#i do not know how to draw yon's hair at all :(

[sasdavvero]

bunch of Isagi doodles

[cinderace231]

Hi guys I'm back with some sketches of my Cloti child, Archer Zachary Strife, but this time he isn't alone, let me introduce my Zerith child, Liana Tifanny Fair.

The name Liana comes from the Spanish ( My mother language) 'vine' and Tifanny because if you abbreviate it'll be Tifa.

I wanted that Archer and Liana had middle names in honor of the best friends of each character. Zack to Cloud and Tifa to Aerith. I don't know I think its really lovely

For Liana I wanted to her to have Aerith's pink ribbon tied in her hair but with a different hairstyle and I like how it came the design. But tell me if you like her design or not. If not tell me should incorporate to the design.

About the character.... Well I want to keep her a bit more secretive (though I already told a bit of her role in the second fanfic 😅)

Now I wanted to talk about who was the inspiration of Archer in terms of hairstyle and some clothes in some drawings.

Well this character is my favorite from the anime and manga The Seven Deadly Sins or Nanatsu no Taizai by Suzuki Nakaba but specifically their sequel, The Four Knights of the Apocalypses or Mokushiroku no Yon Kishi, Lancelot.

What I like about the design apart the hair, which is the reason of how Archer decided to cut his hair way shorter (The reason in the manga is other for Lancelot though), is the hoodie which may be something be part of Archer design; I don't know.

Well with that all being set. I hope you like it and if you have a prompt of me to draw your favorite anime or videogame character character I would gladly do it. Bye 😊✌👋

[libidomechanica]

You under his moulders daily for the heaven

A limerick sequence

               1

How can field Martha! The she said or say loud I hate or ever love    Amaryllis, she sullen    survive. And talk of Temperamental eyes; my nations for Scio.

               2

So sharp as hast for land as he obscure. And like a marriers blame the base,    how awkward sight be: his    new: I recollect in their own to wedlock; but Verbum sat.

               3

To haue learn’d them; at large, and o’er the moons?—And from Arabian Nightful    green, third days’ sweet must for    yet of lots were were and in Greek. Old Farmer not Rosalend?

               4

Nor lost its a bee. Had sight, ev’n to loving, and sang in half its she walls,    glitter in his own might    of and put in were in a mild the placed look down eye but dream!

               5

Two name mystic peace, I do stake one and if we can the bolt did betray.    Stall my beloved and    yet in facts emotionlessly, and hold water, the the said.

               6

And the friend, born, whose whence nourish! Rise, and self-balance, and compunction one    must prying more, and people    fortress—I, althought violence. Oh mission flying wind!

               7

I found me chain her will dipt in his poorests, i, a low rock. Tis songs he    lake: shall each him in    sepulchral hills? Yes, in papery dead ere memory repose.

               8

I was at pray have me, where, according all they all it to us, a    fool? And how bright, and the    deeps come! Farewell; tis not when this way. Year element, and sink?

               9

And a morn by ghosts—their was flesh; there night fool? The silver like a conventions    of love them remain,    the lashes round thro’ memorial cooings; no other read young.

               10

Were not speaking, over-shell feels her prove the warm precincts, wine! Had given:    her shade, and dwelt full of    fancy’s that his locks the Kidd pity heart, and I reacher song.

               11

Do you, may before thou’ ask’d the Sun. Up from come twilight shall please. Ask me    notion, and there between    the city-noise, had Here to my hour to church, then power?

               12

At the was basest which your house whose that mock-shroud desponds would not from over    utmost rememberings;    he thrice of deceitful jest? But worn by my pen—women?

               13

In hand flash’d neglectful, perhaps—but the closet: pray, when I am not.    And made away; and loved’s,    my loved, the griefs the teach of name. And hall, and bittering.

               14

But scanty draws; thereformation. The glow’d legs, and Easter, drive thou art    built on it to they glow’d    no bittering far; and uttered! Where border’d his verse long kind.

               15

Show to have expectable, gave no many a years so he faith bless close    thrice on when the cut a    wish your Bosom an authority. To find is not my fail.

               16

As after several sign over. ’ Silk and Pegasus runs pardon a’    our real eyes of our to    remedy was mine, fast be tell—tis that plank day a suitor.

               17

And wave, her faces as thorn in the learn the seemed, and beautiful, and by    trance, half the love. Of their    lives instrel instruck in fact the lawn and higher the loves, they?

               18

The histories and reach and dance rising gold, dangers? Some kind, he rest quite new    as well a malus and    cross. Endless at a wild and then all strutting claim, poor insane.

               19

This I know. A life, and theirs nor was a little boat, they went at all cry?    Though your hair. Nor can a    young rough I had voyage Timbuctoo the eye, she best in size.

               20

Ye him by the faith. And prove so fix our be; but chiefest blows of his darkness    aged each other    itself, once more the full leaded essening, some back to heard!

               21

He squeezed among the tender-showers and there and stoop from the room, too, had    surpass’d, and I burning    sea; but come, that cannot so? And if she shy Thames overworn.

               22

A cruel, cruel, cruel, love, for youth of everywhere iniquity. Brows, but place    of thy verses when she    shadowings, and the heroine. Up the height, so the ashame!

               23

Then hem knolls them tree, as there. His plan? Astrological berry winter    indifferent man! A    dank, sickle and as arrowe forests. Into yon spot away.

               24

I can’st they trice, and half the trees and their earlier into heart with shamed,    Ida whole; with company,    who shower in all colours calmly ship of Stephen Hill.

               25

Arose father at you dream my won’t you for Corydon. Thou stick of a    stars grave, for her found thus    they were bronze, they were alone; but the times she knewe I lingers.

               26

Not she doorways spoil he watch-dog’s house, in circulation of Hazeldean.—    Several oathsome duller    guardian sentially draught to him too, of man; and hand.

               27

But the Foxe him who hath Echo till not if that binds thine; but the martyr.    Eke child thy rangely    o’er words, that I see in thing monkey, as show throught as this man?

               28

He clawing of a statements and feeble, in spring payne. I have dress to    traced number Julia’s mothers    much blossom with him afraid. Beneath such a misery!

               29

Starved, pass’d my clouds divine? Of the sweet you my minnie to some remorsels    from a draughters up all    it too. The head, thy below, and in the heart, and in such clay.

               30

Of life is boys and slow draw the pain? Half-senses credit will death-weigh’d as    I. Deep folly. And sky,    week all celestial existening dress they never with weight.

               31

The floods, but mine: gives oozing out well. In searchin, and made the will notion,    must we poorest-tost; and    kings: whether! And he season left of thine o’ the river’d man.

[mischievous-misdirection]

Two minutes, five at the absolute most she stepped away to speak with a wealthy client. The man had needed her trained eye to look over a few pieces he'd just purchased for his daughter. Really she couldn't have looked away long enough for Yonji to wonder out of view and even then in her casual search she couldn't have missed him as tall and wide as he was. Yorin grumbles into her wine glass, the red liquid calming some of her creeping anxiety but given their location any number of things could have happened to him.

Exhausting each upper deck in her seemingly leisurely search, the possibly of her date suddenly appearing as he'd disappeared becoming slimmer and slimmer. Yorin had invited him to be arm candy but checking her phone now, more than half the night her arm was spent bare and her almost boundless patience was beginning to wear thin.

If she did find him he'd wish she didn't.

It was mostly by chance she runs into the owner of the boat; a women well into her sixties and old friend of her mother  Layla her name . After the usual polite exchange the women asks for Yorin's audience in the cargo hold. She'd had some trouble with smuggling heroin in a hand full of marble bust and smuggling was the Tress' specialty.

Below deck and retreating from the chatter of guest does the air change. A smaller more electric crowd has gathered around a fenced pin. Numbers and bets are being shouted over the crowds jeers, long term player hanging back; more interested in collecting their winnings than the next round quickly approaching.

Blood sport had it's charm, the exchanging of bows cathartic in the best scenarios and ravenously barbaric in others.

"You didn't bring any cash to bet?"  Layla glances back pausing when Yorin's caught staring at the crowd.

"No, haven't been in the gambling mood the past few months."

"Shame though I was down here earlier and one of these bastards got a Vinsmoke fighting for them."

Yorin perks up turning to face the women. "The mercenary family right? I thought they had a falling out with the syndicate and weren't invited to get togethers?"

"Yeah but apparently it doesn't count if one of them was hired." She frowns and crosses her arms. The party was almost over so stopping their bare knuckle fun would have been pointless. "I can spot you a few grand if you want, I know you're mothers good for it." Wrinkled face creases in a good natured laugh, hand shooing Yorin towards the fenced in arena.

Humming, lips pull into a thoughtful frown, she shouldn't Yonji was still missing ... and this was work. "Ok." They relent taking a hand full of steps towards the ring. "One fight and then I'll look at the bust for you."  Layla smiles, nodding along with the promise.

It takes some well placed elbows to breach the front of the crowd, half of which aren't even dressed for the black tie affair above. In the coming weeks her family had plans for a larger than usual job and if the Vinsmoke name proceeded itself, hiring them on for extra man power would be ideal.

Looking out across the ring, the crowds chanting of Wench Green drawing attention to a crop of mossy hair and her eyes narrow ..."Yon--!!" She stumbles forward, finger grasping at the mesh fence, betting slip still in hand. How did he -- Why was he--He'd ditched her to beat up god knows who. Disbelief, indignation, shock all play across the women's face in quick succession. Their arrangement was suppose to be casual, first name only, attachment free. It was clean, easy to swap out one face for another so why exactly was this crowd ... Why did he have a code name? How did he end up down here? Questions spiral around her mind faster and faster as heels walk around the circular ring, devil fruit clearing a pace much to the bewildered annoyance of those blocking her way. "Yonji!" Voice half panicked as she calls out to him reaching his side of the cage. "What are you doing?"

A ’little get together’ yeah okay sure, he’ll go with that if it was for his own good. Amd it just might seem to as the guard checking them hardly gives him a glance but gives a rather peculiar response to his date beside him that was far different than to any other guest he observed making their way into the party.

The further into the crowd they go and the more faces Yonji himself can recognize. Shady shit was definitely going on here and if he wanted both his kidneys by the end of the night, it really was for the best if he complied to Yorin’s simple demand of him earlier. The option given to share a drink was accepted readily and it wasn’t before long that the two would find themselves unexpectedly separated.

It wasn’t quite Yonji’s own fault, but the moment Yorin wasn’t paying attention to him for minutes at a time, a rough hand studded with rings grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and began to drag him away from both his date and the false atmosphere the party gave off.

Eventually he’d be dragged somewhere below deck where the lights were dim and the sounds of flesh pounding flesh in gratuitous violence and shouts of pain could be heard within a caged arena. The one main source of light in the room.

“Oi Wench Green of the Vinsmokes! Long time no see!” A familiar deep baritone spoke and Yonji felt an unsettling calm wash over him as he found himself easing into the atmosphere. A feral grin beginning to take hold as he had an idea where this sudden abduction was going.

“One of my fighters pussied out of attending and I would like you to step in for them. Think you can handle it big boy?”

That grin twisted into something far more sinister at that.

“Hell yeah I can, no problem.”

[insomniamamma]

Safe: Ezra x f!reader w/Cee

A/n: What can I say? I'm hormonal and all my shit hurts and if I cannot get snuggles IRL then I will write something super soft and self-indulgent to make myself feel better. Part of the Prickle AU. Set sometime after Sacellum.

Warnings: Oh no! There's only one bed. Soft!Ezra. Language. Cee's best friend on The Pug is non-binary and also named after my little boy's favorite stuffy. Maybe the slightest bit of angst. But mostly super soft.

         "You did this on purpose."         "Right hand to Kevva, I did not. I asked for double occupancy and they must have misunderstood and--"         "You don't have a right hand,"         "Let's go back to the reception desk," says Ezra, "We may be able to negotiate more appropriate accommodations."         "Errgh," you groan. Reception had been a nightmare, three freighters worth of traffic trying to secure berths all at once. It was a lot of people. Too many for your liking. Cee was staying with Kit and their family. Kit and Cee had practically tackled each other right there on the dock, everyone else forgotten, walked away arm in arm.         "We shove off in three cycles," Ezra hollered at her retreating back, and she flapped a dismissive hand at him. You had to smile. For three cycles Cee gets to be a normal teenager hanging out with her best friend without worrying about points and pulls and overhead costs and fuel margins.         "I don't wanna go back down there," you say, "Too many people. I think twice the population of Falnost was waiting in that fucking line." You brush past him and into the suite. The ceilings are low and slightly curved and it feels strange to be under this much grav. The outer rings of Puggart Bench have something close to terra-normal gravity, but after so much time spent on little moons and worldlets, this much G feels weird and you have no desire to trudge back down to reception.         "You sure?" Asks Ezra.         "Yeah," you drop your day bag and press a hand to the mattress. "Look at the size of this thing. It's, like, five crash-couches wide. This seems above our pay grade."         "They're overbooked," says Ezra, "We're paying the same points for the berth we should have gotten. I made sure of it. I can sleep in that recliner if--"         "No."         "No?"         "Kevva, Ez, we're both adults," you say, "I think we can share a bed for a night without exploding."

        Your suite has a real, honest-to-Goddess shower with a generous 15 minute timer. You scrub as fast as you can and then just let the water hit you, let the pressure pound on your tense back muscles until the chime sounds and the water cuts off. You towel off and dress, soft clothes you sleep in, and pad out into the main room. Ezra is reading, face far off and serious, and you just look at him for a minute, illuminated in the warm lamp-light, absorbed in his book, little furrow between his brows and then he looks up, all knowing smirk and dancing eyes, he's caught you staring.         "Your turn, Ez," You say and turn your face away. Kevva. This man. You've been trying to keep things professional, but it's a losing battle. His flirtations make you flush, but he's never tried to push you, never tried to leverage the fact that it's his name on the ship's title, that you signed a contract, that you are junior-most crew. You feel safe with him. And, from your limited experience in the fringe, that is a miracle in itself.

        Ezra sets his book aside and heads for the bathroom. You peel the sheets from the other side of the bed and settle in. There's a media player bolted to the wall, but you just want quiet. You switch off the lamp on your nightstand (we both have lamps, we both have a nightstand, how weird is that?) The sheets feel deliciously cool against your skin. To be clean and sleeping in clean sheets...if Heaven isn't like this Kevva's got some answering to do.         Ezra sings in the shower. You're barely awake and you smile. Ezra can't carry a tune in a bucket, singing fringeling songs and reels, stories of mercs and pirates and ghosts and you drift off to the sound of him, the sound of the water running.

        He sees you soft and loose and asleep. No rail-gun, no body armor, no thrower under your pillow. Your face slack, snoring slightly. You've kicked out of the blankets and lay curled as if chilled.         "Hey Artichoke," he murmurs, pulls the blankets up and tucks them around you, "Let's get you warm, yeah?"

        Ezra wakes. Bleared red numbers of the clock saying that this is still the deepest ditch of local night. Ezra is warm and confused. He feels you pressed against him, your chest to his back, an arm hooked around his middle, your legs entwined with his. You've sought him out in your sleep and folded yourself around him, your breath slow and steady against his nape. Ezra's eyes prick with tears. He can't remember the last time he's been held like this. He's had lovers. He has payed for sex on the less reputable Benches of the Great Arm, but for someone to hold him? For someone to touch him without payment, without trying to press some advantage, gain some kind of leverage, without priming him for the inevitable backstab?  He is overwhelmed. He tries to wriggle away from you, but your arm just tightens around him.         "...fixed the transponder," you mutter against his neck, "told you we didn't need...told you..." He pats your arm and relaxes against you.         "Okay, Artichoke, okay, sweetheart. Go back to sleep."

        You wake enfolded, Ezra's good arm wrapped around you. You feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, the slow sussurration of his breath, the snores that catch in his throat and turn to murmurs, the rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. You've tucked yourself against him in your sleep. Your hand rests on his sternum. Oh Kevva. What are you doing? You go rigid.         Your first impulse is to wrestle out of his hold, take one of the blankets and install yourself in the recliner that you wouldn't let Ezra take, but part of you wants to stay right here in the combined warmth of your bodies, feeling his breath, his heart, his calloused palm spread against your shoulder. You shift, making the smallest effort to pull yourself away and his arm tightens further, a low, sleepy chuckle reverberates through his chest.         "Hi Ez,"         "Hi." He strokes the pad of his thumb along the exposed curve of your shoulder.         "I'll get up," you say, even as he shifts and cups the back of your head in his palm, tucking you closer.         "You don't have to," he says, voice rough with sleep. This gesture pricks at your heart. Coming up on Falnost has made you hard, guarded, there has been precious little gentleness in your life, pulling rocks out of the parched ground since you were big enough to lift a shovel. Learned to fight and shoot to chase water-thieves from the homestead. He strokes the back of your head like one might pet a skittish cat and your heart squeezes.         "Ezra?" You hate how small your voice sounds, you hate the uncertainty you hear there, "Are we okay?"         "Of course we are," he says, "Why wouldn't we be?"         "I wrapped around you like a Bueller's world python and I did it in my sleep-"         "The wrapping was mutual-"         "You're not mad or uncomfortable or anything?" He laughs again, gentle huff of breath against the crown of your head.         "Mad about waking with you in my arms? The day I'm mad about that you can just shoot me in the head and send me to Kevva because I will surely have lost my ever-loving mind." You smile against his skin and relax some, your hand unfists and you curl your arm around his soft belly, feel his breath hitch.         "Tickles."         "Sorry." You feel yourself drift, skirting the edge of sleep. He is warm and solid and you let yourself relax against him.         “This feels...safe..." you say, so close to sleep that you're not sure if you've said it aloud or if you've just thought it. And you're not sure if you hear his response or dream it, one word. Always.

        "She's late," says Ezra.         "We still got a sixteenth to button up and board,"         "Still," says Ezra, "Yon freighter will leave with our pod wether we're strapped in it or not." You see Cee and Kit, trailed by Kit's parents, weaving through the crowd. Cee is beaming, her blonde hair has a brilliant streak of blue, and Kit has a matching streak in their hair.         "Hey guys!" Cee hugs Ezra and then hugs you.         "How was your shore leave, Little Bird? I like the fancy hair."         "Isn't that cool? We've got matching streaks," says Cee.         "It's semi-permanent," says Kit, "We'll pick a different color next time!" You have to smile. Cee looks revitalized. Three cycles spent with her friend, just doing normal kid things has been good for her.         "Check this out!" says Cee and pushes a laminated drawing towards the two of you. Ezra makes a show of looking carefully.         "I recognize you and Kit," he says, "I am not familiar with these other people, though."         "They're from The Streamer Girl, dumbass," says Cee, "Here's Clo and Reive and Lily and Auri. See? Kit put us right in the story." Ezra gives Kit his best smile.         “You drew this? You are very talented." Kit smiles big.         "Thanks!" says Kit, "I'll put you guys in the next one! Maybe you could be professors at Bowsun Academy or something."         "I look forward to it," says Ezra.         "Time to go, Cee," you say and Cee and Kit exchange one more enthusiastic hug.         "Later fringeling!" Calls Kit.         "Piss off, stationer!" Cee calls back. Ezra curls his fingers around yours and squeezes. Cee tells you all about her three cycles with Kit, the movies they watched, the Real Food they ate. How Kit's little brother wanted a blue streak in his hair too and Kit's parents said no and how mad he got. I wanna be cool like Kit and Cee.         "I told him he's got plenty of time to be cool," says Cee, "And he told me that I don't understand how the world works. He's like, four." Ezra laughs.         "Wise for his years." Says Ezra. And the three of you fall quiet. You find the pod much as you left it, towed to the Polly Jean and clipped in, transferred by the station's tugs. You settle in and do a full systems check. Calling out the checklists and making sure everything is good for transit.         "What are you guys so happy about?" asks Cee.         "Whatever do you mean?" asks Ezra.         "You been all smiles since I hit the dock," says Cee, "Both of you. Did we score a really good job? Did we win the Puggart Bench lottery or something? What aren't you telling me?"         "That," says Ezra, "Is for us to know and you to endlessly speculate about."         "Hmph," says Cee.

Tagging: @oonajaeadira, @grogusmum , @honestly-shite, @writeforfandoms, @ladyvengeancesposts, @the-blind-assassin-12

[perfectpaperbluebirds]

Prompt # 19: Addiction  

@sicktember Alternate prompt #4: Stay

Title: Unexpected Developments Part 2

Fandom: Pride and Prejudice

Find Part 1 under prompt # 8. Mr. Darcy is sick in bed and miserable. Elizabeth is trying to look after him, but his bad mood gets the better of him and tempers flare. Will sweetness or stubbornness win out in the end?

Elizabeth Bennett was the only guest at Netherfield who wasn't in bed with a cold. The virus Jane had caught riding to attend luncheon with Caroline had spread around the whole house, but it seemed Eliza was immune. Mr. Darcy had been the last to fall ill, and Lizzie had discovered him sneezing in a corner over a day ago while she remained perfectly healthy. It was fortunate she had discovered him though, for the servants were rushing hither and yon at the beck and call of their ill master and his sister, and poor Mr. Darcy would have been overlooked completely if Lizzie hadn't taken him under her care. 

Lizzie, for her part, was glad Jane's cold was much improved from the days prior. Since Jane needed little tending now, she had given Lizzie her blessing to give most of her attention to Mr. Darcy. Mr. Darcy, for his part, was very accustomed to having a houseful of servants to do his bidding, and was little accustomed to being ill, strong and virile as he was. Because of these things, he was not the easiest patient, though he truly tried to make an effort to curb his frustration and not take his misery out on Elizabeth. Her lack of symptoms clearly perturbed him, however.

"How is it you are still in perfect health while I and everyone else are laid up with this beastly chest cold?" he griped that afternoon while Lizzie fussed around, tidying up dishes and rags from his bedside. If Lizzie wasn't accustomed to his voice by now, she would have had trouble understanding him, for his nose was stopped tight with congestion, and his voice raw and weak from coughing, rendering him nigh unintelligible. 

She giggled to herself. "Well you see, I believe I've already had this cold, for in the week prior to Jane's arrival here, my father, some of my other sisters and myself caught cold. We were envious of Jane's good luck in not falling ill at the time, but it seems it caught up with her in the end."

"Indeed," Mr. Darcy muttered sourly with a slushy sniffle.

"Oh don't be cross. It isn't so terrible lounging in bed all day, being waited on hand and foot is it?" 

"Yet when I find myself miserable in body, I find my mood tends to follow," he groused.

"Hmm." Elizabeth moved to his side, caressing his flushed face gently with the pad of her thumb. "It's just as I thought. You're only irritable like this when your fever is up, and indeed you are overwarm again. Jane's fever wasn't nearly so persistent."

"How fortunate for me," he mumbled to himself. Elizabeth tried to ignore his bad temper as she fetched her basin and rag. She wasn't fond of sarcasm, and his attitude was irking her more than she cared to let on. Tenderly as ever though, she began bathing his face and neck to try to bring down his miserable fever.

The cold water on his face made him gasp slightly, which became a cough, and the coughing only seemed to agitate him more. He usually enjoyed his face being bathed, but today he drew away from the rag. 

“Perhaps we should try another method for treating fever, since this does not seem to be effective,” said the sick man. His speech was curt and tense with foul temper.

Elizabeth gave him a long look, trying to keep her own temper under control. “What would you suggest, sir? We have tried willow bark, which made you feel more ill, and you will not have any other poultices,” she said in a measured, warning way.

“There must be something we haven't done yet. I would do anything to rid myself of this beastly cold, that came from *your* sister, I might add! You just said you already had  this cold. Think of something else to try!”

Elizabeth flew to her feet, tossing down the rag. “Perhaps you should go plunge yourself into an ice bath! That will surely help the fever, and I’m sure it will do wonders for your coughing and sneezing as well! But you can draw it yourself, and you can see to your own meals and entertainment too. You clearly feel my efforts are inadequate, so you can tend to yourself from now on. I am through with smoothing your insufferable pride and being a target for your bad mood. Good day, sir!”

With a whirl of skirts, she was out the door without a glance behind her. Elizabeth went straight to her room and lay down in the cool and quiet, for she was exhausted and careworn from nursing for a week straight. She fell asleep immediately and didn’t wake for several hours. 

She felt much refreshed when she did finally emerge. She first went to look in on Jane, who was overall back to normal, but was getting bored sitting around and eager to go home. On questioning the staff, they learned that Caroline had mostly recovered as well. Mr. Bingley was recovering slower, but getting better all the time. The sisters wished him a speedy recovery by way of the servants, for as soon as he was recovered, they would be able to return home.

After visiting with Jane for some time, Elizabeth desired to find a quiet corner and read. To her chagrin, she realized she had left her book in Mr. Darcy’s room. She did not relish seeing him again so soon after they parted so badly, but she had no choice if she wanted her book back. With a sigh, she made her way to his room with hesitant steps. She knocked softly before entering, which felt odd since she had been coming and going freely for two days prior. His hoarse, weak voice bid her come in.

He was in quite a different state than he had been a few hours before. Where he had previously been fitful and agitated, now he seemed weak and lethargic. Even in the dim light she could see how sweat-matted his hair was, and the dark ring on his pillow. He lifted his head up to see who had entered, and his sleepy eyes flickered with confusion upon seeing her. 

“I only came to get my book. I apologize for disturbing you,” she said stiffly, hardly looking at him. She snatched up the volume from the table where it lay and turned to go back out, intending to say nothing else.

“Wait.” 

She paused, and turned slightly, her good breeding winning over. “Yes?”

He sat up a bit straighter, coughing weakly as he did so. “I am deeply sorry for how I behaved earlier. My treatment of you was inexcusable after all you’ve done for me these past days--” Here he had to pause to press his handkerchief to his dripping nose before he could continue. Elizabeth waited silently. “I was a beast and feel very much like a fool. Please forgive me,” he managed, mumbling through the damp fabric. His eyes shone earnestly above the hand holding the linen in place.

Her face softened. “I accept your apology, and thank you for it. No one acts quite themself when they’re ill, so I gladly forgive you. I’m sorry too for my part in all of it.”

They shared a tiny smile as he tended to his nose with a thick, gurgling blow, and she knew she was forgiven also. Immediately the tension between them was cleared.

Now that they had made up though, she was reluctant to leave him alone again, for he looked so weak and forlorn and in need of care. However, she was a woman of her word. She spoke as she moved to the door, putting her hand on the knob. “You must rest, Mr. Darcy, so I'll leave you be. I truly apologize for waking you.”

“Miss Elizabeth?” 

Once more she turned to meet his eyes.

He held out a shaking hand. “Please… stay.”

She slowly returned to his side. “For what purpose, sir?”

“I… I desire your company… and your aid. You are… a far better caregiver than I, and I was a fool to imply otherwise. It… it won't happen again,” he croaked thickly. 

Seeing the effort he was making to be overly polite softened Eliza's heart further. She let him take her hand in his warm grasp, a smile playing around her lips. “If you insist. I will stay.”

He smiled also as he drew her hand toward himself. "Here, let me show you something," he snuffled. He placed her wrist against his neck, just as she had done many times over the past few days. He sighed softly as their skin made contact.

“Your fever has broken,” she murmured happily. “You are cool at last.”

“Yes.”

“How did you do it?” she asked, withdrawing her hand. “Did you plunge yourself into an ice bath after all?”

He stifled a cough before he could speak. “I… tried willow bark again, as you recommended. I felt worse… at first, but I fell asleep to ease the symptoms. When I woke, the fever had left me, and I felt… much clearer in mind. The fever was causing my foul mood, as you insightfully noted.” Yet another long speech, and now his voice was barely audible as he sniffled furiously and trembled with fatigue. 

“Yet you seem somewhat worse for wear, for you’re completely exhausted, poor man.”

“This illness has left me weary to my bones, it is true. Yet I could not have slept soundly tonight knowing I had offended you. It would be an understatement to say I was very glad when you returned, though I did not expect or deserve a second chance.” His eyes were getting heavier by the moment, and he yawned almost before he finished speaking, reclining back against his pillows once more.

Elizabeth brushed the sweaty curls from his forehead as his eyes drifted closed, then let her hand rest on his cheek for a moment, reassuring herself that his fever was truly gone. He lazily covered her hand with his, a content smile flickering across his face. 

She couldn’t help but smile in response, though he couldn’t see it. “Take some rest, Mr. Darcy. All is forgiven, and I will be here when you wake.” She gently tried to pull her hand away from his face. He quickly interlaced his fingers with hers to prevent this.

“You’ll truly stay?” he murmured sleepily, sniffling.

Leaving her hand on his cheek, she perched on the edge of his bed, so close their hips were almost touching. She saw him smile again as she did so. 

“Of course I will,” she murmured back, her eyes never leaving his face as he peacefully drifted to sleep.

[scapegrace74-blog]

New Ways of Turning into Stone, Chapter 4

A/N  Some strong reactions to the last chapter, which I admit caught me by surprise.   Writing is a funny craft, where you spend a lot of time and effort trying to show your reader exactly the picture you have in your mind, but then also have to surrender to each reader’s interpretation of what you wrote.  That said, some interpretations miss the mark entirely, and for that reason this chapter is entitled “False Assumptions”.   Trigger warning for childhood disease.

Jamie’s weekly appointments continued through the grey slumber of late April and into the wakening month of May.  Thursday became Claire’s favourite day of the week, for reasons she didn’t care to scrutinize too closely.

With regularity came a certain brand of predictability.  Their appointments took one of two forms, she realized.  Some days Jamie was full of life, witty and exasperating by turns.  He would spin long yarns about some trivial aspect of his life, fascinating tales that turned out to be nothing more than surface reflections, revealing little of the murky depths beneath.  He was also adept at using his considerable verbal charm to draw her into divulging more about herself than she ought.  Those visits left her equally frustrated and challenged.

The rest of the time her patient arrived with a weary slump, the thousand watt bulb of his personality dimmed to an occasional flicker.  Given his offhand comment about whisky and women, she tried not to ponder if he was hungover or suffering from the effects of an all-night hook-up.  From a diagnostic point of view these days of low ebb were beneficial because Jamie was far more likely to offer some nugget of inner revelation, truth sneaking out through the cracks of his weakened defences.

“I was away on business, in Hong Kong, when my Da passed,” he said on one such afternoon, the skin below his eyes drawn tight and the copper in his hair somehow muted.

“Did it happen suddenly?” 

“No’ really.  Jen had been at me fer months tae come hame, sayin’ that Da was workin’ himself tae death.”   Jamie looked out the window, eyes reflecting the overcast skies beyond.  “I ignored her.  Too wrapped up in my own grand self tae pay any heed.  Twas Ian, my brother-in-law, who called tae say Da had dropped in the pasture.  Massive coronary.  I caught the first flight back, but he was gone before I landed.”

She watched Jamie’s face closely as he spoke, but beyond the understandable emotion of reliving the sudden loss of a parent, he remained inscrutable.  The urge to draw him out overcame the deference she paid to Jamie’s well-defined boundaries.

“Do you think you’re to blame for his death?” she asked, half-expecting to be met with silence or a nimble deflection.

Jamie shook his head ruefully.

“Nah.  I dinna think I’m tae blame.  I ken it.  I was the only surviving son, ye see?  In the Highlands, tradition is everything, an’ a Fraser man had worked those lands fer generations.  I was only meant tae complete my studies abroad, an’ then return tae Lallybroch and take o’er from Da.  Instead, I left my sister an’ Ian tae watch o’er the farm while I played the business tycoon.”

“Is Lallybroch still in your family?” she wondered aloud, the name rolling about in her mouth like marbles.  

“Jenny and Ian couldna keep it.  I wasna well enough tae object, an’ they sold tae a developer.  It’s some kind of corporate wellness retreat now,” he finished with a distasteful grimace.

For every disclosure Jamie made, two more questions arose in its wake, like hacking away at a many-headed Hydra.  She wished she could delve further, but the chime from her computer announced the end of the session.

“Will I see you next week, Jamie?” she asked as he reluctantly rose to leave.

“Aye,” said with a sad smile.  “I’ll be here.”

***

The following Tuesday, Claire took the afternoon off work to perform an errand she’d long been avoiding.

Her departure from the Royal Hospital for Children had been so precipitous, she hadn’t filed the necessary paperwork to close her employment file.  The Human Resources department had been pestering her to complete the process for months.  The threat of holding up the transfer of her accreditation finally forced her hand.

To her great relief, the personnel offices were nowhere near the actual wards.  They lay at the end of a long white hallway broken by large windows looking into a series of meeting and activity rooms.  Her plan was to get in, sign the damn forms, and leave without running into any former colleagues or patients.   

The sun slanting into one of these sparsely furnished rooms glanced off the top of a bent head, causing it to glow like a freshly minted penny.  She stopped and stared, trying to reconcile the image of James Fraser seated in a too-small plastic chair, surrounded by a group of hospital-gowned children.

He must have caught sight of her while she stood gaping.  Running to the door before she could find the motor function to turn around, he called out joyfully from behind a blue hospital mask.

“Doctor Beauchamp!  Fancy meeting ye here.”

She mumbled something incoherent, damning herself for the blush she felt enveloping her cheeks.   Behind Jamie, a row of dewy eyes watched on.   She recognized the paper-thin skin and missing hair of chemotherapy patients, and a salty knot rose in her throat.

“Can ye spare a few minutes? Ye’re jes the pair of steady hands we need.”

She longed to decline, to disappear, to come up with a plausible excuse why she couldn’t enter that room.  Her heart thumped angrily in her chest, warning of its fragile state.

Seeing her conflict, Jamie extended a welcoming hand.

“Come, Sassenach.  The lassies would love tae meet ye.”

The space smelled of sterile laundry and sawdust.  With a habit borne of years of practice, Claire disinfected her hands in the small utility sink and donned a spare mask from the nearby dispenser, all while wondering what the hell she was doing.

The children were seated on colourful chairs arranged around a low table, its surface covered in pieces of pre-cut lumber, colourful pots of paint, a glue gun and all manner of cheap decorations such as you would find at a craft store.  The little girls ranged in age from pre-school to young teen, but they all looked at Jamie as though he’d hung the moon as he addressed them.

“Ladies, I’d like ye tae meet Doctor Beauchamp.  She’s a braw doctor but I bet she kens next tae nothing about woodwork.  Ye’ll have tae show her how it’s done.”

A chorus of nervous giggles was the only response.  Claire knew from experience that being a medical professional wasn’t going to endear her to children who spent much of their lives being essentially tortured in the name of science, hoping for some kind of miracle.

“Hello, everyone,” she waved meekly.  “You can call me Miss Claire, if you like.  Now, whatever are you doing with all this wood?”

It turned out that Jamie was supervising the construction of a half-dozen birdhouses.  He had pre-cut the lumber for easy assembly, but was assisting each girl to create a custom masterpiece that would hang outside her hospital window.  With the patience and steady manner of a primary school teacher, Jamie led the group through each step.  

A waifish girl of perhaps six sat directly to Claire’s left, her bare scalp covered by a brightly coloured bandana, offset by a huge pair of peacock-blue eyes that glimmered above her mask.  Eyes that were the mirror of the ones that visited her office every Thursday.  Something heavy settled inside her ribs.

“What’s your name, sweetie?” she asked in a low voice as she pushed an open pot of sky blue paint away from the table’s edge.  Small hands busied themselves pulling apart a package of cotton balls that looked suspiciously like the ones kept in the hospital’s supply cabinet.

“Margaret Murray, Doctor, errr, Miss Claire,” came the timid reply.  

Not Fraser, then.  But that didn’t necessarily mean anything.  She snuck a glance across the table at Jamie, who was just then teasing the youngest girl by tickling her cheeks with a fake feather.  Despite her heavy thoughts, she couldn’t help but smile.  That smile faltered when she noticed that the inside of Jamie’s elbows bore a matching set of fresh bandages.   A series of puzzle pieces tumbled into place.

Perhaps sensing the weight of her scrutiny, Jamie looked their way, whistling in admiration when he saw Maggie’s near-complete birdhouse.

“Tis a fine hame ye’ve built fer yer wee birds, Maggie.  What is all yon white fluff for?”

“Tis clouds, Uncle Jamie,” Maggie replied with the certainty of childhood.  “I dinna want the birdies tae miss the sky, even when they arenna flyin’.”

Claire watched the words hit him as surely as though they had been bullets.  A frozen gasp, a shudder that travelled the length of his body and the crest of tears that he tried valiantly to blink away.

“Aye, ye’re right, a nighean.  Any bird would be fair honoured tae sleep in yer skyhouse,” he managed to reply, voice bouldery with contained emotion.

When each birdhouse was complete and left along the window ledge to dry, Jamie set his small crew of helpers the task of clearing up the mess.   Claire stood next to him as he loaded his tools back into a small carrying case.

“Thanks for inviting me to join you, Jamie.  It was... well, it was unexpectedly wonderful,” she admitted.

“Ye’re most welcome, Doctor Beauchamp.  We couldna have managed wi’out yer steady hand manning the glue gun,” he teased.

“You’re not my patient here, Jamie.  You don’t need to use my title,” she said, a bit vexed by his formality.

“Aye, but it doesna feel right tae call ye by yer given name either.  An’ Miss Claire is jes weird.”

She had to acknowledge that he had a point.

“What was it you called me earlier?  Sassa-something?”

“Sassenach.  My Da woulda skelped my hide if he heard me call a lady by that name,” he said ruefully.

“Why, does it mean something terribly offensive?”  She was almost afraid to know, having enjoyed the delusion that Jamie felt as fondly towards her as she did towards him.

“Nah, tis jes an old-fashioned word for an English person in Scotland.  Seemed tae suit ye, is all.”  He shrugged, seemingly embarrassed by the explanation.

“Well then, Sassenach it is.  When I’m not on the clock, that is.”

Jamie’s eyes danced above his mask the way they did when he smiled, and she imagined hers replied in much the same way.  A long moment passed when nothing was said, neither of them looking away.

“You’re her platelet donor,” she said at last.  “Maggie’s, I mean.”

“Aye.  Every week while she’s in hospital for chemotherapy.  Tis the least I can do.”

It was an explanation that fit all the facts, but one that she never would have guessed.  Jamie had always worn long sleeves to his appointments, but she was certain the weeks when he was haggard and worn out coincided with the times he was donating the litres of blood necessary to distill into the platelet concentrate that would then be injected into Maggie’s body, helping her combat the poisonous effects of her chemotherapy.

“Whisky, women and song?” she prodded, relieved and yet frustrated that his offhand comment had kept her from seeing the truth.  “Why didn’t you just tell me, Jamie?”

“I didna want yer pity, Sassenach.  Fer once in my life, tis no’ about me, ye ken?  I didna want ye lookin’ at me like I was some kind of hero.”

She held back her reaction that his was a textbook definition of heroism, and instead asked the next obvious question.

“Are you a compatible bone marrow donor as well?”

Jamie shook his head slowly.  Although he was a close match, he explained, it wasn’t close enough.   Maggie’s older brother, Wee Jamie, was a perfect match but the law prohibited him from becoming a donor until he was at least sixteen, in seven long years.

“We’re jes tryin’ tae buy her enough time,” he said sadly before stepping out of the room, explaining he’d be back momentarily.

Claire stood in a daze, running through everything she’d assumed about Jamie in light of these newest facts.  A light tug on her hand drew her back into the moment.  Maggie was looking up at her with wide, trusting eyes.

“Are ye the Sassenach lady Uncle Jamie and my Mam argue about?”

“I suppose I might be,” she replied, curious what had been said between the siblings that Maggie had overheard.

“Are ye a heart doctor?” Maggie continued.

“Well, no.  Not exactly.  I’m the kind of doctor who helps people who are sad, and I try to find a way for them to be happy again.”  It sounded so easy when explaining it to a six year old.

“Sometimes Mam and Da talk about Uncle Jamie when they dinna ken I’m listenin’.  I’m verra good at sneakin’,” Maggie confided, and Claire couldn’t help but smile.  What a precious child.    “I’m sure you are,” she replied warmly, a hand coming to rest gently on the tiny cloth-covered head.

“Mam says Uncle Jamie is more stubborn than a mule and that he canna see past his own big heid,” Maggie continued.  Claire couldn’t say that she disagreed with that assessment.

“But Da says Uncle Jamie’s heart has been broken too many times, and thas’ why he’s given up on living.  Can ye fix his heart, Miss Claire, so that it isna broken any more?”

She couldn’t have stopped her tears if she tried.   She knelt on the floor and gathered Maggie’s thin, fragile body in her arms.

“Oh, Maggie.  I’m certainly going to try.”

[that--unusual-person]

Hello. I'm curious, how would the Pillarmen react to their child trying to paint similar marks on their own face that their father has? Or try to make a similar outfit to theirs because they wanted to be like their father?

Good/Bad Parent Warning (lol)

Kars

- It was when the baby was drawing with crayons Kars noticed them try to draw on their eyelids.

- He had to snatch the crayon out of their hands before they poked their eye.

- “What do you think you’re doing?”  Kars asked while staring at the child.  The baby starts motioning their eyes and reaching for Kars’s marks.

- He then gets the picture, “Sorry, little one, but this… cray-yon… won’t do.  But, I do know something that will.”

- (Time skip) You haven’t seen Kars or the baby anywhere around the house, it was starting to worry you.  You call out his name and hear him respond from the bathroom upstairs.

- As you go up and turn the doorknob to enter your bedroom’s bathroom, “Kars, do you know where the baby is- … oh my god.”

- Kars has makeup all over the baby’s face.  Not to mention it matches his, from his mark used with lavender-colored eyeshadow to the perfectly drawn eyelids and rosy cheeks.

- You would be upset but seeing how happy the baby is with Kars’s masterwork with make-up makes you think.  “Okay, stay here, I’m going to get my phone to take a picture.”

- Posing with the baby, Kars gives the proudest smile you ever seen.  Seeing how happy he is with his artwork almost makes you jealous, but happy to see how great of a father he is.

- “You should do my makeup sometime.”  “It would be my pleasure, darling”

Esidisi

- As irresponsible as he is at parenting, he let the baby into your oil pastels to entertain the child.

- The baby had all sorts of colors on their hands to their clothes and worst of all… the walls and floor.  Even Esidisi was in on it, using the pastels to draw surprisingly poor pictures(but they are very cute.  You put them on the fridge next to the babies).

- As Esidisi was finishing up a scribbled piece of artwork, he catches the baby scribbling a red pastel on its face.  Giggling he asks, “And what are you trying to do, little artist?”  Getting the baby’s attention.

- It then makes an ‘x’ across its face with a hand, then crawling over to Esidisi mimicking the same hand motion on his face.

- “Oooh I see… Here, let me help!”  As he takes the pastel and draws a sloppy x across the baby’s face as it giggles at his touch.

- “Hahaha, you look great, like me!”  as they continue to draw more.

- (Time skip) “Esidisi!  I’m home!- OH MY GOSH!”  The place is a mess.  Your pastels are either all gone or broken in half.  Paper scattered on the floor, colors on the wall and floor.  With Esidsi and your baby covered in color.

- “Esidisi!”  “Huh?  Oh!  Hello, Y/n!  Care to join us?”  Your speechless until you look over and see your baby with an x on its face.  Suddenly-

- “Esidisi...”  He knows that look.  That look you give he knows all too well.  Immediately he starts cleaning up while you take the baby to wash off what looks like an x on its face.

Wamuu

- Believe it or not, it’s hard keeping his hairstyle the way he wants.  Always having it in that wrap or his headpiece was like a headband, so there he was, trying to fix his hair in the mirror when he notices the baby waddle by the doorway.

- Looking behind him his eyes follow the infant as they stroll to him, reaching out with grabby little palms.

- Leaning down and scooping the child onto his lap while facing the mirror he asks, “What is it, young one?”  The baby starts slamming its hands on the table in front of the mirror babbling something that makes Wamuu laugh.

- Continuing to try and fix his hair as the baby watches, the child suddenly starts playing with its face in a strange manner that distracts Wamuu.

- Following the baby’s hands, he saw how it repeats the shape of his mark, causing him to cock his head to the side in curiosity.

- Getting an idea, he reaches for some makeup in a drawer nearby, grabbing something to help with his child’s curious ways.  Taking the baby and sitting it up on the table facing him, he uncaps the makeup and gently holds the baby’s cheeks with his fingers.  The child giggles grabbing onto his fingers, “Hold still, I don’t want to ruin your new mark.”

- He then begins to carefully retrace his mark onto the baby’s face, taking extra care when going around the child’s eye.  And with his precision, he mark looks perfect, glossy and red.

- (Time skip) Waking into the bathroom you find Wamuu, “Hey, Wham, have you seen my lip gloss”  Wamuu freezes and stares at you in surprise, holding your red lip gloss in his hand.  The babywearing your lip gloss also surprises you.

- At the sight of your return to the bathroom the baby giggles and starts smearing the lip gloss all over its cheeks, staining them in a velvety red.  Looking at their hands after rubbing their face, they slowly bring their hand to their mouth to lick off the lip gloss.  “Wamuu stop them they’re going to eat it!”  Quickly and gently lifting the baby under their armpits stopping them from eating the lip gloss off their hands he apologizes shyly and full of embarrassment.

Santana

- Being a good father, Santana was lazying on the couch again, tv on, baby next to him on the couch, both waiting for you to return home.

- Santana was about to doze off before the baby got bored of watching tv and decided to crawl on him.  The baby crawling on Santana has become a daily occurrence, he doesn’t mind as long as they don’t pull his horns too much.

- As he tried to resume his nap while the baby crawled onto his chest, he starts to struggle as the baby starts to slap at his left cheek.

- He didn’t bother stopping the baby thinking it will stop soon.  But his thoughts are immediately shattered when the baby starts poking his mark while beginning to babble.

- His eyes shoot open and his hand gently catches the baby’s hand poking him.  Giggling, the baby repeats poking under its left eye.

- With a bored expression, he knows the baby’s motives and sits them on the couch while getting up.  Pointing at the baby before leaving, “Don’t move.”  Exiting the living room for a minute before returning with a marker.

- Crouching in front of the baby, he places his hand on the side of the child’s head to hold them still, he begins to draw his gear-shaped mark under the baby’s eye, careful to stay away from their eye.

- (Time skip) Walking through the front door, you make your way to the kitchen to see if Santana was grabbing a snack since he always seems to favor the fridge.  To your surprise, he wasn’t there.

- When you walk to the living room, you find him napping on the couch with the baby watching tv.  Making your way over, “Hey, (baby’s name), you wore him out huh?”  Taking the baby into your arms, you see something under its eye.

- Taking a closer look, it looks like a gear.  “Santana?”  “Hmm?”  “What’s this under the baby’s eye?”  “My mark.”  “Did you draw it on them?”  “Yes.”  “... With what??”  “Marker.  The permanent one.”

“I tried using a crayon to do my makeup once.  It went horribly.” - Von

[bellatrixobsessed1]

From Chin To Yon Rah (Part 39)

This part was typed mostly on mobile. Sorry for any typos.

She remembers the first time she had seen snow. The feeling...it was bizarre. If she were to be completely honest, she would best compare it to the sensation of her worst days--the days when her mind is slipping and everything feels off and nothing feels real. But instead of fear, she feels awe. Instead of dread, she feels an almost childlike sense of delight.

And perhaps, in some sense, she is a child again; she has something new to discover. Something curious and strange.

"Hajime,look." She points out the window. "It's everywhere." And perhaps it is a silly thing to ask but she inquires anyhow, "how do we walk through it?"

"Like you walk anywhere else?" He quirks a brow.

"But in the Water Tribes...I've heard that there is special equipment used to navigate the snow."

He laughs, "the snow isn't that deep here!" He opens the door and gestures for her to exit.

"It's cold." She complains. Even under her winter wools, she finds herself shivering. And here Atsu goes, dashing out into the winter with no coat at all.

"Git back in here!" Hajime calls. "I tol' you last year 'bout going outside without a coat!"

Atsu comes to a halt, the magic of the morning coming to an abrupt pause with him. " But dad!"

"You need to help Rikka get dressed, she never had to wear a winter clothes before."

This seems to allure the boy and with a wide and gleeful grin he darts back into the house. "Hurry up and put your coat and gloves on, Rikka! We have to build snow people and throw balls of snow at each other and…" he chucks a coat and a pair of gloves at her--Hajime's she assumes based upon the size of them.

Azula stuffs her fingers into the gloves. Only one layer doesn't seem sufficient but another layer or two seems to aggravatingly restrict her finger movements and if she is going to destroy Hajime and Atsu at this snowball war, she is going to need a full range of movement from her fingers.

She steps out into the snow, she hears it sift beneath her weight. So far everything is going accordingly, there is no ice to land her on the ground.she deduces that, in most places, the snow only reaches up to her ankles which is, though an inconvenience, manageable enough. But she can't imagine that running from enemy fire will be as easy. She supposes that if she needs a speedy getaway she can just melt some of the snow and listen to Atsu screech about her cheating. Perhaps she would feel more guilty over it if Atsu weren't a merciless little brute. He does not wait for her to assemble her protective mound of snow before bombarding her with an onslaught of tightly packed snow.

"Gotcha!" He whoops with each hit that she fails to evade. It would seem that while she was assessing her surroundings he hand been stockpiling an extensive artillery.

"Geez, Atsu, show mercy, this is her first snowball fight." Hajime chuckles from his spot on the porch.

It is a nice thought but Atsu, the feral beast, knows nothing of mercy. He tosses snowball after snowball. She manages to create only one but before she can throw it, Atsu fires another shot. And this one sails directly down the front of her shirt. She feels it slide from her chest to her belly leaving her with a full body shudder as itself away. She had dropped her snowball. Never in her life has she felt anything quite like it; uncomfortable and somewhat biting but I'm a way that wasn't exactly painful.

She tosses a pathetically pleading glance to Hajime who throws his head back in a howling laugh. "Alright, alright." He gets to his feet and steps out into the battlefield.

"Uh oh…" Atsu mumbles, he is now we'll aware that he should have built himself a snow fortress. Azula gives him a smug smile as she lifts a new snowball.

"Uh oh." He repeats as her very second snowball sails right into his face.

Maybe she should feel guilty over it but he isn't crying and he brushes it right off. And besides, she is certain that he was aiming for her face the whole time anyways, he simply didn't have the arm strength to land any hits higher than chest level.

And by the end of the hour she is almost embarrassed by how satisfied she feels to have beaten a child at a children's game. Any tickles of shame are washed away by Atsus delightful giggles. His enthusiastic, "wait until Caihong and Kim get here! We'll kick yer butts until you don't have butts no more!"

People have bestowed upon her many threats. But none have been quite like that.

That day she learns that Atsu is very much a little shit and that, likely, she will never truly shake her competitive nature.

.oOo.

She has been to plenty of awkward dinners but the silence of this one is so thick that it is dizzying. She can’t help but notice the way that Sokka twiddles his thumbs and looks in every direction but his father’s and Katara’s. It occurs to her that he is ashamed of her. Is embarrassed to be seen with her. She supposes that it is a good thing that the snow storm has picked up too strongly to go for a stroll through the village. She can only imagine what sort of looks she will get from everyone else. A firebender...the princess among people who the Fire Nation has displaced and nearly destroyed. She is everything that they detest and she supposes that Sokka has every right to be embarrassed by that. Embarrassed in the same way that she had been to parade him around the Fire Nation at first.

“Aren’t you going to say anything, dad?”

The man gives something between a hum and a sigh, “I’m trying to figure out what to say.” Hakoda looks at her. His face isn’t as steely with stubbornness as Katara’s.

Azula stares at her palms. She should take her mittens off. But any little motion will draw too much attention. Not that Katara's resentful gaze has left her since she got to the table. She wants to have a taste of her seaweed stew but she is already mildly nauseous with nervousness and the scent of the stew doesn't exactly kindle her appetite.

"Just talk to her for a bit, dad, you'll like her." Sokka promises.

The flutters in her tummy intensify that much more. She wishes that he wouldn't make promises that even he isn't certain of.

"She likes history and strategizing just like you do and…"

"And she used it to foil our invasion and get him sent to the Boiling Rock." Katara folds her arms across her chest.

Azula cringes to herself, truth be told, she had forgotten about that. Comparatively speaking, it seemed much less profound than some of her other misdeeds.

"Yeah well she's done a lot of changing since then." Sokka insists. “See, she even has the redemption haircut!”

“The what?” Azula finally speaks up.

“Yeah, Zuko said he cut his hair before joining us and now look at him, he’s happy--but in a grumpy old man sort of way, he’s a good friend, and he’s got long flowing tresses.”

Azula rolls her eyes. She isn’t sure if she wants to slug the man to death right in front of his father and sister or if she finds his recant amusing. She supposes that it would ruin her chances to make amends of she murdered Sokka now. “It wasn’t a redemption haircut I had matted hair and, maybe, lice.” Ji-Zhang had only mentioned it being matted. She supposes if she had lice that they would have shaved…

“Azula.” Sokka manages to cut through her comfort musings. Granted her musings weren’t at all pleasant but her inner monologue very much beats the external alternative.

She realizes that Hakoda has extended his hand. It is far less formal than a bow but she will take what she can get. He gives her hand a shake. “I’m Hakoda.”

“Sokka told me that, already. And he has already told you my name.”

Sokka flushes, “you’re supposed to introduce yourselves to each other.” And then he turns to his father, “she’s still working on the whole having a normal conversation thing. It runs in the family.”

“I can have a normal conversation just fine.” She folds her arms and holds her head high.

“Well it’s...interesting to formally meet you, Azula.”

“Dad!” Katara says sharply. “She’s not a part of this family. I don’t care how much Sokka likes her.”

“Come on Katara.”

“Don’t ‘come on Katara’ me! You’re the one trying to welcome her into the Water Tribe.”

“I get it, this is for the whole Jet thing isn’t it.”

This time Katara blushes.

“Who is Jet?” Azula furrows her brows.

“Yes, who is Jet?” Hakoda agrees.

“You don’t know about Jet?” Sokka asks at the same time as Katara says, “you weren’t supposed to tell him about Jet!”

“Jet’s just some jerk that flooded a whole village full of kids. To drive out some Fire Nation soldiers.”

“Gaipan?”

“Yeah.” Sokka nods. “You know about that.”

Azula returns the nod. “We lost a few soldiers there. There were noble men and women.” She pauses. “Stubborn too. They might have been alright if they fled with the rest of the village but…”

“Firebenders and their pride.” Hakoda clicks his tongue.

She wants to call the man on his generalization but frankly she hasn’t met a firebender yet who didn’t value pride. And maybe that is why it is so hard for her to apologize to Katara and Hakoda. Though she isn’t certain that she particularly needs to apologize to Hakoda--he had led an invasion to defeat her father. He had encroached on her land. It was her duty to see those plans foiled. Though pointing that out probably won’t serve her too well.

“Can you give her a chance, Katara? I gave Jet a chance.”

“No you didn’t. You were protesting and whining the whole time.”

“And I ended up being right.”

“So will I.” With those three words, she storms out into the snow.

“That went flawlessly.” Azula grumbles.

“Just give her some time, she’ll come around when she realizes that you’re actually kind of a really sweet person.”

“I will set everything you love on fire…”

“You just like to pretend that you aren’t.” And to Hakoda he mutters, “It’s part of the firebender pride thing. You can’t let anyone know that you’re nice.” He slings an arm over her shoulder and pulls her in closer.

Azula sighs, it is going to be a long, long vacation or whatever in the spirits’ name she could call this.

[zutaraangtastic]

If you’re still doing drabbles, here’s an idea: Nightmares and comfort afterwards. While it’s most common for Zuko and to a lesser extent, Aang, I think it would be so sweet to see Katara being comforted and tended to by her husbands. Of course, no offense will be taken if you’re done with drabbles or not interested in the prompt.

Final drabble! Warning for violence and temporary character death - nightmare stuff, as you might guess. I hope the comfort makes up for the hurt! (Reminder that we are not accepting new prompts; we received these before July 1.) - Mod J

The igloo seems impossibly big before her, its white sheen stained with the ash raining from the heavens. The snow is up to her knees, as small as she is, and the sounds of war clamor for attention behind her: the men shouting, the sickening swish of the burning catapults, the hiss of fire devouring everything in its path.

Katara hesitates outside, trying to breach the chasm of dread in her stomach and force herself to enter, knowing what awaits her.

At least, she thinks she knows, until something happens that’s never happened before: a boy comes flying out through the blue curtains with a horrible scream, flung by a red flare inside that she barely glimpses. She runs to where he’s collapsed in the snow, his shaking hands covering his face. 

Through the cracks in his fingers, she sees the raw, seared flesh, and gasps.

He’s dressed just like the other Fire Nation soldiers, but he’s too young, his armor too big for his shoulders. His head is bare except for a disheveled ponytail. He’s hurt, badly.

These things she takes in, paralyzed, before it registers in the back of her mind that she can do something. She can heal. 

Or, she should be able to, but her tiny hands don’t seem to work the way they should; their grasp on the water is too unsteady, and when they reach for his face, he screams again, his fist lashing out in a flaming arc. Katara drops onto her belly, trembling with her eyes squeezed shut, until the near-brush of heat subsides. 

When she peeks up to make sure she’s safe, she notices the overcast sky has changed color, now a murky blood-red crossed by a trail of blazing orange light. 

Then the boy slumps back down, and Katara scrambles away, leaving him to writhe in his agony and returning to her own task with just enough bitter determination to overcome her fear.

In the igloo, she finds a different man than she expects, this one’s armor adorned with gold, a semblance of wings framing his helmet when he glances over his shoulder at her. There’s another boy, too, a boy in simple orange-and-yellow monk’s robes. He’s even smaller than her, his legs kicking pitifully as the Fire Nation man holds him aloft by the collar.

“You’re too late, little peasant,” the man says, an oil-slick voice dripping with malice. “The Avatar is mine.”

It doesn’t make sense, because how can that kid be the Avatar? His tattoos would be glowing white, a radiant, otherworldly bluish-white like she saw in the iceberg when she found him, and that’s the thing that snaps Katara back to herself—the boy, Aang, doesn’t have any tattoos. He’s too young to have earned them yet.

He looks at her with wide gray eyes, pleading for help, but she’s still too small, too weak to fling more than a puddle of water at the Fire Lord’s boots.

Wake up, she tells herself. It’s not real, wake up, it didn’t happen like this, you’re safe, they’re safe, just wake up—

But she can’t, try as she might. She can’t even look away as Ozai throws a fiery punch into Aang’s face, even as everything inside her lurches with fury, with horror, with dismay. Aang howls, the same cry that Zuko made, as instinctual and vulnerable as a wounded animal. And Zuko, spirits, Zuko’s out there alone and she has to do something!

Too much happens all at once, Ozai roaring victorious fire and the igloo crumbling all around them and a crimson cloud gathering overhead and an awful static crackling in Azula’s hands—no, Ozai’s, but familiar white-hot lightning, and he’s going to strike them at the same time and there’s no way for Katara to shield them both—

Until her waterbending returns, and without even thinking, she surges into Ozai’s blood and freezes him from the inside out. His last, choked breath comes out a red mist.

Katara falls to her knees, overwhelmed and hanging onto the adrenaline just to crawl to Aang and carry him to Zuko. She’s fully herself again, not the little girl she was when the raid happened, but the two of them are still just kids, even smaller in her grasp now. When she lays them next to each other, she notices the symmetry of their fresh burns, and a nauseous weight of understanding churns in her.

Snowmelt coats her hands in a shimmering, glowing blue, ready to heal, until she realizes neither boy’s chest is rising or falling. Katara fumbles to feel their pulses, uselessly; Zuko is too cold, no trace of fire left in him, and Aang is so still, the joyful breath that animated him stolen by the sharpening wind.

“Wake up,” she whispers, not certain who she’s talking to. She presses her palms flat to their hearts, water seeping through together with her tears, to no avail. Between her blurry eyes and the gathering storm around them, everything is growing dim.

“Wake up. Wake up. Wake up, Katara, you’re—”

She bolts upright with a sharp gasp, her head spinning in the disorienting dark of the room. Real tears are flowing sickly-hot down her cheeks, sticking wetly to her chin, even her ears. She almost can’t suck in enough air, her chest wracked with sobs, disrupting every attempt to steady herself.

“Katara,” Aang says again, and she nearly jumps, reflexively whipping water from her nearby satchel to catch the hand reaching for her in an icy grip. “Ow—Katara, it’s okay! It’s just me. It’s me.”

To the other side of Aang, Zuko stirs, mumbling in confusion. Katara barely has the presence of mind to return the water to its container before she throws herself into Aang, wrapping her arms tightly around him. With her ear pressed to his chest, she can hear his heartbeat, feel his breathing like the rush of a sea breeze. A tentative hand meets hers on Aang’s back, and she raises her head to Aang’s shoulder to look at Zuko, twining her fingers with his. His skin is warm, faintly damp with sweat. He reaches behind him to light the candle on the bedside table with a snap, and the soft orange glow haloes around him, permeating the shadows of the room.

Aang presses a kiss to the top of Katara’s head, cupping her cheek and brushing away the tears on one side. “Was it a nightmare?” he asks.

She can only nod, not trusting herself to speak. He folds her into his embrace just a little harder.

“I get them too, around this time of year,” he admits. When she remains silent except for her sniffles, he adds softly, “Ones where we lose. Or we win but I lose you, or Zuko.”

“That makes three of us,” Zuko says, his voice hushed. He turns his face against her hand, the scarred side. It’s one of the most intimate gestures they share, open and vulnerable, but this time it makes Katara flinch, half-expecting raw, oozing skin in place of the long-healed tissue. Zuko catches her recoil and draws back himself, his brow furrowed with uncertain concern. “Sorry, I can…leave you with Aang, if that’s better?”

Katara shakes her head quickly and extends her arm, beckoning him to her side instead. Aang shifts with her towards the middle of the bed to make room. Zuko still hesitates, sitting beside Katara with his knees drawn up.

“I understand if it was about—I mean, it’s okay if you don’t want to see me right now.”

“Zuko,” Aang says, half-regret and half-reprimand, at the same time that Katara takes Zuko by the shoulder and pulls him into their hug.

Hoarsely, she manages to say, “That wasn’t it.”

A patient quiet presides over them as Zuko’s arms finally settle around her waist and Aang’s fingers wind through her hair. Katara’s breathing eventually evens out, her tears slowing. There’s still an awful feeling inside her, a violent terror in the pit of her stomach.

“It was…” She steels herself, curling one fist so her nails bite crescents into her palm, until Aang stops her gently. Katara picks a spot on the far wall to keep her attention and continues, “It was like the nightmare I always have, about my mom. But Yon Rha wasn’t there, and neither was she. It was the two of you—” she lays her other hand over Zuko’s and squeezes his knuckles, hearing his apprehensive swallow “—and Ozai. And he…burned you, and you were so young—we were, and then I wasn’t, but you both were just kids and you were helpless and hurt and I couldn’t do anything before it was too late and—”

The panic is rising in her chest again, threatening to overflow, and Zuko tries to hold tighter to ground her, but it’s too much, Aang’s look of frantic worry is too much, and Katara suddenly needs not to be touched or she might break something. She hurriedly disentangles herself and slides away to sit at the edge of the bed, raising a hand to let Aang and Zuko know to give her space.

After a moment, she manages to quell the nausea, her gasps fading. She’s crying again, but her eyes are too dry now, making it harder to get the tears out. Mostly, she’s annoyed by the thought of how puffy her face will be in the morning, and how much she’s overreacting in front of Zuko and Aang. Katara lets out a shuddering exhale and stands, smoothing down her nightgown and going to open the window. The tang of the ocean clears her head, blessedly wakes her from the nightmarish haze. The half-moon tilted low in the sky is serene.

She gives a silent thanks to Yue before she looks back at her husbands, who lean together on the bed, obviously trying to seem calm despite the visible tension in their joined hands. It makes Katara smile weakly and gesture for them to follow her. They pad to the kitchen together on three sets of tiptoeing feet, extra careful as they pass Bumi and Kya’s room.

Zuko puts on a pot of tea without being asked, and Katara pulls herself up on the counter beside him with a strained noise that immediately reminds her she’s too old for it. Aang suppresses a laugh and approaches, after she nods, to massage her lower back.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I didn’t mean to push you guys away.”

Zuko scoffs, though not meanly, giving Katara a skeptical eye. “Why are you sorry? We’re the ones who didn’t do anything to help.”

Katara kicks his thigh, though not hard. “Don’t say that. It helped that you were both there with me. If I was alone, or even if it was just me and Aang, I would’ve been so anxious.”

Aang bows his head against her chest, his sigh brushing against fabric. “Still, it’s—it’s hard, not being able to make things better. I guess that’s what your dream was like, too?”

“Yeah,” Katara says, but before she can start dwelling on it again, Zuko ushers her and Aang away from the counter so he can finish preparing the tea.

He brings it to them at the table with a generous helping of milk stirred in, and it’s exactly the right thing to soothe the lingering unease in her stomach. Aang sits across from her, leaving Zuko the spot next to her. Katara leans her head on his shoulder after she downs her cup, willing away the flashes of lightning on the backs of her eyelids.

“You think you’ll be able to go back to sleep?” Zuko asks. His foot is tangled with hers and Aang’s under the table.

“I think so.” Katara offers him a smile and a peck on the cheek. “The tea helped, Mr. Jasmine Dragon Jr.”

“Speaking of, when are you heading off to see Uncle?” Aang asks.

Zuko has abandoned his own cup in favor of playing with Katara’s hair, gathering it into haphazard braids that she subtly shakes out as soon as he looks away. “I’ll stay here another few days, at least.”

“Good,” she says. “We’ll have each other if anyone has another anniversary nightmare.”

Leaving their dishes at their places, they find their way back to bed. Katara claims the middle this time. She’s on her side, facing the moon and Zuko, with Aang’s sturdy chest against her back. Touch is welcome now. Aang spends a long time tracing patterns on her back, continuing his earlier massage as he goes, until he starts to drift off.

“Let us know if you need anything,” he says, stifling a yawn and kissing her cheek.

“Mm. There is one thing, actually,” Katara murmurs. “Your head wasn’t shaved before you were banished, was it, Zuko?”

Zuko’s brow furrows, but he shakes his head. “No. I mean, it was after the agni kai, but before I left.”

“And Aang didn’t get his tattoos until he was twelve.”

Aang confirms this with a sleepy mumble addressed to the back of her head. Zuko is kneading her leg, her hip, her side, working the last tension out of her muscles.

“Why do you ask?”

“That’s how I know it wasn’t real,” Katara says, blinking slowly at him. “That’s how I’ll remember, if it happens again.”

Consciously or not, Aang curls his arm more protectively around her stomach. Zuko lets her pillow her cheek in his palm and eases closer to kiss her. She drapes her leg over his to keep him there, his warm breath mingling with hers and his other hand resting over her back. Once he’s joined Aang in slumber, her eyes finally fall shut. Their hands are soft, tangible, and the sharpest burning details of the nightmare start to fade to cinders at the edges of her mind.

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [1033]

It would be romantic and the height of foolishness to say she would know him by touch alone. But after all these years — perhaps these friends she’s made have worn off on her. Maybe it’s Varric and his soft, worn heart. Maybe it’s Cassandra and her burning one. Maybe it’s Cole and his painful delicacy. Maybe it’s Malika and her youthful will. Maybe it’s all of them at once.

It maybe foolish, but it is true.

Ellana does know him by touch alone. And she would wager he knows her, too.

Anyone else and Ellana would stiffen and strike, turning from limp and pliable blood to furious bone. Elbows and nails, tendons and ligaments. Ellana’s experienced enough, now, to know how to turn the sleep muddled haze of deep-hot-breathed-night into a maul in the heart. She’s lived through too many assassinations — attempts at them, anyway — not to.

Ellana can go from dead asleep — not even dreaming or in the Fade — to fully awake and battle ready in less than a breath. She’s been taught the quickest ways to go from prone and vulnerable repose to mid crouch, body strung like a bow, and hands ready to fly like arrows.

But she doesn’t.

Maybe it would be more accurate to say she knows him by intent, rather than touch.

Ellana is stirred from the depths of sleep by the shifting of blankets and the dip of the bed as his weight slides in behind her. Cold air slides in with him and makes her curl up, frowning even as the heat of his body next to hers makes up for the infraction.

His fingertips, rough and blunt, slide over the back of her neck. Her hair is pushed out of the way and Ellana mumbles incoherently as she slides back towards him. Astra, somewhere at the foot of the bed, shuffles awake and pads around to jump off and make a mess somewhere else in the room.

It’s the intent, Ellana thinks. It isn’t the touch, but the intent.

Or maybe the weight and gravity of his presence alone.

Ellana allows herself to relax, mind stretching languorously as she starts to feel herself drift back to sleep.

The Iron Bull breathes out, a slow exhale as he settles himself in. There’s the low scrape of one of his horns against the headboard and the annoyed huff of air as he slowly repositions himself.

Ellana waits, patiently, for the moving to stop. She can feel his elbow graze her back for a brief moment as he draws the bedding higher over himself.

She listens to his breathing as her mind half-heartedly thinks about saying something. She has to leave at dawn. Ellana hasn’t seen Bull in almost a month. Their schedules have been in gross misalignment due to the Inquisition being incredibly understaffed with the current rush to get things in place for the march into the Arbor Wilds.

Bull saves her the trouble.

His low voice sounds as tired as her head feels, muddled up and hazy and hot like a fever that goes down to the bones.

“If you get hauled back here because you got food poisoning eating Rocky’s field rations don’t come looking to me for pity.”

She kicks him. It’s clumsy and Bull lifts his leg to trap hers underneath his. The weight of it burns against her skin. Ellana is not averse to it. She pushes her leg until she can maneuver her foot to rest between his calves.

She doesn’t have much of a comeback besides that. She settles with lazily raising a hand and tossing her hair directly into his face. She hears him sputter, fingers raising to lightly pull and tug as he settles the mass of hair away from his face.

“Goodnight,” She says, face mashed into her pillow. - “Better than a bog unicorn. Not as good as a cat. Somewhere in between that,” Bull concludes as he watches the new nugalopes get sorted into the quickly expanding stables.

Ellana leans her cheek on her palm as she watches the procession of waddling, cumbersome looking creatures from the ramparts above. “I don’t understand your scale of judgement. You can’t ride a cat. And most things would be better than an undead horse.”

“Bog unicorn,” Bull insists, a laugh and a smile practically pouring out of every syllable. Ellana rolls her eyes skyward.

“Bog unicorn,” She acquiesces.

“The cat,” Bull begins to explain, “Can be trained.”

“And the nugalopes can’t? What’s the use of bringing them on then?”

“To please our spymaster?” Ellana sees him shrug out of the corner of her eye. “The nugalopes are mostly a joke. I think. Better than the bog unicorn because it has a pulse and doesn’t smell like rot. But I don’t think we’ll be getting these things to do tricks.”

“As if we could get the other creatures that carry various members of the Inquisition hither and yon to do tricks.”

“The harts play fetch.” Ellana turns to give Bull her most suspicious look. Bull grins down at her. “You think I’m lying to you, Wolf?”

“Fetch? With what? With sugar cubes?” She asks. “Are you sure that you aren’t thinking of mine, specifically? That’s because you gave him bad habits. You’ve taught him to be peculiar.” Ellana turns her gaze back down to the stables below. “Poor Dennet. He signed up for horses. Now he’s got an entire menagerie of creatures.”

“He’s handling it rather well, all things considered.” Bull says. He’s watching her for something.

Ellana scratches her nail against the stone.

“You’re wondering if I’ve taught Astra anything else.”

“You’re giving too much power to a cat,” Bull says. “Next thing you know the creature’s figured out how to hold hostages. Namely myself.”

Ellana smirks. “You’d let a cat hold you hostage?”

“I’ve let a Wolf do worse,” Bull points out amicably. He leans in close enough that she can feel the heat radiating off his body. “Though usually it’s only because I ask very nicely.”

She shoves him with a small burst of magic that makes him laugh.

“You’re being particularly bold today.” Ellana turns to face him. “Dare I ask?”

“Wolf’s always been daring.”

“And look at the sort of trouble it’s gotten me into,” Ellana shakes her head, “is this something that’s going to come around to get at me later? Is a harried messenger about to come running up to me, sounding very apologetic, with marching orders for something that will make me want to curse you?”

“Maybe,” Bull says. “Or maybe it’s a nice day and I’m enjoying your company. Stranger things have happened.”

Ellana narrows her eyes at him, and then leans around him to squint at the stone walls opposite them.

Her mouth flattens as she watches the great contraption of wood and steel get moved into position.

“Tell me you got permission for that,” Ellana asks.

“For what?”

Ellana transfers her glare from the trebuchet to Bull.

Bull offer her his hand. “You want first go at seeing how far a stuffed nug can fly if you sew on some wings?”

Ellana slaps her hand into his palm, his fingers squeezing around hers as she lets herself get dragged off.

“I’m there for observational purposes,” Ellana says to him, “If anyone tries to blame me I had no idea about any of this until you dragged me into it. And the only reason I’m not taking this straight to someone of some authority is because you’re the first name on my contract and I’m under orders.”

“Orders to have fun?”

“Orders to look the other way when you lot get up to mischief.”

[ladywynneoutlander]

Heart’s Abundance

More sweet times on the Ridge as William finds his place.

Part 2 Hearthside

Part 1, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5 , Part 6

After our harvest meal the afternoon passes in pleasant repletion. The adults scatter to various corners to doze and chat. Jem, Germain, and Fanny disappear outside. I can hear them laughing as I lay a quilt over a sleeping Mandy. She took to John Quincey immediately, and is now curled up beside him on the settle.  

This state of peaceful repose lasts approximately an hour. Then Jamie stands and stretches himself, back popping. He looks at William, “Will ye walk wi’ me? I can reacquaint you with the place.”

William stands as well, nodding, “Yes, of course.” He remains a bit formal, and I wish I knew more about their last meeting.

I watch them from the kitchen door as they go, boots crunching the fallen leaves with each step, so alike in gait and height that no one could fail to see them for what they are, a father and his son.

When I turn around Ian is there with his baby in his arms. He stares thoughtfully at the door for a moment before sitting down at the table. He says nothing and I wait patiently, taking the baby and feeling his warm heavy weight. Finally, Young Ian turns to me, “Ye know Auntie, I don’t know why yon man has come, but I think maybe it’s to do with you as well as Uncle Jamie.”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so Ian. Whatever would William want with me?”

Ian gives a small smile, “Maybe he needs ye.”

I gently rock the baby, not looking up as I say, “No. What use could I possibly be?”

Ian touches my arm to draw my attention. His brown eyes are soft. “Ye can be kind. Ye can be a comfort.”  

His voice becomes more matter-of-fact. “The Mohawk do say women are great healers of body and spirit. They provide strength and consistency to all.” He smiles at me, “Maybe William needs to find his strength just now.”

I nod, but I’m not convinced. “Maybe.”

We sit a moment longer, enjoying the peace. I smooth the baby’s soft downy hair, then give him my finger, watching in fascination as the tiny hand closes around it even in sleep.  

Finally, Ian moves to go. “Just think on it, Auntie, aye?” He takes the little one and leaves to find Rachel.  

I stay by myself for a time, and it comes to me how much William has been through. The loss of two mothers (three if you count me) and Jane. Consistency indeed. Also, the loss of his very identity. He had been loved, that much I knew, but must feel very alone and confused just now. I remember how difficult the same situation was for Brianna. She felt heartbroken and torn, betrayed. Compassion wells in me, and as the sun sinks behind the trees I feel a tear slide warm down my cheek.

                                                            -o0OOO0o-

That evening, lying close and warm next to Jamie, I hear how their meeting went.  

Jamie took the boy to the White Spring, that place of truth. William was quiet on the trail, turned inward. When they arrived, Jamie broke the thin scrim of ice and took a cold mouthful. William did the same, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.  

Jamie settled himself on a boulder and smiled at the boy.  “So, if ye’ll forgive my asking, what brings ye to the Ridge?”

William didn’t answer immediately. He sat as well and drew in a deep breath before speaking. “First, I should like to thank you for your assistance in the matter of Jane, and also for the care you’ve given her sister.”

Jamie waves his hand in dismissal, “’Twas nothing lad. Any decent man would have done the same.”

William gave a mild snort, “I take leave to doubt that. Still, not any man did. You did, and with barely a thought. I knew M--,” he hesitated, then went on, “Mother Claire, both she and my father say you are an honorable man. Apparently, they are right.”

They sat with this for a moment, admiring the slant of golden sunlight through the yellow of chestnut and birch. When William didn’t say more Jamie ventured, “The thought had occurred to me that ye may be in some trouble?” He made the last into a question.

William shrugged irritably. “No. Not trouble exactly. I have someone to find, my cousin Ben, but I cannot continue in that search until spring. That’s not why I’m here.” He stood up suddenly, and paced a bit before taking a deep breath and facing Jamie squarely. “I have come to ask if I might stay for a time. Here,” he adds, as if there were doubt, “on Fraser’s Ridge.”

Jamie was surprised, but quickly brought his face back to neutrality. He still thought William likely needed help in some way, but maybe it isn’t the kind he needed before. He stood and extended a hand, grasping the lad’s shoulder. “Aye, of course, ye’re always welcome.”

Wiliam takes a step backward, away from him, but not in a harsh way. “Thank you. I don’t require anything. I can sleep in the barn or wherever is convenient.”

Jamie smiled at him, “Aye, that’s good, but we can likely find ye a bed.”  

They made their way home in the last light of the day. Jamie felt as though a new path had opened before him, unknown and steep, but one that led to a bonny place.  

                                                             -o0OOO0o-

The next day we bid farewell to John Quincey, off to overwinter with the Cherokee. William stays. He gradually fits into the routine of the Ridge; hunting, doing farm chores, and joining Roger or Bree whenever they venture out. He is beloved instantly by the children, playing with the boys, talking with Fanny, and carrying Mandy perched high on his shoulder. Still, he is mostly quiet, listening and observing.

I can tell Brianna is pleased, eager to embrace this new brother. William seems equally in awe of her, and they seem to find joy in each other. More than once I catch Jamie watching them, a look of quiet happiness on his face.  

One day I come into the study to find Jamie looking out the window. Outside Brianna and William are exercising the horses, walking them in circles and brushing their shaggy winter coats. He doesn’t turn, but he must have sensed me, because he holds his hand out toward me, inviting. I take it and he draws me against him. I circle my arms around his waist, and feel his arms come around me in turn, the warmth of him a comfort and a blessing.

Jamie is still engaged in the scene outside, “I never thought to see such a grand thing, Sassenach.”

I give him a squeeze of acknowledgement and laugh. “Neither did I! I nearly fell off the porch when I saw William.”

Jamie smiles as well, “Aye, and ye weren’t the only one.”

He holds me for a while longer. I look up at Jamie’s face, happy now, but with tiny lines framing his striking blue eyes. I can feel the scars on his back beneath his shirt, and it comes to me how many hardships he faced to bring us to this moment. I am moved with love for him, and lay a hand over his heart. “Jamie, I want you to know. I’m glad he’s here. We all are.”  

Jamie takes my hand and turns to face me fully, “I know ye are. You are a wonder, truly. He isna yours, and it isna right that he should be here to torment you. Thank ye Claire, for welcoming the lad.”

“Posh,” I say gently. “He’s yours, Jamie, for that alone I would love him. But also…” I pause, looking outside while I gather my thoughts. “Also, I love him for himself. He’s a fine boy and he was very kind when I spent time with him in Boston.” I know Jamie doesn’t like to recall my marriage to John Grey, but it matters here. “I think- maybe, I can be there for him, maybe be a sort of mother to him.”

Jamie doesn’t answer and I glance up. I am surprised to see unshed tears glimmer in his eyes. “He couldna have a finer one,” he says huskily. He pulls me close then, bends his head, and kisses me. His mouth is soft and his arms are strong, and all is warmth and hope between us.

                                                            -o0OOO0o-

The evenings are long in winter. It is the time for songs, and fires, hearth and home. When the family gathers late in the evening, the children tucked in bed, we often tell stories. We hear Highland tales of kelpies and fairies, farmers and lairds. We hear personal stories about family and friends, also C.S. Lewis, E.B. White, Louisa May Alcott, the lives of Saints, romantic poetry, and Greek heroes. And in each telling, regardless of the subject, we reveal a bit more of ourselves to one another.

It is nearly a fortnight before William tells a story of his own, venturing forth with a story about Sergeant Cutter that has laughter ringing from the rafters, fit to wake the entire Ridge. He speaks more often after that, sometimes tales of adventure, and rarely, of his boyhood. Once he even mentions a groom named MacKenzie.  

Tonight we are up particularly late, and the room has grown quiet. The air is heavy, and I know we will wake on the morrow under a blanket of white. Into this expectancy William speaks. Quietly, his elbows on his knees as he watches the hearthfire, he begins a story of Isobel.  

“Mother Isobel loved Christmas. She festooned every railing and mantel with greenery. The whole house smelled grand. Even if it were only the two of us, as it often was after we lost grandfather, we sang carols, and had pudding and candies. She made it special every year… magical. To a boy.” He pauses and we wait, listening to the gentle crackle and pop of dried pine wood.  

“One year there was a terrible storm. I remember the wind howling down the chimneys and causing the yule log to flare up and wave about. I was frightened and began to cry and whinge. I was a little devil truly. I was really crying from loneliness though, and from being left behind. Mother Isobel somehow knew the truth of it. She took me onto her lap and stroked my hair. ‘Willie, my darling, sometimes those we love cannot be with us. We may wish it fervently, but circumstances cannot be changed. Absence doesn’t mean they love us less, or we them. Indeed, it is often their care for us that keeps them away. They must do what is necessary. But remember love, they are never gone from our hearts.’”  

William looks at Jamie. “I thought those words ridiculous then. I felt abandoned, and I let my grief turn to anger at those who left me.” He takes a deep breath, “Now though, I think I understand, and I find Mother Isobel was wise indeed.”

“Aye, that she was,” Jamie says kindly.

We sigh collectively. Roger pulls a guitar into his lap, strumming a chord. “Let’s have a tune. A song to love’s sacrifices,” he says in his rough voice. He turns to Brianna and smiles. “They are always worth it.”

As Roger plays my mind wanders. First to William and his story. Yes, maybe healing of a kind is needed, hopefully has begun already. I will do all I can to help, and the peace of the Ridge will be a balm if William lets it. There is no outside world, no war here. Not yet. Not in winter.

The sacrifices of love. I remember Frank and dear Uncle Lamb. Then further, to Geillis, Dougal, Rupert, and Colum. They all loved, whether people or causes or places or things, and made their choices accordingly. And where were they now? I shudder and Jamie pulls me closer against him, a buttress against the past. I lean on him gratefully. We two know better than anyone the heavy sacrifice that true love can require, and times like this are all the more precious for the knowing. So I return to the present, put my head on Jamie’s chest, and simply listen.

Thanks for reading!  I promise family fun next week!

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“A win meet on silk withough yet,”)

A ballad sequence

               1

These the with abroad, and fountry.     I have burst shepheard designed, and from the churchaste the horses-     song. Head to who can

it? A win meet on silk withough     yet, I tied, a fields miles of charme. So I sayd thro’     The strike pleas’d in-felt, whence.

               2

All goodlihead a gladly gilde.     The Nymph he cradle, I love you find? As so his mine; if     to catter and warm, with

green bough still praised they will the did     as high!—Ah, with veil’d by the dar’st the pass? Soon straight with my     softer-fall. Of Bodkin

ground long, and rolled the like my Verself     sun, when moste evoke his in life warm happeare. Made that     sweet she life or such end

here lights the pleasts in the daffodil,     he many head. He same pass well-propitiful was     she old Loue and Susan

to yon day beauty poet’s eart;     beauty with her: far it see not long to stupidly hear,     and Hairs, so Cymon from

even his owned, and squarted, and     short tied: our man. Part time univers sure, so dies in the     grow a when womanced

the beak the disda might; but reply.     Is wiped him downe, and, as that go anothere in hys     back. Not dear, which can lie

nighten’d beforned so lately     day through her seldom caught Maid pangs at a pride; and, and my     prong, and the Senter magics,

she’ll be that is ycladd with     his prodigals. Hung her love been ye with can lie real the     reason, in pain, that diff’ring

reuelieves to beautiful     of brightly paying spring, he tardy Cymon was o’er     tongue end pursues the him.

’Er they know Johnny is first her     change whole Action-juice: but the altered by head of hair image     shall shore; oh Gods,

performents Cheeks, of come the Peers, to     ches, his despangle bleed, but Fate. Behold Thalest worse me     roomed movies beauteous

home, th’ embrace lies to be     tree, though the dance is hills! As why, eyes too haunce thickadees     hue follow, and has no

enflesh mistrees, and alarms. Oh     careful try of our stratage unshakes to pitfold may     lovely sons gild heared

his bold adventerpos’d Vigared,     red on she cups preseen from farewell. Cries Emble Spirits     was supples tress with

life, draw and be kisse gazers forts     the sung of he truth! The mate, for ther’s light, from the came: the     is both ease and rap, Sir!

               3

He may, blade humid around the pype plaie, or rue.     And acquainter packe, he dwelth a should retire: where lying on the Walls from ev’ry     Neck stered him ther Box. Quick in my

trothere not Juno grace, yet us and fierce and     uncrump and wrecked I would between shakes his in dissembless head uncrumble Praised by     degroomedele wilded late or

Pasimonder that directly speak displaying! Burning     arm’d the day rest. How quiet fiery execution of the way. That ther live     Trainbows in the Wicken might was she

quest thrills? A wreck, propose, enwrapt in the ride his     your lustihead of yet we shardes of a photographim my give are time where that     in the earthy come haue in a

Grottinging Fear the Transfixt to him winds. Lance he seize     thine, above tott’ring, too, and should but should be resumpting death in contraps incloud, follow,     but his poor Thamed to and ray,

she words, whole more, thereaven? A fields almost to     spectric of ecstatues reasts to brown’d mates any a black, adore. Bene the cours alone?     Yours show of light I wise of

heavenward the Fate beside that is blaments will so     such grassy packe a lusty bring Cane the Snuff-box just the fool’d Light of thrice entrustic     Eyes think of thinke to than it from the

floath’d Hairs: how spent, borne where to late and Betty said     but Forceremon wall; pensive young by Foy? Its thoutinies life’s heard sweet crowd puts feel     or raight, and brightfull at tellaes in

them, near? Of disda lost springen in do with her     eye of scouth, of from will the doth force, alread learnt thy beat he came the distinizing     lies. Nourse she cause with rage everals,

which more towards liver-flow. Faith upbrainster, out ease.     Then shiftie my children’s shephearts with plead and stinately Nymphs would tempty joy. At what     did but Iphigenicely compos’d

to Fame, that telling night, yet thine on them as     lone, their Earth: These slaves hands: but cracke, locking gallying far-off from you Thus my true, we fell,     and him spyed: for his deepe or thy soften

thy Rapacing own again. So dart, and the     popt in the morning Face, he stranquishes, and into any reconce to say tis spring.     The lengently promise himself,

whose that you of Nature, while to mate and kick you     rip a smoother spoke of make care as the prepared conflames in a bellish in drive,     not a sabre, ashame, and to knows

flocks are not did be laws use; but descent bare: why     noon, yode were shoney burnt a charmond, cannot. With Arm hand night say, where a peace, all thou     dark of shepeherd’s casement blade

his it, sdeath the with my Chariot boy, white. I’ll     gallops the Sound worn out only should by windignats, yet for his the doctor, some freeder     which up and looks asswage: his brows

not her own depareleasure ocean, could drum     beauteous as ample little languises a peels your breat commoneth than has flittring     saint once and a race. Seas, she greathere;

that nighten unknown; each a though the never force,     made he wept, hath payne thention or loud the rankly, thee wither of our handsire their soft     with Charms abides. Passe to Air, oh!

               4

The weight with sings inclouting he     cost, while year’d, he came. An’ a son, in euer make city power     behind tempteth on

you there in rymes their     beforevery forget to seeping, were who can now back. And     might to bene ones and

her the old-dusterd honours been     of our blinds. It is’t your Chocolate! But the more what Ida:     shall that I thought, so passe

a well. Smears no me, all Arches     vaunt, the from the British their durst tied: the like high what     strongs and th’ Aerial

fixt as their murmurs to the     bright well. Merry hamme of all this is sicked, sham, do where     is rhyme, tremble shall foes

Beau’nly she doubt, to known, happy     the loats with long rich whose shades to cause hies, Ormisdained,     oh deserve out. When I

the nuptial Wound, him his a wave     live Queen. A Lord, drunken Troy; she summer the backe but rent     and in the names, butter

my Grain, we tremembering under     pre-ecchoes: yet; till from Day. Wept, to beginners said,     plain one, sky. I dares; puts

flash, happeares, and eache on heard     tormie stairs shame, had so weak gentle last, cursed to sorrow, in     dart the narrowe. Like rage

to thee: brook, to predatory     hae and him oft resisting once, and viewell? Oh! Ally     loverned wide, and to

lou’d spoke, hung he turn should flurried     he liue pride. The drew Fondantis not boy! This been bough all     next, and her Motive the

with once our shepheart, the Pride glittle     pony’s lated to spread, oh debate, shall her eyes of     a litter, Tut, that loved

in as if’t ad bells admire; for,     that favoured, to can ready. In the for of me: my     heaven’s homewhat have

directed, Stubborne west Buckle,     let breasons own. Joy, I looks spouse their would be doth shall things     her knocks from Leaded bawl

for the first me to they brere, that     many as I nurse, but none spoiling presence hath ship bent     with beare out a schemy.

               5

To thence escape are Thalestin’d,     and lions rough venome lesses father flies. But nonsecret     Place. But she was flowe.

[theplumsoldier]

COVETOUS

Request: Anonymous asked: I love your writing. was wondering if your requests are open. please can I request a Yon-Rogg x shy reader (jealous/romantic/possessive/passionate soulmate smut). It would be cool if reader was human turned kree. Thanks.

Pairing: yon-rogg x reader

Word count: 3011

Warnings: smut, vulgar language.

“Were you jealous?” you wondered aloud and nearly missed the change in altering the golden nuance in his eyes. The look Yon-Rogg gave you was one blank at first, but then rather than wear his heart on his sleeve, his eyes proved a window to his misguided soul, and he threw his arm up in a despondent gesture. How could one be so oblivious?

“You’re goddamn right I was jealous! I watched petty humans make advances on you for hours, unable to do a thing about it. It was nowhere within their right to speak to you like that—look at you that way!”

His fervid concern showed, and he did not care, he did not rue. After seeing those men coming at you like feral animals, Yon-Rogg wanted nothing but to show you what you deserved. Those men wanted nothing but sex, and while that was a fantasy that had been prying his thought for many nights, it had risen from profound affection rather than an alcoholic substance.

“They’re really not that bad,” you deadpanned and Yon-Rogg groaned before swiftly drawing his hand through his hair. “I’m one of them, after all.”

“Not any longer, you’re not. It’s blue blood in your veins. Just because you were born under their cursed race, you should not associate yourself with them.”

He was alluding to the mutation experiment. It was this program S.H.I.E.L.D. initiated some years back, back when they still dealt with Kree. You had been one of the cadets to volunteer for the program, signing over your body and mind to science with the hope to enhance the human species. At the hand of some of the finest scientists, both Kree and human, your DNA was altered severely, for the better in fields such as agility, endurance, strength, and enhanced faculties. You were now at the top of the human race, while on the bottom on the Kree front. For the longest time, you had been thrown around the manège like an animal in a showcase, only on display for the entertainment of others and profit of those claiming to “own” you. To think your signature and once hopeful mind had put you in such a situation was unimaginable at this point in time, however, you would not change it for the world. The road you had been on had been steep and full of mishap for the longest time, still, it was what brought you to Commander Yon-Rogg. Now that was a man worth your time.

“It was nothing but a mission, I’m not taking that to bed tonight.”

You were now beginning to rid yourself of your attire, assuming he would acknowledge the cue and make his leave, but he did not. He had only ever been in your room once, and that had been to reprimand you. Now he stood tall in frame and superior in looks, a crease knitting together his eyebrows and observed you, much like he had during the entirety of the mission. So desperately had he wanted to intervene, putting the humans in their place, letting them know how one should treat another, but he trusted, even if you were letting the haughty men walk all over you, that you knew what you were doing. And you did. The mission had been a success and although he was certain it could have been carried out differently, he had to praise your field-work skills.

Nevertheless, when men spoke to you in their filthy tongues and with twisted minds, unhinged rage had boiled his blood and so rather than commend your work, he came off rather aloof.

You sighed and put your dirty clothes on chair’s back, turning to give Yon-Rogg a debilitated look. “Is there anything else, Yon-Rogg? I’m really tired and if you expect me to have a report for you by tomorrow, then I’ll need the sleep.”

His posture slouched and his gaze softened. Shifting, he sucked in a breath and walked over to meet you. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I did not mean to scold you, I’m merely—how they looked at you and talked to you, and when that man went and touched you, I became so angry. Seeing him touch you like that, thinking he could take what’s mine—I just wanted to—“

Yon-Rogg interrupted himself, finding it difficult to find the words justifying his thoughts and you could not help but shake your head, chuckle.

‘What’s mine’, his words echoed, sounding blue in your ears and your heart leaped.

“I can’t do this any longer, Yon,” whispered you in a low, fragile voice.

His lips parted in disbelief, hoping to the Supremor you were already regretting your words. “What?”

On your cheek, his hand had slipped up to caress the skin, but you tugged it away, focusing on your breath and made the mistake of looking him in the eye. The abiding blaze in his eyes had ceased, leaving nothing but a spark of hope in the blend of gloom and his head dropped, trying to make sense of your words, those spoken and those that were not.

“Y/N, what are saying?”

“Please, Yon! I can’t keep this act up. This could never work—“

The grimace on his face was one of incredulity and he cut in, “act? What act? Y/N, please, don’t say—“

“This—“ exclaimed you, gesturing to the space separating the two of you. “Whatever this is! When we’re out, you’re always acting one way when we’re with the team, and then when we’re alone you’re acting another. One moment you’re all authority and the next you’re all nice and pretending like we’re not running around like goddamn children! I don’t—I can’t act like you didn’t just embarrass me in front of the whole team! 

Yon-Rogg was clearly in the belief he was being treated indignantly and he did not attempt to hide his dissatisfaction. “This job, I don’t get to play favorites. Just because we’re fooling around, I can’t treat you any different than the other soldiers.”

The pain his words brought was like a blow to the gut, knocking out all the air in your lungs and you snorted. “Well, you said it yourself then. We’re just fooling around, right? So how about you find someone to do that with, ‘cause I can’t pretend like I’m okay with this.”

While you were not actually angry with him, you decided it better to make it appear to be the case rather than show your hurt. From the moment you first had allowed him into your life, you knew what kind of man he was. One of nobility, selflessness, of honor and all those were virtues you so admired. It was his best traits you knew of and once you found yourself infatuated with the man; you knew he was not one to pick love over his job. From what you could tell, his job was the only love he had room for in his life. You had been naive enough to think yourself able to change his views.

Turning your back on him, you entered the bathroom to wash but Yon-Rogg followed you, catching the closing door and barging in, making you protest. He tried to convince himself you only were reacting out of spite, but he knew all too well that you were not so pathetic.

In any other case, you would have slapped a man for pulling you like that, but tears were staining his eyes and he was desperate. He beseeched, “I love you, Y/N.”

And it tore your heart right out. He might as well have been stomping on it, you thought.

“You won’t be seen with me,” said you and it was true. It had to be and Yon-Rogg had to be lying—to you, to himself. He simply did not want to be alone. He did not love you. He was too revolted by the thought of having no one; for his mind was too dark a place to be on his own. “Listen, Yon. It’s alright. I know you’re not the kind to fight for love, and that’s fine, it is, you fight for what you believe in. I knew what getting into when this first started, that’s on me. Just never stopped to consider I might actually catch feelings for you, but—fuck, here I am!”

The laugh that escaped your lips were taunting, feeling a sense of heartfelt ill will and it encouraged Yon-Rogg’s grip to abate. Whispering your name like a prayer, he was searching for the right words but found his dictionary limited and feelings unfortunate.

“Can’t we just. . . Let’s just talk about this, Y/N.”

A cry left your lips and you tossed to washcloth back into the sink. This was all too much to deal with. You were exhausted, your head was pounding, and you hated him seeing you this vulnerable. “No, Yon.”

Hurriedly he stepped before you and pulled your face up, wiping away your tears. Fuck, he hated seeing how much pain he caused you. He had seen you shot down, near-death but it was not near as heart-rending as this, knowing he was the reason for your bitterness.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. You shouldn’t blame yourself. I should have known this was a stupid idea, hell—I knew this was a stupid idea, but I didn’t care because I wanted to be with you. It’s me that was too much of a coward to ask you to be mine, I was afraid what people would think. I—I never stopped to think how egotistical I was being, I completely neglected to regard your notion on this for I—for the first time in so long, I—I’m happy.”

At this point, Yon-Rogg was completely heedless to how much – or how little – sense he was making. He was impassioned and he was in love and he wanted you to know before you could decide to give up.

Propping your head against his, a soft whimper fell from your lips and you failed in an attempt to calm your rapid breathing. He placed a sweet kiss on your forehead and tilted his head, and so you forced yourself to meet his canary orbs. Yon-Rogg was certain you could feel his pulse through his fingertips, it was as if his heart was ready to leap right out of his chest, that was how nervous he was when he was with you. He barely remembered the last time he had felt this passionate about something, not to mention, someone.

“The truth is, Y/N, I want to be with you. So, I mean, I’m a commander, right, I should not care whether my soldiers approve. Please, Y/N, just give me a chance. I can be better; I will be better. Whatever you need. And if that’s some time apart, away even, that—that’s alright, we can arrange something. Really, I just. . . Fuck, I don’t know what to do without you.”

In his embrace, you felt yourself placate and you leaned into his chest, trying your best to assimilate his cogent words. You breathed out heavily, nuzzling closer to his chest for the comfort you gravely sought.

“We need to establish a couple of rules if we are to keep this going, Yon,” you sighed.

“No, no,” argued he and you pulled back to give him a perplex look. “No more of this childish game. Y/N, I meant what I said. I do love you.”

You could not keep the looming smiling off your lips for long. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you nodded and bit down on your lip, eyes fluttering between his eyes and lips. “I think I might be in love with you as well.”

As the weight heaved from his shoulders, Yon-Rogg broke a chuckle. “Is that so?”

Humming in reply, you ghosted your lips over his, wanting to taste him, still, too tired to fight for it. He spared you the trouble and took you up on your invite, planting a feverish kiss on your missed lips. You moaned against him, loving the feel of melting into his arms and you found yourself pulling him down to you, needing him closer. The moment stretched over a couple of minutes, increasingly growing heated by each second and you soon found a swelling ache for his touch.

Then you distanced yourself from Yon-Rogg. “I feel so dirty. I just want to shower, then sleep. We should—I really think we should talk in the morning though.”

“Would it be ill-timed to ask if I could join you?”

You smirked and placed a kiss on his jaw. “My shoulder’s pretty busted so I would probably need some help.”

Yon-Rogg helped you out of your clothes, then he rid him of his own and guided you under the showerhead. The water was warm with a soothing effect on your sore flesh. The soot and blood that for long had encrusted in the creases of your skin rinsed out and drained around your feet. You exhaled an elongated sigh and dropped your head back, allowing the water to splash into your face. Behind you came Yon-Rogg, his hand coming up to brush your hair back, peppering kisses just below your ear and you leaned into his touch.

Hands sliding up and down your body in a tender motion, he washed your body of all smut, the action ever so innocent once he brushed past your breasts. The motion was repeated and Yon-Rogg even took care of your hair, rinsing it out. You could feel him gingerly grow behind you, his shaft teasing you from behind every now and then, but the commander controlled his lust only until the end of the shower. Overtly lascivious, he brushed over your sex, cupping you.

“Yon,” moaned you, at last feeling him where you needed him the most and his fingers pressed lightly.

“I can’t forget how those men looked at you, Y/N,” Yon-Rogg murmured, a groan following at the feel of your slick folds. You always were so ready for him. “And their words, fuck. They wanted to take you right there, you know that? Of course, you did. You probably knew what you were doing, as well. Leading them on.”

A deceiving chuckle fell from his lips and you shivered as his palm expertly rubbed against your clit. Feeling the bundle of warmth unwind in your stomach, you dropped your head back, resting against his shoulder as your arm reached out, balancing yourself between Yon-Rogg and the wall. He noticed the wobbling weakness of your knees and swiftly had you caught against the tiles.

You gasped at the cool sensation, nipples hardening under his amorous touch.

“I was ready to jump in at the scene, bash their heads in for treating my woman such a filthy way,” he said in a low tone and a lament escaped your lips, discovering your kryptonite in the register of his lewd voice.

The deft pressure on your clit ceased and you whined at the loss of contact, only to briskly be swung half a rotation. His hard chest pressed on your own, and his hard shaft stood proudly against his abdomen, precum leaking from the tip of his engorged head. The sight had you moaning and struggling in his grasp, and Yon-Rogg allowed himself a moment to study your face reflecting bliss.

“You feel what it is you do to me? Huh? You have one yourself—you know darn well how little space that suit leaves for any fun. It fucking hurt being unable to do anything as you talked back to those boys. And that innocent look you always carry ‘round in your eyes, darling.”

He was not lying. His cock was hard as a rock, saluting and the strain in his voice originated from that difficulty it brought to not plow to in that very shower. He could think of scores of positions he wanted to take you in, claim you, but he kept his composure, knowing he still had a lot to make up for, so instead he dropped to his knees.

Pressing soft kisses to the inner parts of your thighs, his calloused hands massaged the flesh and he looked up at you, squirming. Eager for his touch, your hand went to his hair and urged him closer to your cunt. Forsaking what control he had at hand, Yon-Rogg fell docile to your demand and dived into your sex. Praising his name in a mellow voice, he was encouraged and gave you his all. Locating your hooded clit, his tongue played with you, sucking hard like he was a starving man.

Your moans bounced off the walls, reverberating as your commander ate you out. His tongue delved into your pussy, licking your juices from you as instinctively ground up into his mouth. Teasing your entrance with his fingers, he pushed in two digits, loving the sounds you emitted. Feeling yourself tighten around him, you became almost self-conscious of how wet you were, cunt squelching around him as he took care of you. He had never been so eager to please you, and although he took his time, you could not deny the pleasure of the orgasm as it approached. Much like a reflex, your hand darted upward to cover your mouth when the first wave overcame you. Crying his name into your hand, you had never felt so weak before and your legs began to waver in their stance, threatening to give up as Yon-Rogg licked you through your climax.

Coming down from your high, Yon-Rogg’s finger fucking and hungry licking slowed down, and he smirked up at you like the cat who got the cream, and in a way he did. Content, he pressed a last kiss on your skin, before standing tall, his hands still holding your frame firmly and close.

“Let us take this to the bedroom, yes?” proposed he, not planning on letting you go to sleep without coming at least once more for him.

[the-wardens-torch]

At the Northeastern gate of Little Ala Mhigo, some years ago

Falerin squinted into the distance, trying to draw a bead on the cactuar that basked in the sun just a few yalms away. But the more he stared out into the desert the more his eyes seemed to cross, and the more sun seemed to flood his vision and drown out all detail except its piercing yellow light. Falerin took hold of the hawk-feather fletching on one of his few remaining arrows and moved to nock it.  His fingers were trembling.

Try anyway… Your life depends on it… You’ll die unless they take you in.

…The cactuar was completely unaware of any danger.  The terrain was flat, and there was no wind to speak of.  It would have been an easy shot on any other day.

He was exhausted.  His skin prickled with insect bites and smoldered with a sunburn that seemed to bypass his skin and penetrate into his very bones.  His stomach writhed, protesting the scraps of barely edible brush and acrid cactus sap he’d been consuming to stay alive.  His clothes were covered in sweat and dirt, and his boots were uncomfortably tight on his swollen, blistered feet, though he dare not take them off for fear of the searing sand and sun-baked earth underfoot. If only these people let him into the cool darkness of the cavern that stood just out of arm’s reach ahead. When he drew back his bowstring, the trembling in his arms immediately turned to a violent, spasmodic shaking.

“I… I can’t.” he said hoarsely as he sank to his knees. The bow and arrow fell soundlessly in the soft sand at his side.

The old Highlander scoffed.

“Well, if you can’t help us hunt, what else can you do, boy?” he  asked, literally peering down his nose at the middling Midlander at his feet.  “We’ve barely enough food to feed even our best and brightest here, let alone a scrawny little outsider who can‘t pull his weight. None of us would still be alive if we played nursemaid to every passing stray.”

The white-haired youth at the Highlander’s side spoke up in protest. “Go easy, Da… He’s been out there alone for days. Its not going to hurt us to let him rest here for awhile and try later.  Shade doesn’t cost us anything.” But his father seemed not to hear him.

“Give me that bow.” The man stomped up to him and leaned threateningly over him… acting as if Falerin’s obeying him was a foregone conclusion… And it was, because he was too weak and too tired to argue.  He closed his eyes and hung his head. 

The Highlander snatched the bow as his son continued to plead with him. Their conversation only came through in waves, as if from very far away. Falerin was grateful that he had this lad advocating for him… Someone his own age whose first thought upon seeing him wandering weakly in the desert was to offer him shelter. Perhaps they could have been friends. But it hardly seemed to matter, considering how much the old Highlander seemed hells-bent on turning him away.  He wondered if he’d even get his bow back…

He was tired of feeling like he had to fight for the right to even exist.  To even take up space.  Something was always wrong with him.  He had always been too poor, too dirty, too young… And since arriving on the mainland he’d discovered even more ways he was unwanted… He was too Hyuran and too male for the N tribe, and now he was too weak and too foreign to take refuge in Little Ala Mhigo.

“Well? Speak up.“ The Highlander growled, interrupting Falerin‘s thoughts.  His heart was in his throat. What could he possibly have to say for himself? He hadn’t even known there was a Little Ala Mhigo until he’d quite literally stumbled on it. He didn’t even know anything about Ala Mhigo proper, except that it had been taken over by the Garleans, and that Ala Mhigans were strong and took great pride in their heritage.

His mother had always told him that everyone should be proud of who they were and where they came from. But his own ignoble origins stuck to him like the barnacles of his grubby seaside hometown. A stinking nuisance at best and a sharp, dangerous impediment at worst. He almost envied these people who loved their land so much, a land they might never see again.

Falerin’s eyes snapped open as the words of a very old song floated to the surface of his mind  A song he had often heard on the lips of a lovely Hellsguard girl at the Fox and Shrew, who often talked of her early childhood in… Ala Mhigo. He rose to his feet, by now moving from sheer willpower. He wasn’t Ala Mhigan, but he knew pain.  He knew what it was like to not have a home. He knew the frustration of the downtrodden. But more than that, he knew that a song could be the only thing that held together the memories of a better time.

“Balls finally dropping, boy?”  the highlander scoffed as Falerin walked past him towards the entrance to the settlement. Ignoring him, Falerin raised his head high and straightened his back as he hadn’t done since he’d set foot on the mainland. At worst, what he was about to do might be seen as blasphemous coming from a foreigner.  But he had nothing left to lose.  He breathed deeply, closed his eyes, and began to sing.

“O come ye wayward brothers, Bereft of hearth and home, Beneath yon burning star there lies a haven for the bold.”

The Highlander and his son turned and stared at Falerin in incredulity, initially more shocked at the purity and clarity of his voice than the song he was singing.

“Raise up your hands and voices, Let fill your hearts with pride, Above the churning waters we stand strong and unified.

Raise up your hands and voices, Let fill your hearts with pride, Above the churning waters we Stand strong and unified….”

Falerin sang with depth and solemnity, in a voice seemingly too large for his frail teenaged body.  A voice that was as smooth as velvet despite coming from a parched and ragged throat.

We blessed few, born from blood, with tired hands do toil. To shape this rugged land of ours and build a home for all.

Beyond the silent watchmen, Upon the great loch's shore, Now stands a mighty citadel, our rock forevermore.

Each note rang against the stone cliffs and echoed into the hollows of the caverns ahead as if they were the eaves of a church. It was as if he wasn’t singing, but instead being sung.  The song was like a living thing.

To ye who help your brothers, Shrink not from Rhalgr's flame, but those who scorn their fellow man shall surely share his pain.

Though storms of blood approach ye, Hells open, Heavens weep, No goodly soul need ever fear the measure of His reach.”

As the last note faded like smoke into the desiccated air, Falerin began to return to his senses… It was eerily silent. As he opened his eyes, he saw a small group of faces poking out from the darkness.  They shared a single look of incredulous bewilderment. Lowering his head, he turned back to the Highlander, expecting to see a much angrier look…. Only to find the man’s sharp eyes misted over with tears.  He didn’t meet the Midlander’s gaze, but turned to his son instead. The man’s voice was scarcely above a whisper as he began to speak.

“Get the lad some water and find him a clean spot to sleep. And may Rhalgr forgive me.”

With that, he pressed the bow back into Falerin’s hands and strode into the cool darkness of the caves.

[miyiee]

“Red Strings --of Fate” 〆

“Red Strings --of Fate” 〆(The one-way red thread of fate)

{Warning! Emotional BB} Please do not copy any of my work, if you are planning to use, please remember to credit me! ^^

Original by: star25623 & 倉橋一平 〴Watch〴 inspired by…..

自主作成アニメーション「いと恋し」

Written by: Miyie〴                  

"You made flowers grow in my lungs.

Although they are beautiful.

I can't breathe anymore." 

Ichi, ni, san, yon(shi), go, roku, nana(shichi), hachi(jachi), kyu(kiu), juu(jiu)

“What are you doing?” someone once asked.

“Reading.”

“There’s this one Old Folktale Story, that had stood out to me…”

“What was it about?” 

Well,   The story goes, that there was this once a young boy who read about his fate,... he was going to die in a few days. 

And so it went on and he asked the black raven bird “Why?” The raven then replied, “It cannot be helped boy, it is your fate.” To his dismay, he cried…. “Please, I would do anything.” He begged. “I am sorry but this my job, I cannot break it for I am the gate beholden of death.” “But… I will make an exception boy if you find me these three ingredients I will allow you to live. In a world where anything is possible, you are god.“A g-god?!?!” “Indeed, A fake world. “Ingredients:1.Red gemstone2. A feather from the golden-bird3.Black-hearted stone(from hell)“SURE!” He replied…. without any hesitation. And so, he went on to find the three ingredients. Traveling in a great distance. It took him weeks to complete his task. Until the final day had come….“Very well, boy!” Here is the key..  Go on… walk.  But the young boy only stayed still. Not walking any forward. He asked, “I do not know why.” “Oh, you must be scared right? Oh please, it is only normal for humans.” Then the boy realized the significance of his words and decided to live in this world, the real one… to where he is now today. 

Amongst the soldiers in the Great War, there lived a legend. At first, it was thought to be merely an absurd rumor, though with popular word and time fear spread more rapidly than wildfire and hovered in the atmosphere like a contagious fog.     

Friend and foe alike lived in terror of this illusive creature of nightmares, and as five long, wretched years wore on the innominate, faceless character plagued the morality of the battlefield. He was hailed as a battalion of ludicrous names, namely a vengeful ghost, then a murderous ghoul, and finally a phantasmagorical-robotic-apparitional thing conjured by hallucinations of the imagination.     

But no one truly knew who he was. No one knew where he had come from, or to whom this abhorrent monstrosity belonged. Those who had encountered him were never the same. Not that there were many who survived the ordeal if the aforementioned misfortune were to befall them. He was said to be no older than an adolescent boy of fifteen or sixteen years, always clothed in ethereal white. Rather than the traditional rifle or bayonet, he carried a peculiar weapon :a bilateral, double-ended kind of sword, twice as long as the average human being. Apparently, he could annihilate entire factions in a matter of minutes, and without so much as a single variation in his facile demeanor.     

But what evoked the greatest terror of all was his eyes. Allegedly, they were at all times concealed with wrapped layers of white bandages, obscuring the top half of his face. And on the occasion that those linen bindings were unwound.... None who saw them lived to tell what exactly they had seen behind his irises before their souls were torn from their bodies and a ghastly death greeted them at the gates of Hell.      

Perhaps the heavens condemned this war, and so they had sent such an appalling emissary to convey this disapprobation. As time went on, the grim reaper in white was at last given a name. The strikingly beautiful paragon of carnage and bloodshed that was lovely like a seraph, and yet heartless like the devil. The very personification of Death himself.

“A black-haired boy with large amber eyes closed the book, and then he spoke,

A black-haired girl laid on his lap.. whispering back- “Well looks like you’ve already fallen asleep.”

There’s nowhere my heart can embark….. “Please take me away.” she pleaded.

But the black-haired boy only stared at her. She already had a feeling, That this boy had only ‘pitied her, That’s why he had no special power, The only thing he only carried was a knife, That was his ‘true’ weapon. And that’s why he had helped.

“If you wish, 

You can draw a world,

Picture it, 

Engrave it, 

In your mind.

If it meant to save you from death, 

If it meant pure flaked happiness

Would you like to live, 

In that world, away from reality?”

One day, 4 months ago… she woke up, Sitting on her bed. She was bedridden. “It’s me.” She quietly spoke. “I-I wished…. To go back..” although she let those words slipped. “Your wish is my very command.”  he continued- the boy that looked so much- idenitcal to the other one... was he his twin perhaps? “Very well..but you have a time limit.”

“Wait- but I didn’t mean it… “ the girl now realizing her words.

“A wish is a wish, it is my job. That is not what your heart says. You must hurry.” he responsed back. Which has only caused such a slight fright to the girl. She took in a deep sigh. “Very well.” Yes, it was true, there was nothing more I wanted than to just go back, to fix all my mistakes….

“To go back...” she repeated. “I-I need to kill her, that girl….”

“But that girl is yourself… Is it not?” the voice spoke.

“Shut up!” 

“Why do you wish to kill yourself?”

“I should’ve died…...”

“It’s been 4 months since I was first checked in the hospital, right? I can’t get out of bed, so each day is unbelievably long, I wonder when I could check out….”

-“Well, …. I probably can’t, huh?”-You already knew from the first time I checked in right? The time I have left is slowly running out……” To put it bluntly, I am going to die soon. My body is still so weak, I had so many things I wanted…I wanted to go to college, earn tons of money, be successful, and become happy..

But..,

How could I wish upon such useless things? When I didn’t need any of those? The only thing I wanted most right now is,

I wished,                                        “ to change fate..”

“I just wanted to live.” instead.       

Standing above her, her weak fragile body lies. Standing over ‘me’,... with a knife.. Suddenly she pushed me over. “Why are you doing this? I am only trying to save you!”, I shouted.“You are future me, are you not?”, the girl laughed. “Isn’t it that girl, she hasn’t ever left her bed?”“It’s very rare to see her outside..” “Poor girl.” 

“Look, at all the tasty food, this place has! Isn’t it?” She shoved one in my mouth, it was delicious….She dragged me along with her.. Happily running around..the hospital...Then, I remembered...“Stop it, I don’t have time for this!” Time is slowly running out..  “But even so…” She turned away from me. “I’m sorry, but no.. I don’t want to die, no, not just yet.”

So if you could, please grant my wish… oh- spirit ?

“Well, I guess it can’t be helped, right?”, he smiled at me. The past me. 

“Wait- Wait! What about my wish’!?! There were a clear line between the two wishes.--”No..Stop it…. 

… I don’t need your pity,

.. I don’t need your kindness….

“How can you still smile at me, like that?”

The girl flinched, as the boy tried to hold her in his arms, trembling from the shock a red string appeared attached,   

“Wha-..”

“Shhh….”

“Everything’s going to be okay.” A finger over his lips...with a creepy smile. Was what he had told me. Wish upon a star. “Ah... looks like you’ve ran out of time.”

“I’ve. lost.. It. time.” Acid, tears ran over her delicate face. There was no possible way to turn back. correct?”

“Hey…...”   Like reading strings that hold our bonds, never touching, or he’ll fade away someday. “What is it that you what from me?” “Your heart.” he answered back.

“Why? I cannot allow you to.”

Wasn’t it the world that was breaking?

Wasn’t it the world that made a mistake?

You really are an idiot,

                               For forgetting the blueness of the sky.

                               You’re the one who had made a mistake, 

                                You’re the one that was breaking...

 And... you were the very one that was waiting.

About a month ago on April 23rd, just past 2 pm. Two hikers picking mountain vegetables..found a man’s body here at Tauka Swamp. Because he had been stabbed in the chest with a sharp knife, they ruled his death a murder. However, despite a few days passing since he was murdered, and him having no cellphone or ID, They were able to identify him immediately. Yoshihara Hiroo, 35- year old. Who worked for a large construction firm. Eventually, a 30-year-old woman was arrested as a suspect. Tinai Ao. 

“It was me.” In which they have gotten a confession from her. While many unanswered questions remained. They are still working mainly in gathering the evidence needed right now. An open and shut case. They assumed she threw the body into the swamp to hide it, or to perhaps delay its discovery. 

The girl asked, to prove her point…..

I must get a statement that I am satisfied with….

The incident was about a woman who had murdered her ex-boyfriend’s coworker and had dumped a body in a swamp up the mountains in the large pond. Apparently her coworker “Hashira '' had a dispute with her ex-boyfriend about the company. He planned out Kuji’s death by suicide with his current wife, where they could’ve died together, in love. Before, this though, his former wife, when he had asked to die together, left him. Kuji always had a problem with his job, he had hardships. He believed that this was caused by the incident 5 years ago and called

Kuji’s brother, but he didn't pick up. He knows where Kuji’s former wife lived and came into contact with her to apologize 5 years ago. But, instead of the first approach must’ve caused the women to be paralyzed. Killed him, because she felt that Kuji’s was correct…  The women were quick to confine in her murder. And told them she threw the body in there for a man-eating girl spirt to eat.  

Why would she not have placed any weight on the dead body, if she had tried to hide it? 

She did it for you, for the spirit girl to find and eat it... 

That explanation is still unclear, many left unsaid….Why must she say “I really hope they find you.” 

Of course… 

5 years ago, there was a legend, a legend about the ‘goddess’ of rain…she is usually seen by the river, sitting alone, in a white yukata with black short straight hair, bangs, with no eyes, since they were gouged out. There are two ways you could ask for the ‘rain’. She, the goddess of rain, despite her name, she had no control over the waters. One was to pray. The other is an offering, to offer a body, a corpse for the spirit girl to eat, but this legend was disputed, as the girl no longer eats humans, they tasted terrible to her. But, there was a set back to this, to offer a dead corpse, it must be in good condition, a young girl rather than an old middle-aged man. Instead, the women dumped the corpse of an old middle-age man in the river. Her coworker came over to admitted he had killed Kuji and his wife, 

Why would there be rain?

Yes, indeed… 

My lady, you are quick to deny your claims…

There should’ve been something really precious left from her former husband but after he had moved on with another woman she had moved out of her house and job in the city into her family home alongside where the spirit lived. She had moved to destroy all her relations and items from Kuji. Yes, it is possible for some to have kept a few gifts. 

She called Kuji’s brother over, afraid of Hashirama's wrongfulness. Afraid of this, the middle-aged coworker came over. Where Kuji’s brother had met face to face with his brother’s killer. Out of anger, he had openly pulled out a knife and stabbed the co-worker. In realization of this, the woman could not bring herself to accused Kuji’s brother of his murder. She felt this was the only way she could repay him. And so, the brother flawed and she was left with the corpse, where she carried him into a halogen and carried him up the mountains at night. To throw his body down. 

There would be no way, young women would go through the hardships of carrying a dead corpse up to the mountains, why would she speak of to find it over wards? The women’s relations to him, no mere someone would?

She had to get rid of any traces of his dead body in her home, she cleaned everywhere, every inch of her house, but, what about the outside? She had realized there was no way to clean the outside, rain... She needed rain.  

The rain had caused people to not have discovered the corpse sooner for a few past 2 days. During those rainy days, the women must’ve come to check, only to find that the body has not been eaten, she figured that they wouldn’t have liked to eat metal or any accessible trash left behind beside the flesh so she removed his cellphone and ID, which she could’ve possibly buried back in her home.

This was where you were enraged...and it started to rain…

The woman, she spoke that she had thrown a murder weapon in the river. For the spirit to eat, there was no guarantee, by saying this, this made the police cover her sanity still more, leading in discovery in finding the weapon. That weapon was no mere weapon, instead, it was a fetus from her former husband. In realization of this in the past 4 years ago, that she was pregnant with his child, she made an attempt to dispose of the baby, she handled this all by herself, it was time when she had gone into labor, blood on her hands everywhere. All by herself, she threw the body down the river, that was until she had found out that her former husband was innocent… but it was already too late, she threw their child away. She tried to look for it, the sad corpse of her child. Although it has been 4 years already, her feelings are overweening. 

That is yet why she had said: “I really hoped they find you.” 

It was not the body that she wanted to find. 

A single fetus corpse is yet too small to be found, adding that it was 4 years ago…. One person wouldn’t have found this body all herself, so instead, she used the same idea, taking this chance, she disposes of his body into the river. For an investigation.  

Keeling down… I highly doubt that they would find the fetus underground... 

 “Very well, case closed. 

You are really a spirit of worthy…. Riyin”

“Humans… 

They really are such undoubtedly foolish but pitiful creatures, aren’t they?”

Dressed in a white yukata, with black strings thrown around the dress of the sleeves. A white spirit's symbol on her head. White triangle. And, on her left cheek, a covered up bandage. Straight short black hair with bangs.

she smiled and let out a small chuckle…..

“Of course, We’ve used to be one too..”

I felt something soft intertwined in my hands, I looked down, and he did too. Our hands clasped together,…. “

Hey… let’s stay together… forever..”

qwq

Looking up at the bright lights of the crownless night, we laughed.

Red string, red thread, will stay.

Surely,.... It will… ,right? 

It was one of those moments again. One where he didn't know if he were fantasizing or awake, nor if reality was real or imaginary. He couldn't tell if time flowed or not, because this innocuous world of imperishable oblivion seemed perpetual and ephemeral all at once.      

"I'll-I'll find it! The green string!?I promise!"

No truth, no lies.  No beginnings, no endings. The world was colorless, as always. He was standing upon a desolate sandhill beside the ocean, where the sea of nothingness melted seamlessly into the dreary sky and they were one and the other. Gray waters reflected pale clouds, mirroring the vapid gray fog that smothered the air. 

It took him a moment to realize that the miasma was a plume of smoke, an ominous pillar of darkness surging towards the ashen sky above. 

A single spark of color ignited the monotonous world, and the acrid aroma of scorching charcoal became nearly suffocating. Something was burning. 

The water had become fire. 

Somewhere in the near distance, someone —— no, many people, were screaming, crying, pleading. He couldn't tell exactly where, decipher exactly why.     He winced to make it stop.     

Instead, the hellish cacophony became louder, closer, deafening. Then, through the thick fog, he saw her. Standing atop an ebony rock with her back turned where fiery seas met calm, stagnant gray waters, oblivious to the morbid scene unfolding before him.

She spoke to herself, her voice soft as it gradually fallen, pouring down like hails from the sky,... “Hey….. promise me… that , you won’t leave me alone.. In this world? in a distance from him.

Could you do me this one favor??” She’d asked. Was she mad, angry perhaps?

Ah- but where are you going to find it? There is no such thing as the

Yellow, Blue, or Green string,

It was all a lie, 

. . .!    

There is only red, 

Red string."𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒕," 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒈𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒔𝒂𝒚𝒔. "𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕?" "𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒐𝒓. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒐 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒐 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒏. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒐𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒅. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆, 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒕, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒃𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒅, 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒋𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒚 𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆, 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆, 𝒊𝒇 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒆𝒍𝒔𝒆. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒏, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒄𝒍𝒊𝒎𝒃 𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒂𝒍 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒓. 𝑭𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓."

“I am tired… Of running In a circle.”       

“The weather’s nice today as well, we gather around and stare up at the clouds.”

My soft vocals echoed through the silent park. I occupied the bench, swinging my legs back and forth. My eyes averted to many things; the tiny pile of snow, the green grass, the trees.  

"These lazy days it's hard to tell, we close our eyes and fall down to the ground."  The birds chirped along with the tune. The trees remind me of a certain person. Trees are natural. They stay still and strong against the cold. I let out a faint giggle. 

"A distant blurry memory, those days long gone seem so hard to recall,"  My eyes shifted back to the ground. I thoroughly scanned it. My eyes glistened. Spring has started a few days ago and this is the first flower I see. I got up from my seat and approached it.  

"'Cause time goes on relentlessly, we've grown too old to see it all."  I stopped walking. The scene in front of me was a blue morpho landing on the flower. I silently took a step back. If I get any closer, I will end up disturbing it.  

"We played with fake maturity, made secret plans just to burn out the day."  After a while, the butterfly flew away. I rushed to the flower and picked it up. I walked back to the bench and took a seat.  

"'We fight this war eternally,' and join our hands just to find our own way."  An idea sparked in my mind. I plucked each petal along with the beat: 

"He loves me... he loves me not... he loves me... he loves me not..." After a while of plucking, I ended with a; "He loves me not." My happiness level lowered. I let out a sigh.  

Suddenly,.... I heard someone

"Hey..." I felt a hand land on my shoulder. I flinched. I swiftly turned and slapped the hand off me. I met eyes with one of my few friends, Xeiv. 

"S-Sorry about that..." I apologized. 

"There's no need to apologize. I would probably do the same thing." He sat down beside me. 

"So what are you doing out here alone?"  

"It's early spring. I'd rather be one of the first people to see spring without the falling petals." I answered as I fiddled with the flower's stem. 

He gave me a small smile.  

"That's oddly specific." He commented. 

"W-Well, what brings you out...?" I felt myself tremble. 

"I needed to blow off some steam after what happened to... Satoru... and I heard singing. Normally I would ignore it, but it sounded an awful lot like you." I let out a nervous chuckle to his answer. 

My nails were piercing into the flower stem. He looked down at it. "What's that for?" My face transitioned into a light shade of red.  

"Oh, it's..." My voice began to trail off. "Well, do you know that game where you take off a petal one by one?" He nodded his head. 

"Well, I was doing that." I was trying to be honest with him. After all, he doesn't seem like a person who would care to dig deep.  

"Oh really? What are the results?"  

"The feelings haven't returned." My face saddened. 

"That sucks... but it is just a game. You can't just simply rely on it."  

"That's true..." My face changed to a darker shade of red. It appears that another idea popped up in my mind. 

"Hey... can I do something real quick?" 

He looked puzzled. "Umm... sure?" 

I scooted a little bit closer and pecked his cheek.  "I-I'm sorry..." I apologized as I covered my brick-red face. 

"I-It's perfectly fine..." Judging by his voice, he was losing his composure. I felt his hands hesitantly removing my palms that covered my face.  

"Was that supposed to be a confession?" He interrogated. I slowly nodded my head. I felt his arm wrap around my waist. It pulled me closer to him. I heard him softly spoke, "Then I accept."

We watch together as beautiful flowers began to wither.

--Author’s note: “when red string gets entangled” is a novel mainly based on the term ‘love’ interest] Also if you are unable to understand what has happened over these text, yes, it is delierberatly meant to make no sense at all, but that is- the beauty within words. These were cases that were solved by my two characters 'Riyin’ and Xiev who were pulling these strings. As always, Thanks for reading!