#i was sitting in my garden and there were some cool ferns

[sunbun-fnaf]

personal headcanons for my fnaf fanfic :]

no one can stop me. i will not shut up about this silly little creature i am working on. you are all cowards who cannot prevent what is coming. enjoy these silly little headcanons . these will mostly focus on the Emilys!

Charlie loves chocolate chip pancakes. they are by far her favorite food and she also just loves regular pancakes to? they tie directly to her relationship with Henry. every sunday morning henry wakes up early n makes pancakes for her

Charlie also loves crows. she thinks that they're really cool birds and that they're also really silly? she loves how smart and curious they are and when she goes birdwatching with Henry sometimes she exclusively looks for crows.

The Emilys do not own a cat! they do however have a bag of cat food sitting on their porch at all times simply so that Charlie can throw out some food for crows before she goes to school in the mornings. Henry doesn't really like crows but he will tolerate them for Charlie

Charlie's favorite non breakfast food is pizza. like every other child ever. her favorite type is just basic pepperoni and sometimes if Henry is working really late at the diner he'll bring some back for her like a peace offering for being gone for so long

When Charlie wasn't old enough to be left alone at the house she had to stay at the diner with Henry. she didn't really like it too much though since the loud noises and crowds were overstimulating n so Henry took matters into his own hands and converted one of the supply closets to a "soft room" for her whenever she wanted to get away from the crowds. its full of blankets and pillows and plushies and has a soft music box for her too if she's still feeling stressed out :]

Henry loves to garden! he prides himself on having one of the best gardens on the whole block. his favorite flowers are day lillies and they are featured very heavily in said garden

Charlie only somewhat likes to deal with plants too, but she doesnt care much for flowers. she instead likes ferns the most, and on their porch there is a minimum of 2 healthy thriving ferns at all times

Henry is nearsighted! because he has longer hair, when working on his stuff he'll use his glasses to hold back his hair so it doesn't get in the way of his work

Charlie is adopted! she typically celebrates her adoption day (december 20th) rather than her actual birthday. she thinks its a lot more important than celebrating a birthday because it was the first time she felt genuinely safe and cared for by a parental figure

Charlie loves cloudy days the most. she doesn't tend to like the sun and doesn't deal with heat very well, and so when its cloudy outside her and Henry will go out and play

just like in The Silver Eyes, Henry makes most of Charlies toys! she doesn't have much of a preference though and will keep all of them. she will fight tooth and nail to keep even the ones she never plays with because they're all so important to her purely because Henry made them :]

oh boy oh boy this got long quickly. theres just so much to talk about with these two specifically??? i love charlie so so much. shes so silly /pos. i'll probably make another one of these in the future just for the Emilys again because there is simply so so so much i could talk about. i hold them all like hamburger

[driftwork]

a year and half or so after my return from madagasar, (part 9 of a serial, the cut version)

A few days or hours later I realised that the meeting had been inevitable, that he had avoided speaking about them because he was worried that I would be unable to deal with his sister and and a parent that he rarely or never saw. He wasn't sure that I, a person who he thinks is always  pretending to the world that they are a normal human subject, should have to pretend to yet more others that they are, like them, human. (This i realize in rereading this defines why we are here)  This brief explanation doesn't really work, he said " I'm sorry I didn't think that you should have to, but still..."  I am writing this into my notebook,  in the roof garden, above the city which is divided into two,  where I sit it is a small orchard, meadows and bushes beneath a luminous sky and towards the river nothing but dead and dying things,  buildings as ruins, trees dying from the floodwater.  The dying world that we engage with everyday […] The accidental meeting happened in the late morning, we were sitting a the long table in the living area of his apartment, which we tended to use as the shared office space, using  two laptops, a conference call on the surveillance work i was running coming to an end. We break the language of humans everyday, phoneme by morpheme we destroy your grammer, your languages evolve and escape from you,  such an effort to write this within a syntax and grammar you can understand.

The door code beeped six times.  A strange woman walked into the, room through the fire doors, stopped and looked at us. Who are you? she asked.  I live here, how have you got the door entry code ? we replied. and asked her Who are you? This is my brothers loft, I am delivering some documents and keys to him, who are you?  We are his partner, he is at the surgery with the baby. Surgery, partner, baby?   She sounded as bewildered and surprised as she looked.  Would you like some tea? He'll be back soon we said.  Going to the kitchen we made tea, seeing the Jerusalem artichoke in the bowl next to the pears and passion fruit, then taking the teapot and cups to the table.  She is looking back  through the open fire doors.  That's our other loft, where he used to live, we have all this floor,  we told her.  How long have you been together? She asked. Ages,  we said, though you'd better ask him about this when he gets back. Why? looking interested. We might supply different answ(ww)ers, and he is bound to be more accurate, less fuzzy.  My name is Hanna, she said pointing at herself. And that was more or less what it was like meeting his bourgeois sister, his bourgeois family.  My name is Erro we told her at some point, I'm not sure when, sometime before he arrived back, wheeling Fern into the loft in the push chair. What's in the envelope? Codes, keys, deeds and papers for the boat.  His sister, my sister-in-law.  I am a non-human plague carrier who must never infect this woman who was consuming and killing the world.... What sort of boat? we asked. The details are in the envelope, it's dry docked in Greece,  its being maintained. A yacht?  Two of them actually. We do, we own half or third each, after its been maintained, I'm getting it sailed back here in the spring. I don’t want anything to do with the yacht. He said from the fire door. Hanna, held her tea cup as a weapon and demanded explanations, we/i wanted to laugh at his slightly cowed expression. We gave her an edited expression. Have you been here before Hanna? Enabling him not to answer.  "I was planning on being a single mother. When I arrived back with Fern,  she was 6 months old and well, we simply never closed the doors between our lofts." Why were they open?  When i went away, i didn’t know i was pregnant….I told you i was looking after Henry the Cat. He said. Hanna, be cool. This is Erro and this is Fern. Dada, bis… Hanna looked at the way the infant was holding onto him. She said Dada again. Is she yours? Yes, he says from the kitchen, ours. Though its more accurate to say Fern has chosen. You see how he says that Hanna, what he also means is that he’s mine… (as the scary women at K and Hat know)

When these events took place he was still a human subject, only much later in a desperate moment when he was dying, I infected him.  I am sitting on the roof, writing this in a warm february morning, in my notebook.  There are other non-humans downstairs…

[guillemelgat]

Advanced Learner Challenge (Welsh): Day 16

[ original post with full list of challenges / other posts by me for this challenge ]

Today’s Challenge:  Write a story, using the techniques you’ve noted the previous day.

Heddiw, dw i’n mynd i sgrifennu stori am Wlad y Rhedyn:

Amser maith yn ôl, oedd ’na dyn oedd yn byw yn Ninas y Cerrig. Oedd y dinas ’ma’n enwog iawn – oedd hi’n hyfryd ac chyfoethog. Doedd ei phobl hi ddim eisiau meddwl am y byd tu allan. Oedd lawer o leoedd peryglus, ac oedd y ddinas yn diogel. Oherwydd hynny, doedd dim un ddim wedi gadael y ddinas i ddysgu beth oedd yn aros yn y byd tu allan.

Un dydd, naeth dyn benderfynu gadael y ddinas. Oedd o wedi diflasu ar ei waith o, ac oedd o’n eisiau mynd ar anturiaeth. Naeth o gymryd sach, llenwodd o fo, ac aeth o ar ei ffordd.

Yn muriau y ddinas, naeth o gwrdd â gwarchodwr. Cafodd y gwarchodwr ei synnu i weld o.

“Beth wyt ti’n gwneud?” gofynodd o.

“Dw i’n mynd ar anturiaeth.”

“Mynd ar anturiaeth? Pam?”

“Achos dw i wedi diflasu ac dw i eisiau gweld y byd.”

“Rhaid i ti fod yn ofalus. Mae’r byd tu allan yn beryglus iawn.”

“Dw i’n barod. Dw i eisiau gweld o.”

“Wel ’na, ffwrdd i ti! Pod lwc!” Naeth y gwarchodwr agor y drws i’r ddinas, ac naeth y dyn adael.

Naeth o gerdded am gyfnod. Mae’r byd tu allan yn hyfryd iawn, meddyliodd o. Pan dywyllodd hi, naeth o ffeindio lle i gysgu, cynnau tân, ac choginio i’w hun. Oedd o’n hapus iawn.

Dyddiau yn ôl, naeth o gyrraedd i Wlad y Rhedyn. Dw i’n dweud rhedyn, ond dydyn nhw ddim yn debyg i’r rhedyn y ti’n gwybod. Mae’r rhedyn ’ma’n anferth, cymaint â choed. Ond doedd ddim ofn ar y dyn. Naeth o ddal ati.

Yn yr ail ddydd, naeth y dyn weld ogof. Dw i wedi blino, meddyliodd o, ac dw i’n meddwl bod hi’n mynd i mynd i fwrw glaw. Efallai dw i’n medru aros yn yr ogof ’ma. Felly aeth o yn yr ogof ac naeth o gynnau tân. Naeth o goginio, bwyta, ac mynd i’r gwely, ac oedd o’n cysgu’n dda pan glyweddodd o sŵn. Oedd y sŵn yn dod yn uwch. Naeth y dyn godi’n dawel. Oedd rywbeth yn yr ogof. Naeth o aros, ond doedd o ddim yn medru gweld dim byd. Yn y diwedd, aeth o i gysgu eto.

Yn y bore, doedd ddim dim byd yn yr ogof, ond pan naeth y dyn ddechrau i gerdded trwy’r rhedyn, welodd o olion traed anferth, mor anferth â’r rhedyn. Doedd ddim ofn arno, ac naeth o ddal ati.

Yn y prynhawn, naeth o ffeindio llannerch ac naeth o benderfynu aros yma achos oedd o wedi blino. Pan oedd o’n cynnau’r tân, aeth cysgod heibio i’r lannerch. Naeth y dyn weld i fyny, ond doedd o ddim wedi medru dim byd. Wedyn, yn sydyn, naeth rhywbeth yn lanio yn y lannerch. Rhywbeth mawr. Draig.

“Helo,” wedodd y dyn wrth y ddraig. “O le wyt ti wedi dod?”

Naeth y ddraig ddim dweud dim byd, ond naeth hi ddod i’r dyn ac eistedd.

Naeth y dyn gyffwrdd â’r ddraig, ac naeth hi orwedd. Naeth y dyn ddringo ar ei chefn hi. Wedyn, naeth hi hedfan ac oeddyn nhw yn yr awyr.

Pan naethon nhw ddychwelyd i’r lannerch i gynnau’r tân ac bwyta y cinio, oedd y dyn yn hapus – hapusach na yn y ddinas, a dweud y gwir.

“Dw i’n mynd i fyw yma am byth, efo chdi,” wedodd wrth y ddraig, oedd yn cysgu wrth y tân. “Dan ni’n mynd i gael llawer o anturiaethau efo’n gilydd.”

Ac oedden nhw’n byw yn hapus yng Ngwlad y Rhedyn am byth, yn cael yr holl anturiaethau y doedden nhw ddim yn medru cael gynt.

[fernweh-writes]

What would the slashers do if their s/o came home with bees following them, and not attacking them, no no no no, just chilling on/around them. I may or may not have done this as a child and scared the ever loving shit out of my parents :)

Apparently my tanning lotion attracts bees cause they kept harassing me when I used it and I had a terrible time, 0 stars. They kept landing on the bottle and I didn’t know what to do.

-Fern🌿

S/O Hanging out with Bees

Michael Myers

Michael isn’t scared of bugs, but he isn’t exactly a fan of them either. So he’s not exactly thrilled when he finds you sitting on the porch with bees constantly landing around you and buzzing around the place.

At first, he thinks that maybe they have made a nest somewhere on the house and that’s why there’s so many of them. After a quick walk around he finds out that nope, no nest anywhere to be found.

He worries that they’ll sting you but he’s also not going to do anything about it. Maybe staring at you through the window will get you to come inside so he decides to kind of hover from inside the house.

If the bees try to follow you into the house he’s going to lock you out. You’re not bringing the bees inside, he won’t allow it. Have fun on the porch.

Bo Sinclair

Bo is scared of bugs. He puts up a tough guy front like he does with everything else of course, but he is scared of them. Bees, wasps, and hornets are all the same to him. If it flies and can sting you then it’s a bee, plain and simple.

His fear comes from stepping on a yellow jacket nest when he was younger and getting stung repeatedly by them. Any southerner knows that yellow jackets are even worse than wasps when it comes to being aggressive and stinging people, so he definitely didn’t get away safely.

When Bo sees you walking down to the shop with a trail of bees behind you he panics a little bit. The best he can think of on the spot is to hide.

He locks the shop up, turns the radio up loud, and heads down to the basement. You can’t bring the bees in if you can’t get in. Then if you ask questions he can simply say he was busy down stairs and couldn’t hear you over the radio. Boom, problem solved no bees and no angry y/n. He’s a genius.

Vincent Sinclair

Vincent spends the majority of his time down in his workshop so it’s most likely a handful of bees followed you down there in an attempt to find an escape from the heat. Not the best idea seeing the workshop is far from being a nice cool place.

He’s not afraid of bugs but that doesn’t mean he has to like them either. As long as they don’t bother him he’s good. But, if they start interfering with his work then he has a problem.

Once they start bothering him, he will usher you out of his workshop. Doing his best to communicate that the bees are a distraction and he needs you to get rid of them.

Don’t look so sad, keeping the bees from bothering him is a very important job and he’s very thankful for it. You can stop by and pay him a visit once you get rid of the bees!

Brahms Heelshire

If you had just listened to him and followed the rules then this wouldn’t have happened! He tells you to stay inside of the manor for a good reason. See what happens when you don’t follow the rules!

Congratulations, now you have to face the consequences of your actions. Brahms doesn’t like bees and isn’t going to let you inside with any of them following you or on you. What if they get inside and make a nest within his walls!

Gets upset because now he can’t be near you. A tantrum is most likely to ensue because you should have just listened to him instead of breaking the rules! Now you can’t take care of him and it’s all your fault!

Thomas Hewitt

He’s mainly just worried that they’re going to sting you! What if you’re allergic to them? Have you ever been stung by one to even know? Thomas can’t have you being killed by a bee!

Doesn’t know how to help you even if he wanted to so hopefully you have the situation under control.

He first notices when he watches you being followed by bees while you work in the garden and he’s taking care of other outside chores. Perhaps it was the flowers and other plants that attracted them, but they were landing on you and you weren’t even freaking out about it or trying to get them away from you. Safe to say, he’s a little freaked out and a lot worried.

Billy Loomis

Pretty boy here absolutely hates bugs. So when you walk towards the house with bees flying around you and a couple on you he’s not exactly thrilled.

At first, he makes you sit outside so that the bees can’t follow you into the house. This leaves you sitting on the porch with your bee buddies who just don’t want to leave. Maybe it was your perfume/cologne that attracted them, but they just would not disappear.

Eventually, Billy gets impatient. He’s wasting precious time he could be spending with you to some bees. You’re his not theirs! Expect to be snatched up and drug into the house whether you like it or not.

Stu Macher

He’s just…very confused. There’s just so many bees hovering around you…And you’re just so calm about them buzzing around your head and landing on you…Why?

Once he gets over the initial shock of it he embraces it. Expect many jokes and horrible puns about being the Queen Bee. Lots of jokes involving you being called honey as well.

When it takes forever for the bees to leave you alone be begins to get annoyed. Swatting at them just stirs them up however and he most likely gets stung. Now you have angry bees and a pouty Stu. Good luck with that one.

Jesse Cromeans

He’s worried about you being stung by bees. Just because he can afford for you to be taken care of doesn’t mean he wants you to get injured in the first place.

Just look at how nice inside is y/n. It’s such a great and relaxing place to be. Much better than the hot and humid outdoors of Florida. Wouldn’t it be great to go into the nice inside without any bees? Jesse sure thinks so!

He will be finding out what perfume you had on that might have attracted the bees and gets rid of it. Jesse doesn’t care of it was expensive, it’s attracting bees so therefore it has got to go.

Asa Emory

This nerd, this absolute dork, gets excited. Why? Because he has an opportunity to easily study some bees that’s why! Sure spiders are his favorite but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t like bees. They are still bugs.

Asa is also the most likely to know the exact reason why you’re being followed by bees. So if having a buzzing entourage isn’t exactly your style he know what to do to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Or you can make it happen again if you’re a bee fan.

I like to believe a nickname Asa would use for his s/o is honey/honeybee. This incident would be the perfect source for a cute little nickname slash inside joke for the two of you to laugh about.

[45percenterthen]

Belated bday fic for bearer of cursed fruit facts @seraphlm and thee plant dad cas truther @cactuscas !! Love u guys v much, happy bday <3 (ao3 link here)

“Fuck’s a horoscope again? It’s like, stars and shit, right?”

He bumps Cas’ elbow, who’s squinting at one of his fern-looking-things like he’s experimenting with horticultural telepathy. The saga of the fern-thing has been turbulent, to say the least. It’s wilting a bit, leaves curling in on themselves like tiny fists. Cas has spent the past few days carting it from one window ledge to another, muttering to himself about humidity levels with a familiar air of irritated devotion. Dean reckons the whole underground bunker situation probably isn’t helping. It’s well travelled, though, for a plant. Dean thinks it should be more grateful.

Cas nods, releasing a leaf with a sigh and sitting down next to Jack. “Indeed. Stars and shit.”

Jack’s engrossed in some magazine, finger tracing the words as he reads. Cas reaches for the edge of the page to hold it taut for him, and Dean can practically see his other hand itching for his phone. Diagnosis time for the fern-thing. Dean’s never seen a favorites bar so wholly taken up by gardening websites. Dean’s pretty sure the definition of true love is pausing Die Hard to read an article about potting soil drainage.

“Do you want to hear yours, Dean? It’s for this week.”

“Sure, kiddo.” To be honest, Dean thinks the concept of fate can very much, actually, go fuck itself. Jack looks delighted though, so he keeps it to himself. He stirs a bit of extra butter into the eggs because that’s the way Jack likes them, dutifully not looking at Cas to avoid a depressing conversation about his cholesterol levels.

“Oh! It says you’re lucky this week, Dean!”

“Awesome, bud! Time to stock up on the scratch cards, eh?”

Sam chooses that moment to come lumbering in. The state of his hair suggests a sleepless night, or that a recent localized hurricane that targeted his bedroom only.

“Hi Sam! We’re reading horoscopes. Dean’s an Aquarius.”

“Oh, cool.” Eileen had been delayed on a salt and burn with some of the new-hunter-network people. Sam looks suitably mopey about it, forlorn housewife that he is. “Mercury’s in marmalade, and all that.”

“Aquarius is ruled by Uranus,” Jack continues, and Sam instantly chokes. On air, apparently. Bastard.

“One more time, Jack? Dean’s ruled by his –”

“You’re a child, Samantha.” Dean looks around for the nearest something-painful-not-fatal to throw at him. Plant’s a no. Instant divorce. He glances at the eggs, but decides he doesn’t want to spend his morning getting egg yolk outta the tile grouting.

“Dude, oh my – I should’ve just checked your horoscope,” Sam walks over to the fridge, catching the Mary Berry’s Baking Bible that Jody sent them for Christmas in mid-air. “Would’ve saved us a talk.”

“Eat your pineapple and shut up, man.”

“Did you know that pineapples are technically berries?” Jack says. Dean wonders if Cas introduced him to WebMD-for-plants. Or maybe this is just a side effect of being The New God on the block. Berry omniscience. “Well. The outside bit is. Bananas are berries too.”

“That’s weird,” Sam closes the fridge door. Stares into his bowl like he’s offended. Dean’s offended Sam eats nothing but fruit in the morning. “After the heaven rebuild. You should, like, fix berries.”

Jack turns to Cas solemnly. “Should I fix berries?”

“Perhaps you should concentrate on heaven, first. Then we can see about berries.”

“I don’t want to ruin the fabric of our established universe,” Jack says, and Dean’s struck, once again, with the sudden realisation that he’s making eggs for the most powerful entity in Creation. Mondays, man.

“I don’t think Chuck had any such purity of intent in mind,” Cas says darkly, pouring more milk into God’s glass for strong bones and teeth, and yeah, Dean’s pretty keen to steer Cas away from that particular line of conversation.

“Hey, what’s Cas’ horo-whatever?” He takes the eggs off the heat and walks over to the table, leaning over to see what the hell magazine this is, actually. Looks Rowena-y. Is the Queen of Hell sending his son-God care packages? That’s one way to establish diplomatic relations.

He rests his hands on Cas’ shoulders, stroking his thumbs at the neckline of his t-shirt when he feels tension. He decides against pressing a kiss to Cas’s hair. Just ‘cause he’s with a dude now, doesn’t mean he’s gonna be all gay about it. Cas’ left hand comes up to cover his own. Their rings clink.

“Cas doesn’t have a birthday, though.” Jack frowns at the page slightly, apparently looking for the section on fallen angel anomalies.

“Then we’ll have to pick one –” Dean starts, just as Cas says, “September eighteenth.”

Cas tips his head back against Dean’s chest, peers up at him. He’s got dried toothpaste at the corner of his mouth. Dean grins stupidly at his upside-down face. “September eighteenth, yeah.” Something swoops in his chest. Cas is earnest, and it’s unbearable. He loves at full volume, and Dean’s as grateful as he is undeserving. He squeezes Cas’ shoulder. Tradition, and all that.

Jack taps the page. “It says you’re a Virgo, Cas!”

They’re still staring at each other as Jack starts reading aloud. Dean brushes hair off Cas’ forehead and thinks, for once, he’s landed himself the permanent kind of happy. Dean’s pretty sure he’s loved him for years and years, quietly, achingly.

There’s the sound of cutlery against ceramic, and Dean looks up to check Sammy’s not weeping into his fruit bowl out of sheer girlish pride or whatever. He’d made it six words into his best man speech before the waterworks. Dean’s never letting him live it down.

⁂

“So,” Dean says later, after Sam’s gone to collect Eileen from town, and Jack’s off on heavenly refurb duty. “My lucky week, huh?”

Dean circles his arms round Cas’ midriff. Lets his chin rest on his shoulder, because he can, and also to check Cas isn’t half-assing the washing up.

“Apparently so.”

Dean hums. It’s funny. They’re married. And yet moments like these, the big ones, still manage to make him a bit nervous. It’s stupid. He’s hardly gonna say no. But Dean supposes they’ve never managed to get anything in the right order. Two deathbed confessions amidst a decade of friendship. An ‘I love you too’ echoing off brick in an empty room. Two kids co-parented before they even kissed, and they were already living together when they started dating. Someone get Nicholas Sparks on the phone.

“Perfect week to put an offer down on a house then, right? That one on the lake?”

Cas drops a fork into the bubbles. He turns his head to reply and Dean takes it as an opportunity to kiss what’s within reach. The smile lines around his eye, his temple greying with the proof that Cas loves him. He’s all in. Dean is too, terrifyingly.

“Really?”

“Yeah, dude.” Dean nods at the fern guy. “Your plants would appreciate the sunlight, right? And there’s a room for Jack.”

Cas spins in his arms, leaning against the sink to look Dean in the eye. Dean grabs at his soapy palm, intertwining their fingers, confident in his sappiness when no one’s watching.

“I know I always say Sammy didn’t make the most of his college experience, but dorming in my forties isn’t exactly what I meant –”

“You’ll miss him, though.”

“Of course, man. Lived with Sam my whole life. But,” Dean relinquishes the hand to cup Cas’ face, “I kinda wanna do my own thing now. With you. So, move in with me, Mr. Winchester? Somewhere… overground?”

It’s so off-your-feet sweepingly romantic Dean feels like he deserves a medal. Maybe this is their karmic justice after the proposal debacle.

Cas is smiling at him, soft and sweet. “Okay, Dean.” He puts wet hands around his waist and Dean doesn’t even care that it’s seeping through his t-shirt. “Lake house it is.”

Dean leans in, kisses him three times in response. He lingers on the last one, smiling against Cas’ mouth. Cas knows what he means.

[drabbles-of-writing]

Of Fangs and Fright

AO3

Masterpost

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Now, being dead came with a few more complications than one might expect.

Or, well, being half dead, if you wanted to be less morbid.

Now, it wasn’t all bad. There were the cool powers. Like invisibility, flying, possession, phasing through objects, being able to convincingly look sicker than a zombie…

Anyway.

Many of these powers ghosts shared in common. So long they weren’t ghosts flickering out of existence, they possessed (heh, ghost joke) these abilities. However, simple powers weren’t the only thing ghosts shared in common.

All ghosts had some green on them, it was their ectoplasm. They all had a core of their powers, and all sentient ghosts had at least one obsession. Plus a couple of smaller traits, mostly physical.

Also, they all had fangs.

Luz had to find that out the hard way.

,

A loud beeping noise woke Luz from her slumber, jerking her awake as she fell off her bed. The girl groaned, sitting up and rubbing the back of her head as she blindly reached for her clock on the bed stand and turned off the alarm.

“Ow,” She whined, feeling that she’d bitten her tongue in her fall. She felt around her mouth a bit, tasting blood until something made her pause.

She gently poked her tongue around the top of her mouth, and sure enough, two teeth felt...sharper.

It pricked the tip of her tongue again and Luz grumbled, pulling herself to her feet. She figured her teeth had just gotten a bit too sharp from some wear and tear. It’s not like she was averse to biting into some weird-tasting ghosts and objects. Don’t ask.

She stepped into the bathroom and paused, looking into her mirror. It always unnerved her to look into a mirror. The dark circles around her eyes, the way she slouched, the dullness to her skin, all of it. None of it was inherently creepy, but it somehow worked. To Luz, and everyone around her, something about her seemed off. Like she was floating through the motions and was not at all there and maybe never was.

Luz shook off the existential horror of wondering if she’d be unnerving for the rest of her life and stood in front of the sink, yawning.

She froze, her mouth still hanging open.

There, resting in her mouth, were two sharp teeth.

They weren’t remarkably noticeable, in fact if she wasn’t looking for little odd things about her every other day (learning ghostly things about yourself in the middle of a fight was not fun) she never would’ve realized. But she was sure her canines weren’t that pointy before. She leaned forward, curling her lip as she inspected her teeth.

Her tongue had ceased bleeding, it was only a small mark anyway. And she could see flecks of blood still on her left tooth. She shuttered and pulled back, closing her mouth.

This was fine. A bit of sharpness to her teeth was fine. It couldn’t be all that bad.

,

Three days later, hunched over in her bed with an ice pack pressed to her face, Luz realized, with much regret, that she had jinxed herself.

Her teeth ached. It felt like her gums were being pushed apart from the inside, which, come to think of it, they probably were.

“Show me again,” Willow said, sitting on the bed beside Luz.

Luz sighed and took the ice away and opened her mouth. Willow squinted at her teeth for a moment before stepping back onto the floor, where Gus had a bunch of papers spread about in a weird sort of discussion board.

Luz put ice back over her mouth and watched as Willow muttered under her breath and picked up a picture of one of the ghosts, Adegast, if Luz remembered correctly, and inspected it.

“I really think this is just a regular ghost thing,” Willow said after a moment, showing the picture to Luz. “Every other ghost you’ve fought has some kind of fangs, it's not that big of a stretch to say you’d get some, too.”

“And normally, I would agree,” Luz said, wincing and holding the pack tighter. “Fangs are cool. But not when I’m human!” She exclaimed. “Er, in my human form, I guess. Is that what it's called?” She hummed, staring off in thought.

“Well, you may get lucky,” Gus piped up, taking the picture of Adegast trying to attack the camera and bringing up smaller ghost pictures. “They may just look a little abnormally sharp and that would be the end of it. There are plenty of people who have sharper canines, not everyone's teeth are flat.”

Lux relaxed with a sigh, leaning forward as she crossed her legs.

“But there’s also a possibility you could end up with teeth as long as fingers,” He said, bringing up a picture of a ghost with teeth like a saber tooth tiger.

Luz stared at the picture for a moment before groaning and falling back onto her bed. She grabbed her pillow and covered her face with it, ice pack discarded at her side.

Willow lightly smacked the back of Gus’s head.

“I’m sure it won’t get that noticeable,” Willow assured her. “Aren’t Eda’s natural teeth normal looking?”

“They’re still a bit sharp,” Luz muffled around her pillow. “The gold tooth is, and I quote, a ‘misdirection.’ Like a magician's cute assistant, you know?”

“No idea how that works, but I think I get it.” Gus nodded.

“Well, it’s not like suddenly getting pointy teeth is an immediate correlation for being a ghost, or even Phantom.” Willow insisted. “Worst case scenario, everyone thinks you're becoming a vampire, which actually would be pretty normal at this point.”

“Please be aware there is a group of goths in this school,” Luz said, tossing the pillow aside and sitting up. “And Jerbo is convinced I’m a ghost. Even if nobody believes him, people are going to ask questions about the fangs, and I’m a terrible liar! You know this!”

“I mean, you managed to hide your Phantom,” Gus pointed out.

“That’s because everyone in this town is a moron.” Willow deadpanned.

“Okay, but you have to put this into perspective. Half-ghosts aren’t a commonly known or expected thing.” Gus reminded, pushing his pictures into a pile.

“Neither are regular ghosts! Or werewolves! Or talking bone dogs! And yet, people notice that! Or at least recognize it's not normal,” Willow exclaimed, exasperated. “And only Jerbo has noticed something is off with Luz.”

“I was already pretty weird,” Luz offered, flinching and rubbing at her cheek.

“I can’t win,” Willow sighed, her shoulders sagging.

“This was never a winning situation for anyone,” Luz said matter-of-factly. “Now somebody give me the nail filer on my desk.”

“Do not file down your teeth! Why am I even telling you that?”

,

“My tongue is going to be so scarred--ow,”

“Maybe refrain from talking?” Willow advised gently as Luz stuck on her tongue, revealing it was lightly bleeding after she had accidentally bitten it. Again.

It had barely been a week and Luz’s growing-in fangs were proving to be more trouble than they were worth. If they were worth anything at all.

They had gotten larger, not to a scary degree, but were certainly abnormal. And she’d even begun to get two small fangs on her lower jaw,

And maybe talking about this in the school hallways wasn’t the best idea. But the group wasn’t known for their intelligence, and Willow was fried.

“Well, either her tongue will get stronger or she’ll learn how to not bite her tongue,” Gus shrugged as Luz shut her locker. “Eda managed.”

“Eda is three decades older than--ow,” Luz whined, covering her hand with ther mouth.

“What did I just say?” Willow sighed.

“Hey, four eyes!”

The group recognized that voice, and you could physically see them deflate as Luz dropped her hand. Willow sighed and mentally prepared herself.

“Here we go again,”

The sound of snickering drew their attention, to where Boscha and her A-Listers, or whatever they called themselves, was passing right by them, smug smiles plastered to their faces. Well, aside from Amity, who looked a mix between bored and mildly concerned. She caught Luz’s eye and smiled ever so slightly.

“Heard a ghost wrecked your pretty little garden recently,” Boscha said, her eyes narrowing in that sadistically gleeful way. “Aren’t you lucky Phantom decided to grace you, huh?”

Luz visibly cringed at that, giving Willow a guilty look. She’d insisted she could help Willow replant that garden, but she had declined. Numerous times.

“Things happen,” Willow shrugged, turning away and checking over her books boredly. “At least I don’t lie about seeing Phantom every other week.”

Luz and Gus glanced at each other with shared concerned looks. They subtly backed off a bit, deciding they’d rather not get involved in the weekly brawl.

“You wanna speak up, fern girl?” Boscha growled, already beginning to take a step forward.

“Leave her, Boscha.” 

Amity broke from the group and put a hand on the girl's shoulder, lightly holding her back as she looked at her with a half-lidded expression.

“She’s not worth the energy. We have class soon.” She said calmly.

Boscha muttered and stepped back, shrugging off Amity. The rest of the group quickly stepped aside as Boscha stormed through, throwing a ‘you’ll be sorry!’ over her shoulder for good measure.

“I’m gonna bite her,” Luz muttered under her breath.

“You have no idea how much it pains me to tell you no,” Willow replied.

“Sorry about that,” Amity mumbled, suddenly appearing in front of the trio. Or maybe she was always there, Luz couldn’t remember. 

“We’re used to it,” Gus said simply. “Honestly, I was expecting a better insult than ‘fern girl.’”

“Yeah, she's off her game,” Amity agreed as Luz giggled. 

“One could say she’s…off her A game--” Luz winced, bringing her hand back up to her face.

“Boo, bad joke.” Gus shook his head distastefully.

“Are you alright?” Amity asked, frowning at Luz holding her hand up.

“Yeah! Yeah, just, uh,” Luz chose her words carefully and slowly as she quickly pulled her hand away and crossed her arms. “Bit my tongue is all,”

“We should head to class,” Willow cut in quickly, appearing next to Luz and grabbing her arm. “Like you said, it’s going to start soon and lord knows how bad our grades are already.”

“Oh, right!” Amity shook her head like she was clearing it. “I’ll see you later, guys.”

“Yeah, bye,” Luz echoed, giving a smile as Willow tugged her away.

Amity watched the three leave with a smile of her own for a moment before her eyes dipped for a moment on Luz. Her eyes widened and she did a double-take, a moment of concerned horror flashing on her features.

Luz, having a guess on what she noticed, suddenly picked up speed and darted around the hallway corner, accidentally yanking Willow with her.

“Whoa, whoa, what happened--”

“How do my teeth look?” Luz cut off Gus, opening her mouth wide. “Do they look worse?”

Willow and Gus recoiled slightly, minorly concerned as Luz worriedly shut her mouth again.

“You have...blood on your teeth,” Willow said carefully. “It, uh, kinda makes you look like…”

“A vampire,” Gus finished for her, unhelpfully.

Luz was about to poke at her teeth with her tongue, but thought better of it. She rubbed a finger instead at one of her fangs and drew it back, noticing that there was, indeed, blood on them.

“I’m going to die of blood loss at this point,” Luz groaned.

“Can you even die again--”

“Not in the mood for an existential crisis, Gus.”

,

“What, no witty comeback, Phantom?”

The halfa yelped as Roselle’s snarky remark was enunciated by Dottie slamming her against a building. She growled and curled her lips back, shaking the rubble off her as she rose into the air, her green eyes flashing.

Roselle’s smug look fell. Normally Phantom would be happy to see that, but typically that smug expression isn’t replaced by that of gleeful surprise.

“Phantom,” Roselle grinned, and even Dottie paused for a moment to see what her partner was pointing at.

“Don’t,”

“Phantom are you growing your baby fangs?”

“They sure don’t feel like baby--ow,” Phantom winced, sticking out her tongue as she bit it for the umpteenth time.

“Aw, wittle Phantom got her baby fangs.” Roselle cooed

“How cute!” Dottie agreed as Roselle placed her hand on her shoulder.

“I liked you better when you were trying to rip me apart,” Phantom huffed, her face glowing with blush as she crossed her arms and legs, hovering in the air.

“A word of advice,” Roselle said sweetly. “Mouthguards do wonders, if you can find one to steal. Pain medication still works on you, right?”

“Yes, yes, thank you for the words of wisdom, granny.” Phantom grumbled, giving the ghost a glare and a sneer. “Can I go back to--” Phantom flinched, fangs pricking her tongue again.

The teasing grins on both of the ghostly womens faces only widened and Phantom sharpened her glare, electricity sparking through her.

“Can we fight now?” Phantom drawled out slowly, as to avoid biting her tongue again.

“Right, yes, of course,” Dottie said, nodding as she waved her hand. “Where were we, dear?” She turned to Roselle.

“I believe you were trying to throw her into a stop sign?” Roselle hummed, tapping her chin and frowning. “Or was it a pipe? One of the two.”

Phantom rolled her eyes at the two conversing and uncrossed her arms, a ball of green lightning slowly forming above her open left palm.

“No, no, I think you were--”

Lightning crackled and shot right between the two ghosts, striking the wall of an old building behind them.

They slowly looked at the indent on the wall. Then, just as slowly, they looked back at Phantom, who had landed on the ground and was in a fighting stance, another ball of electricity already building up.

“I think I remember where,” Phantom paused and curled her lip again at the pain. She threw her hands in the air. “Or for the love of--”

The lightning flew from her hands, hitting the street a good ways behind her. It exploded and shook the ground, setting off a few car alarms.

Phantom visibly shrinked at the explosion, her shoulders tense.

Dottie opened her mouth, about to say something. Phantom raised her hand quickly and silenced her.

“Not a word,”

,

“Kid, I don’t know what to tell ya. This is pretty natural for ghosts,”

“It is ruining my life.”

“Your dead,”

“Eda,”

“Right, right,” Eda raised her hands, stepping away from the couch Luz was dramatically laying across on her back. “Existential crisis and whatnot, my bad.”

“I’m wearing a mouthguard,” Luz growled, though it came out like a lisp. “I look like a werewolf.”

“So do I,” Eda reminded her, sitting on the end of the couch where Luz’s feet were. “And I’m doing great.” She said, curling her upper lip and flashing her non-gold fang, which was nearly as long as her golden one. The only difference was that the gold fang was crooked and hooked out of her mouth.

“You live in a shed by an abandoned brewery,” Luz lifted her hands, gesturing to the Owl House, as Eda liked to call it. “With all due respect, I wouldn’t call this the lap of luxury.”

“Eh, who needs luxury?” Eda shrugged.

“Yeesh, you give the kid a taste of the other side and suddenly your scoundrels,” King muffled, poking his head out from under the couch.

“I have been to Amity’s house once.” Luz hissed, snapping her jaws shut when she realized it came out as an actual hiss.

“Aw, now that was adorable.”

“Shut up,”

“Wait, hang on, I was talking about that time you spent in the Guys in White’s fancy van you’ve been to Amity’s house?” King whirled around, staring up at Luz in surprise.

“...I’m suddenly deaf,” Luz lisped, her voice slurred as she lay her head back against the couch armrest. “Words? I don’t know them.”

“You got into a rich girls house and you didn’t steal anything?” Eda gasped, placing a hand on her chest. “I’ve never been more betrayed in my life.”

“That’s a lie and you know it,” King deadpanned.

“I’m not stealing from Amity!” Luz gasped, glaring across the couch. “She’s my friend! Go steal from her parents yourself,”

“I was given permission!” King pumped a fist in the air. Paw? Claw? Whatever you call the hands of a ghost dog with opposable thumbs.

“Now, now,” Eda grabbed King by the scruff before Luz could protest, pulling him up and holding him like that. “Be nice. Luz has to make a good impression on her crush. You don’t get a rich girl every day, you know.”

“Crush?” Luz yelped, jerking up so violently she shocked herself with her own stray lightning and fell off the couch with a thud.

“Oh right,” Eda snapped her fingers. “That’s another topic I’m not supposed to mention.” She grinned knowingly, dropping King on Luz.

Luz doubled over when King landed on her stomach, wheezing. King just looked up at her curiously before Luz lifted her head, her freckles beginning to glow green as electricity sparked around them.

“I do not have a crush on Amity! I tell you this all the time!” Luz exclaimed, feeling her face and grumbling when she was shocked again. “And now I lost my mouthguard,” She muttered, looking around for where it fell out.

Eda and King glanced at each other, mirroring the same disbelieving tired faces. But they didn’t say anything as Luz picked up King and set him aside, looking for where she spat out the mouthguard.

“Alright, we’ll drop that obvious lie for now,” Eda relented, walking up beside Luz and putting a hand on her shoulder. “But wearing a mouthguard is only gonna do so much. Sure, it’s nice to wear every now and again, but the more you get used to talking and eating with these ol’ pointers, the easier it’ll get for you.”

“But I’m a fast talker,” Luz protested. “Even if I get used to talking normally, I’m still not used to talking fast. And then I just keep on talking, and talking, and then I keep biting my tongue and then I start bleeding and--ow!” She yelped, recoiling mid-talk.

“Bit it again?”

Luz whined dramatically and turned, thunking her head against Eda’s chest. Eda stared at her for a moment before sighing and smiling as she rested a hand over Luz’s back and head.

“I know it's not fun, but that's just how life, er, this limbo we’re in is gonna be.” She said, patting her back.

“Pros and cons,” Luz muffled into her chest. “Pros, ghost things. Cons, ghost things.” She said, her words slow but enunciated.

“Welcome to my world, kiddo.” Eda chuckled.

“You don’t even fight--” Luz hissed, scrunching up her face before continuing. “--other ghosts,”

“No, but they’re still annoying.” Eda agreed.

“Oh, hey, I found the mouth thing!”

“King you better spit that out!”

,

In hindsight, sticking to the bottom of the Witch Hunter’s hoverboard, aka, a young ghost hunter known for not liking her, was probably not the smartest idea.

Then again, Phantom’s plans are pretty hit-or-miss.

Phantom crawled up the bottom of the hoverboard, peeking up. The dark purple coloring of the Witch Hunter’s suit nearly blended in with the night sky above her, and she clearly wasn’t paying attention.

With a mischievous grin, Phantom slowly gripped the front end of the board and leaned up, laying her chin on the end.

“Hey,”

The Witch Hunter yelped, whirling her head down as the hoverboard skidded to a stop. Phantom wasn’t prepared for that and went flying out from underneath the board, hitting the flat roof of a building and rolling right off the edge. 

But hey, at least the metal trash cans broke her fall.

Phantom groaned, attempting to peel herself out of the trash bags and pulling a banana peel off her head in disgust. She heard a snort and looked up.

The Witch Hunter was crouched on the edge of the roof, peering over. The black plastic screen over her face on the suit hid her expression, but Phantom just knew she was trying not to laugh.

“Alright, so maybe I deserved that,” Phantom relented, kicking away the last of the trash and floating up.

The Witch Hunter quickly leaned back as Phantom placed her hands on the edge of the roof, leaning on it slightly as the rest of her body was suspended by nothing in the air.

“But still, you gotta get better at noticing when I’m around.” Phantom chuckled with a grin, shaking her head.

In a flash, an ectogun was being pointed at her face, right between her eyes.

Phantom’s face dropped slightly, her eyes crossing as she looked down the barrel of the gun. Her eyes then went back to the Witch Hunter, who was still on her knees, but holding the ectogun in a way that said she wasn’t afraid to use it.

“I can never have a single moment of fun with you, can I?” Phantom sighed.

“And yet, you still succeed.” The Witch Hunter said, putting a finger on the trigger.

“I appreciate you trying to put a stop to that. You took the job everybody wanted but nobody was brave enough to try as diligently. Bravo,” Phantom nodded solemnly.

“I wish you luck,” She blinked, a smirk growing.

The Witch Hunter stared at her for a moment. Then another. She glanced around slowly before looking back to Phantom, who was still in the same position as before.

“Okay, two things,” The Witch Hunter said. “One, what am I waiting for?”

“What?” Phantom looked down at herself, inspecting her hand.

“Oh,” She deflated, looking back up to the Witch Hunter sheepishly. “I still haven’t mastered the whole ‘invisibility on command’ thing.”

“...I genuinely can’t tell if your stupid or bad at planning,” The Witch Hunter said, sounding like she was rolling her eyes.

“Fifty fifty on that,” Phantom raised a hand and tilted it.

“Secondly, what is with your teeth?” The Witch Hunter said, leaning her head forward slightly. “Is everyone getting weird teeth today?”

“Oh come on!” Phantom groaned, throwing her head back. “I just forgot about them!”

“What?” The Witch Hunter lowered her ectogun slightly.

“It’s been an issue all week,” Phantom complained, swinging her legs over the side of the roof and sitting on the edge, crossing her legs. “I forget about the fangs, I can talk easier. But when I think about them, I--” She flinched, hissing as she felt a prick.

“...that’s what you're worried about right now?” The Witch Hunter said disbelievingly.

“I’m bad at picking my battles,” Phantom shrugged. “Anyway, you’ve cursed me. You owe me compensation.”

“The hell I do!”

“If there is a hell, I’ll be sure to inform them of your grievances,” Phantom waved her hand casually. “But on the plus side, I’m getting better at not biting my to--ow,” 

“You’re a ghost,” The Witch Hunter deadpanned, getting to her feet with a sigh. “Shouldn’t it be normal to have fangs? Why didn’t you have them before?”

“Well I’m sorry but I’m a little new to all this,” Phantom huffed, floating up in the air, her legs still crossed, as well as her arms.

The Witch Hunter paused, looking over the ghost. It was only then Phantom realized that she, a ghost, had stated she was new to being one.

Phantom wished she could see her expression. Not being able to tell what she looked like at that exact moment felt like a nightmare.

“Phantom, are you--”

The halfa darted forward, flying around the Witch Hunter at blinding speeds and proceeding to kick the ectogun out of her grasp, sending it sliding to the other side of the roof.

“Little slow today, aren’t we?” Phantom quickly recovered, suddenly popping up right in front of the Witch Hunter’s face with a wide grin, fangs exposed.

The Witch Hunter grunted as she grabbed a small ectoblade (they really needed to get more original with these names) from her suits belt and swung it at Phantom.

Phantom flew a few feet away, cackling. She landed by the ectogun and kicked it up with her foot, trying to catch it midair but fumbling with it for a few moments instead.

“Somebody ought to put a muzzle on you,” The Witch Hunter muttered, taking a step back towards her hoverboard, which lay on the ground a little ways away.

“Why?” Phantom grinned, tossing the ectogun somewhere off the roof where the Witch couldn’t get to it. “Scared I’m gonna bite you?” She taunted, holding her hands behind her back and leaning forward, though she still remained a few feet away.

The Witch Hunter made a noise that sounded close between a yelp and a gargle. Almost strangled as she nearly dropped her blade.

“Oh wait, actually,” Phantom frowned, looking at the ground for a moment. “Could I bite people? Or would that give them ghost powers?” She mumbled, looking at her hands. “Am I a vampire ghost?”

The ectoblade flew right by Phantom’s head, ruffling her hair. She stiffened as the blade managed to somehow embed itself into the roof behind her, just before it hit the edge.

Phantom raised her head, spotting the Witch Hunter grabbing what appeared to be a regular silver ball from her belt. She pressed a button on the ball, transforming it into a portable ectogun.

“...okay, that’s kinda cool.” Phantom admitted.

“You have five seconds,”

Phantom took the hint and in mere seconds, shot off. She dropped out of sight beyond the roof without a word.

The Witch Hunter sighed, relaxing her arm and sagging. She watched the place where Phantom had vanished for a few more moments before turning around.

And almost crashed face-first into bright, sparking green eyes.

“I almost--ow,” Phantom whined, sticking out her tongue as the Witch Hunter jumped back.

Phantom had somehow managed to silently float behind her and was hovering in the air, upside down and at eye-level with the young ghost hunter.

“I almost forgot,” Phantom said, her voice lisp-y as she kept the tip of her tongue poking out of her mouth so as to avoid biting it again. As well as revealing its neon green color, and the fact it was beginning to become split like a snake.

Phantom probably didn’t realize that was happening yet.

Not that the Witch was looking.

“I will see you,” Phantom said, flipping over in the air so she was rightside up, slowly floating backwards. “On the fright side.” She said, winking and giving finger guns.

“Get out of here!” The Witch Hunter snapped, grabbing another silver ball from her belt and chucking it at the ghost.

Phantom yelped and got knocked in the head, complaining as she finally took off, down the streets of the town.

“I’m hilarious and you know it!” She called behind her.

“You are not!”

[i-love-side-characters]

Chapters: 3/? Fandom: Keeper of the Lost Cities Series - Shannon Messenger Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Sophie Foster/Biana Vacker Characters: Sophie Foster (Keeper of the Lost Cities), Fitz Vacker, Biana Vacker, Alden Vacker, Grady Ruewen, Tiergan (Keeper of the Lost Cities), Other KOTLC Characters Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Human, Blood and Violence, ahem- gae Summary:

“Older men declare war. But it is youth that must fight and die.”

― Herbert Hoover

Tag List: I might be missing some of you, I’m sorry!

@bronte-deserves-better @councillor-bronte-is-best-boy @cadence-talle @an-absolute-travesty @bookwyrminspiration​ @keefeinnit @mallowmeltz​ @ultralazycreatorfan @everyonehasthoughts @mistythegenderqueermess @imaramennoodle @rainbowtay-11 @we-need-more-empathy @catboyruy@we-wont-dissapear @we-have-no-bananas-today @loverofallthingssmart @a-lonely-tatertot @never-ever-too-many-fandoms @enbies-and-felonies @xonar-verse @beautifuldaysahead @jadenightthewriter @alabestrine @sunlight-in-a-bottle​ @illavarasi @completekeefitztrash​ 

Other:

This is really important to me because my “friend” really messed me up, and I really was considering not writing anymore so thank you guys <3333

This is chapter 3!

Read under the cut as well!

It was far too easy to slip out of the castle.

My feet thudded against the ground as I flew over the damp cobblestones. It had stopped raining, mercifully, but it was still dark. Perfect for a very illegal meeting. 

I pulled my hood low over my head, peering out at the empty courtyard. Wind rustled the trees bordering the stone square. Water rushed in the fountain basin, the only noise in the quiet. I crept along the edge of the courtyard and slipped through the shadowed greenery.

“Who are you looking for?”

I spun around, drawing my dagger. It was hard to keep a straight face as the boy smiled at me as his periwinkle eyes glowed in the dark. It was an unconscious move, our hands twisting into a handshake perfected over years of our friendship. 

He laughed quietly, punching my arm. “How are you?”

“Good.” It wasn’t a lie. “You?”

“Alright, I guess.” His eyes darkened slightly. “Rex didn’t make it.”

I couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped my throat. Rex, sweet Rex, was dead. Another body on the king’s head. I glared back at the castle, my hands shaking. “I’m so sorry, Dex.”

He shook his head. “You’re good. It wasn’t your fault.”

“It wasn’t, Miss Foster.” I hadn’t even noticed the tall man under the willow tree. He stepped out, his dark blue eyes filled with sorrow. I bit my lip, shaking my head. “You’re wrong, Leto. If I’d―”

“You can’t change the past, Sophie.” His voice was soft and caring. He patted my shoulder, looking up at the tall spires of the castle. “So?”

Metallic blood filled my mouth, my teeth cutting a tear in my lip. “Everything’s going fine. I can kill that so-called ‘king’ anytime, General. Just give me the word.”

“Not yet.” He sighed, leaning back against the tree. “Tiergan― that is, King Tiergan to you― doesn’t want you making any moves against Eternalia. And certainly not King Alden. It’s not the time.”

I could feel my blood boiling. He had killed so many of us, and our king wanted to spare him? “You― the king― sent me here, to Eternalia, to kill King Alden, and how he doesn’t want me to? Doesn’t he see what pain Eternalia has caused us? What they’ve done?” I spat out my words, each word coated in venomous rage.

Leto’s lips twitched into a smile, a rare sight for the old general. “You mistake Tiergan’s motives, Miss Foster. He wants you to wait, because he has a plan. However, it’s not time to act yet. Which means that you need to stay put and keep your head. I can already see you losing your cool. Control yourself.”

I glared at him, turning to Dex instead, his expression telling me that this was the first he’d heard of the change on plans as well. “You’re okay with this?”

“Absolutely not.” 

The words were surprisingly comforting, but I still wasn’t satisfied. “Why do we need to wait? I can finish this.”

“Because the king said so.” Leto replied calmly.

My jaw tightened.

Dex frowned slightly, kicking at the loose earth. “I think we should listen to him, Sophie. If anyone knows what they’re doing, it’s King Tiergan.”

“But―” I started, then bit down on my tongue. Dex was right. So was Leto, which I found rather hard to admit since I’ve been doing my best to annoy the stately general ever since the day he chose Dex and I to be his apprentices.

“So?” I sighed, turning back to him. “What does Tiergan have in mind?”

“King Tiergan, Miss Foster.” His dark eyes twinkled softly in the dark. “And he has a very interesting plan. I’m sure you’ve heard of the Winnowing Ball?”

I frowned and nodded. I had heard about it, actually. From what I’d caught from snippets of conversations, the ball was an annual event in Eternalia. The highest of highborns attend, with King Alden himself present. Basically every snobby person in the kingdom comes to compete on how high they could stick their noses in the air.

“That’s when we’ll attack.”

I blinked. “What?”

“That’s when we’ll― or you, I suppose― will kill the king. And others. Hopefully.” Leto repeated slowly. 

“But that’s… so simple.” Dex stammered slightly.

“Simple plans are often the best.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek, tapping my foot against the cobbles. Shadows shifted around the courtyard, clouds obscuring the bright glow of the moon. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll wait until the ball.”

Wind rustled the bushes as Leto stared around the shadowy courtyard. “We should leave. I’ll send you more instructions soon.” He gaze fell onto me. “Remember, Miss Foster. We see. We listen. We hear. We serve the king. We are the King’s Blade.”

I shivered slightly, nodding. Dex offered me a slim grin as he pulled me into a tight hug. “See you soon, Soph.”

“Yeah.”

I was vaguely aware of watching their silhouettes slip through the streets, vaguely aware of running back to the castle and stealing back through the servants hall. Moonlight paled the deep red carpets and cast gorgeous coloured lights through the stained-glass windows. 

I hurried through the hall, my footsteps dulled against the carpets. My breath came out ragged as I skipped up the stairs, light on my feet. I frowned. Every hall looked the same. I frowned again and, and went right. 

“Your Majesty?”

King Alden looked haggard, dark circles around his eyes. Behind him the old wooden doors to the king’s rooms where slammed shut, small rays of light shining from under the door. Fitz looked just like his father, his own sleepless circles darker than the king’s. 

The king scowled slightly, looking me over. “What are you doing awake, little girl?”

I pursed my lips and dipped into a bow. He didn’t even remember me. I was just another servant to him. I gritted my teeth and straightened. “I was feeling a little under the weather, Your Majesty. I just slipped out for a breath of fresh air.”

The king nodded, his gaze gliding over me. He seemed distracted, almost. I shot a look at Fitz, who shook his head and held out his arm. “I’ll escort you back to your chambers, Miss.”

He nodded again and ran a hand down his face, watching as his son pulled me out of sight. 

“Fitz, what’s―”

He shook his head, dragging me down the hall. Cool wind hit my face as he pulled me outside, around the courtyard, behind the castle. Green vines were draped all over the ancient marble statues, flowers and ferns shooting out of cracks in the ivory stone.

“Where are we?” 

“Royal Gardens.”

I glanced at him, taking in his rumpled tunic and red face. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s― Nothing.”

“You can’t expect me to believe that.”

He bit his lip, looking back at the tall spires of the castle, the same way Leto had looked at them earlier that night. His eyes were filled with tears, dripping down his cheeks and onto his shirt. “My mom― The queen―”

I raised my eyebrow. I knew the Queen, if only from her brief meeting with my own king. “What about her?”

“She― She’s dying.”

“What?”

“In battle. The Battle of Oblivionmyre. She was stabbed―” His eyes sparkled with tears.

I remembered that battle. I didn’t fight, but I remember the cheers that echoed around the palace that night. But he couldn’t know that. He was his father’s son, and his father was a monster, and his father was the one who hurt my people. “What happen?”

Almost as if a switch had been flipped, the tears were gone from the young prince’s eyes. They blazed with anger, his fists clenched, knuckles white. “Them. It was them. King Tiergan’s soldiers. They did that to her. They’re monsters, and murders.”

Blood pounded through my head. “What?”

“They’re monsters.” He spat, glaring around the garden. “That’s all there is to it.”

I opened my mouth and closed it again. “I― I have to go.”

“No wait― Sorry.” Fitz ran a hand down his face, sitting on the marble ruins. “I just get so angry. They’ve hurt my kingdom so much. I hate it. I wish this war would just end.”

“Same.” My words were a whisper, gently carrying on the wind. 

Fitz smiled sadly, kicking around the pale stone debris. “And if this war doesn’t end soon then... I suppose,” He swallowed hard. “I’ll be king. And then, well I don’t know.”

He stared up towards the twinkling sky, sighing deeply. His eyes were pricked with tears again. “I don’t know whether she’ll survive.” He whispered. “But I don’t what I can do except end this war.”

We both watched the stars shimmer brightly against the dark night sky, the wind ruffling in our hair. After a few minutes, a creak of a door echoed through the night, accompanied by the soft sound of feet on grass. 

It took me a second to recognize the general from the day before, he was out of armour and wringing his hands as he held out his arm for the prince. “Your Highness, your father asked me to come get you. It’s late.” He smiled at me, if only a little sadly.

Fitz nodded and pulled himself to his feet. “Thank you General Ruwen. I’m so―”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” He assured him quietly. He dipped his head to me and gestured towards the castle. “If I could escort you back, Miss?”

I shook my head, gazing at Fitz. “I think I’ll stay out her a little while longer.”

Both men dipped their heads into polite bows, walking back to the shadowy palace. I watched them leave, brushing the dirt off my dress.

I thought the prince was different.

I thought that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t be as blind as the rest of his people.

My eyes narrowed as I watched soft candlelight go out in the castle windows.

Oh well.

Like father, like son.

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

When the Sun Goes Down

This story is a heavily edited adaptation of “Gabriel-Ernest”, written by H.H. Munro in 1909. I owe this whole story to @tinyplaidninjas​ (thank you for helping me fix my werewolf story dilemma).

This is almost 3k words long, fair warning

tw: kinda horny, nudity

---

"There is a wild beast in your woods," said Lambert, as the two men were being driven to the station. It was the only remark he’d made during the drive, but since Geralt had talked incessantly about his latest publication in the Kaedwen Journal of Medicine, his half-brother’s silence had not been noticeable.

"A stray fox or two, or perhaps some wandering brownies. Nothing more formidable," said Geralt. His brother said nothing.

---

"What did you mean about a wild beast?" Geralt asked later, when they were on the train platform with their bags and tickets in hand. Geralt was bound for his private woodland estate while Lambert was making his way into town to visit with friends. 

"Nothing. Probably just my wild imagination running away with me again. Here comes the train," Lambert rushed. 

Geralt found it odd, but said nothing. Perhaps he should not have gone on at length about the Medical Journal in the carriage. Perhaps Lambert was tired or overanxious about his meeting with Aiden. It had been years since the two college friends had seen each other in person and Geralt knew that his brother held the other, equally brilliant artist in high esteem. Surely, that was the reason for Lambert’s odd dismissal of his questions.

---

Once he’d returned to his estate and unpacked his bags, Geralt decided to take a stroll through the woods. He often took a leisurely walk in the late afternoon; the trees were full of chittering animals and preening birds this time of day, after all. The natural scientist and medical doctor found the great outdoors to be brimming with new discoveries. He wanted to pick everything apart and reassemble it accurately and down to the last minute detail. He wanted to know why certain animals behaved the way they did and how they communicated with each other. He wanted to know why the little white flowering plants in his yard only bloomed every other day. He craved the answer to the universal question of why as it applied to everything.

The doctor would often spend long afternoons sitting absolutely still in the center of his garden, observing the wildlife as it moved around him. Last summer he’d even managed to get a wild rabbit to eat out of his hand. 

Now, though, the forest path seemed uncomfortably quiet. Had a larger predator taken to wandering his grounds? If so, he’d need to send word to a local hunter’s lodge and request assistance in ridding himself of the pest. As he was debating who to inquire after, he came across an unusual sight.

On a shelf of smooth stone overhanging a deep pool just to the side of the path, a boy of eighteen lay asprawl. He was drying his tan, dripping limbs luxuriously in the light of the late-summer sun and he had very few cares about doing so, according to his state of complete undress. His wet brown hair, (disheveled as it was by a recent mussing with his long, slender fingers) and bright blue eyes, so light that there was an almost cat-like gleam to them, were aimed in Geralt’s direction with a sense of lazy watchfulness. 

He was an unexpected although not unwelcome apparition, and Geralt found himself quite ignoring his eldest brother’s good advice of “thinking before one spoke”. He narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest in what he hoped was a stance of great authority. 

"What are you doing on my property?" he demanded. “And have you no shame? Trespassing for a cool dip in the water I could forgive, but you don’t even have the proper clothing to do so.”

"Obviously I came here to have a swim and sun myself," replied the boy. “I rather like how it feels to be bare beneath the warmth of the open sky.”

"Where do you live?" Geralt inquired, stepping closer. Every instinct in his body was telling him to run. To flee this place and the presence of his estate’s mysterious visitor.

"Here and there within these woods."

"You can't live in the woods," Geralt frowned. “It’s not proper.”

"They are very nice woods," said the boy. To Geralt his tone sounded almost patronizing. Borderline condescending. The doctor bristled and stepped forward again. 

“You can’t possibly be surviving out here like this!”

“I am rather proficient at fending for myself.”

"Then where do you sleep at night?"

"I don't sleep at night,” the boy winked one of his cornflower eyes. The movement had Geralt’s head reeling and his heart thundering within the confines of his waistcoat. “That's my busiest time, dear heart."

"What do you eat?" the young professor and doctor finally asked. It felt as if that question had been on the tip of his tongue since he’d seen the strange creature come into view and only now did he have the adequate terror in his veins to ask it. 

"Flesh," said the boy. He said the word slowly and carefully, almost as if he was running his tongue along every later to catch their flavor.

“What a horrible thing to say.”

“Hmm, it is the truth,” the slender youth rolled onto his back and tilted his head over the stony ledge. His mop of chestnut hair dangled down towards the water and he gazed steadily at the doctor from upside down, “I am plenty good at catching hares and birds and mice and men. I am not picky, you see. I gobble them all up.”

Geralt nearly choked on his tongue. His face flushed and his cheeks grew hot with indignance (and perhaps something else, a stirring in his belly that he quietly ignored). The audacity of such a creature! Such open and frank fliration was unheard of, especially since he was so indecorously nude!

"I can’t imagine you’re eating well. The rabbits on my estate have never been easy to trap or catch or corner. Not even my father’s best games keeper could do it, and that man lived on the property for nearly sixty years.”

"It is easier for me to hunt them than it is for your game keeper to trap them, Dr. Bellegarde,” the boy winked again. The sound of his name in the stranger’s mouth had Geralt mildly panicked. Did he know this improper young villain? Had he forgotten the boy’s name? Had the lad followed him back from university? The strange young man added another cryptic statement, “At night I hunt on four feet. It’s faster that way.”

"I suppose you’re referring to a dog?" Geralt offered. “And wouldn’t that be considered poaching, you hunting on my lands at night with your hound?”

The boy laughed a weird, low laugh; it was pleasantly like a chuckle and disagreeably like a snarl. Both portions of the sound had Geralt’s heart racing even faster in his chest. It felt nearly as painful as he’d expected from cardiac distress and he breathed evenly like he’d been taught to do under such duress. Slowly, the panicked feeling faded away and he gazed back at his trespasser with narrowed eyes. “Why are you laughing, then?”

"I don't think any dog would be very anxious for my company, especially not at night. We wouldn’t get along with each other, me and a dog.”

Geralt began to suspect (with a deep and primal sense of ever growing dread) that there was something odd and uncanny about the strange-eyed, silver-tongued youth lounging above the pond. He uncrossed his arms and put his hands on his hips, “Well you can’t keep sleeping in the woods.”

“I fancy you’d rather not have me in your house.”

The prospect of this wild, naked animal loose in the professor’s neatly ordered and well-kept manor was certainly an alarming one. Geralt glared and shook his head, dislodging some of his long white hair from its ribbon. 

"If you don't go then I shall have to make you.”

The boy flipped onto his front in a flash and plunged into the pool. In the span of a moment he had crossed the short expanse of water and flung his glistening body half-way up the bank where Geralt was standing. For an otter the movement would not have been remarkable; for a boy it was sufficiently startling. Geralt’s leather-booted foot slipped as he jerked backwards involuntarily. After his arms windmilled for a moment and his balance failed him, the young doctor found himself almost prostrate on the slippery weed-grown shore of the pond with those cat-like blue eyes mere inches from his own. 

He raised a hand to his throat instinctively and the boy laughed again; a laugh in which the snarl had nearly driven out the chuckle entirely. Then, with another of his astonishing lightning movements, the naked youth plunged out of view into a yielding tangle of weed and fern.

"What an extraordinarily wild animal!" said Geralt as he picked himself up. Then he recalled Lambert’s remark on the train station’s waiting platform: "There is a wild beast in your woods."

As he meandered his way back towards the manor proper, Dr. Bellegarde began to turn over in his mind some of the various local occurrences which might be traceable to the existence of his astonishing young savage.

According to the local paper, gathered the day previous by his valet, something had been thinning the game in the woods lately. Poultry had gone missing from several neighboring farms and factories, hares and rabbits were growing unaccountably scarcer, and complaints had reached the local constabulary of lambs being carried out of their pastures in the hills. Could it be possible that this wild boy was really hunting the countryside with a pack of obedient hounds? 

The oddly pretty creature had spoken of hunting "four-footed" by night, but then, again, he had hinted strangely at no dog caring to come near him, "especially at night." It was certainly puzzling. 

And then, as Geralt was running his mind over the various odd occurrences he’d heard reported from the village in the past few months, he came suddenly to a dead stop. The young man that had gone missing from the milling town upriver two months ago--the accepted theory was that he had tumbled into the millwheel and been swept away; but the boy’s mother had insisted that merely run away with some village girl (who had also disappeared). 

He thought of the village youngster, who’d been applying to attend Oxenfurt at the time of his mysterious yet apparent death. Perhaps they were one in the same; but then, why in all the world, would a college hopeful by lying naked in the woods outside Dr. Bellegarde’s lonesome manor house? It was odd. Very odd.

"Where's your voice gone to, Doctor?" asked his housekeeper, Ms. Merrigold. "One would think you had seen a wolf on your walk."

At breakfast next morning, Geralt was overwhelmingly conscious that his feeling of uneasiness regarding yesterday's episode with the boy had not wholly disappeared. He had decided to go into the village and talk with Lambert about the “beast in his woods” and learn what his brother had really seen that had made him so twitchy. With his day planned and his mind slightly more settled, his usual cheerfulness partially returned. The doctor hummed a bright little melody as he sauntered to the morning-room for his customary cup of tea with Ms. Merrigold. 

As Geralt entered the morning-room and scanned the familiar space his humming made way abruptly for a quietly shouted curse. Gracefully laid out atop his red velvet settee, in an attitude of almost exaggerated repose, was the boy from the woods. He was drier than when the doctor had last seen him, but still he remained entirely naked. Every inch of his lovely, soft-looking skin was on display; Geralt averted his eyes as quickly as possible and tried to hide his blushing face from the grinning minx.

"How dare you come in here like this!” he huffed.

"You told me I was not allowed to stay in the woods," said the boy calmly. He propped his elbow up on the cushion and laid his cheek against his palm, languidly stretching his legs out at the same time. The doctor breathed deeply and kept his eyes firmly locked with the strange young man’s. 

"I did not invite you to come here!"

“Then I have misunderstood,” the boy sighed. The hand that had been supporting his head moved down and flattened against the settee. His arm straightened and his torso lengthened with the movement. Now sitting with one knee resting slightly bent atop the other, his hair messy and his shockingly blue eyes half-lidded, he looked like the painting of a young Cupid. 

“Triss!” Geralt called, desperate for another person to intervene on his behalf. To save him from this tempting little beast. “Triss, fetch one of the pantry boys. We have a guest and he’s...he’s quite out of sorts.”

“Yes, Dr. Bellegarde,” his housekeeper called back. “Right away, sir!”

The boy giggled from the couch and Geralt whirled back to look at him. His finger was playing gently with the plumpest part of his lip and the young professor found himself flushing yet again. “Yes, Dr. Bellegard. Hurry to cover me up right away.” 

---

Lambert was less than helpful when Geralt first asked about the beastly reference he’d made at the station.

"My dear father died of some brain trouble," he explained, "So you will understand why I am averse to dwelling on anything of an impossibly fantastic nature that I may see or think that I have seen. I don’t even know that I saw anything, you understand?”

"I am a medical doctor, Lambert, of course I understand. But what did you see?" Geralt inquired. “I must know.”

"What I thought I saw was something so extraordinary that no really sane man could dignify it with the credit of having actually happened. I was standing at the end of the lane near your manor property, half-hidden in the hedge growth by the orchard gate. I’d been watching the dying glow of the sunset and committing to memory for use in a future painting. Nothing extraordinary, of course, but beautiful nonetheless. 

“It was then that I became aware of a naked boy. I assumed that he was a bather from some neighboring pool who was standing out on the bare hillside, also taking a moment to watch and appreciate the sunset. His pose was so suggestive of some wild faun of Pagan myth that I instantly wanted to engage him as a model, and in another moment I think I should have hailed him over to my hiding spot to discuss such a matter. Just then, however, the sun was lost over the edge of the horizon and the last of its warm orange glow slid away. The landscape was left a cold and gloomy grey.”

“And what of the boy? Your language is poetic, Lambert, but I’ve grown rather impatient!”

“The boy was gone, Geralt!”

"What? Did he simply vanish into nothing like some ghost or phantom?"

"No; that’s the most terrifying part, you see," answered the artist; "That’s the whole reason I didn’t want to tell you about this problem in the first place. Geralt, my dearest brother, on the open hillside where my momentary muse had been standing a second before, there was a wolf instead. It had shaggy brown-black fur and huge, gleaming fangs. Most terrifying of all were its huge, bright blue eyes.”

Geralt’s mind whirled with the new information. Lambert had indeed given him the details he’d so desperately needed to draw his final, strange conclusion: the boy was a werewolf! He thanked his younger half-sibling and made his departure, hurrying back to the manor as quickly as possible.

He had to make it home before dark.

---

“The moon isn’t full tonight,” the boy sighed. Triss had managed to wrestle him into a clean shirt and a pair of cropped blue breeches but despite the clothing he still seemed to ooze a sense of easy, naked confidence. The slim brunette was draped across the chaise lounge of Geralt’s personal study, his bare feet hanging over the arm. 

“So?”

“So I will not transform into the horrible monster you fear I shall become,” he sighed again. He rolled his eyes in Geralt’s direction and smirked. “You and your housekeeper are safe. As is your cook, your pageboy, your valet, and your terribly friendly mare. Roach, right?”

“Hmm. You’ve been through my things?”

“Triss allowed me to wander the house and the grounds but then she forced me to bathe again when I came back in,” he frowned. “Soap does not agree with me and neither do these prickly, constricting clothes.”

“And your name?” Geralt asked, finally. “Since you have proven to know me already.”

“You may call me Jaskier,” the boy said, popping up from the couch. He offered his hand, which Geralt shook rather nervously. “And I’ve already decided that I’m going to be staying for awhile.”

“Why should I allow you to stay?” the young doctor bristled. “What have you to offer me in return for room and board?”

“I have no money, but I’m a wonderful gardener and I’m sure that there are, Dr. Bellegarde, other ways we can pass the time together. I sense that we are kindred spirits in many ways.”

Geralt blushed and swallowed hard, blinking down at the boy, whose fingers were playing with the material of the doctor’s cravat. His blue eyes peeked up through their bordering black lashes and Geralt’s will crumbled to dust. “Alright. I suppose you can stay; if it keeps the village safe.”

“Very safe,” the werewolf, Jaskier, smiled. His delicate little paw with its long, lithe fingers spread over the material of Geralt’s silk waistcoat, right over his heart. “So very safe, indeed.”

[c-estmabiologie]

nine terrible cups of tea (and at least one equally terrible cup of coffee) | the haunting of bly manor fic

Dani tries to master the art of making a proper cup of tea. It goes just about as well as you'd expect. (1987 - 1994)

Also on AO3!

One

“Really you could just throw a tea bag into your mug, pour some water on top, and call it a tea. But we’re better than that.”

Dani isn’t convinced but she tries her best to follow the steps as Jamie patiently describes them. She talks about making tea with the casual confidence of someone who believes that Dani can will a good cup of tea to exist. As if this isn’t the first time that she has tried to hold Dani’s hand through the process. Dani’s pretty sure it won’t be the last time either, but she tries to wield some of Jamie’s confidence as her own.

“If you want to be really proper, you can even warm the pot first with some hot water from the kettle and, you know, just dump it down the sink.”

Dani swirls the hot water around inside her teapot, feels it warm under her palms. It’s nice. Wasteful, but nice.

“What does this do?”

“No idea. Somebody probably decided that it makes the tea taste better.”

“Okay,” She drops two teabags in. One for herself, and one for the pot, according to Jamie who’s not leaving tea totally up to chance and Dani’s efforts; her arm is soft and cool against Dani’s as they stand shoulder-to-shoulder at their kitchen counter, each with their own pot of steeping tea.

“Now here’s where you might make a mortal enemy of a Brit: adding milk to your cup before or after the tea.”

“Does it have to have milk?” Dani asks, thinking Aren’t there people who drink their black tea black, like coffee? That’s a thing, right?

Dani can feel Jamie twitching a smirk beside her without having to look.

“It has milk if you’re making English tea.”

She remembers the looks she got from Hannah and Owen and even the children whenever she’d made an attempt at tea. She can’t remember when she’d added the milk. Jamie, for sure, must be exaggerating the offense.

"But which one’s the right way?”

“Hmm? Oh, I don’t really care as long as it’s the right amount of milk.” Dani realizes that Jamie’s already gone ahead and poured her own cup without her, milk and all, and she’s missed it. She pours her own tea and splashes in milk until its colour matches the tea in Jamie’s cup.

They look the same to Dani.

“Alright,” Jamie says, “let’s have a taste shall we?”

They taste the same to Dani, but Jamie’s brow furrows just a little as she takes the cup away from her lips. And then she starts laughing.

“Okay, how is that possible? We did the exact same thing!” Dani takes another sip from her own cup to prove her point. It tastes fine! It’s tea!

“I really have no idea, Dani,” Jamie’s still laughing. “You’re just shite at making tea.”

Two

Jamie's been trying to relax with a book in the bedroom when she hears the beeping coming from another room. Just three little beeps, then nothing. A minute later, the three beeps chirp through her focus again.

When it happens a third time, she finally puts down the book to shout.

“What is that?”

“What’s what?” comes Dani’s reply from across the apartment. Then the beeps make themselves known once more.

Then: “Oh. It’s the microwave. I got distracted.”

Owen had bought them a microwave as a housewarming gift. It was a convection microwave, he’d told them proudly, which apparently made it special because you could microwave your food on a metal tray if you wanted. The idea was that they could warm up their takeaway faster, or cook frozen dinners (Owen’s very generous way of chiding them for both being awful cooks). Jamie hated it. It was big and ugly and had faux-wood paneling on the side. She’d rather stick to making burned stews on the stovetop.

Dani appears in the doorway with a mug in each hand. She holds out one mug to Jamie.

“I made you tea.”

“What, in the microwave?”

Dani shrugs and sips from her mug.

“No.”

“It’s fine—”

“Absolutely not.”

Three

It’s a quiet-ish day at The Leafling and, to be honest, Dani is sort of enjoying the peace of arranging flower displays and curling ribbons. The sun is warm through the windows.

Jamie is laid up in bed with some sort of cold. She’s being a surprisingly big baby about it, too, Dani is surprised to realize. Her wife doesn’t like it when she can’t be useful.

Speaking of certain wives who shouldn’t be up, Dani can hear steps coming down the stairwell that connects the shop to their apartment. The shop’s back door pushes open a moment later and Jamie appears with jacket on and her curls stuff up into a hat. She’s pale and her nose is pink and tender-looking around the nostrils.

“What are you doing down here?” Dani demands in her most teacherly voice, but Jamie clearly has plans to go out, not back upstairs.

Jamie’s voice is raspy and hoarse.

“I need to go out to the shops and get some more milk. Ours is off.”

“I had some in my cereal this morning and it was fine.”

Jamie coughs into her collar.

“The date on it’s fine. But I add it to my tea and it’s curdled.”

“Oh.” Dani’d left the tea steeping for her before she’d come downstairs.

Then: “It’s probably the lemon doing that. In your tea, I mean.”

“There’s lemon in my tea?”

Dani nods. “There’s honey in it, too. It’s supposed to help with your sore throat.’

Jamie sighs, then sniffles, then seems to deflate a little.

“I’m gonna be honest: it sounds absolutely disgusting.”

But Dani insists that she at least give it a try (without milk), that it will make her feel better (it does, a little, admittedly), and that, who knows, she might like it (she does not).

Four

Summer heat hits hard, and The Leafling doesn’t have air conditioning. The ceiling fans do nothing more than push hot air around the shop. The plants slump in their pots (which annoys Jamie), and fat houseflies keep finding their way indoors, only to bang themselves relentlessly against the windows until they fall dead on the sills (which annoys Dani). Everything is slightly damp with sweat or condensation.

“This is something my ex-almost mother-in-law used to make,” Dani says, stirring the ice around in the pitcher with a wooden spoon.

“You know there’s probably a less complicated way to say ‘ex-almost mother-in-law’.” Jamie says. Her hair is sticking to her neck, and her gardening gloves feel like they’re being peeled off of her skin as she takes them off.

“She used to make it for my, you know, Eddie and me in the summer when we were kids,” Dani hesitated. “I don’t know. It just always reminds me of the best parts of summer.”

But when she looks up Jamie has a glass and is holding it against her cheek.

“You know,” she says, “I do know what iced tea is. It’s not exactly a foreign concept.”

Jamie is thoughtful as she drinks the tea slowly.

“So,” she says finally. “This is what makes Poppins think of summer.

“It’s kind of a funny taste isn’t it? Cold tea on purpose.”

Jamie gets up and pulls Dani into a hug that’s nice, but not altogether pleasant — their skin clings together and comes apart audibly in the heat and they both smell very strongly of themselves.

“Thank you for sharing it with me,” Jamie says into her shoulder.

“I’m going to go upstairs and put the kettle on.”

Five

“What is it?”

The gift sits on their kitchen counter, out of place and mysterious with its glass-and-stainless steel modernity next to their wooden cutting boards, cluttered and kind of oily spicy jars, and that obnoxious faux-wood panelled microwave.

“Owen says it’s a French press. He was really excited about some Danish company. Said it’s apparently great for beginners.”

Jamie makes a note to herself to somehow ask Owen to stop giving them gifts for their kitchen.

“I didn’t think Owen drank coffee.”

Dani looks thoughtful, “I don’t think he does.”

Owen’s gift doesn’t come with instructions, and neither one of them wants to ring Owen up to ask for help. Dani takes charge, grinding the coffee beans (which Owen had also generously provided) in the spice grinder… and then washing out the grinder and starting again when Jamie points out that the fresh grounds reek of coriander.

They aren’t sure if they’re supposed to give it all a stir once the water’s been added. Or when to press the plunger. Or how long it’s supposed to sit. Their first attempt produces faintly coffee-flavoured water. Their second, a grainy, chewable mess.

The French press gets relegated to a high shelf above the stove, behind a fern. Eventually it will pinch-hit as a flower pot and Dani will love how the glass reveals the root systems buried in the soil.  

Six

“This tea tastes weird.”

It’s Dani who says it.

Jamie looks up from the arrangement she’s been working on. It’s wedding season and The Leafling has been swamped with orders for bouquets and table arrangements. Jamie’s been going back and forth on this particular order all week with a bride who seems unhappy no matter how precisely she tries to follow the bride’s vision. Frankly, it’s been pissing her off (the last time she’d come in and rejected Jamie’s work, Dani had sensibly stepped in to take over the conversation before Jamie could get their shop shut down for punching a customer).

“Are you sure you didn’t accidentally drink vase water?”

She picks up her own cup and takes a sip. The milk must have been added too soon and seized up the brewing. The tea tastes like nothing. Dani is watching her.

“Yeah, this is pretty bad.”

Dani says nothing.

“Oh shut up. I’m allowed to have off days, too, you know.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Dani says, but she’s smiling.

Seven

Jamie somehow manages to drink vase water.

Neither of them can explain how it got into her tea cup or where her actual tea had gone.

Eight

“Hey.”

The word is spoken into Jamie’s hairline and followed with a kiss. She smiles, half-awake, and reaches to pull Dani to her so she can kiss her properly. Her hand jostles a tray and something makes a precarious, jangling sound.

“What’s this?” she rubs at her eyes. It’s still mostly dark in the room.

“You’re up early.”

Dani’s at the side of their bed with a serving tray. She’s barefoot, still in her pyjamas and, from what Jamie can tell, still pretty sleepy herself.

"What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion.” Dani places the tray on the bed and climbs in next to Jamie slowly, careful not to tip anything on the tray.

"I just thought it would be nice to have the morning together. I bought scones.” Dani warps her voice around the word in a way that is definitely not the American pronunciation, but just as definitely not a passable approximation of Jamie’s accent. As Dani hopes it would, it makes Jamie smile.

“I see that. Scones.”

“Mm-hmm. And biscuits,” Dani never could manage that one without the secret sort of laugh that says that the Rich Tea biscuit that she’s picking up off a plate will only ever be a cookie to her.

It’s all lovely. The biscuits, the morning, Dani: lovely.

And then, of course, there is the matter of the tea.

A few problems that meet Jamie immediately as she takes a tentative sip. First, it’s cold. Second, even with what looks like an alright amount of milk (Jamie notes that Dani’s been getting better on this front)...it’s bracingly bitter.

She bravely takes another sip to avoid spoiling the otherwise perfectly cozy moment. Something solid dislodges itself from the bottom of her cup and hits her wetly on the nose. Jamie can’t help but splutter a little, and the thing plops back into the cup. It’s the tea bag.

“Uh, Dani?” Jamie realizes that she’s poking a bruise a little here, and Dani looks so happy next to her, breaking off pieces of scone with her fingers.

“How long was the tea left sitting?”

Dani’s brow furrows.

“I’m not sure how early you wake up these days,” she says. “I may have made it… a while ago. Is it okay?”

Jamie gently places the cup back onto the tray.

“It’s just a little on the cool side, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Dani tests the side of her cup with the back of my hand, as if to memorize what a little on the cool side means to Jamie.  

“I can just warm it up in the microw—”

“ No. Let’s just enjoy our morning.”

Nine

“Does anyone who drinks this stuff actually enjoy it?”

They’re in bed, limb flung loosely over limb. On the TV screen, a woman sits tensely under a tree while another sticks her bare arm right into a beehive. Bees swarm up her sleeves and into her undone braid.

“I think it’s pretty nice,” Dani says, “It’s peppermint. It’s supposed to be relaxing.”

Jamie curls up against Dani’s chest. She cradles her cup between them, more for its warmth than for any interest in drinking it.

“It tastes like hot toothpaste.”

On the screen, the bee charmer has returned with a mason jar full of honey. She invites the other woman to have a taste.

“Do you think they’re gonna get together?” Dani says. Jamie considers the scene for a few seconds.

“Yeah. But it’s a little weird to go after your dead brother’s fiancée like that isn’t it?”

Her own mug empty on the bedside table, Dani picks up Jamie’s abandoned tea. It’s still warm and it’s left a warm spot on the blankets between them.

“I guess it’s a little weird. I still want them to get together.”

Jamie makes a sound that might be agreement, but her eyes are drifting closed.

She’ll fall asleep before the movie’s over. Dani will fill her in on the details she’s missed over breakfast, before they have to return the tape to the video store.

Ten

“It’s so nice to have someone cook for me for a change,” Owen says, pleasantly. It’s not often that he’s been able to come around to their place over the years (and lately it’s become even less often).

“You’ve always done so much for us,” Dani calls from the kitchen. Something clatters loudly into the sink. “We just want to return the favour.”

Owen glances at Jamie, who confirms with a nod that it was, of course, Dani who had had such a thoughtful idea.

“I’m just nervous to serve dinner to the accomplished chef and restaurateur Owen Sharma,” Jamie says. “I’ll have you know that if it were my idea, I’d have just gotten takeaway and arranged it artfully onto plates. Real plates, of course. Nothing but the best for our Owen.”

Dani comes in then with a tray and busies herself with setting up the table. Jamie clears away the half-melted candles and clutter to make room.

“I thought we could have some tea before dinner.”

The hesitation that hangs in the air is palpable mist off a pond.

Owen clears his throat and politely reaches for a cup.

“Did you make it, Dani?”

“She’s been practicing,” Jamie says, drawing one knee up to her chest and reaching over to get a cup for herself.

“She says I’m not allowed to be a judge anymore. Says I’m biased against her, but really my tastebuds are probably shot. So, you are her lucky new victim.”

They toast to friendships and loves that are never truly lost and gamely drink Dani’s latest attempt at a proper cup of tea.

“You know what,” Owen says after a moment. “It’s not that bad.”

“Really?”

“You hear that, Poppins?” Jamie says, with another half toast of her cup. “You did it.”

“Really?” Dani says again. She takes her own sip, searching the taste for what might have made this brew remarkable. It just tastes like tea to her.

“It’s good?”

Owen and Jamie both make non-committal sounds, but neither do they abandon their drinks.

“It’s not the most amazing tea I’ve ever had,” Jamie admits. “But it’s absolutely, absolutely a decent cup of tea.”

“You know what?” Dani says, “I’ll take it.”

[heliads]

Away With Me Chapter 4: The Village

Princess Y/N is dreading her looming arranged marriage to a wicked nobleman when she makes an unlikely friend in castle craftsman Peter Parker. Will they be able to become close despite their differences in status?

previous / series masterlist / next

When the morning sun is finally too bright to ignore, you blink open your eyes, still tired.

You look up at the arched wooden ceiling, letting a slow smile cross your face. Here you are, lying calmly next to the boy your love. For the first time, you don’t have to worry about any marriage contract or palace decorum- you are finally free of all responsibilities except to live happily with Peter.

Speaking of Peter, the brown-haired boy is waking up, too. He presses a light kiss to your forehead and stands up, stretching. The two of you eat a quick breakfast before he heads out to the town center- he needs to check in on his job as village craftsman to make sure everything looks alright. You, on the other hand, have absolutely nothing planned. Well, what else can you do except go explore?

You pull on a faded green dress from the bag you brought with you, fixing your hair quickly before heading out the door. You bask for just a moment in the warm sun, then start on your journey.

You make sure to walk every inch of the village, not wanting to miss seeing a single street or cobbled square. Most houses have small flowering boxes or neatly trimmed gardens encircling them like a gate of greenery, and you make a note to yourself to look into making a garden of your own. Wouldn’t it be fun to have your own wandering lines of flowers and ferns in the back of your house? You stroll past bakeries and blacksmiths, milliners and marketplaces. At last, you are thrilled to discover a small bookshop, and eagerly slip inside.

The bookseller runs a quiet little shop, closed away from the hustle and bustle of an early morning. The cool air is scented slightly by the old books, and the rustle of fading pages is music to your ears. You feel like you could spend hours in that darkened store, but you tear yourself away after a while. You do allow yourself to buy one book though, a small book of fables that caught your eye with its intricate leather bindings and detailed illustrations.

As you stride out of the bookseller’s, blinking in the sudden sunlight, you catch sight of a young girl struggling to carry two buckets full of water. She barely looks older than five, and the buckets are so full that the water inside threatens to slosh over onto the street, ruining all of the girl’s hard work. Instantly, you run over, taking one of the buckets. The girl looks at you gratefully, and you follow her to a bakery, where she hands the buckets over to a thin-faced woman in a flour-covered apron.

The girl considers you for a moment, then sticks out her hand solemnly. “My name is Charlotte.” You take the girl’s hand with equal formality. “I am Y/N.” Charlotte peers at the book you’ve just purchased. “Thank you for helping me with the water. Is that a book from the bookseller’s down the road?” You nod, smiling. “I just bought it a few minutes ago. Have you read this one?” The girl shakes her head sadly. “I’m needed to help my mother with the bakery, so I don’t have time to go to school and learn to read. I’d like to though, a whole lot.” You smile at the girl, forming an idea. “What if I taught you how to read?” Charlotte’s face lights up. “Really? You mean it?” You nod, taking the book out from your bag and guiding the little girl over to a bench. “Absolutely. Let’s begin.”

Charlotte turns out to be a quick learner, and the two of you go through some letters before her mother calls her once more. Just before she goes, Charlotte begs you to come back the next day and teach her even more, and you readily agree. Smiling over the girl’s excitement, you wander your way back home.

Peter is waiting for you, and he kisses you in greeting once you open the front door. “How was your first day being a commoner like the rest of us?” You laugh, and swat him on the shoulder. “It was just wonderful.” And it was- the feeling of being free to do whatever you want instead of adhering to the guidelines of royalty is one of the best feelings in the world.

Most of your days pass like this- Peter heading off to work, you helping Charlotte learn to read or work on your (admittedly struggling) garden or finding some other way to help out around the village. You and Peter are easily welcomed into the village, and it brings you no small amount of joy that you can live with the boy you love and have such a wonderful time doing so. 

Peter is glad that you fit in so well, too, and whenever he’s out in town he always does his best to come see you at least once during the day. One time, he came to visit during your daily lessons with Charlotte, and the beaming smile on his face when he saw the two of you bent over a book could have outshone even the sun.

Blessed hours turn into days, and glorious days turn into weeks. Before you know it, you have lived in the village for three months. To celebrate, you brought home a cookbook from the bookseller’s, and Peter comes home to find you studying a recipe for cherry pie with all the solemnity of one of the kingdom’s highest scholars.

“What’s all this about?” Peter walks up behind you, taking in all of the pots and pans you’ve used as well as the cookbook. You turn to him, grinning. “I am celebrating our three-month anniversary of living in the village. I made a pie, which should be ready right about-” You’re cut off by your clock striking the hour, and hurry over to your oven. “Right about now!”

Luckily for you, the pie looks perfect, and you and Peter hurry to set the table before it cools off completely. Just before you can cut into it, though, there’s a loud knock at the door. Peter looks at you confusedly. “Were you expecting anyone?” You shake your head, but Peter’s eyes clear. “It must have been old Mr. Bennett from down the road. He always does this whenever I start on a new project for him- I’ve barely been working for longer than a minute before he’s coming back to the shop and listing some other new idea. I’ll answer him- it’ll just be another moment.

Peter stands up and walks over to the door, unlocking it and pulling it open. At the look of fear flashing across his face you stand up, too, and realize with growing horror that it is not simply old Mr. Bennett at the door, but instead, the King’s Guard stands before you.

“Mr. Parker? You are under arrest for the kidnapping of Princess Y/N. You will be coming with us.” The guards step forward, and you realize that everything the two of you have worked so hard for, the life that you have enjoyed so much, is crumbling around you.

You race forward and stand close to Peter, wrapping your arms around him. “No! You can’t take him!” The captain of the guards moves towards you, and pulls you away from him. You fight as hard as you can, but before you know it Peter is being dragged out of the room and you are left alone. You crumple to the ground, sobbing.

When you finally are forced back to the castle, you immediately go to your room and lock the door. No matter how many times your father or your guards or even your ladies-in-waiting try to convince you to let them in, that door remains locked. You cry and cry for what feels like forever, mourning the loss of your life with Peter. It had all happened so fast- one minute the two of you were sitting down to dinner, no worries in sight, and then the guards had swooped in and taken him away from you. The cherry pie was probably still on the table, uneaten. Would little Charlotte know what had happened to you? Would the people of the village know?

Later that night, you’re finally able to slip away from the newly posted guards at your door long enough to see Peter. You wind your way through the dank passages of the dungeons until you reach Peter’s cell, and, without alerting the dungeonmaster (nicknamed ‘The Vulture’ by the castle staff because of his harsh treatment of the prisoners) or the guards patrolling the cells, you unlock the cell door and fling your arms around the boy you love. He holds onto you tightly, and you cry quietly into his shoulder.

“Oh, Peter, I’m so sorry! I never meant for any of this to happen- this is all my fault- I never should have-” Peter cuts you off softly. “Never should have what? I don’t regret meeting you or falling in love with you for a second. It was my idea to run away together, and I probably should have made sure that we went further away from the castle.” You pull back from Peter for just a second, taking in the sight of him. You lace your fingers in between his, and guide him out of the cell. 

“Where are we going?” Peter asks you in a hushed whisper, desperate to not attract any unwelcome attention. “I’m getting you out of here. Come on!” You guide your love through the passageways and out of the dungeons until the two of you are standing near a castle entrance, lit only by the light of the rising moon. You thrust a bag of food into Peter’s hands. “There’s a horse not too far from here, I saw it from my window. If you hurry now, you should be able to get out of here before anyone realizes.”

Peter looks at you, confused, but you continue on. “The von Struckers are angry that I ran away from the wedding, so my father is going off of some lie that you kidnapped me. By pretending that it was all your fault, he can keep the marriage intact and still get the money and resources that our kingdom so desperately needs. The problem is, kidnapping a princess is a terrible crime and they’d probably kill you.”

Peter laughs at that. “I’m not against leaving. Come on, let’s go.” He takes a few steps towards the door, but looks back at you when he realizes that you haven’t followed him. “Come on, Y/N. You said it yourself- we need to get out of here before the guards realize we’re gone.” You shake your head softly, trying to hold back tears. “The guards won’t realize I’m gone because I’ll be back in my room. You know I can’t go with you, Peter.”

Peter rushes back to you, holding you close in his arms. “Why not, Y/N? We could make it out- no one would notice-” You laugh mournfully. “I would love nothing more than to run away with you. Those few months we had in the village were the best of my life, but the guards found us because they were looking for me. If I stay here, they won’t come and find you, and you being safe is worth a hundred terrible marriages.” You gently disentangle yourself from Peter’s arms. “You need to go. There’s only so much time we have.”

Peter looks at you, and you swear you can feel his heart breaking right along with yours. “I can’t let you go, Y/N, you know that. Please, come with me.” You take one step back, hating yourself all the while. “I need you to be safe. I need you to live! Take the horse, and go as far away from here as you can and never come back. I will miss you every second of every day, but it will be worth it if I know you will be alive.” Peter rushes to you once more, and kisses you one last time. “I will never forget you, Y/N. I will love you for as long as I live.”

With that, Peter holds you tight one last time, and then quickly races off into the night. He turns back once, just before he’s out of view, and you watch him go for as long as you can. Once he fully disappears from sight, you let out the tears you’ve been holding back. Peter is gone, and you will never love again.

[erumai-maadu]

so after several increasingly insane messages to Alex at ungodly hours of the night, I caved (haha), posted about my new obsession, and now I have once again been enabled by @tamale104, so you’re gonna hear about the latest obsession I gained from research for my fic: The Sơn Đoòng Cave.

long, LONG post below the cut

Hang Sơn Đoòng, translated from Vietnamese as either “cave of the mountain river” or “cave of mountains behind Đoòng (village)” is a cave in the Phong Nha-Kẻ Bàng National Park in Vietnam, near the Laos-Vietnam border. It’s between 2 to 5 million years old, and is a solutional cave, which means it was formed by water dissolving soluble limestone. The cave has an internal fast-flowing river called Rao Thuong, and it’s this river that carved out the cave over millions of years.

The cave was discovered in 1991 by a local man named Hồ Khanh, who was, at the time, a logger looking for agarwood, a valuable timber. However, the steep descent into the cave (a 200 ft drop!), as well as the sound of roaring water coming from within discouraged him from entering. Later, in 2009, a group of cavers from the British Cave Research Association were conducting a survey of the national park and explored the cave, giving it international fame.

The main passage of the cave is the largest in the word by volume, big enough that a Boeing 747 plane could fly through with ease without having to fear for its wings. It’s 200 meters (660 ft) high and 150 meters (490 ft) wide. The cave also contains some of the world’s largest stalagmites (those are the ones that come from the floor), such as the 200 ft tall Hand of Dog stalagmite.

The story behind that weird name, in a quote from one of the first people to explore the cave, Howard Limbert: “A woman on our original expedition asked if she could name it. She shouted ‘The Hand of God,’ and the lad who wrote it down wrote ‘Hand of Dog’ instead. We didn’t know it was going to be famous, so some names are a bit weird.”

The cave’s size is because of two factors, the river running through it, and the fault line it sits on.

My favorite thing about this cave are the two dolines, places in the cave where the ceiling has collapsed. The first doline, named Watch Out for Dinosaurs, is a small hole in the ceiling that lets in mesmerizing beams of sunlight. Small ferns grow on the rocks where the sunlight touches. 

(image taken from the cave tour company’s website, Oxalis Adventures. The picture is taken with artificial lighting to brighten the surroundings. The second picture is from the CNBC article linked in my sources list. it’s done with minimal artificial lighting.)

The cave is so big that it has its own weather system. The sunlight from the dolines heats the water from the river, forming clouds inside the cave that give moisture, allowing plants to grow on the rocks.

So after the first doline, you pass through a chamber whose walls are made entirely of fossils, making the rock white, and then through the cave’s biggest chamber, the one that a 747 could fly through without its wings being in any danger. 

Then, you get to the second doline and my absolute favorite part of the cave: the Garden of Edam. The second doline is large enough that it allows enough sunlight for a jungle to grow 820 feet below the ground. 

(picture of the aerial view was taken from the CNBC article. second picture is taken from the wikipedia article.)

(it looks so pretty at night, I wanna live there.)

In the cave’s jungle, trees grow as big as 150 feet tall, and species of monkeys, snakes, at at least one type of eagle owl live there. There are also at least two types of flightless birds running around there. 

There are also the cave bugs and fish that live deeper in the cave, far far past the dolines but I’m not talking about them bc they’re creepy and I hate creepy crawlies. Just know the fish’s skin is white/translucent and the creepy crawlies have no eyes because evolution.

this cave also features cave pearls the size of baseballs, which is highly unusual. Pic also describes them.

During rainy season, a lake nearly 2000 ft wide fills up the cave. It’s usually gone by June.

The cave is gorgeous and I have an absolute obsession with it, and if you’re interested in learning more than the brief (ish) overview I gave, check out my sources, listed below!!

- this cool article from cnbc that has gorgeous pictures of the journey to and into the cave

- the wikipedia article that also has some really nice pictures of the cave

- this national geographic 360 degree tour thing of the cave was my biggest source of info. you have to click the screen to start and then the sidebars teach you how to navigate and stuff and also give cool facts. Works better on desktop or tablet but it’s SO COOL to see and I highly recommend it. The whole thing took me around 45 mins to get through but I was going back and forth and writing things and taking my sweet time so I’d estimate it’d take around 20 mins normally.

[ripples-of-thought]

The wilderness at my door

Growing up in the Pacific Northwest was a privilege that I was quite unable to appreciate as a child. It seemed from my earliest memories that I was never far from a delightful garden park, towering cool forest, or rich field teeming with life.

Not that I didn't love my neighborhood or the city I was raised in. I just had no idea how very rare the wealth of natural beauty that surrounded me was. Out at the edges of Portland, Oregon, a lot of the land had yet to be developed. Zoning laws were very strict to limit sprawl and the pollution that comes with it.

When I stepped outside, my lungs pulled nothing but fresh air. Traffic was a dim hush in the distance. In the morning, songbirds chorused together. In the evening, when the sun sank over the hills, the stars peppered the night sky in countless twinkling points.

Today, you would say that we were "free range kids". In those days, before cellphones, nobody had heard of "helicopter parenting" and roaming the neighborhood was just how kids met outside school. Assuming we had no homework (which almost nobody had until they reached middle school) we were allowed to go anywhere our bikes could take us, under the condition that when we saw the streetlights come on at the end of the day, we came home.

Frequently, my bike took me around the corner and down to the bottom of a little valley, where a wooden footbridge crossed a meandering creek, leading to a great mountain forest forest of fir trees, with paths running through it. It seemed to span miles - I never did find the far end of that forest, as I would usually reach an impassible point where the trails turned back or came to a stop at a small clearing, speckled white, yellow and blue with wildflowers.

To me, that forest on the other side of Fanno Creek was Middle Earth, or Narnia, or Camelot. I howled like one of Wendy Pini's Wolfriders, and I searched (in vain) for the musical unicorns of Phaze. It was a place I could escape, imagining myself a daring explorer penetrating the lush ferns, or a naturalist, studying the complexities of an ant colony. Some days I was a "mountain man" (think Grizzly Adams), rationing out the fuzzy red wild raspberries I found and "fishing" in the creek with a hook-free string dangling from the end of a stick. In the hottest days of August, I removed my shoes and socks and waded up the chilly creek in search of its source.

I would also go there to cry. So few people trod those paths that it made a really great place to find solitude and comfort. It was a bad day at school that day, and I hiked up the hill to breathe in the scent of pine needles and wood rot, and write my some moody poetry in my spiral notebook. I chose a large fallen tree to sit on, and opened to a fresh page.

Until then all I had known of woodpeckers were from Woody Woodpecker cartoons, so when I heard the rapid thunkathunkathunkathunkathunka of a bird after its next meal I almost didn't believe what I was watching. It was female, and bore no resemblance to the rascal cartoon character. As I stared, it continued hammering away at the remains of the tree that had furnished the log I was sitting on.

Suddenly, I remembered that I had brought a journal with me, so I began to try to draw what I was seeing. When it pecked at the tree, it was nothing but a blur, so that is what I ended up putting to paper. Wood chips flew all around as it bore into the soft, rotting column. It paused occasionally, cocking its head one way and another watching for any sign of danger.

A recreation of the sketch, somewhat improved from the original.

My mood shifted with the distraction. The angst was abated, but time is short for someone so young, and the woodpecker was more patient in its pursuit of bugs than I was. I closed the book, stood to return home, and startled the poor thing off.

One of the principles of my religion today is the acknowledgement that all things are interconnected in a great web, and that what affects one affects us all... touch a single thread and the whole web vibrates. My time spent within small pockets of nature, like that forest, was one of the cornerstones of that affirmation for me.

[achilleid]

Laisrén Blackfern ed.

— oc questions

BASICS

What’s their full name? Laisrén Blackfern

What does their name mean? Why were they named that? Laisrén is a celtic name derived from “lassar” meaning flame/fire. Blackfern is a chosen last name. If you asked him, he’d try to say he picked it because of some profound reason, like because ferns are resilient and hardy plants or something, but he entirely picked it because he thought it sounded cool. 

Do they have any nicknames? Rén. Pronounced like “rain”. 

How old are they? Time functions really oddly in the Sidhe. When he last lived in the human realm, he was seventeen human years. That was nearly a century or more ago by human time. Physically he appears about 32-33.

When’s their birthday? December 29th (human) or 9th Day of Winter (Sidhe)

What’s their zodiac sign/element/birthstone/etc.? Do they believe that holds any significance? Capricorn/earth/tanzanite-- Laisrén believes in zodiac signs in a very nonchalant way. He is from a magical world where all kinds of weird stuff happen when someone is born, so being told some aspect of his personality is theoretically identifiable by his “sign” he’d probably just shrug like “Sounds legit.”.

What’s their species/subspecies? Do they have any special/magical abilities? He is a half Seelie/half-Unseelie Folk. Folk are presented in my world like a combination of elves and fae. Seelie are generally characterized by their more warm toned skin colors, affiliation with the light, spring and summer, Unseelie are associated with autumn and winter and tend to favor darker, cooler tones. Laisrén is a mix of both types. There are stereotypes associated with each kind of Folk, but ultimately it is entirely based on the individual.

What “class” do they belong to (for fantasy characters)? If none, what weapon do they favor? He would definitely be a Ranger class, duel-wielding swords and using a bow. 

APPEARANCE

What do they look like? Laisrén owes 90% of his appearance to Levi Ackerman from Attack on Titan I won’t even lie. So he is roughly 5′9″, has dark black undercut hair and dark green eyes. He has a warm beige skin tone that darkens in the summer. 

Do they have a face claim? Nope!

What’s their style like? Clothes, hair, makeup? His go to outfit is a black doublet with a silver jerkin over the top. During combat, he favors a set of dark leather armor and a dark cloak. Lots of dark colors. For a half Seelie, he dresses almost exclusively in the dark or jewel colors favored by Unseelie.

How do they carry themselves? What’s their default expression? Perpetual resting bitch face. And he carries himself with an air of self-assuredness and confidence that is entirely unforced. It is just how he is. Granted, he could look cool and collected and inside his thoughts are going a mile a minute. Very good at hiding how he feels.

Do they have any physical ailments or disabilities? Laisrén was saddled with a curse at a young age. His skin, starting at the fingertips of his right hand, is turning black and spreading upward. As of present day, his hand has blackened up to his palm. His nails grow much sharper and faster on that hand as well. Laisrén covers this with gloves.

PERSONALITY

What’s their alignment? Lawful Neutral

Which one of the 16 Personality Types do they fit into? ISTP

What are their hobbies and interests? Do they have any particular “favorites” (food, books, and so on)? He is a big fan of games, especially strategy games. He would love Risk, History of the World and other games like that and probably plays Folk equivalents when he can. Chess too. He’d enjoy card games there were not luck based. He also does like to read and his favorite meal ever is high tea. The man will try any blend of tea ever created and he loves having a nice herb garden.

What are they bad at? He is not the best cook. Food is something to just be consumed as quickly as possible for energy, so getting him to sit down and have a meal and just ENJOY it is very hard. He also is a fitful sleeper and is very bad at picking up on subtext or subtleties when speaking with people. He does not take hints. He does not even know a hint is happening.

What kind of things do they dislike/hate? Disorganization, MESS in general. This is both literal and figurative. Messy emotions will have him cleaning the same room, polishing the same armor or sharpening the same blade in a wholly meditative process trying to either work through or ignore his feelings.

Do they have any vices/addictions/mental illnesses? His secret vice is his love of sweets. Food is mere fuel until it is chocolate and covered in strawberries or something and then he is like “.... okay maybe a few bites.”

What are their goals and motivations? Currently? Managing his curse, keeping an eye on his “niece” and her son. Caring for his mother secretly. His goals later become more aligned with the main character’s and becomes ensuring the safety of those he cares for. Full stop.

What are their manners like? Any habits? He is not impolite, but he can be brash. He knows how to behave in different situations though, so his “brash” on the field and his “brash” at say a gathering or a meeting is very different. He has a habit of clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth when he is annoyed and only ever breaks eye contact with someone if he is feeling wholly and deeply vulnerable. 

What are they most afraid of? Living for centuries upon centuries only to turn around and realize he has done so alone and always will.

BACKGROUND

Where were they born? What was their childhood like? He was born in the Sidhe, but within a week was abandoned in the human realm. His childhood was spent raised in an orphanage during the early 1900s on Earth. He lived in London and sometimes falls into a cockney sounding accent when he is tired. 

What’s their family like? Well. His mom is thought to be absolutely bonkers because she pulled a changeling thing. And she is, on some level, mentally not all there. In Folk culture, there are some events that can cause a Folk to become trapped in one emotion and unable to overcome the enormity of it and remain “stuck” there. His mother fell into a Despair upon the death of her partner, so he cares for her and the remaining family of her human adopted son from the shadows.

What factions or organizations are they a part of? What ranks and titles do they hold? He is a Hound of the Wild Hunt and Captain beneath the commander responsible for training new recruits. He trains the soldiers of their ranks.

How do they fit into their “story”? He is at one point in the story, love interest, secondary protagonist, secondary antagonist. 

Where do they currently live? What’s their place like? He resides in a home called Elden Keep, which is a an old fortress manor that once was used as a hunting lodge. It has a western tower with a turret. It is a house of rich brown woods and plush green carpets and a very lovingly tended to garden.

How do they eventually die? WELLLLLLLLL-- they eventually succumb to the curse, but it is temporary. More like an emotional and mental death and then a rebirth. 

RELATIONSHIPS

Do they have any friends? Would they consider anyone to be their best friend? His commander Eimer and his fellow captains. Later, he becomes closer friends with Cyra’s group.

What’s their friend group like? What role do they play in it? He is definitely not even the oddest of his group, that belongs to Dillion, the resident mad scientist/mage (he’s nice! just eccentric). It is a nice blend of people and neurosis haha.

What’s their love life like? (See also: ship question meme.) Do they have any kids? Prior to his relationship with Cyra, Laisrén would have casual encounters, but nothing serious. His longest fling lasted probably off and on for a few months. He has no issues with accepting and reciprocating sexual advances, but has not had a lot of experience with feelings being mixed in until Cyra. With Cyra it starts physical, but ultimately he realizes it is satisfying in a way that past ones have not been because his emotional needs are being met.

Who do they look up to? Who do they trust? He looks up to and trusts Eimer above everyone. He is his best friend, his commander and his fellow Hound. They went through recruitment together, battles and all kinds of bad shit. 

Who do they hate? Do they have any enemies? His enemies unfortunately, when revealed, are some powerful people. He grows to hate Queen Nevan and by extension, Druth, Cyra’s uncle and the Queen’s grand commander.

Do they have any pets? He has a few horses, but he’d never refer to them as “pets”.

Are they good with kids? Animals? Good with animals. Kids he is shockingly popular with, even if he doesn’t really make an effort. They appreciate his honesty and the fact he talks to them like they understand things.

[apharine]

Sightseeing

Chapter 2

Pairing:  Siane x Nanu

Fandom: Pokemon

Rating:  T

Read on AO3

Chapter 1

My writing commission info!

Summary:   Siane hadn't meant to wind up in Alola, under Nanu's care, while she recovered from a mysterious illness that left her prone to weakness and collapsing. But now that she's here and getting stronger, she wants to see more of Ula'ula than just the rainy skies and the Po Town wall by Nanu's police station. And who could be better suited to give her a tour than the Kahuna of the island himself?

Notes:  Siane is the wonderful HybridDragoness’ OC and she is amazing!  This fic is a commission for Hybrid and I’m honestly so honored to have been able to write for Siane and Nanu bc I love them so much!  Hybrid is a really talented artist and you can find her art of Siane here!  You can also find Hybrid on Twitter and AO3 under the same handle as on Tumblr!

                                        _____________________

“That was brilliant,” Siane declares, hopping off the Charizard’s saddle.  “Thank you so much!  You were amazing!  And the saddle really was helpful,” Siane adds, hopping around to give the Charizard a gentle pet on the snout.

“Here,” Nanu says, fishing some Poke Beans out of his pocket.  “You can give him a couple as thanks.  Not too many, though,” he adds, handing them over to Siane.  Truthfully, his heart had been hammering out of his chest the entire time Siane had been flying on Charizard’s back.  The fear that something might go wrong and she might lose her grip, or pass out and fall, had been forefront in his mind the entire time, and he’d urged Honchkrow to fly as close to Charizard as possible.  As if he could catch her if something went wrong, he thinks to himself, then pushes the morbid thought aside.  Siane’s okay, and that’s what matters.

“Thank you so much,” Siane says, holding her hand out flat with the Pokebeans on top of it.  The Charizard nibbles them up, then taps her with its nose affectionately.  “Have a good rest of your workday, okay?”

“Char,” the Ride Pager Pokemon agrees, then turns to take off to go to its next job.

“That was the first time I’ve flown in…I don’t know how long,” Siane says, turning around to grin at Nanu.  Her hair is a little wild from the wind and altitude, but she looks absolutely radiant.  If that’s how passionate one little flight could make her, Nanu thinks it’s no surprise that she decided to specialize in Flying type Pokemon.  “It felt amazing.”  Still smiling, Siane turns to take in the cityscape around her.  “So, this is Malie City, huh?”  She muses, drifting towards one of the great gates that mark the start of the main street.

“The one and only,” Nanu says, a little swell of pride bubbling up in his chest.

“The architecture is really cool here,” Siane agrees, touching the cool stone of the gate.

“Glad you think so, girl,” Nanu says, taking a couple steps closer to her.  Was it just his imagination, or had she been a little wobbly on that step just then?

“You said this city’s on the ocean?”  Siane prompts, a curious look on her face as she looks around.

“Yeah.  You’ll have to make it down the main street a ways,” Nanu says, eyeing her appraisingly.  The look flares something up in Siane, though, and she sucks in a deep breath, puffing her chest out a little.

“That’s not gonna be a problem,” she says confidently.  Nanu chuckles.

“Glad to hear it.  Let me give you the tour along the way, then.  There’s a lot to see in the city,” Nanu says, taking a tentative step down the road.  To his relief, Siane follows and lingers close to him as she walks.

Nanu points out some of the major shops and landmarks as the two of them walk by, including the glittering Malie Library and, in the distance, the Kantonian Gym.

“It’s lovely,” Siane breathes, taking in the structure.

“Hey, my favorite restaurant is actually coming up soon.  They specialize in really high-end sushi…that sound like the sort of thing you might like?”  Nanu asks, quirking one eyebrow in Siane’s direction.

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” Siane agrees.  “I can pay for my half.”

To her surprise, Nanu waves her off quickly.

“Don’t worry about that, Siane,” he grumbles.

“It’s really fine,” she insists.  Nanu frowns for a moment, then slows his pace until he’s paused in his tracks entirely.  Siane stops beside him; she thinks she’s doing a good job of concealing the confusion on her face, but Nanu can see through her facade easily.

“This place…isn’t cheap,” he says carefully.  “I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I wasn’t okay with paying your half.”

“What do you mean by not cheap?”  Siane asks pointedly.

“I mean…it’s probably the most expensive restaurant in the region.  They don’t usually do takeout, but Sensei knows me pretty well by now, so I figure they might make an exception for me,” Nanu says with a shrug, trying to play it cool.  It doesn’t work particularly well, though, and he watches as nearly every emotion in the book passes over Siane’s face.  The most expensive restaurant in the region…by the looks of some of these amazingly dazzling buildings, Siane figures that probably means that a single meal cost more than an entire year of groceries for herself typically would.

“I - I don’t usually…do expensive things.  It - things weren’t like that for me over in Aedis,” Siane finally says.  Nanu waits for her to elaborate, but when she doesn’t continue, he finally speaks up.

“Well - we don’t have to eat there, if it makes you uncomfortable,” he concedes.  “But if you did want to try something really nice for once…I’d be happy to treat you.”  Even he’s a little surprised by how much he allows his voice to soften as he says the words, and he watches Siane’s eyes widen a little - whether at his tone or the offer, or both, he can’t tell for certain.

“Um, well,” Siane stammers, clearly thinking a mile a minute.  “Maybe…just once?”

Nanu smiles and nods and begins to walk again, checking over his shoulder to make sure that Siane is coming along as well.  She’s staying close - good.

“You wanna stop and grab our food before or after seeing the ocean around Ula’ula?”  Nanu asks, though he’s pretty sure he already knows what the answer will be.

“Ocean first,” Siane beams, and Nanu feels his smile grow just a little more.

 ***

 “It’s so warm,” Siane sighs, sitting at the end of a pier and dipping her toes in the water.

“Everything’s warm here, girl,” Nanu says, though his words have no real edge to them.  

“It’s nice.  I really like it here,” Siane admits, one foot kicking up a small splash.  The water droplets sparkle in the sun as they fall.  She watches them, then raises her eyes to the distant horizon where seat met sky.  Nanu watches her, noticing the way the brilliance of the ocean reflects in her eyes.  “Everything is so…peaceful here.  It’s, um.  It’s nice.”

Nanu feels his eyebrows crease; he doesn’t know everything that’s happened in Aedis, but from what he’s able to piece together, Siane’s struggled with conflict nearly her whole life.  The thought that a single day out, with no cares in the world imminent on her shoulders, could mean so much to her tugs at Nanu’s heartstrings, and he puts his arm around her shoulders in much the same way he would comfort Acerola.  Except, somehow, it doesn’t feel entirely like comforting little Ace - but Nanu pushes that thought out of his mind for now.

“It is nice, here,” Nanu agrees.  Siane turns those eyes of hers on him, and he adds quickly, “I’m glad you enjoy it.”  Then, he pulls his arm away and moves away just a little, clearing his throat.  “As you know, I work extremely hard to keep Alola as peaceful as it is,” he says with a wry smirk; his words have the intended effect, and Siane dissolves into unabashed laughter.

“Yes,” she says between laughs.  “Your duties just have you running all over the island, trying to fight crime and dangerous monsters twenty-four-seven.  And you get absolutely no naps.”

Nanu feels his smirk falter a little, because there was a time where he was running all over the island, and fighting Ultra Beasts, and trying to be the best Interpol officer he could be.

And what did it get him?  What did it get her, besides chewed up by Guzzlord, never to be seen again?

“Yeah,” Nanu says faintly, turning away from Siane to look out at the ocean.  “No naps.”  He hears the tremble in his own voice, and hates it.

Siane notices - of course she does, she’s not stupid, Nanu thinks to himself - and scoots a little closer to him once more, putting her hand on his nearest shoulder.  She leans into him just the slightest bit, and somehow the contact feels grounding for Nanu.  The two of them watch the ocean in silence, and though Nanu waits for her to ask what’s wrong, she stays quiet.

Within a few minutes, the world around him begins to feel a little more real again, the echoes of the past fading in his mind.  Siane is still peaceful and silent beside him, still grounding him with her touch, and he wonders how many other people she’s seen like this, back in Aedis.  How many people has she provided her silent support to?

“Let me know when you want to go get sushi,” Nanu says instead.

 Within an hour, they’re heading into the Malie Gardens, little brown bags of sushi in hand.  Sensei had complained about how undignified the brown bags were, but had ultimately capitulated to one of his top customer’s request for inconspicuous takeout.

“Oh, wow,” Siane breathes, pushing a big fern aside so she can get a better view of the lush land in front of her.  “It’s gorgeous here.”  She doesn’t wait for a response, instead pushing forward and approaching the enormous golden-plated bridge that greets the Garden’s visitors.  Nanu hastens behind her, both brown baggies cradled in one arm so he can steady her with his free hand if he needs to.

Not that he’s needed to so far today.  But better safe than sorry, right?

“Is this real gold?”  Siane asks, rubbing the banister of the golden bridge.

“Gold plated,” Nanu shrugs, hovering close by.  “It’s supposed to be a sister bridge to one just like it in the Kanto region.”

“It’s lovely,” Siane says, already on her way across it, running her hand over the smooth banister as she goes.  

Suddenly a thunderous noise draws both of their attention, followed by a quick flash of feathers and a multi-colored beak.

“What was that?”  Siane asks, already enrapt.  Another flash of feathers ensues as the Pokemon circles back around; on its second pass, Nanu is able to identify it.

“That’s a Toucannon,” Nanu says.  “You know all the Pikipek you’ve seen?  This is their final evolution.”

To his horror, Siane actually sets off at a jog after it.  She’d just nearly fallen in the shower literally yesterday, and she was trying to jog today?!

“Its beak looks brilliant,” she gushes.  “I need to get a better look at it.”

The Toucannon in question has roosted on a low hanging branch, and eyes Siane carefully as her footfalls carry her across the bridge.  Nanu’s already running at nearly full bore, desperate to catch up to her - and to stop her from approaching a particularly strong, angry bird capable of spitting seeds strong enough to break boulders.

Fortunately, Siane stops well in advance of the Pokemon, and Nanu watches, fascinated, as her conservation training seems to kick in.

“Look - it’s got a bunch of Pikipek on the trees behind it.  It’s likely trying to protect its family,” she says in hushed tones.  “They’re all drilling into that tree, see?  There’s probably lots of bug Pokemon inside, because it looks like pretty dead wood.  They must not have any issue finding food, because that Toucannon’s beak is in excellent condition.”

“What’s a beak got to do with it?”  Nanu asks, not seeing the correlation.

“A healthy, shiny, smooth beak means it’s eating a healthy and variegated diet.  Birds that don’t eat well can have all sorts of issues with their beak.  And do you see how glossy its feathers are?”  She’s enraptured, but respectful.  And, Nanu notes, she’s breathing hard, clearly more winded from her little jog than she’d like to admit.  “It’s getting lots of essential fatty acids.  Super important for feather health.  You’ve got a pretty healthy ecosystem here, Kahuna,” she adds, finally turning away from the Toucannon and affixing a brilliant smile on Nanu.

His heart skips a beat.

“Well.  Glad to hear your professional assessment,” Nanu says, though he smiles a little back at her, and he actually means the words as he says them.  “Now come on, Siane.  Let’s go find a place to sit.  You’re tiring me out, running me all ragged like this.”

“I’m tiring you out?”  Siane says with a laugh, raising her eyebrows.  “Come on, Kahuna, you’re a fit man.  Don’t pretend this is anything much for you.”

Nanu���s heart does another flip at this.

She thinks he’s fit?

“I’m old,” he says, as much for himself - as a reminder of the one, key difference between them - as for her.  “Now let’s go.”

Siane’s smile falters a little, but she falls into step beside him readily.

“You’re not that old,” she pushes.

“Right,” Nanu snorts.  “That’s why all my hair is gray.  Because I’m not that old.”

“Gray hair looks handsome on you,” she says nonchalantly.  “And besides, I bet you’re just the sort of person that started graying early.”  When Nanu doesn’t respond, her lips curl into a smile.  “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Do you want to eat by the water?”  Nanu deflects.  It doesn’t work, though; Siane’s smile only grows.  She knows she’s right.

“Sure,” she agrees.

 ***

 Sushi by the waters of the Malie Gardens is an altogether peaceful affair.  Nanu can see why that little tea shop submitted a zoning request to set up shop right in the middle of the Gardens; tea would be perfect right about now.

“How’s your food?”  Nanu asks, turning to Siane.  The sun is brilliant on her hair, which flutters just the slightest bit in the breeze.

“It’s…insanely good.  This is absolutely the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”  She’s been taking really tiny bites of her food, as if to make it last as long as possible.  She’s probably eaten only half as much as Nanu has at this point.  “I - I didn’t even really know food could be this good.  I’ve had good food before!  But…”  She bites her lip and looks out at the water, and to Nanu’s surprise, little tears spring into her eyes.

If he thought she’d pulled on his heartstrings earlier, he has no words to describe how gut-wrenching it is to see this young woman start to cry.

“Hey, hey,” he says, quickly scooting closer to her.  “Hey.  Don’t cry, Siane.  Don’t cry.”  He reaches out to her just as she turns to fold into him, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to do.  And if he’s honest with himself, holding her to his shoulder does feel natural, somehow.  As if they had been made to support each other, to comfort each other.

But such a thought was preposterous.  Wasn’t it?

She doesn’t break down into outright tears, but the arm wrapped around her shoulders still feels the way she takes a few deep, shuddering breaths.

“I’m sorry,” she says.  “Everything here is just…so different than back home.  It’s not bad,” she adds quickly, mumbling against his shoulder a little.  “It’s actually really great here.  And somehow, that hurts worse than if it had been just as bad here as back home.  I don’t know if that makes sense,” Siane trails off.

“It does,” Nanu says, grimacing.  “Believe me.  It does, Siane.”  He doesn’t know what to say about the fact that, for all he cares, she doesn’t have to go back.  She could stay with him for the rest of the year, if that’s what she wanted.  Maybe longer.  But she talks about Aedis like she needs to get strong to go back there, so he tries a different tack entirely.  “You’ve been through a lot recently.  Things must be hard for you.  I hope you know…I’m here for you, however I can be.”

Siane pulls away at this, but doesn’t go far.  Her face stays close to his, and she manages a small smile for him.  Then, to his surprise, she cups his cheek in one hand.

“I do know, Nanu.  You’ve been nothing but incredibly kind to me,” she says, her voice low and a little shaky but somehow, so intimate.  Nanu feels his jaw drop open, and he wonders for a moment if she’s going to kiss him.

“I - I’d hardly describe myself as incredibly kind,” Nanu stutters.  He can’t even remember the last time he’d stuttered.

“Well, I would,” Siane says, and presses a small kiss to his cheek before pulling away.  “So thank you.”

Nanu swallows hard, his hand drifting up to touch at the imprint her kiss had left on his skin.

“Yeah.  You’re welcome,” he mumbles, and goes back to eating his sushi, too.

He has a lot to think about.

[ahh-fxck]

I brushed up and expanded one of my drabbles. Thank you @stressedspidergirlsfandomblog for the inspiration, I hope you enjoy it!

Her eyes widen with surprise and she turns, a smile stealing across her face. “You said it aloud,” she notices, violet eyes sparkling.

Geralt smiles, flashing his sharp canines. “Special occasion,” he quips, but as she takes a breath to complain he leans down and captures her in a heartfelt kiss. Laughing warmly, she twines her arms around his neck and pulls him close. Their tongues slide together as their eyes drift closed, and Geralt wraps his arms gently around her waist. A soft sigh drifts between them as their bodies melt into one another, lost in the patter of the rain falling from the roof.

As they part, eyes sparkling, Yennefer licks her lower lip and gives Geralt a playful, calculating look. Then she says, “Breakfast?”

Geralt curls loosely in the alcove formed by a luxurious window seat, staring glumly out the glass panes at the rain pouring down outside. He had been planning to go out riding with Yennefer today, to take her to a special place he had found out in the forest. Instead, they were stuck inside while the churning downpour turned the roads to impassable mud. There was no way he was taking Roach or Yennefer out in it.

Instead, he casts his eye over the estate below him. The rich gardens are full of flowers at this time of year, a visual feast from the window seat in normal weather. Right now though, the plants are bent in the downpour, appearing to huddle together against the ferocity of the rain. He grumbles, feeling thwarted.

Around him, the rest of the castle is still asleep. Even Yennefer is in bed across the room from him, soundly slumbering. She likely would be so until well after when he normally had breakfast, but even that was hours away. Years of hard living had made it difficult for him to stay asleep after daylight broke, and today had been no different.

As he eyed the flowers shivering in the rain, an idea began to form. Out in the forest some miles from here, he had discovered a cave while he was on a hunt. It had been a wild, tumbling place covered in rich early spring lilacs, tucked at the back of a ravine. At the very base of it, amidst the rich twisting of thick roots, the mouth of the cave sparkled in the early morning light. At first he had wondered if it was dew on the rocks, but as he got closer, he realized that the rocks were in fact covered in little crystals. 

Around the entrance of the place were chunks of raw rock striated with bands of gemstone, red and orange and white. They’d fallen away from the ceiling and walls some time ago, revealing the crystalline hollow to light and wind. Geralt ventured further in, cautious, keen ears pricking at the shift of every pebble. He held a sign at the ready, prepared to cast it at a moment’s notice should the roof begin to collapse. 

It held, however, and as he walked further back into the hollow, he saw that it was secure. As he turned around, his gaze sweeping the interior, he felt a prickle of wonder at what he found within. There were little gaps in the roof here and there where roots had poked through, allowing bright shafts of light to penetrate the dimness. The walls were a breathtaking array of multi-hued crystal, refracting the tender leafy light from above with rippling splendor. Whenever a breeze breathed into the cave, it filled with the heady scent of lilacs, of dirt and leaves and clean water. He had rarely seen anything more beautiful. It made him think of Yennefer.

Yennefer had been having a hard time of late. She was smart, yes, and self-possessed to a fault. Her world was hard, and cruel, and she was more than capable of holding her own within it. However, the Council had been embroiled in a series of terrible disputes as of late. For a group of people known for their backbiting, Geralt had been impressed by the spate of viciousness in the stories Yennefer had been bringing home lately.

The toll on Yennefer herself had been troubling. The Council had become a truly hostile place for her, and her fellow sorcerers had cracked her armor. They had found ways to diminish her, to take pieces away. She had become withdrawn and angry, keeping Geralt at a distance, suggesting he go find contracts and leave her in peace. And he’d done so, and returned. When he’d come back, she’d been more withdrawn than ever. The cycle had repeated, his worry increasing, until she had exploded in rage and cast him unceremoniously out onto the road again. Upset but unsurprised, Geralt had returned to the Path, putting her out of his mind until he’d found the crystal cave in the forest nearby some months later. 

He’d ridden back to Vengerberg, apprehensive but hopeful. And indeed, Yennefer had cooled down in the intervening months. She was more subdued than usual when he arrived at her gate, but she had welcomed him back into her home. After dinner, she had even welcomed him into her bed. 

It had been about a week since then, but the rain was refusing to let up. As he studied the flowers shivering together in the warm spring rain, the idea he’d been having solidified. He might not be able to bring Yennefer to the cave today... but perhaps he could bring it to her.

Some hours later, Yennefer awakens to a dripping wet Witcher toweling himself off nearby. His mind is curiously blank, and when she tries to brush deeper, she encounters a hard wall where there is usually an open gate. It isn’t like Geralt to make such an effort to lock her out, but it isn’t entirely unheard of; Sometimes the Witcher wants his privacy, and she is generally content to let him have it. She sits up in bed slowly, eyes running up and down Geralt’s scarred, well-muscled body. Then her gaze drops to the floor, and she can see a pile of utterly sodden clothing near the door.

“Geralt?” She asks with a yawn. “What on earth have you been doing?”

“Something special,” Geralt replies unhelpfully, padding over to the wardrobe and rummaging until he finds a soft pair of black pants. Then he eyes his options and chooses a black chemise and, to Yennefer’s surprise, a black and silver doublet that she had picked out for him some years ago. Usually he had to be bribed or threatened into it; it was a rare treat to see him donning it of his own free will.

“Why?” She asks sleepily, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. On a chair near the bed is a fur-lined silk robe in dark peacock green silk. With a graceful movement she rises and dons it. He shrugs, lacing up the doublet quickly. Then he turns to her and gives her a sweet, lopsided smile. Through the wall in his mind leaks a single image, of lilacs dewed with waterdrops, crystalline in early morning light. Cocking her head to the side, she approaches him, intrigued.

Gently as if he were handling a flower, he reaches out and draws her in for a long, slow kiss. As their tongues slide together, all she can see are flowers. Lilies, lilacs, roses, all covered in rolling droplets.

When they part a moment later, his yellow eyes are soft. She purses her lips at him, suspicious. When he sees her suspicion he merely smiles, taking her by the elbow and nudging her towards the door. “Come with me,” he insists. Eyeing him again, she allows herself some curiosity and nods. “Not far, I hope?” She says primly, sliding her feet into silk slippers and tying the robe around her waist.

“Not far,” he rumbles, pleased. Opening the door, he gestures her out into the hallway. He follows her out of the door and into the hallway, then leads her up several flights of stairs to a small observatory perched at the top of the manor. The door is closed, but she can smell a riot of floral odors drifting on the breeze blowing under it.

“Close your eyes,” he hums, smiling. She frowns at him, brushing across the wall inside his mind again, but all she can see is flowers. While she could break through it easily enough, she chooses not to, allowing him his surprises. It’s very rare that he plays games like this with her, and she is finding herself enjoying it. Closing her eyes, she reaches out for him and he takes her hand. With the other hand, he opens the door and carefully escorts her across the threshold. Inside the room she is bombarded by the smell of flowers and water, different from the usual wood, paper, and ink that she associates with the space. The light is rich through her eyelids, too rich for the weather.

“Open,” he says, and there’s a note of pride in his voice. She does, and lets out a little gasp. The room is covered in geometric arrangements of flower and crystal, undulating bands of color and shape that line the walls of the observatory.

The flowers are in vases, and the vases have been set in big glass bowls full of shining marbles in different hues, catching the drips. Near the irises and lilacs are big chunks of amethyst, fluorite, and tanzanite, grading into bands of malachite and jade surrounding bowls of freshly cut ferns and birds of paradise, shocking sprays of orange, pink, and blue amidst the green stones.

As she turns around the observatory, the damp rainy light catches and refracts amongst the stones and glass that form a rainbow around the room. The cascading water pouring off of the roof makes everything ripple and dance.  As she comes to a rest her eyes feast on jasper, ruby, and carnelian surrounding roses, fragrant and damp in the lovely light. She recognizes most of the precious stones from around her manor, but has never had them all arranged together in one place like this.

“Geralt...” She breathes, squeezing his hand.

He steps close, kissing the side of her head and drawing her against his side. “There’s more,” he murmurs fondly against her ear. Gesturing, he draws her attention to the big desk at the center of the room. Instead of the usual stacks of books, papers, and globe, there is a tablecloth. On it sits a tray with a tall, cold tankard full of apple juice, beads of moisture winking on its sides. There is a plate stacked high with honey cakes and sweetmeats in the middle.

A wide smile crosses her face, and she brings his arms up, wrapping herself in them. Leaning back against him, she luxuriates in the solid warmth of his strong body behind her. He squeezes her close, sighing with contentment, fully releasing the wall he’d held between them. Their thoughts twine together like rising steam in the late morning light.

<<Why?>> She asks, fingers gently caressing across the backs of his hands.

A swirl of images surrounds her, flickering phantom moments of suitors and sorcerers, kings and queens and merchant princes. Cruel flashes of the Council. Hungry eyes, empty hearts. Always trying to take away pieces of her, diminish her, make her a known, controllable quantity. Yennefer has become self-possessed out of sheer force of personality, but the gnawing abrasiveness of her world still takes pieces away, sometimes. Makes her feel smaller. She didn’t realize how often Geralt saw it, until now.

<<You are surrounded by this... people don’t see you. They see power, and they want to be a part of it... or control it. They take pieces. Make you feel small.>> They smile together, and he squeezes her closer. << I never want you to feel like you’re not good enough. You are exquisite. >> And then, he leans down and brushes his lips softly along her neck. They both sigh as she shifts back against him, her body relaxing into his. Bringing his lips to her ear again, he whispers, “I love you.”

~*~

Her eyes widen with surprise and she turns, a smile stealing across her face. “You said it aloud,” she notices, violet eyes sparkling. 

Geralt smiles, flashing his sharp canines. “Special occasion,” he quips, but as she takes a breath to complain he leans down and captures her in a heartfelt kiss. Laughing warmly, she twines her arms around his neck and pulls him close. Their tongues slide together as their eyes drift closed, and Geralt wraps his arms gently around her waist. A soft sigh drifts between them as their bodies melt into one another, lost in the patter of the rain falling from the roof. 

As they part, eyes sparkling, Yennefer licks her lower lip and gives Geralt a playful, calculating look. Then she says, “Breakfast?”

He smiles back at her, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Whatever you want.”

“Hmmm… Promise?” She purrs, pushing him gently towards the desk. With a soft chuckle he goes where she wants him to, letting her guide him into the big, comfortable seat. As he settles, she slides into his lap, curling herself so that she can reach the food and drink. He wraps his arms around her waist with a big smile and lets his fingers linger along her thighs, watching as she reaches out and pulls the tankard and plate close. Her robe slips and he glimpses her breasts. His eyes widen and she laughs, shifting to allow the robe to fall just that little bit more open. 

“Are you ever going to get tired of them?” She smiles fondly, cutting him a glance as she breaks apart a honey cake. 

“Hmm… Don’t think so,” he rumbles, peering over her shoulder contentedly. With a grin, she pushes his head up with the tip of one finger and offers him a bite of honey cake. His eyebrows go up as he sees it, and he delicately removes it from her fingers with his teeth. Then he carefully tongues the sticky honey and crumbs away, locking eyes with hers. A flush colors her cheeks as she lets her fingers linger on his lips. Then, eyes still locked with his, she takes a bite out of the little cake. A soft sigh escapes him, and his eyes drop to travel over her, lingering fondly on her lips, her skin, her bared breasts. She can feel the stirring of his cock against her thigh and a comfortable curl of warmth goes through her.

They pass a delightful morning together curled in the chair. Humming and murmuring to one another in the hushed tones of lovers, they feed one another cakes until the plate is empty. Teeth gently nibble crumbs off of fingers, lips and tongues gently suckle honey away until fingertips are tender and pink. And when the cakes and the apple juice are gone, they turn to one another, bellies full and hearts content. 

Yennefer catches Geralt’s sweet lips in a long, slow kiss, teasing him with gentle flickers of her tongue. He murmurs happily up against her, fingers tangling in the soft silk of her robe. Slipping back, she delicately stands. As their lips part he opens his eyes with a slow blink, following her to her feet. 

“Bed?” He suggests, teasing his fingers lightly along the collar of her silk robe. 

“Mmhm…” she replies, a mischievous smile playing about her lips. With a quick gesture of her hand, the desk vanishes. A sudden rush of air whooshes around them, filling the space where the desk once stood, and in its place there is their mattress and a generous pile of pillows. She smiles as Geralt’s eyebrows go up. 

“I like it in here,” she says. “Let’s make an afternoon of it.” And with that, she pulls him playfully onto the bed. Without protest he follows her, tumbling into the pile of pillows with a deep laugh. From the vantage point of the bed, the room is full of jewel colored light, surrounding and bathing them in bright hues. As Yennefer slips her robe off of her shoulders, his eyes play over her lithe, strong body. Above them, the storm roars with renewed fury, battering the glass panes with torrents of water. He rolls over onto his back, pulling her to him, and she flows over him like a river. 

Afterwards, they melt into one another, surrounded by the sweet scents of flowers and satiation. She kisses sweat from his face, and he tongues it delicately off of her neck, savoring the richness of her scent. Their cheeks rub together, hands exploring, smoothing away worries and settling into contented bliss. A deep rumble of contentment vibrates her body as he purrs, twining his arms around her and cradling her close. She snuggles into his chest, fingering the softness of the doublet, and lets her eyes slip closed. 

“I love you, too.”

[aroworlds]

Those With More, Part Two

When Mara Hill's magic results in her brother's impossible, wondrous transition, of course Suki wants to know how she did it! What if Sirenne's magic workers can help others find euphoria? What if this magic can heal Suki's hands—or at least lessen her pain? But Mara, distrustful of priests after their failure in protecting Esher, won't share her power.

A senior priest must bear responsibility, but Suki suspects her problems lie deeper than lack of oversight, and her reluctance to discuss her aromanticism with a woman who needs support only proves it. Would she have preserved Mara's faith and Esher's health if she hadn't first avoided revealing herself to her aromantic kin? If she'd faced their expectations that she shoulder their pain and grief as well as her own?

Suki has lived her life by the Sojourner's second precept, but how does she serve when she doesn't have more to give—and never will?

Contains: A disabled, non-partnering allo-aro woman struggling with the expectations of her young, fledgling aromantic community; an autistic, aromantic priest reconsidering their expectations of their community's leader; and an allo-aro woman in need of support as she struggles with her non-partnering, aro-ace brother's illness.

Content Advisory: Please expect many references to or depictions of aro antagonism, allo-aro antagonism, amatonormativity, familial abuse, mental illness, suicidal ideation, death, gender dysphoria, chronic pain, ableism and ageism. This piece contains non-detailed, non-specific reference to a character's past suicide attempts. This section includes characters embracing and touching.

Length: 4, 691 words (part two of two).

Note: This is the last story in my Suki mini-series, but it refers to characters introduced in The Sorcerous Compendium of Postmortem Query and is best read following the stand-alone story What Makes Us Human. You can find links to all on my pinned post or on this Tumblr master post.

Some scars are long years in the fading, if at all. 

***

She isn’t surprised when Moll strides, their braid and girdle book swinging with each step, down the path to her garden. Sirenne rarely leaves its rules unsaid, an admirable quality to Suki’s way of thinking, but one needn’t long elaborate to impart the expectation that junior priests arrive promptly when summoned. Moll, despite the lifetime of alienation that leads to questioning rules and a habit of interaction best described as “restrained”, hasn’t dawdled upon hearing her request. A problem, that.

She understands, though, in the way of a woman once a girl who couldn’t have understood at all.

Obedience to conformity isn’t something she feels in the heart; Suki responds to being haltered with sharp words and loud arguments. Amadi, knowing this, kept her with em for a year before taking her to Sirenne, a year of learning to accept reasonable restrictions before facing the greater challenge of an acolyte’s service. That bitter, aching, defiant Suki would have scorned Moll’s flushed face and hurried pace, not seeing that she reacted to the same set of weighty, dehumanising beliefs and demands.

Submission and rebellion are just two sides of the same coin.

She doesn’t approve, but she understands.

“Don’t you even think about it,” she says, gleefully irascible, as Moll opens their mouth. “No clucking allowed. Sit down. The food’s safe, but it’s been half an hour. The tea’s probably cold.”

Moll nods and settles themself on Mara’s recently-vacated bench, the tea tray resting between them and Suki’s chair. As always, they move slowly, carefully, cautiously—like a wolfhound sniffing a newborn kitten or a man allowing a butterfly to alight on his finger. Like a tall, broad, boulder-shaped priest attempting to avoid threatening or scaring, however inadvertently, those around them. Like a puppy lying on its back, belly bared and paws tucked under its chin, its defencelessness a performance made before all would-be predators.

I won’t hurt you, so don’t hurt me.

They look more like a fig tree towering over the world’s seedlings than a puppy, but while a fig possesses an ancient, confident majesty in its quest to subsume another life in its great roots, Moll is … Moll. Shy, awkward, hesitant, uncertain. Rarely does she see them widen their arms or roll their hips, as if forever working to make their immense body appear smaller, softer, lighter. Just as a fig, for all its grandeur, lies vulnerable to any woman wielding an axe, Moll lies vulnerable to the wounds wrought by tongue, expression and gesture.

She wants to, simultaneously, swathe that nervous puppy in a warm blanket while taking a sharp blade to that fig’s trunk and daring Moll to defend themself.

Some scars are long years in the fading, if at all.

“Do you … mind, if I heat the tea?”

“Clucking,” she says, fighting to bite back her impatience. She doesn’t want to be the kind of old woman who moans about the young’s blathering, but sometimes they make her silence difficult! “If I objected, couldn’t you cool it down? Or tell me to pour a cup and let time have its way? I’d tell me, personally, to stick my head where the sun never shines. Try, if you want.”

Moll’s deep-set brown eyes put her in mind of shadowed pools—their fathomless serenity now disturbed by a crotchety priest’s thrown rock. Wordlessly, they pour a small amount of tea into a saucer before resting one hand on the teapot’s handle. The other guides a finger to the saucer, dampens a fingertip and traces, with careful delicacy, evaporating glyphs atop the tan glaze.

Many magicians speak loudly or write in great looping script, their magic become another performance of wordplay and artistry—as if, Suki always thinks, they find adoration for their art more useful than magic itself. Moll works in gestures and murmurs, collected and subtle. Everything must be reduced, depressed and lessened for safety, and she sighs, for even she recognises that they’re no casual magician. Why shouldn’t the world outside a small, backcountry monastery welcome or accommodate such ability?

Why shouldn’t Freehome welcome Suki’s free, unrestrained, honest self?

Such pondering, when she knows the answers to both questions, provides only one thing: delay.

“How old were you,” she asks, “when you learnt the word for your aromanticism?”

A slight frown, more the suggestion of expression than the actuality, shifts Moll’s brow. “I know exactly,” they say in their slow, deep voice, “because I learnt five weeks and two days after my acceptance as acolyte.” They purse their lips, studying the movement of their finger across the teapot. When a breath of steam issues from the spout, they pull back their hand. “I knew what I was since childhood, but knowing that I am loveless isn’t the same as a more … academic term. Loveless … people have other ideas about what that means.”

She always knew whom and what she was, clinging to a truth so obvious part of Suki still finds it absurd that Mama Lewis persisted in her stubborn obliviousness. Knowing, though, isn’t recognition, isn’t identification and permission; knowing isn’t the certain categorisation of the self as a different, acknowledged, communicable manner of ordinary.

Knowing isn’t pride.

“When do you think I found the word?”

Moll shakes their head, pouring now-steaming tea into a clay mug, the glaze chipped about the rim from years of use, the handle too small to fit all of Moll’s fingers. Their expression shows not the slightest hint of curiosity towards her questions. “I wouldn’t begin to guess, sir.”

Given Moll’s newness to the red, they can easily rough-reckon the numbers, so she answers as they did. “One and a half years before you, and leave off the ‘sir’! What are we, Astreuch?” Suki draws a shaking breath, her voice undeservedly sharp, but how can she fight both her acid tongue and the awful surge of hurt? How can she fight both her acid tongue and a nebulous tension that only fuels and strengthens her aching joints? “I was accepted, in a ‘some people don’t like relationships’ way. My mentor, Amadi, was like us. But the word? I didn’t know words until a cluster of young priests brought books from Khaloun. I found it, unexpectedly, while reading. So I made it my life’s work to have, here, our library.” She pauses, rueful. “Or the rest of my life’s work, since…”

Moll has given only patient, considered answers. Moll hasn’t asked questions coated in that dread mingling of need, hope and dismissal. Moll has done nothing to deserve her mood beyond asking one question, in the vegetable garden, that they had and have every right to voice.

Anticipatory fear and aching memory, poisonously entwined, have ever raised her hackles.

Suki counts backwards from ten, breathing long and slow, before realising that the Stormcoast’s culture of tiptoeing around advancing age—one daren’t observe that another approaches a state of “elderly” or “ancient”—has left Moll dwelling in a stone-faced, finger-entwining, staring-at-the-ferns silence.

“Which relative told you off as a child for calling another relative ‘old’?” she asks, grinning. “You think I don’t know I’m over the bloody hill and rolling down the other side? Yes, it’s the rest of my life’s work, because most of my life happened beforehand! Why pretend otherwise?”

“Many.” Moll rolls their shoulders back, softening. “How old were you?”

“Seventy-nine.” Suki silently applauds them for avoiding the tired “may I ask how old were you” approach and leaves the rest of the reckoning to Moll, carefully shifting her hands. Too often, these days, she earns nothing for her restful efforts but more time yearning for the work around which she has anchored her life. “Sometimes I feel like I was alive when the Sojourner supposedly lead hir band of survivors from the Change-ravaged North. Sometimes the world feels impossibly different, from then to now. Mostly, I feel the same as I always was, and the world's less different than people think, but people treat me like a ... a relic. Fancy attempting to educate me about theories I promoted because the old can’t understand the new!” She sighs. “Pour me a cup of plain tea, please, and put a pill on the saucer. The rats are gnawing today. Bloody rats.”

If her pain becomes unbearable, she’ll ask Thanh for hir set of nerve-blocking spells. She won’t be able to move or feel much of her body, but since she’s already remaining still, the real difference lies in consideration for Thanh. Ze’s had enough on hir metaphorical plate over the last week without Suki’s adding to hir work—and she hates to call on hir when she unnecessarily provoked at least half the throb in her hands, knees and ankles. Thanh has never made her feel as though she shouldn’t, but she does nonetheless.

She’s learnt the hard way how much her mood, and her guilt over wishing for relief, stokes and banks her pain.

Moll sets down their mug and pours another. “Can I do anything for you?”

Suki laughs. “I don’t suppose there’s the slightest chance you’ve figured out Thanh’s nerve blockers?”

They shake their head with speed enough that she guesses this a source of some frustration. “I don’t know how! There’s so much grafting onto nerve points, and in trying to describe it all and then shell … I make too many mistakes in the spell compression. It isn’t something in which you want mistakes.” They stop, breathing out long and slow. “I’m sorry, s—I’m sorry.”

Suki considers asking why, since she can’t expect a former quartermaster to reveal mastery of an art for which Thanh spent years studying at Eastern universities, but isn’t all this another distraction? “Don’t be. Thank you. Can you put the tray, just the cup and saucer, on my lap?”

Moll shifts the teapot and plate of corn muffins onto the bench before, as carefully as if handling fragile porcelain, arranging the rest of the tray on Suki’s lap. “Do you want to eat?”

“No.” Once, she could clasp a cup without provoking or worsening the pulling, throbbing pain in her wrist and fingers. So simple a thing to hold a cup, to drink, to return it to her tray! The tea’s heat doesn’t ease her pain, but the warm, tingling sensation distracts her somewhat, so she cradles the cup in both hands before raising them to her face. Now, at least, she needn’t waste her time in hope. As much as she yearns for Mara’s unlooked-for shape of witchcraft, there’s no reason to think her magic anything but sorcery, distant and unattainable. So be it.

She has blessings to count: a home, acolytes to help her wash and dress, purpose.

The bitter pill sticks to her tongue before she swallows it down.

“I can imagine,” Moll says, settling themself back onto the bench, “but in that way of theory. I can’t know, in the heart, the longest rhythms of time unknowing or half-knowing, given all denied us because we lack comprehension’s authority and…” They trail off, taking up their mug and, likely unconsciously, mirroring the position of her hands. “Place. That sense of place in time, in space, in community, in family, that … existential assuredness. Place. I know separation, distance, but I won’t pretend that I know that deeper shape.”

That Moll thinks their service should encompass only the safety of the vegetable garden is both tragedy and metaphor, but their still face suggests they don’t realise the contradictory echo of old words behind the new.

Mara wanted her kindred’s acknowledgement of her pain, someone to help her shoulder the weight of her agony in the validation and sympathy offered only by one who understands. Was Suki wrong to think, for so long, that she can’t risk seeking comfort? Does Moll’s rare consideration, offered unprompted no less, betoken safety enough for her to try?

“Do you have place, now?”

Moll cocks their head to the side, tapping one finger against the mug’s brown handle.

Suki waits.

“I don’t know that I will ever have that … neat, puzzle-piece sense of fitting into any time or space shared with others. Just autism alone, just aromanticism alone, just genderlessness alone … possibly. But they can’t stand alone, even if others want them to.” Moll exhales, hissing their breath over their lips in the loud, habitual easing of a priest performing and, through performance, encouraging the behaviour. “Sometimes … I want, so much, the ease of that fit, the confidence of an unquestioned place. And always … not, never, at that price.”

It shames her that, for all she has long held Moll at arm’s length, they are so willing to share.

“Burn the whole damn puzzle,” Suki says through a terrible, crooked grin.

Moll nods, a slight frown creasing their lips.

Do they realise? The shock of their first conversation in the vegetable garden, followed by an induction into the events surrounding the Hill siblings, may have seen them miss or put aside the obvious, for all that they touched upon it in their question of her. Moll owns too much perception to remain in acceptance of the thick paint covering the wallpaper beneath, and priests must do just that: question.

No thought or word can be worth anything if crumpling under curious, inquisitive challenge, so the question remains: have they the courage to ask?

“Do you know,” she says in a would-be conversational voice, “that the best thing about being a priest is that you can, amongst other priests, speak your mind? The trick lies in only having something worth speaking. Try it.”

With the speed and presence of a glacier, Moll turns their head to look Suki in the eyes. Their brow sits low and heavy, their controlled voice too tense for indifference: “What is this, then?”

Suki shakes her head. “No, try again.”

Moll’s lips shift, as if they mean to mouth a word before deciding otherwise. “Do you want honesty?”

“Your own mind will tear you apart if you say anything less, so why should I expect otherwise?”

A slight crease of Moll’s brow may suggest amusement—or consternation. Both, perhaps. “You’re discussing,” they say with painful slowness, “aro—” They hold up a hand, stopping her from remarking on their woeful statement of the obvious, and Suki, despite her anxiety-fuelled throbbing, works to hide a smile. “When you’ve had five years to start a conversation, why now?”

Their breath hisses over lips and teeth, one hand sketching lines on the meat of their robe-covered thigh.

Suki nods her encouragement.

“I did think that if this were well-known, I’d have heard. Someone would have said so in explaining to me? I also thought that your answer to my question … undermined your sense of the importance that we guide our own, especially now.”

“Do you feel that with Esher Hill?” Suki asks, wondering if they’ll dare put damning thought to voice. “Importance?”

"Yes." Moll shifts the girdle book and the bunched-up length of brown belt fastening said book to their waist. Their robe spills over thighs and knees, leaving ankles and shoulders bared; unlike Suki, they don’t appear the least bit cold. “He doesn’t trust me, but I think seeing himself reflected in that tangle of sharedness does more to help him survive than anything else. It matters.” They draw a breath, their voice firming and harshening: “So why do you talk sharedness now?”

Good! Only pain and the fear that Moll will take a somewhat-deserved offence keeps her from clapping. If she spends her remaining months or years helping Moll craft a more intentional relationship to obedience, even the Sojourner must reckon this time well served.

Easier to think about that than her own fear of an unvoiced answer.

Easier to frame this as a lesson or a guiding, her conversation possessed of another’s purpose.

Easier to think of anything but guilt and the damning thoughts an old woman must dare speak.

“Why do you?” Moll sips from their mug, their body angled towards her, their soft tone less a question than a prompting. “Isn’t that it?”

Only then does Suki realise that she embodies her own lingering, encloaking silence.

Her eyes rest, fleeing Moll, on the fern-encrusted garden wall and its uneven rows of red and yellow orchids. Her plants, fronds and leaves stirred into bobbing by the evening breeze, appear peaceful and fearless, but even allowing for flora’s unknowable sentience, that can’t be true. What stops a priest from consigning her flowers to the compost heap? A swarm of thrip from devouring the vegetable garden? Ferns, too, live their lives at the whims of the weather, the season, the denizens of the land upon which they take root. Plants grow, flourish, sicken, die. Peaceful?

What is peace but illusion: the hope of a perfect shelter from nature’s whims, ways and hurts?

“It goes the same way,” she says, now staring at her lawn and its mushrooms, those glistening fruits of the fungus conquering the soil beneath. “You learn something you didn’t know existed: the word. Once you find it fits, you feel the betrayal, the ache of once not knowing something fundamental, the deep cuts left by ignorance. You want sympathy, reassurance and validation to heal, and where are they when most don’t understand?”

Deep creases form across Moll’s brow as they thread their fingers together. “Yes. Esher needs it from me.” They hesitate, lips parted. “He needs it. So does Mara.”

“You can say it,” Suki murmurs, wondering the cost of standing, stepping onto the lawn and pulling the closest mushroom … with her back, conveniently, facing the priest beside her. Perhaps she and Moll aren’t so dissimilar if she wants to turn her hurt to fighting fungi. Perhaps this only crosses a mind looking to find a replacement for her knitting. “Please.”

“And I needed it from you.”

They may be referring to that first vegetable garden conversation. They may be referring to the years that passed between Moll’s learning the word “aromantic” as a descriptor and discovering that another priest is also aromantic. Both are truth.

“Nobody but Amadi had anything close.” Suki yawns in the first touch of medicine’s giddiness. Pity, as always, that she feels the effect in her head long before her joints. “Given nameless, remaining nameless with eir last breath.”

Only the stirring of hair and robe by breeze and breath mars Moll’s quiet stillness.

“Those with more,” she says bitterly, “serve to guide those with less. How doesn’t aromanticism apply? But we know the other side of its truth: a priest must have more to serve. More knowledge, more support, more sense of place, more safety, more community. A priest offers sympathy, provides reassurance, validates feeling, illuminates direction. A priest does what the world so often can’t in telling the different that we aren’t wrong to exist as we are.”

Mama Lewis wanted Suki to be safe, happy, loved. Mama Lewis never valued the daughter she had over the image of the daughter she thought herself entitled to have.

The part of Suki still yearning for the promise of her mother’s love can’t surrender one tainted, maggot-ridden idea: that a concept bearing an academic-sounding, official name must have made a difference.

Or will she still exist in this same circumstance, a trailblazer struggling with the full and challenging consequences of being this path’s guide?

“You think that I’ve known our word for years. You think that age means my hurt no longer throbs and I will carry your pain. You think I have more.” She presses her lips together, fearing the tears threatening to burst their dam. No, Suki takes pride in being the human equivalent of a splinter under a fingernail! She doesn’t weep. She rebels. “I have more knowledge only! You’ve … thirty, forty, fifty years of knowing ahead. You won’t find the word when you’re at death’s doorstep. You won’t bear the pain of a word unknown for eight decades. Your guide came delayed, but your guide still came!”

Suki learnt her words from books, not other priests. Moll had Gennifer, who’d learnt of aromanticism from her and affirmed in person the name of their identity and human worth. Moll, now, has Suki, even if five years later than right or deserved. Mara and Esher Hill have the wonder of identified validation provided by other aromantics, but Suki lived in a time when even the best affirmation went unnamed.

She tried openness for a year. She tried talking, despite such guiding never being her strongest art, to those guests who showed signs of aromanticism. She tried to find and connect with her own.

Easier, so much easier, to withdraw, to leave nurturing the younger aromantic starting their novitiate to other priests, to trust that Moll’s future will achieve what hers can’t.

Easier, so much easier, to avoid the young’s self-involved cruelty in relegating her only to their mentorship: the provider of their needed validation and support, the priest with more.

Easier, so much easier, to avoid speaking of her named identity with her aromantic kin … until a man almost died in part because of how he took a priest’s careless words, a situation that may not have existed if everyone knew “aromantic” described her and understood its context. Her failure, her cowardice, her unwillingness to build aromanticism more obviously into all her priests’ knowledge and service. Her inability to survive the bruises dealt her by others in pain. Her rebellion offering no direction or answer.

“You want me to strengthen you, shore you, shelter you. I can’t. I can’t when even thinking of sharing your agony reminds me of mine. I can’t when listening to you…” She sucks in a harsh, shaking breath, her throat tightening like a python’s jaws around a struggling rat. “I don’t have more. I’ll never have more. But acknowledging that isn’t enough!”

No lie slipped from her lips when she spoke to Moll in the vegetable garden, carefully dealing in careless and shallow words: how can a priest best guide someone when that guiding means taking further injury to damaged flesh? How can she serve their guests and her belief when she fights to keep back her screams, when pain and defensiveness sharpen her words to cruelty?

How much did the ostensible Sojourner struggle in leading hir collection of rent and ruined survivors along such a frightening, untrodden road?

She wishes herself able enough to march into the kitchen, grab a stack of the cracked plates she kept aside for such purposes and find a private courtyard where she can hurl them at a particularly offensive wall.

“I’m sorry,” she rasps, “because you needed. Because what happened to Esher wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t retreated. I didn’t question. I didn’t try to find an answer. I used the precept as a shield; I failed it. I’m sorry, I—”

She doesn’t realise she’s weeping until Moll slides towards her, closes their warm hand about her bony shoulders and pulls her into their chest, her tears soaking their red linen robe. They don’t speak. They don’t do anything but sit, awkwardly leaned over the arm of her chair, and hold her like a fresh-hatched chick in a pair of sheltering hands.

Guiding priests don’t, by custom, embrace their guests.

A lifetime’s grief spills from her eyes, stinging creased, dry cheeks. Not until the evening’s chill increases to something unignorable does Suki find again her composure. She sniffs, draws a shaking breath and speaks in her ever-readily barbed tongue: “Ten years ago, before your novitiate, I’d have asked if you were interested in bedding. Or even just sleeping, because you’re better than a dog and a hot brick for keeping an old woman toasty.”

Moll sits upright, only a strained shift of shoulder suggesting any stiffness or discomfort. Their wet eyes glisten even in the dim light, an odd contrast to their twisted lips and crumpled chin—and then a noise between a hoarse laugh and a snort explodes above the breeze’s whisper. “Don’t distract!”

They sound like Suki does when objecting to the young's woeful blathering.

She straightens, wiping her face on a corner of her shawl before smiling in pride. “Yes. I…”

“Thank you for trusting me enough to share.” They’re priestly words, taken right from the instruction manual, but Moll’s following sentences aren’t: “You said my guide came delayed, but she came, she showed herself when needed, she served. She’s here. I don’t know … how people reacted, what was asked, all of what you feel, how you bear the weight. I want to know. Your guide came delayed, so delayed … but they’re here. Even at the last.”

Emotion cracks and shreds her voice: “I’d rather not cry again, thank you very much.”

Moll doesn’t dilute their blank stare with speech or gesture.

“What path, then?” she croaks—tired, giddy, shivering, relieved.

Part of her, the wary woman once a distrustful girl, feels it ludicrous that Moll, so junior a priest, can answer something she can’t. The girl does them no justice: Moll hasn’t asked her to carry their pain. They’ve shared only at her prompting. They’ve treated her with a friend’s warmth and courtesy. If she holds no faith in their sacred service, is there anything left of Suki but damaged bones in an aching body? Isn’t this the same old difficulty: a woman fighting herself to trust another person, simultaneously needing and fearing?

Moll rests a hand on the arm of her chair, fingers half curled in invitation.

Suki nods and rests her stiff hand in their soft one.

“Someday,” they say slowly, “as how it seems incredulous to question one eschewing gender, we will be history. My school, years ago, taught that: the tears and blood spent to make a world where I can shrug at gender. Not just as a past to avoid repeating, but as … respect for the pain that birthed the now.”

They motion with their other hand, fingers curled inwards—the mug and teapot sitting, long abandoned, on the bench.

Suki yawns, presses her trembling lips together and waits.

“We need books of names and definitions, and we need books of stories. Our futures and hopes written on the page. Stories of the past that we’re hoping become … incredulous. We need the stories of those who wept. We can’t forget.” They turn to glance at Suki before speaking in a voice marred by quivering: “May I write down your story? So I can understand—so we can understand, all those who come after?”

They won’t offer power. They can’t violently remake a world so wrought against her. They don’t provide resolution to the ache felt by a woman struggling with the community who need her to help them bear and understand theirs. They haven't a solution.

They offer direction, one balancing their hopes for the future with the harms of the present. A direction that doesn’t make her feel like a relic to be cast aside but a paving stone at the road’s beginning, one small part of ensuring the steady, continuing passing of feet and wheels.

Moll’s suggestion is why she believes in the concept of the Sojourner, even though she can’t make herself ascribe to certainty in god.

“I don’t mean to be impudent—”

“Never cluck when you’re doing a bitchy old woman a kindness.” Suki draws a shaking breath of her own. “I’d … like that. Very much. Thank you.”

At first, she thinks Moll’s expression—a slight curve of lips, only a smile by comparison—speaks more of relief than happiness. No. Don’t they also straddle a complex and confused struggle to build their place? Don’t they also feel the sacred power in their service? Aren’t they also in need of friendship?

“May I ask—” Moll stops themself, raising a palm. “Why did you talk to me, at the beginning, as though guiding a priest? Why didn’t you talk about this straight out?”

Suki grins at both the correction and the question. “I’m the Guide. What else do you think I’m going to do?”