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whoreviewswho · 8 months ago

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You're Serious? - The Time Warrior, 1973

A fact that is becoming somewhat lost to time is that Jon Pertwee's time on Doctor Who was very popular. This is not to say that the Pertwee era is largely disregarded in 2024 but it does seem readily apparent, as time marches on, that the prevalence of Pertwee as a definitive, monolithic icon for the general public has naturally dwindled. Or, perhaps, dwindled is the wrong word – Pertwee's Doctor has truly been eclipsed by even mightier, entirely totemic icons that came in his wake. David Tennant is THE Doctor and the only other challenger remains the indomitable Tom Baker.

But back when I was a kid, circa 2004/2005, Jon Pertwee's era was definitive. My mum, who grew up in regional Australia, recalled fond memories of watching Pertwee and Katy Manning pal around with the Brigadier. A formative step in my journey as a fan was a visit to Hobbyco in Sydney and begging my mum for the Corgi Doctor Who 40th Anniversary Gift Set of die cast models. Like any number of similar curios that shape fan memories, this particular set cemented what were, to my mind, the most iconic building blocks of the series – the Doctor (a S18 Tom Baker, presumably for painting reasons), the TARDIS (not to scale with the rest of the models), K-9 (with lettering in both sides), the Daleks (a Chase model), Davros (no notes), the Cybermen (Earthshock model that I apparently either never got or immediately lost since I have not memories of owning one) and Bessie (also not to scale), driven by Tom Baker. I vividly recall purchasing the set and the guy at the counter being excited to strike up a conversation. He was obviously a fan and talked fondly about the highlights of the series. What I realised in the years that have flowed on since is that, despite speaking highly of the Fourth Doctor and Sarah Jane, the most vivid of those rosy fan memories, the ones he and many other adults always relayed to me pre-revival, were of UNIT and the Master and the Sea Devils and Bessie* and the Axons and the Sontarans.

Put into perspective, this makes a great deal of sense. Leaving aside my home country's personal context (mid-'70s DW was infamously repeated on the ABC, a fact that was immortalised in DWM #104 when Tasmanian Jamie Hillard complained of the tedium of seasons eleven to fourteen being repeated twice a year, every year for the past five years. He was suitably rinsed by the UK fandom), Jon Pertwee's era was the most popular Doctor Who had ever been. While the show chugged along just fine during Troughton's tenure, it was in dire straits when producer Barry Letts inherited it partway through production of season seven, Pertwee's first, in 1970. It was only off the strength of what made it to screen that the programme was renewed at all. Throughout the four years that followed, Letts and script-editor Terrance Dicks retooled Doctor Who from Derrick Sherwin's vision of a hard-edged, political sci-fi thriller into the more accessible glam-infused comic-book show that raked in as many as ten million viewers a week for the first time since 1965.

But a good thing only lasts so long and, by the time of late 1973, just as Doctor Who was kicking off its eleventh season, it felt like a natural end was coming to what had been an incredibly successful five years. Pertwee’s Doctor Who had became an institution in its own right. Not to get too ahead of myself but there is a strong case to be made that Tom Baker and the Philip Hinchcliffe's era ascent to being the most popular the show ever was in its original run owes as much, if not more, of its success to the goodwill and steadily rising audience of the Pertwee years than it does to its actual quality (and it is of a very high quality). This is entirely hyperbolic but I strongly believe that had anybody else been cast as Pertwee's successor, anything less than the perfect storm we got, the Letts/Dicks/Pertwee run of the show would send out as the cultural peak even today. Bessie and the Brig would be wheeled out by the norms instead of the long scarf and K-9, that you can believe,

As everybody reading this article would know, the earthbound stories of Pertwee's time were notable for a distinct 'family feel', so to speak. Unlike previous eras, and any until 2005, the Third Doctor had an ongoing, regular supporting cast of UNIT personnel and assistants as well as the recurring threat of Roger Delgado's Master. There is a familiarity and comfort to the Third Doctor's run. Over the course of the previous year’s season ten, however, Letts and Dicks decided that the format had well and truly run its course and the Doctor was propelled into space and time full-time once again, leaving behind the UNIT regulars as merely recurring characters. It was during this production cycle that Katy Manning had decided that it was time for her to move on from the show, departing at the end of The Green Death, the last story broadcast that season. The final serial of season ten's production block, however, was actually the first story of season eleven – The Time Warrior.

Throughout the 1973-74 season, a slow (and conscious) dismantling of the Pertwee era begun taking place as well as a distinct sense of a lap of honour for the previous four seasons. In real life, this begins with Manning's departure in 1973 which, while her own instigated decision, was encouraged by Letts for fear his two stars would jump ship at the same time. Letts and Dicks had themselves decided to move on by the time season eleven proper began production which ultimately left Pertwee, self-conscious of his self-proclaimed team breaking up, finally deciding to give up the reigns after the tragic death of Roger Delgado. Onscreen, of course, this plays out somewhat quietly masterful. Malcolm Hulke's Invasion of the Dinosaurs is a conspiracy laden, political thriller such as those of season seven (detractors would call it parody) and saw the departure of now disgraced UNIT captain Mike Yates. Death to the Daleks (the hardest to square this circle, tbf)called back to the season ten’s epic return of the ‘60s Dalek adventure and offered the last gasp of the traditional, Hartnell style adventure serial that still permeated across Pertwee's time. The Monster of Peladon offered a direct sequel to the fan-favourite from season nine with some nice, deliberate telegraphing of the Doctor's oncoming death. And then there's the grand finale, Planet of the Spiders, where the Third Doctor departs the show with his remaining UNIT family under a series of self-referential and, frankly, indulgent circumstances set off by his own cavalier behaviour. Season eleven is a twenty-six episode finale for the Pertwee era that retreads all of the highs and exposes its limitations quite deliberately. With all of this in mind, The Time Warrior, the series opener, is entirely lacking in this sort of farewell mentality stands out as something of a different beast for the year.

For each of their seasons on the job, Letts and Dicks made a conscious effort to open each year with a big event and season eleven was no exception. After an absence of eight years (no, The Time Monster doesn't count), the duo thought that it was time for the return of the historical story. Somebody who disagreed, however, was Robert Holmes. Holmes had been a frequent contributor over Dicks' tenure as script-editor and was less than enthused that his proposal, The Automata, was rejected for him to be reassigned an historical. Dicks suggested an adventure be set in and around a medieval castle (it was filmed between Peckforton Castle and Wessex Castle to stunning results) and Holmes agreed only on the proviso that no famous historical figures were to be featured and that strong science-fiction elements were to still be included. The story that made it to screen has become one of the most renowned and celebrated in the history of the show. Frequently, I see it touted up alongside the all-time greats in the franchise as one of the very best and a real highlight of Jon Pertwee’s time in the show. While I think that The Time Warrior is very good, and there is a lot that I really like about it, this level of high praise has never sat entirely well with me. I don't even really have a lot to say on it. I like it a lot, it is the highlight of season eleven and one of many high points of Pertwee's run, but I have never found it to be an unshakable classic.

Let's not get too in the weeds too soon, though because Robert Holmes was a magnificent writer. Despite his personal disinterest, the man took his brief seriously clearly put in a lot of thought into getting the most out of this particular assignment. There is almost an overabundance of wit and charm and character to The Time Warrior's ensemble. As with most sharply intelligent people, Holmes was also obviously quite cynical and Instead of leaning into something fantastically Arthurian or romantically noble, he opted for a medieval world of pure grime and nastiness. This could be taken as Holmes leaning fully into the historical story's roots as an educational programme, insisting upon the most realistic depiction of the middle ages he could on a BBC budget for a family audience. I find this hard to believe. No, what Holmes was far more likely to do, and did, was recognise that this approach would have worked perfectly well and then take the next step which is basically to take the piss out of it. The Time Warrior is not just a witty script, it is hilariously absurd and over-the-top in every aspect of its conception. Irongron and Bloodaxe are laughably incompetent and self-absorbed but the pair it is in how gleefully squalid and brutal they are that Holmes relishes in. Yes, there is a realism to The Time Warrior in that it is not the Shakespearean or mythic depiction one might have expected from the Hartnell days how but the over-exaggeration of the repulsiveness and savagery of medieval life is what I truly adore. Mind you, this is largely just what's on the surface. Holmes is obviously doing here is writing an exaggerated depiction of middle-aged England that is functionally indistinguishable from England as it was in 1973. Holmes basically invented Blackadder. As great as this is, though, it doesn't always work in its favour. We'll get to Sarah Jane shortly.

A different aspect of this serial that has made it so iconic is its main villain. Determining that a small-scale threat would be easier both for him and for the production team, Holmes’ plot revolves around a single alien menace attempting to find his way home. Allegedly inspired by his recent reading of the On War treatise, Holmes was compelled to create an entirely militaristic villain and what he created was the character of Commander Linx, as performed by Kevin Lindsay. However well Linx is realised in the story, as much praise as anyone needs to be directed to make-up designer Sandra Exelby and costume designer James Acheson for their realisation of him. Linx, and by extension the Sontarans themselves, is a grotesque creature with a troll-like quality. It has not escaped notice for many that the species design is built around an extended gag – that part one cliffhanger. Still, fans continuously fail to appreciate just how goddamn funny Linx is. The characterisation is brilliant and nobody behind the scenes, until Steven Moffat, seems to realise that this is why he works.

Holmes, in no genuinely dramatic way, utilises Linx as a threat. What he is instead, besides a visual joke, is a scathing satire of militaristic ideals. That avenue also lends itself perfectly to the exaggerated depiction of the middle-ages. In his first scene, Linx emerges before the primitive natives, in strange armour with advanced weaponry, and claims that this new land now belongs to the Sontaran Empire as he plants a flag and assumes dominance over the people. It doesn't require much analysis to decipher what's happening here. Throughout the story, Linx, whose lines almost entirely consist of spouting rhetoric, offers to make weapons for the humans he's met, all the while condescending them and caring little for their lives and livelihoods. It's a simple but fantastically clever move; Holmes has taken the opportunity to depict the English, typically at one of their most mythic and noble periods, as a cowardly and cruel race to be easily oppressed and mocked.

The Time Warrior also sees the debut of another mainstay in Doctor Who lore in Sarah Jane Smith. Created by Barry Letts in direct contrast to her predecessor, Sarah Jane was pitched to directly address accusations of sexism that the series had garnered by being an obviously capable, career-driven, feisty and adventure-seeking investigative journalist. Incredibly, the role was cast before Elisabeth Sladen had even auditioned and, if to weren't for an uproar made by Pertwee due to his not being consulted, the part would have gone to April Walker show was paid out of the part when Letts cast Sladen (after he'd arranged for her to meet Pertwee, of course). For perhaps the wrong reasons, Pertwee was entirely correct though. From her first appearance, it is impossible not to be enamoured by Elisabeth Sladen. She just has a natural charm in this role and a captivating quality that makes her so very easy to watch.

As introduced in The Time Warrior, Sladen is certainly strong. She is well-defined, well-performed and plays a major role in the events of the plot. She is also at the core of the serial's biggest stumbling block which can come down to Holmes' poorly pitched snark. It is certainly one of Holmes’ regular tricks to lean heavily into sardony and lampshading things that, he at least considers to be, regressive and absurd ways of thinking. Sometimes this can really serve the story the is telling and the characterisation, it does so elsewhere in this one. Here, however, I think he misses the mark drastically and it comes off very poorly. In making the world of The Time Warrior such an exaggerated and vitriolic comment on contemporary Britain, Sarah has little place to assume control in the narrative and is rather brutally victimised by it.

Sure, Sarah Jane is firmly established as a feminist icon and it is a fine idea to drop her into the wretched sexism and reality of how horrible women were treated in the Middle Ages but emphasis is all wrong and it comes off so mean-spirited to me. In a similar vein, so much of the Doctor’s dialogue is designed to tease her about her strong values. The effect of all of this is likely intended to be endearing, and it is certainly to be funny but it comes off so smug and unnecessary. Sarah's beliefs, and the entire concept of feminism by extension, are singled-out as a futile gesture. Women are put down, they have also been put down and they always will be. This is perfectly in line with Holmes' approach to storytelling and his flavour of social commentary. It is also does not work at all.

Even though the Doctor frequently becomes Holmes' mouthpiece, I must stress that Jon Pertwee is not the problem at all. At this point in his run, the actor is so comfortable and confident in his performance that it would be impossible for him to disappear in it. To be honest, this is really the last time he properly turns up during his run since the season eleven filming Despite his oddly sexist jabs, the Third Doctor is wonderfully charismatic and relaxed in this story. There is a lovely development of his character from the rather pig-headed, irrational and moody character from season seven to the more mischievous tutor role he starts to settle into here. It is a similar progression to the First and Twelfth Doctors though rarely garners the same recognition.

The Time Warrior also has a few structural problems in my opinion, especially in episode three. The penultimate quarter of a Doctor Who serial always seems to be the hardest to write without playing for time, the three act structure is so familiar for a reason, and this one is no exception feeling like it does waste quite a lot of time with the Doctor arsing. Getting out of the castle and going back in and all for no really good reason other than to stretch out the runtime. Obviously, all of the antics are fun. This is a good production and Alan Bromley's only true directorial credit but it still has a bit of a sag, in my opinion. Is The Time Warrior a bad story? Far from it. Nothing as fun and as well made as this could possibly be considered wholly bad in my books. It is flawed, certainly but there is so much here to love. In a season of greatest hits, The Time Warrior stands out like a toad-faced git, chuckling with glee at how clever it is.

Later in the year, and despite the reservations of the BBC Head of serials, Holmes would be offered the position of script-editor for season twelve. He took the offer up and, in hindsight, it makes The Time Warrior somewhat of an intriguing curio. On the one hand, this is the last product of the creative fury that was season ten. On the other, it is a tantalising glimpse into what lies ahead around the corner. The Hinchcliffe era doesn't obviously have much in common with The Time Warrior, it is a lot funnier than a lot of those stories would be, but there is a more subtle stylistic shift to be seen here. This is not a comic-book adventure serial. The action is not explosive and the dialogue is not pulpy and punchy in the same way. The Time Warrior is more literary. Not inherently a better or even more intelligent choice but the distinction is palpable. Underneath the sheen of a gritty historical is a silly story about squalid and mean characters whose lives are miserable and ambitions are low. Even with the Doctor, still under UNIT's employ, there is a clear sense of his ready to move on from this status quo. The wheels of the next era are slowly in motion. Even the title sequence has changed, slowly morphing into its next identity but it's not quite there yet. Instead of looking back on the era that is closing up, The Time Warrior sets its sights firmly on the future.

It's not even close to the best Pertwee story though.

*He did, however, question why the Bessie model featured a S18 Tom in the driver's seat saying that it was "mostly Pertwee" who drove the car. Throughout my childhood, I found it easy to reconcile this though thanks to Tom's appearance in the The Five Doctors photoshoot. It's obvious, really.

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randomrainman · 7 months ago

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why jiu-jitsu will never be mainstream

I will preface this by saying that I absolutely love jiu-jitsu. Aside from debilitating and potentially permanent injuries from zigging instead of zagging, a perpetually bruised ego, and constant gasps for life from training partners using you as a sentient, pyjama-clad Bosu ball, it can be a beneficial fixture in one's life: it can allow for a (relatively) healthy form of stress relief, foster a cult environment in which people can learn from each other, and pressure-test difficult scenarios to achieve optimal results. Jiu-jitsu will also let you know, often in the most miserable ways possible, just how much you don't know.

In a sense, it is its very own Petri dish, complete with its own set of infections.

My Beginnings

The last-known picture of myself (with my 1SG) while I was still in the Army. Notice how perfectly our uniforms blend with the grass.

My jiu-jitsu journey could be classified as an accident, much like me. After I returned from Iraq in 2009, I was scheduled to attend Level 1 of the Modern Army Combatives Program, or MACP. Mandated by Army for NCO development, the week-long course purports to familiarise participants with the bare essentials of hand-to-hand combat, to include strikes and grappling. Though I had a few conflicts in earlier times in my life, I could hardly consider myself a "fighter", and, despite having an above-average PT score, my thorough unfamiliarity with combat techniques sapped my energy like a hungry mosquito in the middle of a blistering Philippine summer.

During live training on one of the final days of the course, I was partnered with someone who was much smaller than my 225-pound self; he could not have been much heavier than 170. This shouldn't be so bad, I thought nervously. What's the worst that could happen? The timer rang.

From the go, I deferred to the tried-and-true, time-tested, culture-spanning methodology utilised by many an untrained individual: the classic hnnngh. I huffed, heaved, and hnnnghed around this dude's short legs for 30 desperate seconds trying to get past them, and just as soon as I thought I was getting somewhere, the last thing I saw was a crotch fly toward my face.

My left arm and my head were suddenly incapacitated and trapped in a vise made entirely of human limbs. I saw every constellation in the known universe in those three long seconds, and it was then that I pulled out my trusty ace in the hole, a technique I had learned earlier to escape any position, no matter how dangerous -- furious and repeated taps. I stared at him with incredulity as he released me from the impending throes of unconsciousness. "What in the hell was that?" I asked laboriously, still struggling to regain my faculties. "A triangle," he responded. "I do jiu-jitsu." Neat.

A few months before my ETS in 2010, a friend and fellow Soldier I originally met in Korea, Larry, told me about a Brazilian jiu-jitsu gym near our home base of Fort Hood (now Fort Cavazos), and proposed that we both go. Why not, I thought, reflecting on my dismal MACP experience. I clearly have a lot to learn.

So I made my choice.

Myself (as a purple belt) and some new friends I had the privilege of training while in Afghanistan.

American Fight Company. Hardcore, I thought. But makes sense. A large, hand-painted mural of Royce Gracie's logo loomed over the gym's white mats, which teemed with students in equally white robes conducting warm-ups. I would apparently require one of those silly garments to train; to that end, I purchased my first "gi", as I learned they were called, and an accompanying crispy white belt. Ripping the plastic packaging open, I examined my new training apparel: the pants' stitching appeared to be quite tough, especially in the crotch area, and the collar on the jacket was extremely thick, especially when compared to my ACUs, which were made of one-ply toilet paper. Flowery embroidery enveloped the upper left of the gi top, whose black threads elegantly trailed down to a bold monochromatic patch on the lower lapel. "BREAKPOINT", it read. Gnarly.

Jarrod, a rugged Texan and veteran with a grizzled, grey-speckled beard, demonstrated a technique on a student. The tattered brown sash which encircled his waist danced through the air like ribbons in the wind as he floated from position to position, methodically settling into an armlock submission at the sequence's conclusion. Now it was our turns to try, and it went about as well as expected for me: I flopped all over my training partner, a much more experienced white belt, with all the grace and finesse of a disoriented three-legged deer, narrowly avoiding clobbering him in the dome with errant knees or heels as I practiced getting to the submission.

Then we had to go live.

To say that I learnt valuable lessons that day was an understatement: while I proved tough and indubitably capable of sustaining a lot of pain, it also made clear that I knew absolutely nothing about grappling, even if I was already pretty sure of that fact before. The trifecta of sheer top pressure, staving off innumerable submission attempts, and overall physical exertion filled my muscles with lactic acid and caused my lungs to burn with the intensity of a thousand thermonuclear explosions.

Despite my exhaustion and ineptitude, I was lauded for my perseverance, and that alone was enough to keep me returning to American Fight Company for more knowledge (and, of course, punishment). I received my first stripe on my white belt from Jarrod before accepting a contract in Korea, where I continued on the pathway of martial arts development in the realms of muaythai, jiu-jitsu, and eventually, mixed martial arts. Jarrod earned his black belt shortly after I departed.

Before my fight in Korea, during which I expertly tore nearly every ligament in my left knee (photographer unknown).

As of this post, I am a three-stripe brown belt, and by all measurable metrics, the world's most awful: I have two herniated cervical discs, including one fusion; my knees are shredded beef, and, in addition to being deconditioned, I experience a myriad of inexplicable, and often sharp, pains throughout my body. Nevertheless, my time around jiu-jitsu, both as a participant and a photographer, has afforded me the opportunity to make a variety of observations and criticisms about my beloved sport, which brings me to my point:

Jiu-jitsu will never be a mainstream spectator sport.

I can hear it already. "Hold your horses, buddy! It's more popular than ever!" Well, actually, you would be 100% correct. It is more popular and practiced than it ever was at any point in history, if only due to the fact that, as a standalone martial art, it is only a century old. An ever-growing list of celebrities, including Meta founder Mark Zuckerberg and actors Tom Hardy and Mario Lopez, have embraced the grappling art and have even competed in it.

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If your martial art can make it into a popular show that is definitely not about your martial art, then something is working, even if no one has a clue what's happening. And yes, even if you're black, I will not call you "master".

The appeal to training it is in its relative ease of access: there is no real bar for entry for anyone regardless of sex, age, or previous martial arts experience, and it is possible for a practitioner to train indefinitely and (mostly) without injury so long as you are doing so safely and intelligently (which I did not, hence my injuries). While competition is encouraged as a test of skill and willpower, it is not a requirement, and a practitioner can advance up the ranks if deemed appropriate by a "professor", as we call sometimes call black belt instructors in BJJ. That said, there is an obvious distinction between popularity as an activity and ubiquity and appeal as a spectator sport, hence this article.

Jiu-jitsu is cursed. No, as far as I know, there aren't any warlocks hidden deep in the forest conjuring hexes specifically to sabotage the community, but it suffers from the same inherently self-limiting handicap as its ancient, much more established, and slightly more naked and action-packed grappling counterpart, wrestling. For all the cartwheels, blast doubles, and the plethora of exciting techniques at a grappler's disposal, its appeal to an audience pales in comparison to striking arts, whose concussive forces produce emphatic impacts and easily discernible and *ahem* striking results. When a precisely placed punch slips through an opponent's guard and leaves them splayed lifelessly on the canvas, relieved of consciousness, there is very little doubt as to what happened and how: somebody just got knocked the fuck out.

The aftermath of Muhammad Ali vs. Sonny Liston II, as captured by Neil Leifer, a sport photojournalist, in 1965. It is likely the most famous shot in all of sporting.

Rulesets such as those of the Abu Dhabi Combat Club (ADCC) and UFC Fight Pass Invitational, itself a derivative of ADCC rules, encourage excitement by penalising grapplers for inaction, but, while these parameters effectively force activity, it must be noted that such constant movement is not necessarily endemic to and can even run contrary to the essence of jiu-jitsu, which emphasises control. Scrambles and chaos do indeed ensue when neither player has control over the other, but what happens when a person has passed their opponent's guard and is working toward a submission? I recall a particular scenario during the 99kg finals 2022 ADCC Worlds in Las Vegas.

With no lack of effort, Kaynan Duarte, the 2019 ADCC's +99kg champion, had just passed fan favourite and 2019 ADCC silver medallist Craig Jones' nearly impenetrable guard, securing the mounted position as the exhausted Mexican Ground Karate grandmaster attempted one of his infamous bottom-side Ezekiel chokes on the powerful Brazilian. The ten-thousand-strong crowd in attendance at the Thomas & Mack Arena erupted in what sounded like a peculiar mix of awe and disappointment. Craig spammed his usual array of unorthodox submission attempts from bottom as Kaynan sought to secure a finish of his own without undoing any of his previous endeavours.

Only one person I can think of will attempt to submit you while you have double unders in mount. Also, if you flip this image, Craig is mercilessly strangling Kaynan from inside his guard, and also in thin air. Photo by Clayton Jones Images (me).

Then something strange happened.

Unsurprisingly, there were warnings for inactivity, but as more time passed without a submission from Kaynan, the penalty points started racking up -- and very quickly. At one time, the negatives were so high that they were equal to the positive points Duarte accumulated from successful passes, which would mean that, had the match ended at that time, the score would have been tied, and it would go into overtime; had he not relented and maintained the position, Craig would have actually gone on to win the match by negatives. Kaynan did go on to score additional points to win and cement himself as the 2022 99kg ADCC champion, but it was nonetheless one of the most bizarre things I have ever witnessed in combat sports.

While absolutely no one wants to see two heavily perspiring people lying motionlessly atop each other for 15 entire minutes like the world's worst attempt at coitus, it is patently absurd that someone who is being controlled can become the victor in a contest primarily dictated by superior control -- that is, unless the dominant player is deliberately stalling and making zero attempts at finishing. The onus should ostensibly lie on the controlled player to facilitate their own escapes and counterattacks.

Furthermore, while strength and conditioning are quintessential elements of any combat athlete's regimen, gratuitous stalling calls put the "art" in "artificial"; they distill the essence of what makes jiu-jitsu formidable in self-defence by overly emphasising physicality and athleticism over technical prowess and forcing competitors to take unnecessary risks, often costing them matches (and however many pennies are being offered) in the process. Of course, competitors are free to go absolutely bananas at their own discretion (and spectators' delight), but that should not be mandatory.

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Even after many years of training, I simply cannot fathom how Floyd can so deftly dodge a flurry of lightning-fast punches and fire off perfect counters all in one motion.

Let's take an example from boxing's Floyd Mayweather. Widely regarded as one of the greatest boxers of all time and known largely for his finely tuned defensive acumen, his style has been decried for being "boring" and too conservative. He was derided for "running" during fights due to what people perceived as fear or an attempt to avoid action, when, in actuality, neither were true: he had incredible ability to avoid punishment in the pocket and proved to be a very effective counter-puncher. More importantly, he embodied what it means to be a boxer: to hit and not be hit. He understood that being consistently clobbered in the noggin for brownie points is stupid, and developed a method which allowed him to remain both relatively unscathed and undefeated as a professional. And winners get paid.

You know who usually doesn't get paid? Losers, and especially jiu-jitsu people who lose. There are certainly outliers in that regard, to be sure, but ultimately, if you are not running a major YouTube platform and/or creating entertaining monetised content, doing seminars, selling loads of instructionals, heading an association or major gym, or competing and winning a lot (or a combination of some or all of these), you really aren't making much, which, when considering that top competitors are professional-level athletes who, more often than not, dedicate their livelihoods to jiu-jitsu, is rather pathetic.

One of the very few people who have managed to make it using only jiu-jitsu, which says a lot. Photo by CJI (me).

The sport is plagued by a glass ceiling and is largely a closed circuit in which, generally, the only people who generate income for jiu-jitsu people are other jiu-jitsu people or combat sports entities and enthusiasts. Almost no one, perhaps aside from ultra-hardcore BJJ enthusiasts, would care to purchase a pay-per-view of IBJJF Pans or Who's Number One like they would a UFC event, and the attendees of the most prestigious events, such as the ADCC World Championships, are almost entirely composed of jiu-jitsu people, many of whom possess only a rudimentary understanding of the rules of the contests they watch.

...and the rules are always changing. Is back control worth three points? Four points? Will I get an advantage for this near-takedown? Is this EBI overtime or sudden death? Nearly every organisation has its own individual ruleset, typically geared toward action, some sort of decisive conclusion, or an amalgam of the two. For example, some submission-only rulesets will call a draw if no finishes occur, and other sub-only entities such as the Eddie Bravo Invitational have three overtime shootout rounds in which competitors start in common finishing positions. The International Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu Federation, or IBJJF, utilises a position-based point system, and the ADCC ruleset emphasises wrestling and rewards action by strongly penalising inactivity or deliberate stalling, and features overtime rounds in the event of an even score or no submission.

Emma Reusing executes a head-and-arm throw at the 2021 IBJJF Worlds. Photo by CJI (me).

While there are certainly merits to facets of these rules, such as the need to keep score and to encourage finishes, the fact remains that, for as much as grappling has grown, there is no real cohesion, regulation, or sanctioning entity in jiu-jitsu. The oft-criticised IBJJF long sat atop the heap as the governing body of all matters jiu-jitsu, but as the sport evolved and outgrew its competitive and regulatory confines, its influence has weakened, although it maintains an iron grip on yes-gi matters. While uncertainty regarding rules can be a recurring theme throughout sports, the lack of parity between the various jiu-jitsu rulesets in addition to the relative absence of a central administrative entity for athlete matters sows confusion amongst viewers and even causes doubts about its legitimacy as a sport to be taken seriously.

The Silver Lining

A select few individuals' attempts at pouring money into grappling may have bolstered the sport's profile, yet few entities have provided a decent payout for participants or winners, even if backed by nearly unlimited resources, and, in some cases, the vast majority of the resources spent have largely gone to every aspect of the grappling event except the athletes, which are the entire reason your event exists.

We don't have the broad appeal of team sports like basketball and soccer or the visceral impact of striking arts, and dorks who wear profanity-laden, dubiously labelled, or flamboyantly coloured clothing articles (or lack thereof) and hug each other aggressively for up to hours at a time in a niche sport that no one understands can hardly afford to take themselves seriously, so it stands to reason that someone has to get top-level competitors a decent chunk of change in lieu of spectatorship.

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Some second thoughts, if you will.

Enter Craig Jones, the knight in silver armour, wielding duffle bags full of duckets and plans to upend the status quo via an eponymously named invitational, commonly referred to as CJI (like me, but with more value), and frequently mispronounced "CGI". The Craig Jones Invitational, which occurs concurrently with ADCC 2024, boasts a $3 million budget, most of which goes to athletes, and promises $1 million for winners of each division. Hosted in the Thomas & Mack Arena, CJI competitors will battle it out in a Karate Combat-inspired depression dubbed "The Alley", and will debut MMA-influenced rounds and an open scoring system. High-profile legends are also rumoured to be participating.

Marcelo Garcia explains a technique at the ADCC "Super Seminar" prior to the 2022 ADCC world championships. Photo by CJI (me).

And it's all streaming on YouTube.

Craig makes several valid points, namely, regarding venues and production. Ultimately, while marketing is certainly paramount in terms of fostering interest, if the sport as a whole is to grow, it must be organic in nature. Grandiloquent displays of pomp and circumstance alone don't bolster the profile of a sport -- people must also be curious about the sport itself. Being "the best" of a thing is useless if no one cares about the thing, and you cannot artificially fill shoes you are not currently capable of wearing.

However, an increased payout will inevitably attract more competition and competitors, which has a net benefit for the sport.

youtube

Except by some miracle, jiu-jitsu will indefinitely drift along down the river of obscurity, discovered and embraced by a select few, but never truly understood or even recognised by the general public, who still think judo people kick and that we do some form of weird extraterrestrial taekwondo. I would love nothing more than to be proven wrong regarding the future of this art we have come to hold dear, but at the very least, the professionals who have become the face of this game through years of steroids hard work and sacrifice should be able to afford to make a decent living from their passions.

|the kid|

#Youtube #Craig Jones Invitational #ADCC #Craig Jones #BJJ #New Wave #B-Team #grappling #Brazilian jiu-jitsu #sports #sports photography #Gordon Ryan #submission #Gracie

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mangodestroyer · 1 year ago

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Call me crazy, but I'm pretty sure my store would still be making lots of money if my wage was doubled.

Yes, I am aware that there is a fuck ton of labor that goes into running a clothing store. You have to pay the accountants, marketing team, upper management, truck drivers, customer service representatives, supervisors, and so much more. And sometimes, merchandise gets handled quite a bit. It needs to be kept neat, organized out onto the floor, go through price changes now and then, etc.

Thing is, I, a single employee, work with LOTS of merchandise everyday. Mere penny's worth of my labor goes towards a single unit, if even that. And the raw materials and labor that went into PRODUCING those clothes probably isn't as much as people think. It's pretty obvious these clothing items are being marked up at absurd prices so that you think you're getting a deal when you get a 20% off coupon or whatever.

Also, I wasn't even hired on as a service desk employee. And yet I often find myself working the till during a 4-8 hour shift. This isn't even the busiest time of the year for us, but it's really not uncommon for the place to be bustling with activity. And while working the register, I easily ring up tons of orders that are at least $50. Hell, I often find myself ringing up orders in the $150 to $300 range, with the occasional $500+ purchase. I'm also selling credit cards on top of that, which also earn the company lots of money because of the fact that these cards have a high interest rate and most people wait to pay them off when their bill arrives in the mail/online.

Not only that, but I also fill online orders sometimes. Whether that be through store pickup or through mail.

So I pretty much know how to do almost everything in the store. Aside from supervising and some operations tasks (even if I still help out with trucks and whatnot). I can do all of this fairly efficiently. ESPECIALLY since I've been working here two years. And within an hour, I can easily end up selling so much merchandise, that the money earned just from me alone ends up being far, FAR more than my weekly wage. Just in that hour.

So, yeah. How can you even justify giving the average worker a measly $12.50 an hour? Let alone one who is more experienced and efficient? With the cost of living these days, it just isn't ethical. Rent is insanely high, gas prices have gone up, and food isn't getting any cheaper. If my wage was doubled, I might actually be able to live on my own.

No, shit. Companies are greedy af. This is why I'm happy for the worker strikes and hope they do cause serious damage for the CEOs. The U.S. owns 25% of the world's wealth, so poverty shouldn't even be nearly as much of an issue as it currently is. And no one needs a billion dollars. Give me a break!

I've also become disgusted by how materialistic we are as a culture and try to cut back on frivolous purchases. I mean, I see people come here multiple times a month, buying so much dumb shit for their wardrobes that they really don't need. I once had a girl come in purchasing $400 worth of clothes. Admitting this wasn't the first time she'd done so that month. That she'll have to get a third job to support her shopping addiction when she already works 60 hours a week. Ngl, I kind of wanted to slap some sense into her right there and then. Just why??? She's already so busy, so she probably doesn't have much time to even enjoy the outfits she's wearing. And tbh, I doubt many people are giving it much thought either. And if you don't need to work more than 60 hours a week to survive, why the fuck would you? Wouldn't you rather, idk, pick up a hobby or something? Hang out with some friends? Spend some time out in the sun?

I guess capitalism isn't my thing.

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cassandraclare · 4 years ago

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The Letter Game (in full)

Many have asked to read last week’s letter game in a slightly simpler format. So here it is, for everyone’s enjoyment in plain text, under the cut. The action takes place between Chain of Gold and Chain of Iron. Read on . . .

1: INVITATION

To all and sundry—

The leaves are changing, and with them the season. It grows colder in London by the day, and even without the pestilence that recently ravaged us, even without demons breathing down our necks, cold with chill—now is the time for all good Shadowhunters to come to one another’s aid, and support one another in that most hallowed Nephilim tradition: song and dance.

So, a Musicale! The Townsends are pleased to invite the Enclave, in toto, to our West End home this Friday’s eve. Refreshments will of course be served, but the entertainment will be provided by you, our esteemed guests and friends. We would be so honored if you would help us welcome the coming of winter by bringing your most excellent capers and ballads, to keep us warm.

Grahame and Millie Townsend

2: Lucie » Cordelia

Cordelia, my sister, the very twin of my own heart,

Can you believe the Townsends’ invitation? How pretentious can one be, I ask you! It took all four Herondales an hour of discussion to conclude that “Friday’s eve” meant simply Friday evening rather than the eve before Friday (that is, Thursday). And is the demons or our necks that are meant to be cold with chill? “Cold with chill!” As a writer of words—no, even only as a reader of words—I am offended.

I digress, however. I write to ask whether you will be attending, as that will be significant to my own decision of whether to go. I asked James, and he was unenthused but “supposed” that “we must.” So I wish to let you know that if you don’t fancy attending, I believe James could be easily convinced. But, as unpleasant a night as it promises, I fear he may be correct that “we must.” You and he, after all, must do the social rounds as a betrothed pair, and I—well, I can hardly sit alone in my bedroom all night while all my friends witness Catherine Townsend’s cold-blooded murder of “O mio babbino caro.”

So whatever your preference, I will be amenable. We can put on our frills and watch the most foolish of our set warble and prance, and at least we will have each other’s company and champagne. Or, if you’d prefer, tea and draughts in the Institute parlour. I am yours to command, my warrior-sister.

(I have realized only at this moment that perhaps you not only wish to attend but to perform yourself; if that is the case, I retract all previous mentions of warbling in favor of my unconditional enthusiastic support. I will even accompany you, if you wish, but I am not very good at the spinnet so please, something fairly slow would be best.)

Yours ever across the still waters of time and space,

L. Herondale

3: Ariadne » Anna

Dear Miss Lightwood,

I expect that you will have received the same invitation to the Townsends’ Musicale that the rest of the Enclave has. I write with the question of whether it’s your intention to attend, and to say that I hope that you will, and that I hope to see you there.

It’s not your sort of party, of course—dull, bourgeois, and stuffy, I imagine you’d say—but since as the daughter of the Inquisitor I am rarely able to appear at the more lively gatherings that you prefer, I do plan to attend myself, much as I would rather be elsewhere. (At one of those lively gatherings, perhaps?) Catherine will have my head if I am not there to keep her mother out of her hair, for one thing, and for another…well, I wish to see you.

I have it on fairly good authority that your brother and his roisterous band, or whatever they call themselves, are planning to be there. So I also write to implore you to come so that a cooler head will be present and any explosions, or implosions, or indeed bedlam of any kind, will be, if not prevented, at least more easily contained and cleaned up after.

For the event I am thinking of a dress I have, in a deep ruby color, with a rather striking neckline. I am no great judge of my own appearance, but I do know your taste and I daresay you will find it flatters me. For your part, I hope you will wear those pinstriped trousers you have. You have not worn them in an age, and I miss them, or rather, I miss how elegantly you wear them.

In short, I hope to see you there.

I know it is not your habit to keep letters from admirers, but rather to use them to kindle your fireplace. Perhaps that will be the destiny of this note as well, but I believe not. I come to you not as an admirer, after all, but as a friend, and one who wishes you all the best things in the world—

Yrs.,

Ariadne Bridgestock

4: Anna » Matthew

Mr. Fairchild—

Matthew, I have instructed the courier bringing you this note to evaluate your sobriety and, if it is found wanting, to slap you across the face twice. Straighten up and pay attention, you debauched fool. It’s still breakfast-time. And this is important.

Are you going to the Townsends’ musicale?

Let me rephrase: if you know what’s good for you, you will be going to the Townsends’ musicale.

I hope to enjoy your company there, of course, as my friend and companion. But also, to be frank, I will need the support. My night was free and so I told them I would be there, but I wasn’t thinking, and now I’ve received a note from one A.B., letting me know in no uncertain terms that she will definitely be attending as well. It will be a large gathering, no doubt, and most of our time will be spent watching Thoby Baybrook chase after the juggling-balls he keeps dropping during his performance, rather than close-quarters socializing. But—and I trust in your confidence on this matter—I find I flutter with nerves. Imagine. I never flutter!

I hope I can count on you. I am not usually in the business of begging favors. However, this is an unusual situation. Matthew: she will be wearing the burgundy dress.

Anna

5: Ariadne » Matthew

To Matthew Fairchild—

All right, I’ve sent the letter. Against my better judgment, I should add. It seems more likely to drive her away than to attract her, to be honest, but you have her confidence in ways that I no longer do. If you think she is more likely to be there as a result, I will trust in your plan.

However.

I am fully aware that under most circumstances neither she nor you would be found as such a dreary party as an Enclave-wide musicale. (Nor would I, but as the daughter of the, et cetera et cetera, I hardly need to tell you.) So let this note serve as, not a threat, but a promise: if you even think about ditching the party for one of your Downworlder orgies, or whatever your usual scene, and you leave me and her to awkward politesse over stale canapes without showing up yourself…I will follow you to the ends of the Earth and your life will be forfeit. Forfeit, Fairchild. I daresay I can best you in a duel three times out of four, but also be assured I am very good with a dagger in the dark.

I look forward to enjoying this merry entry in the social season with you. I will see you there.

Yours sincerely,

Ariadne Bridgestock

6: Matthew » Cordelia

No, that won’t do at all. There are already other C’s. Christopher, for instance. Also Caiaphas, a werewolf from whom I sometimes purchase wine. (He has an excellent nose, you see.)

Cordelia Carstairs, you need not worry about the Townsends’ party. First, none of Our Lot are planning to perform at all, but merely hang back and watch the festivities while imbibing and filling seats. You certainly shouldn’t worry that you’ll be asked to dance as you did at the Ruelle. This will not be the Ruelle. It will be far more insipid.

I’m sure J is focused entirely on your responsibilities as an engaged couple to make the rounds and be seen by the whey-faced provincials of the Enclave. He is correct, as always, the bastard, but he worries too much. Rest assured that we Thieves will be concocting a plan in which we are able to (1) have a good time at the most boring gathering of the season and (2) not miss cake. (I don’t know if you have had cake at the Townsends’. They are a tedious family, but their cook is some kind of confection-obsessed elf who performs great conjurings with spun sugar and buttercream.) (Yes, he really is an elf, I think. Or Catherine was having me on. His ears are fairly pointed, in any event.)

I do not particularly anticipate this musicale with great pleasure, but I do, of course, anticipate the opportunity to spend time in your presence with great relish. Truly, my parabatai could not have picked a more suitable bride with whom to be mutually bored to tears at parties for years to come. I suggest that for this one you bring a flask to tuck into your reticule. If you don’t, worry not; I will bring two. At least two.

I remain, as always, yours sincerely, etc etc,

Matthew Fairchild

7: James » Thieves

CONFIDENTIAL—DO NOT DISTRIBUTE—ON PAIN OF TORTURE—THIS MEANS YOU

Merriest of Thieves,

After extensive discussion, we’ve reached consensus (or as close as we will come) on our plan for Having Fun At the Townsends’ Musicale Even Though It Is a Musicale Hosted By the Townsends. (A variety of alternate names were proposed, but all have been vetoed by the plan’s organizer, that is, myself. Please do not continue to send proposed names, Matthew.)

Our esteemed colleague Christopher has, it seems, been working in his spare time on a new method of rapidly sending written messages without the use of couriers. Instead, messages are sent with a combination of runes (so bring your steles) and a propellant of Christopher’s own invention. I’m told that the technique is not yet flawless, but Mr Lightwood reports that it is ready to be shown and tested, and what better place than a party at which missing the main entertainment would be not disappointing, but rather a great relief.

Down a corridor from the Townsends’ main parlour is a small games room. I say games room, but in truth it is empty of games, and nobody ever uses it. It is windowless and a bit close, but mostly empty of furnishings and a suitable location for a scientific demonstration. Even better, the corridor itself departs the parlour with a dog-leg, and once one has passed around the corner, one is invisible to the notice of the other partygoers. (See attached floor plan of the first storey of the house; thanks to TL for his freehand drafting skills.)

This plan assumes that none of you are planning to perform in the musicale itself; if this is not the case, then MF wishes me to remind you both of your loyalties and to the overall philistine-like qualities of most of the guests.

Surely this will provide sufficient entertainment to get us all through the evening.

The party is only one days away, so if there are any questions about this plan, please hiss them to me sotto voce tomorrow night while Millie Townsend is performing her murder ballads.

Courage, half a league, half a league onward, and so on,

James H

PS: For those whose main draw to this party is Morgaint’s famous Victoria sponge, Christopher assures me that we should be done well in time for dessert. (I should add a warning that it should not be referred to as a Victoria sponge within earshot of Morgaint, as he will lecture you at length about the recipe’s preceding Victoria by centuries, the history of confection in pre-Roman Britain, and so on. He is very temperamental, even for a faerie.)

8: Thomas » Alastair

Dear Mr Carstairs—

We have not spoken in many weeks, presumably as a result of the unfortunate circumstances under which we last met. Nevertheless, I write this evening to extend my wishes for your family’s continued health and good fortune.

As I’m sure you know, this Friday marks an Enclave-wide social event at the home of the Mr and Mrs Townsend. I know that your sister will be in attendance, with her fiancé. The Lightwoods—Eugenia, Anna, Christopher, and myself—are also planning to be there. And, of course, we expect the family of our esteemed Consul, including both of her sons, to make an appearance.

Shall we expect to see you there? I ask merely because if so, I will not be attending. I understand that as your family will be there you have every right to attend, so I am happy to be the one who bows out of the evening.

Yours sincerely,

Mr T. Lightwood

9: Alastair » Thomas

Mr Lightwood

Tom

Look, you,

I am amazed and impressed by the effrontery of you writing to me to ask whether I will be attending an event only to them tell me that if I attend, you will not. No doubt you are feeling aggrieved about the last time we met. Well, so am I. Jests and pranks from our schoolboy years are hardly a good enough reason for the kind of public humiliation I suffered, both from Matthew Fairchild’s rude outburst and your own. The very thought of attending a party with the likes of you sends me into a mixture of, on the one hand, paroxysms of helpless laughter, and on the other, a thumping headache of barely contained fury that I

[letter discarded, not sent]

Mr Lightwood,

Thank you for your kind letter. I am, of course, aware of the upcoming affair at the home of the Townsends, through the usual means of receiving my own request to attend. It would seem to me obvious that I had no need of being informed about the party as though I would otherwise be ignorant of it. Unlike some of the London Shadowhunter families, the Townsends have only ever been courteous to the Carstairs family, and the implication that I wouldn’t have received exactly the same invitation that you did is exactly the kind of nonsense that

[letter discarded, not sent]

Thomas,

I won’t be attending the Townsends’ musicale, as I am already committed to a preferable previous engagement cleaning out the pigeon cages in the Regent’s Park Zoo.

Thank you for thinking of me.

Receipt of your letter is hereby acknowledged.

I don’t know why you would write to me at all, but please do not write back to try to explain.

[letter discarded, not sent]

Thomas,

I do want to apologize, I have tried to apologize, but every time I come near you a wall of your friends prevents me from doing so. You can hardly hold it against me that I have not apologized when you will not allow me to do so. Yes, I know what I did rises far above the level of a jest or a prank. But one must be allowed to make amends somehow, for otherwise what is there? Hopelessness? Not I suppose that you care much what I feel. Just because you are beloved of your friends, and ridiculously tolerably handsome, you think —

[Letter discarded, not sent]

10: Cordelia » James

J—

Do you need rescuing? Everyone is in the games room for Christopher’s demonstration, even Thomas, who has spent most of the evening hiding from my brother. You on the other hand have been waylaid in the corner with Mrs Whatshername. I tried to get close enough to intervene but was swept away myself by Mr Townsend, who wanted to tell me about his travels in the Levant when he was a younger man. Could not tell if he was confused about my family’s origins or he simply assumed anyone would be fascinated by his tales of camels and pyramids. Anyway, M suggests he could interrupt and scold you for ignoring your betrothed. Lucie says you are ignoring your betrothed, but don’t listen to her, I know you are far too polite to interrupt a member of the older set. (If you yourself remember, please remind me of her name when you come.)

Come as soon as you can. Do not allow Mrs Whatshername to follow you.

Daisy

11: Christopher » Thieves

To: James, Lucie, Matthew, Thomas, Cordelia, Anna, Ariadne

From: Christopher

In an ideal world, I would have been able to send you this note through this very technique I am demonstrating tonight, but it does make a fairly loud bang, and I thought that would likely give the game away. Though I wish to not allow social proprieties to impede the progress of science, I have been reminded by several of you that discretion can be the better part of valor. Although I admit I can’t think of any personal examples where that would be the case.

In the games room I have piled a supply of protective spectacles, which I suggest you wear. There is no danger of damage to your eyes, but there may be some very bright flashes. In addition, the propellant which I will be using to send the message is an experimental mixture, similar to those I have tried in the past but not exactly the same. There is a very very small chance that inhalation of its fumes may cause some temporary effects to the mind, so I recommend that you hold a handkerchief over your nose and mouth during the demonstration. To be clear, I don’t think that any of these effects would have any negative impact on our ability to return to the party and attend the musical performances afterwards. At worst, it may make those performances seem more enjoyable than they would otherwise.

12: James » Townsends

Dear Mr and Mrs Townsend,

On behalf of myself, my family, my fiancée, and my fellows, I wished to extend sincerest apologies for departing your lovely gathering without saying proper goodbyes. Your musicale was, as all would have expected, a smashing success, with performances across the board demonstrating the falsehood of the common claim that the Nephilim are unable to produce works of art. Surely your daughter Catherine’s rendition of Puccini’s famous aria could stand alongside the finest professionals to be found in the Royal Albert Hall.

As you discovered along with the rest of the guests, Christopher Lightwood wished to use the opportunity of having us all present to demonstrate the state of his newest invention. I’m told that when it is completed, it will utterly revolutionize the way that Shadowhunters are able to communicate with one another, obviating the need for the runners, couriers, and use of the mundane Royal Mail to send messages to one another. Instead we will have a fully self-contained rune-based method. Surely anyone would agree that such a development would be well worth whatever growing pains the process of invention and experimentation might create.

As you also discovered, Mr Lightwood’s demonstration took an unexpected turn, with a good amount of his customized propellant being released into your games room and corridors. Luckily, it was a mild evening, and open windows as well as the vigorous fanning of the doors by Thomas Lightwood and Ariadne Bridgestock quickly dispersed the gasses.

That said, neither I nor my companions are able to account for an interval of roughly ninety minutes between the end of the demonstration and our departure from your house. To that end, it seems that we were sadly lacking in good manners by failing to thank you for your warm hospitality at the time. Again, please accept our deepest apologies, and our thanks for that hospitality, even if it has been delivered discourteously late.

Warmest regards,

James Herondale

13: Matthew » James

Jamie,

Good Lord, what was in that stuff of Christopher’s? Do you know if there will be any lasting effects? I hesitate to ask Kit, he seems too dismayed.

Also, I am trying to find out to whom exactly I owe an apology for specific behaviors that might have happened after the demonstration. I seem to have lost more than an hour from my memory, as well as my waistcoat and a garnet ring of which I was quite fond. Any thoughts you have would be appreciated.

Matthew

14: Lucie » James

James,

I have been expecting to hear from Matthew, but as it has been most of a day and I haven’t yet, can you please let him know that I will make myself available to be apologized to during teatime, either tomorrow or the next day. Please also tell him that I will be sending along a bill for the costs of cleaning arrack out of the skirt of my dress. For such a prodigious consumer of spirits, you would think he would have learned not to slosh them around so much when he talks. I suppose Christopher’s propellant takes some of the blame, but honestly, Shadowhunters are trained in agility and dexterity and even under the influence of one of Christopher’s experiments he should be able to, at very least, not slosh so.

Lucie

15: Cordelia » Anna

Dear Anna,

The last hour or so of the party was something of a blur for all of us, I think. But I feel confident in assuring you that both you and Ariadne acted with all due propriety, and that at no point did you “make an ass of yourself,” as you put it, either out among all the guests or in the games room.

Also, when next you speak to Ariadne, please compliment her on her lovely dress. It suited her quite well! I wondered if you were responsible for finding it for her? You do have such an excellent eye for what colors and cuts will flatter.

Anyway, do not worry. I have made some private inquiries, and nobody took note of any unusual behavior on the part of either yourself or Miss Bridgestock. (In fact, Rosamund seemed to be under the impression that you were shamelessly flirting with her. I can confirm that you were not and that Rosamund simply has an odd way about her.)

Are we still on for tea Wednesday? Let me know if not and otherwise I will see you then.

Cordelia Carstairs

16: Townsends » Everybody

For the attention of:

James Herondale

Lucie Herondale

Matthew Fairchild

Thomas Lightwood

Anna Lightwood

Christopher Lightwood

Alastair Carstairs

Cordelia Carstairs

On behalf of not just our own family, but the parental generation of the Enclave more generally, we wish to communicate our displeasure with your behavior at our soirée on Friday’s eve. You are all adults or near-enough, under Nephilim Law, and so you should be held to account as any adults would be. And you should be ashamed of yourselves.

Given the influence had by many of your families, and the small size of the London Enclave, we cannot bar you from all of our future events. If only we could. We will, however, be more careful in future about shutting off access to rooms in our house that are not intended for use by party guests.

Rather than taking the time to craft individual complaints, we hereby itemize the most obvious of our grievances, so that you may all have your behavior exposed to one another. Certainly none of you deserve to have your actions kept private.

Alastair: We were glad to see you eventually arrive, though there is a wide difference between “fashionably late” and the hour you appeared. (Just in time for the desserts, we note.) Also, the song you performed was highly inappropriate for the ladies present, especially the unmarried ones, such as our daughter, and also your own sister.

Lucie: While we have always supported your hobby of writing down entertaining tales, and we understand that the storyteller’s art does involve artistic creativity, your ongoing, strident, melodramatic narration of the events following the Christopher Lightwood Incident was not appreciated by us or, especially, Mrs Rosewain, who you referred to throughout as “Mrs Whatshername.”

James: Your interruption of the cake serving to declare your undying devotion to your true love was a gallant gesture. It might, however, have gone over better had you not pledged your troth to a portrait in oils of our ancestral matriarch, Frideswide Townsend. Your taste is admirable, of course, and she was considered a great beauty. It is unfortunate for your affections that she passed away in the late sixteenth century.

Anna: We would thank you to come by and pick up your brother from our house at some point. He has been muttering to himself, fiddling with a pencil and paper, and threatening “another test, much improved.” Please retrieve him post-haste.

Thomas: We don’t know how you made the acquaintance of that vampire who attempted to accompany all of the performers on his dulcimer, but he is not welcome back to our house, and if we see him again, neither are you.

Matthew: Whatever was in that bottle you were plying to my mother, we only found her this morning, napping on our roof. When we woke her she said it was of a greenish color and asked for more of it. We would be obliged if you could bring another bottle by, at your convenience.

Cordelia: Your demonstration of the supernatural sharpness of your sword was very impressive, even if it was not in the spirit of the kinds of performance we expected for a musicale. It is, however, not all that surprising that it was able to cut through our drapes, a dining-room chair, or the sponge cake. We spoke to your brother, and he suggested that we should feel free to send an invoice for replacement costs to the Herondale family, since soon enough you will be their trouble, and not his.

In short, you have all behaved abominably, and are, each and every one of you, embarrassments to your various hallowed family names.

We hope you will join us the Thursday after next, for boating and luncheon in Hyde Park.

Mr and Mrs Graham Townsend

#letter game #the merry thieves #the last hours #chain of gold #chain of iron

2K notes · View notes

jiminrings · 4 years ago

Note

umm maybe this is me projecting bc i am messaging you during my break but for a drabble request, yoongi in a retail setting???? 😐😐😐😐 oc could either be a co-worker or a regular customer who asks too many questions 😔😌

retail-type beat

drabble week: day three

drabble week masterlist

pairing: customer!yoongi x retail worker!reader

wordcount: 3k

glimpse: "hi! almost thought you were hiding from me for a second. anyways, is this sweater wool or cotton?"

feedback + support mean the world to me!!

the last time you checked, work doesn’t start until nine

you kNEW it doesn’t start until 9 in the morning, so clearly that’s why you’re just wearing slides instead of your sneakers

the company uniform is either black or purple (it has to be from what the store is selling though so you can get to choose) with of course!!!! a lanyard!!!!

and you know this, because you’re still wearing your slides from home because it isn’t opening time yet

“goddamn it, i forgot to bring my slippers,” jin moans the moment he walks to see you, looking down on your feet that only reminds him he’d be stuck in his cool yet painfully uncomfy sneakers

he’s probably the only co-worker that you’re truly close with, not feeling the urge to sell him just to get a free day

“i told you to get the sneakers that nurses use!!”

hands-down one of the best purchases you’ve ever made

retail’s hard and it’s not exactly the best-paying job!!! thankfully the franchise owner is a bit more generous so that’s why you get slightly-higher hourly pay

“i would if they looked a little more seasoned,” jin snorts and stubbornly crosses his arms, “i might sacrifice my pride and buy some compression socks.”

OOOOOH THOSE ARE GOOD TOO

makes you feel like ur walking on air

but lol no seokjin isn’t ready to buy those just yet

he’ll settle on some blisters and putting salonpas patches because they look cooler that way, thank u very much <3

jin yawns, talking about finding a steam iron somewhere to replace a blowdryer so he could break in his shoes

“you wipe the glass this time.”

oh right he absolutely hates wiping down the glass — even before opening!!! even when there aren’t any grubby kids that would soil it instantly with their equally as grubby hands

you don’t mind it honestly

you might honestly like it

you prefer wiping the glass a hundred times over than steaming clothes

there is nOT a single thought in your head when you spray on the solution to the glass, rag and squeegee tucked between your fingers when-

maybe you should’ve hOLY FUCKING SHIT

it’s not opening!!!! it is nOT nine o’clock in the morning!!!!

you know that the shop you’re working in is pretty fucking famous and it’s located on one of the most populated streets ever BUT THERE’S ALREADY SOMEONE

although the bucket hat seems familiar from a distance and-

oh it’s just yoongi

yoongi?

yoongi’s already here????

yoongi, the guy in question, is an always customer!!

no, not a regular customer — an always customer

he comes every week and maybe even twice within that period

he’s a nice talkative customer who likes asking questions and even occasionally guides the other customers on what to buy and where to find it

he’s yoongi!!! of course that’s expected of him

he’s been going here long since you ever started working here, and jin keeps iNSISTING that he’s been here more frequently since you started like a year ago

but doesn’t he come at eleven in the morning?

“woah, yoongi’s already here? — doesn’t he come at eleven in the morning?”

?!!?!!

“i was just thinking the exact same thing.”

jin bangs the glass with his fist and you automatically wince and frown

you dO like cleaning the glass panes!! you didn’t say you liked cleaning them a second time :(

“YOONGI!”

“YES??”

you push jin’s fist away to wipe at the smudge his hand left

“IT’S NOT OPENING YET!”

“I KNOW!!”

wow they’re uh

they’re really loud

sometimes you forget how seokjin could be since it’s been awhile since you heard him yell

lol no one’s been shoplifting recently so you haven’t been hearing him

a mind-blowing idea is for jin to come outside and talk to him in a normal talking voice, so your ears would stop ringing

“HEY! WHAT IF YOU JUST ENTER EARLY IN?”

“REALLY? IS THAT EVEN ALLOWED??”

"YOONGI, EVERYONE ON THE FLOOR KNOWS YOUR NAME. NAMJOON EVEN GAVE YOU A CUSTOMARY BIRTHDAY GIFT, AND WE DON'T GIVE CUSTOMARY BIRTHDAY GIFTS TO ANY OTHER CUSTOMER!!"

namjoon, who technically should be called mr. kim because no one really thinks to call the franchise owner with their government first name, is actually pretty cool

but he's too busy these days and haven't been visiting because he's too busy tending to his newly-opened coffee shop

as if the money he earns from opening his franchise in a day alone isn’t enough :0

"IF YOU SAY SO?"

you’re the one who hikes up the roll-up door in the slightest, enough for only yoongi to enter and not encourage anyone else to nOT enter when it’s still not opening time!!!!

he only has to crouch a little but he still has to dust his thousand-dollar pants as if he crawled through mud

his cream-colored slacks with a large black hoodie that has a giant bear embroidered on the middle of it and mules

... you don't hate his outfits

pretty cute, actually

it's yoongi!!

you'd never catch him lacking!!!

you don't even have to envision him rocking the shit out a paper bag

one time, he came in the store wearing the WRINKLIEST brown linen jumpsuit that no iron could possibly fix and he still pulled it off

toon-teen-ten!

oh god that’s the sound of the intercom

and the sound of the intercom equates to jungkook

... as in jeon jungkook who’s the floor manager and his constant top one goal for every month is to endearingly annoy seokjin

he’s young and mischievous!! but if you were to ask him, only you and jungkook are the people in this floor he’d actually get drinks with outside the shop

“seokjin come to the lingerie department right now, please.”

you see the thing is :D

“now this is just funny

there’s walkie-talkies for everyone here!! jungkook likes intercoms, and seokjin like yelling!!

“WHY ME AGAIN?? I’VE ALREADY FOLDED-“

“there’s a literal rat and i need yOU to catch it!! you know that i hate rodents!!”

him and jungkook are forever gonna be on this eldest-youngest brother dynamic and while jungkook pouts and shared the extras that he gets, jin is the one who kills the bugs :D

10/10 totally fair

fine then!! he’ll catch that goddamn rat

that leaves you and yoongi. alone.

“why did you come so early this time?”

you ask out of courtesy, genuinely baffled too because you know that yoongi’s a creature of habit

yoongi’s eyes pop out, head fervently shaking no

“i’m typically not the type to do that, no.”

???

is he-

are you-

are you both talking about the same thing

yoongi’s face flushes in embarrassment, his mind just then registering what you were actually saying

“o-oh! it’s because last night, i dreamt of the sweater i saw here last week!!"

oh right

typical :D

"need me to find it for you or do you already know the aisle?"

you align the folded shirts by the corners as you pass, looking at yoongi briefly while he trails behind yoh

“not unless you pulled it out already."

he's hoping that dear god you haven't

the black sweater with the moon aND buildings on it and when you turn on the flash, the windows of said building reflect it right back???

he SHUDDERS just by thinking about it

it’s gonna go with everything!!! an instant boost of serotonin every time he sees it

"for you, yoongi?" you shake your head, a small smile on your face that he only sees every once in a while, "i'd comb through the entire stock room."

wait

that’s sweet :((

“i’ll hold you to that.”

you know what??? you're less cranky when it's only him, and a couple of hundred people less

your smiles aren't for customer-service and you don't have misplaced clothes hanging from your shoulders and your walkie-talkie isn't talking in latin

or when no one’s asking you to reach something from the top shelf

or when you’re on the way to the intercom because a kid got separated from their mother

or when someone’s approaching for a refund for a shirt who has a stain that’s 100% no doubt customer error

his feet immediately move on its own because he’s memorized the outline of this too many times

there it is!!!

the sweater he’s dreamt about is already on his hands, only a handful few left

the piece is considerably more expensive than majority of the items here, so that’s why they’re all spaced-out instead of being clustered altogether

yoongi rarely goes to the dressing room, regardless if it's a full-house or not!!

he could just look at an item and immediately tell that it’s made for him ta know

he's beyond sure that this sweater fits him perfectly, but he may want to be here a little longer

yoongi may have say inside one of the fitting rooms and spent a little time in it just to sit on the chair inside, not fitting the sweater at all

he's gotten his item SO quick and he wished he could've just walked slower or pretended to not know where it was!!!

he wants to spend a little more time here

you don't hate yoongi!!! but sometimes he could just be... yoongi

he's quite talkative and strikes it whenever, making you unguarded

he could be overbearing but like an overbearing kind of nice

yoongi’s nice!! he’s the type to ask a lot of questions sure, but he’s also the type that would point the other customers what to buy and where to find it

he’s the type to find an obvious faulty stitch on a shirt, but he’d just quietly exchange it instead of asking for the manager

he’s the type you wouldn’t want to stand behind in line because it would take a long time for him to finish, but he’s also the same one who buys giftcards with generous amounts for family and friends

yoongi’s kind of cool and that’s cemented on your mind

"what do you got for me?"

he materializes out of nowhere, spooked because you thought he already ringed up and was out of the store already

it just happens to be ten minutes before opening and you’re doing last-minute arrangements on a new spread

well, yoongi most certainly is still here and his attention’s piqued

“we have... a new collection."

you clear your theory, awkwardly gesturing because you’re more than aware that yoongi hasn’t seen this either

“yeah, i know that. but like, what's going on??" he gestures to the displays and racks, squinting his eyes, "what's the theme? what's the material?"

uhm you haven't read the brief about this

you aren't even sURE if there is one!!

doesn't everyone make up something on the spot in retail

or atleast that’s what seokjin tells you

“the theme," you clear your throat, scratching your temple before gesturing towards the full rack, "is everything."

“everything?

yoongi’s eyebrow is raised, not expecting that answer at all

you look back to the new feature, and nOW that you think about it,, there's no cohesion at all

“y-yes. the shop was going for the theme of uhm, everything... all at once — yeah, that's it. everything all at once."

it’s a nice way to put it when not one bit of the new collection goes together

“hmmmm. i like it,” yoongi nods solemnly and tilts his head, “and the material?"

"the material?"

you repeat, eyesight not the best so you can’t really tell anything off the bat or uh aNYTHING really

"t-the material is shirt."

they're all shirts!!! that’s it

yoongi grimaces in disgust, the first time you’ve seen of it

“what?? you can't say that.”

he outsretches his hand to the nearest article, holding it up by the hanger

"this, right here, is satin. see how it shines like silk, but doesn't feel like silk?"

uhm yes

you have a gist of what he’s saying but yes

yoongi picks up a pink button shirt this time, flipping it inside out

"this, is silk charmeuse. look at the inside, is it smooth?"

okay where is he going with this

he urges you to put your hand on the fabric and uhhh you didn't sign up for this???

it looks smooth, sure!! end of discussion

"yea-..."

“it's not. it's rough. it is smooth, but it's dull. silk charmeuse is still silk, but the backing it has is different from the lustrous part."

okay yoongi

you’re starting to feel uncomfortable and it has to do something with the tone he’s using on you

“can't believe you didn't know that!! how about this," he plucks out a shirt with a tiny print at the middle of it, "cotton or polyester and rayon?"

"i don't-"

there’s an itch in your neck that you want to scratch, a tell-tale sign that you just wANT to remove yourself from this situation

“come on!! it's a dead giveaway!!"

:((

why is he being like this?

toon-teen-ten!

“y/n, panty section please. jin almost got bit by a mouse and he needs comforting. two minutes until opening, people!!"

jungkook speaks at the right moment, and jin’s little incident is enough of a reason for you to bolt

yoongi's still looking at you but you can't afford to embarrass yourself further

“bye. happy shopping."

huh?

yoongi’s face falls when you leave as cold as that!! typically when you were going to show him out (when it’s regular shop hours), there’d be a smile :((

there's not even a customer service smile :(((

yoongi goes to the only cashier that's open so far and it happens to be far away from you and a teary seokjin

seokjin's fine he didn't even get bit!! that much he could say

but are you okay? uhhh you kinda went cold on him by the end and he thought he started on a good note

yoongi doesn't visit for another week and you don't find yourself counting the days until you meet him again

you did not have a devil wears prada moment where anne hathaway has an epiphany for fashion knowledge

you just felt belittled at a job that isn’t exactly what you wanted anyways

needed, yes. but wanted? not exactly

you know that basic knowledge about clothes is required in a retail job like this and you have it!! you do!!!!

you’d know more if only there were actual available resources for employees to know!!! nobody besides yoongi asks anyways

you’d know if you have time to yourself and aren’t working two jobs trying to make ends meet and tHEN you could pull up a book or something!!!

you’d know if your life is as lax as yoongi’s and could have the budget to buy new things for yourself every single week

“jin, i need to ask you something.”

he hums as called, looking at you briefly until you get on with it

“do you know the difference between silk and silk charmeuse?"

he shrugs casually while you're sitting inside one of the closed-off fitting rooms to catch a break, sharing a burger because the store’s packed-packed

why did you ask him? it’s too easy

“one's made by worms, and the other's a pokémon."

that,.,., could not possibly be righti* it brings you a laugh and you honestly don’t even try to correct him

it’s 11:15 and you kNOW it’s time to resume your shift, straightening your shirt because atleast one (1) person would hound you when they see a familiar red lanyard

oh you’re hounded alright

“hi! almost thought you were hiding from me for a second.”

yoongi????

you haven’t seen him for a week and you don’t know what to feel in all honesty

"anyways, is this sweater wool or cotton?"

wow

you're quite speechless as he holds up the item

really?

this thing all over again???

why are you even surprised

the only thing that yoongi gets your customer service smile, fishing your hand from inside the sweater to show him

“70% wool."

that's it???

NO GOOD MORNING????

you're mad at him, aren't you?

he knew it :((

he knew something was wrong but he just didn’t know what

he’s gonna fix this!! he will

which is why the very next day, he takes the day off from his work and comes to the store at a time he knows you’d surely be there

you're on cashier duty and you like it actually :D

you have an option to sit and the way you’re just gonna scan pricetags (and occasionally enter the code if it doesn’t work) is really appealing

“good morning!"

you’re about to grab the items from the basket laid on the counter and your eyes could only see the very familiar hand

the same one you’ve seen go through racks and racks

yoongi??

he sets his items one by one, buying himself more time

the first one is the same exact sweater he came to wait for before opening

“you already bought this."

you tell him even before you could hold it back, looking back at him briefly before you scan the tag

“i know. i just wanted to see you."

yoongi threw a bunch of other items (individually) so it would be a longer talk, but you scan each item quickly that he’s grabbing things from the counter

hand sanitizer!!! hair ties!!! keychains!!!! yeah he needs them

“i'm sorry that i tend to spring shit on you most of the time. you don't need to know the difference between silk and silk charmeuse."

you only chuckle then, a meek smile on your face

"it's okay, yoongi.”

“it's not."

... it’s not?

yoongi fidgets, opening and closing his mouth like he’s nervous!!! he’s never had his credit card cancelled but he could only feel that this type of jitterness is more than the former

“can i make it up to you? no lanyards, no baskets, no customer service?? i don't wanna fuck things up with you."

“don't feel obligated-"

“i know i could be a condescending ass who expects people to automatically know fabric and whatnot, but i wanna make it up to you."

alright yoongi’s a really good apology-maker

you mIGHT be even flustered a little

“you're holding the line, yoongi.”

“i cleared my schedule."

“i haven’t!!!!!” - guy in the back

“dinner at my place at 8. i-i promise to make your hard-earned break after your shift worthwhile!!!"

hmmm

maybe that wouldn’t hurt

“okay. just because you're holding the line."

“fine by me."

:))

yoongi transfers all the items he bought, all but one, to his tote bag

he hands back the paper bag to you, scribbling his address on the back of the receipt before he does

he lingers a little while at the counter, the people behind him ALREADY switching lanes to the one seokjin’s just opened beside you

it's the sweater that he has too

yoongi scratches the back of his head, this time being the meek one

“what? m-matching sweaters for our first date. s'cute."

#drabble week #yoongi imagine #yoongi imagines #min yoongi imagines #yoongi oneshots #yoongi oneshot #yoongi drabble #yoongi drabbles #yoongi au #yoongi x reader #yoongi x y/n #yoongi fanfiction #min yoongi fanfiction #yoongi fanfic #min yoongi oneshot #min yoongi scenarios #yoongi headcanon #yoongi fluff #yoongi angst

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mintwithchoco · 4 years ago

Text

loonathesmut: Tease

LOOΠΔ Kim Lip x Male Reader

Word Count: 7100 words

Categories: smut, oral, facefucking, facial, subtsundere! kim lip

note; finally after weeks of writing, i'm back with another story! this is a continuation to my first smut, so i suggest you read it first to understand the story a bit better.

this story is also dedicated to one of my favorite writer, @nsfwtwicecatcher ! since he likes giving kimberly lippington a facial, this is gift for him :3 happy belated birthday! (hopefully i'm not too late oof)

special thanks to @arrivalatdawn for helping me out with the story.

again, happy new year and enjoy! ;)

aff link

"That's all for today. Remember to read chapter 7 and 8 for our next class!" The lecturer said before everyone stood up to leave the lecture room.

You pack your notes and laptop into your bag hastily, rushing for your next event for the day.

"Hello, baby brother? Can I ask you for a little bit of help? I'm gonna be busy this Wednesday and we haven't finished packing up stuff for our move to the new dorm. Since half of us will be staying at the dorm to finish packing, I figured that they would need some...extra hand. Hopefully you can help out!"

You walked through the crowd of students while keeping a safe distance from them. You looked at the watch on your wrist. 12:14 p.m. You gasped silently and started to run, eventually reaching your car at the parking lot after almost hitting on a bunch of people on your way. Getting inside your car and taking a couple of deep breaths, you calmed the adrenaline rush in your body. After a few minutes, you start the engine, turn on the radio and drive off to loonathedorm.

20 minutes later, you finally arrive at the building where your stepsister's dorm was. You parked your car at a nearby parking lot, grabbing your stuff and a few bags of snacks that you purchased from a nearby convenience store. You make your way into the building and take the elevator up to the level where the dorm was at. As the elevator reaches the designated level, the door opened, revealing two people that you are all too familiar with.

"Oh, hi oppa!" "Hello oppa!" Both Heejin and Hyunjin greeted you.

"Hey! Where are you guys going?" You asked them as you got out of the elevator.

"We're gonna get some more boxes! We have too much stuff…" Heejin said while pouting. Hyunjin just stares at the plastic bags that you were holding.

"Oh, alright then. I bought some snacks, so be quick before the others finish it. And don't worry Hyunjin, I bought bread as well." You said, making Hyunjin smile.

"Thanks oppa!" Hyunjin responded.

"We'll be right back!" Heejin said and grabbed Hyunjin's hand as they went inside the elevator. You wave at them goodbye and head towards the dorm.

You arrive at the door within seconds. A nervous feeling suddenly came over you as this is the second time you are visiting the dorm. The first time was around a month ago, when Jinsoul invited you to Yeojin's birthday party. You haven't gotten closer to Jinsoul's other bandmates besides Heejin, Yerim and Jiwoo. You got close to them during their debut concert when you visited Jinsoul backstage. You pressed the doorbell followed with a nervous sigh. A few seconds was all it needed for the door to be opened by Chuu.

"Oppa! Come on in, we just started packing!" Jiwoo said in a happy tone.

"Perfect, right on time!" You said and went inside the dorm. Jiwoo goes back to her room to continue her work while you take off your jacket and shoes in the doorway. You hang up your jacket and put your shoes on an empty spot at the shoe rack. As you walk to the living room with the bags of snacks in hand, you look around the surrounding of the dorm.

The dorm was pretty clean but full of boxes scattered around containing the girls' stuff. It was a pretty small dorm for 12 people to live in, so you were happy that they are finally moving out after 3 years. You put the bags of snacks on the living room's table. Yerim suddenly appears in front of you , carrying a box that looked far too heavy for her. You quickly went to her and grabbed the box as her hands were getting shaky.

"Phew! Thanks oppa! You can put it there," Yerim said as she points to a stack of boxes beside the couch.

"No problem. This is really heavy, are there rocks inside?" You joked.

"It's just some clothes!" Yerim chuckled at your joke.

"Well, surely you have a lot of them. There you go." You put down the box carefully on top of a bigger box.

"Thanks oppa!" Yerim beams a cute smile at you.

"You're welcome. Have you guys eaten yet?" You asked her.

"No, we were too busy packing…"

"Well, I bought some snacks so-" You sit down on the couch and take out the snacks inside the plastic bags that you brought.

"Let's take a break!"

"Yeay! Thanks oppa!" Yerim sits on the couch and immediately opens up a bag of Cheetos.

"I'll get the others real quick." You stand up and head towards Jiwoo's room while Yerim munches down on the Cheetos. As you arrive there, Jiwoo is taping up a box while Jungeun is cleaning the windows.

"Hey guys! Are you done with your work yet?" You asked.

"Uhh, just a bit more oppa. I just have to tape up that box and I'm done!" Jiwoo replied.

"Alright then. Jungeun?"

"Can’t you see that I'm still cleaning?" Jungeun replied in a cold tone.

Kim Jungeun, a.k.a Kim Lip. Presumably, the sexiest member in LOONA. While her face emits the vibe of a charismatic woman, her personality is completely different. She has a great sense of humor as most of the memes in the LOONA fanbase are about her. She's also a caring and liable person. Jinsol once told you that she is one of the members that usually cooks for the others and she always loves cleaning around the house.

But, for some reason, she always seemed angry at you, keeping her words to a minimum and striking you with harsh facts sometimes. You asked Jinsol why she was acting that way and she simply replied with, "I don't know, maybe she's interested in you." You simply disagreed with her as there was no way you would fall in love with Jungeun since you have Jinsol embedded deep in your heart.

"Jungeun! That's not how you talk to oppa!" Jiwoo scolded Jungeun.

"It's fine. I just wanna say that the snacks are waiting for you guys and it won't take long before Yerim finishes it all,” You said and left the room to join Yerim back at the couch in the living room.

"Oh my god, you annihilated a bag of Cheetos already?!" You hold up the empty bag of Cheetos on the table.

"Hehe, sorry oppa! Can't help it," Yerim said while drinking her Coke.

"Is there any bread left?" Hyunjin bashed through the front door followed by Heejin who was holding a bunch of folded boxes. Both you and Yerim jumped in shock because of the sudden interruption. Hyunjin quickly sits beside Yerim and searches for her precious bread. Heejin puts the folded boxes at the hallway leading to the living room and joins the rest on the couch.

"Mmm~! Ish bwead ish sho fwuffy!” Hyunjin said as her mouth was already stuffed with bread.

“Yah, don’t talk when your mouth is full! Especially when oppa’s around,” Heejin said as she grabbed a pack of candies from one of the plastic bags.

“It’s fine, it was cute anyways,” Hyunjin choked and spat out her drink as she heard your compliment. Heejin and Yerim just laughed at her as she was coughing pretty badly.

Eventually, Jiwoo and Jungeun joined in after a few minutes. The room was quickly filled with conversations, the girls talked about their successful comeback while you talked about how you almost burned your house down when learning how to make macarons.

Whenever you talk, you realize that Jungeun will always focus on you, even though she was keeping a straight face. She spoke the least out of the six of you and will constantly nod or shake her head to a question. At one point, you made eye contact with her and in a split second, she turned her face away from you, hiding her shyness.

‘What's up with her?’ you thought.

But the conversation that was happening was too interesting for you to think about it furthermore.

2:15 p.m. All of you start packing the girls’ room items. Your job was mainly to pick up the boxes or lift some furniture since you are the only male there. Sounded easy, right? That was your thought before Kim Jungeun caught your attention with her outfit. She was wearing a black tank top that didn't do well on covering up her black bra underneath and black tight shorts that were showing off her beautiful legs.

You wondered why she picked that outfit for the day as it was clearly uncomfortable for her. Her top was always slipping down everytime she moved, allowing you to see her cleavage. You tried to avoid looking at her but she keeps coming into your sight as if it was intentional. Your lower region was starting to get warm and it was definitely not the right time to get a hard-on. You kept thinking about gross things that can help your boner to calm down but the moment when Jungeun bent down to pick up some stuff right in front of you, it was game over. You immediately go to the toilet to cover up your raging boner before any of the girls notices it.

About two hours later, Heejin taped up the final box, officially ending all of the work. All of you sit down on the couch and let out a sigh of relief. You were grateful that no one notices your bulge throughout all of that, otherwise you would be dying because of embarrassment.

“Hey guys! Sooyoung unnie just texted me that they are at the arcade nearby, should we join them?” Jiwoo asked while looking at her phone.

“Heck yeah!” Heejin excitedly replies.

“Oppa, are you going too?” Yerim asked you.

“Nah, you guys go ahead, I’ll just wait for noona here.”

“Lip unnie?” Hyunjin asked Jungeun.

“I’m too lazy…” Jungeun said and slowly laid down on the couch.

“Okay then, let’s get ready!” Jiwoo said and went to her room, followed by Heejin, Hyunjin and Yerim.

“Don’t bother me unless it’s something important.” Jungeun said to you before going back into her own room. You just shrugged off what she said and played around with your phone. After seeing the girls leave, you turn on the TV and watched a drama to kill time. You thought that Jungeun had already fallen asleep since she is tired and you didn’t hear any sounds from her room.

An hour passes by and your stomach starts to grumble. The snacks earlier didn’t really fill up your stomach, so you decided to cook some ramen. Before going into the kitchen, you remember about Jungeun and decide to ask her if she wants some. You walk up to her room’s door and knock gently.

“Hey, I’m gonna cook some ramen, do you want some?” You asked through the door.

“Ugh..hah,” You hear Jungeun’s voice through the door. It sounds like she is struggling, you thought. You knock on the door again.

“Are you okay in there?” No answer.

“Do you need help?” Still no answer.

Worried about her, you swiftly open the door. Your eyes search for Jungeun who was fixing the window curtains while tip-toeing on a chair to help her reach it. She didn’t notice your presence at all and was struggling with the curtains as it was stuck on the curtain rod. Before you can ask her anything, your attention suddenly diverts to her back that is facing you. You slowly eye her from head to toe a few times before locking your eyes onto her ass. Heck, you know it was wrong, but who can resist closing their eyes to this perfect and handful butt? You were hypnotized, dirty thoughts were already generated in your brain as you stared at them longer.

Suddenly, Jungeun loses her balance as her right foot slips on the chair and makes her fall. Luckily, you were there and reacted quickly enough to catch her from falling. Jungeun was shocked to see you catch her. Not to mention, she perfectly landed onto your arms and you both were in an awkward position of a bridal carry. Time stops for you as your eyes land onto hers, seeing another side of Kim Jungeun who was always giving you cold glares. You feel her body getting warmer on your arms and her cheeks turn red.

“Are you okay?” You asked her.

“Y-Yeah..you can put me down now..” Jungeun spoke in a soft tone for the first time with you, making you also blush at how cute she sounds. You gently put her feet first on the floor and removed your arms from her legs and her back. The air around the both of you was getting awkward and after a few seconds of silence, Jungeun finally speaks.

“Why did you come into my room, pervert?” Jungeun was back to her cold self but her shyness still remains visible on her cheeks.

“Chill out, I was just asking you if you wanted some ramen or not. And, if I didn’t barge into your room, you could end up with a back pain.” You answered back, making Jungeun sigh.

“You got a point. I am feeling hungry right now so why not. I’ll cook though, I don’t trust you in the kitchen.” Jungeun said before heading to the kitchen followed by you.

“The bags of ramen are on the right cabinet. If you wanna add in some more stuff, look in the fridge.” Jungeun said while washing her hands. You simply nod and open the cabinet that Jungeun pointed out. You grabbed three bags of spicy chicken flavored ramen and placed them on the kitchen counter. As you are about to check out the fridge for some ingredients, you saw that Jungeun is struggling once again, this time with getting a pot on the top of the cabinet.

“You know that it’s easy to ask for help, right?” You said and went behind her to reach the pot. Jungeun’s eyes widened as both of your bodies are closer to each other once again. She looks at your face that is focusing on the pot. Seeing how much you like to help her out makes her feel something funny. As she thinks about it longer, she starts to blush madly and her heart pounds fast until she realizes that you had grabbed the pot and saw her blushing.

“Here.” You said while giving her the pot, ignoring the fact that she is blushing.

“Thanks..” Jungeun replied, feeling relieved that you didn’t ask further.

After the little sweet moment, both of you start on making the ramen. You mostly prepared the ingredients while Jungeun does the mixing and cooking. 25 minutes later, Jungeun places the pot of hot ramen that is ready to be served on the dining table, which you have already cleaned and prepared with bowls and chopsticks. The savory aroma of the ramen fills the air, making you drool even more. Both of you sat down at the dining table, facing each other and started to dig in. You scooped a spoonful of the ramen with the ladle and put it in your bowl. You lifted up some of the ramen noodles with your chopsticks, gently blowing onto it to cool it down before putting it in your mouth.

"Mmm! So Jinsol noona was telling the truth about your cooking," You complimented her as the ramen you tasted was very delicious.

"Of course she would tell the truth. But I feel like I've added too much spice.." Jungeun said before taking a sip on her drink to reduce the heat on her tongue.

"I can handle the spice though, you're not that big of a spicy fan eh?" You said, continuing to slurp on the noodles.

“Shut up.”

A few minutes passed by and the pot was already empty. You both are still eating the last bits of the noodles in your bowls. Jungeun is fanning her clothes, feeling hot because of the spiciness of the ramen. This allows you to have a great view of her cleavage under her tank top once more, which almost made you spat out the noodles in your mouth. Even though the air conditioner was turned on, sweat formed on her forehead and her neck and your eyes focused on the beads of her sweat that was dripping down her cleavage. You gulped. Jinsol would probably kill you right now as your cock started to grow hard again.

“I feel so hot…” Jungeun said as she kept fanning her clothes that were drenched.

“You really are hot, Kim Jungeun.” You say softly, not wanting to be called out as a pervert by Jungeun again. You both finished up the food eventually and you offered to wash the dishes since she helped to cook the food. It was also a way for you to cover your bulge that is sticking out. You cleaned up the dining table and brought the dishes to the kitchen sink to wash them while Jungeun went back to her room.

You dry off your hand with a cloth near the sink after washing all of the dishes. You walked back to the living room and saw Jungeun doing yoga in front of the TV. She was still wearing the tank top from earlier, but has changed her shorts into leggings which hugged her thighs and her cute butt perfectly. She is doing a position where her feet and her hands are on the ground while her hips and her torso are kept high, like a certain sex position. You were stunned at your place, completely seduced by her sensual aura that is making you hard for the third time. You watch every part of her body like a hawk, gradually increasing your arousal level as you already think about how to take her down. You quickly put that thought away once Jungeun realizes that you are looking at her.

“W-Why are you doing yoga at this time?” You ask her before she could say anything in hope that she won’t call you out.

“I wanna work off the ramen that we just ate.” Jungeun said before moving into another position. This time, she lays down her body flat onto the yoga mat and lifts only her torso up with her hands, allowing her butt to clench and showing you how perfect it looks. You bit your lips at the sight, thinking how easily you could rip her leggings off and fuck her ass right at that moment. But you surely don’t want to be killed by Jungeun for suddenly invading her privacy so you have to keep your cool.

You slowly walk towards the couch and sat there while Jungeun is focusing on the TV that is playing a yoga guide show. You pull out your phone from your pocket and play around with it to distract yourself from staring at her body. As she wasn't looking at you, you fixed up your pants to hide your boner. You scroll through your phone, opening up apps that you never really open while burning the image of you fucking Jungeun in your head. After a while with a few more position changes, the yoga guide show is almost at the end as there is one more position to do. Jungeun lays down on her back and raises up her legs while bending her knees. She places her knees around her shoulder area and her arms on her feet to exert some pressure on it.

The position is called Happy Baby as said on the TV, but to you, it just looks like she was ready to receive a cock in her pussy. Because she is on the floor, her crotch area is exposed to you and your imagination of stripping her naked in that position is starting to flow. Your dick was painfully hard at this point, and your patience is starting to run out. Eventually, you stand up, planning to let out your desires in the toilet until Jungeun stops you.

"Giving up already?" Jungeun said in a teasing manner.

"I'm sorry?" You pretended to be confused.

"Hm, still want to defend yourself eh? I know you're having a boner right now." Jungeun releases herself from the position earlier, stands up and gets closer to you. Your eyes widen as you are getting exposed by her.

"I've noticed that you've been eyeing my body, especially my ass." Jungeun gives you a little smirk while crossing her arms.

"I-I'm sorry, I-"

"Shh...There's no need for that. I'll forgive you, but with one condition..." Jungeun gently pushes you back to the couch and straddles your lap. She brought her lips to your right ear and blew hot breath onto it, making you squirm under her body.

"Please me, just like how you did to Jinsol unnie."

The gentleman switch inside your body was turned off once you hear those alluring words. You wrapped her legs around your hips and lifted her up to carry her to somewhere comfortable. You made your way to her bedroom and pinned her down to the bed, not caring to close the door since there is no one else that can witness this sinful act.

"You are going to regret saying that, Miss Kim Jungeun." You leaned your head closer to her and pressed your lips against hers. The taste of her cherry lips makes its way into your taste buds while she reciprocates by moaning into your mouth. You feel her body is getting warmer with each passing second and her kisses are getting a bit more rough. Her tongue asks for entrance in your mouth, so you part your lips and both of your tongues dance while exchanging saliva into each other's mouth. Your hands makes their way down to her thick thighs, the culprit that has made your dick feel pain throughout the three times you got hard for her. You moved your hand up and down, caressing it to show your affection. As you continue to explore each other’s mouth, both of your breaths are decreasing overtime so Jungeun pushes you away from her lips and pants heavily.

“Jinsol unnie was right, you are a great kisser.” Jungeun says and wraps her arms around your neck. You looked deep into her brown eyes and admired her facial features. You gotta admit, she is one of the most beautiful women that you have ever seen, alongside Jinsoul of course. Her gaze that was filled with lust enamored your heart, making it beat faster than normal.

“Do you want me to suck your cock?” Jungeun asks you and you unhesitantly nodded to her question.

“Eat my pussy out until I cum, then I’ll let you fuck my face.” Jungeun moves her body back to the headboard of the bed, inviting you to strip her naked. Like a cat, you crawl towards her and tower over her body. You grab the bottom hem of her tank top and pull it upwards. Jungeun raises her arms to allow you to remove it from her slim body and throw it away somewhere in the room. Even though Jungeun is not as thick as Hyejoo or as curvy as Jinsol, her body is still a killer, packed with a sexy ribcage, a small waist and of course, beautiful legs.

Your lips instantly latched on her neck, giving her a few kisses here and there to increase the tension between you both. The sweet scent of her perfume was still there despite her being sweaty because of the spiciness of the ramen and the yoga that she did earlier. Jungeun moaned softly at your kisses but tries to silence herself to keep her cold act. Feeling a bit bolder now, your hands slowly reach behind her and unhook her black bra. You heard the hooks come off one by one, eventually letting her bra fall down by itself. A sigh of relief was also heard by you as Jungeun felt the tension on her chest was released. Her perky breasts were finally revealed to you - Jinsol is bigger than her, but you can say that they are pretty handful.

“Fuck, you’re so hot Jungeun.” You say before planting a quick peck on her lips.

Unable to contain your lust for her anymore, you forcefully grab onto her leggings and rip them open, earning a screech from Jungeun that you always hear in the LOONA memes compilation videos on YouTube. “Hey! Calm your hormones down! Thank god that this is already ripped, otherwise I will be chopping your dick off.” Jungeun was slightly mad at you for destroying her leggings but thankfully, she was okay with it.

You continue to strip her naked by peeling off the ripped leggings off her legs. As you throw away her bra and her leggings off the bed, you are slightly shocked to see Jungeun wasn’t wearing any panties underneath her leggings and is now fully naked right in front of you. Fully mesmerized by the sight, your cock was begging to be released from its confines. But, you already had a deal with her - make her cum and you’ll get a facefuck. Easy.

“Are you gonna eat me out or-ahh..” Jungeun let out a soft moan as you drive your hands towards her clit that is already wet with her juices. You traced her clit with your fingers as you watch Jungeun’s face gradually easing into the pleasure. Jungeun closes her eyes and leans back while you smirk, thinking that she is now under your control. As you continue to move your fingers on her clit, Jungeun spreads her legs and throws her head back, giving you the approval to taste her.

Your hands have moved itself to her thighs to keep her in place while you eat her pussy out. Steadily moving your head down to her glistening clit, you stick out your tongue and lick the juices on her clit, making Jungeun squirm slightly. She tastes sweet and you are addicted to it right away. Not wasting anymore time, you capture her clit with your lips and swirl your tongue, making small circles around it. Jungeun’s hands made it to your hair, gripping onto it tightly as you keep giving her clit the attention that it wants. You feel the burning sensation on your scalp but nothing matters at this point. The only focus that you have at this point is to give Jungeun what she desires.

No progress will be made if you keep using your mouth, so you start moving your hands to her clit and use your fingers to stimulate it. Jungeun's pussy continues to flow out more nectar and her eyes roll back in satisfaction. You pull your lips away from her clit and teased her splayed lips using two fingers before pushing them into her warm and tight cavern. Jungeun reacted with an erotic moan once your fingers enter her body. Moving the joints of your two fingers inside her pussy causes her to flinch around and breathe heavily. She equips herself with a pillow nearby to muffle her moans in reason to keep her tsundere character alive.

You pull your fingers away from her clit slowly and thrust it back inside her deeper than before. You repeat this action several times and eventually find a perfect rhythm. Jungeun was not expecting you to be this good as her moans were getting louder each time you thrust into her. After a few more thrusts, you felt a certain type of flesh inside her pussy has made contact with the tip of your fingers. Jungeun immediately reacts by pulling your hair harder and bucking her hips onto your face even more.

“F-Fuck yeah, that’s the spot...keep doing that,”

Upping the pace of your thrusts into her, you continue to hit her g-spot. Your lips latch onto her clit once again, this time with your tongue assisting your fingers to thrust into her pussy better. Jungeun has lost control over her body, shaking violently and constantly screaming out curse words into the pillow she is holding.

Suddenly, Jungeun lets out the loudest scream into the pillow. Her thighs spontaneously wrap itself around your head, locking you in as she climaxes. You feel her juices flowing into your mouth like a waterfall and drenching your palm at the same time. Her orgasm was really big as you failed to keep all of her juices in your mouth. When you feel that her thighs have weakened its grip on your head, marking the end of her orgasm, you pull out your fingers from her pussy and lapped up the excess juice on her folds. You gulp down on her sweet cum and with a big sigh, you move your face away from her thighs.

There is no other sight that can beat the sight that you have now right in front of you. Jungeun’s face was flushed with satisfaction, her legs were still spread open and her chest was heaving up and down as she was still in a daze after her strong climax just now. You smiled, admiring how much of a mess that she has made.

“Hah..v-very well then, you have impressed me. Now, for your reward.” Jungeun said before moving herself away and pushed you to the headboard, replacing her spot earlier.

She straddles your lap once again and smashes her lips onto yours, tasting herself in your mouth that was filled with her cum just now. In the meantime, her hands find the hem of your pants, reaches inside and drags it off your legs. Pulling her lips away from you after several minutes, Jungeun’s face makes its way down to your crotch that shows off your prominent bulge under your boxers. You squirmed as Jungeun cups your bulge and blows a hot breath onto it. She licks the tip of your penis through the thin fabric of your boxers before pulling it down to uncover your penis. You felt the cold air around the room on your shaft, making it throb and twitch harder.

“Hmm, not as big as I thought, but surely this is enough.” You felt a bullet was shot through your heart.

Jungeun places her hand on the base of your cock, causing it to leak out precum from your slit. She licks her lips before painting a strip of saliva along the underside of your shaft and stopping on the tip. You moaned as Jungeun spits all over your cock and starts sucking on your tip. Her tongue collects all of your precum while her hand spreads her saliva all over your cock, not leaving any parts of it dry. Your cock continued to throb in her small hand alongside your moans that are beginning to increase in volume.

You can’t believe that the cold Kim Jungeun is now on your cock, giving you the fantasy that you desired. Spitting more saliva onto your cock, her hand glides up and down you with no resistance. Her lips detached itself from your tip, giving her fingers access to it to trace your slit and releasing more of your liquid. Jungeun giggles at the expressions that you were making.

“You really are a pervert…” Jungeun said before indulging your cock into her mouth.

Your body weakens once you feel the insides of her mouth with your cock. Jungeun began to bob her head up and down while still grabbing a hold on the base of your shaft. You brought your hand to her head, running your fingers through the soft blonde strands of hair. As she looked up at you, you realized that she looks gorgeous with a cock in her mouth, a sight that will surely make any man happy. Her mouth continued to fill itself with your length until you felt your tip reach the back of her mouth, causing her to gag loudly. Your hands automatically hold her head as the warmness of her mouth and the lustful gag that she lets out is driving you into maximum pleasure.

Jungeun taps on your thigh after a while as she was losing some oxygen. You quickly removed your hand from the back of her head and Jungeun releases her mouth from your cock with a pop, leaving strings of saliva along the way. She takes this time to breath properly to prepare herself for the next act.

“Get off the bed and fuck my mouth.”

You got off the bed quickly while Jungeun gets on her knees. After you remove the last piece of your clothing, she parts her lips, ready to receive your cock again. You hold onto both sides of her head and push a few inches of your cock into her mouth. You start your thrusting with a slow rhythm to make her feel comfortable. As she looks up to you with a gaze filled with lust, you push your shaft even more, causing saliva to escape from the sides of her mouth. When your shaft hits the back of her mouth, she gags on your cock, followed by teardrops on her eyes as she is on cloud nine on how well you are using your reward.

Developing a faster rhythm as time goes by, Jungeun’s face is starting to get messy with her tears and her saliva. You didn’t care about it since you were chasing on your own desires. Sweat formed on your forehead as you fuck her mouth harder. An idea suddenly popped into your mind and after one final deep thrust, you withdrew your cock out of her mouth. Jungeun hyperventilates once you release your grip on her head and wipes off the excessive saliva on her face with her hand.

“Impressive...considering that you haven’t cum yet, you are allowed to fu-” Jungeun was cut off by you grabbing her arms and pinning her to the bed.

“I’m done with you being in charge, now let me take over.” You said sternly, emphasizing on the words, ‘take over’.

Your lust for her was unstoppable at this point. Turning her body around, her face was now buried into the bed. You forcefully grabbed her hips and bent her knees, allowing her hips to stay up. Raising her head slightly to look at you, Jungeun was stunned at your changed behavior. She found it rather attractive, how your eyes were burning with lust and how rough your actions were getting.

As your hands were still on her hips, you moved them to her butt and gently squeezed her cheeks, causing Jungeun to squirm under your touch. Seems like your idea is starting to work out. Using your right hand to stroke your hard cock a few times, you line it up with the pink lips of her pussy that was radiating with heat. Jungeun feels your tip nudging at her entrance and bites her lip once you push it in further. With a satisfied grunt, a few inches of your cock is finally in her cunt. Her walls were suffocating your cock with its tightness but you ignored the pain that you were feeling. Your hips begin to move, thrusting your shaft into her in a slow manner. Her juices were smearing your length, allowing it to slide in and out of her pussy with ease. Jungeun buries her face into the bed to silence her moans, not wanting to show herself falling into your dominance.

You realize what she was doing and you definitely didn’t like it. So, you grab a handful of her long blonde hair and pull it towards you, raising her head so that you can hear her lewd moans. Jungeun stayed strong however, holding her breath a few times and biting her lips harder to resist herself from moaning. Increasing the rhythm of your thrust into her tight cavern, your goal is to make her moan and give up on her tsundere character. Her body shakes in your arms as your thrusts get more aggressive, considering how you are gritting your teeth while pounding her. You lean your body onto her back and rest your head on her shoulder, giving kisses on her neck right after.

“I know that you’re enjoying this, so drop the tough act already,” You gave her butt a harsh slap before bringing your lips closer to her ears.

“And moan for me.”

Like a spark ignited in her body, Jungeun finally lets out her beautiful moans. You smirked, delighted at the fact that Jungeun is now under your spell, which is the pleasure that you are giving her. You continue to thrust into her warm walls even further, increasing the volume of her moans before putting an end to your rhythm and pulling out your cock out of her body, earning a whine from Jungeun.

“Tell me how much you love my cock.” You grab her by the neck and gently squeeze it to force out an answer from her.

“I love your cock so much oppa! Please keep fucking this slut until she cums!” Jungeun screamed.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” You said and gave her ass two hard slaps.

“Ahh! I-I’m sorry oppa…”

“Lay down on the bed. Now.” Your cold tone sent shivers down Jungeun’s spine and quickly enough, she laid back down on the bed and waited for your actions.

You climb back on the bed and move towards her, putting her under your body. You gave her a quick peck on her lips before spreading her legs apart and lining up your cock with her damp pussy once again.

“You can’t cum until I say so. If you cum, I won’t hesitate to punish you.” You said and immediately inserted your cock back into her pussy, making Jungeun scream with ecstasy.

The intensity between you both was at its limit as Jungeun leaked out more and more of her juices from her pussy and your cock throbs harder inside the tight grip of her pussy. Your head leans closer to hers, intently gazing into her heavenly brown eyes that filled with passion and desire. At that moment, Jinsol was completely lost in your mind as you have fallen in love with the woman right in front of you named Kim Jungeun. The rhythm of your pounding never slowed down, instead it keeps going faster and harder. Although your back is starting to emit sweat, your lust for her powers your body to keep going.

No other sounds were heard in the room except for the squelching of her wet and warm walls receiving your shaft, the squeaking of the bed because of your hard thrusts and the symphony of moans from the both of you. Challenging Jungeun’s endurance, your hands land on her perky breasts and begin to knead it gently, aiming to stimulate her into her orgasm. Her pink nipples erect once you use your fingers on them, pinching and pulling it until you replace it with your lips. Gently sucking on her right nipple, a persistent flow of high-pitched moans escapes Jungeun’s lips as the pleasure was too much for her.

“Oppa…please...” Jungeun begged you.

“Giving up already?” You said with a smirk, referencing her words earlier.

Without giving a care to her words, you keep penetrating her hot flesh while teasing her tits. The tip of your cock came into contact with her g-spot and Jungeun screams out your name. You were in euphoria, the pleasure that you were getting was a lot for a man to have. The knot in your stomach is starting to build itself, signaling your upcoming orgasm.

"Do you want to cum baby?"

"Yes please! I want to cum all over your cock pleease!"

"Then, cum. Cover my cock with your cum." You demanded.

Jungeun came instantly. You feel as the walls of her vagina gripped onto your shaft. Her juices gushed out everywhere, mainly coating your cock and your balls. Some leaked out and landed on her bed. Her orgasm was bigger than the first one, acknowledging how you have successfully raised her senses.

"B-Baby..I'm close..." You alerted her.

"O-Outside…" Jungeun weakly replied.

Hearing her words made your brain come up with one decision. You fuck her in a relentless pace as the knot in your stomach grew tighter. Feeling your cock is twitching inside her, you immediately pull out from her tight pussy and straddle her torso, aiming your cock right in front of her face. Jungeun was still weak from her orgasm just now and didn't realize what you were doing. You stroke your cock with a fast motion, easily sliding in and out of your hand because of her juices lubricating it. Eventually, with a big groan, streaks of white and thick semen burst out of your tip, painting Jungeun's enticingly beautiful face. She closes her eyes as she comes back to her senses with more ropes of cum landing on her cheeks and her forehead.

After the last streak of your cum lands on her nose, her gorgeous face is fully covered. You sighed and admired the mess that you had made, the cum that was dripping down and the satisfied expression pictured on Jungeun’s face. Jungeun slowly opened her eyes to be greeted with your sweet smile and your cock that was still throbbing. She was lost in your eyes for a brief moment but suddenly, she pushes you away from her.

“Goddamnit, now I have to clean your filth off, ugh...” Jungeun said and went to the bathroom to wash her face.

“Jungeun I-” You sighed as she closed the bathroom door.

Jungeun looked at herself in the mirror from head to toe. Her thighs were stained with her own cum, her nipples were still erect due to your teasing and of course, her face was coated with your semen. She smiled. Licking a bit of your creamy semen on her lips, she squealed at how she finally tasted a part of you. Worried that you might leave soon as she has another plan set up with you, she quickly washed her face at the sink and got out of the bathroom. You didn’t realize that Jungeun was already out of the bathroom and were about to wear your clothes before a hand stopped you from doing so.

“Shower with me?”

#loona smut #kim lip smut #loona #kim lip #kpop smut #kpop fanfiction #reader insert #male reader

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spookylittletownhq · 2 years ago

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A CECIL CROSS has arrived in Albion. While they may seem FAMILIAR, they are connected to the WESTERLY FOOTHILLS CROSSES. Their passport was stamped at Falls Inn and shows that they are THIRTY, SIX FOOT THREE INCHES, with DUSTY CHESTNUT HAIR and GRAY GREEN EYES. Mrs. Kuiper at the Inn said that they seemed FORGIVING and METHODICAL, though they were seen SMOKING A STRANGE SMELLING HERB FROM A THICKLY PACKED CIGAR as they departed St. Catharine’s Depot. Be wary, and report any sightings to Madame Lange’s Tea Room.

INTRODUCING CECIL CROSS

(This is in the voice of Cecil’s father, as he sends a prayer to the Heavens, as he asks for forgiveness for his son.)

Dear Heavenly Father, thou art in Heaven… please listen to my pleas, and hear my explanation of my son and his little deeds.

When he was born, oh so small, in the dead of night, I wept on my knees as I am sure you remember well. Miriam and I, my wife, thought he wouldn’t make it to daybreak, with a heartbeat so faint and his limbs so fragile. For weeks, it seemed, each day was precious and un-promised, just as the last, but with your grace, he grew in strength. He was not named until his second moon had come & passed, for we feared to give him a name would be to lose more than we already would.

Once our fears began to fade, small Cecil grew with rapid progression, and we have you to thank for this blessing, I know. He never stayed in bed during the nighttime, and would doze off in the most odd places during the day. Always in the garden, but careful not to trample the sprouting buds of flowers & vegetables. Miriam was quick to put a spade in his small fists, and from there, he blossomed.

Though a strange child, small he didn’t quite remain, towering above the other children in the Valley by the age of ten. Then, I prayed to you, for he might find a friend, someone to run the dusty streets with and skin his knees climbing trees. I know you hear every word, but I fear most of my requests over these long, hard years have fallen on deaf ears. We have suffered, Lord, and struggled through our days. With no children following our little Cecil, it’s just me and my brothers in the fields, and he is of little use with a plow or a horse.

I fear I have been less of a father & more of a burden to Cecil, so for this, I ask for forgiveness as well. I did not foster & teach him in the ways of you, Lord, for I am regretful. He has snuck out of morning mass more times than I can count, and I fear sometimes he harbors an evil streak in his palms. Do not misunderstand, he is a miracle worker, and has cured more ailments with his funny little plants than I ever knew was humanly possible - but I wonder what it is exactly, to cause him to be so… odd.

Childhood was simple enough for him, I suppose. We struggled with our funds, but his needs were met modestly, food on the table and a fire in the hearth. Cecil is not one to complain or want for grand things, and of this, I am grateful, for we never could have provided jewels and crumpets if he’d asked for it. Birthdays were unceremonious, a regret of mine yet… but he seemed happy, he seemed bright.

Miriam wept in my arms the day Cecil decided to move along, make a name for himself in his own home, and had somehow purchased with funds I had no idea of a little beaten down cottage, just down the lane. I suppose now I took advantage of his nearness, too bitter that he was to abandon our farm to pursue his own apothecary of what I saw to be useless ointments & potions… perhaps yet, I was right. Perhaps yet, I should have asked you for more guidance, but it is too late.

Not even two years passed, Cecil on his own, making deals in the night and tending to his covered gardens, the strange smoke always coming from his chimney… he was nineteen, I believe, when the Burton boy died. I mourned, of course, but thought not to pray to you, Lord, for protection… for sometimes, tragedy strikes. I had not realized what Cecil had done in those years, just shy of two, for the town. How much his reputation had grown, how much faith had become bestowed in his fingers.

They whispered of hexes and magic and I would scoff and laugh. I never thought that so quick, they’d turn their back on my son, and he would disappear into the night. But, he fled, as the windows shuttered against him in the days following the Burton boy’s funeral. I can’t help but wonder why he ran; why he hadn’t been more careful, wonder what truly happened…

It took a year for him to write to us, to inform us he had found a new home, almost twenty one now, and was tending a small, humble garden of his own. A ramshackle shop set up on a street corner on Saturday’s, he reported, was his source of income. He spoke nothing of lovers, or of friends, or of the future, or even of the past. The letters were short, and he was different; changed. Cecil had seen the true color of man, and how quickly you can lose their favor, and become a shell of what he’d been in the past.

When Miriam died, only five years after Cecil left, the letters stopped… until now. I lay here, Lord, sick and on my final days, but feeling assured that my son is coming home. I will be gone in your arms by the time the train stops in Albion, but Cecil has returned.

I may never know why, but he says the moon spoke to him, and has called him home. He says he is bored of the mundane, and he misses the smell of the Valley’s Earth, of the energy running in the roots of the trees. I think he has gone a bit mad, but then again… so have I.

I pray you forgive his misdeeds, I pray he is welcomed, and I pray he is not alone when he steps off the train and onto that platform. Send someone to guide him, as you have me, for a son without his father is a lost man indeed.

Amen.

—

Welcome to the valley! Please send in your account within 24 hours. 💚

#spookylittletown;accepted #the moon gardener

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ahkaahshi · 4 years ago

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appreciation [nanami kento x reader]

pairing: nanami kento x fem baker reader

genre: fluff

warning(s): swearing, brief violence, mentions of injuries and a curse

word count: 3.7k (yeah I went off a bit lol)

overview: you know how you feel about nanami and how nanami feels about your bakery, but on a rainy day, you finally learn how he feels about you

As you watch rain pour down outside, forming patterns along the windows of the shop and collecting in murky puddles disturbed by the rushed footsteps of people trying to find shelter from the storm, your eyelids threaten to close once more. The elbow propping your chin up on the counter wobbles slightly, the gentle rhythm of the store’s soft instrumental music melting together with the gentle patter of raindrops to form a lullaby that, combined with your exhaustion, sends you to sleep.

The sound of growling and a pair of familiar, red eyes appearing in the darkness, however, quickly wakes you up with a start, and your gaze darts around the shop. With an exasperated sigh and shake of the head, you stand up straight on shaky legs and task yourself with making a fresh cup of coffee to give you a bit of much-needed energy. As long as you stayed awake, you wouldn’t have to be haunted by this image an unsettling experience earlier this week had created.

While you prepare the caffeinated beverage, a glance up at the time finds the clock’s hands at a familiar hour—one that always marks the arrival of a regular customer. Once your drink starts dripping into the cup you’ve placed in the machine, you busy yourself instead with opening one of the display cases housing a vast array of different breads and baked goods.

The aroma that greets you fills you with warmth and brings a smile to your face, as does the thought of his impending arrival. Your hand knows the location on the shelves of his favorite loaf by heart, since you make it specially for him without a care in the world if anyone else wants to purchase it. Upon retrieving it from inside, you wrap it up carefully and set it down on the counter.

Contemplatively, you eye the other pastries waiting patiently behind the glass, wondering if it would be too obvious to get him something else to eat and some coffee as an invitation to stay a bit longer. Sometimes, he found half an hour in his busy day to seat himself at one of the booths along the wall and enjoy a treat you’d selected for him while he occupied himself talking to you if you weren’t busy or reading through one of his books if you were. But no matter how long he stayed, it never felt like long enough to you.

I hope the rain hasn’t driven him away today.

But you should know better than to think this way, since, through your conversations with him and his actions, you’ve learned he’s a man of routine. Regardless of what you should or shouldn’t be convincing yourself to believe, however, your attention snaps to the door when you hear the bells above it jingle. The sound of rain, cars honking, and passing conversations seep inside for a few moments as the man in question shakes water off his umbrella and places it securely into the holder by the entrance.

Against the bleak darkness of the cloudy sky outside, his sand-colored suit and blonde hair seem to glow in the warm lights hanging down from the ceiling, making him look almost ethereal—to the point where you wouldn’t have been surprised if white, feathery wings sprouted from his back. Maybe he was your guardian angel, since he’d just saved you from falling asleep on the job once again.

“Kento, welcome back!” you chirp, lips curling up into a grin you struggle to keep as professional-looking as possible.

Taking off his glasses and tucking them safely away in one of the pockets of his suit jacket, he turns to you and sends a hint of a smile your way that you know is rare given his serious demeanor. “Good evening, (f/n),” he greets you as he walks towards the counter, making your heart beat faster with every foot of distance closed between the two of you.

You ask, once he’s approached the counter and glanced at the loaf you’ve wrapped up for him, “So, can I convince you to dine in and take a little break with one of our fresh pastries, hmm?”

A hint of a chuckle sounds from him through a short breath out his nose, and he reaches into a pocket in his trousers to retrieve his wallet. “I don’t need much convincing on a day like this, but I’ll take a pastry as well, please. And a coffee, if you don’t mind.”

“You came in right as I was brewing my own, so you can just have it, instead, since I know we take ours the same way,” you mention, turning away from him to grab the steaming drink.

“Nonsense,” he utters, stopping you in your tracks, “If you made it for yourself, keep it for yourself. I can wait a few extra minutes for mine.”

Prickles of heat rise to your cheeks, but you nod and give him a small, appreciative smile. Once you’ve selected a treat of his choice for his visit, you enter the total cost into the register, which he prepares promptly and hands to you. His fingers brushing against yours sends tingles across your skin like stray sparks of electricity. “I’ll bring your coffee over once it’s ready,” you offer, speaking to distract yourself from your racing thoughts, “Go ahead and get comfortable; you’ve got the whole shop to yourself.”

He thanks you with a small dip of the head and picks up his food so he can head over to the same booth he selects each time he visits while you start making a fresh cup of coffee for him. As you take a sip of your own, you can’t help but pause a moment to admire his appearance now that his attention is focused elsewhere. He’s a striking man with sharp features and a straightforward, authoritative manner of speaking, but there’s a certain softness to his edges that you’ve seen within him over the time you’ve been acquainted.

You wonder if that tenderness to him is reserved for just for you. If you’re the only one who brings about the softness you can see behind his warm, brown gaze. If he would put his book down as quickly if someone else approached him. You like to think yourself the only witness to his subtle, gentle mannerisms, but you prevent yourself from getting too caught up in your thoughts by reminding yourself that he’s a customer. Someone who comes solely because your bakery’s the closest one that makes his favorite bread, rather than because he has any sort of attachment to you.

With a small sigh, you bring your cup of coffee to your lips for a long drink before taking the one you’d made for Nanami in your other hand and wandering over to his table. Judging by how the crowds outside are moving, everyone seems to be more concerned with getting home and out of the terrible weather than with picking up treats from your bakery. If you hadn’t had such a busy day, you’d be concerned by the lack of customers in at this hour. Now, however, as your aching feet move over to the empty seat across from the shop’s sole patron, you appreciate the quietude in the store that allows you peace in its final hour before closing.

Nanami slides a page marker towards the spine of the journal he’s writing in and closes it when you arrive with his freshly brewed drink, setting it down in front of him. “Thank you.”

“No problem. Mind if I sit?” you ask, even though your knees are already bending to guide you onto the padded seat across from him.

“As long as I won’t distract you from your work, please, go ahead,” he answers, then takes a long, appreciative sip of his coffee.

“I don’t think anyone here would be opposed to me taking a break, considering it’s just us,” is your response given with a smile. You’ve forgotten quite how long it’s been since you’ve had a moment off your feet, and you let out a long sigh as you sink into the booth. Weariness makes itself known in a yawn that suddenly escapes your mouth—a sign that all the fatigue you’ve been somehow avoiding is starting to catch up to you. “Excuse me.”

Blonde eyebrows furrowing slightly with concern, he wonders, “Long day?”

Shrugging, you gaze into the dark liquid filling the cup in your hands, watching it quiver with each minute movement of your body. “It’s been a bit of a long week, to be completely honest,” you sigh. A pair of red eyes appears in your coffee as your mind wanders momentarily. Taking a deep breath and curling your lips into a forced grin, you quickly gather yourself and add, “But, anyway, it’s alright. I’m sure you’re much more exhausted than I am given what you have to do on a daily basis.”

“The nature of our jobs may be different, but I’m sure you’ve been just as busy as I have.”

You chuckle softly at his words and add, “You fight curses and I make baked goods. I’m sure one’s a bit more taxing than the other. Or, at least, more life-threatening.”

“Both deserve appreciation,” he states in his usual, matter of fact tone that never fails to amuse you. Though he’s completely serious, you always find a bit of humor in his straightforward manner of speaking, especially when he argues the essential nature of your job. “I know that you make this specifically for me just to make my life that much easier—” he taps the wrapped loaf of bread with one of his long fingers—“so, I appreciate your work and what you do.”

Heat rises to your cheeks, making you lower your head bashfully while you take a long drink of coffee. It’s a surprise your voice doesn’t falter when you comment, “You’re too kind to me.”

“There’s no such thing in your case. I’m simply being honest.” There’s a short silence that ensues his compliment, during which you try to slow your racing heart by glancing out the window at the other shops, cars, and people all distorted by watery veins across the glass. Nanami’s gaze doesn’t leave yours, however, and he inquires, “Are you taking care of yourself?”

Somewhat dozily, you echo, “Taking care of myself?” as your eyes flutter shut so you can think for a moment. Almost immediately, they fly open once more at the sight of those red orbs piercing the darkness once more. “I just… haven’t been getting enough sleep, I don’t think.”

“Is something bothering you?”

The expression of concern on his face could easily be mistaken for frustration or disgust, given the way his lips are pursed, and brows angled downwards. But you know from experience that those emotions are reserved for conversations about his work, rather than those regarding you, and his level of interest warms your heart. “I… I saw something earlier this week, and… it was a bit unsettling, is all.”

You can’t help but notice how his full attention is on you when your eyes meet again. Neither his pastry nor his steaming cup of coffee is on his mind, since neither one is in his hands. Instead, his gaze searches yours for the answer that you’re not speaking. Before he can attempt to coax it out of you with another question, you quickly realize that the conversation has veered off in a direction you deem selfish given your desire to allow your most devoted customer a peaceful refuge from the world under the roof of your shop.

“Please, I really don’t want to worry you,” you speak quickly, your hands moving energetically for extra emphasis. Unfortunately, your fingers nudge the cup in front of you just hard enough to topple it over rather dramatically, and its contents flow across the table in a dark wave that has you uttering a curse word under your breath and reaching for the napkin dispenser. Your fingertips are met with plastic, bringing you to realization you’d forgotten to refill it after the morning rush. “I’m so sorry. I’m really out of it today, it seems. Give me a second while I run to the back, okay?”

Before he can respond, you’re up and making a beeline for the kitchen and storage room, cursing yourself on the way there for being so clumsy. A rush of unusually cold air along with the sound of rain pounding the ground greets you when you set foot in the kitchen, and your gaze moves across the room to where the back door is mysteriously ajar. You shudder, but not just because of the chill.

I just got the lock on that damn door fixed…

Your heart pounds against your ribcage, and your feet feel as if they’ve been replaced by sacks of bricks when you try to lift them. It’s as if every fiber in your body is resisting any and all movement toward the door even though you know you can’t leave it open. The horrible sense of dread welling up inside of you almost makes you want to call for Nanami but telling yourself you’re just being dramatic allows you to walk to the other end of the room, but it feels like miles separate you and the far wall.

With a deep breath, you shut the door once more, returning the air within the kitchen to its original stillness, but the weight of the silence that follows feels crushing. And that’s when you hear it. The low, distorted rumbling that you’d heard nearly every night this week from outside your bedroom window. You almost don’t want to look, but when you finally muster enough courage to follow the direction of the ominous sound, you’re met with that same, red gaze that had burned through the gap between your shutters at night.

A few feet away, in a corner that seems much darker than usual, a disfigured but humanoid hand splays across the tiled flooring as the curse who’d been making house calls pulls itself out of the shadowy depths it’s created. Your breath hitches in your throat as fear takes hold, its cold grip freezing your body in place so all you can do is watch as the creature rises up from the floor and stares at you hungrily from where it stands on all fours.

Before you can even understand what’s happening, it lunges at you with a shriek. Thankfully, one of the loudest screams you can muster leaves your mouth, and your survival instincts break you free of the paralysis your emotions had trapped you in. You’re barely able to evade the curse’s grip as you run around the corner of a counter and grab the closest thing to you in the moment, which happens to be a broom. Furiously, and without thinking, you whack the creature as hard as you can while you try to run back towards the shop.

“Kento!” you shout, words accompanied by a loud hiss as you slip, falling against the cold tiles with a thud. The arm you use to brace yourself courses with pain, but that doesn’t stop you from using your free arm to continue throttling the curse with your barely effective weapon of choice.

Just as you see a shadowy hand reach out towards you to grab you, your vision is suddenly obscured by the familiar, sandy brown of Nanami’s suit. In an instant, he’s swinging his cleaver in front of him with his cursed technique that downs the beast in one fell swoop. Once the threat has been eliminated, your knight in business attire places his weapon in its holster on his back and bends down to check on you.

Any questions he asks you are lost in a hum of shock that rings in your ears for a moment, and you find yourself unable to do anything but stare at where your otherworldly assailant had been looming over you mere seconds ago. However, a sudden moment of clarity brings you back to reality, and you finally meet Nanami’s gaze, feel his hands on your arms, and hear his voice.

“It was waiting for me.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The curse,” you clarify before repeating, “Bastard was waiting for me.”

As he helps you up to your feet and gets you settled back down at the booth you’d previously occupied—and that he’d cleaned, you notice—you explain to him the story of the unsettling visitor whose loitering had robbed you of your sleep the entire week. “Why didn’t you ever tell me you could see curses?” he wonders, taking off his suit jacket and draping it around your shoulders when he notices you shivering. Whether you’re doing so out of shock or your body’s need to maintain its natural temperature, you’re unsure, but the warmth of the garment he sheds soon puts an end to it.

“I don’t know,” you answer slowly, eyes steadily making their way up to his face where it hovers above your arm so he can carefully place a bag of ice he’d wrapped in a towel on the steadily swelling lump adorning your forearm. “I think it’s because I wish I couldn’t see them and saying that I can would really make me think about all the horrible things I’ve seen.”

“Do you have any other injuries?” His touch is gentle in an unexpected way, given the level of his strength and the ease with which he’d disposed of your attacker, and you can’t help but watch his fingers rearrange the bag of ice to cover your injury after you shake your head in response. “Give me a moment,” he states, retrieving his phone from his pocket, “I’m calling a coworker to take us back to Jujutsu High’s campus so you can have a proper examination.”

“I’m okay! I promise!” you splutter quickly, but the pain in your side that suddenly makes itself known when you try to stand causes you to grimace and further solidifies his suspicions. “I don’t want you to work more than you have to.”

He ignores you and delivers a very to the point message to his colleague with information about your whereabouts anyway. After he hangs up, a feeling of appreciation spurs you to open the palm of your opposite hand as you extend it towards him and rest it on the table. He returns your gesture by placing his unoccupied hand in yours so your fingers can wrap around it tenderly. But even once you’ve given it a gentle squeeze, he doesn’t make any attempts to retreat from your grip.

Quietly, you ask, as your heart flutters in your chest, “Why are you doing this for me?”

With a gentle sigh, his eyes reflecting a glimmer of amusement meet yours. “Do you remember the first day we met?” You nod and a small smile forms across your lips at the pleasant memory coming back to you, pushing away all the worries and doubts that had been previously swirling around your head.

“I came in here, asking if you sold my favorite type of bread. You told me you didn’t—much to my dismay. However, you looked at me for a long moment and I don’t know what it was you saw in me, but whatever it was spurred you to say, come back again tomorrow, and I’ll have some made for you.”

The short pause he takes while his gaze shifts to the bread you’d given him earlier is filled with the soft music playing throughout the shop. “I’ve thought about how you could’ve just said no and been done with me. We didn’t have any obligations to one another. We were just strangers. Yet, you chose to go out of your way for me.”

“You were exhausted.”

He watches you expectantly, so you explain, “That’s what I saw in you. That you were just so, so tired, Kento; and I wanted to do anything I could to give you some peace of mind. That’s why I make it, just for you.” A giddy grin spreads across your lips at being reminded of how your coworkers had always asked if you were making the special loaf whenever you’d been working on your own in the kitchen after your first meeting with Nanami.

“Plus,” you continue, “you’re a jujutsu sorcerer. You’re constantly putting your own life on the line for the rest of us, so you should be able to enjoy a simple pleasure like being able to eat your favorite bread.”

When he smiles, the pain throbbing deep beneath your skin subsides for just a second. It’s such a rarity to see that tough and somewhat aloof demeanor of his break and give way to what you’re witnessing now that you wish you could stop time and hold onto this moment forever. But what he says next makes you glad that it continues without a care in the world about what you desire.

“You asked why I’m doing this for you. From the first day I met you, you’ve made it clear that you care about me. Please, let me show you that the feeling is mutual.”

Maybe it’s a combination of the week you’ve had or the fact that you’d just narrowly avoided death thanks to the man sitting in front of you, but his words nearly bring tears to your eyes; and your heart swells with affection at every effort he makes to do right by his promise. He helps you gather your belongings, even going so far as to sling your bag over his shoulder, places an arm around you to support you and keep you under the cover of his umbrella while the two of you walk out to his colleague’s car, and allows you access to his hand to hold during the car ride to campus.

“Kento.” His attention shifts over to you from where it had been directed towards the window, watching the city pass by outside. Placing your other palm atop the back of his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze, you say, “Thank you so much. I really appreciate you.”

“As I do you.”

fun fact that didn’t make it in the fic: nanami didn’t say it, but he thinks you’re ruthless for going after a curse with a broom. and maybe a bit insane. but he’s certainly not put off by it.

#jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #nanami kento x reader #nanami x reader #x reader #reader insert #tw violence #tw injury #fran writes jjk!!

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pointandshooter · 4 years ago

Photo

Photo: David Castenson

"WIZZARD CLIP" (Wizard Clip)

by W. S. Laidley

West Virginia Historical Magazine Quarterly January 1904

From the "Eastern Pan-Handle" we take the following ancient ghost story.

“The earliest record of the story was written by Rev. Demetius A. Galletzen, whose memoirs were prepared in 1797, and about the same time, Mrs. Annella McSherry, wrote letters containing about the same facts, and since then there have been other papers written, all giving about the same facts, and the further fact that for fifty years the original name of the place was lost and it was only known as "Wizzard's Clipp," shows that the people there had no doubt of the facts related. The story gathered from the various publications is as follows:

Adam Livingston, becoming dissatisfied with his residence in Lancaster county, Penn., determined to remove to the State of Virginia, and carried his purpose into effect by the purchase of a house and lot in Smithfield, Va., and seventy acres contiguous thereto. This was about the year 1790. He had the reputation of being an honest and industrious farmer, of fair intelligence, and brought with him his wife and a family of three sons and four daughters, of whom Eve and Catherine are the only daughters and John and Henry the only sons who are referred to in any of these memoirs. Livingston continued to reside there without attracting any particular notice, until 1794, when a stranger, of middle age and of respectable appearance, made a visit to the place and was received as a boarder in his house. In a few days after the arrival of this traveler he was taken sick and as his illness became more threatening he called Livingston to his bedside, informed him that he was a Catholic, and inquired of him if there was not a priest somewhere in his neighborhood whose services he could procure, should his malady prove fatal, which he had reason to then fear it would. Livingston, who was an intensely bigoted member of the Lutheran church, very gruffly replied to him "that he knew of no priest in that neighborhood, and if there was one, he should never pass the threshold of his door.' The dying man repeated his entreaties for the spiritual aid of a Catholic priest, but Livingston was inexorable and refused to countenance his request. The stranger died, his name being unknown to his host, and there being nothing among his papers to throw any light upon his history.

On the night of his death Livingston employed a man by the name of Jacob Foster to sit up with the corpse. But so soon as the candles were lighted in the chamber of the dead, after giving a weak and flickering light, they went out and the room was left in darkness. They were relighted several times, supposing it to result from some remedial defect in the cradle, but with the same result. Livingston then brought two candles into the room which he had been using in his own family room, which were about one-third burnt down and which he knew to be good. But so soon as they were placed in the room with the corpse they became immediately extinguished. This so alarmed Foster that he abandoned his vigils and left the house. Fifty years ago the grave of the stranger could be distinctly pointed out.

On the night succeeding the burial the peace of Livingston was much disturbed by the apparent sound of horses galloping round his house. He frequently rose during the night - which was a beautiful moon-light night - to satisfy his mind. While he could distinctly hear the tramp of steeds, he could see nothing to assure him that it was anything more than a figment of his own imagination. In about a week afterward his barn was burnt and his cattle all died, the crockeryware in his house, without any visible agency, was thrown upon the floor and broken; his money disappeared; the heads of his turkeys and chickens dropped off; and chunks of burning wood would leap from the fireplace several feet out into the floor, endangering the building unless promptly replaced. Soon the annoyances, which were then destroying his peace, assumed a new form. The sound of a. large pair of shears could be distinctly heard in his house, clipping in the form of half moons and other curious figures, his blankets, sheets and counterpanes, boots and shoes, clothing, etc. This was all in one night, but the operation of clipping continued for upwards of three months, a small portion of it only being done at a time, but the inexorable shears never being silent twenty-four hours at a time. By this time the news of these strange proceedings was spread through the country for thirty miles around, and attracted in an especial manner the curiosity of the citizens of Smithfield. An old Presbyterian lady of Martinsburg, hearing of the clipping that was going on at Livingston's to satisfy her curiosity, she went to Livingston's house. Before entering the door she took from her head her new silk cap, wrapped it up in her silk handkerchief and put it in her pocket to save it from being clipped. After awhile she stepped out again to go home, and having drawn the handkerchief out of her pocket and opened it, found the cap cut in narrow ribbons.

Many other phenomena are stated and testified to by many witnesses. The long continuance of this mysterious clipping had now aroused the country for many miles around. Three daring and adventurous young men from Winchester came to Smithfield declaring their utter unbelief in the reports and offered to sleep in the house all night and to face the devil himself, if he were the author of these doings. But as soon as they became comfortably seated in the house, a large stone was seen to proceed from the fireplace and to whirl around the floor with great velocity, when they took to their heels and made their escape.

The condition of poor Livingston had become deplorable, he had lost much rest, and his imagination was so worked upon by his nocturnal visitor that his health began visibly to fail. He applied to three professed conjurers, but their incantations were all in vain. Shortly after this Livingston had a dream. He thought he was climbing a high mountain and had great difficulty in the ascent. He had to labor hard, catching at roots and bushes, and moving forward slowly by their aid. Reaching the summit, he saw an imposing personage, "dressed in robes," as he described it. After contemplating for some time the person in view, he heard a voice saying: "This is the man who can relieve you." His wife heard him groaning in his sleep and she waked him, thereupon he communicated to her his dream and said he did not know of any minister who wore robes, but he would make inquiry in the morning. The result of the inquiries led him to visit an Episcopal minister, who then resided in Winchester, but he derived little satisfaction from this visit, and returned home much disappointed. He was then advised to see the MeSherry family, who were Roman Catholics, and who resided in a very fine estate called "Releivement," about on mile each of Leetown, at which place the priest was often in the habit of stopping while discharging his spiritual functions in that neighborhood. Late in the evening of the same day Mrs. MeSherry saw a man coming to her home, she met him at the gate when he told her he wanted "to see the priest." She informed him that the priest was not at her house, but there would be church in Shepherdstown the following Sunday, when he would have an opportunity of seeing him. Mr. and Mrs. McSherry, in company with Mr. Minghini, went to church on the appointed day, and there they saw the man who had inquired for the priest, and who proved to be Livingston. As the priest appeared at the altar, dressed in commicles, Livingston seemed to be perfectly overcome. He wept bitterly, and exclaimed loud enough to be heard by the small congregation: "This is the very man I saw in my dream; he is the one that the voice told me would relieve me from my troubles." When the service was over, he promptly called on the priest and told him his sad story; but the priest, the Rev. Dennis Cahill, laughed at him and told him it must be some of his neighbors who were plaguing him, and that he must go home and keep a strict watch for them. Richard McSherry and Joseph Minghini, who were present at the interview, were much moved by the old man's tears and tried to comfort him. After much urgent persuasion. Father Cahill accompanied by Mr. McSherry and Mr. Minghini, agreed to visit Livingston's house and to inquire into the strange transactions which he had related. They found his story corroborated not only by the family, but by most of the people with whom they conversed in Smithfield. Father Cahill resorted to the remedy of sprinkling the house with holy writer, which did not, however, expel the troublesome visitor from the house, but it was followed by a deposit of the money, which had previously been taken away, on the doorsill. The strange clipping still continuing after that time it was determined by Father Cahill to have mass celebrated in the house, which was done, and Livingston was relieved from all annoyances of his ghostly visitor. From that time until he left Virginia he had frequent communications with the Spiritual world, and many facts are related where those communications were realized in a striking manner; but as these throw no light upon the simple historical fact which it is the purpose of this article to elucidate no further reference need be made to them.”

Note: This region of Virginia is now West Virginia, and the village is now named Middleway.

online book: https://archive.org/details/mysteryofwizardc00fino/page/n13/mode/2up

#the wizard clip #ghost story #poltergeist #halloween #middleway

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lixis-sin-cauldron · 4 years ago

Text

The Princess and The Hawk [Hawks | Keigo Takami] Pt. 1

Part Two: Available Here Rating: Explicit 18+ content MINORS DNI. Pairing: Keigo Takami (Hawks) X fem!reader Word Count: 6.9k Kinks and Warnings: Animal Violence, Blood

Summary: A dull routine, every day like the last. You're comfortable, if a little lonely. Who knew a simple walk home could change so much? Can also be read on Ao3 here: The Princess and The Hawk Big thank you to my lovely beta reader @lilleeboi

Passing through the park to get home after work was your main way to de-stress after dealing with customers all day, the time of day left the area fairly empty and the fall air carried the wonderful scents of the season that wafted through the trees and flowers. Normally, it was the most calming part of your day. Normally.

Today, you were startled out of your calm daze by the screeching and hissing of two animals going at each other. Your eyes snapped toward the source of the noise, a twisting ball of fur a few meters ahead, beside the park walkway. Correction: a twisting ball of fur and feathers.

A large grey tabby had somehow been able to snag a very large brown bird that was currently doing its best to fend the feline off as it tried going for the bird’s throat, its talons pushing against the cat’s stomach, a smear of red in the fur where it pressed.

Nature is intense, you thought.

You knew better than to interrupt, they were both wild animals, predators that killed to feed and survive, you had no right to push your human views onto the fight. Wanting to return to your calm mindset, you hurried by the unsettling sight, willing your shaky legs forward. You didn't want to think of the fate that awaited the loser.

As the scuffle disappeared out of sight behind you, you heard a hoarse squawk that felt as if it was directed at you. Involuntarily, you turned to see the cat had gained the upper hand. It had pinned the bird on its stomach and was about to clamp down its jaw on the nape of its neck in a killing blow.

Your eyes met the bird’s, a striking golden-brown, and it seemed to be crying for help with its stare.

Forgoing your previous judgment – unable to ignore the desperate plea – you rushed towards the pair, slipped your purse off, and swung it with full force. It connected cleanly against the tabby just before it was able to land its killing blow. It tumbled backward, and after rolling for a moment, righted itself and turned towards you and its stolen prey. It stared you down, hissing deeply, then wincing. It let loose another deep hiss before retreating.

Heart pounding, you took a deep breath and looked at the bird that you had saved, almost positive it wouldn’t be there – having flown off when it was freed. However, there it remained, resting in the grass, its chest heaving just like yours.

“Oh geez,” Taking to your knees you hovered hands over the wounded avian, unsure of what to do. “Please don’t die.”

The bird shifted, trying to stand and move its wings, as if in response to your plea to prove it was fine. However, as it stretched its left-wing it flinched, wobbled for a moment, and collapsed back to the dirt.

You whimpered, unsure of what to do. It was clearly hurt, if you left it alone there was a good chance it would be attacked again or just die of its wounds anyway.

Ugh, why did I do that? There was no point in intervening, it’s going to die either way.

The bird still heaved, giving you a sideways stare. It seemed to study you with its gaze and tried moving again, letting out a cry as it did. Your heart gave a pang at the sight; it clearly wanted to live. How could you just leave it after stepping in?

“Do-don’t move,” you stuttered, reaching forward, “I’ll bring you to a vet, they’ll help you.”

Surprisingly, the bird gave no resistance to your touch. When you found trouble grasping it, especially while trying not to hurt it in the process, you peeled off your light jacket and gently wrapped the fowl in that. Once sure you had a hold that didn’t cause further damage, you raced off in the direction of the nearest animal clinic you could find.

“He’s pretty beat up, but nothing life-threatening,” The Veterinary nurse explained, softly running a thumb over the bird’s crown, its plumage fluttering at the touch. “We cleaned the cuts and the left-wing has a small hairline fracture. It’s been properly set but will need at least 2 to 3 weeks to fully heal, so we wrapped the wing so it can’t move. You’ll need to-”

“Wait, me? Why do I have to?” you were glad to hear the animal would be okay, but you were alarmed to hear they expect you to take care of it.

They looked at you in surprise, “Isn’t he yours?”

“No!” You waved your hands frantically, “I found it being attacked and just… stepped in. I don’t even know what breed it- err, he is. Let alone how to care for him.”

“That’s surprising, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of an exotic bird just randomly being found like that.”

“Exotic?”

“Yes, this handsome man is a Red-Tailed Hawk. They’re a North American bird. For it to be in Japan that means it was brought here and must have an owner, so I just assumed that was you.”

“O-oh.” You can’t say you were that surprised at the revelation, you had never seen a bird that looked like the hawk. A closer examination showed that it wasn’t just brown, but a beautiful mix of dark brown, white, and tan. Along with strikingly red tail feathers that you had been sure at the time was blood.

“This one seems very special too, normally the tail feathers are more of a cinnamon-red.” The nurse provided, seeming to have followed your thought process, “He’s very well cared for and in amazing shape, aside from the scuffle. If he hadn’t been grounded due to the wing, I doubt that cat would have ever touched him or stood a chance if it had been able to.”

“The cat didn’t do that?”

“The fracture is very clean; an animal’s bite would have crushed the bone.”

“Oh, that’s good… I guess?” you studied the hawk, resting in a box filled with a plush towel that the clinic had provided, he was perfectly calm under the expert’s touch. You were sure the calm state was in part of the fact he was full of painkillers at the moment, but you had an urge to follow the example and pet the resting creature yourself. You held back though, instead returning to your original topic, “Uh, as I said, he’s not mine so are… you guys able to take him since he’s a lost pet?”

Their strokes of the feather head ceased, instead rising up to scratch their forehead, “Sometimes we do that, sure, but right now we’re a little full plus it normally best for a bird sanctuary to take them but in this case….”

“In this case…?”

“They’re trained and equipped to handle local wildlife and such. With this being an exotic breed, they wouldn’t take it in due to the trouble it could cause.”

“So… what does that mean for him? You said it would take a few weeks for the wing to heal, so he can’t fly and as a pet, he may not survive even if he could fly.” You had an idea of where the conversation was heading but you really hoped you were wrong.

“There are a few places I could check to see if they could take him in while they searched for the owner, but with how late it is I’d have to wait until tomorrow to contact them and they may not be able to take him right away even if they could…”

You sighed, “Would it be… hard to take care of him for a few days?”

The nurse beamed, happy to hear you volunteering, “Given his condition, no, not really,” They picked up a bag that had been sitting on the table beside the bird’s box and pulled out the contents. “The pain medication would keep him mellow for the most part, so even if he wasn’t such a gentleman,” They preened at the bird, commenting on how composed he had been during the whole ordeal. “You wouldn’t have much trouble handling him. You just need to apply this one orally every twice a day and this one on the cuts—”

You struggled into your apartment, the box in your arms, and your keys fighting for dominance as you unlocked the door. The keys lost and fumbled to the ground as the door teetered open.

“Fuckbucket," you cursed.

Leaving them on the ground, you carried the precious cargo past your couch and to the dining room table at the far edge of the small apartment and set it down as carefully as possible. The hawk had fallen asleep during your travel home and you were very keen to keep it that way.

After ensuring he wasn’t going to wake, you returned to the entrance and retrieved your keys as well as the shopping bag that rested next to the doorway.

While the clinic had been happy to give advice on how to care for the bird, and even charging just the cost of the visit and nothing else – you’d still had to call a ride-share to take the bird home and even stop at a pet store to purchase things to help care for him. Since it wasn’t like you actually owned anything to use while he lived with you.

A big piece of advice to make a safe space for the hawk to rest since you wouldn’t have a cage to place it in, free-roaming was the preferred option if it felt well enough to move around. They also provided a contact line to call if he suddenly became violent. While the wounded wing was wrapped, he couldn’t fly but the talons and beak could still cause damage if you weren’t careful. They would contact you as well once they had a place for him to go while the owner was being looked for.

Stretching with an exhausted sigh, your gaze returned to the box and found the hawk now awake and his head now resting on the edge watching you with glazed eyes.

“Uh, hi,” You blinked, wondering why you had just greeted an animal. Though he definitely didn’t feel like an animal when you locked eyes with him. You had a disconcerting feeling when he looked at you like he was analyzing you.

He let out a weak squawk in reply to the greeting.

“Right…” you decided to just go with it, picking up the purchased items you approached the table cautiously and started setting up an area next to the box with feed and water, “So, you’ll be staying with me for a bit, just while you heal and we find your home.”

He ruffled his feathers as the word ‘home’. You weren’t sure how to take that if it even meant anything to start with.

“So, if you can… I don’t know, not cause too much trouble, that would be great. Think you can do that for me, buddy?” You asked, holding out a hesitant hand to him, curled so the back of your fingers were present.

He stared at the extended appendage and you were sure he was going to bite you, but he leaned forward and rubbed his cheek against your knuckles.

Your heart fluttered, a smile blossoming across your face at the sight. He suddenly seemed a lot less frightening to you; realizing that he was tired and sore, and maybe even thankful to have a safe place after what he had experienced.

He withdrew his touch and curled in the box, head under his free wing and only a moment later, gentle snoring could be heard."

Wish I could fall asleep that fast. You snorted, laughing at the idea of envying a drugged-up fowl.

The concept of sleep did appeal very strongly after the evening you’d had; so, you ate a quick dinner, showered, and slipped into your bed, leaving the door ajar in case you needed to access the living/dining space quickly.

Your oversized t-shirt hung off your shoulder loosely, your underwear peeking out from underneath as your arms stretched above your head while walking into your tiny kitchen. After withdrawing a bottle of water from the fridge, you lazily looked around your home as you sipped it. You sputtered as your eyes fell upon the box resting on the table, coughing harshly as you forced the water from your lungs, having forgotten the previous day’s events in your sleepy state.

The box was tipped over sideways, the towel in a bundle on the table.

“No, no, no,” you chanted, rushing over and looking around for the wounded animal, “Where-” the words caught as the towel squirmed, the dark brown hawk head popping out from beneath it. “Oh, thank god.”

You were wide awake now.

“You scared the living hell out of me, buddy,” you reached forward and ran a knuckle across his crown, enjoying the softness. You leaned over, reaching eye level with him, “You have a nightmare or something?” You cooed.

You noticed his eyes drift, losing connection with yours, and move downwards, his head giving a tilt as they settled. You followed his gaze and realized you were giving the bird a clear view right down your shirt, where you were currently braless. You reacted instantly, straightening yourself and holding the shirt close to your bosom with a flushed face.

It’s a bird! you reminded yourself, He was probably just reacting to the fabric moving. He’s probably hungry. I need to give him his medicine, too.

Calming your nerves, you retrieved the small bag with medication. “Hey, buddy, you probably don’t feel great right? This will help numb that pain. You mind letting me put this in your mouth?” You held a syringe up, filled with a paste, and capped with a rubber tip that you could slide into his beak.

He seemed to glower at the suggestion, and you were starting to dread having to force his beak open when he shoved the towel off his back and stood up wobbling.

“Wow, you’re very clever, aren’t you? ” you exclaimed.

He huffed at the praise, parting his beak marginally to allow the tip to slide in. Not wanting to waste the opportunity, you carefully slid the syringe tip into his mouth and pushed the plunger just enough to provide the proper dose as you had been instructed.

The hawk reacted negatively, chomping his beak and twisting his head, evidently not enjoying the taste of the medicine. He strode over the water bowl resting on the tabletop and dunked his beak into the water, small bubbles rolling the surface as he guzzled down the liquid.

The sight was so shocking, you couldn’t help but start laughing, your chest heaved as you gasped for air between your cackles.

The hawk, having finished his drink, seemed unimpressed with your reaction.

“Oh, come on,” you chided after regaining your composure. “That was hilarious. Geez, I can’t remember the last time I laughed that hard. Thanks for that, buddy.”

He shook, his feathers fluffing, then turned and pushed himself back under the towel, clearly unamused.

“Aw, baby’s embarrassed.” You cooed with another chuckle before returning to the kitchen and fixing yourself some breakfast. Once you’d eaten you returned to him to refill the water bowl he had downed and finally noticed that the bowl with the bird feed had been overturned at some point, most likely when he had flipped the box during the night.

“Can you not make a mess of the apartment?” You nagged, cleaning the mess, and refilling the bowl. He gave no reaction, his bright red tail the only visible part sticking out from under the towel. You gently poked the protruding feathers, feeling him lurch in surprise at the touch, “Hey, make sure you eat, you’ll feel horrible with no food in your stomach.”

The hawk rolled under the towel, sticking his head out to glower at the bowl and then you.

“Someone’s in a foul mood,” You blinked, then grinned. “Pun not intended.”

You could swear he rolled his eyes.

Just as you were about to comment on the action, your phone alarm went off. You groaned, “Time for work,” You studied the bird and the sideways box. “They said free roaming would be best since I don’t have a pen or cage big enough for you…” You shifted a dining room chair so it was angled against the table. “If, uh, you want to get down just use this instead of trying to fly… okay?”

His reply was crawling back under the towel, making sure to be completely hidden this time.

Still talking to a bird.

You grumbled something nonsensical, then returned to your room to change your clothes. Once ready to go, you padded towards your door, pulling your hair into a ponytail and glanced at the lump under the towel, and wondered if you should try and call off instead. You decided against it, knowing there was little you could change by staying home.

“I’ll… be back before you need more meds,” you called out. No reaction. You sighed, wondering why you felt like there would be, and exited your home.

You were more than relieved when you returned home and found it in the same condition you had left it that morning. In fact, you realized as you checked for damages, it seemed as if the bird hadn’t moved the entire time you’d been at work. You trailed over to the table and saw that he was where you had left him, snoozing away under the towel, his beak barely protruding.

“I’m home,” you said softly, running a fingertip over the exposed beak.

He let out a soft cooing sound at the touch, wiggling enough to expose his head and look at you with his intense golden eyes.

“Hey, buddy.”

Another coo with a head tilt so he rested on his cheek as he stared, seeming somewhat dazed.

“You okay?” you asked worriedly, he had been more responsive until now. You were about to call the clinic when you saw that the feed bowl had not been touched at all, no dip in the seed to indicate that he had moved anything within. “You haven’t eaten at all?” you declared, picking up the bowl. “I told you-” you paused and sighed, wondering once again why you spoke to an animal like he understood you.

“Do you not like this brand or blend or something?” you muttered. You pulled out your phone to see what type of bird feed was best for him. You realized something unfortunate. Voles, rats, rabbits… “I bought the wrong type of food.” You groaned. You had been in such a rush to get back to the rideshare you had just grabbed the recommended bag of bird feed, not even thinking to make sure that your new roommate could actually eat it.

You didn’t really have any prey type meat just lying around your kitchen. He needed to eat something.

“Ugh, maybe I can mix some… gravy or something into the seed. Maybe that will work for him until I can get something better.” You left the avian to stride over to the kitchen, opening the fridge in search of an additive to spur the bird’s appetite since, according to Google, he could eat the seed if he had to, but was just choosing not to.

Before you had really started your search the hawk let out a low screech, pulling your attention back to him. Your head snapped over in reaction, surprised to see him standing on the table and eyeballing you, giving a strong feeling of a hunter studying its prey.

“Uh, what’s up, buddy?” you asked nervously.

He shifted his weight between his feet for a few moments before dipping his head down and hooking his beak around the brim of the metal feed bowl. Once gripped, he raised his head, bringing the bowl with and held it in the air for a second while he fought to keep balance at the sudden weight. You were about to call out for him to stop, in case he got hurt, when he thrust his head downwards and released the bowl.

The bowl bounced off the tabletop and tumbled to the floor, spinning. Feed flew all around him, covering the table and floor.

Stunned, you didn’t move, the apartment filled with the sounds of the bowl spinning in place before settling with a dull clunk. The hawk arched his back and let out a defiant squawk at you, finalizing the production you’d just witnessed.

You blinked, processing what had just occurred before standing up, furious, “Are you serious?” you snapped at the proud bird. “You – that – I said don’t make – I don’t even- Okay!” You shouted, unable to process your thoughts, “I get it, you don’t want the damn seed but what the fuck. I have to clean all this up! That- you-”

I’m shouting a bird.

You sighed, cupping your face in your hands and letting out a long groan. What the hell was wrong with this bird, you had never met an animal that was so damn- you didn’t even know how to describe it.

“Let me see what I have,” you hissed at the fowl, wondering if hawk tasted like chicken.

Hm, chicken...

You returned to your excavation of the fridge and found the pack of chicken breasts you had intended to cook the night before when you had been planning to be home earlier and not as tired as you ended up being.

Guess I can make this tonight and share some with him. Not that you found him worthy of this type of treat at the moment.

“Wait… Can hawks eat chicken? Isn’t that like-” your sentence was interrupted by the bird giving a squawk, he was shifting his weight between his feet again but more in an excited dance than a show as before. “What? You like chicken?”

Another squawk.

“Fine.” Ripping the package open, pulling one breast out, and to your cutting board. A few minutes later you set down a bowl of the raw meat in front of him, cut into bite-sized cubes for easier consumption.

He stared at the bowl, suddenly seeming reluctant.

“Oh, what now?” You groaned, pitching your brow.

Fluffing his feathers and looking at you, his gaze shifted to behind you back towards the kitchen.

“What, you want more?”

He huffed and bowed his head, though that lasted only a moment before he held it high again and had a confident look as if having set his mind to something. Wobbling, he padded to the edge of the table and hooked his beak into the dining chair you had set up that morning for him and started climbing down it.

You found the process fascinating, surprised by his sudden burst of energy. Stepping out of the way, you watched as he landed on the tiled floor, starting his way to the kitchen by hopping and tapping along while doing his best to keep balance. He reached the middle of the area and stood in front of the oven. He was panting, having worn himself out with the exercise. However, he wasn’t done, clearly wanting to strike home just what he was thinking, as he bent his head forward and tapped his forehead against the metal appliance, repeating the gesture softly a few times before stopping and resting it there, turning to look at you to ensure you were watching and understood.

“I’m guessing that means you want it cooked.”

The confirmation seemed to be correct, as he gave a weak note in reply and slid to the floor, exhausted by his show; he landed softly on his back, feet in air.

You stepped up to him and bent down, gently brushing the plumage of his stomach, “You are the most spoiled pet I have ever seen. Fine, I’ll cook the damn chicken. Don’t expect anything fancy, though.”

He only let out a long exhale in reply.

You returned the tired bird to the table, grabbed the bowl of chicken cubes, and began once again to prepare the request. A quick check on the phone and you decided to just boil the meat, not adding any spices or extras since that could hurt his stomach. You also did a double-check and removed any excess fat, noting that also wasn’t great for him

While the cubes boiled, you made yourself your own meal, a mouthwatering bowl of katsu over rice.

You set the boiled meat down in front of the starving avian. “Happy?” You sighed, hoping he would finally eat something.

He huffed at the bowl, as if contemplating how to also toss it in a showy fashion, then bent his head and took a cube. He chomped down on it and shivered. Pausing for a moment, he tilted his head in contemplation then bent again to grab another.

“Glad to see it’s good enough for your refined palate.”

Grabbing your own meal, you plopped down at the table opposite the bird and started eating while browsing your phone. You were only a few bites in when you noticed the hawk leaning over you, staring at the bowl.

“Noooo. No!” you pulled the bowl close to your chest, “You have your chicken, this is mine! And fried foods are bad for birds.”

He fluffed, giving you what you could only describe as puppy dog eyes.

How???

You grumbled, “One bite, one!” You pinched a piece of katsu with your chopsticks, making a small bird-sized piece, and lifted the morsel for the bird to take. He did so eagerly, snatching the piece and sliding it down his throat.

He let out a contented coo.

“Glad you like it- No,” you snapped as he started giving the same look once again. “I said one, and I meant it! I’m in charge here, mister!”

He seemed to relent, his shoulders slumping then he tilted his head again, a contemplative look in his eyes.

“Wha- Uh.” Your voice caught as he slipped off the table into your lap and pressed himself into your chest, nuzzling you. You held back a squeal of delight at the surprising cuteness of the hawk while holding your food in the air with one hand. “That’s a dirty move and I refuse-”

He cooed, looking up at you with big eyes.

“One more.”

He gave a rumbling sound of happiness as he downed the next piece, continuing to snuggle you.

You set the bowl down and gave your full attention to the large bird, amazed at how affectionate he was. You ran your fingers through his feathers, finding soft down. You lost yourself to the petting; he seemingly enjoyed the pampering. You were unsure how, but you were now at the injured fowl’s mercy.

Both of you jumped as your phone went off in your pocket, interrupting the cuddle session. Holding him still, you retrieved it and answered quickly.

“Hello?”

“Hi, there! This is y/n?”

“Uh, yeah… this is?”

“I’m calling from the animal clinic! You brought the lovely red-tail hawk in yesterday?”

“Oh! Yeah, sorry I didn’t expect you to call so soon!”

“No worries! Hope I’m not bothering. Are you okay to talk?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

“Great! I wanted to let you know that one of the rescue centers we work with is able to take the darling in. They can have someone swing by ASAP if you like.”

“Oh, already?” you eyed the animal resting in your arm.

“Is that a problem?”

“No, I just- I thought it would take a few days.”

“…would you prefer to have their number? That way when you’re… ready, you can call them, and they can come by?”

You pursed your lips, suddenly unsure of yourself. You were in no position to have a pet, especially a predator… yet you found yourself reluctant to let him go. In the short time he had been there, you had laughed and smiled more than you had for a while. It was a welcome disruption to your dull life.

“Yeah… I’d like that.”

They let out a small chuckle, “Sure thing. I’ll let them know. They’ve also posted a bulletin about him, to help track down the owner.”

“Oh, that’s great. I hope they get found, he’s very… special. I’m sure he’s missed.”

“I’m glad to hear he’s doing well! Please feel free to reach out to us or the center if you have any questions or trouble.”

“Will do… thanks.”

Great. Just great. You sighed as you hung up and studied the bird nestled against your breast.

“Welp, I’m crazy. You’re stuck with me for a bit longer, hope you’re okay with that, buddy.”

He nuzzled further into you as if saying thanks for letting him stay.

“Guess if… you’re staying I should give you a name?”

He straightened at that and locked eyes, staring you down fiercely. Clearly, he found the matter very important.

You gave a nervous chuckle, “Don’t have high hopes there, I’m far from great at naming things, bud.” you paused, considering your statement. “Actually, I think I’ve already named you. How does ‘Buddy’ sound?”

He made a disgruntled noise but proceeded to bury himself back into your chest, nuzzling the fabric of your shirt, springing faintly against the fat of your breasts.

“Welp, best you get… Speaking of you getting things, you’re due for your next batch of meds.”

He was less than pleased with the reminder of the foul-tasting substance.

The following morning you woke not to your alarm, but with a start to the sound of someone talking in your living room, the sound seeping in through the ajar door. Your heart raced with panic as you attempted to make sense of the sound. Slipping from the bed and grabbing the wooden bat you kept at your bedside for such events, you approached the door, glancing around the frame to see who dared to enter your abode. Mind whirling, you expected to see masked figures looting your home or-

Buddy! The bird had been asleep on the table when you had gone to bed. What if they hurt him during their looting!

Forgoing your own safety, you rushed out into the open area, only lit by the dim morning sun through the shaded balcony glass door. You reached the couch, brandishing the bat, ready to swing in a moment’s notice. Surveying the room, you found the source of the talking – the television.

Buddy was perched on the couch, the remote next to him, staring at the television. It was on a news channel, going over the latest hero and villain activities.

“What the hell!” you screeched, lowering the bat.

The bird’s head snapped towards you, having not heard your approach. He reacted at your appearance, flapping his free wing and giving a surprised cry.

“You scared the living hell out of me - again! Stop doing that, my heart can only take so much!” You reached for the remote. “How the hell did you even turn that on? I was sure I left it on the ta-” you cut off, reeling your hand back as Buddy jumped atop the device, blocking you from it.

You blinked, confused, “Are… you watching that?”

He squawked in confirmation.

“You are not a normal bird.”

He seemed happy at your realization, fluffing his feathers and stepping off the remote, laying down next to it, and returning his gaze to the screen.

“Whatever, I’m up now. Guess I’ll make breakfast.”

He gave an excited chirp at the suggestion.

“Yeah, yeah. Yours too.”

You joined the fowl on the couch while you ate, giving him another bowl of boiled meat – which he ate disgruntledly.

“I’ll have to swing by the store after work, see how much discount meat I can get you… wonder if the pet store will take back a barely used bag of feed…”

You were already getting used to speaking to the bird, speaking aloud your random thoughts as you went about your morning routine. Cleaning up, giving him his meds, prepping his food and water for while you were gone. You were enjoying the addition he was adding to your day and being able to talk to someone as well – especially since he did provide a type of reply. You enjoyed it so much so that you were reluctant when your alarm for work went off.

“Back to the grind,” you sighed, trudging to your bedroom closet to change out of your nightshirt. “ Was a bit chilly yesterday, should get my spare jacket.” You hadn’t gotten a chance to wash the one from the night you saved Buddy, and you weren’t eager to use a bloody jacket. You spotted the spare folded on the closet shelf, resting under a box.

You pulled the clothing free while doing your best to keep the box in place – your best wasn’t good enough, since just as you were sure it was free, it snagged, and the box joined in the escapade. You tumbled to the ground as the object hit you, its contents partially falling out onto you and the floor.

“Owww,” you whined, rubbing your butt. After regaining yourself, you examined the mess you had created and instantly regretted trying to retrieve the spare jacket, your eyes tearing up at the box’s contents.

It was just a random assortment of objects, all-male ordinated – a razor, a pair of jeans and two t-shirts, a hairbrush, some socks, and other miscellaneous items.

“Dammit…” you mumbled, trying to hold back sobs. With everything that had happened the past two days you had actually forgotten the damn thing was in your closet for the first time in months.

Your self-pity was interrupted as you felt something soft press against your arm. You looked over and saw Buddy standing beside you looking concerned, the sound from the tumble must have drawn him into your room to check on you.

“I’m okay… I’m not crying ‘cause I’m hurt. Promise,” you inhaled deeply, trying to steady your nerves, and started collecting the fallen items back into the box. “It’s a bit silly to cry over.”

He tilted his head in question.

“It’s just some stuff my ex left behind. I should just burn it…” Maybe because you were so used to just saying whatever you wanted to the hawk, you kept following the train wreck of your thoughts, “He cheated on me but somehow worked it to him being the one to break up when I confronted him. I should be glad he’s gone but… here I am, pining over some asshole and his discarded laundry.” Despite your best effort, you started sobbing, “How pathetic am I-”

Buddy pressed into your arm once again, cutting the tirade, and gave a small coo.

You pulled the bird into your arms, holding him close and pressing your face into him, your tears rolling over the water-proof feathers. You stayed like that for a time, buddy not even trying to pull from your embrace. You let him slip from you, your sobs dying away. You felt tired and wanted to crawl back in bed, but work was waiting.

“Thanks.” You mumbled, rubbing Buddy’s cheek. You finished gathering the items, stood, and stared at the box.

Just throw it away.

Your grip trembled as you held it.

Get rid of it.

You slid the box back onto the shelf.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you murmured, glancing away from the concerned hawk.

Time slipped by after that, a new routine being built around your new roommate. You had moments of conflict due to his strange personality, but overall, you enjoyed having him in your home. Even with the dip into your finances that he caused, between meat and clinic visits. Another interesting addition to your day was how your mornings always had a little surprise from him. Mainly him doing something to jolt you awake since he seemed to be a very early riser.

This morning, however, had one of your preferred surprises, your eyelids felt heavy as your brain booted up and registered the light snoring that was taking place next to you. You blinked, looking around for the source, and found the fowl resting next to you, on his back feet in the air and head lolling, on an open pillow.

Giving a sheepish grin, you watched him for a bit, seeing him twitch in his sleep. You had come to terms with his abnormal behavior, your research into the breed showing he did not act like other red-tails or even just other birds in general.

“Buddy,” you purred, reaching over and shaking a talon lightly.

His eyes popped open and then blinked slowly, fighting away his own sleepiness. He turned over and quivered, his feathers fluffing and head jerking.

“Morning.” You giggled, enjoying the show, before turning in the bed and burying your face into the pillow, reluctant to get up. Looking back at him, you saw him observing you intently. Just another thing you’d gotten used to, the way he seemed to examine you up and down with a focused gaze randomly.

You gave a smirk, peering back through your messy hair before pushing yourself up to sit on your knees and stretching your arms up above your head, your joints popping satisfactorily. As always with your nightshirt, it raised with the motion, exposing your thighs to view.

Buddy rolled as you stretched, your movement causing him to be displaced from his resting place, his head landing softly against those thighs as they cushioned the tumble.

“That wasn’t convincing at all,” you laughed, tugging the shirt to the side to lock eyes with the endearing avian. He was very affectionate, finding any way he found to cuddle with you when possible. With a yawn, you checked your phone for the time and saw a reminder on the lock screen. “Oh right! We better get ready; we have the vet appointment today. Your wing should be all healed up!”

As always, the hawk gave a human-like reaction, quickly straightening himself and giving an excited shriek at the announcement.

Buddy wouldn’t stop extending his freed wing as he rested on the perch at the front desk while you signed the paperwork for the visit.

“Calm down, you,” you laughed, glad to see him so happy.

“So, you really plan to keep him?” The nurse asked, grinning at the sight of the overjoyed bird as well.

“I mean… his owner hasn’t been found and he’s not a wild bird. I’ve gotten used to him, so it just seemed best?”

“I think it’s great. He’s lucky you found him. Uh, do you have a leash?”

Buddy flapped and shrieked in disapproval at the remark.

“I saw bird leashes were a thing, but he’s so well behaved I wasn’t sure I should get one?”

“I get your reasoning, but he could fly off, he’s already gotten lost and in trouble once.”

“That’s true…” you looked Buddy over, seeing his hunched shoulders, “Do I need to leash you, bud?”

With a quick flap, he glided off the perch and onto your shoulder, being careful not to cut you with his talons as he steadied himself.

“Wow, you have him wrapped around your finger.”

“I think we’ll be okay.” You decided, scratching Buddy’s chin.

Finishing off the paperwork you exited the clinic, the hawk still perched on your shoulder, sure you were an interesting sight for those you passed. You walked with an eye on your phone, swiping through various avian products.

“We should get you proper stuff, perches, and such, for the apartment. We’ve been making do with the makeshift setup, but now that you’re staying we should-”

He shifted harshly, drawing your attention to him. He was staring intensely down the street, where a store had various televisions on display in a window, an assortment of shows airing with captions turning on. You sighed and approached the display, knowing the bird’s inclination for news. Sure enough, his preferred channel was airing on one of the displays.

“Just for a minute, okay?” you stated, returning to your shopping as he stared at the moving pictures. You kept your word and started to move shortly after, but Buddy gave a loud shriek in protest when you did so, his eyes still focused on the display. “Hey, what’s gotten into you?” You looked at the screen, finally paying attention to the content.

“-the villain has been in a coma since the intense battle with Hawks, so he has yet to be able to answer any questioning as to the whereabouts of the missing number two hero and the other heroes that disappeared-”

You let out a surprised hiss as you felt Buddy’s talons dig into your shoulder, it didn’t hurt thanks to the padding of your coat, but it caught you off guard after how careful he always was. However, before you could reprimand the action, he launched himself and flapped his wings quickly, taking off into the air.

You stared at the hawk as he soared, at first impressed by the way he moved so easily after just getting the wrapping removed, then distraught as you saw him continue to fly away.

“…Buddy?”

——Tag List ——

(Please check this post if you would like to be included!)

@thisisthehardestthing @cheeriecherry @mindninjax

#hawks #keigo takami #hawks bnha #hawks x reader #mha #bnha #part one #tw: animal violence #tw: blood #just story in this one #the smut will come I promise #my sister is a bird person #she helped me with this #humor #the princess and the hawk

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lovetenya · 4 years ago

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𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬: 𝐲𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰

pairing: tenya iida x gn! reader

warnings: angst. anxiety. paranoia. self doubt. unkind words. non-explicit mentions of physical pain & scarring. implied death, but i don’t elaborate. lying. worrying.

word count: about 1.8k

author’s note: nobody writes any iida angst, (barely anyone writes for him at all) and as a vehement lover of angst, i thought i’d fill that gap. i love tenya, i really do, but i love to think about him in this way just as much as i love to believe he’d be the perfect other half. nobody is perfect, not even ingenium.

loving tenya iida is yellow.

it’s the color of the petals on the soft yellow daisy bouquet that he surprised you with on the night of your first anniversary. although it wasn’t a last minute purchase (how could he forget the best day of his life?), he still wasn’t exactly sure what to get.

what kind of object can symbolize a love so encapsulating?, he thought. there is no tangible item that could possibly show how i feel.

he picked up the familiar flowers from a shop on the corner that the two of you had walked past before on a date. it was one of the first ones, and you pressed your face against the glass to get a better look at the delicate flowers inside.

he caught himself in his romantics when he thought that none of them were prettier than you. nothing was or ever would be better than this moment, where you were on your tip toes in an attempt to see more flowers. that day, he insisted on buying you a small bouquet of yellow daisies, and thought it would be sweet to indulge and revisit the memory.

the week before your anniversary, he made you promise not to execute any elaborate celebratory plans.

“honey, you know that I’d rather do nothing with you than anything with anyone else,” he said. and he was serious. he would rather sit together on the couch half-listening to a documentary (because you can’t keep your eyes off each other) than go out to dinner, where he couldn’t let down his guard.

although he liked to think that his work made the world a safer place, he couldn’t help but feel paranoid whenever you were out in public. how could he be sure that someone in the restaurant didn’t want him dead? how could he be sure that they wouldn’t kidnap and kill you just to make him suffer? if he couldn’t be sure, was it worth the risk?

he’s an iida, after all. with their striking looks and long hero legacy, it’s not exactly easy to blend in in a world whose wellbeing depends on your greatness and ability. there’s a great sense of pride in coming from a long lines of heroes, and his parents were much less than thrilled to receive the phone call that tenya was in the hospital following the incident that rendered his arm “useless”. they weren’t happy to see that he chose to leave his arm that way as a reminder of his dedication.

when they figured he was out of earshot, they asked questions.

did the doctors check for any mental ailments?

will he ever be able to use his arm again?

why didn’t they amputate?

what kind of hero accepts a physical wound and doesn’t try to heal?

what kind of hero goes after a villain on their own?

are you sure he’s cut out to be a hero?

tenya isn’t proud of the publicity his family got following the incident including a certain self-proclaimed hero killer. he isn’t proud of the wary stares he gets from his classmates. he isn’t proud of the violence he’s been forced to commit. he isn’t proud of any of it, really, but he doesn’t regret his actions; not for a second, not even when he’s painstakingly rubbing scar balm into his shoulder, hoping that at least the scars would fade.

the pain, which seeped deep into his muscles and pricked at his bones, was more than just a cosmetic concern. he couldn’t care less about a scar, but with his limited movement capabilities, he knew he’d never be able to teach his sons to throw. the doctors didn’t have to tell him that. but, of course, they did. he knew what it all meant. he saw through their sugarcoating and attempts at softening the blow. they should’ve known better.

although he’s now your tenya, he was a hero first.

before there was you, there was responsibility. before there was love and devotion, there were hero duties and combat instincts. they’re ingrained into his mind, refusing to be ignored. even when things seem fine, he can’t help but make sure. he couldn’t live with himself if his laziness were to cause someone else’s pain. that isn’t what heroes do. when you’re in public, he’s constantly scanning the room and won’t sit with his back to a door or window, because he needs to be able to see who’s coming and going. he has to make sure that everything is fine. he has to make sure everyone is safe, and everything is put-together.

he has to be strong, because there are thousands of people counting on him. he has to be strong, because evil doesn’t rest. he has to be strong, because... if not him, then who?

the day of your anniversary, you texted tenya while he was at work.

you: i hope you have a great day, my love! i can’t wait until you get home so we can celebrate! <3!!

tenya: I can’t wait either! I love you very much, sweetheart. See you later.

he came home with his arms full of the bouquet of flowers, and almost teared up at the sight of the dinner you had set up for the two of you. you always considered every worry, every caution, every gut feeling of his, and he appreciated that more than he’d ever be able to express. no words did it justice.

you’re more than his other half, you’re his everything. you’re everything he needs, everything he can’t be, and more.

you surprised him with an at-home dinner date, where it was perfectly safe and calm, and there were no people hiding in the shadows. music softly played in the background, and the daisies looked perfect on the table.

it’s okay, tenya, you reminded him. you’re home now.

yellow is tenya’s birthday present, or the envelope holding it at least.

there are only so many thoughtful gifts you can give before the inspiration simply runs out, and you have to go bigger. you have to look forward, and think of what will really leave a mark on someone’s life. you only have so many chances to get it right.

one year, for his birthday, you got him the deed to a recently-discovered star and named it after him. a star for your star. your guide in the dark. your light in unimaginable darkness. your ever-present warmth.

many years later, when tenya is long gone, his star sparkles a little brighter.

through the telescope, he seems to be waving hello.

golden yellow is the promise ring that you have no idea how tenya afforded.

you insist he take it back and that neither of you are ready for the commitment, but he refuses, of course.he’s never been more ready for something in his life. he tells you,

“i got it for you because you’re worth it.

every day with you is worth it.

i never want to spent another day of my life without promising to love you every second of every day.

every time you wear this ring, you’ll be reminded of how much i love you.

i saved for months, anticipating this very moment when i’d get to promise myself to you forever.

i promise, you deserve it.

you deserve everything, and i can’t wait to give it to you.”

and you did deserve it. and you deserve him, in all of his glory. forever.

the harsh bruises littering his chiseled body are yellow at first. they turn purple, eventually, before they fade away completely. their sting, however, is more than just the pain of broken blood vessels. they’re a concrete reminder that tenya isn’t untouchable. he isn’t invincible. he’s human, and he bleeds red.

the bruises come when his instincts send him in the wrong direction, when he dodged too late, or when he couldn’t seem to land a kick. he tells you that they’re from when he “tripped going down the stairs” or when izuku “accidentally punched him too hard during a training session.” (lies.)

yellow is the embarrassment you feel when you confront izuku, pleading with him to be more careful with tenya, and he tells you that he couldn’t have possibly caused those bruises, because hasn’t seen iida outside of class in weeks. nobody has. he’s been training more than usual, and hasn’t been at group dinners.

yellow is the sickness and guilt you feel at the realization, because you recently teased iida for not getting his homework done. he smiled weakly, pretending like it was just a foolish slip-up. it was so unlike him, you couldn’t help but poke a little fun.

“ooooh!!! class representative iida tenya, professional stick in the mud, didnt complete his populations analysis essay on time??? somebody call the news outlets!!! or an ambulance, because i think i might die from shock!!!”

he couldn’t blame you for your ignorance, because he liked that you didn’t know. you didn’t know how tired he was. you didn’t know how hard he was pushing himself. you didn’t know how hard he was working. you didn’t know how close he was to breaking. nobody did, and he liked it that way. nobody wants to see their leader falter, or hesitate, or fail, so he didn’t let them.

while he didn’t like to make you wait, he especially didn’t like to make you worry, and he figured the best way to do that was to keep it all in. he was supposed to be an upstanding hero, worthy of admiration and inspiring greatness in all, but at the end of the day, your opinion of him mattered the most.

in his mind, he was supposed to be your hero. and he tried, with every fiber of his being, to be your everything.

he was supposed to keep you safe, not keep you up at night, wondering if this morning was the last time you’d get to kiss him goodbye. he’s supposed to come home to you, and he promised, even though he couldn’t be sure, that he would. he didn’t want to lie about that.

his lies are yellow. they’re made with hope of protecting you, with keeping you safe from the evil swirling through the world.

what you don’t know can’t hurt you, right?

...right?

they’re made with intentions filled with sunshine and his golden gaze when you’re supposed to be studying, but the temptation is too strong.

his intentions are filled with the colored pencils scattered on the floor of his dorm room from when you sketched each other for the first time.

they’re filled with honey coated love, first sweet and satisfying, but eventually leaving you with a sore throat. they leave you feeling his love, but also his lies.

and through it all, you still love him, maybe even to a fault.

even when he’s yellow.

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flyinghome-againstthewind · 4 years ago

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the best by far is you: chapter 16

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Previous Chapter

For all the things my hands have held, the best by far is you - Cecilia and the satellite

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Summary: An exploration of Claire & Jamie’s story if their firstborn had lived and they had the chance to be parents together of wee Faith Fraser before the Battle of Culloden.

Chapter 16

There were three things Claire was keenly aware of in that moment. First, that they were weeks behind Jamie and the gap of time seemed to stretch out ahead of them like the horizon ‒ something they’d never quite reach. The second was the gentle weight of Fergus’s head resting against her shoulder blade while he held loosely to her as their horse kept pace just behind Murtagh’s. She hated to move Fergus, and to stall their progress in closing the gap, but the third thing she was aware of was her bladder getting squished ‒ yet again ‒ as her body tried to accommodate its steadily growing inhabitant.

“Wait!” she called ahead to Murtagh as she started to slow her horse’s pace. Murtagh’s head whipped back frantically, but seeing no present sign of danger, there was a flash of irritation on his face ‒ but only for a moment. He slowed to a stop.

“I’ll be quick.”

Fergus slipped off the horse first and grabbed the reins so Claire could dismount. She did hurry, but the frequent breaks surely weren’t helping them catch up.

Inverness had been a bitter disappointment, to learn that Jamie and Faith had left the very next morning after Culloden and taken Mary with them. They were chasing after ghosts, not knowing the plan or final destination. The matron of the boarding house had only been able to give them the direction that the carriage left in, and from there, their search party stopped at every village, small town, and tavern along the way to inquire if a coach had passed through about 3 weeks ago.

The faint thrill of confirming Claire’s suspicion that Jamie had gone to Inverness first had quickly waned as they cobbled together some sort of trajectory to follow.

Only days before, in their trek through the war-torn Highlands, they’d caught on to the coach’s trail, with confirmed sightings of it that matched the time it should have passed through.

Still… as hard as it was to chase after Jamie and Faith, weeks behind them, they did so knowing that by all indications, Jamie and Faith were still alive and free, traveling under a guise with Mary Hawkins. That kept them pushing forward.

They started to build a map in their minds, comparing the direction the coach was traveling with potential destinations on the other side of that. Like Aberdeen or Dundee, or perhaps even further, into Perth or Edinburgh or Glasgow. And though Mary traveled with them… surely they wouldn’t cross into England…

“There’s a village no more’n half a day’s ride,” Murtagh said as Claire mounted her horse again and held steady while Fergus clamored up behind her. “We should aim tae make it there before dark. See if there’s anyone in town we can talk tae.”

Claire nodded briskly. “I’m sure we can manage that.” She glanced over her shoulder at Fergus. “All set?”

“Oui.”

“Then lead the way, Murtagh.”

And amidst all of this was a fourth awareness, ever-present since she’d opened her eyes that morning. Something never far from her mind and that kept her heart heavy even as they chased desperately after her husband and child.

This day was Faith’s second birthday. And Claire was missing it.

“Ye’d swear th’ whole village was blind…” Murtagh groused, mostly to himself. Then his gaze locked with Fergus’s and this time he directed his next words to the boy. “No’ a single intelligent person anywhere to be found.”

He proceeded to prepare the fresh-caught game for their dinner, not expecting a reply. Fergus stayed silent and swung his gaze over to Claire, checking her reaction.

She smiled slightly, all that she could muster in the moment.

“Where will we go now?” Fergus asked her.

“We’ll still keep pressing southward along the most likely route they would be traveling.” She tried to look more confident in that plan, but caught Murtagh’s frown and figured it hadn’t been too reassuring to Fergus. “Not the first place we’ve stopped without getting answers,” she added as a reminder.

“I suppose,” was all Fergus said to that. He’d built a fire and stacked the wood how Claire had taught him, so that a new log would feed into the fire once the one before it had turned to ash.

They’d made it to the village well before dark and after their rather unsuccessful encounter with the locals, they’d had time to head out to the woods and set up camp. With limited funds that they weren’t sure how far would need to be stretched, they rarely ate in town or stayed at a tavern for the night.

When the food had been cooked over the fire, Claire divided up the portions, giving Murtagh the largest. He tore off some of the meat from his portion and pushed it back into Claire’s hands. “Ye dinna eat enough,” he said in response to her bewilderment.

They ate the bird and some of the potatoes Jenny had provided.

“It’s Faith’s birthday,” Claire said softly over the crackle of the fire. “She’s two.”

Her statement was met with resounding silence from Murtagh and Fergus, except for the soft Scottish harrumph from the older man that she couldn’t quite interpret.

She wasn’t sure what she expected out of telling them, other than it felt wrong to let the day pass without acknowledging it in some way.

Fergus wiped one greasy hand on his pants and reached into his bag propped next to him. He fished out his wooden horse and set it to stand in the grass between him and Claire while he chewed. “Sometimes we have to wait for things, Milady,” he said kindly ‒ sagely, even ‒ while talking around the mouthful of food.

She locked eyes with him and felt her vision swim with tears when he nodded encouragingly. They’d asked him to wait when it was his birthday ‒ smack dab in the middle of a war ‒ and he was still waiting. Still believing that his wish would come to fruition ‒ that it would be Jamie who picked out the horse for him. And in order for that to happen, Fergus had to believe that they would be reunited.

“We will see le petit again.”

“Yes, we will,” she murmured in agreement.

And she did believe that. It was only… she was desperate to find them and had hoped to be reunited with them swiftly. But the reality was setting in… of how long and how far they might be searching still.

And all the while, Claire was missing more days, more moments in her daughter’s life that she’d never get back. How many days had she already lost… and how many more would be swallowed up in the time it took to find her?

That night, Claire couldn’t sleep. She gave up after a while of lying there in the dark, listening to the soft crackling of a dying fire and the rustling of the wind through the trees, and finally pulled herself into a seated position facing the fire instead.

She caught Murtagh’s gaze across the fire instantly. “Not you too?”

“Aye,” he sighed.

“What’s keeping you up, then?” she asked, mostly so he wouldn’t ask her first.

He paused, linking his fingers together over his propped up knees. “Was thinking o’ the wee lass,” Murtagh admitted hesitantly, and Claire felt an instant pang in her heart. “The last time I saw her… and better times, too. Before the rising. At Lallybroch.”

She smiled against the urge to cry ‒ lately, she seemed on the verge of tears at any moment, the cause of which could never be determined between her raging pregnancy hormones or the pain of separation from Jamie and Faith. More than likely, it was some tangled-up knot of both things, she reasoned.

“She is a canny wee lass, and sae bonny and sweet.”

She knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that Murtagh cared for Faith ‒ had seen firsthand at Lallybroch how the baby could draw a smile out of the dour old man better than anyone else ‒ but she’d never heard him articulate it so.

And god, it hurt like nothing else ever had ‒ missing Faith and knowing she had other loved ones who were missing her just the same.

Murtagh breathed in deep, and let his breath out slowly, his gaze on the dwindling flames. “I’m only sorry and heartsick for my role in all this… that I played a part in why ye canna see yer lass now, on the anniversary o’ her birth.”

She felt her throat constrict and shook her head. How many rounds of the blame game had she played for herself? “No, Murtagh… I’m sorry,” she managed in a hoarse whisper. “For what I said when I came back. For striking you. I don’t blame you for any of this. I was terrified and angry that they weren’t back at Lallybroch like I’d hoped, and I took it out on you.” She thought of her conversation with Jenny, and the words they’d repeated to each other in reassurance, in absolution. “None of us knew. None of us chose this outcome.”

She stared across at his hardened face, the lines of it appearing sharper in the fading light of the fire. He didn’t speak, and she wondered if that meant he wouldn’t accept her words for himself.

“Please forgive me?”

“Och,” he said immediately. “There’s nothing tae forgive, lass.”

They fell quiet for a moment, each absorbed in their own thoughts. Had her words made any difference, or did he still blame himself even if she didn’t?

There was a strange sense that they were merely retracing steps they’d already taken during the rising. That’s how it felt to Claire at least as they entered Kingussie, near where they had started training Jamie’s men back in August of last year.

They walked into Kingussie on account of Murtagh’s horse needing a new shoe. Upon arriving, Claire handed Murtagh a few coins for the blacksmith and considered out loud how much food she should purchase to replenish their stock.

It was then they all seemed to take notice of a handful of Redcoats exiting the tavern.

“Fergus, stay close to me,” Claire instructed as they parted with Murtagh.

She’d thought Fergus was right behind her as she walked through the small market and picked out some grains and vegetables to pair with the fish or meat that Murtagh usually provided for their meals.

She turned a corner and nearly knocked Fergus over. “Oh. Where have you been?” She set her basket down and her hands went instantly to her hips.

Fergus shook his head as if to indicate that was of little importance.

“Here, Milady.” He reached for her hand and dropped several coins into it.

Her eyes went wide with shock. “Fergus!”

He turned defensive at her tone, seeing she wasn’t exactly pleased. “I will not let you starve! And there is le bébé as well. I heard Murtagh say you need to eat well enough so it can grow.”

“Yes, but do you understand that there are very real consequences to stealing if you are caught?” she snapped at him in a harsh whisper. There was a flash of indignation in his eyes at that.

“I will not get caught.”

She grabbed him by the shoulder and tugged him over to a more secluded spot away from the market stalls.

“You might! There’s always the risk and ‒ for Christ’s sake, Fergus, there are British soldiers right here in town!”

“Where do you think I found those coins?”

She was horrified at what he’d just admitted, with the sudden urge to sequester him out of town immediately, should any of the Redcoats realized what had been done.

“Milord would not have doubted me,” he added accusingly, clearly in response to whatever he’d read in her face.

She recoiled from his words. “It’s not a matter of doubt, I‒”

There was a flicker of movement in her periphery and when she glanced over, what she found made her blood run cold.

Murtagh, on the other side of town from them, surrounded by the soldiers.

Fergus’s head whipped around and Claire had barely enough time to slip a hand over his mouth and hold him back with the other arm before he did something truly stupid.

“Don’t, Fergus,” she pleaded in a desperate whisper as he struggled to break free and rush toward Murtagh. “He’ll be alright. Don’t provoke them. He knows what to do.”

You’ll get yourself killed…

All the while, her heart thundered in her chest, and she hoped that what she’d said would remain true; Murtagh was a stubborn Scot through and through, but he wasn’t stupid. He was outnumbered five to one. Should these soldiers happen to have rosters of Jacobite soldiers, they wouldn’t find Murtagh’s name on it. Jamie had had the foresight to keep Murtagh and the Lallybroch men off of any records during the war.

And with a month having passed since the battle, Murtagh had put away his kilts at Claire’s insistence and now wore breeks. He didn’t look the part of a Jacobite soldier and there was no way these men could prove that Murtagh had fought.

Unless one of them recognized him…

Claire tried to steady her breathing and when she felt as though Fergus had gained some semblance of self-control, she let her hand fall away from his mouth, but still held him anchored in place beside her.

They watched the exchange between Murtagh and the soldiers but were too far away to catch what was being said.

But she took in the way the soldiers acted, the glances they shared, the way they held themselves tall and proud.

And the way Murtagh had to shrink in their presence.

The Redcoats were the recent victors, having put down the Jacobite rebellion. And to them, that meant they could assert their superiority over the people of Scotland as they saw fit.

Finally, the soldiers appeared to be ready to move on, some of them shifting their weight from one foot to the other and beginning to turn and break off from the group.

But one soldier still spoke to Murtagh until suddenly and unexpectedly, Claire and Fergus watched as he spat in Murtagh’s face.

Fergus flinched with his whole body. Claire subconsciously tightened her hold on him and something between a cry and a sound of disgust slipped out of her.

The soldiers moved away then, nothing escalating from them, but it was the sight of Murtagh standing tall and refusing to wipe his face in front of them that finally broke Claire.

There had been no reason for it; the man had spit on Murtagh simply because he could. Because he knew Murtagh wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.

And to watch helplessly while these men degraded Murtagh left her with an emblazoned fury building in her chest. They weren’t better than him. And she knew if it wasn’t for Fergus right beside her just then, she would’ve been tempted to do something about it herself.

But she wouldn’t risk her boy. And Murtagh wouldn’t want that either.

Fergus himself was seething at her side and she had to tug him away and turn him so she could look him in the eye.

“I will slit their throats,” he said with such conviction that she was stunned into silence for several beats.

“Look, I’m angry too,” she assured him. “But Murtagh is alright‒”

“They had no right to‒” “I know. I agree with you.”

“They should still pay for what they did.”

She drew in a deep breath and fished out the coins from her skirt pocket. “Let this be your revenge, hmm?”

Fergus seethed in front of her, sorting through his thoughts. “I wish I had waited to rob them until now,” he said finally. “I would have taken much more from them. Bastards.”

With that, she realized they’d reached a resolution, and with a heavy sigh, she placed one hand gently on the back of his neck to tug his head forward into the cradle of her chest. He went willingly, his slight arms snaking around her waist to hold tight. “It’d be much harder to look for Jamie and Faith if we’re on the run from the Redcoats,” she said softly, hoping this idea above all else might take root with Fergus. He was so god damn cavalier sometimes, he had no idea how often he’d scared the living daylights out of her by doing something careless and risky.

Fergus sighed heavily, still vibrating with frustration. “I know, Milady.”

They waited for Murtagh to find them, having come to some unspoken understanding not to bring up what happened with the soldiers or admit that they had witnessed it. When Murtagh did join them, he was terse and itching to move on from Kingussie as swiftly as could be arranged, which Claire didn’t begrudge him for.

Murtagh’s horse had been giving a new horseshoe and Claire had enlisted Fergus’s help in gathering a few more necessities to augment their dwindling supply. But there was usually another reason they spent time in each village before they could move on and Claire hesitantly pointed that out.

“Dinna need to ask around. I already learnt all we need to know.”

“Someone here saw Jamie and Faith?” she asked, feeling a little breathless. Fergus perked up at this.

“No’ exactly. But the blacksmith had a lot tae say about a certain devilish black beast he had the misfortune o’ re-shoeing a few weeks ago.”

“Donas!” Fergus said brightly.

“Aye.” He smiled slightly as he grabbed Fergus’s shoulder and gave him a playful shake. “So we’re on th’ right path, aye? Dinna fash, laddie.”

“Let’s not linger about then,” Claire said decidedly.

She could tell there was something else going on with Murtagh, but chalked it up to the encounter with the Redcoats.

They’d ridden for as long as they could after leaving Kingussie before stopping for the night. Their evening passed in a similar fashion as it did every other night, with the one exception that Murtagh had found a moment when Fergus was out of earshot to ask Claire to wait up after the boy fell asleep.

Once he had, Murtagh jumped into his news without preamble.

“Black Jack Randall is dead.”

Her stomach dropped.

“What?” Her gaze flew to the outline of Fergus’s slumbering form under his blanket. He didn’t stir.

Of course she knew that bit of information. She hadn’t forgotten Frank’s discovery that Randall seemed to have died away from the battlefield, within a few days of it. The thought that he’d gotten to Jamie and Faith had haunted her, but she knew by the time she had traveled back here ‒ by the time she had learned the news even ‒ it would have been too late to do anything about it.

“How‒”

“Redcoats,” Murtagh muttered. “That’s why they stopped me.”

“I knew he was dead,” Claire admitted. “But the soldiers told you that?”

“Aye and there’s a bit more. They found his body at a tavern just outside Carrbridge.”

Carrbridge. They had gone through there as well, spoken with the owner of the tavern who confirmed that a carriage had passed through there. Said nothing of a dead body, though. Murtagh said as much and Claire shrugged.

“Suppose that might be bad for business. What else did you learn about this?”

“No’ much, but they are looking for whoever killed him. That’s why they stopped me to ask about my whereabouts, where I was from.” He absently tossed a leaf into the fire and watched it burn up. “The good news is they dinna seem to have connected it tae Jamie.”

Neither of them had said it, but both of them knew. It had to be Jamie.

“Well, I guess that’s something,” Claire agreed. “Did they‒ I don’t suppose it would matter to the soldiers but… no one else was hurt?”

Murtagh’s gaze locked onto hers and he smiled sympathetically. “Didna say. But we do know they came through Kingussie afterwards. Blacksmith confirmed as much.”

A cold feeling had crept in and Claire hated to put it into words. “He said he saw the horse. He didn’t say anything about Jamie or Faith, did he?”

“He did say there was a rather large man who helped him wi’ Donas. I didna press for details, but I’m sure that was Jamie.”

That she could believe… but what of Faith?

“He wouldna have kept going if Faith was lost,” Murtagh said bluntly. “What reason would he have?”

“Well, Mary was still with him. I imagine he wouldn’t just abandon her to the wilds of Scotland to fend for herself, she being an Englishwoman after all.”

Murtagh grunted softly at that. “Ye’re tired, a nighean,” he said gruffly, in a way that Claire knew to mean that he cared. “Get some sleep.”

She smiled half-heartedly at that ‒ and did stretch out on her spot near the fire for the night. But sleep evaded her, as it so often had on this journey.

Even if Faith survived… had she been hurt? Had Jamie? And had she been scared, in whatever events unfolded when they encountered Black Jack Randall?

Claire had told herself so many times that they must’ve slipped away from the British ‒ and thus Randall ‒ as her way of coping with the unknown. But now… to know that he had found them… sought them out, even…

Until they found them and she could see for herself that they were alright, she wouldn’t have a moment of peace.

One day, a storm caught them unawares. Their last touchpoint to civilization was a day’s ride behind them, and they’d started their travel early that morning, when the clouds were only an unassuming, white canopy above them.

But then the sky darkened and thunder rumbled ominously in the distance, and by the time they were scrambling towards the trees, they’d already been caught in the torrential downpour of rain.

Fergus argued for the cause to keep going, even through the storm, but Claire was firm in stating the risks that that would pose, such as hypothermia and pneumonia. Murtagh was more concerned about the risk of mudslides with the horses, but the two of them were at least united in the cause to wait out the storm.

That was how they found themselves wedged tightly under a small shelter they’d constructed, huddled in a line in front of a small fire at the edge of the shelter.

Yet another delay in their journey.

She glanced down at Fergus and saw his face drawn tight with concern. Slipping an arm around his shoulders, she tugged him even closer to her. “You know, in my time… there are horseless carriages called automobiles. What I wouldn’t give to have one of those right now…”

Fergus’s brows furrowed as he considered this. “How do they move without a horse?”

“They’re motorized. They have something called an engine that makes them run. And they can go even faster than a horse.”

She passed the time describing everything she could of a modern car to Fergus, and then moved on to tanks, trains, bicycles, and aeroplanes. Much like Jamie, the concept of flying through the sky fascinated Fergus.

And once she’d run out of modes of transportation to describe, she fell quiet and let Fergus (and Murtagh, she assumed) ponder these oddities of the future.

“It sounds so grand, Milady,” he said at length, leaning his head back against her shoulder. The rain lessened some, but was still steadily coming down.

“Hmm,” she murmured softly. “Maybe some things in comparison to this time might seem that way…”

But she’d seen the ugliness of the World War in her time, and she’d found beauty in this time, considered to be crude and uncivilized in comparison.

“Do you miss it at all?”

“No,” she said easily. “Although… the hot baths, yes. Especially now.”

Fergus pulled a face at that. “You can take hot baths in this time, Milady…” he said slowly, and she bit her lip to keep from laughing at him explaining that to her.

“Yes, I know, but it’s not nearly as much work in my time. Just turn on the faucet and it’s already hot.”

“... faucet? And how is it already hot?”

“Before ye begin tae explain that one, I think my heid’s already done in wi’ everything else ye’ve given me to consider,” Murtagh interjected suddenly.

“We can leave indoor plumbing for another day,” Claire agreed with a laugh.

They had reached a long stretch of wild country with little in the way of civilization. A land they had traversed before, twice during the rising. And along with their trek through the remote Highlands wilderness was an impending sense of dread. What if they missed a checkpoint or overshot Jamie’s path? Could somewhere within this deserted expanse of land be where he would choose to hide out from the British?

They were steering towards the village of Kenmore, Murtagh having decided that was the most likely stop on the journey. And since he’d been right about Jamie’s instinct to flee to the north two years ago, Claire was inclined to trust his judgement on this. Especially since he knew the landscape of this place much better than she did.

The nights had become the only moments on this journey when Claire and Murtagh could speak without Fergus being awake and present for the conversation.

Not every night. But enough that it had become something of a routine more often than not.

“Strange, isn’t it?” Claire began one night when the howl of the wind coming down from the mountain kept her from sleep. “That we’ve found ourselves at this again… searching for weeks but never quite finding him.”

Murtagh grunted in acknowledgement, a cheerless smile in place. “Och, aye. Canna forget that silly tune you sang during that time even if I tried.”

“What? The one you taught me?”

“Nay, lass,” He fired back indignantly. “The Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.”

She laughed as the memory resurfaced. “I sang that to you once.”

“Aye,” he said sourly, “And it stuck.”

“Hmm, my apologies for all you’ve apparently suffered as a result. I happen to like that one.”

“Weel, it never would ha’ worked for our purposes,” he said as one last hit against her song.

The wind whipped through their camp again and Claire pulled her thick shawl tighter about her. With the wind, the mood shifted, bringing them back to their reality. They were hungry, tired, cold, on what seemed like an endless journey. Their small moment of joy dissipated, as if carried away on the harsh wind itself.

“What if we never find him?” Claire uttered the words just above a whisper. “He has no idea we’re looking for him.”

She had no doubt that if Jamie Fraser wanted to disappear into the night without a trace, he could do it. And what would stop him?

The difference between this time and before was that Jamie had been looking for a way to return to her. Now, he believed her gone.

“Found him once before,” Murtagh reminded her.

“Yes. Captured. I’m less worried about that this time, though.”

“Then what?”

Claire shrugged, trying to appear more unaffected by her fears. “He has Faith with him. He thinks I’m gone. He knows the Redcoats will either kill him or imprison him if they find him… so he’d make sure they couldn’t be found, right? By anyone.”

Murtagh made that Scottish sound at the back of his throat and didn’t say anything else.

“And Fergus…” She drew in a shaky breath. “Well, I just worry. He loves Jamie so much… and I don’t know‒” She thought of that day in Kingussie, how he’d said Jamie would never doubt him. “If it’s just me that Fergus has… what if that’s not… enough?”

“Claire.” Murtagh said her name in such a way that it felt as though he was gently chiding her. “The lad loves ye.”

Her throat clogged with emotion and she wiped gingerly at the silent tears that spilled down her cheeks.

Murtagh sighed heavily. “Ye didna see him. After Culloden. When I came back wi’ the news that Jamie would stay to fight… there was still a hope, ken? That Jamie could survive the battle. We waited for news o’ him for days and days. But ye and Faith were gone for good ‒ that’s what we kent at the time. For two weeks, Fergus grieved ye. Ye’re his family too. He doesna just want Jamie back… he needs ye both, ken.”

She nodded solemnly, still too choked up to speak as fresh tears clouded her eyes. He did something then he hadn’t yet in any of their late-night conversations; she watched as he stood and made his way over to her side of the fire, plopping down next to her. His arm went about her shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze.

“S’alright, a nighean.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder, feeling more emotions in that moment than she could put into words, but taking comfort in Murtagh’s support and steadfast loyalty while everything else in her life felt shaky at best.

“I’m glad you’re here, searching with us.”

“Aye. I’m glad ye came back,” he said with tenderness in his voice. “And we’ll find Jamie and wee Faith. Dinna fash yerself.”

They were just departing from Sterling when the choice had to be made. Before them laid two potential paths with no indication of which one the carriage had traveled.

Should they go west towards Glasgow? Or East along the river towards Edinburgh?

Jamie’s end goal was still hazy to them, but they were fairly sure by now that he wouldn’t proceed much farther south than either of those cities.

“The lowlands were largely on the side of the British, so either place is risky,” Claire pointed out.

“Aye,” Murtagh sneered, none too pleased to have left the Highlands either way. “But Glasgow wasna a point of conflict during the rising. Edinburgh is likely still crawling with Redcoats since they recaptured it months ago.”

Claire considered this, wondering what Jamie would choose. What would be safer for Faith. “So Glasgow?”

“Glasgow,” Murtagh agreed.

“And how fast can they go, again?” Fergus’s curiosity had circled back around to the topic of cars, and Claire indulged him, having little else to pass the time while they traveled.

“There were some cars that could travel 80 miles per hour.”

“Eighty?” She knew he couldn’t really grasp it, having never traveled that fast before, but the number was very high. Much faster than they could manage on horseback.

“Oh, yes. Dangerously fast.” She couldn’t explain what prompted her next words, perhaps born out of her desire to protect those she could while struggling with the separation from Jamie and Faith. “They can be terribly dangerous. That’s how my parents were killed when I was young. A car accident.”

Fergus was quiet for a moment and she wished he wasn’t seated behind her so she could see his face.

“I did not know that, Milady,” he said softly, with an undercurrent of compassionate understanding she didn’t expect most eleven-year-olds possessed. His arms gave her waist a gentle squeeze and she patted his hands where they rested overlapping on her stomach.

“Didn’t seem relevant exactly when I was giving everyone the truth of the stones and where I’d come from. But yes, I should’ve told you. I lost them when I was five. After that, I went to stay with Uncle Lamb.”

She caught the slight chuckle from Fergus. Yes, those stories he had heard, some even before the truth of her origins, though those were always carefully constructed. He’d heard a few more on this journey and always delighted in them.

“I didn’t realize you were a girl then. With Uncle Lamb,” Fergus admitted and then, after some consideration, added, “I can’t imagine you as a child, Milady.”

“What, this whole time you thought I was an adult in all my stories with Uncle Lamb?”

“Yes,” he admitted with a laugh.

“I guess that makes sense. I always had trouble picturing my parents as younger than I would’ve known them. My Uncle Lamb too, for that matter.”

Their conversation lapsed in a comfortable sort of way. There was an intimacy in their shared experience and though Murtagh was only a few feet ahead of them, he felt miles away from their small bubble. And what Murtagh shared about Fergus’s grief was never very far from her mind.

“I used to play a game when I was little. After my parents died and I went to live with my uncle. I would pretend that they were out there in the world somewhere, still alive, and they would come get me eventually. It felt easier sometimes, if I could just pretend that I was waiting on them.”

“I used to play a game,” Fergus began quietly and Claire strained to listen, “that I had ended up at Maison Elise by mistake and my parents were looking for me all that time. I would imagine what it would be like to have them show up and take me away, to a home.”

“What was it like? What did you imagine?”

“It was one of those big houses that I would pass on my walks through Le Marais. Of course I’d never been inside a house that grand until Milord brought me to Monsieur Jared’s house. That house was more beautiful than any of my imaginings.”

She felt his head come to rest against her back again. “Of course, by then I did not need to imagine such things anymore.”

Her heart leapt to her throat and she gave another reassuring squeeze of his hands within her own.

They’d lost the trail.

By now, they’d learned to not give up if they came up empty at the first and second stops, but by their sixth time coming up empty, the doubt began to set in.

“Do we double back?” Claire asked. “Head for Edinburgh?”

In some part of her brain, the question rolled around that maybe this had been Jamie’s plan all along. For weeks, she’d feared reaching a point where any trace of them simply vanished.

Murtagh seemed to catch that look of despair in her eyes. “We head back to our last confirmed sighting. Go from there.”

Back to Sterling. From his spot behind Murtagh, Claire watched as Fergus’s face fell at the realization of the time they’d wasted since choosing Glasgow.

Fergus’s bedding was angled in such a way that when he curled up for the night, his head rested close to Claire’s.

“You’re quiet tonight,” she said softly to him, propping her head up on one hand. She studied his young face, glowing orange from the light of their campfire. “Are you feeling alright? You’re not sick, are you?”

“Oui, Milady, I am just tired.” He said all of this half-heartedly and without taking his gaze from the fire.

She reached out and brushed a hand over his messy curls. His eyes slid shut and he sighed. She thought of all he’d gone through in the last month and a half, from war to loss and disappearances of loved ones, to having one returned to him unexpectedly. And again she thought of his grief ‒ it struck a chord deep within her that she wasn’t soon to forget ‒ and wondered if Fergus was already bracing for some sort of loss with Jamie.

And that thought broke her heart clean in two. Because she couldn’t protect him from the hurt if anything did happen to Jamie, or if they failed to find him.

“Look at me, love.”

She waited until he had listened and tilted his head back to look at her. “I know we’ve been at this for a while. I’m tired, too. That’s alright.” She kept brushing back his curls from his forehead as she spoke. “And I know I can’t make any guarantees, but for what it’s worth, I believe we’ll find them. But no matter what, you have me. You have Murtagh. The baby, too, eventually,” she said with slight laughter in her voice. She was rewarded with a small smile out of Fergus.

“You have me, too, Milady. No matter what happens.”

She leaned across and kissed the top of his head. “It’ll be alright, love. Try and get some sleep.”

Claire laid there in the dark looking up at the stars, long after Murtagh’s snores had begun and Fergus went still and quiet. Her thoughts swirling around Jamie and Faith, the heavy fears of losing them or never finding them, the worry over Fergus and how he was faring‒

She breathed in sharply and one hand flew to her stomach, though there was nothing to be felt under its palm. But there had been a quickening in her belly ‒ the first movement she’d felt of this baby from within.

“Oh…” she breathed out. Tears sprouted in her eyes and spilled over gently. She was scared to move in that moment, like she might startle the small thing somehow. It was so quick, she wondered if she had imagined it. But no, she knew that feeling from when she’d carried Faith. “Hello, you little darling,” she whispered into the night. “I’ve been so worried about you.”

Her hand rubbed slow circles over the firm, small bump. “Thank you for letting me know you’re still there.”

Claire knew it was coming ‒ had remembered well enough from when she’d traveled through here with the Jacobite army ‒ and careened to the side in her saddle, trying to see around the bend.

Yes ‒ there it was!

“Fergus,” she called out, pulling her horse up alongside Murtagh’s. He looked at her, bewildered, and she grinned. “Look up ahead.”

Though they’d lost time in misjudging Jamie’s next steps, they had eventually caught the trail again after starting fresh from Sterling. Now, they were quite certain that Jamie and Faith were in‒

“Edinburgh!” Fergus exclaimed as the first sights of the city came into view. His gaze flew back to Claire’s. “We’re almost home, Milady!”

She felt her vision burn with tears and had to face forward to keep from crumbling as Fergus’s words landed.

This place had never been home to them, but Jamie and Faith had… and they were almost home again.

#jamie x claire #outlander #outlander fic #OL fic #faith fraser #tbbfiy #the best by far is you #my fic

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besanii · 4 years ago

Text

shattered mirrors 53

WangXian ; 1386 words

[set before #02]

The first sign of trouble rears its head when the clothing Mo Xuanyu had taken downstairs to be laundered comes back with a large tear along the sleeve. The cut is too clean, too large, too prominent, to have been accidental, but there is little they can do when they do not know who the perpetrator is, so Wei Wuxian sends Mo Xuanyu to the tailor to see if they are able to salvage the garment at all.

Later that day, one of his favourite headpieces—one with red stones set in a silver band, one of the very first gifts he had purchased for himself in this new life—is found broken on the floor beneath his dressing table, one of the stones cracked and partially dislodged. Mo Xuanyu lets out a frustrated cry when he sees it and stomps about the room with helpless anger as Wei Wuxian examines the broken pieces in his hands.

“We can’t let them get away with it, Xian-ge!” he says. “First the robes Zhao-daye gave you, then your favourite zanzi?”

He’s right, of course. In the weeks since they’d set up shop here at Caiyi Pavilion, Wei Wuxian has been on the receiving end of baleful glares and jealous whispers, which had only worsened after Lan Wangji had started frequenting the establishment. It is understandable: he’d been here only a matter of weeks and had managed to not only bring in a whole slew of new patrons, but also taken a few existing clients from his colleagues without even trying. He would be more surprised if they weren’t resentful of his presence.

“Leave them be, A-Yu,” he says, setting aside the headpiece in a box. “Trinkets and robes can be replaced. No need to get so worked up about it.”

Mo Xuanyu huffs. “Xian-ge, if you don’t do something soon, they’ll just take more and more liberties! They’ll break your things now, but what if they come for you next time?”

Wei Wuxin smiles and passes him the box.

“Patience,” he says. “We don’t know who is behind all of this yet. Let’s not strike the grass and alert the snake.”

The next few days are relatively uneventful—the resentful looks and gossip continues, but there is no further damage to his property, and he carries on with his usual routine as if nothing had happened. They manage to get the headpiece repaired by a skilled craftsman and the robes modified to hide the tear, and he shows off both during the day as they all make their preparations for that night’s business. It doesn’t take long for one of his colleagues to take the bait.

“Xian-er, you must tell me where you purchased that zanzi,” she gushes, circling around him to get a better look. “It is absolutely exquisite.”

She is easily half a head shorter than he is and has to crane her neck to see, but he stays still and keeps his hands tucked into his sleeves as she inspects the headpiece. They are in the middle of the main hall where the servants are cleaning and polishing and rearranging furniture while there are no clients to get in the way. The other courtesans mill around in various states of preparation, still in their day clothes, eyeing the two of them with interest.

“Honglian-jie is too generous in her praise,” Wei Wuxian says with feigned warmth. “This is just a trinket I bought at the market on a whim, only recently repaired after an unfortunate incident. It is nowhere close to the value of the gold buyao you wear.”

“Oh, this little thing?” she says with a simpering laugh. “Just a small gift from a devoted client, nothing special.”

Honglian’s lips curve upwards with all the satisfaction of a spoilt cat as she reaches up with one hand to finger the ends of the gold hairpiece that dangles from the twist in her hair. It is a fine piece of jewellery, as far as jewellery goes, and it flatters her pretty neck just so as she moves; he knows there are other girls in the brothel who eye it with barely concealed envy, but he supposes that is the intention. Already now he catches Caiqiao, one of the more popular girls in the establishment, rolling her eyes from where she is sitting at a nearby table with a plate of osmanthus cakes.

“Not all of us are lucky enough to have such generous clients like yours, Honglian-jie,” he insists. “I had to buy this piece of scrap out of my own pocket.”

He watches as her eyes light up at the bit of bait he’s tossed to her; she laughs, high and breathy, and shakes her head.

“Now, Xian-er, you must be teasing,” she says. “I’ve been meaning to ask you to teach me a few tricks. It seems that, when it comes to attracting and pleasing clients, no one can boast themselves better than you.”

Her smile turns sharp and pointed, her voice silky and heavy with connotations. The other girls within earshot have gone still, their bodies poised in the tell-tale way eavesdroppers always have when pretending to do otherwise; it is so predictable that Wei Wuxian has to smother a laugh in his sleeve.

“Honglian-jie, you flatter me,” he says, eyes wide with feigned innocence. “I use no more technique or tricks than any in this trade. Perhaps I have just had more luck than most in recent days.”

“You’re being too humble, Xian-er,” Honglian tells him. Her voice is simpering and pleasant, but her eyes are hard. “We all know it takes more than just luck to seduce Hanguang-wangye, who is known to be cold and untouchable as ice. Won’t you pity your sisters and share the details of your great conquest?”

The girls around them titter with amusement and curiosity at her words, all pretences forgotten as they lean in to catch his reply. When none comes, Honglian clicks her tongue and shakes her head.

“Xian-er, ah, Xian-er,” she sighs, sliding forward to loop her arm around his in a sisterly fashion. “Let me give you a word of advice, as the former huakui of Caiyi Pavilion: you mustn’t be selfish. We are all sisters here, in this business, and it is the nature of sisters to share what they have.”

Her nails dig into his arm where they rest over the sleeve—they are painted a deep red to match her lip rouge, and contrast against the pale grey of his robes—but he does not humour her with a reaction. Instead, he rests his other hand over hers and pats it gently, in the same way a parent may do to reassure a child.

“I will keep your wisdom in my mind, Honglian-jie,” he tells her. “But I fear whatever details I share will be of no use to our sisters. Hanguang-wangye is not so easily won over by simple tricks or seduction employed by any common courtesan. Indeed, I myself do not presume to know all his likes and dislikes. What I do know is this—”

He leans in close to whisper his next words in her ear.

“He abhors deception.” She stills beneath his hands, eyes wide as his breath ghosts over her. “It’s in his title: hanguang. The bearer of light. Someone as upstanding and righteous as Hanguang-wangye would not look twice at those who employ underhanded tactics to achieve selfish means.”

He gives her hand one last pat and pries it off his arm.

“If you come to my rooms later, I will give you the name of the craftsman who repaired my zanzi,” he tells her with a friendly smile, loud enough for the others to hear. “He did an excellent job, considering its sorry state when we brought it to him. Perhaps you’ll have need of his services in the future.”

He reaches up to brush the gold hairpiece, letting the ends fall over his fingers as he smiles down at her. She stares up at him, frozen in place even as he inclines his head in farewell.

“Come, A-Yu,” he says, motioning for Mo Xuanyu to follow. “Let’s leave them to their preparations.”

Notes:

zanzi (簪子) - decorative hairpins worn by women

daye (大爷) - Master, usually used for rich, idle men

buyao (步摇) - decorative hairpiece with dangling ornaments that sway as the wearer walks (literally means ‘swaying with each step’)

Also two random OCs who might not appear again, but needed names for Reasons: Honglian (红莲) and Caiqiao (彩繑). They were the former “top” courtesans of Caiyi Pavilion before WWX arrived, so hold a bit of a grudge against him for stealing their spotlight.

Master Post and ko-fi link on my sidebar!

#mdzs #wangxian #shattered mirrors fic #shattered mirrors au #王爷机 X 花魁羡 #prince!lwj #courtesan!wwx #lan wangji #wei wuxian #no knives #my writing

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