#my heart breaks for you mr. rotunda

[hartbreak-motel]

Mike and Barry repping Bray tho 🥺

[missymurphy1985]

The Entanglement (part six)

Warning - domestic violence / angst

Taglist @queenshelby @margoo0 @being-worthy @peakyscillian @peakyciills @janelongxox @elenavampire21 @ysmmsy @cloudofdisney @lauren-raines-x @namelesslosers @misscarolineshelby @screemqueen @cilleveryone @peaky-cillian @misselsbells06 @datewithgianni @heidimoreton

Sirens. That's all Padraig could hear as he ran to Cillian's house. Three police cars and, worryingly, two ambulances. What the fuck had happened?

"Sir, you can't go in there..." One of the Gardai officers stopped him before he could cross the line.

"That's my brother's house!! Where is he? Is he okay?"

"Come with me Mr Murphy."

The officer led him towards a man in a suit, introducing him as Detective Stephens.

"Mr Murphy has been taken to Rotunda Hospital - one of my officers will take you there now."

"Pad, what's happening?" Orla cried when her brother finally called her on Facetime later that night from the hospital, putting him on loud speaker so Becky could hear and see too.

"He's okay - just some cuts and bruises. Someone broke in and beat the shit out of him, but it sounds worse than it is. He gave as good as he got - the guy who attacked him is in a secure room down the hall and let's just say he's not feeling very well!"

"Who attacked him?"

"It isn't Daniel, but it's obvious Daniel sent him."

"Daniel wouldn't do it himself, he only attacks people smaller than him..." Becky choked. She felt so guilty. All this because of her. "If I just went back, all of this would stop.."

"No, Becky, it wouldn't. It would get worse, you know that," Orla soothed, wrapping an arm around her.

"Want to talk to him?" Padraig asked, Becky nodded her head.

The phone turned around to find Cillian sat up in bed. A bruised eye, his arm in a sling, smiling as best he could with a split lip. Becky's head fell into her hands, choking sobs at the sight of him.

"Hey, now, no need for that! I'm okay honestly. Sprained wrist, few cuts and bruises. I'll be out of here tomorrow morning," he said, heart breaking watching her cry.

"This is all my fault!"

"None of this is on you. I'd take a hundred of those beatings if it meant you didn't take one ever again." She looked into his eyes, he meant every word.

"Can I come and see you?" She asked.

"I'm going to our family cottage in Kerry when I get out - no one knows where it is and it'll have armed police guards day and night. I'm sure Orla will arrange for you to come to me? Or I can pick you up on the way?"

Orla nodded, knowing how secure the cottage would be with Cillian's security around it. Becky smiled a little for the first time since she arrived. The first true smile anyway.

"I'm so sorry Cill..."

"No more apologies. The Gardai have the man that attacked me, it's only a matter of time before he leads them to Daniel. They say he's a hired hitman - there's no loyalty there, he'll give him up in a heartbeat."

The call ended after everyone said goodnight, Padraig told them he'd be driving Cillian to the cottage in the morning. Orla would drive Becky there later in the day.

Arriving at the cottage with Orla the following afternoon, following a restless sleep, Becky was exhausted. She'd had so many emotions coursing through her in the last couple of days she couldn't keep up with them. Walking through the doors of the remote cottage, even in the presence of tight security around the building, she felt immediately at ease. Calm. Relaxed.

"He's probably in the garden, come on," Orla took her arm gently and led her through. Becky had never been anywhere like this - the cottage was quaint and simply furnished, but it was beautiful. The garden was huge - football goal nets in the corner, a basketbal hoop the other side, and a large patio area with a barbecue and rattan style dining table and chairs. Cillian was laying on one of the loungers - his arm no longer in a sling but a support wrap around it. His face was still bruised, but he smiled seeing her walk in with his sister and stood slowly.

"Hey.. you okay?" He asked. Becky didn't answer him, just bit her lip to stop herself crying. He responded by pulling her into him, wrapping his arms around her. She gripped onto him tight, breathing him in and allowing herself to cry a little into his chest.

"Thank you..."

"I have the best legal team in the country. They're working on your divorce as we speak. If that's what you want?"

"More than anything. Has he been found?"

"Found him this morning Becky. He's been arrested. They need a statement from you to confirm the abuse, you reckon you can do that?" Orla asked, hopeful.

"I'm scared."

"I'm here every step of the way. I'm your support officer, you can call me any time, day or night. I'll be with you for the statement and through court if he pleads not guilty. It's not an easy process, but I've been through it all. And this man right here? He was the rock that got me through it."

Becky looked up at him and smiled. His eyes were as warm as they were that night they spent together, maybe warmer.

The three of them had dinner together, ordering from a local Chinese takeaway. Orla was busy in the kitchen tidying everything away, leaving Cillian and Becky alone together in the living room. They'd spent the afternoon getting to know each other, stealing small glances, and general teenage-level flirting to the point even Orla hadn't even questioned whether she was clearing up post-dinner, the pair of them were driving her insane.

"Becky, we need to think about making a move soon if we're to get back in time for check in?" The facility sparked a warning to the local police if a resident wasn't home when they were supposed to be. Orla had arranged for them to be back by 9pm, it was now nearly 8pm.

"Why don't you both stay? I have wine and beer in the fridge?" Cillian offered. Becky looked to Orla smiling.

"If we can, I'd really like that?"

"I need to get back to let the dogs out, and you need to be back in residence in an hour."

"Can't you override it? Surely as the boss you can allow one night out?" Cillian asked, taking Becky's hand in his.

"It's fine by me - you okay without me?"

"I'm sure I can take care of her," Cillian grinned, Becky blushed, Orla shooting him a dirty look.

"Ew.. right I'm off. Have fun you two. Cill, come lock the door behind me?" Cillian released Becky's hand and followed Orla to the front door.

"No lecture needed sis, I'm not going to take advantage of her."

"Brother dearest - she's had her eyes on you all evening. If you don't take advantage of her, I think she's going to take advantage of you," she winked, giving her brother a hug before heading out to her car.

Cillian smiled, locking the door, before making his way into the kitchen to grab a bottle of wine and two glasses.

[slippinmickeys]

The Earl (3/13)

If you’d like to read this on AO3, you may do so here. 

CHAPTER THREE

“A sporting holiday?” Scully asked, smiling, “Oh, that sounds lovely.” She had paused with her soup spoon halfway to her mouth, Mulder fairly bursting to tell her of the invitation he’d received, over dinner.

Mulder smiled at her, encouraged. He set down his wine glass, his soup sitting in front of him, uneaten.

“I got the invitation just today,” he said, “Sir Byers is an old friend from Eton -- a baronet with a small estate in Kent. As a sporting holiday, one month from now -- I would be expected to go shooting with the gentleman at least part of the time, but a fortnight away… we could treat it as a honeymoon.”

The thought of the fresh air and quiet of the country sounded heavenly. She smiled warmly at him and lowered her spoon back into her bowl.

“Should I tell him we accept?” Mulder asked.

“Please do,” she said.

Mulder looked as pleased as anything, and went on to tell her about school-related hijinks with much enthusiasm. When the final course of the meal had been taken away by the footmen, he sobered and looked at her earnestly.

“I hope you know how pleased I am that you came into the garden the night of the Halford ball,” he said.

“I hope you know how pleased I am that you decided to kiss me there.” He smiled at her.  “Why were you in the garden that night, Mulder? I never thought to ask.”

“I was hiding.”

“Hiding?!”

He looked chagrined.

“Miss Spender was there,” he said, “at the ball. I had of course already made the decision not to court her, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her. Not in such a public setting, anyway. It would have amounted to giving her the cut direct. I loathe her father, but she’s a young lady who doesn’t deserve that kind of treatment.”

“Or that kind of father.”

“Indeed.”

“Well. I suppose Miss Spender’s loss is my gain.”

“And mine,” he said, and raised his glass to his wife.

XxXxXxXxXxX

“You’ll have to tell me all about it, my lady,” Prudence said, while she affixed a ribbon through Scully’s perfectly coiffed hair. “I’ve heard it’s the most splendid sight imaginable.”

Mulder was taking her to Vauxhall for the evening. Scully had always wanted to go. It was said to be the most spacious pleasure garden in all of England, filled with high hedges and trees, and had gravel-paved walkways and promenades. There were pavilions, lodges, groves, grottoes, lawns, porticoes and rotundas; the whole of it illuminated with an infinite number of lamps in every color. Mulder had reserved them a booth not far from the Royal Box and had promised to waltz with her until she could no longer stand.

She reached her hand up and placed it over Prudence’s.  “I won’t leave out a single detail,” she said.

Prudence smiled at her in the mirror.  “You’ll fit in perfectly,” she said, “no other lady could compare to your beauty tonight.”

“You’re too kind, Prudence. I thank you for all of your help.” She tapped a bit of color into her cheeks and took as deep a breath as her corset would allow. “Is everything packed and ready for tomorrow?”

They would be leaving for Kent in the morning for a fortnight at Ashford Park with Sir Byers and his other guests.

“It is, my lady,” said Prudence, though her face had fallen.

“Prudence,” she said, turning from the mirror to face her maid, “whatever is the matter?”

“I shouldn’t be saying anything, Lady Wexford,” she said. “It isn’t my place.”

“I hope you will anyway,” said Scully gently, trying to catch Prudence’s eye.

“It is Samuel, my lady,” Prudence said, stealing a look at the closed door of the chamber, as if afraid Mr. Bixby or Mrs. Paxton might come barging in, demanding to know why she was speaking to the lady of the house about the workings below stairs.

“The footman?” Scully clarified.

“Yes,” Prudence said, “he was taken ill, not two days ago. Very ill. He may not survive. He had been looking forward to traveling to Kent with you and the Earl. He was honored when Mr. Bixby picked him to accompany you.”

“Oh that is very sad,” Scully said. “Is he being well attended to?”

“Oh yes,” Prudence rushed to assure her, “Lord Wexford insisted upon his own physician being sent below stairs. It sent the scullery maids all in a whirl.”

Scully could sense there was something else Prudence wanted to tell her. She stayed quiet and Prudence went on.

“The footman who was hired to replace Samuel is being sent to Kent instead.”

It seemed as though she were about to go on when there was a knock at the door connecting her and Mulder’s chambers and he stuck his head through the doorway. Prudence nodded at Scully, and curtsied at Mulder.

“Thank you, Prudence,” Mulder said, excusing her, “you have done a fine job. The Countess looks exquisite.”

Prudence smiled and left the room.

“Are you ready?” he asked her.

She stood and turned to him.

He nearly took her breath away. He was wearing a new coat, cut very tight to his figure, the shirt beneath it was white as a cloud and the collar impeccably starched. His cravat was folded with the utmost care and pinned with a large emerald that complimented his eyes, a perfect match to his silk waistcoat. The buckskin trousers he wore clung to him like a second skin and his Hessians had been rubbed to a mirror shine.

“Whatever you are paying your valet, you should double it,” Scully said to him as she took his arm. “If the Prince Regent is at Vauxhall tonight, he’s likely to try to hire him out from under you.”

“It wouldn’t do to let Mr. Valadeo hear you say that,” Mulder said, as he opened the door of her chamber and held it open for her, “it will go straight to his head.”

XxXxXxXxXxX

As Mulder stepped off the boat and onto the island on which the gardens of Vauxhall sat, Scully pulled up short next to him, her mouth agape at the sight before her. There was a grand entrance gate and a long series of stairs that led up to where the gardens really started, though there were colorful lanterns lining the steps and perfectly groomed shrubs running along the rise.

“Come,” he leaned down and whispered in her ear, “there is much to see.”

When they had finally been seated at their reserved booth, Scully finally stopped looking around and said, quite earnestly:

“My apologies, Mulder. I have been struck speechless by the splendor.”

He had been so himself his first time at the gardens when he was but fifteen. He had been held captive by a balloon ascension -- a special event that evening that he had not seen since -- great balls of colorful fabric taking men to the stars.

When the waiter arrived, Mulder ordered champagne, beef, ham and salad, as well as the arrack punch that was so well known in Vauxhall that the mention of it always brought him back to the gardens.

When they had eaten their fill, he rose from the booth and pulled a watch from his pocket.

“Come along,” he said to Scully, “we must hurry or we will miss it.”

“Miss what?” she said, her mouth quirking up into an intrigued smile that sent no small amount of blood rushing below his waist.

When she rose, he noticed the jealous looks of the other gentleman nearby, and could hardly blame them. She was a rare beauty and carried about her both an innocence and an erotogenic mien that confused his senses and assaulted his deep-seated and well-bred commitment to public propriety. In short, he was continually beset by an aching cockstand whenever she was near. It was downright inconvenient.

He walked her as quickly as he could through the gravel lined promenades and turned down a walkway that led into a line of trees. It was darker here and empty of people. Perfect. He found a small bench along the path and sat with her there, leaning back and looking around them in anticipation.

“Mulder what-” she began to say, but he stilled her with a hand to her knee.

“Shh,” he said, and pointed into the trees above them.

Their timing could not have been better.

Suddenly the lamps that were hung from the trees above and around them -- hundreds of them -- thousands -- began to light one by one in every color of the rainbow. She inhaled in surprise.

The lamps were all connected by a series of fuses he knew, but even with that knowledge, it was no less magical. After a moment the quiet of the night resumed but the lights remained, a sparkling wonderland, shining arcs of color throughout the small forest.

Scully stood and walked into the trees a little way, her eyes turned to the lights. He followed her.

“I feel as though Titania and Oberon and their lot will come prancing through at any moment,” she said, her voice almost a whisper, as if she were worried any noise might break the spell of the place.

He moved to stand in front of her and ran his finger from the top of her jaw to her chin, tilting her face up to his for a kiss. He let his lips linger at hers, feeling their connection in the depths of his chest, to his very soul.

“A fairyland fit for a countess,” he whispered.

“I must know how it all works,” she said, “do you suppose they use some sort of timer? Did you know, there is a Chemist by the name of-“

He kissed her again, deeply, keeping his eyes open until he saw her own aquamarine orbs roll back into her head. She ran her fingers up through his hair, pulling him toward her, and all rational thought left him. He kissed her, drinking her in, pulling her body flush against his so that she could feel how much he wanted her. Finally, she pulled back.

“Sea water,” she said.

He looked at her in confusion, his hands still framing her face.

“My father told me that at sea, as thirsty as you may get, drinking sea water will only make you thirstier. Your thirst can never be slaked. Being with you… it’s like drinking sea water. The more I’m with you, the more I want you,” she said. “My thirst for you cannot be quenched.”

His heart clenched just as his groin ached, and he moved her with deliberate slowness backwards until he had her up against a large oak tree. She looked up at him with blind trust.

“And I you,” he said, his voice a low rumble, “I want you even now.”

He leaned down and bit her lightly on the neck, and in answer she moaned quietly. He licked the skin he’d bitten and ran a hand into the front of her gown, pulling her breasts so that they spilled over the top of it.

She had absolutely perfect breasts -- a Renaissance painter could not have improved them. Her nipples were the same pinkish-red as the soft lips of her sex and the mounds themselves, soft handfuls of pure delight. He lowered his mouth to them. They tasted of berries. How on earth was it that they tasted of berries? If he wasn’t inside of her soon, he would burst.

He reached down and unbuttoned the fells of his trousers, freeing himself. She reached out with greedy hands and wrapped one around his shaft, the other going lower until it was gently cradling the soft sac underneath. He groaned into her bosom.

Reaching down, he gathered the skirts of her gown, pulling them up and over her hips, then reached down to find her dewy center, only to encounter more layers of tulle and fluff.

“Blasted petticoats,” he grumbled, and she emitted a delicious peal of laughter that he decided was his duty to elicit from her at every future opportunity. She reached down to help him, and at last he moved his hand over the humid rise of her mons, sliding a finger into her to find her slick as a ripe peach. He could take it no longer. Shaft in one hand, he maneuvered himself to her slippery entrance. With the other he pulled her knee until it was over his hip, and then slid straight home.

They both moaned. He would not last long. Whatever magic was in the air had riled him to a fevered peak. He licked a thumb and reached down to rub it along the swollen nub at the crest of her sex. She panted and grabbed his waistcoat in both hands, grinding her hips into him on a lusty breath.

He felt like a rutting beast surrounded by the cold fresh air of the night, amongst the calls of owls and crickets. He lifted her other leg until he was holding her up completely, her back to the rough bark of the oak, her breasts bouncing above the top of her lavender gown. He would never see a more erotic sight, he was sure of it.

She began a low, long moan in the back of her throat that he was learning meant she was close to reaching her climax and he increased his efforts with his thumb with a renewed vigor. In moments she was coming apart at the seams, going limp in his arms. He pulled her tightly to him and felt his own climax rush upon him, and he locked his knees so as not to drop her, thrusting into her once, twice, then one final time. He held her solidly in his arms but sagged against the tree behind them. After a moment, her legs dropped back to the ground, first one, then the other, and he felt himself slide out of her.

One bracing breath and she pulled herself to her full, if modest height, her skirts falling gracefully back into place. She pulled her gown up over her exposed breasts, reached a hand up to tuck a piece of loose hair expertly back into her coif and gave him a small smile.

“Shall we return to the pavilion?” she said with practiced dignity, “I believe I hear a waltz.”

He was in love. Abject, soul-quaking, irrevocable love.

[luthienne]

Hi ! I was wondering if you had quotes / thoughts about feeling lost in life, when nothing feels right and choices have to be made even though they all feel like lukewarm water when you wanted a hot bath. That feeling of losing a sense of grounding and not seeing the direction in which to move. thank you xx

(I’ve been wanting to compile this from the moment I received your ask in my inbox. I know the feeling intimately, and I love the way you articulated it. Hope any of these quotes resonate w what you were looking for xx)

“What shall we do my darling, when trial grows more, and more, when the dim, lone light expires, and it’s dark, so very dark, and we wander, and know not where, and cannot get out of the forest…”

—Emily Dickinson, Selected Letters

“She had never figured out how to figure things out. She was only vaguely beginning to know the kind of absence she had of herself inside her.”

—Clarice Lispector, The Hour of the Star (tr. Benjamin Moser)

“But as it is / I lack myself.”

—Anne Carson, Grief Lessons; “Herakles”

“Even now I can’t explain. Something happened, a kind of earthquake that shook everything and I lost faith and touch with everybody.”

—Katherine Mansfield, Letters of Katherine Mansfield

“She felt suddenly as if she were a ghost in her own life—”

—Catherynne M. Valente, The Orphan’s Tales: In the Night Garden

“I hate seeing myself dissolve and slip and separate so that I’m living in one half of my mind, and I see the other half of me helpless and frantic and driven and I can’t stop it, but I know I’m not really going to be hurt and yet time is so long and even a second goes on and on and I could stand any of it if I could only surrender—”

—Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House

“It makes me tremble. (…) To think back. I remember exactly how I thought life would be.”

—Anne Carson, The Beauty of the Husband

Emily Dickinson, “I felt a Funeral in my Brain”

“and I didn’t care / and I was alone / and there had been war / and that thing (my soul) / was a lost star / or a lost boat / adrift,”

—H.D., Child Poems: “Dedication” 

“She had a perpetual sense (…), of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day.”

—Virginia Woolf, Mrs Dalloway 

“You know the feeling? One lies in a kind of daze, feeling so sensitive—so unbearably sensitive to the exterior world and longing for something ‘lovely’ to happen.”

—Katherine Mansfield, Letters of Katherine Mansfield

“I don’t care a bit—about anything—I just seem to be asleep and can’t wake up—”

—Georgia O’Keeffe, Art and Letters of Georgia O’Keeffe

“Life is what happens to someone else; / I stand on the sidelines and wring my hands.”

—Lisel Mueller, Waving from Shore

“…it is a little thing to say how lone it is — anyone can do it, but to wear loneliness next to your heart for weeks, when you sleep, and when you wake, ever missing something, this, all cannot say, and it baffles me.”

—Emily Dickinson, Selected Letters

“My life now is a dream too, semi-detached, and seems to happen to somebody else.”

—Martha Gellhorn, from Selected Letters

“I don’t know—I don’t know anything. There is no one here I can talk to—it’s all like a bad dream.”

—Georgia O’Keeffe, Art and Letters of Georgia O’Keeffe

“…she does not know whom she wishes to catch, only that she wishes to catch someone, anyone, to be anchored, to be connected, to not be abandoned.”

—Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless

“I had lost my true rhythm. But what was my true rhythm?”

—Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin: Vol 1, 1931-1934 

“People kept saying It’s only a matter of time so I persevered in the hope they weren’t lying. At the same time beginning to think I might’ve been lying to myself. Wasting everyone’s time with fantasies of this career I couldn’t have. The person I could never be. There was just so much rejection and not enough of me. I got so afraid. And I lost my nerve—”

—Eimear McBride, The Lesser Bohemians

—Denise Levertov, Life in the Forest; “A Daughter (I)”

“I’m not lost. Or not lost much. Lonely. It is that and … I don’t know what to do. So I move. And cars move. And it’s almost life.”

—Eimear McBride, The Lesser Bohemians 

“What prevents you? The future. The future tense, / immense as outer space. / You could get lost there. / No. Nothing so simple. The past, its density / and drowned events pressing you down, / like sea water—”

—Margaret Atwood, “Up”

“What is there to say? I became physically ill. It was as if I had fallen into space and hung there while life passed me by.”

—Boris Pasternak, Letters Summer 1926: Pasternak, Tsvetaeva, Rilke

“And nothing else happens. The days go by, lost, wasted, and I have no drive to write, no words come… And I grow more and more solitary.”

—Martha Gellhorn, Selected Letters

“I cannot write anymore, dears. Though it is many nights, my mind never comes home.”

—Emily Dickinson, Selected Letters

“As time goes by, especially in the last few years, I’ve lost the knack of being a person. I no longer know how one is supposed to be. And an entirely new kind of ‘solitude of not belonging’ has started invading me like ivy on a wall.”

—Clarice Lispector, Why This World: A Biography of Clarice Lispector 

“There’s a loss of personality. / Or rather, you’ve lost touch with the person / You thought you were. / You no longer feel quite human.”

—T.S. Eliot, The Cocktail Party

“My wings are cut and I can-not fly I can-not fly I can-not fly.”

—Katherine Mansfield, Letters of Katherine Mansfield

“Me, as ever, gone.”

—Anne Carson, Decreation; “Despite her Pain, Another Day”

“…and I am out with lanterns, looking for myself.”

—Emily Dickinson, Letters

“…why this doubt that I have about everything I do, this void that frightens me, all these lost illusions?”

—Gustave Flaubert, Intimate Notebook 1840-1841

“What I fear I avoid. What I fear I pretend does not exist. What I fear is quietly killing me. Would there were a festival for my fears, a ritual burning of what is coward in me, what is lost in me. Let the light in before it is too late.”

—Jeanette Winterson, “The Green Man” 

“Around. Around. There / should have been / a lesson somewhere.”

—Louise Glück, “The Game”

“Only occasionally do I find I have to break my peace: shout or be lost in the shuffle. But mostly I am lost in the shuffle.”

—Barbara Kingsolver, The Poisonwood Bible

“Things went wrong. She lost confidence. She became apprehensive in crowds. I recognize how that she was feeling then as I feel now. Invisible on the street.”

—Joan Didion, Blue Nights

“She had the oddest sense of being herself invisible; unseen; unknown;”

—Virginia Woolf, Mrs Dalloway

“You might not remember me, dears. I cannot recall myself. I thought I was strongly built, but this stronger has undermined me.”

—Emily Dickinson, Selected Letters

“I have no world to go back into, or to go forward into. Because these years have cut me away from many things – from everything: not only materially, but also mentally, spiritually.”

—Martha Gellhorn, Selected Letters

—Rita Dove, “The Venus of Willendorf”

“…for we are in such fragile skin, so close to getting lost in the in-between.”

—Eimear McBride, The Lesser Bohemians

“I do not want revenge, I do not want expiation. / I only want to ask someone / how I was lost, / how I was lost,”

—Margaret Atwood, “Owl Song”

“I felt as if the sky was torn off my life. I had no home in goodness anymore.”

—Anne Carson, “The Glass Essay”

“Let it be over, she pleaded within herself. Let it never have happened—any of it. Let me be young again, and the story just starting.”

—Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless

“The ultimate fantasy: the recovery of an irrecoverable past. But if I could daydream about an invented happy future…”

—Susan Sontag, As Consciousness Is Harnessed to Flesh

“Tell me what’s the difference / between hope and waiting / because my heart doesn’t know / It constantly cuts itself on the glass of waiting / It constantly gets lost in the fog of hope”

—Anna Kamienska, Astonishments

—Denise Levertov, To Stay Alive

“I long to—ah, so much!! If that were possible I’d get back to my spirit.”

—Katherine Mansfield, Selected Letters

“I told my Soul to sing— / She said her Strings were snapt—”

—Emily Dickinson, Complete Poems; “The first Day’s Night had come,”

“Surely it is a privilege to approach the end / still believing in something.”

—Louise Glück, Averno; “October”

“There is a wild raging river flowing inside of me. I can’t dam it. I’m hurt so badly. Believe me—oh shit! Believe, believe—what’s there to believe anymore?”

— Henry Miller, A Literate Passion

“And life tasteless. And so eager, so eager that I should accomplish a miracle. People always expect miracles.”

—Anaïs Nin, A Literate Passion

“I want to be filled with longing again / till dark burn marks show on my skin. I want to be written again / in the Book of Life, to be written every single day / till the writing hand hurts.”

—Yehuda Amichai,“I Walked Past a House Where I Lived Once,”

“I want / my heart back / I want to feel everything again—”

—Louise Glück, Averno; “Blue Rotunda”

[boneandfur]

Rosemary Lane [1]

Summary: // Words: 3858 // Rating: Mature (eventual N*FW) // Notes: I couldn't wait any longer to post it... I just couldn't. This is a canon-divergence. I can't say more without spoiling it, but it takes place in 1822 and is also a slight crossover. It has two special MCs from a giveaway I did ages ago, @debramcg1106's Ava and @breaumonts ‘s Lisette are in here as well. // Thanks to @indiacater @lizeboredom and everyone else who has read snippets and listened to me talk about this fic for ages!

••

CHAPTER ONE

1822.

— "I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown,

And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!" —

"My dear — a raw country girl, such as you be,

Cannot quite expect that. You ain't Ruined," said she. ~ The Ruined Maid, Thomas Hardy.

"Welcome back to Edgewater, sir and madam. How was the journey from London?" As Arthur Woods takes Briar's fine, fur lined cloak, she gazes about the great hall in wonder. "It looks much changed above stairs, does it not?" he whispers in a tone so low she must strain to hear it. Briar shoots a glance at Marlcaster, but he gives no indication he has heard them.

It does look different above stairs, and Briar drinks her fill. Despite her position, this is one of the few great houses she has been allowed access to. Most ladies will not allow her past the gate. But, then, most ladies are not her former best friend, risen so high above everyone else now that it does not matter what people whisper about her, The Bastard Duchess, The Natural Daughter, Locusta...

From the high vaulted ceilings of the rotunda, to every candle in the chandelier that sways, laden with wax; everywhere Briar turns there is some new marvel to gape at. Outside the fine, thin glass of the windowpane, she can see the groom leading their carriage away, and the rolling lawns that stretch nearly all the way to the low hills. She traces a finger along the wallpaper, gold vine and green leaves, with iridescent parrots peeking through -- and if Briar closes her eyes, she can imagine herself a bird of paradise in some deep jungle, a proper Cyprian, and not just...

There is a whistle on the air, the snippet of a song, and she strains to hear the music of it. It reminds her of something, a ballad she heard sung, long ago --

(Now if it’s a boy, he’ll fight for the King/And if it’s a girl she’ll wear a gold ring/She’ll wear a gold ring and a dress all aflame/And remember my service in Rosemary Lane.)

-- but Woods closes the window with an abrupt step forward, cutting the song off mid-note.

"Miss Daly?" Mr Woods clears his throat, holding out an arm for her cloak, and Briar steps back, feeling wounded and not quite knowing why.

Meanwhile, the ermine tails drip snow steadily onto the floor, leaving a puddle that would have made the old Briar twitch. She looks down at her hands, soft now, no longer used to honest toil, and gives a start as she feels Marlcaster's fingertips rest for a moment on her lower back, anchoring her to the present.

"Very good, Woods, thank you." But his voice is far away, distracted. She wonders if he is thinking that all this might have been his, after all, it belonged once to his half-brother. But Edmund Marlcaster no longer shares bedroom confidences with Briar Daly, no, if he shares pillow talk with anyone it is certainly not she. He has not touched me since... But she pushes the thought away.

"Oh, Mr Woods, you do not have to bow and scrape to me!" Briar claps her hands together, startling Woods. A deep, rosy blush stains his fair cheek, and she wonders if he still thinks of the girl that kissed him in London, the girl who would have thrown over a noble lover for him if he had but said the word. If... She throws a saucy wink at Marlcaster, hand on one hip, his eyes everywhere but upon her. "What do you think, sir?"

Her former patron straightens his cravat. "Quite so." A ghost of a smile quirks the side of his mouth, but it passes, and Briar thinks, for a long, stricken moment, that perhaps she has imagined it. "Is the company in the library?" At Woods' sudden step forward, Marlcaster holds up a hand. "No, no, I shall show myself upstairs."

"Edmund--" Briar plucks at his sleeve as he turns to mount the stairs, and the look on his face makes her stomach swoop in a dreadful manner. "Mr Marlcaster." She drops her eyes. We must use second names when we are in polite company, Miss Daly, how often must I remind you... "I should like to rest before dinner, of course."

"That is probably for the best." He chucks her under the chin, as though there still remains some affection between them, but the fire that once burned so bright between them is like the ash from the May Day fires, already strewn across a fallow field. "After all, you cannot present yourself to the Duchess with the stink of travel still upon you." Marlcaster seems to have no such scruples. He smells of horseflesh and leather and sweat, and yet he bounds up the first few steps like a young buck, as if he had not complained for half the journey that his old injury was bothering him.

"Mr Marlcaster, sir." Briar digs her nails into her palms, swallowing hard, and he turns around only long enough for her to see the irritation on his face. She knows it is a kind gesture, bringing her to this house party after they are already quit of each other, and yet she cannot help but feel a pang of sadness. "Give the duchess my love."

"Well, you shall see her yourself at dinner, you can give it to her then." Marlcaster shrugs, and then continues up the steps.

Briar wants to run after him, but she holds herself very still, willing her face to remain calm. It would not to do show emotion like one of the lower orders, she must remain perfectly poised, and appear to be a lady.

"Miss Daly?" Mr Woods' gentle tone of concern nearly undoes her on the spot, and when Briar looks up at him, she is sure he can see the wetness on her cheeks. Yet he says nothing, discretely passing her a handkerchief and allowing her to compose herself before he speaks again. "If you wish to rest before dinner, Her Grace has put you in the red room, I believe."

The red room. This is a dig at her reputation, she is sure of it. The old Rosamund was never one for subterfuge -- But as soon as she found out she was the daughter of an Earl, everything began to change…

When she looks back at him, her dark eyes are sparkling, unnaturally bright. "I must ask for a girl to attend me and do my hair before dinner. I should not like to look countryfied in front of the esteemed company tonight."

"Esteemed?" A rosy blush tints his fair cheeks. It seems she is still able to make his voice falter, after all this time, but the knowledge brings her no joy. "Yes. Esteemed." A gentle smile touches his lips. "The duchess pays me to be discreet, as you know, Miss Daly. I'll say no more on the matter. Very well, I shall send a girl, inasmuch as it matters."

"Arthur, wait." At her use of his given name, Woods turns on his heel in enquiry. "Do not." Look at me as if, as if... She hates the plaintive tone that has entered her voice, like a child.

"Do not what?" he looks down at her fingers on his sleeve, as though he will shake her off. But he knows. He must.

"Look at me with such... Never mind." There it is again. That softening in his eyes. As though the past six years have been swept away, and they are standing beside the side of the road in Grovershire again, a boy and a girl, smiling at one another. Before she ever tasted his lips. Before Mr Marlcaster ever took her maidenhead. Before... "I shall go downstairs with you, and conduct the interview myself."

“No, Briar.” The firm refusal wounds her to the quick. “You are…” his mouth works, keeping the words unspoken. “A--”

Strumpet. Trollop. Whore.. Rosamund had screamed it when she found out about Briar and Edmund, and then she had wept inconsolably, as though she were the one whose heart was breaking, as if she had gone to the marriage bed pure as snow.

“I know what I am, Mr Woods,” Briar says, a little stiffly. “But that does not mean I still do not need help with my hair and -- my woman’s things, Mr Woods.”

Woods tugs on his collar. His color is up again, and she marvels that he can yet be a bachelor, that no girl has snapped him up. He is quite the catch for any serving maid. The thought makes her drop her eyes. But he is not for you, Briar Daly. “I know that I am Ruined…” Briar brushes past Woods, and his fingers trail along her arm, one catching just at the spray of lace at her wrist, as though he would stop her. “But you must know I would never corrupt the household.”

As she passes, she thinks she hears him whisper, “It is too late,” -- but perhaps that is only the sound of her heart, knocking against her ribs like a wild bird in a cage.

•••

Long ago, she thought this world a wondrous thing. It was a world within a world: upstairs, lived Rosamund with her long-lost father, grandmother and step-family, and below stairs... The smell of rosemary and roast quail hits her first, and she freezes upon the stair. And I suppose you'll be her lady’s maid, come up from Grovershire? The housekeeper had inspected Briar from head to toe with a sniff. If it were a test, Briar knew she had been found wanting. Yes, I'm Lady Rosamund’s best friend. Shocked, she took a step back as the woman rubbed the material of her sleeve between her fingers and gave a sniff. Uppity little thing, aren't you? Well, we'll have none of that here, Miss. if you think you're too good for the lot of us downstairs... You'd better come along, then. Look sharp. I'm Mrs Fox, she'd thrown over her shoulder. And you're of a size with the cook's helper, you can borrow one of her dresses until we can have one made for you. The kitchen smelled of rosemary and roast venison, and Briar's stomach had growled. There, at the long counter, a skinny black haired girl with a streak of flour on her cheek laughed at something a footman said, flicking flour at him as she rolled out the pastry dough. As Briar stepped through the doorway to the kitchen with Mrs Fox, the girl looked up, and a hush fell over the kitchen.

"Briar Daly?"

Ava goes rigid, staring at Briar from across the room. Her hands are braced on the board, frozen in the act of rolling out pastry dough. All talk in the kitchen ceases as the servants turn to stare at Briar, who is frozen to the spot, suddenly feeling out of place in her fashionable gown.

Ava blows a wisp of dark hair from her face, and hands the roller to the girl next to her, a skinny little pullet of a thing with pale curls like winter sunlight. An eerie hush has fallen over the company, and their faces, once dear and familiar, are passing strange with the weight of the years. Briar cannot move.

This is Briar. She's come from Grovershire with Lady Rosamund, to be her lady’s maid. She’ll borrow your dress and apron. Show her where she’ll sleep, and you may have the afternoon, if Cook doesn't need you.

I'll need her in an hour, Mrs Fox. The cook had shaken her head with a smile, passing Briar a bread heel with drippings. When you come back, you can tell us all about Lady Rosamund!

Yes, ma’m. Ava looked Briar up and down, head cocked to one side like a cat. Come on, then.

After a long moment, Ava dusts her floury hands on her apron and nods to the kitchen maid, and conversation starts up again, but hushed, as the servants try to catch every snippet of her words.

"You shouldn't be here, Briar -- Miss Daly." Ava crosses her arms. Though never a big woman, the skin and bones orphan from the poorhouse has grown into a woman with green, snapping eyes, dark hair framing her face from under a starched mobcap. "And it's Mrs Walker, now."

Briar swallows. She had feared disdain, but her former friend's pity is worse. "So you married him, then? Your blacksmith?"

Ava's expression softens. "Drake? Aye, and we've a snug cottage, and a wee bairn, haven't we now, Mr Woods?"

Briar has not seen Woods come up behind her, and she jumps a little in surprise.

"Aye, Cook, and a right little terror she is, too! Miss ’Melia is the spitting image of her mama," Arthur turns to Briar with a smile, "and never fails to get her way in the kitchens."

"Oh... You have a child, Ava -- Cook?" The words are like broken glass in her mouth, and Briar can feel her heart twist painfully over. If the baby had lived... If I, if he... But she cannot think of the dank shadows of Red Moon Lane without her guts in a tangle.

Ava and Woods share a look. "Briar, what are you doing down here?" Ava's tone says quite plainly what she thinks, and she pulls on Briar's arm, yanking her into the larder, hung with a brace of pheasants and a haunch of venison that gives off a wild, gamy smell. "What is this really about?"

As Briar looks at her former friend, she feels the gulf open and yawn between them, as though they are standing on either side of the fens, calling out to one another in the shifting mists. She does not belong here, that is plain. This is no longer my world. "I would like to hire one of the girls to be my maid for the next few days." Briar twists her plait in her hands. The truth is, she needs to look the part, if she wants to catch the eye.

A new patron.

The thought makes it hard to breathe for a moment, and she wonders what happened to that bold, saucy girl, back in Grovershire, all those years ago.

She grew up.

•••

"Lady Rosamund." Edmund Marlcaster sweeps a bow before her, and the lady sets down her book. She is all rose and gold and lace, the very picture of an English lady (though no well bred English miss ever had such bold eyes, or such an impudent manner). Marlcaster cannot hide the smile that breaks out upon his face when he sees the gold leaf title on the little red spine. Moll Flanders. "By God, I hope you never change."

Rosamund sticks out her tongue, laying a ribbon between the pages and setting her tiny feet on the floor with a great yawn. "Hello to you too, Ned. How was the road?" Rosamund stands to press her lips against his cheek, she smells of violet water and snow, and he wonders, if he tasted her, if she would melt into him like a snowflake, leaving the pattern of her heart stamped upon his, where no one else can see.

"Rosamund." Marlcaster picks up her hand, his lips ghosting across her inner wrist, his eyes never leaving hers. "You have never looked so fine."

"Flatterer." Rosamund taps him on the chest with her fan. "But I agree, to speak of the weather is so dratted dull. I do hope all of the guests make it." She takes a step back, turning her face to the window as she stares out at the swirling flakes.

I do not. The thought gives him pause. "I saw the Prince in Town, he was looking quite well."

Rosamund smirks. "Oh? I suppose he may very well be. I had a letter from him just last week, delivered by Mr Konevi. He speaks of nothing but the pretty little birds he has seen on his travels, and the way the light looks in the high mountains, beyond the citadel." She sighs, resting her chin for a moment on her fist, and then turns back to him, an impish smile playing on her full lips. "Come and warm your feet by the fire, then, and tell me the news of Town."

Rosamund lays a hand on his arm, and he can feel her touch burning him as though they are flesh to flesh, through all the layers of cotton and twill. She gives him a little tug and he feels his boots moving as he trails after her, his body going where she wants it to go, just as his body did her bidding all those years ago, before she ever wed the Duke, before he ever knew she could undo him with just one look, the embers smoldering in those dark, fine eyes.

"I hope you did not start the party without me." Hamid sweeps into the room without so much as a by-your-leave, and Marlcaster feels a spurt of irrational anger, Rosamund's attention already diverted from him.

"Your Highness!" With a cry of delight, Rosamund allows herself to be pulled into the prince's embrace, and the two make air kisses at one another's cheeks, causing a burning chain to wrap around Marlcaster's innards. "Well met!"

"How was the journey? Did you see any more beautiful birds on your travels?" Rosamund gasps in delight as the prince pulls two shimmering feathers from his cloak, and drops to one knee, presenting them with a theatrical flourish. "My word! Oh, Ned, have you ever seen aught so lovely?"

Marlcaster is prevented from answering by the Prince's deep rumble of amusement, and the rope tightens around his neck, threatening to choke him. He can feel heat racing through his veins, and he busies himself with pouring the wine for the assembled company, Mr Woods appearing with a tray and a look of sympathy.

"None so lovely as you, your grace. Is she not the loveliest songbird you have ever seen, Mr Marlcaster?"

Hamid's booming laugh causes Marlcaster's hand to tighten on the wine glass stem for a moment, and he breathes deeply through his nose, sweet woodruff and wild strawberries. The scent of summer. Unbidden, an image springs to his mind, of chasing a forest lass through a dappled greenwood (far before she was ever called Lady), flowers in her hair, drunk on honey mead and moonlight.

"The loveliest," Edmund manages, turning with a careful smile, trying hard not to focus on the rise of her breasts or the gold flecks in her eyes; especially not when she brushes against him, golden hair falling in her face as she holds the feathers up to the pale light, turning them this way and that.

"I shall wear them tonight, at dinner." Rosamund is still absorbed in the iridescent play of colors, and completely misses the look the men share over her head. "Mrs Sinclaire will be beside herself over these. What bird did you say they came from?"

Hamid steps in smoothly, his hand touching Rosamund's shoulder, lingering as he bends his head to hers. "The ibis, Lady Rosamund. It is a sacred bird. The Ancient Egyptians believed that the ibis represented the god of wisdom, Djehuty, who composed every branch of... knowledge." Hamid's hand moves down, to rest just at the curve of her waist.

Rosamund lets out a little breath, eyes widening as she stares up at Hamid. "Oh!" Her cheeks go quite pink, and Marlcaster's composure slips. The glass breaks in his hand, spilling wine all over his riding jacket. "Ned! Oh dear!" A beat, and then Rosamund is at his side. "I shall ring for a servant, wait --"

"No, I am quite all right." Despite himself, Marlcaster feels a rich sense of satisfaction as all her attention is on him, blotting ineffectually at the wine stain spreading over his shirt. "Lady Rosamund, it is nothing to concern yourself with." He lays a finger under her chin, raising it up, and the flash in her dark eyes makes his head swim. "I will bear it until the time comes to dress for dinner."

"Oh, but your poor hand!" She wraps the handkerchief around his hand, pressing her lips together disapprovingly, and knots it. "There. It will suffice, you damnably stubborn man."

Not without a kiss. But he does not say it. After all, they are not alone, and he would not go so far without a sign from her. Yet, she is still staring up at him, waiting for something.

Hamid claps a hand on his shoulder. "Just a scratch, eh, Marlcaster? We men are hardier creatures than fragile womenfolk, Lady Rosamund. But if you feel faint, Mr Marlcaster, perhaps you should have a lie down, and no one here would fault you."

Marlcaster presses his lips together. "It is nothing." Yet it stings, the same way his heart stung that morning in the church, when she wed the Duke and he watched his mother lead her to the bridal chamber, a veil covering her face, pale and resolute as Death.

"...In fact," Hamid continues, a smile on his face that does not quite reach his eyes, "I shall be having a lie-down before dinner as well. Lady Rosamund?"

The lady in question bites her bottom lip, worrying it between her teeth. "Yes, full dinner dress tonight, at nine on the gong."

"I shall await your pleasure, your grace." Hamid bends over her hand, turning it over and pressing a kiss upon her palm, and she looks at Marlcaster from under her lashes, as though in challenge.

When Hamid has gone, Marlcaster nods, turning to leave. "Your grace."

"What, no courtly gesture?" she teases him gently. Her tongue darts out, wetting her lower lip, and he lifts her hand to his mouth, brushing his lips over her knuckles. Her eyes go wide, pupils expanding, and she steps forward. He leans in, lips a mere hairsbreadth away from hers. "Ned." Rosamund fists her hands in his shirt, closing the distance between their bodies. "I have missed you." She looks up at him from under her lashes, and he knows in an instant that he is going to take her on the floor, right here, right now.

He brushes his thumb over her bottom lip, leaning down. "My Rose-of-the-World." Their lips are nearly touching, and when he breathes in her breath, it makes him feel drunk with desire for the woman in front of him, who he once tumbled in the greenwood, before either of them ever knew the price they would pay for youth's passion.

"Marlcaster! A word?" Hamid pokes his head back through the door, and Marlcaster sees Briar standing there beside the prince, and feels the temperature in the room drop by at least twenty degrees, his ardor cooling.

What else can he do, but make a leg? "Adieu, Rosamund."

Rosamund lifts his hand, and presses a kiss upon the bandage, the white cotton dark with his blood, as though it is the damned spot that will never come out. "Until tonight, Ned."

Somehow, from Rosamund's lips, it sounds like a vow.

••• 

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[kuriquinn]

An Inch of Gold [Interlude IV]

Author’s Note: Yeah. I did that. Another update within little over a week. I was just so excited about getting my patreon up and running that I suddenly got inspired! As usual, pretty unedited. This is for everyone who wanted a bit of Adult!Sakura awesomeness. With some Adult!Hinata awesomeness too, because I love the supermoms! Also, um, little bit of graphic violence here.

I still haven’t updated the links on here for IOG, so if you intend to read the story from the beginning WHICH I HIGHLY RECOMMEND YOU DO IF YOU HAVEN’T READ THIS STORY SINCE IT WAS UPDATED IN 2017, the story is located in full on FF.net / Ao3 and wattpad.

Blackened bodies line the floor of the stone-enclosed rotunda, gaping holes where their hearts should be, and shrivelled remains of those organs crushed nearby.

Konohamaru flips the last of his opponents over his shoulder, directly in the path of Hinata, who shoves two fingers forward and detonates the chakra surrounding its heart. The bat-like creature screams, wings shaking, and then drops to the floor.

“Think that’s all of them?” he asks, glancing at the two women.

The ground shakes again, forcing them to center their chakra against the floor to keep upright. There is a movement across from them, and then it seems as if the entire rocky wall in front of them, from ground to ceiling, suddenly breaks off.

Hateful yellow eyes glare down on them from on high, and a giant foot steps down, landing several metres away from them.

Konohamaru groans. “I had to ask, didn’t I?”

Sakura sighs. “There’s always a big one, isn’t there?”

The veins in Hinata’s eyes pulse, and her pupils flick back and forth quickly.

“There’s more than one seal on this one!”

Which makes sense, considering its size.

“How many?” Konohamaru asks through gritted teeth as another foot stomps down, forcing giant craters into the floor beneath its clawed toes. Drools drips from the creatures maw, splashing over them.

“Eight!”

“Eight—like the Eight Gates?” Sakura cries, thinking fast. Everyone knows the location of those, if only from study.

“Exactly!”

The giant, shambling creature reaches down, trying to grasp hold of them in its mottled blood red hand. The shinobi scatter in different directions, but it almost grabs hold of Hinata. The curse-seal seems to make it faster than something of its size should be.

It swings for Sakura next, and she meets the blow with a snarl, punching its grasping hand away. It does not seem bothered by the blow, and once again goes for Hinata.

It specifically seems to be targeting the women, perhaps knowing that they are the key to its destruction. The constant flailing makes the ground shake and granite fall from above them, and in the distance, Konohamaru can hear something collapse together.

It might be durable, but it’s hindered by this place. If it keeps moving around like this, it will bring the place down!

Which might not hurt it, but it could cause cave-ins elsewhere, and hurt his students and their parents. If only there was—

An idea occurs to him.

“Mrs Boss! Did Boruto ever tell you how his class passed their Academy final?”

Hinata and Sakura’s eyes flick toward each other in a look of dawning comprehension.

“We need to confuse it first, so it doesn’t know who to get to,” Hinata says.

Sakura nods. “Alright, Konohamaru—we’ll follow your lead on this one!”

“Right! Kage Bunshin!”

Four clones of him appear—the maximum he can sustain while also having them use any long-term A-rank techniques—and at the same the two women form hand signs for Henge.

Seven Konohamarus scatter as the curse-seal creature brings down its hand, raking across the stone ground. They spread out in a circle around the beast, and it tosses its head in frustration trying to decide who to go after first.

Using its momentary pause, the seven figures form their next bevvy of hand signs, and call out, “Isshi Tojin!”

A swirling seal formula radiates from all seven points, reaching to the edges of the circular room. Within the string light formation, the creature freezes, unable to move beyond it.

“Hinata!” the Konohamaru copy across the room suddenly says. “I have an idea, if you’re game! But it could get messy!”

“Everything is already messy,” the Konohamaru-copy to its right says.

“Konohamaru! Can you keep the circle together on your own for a few seconds?”

“As long as it’s only a few seconds,” Konohamaru and his clones chorus.

“Alright then!” the clone that is Sakura says. “And…now!”

The copy beside her breaks in to a run, the sealing circle around it vanishing as it darts forward. Konohamaru grunts, feeling as if a heavy weight has been added to an already difficult burden, but holds tight.

Sakura maintains her own part of the seal until the last possible second, before letting go—Konohamaru snarls in effort as the weight doubles—and grabbing hold of the clone. At her touch, the transformation is undone the women revert to their normal forms. Sakura crouches, grabbing Hinata’s around the left bicep and right thigh, and then propels her toward the giant.

In midair, twin lions flare to life as Hinata barrels to the creatures middle. As Hinata pierces through its abdomen, Sakura takes her position once more in the sealing circle.

Konohamaru shudders, still struggling under the weight of the jutsu, but then Sakura is focussing her chakra, taking much of the burden off of him.

The beast’s back arches, and they can see frenzied, jagged movements beneath its leather skin—Hinata using her Jūho Sōshiken from inside. Within seconds, blue flames burst from its abdomen and Hinata lands on the ground in a rain of black blood and viscera.

“I got three,” she says grimly, spitting out blood.

Konohamaru and Sakura allow the Isshi Tojin to break, and Sakura darts forward as the beast falls, knees folding beneath it and screaming in agony. Leaping through the air, she yells—“SHANNARO!”—and slams two fists directly into its head, sending shards of bone into its eyes and brain.

That’s two more, Konohamaru counts, leaping up onto the creature’s chest and snarling, “Doton: Doryuso!”

Giant spikes of earth punch through the earth beneath them, puncturing it just above the abdomen and through the ribs.  

“Did I get them all?” he demands, even as the creature continues to stir beneath them.

“No, there’s one left!” Hinata calls from the ground. “You just missed the heart by inches!”

But Sakura is already charging forward, sliding into a crouch and kicking outward with her right leg. One of the spikes is shattered all the way through and begins to topple. She has it in her hands then, balancing the enormous slab of condensed mud, and brings it down hard on the left side of the giant’s chest.

The beast gives one last screech and twitch, and then goes still.

The three of them wait, panting, for yet another wave of enemies to come at them, but it is utterly silent in the echoing chamber now.

Konohamaru lets out a breath and leans on his knees. “Oh, man, what a relief…I don’t think I could do anymore!”

Hinata and Sakura glance at each other, and smile.

“I must look a real mess,” Hinata says, anxiously pushing a blood-slicked lock of hair behind her ear. “I hope I don’t make Boruto and Naruto worry, thinking I’m hurt.”

“You look fine,” Sakura grins. “I’ve seen much worse. And they know you better than to think that could hurt you.”

“Hm.” Hinata nods. “Alright, let’s go.”

They start toward the rickety staircase, and something occurs to Konohamaru.

“Hey—hey, wait! I have a name for that combo you guys used: The Boss Lady Stream!”

“Not now, Konohamaru…”

つづく

Hope you enjoyed it! Also, this is the last Interlude before the end of the story. Gasp! I know! Who knew this story was ever going to end?! But as of right now, I’ve got five chapters and an epilogue outlined. Of course, when I predict how many chapter I always tend to be a little off, and I really like the idea of having the fic be 40 chapters in total (including prologue, interludes and epilogues), but we’ll see…

If you enjoy my writing, I encourage you to check out my patreon, where I am publishing my original fiction! Every little bit helps!

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