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cosmic-coyote7 · 4 years

Text

Speed write from suggestions via Twitter

[ Lukanette - Camp Rock AU ]

(Kinda camp rock but sorta touched the second movie more. Oh well. ^^)

~☆~♡~☆~

The sun rose above the cabins that formed a circle around a vast (and currently extinguished) firepit. The cabins were worn with their peeling paint and screen windows with holes in them, but many memories were contained in these structures. Countless lyrics had been written, hundreds of songs performed, and scores of various instruments had been housed here with their talented owners.

A sign at the entrance to the driveway declared this isolated place Camp Rock.

Legends had lived here and learned to find their voices and their talents. Being able to go here was a major opportunity and many worked hard for the chance to perform here.

One such performer was Luka Couffaine. Sixteen years-old and having been playing guitar since he was five, he lived and breathed music.

He hooked up his electric guitar into its amplifier as his fellow bandmate, Ivan, got behind his drums. His sister and bassist, Juleka, copied him in hooking up her instrument that was like another part of her body.

Ivan counted them down as Luke tested his microphone then ran his fingers over the strings, his electric blue guitar pick gleaming in the early morning sun.

They began practicing, their sound projecting out over the campsite and beyond over the water.

Various campers began waking up and groggily making their way outside. Some people were jamming out with the band and dancing along to the sound, but most just looked annoyed at being woken up by loud rock music.

One of the few who looked grumpy was Marinette Dupain-Cheng. She had once admired Luka, but she knew now he was a stuck up pretty boy who thought he was king of the camp because of his talent.

They were rivals.

Marinette preferred to sing and play piano. Luka could sing, too, but the guitar was his forte.

After the song was over, Luka jumped down from the stage and grinned broadly at Marinette, his dark and dyed hair already sweaty.

He looked pretty, she gave him that, but she still didn't like his attitude.

"How was that, Dupain-Cheng?" he asked smugly.

"It didn't put me back to sleep," Marinette offered. A few people snickered.

Luka chuckled and backed up, his smirk prominent. "You ready for the battle of the bands tonight, Dupain-Cheng?"

Marinette’s smile was challenging. "You bet. Kitty Section will be blown away by Miraculous."

"That's my girl!" Alya Cesaire, the drummer for her band, stood proudly at her friend's side.

Luka simply nodded then went back to join his own bandmates.

….

Later that afternoon, Marinette was hanging out with her own bandmates that made up her group, Miraculous.

Their bassist (and sometimes pianist), Adrien Agreste, watched as she paced around and continuously fidgeted with her hair. "You okay, Mari?" he asked, concern in his bright green eyes.

Marinette scowled as she crossed her arms. "That Luka Couffaine thinks he's so cool and amazing," she huffed.

"I mean…" Alya turned her laptop around to show Marinette Kitty Section's Instagram and website. "They have over ten thousand followers."

"Half of them are simps for Luka," Adrien said dryly.

"He is pretty," Alya said fairly. "Talent and looks can get you ahead of the game."

Marinette rolled her eyes, not wanting to be reminded of Luka's sparkling eyes or his bright smile…

Anyway.

"We need to blow them out of the water at the battle of the bands," she said with determination.

"Well, we're supposed to do covers tonight," Alya said. "Why don't we just focus on the topic we were given?"

"What was it again?"

"Julie and the Phantoms," Adrien answered, his eyes twinkling. "We've been practicing 'Finally Free', remember?"

Marinette groaned and flopped down, resting her head in Alya's lap. "I'm so nervous. We need to be perfect tonight."

"I mean we'll be steller," Alya insisted, smiling as she patted Marinette’s head. "But we should just have fun," she continued as she gave Marinette her water bottle and the other sat up to drink. "You should just end this rivalry with Luka and kiss already."

Marinette choked and spat out her water as the fluid got down her windpipe and back up her nose as she coughed.

Adrien snickered, and Marinette threw a shoe at him in retaliation.

"I do not wanna kiss Luka!" Marinette snapped, her cheeks flaming red like she had a sunburn.

"Mhm," Adrien and Alya said at the same time with twin tones of disbelief.

"I hate you both," Marinette grumbled as she grabbed her keyboard to continue practice.

….

Luka chuckled as Juleka and her girlfriend, Rose, worked on adding sparkly designs to the instruments and jacket sleeves to look extra vibrant for battle of the bands.

"I'm so excited!" Rose gushed as she fiddled with Juleka’s jacket sleeve. She normally was their lead singer, but a cold had put her on vocal rest. She was already a chatterbox, so the best they could do was restrict her singing. "You guys are going to do an amazing 'Now or Never' cover!"

"Thanks, Rose," Ivan said as he tapped on his drums and adjusted their equipment. His smile was sweet.

"Miraculous is going to be a difficult rival," Juleka murmured in her usual soft tone.

Luka sighed. "We can handle them." His guitar strumming became a tad more aggressive. "The audience won't be able to take their eyes off of us."

He took a pull from his water bottle, trying not to let the hostility take over and affect his playing.

Rose smiled brightly as she dropped on the log Luka and Juleka were lounging on. They liked this spot on the shore of the lake. It was quiet over here. Peaceful.

"Yeah, but we know you won't be able to take your eyes off Marinette, Luka."

Luka inhaled some water down the wrong pipe and choked for a minute as Ivan helpfully pounded him on the back. Knowing that was going to bruise his spine tomorrow, he scowled at Rose.

"You know it's true," Rose said with an upturned nose as she resumed her work with glitter.

Luka harrumphed as he grabbed his guitar and began to play more forcefully. "Come on. We have to practice."

….

"Welcome, rockers!" The head counselor, Clara Nightingale, beamed at the sea of campers that had gathered around the stage, eager faces upturned to gaze at the performers for tonight.

"Is everyone having a good time?" Clara called. The campers cheered, their voices projecting out over the lake, sounding like a crowd at a real concert.

Marinette was pacing up and down. She and her bandmates were huddled in a tented area to have privacy for changing and warming up.

"Mari, will you chill? We got this." His smile was warm and encouraging, but Marinette still felt the jitters of stage fright. She, who burst into song practically everywhere she went, was nervous. It was a weird feeling.

Alya smiled as she finished her make up and put an arm around Marinette. "Don't worry about the competition part. Just rock their socks off, girl!"

Marinette smiled at her two best friends then joined them in a group hug. "You guys are the best."

….

Kitty Section was playing their best. That was obvious to everyone. Luka was shredding the notes and letting the entire camp hear just what his guitar was capable of.

Juleka’s deep bass added a mystical melody to the higher electric cords.

Ivan's drums boomed like thunder amongst the string instruments, their rendering of the opening song for Julie and the Phantoms was causing the audience to scream and jump around.

"We ain't searching for tomorrow..."

Ivan's deeper voice could be heard even over the wailing instruments.

"Tomorrow," Juleka echoed him, her voice hypnotic. After she came out of her shell, she had found her singing voice.

"Because we've got all we need today,"

"Today," Juleka choruses.

Luka grinned at his sister then got up to his mic.

"Living on a feeling that's been running through our veins"

Juleka stepped up to her microphone and belted out,

"We're the revolution that's been singing in the rain!"

She flipped her hair back as she held the last note, and the crowd went nuts.

They clapped along with the audience singing the chorus then rounded off the song. They took a bow and smiled hugely at their fellow campers.

Marinette, who was standing off to the side of the stage, couldn't help but be entranced by Luka and how alive he looked up on stage. He was amazing…

….

Her jitters were gone. Her fears a mere memory.

Marinette had never felt so free than when she was performing on stage with her bandmates.

Adrien and Alya added their backing vocals as she sang 'Finally Free' with all the energy she could muster.

"We're all bright now

What a sight now

Coming out like we're fireworks,"

Marinette giggled as Adrien jumped around and stamped his feet. He was a goofball, and she knew he found his happiness in music to escape his life at home.

"Marching on proud

Turn it up loud

Cause now we know what we're worth"

Alya beat on her drums and smiled wickedly as she sang and added her lower voice to the melody.

Adrien joined Marinette in a duet, and he winked at her as she drew out the end of the verse and they jumped into the chorus.

Marinette danced over to Adrien and offered her mic. He grinned and sang back and forth with her.

"I've got a spark in me"

(I've got a spark in me)

"And you're a part of me"

(And you're a part of me)

"Now till eternity"

(Now till eternity)

"Been long and now we're finally free"

….

Little did Marinette know that as she danced away to jam out beside Alya's drums that a pair of light blue eyes was watching from the crowd, and they burned with jealousy.

….

Marinette finished the song, drawing out the note perfectly then grinning as she took a bow.

Adrien and Alya jumped up as the campers screamed even louder and applauded them.

Once she was off the stage and Clara had taken over again, Marinette paused as she saw a familiar figure standing beside the bonfire.

Luka was watching her with an odd expression: determination mixed with irritation and maybe… some admiration?

"Hey," Marinette greeted him. She smiled slightly, deciding maybe she had been a little petty. Seeing Luka so vibrant on the stage had softened her armor. "You and your band were spectacular. "

Luka blinked as if he wasn't sure how to react. He lost a lot of the irritation to be replaced by shock. "Uh… thanks," he said nimbly.

She smiled, and he responded to it with his own.

"You looked radiant up there."

Marinette’s cheeks felt hot again. She smiled shyly and said, "Thanks, Luka."

He looked at her, really looked at her. Weeks of being rivals and giving one another a hard time all seemed like a childish waste of time.

The way her eyes shimmered in the firelight did funny things to his heart.

Marinette walked up to him and leaned up, intending to kiss his cheek and consider them friendly rivals from that point on, but two friends who happened to be watching made their move.

Rose bumped into Luka and sent him right into Marinette while Adrien braced behind her long enough to avoid them hitting the ground. He slunk away as the pair stared into one another's eyes for a long moment.

Then they leaned in for a gentle but emotional kiss. They leaned back at the same time to touch foreheads, their smiles as radiant as the rearing fire behind them.

Clara was announcing the winner behind them, but it didn't matter. In Luka's and Marinette’s eyes, they both had won.

#miraculous fanfic #miraculous ladybug #miraculous au #lukanette #camp rock au #speedwrite

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hermannsthumb · 4 years

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star crossed lovers and curses? TYSM for writing these btw I love your writing

64. Star Crossed Lovers & 98. Curses

from fanfiction trope mashup here

ANOTHER 2 YR OLD PROMPT….this concept seems sufficiently fairy tale enough for a little Mermay, perhaps 👁👁

so like. this got a lot longer than I intended because I was having so much fun with it. OH WELL

———————-

It was a real slap in the face–Newt has to admit–for the institute to deny him funding for this one. Ten years of thorough, groundbreaking, devoted research–ten years of PhD after PhD–ten years of no vacations, or weekends off, or even dating–Newt just assumed all he’d have to do was waltz into his supervisor’s office and they’d shell out however much he requested, no questions asked. That’s how it’s always been.

And yet here he is now, solo-manning a rented skipper with rented diving gear and a backpack full of disposable waterproof cameras, sunburned and dehydrated and miserable, all just because–

(“It’s stupid?” he said. “You think my idea is stupid?”

“With all due respect, Dr. Geiszler,” his supervisor said, not even pretending to be apologetic about it, “yes. We’re not going to pay for you to chase after the Loch Ness Monster.”

“That’s in Scotland!” Newt shouted, and then Newt started shouting some more, and he maybe had to be escorted back to his lab, but he wasn’t fired, at least, and the next day he cashed in ten years’ worth of hard-earned vacation and declared he’d be fucking off to the coast to pursue a completely legitimate doctorate in crypto-marine-zoology. Or whatever it’s called. He’ll worry about the name once he gets it.)

Two weeks into his spite-fueled expedition in the middle of the fucking ocean, Newt begins to wonder if this isn’t a mistake. He’s running low on food, for one thing, and what little fishing he learned as a Boy Scout can only take him so far. For another, it’s really hard to do this sort of work by himself. Though Newt usually goes solo for shorter expeditions, he’s used to having an intern or two tag along to help him take pictures on longer ones like this–or at the very least, provide enough conversation to keep him from going nuts.

But the biggest indicator so far that this is one giant waste of time is the fact that in the course of those two weeks at sea, Newt hasn’t found one single, solitary shred of evidence. No giant squid tentacles. No sea monster humps rising from the waves. No mermaid tails. He hasn’t even seen a shark fin, for God’s sake. Just endless, deep, blue.

Starting to thing this might be career suicide, Newt writes in his field journal on the fifteenth day.

And then his boat is capsized.

Well, not really. His boat is almost capsized. Low in the list of Newt’s priorities for trip preparation–so low, in fact, it came in after pack razors and do laundry–was check weather report. It just didn’t seem important at the time, you know? He had other shit on his mind. It’s why the storm takes him by complete surprise.

Newt woke at dawn today to the sound of rain tapping lightly on the roof above his cramped quarters. The drizzle quickly became a thunderstorm. The thunderstorm quickly became–well, whatever this is. Waves smacking against the sides of the boat. Water sloshing onto the deck. A perfectly good cup of French press coffee upended all over Newt’s only map.

His boat isn’t capsized, but it gives a great, shuddering jerk that sends Newt sprawling to the wood planks and grasping for anything to steady himself–his bedposts, the ruined map, a chair leg–and a great flood of water rushing in. Newt manages to scramble up in time for his jeans to spare being soaked. (He probably should’ve packed more than one pair.)

It’s at this moment Newt finally allows himself to panic a little.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Shit. Okay, fuck. This is–” Another shuddering, wood-creaking jerk of his boat. Newt takes a few sloshing to the door and forces it open against the wind.

Iron-grey sea to his left; to his right; behind him; in front of him. The waves are angrier than anything Newt remembers from Boy Scouts. He flips up the hood of his rain jacket and stumbles out into the gale to lower the sails, or weigh down the ship, or something, anything to just–

There’s something pale bobbing out in the ocean some thirty feet away from his boat. A head, Newt realizes, a human head, a human head attached to shoulders, and his shock mingles with horror because oh, God, it’s a person! Their boat must’ve been wrecked by the storm–or they must’ve been thrown overboard–or both, Newt has to do something.

He cups his hands around his mouth and bellows in the direction of the mysterious bobbing head. “Do you need help?!”

Nothing.

“Hello!” Newt shouts.

Whoever it is suddenly disappears under the water; without thinking, with nothing on his mind but saving the drowning stranger, Newt shucks off his leather jacket and dives under.

At least this time, he knows it’s a mistake.

Newt is warm when he wakes up. Warm, and dry. The sun is shining overhead; the boat is still; the waves are calm. There’s someone touching his neck–a hand, damp, and oddly chilly.

“Stop,” he mumbles, and swats them away. He’s trying to sleep.

The hand returns. “Stop,” Newt says, and swats again, more. viciously this time.

He hears a small, offended huff. The hand retracts, though not before depositing his glasses on the bridge of his nose and swatting back in return. “Well, I’m terribly sorry for attempting to return these,” someone says.

Newt’s eyes shoot open.

There’s a man above him–sharp-cheeked, brown-eyed, shirtless and pale, his short, dark hair plastered to his head like he’s just gone swimming. He’s scowling at Newt. There’s something familiar about him that Newt can’t quite put his finger on–until he does. “You were in the water!” he says, sitting straight up. “You were drowning!” He wracks his brains for the memory of that morning: a head bobbing in the water, Newt going overboard, the cold, dark rush of the ocean, his frantic, wheeling arms– “I saved you!”

“Not exactly,” the man says.

No, that’s not right. There was the dark rush of the ocean, his wheeling arms, and then two cold, sturdy hands pulling him up, onto his boat, pressing down on his chest, a cold, wide mouth breathing air into his lungs. “Holy shit,” Newt says. “You saved me! What were you even doing out here, dude? It’s–”

Then Newt looks down.

The head leads to shoulders, which leads to a torso, but below that– “Holy shit,” Newt squeaks again, and then, at a loss for anything else to say, “Can I take a picture of you for my field journal?”

Where there should be hips and thighs and calves below the waist is nothing but a long fish tail, curving and shimmering and brightly-hued enough to make Newt’s eyes sting. It tapers into two large, translucent, fanning fins, the left of which is misshapen, almost as if it were wounded somehow. The overall effect is gorgeous, frankly. Newt’s never seen anything so gorgeous in his entire life.

“No,” the man–merman–says. “Goodbye.”

He begins to wriggle to the edge of the boat. Newt reaches for him frantically. “Wait, wait!” he says. “Don’t go! I want to talk to you, please!”

A foot from the edge of the boat, one hand on the railing, the merman turns back to Newt. His eyes are narrowed. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Well,” Newt says. “You, obviously. You’re–” He sweeps his hand in a broad gesture across the merman. “You’re not human.”

“Yes,” the merman says.

“And you saved my life,” Newt says.

Another scowl. “Yes. You’re bloody lucky I was passing by,” the merman snaps. “What on Earth were you doing out here in the middle of a storm like that? You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

Newt shoves his glasses up higher and scoots closer to the merman. “I’m a scientist. A marine biologist, technically.” And, if you were to get even more technical, only a fifth marine biologist. Newt tended to look at his doctorates in a glass-half-full way. “I was, uh, gathering research.” Suddenly it occurs to Newt that he and the merman might have cultural differences he never even dreamed of, and he flushes with embarrassment. “Wait, do you know what a scientist is?”

“Yes,” the merman snaps again.

“Right,” Newt says. He coughs. The merman’s scowl hardens. Frankly, legends of sirens luring sailors to their deaths aside, Newt didn’t expect merpeople to be quite so…bitchy. Maybe he just got stuck with the most foul-tempered one in existence–it’d be just his luck. “Well. Uh. My name is Newt. It’s nice to meet you?” He holds out his hand, and then remembers himself. “Uh, this is how humans greet people. You shake it.”

“I know,” the merman says, and then (in a way Newt can’t help but feel as somewhat condescending) shakes Newt’s hand with a firm “Hermann.”

Newt snorts before he can help himself. Hermann pulls away. “Hermann,” he echoes. “You know–”

“I know,” Hermann says again.

“It kinda sounds–”

“I know,” Hermann says.

“It’s just kinda funny,” Newt says, and begins to snicker.

“So is ‘Newt’,” Hermann huffs, and then, before Newt can stop him, he dives back into the ocean with a splash and a flick of his shimmering tail.

Newt rushes to the railing and peers into the murky depths below, but it’s no use. Hermann’s long gone. His first real, solid evidence of crypto-marine biology, and he couldn’t stop being himself long enough to ask a few simple questions.

“Shit,” he sighs. He makes note of the meeting in his journal anyway.

He sees Hermann again four days later. It’s a bright, sunny day, not a cloud in the sky, and–in a better mood than he’s been since he started out–Newt decides to take the opportunity to do some maintenance around the boat. Turns out Doc Martens don’t offer the most amazing traction on slippery decks, especially when you’ve somehow managed to wrap ropes from the sails around yourself and lose the ability to move your arms. Newt learns this the hard way.

Luckily, Hermann is there to catch him.

“You are a bloody menace,” he scolds, as a half-soaked–but safe–Newt blinks dumbly at him in the safety of his surprisingly sturdy arms. “What were you even attempting to do?”

“Uh,” Newt says. “Fix the sails?”

Hermann rips the ropes off of him effortlessly, then lifts him higher. Newt stays still, blinking, before he realizes he’s supposed to be climbing onto the deck, and then scrambles up over the railing. “There we are,” Hermann says, sounding equal parts smug and satisfied.

“Thanks, dude,” Newt says. “If you hadn’t been here–” He frowns. “Wait, what were you doing here?”

“Nothing,” Hermann says, too fast, and Newt grins.

“You were totally spying on me!”

“I was not,” Hermann snaps. “I was merely passing by. You’re awfully hard to miss. So–noisy.”

“Uh-huh,” Newt says. “Well, lucky coincidence. Can I interview you for my journal now?”

For a moment Newt expects Hermann to dip back beneath the waves, but–glowering up at Newt–he folds his arms and rests them against the side of the boat. “What would you like to know?”

Newt digs his tape recorder from his pocket and switches it on. “Everything.”

Hermann is a begrudging interviewee, but he’s an interviewee none the less, and answers each of Newt’s questions with only a small dose of sarcasm. He eats fish, like some larger fish might. He speaks English, like most fish don’t. He lives in a city populated with other merpeople, who have jobs and families and houses, though significantly different from the jobs and families and houses humans have. “Technically,” Hermann says, with a strange, furtive glance around, “I shouldn’t even be telling you these sort of things. Interacting with humans is considered highly taboo in my society.”

“Oh, shit,” Newt says, and inches forward. “Seriously?”

Immediately, Newt’s brain works overtime to concoct an exciting, Little Mermaid-esque scenario: Hermann’s dad as the strict king of the ocean, wary of humans because of some ancient feud, Hermann longing for freedom, Newt–well, Newt would be down with kissing Hermann to help him get rid of that fin. He’d be down with kissing Hermann regardless. Newt’s scientific interest in him aside, Hermann is pretty good-looking. And–well. The forbidden, star-crossed aspect of it all is kinda exciting.

“Yes,” Hermann says. “Humans have hunted merpeople for centuries. Or so I’ve been told. But…” His face twists strangely–the corners of his eyes crinkling, his teeth flashing into view–and Newt realizes he’s smiling. Awkward, and shy, and unpracticed, but smiling. “You seemed different. I took a gamble.”

Newt blushes, just a little. “Hunted,” he echoes. “Is that what happened to your fin?”

“My fin?”

“It’s injured on the left side,” Newt says. “Like something attacked you. Did a human do that? Or another predator, like a shark or something?” Do merpeople have to worry about sharks? Maybe they keep them as pets. That’d be cool. If Newt was a merman, he would have three pet sharks.

“Oh,” Hermann says. “Oh, no, nothing so dramatic. That happened when I was human.”

Newt drops his tape recorder. It narrowly avoids bouncing overboard. “When you were what?”

“When I was human,” Hermann repeats. “Did I not mention I used to be human?”

“Uh, no,” Newt says.

“Ah, well,” Hermann says, “yes, it was some time ago. Perhaps a hundred years.”

“You look good for a hundred,” Newt says, because Hermann can’t have more than a couple years on Newt’s thirty-five. To his surprise, Hermann snorts.

“Yes, see, I was involved with a man,” he says, “and–well, he wasn’t pleased when I wanted to put an end to things, move on, you know, pursue other relationships. Only there were a number of things I didn’t know about him. He practiced–mastered, really–a strange kind of magic. He cursed me. I’ve been stuck this way–half-human, never aging another day–ever since.”

Merpeople, magic, curses–this is too fucking good. No one is ever going to believe Newt if he publishes this paper. “What kind of curse?” Newt says. “Like, one that can be broken?”

“Presumably,” Hermann says.

“Do you have to learn a lesson?” Newt says. He pushes up his glasses and leans closer. “Does someone have to kiss you? Like a true love’s kiss?” Newt was never one for reading fairy tales as a kid–having preferred the much more interesting alternatives of poking slugs with sticks and rolling around in the dirt–but he knows that’s a pretty big deal in those kind of stories. Frog princes and shit.

“I don’t know,” Hermann says. “All I know is that this has been very irritating. I had a laboratory, you know, with all sorts of fascinating equipment. I was a scientist. And now–”

“Can I try kissing you?” Newt interrupts.

Hermann flushes and shuts his mouth. “Ah,” he stammers, “I–I’ve got to–”

He disappears, in another splash and glint of fin. It was worth a shot.

Hermann comes back a few days later, and he comes back after that, and after that. Sometimes Newt asks him questions about being a merman. Sometimes Newt asks him questions about his previous life as a human. Hermann seems to like talking about being a human more, for reasons that aren’t very hard for Newt to guess. He was born in Germany, like Newt, though was schooled somewhat prestigiously in England (which explains the stuffy accent). He walked with a cane and a slight limp. He owned a very nice and very expensive telescope, which he misses, and worries about the well-being of, constantly. Sometimes Newt tells him things about himself, too: about his myriad of tattoos, his studies, how the human world has changed since Hermann’s time.

One day, as Hermann watches Newt eat potato chips and transcribe one of his numerous interviews from audio to pen, he suddenly reaches out and touches the corner of Newt’s notebook. “May I read this?” he says.

“Sure,” Newt says, hoping that Hermann doesn’t flip back to last week and read Newt’s entry where he described, in great detail, his attraction to Hermann, and the incredibly steamy dream he had about him as a result of that attraction.

Hermann skims Newt’s notes quickly, politely ignoring the grease stains Newt left behind, then pushes the book back towards him. He didn’t read about the dream. Thank God. “You called me a specimen,” Hermann says. His eyes crinkle in amusement. “How impersonal.”

“Yeah, well,” Newt says, heart pounding a little, because if he didn’t know any better he’d say Hermann is being flirty, “can’t let my institution know I’m on a first name basis with my subject. Conflict of interests.”

“Now, tell me,” Hermann says, “what do you plan to do with the information you’ve gathered when you return home? A book? An article? An exhibition? If you’re going to ask to put me on display, my answer is a definite no.”

“Nah, nothing like that,” Newt says. The truth is that Newt has no idea what he’s going to do with his significant compilation of research about Hermann. It’d be one thing if he found evidence of Hermann’s whole colony, or even a merperson besides Hermann, but to go zooming back off to his superiors with nothing three weeks’ worth of tapes and maybe a photograph or two–and after that tantrum he threw last month–he has a feeling no one is going to buy a single bit of it. Maybe he’d have a chance if he took Hermann back with him and did display him, but throwing his friend on the mercy of a society that would gladly dissect him without a second thought is completely out of the question. Maybe he’ll just write a weirdly detailed children’s book. “I might just keep it for myself, actually.”

The answer seems to please Hermann. He toys with Newt’s chip bag for a few seconds before–cheeks going a shade pinker–he says “I feel I ought to confess something.”

“Be my guest, dude.”

“I was following you the other day,” Hermann says. “I was following you that first day, too. And–” His eyes dart down, away from Newt’s. “Before then, even. You intrigued me, and I wanted to know what you were doing all the way out here.”

Newt grins. “I intrigued you. Ha! Cool. Well, now we’re even.”

Hermann smiles at him.

The last Friday before Newt is due to turn back and set course for home, he finally gets his first sign of other human life out here in the middle of the ocean: a fishing rig, at least twice the size of Newt’s tiny little rental, motors up not too far away from him and begins to cast its nets. Newt, an extrovert at heart and only mostly sustained by conversations with Hermann (who has a tendency to disappear for days at a time), is so starved for social interaction that he bolts out from his cabin when he spots it and begins waving frantically at the crew.

“Hi!” he shouts. “Beautiful out here, isn’t it?!”

He gets a friendly wave back. Newt expects he looks half-crazed, from his wild hair, to his unshaven scruff, to the explosion of freckles across his cheeks and neck, so he can’t really blame any of the crew for their hesitance.

“How are the fish?” he continues to shout.

A thumbs up.

“Cool!”

A net is drawn up; it’s a decent catch, but nothing too impressive. Earlier in the week, Hermann explained to Newt that, this close to mer-territory, anyone would be hard-pressed to find anything but smaller fish. Merpeople are much better hunters than some humans with a boat could ever dream of being. “I’ve been out here for over a month,” Newt continues his one-sided conversation. “I was looking for sea monsters. Have you ever caught anything like that before?”

No, they haven’t. The net is thrown back into the ocean.

“Okay!” Newt says. “Just wondering!”

The faint sound of groaning wood makes him stop in his tracks as he turns to head back into his cabin. Groaning wood, and splashing. Loud splashing. Excited shouts. It looks like the fishing rig netted something big.

Newt–determined, still, to be sociable–cups his hands around his mouth to call his encouragement over, but the words die on his tongue almost instantly. There, tangled up and flopping around in the rig’s netting, is a very familiar glimmering tail with a very familiar tattered left fin. “Hey,” Newt shouts, “stop! You’re–that’s my friend, you have my–!”

For the second time, Newt dives into the sea for Hermann.

He closes the distance between the two boats in no time at all, and–powered by pure adrenaline, ignoring the yells of surprise and anger above him–begins hacking blindly at the net with his pocketknife. A few more pieces–a few more strands–

It spills open. Newt feels a Hermann-sized shape graze past him, and a moment later, Hermann breaches the surface of the water. He doesn’t look very happy. “They caught me in their net,” he spits. “As if I were–!”

Newt hugs him. It’s not very graceful, considering the circumstances, but it’s something he’s wanted to do for a while, and he’s too happy that Hermann won’t be dissected or stuffed or something to care. “You caught my friend in your net while he was swimming,” he tells the fishermen over Hermann’s shoulder, now moderately more calmly. “I thought he was–uh–going to drown.”

The fishermen are profusely apologetic, to the point where Newt actually feels kind of bad for them, and it takes him waving them off with assurances they won’t sue or anything for them to hastily speed away. Hermann doesn’t look away from Newt once the whole time, his expression soft and just a touch unreadable. “You came to my rescue,” he says.

“Well,” Newt says, puffing out his chest, “a little bit, yeah.”

Hermann kisses him. Newt responds enthusiastically.

He’s so worked up over it all–grabbing Hermann’s hair, biting his weird frog mouth–that he doesn’t notice that the gentle fanning of Hermann’s tail against him has become the slide of skin against denim until Hermann suddenly grips at his arms. “Newt,” he says, eyes widening, “Newt.”

Well, even then it takes a bit. Newt kind of has a one-track mind when it comes to this sort of stuff. “Mm, yeah, Hermann,” he groans happily. He goes back in for another kiss, but Hermann dodges it.

“No,” he says, “I’m–” He gives a little kick.

Oh. “Oh, holy shit!” Newt exclaims, and laughs in delight. “Legs! You have legs!” Naked legs, in fact. Long naked legs–of course he’s taller than Newt. Hopefully he has some clothing that’ll fit the guy.

“Legs which don’t swim very well, I’m afraid,” Hermann says. He’s giving Newt another broad, awkward smile. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” Newt says.

There goes Newt’s paper, he guesses, but–strangely–he can’t really bring himself to care.

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag #Anonymous

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middlemistgrey · 6 years

Text

The Fisherman And The Mermaid Who Could Not Sing

Summary: Impervious-to-mermaid-songs fisherman, Iishiro (U-1146), somehow falls for the clumsy, can’t-sing-to-save-her-life mermaid, Reimi (AE-3803).

Notes: Mermaid!AU, of course.

[All names are taken from @lunchtimerushin 's (kyun-yo on AO3) Tumblr post.]

_____________

Twenty year old Iishiro could never understand why his friend Reiichi said that mermaids were mysterious and rare. He also said they were only found in the deep seas.

He could not have been more wrong.

The sea was literally infested with them, their songs and their bright, red tails.

But Reiichi would not understand because he was a paddy farmer and the only fishtails he encountered were those of the small fishes whose eggs he dropped in the waters.

His friend could go on and on about how wonderful and terrible mermaids could be and how men could spend their whole lives looking for them. He didn't understand.

He didn't understand what it meant to be a fisherman.

He didn't understand the thrill of the catch.

He also didn't understand what it was like being stalked by a mermaid.

… .. .

It began like this:

It was the time just before the break of dawn and he had spread his nets in the seas. He had been lying in his boat fast asleep when a cry woke him up.

“Ouch!” A splash, then another cry. He rushed outside to see the cause of the commotion.

It was yet another one of those devious mermaids and it looked like she had been caught in his nets. He expected her to break into a haunting song any moment, but it never came. A shrill scream reached his ears instead.

“Free me!”

He looked at her struggling form; she had really short bright, red hair and a glimmering red tail.

“What are you doing near my nets?”

She grew still.

“Catching fish,” she murmured after a short while.

“Mermaids don't eat fish. That's preposterous.”

“Oh my lord, why do you humans think we are fish protectors? What do you think we eat, seagrass and sand?”

Now it was his turn to quieten down.

“Okay, I am coming to get you out of there,” he said instead.

Iishiro removed his jacket and jumped into the cool waters in his vest and pants. He swam up to her to have a close look at her tail. It shimmered under the water.

It took him half an hour to finally free her from the nets.

She said her thanks and disappeared.

… .. .

The next time he saw her, she had been trying her hair with a fork she found in the debris of a drowned ship.

“That's not what they are used for,” he said casually. “Here, have this.” He tossed her his own tortoise shell comb which he had found lying around in his boat.

Till this date, his defense for giving her the comb was that he could not handle her idiocity.

He learnt her name was Reimi that day.

Reimi.

It slipped like silk on his tongue.

… .. .

She popped up wherever he was fishing. Not that he minded — he was a lonely man at the end of the day and she loved to talk. She was the only mermaid he didn't mind, actually.

"I'm actually surprised,” he said one day.

She looked up at him from her spot in the backwaters beneath him, amber eyes wide and quizzical. She was fiddling with her short tangle of fiery red hair, trying in vain to comb them with the small tortoise-shell comb Iishiro had found in the his boat. She had accepted the gift enthusiastically and had spoken about it to every seagull she knew.

She paused in her efforts to give him her rapt attention, idly sticking the comb in her hair to keep it safe.

"Hm? About what?"

He shrugged, looking towards the cresting waves beating against the rocky coast. For some reason, he couldn't seem to look her in the eyes as he talked.

"You're the only mermaid who didn't try to sing to me when we met."

He continues when she doesn't answer. “Come to think of it, I have never heard you sing.”

“That's just silly, Iishiro. Of course, you have heard me sing.”

“Oh really? I don't remember what you sang when we first met. My memory seems to be a bit fuzzy.”

“Fine. Stop pestering me. I didn't sing, okay?” she said. “I didn't think it would be worth it.”

Frankly, he was a little stung by the comment, but he played it off with his familiar emotionless face.

“Well, thanks,” he deadpanned.

Reimi looked at him and her eyes were wide and panicked, sunkissed skin rosy with mortification. "No, that's not it!" She insisted, waving her hands frantically about. "I just didn't think it would work, is all! Not that you aren't worth it, I mean you are, like, who wouldn't want to—erm, what I'm trying to say is, well, what I mean is—"

"Spit it out already,” he snapped.

"I can't sing, okay?"

He blinked once, twice, three times, studied her frazzled expression in her amber eyes, the deep stain of sunburn that coloured her cheeks and shoulders, the slight pout of her lip. And then he snorted.

"It's not funny, you big jerk!" she shouted, splashing at him with the shallow water around her.

"The worst—" Iishiro smirked, holding up an arm to block her sprays. "You are a terrible mermaid. Honestly. What kind of mermaid doesn't know how to sing? Isn't that what mermaids do?"

"Shut up!" she wailed, splashing her tail in self-consciousness. Her thrashing made the pool shimmer with ripples, and he couldn't help but notice the way the sunlight caught on her scales. "I know that I'm a terrible mermaid, okay! That doesn't mean that you have to be a jerk about it."

He actually felt bad; Reimi looked genuinely upset by his teasing. And he realised suddenly how terrible it must actually be to be a mermaid who can't sing; she had explained many times how singing is how they find their mates.

"Come on," he offered with what he hoped sounded like sincerity, "It can't be that bad."

"Yes it can," she mumbled, sinking down to blow dejected bubbles in the water with her lips.

"Don't pout about it."

"I'm not pouting!" she shouted, whirling around and hurling the comb at his head. He dodged it easily and heard it land in a nearby pool. She grumbled something, drifting to the far side of her little backwater pool.

He sighed and walked to retrieve the comb; he knew she loved the thing far too much. Iishiro could feel her angry eyes on him. He bent down and vaguely registered the feel of the comb on his hand, when he heard her.

It was very soft and barely audible against the crashing waves of the sea, but he heard her, anyway.

“The sea is hot today, the city by the bay —”

She was absolutely dreadful.

“— has stars and dreams of rage —”

Awful.

“ — The rumbling from distant shores sends me to sleep…”

He walked towards her, crouched down to look at her as she peered shyly up from beneath her dampened curls of hair. Her eyes were shining, luminous and big and so, so amber. How on earth could there be such an amber?

"But the facts of life can make it hard to dream,” she finished meekly, warbling and horrendously off-key.

"That —” his throat was suddenly very dry. He gingerly took the comb and tucked it into her hair behind her ear to hold back the unruly strands. Her eyes were still watching him, still embarrassed, and still very, very amber, " — was terrible."

“You jerk!”

“But I never said I didn't like it.”

That night, as he went to rest in his quarters in the boat, he heard her singing again and just wondered the irony of how out of all the mermaid songs that he had heard, this was the one that finally got him.

#cells at work #hataraku saibou #cells at work fanfic #hataraku saibou fanfic #cells at work fanfiction #hataraku saibou fanfiction #wbc x rbc #wbc/rbc #white blood cell #red blood cell #mermaid!au #au #alternate universe

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fidemcanem · 5 years

Note

❛ ♡ ❜

send ❛ ♡ ❜ to suddenly hug my muse // accepting

@pr0ngs -- cut for length (5K+)

It’s 1971, and Sirius Black is eleven years old.

He’s fluent in French, and proficient in Latin. He’s got all sort of books under his belt ---- treatises on magical theory, histories of the pureblood wizarding families, dense histories and slim essay collections alike ---- though very few voluntarily. He’s been schooled in manners, in acceptable pursuits, in wizard chess and dancing and which fork to use.

His parents deign to see him off onto the train, noses stuck in the air at the crowds around him. “Remember,” his mother tells him, “you are representing this family. I expect you to do whatever is necessary to represent it properly.”

Sirius can hear another boy’s mother in the crowd telling her son to be nice, to make friends, to have a wonderful time, to write home often. He nods, sullenly, but doesn’t object. He’s itching to step away from her, to discover what life is like away from her rules and strictures and scathing, sharp rebukes.

His father merely nods at him. Sirius often feels like his father believes that his sons are not worth his words; he reserves them for his wife, for those who are useful to him. One day, his imperious gaze seems to say, one day you might be worth my time.

Sirius hugs Regulus, but neither of his parents, ignoring his mother’s impatient tsk.

And then he’s on the train, pushing through a sea of nervous and excited faces that he doesn’t recognise, until he finds a compartment empty aside from one boy with messy, dark hair and glasses.

“James,” he introduces himself as.

“Sirius,” comes the reply, and he sprawls himself onto a seat with no regard for posture or decorum, because he can, and nobody’s there to stop him. When the train pulls away, each breath tastes a little more like freedom.

By the time they reach Hogwarts, he’s got a firm friend (and ---- perhaps ---- a firm enemy; the greasy-haired boy in the carriage who’d been oh-so-proud of Slytherin had rubbed him the wrong way entirely) and he can’t believe that his house and his mother are so far away from him, that he won’t be back there for another three months.

He’s a little nervous, as they gather to wait outside the great hall, though he doesn’t let it show. He and James have connected with an ease he’s never experienced before; for the first time he’s found a friend that he’s chosen for himself, who isn’t defined by name or money or social status, hasn’t been vetted for appropriateness. What if he does go into Slytherin, and James isn’t interested in being his friend anymore ---- leaves him stuck with Severus?

James catches his eyes just then and grins. It’s a wide and easy thing, and Sirius can almost taste the promise of late nights and whispered conversations, homework completed by committee, catching quaffles without having to look to know they’re coming.

Something resolves in his chest. So easily, are eleven years put behind him. Toujours pur, he thinks, derisively. No, not for him the tiring rhetoric of his parents. He’ll make a new Black family motto, carve out his own path. Toujours courageux, perhaps: always brave. Like James.

James whoops from the gaggle of first-years when the sorting hat, after a moment of deliberation calls out Gryffindor! to the room. Sirius can see the disconcerted expressions at the Slytherin table ---- cousins and peers who’ll write home in shock, tonight ---- and doesn’t care, because James is grinning at him again, and he’s grinning right back.

The hat barely has to come to rest on James’ mess of hair before it shouts the same, Gryffindor! sending a thrill through Sirius’ body, right down to his toes. James comes barrelling towards the table with no regard for the professor who tells him to slow down, Mr Potter!, and Sirius barely has time to twist his body before he’s caught up in a rough hug. James squeezes him tight and ruffles his hair and says “I knew it, knew we’d be together!” before he lets go and slides himself onto the bench next to Sirius, their legs pressed close together and their shoulders touching.

Across the table, a sandy-haired boy whose name Sirius can’t remember looks a little bemused, and he’s not the only one. Sirius doesn’t care; his heart is an uncaged bird. His blood is singing. He feels like he could live forever, with James Potter by his side.

It’s 1973, and Sirius Black is thirteen years old.

It’s July, the dog-days of summer. Sirius ---- cheeks pink with the heat, shirtsleeves rolled up above his elbows ---- is sprawled on James’ bed, his half-packed trunk abandoned some time ago. He scowls as he stares up at the canopy of his best mate’s bed, wallowing in the uncharacteristic silence carpeting the dorm.

It’s only a day before they’ll be back on the train, returning to King’s Cross and then back to their own houses for the summer.

There’s a dread in the pit of his stomach ---- a sour, lingering thing, like the taste of bad milk that just won’t go away. It’s curdled inside of his bones, all lumps and lactic acid, and he feels like he’d rather lie here and starve than willingly leave his friends for the oppressive walls of Grimmauld Place.

If last summer is anything to go by, it’ll be miserable. His mother can barely look at him anymore, save to fix her startlingly clear eyes on him with a look of tight disgust.

(“I might as well only have had one son,” she’d said to his father when they’re sat at the dinner table, Sirius obnoxiously chasing limp vegetables around his plate.

“Why, what am I?” he’d found the courage to ask acerbically. “Chopped liver?”

He’d regretted it the second she’d turned her furious gaze on him. She looked at him like something not human, like something she’d like to squash under the heel of her boot, given half a change. Toujours courageux, he’d reminded himself, but shrank away from her ire nonetheless.

“A parasite,” she’d spat. Regulus looked like he was about to cry. “And an ungrateful one at that. Leave this table: I’ll not have you and your petty rebellions ruin this family.”)

His father will barely consent to be in the same room as him. His brother ---- a guilty pang, as he realises he only write twice this term ---- is wide-eyed and uncertain, not sure whether to talk to Sirius or to follow his mother’s example.

Maybe, Sirius thinks, he can just stay here, the whole summer. He’ll sneak food from the house elves and hide out in the dorm, and nobody will know. His mother might not even miss him; she’ll go the whole two months of the holiday passing bitter remarks on a son who’s not even there. James and Remus and Peter will come back to school and find Sirius already there, living like a castaway, only much better fed and far less sunburned.

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the door; he heaves himself to sitting in time to see James push his way into the dorm. James is all packed ---- or at least, everything’s been thrown in the vague vicinity of his trunk ---- because James doesn’t feel like he’s going to be sick when he thinks about going home.

“Cheer up,” James says, unable to miss Sirius’ drooping shoulders and turned-down lips. “We’ll be back before you know it. Besides, mum said you can come stay for a whole two weeks, if you want.”

“And what about all the other weeks?” Sirius mutters, darkly.

“I’ll write.” James promises.

“And what about when you’re sleeping?” Sirius is aware he sounds pathetic, wheedling. But they’ve barely spent a minute apart this term. James smiles when he says it, so he doesn’t bother to feel too embarrassed by it.

“Then you’ll be sleeping too, idiot.”

“And if I’m not sleeping? If I’m trapped in a waking nightmare about my mother strangling me to death with my own Gryffindor scarf so she doesn’t have to touch me?” James snorts.

“Then I’ll be having nightmares too.”

He says it with such confidence. Like he really believes that across all that distance, something will keep him awake if Sirius is awake. It’s nonsense, Sirius knows, but it makes him feel better nonetheless.

“Yeah, all right,” he sights. “Do me favour and take my scarf, will you? If she’s going to strangle me, I at least want her to have to do it the hard way.” James laughs, and Sirius manages a smile, too, less sickly than before. Then all at once he’s pushed backward onto the bed, enveloped by the warm weight of James. It might be comforting, if James didn’t have such sharp elbows and a tendency to jab them right into Sirius’ more vital organs.

“It’s not that long, really,” James promises, and Sirius wraps his arms around his friend and breathes the scent of his jumper and wonders if it would be weird to steal one from James’ trunk. Just to feel a little closer to him. “I’ll write to you every day. Twice a day.”

It’s little consolation, but at least, Sirius thinks, making no effort to extract himself from this pointy jumble of limbs, he’s got this to look forward to come September.

It’s 1973, and Sirius Black is fourteen years old.

Or he will be in three minutes, at least ---- according to his watch. Halloween clings on in discarded decorations and leftover sweets, tongues stained pumpkin orange and liquorice-dark. They’ve all sorts of plans for tomorrow, given that Sirius has scored the ultimate prize this year with a birthday falling on a Saturday.

All of which means he ought to be sound asleep right now. Instead, he lies awake and watches the second hand tick ‘round, and the minute hand press closer to midnight. He wonders if he’ll feel any different. More grown up.

James had been delighted on finding out that Sirius was the oldest; last year he’d added a zero onto the birthday card he’d slung Sirius’ way, so it read 130 today, and it had been packed full of jokes about getting old --- creaking knees and failing hearing, and the inevitable decline of Sirius’ rugged good looks (James’ words, not his).

James’ birthday card, when it had eventually come around, had been addressed to young whippersnapper.

Sixty seconds to go. Sirius has seen James hiding something in his trunk, and is mostly sure that it’s a present for him. He can’t help but feel pleased at the attention. James’ mum had sent him toffee, last year, and he wonders if she’ll do the same again ---- if she’ll remember.

(His own mother sent him nothing, of course.)

Midnight.

He takes his first breath as a fourteen-year-old, and finds it tastes much the same as before. He’d half-hoped, idly, that getting older would make it easier to be his mother’s son. Before he can think to be disappointed, or annoyed, his hangings are whisked open and he lets out a startled yelp.

James is there, grinning in the dark, barefoot and with his glasses askew, wand illuminated but covered in his cupped hand so as not to wake the others.

“Budge up, grandpa,” James whispers, and Sirius does. James shoves a horribly wrapped present at Sirius, and then clambers in under the covers. His feet are freezing, and there’s a brief scuffle before Sirius ---- always warm ---- gives in and lets James press them up against his legs.

He looks down at the mess of wrapping paper and spellotape in his lap, and thinks to himself that cold feet in his cosy bed is a cheap price to pay for the fire that James has kindled in him all these years.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” James demands.

“Sure,” Sirius says, and some of his emotion must have spilled over onto his face without his permission, because James laughs and leans sideways to envelop him in a hug. It’s not rough or shoving, there’s no hair ruffling or teasing; James simply wraps him up on his arms and stays there with him, content.

Sirius couldn’t care less what’s in the present. James is the best gift he’s ever had.

It’s 1974, and Sirius Black is fifteen years old.

He was ‘politely asked’ to quit the quidditch team three months ago. Why his own house wanted to deprive themselves of their most handsome and second-most-talented player is a mystery him, except in all the ways it’s not.

So he had a habit of hovering around James and ignoring the rest of the team, what of it? There was another beater, wasn’t there? And someone had to protect the star player and his boyishly handsome jaw from the inevitable threat of bludgers.

(“Black! What the hell are you doing shadowing Potter? The bludgers are down the other end of the pitch harassing our seeker!”

“Yeah, but one of them was looking at him funny. Trying to lure me away, I think; I’d best stay right where I am. On the off-chance, you know----“)

It’s all rather a shame, really. When they were legitimately required to work in tandem, they flew like nothing else Hogwarts had ever seen. Even their erstwhile captain ---- departed now for the fair shores of adulthood ---- had grudgingly admitted that there was nothing to frustrate an opposing team more than Sirius and James flying in perfect synchronicity, one clutching the quaffle and the other with a devastating aim with bludger.

Apparently, though, he’s not dedicated enough. Doesn’t take it seriously.

(Ha, ha. Oh, how his teammates had laughed when he’d made the requisite joke. Or at least, James had.)

He’d bowed out gracefully, because to be fair, they weren’t all that wrong. Sirius loves nothing more than flying with James, but his fellow beater had been a bore and the rest of the team insipid at best. Loyal to his friends and his house though he may be, he’s not the world’s most enthusiastic team player.

He’d commentated once, after that, and once only; McGonagall had been furious when she’d got to him, mid-match ---- who knew that the general student body didn’t want a running commentary of James Potter’s every, dashing move ---- and then been relegated altogether to the stands with Remus and Peter and the rest.

He doesn’t mind, much. Watching James fly is a treat ---- nay, a privilege.

Especially in a match like this. The winner will take the cup, and Sirius feels like the crowd’s every roar is funnelled straight through him. His stomach swoops as elegantly as James’ broom, drops out when the quaffle is stolen, soars when James wins it back once more.

Come the end, he’s got one arm around Remus’ neck and one around Peter’s pulling them both uncomfortably down towards his level. There’s a knot of tension in his stomach; it’s been a long, difficult match, fought tooth and nail.

The snitch has been sighted and both seekers are pelting towards it; Gryffindor have a one hundred and fifty point lead (thank you, James Potter), and if Ravenclaw catch the snitch it’ll be a tie. They hurtle closer, skimming the grass before shooting up again, and Sirius must be the only person in the crowd not paying them the slightest bit of attention.

Because James Potter, a hero dressed in red and gold, has just bodily slammed a Ravenclaw chaser out of his way and snatched the quaffle from mid-air. He flies low and close to his broom, eyes focused, and the deftness with which his manoeuvres is incredible.

He slams the quaffle through the hoop from only inches away, and Sirius roars a half-second before the rest of the crowd as the Ravenclaw seeker’s hand closes around the snitch.

It doesn’t matter; James has won it for them.

They pour onto the pitch, a knot of seething celebration around the red-and-gold team at the heart of it. Sirius and Remus and Peter are all fighting to get through but it’s no good; the wall of human bodies is too deep and, in Sirius’ case at least, tall.

But then James Potter bursts through the crowd, still being patted on the back and clapped on the shoulder, eyes bright and grin wide and lip split from a close call with a bludger (wouldn’t have happened if Sirius had been up there), and throws himself at Sirius.

He goes so far as to lift his friend’s feet off the ground, earning a yelp and smack from Sirius and laughter from Remus and Peter, who are quick to join the embrace.

“Just proves it,” Sirius shouts above the crowd. “You’re the only worthwhile player on that team!”

“Oi,” comes the offended voice of the Gryffindor keeper to one side. Sirius ignores it, and clings a little tighter to James.

It's 1975, and Sirius is fifteen years old.

He's giddy with achievement. No other victory has tasted this sweet; no other glory has carried him higher. Three years it's taken them, but finally ---- finally ---- here they are, animagi at fifteen years old. And all right, they'd had to revise their expectations a bit from lions and tigers and bears (oh my) down to dogs and deer and rats, but even that can't take away from it.

They've been grinning for a week now, all wild-eyed secrecy and knowing laughter. If they'd been close before, now they must seem impenetrable.

Remus, who'd been flustered and grateful and disbelieving, and a little tearful, looks at them sometimes, with this small smile on his face that makes Sirius’ gut churn in a way he doesn't quite understand.

The moment of truth comes; the gloomy press of dusk, the sour taste of nerves behind his tongue. They're going to run with a werewolf tonight, and even if that werewolf is their friend, it impresses a quiet awe on them all.

And oh, do they run. The night is velvet-dark and apple-sweet, and they clutch it between their teeth as they thunder through the forest, weaving and tumbling and wrestling with the wolf who doesn’t seem sure how to react to its new companions, alternately curious and aggressive. But they keep him from leaving the trees, they keep him occupied ---- too occupied to bite and scratch and claw at himself ---- and it’s worth a wound, worth every wound to know that Remus might wake a little less pained and weak in the morning.

They’re exhausted by the time the moon sets, and they’ve nudged and chased and tempted the wolf back to the shack. They retreat, as they were asked to do ---- ‘I don’t want you to see me change. Horrible doesn’t begin to cover it’ ---- and creep back through the tunnel, towards the greying dawn.

It’s Remus that’s his downfall.

As a dog, Sirius can smell the sweat from Prongs’ flanks, rising as faint steam in the morning chill. He can smell the rodent scurrying ahead of them. He can smell the air and the decaying corpse of something small, can smell the vegetation and undergrowth and paint a picture of it all, even with his eyes closed.

But behind him, he can smell blood and wolf and man and pain and despair, somehow, and he doesn’t realise the low whine he can hear is from his own throat. He hesitates. He wants nothing more than to go back, than to stay with Remus, to hold him and keep him warm, to ease his aches and to help, in anyway he can.

That moment is all it takes; the willow shivers back into life above them, and though the deer and the rat might be beyond its reach, there’s a big black dog standing with its ears pricked, peering back towards the tunnel it guards.

It hits him like thunderbolt.

Sirius doesn’t realise he’s flying through the air until he hits the ground, a strangled canine yelp beaten from his lungs as his body bounces, paws scrabbling to right himself and unable to do it. There’s sharp pain in his hind leg, and he pulls himself away from the tree with it dragging behind him.

“Sirius!”

It’s James’ voice, faint with terror, and human once more. Will it be better, or worse, Sirius wonders, if he’s human instead of dog?

The change is brief, and agonising. He doesn’t cry out, but he can taste blood where teeth have pressed hard against tongue to stymie the sound. He rolls over onto his back, and looks down at his leg, and immediately regrets it. His ankle is twisted around the wrong way, like a comical mistake on a five-year-old’s drawing.

James and Peter half-support and half-carry him back to the castle. He doesn’t whimper with every step, because that would be pathetic, but he does crack a few jokes about it. Neither of his friends laugh.

They tell Pomfrey he fell down the stairs, in the dark. She probably wouldn’t believe them, except she’s distracted ---- she should be leaving to tend to Remus, Sirius knows, and the guilt of knowing Remus might spend any more time half-conscious and bruised in that shack than he needs to is somehow more painful than his broken ankle.

And so, in a thoroughly uncharacteristic display, he doesn’t joke or whine or flirt; he takes the frankly disgusting potion she pushes into his hand, grimaces hard when she flicks her wand over his foot and he feels the bones grind back into place, and lets her hurry away.

James clings to him when she tries to chivvy him out of the hospital wing and back to bed.

“You may come and see Mr. Black in the morning, after breakfast,” she tells him. “He’ll be perfectly fine.” James doesn’t let go, and neither does Sirius, because both of them know a broken foot could have been so much worse, in the circumstances. Eventually, he consents to be chased out, and Sirius watches him go.

He’s asleep not long after, and he dreams of having four legs, and freedom.

It’s 1976, and Sirius is sixteen years old.

He feels rotten.

Not just bad, or upset, or guilty. He feels rotten, to his very core; like he’s been riddled with maggots or termites this whole time, slowly hollowing him out with nothing to show for it until now. All it took was pressure in the wrong place, and he’d crumbled ---- showed what he truly was.

He’d cried for hours: wretched, self-pitying tears that left him somehow feeling heavier than before, until his throat ached and his diaphragm ached and his lungs and his eyes and his teeth ached, every sorry part of him punishing him for what he’d done.

How could he ever have thought it was harmless? How could he ever have let the words trip from his tongue like any other words, like they weren’t the words that would ruin his life? Maybe you should follow him to the Whomping Willow and see for yourself, Snivellus. Just a collection of consonants and vowels; verbs and nouns and connectors, all strung together in such a way as to leave him like this.

No-one’s talked to him, yet. For all Sirius knows, they might never talk to him again. They might cast him to one side like the false friend he is. He doesn’t deserve them, any of them ---- not Remus, not Peter, and not even James, who almost single-handedly moulded the image of the man he wants to be. Especially not James, perhaps, who’s brave in the real way that Sirius is not, and good in the real way that Sirius can never be.

In the end, blood is blood: it doesn’t come out in the wash. He is his mother’s son.

And yet, James comes to him, in the end.

Sirius is all out of tears; his head is throbbing, his eyes red and puffy, his face blotched and streaked through with tear-tracks. He looks a mess, and he knows it. James only regards him, serious and uncertain, lip caught between his teeth.

“I didn’t mean to,” Sirius croaks. “I didn’t think ---- I was just so ----”

He trails off, because there’s no real explanation past the first. I didn’t think. He has no excuse, no justification. Somehow, that makes it worse. This was all instinct. Didn’t that mean it was his true self, his real colours?

“I’m an idiot,” Sirius whispers, and knows the word doesn’t even begin to cover it.

“Yeah,” James agrees, curtly. The lump in Sirius’ throat rises a little further. He’s not sure what it is ---- shame or bile or perhaps his treacherous intestines trying to choke him from the inside. At this point, he’d consider it a mercy.

“I’m sorry,” Sirius whispers, even though it’s Remus who needs the apology, really. This isn’t sorry for what I almost did, this is sorry that I disappointed you, sorry that I wasn’t good enough, sorry that you thought you had a brother but he turned out to be a hollow, porcelain thing that shattered at the faintest knock.

James lowers his head, hands shoved in his pockets.

He’s not far away, but the distance is deafening. Even where they’re mad at each other, squabbling and arguing amongst themselves, there’s still a closeness. They’ll snap and snarl but their knees will still be touching, or their shoulders brushing.

The inches between them now are a gulf, a canyon. Sirius has burned his bridges without evening meaning to, and tossed his ropes into the abyss after them.

James heaves a sigh, and turns to go. Sirius chokes back a sob, the sound catching in his throat as he does his best to hide it ---- he doesn’t want pity, doesn’t deserve pity --- and James pauses. Sirius covers his face with his hands, tugs hard at his hair so the sharp pain in his scalp is all he can think about it.

He flinches as James’ arms close around him. He’s half-expecting to be punched, or shoved, but he’s not expecting this gentle embrace.

“You’re an idiot.” James places the words carefully, gingerly in the space between them. “You’re not evil. Give it some time, Sirius.” And then he’s gone, and Sirius has forgotten how to breathe, and he’s sure that this is how he’ll die ---- rotten and hollow and broken and wretched, choking on his own betrayal.

It’s 1978, and Sirius is eighteen years old.

There’s a bittersweet, syrupy regret clinging to him. These days have been the best of his life, and soon enough, they’ll be over. It’s mere weeks before they’ll leave Hogwarts on the train for the last time.

It’s impossible to ignore that the world outside these walls and grounds is a darker place than it was once. The saccharine glow of their childhood is fading, melting away from them. There’s no catching it. They’re grown up, and there’s a war building. Some nights, Sirius tries to hold the concept in his mind, to understand it; more often than not he finds that he can’t. It’s something far away, and abstract, something that happens to other people in other places.

Tonight, wedged tightly in the small space between their tower window and the cornice ---- even he doesn’t fit as well as he used to, though he’s been slower to grow than the rest ---- it feels all too real. Unavoidable, like it’s hiding behind every word and glance and thought, a shadowy presence that he can’t shake.

If he takes a breath too deep, he’s sure he can feel it as a crackle at the bottom of his lungs, like kindling ready to be tossed into the fire.

Sirius doesn’t often seek out time alone. Today, he’d slipped away without a word ---- they can find him if they need to, after all, they’ve got the map ---- and has been soaking in this silent solitude for hours now. Weightless, like he’s teetering at the edge of something, and he can’t quite find the courage to leap.

It’s a queer feeling that’s overtaken him, and all the stranger for the fact that it doesn’t seem to have gripped the others in quite the same way. Late last night, Sirius had sat up from where he was curled up against Remus’ side and looked down at him with a dark intensity in his eyes that had made Remus frown.

(“Promise me,” Sirius had said, low and fierce, “promise me that leaving Hogwarts won’t change a thing. With us, you know.” Remus’ frown had softened, and he’d reached up to brush Sirius’ hair from his face. Sirius had chased the cool touch of Remus’ palm with his cheek, leaning into it.

“I promise,” he’d said, but Sirius hadn’t been content until he’d heard it a dozen times, pressed close against his ear between kisses.)

He wonders if there might be something wrong with him, and pretty quickly dismisses the thought. It’s a dark rabbit-hole to go down. He thinks he’s all right, usually, and so do his friends, so what can it matter, anyway?

It’s James who comes for him, of course.

They barely fit up here, anymore, and James’ feet hang sickeningly over hundreds of feet of empty air once he’s wrestled himself up next to Sirius and stretched out his legs.

“All right?”

“All right.”

A call-and-answer that spans seven years. They have whole conversations in those words, meanings deeper than the brief syllables. Tonight it’s are you okay and I’m staying and you can’t stop me, and it’s the answering I’m not sure and I won’t try.

They sit in silence for a while, Sirius on the right and James on the left, just the way it always is, and their legs and their arms pressed together, just like they always are. Sirius feels sick with longing, missing something that’s not even gone yet. Where will they tuck themselves when they no longer have this vast network of corridors and rooms, passages and alcoves, towers and dungeons? Is there a space for them, out there?

“I’ll miss this place,” Sirius says. An obvious statement, and one that barely scratches the surface of his feelings. He doesn’t need to try and explain, with James.

“Yeah,” James agrees, quietly.

“I love you.”

It’s a muted admission. He proclaims his love for his friends often and loudly, grandiose, sweeping gestures and honeyed words stolen from Shelley, from Ovid. This softness is rare indeed, unprompted and unfiltered, free from his usual dramatics. James looks at him in surprise from behind his glasses, the sunset glinting from them in a burning yellow-orange.

“I love you too,” James says. As if it’s obvious, as if Sirius is an idiot.

He reaches over for a hug, ignoring Sirius’ mildly alarmed exclamation as they tip over in the tiny space, Sirius’ elbow hitting the wall and his head the window ---- inside, Remus peers out with some mild concern before he returns to his book.

“You’re stuck with me,” James informs his friend, once he’s got him trapped. “Stop being so unbearably dim and morose. Nothing will change when we leave school.”

Sirius doesn’t know what to say that won’t sound trite or twee, so he does the only obvious thing available to him, and licks a stripe across James’ face to get him to move. James does so, cursing him, and managing to land an elbow in his stomach (they haven’t got any less sharp, over the years.)

They lie there, tangled and laughing and oblivious and on the edge, waiting, waiting, waiting.

It’s 1981, and Sirius is twenty-two years old.

James pulls him into a hug, and Sirius pinches his arse to draw a laugh from him ---- few enough of those, these days ---- and looks at Lily over James’ shoulder, clutching Harry, his godson to her chest.

“See you soon,” James says, and it’s a demand rather than a statement.

“Promise,” Sirius says.

If he’d known this was the last time ---- the last hug ---- the last goodbye ---- he might have held a little tighter, a little longer. He might not have let go at all.

#;drabble: m #pr0ngs #i crey

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mnemememory · 6 years

Text

The Life and Times of the Creature Known as Frumpkin, Cat

Frumpkin-the-cat likes sleeping in the sun. The crew of The Ball Eater live in fear.

link to ao3 in profile

PART 6: FJORD

Relaxing is hard work.

No one has come anywhere close to Frumpkin’s chosen sunbaking spot in a good three hours, which is just how he likes it. This is partially because he had strategically chosen somewhere on deck with the express purpose of having minimal contact with the crew, and partially because they were all terrified he was going to bite them again. Frumpkin regards the people swarming around his ship with thinly veiled thread; If you interrupt my nap, he thinks, Caleb-warm-master is going to pop me out for the things I’m going to do to you.

The message comes across. The crew stays out of Frumpkin’s way.

Frumpkin has had many opportunities to take in the atmosphere of the sea. Caleb-warm-master most definitely prefers the stillness of the land to the rolling motion of the waves, but Frumpkin doesn’t have any real preference. So long as there isn’t a storm, so long as Frumpkin doesn’t have to get his fur wet, he is quite content to laze around on deck and practice breathing.

He is getting better at it – mimicry. The first few years had been a real test of trial and error – over There, air had been an optional (if somewhat convenient) extra; Here, it is a necessity. There are so many parts to a physical body that require conscious thought. Frumpkin has become an expert of compartmentalization, but it’s a process. One that requires long periods of stillness in the sun. And naps. A lot of naps.

Someone settles down next to him.

Frumpkin opens up one eye to regard the interloper, cracking open his jaw and showing off his teeth in a kind of warning. Come any closer, and I’ll bite.

“Good afternoon, Frumpkin.”

Frumpkin settles back a little. It is just Fjord-drowned-thing; nothing to worry about. At least, Frumpkin thinks that there is nothing to worry about. Caleb-warm-master has never really had to dictate how Frumpkin is supposed to feel about his chosen companions (otherwise, Frumpkin thinks, he and Nott-sharp-teeth would have a much more amicable relationship), but he’s been awful chatty on the subject of Fjord-drowned-thing these past few weeks.

Still. Today is good. The sea is calm, the sun is high and shining, and Fjord-drowned-thing is good at scratching behind Frumpkin’s ears just the way he likes it. Frumpkin isn’t going to complain until Caleb-warm-master gives him a reason to.

“You’ve certainly got the crew in a right tizzy,” Fjord-drowned-thing says. His voice is low and gentle, drawing out the words in a way that Frumpkin finds soothing. There are many things about Fjord-drowned-thing that Frumpkin finds soothing.

If they hadn’t disrupted my nap time, Frumpkin thinks. I wouldn’t have had to attack them. He is a cat. He doesn’t know what the crew had been expecting, really, when they had tried to move him. They had actually attempted to pick him up, the nerve. Frumpkin hopes those claw marks scar.

…he doesn’t really hope those claw marks scar. Caleb-warm-master would be very disappointed in him if that happened. Nott-sharp-teeth would be amused, though. Does that balance it out? No, probably not. Caleb-warm-master has the final say on all things violence-related when it comes to Frumpkin.

Maybe biting down on that last man’s knuckles had been going too far. Just a little.

Frumpkin stares up at Fjord-drowned-thing, who is just sitting there, not moving. The light sea breeze brushes over his green skin and blows hair off his slightly sunburned cheeks. They are all a little darker, though Caleb-warm-master has more in resemblance to a boiled crab than, say, Beau. Frumpkin has watched Jester-blue-healer giggle to herself as she heals his patchwork of red skin every evening, running her fingers along his cheeks and across his wrists.

Stop going outside, she says, every time. You’re just making things worse.

I am not used to this amount of sunlight, Caleb-warm-master admits in a low voice. It is…unsettling.

Frumpkin can’t imagine not being able to go out into the sun. For most of his existence, Frumpkin hadn’t known the quiet pleasure of sitting still and soaking in the warmth of the sky. That Caleb-warm-master is unable to do so without spellcraft aid is…unsettling. Just a little. Frumpkin makes sure to sleep on Caleb-warm-master’s face a little more than usual after that realization, just to make sure he isn’t cold. Caleb-warm-master hadn’t appreciated the gesture as much as Frumpkin thought he should.

Fjord-drowned-thing drags his fingers lightly along Frumpkin’s spine, and Frumpkin lets out a rumbling purr. Yes…yes, a little lower…just there, green one…

Frumpkin wriggles his haunches and pulls in his shoulders. This is a good feeling. Frumpkin wouldn’t trade experiences like this for the world.

(He would trade them for Caleb-warm-master, though. If Caleb-warm-master wanted to stay inside and never see the sun again, Frumpkin would follow without a moment’s hesitation).

“I’ve missed this,” Fjord-drowned-thing says. It isn’t clear who he is talking to, if anyone, but Frumpkin perks his ears up in any case. “The feel of the sea beneath my feet. I’d forgotten just how much I loved sailing until now.”

Keep scratching, Frumpkin thinks. He resettles himself against the rough wood of the deck, tail flicking back and worth. Fjord-drowned-thing lets out a soft huff of laughter.

“There’s nothing quite like it,” he says. His eyes are distant, old and other in a way that Frumpkin is intimately familiar with. “What I wouldn’t give…”

Frumpkin glances over at him. Fjord-drowned-thing has trailed off and is staring out at the blurred horizon. The sun is inching further away from Frumpkin’s back and towards the sea, resting at the bottom of the sky like a golden egg. Fjord-drowned-thing looks quietly, thoroughly entrapped by the glitter on the waves.

“It’s so easy to forget things out here,” Fjord-drowned-thing says. “The ocean is so big.”

Frumpkin hits him with his tail. Don’t forget about my scratches, he thinks. I’m right here. No need to be rude.

Fjord-drowned-thing laughs, and the spell – if that’s what it was – is broken. He reaches out to stroke a firm hand down Frumpkin, from his ears to the tip of his tail.

“I’d better go make sure Cad is going okay for dinner,” he says. He tickles Frumpkin’s ribs, but not in a mean way. His hands are gentle. “Are you going to be okay up here, all alone?”

Frumpkin gives him a disdainful look. Cats are very good at disdainful looks. Obviously. That’s what I wanted, before I was so rudely interrupted.

Frumpkin has the feeling that Fjord-drowned-thing isn’t being intimidated. Probably because Frumpkin is lying.

“I’ll go make sure that Caleb gets something to eat,” Fjord-drowned-thing says. “So you can just stay here and relax for a little while longer.”

Frumpkin gives a soft sigh and settles himself back down, skin sinking heavily over his bones. Remember to breathe, he thinks to himself. The sun is cracking open on the waves, spilling out red-and-pink-and-silver into the sky. Frumpkin watches with half-eyes and feels a deep purr well inside his chest.

Maybe just a little more, he thinks, and goes back to sleep.

#critical role #critical role campaign 2 #frumpkin #fjord #crack #i think i'm funny #the life and times of the creature known as frumpkin #fanfic #my writing #sorry for the delay guys!#i like this one #i think it's cute :P #Fjord is one of my favourites hahaha

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poeticsandaliens · 6 years

Text

Hold My Beer

Pairing: Debbie Ocean/Lou Miller

Rating: Mature

Summary: The Life and Times of the Heist Wives family, chronicled by things attempted after speaking the timeless declaration, “hold my beer” or Five Times Lou Miller said “hold my beer” before doing something spectacular and stupid, and a couple times someone else did.

I owe this ficlet to a conversation I was having earlier with @smashingmagicklovely about

1. how I wanted a full compilation of everything Lou has ever done after saying "hold my beer"

2. How Lou is badass but Soft on the Inside and Debbie is a non-romantic smartass but Soft For Lou.

and 3. how "my womb says yes but my heart says no" essentially sums up my entire attitude toward writing Heist Wives domestic fluff.

This is the fruits of my labor. Thanks Em for drop kicking my muse at ten o'clock at night.

Tagging @casliyn, @louxdebbie, and @oceansnineball because I feel like Dani and Darcy became ‘a thing’ somewhere between the three of them and an onslaught of adorable Instagram AUs.

Lou sprawls across two separate bar stools in Nine Ball’s pub, watching Debbie beat herself at a game of pool. “I got good in prison,” she had explained the first time she creamed Nine Ball.

“You had a pool table in prison?” Nine Ball asks incredulously, blowing a cloud of smoke over the table.

Debbie shakes her head. “Nope. I had a pen and some paper, and once I finished the Greatest Heist of All Time I calculated the angle of every shot in a standard game of pool and invented new scenarios until I ran out of ink.”

Not for the first time tonight, Lou wonders how she got so lucky as to love a woman as clever as Debbie Ocean. She’s not stupid—Deb is lucky as Hell to have Lou covering her ass, but that’s the magic of it. They click like a hairpin and a padlock, picking their way through barriers and unhinging each other as they go.

Lou turns to Amita, who’s perched demurely beside her with a fucking spectacular cosmo. Lou knows—she made Nine Ball show her the recipe. “Hold my beer,” she instructs Amita, sliding it down the counter to her. She steps on her bar stool, swaying as it spins.

“Holy shit,” she hears Debbie murmur, looking up from her one-sided game. “Lou—”

Lou steps onto the bar and weaves through a line of empty drinks until she’s perched on the corner, in front of Debbie. She fishes through her pocket until she finds the ring. She drops to one knee, knocking over a half-empty margarita in the process. She can feel the tequila soaking into the knee of her jeans.

“Debbie Ocean, darling, m’love, my partner in crime, my favorite felon on the planet, I love you from the bottom of twisted criminal heart. Will you marry me?”

They host the wedding reception at Tammy’s, because unlike the warehouse, Tammy’s place has grass and trees and aesthetic value; no to mention it lacked the warehouse’s air of chaos. It also smells of hydrangeas, rather than takeout Chinese food and expensive perfume—which mattered, apparently. At least, Rose and Daphne seemed to think so, and by that point Debbie and Lou took the backseat in planning their own wedding ceremony. They were perfectly content to marry in a courthouse, surrounded by their friends, but apparently that lacked romantic oomph.

(For her part, Lou found the idea of eloping in secret very romantic, but she can’t deny the feel of grass under her bare feet and the tickle of a breeze through her cream-colored suit.)

Lou and Debbie wander from the small party as the sky darkens. Fireflies drift through their vision like tiny lanterns, and gypsy moths swim in their path, clumsily seeking the porch lights. They stroll hand in hand down Tammy’s endless driveway, buzzed on quality alcohol and the undeniable high of their own marriage. Lou lets her eyes wander down Debbie’s figure, striking in an royal blue dress that whispers sprite-like across her skin.

No white, she told Rose, to the designer’s loud protests.

White is the color of a wedding dress.

No, white is the color of ‘purity’ and has too many connotations attached. It’s not even about virginity—I’m a con artist, for fuck’s sake. You’re an amazing designer, and you have my full confidence, but it feels wrong for me to marry Lou in angel-white.

Lou stops before a shiny object on the ground; squinting in the vanishing daylight; she makes out the outline of a child’s Razor scooter. An idea crosses her mind, too quickly for her to refuse it.

“I know that look,” Debbie warns her, eyeing the scooter.

“Hold my beer, darling” Lou says, handing Debbie her drink—not a beer, in fact, but a flute of champagne—and flips the scooter onto its wheels.

“Lou this feel like a bad idea.”

“Nonsense.” She kicks off, barefoot in her wedding suit, and sails down the driveway. She’s done wheelies on her motorbike before; this has to be easier. She jumps once, twice, then lifts up the front tire—and topples over onto Tammy’s lawn in three awkward, lunging steps.

Debbie cackles. “Not quite a motorbike, is it Lou?”

They honeymoon on Daphne Kluger’s private beach, because of course Daphne Kluger owns a private beach, a tiny tropical place sprung from the Caribbean, half a mile long. Perhaps it’s excessive, extravagant, but they’re not complaining when Daphne offers to let them stay in a fucking gorgeous beach house and have the ocean to themselves for two weeks.

“We should crack open one of those coconuts.” Debbie gazes at a hunched palm, shielding her eyes from the sun. Her skin has warmed and bronzed; her mischievous grin is infectious. Lou can’t say no to those soft brown eyes.

“Want me to knock one down?”

Debbie smirks. “If you can,” pretending she doesn’t know Lou will take it as a dare.

Lou looks up at the palm tree, laden with four coconuts. It doesn’t seem particularly difficult to shimmy up, but the tangerine sunset and her fourth drink of the evening has her seeing the world through a pair of rose-tinted, how-hard-can-it-be glasses. She makes up her mind.

“Hold my beer.”

Lou squeezes the tree trunk between her thighs and begins to climb. The bark scrapes her skin; sure she’s only wearing a bikini and a breezy blouse, but the glint in Debbie’s eye promised a lusty reward for her efforts. She hangs from the top of the tree and kicks a coconut. The palm leaves catch her button-up and scratch along her exposed torso. Her efforts pay off—a massive coconut drops to the sand below with a decisive whack. Debbie whoops. Lou shimmies down the trunk and downs the rest of her drink.

When they relay the story at home, Daphne asks how the hell Lou managed to climb a palm tree in a bikini.

“Drunkenly,” she replies, “having forgotten what thigh chafing feels like.”

A car revs outside the window. Lou looks up from the textbook length Swedish instruction set. “Fuck,” she mutters.

“This isn’t happening today,” says Nine Ball, gazing over the sea of bars and screws that could theoretically build a crib.

Lou groans and sips her beer. “Tammy you’ve built one of these. Help us out?”

Tammy shrugs. “They’ve changed the design since Alicia was born. Sorry.” But she’s made more progress than the rest of them, having managed to fit the bottom boards of the crib together into a solid surface.

“You’re a fence; I thought you knew how this shit worked.”

Tammy crossed her arms and got up from the floor, dusting off her jeans. “Yeah, I don’t build the things I fence.”

“Uh-huh,” says Nine Ball. “I always thought you’re one of those… DIY moms.”

“Only on occasion.”

The front door of the warehouse slams shut. “Where the hell is everyone?” Debbie’s voice echoes from the floor below them.

The group of them, somehow sweating and sore from failing to assemble the worlds’ shittiest IKEA crib, emerge from the room. Lou leans over the railing and smiles at her wife, who at six months pregnant (and beyond over it) has managed to carry four-and-a-half people’s worth of Chinese takeout in her arms while balancing an extra-large 7-11 lemonade between her chin and her baby bump and sucks nonchalantly on the bright red straw.

Sight for sore eyes, Lou thinks fondly, because she’s a fucking sap who loves this woman more every day.

She turns to Nine Ball. “Hold my beer,” and swings her leg over the railing. Nine Ball rolls her eyes as Lou slides down the spiral staircase at breakneck speed. She attempts to flourish as she rounds the final bend, but it quickly becomes an emergency crash landing, as she topples spectacularly onto the warehouse floor. With all the confidence of a clumsy woman who’s convinced the world she’s graceful, she dusts herself off and proceeds to trip over the couch, which has apparently moved three feet since last she saw it. She eats it again and finally stands to meet the half-amused eyes of Debbie Ocean.

In lieu of a greeting, she presses a kiss to Debbie’s lips, then to her neck, then to her belly for Creature (as they’ve insisted upon calling it, to everyone else’s chagrin) and then her lips again for good measure.

“I swear to God, Lou, if you die before this kid is born... ”

“Never,” Lou replies. Her hands curiously search Debbie’s midsection for a kick from Creature. “Just a couple of bruises. Although we might want to move the couch back to wherever it was.”

“No one moved it Lou. Your muscle memory isn’t worth shit.”

Before Darcy is born, they take a vacation. Dani stays with Tammy—the “adult friend,” as Debbie so delicately put it when Constance asked why she couldn’t watch their child for a week. They rent a place along the Baja peninsula, a hidden coastal oasis to themselves, complete with a jacuzzi and an underground spring that bubbled into a natural pool. Overlooking the pool, to Debbie’s delight, a cliff perfect for high dives.

“How are you doing?” Debbie emerges from the house sporting a craft beer and an impressive sunburn.

Lou lifts her sunglasses. “Distracted,” she mutters.

“And how is Nessie doing?” Debbie asks, plopping onto the chaise. Her gaze softens, and pulls Lou into a warm kiss, slipping her hand under Lou’s green button-up to where their second daughter grew.

“Playing me like a fucking marimba,” Lou says softly, resting her hand over Debbie’s, over the taut skin of her belly. It’s funny, she can’t help thinking, the undisguised tenderness with which Debbie touches her. When Debbie was pregnant with Dani, she was all tough shell, and the entire nine months had been a stressful road littered with complications and doctor’s appointments and a couple close calls.

No way in Hell am I doing that again, Debbie swore, and quite understandably. Nope, no way, miracle my ass.

Well then I guess it’s my turn, Lou promised and kissed her against their creaking headboard.

Her turn—an unspeakably weird turn, she realized when first the alien creature moved inside her. Curious, the way it’s spoken on black and white British TV—curious. Weirder, perhaps, Lou woke one more to find Debbie softened like honey, curled around the new-to-them curve of her abdomen and smiling the sweetest thing she’d seen in months. Captivated the way she couldn’t be with Dani, and Lou in turn was bewildered by her.

“No shit,” Debbie whispers now, feeling Nessie (a nickname coined by Rose, of course) press against her hand. “You’re on vacation,” she mutters to the errant alien foot. “Relax.”

Lou tosses back her head and laughs. “Your voice only riles her up,” she says, shooing Debbie away with her hand.

“Her or you?” Debbie retorts, voice full of promise. So far, this vacation has rivaled their honeymoon in terms of good food and better sex.

“Both of us.” She pulls Debbie close and kisses her with fervor, pressing her thumb between Debbie’s thighs to elicit a rewarding groan. “God, you know how hot you are,” Debbie growls, her words slurring into something needy and near-impossible to resist. Debbie pinches the sensitive skin of her breast, and she’s wet already, God help her.

Debbie’s lips are running a full-on expedition of her body, tanned legs straddling her and her hand inside Debbie’s swimsuit, when few sharp sucker punches from the baby force her to break away. Debbie grumbles softly and runs her hand through Lou’s sun-bleached hair.

“More later,” Lou murmurs, low and husky, “when Loch Ness quiets down.” She’s gone on this woman, gone on Debbie Ocean forever. They’re conquering the goddamn world every second they spend in the same room. She doesn’t want Debbie more than three feet away, especially not now.

“Fine,” Debbie acquiesces. It’s playful, frustrated all the same. Debbie stands up at the promise of later. Then, her gaze fixes on the waterfall, and her eyes light up. “Hold my beer.” She shoves her drink into Lou’s hand and races to the pool.

“Fuck you, that’s my line!” Lou calls after her.

“Not anymore!” Debbie clambers up the slick rock, hauling herself onto the rock’s edge. She gets a running start, hurling herself into a front flip that from Lou’s vantage point is executed perfectly. Until it isn’t. Debbie hits the water in what can only be described as the most painful belly flop Lou has ever witnessed. She stands stone-still in the pool for a full minute before making her way to the edge.

“Are you alright, baby?” Lou shouts, half-teasing and half dead serious. Because when Debbie emerges from the water, she is the color of cheap boxed wine from her neck to her knees, pinching her stinging midsection with both hands.

“Fuck off,” Debbie mutters, but she’s chuckling through her pout, an indicator that she’s not severely injured herself.

Lou hands her back the bottle, cocking her eyebrow dangerously. “That’s what happens to people who laugh at me for getting stuck in the jacuzzi.”

It is the twelfth anniversary of the Toussaint heist. Tammy, good friend that she is, offers to host the barbecue. She’s just purchased a backyard trampoline that has automatically made her the “most cool aunt” in the eyes of Dani and Darcy, and really, who can protest?

Debbie the grillmaster is flipping burgers, chatting with Daphne Kluger about her latest endeavor in directing, which is generating a fair amount of Oscar buzz. Amita and Constance are teaching Darcy how to steal jewelry off a person’s body without being caught, and what kind of hypocrite would Lou be o protest that it isn’t a useful life skill? Dani, predictably, has climbed onto the trampoline.

Lou’s heart swells as she watches her daughter bound across the elastic surface. “Hey,” she says to Rose, “hold my beer.”

She strides over to the trampoline and climbs on, shoes and all. She takes a couple steps onto the trampoline. “Hi Ma!” Dani cries enthusiastically.

“Hi Darling, are—” Her feet drop from under her. Apparently, the three-inch stiletto heels on her boots were less than ideal for a sheet of kevlar and rubber, because they’ve split two holes in the trampoline, and the woven strips of it are springing up everywhere, and Lou is flat on her ass beneath it.

Dani peers down at her, howling with laughter. “Ma you broke it!”

Lou scooches out from beneath the gaping hole, ass first, with the shreds of her grace and dignity.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Darcy asks her older sister as Dani straps on her helmet and elbow pads.

“Great idea,” says Dani. She fixes her gaze on the massive pipe she’s rolled into the warehouse parking lot. On the other side of the pipe lies a ramp, and on the other side of that, a curb and chain-link fence she’ll just have to steer away from.

Dani mounts the skateboard and tests its wheels. Sturdy, smooth, waxed.

“You only finished it yesterday,” Darcy says skeptically.

“Yeah but it’s, like, the third prototype. This is the perfect board; trust me.” She’d snatched the old parts from junkyards and the back closets of skate shops and finagled them together into a board all her own.

“You have the camera rolling?” she asks, wiggling her board underfoot. Darcy nods.

“Great.” She quickly tames her hair into a top-knot and adjust the knee-pads on her torn jeans.

“Last chance to back down. If Ma sees you hit that ramp, she’ll read you the riot act,” Darcy warns her.

“Pssssh, have you seen the old photos of her on the motorbike? She used to take it to California and do some crazy shit out in the desert.”

“She still does. Doesn’t mean she’s okay with you hitting that ramp on your skateboard. Don’t be a jackass.”

Dani shrugs. “Takes one to know one, sis,” she says with a grin that her sister quickly returns. “Hold my beer.”

Her drink and camera safely in Darcy’s hands, Dani kicks off down the empty lot. She jumps into the pipe, listening to her wheels rumble on the plastic, then gives herself a boost before hitting the ramp. All of a sudden, she’s flying. It’s fucking fantastic. She flips the board once for good measure and lands beautifully, but before she can gloat the chain link fence is upon her.

Right. This is why you don’t put a ramp near a fence. She collides head on, and damn, she thinks, it’s a good thing this fence is pliable. It spits her back out like a catapult, and she lands on her ass on the concrete.

Darcy runs up to her. “Are you alright?” she repeats, taking Dani’s hand and helping her to her feet.

Dani nods shakily. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, that went great for the first trial. Did you catch me eating it on camera?”

#ocean's 8 #heist wives #debbie ocean #lou miller #debbie x lou #ocean's eight #heist wives au #dani ocean #darcy ocean #domestic fluff #I'm so soft for lou

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theultimateegghead-blog · 6 years

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Truly Tropical! Some of games best beaches.

The image of a beach is often a sandy tropical paradise. Palm trees, tropical fruit, oceans, birds and wildlife. Of course, let’s not count the blistering hot sand and sunburns. In games, the beach level is often an early level, it symbolizes fun and relaxation as opposed to difficulty. This is not always the case however. I have lived either on or near a beach for the near entirety of my 22-year life. To celebrate where I came from, I present to you a list of beaches in video games! Grab your sunscreen, your umbrella and your towel and get ready to get sandy!

Emerald Coast (Sonic Adventure) Ah, the first level of sonic Adventure. This level is set on a tropical beach and a series of islands and stone pillars. Four of the six characters have a stage here. As sonic, Tails and Gamma, you race over sandbars and jump from boardwalk to boardwalk. As big you just…fish…but it looks nice at least! Spike traps litter some paths, a lighthouse stands tall and proud on the islands, and a giant whale is in the mood for some sonic food. Overall, as the first true 3d sonic level, it does a good job! The music is great too!

Beach Bowl Galaxy (Super Mario Galaxy) A fun tropical beach that Mario can visit during his intergalactic adventure. This small area is primarily underwater. The surface is of several islands and a cliffside that overlooks the bowl. Underwater there are pillars of rock, some giant eels, and penguins taking fishing lessons. Try to jump onto the rope swing and dive in! Overall this level is small but fun.

Treasure Trove Cove (Bajo Kazooie) Every time I hear about the levels in this game, people talk about this one. This level is a great example of a good beach level. The music fits, the palm trees, the boss crab, the pirate ship… A lot of cool things can be found in this level, including new moves! Now be careful swimming out into the water, because there is a very hungry shark that wants to eat you. On the top of the level is a lighthouse. So this level seems great for exploration and I can see why its considered one of the most iconic beach levels.

Destiny Island (Kingdom Hearts) Ah, where it all began. Destiny island is the first level of the original kingdom hearts. This tropical island served as a hangout for the main characters, Sora, Riku and Kairi. Also some final fantasy characters can be found here too. A small island that serves as a tutorial, Riku was not content with just this small island and wanted to go somewhere else, in a weird twisted way he got his wish. The island was swallowed by darkness, and was only restored at the end of Sora’s first journey. The island would later appear in future installments, but Sora has yet to return to his home. So this island represent the humble beginning to what will eventually become one of the biggest franchises of the past 20 years.

Phon Coast (Final Fantasy XII) The Phon coast is one of the many locations you will traverse in order to reach the end goal in FFXIII. This coast is one of the few places where the main characters relax for a bit. Some hunters have set up shop here and the concept of rare game is introduced here. Along the sandy shores are many treasures and many monsters, be careful because some of them can fly. Even though you will come back here often for the rare hunter quest, the overall beach is often left unvisited. Enjoy it while you can.

Virmire (Mass Effect) This planet is a tropical paradise with massive waterways and cliffsides. On any other day it would be nice to kick back and enjoy the beach, unfortunately today is not a good day. The planet is under siege and its up to commander Shepperd to confront the main antagonist here. The commander and his allies will have to fight their way through an army of Geth soldiers, and even confront a reaper, in order to reach the end goal. In the end the villain gets away anyway… However this battle remains as the most memorable moment from mass effect 1 for me.

The Beach (Donkey Kong Country Returns) The beach isn’t just a level, but an entire world to traverse in the wii game. True to its title, this level is primarily set on a beach. This beach has boardwalks, wooden contraptions, caves and sunken ships. Giant crabs patrol the beach and will attack the Kong duo. After overcoming a barrage from a pirate ship, a giant squid attack and dodging tidal waves you will be able to face the boss. This level is some tropical fun and a good romp.

Ryoshima Coast (Okami) One of the largest areas in the Okami series. This coastline houses a city and several npcs. Cliffs, beaches and trees dot the coast. Initially it is cursed and has to be cleansed in order to explore. The ocean is home to a sunken ship that is said to hold treasures. Unfortunately for everyone, the sea dragon is rampaging and causing havoc. A lagoon can be found nearby too. This place is beautiful and is visited relatively early in the Okami game.

Sunny Beach (Spyro 2 Ripto’s Rage!) This beach is home to some peaceful turtles that are being captured alive by poachers. The majority of this level is underground or in caves, but there is a beach there as well. In this level Spyro will help guide baby turtles to safety and defeat the poachers that want to turn them into stew. Explore every nook and cranny of the underwater portions to find all the gems. Once the level is complete, the baby turtles will be safe once again.

Outset Island (Wind Waker) The beginning of Wind Waker takes place in Link’s home island of outset. This small tropical island is primarily a beach with a forest on the very top. A relatively quiet island that is far away from the more populated areas, and thus it does not see much action. Link’s adventure starts when his little sister is kidnapped by a giant bird that comes to this island. Later on, a mythical creature makes their home here as well. The inhabitants are friendly towards Link as well, giving a sensation of home. This island is also home to a special secret dungeon.

The beach (Pokemon Snap) The first and arguably the most iconic level in Pokemon snap. This tropical trail has a decent amount of pokemon to take pictures of. Some pokemon won’t be exposed until later on, so this level will be revisited often. The beach is sandy, the ocean has a Lapras that occasionally raises its head. There are grass patches with pokemon hiding within them and some creeks and ponds as well. This level serves as a great tutorial, not fast pace or extremely hectic with who to snap a picture of. It remains one of my personal favorite beach levels of all time.

Ash Lake (Dark Souls) A truly cinematic area, quite a shame its optional. This small portion of the game is primarily a sandbar that connects some giant trees suspended in a large calm lake. Upon your first visit, a large menacing Hydra will antagonize you until it has been dealt with. This area is calm and almost eerily serene, after said hydra is dispatched of course. Be careful going into the trees because basilisk make their homes there. At the end of the long sand bar is one of the last everlasting dragons, who will give you the ability to join a covenant. There is not much to gain from coming here, but the experience alone is worth the time.

Cape Claw (star fox adventures) A jungle peninsula full of boardwalks, secrets and of course, beaches. This location is visited later in the game and is home to some enemy soldiers. Explore through sandbars, waterfalls and ruins to find the treasures of the area, including bars of gold! There is a friendly dinosaur here as well that Fox can talk to. Eventually there will be a temple that needs to be navigated as well. This level, or zone as it would be considered, is a great beach level. Tis a shame people don’t seem to view this game very fondly.

Goo lagoon (Spongebob battle for bikini bottom) Ahh, Goo Lagoon… This level is one of the first levels in the childhood classic spongebob game. This level takes place on a beach and on a boardwalk. You’ll have to navigate over platforms, redirect beams of light and play mini-games a plenty. Be careful though, because none of the characters can swim, so the water, or goo more specifically, is an obstacle. Some new enemies will pop up here as well.

Sentinel Beach (Jak and Daxter) One of the first levels of Jak and Daxter takes place on a beach. Some grassy cliff aligns this coast as well. A waterfall and a pool that is safe for swimming. Some ruins can be found farther back on the coastline. Be weary of the hermit crab enemies. There are some blue eco vaults here to allow some sky-high jumps, use them to explore the rock pillars. Overall this is a fun easy beach level, just take care not to swim out to far or else you might not make it back.

Wam Bam Island (Borderlands 2) One of the most colorful locations on planet Pandora. Wam Bam island would be a vacation paradise, if said vacation was full of pirates, monsters, cannibals and assassins. A giant sea monster resides here, just itching to do battle with the vault hunters. On top of that, some assassins have been hired to take out the dwellers but they… lets just say they failed at their job. The few locals here are just like anyone else on Pandora, crazy. So have fun in the sun. explore an underwater tunnel, fight giant crabs and try not to meat your end by the hands of the locals.

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Well that was fun wasn't it? Hope you don’t feel burned out or have sand in your eyes! Next time we are gonna look at some characters, who you may ask? Well lets just say they all share one thing in common, and that is a love for miniguns.

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jeremystrele · 5 years

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Photographer Caitlin Mills Takes Us On One Of The World’s Greatest Walks

Travel

Caitlin Mills

Baiona, Spain on Camino de Santiago. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Caitlin on the trail! Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Baiona, Spain on Camino de Santiago. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

I’m Melbourne born-and-raised, though I spent much of my childhood at our family house in the High Country. I initially studied graphic design at Swinburne University before following my passion in photography to the Photography Studies College. I had the wonderful opportunity to assist photographer Sharyn Cairns for a few years, which has propelled me into the industry, and I haven’t looked back!

I’m still Melbourne-based, however I love any opportunity to shoot interstate and overseas. A few of my favourites places over the past few years have been a travel feature in Tasmania, Oman, and today’s feature: on the Camino de Santiago in Spain.

I first travelled to Spain in 2007 on a year-long backpacking trip, which also took me through Africa (South Africa, Namibia, Botswana, Zambia), Portugal, Spain, London and Canada. With camera-in-hand, I was young and free and ready for an adventure. I found just that.

I fell in love with Granada and the Southern coast of Spain, and had always wanted to return… This desire was strengthened by the many wonderful things I had heard about the Camino de Santiago. When my close friend Holly and I decided on an active holiday, it was the top of our list!

Although this walk originated as a religious pilgrimage, people take it for many reasons. You definitely don’t have to be religious! It’s an incredibly rewarding way to see the area.

For me, the biggest challenge were some body ailments. I had sore feet, leg cramps, and a slightly dodgy hip (I always knew this would be the case as it’s constantly something I work on at home). Then, there was the lugging of my heavy camera gear, which I couldn’t go without! I chose to only take one lens (24-70mm) and one camera body, and most days I would carry it in my arms the entire time. As I was on foot, it was harder to ‘chase the light’ as you can with a car, however shooting was a lovely way to take in the smaller details along the way. Looking back, it’s all just about good training, management and shoes! I will do more prep next time.

One of the most rewarding aspects was to be able to spend my entire day walking. It’s an active meditation and I often find that my biggest ideas and realisations come about when I walk. Another highlight came at the very end of the trip – I got engaged the day after returning home to Australia (I think I’d get in trouble if I left that detail out!).

It really is a special mix of people that find themselves walking hundreds of kilometres across a country, with locals there to guide them on their journeys. We were humbled daily by the kindness of strangers – directing us back on course, picking us bags of peaches, tending to our sunburn and blisters, buying us local dishes they think that we would like, or sitting with us to go through a Spanish menu when we were struggling to read it!

Baiona, Spain on Camino de Santiago. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

OUR ITINERARY

There are many different routes that lead the way to Santiago de Compostela. The most famous is the one that begins in the French Pyrenees and takes around 35 days to complete. As we didn’t have that much time, we decided to walk part of the Portuguese Camino from Baiona on the Western coast of Spain, following the coastline to Santiago de Compostela.

Day 1&2 – Seafood by the sea!

We arrived into Baiona a town situated on the coast of the Monterreal Peninsula which leads out into the Atlantic Ocean.

Our taxi wound its way through the city, underneath a fortressed wall and up to the Parador de Baiona, a beautiful Galician manor.

We spent two days here wandering through the old town, eating seafood by the water, drinking wine and watching the boats sail out to sea.

Vigo, Spain, Camino de Santiago trail. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Day 3 – Baiona to Vigo (26km)

We trekked out of Baiona sharply climbing in altitude along busy roads en route to Vigo. We rose high above the Atlantic mist below, which had settled in for the morning.

It was a shock to the system, as the first leg of any long walk is, and I’m sure the wine in Baiona didn’t help. Getting a little lost we finally found the iconic shell markings along the road that lead you all the way to Santiago de Compostela – It’s like an adult treasure hunt!

As you follow the Camino shells, you wind high above small towns and then through back streets, passing many albergues (guest houses), local restaurants and cafes.

After 25kms, we found our way to Vigo, a bustling city surrounded by a lush mountain landscape. We were weary and very sore, but managed to find a town square that came alive with restaurants, bars and children, playing late into the night.

On the Camino de Santiago trail. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Redondela, Spain, Camino de Santiago trail. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

On the Camino de Santiago trail. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Day 4 – Vigo to Redondela (20km*)

This day was around 20km’s, not including the many times we got lost! But this was when the true Spanish hospitality shone, with locals gently guiding us wayward travellers back on to the track and on our way. It was a very humbling experience!

Day 5 – Redondela to Pontevedra (22km)

By day 5 we were in our walking groove. We headed off in an early convoy of trekkers back into the mountain tracks, with views of the Monterreal Peninsula still peeking through the trees to our left.

We arrived into Pontevedra, a labyrinth of small cobbled stoned streets that opened up into large Piazza’s ready to be filled with the night’s activities. We were not disappointed and again the Spanish hospitality and very loud ‘Salute’s’ were on show.

Pontovedra, Spain on Camino de Santiago. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Pontovedra, Spain, on Camino de Santiago. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Day 6 – Pontevedra to Caldas de Reis (25km)

The trail followed the highway dipping in and out of local vineyards, all of which had an abundance of grapes and made for a sneaky snack!

Reaching our destination, we treated ourselves to a beautiful hotel a short taxi ride out of Caldas de Reis. Torre do Rio’s gates opened and we walked into what was once an 18th-century-textile-factory-turned-boutique-accommodation positioned on top of a hill surrounded by sprawling gardens and a cascading waterfall. It took my breath away.

Caldas de Reis, Spain, on Camino de Santiago. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Day 7 – Caldas de Reis to Padron (23km)

It was hard to leave Torre do Rio, especially after eating our way through the breakfast buffet.

Back on the road, we soon caught up with a familiar walker wearing socks and thongs – it’s hilarious the footwear some people end up wearing after days/weeks of walking!

Santiago de Compostela, Spain, on Camino de Santiago. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

On the Camino de Santiago trail. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Santiago de Compostela, Spain, on the Camino de Santiago. Photo – Caitlin Mills.

Day 8 – Padron to Santiago de Compostela (30km)

Padron is a small and eerie town that we were happy to leave. We slept next to an open chapel, which gave us both nightmares!

This was the hardest yet most rewarding day of the walk. Most of the morning we paced through low-lying fog, cobbled stone roads, past numbers dogs, churches, and cornfields. After stopping for an early morning espresso we powered onto Santiago.

We walked into Santiago de Compostela to the large cathedral square, which was a buzz of energy and excitement. A melting pot of walkers from all around the world were there – some who had walked for months! It was a surprisingly emotional finale to a short section of the Camino. I can only imagine how the others who had been on the road for weeks were feeling.

We sat down in a small and quiet chapel to rest our feet and reflect on our short but inspiring walk. A quote on the wall read ‘Blessed are you pilgrim, if on the way you meet yourself and gift yourself with time, without rushing, so as not to disregard the image in your heart’.

In our busy lives, it’s very hard to truly gift ourselves time to stop, slow down and move with the natural rhythm of life. This experience gifted me that time and I can’t wait to go back for a longer walk next time.

Must-see location

The hotel Torre do Rio, in Caldas de Reis is worth a trip back to Spain. I definitely plan on returning one day!

Must-try local delicacy

The Galician region of Spain is renowned for its fresh seafood. Located right on the Atlantic Ocean the freshest of seafood doesn’t have far to travel and it did not disappoint! We were treated to the freshest oysters, calamari, mussels, fish, and beautiful local wine!

Don’t forget to

…pack very light if you are planning on carrying all your belongings!

If you really can’t, there is always the option to get a taxi to deliver your bags to the next town.

When she’s not working for TDF or shooting other commercial and editorial photography Caitlin Mills (@caitlinmillphotography) is working on a debut fine art series. She also hopes more travel work is on the horizon and is increasingly interested in aligning her work with environmental and sustainable design and living philosophies.

Caitlin soaking up the Spanish history (and vino!). Photo – Caitlin Mills.

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