all over your face. Let me get it for you."

He wet a napkin and then approached you. The smell of lavender was overwhelmed by the magnesium, but still there all the same. He wiped at your cheeks and forehead with the wet napkin and got as much grime as he could while the water in the kettle started to boil. He was so gentle with you, it made you blush profusely, and his eyes had a new gleam to them that you hadn't seen when he first stepped foot into your house.

"If you want," he spoke softly while using his other hand to tilt your chin up more, "I could stay with you until dawn and we can see what the source was in the morning, when it's safe."

You thought about it for quite some time, then shook your head.

"No... I don't think I really want to know what it is," you sighed and looked up at him. He had paused with dabbing the napkin and now just mindlessly rubbed your chin with his gentle thumb. "I've spent the past two weeks trying to heal after her death. I think seeing what it is will put me back quite a bit."

Lockwood stood there for some time, just gazing at you while you spoke. He dropped his hands and nodded, finally, after some time of thought.

"As you wish, Bunchurch. I'll take it to the furnaces first thing," he smiled at you, and you smiled back. He placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, and you placed your hand on top of his, in return. You saw the pink rise to his pale cheeks, and he gave you the faintest hint of a laugh. He stayed with you for some tea and a light, congratulatory breakfast. Not long after that, he was packing his things and getting ready to leave.

"You know," he spoke softly as you walked him to the door. "You saved my life tonight. You'd be surprised at how many people there are in this world who wouldn't do the same."

You smiled at him.

"From one agent to another," you said with sincere warmth in your tone. He smiled back at you.

Dawn was just beginning to peak in through the window above your front door. He turned to face you just as you reached for the handle.

He stuck his hand in his coat pocket and brought out a small business card. Scrawled on it was the same name and number you had gotten from the yellow pages.

"What is this?" You murmured, confused. It took you a moment to realize that the number on the card was different in the slightest of ways.

"It's my personal phone number. We have two phones. One for business and one for other things. Give us a ring sometime, using that number," he spoke and pointed to the card. "You're wasting your potential at Bunchurch, you know. The way you acted tonight more than proved you deserve to work on the field rather than some dusty library. Lockwood & Company will always have room for more people like you." He cupped your hand, the one holding the business card, and curled your fingers around it for you so you could hold on tight to it. His hands were warm and comforting around yours. His warm, brown eyes never left you. "Call me, and I will take care of you. I promise."

It seemed like only a few heartbeats before he was gone. You watched from one of your living room windows as he went to the corner of your road and hailed a cab. You sat and watched his cab drive away, still clutching the card, just knowing from the feeling you got, you'd be leaving your job at Bunchurch very soon.

#anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood #lockwood and co #lockwood netflix #george karim #lucy carlyle #Anthony Lockwood and you #Anthony Lockwood/you #anthony lockwood/reader #35 portland row

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huskyremix · 1 year ago

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Hello! I wrote a short fic on how Elios and Narinder first met, this AU doesn't even have a proper name really but I've been wanting to give more attention to my wolf-sheepy. Story under the read more~

It was a Guide's duty of the spiritual plan to bring lost souls to peace, to lead and corral them to the afterlife proper. It was not always a peaceful job, however, as there were beasts whose only instinct was to hunt the souls of mortals as their prey. It is unknown where these creatures come from, if they are made by a God's hand or perhaps the corruption of a soul itself. They appeared as a mix of black smoke, controlling twisted foliage to make-up their false bodies, their "eyes" typically gleaming hues of purple, or just shining brilliant white. It was, as well as certain other workers of the plan, a Guide's job to see to it that souls are protected and brought to peace at all cost.

In all of Elios' (short) time as a guide, the only threat he encountered were these smoke-y beasts. He has not, to his knowledge at least, encountered any of the God's that reside and run the other plans of this world. Yet here was one, right in the middle of a small clutter of souls who Elios assumed just recently arrived to this side, judging by the two overturned and broken wagons who had appeared to have crashed into each other in the Mortal plan.

This God, a black cat in appearance, had a soul pinched in between two of his fingers, and with one unabashed glance at the sheep, he leaned back his head and swallowed the soul in one gulp.

"What are you doing?"

Elios tried to keep his voice steady, grip on his staff tightening. The cat did not answer right away, and lazily licked his lips as if to savor any remaining flavor of the dead he just ate. Then, he smirked.

"Ah, you will have to forgive me, little worker. I was just merely curious, you see," He grinned, now, facing the sheep directly "What does a mortal soul taste like? And now that I know, I must say... they're quite underwhelming. No flavor at all... and yet"

"Perhaps just one more wouldn't hurt?"

"..."

Elios ignored the shiver that crawled down his spine, wool beginning to stand on end as it went.

"As a Guide, and protector of all souls that may arrive in this plan, it is my duty to keep them safe. Be it from the beasts that reside in this plan, to mortal or even Godly influence. That… includes you.”

The cat gave a snort, clearly unimpressed "You do not know who I am, lamb. But I am in a good mood, and so I will introduce myself to someone as low as one such as you.

I am Narinder, and these souls will one day be mine to judge and do with as I please!

Kneel before the future God of Death!"

Elios kept firm in his stance.

Narinder's mood quickly shifted from feeling smug to annoyance, becoming impatient with the Guide's defiance to get on their knees.

"Did you not hear me? Must I really repeat myself? I said-"

"I heard you the first time,” Elios spoke, “and as I have said, it is my job to watch out for all souls. It does not matter from who, if you seek to harm or devour any more, I will have to see that you do not do so again."

Elios moved his wooden staff from his side to be placed directly in front of him and Narinder, gripping it with both cloven hooves, then slammed the base of it on the ground. In doing so, the three bells nailed near the top of the staff rung, just below its crooked head where a yellow crystal freely swung from thin rope, and now began to let off a fiery glow.

By this action, Narinder was taken aback, a warning noise building up in his throat. Then, he couldn't help but let the edges of his lips curl into a wicked, fanged grin.

"Hmpf. Ha... Ha HA HA...! You are quite amusing, aren't you lamb... fine then, I will gladly beat you down until you truly know your place!"

With a yowl and unsheathing of claws, Narinder charged.

---

Time passed, and in the clearing dust of the battle between Guide and God, only one remained standing victor. Narinder, on the other hand, was lying flat on his back in the dirt in a semi-unconscious state. Elios was still catching his breath, but other than a few new rips to his already ragged looking cloak, he remained unscathed from the cat’s assault.

Once steady, Elios moved towards the defeated God. He peered down through the unkempt wool that covered his eyes- more so than the wolf-head shaped cap on his head- waiting to speak until the sheep knew that Narinder could hear him.

“Have you learned a lesson today, O’ fledging God? Although I cannot ban you from coming back to this plan, if I find that you dare consume a single soul here again, I will personally deal with you once more, and I will win again.”

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to performing my duty.”

Narinder could only groan in response.

Elios lifted his staff and summoned the crystal to glow again, calling out to the surrounding fluttering souls to gather towards its warmth. The Guide made sure not to miss a single one, and sent a silent prayer for the one lost by the gluttony of the cat. Without sparing another glance to the God, Elios turned on his heels and walked away, souls following in the glow.

A short time later, Narinder begrudgingly sat himself up, his ego more bruised than his body. He considered himself lucky, at the least, that no one had witnessed or would need to know about the embarrassing defeat. Red eyes glared after where that damn lamb had simply walked off to, but there was no one in sight to feel his sulking.

Narinder swore, then, that it would definitely not be that last that the lamb, Guide, whoever he was, would see the last of him.

#cult of the lamb #cotl #au #Elios #Narinder #This was all impulsively written during the night/morning lol #This Nari is very much a little shit #but he'll grow in time

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aelyxmagnus · 3 months ago

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Had put a list of quotes from Arya I asos back on my reread of her pov thinking I’d put my thoughts later then forgot, which one should I do a writeup on first?

1. “Later they passed through a burned village, threading their way carefully between the shells of blackened hovels and past the bones of a dozen dead men hanging from a row of apple trees. When Hot Pie saw them he began to pray, a thin whispered plea for the Mother's mercy, repeated over and over. Arya looked up at the fleshless dead in their wet rotting clothes and said her own prayer. Ser Gregor, it went, Dunsen, Polliver, Raff the Sweetling. The Tickler and the Hound. Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, King Joffrey, Queen Cersei. She ended it with valar morghulis, touched Jaqen's coin where it nestled under her belt, and then reached up and plucked an apple from among the dead men as she rode beneath them. It was mushy and overripe, but she ate it worms and all.”

2. That was the day without a dawn. Slowly the sky lightened around them, but they never saw the sun. Black turned to grey, and colors crept timidly back into the world. The soldier pines were dressed in somber greens, the broadleafs in russets and faded golds already beginning to brown. They stopped long enough to water the horses and eat a cold, quick breakfast, ripping apart a loaf of the bread that Hot Pie had stolen from the kitchens and passing chunks of hard yellow cheese from hand to hand.”

3. “Hot Pie opened his mouth and closed it. He did not fall off his horse. The rain began again a short time later. They still had not seen so much as a glimpse of the sun. It was growing colder, and pale white mists were threading between the pines and blowing across the bare burned fields.”

4. “Gendry was having almost as bad a time of it as Hot Pie, though he was too stubborn to complain. He sat awkwardly in the saddle, a determined look on his face beneath his shaggy black hair, but Arya could tell he was no horseman. I should have remembered, she thought to herself. She had been riding as long as she could remember, ponies when she was little and later horses, but Gendry and Hot Pie were city-born, and in the city smallfolk walked. Yoren had given them mounts when he took them from King's Landing, but sitting on a donkey and plodding up the kingsroad behind a wagon was one thing. Guiding a hunting horse through wild woods and burned fields was something else.

She would make much better time on her own, Arya knew, but she could not leave them. They were her pack, her friends, the only living friends that remained to her, and if not for her they would still be safe at Harrenhal, Gendry sweating at his forge and Hot Pie in the kitchens. If the Mummers catch us, I'll tell them that I'm Ned Stark's daughter and sister to the King in the North. I'll command them to take me to my brother, and to do no harm to Hot Pie and Gendry. They might not believe her, though, and even if they did . . . Lord Bolton was her brother's bannerman, but he frightened her all the same. I won't let them take us, she vowed silently, reaching back over her shoulder to touch the hilt of the sword that Gendry had stolen for her. I won't.”

5. “Dusk was settling as they stopped to rest the horses once more and share another meal of bread and cheese. "I'm cold and wet," Hot Pie complained. "We're a long way from Harrenhal now, for sure. We could have us a fire—"

6. "NO!" Arya and Gendry both said, at the exact same instant. Hot Pie quailed a little. Arya gave Gendry a sideways look. He said it with me, like Jon used to do, back in Winterfell. She missed Jon Snow the most of all her brothers.”

7. “Only the belled man stood his ground. His horse kicked in the head of one of her sisters, and he cut another almost in half with his curved silvery claw as his hair tinkled softly.

Filled with rage, she leapt onto his back, knocking him head-first from his saddle. Her jaws locked on his arm as they fell, her teeth sinking through the leather and wool and soft flesh. When they landed she gave a savage jerk with her head and ripped the limb loose from his shoulder. Exulting, she shook it back and forth in her mouth, scattering the warm red droplets amidst the cold black rain.”

#asoiaf #asoiaf meta #bored #writeups

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dragonmuse · 2 years ago

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There may not be drastic changes from their Mainverse-selves, but I have been interested in reading more of/from Bottle of Red, Bottle of White, so if inspiration strikes, maybe a piece on Frenchie & John in Bottle of Red, Bottle of White? The original piece mentioned Frenchie made "pastries light as air," & only referred to John as Frenchie's friend. Do they still have a similar meeting? Similar crossing with Pete? Buttons isn't mentioned at all, if I recall correctly. How might they know him?

(Have a bulleted list, anon!)

-Miss Griggs had never been in charge of detention before. Frenchie didn’t know her well, hadn’t taken a class with her before, but he’d always admired her dozens of skinny braids that swept nearly to her waist and changed color every few months in a bright, seasonal way.

“What are you in for?” She asked, amused apparently.

“Taking too long in the bathroom. Mr. F said I was being ‘idle’.”

“I see,” a momentary anger sparked over her face then was smothered away. “Well. I hate this room and since it’s just the two of us, you’re going to come help me setup for class.”

She taught home ec and they were in a baking unit. Frenchie helped her dole out the dry ingredients into tupperware for each table. While they worked, she asked him a lot of questions about home and school. He talked, always happy for a ready ear. At the end they made cookies which he brought home and his father ate half of, forgetting to scold him for detention entirely.

-Frenchie got detention a few more times that year. If it fell out on Miss Griggs’ days then that was just lucky. The next year he got to take Home Ec himself and he found sewing came to him quickly and while he could cook just fine, it was baking where his heart was.

-”You know there are schools just for baking,” Miss Griggs told him as he rounded into his senior year.

“My dad wants me to go to college.”

“Do you want to go?”

-Frenchie went home and had a very long talk with his father. It was hard and both of them were wrung out as Frenchie filled out the application that would whisk him away to the city. For nine months, he barely slept, learning everything he could possibly absorb as fast as they would throw it at him. He had never been a dedicated student before, outside of music classes.

He learned to make everything, but it was pastry that had his heart. It was finicky and demanding, requiring time, patience and attention. They were not things that Frenchie thought he had in abundance before, but he managed them.

-Of course everyone needed downtime and Frenchie’s nimble fingers remembered Miss Griggs other lessons too. So one unexpectedly quiet weekend, he picked through google and found a shop not far from the school. The weather was good, cool and crisp.

The shop wasn’t very big, just a decal of a spool on the front door to catch attention. When Frenchie went in, he was greeted by the dense smell of wool and a pleasant edge of dust. The shelves were all weighted down with fabrice, notions, needles, thread, and even pillowy containers of yarn.

Behind the counter was a massive mountain of a human in a bright yellow t-shirt with an old-fashioned sewing machine it that read ‘Sewing Mends the Soul’ in curly script. He was knitting with very tiny needles, made all the smaller by his hands. The hair on his head was shaved on either side, all the better to show off a constellation of stars tattooed on one side of his forehead.

“Hi,” the mountain shifted on his stool, aiming a bright smile in Frenchie’s direction. “Can I help you with a project today?”

“Could you?” Frenchie stepped in, let the door close with a jangle of bells behind him. “I’m kind of a novice, only made a few things before, but I need something to do with my hands.”

“Sure. What’s your crafting poison?”

“I hand sew. I mean I can use a machine, but I don’t have one right now,” he took another step forward, bringing him to the counter itself. It wasn’t a very big store.

“If you’d prefer a machine, we’ve got a little workshop space in the back that’s available for rent.” The mountain’s name tag said ‘John’.

“I don’t mind doing it by hand. I don’t have time for anything really big anyway.”

“So what’d you want to make?”

“I...don’t know?” He admitted. “I just want to keep my hands busy.”

“Coin purses are a good place to go. Learn how to put in zippers if you don’t know already and you don’t need much fabric for ‘em,” John turned around, rifled through a drawer, knitting dropping to the counter. He pulled out a thin envelope. “Pattern, needles, zipper and all is in there. You just tell me what fabric you like from the back wall and I’ll even cut it for you.”

“That sounds perfect,” Frenchie took the kit from him looking it over. “You’ve made one?”

“Made about a hundred,” John grinned. “I like to keep my hands busy too and we sell them at street fairs sometimes.”

“Oh wow, okay, so you’re the man to talk to.”

“Can be. About some things.”

And talk they did. Frenchie didn’t know that he cared so much about fabric. With Miss Griggs, it had been what was available, but given options he discovered opinions. John had them too, advising him away from things with too much stretch or that might pill. They poured over bits and bobs and it wasn’t until John had to leave him for a bit to help with another customer that Frenchie realized he’d been there for nearly an hour.

“You didn’t have to spend so much time with me,” he said when John returned. “Feel bad hogging you.”

“Nah,” John reached up and pulled down a satin the color of fresh leaves, “I love this stuff. And you’ve got a good eye. It’s fun.”

-Frenchie went back to his dorm with his relatively small purchase and worked away at it. Three days later he went back, pleased to find John behind the counter again so he could whip it out and show him.

“Wow!” John grinned. “Thanks, sometimes I get people all setup and never see them again. I worry they got frustrated or something.”

“Your instructions were great,” Frenchie grinned right back. “But I kept thinking of that velvet.”

“Ah,” John nodded sagely. “Well. Let’s get you setup with another zipper too.”

-Frenchie kept going back. Coin purses became appliques on pillows, became his first ever garment, a shirt that came out a little lopsided. He learned John’s schedule and despite not minding the shop manager (owner?), he timed his visits for when John would be there.

“It’s kind of lonely here,” Frenchie told him confessionally. He had his elbows on the counter, watching John nimbly rip out uneven seam Frenchie had made and gotten hopelessly knotted up trying to fix. “I’m not used to cities, I think.”

“Haven’t been here long myself.”

“Really? But you seem...huh. I guess I wouldn’t know, I only ever see you here.”

“Could change that,” John said very casually though there was a dash of pink on his cheeks. “If you want. I know you’re busy and all, but I was going to go to this craft fair this Sunday, just to poke around. Could meet up.”

“Yeah?” Frenchie beamed at him. “I’d love that.”

He’d worry about the rest of it later. For now, having plans with someone that wasn’t permanently flour-marked and making high-pitch anxiety noises while chain smoking, sounded good. Frenchie’s roommate was interesting at best.

-They met up at the fair. It was easy to find John, who towered over everyone else. He dressed much the same out of work as he did in though in deference to the chill, he had added a black and pink flannel. They walked through the stalls, Frenchie chatting away at a million miles a minutes and while John took it slower, he was clearly listening and finding it all very amusing.

-One food truck was selling stuffed meatballs which they had to stop walking to eat.

“Oh wow, these are great,” Frenchie said around a mouthful. “Seasoning is all off though.”

“How so?” John regarded his own half-eaten container. “They taste fine to me.”

“Fine is fine, but I could make ‘em awesome. I made this meat pie last week...mm. Would blow your socks off.”

“Yeah?” John smiled. “Prove it.”

-Which was how they wound up in the grocery store, John insisting on paying since he’d issued the challenge. They wound up back at John’s apartment, a two-bedroom three-story walk up.

“Pain in the ass, but the place was nicer than anything else is our price range,” John explained.

“We?”

“Me and my roommate, Pete. He’s working tonight, so you won’t see him, but he’s a decent guy. We’ve been friends for a couple of years, met at an old job. He’s got a boyfriend named Lucius. He’s around about half the time. Funny guy.”

“What about you?”

“Not funny,” John considered. “Not really my thing.”

“No I mean...you know. Someone special?”

“Oh,” John fished his keys out of his pocket, eyes averted. “No. Don’t really date.”

So it wasn’t a date. Which was good. Frenchie wasn’t looking for a heartbreak. Really.

“Yeah, me either. My only lover is butter.”

John laughed, tension bleeding away a little. Frenchie made meatballs in John’s small kitchen and on a whim while they cook, threw together a bread dough.

“It’ll need to prove,” he explained. “But then you can bake it.”

“You’re assuming a lot about me and this kitchen,” John watched him. “Why do you have to bang on it so much?”

“Builds up the gluten strands. That’s what gives you all the air pockets and stuff that makes bread...bread.”

“Huh,” John watched him work, provided utensils as needed, and an everflowing conversation.

In fact they talked for so long over dinner that Frenchie was still there to begin a second prove. Then they watched a movie, mostly talking over that. By then, he might as well put in the oven.

-It was nearly midnight when Frenchie slathered butter over brioche and handed a still warm slice to John.

“This is...it’s beautiful,” John told him.

“Thanks,” Frenchie beamed.

-One hang out led to another after that. Frenchie didn’t actually have a lot of free time, but John’s life seemed mostly working at the shop, hanging out with his roommate and very occasionally going to drag bars. Within a month, Frenchie was regularly going with him to that too.

-Which was probably why when the phone call came and Frenchie was still sobbing, it was John’s number he hit.

“I’m so sorry,” he said as soon as John picked up.

“What’s wrong?” John demanded.

“My Dad...he just...he just...they said it was his heart, but he was fine when I went home last time. I just talked to him last night...and I don’t know. I have to go and...I don’t know what to do.”

“You at your dorm room?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

And he was. John arrived, taking up most of the small room. He asked no questions, just wrapped Frenchie up in an consuming hug and Frenchie clung to him like a rock in a storm. He got to go on clinging too.

“I know how to plan a funeral without much money,” John told him solemnly and he started making up a list. “How far away is home?”

“It was just an apartment. We only lived there a few years,” Frenchie was still tucked in close to John’s side. “About an hour away.”

“We can leave in the morning.”

They did. John drove him up to the town that Frenchie had never thawed in. They do all the mundane and horrible things you had to do when someone died. But John had a list and whenever he showed up, the things he said should happen generally did even though he was soft-spoken and kind as anything. It only a few days, there was a funeral. It was well-attended. His father had always been good at leaving an impression on people. Frenchie let people shake his hand and tell him they were sorry. He accepted bits of food and floral cards.

Then they went back to the apartment and sorted through his father’s life. It felt wrong to go into his bedroom, to touch all his intimate things.

“When my mother died, I didn’t cry until this part,” John told him, eyes misty all over again recounting it. “Sat down in her closet and bawled like a baby into one of her dresses.”

“What did you do with all of it?”

“Donated most of it. She had good things that someone else could wear. She’d want that. Kept a few for myself just to have,” John dabbed at his eyes, then gently took a suit jacket off a hanger and tucked it into one of the liquor boxes they’d scrounged up. “I keep saying I’ll make something with them someday, but really I just like having them in my closet. Like the good kind of ghost.”

“I like that.” Frenchie decided. He took his father’s favorite hat, one of his work shirts and still crisply ironed pair of slacks. The cologne too, cheap, but beloved. His father hadn’t owned any jewelry, not even a watch.

There was the guitar though. Frenchie took it with care, set it in it’s case.

“You know how to play it?” John asked as they loaded it into the car.

“Yeah, he taught me how. I love it, but there wasn’t room at the dorm. Probably still isn’t.”

“Store it at ours then. I’ve got some space.”

“Really?”

“You’re over pretty regularly anyway. It’ll be safe there.”

-Regularly became an understatement. Under the cloud of mourning, Frenchie rarely left. He liked Pete, who was brassy and loud, but also intensely kind. When he got wind of what happened, he’d actually been miffed that John hadn’t told him about the funeral and went out of his way to make sure Frenchie had his preferred coffee blend at the apartment for the mornings after he fell asleep on the couch. Lucius was abrasive and mean, hilarious and also secretly softer than John and Pete combined. He sat up with Frenchie on a night he couldn’t sleep and told him increasingly unlikely, but funny stories about drunk rich people shenanigans.

-In that haze, Frenchie completed his program and then he was also homeless.

“You’ll stay with us,” John told him as his last week at the dorm drew closer. “You can have the couch.”

“I don’t have a job yet.”

“It’s a couch. Who pays rent on a couch?”

-Frenchie got a job within a week at a bougie bakery. He got up when Lucius was walking in a lot of the time, out of everyone’s way long before they woke up. With great care, he baked his grief into croissants and scones. The head baker wasn’t very good and the recipes were too sweet, but Frenchie appreciated the mechanicalness of it all just then.

-One late sweet night at the end of summer, John rubbed Frenchie’s hands between his own, working out a cramp that had snuck up on him while he put pleats into his first pair of sewn pants.

“Feels good,” Frenchie whispered, the words caught between them.

“You need to loosen up or you’ll give yourself carpel tunnel,” John chided, taking each finger carefully in turn.

“I don’t date because I’m asexual,” Frenchie said, the words which has been waiting on the tip of his tongue finally tumbled free. “I want to. I just know most people want sex and then it’s a whole thing.”

“What’s asexual?” John paused, hands frozen around Frenchie’s like a horrible parody of a proposal.

“Uh, it means I don’t have sex? It’s a whole spectrum, but I’m firmly in the ‘no, thanks’ part of it,” Frenchie felt his heart sink into his stomach. “It’s not a big-”

“I didn’t know there was a word for it,” John practically whispered. “I thought it was...just me.”

“No, oh my God, no,” Frenchie turned his hand, clasping at John’s. “Not even a little. There’s me, obviously. But there’s so many of us. Is that why you don’t date?”

“It’s miserable,” John nodded, clinging to the tether of Frenchie’s hand. “I want...I want things.”

“Yeah,” Frenchie found a smile, maybe the first smile he’d really managed in months. “Me too.”

Their eyes caught and held, very tentatively, John asked, “Me?”

“Yeah, you,” Frenchie brought their joined hands to his lips, brushed a kiss over one of John’s knuckles. “I like kissing sometimes. Not too much. I like hugging a lot. Cuddling is good. You?”

“I like hugging you a lot. Let’s find out about the kissing.”

-The kissing was good. The kissing, actually, was fucking great. They did that a lot and eventually, they experimented with a night’s sleep which was comfortable as anything. The couch was abandoned and after a little arguing, Frenchie started paying rent.

“So you two are...” Pete looked between them over the first joint rent payment.

“Happy,” Frenchie supplied while John blushed.

“Got it,” Pete took the check. “Good for you then.”

-By winter, Frenchie was over the bakery. He wanted something more challenging and maybe a little creative. He applied all over the map, but when he walked into Freedom, he had a good feeling right off the bat. The place smelled amazing, looked both homey and threatening at the same time.

“This is the place,” ‘Call me Eddy’ told him. “I’m the co-owner, but I do the front of house stuff. You’ll interview with Izzy.”

“That’s Chef Hands?” he recalled from the advertisement.

“Sure, we can call him that,” Eddy snorted. “IZZY! YOU’RE GUY IS HERE!”

“SEND HIM THROUGH!” A voice penetrated out of the kitchen.

“Uh, okay, any tips?” Frenchie glanced at Eddy.

“Be good at cooking,” Eddy said with a twitch of a smile.

“....thanks.”

The kitchen was immaculate as Frenchie went through the doors. A man in a black chef’s coat, black jeans, black boots, and his arms crossed over his chest greeted him as he came through.

“You’re resume only says Frenchie.”

“Yes, chef,” Frenchie drew himself up. “It’s my name.”

“Pretentious,” Chef Hands judged, but in a toneless way like it hardly mattered to him. “You’ve read about what we do?”

“I did.”

“Can you make pastry worth a damn without eggs?”

“Yes, chef,” Frenchie lifted his chin, answering the challenge with a challenge. “Try me.”

“Most of it needs overnight, right?”

“I can do something right now if you need me too.”

“Let’s say I do. Savory, not sweet.”

“Yes, chef.”

It took longer in an unfamiliar kitchen and there were the eyes of the chef on him the whole time. But Frenchie thought about John kissing his forehead before he left that morning.

They’d just be lucky to have you if they’re smart enough to take you.

He cooked and he baked. In the end, he presented the chef with five puff pastry packets, embracing a damn good chicken pot pie mixture. The chef didn’t say a word, the same blank face as many of Frenchie’s professors. He picked one up, bit into it. Then took another bite and another.

“EDDY!” he shouted and there was a rattle, a bang, then doors swinging open.

“What?” Eddy crowded in around the chef. Without ceremony, the chef shoved the last remaining bite into Eddy’s mouth.

“Yes?” The chef asked.

“Holy shit, yes,” Eddy said, pastry flaking out of her mouth. “Why are you even asking me?”

“Because you didn’t eat lunch,” Izzy shoved a full pastry at her on a napkin.

“Can I have two?”

“Leave one for Roach,” he allowed.

“Do I have a job?” Frenchie asked, glancing between them.

“You’ve got a job.”

“Thank you, Chef-”

“Izzy,” came the harsh correction. “You can call me chef during dinner service, rest of the time just use my damn name. This isn’t the fucking miliatry or something.”

“Ok,” Frenchie nodded. “I can work with that.”

-If he had any worries about working with Izzy, who continued to have the personality of steel wool, then they were erased when he met Jim and Roach. Jim wielded a knife during prep with such speed it took Frenchie’s breath away. They were also silent until they shot of a wry observation that made Frenchie cackle.

And Roach. Roach was magic.

“I’m going to make a jambalaya and people like to dip shit in that,” Roach told him. “So give me some options.”

“What’s the spice profile like?”

“Say ah.”

And an amazing flavor explosion just happened in Frenchie’s mouth.

“Holy shit, yeah I can work with that.”

They bounce off each other easily, the menu evolving so fast that Eddy just took to handwriting it until it coalesced for the season. To Frenchie’s surprise, Izzy had little to say about their improvisations, except to curtail them when the menu got longer than a page.

“People get stupid when they’re too many decisions,” he announced. “Just save it for winter.”

-John came to eat with Pete the very first night Frenchie was in the kitchen.

“It was amazing,” John told him when Frenchie climbed wearily into bed.

“I don’t think it was yet,” Frenchie tucked his head into the crook of John’s arm. “But I think it will be.”

-In summer, Izzy took Frenchie and Roach with him to the local farm where they got their produce. A wild looking man named Buttons with a pigeon on his shoulder walked them through greenhouse after greenhouse.

"You can make good things from good soil," Buttons intoned.

"What kind of good things do you grow here?" Roach asked specutiavely looking at the one greenhouse the door hadn't opened too.

"You want to cook with that shit, you find a different place," Izzy cut off whatever Buttons was going to say. He was rows away, giving accessing looks to a thyme plant.

"How's he even hear that?" Roach groused.

"What kind of basil do you have?" Frenchie asked.

"Every kind," Buttons gave him the same kind of look Izzy was giving the thyme. "But you'll be wanting the onions first."

-They were really great onions. And basil. And everything. Frenchie spent all afternoon asking Buttons questions and at the end of it, Izzy said in his decisive way,

"You're doing this from here on out. Once a season, come out, see what looks good. Buttons invoices us."

"Me? But I'm not-"

"Are you a chef or not?" Izzy demanded.

"...I am," he realized.

"Good. Order the fucking produce from the madman then."

Frenchie did. He liked Buttons, even if he did smell like mulch.

-The closure scared Frenchie a little even though he understood the vision. It made him realize how quickly the kitchen had become the bulk of his life.

"You love it." John shrugged when he brought it up.

"Yeah, but I-" Frenchie started, caught himself, then couldn't figure how why he'd bothered. Surely John knew by now. "I love you too. More than that."

"No competition," John pinked up. "I love you a lot. But that's not my whole life. Shouldn't be yours either."

-It was, in some ways, an embarrassment of riches. To have John with their room and their place enmeshed with Pete and Lucius as well as the kitchen with Roach and Jim. Increasingly there was Eddy too, who liked to come back to the kitchen when Frenchie was prepping and ask him idle questions about what he was doing and steal bits of dough.

Maybe there was even Izzy, who barked and ordered, but also made staff dinner almost every night, rotating through everyone's favorites. On Frenchie's birthday, he made beef wellington with a sniff,

"Like pastry is fucking hard?" Then very quietly admitted that he'd had to start over after he'd fucked up measurements. No one else heard it, but Frenchie did and that was all that mattered.

-So when Lucius got the job then came home a few days later with a groaning, "Does the man not understand that I'm hitting on him so hard I might knock through drywall?"

Frenchie offered, "Yeah, no he doesn't get it, guaranteed. Gotta be clear."

That took ages to pay off, but once it did, the kitchen was even nicer to work in. Not that Izzy got nicer, but he was easier to tease and less likely to strike back. Jim took the most ruthless advantage and their verbal sparring made Frenchie spill more than one container on the floor with laughter.

-And if sometimes on a late night, when John was sleeping, Frenchie took his father's hat down off the shelf and just held it in his hands, wasn't that okay?

"It's going good," he told the hat. "You'd be proud, I think. No...I know. You would. It's a good life, Dad. Wish you could've seen."

When he crawled into bed, John pulled him in close.

"Maybe he does see," John mumbled. "You deserve a guardian angel or two."

"Got one already," he slotted his fingers over the stars on John's temple. "Best one going too."

"Want to stay in tomorrow?" John suggested. "Watch movies and make things?"

"More than anything," Frenchie slung his leg over one of John's. "Chocolate chip cookies, maybe. And we can work on that quilt."

And that's exactly what they did.

#leda house and the kraken verse #ficlet #bottle of red bottle of white #frenchie #john feeney #songs for lovers

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fw00shy · 3 years ago

Text

Plastic

The bagger at the Muggle shop we always walked by asked me if I wanted paper or plastic. I said paper, then plastic, then paper again. Both are fine, the bagger assured me, but could I trust him? I didn't know what plastic was, but paper, I knew my whole life. Then, curiosity bit me again, and I said plastic. But my apples were already bagged up.

The bagger gave me the plastic anyway. His smile said I only got away with it because I was cute. Mother said that, too. That I had a face of an angel and the hair to match. For a while longer, anyway. (I was going bald.) Harry said he didn't care what I looked like, I was rotten to the core. But in a good way. Everyone rots in the end. It was only trouble if you tried to stop.

First thing I did when I got home was to throw away the apples from last month and make room for the Muggle ones. The basket had a preservation charm weaved in, but it only lasted a couple of weeks. I tossed in the first apple from a distance, in case it exploded. Nothing happened. Apples were apples, and there was no magic beyond their taste. But I wanted to check.

I hung the plastic bag in my window. Sun shone through the thin film, and THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU refracted red over my desk. Something about it pleased me, so I sat down to write my mother a letter. I signed and sealed it with my thumb, which burned, but I had salve. Then I put the letter away in a drawer with all the other envelopes. Some were starting to yellow.

Harry came home that evening and kissed me on the cheek, his arms heavy over my shoulders. I was still sitting at the desk. He smelled of ink. Or maybe I was smelling myself. Harry had a way of getting me to look beyond my eyes. Taste things again. I could hear the rain on him now, though his jumper remained dry, and soft. And warm.

Harry shifted from my back to touch the plastic bag. "Plastic isn't a good thing."

The bag crinkled under his hand.

"I didn't know Muggle things could be good or bad." They couldn't hold a curse. That was why I liked them.

"People throw them out, and they clog up landfills. They choke birds. It's impossible to get rid of them."

"I didn't mean to buy a bad thing."

Harry turned back to me and took my hand into his. His palm was rough, like wool. "I know you didn't."

We went downstairs to the kitchen, where I reheated the chicken I made last night, and we ate it with sliced apples, because I forgot about the salad. Then we went to bed, and the next day arrived in the night.

I left the plastic bag up even though I knew it was bad. I liked to watch it sway in the open window. A bad thing that couldn't die. Not like me, who was rotten to the core.

for @drarrymicrofic prompt: paper

#drarry #drarry squad #drarrymicrofic #drarry microfic #fwoosh writes

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years ago

Text

Pull

Sequel to Push

Warnings: noncon sex, oral, violence, abuse, and death.

This is Lee Bodecker (who is already dark!af) and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: The sheriff keeps coming around.

Note: Okay, so probably a three-parter. I didn’t intend for this to go beyond a one shot but same old story, eh.

Hope you enjoy it. Thank you. Love you guys!

Please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

“Oh what the hell she says I just can't win for losing And she lays back down”

-Her Diamonds, Rob Thomas

🚔

You stared out the window. The trees along the edge of the yard were pale and barren, a sheet of frost laid over the ground. There was a wailing in your head. The tears blurred your vision and your fingernails curled into the lip of the sink.

"Goddamn it, girl," you flinched at your father's voice. "The kettle's fucking screaming."

You pushed yourself away from the sink and shook away the haze. You turned the knob and moved the kettle to the front burner. You took off the lid of the percolator and poured the piping water inside. You left the coffee to brew and turned your back to the stove.

"Are you alright?" Will asked as he cut up his eggs with his fork.

"She's fine. She just ain't wanna do her work." Your father growled through a mouthful. "Way she's been draggin' her ass lately like the rest of us ain't work a lot harder than rinsing a pan or sweeping a dang floor."

"I've been doing all that, daddy." You cringed after you spoke. Not just because you knew you're father wouldn't like it but because that word, 'daddy', tickled that memory in the back of your head.

"Try to do it without makin' a bigger mess," he snarled. "Your ma raised you better. She was still here, she'd be shakin' her head."

Not just at me, you thought but kept it to yourself. You turned and filled the four cups lined up with coffee. You set each before the men at the table. Your brothers thanked you, your father grumbled for the sugar. You set the dish in the centre of the table and backed away.

You would eat after them. A bowl of porridge with cinnamon as your daddy went to his shed and the boys drove into town. Your only peace for the day although you hadn't had any since that night.

Six days. You counted each in your head. Laying in your bed, sleepless. Even after almost a week, you still felt the Sheriff's intrusion. You were still sore; bruises on your ass and thighs, a hole deep in your being. You closed your eyes and you were bent over the chair or the table. Your skin crawled and your stomach flipped. You couldn't shake the terrible shadow from your mind.

They left without ado, the boys in an argument over Mr. Calver's new car and what year it was. You cleared the table and sat to make yourself eat. It was hard but after a two day fast, you'd almost passed out against the burning stove. So you ate without tasting and washed the dishes.

You found yourself gazing out the window again. Snow began to fall and you shivered. You looked down, your hands mindlessly in the dishwater that had long turned cold. You pulled the plug and dried your pruned hands.

The gravel crunched outside as the wind battered flakes against the window panes.

Your heart dropped. It used to be weeks between visits, sometimes a whole month. As of late, Sheriff Bodecker had taken to visiting more often. You were never very vain but you suspected it might be on your account. How could it not be?

You went to the door and peeked out the tall window beside it. It was him. The lights atop the cruiser and the emblem painted across the door. It was early but every visit was unexpected.

He looked at the house and you let go of the curtain. You pressed yourself to the door and listened. His footsteps trailed away and he knocked on the shed door. Your father answered in his usual gruff demeanor.

You felt brittle as you pushed away from the door. You walked to the stairs and looked up. The carpet was worn away by years of steps taken up and down. You leaned against the railing as you climbed. Don’t think about the man below and perhaps he wouldn’t think of you.

You took a cloth from the linen closet at the end of the hall and began to wipe down the plates that decorated the wall. Each was painted with a landmark; Niagara Falls, the Eiffel Tower, the Statue of Liberty, the Pyramids in Giza. You focused on cleaning each, even as your hands shook and your legs threatened to crumple.

His hands on you, his sickly sweet breath, his body crushed against you. You gripped the plate with the image of the Coliseum. You stared at the hundreds of windows, the falling facade. Your eye overflowed and the door below slammed.

You sniffed and set the plate back in the hooks. You wiped your eyes with the sleeve of your sweater and wiped the top of the side table. Thick soles climbed the stairs and a figure stopped in your peripheral. You turned as Lee peered down at you, fingering the heel of his gun as he neared.

“Your pa said I could use the facility,” he said.

“Behind me,” you said quietly as you picked up the vase and wiped the inside.

“What’re you doin’? Tryna hide from me up here?” He tapped two fingers on the table.

You shook your head and put the pot down. You looked at the old sepia picture of your parents beside it.

“You know, I was wanting to come back sooner but… duty calls.” He lowered his voice as he leaned close, “There’s not much to do sittin’ around in the cruiser. I end up thinking of you. Wishin’ it was your hand down my pants instead of mine.”

“Sheriff,” you breathed. “Please, don’t--”

“You mad ‘cause I been gone, I get it. Not right of a man to be with a woman than just leave her waitin’,” he touched your cheek as you looked away. “You smell nice.”

“You better do your business and get goin’, sheriff,” you uttered. “I got laundry to do.”

“No point in actin’ all coy anymore,” his hand stretched over your jaw and he forced you to look at him. “And I can’t hold out much longer. You remember the river, where I take my break, you meet me there at midnight, after your pa’s asleep.”

“It’s snowing,” you argued.

“I don’t care if it’s a goddamn blizzard. You come find me or I find you,” he snarled and his hand slipped down to the top of your dress. He undid the top two buttons and squeezed your tits together as he watched them with a lewd leer. “I gotta pay more attention to these… but that ass is so nice.”

“My daddy--”

“Half drunk, as usual,” he huffed, “I could fuck you on his bed right now and he’d be none the wiser.” He purred and admired your tits as he bounced them. “Midnight… I’ll keep the car warm for you.”

He winked and dropped his hands, his palm brushing over the front of his pants and causing him to groan. He turned away and unbuckled his pants as he entered the bathroom. He kicked the door closed and you whimpered.

If your daddy found out what had happened, even if it was the Sheriff, he’d string you up by your knickers.

🚔

You found the flashlight under the stairs and waited until the house was filled with snores. The old standing clock ticked as you counted down the hours sat on the stairs across from the front door. The snow wasn’t thick but enough to make it slippery. With the night, the temperature dropped and seeped in around the windows. It would take you a while to get through the woods.

You opened the front door carefully. You wore the old hand-me-down coat and your heavy boots. You hated the forest after dark. When you were kids, your older brothers like to tell tales of grisly murders and other atrocious acts there. You’d since learn much of those were fantasy but it didn’t make them any less sinister.

You flipped the flashlight on as you neared the trees. You hit it twice to get the bulb alight. You pointed it ahead of you and followed the glow like a beacon. If your daddy knew what you were about, if your mama was alive to know it… you could hardly bear it yourself.

Your teeth chattered as the bitter wind swept under your skirt and you crossed your free arm over your middle. You hunched against the cold as flakes began to fall once more. You heard the river ahead of you and came out onto the dirty shore.

Bodecker’s cruiser sat waiting, his flashlight on the dash as it lit up the interior. You saw him in the yellow haze as you neared. He got out as he spotted you and rounded the car. His breath fogged before him and he rubbed his hands together.

“Got the heat on, not that you’ll be cold for long,” he said, “Come on,” he opened the back door and reached for the flashlight. You handed it to him as he waved you into the car. “On your back.”

He was out of pretense, out of patience. You sat and shimmied back on the seat. He got in behind you and pulled the door closed as he huddled on his knees on the seat. He was bent awkwardly as he grabbed at your skirt.

“Common, let’s get these off,” he reached up and grabbed the waist of your wool tights and jolted them down your thighs. “It’s so fucking cold. I don’t know we can keep to the car through the winter.” He left your tights at your knees and tore down your underwear. He pushed your legs up so they hung around him, the wool stretched across his stomach. “There’s a hotel in town. We can drive in…”

His voice trailed off as he fumbled with his pants. He grunted and planted a hand beside your head as he bent over you. He slapped the tip of his cock against your cunt as you turned your face away from him. You pressed your lips together. Better to have it done with.

“What’s the matter, girl?” He grabbed your chin and turned your head. “Open your eyes…” he rubbed his nose against yours and pushed against your entrance. “Look at your daddy, girl.”

“Please--” You opened your eyes and begged. “Please, don’t make--”

He impaled you and let out a long groan. You yelped and as you curled beneath him and he sank to his limit. It hurt just as much as before. He hit the same bruises as he began to thrust.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he said with each tilt of his hips, “You don’t know how I’ve been thinking about you.”

He pushed himself up as he continued to move against you. He unzipped your coat and unbuttoned your blouse with some difficulty. He ripped your jacket, shirt, and brassiere strap down your shoulder. He grabbed your tit as it fell loose and toyed with your nipple. He flicked with his thumb and circled the hard nub.

“You need to dress yourself up, girl,” He purred between thick breaths. “Show off what you got. Just for me, no one else.”

“I can’t-- I can’t--” You squealed as he sped up and sent a pang up your spine. “Ow, ow, ow.”

“I ain’t care about your pa,” he murmured, “I’ll buy you something nice, hmmm? Then I can fuck you in that.”

You blinked away the tears as they threatened. This man could use your body but he wouldn’t see you cry. You hadn’t truly done that since your mama’s funeral.

The car rocked with him. He crushed you into the seat as his feet hit the door. He was too tall to be crammed in the back of the cruiser atop you but it barely seemed to matter. The leather of his coat squeaked as he hammered into you and the scent of his sweat permeated the air.

He dropped down on you, smothering you as his hips kept going. He nuzzled your ear and gave a throaty grunt. He came and slapped the seat beside your head. He slowed and went limp over you, out of breath as he shuddered.

“Mmm, can I use my cuffs on you next time, girl?” He lifted his head and tickled your temple. “Hmm? You can be my perp?”

You stared at him, mortified. You nodded, unable to speak.

“Tomorrow,” he rasped, “I won’t wait another week.”

🚔

Your nights belonged to the Sheriff and the days had never truly been your own. Two weeks of his sick game, trekking through the dark, cold woods to his cruiser by the frozen river. Face down on his seat, cuffs behind your back, him behind you, on top of you.

That day, he’d been by to see your father. He found you in the kitchen before he went. “Forget the underwear tonight, girl.” That was all he said before he left you to dread him again.

The same path, the same bobbing light before you, the knot deep in your gut. You were as sick with yourself as you were with him. You let him use you. Maybe you didn’t have a choice but you didn’t fight. You just laid there and waited for him to finish.

As you walked through the woods, you still jumped at every snapped twig and every rustle. It all seemed louder that night. The wind was wild and the branches shook above, no leaves left to block the moonlight.

He took your jacket off that night. You shivered and he cuffed your hands behind your back. He bent you over the hood and hiked up your skirt. Your thigh highs began to sag as he entered you. Your cheek nearly stuck to the cold metal of the car as he pushed your head down.

“Fuck yeah, girl, you like when daddy fucks you?” He snarled as he slapped your ass. The open zipper of his jacket brushed your skin and his pants scratched the top of your thighs. “Hmm, you like being a whore?” He tugged on the cuffs as he fucked you harder. “That’s it.”

He snorted and slowed. You sensed a disturbance and he reached to his loose belt.

“Who’s there?” He called out as he slipped out of you.

“I fucking knew you was sneakin’ around,” Your father’s voice cut through the air. “Might be with a policeman but it don’t make it any better, you tramp.”

You tried to stand and Bodecker pushed you back down. “She’s a grown woman and times are changin’, Rhett. Why don’t you go back home? You know I’ll get her there safe.”

“Home? Uh uh, she can stay out in the cold. I won’t have no whore under my roof.”

“Now, let’s not be rash, Rhett, I’ll take care of her. You won’t have to. I was just--”

“Everyone knows about you, Lee,” your father barked, “This where you take your other whores?”

“I’m a changed man,” Bodecker insisted and you heard a subtle snap. You watched as their shadows got closer in the dark lit up only by the flashlight thrown onto the ground. “She’s--”

“You can keep her. Maybe you can find a man who will buy or sell her when you’re done.”

“Don’t be sayin’ that--”

“You fat fuck, don’t you--”

You were deafened by the sudden bang and your ears rang as your father’s body slumped to the floor. You stood with some trouble and stumbled back. You heard your father gasping as he twitched in the dirt. Bodecker turned and caught you before you could stepped away from the hood.

“I didn’t tell you to get up,” He growled as he bent you over the hood again.

“Daddy!” You cried out. “What did you do? Daddy--”

“I told you,” he pressed the gun to your head and poked around until he slid back inside you, “He ain’t your daddy no more.”

Your boots kicked in the dirt as he fucked you. The cold metal of the gun had you frozen, your eyes on your father’s body as the life slowly drained from him. You closed your eyes as his last, moist breaths escaped him. You bit down; you couldn’t cry, not even then.

You didn’t even notice as Bodecker finished and backed away. As his cum leaked from you and your legs folded. You fell onto the cold ground and he hauled you up into the back seat. He slammed the door and got in the front.

“Daddy…” You muttered.

“Pity. You never know what scoundrels are hanging out in the woods after dark,” Bodecker said as he started the car. “That’s some bad news to wake up to, isn’t is, girl?”

“Wh-why-why?” You stammered.

“Shhhh, you gotta be quiet, girl,” he coaxed, “‘Specially when drop you off. Better not wake any of your brothers, right?” He was quiet for a moment and cleared his throat loudly, “Right?”

“Right,” you whispered as your sticky thighs rubbed together, “Right, right, right…”

🚔

“Now, girl, you go inside and put your clothes in a bag and wash yourself up.” Those were Bodecker’s instructions as he dropped you off.

You didn’t remember doing it but you awoke with damp sheets and a bag by your bed. You rolled over, stiff from the night spent tense and rolling back and forth. It hadn’t really been sleep. More shock.

You laid there. Numb. You heard the gurgling again. Saw the lifeless black form of your father’s body in the dirt. It wasn’t real. You’d go downstairs and he’d be there. Once you put on the coffee he’d get up and demand a cup. It couldn’t be real.

You sat up and kicked the bag under your bed. You wore the grey dress with the pleats, a black sweater over it, with black stockings, and your mary janes. You descended the stairs one at a time and put the kettle on the stove. You stared out the window. It had snowed more in the last hours of the night.

You got out the tray of eggs and the sausages. You searched for the large skillet and Will walked in with a yawn. He was always the first up. You stared at him as he sat at the table. You tried to say something, maybe you said ‘good morning’, and then you went back to your work.

Arn and Cal came shortly after. None of the three mentioned your father’s absence. It wasn’t that unusual. Sometimes he drank too much, sometimes he had been up for hours or hadn’t slept at all. You served them and added the bacon grease to the jar of lard.

Where was he? He couldn’t be there. In the dirt. In his own blood. Dead. No, he was going to come right through that door.

You heard the tires before the knock. Your heart raced as reality closed in around you. Arn got up to answer it and came back with the sheriff. He didn’t even acknowledge you as he nodded at the men around the table.

“Pa’s not awake yet,” Will said and chewed the edge of a strip of bacon.

“Well, I think…” Bodecker hooked his thumb in his belt, his stomach sticking out awkwardly, “I think we need to talk about your pa. Can I sit?”

“Course, sir,” Cal said, “Should be enough fixins if you want some.”

“No, no thank you,” Bodecker sat heavily and sighed. He was an effective actor. “Look, your pa… well, we don’t know exactly what happened but… we all agree he must’ve been drunk.”

“What’s goin’ on?” Arn snipped, “What do you mean? Pa is here--”

“You remember when he went to bed last night?” Bodecker asked.

“Well…” Cal frowned and looked at his brother. “Well, I think I laid down before him.”

“Me too,” Arn said.

“I’m always the first asleep,” Will added. “Same with my sister.”

You gulped as the sheriff finally looked at you. “Well, you know we had them flyers around town for the longest time about the woods. About the criminals we got hangin’ around these days and there’s really no easy way for me to say it but it looks like your pa ran into one of them last night.”

“All the way out in the woods? But why?” Cal asked.

Arn’s nostrils flared as he shook his head. “Because he got no sense. You remember last summer. We found him face down in a bog out there. Took the three of us to get him out.”

“Yeah, but so late…”

“You know how he’s been since ma.” Will intoned.

You were dizzy. You grabbed onto the counter as your legs turned to liquid and you cried out. “No!” You fell to your knees and touched your forehead. You knew it was real, you’d seen it, but you had wanted so badly for it to have been a dream. A nightmare.

Will was the first at your side. Bodecker helped him lifted you back to your feet and get you to a chair. Arn and Cal watched in concern.

“You sure it was our pa?” Arn asked.

“I’ll save you the sight. I can assure you it’s him.” Bodecker said as he rubbed your shoulder and Will stood over you. “She should be fine. Get her some water. It’s the shock. You know the ladyfolk and their temperaments. They aren’t so equipped for things like this.”

“Any idea who? Why?” Arn prodded.

“Don’t think your pa had the sense to take his wallet but his belt buckle was gone and we can’t be sure what else they took,” Bodecker took your hand and caressed the back of it, “Honey, you drink tea? You want your brothers’ get you some?”

“I-- I--- You--You--” You stuttered.

“Come on, boys, let’s get her laying down,” Bodecker said as he stood. “She’s just havin’ a moment.”

Will and Cal lifted you out of the chair and carried you to the sofa in the front room. You were stiff as a board as they angled you onto the cushion and you could only babble at the ceiling.

“Go get that tea going, Will,” Bodecker ordered, “Cal, you go get her something to keep her warm.” Arn stood in the doorway and watched. “And Arn, get some wood for the fire. We should get it going.”

The boys dispersed as you laid across the couch. Bodecker touched your shoulder and you latched onto his wrist.

“You--” You hissed.

“Shhh, I only did what I had to. What you made me do,” he whispered, “‘cause you weren’t careful.”

You turned your head back and forth and squirmed. “No, no, no! You raped me! You killed my daddy!’

He covered your mouth and leaned over you. “Shut up! Shut up!” He sneered and his other hand went to your throat. “Now you got your clothes in a bag.” You nodded with wide eyes. “Good. I’m gonna take your brothers into town and you’re gonna burn them. Got it?” You nodded again. “And you’re gonna shut up.”

He released you roughly and stood as Cal came in with a blanket and tossed it over you. Bodecker helped straighten it and looked around.

“Think y’all should come back with me. We can get you sorted at the station then see about the caretaker.”

“All that already?” Arn asked.

“I ain’t rushing. Bodies don’t keep long, though. Investigations neither. We’ll get some statements from you boys and you’ll be free to choose what you wanna do from there.”

🚔

Will stayed home from school to keep watch over you. You didn’t know what was wrong with you. When your ma died, you didn’t feel this empty. You had cried for her, mourned for her. But now all you could do was sit there. Was it your fault? Even if Bodecker had pulled the trigger, you had brought your father there. You had been so concerned with keeping the sheriff from telling your secret, you had failed to hide it yourself.

Bodecker stopped by almost daily. He claimed it was to ask more questions or check on the family but you didn’t miss the way he looked at you. The way he made the excuse to be in the same room when he talked to your brothers. The way he shifted on his feet and peered around the house in silent triumph.

On the fifth day, you made Will go to school. He shouldn’t miss class because of you. He was the only one out of the boys who had ever read a book full through. So you saw them off, a proper breakfast for them for the first time since that horrifying morning, and you went about the list of undone chores.

You looked out the window at the shed. Your daddy never said much to you but you were used to his presence; the noise of his activity just outside. You couldn’t blame him for his faults, he’d fought a war, he’d worked hard, and he’d lost a wife. And now he was dead because of you.

You were scrubbing the floor when you heard the engine and the rubber treads on snow. You didn’t stop as you tried to scour away the salt stains and layer of dirt from the hallway. Boots clambered up the stairs and you kept your head down.

No knock, no warning as Bodecker opened the door. You looked up at him as he kicked the snow off his feet.

“You’re up and about today,” he said in a pandering tone.

You said nothing and focused on your work. He took off his jacket and hung it on the rack in the corner. He wiped his boots on the mat and watched you. He hummed as he tapped his toe.

“I like that. You on all fours.” He taunted.

You sat back on your heels and dropped the rag in the bucket. “I got cleaning to do, Sheriff, and if you don’t recall, my daddy’s gone… for good.”

“Oh, I know it,” he said as you lifted the pail and he followed you to the kitchen. “But do you? Do you really know it?”

You dumped the water down the sink and plunked the empty bucket on the floor. “I know it and I know who done it. I saw you. How could you?”

“Your brother Arn’s gonna get the house in the will. He’ll be lookin’ for a wife soon. Means Cal’s gonna have to get his own place, take Will with him or get a wife of his own. And you? Where does that leave you?”

“There’s jobs for me out there, I can clean, I can cook, I’m sure I could waitress,” you argued as you crossed to him. You grabbed his arms and tried to shove him. “Go. You don’t need to worry about me. I’d prefer it if you left me alone all together. You got what you wanted, Sheriff.”

“Not all of it,” he smirked. “You gonna drive yourself mad with all this.”

“What do you care?” You slapped his chest with both hands. “You don’t care about no one but you. You killed him!” You hit him again, “You killed him!”

He grabbed your upper arms and shook you. “You shut up about that now. You say anything again and you’ll be lyin’ beside him. If that ain’t enough, I’ll put your brothers there first.”

You reeled as if he’d slapped you. Your lip quivered and you sucked it in to keep from sobbing. “What do you want from me? I never wanted any of this.”

“You can’t know what you want, girl,” he wrenched you back and turned as he dragged you through to the living room. “So let me show you what you want. What your new daddy can do for you.”

“Get off of me!” You wrestled with him as he angled you around the couch. He shoved you and you fell back onto the cushions. “Leave me alone!”

He forced you back as you tried to stand and grabbed your chin. He squeezed as he looked down at you.

“Take them bloomers off now,” he ordered. “And hush your mouth.” You gaped up at him. He turned his hand and rested it against your cheek. “There’s one sure way to knock some sense into a woman,” he slapped you lightly, “You can decide if this lesson is an easy one or not.”

You sat back as you shrugged away his hand. You winced and lifted your pelvis and slipped off your underwear. As you did, your stockings bunched at your knees. Lee watched you with thick breath and purred. He knelt down and pushed your legs apart.

“Put your arms up. Just across the couch. Relax.” He directed as he got closer. “I wanna show you somethin’ makes the girls happy.”

“What are you--”

“You stop asking questions before I make it so you can’t. Now,” he squeezed your knees and his hands slipped up your thighs as he urged them further apart, “Just don’t think. Just sit there.”

He lifted your skirt over your head, one hand still on your legs. His warm breath tickled your pelvis and you squirmed. He pinched you and you exclaimed. You stilled and he slid his tongue down your cunt and poked between your folds. You choked on air as he dragged the tip of his tongue around your bud and your legs tense as your feet tried to arch in your flats.

He delved more firmly into your pussy and you grabbed onto the sofa. Your heart sped up and you pushed your pelvis out without thinking. You looked down at his head draped in your skirt as his mouth made sloppy noises. You felt a strange tingle as he kept on and your neck was pricked as you filled with guilt. It should feel good, whatever he was doing.

“Stop, please, Sheriff,” you begged.

He lapped hungrily as he ignored you and his hands gripped your hips. He pushed you into the couch as he devoured you and drew your pleasure to a point on his tongue. Your breath hitched and you moaned without thinking. You wanted him to stop but more, you wanted him to keep going.

And he did. He seemed to enjoy it just as much as your core pulsed. Your fingers dug into the cushion and your toes curled. You cried out, a voice that didn’t sound like yours, and rocked your pelvis against his face as you were overcome with delirium. You’d never felt so delicious.

Every ounce of strength drained from you. You panted as you slouched against the couch and he pulled away. Your skirt slipped from his head and his lips shone with your juices. He rubbed your legs and watched you writhe as your nerves were overwrought.

He stood with a grunt and unbuckled his belt. He licked his lips and tilted his head. “I knew you wanted me and now you know it too,” he said, “Now you show me that ass. You know I can’t resist.”

#lee bodecker #lee bodecker x reader #dark!lee bodecker #dark lee bodecker #the devil all the time #Fic #short series #series #dark fic #dark!fic

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winter-fox-queen · 3 years ago

Text

The Gentry’s Gifts: Pero

Pero Tovar might meet the woman of his dreams, if he can make himself trust a mysterious visitor. My Writer Wednesday thingy. I am tagging @hnt-escape @sharkbait77 @autumnleaves1991-blog @clydesducktape

Warnings: No smut, a little kissing, eating but it’s Tovar so the pace of that is quick, the S/O is female blank canvas. I think there is cursing. Not beta’d — I should be working on something else but this bit me hard, and there may be a second part with Max Phillips. I have this idea of connecting each story and telling several tales but you know how speedy I write stuff. So if there are any mistakes, I am sorry. Basically wrote this and did not read it over even.

Pero’s dreams were sometimes horrible things.

Sometimes he dreamt of monsters surging over a wall. Of death and blood, of his sword, or his axe, slicing through men and beast.

Sometimes he dreamed of the wide sky of the desert, the starts shining bright, almost as numerous as his regrets.

And sometimes. Sometimes. He dreamed of you. It filled him with such longing he would wake to the alarm clock’s cry to realize his face was wet with tears.

But, he would put on his suit (wool or polyester, not leather and metal) fill his satchel with the armor of his craft (law briefs, good pens, post it notes) and step out into the world.

He would look for you. He would look for you on buses. In bars. Sometimes he would think, “If I were her, where would I go?” And he would find himself in libraries. Museums. Once he took High Afternoon Tea at a Victorian style house, a dark, grumpy shadow alone at his pwn table, surrounded by ladies wearing fancy borrowed hats and gossip.

The one place he never wanted to see you was the other side of his desk, and so far he had lucked out. He was a public defender, and the people who came to his door were almost always desperate.

Almost always. The woman across from him was not. Steel grey hair in a chignon, cool dark eyes that seemed to be able to read everything about him, a story in every wrinkle, in the scar over his eye, in the silver in his hair.

“We’ve been here before, you and I.”

She said it so seriously, he took it as such…looking at his pile of files. “Have we? Forgive me, I have a lot of cases…what is your name, again? My secretary wrote it down, but it smudged.”

She placed a hand over his, stilling his search. “I know how you got the scar over your eye. The first time. And the second.”

He shivered, pulled his hand away. “What are…”

“You dream of the Great Wall of China. You dream of monsters with scales and monsters who are men. Sometimes the monster is you.”

His back straightened as his heart started to race. “Lady…”

She folded her hands on her lap. “I know your dreams because they are not dreams. You helped me, once. You could have demanded payment, but you did not. You told me such stories. Stories about the endless desert. About your friend William. And about her.”

He looked in her eyes. “You are not yourself. Let me call a friend — we have social services in this building, they can find you someone to talk to, to help you.”

She stood with an amused smile. “You didn’t believe me last time, either. But my people…we always pay our debts. I will not rest until I have paid mine.” She leaned forward and whispered your name in his year, like a lullaby, like a promise, and his hand, hovering over the phone on his desk, froze.

She threw a card down on his inked over desk calendar. “If you want me to help you find her, come here tonight. Dress nice. Surely you have something better than that suit.”

He picked up the card. Writing appeared, an address, in shimmering emerald.

It wouldn’t rip in half. If he folded it, it popped back, pristine.

It wouldn’t fall into the trash — it stuck to his fingers like tape.

But it would slip into his breast pocket, where it burned throughout the day.

Pero’s after work plans were boring as usual. A new Thai place opened up on the way home, all beautiful paint and murals. He thought, maybe, maybe you would like it. He stood in the doorway, he looked at the people within.

You know where she might be, a voice reminded himself, the card burned.

He backed out. “Fuck it.” He muttered. “Subway is good enough.”

He ate quickly, hunched over his food in his green and yellow booth. He was angry. He hated being manipulated, he hated the idea that his life, his dreams were all a game to some white haired woman who thought being mysterious was cute. Well. He’d show her.

He threw out the wrapper and stomped out the door,

He slumped in his car and looked at the GPS. The card burned in time with his heartbeat. He took it out. “If I can’t find the address in the GPS, I’m going home, having a beer, and calling tomorrow off.”

The GPS found the address before he even typed most of it in, and the card flashed in his hand, as if saying, “I told you so.”

“Fine.” He said, pulling in his seat belt. “But I’m not getting dressed.”

He did check his teeth in the mirror, take off the tie and unbutton a few buttons, fix his hair, chew a couple of Altoids…

And drove.

It was dark, by the time he got there. One window like a gold beacon. “Not exactly the place I’d go to make all my dreams come true.” He muttered.

Well, not the GOOD dreams, anyway.

He climbed up on the porch. A man with short hair in an immaculate business suit that cost more than Pero’s whole wardrobe was seated at a card table. The Queen of Hearts and the Queen of Spades face up before him. He stared at them like a man trying to decide which chalice was poison.

Pero stood over him a moment. The other man glanced up. “She’s inside.”

“What are you doing?”

The other man placed his hands on either side of the Queen cards. “Trying to choose.”

“Between?”

He smiled a little, his lower lip catching on a fang. “Life and death. Go on in. She;s waiting for you.”

Pero grunted and opened the door.

“Be kind to her,”. The other man’s voice added softly. “She’s a good woman.”

He walked down the hall, looking into room as he passed them. The place was like some screwy version of the TARDIS and was much, much bigger on the inside. He passed three libraries. A gallery. A room with a pool table and another room with a pool.

And there, in the last room was a cozy parlor where two women sat talking. One of them was the stern woman with iron colored hair.

And one of them was you.

“Pero!” You almost knock over the table in your excitement. He held out his arms, shaking, and you plowed right in. “I thought you were a dream! I thought you were nothing but a dream!”

He gathered her close, trying to focus past the sudden blurriness in his eyes. “I never stopped looking. I didn’t know if you were real but I couldn’t make myself stop looking.”

The woman at the table smiled. “One debt down.”

He ignored her, looking down into your eyes. Your hands came up to gently trace his cheeks, to wipe away the tears. You beamed at him. “You are the most beautiful thing in the world,”

“Kiss me,” You whisper. “I have waited far too long…”

And he did.

The clock started to toll. “Midnight. Good. Take her hand, Pero, and take her out of here…and don’t look back. Take the stupid vampire with you, if he’s not already left.” The grey haired woman started pushing them out. The hall was shorter.

“Th…”. Pero starts to say, wanting to thank her for her help, for bringing you to him. The older woman pushes him hard. “No. No thanks. No more debts!”

“I…I understand your kindness.”

“That was good!” You say. “I like that better than what I said to her, earlier…”. You both step out onto the porch. “Where’s Max? Max is my boss. I don’t know why she called him a vampire…he’s very nice.”

It’s empty. Good. “I don’t know, but he had his own troubles to think about.” Pero pushes you into the car. “Close your eyes, sweetheart.” He says. “I do not want you to be taken away from me…I do not know how this miracle happened, but I will follow the rules.”

He turned the car around with his eyes closed, hoping that his memory of the wide drive being surrounded by grass was true. Good. The car did not hit anything, and soon they were heading down the driveway.

“Are you hungry?” He says a moment later. Your hand is curled in his, and he feels lighter than he’s ever felt. “I know a great place that’s open late…”

“Take me home.” You say, instead. “I want to sit up late and find out everything about you.”

“I want to do everything at your pace,” he says, as she types her address into the gps. “But I don’t need to wait. I know perhaps once you get to know me you’ll think the dream far better than reality, but…”

She touched his face. “But it’s a dream we’ve both had for a long time. We will have to be sensible.”

“Of course.”

“We don’t want family and friends to be like, who the hell is that? Are you out of your mind?”

He laughed. Snagged your hand again so he could kiss it.

“But I won’t ever let you go. I did it once. But I will never, ever do it again.”

#writer wednesday #Pero Tovar #pero tovar x you

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taybatwo2 · 3 years ago

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Another series of drawings (from early 2021) of characters from another dream. Character descriptions under the cut.

The top picture is the surprising head of the guild for hunting monsters. He is a dark purple-blue, with a light blue underside, and a bright orange stripe separating the two. He has yellow eyes with a thin vertical pupil, small sharp teeth, a long tail with rectangular fins on both sides, a head crest of five horns, two fingers and thumb (three toes), and long wings connecting to his arm at his wrist (with a longer ”finger” connecting from his elbow that will flip outwards and extend past his arm to create his full wingspan for flight). He is able to stand bipedal and on all fours, he is capable of flight and swimming underwater (he can hold his breadth for up to two hours). This amphibious dragon can’t breath any element to my knowledge, but is extremely charismatic (he claims that his mother is a mermaid and everyone believes him) -he is the highest ranking monster in the country. He doesn’t wear much for clothing, maybe some jewelry ornamentation, but he always wears his little pendent. He can easily speak human tongues. At 18 ft tall he stands out in the monster hunting guild in more ways than one (despite being classified as a monster, he claims that he is NOT a monster as he has never ate or killed a human).

The next picture are of his three attendants. Despite monsters not commonly known as “monster hunters,” the Amphibious Dragon has reached out to other “monsters” to help bring more into the guild. These three in the upper left hand corner are accomplished monster hunters and his loyal attendants. A.D. has grown very fond of all three and would love to settle down with all three of them. All three of them wear the same matching pendent with A.D. and a smaller pendent with a mermaid on it.

The one on the far left is a cat-like humanoid. She is the fastest, most energetic, and quick witted of the three. She has spirals going up her arms and legs, spots and rosettes over most of her face, tail, and chest. She has long pointed ears, no fur, but very fluffy, fast growing hair. She wears her pendants on a bracelet around her upper arm and weaved in her hair.

The next one is a sheep-like demon. She is shyest of the group, but has a surprising knack at everything she does or tries. She has two pairs of eyes, arms, and horns. She has sheep ears, a little sensitive black nose, fine curly wool for her hair around her chest and shoulders that tapers around her lower arms. She has clawed fingers (12 fingers and 4 thumbs). She also has a long, prehensile tail and hooved toes. She is also a neat freak and likes to keep herself clean. She keeps both pendants on her right leg.

The third one is a rare demon that was accidentally summoned during a monster hunt. They proved to be a good friend to the group. They are the strongest and can tap into the occult arts….for just monster hunting operations…yes… They have two faces, but work very well together, usually finishing each other’s sentences. The top head/face is more like an animal, with sharp teeth and a great sense of smell and hearing. The lower head is very human-like and can act like the mom of the group and is always making sure that everyone has what they need. They have a row of curled horns going all the way down their spine/base of their tail (it is normally shiny black but glows when they are using magic). They have a furred upper head, that ends in long hair right above their human face and breasts. They have a large chest cavity, thin torso and stomach, and a curved under tail when they stand up. They have long forearms with three fingers and a thumb (they have the longest claws of the three), and digitigrade legs (they have a lot of “spring” to them), and only have two clawed toes. They have their pendent on their bracelet, and around their hip.

The mermaid on the right hand side is A.D’s estranged mother. She has light orange hair, lots of fish-like fins on her arms, spine, her hips, and side and back of head. She has large golden eyes, and a long mouth full of small teeth. She also has a beautiful but very deadly song. She can hold her breadth out of water for a couple of hours, and likes to sunbathe and search for victims or danger. She has a mermaid and A.D.’s pendent (as a protection from being hunted). He secretly moved her to a protected lake on either his property or surrounding area that is out of the way for both her and other’s sake.

The next picture is the magic familiar of a human monster hunter. This bat has a black body, head and long heart-shaped tail, aqua colored neck fluff, yellow tummy, and pink ears. He can hold items inside of himself (like a magical portal bag), he clings on with his long claws and can be used as both a glider and flyer. He can extend his wings for carrying larger items. He is super cute, fluffy, and loyal.

The last picture is of an assassin frog monster. He is working against both the human’s monster hunting guilds and A.D’s monster hunting guild. He is only 2’5” tall. He can walk on both his back legs and on all fours. He is bright blue, with darker stripes, orange/pink eyes, and vinyl record ear-drums. He inserts them on his ear drums and then plays the music out of his mouth (but when they played out of his mouth, he can command his prey to do what the lyrics to the songs say). He also has deadly aim with disks/cd’s/and similar shaped items. He tongue can kill on contact.

#oc #ocs #originalcharacter #originalcharacters #originalcharacterdrawing #ocdrawing #originalcharactersketch #drawing #sketch #sketches #drawings #pencildrawings #doodles #doodle #demons #demon #demonoc #sketchbook #artbyaleta

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passivenovember · 4 years ago

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Sometimes I get really high and cry about how I don’t have anything from my childhood home. So here’s this.

WARNINGS FOR: mentions of suicide, Billy healing from the incident at Starcourt.

He’s never been fed by what is inherently sentimental. Even as a little boy, those precious creatures that lived on the highest shelf in his heart were easily destroyed or ripped away by the person he was becoming. Stuffed toys fell to pieces under the heat of his anger, the toxic potion that was brewing under the surface of his skin ate away at the rose-colored hue surrounding his childhood home to the point of absolute degradation.

Billy doesn't remember a time when he longed for the sanctity of his bedroom. For the pale yellow sunlight streaming past blood stained Thomas the Train curtains, or the box of broken toys that Neil had left alone. He doesn't remember when it happened, when the flip switched and his longing went from missing Saturday morning cartoons in his parents bed to simply missing his mother and all the things she had taken when she jumped off the roof.

It wasn't always like that. Billy remembers something else. He remembers a blanket that smelled like cinnamon toast crunch, adorned with microscopic holes he liked to such his thumb through. He remembers a set of roller blades the color of crushed mustard seeds; Neil taught him to skate. No one knows that, no one remembers, but Billy. Does, he. Remembers strong fingers laced with his own, holding tightly while Billy figured out how to maneuver the cracks in the sidewalk.

Billy is haunted by a time when his fathers hands were good for other things.

Before Hawkins. Before that night when the demon punched a hole through his chest, Billy had been giving things away. To lighten the load, he supposes, that which had become unbearable.

First it was his skateboard.

Max wanted it.

At the time he didn't think it was as simple as all that; his bitchy kid sister begging, day in and day out for access to the magic carpet that sat entombed in Billy's closet. He hadn't used it in years, ever a slave to the bright blue ocean, but it didn't matter. It was the principal of the thing, the skateboard to his kneecap.

Max took and took and took until Billy had nothing left to give. She said you don't even use it anymore and Billy said doesn't matter, you can't skate.

Neil told him it could be good for bonding.

Neil told him Max was a good kid, she deserved to have something of her own in their house on Willowbrook Avenue.

Neil told him to hand it over before I stick it up your ass, kid.

So Billy ground his teeth together and tried to push down the aching emptiness at tossing away the last thing his grandmama had given him before she passed away. It was the principal of the thing--if Ruthann were still around she'd tell him to let the kid have it. Let her have something of her own, so. He polished its bearings and left it outside her bedroom door, pretended to read until she came knocking an hour later with confusion twisting her freckled face to shit.

You're sure I can have it. She asked.

And.

Yeah. I'll teach you.

He wonders if Max remembers those afternoons in the driveway that morphed into weekends at the skatepark with Max scuffing up the wheels and Billy tapping into his thin line of patience. Wonders if she's plagued by the memory of hidden smiles and misplaced affection, because. Billy had thought it would hurt more, giving away a piece of his childhood like that, but. He had long since stopped attaching emotional worth to things that broke. Things that crumbled.

He wonders if Max remembers a time when his hands were good for other things.

Billy made a habit of throwing away the things that weighed him down.

The skateboard, the blanket that smelled like cereal milk, he thought all of it made him weak. The more shit he had that mattered to him the more he had to lose, so. Every Spring Billy would wrap his fingers around the mouth of a big black trash bag and lighten his load. Scoop armfuls of his childhood into the abyss that always, somehow, incredibly operated as a portal to Max's room.

Sometimes he wondered if she even had a personality or if everything she had, everything she was, came directly from Billy's dumpster.

One man's trash, and all that.

She wore his old shirts. Read his books, hung discarded posters of naked chick's on the insides of her closet doors for some fucking reason, and. In a weird way Billy felt like maybe he was being immortalized. Every phase of his life was shone back at him like the surface of a lake, or a shiny new penny on the dashboard of the Camaro, and he felt good. Useful, for his trash becoming someone's gold.

So Billy kept tossing things out.

Reorganizing and downsizing until his room looked like a generic movie set for a troubled teen. Every weekend Billy packed the little pieces of himself into neat trash bags, tying the lip closed and leaving them for max. Nestled at the foot of her door, like a bargain brand Christmas gift that was not at all what she had asked for. Gifts that came 52 times a year.

The bags always vanished. Billy felt heavy and light. Heavy and light. In the end he wasn't sad to see it go.

Maybe it was just a side effect of growing up in the big, empty house on the hill and fighting the incessant need to fill it with shit but Steve Harrington was a packrat. The kid never got rid of anything. Before Starcourt. Before that night when the demon punched a hole through his chest, Billy would tease him about it.

What, like you need five binders full of empty laminate pages?

Steve's tongue would poke out of the corner of his mouth while his fingertips brushed the offended plastic. I'm going to start scrapbooking.

And that was is usual way, to find an explanation, a inarguable reason for all the junk in his life, but.

Billy thought it was okay to have things around for comfort.

Wasn't really his style, but it was Steve's and Billy didn't stop the kid from collecting whatever he could get those slim fingers on. Old NATARI cartages, broken HAM radio antenna's, torn polaroid's, annual Moms of Loch Nora Bake sale t-shirts; he kept everything in case an old timey push mower could prove itself to be useful.

Before that night when the demon punched a hole in his chest, Billy would smirk. What sad sack wants a MILF's face on his chest?

Steve just shrugged his shoulders. Someone could need it.

And Billy just snorted, because.

Harrington's a weird guy.

Thoughtful and pretty and so, so fucking weird.

When they brought Billy home from the hospital he slept in a shirt with Karen Wheelers face on it, every night for a week.

Funny how it all comes back around.

He spends a lot of time in bed with the covers pulled up under his chin. Draped in Steve's ridiculous knit sweaters and thick woolen socks because everything is cold, now. As if winter has settled rough and desperate into the very marrow of his bones and even though the fabric rubs too harshly against the healing rise of his stitched skin, Billy can't shed even a single layer for fear of freezing to death.

That's what it had felt like Before Starcourt. Before the monster punched a hole through his chest, when it just had its fingers inside his skull.

Endless winter.

Steve buys every type of heated blanket on the market. Searches high and low for expensive down t-shirts that will help you feel more comfortable, but. Billy doesn't even remember what that's supposed to feel like.

Steve says comfort feels like sleeping in on Saturday mornings because you don't have anywhere to be. Home sounds like your mother fixing pancakes just before lunch time but--oh. Everyone always remembers half a second too late. Billy tries to smile, tries to accept the help Steve gives him--he wears the sweaters and keeps the socks on after his morning bath even though he's not really a sock person because Steve is so hopeful.

Bright.

Steve smiles over the mug of hot cocoa he fixes Billy every morning and hopes. If we start the day warm, who knows?

Billy doesn't have the heart to tell him.

Steve spends a lot of time in bed. Plastered to Billy's skin--chest to back because Billy needs to feel like he's protecting something, after Starcourt. After that night when the demon punched a hole through his chest.

Sometimes Billy feels like Maxine.

Stealing bits and pieces from someone's garbage can. Here he is, sleeping in Steve's bed wearing Steve's clothes taking up such a large part of Steve's life, and.

Pretty Boy just snuggles closer and lends his warmth in more ways than one.

Billy doesn't always know how to handle it when those milky brown eyes watch him roll around under the covers until his body finally feels at peace. Every night Billy closes his eyes says the same thing. "I can be out of here by next week, if you--" Afraid to look for fear that he'll see relief reflected back at him.

Every night Steve says the same thing in return. "You're my whole world now, Billy."

As if that's supposed to get the car back on track. As if Billy hasn't veered off the road and crashed into a tree every single day since--

"Maybe it would make you feel better if, you know." Steve shuffles impossibly closer, the hot line of him charring Billy's skin even through the layers of wool. "If you had something familiar."

"You're familiar."

Steve's flesh burns even hotter. Eyes shining even bright, at that. Something almost like love. "I meant something from your childhood."

Billy rolls onto his side.

Steve moves with him without even thinking about it--chest to back because Steve needs to feel useful, after Starcourt. After that night when Billy hit the floor and the light went out of his eyes. Billy's chest rises against the palm of Steve's hand, where it's pressed against him. Steve will never get tired of that motion.

"I don't have anything from my childhood."

Which. "Not even at home?"

"This is home now." Billy sounds like he doesn't want to talk about it, but.

Steve can't bring himself to care. Or maybe stop caring. "I meant at Neil's."

"Got rid of all that shit." He can hear the tremor in Steve's voice, when the boy finally finds it.

"Neil got rid of your--"

"No." Billy says simply. "I did."

He can hear the wheels turning in that beautiful head. Steve swallows, the movement palpable in the thick night air. "But. Don't you miss it?"

After a while Billy shakes his head in the darkness, curls catching on the plaid pillowcase. It takes Steve a moment to decipher what it means, how it makes him feel that Billy can so easily toss away the things that no longer serve him.

They're quiet for a while. So long that Billy's breathing goes deep and even, a clear indicator that he's fallen asleep. Steve knows it won't last long, knows the nightmares wake him up, and.

Steve always stays awake through the first three to give Billy something familiar to hold onto.

#harringrove #idk what this is lol

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leapyearkisses · 4 years ago

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O Captain, My Captain 2/2 - (m/m) Salem/Faughn

Part two of the soldier setting.

Lil’ bit of mess. Hair brushing. Yearning. Etc.

---

The bar was dim and full of smoke from the spitting of the fire in the grate. Despite the proprietor’s efforts to shield against the storm, it was raining down the chimney, and the logs were hissing like hecklers at a bad variety show. The haze collected in the ceiling joists with the smoke from the soldiers’ cigarettes. It was crowded and loud inside and stank of wet wool and spilled ale. Could definitely have smelled of worse, though; Salem wasn’t complaining. He tapped his lips against his empty mug, gaze lingering in the shadowed corner of the room.

“Another round for you, sir?”

He looked up, saw Maisie Harpe looking down her nose at him, serving tray under her arm. Her expression was condescending. Salem remembered it fondly.

“You don’t have to call me ‘sir,’” he said, but pushed his mug toward her. “I’m still the same as I was.”

Maisie sniffed dismissively, picking it up. “Gone off and joined the war. Too good for a potter’s life. You think you’re going to come out the other end of it?” Her blonde curls shimmered around her round face with a flash of lightning. “Pa says it’s like watching sausages get made.”

“Hold your tongue, girl!” John Hadditch, the blacksmith of Yens Hollow, came up behind her and shooed her off. “Bad luck talking of that over beer. Go and bring us something better than this swill your Pa’s set aside for soldiers.” He sat down across from Salem and lifted his wooden leg around the bench with a grunt. “She still wants you to be pullin’ her pigtails, Sammy.” He chuckled.

Salem cleared his throat, hiding a smile. “She’s got better prospects than me.”

“Aye, maybe an officer? I heard they’re keeping the brass nice and polished at Maven Broadmoor’s place.” John leaned in. “You got a roof over your head, Sam, or are you out with the poor suckers in the mud?”

“Well, I’m not really brass. Maybe copper,” Salem said, accepting a new tankard from Maisie. “Mrs. Broadmoor is letting me sleep in the horse loft with the other lieutenants. Better than the back pasture.” He tapped his fingers on the table. When Maisie had walked away to another group, he leaned in. “I need to know if it’s safe to talk.”

“Not in here,” said John, taking a long draught of beer. “Come to my shop on the morrow, or I’ll come down to the farm if the bloody sky hasn’t fallen.” Thunder shook the double-paned windows. “My leg’s not as it used to be, though, and riding is a trial.”

“We can come to you.” Salem had been given a small company of men solely for this purpose of meeting with the trustworthy locals… or at least those they hoped were trustworthy. “On the morrow, if, as you say, we’re all still here.”

—

It was still raining when he finished the night, snapping the neck of his raincoat closed at the door, as if that would help. Maisie Harpe moved in the fallen darkness of the banked fire, turning out the oil lamps on the walls and drawing blankets over the men who had passed out at their benches from either drunkenness or exhaustion. Salem kept his tongue to himself, just tipped his hat to her on his way out.

His horse was none too keen to be drawn out of the stable, digging her heels in while he tacked her up. “I know,” he murmured, securing the saddle girth. “But you’ll be home soon enough.”

The streets were the same as he remembered them, and he rode confidently toward the edge of town even in the storm. He’d gone to school here as a boy, every morning hitching a ride on a wagon into town from the neighboring village. His father had been a cooper, building barrels for beer, whiskey, fish, pickles… whatever the fur traders needed, and then when that started drying up, whatever anyone else needed. His mother had been a potter. Technically, he still owned the house and the workshops, but he’d given the plot to a cousin to manage. He wondered absently, focused on the echoing of his horse’s hooves on the cobbles, whether he should go by the place while he was stationed here. Surely no one would begrudge him the chance to see family. …Although they weren’t close.

His mare moved faster on the dirt roads despite the muddy furrows, picking up her pace going out to the farmlands. Salem hunched against the rain. Water was running down his neck and his face, and an ill-timed breath sent a drip up his nose, too. He ducked to the side with a loud sneeze. “Hruuscht!” His horse laid her ears back.

“Sorry, girl.” He wiped his face on his wet sleeve and sighed. It was very late, but he thought, maybe, he should try to meet with the Captain before he went to sleep. To update him on the idea of meeting with Hadditch tomorrow, to tell him what Salem had overheard while drinking, …to inspect the state of him. Salem sighed.

—

There was a lamp still burning at the Broadmoor farm. Salem put his horse away and then slogged up to the main house, shivering on the back stoop. Martha, the maid, let him in to the kitchen and took his jacket, scolding him for coming back so late. She probably thought him a souse. He let her chide him as she brought him a towel and a heel of bread. He ate it after she’d returned to her bed, then left his boots on the hearth, hoping that the fire would dry them somewhat, before going upstairs. He trod carefully. Major General Wallace was staying here as well, and he was said to be a rough character when untimely roused.

Light flickered beneath the door of the yellow bedroom. Salem tapped lightly against the paneling and waited for an acknowledgement.

“Yes?” The Captain’s voice was hoarse. “I don’t need another of your bitter infusions, Doctor.” He coughed. “I’ve had more than enough of them.”

“It’s Lieutenant Desidero, sir.”

“Come in.”

Salem stepped into the room. The Captain had a candle burning and was writing at the desk, quill scratching over the parchment at a steady pace that was uninterrupted by Salem’s visit. Captain Faughn was wearing his hair down for once. It spilled down his back like blood, the same shade, tangled and damp with rain or sweat. Hardly regulation, Salem could hear in his mind, the voice of his long-ago trainer barking away in memory. His gaze followed the length of it to the Captain’s trim waist. He was in his shirtsleeves.

“I have a report,” he forced himself to say. “A short one. I went to the village tavern tonight.”

“Tell me about it,” said Faughn, without looking up.

So Salem did, describing the state of the place, the bearing of the owner, Maisie Harpe, the blacksmith. He talked about the bar’s stable, which had a new roof, and the men who had worked on it and dined there that night. The church had burned two years ago and been rebuilt a little bigger, with a new back room, by the same men. Men from trapper families with nothing to trap anymore, back in town since a few months ago.

Faughn listened to the report without commenting, though he did lay his quill down sometime in the middle. By the candlelight, his eyes were heavy-lidded and thoughtful. His cheeks were flushed high with fever.

“Nice job,” he said when Salem had finished, rubbing his hands together. “I knew I was right to trust this to you. If all goes well here, I will be sure to give you a commendation.” He sniffed hard and Salem heard a liquid shift of congestion in his sinuses. “Is there anything else?”

Salem swallowed. “Your hair, sir?”

“My hair?” Faughn frowned.

“I’d like to brush it for you.”

—

The Captain’s comb was made of whale ivory. Salem sat on the bed behind him and drew the fine teeth carefully down through the Captain’s hair, trying to untangle it without pain. The Captain’s hair was soft despite the rigors of the war. Salem supposed he must keep it oiled under his hat, or some other way protected from the elements. “I’m not hurting you, am I?” he asked.

Faughn had made a small noise, but now he lifted a hand to dismiss concerns. “No. No, you’re fine.” His fingers were slender and strong, but he curled them now under his nose. “I’m going to hh-”

Salem slipped the comb free as the Captain bent forward, crushing his nose to his knuckles.

“Nkktsch! Ngktschx!” His breath caught again. “Hah- hahktschiu!” Moisture shone against the smooth curve of Faughn’s nostrils in the candlelight. He sniffed thickly and reached to the bedside table for a handkerchief.

“Bless you,” murmured Salem, gaze lingering. He looked away when the Captain raised an eyebrow. “How are you feeling?”

Faughn cleared his throat, low and irritated. “I do wish people would stop asking me that.” He dabbed at his nose but seemed hesitant to blow. The corners of his dark eyes creased in uncertainty.

Salem traced his fingers over the comb, thumb pressed along the smooth edge from end to end. The bedroom was warm from the farmhouse’s central fireplace. Heat blossomed also in his belly. He looked at his nail, snagged earlier on his horse’s reins, instead of at the Captain. He could hear from the Captain’s breathing that he would sneeze again. “My apologies.”

“Ngktschiu!” Wet again, but this time enveloped by the folds of the handkerchief. Salem could imagine how it might feel instead against his skin. His arousal swelled. Faughn groaned softly, a private sound. Salem rose to his feet.

“I will report to you again tomorrow night,” he said, placing the comb on the clothes chest by the foot of the bed. He could feel himself blushing. Part of him wanted the Captain to turn and see it, too, but most of him knew to keep it close and hidden. “Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Desidero.”

Salem closed the door behind him and then stood for a long moment in the empty hallway, listening to the rain.

#lyk writes #snz #first lieutenant salem desidero #captain gwalchmai faughn #salemai #*stares adoringly at faughn*#I haven't reread this in ages #it's tender isn't it #hmmmmmm should i write a third part

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lesbian-percy-weasley · 4 years ago

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Chapter 1: Chance Encounters

Ship: Perciver

Content warnings: none

Description: Young Percival takes pride in the fact his mother lets him forage alone but as his adventure into the woods goes on, one certain boy makes his day worse

~🌿~🌿~🌿~🌿~🌿~🌿~🌿~🌿~🌿~🌿~🌿~

Percival Weasley was a perfectly happy child by all accounts of the word. A faun of nearly 11 living on his family's small farm without a care in the world. He knew not of love beyond his mother and father and he knew not of prejudice. He was an innocent young lad and playful too. Not to the point to cause trouble his wee brothers Fredrick and George caused that enough.

At such a young age his mother already trusted him to forage alone. He held this task with pride. His older brothers William and Charles hadn’t been allowed to forage in the forest alone until they were much older than he was. There was great fun to be had foraging. Searching every nook and cranny in the forest brought young Percival great joy. When his mother had asked him to go today he got ready at once.

He put on his new linen shirt. It was still quite big but he was growing so he knew it would fit someday. His brothers always wore a belt with their shirts to make it more flattering but he didn’t see the need. It looked perfectly fine as is. He had put on his leather satchel. It was useful for carrying things like apples he picked or the lunch his mother made for him. The rest could easily go into a basket. Unlike other fae, fauns had no need for pants or shoes so they didn’t bother spending money on them. Percival then put his mustard yellow cloak on and he was ready to go on his merry way.

He walked down the stairs into the kitchen where his mother had prepared a lunch to take with him. Along with a basket and the list of things they needed. He had shoved the lunch into his bag along with the list. His mother had kissed him on the cheek and he headed out.

He stepped out of their cottage and onto the stepping stone path that led to the road. He had bid adieu to his father and older brothers who were working on their farmland. With that, he headed to the forest.

Percival had always found the forest quite peaceful. His wee brother Ronald was always scared of it since he was a baby but Percival found tranquillity in the forest. Her many trees surrounding him made him feel connected to something bigger than himself. The birds flying around, the sun shining through the leaves of various varieties of trees, The ferns and wildflowers forming a path for him. If he had it his way he would live in the forest. But there was no time for dilly-dallying he had things to get.

He opened his satchel and took out the list to see where he needed to go. On the piece of paper, his mom had written:

Ten green apples

A bundle of wild thyme

A basket full of hazelnuts

Some cornflowers for your sister she wishes to learn how to press them

Percival put it back into his satchel and then went on the hunt.

He had gathered the green apples and wild thyme for his mother before and knew easily where to find cornflowers but he was at a loss when it came to hazelnuts. He thought he might as well get the things he knew before worrying about it. He headed off to the green apple tree just right off the trail.

Climbing wasn’t a fauns forte. Their deer-like legs were made for running and jumping but not climbing. Still, Percival knew that to get the best apples you had to reach the top of the tree so forte or not he wasn’t gonna settle. His brother Charles had taught him how to use a rope to climb it so that’s what he used. He had become quite skilled in the mode of collecting. Soon enough he had all ten apples his mother had asked him to get.

Next was the thyme. He knew there was a patch not far from here. He had found his way back to the trail. When he was walking he noticed the wind picking up speed.

‘Great,’ he thought. ‘Wind spirits were just what I needed.’ out of all the things he loved about the woods he hated wind spirits. They were all a bunch of gits who would stop at nothing for a chance to mess with a lowly faun like him. He remembered the first time he went foraging. They had built up enough force to throw him into a giant oak tree. He eventually got down at the price of a broken arm but ever since then he wanted nothing to do with the lot of them

He let out a frustrated huff and put his hood up. That way they couldn’t mess with his hair more than it already was. Anyway, he had to find the thyme. In a few minutes, he had found a wild patch. He had knelt down to pick it. He didn’t very much enjoy the laborious work it was but it was better than harvesting the barely or milking the cows so he didn’t complain. Once he picked it he tied it with the string he had in his satchel. Then as he was getting up he was knocked backward by a strong gust of wind, followed by whispers of laughter.

As joyful was young Percival perceived himself to be, he could get quite flustered and fussy at times. And he was definitely susceptible to these emotions when it came to those dastardly wind spirits. It was like they took pleasure in ruining other’s days. But again, there was no time to cry about it. He still needed the hazelnuts and the cornflowers.

Percival had found a nice clearing and decided it would be a good place for lunch. He had taken off his cloak and his satchel. He grabbed his lunch his mum had packed for him. It was a piece of bread, a slice of cheese, some blueberries, and a bottle of ale. Almost everything was made on their own farm. He didn’t mind of course they didn’t have the type of money for other cheeses or ales and why would they waste it? Percival gladly ate his lunch.

He was just about done when once again a sudden gust of wind swept by him. It took the remaining blueberries and scattered them but it also blew his satchel, his basket, and his cloak into the creek behind him. Luckily the satchel wasn’t opened so none of the contents he spent the morning getting were lost but still now his cloak was wet. What good shall a wet cloak do for him?

He rushed to the creek at once to retrieve his things. As he was turning to get to it he saw a young boy already picking up his things from out of the water. He couldn’t have been much older than Percival himself was. He was wearing a shirt similar to the one Percival was wearing but his were tucked into a pair of light green breeches. He had worn a lavender purple mantle and a pair of shoes that were fashioned to look like leaves.

If there was anything Percival hated it was people helping him when he didn’t ask. It made him feel weak and helpless, two things he was not. He huffed over to the creek to get the rest of his stuff out. He didn’t want this strange boy meddling with his things. He had already grabbed the cloak but wasn’t quick enough to get the satchel and basket before Percival snatched it quite aggressively.

The boy was taken aback. He was only trying to help the young faun but he was clearly having none of it. He had a quite confused look on his face. No one had ever acted like this to him when he tried to help them before. Maybe it had something to do with the area. His friends had told him that people near the faun village always got quite mad at their tricks and were fun to mess with but he didn’t like making people angry and it was clear the boy in front of him was.

Percival wanted so badly to just go about his day and finish his foraging but the boy was still holding onto his cloak. He considered just leaving without it but he knew his parents would be mad at him. Wool wasn’t cheap after all. But the boy was just holding it, doing nothing else, saying nothing else. Just holding it as if he was teasing Percival, which only made him madder. He tried to take it out of his arms but the boy quickly pulled it away.

Percival glared at him in a way he never had glared at anybody. The boy was clearly messing with him once again. The boy had clothes and by the look of it he wasn’t poor either so what was the point if he didn’t need it? He had been pushed around by wind spirits but never had they tried to take something from him.

“Give me my cloak back.” Percival crossed his arms. He was trying to sound intimidating but his 11-year-old voice wasn’t on his side. “But why? It is still wet.” The boy replied back. “I don’t care. it’s mine, give it back.” “But you must let me dry it first. What use does a wet cloak have?” Percival was turning a visible shade redder.

“I did not ask you to dry it. I do not have the time to wait for it to dry.” He said, trying to grab his cloak again. “What is your issue? I only wanted to help.” “I DID NOT ASK FOR HELP,” Percival screamed. He had never screamed at anybody before but this boy filled with a rage unmatched by anything he had ever experienced. All he wished was to go about his day again

The other boy looked like he was about to cry. Never had anybody been this mad at him.

“Please if you just let me dry it I’ll leave you alone.” The boy pleaded. “Fine.” Percival huffed. At once the boy manipulated the wind to quickly dry the mustard yellow cloak. After the water fully left it, the boy presented it to Percival, who snatched it away and put it back on.

He started to walk away without another word but the boy continued to follow him. Frustrated and flustered, he turned around to once again confront him.

“I thought you said you were going to leave me alone,” Percival said quite bitterly. “If you don’t mind me asking, what are you doing alone in the woods?” “It’s none of your business and besides it appears that you are alone in the woods too.” Percival started walking away again.

“Are you always this rude to people?” Percival scoffed and asked, “What is that supposed to mean?” “You have been nothing but dismissive when all I have tried to do was be helpful.” Both of the boys stopped.

“I did not ask for help. I do not need help. Especially not from a wind spirit.” “I don’t know where you come from but I’ve been taught it’s polite to offer help to people who don’t ask for it.” The boy crossed his arms at him. “Well, I don’t appreciate it. I am perfectly capable of handling things myself which is why my mum lets me forage alone.” The other boys' eyes lit up when Percival mentioned foraging.

“Oooh I have never been foraging before but I have always wished to learn how to. Do show me how.” He pleaded with Percival. “Why would I do that? So you will know all the places and take everything from them?” His family has taken years to find the best foraging spots and he wasn’t about to give them away to this random boy.

“But please I wouldn't, I just want to learn how.” “I have said no plenty of times. Does that not mean anything where you’re from.” Percival said as he continued to walk away out of the clearing, leaving the boy quite dumbfounded.

The experience left Percival with quite a lot of dread. Whoever this boy was, he wasn’t someone Percival would enjoy spending time with. He had taken up so much time with his pushy nature and friendly disposition that it was rearing close to the afternoon and Percival still hasn’t foraged the hazelnuts or the cornflowers. He remembered where his brothers had shown him the hazel tree. It was in the clearing.

He had no doubt in his mind that the boy would still be there. But he had to get the hazelnuts. He had to swallow his pride and risk the chance to once again meet the boy. Once he entered the clearing once again, he saw the boy sitting on a stump looking quite sad. But Percival had no time for it. He would take ages to harvest enough nuts to fill his basket; it was no time for distraction.

Of course, the boy noticed his return but he didn’t want to anger him more than he already had. So he just watched him. Watch him climb up the hazel tree with his rope and carefully pick the hazelnuts one by one being careful not to slip. He thought to himself how much easier it would’ve been if he had helped but he had learned how the young faun thought about help. So it was better to leave it alone.

It had taken Percival quite some time to pick the hazelnuts. When he got done he noticed the sun was setting. It wasn’t a good thing at all. His parents had warned him to stay out of the woods at night. He never knew why but it was better not to test it.

As he descended he noticed the boy was still there. There must be some reason he was still there. It seemed ridiculous for it to be because of him. So he decided to show civility and ask him if anything was wrong.

“You don’t want to be in the woods at night. Are you waiting for something?” The boy looked up at him. “My friends have seemed to forget about me and I haven’t the slightest clue how to get out.” Percival had felt a little bad about the way he behaved before. He knew his reaction was uncalled for so he thought he should make it up to the boy.

“Well, you could walk home with me. I know the way out of the woods and after that, you can just follow the road into town.” Percival said and offered his hand to help him up. “Very well then. You shall show me the way out of the woods.” The boy said with a smile. And so the two went on. Out of the clearing and onto the path.

Most of the walk was spent in silence. Percival picked cornflowers along the way. The boy was quite confused about this. “Why are you picking those? Don’t you know that they are weeds?” Percival looked up at him with equal confusion. “They’re just cornflowers. My family loves them.” The boy laughed at this. “Why don’t you get proper flowers like lavender or roses?” “We do not have money for such frivolous things. And besides just because a flower grows wild doesn’t make it less of a flower.” Percival said quite defensively. The boy shut up after that. He couldn’t understand why this faun was so sensitive to everything.

Soon enough they found themselves out of the woods and back onto the village road. Percival turned to the boy. “If you follow this road you should find yourself in the village. I need to go home now but it was nice meeting you.” He explained quite cordially. The boy thanked him and went on his way.

‘What a strange boy,’ He had thought to himself. As they walked separate ways the boy had heard someone calling a name.

“Percy! Percy!” he heard a voice call as an older faun appeared on the road and ran up to the younger one. “What took you so long? Mum’s been worried sick.” “I got caught up with wind spirits but I handled it well and good, Charlie.” They continued to talk but by that time the boy was too far away to hear anything. As he walked towards the village he said to himself, “hmm, so his name is Percy.”

#harry potter #percy weasley #oliver wood #perciver #fanfiction #percy weasley x oliver wood #faerie #faerie au #cottagecore #slow burn #fauns

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merryfortune · 4 years ago

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Day 11 / Yellow

Clover and Violets 2021

Ship: Cosplayshipping | Dark Magician Girl/Tome

Universe: GX

Word Count: 1,051

Rating: T

Tags: Fluff, Food, Age Gap

Tome wasn’t getting that old; the students, and other ragamuffins who somehow made it to her cafe and shop, couldn’t pull the wool over her eyes just yet but she liked to play along. She knew it made these miscreants feel good if they felt smart or cool so she would definitely buy that this stranger was just a new student.

“I want this one please,” she said, “and this one, oh and this one too - and I’m going to need something to drink, so I’d like that, that, and that.”

Tome laughed. “It’s like your ordering for a small army.” she joked.

“May as well be. I need all the strength I can get, I swear.” the girl said.

Tome smiled. It was good to be appreciated. There was nothing quite like having someone come in and love her food: friend or foe, familiar or stranger but she had to admit. There was something about this girl which was familiar. Like they had met before, or at least glimpsed each other somewhere.

She was a real sweetpea this girl, Tome would swear. She had long, yellow blonde hair and cheeks with too much blush on them - and she had even dabbled it on the tip of her nose, Tome wondered if that was going to be the new trend sweeping the girls of her cafeteria. She would have to keep an eye out. And she looked a little bit sloppy in her Ra Yellow get-up. It looked a few sizes too big on her and unsurprising given that she was a twig of a thing but that wasn’t stopping her. She had more energy than a power station, it felt.

Bobbing up and down to the beat of some teeny bopper music that Tome couldn’t hear, bouncing along the glass cabinet as she chose out everything that she was. To say nothing of that smile. So big and wide and most important of all, eager. In turn, Tome couldn’t help but to smile as she plated up everything that the girl wanted and more.

Sandwiches, cheesecakes, omelettes, and brownies. Tome put everything that this girl wanted on a tray and she was ecstatic. She just couldn’t wait to dig and Tome smiled fondly. She came out from behind the counter - she wasn’t even going to bother ringing it up, she knew that this girl wouldn’t be able to pay but Tome didn’t mind, she had never done it for the money, anyway - and came around. She set down the tray on the end of the closet table and sat down.

“Here you go, enjoy.” Tome said and then adjusted her glasses. “You don’t mind the company, do you?”

“Not at all.” the girl replied. “I would be thrilled if you join me.” Her happy expression diminished for a moment, only for a moment of cute befuddlement. “Though, am I gonna be good company? I’m about to stuff my face with food after all.”

Tome laughed. “I don’t mind at all, so long as you keep your elbows off the table and chew with your mouth closed.”

“I can totally do that.” the girl replied. “Well, two-four-six-eight, dig in don’t wait.”

Tome rolled her eyes but her crinkly lipped smiled betrayed her. Not the politest of graces but it was enthusiastic so she couldn’t fault this young bird for it.

Oh, and she dug in alright. It was like she was ravenous, had never eaten a day in her life. Tome watched in amazement as she ate it all, not caring at all for the palette, mixing savoury across sweet. Taking a bite of one of Tome’s famous egg sandwiches one minute and then chowing down on some apple pie the next. But she did it all with glee and watching someone eat with such passion, Tome’s heart was as pleased as punch.

And there was not a scrap of it left. The girl had all but licked the bowls and plates clean as Tome set away her crockery for her as she was too lost in the bliss of finishing eating to move a finger. Tome didn’t mind and she glanced at her.

“Enjoy your meal?” Tome asked with a chortle.

“You…” the girl began. “Are the best chef ever. In the whole wide world - in all of the big, wide worlds, really.”

“Oh, stop.” Tome waved her off as she tried to take this first set of crockery back to her industrial dishwasher.

“No, really.” the girl said and all that lethargy dissipated.

She bounced to her feet and if Tome’s eyes weren’t deceiving her, then she was floating in the air at the end of her little hop, floating closer, legs going all but up and over her head as she got closer to Tome in a messy, incomplete somersault. Her blue eyes were huge with admiration.

“I’d know so.” she said.

And it was like the bubble had popped. The girl dropped back down to her feet; her yellow striped jacket all but falling off her shoulders and she did little to fix it. She spun on her heel.

“You really are the bestest, I love coming here - and I’ll come back again to eat, promise.” the girl said.

“I’ll look forward to it. I love a big and healthy eater.” Tome said.

“Fantastic. It’s a promise then.” she said.

She skipped closer and got up onto her tip-toes. She put a hand on Tome’s shoulder and leaned in, pecking her cheek. Tome blushed.

“Oh, you flirt.” she scolded her playfully.

The girl just giggled. “See you next time, Tome.”

“Yes, see you next time.” Tome replied.

She looked away but kept the girl in her peripheries. She didn’t check her own and with a hop, skip, and jump, the girl disappeared and her Ra Yellow uniform fell to the ground. Tome laughed and then hurried on, she had a lot of cleaning up to do. Easily one of the less strange things that she had seen happen on Duel Academy Island but it did make her realise where she knew that girl from. She had seen her once or twice in a magazine; touring with that Mutou Yugi boy and the like but only as a hologram that he sometimes was pictured with during a duel.

#femslash #femslash february #femslashfeb2021 #cosplayshipping #tome (yugioh)#dark magician girl #yugioh gx #gx #yugioh #writing tag #clover and violets #clover and violets 2021 #age gap cw #but the fun thing about this age gap is that there's no guarentee that dmg is the younger one #food cw

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ladywynneoutlander · 5 years ago

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Hi guys. So I am writing a little story for the holiday season. It is very fluff-tastic, mostly family and love with a minimum of plot. I very much hope someone enjoys it!

Heart’s Abundance

Part 1 - Giving Thanks

Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5 , Part 6

Bree and I are sitting in the kitchen, enjoying my own special blend of “Liberty Tea,” a mixture of dried strawberry leaves, lemon balm, and chamomile. It is hot, fragrant, and delicious. As we sip, the afternoon sun warms the whole room, giving the feeling of a golden cocoon in the midst of a particularly cold November day. Adso is with us, basking in a windowsill, and we are all practically purring with contentment. Then the sound of dried leaves crackling underfoot reaches our ears. We have visitors. Brianna and I sigh slightly but smile at each other. She opens the door while I take a honey cake from the cupboard.

It is Young Ian and Rachel. I smile warmly at them. Ian is dressed in particular native splendor today, owing to a visit from a group of prominent Mohawks passing through. His head is freshly plucked and spiked, with metal ornaments and turkey feathers hanging from the back. Over his pink calico shirt is a vest decorated with astonishing beadwork, and his buckskin trousers are fringed. Next to him Rachel’s Quaker attire is a contrast. She is in a gray wool dress with plain white cap and kerchief. As she enters the sunny room, she unwraps her shawl to reveal the newest Murray, snuggled in a sling against his mother.

Brianna closes the door behind them, then her face lights with a smile, “Why, you look like a Thanksgiving pageant!”

The couple look at each other in incomprehension. “A what, cuz?” Ian inquires.

“You know! When the Pilgrims and Indians ate together. At Plymouth? It was a long time ago…” Her voice becomes more hesitant as the faces of our guests remain blank.

I understand the difficulty. Thanksgiving isn’t celebrated now, even though the famous harvest meal happened more than one hundred years before. I’m struggling to salvage this time-travel faux pas when Jamie steps through the door leading to the front of the house. He bends to kiss my cheek then crosses to wiggle a finger at the newly freed baby. “And what’s that then?” he says, turning to Brianna. “Is thanksgiving not something you do, no a meal?”

“Well…” she hesitates, then boldly rushes on. “Where I grew up, in Boston, some people take a day near the end of November to give thanks for their blessings. They celebrate with a feast and invite close friends and family.”

“It sounds lovely,” Rachel says kindly, “though oughtn’t we to give thanks every day?”

“Of course,” Brianna agrees, ‘it’s just nice to take a special moment for it now and then.” She looks wistfully at me. “Right Mama?”

Suddenly I recall craft-paper feathers, Macy’s parade on the television, and the taste of a cranberry jello salad in perfect vividness. I move to stand by Brianna and take her arm, smiling softly in understanding. “Yes, darling. It is.”

Jamie looks at us and his own face grows tender. Rachel still looks confused, but Ian, who has been watching carefully exclaims, “Sounds like a fine idea! We should have our own thanks meal, aye?”

I look at Ian gratefully, thankful indeed for his enthusiastic spirit. I also see Jamie’s face. It is creasing slowly into a smile. “Aye. We should.”

Brianna’s hand tightens on my arm in excitement. “Great! We’ll have Thanksgiving on the Ridge!”

-o0OOO0o-

A few days later I pull Brianna’s turkey out of the oven and baste it well with drippings, butter, and thyme before pushing it back inside for another half hour. It is nearly time to eat and the bounty of the Ridge is spread throughout the kitchen. It will be a delicious meal (if I do say so myself). The smell is heaven, and by the discreet peeking and increasingly frequent visits of men and small children, they think so too.

Jamie and Brianna brought down this large tom the day before. Even with ten people there would be plenty to go around. I had also dug the last of the fresh vegetables and emptied the pantry. Fanny had spent the entire prior afternoon baking. It would be a feast indeed.

The table is set and festooned with colorful dried leaves and pinecones. Roger even wove a clever cornucopia from twigs and filled it with gourds. Perfect. The turkey has a chestnut mushroom stuffing. There are also yams and brussels sprouts and onion gravy, and (elegance indeed!) yeast dinner rolls rather than corn bread. Crocks of butter and honey and jam round out the meal. My mouth waters just setting it all out.

Soon everyone gathers and we ceremoniously present the pièce de résistance on a platter. Looking from face to face around our large farm table I see Fanny’s eyes widen and smile happily to myself. We are all here, Brianna, Roger, Jem, and Mandy. Germain and Fanny. Jenny and Ian and Rachel with the baby sleeping peacefully in a basket. Jamie takes my hand and gives it a squeeze, then leans over and whispers, “I often think your time strange, Sassenach, but this is fine, aye?” He kisses my lips softly.

The others, used to us, are chattering away. Jamie straightens, clears his throat and waits for quiet, then looks to the end of the table, saying formally, “Ieremiah, an toireadh tu taing?“

Jem, sensitive to the honor thus bestowed, sits up straight as an arrow, “Aye, sir.” He folds his hands before him and I am suddenly reminded of my first dinner at Leoch, when young Hamish said grace. Jem has the same red hair. I add Hamish to my prayers as we all bow our heads together.

“Dear Holy Father. Thank ye for the food before us. Thank ye for our family and friends. Bless us, O Lord, and help us to do good always. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”

“Amen,” the table echoes.

Jemmy peaks at his father, and at Roger’s nod of approval relaxes happily in his chair. Jamie carves and wafts of fragrant steam are released. The table makes noises of appreciation all around. We fill our plates and enjoy the meal.

“You know,” Roger says, buttering a roll. Since we are giving thanks today, maybe we should each say something we’re thankful for. I believe that’s something they do in Boston, aye Brianna?” He smiles at his wife and she nods.

“Oh yes, it’s a tradition.” When no one volunteers she goes on, and looking directly at Jamie and I, “I’m thankful to be home.” Brianna then turns to Mandy on her right. “And what about you sweetheart? What are you thankful for?”

Mandy turns up a honey-smeared face and smiles. “I thankful for Esmeralda!”

Everyone chuckles and Roger goes next. “I’m thankful for family, for my wife and bairns.”

Jem says, “I’m thankful for Grandda. And Grandma,” he adds hastily.

Germain is next. “I’m thankful for my friends.” He smiles at Fanny and Jem.

Fanny answers in a small voice, “I’m thankful to Mr. and Mrs. Fraser for keeping me.”

“Oh Fanny,” I say gently, “We want to.” She blinks quickly and gives a small smile and we continue.

Jenny, Ian, and Rachel take their turns.

“I’m thankful for our new wee bairn.”

“I’m thankful to have my mam here, and my wife.”

“I’m thankful for the peace we enjoy here.”

Jamie says simply, “I’m thankful for ye, Sassenach.”

I look around the table slowly and finally turn my face up to Jamie, the man who is my heart, “I’m thankful for each of us. For love and family. For every moment.”

“Amen,” he says, and kisses me.

-o0OOO0o-

Soon afterward the table is cleared, and dessert brought out. We have apple tansey, clootie dumpling, and for Brianna, pumpkin pie. There is also custard and sweet cream. I am just setting coffee to boil when a solid thump sounds on the front door. Everyone freezes in surprise for a heartbeat. Visitors are nearly unheard-of this time of year. Then, just as chaos breaks out, Jamie rises. He walks to the front of the house, myself close behind. He seems unhurried and calm, but I notice he carries the carving knife in his left hand.

Jamie opens the door, letting in a blast of frigid November air. What greets us looks like nothing so much as a bear covered in deer hide. Albeit a bear with merry blue eyes glinting above his beard.

“Myers!” Jamie greets the mountain man warmly, discreetly passing the knife to me. I stash it in my deep pocket. “Welcome! What brings ye here so late in the year?”

The bristles part with Myers’ grin. “Well, I’ll tell ‘ee sir. I’ve come wi’ company. Found ‘im near frozen on his way up from Cross Creek.” He steps aside to reveal a second figure in the dooryard, just as tall, but more solidly built.

Peering around Jamie’s shoulder my mouth falls open in shock. The last person I ever expected to see on the Ridge is the Ninth Earl of Ellesmere.

For once I recover more quickly than Jamie, and step around my husband. “William!” I say in sincere pleasure.

The young man looks up a bit uncertainly, then seeing my happiness recovers himself. “Mother Claire.” He might have said more but is prevented by a blur of yellow homespun that comes hurtling through the door and crashes into his middle. William teeters precariously at the impact before coming solidly back to his feet, Frances Pocock clinging to him in perfect imitation of a baby opossum on its mother’s back.

“William! Oh William! I thought I might never th-, see you again!”

William gingerly pats the capped head. “It’s good to see you again too, Fanny.” He smiles gently down, a slight shadow passing briefly in the depths of his slanted eyes. He gently disentangled Fanny and turns to Jamie. “I hope our arrival isn’t a cause of inconvenience to you sir. I…”

Seeing him hesitate I break in as politely as I can. “Of course not! You are both most welcome! Come in and warm up. We are just about to have dessert.”

I usher the newcomers and the gaping crowd back into the kitchen. In a few moments of flurried activity William and John Quincey are greeted by all and settled at the table, the children relocated to stools.

“We had a fine harvest this year so we’re having a wee meal to celebrate and give thanks for it,” Jamie explains, smiling.

“Judging from this bounty, indeed you have!” Myers exclaims as he unabashedly fills his plate with apple tansey, sweet cream, and one of the remaining rolls covered in honey and jam. Jem and Germain looking on in fascination.

I pour him coffee, hiding a smile. “We’re pleased to share it with you.”

William eats more sedately, but with evident pleasure. Watching him, Fanny on one side and Brianna on the other, I wonder suddenly why he has come. Then I look at Jamie. He is watching the boy as well, and though his face is expressionless, to me his eyes reveal the joy he takes in the sight. No. The reason doesn’t matter. I slide my arm around Jamie’s and lean against him, expressing without words my own joy in his happiness.

#outlander #heart's abundance #Thanksgiving

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bikeforlife · 4 years ago

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Bike Tour Blog

I honestly can’t believe I made it from the Pacific to Atlantic. This morning I woke up in my own bed for the first time since early February. Oh my god it felt so good. If a mattress maker wanted a testimonial, today would definitely be the day to get one from me. After 45 days straight of being on a bike it feels really good to be home.

On the first week we made from San Diego to Tucson Arizona. This section had some significant climbs through places like Alpine CA and Pine Valley CA and lots of desert riding in eastern tip of California and the state of Arizona. We camped in San Dunes CA where ATV’s are very popular and in places like desert view towers that had insane views of the Ko-Pah mountains. We also slept in a town park in small town in Arizona called Welton. I did snap my chain in Pine Valley but Tone was right there to help out. It was also the first time I rode my bike on the interstate and the first time I ever had rode a bike 10 miles straight downhill from the Ko Pah Mountains to Ocatillo California.

The next few week would take us through New Mexico and the beginning of Texas. The highlight of this section was the climb through the Gila National Forest on our way to Emory Pass. This section had absolutely breathtaking views and an abundance of nature. We climbed to over 8200 feet of elevation at the peak and went through awesome towns like Silver City NM and Hillsboro, NM. A couple days later we crossed the border into Texas at El Paso. This mammoth state would be approximately 1/3rd of the total miles we would cover. Many parts of the Us but especially Texas had recently experience significant weather event with snow, freezing conditions, and a failure of the local power grid. Fortunately we got to the state about a week after the weather had passed.

In Eastern Texas a significant portion of our miles would be on US highway 90. This would feature some awesome small towns like Marathon and Sierra Blanca Texas. The route also had remote areas of riding where there wouldn’t even be a gas station for 80+ miles. I found myself having more to think and unwind than at any part of my adult life. It was also during this stretch that we stayed at some great state parks. Seminole Canyon State Park and Lost Maples State Park in particular stood out to me. There is something magical about looking at the stars on a clear night without light pollution.

Eventually we went through Austin, Texas and I got to reconnect with my friends Jason and Max. After so much time pedaling through remote areas it feels really good to see friends and be in a city. Austin as a city has grown so much since I was there last. I ate great food during our off day and found an amazing bike mechanic that help me resolve a derailleur issue that had been lingering since San Diego.

We would hit a few more state parks on the eastern half of Texas and eventually crossed into Louisiana. After being in a very dry part of Texas the swamps of Louisiana offered a very different riding experience. For the most part the terrain was flat and the roads were in good condition. This part of the tour was special to me because of the amazing friends we made. During one week we stayed with Mandy in Deritter, LA and Perry in Jackson, LA. These amazing people took us into their homes and did everything they could to be helpful and make us feel at home. We were able to take a day off in New Orleans which was awesome. My friend Chris and his friend Bobby came down from from Jackson Miss and we all got a chance to hang. It was great to see Chris again after almost a decade of not seeing him. Hopefully I’ll make it to Mississippi at some point

The final stretch would have us riding through Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia and Florida. During this time we met even more incredible hosts. Kellie/Mason in Bay Saint Louis and Dave/Stacy in Bagdad, Fl were both incredibly kind and generous. Thank you for everything. The ride took us through places like Dalphin Island, Alabama. I never knew there were islands in Alabama . They are absolutely gorgeous.

We stayed in a couple more awesome state parks in this stretch. In Bainbridge Georgia we stayed in the east bank campground operated by the army core of engineers. They gave us a site right by the water and it was a pretty magical experience. The final section of the tour featured a massive uptick in the number of bugs in these parks. I found that during camping were almost always under attack from mosquitoes or being visited by either argentine ants, caterpillars , or bees. Bug spray can help but sometimes you just have to cover every single bit of skin on your body.

During the final day push to the ocean Tone and I split up. The original route that we were using had us going through Jacksonville to Saint Augustine Florida. He wanted to stick to the route while I made a decision to go directly to Jacksonville which was more direct to the Atlantic Ocean. For me the final day was filled with a range of emotions and thoughts. Admittedly even 10 years later I still have some anxiety of my past medical condition. As i’m riding i’m feeling a huge sense of accomplishment and simultaneous release of anxiety/stress. To be able to survive a full coast to coast tour of the United States on a bike is the kind of proof that the only limitations are the ones I place on myself. I think about my life with Riana over the past 10 years and how fortunate we’ve been to be able to experience living in larger cities, traveling abroad, and getting to start our own business.

I think about how grateful I am to Tony for doing this tour with me. I’ve known him for 15 years and he’s always pushed me to do things outside my comfort zone. From helping me get first passport stamp, to hosting great events, to now riding through the US on a bike. Particularly on this tour he went above and beyond. He help me with mechanical issues which i’m not particularly good at, he lead our route navigation almost every day, he found places for us to stay, and helped lead us through all kinds of unique day to day challenges.

My tour came to a strange end. I was on my way to stay at my friends Stephanie’s house in jacksonville when I stopped at a convenience store. When I came out my bike and all of my gear was stolen. This included my passport, clothes, tent, sleeping bag, paneers, bike tools, food, journal, and more. I tried my best to look through the neighborhood and called the police but no luck in recovering any of it. As unfortunate as this situation is, I'm grateful it happened on the final day of the tour just a couple of miles from my friends house. I won’t let that person take away my memories and diminish the experience. They are worth infinitely more than the material value of the bike and my belongings.

As i’ve had a couple of days to relax before going back to work i’ve been reflecting on the experience more. I absolutely would recommend doing something like this to anyone I know for a few reasons. It’s a great way to decompress. You have time to actively think and it helps your focus significantly. The riding is tough but manageable. I only rode my bike on a couple training rides beforehand. I was also asked a ton of questions from people about my experience. So I wanted to answer them one by one below.

What did you eat?

Being a vegan on a bike tour has its challenges. I ate a lot of clif bars, peanut butter banana burritos, trail mix, , Fritos chips, subway Veggie Delights without cheese and Impossible burgers from Burger Kings. Honestly a lot of days on tour it was challenging to find vegan friendly dishes. Thankfully our hosts made some really nice home cooked vegan meals and every large city we visited had great vegan options.

Where did you sleep?

It was a mix of hotels, backyards , rv parks, state parks, town parks , and then random wild camping. On nights where it was too cold to camp we opted for hotel most of the time.

What gear did you have? This was my packing list before the bike was stolen.

Tools Bag

Park tool Allen key Hand pump Kevlar spoke Back up derailleur Baby wipes Chain scrubber Degreaser Spare tube x2 3 tire lever adjustable wrench Poncho Hand warmer Head lamp

Food Bag Varies but generally 3 portable camp meals Clif bars

Back paneer 1

Extra water plastic jug - Nalgene Sleeping bag (40 degrees) Sleeping bag liner. (10-15 degree etc) Micro fiber Towel Waterproof socks Large winter gloves Small gloves Zip ties

Back paneer 2 Short tech shirts (red and green) Socks (long wool, short cotton Medium wool Blue t shirt

-Toiletries bag

Deodorant dr Bonner liquid and bar soap, bug spray toothbrush toothpaste back up Masks Hand sanitizer

Electronics bag Solar charger Headphone and charger Cell charger Extra water container - 3 liter emergency

Duffle Sleeping pad Wind pants Under armour Long sleeve shirts (grey , black , blue yellow winter Jacket

What was the hardest part? I suspect every single rider will have a different answer to this . For me there were two things that probably equally as challenging. First and foremost there are large portions where people are not wearing masks. It was very demoralizing to be in situations constantly where people have made a conscious decision to disregard the health of others. Since the services were so spread out I found myself having to get food from places that have anti mask propaganda on their front door.

Secondly this tour really taught me that I am more comfortable in cities and around people. It was charming to spend days riding our bikes through farm country in remote roads but eventually it began to wear on me and I found myself crave cities. Also in cities the percentage of people wearing masks shot up significantly.

What was your favorite small town?

I really enjoyed Silver City New Mexico. It was a quirky mountain with good architecture and really nice people. There was also a very helpful bike shop, great co-op, nice motel, and the town was filled with cool art.

What was the weather like?

For the most part we had good weather. I would say were typically 50-60’s during the day on the first half but colder at night. We were able to avoid some of the extreme weather that hit Texas but still found ourselves that was a little too cold to camp in. Most of the biggest issue that would we would face would be consistent headwinds. After a first week full of tailwinds the rest of the tour would almost always deal us 10-25 mph headwinds.

How many issues did you have with your bike?

There are always some day to day issues but the most common were flat tires ( I think i had 5 throughout the trip), My front derailleur was a consistent issue. The fenders on the bike were kind of a pain. However for an old 80’s bike with an older drive train it held up pretty well. I would recommend to anyone thinking about touring to consider customizing their bike to their own needs as opposed to buying a brand new touring bike. There will always be maintenance.

How did your body hold up?

For the most part I wasn’t in a lot of pain on this tour. Everyone’s body is different. I found that if I got a majority of my miles during the morning I would do much better. However on days where we were riding until close to sun down i found myself in a lot of pain near the end of the day. Most commonly knees, butt, lower back, quads. Occasionally my hands would be numb on long riding days.

How long did it take?

45 days coast to coast. During that period we took 3 full days off and had a number of short days (30-40 miles). I’m told that this was a very quick trip as many folks take between 60-70 days to complete this route.

What would you recommend to someone doing this?

There are a million things but i’ll try to summarize here.

If you’re touring with other people try to have honest conversations in advance about things like how many miles you want to shoot for a day. How early in the morning do you want to start pedaling. Where you are you comfortable staying. What kind of timeline you’re under with work? What food you’re comfortable sharing. If you’re comfortable deviating off the route to save miles/time. Ultimately the more you and your riding partners discuss this in advance the less confusion you’ll have day to day.

With your work I would communicate to co-workers honestly how involved you want to be while away. Some have traditional jobs that allow them to totally leave work and decompress. In my case as an entrepreneur I found myself involved on almost daily basis with work. For me that was comfortable but for others it might take away from their experience.

I would also make sure that you have a good instinct for eating food even when you’re not hungry. I had to learn this throughout the tour as my food options were limited with a vegan diet.

I would recommend that you try to do some level of training in advance. On my first bike tour I did almost no training and I was in pain almost right away. On this one I did some cross training and some scheduled rides. It made all of the difference in the world as far as my day pain levels.

Would you do it again?

I don’t personally know if I would do a tour of this length again. While I enjoyed the experience and the bucket list aspect of it I found myself going through the motions on a lot of days. I think I would enjoy much more doing a tour of a 7-14 days. Possibly if I’m ever retired I may feel differently but the looming pressure of my career was a bit hard to get through mentally.

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